The charm of the Rose Hill circle was broken by the
departure of their two gay and pleasant guests. Other
thoughts and feelings now began to rise. Harry, who, true
lover as he was, despite his very unequivocal rejection, had
clung to a hope that the whole was the result of error,
and might one day be explained and arranged, imagined all
doubt terminated by the discovery he had accidentally made
of Miss Elton's partiality for a flirtation with Mr. Emmerson.
He had, therefore, in his own decisive way, changed
his mind entirely as to her character, and conceived an
opinion, in which he did not again intend to waver, that
this beautiful girl, with whom he had allowed himself to fall
so desperately in love; for whom he had come so near blowing
his brains out; from whom he had tamely received an
insult as cruel as it was unnecessary—he had come to the
conclusion that this lovely and engaging young person was
neither more nor less than a heartless coquette. His opinion,
however false, was not altogether without apparent
foundation. Both Frank and himself had been led to declare
their passion, both, it seemed, drawn on by her arts,
and both, at the proper point, instantly and unmercifully rejected;
and now even Mr. Emmerson, a cold and obviously
unsocial man, old enough to be her father, was in his turn
ensnared, and was either really honoured with her approbation
(for the air and attitude which had struck him appeared
to warrant such an idea), or was led on to think so by her

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

love of conquest. If she had accepted this last one of her
adorers, Harry felt, somehow or other, that he should equally
despise her heart and her understanding; but if he, too, had
been encouraged to form and confide his hopes only to be
in his turn rejected, the evidence of Miss Elton's proficiency
as a coquette—a proficiency made perfect by so much practice—
would scarcely require addition. In either case, Harry
awoke to a sense of his own weakness, and in his bosom
the idle anguish of disappointed love gave place to more
manly sentiments and resolutions. “Like a dew-drop from
the lion's mane,” he resolved to shake off the boyish folly,
and to meet Miss Elton with exactly the same polite regard
as he was accustomed to bestow on other indifferent young
ladies: a regard to be tempered, however, with considerable
firmness, and a constant recollection of the character
and charms of his fair and dangerous enemy. These were
the reflections consequent upon his awkward interruption
of the tête-ù-tête on the back balcony. Only the quiet indignation
and contempt which it raised in his bosom could
have enabled him to sustain the pang with which he saw at
last dissolved into empty air all his hopes of all his confidence
in Fanny Elton. It may be remarked, too, as among
the proverbial caprices to which the destiny of lovers is
exposed, that his passion seemed to be extinguished at the
very moment when, and by the very means by which, her
confidence in him was established, and all her doubting
tenderness was confirmed with more strength than ever.

Frank had read the young girl's heart more correctly;
he had seen the look of unutterable horror at the rising of
Harry's lifeless body. Even while he sprang to his brother's
rescue, so inconceivably rapid are the operations of the
spirit, that blanched face, those clasped hands, that fervid
expression, crushed, as it were, by the shock of death from
a tender, breaking heart, were distinctly observed. From
that moment he abandoned all hope, all endeavour; and he
felt a double triumph in saving his brother's life, as he saw
the value she attached to it. He now longed for the orders
to repair to his post, once so dreaded. Seriously alarmed
for his peace of mind, he saw that, if he were destined ever
to master his unfortunate passion, it must be by tearing
himself away from her.

Emmerson's wily eye immediately perceived the course
things were taking. At first he had yielded himself only to

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

rage and mean envy, but now he began to think better of
his prospect. Without any particular regard for Miss
Elton, he had long fixed his eyes upon her large fortune,
which the profound vanity he cherished in secret, beneath
an exterior of striking modesty, induced him to suppose
might be brought within his reach, with proper management.
He saw Frank was forever out of his path, and that
Harry had fairly turned the tables on his mistress. Among
his peculiarities, although concealed from the world, was a
disposition to leave nothing unwon for want of striving to
obtain it, which he did, however, only with the utmost slyness;
for whatever he did was silent and mysterious. It
was by the aid, asked in a confidential way, of Harry, on
whom he had done his best to inflict a fatal injury, that he
had brought about the very arrangement with Mr. Lennox
by which he was to possess five thousand dollars a year.
His addresses to Miss Elton had been preferred much more
prematurely than he had intended, but the intoxicating triumph
of his new arrangement had been rendered more difficult
of resistance on that unlucky day by three or four
extra glasses of Champagne, forced upon him at dinner by
his generous patron. He had, however, been sufficiently
in possession of his usual diplomatic abilities to
from Miss Elton (and he knew she would never break
word) an unconditional promise of secrecy. If he
not himself obtain the lovely heiress, he was resolved
Lennox should not. He disliked, because he envied
family. Their services to him were welcome
gratitude was not a blessed, but a cursed sensation
He was one of those men who hate in proportion
are obliged, and who, when it can be safely and
done, like to return an injury for a favour. Does
believe there are no such characters? May
undeceived by experience!

