CHAPTER XVIII.
“Il y a dans l'aspect de la contrée quelque chose de calme
et de doux qui prépare l'âme à sortir des agitations de la vie.”
Madame de Stael.
[figure description] Page 001.[end figure description]
It was a fine afternoon in the month
of August when our travellers passed
the romantic road which traverses the
mountain that forms the eastern boundary
of the valley of Hancock. The
varied pleasures they had enjoyed during
the day, and the excitement of drawing
near to the object of their long journey,
animated them both with unusual spirits.
Deborah's tongue was voluble in praise
of the rich farms that spread out on the
declivities of the hills, or embosomed in
-- 002 --
[figure description] Page 002.[end figure description]
the protected vallies, called forth, as
they deserved, the enthusiastic commendations
of our experienced rustic. Ellen
listened in silence while she gazed with
the eye of an amateur upon this beautiful
country, which possesses all the elements
of the picturesque. Green hills
crowned with flourishing villages—village
spires rising just where they should
rise; for the scene is nature's temple, and
the altar should be there—lakes sparkling
like gems in the distant vallies—Saddle
mountain lifting his broad shoulders to
the northern sky, and the Catskills defining
with their blue and misty outline
the western horizon.
A sudden exclamation from Deborah
fixed Ellen's attention to one spot in the
wide spread landscape. “As I live,”
she said, “there is the very place at
last—see, Ellen, the yellow houses they
told us of.”
Ellen turned her eye to the long line
of habitations of a uniform colour and
-- 003 --
[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]
appearance, which, stretching along the
plain and sheltered by the surrounding
hills, seem sequestered from the world,
and present an aspect of peace and comfort,
if not of happiness.
Ellen, as others have done, wondered
that this strange people, who in their
austere judgment would condemn the
delight that springs from natural beauty
as the gratification of the `lust of the
eye,' should have selected a spot of such
peculiar charms.
“Ah,” said Debby, as her eye wandered
over the stubble fields and the
rich crops that were yet unreaped,
“these are knowing people—they understand
their temporals—they have
chosen their land well.”
“Then,” thought Ellen, “it may be
that the maxim, the useful is the beautiful,”
holds good in relation to our mother
earth, and that she lavishes her smiles
upon those of her loyal children who
-- 004 --
[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]
seek her favours: sure I am, no professed
admirers of the beauties of nature—
no connoisseur in all the charms of
the various combinations of mountain
and valley, pasture hills and rich meadows,
dashing streams and quiet lakes,
could have selected a more beautiful
residence than this.”
Her meditations were suddenly cut
short by another exclamation from Deborah,
who had now turned an angle in
the road and entered the village street.
“Well, if this does not beat all! Just
look here, Ellen, at this little bright
stream,” and she pointed to a small
rivulet that sparkled like a chain of burnished
silver in the sunbeams; “see
where it comes racing down the hill
yonder, and here, where it crosses the
street, it darts under ground as if to hide
its capers from these solemn people—
the thing has sense in it.”
Ellen smiled, and asked “if it would
-- 005 --
[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]
not be well to imitate its discretion, and
inquire at which house they should find
the elder sister Susan?”
Deborah immediately stopped her
horse, and waited for the coming up of
one of the brethren, who was approaching
them from an adjoining field. She
spent the few moments of waiting in admiring
the large richly stocked garden,
without weeds or waste places, the fine
stone-posts to the fences, the neatly
sawn wood, piled with mathematical
exactness, the clean swept street, and
all the neat arrangements of the shaker
economy, so striking to an eye accustomed
only to the slipshod ways of our
country people.
In the meanwhile Ellen was looking
eagerly at the windows of a large house
near which they had halted, to discern
if possible the well-known features of
Susan, or Emily, or any of the sisters
who, as they passed the windows like
-- 006 --
[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]
shadows, stole an inquiring glance at
the travellers.
When the man had arrived within
speaking distance, Deborah asked, “if
he would be so good as to direct her
where she could find Susan Allen!”
“Yea,” he replied, “she dwells
there;” and he pointed to the large
house Ellen was surveying.
“Is she at home?” asked Deborah.
“Yea, I believe so.”
Either Deborah's imagination was
busy, or her sagacity detected more
meaning in the man's face than was expressed
in his brief answers. “Is Susan
sick?” she asked hastily.
“If ye have business with her ye can
inquire for her at the house,” was all
the reply vouchsafed.
“Much thanks for his information,”
said Debby, who felt too conscious of
the liberty of free inquiry at all times
and places, to need the permission
-- 007 --
[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]
granted in a manner so surly. They
stopped at the house designated, and
were admitted by one of the sisters who,
in reply to their inquiry for Susan Allen,
said, after a little hesitation, that, “she
was not right well, and would not be
able, she believed, to see strangers.”
“Can we then,” asked Ellen, “see
Emily Allen?”
“Emily Allen!” exclaimed the sister,
put a little off her guard by surprise,
and then after a momentary pause and
without making any explanations, she
added, “I will acquaint elder sister that
there are strangers here—if she knows
who you are she may choose to see ye—
be pleased to give me your names.”
They gave them, and added an earnest
request that Susan would see them.
She had scarcely given Deborah and
Ellen time to interchange their mutual
apprehensions, ere she returned and
bade them follow her. She led them
up stairs and through a long passage to
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
the elder sister's apartment, only distinguished
from the others by being larger
and more commodious—their conductor
showed them into the room and then
left them, closing the door after her.
Susan was seated with her back to the
door—on hearing it close she rose from
her chair with an apparent effort, like
one enfeebled by disease, and advanced
towards Deborah and Ellen. Her face
was ghastly pale, but there was no other
sign of emotion. She gave a hand to
each of her visitors, and said faintly,
“ye are welcome—sit down, sit down.”
They obeyed her and she reseated herself;
a dead silence followed—even Deborah,
fearless as she was, was awed
into the deference of a momentary silence
by the imposing solemnity of Susan's
deportment. It was but for a moment,
for her courage flowing back, “what
signifies it?” said she; an expression
that with her always signified the utter
demolition of all barriers that opposed
-- 009 --
[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]
her purpose: “what signifies it—we
may as well come to it first as last;
what has happened to Emily?”
“Emily is gone,” replied Susan, in a
deep low tone, her eyes downcast, and
her whole person fixed in statue-like
stillness.
“Gone!” echoed Deborah and Ellen
in the same breath; “how—what is it
you mean—she is not dead, surely?”
“Would to God she had died,” replied
Susan, clasping her hands and
raising her eyes, from which the tears
now flowed freely: “would to God she
had died—in the faith.” Terrifying and
incomprehensible as were Susan's words,
neither Deborah nor Ellen ventured another
question. There was something so
strange and unnatural in her convulsive
emotion, that it affected them as if a
being that had passed the bounds of
human feeling, should wake again to the
pangs of mortal suffering.
After some moments of `strong
-- 010 --
[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
crying and tears,' she said, “I could have
looked on and seen the breath of life
leave her body, and yet have said with
the Shunammite woman, `it is well.'
