“George! who is George?” inquired
Charles Westall.

“My brother; don't you know George?”

“No, I do not. Is the picture for
him, Lucy?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Westall; and pray why
should not it be for him?” asked the
simple child, giving a very natural interpretation
to the shade that flitted over
Westall's face. “I am sure,” she continued,
“George has sent a great many
beautiful books to Ellen, and George
loves her.”

“Does he?” exclaimed Westall.

“Yes, indeed, does he; don't you,
Mr. Westall? I thought every body loved
Ellen.”

Lenox at this moment rejoined them,
“like father, like child,” exclaimed he,
with a hearty laugh,—“come along,
Lucy; you and I ask plaguy unlucky
questions this morning. Young man,”
he added, turning to Charles, “I take a
fancy to you—and if you do get any

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

whims into your head, all the harm I wish
you is, that you may have better luck
than poor George.”

We will not pretend to say whether it
was the information insinuated in the
kind-hearted Lenox's wish, or the expression
of his favour, but one, or the
other, or both, certainly kindled a bright
expression of pleasure in Westall's face:
his mother noticed it, and after Mr. Lenox
had walked away she said to her son,
“I am surprised, Charles, that you do
not repress that man's familiarity; he is
really becoming intolerable.”

“Oh, not at all so to me, my dear
mother.”

“But, Charles, did you ever hear any
thing so impertinent as his questions to
Mr. Redwood?”

“They scarcely deserve to be so stigmatised.
Mr. Lenox lives in a simple
state of society, where each man knows
every particular of his neighbour's affairs,
and he never suspected that his guest

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

would not be as free to tell as he to ask.
It is very easy to see all the imperfections
of unpolished surfaces; but, perhaps, dear
mother, as your eye seems somewhat dazzled
by Miss Redwood's charms, you did
not notice her strange start of passion.”

“I noticed it, Charles, but I did not
think it strange. Caroline has been out
of spirits all the morning—quite dejected.
You wounded her feelings last night, my
son, too severely; it was that which
made her so sensitive this morning.
She was vexed, as she ought to have
been, with the idle questions of this man
Lenox; and perhaps she thought (for I
thought so myself) that there was something
too familiar in Miss Bruce's manner
and observation.”

“I confess, mother, that a young lady
who gives such energetic demonstrations
of her vexation at an offence so
trifling, is rather formidable; and I
think with you that it would be prudent
to avoid her resentment.”

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“But, Charles, I am in earnest—you
are trifling with your own interest; and
I am sorry to say, my son, that you seem
to have forgotten the deep obligations
we are under to Mr. Redwood—his
friendship for your father—for you.
Caroline's only offence seems to be a
predilection (perhaps too obvious) for
you, and the kindest, most generous
affection for me.” Mrs. Westall paused—
she thought Charles's silence indicated
conviction, and she ventured to proceed
a step farther: “as to this Miss
Bruce, her story is quite an incredible
one. Do not look at me thus, my son.
I do not mean that it is an intentional
imposture of hers—I dare say she is—
that is, she may be, quite innocent about
it; but as Caroline says, and Caroline
has uncommon penetration—in that she
resembles her father—Caroline says that
it must be an invention of Ellen's mother
to screen the disgrace of her birth; of
course you know a woman of the sort

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

that her mother must have been would
not scruple a contrivance of that kind,
which might induce some credulous
fellow, as Caroline says, to marry her
daughter. No considerate man certainly
would think of marrying a woman whose
history is so involved in mystery—as
Caroline says, no man in his senses
should forget the old proverb, `like
mother, like daughter.”'

“For heaven's sake, my dear mother,”
exclaimed Westall, unable any longer to
maintain his dutiful patience, “speak
from your own heart, and do not retail
to me any more of Miss Redwood's sayings;
forgive me—I cannot endure to
see her play on your kind dispositions.
I appeal, my dear mother, to your own
heart. Is there not something touching—
sacred—in Ellen Bruce's faith in her
mother's truth—in her scrupulous and
patient fidelity? I declare to you, if
Miss Redwood is right in her worst

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

conjectures, I think the parent's fault is redeemed
by the daughter's virtue.”

Mrs. Westall knew that her son was
unmanageable in any matter in which
his feelings were earnestly engaged,
though habitually yielding in trifles; she
saw the impossibility of stemming the
present current that had set against her.
Although dazzled by the brilliant prospects
that she had imagined were opening
to her son, she was not quite insensible
to the virtuous feelings that governed
him, and when she concluded the
conversation by saying, “Charles, you
are a singular being,” there was a mixture
of satisfaction and disappointment
in the confession.

The purely accidental inquiries of
honest Lenox had operated like the
apple of discord on the group assembled
at the good man's door. It is too well
known to require remark that this busy
spirit of investigation pervades the mass

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

of society in New-England—“leaveneth
the whole lump.” It appears, among
the illiterate, in what the polite call “idle
and impertinent questions,” and, among
the educated, in a very free and sometimes
inconvenient spirit of inquiry into
what the prudent or austere would deem
unquestionable. Whether this passion
is blameable or praiseworthy we leave to
those whom it may concern to determine;
but certain we are that it is incurable;
since it has been our chance
to see an old lady perfectly blind and
deaf, who, by taking the hand of a
friend, and understanding from a strong
or feeble pressure an affirmative or negative,
contrived so ingeniously and indefatigably
to vary and multiply her
questions, as to ascertain all the details
of all the affairs of all her acquaintance.

There had been so many agreeable
circumstances in Mr. Redwood's situation,
that he had for the most part endured
this inevitable evil with good

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

nature; but sometimes his wincing would
show that he was galled, and once or
twice he thought that the case of the
poor Dutchman, who is said to have been
questioned to death by a relentless Yankee,
would not have been a singular
instance of the fatal effects of this curious
mode of persecution.

eaf337v2.n1

[1] Sauce, pronounced saace or sarce, is in most
parts of New-England the vulgar name for culinary
vegetables:—e. g. long saace—for beets, carrots, &c.;
short saace—for potatoes and turnips.

CHAPTER XII.

“But I have seen since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed.”
Marmion.

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

Mr. Redwood, as has been said, retreated
to his room; and Caroline, with
the appearance at least of passive obedience,
followed him. A few moments'
reflection restored to her her self-confidence.
She now for the first time in her
life felt the operation of powerful motives,
and the strength of her own passions.
She was destitute of natural sensitiveness,
and emboldened by the hardy
resolution that had never experienced
trial nor defeat. Determined to repair
the faults of her sudden gust of passion
by a wariness that should baffle her father's
penetration, she folded her arms, and

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

seated herself very composedly, as if
awaiting her father's pleasure—while he
walked the room in extreme, and as his
varying colour indicated, uncontrolable
agitation. He complained of his arm —
it was excessively painful; “then, Sir,”
said his daughter, with the most perfect
nonchalance, “the attendance of the
physician would be more appropriate
than mine.”

“No!” replied Mr. Redwood, in a
thrilling tone; “no—there is no physician
that can heal my wounds. Oh
Caroline!” he continued, suddenly
taking her hand, “you are my child, my
only child”—he was choked by his emotion,
and unable to proceed; he again
turned from her, while she with a coolness
which bordered on insult, replied,
“yes, Sir, so I flattered myself; but you
announce it as if it were a discovery.”

Mr. Redwood sunk into a chair, his
face betrayed the strong mental conflict
he was suffering. The emotion his

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

daughter had manifested at the question
and remarks, to which, as he thought his
conscience could alone give significance,
had led him to suppose that she had in
some way possessed herself of his early
history, and he had suddenly resolved
to obtain from her all she knew, and to
disclose to her all of which she was ignorant.
Her manner had checked—
congealed the current of his feelings;
his habitual reserve, which in this moment
of excitement a kind tone, a single
expression of gentleness, of affectionate
sympathy, would have dissipated for
ever, resumed its power over him. He
sat silent and abstracted until Caroline
said, “as you seem to have no farther
occasion for me, Sir, I will go to my own
apartment.”

“No, stay, Caroline—you must first
explain to me your singular conduct to
Miss Bruce.”

Miss Redwood said there was nothing
to explain — she meant nothing — she

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

thought it very extraordinary that she
must give a reason for every movement—
her manner might have been a little
hurried—she was not very well—she was
fatigued with her walk—teased to death
with old Lenox's impertinence, and disgusted
with Miss Bruce.

“But why disgusted, Caroline? It
seems to me nothing could be more proper
than the gentle check Miss Bruce
gave to Lenox; nothing more innocent
and unmeaning than what she said.”

“You certainly, Sir, are the most competent
judge of her meaning—if you
were not offended it was quite unnecessary
that I should be provoked.”

“Caroline? what would you say, what
would you insinuate?”

“Nothing in the world, Sir,” she answered,
and added with a bitter smile,
“nothing but what you may choose to
understand. I am not accustomed,” she
continued, undisturbedly enduring her
father's piercing gaze, “I am not

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

accustomed to have so much importance attached
to my expressions. Miss Bruce
may walk in mystery, and talk enigmas
with impunity, while my poor simple
phrases are received like the dark sayings
of a sybil.”

Mr. Redwood's suspicions were again
averted by his daughter's skill and daring
in parrying his question. After a few
moments' consideration, he wondered
they had been excited, and believed that
she had accidentally touched the secret
spring which he alone commanded. He
said something of the excitability of his
feelings in his present weak state, and
did not permit Caroline to leave him
without exhorting her to be more careful
and conciliating in her manners for
the little time they should remain at
Eton. He again departed from the strict
reserve he had imposed upon himself,
and hinted how much he should be
pained by Caroline's losing the esteem
of Westall, and even how much he

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

should be gratified by her securing and
returning the young man's affections.
She replied, “that to secure Mr. Westall's
affections she had no reason to believe
would be a difficult enterprise—as
to her own, she was in no haste to dispose
of them.”

