Cooper, Susan Fenimore, 1813-1894 [1846], Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk at Longbridge: a tale, volume 2 (Carey & Hart, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf083v2].
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ELINOR WYLLYS;
OR, THE
YOUNG FOLK OF LONGBRIDGE.
A TALE.
BY
AMABEL PENFEATHER.
“Familiar matter of to-day;
Some natural sorrow, loss or pain,
That has been, and may be again.'
Wordsworth.
IN TWO VOLUMES,
VOL. II.
EDITED BY J. FENIMORE COOPER.
PHILADELPHIA:
CAREY AND HART.
1846.
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Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by
J. FENIMORE COOPER,
in the clerk's office of the District Court for the Northern District
of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN.
PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS.
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Main text
ELINOR WYLLYS.
CHAPTER I.
“But there is matter for another rhyme;
And I to this would add another tale.”
Wordsworth.
“And how do Miss and Madam do;
The little boy, and all?
All tight and well? and how do you,
Good Mr. What-do-you-call?”
Cowper.
It is to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter.
But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break
of three years in the narrative: having to choose between
the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding
to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely
with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have
undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should,
of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but
our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world,
people will move about—especially American people; and
making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently
until time brought the wanderers back again, to the
neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance.
Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up;
Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman
Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house
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connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years
in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's,
a distinguished political man, received the appointment of
Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary
of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see
the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad
of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth
to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the
Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time,
to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in
France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was
absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had
been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account,
they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter
in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met
again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of
our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was
re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement
of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot
is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes
are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence
which will probably cheer the reader's spirits.
We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is
something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of
our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances
made on paper.
We hear daily that life is short; and, surely, Time flies
with fearful rapidity if we measure his course by years: three-score-and-ten,
the allotted span of man, are soon numbered.
But events, thoughts, feelings, hopes, cares, are better marks
for the dial of life, than hours and minutes. In this view,
the path of life is a long road, full of meaning and of movement
at every step; and in this sense only in time justly
appreciated; each day loses its insignificance, and every
yearly revolution of the earth becomes a point in eternity.
The occurrences of the three years during which we have
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lost sight of the Longbridge circle will speak for themselves,
as our tale is gradually unfolded. It is evident, however, at
the first glance, on returning to the old ground, that the
village itself has undergone some alterations. Though belonging
to a part of the country occasionally accused of being
“unenterprising,” it had not proved insensible to the general
movement felt throughout the republic, in those halcyon days
of brilliant speculation, which commenced with the promise
of good fortune to all, and ended by bringing poverty to many,
and disgrace to others. A rail-road now runs through the
principal street, and the new dépôt, a large, uncouth building,
stands conspicuous at its termination, looking commercial
prosperity, and internal improvement. Several new stores
have been opened, half-a-dozen “tasty mansions”—chiefly
imitations of Mr. Hubbard's—have been built, another large
tavern has been commenced, and two additional steamboats
may be seen lying at the wharf. The value of property in
the village itself, is said to have doubled, at least; new streets
are laid out, and branch rail-roads are talked of; and many
people flatter themselves that Longbridge will figure in the
next census as a flourishing city, with the full honours of a
Corporation, Mayor, and Aldermen. In the population, corresponding
changes are also perceptible; many new faces
are seen in the streets, new names are observed on the signs;
others again are missed from their old haunts, for there is
scarcely a family in the place, which has not sent its representation
westward.
Most of our old acquaintances, however, still remain on
the spot, this pleasant afternoon in June, 183-. There stands
Mr. Joseph Hubbard, talking to Judge Bernard. That is
Dr. Van Horne, driving off in his professional sulkey. There
are Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bibbs, side-by-side, as of old. Mrs.
George Wyllys has moved, it seems; her children are evidently
at home in a door-yard on the opposite side of the
street, adjoining the Hubbard “Park.” On the door of that
bright-coloured, spruce-looking brick house, you will see the
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name of W. C. Clapp; and there are a pair of boots resting
on the window-sill of an adjoining office, which probably
belong to the person of the lawyer, himself. Now, we may
observe Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline Hubbard flitting
across the street, “fascinating and aristocratic” as ever.
Let us leave the village, however, for the more immediate
neighbourhood of Wyllys-Roof; in which, it is hoped,
the reader will feel more particularly interested. There
stands the little cottage of the Hubbards, looking just as it
did three years since; it is possible that one or two of the
bull's-eye panes of glass may have been broken, and changed,
and the grey shingles are a little more-moss-grown; but its
general aspect is precisely what it was when we were last
there. The snow-ball and the sweet-briar are in their old
places, each side of the humble porch; the white blossoms
have fallen from the scraggy branches of the snow-ball, this
first week in June; the fresh pink buds are opening on the
fragrant young shoots of the sweet-briar. There is our friend,
Miss Patsey, wearing a sun-bonnet, at work in the garden; and
if you look through the open door of the house, you will
see beyond the passage into the neat little kitchen, where we
catch a glimpse of Mrs. Hubbard's white cap over the back
of her rocking-chair. It is possible that you may also see
the merry, shining, black face of a little handmaiden, whom
Miss Patsey has lately taken into the family; and, as the
tea-kettle is boiling, and the day's work chiefly over, the
little thing is often seen at this hour, playing about the corners
of the house, with the old cat. Ah, there is the little
minx!—her sharp ears have heard the sound of wheels,
and she is already at the open gate, to see what passes. A
wagon stops; whom have we here? Little Judy is frightened
half out of her wits: a young man she does not know,
with his face covered with beard, after a fashion she had
never yet seen, springs from the wagon. Miss Patsey turns
to look.
“Charlie!”—she exclaims; and in another moment the
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youth has received the joyful, tearful, agitated embrace of
his mother and sister. The darling of their hearts is at home
again; three years since, he left them, a boy, to meet dangers
exaggerated tenfold by their anxious hearts; he returns, a
man, who has faced temptations undreamed of by their
simple minds. The wanderer is once more beneath their
humble roof; their partial eyes rest again on that young face,
changed, yet still the same.
Charlie finds the three last years have passed lightly over
his mother and his sister; theirs are the same kindly faces,
the same well-known voices, the best loved, the most trusted
from childhood. After the first eager moments of greeting
are over, and the first hurried questions have been answered,
he looks about him. Has not the dear old cottage shrunk
to a very nut-shell? He opens the door of the school-room;
there are its two benches, and its humble official desk, as of
old; he looks into the little parlour, and smiles to think of
the respect he felt in his childish days for Miss Patsey's
drawing-room: many a gilded gallery, many a brilliant
saloon has he since entered as a sight-seer, with a more careless
step. He goes out on the porch; is it possible that is
the garden?—why it is no larger than a table-cloth! — he
should have thought the beds he had so often weeded could
not be so small: and the door-yard, one can shake hands
across it! And there is Wyllys-Roof, half hid by trees—
he used to admire it as a most venerable pile; in reality it is
only a plain, respectable country-house: as the home of the
Wyllyses, however, it must always be an honoured spot to
him. Colonnade Manor too—he laughs! There are some
buildings that seem, at first sight, to excite to irresistible
merriment; they belong to what may be called the “ridiculous
order” of architecture, and consist generally of caricatures
on noble Greek models; Mr. Taylor's elegant mansion had,
undeniably, a claim to a conspicuous place among the number.
Charlie looks with a painter's eye at the country; the scenery
is of the simplest kind, yet beautiful, as inanimate nature,
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sinless nature, must ever be under all her varieties: he casts
a glance upward at the sky, bright and blue as that of Italy;
how often has he studied the heavens from that very spot!
The trees are rich in their summer verdure, the meadows
are fragrant with clover, and through Mr. Wyllys's woods
there is a glimpse of the broad river, gilded by the evening
sun. It is a pleasing scene, a happy moment; it is the first
landscape he ever painted, and it is home.
Then Charlie returns to his mother; he sits by her side,
she takes his hand in her withered fingers, she rests her
feeble sight on his bright face; while Miss Patsey is preparing
all the dainties in the house for supper.
“Well, little one, what is your name?” said Charlie, as
the black child passed him with a load of good things.
“Judy, sir,” said the little girl, with a curtsey, and a half-frightened
look at Charlie's face, for the young artist had
chosen to return with moustaches; whether he thought it
professional or becoming, we cannot say.
“We shall be good friends I hope, Judy; if you mind
my sister better than you ever did anybody else in your life,
perhaps I shall find some sugar-plums for you,” said Charlie,
pleased to see a black face again.
Mrs. Hubbard remarked that, upon the whole, Judy was
a pretty good girl; and the child grinned, until two deep
dimples were to be seen in her shining dark cheeks, and
the dozen little non-descript braids which projected from her
head in different directions, seemed to stand on end with
delight.
“And so Mr. Wyllys and the ladies are not at home. I
wish I had known of their being in New-York; I might at
least have seen them for a moment, yesterday.”
“I wonder Mrs. Hilson did not mention their being in
town.”
“Julianna never knows what she is talking about. But I
am glad to hear good accounts of them all.”
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“Yes; Miss Wyllys has come home from the West-Indies,
much better.”
“Is it really true that Miss Elinor is going to be married
shortly?”
“Well, I can't say whether the story is true or not. She
seems to have many admirers now she has become an heiress.”
“But I don't understand how she comes to be such a
fortune.”
“I don't understand it myself; Mr. Clapp can tell you all
about it. You know most people are a great deal richer
now than they were a few years ago. I heard some one
say the other day, that my old pupil's property in Longbridge,
is worth three times as much now, as it was a short
time since.”
“Is it possible Longbridge has improved so much?”
“And then your old play-fellow has had two legacies from
relations of her mother's; everybody in the neighbourhood
is talking of her good-luck, and saying what a fortune she
will turn out. I only hope she will be happy, and not be
thrown away upon some one unworthy of her, like her poor
cousin; for it seems young Mr. Taylor is very dissipated.”
Charlie probably sympathized with this remark, though
he made no reply.
“Mr. and Mrs. Tallman Taylor are in New-York now, I
hear, just come from New-Orleans. The family from Wyllys-Roof
have gone over to see them,” added Miss Patsey.
“Yes, so I understand. They will be here before long, I
suppose.”
“Not immediately; for they are all going to Saratoga together.
Dr. Van Horne thought Miss Wyllys had better
pass two or three weeks at the Springs.”
“That is fortunate for me—I shall see them the sooner;
for I must be at Lake George before the first of July. I
have an order for three views of the Lake, which I have
promised to send to England early in the fall.”
Here Charlie entered into some details of his affairs, very
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interesting to his mother and sister; and they seemed to be
in a very satisfactory condition, according to his own modest
views. After a while the conversation again returned to
their Longbridge friends.
“Did you know that Mr. Hazlehurst is coming home too,
this summer?” asked Miss Patsey.
“Yes; he wrote me word he hoped we should meet
before long. How did that affair with Mrs. Creighton turn
out?”
“We did hear they were engaged; but it could not have
been true, for the lady has been in Philadelphia, and he in
Brazil, for some time, you know. I used to ask about such
matters once in a while, on purpose to write you word. But
I had no great opportunity of hearing much about Mr.
Hazlehurst; for after that unhappy business at Wyllys-Roof,
there was, of course, a great coolness; for some time I never
heard his name mentioned there, and Mr. Wyllys seldom
speaks of him now.”
“Are they not reconciled, then?”
“Not entirely, I am afraid; but you know they have not
met for three years.”
“I shall hardly know myself at Wyllys-Roof, without
seeing Mr. Hazlehurst and Miss Graham there.”
“You will find a great change in that respect. Mrs.
Taylor has not been here since her marriage; Miss Van
Alstyne seems to have taken her place; she is a very pleasant
young lady. When the family is at home now, there
seems often to be some strange gentleman with them.”
“Fortune-hunters, I suppose,” said Charlie, with some
indignation. “Well, the course of true love never has, and
never will run quite as it ought, I suppose. And how do
all the Longbridge people come on?—How is Uncle Josie?”
“Very well, indeed; just as good as ever to us. You
must go to see him to-morrow.”
“Certainly;—and what is Uncle Dozie about?”
“At work in the vegetable-garden, as usual. He sent
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me a fine basket of salad, and radishes, and onions, this
morning.”
“Clapp has got into a new house I see.”
“Yes; he is in very good business, I believe; you saw
Catherine, you say?”
“Yes, for a minute only. I ran in to kiss Kate and the
children, while they were harnessing a horse for me at the
tavern. Kate looks very well herself. The children didn't
remember much of Uncle Charlie; but they are pretty,
healthy little things, nevertheless.”
The grandmother assented to the commendation of her
daughter's family; she thought them remarkably fine children.
“Catherine was a very fortunate woman,” she said;
“Mr. Clapp was a very superior man, so very clever that he
must do well; and the children were all healthy—they had
gone through the measles wonderfully, that spring.”
“Charlie had not quite as elevated an opinion of his brother-in-law
as the females of the family; he allowed his mother's
remark to pass unnoticed, however.
“And so Mr. Taylor has given up Colonnade Manor,” he
continued.
“Yes; he has just sold it to Mr. de Vaux, a friend of Mr.
Wyllys,” replied Miss Patsey.
“Why did he sell it, pray?”
“Well, the young ladies liked better to live about at hotels
and boarding-houses in the summer, I believe; they thought
it was too dull at Longbridge. Mr. Taylor didn't care much
for the place: you know there are some people, who, as
soon as they have built a house, and got everything in nice
order, want to sell; it seems as if they did not care to be
comfortable; but I suppose it is only because they are so
fond of change.”
We may as well observe, by way of parenthesis, that this
fancy of getting rid of a place as soon as it is in fine order,
would probably never occur to any man but an American,
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and an American of the particular variety to which Mr. Taylor
belonged.
“I don't wonder at his wanting to get rid of the house;
but the situation and the neighbourhood might have satisfied
him, I think,” said Charlie, as he accepted Miss Patsey's
invitation to eat the nice supper she had prepared for him.
As he took his seat at the table, Mrs. Hubbard observed,
that he probably had not seen such short-cake as Patsey made,
in Rome—to which Charlie assented warmly. He had wished
one evening, in Florence, he said, for some of his sister's
short-cake, and a good cup of tea of her making; and the
same night he dreamed that the Venus de Medicis had made
him some. He was ashamed of himself for having had
such a dream; but it could not be helped, such was the fact.
Mrs. Hubbard thought no woman, Venus or not, ought to
be ashamed of making good short-cake; if they were bad,
that would be a different matter.
“Well, Charlie, now you have seen all those paintings
and figures you used to talk so much about, what do you
think of them? — are they really so handsome as you
expected?” asked his sister.
“They are wonderful!” exclaimed Charlie, with animation;
putting down a short-cake he had just buttered.
“Wonderful!—There is no other word to describe them.”
Mrs. Hubbard observed, that she had some notion of a
painting, from the minister's portrait in the parlour—Charlie
took up his short cake—she thought a person might have
satisfaction in a painting; such a picture as that portrait;
but as for those stone figures he used to wish to see, she
could not understand what was the beauty of such idol-like
things.
“They are not at all like idols, mother; they are the most
noble conceptions of the human form.”
How could they look human? He himself had told her
they were made out of marble; just such marble, she supposed,
as was used for tomb-stones.
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“I only wish you could see some of the statues in Italy;
the Laocoon, Niobe, and others I have seen. I think you
would feel then what I felt—what I never can describe in
words.”
Mrs. Hubbard said the names sounded very heathen-like
to her ears; she had never seen a statue, of any description
whatever; she didn't think she could have any satisfaction
in looking at one. If they had any colour to them, and were
dressed up in uniforms, and handsome clothes, like the wax-figures
of General Washington, Napoleon Bonaparte, and
Lord Nelson, she had once seen, they would be worth looking
at, perhaps.
Miss Patsey wished to know, if among the statues he had
seen, there were any supposed to be likenesses of the great
men that we read about in history?
“There are many statues and busts in Italy, that are undeniably
portraits of some of the greatest men of antiquity,”
he replied.
“Do you suppose they are really like those old Romans?
I don't mean such likenesses as the portrait of our dear
father; but still pretty good for those old times?”
“Far better than anything of the kind you ever saw,”
replied Charlie, drinking off a cup of tea.
Miss Patsey thought those might be worth seeing. A
conversation followed upon the delight Charlie had felt in
beholding celebrated places, the scenes of great events in
past ages; a delight that an American can never know in
his own country, and which, on that very account, he enjoys
with a far keener zest than a European. Miss Patsey seemed
to enter a little into this pleasure; but, upon the whole, it
was quite evident that all the imagination of the family had
fallen to Charlie's share. The young man thought little of
this, however: when Judy had carried away the remains of
the supper, he returned to his mother's side, and the evening
passed away in that pleasant family chat, so interesting to
those who feel alike. Sympathy of the heart is a tie ten-fold
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stronger than sympathy of the head; people may think alike,
and hate each other; while those who feel together, are
often led to adopt the same opinions.
When Charlie had read the usual evening chapter in the
Bible, and had received his mother's kiss and blessing, he
laid himself down with a thankful heart, in the little garret-room,
as in his childish years. The young artist's dreams
that night, were a mingled crowd of fancies; the memories
of his boyhood reviving in their old haunts, accompanied by
more recent images brought from beyond the Ocean, and
linked with half-formed plans and ideas for the future.
Among these visions of the night, were two more distinct
than the rest; one was a determination to commence, the
very next morning, a copy of his honoured father's portrait,
in which the artist's object was unusual; for it was his chief
aim to make it as little like the original before him, as possible.
Shall we reveal the fact that another image, wearing
a gentler aspect than the stern, rigid features of the minister's
portrait, seemed to flit before the young painter's fancy,
coming unbidden, and mingling more especially with recollections
of the past? As a ray of moonlight stole into the
low dormer-window, the young man turned on his humble
bed, a sigh burst from his lips, followed by the words, “No,
no!”
We shall keep the secret.
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CHAPTER II.
“Yonder, sure, they are coming.”
As You Like It.
The weather had been more than usually warm for several
weeks, and the morning after Charlie's return to Longbridge,
when the steamboat North America left the wharf at NewYork,
her decks and cabins were filled by some five or six
hundred passengers. There were men, women, and children,
of various characters, colours and conditions. The
scene on deck was pleasing and cheerful; the day was
lovely, the steamer looked neat and bright, and the great
majority of the females were gaily dressed in their summer
attire; most of the faces looked good-humoured, as if pleased
to escape from the heat and confinement of the town, to
cooler air, and a sight of the water and green woods. One
might have supposed it a party of pleasure on a large scale;
in fact, Americans seem always good-natured, and in a
pleasant mood when in motion; such is their peculiar temperament.
The passengers on board the North America soon
began to collect in knots, family-groups, or parties of acquaintance;
some chatting, some reading, some meditating.
There was one difficulty, however, want of space to move
about in, or want of seats for some of those who were
stationary.
After the boat had fairly begun her trip, and people had
settled themselves as well as they could, according to their
different fancies, a pretty little woman appeared at the door
of the ladies' cabin. In her light hair, and somewhat insipid
face, encased in an extremely fashionable hat, we recognise
Mrs. Hilson. Turning towards a gentleman who
seemed waiting near the door for her, she addressed him.
“Now, Monsieur Bonnet, do exert your gallantry, and
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find me a seat on deck. The cabin is intolerably warm, I
cannot stay here;—where are Emmeline and the Baron?”
“You see, Madame,” he said, pointing towards the couple,
Montbrun take a tabouret at once, when we come on board,
and Mademoiselle Emmeline now has it. It was very maladroit
in me not to keep one for you; I beg a t'ousand
pardons.”
“Haven't you got a seat; that is a pity. But I dare say
you can easily find one.”
“Vraiment, ma chère Madame Eel-sun, there is no sacri
fice I would not make to procure you one. I am désolé it
should be impossible. I have been looking; but all the
tabourets and chair are taken by ladies and gentlemans.
You have a drôle de manière of travel in this countree; so
many people together, the ladies must be victimes sometime.”
“Oh, no; you don't know how to manage, that is all.
Has not the Baron a chair?”
“Non, Madame; you see he is debout.”
“Well, there are some gentlemen seated; I see three or
four—one quite near you. Ask him for his chair.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and looked bewildered.
“Pray, ask that gentleman for his chair,” repeated the
lady, pointing with her parasol to a person sitting at no great
distance.
“But, Madame, the gentleman will not know what a
charming lady wish for the chair—he will not give it.”
“Oh, no danger; if you tell him it is for a lady, of course
he will let you have it. Why, how slow you are about it;
you are almost as bad as Captain Kockney, who never did
anything when he was asked.”
“Ah, Madame, de grâces do not say that!—I go.”
And Monsieur Bonnet, edging his way here and there
behind the ladies, and begging ten thousand pardons, at
length reached the person Mrs. Hilson had pointed out to
him.
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“What did you say?” exclaimed this individual, looking
up rather gruffly, at being addressed by an utter stranger.
“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” continued Monsieur Bonnet;
“a lady is very much oppressed with fatigue, and send me to
beg you will be aimable to give her your chair.”
“What is it?” repeated the man, who looked like an
Englishman; “I don't understand you.”
Monsieur Bonnet again urged his request, in terms still
more civil. It would be rendering a very great service to
the lady, he said.
“I am not acquainted with the lady; I advise you to look
for an empty chair,” replied the other, resolutely turning his
face in an opposite direction.
Monsieur Bonnet shrugged his shoulders, and was moving
towards Mrs. Hilson au dèsespoir, when a gentlemanly-looking
man, who was seated, reading, not far from the Englishman,
rose and quietly offered his bench for the use of the lady.
Monsieur Bonnet was, of course, all gratitude, and returned
enchanté to Mrs. Hilson, who took the matter very quietly;
while M. Bonnet seemed surprised at his own success.
The gentleman who had given up his seat, was obliged to
continue standing; shutting up his book, he began to look
about him, among the crowd, for acquaintances. There was
a very gay, noisy party, at no great distance, which first
attracted his attention; it consisted of two pretty young
women in the centre of a group of men. The shrill voice
and rattling laugh of one lady, might be very distinctly heard
across the deck; the other was leaning back listlessly in her
chair: one of the young men was reading a paper with a
sort of family expression, as if the ladies were his near connexions;
and, on a chair, at the side of the silent lady, sat
an old gentleman, with a very rusty coat, snuffy nose, and a
red handkerchief spread on one knee, while on the other he
held a pretty little boy, about two years old.
“I tell you I know she was dead in love with him!” cried
the rattling young lady, at the top of her voice. Then,
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observing the gentleman, who was looking in that direction, she
bowed with a coquettish graciousness. The bow was returned,
but the gentleman did not seem very anxious to
approaeh the party; when the young lady, beckoning with
her finger, obliged him to draw near.
“Now, Mr. Ellsworth, you are just the man I wanted.
Three of these gentlemen are against me; I have only one
on my side, and I want you to help me to fight the battle.”
“Must I enlist, Miss Taylor, before I know whether the
cause is good or bad?”
“Oh, certainly, or else you are not worth a cent. But I'll
tell you how the matter stands: you know Helen de Vaux
and you were at the Springs, last summer, when she and
Mr. Van Alstyne were there. Well, I say she was dead in
love with him, though she did refuse him.”
“Was she?” replied Mr. Ellsworth.
“Why, I know she was; it was as plain as a pike-staff to
everybody who saw them together. And here, these good
folks provoke me so; they say if she refused him she did
not care for him; and here is my ridiculous brother-in-law,
Mr. St. Leger, says I don't know anything about it; and my
sister Adeline always thinks just as her husband does.”
“That's quite right, my dear,” said the rusty Mr. Hopkins,
taking a pinch of snuff. “I hope you will follow her
example one of these days.”
“What are the precise symptoms of a young lady's being
dead in love?” asked the quiet, business-looking Theodore
St. Leger.
“Oh, you know well enough what I mean. You may
say what you please about Helen de Vaux not caring for
him, I know better,” continued the young lady, in a voice
that might be heard on the other side of the boat.
“As Miss de Vaux's mother is on board, suppose you refer
the question to her,” said Mr. Ellsworth, in a dry manner.
“Is she?—I hope she didn't hear us,” continued the young
lady, lowering her voice half a tone. “But you need not
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ask her, though; for I don't believe her mother knows anything
about it.”
“You are going to the Springs, I suppose,” said Mr.
Ellsworth, by way of changing the conversation.
“I wish we were! No; Adeline has taken it into her
head to be romantic, for the first time in her life. She says
we must go to the Falls; and it will be a fortnight lost from
Saratoga.”
“But, have you no wish to see Niagara?”
“Not a bit; and I don't believe Adeline has, either. But
it is no wonder she doesn't care about the Springs, now she's
married; she began to go there four years before I did.”
“Have you never been to Niagara, Mrs. St. Leger?” continued
Mr. Ellsworth, addressing the elder sister; who, from
the giddy, belleish Adeline, was now metamorphosed into
the half-sober young matron—the wife of an individual, who
in spite of the romantic appellation of Theodore St. Leger,
was a very quiet, industrious business-man, the nephew and
adopted son of Mr. Hopkins, Adeline's Boston escort. She
had been sitting contentedly beside the old gentleman, for
the last half hour, leaving her unmarried sister to entertain
the beaux, according to etiquette.
“No, I have never been to the Falls; and all our party
but my sister Emma, seemed to think it would be a pleasant
jaunt.”
“Mr. Hopkins has entered into an engagement to supply
me with at least two beaux at a time, and a regular change
all the way to Niagara, or else I shouldn't have come,” said
Miss Emma.
“We are engaged at least by the day, I hope,” interposed
one of the attendant young men.
“No, indeed; I should be tired to death of you, for more
than an hour at a time. I sha'n't speak to you again, until
we have passed West Point.”
“I have had no trouble as yet, my dear, in picking up
recruits,” said Mr. Hopkins, whose attention seemed equally
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divided between his snuff-box, and the little Hopkins, junior,
on his knee—his great-nephew.
“If there are two, that's all I care for; but I hate to have
only one person to talk to.”
Mr. Ellsworth bit his lips, to prevent their expressing his
opinion, that the young lady must always have a large circle
of listeners.
“Have you seen Mr. Wyllys's party this morning?” inquired
Adeline.
“The Wyllyses!—Are they on board?” exclaimed Mr.
Ellsworth, with surprise and pleasure. “I thought them at
Saratoga by this time.”
“Oh, no; they are somewhere on the other side of the
boat; my sister-in-law, Mrs. Taylor's little girl is with them.
By-the-bye, Emma, I am going into the cabin to look after
Jane; will you go with me?”
“No, indeed; I hate the cabin of a steamboat!”
Adeline was quite satisfied to leave her sister with the
prospect of a good supply of young men to flirt with; though
matrimony had changed her in some respects, she still considered
it a duty to encourage to the utmost, all love-affairs,
and flirtations going on in her neighbourhood. Mr. Hopkins
resigned the little boy to his mother's care; Mr. St. Leger
helped his wife through the crowd; and, under cover of the
movement made to allow Adeline to pass, Mr. Ellsworth
made his escape. His eye had been already directed towards
the opposite side of the boat, where he had discovered the venerable,
benevolent face of Mr. Wyllys, with three ladies near
him. Mr. Ellsworth immediately recognised Miss Agnes,
Elinor, and Mary Van Alstyne. It was several minutes
before he could edge his way through the crowd, to join them;
but when he reached the spot, he was received very cordially
by Mr. Wyllys and Miss Agnes, in a friendly manner by
Mary Van Alstyne, and possibly there was something of
consciousness betrayed by Elinor.
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“I thought you already at Saratoga!” exclaimed Mr.
Ellsworth.
“We were detained several days, waiting for Mrs. Taylor,”
replied Elinor, to whom the remark was made.
“We shall not be at Saratoga until Monday,” added Mr.
Wyllys; “we are going to pass a day or two with our friends,
the V—s, at Poughkeepsie.”
“I am very sorry to hear it,” continued Mr. Ellsworth;
“I have promised to carry Mrs. Creighton to Nahant, about
that time, and shall have my usual bad luck in missing you.”
“We must persuade Mrs. Creighton not to run away,”
said Mr. Wyllys.
As Elinor stooped at that moment, to untie the hat of the
pretty little creature at her side, it was impossible to say
whether this intelligence were displeasing to her or not.
“That is Mrs. Taylor's child, is it not?” observed Mr.
Ellsworth, looking at the little girl. “She is very like Mrs.
St. Leger.”
“Do you really think so?—we fancy her like her mother,”
said Elinor.
“How is Tallman Taylor now?—he was not well when
they passed through Philadelphia.”
“He looks badly still,” said Miss Agnes. “He is very
imprudent, and distresses Jane very much by his carelessness.”
“Gentlemen never seem to do what is right when invalids,”
observed Mary Van Alstyne, smiling. “They are either
very reckless, and indifferent to their health, or else over-careful.”
“What do you say, Mr. Ellsworth; is that account true?”
asked Miss Wyllys.
“I dare say it is—I have no doubt we are very troublesome
to our nurses. But, fortunately, women are endowed
with a double stock of patience, to make up for our deficiencies.
Is Mr. Taylor on board?—I have not seen him.”
“No; he remained in town to attend to some business,”
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replied Miss Wyllys. “We have charge of Mrs. Taylor,
however, who was very anxious to get into the country, on
account of her youngest child.”
“I see, Mr. Ellsworth, that old Ironsides has arrived at
Norfolk, bringing Mr. Henley from Rio,” observed Mr.
Wyllys.
“Certainly; she arrived on Tuesday.”
“I saw it in the Globe, last night, grandpapa, Mr. Henley
had arrived at Washington. Harry is with him, of course,”
said Elinor, in a quiet, natural tone.
“I supposed you knew of their arrival,” observed Mr.
Ellsworth. “I have a letter from Hazlehurst in my pocket.
He seems to have had quite enough of Rio.”
“Mr. Henley, I understand, is talked of as minister to
Russia,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“Yes; I believe that affair is settled.”
“Does Hazlehurst mention whether he is going with Mr.
Henley?”
“That may be a state secret,” said Elinor, smiling.
“He has had an offer of the situation, I believe—but does
not seem to have made up his mind; he is coming home to
look about him, he says, having three months' vacation at
any rate.”
The shrill tone of Miss Emma Taylor's voice was at this
moment heard so distinctly, from the other side of the boat
that Mr. Wyllys looked up from his paper, and Mr. Ellsworth
smiled. It was very evident the young lady had inherited
the peculiar tone of voice, and all the cast-off animation
of her elder sister.
“Miss Taylor seems to be in very good spirits,” remarked
Mr. Ellsworth.
“Yes; she always talks and laughs a great deal,” replied
Mary Van Alstyne.
“They are no longer your neighbours, I understand, sir.”
“No; Mr. Taylor sold Colonnade Manor this spring; De
Vaux has purchased it, and changed the name of the place.
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It is now to be called Broadlawn, which is certainly a great
improvement.”
“And where does Mr. Taylor's family pass the summer?”
“Why, Jane tells me he is building something he calls a
cottage, at Rockaway, within a stone's throw of the principal
hotel. They thought Longbridge too quiet.”
Mrs. Taylor's little girl had, by this time, become very
sleepy, and a little fretful; and Miss Agnes advised her
being carried to her mother. Elinor led her away, rather,
it is believed, to Mr. Ellsworth's regret.
It was no easy task to make one's way among the nurses,
and babies, and baskets, filling the ladies' cabin, which was
more than usually crowded. But at length Elinor reached
Jane and Adeline, who were sitting together.
A single glance was sufficient to show that a change had
come over these two young women, since the giddy days of
their girlhood. Jane was pale, but beautiful as ever; she
was holding on her knees a sick child, about two months old,
which apparently engrossed all her attention. What would
be her system as a mother, might be foretold by the manner
in which she pacified the little girl Elinor had brought with
her.
“Give her some candy, Dinah,” she said to the black
nurse; whose broad, good-natured face was soon covered
with shining marks of affection, from the hands of the pretty
little charge.
Adeline was less changed in her appearance than her
sister-in-law; that is to say, she was as pretty as ever, and
neither thin nor pale. But there was something in her expression,
and a great deal in her manner, that was no longer
what it had been of old. That excessive animation which
had distinguished her as a belle, had been allowed to die
away; and the restless expression, produced by a perpetual
labour to make conquests, which was, at one time, always to
be traced upon her features, had now vanished entirely. In
its place there was a touch of matronly care and affection,
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
more natural, and far more pleasing. She, too, was sitting
by the side of her child, driving away the flies from the little
thing, who was sleeping in a berth. Adeline Taylor had
married well, in the best sense of the word. Not that she
deserved much credit for doing so, since she had only accidentally,
as it were, become attached to the young man who
happened to be the most deserving among her suitors.
Chance had had a great deal to with the match, as it has
with many matches. She had, however, one merit—that of
not rejecting him on account of his want of fortune; although
at the time, she might have married a man who would have
given her a four-story, four-window house in Broadway.
Mr. Taylor had not interfered: she had done as she pleased
in the affair. It is true, that her father rather inclined towards
the richest suitor; still, he took it for granted, that if
Theodore St. Leger had not a fortune at the time, being a
merchant, he would, of course, make one in a few years.
But Mr. Taylor's son-in-law was a man of very different
character from himself; he was a quiet, prudent, unostentatious
young man, of good abilities, who had received by
education excellent principles, and moderate views, and who
had fallen in love with Adeline's pretty face. Mr. Hopkins,
his uncle and adopted father, was a very worthy man, though
a little eccentric, and rather too much given to snuff, and old
coats, and red handkerchiefs. No one stood better on Change
than John Hopkins, whose word had been as good as his
bond, throughout a long life. He was a man of some property
too, but he had only given his nephew enough to begin
life very moderately. Even with the very liberal allowance
which Mr. Taylor freely gave his children, Adeline, when
she married, was obliged to live in a much plainer and
quieter way than she had done for the last five or six years.
Altogether, however, the young couple seemed to agree
very well, in spite of the difference in their characters: a
pretty, good-natured wife was all the young merchant had
wished for; and Adeline was really attached to her husband,
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whose chief fault seemed to be in his coats, which were
rather too much after the fashion of those of Uncle Hopkins.
Jane's fate had proved less happy than that of her friend
Adeline. Tallman Taylor's habits of extravagance had led
them into difficulties in more ways than one. He had spent
far more than his income, and his carelessness in business had
proved a great disadvantage to the house with which he was
connected. During the last year, matters had grown worse
and worse; he had neglected his wife, and lost large sums at the
gambling-table. Poor Jane had passed some unhappy months,
and traces of sorrow were to be seen on her pale face. Towards
the last of the winter, young Taylor had been dangerously
ill with a malignant fever prevailing in New Orleans;
and as a long convalescence interfered with his dissipated
habits, and confined him for some time to his own house, his
friends hoped that he would have time and leisure to make
some useful reflections. But they were deceived; sickness
and suffering only made him more selfish and irritable: poor
Jane had already paid a heavy penance for her duplicity,
and her obstinancy in marrying him. Mr. Taylor had quarrelled
with his partners; and it was the object of his present
visit to New York, to persuade his father to make some
heavy advances in his behalf, as otherwise he would be ruined.
Jane, it is true, knew but little of her husband's affairs; still,
she saw and heard enough to make her anxious for the future,
and she gave herself up to melancholy repining, while her
manner lost all cheerfulness. Her father's family were in
Charleston, and she had not seen them for more than a
twelvemonth; but Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, Miss Agnes, and
Elinor had done all that was possible to supply their place,
since she had been in their neighbourhood. Adeline, too,
was well enough disposed towards her sister-in-law, but she
had neither the good sense nor the delicacy of Miss Wyllys
and Elinor, and was far less successful in her friendly efforts.
The society of her aunt and cousin seemed a relief to Jane;
and it was at their request that she was going to pass a
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fortnight with them at Saratogo, where Miss Agnes had been
ordered by her physician.
Elinor, on joining her cousin in the cabin, tried to persuade
Jane to have the sick child carried on deck, for the sake of
the fresh air, but she did not succeed; and not wishing to
leave Mrs. Taylor, she took off her hat, and remained some
time in the cabin—a piece of good-nature which Mr. Ellsworth
seemed to think ill-timed. As they drew near the
Highlands, however, she returned to her seat on deck; for
the morning was lovely, and she did not wish to lose the
scenery. She found Mrs. Hilson sitting near her aunt.
“Ah, Miss Elinor!—how do you do?” exclaimed the city
lady. “It is the first time I have had a chance of seeing
you since you returned from the West Indies. You have
not been much in New York, I believe, since you arrived?”
“Only for a day or two.”
“And how did you like the West Indies? Is there much
aristocracy at Havana?”
“We found it very pleasant there; and the climate was
of so much service to my aunt, that I shall always remember
Havana with gratitude.”
“You did not go into society, then?”
“Oh, yes; we made many pleasant acquaintances.”
“Well, if I go abroad, I hope it will be to England;
though I should like very well to visit the stores of Paris.”
“Have you seen your cousin, Charles Hubbard, since he
arrived from Italy?” inquired Elinor.
“Yes; he called at our boarding-house. He is at Longbridge
now, but he is coming to Saratoga, shortly; for he
told me he had engaged to take several views of Lake
George.”
“I am sorry he did not come to see us in town; but I am
delighted to hear he is going to Saratoga. Grandpapa, Mrs.
Hilson tells me Charles Hubbard will be at Saratoga, with
us!”
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“I am very glad to hear it, my child; I want to see
Charlie.”
“Has he brought home many pictures?” continued Elinor.
“I really don't know; I did not think of asking him.”
“I should suppose you would be anxious to see your
cousin's paintings.”
“Oh, no; portraits are the only pictures that interest me.
I always have the `Book of Beauty,' whenever it comes out;
you know they are likenesses of the Peeresses of the English
Nobility.”
Elinor bowed. “Yes, I have seen the book.”
“I have the `Children of the Nobility,' too, bound in
crimson silk; it is a very fascinating collection. My friend,
Mrs. Bagman, tells me they are excellent likenesses, particularly
the children of his Royal Highness, the Lord-Mayor.”
Absurd as such a mistake in heraldry may seem, one
might vouch for having heard others quite as extraordinary.
“They may be like,” said Elinor, smiling in spite of herself;
“but I cannot agree with you as to their beauty. I
have seen the volume, and it struck me the artists must have
made caricatures of many of the children, who, no doubt,
were pretty in reality.”
“I was looking at those engravings only yesterday,” said
Mr. Ellsworth, anxious to engage Elinor's attention; “they
almost amount to a libel on childhood; they give the idea of
mincing, affected little creatures, at the very age when children
are almost invariably natural and interesting. I should
quarrel very much with a portrait of my little girl, in the
same fashion.”
“But it is very seldom you see portraits of children, that
are really child-like,” observed Elinor. “And then what a
trial, to paint a pretty, innocent little creature, in full dress,
starched and trim!”
“Children are charming subjects when properly treated;
I delight in such pictures,” said Mary Van Alstyne.
“You would have been often delighted then, in Italy, Miss
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Van Alstyne. Raphael's cherubs are as perfect in their way,
as his men and women.”
Mrs. Hilson, unwilling to be thrown out of the conversation,
again addressed Elinor.
“When you joined us, Miss Wyllys, we were speaking
of the fire opposite your hotel. Were you not dreadfully
alarmed? I hear you were there; although I did not find
you at home when I called.”
“We were disturbed, of course; but I can't say that we
were personally alarmed. The wind, you may remember,
carried everything in the opposite direction.”
“Did it? Well, I was too much frightened to notice anything;
you know it was in the same block as our boarding-house.”
“Yes; you were nearer the danger than we were.”
“Oh, I was dreadfully frightened. There was one of our
ladies wanted to persuade me to look at Trinity Church,
lighted up by the fire; I believe she really thought it a fascinating
sight. Here comes a gentleman who was staying at
your hotel, and has not got over his fright yet; it is one of
my escorts—I have two, the Baron and this gentleman; but
the Baron is not on deck now—let me introduce you; Monsieur
Bonnet, Miss Wyllys. I do believe, Monsieur Bonnet,
you were as much alarmed as I was.”
“Alarm—Ah, Madame, I was èbloui by the fire. In all
my life, I never saw real incendie before; though, of course,
I saw the Panorama of the incendie de Moscou—I was not in
Russie with l'Empereur. At the spectacle we have incendies
sometimes; but never in the street. Ah, I did not see
that house until the roof fall, when light burst through my
volets, and I spring to the window.”
“I should have thought the noise would have called you
out before that.”
“Du tout; when I hear cries, and people marching, I
think tout bonnement it was an émeute, and I turn round to
finish my sleep; I think myself happy not to belong to the
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
Garde Nationale of New York, and not be afraid of the
rappel.”
“What did you think it was?”
“An émeute, sans doute, say I to myself. It was un
tintamarre épouvantable.”
“An émeute; pray, what is that?”
“Emeute? A little révolution, as we have in Paris constamment.”
“Why, my dear sir, our revolutionary war took place
more than fifty years ago. Did you expect to find us fighting
now?”
“Certainement; I thought the wheel I hear was cannon.
But mon ami Eel-sun tell me next day, there is incendie
every night somewhere in New York. Un drôle de divertisement,
vraiment. It is a great désagrément, of a city
otherwise so beautiful, with so many charming ladies.”
“Thank you, sir; you are very polite. I believe, Miss
Wyllys, that French gentlemen, no matter what they talk
about, always find an opportunity to pay a compliment.”
“C'est tout naturel; cela va sans dire; it is only our
devoir, Madame, to exprimer to the ladies some of the many
agreeable things they inspire.”
“Worse and worse,” said Mrs. Hilson, laughing. “How
different you are from Captain Kockney; he never said a
civil thing to me, all the time he was in New York.”
“Le capitaine Coquenais was an Anglais, who cannot
feel the true politesse Française.”
“He used to say it is not aristocratic to be polite to other
people; he belongs to the English aristocracy, you know.”
“L'aristocratie! Oh, that is a vile state of things. La
vieille aristocratie of France, Madame, was the cause of our
révolution. But in France now, and in America, those
happy countree, the spirit of aristocracy is extinct.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Bonnet,” said Mrs. Hilson,
quite indignantly. “It is true there are many plebeians in
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
this country; but we have also many people of the highest
aristocracy.”
“Ah, vous plaisantez avec tant de grâce, Madame!”
“It is pleasant, certainly, to me; though some people may
not appreciate it. I am a very aristocratic spirit.”
“Ah, sans doute, Madame; you have so much esprit,
you laugh at me,” said the Frenchman, who took Mrs. Hilson's
protestation as a joke.
“No, indeed; I never was more serious in my life. I
should suppose you would have been struck with the high
state of aristocracy at our boarding-house, for instance.”
Monsieur Bonnet could only shrug his shoulders, being
quite at a loss for the lady's meaning.
“Yes; I am thoroughly patrician and aristocratic; if we
only had a despotic government, to take away all privileges
from plebeians, I should be perfectly happy. My language
surprises you, I perceive; but it is quite natural that a descendant
of a Scotch Baronet, the Duke of Percy, should
have similar feelings.”
More and more bewildered, Monsieur Bonnet was reduced
to a bow. Happily, as he thought, the warning bell was
rung; and the usual cry, “Passengers for West Point please
look out for their baggage!” changed the current of Mrs.
Hilson's ideas, or rather the flow of her words.
In another moment, Mrs. Hilson and Monsieur Bonnet,
with a score or two of others, were landed at West Point,
and the ladies of Mr. Wyllys's party felt it no little relief to
be rid of so much aristocracy.
The boat had soon reached Poughkeepsie, and much to
Mr. Ellsworth's regret, Mr. Wyllys and his family went on
shore. Mr. Ellsworth had been introduced to Elinor at
Jane's wedding. He was a man of thirty, a widower, with
an only child, and had for several years been thinking of
marrying again. After having made up his mind to take the
step, he next determined that he would not marry in a hurry.
He was not a man of quick passions, and was sometimes
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accused of being fastidious in his tastes. He thought Elinor's
manner charming, and soon discovered that she had
every recommendation but beauty, the want of which was
her only drawback; he liked her family, and probably was
not sorry to hear that she would have a large property. But,
unfortunately, he seldom met Miss Elinor Wyllys; she was
a great part of her time in the country, and he knew nobody in
the immediate neighbourhood. He had not been asked to
Wyllys-Roof; nor was he, a very recent acquaintance, on
terms sufficiently intimate, to present himself at the door,
bag and baggage, without an invitation. More than a twelve-month
intervened, in the mean time; but he was still thinking
enough of Elinor to make him wish for a meeting, when,
accidentally, they passed a few days together at Old Point
Comfort, and afterwards met again, not exactly by accident
it is believed, at the Sulphur Springs, in Virginia. His good
opinion of Elinor was not only confirmed by this intercourse,
but his admiration very much increased. It was only natural
it should be so; the more one knew Elinor, the more one
loved her; good sense, intelligence, sweetness of disposition
like her's, united to the simple grace of manner, peculiarly
her own, were best appreciated by those who saw her daily.
Quite unaware of Mr. Ellsworth's views, and unconsciously
influenced at first, perhaps, by the fact that he was an old
friend of Harry's, she soon liked him as a companion, and
received him with something more than mere politeness.
“It is always pleasant to meet with an agreeable, gentlemanly,
well-informed man,” thought Elinor: a train of reflection
which has sometimes carried young ladies farther
than they at first intended. Under such circumstances, some
ardent spirits would have settled the question during a fortnight
passed with the lady they admired; but Mr. Ellsworth,
though he thought Elinor's manner encouraging, did not
care to hazard a hasty declaration; he preferred waiting a
few weeks, until they should meet again in Philadelphia,
where the Wyllyses intended passing the winter. But
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unfortunately, shortly after the family returned home, Miss
Agnes was taken ill, and on her partial recovery, was ordered
to a warm climate before the cold weather; and Elinor
merely passed through Philadelphia on her way to the West
Indies, with her aunt and grandfather. Mr. Ellsworth was,
of course, disappointed; he expressed his regrets as warmly
as he dared, during a morning visit, in a room half-full of
company; and he hinted in terms so pointed at his hopes of
a happy meeting in the spring, that Elinor's suspicions were
for the first time excited, while those of Mr. Wyllys and
Miss Agnes were only confirmed. Since then, Mr. Ellsworth
and Elinor had only seen each other once, in the
street, until they met on board the steamboat, on their way
to Saratoga.
CHAPTER III.
“Who comes here?”
As You Like It.
There was to be a Temperance meeting at Longbridge,
one of more importance than usual, as a speaker of note was
to be heard on the occasion.
“Are you ready, Catherine?” inquired Mr. Clapp of his
wife, appearing at the parlour-door, holding his hat and cane
in one hand, and running the other through his brown curls.
“Wait one minute, dear, until I have put a clean collar
on Willie.”
Little Willie, who had been hopping about the room, delighted
with the importance of sitting up later than his
younger brothers and sisters, was persuaded to stand still
for a few seconds, while his mother tied on the clean collar;
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when Mr. Clapp, his wife, and eldest boy set out for the
meeting-house, which they found already half-filled. They
were beckoned into a pew near to one already occupied by
the Van Hornes, Miss Patsey, and Charlie. As the evening
was very pleasant, men, women, and children crowded in,
until a large audience was brought together, urged, as
usual, by different motives; some came from curiosity, others
from always preferring an evening in public to an evening
at home; some, from sincere respect for the object of the
meeting, many for the sake of the speeches, and many others
merely because they were ever ready to follow the general
example. Mr. Clapp had no sooner found seats for his wife
and child, than he began to look about him; his eye wandered
over the heads around, apparently in quest of some
one; at length his search seemed successful; it rested on a
man, whose whole appearance and dress proclaimed him to
be a sailor.
The meeting was opened by prayer, two different ministers
officiating on the occasion; one, a venerable-looking old
man, offered a simple, fervent, Christian prayer; the second,
a much younger person, placing one hand in his waistcoat
pocket, the other under the flaps of his coat, advanced to the
front of the staging, and commenced, what was afterwards
pronounced one of the “most eloquent prayers ever addressed
to a congregation.”
The speeches then followed. The first speaker, who
seemed the business-man of the evening, gave some account
of the statistics of the Society, concluding with a short address
to those present, hoping they would, upon that occasion,
enrol their names as Members of the Longbridge Temperance
Society.
The principal orator of the evening, Mr. Strong, then
came forward; he made a speech of some length, and one
that was very impressive. Nothing could be more clear,
more just, more true, than the picture he drew of the manifold
evils of intemperance; a vice so deceitful in its first
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appearance, so treacherous in its growth; so degrading, so
brutalizing in its enjoyments; so blasting and ruinous in its
effects—ruinous to body and mind, heart and soul—blasting
all hopes for this life and for the next, so long as it remains
unconquered. He entreated his friends to count the cost of
indulgence in this vice; loss of property, loss of health, loss
of character, loss of intellect and feeling, loss of conscience,
until roused in those fearful moments of terror and fury, the
peculiar punishment of drunkenness. He begged his hearers
to look at this evil under all its aspects, from the moment
it destroys the daily peace of its miserable victims and all
connected with them, until it leaves them, in death, without
a hope, exposed to the fearful penalty of sin. As he went
on, the heart of many a wretched wife and mother acknowledged
the bitter truth of his observations; many a guilty
conscience shrunk under the probe. He then made a just
and reasonable estimate of the difficulties to be resisted in
conquering this evil; he did not attempt to deny that there
were obstacles to be overcome; he showed all the force of
bad habit, all the danger of temptation—but if there were
difficulties in the way, it was equally true that the power to
subdue them was fully within the reach of every man.
He went on to represent the happy effects of a change from
evil to good; a restoration to usefulness, peace, comfort, and
respectability, which has happily been seen in many an instance.
He concluded by appealing to his hearers as men,
to shake off a debasing slavery; as Christians, to flee from
a heinous sin; and he entreated them, if they had not done
so before, to take, on that evening, the first step in the cheering,
honourable, blessed course of temperance.
Mr. Strong's speech was, in fact, excellent; all he said
was perfectly true, it was well-expressed, and his manner
was easy, natural, and dignified.
He was followed by William Cassius Clapp; the lawyer
had been very anxious to speak at this meeting. Temperance
societies were very popular at that time in
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Longbridge, and he was, of course, desirous of not losing so good
an opportunity of appearing before the public on such an
occasion; he thought it would help him on in his road towards
the Assembly. Running his fingers through his curls, he
took his place on the stage, and commenced. He was very
fluent by nature, and in animation, in fanatical zeal for the
cause, he far surpassed Mr. Strong: any other cause, by-the-bye,
had it been popular, would have suited him just as
well. In assertion, in denunciation, he distinguished himself
particularly; he called upon every individual present to come
forward and sign the pledge, under penalty of public disgrace;
it was the will of the community that the pledge
should be signed, public opinion demanded it, the public
will required it; every individual present who neglected to
sign the pledge of total abstinence, he pronounced to be “instigated
by aristocratic pride,” and would leave that house,
stigmatized as “anti-Christian, and anti-republican;” and in
conclusion he threw in something about “liberty.”
Mr. Clapp sat down amid much applause; his speech
was warmly admired by a portion of his hearers. All did
not seem to agree on the subject, however, to judge, at least,
by their manner and expression; for, during the delivery of
their brother-in-law's oration, Miss Patsey Hubbard seemed
to be generally looking down at the floor, while Charlie was
looking up at the ceiling: and there were many others present,
who thought Mr. Clapp's fluency much more striking
than his common sense, or his sincerity. It is always painful
to hear a good cause injured by a bad defence, to see truth
disgraced by unworthy weapons employed in her name. It
would have been quite impossible for Mr. Clapp to prove
half his bold assertions, to justify half his sweeping denunciations.
Still, in spite of the fanatical character of some of
the advocates of Temperance, who distort her just proportions
as a virtue—lovely in her own true character—yet drunkenness
is a vice so hateful, that one would never wish to oppose
any society, however imperfectly managed, whose object is
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to oppose that dangerous and common evil. Let it not be
forgotten, however, that total abstinence from spirituous
liquors is not the one great duty of man; intemperance is
not the only sin to which human nature is inclined.
Mr. Clapp's speech was the last for the evening.
“I wish you joy, Mrs. Clapp,” said Mrs. Tibbs, leaning
forward from the seat behind the lawyer's pretty little wife,
and nodding as she spoke.
“I really congratulate you; Mr. Clapp has surpassed
himself; such animation, such a flow of eloquence!” added
Mrs. Bibbs.
Kate smiled, and looked much gratified; she evidently
admired her husband's speeches as much as she did his hair.
The moment for enrolling new names had now come;
numbers of the audience went forward to sign the Total
Abstinence Pledge. There was one worthy woman, a widow,
sitting near Miss Patsey, whose only son had, during the
last year or two, fallen into habits of intemperance; his attention
had quite lately been attracted to the Temperance
Societies, he had read their publications, had been struck by
a short speech of Mr. Strong on a former occasion; and his
mother's joy may possibly be imagined, as she saw him rise
and add his name to the list of members engaging to abstain
from intoxicating liquors. There were several others whose
hearts were cheered, on the same occasion, by seeing those
they loved best, those over whom they had often mourned,
take this step towards reformation. Among the rest, a man
dressed as a sailor was seen approaching the table; when
his turn came he put down his name, and this was no sooner
done, than Mr. Clapp advanced and shook him warmly by
the hand.
“Who is that man, Catherine, speaking to Mr. Clapp?—
he looks like a sailor,” inquired Miss Patsey.
“I don't know who it is; some client I suppose; William
seemed very much pleased at his signing.”
Mr. Clapp, after shaking hands with his friend, the sailor,
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made his way through the crowd, until he reached the pew
where his wife and little boy were sitting. Taking Willie
by the hand, he led him to the table, placed the pen in his
fingers, and left him to write William C. Clapp, jr. as well as
he could—no easy matter, by-the-bye, for the child was not
very expert in capital letters. As Willie was the youngest
individual on the list, his signature was received by a burst
of applause. The little fellow was extremely elated by being
made of so much consequence; to tell the truth, he understood
very little of what he was about. If respect for temperance
were implanted in his mind on that evening, it was
also accompanied by still more decided ideas of the great
importance of little boys, with the germ of a confused notion
as to the absolute necessity of the approbation of a regularly
organized public meeting, to foster every individual virtue in
himself, and in the human race in general. Miss Patsey
very much doubted the wisdom of making her little nephew
play such a prominent part before the public; she had old-fashioned
notions about the modesty of childhood and youth.
The mother, her sister Kate, however, was never disposed to
find fault with anything her husband did; it was all right in
her eyes. Mr. Clapp himself took the opportunity to thank
the audience, in a short but emphatic burst, for their sympathy;
concluding by expressing the hope that his boy would
one day be as much disposed to gratitude for any public
favours, and as entirely submissive, body and soul, to the
public will of his own time, as he himself—the father—was
conscious of being at that moment—within a few weeks of
election.
The meeting was shortly after concluded by a temperance
song, and a good prayer by the elder minister.
As the audience crowded out of the door, Mr. Clapp
nodded again to the sailor, when passing near him.
“Who is that man, William?” asked Mrs. Clapp, as they
reached the street.
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“It is a person in whom I am warmly interested—an injured
man.”
“Indeed!—one of your clients I suppose.”
“Yes; I am now pledged to serve him to the best of my
ability.”
“He looks like a sailor.”
“He is a sailor, just returned from a three years' whaling
voyage. You will be surprised, Catherine, when you hear
that man's story; but the time has come when it must be
revealed to the world.”
“You quite excite my curiosity; I hope you will tell me
the story?”
“Yes; you shall hear it. But where are your sister and
Charles; are they going home with us?”
“No; I am very sorry; but they told me at the meeting
they could not stay, as they had come over in Mrs. Van
Horne's carriage. It is a pity, for I had made some ice-cream,
and gathered some raspberries, expressly for them;
and we have hardly seen Charles since he arrived. But
Patsey wants us to spend the day at the grey house, to-morrow,
children and all.”
Mr. Clapp assented to this arrangement; although he said
he should not be able to do more than go over himself for
his family in the evening, on account of business.
Kate had only her husband and Willie to share her excellent
ice-cream and beautiful raspberries, on that warm
evening; the trio did justice, however, to these nice refreshments;
and little Willie only wished he could sign a temperance
pledge every evening, if he could sit up later than
usual, and eat an excellent supper after it.
After the little fellow had been sent to bed, and his mother
had taken a look at her younger children, who were sleeping
sweetly in their usual places, the lawyer and his wife were
left alone in the parlour. It was a charming moon-light
evening, though very warm; and Kate having lowered the
lamp, threw herself into a rocking-chair near the window;
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while Mr. Clapp, who had had rather a fatiguing day, was
stretched out on the sofa.
“It is early yet, William; suppose you tell the story you
promised me, about your client, the sailor.”
“I don't much like to tell it, Catherine; and yet it is time
you knew something about it, for we must proceed to action
immediately.”
“Oh, tell me, by all means; you have really made me
quite curious. You know very well that I can keep a secret.”
“Certainly; and I request you will not mention the facts
I shall relate, to any one, for some time; not until we have
taken the necessary legal steps.”
“Of course not, if you wish it; and now for the story.
You said this poor man had been injured.”
“Grossly injured.”
“In what manner?”
“He has been treated in the most unjustifiable manner by
his nearest relatives. His reputation has been injured, and
he has been tyrannically deprived of a very large property.”
“Is it possible!—poor fellow! Can nothing be done for
him?”
“That is what we shall see. Yes, I flatter myself if
there is law in the land, we shall yet be able to restore him
to his rights!”
“Does he belong to this part of the country?”
“He does not himself; but those who are revelling in his
wealth do.”
“What is his name?—Do I know his family?”
“You will be distressed, Catherine, when you hear the
name; you will be astonished when you learn the whole
story; but the time for concealment has gone by now.
Several years ago that poor sailor came to me, in ragged
clothing, in poverty and distress, and first laid his complaint
before me. I did not believe a word of what he told me; I
thought the man mad, and refused to have anything to do
with the cause. He became disgusted, and went to sea
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again, and for some time gave up all hope of being reinstated
in his rights; the obstacles seemed too great. But at length
a very important witness in his favour was accidentally
thrown in his way: at the end of his cruise he came to me
again, and I confess I was astounded at the evidence he then
laid before me. It is conclusive, beyond a doubt, to any
unprejudiced mind,” said Mr. Clapp, rousing himself from
his recumbent position.
“But you have not told me the man's name.”
“His name is Stanley—William Stanley.”
“You said I knew him; but I never heard of him; I
don't know the family at all.”
“Yes, you do; you know them only too well; you will
be as much surprised as I was myself—as I am still, whenever
I allow myself to dwell on the subject. Mr. Stanley
is the cousin-german of your friend, Miss Elinor Wyllys.
Mr. Wyllys himself, Mrs. Stanley, the step-mother, and
young Hazlehurst, are the individuals who stand between
him and his rights,” continued Mr. Clapp, rising, and walking
across the room, as he ran his fingers through his brown
curls.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Kate, as the fan she held dropped
from her hand.
“Just what I said myself, at first,” replied Mr. Clapp.
“But surely you are deceived, William—how can it be?”
continued the wife, in amazement. We always thought
that Mr. Stanley was lost at sea, years ago!”
“Exactly—it was thought so; but it was not true.”
“But where has he been in the mean time?—Why did
he wait so long before he came to claim his inheritance?”
“The same unhappy, reckless disposition that first sent
him to sea, kept him roving about. He did not know of his
father's death, until four years after it had taken place, and
he heard at the same time that he had been disinherited.
When he came home, after that event, he found that he was
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generally believed to have been lost in the Jefferson, wrecked
in the year 18—. He was, in fact, the only man saved.”
“How very extraordinary! But why has he never even
shown himself among his friends and connexions until now?”
“Why, my dear, his habits have been unhappily very
bad in every way for years; they were indeed the cause of
his first leaving his family. He hated everything like restraint—
even the common restraints of society, and cared for
nothing but a sailor's life, and that in the worst shape, it
must be confessed. But he has now grown wiser—he has
determined to reform. You observed he signed the temperance
pledge this evening?”
“It all sounds so strangely, that I cannot yet believe it,
William.”
“I dare say not—it took me four years to believe it.”
“But what do you mean to do? I hope you are not going
to undertake a law-suit against two of our best friends, Mr.
Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst?”
“That must depend on Mr. Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst,
themselves. I have undertaken, Catherine, to do my best
towards restoring this injured man to his property.”
“Oh, William; suppose this man is in the wrong, after
all! Don't think of having anything to do with him.”
“My dear, you talk like a woman—you don't know what
you say. If I don't act in the premises, do you suppose he
won't find another lawyer to undertake his cause?”
“Let him have another, then: but it seems too bad that
we should take sides against our best friends; it hardly
seems honourable, William, to do so.”
“Honour, alone, won't make a young lawyer's pot boil, I
can tell you.”
“But I had rather live poorly, and work hard all my life,
than that you should undertake a dishonest cause.”
“It is all very pretty talking, but I have no mind to live
poorly; I intend to live as well as I can, and I don't look
upon this Stanley cause as a bad one at all. I must say,
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Catherine, you are rather hard upon your husband, and
seem to think more of the interests of your friends, than of
his own.”
“How can you talk so, William, when you know you
can't think it,” said the wife reproachfully, tears springing
to her eyes.
“Well, I only judge from what you say yourself. But in
my opinion there is no danger of a law-suit. As Mr. Stan
ley's agent, I shall first apply to Mrs. Stanley and Mr.
Hazlehurst to acknowledge his claim; and when the evidence
is laid before them, I have no kind of doubt but they will
immediately give up the property; as they are some of your
very honourable people, I must say I think they are bound
to do so.”
“Certainly, if the evidence is so clear; but it seems to me,
from all I have heard since I have been a lawyer's wife, that
evidence never is so very clear, William, but what people
disagree about it.”
“Well, I flatter myself that people will be staggered by
the proofs we can bring forward; I feel sure of public
opinion, at least.”
Kate was silenced; but though she could think of nothing
more to urge, she was very far from feeling easy on the
subject.
“I hope with all my heart it will be settled amicably,”
she added at length.
“There is every probability that it will. Though the
story sounds so strangely to you now—just as it did to me,
at first—yet when you come to hear all the facts, you will
find there is scarcely room for a shadow of doubt.”
“How sorry mother and Patsey will be when they hear it!”
“I can't see why they should be sorry to see a man reinstated
in his rights, after having been deprived of them for
eighteen years. If they are not blinded by their partiality
for the Wyllyses and Hazlehursts, they cannot help being
convinced by the evidence we can show.”
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“How old is this man—this sailor—this Mr. Stanley?”
“Just thirty-six, he tells me. Did you remark his likeness
to Mr. Stanley's portrait at Wyllys-Roof? that was the first
thing that struck me.”
“No; I hardly looked at him.”
“You must expect to see him often now; I have invited
him to dinner for to morrow.”
“For to-morrow? Well, Uncle Dozie has sent me this
afternoon a beautiful mess of green peas, and you will have
to get something nice from market, in the way of poultry
and fish. Though, I suppose as he has been a common
sailor so long, he won't be very particular about his dinner.”
“He knows what is good, I can tell you. You must give
him such a dinner as he would have had at his father's in
old times.”
“Well, just as you please, William; only, if you really
care for me, do not let the man deceive you; be sure you
sift the matter thoroughly — what you call cross-examine
him.”
“Never you fear—I know what I am about, Katie; though
if I was to follow your advice in law matters, I reckon we
should all of us starve together.”
“I hope it will all turn out well, but I seem to feel badly
about it,” said Kate with a sigh, as she rose to light a candle;
“only don't be too hasty—take time.”
“We have taken time enough I think, as it is. We are
only waiting now for Mr. Hazlehurst to arrive in Philadelphia,
when we shall put forward our claim.”
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CHAPTER IV.
“They call thee rich.”
Cowper.
When the Wyllyses arrived at Saratoga, after having
paid their promised visit to their friends at Poughkeepsie,
the first persons they saw in the street, as they were driving
to Congress Hall, were Mrs. Creighton, Mr. Ellsworth, and
Mr. Stryker, who were loitering along together. It seemed
the excursion to Nahant had been postponed, or given up.
The brother and sister soon discovered that the Wyllyses
were among that afternoon's arrivals, and in the course of an
hour or two called at their rooms.
“Here am I, Miss Wyllys,” said Mrs. Creighton, “the
best of sisters, giving up my own private plans to gratify this
brother of mine, who would not let me rest unless I promised
to pass another week here.”
“Josephine makes the most of her complaisance; but I
don't think she was so very much averse to giving up Nahant.
I am sure at least, she did not care half so much
about going, as I did about staying.”
Mr. Stryker also appeared, to make his bow to the ladies.