I could have laid her away from me in
the cold earth, and yet felt that it was
well; who might not endure the brief
space of time deprived of the dearest
and the best?—but,” she added, shuddering,
“I have lost her for time, and
for eternity—this it is that wrings my
heart with such grief as I thought never
to have felt again.”
Ellen was filled with frightful apprehensions
for Emily's fate, and yet she
knew not how to frame an inquiry about
her. Even Deborah could not rally
courage to hasten an explanation: she
walked to the window desirous to conceal
the feeling she could neither control
nor express; but the frequent application
of her handkerchief to her nose
made the honest creature's sympathy
quite audible.
-- 011 --
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
It was not long before Susan recovered
a degree of composure that enabled her
to relieve the impatient anxiety of her
visitors, as far as the information she had
to communicate could relieve it. She
began her relation with the fact of
Emily's clandestine departure with Harrington.
She had herself first learned it
on the succeeding morning, when she
returned from Lebanon, whither she had,
as our readers may remember, been suddenly
summoned. She said she should
herself have believed that Emily had
not been a party to Harrington's treachery.
She should have been sure he
had forced her away, but that she remembered
the child's emotion when she
parted with her, and the mysterious language
she then held, which was but too
clearly explained by the event. The
wiles of Harrington, of rather, she said,
the wiles of Satan by his servant Harrington,
had been too much for the poor
girl; she had been caught in the toils,
-- 012 --
[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
but she thanked God she had not fallen
an easy prey.
Ellen inquired if nothing had been
heard of the fugitive since their departure.
“Nothing.—One of the brethren had
been dispatched to Albany, where, they
had reason to believe, Harrington meant
to put into execution a plan to defraud
the society of a considerable sum of money.
It was now the third day since
Harrington's departure, and on the next
day they expected the return of their
agent, and it was more than probable
that he would bring some intelligence of
the fugitives. But, oh Ellen!” she concluded,
“there is nothing to hope for—
there is nothing more to fear—the worst
has happened.”
Ellen would not allow the case to be
desperate; not that she could see any
rational ground for favourable expectations,
but hope is the happy instinct of
youth. She showed Susan Emily's
-- 013 --
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
letter to her Eton friends, which at least
intimated a wish to leave the society;
she hinted at the attachment she believed
Emily to have cherished for James
Lenox, and she finished with expressing
the belief that the poor girl had been the
innocent dupe of Harrington's artifices,
and had availed herself of his departure,
as affording her an opportunity of returning
to her friends.
At another time this would have
sounded like harsh consolation to Susan;
but now, in comparison with what she
feared, this was innocence and happiness,
and she eagerly grasped at Ellen's
suggestions. “God grant it may be so!
“God grant it,” she reiterated. “Oh
had I but known, Ellen, that it was in
the child's heart to go back to you, I
would have given her up as freely as
Abraham yielded up Isaac. It would
have been but honestly following her light,
and though but a dim one, still she would
have been saved from this utter ruin—
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
and now if I could believe that she had
fallen innocently, I might weep for her—
yea, I must weep for her, but not these
bitter hopeless tears.”
Ellen entreated her to mitigate her
grief, at least till she had more certain
knowledge of the motives of Emily's
departure. Susan evidently felt humbled
to find herself the subject of the compassionate
efforts of even the loveliest
of the world's people; but she yielded
insensibly to Ellen's beneficent influence,
and even admitted that there was
some consolation in her rational suggestions.
Deborah had tact enough to perceive
this was too delicate a case for her
handling—quite out of her province,
and beyond her skill; and therefore she
had remained silent till she perceived
that the elder sister was tranquillized,
and that Ellen had expended all her consolatory
arguments; she then, like a
prudent officer, thought it best to retreat
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
before another occasion for action should
discover that their strength was exhausted,
and she abruptly proposed their
departure. Ellen, grieved to think they
had no reason for delay, assented; and
Susan, who at another time would have
insisted on performing the rites of hospitality
to friends that she both valued
and loved, silently acquiesced, probably
deeming it prudent in the present state
of her feelings to exclude every exciting
cause. This caution would seem
incompatible with strong emotion; but
it must be remembered that caution was
habitual to the elder sister—was virtue
in her estimation—and was essential to
the preservation of her influence with
the society, and had yielded for a short
time only to the mastery of those powerful
affections over which it had held a
long and secure dominion. Such an exhibition
of her feelings as that into which
she had been surprised by the sudden
appearance of Emily's friends would, she
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
well knew, in the view of her brethren
and sisters, degrade her to a level far
below the frozen summits where they remained
secure, regarding with equal
contempt the earthly influences that
bless and fertilize, or ravage and destroy.
Before parting, she promised to despatch
a messenger to Lebanon springs
(whither Deborah informed her that she
and Ellen were going, and should remain
for a few days) with any intelligence
that she might receive of the fugitives:
she then summoned one of the
sisters, and having requested her to
provide some refreshments for her friends,
she bade them farewell with her usual
composure, save a little faltering of the
voice, and trembling of the lip.
The travellers were then conducted to
a small parlour, where a table was
quickly spread for their entertainment.
It was covered with a cloth of the purest
white by one of the sisters, who lingered
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
in adjusting it, smoothing down the folds,
pulling it first on one side, and then on
the other, till this artifice of her innocent
vanity had succeeded, and Deborah's
liberal praises were bestowed on the
delicate manufacture which had employed
the skill and taste of the sisterhood.
All the varieties of the `staff of life'
were now displayed: bread made of the
`finest of the wheat,' interspered with
slices produced from the native Indian
corn, which, in its prepared state,
deserves still to retain the epithet of
golden; next to this plate, groaning with
its burden, were placed some tempting
slices of the sad-coloured rye: these
gifts of Ceres were so perfect in their
kind, that the delicate goddess herself
might have banquetted on them: then
came the delicious butter and the purest
honey—the fruits in season, and pies,
cakes, and sweetmeats—accompanied
(it may be thought somewhat
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
incongruously,) by cheese, pickles, and cider—and
to crown all, the aromatic tea-pot, diffusing
like the censer at the ancient
feasts, its fragrant fumes over all the
board—with such incitement, what mortal
with mortal senses, would have contemned
the fare?
If the truth must be told, the
spirituelle Ellen Bruce, after her long
abstinence, did not regard this repast
with the indifference of a true heroine,
and Deborah played her part as well as
one of Homer's heroes might have done,
had he had the good fortune to sit at a
shaking quaker tea-table. She was
yielding to the hospitable solicitations of
the sister in attendance, and taking her
fifth cup of tea, when Ellen reminded
her a second time that the sun was fast
declining, and that without despatch, they
should be overtaken by the night before
they reached Lebanon. Deborah's appetite
submitted to the necessity of the
case, and our travellers, after thanking
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
their kind entertainer, took leave of her
and left the village, as many other travellers
have done, with a grateful sense
of the unpretending hospitality of its
simple inhabitants.
-- --
CHAPTER XIX.
“Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence,
Or why you stop our way with such prophetic greetings?”
Macbeth.