Her father commended her reserve,
said he had no wish to control her choice
of a husband, and perhaps no right to
expect her confidence.

“Our intercourse, Sir,” she said, rising
to leave the room, “has not been particularly
confidential.”

“Strange girl!” exclaimed her father,
as she closed the door after her; “what
has so suddenly invested you with the
power to torture me?”

Mr. Redwood began now to talk of
recommencing his journey, which Dr.
Bristol assured him he might do after a
few days without any hazard. As the
time approached for his departure, he
felt a growing reluctance to leave the

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

rustic friends from whom he had received
such genuine kindness, and whose simple
and tranquil pleasures had in some
degree restored a healthful tone to his
mind. From day to day he delayed
fixing the time of their departure, for
which both Mrs. Westall and Caroline
had become excessively impatient. The
blessing, whatever it may be, of `those
that wait,' seemed to have descended
upon Charles Westall. He was, as he
insisted it became him to be, since he
was in attendance on his superior, a monument
of patience. It is possible that
his virtue was in part owing to his being
indulged almost constantly with Miss
Bruce's society. Mrs. Allen, as Deborah
had suggested, had become quite
childish; and of late she had taken a
whim to sit constantly in the parlour,
where the company was in the habit of
assembling. She took no part in the
conversation which she probably did not
understand, but (as we have sometimes

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

remarked of persons at her stage of existence)
the variety of tones and objects
appeared to afford her a kind of excitement
and relief.

Caroline was evidently annoyed by
this new arrangement, but she had tact
enough to conceal how hard it was for
her to submit to it, and to deport herself
with such decent decorum and medium
civility, as in general to avert observation,
and most effectually to conceal her
secret sentiments.

Mrs. Westall, who was really amiable
when not perverted by a bad influence,
was sometimes won by the sweetness of
Ellen's manners to forget the superior
attractions of Miss Redwood; and Ellen,
happy in her own integrity, and unconscious
of design, was frank, natural, and
often spirited: so much so, that Westall
thought that if she had not all the pensive
and serious beauty which Deborah had
attributed to her, she possessed a variety
and animation that were more in harmony

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

with the spring-time of life. For himself,
with the inconsequence of a feeling
and generous nature, he abandoned himself
without a calculation for the future
to present influences. If the ladies
walked, and the mother flattered herself
that by her skilful disposition she had
secured Charles's attendance to Caroline,
he was sure to revert to Ellen's side in
some direct way, that distanced manoeuvring—
if he read aloud, at every fine
passage his eye appealed to Ellen —
in every conversation they expressed
almost simultaneously the same sentiment.

On one occasion their sympathy was
elicited in a way that excited some
apprehension in the observers as to
its dangerous tendency. Caroline had
arranged a Turkish turban on Mrs.
Westall's head, which she pronounced
to be surprisingly becoming.

“See, papa,” she said, “does not Mrs.

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

Westall look twenty years younger for
this turban?”

“The turban does you infinite credit
certainly, Caroline,” replied her father,
“but I cannot pay it a compliment which
would imply that any disposition of her
dress could make Mrs. Westall look
twenty years younger.”

“Ah my dear Caroline,” interposed
Mrs. Westall, “you know not how far
you tax your father's sincerity; he knew
me twenty years ago—and he perceives
that (as Miss Debby insists, you know)
`every year has made its mark.' Time
makes sad havoc in twenty years,” she
continued addressing herself to Mr.
Redwood; “I think it is little more than
that since my beautiful friend, Mary
Erwine, was staying with me, and you
were almost constantly at our house—
bless me, Caroline, you have run that
pin half way into my head.”

Caroline `begged pardon—said she

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

had put the last pin in the turban, and
would go and meet Mr. Westall, who she
saw coming up from the lake, and bespeak
his suffrage for her taste.'

The mention of Mary Erwine appeared
to have revived the past in Mrs.
Westall's memory. “Pray, Mr. Redwood,”
she asked, “did you ever see
Mary after she went to live with the
Emlyns?”

“Yes—repeatedly.”

There was something startling in the
tone of Mr. Redwood's voice, for Ellen,
who was sitting beside Mrs. Allen at one
extremity of the room, let fall a book
which she was intently perusing, and
looked involuntarily at him: and Mrs.
Westall said with a smile, “you remind
me of one of my dear Edmund's sentimental
fancies—he thought you were in
love with Mary.” Mr. Redwood made
no reply, and she continued—“I knew
you would not think of her of course;
poor Mary—she was a sweet creature—

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

such simplicity and tenderness—and such
perfect beauty. She left Virginia I think
soon after you embarked for Europe:
indeed it was not long after that she
died. I never could endure to think of
her melancholy fate—so beautiful and so
young—not seventeen when she died.”

“Miss Bruce,” interrupted Mr. Redwood,
“may I trouble you for a glass of
water?” Ellen brought one from an adjoining
room.

“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Westall,
“it never struck me before, but I really
fancy Miss Bruce resembles Mary; did
it ever occur to you?”

“Yes, madam, I perceived it, I was
struck with it the first time I saw Miss
Bruce.”

Mr. Redwood spoke quick and with a
tremulous voice, he knew that he had
betrayed emotion, and anxious to put a
stop to the conversation, he turned suddenly
to Ellen, and asked her what book
she was reading.

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“The Absentee.”

“The Absentee—a tale of Miss Edgeworth's,
I believe; will you do me the
favour to read aloud?”

“Certainly; but I am near the conclusion
of the book.”

“That is of no consequence; the story
is, in my view, always a subordinate part,
and the sense and spirit of Miss Edgeworth's
dialogue, open her books where
you will, is sure to instruct and entertain
you.”

“Well, Sir, then I will begin where I
am, just at the adjustment of an account
with a Mr. Solo, `no vulgar tradesman.”
'

Ellen read aloud, but she had not read
far when Caroline entered with Charles
Westall; and she laid aside her book
while the turban was discussed. Westall
pronounced it to be beautiful, declared
it could not have been in better taste if
his mother had had the graces for her
Coîffeurs.”

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

“But, Miss Bruce,” he said, addressing
Ellen, “I entreat that we may not interrupt
your reading.”

“No, Miss Ellen,” said Mr. Redwood,
“they must not—I as an invalid have a
right to be humoured—I beg you will
proceed.”

Ellen resumed the book, and read with
feeling and expression the ever-memorable
scene of Colambre's declaration to
Grace Nugent, till she came to the passage
where Colambre says, there is an
`invincible obstacle' to their union. Her
voice faltered; but she would have had
enough self-command to proceed, had
not Mr. Redwood inquired, “what obstacle
could be invincible where a creature
so artless, so frank, so charming,
was in question?”

“A sufficient obstacle, papa,” interposed
Caroline; “Lord Colambre believed
that Miss Nugent's mother was
not `sans reproche.”'

“That may be a sufficient obstruction

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

in a work of fiction,” replied Mr. Redwood,
“but in real life, with a man of
sense and feeling, a man deeply in love,
too, I fancy it would not be a very serious
objection. What say you, Charles,
you are a young man of the class I have
named?”

Mr. Redwood looked to Westall for a
reply; he perceived his question had
disconcerted him—he looked at Ellen,
her face was crimson—the application
that had been made of the fictitious incident
instantly flashed across his mind.
“I perceive,” he added, with his usual
adroitness, “that I have proposed a nice
question in ethics. I am no casuist, and
was not aware that it admitted a doubt.”

“Nor does it,” said Westall, recovering
himself completely. “I know not how
it may be in the artificial ethics of the
world, but it seems to me to be the decision
of natural justice that the fault of
one person cannot be transferred to another—
that it cannot be right to make an

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

innocent child suffer for the guilt of its
parent.”

Ellen took a long breath, and oppressed
with the consciousness of feelings which
she feared to expose, she experienced the
greatest relief from an opportunity that
was afforded her to escape from the
apartment, without attracting observation
to herself, by Deborah's appearance
at the door with a letter in her hand, and
a summons to Mrs. Lenox.

Mrs. Westall and Caroline fell into a
conversation which, though conducted in
a whisper, appeared to be very interesting
to themselves. Westall took up the
book Ellen had laid down: his eyes
seemed spell-bound to the page she had
been reading, for Mr. Redwood (whose
vigilance was now thoroughly awakened,)
observed that he did not turn the leaf;
and Mr. Redwood had himself an ample
fund for meditation in the possibility
that had now for the first time occurred
to him that Ellen, the undesigning artless

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

Ellen, might frustrate his long cherished
project.

In the evening, after Mrs. Westall and
her son had returned to the village, and
Miss Redwood had retired to her apartment,
Mr. Redwood was still sitting in
the parlour, reading some newspapers
which had been received by the day's
mail, when Ellen entered, and after apologising
for interrupting him, said, “that
she had just determined on leaving Eton
in the morning, and she was not willing
to go without expressing her gratitude
to Mr. Redwood for the kind attentions
he had bestowed on her.”

Mr. Redwood, after expressing his
surprise and regret, inquired the cause of
this sudden arrangement, and Ellen stated
to him that Mrs. Allen had just received
a letter from Emily, in which,
without expressly allowing that she was
unhappy, she betrayed discontent—It
professed to be written merely to inform
her grandmother that `she was

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

well, and that she hoped she was enjoying
the same blessing;' she said `it was
a big cross she had taken up; that all that
called themselves shakers, were not
shakers indeed; that wherever there were
true disciples, there was also a Judas;
that she had many thoughts of her grandmother,
and sometimes it was so much in
her heart to go home to her, that she
believed that she had a call to leave
“the people;” but that her elder sister,
who was gifted to interpret, told her such
thoughts were temptation.' The conclusion
of the letter, Ellen said, was evidently
drenched with the poor girl's
tears. She had written one sentence
repeatedly, and as often crossed it out;
they had been able, after many vain attempts,
to decipher it; it ran thus:—
“I send my kind remembrance, as in
duty bound, to James Lenox, for all his
goodness to my natural brother, and to
me in times past: tell James also, that if
he knew what trouble some people have,

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

he would not blame them, but he would
pity them from his heart.”