This gentleman had indeed come to Saratoga, with the express
intention of making himself particularly agreeable to
Miss Elinor Wyllys. As long ago as Jane's wedding, he
had had his eye on her, but, like Mr. Ellsworth, he had
seldom been able to meet her. Mr. Stryker was a man between
forty and fifty, possessing some little property, a very
good opinion of himself, and quite a reputation for cleverness
and knowledge of the world. He was one of those men
who hang loose on society; he seemed to have neither relations
nor connexions; no one knew his origin: for years he
had occupied the same position in the gay world of New
York, with this difference, that at five-and-twenty he was
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known as Bob Stryker; at five-and-thirty he was Colonel
Stryker, the traveller; and at five-and-forty he had returned
to New York, after a second long absence, as Mr. Stryker,
tout court. He prided himself upon being considered a
gentleman at large, a man of the world, whose opinion on
all subjects was worth hearing. Since his last return from
Europe, he had announced that he was looking about for
that necessary encumbrance, a wife; but he took good care
not to mention what he called his future intentions, until he
had actually committed himself more than once. He had
several times kindly offered to rich and beautiful girls, to
take charge of themselves and their fortunes, but his services
had been as often politely declined. He was not discouraged,
however, by these repulses; he still determined to
marry, but experience had taught him greater prudence—he
decided that his next advances should be made with more
caution. He would shun the great belles; fortune he must
have, but he would adopt one of two courses; he would
either look out for some very young and very silly girl, who
could be persuaded into anything, or he would try to discover
some rich woman, with a plain face, who would be flattered
by the attentions of the agreeable Mr. Stryker. While he
was making these reflections he was introduced to Elinor,
and we are sorry to say it, she appeared to him to possess
the desirable qualifications. She was certainly very plain;
and he found that there was no mistake in the report of her
having received two important legacies quite lately. Miss
Elinor Wyllys, thanks to these bequests, to her expectations
from her grandfather and Miss Agnes, and to the Longbridge
railroad, was now generally considered a fortune. It is true,
common report had added very largely to her possessions, by
doubling and quadrupling their amount; for at that precise
moment, people seemed to be growing ashamed of mentioning
small sums; thousands were invariably counted by
round fifties and hundreds. Should any gentleman be
curious as to the precise amount of the fortune of Miss
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Elinor Wyllys, he is respectfully referred to William Cassius
Clapp, Attorney at Law, Longbridge, considered excellent
authority on all such subjects. Lest any one should be disposed
to mistrust this story of Elinor's newly-acquired reputation
as an heiress, we shall proceed at once to prove it, by
evidence of the most convincing character.
One morning, shortly after the arrival of the Wyllyses at
Saratoga, Mr. Wyllys entered the room where Miss Agnes
and Elinor were sitting together, with a handful of papers
and letters from the mail. Several of these letters were for
Elinor, and as she reads them we shall take the liberty of
peeping over her shoulder — their contents will speak for
themselves. The first which she took up was written on
very handsome paper, perfumed, and in an envelope; but
neither the seal nor the handwriting was known to Elinor.
It ran as follows:
“Charming Miss Wyllys:—
“It may appear presumptuous in one unknown to you, to
address you on a subject so important as that which is the
theme of this epistle; but not having the honour of your acquaintance,
I am compelled by dire necessity, and the ardent
feelings of my heart, to pour forth on paper the expression
of the strong admiration with which you have inspired me.
Lovely Miss Wyllys, you are but too well known to me,
although I scarcely dare to hope that your eye has rested for
a moment on the features of your humble adorer. I am a
European, one who has moved in the first circles of his
native land, and after commencing life as a military man,
was compelled by persecution to flee to the hospitable shores
of America. Chequered as my life has been, happy, thrice
happy shall I consider it, if you will but permit me to devote
its remaining years to your service! Without your smiles,
the last days of my career will be more gloomy than all that
have gone before. But I cannot believe you so cruel, so
hard-hearted, as to refuse to admit to your presence, one
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connected with several families of the nobility and gentry in
the north of England, merely because the name of Horace
de Vere has been sullied by appearing on the stage. Let
me hope—”
Elinor read no farther: she threw the letter aside with an
expression of disgust and mortification. It was but one of
half-a-dozen of similar character, which she had received
during the last year or two from utter strangers. She took
up another, a plain, honest-looking sheet.
“Madam:—
“If the new store, being erected on your lot in Market-Street,
between Fourth and Fifth, is not already leased, you
will confer an obligation if you will let us know to whom
we must apply for terms, &c., &c. The location and premises
being suitable, we should be glad to rent. The best
of references can be offered on our part.
“Begging you will excuse this application, as we are
ignorant of the name of your agent in Philadelphia, we
have the honour to be, Madam,
“Your most obedient servants,
“McMunny & Co.,
“Grocers, Market, between Front and Second.”
A business letter, it appears, to be attended to accordingly.
Now for the third—a delicate little envelope of satin paper,
blue wax, and the seal “semper eadem.”
“My Sweet Miss Elinor:—
“When shall we see you at Bloomingdale? You are
quite too cruel, to disappoint us so often; we really do not
deserve such shabby treatment. Here is the month of June,
with its roses, and strawberries, and ten thousand other
sweets, and among them you must positively allow us to hope
for a visit from our very dear friends at Wyllys-Roof. Should
your venerable grandpapa, or my excellent friend, Miss
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Wyllys be unhappily detained at home, as you feared, do
not let that be the means of depriving us of your visit. I
need not say that William would be only too happy to drive
you to Bloomingdale, at any time you might choose; but if
that plan, his plan, should frighten your propriety, I shall be
proud to take charge of you myself. Anne is not only
pining for your visit, but very tired of answering a dozen
times a day, her brother's questions, `When shall we see
Miss Wyllys?'—`Is Miss Wyllys never coming?'
“I do not think, my sweet young friend, that you can
have the heart to disappoint us any longer—and, therefore,
I shall certainly look for one of your charming little notes,
written in an amiable, complying mood.
“Anne sends her very best love; William begs to be very
particularly remembered to Miss Elinor Wyllys.
“With a thousand kind messages to your grandfather and
Miss Wyllys, I remain as ever, my dear young friend,
“Yours, most devotedly and partially,
“Arabella Hunter.'
Elinor read this note with a doubtful smile, which seemed
to say she was half-amused, half-provoked by it. Throwing
it carelessly on the sofa, she opened the fourth letter; it was
in a childish hand.
“My Dear Miss Wyllys:—
“My mother wishes me to thank you myself, for your
last act of goodness to us—but I can never tell you all we
feel on the subject. My dear mother cried with joy all the
evening, after she had received your letter. I am going to
school according to your wish, as soon as mother can spare
me, and I shall study very hard, which will be the best way
of thanking you. The music-master says he has no doubt
but I can play well enough to give lessons, if I go on as
well as I have in the last year; I practise regularly every
day. Mother bids me say, that now she feels sure of my
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education for the next three years, one of her heaviest cares
has been taken away: she says too, that although many
friends in the parish have been very good to us, since my
dear father was taken away from us, yet `no act of kindness
has been so important to us, none so cheering to the heart of
the widow and the fatherless, as your generous goodness to
her eldest child;' these are her own words. Mother will
write to you herself to-morrow. I thank you again, dear
Miss Wyllys, for myself, and I remain, very respectfully and
very gratefully,
“Your obliged servant and friend,
“Mary Smith.”
This last letter seemed to restore all Elinor's good humour,
acting as an antidote to the three which had preceded it.
The correspondence which we have taken the liberty of
reading, will testify more clearly than any assurance of ours,
to the fact that our friend Elinor now stands invested with
the dignity of an heiress, accompanied by the dangers, pleasures,
and annoyances, usually surrounding an unmarried
woman, possessing the reputation of a fortune. Wherever
Elinor now appeared, the name of a fortune procured her attention;
the plain face which some years before had caused her
to be neglected where she was not intimately known, was no
longer an obstacle to the gallantry of the very class who had
shunned her before. Indeed, the want of beauty, which
might have been called her misfortune, was now the very
ground on which several of her suitors founded their hopes
of success; as she was pronounced so very plain, the dandies
thought it impossible she could resist the charm of their own
personal advantages. Elinor had, in short, her full share of
those persecutions which are sure to befall all heiresses.
The peculiar evils of such a position affect young women
very differently, according to their various dispositions.
Had Elinor been weak and vain, she would have fallen into
the hands of a fortune-hunter. Had she been of a gloomy
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temper, disgust at the coarse plots and manœuvres, so easily
unravelled by a clear-sighted person, might have made her
a prey to suspicion, and all but misanthropic. Had she
been vulgar-minded, she would have been purse-proud; if
cold-hearted, she would have become only the more selfish.
Vanity would have made her ridiculously ostentatious and
conceited; a jealous temper would have become self-willed
and domineering.
Change of position often produces an apparent change of
character; sometimes the effect is injurious, sometimes it is
advantageous. But we trust that the reader, on renewing
his acquaintance with Elinor Wyllys, will find her, while
flattered by the world as an heiress, essentially the same in
character and manner, as she was when overlooked and
neglected on account of an unusually plain face. If a shade
of difference is perceptible, it is only the natural result of
four or five years of additional experience, and she has
merely exchanged the first retiring modesty of early youth,
for a greater portion of self-possession.
In the first months of her new reputation as an heiress,
Elinor had been astonished at the boldness of some attacks
upon her; then, as there was much that was ridiculous connected
with these proceedings, she had been diverted; but,
at length, when she found them rapidly increasing, she
became seriously annoyed.
“What a miserable puppet these adventurers must think
me—it is cruelly mortifying to see how confident of success
some of them appear!” she exclaimed to her aunt.
“I am very sorry, my child, that you should be annoyed
in this way—but it seems you must make up your mind to
these impertinences—it is only what every woman who has
property must expect.”
“It is really intolerable! But I am determined at least
that they shall not fill my head with suspicions—and I never
can endure to be perpetually on my guard against these sort
of people. It will not do to think of them; that is the only
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way to keep one's temper. If I know myself, there never
can be any danger to me from men of that kind, even the
most agreeable.”
“Take care,” said Miss Agnes, smiling, and shaking her
head.
“Well, I know at least there is no danger at present; but
as we all have moments of weakness, I shall therefore very
humbly beg that if you ever see me in the least danger, you
will give me warning, dear Aunt; a very sharp warning, if
you please.”
“In such a case I should certainly warn you, my dear.
It strikes me that several of your most disagreeable admirers—”
“How can you call them admirers, Aunt Agnes?”
“Well, several of your pursuers, then, are beginning to
discover that you are not a young lady easily persuaded into
believing herself an angel, and capable of fancying them the
most chivalrous and disinterested of men.”
This was quite true; there was a quiet dignity, with an
occasional touch of decision in Elinor's manner, that had
already convinced several gentlemen that she had more
firmness of character than suited their views; and they had
accordingly withdrawn from the field.
“Suppose, Elinor, that I begin by giving you a warning,
this morning?” continued Miss Agnes, smiling.
“You are not serious, surely, Aunt?” replied Elinor, turning
from some music she was unpacking, to look at Miss
Wyllys.
“Yes, indeed; I am serious, so far as believing that you
are at this moment exposed to the manœuvres of a gentleman
whom you do not seem in the least to suspect, and who is
decidedly agreeable.”
“Whom can you mean?” said Elinor, running over in her
head the names of several persons whom she had seen lately.
“You surely do not suspect—No; I am sure you have too
good an opinion of him.”
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“I am very far from having a particularly good opinion
of the person I refer to,” said Miss Agnes; “I think him at
least, nothing better than a fortune-hunter; and although it
is very possible to do many worse things than marrying for
money, yet I hope you will never become the wife of a man
whose principles are not above suspicion in every way.”
“I am disposed just at present, I can assure you, dear
Aunt, to have a particularly poor opinion of a mere fortune-hunter.”
“Yes; you do not seem to feel very amiably towards the
class, just now,” said Miss Agnes, smiling.
“But who is the individual who stands so low in your
opinion?”
“It is your opinion, and not mine, which is the important
one,” replied Miss Agnes.
“Ah, I see you are joking, Aunt; you half frightened me
at first. As far as having no fears for myself, I am really in
an alarming state.”
“So it would seem. But have you really no suspicions
of one of our visiters of last evening?”
Elinor looked uneasy.
“Is it possible,” she said, lowering her voice a little, “that
you believe Mr. Ellsworth to be a common fortune-hunter?
I thought you had a very different opinion of him.”
“You are right, my child,” said Miss Agnes, apparently
pleased by this allusion to their friend; “I have, indeed, a
high opinion of Mr. Ellsworth; but he was not our only
visiter last evening.”
“Is it Mr. Stryker? I have half-suspected some such
thing myself, lately; I cannot take credit for so much innocence
as you gave me. But it is not worth while to trouble
oneself about Mr. Stryker; he is certainly old enough, and
worldly-wise enough to take care of himself. If he actually
has any such views, his time will be sadly thrown away.
But it is much more probable that he is really in love with
Mrs. Creighton; and it would be very ridiculous in me, to
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imagine that he is even pretending to care for me, when he
is attached to some one else.”
“He may flirt with Mrs. Creighton, but, if I am not mistaken,
he intends to offer himself before long to Miss Wyllys;
and I thought you had not remarked his advances.”
“I fancy, dear Aunt, that men like Mr. Stryker seldom
commit themselves unless they feel pretty sure of success.”
The conversation was here interrupted, Elinor was engaged
to ride with Mr. Wyllys, who now returned from the
reading-room for his grand-daughter. Mrs. Creighton was
also going out with her brother, and proposed the two parties
joining; an invitation which Mr. Wyllys had very readily
accepted. The horses were ordered, Elinor was soon
equipped, and on joining Mrs. Creighton at the door, she
was assisted to mount by Mr. Ellsworth. Mr. Stryker had
also been invited to ride with them by the pretty widow.
It was a lovely morning, and they moved off gaily on one
of the roads leading to Saratoga Lake; Elinor enjoying the
air and the exercise, Mr. Ellsworth at her side, doing his
best to make his society agreeable, Mrs. Creighton engaged
in making a conquest of the two gentlemen between whom
she rode. Yes, we are obliged to confess the fact; on her
part at least, there was nothing wanting to make up a flirtation
with Mr. Wyllys. The widow belonged to that class of
ladies, whose thirst for admiration really seems insatiable,
and who appear anxious to compel all who approach them
to feel the effect of their charms. Elinor would have been
frightened, had she been aware of the attack made that
morning by Mrs. Creighton, on the peace of her excellent
grandfather, now in his seventy-third year. Not that the
lady neglected Mr. Stryker—by no means; she was very
capable of managing two affairs of the kind at the same
moment. All the remarks she addressed particularly to Mr.
Wyllys, were sensible and lady-like; those she made to
Mr. Stryker, were clever, worldly, and piquant; while the
general tone of her conversation was always a well-bred
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medley of much fashionable levity, with some good sense
and propriety. Mr. Stryker scarcely knew whether to be
pleased, or to regret that he was obliged to ride at her side.
He had lately become particularly anxious to advance in the
good graces of Miss Elinor Wyllys, for two reasons; he had
lost money, and was very desirous of appropriating some of
Elinor's to his own use; and he had also felt himself to be
in imminent danger of falling in love with Mrs. Creighton,
and he wished to put it out of his own power to offer himself
to her in a moment of weakness. Much as he admired the
beauty, the wit, and the worldly spirit of the pretty widow,
he was half-afraid of her; he judged her by himself; he
knew that she was artful, and he knew that she was poor;
for her late husband, Mr. Creighton, during a short married
life, had run through all his wife's property, as well as his
own, and his widow was now entirely dependent upon her
brother.
The attention of the two gentlemen was not, however,
entirely engrossed by Mrs. Creighton. Mr. Stryker was by
no means willing to resign the field to his rival, Mr. Ellsworth;
and Mr. Wyllys was not so much charmed by the conversation
of his fair companion, but that his eye could rest
with pleasure on the couple before him, as he thought there
was every probability that Elinor would at length gratify his
long-cherished wish, and become the wife of a man he believed
worthy of her. As the party halted for a few moments
on the bank of the Lake, Mr. Wyllys was particularly
struck with the expression of spirit and interest with which
Elinor was listening to Mr. Ellsworth's description of the
lakes of Killarney, which he had seen during his last visit
to Europe; and when the gentleman had added a ludicrous
account of some Paddyism of his guide, she laughed so
gaily that the sound rejoiced her grandfather's heart.
Elinor had long since regained her former cheerfulness.
For a time, Harry's desertion had made her sad, but she
soon felt it a duty to shake off every appearance of gloom,
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for the sake of her grandfather and aunt, whose happiness
was so deeply interwoven with her own. Religious motives
also strengthened her determination to resist every repining
feeling. The true spirit of cheerfulness is, in fact, the fruit
of two of the greatest virtues of Christianity—steadfast faith,
and unfeigned humility; and it is akin to thankfulness, which
is only the natural consequence of a sense of our own imperfections,
and of the unmerited goodness of Providence.
“We have had a charming ride, Miss Wyllys!” said Mrs.
Creighton, as the party returned to the hotel.
“Very pleasant,” said Elinor.
“Delightful!” exclaimed Mr. Ellsworth. “I hope we
shall have such another every day.”
“Then I must try and find an animal, with rather better
paces than the one which has the honour of carrying me at
present,” said Mr. Stryker.
“But Mrs. Creighton has been so very agreeable, that I
should think you would have been happy to accompany her
on the worst horse in Saratoga,” observed Mr. Wyllys.
“Only too agreeable,” replied Mr. Stryker, as he helped
the lady to dismount, while Mr. Ellsworth performed the
same service to Elinor.
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CHAPTER V.
“I do beseech your grace, for charity,
If ever any malice in your heart
Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.”
Henry VIII.
One evening, about a week after the arrival of the Wyllyses,
there was a dance at Congress Hall, where they were
staying. Mrs. Creighton, with her brother, who were already
engaged to meet some friends there, urged Elinor very much
to join them; but she declined, not wishing to leave Jane.
Mr. Ellsworth, who had been very devoted, of late, seemed
particularly anxious she should go. But although Elinor's
manner betrayed some little embarrassment, if not indecision,
as the gentleman urged her doing so, still she persisted in
remaining with her cousin.
“Well, I am sorry we cannot persuade you, Miss Wyllys;
though I dare say you will have a very pleasant evening in
your own parlour.'
“We must put off our game of chess until to-morrow,
Mrs. Creighton,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“Yes, unfortunately for me; for I have fully determined
to beat you, sir, at our next trial. Well, Frank, we cannot
stay here all the evening; I dare say, our friends, the Stevensons,
are looking for us in the ball-room already.”
“Mrs. Creighton is a very pretty woman,” observed Mr.
Wyllys, as he seated himself at the chess-board, opposite his
daughter, after the brother and sister had left the room.
“Yes, a very pretty woman; and she always looks well
in her evening-dress,” replied Miss Agnes.
Elinor devoted herself to Jane's amusement. Ever since
they had been together, she had given up a great part of her
time to Mrs. Taylor, whom she was very anxious to cheer
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and enliven, that she might persuade her to throw off the
melancholy and low spirits, which her cousin seemed purposely
to encourage. The sick baby was better, and Elinor
was in hopes that before they parted, she should succeed in
awakening Jane to a somewhat better frame of mind. She
was very desirous that the time they were together should
not be lost; and her kindness was so unwearied, her manner
was so affectionate and soothing, and the advice she sometimes
allowed herself to give, was so clear and sensible, that
at last Jane seemed to feel the good effects of her cousin's
efforts.
After Mr. Ellsworth and his sister had left the room to
join the dancers, Jane suddenly turned to Elinor, with tears
in her eyes. “How kind you are!” she said. “I dare say
you would like to go down-stairs;—but you are too good to
me, Elinor!”
“Nonsense, Jenny; I can't help it if I would. Do you
think I should enjoy dancing, if I knew you were sitting
alone in this dark corner, while grandpapa and Aunt Agnes
are playing chess? You are looking a great deal more woebegone
than you ought to, now baby is so much better.”
“You spoil me,” said Jane, shaking her head, and smiling
with more feeling than usual in her unexpressive face.
“I shall spoil you a great deal more before we get through.
Next week, when Mr. Taylor comes, I intend to talk him
into bringing you over to Wyllys-Roof, to pay a good long
visit, like old times.”
“I had much rather think of old times, than of what is to
come. There is nothing pleasant for me to look forward to!”
“How can you know that, Jane? I have learned one
lesson by experience, though I am only a year older than
you, dear—and it is, that if we are often deceived by hope,
so we are quite as often misled by fear.”
“I believe, Elinor, you are my best friend,” said Jane,
holding out her hand to her cousin.
“Oh, you have more good friends than you think for, and
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much good of every kind, though you will shut your eyes
to the fact.”
“It may be so,” said Jane; “I will try to follow your
advice if I can.”
“Try hard, then,” said Elinor, “and all will go well.
And now, shall I sing you the song Mrs. Creighton cut
short?”
She began to sing “Auld Lang Syne;” but the song was
interrupted before she had finished the second verse. Several
persons were heard approaching their room, which was in a
retired, quiet part of the house; the door soon opened, and
in walked Robert Hazlehurst.
“Well, good people,” he exclaimed, “you take the world
as quietly as anybody I know! We supposed, of course,
you were at the ball, but Elinor's voice betrayed you. This
way, Louisa,” he said, returning to the door, after having
shaken hands with Mr. Wyllys and Miss Agnes.
“How glad I am to see you!” exclaimed Elinor—“you
are as good as your word; but we did not expect you for
several days;” and Jane and herself went to the door to meet
Mrs. Hazlehurst.
“And, pray, what reason had you to suppose that we
should not keep our word?” said the latter, as she appeared.
“We thought Harry would probably detain you,” said
Elinor.
“Not at all; we brought him along with us.”
“That was a good arrangement we had not thought of,”
observed Miss Agnes.
Harry entered the room. He was not entirely free from
embarrassment at first; but when Mr. Wyllys met him with
something of the cordial manner of old times, he immediately
recovered himself. He kissed the hand of Miss
Agnes, as in former days, and saluted Elinor in the same
way, instead of the more brotherly greeting with which he
used to meet her of old.
“And here is Jane, too, Harry,” said Mrs. Hazlehurst,
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who had just embraced her sister. “You have been so long
away, that I dare say you have forgotten half your old
friends.”
“Not at all,” said Harry, crossing the room to Jane. “I
think myself a very lucky fellow, at finding them all collected
here together, for my especial benefit. I met Mr. Taylor for
a moment in New York,” he continued, addressing Jane.
“Did he say when he was coming for me?” replied Mrs.
Taylor, offering her hand to her kinsman.
“He told me that he should be at Saratoga very shortly.”
“I have a letter for you in my trunk, Jane,” said Mrs.
Robert Hazlehurst.
“Don't you think our invalid much better, already,
Louisa?” asked Elinor.
“Yes; she does credit to your nursing.”
“No wonder,” said Jane; “for during the last month I
have been petted all the time—first by Mrs. Taylor, then by
Aunt Agnes and Elinor.”
“It's very pleasant to be petted,” said Harry; “that's
precisely what I came home for. I give you fair notice,
Louisa, I expect a great deal from you in the next three
months.”
“Is that the length of your holiday?” inquired Miss
Agnes.
“So says my master, Mr. Henley. I understand,” he
added, turning to Elinor, “that you have all the agreeable
people in the country collected here.”
“There are some thousands of us, agreeable and disagreeable,
altogether. They say the place has never been
more crowded so early in the season.”
“So I'm told. I was warned that if I came, I should
have to make my bed in the cellar, or on the roof. Are
Ellsworth and Mrs. Creighton at this house, or at the other?”
“They are staying at the United States. They are here
this evening, however, at the dance.”
“Indeed!—I have half a mind to take Ellsworth by
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surprise. Will they admit a gentleman in travelling costume,
do you think?”
“I dare say they will; but here are your friends, coming
to look for you.”
At the same moment, Mr. Ellsworth and Mrs. Creighton
joined the party.
“How d'ye do, Ellsworth? — Glad to see you, my dear
fellow!” cried the young men, shaking each other violently
by the hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Hazlehurst?” added the lady,
“Welcome back again. But what have you done with your
sister-in-law?—for I did not come to call upon you alone.
Ah, here you are, Mrs. Hazlehurst. My brother observed
you passing through the hall, as you arrived, and we determined
that it would be much pleasanter to pass half an hour
with you, than to finish the dance. We have been wishing
for you every day.”
“Thank you. We should have set out before, if we had
not waited for Harry. Elinor tells me half Philadelphia is
here, already.”
“Yes; the houses have filled up very much since I first
came; for I am ashamed to say how long I have been here.”
“Why, yes; I understood you were going to Nahant.”
“We ought to have been there long ago; but I could not
move this obstinate brother of mine. He has never found
Saratoga so delightful, Mrs. Hazlehurst,” added the lady,
with an expressive smile, and a look towards Elinor. “I
can't say, however, that I at all regret being forced to stay,
for many of our friends are here, now. Mr. Hazlehurst, I
hope you have come home more agreeable than ever.”
“I hope so too, Mrs. Creighton; for it is one of our chief
duties as diplomatists, `to tell lies for the good of our country,'
in an agreeable way. But I am afraid I have not improved
my opportunities. I have been very much out of humour
for the last six months, at least.”
“And why, pray?”
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“Because I wanted to come home, and Mr. Henley, my
boss, insisted upon proving to me it would be the most foolish
thing I could do. He was so much in the right, that I resented
it by being cross.”
“But now he has come himself, and brought you with
him.”
“No thanks to him, though. It was all Uncle Sam's
doings, who wants to send us from the Equator to the North
Pole.”
“Are you really going to Russia, Hazlehurst?” asked Mr.
Ellsworth.
“Certainly; you would not have me desert, would you?”
“Oh, no; don't think of it, Mr. Hazlehurst; it must be a
very pleasant life!” exclaimed Mrs. Creighton. “I only
wish, Frank, that you were enough of a politician to be sent
as minister somewhere; I should delight in doing the honours
for you; though I dare say you would rather have some one
else in my place.”
“We will wait until I am sent as ambassador to Timbuctoo,
before I answer the question.”
“You have grown half-a-dozen shades darker than you
used to be as a youngster, Harry; or else this lamp deceives
me,” observed Mr. Wyllys.
“I dare say I may have a fresh tinge of the olive. But
I am just from sea, sir, and that may have given me an additional
coat.”
“Did you suffer much from heat, on the voyage?” asked
Miss Wyllys.
“Not half as much as I have since I landed. It appeared
to me Philadelphia was the warmest spot I had ever breathed
in; worse than Rio. I was delighted when Louisa proposed
my coming to Saratoga to see my friends.”
“You will find it quite warm enough here,” said Mr.
Wyllys. “The thermometer was 92° in the shade, yesterday.”
“I don't expect to be well cooled, sir, until we get to St.
Petersburgh. After a sea-voyage, I believe one always feels
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the cold less, and the heat more than usual. But where is
Mrs. Stanley?—we hoped to find her with you. Is she not
staying at this house?”
“Yes; but she left us early, this evening, not feeling very
well; you will not be able to see her until to-morrow,” said
Miss Agnes.
“I am sorry she is not well; how is she looking?”
“Particularly well, I think; she merely complained of a
head-ache from riding in the sun.”
“Mrs. Stanley has been very anxious for your return; but
she will be as agreeably surprised as the rest of us, to find
you here,” said Elinor.
“Thank you. I look upon myself as particularly fortunate,
to find so many old friends collected in one spot, instead
of having to run about, and hunt for each in a different place,
just now that I am limited for time.”
“You ought to be greatly indebted to Frank and myself,
for breaking our word and staying here; instead of keeping
our promise and going to Nahant, as we had engaged to
do,” said Mrs. Creighton.
“Certainly; I look upon it as part of my good luck; but
I should have made my appearance at Nahant, if you had
actually run away from me.”
“I shall believe you; for I make it a point of always
believing what is agreeable.”
“As I knew Mrs. Hazlehurst and your brother had engaged
rooms here, I hoped you would join us, soon after
your arrival,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“It was much the best plan for you,” said Mr. Wyllys.
Harry looked gratified by this friendly remark.
It was already late; and Mrs. Hazlehurst, who had been
conversing in a corner with Jane, complained of being fatigued
by her day's journey, which broke up the party. The
Hazlehursts, like Mrs. Creighton and her brother, were
staying at the United States, and they all went off together.
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When Elinor, as usual, kissed Mr. Wyllys before retiring
to her own room, she hesitated a moment, and then said:
“I must thank you, grandpapa, for having granted my
request, and received Harry as of old. It is much better
that the past should be entirely forgotten. Self-respect seems
to require that we should not show resentment under the
circumstances,” she added, colouring slightly.
“I cannot forget the past, Elinor. Harry does not stand
with me where he once did, by the side of my beloved grandchild;
but we will not think of that any longer, as you say.
I hope for better things from the future. Bless you, dear!”
CHAPTER VI.
“The foam upon the waters, not so light.”
Cowper.
As usual at Saratoga, early the next morning groups of
people were seen moving from the different hotels, towards
the Congress Spring. It was a pleasant day, and great
numbers appeared disposed to drink the water at the fountain-head,
instead of having it brought to their rooms. The
Hazlehursts were not the only party of our acquaintances
who had arrived the night before. The Wyllyses found
Miss Emma Taylor already on the ground, chattering in a
high key with a tall, whiskered youth. The moment she
saw Elinor, she sprang forward to meet her.
“How do you do, Miss Wyllys?—Are you not surprised
to see me here?”
“One can hardly be surprised at meeting anybody in such
a crowd,” said Elinor. “When did you arrive?”
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“Last night, at eleven o'clock. We made a forced march
from Schenectady, where we were to have slept; but I persuaded
Adeline and Mr. St. Leger to come on. You can't
think how delighted I am to be here, at last,” said the pretty
little creature, actually skipping about with joy.
“And where is Mrs. St. Leger?”
“Oh, she will be here in a moment. She has gone to
Jane's room. I left her there just now.”
The platform round the spring was quite crowded. In
one party, Elinor remarked Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline
Hubbard, escorted by Monsieur Bonnet and another Frenchman.
They were soon followed by a set more interesting to
Elinor, the Hazlehursts, Mrs. Creighton, and her brother.
“I hope none of your party from Wyllys-Roof are here
from necessity,” said Harry, after wishing Elinor goodmorning.
“Not exactly from necessity; but the physicians recommended
to Aunt Agnes to pass a fortnight here, this summer.
You may have heard that she was quite ill, a year ago?”
“Yes; Robert, of course, wrote me word of her illness.
But Miss Wyllys looks quite like herself, I think. As for
Mr. Wyllys, he really appears uncommonly well.”
“Thank you; grandpapa is very well, indeed; and Aunt
Agnes has quite recovered her health, I trust.”
“Miss Wyllys,” said Mr. Stryker, offering a glass of the
water to Elinor, “can't I persuade you to take a sympathetic
cup, this morning?”
“I believe not,” replied Elinor, shaking her head.
“Do you never drink it?” asked Mrs. Creighton.
“No; I really dislike it very much.”
“Pray, give it to me, Mr. Stryker,” continued Mrs.
Creighton. “Thank you: I am condemned to drink three
glasses every morning, and it will be three hours, at this
rate, before I get them.”
“Did you ever hear a better shriek than that, Miss
Wyllys?” said Mr. Stryker, lowering his voice, and pointing
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to Emma Taylor, who was standing on the opposite side of
the spring, engaged in a noisy, rattling flirtation. After
drinking half the glass that had been given to her, she had
handed it to the young man to whom she was talking, bidding
him drink it without making a face. Of course, the
youth immediately exerted himself to make a grimace.
“Oh, you naughty boy!” screamed Miss Taylor, seizing
another half-empty glass, and throwing a handful of water
in his face; “this is the way I shall punish you!”
There were two gentlemen, European travellers, standing
immediately behind Elinor at this moment, and the colour
rose in her cheeks as she heard the very unfavourable
observations they made upon Miss Taylor, judging from
her noisy manner in a public place. Elinor, who understood
very well the language in which they spoke, was so
shut in by the crowd that she could not move, and was compelled
to hear part of a conversation that deeply mortified
her, as these travellers, apparently gentlemanly men themselves,
exchanged opinions upon the manners of certain
young ladies they had recently met. They began to compare
notes, and related several little anecdotes, anything but
flattering in their nature, to the delicacy of the ladies alluded
to; actually naming the individuals as they proceeded.
More than one of these young girls was well known to
Elinor, and from her acquaintance with their usual tone of
manner and conversation, she had little doubt as to the truth
of the stories these travellers had recorded for the amusement
of themselves and their friends; at the same time, she
felt perfectly convinced that the interpretation put upon these
giddy, thoughtless actions, was cruelly unjust. Could these
young ladies have heard the observations to which they had
laid themselves open by their own folly, they would have
been sobered at once; self-respect would have put them
more on their guard, especially in their intercourse with
foreigners. It is, no doubt, delightful to see young persons
free from every suspicion; no one would wish to impose a
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single restraint beyond what is necessary; but, surely, a young
girl should not only be sans peur, but also sans reproche—
the faintest imputation on her native modesty is not to be
endured: and, yet, who has not seen pretty, delicate creatures,
scarcely arrived at womanhood, actually assuming a
noisy, forward pertness, foreign to their nature, merely to qualify
them for the envied title of belles? There is something
wrong, certainly, wherever such a painful picture is exhibited;
and it may be presumed that in most cases the fault
lies rather with the parents than the daughters. Happily,
the giddy, rattling school to which Miss Emma Taylor belonged,
is much less in favour now, than it was some ten or
fifteen years ago, at the date of our story.
“How little do Emma Taylor, and girls like her, imagine
the cruel remarks to which they expose themselves by their
foolish manners!” thought Elinor, as she succeeded at length,
with the assistance of Mr. Ellsworth, in extricating herself
from the crowd.
As the Wyllys party moved away from the spring, to
walk in the pretty wood adjoining, they saw a young man
coming towards them at a very rapid pace.
“Who is it—any one you know, Miss Wyllys?” asked
Mr. Ellsworth.
“He is in pursuit of some other party, I fancy,” replied
Elinor.
“It is Charlie Hubbard coming to join us; did we forget
to mention that he came up the river with us?” said Harry,
who was following Elinor, with Mrs. Creighton and Mr.
Stryker.
The young painter soon reached them, as they immediately
stopped to welcome him; he was very kindly received
by his old friends.
“Well, Charlie, my boy,” said Mr. Wyllys, “if Harry
had not been here to vouch for your identity, I am not sure
but I should have taken you for an exiled Italian bandit.
Have you shown those moustaches at Longbridge?”
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“Yes, sir;” replied Charlie, laughing. “I surprised my
mother and sister by a sight of them, some ten days since;
it required all their good-nature, I believe, to excuse them.”
“I dare say they would have been glad to see you, if you
had come back looking like a Turk,” said Elinor.
“I am determined not to shave for some months, out of
principle; just to show my friends that I am the same Charlie
Hubbard with moustaches that I was three years ago without
them.”
“I suppose you consider it part of your profession to look
as picturesque as our stiff-cut broadcloth will permit,” said
Mr. Wyllys,
“If you really suspect me of dandyism, sir,” said Charlie,
“I shall have to reform at once.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Hubbard, that you have forgotten me,”
observed Mr. Ellsworth; “though I passed a very pleasant
morning at your rooms in New York, some years since.”
Charlie remembered him, however; and also made his
bow to Mrs. Creighton and Mr. Stryker.
“And how did you leave the Mediterranean, sir?” asked
Mr. Stryker, in a dry tone. “Was the sea in good looks?”
“As blue as ever. I am only afraid my friends in this
country will not believe the colour I have given it in my
sketches.
“We are bound to believe all your representations of
water,” remarked Mr. Wyllys.
“I hope you have brought back a great deal for us to see;
have you anything with you here?” asked Elinor.
“Only my sketch-book. I would not bring anything
else; for I must get rid of my recollections of Italy. I must
accustom my eye again to American nature; I have a great
deal to do with Lake George, this summer.”
“But you must have something in New York,” said Miss
Wyllys.
“Yes; I have brought home with me samples of water,
from some of the most celebrated lakes and rivers in Europe.”
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“That is delightful,” said Elinor; “and when can we see
them?”
“As soon as they are unpacked, I shall be very happy to
show them to my friends. They will probably interest you
on account of the localities; and I have endeavoured to be
as faithful to nature as I could, in every instance. You will
find several views familiar to you, among the number,”
added Charlie, addressing Hazlehurst.
“I have no doubt that you have done them justice.”
“They are far from being as good as I could wish; but I
did my best. You will find some improvement, sir, I hope,”
added Charlie, turning to Mr. Wyllys, “since my first attempt
at Chewattan Lake, in the days of Compound Interest.”
“You have not forgotten your old enemy, the Arithmetic,”
said Mr. Wyllys, smiling. “I am afraid Fortune will never
smile upon you for having deserted from the ranks of trade.”
“I am not sure of that, sir; she is capricious, you know.”
“I should think you would do well, Charlie, to try your
luck just now, by an exhibition of your pictures.”
“My uncle has already proposed an exhibition; but I
doubt its success; our people don't often run after good pictures,”
he added, smiling. “If I had brought with me some
trash from Paris or Leghorn, I might have made a mint of
money.”
A general conversation continued until the party returned
towards the hotels. They were met, as they approached
Congress Hall, by several persons, two of whom proved to
be Mrs. Hilson, and Miss Emmeline Hubbard. Charlie had
already seen his cousins in New York, and he merely bowed
in passing. Miss Emmeline was leaning on the arm of M.
Bonnet, Mrs. Hilson on that of another Frenchman, whose
name, as the “Baron Adolphe de Montbrun,” had been constantly
on her lips during the last few weeks, or in other
words, ever since she had made his acquaintance. Charlie
kept his eye fixed on this individual, with a singular expression
of surprise and vexation, until he had passed. He
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thought he could not be mistaken, that his cousin's companion
was no other than a man of very bad character, who
had been in Rome at the same time with himself, and having
married the widow of an Italian artist, a sister of one of
Hubbard's friends, had obtained possession of her little property,
and then deserted her. The whole affair had taken
place while Charlie was in Rome; and it will readily be
imagined that he felt no little indignation, when he met a
person whom he strongly suspected of being this very chevalier
d'industrie, flourishing at Saratoga, by the side of his
uncle Joseph's daughter.
Charlie had no sooner left the Wyllyses on the piazza at
Congress Hall, than he proceeded to make some inquiry
about this Frenchman. He found his name down in the
books of the hotel, as the Baron Adolphe de Montbrun, which
with the exception of Alphonse for the first name, was the
appellation of the very man who had behaved so badly at
Rome. He went to Mrs. Hilson, and told her his suspicions;
but they had not the least effect on the “city lady;” she
would not believe them. Charlie had no positive proof of
what he asserted; he could not be confident beyond a doubt
as to the identity of this person and the Montbrun of the
Roman story, for he had only seen that individual once in
Italy. Still, he was convinced himself, and he entreated his
cousin to be on her guard; the effect of his representations
may be appreciated from the fact, that Mrs. Hilson became
more amiable than ever with the Baron, while she was
pouting and sulky with Charlie, scarcely condescending to
notice him at all. Hubbard only remained twenty-four
hours at Saratoga, for he was on his way to Lake George;
before he left the Springs, however, he hinted to Mr. Wyllys
his suspicions of this Montbrun, in order to prevent that individual's
intruding upon the ladies of the Wyllys party;
for Mrs. Hilson delighted in introducing him right and left.
As for her other companion, M. Bonnet, he was known to
be a respectable merchant in New York.
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Several days passed, during which our friends at Saratoga,
like the rest of the world there, walked, and rode, and drank
the waters, and seemed to pass their time very pleasantly;
although the ladies did not either dress or flirt as much as
many of their companions, who seemed to look upon these
two occupations as the peculiar business of the place. Jane's
spirits improved very much; there was much curiosity to
see her, on account of her reputation as a beauty; but, like
the rest of her party, she was only occasionally in the public
rooms.
“Have you seen the beautiful Mrs. Taylor?”—“I caught
a glimpse of Mrs. Taylor, the great beauty, this morning.”—
“What, the beautiful Jane Graham that was? is she as lovely
as ever?”—were remarks that were frequently heard in the
crowd.
Elinor also came in for her share of the public notice, and
the attention she attracted was, of course, of a directly opposite
character. There happened to be staying at Congress
Hall, just then, a very pretty young lady, from Savannah,
who was also considered a great fortune; she was known as
the “lovely heiress,” while Elinor, in contradistinction, was
spoken of as the “ugly heiress.”
“Do you know,” said a young lady, standing on the piazza
one evening, “I have not yet seen the ugly heiress. I should
like to get a peep at her; is she really so very ugly?” she
continued, addressing a young man at her side.
“Miss Wyllys, you mean; a perfect fright—ugly as sin,”
replied the gentleman.
Elinor, at the very moment, was standing immediately
behind the speakers, and Mr. Ellsworth, who was talking to
her, was much afraid she had heard the remark. To cut
short the conversation, he immediately addressed her himself,
raising his voice a little, and calling her by name.
The young lady was quite frightened, when she found the
“ugly heiress” was her near neighbour, and even the dandy
was abashed; but Elinor herself was rather amused with
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the circumstance, and she smiled at the evident mortification
of the speakers. Never was there a woman more free from
personal vanity than Elinor Wyllys; and she was indifferent
to remarks of this kind, to a degree that would seem scarcely
credible to that class of young ladies, who think no sound so
delightful as that of a compliment. On the evening in question,
the piazzas were crowded with the inmates of the hotels;
those who had feeling for the beauties of nature, and those
who had not, came out alike, to admire an unusual effect of
moonlight upon a fine mass of clouds. Elinor was soon
aware that she was in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Hilson
and her sister, by the silly conversation they were keeping
up with their companions. These Longbridge ladies generally
kept with their own party, which was a large one.
The Wyllyses were not sorry that they seldom met; for,
little as they liked the sisters, they wished always to treat
them civilly, on account of their father. The English art
of “cutting” is, indeed, little practised in America, except
in extreme cases; all classes are too social in their feelings
and habits to adopt it. It is, indeed, an honourable characteristic
of those who occupy the highest social position in
America — those who have received, in every respect, the
best education in the country—that, as a class, they are free
from the little, selfish, ungenerous feeling of mere exclusiveism.
“Oh, here you are, Miss Wyllys!” exclaimed Emmeline
Hubbard to Elinor, who was talking to Mrs. Creighton. “I
have been wishing to see you all the afternoon—I owe you
an apology.”
“An apology to me, Miss Hubbard? — I was not at all
aware of it.”
“Is it possible? I was afraid you would think me very
rude this morning, when I spoke to you in the drawing-room,
for there was a gentleman with you at the time. Of course
I ought not to have joined you at such a moment, but I was
anxious to give you the Longbridge news.”
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“Certainly; I was very glad to hear it: the conversation
you interrupted was a very trifling one.”
“Oh, I did not wish to insinuate that you were conversing
on a particularly interesting subject. But, of course, I am
too well acquainted with the etiquette of polished circles, not
to know that it is wrong for one young lady to intrude upon
another while conversing with a gentleman.”
“If there be such a point of etiquette, I must have often
broken it very innocently, myself. I have never practised it,
I assure you.”
“Ah, that is very imprudent, Miss Wyllys!” said the fair
Emmeline, shaking her fan at Elinor. “Who knows how
much mischief one may do, in that way? You might actually
prevent a declaration. And then a young lady is, of
course, always too agreeably occupied in entertaining a
beau, to wish to leave him for a female friend. It is not
everybody who would be as good-natured as yourself at such
an interruption.”
“I have no merit whatever in the matter, I assure you;
for I was very glad to find that—”
Just at that moment one of Miss Hubbard's admirers approached
her, and without waiting to hear the conclusion of
Elinor's remark, she turned abruptly from the lady, to meet
the gentleman, with a striking increase of grace, and the
expression of the greatest interest in her whole manner.
Elinor smiled, as the thought occurred to her, that this last
act of rudeness was really trying to her good-nature, while
she had never dreamed of resenting the interruption of the
morning. But Miss Hubbard was only following the code
of etiquette, tacitly adopted by the class of young ladies
she belonged to, who never scrupled to make their manner to
men, much more attentive and flattering than towards one of
themselves, or even towards an older person of their own sex.
Elinor, however, had seen such manœuvres before, and
she would scarcely have noticed it at the moment, had it not
been for Miss Emmeline's previous apology.
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Mrs. Hilson soon approached her. “Has Emmeline been
communicating our Longbridge intelligence, Miss Wyllys?
Do you think it a good match?”
“I hope it will prove so; we were very glad to hear of it.
Mary Van Horne is a great favourite of my aunt's, and Mr.
Roberts, I hear, is highly spoken of.”
“Yes; and he is very rich too; she has nothing at all
herself, I believe.”
“Do you know whether they are to live in New York?
I hope they will not go very far from us.”
“I suppose they will live in the city, as he is so wealthy;
Mary will have an opportunity of tasting the fascinations of
high life. I shall introduce her to a clique of great refinement
at once. Don't you think Saratoga the most delightful
place in the world, Miss Wyllys? I am never so happy as
when here. I delight so much in the gay world; it appears
to me that I breathe more freely in a crowd—solitude oppresses
me; do you like it?”
“I have never tried it very long. If you like a crowd,
you must be perfectly satisfied, just now.”
“And so I am, Miss Wyllys, perfectly happy in these
fashionable scenes. Do you know, it is a fact, that I lose
my appetite unless I can sit down to table with at least thirty
or forty fashionably dressed people about me; and I never
sleep sounder than on board a steamboat, where the floor is
covered with mattresses. I am not made for retirement,
certainly. Ah, Monsieur Bonnet, here you are again, I see;
what have you done with the Baron?—is not the Baron with
you?”
“No, Madame; he has not finish his cigar. And where
is Mlle. Emmeline?—I hope she has not abandonné me!”
said M. Bonnet, who, to do him justice, was a sufficiently
respectable man, a French merchant in New York, and no
way connected with the Baron.
“Oh, no; she is here; we were waiting for the Baron
and you to escort us to the drawing-room; but we will
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remain until the Baron comes. I have heard something that
will put you in good-humour, another of those marriages
you admire so much—one of the parties rolling in wealth
and luxury, the other poor as Job's turkey.”
“Ah, vraiment; that is indeed delightful; cela est fort
touchant; that show so much sensibilité, to appreciate le
mérite, though suffering from poverty. A marriage like that
must be beau comme un rève d'Amour!”
“You are quite romantic on the subject; but don't people
make such matches in France?”
“Ah, non, Madame; le froid calcul dominates there at
such times. I honour the beautiful practice that is common
in votre jeune Amérique; cela rappelle le siècle d'or. Can
there be a tableau more délicieux than a couple unis under
such circonstances? The happy époux, a young man perhaps,
of forty, and la femme a créature angélique;” here M.
Bonnet cast a glance at Miss Emmeline; “une crèature
angelique, who knows that he adores her, and who says to
him, `mon ami je t'aime, je veux faire ton bonheur,' and
who bestows on him her whole heart, and her whole fortune;
while he, of course, oppressed with gratitude, labours only
to increase that fortune, that he may have it in his power to
make the life of his bien aimée beautiful comme un jour de
fète!”
“You are eloquent, Mr. Bonnet.”
“N'est ce pas un sujet, Madame, to toucher le cœur de
l'homme in a most tender point; a man who could be insensible
to such delicacy, to such aimable tendresse, would be
no better than one of your sauvages, one of your Mohicans!”
“Well, I don't think so much of it, because it is very
common here; such matches happen every day.”
“And who are the happy couple you refer to at présent?”
“'Tis a young gentleman of New York city, Mr. Roberts,
who is going to marry a young lady, whose father is a neighbour
of pa's.”
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“And what is the sum the young lady has bestowed upon
her grateful adorateur?”
“Oh, the lady has not anything to bestow in this case; it
is the gentleman, who is very wealthy, and doing a very
handsome business in New York.”
“Ah,” said M. Bonnet, taking a pinch of snuff, “that is
not so interesting I think, as when the mari is the favoured
party. The heart of man is more susceptible of lasting
gratitude for un tel bienfait.”
“The gentleman has all the money, this time; I don't
think Mary Van Horne will have a cent; do you, Miss
Wyllys?”
But Elinor was gone. As the Baron appeared, however,
Mrs. Hilson did not regret it.
“Ah, Baron, I thought you were never coming. You
ought to be much obliged to me, for I had just told Monsieur
Bonnet, we must not move till the Baron comes; the Baron
will not know where to find us.”
CHAPTER VII.
“They sit conferring—.”
Taming the Shrew.
The usual evening circle had collected in Miss Wyllys's
parlour, with the addition of Mary Van Alstyne, who had
just arrived from Poughkeepsie, and Mrs. St. Leger. Miss
Emma Taylor had gone to a concert with her good-natured
brother-in-law, and a couple of her admirers. Jane and her
sister-in-law, Adeline, were sitting together in a corner, talking
partly about their babies, partly about what these two young
matrons called “old times;” that is to say, events which had
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transpired as far back as three or four years previously. To
them, however, those were “old times;” for, since then, the
hopes and fears, cares and pleasures of the two friends were
much changed.
Among the rest of the party the conversation became
more general; for Elinor had just finished a song, and Mr.
Wyllys had just beaten Mrs. Creighton at a game of chess.
“Mr. Hazlehurst, pray what have you done with my
saya y manto?” asked the pretty widow, taking a seat at the
side of Elinor, on a sofa. “Here have you been, three, four,
five days, and I have not even alluded to it, which, you must
observe is a great act of forbearance in a lady, when there is
a piece of finery in question.”
“I am really ashamed of myself for not having reported
it safe at Philadelphia, before. I would not send it to your
house, when I heard you were here, for I wished to deliver
it in person; and I did not bring it with me, because Mrs.
Hazlehurst told me it was too warm for a fashionable lady
to wear anything as heavy as black silk for the next three
months.”
“Well, of course I am very much obliged to you for the
trouble you have had with it; but I shall defer thanking you
formally, until I find out whether it is becoming or not.”
“Do you expect to make a very captivating Spaniard?”
asked Mr. Stryker.
“I shall do my best, certainly; but I shall leave you to
decide how far I succeed, Mr. Stryker. Are the Brazilian
women pretty, Mr. Hazlehurst?—what do they look like?”
“Very like Portuguese,” was the answer.
“More than the Americans look like the English?” inquired
Elinor.
“Far more,” said Harry; “but you know there is less
difference between the climates of Brazil and Portugal, than
between ours and that of England.”
“For my part,” observed Mr. Ellsworth, “I do not think
we look in the least like the English — neither men nor
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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
women. We are getting very fast to have a decided physiognomy
of our own. I think I could pick out an American
from among a crowd of Europeans, almost as soon as I could
a Turk.”
“You always piqued yourself, Ellsworth, upon having a
quick eye for national characteristics. We used to try him
very often, when we were in Europe, Mrs. Creighton, and I
must do him the justice to say he seldom failed.”
“Oh, yes; I know all Frank's opinions on the subject,”
replied Mrs. Creighton: “it is quite a hobby with him.”
“What do you think are the physical characteristics of the
Americans, as compared with our English kinsmen?” inquired
Mr. Wyllys.
“We are a darker, a thinner, and a paler people. The
best specimens of the English have the advantage in manliness
of form and carriage; the American is superior in activity,
in the expression of intelligence and energy in the
countenance. The English peculiarities in their worst shape
are, coarseness and heaviness of form, a brutal, dull countenance;
the worst peculiarities among the Americans are, an
apparent want of substance in the form, and a cold, cunning
expression of features. I used often to wonder, when travelling
in Europe, particularly in France and Germany, at
the number of heavy forms and coarse features, which strike
one so often there, even among the women, and which are
so very uncommon in America.”
“Yes; that brutal coarseness of features, which stood for
the model of the old Satyrs, is scarcely to be met in this
country, though by no means uncommon in many parts of
Europe,” observed Hazlehurst.
“I was very much struck the other evening, at the dance,
with the appearance of the women,” continued Mr. Ellsworth.
“Not that they are so brilliant in their beauty—one
sees beautiful women in every country; but they are so
peculiarly feminine, and generally pretty, as a whole. By
room-fulls, en masse, they appear to more advantage I think,
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than any other women; the general effect is very seldom
brokenor by coarseness of face, or unmanageable awkwardness
of form.”
“Yes, you are right,” said Mr. Stryker. “There is a
vast deal of prettiness, and very little repulsive ugliness
among the women in this country. But it strikes me they
are inclining a little too much to the idea, just now, that all
the beauty in the world is collected in these United States,
which, as we all know, is rather a mistaken opinion.”
“Certainly; that would be an extremely ridiculous notion.”
“You think delicacy then, the peculiar characteristic of
American beauty?” said Mr. Wyllys.
“Yes, sir; but I could point out others, too. Brown hair
and hazel eyes are another common feature in American
beauty. If you look over the pretty women of your acquaintance,
you will find that the case I think.”
“Like Mrs. Creighton's,” said Elinor, smiling.
“No; Josephine's features are not sufficiently regular for
a beauty,” said her brother, good-naturedly.
“I shan't get a compliment from Frank, Miss Wyllys,”
replied the widow, shaking her head. “I agree with him,
though, about the brown-haired beauties; for, I once took
the trouble to count over my acquaintances, and I found a
great many that answered his description. I think it the
predominating colour among us. I am certainly included in
the brown tribe myself, and so are you, Miss Wyllys.”
“As far as the colour of my hair goes,” replied Elinor,
with a smile which seemed to say, talk on, I have no feeling
on the subject of my plain face. One or two persons present
had actually paused, thinking the conversation was taking an
unfortunate turn, as one of the ladies present was undeniably
wanting in beauty. To encourage the natural pursuit of the
subject, Elinor remarked that, “light hair and decidedly blue
eyes, like Mrs. St. Leger's, are not so very common, certainly;
nor true black hair and eyes like your's, Jane.”
“You are almost as much given to compliments, Miss
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Wyllys, as I am,” said Mrs. Creighton; “I have to say a
saucy thing now and then, by way of variety.”
“The saucy speeches are for your own satisfaction, no
doubt, and the compliments for that of your friends, I suppose,”
replied Elinor, smiling a little archly; for she had
very good reasons for mistrusting the sincerity of either mode
of speech from the lips of the gay widow; whom, for that
very reason, she liked much less than her brother.
“Do you really think me too severe?—wait till we are
better acquainted!”
“I shall always think you very charming,” replied Elinor,
with her usual frank smile; for, in fact, she admired Mrs.
Creighton quite as much as the rest of the world. And then
observing that Mr. Ellsworth was listening to their conversation,
she turned to him and asked, if the true golden hair,
so much admired by the Italian poets, and so often sung by
them, were still common in Italy?
“Judging from books and pictures, I should think it must
have been much more common some centuries ago than at
the present day; for, certainly, there is not one Italian woman
in a hundred, who has not very decidedly black hair and
eyes. I remember once in a translation from English into
Italian, I used the expression `grey eyes,' which diverted
my master very much: he insisted upon it, there was no
`such thing in nature;' and even after I had reminded him
of Napoleon, he would not believe the Emperor's eyes were
not black. He was a thorough Italian, of course, and knew
nothing of the northern languages, or he would have met
with the expression before.”
“Let me tell you, Ellsworth,” said Harry, after a short
pause in the conversation, “that it is very pleasant to pass an
agreeable evening in this way, chatting with old friends.
You have no idea how much I enjoy it after a three years'
exile!”
“I can readily believe it.”
“No, I don't think you understand it at all. It is true you
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were roving about the world several years, but you were not
alone, my dear sir. You had indeed the advantage of particularly
agreeable companions with you: in Paris you had
Mrs. Creighton, and in Egypt you had your humble servant.
And then, in the next place, your mind was constantly occupied;
you lived with the past while in Italy and Greece,
and with the present in Paris. Now, at Rio, there is no past
at all, and not much of a present.”
“Is there no general society at Rio?” inquired Miss
Wyllys.
“Oh, yes; society enough, in the usual meaning of the
word. I was very fortunate in meeting with some very
agreeable people, and have really a strong regard for Manezes—
a good fellow he is, and I hope to see him here one
of these days. But they were all new acquaintances. You
cannot think how much I wanted to see a face I had known
all my life; I was positively at one time on the verge of
being home-sick.”
“You found out that you were more tender-hearted than
you had believed yourself,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“So it seems,” replied Harry; a shade of embarrassment
crossing his face as he spoke.
“I should have thought some old acquaintance or other
would have gone straggling towards Rio, in these travelling
days,” observed Mr. Ellsworth.
“No, I was particularly unfortunate: once when the American
squadron lay at Rio for some weeks, and I had several
friends on board the Macedonian, I happened at that very
time to be absent on an excursion in the interior. For six
months, or so it did very well; it takes one as long as that to
enjoy the lovely scenery, to say nothing of the novelty; but
after admiring the bay and the Corcovado under every possible
aspect, I got at last to be heartily tired of Rio. I should
have run away, if we had not been recalled this summer.”
“You should have fallen in love,” said Mrs. Creighton.
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“I don't think I succeeded in that; perhaps I did not try
very hard.”
“But is not the state of society pleasant at Rio?” inquired
Mr. Wyllys.
“Not particularly, sir; it is too much like our own for
that; something provincial lingering about it, although they
have an emperor of their own. We cannot do without the
other hemisphere yet, in spite of our self-important airs.
We Yankees have coaxed Time out of a great deal, but he is
not to be cheated for all that. People were not busy for
thousands of years in the Old World, merely to qualify them
for discovering America, whatever some of our patriots may
say on the subject.”
“Yes, you are right, Harry; I have often wished that our
people would remember what they seem to forget, that Time
has a prerogative beyond their reach. There is a wide difference
between a blind reverence for Time, and an infatuated
denial of his power; and I take it to be one of the duties of
your generation to find out the dividing line in this and other
points, and shape your practice accordingly.”
“Yes, sir; it appears to me high time that the civilized
world set about marking more distinctly a great many
boundary lines, on important moral questions; and it is to be
presumed, that with so much experience at our command,
we shall at last do something towards it. It is to be hoped
that mankind will at length learn not always to rush out of
one extreme into the other; and when they feel the evil of
one measure, not to fly for relief to its very opposite, but set
about looking for the true remedy, which is generally not so
far off.”
“You don't believe in moral homœopathy?” said Mrs.
Stanley.
“Not in the least.”
“Well, we are very much obliged to you for getting tired
of Rio,” said Mrs. Creighton; “and thinking that the gay
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world of Philadelphia was quite as agreeable as the Imperial
Court.”
“I take it for granted, however, that it was not exactly the
gay world that you regretted,” said Ellsworth.
“Not exactly, no; general society is not sufficiently perfect
in its way among us, for a man to pine after.”
“I have often thought,” observed Elinor, “that the spirit
of mere dissipation must be less excusable in this country
than in Europe. Society must have so many attractions
there—more general finish—more high accomplishment.”
“Yes; we want more of the real thing; we have smatterers
enough as it is,” replied Mr. Ellsworth.
“And then the decorations are so well got up in Europe!”
exclaimed Mrs. Creighton. “I must confess myself enough
of a woman, to be charmed with good decorations.”
“Something far better than mere decoration, however, is
requisite to make society at all agreeable,” continued Mr.
Ellsworth. “There is luxury enough among us, in eating
and drinking, dressing and furniture, for instance; and yet
what can well be more silly, more puerile, than the general
tone of conversation at common parties among us? And
how many of the most delightful soirées in Paris, are collected
in plain rooms, au second, or au troisième, with a brick
floor to stand on, and a glass of orgeat, with a bit of brioche
to eat!”
“Lots and Love—Speculation and Flirtation, are too entirely
the order of the day, and of the evening, with us,”
said Harry; “whether figuring on Change, or on a Brussels
carpet.”
“I have often been struck, myself, with the excessive silliness
of the conversation at common parties, especially what
are called young parties; though I have never seen anything
better,” said Elinor.
“Those young parties are enough to spoil any society,”
said Harry.
“Perhaps, however, you have too high an idea of such
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scenes in Europe, precisely because you have not seen them,
Miss Wyllys,” observed Mr. Ellsworth.
“That may very possibly be the case.”
“There are always silly and ignorant people to be met
with everywhere,” remarked Harry; “but the difference
lies in the general character of the circle, which is not often
so insipid and so puerile in Europe.”
“It is the difference, I suppose, between a puppet-show
and genteel comedy,” said Elinor.
“Precisely, Miss Wyllys,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling.
“We have very pretty puppets, though,” observed Mrs.
Creighton; “quite well-dressed, and sufficiently graceful,
too; that is to say, the young lady puppets. As for the
gentlemen, I shall not attempt to defend them, en masse,
neither their grace nor their coats.'
“You won't allow us to be either pretty or well-dressed?”
said Mr. Stryker.
“Oh, everybody knows that Mr. Stryker's coat and bow
are both unexceptionable.”
“Why don't you go to work, good people, and improve
the world, instead of finding fault with it?” said Mr. Wyllys,
who was preparing for another game of chess with Mrs.
Robert Hazlehurst.
“A labour of Hercules, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Stryker,
shrugging his shoulders. “The position of a reformer is
not sufficiently graceful to suit my fancy.”
“It is fatiguing, too; it is much easier to sit still and find
fault, sir,” observed Robert Hazlehurst, smiling.
“Sauve qui peut, is my motto,” continued Mr. Stryker.
“I shall take care of myself; though I have no objection
that the rest of the world should profit by my excellent
example; they may improve on my model, if they please.”
“The fact is, that manners, and all other matters of taste,
ought to come by instinct,” said Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst;
“one soon becomes tired of being regularly tutored on such
points.”
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“No doubt of that,” replied Harry; “but unfortunately,
though reading and writing come by nature, as Dogberry
says, in this country, yet it is by no means so clear that good
taste follows as a consequence.”
“Good taste never came by nature, anywhere but in old
Greece, I take it,” said Ellsworth. “In a new state of society,
such things must force themselves upon one.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Wyllys; “and you young people,
who have had so many advantages of education and leisure,
are very right to give the subject some attention, for the
sake of the community in which you live. Manners in their
best meaning, as a part of civilization, are closely connected,
at many different points, with the character and morals of
a nation. Hitherto, in this country, the subject has been too
much left to itself; but in many respects there is a good
foundation to work upon—some of our national traits are
very creditable.”
“That is true, sir,” replied Mr. Ellsworth; “and Americans
are naturally very quick in taking a hint, and in fitting
it to their own uses. They are a good-natured, sociable race,
too, neither coarse nor unwieldy in body or mind. All they
want is, a little more reflection on the subject, and a sufficiently
large number of models, to observe, and compare together;
for they are too quick and clever, not to prefer the
good to the bad, when the choice lies before them.”
“Remember too,” said Mr. Wyllys, “that if you cannot
do everything, you must not suppose you can do nothing.”
“There is one point in American manners, that is very
good,” said Harry: “among our very best people we find
a great deal of true simplicity; simplicity of the right sort;
real, not factitious.”
“Sweet simplicity, oh, la!” exclaimed Mr. Stryker. “Well,
I am a bad subject to deal with, myself. I am too old to go
to school, and I am too young yet, I flatter myself, to give
much weight to my advice. Not quite incorrigible, however,
I trust,” he added, endeavouring to smile in a natural
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way, as he turned towards Elinor and Mrs. Creighton. “I
shall be most happy to learn from the ladies, and try to improve
under their advice. Have you no suggestions to
make, Miss Wyllys?”
“I am afraid I could not be of much use in that way.”
“There are only a thousand-and-one hints that I should
give you,” said Mrs. Creighton, laughing.
“You must be frightfully particular!” exclaimed Mr.
Stryker; “pray, what is hint No. 1?”
“Oh, I should not have time to make even a beginning;
it is growing very late, and I shall defer your education until
the next time we meet. Mr. Hazlehurst, that is my scarf, I
believe, on your chair.”
The party separated; Harry offering his arm to Mrs.
Creighton.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Verily
You shall not go—a lady's verily is
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet?”
Winter's Tale.
Mrs. Stanley had joined the Wyllyses at Saratoga, a few
days after they arrived, and the meeting between Hazlehurst
and herself had been very cordial. She had always felt a
warm interest in Harry, looking upon him as her husband's
chosen representative, and all but an adopted son; the intercourse
between them had invariably been of the most friendly
and intimate nature.
Mr. Stanley's will had placed the entire control of his
large estate in the hands of his widow, and his old friend,
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
Mr. Wyllys. Mrs. Stanley, herself, was to retain one half
of the property, for life; at her death it was to be divided in
different legacies, to relatives of her own, and to charitable
institutions, according to her own discretion. The other half
was also to be kept in the hands of the executors until his
own son returned, and had reached the age of five-and-twenty;
or, in case the report of William Stanley's death, which had
just reached his family, were to be confirmed, then Harry
Hazlehurst was to take his place, and receive his son's portion,
on condition that his, Hazlehurst's, second son should
take the name of Stanley. Hazlehurst was a nephew by
marriage; that is to say, his father, after the death of a first
wife, Harry's mother, had married Mr. Stanley's only sister:
this lady died before her brother, leaving no children. At
the time this will was made, Mr. Stanley had given up all,
but the faintest, hope of his son's being alive; still, he left
letters for him, containing his last blessing, and forgiveness, in
case the young man were to return. He also expressed a wish
that an easy allowance, according to Mrs. Stanley's discretion,
should be given, after the age of one-and-twenty, to his
son, or to Harry, whichever were to prove his heir; on condition
that the recipient should pursue some regular profession
or occupation, of a respectable character. Hazlehurst
was to receive a legacy of thirty thousand dollars, in case of
William Stanley's return.
Such was Mr. Stanley's will; and circumstances having
soon showed that the report of his son's death was scarcely
to be doubted, Hazlehurst had been for years considered as
his heir. As Harry grew up, and his character became
formed, his principles proving, in every respect, such as his
friends could wish, Mrs. Stanley had made very ample provision
for him. The allowance he had received for his education
was very liberal, and during his visit to Europe it had
been increased. At different times considerable sums had
been advanced, to enable him to make desirable purchases:
upon one occasion, a portion of the property upon which his
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ancestors had first settled, as colonists, was offered for sale
by a distant relative, and Harry wished to obtain possession
of it; twenty thousand dollars were advanced for this purpose.