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
Ellen's mind had been so filled with
commiseration for Susan; she was so
much more in the habit of attending to
others' feelings than her own, that until
she had turned her back upon the shaker
village, she did not feel the full weight
of her own disappointment in regard to
Emily. The thought of old Mrs. Allen's
grief, and the most gloomy apprehensions
in relation to the poor girl's destiny, engrossed
her attention, and prevented her
heeding Deborah's profound remarks on
the “pattern people,” as she termed
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
them. We would not insinuate that
Deborah herself was unmoved by Emily's
sorrowful case: she would have gone
to the ends of the earth to have served
her, or any other fellow-creature in distress,
but it was an inviolable principle
with her `never to cry for spilt milk.'
After expressing some conjecture as to
the uncertain fate of the poor girl—bewailing
alternately her folly and her misfortunes,
and anticipating with compassion
the effect of this last severest stroke
upon the old grandmother—she subsided
into silence, and permitted Ellen to pursue
her sad meditations undisturbed. She
was at length awakened from them by
the deepening of the twilight, and after
a slight observation of the road, she asked
Deborah “if she was quite sure she had
not mistaken her way?”
Deborah was certain she had taken
the road that had been pointed out to her
as the shortest cut to the springs, but she
began to think they should have been
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
wiser to have remained at the village, or
to have taken the more travelled and
more thickly settled road. “However,”
she said, “it can be, Ellen, but four or
five miles to the pool, and if the daylight
does not last, we have a moon tonight,
and thanks to fortune, neither you
nor I are afraid of any thing.”
“Oh, afraid—no, I trust not,” said
Ellen, assuming a courage she did not
feel, for her dejected mind had coloured
with a melancholy hue the face of nature;
and the hoarse sounds of the brawling
brook on her right, and the deep unbroken
wood on the left, affected her
imagination with an undefined impression
of some possible evil. They proceeded
at a very slow rate, the ground was ascending,
and the jaded old horse lagged
along as if he felt the folly of turning his
back upon the hospitalities of the village.
They had pursued their way for some
time in profound silence. Meanwhile
the last traces of daylight had faded from
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
the sky, and the stars began to shed their
scanty light upon the grass-grown road.
Deborah's patience was at last quite exhausted.
“Ellen,” she said, “this is
the most tedious lonesome way ever I
travelled, it will never do to creep on this
fashion, our horse, poor fellow, is coming
to a dead stand—let us walk up the
rest of the hill, you always go like a bird,
and a walk will limber my old joints,
and serve to warm me this chilly night.”
Ellen acquiesced—and as they walked
on together, Deborah said, she “had
been thinking of all she had heard Squire
Redwood say of the dangers of the old
countries, and she was thinking it would
be a pretty risky business for two defenceless
women to be travelling alone
at night in any land but our own.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Ellen; “but
here, thank heaven, there can be no
danger;” and as she spoke she drew
nearer to Deborah, for she fancied she
heard a rustling in the woods on her left.
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
Deborah heard it too, for she stopped
the horse, saying, “hark—what can that
be?” She had hardly uttered the words
when a large dog sprang upon them;
both were startled, and looked anxiously
in the direction from which the dog had
come, but there was neither motion nor
sound there.
“Off, off, you brute!” said Deborah,
and the dog thus harshly repulsed, turned
as if to appeal to Ellen, crouched at
her feet, ran from her, and then returned
yelping—raised himself quite erect,
fawned again on Ellen, wagged his tail,
and expressed over and over again his
mute and painful entreaties.
“Words can't speak no plainer,” said
Debby. “The poor creatur would have us
go with him, but we must drive him away,
this is no place nor time to be hindered.”
“Certainly not—but,”—
“But what, Ellen? speak out girl.”
“Why I cannot bear to turn away
from the poor thing, it seems wicked to
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
deny him. As she spoke she patted and
caressed the dog: “there may be, I
think there must be some person in distress
in these woods—some one hunting
may have been wounded, such accidents
are common.” The dog seemed to understand
her words or her caresses—he
sprang again towards the wood, again returned,
repeated all his modes of entreaty,
pressing his suit with redoubled vigour,
and Ellen replied to him by turning to
Deborah, and saying with determination,
“I must follow him.”
“Are you clean out of your wits, child,
to think of patroling these woods after
this dog—and in case there should be
any body here, for the Lord's sake, what
could you or I do? Come, come along,
it grows late.” But Ellen still hesitated,
and Deborah added, “we cannot be far
from a house, and we will alarm some men
and send them here, which will be much
the properest way.”
Ellen from her childhood, and ever
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
since the memorable night when a dog
had aided in her preservation from
the fire, had felt a strong attachment to
the whole race, had studied their instincts
and history; and while she stood looking
at the petitioning animal, a thousand
stories of similar significant actions
glanced through her mind, and confirmed
her resolution.
“I must follow him, Deborah,” she
repeated, “wait for me here a few moments,
I will not go beyond call;” and
she turned quickly away to avoid Debby's
remonstrance.
“Stop, Ellen—stop girl—do you
think I will let you go alone after this
jack-o'-lantern? if you wont hear to
reason, why there's an end on't—I must
go with you.”
Ellen waited while Deborah secured
the horse, and they then plunged into
the wood after the dog, who trotted
along the narrow foot path, turning
round often as if to assure himself they
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
still followed him. “Well,” said Deborah,
“I don't speak from any fear—
I never was afraid in my life, for I never
saw danger; if I had, I might have
been as scared as other people; but I
think for two rational women, we ar e i
an odd place, and following a strange
leader.”
“And that is as it should be,” replied
Ellen, in an encouraging tone; “two
errant damsels as we are, in quest of
adventures—danger there is not, cannot
be here, and we will not go much farther.”
“No, that we will not; there is reason
in all things—and as old Gilpin says,
“'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.”
“Certainly,” replied Ellen, smiling,
“only go a little way farther, the moon
is rising, there is a cleared place before
us, and if we see nothing there, I will
consent to return.”
Ellen's benevolent purpose had
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
conquered her womanish timidity: her
tender and youthful spirit was susceptible
to romantic influences that her
companion could neither feel nor comprehend,
and she pressed eagerly on,
even in advance of Deborah, till on
issuing from the wood, the dog bounded
before her, and with one desperate howl
threw himself beside a lifeless body.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Ellen,
involuntarily shrinking back and seizing
Deborah's arm, and pointing to the
figure, which by the dusky light she
could only discern to be that of a man,
whether dead or living she knew not.
Deborah, without speaking, without
faltering or hesitating in the least, walked
rapidly forward to the body, and stooping
down, eagerly gazed on it for a
moment, and then raising both her hands
in token of astonishment to Ellen, who
was timidly approaching, she exclaimed,
“a dead Indian,—as sure as I am a
living woman, a dead Indian.”
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
“Is he certainly dead?” asked Ellen,
compassionately bending over him.
“Dead, child! look at his fallen jaw,
his stark stiff limbs—poor soul! he is as
dead as Christopher Columbus.”