“This, Sir,” continued Ellen, “is to
you an unmeaning jargon; but we, from
our knowledge of poor Emily, infer from
it that she is tired of her unnatural seclusion;
that her early attachment to
James has revived, in spite of her dutiful
efforts to extinguish it; and we have
fears that she is suffering persecution in
some way which she dare not communicate.
The letter must have been written
and conveyed away secretly, as it was
post-marked `Albany;' and the experienced
ones would never have permitted
such a document to issue from their
retreat.”'

“And why,” asked Mr. Redwood,
“should this letter occasion your departure?”

“It has been determined in a family
conference,” replied Ellen, “that an
effort shall be made to rescue Emily.
James, who in truth has long loved her,

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

is most earnest in her cause. He frankly
avows his attachment, but is afraid of
appearing in the enterprise, lest Emily
should be persuaded by her spiritual
guides that he is an emissary from the
arch enemy. Deborah, who looks upon
herself as a natural protector of the weak
and oppressed, has volunteered a crusade
to the shakers, provided I will accompany
her. She has an extraordinary
confidence in my influence with Emily—
and with Susan too, the `elder sister.”'

Mr. Redwood inquired `if it were
possible that she would undertake such
an enterprise with no protector but Deborah?
'

Ellen assured him `that nothing was
more common or safe, than for females
to travel from one extremity of New-England
to the other, without any other
safeguard than the virtue and civility of
the inhabitants; that where there was
no danger there was no need of protection,
and that for her own part she should

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

esteem her good friend Deborah's right
arm as sufficient a defence for these modern
times, as a gallant knight or baron
bold would have been in the days of
danger and of chivalry.'

Mr. Redwood ventured to hint, that
although Miss Debby might be a sturdy
protector, she certainly was a ludicrous
chaperone for a young lady.

Ellen frankly confessed that she felt a
little squeamishness on that account:
“but, Sir,” said she, “I never could
forgive myself, if I permitted a foolish
scruple of that kind to prevent me from
rendering an essential service to the
Allens. I owe them a vast debt, and I
have small means to pay it.”

Mr. Redwood commended her motive,
and half an hour after was perhaps glad
that it controlled her, but at this moment
his reluctance to part with her overcame
his apprehension that she might possibly
interfere with the accomplishment of his
favourite project—he earnestly urged

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

delay; but Ellen said there were domestic
reasons for their going at once
which she could not oppose.

“Then, my dear Miss Bruce, if I
must part with you, allow me to say that
I feel an interest almost paternal in the
issue of your hopes—not the generous
hopes you are indulging for this little
shaker girl, but those which relate to the
development of your own history. Oh
Ellen!” he continued with emotion, and
fixing his melancholy eye steadfastly on
her, “you little dream of the supernatural
power your face possesses over my
feelings—my memory: there are thoughts
that quite unman me;” he clasped his
hands and was silent, while Ellen awaited
in amazement and trembling expectation
what he should next say: but after a
moment's pause, he resumed his composure
and proceeded in his ordinary tone.
“Your society, Ellen, has been a cordial
to my weary spirit. I have worn out the
world; but here in this still place, amid

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

these quiet scenes, where the sweet spirit
of contentment dwells, here,” he added,
taking Ellen's hand, “where I have seen
that it is possible to forego the display of
talent and the gratification of taste, to
practise the obscure virtues which are
the peculiar boast of your religion—the
virtues silent and secret, that neither ask
nor expect earthly notice or reward—
here I have felt a new influence—I have
seemed to breathe a purer, a heavenly
air—and I have sometimes hoped”—

“What, Sir, what?” exclaimed Ellen,
eagerly.

“That you would make a convert of
me, my sweet friend.”

“Would to heaven!” said Ellen.

“Nay,” replied Mr. Redwood, mournfully
shaking his head, “I believe it is
too late. It is a beautiful illusion; but
I have outlived all illusions, Ellen: the
man cannot return to the leading-strings
of infancy—he cannot unlearn his philosophy—
he cannot forget his experience.”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“But he can examine if his philosophy
be the true one—Oh, Mr. Redwood”—
Ellen blushed and faltered, her heart was
overflowing—but the natural timidity of
a woman in the presence of a man, her
elder and her superior, restrained her:
she was frightened at her own daring—
and while she hesitated, Mr. Redwood
said, “spare yourself any farther trouble
about me, Ellen—I am too rigid to bend
to a new yoke. It would be as impossible
for me to adopt your faith as for you
to assume the manacles of your friend
Susan Allen. But I am not cruel
enough to wish to weaken your hopes—
we will waive this subject—do you go
without seeing the Westalls?”

“Yes, Sir, we go early.”

“I am sorry for it; they will regret it—
they both esteem you, Miss Bruce.
We must all support your departure as
well as we can—when you are gone,
much as I like the Lenoxes, I shall no
longer find it impossible to tear myself

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

away. The Westalls will I hope accompany
us to New-York and Philadelphia,
perhaps to Virginia. Westall shall never
leave us if we can detain him. Ellen,
you are worthy of all confidence, and I
will venture to tell you, what indeed you
may have already discerned, that I am
extremely desirous to ally my daughter
with Charles Westall. You look grave—
you do not think Caroline worthy so
happy a destiny?”

Mr. Redwood perceived that Ellen
was embarrassed, and he proceeded, “I
will not tax your sincerity, Miss Bruce;
my daughter has faults, great faults—
still she has splendid attractions: her
beauty might gratify the pride of any
man—her fortune is immense—and if
she has faults, why I know no one so
likely to cure them as Charles Westall.
I have not, I confess, as yet observed
any indications of a particular interest
in her; but she has insinuated in a conversation
that we have had together, that

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

she has it in her power to receive or
reject him.”

Ellen walked to the window and threw
up the sash. “You look pale, Miss
Bruce, are you not well?” continued
Mr. Redwood.

“Perfectly well,” she replied, “but
the evening is oppressively warm.”

“I was not aware of that,” said Mr.
Redwood, shivering as the chill air blew
on him from the window.

“I believe it is not very warm,” replied
Ellen, closing the window. “I
am a little fatigued with the preparations
for our journey,” she added, re-seating
herself with her face averted from Mr.
Redwood.

“I will detain you but one moment
longer, Miss Bruce; should you from
your own observations conclude that
Westall was interested in my daughter?”

“I cannot say, Sir—I know nothing
of the manners of the world.”

“It is not necessary you should:

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

women have an instinct on this subject that
surpasses the sagacity of experience—tell
me then frankly the result of your observations.”

Ellen after making a vain effort to reply
with composure, stammered out, that
“Miss Redwood certainly must know,
and Miss Redwood had said”—Here
she hesitated again, and Mr. Redwood
compassionating her embarrassment,
said, “you are right, Ellen; you are too
prudent to flatter my wishes.”

Ellen, anxious to avail herself of this
moment, rose, and giving Mr. Redwood
her hand, bade him farewell; he reiterated
his expression of interest and kindness,
and they parted. “Poor girl!”
thought Mr. Redwood, as she closed the
door; “it is as I suspected: the most
virtuous seem always the most persecuted
by destiny. Why should another thorn
be planted in her innocent bosom?”
Mr. Redwood felt a consciousness that
he might avert the destiny he deprecated

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

—he had virtue for good emotions, but
not for the difficult sacrifice of a favourite
object. Believing as he had, that the
best owe most of their virtue to the applause
of society, or to the flattery of
their little world; the unostentatious
goodness of Ellen (dignified as he deemed
her by talents and improvement) had
made a deep and ineffaceable impression
on him. He sate for a long time meditating
on her character and singular history;
he thought that if there were ever
two beings formed to make a joyous path
over this wilderness world, they were
Ellen and Westall. He reproached himself
with wishing to interpose his plans
to frustrate such possible happiness. He
thought he never came in contact with
the good and lovely without inflicting
suffering on them.

It had been Mr. Redwood's destiny
through life to feel right and to act
wrong—to see and to feel, deeply feel,
the beauty of virtue, but to resign

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

himself to the convenience or expediency of
wrong. His impulses were good—but
what is impulse without principle? what
is it to resist the eternal solicitations of
selfishness, the sweeping tempests of
passion?

Mr. Redwood had an unconquerable
wish to bestow some benefit on Ellen.
He had none in his power but of a pecuniary
nature, and that it was difficult to
offer without offending her delicacy. He
determined, however, to do it, and he
enclosed bank notes to the amount of
five hundred dollars in the following
note:

“My dear Miss Bruce must not
punish my temerity in offering her the
enclosed, by refusing to accept it. Being
a parent, I understand the wants of a
young lady—allow me then to act as the
representative of your father. By permitting
me now and in future to supply
those vulgar wants, from which none of us
are exempt, you will make me a convert

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

to the common opinion, that a rich man
is enviable.”

After sealing the pacquet, he gave it
to Deborah with a request that she would
not deliver it until after she and her companion
had left Eton.