Then, Hazlehurst was very desirous of collecting
a respectable library, and, as different opportunities offered,
he had been enabled, while in Europe, to make valuable
acquisitions of this kind, thanks to Mrs. Stanley's liberality.
As every collector has a favourite branch of his own, Harry's
tastes had led him to look for botanical works, in which he
was particularly interested; and he had often paid large
sums for rare or expensive volumes connected with this
science. Since he had reached the age of five-and-twenty,
or, during the last two years, he had been in full possession
of one entire half of Mr. Stanley's property, amounting, it
was generally supposed, to some ten thousand a year. According
to a codicil of the will, Hazlehurst was also to take
possession of Greatwood, at his marriage: this was a pleasant
country-house, surrounded by a place in fine order; but
Mrs. Stanley, who preferred living in town, had already
given him possession.
“I wish, Harry, we could keep you at home, now,” said
Mrs. Stanley to her young friend, one morning, as he was
sitting with herself, Mary Van Alstyne, and Elinor, in her
rooms at Congress Hall. “I think Mr. Henley could spare
you better than we can. Is it quite decided that you go to
Russia?”
“You are very kind to express so much interest in my
movements. But you must permit me to remind you of a
piece of advice I have often received, as a youngster, from
your own lips, dear Mrs. Stanley; and that is, never to abandon
merely from caprice, the path of life I might choose.”
“Certainly; but I think you might find very good reasons
for staying at home, now; your affairs would go on all the
better for some personal attention; I should be sorry to have
you a rover all your life, Harry.”
“I have no intention, Ma'am, I assure you, of being a
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
vagrant all my days. And if there is nothing else to keep
me at home, it is highly probable that I shall be thrown on
the shelf before long, by Uncle Sam. When a man has
served his apprenticeship, and is fully qualified to fill his
office creditably, he may prepare to be turned out; and,
very possibly, some raw backwoodsman, who knows nothing
of the world in general, or of diplomacy in particular, will
be put in his place. That is often the way things are managed
among us, you know.”
“For that very reason, I would not have anything to do
with public life, if I were a young man!” exclaimed Mrs.
Stanley, earnestly. “So many men who are ill-qualified for
either public or private confidence, get into office, that I
should think no man of high principles and honourable
views, would care to belong to the body of public servants.”
“There is all the more need, then, that every honest man,
who has an opportunity of serving his country, should do
so,” observed Harry. “I do not believe, however, that as
regards principles, the public men among us are any worse
than the public men elsewhere,” he added.
“Where all are chosen, they ought to be better,” said
Mary Van Alstyne.
“That I grant,” said Hazlehurst; “the choice by election,
or by appointment, might often be more creditable; whenever
it is bad, it is disgraceful to the community.”
“Look at A—, B—, and C—, whom you and I
happen to know!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
“No doubt they are little fit for the offices they hold,”
replied Harry.
“The worst of it is this, Harry: that the very qualities
which ought to recommend you, will probably keep you
back in the career you have chosen,” said Mrs. Stanley.
“Your principles are too firm for public life.”
“I shall try the experiment, at least,” said Harry. “Mr.
Henley urges me to persevere, and with his example before
me, I ought not to be discouraged; he is a proof that a
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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
public man is not necessarily required to be a sycophant, and
a time-server; that he is not always neglected because he is
an upright man, and a gentleman. I shall follow his example;
and I am convinced the experiment would succeed
much oftener, provided it were fairly tried.”
Mrs. Stanley shook her head. She was a woman of rather
a peculiar character, though very warm in her feelings, and
firm in her principles. She had become disgusted with the
world, from seeing much that was evil and disgraceful going
on about her; forgetting to observe the good as well as the
bad. Of late years, she had withdrawn entirely within a
narrow circle of old friends, among whom the Wyllyses and
Hazlehursts held a conspicuous place. She was disposed to
mistrust republican institutions, merely because she attributed
every evil of the society about her, to this one cause: her
opinions on this subject were, however, of no value whatever;
for she knew nothing of other countries, their evils and
abuses. If warmly attached to her friends, she was certainly
too indifferent to the community in which she lived. She
was very decided in all her actions and opinions: thus, for
instance, she would never allow a newspaper, of any character
whatever, to appear in her house—she held every sheet
alike, to be loose in principles, and vulgar in tone; because,
unfortunately, there are many to be found which answer
such a description. An office-holder, and a speculator, she
would never trust, and avoided every individual of either
class as much as possible. Her friends would have wished
her more discriminating in her opinions, but she never
obtruded these upon others. Personally, no woman could be
more respected by her intimates; there was nothing low or
trivial in her character and turn of mind—no shadow of
vacillation in her principles or her feelings. Mrs. Stanley
and her young friend Hazlehurst, much as they esteemed
and respected each other, disagreed on many subjects. Harry
made a point of looking at both sides of a question; he was
loyal to his country, and willing to serve it to the best of his
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[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
ability—not at all inclined to be an idler, and play the drone
in the bee-hive, whether social or political. Mrs. Stanley
had much regretted his being in any way connected with
public life, but she seldom attempted to influence him.
“What do you say, young ladies?” asked Harry, at length,
turning towards Elinor and Mary Van Alstyne, who had
hitherto thought the conversation of too personal a nature,
to speak much themselves. “Do you think I had better stay
at home, and look after the stock at Greatwood, or go to St.
Petersburg, and set up my droschky?”
“I should never have the least fancy for going to Russia,”
replied Mary; “and, therefore, I am not much disposed to
admire your constancy in adhering to Mr. Henley.”
“Oh, go, by all means,” said Elinor; “you will see so
much! And be sure you go to the Crimea before you come
home.”
“The Crimea is certainly a temptation,” observed Harry.
“I beg, ladies, you will honour me with your commands for
St. Petersburg, some time during the next three months. I
refer you to Mrs. Creighton for a certificate of good taste;
her saya y manto is perfect in its way, I am told.”
“Perhaps I ought to have engaged Mrs. Creighton on my
side, before I tried to coax you into staying at home,” said
Mrs. Stanley, smiling.
We are obliged to confess that Harry coloured at this
remark, in spite of a determination not to do so; and a great
misdemeanour it was in a diplomatist, to be guilty of blushing;
it clearly proved that Hazlehurst was still in his noviciate.
Happily, however, if the Department of State, at Washington,
be sometimes more particular in investigating the party politics
of its agents in foreign countries, than other qualifications,
it is also certain, on the other hand, that they do not require
by any means, as much bronze of countenance as most
European cabinets.
“Oh, Mrs. Creighton strongly recommends me to persevere
in diplomacy,” said Harry.
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Just at that moment, a note was brought in from this very
lady.
“With Mrs. Creighton's compliments,” said the man who
brought it.
Harry's colour rose again, and for a second he looked a
litle embarrassed. Mrs. Stanley smiled, and so did the young
ladies, just a little.
“I will look for the book immediately,” was Harry's reply;
and turning to the ladies, he communicated the fact, that Mrs.
Creighton had asked for the volume of engravings which he
had shown to Mr. Wyllys, two or three evenings before.
The book was in Miss Wyllys's room, and Elinor went for it.
“Will you dine with us to-day, Harry, or at the other
house?” asked Mrs. Stanley.
Thank you, ma'am; I am engaged to dine with Mr.
Henley, who is only here for the day, and wishes to have a
little business-talk with me. We are to eat a bachelor's
dinner together, in his room.”
Elinor returned with the book, and Harry made his bow.
As he left the room, Mary Van Alstyne observed that Mr.
Hazlehurst seemed quite attentive to his friend's sister. “He
admires the pretty widow, I fancy,” she said.
“No wonder,” said Elinor; “Mrs. Creighton is so very
pretty, and very charming.”
“Yes; she is very pretty, with those spirited brown eyes,
and beautiful teeth. She is an adept in the art of dressing,
too, and makes the most of every advantage. But though
she is so pretty, and so clever, and so agreeable, yet I do not
like her.”
“People seem to love sometimes, men especially, where
they do not like,” said Mrs. Stanley. “I should not be surprised,
at any time, to hear that Harry and Mrs. Creighton
are engaged. I wish he may marry soon.”
“The lady is, at least, well-disposed for conquest, I think,
said Mary Van Alstyne.
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“She will probably succeed,” replied Elinor, in a quiet,
natural voice.
Miss Agnes, who had just entered the room, heard the
remark, and was gratified by the easy tone in which Elinor
had spoken. Since Hazlehurst's return, Elinor's manner
towards him had been just what her aunt thought proper
under the circumstances; it was quite unembarrassed and
natural, though, of course, there was more reserve than
during the years they had lived so much together, almost as
brother and sister. We are obliged to leave the ladies for
the present, and follow Hazlehurst to his tête-à-tête dinner
with Mr. Henley.
We pass over the meal itself, which was very good in its
way; nor shall we dare to raise the curtain, and reveal
certain communications relating to affairs of state, political
and diplomatic, which were discussed by the minister and
his secretary. Harry heard some Rio Janeiro news too,
which seemed to amuse him, but would scarcely have any
interest for the reader. At length, as Mr. Henley and Harry
were picking their nuts, the minister happened to enquire
the day of the month.
“It is the twentieth, I believe, sir; and by the same token,
to-morrow will be my birth-day.”
“Your birth-day, will it?—How old may you be?”
“Twenty-seven, if I remember right.”
“I had thought you two or three years younger. Well,
I wish you a long life and a happy!”
“Thank you, sir; I am much obliged to you for the interest
you have always shown me.”
“No need of thanks, Harry; it is only what your father's
son had a right to expect from me.”
A silence of a moment ensued, when Mr. Henley again
spoke.
“You are seven-and-twenty, you say, Hazlehurst?—let
me give you a piece of advice—don't let the next ten years
pass without marrying.”
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“I was just about making up my mind, at Rio, to be a gay
bachelor, my dear sir,” said Harry.
“Yes; I remember to have heard you say something of
the kind; but take my advice, and marry, unless you have
some very good reason for not doing so.”
Hazlehurst made no answer, but helped himself to another
supply of nuts. “More easily said than done, perhaps,” he
observed.
“Nonsense! — There are many amiable young women
who would suit you; and it would be strange if you could
not meet with one that would have you. Some pretty, lady-like
girl. I dare say you know twenty such, in Philadelphia,
or even here, at Saratoga.”
“Five hundred, no doubt,” replied Harry; “but suppose
the very woman I should fancy, would not fancy me.”
Whether he was thinking of his past experience with Jane,
or not, we cannot say.
“I don't see that a woman can find any reasonable fault
with you—you do well enough, my good fellow, as the
world goes; and I am sure there are, as you say, five hundred
young women to choose from. In that point a man has
the best of it; young girls of a certain class, if not angels,
are at least generally unexceptionable; but there are many
men, unhappily, whose moral reputations are, and should be
obstacles in a woman's eyes.”
`A regular old bachelor's notion, a mere marriage of convenience,
' thought Harry, who rather resented the idea of
the five hundred congenial spirits, in the shape of suitable
young ladies.
“You are surprised, perhaps, to hear this from me,” continued
Mr. Henley.
“No, sir: for I once before heard you express much the
same opinion.”
“Did you?—I don't often think or speak on such matters;
but I remember to have heard you talk about a single life
occasionally, at Rio; and I always intended to give this
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piece of advice to my nephews, and to you, Harry. If I
were to live my life over again, I should marry myself; for
of late years I have felt the want of a home, and one can't
have a pleasant home without the women.”
“There I agree with you, sir, entirely.”
“That is more than some gay, rattling young fellows
would admit. Since you think so,” continued Mr. Henley,
smiling, “perhaps you have also fixed upon some amiable
young girl, who would be a pleasant companion for you.”
Hazlehurst was silent.
“I dare say you have, and I might have spared you the
advice. If that is the case, you must make the most of the
next three months; persuade her to marry you, and we can
take her to Russia, to do the honours for us.”
“Things have not gone quite so far as that, yet,” said
Harry, just a little embarrassed.
“Well, my good fellow, settle the matter your own way;
I have at least satisfied my conscience, by telling you not to
follow my own bad example,” said the minister, as he rose
from table.
It seemed that Mr. Henley, like most old bachelors,
regretted not having married; though he thought that his
habits had all become too confirmed, to make it worth while
to attempt a change. As a general rule, it will be found that
your decidedly old maid is contented with her lot, while your
very old bachelor is dissatisfied with his. The peculiar evils
of a single life—for every life must have its own—are most
felt by women early in the day; by men, in old age. The
world begins very soon to laugh at the old maid, and continues
to laugh, until shamed out of the habit by her good-nature,
and her respectable life. The bachelor, on the contrary,
for a long time finds an ally in the world; he goes on
enjoying the pleasures it offers, until old age makes him
weary of them—and then, as his head grows grey, when he
finds himself going out of favour, he begins to feel the want
of something better—a home to retreat to. He looks about
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him, and he finds that his female contemporary has outlived
her peculiar annoyances; “the world forgetting, by the world
forgot;” she has long since found some collateral home;
or, in her right as a woman, has made a home for herself,
where she lives as pleasantly as her neighbours. Perhaps
he sets about imitating her example; but, poor fellow, he
finds it an awkward task; he can never succeed in making
his household gods smile with a good will, on a home
where no female voice is heard at the fire-side.
So thought Mr. Henley, and he had been intending to
recommend to Harry to look out for a wife, for some time
past. The minister's ideas on the subject of love and matrimony
were, to be sure, rather matter of fact, and statesmanlike;
he would have been quite satisfied if Hazlehurst had
married the first young girl, of a respectable family, that he
met with; the hundredth part of Mrs. Creighton's attractions
he would have thought sufficient. Harry forgave him, however,
for the sake of the kindness intended by the advice he
had given; and the minister had the satisfaction of seeing
his secretary, that evening, at a concert, quite gallant and
attentive to a party of ladies, several of whom were young
and pretty, although one was young and ugly.
“Who is that?” he asked of a friend; “that lady to whom
Hazlehurst is talking? Half the young people here have
grown up, since I was last at home.”
“That is Mrs. Creighton.”
“No; not Mrs. Creighton; I know her — a charming
woman; the lady on the right.”
“That is Miss Van Alstyne. Mrs. St. Leger is next to
her; the young girl before her is Miss Emma Taylor.'
“A pretty girl—but noisy, it seems.”
“On the next bench, with Ellsworth, are Mrs. Tallman
Taylor, the great beauty, and Miss Wyllys, the heiress.”
“Yes, I know the family very well; but I never saw Mr.
Wyllys's granddaughter before.”
“She is quite plain,” observed one gentleman.
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“Very plain,” replied the other, turning away.
The evening proved very sultry, and after accompanying
the ladies home from the concert, Mr. Ellsworth proposed to
Harry a stroll in the open air. The friends set out together,
taking the direction of the spring; and, being alone, their
conversation gradually became of a confidential nature.
They touched upon politics, Mr. Henley's character and
views, and various other topics, concluding with their own
personal affairs. At length, when they had been out some
little time, Mr. Ellsworth, after a moment's silence, turned to
Harry and said:
“Hazlehurst, I have a confession to make; but I dare say
you will not give me much credit for frankness — you have
very probably guessed already what I have to tell.”
“I certainly have had some suspicions of my own for the
last few days; but I may be mistaken; I am not very good
at guessing.”
“I can have no motive,” continued Mr. Ellsworth, “in
concealing from you my regard for Miss Wyllys, and I hope
you will wish me success.”
“Certainly,” replied Harry; who was evidently somewhat
prepared for the disclosure.
“It is now some time since I have been attached to her,
but it is only lately that I have been able to urge my suit as
I could wish. The better I know Elinor Wyllys, the more
anxious I am for success. I never met with a woman of a
more lovely character.”
“You only do her justice.”
“There is something about her that is peculiar; different
from the common-place set of young ladies one meets with
every day; and yet she is perfectly feminine and womanly.”
And Mr. Ellsworth here ran over various good qualities
of Elinor's. It is impossible to say, whether Harry smiled
or not, at this lover-like warmth: if he did, it was too dark
for his friend to observe it.
“In a situation like mine, with a daughter to educate, the
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choice of a wife is particularly important. Of course I feel
much anxiety as to the decision of a woman like Miss
Wyllys, one whose good opinion is worth the wooing: and
yet, if I do not deceive myself, her manner is not discouraging.”
“Is she aware of your feelings?” asked Harry.
“Yes; I have only proposed in form quite lately, however,
a day or two after you arrived. Miss Wyllys scarcely
seemed prepared for my declaration, although I thought I
had spoken sufficiently distinctly to be understood, some time
since. She wishes for time to consider: I was willing to
wait as long as she pleased, with the hope of eventually
succeeding. Her friends are quite well disposed towards
me, I think. Mr. Wyllys's manner to me has always been
gratifying, and I hope her aunt is in my favour. To speak
frankly, there have been times when I have felt much encouraged
as regards Miss Wyllys herself. You will not
think me a coxcomb, Hazlehurst, for opening my heart to
you in this way.”
“Certainly not; you honour me by your confidence.”
“I should like to have your honest opinion as to my future
prospects; for, of course, one can never feel sure until everything
is settled. Josephine is hardly a fair judge—she is
very sanguine; but like myself she is interested in the
affair.”
“Mrs. Creighton has so much discernment, that I should
think she could not be easily deceived. If my kinswoman
knows your views, I should say that you have reason to be
encouraged by her manner. There is nothing like coquetry
about her: I am convinced she thinks highly of you.”
“Thank you; it gives me great pleasure to hear you say
so. The question must now be decided before long. I was
only prevented from explaining myself earlier, by the fear
of speaking too soon. For though I have known Miss
Wyllys some time, yet we have seldom met. I dare say
you are surprised that I did not declare myself sooner; I am
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inclined to think you would have managed an affair of the
kind more expeditiously; for you are more rapid in most of
vour movements than myself. But although I might imagine
love at first sight, I never could fancy a declaration worth
hearing, the first day.”
“Do you insinuate that such is the practice of your humble
servant?” asked Hazlehurst, smiling.
“Oh, no; but I was afraid you might disapprove of my
deliberation. My chief hope rests upon Miss Wyllys's
good sense and the wishes of her friends, who, I think, are
evidently favourable to me. She has no silly, high-flown
notions; she is now of an age—three or four-and-twenty I
think—to take a reasonable view of the world; and I hope
she will find the sincere affection of a respectable man, whose
habits and position resemble her own, sufficient for her.”
“You wish, I suppose, to hear me repeat, that such will
undoubtedly be the result,” said Harry, smiling again.
“Perhaps I do,” replied Mr. Ellsworth, in the same tone.
“I suppose you are discerning enough to be aware that I
have a rival in Mr. Stryker.”
“Stryker attentive to Elinor? It has not struck me; I
had fancied him rather an admirer of Mrs. Creighton's.”
“Of Josephine? Oh, no; she can't endure him, they
are quarrelling half the time when together. No, it is very
evident that Stryker is courting Miss Wyllys's favour. But
I confess I feel encouraged by her conduct towards him;
there is a quiet civility in it, which speaks anything but very
decided approbation.”
“I know Elinor too well, not to feel assured she must
despise a man of Stryker's character,” said Harry, with some
indignation. “He can't appreciate her; it can be nothing
more, on his part, than downright fortune-hunting.”
“No doubt; there you mention another motive I have, for
not being too hasty in my declaration to Miss Wyllys. I
could wish to convince her that my attachment is sincere.'
“Certainly. I forget twenty times a day that she is now
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a fortune, until I see some fellow, like William Hunter, or
Stryker, paying their court to her. I have never been accustomed
to consider her in that light, of old. In fact I had
no idea of her reputation as an heiress, until I found it so
well established when I arrived here. But Saratoga is just
the place to make such discoveries. I was quite behind the
age in every respect, it seems; for although it did not require
much penetration to find out your secret, Ellsworth, yet I was
taken entirely by surprise. You never made any allusion
to anything of the kind, in your letters to me.”
“It was so seldom that I met Miss Wyllys, that for a time
my mind was undecided. But, of course, I should have
written you word, if anything had been finally settled; even
if you had not come to look after me in propria personâ.”
Having reached their hotel, the gentlemen parted. Mr.
Ellsworth would, in all probability, have been less communicative
with his friend Hazlehurst, on the subject of their
recent conversation, had he been aware of the state of things
which formerly existed between Elinor and himself. He
had only heard some vague stories of an engagement between
them, but had always supposed it mere gossip, from
having seen Harry's attention to Jane, when they were all
in Paris together; while he knew, on the other hand, that
Hazlehurst had always been on the most intimate terms
with the Wyllyses, as a family connexion. He was aware
that Harry had been very much in love with Miss Graham,
for he had remarked it himself; and he supposed that if there
had ever been any foundation for the report of an engagement
with Elinor, it had probably been a mere childish
caprice, soon broken, and which had left no lasting impression
on either party.
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CHAPTER IX.
“Nor have these eyes, by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.”
Wordsworth.
Charlie Hubbard had been at Lake George for some
days; and it was a settled thing, that after he had established
himself there, and fixed upon a point for his picture, his
friends from Saratoga were to pay him a visit. Accordingly,
the Wyllyses, with a party large enough to fill a coach, set
out for the excursion, leaving Mrs. Stanley, Jane, her sister,
Mrs. Hazlehurst, and their children, at the Springs. The
weather was fine, and they set out gaily, with pleasant prospects
before them.
Charlie was very glad to see them, and as he had already
been some time on the ground, he thought himself qualified
to play cicerone. Most of the party had a relish for natural
scenery, and of course they were prepared to enjoy very
much, a visit to such a lovely spot. Robert Hazlehurst, it is
true, was indifferent to everything of the kind; he acknowledged
himself a thorough utilitarian in taste, and avowed
his preference for a muddy canal, running between fields,
well covered with corn and pumpkins, turnips and potatoes,
rather than the wildest lake, dotted with useless islands, and
surrounded with inaccessible Alps; but as he frankly confessed
his want of taste, and assured his friends that he accompanied
them only for the sake of their society, they were
bound to overlook the defect. Mr. Stryker also said a great
deal about his indifference towards les ormeaux, les rameaux,
et les hameaux, affecting much more than he felt, and affirming
that the only lakes he liked, were the ponds of the Tuilleries,
and the parks of London; the only trees, those of the
Boulevards; and as for villages, he could never endure one,
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not even the Big Village of Washington. He only came,
he said, because he must follow the ladies, and was particularly
anxious to give Mrs. Creighton an opportunity of
finishing his education, and—to fish. Some of the party
were sorry he had joined them; but Mrs. Creighton had
asked him.
“Are Mrs. Hilson and her sister still at Saratoga?” inquired
Charlie Hubbard of Hazlehurst, the evening they arrived at
Caldwell.
“I believe so;—they were there the day before yesterday,
for Mrs. Hilson asked me to a pic-nic, at Barkydt's—but I
was engaged. I think I saw Miss Hubbard in the street,
yesterday.”
“Had they the same party with them still?”
“Yes; it seemed to be very much the same party.”
Hubbard looked mortified; but he was soon busy answering
inquiries as to the projected movements for the next day.
The following morning the whole party set out, in two
skiffs, to pass the day on the lake. Under Charlie's guidance,
they rowed about among the islands, now coasting the shores,
now crossing from one point to another, wherever the views
were finest; generally keeping near enough, as they moved
leisurely along, for conversation between the two boats.
“How beautifully clear the water is!” exclaimed Elinor.
“The water in the Swiss lakes is limpid I suppose,
Charlie, like most mountain streams?” observed Mr. Wyllys.
“It is clear, sir; and in the heart of the Alps it has a very
peculiar colour — a blueish tinge — from the glaciers, like
molten lapis lazuli; entirely different from the deep, ultramarine
blue of the Mediterranean.”
“Have you any views of the Swiss lakes?” asked Elinor.
“Yes; I can show you several—and, as usual, there is a
difference in their colouring: from Lugarn, a little bit of
lapis lazuli, lying like a jewel, in the green pastures, half-way
up the Alps, just below the ice and snow, to the reedy
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lake of Morat, on the plains of Neufchâtel, more like an
agate,” added Charlie, smiling.
“We shall hope to see them, when we pass through New
York,” said Elinor, listening with interest.
“I will show them to you with great pleasure, faute de
mieux, Miss Elinor; but I hope you will one day see the
originals.”
“In the mean time, however, we shall be very glad to
enjoy your pictures. Have you any Italian views?”
“Yes, quite a number; wherever I went, I made sketches
at least; though I have not yet had time to finish them all
as pictures. In my boxes there are Venetian lagoons, and
Dutch canals; a view of the Seine, in the heart of Paris,
and the Thames, at London; the dirty, famous Tiber, classic
Arno, and classic Avon.”
“You make our eyes water, Charlie, with such a catalogue,”
said Mr. Wyllys. “You must certainly get up an
exhibition, and add several of your American pictures to
those you have just brought home.”
“I really hope you will do so,” said Elinor. “The transparent
amber-like water of the Canada, and the emerald
colour of Niagara, would appear finely in such a collection.”
“I shall never dare attempt Niagara,” exclaimed Charlie.
“All the beauties of all the other waters in the world are
united there. It will not do to go beyond the rapids; I
should be lost if I but ventured to the edge of the whirlpool
itself.”
“I have no doubt you will try it yet,” said Harry.
The young artist shook his head. “I am sometimes disposed
to throw aside the brush in disgust, at the temerity of
man, which can attempt to copy even what is most noble, in
the magnificent variety, and the simple grandeur of nature.”
“You have been sufficiently successful in what you have
attempted hitherto,” said Harry. “I saw your view of Lake
Ontario, in Philadelphia, just after I arrived; and I can never
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forget the impression it produced on me. Of all your pictures
that I have seen, that is my favourite.”
“It is indeed a noble picture,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“And few men but yourself, Charlie, could have given so
deep an interest to a broad field of water, with only a strip
of common-place shore in the fore-ground, and a bank of
clouds in the distance. A common painter would have
thrown in some prettiness of art, that would have ruined
it; but you have given it a simple dignity that is really
wonderful!” said Hazlehurst.
“You mortify me,” said Charlie; “it is so much inferior
to what I could wish.”
“Captain C—,” continued Harry, “who was stationed
at Oswego for several years, told me he should have known
your picture without the name, for a view of one of the great
lakes; there was so much truth in the colour and movement
of the water; so much that was different from the Ocean.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is cruel in you to flatter a poor
young artist at this rate,” said Charlie.
“If it is criticism you want,” said Hazlehurst, “I can give
you a dose. You were very severely handled in my presence,
a day or two since, and on the very subject of your
picture of Lake Ontario.”
“Pray, let me hear the criticism; it will sober me.”
“What was the fault?” said Elinor; “what was wanting?”
“A few houses and a steamboat, to make it lively.”
“You are making up a good story, Mr. Hazlehurst,” said
Mrs. Creighton, laughing.
“I give you the critic's words verbatim. I really looked
at the young lady in astonishment, that she should see nothing
but a want of liveliness in a picture, which most of us
feel to be sublime. But Miss D— had an old grudge
against you, for not having made her papa's villa sufficiently
prominent in your view of Hell-Gate.”
“But, such a villa!” said Hubbard. “One of the ugliest
within ten miles of New York. It is possible, sometimes,
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by keeping at a distance, concealing defects, and partially
revealing columns through verdure, to make one of our
Grecian-temple houses appear to advantage in a landscape;
but, really, Mr. D—'s villa was such a jumble, so entirely
out of all just proportion, that I could do nothing with it;
and was glad to find that I could put a grove between the
spectator and the building: anybody but its inmates would
have preferred the trees.”
“Not at all; Miss D— thought the absence of the
portico, with its tall, pipe-stem columns, the row of dormer-windows
on the roof, and the non-descript belvidere crowning
all, a loss to the public.”
“The miserable architecture of this country is an obstacle
to a landscape painter, quite too serious to be trifled with, I
can assure you,” said Charlie.
“It must be confessed,” said Mr. Ellsworth, “that the
order of things has been reversed here. Architecture is
usually called the parent of the fine arts; but with us she
is the youngest of the family, and as yet the worst endowed.
We had respectable pictures, long before we had a single
building in a really good style; and now that we have some
noble paintings and statuary, architecture still lags behind.
What a noise they made in New York, only a few years
since, about St. Thomas's Church!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Stryker; “the curse of the genius of
architecture, which Jefferson said had fallen upon this country,
has not yet been removed.”
“Some of the most ludicrous objects I have ever laid my
eyes on,” said Hazlehurst, “have been pretending houses,
and, I am sorry to say, churches too, in the interior of the
country; chiefly in the would-be Corinthian and Composite
styles. They set every rule of good taste and good sense at
defiance, and look, withal, so unconscious of their absurdity,
that the effect is as thoroughly ridiculous, as if it had been
the object of the architect to make them so.”
“For reason good,” observed Mr. Wyllys; “because they
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are wanting in simplicity and full of pretension; and pretension
is the root of all absurdity.”
They had now reached the spot Charlie had selected for
his picture; the young artist pointed it out to Miss Wyllys,
who was in the other boat.
“This is the spot I have chosen,” he said, “and I hope
you will agree with me in liking the position; it commands
some of the finest points on the lake: that is the Black
mountain in the back-ground.”
His friends admired his choice, acknowledging that the
view was one of the most beautiful they had seen.
“It must be difficult to choose, where every view is charming,”
said Elinor. “How beautiful those little islands are; so
much variety, and all so pleasing!”
“You will see hundreds of them, Miss Wyllys, when you
have been over the lake,” said Hubbard.
“There are just three hundred and sixty-five, marm,”
added one of the boatmen, the guide of the party; “one for
every day in the year.”
“This must be May-day island,” said Elinor, pointing to
an islet quite near them. “This one, half wood, half
meadow, which shows so many flowers.”
“May-day island it shall be for the next six weeks,” said
Charlie, smiling. “I have chosen it for another view.”
“Well, good people!” exclaimed Robert Hazlehurst, from
the other boat; “you may be feasting on the beauties of
nature; but some of us have more substantial appetites!
Miss Wyllys is a little fatigued, Mr. Stryker all impatience
to get out his handsome fishing-rod, and your humble servant
very hungry, indeed!”
As they had been loitering about for several hours, it was
agreed that they should now land, and prepare to lunch.
“We will put into port at May-day island,” said Charlie;
“I have been there several times, and there is a pretty, grassy
bank, where we may spread a table-cloth.”
They soon reached the little island pointed out by Elinor,
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and having landed with their baskets of provisions, the meal
was prepared, and only waiting for the fish which Mr.
Stryker had promised to catch, and for a supply of salt which
one of the boatmen had gone for, to a farm-house on the
shore; this necessary having been forgotten, when the provisions
were laid in. There never was a pic-nic yet, where
nothing was forgotten.
Mr. Stryker soon prepared himself for action; he was a
famous fisherman, and quite as proud of his rod as of his
reputation, which were both Dublin-made, he said, and,
therefore, perfect in their way. Mr. Wyllys and Mrs.
Creighton admired the apparatus contained in his ebony
walking-stick, to the owner's full satisfaction: he had a great
deal to say about its perfections, the beauty of his flies, the
excellence of his hooks and lines, and so forth; and the
ladies in general, Mrs. Creighton especially, listened as
flatteringly as the gentleman cuuld desire. As he was to
supply the perch for luncheon, however, he was obliged to
begin his labours; and taking a boat, he rowed off a stone's
throw from the shore. In turning a little point, he was surprised,
by coming suddenly upon a brother fisherman: in a
rough, leaky boat, with a common old rod in his hand, sat
our acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, wearing the usual rusty
coat; his red silk kandkerchief spread on his knee, an open
snuff-box on one side of him, a dirty tin pail on the other.
The party on shore were not a little amused by the contrast
in the appearance, manners, and equipments of the two
fishermen; the fastidious Mr. Stryker, so complete, from his
grey blouse to his fishing-basket; the old merchant, quite
independent of everything like fashion, whether alone on
Lake George, or among the crowd in Wall-Street. Charlie,
who did not know him, said that he had met the same individual
on the lake, at all hours, and in all weathers, during
the past week; he seemed devoted to fishing, heart and soul,
having left the St. Legers at Saratoga, and come on to Lake
George immediately, to enjoy his favourite pastime. It was
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a pleasure to see how honestly and earnestly he was engaged
in his pursuit: as for Mr. Stryker, we strongly suspect
that his fancy for fishing was an acquired taste, like
most of those he cherished; we very much doubt whether
he would ever have been a follower of Izaak Walton, had
there not been a fashionable accoutrement for brothers of the
rod, at the present day.
Several of the ladies also fished for half an hour; Mrs.
Creighton begging for a seat in Mr. Stryker's boat, that she
might profit by his instructions. While they were out, a
small incident occurred, which amused the spectators not a
little. Mrs. Creighton had risen, to look at a fish playing
about Mr. Stryker's line, when she accidentally dropped a
light shawl, which fell from her arm into the water; an involuntary
movement she made as it fell, also threw a basket
of her companion's flies overboard, at the same instant: he
had just been showing them off.
“Oh, Mr. Stryker, my shawl!” exclaimed the lady.
But the fashionable fisherman was already catching eagerly
at his own precious flies; he succeeded in regaining the
basket, and then, bethinking him of his reputation for gallantry,
turned to Mrs. Creighton, to rescue the shawl; but
he had the mortification to see old Mr. Hopkins already
stretching out an arm with the cachemere, which he had
caught almost as soon as it touched the water, and now
offered to its fair owner, with the good-natured hope that it
had not been injured, as it was hardly wet. The lady received
it very graciously, and bestowed a very sweet smile
on the old merchant; while Mr. Stryker, quite nettled at his
own flagrant misdemeanour, had to face a frown from the
charming widow. It was decidedly an unlucky hour for
Mr. Stryker: he only succeeded in catching a solitary perch;
while Mr. Hopkins, who had been invited to join the party,
contributed a fine mess. The fault, however, was all thrown
on the sunshine; and Mr. Hopkins confessed that he had
not had much sport since the clouds had broken away, earlier
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in the morning. Everybody seemed very ready for luncheon,
when hailed from the island, for that purpose. The meal
was quite a merry one; Mrs. Creighton was the life of the
party, saying a great many clever, amusing things. She
looked charmingly, too, in a little cap, whose straw-coloured
ribbons were particularly becoming to her brown complexion.
Mr. Stryker gradually recovered from the double mortification,
of the shawl, and the solitary perch, and soon began
talking over different fishing excursions, with his friend
A—, in Ireland, and his friend B—, in Germany. The
rest of the party were all cheerful and good-humoured. Mr.
Ellsworth was quite devoted to Elinor, as usual, of late.
Mary Van Alstyne amused herself with looking on at Mrs.
Creighton's efforts to charm Harry, pique Mr. Stryker, and
flatter Mr. Wyllys into admiring her; nor did she disdain to
throw away several arch smiles on Mr. Hopkins. “She
seems successful in all her attempts,” thought Mary. Harry
was quite attentive to her; and it was evident that Mr.
Stryker's admiration had very much increased since they had
been together at the Springs. He had set out for Saratoga,
with the firm determination to play the suitor to Elinor; he
resolved that he would not fall in love with the pretty widow;
but a clever coquette and a man of the world, are adversaries
well matched; and, as usual in such encounters, feminine art
and feminine flattery seemed likely to carry the day. Mr.
Stryker, in spite of himself, often forgot to be properly attentive
to Elinor, who appeared to great disadvantage in his
eyes, when placed in constant contrast with Mrs. Creighton.
He scarcely regretted now, his little prospect of favour with
the heiress, for the poorer widow had completely fascinated
him by her graceful flatteries, the piquancy of her wit, and
her worldliness, which, with Mr. Stryker, passed for her
wisdom. Even Mary Van Alstyne, though prejudiced
against her, was obliged to confess, as she watched Mrs.
Creighton, that she admired her. The lady had thrown herself
on the grass in a graceful position; excited by
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admiration, she had a brilliant colour; her dress was always studiously
fashionable and becoming, in its minutest details; her
amusing remarks flowed freely from a conscience under no
other restraints than those of policy or good-breeding; and
her manner, though always studied for effect, was particularly
well studied and agreeable. Her companions thought
her charming. Elinor, at the same moment, was standing
by her side, in a simple dress, with no attempt to disguise a
plain face under finery, and in a perfectly quiet position,
which was graceful without her knowing it. Her whole
manner, indeed, was always natural; its simplicity was its
great charm, for one felt confident that her grace and sweetness,
her ease and quiet dignity, flowed readily from her
character itself. Whether these ideas occurred to any of the
party besides Miss Van Alstyne, we cannot say; it is certain,
however, that Mrs. Creighton was all prepared for observation,
Elinor, as usual, quite regardless of it.
“We must carry off some flowers from May-day island,”
said Mr. Ellsworth, preparing to gather a bouquet for Elinor.
He had soon succeeded in collecting quite a pretty bunch,
composed of wild roses, blue hare-bells, the white blossoms
of the wild clematis, the delicate pink clusters of the Alleghany
vine, and the broad-leaved rose-raspberry, with several
other varieties.
Mr. Stryker offered a bouquet to Mrs. Creighton.
“It is really quite pretty; but to make it complete, I must
have one of those scarlet lobelias, on the next island; they
are the first I have seen this season. Mr. Hazlehurst, do be
good-natured, and step into that boat and bring me one.”
“I can do that without the boat, Mrs. Creighton, here is
a bridge,” replied Harry, springing on the trunk of a dead
tree, which nearly reached the islet she had pointed out;
catching the branch of an oak on the opposite shore, he
swung himself across. The flowers were soon gathered;
and, after a little difficulty in reaching the dead tree, he
returned to the ladies, just as they were about to embark
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again. Perhaps he had caught a spark of the spirit of coquetry
from Mrs. Creighton, and resented her flirting so
much with Mr. Stryker; for he did not give her all the
flowers he had gathered, but offered a few to each lady as
she entered the boat.
“Thank you, Mr. Hazlehurst, very gallantly done,” said
Mrs. Creighton, placing one of the lobelias, with a sprig of
Mr. Stryker's, in her belt.
As they rowed leisurely along, Charlie Hubbard pointed
out some of the localities to Miss Wyllys and Robert Hazlehurst.
“These mountains are very different in their character,
Mr. Hubbard, from those you have recently been sketching
in Italy and Switzerland,” observed Mr. Ellsworth.
“Entirely different; their forms are much less bold and
decided.”
“Yes; all the mountains in this country, east of the Mississippi,
partake, more or less, of the same character; forming
rounded ridges, seldom broken into those abrupt, ragged
peaks, common in other parts of the world.”
“But the elevation of these mountains is much less than
that of the Alps, or high Apennines,” observed Mr. Wyllys;
“do not the mountains in Europe, of the same height, resemble
these in formation?”
“No, sir, I think not,” replied Ellsworth. “They are
generally more bold and barren; often mere masses of naked
rock. I am no geologist, but it strikes me that the whole
surface of the earth, in this part of the world, differs in character
from that of the eastern continent; on one hand, the
mountains are less abrupt and decided in their forms with
us; and on the other, the plains are less monotonous here.
If our mountains are not grand, the general surface of the
country seems more varied, more uneven; there is not so
large a proportion of dead level in this country as in France,
Germany, Russia, for instance; we have much of what we
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call a rolling country — even the prairies, which are the
plains of this region, show the same swelling surface.”
“The variety of character in the landscape of different
countries, must be a great charm to one of your profession,
Hubbard,” observed Harry. “A landscape painter must
enjoy travelling more than any other man; nothing is lost
upon you—every time you look about you there is something
new to observe. How you must have enjoyed the change
from the general aspect of this country—fresh, full of life
and motion, yet half-finished in the details—to old Italy,
where the scenery and atmosphere are in perfect harmony
with the luxurious repose of a great antiquity!”
“I did indeed enjoy the change beyond expression!” exclaimed
Charlie. “I have often felt thankful, in the best
sense of the word, that I have been enabled to see those
great countries, Italy and Switzerland; it has furnished me
with materials for thought and delight, during a whole life-time.”
“It would be a good plan to get you appointed painting
attaché to the Legation, Hubbard,” said Harry. “As you
have seen the south of Europe, would you not like to take a
look at the northern regions?”
“Not much,” replied Charlie. “I should have nothing
but ice to paint there, for half the year.”
“Well, I suppose there is something selfish in my wish to
carry you to the North Pole; but when I was in Brazil, I
had a very disinterested desire that you should see the Bay
of Rio.”
“Is it really so beautiful?” asked Elinor.
“Yes; finer even than Naples, as regards scenery; though
it wants, of course, all the charm of recollection which belongs
to the old world.”
“You must forget everything like fine scenery when you
go to St. Petersburg,” said Robert Hazlehurst.
“Not at all; I hope to take a trip to the Crimea while I
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am in Russia. I shall do my best to ingratiate myself with
the owner of some fine villa on the Black Sea.”
“And have you really made up your mind to be a regular
diplomatist?” asked Mr. Wyllys.
“For a time, sir; so long as I can serve under Mr. Henley,
or a man like him.”
“I used to see a good deal of Henley, some twenty years
since,” observed Mr. Wyllys. “I should think him particularly
well fitted for his duties.”
“I have the highest respect for him,” replied Harry.
“He is a good model for an American diplomatist,” added
Robert Hazlehurst. “A man of ability, good education, and
just principles, with simple, gentlemanly manners; always
manly in his tone, and firm as a rock on all essential points.”
“But those are only a small portion of the qualifications
of a diplomatist,” said Mr. Stryker. “According to the
most approved models, the largest half should be cunning.”
“Mr. Henley is particularly clear-sighted—not easily deceived
either by himself or by others; and that is all that
American diplomacy requires,” said Harry. “I am proud
to say that our government does not give us any dirty work
to do; we have chiefly to act on the defensive.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said Mr. Stryker, with his
usual dry manner. “I don't believe in the full success of
your virtuous diplomatist. How is a man to know all the
turnings and windings of the road that leads to treaties, unless
he has gone over it himself?”
“But an honest man, if he is really clear-headed and firm,
has no need of these turnings and windings; he goes more
directly to the point, and saves a vast deal of time and principle,
by taking a more honourable road.”
“Suppose a man has to make black look white, I should
like to see your honourable diplomatist manage such a job,”
said Mr. Stryker.
“But our government has never yet had such jobs to
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manage. We have never yet made a demand from a foreign
power that we have not believed just. Intrigue is unpardonable
in American diplomacy, for it is gratuitous; a man
need not resort to it, unless his own taste inclines him that
way. It is an honourable distinction of our government, as
a government, that it has never committed a single act of
injustice against any other power, either by open force, or
underhand manœuvres. We have been wronged sometimes,
and omitted to demand justice as firmly as we might have
done; but there is, probably, no other government among
the great powers of Christendom, that has been so free from
offensive guilt, during the last sixty years, as that of this
country.”
It was evident that Mr. Stryker was not in the least convinced
by Harry's defence of honest diplomacy.
“The ladies must find great fault with Washington diplomacy,”
he added, turning to Mrs. Creighton and Elinor:
“they are never employed; not a single fair American has
ever figured among les belles diplomates of European saloons,
I believe.”
“Perhaps the ladies in this country would not condescend
to be employed,” said Elinor.
“Don't say so, Miss Wyllys!” exclaimed Mrs. Creighton,
laughing; “I should delight in having some delicate mission
to manage: when Mr. Stryker gets into the cabinet, he may
send me as special envoy to any country where I can find a
French milliner.”
“You had better go to Russia with Mr. Henley and Mr.
Hazlehurst; I have not the least doubt but they would find
your finesse of great service,” said the gentleman.
Mrs. Creighton blushed; and Harry coloured, too.
“The very idea of such an ally would frighten Mr.
Henley out of his wits,” said the lady, recovering herself;
“he is an incorrigible old bachelor; that, you must allow, is
a great fault of his, Mr. Hazlehurst.”
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“If he be incorrigible,” said Harry.
“But that is not clear,” said Mr. Stryker to the lady;
“he is a great admirer of yours.”
“Come, a truce to diplomacy, Josephine; I am going to
beg Miss Wyllys for a song,” said Ellsworth.
Elinor sang very readily, and very sweetly; the Swiss
airs sounded charmingly among the hills; and she was accompanied
by Mary Van Alstyne, while Charlie, with the
two Hazlehursts, made up a respectable second for several
songs.
Some gathering clouds at length warned the party to turn
inn-ward again.
“It is to be hoped the shower won't reach us, for your
sake, ladies,” said Robert Hazlehurst.
“I hope not, for the sake of my bibi!” said Mrs. Creighton.
“It is the prettiest little hat I have had these three
years; it would be distressing to have it spoilt before it has
lost its freshness.”
“There is no danger, marm,” said one of the boatmen,
with a good-natured gravity, that made Mrs. Creighton smile.
“Them 'ere kind of clouds often goes over the lake, without
coming up this way.”
And so it proved; the party reached the hotel safely, all
agreeing that they had had a very pleasant day, and were
not at all more tired than was desirable after such an excursion.
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CHAPTER X.
“Sebastian are you?
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us!”
Shakspeare.
On their return to Saratoga, the Wyllyses and Hazlehursts
found startling intelligence awaiting them. Letters had just
arrived for Harry, for Mrs. Stanley, and for Mr. Wyllys, all
of a similar nature, and all of a character that was astounding
to those who received them. They could scarcely credit
their senses as they read the fact, that the executors of the
late John William Stanley, Esquire, were called upon to
account for all past proceedings, to William Stanley, his son
and heir. Hazlehurst was also summoned to resign that
portion of the property of which he had taken possession
two years since, when he had reached the age of twenty-five.
The letters were all written by Mr. Clapp, Charlie Hubbard's
brother-in-law, who announced himself as the attorney
of William Stanley, Esquire.
“Here are the letters addressed to myself,” said Mrs.
Stanley, who had immediately sent for Mr. Wyllys and
Hazlehurst, as soon as they returned from Lake George:
she had not yet recovered from the first agitation caused by
this extraordinary disclosure. “This is the letter purporting
to come from my husband's son, and this is from the lawyer,”
she added, extending both to Hazlehurst.
Harry read them aloud. The first ran as follows:
“Madam:—
“I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, as
my late father was not married to you when I went to sea,
not long before his death. But I make no doubt that you
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will not refuse me my rights, now that I step forward to
demand them, after leaving others to enjoy them for nearly
eighteen years. Things look different to a man near forty,
and to a young chap of twenty; I have been thinking of
claiming my property for some time, but was told by lawyers
that there was too many difficulties in the way, owing partly
to my own fault, partly to the fault of others. As long as I
was a youngster, I didn't care for anything but having my
own way—I snapped my fingers at all the world; but now
I am tired of a sea-faring life, and have had hardships enough
for one man: since there is a handsome property mine, by
right, I am resolved to claim it, through thick and thin. I
have left off the bottle, and intend to do my best to be respectable
for the rest of my days. I make no doubt but we
shall be able to come to some agreement; nor would I object
to a compromise for the past, though my lawyers advise me
to make no such offer. I shall be pleased, Madam, to pay
my respects to you, that we may settle our affairs at a personal
meeting, if it suits you to do so.
“Your obedient servant, and step-son,
“William Stanley.'
“Can that be my husband's son!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanley,
in an agitated voice, as Harry finished reading the letter,
and handed it to Mr. Wyllys.
“It will take more than this to convince me,” said Mr.
Wyllys, who had been listening attentively. The hand-writing
was then carefully examined by Mrs. Stanley and
Mr. Wyllys, and both were compelled to admit that it was at
least a good imitation of that of William Stanley.
“A most extraordinary proceeding in either case!” exclaimed
Harry, pacing the room.
“Mr. Clapp's letter was then read: it began with the following
words:
“Madam:—
“I regret that I am compelled by the interests of my client,
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William Stanley, Esquire, to address a lady I respect so
highly, upon a subject that must necessarily prove distressing
to her, in many different ways.”
Then followed a brief statement of his first acquaintance
with Mr. Stanley; his refusing to have anything to do with
the affair; his subsequent conviction that the ragged sailor
was the individual he represented himself to be; his reluctance
to proceed, &c., &c. But since he was now convinced,
by the strongest proofs, of the justice of Mr. Stanley's
demand, and had at length undertaken to assist him with
his advice, he was, therefore, compelled by duty to give the
regular legal notice, that Mrs. Stanley, as executrix, would
be required to account for her proceedings since her husband's
death. His client, he said, would much prefer an amicable
arrangement, but, if necessary, would proceed to law immediately.
He wished to know what course Mrs. Stanley was
disposed to take, as his client's steps would necessarily be
guided by her own, and those of Mr. Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst.
He concluded with a civil hope that the case might
be privately adjusted.
“Clapp all over,” said Harry, as he finished reading the
letter.
“A most bare-faced imposition, depend upon it!” exclaimed
Mr. Wyllys, with strong indignation.
Mrs. Stanley was listening with anxious eagerness for the
opinion of the two gentlemen.
“I am strongly disposed to mistrust anything that comes
through Clapp's hands,” said Harry, pacing the room thoughtfully,
with the letters in his hand. “Still, I think it behooves
us, sir, to act with deliberation; the idea that it is not impossible
that this individual should be the son of Mr. Stanley,
must not be forgotten—that possibility alone would make
me sift the matter to the bottom at once.”
“Certainly; it must be looked into immediately.”
“What has the lawyer written to you?” asked Mrs. Stanley.
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The letters to Mr. Wyllys and Harry were then read
aloud; they were almost identical in their contents with that
to Mrs. Stanley. The tone of each was civil and respectful;
though each contained a technical legal notice, that they
would be required to surrender to William Stanley, the
property of his late futher, according to the will of the said
John William Stanley; which the said William, his son,
had hitherto neglected to claim, though legally entitled to it.
“There is certainly an air of confidence about those letters
of Clapp's,” said Harry, “as if he felt himself on a firm
foothold. It is very extraordinary!”
“Of course: he would never move in such a case, without
some plausible proof,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“But how could he get any proof whatever, on this occasion?”
said Mrs. Stanley. “For these eighteen years,
nearly, William Stanley has been lying at the bottom of the
ocean. We have believed so, at least.”
“Proofs have been manufactured by lawyers before now,”
said Mr. Wyllys. “Do you suppose that if William Stanley
had been living, we never should have heard one trace of
him during eighteen years?—at a time, too, when his father's
death had left him a large property.”
“What sort of a man is this Mr. Clapp?” asked Mrs.
Stanley. “His manners and appearance, whenever I have
accidentally seen him with the Hubbards, struck me as very
unpleasant: but is it possible he can be so utterly devoid of
all principle, as wilfully to countenance an impostor?”
“He is a man whom I do not believe to possess one just
principle!” said Mr. Wyllys. “Within the last year or two,
I have lost all confidence in his honesty, from facts known
to me.”
“I have always had a poor opinion of him, but I have
never had much to do with him,” said Harry; “still, I
should not have thought him capable of entering into a
conspiracy so atrocious as this must be, if the story be not
true.”
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“He would do any dirty work whatever, for money. I
know the man,” said Mr. Wyllys, with emphasis.
“It is possible he may be deceived himself,” observed
Mrs. Stanley.
“Very improbable,” replied Mr. Wyllys, shaking his
head.
“A shrewd, cunning, quick-witted fellow, as I remember
him, would not be likely to undertake such a case, unless he
had some prospect of success,” said Harry, pacing the room
again. “He must know perfectly well that it is make or
break with him. If he does not succeed, he will be utterly
ruined.”
“He will give us trouble, no doubt,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“He must have got the means of putting together a plausible
story. And yet his audacity confounds me!”
“Eighteen years, is it not, since William Stanley's death?”
asked Harry, turning to Mrs. Stanley.
“It will be eighteen years next October, since he sailed.
I was married in November; and from that time we have
never heard anything from the poor boy, excepting the report
that the Jefferson, the ship in which he sailed, had been
shipwrecked on the coast of Africa, the following winter,
and all hands lost. That report reached us not long before
my husband's death, and caused him to word his will in the
way it is now expressed; giving to the son of his kinsman
and old friend, half his property, in case his son's death
should be confirmed. The report was confirmed, some
months later, by the arrival of an American vessel, which
had ridden out the storm that wrecked the Jefferson: she
saw the wreck itself, sent a boat to examine it, but could
find no one living; although several bodies were picked up,
with the hope of reviving them. But you have heard the
whole sad story before, Harry.”
“Certainly; I merely wished to hear the facts again,
ma'am, from your own lips, lest I might have forgottem some
important point.”
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“Although you were quite a child at the time, Harry,”
said Mr. Wyllys, “eight or ten I believe, still, I should think
you must remember the anxiety to discover the real fate of
William Stanley. I have numbers of letters in my hands,
answers to those I had written with the hope of learning
something more positive on the subject. We sent several
agents, at different times, to the principal sea-ports, to make
inquiries among the sailors; it all resulted in confirming the
first story, the loss of the Jefferson, and all on board. Every
year, of course, made the point more certain.”
“Still, we cannot say that is not impossible he should have
escaped,” observed Harry.
“Why should he have waited eighteen years, before he
appeared to claim his property?—and why should he not
come directly to his father's executors, instead of seeking
out such a fellow as Clapp? It bears on the very face every
appearance of a gross imposture. Surely, Harry, you do
not think there is a shade of probability as to the truth of
this story?”
“Only a possibility, sir; almost everything is against it,
and yet I shall not rest satisfied without going to the bottom
of the matter.”
“That, you may be sure, we shall be forced to do. Clapp
will give us trouble enough, I warrant; he will leave no
stone unturned that a dirty lawyer can move. It will be
vexatious, but there cannot be a doubt as to the result.”
“You encourage me,” said Mrs. Stanley; “and yet the
idea of entering into a suit of this kind is very painful!”
“If it be a conspiracy, there is no treatment too bad for
those who have put the plot together!” exclaimed Harry.
“What a double-dyed villain Clapp must be!”
“He will end his career in the State-Prison,” said Mr.
Wyllys.
“The Hubbards, too; that is another disagreeable part of
the business,” said Harry.
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“I am truly sorry for them,” replied Mr. Wyllys. “It
will give them great pain.”
“What steps shall we first take, sir?” inquired Harry.
“We must look into the matter immediately, of course,
and find out upon what grounds they are at work.”
“I am utterly at a loss to comprehend it?” exclaimed Mrs.
Stanley. “Such a piece of bare-faced audacity!”
“Clapp must rest all his hope of success on our want of
positive proof as to the death of William Stanley,” observed
Harry. “But his having dared to bring forward an indivi
dual to personate the dead man, is really a height of impu
dence that I should never have conceived of.”
“If I did not know him to be an incarnation of cunning,
I should think he had lost his senses,” replied Mr. Wyllys;
“but happily for honest men, rogues generally overreach
themselves; after they have spread their nets, made the mesh
as intricate as possible, they almost invariably fall into their
own snare. Such will, undoubtedly, be the result in this
case.”
“Had you not better return to Longbridge at once,” said
Mrs. Stanley, “in order to inquire into the matter?”
“Certainly; we had better all be on the spot; though I
am confident we shall unmask the rogues very speedily.
You were already pledged to return with us, Mrs. Stanley;
and I shall be glad to see you at Wyllys-Roof, again, Harry.”
“Thank you, sir; you are very good,” replied Hazlehurst,
with something more than the common meaning in the
words; for he coloured a little on remembering the occurrences
of his last visit to Longbridge, more than three years
since.
“We shall find it difficult,” continued Mr. Wyllys, “to
get an insight into Clapp's views and plans. He will, no
doubt, be very wary in all he does; though voluble as ever
in what he says. I know his policy of old; he reverses the
saying of the cunning Italian, volto sciolto, bocca stretta.”
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“But his first step has not been a cautious one,” observed
Harry. “It is singular he should have allowed his client to
write to Mrs. Stanley. Do you remember William Stanley's
handwriting distinctly?” he added, again handing the letter
to Mr. Wyllys.
“Yes; and it must be confessed this hand resembles his;
they must have got possession of some of young Stanley's
handwriting.”
“But how could they possibly have done so?” said Mrs.
Stanley.
“That is what we must try to find out, my dear madam.”
“He must have been very confident that it was a good
imitation,” said Hazlehurst; “for, of course, he knew you
must possess letters of William Stanley's. I don't remember
to have seen anything but his signature, myself.”
“Yes; it is a good imitation — very good; of course
Clapp was aware of it, or the letter would never have been
sent.”
“William was very like his father in appearance, though
not in character,” observed Mrs. Stanley, thoughtfully.
“He was very like him.”
“Should this man look like my poor husband, I might
have some misgivings,” said Mrs. Stanley. “We must
remember at least, my dear Mr. Wyllys, that it is not impossible
that William may be living.”
“Only one of the most improbable circumstances you could
name, my dear friend. I wish to see the man, however,
myself; for I have little doubt that I shall be able at once to
discover the imposture, entirely to our own satisfaction at
least—and that is the most important point.”
“Should the case present an appearance of truth, sufficient
to satisfy a jury, though we ourselves were not convinced,
it would still prove a very serious thing to you, my dear
Harry,” observed Mrs. Stanley.
“No doubt: very serious to Hazlehurst, and a loss to all
three. But I cannot conceive it possible that such a daring
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imposture can succeed so far. We shall be obliged, however,
to proceed with prudence, in order to counteract the
cunning of Clapp.”
After a conversation of some length between the friends,
it was agreed that Hazlehurst should answer the letters, in
the name of Mrs. Stanley and Mr. Wyllys, as well as his
own. It was also decided that they should return to Longbridge
immediately, and not take any decided steps until
they had seen the individual purporting to be William
Stanley. The bare possibility that Mr. Stanley's son might
be living, determined Mrs. Stanley and Hazlehurst to pursue
this course; although Mr. Wyllys, who had not a doubt on
the subject from the first, had felt no scruple in considering
the claimant as an impostor. We give Harry's letter to Mr.
Clapp.
“Saratoga, June, 18—
“Sir:—
“The letters addressed by you to Mrs. Stanley, Mr.
Wyllys and myself, of the date of last Tuesday, have just
reached us. I shall not dwell on the amazement which we
naturally felt in receiving a communication so extraordinary,
which calls upon us to credit the existence of an individual,
whom we have every reason to believe has lain for nearly
eighteen years at the bottom of the deep: it will be sufficient
that I declare, what you are probably already prepared to
hear, that we see no cause for changing our past opinions on
this subject. We believe to-day, as we have believed for
years, that William Stanley was drowned in the wreck of
the Jefferson, during the winter of 181-. We can command
to-day, the same proofs which produced conviction at the
time when this question was first carefully examined. We
have learned no new fact to change the character of these
proofs.
“The nature of the case is such, however, as to admit the
possibility—and it is a bare possibility only—of the existence
of William Stanley. It is not necessarily impossible that he
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may have escaped from the wreck of the Jefferson; although
the weight of probability against such an escape, has more
than a hundred-fold the force of that which would favour a
contrary supposition. Such being the circumstances, Mr.
Stanley's executors, and his legatee, actuated by the same
motives which have constantly guided them since his death,
are prepared in the present instance to discharge their duty,
at whatever cost it may be. They are prepared to receive
and examine any proofs, in the possession of yourself and
your client, as to the identity of the individual purporting to
be William Stanley, only son of the late John William
Stanley, of — county, Pennsylvania. They demand these
proofs. But, they are also prepared, sir, to pursue with the
full force of justice, and the law of the land, any individual
who shall attempt to advance a false claim to the name and
inheritance of the dead. This matter, once touched, must
be entirely laid bare: were duty out of the question, indignation
alone would be sufficient to urge them, at any cost of
time and vexation, to unmask one who, if not William
Stanley, must be a miserable impostor — to unravel what
must either prove an extraordinary combination of circumstances,
or a base conspiracy.
“Prepared, then, to pursue either course, as justice shall
dictate, Mrs. Stanley and Mr. Wyllys, executors of the late
Mr. Stanley, and myself, his legatee, demand: First, an
interview with the individual claiming to be William Stanley.
Secondly, whatever proofs of the identity of the claimant
you may have in your possession. And we here pledge
ourselves to acknowledge the justice of the claim advanced,
if the evidence shall prove sufficient to establish it; or in the
event of a want of truth and consistency in the evidence
supporting this remarkable claim, we shall hold it a duty to
bring to legal punishment, those whom we must then believe
the guilty parties connected with it.
“Mrs. Stanley and Mr. Wyllys wish you, sir, to understand
this letter as an answer to those addressed by you to
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themselves. They are on the point of returning to Longbridge,
where I shall also join them; and we request that your father
communications to us, on this subject, may be addressed to
Wyllys-Roof.
“Henry Hazlehurst.”
This letter was written, and approved by Mrs. Stanley
and Mr. Wyllys, before the consultation broke up; it was
also signed by them, as well as by Harry.
The amazement of Miss Wyllys and Elinor, on hearing
the purport of Mr. Clapp's letters, was boundless. Had
they seen William Stanley rise from the ground before them,
they could scarcely have been more astonished; not a shadow
of doubt as to his death in the Jefferson, had crossed their
minds for years. Like their friends, they believed it a plot
of Mr. Clapp's; and yet his daring to take so bold a step
seemed all but incredible.
When some hours' consideration had made the idea rather
more familiar to the minds of our friends, they began to look
at the consequences, and they clearly saw many difficulties
and vexations before the matter could be even favourably
settled; but if this client of Mr. Clapp's were to succeed in
establishing a legal claim to the Stanley estate, the result
would produce much inconvenience to Mrs. Stanley, still
greater difficulties to Mr. Wyllys, while Harry would be
entirely ruined in a pecuniary sense; since the small property
he had inherited from his father, would not suffice to
meet half the arrears he would be obliged to discharge, in
restoring his share of the Stanley estate to another. Hazlehurst
had decided, from the instant the claim was laid before
him, that the only question with himself would regard his
own opinion on the subject; the point must first be clearly
settled to his own judgment. He would see the man who
claimed to be the son of his benefactor, he would examine
the matter as impartially as he could, and then determine for
himself. Had he any good reason whatever for believing
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this individual to be William Stanley, he would instantly
resign the property to him, at every cost.
All probability was, however, thus far, against the identity
of the claimant; and unless Hazlehurst could believe in his
good faith and honesty, every inch of the ground should be
disputed to the best of his ability. Mr. Wyllys was very
confident of defeating one whom he seriously believed an
impostor: it was a dirty, disagreeable job to undertake, but
he was sanguine as to the result. Mrs. Stanley was at first
quite overcome by agitation and astonishment; she had some
doubts and anxieties; misgivings would occasionally cross
her mind, in spite of herself, in spite of Mr. Wyllys's opinion;
and the bare idea of opposing one who might possibly be
her husband's son, affected all her feelings. Like Hazlehurst,
she was very desirous to examine farther into the
matter, without delay; scarcely knowing yet what to hope
and what to fear.
Ellsworth and Mrs. Creighton soon learned the extraordinary
summons which Harry had received; he informed
them of the facts himself.
“The man is an impostor, depend upon it, Mr. Hazlehurst!”
exclaimed Mrs. Creighton, with much warmth.
“I have little doubt of it,” replied Harry; “for I do not
see how he can well be anything else.”
“You know, Hazlehurst, that I am entirely at your service
in any way you please,” said Ellsworth.
“Thank you, Ellsworth; I have a habit of looking to you
in any difficulty, as you know already.”
“But I cannot conceive that it should be at all a difficult
matter to unravel so coarse a plot as this must be!” cried
Mrs. Creighton. “What possible foundation can these men
have for their story? Tell me all about it, Mr. Hazlehurst,
pray!” continued the lady, who had been standing when
Harry entered the room, prepared to accompany her brother
and himself to Miss Wyllys's rooms. “Sit down, I beg,
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and tell me at once all you choose to trust me with,” she
continued, taking a seat on the sofa.
Harry followed her example. “You are only likely to
hear a great deal too much of it I fear, if you permit Ellsworth
and myself to talk the matter over before you.” He
then proceeded to give some of the most important facts, as
far as he knew them himself, at least. Judging from this
account, Mr. Ellsworth pronounced himself decidedly inclined
to think with Mr. Wyllys, that this claim was a fabrication
of Clapp's. Mrs. Creighton was very warm in the
expression of her indignation and her sympathy. After a
long and animated conversation, Mr. Ellsworth proposed
that they should join the Wyllyses: his sister professed
herself quite ready to do so; and, accompanied by Harry,
they went to the usual rendezvous of their party, at Congress
Hall.
Robert Hazlehurst had already left Saratoga with his
family, having returned from Lake George for that purpose,
a day earlier than his friends; and when Mrs. Creighton and
the two gentlemen entered Miss Wyllys's parlour, they only
found there the Wyllyses themselves and Mary Van Alstyne,
all of whom had already heard of Harry's threatened difficulties.
Neither Miss Agnes nor Elinor had seen him since
he had received the letters, and they both cordially expressed
their good wishes in his behalf; for they both seemed inclined
to Mr. Wyllys's opinion of the new claimant.
“We have every reason to wish that the truth may soon
be discovered,” said Miss Agnes.
“I am sorry you should have such a painful, vexatious
task before you,” said Elinor, frankly offering her hand to
Harry.