Ellen sate down on a prostrate trunk
of a tree beside which the body lay,
while Deborah examined it for the purpose
of ascertaining the cause of the
poor wretch's death. There was a
wound on the temple from which the
blood had flowed freely, and which Deborah
thought might have been occasioned
by his fall, as there was a stone
lying near his head which it had probably
first struck. Fragments of an
earthen jug were lying about the body,
and Deborah pointing to them said, “he
has died Indian-fashion, Ellen, his dog
and his jug by him; but after all, for
aught we know, he may have died of old
age, for he looks as old as Methusalem.”
“Poor creature,” said Ellen; “and
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
to die at last without a being to care
for him.”
“Oh, as to that, that is nothing,” said
Debby, “and if it were, just look at
that dog”—the dog was licking his
master's face and breast—“there's many
a one, Ellen, that dies on a feather bed,
and them too that have houses and
lands, without so true a friend and
mourner as that poor brute. But come,
Ellen, we can do no good here sermonizing
the matter, we had best make our
way back, and give notice of the man's
death, that somebody may come and
put him under ground, which is fitting
should be done, seeing he is a human
being, though an old Indian.”
They rose to depart, and looking
around they both perceived at the same
moment the hut of Sooduck, (our readers
no doubt have anticipated that this Indian
was none other) which till now had
been hidden from them by the deep
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
shadows of the wood. “His wigwam, I
declare!” exclaimed Deborah: “we'll get
the poor carr'on into it; for I should be
loath, for his dog's sake, that anything
should happen to it till we can get it
honourable burial. Do you, Ellen,
open the door of the hut, and I will
manage to drag the old carcass in.”
Deborah made this division of labour to
save Ellen the painful necessity of touching
the dead body, and Ellen hastened
to execute her appointed task. The
door was fastened with a rope, and she
found so much difficulty in extricating
the knots, that Deborah came up with
the body before she had effected it.
Suddenly she stopped, and whispering to
Debby, “Hark,” she said, “do you not
hear a sound—a low moaning?”
“Pooh, child, you are vapoury—it is
nothing but a kitten,” replied Deborah:
and laying down the body, she drew
from her pocket a knife, with which she
cut the cord that had fallen from Ellen's
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
trembling hands—the door flew open,
and a loud shriek from within startled
even Deborah. She however stepped
boldly forward, and saw before her, in
the farthest corner of the hut, a terrified
girl, who had sunk upon her knees, and
covered her face with her hands in apparent
expectation of some dreadful evil.
“Merciful heaven, save me, save me!”
she cried, as Deborah approached her.
“What in the world is the matter
with you, child?” said Deborah, “there
is no one here that will hurt a hair of
your head.”
“We are friends—look at us, come to
the light,” said Ellen.
At the sound of Ellen's kind and gentle
voice the spirit of fear departed from the
half frantic girl: she rose, and looked
with trembling hope at her deliverers:
they all advanced to the door, the light
fell on their faces, and an instant recognition
followed.
“Ellen!”—“Emily!”—“Deborah!”
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
—“Is it possible?”—“It cannot be!”—
they exclaimed in one breath.
The joyful sense of hope, of protection,
of safety, was almost too much for Emily.
She threw her arms around Ellen's
neck, and nearly fainted on her bosom.
Her friends drew her to a little distance
from the hut, and far enough to avoid
her observation of the Indian: there Deborah
left her to the soothing efforts of
Ellen, while she returned to finish the
arrangements for Sooduck's body.
`An evil creature he was, no doubt,'
thought Deborah, (for the discovery of
Emily had thrown a strong light on Sooduck's
character,) `an evil creature, but
it is all passed to his own account now,
poor wretch!'
These and similar reflections of a compassionate
nature filled Deborah's mind
while she dragged in the body, composed
it decently on the straw, and covered it
with a blanket. The faithful dog took
his station beside it, and there Deborah
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
left him to keep guard, until she could
send some persons to perform the last
offices for his master.
These arrangements occupied but a
few moments, but they gave Emily time
to recover a sufficient degree of strength
and calmness to accompany her friends
back to the chaise. The tide of joy that
comes from a sense of deliverance from
great danger is prompt and powerful in
its operation. The timid despairing girl,
released from her captivity, and in the
presence of her friends, felt as if she had
been translated to another world, and
before they reached the chaise, she relieved
their worst apprehensions, by giving
them a sufficiently clear account of
Reuben's treachery.
From them she first learned Sooduck's
death, and could afford no clue to its
cause. He had left her as usual in the
morning, and she had heard nothing
since but the terrible uproar made by
the dog, when (as she now conjectured)
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
on seeing his fallen master, he had struggled,
and at last successfully, to release
himself from his confinement.
It seemed probable that Sooduck,
tempted by the superior quality of the
liquor furnished by Harrington, or by its
abundance, had indulged his appetite to
such excess as to extinguish his feeble
spark of life; or, as Deborah concluded,
his fall had occasioned his death. After
quite as much consideration as the miserable
subject merited, the verdict of our
fair jury was `accidental death.' Emily
accounted for her terrors on the appearance
of her friends, by saying that her
fear of Harrington had converted every
sound into a notice of his return. It
seemed utterly impossible for the poor
girl to express her joy that she had been
rescued from him, and her gratitude to
her deliverers. She had not once mentioned
the elder sister's name in her brief
relation of her flight, but Ellen, ever considerate
of others, proposed as they
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
reached the chaise, that they should return
to the village, and relieve Susan at
once from her painful apprehensions.
Emily said nothing, for she hesitated
between her wish to see and to relieve
her kind friend, and her reluctance to
venture within her prison bounds.
Deborah cut the deliberation short by
saying, `No, no, Ellen, you have had
your way once, and a good way it proved,
and I shall think to my dying day
that the Lord led you up through them
woods — but now I must have mine.
There is no knowing,” she whispered to
Ellen, “what might happen if we went
back; `a bird in the hand,' you know —
Come, jump in, Ellen—jump in, Emily,
my little god-send, and we'll on as fast
as possible.”
Ellen acquiesced, secretly resolving
with the morning dawn to despatch a
messenger with the good news to Susan:
a resolution she exactly performed. The
travellers then proceeded at good speed
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
to Lebanon springs, and arrived there before
midnight, without any other interruption
than that occasioned by Deborah's
`keeping good faith with the dog,'
as she termed it, by stopping at the first
house on their way to give information
of Sooduck's death.
As Emily Allen's connexion ceased
from this time for ever with the shaker
society, it may be best to inform our
readers, without troubling them again to
recur to the subject, with the result of
Harrington's expedition to Albany. Harrington
had received from Freeborn, the
ruling elder of the society at Hancock, a
check for five thousand dollars, which
was the principal part of a sum lodged
to the credit of the society in a bank in
Albany, where they were in the habit of
depositing the surplus money which they
received from the sale of their productions
of agriculture and manufactures.
This money had been at various times
received in the market of Albany, and
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
deposited in the bank for safe keeping;
and these five thousand dollars were now
wanted to pay the purchase-money of an
adjoining farm, which the elders had
determined to add to their possessions.