Ellen retired to her room to occupy
herself with the preparations for her
journey. Her wardrobe was simple, but
neat, and not inelegant. It had been
amply furnished, not only with necessaries,
but with the little luxuries of a lady's
equipage, by Mrs. Harrison, from the
abundant stores of her youthful and
prosperous days. The costume in which
a lady of fortune had figured twenty
years gone by, would have been quite
too antique, but, happily, Ellen's taste
and ingenuity enabled her gracefully to
adapt it to her own person and the
fashion of the day. The journey she
was about to undertake was a long one,
and, in obedience to the wise caution of
Mrs. Lenox, she prepared for any delay

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

that might occurr; a prudence enforced
by Deborah, who said that as she had not
journied for twenty years, she should not
hurry home. After packing her trunk,
she made a safe corner in it for her casket,
little dreaming that the spirit was
not there. She had never been separated
from it since it was first transferred
to her possession. She locked her trunk,
arranged her dressing case, and took up
her Bible to place in it—a beautiful little
Bible with gold clasps, the gift too of
Mrs. Harrison. Her recent conversation
with Mr. Redwood made her feel its value,
particularly at this moment. Her
eye glistened while she kissed it with an
emotion of gratitude at the thought of
the solace it had been, and would be to
her. Such emotions prove that religious
sufferers have a compensation for their
trials. A wish suddenly arose in Ellen's
mind that she could impart the truths
and consolations of that book to Mr.
Redwood. The thought seemed like

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

inspiration. If she was enthusiastic, who
can blame an enthusiasm so benevolent?
She wrapped the book with this short
note in an envelope:—“My dear Mr.
Redwood, accept and value this treasure
for the sake of your friend Ellen Bruce,
may I not say for your own sake—God
bless you.”

She left the pacquet with Mrs. Lenox
to be delivered after her departure. As
she was returning to her own room she
heard Westall's voice in the parlour: he
had come back with some message from
his mother for Miss Redwood. Ellen
obeyed the first impulse of her feeling,
and moved towards the parlour door:
she felt her heart beating violently, and
surprised and alarmed at her own agitation,
she retreated reluctantly to her
apartment. `Perhaps,' she thought,
`Mr. Redwood will tell him that I am
going away, and he will ask to see me'—
but soon after she heard him shut the
parlour door—heard him go out of the

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

house—and at the last sound of his retiring
footsteps she burst into tears;
shocked at the discovery of her own
feelings, she hastily undressed, and threw
herself on the bed in the hope that sleep
would dispel the images that crowded
her mind, but sleep she could not. In
the multitude of her thoughts; her anxiety
for Emily, her concern at leaving
Mrs. Allen, her regret at parting with
Mr. Redwood, there was still one that
predominated over every other. Was it
possible that Westall, pure, excellent,
elevated as he was, could love Caroline
Redwood? or worse—not loving, could
he marry her? It must be so—if it were
not, all womanly feeling would have
forbidden the communication Caroline
had made to her father. Ellen tried to
persuade herself that she had no other
interest in it than that benevolent one
which it was natural and right to feel in
Westall's happiness: but alas! the melancholy
result of her `maiden meditation,'

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

was that she was not `fancy free;' and,
involuntarily, she covered her face with
her hands as if she would have hidden
from her own consciousness the tears
and blushes which the discovery cost
her.

At this moment she was startled by a
loud shriek from Caroline. She sprang
to her bedside, and Caroline grasping her
arm, stared wildly at her, as if the phantom
that had scared her sleep had not
yet vanished.

“You were dreaming, Miss Redwood.”

“Dreaming! was I dreaming?” said
Caroline, still continuing her fixed gaze
on Ellen, “bring the light nearer, Ellen.
Yes, thank God! I was dreaming.”

“What dream, Miss Redwood, could
thus terrify you?”

“Oh Ellen, I thought I saw you and
Westall standing together on the summit
of that rock on the lake-shore; and
there was a soft silvery cloud floating
just over you, it parted, and I saw a

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

beautiful spiritual creature bending from
it; her garments of light floated on the
bright cloud; she had a chaplet of white
flowers in her hand like those you
plucked for me: while I was gazing to
see if she would place it on your head;
the earth trembled where I stood, a
frightful chasm yawned before me, and
my father was hurling me into it, when
I awoke.”

“It was a strange dream,” said Ellen,
with a melancholy smile.

“How strange, Miss Bruce? can you
read dreams? have you faith in them?”

“Not the least;” and it is well for
me that I have not, for in this case, as
dreams are interpreted by contraries,
you would be on the rock and I in the
chasm.”

“That is true,” replied Caroline; “but
it was, as you say, a strange dream;
even now I see his eye bent on you.”

“Whose eye?” inquired Ellen, who

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

began to think Caroline had really lost
her senses.

“Westall's,” she replied, her brow
again contracting.

“Your dream then is already working
by rule, for his eye will never be bent
on me again.”

“Never, what do you mean, Miss
Bruce?”

Ellen explained to Caroline that
she was to leave Eton in the morning,
and should not return for some weeks.

“Thank God!” exclaimed Caroline,
springing from the bed, entirely unable
to control the relief she felt from Ellen's
information.

Ellen rose also: she said nothing, but
her face expressed so plainly: “In what
have I offended?” that after a moment's
pause, Caroline proceeded to say, “It is
in vain, Ellen Bruce, it is useless longer
to conceal my feelings towards you,
sleeping or waking they are always the

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

same; from the first moment that we
met, you have in every way injured me,
crossed my purposes, baffled my hopes,
and all under cover of such artlessness,
such simplicity. Above all things I hate
hypocrisy, and I will have the satisfaction
of telling you before you go that I
at least have seen through your disguises,
and neither set you down for an innocent
nor a saint.”

Ellen was confounded with this sudden
burst of passion. “I know not,
Miss Redwood,” she said, calmly, “what
you mean by your insinuations. I know
not how I have interfered with you: but
one thing I know, that your opinion,
determined as you are to misunderstand
and misrepresent me, ought not—cannot
affect my happiness.”

“Lord bless me, how heroic! but
there is one whose opinion may possibly
affect your happiness. Mrs. Westall
sees through you as plainly as I do, and

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

if she can help it, I assure you you will
not succeed in wheedling her son out of
his affections and senses with all your
pretty romantic devices.”

“My devices! oh, Miss Redwood,
you are cruel—what are my devices?”

“Really, Miss Ellen Bruce, you flatter
yourself they have all passed current
with us simple ones—the trumpery story
about the box—a fine Arabian night's
entertainment, truly; your dragging that
old woman day after day into the parlour
to practise your benevolence upon, as
the milliners display their fashions on
their blocks; the pretty tale of the blind
girl, admirably got up to be sure, with a
hundred other inferior instances of your
mode of practice upon the romantic unsuspecting
Westall.”

Ellen could have borne unmoved Caroline's
malice, but the thought of the
odious light in which she should be presented
to Westall quite overcame her

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

fortitude. “I could not have believed
Mrs. Westall so ungenerous—so unjust,”
said she, bursting into tears.

`Ah,' thought Caroline, `I have
touched the vulnerable spot;' and she
would have proceeded with savage barbarity
in the application of her tortures,
but she was interrupted. Mrs. Lenox
tapped at the door to say that Deborah
was in readiness, and to beg Ellen to
despatch her preparations.

Mrs. Lenox's voice operated as a sedative
upon Caroline: she sat down and
fixed her eyes on Ellen, while she with
trembling hands proceeded to array herself
for her departure. When every
thing was in readiness, she approached
Caroline, and said with a faltering voice,
“Miss Redwood, I forgive you; may
God forgive your unkind, unnatural
treatment of one who never injured you
in thought, word, or deed. I would ask
you to spare me when I am gone, but I
have no reason to hope for that. To

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

God,” she continued, with a solemnity
that appalled Caroline, “to God, my
father and my friend, I commit my cause—
I have no earthly protector, and I need
none. We part for ever; this for ever
compasses the limit of our earthly career,
and brings us to that presence where we
must next meet, where all injustice will
be exposed—all wrong repaired.”

Caroline had covered her eyes as if to
shut out the vision of innocence and
loveliness. Ellen's words touched her
with a feeling of remorse, and awakened
appalling fears: her passions were turbulent,
but not yet hardened into the
resolution of one inured to the practice
of evil. As Ellen turned from her she
started from the bed and exclaimed,
“stay, Ellen Bruce, stay—give me one
moment's time.” Ellen paused and looked
at her with mute amazement, while
she walked the room in the agony of indecision.
Among other valuable branches
of education, Caroline had been taught to

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

believe in dreams and all their train of
vain imaginations; her fancy had been
excited by the airy nothings of the night's
vision. Ellen's last words struck upon
her ear like the voice of prophecy. She
imagined that her innocent victim was
wrested from her, and that she beheld
the visible interposition of Heaven in
her behalf—that chasm, that dark deep
frightful chasm, yawned before her, and
the thought that she could in no way
close it up but by the restoration of the
rifled treasure came to her like an impulse
from a good spirit: obedient to it
she had risen from the bed, but she faltered
in the execution of her good purpose;
she shrunk from the train of evils
that her busy thoughts suggested: the
certain loss of Westall—Ellen's advancement
to fortune, rank and fashion equal
to her own—the exposure of her own
baseness—that she could not brook; and
`I cannot humble myself to her,' was the
mental conclusion of her deliberations

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

`When she is gone, I can, if I choose,
restore the articles as secretly as I took
them; the discovery will then be delayed—
Westall secured.'

This feeble intention to render imperfect
justice quieted her conscience:
while she was deliberating what gloss
she should put on her mysterious conduct,
Deborah opened the door. “Heyday,”
said she, “are you up, Miss Caroline?
well, I am glad of it, you will have
a chance to see the sun rise once in your
life; and when he comes sailing over
those hills, and pours a shower of light
on Champlain, you'll own there is not
such a sight in all the Car'linas: good
luck, and a husband to you, girl. Come,
Ellen, come, what signifies losing any
more lost time?”