But poor Fanny was the most of all. She loved
Harry, she always had loved him the whole ardour of
her soul. Rashly yielding to the secret representations of
Emmerson, she had acted under impressions which she
could no longer entertain. The moment an interested motive
appeared for that gentleman's insinuations, a new light,
broke over his whole character, and she saw that Harry was
so deeply offended, and so far from her,
would require more boldness an ingenuity she

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

sessed to explain her conduct. She soon perceived, also,
that he was not only acting on the impulse received from
her first interview with him, when, stung with the idea that
he was offering his hand in compliance with the wishes of
his family, while his heart and his vows were, in fact, another's,
she expressed the indignation such conduct naturally
inspired. From that time till recently there was in his manner,
stern and distant as it was, something which made her
conscious he was yet in her power, and something which
made her hope she had done him injustice, and that the pure
and disinterested Emmerson might find he had been in error.
But now Harry's demeanour was changed. A careless
indifference, almost levity, succeeded to his grave and
obviously feigned composure, and his guarded determination
to avoid her. Now he neither sought her society nor withdrew
from it. He seemed careless whether chance placed
her by his side, or even quite alone with him. His air was
that of a gentleman to a young lady with whom he was
not very familiarly acquainted, but to whom he extended
the courtesies, somewhat stiff and ceremonious, of a host
to a stranger guest. There was in it no affectation, no display
of forced indifference. It was, she saw, and her heart
swelled as she did so, the unmistakeable absence of any
sentiments of regard. It was the coldness of indifference,
or, rather, of contempt. She saw she had lost him: not
only lost him, but his respect. The idea was so painful
that she resolved to fix upon some mode of explanation.

But how to do this? Her ingenuous and inexperienced
mind might naturally form such a resolution, but the difficulty
of carrying it into effect became very soon apparent.
She thought, at first, of her mother, Mary, or Mrs. Lennox,
but gave up the idea instantly; such a confidence involved
a disclosure of her opinion of Emmerson, the grounds she
had for that opinion, his declaration to her, which she had
promised not to reveal, and Harry's also, which she felt
equally bound to conceal. Emmerson's charges and insinnations
against Harry had also been communicated to her
in a strict confidence, which she did not feel herself at liberty
to betray. No, whatever was to be done, must be done
by herself alone. Frank once rose to her mind. But the
impropriety and cruelty of making him a mediator between
her and Harry rendered the stop impossible; though such
justice did she render him, she felt sure, had he been aware

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

of her position, he would have faithfully and nobly performed
the task.

So many and various were the changes which had come
over the before perfectly happy party indeed, that the country
had almost ceased to be beautiful and the fine weather
agreeable. The shore-walks and gardens were abandoned.
There were no more rides or long rambles through the
woods, or boatings, or pic-nics. Little Seth's bright dream
was already over. With Emmerson came the painful sense
of a secret enemy, whose true character he could never hope
to expose or escape from, and which broke upon the sweet
strains of his imagination like a discord. From his lowly
position, he had seen fully displayed Emmerson's cold, selfish
arrogance and subtle perfidy. Yet he saw that his opinion,
if expressed, would only recoil upon himself, as Emmerson
had the crafty skill to make what impression he pleased
upon his friends and the world. He would not have feared
him notwithstanding all this, for Seth had a bold, lion-heart
to meet open danger, but he found Emmerson so wily and
silent, so full of management and petty tricks, the very pettiness
and baseness of which would have made an accusation
appear ridiculous, that the poor, artless, indignant boy,
with all his honest courage, had learned to feel in his presence
the irrepressible fear of a man walking in a garden
where he knows there is a snake.

At length Monday morning came, and Mr. Lennox, Harry,
and Emmerson were to leave. Mr. Lennox had been
duly informed by Mrs. Lennox as to certain ideas and discoveries
of her own respecting Miss Elton, and he in his
turn, although he had expressly promised not to do so (but
men will tell their wives!), related to her the conversation
he had once had with Emmerson, when that gentleman, to
suit his own purpose and break off the match with Frank,
had stated his accidental, but certain knowledge of Harry's
attachment to Miss Elton. Mrs. Lennox having thus testified
to the sentiments of the young lady, and Mr. Lennox
of the young gentleman, Euclid could not well have demonstrated
a problem more clearly.

“I'll tell you what,” said Mr. Lennox to his wife, on the
morning of the day on which he was to return to town,
while, lathered from his throat to the tip of his nose, he was
drawing his glittering razor over the strop, occasionally (not
stealing, but) taking a look at himself in the glass, which

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

look appeared in no way to interrupt the satisfaction of
those two duplicates of a most capital fellow on meeting
each other, “I'll tell you what, Kate, if so is so, Harry
shan't stir back to town this week. He's out of sorts that
anybody may see. Emmerson, who sees everything, and,
I believe, only lives to watch over our interests, has sufficiently
established that fact and the cause. What do you
think? he caught my young master, the other night, in the
street—ha! ha! ha! (damn it, I've cut my chin!)—drunk as
a piper.”