It was however designed by Harrington
for a very different application. Eager
to secure the money, he went to the
bank immediately upon its being opened
in the morning, and presented the check
for payment.
The clerk who received it, observed
that the check was payable not to bearer,
but to order, and that it must be endorsed
before it could be paid. Harrington
said that he would endorse it,
which he immediately did, and presented
it again for payment. This delay and
conversation attracted the notice of the
cashier, who took up and examined the
draft as the clerk was counting out the
money to Harrington.
“Stop,” said he, “the check is payable
to the order of Reuben Harrington
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
and John Jacobs, and must be endorsed
by them both. Elder Freeborn is a very
particular man about worldly matters,
and as he has made his check payable
to the order of two people, we must
have the order of both of them.”
Harrington could not restrain the expression
of a little more impatience than
became his garb and assumed character:
he, however, received back the check,
and said that he would step to friend
Jacobs who lived in the next street, and
procure his endorsement. He then
called on Jacobs and requested him to
endorse the check. This Jacobs was a
sober staid citizen, who had often had
dealings with the shaker society, and
had contracted some acquaintance with
the elders, and particularly elder Freeborn.
When Harrington had explained the
business, Jacobs, after a little reflection,
said that he saw no harm which could
come to him from endorsing the check,
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
which he accordingly did. “Friend
Freeborn,” said he, “is a careful man,
and likes to have his business done
right. I will step and get the money
for you myself.” He went out, and returned
after a few minutes with bank
notes to the amount of the check. He
then entered into some general conversation
with Harrington, who restrained
his impatience for the actual possession
of the prize as much as possible: at last,
however, he observed that he must be
going, as he had business to do in the
city that day before he returned home.
Jacobs took no notice of this hint, but
continued the conversation upon the
subject of some shaker ploughs which
he had for sale on commission. At last
Harrington asked him directly for the
money.
“You shall have it,” replied Jacobs,
“as soon as you give me elder Freeborn's
order for it.” Harrington said that
he had no such order, and that none
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
was necessary; that the check was in
his favour as well as in that of Jacobs,
and that he was an elder as well as Freeborn.
“Elder Freeborn,” said Jacobs, “has
the care of the prudentials. At any
rate, I have received this money upon
his check, and I must have his order
before I pay it away to any body.”
Harrington entreated and remonstrated,
but the man of business seemed inclined
to adhere to his punctilio. Harrington
had before entertained some apprehension
that his fraudulent designs were
not wholly unsuspected by the shrewd
and cautious Freeborn, and it now occurred
to him that the embarrassment
in which he was placed might not be
wholly accidental. His threats and flatteries
only served to confirm the cool
and wary Jacobs in his suspicion of Harrington's
dishonest intentions—at last,
quite discouraged, Harrington left the
impracticable trader, cursing the
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
superior cunning that had baffled his wellconcerted
project.
His next concern was in regard to
Emily. It appeared easiest, and would
certainly be safest to abandon the wreck—
to give up the ship; but he had so
long flattered himself with the possession
of this young creature, he so thirsted
for revenge against Susan, and his pride
was so much interested in at least a
partial success, that after some anxious
deliberation with himself, he determined
to return to Emily, not doubting that
she would accept her liberty on any
terms he should vouchsafe to offer. Accordingly
he left Albany late in the afternoon,
and having travelled all night, he
arrived at Sooduck's hut just at the
break of day on the morning after Emily's
escape. It is not necessary, and certainly
would be difficult to paint his
consternation at the sight that there
greeted him. But there was no time
for inquiry or delay. It was important
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
to him that he should not be recognised
in that neighbourhood. He was not
however destined to escape without farther
mortification. On re-entering the
public road he was met by some men,
who had collected in consequence of
Deborah's notice, to dispose of Sooduck's
body. They had heard the story of his
villainy which was already in general
circulation. They knew him well, and
moved by an intuitive love of justice, as
well as by a friendly feeling to the society,
they stopped his horses, bound
him hand and foot, and drove him in
triumph back to his shaker brethren.
The messenger despatched by Ellen
arrived about the same time; and Susan,
thus relieved from her anxiety, and rejoicing
in the innocence and safety of
Emily, was able to assist at the council
that was called to deliberate on the proper
measures to be taken in regard to
the culprit. The result of a short conference
was equivalent to the sentence
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
of the quaker against his dog. `I will
not myself kill thee,' he said, `but I'll
turn thee on the world and give thee a
bad name.' Reuben Harrington was
dispossessed of every thing he held belonging
to the society but the clothes
that covered him, and sent out to wander
upon the earth, despised and avoided,
enduring all the misery of unsuccessful
and unrepented guilt.
-- --
CHAPTER XX.
“The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds' uncertain motion,
They are but types of woman.”
Burns.
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
It is probably well known to most of
our readers, that Lebanon is a favourite
resort during the hot months. It lies on
a post-road from Boston to Albany—is
of easy access from New York—and
from the beauty of its scenery, the salubrity
of its air, and its proximity to Saratoga
springs, attracts, for a short time
at least, the throng of visitors to those
celebrated waters. The mineral spring
that is nominally the chief attraction
of the place, should not be forgotten;
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
if not as efficacious as its neighbours
would fain believe, it is at least innocent—
no one can forget it who has seen
the bright waters for ever bubbling
up from the bosom of the earth, and
admired the sycamore tree that stands
beside the sparkling fountain like its
guardian genius, and drops its protecting
branches over it.
Our travellers were fortunate in the
time of their arrival: large parties had
left the place the preceding day, and
they were able to obtain two apartments
in Mr. Hull's well-known house;
one was assigned to Ellen, and the
other Emily shared with her relation
and true friend Deborah.
Ellen, wearied as she was, did not
retire to bed until she had written a
note to the `elder sister,' containing
all the particulars of Emily's distressful
experiences and providential rescue;
nor till she had obtained a promise from
her landlord that he would despatch
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
it with the first ray of light. The commission
was faithfully executed, as
might have been expected from his
obliging character.
Even after Ellen had performed this
duty, it was long ere she could compose
her mind to sleep. Relieved of all
anxiety concerning Emily, her thoughts
reverted to the friends she had left at
Eton; hovered about Mr. Redwood
with an undefinable interest, and finally
concentrated on Charles Westall. All
the circumstances of her brief intercourse
with him passed in revision before
her; and she dwelt on each particular
over and over again, as a miser counts
his treasures—the cherished recollections
of memory gave place to the (perhaps
unbidden) visions of hope, and all
at last faded away like the bright tints
of the evening cloud, and she sunk into
profound repose.
Deborah's weariness prevailed over
the force of long habit, and neither she
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
nor her protegees awoke till a late hour
in the morning, when, in compliance
with Ellen's persuasions, she ordered
breakfast in her room: after partaking it
with her usual appetite, she left her
less enterprising companions, and sallied
forth to reconnoitre the premises, and
to try the effect of bathing on her rheumatism.
