Chapter VII

"Were you not delighted with the wild and mountainous scenery of the country around the Virginia Springs?" said Victor Chevillere to Miss St. Clair, on the morning after the scene related in the last chapter, as the lady reclined, in a pensive mood, in the room before described.

"Oh, sir, you forget that I was too feeble in mind and body to enjoy the scenery around me then, or to partake of the enthusiasm of my friends on the subject. The rich and romantic scenery of the White Sulphur was highly attractive to me, when I became somewhat convalescent; yet I shall carry with me through life a sad remembrance of scenes, which to many others of my age and sex will ever be associated with the gay dance, the enlivening gallopade, the stirring music, and with adventurous equestrian excursions among the mountains."

"I believe," said Chevillere, "that the most melancholy reflections may be and are much softened and mellowed in after-life, by being associated in the mind with the profoundly poetical feelings excited by the constant view of quiet mountain scenery; such as the well-remembered, long, long line of blue peaks, stretching far away until they reach the clouds and the horizon."

"It is indeed true," said she, "that kind and beautiful nature, in the season of green leaves and flowers, will sometimes almost tempt us to believe that misery is not the inevitable lot of the human family; but when the consciousness of the one and the beauty of the other are together present to us, it depends entirely upon the degree, whether the beauty softens the suffering or not."

"In other words," said he, "whether the evil be so irremediable that _hope_ cannot enter the heart; that the ravishing beauty of nature cannot excite benevolence, devotion, and love."

"That was not entirely my case," said she, "for I am grateful for having felt some pleasing excitement at the time, and for being able now to call up many pleasurable remembrances, clouded as they are for the most part with sadness."

"If I have been rightly informed, you did not visit all the other springs around the White Sulphur."

"My health would not permit of our making the entire fashionable round."

"Oh, then you have missed much pleasure," said he. "There are the Sweet Springs, rising out of the earth like a boiling caldron, with brilliant little balloons of gas ever ascending to the top of the water, and bursting in the sunbeams. There is not perhaps in the world such another natural fountain of soda-water. And there is the Salt Sulphur, with its high romantic hills covered with herds, and its beautiful meadows, and its long village of neat white cottages, and its splendid assembly-rooms, and its sumptuous banquets of wild game and artificial luxuries. But, above all, there is the Warm Spring, with its clear blue crystal baths, large enough for a troop of horse to swim in; there, likewise, is an extensive green lawn, flanked on the one side by the same kind of neat white cottages, and on the other by the line of blue mountains, rising abruptly from the plain within gun-shot of the baths. On a clear moonlight night, one may see the invalids sitting out on the green in front of their doors, enjoying the placid scenery of the valley, and the profound and solemn monotony of the overhanging mountains,--sometimes, indeed, interrupted by the bustle of a new arrival, the neighing of horses, the crash of the wheels, the hoarse voices of the coachmen as they exchange advice upon the descent into the valley, or by the meeting of old friends and fellow-invalids, perhaps acquaintances of a former season, and fellow-sufferers with the gout, bantering each other upon their speed."

"From what little I saw of them, I think they perfectly justify the southern enthusiasm which we found everywhere on the subject; and I should think that there is no finer opportunity of seeing southern fashionable society."

"True; our wealthiest and most fashionable people resort thither every season. Yet I cannot say in truth, from what I have observed myself, that our aristocracy are seen there to the best advantage. They are too much in their holyday suit of manners,--too artificial,--too unnatural. I have seen people who were agreeable at home, become affected and disagreeable at watering-places. I have also seen some who were reserved at home, become quite affable there. The latter effect, however, was by no means so common as the former."

"I did not see much affectation, or many unnatural people at the White Sulphur," said the lady.

"I cannot say that it is one of the besetting sins of the southern fashionables; all I meant to say was, that they show more of it there than at home."

"For my own part, I was delighted with the generous, free, and open-hearted manner in which I was treated by the few female acquaintances I made; and I am almost ashamed to acknowledge that they were far more intelligent and accomplished than my prejudices had taught me to expect."

"You acknowledge, then, that you had some provincial prejudices. Let me see! _then_ I must take you regularly to account, and catechise you."

"Well," said the lady, as lightly as her habitual sadness ever permitted, "I will answer truly."

"I know you will speak truly whatever you do answer; but will you speak the whole truth in answer to whatever I shall ask?"

A sad and afflicted expression appeared upon her countenance as she replied, "I need hardly say to Mr. Chevillere, that those questions which are proper for him to ask and for me to hear shall be fully answered."

"You do me but justice in supposing that I would not discredit my new dignity, by propounding questions which would lessen me in the eyes of a fair witness; but, to tell you the truth, I seriously meditated putting a few in addition to such as were local, and perhaps in a more serious mood than these might demand."

"Proceed, sir, proceed," said the lady, somewhat perturbed; "I must reserve the right to answer or not. No trifling impediment, however, shall prevent me from gratifying your curiosity."

"Would you consider it a great misfortune to reside in the southern states?"

"Places and countries are to me nearly alike."

"How so? You surely prefer your native land to all others?"

"Unhappiness soon makes us indifferent to mere locality; situated as I am, many would prefer new scenes."

"Does not affliction enlarge the heart, and extend the affections?"

"I believe that slight sufferings make us captious--great ones, humane and benevolent."

"Is it a natural consequence, that, when benevolence becomes universal, personal affections and partialities wither in proportion?"

"Certainly not, as a consequence; but it is questionable whether blighted hopes do not generally precede the enlarged philanthropy spoken of."

"May not much travelling and experience of the world produce the same effect?"

"I cannot speak experimentally on that point; but I think it is very probable they do upon a masculine mind."

As Chevillere was about to continue his half-serious, half-jesting questions, Mr. Brumley abruptly entered, and announced to his daughter-in-law his determination to proceed northward early on the following morning; and almost at the same moment, old Cato, with his stately step, profound bow, and cap in hand, presented a letter to his master, which he instantly knew by the superscription to be from Randolph. Presenting his regards to them both, he retired to peruse the epistle, which will be found in the next chapter.