“Have you no sympathies for this new sailor cousin of
yours, Miss Wyllys?—I must say I have a very poor opinion
of him myself,” said Mrs. Creighton.
“Whoever he be, I hope he will only receive what is
justly his due,” replied Elinor.
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“I am happy, Miss Wyllys, that you seem favourably
inclined towards Hazlehurst,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “On
the present occasion I consider him not only as a friend but
as a client, and that is the dearest tie we lawyers are supposed
to feel.”
“One would naturally incline rather more to a client of
yours ex officio, Mr. Ellsworth, than to one of Mr. Clapp's,
that very disagreeable brother-in-law of Miss Patsey Hubbard's,”
said Mary Van Alstyne, smiling.
It was soon decided that the party should break up the
next day. The Wyllyses, with Mrs. Stanley and Mary Van
Alstyne, were to return to Longbridge. Mrs. Creighton and
Mr. Ellsworth were obliged to pay their long deferred visit to
Nahant, the gentleman having some business of importance
in the neighbourhood; but it was expected that they also
should join the family at Wyllys-Roof as early as possible.
Jane was to return to New York with her sister-in-law, Mrs.
St. Leger, leaving Miss Emma Taylor flirting at Saratoga,
under the charge of a fashionable chaperon; while Mr.
Hopkins was still fishing at Lake George.
CHAPTER XI.
“ `Whence this delay?—Along the crowded street
A funeral comes, and with unusual pomp.' ”
Rogers.
It is a common remark, that important events seldom
occur singly; and they seem indeed often to follow each
other with startling rapidity, like the sharpest flashes of
lightning and the loudest peals of thunder from the dark
clouds of a summer shower. On arriving in New York,
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the Wyllyses found that Tallman Taylor had been taken
suddenly and dangerously ill, during the previous night, the
consequence of a stroke of the sun; having exposed himself
imprudently, by crossing the bay to Staten-Island for a dinnerparty,
in an open boat, when the thermometer stood at 95° in
the shade. He was believed in imminent danger, and was
too ill to recognize his wife when she arrived. Miss Wyllys
and Elinor remained in town, at the urgent request of Jane,
who was in great distress; while Mr. Wyllys returned home
with Mrs. Stanley and Mary Van Alstyne.
After twenty-four hours of high delirium, the physicians
succeeded in subduing the worst symptoms; but the attack
took the character of a bilious fever, and the patient's recovery
was thought very doubtful from the first. Poor Jane
sat listlessly in the sick-room, looking on and weeping, unheeded
by her husband, who would allow no one but his
mother to come near him, not even his wife or his sistcrs;
he would not, indeed, permit his mother to leave his sight for
a moment, his eyes following every movement of her's with
the feverish restlessness of disease, and the helpless dependence
of a child. Jane mourned and wept; Adeline had at
least the merit of activity, and made herself useful as an
assistant nurse, in preparing whatever was needed by her
brother. These two young women, who had been so often
together in brilliant scenes of gaiety, were now, for the first
time, united under a roof of sorrow and suffering.
“That lovely young creature is a perfect picture of helpless
grief!” thought one of the physicians, as he looked at Jane.
For a week, Tallman Taylor continued in the same state.
Occasionally, as he talked with the wild incoherency of
delirium, he uttered sentences painful to hear, as they recalled
deeds of folly and vice; words passed his lips which
were distressing to all present, but which sunk deep into the
heart of the sick man's mother. At length he fell into a
stupor, and after lingering for a day or two in that state, he
expired, without having fully recovered his consciousness for
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a moment. The handsome, reckless, dashing son of the
rich merchant lay on his bier; a career of selfish enjoyment
and guilty folly was suddenly closed by the grave.
Miss Agnes's heart sunk within her as she stood, silent,
beside the coffin of Jane's husband, remembering how lately
she had seen the young man, full of life and vigour, thoughtlessly
devoting the best energies of body and soul to culpable
self-indulgence. It is melancholy indeed, to record such a
close to such a life; and yet it is an event repeated in the
gay world with every year that passes. It is to be feared
there were companions of Tallman Taylor's, pursuing the
same course of wicked folly, which had been so suddenly
interrupted before their eyes, who yet never gave one serious
thought to the subject: if they paused, it was only for a
moment, while they followed their friend to the grave; from
thence hurrying again to the same ungrateful, reckless
abuse of life, and its highest blessings.
Jane was doubly afflicted at this moment; her baby
sickened soon after its return to town, and died only a few
days after her husband; the young father and his infant boy
were laid in the same grave.
Jane herself was ill for a time, and when she partially
recovered, was very anxious to accompany Miss Agnes and
Elinor to Wyllys-Roof — a spot where she had passed so
many peaceful hours, that she longed again to seek shelter
there. She had loved her husband, as far as it was in her
nature to love; but her attachments were never very strong
or very tender, and Tallman Taylor's neglect and unkindness
during the past year, had in some measure chilled her
first feelings for him. She now, however, looked upon herself
as the most afflicted of human beings; the death of her
baby had indeed touched the keenest chord in her bosom—
she wept over it bitterly.
Adeline thought more seriously at the time of her brother's
death than she had ever done before; and even Emma
Taylor's spirits were sobered for a moment. Mr. Taylor,
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the father, no doubt felt the loss of his eldest son, though far
less than many parents would have done; he was not so
much overwhelmed by grief, but what he could order a very
handsome funeral, and project an expensive marble monument—
a fashionable tomb-stone of Italian marble. He was
soon able to resume all his usual pursuits, and even the
tenor of his thoughts seemed little changed, for his mind was
as much occupied as usual with Wall-Street affairs, carrying
out old plans, or laying new schemes of profit. He had
now been a rich man for several years, yet he was in fact
less happy than when he began his career, and had everything
to look forward to. Still he continued the pursuits of
business, for without the exciting fears and hopes of loss and
gain, life would have appeared a monotonous scene to him;
leisure could only prove a burthen, for it would be merely
idleness, since he had no tastes to make it either pleasant or
useful. His schemes of late had not been so brilliantly successful
as at the commencement of his course of speculation;
fortune seemed coquetting with her old favourite; he had
recently made several investments which had proved but
indifferent in their results. Not that he had met with serious
losses; on the contrary, he was still a gainer at the game of
speculation; but the amount was very trifling. He had
rapidly advanced to a certain distance on the road to wealth,
but it now seemed as if he could not pass that point; the
brilliant dreams in which he had indulged were only half-realized.
There seemed no good way of accounting for this
pause in his career, but such was the fact; he was just as
shrewd and calculating, just as enterprising now as he had
been ten years before, but certainly he was not so successful.
On commencing an examination of his son's affairs, he
found that Tallman Taylor's extravagance and folly had left
his widow and child worse than penniless, for he had died
heavily in debt. Returning one afternoon from Wall-Street,
Mr. Taylor talked over this matter with his wife. Of all
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Tallman Taylor's surviving friends, his mother was the one
who most deeply felt his death; she was heart-stricken, and
shed bitter tears over the young man.
“There is nothing left, Hester, for the child or her mother,”
said the merchant, sitting down in a rocking-chair in his
wife's room. “All gone; all wasted; five times the capital
I had to begin with. I have just made an investment, of
which I shall give the profits to Tallman's lady; four lots
that were offered to me last week; if that turns out well, I
shall go on, and it may perhaps make up a pretty property
for the child, in time.'
“Oh, husband, don't talk to me about such things now; I
can't think of anything but my poor boy's death!'
“It was an unexpected calamity, Hester,” said the father,
with one natural look of sorrow; “but we cannot always
escape trouble in this world.”
“I feel as if we had not done our duty by him!” said the
poor mother.
“Why not?—he was very handsomely set up in business,”
remonstrated Mr. Taylor.
“I was not thinking of money,” replied his wife, shaking
her head. “But it seems as if we only took him away from
my brother's, in the country, just to throw him in the way
of temptation as he was growing up, and let him run wild,
and do everything he took a fancy to.”
“We did no more than other parents, in taking him home
with us, to give him a better education than he could have
got at your brother's.”
“Husband, husband!—it is but a poor education that don't
teach a child to do what is right! I feel as if we had never
taught him what we ought to. I did not know he had got
so many bad ways until lately; and now that I do know it,
my heart is broken!”
“Tallman was not so bad as you make him out. He was
no worse than a dozen other young gentlemen I could name
at this very minute.”
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“Oh, I would give everything we are worth to bring him
back!—but it is too late—too late!”
“No use in talking now, Hester.”
“We ought to have taken more pains with him. He
didn't know the danger he was in, and we did, or we ought
to have known it. Taking a young man of a sudden, from
a quiet, minister's family in the country, like my brother's,
and giving him all the money he wanted, and turning him
out into temptation.—Oh, it's dreadful!”
“All the pains in the world, Hester, won't help a young
man, unless he chooses himself. What could I do, or you
either? Didn't we send him to school and to college?—didn't
we give him an opportunity of beginning life with a fine
property, and married to one of the handsomest girls in the
country, daughter of one of the best families, too? What
more can you do for a young man? He must do the rest
himself; you can't expect to keep him tied to your apronstring
all his life.”
“Oh, no; but husband, while he was young we ought to
have taken more pains to teach him not to think so much
about the ways of the world. There are other things besides
getting money and spending money, to do; it seems to me
now as if money had only helped my poor boy to his ruin!”
“Your notions are too gloomy, Mrs. Taylor. Such calamities
will happen, and we should not let them weigh us
down too much.”
“If I was to live a hundred years longer, I never could
feel as I did before our son's death. Oh, to think what a
beautiful, innocent child he was twenty years ago, this time!”
“You shouldn't let your mind run so much on him that's
gone. It's unjust to the living.”
The poor woman made no answer, but wept bitterly for
some time.
“It's my only comfort now,” she said, at length, “to think
that we have learned wisdom by what's passed. As long
as I live, day and night, I shall labour to teach our younger
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children not to set their hearts upon the world; not to think
so much about riches.”
“Well, I must say, Hester, if you think all poor people
are saints, I calculate you make a mistake.”
“I don't say that, husband; but it seems to me that we
have never yet thought enough of the temptations of riches,
more especially to young people, to young men—above all,
when it comes so sudden as it did to our poor boy. What
good did money ever do him?—it only brought him into
trouble!”
“Because Tallman didn't make the most of his opportunities,
that is no reason why another should not. If I had
wasted money as he did, before I could afford it, I never
should have made a fortune either. The other boys will do
better, I reckon; they will look more to business than he did,
and turn out rich men themselves.”
“It isn't the money!—it isn't the money I am thinking
of!” exclaimed the poor mother, almost in despair at her
husband's blindness to her feelings.
“What is it then you take so much to heart?”
“It's remembering that we never warned our poor child;
we put him in the way of temptation, where he only learned
to think everything of the world and its ways; we didn't
take pains enough to do our duty, as parents, by him!”
“Well, Hester, I must say you are a very unreasonable
lady!” exclaimed Mr. Taylor, who was getting impatient
under his wife's observations. “One would think it was all
my fault; do you mean to say it was wrong in me to grow
rich?”
“I am afraid it would have been better for us, and for our
children, if you hadn't made so much money,” replied the
wife. “The happiest time of our life was the first ten years
after we were married, when we had enough to be comfortable,
and we didn't care so much about show. I am sure
money hasn't made me happy; I don't believe it can make
anybody happy!”
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Mr. Taylor listened in amazement; but his straightforward,
quiet wife, had been for several years gradually coming to
the opinion she had just expressed, and the death of her
eldest son had affected her deeply. The merchant, finding
that he was not very good at consolation, soon changed the
conversation; giving up the hope of lessening the mother's
grief, or of bringing her to what he considered more rational
views of the all-importance of wealth.
As soon as Jane felt equal to the exertion, she accompanied
Miss Agnes and Elinor to Wyllys-Roof. During the three
years of her married life she had never been there, having
passed most of the time either at Charleston or New Orleans.
Many changes had occurred in that short period; changes
of outward circumstances, and of secret feeling. Her last
visit to Wyllys-Roof had taken place just after her return
from France, when she was tacitly engaged to young Taylor;
at a moment when she had been more gay, more brilliantly
handsome than at any other period of her life. Now, she
returned there, a weeping, mourning widow, wretchedly
depressed in spirits, and feeble in health. She was still very
lovely, however; the elevated style of her beauty was such,
that it appeared finer under the shadow of grief, than in the
sunshine of gaiety; and it is only beauty of the very highest
order which will bear this test. Her deep mourning dress
was in harmony with her whole appearance and expression;
and it was not possible to see her at this moment, without
being struck by her exceeding loveliness. Jane was only
seen by the family, however, and one or two very intimate
friends; she remained entirely in the privacy of her own
room, where Elinor was generally at her side, endeavouring
to soothe her cousin's grief, by the gentle balm of sympathy
and affection.
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CHAPTER XII.
“Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars
of my life.”
“What manner of man, an't please your majesty?”
Henry IV.
Hazlehurst's affairs had not remained stationary, in the
mean time; Mrs. Stanley and himself were already at
Wyllys-Roof, when Miss Wyllys and Elinor returned home,
accompanied by the widowed Jane. The ladies had received
frequent intelligence of the progress of his affairs,
from Mr. Wyllys's letters; still there were many details to
be explained when the party was re-united, as several important
steps had been taken while they were in New York.
Mr. Clapp was no longer the only counsel employed by the
claimant; associated with the Longbridge attorney, now
appeared the name of Mr. Reed, a lawyer of highly respectable
standing in New York, a brother-in-law of Judge Bernard's,
and a man of a character far superior to that of Mr.
Clapp. He was slightly acquainted with Mr. Wyllys, and
had written very civil letters, stating that he held the proofs
advanced by his client, to be quite decisive as to his identity,
and he proposed an amicable meeting, with the hope that
Mr. Stanley's claim might be acknowledged without farther
difficulty. That Mr. Reed should have taken the case into
his hands, astonished Hazlehurst and his friends; so long as
Clapp managed the affair; they felt little doubt as to its being
a coarse plot of his own; but they had now become impatient
to inquire more closely into the matter. Mrs. Stanley
was growing very uneasy; Hazlehurst was anxious to proceed
farther as soon as possible; but Mr. Wyllys was still
nearly as sanguine as ever. All parties seemed to desire a
personal interview; Mr. Reed offered to accompany his
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client to Wyllys-Roof, to wait on Mrs. Stanley; and a day
had been appointed for the meeting, which was to take place
as soon as Harry's opponent, who had been absent from
Longbridge, should return. The morning fixed for the interview,
happened to be that succeeding the arrival of the
ladies; and it will be easily imagined that every member of
the family looked forward to the moment with most anxious
interest. Perhaps they were not aware themselves, how
gradually doubts had arisen and increased, in their own
minds, since the first disclosure made by Mr. Clapp.
“Harry and myself have both seen this man at last,
Agnes,” said Mr. Wyllys to his daughter, just after she had
returned home, when alone with Elinor and herself. “Where
do you suppose Harry saw him yesterday? At church, with
Mr. Reed. And this morning I caught a glimpse of him,
standing on the steps of Clapp's office.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Wyllys, who, as well as
Elinor, was listening eagerly. “How did he look?—what
kind of man did he seem?”
“He looked like a sailor. I only saw him for a moment,
however; for he was coming out of the office, and walked
down the street, in an opposite direction from me. I must
confess that his face had something of a Stanley look.”
“Is it possible!”
“Yes; so far as I could see him, he struck me as looking
like the Stanleys; but, in another important point, he does
not resemble them at all. You remember the peculiar gait
of the family?—they all had it, more or less; anybody who
knew them well must have remarked it often—but this man
had nothing of the kind; he walked like a sailor.”
“I know what you mean; it was a peculiar motion in
walking, well known to all their friends—a long, slow step.”
“Precisely; this man had nothing of it, whatever—he
had the sailor swing, for I watched his movements expressly.
William Stanley, as a boy, walked just like his father; for
I have often pointed it out to Mr. Stanley, myself.”
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“That must be an important point, I should suppose; and
yet, grandpapa, you think he looks like my uncle Stanley?”
said Elinor.
“So I should say, from the glimpse I had of him.”
“What did Harry think of him?” asked Miss Wyllys.
“Hazlehurst did not see his face, for he sat before him in
church. He said, that if he had not been told who it was,
he should have pronounced him, from his general appearance
and manner, a common-looking, sea-faring man, who
was not accustomed to the service of the Church; for he did
not seem to understand when he should kneel, and when he
should rise.”
“But William Stanley ought to have known it perfectly,”
observed Elinor; “for he must have gone to church constantly,
with his family, as a child, until he went to sea, and
could scarcely have forgotten the service entirely, I should
think.”
“Certainly, my dear; that is another point which we
have noted in our favour. On the other hand, however, I
have just been carefully comparing the hand-writing of
Clapp's client, with that of William Stanley, and there is a
very remarkable resemblance between them. As far as the
hand-writing goes, I must confess, that I should have admitted
it at once, as identical, under ordinary circumstances.”
“And the personal likeness, too, struck you, it seems,”
added Miss Agnes.
“It did; so far, at least, as I could judge from seeing him
only a moment, and with his hat on. To-morrow we shall
be able, I trust, to make up our minds more decidedly on
other important points.”
“It is very singular that he should not be afraid of an
interview!” exclaimed Elinor.
“Well, I don't know that, my child; having once advanced
this claim, he must be prepared for examination, you know,
under any circumstances. It is altogether a singular case,
however, whether he be the impostor we think him, or the
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individual he claims to be. Truth is certainly more strange
than fiction sometimes. Would you like to see the statement
Mr. Reed sent us, when we applied for some account of his
client's past movements?”
Miss Agnes and Elinor were both anxious to see it.
“Here it is—short you see—in Clapp's hand-writing, but
signed by himself. There is nothing in it that may not
possibly be true; but I fancy that we shall be able to pick
some holes in it, by-and-bye.”
“Did he make no difficulty about sending it to you?”
asked Miss Agnes.
“No, he seemed to give it readily; Mr. Reed sent it to us
a day or two since.”
Miss Wyllys received the letter from her father, inviting
Elinor to read it over her shoulder, at the same moment. It
was endorsed, in Clapp's hand, “Statement of Mr. Stanley,
prepared at the request of his father's executor,” and ran
as follows:
“July 1st, 183-.
“I left home, as everybody knows, because I would have
my own way in everything. It was against my best interests
to be sure, but boys don't think at such times, about
anything but having their own will. I suppose that every
person connected with my deceased father knows, that my
first voyage was made to Russia, in the year 18—, in the ship
Dorothy Beck, Jonas Thomson, Master. I was only fourteen
years old at the time. My father had taken to heart my
going off, and when I came back from Russia he was on the
look-out, wrote to me and sent me money, and as soon as he
heard we were in port he came after me. Well, I went
back with the old gentleman; but we had a quarrel on the
road, and I put about again and went to New Bedford, where
I shipped in a whaler. We were out only eighteen months,
and brought in a full cargo. This time I went home of my
own accord, and I staid a great part of one summer. I did
think some of quitting the seas; but after a while things
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didn't work well, and one of my old shipmates coming up
into the country to see me, I went off with him. This time
I shipped in the Thomas Jefferson, for China. This was in
the year 1814, during the last war, when I was about eighteen.
Most people, who know anything about William Stanley,
think that was the last of him, that he never set foot on
American ground again; but they are mistaken, as he himself
will take the pains to show. So far I have told nothing
but what everybody knows, but now I am going to give a
short account of what has happened, since my friends heard
from me. Well; the Jefferson sailed, on her voyage to
China, in October; she was wrecked on the coast of Africa
in December, and it was reported that all hands were lost:
so they were, all but one, and that one was William Stanley.
I was picked up by a Dutchman, the barque William, bound
to Batavia. I kept with the Dutchman for a while, until he
went back to Holland. After I had cut adrift from him, I
fell in with some Americans, and got some old papers; in
one of them I saw my father's second marriage. I knew
the name of the lady he had married, but I had never spoken
to her. The very next day, one of the men I was with, who
came from the same part of the country, told me of my
father's death, and said it was the common talk about the
neighbourhood, that I was disinherited. This made me very
angry; though I wasn't much surprised, after what had
passed. I was looking out for a homeward-bound American,
to go back, and see how matters stood, when one night that
I was drunk, I was carried off by an English officer, who
made out I was a runaway. For five years I was kept in
different English men-of-war, in the East Indies; at the end
of that time I was put on board the Ceres, sloop of war, and
I made out to desert from her at last, and got on board an
American. I then came home; and here, the first man that
I met on shore was Billings, the chap who first persuaded
me to go to sea: he knew all about my father's family, and
told me it was true I was cut off without a cent, and that
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Harry Hazlehurst had been adopted by my father. This
made me so mad, that I went straight to New Bedford, and
shipped in the Sally Andrews, for a whaling voyage. Just
before we were to have come home, I exchanged into another
whaler, as second-mate, for a year longer. Then I sailed in
a Havre liner, as foremast hand, for a while. I found out
about this time, that the executors of my father's estate had
been advertising for me shortly after his death, while I was
in the East Indies; and I went to a lawyer in Baltimore,
where I happened to be, and consulted him about claiming
the property; but he wouldn't believe a word I said, because
I was half-drunk at the time, and told me that I should get
in trouble if I didn't keep my mouth shut. Well, I cruized
about for a while longer, when at last I went to Longbridge,
with some shipmates. I had been there often before, as a
lad, and I had some notion of having a talk with Mr. Wyllys,
my father's executor; I went to his house one day, but I
didn't see him. One of my shipmates, who knew something
of my story, and had been a client of Mr. Clapp's, advised
me to consult him. I went to his office, but he sent me off
like the Baltimore lawyer, because he thought I was drunk.
Three years after that I got back to Longbridge again, with
a shipmate; but it did me no good, for I got drinking, and
had a fit of the horrors. That fit sobered me, though, in the
end; it was the worst I had ever had; I should have hanged
myself, and there would have been an end of William
Stanley and his hard rubs, if it hadn't been for the doctor—
I never knew his name, but Mr. Clapp says it was Dr. Van
Horne. After this bad fit, they coaxed me into shipping in a
temperance whaler. While I was in the Pacific, in this ship,
nigh three years, and out of the reach of drink, I had time
to think what a fool I had been all my life, for wasting my
opportunities. I thought there must be some way of getting
back my father's property; Mr. Clapp had said, that if I was
really the man I pretended to be, I must have some papers
to make it out; but if I hadn't any papers, he couldn't help
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me, even if I was William Stanley forty times over. It is
true, I couldn't show him any documents that time, for I
didn't have them with me at Longbridge; but I made up
my mind, while I was out on my last voyage, that as soon as
I got home, I would give up drinking, get my papers together,
and set about doing my best to get back my father's
property. We came home last February; I went to work,
I kept sober, got my things together, put money by for a
lawyer's fee, and then went straight to Longbridge again. I
went to Mr. Clapp's office, and first I handed him the money,
and then I gave him my papers. I went to him, because he
had treated me better than any other lawyer, and told me if
I was William Stanley, and could prove it, he could help
me better than any other man, for he knew all about my
father's will. Well, he hadn't expected ever to see me
again; but he heard my story all out this time, read the
documents, and at last believed me, and undertook the case.
The rest is known to the executors and legatee by this time;
and it is to be hoped, that after enjoying my father's estate
for nigh twenty years, they will now make it over to his son.
“Dictated to W. C. Clapp, by the undersigned,
[Signed,]
“William Stanley.”
“Are these facts, so far as they are known to you, all
true?” asked Miss Agnes, as she finished the paper. “I
mean the earlier part of the statement, which refers to
William Stanley's movements before he sailed in the Jefferson?”
“Yes; that part of the story is correct, so far as it goes.”
“How extraordinary!” exclaimed Elinor.
“What does Harry think of this paper?”
“Both he and Mrs. Stanley are more disposed to listen to
the story than I am; however, we are to meet this individual
to-morrow, and shall be able then, I hope, to see our way
more clearly.”
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“Do you find any glaring inconsistency in the latter part
of the account?” continued Miss Agnes.
“Nothing impossible, certainly; but the improbability of
William Stanley's never applying to his father's executors,
until he appeared, so late in the day, as Mr. Clapp's client,
is still just as striking as ever in my eyes. Mr. Reed accounts
for it, by the singular character of the man himself,
and the strange, loose notions sailors get on most subjects;
but that is far from satisfying my mind.”
“Mrs. Stanley is evidently much perplexed,” observed
Miss Wyllys; “she always feels any trouble acutely, and
this startling application is enough to cause her the most
serious anxiety, under every point of view.”
“Certainly; I am glad you have come home, on her
account—she is becoming painfully anxious. It is a very
serious matter, too, for Hazlehurst; he confessed to me yesterday,
that he had some misgivings.”
“What a change it would make in all his views and prospects
for life!” exclaimed Miss Wyllys.
“A change, indeed, which he would feel at every turn.
But we are not yet so badly off as that. We shall give this
individual a thorough, searching examination, and it is my
firm opinion that he will not bear it. In the mean time we
have agents at work, endeavouring to trace this man's past
career; and very possibly we may soon discover in that way,
some inconsistency in his story.”
“The interview is for to-morrow, you say,” added Miss
Agnes.
“To-morrow morning. It is to be considered as a visit to
Mrs. Stanley; Mr. Reed and Clapp will come with him.
He has engaged to bring a portion of his papers, and to
answer any questions of ours, that would not injure him in
case of an ultimate trial by law: after the interview, we are
to declare within a given time whether we acknowledge the
claim, or whether we are prepared to dispute it.”
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“If you do carry it into a court of justice, when will the
trial take place?” asked Miss Agnes.
“Probably in the autumn; they have already given notice,
that they will bring it on as soon as possible, if we reject
their demand.”
“Harry will not go abroad then, with Mr. Henley.”
“No; not so soon at least as he intended. So goes the
world; Hazlehurst's career suddenly stopped, by an obstacle
we never dreamed of, at this late day. That poor young
Taylor in his grave, too! How is Jane?”
“Very feeble, and much depressed.”
“Poor girl—a heavy blow to her—that was a sweet baby
that she lost. I am glad to see the other child looks well.
Jane's affairs, too, are in a bad way, they tell me.”
Miss Agnes shook her head, and her father soon after left
her.
Hazlehurst was, of course, much occupied, having many
things to attend to, connected in different ways with the important
question under consideration: there were old papers
to be examined, letters to be written, letters to be read, and the
family seldom saw him, except at his meals. It was evident,
however, that all Mr. Wyllys's displeasure against him, was
fast disappearing under the influence of the strong interest
now aroused in his favour. Miss Agnes had also resumed
entirely, her former manner towards him. Elinor was quite
unembarrassed, and frankly expressed her interest in his
affairs; in fact, all parties appeared so much engrossed by
this important topic, that no one seemed to have time to remember
the unpleasant circumstances of Harry's last visit
to Wyllys-Roof. To judge from his manner, and something
in his expression, if any one occasionally thought of the past,
it was Hazlehurst himself; he seemed grateful for his present
kind reception, and conscious that he had forfeited all
claim to the friendly place in which he had been reinstated.
Once or twice, he betrayed momentary feeling and
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embarrassment, as some allusion to past scenes was accidentally
made by others, in the course of conversation.
The family were sitting together after tea, enjoying the
summer evening twilight, after a long business consulation
between the gentlemen. Harry seemed still engrossed by
his own meditations; what was their particular nature at
that moment, we cannot say; but he certainly had enough
to think of in various ways. Harry's friends left him in
undivided possession of the corner, where he was sitting,
alone; and Mr. Wyllys, after a quiet, general conversation
with the ladies, asked Elinor for a song. At her grandfather's
request, she sang a pleasing, new air, she had just received,
and his old favourite, Robin Adair. Fortunately, it did not
occur to her, that the last time she had sung that song at
Wyllys-Roof, with Hazlehurst as part of her audience, was
the evening before their rupture; she appeared to have forgotten
the fact, for no nervous feeling affected her voice,
though her tones were lower than usual, as she did not wish
to disturb Jane, who was in a distant part of the house. A
letter from Mr. Reed was brought in, and drew Harry into
the circle again; it was connected with the next day's interview,
and after reading it, Mr. Wyllys made some remarks
upon the difference in the tone and manner of the communications
they had received from Clapp, and from Mr. Reed;
the last writing like a gentleman, the first like a pettifogger.
“I am glad, at least, that you will have a gentleman to
deal with,” observed Elinor.
“Why, yes, Nelly; it is always advisable to secure a
gentleman for friend or foe, he is the best substitute for a good
man that one can find. But it is my opinion that Mr. Reed
will not persevere in this case; I think he will soon be disgusted
with Clapp, as his brother counsel. To-morrow,
however, we shall have a nearer look at all our opponents,
and I trust that we shall be able to make up our own minds
at least, beyond a doubt.”
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“I trust so!” replied Mrs. Stanley, whose anxiety had
increased painfully.
“I wish Ellsworth were here!” exclaimed Harry; “as his
feelings are less interested than those of either of us, he
would see things in a more impartial light.”
“I wish he were here, with all my heart,” replied Mr.
Wyllys. “I am a little afraid of both you, my excellent
friend, and you, Hazlehurst; the idea of not doing justice
to the shadow of William Stanley, will make you too merciful
towards this claimant, I fear. I see plainly, Harry, that you
have some scruples, and I caution you against giving way
too much to them.”
Hazlehurst smiled, and passed his hand over his forehead.
“Thank you, sir, for your advice,” he replied. “I shall try
to judge the facts calmly; although the idea, that one may
possibly be an usurper, is by no means pleasant; it is rather
worse even, than that of giving up to an impostor.”
“It is a thousand pities that Ellsworth cannot be here until
next week; he would have warned you, as I do, not to lose
sight of the impostor.”
“It is quite impossible that he should come, until next
Monday; I knew his business would not admit of it, when
I wrote to him at your request; but he will be here at the
very earliest moment that he can.”
In fact every one present, while they regretted Mr. Ellsworth's
absence, felt thoroughly convinced that there were
various reasons, which gave him the best inclination in the
world to be at Wyllys-Roof as soon as possible.
“I hope Mrs. Creighton will come with him too; she will
enliven us a little, in the midst of our legal matters,” said
Mr. Wyllys.
“Ellsworth mentions Mrs. Creighton's coming particularly;
she sends a message to the ladies, through him, which I have
already delivered,” replied Hazlehurst, as he took up Mr.
Reed's letter, to answer it.
“Well, Agnes, shall we have a game of chess?” said Mr.
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Wyllys; and the circle was broken up, as the younger ladies
joined Mrs. Taylor in her own room.
The hour of ten, on the following morning, had been fixed
for the interview with the sailor and his counsel. Hazlehurst
was walking on the piazza, as the time approached,
and punctual to the moment, he saw a carriage drive up to
the house; in it were Mr. Reed, Mr. Clapp, and their client.
Harry stopped to receive them; and, as they mounted the
steps one after the other, he bowed respectfully to Mr. Reed,
slightly to Mr. Clapp, and fixed his eye steadily on the third
individual.
“Mr. Stanley, Mr. Hazlehurst,” said Mr. Reed, in a quiet,
but decided manner.
Harry bowed like a gentleman, Mr. Stanley like a jacktar.
The first steady, inquiring glance of Hazlehurst, was
sufficient to show him, that the rival claimant was a man
rather shorter, and decidedly stouter than himself, with dark
hair and eyes, and a countenance by no means unpleasant,
excepting that it bore evident traces of past habits of intemperance;
as far as the features went, they certainly reminded
Harry of Mr. Stanley's portrait. The sailor's dress was that
which might have been worn by a mate, or skipper, on
shore; he appeared not in the least daunted, on the contrary
he was quite self-possessed, with an air of determination
about him which rather took Harry by surprise.
A few indifferent observations were exchanged between
Mr. Reed and Hazlehurst, as the party entered the house;
they were taken by Harry into the drawing-room, and he
then left them, to inform Mrs. Stanley and Mr. Wyllys of
their arrival.
Mrs. Stanley, though a woman of a firm character, was
very excitable in her temperament, and she dreaded the
interview not a little; she had asked Miss Wyllys to remain
with her on the occasion. Mr. Wyllys was sent for, and
when he had joined the ladies, and Mrs. Stanley had composed
herself, their three visitors were ushered into Miss
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Wyllys's usual sitting-room by Hazlehurst. He introduced
Mr. Reed to Mrs. Stanley and Miss Wyllys, named Mr.
Clapp, and added, as the sailor approached:
“Mr. Reed's client, ma'am.”
“Mr. William Stanley,” added Mr. Reed, firmly, but
respectfully.
Mrs. Stanley had risen from her seat, and after curtseying
to the lawyers, she turned very pale, as the name of her
husband's son was so deliberately applied, by a respectable
man, to the individual before her.
“I was just asking Mr. Stanley, when Mr. Hazlehurst
joined us,” observed the forward Mr. Clapp, “if he remembered
Wyllys-Roof at all; but he says his recollections of
this place are rather confused.”
“When were you here last, sir?” asked Mr. Wyllys of
the sailor, giving him a searching look at the same time.
“About five years ago,” was the cool reply, rather to Mr.
Wyllys's surprise.
“Five years ago!—I have no recollection of the occasion.”
The rest of the party were looking and listening, with
curious, anxious interest.
“You don't seem to have much recollection of me, at all,
sir,” said the sailor, rather bitterly.
“Do you mean to say, that you were in this house five
years ago?” asked Mr. Wyllys.
“I was here, but I didn't say I was in the house.”
“What brought you here?”
“Pretty much the same errand that brings me now.”
“What passed on the occasion?”
“I can't say I remember much about it, excepting that
you did not give me an over-friendly greeting.”
“Explain how it happened, Mr. Stanley,” said Mr. Reed,
“Mr. Wyllys does not understand you.”
“I certainly cannot understand what you mean me to
believe. You say you were here, and did not receive a very
friendly greeting—how was it unfriendly?”
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“Why, you showed me the inside of your smoke-house;
which, to my notion, wasn't just the right berth for the son
of your old friend, and I took the liberty of kicking off the
hatches next morning, and making the best of my way out
of the neighbourhood.”
“You remember the drunken sailor, sir, who was found
one night, several years since, near the house,” interrupted
Harry, who had been listening attentively, and observed Mr.
Wyllys's air of incredulity. “I had him locked up in the
smoke-house, you may recollect.”
“And you must observe, Mr. Hazlehurst, that is a fact
which might look ugly before a jury that did not know you,”
remarked Mr. Clapp, in a sort of half-cunning, half-insinuating
manner.
“I do not in the least doubt the ability of many men, sir,
to distort actions equally innocent.”
“But you acknowledge the fact?”
“The fact that I locked up a drunken sailor, I certainly
acknowledge; and you will find me ready to acknowledge
any other fact equally true.”
“Do you believe this to be the person you locked up,
Harry?” asked Mr. Wyllys.
“I think it not improbable that it is the same individual;
but I did not see the man distinctly at the time.”
“I am glad, gentlemen, that you are prepared to admit the
identity thus far—that is a step gained,” observed Mr. Clapp,
running his hand through his locks.
“Permit me, Mr. Clapp, to ask you a question or two,”
said Mr. Wyllys. “Now you recall that circumstance to
me, I should like to ask, if we have not also heard of this
individual since the occasion you refer to?”
“Yes, sir; you probably have heard of him since,” replied
Mr. Clapp, boldly.
“And in connexion with yourself, I think?”
“In connexion with me, sir. You will find me quite as
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ready as Mr. Hazlehurst to admit facts, sir,” replied the
lawyer, leaning back in his chair.
“When they are undeniable,” observed Mr. Wyllys, drily.
“May I inquire what was the nature of that connexion?”
asked the gentleman, with one of his searching looks.
The lawyer did not seem to quail beneath the scrutiny.
“The connexion, Mr. Wyllys, wa the commencement of
what has been completed recently. Mr. Stanley came to
lay before me the claims which he now makes publicly.”
“You never made the least allusion to any claim of this
kind to me, at that time,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“I didn't believe it then; I am free to say so now.”
“Still, not believing the claim, it was singular, I may say
suspicious, sir, that you never even mentioned the individual
who made it.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, Mr. Wyllys, I had unpleasant
thoughts about it; we were neighbours and old friends, and
though I might make up my mind to undertake the case, if
I thought it clear, I did prefer that you should not know
about my having had anything to do with it, as long as I
thought it a doubtful point. I think you must see that was
only natural for a young lawyer, who had his fortune to
make, and expected employment from you and your friends.
I have no objections whatever to speaking out now, to satisfy
your mind, Mr. Wyllys.”
“I believe I understand you, sir,” replied Mr. Wyllys, his
countenance expressing more cool contempt than he was
aware of.
“I think, however, there are several other points which
are not so easily answered,” he added, turning to Mr. Reed,
as if preferring to continue the conversation with him. “Do
you not think it singular, Mr. Reed, to say the least, that
your client should have allowed so many years to pass,
without claiming the property of Mr. Stanley, and then, at
this late day, instead of applying directly to the executors,
come to a small town like Longbridge, to a lawyer so little
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known as Mr. Clapp, in order to urge a claim, so important
to him as this we are now examining?” asked Mr. Wyllys,
with a meaning smile.
“We are able to explain all those points quite satisfactorily,
I think,” replied Mr. Reed.
“I object, however,” interposed Mr. Clapp, “to laying
our case fully before the defendants, until we know what
they conclude to do. We have met here by agreement, to
give the defendants an opportunity of satisfying their own
minds—that they may settle the point, whether they will
admit our claim, or whether we must go to law to get our
rights. It was agreed that the meeting should be only a
common friendly visit, such as Mr. Stanley felt perfectly
willing to pay to his step-mother, and old family friends.
We also agreed, that we would answer any common questions
that might help to satisfy the defendants, provided that they
did not tend to endanger our future success, in the event of a
trial. I think, Mr. Reed, that as there does not seem as yet
much probability that the defendants will be easily convinced,
it behooves us to be on our guard.”
“I will take the responsibility, sir, of answering other
observations of Mr. Wyllys's,” replied Mr. Reed. “As the
object of the meeting was an amicable arrangement, we may
be able to make the case more clear, without endangering
our own grounds. Have you any remarks to make, madam?”
he added, turning to Mrs. Stanley.
It had been settled between the friends, before the meeting,
that Mr. Wyllys should be chief spokesman on the occasion;
for, although the sailor claimed the nearer connexion of
step-son to Mrs. Stanley, yet she had scarcely known her
husband's son, having married after he went to sea. Harry,
it is true, had often been with young Stanley at his father's
house, but he was at the time too young a child to have
preserved any distinct recollection of him. Mr. Wyllys was
the only one of the three individuals most interested, who
remembered his person, manner, and character, with
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sufficient minuteness to rely on his own memory. The particular
subjects upon which the sailor should be questioned, had
been also agreed upon beforehand, by Harry and his friends.
In reply to Mr. Reed's inquiry, Mrs. Stanley asked to see
the papers which had been brought for their investigation.
Mr. Clapp complied with the request, by drawing a
bundle of papers from his pocket. He first handed Mrs.
Stanley a document, proving that William Stanley had made
two voyages as seaman, in a Havre packet, in the year 1824,
or nearly ten years since the wreck of the Jefferson. The
captain of this vessel was well known, and still commanded
a packet in the same line; very probably his mates were also
living, and could be called upon to ascertain the authenticity
of this paper. No man in his senses would have forged a
document which could be so easily disproved, and both Mr.
Wyllys and Hazlehurst were evidently perplexed by it,
while Mrs. Stanley showed an increase of nervous agitation.
Mr. Wyllys at length returned this paper to Mr. Reed, confessing
that it looked more favourably than anything they
had yet received. Two letters were then shown, directed to
William Stanley, and bearing different dates; one was signed
by the name of David Billings, a man who had been the chief
instrument in first drawing William Stanley into bad habits,
and had at length enticed him to leave home and go to sea;
it was dated nineteen years back. As no one present knew
the hand-writing of Billings, and as he had died some years
since, this letter might, or might not, have been genuine.
The name of the other signature was entirely unknown to
Harry and his friends; this second letter bore a date only
seven years previous to the interview, and was addressed to
William Stanley, at a sailor's boarding-house in Baltimore.
It was short, and the contents were unimportant; chiefly
referring to a debt of fifteen dollars, and purporting to be
written by a shipmate named Noah Johnson: the name of
William Stanley, in conjunction with the date, was the only
remarkable point about this paper. Both letters had an
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appearance corresponding with their dates; they looked old
and soiled; the first bore the post-office stamp of New York;
the other had no post-mark. Mr. Wyllys asked if this Noah
Johnson could be found? The sailor replied, that he had
not seen him for several years, and did not know what had
become of him; he had kept the letter because it acknowledged
the debt. He replied to several other questions about
this man, readily and naturally; though Mr. Wyllys had no
means of deciding whether these answers were correct or
not. Hazlehurst then made several inquiries about Billings,
whom he had seen, and remembered as a bad fellow, the son
of a country physician living near Greatwood. His height,
age, appearance, and several circumstances connected with
his family, were all very accurately given by Mr. Reed's
client, as Harry frankly admitted to Mrs. Stanley and Mr.
Wyllys.
Mr. Reed looked gratified by the appearance of things, and
Mr. Clapp seemed quite satisfied with the turn matters were
now taking. Throughout the interview, Mr. Reed seemed
to listen with a sort of calm interest, as if he had little doubt
as to the result. Mr. Clapp's manner was much more
anxious; but then he was perfectly aware of the suspicions
against him, and knew that not only this particular case, but
his whole prospects for life, were at stake on the present
occasion.
“Like most sailors, Mr. Stanley has kept but few papers,”
observed Mr. Reed.
“He has been as careless about his documents, as he was
about his property—he has lost some of the greatest importance,”
observed Mr. Clapp. “Here is something, though,
that will speak for him,” added the lawyer, as he handed
Mrs. Stanley a book. It was a volume of the Spectator, open
at the blank leaves, and showing the following words:
“John William Stanley, Greatwood, 1804;” and below,
these, “William Stanley, 1810;” the first sentence was in
the hand-writing of the father, the second in the half-childish
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characters of the son; both names had every appearance of
being autographs. The opposite page was partly covered
with names of ships, scratches of the pen, unconnected sentences,
and one or two common sailor expressions. Mrs.
Stanley's eyes grew dim for an instant, after she had read
the names of her husband and step-son—she passed the book
to Mr. Wyllys; he took it, examined it closely, but found
nothing to complain of in its appearance.
“This is only the third volume; have you the whole set?”
he asked, turning to the sailor.
“No, sir; I left the rest at home.”
“Is there such a set at Greatwood?” asked Mr. Wyllys,
turning to Mrs. Stanley.
“There is,” replied the lady, in a low voice, “and one
volume missing.”
Hazlehurst asked to look at the book; it was handed to
him by Mr. Wyllys. He examined it very carefully, binding,
title-page, and contents; Mr. Clapp watching him closely at
the moment.
“Do you suspect the hand-writing?” asked the lawyer.
“Not in the least,” replied Hazlehurst. “You have read
this volume often I suppose,” he added, turning to the sailor.
“Not I,” was the reply; “I ain't given to reading in any
shape; my shipmates have read that 'ere book oftener than
I have.”
“Did you carry it with you in all your voyages?”
“No; I left it ashore half the time.”
“How long have you had it in your possession?”
“Since I first went to sea.”
“Indeed! that is singular; I should have said, Mr. Clapp,”
exclaimed Harry, suddenly facing the lawyer, “that only
four years since, I read this very volume of the Spectator at
Greatwood!” If Hazlehurst expected Mr. Clapp to betray
confusion, he was disappointed.
“You may have read some other volume,” was the cool
reply; although Harry thought, or fancied, that he traced a
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muscular movement about the speaker's eyelids, as he uttered
the words: “That volume has been in the possession of Mr.
Stanley since he first went to sea.”
“Is there no other copy of the Spectator at your country-place,
Mrs. Stanley?” asked Mr. Reed.
“There is another edition, entire, in three volumes,” said
Mrs. Stanley.
“I had forgotten it,” said Hazlehurst; “but I am, nevertheless,
convinced that it was this edition which I read, for I
remember looking for it on an upper shelf, where it belonged.”
“It was probably another volume of the same edition;
there must be some half-dozen, to judge by the size of this,”
observed Mr. Reed.
“There were eight volumes, but one has been missing for
years,” said Mrs. Stanley.
“It was this which I read, however,” said Harry; “for
I remember the portrait of Steele, in the frontispiece.”
“Will you swear to it?” asked Mr. Clapp, with a doubtful
smile.
“When I do take an oath, it will not be lightly, sir,” replied
Hazlehurst.
“It is pretty evident, that Mr. Hazlehurst will not be easily
satisfied,” added Mr. Clapp, with an approach to a sneer.
“Shall we go on, Mr. Reed, or stop the examination?”
Mrs. Stanley professed herself anxious to ask other questions;
and as she had showed more symptoms of yielding
than the gentlemen, the sailor's counsel seemed to cherish
hopes of bringing her over to their side. At her request,
Mr. Wyllys then proceeded to ask some questions, which
had been agreed upon before the meeting.
“What is your precise age, sir?”
“I shall be thirty-seven, the tenth of next August.”
“Where were you born?”
“At my father's country-place, in — county, Pennsyl
vania.”
“When were you last there before his death?”
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“After my whaling voyage in the Sally-Ann, in the summer
of 1814.”
“How long did you stay at home on that occasion?”
“Three months; until I went to sea in the Thomas Jefferson.”
“What was your mother's name, sir?”
“My mother's name was Elizabeth Radcliffe.”
“What were the names of your grand-parents?” added
Mr. Wyllys, quickly.
“My grandfather Stanley's name was William; I am
named after him. My grandmother's maiden name was
Ellis—Jane Ellis.”
“What were the Christian names of your grand-parents,
on your mother's side?”
“Let me see—my memory isn't over-good: my grandfather
Radcliffe was named John Henry.”
“And your grandmother?”
The sailor hesitated, and seemed to change colour; but,
perhaps it was merely because he stooped to pick up his
handkerchief.
“It's curious that I can't remember her Christian name,”
said he, looking from one to another; “but I always called
her grandmother;—that's the reason, I suppose.”
“Take time, and I dare say you will remember,” said
Clapp. “Have you never chanced to see the old family
Bible?”
The sailor looked at him, as if in thought, and suddenly
exclaimed: “Her name was Agnes Graham!”
Other questions were then asked, about the persons of his
parents, the house at Greatwood, and the neighbourhood.
He seemed quite at home there, and answered most of the
questions with great accuracy—especially about the place
and neighbourhood. He described Mr. Stanley perfectly,
but did not appear to remember his mother so well; as she
had died early, however, Mr. Reed and Mr. Clapp accounted
for it in that way. He made a few mistakes about the place,
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but they were chiefly upon subjects of opinion, such as the
breadth of a river, the height of a hill, the number of acres
in a field; and possibly his account was quite as correct as
that of Mr. Wyllys.
“On which side of the house is the drawing-room, at
Greatwood?” asked Hazlehurst.
“Maybe you have changed it, since you got possession;
but in my day it was on the north side of the house, looking
towards the woods.”
“Where are the stairs?”
“They stand back as you go in—they are very broad.”
“Is there anything particular about the railing?”
The sailor paused. “Not that I remember, now,” he
said.
“Can't you describe it?—What is it made of?”
“Some kind of wood—dark wood—mahogany.”
“What is the shape of the balusters?”
He could not tell; which Mr. Wyllys thought he ought
to have done; for they were rather peculiar, being twisted,
and would probably be remembered by most children brought
up in the house.
Mrs. Stanley then begged he would describe the furniture
of the drawing-room, such as it was the last summer he had
passed at Greatwood. He seemed to hesitate, and change
countenance, more than he had yet done; so much so, as to
strike Mrs. Stanley herself; but he immediately rallied again.
“Well,” said he, “you ask a man the very things he
wouldn't be likely to put on his log. But I'll make it all out
ship-shape presently.” He stooped to pick up his handkerchief,
which had fallen again, and was going to proceed,
when Mr. Clapp interrupted him.
“I must take the liberty of interfering,” said he, looking
at his watch, as he rose from his seat, and moved towards
Mr. Reed, asking if he did not think the examination had
been quite long enough.
I must say, gentlemen,” he added significantly, turning
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towards Mr. Wyllys and Harry, “that I think our client has
had enough of it; considering that, upon the whole, there is
no one here who has so much right to ask questions, instead
of answering them, as Mr. Stanley.”
“I should suppose, sir,” said Mr. Reed, also rising and
addressing Mr. Wyllys, “that you must have heard and seen
enough for the object of our meeting. You have had a
personal interview with Mr. Stanley; you confess that he is
like his family, like himself, in short—allowing for the difference
between a boy of eighteen and a man of thirty-seven,
where the habits of life have been so different; you admit
the identity of the hand-writing—”
“I beg your pardon, sir; not the identity, but the resemblance.”
“A perfectly natural resemblance, under the circumstances,
I think you must allow.”
“Yes; the similarity of the hand-writing is remarkable,
certainly.”
“During the last two hours you have asked the questions
which best suited your own pleasure, and he has answered
them with great accuracy, without one important mistake.
What more can you possibly require?”
“I do not stand alone, sir; we claim the time previously
fixed for consideration, before we give our final answer.
We are, however, much obliged to you, Mr. Reed, for
granting the interview, even if its results are not what you
may have hoped for. We shall always remember your
conduct on this occasion with respect.”
Mr. Wyllys then offered some refreshments to Mr. Reed;
they were accepted, and ordered immediately.
Mr. Clapp was standing near Harry, and turning to him,
he said: “Mr. Stanley has a favour to ask, Mr. Hazlehurst,
though you don't seem disposed to grant him any,” he added,
with peculiar expression.
“A fair field, and no favour,' is a saying you may have
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heard,” replied Hazlehurst, with a slight emphasis on the
first word. “But what is your client's request, sir?”
Mr. Clapp made a gesture towards the sailor, who then
spoke for himself.
“I understand that two of my cousins are in the house,
and I should be glad to see them before I leave it.”
“Whom do you mean, sir?”
“Elinor Wyllys and Mary Van Alstyne. I haven't seen
either of them since they were children; but as I have got
but few relations, and no friends it seems, I should like to see
them.”
“You must apply to Mr. Wyllys; the young ladies are
under his care,” replied Harry, coldly.
But Mr. Wyllys took upon himself to refuse the sailor's
request, under the circumstances. Having taken some refreshments,
Mr. Reed, his brother counsel, and their client
now made their bows, and left the house. As they drove
from the door, Mr. Reed looked calm and civil, Mr. Clapp
very well satisfied; and the sailor, as he took his seat by
Mr. Reed, observed, in a voice loud enough to be heard by
Harry, who was standing on the piazza:
“It turns out just as I reckoned; hard work for a man to
get his rights in this here longitude!”
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CHAPTER XIII.
“Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones!”
Taming the Shrew.
Elinor was all anxiety to learn the result of the interview;
and Mary Van Alstyne also naturally felt much interest in
the subject, as she, too, was a cousin of William Stanley,
their mothers having been sisters. Elinor soon discovered
that the sailor had borne a much better examination than
either of her friends had expected; he had made no glaring
mistake, and he had answered their questions on some points,
with an accuracy and readiness that was quite startling. He
evidently knew a great deal about the Stanley family, their
house, and the neighbourhood; whoever he was, there could
be no doubt that he had known Mr. Stanley himself, and was
very familiar with the part of the country in which he had
resided. Altogether, the personal resemblance, the hand-writing,
the fact of his being a sailor, the papers he had
shown, the plausible statement he had given, as to his past
movements, and his intimate knowledge of so many facts,
which a stranger could scarcely have known, made up a
combination of circumstances, quite incomprehensible to the
friends at Wyllys-Roof. Still, in spite of so much that
appeared in his favour, Mr. Wyllys declared, that so far as
his own opinion went, he had too many doubts as to this
man's character, to receive him as the son of his friend, upon
the evidence he had thus far laid before them. The circumstances
under which he appeared, were so very suspicious in
every point of view, that the strongest possible evidences of
his identity would be required, to counteract them. The
length of time that had passed since the wreck of the Jefferson,
the long period during which his father's property
had been left in the hands of others, and the doubtful
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character of the channel through which the claim was at length
brought forward — all these facts united, furnished good
grounds for suspecting something wrong. There were other
points too, upon which Mr. Wyllys had his doubts; although
the general resemblance of this individual to William Stanley,
was sufficient to pass with most people, allowing for the natural
changes produced by time, yet there were some minor personal
traits, which did not correspond with his recollection of
Mr. Stanley's son: the voice appeared to him different in tone;
he was also disposed to believe the claimant shorter and fuller
than William Stanley, in the formation of his body and limbs;
as to this man's gait, which was entirely different from that
of William Stanley, as a boy, nearer observation had increased
Mr. Wyllys's first impression on that subject. On
these particular points, Mrs. Stanley and Hazlehurst were no
judges; for the first had scarcely seen her step-son, the last had
only a child's recollection of him. Nor could Miss Agnes's
opinion have much weight, since she had seldom seen the
boy, during the last years he passed on shore; for, at that
time, she had been much detained at home, by the ill health
of her mother. Hazlehurst had watched the claimant closely,
and the interview had silenced his first misgivings, for he had
been much struck with two things: he had always heard,
whenever the subject of William Stanley's character had
been alluded to before him, that this unfortunate young man
was sullen in temper, and dull in mind. Now, the sailor's
whole expression and manner, in his opinion, had shown too
much cleverness for William Stanley; he had appeared
decidedly quick-witted, and his countenance was certainly
rather good-natured than otherwise. Mr. Wyllys admitted
that Harry's views were just; he was struck with both these
observations; he thought them correct and important. Then
Hazlehurst thought he had seen some signs of intelligence
between Clapp and the sailor once or twice, a mere glance;
he could not be positive, however, since it might have been
his own suspicions. As to the volume of the Spectator, he
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had felt at first morally certain that he had read that very
volume at Greatwood, only four years ago, but he had since
remembered that his brother had the same edition, and he
might have read the book in Philadelphia; in the mean time
he would try to recall the circumstances more clearly to his
mind; for so long as he had a doubt, he could not swear to
the fact. He knew it was not the octavo edition, at Greatwood,
that he had been reading, for he distinctly remembered
the portrait of Steele in the frontispiece, and Addison's papers
on the Paradise Lost, which he had been reading; that very
portrait, and those papers, were contained in the volume
handed to him by Clapp. Both Mr. Wyllys and Hazlehurst
were gratified to find, that Mrs. Stanley differed from them
less than they had feared. She confessed, that at one moment
her heart had misgiven her, but on looking closely at the
sailor, she thought him less like her husband than she had
expected; and she had been particularly struck by his embarrassment,
when she had asked him to describe the furniture
of the drawing-room at Greatwood, the very last summer
he had been there, for he ought certainly under such circumstances,
to have remembered it as well as herself; he had
looked puzzled, and had glanced at Mr. Clapp, and the
lawyer had immediately broken off the examination. Such
were the opinions of the friends at this stage of the proceedings.
Still it was an alarming truth, that if there were improbabilities,
minor facts, and shades of manner, to strengthen
their doubts, there was, on the other side, a show of evidence,
which might very possibly prove enough to convince a jury.
Hazlehurst had a thousand things to attend to, but he had
decided to wait at Wyllys-Roof until the arrival of Mr.
Ellsworth.
Leaving those most interested in this vexatious affair to
hold long consultations together in Mr. Wyllys's study, we
must now proceed to record a visit which Miss Agnes received
from one of our Longbridge acquaintances, and we
shall therefore join the ladies.
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“I am sorry, my dear, that the house is not so quiet as we
could wish, just now,” said Miss Agnes to Jane, one morning,
as she and Elinor were sitting together in the young widow's
room.
“Thank you, Aunt; but it does not disturb me, and I
know it is not to be avoided just now,” said Jane, languidly.
“No, it cannot be helped, with this troublesome business
going on; and we shall have Mrs. Creighton and Mr. Ellsworth
here soon.”
“Pray, do not change your plans on my account. I need
not see any of your friends; I shall scarcely know they are
here,” said Jane, with a deep sigh.
“If it were possible to defer their visit, I should do so;
but situated as we are with Mr. Ellsworth—” added Miss
Wyllys.
“Certainly; do not let me interfere with his coming. I
feel perfectly indifferent as to who comes or goes; I can
never take any more pleasure in society!”
“Here is my aunt Wyllys driving up to the door,” said
Elinor, who was sitting near a window. “Do you feel
equal to seeing her?”
“Oh, no, not to-day, dear,” said Jane in an imploring
voice; and Elinor accordingly remained with her cousin,
while Miss Agnes went down to meet Mrs. George Wyllys.
This lady was still living at Longbridge, although every few
months she talked of leaving the place. Her oldest boy had
just received a midshipman's warrant, to which he was certainly
justly entitled—his father having lost his life in the
public service. The rest of her children were at home; and
rather spoilt and troublesome little people they were.
“How is Jane?” asked Mrs. Wyllys, as she entered the
house.
“Very sad and feeble; but I hope the air here will
strengthen her, after a time.”
“Poor thing!—no wonder she is sad, indeed! So young,
and such an affliction! How is the child?”
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“Much better; she is quite playful, and disturbs Jane very
much by asking after her father. What a warm drive you
must have had, Harriet; you had better throw off your hat,
and stay with us until evening.”
“Thank you; I must go home for dinner, and shall not
be able to stay more than half an hour. Is your father in?
I wished to see him, as well as yourself, on business.”
“No, he is not at home; he has gone off some miles, to
look at some workmen who are putting up a new farm-house.”
“I am sorry he is not at home, for I want to ask his opinion.
And yet he must have his hands full just now, with that
vexatious Stanley case. I must say, I think Clapp deserves
to be sent to the tread-mill!”
“Perhaps he does,” replied Miss Wyllys. “It is to be
hoped at least, that he will receive what he deserves, and
nothing more.”
“I hope he will, with all my heart! But as I have not
much time to spare, I must proceed to lay my affairs before
you. Now I really and honestly want your advice, Agnes.”
“You have had it often before,” replied Miss Wyllys,
smiling. “I am quite at your service now,” she added,
seeing her sister-in-law look a little uneasy.
Mrs. Wyllys was silent for a moment.
“I scarcely know where to begin,” she then said; “for
here I am, come to consult you on a subject which you may
think beneath your notice; you are superior to such trifling
matters,” she said, smiling—and then added: “But seriously,
I have too much confidence in your judgment and good
sense, to wish to act without your approbation.”
“What is the point upon which I am to decide?—for you
have not yet told me anything.”
“It is a subject upon which I have been thinking for
some time—several months. What should you say to my
marrying again?” asked Mrs. Wyllys stoutly.
Miss Agnes was amazed. She had known her sister-in-law,
when some years younger, refuse more than one good
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offer; and had never for a moment doubted her intention to
remain a widow for life.
“You surprise me, Harriet,” she said; “I had no idea
you thought of marrying again.”
“Certainly, I never thought of taking such a step until
quite lately.'
“And who is the gentleman?” asked Miss Agnes, in some
anxiety.
“I know you will at least agree with me, in thinking that
I have made a prudent choice. The welfare of my children
is indeed my chief consideration. I find, Agnes, that they
require a stronger hand than mine to manage them. Long
before Evert went to sea, he was completely his own master;
there were only two persons who had any influence over
him, one is his grandfather, the other, a gentleman who will,
I suppose, before long, become nearly connected with him.
I frankly acknowledge that I have no control over him myself;
it is a mortifying fact to confess, but my system of
education, though an excellent one in theory, has not succeeded
in practice.”
Because,' thought Miss Agnes, `there is too much theory,
my good sister.' “But you have not yet named the gentleman,”
she added, aloud.
“Oh, I have no doubt of your approving my choice! He
is a most worthy, excellent man—of course, at my time of
life, I shall not make a love-match. Can't you guess the individual—
one of my Longbridge neighbours?”
“From Longbridge,” said Miss Wyllys, not a little surprised.
“Edward Tibbs, perhaps,” she added, smiling. He
was an unmarried man, and one of the Longbridge beaux.
“Oh, no; how can you think me so silly, Agnes! I am
ashamed of you! It is a very different person; the family
are great favourites of your's.”
“One of the Van Hornes?” Mrs. Wyllys shook her head.
“One of the Hubbards?—Is it John Hubbard, the principal
of the new Academy?” inquired Miss Agnes, faintly.
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“Do you suppose I would marry a man of two-or-three-and-twenty!”
exclaimed Mrs. Wyllys with indignation. “It
is his uncle; a man against whom there can be no possible
objection—Mr. James Hubbard.”
`Uncle Dozie, of all men!' thought Miss Agnes. `Silent,
sober, sleepy Uncle Dozie. Well, we must be thankful that
it is no worse.'
“Mr. Hubbard is certainly a respectable man, a man of
principles,” she observed aloud. “But everybody looked
upon him as a confirmed old bachelor; I did not suspect
either of you of having any thoughts of marrying,” continued
Miss Agnes, smiling.
“I am sometimes surprised that we should have come to
that conclusion, myself. But it is chiefly for the sake of my
children that I marry; you must know me well enough,
Agnes, to be convinced that I sacrifice myself for them!”
“I wish, indeed, that it may be for their good, Harriet!”
“Thank you; I have no doubt of it. I feel perfect confidence
in Mr. Hubbard; he is a man so much older than
myself, and so much more experienced, that I shall be entirely
guided in future by his counsel and advice.”
Miss Agnes had some difficulty in repressing a smile and
a sigh.
“Of course, I am well aware that many people will think
I am taking a foolish step,” continued Mrs. Wyllys. “Mr.
Hubbard's connexions, are generally not thought agreeable,
perhaps; he has very little property, and no profession. I
am not blinded, you see; but I am very indifferent as to the
opinion of the world in general; I am very independent of
all but my immediate friends, as you well know, Agnes.”
Miss Wyllys was silent.
“In fact, my attention was first fixed upon Mr. Hubbard,
by finding how little he was appreciated and understood by
others; I regretted that I had at first allowed myself to be
guided by general opinion. Now I think it very possible that,
although Mr. Hubbard has been your neighbour for years,
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even you, Agnes, may have a very mistaken opinion of him;
you may have underrated his talents, his strong affections,
and energetic character. I was surprised myself to find,
what a very agreeable companion he is!”
“I have always believed Mr. James Hubbard a man of
kind feelings, as you observe, and a man of good principles;
two important points, certainly.”
“I am glad you do him justice. But you are not aware
perhaps, what a very pleasant companion he is, where he
feels at his ease, and knows that he is understood.”
`That is to say, where he can doze, while another person
thinks and talks for him,' thought Miss Agnes.
“The time is fixed I suppose for the wedding, Harriet?”
she inquired aloud, with a smile.
“Nearly so, I believe. I told Mr. Hubbard that I should
be just as ready to marry him next week, as next year; we
agreed that when two persons of our ages had come to an
understanding, they might as well settle the matter at once.
We shall be married, I fancy, in the morning, in church, with
only two or three friends present. I hope, Agnes, that your
father and yourself will be with me. You know that I
should never have taken this step, if you had not agreed
with me in thinking it for the good of my children.”
“Thank you, Harriet; of course we shall be present, if
you wish it.”
“Certainly I wish it. I shall always look upon you as
my best friends and advisers.”
“Next to Mr. Hubbard, in future,” replied Miss Agnes,
smiling.
“When you know him better, you will confess that he
deserves a high place in my confidence. You have no idea
how much his brother and nieces think of him; but that is
no wonder, for they know his good sense, and his companionable
qualities. He is really a very agreeable companion,
Agnes, for a rational woman; quite a cultivated mind, too.”
Visions of cabbages and turnips rose in Miss Agnes's
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mind, as the only cultivation ever connected, till now, with
Uncle Dozie's name.
“We passed last evening charmingly; I read the Lay of
the Last Minstrel aloud to him, and he seemed to enjoy it
very much,” continued Mrs. Wyllys.
`He took a nap, I suppose,' thought Miss Agnes. “He
ought to be well pleased to have a fair lady read aloud to
him,” she replied, smiling.
“The better I know him, the more satisfied I am with my
choice. I have found a man upon whom I can depend for
support and advice—and one who is at the same time a very
pleasant companion. Do you know, he sometimes reminds
me of our excellent father.”
This was really going too far, in Miss Agnes's opinion;
she quite resented a comparison between Uncle Dozie and
Mr. Wyllys. The widow, however, was too much occupied
with her own affairs, to notice Miss Agnes's expression.
“I find, indeed, that the whole family are more agreeable
than I had supposed; but you rather gave me a prejudice
against them. The young ladies improve on acquaintance,
they are pretty, amiable young women; I have seen them
quite often since we have been near neighbours. Well, I
must leave you, for Mr. Hubbard dines with me to-day. In
the mean time, Agnes, I commit my affairs to your hands.
Since I did not find your father at home, I shall write to him
this evening.”
The ladies parted; and as Mrs. Wyllys passed out of the
room, she met Elinor.
“Good morning, Elinor,” she said; “your aunt has news
for you, which I would tell you myself if I had time:” then
nodding, she left the house, and had soon driven off.
“My dear Aunt, what is this news?” asked Elinor.
Miss Agnes looked a little annoyed, a little mortified, and
a little amused.
When the mystery was explained, Elinor's amazement
was great.
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“It is incredible?” she exclaimed. “My Aunt Wyllys
actually going to marry that prosing, napping Mr. Hubbard;
Uncle Dozie!”