Ellen assured Deborah she was quite
ready; and Deborah, who would not on
compulsion have performed a menial
service for a queen, took Ellen's trunk
in her arms, and commanding her to

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

follow `with the nick-nacks,' she left
the apartment.

Ellen looked inquiringly at Caroline:
“I have nothing farther to say, Miss
Bruce.”

“Then, farewell,” said Ellen. Caroline
bowed, and they parted.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Lassie, say thon lo'est me,
Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
Say na thou'lt refuse me.”
Burns.

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

The breakfast was soon despatched,
and our travellers, after receiving many
wise cautions from Mrs. Lenox, and
earnest injunctions from James, mounted
into an old-fashioned chaise, and commenced
their journey.

We hope our romantic readers will not
regret that our heroine could not be accommodated
with a more poetical or
dignified vehicle. They ought rather to
rejoice that she did not fall upon these
evil times, when, beyond a doubt, she
would have been compelled to perform
the journey in a one-horse waggon—a

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

`kill-devil'—or, to give it its original and
appropriate designation—a dear-born;
so called from the illustrious author of
the invention; a vehicle that commends
itself so strongly to the social temper of
the Yankees, that it has in the interior of
New-England nearly superseded the use
of every other carriage drawn by one
horse.

Our travellers had proceeded a few
miles, when Deborah thought she might
give Ellen the pacquet with which she
had been entrusted, without violating the
letter of Mr. Redwood's direction. Her
surprise surpassed Ellen's when she beheld
its contents. She begged her to
read the letter aloud.—Ellen read it with
a trembling voice. “The Lord bless his
dear heart!” exclaimed Deborah.

“Oh Ellen, I wish he had you for his
child, instead of that —; never mind,
I'll overlook her for the sake of her
father—count the money, girl, count it,—
you can't,” she added, looking at Ellen,

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

whose eyes were overflowing, “give
it to me: my sight is rather dull too,”
and she dashed off the tears that clouded
her vision, “five hundred is it! you are
rich, you are an heiress, Ellen.”

“I am, indeed,” replied Ellen, “rich
in kind friends, but this money, Miss
Deborah, must be returned.”

“Returned!” echoed Debby; “why,
you would not be such a born fool, girl?
a thirsty man might as well pour back a
draught he had taken from a fountain.
No, no, Ellen, when the rich give, let
the poor receive and be thankful; that is
always encouragement to them to go on.
Returned, indeed! it would be a slighting
o' Providence to return it, Ellen—
quite out of all reason and nature. Just
like one of Mrs. Harrison's superstitious
high-flown notions.”

It was impossible for Ellen to communicate
all the motives that led her to
decline a pecuniary favour from Miss
Redwood's father; but she suggested

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

reasons which she thought would appeal
to her companion's characteristic independence.
The veteran maiden opposed
them all—she had advanced into the cold
climate of worldly prudence, but Ellen
was at that age when sentiment controls
interest. In vain Debby continued her
remonstrances. Ellen, heedless of them
all, wrote with a pencil an affecting expression
of her gratitude on the envelope
of the pacquet, and reversing it, she directed
it to Mr. Redwood, intending to
procure at the next village a trusty person
to re-convey it to Eton.

The travellers had just reached a small
brook which intercepted the road: there
was a bridge over it, and a road by the
side of the bridge, by which passengers
descended to the brook for the purpose
of watering their horses. Deborah thought
it was time to perform that kind office for
her steed; she alighted to arrange the
bridle, and desiring Ellen to drive through
the stream, said she would herself walk

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

up the hill on the other side. The passage
to the brook was shaded and hidden
by thick clumps of willow trees. As
Ellen reined her horse into the narrow
way, she encountered Westall, who had
gone out on horse-back for a morning
ride.

“Miss Bruce, is it possible?” he exclaimed,
with a tone and expression of
delight that changed instantly on noticing
her riding dress, and other indications of
travelling. “Where,” he continued, “are
you going; what can be the reason of
your sudden departure?”

Ellen communicated as briefly as possible
the object of her journey, and the
place of her destination. In the meantime
the poor beast, quite at a loss to
account for the restraint put upon his
movements, and not a whit inclined to
play Tantalus in full view of the pure
tempting rivulet, threw up his head,
pawed the dust, and showed all the signs
of impatience common on such occasions.

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

Ellen, usually sufficiently accomplished
in the art of driving, now, from some
cause or other, seemed as maladroit as
most women: she pulled the wrong rein,
and was, or Westall thought she was, in
imminent danger of an overturn. He
dismounted from his horse, and springing
into the chaise beside her, took upon
himself the conduct of affairs. He then,
with laudable discretion, permitted the
animal to drink, and drove him to the
opposite bank, before the conversation
was renewed. As he paused there, Ellen
said, with the best voice she could command,
“I thank you for your assistance;
I must proceed now—Deborah waits for
me.”

“For heaven's sake!” he replied, “let
her wait—I cannot, I will not part with
you, till I have laid open my heart to
you.”

“It is unnecessary—I already have
heard from Mr. Redwood what you would
say,” replied Ellen, confused, and

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

shrinking from the communication, which her
conversation with Mr. Redwood the preceding
evening led her to anticipate.

“From Mr. Redwood?” exclaimed
Westall, “impossible! has he then read
my soul!”

“Not he, but his daughter,” answered
Ellen.

“His daughter!” reiterated Westall,
and was proceeding to entreat Ellen
to explain herself, when they were
both startled by a hoarse and impatient
call from Deborah, who was evidently
drawing near to them with rapid
strides.

“Ellen!” she screamed, “Ellen Bruce,
you'll founder the horse; drive out of the
brook, girl, if he has not drank it dry
already.”

The lovers were too much confounded
to make any reply, and Deborah, apprehending
some fatal disaster to Ellen,
doubled her speed, and darting into the
path that led to the watering place,

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

quickly arrived in full view of the objects
of her search and alarm. There is, to
the best natured, something irresistibly
provoking in the apparent tranquillity of
those who have produced within them
all the tumult of anxiety. Deborah, at
a single glance, ascertained the safety of
Ellen, and of the horse, and approaching
the latter, she patted him, saying, “I
think you have the most sense of the
three; if you had not been dumb, poor
beast, you would not have let me run the
breath out of my body without answering
me a word.”

Charles Westall, though his mind was
on other thoughts intent, could not but
smile at the indirect reproach of Debby,
which their truly lover-like forgetfulness
of her and of every thing else so justly
merited. “Forgive me, Miss Deborah,”
he said, springing from the chaise,
“your horse was restive, and I assumed
your seat to aid Miss Bruce, who was
quite unequal to managing him.”

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

“You are a great manager, truly,”
replied Deborah, half smiling and half
vexed: “the beast seems as quiet now
as you could wish him. Is it your will
and pleasure, Miss Ellen, to proceed?”

“Certainly,” replied Ellen.

“Well, come, Mr. Westall,” continued
Deborah, whose heat of body and mind
had already subsided, “we won't part in
anger—young folks must be young folks.
Farewell, and a long and a happy life to
you.”

“Stay one moment, Miss Deborah, I
have a favour to beg—I have something
to say to Miss Bruce. Miss Bruce,” he
added, turning to Ellen, “I entreat you
to grant me a few moments—it may be
the last favour I shall ever ask of you—
Miss Deborah will drive slowly up the
hill—the path is shaded from the morning
sun—you will not find the walk unpleasant”—

“You forget, young man,” interposed
Debby, “which way the sun shines this

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

morning; when I came down the road,
it was hot enough to boil all the blood
in my veins”—

“Ellen,” continued Westall, unheeding
in his eagerness Deborah's cross-cut,
“do not, do not deny me this favour.”

“Why, Ellen,” said Debby, “what
ails you girl why should you deny it?”

This was too direct a question to be
answered in any way but by compliance.
Some gleams of light had flashed athwart
Ellen's mind, that rendered her less reluctant
than she had been at the onset,
to listen to a communication from Westall.
She suffered him to hand her out
of the chaise; and Deborah, assuming
the reins, and setting off the horse `en
connoisseur,' said, she had the advantage
now, for if they forgot her, she could ride
instead of walking back.

The moments were too few and precious
to be wasted in circumlocution.
Westall, after saying he was sure there
was some misunderstanding — Caroline

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

Redwood was the last person in the world
to whom he should confide any sentiment
that interested him, proceeded to make
a frank declaration of the unqualified
affection which Ellen had inspired. When
he paused Ellen made no reply; and he
proceeded, while he urged his suit, to
say, with the consistency usual on such
occasions, that he knew he had no right
to expect a return, that her abrupt departure
alone could, and that must, justify
his obtruding on her his feelings and
his hopes, after so brief an acquaintance.

Ellen was all simplicity and truth, and
in other circumstances she would not,
she could not have withheld from Westall
the confession that would have been to
him—heaven to hear. She had not a
particle of coquetry, and she would not
have delayed the confession for a moment
for the pleasure of feeling her
power. Various feelings struggled for
mastery in her bosom; first, and perhaps
ruling every other, was the delightful

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

consciousness of possessing Westall's
affections; then came the thought of the
mystery that hung over her parentage—
it had never before inflicted such an exquisite
pang as at this moment; and last
and most painful, was the remembrance
of Mrs. Westall's unkind suspicions, and
of the malicious interpretation Caroline
Redwood had given to her actions.
While she hesitated in what terms to reply,
Westall said, “there is then, Ellen,
no feeling in your heart that pleads for
my rashness?”

“It is indeed rashness, after so brief
an acquaintance, to commit your happiness”—

“Oh, Ellen,” interrupted Westall, “I
meant rather presumption that rashness.”

