ulterior motive in Hugh’s words and manner, Jack sensed without thinking it why his friend was leaving Caxton, and said nothing. With a last shake of Jack’s hand, and a brief, decorous embrace of Etáin, Hugh bid the wedding party goodbye and departed for Meum Hall, leaving them behind to celebrate the occasion.
From Meum Hall the next morning he rode to West Point, crossed by ferry the Pumunkey and Mattaponi Rivers, and rode back east along the opposite side of the York, stopping for a day or two at several plantations. His reputation preceded him, and the hospitality shown him by the owners — powerful men who owned far larger plantations than his own or Reece Vishonn’s — helped him to forget, for a while, both Jack and the woman on whose bare shoulders his own hands would never have a right to rest.
At one point, on the riverfront lawn of an ancient plantation that was almost a town by itself, his host pointed to some dots far across the York. “That’s your place, sir, if I’m not mistaken, and just up a bit from it, that’s Morland Hall, your neighbor.” The patriarch laughed and remarked in jest, “Why, we’re practically neighbors, too, sir — after a vigorous row across the water!”
Some tenacious benevolence in his soul allowed Hugh to smile, not in response to the jest, but at the sight of one particular dot, in acceptance of an intimate, personal fact. “One of my sadder virtues,” he thought to himself. But was it so sad a virtue? The circumstances were sad, he admitted, but not the virtue that allowed him to endure them.
* * *
Men who have lost in love will try many things to fill the melancholy void. They may mourn the loss until they are emotionally drained, and can feel no more, not even their love, or become addicted to the crushing disappointment, until they can feel nothing else. They may seek to erase the pain by indulging in plebian pastimes, such as gambling, horseracing, or other diverting panaceas. They may drink to distraction, or even to tragedy. They may allow their melancholy to swell into a maddening, unrequited obsession, or fester into a malicious envy or jealousy. They may grow permanently bitter, and so poison their capacity for love, murdering it within themselves. They may commit suicide, or vanish to another city or country, or grow so distant in the eyes of their lost loves and close friends that they become cold, unknowable strangers. Men may grow in that sweet hell, or they may shrink in its fumes and flames.
Rarer are the men who choose none of these remedies, but turn instead to a life-saving course of action. They redirect the energy and vitality of their souls to other passions, passions that share the wellsprings of their lost loves. They may redouble their efforts to improve and perfect their property, or hone the powers of their minds by immersing themselves in the wisdom of their time. Or they may go into politics, if they believe that this realm would benefit from their presence and participation.
Hugh Kenrick, exponent of the Enlightenment, veteran of the discipline of reason and proponent of its properties of salvation, did all these things. He wished to live, not merely to exist or survive. He did them, in part, in the unacknowledged honor of the person who would never grace his life or house as his spiritual partner.
He designed and had constructed atop a pine tower at the side of the great house a water collection tank in order to have running water inside the house and the attached kitchen, and had iron pipes installed with taps and basins in many of the house’s rooms. He designed and had built an underground ice-cellar. He reduced the acreage devoted to tobacco — themarket for the leaf had declined in Europe, at least temporarily — and planted more wheat and corn. His brickworks grew in reputation, and vessels called regularly at his pier to load pallets of the brick for customers as far away as Richmond and Fredericksburg. He journeyed
From Meum Hall the next morning he rode to West Point, crossed by ferry the Pumunkey and Mattaponi Rivers, and rode back east along the opposite side of the York, stopping for a day or two at several plantations. His reputation preceded him, and the hospitality shown him by the owners — powerful men who owned far larger plantations than his own or Reece Vishonn’s — helped him to forget, for a while, both Jack and the woman on whose bare shoulders his own hands would never have a right to rest.
At one point, on the riverfront lawn of an ancient plantation that was almost a town by itself, his host pointed to some dots far across the York. “That’s your place, sir, if I’m not mistaken, and just up a bit from it, that’s Morland Hall, your neighbor.” The patriarch laughed and remarked in jest, “Why, we’re practically neighbors, too, sir — after a vigorous row across the water!”
Some tenacious benevolence in his soul allowed Hugh to smile, not in response to the jest, but at the sight of one particular dot, in acceptance of an intimate, personal fact. “One of my sadder virtues,” he thought to himself. But was it so sad a virtue? The circumstances were sad, he admitted, but not the virtue that allowed him to endure them.
* * *
Men who have lost in love will try many things to fill the melancholy void. They may mourn the loss until they are emotionally drained, and can feel no more, not even their love, or become addicted to the crushing disappointment, until they can feel nothing else. They may seek to erase the pain by indulging in plebian pastimes, such as gambling, horseracing, or other diverting panaceas. They may drink to distraction, or even to tragedy. They may allow their melancholy to swell into a maddening, unrequited obsession, or fester into a malicious envy or jealousy. They may grow permanently bitter, and so poison their capacity for love, murdering it within themselves. They may commit suicide, or vanish to another city or country, or grow so distant in the eyes of their lost loves and close friends that they become cold, unknowable strangers. Men may grow in that sweet hell, or they may shrink in its fumes and flames.
Rarer are the men who choose none of these remedies, but turn instead to a life-saving course of action. They redirect the energy and vitality of their souls to other passions, passions that share the wellsprings of their lost loves. They may redouble their efforts to improve and perfect their property, or hone the powers of their minds by immersing themselves in the wisdom of their time. Or they may go into politics, if they believe that this realm would benefit from their presence and participation.
Hugh Kenrick, exponent of the Enlightenment, veteran of the discipline of reason and proponent of its properties of salvation, did all these things. He wished to live, not merely to exist or survive. He did them, in part, in the unacknowledged honor of the person who would never grace his life or house as his spiritual partner.
He designed and had constructed atop a pine tower at the side of the great house a water collection tank in order to have running water inside the house and the attached kitchen, and had iron pipes installed with taps and basins in many of the house’s rooms. He designed and had built an underground ice-cellar. He reduced the acreage devoted to tobacco — themarket for the leaf had declined in Europe, at least temporarily — and planted more wheat and corn. His brickworks grew in reputation, and vessels called regularly at his pier to load pallets of the brick for customers as far away as Richmond and Fredericksburg. He journeyed
Similar Books