“When I remember her husband,” said Miss Agnes, with
feeling, “it does seem incredible; my dear, warm-hearted,
handsome, animated brother George!”
“How extraordinary!” said Elinor, who could do nothing
but exclaim.
“No; not in the least extraordinary,” added Miss Agnes;
“such marriages, dear, seem quite common.”
Mr. Wyllys was not at all astonished at the intelligence.
“I have expected that Harriet would marry, all along;
she has a great many good intentions, and some good qualities;
but I knew she would not remain a widow. It is
rather strange that she should have chosen James Hubbard;
but she might have done worse.”
With these philosophical reflections, Mrs. Wyllys's friends
looked forward to the happy event which was soon to take
place. The very same morning that Miss Agnes was taken
into the confidence of the bride, the friends of the groom also
learned the news, but in a more indirect manner.
The charms of a parterre are daily be-rhymed in verse,
and vaunted in prose, but the beauties of a vegetable garden
seldom meet with the admiration they might claim. If you
talk of beets, people fancy them sliced with pepper and
vinegar; if you mention carrots, they are seen floating in
soup; cabbage figures in the form of cold-slaw, or disguised
under drawn-butter; if you refer to corn, it appears to the
mind's eye wrapt in a napkin to keep it warm, or cut up
with beans in a succatash. Half the people who see these
good things daily spread on the board before them, are only
acquainted with vegetables after they have been mutilated
and disguised by cookery. They would not know the leaf
of a beet from that of the spinach, the green tuft of a carrot
from the delicate sprigs of parsley. Now, a bouquet of roses
and pinks is certainly a very beautiful object, but a collection
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of fine vegetables, with the rich variety of shape and colour,
in leaf, fruit, and root, such as nature has given them to us,
is a noble sight. So thought Uncle Dozie, at least. The
rich texture and shading of the common cabbage-leaf was
no novelty to him; he had often watched the red, coral-like
veins in the glossy green of the beet; the long, waving leaf
of the maize, with the silky tassels of its ears, were beautiful
in his eyes; and so were the rich, white heads of the cauliflower,
delicate as carved ivory, the feathery tuft of the carrot,
the purple fruit of the egg-plant, and the brilliant scarlet
tomato. He came nearer than most Christians, out of
Weathersfield, to sympathy with the old Egyptians in their
onion-worship.
With such tastes and partialities, Uncle Dozie was generally
to be found in his garden, between the hours of sun-rise
and sun-set; gardening having been his sole occupation for
nearly forty years. His brother, Mr. Joseph Hubbard, having
something to communicate, went there in search of him, on
the morning to which we refer. But Uncle Dozie was not
to be found. The gardener, however, thought that he could
not have gone very far, for he had passed near him not five
minutes before; and he suggested that, perhaps Mr. Hubbard
was going out somewhere, for “he looked kind o' spruce
and drest up.” Mr. Hubbard expected his brother to dine
at home, and thought the man mistaken. In passing an
arbour, however, he caught a glimpse of the individual he
was looking for, and on coming nearer, he found Uncle Dozie,
dressed in a new summer suit, sitting on the arbour seat
taking a nap, while at his feet was a very fine basket of
vegetables, arranged with more than usual care. Unwilling
to disturb him, his brother, who knew that his naps seldom
lasted more than a few minutes at a time, took a turn in the
garden, waiting for him to awake. He had hardly left the
arbour however, before he heard Uncle Dozie moving; turning
in that direction, he was going to join him, when, to his great
astonishment, he saw his brother steal from the arbour, with
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the basket of vegetables on his arm, and disappear between
two rows of pea-brush.
“James!—I say, James!—Where are you going? Stop
a minute, I want to speak to you!” cried Mr. Joseph Hubbard.
He received no answer.
“James!—Wait a moment for me! Where are you?”
added the merchant; and walking quickly to the pea-rows,
he saw his brother leave them and dexterously make for the
tall Indian-corn. Now Uncle Dozie was not in the least deaf;
and his brother was utterly at a loss to account for his evading
him in the first place, and for his not answering in the second.
He thought the man had lost his senses: he was mistaken,
Uncle Dozie had only lost his heart. Determined not to
give up the chase, still calling the retreating Uncle Dozie,
he pursued him from the pea-rows into the windings of the
corn-hills, across the walk to another growth of peas near
the garden paling. Here, strange to say, in a manner quite
inexplicable to his brother, Uncle Dozie and his vegetables
suddenly disappeared! Mr. Hubbard was completely at
fault: he could scarcely believe that he was in his own
garden, and that it was his own brother James whom he
had been pursuing, and who seemed at that instant to have
vanished from before his eyes—through the fence, he should
have said, had such a thing been possible. Mr. Hubbard
was a resolute man; he determined to sift the matter to the
bottom. Still calling upon the fugitive, he made his way to
the garden paling through the defile of the peas. No one
was there—a broad, open bed lay on either hand, and before
him the fence. At last he observed a foot-print in the earth
near the paling, and a rustling sound beyond. He advanced
and looked over, and to his unspeakable amazement, saw his
brother, James Hubbard, busily engaged there, in collecting
the scattered vegetables which had fallen from his basket.
“Jem!—I have caught you at last, have I! What in the
name of common sense are you about there?”
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No reply was made, but Uncle Dozie proceeded to gather
up his cauliflowers, peas and tomatoes, to the best of his
ability.
“Did you fly over the fence, or through it?” asked his
brother, quite surprised.
“Neither one nor the other,” replied Uncle Dozie, sulkily.
“I came through the gate.”
“Gate!—why there never was a gate here!”
“There is one now.”
And so there was; part of the paling had been turned into
a narrow gate.
“Why, who cut this gate, I should like to know?”
“I did.”
“You did, Jem? What for?—What is the use of it?”
“To go through.”
“To go where? It only leads into Mrs. Wyllys's garden.”
Uncle Dozie made no answer.
“What are you doing with those vegetables? I am really
curious to know.”
“Going to carry them down there,” said Uncle Dozie.
“Down where?” repeated Uncle Josie, looking on the
ground strewed with vegetables.
“Over there.”
“Over where?” asked the merchant, raising his eyes towards
a neighbouring barn before him.
“Yonder,” added Uncle Dozie, making a sort of indescribable
nod backward with his head.
“Younder!—In the street do you mean? Are you going
to throw them away?”
“Throw away such a cauliflower as this!” exclaimed
Uncle Dozie, with great indignation.
“What are you going to do with them, them?”
“Carry them to the house there.”
“What house?”
“Mrs. Wyllys's, to be sure,” replied Uncle Dozie, boldly.
“What is the use of carrying vegetables to Mrs. Wyllys?
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She has a garden of her own,” said his brother, very innocently.
“Miserable garden — poor, thin soil,” muttered Uncle
Dozie.
“Is it? Well, then, I can understand it; but you might
as well send them by the gardener.”
Uncle Dozie made no reply, but proceeded to arrange his
vegetables in the basket, with an eye to appearances; he had
gathered them all up again, but another object which had
fallen on the grass lay unnoticed.
“What is that—a book?” asked his brother.
Uncle Dozie turned round, saw the volume, picked it up,
and thrust it in his pocket.
“Did you drop it? I didn't know you ever carried a
book about you,” replied his brother, with some surprise.
“What is it?”
“A book of poetry.
“Whose poetry?”
“I am sure I've forgotten,” replied Uncle Dozie, taking
a look askance at the title, as it half-projected from his
pocket. “It's Coleridge's Ancient Mariner,” he added.
“What in the world are you going to do with it?” said
his brother, with increasing surprise.
“I wanted a volume of poetry.”
“You—Jem Hubbard! Why, I thought Yankee-Doodle
was the only poetry you cared for!”
“I don't care for it, but she does.”
“She!—What she?” asked Uncle Josie, with lively curiosity,
but very little tact, it would seem.
“Mrs. Wyllys,” was the laconic reply.
“Oh, Mrs. Wyllys; I told her some time ago that she was
very welcome to any of our books.”
“It isn't one of your books; it's mine; I bought it.”
“It wasn't worth while to buy it, Jem,” said his brother;
“I dare say Emmeline has got it in the house. If Mrs.
Wyllys asked to borrow it, you ought to have taken
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Emmeline's, though she isn't at home; she just keeps her books
to show off on the centre-table, you know. Our neighbour,
Mrs. Wyllys, seems quite a reader.”
“She doesn't want this to read herself,” observed Uncle
Dozie.
“No?—What does she want it for?”
“She wants me to read it aloud.”
Uncle Josie opened his eyes in mute astonishment. Uncle
Dozie continued, as if to excuse himself for this unusual
offence: “She asked for a favourite volume of mine; but I
hadn't any favourite; so I bought this. It looks pretty, and
the bookseller said it was called a good article.”
“Why, Jem, are you crazy, man!—you going to read
poetry aloud!”
“Why not?” said Uncle Dozie, growing bolder as the
conversation continued, and he finished arranging his basket.
“I believe you are out of your head, Jem; I don't understand
you this morning. What is the meaning of this?—
what are you about?”
“Going to be married,” replied Uncle Dozie, not waiting
for any further questions, but setting off at a brisk step towards
Mrs. Wyllys's door.
Mr. Joseph Hubbard remained looking over the fence in
silent amazement; he could scarcely believe his senses, so
entirely was he taken by surprise. In good sooth, Uncle
Dozie had managed matters very slily, through that little
gate in the garden paling; not a human being had suspected
him. Uncle Josie's doubts were soon entirely removed,
however; he was convinced of the reality of all he had
heard and seen that morning, when he observed his brother
standing on Mrs. Wyllys's steps, and the widow coming out
to receive him, with a degree of elegance in her dress, and
graciousness in her manner, quite perceptible across the
garden: the fair lady admired the vegetables, ordered them
carried into the cellar, and received Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner from Uncle Dozie's hands, while they were still
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standing beneath the rose-covered porch, looking sufficiently
lover-like to remove any lingering doubts of Uncle Josie.
After the happy couple had entered the house, the merchant
left his station at the paling, and returned to his own solitary
dinner, laughing heartily whenever the morning scene recurred
to him. We have said that Uncle Dozie had managed
his love affairs thus far so slyly, that no one suspected
him; that very afternoon, however, one of the most distinguished
gossips of Longbridge, Mrs. Tibbs's mother, saw
him napping in Mrs. Wyllys's parlour, with a rose-bud in
his button-hole, and the Ancient Mariner in his hand. She
was quite too experienced in her vocation, not to draw her
own conclusions; and a suspicion, once excited, was instantly
communicated to others. The news spread like wild-fire;
and when the evening-bell rang, it had become a confirmed
fact in many houses, that Mrs. Wyllys and Mr. James Huobard
had already been privately married six months.
CHAPTER XIV.
“Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you
Of this —?”
Henry VI.
Before the end of the week, the friends at Wyllys-Roof,
after carefully examining all the facts within their knowledge,
were confirmed in their first opinion, that the individual
claiming to be William Stanley was an impostor. Mrs.
Stanley was the last of the three to make up her mind decidedly,
on the point; but at length, she also was convinced,
that Mr. Clapp and this sailor had united in a conspiracy to
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obtain possession of her husband's estate. The chief reasons
for believing this to be the case, consisted in the difference of
character and expression between the claimant and William
Stanley: the more Mr. Wyllys examined this point, the
clearer it appeared to him, who had known his friend's only
son from an infant, and had always felt much interested in
him. As a child, and a boy, William Stanley had been of
a morose temper, and of a sluggish, inactive mind—not positively
stupid, but certainly far from clever; this claimant, on
the contrary, had all the expression and manner of a shrewd,
quick-witted man, who might be passionate, but who looked
like a good-natured person, although his countenance was
partially disfigured by traces of intemperance. These facts,
added to the length of time which had elapsed since the
reported death of the individual, the neglect to claim his
inheritance, the suspicious circumstances under which this
sailor now appeared, under the auspices of an obscure country
lawyer, who bore an indifferent character, and to whom the
peculiar circumstances of the Stanley estate were probably
well known, all united in producing the belief in a conspiracy.
There was no doubt, however, but that a strong case
could be made out on the other hand by the claimant; it was
evident that Mr. Reed was convinced of his identity; his
resemblance to William Stanley, and to Mr. Stanley, the
father, could not be denied; the similarity of the handwriting
was also remarkable; his profession, his apparent
age, his possession of the letters, his accurate knowledge of
persons and places connected with the family, altogether
amounted to an important body of evidence in his favour.
It would require a volume in itself, to give the details of
this singular case; but the general reader will probably care
for little more than an outline of the proceedings. It would
indeed, demand a legal hand to do full justice to the subject;
those who are disposed to inquire more particularly into the
matter, having a natural partiality, or acquired taste for the
intricate uncertainties of the law, will probably have it in
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their power ere long, to follow the case throughout, in print;
it is understood at Longbridge, that Mr. James Bernard, son
of Judge Bernard, is engaged in writing a regular report,
which, it is supposed, will shortly be published. In the
mean time, we shall be compelled to confine ourselves chiefly
to a general statement of the most important proceedings,
more particularly connected with our narrative.
“Here is a letter from Clapp, sir, proposing a compromise,”
said Hazlehurst, handing the paper to Mr. Wyllys.
It was dated two days after the interview at Wyllys-Roof;
the tone was amicable and respectful, though worded in Mr.
Clapp's peculiar style. We have not space for the letter
itself, but its purport was, an offer on the part of Mr. Stanley
to forgive all arrears, and overlook the past, provided his
father's estate, in its actual condition, was immediately placed
in his hands. He was urged to take this step, he said, by
respect for his opponents, and the conviction that they had
acted conscientiously, while he himself, by his own neglect
to appear earlier, had naturally given rise to suspicions. He
was therefore ready to receive the property as it stood at
present, engaging that neither executors nor legatee should
be molested for arrears; the sums advanced to Hazlehurst,
he was willing should be considered equivalent to the legacy
bequeathed to him by Mr. Stanley, the father, in case of his
son's return, although in fact they amounted to a much larger
sum.
This offer of a compromise merely confirmed the suspicions
of all parties at Wyllys-Roof. The offer was rejected
in the same letter which announced to Mr. Reed, that the
defendants had seen as yet no good reason for believing in
the identity of the individual claiming the name of William
Stanley, and consequently, that they should contest his claim
to the Stanley estate.
After this step, it became necessary to make every preparation
for a trial; as it was already evident, from the usual
legal notices of the plaintiffs, that they intended to carry the
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case into a court of justice, with as little delay as possible.
It was the first object of Mr. Wyllys and Hazlehurst, to
obtain as much testimony as lay within their reach, upon the
points of the capacity and natural temperament of William
Stanley; letters were written, in the hope of discovering
something through the old family physician, the school-master,
and companions of the young man before he went to sea; and
Mrs. Stanley even believed that the nurse of her step-son
was still living. Agents were also employed, to search out
some clue, which might help to trace the past life and character
of the individual bearing the name of William Stanley.
Harry was only awaiting the expected arrival of Mr. Ellsworth,
before he set out himself for the little town in the
neighbourhood of Greatwood, where he hoped to gather
much useful evidence. To what degree he was also desirous
of the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Creighton again, we cannot
say; but his friends at Wyllys-Roof believed that he was
quite as anxious to see the sister as the brother. He had
not long to wait, for, punctual to the appointed day, the
earliest possible, Mr. Ellsworth arrived, accompanied by Mrs.
Creighton.
“Now, Mr. Hazlehurst, come here and tell me all about
these vexatious proceedings,” said Mrs. Creighton to Harry,
as the whole party left the dining-room for the piazza, the
day Mr. Ellsworth and his sister arrived at Wyllys-Roof.
“I hope you and Frank found out, in that long consultation
you had this morning, that it would not be difficult to settle
the matter as it ought to be settled?”
“On the contrary, we agreed that there were a great many
serious difficulties before us.”
“You don't surely think there is any real danger as to the
result?” asked the lady with great interest. “You cannot
suppose that this man is really William Stanley, come to life
again!”
“No; I believe him to be an impostor; and so does
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Ellsworth—so do we all; but he makes out quite a plausible
story, nevertheless.”
“But what are you going to do? Come, sit down here,
and tell me about it.”
“You forget, Josephine,” said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling,
“that we lawyers dare not trust the ladies with our secrets;
you must contrive to restrain your curiosity, or interest—
whichever you choose to call it—until the trial.”
“Nonsense!—I am quite too much interested for that; I
shall expect to hear a great deal before the trial. Is it possible
your stock of patience will last till then, Miss Wyllys?”
added the lady, turning to Elinor.
“Well, I don't know; I confess myself very anxious as
to the result,” said Elinor, blushing a little.
“To be sure; we are all anxious; and I expect to be
taken into your confidence, Mr. Hazlehurst, quite as far as
you legal gentlemen think it safe to admit a lady. Frank
has a very bad habit of never trusting me with his business
matters, Miss Wyllys; we must cure him of that.”
“I am inclined to think, Mrs. Creighton, your patience
would scarcely bear the recital of even one case of Richard
Roe versus John Doe,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“Perhaps not; for I care not a straw for Richard Roe, or
John Doe, either.”
“Would you really like to see the account which this new-comer
gives of himself?” asked Hazlehurst.
“Certainly; I speak seriously, I assure you.”
“You shall see it this evening,” said Harry. “I think
you will agree with me, that it is a strange story.”
“But, Mrs. Creighton,” said Mr. Wyllys, “we have had
our heads so full of law, and conspiracies, and impostors,
lately, that I was in hopes you would bring us something
more agreeable to think and talk about. What were the
people doing at Nahant when you left there?”
“It was very dull there; at least I thought so; I was in
a great hurry for Frank to bring me away.”
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“What was wanting, pray?” asked Mr. Wyllys. “Was
it the fault of the weather, the water, or the company?”
“Of all together, sir; nothing was of the right kind; it
was not half so pleasant as Saratoga this year. Even the
flirtations were not as amusing as usual.”
“I should have thought you might have been amused in
some other way,” said Mr. Ellsworth.
“Flirtation, I would have you believe, my good brother,
is sometimes quite an agreeable and exciting pastime.”
“Faute de mieux,” said Harry, smiling.
“You surprise me, Josephine, by saying so, as you are no
flirt yourself,” observed her brother, with a perfectly honest
and natural expression.
“Well, I don't know; certainly I never flirt intentionally;
but I won't be sure my spirits have not carried me away
sometimes. Have you never, Miss Wyllys, in moments of
gaiety or excitement, said more than you intended to?”
“Have I never flirted, do you mean?” asked Elinor,
smiling.
“But though you say it yourself, I don't believe you are
a bit of a flirt, Mrs. Creighton,” said the unsuspicious Mr.
Wyllys.
“Oh, no, sir; I would not have you believe me a regular
flirt for the world. I only acknowledge to a little trifling,
now and then. Miss Wyllys knows what I mean; we
women are more observant of each other. Now, haven't
you suspected me of flirting more than once?”
“You had better ask me,” said Mary Van Alstyne;—
“Elinor is not half suspicious enough.”
“The acquittal of the gentlemen ought to satisfy you,”
said Elinor. “They are supposed to be the best judges.
Are you sure, however, that you did not flirt with Mr. Hopkins?—
he was at Nahant with you, I believe.”
“I am afraid it surpasses the power of woman to distract
Mr. Hopkins's attention from a sheepshead or a paugee.”
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“You have really a very pretty view here, Miss Wyllys,
although there is nothing bold or commanding in the country;
it makes a very pleasant home picture,” observed Mr. Ellsworth,
who had been looking about him. “That reach in
the river has a very good effect; the little hamlet, too, looks
well in the distance; and the wood and meadow opposite,
are as well placed as one could wish.”
“I am glad you like it; but we really think that, for such
simple scenery, it is uncommonly pretty,” replied Elinor.
“Yes; even your fastidious friend, Mr. Stryker, pronounced
the landscape about Wyllys-Roof to be very well put together,”
said Mrs. Creighton.
“Mr. Stryker, however, professes to have no eye for anything
of the kind,” replied Elinor.
“That is only one of the man's affectations; his eyes are
more like those of other people than he is willing to confess.
Though Mr. Stryker pretends to be one of your men of the
world, whose notions are all practical, yet one soon discovers
that he cherishes his useless foibles, like other people,” said
the lady, with an air of careless frankness; though intending
the speech for the benefit of Hazlehurst and Mr. Wyllys,
who both stood near her.
“Perhaps you don't know that Mr. Stryker has preceded
you into our neighbourhood,” said Mary Van Alstyne. “He
is staying at Mr. de Vaux's.”
“Oh, yes; I knew he was to be here about these times.
Pray, tell me which is Mr. de Vaux's place. It is a fine
house, I am told.”
“A great deal too fine,” said Harry. “It is all finery, or
rather it was a few years since.”
“It is much improved now,” observed Elinor; “he talks
of taking down half the columns. That is the house, Mrs.
Creighton,” she added, showing the spot where the white
pillars of Colonnade Manor were partly visible through an
opening in the wood.
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“What a colonnade it seems to be! It puts one in mind
of the Italian epigram on some bad architecture,” said Mr.
Ellsworth:
“ `Care colonne che fate quà?
Non sappiamo, in verità!”'
“I understand, Miss Wyllys, that your friend, Mr. Stryker,
calls it the `cafè de mille colonnes,”' said Mrs. Creighton.
“Does Mrs. Creighton's friend, Mr. Stryker, treat it so
disrespectfully? Mr. de Vaux has given it a very good
name, I think. It is Broadlawn now; last year it was
Colonnade Manor.”
“And, pray, what did Mr. Taylor's manorial rights consist
in?” asked Mr. Ellsworth.
“In the privilege of putting up as many Grecian summer-houses
as he pleased, I suppose,” said Harry; “the place
promised to be covered with them at one time.”
“Mr. de Vaux has taken them down; all but two at least,”
said Elinor.
“It was fortunate that Mr. Taylor had a long purse,” remarked
Mrs. Creighton; “for he seems to have delighted
in superfluities of all kinds.”
“I suppose you are aware, Mrs. Creighton, that false taste
is always a very expensive foible,” said Mr. Wyllys; “for
it looks upon ornament and improvement as the same thing.
My neighbour, Mr. Taylor, certainly has as much of that
spirit as any man I ever knew.”
“The name he gave his place is a good proof of that,”
said Harry. “If he had called it the Colonnade, that would
have been at least descriptive and appropriate; but he tacked
on the Manor, which had neither rhyme nor reason to recommend
it.”
“Was it not a Manor before the revolution?” inquired
Mrs. Creighton.
“Oh, no; only a farm belonging to the Van Hornes.
But Taylor would not have it called a farm, for the world;
he delights in big words,” said Mr. Wyllys.
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“That is only natural, I suppose, for `Don Pompey,' as
Mr. Stryker calls him,” observed Mr. Ellsworth.
The following morning was the happy occasion, which
was to make Mrs. George Wyllys the wife of Uncle Dozie.
In the course of the week, which intervened between her
announcing the fact at Wyllys-Roof, and the wedding itself,
she had only consulted her friends twice, and changed her
mind as often. At first it was settled that she was to be
married at two o'clock, in church, with four witnesses present,
and that from church she was to return quietly to her
own house, where the party were to eat a family dinner with
her. A note, however, informed her friends that it was
finally decided, that the wedding should take place early in
the morning, at her own house, in the presence of some
dozen friends. The dinner was also postponed for a fortnight,
as the happy couple intended to set out for Boston, the morning
they were united.
The weather was propitious; and after an early breakfast
the party from Wyllys-Roof set out. It included Mr. Ellsworth
and Mrs. Creighton, who were connexions of the bride,
as well as Harry, and the family; Mary Van Alstyne remaining
at home with Jane.
They soon reached Longbridge, after a pleasant, early
drive. On being ushered into Mrs. Wyllys's drawing-room,
they were received in a very informal manner by the bride
herself. As Elinor had recommended a grey silk for the
wedding-dress, she was not at all surprised to find her aunt
wearing a coloured muslin. On one point, however, it was
evident she had not changed her mind; for the happy man,
Uncle Dozie, was there in full matrimonials, with a new wig,
and a white waistcoat. The groom elect looked much like
a victim about to be sacrificed; he was as miserably sheepish
and fidgety as ever old bachelor could be under similar
circumstances. Mrs. Creighton paid her compliments to the
bride very gracefully; and she tried to look as if the affair
were not a particularly good joke. Mr. Wyllys summoned
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up a sort of resigned cheerfulness; Miss Agnes and Elinor
also endeavoured to look as became wedding-guests. The
children, who had all received presents from the bridegroom,
evidently thought the occasion a holiday. The clergyman
having appeared, Mrs. Wyllys gave her hand to the trembling
groom, and the important transaction was soon over.
`There is, at least, no danger of Uncle Dozie's taking a
nap,' thought Harry, `he looks too nervous and uncomfortable
for that.'
Congratulations and good wishes were duly offered; they
served only to increase the bridegroom's distress, while the
bride appeared perfectly satisfied, and in very good spirits.
She felt disposed to make a cheerful sacrifice for the benefit
of her children, to whom she had secured an efficient protector,
while at the same time, she was now sure of a prudent
friend and counsellor for life: so at least she informed Mrs.
Creighton.
“I am sorry your brother is not here, Mr. Hubbard.”
“He went to New York, on business, last night,” said the
groom.
“I hope you will have a pleasant trip to Eoston,” continued
Mr. Wyllys.
“Thank you for the wish, sir,” interposed the bride, “but
we determined last evening to go to Niagara, as we have
both been to Boston already.”
`We shall hear of you at New Orleans, yet,' thought
Harry.
Refreshments were brought in, and everybody, of course,
received their usual share of the wedding-cake.
“You see I have set you an excellent example,” said the
bride to Mrs. Creighton and Elinor.
“We must hope that these ladies will soon follow it,” said
Mr. Ellsworth, with a glance at Elinor.
“Shall we thank him, Miss Wyllys?” said Mrs. Creighton.
“It was kindly meant, I dare say.”
Mr. Wyllys, who was standing near them, smiled.
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“It was only yesterday, Elinor,” added the new Mrs.
Hubbard, “that Black Bess, who made the cake you are
eating, told me when she brought it home, that she hoped
soon to make your own wedding-cake.”
“She has had the promise of it ever since I was five years
old,” said Elinor.
“Is it possible that Black Bess is still living and baking?”
said Harry. “I can remember her gingerbread, as long as
I can recollect anything. I once overheard some Longbridge
ladies declare, that they could tell Black Bess's cake as far as
they could see it; which struck me as something very
wonderful.”
“She seems to be a person of great importance,” said Mrs.
Creighton; “I shall hope soon to make her acquaintance.
My dear Miss Elinor, I wish you would bear in mind that
your wedding-cake has been ordered these dozen years. I
am afraid you forget how many of us are interested in it, as
well as Black Bess.”
“Our notable housekeepers you know, tell us that wedding-cake
will bear keeping half-a-century,” said Elinor,
smiling.
“That is after the ceremony I am sure, not before,” said
Mrs. Creighton.
Elinor seemed at last annoyed by these persevering allusions,
and several persons left the group. Hazlehurst took
a seat by Miss Patsey; he was anxious to show her that her
brother-in-law's behaviour, had in no manner changed his
regard for herself and her family.
“Where is Charlie,” he asked.
“He has gone off to Lake Champlain now. I hope you
and Charlie will both soon get tired of travelling about, Mr.
Hazlehurst; you ought to stay at home with your friends.”
“But I don't seem to have any home; Charlie and I are
both by nature, home-bred, home-staying youths, but we seem
fated to wander about. How is he coming on with his pictures?—
has he nearly done his work on the lakes?”
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“Yes, I believe so; he has promised to come to Longbridge
next month, for the rest of the summer. He has been
distressed, quite as much as the rest of us, Mr. Hazlehurst,
by these difficulties—”
“Do not speak of them, Miss Patsey; it is a bad business;
but one which will never interfere between me and my old
friends, I trust.”
Miss Patsey looked her thanks, her mortification, and her
sympathy, but said nothing more.
The carriage which was to convey the bride and groom to
the steamboat, soon drove to the door; and taking leave of
their friends, the happy couple set off. They turned back,
however, before they were out of sight, as Mrs. Hubbard
wished to change the travelling-shawl she had first selected
for another. Mr. Wyllys, Elinor, and Harry accompanied
them to the boat; and they all three agreed, that the groom
had not yet been guilty of napping; although Hazlehurst
declared, that as the seats on deck were cool and shady, he
had little doubt that he would be dozing before the boat was
out of sight.
Those who feel the same anxiety for the welfare of the
children, during their mother's absence, which weighed upon
the mind of Miss Agnes, will be glad to hear that they were
all three carried to Wyllys-Roof, under the charge of an experienced
nurse. And it must be confessed, that it was long
since little George, a riotous child, some seven years old, had
been kept under such steady, but kind discipline, as that
under which he lived, during this visit to his grandfather.
Mr. Ellsworth and Harry passed the morning at Longbridge,
engaged with their legal affairs; and in the evening,
Hazlehurst left Wyllys-Roof for Philadelphia; and Mrs.
Stanley accompanied him, on her way to Greatwood.
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CHAPTER XV.
“— But by the stealth
Of our own vanity, we're left so poor.”
Habington.
Now that Harry had left the house, Mrs. Creighton's attention
was chiefly given to Mr. Wyllys; although she had as
usual, smiles, both arch and sweet, sayings, both piquant and
agreeable, for each and all of the gentlemen from Broadlawn,
who were frequent visiters at Wyllys-Roof. Mr. Stryker,
indeed, was there half the time. It was evident that the lady
was extremely interested in Hazlehurst's difficulties; she was
constant in her inquiries as to the progress of affairs, and
listened anxiously to the many different prognostics as to the
result. Miss Agnes remarked indeed, one day, when Mr.
Ellsworth thought he had succeeded in obtaining an all-important
clue, in tracing the previous career of Harry's opponent,
that his sister seemed much elated—she sent an extremely
amiable message to Hazlehurst in her brother's letter.
It afterwards appeared, however, on farther inquiry, that this
very point turned out entirely in favour of the sailor, actually
proving that nine years previously he had sailed in one of
the Hávre packets, under the name of William Stanley.
Mrs. Creighton that evening expressed her good wishes for
Harry, in a much calmer tone, before a roomfull of company.
“Ladies, have you no sympathizing message for Hazlehurst?”
inquired Mr. Ellsworth, as he folded a letter he had
been writing.
“Oh, certainly; we were sorry to hear the bad news;”
and she then turned immediately, and began an animated,
laughing conversation with Hubert de Vaux.
`What a difference in character between the brother and
sister,' thought Miss Agnes, whose good opinion of Mr.
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Ellsworth had been raised higher than ever, by the earnest devotion
to his friend's interest, which appeared throughout his
whole management of the case.
The family at Wyllys-Roof were careful to show, by their
friendly attention to the Hubbards, that their respect and
regard for them had not suffered at all by the steps Mr. Clapp
had taken. Miss Agnes and Elinor visited the cottage as
frequently as ever. One morning, shortly after the wedding,
Miss Wyllys went to inquire after Mrs. Hubbard, as she was
in the habit of doing. She found Mary Hubbard, the
youngest daughter, there, and was struck on entering, by the
expression of Miss Patsey's face—very different from her
usual calm, pleasant aspect.
“Oh, Miss Wyllys!” she exclaimed, in answer to an inquiry
of Miss Agnes's—“I am just going to Longbridge!
My poor, kind uncle Joseph!—but he was always too weak
and indulgent to those girls!”
“What has happened?” asked Miss Wyllys, anxiously.
“Dreadful news, indeed; Mrs. Hilson has disgraced herself!—
Her husband has left her and applied for a divorce!
But I do not believe it is half as bad as most people think;
Julianna has been shamefully imprudent, but I cannot think
her guilty!”
Miss Wyllys was grieved to hear such a bad account of
her old neighbour's daughter.
“Her husband has left her, you say; where is she now?”
“Her father brought her home with him. He went after
her to Newport, where she had gone in the same party with
this man—this Mr. de Montbrun, and a person who lives in
the same boarding-house, a Mrs. Bagman, who has done a
great deal of harm to Julianna.”
“Sad, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Agnes.
“Charles says it is heart-rending, to see my poor uncle,
who was so proud of his good name—thought so much of
his daughters! Often have I heard him say: `Let them
enjoy life, Patsey, while they are young; girls can't do much
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harm; I love to see them look pretty and merry.' They
never received any solid instruction, and since her marriage,
Julianna seems to have been in bad company. She had no
children to think about, and Mr. Hilson's time is always
given to his business; her head was full of nonsense from
morning till night; I was afraid no good would come of it.”
“It is at least a great point, that she should have come
back with her father.”
“Yes, indeed; I am thankful for it, from the bottom of
my heart. Oh, Miss Wyllys, what a dreadful thing it is, to
see young people going on, from one bad way to another!”
exclaimed Miss Patsey.
“We must hope that her eyes will be opened, now.”
“If she had only taken warning from what Charles told
her about this Mr. de Montbrun; he had seen him at Rome,
and though he had no positive proofs, knew he was a bad
man, and told Mrs. Hilson so. It is surely wrong, Miss
Wyllys, to let all kinds of strangers from foreign countries
into our families, without knowing anything about them.”
“I have often thought it very wrong,” said Miss Agnes,
earnestly.
“But Mrs. Hilson wouldn't believe a word Charles said.
She talked a great deal about aristocratic fashions; said she
wouldn't be a slave to prudish notions—just as she always
talks.”
“Where was her husband, all this time?”
“He was in New York. They had not agreed well for
some time, on account of her spending so much money, and
flirting with everybody. At last he heard how his wife was
behaving, and went to Saratoga. He found everybody who
knew her, was talking about Julianna and this Frenchman.
They had a violent quarrel, and he brought her back to town,
but gave her warning, if ever she spoke again to that man
he would leave her. Would you believe it!—in less than
a week, she went to the theatre with him and this Mrs. Bagman!
You know Mr. Hilson is a quiet man in general, but
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when he has made up his mind to anything, he never changes
it: when he came in from his business, and found where his
wife had gone, he wrote a letter to Uncle Joseph, and left the
house.”
“But what does Mrs. Hilson say? Does she show any
feeling?”
“She cries a great deal, but talks just as usual; says she
is a victim to her husband's brutality and jealousy. It seems
impossible to make her see things in their right light. I
hope and pray that her eyes may be opened, but I am afraid
it will be a long time before they are. But it is hard, Miss
Wyllys, to open the eyes of the blind and deluded! It is
more than mortal man can do!”
“Yes; we feel at such times our miserable weakness, and
the influence of evil upon human nature, more, perhaps,
than at any other moment!”
“That is true, indeed. I have often thought, Miss Wyllys,
that those who have watched over a large family of children
and young people, have better notions about the true state of
human nature, than your great philosophers. That has been
the difficulty with Uncle Hubbard; he said girls in a respectable
family were in no danger of doing what was wrong;
that he hated preaching and scolding, and could not bear to
make young people gloomy, by talking to them about serious
subjects. My father always taught me to think very differently;
he believed that the only way to help young people
to be really happy and cheerful, was to teach them to do
their duty.”
“It would be well, if all those who have charge of young
persons thought so!” exclaimed Miss Agnes.
“But, oh, Miss Wyllys, I dread seeing my poor uncle!
Charles writes me word that he is quite changed—pale and
care-worn—so different from his usual look; he says my
uncle has grown ten years older in the last week. And
such a kind, indulgent father as he has been!”
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Tears filled Miss Wyllys's eyes. “Is his daughter Emo
meline at home?” she asked.
“Yes; and Emmeline seems more sobered by this terrible
business, than Mrs. Hilson herself. She sent for me, thinking
I might be of some service to Julianna, and persuade her to stay
at home, and not return to Mrs. Bagman, as she threatens to
do.”
A wagon was waiting to carry Miss Patsey to Longbridge,
and Miss Agnes begging that she might not detain her, she
set out on her painful duty. On arriving at her uncle's house,
she almost dreaded to cross the threshold. She found Mr.
Hubbard in the dining-room; he paid no attention to her as
she opened the door, but continued walking up and down.
She scarcely knew how to address him; the common phrases
of greeting that rose to her lips seemed misplaced. He
either did not see her, or would not notice her. She then
walked quite near to him, and holding out her hand, said in
a calm tone:
“Uncle, I have come to see Julianna.”
The muscles of his face moved, but he made no answer.
“I have come to stay with her, if you wish it.”
“Thank you,” he said, in a thick voice.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“What can be done?” he said, bitterly, and almost roughly.
“Do you wish me to stay?”
“Yes; I am obliged to you for coming to see a woman of
bad reputation.”
Patsey left him for the present. She found her consins
together; Emmeline's eyes were red, as if she had just been
weeping; Mrs. Hilson was stretched on a sofa, in a very
elegant morning-gown, reading a novel of very doubtful
morality. Patsey offered her hand, which was taken quite
cavalierly.
“Well, Patsey,” she said, “I hope you have not come to
be a spy upon me.”
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“I have come to see you, because I wish to be of service
to you, Julianna.”
“Then, my dear child, you must bring his High-Mightiness,
my jealous husband to reason,” said the lady, smoothing
a fold in her dress. Patsey made no answer, and Mrs. Hilson
looked up. “If you are going to join the rest of them
against me, why I shall have nothing to do with you; all
the prim prudes in the world won't subdue me, as my goodman
might have found out already.”
“Where is your husband?” asked Miss Patsey, gravely,
but quietly.
“I am sure I don't know; he has been pleased to abandon
me, for no reason whatever, but because I chose to enjoy the
liberty of all women of fortune in aristocratic circles. I
would not submit to be made a slave, like most ladies in this
country, as Mrs. Bagman says. I choose to associate with
whom I please, gentlemen or ladies. What is it makes the
patrician orders so delightful in Europe?—all those who know
anything about it, will tell you that it is because the married
women are not slaves; they have full liberty, and do just
as they fancy, and have as many admirers as they please;
this very book that I am reading says so. That is the way
things are managed in high life in Europe.”
“What sort of liberty is it you wish for, Julianna? The
liberty to do wrong? Or the liberty to trifle with your reputation?”
Mrs. Hilson pouted, but made no answer.
“I cannot think the kind of liberty you speak of is common
among good women anywhere,” continued Patsey, “and I
don't think you can know so much about what you call high
life in Europe, Julianna, for you have never been there. I
am sure at least, that in this country the sort of liberty you
seem to be talking about, is only common in very low life;
you will find enough of it even here, among the most ignerant
and worst sort of people,” said Miss Patsey, quietly.
Mrs. Hilson looked provoked. “Well, you are civil, I
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must say, Miss Patsey Hubbard; of all the brutal speeches
that have been made me of late, I must say that yours is the
worst!”
“I speak the truth, though I speak plainly, Julianna.'
“Yes, plainly enough; very different from the refinement
of Mrs. Bagman, I can assure you; she would be the last
person to come and tyrannize over me, when I am a victim
to my husband's jealousy. But I have not a creature near
me to sympathize with me!”
“Do not say that; your father is down-stairs, grown old
with grief during the last week!”
Mrs. Hilson did not answer.
“You have known me all your life, from the time vou
were a child,” added Miss Patsey, taking her cousin's passive
hand in her own; “and I ask, if you have ever known me
to deceive you by an untruth?”
“I am sure I don't know,” replied her cousin, carelessly.
“Yes, you do know it, Julianna. Trust me, then; do
not shut your ears and your eyes to the truth! You are in
a very dangerous situation; look upon me as your friend;
let me stay with you; let me help you! My only motive is
your own good; even if I believed you really guilty, I should
have come to you; but I do not believe you guilty!”
“I am much obliged to you,” said her cousin, lightly.
“But I happen to know myself that I have committed no
such high crime and misdemeanour.”
“Yes, you have trifled so far with your reputation, that
the world believes you guilty, Julianna.”
“Not fashionable people. I might have gone on for years,
enjoying the friendship of an elegant lady like Mrs. Bagman,
and receiving the polite attentions of a French nobleman,
had it not been for the countrified notions of Pa and Mr.
Hilson; and now, I am torn from my friends, I am calumniated,
and the Baron accused of being an impostor! But
the fact is, as Mrs. Bagman says, Mr. Hilson never has understood
me!”
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Patsey closed her eyes that night with a heavy heart. She
did not seem to have produced the least impression on Mrs.
Hilson.
How few people are aware of the great dangers of that
common foible, vanity! And yet it is the light feather that
wings many a poisoned dart; it is the harlequin leader of a
vile crew of evils. Generally, vanity is looked upon as
merely a harmless weakness, whose only penalty is ridicule;
but examine its true character, and you will find it to be one
of the most dangerous, and at the same time one of the most
contemptible failings of humanity. There is not a vice with
which it has not been, time and again, connected; there is
not a virtue that has not been tainted by its touch. Men are
vain of their vices, vain of their virtues; and although pride
and vanity have been declared incompatible, probably there
never lived a proud man, who was not vain of his very pride.
A generous aspect is, however, sometimes assumed by pride;
but vanity is inalterably contemptible in its selfish littleness,
its restless greediness. Who shall tell its victims?—who
shall set bounds to its triumphs? Reason is more easily
blinded by vanity than by sophistry; time and again has
vanity misdirected feeling; often has vanity roused the most
violent passions. Many have been enticed on to ruin, step
by step, with the restless lure of vanity, until they became
actually guilty of crimes, attributed to some more sudden,
and stronger impulse. How many people run into extravagance,
and waste their means, merely from vanity! How
many young men commence a career of folly and wickedness,
impelled by the miserable vanity of daring what others
dare! How many women have trifled with their own peace,
their own reputation, merely because vanity led them to receive
the first treacherous homage of criminal admiration,
when whispered in the tones of false sentiment and flattery!
The triumphs of vanity would form a melancholy picture,
indeed, but it is one the world will never pause to look at.
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The eldest daughter of Mr. Hubbard, the worthy Longbridge
merchant, without strong passions, without strong
temptations, was completely the victim of puerile vanity.
The details of her folly are too unpleasant to dwell on; but
the silly ambition of playing the fine lady, after the pattern
of certain European novels, themselves chiefly representing
the worst members of the class they claim to depict, was
the cause of her ruin. She had so recklessly trifled with
her reputation, that although her immediate friends did not
believe the worst, yet with the world her character was irretrievably
lost. At five-and-twenty she had already sacrificed
her own peace; she had brought shame on her husband's
name, and had filled with the bitterest grief, the heart of an
indulgent father. Happily, her mother was in the grave,
and she had no children to injure by her misconduct.
Patsey Hubbard continued unwearied in her kind endeavours
to be of service to her kinswoman; anxious to awaken
her to a sense of her folly, and to withdraw her from the
influence of bad associates.
“It is right that society should discountenance a woman
who behaves as Julianna has done,” said she one day, to
Mrs. Hubbard, on returning home; “but, oh, mother, her
own family surely, should never give her up while there is
breath in her body!”
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CHAPTER XVI.
“That which you hear, you'll swear you see,
There is such unity in the proofs.”
Winter's Tale.
When Hazlehurst arrived at the little village in the neighbourhood
of Greatwood, he was so fortunate as to find that
many persons among the older members of the community,
had a perfect recollection of William Stanley, and were ready
to testify, to the best of their knowledge, as to any particulars
that might be of service in the case.
His first inquiry was, for the young man's nurse. He
discovered that she had recently removed into a neighbouring
state, with the son, in whose family she had lived since
leaving the Stanleys. As soon as Harry had accompanied
Mrs. Stanley to Greatwood, he set out in pursuit of this
person, from whom he hoped to obtain important evidence.
On arriving at the place where she was not to be found, he
was much disappointed, for her faculties had been so much
impaired by a severe attack of paralysis, that he could learn
but little from her. She seemed to have cherished a warm
affection for the memory of William Stanley, whose loss at
sea she had never doubted. Whenever his name was mentioned
she wept, and she spoke with feeling and respect of
the young man's parents. But her mind was much confused,
and it was impossible to make any use of her testimony
in a court of justice.
Thus thrown back upon those who had a less intimate
personal knowledge of the young man, Harry pursued his
inquiries among the families about Greatwood, and the village
of Franklin Cross-Roads. With the exception of a few newcomers,
and those who were too young to recollect eighteen
years back, almost everybody in the neighbourhood had had
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some acquaintance with William Stanley. He had been to
school with this one; he had sat in church, in the pew next
to that family; he had been the constant playfellow of A—;
and he had drawn B— into more than one scrape. Numerous
stories sprang up right and left, as to his doings when
a boy; old scenes were acted over again, and past events,
mere trifles perhaps at the time, but gaining importance from
she actual state of things, were daily brought to light; there
seemed no lack of information connected with the subject.
We must observe, however, before we proceed farther, that
Hazlehurst had no sooner arrived at Greatwood, than he went
to look after the set of the Spectator, to which the volume produced
at the interview had belonged. He found the books
in their usual place on an upper shelf, with others seldom
used; every volume had the double names of Mr. Stanley
and his son, but the set was not complete; there was not only
one volume missing, but two were wanting! Hazlehurst
sprang from the steps on which he was standing, when he
made this discovery, and went immediately in pursuit of Mrs.
Stanley, to inquire if she knew which volume was originally
missing. She could not be sure, but she believed it was the
eighth. Such was the fact; the eighth volume was not in
its place, neither was the sixth, that which Mr. Clapp had
in his possession; yet Mrs. Stanley was convinced, that only
two years previously, there had been but one volume lost.
Harry tried to revive his recollection of the time and place,
when and where, he had read that volume, with the portrait
of Steele, and Addison's papers on the Paradise Lost; he
should have felt sure it was at Greatwood, not long before
going abroad with Mr. Henley, had it not been, that he found
his brother had the very same edition in Philadelphia, and
he might have read it there. He also endeavoured to discover
when and how the second missing volume had been
removed from its usual place on the shelf. But this was no
easy task; neither the housekeeper—a respectable woman,
in whom Mrs. Stanley and himself had perfect confidence—
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nor the servants, could form even a surmise upon the subject.
At last Harry thought he had obtained a clue to everything;
he found that two strangers had been at Greatwood in the
month of March, that year, and had gone over the whole
house, representing themselves as friends of the family.
The housekeeper had forgotten their visit, until Harry's inquiries
reminded her of the fact; she then gave him the
name of the young woman who had gone over the house
with these two individuals. This girl was no longer at
Greatwood, but in the neighbouring village; at Mrs. Stanley's
request, however, she came to give a report of the circumstance.
“It was in March these two strangers were here, you say,
Malvina?” observed Mrs. Stanley.
“Yes, ma'am; it was in March, when the roads were
very bad.”
“What sort of looking persons were they, and how old
should you have called them?” asked Hazlehurst.
“One was a tall and slim gentleman, with curly hair; the
other looked kind o'rough, he was stout, and had a red face;
they wasn't very young, nor very old.”
“Tell us, if you please, all you remember about their
visit, just as it passed,” said Harry.
“Well, it happened Mrs. Jones was sick in her room when
they called; they wanted to see the house, saying they knew
the family very well. I asked them to sit down in the hall,
while I went to tell Mrs. Jones; she hadn't any objections,
and told me to show them the rooms they wanted to see.
So I took them over the house—first parlours, then the
other rooms.”
“Did they ask to see the bed-rooms?”
“Yes, sir; they went over all the house but the garret;
they went into the kitchen and the pantry.”
“Did they stay some time?”
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Jones wondered they staid so long.”
“Did they go into the library?”
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“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember whether they looked at the books?”
“No; they didn't stay more than a minute in the library.”
“Are you sure they did not look at any of the books?”
repeated Harry.
“I am quite sure they didn't, for the room was too dark,
and they only staid half-a-minute. I asked them if I should
open the shutters; but one of them said they didn't care; he
said he was never over-fond of books.”
Mrs. Stanley and Harry here exchanged looks of some
surprise.
“Did they talk much to each other?—do you remember
what they said?” continued Harry.
“Yes, they talked considerable. I reckon they had been
here before, for they seemed to know a good deal about the
house. When I showed them the south parlour, the gentleman
with the red face said everything looked natural to him,
but that room most of all; then he pointed to the large chair
by the fire-place, and said: `That is where I last saw my
father, in that very chair; he was a good old gentleman, and
deserved to have a better son.”'
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
“But, my dear madam, it was all acting no doubt; they
wished to pass for the characters they have since assumed;
it only proves that the plot has been going on for some time.”
“Do you remember anything else that was said?” added
Hazlehurst, turning again to the girl.
“They talked considerable, but I didn't pay much attention.
They inquired when Mr. Hazlehurst was coming
home; I said I didn't know. The one with the curly hair
said he guessed they knew more about the family than I did;
and he looked queer when he said so.”
Nothing further was gathered from this girl, who bore an
excellent character for truth and honesty, though rather stupid.
The volume of the Spectator still remained as much a mystery
as ever. Nor did a second conversation with this young
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woman bring to light anything new; her answers on both
occasions corresponded exactly; and beyond proving the fact
of Clapp's having been over the house with the sailor, nothing
was gained from her report. At the second conversation,
Harry asked if she knew whether these strangers had
remained long in the neighbourhood?
“I saw them the next day at meeting,” she replied, “and
Jabez told me he met them walking about the place; that is
all I know about it, sir.”
Jabez, one of the men on the farm, was questioned: he
had seen these two strangers walking about the place, looking
at the barns and stables, the same day they had been at the
house; but he had not spoken to them; and this was the
amount of his story.
Harry then inquired at the taverns in the neighbourhood;
and he found that two persons, answering to the same description,
had staid a couple of days, about the middle of
March, at a small inn, within half a mile from Greatwood.
Their bill had been made out in the name of “Mr. Clapp
and friend.” This was satisfactory as far as it went, and
accounted for the sailor's knowledge of the house; though
Mrs. Stanley could not comprehend at first, how this man
should have pointed out so exactly, her husband's favourite
seat. Harry reminded her, however, that Clapp had passed
several years of his youth at Franklin Cross-Roads, in a
lawyer's office, and had very probably been at Greatwood
during Mr. Stanley's life-time.
Hazlehurst had drawn up a regular plan of action for his
inquiries; and after having discovered who could assist him,
and who could not, he portioned off the neighbourhood into
several divisions, intending to devote a day to each—calling
at every house where he hoped to gain information on the
subject of William Stanley.
He set out on horseback early in the morning, for his first
day's circuit, taking a note-book in his pocket, to record facts
as he went along, and first turning his horse's head towards
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the house of Mrs. Lawson, who had been a constant play-fellow
of William Stanley's, when both were children. This
lady was one of a large family, who had been near neighbours
of the Stanleys for years, and on terms of daily intimacy
with them; and she had already told Harry, one day
when she met him in the village, that she held herself in
readiness to answer, to the best of her ability, any questions
about her former playmate, that he might think it worth while
to ask. On knocking at this lady's door, he was so fortunate
as to find Mrs. Lawson at home; and, by especial luck, Dr.
Lewis, a brother of her's, who had removed from that part
of the country, happened just then to be on a visit at his
sister's.
After a little preliminary chat, Hazlehurst made known
the particular object of his call.
“Do I remember William Stanley's personal appearance
and habits? Perfectly; quite as well as I do my own brother's,”
replied the doctor, to Harry's first inquiry.
“Mrs. Lawson told me that he used to pass half his time
at your father's house, and kindly offered to assist me, as far
as lay in her power; and I look upon myself as doubly fortunate
in finding you here to-day. We wish, of course, to
collect as many minute details as possible, regarding Mr.
Stanley's son, as we feel confident, from evidence already in
our power, that this new-comer is an impostor.”
“No doubt of it,” replied the doctor; “an extravagant
story, indeed! Nearly eighteen years as still as a mouse,
and then coolly stepping in, and claiming a property worth
some hundreds of thousands. A clear case of conspiracy,
without doubt.”
“Poor William was no saint, certainly,” added Mrs. Lawson;
“but this sailor must be a very bad man.”
“Pray, when did you last see young Stanley?” asked
Harry, of the lady.
“When he was at home, not long before his father's death.
He held out some promise of reforming, then. Billings,
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who first led him into mischief, was not in the neighbourhood
at that time, and his father had hopes of him; but some of
his old companions led him off again.”
“He must have been a boy of strange temper, to leave
home under such circumstances; an only son, with such
prospects before him.”
“Yes, his temper was very unpleasant; but then, Mr.
Stanley, the father, did not know how to manage him.”
“He could scarcely have had much sense either, to have
been so easily led astray by a designing young fellow, as
that Billings seems to have been.”
“Flattery; flattery did it all,” observed the doctor. “Some
people thought young Stanley little more than half-witted;
but I have always maintained that he was not wanting in
sense.”
“I don't see how you can say so, doctor,” observed the
sister. I am sure it was a settled thing among us children,
that he was a very stupid, disagreeable boy. He never took
much interest in our plays, I remember.”
“Not in playing doll-baby, perhaps; but I have had many
a holiday with him that I enjoyed very much, I can tell you.
He never had a fancy for a book, that is true; but otherwise
he was not so very dull as some people make out.”
“He had the reputation of being a dull boy, had he?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Mrs. Lawson. “At one time, when
we were quite children, we all took arithmetic lessons together,
and he was always at the foot of the class.”
“He had no head for figures, perhaps; it is more likely,
though, that he wouldn't learn out of obstinacy; he was as
obstinate as a mule, that I allow.”
“What sort of games and plays did he like best?”
“I don't know that he liked one better than another, so
long as he could choose himself,” replied Dr. Lewis.
“Was he a strong, active boy?”
“Not particularly active, but a stout, healthy lad.”
“Disposed to be tall?”
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“Tallish: the last time he was here, he must have measured
about five feet ten.”
“Oh, more than that,” interposed Mrs. Lawson; “he was
taller than our eldest brother, I know—full six feet one, I
should say.”
“No, no, Sophia; certainly not more than five feet nine
or ten. Remember, you were a little thing yourself at the
time.”
“Do you remember the colour of his eyes, Mrs. Lawson?”
“Yes, perfectly; they were blue.”
“Brown, I should say,” added the doctor.
“No, John, you are quite mistaken; his eyes were blue,
Mr. Hazlehurst—very dark blue.”
“I could have taken my oath they were brown,” said the
doctor.
Hazlehurst looked from one to the other in doubt.
“You were away from home, doctor, more than I was, and
probably do not remember William's face as distinctly as I
do. I am quite confident his eyes were a clear, deep blue.”
“Well, I should have called them a light brown.”
“Were they large?” asked Harry.
“Of a common size, I think,” said the brother.
“Remarkably small, I should say,” added the sister.
“What colour was his hair?” asked Harry, giving up the
eyes.
“Black,” said the doctor.
“Not black, John—dark perhaps, but more of an auburn,
like his father's portrait,” said Mrs. Lawson.
“Why, that is black, certainly.”
“Oh, no; auburn—a rich, dark auburn.”
“There is a greyish cast in that portrait, I think,” said
Harry.
“Grey, oh, no; Mr. Stanley's hair was in perfect colour
when he died; I remember him distinctly, seeing him as
often as I did,” said the lady. “The hair of the Stanley
family is generally auburn,” she added.
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“What do you call auburn?” said the doctor.
“A dark, rich brown, like William Stanley's.”
“Now I call Mr. Robert Hazlehurst's hair auburn.”
“My brother's hair! Why that is sometimes pronounced
sandy, and even red, occasionally,” said Harry.
“Not red; Lawson's hair is red.”
“Mr. Lawson's hair is more of a flaxen shade,” said the
wife, a little quickly.
Despairing of settling the particular shade of the hair,
Harry then inquired if there was any strongly marked peculiarity
of face or person about William Stanley?
Here both agreed that they had never remarked anything
of the kind; it appeared that the young man was made
more like the rest of the world, than became the hero of such
a singular career.
“Do you think you should know him, if you were to see
him again, after such a long interval?”
“Well, I don't know,” said the doctor; “some people
change very much, from boys to middle-aged manhood, others
alter but little.”
“I have no doubt that I could tell in a moment, if this
person is William Stanley or an impostor,” said Mrs. Lawson.
“Think how much we were together, as children; for ten
years of his life, he was half the time at our house. I am
sure if this sailor were William Stanley, he would have
come to see some of us, long since.”
“Did he visit you when he was last at Greatwood?”
“No, he did not come at that time; but I saw him very
often in the village, and riding about.”
“Do you remember his stuttering at all?”
“No; I never heard him that I know of; I don't believe
he ever stuttered.”
“He did stutter once in a while, Sophia, when he was in
a passion.”
“I never heard him.”
“Young Stanley had one good quality, Mr. Hazlehurst,
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with all his faults; he spoke the truth—you could believe
what he said.”
“My good brother, you are mistaken there, I can assure
you. Time and again have I known him tell falsehoods
when he got into a scrape; many is the time he has coaxed
and teased, till he got us children into mischief—he was a
great tease, you know—”
“Not more so than most boys,” interposed the doctor.
“And after he had got us into trouble, I remember perfectly,
that he would not acknowledge it was his fault. Oh,
no; you could not by any means depend upon what he said.”
“Was he much of a talker?”
“No, rather silent.”
“Quite silent:” both brother and sister were in unison
here, at last.
“He was good-looking, you think, Mrs. Lawson?”
“Oh, yes, good-looking, certainly,” replied the lady.
“Rather good-looking; but when he was last at home, his
features had grown somewhat coarse, and his expression was
altered for the worse,” said the doctor.
“He was free with his money, I believe?”
“Very extravagant,” said Mrs. Lawson.
“He didn't care a fig for money, unless it was refused
him,” said the doctor.
“Was there anything particular about his teeth?”
“He had fine teeth,” said Mrs. Lawson; “but he did not
show them much.”
“A good set of teeth, if I remember right,” added the
doctor.
“His complexion was rather dark, I believe?” said Harry.
“More sallow than dark,” said the lady.
“Not so very sallow,” said the gentleman.
“You asked just now about his eyes, Mr. Hazlehurst; it
strikes me they were much the colour of yours.”
“But mine are grey,” said Harry.
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“More of a hazel, I think.”
“Oh, no; William Stanley's eyes were as different as
possible from Mr. Hazlehurst's, in colour and shape!” exclaimed
the lady.
The conversation continued some time longer, but the
specimen just given will suffice to show its character; nothing
of importance was elicited, and not one point decidedly settled,
which had not been already known to Harry. He continued
his round of visits throughout the day, with much the same
result. The memories of the people about Greatwood seemed
to be playing at cross-purposes; and yet there was no doubt,
that all those persons to whom Hazlehurst applied, had known
young Stanley for years; and there was every reason to
believe they were well disposed to give all the evidence in
their power.
From Mrs. Lawson's, Harry went to the house of another
acquaintance, a Captain Johnson; and the following is the
amount of what he gathered here, as it was hastily entered
in his note-book:
“Eyes grey; hair black; rather stout for his age; sullen
temper; very dull; bad company cause of his ruin; not
cold-hearted; stuttered a little when excited; expression good
when a boy, but much changed when first came home from
sea; Billings the cause of his ruin.”
So much for Captain Johnson. The next stopping-place
was at a man's, by the name of Hill, who had been coachman
at Mr. Stanley's for several years; his account follows:
“Hill says: `Would get in a passion when couldn't have
his own way; have heard him stutter; always in some scrape
or other after first went to college; eyes blue; hair brown;
sharp enough when he pleased, but always heard he hated
books; short for his age when first went to sea, and thin;
had grown three or four inches when he came back; should
have thought him five feet eight or nine, when last saw him;
face grown fuller and red, when came home.”'
From Hill's, Harry went to see Mr. Anderson, who had
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kept the principal tavern at Franklin Cross-Roads, during
William Stanely's boyhood; but he was not at home.
He then called at Judge Stone's: “Mrs. S. thought him
handsome young man; judge, quite ugly; husband says
eyes a greenish colour; wife thinks were dark brown; height
about my own, said judge; not near so tall, says Mrs. S.:
both agreed he was morose in temper, and dull at learning.”
At several other places where Harry called, he found that
William Stanley had been merely known by sight. Others
related capital stories of scrapes, in which they had been
implicated with the boy, but could tell Harry very little to
the purpose, where it came to particular questions. Three
individuals pronounced him tall, four thought he was middle-sized,
two declared he was short. Two inferences, however,
might be drawn from all that had been said: William Stanley
must have been of an unpleasant temper; while general evidence
pronounced him rather more dull than most boys.
With these two facts at least sufficiently well established,
while his head was filled with contradictory visions, of hair
eyes, and complexion, of various shades and colours, Harry
returned in the evening, quite jaded and worn-out with his
day's exertions; not the least of which had been, to reconcile
totally opposite accounts on a dozen different points.
Mrs. Stanley was awaiting his return with much anxiety;
and while Harry was drinking an excellent cup of tea—the
most refreshing thing in the world to a person who is fatigued,
even in warm weather—he reported his day's work. His
friend seemed to think the account anything but encouraging;
though Harry declared, that it was well worth the labour and
vexation to establish the two facts, regarding the young man's
capacity and temper, in which respects he certainly differed
from the claimant.
“What miserable hypocrites both this man and his lawyer
must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
“Hypocrisy figures often enough in courts of justice,
ma'am, and is only too often successful for a time.”
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“I am afraid, my dear Harry, they will give you a great
deal of trouble!”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Hazlehurst; “but still I
hope to defeat them, and in the end, to punish their vile conspiracy.”
“A defeat would be distressing to both Mr. Wyllys and
myself; but to you, my dear young friend, it would be
serious indeed!” she observed, with feeling.
“We shall yet gain the day, I trust,” said Harry. “The
consequences of defeat would indeed be very serious to me,”
he added. “In such a case I should lose everything, and a
little more, as Paddy would say. I made a deliberate calculation
the other day, and I find, after everything I own has
been given up, that there would still be a debt of some thirty
thousand dollars to pay off.”
“It is wise, I suppose, to be prepared for the worst,” said
Mrs. Stanley, sadly; “but in such a case, Harry, you must
look to your friends. Remember, that I should consider it a
duty to assist you, in any pecuniary difficulties which might
result from a defeat.”
“You are very good, ma'am; I am grateful for the offer.
In case of our failure, I should certainly apply to my immediate
friends, for I could never bear the thought of being in
debt to those rascals. But if the affair turns out in that way,
I must stay at home and work hard, to clear myself entirely.
I am young, and if we fail to repel this claim, still I shall
hope by industry and prudence, to discharge all obligations
before I am many years older.”
“I have never doubted, Harry, that in either case you
would do what is just and honourable; but I mourn that
there should be any danger of such a sacrifice.”
“It would be a sacrifice, indeed; including much that I
have valued heretofore—tastes, habits, partialities, prospects,
fortune, hopes—all must undergo a change, all must be
sacrificed.”
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“And hopes are often a precious part of a young man's
portion,” said Mrs. Stanley.
Hazlehurst happened to raise his eyes as she spoke, and,
from the expression of her face, he fancied that she was
thinking of Mrs. Creighton. He changed colour, and remained
silent a moment.
“You would be compelled to give up your connexion
with Mr. Henley,” she observed, by way of renewing the
conversation.
“Yes, of course; I should have to abandon that, I could
not afford it; I should have to devote myself to my profession.
I have no notion, however, of striking my colours to these
land-pirates until after a hard battle, I assure you,” he said,
more cheerfully. “Great generals always prepare for a retreat,
and so shall I, but only as the last extremity. Indeed,
I think our affairs look more encouraging just now. It seems
next to impossible, for such a plot to hold together in all its
parts; we shall be able probably, to find out more than one
weak point which will not bear an attack.”
“It is certainly important to establish the difference in
temper and capacity, between the claimant and William
Stanley,” said Mrs. Stanley.
“Highly important; Ellsworth is hard at work, too, in
tracing the past life of the sailor, and by his last letters, I
find he had written to young Stanley's school-master, and to
the family physician. He had seen the sailor, and in addition
to Mr. Wyllys's remarks upon his gait, which is different
from that of William when a boy, Ellsworth writes,
that he was very much struck with the shape of the man's
limbs, so different from those of the portrait of Mr. Stanley's
son, when a lad, which they have at Wyllys-Roof; he thinks
the family physician may help him there; fortunately, he is
still living.”
“It is a great pity the nurse's faculties should have failed!”
exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.
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“Yes, it's a pity, indeed; her evidence would have been
very important. But we shall do without her, I hope.”
“Are you going to Wyllys-Roof again, before the trial?”
“No; I shall have too much to do, here and in Philadelphia.
Mr. Wyllys has kindly asked me, however, to go
there, as soon as the matter is settled, whether for good or
for evil.”
“I thought I heard you talking over with Mr. de Vaux,
some boating excursion, to take place in August, from Longbridge;
has it been given up?”
“Not given up; but de Vaux very good-naturedly proposed
postponing it, until after my affairs were settled. It is
to take place as soon as I am ready; whether I shall join it
with flying colours, or as a worsted man, time alone can
decide.”
The mail was just then brought in; as usual there was a
letter for Harry, from Ellsworth.
“Wyllys-Roof, August, 183-.
“Our application to the family physician proves entirely
successful, my dear Hazlehurst; my physiological propensities
were not at fault. I had a letter last evening from Dr.