Neither Ellen nor Emily felt any disposition
in the present state of their
minds to remain at Lebanon. Emily's
affections, released from the captivity of
an imaginary duty, had bounded forward
to their natural destination; and
Ellen was impatient to accelerate her
return to Mrs. Harrison, to whom alone
she could unburthen her heart, but they
both knew that Deborah had resolved
to remain at the springs for some days,
and that her resolution once formed,
was quite as immutable as the laws of
the Medes and Persians. They felt too
that after the great inconveniences the
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
good woman had endured, and the essential
services she had rendered them,
there would be a species of ingratitude
in opposing her wishes. Ellen had not
a nature to resist the persuasion of such
a motive: the gentle Emily never resisted
any thing, and they both prepared
to appear with the best grace they
could before the gay and the fashionable
under the conduct of Miss Deborah.
Emily's life had been too retired and
humble to expose her to any mortification
from the appearance and manner of
her chaperone, yet she shrunk with
natural timidity from the possibility that
her history might be known, and that
she might therefore be exposed to the
curious gaze and free remarks of strangers.
But Ellen encouraged her with
the assurance that as they were all
strangers, there was no clue to the discovery
that she was the little runaway
shaker, and having made her doff her
shaker dress, and put on a simple
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
mourning frock which she had provided for
her, she re-modelled her hair—formed
some becoming curls on her temples—
and imparted such a wordly tastefulness
to her appearance, that the simple
girl confessed herself so completely metamorphosed,
that she hardly recognised
her own image.
As neatness and simplicity were the
presiding graces at Ellen's toilette, its
duties were very expeditiously despatched.
Happily for her, since she
did not possess the gifts of fortune, the
loveliness of her face and figure made
her superior to her favours or arts, at
least so thought Deborah, as well as
more competent judges; for when she
re-entered after her perambulations, she
said (the only speech of hers on record
that betrays any femality,) she did not
believe the United States could produce
two girls “prettier to look at.”
Ellen felt some consternation when she
added, that “though she was not much
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
of a dresser, she liked to rig out suitably
to her voyage; and as she had observed
by the ladies she had met, that Lebanon
was a dressy place, her young folks
should not be ashamed of her.”
She then proceeded to unpack her
trunk, and drew from its stores, a `lutestring
changeable,' a manufacture of the
olden time, in which the colours were
skilfully combined, to produce a constant
alternation from one hue to another;
the fancy of Deborah's youth had
been orange and purple, and as it
was her pride and boast that she never
altered her apparel in subservience to
the whims of fashion, the `changeable'
that had remained through all chances
and changes unchanged, and always
“like a robe canonical, ne'er seen, but
wondered at,” was once more dragged
forth to the light of day, and its antique
and unbending dignity exposed to the
levity of modern gossamer belles.
Ellen watched Deborah with dismay,
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
while she drew on the closely fitted
sleeve, and laced the formal waist, and
adroitly placed her gold beads over her
kerchief that their light might not be
hid. After her first and brief sacrifice
to the graces, turning to Ellen, she said,
with a complacency that her young
friend could not but pity, “now I think
I am fit company for any body—what
do you say, Ellen?”
“Fit company for any body you
always are, Miss Deborah,” replied Ellen,
“without any outward adorning; but
I think your dress admits of one improvement;”
and while she made an effort to
restrain the smile that in spite of her
hovered on her lips, she persuaded
Deborah that a lace shawl, which she
dexterously threw over her shoulders,
improved her appearance. Deborah
assented, and the dinner bell ringing,
our heroine, with the courage of a
martyr, slipped her arm into one of
Deborah's, while Emily, in happy
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
ignorance of the ludicrous antiquity of her
friend's costume, took the other. Thus
they entered the dining room where the
company was already assembled, and
having taken their seats, were precisely
at that point of momentary silence that
precedes the general onset. The rustling
of Deborah's silk attracted some
observation, but it was not till she
moved to the head of the table, and took
possession of a seat that had been reserved
for a gentleman who usually
occupied it, while Ellen and Emily slid
into vacant chairs on each side of her,
that every eye was fixed upon the novel
group. Deborah's figure, in her usual
apparel, was rather grotesque, but not
sufficiently so to provoke or excuse
laughter—she would have looked between
Ellen and Emily like the gnarled
oak, somewhat scathed by time and
accident, but still respectable in its
hardy age, whose firm protection the
tender vines had sought, and bloomed
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
around it in all the freshness of youth
and beauty. But the yellow and purple
changeable was irresistibly ludicrous.
Some lively girls who sat near the head
of the table began a titter: the infection
was caught by their neighbours, and all,
even grave matrons and staid old gentlemen,
were compelled to turn their
faces, hide them with their handkerchiefs,
or outrage all breeding, violate
all decorum, and laugh outright. Poor
little Emily, not discerning the subject
of the mirth, and seeing it was directed
towards the part of the table she occupied,
believed herself the subject of it,
and half frightened out of her senses,
averted her head to conceal her blushes,
and her tears. Deborah's sagacity was
at fault for a moment, but the truth
suddenly flashed across her mind, and
involuntarily rising and turning to Ellen,
“am I their music?” she exclaimed;
when seeing that Ellen too—for the
truth must be told—had lost all
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
command of her risibles, and had joined the
laughers, her astonishment expressed,
“and thou, too? this is the unkindest
cut of all;” and she would have probably
said something equivalent to it, but the
attention of the company was diverted
by a bustle at the door; and Mr. Redwood
entered, leading in Mrs. Westall,
and followed by Miss Redwood attended
by Charles Westall.
Deborah's tall figure standing erect at
the head of the table first caught Mr.
Redwood's eye, and to the surprise of
the company he exclaimed, “Miss Deborah!—
my old friend—God bless you,
I am glad to see you and Miss Bruce—
my dear Ellen,” he said, advancing with
the greatest cordiality, and shaking Deborah's
hand heartily, and kissing
Ellen's, “this is delightful, to meet you
again—and so unexpectedly!”
Deborah forgot her irritation in her
sudden pleasure, and returned Mr. Redwood's
greeting with all her heart. “I
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
thought, Sir,” she said, “that you were
half way to Boston by this time.”
“I was half way there, Miss Deborah,
but my courage failed me:—I found
my strength and spirits unequal to enjoying
the society of Boston. I have
not philosophy enough to resist its
allurements, so I turned my face homeward,
and have been guided hither,”
he concluded, looking at Ellen, “by my
good genius.” Ellen, disconcerted by the
unexpected appearance of the party,
could not command words to reply to
Mr. Redwood, or to return Mrs. Westall's
polite recognition.
Mr. Redwood observed her embarrassment.
“We are keeping our friends
standing,” he said; “let us pass on,
Mrs. Westall; my daughter I believe is
at the lower end of the room:” then
lowering his voice to Ellen, he added,
“we shall see you immediately after
dinner.”
Deborah looked after Mr. Redwood
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
as he walked away, and shook her head:
“he is dreadfully changed, Ellen, since
we left him—poor man, he is not long
for this world.”