“Harry? You astound me! you distress me.”

“Drunk as Dick Dashall, singing `Robin Adair'—ha! ha!
ha!—and holding on to the Park railing for fear of falling off
the ground! Ha! ha! ha!”

“And you laugh! What would you say if you were
yourself to meet your son in such a disgusting state?” asked
Mrs. Lennox, with a look of sincere distress.

“Say? Why, slap him on the back, and say, `Go it, my
boy! Call in and let us know how you feel in the morning!
' I've no objection to my son's knowing evil once.
He'll not do it again. It'll all come right at last.”

“Henry! how can you speak so lightly?”

“The fact is, Harry is in love, and these are the signs of
it. Emmerson told me another curious circumstance. But,
on reflection, I am convinced there he is mistaken. His
fidelity to me makes him over-anxious. But Harry is in
love, and so, you say, is Fanny. Now, I'll tell you what:
he shall remain here this week.”

“But if they have quarrelled?”

“Pho! nonsense! quarrelled indeed! Put two young
pouting lovers a week in a pretty country place, with nothing
to do but look into each other's faces, or watch each
other go in and come out of the room, and all that sort of
thing, eating currant-pie and home-made bread and butter,
and a glass of cherry-bounce now and then, and if they
don't make up, why—let them separate. But in this I have
a serious object.”

“You a serious object!” said Mrs. Lennox. “I should
like to know what it is?”

“You musn't be alarmed, now; but Harry, about three
days ago, formally requested leave to go abroad for a few
years. Emmerson thinks he ought to go; I have no objections;
but I don't wish him to go off in a pet with sweet

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

little Fanny, if they like each other. I have not fully consented,
but he requested me to break it to you and get your
permission.”

“It seems destined that we can't have our boys at home.”

“Of course it does. Our boys are now men, my dear.
So we'll leave him here this week, to take care of the girls
and you, and steer you up against sloops and through thunder-storms,
and afterward it will be time enough to give
him an answer, if he wish one.”

This plan was in due time communicated to Harry by
his father, in the Oriental style in which that gentleman
was accustomed to make his suggestions to his family.
Harry could not offer any farther resistance to the proposition
without betraying some stronger motive than he desired
to assign, so he only remarked that, although he had rather
go down—he had some little things to attend to, etc., etc.,
etc.—yet he would remain if his father wished.

Poor Fanny, not fathoming the motives of those around
her, not dreaming of the suspicions of Mrs. Lennox, and far
less supposing that Emmerson had ever carried his double-dealing
so far as to make such representations of her to Mr.
Lennox—ignorant, too, that Harry was meditating a voyage
to the opposite side of the globe, and that, perhaps, nay,
probably, the few days she was now passing with him
would be the last for years, perhaps literally the last—poor
Fanny, as she heard the final decision that Harry should
spend the week at Rose Hill, felt her young heart bound
with delightful emotion, and a confidence that, however impossible
she found it to fix upon any definite way of explaining
her apparently inexcusable caprices, all would
come right before that day week. There did not breathe
on the earth a being more modest and pure, or one less
likely to contrive and manœuvre in order to win the affection
of any young man; but, while she was pure and modest,
her very innocence and ingenuousness prevented her
seeing any impropriety in attempting to undeceive Harry
under the present peculiar circumstances. In an instant
the perfect happiness which had been a stranger to her for
the last year returned. The gayety and charm of her past
days once more appeared in her manner and countenance.
Mrs. Lennox, an observer too affectionate and experienced
to suffer any sign to escape her, saw and correctly interpreted
this happy change. She had before her a week's

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

duty, by no means uninteresting to such a mother, of watching
the little drama which had commenced about her; particularly
as upon its denouement depended, as she thought,
not only the question of Harry's proposed absence of several
years in Europe, but his future happiness and that of her
beloved and lovely young friend.

As to Frank, her skilful eye had already seen that the
attachment of Miss Elton to him was of a different nature
from his to her; and the thoughtful mother, accustomed to
consider all things for the best, and to “observingly distil
out” “a spirit of good from things evil,” found in his youth,
his elastic spirits, and his gay and impressionable character,
a hope that this early and tender disappointment would not
eventually interfere with his happiness, but might, on the
contrary, not only keep him in an atmosphere of purity now
that he was launching off into the world alone, but might
lead him to reflection and self-communing favourable to the
development in his mind of religious truth. So commenced
the second week in the pretty, charming, but now somewhat
less gay and noisy Rose Hill.