H—, who now lives in Baltimore, and he professes himself
ready to swear to the formation of young Stanley's hands
and feet, which he says resembled those of Mr. Stanley, the
father, and the three children, who died before William S.
grew up. His account agrees entirely with the portrait of
the boy, as it now exists at Wyllys-Roof; the arms and hands
are long, the fingers slender, nails elongated; as you well
know, Mr. Clapp's client is the very reverse of this—his
hands are short and thick, his fingers what, in common parlance,
would be called dumpy. I was struck with the fact
when I first saw him in the street. Now, what stronger
evidence could we have? A slender lad of seventeen may
become a heavy, corpulent man of forty, but to change the
formation of hands, fingers, and nails, is beyond the reach of
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even Clapp's cunning. We are much obliged to the artist,
for his accuracy in representing the hands of the boy exactly
as they were. This testimony I look upon as quite conclusive.
As to the Rev. Mr. G—, whose pupil young Stanley
was for several years, we find that he is no longer living;
but I have obtained the names of several of the young man's
companions, who will be able to confirm the fact of his dullness;
several of the professors at the University are also
living, and will no doubt be able to assist us. I have written
a dozen letters on these points, but received no answers as
yet. So far so good; we shall succeed, I trust. Mr. Wyllys
bids you not forget to find out if Clapp has really been at
Greatwood, as we suspected. The ladies send you many
kind and encouraging messages. Josephine, as usual, sympathizes
in all our movements. She says: `Give Mr. Hazlehurst
all sorts of kind greetings from me; anything you
please short of my love, which would not be proper, I suppose.
' I had a charming row on the river last evening, with
the ladies. I never managed a law-suit in such agreeable
quarters before.
“Faithfully yours,
“F. E.”
CHAPTER XVII.
“What say you, can you love this gentleman?”
Romeo and Juliet.
Jane's strength and spirits were gradually improving.
She had been persuaded to take a daily airing, and had consented
to see one or two of the ladies in her room. Mr.
Wyllys always passed half an hour with her, every afternoon;
and at length she came down stairs, and joined the
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family in the drawing-room, for a short time in the evening.
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, who came from Philadelphia
to pass a day or two with her, found her much better
than they had expected.
Charlie Hubbard returned to the grey cottage, with his
portfolio full of sketches, intending to pass several months at
home, in finishing his pictures of Lake George; the school-room
having been converted into a painting-room for his use.
Miss Patsey's little flock were dispersed for a time; and
Charlie was even in hopes of persuading his mother and
sister to accompany him to New York, where Mary Hubbard,
the youngest sister, was now engaged in giving music-lessons.
He felt himself quite a rich man, and drew up a
plausible plan for hiring a small house in some cheap situation,
where they might all live together; but Miss Patsey
shook her head, she thought they could not afford it. Still,
it was delightful to her, to listen to plans devised by Charlie's
warm heart; she seemed to love him more than ever, since
he had even sacrificed his moustaches to his mother's prejudice
against such foreign fashions.
“Keep your money, Charles; we can make out very well
in the old cottage; more comfortably than we have ever done
before. You will want all you can make one of these days,
when you marry,” said Miss Patsey.
To her surprise, Charlie showed some emotion at this
allusion to his marrying, and remained perfectly silent for an
instant, instead of giving the playful answer that his sister
had expected to her.
Mrs. Hubbard then observed, that she should not wish to
move; she hoped to end her life in the old grey cottage.
They had lived so long in the neighbourhood of Longbridge,
that a new place would not seem like home to Patsey and
herself. Charlie must come to see them as often as he could;
perhaps he would be able to spend his summers there.
“Well, we shall see, mother; at any rate, Mary and I
together, we shall be able to make your life easy, I trust.”
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Mrs. Hubbard observed, that although they had been poor
for the last seventeen years, yet they had never really seemed
to feel the weight of poverty; they had met with so much
kindness, from so many relations aud friends.
“But kindness from our own children, mother, is the most
blessed of all,” said Patsey.
Charlie did not give up his plan, however, but he forbore
to press it for the present, as he was engaged to drive his
sister, Mrs. Clapp, to her own house at Longbridge. Hubbard
had kept aloof from his brother-in-law whenever he
could, since the Stanley suit had been commenced; any allusion
to this affair was painful to him; he had never respected
Mr. Clapp, and now strongly suspected him of unfair dealing.
He pitied his sister Kate from the bottom of his heart; but
it seemed pity quite thrown away. To judge from her conversation,
as Charlie was driving her home, she had implicit
confidence in her husband; if she had at first doubted the
identity of the sailor, she had never for a second supposed,
that William himself was not firmly convinced of it. On
the other hand, she began to have some misgivings as to the
character and integrity of Mr. Wyllys, whom hitherto, all
her life long, she had been used to consider as the model of
a gentleman, and an upright man. She soon got up quite a
prejudice against Mrs. Stanley; and as for Hazlehurst, he
fell very low indeed in her estimation.
“You don't know what trouble poor William has with this
suit,” she said to her brother. “I am sometimes afraid it
will make him sick. It does seem very strange, that Mr.
Stanley's executors should be so obstinate in refusing to
acknowledge his son. At first it was natural they should
hesitate; I mistrusted this sailor at first, myself; but now
that William has made everything so clear, they cannot have
any excuse for their conduct.”
Charlie whipped the flies from his horse, without answering
this remark.
“I hope William will come home to-night. He and Mr.
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Stanley have gone off together, to get possession of some
very important papers; they received a letter offering these
papers, only the night before last, and William says they will
establish Mr. Stanley's claim, beyond the possibility of a
denial. Mr. Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst will feel very badly,
I should think, when they find that after all, they have been
keeping their friend's son from his rights.”
“They believe they are doing their duty,” said Charlie,
laconically.
“It seems a strange view of duty, to act as they do.”
“Strange views of duty are very common,” said Charlie,
glad to take refuge in generalities.
“Common sense and common honesty will help us all to
do our duty,” observed Kate.
“No doubt; but both are more uncommon qualities than
one would think, among rational beings,” said Charlie.
“Well, you know, Charles, Patsey used to tell us when
we were children, that a plain, honest heart, and plain, good
sense were the best things in the world.”
“That is the reason, I suppose, why we love our sister
Patsey so much, because she has so much of those best
things in the world,” said Charlie, warmly. “I never saw
a woman like her, for downright, plain goodness. The older
I grow, the better I know her; and I love you, Kate, for the
same reason—you are straightforward and honest, too,” he
added, smiling.
“William often laughs at me, though, and says my opinion
is not good for much,” said the sister, shaking her head, but
smiling prettily at the same time.
“I am sure no one can complain of your actions, Kate,
whatever your opinions may be,” replied Charlie; and whatever
might have been his estimate of Clapp's views, he forbore
to utter a syllable on the subject; for he respected the
wife's affection, and knew that his brother-in-law had at least
one good quality—he was kind and faithful as a husband
and father, according to common-place ideas of faithfulness
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at least; for he would any day risk their character and peace,
to make a little money.
The conversation of the young people soon turned upon
their trifling, foolish, unfortunate cousin, Mrs. Hilson; and
this was a subject, upon which both brother and sister agreed
entirely. Before long, they drove up to Mr. Clapp's door,
and were received by the lawyer himself, who had just returned
with his client; this latter individual was also seen
lounging in the office. Mr. Clapp professed himself entirely
satisfied with the result of his journey, and declared that
they were now quite ready for Mr. Hazlehurst—sure of a
victory, beyond all doubt.
The time had not been lost by Harry and his friends, however;
they too, thought themselves ready for the trial. As
the important day was drawing near, Mr. Ellsworth was
obliged to leave Wyllys-Roof; he had done all he could at
Longbridge, and there were still various matters to be looked
after in Philadelphia. Mrs. Creighton accompanied her
brother, and they were not to return to Wyllys-Roof until
after the important question was decided. Hazlehurst was
then to come with them; whether defeated or triumphant
could not yet be known. Harry's friends, however, were
generally sanguine; and Mrs. Creighton was full of sympathy,
and in excellent spirits.
There remained another affair, which must also be finally
settled in a few weeks. When Mr. Ellsworth returned to
Wyllys-Roof, the appointed three months of probation would
have expired, and he would either remain there as the
affianced husband of Elinor, or leave Longbridge her rejected
suitor.
During the past three months, Elinor had taken an important
step in life; she had reached a point in experience,
where she had never stood before. The whole responsibility
of deciding upon a subject, highly important to herself, and
to those connected with her, had been thrown entirely upon
her alone. The fate of her whole life would be much
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involved in the present decision. During the last two or three
years, or in other words, since she had first discovered that
Harry loved Jane, she had intended to remain single. It
seemed very improbable to her, that any one would seek to
gain her affections, unless with the view of enjoying the
fortune which she had now the reputation of possessing; it
was only natural that she should exaggerate those personal
disadvantages, which had lost the heart of him whom she
had once loved so truly. She had been so much attached
to Hazlehurst, that she shrunk from the idea of ever becoming
the wife of another; and she considered herself as having
tacitly made choice of a single life, which her mother's letter
seemed to suggest. But as she never spoke of her views,
or alluded to them, her grandfather and aunt were ignorant
of this intention; and she soon began to observe with regret
that they wished her to marry, and were indeed anxious that
she should accept Mr. Ellsworth. This was the first occasion
of any importance, on which their wishes and her own
had been at variance; it was a new position for Elinor to be
placed in. When Mr. Ellsworth made his proposal, it was
owing to the strong, but affectionate representations of Mr.
Wyllys and Miss Agnes, that he was not immediately rejected.
Elinor was, in fact, the last person to be convinced
of his regard for her; but she had known his character and
standing too well to believe him a mere fortune-hunter; and
after he had once offered himself, could not doubt his sincerity.
She mentioned to Miss Wyllys her previous intention
of remaining single.
“Make no rash decision, my love,” was the reply at the
time. “You are too reasonable, for me to believe that you
will do so; look at your own position, Elinor; you will be
alone in the world, more so than most women. Your grandfather
is advanced in years, and my health warns me not to
expect a long life. I do not wish to distress you, but to
place the truth plainly before you, my Elinor. You have
neither brother nor sister; Jane and Harry, your intimate
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companions in childhood, will be separated from you by ties
and duties of their own. What will you do, my child? An
affectionate disposition like yours cannot be happy alone.
On the other hand, here is Mr. Ellsworth, who is certainly
attached to you; a man of excellent character, with every
important quality that can be desired. You say you wish to
be reasonable; judge for yourself what is the wisest course
under these circumstances.”
Elinor was silent for a moment; at length she spoke.
“It has always been one of your own lessons to me,
dearest aunt, to profit by the past, to improve the present,
and leave the future to Providence. Yet, now, you would
have me think of the future only; and you urge me to marry,
while you are single, and happy, yourself!”
“Yes, my child; but I have had your grandfather and
you, to make me happy and useful. Most single women
have near relatives, to whom they can attach themselves,
whom it is a duty and a pleasure to love and serve; but that
is not your case. Elinor, your grandfather is very anxious
you should accept Mr. Ellsworth.”
“I know it,” said Elinor; “he has told me so himself.”
“He is anxious, dear, because from what he knows of Mr.
Ellsworth and yourself, he is convinced you would eventually
be happy; he fears you hesitate from some feeling of girlish
romance. Still, we have neither of us any wish to urge you
too far. Appeal to your own good, common sense, that is
all that can be desired; do not be romantic, dear, for the first
time in your life,” continued her aunt, smiling. “I know
the wishes of your friends will have some weight with you;
do not let them control you, however. Judge for yourself,
but take time to reflect; accept Mr. Ellsworth's own proposition—
wait some time before you give a final answer; that
is all that your grandfather and myself can ask.”
And such had been the decision; three months being the
time appointed. Since then, both Mr. Wyllys and Miss
Agnes had carefully refrained from expressing any farther
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opinion—they never even alluded to the subject, but left
Elinor to her own reflections. Such at least was their intention;
but their wishes were well known to her, and very
possibly, unconsciously influenced their conduct and manner,
in many daily trifles, in a way very evident to Elinor. In
the mean time, September had come, and the moment for
final decision was at hand. Mr. Ellsworth's conduct throughout
had been very much in his favour; he had been persevering
and marked in his attentions, without annoying by his
pertinacity. Elinor had liked him, in the common sense of
the word, from the first; and the better she knew him, the
more cause she found to respect his principles, and amiable
character. And yet, if left to her own unbiassed judgment,
she would probably have refused him at first, with no other
reluctance than that of wounding for a time the feelings of
a man she sincerely esteemed.
The morning that Mrs. Creighton and Mr. Ellsworth left
Wyllys-Roof, Elinor set out to take a stroll in the field, with
no other companion than her friend Bruno. The dog seemed
aware that his mistress was absent and thoughtful, more indifferent
than usual to his caresses and gambols; and, after
having made this observation, the sagacious animal seemed
determined not to annoy her, but walked soberly at her side,
or occasionally trotting on before, he would stop, turn towards
her, and sit in the path, looking at her as she slowly approached.
She had left the house, in order to avoid any
intrusion on her thoughts, at a moment which was an important
one to her; for she had determined, that after one
more thorough examination of her own feelings, her own
views, and the circumstances in which she was placed, the
question should be irrevocably settled—whether she were to
become the wife of Mr. Ellsworth, or to remain single. Many
persons may fancy this a very insignificant matter to decide,
and one that required no such serious attention. But to every
individual, that is a highly important point, which must necessarily
affect the whole future course of life; the choice
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which involves so intimate and indissoluble a relation, where
every interest in life is identical with one's own, is surely no
trifling concern. It may well be doubted, indeed, if even
with men it be not a matter of higher importance than is
commonly believed; observation, we think, would lead to
the opinion, that a wife's character and conduct have a
deeper and more general effect on the husband's career, for
good or for evil, through his opinions and actions, than the
world is aware of. This choice certainly appeared a much
more formidable step to Elinor, when Mr. Ellsworth was the
individual to be accepted or rejected, than it had when Harry
stood in the same position. In one case she had to reflect,
and ponder, and weigh all the different circumstances; in the
other, the natural bent of her affections had decided the question
before it was asked. But Elinor had, quite lately, settled
half-a-dozen similar affairs, with very little reflection indeed,
and without a moment's anxiety or regret; she had just refused,
with polite indifference, several proposals, from persons
whom she had every reason to believe, cared a great
deal for her fortune, and very little for herself. If thought
were more active than feeling, in behalf of Mr. Ellsworth,
still, thought said a great deal in his favour. She had always
liked and respected him; she believed him attached to her;
her nearest friends were anxious she should give a favourable
answer; there could not be a doubt that he possessed
many excellent and desirable qualities. She would not be
romantic, neither would she be unjust to Mr. Ellsworth and
herself; she would not accept him, unless she could do so
frankly, and without reluctance. This, then, was the question
to be decided—could she love Mr. Ellsworth? The
free, spontaneous love, natural to early youth, she had once
given to Hazlehurst; could she now offer to Mr. Ellsworth
sincere affection of another kind, less engrossing at first, less
mingled with the charms of fancy, but often, perhaps on that
account, more valuable, more enduring? Sincere affection
of any sort, is that only which improves with age, gaining
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strength amid the wear and tear of life. It was to decide
this question clearly, that Elinor had desired three months'
delay. These three months had nearly passed; when she
again met Mr. Ellsworth, in what character should she receive
him?
The precise train of thought pursued by Elinor, during
this morning stroll, we shall not attempt to follow; but that
she was fully aware of the importance of the decision was
evident, by the unusual absence of manner, which seemed
to have struck even her four-footed friend, Bruno. She had,
indeed, made an important discovery lately, one which was
startling, and even painful to her. She found that there are
moments in life, when each individual is called upon to think
and to act alone. It is a truth which most of us are forced
to feel, as we go through this world; though, happily, it is
but seldom that such hours occur. In general, the sympathy,
the counsel of friends, is of the very highest value; and yet,
there are moments when neither can avail. At such times,
we are forced to look higher, to acknowledge that human
wisdom does not reach far enough to guide us, that our
wounds need a purer balm than any offered by human sympathy.
Until recently, Elinor had always been soothed and
supported by the affection and guidance of her aunt, but she
must now depend upon herself alone. To a young person,
called upon for the first time to take an important step, with
no other guide than individual judgment and conscience, the
responsibility of action may well be startling; even a wise
and experienced man will often pause at such moments,
doubtful of the course he shall pursue. It is an easy matter
to settle a question, when passion, feeling, interest, or prejudice
gives the bias; but where these are all silent, and cool
judgment is left alone to decide, the greatest men feel, to a
painful degree, how limited are their powers; the high responsibility
which is attached to free-will rises before them,
and they shrink from the idea of trusting their own welfare
to their own short-sighted reason alone. Most men, at such
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times, take refuge in a sort of fatalism; they stand inactive,
until urged in this or that direction by the press of outward
circumstances; or they rush blindly forward, under impatience
of suspense, preferring risk to inaction.
The occasion of our young friend's anxiety and thoughtfulness
was, no doubt, a trifling one to all but herself; the cause
of her hesitation, however, was honourable; the opinions,
feelings, and motives under which she eventually acted, were
alike natural and creditable.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question, in the court?”
Merchant of Venice.
As the time for the trial approached, the parties collected
in Philadelphia. Harry and his friends were often seen in
the streets, looking busy and thoughtful. Mr. Reed also
appeared, and took up his quarters at one of the great hotels,
in company with Mr. Clapp and his client, who generally
received the name of William Stanley, although he had not
yet established a legal claim to it. There was much curiosity
to see this individual, as the case had immediately
attracted general attention in the town, where the families
interested were so well known, and the singular circumstances
of the suit naturally excited additional interest.
After the court opened its session, it became doubtful at one
moment, whether the cause would be tried at that term; but
others which preceded it having been disposed of, the Stanley
suit was at length called.
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On one side appeared William Stanley, the plaintiff, with
Messrs. Reed and Clapp as counsel; a number of witnesses
had been summoned by them, and were now present, mingled
with the audience. On the other hand were the defendants,
Mr. Wyllys, Hazlehurst, Ellsworth, and Mr. Grant, a distinguished
lawyer of Philadelphia, appearing more particularly
for Mrs. Stanley; they were also supported by witnesses of
their own.
While the preliminary steps were going on, the jury forming,
and the parties interested making their arrangements,
the court-room filled rapidly with the friends of Hazlehurst,
and a crowd of curious spectators. Among the individuals
known to us, were Robert Hazlehurst, Mr. Stryker, and
Charlie Hubbard, the young artist, who found that his want
of inches interfered with his view of the scene, and springing
on a bench, he remained there, and contrived to keep much
the same station throughout the trial, his fine, intelligent
countenance following the proceedings with the liveliest interest:
Harry soon perceived him, and the young men exchanged
friendly smiles. Mr. Stryker was looking on with
cold, worldly curiosity; while Robert Hazlehurst watched
over his brother's interest with much anxiety. In one sense
the audience was unequally divided at first, for while Harry
had many warm, personal friends present, the sailor was a
stranger to all; the aspect of things partially changed, however,
for among that portion of the crowd who had no particular
sympathies with the defendants, a number soon took
sides with the plaintiff. The curiosity to see the sailor was
very great; at one moment, in the opening of the trial, all
eyes were fixed on him; nor did Harry escape his share of
scrutiny.
It was immediately observed, by those who had known
the late Mr. Stanley, that the plaintiff certainly resembled
his family. He was dressed like a seaman, and appeared
quite easy and confident; seldom absent from court, speaking
little, but following the proceedings attentively. His counsel,
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Mr. Reed, bore a calm and business-like aspect. Clapp was
flushed, his eye was keen and restless, though he looked sanguine
and hopeful; running his hand through his dark curls,
he would lean back and make an observation to his client,
turn to the right and whisper something in the ear of Mr.
Reed, or bend over his papers, engrossed in thought.
The defendants, on their side, were certainly three as
respectable men in their appearance, as one would wish to
see; they looked, moved, and spoke like gentlemen; in
manner and expression they were all three perfectly natural;
simple, easy, but firm; like men aware that important interests
were at stake, and prepared to make a good defence.
Mr. Grant, their colleague, was an insignificant-looking man
when silent, but he never rose to speak, without commanding
the whole attention of his audience by the force of his talent.
The judges were well known to be respectable men, as
American magistrates of the higher grade are usually found
to be. In the appearance of the jury there was nothing
remarkable; the foreman was a shrewd-looking man, his
neighbour on the left had an open, honest countenance, two
others showed decidedly stupid faces, and one had a very
obstinate expression, as if the first idea that entered his head,
on any subject whatever, was seldom allowed to be dislodged.
Such was the appearance of things when the trial commenced.
Leaving the minutiæ of the proceedings to the
legal report of Mr. Bernard, understood to be in the press,
we shall confine ourselves to a brief, and very imperfect outline
of the speeches, and the most important points of the
testimony; merely endeavouring to give the reader a general
idea of the course of things, on an occasion so important to
Hazlehurst.
Mr. Clapp opened the case in a regular speech. Rising
from his seat, he ran his fingers through his hair, and commenced,
much as follows:
“We come before you on this occasion, gentlemen of the
jury, to plead a cause which it is believed is unprecedented,
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in its peculiar facts, among the annals of justice in our great
and glorious country. Never, indeed, should I have believed
it possible that an American citizen could, under any circumstances
whatever, have been compelled during so long a period
to forego his just and legal rights; ay, that he could
be forced to the very verge of abandoning those rights—all
but forced to forget them. Yet, such are the facts of the case
upon which you are now to decide. The individual appearing
before you this day, claiming that the strong arm of the
law be raised in his behalf, first presented himself to me,
with the very same demand, six years since; to my shame
I confess it, he was driven unaided from my door—I refused
to assist him; he had already carried the same claim to others,
and received from others the same treatment. And what is
this claim, so difficult to establish? Is it some intricate legal
question? Is it some doubtful point of law? Is it a matter
which requires much learning to decide, much wisdom to
fathom? No, gentlemen; it is a claim clearly defined, firmly
established; never yet doubted, never yet denied: it is a
claim, not only recognized in the common-law of every land,
protected in the statute-books of every nation, but it is a
claim, gentlemen, which springs spontaneously from the
heart of every human being—it is the right of a son to his
father's inheritance. A right, dear alike to the son of one
of our merchant-princes, and to the son of the porter on our
wharves.”
Mr. Clapp paused; he looked about the court, rested his
eyes on his client, ran his fingers through his curls, and then
proceeded.
“Gentlemen; I have told you that it is the right of a son
to his father's inheritance, which we this day call upon you
to uphold. It is more; it is the sacred cause of the orphan
that you are to defend. Yes, gentlemen; at the moment
when William Stanley should have taken possession of the
inheritance, which was his by the threefold title of nature,
of law, and of parental bequest, he was a mere boy, a minor,
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a wanderer on the deep; one of that gallant class of men
who carry the glorious colours of our great and happy
country into every port, who whiten every sea with American
canvass—he was a roving sailor-boy!”
And setting out from this point, Mr. Clapp made a general
statement of the case, coloured by all the cheap ornaments
of forensic eloquence, and varied by allusions to the glory of
the country, the learning of all judges, particularly American
judges, especially the judges then on the bench; the wisdom
of all juries, particularly American juries, especially
the jury then in the box. He confessed that his client had
been guilty of folly in his boyhood; “but no one, gentlemen,
can regret past misconduct more than Mr. Stanley; no son
ever felt more deeply than himself, regret, that he could not
have attended the death-bed of his father, received his last
blessing, and closed his eyes for the last time!” Mr. Clapp
then read parts of Mr. Stanley's will, gave an outline of his
client's wanderings, and was very particular with names
and dates. The sailor's return was then described in the
most pathetic colours. “He brought with him, gentlemen,
nothing but the humble contents of a sailor's chest, the hard-earned
wages of his daily toil; he, who in justice was the
owner of as rich a domain as any in the land!” The attempts
of this poor sailor to obtain his rights were then represented.
“He learned the bitter truth, gentlemen, that a poor seaman,
a foremast hand, with a tarpaulin hat and round-jacket, stood
little chance of being heard, as the accuser of the rich and
the powerful — the men who walked abroad in polished
beavers, and aristocratic broad-cloths.” Aristocracy having
once been brought upon the scene, was made to figure largely
in several sentences, and was very roughly handled indeed.
To have heard Mr. Clapp, one would have supposed aristocracy
was the most sinful propensity to which human nature
was liable; the only very criminal quality to which republican
nature might be inclined. Of course the defendants
were accused of this heinous sin; this brilliant passage
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concluded with a direct allusion to the “very aristocratic trio
before him.” Mr. Stanley was declared to be no aristocrat;
he was pronounced thoroughly plebeian in all his actions
and habits. “Like the individnal who has now the honour
of addressing you, gentlemen, Mr. Stanley is entirely free,
in all his habits and opinions, from the hateful stain of aristocracy.”
He continued, following his client's steps down to
the present time, much as they are already known to the
reader. Then, making a sudden change, he reviewed the
conduct of the defendants as connected with his client.
“What were their first steps at the death of Mr. Stanley,
the father? Merely those which were absolutely necessary
to secure themselves; they inquired for the absent son, but
they inquired feebly; had they waited with greater patience
he would have appeared, for the story of his disinheritance
would never have reached him. Whence did that story
proceed from? It is not for me to say; others now present
may be able to account for it more readily. No, gentlemen,
it is a bitter truth, that the conduct of the executors has been
consistent throughout, from the moment they first took possession
of the Stanley estate, until their appearance in this
court; the conduct of the rival legatee has also been marked
by the same consistent spirit of opposition, from the time of
his first interview with Mr. Stanley, after he had arrived at
years of discretion, and knew the value of the estate he
hoped to enjoy; from the moment, I say, when he coolly
ordered the unfortunate sailor to be locked up in Mr. Wyllys's
smoke-house, until the present instant, when his only
hope lies in denying the identity of Mr. Stanley's son.”
Mr. Clapp dwelt for some time upon this first interview, and
the smoke-house; as he had previously hinted to Hazlehurst,
he laboured to make that affair “look ugly,” to the best of
his ability. If the language of the Longbridge lawyer had
been respectful throughout the preliminary proceedings, his
tone in the court-room changed completely. As he drew
towards the close of his speech, he gave full scope to a burst
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of virtuous indignation against wickedness and hypocrisy in
general, and particularly against the conduct of the defendants.
He declared himself forced to believe, that both Mr. Wyllys
and Hazlehurst had suspected the existence of William Stanley
from the first—others might have the charity to believe
they had been ignorant of the young man's existence, he
only wished he could still believe such to have been the fact—
he had believed them honestly ignorant of it, until it was
no longer possible for the prejudices of a long-standing friendship
and intimacy to blind his eyes, under the flood of light
presented by proofs as clear as day—proofs which his respected
brother, the senior counsel, and himself, were about
to lay before the court. He wished to be understood, however;
he never for one moment had included in these suspicions—
so painful to every candid, upright mind, but which
had recently forced themselves upon him—he repeated, that
in them he had never included the respected lady who filled
the place of step-mother to his client, whose representative
he now saw before him, in the person of a highly distinguished
lawyer of the Philadelphia bar; he did not suppose
that that venerable matron had ever doubted the death of her
husband's son. He knew that excellent lady, had often met
her in the social circle; none admired more than he, the
virtues for which she was distinguished; he had never supposed
it possible, that if aware of the existence of William
Stanley, she could have sat down calmly to enjoy his inheritance.
Such a case of turpitude might not be without example;
but he confessed that in his eyes, it would amount to
guilt of so black a dye, that he was unwilling to accuse human
nature of such depravity; it went beyond the powers of his,
Mr. Clapp's, imagination to comprehend. No, he acquitted
Mrs. Stanley of all blame; she had been influenced and
guided by the two gentlemen before him. He had himself
observed, that during all the preliminary proceedings, the
venerable step-mother of his client had shown many symptoms
of doubt and hesitation; it was his firm conviction, it
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was the opinion of his client, of his brother counsel, that if
left to her own unbiassed judgment, Mrs. Stanley would
immediately have acknowledged her husband's son, and received
him as such. He appealed to the defendants themselves
if this were not true; he called upon them to deny
this assertion if they could—if they dared! Here Mr. Clapp
paused a moment, and looked towards Mr. Grant.
The defendants had already spoken together for an instant;
Mr. Ellsworth rose: “The answer which the counsel for
the plaintiff was so anxious to receive, was reserved for its
proper place in the defence. Where so much might be said,
he should scarcely be able to confine himself within the
bounds necessary at that moment. Let the counsel for the
plaintiff rest assured, however, that the answer to that particular
question, when given, would prove, like the general
answer of the defence, of a nature that the interrogator
would, doubtless, little relish.”
During Mr. Clapp's abusive remarks, and impudent insinuations
against himself and Mr. Wyllys, Hazlehurst, placing
one arm on the table before him, leaned a little forward,
and fixed his eye steadily, but searchingly, on the face of the
speaker. It proved as Harry had expected; the lawyer
looked to the right and left, he faced the judges, the jurors;
he glanced at the audience, raised his eyes to the ceiling, or
threw them upon his papers, but not once did he meet those
of Hazlehurst.
“Gentlemen of the jury; you will observe that the question
remains unanswered!” continued Mr. Clapp, with a
triumphant air. He then contrived to appeal to his brother
counsel to declare his own impressions, and gave Mr. Reed
an opportunity of affirming, that he had believed Mrs. Stanley
inclined to acknowledge their client; he spoke calmly
and impressively, in a manner very different from the hurried,
yet whining enunciation, and flourishing gestures of his colleague.
Mr. Clapp now proceeded to prepare the way for the
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evidence: he gave a general idea of its character, expressing
beforehand the firmest conviction of its effect on the court.
“I have been engaged in hundreds of suits, gentlemen; I
have been a regular attendant in courts of law from early
boyhood, and never, in the whole course of my experience,
have I met with a case, so peculiar and so important, supported
by a body of evidence so clear, so decided, so undeniable
as that which we shall immediately lay before you;”
and Mr. Clapp sat down, running his fingers through his curls.
The court here adjourned for an hour. The curiosity of
the audience seemed thoroughly excited; when the judges
reassembled, the room was even more crowded than in the
morning.
Before calling up the witnesses, Mr. Reed spoke for five
minutes; his dignified manner was a favourable preparation
for the testimony in the plaintiff's behalf.
The first fact proved, was the resemblance of the plaintiff
to William Stanley; this point was thoroughly investigated,
and settled without difficulty in favour of the plaintiff—some
half-a-dozen witnesses swearing to the identity, according to
the best of their belief. The fact that the defendants themselves
had acknowledged the personal resemblance, was also
made to appear; and Mr. Reed introduced the identity of
handwriting to strengthen the personal identity—several witnesses
giving their testimony on the subject. It seemed indeed,
clear, from the whole of this part of the evidence, that
there was no rational ground to doubt any other difference,
either in the personal resemblance or the handwriting, than
what might naturally exist in the same man, at the ages of
eighteen and thirty-seven.
The statement offered to the defendants some months since,
tracing the past career of the plaintiff, was now produced,
and the principal facts legally proved by different witnesses.
Officers and sailors of different vessels in which he had sailed,
were sworn. Among others, Captain —, of the packet-ship
***, testified to the plaintiff's having sailed in his vessel,
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under the name of William Stanley, nine years previously;
and it was very clearly proved, that at different intervals
since then, he had continued to bear the same name, although
he had also shipped under those of Bennet, Williams, and
Benson. The statement, as given already in our pages, was
borne out satisfactorily in most of its important facts by the
evidence; although on some points the counsel for the plaintiffs
confessed, that they had not been able to obtain all the
legal proofs they had wished for. After tracing the plaintiff's
steps as a sailor, the fact of his having been long endeavouring
to bring forward the claim he now made, was examined.
Mr. G—, a highly respectable lawyer of Baltimore, testified
to the fact that seven years previously, the plaintiff had
applied to him to undertake the case then before the court;
to speak frankly, this evidence surprised the defendants,
who were scarcely prepared for it. Then came proof of the
different applications to Mr. Clapp, his several visits to Longbridge,
and his presence at Wyllys-Roof six years previously,
when locked up in the out-house by Hazlehurst; Mr. Clapp
repeating at this moment, a very broad insinuation, that the
defendant knew the claims of the individual he had put in
confinement. His willingness to be examined, his ready
consent to an interview with Mr. Wyllys, Mrs. Stanley, and
Hazlehurst, the close examination which he bore at Wyllys-Roof,
were brought forward; and Mr. Clapp managed to
introduce most of the important questions of the defendants
at that time, with the accurate answers of the plaintiff, in his
account of that meeting.
The court adjourned at this time, and many individuals
among the audience seemed to incline very decidedly towards
the plaintiff. The personal friends of the defendants looked
somewhat anxious, although Mr. Wyllys and Hazlehurst still
showed a steady front. The testimony which we have given
so briefly, as much of it has already appeared in the narrative,
occupied the court more than one day, including the
different cross-examinations of several witnesses, by the
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defendants: this duty fell to the lot of Mr. Grant, who carried
it on in his usual dry, sarcastic manner, but was unable to
effect any important change in the state of things.
The following morning, the plaintiff's papers were laid
before the court. The volume of the Spectator, and the
letters already produced at Wyllys-Roof, were shown. In
addition to these, the following papers were now brought
forward: A letter addressed to the name of Benson, on
board the British sloop-of-war, Ceres; another directed to
William Bennet, on board the Dutch barque William, when
at Batavia, nearly eighteen years since; this letter was important,
as it was evidently written to an American sailor,
and alluded to his having been recently shipwrecked on the
coast of Africa, and taken up by a Dutch vessel. These
documents were all received with great interest, and their
probable authenticity seemed generally admitted. Mr. Reed
then observed: “We shall close our evidence, gentlemen,
by laying before you testimony, sufficient in itself to prove
triumphantly the identity of the plaintiff, when connected
with a small portion only of that which has preceded it.”
He drew from his papers an old Russia-leather pocket-book,
with the initials W. S. stamped upon it in large Gothie
letters.
Mr. Wyllys made an involuntary movement as it was held
up for examination; that very pocket-book, or one exactly
like it, had he given himself to the son of his old friend, the
very last time he saw him. He watched the proceedings at
this moment with intense interest—evident to everybody.
“This pocket-book, gentlemen, is the property of the
plaintiff,” continued Mr. Reed. “The initials of his name,
W. S., stamped upon it, are half-effaced, yet still sufficiently
distinct to tell their story. But the contents of this precious
book are of still greater importance to the interests of my
client.”
Mr. Reed then opened it and drew from one side a letter,
and read the address, “William Stanley, New York, care of
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Jonas Thomson, Master of the ship Dorothy Beck.” “This
letter, gentlemen of the jury, is signed John Stanley—it is
from the father of William Stanley, in whose name I now
submit it to your examination.” The letter was then read;
it corresponded entirely with the circumstances already known
to the reader; its date, nature, handwriting, all were perfectly
correct, and the signature was sworn to by several
witnesses. Mr. Wyllys was evidently moved when the letter
was read; he asked to look at it, and all eyes were turned
on his venerable countenance, as he silently examined the
paper. It was remarked that the hand which held the letter
was not steady, and the features which bent over it betrayed
perceptible agitation. Mr. Wyllys turned to Hazlehurst, as
he finished reading the sheet.
“It is undeniably genuine; the letter of John Stanley to
his son!” he said.
A short consultation succeeded between the defendants.
Hazlehurst wrote a line or two on a slip of paper, and handed
it to Mr. Wyllys, and then to Ellsworth and Mr. Grant.
“Will the counsel for the plaintiff tell us, why these documents
were not produced at the interview with the defendants?”
asked Mr. Ellsworth.
“We had several reasons for not doing so,” replied Mr.
Clapp. “Had our client not been received so coldly, and
every effort employed to misunderstand him, we should have
produced them earlier; although it would have been impossible
to have shown them at that meeting, since they were
not then in our possession.”
“Will the plaintiff state where, and from whom he first
received that pocket-book?” asked Mr. Grant.
Here the counsel for the plaintiff consulted together a
moment. It seemed as if their client was willing to answer
the question, and that Mr. Reed advised his doing so, but
Mr. Clapp opposed it.
“The defendants must be aware,” he said, “that they had
no right to question his client; Mr. Stanley therefore
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declined answering; he had already, at the proper time and
place, answered many inquiries of theirs, in a manner which
had, doubtless, appeared satisfactory to the court, although
it had not satisfied the defendants. Mr. Stanley had lost all
hope of answering any question of the defendants, in a
manner satisfactory to them.”
Here the defendants were engaged for a moment in making
notes.
Mr. Reed proceeded with the contents of the pocket-book.
“The letter of the father to his erring son, is not the only
testimony we shall produce from the pocket-book of my
client, gentlemen.”
A printed slip of newspaper, soiled, and yellow with age,
was then drawn from one of the pockets, and read by Mr.
Reed: “Married, Wednesday, the 10th, at Trinity Church,
New York, by the Rev. Charles G. Stanley, John Stanley,
of Greatwood, Pennsylvania, to Elizabeth, daughter of the
late Myndert Van Ryssen, of Poughkeepsie.”
Again the defendants showed evident interest. Mr. Wyllys
passed his hand over his face, to drive away melancholy
recollections of the past; the present Mrs. Stanley was Miss
Van Ryssen, and at that marriage he had stood by the side
of his friends, as the priest united them.
“Is not that a touching memorial, gentlemen, of the workings
of natural feeling in the heart of a misguided boy? He
had left his father, left his home, left his friends in a fit of
reckless folly, but when he meets with the name of the
parent from whom he is estranged, in an American paper,
in a distant land, he cuts the paragraph from the sheet, and
it is carefully preserved among his precious things, during
many succeedings years of hardships, and of wrongs. But
there is another striking fact connected with that scrap of
paper; the individual whose name stands there, as connected
in the closest of human ties with the young man's father, is
the same, whose legal representative I now see before me,
prepared to oppose, by every means in his power, the claim
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of the son to the inheritance bequeathed him, with the forgiveness
of his dying father. The simplest language I can
choose, will best express the force of facts so painful. The
circumstances are before you; it rests with you to say,
whether tardy justice shall not at length make some amends
for the wrongs of the last eighteen years.”
The defendants here asked to look at the paper; they
could find no fault with it; in texture, colour, accuracy, every
point, it corresponded with what it should be.
Mr. Reed paused an instant, and then continued. “But,
gentlemen of the jury, this old and well-worn pocket-book,
the companion of my client's wanderings, and hard fortunes;
the letter from the father to the son, received as authentic,
without an instant's hesitation, by the defendants themselves;
the marriage notice of the deceased father and the step-mother,
now his legal opponent, are not the only proofs to
be drawn from this portion of our testimony.”
Mr. Reed then opened the pocket-book, and showed that
it had originally contained a number of leaves of blank
paper; these leaves were partially covered with the hand-writing
of William Stanley. The date of his going to sea,
and the names of the vessels he had sailed in, were recorded.
Brief, random notes occurred, of no other importance than
that of proving the authenticity of the pocket-book. A
sailor's song was written on one page; another was halfcovered
with figures, apparently some trifling accounts of
his own. The date of a particular storm of unusual severity,
was put down, with the latitude and longitude in which
it occurred, the number of hours it lasted, and the details of
the injury done to the vessel. This rude journal, if such it
may be called, was handed to the jury, and also examined
by the defendants.
Mr. Grant took it, observing with his usual set expression,
and caustic manner, that “it was certainly the pocket-book
of a sailor, probably the pocket-book of William Stanley.
It was connected with a singular story, a very singular
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story indeed; but, really, there was one fact which made it
altogether the most extraordinary compound of leather and
paper, that ever happened to fall in his way. If he was not
mistaken, he had understood that the plaintiff, among other
remarkable adventures, claimed to have just escaped drowning,
by the skin of his teeth, when picked up on the coast
of Africa, in the winter of 181-. His pocket-book seemed
to have borne the shipwreck equally well; it was landed
high and dry in that court-house, without a trace of saltwater
about it. How did the plaintiff manage to preserve it
so well? He should like the receipt, it might prove useful.”
Mr. Grant had been looking down very attentively at the
pocket-book while speaking, occasionally holding it up for
others to see, with studied carelessness; as he put the question,
he suddenly raised his eyes, without changing his position,
and fixed them searchingly, with a sort of ironical simplicity,
on Mr. Clapp and his client.
“I can tell him all about it,” the plaintiff was heard to
say, by those near him.
There was a moment's consultation between the plaintiff
and his counsel. A juror then expressed a wish to hear the
explanation.
Mr. Clapp rose and said: “When Mr. Stanley was
picked up by the `William,' does the counsel for my client's
step-mother suppose, that he was the only remnant of the
wreck floating about? If he does, he happens to be mistaken.
Mr. Stanley says there were two others of the crew
picked up at the time he was, with the hope of restoring
life, but they were dead. There were also several chests,
and various other objects brought on board the `William.'
One of the chests was his client's. The pocket-book was contained
in a tin box, which happened to be wrapped in a piece
of old sail-cloth, and nothing in the box was wet. It contained
several old bank-notes, besides the pocket-book, and they
were not wet. He hoped the counsel for his client's step-mother
was satisfied.”
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Mr. Grant bowed. “Much obliged for the explanation;
but he was still inclined to think, that there must have been
some peculiar process employed with that highly important
pocket-book.”
Mr. Clapp replied by a short burst of indignation, at the
intolerable insinuations of his opponent, and appealed to the
court to silence them. Mr. Grant was accordingly reminded
by the judge, that unless he had something beyond mere
insinuations to offer, his remarks could not be listened to.
Mr. Reed then related how these papers had been lost by his
client, some years since; they had been left in a box at a
boarding-house, during a voyage he made in the Pacific; the
house was burnt down, and Mr. Stanley had believed his
papers lost, until he recently heard they were in possession
of a shipmate, at New Bedford. Mr. Clapp and himself had
gone there, and easily obtained them again from Robert
Stebbins, the man in whose hands they had been since the
fire. The fact of the fire was proved; Stebbins was sworn,
and testified to having saved the box with his own effects,
and his having quite lately returned it to the owner, on first
hearing an account of the suit in which he was engaged.
This part of the testimony was clearly laid before the court
by Mr. Reed; and the evidence for the plaintiffs was closed,
with these papers, and the examination of Stebbins, through
whose hands they had come.
The cross-examination of the different witnesses was still
conducted by Mr. Grant; several of the witnesses were
made to contradict each other, and partially to contradict
themselves; but as it was only on points of minor importance,
no material change could be effected in the general
appearance of things, in spite of all Mr. Grant's ingenuity.
He kept Stebbins a long time on the stand; and once or
twice this individual seemed a good deal confused in manner
and expression; still nothing important could be drawn from
him, his account of the papers corresponding sufficiently well
with that of the plaintiff.
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It was late in the afternoon when the proceedings of the
trial reached this stage, and the court adjourned. Some of
Hazlehurst's friends were uneasy, others were confident of
success; Mr. Stryker declared he thought the sailor had
made out a very strong case, and he predicted that he would
gain the suit. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Stanley,
and the ladies at Wyllys-Roof, were left in ignorance of what
passed in the court-room. Robert Hazlehurst, at whose
house Mrs. Stanley and Miss Wyllys were staying, made
brief notes of the proceedings every few hours, and sent
them to his wife and friends, who despatched them by every
mail to the younger ladies at Wyllys-Roof.
When the court met again, the time for the defendants to
be heard had arrived.
The defence was opened by Hazlehurst; he had had but
little practice at the bar, but, like most educated Americans,
it required but little to fit him for speaking in public. His
voice was good, his manner and appearance were highly in
his favour; he had the best of materials to work with, native
ability, cultivated by a thorough education, and supported by
just views and sound principles. Energy of character and
feeling helped him also; warming as he proceeded, he threw
himself fully into his subject, and went on with a facility
surprising to himself, and far surpassing the most sanguine
expectations of his friends. As for his opponents, they had
anticipated very little from him. We give a sketch of his
opening remarks:
“It is the first time, gentlemen,” he said, on rising to speak,
“that the individual who now addresses you, has ever appeared
in a high court of justice, as an act of self-defence. I
have never yet been solemnly called upon to account for my
past actions by any fellow-creature. My moral motives have
never yet been publicly impugned. The position in which
I now stand, accused of denying the just rights of another,
of wilfully withholding the parental inheritance from the
son of my benefactor, is therefore as novel to myself in its
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whole character, as it must appear remarkable to you in its
peculiar circumstances.
“I have already learned, however, during the few years
that I have filled a place on the busy stage of active life,
that in the world to which we belong, Truth herself is compelled
to appear on the defensive, nearly as often, perhaps,
as Error. I have no right therefore to complain. So long
as I am included in the same accusation, so long as I am
associated in the same defence with the venerable man at
my side—one, whose honourable career has furnished to the
community represented by this assembly, a noble model of
conduct during three-score years and ten; one whom it has
been the especial object of my endeavours to follow, in my
own path through life—so long, I can have no wish to shrink
from the situation in which I am placed; I can find no room
for doubts or misgivings, as to the wisdom and rectitude of
the course I have adopted.
“That the position, however, in which we stand before you,
on the present occasion, gentlemen, is one that requires explanation,
we readily admit; it is too remarkable in its particulars
to escape the searching inquiry of justice. We
appear in this court, the executors and legatee of Mr. Stanley—
his widow, his nearest friend, and his adopted representative—
to deny a claim, just in itself, advanced in the
name of his only son. Such a position must be either quite
untenable, totally unjustifiable, an outrage upon the common
decency of society, or it must stand on the firm foundation
of truth. You will easily believe, that such a position would
never have been taken, under circumstances so extraordinary,
by three individuals, possessing only a common share
of honesty and good sense, unless they had held it to be one
which they could maintain. You will readily admit, that it
is the very last position which a man of clear integrity, good
character, and natural feeling would wish to assume, unless
acting from conscientious motives, and guided by sound
reason.
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“I have no wish to parade a stoical indifference to the
pecuniary interests at stake to-day; they are such as must
seriously affect my fortunes for years, possibly for life. A
cause involving so large a sum of money, so fine a landed
estate, honourably acquired by the late proprietor, and generously
bequeathed to myself, must necessarily include many
interests of a varied character. Many grateful recollections
of the past, many hopes for the future, have been connected
in my mind with the house at Greatwood; from early boyhood
I have been taught to look forward to it, as a home and
a resting-place, when the busiest years of life shall have
passed. These interests, however, although among the best
enjoyments of existence, are of a nature entirely personal,
forgive me, if for a moment I have glanced at them. But,
gentlemen, if I have always valued the bequest of Mr. Stanley,
from its own intrinsic importance, from the many advantages
it has already procured me, from the hopes with which
it is connected, and from the grateful recollection, that to the
friendly affection of my benefactor I owe its possession, yet,
I solemnly affirm, in the hearing of hundreds of witnesses,
that there is no honest occupation, however humble, no
labour, however toilsome, that I would not at this instant
cheerfuly exchange for it, rather than retain that inheritance
one hour from its rightful owner, could I believe him to be
living.
“No human being, I trust, who knows the principles from
which I have hitherto acted, can show just ground for mistrusting
this declaration.
“But, fellow-citizens of the jury, to you I am a stranger.
There is not one of your number, as I now scan the faces in
your box, that I recognize as that of an acquaintance. I
cannot, therefore, expect you to believe this assertion, unsupported
by evidence of its truth. I willingly leave vain declamation
to those who have no better weapon to work with;
were it in my power to influence your decision, by volleys
of words without meaning, sound without sense, such as
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only too often assail the ears of judges and juries, respect
for the honourable office you now fill, would deter me from
following such a course; self-respect would naturally prevent
me from following so closely the example of the orator who
first addressed you on behalf of the plaintiff. I have often
before heard that orator, fellow-citizens of the jury; this is
not the first occasion upon which I have listened with simple
wonder, to a fluency which ever flows undisturbed, undismayed,
whether the obstacles in its way be those of law or
justice, reason or truth. But if I have wondered at a facility
so remarkable, never, for a single instant, have I wished to
rival this supple dexterity. It is an accomplishment one
can scarcely envy. On the other hand, these wholesale
supplies of bombastic declamation form so large a part of
the local stock in trade of the individual to whom I refer,
that it would seem almost cruel to deprive him of them; we
have all heard a common expression, more easily understood
than explained, but which would be quite applicable to the
pitiable state of the counsel for the plaintiff, when deprived
of his chief support, his favourite modes of speech — he
would then be reduced, gentlemen, to less than nothing.”
Hazlehurst's face was expressive enough as he uttered these
words.
“No, fellow-citizens of the jury, I shall not ask you to
believe a single assertion of my own, unsustained by proof.
At the proper moment, the testimony which we possess in
favour of the death of Mr. Stanley's son, and the facts which
have led us to mistrust the strange story which you have just
heard advanced in behalf of the plaintiff, will be laid before
you. At present, suffer me, for a moment longer, to refer to
the leading motives which have induced us to appear in this
court, as defendants, under circumstances so singular.
“The importance which, as legatee of Mr. Stanley, I
attach to his generous gift, has not been denied. But, independently
of this, there are other causes sufficient in themselves
to have brought me into this hall, and these motives I
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share with the friends associated in the same defence. If
we conceive ourselves to be justified in refusing the demand
of the plaintiff, as a consequence of this conviction, we must
necessarily hold it to be an imperative duty to repel, by every
honest means in our power, a claim we believe false. This
is a case which allows of no medium course. On one hand,
either we, the defendants, are guilty of an act of the most
cruel injustice; or, on the other, the individual before you,
assuming the name of William Stanley, is an impostor.
The opinion of those most intimately connected with the late
Mr. Stanley, is clearly proclaimed, by the stand they have
deliberately taken, after examining the evidence with which
the plaintiff advances his extraordinary claim. This individual
who, from his own account, was content to remain for
years in a state of passive indifference to the same important
inheritance, now claimed so boldly, in defiance of so many
obstacles, we believe to be an impostor; not a single, lingering
scruple prevents my repeating the declaration, that I
believe him to be a bold and daring impostor.
“With this opinion, is it expected that I shall calmly endure
that one, whose only title consists in his cunning and
his audacity, should seize with impunity, property, legally
and justly my own? Is it believed that I shall stand idly
by, without a struggle to defend the name of my deceased
benefactor from such impudent abuse? That I should be
content to see the very hearth-stone of my friend seized, by
the grossest cupidity? That I should surrender the guardianship
of his grave to one, with whom he never had a
thought, a feeling, a sympathy in common?—to one, who
would not scruple to sell that grave for a bottle of rum?
“Every feeling revolts at the thought of such a shameful
neglect of duty! No; I acknowledge myself bound, by
every obligation, to oppose to the last extremity, such an
audacious invasion of right and truth. Every feeling of
respect and gratitude to the memory of my benefactor, urges
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me forward; while all the attachment of the friend, and all
the affection of the widow, revive, and unite in the defence.
“But, fellow-citizens of the jury, my own personal rights,
sufficient on a common occasion to rouse any man, the duties
owed by each of the defendants to the memory of Mr. Stanley—
duties sacred in the eyes of every right-thinking man,
these are not the only motives which call upon us to oppose
the plaintiff, to repel with all the strength we can command
this daring act of piracy.
“There is another duty still more urgent, a consideration
of a still higher character, involved in the course we pursue
to-day. There is one object before us, far surpassing in importance
any to which I have yet alluded; it is one, fellow-citizens
of the jury, in which each individual of your number
is as deeply concerned as ourselves, in which the highest
earthly interests of every human being in this community
are included; it is the one great object for which these walls
were raised, this hall opened, which has placed those honourable
men as judges on the seat of justice, which has called
you together, from the less important pursuit of your daily
avocations, to give an impartial opinion in every case brought
before you; it is the high object of maintaining justice in
the community to which we all equally belong. I am willing
to believe, fellow-citizens of the jury, that you are fully
aware of the importance of your own office, of the dignity
of this court, of the necessity of its existence, of its activity
to protect the honest and inoffensive citizen, against the designing,
the unprincipled, and the violent. Such protection
we know to be absolutely binding upon every community
claiming to be civilized; we know that without it no state
of society, at all worthy of the dignity of human nature, at
all worthy of the dignity of freemen, can exist; without
active justice, indeed, the name of Freedom becomes a mere
sound of mockery. I have been taught to hold the opinion,
gentlemen, that if there is one obligation more imperative
than any other, imposed upon an American by the privileges
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of his birth-right, it is this very duty of maintaining justice
in her full integrity; of raising his voice in her behalf when
she is threatened, of raising his arm in her defence when
she is assailed. To move at the first clear appeal of justice,
is surely one of the chief duties of every American citizen,
of every man blessed with freedom of speech and freedom
of action; and, surely, if this be a general rule, it would
become a double act of moral cowardice, to desert the post,
when those individual rights, confided especially to my own
protection, including interests so important to myself, are audaciously
assailed. If there are circumstances which partially
remove the weight of this obligation, of this public
struggle for justice, from portions of the community, from
the aged, who have already firmly upheld every honourable
principle through a long course of years, and from those
who are confined by their natural position to the narrow but
holy circle of domestic duties; if such be honourable exemptions
from bearing the brunt of the battle, it is only to
open the front rank to every active citizen, laying claim to
manliness and honesty. Such I conceive to be the obligation
imposed upon myself, by the demand of the plaintiff. Upon
examination, I can find no sufficient evidence to support this
claim; it becomes therefore, in my belief, by its very nature,
an atrocious outrage alike to the living and the dead—an
insulting violation of natural justice and the law of the land,
sufficient to rouse every justifiable effort in resistance.
“Whenever attention may be called to a question, of a
character audaciously unprincipled, even when quite independent
of personal advantage and personal feeling, I should
still hope that duty as a man, duty as a freeman, would have
sufficient influence over my actions, to urge me forward in
opposition to its unrighteous demands, just so far as common
sense and true principle shall point the way. Such I conceive
to be the character of the present question; were there
no pecuniary interest, no individual feeling at stake, I should
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still conceive it a duty to hold on the present occasion the
position in which I now stand.
“The grounds upon which this opinion as to the character
of the case has been formed, the grounds upon which we
base our defence, must now be laid before you.”
After this opening, Harry proceeded with an outline of the
testimony for the defence. His statement was very clear and
accurate throughout; but as it contained nothing but what is
already known to the reader, we shall omit this part of his
remarks.
After he had given a general account of the conduct and
views of the defendants, Mr. Ellsworth proceeded to lay the
legal evidence in their possession, before the court. The
first point examined, was the testimony they had received as
to the death of William Stanley. The wreck of the Jefferson
was easily proved, by a letter from the captain of the
American ship Eagle, who had spoken the Jefferson the
morning of the gale in which she was lost, and having safely
rode out the storm himself, had afterwards seen the wreck.
This letter was written on Captain Green's arrival in port,
and was in answer to inquiries of Mr. Wyllys; besides an
account of the gale, and the wreck of the Jefferson, it contained
the united opinions of his mates and himself, that no
one could have escaped, unless under very extraordinary
circumstances, as the vessel herself had foundered, and no
boat could have lived in such a tempest. During a calm
which had followed the gale, they had fallen in with fragments
of the wreck, some of which had been used in repairing
their own vessel; they had seen several dead bodies,
and had taken up an empty boat, and several other objects,
but nothing which threw farther light on the subject. William
Stanley's name, as one of the crew of the Jefferson,
was next produced; this part of the testimony came through
our acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, who had been the owner of
the Jefferson. Then came proofs of the many efforts made
by the executors, to obtain accounts of Mr. Stanley's son, by
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advertisements to sailors and ship-masters, in all the great
ports of the country, repeated during five years; many letters
and communications were also produced, all strengthening the
report of the young man's death. An agent had been employed
by Mrs. Stanley, for one year, with no other object
than that of searching for intelligence of her step-son; the
man himself was dead, but his letters were read, and sworn
to by his wife. Only once had the executors obtained a
faint hope of the young man's existence; the second-mate
of a whaler reported that he had known a William Stanley,
a foremast hand, in the Pacific; but eventually it appeared,
that the man alluded to was much older than Mr. Stanley's
son, and his name was Sanley. Nothing could be more
clearly proved, than the efforts of the executors to obtain
accurate intelligence as to the young man's fate; and it was
also evident from the reports received, that they could have
had no good reason to doubt his death. The next points
examined, included the person and conduct of the plaintiff.
The bad character of the plaintiff was made to appear in the
course of this examination; “a character which seems at least
to have always clung to that individual, under the various
names it has pleased him to assume at different times,” observed
Mr. Ellsworth. It was clearly shown that he was
considered a man of no principles, even among his comrades.
The personal identity was fully examined; this part of the
testimony excited intense interest among the audience, while
even the court seemed to listen with increased attention.
The opinions of the different witnesses on this point were
not disputed; the general resemblance of the plaintiff to the
Stanleys was not denied; the similarity of handwriting was
also admitted; but Mr. Ellsworth argued, that such resemblances,
among persons who were in no way related to each
other, were not uncommon; probably every individual in
that court-room had been told fifty times, that he was like A.,
B., or C. Occasionally, such resemblances were really very
marked indeed. He then cited the instance of a man who
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was hanged in England, on this very ground of personal
identity, sworn to by many individuals; and yet, a year after,
it was discovered that the real criminal was living; and these
two men, so strikingly alike, had never even seen each other,
nor were they in any manner related to each other. But
who could say whether the plaintiff were actually so much
like William Stanley? It was not certain that any individual
in that room had seen the young man for eighteen years; but
one of the defendants had any distinct recollection of him,
even at that time; the colour of the hair, and a general resemblance
in complexion and features, might well be the
amount of all that could be advanced in favour of the likeness;
the plaintiff resembled the Stanleys, father and son;
but probably a hundred other men might be picked up in the
country, in whom the same resemblance might be found—
men who laid no claim to the name or estate of Mr. Stanley.
Similarity of handwriting was not uncommon either; and
here some dozen notes and letters were produced, and proved
to a certain degree that this assertion was correct; in several
cases the resemblance was very great; and Mr. Ellsworth
maintained, that with the documents in the possession of the
sailor, undeniably written by young Stanley, any common
writer, devoid of honesty, might have moulded his hand by
practice to an imitation of it, sufficient for forgery. So much
for the resemblance; he would now point out the difference
between the plaintiff and William Stanley in two points,
which, if clearly proved, must convince the jury that identity
was utterly impossible, a pure fiction, a gross deception.
He then produced the portrait of William Stanley; after
acknowledging that there was some general resemblance, he
suddenly showed the difference in the formation of the hands,
fingers, and nails, between the boy and the plaintiff. This
difference was indeed striking, for Ellsworth took a moment
to point it out, when the sailor was in court, and engaged in
putting a piece of tobacco in his mouth, and his hands were
in full view. For a second he seemed out of countenance,
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but he soon resumed the confident look he had worn throughout.
Mr. Ellsworth entered very minutely into this fact,
showing that painters usually gave a correct idea of the hand,
when it was introduced in a portrait; and the impossibility
of the natural formation of the hand being entirely changed,
either by time or hard work, was proved by the testimony
of anatomists. The family physician of the late Mr. Stanley
was an important witness at this stage of the trial; he swore
to the fidelity of the portrait, and confirmed the fact of the
particular formation of William Stanley's limbs when a boy;
he thought it very improbable that a lad of his frame and
constitution would ever become as heavy and robust as the
plaintiff. He was asked by a juror if he thought this impossible?
“No; he could not say it was impossible.” The
difference in gait was then examined.
“There is yet another point to be examined,” said Ellsworth,
“similar in nature, but still more decided in its bearing.”
He then brought forward all the testimony that had
been collected, as to the temper and capacity of William
Stanley; it was clearly proved, chiefly by the young man's
tutors and companions, that he was morose and stubborn in
disposition, and dull in intellect. So far this point was easily
settled; but it was difficult to place the opposite facts, of the
cleverness and better temper of the plaintiff, as clearly before
the court as they had appeared to the defendants. Any one
who had seen him under the same circumstances as Mr. Wyllys
and Hazlehurst, during the last three months, would have
been convinced of this difference; but in the court-room it
was not so easy to place the matter beyond dispute, although
two witnesses gave their opinions on this point, under oath,
and Ellsworth did all he could, by attracting attention to the
plaintiff, to his manner and expression; but he was not quite
satisfied with the result of his own endeavours.
“Let us now look at the conduct of this individual; we
shall find it, I think, quite inconsistent with what any man
of plain, good sense, would have supposed the most easy and
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natural course under the circumstances; while, on the other
hand, it is entirely consistent throughout, in being strongly
marked with the stamp of improbability, in its general aspect,
and in its details.” After a review of the plaintiff's course,
as it stood in his own statement, he proceeded to investigate
his conduct during the last three months, maintaining, that
had he really been William Stanley, he would have presented
himself long since to Mr. Wyllys, unsupported by Mr. Clapp;
he would not have found it necessary to visit Greatwood,
and examine the house and place so thoroughly, before submitting
to an examination; he would not have waited to be
examined, he would voluntarily have told his own story in
a manner to produce undeniable conviction. For instance,
but a few weeks since, when, if we may believe his story,
that pocket-book came into possession again, had he gone
to Mr. Wyllys, shown it, and merely told him accurately,
from whom, when, and where he had first received it, he
would have been immediately recognized as the individual
he claims to be. Had he been William Stanley, he could
have told those simple facts, he would have told them; while
they were facts which it was impossible that an impostor
should know, since they were confined entirely to Mr. Wyllys
and his friend's son—Mr. Wyllys himself having given the
pocket-book to William Stanley when they were alone together.
He appealed to every man there present, what
would have been his own conduct under such circumstances?
As to the readiness of Mr. Wyllys to receive William Stanley,
could he believe him living, it was proved by the past
conduct of the executors, their anxiety to obtain a correct
account of the young man's fate, their hopes at first, their
regrets at last, when hope had died away. Ellsworth closed
his speech by observing, that after this review of the circumstances,
considering the striking differences pointed out in
person, temper, and capacity, from those of William Stanley,
the irreconciliable difference in the gait and formation of the
limbs, and the unnatural conduct of the plaintiff throughout,
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had Mr. Wyllys received this man as William Stanley, the
son of his deceased friend, it would have been a gross neglect
of duty on his part.
There now remained but one act to complete the defence.
It was concluded by Mr. Grant, who went over the whole
case in a speech, in his usual well-known manner, learned
and close in its reasoning, caustic and severe in its remarks
on the opposite party. His general view was chiefly legal;
occasionally, however, he introduced short and impressive
remarks on the general aspect of the case, and the particular
character of the most suspicious facts presented by the plaintiff;
he was severe upon Mr. Clapp, showing a shrewd and
thorough knowledge of the man, and the legal species to
which he belonged. The Longbridge lawyer put on an
increase of vulgar nonchalance for the occasion, but he was
unable to conceal entirely his uneasiness under the sharp
and well-aimed hits of one, so much his superior in standing
and real ability. Mr. Grant dwelt particularly upon the
suspicious appearance of the facts connected with the volume
of the Spectator, and the pocket-book, both of which he
admitted to have belonged to William Stanley originally;
and he seemed to manage the difference in temper and
capacity more effectually than Mr. Ellsworth had done.
His speech was listened to with the closest attention during
several hours; after having reviewed the testimony on both
sides and finished his legal survey of the ground, he concluded
as follows:
“Gentlemen of the jury; the facts of this case are before
you, so far at least as we could reach them; there are doubtless
others behind the curtain which might prove highly important
in assisting your decision. You have followed me
over the dull track of the law wherever it led us near this
case, and I thank you for the patience you have shown.
The subject is now fully before you, and I conceive that you
will agree with me that in the present case, the counsel
for the plaintiff have undertaken a task of no ordinary
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difficulty. It seems a task by no means enviable under any
of its different aspects; but really, in the whole course of
my experience at the bar, it has never yet fallen to my lot to
witness so startling a feat of legal legerdemain, as that attempted
in this court-room by the counsel for the plaintiff.
I conceive, gentlemen, that they are engaged in a task seldom
attempted since the days of wizards and necromancers—they
have undertaken to raise a ghost!”
It was now time for the plaintiff's lawyers to close the
trial. Mr. Clapp wished to speak again, but Mr. Reed took
the case entirely in his own hands; he was evidently firmly
convinced of the identity of his client with William Stanley,
and the natural indignation he felt at the accusations of the
defendants, and the treatment the sailor had received from
the executors, gave unusual warmth to his manner, which
was generally calm; it was remarked that he had never
made a stronger speech than on that occasion. He did not
dispute the honesty of the opinions of Mr. Wyllys and
Hazlehurst, but he conceived they had no right to hold such
opinions after examining the testimony in behalf of the
plaintiff. He conceived that the defendant attached an importance
altogether puerile to mere common probability,
every-day probability; how many facts, now proved as
clearly as human evidence can prove, have worn at first an
improbable aspect to many minds! How many legal cases
of an improbable nature might be cited! He would only
allude to a few; and here he went over several remarkable
cases on record.
“And yet he would even engage to answer the objections
against his client on this very ground of probability; much
had been said about the volume of the Spectator, but Mr.
Hazlehurst could not swear to having read it at Greatwood
four years since; while it appeared on cross-examination
that his brother had the same edition of that book in Philadelphia,
and that Mr. H. was in the habit of reading his
brother's books; it also appeared that other volumes had
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been lost from the house at Greatwood in the course of the
last four years. He held it then to be clearly probable; first,
that Mr. H. had not read that identical volume shown at the
interview, but one belonging to his brother; secondly, that
the same volume had not been lost within the last four years;
that others had been lost was certain, but that this volume
had been in the possession of his client for nearly twenty
years was probable.” He went on in the same way to prove
the probability of his client's gait having been changed, like
that of other sailors, by a life at sea; that his whole body
had become heavier and coarser from twenty years' hard
work, and change of habits. He here made Dr. B., the
physician who had testified on this subject, appear in a ridiculous
light, by quoting some unfortunately obscure remarks
he had made under cross-examination.
