Authors: James Fenimore Cooper
"If you admire a vessel so much, Grace," I said, "you will probably be
glad to hear that I think of becoming a sailor."
A silence of near two minutes succeeded, during which time I affected
to be gazing at the distant sloops, and then I ventured to steal a
glance at my companions. I found Grace's mild eyes earnestly riveted
on my face; and, turning from their anxious expression with a little
uneasiness, I encountered those of Lucy looking at me as intently as
if she doubted whether her ears had not deceived her.
"A sailor, Miles!"—my sister now slowly repeated—"I thought it
settled you were to study law."
"As far from that as we are from England; I've fully made up my mind
to see the world if I can, and Rupert, here—"
"What of Rupert, here?" Grace asked, a sudden change again coming over
her sweet countenance, though I was altogether too inexperienced to
understand its meaning. "
He
is certainly to be a clergyman—his
dear father's assistant, and, a long, long,
very
long time
hence, his successor!"
I could see that Rupert was whistling on a low key, and affecting to
look cool; but my sister's solemn, earnest, astonished manner had more
effect on us both, I believe, than either would have been willing to
own.
"Come, girls," I said at length, putting the best face on the matter,
"there is no use in keeping secrets from
you
—but remember that
what I am about to tell you
is
a secret, and on no account is
to be betrayed."
"To no one but Mr. Hardinge," answered Grace. "If you intend to be a
sailor, he ought to know it."
"That comes from looking at our duties superficially," I had caught
this phrase from my friend, "and not distinguishing properly between
their shadows and their substance."
"Duties superficially! I do not understand you, Miles. Certainly
Mr. Hardinge ought to be told what profession you mean to
follow. Remember, brother, he now fills the place of a parent to you."
"He is not more
my
parent than Rupert's—I fancy you will admit
that much!"
"Rupert, again! What has Rupert to do with your going to sea?"
"Promise me, then, to keep my secret, and you shall know all; both you
and Lucy must give me your words. I know you will not break them,
when once given."
"Promise him, Grace," said Lucy, in a low tone, and a voice that, even
at that age, I could perceive was tremulous. "If we promise, we shall
learn everything, and then may have some effect on these headstrong
boys by our advice."
"Boys!
You
cannot mean, Lucy, that Rupert is not to be a
clergyman—your father's assistant; that Rupert means to be a sailor,
too?"
"One never knows what boys will do. Let us promise them, dear; then we
can better judge."
"I do" promise you, Miles, "said my sister, in a voice so solemn as
almost to frighten me.
"And I, Miles," added Lucy; but it was so low, I had to lean forward
to catch the syllables.
"This is honest and right,"—it was honest, perhaps, but very
wrong,—"and it convinces me that you are both reasonable, and will be
of use to us. Rupert and I have both made up our minds, and intend to
be sailors."
Exclamations followed from both girls, and another long silence
succeeded.
"As for the law, hang all law!" I continued, hemming, and determined
to speak like a man. "I never heard of a Wallingford who was a
lawyer."
"But you have
both
heard of Hardinges who were clergymen," said
Grace, endeavouring to smile, though the expression of her countenance
was so painful that even now I dislike to recall it.
"And sailors, too," put in Rupert, a little more stoutly than I
thought possible. "My father's grandfather was an officer in the
navy."
"And
my
father was a sailor himself—in the navy, too."
"But there is no navy in this country now, Miles," returned Lucy, in
an expostulating tone.
"What of that? There are plenty of ships. The ocean is just as big,
and the world just as wide, as if we had a navy to cover the first. I
see no great objection on that account—do you, Ru?"
"Certainly not. What we want is to go to sea, and that can be done in
an Indiaman, as well as in a man-of-war."
"Yes," said I, stretching myself with a little importance. "I fancy
an Indiaman, a vessel that goes all the way to Calcutta, round the
Cape of Good Hope, in the track of Vasquez de Gama, isn't exactly an
Albany sloop."
"Who is Vasquez de Gama?" demanded Lucy, with so much quickness as to
surprise me.