“Whatever it is, let us both forget
it,” replied Ellen, in a tone of affected
calmness that would have indicated
repressed emotion to a cooler observer
than Westall; “it is time that we should

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

part, and we must part as we met—
strangers.”

“Have you not, then, Ellen, a spark
of kindness for me, which years of the
most devoted affection and service might
kindle? Is there not the slightest foundation
on which I might rest a hope for
the future?”

Ellen, in a broken voice, alluded to the
possibility that her name was a dishonoured
one; “a possibility,” she said,
“which ought to set an impassable barrier
to her affections.”

Westall protested and entreated. “If,”
he said, “the worst she could apprehend
should prove true, it should be the business,
the happiness of his life to make
her forget it.”

Ellen felt that her scruples were yielding
to the impetuous feeling of her lover.
Who can resist the pleadings of tenderness
when they coincide with the secret,
the strongest, though the resisted inclinations
of the heart? She was silent for

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

some time, and when she did speak, her
voice was faltering, and her opposition
such as a lover might hope to overcome.
Westall's hopes were re-animated, and he
pressed his suit more eagerly than ever.
“At least,” he said, “Ellen, delay this
journey one day; do not now make an
irrevocable decision; return to Eton;
let my mother join her entreaties to
mine.”

The thought of Westall's mother re-invigorated
Ellen's dying resolution.
“Urge me no farther, Mr. Westall,”
said she, “I have not been so happy as
to obtain your mother's esteem, and were
every other obstacle removed, I never
would obtrude myself on her undesired;
no—nor unsolicited.”

“My mother, Ellen?”—But the assurance
of his mother's favour, which he
was about instinctively to pronounce,
was checked by the consciousness of the
real state of the case.—“My mother,

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

Ellen,” he continued, in a subdued tone,
“has been dazzled by gilded dreams long
indulged—but she is kind, affectionate—
and will, I am certain, be easily reconciled
to any step on which she knows my
happiness depends.”

“It would not,” replied Ellen, “be
very consolatory to me if she should become
reconciled to an inevitable evil.
I have already listened too long,” she
added, and casting her eye towards
Deborah, who had halted under the
broad shadow of an elm tree on the summit
of the hill, she hurried forward.

“Can you,” said Westall, “when you
see how you afflict me, thus hasten from
me without a regret?”

Ellen could not trust her voice to
answer; but when she had reached the
chaise, she turned and gave him her
hand: her eloquent face (not governed
by the law she had imposed on her
tongue) expressed any thing but

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

insensibility. “God reward you,” she said,
“for your generous purpose—we must
now part.”

“And to meet again,” replied Westall,
while he fervently kissed the hand she
had extended to him, “as surely as
there is truth in heaven.”

Ellen sunk back into her seat, and hid
her face with her handkerchief, while
honest Debby, heartily sympathising in
the evident affliction of the lovers, said
in a whining voice, that contrasted ludicrously
enough with her customary
harsh tone, “Good bye to you, Mr.
Westall—good bye to you, Sir—it is
hard parting; but keep a good heart—
we shall all three meet again in the
Lord's own time.” After having uttered
this consolatory expression of her trust
in Providence, she gave the whip to her
steed, and set off with a speed that promised
to make up for lost time. After
driving a few yards she stopped again,
and calling to Westall, who was still

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

standing as if rivetted to the spot on
which they had left him, she threw out
Mr. Redwood's packet, saying, “These,
with all care and speed, to Squire Redwood;”
then kindly nodding, she drove
on.

Deborah exercised on this occasion
that discretion resulting from good sense
and good feeling, which in all its modifications
still preserves the convenient designation
of tact: she left Ellen to the
operation of her feelings, without molesting
her with a remark or inquiry. Ellen
resigned herself for a little while to emotions
the more violent for having been
repressed. The same fountain had to
her sent forth sweet and bitter waters.
If the uncertainty of her fate, and the
anguish of parting with Westall were
evils nearly intolerable, there was a
heart-cheering consciousness of the treasure
she had acquired in his affections—
there was the sweetest consolation in the
thought that there was one who felt with

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

her and for her; and the recollection of
Westall's last words was like the bright
gleam along the western horizon, that,
smiling in triumph at the dark overhanging
clouds, speaks a sure promise of a
fair coming day.

As for Westall, after the few first
moments of absolute despair, he began
to think the case not quite desperate;
and though Ellen had not spoken a word
of encouragement on which he might
suspend a hope, neither had she said or
intimated that there existed in her feelings
any obstacle to his wishes; there
were certain tones and expressions which
are the universal language of tenderness,
that he had noticed, and which he now
laid up in his memory and cherished
there, as the faithful fix their eyes on
the twilight of prophecy.

In the course of the morning, Charles
Westall joined the circle at Mr. Lenox's,
whither his mother had already gone.
He perceived that the tone of the ladies'

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

spirits was raised, (as was indeed too
plain) by Ellen's departure.

Westall delivered to Mr. Redwood the
packet with which he had been entrusted.
Mr. Redwood received it with evident
surprise, and said, “You have then seen
Miss Bruce this morning?” All eyes
were now fixed on Westall, who, colouring
deeply, replied, “that he had met
her accidentally during his morning
ride.”

“Miss Bruce is quite a character,”
said Caroline; “every thing connected
with her is involved in an interesting
veil of mystery;—par example—your
son, Mrs. Westall, cannot speak of meeting
her even accidentally, without the
most portentous blushes; and there is,
my dear father—the very soul of frankness—
thrusting into his pocket a bundle
of private communications received from
this same fair one. Upon my word it is
a pity she had not flourished at a court,—
she would have made a pretty intri

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

guante, instead of resembling the man
your favourite Moliere describes, papa,
when he says,

Mr. Redwood darted an angry look
on his daughter, and changing his purpose,
he tore off the envelope, and threw
the bank-notes on the table, saying, at
the same time, “behold the solution of
the mystery that provokes your wit, Caroline.
I offered Ellen Bruce a little of
that which gives us all our boasted superiority
to her, and she declined receiving
it”—

“With the advice and consent of
counsel, no doubt,” answered Caroline,
glancing her eye at Charles Westall.

“Wrath is cruel, and anger is out-rageous,
but who is able to stand before
envy?”—rose to Westall's lips; he had

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

the grace, however, to suppress it, and
to say in a calm tone, “Miss Bruce is
her own best counsellor.”

“Doubtless,” replied Caroline, “Miss
Bruce is wondrous wise; but she is not
the first divinity who has admitted mortals
to her deliberations.—What say you,
Mrs. Westall? Does not your son look
guilty of aiding and abetting this most
dignified refusal of my father's extraordinary
patronage?”

“If I look guilty of aught,” said
Westall, “but the involuntary fault of
listening to an implication against Miss
Bruce, my face does me great injustice.”

“Really, Caroline, my love,” said
Mrs. Westall, in the hope of averting
observation from her son, and perceiving
the necessity of turning Miss Redwood
from her pursuit, “your raillery is quite
too much for Charles this morning: I
must interpose my maternal shield. What
say you to a truce and a ride?”

“A truce, certainly; for I am too

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

generous to fight with one hors du combat,
and a ride with all my heart,” answered
Caroline, “provided Mr. Westall
is not fatigued by his accidental morning
escort—excursion, I mean.”

Mr. Westall, with more gravity than
gallantry, and in spite of his mother's
entreating looks, said “that he must resign
the privilege vouchsafed to him, to
fulfil an engagement in the village”—
and on this pretext he left the party to
pursue their design, while he gave the
rein to his own meditations.

eaf337v2.n2

[2]

“He swells each trifle to a wonder's height,
And takes his friend aside, to say, `good night.”'

CHAPTER XIV.

“Who made the heart, 'tis he alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord—its various tone,
Each spring—its various bias.”
Burns.

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

We must now leave the party at Eton,
which we hope that our readers will
think has lost its chief interest since the
departure of our heroine, and we shall
exempt them from attending her in her
wearisome progress, since it was diversified
by no danger real or imaginary, to
recall their attention to the sorrows of
the simple amiable little fanatic Emily
Allen.

She returned to her monastic seclusion
with her aunt, or as she called her (

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

according to the fashion of “the Believers,”
who acknowledge none but primitive
titles and relations,) her `elder sister,'
more from a habit of passive obedience,
than from any distaste to the world.
Our readers may recollect that at parting
with James Lenox, she had received
from him a slip of paper, and succeeded
in hiding it in her bosom. He had
written on it a strong expression of his
love, and an entreaty that she would
abandon her false religion. From the
moment she placed it in her bosom, her
heart fluttered and struggled as an imprisoned
bird when her mate approaches
her cage. She regarded it as a temptation,
but had no strength, hardly a wish
to resist it. All her solitary moments
(they were rare and brief) were devoted
to reading this note over and over again.
She felt herself immured in a dungeon,
and from this the only gleam of light
she could not for a moment turn her
thoughts.

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

The uniform habits and monotonous
occupations of this singular community
have a strong tendency to check every
irregular feeling, and to intercept every
vagrant desire. But in vain did Emily
try their sedative influence. She was
one of the highest, and even there,
where few distinctions obtain, most
privileged order, called, par excellence,
`the church.' Susan's gifts had advanced
her to the lead, and Emily's
graces were looked upon by the fraternity
as the herald blossoms of like precious
fruit. But since her return from
her fatal visit to the “world's people,”
she had become an object of intense
anxiety to Susan, and of solicitude or
distrust to the rest of the society. Susan
had no suspicion of the real cause of her
discontent; she imputed it to the workings
of her natural affections, the dying
sparks of which, not quite extinguished
by grace, had been rekindled by her late
visit to her kindred.