“Then, as to his client's temper, he hoped it had improved
with age, but he thought that point had not been as clearly
settled as his best friends could wish; still, it was by no
means improbable that it had improved under the salutary
restraints of greater intercourse with the world. Who has
not known persons whose tempers have become better under
such circumstances? As to the capacity of his client, that
had also probably been roused into greater activity by the
same circumstances. Who has not heard of striking instances
in which boys have been pronounced stupid by their
masters and playfellows, and yet the same lads have afterwards
turned out even brilliant geniuses?” He mentioned
several instances of this kind. He went over the most striking
features of the whole case in this manner, but we are
necessarily compelled to abridge his remarks. “He accepted
this ground of probability fully and entirely; the conduct of
his client had been thought unnatural; he conceived that the
very same stubborn, morose disposition, which the defendants
had laboured so hard to fasten upon William Stanley, would
account in the most probable manner for all that had been
unusual in the conduct of his client. The same boy who at
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fifteen had so recklessly exchanged a pleasant home and
brilliant prospects for a sailor's hardships, might very naturally
have continued to feel and to act as the plaintiff had
done.”
He then brought together all the points in favour of the
sailor, “The resemblance between the plaintiff and William
Stanley had been called trifling by the counsel for the
defendants; he considered it a remarkably strong resemblance,
since it included not only acknowledged personal
likeness, but also similarity of handwriting, of age, of occupation,
the possession of documents admitted to be authentic
by the defendants themselves, with knowledge of past events,
persons, and places, such as would be natural in William
Stanley but quite beyond the reach of a common stranger.
He conceived that the great number of different points in
his client's favour was a far stronger ground for the truth of
his claim, than any one fact, however striking, standing alone.
He held that this mass of evidence, both positive and circumstantial,
could be accounted for in no other way at all probable,
than by admitting the identity of his client. He conceived
it also probable that any unprejudiced man would
take the same view of this case; a case singular in its first
aspect, though not more singular than hundreds of others on
record, and entirely within the bounds of possibility in every
fact, while it assumed greater probability the farther it was
examined.” He then adverted to several points merely
legal, and finally concluded by a strong appeal in behalf of
the plaintiff.
The judge rose to make his charge; it was strictly legal
and impartial, chiefly reminding the jury that they were to
decide entirely from the facts which had been placed before
them; if they thought the evidence to which they listened
sufficient to prove legally the identity of the plaintiff as
William Stanley, they must give a verdict in his favour; if
they held that evidence to be incomplete and insufficient,
according to the legal views which must be their guide, they
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must pronounce a verdict in favour of the defendants: concluding
with explaining one or two legal points, and an injunction
to weigh the whole evidence impartially, the judge
took his seat.
The jury rose; marshalled by constables and headed by
their foreman, they turned from the box and left the court-room
to consider their verdict.
Another cause was called. The parties interested, their
friends, and the crowd of curious spectators poured from the
building, discussing as they moved along the probable result,
which could scarcely be known until the next morning, for
it was late on the fourth night that the trial closed.
CHAPTER XIX.
“Tout est perdu fors l'honneur!”
François I.
Hazlehurst's friends, fully aware of the importance of
the cause to his interests, had followed the trial with great
anxiety. Mrs. Stanley, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, Miss Wyllys,
and Mrs. Creighton were regularly informed of the
events which had passed whenever the court adjourned.
The young ladies at Wyllys-Roof, Elinor, Jane, and Mary
Van Alstyne were obliged to wait longer for information;
they had received, however, regular reports of the proceedings
by every mail; they had learned that the trial had
closed, and were now waiting most anxiously for the final
decision of the jury.
“I had no idea the trial would last so long; had you?”
observed Mary Van Alstyne, as the three friends were sitting
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together waiting for that day's mail, which must at length
bring them the important news.
“Yes; grandpapa told me that it might possibly last a
week.”
“I don't see why they cannot decide it sooner,” said Jane;
“anybody might know that sailor could not be William
Stanley. Poor Harry! what trouble he has had with the
man ever since he came home!”
At that moment carriage-wheels were heard approaching;
Elinor ran to the window.
“They are coming!” she cried; and in another instant
she was on the piazza, followed by Mary and Jane.
Two carriages were approaching the door.
“Here they are—all our friends!” exclaimed Mary Van
Alstyne, as she recognized in the first open wagon Mr.
Wyllys and Ellsworth, and in the barouche behind, the
ladies, including Mrs. Creighton; while Harry himself sat
at the side of the coachman.
Elinor was on the last step of the piazza, looking eagerly
towards the faces of her friends as they advanced.
“Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, looking all anxious curiosity,
as the wagon stopped.
Mr. Wyllys smiled, but not triumphantly.
Ellsworth shook his head as he sprang from the wagon
and took her hand.
“Can it be possible!—Is the suit lost?” she again exclaimed.
“Only too possible,” replied Mr. Ellsworth. “The jury
have given a verdict for the plaintiff, in spite of our best
endeavours.”
Elinor turned towards Harry, and offered him both her
hands. Hazlehurst received them with feeling, with emotion.
“I can't acknowledge that I am such a poor forlorn fellow
as one might fancy,” he said, smiling, “while I have still
such kind and warm friends.”
Elinor blushing to find herself between the two
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gentlemen, advanced to receive the kiss of her aunt and Mrs. Stanley.
The countenance of the latter lady showed evident
traces of the painful feelings she had experienced at the decision.
Mrs. Creighton too looked a little disturbed; though
graceful as ever in her manner, she was not easy; it was
clear that she had been much disappointed by Harry's defeat.
“I am grieved to hear the bad news, Mr. Hazlehurst!”
said Mary Van Alstyne.
“Poor Harry—I am so sorry for you!” exclaimed Jane,
looking very lovely as she raised her eyes to her kinsman's
face.
“Ellsworth, can't you manage to lose all you are worth
and a little more?” said Harry, smiling, after having thanked
the ladies for their kind reception.
“As I could not keep your property for you with the best
will in the world, no doubt I could get rid of my own too,”
replied his friend.
When the whole party assembled in the drawing-room,
nothing was talked of for a while but the trial. It appeared
that the jury had been fifteen hours considering their verdict.
The doors of the court-room had been crowded by people
curious to learn the decision of the case, and when the jury
entered the court with their verdict there was a rush forward
to hear it.
“Verdict for the plaintiff—” was announced by the clerk
in a loud voice, in the usual official manner.
“Clapp was standing near me at the moment,” said Harry,
“there was a flash of triumph in his face as he turned towards
me. The sailor actually looked bewildered for an
instant, but he soon appeared very well satisfied. As for
myself, I honestly declare that I expected such would be the
result.”
“It was too late to write to you, my child,” said Mr.
Wyllys; “we only heard the verdict in time to prepare for
leaving town in the morning's boat. And now, Nelly, you
must give us some consolation in the shape of a good dinner.”
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It was very evident that although everybody endeavoured
to wear a cheerful face, the defeat had been much felt by
Mrs. Stanley, Mr. Wyllys, and Ellsworth. Hazlehurst himself
really appeared better prepared for the misfortune than
any of the party; in fact he conceived Mrs. Stanley's position
to be more painful than his own, though so much less
critical in a pecuniary view. Mrs. Creighton was certainly
neither so gay, nor so easy as usual in her manner; one
might have fancied that she felt herself in an unpleasant and
rather an awkward position—a very unusual thing for that
lady. It might have struck an observer that she wished to
appear as amiable as ever to Harry, but she did not succeed
entirely in concealing that her interest in him was materially
diminished, now that he was no longer Mr. Stanley's heir.
It was only by trifling shades of manner, however, that this
was betrayed; perhaps no one of the circle at Wyllys-Roof
remarked it; perhaps it was not lost upon Hazlehurst; there
seemed to be an occasional expression in his eye which said
so.
After the party had separated to prepare for dinner, Elinor
joined her aunt, and learned many farther particulars of the
trial.
“Is there no hope, Aunt?—can nothing be done—no new
trial?”
“I am afraid not. The gentlemen are to hold several
consultations on that point, however, but they seem to agree
that little can be done. Both your grandfather and Harry
were determined to go on if there were the least probability
of success; but Mr. Grant, Mr. Ellsworth, and several other
gentlemen say they can give them no grounds for encouragement;
the trial was perfectly regular, and they think an
appeal for a new trial would be rejected; and even if it
were granted, they see no reason to hope for a different
verdict.”
“And yet there cannot be a doubt, Aunt, to us at least,
that this man is an impostor!” exclaimed Elinor.
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“No, not to us certainly; but it was not possible to place
the proofs of this as clearly before the court as they have
appeared to us. Harry says he was afraid from the beginning
that this would be the case.”
“How well he bears it!” exclaimed Elinor. “And Mrs.
Stanley, she can scarcely speak on the subject!”
“She feels it most keenly. Would you believe it, my
child, when we arrived on board the boat this morning, we
found Mr. Clapp and this man already there; and at a
moment when Mrs. Stanley and I were sitting alone together,
the gentlemen having left us, and Mrs. Creighton being with
another party, they came and walked up and down before
us. Mr. Clapp took off his hat, and running his hand
through his hair, as he does so often, he said in a loud voice:
`Well, Mr. Stanley, when do you go to Greatwood?' Happily,
Harry saw us from the other side of the deck, and he
instantly joined us. Of course we did not mention to him
what had passed; and although Mr. Clapp was noisy and
vulgar, yet he did not come so near us again.”
“What a miserable man he is!” exclaimed Elinor. “And
is it possible that sailor is going to take possession of my
uncle Stanley's house immediately?”
“I do not know, my child. Everything has been left in
the hands of Robert Hazlehurst and Mr. Grant, by our
friends.”
Already had Elinor's mind been busy with planning relief
for Hazlehurst; if he were now worse than penniless, she
was rich—it would be in her power to assist him. The point
itself had been long since settled by her, but the manner in
which it was to be done was now to be considered. She
was determined at least that her old playfellow should have
the use of any sum he might require, under the circumstances
that would be the easiest and most acceptable to himself.
Her grandfather must make the offer; they would either
wait until he returned from the cruise in the Petrel, or possibly
it would be better to write to him while absent.
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Elinor had, perhaps, been more disappointed by the verdict
than any one, for she had been very sanguine as to the result;
she had not conceived it possible that such gross injustice
could triumph.
But, alas, how imperfect is merely human justice in its
best form! It is a humiliating reflection for the human race,
that Justice, one of the highest attributes of Truth, should
have so little power among men; that when guided by human
reason alone she should so often err!
To guard faithfully the general purity of Justice, to watch
that her arm is neither crippled by violence nor palsied by
fear, that her hands are not polluted by bribery, nor her ears
assailed by flattery, is all that human means can do; but wo
to the society where this duty is neglected, for disgrace and
general corruption are then inevitable.
It was a day of movement at Wyllys-Roof; after the
arrival of the party from Philadelphia there were constant
communications with their neighbours at Broadlawn, as the
long talked of cruise of the Petrel had been only postponed
for Harry's return, and young de Vaux was now all impatience
to be off. When Elinor went down for dinner she found
Ellsworth and Harry on the piazza playing with Bruno, the
fine Newfoundland dog which Hazlehurst had given her when
he first went abroad.
“He is a noble creature!” exclaimed Ellsworth.
“I am making friends with Bruno again, you see,” said
Harry as Elinor drew near. “What would you say if I
coaxed him off to the Petrel with me to-morrow?”
“You are very welcome to his company for the voyage,
if you can persuade him to go. Down Bruno, down my
good friend,” she said, as the dog bounded towards her; “I
wish you would remember that a thin white dress must be
treated with some respect. Are you really going to-morrow?”
she added, turning to Harry.
“Yes; we are under sailing orders. I have just been
over to look at the Petrel, and everything is ready. De
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Vaux has only been waiting for me—the rest of the party
has been collected for some days. I found Smith the conchologist,
and Stryker, at Broadlawn.”
“Has your course been finally settled?” asked Ellsworth.
“Yes; we are to circumnavigate Long-Island.”
“You will have an agreeable cruise, I dare say, with a
pleasant set of messmates; Hubert de Vaux is a good fellow
himself, and Stryker is in his element on such occasions.”
“We are to have Charlie Hubbard too, and Harman Van
Horne.”
“How long will you be gone?” said Elinor.
“Some ten days, or a fortnight at the very farthest.”
“Can we see anything of Mr. de Vaux's boat from here?”
asked Mrs. Creighton, stepping on the piazza.
“Only her masts; in this direction, near the grove,” replied
Harry. “She is a schooner, and a beautiful craft, too.”
“Miss Wyllys, you should coax Mr. de Vaux to give the
ladies a pic-nic when he returns,” said Mrs. Creighton.
“No doubt he would be happy to do so, if you were to
express the wish,” said Elinor.
“Unfortunately I shall not be here. Wyllys-Roof is a
dangerous place, one always stays here too long; but I cannot
positively afford more than a day or two at present; I
have promised to be in town on Thursday.”
Elinor expressed her regrets very hospitably; and they
were soon after summoned to dinner.
In the evening, Hubert de Vaux and the gentlemen from
Broadlawn, engaged for the cruise, walked in. Charlie
Hubbard was there too; he had remained in Philadelphia
during the whole trial, and had just returned home that
morning.
“And so you are positively going to-morrow,” said Mr.
Wyllys to young de Vaux.
“Positively; at six in the morning.
“Is it part of your plan, to stow yourselves away at night
in the Petrel?”
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“The Petrel's cabin is not to be despised, I assure you,
sir. It has six as good berths as those of any North-River
sloop that ever carried passengers in days of yore. But we
shall only sleep on board occasionally, for the fun of the
thing.”
“At what places do you intend to put into port?”
“We are going to shoot for a day or two on Long-Island;
and we shall let the Yankees have a sight of the Petrel, at
New Haven, Sachem's-Head, and Nantucket.”
“I have no doubt you will have a pleasant excursion.”
“Our only difficulty at present seems the prospect of too
much comfort,” said Charlie. “Mrs. de Vaux expressed
some fears of a famine at Longbridge in consequence of this
cruise, we carry off such a stock of provisions.”
“Not a bit too much; people always want twice as much
on a party of pleasure as at other times,” said Hubert de
Vaux.
The plan of the cruise was talked over in all its details,
and the whole party seemed pleased with the idea. Young
Van Horne, now a practising physician in New York, was
delighted with the prospect of a week's liberty; Mr. Smith,
the conchologist, hoped to pick up some precious univalve
or bivalve; Charlie talked of taking a sketch of Cape Cod;
Harry declared he was determined to enjoy the trip, as the
last holiday he could allow himself for a long time; and Mr.
Stryker promised himself the best of chowders, a sea-dish
in which he professed himself to be a great connoisseur.
Mrs. Creighton indeed declared, that he looked upon that
season as lost, in which he could not make some improvement
in his celebrated receipt for chowder. Whether it was
that this lady's gaiety and coquetry instinctively revived in
the company of so many gentlemen, or whether she felt
afraid of Mr. Stryker's keen, worldly scrutiny, her manner
in the evening resumed entirely its wonted appearance; she
was witty, graceful, piquant, and flattering as ever, and quite
as much so with Hazlehurst as with any.
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“What do you say to a game of chess, Mrs. Creighton?”
asked Mr. Wyllys.
“With pleasure, sir; I am always at your service. Not
that it is very pleasant to be beaten so often, but I really think
I improve under your instructions. You are so much interested
yourself that you inspire others.”
“You must allow me, Mrs. Creighton, to suggest something
for your improvement,” said Mr. Stryker.
“And what is it, pray?”
“You talk too much; you make yourself too agreeable
to your adversary—that is not fair.”
“Oh, it is only a ruse de guerre; and Mr. Wyllys beats
me nine games out of ten, in spite of my chattering.”
“No doubt; but if you could make up your mind to be
less charming for half an hour, you might have the honours
of the game oftener.”
“I must gain the battle my own way, Mr. Stryker, or not
at all.”
“I leave you to your fate, then,” said the gentleman,
turning away.
Charlie, Elinor, Harry, and Jane were quietly talking together;
Jane having now resumed her place in the family
circle. They were speaking of Charlie's sketches, and the
young widow asked if he ever painted portraits now; Miss
Wyllys wished to have her's taken, before she left them to
return to her parents.
“You do paint portraits,” said Elinor; “I have seen those
of your mother and Miss Patsey.”
Charlie changed colour, and hastily denied any claim to
be called a portrait-painter.”
“Yet it would be pleasant,” said Elinor, “to have a picture
of my cousin painted by you.”
Jane observed she should like to have Elinor's, by the
same hand.
“Oh, my portrait would not be worth having,” said Elinor,
smiling; “certainly not if taken by an honest artist.”
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“You will both, I hope, fare better from the hands of Mr.
I— or Mr. S—,” said Charlie, with some little embarrassment.
Mr. Ellsworth, who had been standing near the group, now
asked Elinor to sing.
“What will you have?” she replied, taking a seat at the
piano.
“Anything you please.”
“Pray then give us Robin Adair, Miss Elinor,” said
Charlie.
Elinor sang the well-known song with greater sweetness
than usual—she was decidedly in good voice; both Charlie
and Harry listened with great pleasure as they stood by her
side. Jane was also sitting near the piano, and seemed more
interested in the music than usual; it was a song which the
young widow had so often heard, in what she now looked
back to as the happy days of her girlhood. More than one
individual in the room thought it charming to listen to Elinor
and look at Jane, at the same instant. Several of the gentlemen
then sang, and the party broke up cheerfully.
Little was it thought, that never again could the same
circle be re-united at Wyllys-Roof; all who crossed the
threshold that night were not to return.
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CHAPTER XX.
“I pr'ythee hear me speak!”
Richard III.
Hazlehurst had gone out with his friends, and continued
walking on the piazza, first with Charlie and then with Ellsworth;
at length Mrs. Stanley called him from the window
to say good-bye, as she did not expect to see him again before
the cruise; the other ladies also wished him a pleasant excursion
at the same moment.
“Good fishing and no musquitoes—which, I take it, is all
that is desirable on such an occasion,” said Mrs. Creighton,
smiling brightly but carelessly, as she offered her hand.
“Thank you; I suppose you have no commands for Cape
Cod?”
“None at all, I believe, unless you can bring us the true
Yankee receipt for chowder, which Mr. Stryker was explaining
this evening.”
“You will be off so early to-morrow that we shall scarcely
see you, Harry,” said Miss Wyllys. “You must come back
to us, however, and fall into the old habit of considering
Wyllys-Roof as home, whenever you please,” she added
kindly.
Harry's thanks were expressed with feeling.
“And in the mean time I hope you will have a pleasant
cruise,” said Elinor. “Fair winds and better prospects
attend you!”—and as she raised her eyes, Harry observed
they had filled with tears when she made this allusion to his
difficulties. Perhaps Ellsworth made the same remark, and
appreciated her kindness; for when Elinor turned to wish
him good-night we strongly suspect that his countenance said
so; there could be no doubt at least, that she blushed at the
time, though pale but a moment before.
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After the ladies had gone, Mr. Wyllys and Ellsworth went
off together, and Harry returned to the piazza.
It was perhaps inconsiderate in Hazlehurst to continue
walking so late, for the sound of his footsteps fell regularly
on the stillness of the night, long after the family had gone
to rest, and may possibly have disturbed some of his friends;
but many busy thoughts of the past and the future crowded
on his mind, while pacing that familiar spot, the piazza of
Wyllys-Roof. It is time that these thoughts should be partially
revealed to the reader, and for that purpose we must
pause a moment, in order to look backward.
Long since, Harry's heart had warmed again towards his
old playfellow, Elinor. As soon as the first novelty of a life
at Rio had worn off, Harry, whose affections were strong,
began to miss his old friends; the more so, since Mr. Henley,
although his principles and talents entirely commanded his
secretary's esteem, was not a pleasant companion in everyday
life. Hazlehurst soon began to contrast the minister's
formal, old bachelor establishment with the pleasant house
of his friend Ellsworth, where Mrs. Creighton did the honours
charmingly, and with the cheerful home of his brother, where
his sister-in-law always received him kindly: still oftener
he compared the cold, stately atmosphere which seemed to
fill Mr. Henley's house, with the pleasant, genial spirit which
prevailed at Wyllys-Roof, where everything excellent wore
so amiable an aspect. Until lately he had always been so
closely connected with the family there, that he accused himself
of not having done full justice to all their worth. He
took a pleasure in dwelling on Mr. Wyllys's high moral character,
so happily tempered by the benevolence of cheerful
old age; he remembered the quiet, unpretending virtues of
Miss Wyllys, always mingled with unvarying kindness to
himself; and could he forget Elinor, whose whole character
was so engaging; uniting strength of principle and intelligence,
with a disposition so lovely, so endearing? A place in
this family had been his, his for life, and he had trifled with it,
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rejected it; worse than that—well he knew that the best place
in Elinor's generous heart had once been wholly his; he had
applied for it, he had won it; and what return had he made for
her warmest affections? He had trifled with her; the world
said he had jilted her, jilted the true-hearted Elinor, his friend
and companion from childhood! Knowing her as well as
he did, he had treated her as if she were a mere ball-room
coquette; he had forgotten her as soon as if it had been a
mere holiday fancy of a boy of fifteen. He had been completely
infatuated, dazzled, blinded by a beautiful face. That
it was sheer infatuation was now evident; for, absent from
both Elinor and Jane, all feeling for the latter seemed to have
vanished like a dream. It is said that love without hope
cannot live: the question must be settled by those who have
suffered most frequently from the wounds of Cupid; but it
seems evident, at least from Harry's experience, that love
which has fed plentifully upon hopes for some months, when
suddenly put upon a change of diet, and receiving a large
dose of mortification to boot, falls immediately into a rapid
decline. The recollection of his fancy for Jane was now
unpleasant under every aspect, but where it was connected
with Elinor he soon began to consider it as particularly painful.
He regretted that he had engaged Elinor in the hasty,
boyish manner he had done, before going abroad; had he
not taken this step, the momentary mortification of a refusal
by Jane would have been the only evil; Elinor would not
have suffered, and all might have gone well. Gradually the
idea gained upon him, that it was not impossible to repair
the past. His conduct had been unpardonable, no doubt;
yet, perhaps it might be forgiven. But even if Elinor could
forget his inexcusable fickleness, would her friends ever consent
to risk her future peace with one who had so recklessly
trifled with her already? Mr. Wyllys had been deeply indignant
at his conduct; his whole manner had changed,
there had been a cold civility in it when they had met, which
Harry had felt keenly — it amounted almost to contempt.
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Miss Wyllys, too, was no longer the kind, indulgent Aunt
Agnes of his boyhood; there was a very decided coldness
and reserve in her whole expression, which it seemed all but
impossible to overcome. He wished, however, that he had
it in his power to make advances towards a reconciliation;
he was prepared for merited coldness at first, but he would
willingly submit to it as a just penance, if he could but hope
eventually to regain his position with Elinor. Such a wife
as Elinor would be, was worth a serious struggle to obtain.
Then, at other moments, this idea appeared preposterous to
him; how could the Wyllyses ever forgive him after so keen
an insult, so cruel a blow? No, it was a dream; he would
not indulge in it any longer; he would not think of marrying;
he would turn out an old bachelor diplomatist, like Mr.
Henley. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Creighton was
entirely forgotten in these reveries of Harry's, which formed
occasional interludes to his diplomatic labours while at Rio.
On the contrary she was remembered quite frequently; and
every one who knew her must always think of the pretty
widow as a charming woman; clever, graceful, gay, and
well-bred. Nor had Hazlehurst been blind to her peculiarly
flattering manner towards himself. The lady was his friend
Ellsworth's sister, which was another claim; she was generally
admired too, and this alone, with some men, would
have given her a decided advantage: since we are revealing
Harry's foibles, however, we must do him the justice to say,
that he was not one of the class referred to. When he liked,
he liked honestly, for good reasons of his own. At the time
he left home with Mr. Henley, he had not been able to decide
entirely to his own satisfaction, whether Mrs. Creighton
really had any partiality for him or not; he waited with a
little interest and a little curiosity, to know what she would
do after he left Philadelphia. News soon reached him that
the lady was gay and charming as ever, much admired, and
taking much pleasure in admiration, as usual. He had
known Mrs. Creighton from a girl; she was a year or two
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older than himself, and had been a married woman while he
was still a boy, and he had been long aware of her reputation
as a coquette; this had no doubt put him on his guard.
He had occasionally remarked her conduct himself; and
having been so intimate with women of very different characters—
his brother's wife, Miss Wyllys, and Elinor— he
knew very well that all women were not coquettes; he had
received a higher standard of female delicacy and female
truth than many young men. So long, therefore, as he believed
Mrs. Creighton a decided flirt, he was in little danger
from her: the lady, however, was no common coquette—
cleverness, tact, good taste, gave her very great advantages;
she was generally admired, and Hazlehurst expected daily
to hear that she was married.
He had become very tired of Rio Janeiro, and very desirous
of returning home, long before Mr. Henley was recalled
to exchange the court of Brazil for that of St. Petersburgh.
Sincere respect for Mr. Henley had alone kept him at Rio;
and when he arrived at Norfolk, he was still undecided
whether he should continue in the legation or not. He
found that all his friends were at Saratoga, and he hastened
there; he was anxious to see the Wyllyses, anxious to see
Elinor, and yet he dreaded the first meeting—he had already
determined to be guided entirely in his future steps by their
manner towards himself; if they did not absolutely shun
him, he would make an effort for a complete reconciliation.
He knew Elinor was unmarried; he had never heard of any
engagement, and he might then hope to regain all he had
lost. He arrived, he was received kindly, and the sight of
Elinor's plain face did not change his determination; on the
contrary, he found her just what he remembered her, just
what he had always known her to be—everything that was
naturally feminine and amiable. But if Elinor were still
herself, Harry soon found that her position had very materially
altered of late; she was now an heiress, it seemed.
What a contemptible interpretation might be placed on his
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advances under such circumstances! Then came the discovery
of Mr. Ellsworth's views and hopes; and his friend
was evidently sanguine of success. Thus everything was
changed; he was compelled to remain in the back-ground,
to avoid carefully any interference with his friend.
There appeared no reason to doubt that Elinor would, ere
long, marry Ellsworth; she herself certainly liked him, and
her friends very evidently favoured his suit. On the other
hand, Mrs. Creighton seemed particularly well pleased with
his own return; she was certainly very charming, and it was
by no means an unpleasant task to play cavalier to his friend's
sister. Still he looked on with great interest, as Ellsworth
pursued his courtship; and he often found himself making
observations upon Elinor's movements. “Now she will
do this” — “I am sure she thinks that” — “I know her
better than Ellsworth”—“She can't endure Stryker”—and
other remarks of the kind, which kept his attention fixed
upon his old playfellow; the more closely he observed her
the more he saw to love and admire; for their former long
intimacy had given him a key to her character, and greater
knowledge of the world enabled him fully to appreciate her
purity of principle, her native grace and modesty, the generous
tone of her mind, the unaffected sweetness of her disposition.
It appeared strange and unpleasant to him, that
he must now draw back and see her engrossed by Ellsworth,
when she had so long been his own favourite companion;
still he had no right to complain, it was his own fault that
matters were so much changed. As for Mrs. Creighton,
Harry could not satisfy himself with regard to her real feelings;
there were times when he thought she was attached
to him, but just as it began to appear clear that she was not
merely coquetting, just as he began to inquire if he could ever
offer himself to a woman whom he admired very much, but
whom he did not entirely respect, the pretty widow would
run off, apparently in spite of herself, into some very evident
flirtation with Stryker, with de Vaux, with Mr. Wyllys, in
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fact, with any man who came in her way. Generally he
felt relieved by these caprices, since they left perfect liberty
of action to himself; ocasionally he was vexed with her
coquetry, vexed with himself for admiring her in spite of it
all. Had Harry never known Mrs. Creighton previously,
he would doubtless have fallen very decidedly in love with
her in a short time; but he had known her too long, and
half mistrusted her; had he never known Elinor so thoroughly,
he would not have understood Mrs. Creighton. He
involuntarily compared the two together; both were particularly
clever, well-bred, and graceful; but Harry felt that one
was ingenuous, amiable, and natural, while he knew that the
other was worldly, bright, but cold, and interested in all her
views and actions. Elinor's charm lay in the perfect confidence
one reposed in the firmness of her principles, the
strength of her affections, softened as they were by feminine
grace of mind and person. Mrs. Creighton fascinated by
the brilliant gloss of the world, the perfection of art, inspired
by the natural instincts of a clever, educated coquette. There
had been moments when Hazlehurst was all but deceived
into believing himself unjust towards Mrs. Creighton, so
charmingly piquant, so gracefully flattering was her manner;
but he owed his eventual escape to the only talisman which
can ever save a young man, or an old one either, from the
wiles of a pretty, artful coquette; he carried about with him
the reflection of a purer model of womanly virtue, one gradually
formed from boyhood upon Elinor's mould, and which
at last had entirely filled his mind and his heart.
Since the commencement of the Stanley suit, Hazlehurst
had become quite disgusted with Mrs. Creighton's conduct;
art may reach a great way, but it can never cover the whole
ground, and the pretty widow involuntarily betrayed too many
variations of manner, graduated by Harry's varying prospects;
his eyes were completely opened; he was ashamed of himself
for having been half-persuaded that she was attached to him.
How different had been Elinor's conduct! she had shown
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throughout a warm, unwavering interest in his difficulties,
always more frankly expressed in his least encouraging
moments; indeed she had sometimes blushed, from the fear
that her sympathy might be mistaken for something more
than friendly regard for her kinsman. Harry saw it all; he
understood the conduct of both, and he felt Elinor's kindness
deeply; he was no longer ungrateful, and he longed to tell
her so. True, she would ere long become his friend's wife,
but might he not, under the circumstances, be permitted first
to declare his feelings? It would, perhaps, be only a just
atonement for the past—only what was due to Elinor. Harry
tried to persuade himself into this view of the case, as he
looked up towards her window, invoking a blessing on her
gentle head.
Hazlehurst's reflections, while on the piazza, had commenced
with his pecuniary difficulties, and the consequences
of his late defeat, but they gradually centered on Elinor in a
very lover-like manner, much in the shape we have given
them. But at length the moon went down behind the wood,
and those whose rooms were on that side of the house found
that the sound of his footsteps had ceased; and nothing
farther disturbed the stillness of the night.
“Did you see the Petrel this morning, grandpapa?” said
Elinor, as she was pouring out the coffee at the breakfast-table.
“No, I did not, my child; I took it for granted they were
off before sun-rise, and did not look for them.”
“They were behind their time; they were in sight from
my window about an hour since.”
“Some of the youngsters have been lazy, I suppose; I
hope Harry was not the delinquent.”
“I heard him pass my door quite early,” observed Miss
Agnes.
“When I saw them,” said Elinor, “they had drawn off
from the wharf, and were lying in the river, as if they were
waiting for something that had been forgotten; the boat looked
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beautifully, for there was very little air, and she lay motionless
on the water, with her sails half-furled.”
“Perhaps they stopped for Mr. Hubbard to make a
sketch,” said Ellsworth to Elinor.
“Hardly, I should think; time and tide, you know, wait
for no man—not even to be sketched.”
“But Hazlehurst told me his friend Hubbard had promised
to immortalize the Petrel and her crew by a picture;
perhaps he chose the moment of departure; you say she
appeared to great advantage then.”
“I should think he would prefer waiting for some more
striking moment. Who knows what adventures they may
meet with! Mr. de Vaux expects to win a race; perhaps
they may catch a whale, or see the sea-serpent.”
“No doubt Mr. Stryker would try to catch the monster, if
they were to meet with him; his fishing ambition is boundless,”
said Mrs. Creighton.
“But there is no fashionable apparatus for catching seaserpents,”
observed Elinor; “and Mr. Stryker's ambition is
all fashionable.”
“Stryker is not much of an Izaak Walton, certainly,” remarked
Ellsworth. “He calls it murder, to catch a trout
with a common rod and a natural fly. He will scarcely be
the man to bring in the sea-serpent; he would go after it
though, in a moment, if a regular European sportsman were
to propose it to him.”
“I almost wonder we have not yet had an English yacht
over here, whale-hunting, or sea-serpent-hunting,” said Mrs.
Creighton; “they are so fond of novelty and wild-goose
chasing of any kind.”
“It would make a lion of a dandy, at once,” said Ellsworth,
“if he could catch the sea-serpent.”
“A single fin would be glory enough for one lion,” said
Elinor; “remember how many yards there are of him.”
“If Stryker should catch a slice of the serpent, no doubt
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he will throw it into his chowder-pot, and add it to the receipt,”
said Mr. Wyllys.
“Well, Miss Wyllys, I think you and I might engage to
eat all the monsters he catches, as Beatrice did Benedict's
slain,” said Mrs. Creighton.
“Do you intend to make up with Stryker, à la Beatrice?”
asked the lady's brother. “It is some time now that you
have carried on the war of wit with him.”
“No, indeed; I have no such intentions. I leave him
entirely to Miss Wyllys; all but his chowder, which I like
now and then,” said the lady, carelessly.
“I am sorry you will not be here, Mrs. Creighton, for the
pic-nic to the ladies, which de Vaux is to give when he
comes back,” said Mr. Wyllys; “Mr. Stryker will give us a
fine chowder, no doubt.”
“Thank you, sir; I should enjoy the party exceedingly.
I must not think too much of it, or I might be tempted to
break my engagement with the Ramsays.”
“Have you really decided to go so soon?—I was in hopes
we should be able to keep you much longer,” said Miss
Wyllys.
“I should be delighted to stay; but in addition to my visit
to the Ramsays, who are going to town expressly for me, I
must also pick up my little neice.”
Miss Wyllys then made some inquiries about Mr. Ellsworth's
little girl.
“She was very well and happy, with her cousins, when I
heard from my eldest sister, a day or two since,” he replied.
“She has been with me very little this summer; I hope we
shall be able to make some pleasanter arrangement for the
future,” he added, with a half-glance at Elinor.
“My brother has a very poor opinion of my abilities, Miss
Wyllys; because I have no children of my own, he fancies
that I cannot manage his little girl.”
“I am much obliged to you, Josephine, for what you have
done for her, as you very well know.”
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“Oh, yes; you are much obliged to me, and so forth; but
you think Mary is in better hands with Mrs. Ellis, and so do
I; I cannot keep the little thing in very good order, I acknowledge.”
“It must be difficult not to spoil her, Mrs. Creighton,”
remarked Mr. Wyllys. “She is a very pretty and engaging
child—just the size and age for a pet.”
“That is the misfortune; she is so pretty that Frank thinks
I make a little doll of her; that I dress her too much. I
believe he thinks I wear too many flowers and ribbons myself;
he has become very fastidious in his taste about such
matters lately; he wishes his daughter to dress with elegant
simplicity; now I have a decided fancy for elegant ornament.”
“He must be very bold, Mrs. Creighton, if he proposes
any alteration to you.”
“I agree with you, entirely,” said the lady, laughing;
“for the last year or two I have been even less successful in
suiting him than of old. He seems to have some very superior
model in his mind's eye. But it is rather annoying
to have one's taste in dress criticised, after having been accustomed
to hear it commended and consulted, ever since I
was fifteen.”
“You must tolerate my less brilliant notions for the sake
of variety,” said her brother, smiling.
“I shall hope to make over Mary's wardrobe to some other
direction, before she grows up,” said Mrs. Creighton; “for
you and I would certainly quarrel over it.”
The party rose from table. Elinor felt a touch of nervousness
come upon her, as she remarked that Mr. Ellsworth
seemed to be watching her movements; while his face had
worn rather a pre-occupied expression all the morning, seeming
to threaten something important.
The day was very pleasant; and as Mr. Wyllys had some
business at certain mills on Chewattan Lake, he proposed a
ride on horseback to his friends, offering a seat in his old-fashioned
chair to any lady who chose to take it.
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Mrs. Creighton accepted the offer very readily.
“I have not been in any carriage so rustic and farmer-like
these twenty years,” she said.
“I shall be happy to drive you, if you can be satisfied
with a sober old whip like myself, and a sober old pony
like Timo.”
“It is settled then; you ride I suppose, Miss Wyllys.
Elinor assented; Mary Van Alstyne was also to go on
horseback. Mr. Ellsworth thought that he would have preferred
escorting one lady instead of two on that occasion.
He seemed destined that morning to discover, that a lover's
course is not only impeded by important obstacles, but often
obstructed by things trifling in themselves. Before the chair
and horses appeared at the door, there was an arrival from
Longbridge. Mr. Taylor and his daughter, Miss Emma,
had come from New York the previous evening, and now
appeared at Wyllys-Roof; the merchant had come over
with the double object of blessing his grandchild, and taking
his share in a speculation then going on in the neighbourhood.
The Taylors had been asked to Wyllys-Roof, at any
time when they wished to see Jane, and they had now come
for twenty-four hours, in accordance with the invitation. At
first Mr. Ellsworth supposed the ride to Chewattan Lake
must be abandoned, but it was only deferred for an hour.
Miss Emma Taylor, ever ready for an enterprise of liveliness,
had no sooner embraced her sister-in-law, and learned that
some of the family had proposed riding, than she immediately
expressed a great desire to join them. Mary Van Alstyne
very readily gave up her horse and habit to the young lady;
and Mr. Ellsworth walked over to Broadlawn, to invite Bob
de Vaux, a boy of sixteen, to be her especial escort. He
thought this a very clever manœuvre of his own. While
these arrangements were going on, and the Taylors were
taking some refreshment, Mr. Taylor had found time to express
his regrets at the result of the law-suit.
“I was much disposed, however, to anticipate such a
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verdict,” he observed; “Mr. Clapp is a very talented lawyer
for so young a man; this cause, which has attracted so much
attention, will probably make his fortune at the bar. But I
was fearful, sir, from the beginning, that neither yourself nor
your friend, Mr. Hazlehurst, was fully aware of Mr. Clapp's
abilities.”
“I do not conceive, however, that the cause was won by
Mr. Clapp's legal acumen,” observed Mr. Wyllys, drily.
“Perhaps not; still, I understand that he succeeded in
making out a very strong case in behalf of his client.”
“Of that there is no doubt.”
“And the less foundation he had to work on, the greater
his talents must appear,” said Mr. Taylor, with a look, which
expressed both admiration for Mr. Clapp, and the suspicion
that he had been assisting an impostor.
“The kind of talent you refer to is not of a very enviable
character, I think,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“I don't know that, my dear sir,” added Mr. Taylor, as
he drank off a glass of wine; “it is a talent which has
gained a fine property at least. I regret, however, that my
friend, Mr. Hazlehurst, should have suffered so heavy a loss.”
“Mr. Wyllys bowed; and well aware that his own views
of the case and those of Mr. Taylor would not agree, he
changed the conversation.
“You will find your old place much changed,” observed
Miss Wyllys to the merchant.
“Yes, madam; I understand considerable alterations have
been made at my former mansion. I had almost forgotten
this morning that the estate was no longer mine, and was
half-inclined to enter the gate as we passed it.”
“I am delighted, pa, that it is not yours any longer!” exclaimed
Miss Emma, with a liveliness which accorded particularly
ill with her deep mourning-dress. “We shall have
ten times more fun at Rockaway; Colonnade Manor was
the stupidest place in creation; we were often a whole day
without seeing a beau!”
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At length, Miss Emma having declared herself more than
sufficiently rested, she put on the habit; and the chair and
horses were brought to the door. Mr. Taylor was to set out
shortly after, in another direction, to go over the manufactory
in which he was about to become interested.
All agreed that the day was delightful. There was a fine
air, the dust had been laid by a shower, and as the road led
through several woods, they had not too much sun. For a
while the four equestrians kept together, and common-place
matters only were talked over; the Petrel was not forgotten.
Miss Emma Taylor declared she would have gone along, if
she had been on the spot when they sailed. Bob de Vaux
said his brother Hubert had offered to take him, but he did
not care to go; he had rather ride than sail, any day.
“Here's for a gallop then!” exclaimed the young lady,
and off the two set at a rapid pace.
“How does that flirtation come on?” asked Miss Emma,
when they lessened their pace at some distance in advance
of the rest of the party.
“All settled, I believe,” replied the youth.
“What, actually engaged? I have been quite exercised
about all your doings over here, this summer; you must
have had a lively time, three or four flirtations all going on
at once. But, do you know I am bent on spiting Mr. Ellsworth
this morning. He meant to have a tête-à-tête, I know,
and only asked you just to get rid of me. But he shan't
have a moment's peace to pay for it; let's turn round and
go back again at full speed.”
Bob de Vaux had not the least objections; he liked motion
and mischief almost as much as did the lively belle; they
both enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and succeeded in provoking
Mr. Ellsworth not a little. Miss Emma and her
companion were in high glee at their success; they would
first ride half a mile by the side of the others, then gallop
off to a distance, and at a signal from the young lady,
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suddenly facing about they would return, just in time, as Miss
Emma thought, to cut short any tender speech.
“That young lady seems to have gone twice over every
foot of the road,” innocently observed Mr. Wyllys, little
aware of her object.
“What a restless creature it is!” replied Mrs. Creighton;
“she must worry her horse as much as she annoys her rational
companions.”
“Miss Taylor is a perfect rattle,” remarked Mr. Ellsworth.
“Quite inferior to her sister, Mrs. Hunter, I should say.”
“Her excess of spirits will wear itself out one of these
days, I dare say,” replied Elinor.
“It is to be hoped so,” said the gentleman, drily.
When they reached the lake they dismounted, and passed
half an hour at a farm-house, to rest, and lunch upon iced
milk and dew-berries, which the farmer's wife kindly offered
them. Mrs. Creighton professed herself rather disappointed
with Chewattan Lake; the shores were quite low, there was
only one good hill, and one pretty, projecting point, with a
fine group of elms standing in graceful relief against the
sky; she thought Mr. Hubbard's painting had flattered
nature. Mr. Ellsworth would not allow that Charlie ever
flattered; but remarked that it was his peculiar merit, to
throw a charm about the simplest water scene; and his last
view of Chewattan Lake was certainly one of his happiest
pictures.
On their way home, Miss Emma and her companion again
commenced their quizzing system. Towards the end of the
ride, however, the young lady relaxed a little in her vigilance;
when they reached a turnpike-gate, about two miles
from Wyllys-Roof, she suddenly proposed to Bob de Vaux
to run a race with Elinor and Mr. Ellsworth.
“What do you say to it, Miss Wyllys?”
“Excuse me; I had much rather not.”
“Oh, but you don't know what I mean. Now, you and
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Mr. Ellsworth go cantering and trotting along, in such a
sober, Darby and Joan fashion, that I am sure Mr. de Vaux
and I can turn off here, take this by-road, which you know
comes in nearly opposite your gate, and although it is twice
as far round, I bet you a pair of gloves we are at WyllysRoof
before you.”
“Done!” exclaimed Mr. Ellsworth, delighted with the
idea; and off the young lady gallopped with her companion.
It is not to be supposed that the gentleman allowed the
half-hour that followed to pass unimproved. He could speak
at last, and he admired Elinor too sincerely, not to express
himself in terms both warm and respectful. Although Elinor
had been for some time fully prepared for this declaration,
yet she did not receive it without betraying feeling and
embarrassment. Emotion in woman, at such moments, or
in connexion with similar subjects, is generally traced to one
cause alone; and yet half the time it should rather be attributed
to some other source. Anxiety, modesty, mere nervousness,
or even vexation at this very misinterpretation, often
raise the colour, and make the voice falter. Elinor had fully
made up her mind, and she felt that a frank explanation was
due to Mr. Ellsworth, but her regard for him was too sincere
not to make the moment a painful one to her. He was rejected;
but rejected with so much consideration, so much
modesty and feeling, so much good sense, that the very act
only increased his regret. He was much disappointed, for
he had been a hopeful suitor. Elinor had always liked him,
and he had thought her manner encouraging; Mr. Wyllys
and Miss Agnes had not concealed their approbation; and
Mrs. Creighton had often told him she had no doubt of his
success. He was more than mortified, however, by the refusal,
he was pained. Elinor repeated assurances of respect
and friendship, and regret that she felt herself unable to return
his regard as it deserved. She even alluded to his
generosity in overlooking her want of personal attractions;
she said she had, on that account, been slow to believe that
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he had any serious object in view. At the time he had first
proposed, through her grandfather, she herself had wished
to prevent his going any farther, but her friends had desired
her to defer the answer; he himself had begged her to do
so, and named the time fixed—she had reluctantly consented
to this arrangement; and, although the more she knew of
Mr. Ellsworth, the more highly she esteemed and respected
him, yet the result had been what she first foresaw; she
could not conscientiously offer him the full attachment he had
a right to expect from a wife.
Mr. Ellsworth rode on in silence for a moment.
“Is it then true, Miss Wyllys, that I must give up all idea
of obtaining a more indulgent hearing, at some future day?”
“Judge for yourself if I am capricious, Mr. Ellsworth.
Do not imagine that I have lightly rejected the regard of a
man whom I esteem so highly as yourself. I could scarcely
name another in my whole acquaintance, for whom I should
have hesitated so long; but—” Elinor paused, suddenly
became very red, and then deadly pale.
“But—what would you say, Miss Wyllys? — go on, I
entreat!” exclaimed Mr. Ellsworth.
It was a moment before Elinor rallied. She then continued,
in a low voice, and in an agitated, hesitating manner:
“Mr. Ellsworth, I shall speak with perfect frankness;
your kindness and forbearance deserve it. When I consented
to wait so long before giving you a final answer, it was chiefly
that I might discover if I could regain entire command over
feelings which have not always been my own. I am afraid
you are not aware of this. The feeling itself to which I
allude is changed; but be it weakness or not, it has left
traces for life. I was willing to make an experiment in
favour of one who deserved the full confidence of my friends
and myself; but the trial has not succeeded; if I know myself,
it can never succeed—I shall never marry.”
And then after a moment's silence she gently continued,
in a calmer tone:
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“But you will soon forget all this, I trust. You will find
elsewhere some one more worthy of you; one who can better
repay your kindness.”
Mr. Ellsworth chafed a little under this suggestion; though
not so much as a more passionate man might have done.
“To forget one of so much womanly excellence as yourself,
Miss Wyllys, is not the easy task you seem to suppose.”
Elinor could have sighed and smiled as the thought recurred
to her, that Harry had not found it very difficult to
forget her. They had now reached the gate, on their way
home, and turning towards her companion as they entered,
she said:
“I hope, indeed, you will always remember that you have
very sincere friends at Wyllys-Roof, Mr. Ellsworth; believe
me, friends capable of appreciating your merits, and aware
of what is their due.”
Mr. Ellsworth thanked her, but he looked very evidently
disturbed. When they reached the piazza he helped Elinor
from her horse, perhaps more carefully than usual; Miss
Emma Taylor and her cavalier had already arrived; and
the young lady immediately attacked Mr. Ellsworth, bidding
him remember his bet. When Mrs. Creighton stepped from
the chair, she looked for her brother and Elinor, a little curious
to discover if anything decisive had passed, but both had
already entered the house.
Mr. Wyllys learned in the course of the day, from Ellsworth
himself, that he had been rejected; he was very much
disappointed, and more disposed to find fault with Elinor
than he had ever been before.
“I am afraid you have not acted wisely, Elinor,” said her
grandfather; words more like a reproof than any that Elinor
could remember to have heard fall from his lips, addressed
to herself.
Miss Agnes also evidently regretted her niece's decision;
but she said nothing on the subject. As for Mrs. Creighton,
she thought it all easy to be understood.
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“You may say what you please, Frank, about Miss Wyllys,
but you will never persuade me she is not a coquette.”
But this Mr. Ellsworth would by no means allow.
Elinor laid her head on her pillow that night with the
unpleasant reflection, that four persons under the same roof
were reproaching her for the step she had taken that day.
But she herself knew that she had acted conscientiously.
CHAPTER XXI.
“Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold.”
Henry IV.
The Petrel was a very pretty little schooner, pronounced
a crack craft by the knowing ones. She sat so buoyantly on
the water when motionless, and glided along so gracefully
when under way, that even landsmen and landswomen must
have admired her. Let it not be supposed that the word
landswomen is here used unadvisedly: although the Navy
Department is decidedly ungallant in its general character,
and seldom allows ladies to appear on board ship, excepting
at a collation or a ball, yet it is well known that in some of
the smaller sea-port towns, the female portion of the population
are so much interested in nautical matters, and give so
much time and attention to the subject, that they are looked
upon as very good judges of spars and rigging; and it is
even affirmed, that some of these charming young “salts”
are quite capable of examining a midshipman on points of
seamanship. If fame has not belied them, such are the accomplishments
of the belles of Norfolk and Pensacola; while
the wives and daughters of the whalers at Nantucket, are
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said to have also a critical eye for the cut of a jib and the
shape of a hull. Hubert de Vaux hoped they had, for the
thought it a pity that the Petrel's beauties should be thrown
away.
On the morning they sailed, when Elinor had watched the
boat as she lay in the river, they had been waiting for Bruno.
Harry wished to carry the dog with him; but after following
Hazlehurst to the boat, he had returned home again; he was,
however, enticed on board, and they hoisted sail, and slowly
moved out of sight.
In spite of some little delay, the Petrel made a very good
day's work. That night and the following the party slept
on board, and seemed very well satisfied with their quarters;
they intended to run out of sight of land before the end of
their cruise, but as yet they had landed every few hours for
fresh water, vegetables, milk, &c.; as it did not enter at all
into their calculations to be put on a short allowance of anything
desirable. On the afternoon of the third day, the
Petrel reached the wharf of a country place on Long-Island,
where the party landed, according to a previous invitation,
and joined some friends for a couple of days' shooting, which
proved a pleasant variety in the excursion; the sport was
pronounced good, and the gentlemen made the most of it.
Mr. Stryker, however, complained that the pomp and circumstance
of sporting was wanted in this country.
“So long as we have the important items of good guns,
good marksmen, and real wild-game, we need not find fault,”
said Harry.
Many lamentations succeeded, however, upon the rapid
disappearance of game from all parts of the country.
“There I have the best of it,” said Mr. Stryker to his
host. “In the next twenty years you may expect to find
your occupation gone; but I shall at least have fishing in
abundance all my days; though at times I am not quite so
sure of the brook-trout.”
“I don't think Jonathan will be able to exterminate all
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the trout in the land,” said Hazlehurst, “though he is a
shamefully wasteful fellow; but I really think there is some
danger for the oysters; if the population increases, and continues
to eat them, in the same proportion they do now, I
am afraid Jonathan of the next generationw will devour the
whole species.”
From Glen-Cove the Petrel made a reach across the Sound
to Sachem's-Head, where Mr. Stryker enjoyed to perfection
the luxuries of clam-soup, lobster-salad, and chowder.
Their next port was Nantucket. They happened to arrive
there just before a thunder-shower, and Charlie Hubbard
was much struck with the wild, desolate look of the island.
He pointed out to Hazlehurst the fine variety of netural tints
to be traced in the waves, in the low sand-banks, and the
dark sky forming the back-ground. Nantucket is a barren
spot, indeed, all but bare of vegetation; scarcely a shrub
will grow there, and even the tough beach-grass is often
swept away in large tracts; while the forms of the sand-hills
vary with every storm. The town itself, however, is a busy,
lively little spot—one of the most nautical in feeling and
character to be found on the globe. The chief interests of
the inhabitants centre in the ocean; and even the very ornaments
of their houses are spoils of the deep, sheels and fishbones
from distant latitudes, and sailor's fancy-work in various
materials, all connected in some way with the sea. Charlie
made a sketch of the island, and determined to return there
and paint a picture of some size. The next day, which was
Sunday, they remained at Nantucket; there is a pretty little
church in the town, and Charlie, Harry, and Mr. Smith
attended service there; the rest of the gentlemen preferring
to idle away the morning in a less praiseworthy manner.
One of young de Vaux's crew was taken sick here, and
he was obliged to secure another man before leaving the
island; it was easy to do so, however, as one who was waiting
for a passage to New York soon offered, and the matter
was settled.
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Early on Monday morning they again made sail, for
Martha's Vineyard; from thence the Petrel's head was to be
turned southward, and after coasting the eastern shore of
Long-Island, they expected to return to the wharf at Broadlawn,
as fast as the winds would carry them. The Vineyard,
owing to a more sheltered position, bears a different aspect
from the barren sands of Nantucket; parts of the island are
well wooded. Choosing a pleasant bay known to their pilot,
where a rude wharf had been built, the party landed and
prepared to dine, and pass some hours there. They were
no sooner on shore than Mr. Stryker made his arrangements
for fishing; having secured bait, Dr. Van Horne and himself,
with one of the men, took the Petrel's boat and rowed
off from shore, changing their ground occasionally, until they
had turned the point which formed the bay on one side, and
were no longer in sight. De Vaux and Smith took their
guns and went into the wood; Charlie brought out his sketch-book,
and was soon engaged in taking some tints, in water-colours,
from a heavy bank of clouds which had been slowly
rising in the west for several hours. Hazlehurst was lying
on the grass near him, with a spy-glass, watching a couple
of sloops in the distance: turning his head accidentally towards
the spot where they were commencing preparations
for dinner, Harry saw one of the men, the new recruit, whom
he had not yet remarked, looking at him closely. It struck
Hazlehurst that he had met this man before; the sailor saw
that he was observed, and after a moment's hesitation he
approached, touching his hat with the common salutation of
a seaman, and looking as if he wished to speak, but scarcely
knew how to begin.
“Have you anything to say to me, my friend!—It strikes
me I have seen your face somewhere lately.”
“If you are Mr. Hazlehurst, I guess, sir, you seed me not
long since,” replied the man, a little embarrassed.
It suddenly flashed upon Harry's mind, that it was during
the Stanley trial that he had seen this person; yes, he could
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not be mistaken, he was one of the witnesses for the plaintiff
on that occasion. Hazlehurst gave him a keen look; the
fellow faltered a little, but begged Harry to step aside for
a moment, as he wished to speak alone with him. They
moved to the adjoining bank, within the edge of the wood,
and a conversation followed of some consequence to Hazlehurst,
certainly. After a few prefatory remarks, this man
offered to make important revelations, upon condition that he
should be screened from justice—being considered as state's
evidence—and rewarded by Harry for volunteering his services;
to which Hazlehurst readily agreed.
We shall tell his story for him, rather as it appeared at a
later day, than in the precise words in which it was first
given at Martha's Vineyard. By his disclosures, the villany
of Clapp and his client were placed beyond a doubt; and he
himself was good authority, for he was Robert Stebbins, the
witness who had sworn to having returned the pocket-book
and the accompanying documents to the plaintiff, as their
rightful owner; he now confessed that he had perjured himself
for a heavy bribe, but stood ready to turn state's evidence,
and reveal all he knew of the plot. Those papers had actually
been placed in his care thirteen years since by his own
brother, Jonathan Stebbins, who had died of small-pox in an
hospital at Marseilles. This brother had been a favourite
companion of William Stanley's from his first voyage; they
had shipped together in the Jefferson, and before sailing,
Stanley had placed a package of papers and other articles,
for safe-keeping, in an old chest of Stebbins's, which was
left with the sailor's mother in Massachusetts. They were
wrecked in the Jefferson on the coast of Africa, as had been
already reported; but they were not drowned, they both
succeeded in reaching the shore, having lashed themselves
to the same spar. It was a desert, sandy coast, and they
were almost starved after having reached the land; their
only shelter was a small cave in a low ledge of rocks near
the beach; they fed upon half-putrid shell-fish thrown upon
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the sands by the gale, and they drank from the pools of rain-water
that had formed on the rock during the storm; for they
had saved nothing from the wreck but a sealed bottle, containing
their protections as American sailors, some money in
an old glove, and a few other papers. William Stanley had
been ill before the gale, and he had not strength to bear up
against these hardships; he declined rapidly, and aware that
he could not live, the young man charged his companion, if
he ever returned to America, to seek his family, relate the
circumstances of his death, and show the papers in the
bottle—an old letter to himself, and within it the notice of
his father's marriage, which he had cut from a paper, obtained
from an American vessel spoken on the voyage—and
also the package left on shore in the old chest, as these documents
would be considered testimonials of his veracity. He
farther charged Stebbins to say that he asked his father's forgiveness,
acknowledging that he died repenting of his past
misconduct. The third day after the gale the young man
expired, and Stebbins buried him in the sand near the cave.
The survivor had a hard struggle for life; the rain-water had
soon dried away, and he set out at night in search of a spring
to relieve his thirst, still keeping in sight of the shore. As
the morning sun rose, when all but exhausted, he discovered
on the beach several objects from the wreck, which had
drifted in that direction, the wind having changed after the
gale. He found a keg of spirits and some half-spoiled biscuit,
and by these means his life was prolonged. He made
a bag of his shirt, bound a few things on his back, and buried
others in the sand, to return to if necessary, and then continued
to follow the shore northward, in search of some spring
or stream. Fortunately, he soon came to a woody tract
which promised water, and climbing a tree he watched the
wild animals, hoping to discover where they drank; at length,
following a flock of antelopes, he came suddenly upon the
bank of a stream of some size; and to his unspeakable joy,
saw on the opposite bank a party of white men, the first
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human beings he had beheld since Stanley's death; they
proved to be Swedes belonging to a ship in the offing, and
immediately took him into their boat. The vessel was bound
to Stockholm, where she carried young Stanley's shipmate;
from there he went to St. Petersburgh, where he met with
the brother who related his story to Hazlehurst, and both
soon after enlisted in the Russian navy. They were sent to
the Black Sea, and kept there and in the Mediterranean for
five years, until the elder brother, Jonathan Stebbins, died of
small-pox in a hospital at Marseilles, having never returned
to America since the wreck of the Jefferson. Before his
death, however, he left all his effects and William Stanley's
papers to his brother. This man, Robert Stebbins, seemed
to have paid very little attention to the documents; it was by
mere chance that he preserved the old letter, and the marriage
notice within it, for he confessed that he had torn up the protection,
once when he wanted a bit of paper: he had never
known William Stanley himself, the inquiries about the
young man had ceased before he returned to America, and
he had attached no importance whatever to these papers.
He had left them where they had first been placed, in the
old sea-chest at his mother's house, near New Bedford, while
he led the usual wandering life of a sailor. He told Harry
that he had at last quite forgotten this package, until he accidentally
fell in with a man calling himself William Stanley,
at a low tavern, only some five or six years since, and, to his
amazement, heard him declare he had been wrecked in the
Jefferson.
“The fellow was half-drunk,” said Stebbins; “but I knew
his yarn was a lie all the time, for I had sailed with him in
another ship, at the time my brother Jonathan was wrecked
in the Jefferson. He shipped then under the name of Benson,
but I knew his real name was Edward Hopgood—”
“Edward Hopgood!” exclaimed Harry, passing his hand
over his forehead—“surely I have heard that name before.
Wait a moment,” he added, to Stebbins; while he
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endeavoured to recollect why that name, singular in itself, had a
familiar sound to him. At length his eye brightened, the
whole matter became more clear; he recollected when a
mere child, a year or two before Mr. Stanley's death, while
staying at Greatwood during a vacation, to have heard of the
bad conduct of a young man named Edward Hopgood, a
lawyer's clerk in the adjoining village, who had committed
forgery and then run away. The circumstances had occurred
while Harry was at Greatwood, and had been so much
talked of in a quiet, country neighbourhood, as to make a
decided impression on himself, child as he was. Harry also
remembered to have heard Mr. Stanley tell Mr. Wyllys that
this Hopgood was very distantly related to himself, through
the mother, who had made a very bad connexion; adding,
that this lad had been at Greatwood, and would have been
assisted by himself, had he not behaved very badly, and done
so much to injure his own son that he had been forbidden
the house. Harry farther remembered, that Clapp had belonged
to the same office from which this Hopgood had run
away. There was, however, one point which he did not
understand; he thought he had since heard that this Hopgood
had turned actor, and died long since of yellow-fever,
at New Orleans. Still, he felt convinced that there was a
good foundation for Stebbins's story, and he hoped soon to
unravel the whole plot, from the clue thus placed in his
hands.
“Go on,” said Harry, after this pause. “You say this
man, whom you knew to be Hopgood, called himself William
Stanley. What became of him?”
“It is the same chap that hoisted your colours, Mr. Hazlehurst:
him that the jury gave the verdict to in Philadelphia.”
“Yes; I knew it must be the same individual before you
spoke,” said Harry, with a view to keep his informant accurate.
“But how did you know that his name was Hopgood?
for you say he had shipped under another.”
“I knew it because he had told me so himself. He told me
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how he had run away from a lawyer's office in Pennsylvany,
gone to New Orleans and turned play-actor a while, then
shammed dead, and had his name printed in the papers
among them that died of yellow-fever. He told me all that
in his first voyage, when we were shipmates, and that was
just the time that my brother Jonathan was wrecked in the
Jefferson.”
“When you afterwards heard him say he was William
Stanley, did you tell him you knew his real name?”
“Yes; I told him I knew he lied; for my brother had
buried Stanley with his own hands, and that I had his papers
at home. Then he told me he was only laughing at the
green-horns.”
“Did you mention to any one at the time that you knew
this man was not William Stanley?”
“No, sir, for I didn't speak to him until we were alone;
and we parted company next morning, for I went to sea.”
“When did you next see Hopgood?”
“Well, I didn't fall in with him again for a long while,
until this last spring. When I came home from a voyage to
China in the Mandarin, last May, I went to my mother's,
near New Bedford, and then I found a chap had been to see
her in the winter, and persuaded her to give him all the
papers in the old chest, that had belonged to William Stanley,
making out he was one of the young man's relations. It
was that lawyer Clapp; and Hopgood had put him on the
track of them 'ere papers.”
“What were the documents in your chest?”
“Most of what they had to show came from me: to be
sure, Hopgood had got some letters and papers, written to
himself of late years under the name of William Stanley;
but all they had before the wreck of the Jefferson came from
me.”
“Were there any books among the articles in your possession?”
“No, sir; nothing but the pocket-book.”
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“Are you quite sure? Was there not one book with
William Stanley's name in it?”
“Not one;—that 'ere book they had in court didn't come
from me; how they got it I don't know,” replied Stebbins
positively; who, it seemed, knew nothing of the volume of
the Spectator.
“Where did you next meet Hopgood?”
“Well, I was mad when I found he had got them papers;
but the lawyer had left a message with my mother, saying
if I came home, she was to tell me I'd hear something to my
advantage by applying to him. So I went after him to the
place where he lives; and sure enough there was Hopgood,
and he and Clapp as thick as can be together. I guess they'd
have liked it better if I had never showed myself again:
but they got round me, and told me how it was all settled,
and if I would only lend a hand, and keep quiet about Hopgood,
and speak for them once in a while, they would enter
into an agreement to give me enough to make a skipper of
me at once. Them 'ere lawyers they can make black look
like white—and so I agreed to it at last.”
Hazlehurst strongly suspected that less persuasion had
been necessary than the man wished him to believe.
“Did they tell you all their plan?”
“Pretty much all; they said it was easy to make people
believe Hopgood was William Stanley, for he looked so much
like the young man, that he had been asked if that wasn't
his name. He said it was that first gave him the notion of
passing off for William Stanley—that, and knowing all about
the family, and the young man himself. He said Stanley
had no near relations who would be likely to remember him;
there was only one old gentleman they was afraid of, but
they calculated they knew enough to puzzle him too. Hopgood
had been practising after Stanley's handwriting; he
was pretty good at that trade when he was a shaver,” said
Stebbins, with a look which showed he knew the story of
the forgery. “He was bred a lawyer, and them 'ere lawyers
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are good at all sorts of tricks. Clapp and him had made
out a story from my papers and what they know'd before, and
got it all ready in a letter; they agreed that from the time of
the wreck, they had better keep pretty straight to Hopgood's
real life; and so they did.”
“They seem to have laid all their plans before you.”
“Well, they couldn't help it, for they wanted me to tell
them all I heard from my brother; but I told 'em to speak
first. They made out that Hopgood had a right to the property;
for they said that old Mr. Stanley had no family to
leave it to, that you was a stranger, and that Hopgood was a
relation.”
“This Hopgood, who first helped to corrupt William
Stanley, even if he had actually been a near relation, would
have been the last human being to whom Mr. Stanley would
have left his property,” said Harry, coolly. “But go on
with your story; why did they not show the pocket-book
before the trial?”
“They settled it so, because they thought it would look
better before the jury.”
“Why did you change your own mind so soon after the
trial? You should have come to me before.”
“Hopgood and I had a quarrel only three days ago, when
he was drunk; he swore they could have done without me,
and I swore I'd be revenged. Then that fellow, Clapp,
wouldn't pay me on the spot according to agreement, as soon
as they had gained the cause. I had kept my part, and he
hadn't lifted a finger yet for me; nor he wouldn't if he could
help it, for all he had given me his word. I know him from
more than one thing that came out; he is one of your fellows
who sham gentlemen, with a fine coat to his back; but I
wouldn't trust him with a sixpence out of sight; no, nor out
of arm's length,” and Stebbins went on, swearing roundly at
Clapp and Hopgood, until Harry interrupted him.