Ellen had noticed that his face, as the
glow of surprise faded from it, reverted
to a sickly, ghastly paleness: but at this
moment a subject of stronger interest
occupied her mind. She ventured a
timid glance towards that part of the
room to which Miss Redwood had
turned on seeing her: there appeared
to be some delay about the arrangement
of the seats for the new comers. In the
meantime Miss Redwood was still
standing with her hand in Westall's, and
receiving the compliments of a gentleman
in the uniform of a British officer,
who had just approached from the table.
Ellen fancied she saw, for the feelings
that made her heart at that moment
throb almost audibly have a wonderful
effect on the vision—she fancied she saw
a mingled expression of impatience and
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
joy on Westall's countenance, and a moment
after she heard him coming towards
her with rapid steps.
The dread of observation—the fear of
exposing those emotions that every delicate
woman instinctively conceals, restored
to her at once her self-command,
and when she gave Westall her hand,
she simply evinced the frank pleasure
that became the reception of any friend,
and she preserved her self-possession in
spite of Deborah's exclaiming with her
usual bluntness, “Well, now Mr. Westall,
it does a body's heart good to see the
face of a friend in a strange land, and
especially yours, and looking so joyful
too.”
“I shall like my face the better all
my life,” replied Westall, “for speaking
such plain truth: it would be but a poor
index if it did not make the pleasure of
this unexpected meeting intelligible.
Miss Bruce, I rejoice to see,” he added,
in an under tone, “that you have been
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
successful in your benevolent mission—
but my mother is beckoning to me—
farewell till after dinner.”
So important an event as the arrival
of a celebrated beauty at a wateringplace
effected a complete diversion in
favour of Deborah's changeable—and
the regard shown to her by Mr. Redwood
shielded her from the ridicule of
the company.
After complimenting by her keen relish
a variety of viands within her reach, Deborah
turned to observe how her proteg
ées fared. “I am glad, Emily,” she
said, “to see you have an appetite; but
Ellen child, what ails you? you eat as
people eat in dreams, that is to say, you
don't eat at all: you must be more nice
than wise, not to find something to suit
your palate on this table, where there is
such a fulness, and all fresh too. Take
a piece of the chicken, Ellen—it is a
nice chicken for the time o' year—by the
way, I must find out how this young
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
Mr. Hull feeds his chickens—try a piece,
Ellen—” Ellen declined it. “Well then,
take a piece of the lamb, child. I can
assure you it is a firstling of the flock,
tender and fat; or if you don't fancy
lamb, let that gentleman help you off
the dish next him—what do you call it,
Sir?”
“Ragout, madam.”
“Well, I never heard the name before,
and I can't tell now any more than
when I ate it, whether it's fish or flesh,
but for a new-fashioned thing it's very
pretty tasted—the fare is excellent. I
have ate a little of all, and I freely give
it my recommend. Come, Ellen, don't
split peas any longer, but take a little
something—do.”
Ellen continued, however, obstinately
to refuse Deborah's solicitations; and
her attention being soon engrossed by
the pies and puddings which she appeared
to deem worthy successors of the
meats, Ellen was relieved from her
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
persecutions, and permitted for a short interval
to chew the food of sweet and
bitter fancies—a kind of food that had
quite spoiled her appetite for any
grosser elements.
The unforeseen meeting with the Redwood
party, had suggested to Ellen's
mind hopes and fears—resolutions and
irresolutions. It must be confessed that
there was something in the expression
of Charles Westall's face, and in the
tones of his voice, that conveyed to her
heart an assurance of consolation for any
evils that might await her. Love insinuates
its language through the eyes and
in the modulations of the voice, but
those alone whose senses have been
touched by the magic herb of Oberon
can comprehend it—to all others it is
like the `harmony of immortal souls'—
they cannot hear it. Who could have
imagined that Ellen had deduced from
her brief interview with her lover the
absolute certainty that she had nothing
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
to fear from the arts of Miss Redwood!
Who could have imagined that it
strengthened her resolution to await the
reversion of Mrs. Westall's kindness, and
the developement of her own history!
But so it was. Certain that his attachment
to her had not been shaken by
Caroline's artifices, nor his mother's distrust,
she was willing to leave all the rest
to time and chance; or rather—for we
are doing injustice to the religious habits
of her mind—to the kind Providence that
had thus far watched over her.
Ellen dreaded coming in collision
again with Miss Redwood: she trembled
at the recollection of the unaccountable,
mysterious hatred which Caroline had
expressed at their last interview; but
after a little reflection she arrived at the
tranquillizing conclusion that the eclat
that would attend Miss Redwood on the
scene where they were now to play their
parts, would render her quite indifferent
to so insignificant a personage as herself;
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
and in the shelter of her humility, she
hoped to pass without observation or
envy. She resolved to forego the pleasure
of Mr. Redwood's society, to make
the more difficult sacrifice of Westall's,
and in short, to seclude herself, as much
as possible, in her own apartment.
Ellen learned from the remarks of the
persons sitting around her, that Miss
Redwood's fame had preceded her arrival.
“Poor girls!” said a good-natured
looking old gentleman, who was surrounded
by his nieces, to whom he addressed
himself, “you may hang your
harps upon the willows now, or play a
requiem on them to your departed glory—
this southern luminary will quench
your light. See, my poor little Anne,
your military beau has fallen within the
sphere of her attractions already.”
“I could not in reason, uncle,” retorted
the young lady, “expect such a
light material as Fitzgerald, to resist
Miss Redwood's solid attractions. Give
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
up your old-fashioned whim, uncle, of
leaving a modicum to your relations to
the seventeenth degree—banish all,” she
continued, glancing her eyes sportively
around upon her companions—“sisters,
cousins, all — all, but faithful Anne.
Make me your sole heiress, uncle—add
golden spurs to my armour, and Fitzgerald
the prize, I will not fear to enter
the lists against Miss Redwood.”
“That's a brave girl, Anne, and a
good-tempered girl, too,” replied her
uncle, patting her cheek. “I like a
girl that can lose an admirer, and bear
a joke about it; you are ten times prettier
Anne, in my eyes, than Miss Redwood.
I would not exchange your goodhumoured
dimples for all her beauty. I
observed that as she entered the room,
something crossed my young lady's
humour—she flashed the fires of her
bright eyes towards this end of the table,
and `the angry spot did glow on Cæsar's
brow.”'
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
There was a fat lady sitting next the
speaker, blowing away sturdily with her
fan, and waiting impatiently for her turn
to pur forth. She was one of those
busy people, whose minds seem to be
a sort of alms-basket, into which they
collect odds and ends of information
that belong to every body's affairs but
their own. After saying that she fancied
any one who thought Miss Redwood
was not amiable would find himself
greatly in error, she detailed, with
the air of consequence with which she
felt herself invested by the possession
of such important particulars, the news
she had picked up about the Redwood
party, in which, as our readers will observe,
there was the usual proportion of
truth that obtains in such rumours.