At length the hour of departure arrived, and as the boat
came in sight, they all accompanied Mr. Lennox down to
the landing-place, when the Chancellor Livingston came in
fine style, and this time stopped at the wharf, puffing out
immense volumes of white, hot steam, with a noise which
obliged the family thus separating to deliver their affectionate,
confidential parting phrases in a tone of voice as if they
had been shouting across the river, instead of into each other's
ears through the hand, by way of a trumpet. There
was considerable shaking of hands, and a slight tumbling
in of valises, enlivened by divers hearty smacks between
Mrs. Lennox and her husband, Mary and Mr. Lennox, Mrs.
Elton and Mr. Lennox (Mr. Lennox usually went the
whole!), and Mr. Lennox and Fanny. The latter generally
made somewhat more resistance to the tyrannical extortions
in this way of her light and warm-hearted host, yet
now, what with the noise, and the running to and fro, and
the fury of the steam, and the little agitation of parting, and
her strange, deep delight at the presence of one who did
not depart, and Mr. Lennox's extremely sudden and determined
manner of claiming his unprincipled, but, alas! customary
right, and the well-known, ferocious cry of the indomitably
punctual captain, “All aboard!” and “Haul in

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

the plank!” the poor girl had not only received, but actually
bestowed such a hearty smack as made Frank blow his
nose in order to hide his wet eyes, and caused even Harry,
for a single, unobserved moment, to utter something which
would have borne a very respectable resemblance to a sigh,
if it could have been heard in the deafening din around.

“That's right, Fanny!” said Lennox, through his hand,
and quite red in the face from the exertion of speaking so
loud. “What's worth doing at all is worth doing well!”

“You're a despotic tyrant!” replied she, but he could
not hear her words. He stopped a moment to look at her
lips, around which played an enchanting smile, and which
were working away so comically without producing any
sound audible through the general uproar, but the indulgence
had wellnigh lost him his passage; for, at the captain's
indignant second command, his old friend the “plank”
was “hauled in” with an intense promptitude, Emmerson
and Seth having barely time to reach the deck with their
lives. The boat was already a couple of yards on her way
to New-York, when, leaving Fanny in the midst of a sentence,
he leaped aboard, to the breathless anxiety of his
wife and the undisguised amusement of the passengers, and
in two minutes he had shaken hands with about a hundred
people, and had seized an influential member of the Legislature
by the button, for the purpose of laying down some
startling doctrines on the subject of Mr. Van Buren and the
United States Bank.

Seth—for Emmerson, in a spiteful mood at the idea of
being left behind, had expressed an opinion that the boy
would be wanted in the office—poor little Seth, with a
heart as heavy as lead, and a certain indefinite shrinking
from Emmerson, had gone to the stern, as far as he could
get, and was gazing back on the receding point on which
Rose Hill stood, lessening to a white dot on the green
mountain-side, and at last fading away. The boy was not
generally thought over-susceptible, but he certainly was
enough so to feel the difference between the kind, rosy,
sweet, sunshiny face of his young, charming friend and
protector, Mary, and the bilious countenance of Mr. Emmerson.
If he hadn't loved the whole Lennox family to
adoration, and Mary several hundred million times more
than the rest, he would have very likely let fly an inkstand
or a ruler at Mr. Emmerson's head, and left the man to

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

enjoy alone, in all his selfish greediness, the advantages of
the place. But the genuine kindness of his friends (to say
nothing of Mr. Lennox's frequent promises respecting the
presidential chair!) and Mary's good-natured, sisterly interest
in his welfare—no, he could not help himself. Besides,
he hadn't a home to go to, or any other prospect of
employment. No, he must bear all Emmerson could inflict
in the meanness of power, and the pettiness of spite and
jealousy, and, what was more, he must endeavour to bear
it patiently. That gentleman had once intimated to him
the possibility of his being turned adrift to beggary and disgrace.
Who would receive him with the odium of Emmerson's
unfriendly opinion? Thus, before he was aware of it,
two passions (under however hopeless and ridiculous circumstances)
had entered into this obscure and friendless
boy's heart—love and hate! They developed themselves
there unobserved, unsuspected by the whole world. He
did not strive to check them, but in his ardour and inexperience
he abandoned himself fully to both. He felt within
him hope, firmness, and determination. Some of the immortal
ornaments of his country had risen from an origin as
humble as his own. Absurd and undreamed of by others
as was his love for Mary, it refreshed and supported his
soul; and although Emmerson seemed his evil genius and
an insurmountable obstacle in his path, the hatred he conceived
for him strengthened and concentrated his intellect
and character. Everything changes, and in nothing were
there going on changes more striking than in little, stupid,
awkward, bashful Seth Copely.

When the Chancellor Livingston at length ploughed her
way out of sight, and Mrs. Lennox, Mary, Fanny, and Mrs.
Elton (who, the reader mustn't suppose, has stopped talking
because we have stopped recording her talk), with Frank
and Harry, had stood watching her receding image till they
fully realized that the beloved husband and father had indeed
disappeared for another week, they turned and walked
up the hill towards the house.