"Why, a
noble
Portuguese, who discovered the Cape of Good Hope,
and first sailed round it, and then went to the Indies. You see,
girls, even
nobles
are sailors, and why should not Rupert and I
be sailors?"
"It is not that, Miles," my sister answered; "every honest calling is
respectable. Have you and Rupert spoken to Mr. Hardinge on this
subject?"
"Not exactly—not spoken—hinted only—that is, blindly—not so as to
be understood, perhaps."
"He will
never
consent, boys!" and this was uttered with
something very like an air of triumph.
"We have no intention of asking it of him, Grace. Rupert and I intend
to be off next week, without saying a word to Mr. Hardinge on the
subject."
Another long, eloquent silence succeeded, during which I saw Lucy bury
her face in her apron, while the tears openly ran down my sister's
cheek.
"You
do
not—
cannot
mean to do anything so cruel,
Miles!" Grace at length said.
"It is exactly because it will not be cruel, that we intend to do
it,"—here I nudged Rupert with my elbow, as a hint that I wanted
assistance; but he made no other reply than an answering nudge, which
I interpreted into as much as if he had said in terms, "You've got
into the scrape in your own way, and you may get out of it in the same
manner." "Yes," I continued, finding succour hopeless, "yes,
that's
just it."
"What is just it, Miles? You speak in a way to show that you are not
satisfied with yourself—neither you nor Rupert is satisfied with
himself, if the truth were known."
"I not satisfied with
myself!
Rupert not satisfied with
himself!
You never were more mistaken in your life, Grace. If
there ever were two boys in New York State that
were
well
satisfied with themselves, they are just Rupert and I."
Here Lucy raised her face from the apron and burst into a laugh, the
tears filling her eyes all the while.
"Believe them, dear Grace," she said. "They are precisely two
self-satisfied, silly fellows, that have got some ridiculous notions
in their heads, and then begin to talk about 'superficial views of
duties,' and all such nonsense. My father will set it all right, and
the boys will have had their talk."
"Not so last, Miss Lucy, if you please. Your father will not know a
syllable of the matter until you tell him all about it, after we are
gone. We intend 'to relieve him from all responsibility in the
premises.'"
This last sounded very profound, and a little magnificent, to my
imagination; and I looked at the girls to note the effect. Grace was
weeping, and weeping only; but Lucy looked saucy and mocking, even
while the tears bedewed her smiling face, as rain sometimes falls
while the sun is shining.
"Yes," I repeated, with emphasis, "'of all responsibility in the
premises.' I hope that is plain English, and good English, although I
know that Mr. Hardinge has been trying to make you both so simple in
your language, that you turn up your noses at a profound sentiment,
whenever you hear one."
In 1797, the grandiose had by no means made the deep invasion into the
everyday language of the country, that it has since done. Anything of
the sublime, or of the recondite, school was a good deal more apt to
provoke a smile, than it is to-day—the improvement proceeding, as I
have understood through better judges than myself, from the great
melioration of mind and manners that is to be traced to the speeches
in congress, and to the profundities of the newspapers. Rupert,
however, frequently ornamented his ideas, and I may truly say
everything ambitious that adorned my discourse was derived from his
example. I almost thought Lucy impertinent for presuming to laugh at
sentiments which came from such a source, and, by way of settling my
own correctness of thought and terms, I made no bones of falling back
on my great authority, by fairly pointing him out.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Lucy, now laughing with all her heart,
though a little hysterically; "I thought so, for this is just like
Rupert, who is always talking to me about 'assuming the
responsibility,' and 'conclusions in the premises,' and all such
nonsense. Leave the boys to my father, Grace, and he will 'assume the
responsibility' of 'concluding the premises,' and the whole of the
foolish scheme along with it!"
This would have provoked me, had not Grace manifested so much sisterly
interest in my welfare that I was soon persuaded to tell
her
—that minx Lucy overhearing every syllable, though I had
half a mind to tell her to go away—all about our project.