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

Little did this stern enthusiast imagine,
as she watched over her young disciple
with maternal tenderness, how much
there was of natural and original feeling
in her own affection for her. She saw
the bright colour, the beautiful signal of
youth and health, fading day by day
from her cheeks, till her face became
almost as white as the snowy cap border
that fringed it. She saw her take her
accustomed place at the formal meal, but
she noticed that her food was often untasted,
and never relished. She observed
her slow step and abstracted look, as she
passed over the broad flagstones to the
offices to perform her daily tasks, and
that though she went through them with
fidelity, her trembling hands and frequent
sighs evinced that her heart and strength
were gone. She uniformly appeared
with the sisters that thronged to the
evening worship, and went forth with
them to `labour in the dance,' but her
movements were heavy and mechanical;

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

and it was too plain, even to the lenient
judgment of Susan, that the spirit was
not there.

The kind-hearted old women, who
thought she was falling into a weakly
way, consulted with Susan as to the nature
of her complaints. Susan humoured
their conjectures, and allowed them to
believe they had detected some latent
malady. They prepared their simples,
and Susan permitted Emily to swallow
them, because she knew them to be
innocent, and that they possessed that
best recommendation of any drug, viz.
that `if it does no good it can do no
harm.'

Some were of opinion that she had an
incipient consumption, some that it was
only a `drying of the lungs,' some pronounced
it an `inward rheumatism,'
while others sagaciously intimated that
it might be a `palsy of the heart.' In
short the wise sisters discovered many
diseases that have not yet a place in the

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

nomenclature of the learned faculty;
and poor Emily, without a word of remonstrance
or complaint, listened to
their skilful suggestions and tried all
their remedies, till their materia medica
was exhausted, without effect. She took
bitters fasting and feasting—she swallowed
syrups `nine days' and `three
days,' and `every other day,'—she took
conserves, and `health waters,' and `life
waters,' and every other water that
`with a blessing always cures'—but still
she had the same deadly paleness—the
same sunken eye—the same trembling at
the heart—and all the symptoms of a
mysterious disease, which the most sagacious
deemed nothing short of a `healing
gift' could cure.

The elder brethren, ever strict in their
watch over the young converts, now became
alarmed in their turn. They held
frequent and long consultations, at which
Reuben Harrington had a gift to preside.
Whether these veterans derived

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

their light from the experience of similar
conflicts cannot be ascertained; but certain
it is that they soon came to the
decision that Emily's disease was a moral
one; and to Reuben was assigned the
task of stilling her natural yearnings
after the world, and of bringing back
her wandering affections to the fold—to
the wolf was committed the guardianship
of the lamb.

Reuben was aware that nothing could
be effected without the consent and concurrence
of Susan; and to obtain that
to the mode of operation which he had
proposed to himself, he knew was no
easy matter, now that her natural sagacity
was stimulated by strong affection
and deep anxiety.

After the brethren had closed their
deliberations, Reuben proposed calling
the elder sister to the conference, to
advise with her as to the best means of
pursuing their righteous end. Susan
came at his bidding; but she was

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

cautious and reserved in her communications,
till one of the brethren roused her
by saying, (after a long low groan,) “It
is evident the girl is given over to the
sifting of Satan,”—Susan raised her
eyes, and fixed them on the speaker—
“and,” he continued, “according to my
light, she should stand before the congregation
of the people on the coming
Lord's day, and, in the presence of the
chosen vessels, receive an open rebuke
for sin.”

“What sin, Obadiah?” inquired Susan
with a trembling voice.

“Sin of the heart—doth not all sin
proceed from the heart, woman?”

“Verily it doth, Obadiah—but who
hath seen the sin proceeding from the
heart of this afflicted child?—and who
hath given you authority to discern the
thoughts and intents of the heart?—
would you treat the young lambs like
the fat calves of the stall?”—

“Nay, sister, this is unprofitable,”

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

interposed Reuben. “It is too true
that the fine gold has become dim, and
we must seek for a gift to restore its
brightness. Let us each labour for it in
the evening worship, and he or she to
whom it may be given shall forthwith
undertake the cure of this precious
soul.”

Susan did not venture to withhold her
assent to this proposition, regarded as it
evidently was by the brethren as a direct
inspiration, but her spirit still hovered
over the child of her affection as a bird
fluttereth over her nest. “My light has
been,” she said, “to leave Emily to the
work of time and grace—but it may be
that seeking, brethren, ye may find a
quicker cure—it is a duty to remember
that in months past the testimony of the
child's life against all sin has been very
clear. The enemy has taken advantage
of her late visit to her kindred, and
has carried her back to the path of natural
affection, out of which she had

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

travelled far—and seeing nature reviving,
and grace sleeping, he hath taken that
moment to bind her again with carnal
bonds.”

“You have ever been gifted, sister,”
replied Reuben, “with that hidden wisdom
that quickly discerneth. It may be
you see the true evil; but even now I
can comfort you with a prophecy that
the young woman will awake as from
sleep, and break these carnal bonds like
thread—her conflict is sore, but great
will be her victory—for I predict of her
as Christian Love, the holy martyr of
Cromwell's time, predicted of our mother
Anne, that this our young sister
shall yet shine out, `a bright star, whose
light and power shall make the heavens
to quake and knock under.”'

“Amen,” exclaimed Susan, devoutly
clasping her hands; and “amen” responded
all the veteran counsellors in
one voice, animated by that vaunted

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

“spontaneous spirit of union which flows
through the whole body”—when governed
by a master spirit.

Susan, on issuing from the brethren's
apartment, passed through a narrow passage
to the common entry from whence
all the passages diverge, and in the centre
of which is placed a large clock, the
work of one of the ingenious brethren.
Emily stood at the foot of the staircase,
her face so much averted from Susan,
that she did not notice her approach,—
her footsteps she could not hear, for it
is the law of the society which carries
its war with the flesh into the most minute
particulars, that every one shall
tread softly, and shall shut the doors
with the least possible sound—to these
laws such due observance is paid, that a
stranger ignorant of their habits, would
imagine their houses were untenanted.
Emily had paused at the staircase from
extreme weakness; the loud ticking of
the clock had arrested her attention;

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

this sound, always the same, seems like
the natural voice of this monotonous solitude.
“Oh,” said Emily, unconsciously
uttering audibly her thoughts, “to
what purpose is time measured here?
there is no pleasure to come—there is
none past that I dare to remember.”

“Do you ask to what purpose?” said
Susan, in a voice of unwonted austerity
that startled Emily, “and are you then
so far relapsed into nature!—Oh, have
you already forgotten when every stroke
of that clock was as a holy monitor to
you, arousing you to redeem the time?—
have you forgotten, Emily, when you
wrestled with vain thoughts, and sinful
thoughts, and overcame them?—have you
forgotten, or do you tremble to remember
when the stroke of every hour carried
with it the record of your innocence.”

“Oh, spare me, spare me!” interrupted
the poor girl, grasping the elder

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

sister's arm, and clinging to it, “I am
sick—very sick.”

Susan's heart melted within her at
this appeal, and hearing the brethren
approaching, she instinctively drew, or
rather carried Emily away from their
observation, to her own apartment, the
door of which she closed, and turned a
button that secured her from intrusion.
She seated herself, and would have
placed Emily beside her, but she, as if
desperate now the veil had fallen, sunk
into Susan's lap, and folding her arms
around her, sobbed on her bosom.

This was the language of nature; and
the elder sister was surprised into what
she deemed an amazing sin. She wept
too freely and audibly, but


“When she had wrestled down,
Feelings her nature strove to own,”
and could command her voice, she said,
“I thought all these natural affections
were rooted out—and they were, Emily;

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

but since you came among us the enemy
hath sown tares among the wheat. Poor
child! I see where your temptation lies—
the world—the world calls you; but
be not discouraged, if you overcome the
temptation you will be stronger than one
that hath never been tempted. This is
not the first time that the serpent has
entered our garden. Long after I joined
myself to the people, my soul thirsted
after the world, as the hart panteth for
the water courses.

“Emily, I have never told you my
trials, for I thought the world was as a
strange country to you; now you shall
know them all, and the Lord grant they
may prove a beacon to you!”

Susan paused for a few moments, to
nerve her mind to the recollection and
detail of long past sorrows; and then
began in a calm subdued tone, while
Emily continued with her face hidden
on her bosom, sobbing at intervals like a
child that cannot forget its griefs.

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

“Emily, I was the youngest of your
grandmother's seven children. My natural
father was a good man, living up
to the light he had, till our mother Anne,
having had a safe path made for her
through the waters, came a swift witness
to this new world, which being, as it
were, born out of due time, was accounted
worthy of her ministry, having been,
under Providence, discovered and civilized
to become the inheritance of the
believers. My father, as you have often
heard, was one of the first fruits of the
work: he and my natural brothers and
sisters were among the first that joined
the people, and set out for the Lord. I
was left alone with your grandmother,
and she in possession of all her husband's
property—a handsome farm on the other
side of the mountain. Emily, I had
wicked thoughts then. I believed my
family were led away by a deceiver, and
an antichrist. I listened eagerly to the
stories of those that reviled our mother's

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

name. Some said that she and her elders
were the offscourings of the English jails;
others seeing that her work far transcended
natural power, accused her of
witchcraft; some insisted that she was a
man in woman's apparel; and although
she predicted the independence of this
favoured land, and could not act against
her own testimony, there were some who
charged her with treasonable practices,
and threw her into jail. I was willing
to believe all that the voice of the slanderer
uttered; and when my father came
to take me to her, in obedience to him I
went, but blinded by my prepossessions.
It was then that mother and William Lee
and our ancients were gathering the believers
at Niskeyuna, and there your
grandfather carried me.