Mrs. Lennox had given Mrs. Elton an intimation of what
was going on, and that lady, who seized with avidity on
everything that came in her way, instantly pictured the dear,
happy lovers as dying to be alone. So, without making
any particular mystery of her ideas and intentions, but with
sundry mysterious nods and smiles, when she saw Mary

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

walking with her mother quite in advance, she put her arm
within Frank's and drew him (not much resisting) on, so as
to leave Fanny behind alone with Harry.

The poor girl, who had ardently longed for an occasion
to appeal to the good sense and magnanimity of her companion,
and regain at least the respect which she saw, with
insupportable anguish, she had lost, now found herself favoured
with the best of all possible occasions. The party
had strolled on a long way ahead, up the winding and deeply
shadowed road. But, alas! so far from being able to carry
her design into execution, she found her heart beating so
quick and so violently as to deprive her of the power to
utter anything at all. She was so intimidated by the sense
of her awkward position, and by the indifferent, passive air
and expression of Harry, that the shrinking of her soul
might have been accompanied by a corresponding movement
of her person. Harry saw it, and felt it as proceeding
from a fear, on her part, lest, “time and place agreeing,”
he might be tempted to resume his suit.

“She may spare herself the anxiety,” thought he; “I
shall make no more mistakes of that kind.”

Through the civility with which he offered his arm,
therefore, there was something almost of freezing coldness,
and she accepted it with an embarrassment and a timid
manner as little like love as his own. Thus these two
young people, who loved each other so sincerely, were
estrayed by the arts of one man.

For some moments they walked on at a pace which, to
accommodate itself to his rather firm and rapid stride, she
was obliged to quicken, and which showed, at least on his
side, a sincere desire to regain the company. The silence
was awkward for her, but did not seem so for him, for he
presently broke it, in the laughing tone of one perfectly at
his ease, and said,

“How do you like this new universal favourite of ours,
Glendenning, Miss Elton? Do you, with the rest of us,
think him such a fine, warm-hearted fellow?”

“Yes, I do.”

“He amused me extremely. I like him better than I do
White; his mind may be less matured, but his heart is
fresher.”

“Do you think him really reformed?” inquired Miss Elton,
timidly.

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

“I think that must depend upon circumstances and upon
the sort of society he falls into. He is sincere now; there
can't be a doubt of it; but he's facile, I fear, and fickle.”

“If he were fickle without being sincere,” remarked Miss
Elton, in the same sweet, low voice, “I should fear much
for him; but sincerity is a virtue so rare and so redeeming,
that, where it exists, reformation can never be hopeless.”

“Yes,” said Harry, in a light tone, “I don't doubt he'll
turn out a fine fellow. We shall miss him as a companion,
this country week of ours, at all events. There is our
party; shall we join it?”

Fanny felt she was thrown back, but she also felt she
had deserved it. The air of perfect carelessness, the firm,
advancing step, the deliberate change of the conversation at
the point where it might have become serious, the absence
of all his usual haughty distance of manner, and the haste
to join the rest, had in them something which struck her
painfully; but she remembered the cause he had to suppose
this precisely what she required of him, and his promise
never to resume the subject again, and she did not despair
of letting him see, in time, the true state of her feelings.
She, therefore, left his arm and joined Mary.

In the evening the delicious weather once more gathered
them together on the balcony to tea. Harry was gay, and
chatting more than usual. He was less distant than he had
been before for many months to Miss Elton, but it was that
sort of courtesy which a gentleman bestows upon a lady,
without any effort or any meaning more than meets the eye.
Fanny felt it with alarm, almost with anguish, but patiently
bore what she had so rashly brought upon herself.

The tea was nearly over, and some of the party had already
risen from the table, when Mrs. Lennox said,

“What is that elegant, very red volume in your pocket,
Harry?”

“A guide-book!”

“A European one?”

“Yes.”

“You'll not want it, my son. We shan't let you go.
I can't make up my mind to it. You and Frank both—
`all my little chickens at one fell swoop!' ”

“Too late, my dear mother; my mind's quite made up.
Before I left town, indeed, I had completed all the

[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]

necessary arrangements. This day week at farthest I shall be
on the `deep blue sea!' ”

“What, all these decisive arrangements before you had
consulted us?”

“I did not intend to set out, of course, without your full
permission.”

“Like father like son! You and Frank are famous for
doing a thing first, and asking permission afterward.”

“But, my dear mother, if it is ever to be done, better
now than later in life. There's Emmerson, now, ready to
take good care of the office till I get back. Besides, the
yearning I feel to see Europe has lately grown intolerable.”

“Europe!” exclaimed Fanny, with a face much paler
than she had any idea of, and trying, with obvious difficulty,
to speak in a careless manner, and as if her breath did
not come and go considerably quicker than would be requisite
for such an undertaking.

“Yes. He persists in his determination!”

