The Virginians | Page 4

cultivate the fruits of the earth in
their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak, I believe,
to the heir of that great property?--"
The young gentleman made a bow.
"--I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the propriety,
the duty of increasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed
you. As an honest factor, I could not do otherwise; as a prudent man,
should I scruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No,
my dear Mr. George."
"My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the young man as he
turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were
my lady's heir? and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq.----"
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant a
tough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. "Don't you
see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black

clothes?"
"What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your
owners? Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well
enough."
"Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the
deck.
"Where?" cries the factor.
"Mr. George is there!" reiterated the Captain, again lifting up his finger
towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. "He is dead a year, sir, come
next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that
dreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never
came back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You
know the Indian way, Mr. Trail?" And here the Captain passed his hand
rapidly round his head. "Horrible! ain't it, sir? horrible! He was a fine
young man, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, which
is now hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on
board of the Young Rachel, and would have his chests of books broke
open on deck before they was landed. He was a shy and silent young
gent: not like this one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow,
full of his songs and fun. He took on dreadful at the news; went to his
bed, had that fever which lays so many of 'em by the heels along that
swampy Potomac, but he's got better on the voyage: the voyage makes
every one better; and, in course, the young gentleman can't be for ever
a-crying after a brother who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever
since we sighted Ireland he has been quite gay and happy, only he
would go off at times, when he was most merry, saying, 'I wish my
dearest Georgy could enjoy this here sight along with me, and when
you mentioned the t'other's name, you see, he couldn't stand it.'" And
the honest Captain's own eyes filled with tears, as he turned and looked
towards the object of his compassion.
Mr. Trail assumed a lugubrious countenance befitting the tragic
compliment with which he prepared to greet the young Virginian; but
the latter answered him very curtly, declined his offers of hospitality,

and only stayed in Mr. Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of
wine and to take up a sum of money of which he stood in need. But he
and Captain Franks parted on the very warmest terms, and all the little
crew of the Young Rachel cheered from the ship's side as their
passenger left it.
Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had pored over the
English map, and determined upon the course which they should take
upon arriving at Home. All Americans who love the old country--and
what gently-nurtured man or woman of Anglo-Saxon race does
not?--have ere this rehearsed their English travels, and visited in fancy
the spots with which their hopes, their parents' fond stories, their
friends' descriptions, have rendered them familiar. There are few things
to me more affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two
great nations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the
younger towards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid
out. Before London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St.
Peter's; its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood,
from Wallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle
hearts; before the awful window of Whitehall, whence the martyr
Charles had issued, to kneel once more, and then ascend to
Heaven;--before Playhouses, Parks, and Palaces, wondrous resorts of
wit, pleasure, and splendour;--before Shakspeare's Resting-place under
the tall spire which rises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire
pastures;--before Derby,