“I know them 'ere lawyers, they think they can cheat
Jack any day; but I won't trust him an hour longer! I know
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your real gentleman from your tricky sham at a minute's
warning, though their coats be both cut off the same piece
of broadcloth. I haven't served under Uncle Sam's officers
for nothing. Now I'll trust you, Mr. Hazlehurst, as long
as it suits you; I'd no more have talked to Clapp without
having his name down in black and white, as I have to you,
than I'd be shot.”
“The agreement I have made shall be strictly kept,” replied
Harry, coldly. “Had you come to me before the trial,
you would have had the same reward, without the crime of
perjury.”
“Well, that 'ere perjury made me feel uncomfortable; and
what with having sworn vengeance on Clapp and Hopgood,
I made up my mind to go straight back to Philadelphy, and
turn state's evidence. I was waiting for a chance to get to
New York when I saw you on the wharf at Nantuckct, and
I knew you in a minute.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a call from the
beach, which attracted Harry's attention, after having been
so much engrossed during the disclosures of Stebbins, as to
be quite regardless of what was going on about him. It was
de Vaux who had called—he now approached.
“I couldn't think where that fellow, Stebbins, had got to;
if you have nothing for him to do here, Hazlehurst, he is
wanted yonder.”
Harry and the sailor accordingly parted. After exchanging
a few words to conclude their agreement, they both returned
to the beach.
The Petrel seemed to be getting under way again; Smith
and de Vaux, who had just returned from the wood with
their guns, and Charlie, who had just left his sketching apparatus,
were standing together looking on when Harry
joined them.
“I didn't know what had become of you,” said Charlie.
“What a long yarn that fellow seemed to be telling you!”
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“It was well worth hearing,” said Harry, with a significant
look at his friend.
“Really? I had some hope it might prove so from the
man's look,” added Charlie, comprehending at once the drift
of the conversation, though he had little idea of its complete
success in unravelling the plot.
“You shall hear it before long,” added Harry.
“When you please; in the mean time I wish you joy of
any good news!”
“But what are you about here, de Vaux? I thought we
were to remain on the island till sun-set.”
“So we shall; but it seems that fellow, Black Bob, has
forgot the vegetables I ordered him to bring from Nantucket;
we have discovered a house with something like a garden
on the opposite point, and I am going to send Bob with the
boy Sam on a foraging expedition; I dare say they will find
potatoes and onions at least. That is the spot; do you see
the apple-trees? With the glass I saw a woman moving
about, and milk-pans drying in the sun.'
“Why don't you send the boat?
“Stryker hasn't come back yet, and there is wind enough
to carry the Petrel over and back again in half an hour.”
“Smith and I are going as commanding officers; and you
will have a much better dinner for our exertions, no doubt,”
said Charlie.
“Holloa, there, Bob—Sam!—tumble on board; mind you
bring all the garden-stuff they can spare. You Bob, see if
you can pick up half you contrived to forget, sir, at Nantucket.
You deserve to be made to swim across for it,” said
de Vaux.
“Never could swim a stroke in my born days, sir,” muttered
Black Bob.
“There isn't much choice of sa'ace at Nantucket, any
way,” added the boy Sam.
“Here we go,” said Charlie, jumping lightly on board,
followed by Smith.
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“It is possible you may find some melons, Hubbard; don't
forget to ask for them,” said de Vaux.
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Charlie, nodding as the Petrel
moved off. The boy was steering, while Black Bob and the
gentlemen tended the sails; and the little schooner glided
gracefully on her way, with a light breeze, sufficiently
favourable.
Harry went to take a look at Charlie's sketch, which he
found just as the young artist had left it—spirited and true
to nature as usual, but only half-finished. De Vaux looked
into the chowder pot, where all seemed to be going on well.
He then joined Harry, and the young men continued walking
together near the shanty, where preparations for dinner were
going on under the charge of Stebbins and the acting steward
of the cruise.
“It is nearly time Stryker made his appearance with the
fish,” said Harry.
“If the sport is good, we shan't see him this hour yet,”
replied de Vaux. “He will only come back in time to put
the finishing stroke to the chowder.”
“If he waits too long he will have a shower,” observed
Harry, pointing eastward, where dark clouds were beginning
to appear above the wood.
“Not under an hour I think,” said de Vaux. “He will
take care of himself at any rate—trust to Stryker for that.”
They turned to look at the Petrel. Some ten or fifteen
minutes had passed since she left the little wharf, and she
was already near her destination; the point on which the
farm-house stood being scarcely more than a mile distant, in
a direct line, and a single tack having proved sufficient to
carry her there.
“The wind seems to be falling,” said Harry, holding up
his hand to feel the air. “It is to be hoped they will make
a quick bargain, or they may keep your potatoes too late to
be boiled for to-day's dinner.”
De Vaux took up the glass to look after their movements.
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“They have made the point, handsomely,” he said; “and
there is a woman coming down to the shore, and a boy, too.”
The friends agreed that there seemed every prospect of a
successful negotiation; for a woman was seen going towards
the garden with a basket, and Sam, the boy, had landed.
Before long a basket was carried down from the house;
while Sam and the woman were still busy in the garden.
“They had better be off as soon as they can,” said de
Vaux, “for the wind is certainly falling.”
“There is a shower coming up over the island, Captain
de Vaux,” said Stebbins, touching his hat.
“Coming, sure enough! — look yonder!” — exclaimed
Harry, pointing eastward, where heavy clouds were now seen
rising rapidly over the wood.
“We shall have a shower, and something of a squall, I
guess,” added Stebbins.
There could not indeed be much doubt of the fact, for a
heavy shower now seemed advancing, with the sudden
rapidity not unusual after very warm weather; the position
of the bay, and a wooded bank having concealed its approach
until close at hand.
“We shall have a dead calm in ten minutes,” said de
Vaux; “I wish the Petrel was off.”
But still there seemed something going on in the garden;
the woman and Sam were very busy, and Charlie and Smith
had joined them.
“They must see the shower coming up by this time!”
exclaimed de Vaux.
“There will be a squall and a sharp one, too, ”added
Stebbins.
“The wind, which had prevailed steadily all the morning
in a light, sultry breeze from the south, was now dying
away; the sullen roll of distant thunder was heard, while
here and there a sudden flash burst from a nearer cloud.
“Thank Heaven, they are off at last!” cried de Vaux,
who was watching the schooner with some anxiety.
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Harry and the two men were busy gathering together
under cover of the shanty, the different articles scattered
about, and among others Charlie's half-finished sketch.
The sun was now obscured; light, detached clouds, looking
heated and angry, were hurrying in advance with a low
flight, while the heavens were half-covered by the threatening
mass which came gathering in dark and heavy folds about
the island. Suddenly the great body of vapour which had
been hanging sullenly over the western horizon all the
morning, now set in motion by a fresh current of air, began
to rise with a slow movement, as if to meet the array advancing
so eagerly from the opposite direction; it came onward
steadily, with a higher and a wider sweep than the
mass which was pouring immediately over the little bay.
The landscape had hung out its storm-lights; the dark scowl
of the approaching gust fell alike on wood, beach, and
waters; the birds were wheeling about anxiously; the gulls
and other water-fowl flying lower and lower, nearer and
nearer to their favourite element; the land-birds hurrying
hither and thither, seeking shelter among their native branches.
But not a drop of rain had yet fallen; and the waves still
came rolling in upon the sands with the measured, lulling
sound of fair weather.
The air from the south revived for a moment, sweeping
in light, fitful puffs over the bay. Favoured by this last
flickering current of the morning's breeze, the Petrel had
succeeded in making her way half across the bay, though
returning less steadily than she had gone on her errand an
hour before.
“Give us another puff or two, and she will yet be here
before the squall,” said de Vaux.
The little schooner was now indeed within less than half
a mile of the wharf; but here at length the wind entirely
failed her, and she sat idly on the water. De Vaux was
watching her through the glass; there seemed to be some
little hesitation and contiusion on board; Sam, the boy, had
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given up the tiller to Black Bob. Suddenly the first blast
of the gust from the east came rustling through the wood,
making the young trees bend before it; then as it passed
over the water there was a minute's respite.
“How she dodges!—What are they about?” exclaimed
Harry.
“What do they mean?—Are they blind?—can't they see
the squall coming?” cried de Vaux in great anxiety, as he
watched the hesitation on board the Petrel.
“As my name is Nat Fisher, that nigger is drunk!—I
thought so this morning!” exclaimed the steward.
“And Smith and Hubbard know nothing of a boat!” cried
de Vaux, in despair.
The words had scarcely passed his lips before the wind
came rushing over the wood, in a sudden, furious blast,
bringing darker and heavier clouds, accompanied by quick,
vivid flashes of lightning, and sharp cracks of thunder; the
rain pouring down in torrents. It was with difficulty the
young men kept their footing on the end of the wharf, such
was the first fury of the gust; but they forgot themselves in
fears for their friends.
“Are they mad!” cried de Vaux, as he marked the uncertainty
of their movements; while the wind was sweeping
furiously over the darkened waters towards them.
A heavy sheet of rain, pouring in a flood from the clouds,
completely enveloped the party on the wharf; another second
and a shout was indistinctly heard amid the tumult of the
winds and waters; a lighter cloud passed over, the bay was
partially seen again; but neither the white sails of the Petrel
nor her buoyant form could be traced by the eager eyes on
the wharf. She had been struck by the gust and capsized.
“She is gone!” exclaimed de Vaux, with a cry of horror.
“Charlie can't swim!” cried Harry.
“Nor Bob, for certain,” said the steward. “I don't know
about the others.”
Three shots from a fowling-piece were rapidly fired, as a
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signal to the party in the Petrel that their situation was known
to their friends on shore. The steward was instantly ordered
to run along the beach to the farthest point, and carry the
boat from there to the spot; it was a distance of more than two
miles by land, still de Vaux thought it best to be done; while
he himself and Stebbins seized another pair of oars, and set
off at full speed in the opposite direction, to the nearest point,
about a mile from the wharf, beyond which Stryker was
fishing with their own boat, Intending to carry her instantly
to the relief of the party in the schooner.
Harry thought of his friend; Charlie could not swim, he
himself was a remarkably good swimmer. It must be some
little time before either boat could reach the capsized schooner,
and in the interval, two at least of the four individuals in the
Petrel, were helpless and in imminent peril. The idea of
Charlie's danger decided his course; in a moment he had
cast off his clothes, and with Bruno at his side—a faithful
ally at such a moment—he had thrown himself into the
water, confident that he could swim the distance himself with
ease.
The next half-hour was one of fearful anxiety. The gust
still raged with sullen fury; the shower from eastward, collected
among the mists of the ocean, and the array from the
west, gathered amid the woods and marshes of the land, met
with a fierce shock on the shores of the Vineyard. The
thunder and lightning were unusually severe, several bolts
falling within a short distance about the bay; the rain pouring
down in a dense sheet, as the wind drove cloud after
cloud over the spot in its stormy flight. And amid this scene
of violence four human beings were struggling for life, while
their anxious friends were hurrying to their relief, with every
nerve alive. Frederick Smith was the first who rose after
the Petrel capsized; in another moment he saw the head of
the boy emerge from the water at a little distance; the lad
could swim, and both had soon gained the portion of the little
schooner's hull which was partially bare, though constantly
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washed by the waves. Another minute, and Smith saw amid
the spray Charlie's head; he knew that Hubbard could not
swim, and moved towards him with a cry of encouragement.
“Here!” replied the young painter; but he had disappeared
before Smith could reach him.
A fresh blast of wind, rain, and hail passed over the spot;
Smith moved about calling to Hubbard and the negro, but he
received no answer from either.
“There's one of them!” cried the boy eagerly; he swam
towards the object he had seen, but it proved to be only a
hat.
Both returned to the Petrel's side, watching as closely as
the violence of the wind and rain would permit. Not a
trace of the negro was seen; yet Smith thought he must
have risen to the surface at some point unobserved by them,
for he was a man of a large, corpulent body, more likely to
float than many others. A second time Smith was relieved
by seeing Charlie rise, but at a greater distance from the
Petrel's hull; a second time he strained every nerve to reach
him, but again the young man sunk beneath the waves.
A shout was now heard. “It is the boat!” said Smith, as
he answered the call. He was mistaken; it was Hazlehurst
who now approached, with Bruno at his side, guided by the
voices of Smith and the boy.
“Charlie!” cried Harry, as he made his way through the
water. “Charlie!” he repeated again.
“Hubbard has sunk twice, and the negro is gone!” cried
Smith.
“Come to the hull and take breath,” added Smith.
But just as he spoke, Harry had seen an arm left bare by
a passing wave; he made a desperate effort, reached the
spot, and seized Charlie's body, crying joyfull, “It is Hubbard;
I have him!—Charlie, do you know me?—Charlie,
speak but a word, my good fellow!”
But the young man had lost his consciousness; he returned
no answer either by look or word. Harry grasped his collar,
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holding his face above the water, and at the same time moving
towards the Petrel's hull as rapidly as he could.
“Here Bruno, my noble dog! That's right, Smith, get
a firm hold on the schooner; we must draw him up, he has
fainted; but the boats must be here soon.”
Smith was following Hazlehurst's directions; but ere
Bruno had joined his master, Harry, now within a short distance
of the schooner, suddenly cried, “Help!”—and in
another second both he and Charlie had disappeared beneath
the water, in a manner as incomprehensible, as it was unexpected
and distressing to Smith.
“He's sunk!” cried the boy.
“How?—where? Surely he was not exhausted!
A howl burst from Bruno.
“Perhaps it's the cramp,” said the lad.
“Both sunk!—Hazlehurst too!” again exclaimed Smith,
as much amazed as he was distressed. He and the boy
threw themselves from the schooner's side again, looking
anxiously for some trace of Hazlehurst.
“Look sharp, my lad, as you would save a fellow-creature!”
“There's one of them!” cried the boy, and in another
instant he had caught Charlie by the hair. But not a trace
of Hazlehurst was seen since he first disappeared, and the
waters had closed so suddenly over him. Charlie was carried
to the Petrel's side; and while Smith and the lad were
endeavouring to raise him on the schooner, Bruno was
swimming hither and thither, howling piteously for his master.
A shout was now heard.
“The boat at last, thank Heaven!” cried Smith, returning
the call.
A minute passed; nothing was seen of Harry; Charlie
was raised entirely above water; when at length the Petrel's
boat dashed towards them, urged by all the strength of four
rowers.
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“Hubbard!—Bob!” cried de Vaux, as the first glance
showed him that both Smith and the boy were safe.
“Hubbard is here, insensible — Bob gone — Hazlehurst
sunk, too!”
“Hazlehurst and Bob, too!—Merciful powers!” exclaimed
the party.
A hurried, eager search succeeded, as soon as Charlie,
with Smith and Sam, now somewhat exhausted by fatigue
and agitation, were taken on board. Hubbard was quite
insensible; young Van Horne, the physician, thought his
appearance unfavourable, but instantly resorted to every
means possible under the circumstances, with the hope of
restoring animation. Still nothing was seen of Harry; his
entire disappearance was quite incomprehensible.
“It must have been cramp; yet I never knew him have it,
and he is one of the best swimmers in the country!” said de
Vaux.
“He must have felt it coming, and had presence of mind
to loosen his hold of Hubbard at the same moment he cried
for help,” observed Smith.
Bruno was still swimming, now here, now there, encircling
the Petrel in wider or narrower reaches, howling from time
to time with a sound that went to the hearts of all who heard
him. Different objects floating about beguiled the party for
an instant with hope, but each time a few strokes of the oars
undeceived them.
Suddenly Bruno stopped within a short distance of the
Petrel, and dove; those in the boat watched him eagerly;
he rose with a sharp bark, calling them to the spot; then
dove again, rose with a howl, and for a third time disappeared
beneath the water. Convinced that he had found either
Harry or the negro, de Vaux threw off his coat and plunged
into the water, to examine the spot thoroughly. The dog
soon rose again with a rope in his mouth, pulling it with all
his strength, uttering at the same time a smothered cry. The
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rope was seized by those in the boat, and de Vaux dove; he
touched first one body, then another; but all his strength was
unequal to the task of raising either. After a hurried examination,
it was found that one body, that of the negro, was
entangled in a rope and thus held under water from the
first; while Harry's leg was firmly clenched in the dying
grip of Black Bob, who must have seized it as Hazlehurst
passed, and drawn him downward in that way.
In as short a time as possible, Hazlehurst and the negro
were placed in the boat by the side of Hubbard, who had
not yet showed any sign of life; every effort was made to
revive them by some of the party, while the others rowed
with all their strength towards the shore.
All watched the face of Van Horne, the young physician,
with the greatest anxiety, as he leaned first over one, then
over another, directing the labours of the rest.
“Surely there must be some hope!” cried de Vaux to him.
“We will leave no effort untried,” replied the other;
though he could not look sanguine.
The boat from the most distant point, rowed by the steward
and a boy from the farm-house, now joined them; and
those who could not be of use in assisting Van Horne, passed
into her, taking their oars, and towing the boat of the ill-fated
Petrel with her melancholy burden towards the beach.
Bruno could not be moved from his old master's side; it was
painful to see him crawling from one body to the other, with
as much watchfulness, as much grief, and almost as much
intelligence as the surviving friends; now crouching at the
cold feet of Hazlehurst, now licking the stiff hand, now
raising himself to gaze wistfully at the inanimate features of
the young man.
The shower was passing over; the rain soon ceased, the
clouds broke away, the sun burst again in full glory upon
the bay, the beach, the woods, throwing a brilliant bow over
the island. But three of those upon whom it had shone
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only an hour earlier, were now stretched cold and lifeless on
the sands; while the mourning survivors were hanging in
heartfelt grief over the bodies of the two friends and the
negro sailor.
CHAPTER XXII.
“And e'en to wakeful conscience unconfest,
Her fear, her grief, her joy were his alone.”
Coleridge.
The melancholy disaster of the Petrel happened on Monday;
it was not until the Thursday following that the evil
tidings reached Longbridge.
Elinor, accompanied by Mary Van Alstyne, set out quite
early in the morning to pay some visits at different country-houses
in the neighbourhood. They had been out some
little time, having driven several miles, and made three or
four calls, when they reached Mrs. Van Horne's. On entering
the parlour they found the mistress of the house was not
there, but a much less agreeable person, the elder Mrs. Tibbs,
the greatest gossip in Longbridge.
“I am glad to see you this morning, young ladies,” she
said.
“Thank you, ma'am; it is a very pleasant morning, certainly,”
replied Elinor, as she took a seat on the sofa.
“Very pleasant, yes; but I was fearful you might have
been kept at home by the bad news we Longbridge people
have just heard.”
“It does not seem to have kept you at home either, Mrs,
Tibbs, whatever it may be,” replied Elinor, smiling; for she
knew that any news, whether good or bad, always set this
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lady in motion. Little did the poor young girl suspect the
nature of the intelligence that awaited her!
“No; I thought my good friend, Mrs. Van Horne, might
feel uneasy about her son, and came over to be with her.”
“Mrs. Van Horne! Has anything happened to the
family?”
“You haven't heard the news then?—I am surprised at
that. But here is an account of the accident in the New
Haven Eagle. It has made us all feel quite dreadfully at
home!”
“What has happened?—Pray tell us!” exclaimed Elinor,
now looking alarmed.
“Here is the account; but perhaps you had better let Miss
Mary read it; she was not so intimate with the deceased.”
“What is it?—let me see the paper, Mary. An accident
to one of the Van Hornes!” and she took the sheet from the
table. Her eye immediately fell on the following article:
“Our city was painfully excited this morning by the intelligence
which reached here, of a distressing accident to a
beautiful little schooner, the property of Hubert de Vaux,
Esq., of New York, which was seen in our waters only a
few days since, and attracted universal admiration in our
port.”
Elinor's eyes could see no farther; she stretched out the
paper to her cousin, saying in a faint voice, “Mary, read!”
Mary Van Alstyne took the paper, and continued silently
to look over the passage.
“This little schooner, bound on a cruise of pleasure, had
reached Martha's Vineyard, when, during the sudden squall
which passed over this section also on Monday, she capsized,
and melancholy to relate, four persons lost their lives. The
party consisted of Mr. de Vaux himself, Colonel Stryker,
and Dr. Van Horne, of New York; Charles Hubbard, Esq.,
the distinguished young artist; Henry Hazlehurst, Esq., our
Secretary of Legation to the court of Russia, where he was
shortly to proceed with Mr. Henley, our Envoy; and also
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Frederick Smith, Esq., a young gentleman from Philadelphia.
There were in addition five men in the crew. We
regret to add that Mr. Hazlehurst and Mr. Hubbard, a negro
sailor known as Black Bob, and another man, name not
mentioned, were drowned; the bodies were all recovered,
but every effort to restore life proved unavailing.”
Mary Van Alstyne had strong nerves, but the suddenness
of these melancholy tidings, and a dread of the effect upon
Elinor, made her turn deadly pale.
“Tell me, Mary,” said her cousin faintly.
Mary waited a moment to recover herself, when the question
was anxiously repeated. She took Elinor's hand and
sat down by her side, using every precaution of delicacy and
tenderness in breaking the bad news to her cousin; she approached
the worst as gradually as she could, and mentioned
every favourable circumstance first; while Elinor sat trembling
in every limb, yet endeavouring to retain command
over her senses and her feelings. But it was in vain; when
Mary was at length forced to confess that two of their friends
were among the lost, Elinor put her hand to her heart, while
her eyes were fixed on her cousin's lips; when the name of
Hazlehurst was at length reluctantly pronounced, she started
from her chair, and fell quite insensible on the floor, at her
companion's feet.
It was a long time before she could be restored. Mrs.
Van Horne and the doctor, who was happily in the house,
did all in their power to relieve their young friend; and Mrs.
Tibbs was really quite distressed and mortified, when she
found the effects of her allusion to the accident were so
serious.
“Poor young thing!—I'd no notion, Mrs. Van Horne, that
she would have taken it so much to heart. Do you suppose
she was engaged to one of the young gentlemen?”
An imploring look from Mary Van Alstyne said to the
doctor as plainly as look could speak, “Do send her away!”
The doctor was very ready to do so, and by virtue of his
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medical authority requested the gossip to walk into the other
room, where he permitted himself to give her a sharp reprimand
for having been in such haste to tell the evil tidings.
It was some time before Elinor fully recovered her consciousness;
her first words expressed a wish to be carried
home.
“Home, Mary,” she said faintly.
Mrs. Van Horne, who was deeply interested in her young
friend, was anxious she should remain where she was until
her strength had entirely returned.
“I am strong now,” said Elinor feebly, making an effort
to rise.
Mary looked inquiringly at the doctor.
“You shall go in a few minutes, my dear Miss Elinor,”
said the doctor after an instant's hesitation; he thought it
best that she should do so, but determined that his wife and
himself would accompany her to Wyllys-Roof.
“Mary,' said Elinor, with an effort, looking towards Mrs.
Van Horne, “ask if—”
Mary guessed that she wished to know if the Van Hornes
had heard anything in addition to the account in the paper.
Without speaking, she looked the question.
“We have had a few lines, sent us by Mrs. de Vaux from
New York,” said Mrs. Van Horne, gently.
Elinor closed her eyes, and fell back again on the cushion.
“You must not talk, my dear,” said the doctor kindly.
Young de Vaux had in fact written a line or two to his
mother, who was in New York, by the boat which he sent
off immediately to engage a small steamer, as soon as the
squall had passed over; and this note had been considerately
forwarded by Mrs. de Vaux to the Van Hornes, as it mentioned
the safety of their own son. It ran as follows:
“Martha's Vineyard.
“My Dear Mother:—
We are greatly distressed by a
melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since.
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The Petrel capsized; most of our party are safe; but two
of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You
will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return
immediately.
“Your son,
H. de V.”
The doctor handed this note to Mary, at a moment when
Mrs. Van Horne was bending over Elinor.
In a few minutes Elinor made another request to be carried
home.
“Pray take me home, doctor,” she said; “I can go now.”
The doctor felt her pulse, and observing that although very
feeble, she seemed to have command of herself, he thought
the air and motion would be of service. The carriage was
ordered, she took a restorative, and making a great effort to
rally, leaning on the doctor's arm she walked to the door.
Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne accompanied her, as well as her
cousin.
“Thank you,” she said with her usual gentleness, as she
remarked their kind intention, and then throwing herself
back in her seat she closed her eyes; her face was deadly
pale, large tears would force themselves slowly from beneath
her eyelids, and a shudder pass over her limbs; and yet it
was evident she made a strong effort to control her emotion.
There was something in her whole expression and manner,
that bore all the stamp of the deepest feeling; it was no
common nervousness, no shock of sudden surprise, nor
merely friendly sympathy; it was the expression of unalloyed
grief springing from the very depths of a noble heart.
Even Dr. Van Horne, whose nerves had been hardened
by the exercise of years amid scenes peculiar to his calling,
could scarcely refrain from shedding tears, as he looked with
compassion and with respect at his young friend. She
seemed quite indifferent to the observation of others; her
heart and mind were apparently engrossed by one idea, one
feeling, and all her strength engaged in facing one evil.
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Mrs. Van Horne had not supposed that the bad news
would have affected her so deeply, nor was Mary Van Alstyne
prepared for the result; but however Elinor might have
hitherto deceived herself, however much her friends might
have misunderstood her, the truth was now only too clear;
her heart had spoken too loudly to be misunderstood — it
was wholly Hazlehurst's.
They drove on steadily and slowly, the silence only interrupted
by occasional remarks of Elinor's companions, as they
offered her some assistance. When they came in sight of
the Hubbard cottage, Mary Van Alstyne's heart sunk anew,
as she remembered the blow which had also fallen upon
their good neighbours.
Elinor's efforts for self-command increased as she drew
near home—for the sake of her friends, her aunt and grandfather,
she strained every nerve; but on reaching the house
it was in vain, her resolution gave way entirely when she
saw Bruno lying in his usual place on the piazza. She
became so much agitated that it was feared she would again
fall into a deep swoon, and she was carried from the carriage
to a sofa in the drawing-room. Neither Miss Agnes nor
Mr. Wyllys was at home; they had gone to their afflicted
neighbours the Hubbards. An express had brought a report
of the melancholy catastrophe, not half an hour after Elinor
had left Wyllys-Roof in the morning; the lifeless body of
our poor young friend, Charlie, was to reach Longbridge
that afternoon, and Hubert de Vaux had come to request
Miss Agnes to break the sad truth to the bereaved mother
and sister. Jane also was absent, she was in New York
with the Taylors; but Elinor's faithful nurse and the old
black cook came hurrying to her assistance, as soon as they
knew she had reached the house so much indisposed.
Miss Agnes was sent for; but Elinor had revived again
when her aunt returned, though she was still surrounded by
the anxious circle, Mary, the Van Hornes, her nurse, and old
Hetty. When she heard the footsteps approaching, she made
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an effort to raise herself, with a sort of instinctive desire to
spare her aunt a sight of all her weakness.
“You had better lie still, my dear Miss Elinor,” said the
doctor kindly, offering her a glass of some restorative.
Miss Agnes entered the room and advanced anxiously to
the sofa.
“My poor child!” exclaimed Miss Wyllys. “What is
it, doctor?—illness?” she added anxiously.
The doctor shook his head. “She heard the news too
suddenly,” he said.
Mr. Wyllys now followed his daughter. Elinor turned
her eyes towards the door as he entered; a cry burst from
her lips—she saw Hazlehurst!
Yes, Hazlehurst standing in the doorway, looking pale
and distressed, but living, breathing, moving!
In another second Elinor had started to her feet, sprung
towards him, and thrown herself in his arms—heedless of
the family, heedless of friends and servants about her, forgetting
in that one sudden revulsion of feeling, the whole
world but Harry.
Hazlehurst seemed quite forgetful himself of the everyday
rules of society, and the merely friendly position in which
they had stood at parting, but a week before; his whole expression
and manner now betrayed an interest in Elinor too
strong to be disguised, and which could be explained in one
way only.
All this was the work of a moment; the various degrees
of amazement, produced by the sudden appearance of Harry,
on some individuals of the group of spectators, the surprise
of others at the strong emotions betrayed by the young couple
had not subsided, when an exclamation from Hazlehurst
himself again fixed their attention entirely on Elinor.
“She has fainted!” he cried, and carried her to the sofa.
But joy is life to the heart and spirits; Elinor lost her
consciousness for a moment only. She raised her eyes and
fixed them upon Hazlehurst, who still held one of her hands.
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“It is Harry!” she exclaimed, and burst into tears. She
felt that he was safe, that he was by her side; she already
felt that he loved her, that they understood each other; and
yet she was still quite incapable of giving anything like a
reason for what had passed. It was all confusion in her
mind, all indistinct but the blessed truth that Harry was safe,
accompanied by a hope she had not dared to cherish for
years. She was still feeble and agitated, her colour varying
with every beat of her heart; her face now covered with a
deep natural blush at the sound of Harry's voice, at the expression
of his eye; now deadly pale again as she caught
some allusion to the Petrel.
The doctor recommended that she should be left alone
with Miss Wyllys. Her grandfather kissed her tenderly
and left the room, as well as the rest of the party; with one
exception, however—Hazlehurst lingered behind.
Having reached the adjoining room, explanations were
exchanged between the friends. Mr. Wyllys learned that
Elinor and the Van Hornes had supposed Harry lost, from
the paper, and the first hurried note of de Vaux. When
they arrived at Wyllys-Roof, there was no one there to give
them any later information; Mammy Sarah, the nurse, knew
no more than themselves; she had heard the Broadlawn
story, after having seen young de Vaux leave the house with
Miss Agnes, when they first went to the Hubbards'. Hazlehurst
had not accompanied his friend, for he had seen Mr.
Wyllys in a neighbouring field, and went there to give
him the information; and thence they had both gone to the
cottage, where they remained until Mrs. Clapp and Mr.
Joseph Hubbard arrived from Longbridge. Neither Mr.
Wyllys nor Miss Agnes had received the least intimation of
the accident, until they heard a correct account from de Vaux,
and Harry himself; consequently they had not felt the same
alarm for Hazlehurst.
Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne were much gratified by hearing,
that Hazlehurst's restoration was owing to the devoted
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perseverance of their son; for it was only after every one else
had given up the hope of reviving him, after long and ceaseless
exertions, that signs of life were discovered. They also
now learned the circumstances of the accident, the fact that
two instead of four persons were lost, and they found that it
was in endeavouring to save Charlie that Harry had so nearly
lost his own life. But we leave them together to express
their natural feelings of gratitude for those who had escaped,
sympathy with the sufferers, their surprise at Harry's appearance,
and all the varying emotions of such a moment.
While this conversation was passing in one room, Elinor
was in some measure recovering from the first sudden shock
of the morning in the other. Harry seemed fully determined
to maintain his post at her side, and still kept possession of
her hand; in fact, the solemn, anxious moment, hallowed
by grief, at which the disclosure of their mutual feelings had
been made, seemed to banish all common, petty embarrassments.
Miss Agnes and Harry required but a word and a
look to explain matters; the aunt already understood it all.
“Poor Charlie!” exclaimed Elinor, with a half-inquiring
look, as if with a faint hope that he too might have returned,
like Harry.
“Our friend is gone, dearest!” said Harry, his eyes moistened
with tears as he spoke.
Elinor wept, and a silence of a minute ensued. “His
poor mother, and his sister!” she exclaimed at length.
“His two mothers, rather,” said Harry, with a faltering
voice.
After another silence, Elinor turned to Hazlehurst with
an anxious look, saying:
“And your other friends?”
“All safe, love.”
“The crew too?”
“One of the crew is lost; Black Bob, a sailor from Longbridge.”
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“I remember him; he had no family I believe, Aunt,”
she said.
“None, my child, that I have ever heard of.”
“The heaviest blow has fallen upon the Hubbards,” said
Harry.
After a pause, in which aunt and niece had prayed for the
mourners, Elinor again made some inquiries.
“Were all in the Petrel at the time?” asked Elinor.
“Smith and our poor Charlie, the negro and a boy were
crossing a bay in the Petrel, when she capsized, by the bad
management of the negro, who had been drinking. The
rest of us were on shore.”
“You were not in any danger then?” said Elinor, as if
relieved that he had not even been exposed to past peril.
“I owe my life to my friend Van Horne,” he replied.
Elinor shuddered, and turned deadly pale again. Harry
threw his arms about her and embraced her fervently, until
Elinor, who had now partially recovered the common current
of her ideas, made a gentle struggle to release herself.
“But you were not in the Petrel?” she said again, as if
anxious to understand all that related to him.
“We all went to our friends as soon as we saw the schooner
capsize,” said Harry.
“Hubert de Vaux told me that Harry swam some distance,
with the hope of saving poor Charles, who could not swim
himself,” said Miss Agnes. “It was in that way, my child,
that he was exposed.”
“To save Charlie!—that was like you,” said Elinor, with
a glow on her cheek.
“There was no danger—no merit whatever in doing so—
I have often swum farther,” said Harry; “the only difficulty
was caused by my becoming entangled in some ropes, which
drew me under water.”
“But where was the boat?”
“It was not at hand at the moment; they brought it as
soon as possible.”
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“Did Charlie speak?” asked Elinor, sadly.
“My poor friend was insensible when I reached him.”
Again a moment's pause ensued.
“I must not forget to tell you, love, that we owe a great
deal to another friend of ours,” said Harry, smiling. “You
will be glad to hear that Bruno behaved nobly; he first discovered
the ropes in which we were entangled.”
“Bruno!—Where is my noble dog? Pray call him; let
me see him!”
Harry went to the door, and there was Bruno lying across
the threshold, as if waiting to be admitted; he came in at
Harry's call, but not with his usual bound; he seemed to
understand that if his old master had been saved, his master's
friend was lost. The noble creature was much caressed by
Miss Wyllys and Elinor; and we are not ashamed to confess
that the latter kissed him more than once. At length, Miss
Agnes observing that her niece was very much recovered,
rose from her seat, and stooping to kiss Elinor's forehead,
placed her hand in that of Harry, saying with much feeling,
as she joined them, “God bless you, my children!” and
then left the room.
As for what passed after Miss Agnes left her young friends,
we cannot say; Bruno was the only witness to that interview
between Harry and Elinor, and as Bruno was no tell-tale,
nothing has ever transpired on the subject. We may
suppose, however, that two young people, strongly attached
to each other, united under such peculiar circumstances, did
not part again until a conclusive and satisfactory explanation
had taken place. Harry no doubt was enabled to quiet any
scruples he may have felt with regard to Ellsworth; and
probably Elinor was assured, that she had entirely mistaken
Hazlehurst's feelings during the past summer; that Mrs.
Creighton was his friend's sister, and a charming woman,
but not the woman he loved, not the woman he could ever
love, after having known his Elinor. Then, as both parties
were frank and warm-hearted, as they had known each other
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for years, and had just been reunited under circumstances so
solemn, there was probably more truth, less reserve, and
possibly more tenderness than usual at similar meetings.
Doubtless there were some smiles; and to judge from the
tone of both parties on separating, we think that some tears
must have been shed. We are certain that amid their own
intimate personal communications, the young friend so dear
to both, so recently lost, was more than once remembered;
while at the same time it is a fact, that another communication
of some importance to Harry, the disclosures of Stebbins,
was forgotten by him, or deferred until the interview was
interrupted. Mr. Wyllys entered to let Harry know that
Hubert de Vaux had come for him.
“De Vaux is here waiting for you, Harry,” said Mr.
Wyllys, opening the drawing-room door.
“Is it possible, my dear sir?—Is it so late?” exclaimed
Harry.
It was in fact de Vaux, come to accompany Harry to Longbridge,
to meet the body of our poor Charlie: so closely, on
that eventful day, were joy and sadness mingled to the
friends at Wyllys-Roof.
Elinor had risen from her seat as her grandfather approached.
“You feel better, my child,” he said kindly.
“I am happy, grandpapa!—happy as I can be to-day!”
she added, blushing, and weeping, and throwing her arms
about his neck.
“It is all right, I see. May you be blessed, together, my
children!” said the venerable man, uniting their hands.
After an instant's silence, Elinor made a movement to leave
the room.
“I am going to Longbridge, but I shall hope to see you
again in the evening,” said Harry, before she left him.
“When you come back, then. You are going to Longbridge,
you say?”
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“Yes,” said Harry sadly; “to meet Van Horne and
Smith, with—”
Elinor made no reply; she understood his sad errand;
offered him her hand again, and left the room. She retired
to her own apartment, and remained there alone for a long
time; and there the young girl fell on her knees, and offered
up most fervent, heartfelt thanksgivings for the safety of one
she loved truly, one she had long loved, so recently rescued
from the grave.
That afternoon, just as the autumn sun was sinking towards
the woods, throwing a rich, warm glow over the
country, a simple procession was seen moving slowly and
sadly over the Longbridge highway. It was the body of
Charlie Hubbard, brought home by his friends, to pass a few
hours beneath his mother's roof, ere it was consigned to its
last resting-place under the sod. We have not yet dared
to intrude upon the stricken inmates of the old grey cottage;
we shall not attempt to paint their grief, such grief is sacred.
The bereaved mother, half-infirm in body and mind, seemed
to feel the blow without fully understanding it: Patsey, poor
Patsey felt the affliction fully, comprehended it wholly.
Charlie had been her idol from infancy; she had watched
over the boy with an engrossing affection, an earnest devotion,
which could be only compared to a mother's love, which
might claim a mother's sacred name. She was entirely
overcome when the young artist's body was brought into the
house, and placed in the coffin, beneath his father's portrait.
“My boy!—my brother!—Charlie!” she cried wildly;
all her usual calmness, her usual firmness giving way at the
moment, as the young face she loved so tenderly was first
disclosed to her view, pale and lifeless. But the fine features
of the young artist, almost feminine in their delicate beauty,
returned no answering glance—they were rigid, cold, and
partially discoloured by death.
Hazlehurst and de Vaux passed the night beside the body
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of their friend; Miss Agnes and Mrs. Van Horne were with
the bereaved mother and sisters.
Early on the following morning, Mr. Wyllys and Elinor
came to take a last look at their young friend.
`Can it indeed be true?—Charlie gone for ever, gone so
suddenly!' thought Elinor, as she leaned over his body,
weeping with the sincere, heartfelt grief of a true friend,
until Hazlehurst, pained by her emotion, gently drew her
away; not, however, before she had bent over poor Charlie,
and gently kissed the discoloured forehead of her young
companion, for the first and the last time.
Patsey's grief, though not less deep, was more calm than
at first. Again and again she had returned to her young
brother's coffin, with varying feelings; now overwhelmed
by poignant grief, now partially soothed by the first balm of
holy resignation; now alone, now accompanied by her friends.
Once, early that morning, the infirm mother was brought
into the room to look for the last time on the face of her son;
she was carried in a chair and placed by the coffin, then
assisted to rise by Miss Agnes and her daughter Kate. Her
tears flowed long, falling on her boy's cold, but still beautiful
features; she wiped them away herself, and with an humble
phrase of resignation, in the words of Scripture, expressed
the thought that ere long she should be laid by his side.
Her's was not the bitter, living grief of Patsey; she felt that
she was near the grave herself. Tears of gentle-hearted
women were not the only tears which fell upon Charlie's
bier; his uncles, his elder brothers, and more than one true
friend were there. But amid all the strong, contending
emotions of those who crowded the humble room, who hung
over the coffin, still that youthful form lay rigid in the fearful
chill, the awful silence of death; he, whose bright eye,
whose pleasant smile had never yet met the look of a friend
without the quick glance of intellect, or the glow of kindly
feeling. Patsey felt the change; she felt that the being she
loved was not all there, the dearer portion was already
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beyond her sight—and with this reflection came the blessed
consolations of Christian hope; for the unfeigned faith and
the penitent obedience of the Christian, had been known to
Charlie Hubbard from childhood; nor had they ever been
forgotten by the young man.
Soon after sun-rise, friends and neighbours began to collect;
they came from miles around, all classes and all ages—for
the family was much respected, and their sudden bereavement
had excited general compassion. The little door-yard
and the humble parlour were filled, with those who justly
claimed the name of friends; the highway and an adjoining
field were crowded with neighbours.
After a solemn prayer within the house, those who had
loved the dead fixed their eyes for the last time on his features;
the coffin was closed from the light, the body was
carried for the last time over the threshold, it was placed on
a carriage, and the living crowd moved away, following the
dead, with the slow, heavy movement of sorrow. The
mother, the sisters, and the nearest female friends remained
in privacy together at the house of mourning. As the funeral
train moved along the highway towards Longbridge, it gradually
increased in length; the different dwellings before
which it passed had their windows closed, as a simple token
of sympathy, and on approaching the village, one bell after
another was heard, tolling sadly. The hearse paused for a
moment before the house of Mr. Joseph Hubbard; those
who had come thus far in carriages alighted, and joined by
others collected in the village, they moved from there on
foot. Several brother artists from New York, and other
associates of the young man's, bore the cloth which covered
his coffin; and immediately after the nearest relatives, the
elder brothers, and the uncles, came Hazlehurst and de Vaux,
with the whole party of the Petrel, and the crew of the little
schooner: and sincerely did they mourn their young friend;
it is seldom indeed that the simple feeling of grief and compassion
pervades a whole funeral train so generally as that
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of the young artist. But our poor Charlie had been much
loved by all who knew him; he was carried to the grave
among old friends of his family, in his native village—and
there were many there capable of admiring his genius and
respecting his character. As the procession entered the enclosure
it passed before a new-made grave, that of the negro
sailor, who had been decently interred by the directions of
de Vaux, on the preceding evening, the party of the Petrel
having also attended his funeral. On reaching the final
resting-place of the young artist, among the tombs of his
family, by the side of his father the minister, an impressive
prayer and a short but touching address were made; the
coffin was lowered, the earth thrown on it, and the grave
closed over Charlie Hubbard: the story of his life was told.
Harry was the last to leave the spot. While the funeral
train returned with the mourners to the house of Mr. Joseph
Hubbard, he remained standing by the grave of his friend,
his mind filled with the recollection of the brilliant hopes so
suddenly extinguished, the warm fancies so suddenly chilled,
the bright dreams so suddenly blighted by the cold hand of
death. The solemn truth, that the shadow of death had also
passed over himself was not forgotten; life in its true character,
with all its real value, all its uncertainties, all its responsibilities,
rose more clearly revealed to him than it had
ever yet done; he turned from Charlie's grave a wiser man,
carrying with him, in the recollection of his own unexpected
restoration, an impulse for higher and more steadfast exertion
in the discharge of duty.
But if Hazlehurst's thoughts, as he retraced his solitary
way towards Wyllys-Roof, were partly sad, they were not all
gloomy. Wisdom does not lessen our enjoyment of one real
blessing of life; she merely teaches us to distinguish the false
from the true, and she even increases our happiness amid the
evils and sorrows against which we are warned, by purifying
our pleasures, and giving life and strength to every better
thought and feeling. When Harry entered the gate of
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Wyllys-Roof, his heart beat with joy again, as he saw Elinor,
now his betrothed wife, awaiting his return on the piazza;
he joined her, and they had a long conversation together in
the fullness of confidence and affection. They were at length
interrupted by Miss Agnes, who returned from the Hubbards'.
The young people inquired particularly after Miss Patsey.
“She is much more calm than she was yesterday; more
like herself, more resigned, thinking again of others, attending
to Mrs. Hubbard; she seems already to have found some
consoling thoughts.”
“It seems, indeed,” said Harry, “as if Hubbard's memory
would furnish consolation to his friends by the very greatness
of their loss; his character, his conduct, were always so excellent;
the best consolation for Miss Patsey.”
“It is touching to see that excellent woman's deep affection
for one, so different from herself in many respects,” observed
Mr. Wyllys.
“Fraternal affection is a very strong tie,” said Miss Agnes
gently.
She might have added that it is one of the most honourable
to the human heart, as it is peculiar to our race. Other
natural affections, even the best, may be partially traced
among the inferior beings of creation; something of the
conjugal, paternal, and filial attachment may be roused for a
moment in most living creatures; but fraternal affection is
known to man alone, and would seem in its perfect disinterestedness,
almost worthy to pass unchanged to a higher
sphere.
“I have often thought,” said Mr. Wyllys, “that the affection
of an unmarried sister for a brother or a sister, whose
chief interests and affections belong by right to another, if
not the most tender, is surely the most purely disinterested
and generous which the human heart can know: and single
women probably feel the tie more strongly than others.”
Mr. Wyllys was thinking, when he spoke, of his daughter
Agnes and Patsey Hubbard; and he might have thought of
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hundreds of others in the same circumstances, for happily
such instances are very common.
“I have never had either brother or sister, but I can well
imagine it must be a strong tie,” said Elinor.
“I flattered myself I had been a sort of brother to you in
old times,” said Harry smiling.
“Your romantic, adopted brothers, Nelly, are not good for
much,” said her grandfather. “We tried the experiment
with Harry, and see how it has turned out; it generally
proves so, either too much or too little. Don't fancy you
know anything about plain, honest, brotherly affection,” he
added, smiling kindly on his granddaughter, who sat by his
side.
Probably Harry was quite as well satisfied with the actual
state of things.
“But Charlie was also a son to Miss Patsey,” he added,
after a moment.
“Yes; he had been almost entirely under her care from
an infant,” replied Miss Agnes.
“Poor Charlie!—little did I think that bright young head
would be laid in the grave before mine!” said Mr. Wyllys.
A moment's pause ensued.
“Much as I loved Hubbard, much as I regret his loss,”
said Harry, “I shall always think of him with a melancholy
pleasure.”
“Excepting his loss, there does not seem indeed to be one
painful reflection connected with his name,” observed Miss
Agnes.
“Cherish his memory then among your better recollections,”
added Mr. Wyllys, to Harry and Elinor. “And an
old man can tell you the full value of happy recollections;
you will find one day the blessing of such treasures of
memory.”
“It is a legacy, however, which the good alone can leave
their friends,” said Miss Agnes.
And so it proved, indeed; after the first severe grief of
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the sudden bereavement had passed away, the young man
was remembered among his friends with a peculiar tenderness,
connected with his youth, his genius, his excellent character,
his blameless life, and early death. Life had been
but a morning to Charlie Hubbard, but it was a glowing
summer morning; its hours had not been wasted, abused,
misspent; brief as they were, yet in passing they had brought
blessings to himself, to his fellow-beings; and they had left
to those who loved him the best consolations of memory.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“Is not true love of higher price
Than outward form, though fair to see?”
Coleridge.
Harry had a busy autumn that year. He had two important
objects in view, and within a few weeks he suc
ceeded in accomplishing both. He was very desirous, now
all difficulties were removed, that his marriage with Elinor
should not be deferred any longer than was absolutely necessary.
“There cannot be the shadow of a reason, love, for waiting,”
he said to her within a few days of the explanation.
“Remember, it is now six years since you first promised to
become my wife—since we were first engaged.”
“Six years, off and on,” said Elinor smiling.
“Not really off more than a moment.”
Elinor shook her head and smiled.
“No; not really off more than a very short time.”
“Very well,” said Elinor archly; “but don't you think
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the less we say about that second year the better? Perhaps
the third and the fourth too.”
“No indeed; I have been thinking it all over; and in the
first place there has not been a moment in those six years
when I have not loved you; though to my bitter mortification
I confess, there was also a moment when I was in love with
another, but it was a very short moment, and a very disagreeable
one to remember. No; I wish you to look well into
those six years, for I honestly think they will appear more to
my credit than you are at all aware of. I shan't be satisfied
until we have talked them over again, my part at least; I
don't know that you will submit to the same examination.”
“Oh, you have already heard all I have to say,” she replied,
blushing deeply; “I shan't allude to my part of the
story again this long while.”
Nevertheless, Harry soon succeeded in obtaining her consent
to be married within six weeks; in fact she made but
few objections to the arrangement, although she would have
preferred waiting longer, on account of the recent afflictions
of Jane and the Hubbards.
The important day soon arrived, and the wedding took
place at Wyllys-Roof. A number of friends and relatives
of both parties were collected for the occasion; Mrs. Stanley,
Robert Hazlehurst and his wife, the late Mrs. George Wyllys
and her new husband, or as Harry called them, Mr. and
Mrs. Uncle Dozie, the Van Hornes, de Vauxes, Bernards,
and others. Mary Van Alstyne was bridesmaid, and Hubert
de Vaux groomsman. The ceremony which at length united
our two young friends, was impressively performed by the
clergyman of the parish to which the Wyllyses belonged;
and it may be doubted whether there were another couple
married that day, in the whole wide world, whose feelings
as they took the solemn vows were more true, more honourable
to their natures, than those of Harry and Elinor.
Talking of vows, it was remarked by the spectators that
the groom made his promises and engagements in a more
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decided tone of voice, a less embarrassed manner than usual;
for, strange to say, your grooms, happy men, are often awkward,
miserable swains enough in appearance; though it
would be uncharitable in the extreme, not to suppose them
always abounding in internal felicity. There was also another
observation made by several of the wedding-guests,
friends of Harry, who were then at Wyllys-Roof for the
first time, and it becomes our duty to record the remark,
since it related to no less a person than the bride; it was
observed that she was not as pretty as a bride should be.
“Mrs. Harry Hazlehurst is no beauty, certainly,” said
Albert Dangler to Orlando Flyrter.
“No beauty! She is downright ugly—I wonder at Hazlehurst's
taste!”
Unfortunately for Elinor, the days are past when benevolent
fairies arrive just at the important moment, and by a
tap of the wand or a phial of elixir, change the coarsest
features, the most unfavourable complexion, into a dazzling
image of everything most lovely, most beautiful. Nor had
she the good luck of certain young ladies of whom one reads
quite often, who improve so astonishingly in personal appearance
between fifteen and twenty—generally during the
absence of the hero—that they are not to be recognized, and
a second introduction becomes necessary. No; Elinor was
no nearer to being a beauty when Harry returned from
Brazil, than when he went to Paris; she was just as plain
on the evening of her wedding as she was six years before,
when first presented to the reader's notice.
Jane, though now in widow's weeds, was just as beautiful
too, as when we first saw her; she was present at her cousin's
wedding, as Elinor wished her to be there, although in a
deep mourning dress. Patsey Hubbard was also in the
drawing-room during the ceremony, and in deep black; but
she left her friends as soon as she had expressed her warmest
wishes for the happiness of her former pupil: she wept as
she turned from the house, for she could not yet see that
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well-known, cheerful circle at Wyllys-Roof, without missing
one bright young face from the group.
Among those who had declined invitations to the wedding,
were Mr. Ellsworth and Mrs. Creighton, although both had
expressed many good wishes for the affianced couple; the
gentleman wrote sincerely, but a little sadly perhaps, as it
was only six weeks since his refusal; the lady wrote gracefully,
but a little spitefully it is believed, since it was now
generally known that Harry must recover entire possession
of his fortune.
This vexatious affair was, in fact, finally settled about the
time of Harry's marriage; and, thanks to the disclosures of
Stebbins, it was no longer a difficult matter to unravel the
plot. As soon as William Stanley's representative, or in
other words, Hopgood, found that Stebbins had betrayed him,
he ran off, but was arrested shortly after, tried and convicted.
He was no sooner sentenced, than he offered to answer any
questions that might be asked, for he was anxious that his
accomplice, Clapp—who had also taken flight, and succeeded
in eluding all pursuit—should be punished as well as himself.
It appeared that his resemblance to the Stanleys was
the first cause of his taking the name of William Stanley;
he was distantly related to them through his mother, and, as
we may often observe, the family likeness, after having been
partially lost for one or two generations, had appeared quite
strongly again in himself; and as usual, the peculiarities of
the resemblance had become more deeply marked as he grew
older. Being very nearly of the same age, and of the same
pursuit as William Stanley, he had actually been taken for
the young man on several occasions. He had been in the
same lawyer's office as Clapp, whom he had known as a
boy, and had always kept up some intercourse with him;
meeting him one day accidentally, he related the fact of his
having passed himself off for William Stanley by way of a
joke. “The sight of means to do ill deeds, makes deeds
ill done:” Clapp seemed from that moment to have first
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taken the idea of the plot; he gradually disclosed his plan
to Hopgood, who was quick-witted, a good mimic, and quite
clever enough for the purpose. The idea was repeatedly
abandoned, then resumed again; Hopgood having purposely
shipped under the name of William Stanley, several times,
and practised an imitation of William Stanley's hand by
way of an experiment. Finding no difficulties in these first
steps, they gradually grew bolder, collecting information
about the Stanleys, and carefully arranging all the details.
Stebbins had frightened them on one occasion; but after
having obtained possession of the papers in his hands, Clapp
determined to carry out their plan at once; he thought the
probability of success was strongly in their favour, with so
much evidence within their reach; and the spoils were so
considerable, that they were in his opinion worth the risk.
The profits of their roguery were to be equally divided, if
they succeeded; and they had also agreed that if at any
moment matters began to look badly, they would make their
escape from the country together. Hopgood, who was generally
supposed by those who had known him, to have died
at New Orleans twenty years since, had been often with
William Stanley when a lad in the lawyer's office; he knew
the house and neighbourhood of Greatwood perfectly, and had
a distinct recollection of Mr. Stanley, the father, and of many
persons and circumstances that would prove very useful.
Clapp easily obtained other necessary information, and they
went to Greatwood, examining the whole house and place,
in order to revive Hopgood's recollections; while at the same
time they made but little mystery of their excursion, hoping
rather that when discovered it would pass off as a natural
visit of William Stanley to the old home which he was
about to claim. The whole plan was carefully matured
under Clapp's cunning management; on some doubtful
points they were to be cautious, and a set of signals were
agreed upon for moments of difficulty; but generally they
were to assume a bold, confident aspect, freely offering an
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interview to the executors, and sending a specimen of the
forged handwritting as a letter to Mrs. Stanley. The volume
of the Spectator was a thought of Clapp's; he bribed a boy
to admit him into the library at Greatwood one Sunday,
when the housekeeper was at, church, and he selected the
volume which seemed well suited to his purpose; removing
the boy from the neighbourhood immediately after, by giving
him high wages in a distant part of the country. As for
Mr. Reed he was completely their dupe, having been himself
honestly convinced of the identity of Clapp's client.
It was nine years from the time the plot first suggested itself,
until they finally appeared as public claimants of the estate
and name of William Stanley, and during that time, Clapp,
who had never entirely abandoned the idea, although Hopgood
had repeatedly done so, had been able to mature the
plan very thoroughly.
The declarations of Stebbins and Hopgood were easily
proved; and Harry had no further difficulty in resuming
possession of Greatwood.
Clapp was not heard of for years. His wife, little Willie,
and two younger children, became inmates of the old grey
cottage, under the care of Miss Patsey, who still continues
the same honest, whole-souled, benevolent being she was
years ago. Patsey was now quite at her ease, and enabled
to provide for her sister Kate and the three children, and it
was to poor Charlie she owed the means of doing so; by
an unusual precaution in one so young, he had left a will,
giving everything he owned to his mother and eldest sister.
Shortly after his death, some of his friends, Hazlehurst
among the number, got up an exhibition of all his pictures;
they made a fine and quite numerous collection, for Charlie
had painted very rapidly. The melancholy interest connected
with the young painter's name, his high reputation
in the particular field he had chosen, the fact that all his
paintings were collected together, from the first view of Chewattan
lake taken when a mere boy, to the sketch of
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Nantucket which he was retouching but a moment before his
death, and the sad recollection that his palette was now
broken for ever, attracted unusual attention. The result of
that melancholy exhibition, with the sale of some remaining
pictures, proved sufficient to place his mother and sister,
with their moderate views, in very comfortable circumstances;
thus even after his death Charlie proved a blessing to his
family. In looking over the young man's papers, Patsey
found some lines which surprised her, although they explained
several circumstances which she had never before fully understood;
they betrayed a secret, underclared attachment,
which had expressed itself simply and gracefully in verses
full of feeling and well written. It was evident from these
lines that poor Charlie's poetical imagination, even from
early boyhood, had been filled with the lovely image of his
young companion, Jane Graham: there was a beautiful
sketch of her face among his papers, which from the date,
must have been taken from memory while she was in Paris.
It was clear from the tone of the verses, that Charlie had
scrupulously confined his secret within his own bosom, for
there were a few lines addressed to Jane since her widowhood,
lamenting that grief should so soon have thrown a shadow
over that lovely head, and concluding with a fear that she
would little value even this expression of sympathy from
one, to whom she had only given careless indifference, and
one who had never asked more than the friendship of early
companionship. Patsey hesitated for a moment, but then
decided that the miniature and the verses should never be
shown—they should meet no eyes but her own; Charlie had
not spoken himself, his secret should remain untold.
We must not omit to mention, that a few weeks after
Charlie's death young Van Horne offered himself to Mary
Hubbard, the youngest daughter of the family; he was accepted,
and the connexion, which was very gratifying to
Patsey and her mother, proved a happy one. Mrs. Hubbard
survived her daughter's marriage several years. Kate
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and her little ones have remained at the old grey cottage
from the time of Clapp's flight; the children are now growing
up promising young people, and they owe much to Patsey's
judicious care. Willie, the hero of the temperance meeting,
is her favourite, for she persuades herself that he is like her
lost Charlie; and in many respects the boy happily resembles
his uncle far more than his father. Last year Mrs. Clapp
received for the first time, a letter in a handwriting very like
that of her husband; its contents seemed distressing, for she
wept much, and held several consultations with Patsey. At
length quite a little sum was drawn from their modest means,
Kate packed up her trunk, took leave of her sister and children,
and set out upon a long and a solitary journey. She
was absent for months; but letters were occasionally received
from her, and at length she returned to the grey cottage in
deep mourning. It was supposed that she was now a widow;
and as Patsey upon one single occasion confirmed the report,
the opinion must have been correct, for Patsey Hubbard's
word was truth itself. No public account of Clapp's death,
however, reached Longbridge, and his name was never
mentioned by the Hubbards; still, it seemed to be known at
last that Mrs. Clapp had gone to a great distance, to attend
her husband during a long and fatal illness: and Mrs. Tibbs
also found out by indefatigable inquiries, far and near, that
about the same time one of the elders of Joe Smith, the
Mormon impostor, had died of consumption at Nauvoo; that
he had written somewhere several months before his death,
that a delicate-looking woman had arrived, and had not
quitted his side as long as he lived; that immediately after
his death she had left Nauvoo, and had gone no one knew
whither. It is quite certain that a young man from Longbridge
travelling at the west, wrote home that he had seen
Mrs. Clapp on board a Mississippi steamer, just about that
time. The story is probably true, although nothing very
positive is known at Longbridge.
As for Hopgood, we have already mentioned that he had
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been arrested, and most righteously condemned to a long
imprisonment for his share in that unprincipled, audacious
conspiracy. A year afterwards, however, it pleased those in
authority to send him out into the community again; he
was pardoned—
As all reserve is generally dropped in the last chapter, we
may as well tell the reader a secret of Mrs. Creighton's.
We have every reason to believe that she never cared much
for Harry, although she always cared a great deal for his
fortune. She was determined to marry again, for two reasons;
in the first place she did not wish to give way to a
sister-in-law, and she knew her brother intended marrying;
and then she never could manage that brother as she wished;
he was by no means disposed to throw away as much time,
thought, and money upon dissipation, as she would have
liked. She wanted a rich husband, of course; Harry did
very well in every particular but one—she thought him too
much like her brother in his tastes to be all she desired; still
he suited her better than any of her other admirers, and she
would have been quite satisfied to accept him, had he kept
his fortune. Without that fortune, it was a very different
affair; he was no longer to be thought of for a moment.
We strongly suspect also, that the pretty widow saw farther
than any one else into the true state of matters between
Elinor and Harry, long before the parties themselves had
had an explanation; and for that reason, so long as she was
determined to take Hazlehurst for her second husband, she
decidedly encouraged Ellsworth's attention to Elinor. Since
we are so near the last page, we shall also admit that Mrs.
Creighton had quite a strong partiality for Mr. Stryker, while
the gentleman was thoroughly in love with her; but neither
was rich, and money, that is to say wealth, was absolutely
necessary in the opinion of both parties; so Mr. Stryker
went off to New Orleans in quest of a quadroon heiress recommended
to him, and Mrs. Creighton became Mrs. Pompey
Taylor, junior; marrying the second son of the merchant,
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[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]
an individual who was nearly ten years younger than herself,
and resembled his brother in every respect except in
being much less handsome. The happy couple sailed for
Europe immediately after the ceremony.
We are sorry to say that Mr. Taylor, the father, suffered
severely, not long after the marriage of his second son, by
the great fire; he suffered also in the great panic, and in
various other panics which have succeeded one another.
Still he has not failed, but he is a poorer man than when we
first had the honour of making his acquaintance. In other
respects he is much what he was fifteen years ago, devoted
as much as ever and as exclusively as ever to making money;
still valuing everything, visible or invisible, by the market-price
in gold, silver, or bank-notes; although unfortunately
much less successful than at the commencement of his career,
in accumulating dollars and cents; his seems to be “the fruitless
race, without a prize;” and yet Mr. Taylor is approaching
the time of life when the end of the race cannot be very
distant.
Adeline is improved in many respects, her mother's advice
has had a good effect on her; still it is amusing to see her
already training up several little girls for future belles, on her
own pattern; rather it is believed to the annoyance of her
quiet husband. Emma Taylor is decidedly less lively, she
too having in some measure composed herself, after achieving
belle-ship and matrimony.
Mr. and Mrs. Uncle Dozie removed from Longbridge not
long after their marriage; they have since returned there
again, and now, by the last accounts, they are again talking
of leaving the place.
Mrs. Hilson still continues to annoy her family with a
persevering ingenuity, for which certain silly women appear
peculiarly well qualified; at times she talks of taking the
veil in a nunnery, at others, of again entering the bands of
Hymen with some English aristocrat of illustrious lineage;
she confesses that either step would be sufficiently romantic
and aristocratic to suit her refined tastes, but which she will
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eventually adopt cannot yet be known. Fortunately, her
Emmeline has profited much more than the “city lady”
herself by the follies of the past; she has lately married a
respectable man, one of their Longbridge neighbours, much
to her father's satisfaction.
Mary Van Alstyne remains single, and passes much of
her time with Elinor.
Some eighteen months after Harry's marriage, one evening
as he was sitting on the piazza at Wyllys-Roof, he received
a letter which made him smile; calling Elinor from the
drawing-room, he communicated the contents to her. It was
from Ellsworth, announcing his approaching marriage with
the lovely Mrs. Taylor, or in other words, our friend Jane.
Harry laughed a good deal, and coloured a little too, as he
plainly saw by the tone of the letter, that his friend was
going through precisely the same process as himself, during
his Paris days, when he first discovered such wisdom in the
depths of Jane's dark eyes, such delicacy of sentiment in the
purity of her complexion, such tenderness in every common
smile of her beautiful lips. Ellsworth, however, would probably
not find out as soon as himself, that all these beauties
made up a lovely picture indeed, but nothing more; for his
friend was an accepted suitor, and might indulge himself by
keeping agreeable fancies alive as long as he chose; while
Harry had been rather rudely awakened from his trance by
very shabby treatment in the first place, and a refusal at last.
To Hazlehurst, the most amusing part of Ellsworth's story
was, an allusion to a certain resemblance in character between
Mrs. Taylor and `one whom he had so much admired, one
whom he must always admire.'
“Now, Elinor, do me the justice to say I was never half
so bad as that; I never pretended to think Jane like you, in
one good quality.”
“It would be a pity if you had—Jane has good qualities
of her own. But I am rejoiced to hear the news; it is an
excellent match for both parties.”
“Yes; though Jane is a lovely puppet, and nothing more,
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yet it is a good match on that very account; Ellsworth will
look after her. It is to be hoped they are satisfied; I think
we are, my sweet wife; don't you?”
His frank, natural, affectionate smile as he spoke, was tolerably
satisfactory, certainly as to his estimate of his own fate;
and it is to be hoped the reader is by this time sufficiently
well acquainted with Elinor and Harry, to credit his account
of the matter. From all we know of both, we are ourselves
disposed to believe them very well qualified to pass through
life happily together, making the cheerful days pleasanter,
and the dark hours less gloomy to each other.
Harry seems to have given up his diplomatic pursuits for
the present at least; he remains at home, making himself
useful both in private and public life. Last year he and
Elinor were at the Rip-Raps, accompanied by Mr. Wyllys
and Miss Agnes, and a little family of their own—several
engaging, clever, well-trained children. The little girls,
without being beauties, are not plain; they are indeed quite
as pretty as Jane's daughters; the only ugly face in the
young troop belongs to a fine-spirited little fellow, to whom
it is of no consequence at all, as he has just discarded his
petticoats for ever. Perhaps, both father and mother are
pleased that such is the case; the feeling would seem to be
one of those weaknesses which will linger about every
parent's heart. Yet Elinor acknowledges that she is herself
a happy woman without beauty; and Harry, loving her as
he does for a thousand good reasons, and inclinations, and
partialities, sometimes actually believes that he loves her the
better for that plain face which appeals to his more generous
feelings. Many men will always laugh at an ugly woman,
and the idea of loving her; but is it an error in Hazlehurst's
biographer to suppose that there are others who, placed in
similar circumstances, would feel as Harry felt?
THE END.
Back matter
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Cooper, Susan Fenimore, 1813-1894 [1846], Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk at Longbridge: a tale, volume 2 (Carey & Hart, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf083v2].
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