“What determination?” inquired Fanny, fixing her eyes
on Mrs. Lennox.

“He has told you of his plan, of course—has he not?
To go off in six days, by the next packet for London.”

“You are jesting,” said Fanny, laughing.

“Why he has certainly told you,” said Mrs. Elton.
Fanny was silent.

“I did not think of troubling Miss Elton with affairs in
which she must feel so slight an interest.”

Her artless eyes were lifted to his one moment, but fell
beneath his cold, grave expression.

“And how long do you propose remaining away, if I
may venture to inquire?” asked Mrs. Lennox.

“Three, perhaps four years. I mean to attend one or
two courses of lectures on the Roman law in Germany, under
Savigny, and to spend a winter in Italy, and I can't
give less than a year to England, Scotland, Ireland, and
Wales; and I must see Egypt, and Jerusalem, and Constantinople
when once so near—and—”

“Mercy on me! my dear son,” cried Mrs. Lennox.
“Why, you're laying out work for a lifetime. Can't I persuade
you to give it up?”

“Oh, pooh! nonsense! The time will soon fly away.”

“There, there's your father's own son again.”

“I am dying to see a foreign shore,” continued Harry.

[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

“Ah, I wish I could go with you,” exclaimed Frank.

“And I,” added Mary.

“And what changes may take place here before you get
back! and what changes may—nay, must take place in you!”

“Not changes for the worse!”

“You go a boy, you will come back a man.”

“I hope so, I'm sure!” replied Harry, with some emphasis.

“And what may you find here on your return?”

Here Frank, and Mary, and Mrs. Elton, all exclaimed
against any gloomy predictions or apprehensions, and united
in declaring that every young man ought to travel; that
it was a most delightful thing to see London, and Paris,
and Rome, and Greece, and Egypt, and all those outlandish
places, and that it would doubtless do him a vast deal
of good.

Fanny said not a word; but Mrs. Lennox perceived she
was chilled and shocked, and she began to think it might
be the best thing, after all, for the young girl as well as for
her son to get him out of the way for a year or two. As
for any love of his for Fanny, she concluded, from what
she saw, that the attachment was altogether on one side,
and her sigh of tender sympathy for Fanny was not unmingled
with surprise at the indifference of Harry to so
much sweetness, beauty, and affection. “But thus it is,”
thought she: “the course of true love never did run smooth.”

The party now all rose, and strolled out upon the lawn
with the exception of Harry, who, his mother said, had
gone with his maps and books to study out a route. He
did not present himself again till a late hour in the evening.

When Fanny laid her cheek that night upon her pillow,
it was wet with long-suppressed tears. The leaving her
uninformed of so important a resolution, while it had been
communicated to everybody else, she acknowledged was
what she might have expected, but it nevertheless seemed
a slight so marked, the evidence of a contempt so cold, that
she scarcely knew whether it affected her with more anguish
or indignation.

“If he really have ceased to love me,” thought she, “it
is my own fault, and I will bear the penalty.”

She longed to confide to Mrs. Lennox or Mary the offer
of Emmerson, and her rejection of it, but that gentleman was
too old a head for her, and the promise given she never

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dreamed of breaking, even if Harry should leave his country
under the conviction that she had accepted him, or had
trifled with him. Time would set it all right. But time,
to such a young, tender, impassioned girl, was not the most
acceptable medicine for such suffering. At length all her
sad thoughts, by the force of habit, merged into one, as she
closed the long train of her reflections with an humble
prayer to Him who ordains all, that, wherever the object
of her affection might go, he might be protected and led the
right way; and that both he and she herself might receive
either aid to avert calamity, or strength to support it. She
had, at least intentionally, done no wrong, and she did not
mean to do any. She committed herself and her young
sorrows, therefore, to His care who had promised to give
rest to the weary, and with a lightened heart, though tears
were yet on her lashes, she fell into a sleep, the blessed
privilege of the pious and the innocent, disturbed by no
ungoverned passion or painful dream.

Several more days passed away in the same manner.
Harry's spirits seemed high, and everybody remarked how
elated he was with the idea of his approaching voyage.
Fanny had schooled herself into tranquillity; while Frank,
whose sadness equalled her own, took lonely walks, often
going out early with a gun, and returning late. Mary went
on rallying everybody else into a good humour, and Mrs.
Elton had pretty much all the rest of the talk to herself.
In fact, the spell of the party was broken.

Towards the end of the week there came a letter to
Frank and one to Mrs. Lennox from Captain Glendenning.
He described his arrival at Montreal. To Frank he gave
a humorous description of his journey and arrival. To Mrs.
Lennox he wrote in a more serious, and even in an eloquent
strain. Both were delighted at this mark of attachment.
Frank read his aloud, as it was obviously intended he should
do, and it clearly recalled the writer, whose playful descriptions
occasioned much laughter. Mrs. Lennox folded her
letter carefully and put it away. She found its confidential
and serious tone too sacred for the hour and scene.

