"I think it a very disgusting exhibition," I replied; "and, though it may seem a very ungallant speech, all the time I was there, I was thanking Heaven that you were not there too."
"Just as well, just as well," said Mr. Stringer. "And now let us have a little claret sangaree, and go to bed, for it is waxing late."
[CHAPTER XIII.]
These have been many days in my life which have been most tedious. The imaginative man can perhaps fill them up with his own fancies; but what little imagination I have--and it is certainly very small--must be excited by some external objects. Mine is a sort of lazy fancy, which wants stirring up to activity. I can sit by the side of a dashing brook, and see it sparkling and foaming onward, and regard it as a little epitome of life, with its rapids and its shallows; its sunshine and its shade; its quiet lapses and its turbulent activity. I can see in its different aspects the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows of existence. I can even watch the root-frequenting trout coming soberly forth into mid-stream, like some money-getting recluse, issuing forth into the current of speculation, to be angled for by man or the devil; and I can endow the old gentleman with all the thoughts and feelings of humanity, wondering what he is calculating now, and asking myself in what stock he is about to embark his capital. But there are some days when there is nothing suggestive in external circumstances; and dull and wearily do the leaden wings of time flap on. Oh, the heavy hours I have passed in an Indian bungalow, hearing the rain drop, drop, drop for ever, without a book to solace the passing hour, without a sight or sound to waken the soul from a lethargy which is not sleep; and I have envied the impassibility of the good Hindoos, who, squatted in the neighbouring sheds, were pleasantly occupied in profound meditations concerning nothing. But of all the weary days I ever spent, the worst was that which succeeded the evening of the camp-meeting; and many circumstances tended to render it so. A sort of dead monotony seemed to have fallen over the whole family of Mr. Stringer. The boys, whose wicked activity and genial love of mischief might have afforded some amusement, were closely cooped up during the whole morning by Mr. McGrubber. Mr. Stringer himself was busy, supplying all deficiencies which a somewhat prolonged absence had left in the ordering and arrangement of his farm. Mrs. Stringer sat all day long embroidering, like a lady of the olden time. Bessy Davenport sat, solemn and demure as a nun, by her side, drawing patterns of collars and cuffs, as if she had been working for her daily bread in a Manchester manufactory. Yet, ever and anon, she looked up at my face with eyes which seemed to say, "Do you recollect, Cousin Richard, that you are going to fight a duel, and may very likely be killed, and leave me whom you love--you know you do--to mourn you all alone?" I asked her to go out and take a walk, but she declined, saying it was too warm. And then again Mr. Wheatley had ridden over to Jerusalem upon some business, promising to be back again that evening or the next day. There were not many books in Mr. Stringer's house, and I had brought none with me except one, wishing to make the world my book rather than my oyster. As a last resource, I went out and took a stroll by myself, and heartily wished the time was come for loading and firing; but there was nothing to amuse me--nothing to occupy my thoughts--and the day was sultry, but not scorching; a thin, white haze covered the face of heaven; the flowers most susceptible of atmospheric influence had half closed their petals, and everything seemed as weary about the world as I was. Air, I could find none; so, as a last resource, I sat myself down under a tree and began to meditate. I won't trouble you with what I thought about. I composed there a whole essay upon duelling, condemned it logically in principle and practice, thought every man who gave way to it a great fool, myself at the head of them, and rose up just as much determined to fight Mr. Robert Thornton as ever. The evening of that day passed a little more pleasantly. Mr. Wheatley returned, and enlivened us a good deal with his gay talk. Bessy sang us some very beautiful songs, and there seemed to me a deeper sentiment, a more tender expression in her tones, than I had ever heard before. Yet she did not talk very much to me. She seemed amused, nay, pleased, with Mr. Wheatley, and had I not known him to be a married man, I might have felt a little jealous. She got into corners with him, and talked in a low voice, and though she sometimes laughed and often smiled, there was a sort of earnestness about her manner which annoyed me a little. The morning of the next day passed very nearly in the same manner, only Mr. Wheatley was there all the time, and he, at least, kept up his share of the conversation. About Bessy Davenport, I remarked a good deal of what I may call flutter. She was now sad, silent, gloomy, abstracted; then gay--almost wildly gay--but still with a saddened gaiety. I remarked that her eyes often turned to my face, and I thought I understood her better than the day before. At length, about half-past one o'clock, I rose, saying,--
"I must go, I think. I will change my dress. I have engaged to dine with Mr. Byles, Mrs. Stringer, and, in the hospitable Old Dominion, I suppose I must pass the night there; but I shall set out in the cool to-morrow morning, and meet you all at breakfast." I thought I heard a gasp from the other side of the table, and, turning round, I saw Bessy as pale as the spring moon.
"Good-bye, for the present, my sweet cousin," said I, holding out my hand. She gave me hers, as cold as that of a corpse, saying in a voice very low, but perfectly distinct,--
"Farewell, Richard--farewell!" Just at that moment, Mr. Wheatley exclaimed, "Going to dine with Mr. Byles! What, my old friend Billy Byles? Hang me, if I don't go with you. No one needs an invitation in Virginia, and you will give me a seat in your buggy, I dare say." This was rather unpleasant; but it could not be helped, and I only made one attempt to escape the unsought-for companionship: "I have no buggy with me," I said, laughing. "I go on horseback; but I'll take you up behind me if you like."
"Oh, no," answered he, "I have a double-seated drotsky here, and as pretty a pair of little tits as ever were driven. I will drive you over, and we will take your broken-headed man Zed behind, to look after the traps. Come, let us go and make ready." And he quitted the room. I followed, venturing but one more look at Bessy, and in about half an hour we were rolling rapidly along towards the house of Mr. Byles. After we had entered upon the high road, Mr. Wheatley turned towards me with a smile, saying, "Do you know why I come with you?"
"No, indeed," I answered, "unless it be to dine with your old friend Mr. Byles."
"No, indeed," returned Mr. Wheatley, with one of his short laughs; "I never saw bold Billy but twice in my life. I came to take care of you."