“We arrived at the close of a November
day; the sun had just set in clouds—
the sky was dark and foreboding. I
had been chilled and wearied with our
long ride and fasting; but when we

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

turned from the high road into a woody
path, and my father pointing to a smoke
that curled upward from a deep wood,
said, “there dwells the bright star,” I
forgot all the weakness and the wants of
the flesh. The adversary put forth all
his strength to secure his dominion in
my weak and troubled mind;—a trembling
seized me—it seemed to me that I
was hurried on to a precipice, and I had
no power to resist the cruel force that
pressed me onward. I tried to pray, but
my spirit died away within me. The
low murmurs of the little stream along
which we rode—the wind that sighed
through the naked branches of the trees—
the rustling of the fallen leaves over
which we passed, all seemed to speak a
voice of warning to my fearful spirit.

“I was always a feeling and a thoughtful
girl, Emily, and it had long been
borne in upon my mind that great things
awaited me: still I hated the way that
was opened, and joyfully would I have

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

turned my back upon the light that was
ready to dawn on me.

“As we approached the house the
believers were closing the afternoon
worship; I caught the sound of the evening
hymn: it was so ordered, that I did
not then, nor till long after, witness the
going forth in the dance. My faith was
not yet strong enough for it, and for a
long time, the Lord forgive me! it was
a cross to me.

“When we were about to enter the
door, my father perceived that my limbs
were sinking under me, and he led, or
rather dragged me into the room. Oh
Emily, I shall never forget that moment.

“The apartment, though in a loghouse,
was a large one, the brethren
having in their early gathering removed
all the partitions to give space for the
labour worship. There was a bright fire
on the hearth from some pine knots, but
no other light in the room. The brethren,
with their broad-brimmed hats slouched,

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

and casting a deep shadow over their
faces, were sitting on one side of the
room, as is their custom—the sisters on
the other; their arms were folded, and
their eyes all cast down; and exhausted
by the evening labour they were pale as
spectres. Our mother stood in the centre
of the apartment alone—her arms also
folded across her breast. I looked fearfully
around—I saw my natural brothers
and sisters, as the flame burned brightly
and shone upon their faces, but none of
them regarded me. It seemed to me
that I had come into an assembly of the
dead. I turned to beg my father to lead
me away, but he had quitted my side,
and taken his place among the brethren.
My head grew giddy, and I thought
myself sinking to the earth.

“At this moment our mother advanced
to me; `and is this,' she said, `the one
stray lamb that I have so longed to get
into the fold?' My bonnet had fallen
back—she laid her hand upon my head

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

—her hand and arm were bare, and
white and smooth as if they had been
rounded out of the purest marble. My
hair was dressed after the fashion of the
world. `You must forsake these vanities,
Susan,' said she:—she did not speak
sharply, though she could sometimes
sharply rebuke sin:—she made a short
pause, and then fixing her clear piercing
blue eye steadfastly on me, as if she
penetrated to the depths of my soul, she
added, in a low solemn tone, `Susan, I
bear a message to you—the Master saith,
`forsake all and follow me, and ye shall
have in this world an hundred fold, and
in the world to come, life everlasting.”'

“Emily, there was a celestial melody
in mother's voice in the gift of speaking,
and a weight in all her words, and
though I gave no outward sign, they
sunk deeply into my heart. She said no
more to me at that time—she was never
forward to speak. In her looks there
was a boldness and an innocence that

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

seemed, as it were, like the truth and the
gentleness of the gospel she preached,
written for a testimony in every line of
her face.

“Ah! she had,” continued the enthusiast,
her eyes kindling and her face
brightening, while her imagination magnified
the graces of the leader who had
captivated her youthful affection. “Ah,
she had all the sweet qualities of woman,
and yet Emily, for a season I turned my
back on her. I returned to my natural
mother—to the world—to—yes it is fitting
you should know all my temptations—
to one to whom I was deeply bound
in my affections.”

Susan paused—and Emily's sobbing,
which had continued at intervals till this
moment, ceased. She raised her face,
now gleaming with faint streaks of red,
from Susan's bosom, and fixing her eye
on the speaker, who after some effort
continued,

“William Harwood was a pleasant

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

lad: we had been mates from our infancy,
and had loved one another (loving
no one else) with that faith which is the
boast of the world's people: little did I
think till the gospel was opened to me,
that that love was the fruit of a depraved
nature—that, if I would not perish eternally,
it must be plucked off and cast
from me. William pleaded for it, and
my own heart pleaded more stoutly—
Oh, Emily! you know not how the
natural man can talk—and oh, my innocent
child, be thankful; you know not
how the unregenerate heart goes forth
in what the world calls love; how the
breath of the body and the life of the
soul seem bound up in the life and
breath of another; how cheap the sacrifice
of earth—yea heaven, to the idol
seems—”

“Oh, stop, stop,” exclaimed Emily,
falling on her knees, and clasping her
hands in agony, “do not say any more
to me, I cannot bear it.”

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“Nay, my child,” replied Susan, recovering
her calm tone and self-command
which had for a moment given way before
the rush of natural feeling. “Nay,
be quiet and listen, for grace obtained
the victory. The conflict lasted for
many months. I saw that I could in no
way be justified but by obeying the gospel
and setting out with the believers.
Your grandmother hated the faith then
as she does now. I could answer all she
said, but when William told me with
despairing looks that he should be a
ruined man if I forsook him, my heart
sunk within me. My flesh consumed
on my bones as if there had been a curse
upon me, and often, often between the
setting and the rising of the sun my
eyelids have not met, and in the morning
I could wring from my handkerchief
the tears that had poured from my eyes
like rain in the night. But finally grace
triumphed over nature: the strong man
was bound, and I joined myself to the

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

people. It is now thirty years since I
believed, and,” added she, raising her
hands and eyes, and speaking with more
energy than she had yet spoken, “I say
the truth before God, and lie not: I
have not repented for a moment; I have
been heartily thankful that I have borne
my testimony—I have purchased a peace
that cannot be taken away, and cheaply
purchased it.”

“Then I am lost,” exclaimed Emily.

“Nay, do not mistake me, child—I
mean that having put my hand to the
plough, I never turned back; but I had
many heavy dragging hours, much hungering
after forsaken joys. It could not
be otherwise, but again I say I never
repented. You know already that when
tribulation came, many fell away. Our
mother was carried to prison. My
father, your father, all my natural kindred
left her—I alone remained to abide
our day of wasteness and desolation.”

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“And did you ever again see William
Harwood?” inquired Emily.

“Yea, yea, child, that was my chiefest
sorrow; he never gave me up—he would
not believe that I would persevere in a
celibious life and after our family removed
hither he came every month and
sometimes every week to see me. He
once came into our worshipping assembly,
but the moment that I went forth
in the dance, he fainted and fell to the
floor. After that I saw him but seldom.”

Susan paused, and Emily asked, “if
he never married?”

“Nay,” replied Susan.

“And is he dead?” inquired Emily.

“Wait a moment, child, and ye shall
hear it all—yea all. She pressed her
hands on her forehead—“My head is
giddy, and these thoughts have kindled
strange fire in my heart.” She remained
silent for a few moments, and then,
resuming her usual deliberate manner,

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she said, “William was an only, and
an indulged child. His parents had
never crossed him in any thing; and
though he had a kind and a tender disposition,
he could not brook a disappointment.
He fell into a weakly way, and
then he took to ruinous habits. His poor
old parents died, I fear, of a wounded
spirit; for they laid his misfortunes sadly
to heart. After their death his worldly
affairs went fast to destruction, and he
became a miserable vagrant. He would
come here and sit for hours on the doorstep;
at these times I kept to my room,
for I could do nothing for him; and if
he chanced to see me in his fits of intoxication,
he would either upbraid me bitterly,
or cry like a child—and both were
trying to me.

“It is ten years ago the tenth day of
last January; it had stormed for three
days, and the roads were blocked with
the drifted snows; and it had been a
cruel cold night; and in the morning—

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

a Sabbath morning too—when we had
risen and kindled a fire, one of the brethren
opened the outer door, and there
was lying a poor wretch across the doorstone—
frozen to death; we all gathered
round him; and O Emily, child, it
was”—

“William?”

“Yea—yea—it was William himself.”

“Oh misery! misery!” exclaimed
Emily, with a burst of sympathy which
she could not repress.

“Yea, it was misery. I forgot myself—
forgot all that stood about me. I saw
not his tattered dirty garments, nor his
bloated face, but I saw him as in the
days of our youth and our love, and I
fell on his neck and wept—I could not
help it; but thanks be rendered,” she
added, raising her eyes, “it was the last
struggle of nature, and it has been forgiven.”

“And have you suffered thus?” asked
Emily, after a moment's pause.

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“Do not so speak, child,” replied
Susan; “rather be grateful that I have
been accounted worthy thus to suffer.”

Susan's raised feelings did not permit
her to add any thing farther. She
became silent and abstracted; and
Emily, exhausted with her emotions,
laid her head in her elder sister's lap,
and like a child wept herself to sleep.

Susan's narrative had not precisely the
effect on the mind of her disciple that
she had designed and anticipated.
Emily's excited imagination was deeply
impressed by Harwood's death, and the
instinctive conclusion of her feelings
was perhaps as just as if it had been a
logical deduction from a process of reasoning.
She felt that the faith which
exacted such sacrifices, and produced
such effects, was stern in its requisitions,
and cruel in its consequences. Her
fidelity to this strange religion hung, as
it were, by a hair—its vibration at the
mercy of every passing influence,—

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unlike Susan, whose strong feelings being
set one way by some powerful impetus,
were as little liable as a tide of the
ocean, to fluctuate from human interposition.