With each day the distance between the hearts of Fanny
and Harry had increased. He had now conceived such a
seriously unfavourable opinion of her, that he often showed
it unconsciously. It is by a thousand minute and nameless
details that our sentiments towards each other manifest
themselves. His manly and noble character could receive

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from an artful coquette but one impression. Her dismissal
of himself and Frank, and the scene with Emmerson, were
constantly before him, and the passion which had raged in
his heart was calmed, if not destroyed. He jested with her
sometimes as if he had never seen her before the present
week. He exhibited not the slightest disinclination to be
alone with her, or to be interrupted when alone. He complimented
her freely and flippantly when others did. In
short, she began to feel not only indignant at herself for
longer thinking of him, but to be convinced that their relations
were in good earnest broken off completely and permanently.
Had she herself given him no reason to believe
she did not love him, his present demeanour would have
long ago cooled, and, perhaps, terminated her attachment to
him; but when she reached this point, the recollection of
the scornful words she had uttered, and of the attitude in
which he had seen her with Emmerson, took from her all
strength and resolution, and overwhelmed her with fluctuations
of hope and grief, of love and pride.

Friday came, and with it Mr. Lennox. At dinner they
sat longer than usual, to hear the city news and chat of the
past and future.

“So Harry is really off?” said Mrs. Lennox.

“He's his own master. I have no objection.”

“Give me but three or four years,” said Harry, “to see
the world, and study what can be better studied in Europe
than here, and I'll come back and turn man of business the
rest of my life.”

“It is but fair,” said his father, to whom Mrs. Lennox
had already communicated the result of her observations.
“Go, my boy, when you please. I will prepare letters of
introduction, and will procure such others as I think necessary.
You will have a letter of credit on Rothschild. Your
introductions will place you in the first society. Mr. B—
has pressed upon me a letter to the Duke of G—, and
another to the Earl of W—; not ordinary letters, but
such as will throw open to you the most interesting, at least
the highest circles of English society. There you may
spend what you like, for, without attempting display, I wish
you to live like a gentleman, and to have every facility for
acquainting yourself with the world. For Paris, Vienna,
Berlin, Florence, Rome, and Naples, you will be amply
provided with introductions. Enjoy yourself, my son; but

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you know that, without some serious, intellectual, daily occupation,
no enjoyment can last long. I expect you to be
back in three years, with your mind and manners much improved.
Don't forget us. Take good care of yourself.
Write often. Perfect yourself in the German and French.
Remember, we send you off with implicit confidence in your
good sense and discretion, that your letters will be a great
consolation, and your return the most joyful era the future
has in store for us. Let me hear your opinions on the political
state of the various countries you pass through, and
sketches of whatever interests you. Don't lose your temper
when cheated. Take things as they go, cheerfully
and quietly. Don't think yourself obliged to quarrel with a
man because you discover him to be a scoundrel, or to
swear eternal friendship to all who please you at first sight.
You go to learn, not to teach. Of all things, come back a
good American, a sensible, modest fellow, and without a
mustache!”

The eyes of more than one person were a little moist as
Mr. Lennox proceeded, but, as usual, his close set the whole
party laughing. They were a little startled, however, by
his next words, which were,

“And now, sir, all I have to add is, that, once resolved
on going, you can't be off too soon. The next packet sails
on Wednesday. I recommend you to go to town by this
afternoon's boat. Do all you have to do coolly, and we'll
be down to-morrow and see you off.”

“But, my dear, dear Harry,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “you'll
want a thousand things. I had no idea you really would
go so soon too. I cannot believe it.”

“Oh no, I shall want nothing but a single portmanteau.
All my things are ready. I can renew my wardrobe in London
better than here.”

“But if you're going in to-day's boat, you'd better be moving,
sir,” said his father; “she'll be here in less than an
hour.”

There was something so extremely sudden and unexpected
in this whole arrangement, that more than one countenance
was pale.

“My beloved son!” and “My dear brother!” and “You
are a devilish lucky fellow, Harry!” and “I wish I were
going with you!” and “Don't go off till we come down!”
and various other expressions from various lips

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announced the interest all took in the proceeding. Harry withdrew
to his room, and hastily, and with a somewhat trembling
hand, packed up the necessary things. By the time
he had finished the whole family were assembled on the
lawn, with hats and bonnets, to accompany him down to
the landing-place, already the scene of so many sad and
merry partings and meetings.