"You see," I continued, "if Mr. Hardinge knows anything about our
plan, people will say he ought to have stopped us. 'He a clergyman,
and not able to keep two lads of sixteen or seventeen from running
away and going to sea!' they will say, as if it were so easy to
prevent two spirited youths from seeing the world. Whereas, if he knew
nothing about it, nobody can blame him. That is what I call 'relieving
him from the responsibility.' Now, we intend to be off next week, or
as soon as the jackets and trowsers that are making for us, under the
pretence of being boat-dresses, are finished. We mean to go down the
river in the sail-boat, taking Neb with us to bring the boat back. Now
you know the whole story, there will be no occasion to leave a letter
for Mr. Hardinge; for, three hours after we have sailed, you can tell
him everything. We shall be gone a year; at the end of that time you
may look for us both, and glad enough shall we all be to see each
other. Rupert and I will be young men then, though you call us boys
now."
This last picture a good deal consoled the girls. Rupert, too, who had
unaccountably kept back, throwing the labouring-oar altogether on me,
came to the rescue, and, with his subtle manner and oily tongue, began
to make the wrong appear the right. I do not think he blinded his own
sister in the least, but I fear he had too much influence over mine.
Lucy, though all heart, was as much matter-of-fact as her brother was
a sophist. He was ingenious in glozing over truths; she, nearly
unerring in detecting them. I never knew a greater contrast between
two human beings, than there was between these two children of the
same parents, in this particular. I have heard that the son took after
the mother, in this respect, and that the daughter took after the
father; though Mrs. Hardinge died too early to have had any moral
influence on the character of her children.
We came again and again to the discussion of our subject during the
next two or three days. The girls endeavoured earnestly to persuade us
to ask Mr. Hardinge's permission for the step we were about to
undertake; but all in vain. We lads were so thoroughly determined to
"relieve the divine from all responsibility in the premises," that
they might as well have talked to stones. We knew these just-minded,
sincere, upright girls would not betray us, and continued obdurate to
the last. As we expected, as soon as convinced their importunities
were useless, they seriously set about doing all they could to render
us comfortable. They made us duck bags to hold our clothes, two each,
and mended our linen, stockings, &c., and even helped to procure us
some clothes more suited to the contemplated expedition than most of
those we already possessed. Our "long togs," indeed, we determined to
leave behind us, retaining just one suit each, and that of the
plainest quality. In the course of a week everything was ready, our
bags well lined, being concealed in the storehouse at the landing. Of
this building I could at any moment procure the key, my authority as
heir-apparent being very considerable, already, on the farm.
As for Neb, he was directed to have the boat all ready for the
succeeding Tuesday evening, it being the plan to sail the day after
the Wallingford of Clawbonny (this was the name of the sloop) had gone
on one of her regular trips, in order to escape a pursuit. I had made
all the calculations about the tide, and knew that the Wallingford
would go out about nine in the morning, leaving us to follow before
midnight. It was necessary to depart at night and when the wharf was
clear, in order to avoid observation.
Tuesday was an uneasy, nervous and sad day for us all, Mr. Hardinge
excepted. As the last had not the smallest distrust, he continued
calm, quiet, and cheerful as was his wont. Rupert had a
conscience-stricken and furtive air about him, while the eyes of the
two dear, girls were scarcely a moment without tears. Grace seemed now
the most composed of the two, and I have since suspected that she had
had a private conversation with my ingenious friend, whose convincing
powers were of a very extraordinary quality, when he set about their
use in downright earnest. As for Lucy, she seemed to me to have been
weeping the entire day.
At nine o'clock it was customary for the whole family to separate,
after prayers. Most of us went to bed at that early hour, though
Mr. Hardinge himself seldom sought his pillow until midnight. This
habit compelled us to use a good deal of caution in getting out of the
house, in which Rupert and myself succeeded, however, without
discovery, just as the clock struck eleven. We had taken leave of the
girls in a hasty manner, in a passage, shaking hands, and each of us
kissing his own sister, as he affected to retire for the night. To
own the truth, we were much gratified in finding how reasonably Grace
and Lucy behaved, on the occasion, and not a little surprised, for we
had expected a scene, particularly with the former.