In the whole course of the preceding conversation Harry
had never once looked at Fanny nor she at him. She behaved
admirably. A slight pallor might have been perceptible
to a close observer, but there were, luckily, around her
no such impudent and detestable personages. All who suspected
anything of her state of mind were delicately careful
not to pay her the least attention. They strolled down
the well-remembered hill in no very regular order, laughing
and talking about the ridiculous absurdity of a man's starting
up so suddenly after dinner to go to Jerusalem. Mary said
it reminded her of a man who was asked “How soon he
could be ready to set off for China,” and who replied, “As
soon as I can get my hat!” Mary and Fanny were walking
together. The former had not been initiated into the
real state of affairs between Harry and Fanny, her acuteness
being diverted by the fixed idea she had of an attachment
that was, or was to be, between Frank and Fanny.
All of a sudden she called back Harry, who happened to be
the nearest. Fanny had trodden on a sharp stone and hurt
her foot.

“Come here, Harry, will you?”

“What for?” inquired Harry.

“Well, you're a gallant knight, to be sure! Here's a lady
actually wounded on the occasion of your departure, and
when I call you to assist her, you hang back and say `what
for?' ”

“Wounded! Miss Elton!” exclaimed Harry.

“Oh, don't fall into any mistake,” said Mary, laughing;
“it's only her foot, not her heart. But she has really hurt
herself, and would have gone back if I had not called you
to lend your arm.”

“Indeed, it's nothing. I had better go back! It will be
over in a moment.”

“Admirable logic,” said Mary; “if it will be over in a
moment, why go back? Recollect, you may not see Mr.
Harry again these five years, if ever. So, your arm, sir.”

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“Certainly,” said Harry.

Miss Elton hesitated a moment.

“Mary!” cried her father; “where's Mary?”

“Here, sir!”

And she ran off.

“Really, Miss Elton,” said Harry, politely, “you seem to
be quite lame.”

“Oh yes—oh no—don't let me detain you, Mr. Lennox,
I beg; you will be too late.”

“I have twenty minutes,” replied Harry, looking at his
watch. “If you insist upon going on, I beg you to spare
your foot. I really hope the injury is not serious.”

“Let us, at least, try,” said she, “not to miss your boat.”

But the steep descent of the hill had carried the rest of
the party long ago out of sight, through the divers bends of
the road, much more rapidly than Fanny could follow, do
all she could.

“An artifice,” thought Harry, but as he looked down in
her face, over which a slight expression of pain was mingled
with one of emotion, he felt he did her injustice. His
error was made more certain by the appearance of a spot
of blood upon the white, thin shoe that clothed the slenderest,
most graceful foot in the world.

“I had no idea of being called upon to walk so suddenly,”
said she, “or I should not have ventured out in these
slippers. I think a piece of glass has cut me.”

“You must return, indeed you must,” said Harry, alarmed
and ashamed of his suspicions.

“Oh no,” replied Fanny, also alarmed, not at the hurt,
but at the idea of returning alone with him in her present
state of mind; “pray let us hasten on.”

They did so; but a long walk and a lonely one was before
them, and she was obliged to lean much more heavily
than she had ever done before upon his arm.

“I shall be uneasy about your foot,” said Harry; “I wish
this had not happened. I am almost inclined to go back!”

“What can it be but a trifling wound?” said Fanny.
“You might lose your boat here, and your passage to London,
by such a delay. You've a delightful voyage before
you.”

“Yes, I anticipate four or five years of unalloyed happiness.”

A pause.

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

“You will find many changes on your return.”

“I presume so, of course. Five years can scarcely fail
to bring some; but I always look on the bright side of
things. These changes are as likely to be pleasing as sad
ones.”

Another pause.

“Yes,” said Harry, “it must indeed be a singular sensation
to return to one's country after an absence of some
years.”

“Do you really go as far as Syria?”

“Yes, I mean to see Jerusalem, and Egypt too. Pray
use my arm, Miss Elton.”

“Such a journey must require much time.”

“I hope my father will prolong my leave of absence. I
think, perhaps, in five years, I shall be back.”

“Perhaps—never!” said Fanny, with a voice which was
not intended to tremble in the least.

“Perhaps is a word which covers a large space of contingencies,
Miss Elton.”

“Mr. Lennox,” said Fanny, “you will not misconstrue
me if I say I regret the rudeness with which I once addressed
you.”

“It is entirely forgiven,” said Harry, coldly. As he
spoke, he felt that the light, loved arm trembled in his.
He was affected, but he remembered Emmerson.

There was another pause, and the idea that he ought to
be too sensible to yield to the artifices of a coquette rose
in his mind. He looked once more on Miss Elton's face,
and her eyes were raised to his. They were full of tears,
and their expression thrilled him to the soul.

“Fanny,” said he, “will you answer me one question?”

“What question?”

“What passed between you and Mr. Emmerson?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why did you address to me the language for which
you have just expressed regret?”

“I cannot explain.”

There was another pause. Fanny had scarcely time to
collect herself and repress her tears, for they suddenly
came full in sight of the whole party on the landing-place,
and the steamboat lying off the wharf, with the barge cutting
her way towards them, a sheet of green and sunny
foam half hiding her swiftly-advancing bows.

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