“An express,” she said, “had arrived
the day before to secure rooms for the
party. They had been detained a long
time in a miserable hovel in Vermont,
in consequence of a terrible wound which
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
Mr. Redwood had received when he
was wrecked on the lake, or overturned
in his carriage—she was not sure which,
but she understood the account was in
the newspapers at the time. Poor Miss
Redwood had suffered shockingly. Her
friends had been apprehensive that her
life would be sacrificed to her fatigue
and confinement with her father. Her
life at the time of the accident had been
saved by the young gentleman who was
with them; and it was believed, indeed,”
she added with a simper, “she might
say it was certain they were now engaged;
for Mr. Redwood, who had withheld
his consent on account of the young
man's want of fortune, had lately become
interested in Mr. Westall, and all now
was going on smoothly.”
“What trumpery! what nonsense!”
Deborah repeatedly ejaculated in an
under voice, as the narrator proceeded,
when Ellen, frightened lest she should
take up her testimony, whispered a
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
caution which she had the prudence to
heed.
Some one asked of the lady informer
the source of her information. She said
that a particular friend, who had left the
springs that morning, had shewn her a
letter from a lady in Charleston, who
had seen a letter which had been received
from Miss Redwood.”
“Your information, madam, is doubtless
authentic,” said the old gentleman,
affecting a credulity which he was far
enough from feeling; “but I am quite
happy to observe, that the apprehensions
of the young lady's friends concerning
her health were groundless. She
is a perfect Hebe.”
“Oh, that may well be, Sir—young
people recover surprisingly; but it is
sure that Miss Redwood remained with
her father night and day for weeks—
how could she help it! The people, you
know, so far in the country, are quite
barbarians.”
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
Ellen, perceiving that it would be
utterly impossible for Deborah to suppress
her indignation much longer, proposed
withdrawing from the table, and
Deborah assented, loth to retreat without
giving battle.
As they left the dining-room, the British
officer, who had taken his seat next
Miss Redwood, (and who was the same
Captain Fitzgerald of whom she had
made such honourable mention in a letter
to her grandmother) said to her, “in
the name of heaven, who is that ancient
oddity? I saw your father address her
as he came into the room.”
“She is a Vermont woman—a demisavage,
that we met in our travels.”
“So I imagined—she looks like a
Yankee militia major, dressed in his
mother's wedding gear; but that pretty
girl with her, who seems to belong to
another age and country, who is she?”
“The one in black, you speak of?”
“Pardon me—she is an innocent
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
looking little concern enough, but I
spoke of the other, who is, as Hamlet
says, you know, `far more attractive
metal.”'
“Oh, she is—I don't precisely know—
she is a connection of the old woman's—
at least a sort of dependent on her.”
Captain Fitzgerald observed that for
some reason or other, his inquiry had
been displeasing to Miss Redwood, and a
firm believer in whatever impeaches the
virtue of the female sex, he remembered
the cynical rule that forbids a man to
flatter one woman in the presence of
another. “I should not have noticed
the young lady,” he said, “but there has
been such an absolute dearth of beauty
here since my arrival! Upon my soul,
Miss Redwood,” he added, with a prudent
depression of voice, “I should
have forgotten what beauty was, but
for a certain bright image indelibly
stamped on the tablets of my memory.
This young lady had one indisputable
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
charm; she was your herald—the morning
star that preceded the sun—but
what could have induced a civilized
being to come to a watering place under
such auspices?”
“My evil genius,” thought Caroline,
and she said, “I think I heard they
were going to visit the shakers in the
vicinity. They have some connexions
there—I fancy they have merely stopped
here, en passant, for their dinner, but
really,” she concluded, shrugging her
shoulders, “I know nothing about them:
one can't, you know, fill one's head with
the affairs of such people.”
Mr. Redwood had observed with a
feeling of impatience Captain Fitzgerald's
devotion to his daughter: he had
been waiting for a pause in their conversation,
which was conducted in an
under tone, to remind her “that she had
not,” as he said, “yet paid her respects to
Miss Bruce, and their good friend Deborah.”
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“Shall I have the honour of conducting
you to the drawing-room, Miss Redwood?”
asked Westall, who had been
long watching for an opportunity to follow
Ellen.
“Thank you—no, I must first go to
my room and dispose of my riding
dress; but I will be obliged to you to
make my apologies to the Vermontese,
as they will probably be gone before
I have an opportunity of seeing them.
Come, Mrs. Westall, shall we find our
way to our apartment?”
“Excuse my mother, Miss Redwood,”
said Westall. “You will not,” he added,
turning to Mrs. Westall, “risk losing
the pleasure of seeing our friends?”
“Certainly not—I will first go with
Miss Redwood, and then return to you,
Charles.”
“Do not put yourself to any inconvenience
on my account, Mrs. Westall—
the attendance of my servant will do
just as well as yours.”
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
Mrs. Westall felt the insulting implication
of Miss Redwood's reply. She
had been blinded by her self-love, and
her next strongest passion—her ambition
for her son—Miss Redwood's sudden
and exclusive devotion to Fitzgerald
had done more towards enlightening
her mind on the subject of the young
lady's merits, than all their previous
intercourse, and she left her with a feeling
that prepared her to see Ellen in the
most favorable light.
-- --
CHAPTER XXI.
“Il y a dans l'esprit humain deux forces très distinctes, l'un
inspire le besoin de croire, l'autre celui d'examiner.”
Madame de Stael.
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
Our readers will pardon us for deferring
their curiosity, (if indeed they have
any) while we give a brief exposé of the
different states of feeling which the several
members of the Redwood party
brought with them to Lebanon. After
Ellen's departure from Eton, Mr. Redwood,
no longer having any strong inclination
to protract his stay there, made
arrangements to recommence his journey
immediately. He took leave of the
Lenox family with sincere regret, and
left them such demonstrations of his
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
gratitude as impressed them with the
belief that his generosity was unbounded.
He travelled very slowly in obedience
to the advice of his physician; but notwithstanding
his caution, and the most
vigilant devotion from Charles Westall,
he found his health daily diminishing,
and he proposed to relinquish the longprojected
visit to Boston. The Springs
in August offered a more tempting theatre
than town. Caroline was all acquiescence
and sweetness, and the travellers
proceeded to Lebanon.
After Ellen left Eton, and during the
journey, Caroline redoubled her assiduities
to recover her lost influence over
Westall. “Scarce once herself, by turns
all womankind;” she affected every
grace, she pretended to every virtue
that she believed would advance her
designs. Mrs. Westall, a willing dupe,
believing at least half her pretensions,
and hoping the future might verify the
rest, was a most devoted auxiliary; and
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
Mr. Redwood began to indulge sanguine
expectations that he should realize
his dearest hopes—he augured well from
Caroline's serious efforts to win Westall's
affections, and in spite of his experience
and habitual despondency, he hoped
every thing from Westall's influence over
her.
There is no limit to the power of a
strong and virtuous attachment, but that
Miss Redwood was not capable of feeling
for any one, and certainly did not
for Westall. When she first saw him,
his fine exterior and refined manners had
pleased her;—accustomed to the gallantries
of admirers, till they had become
quite indispensable, and having no other
subject to try the power of her charms
upon, she played off her little coquetries
on him, without any other design than
to produce a present effect. Afterwards
the matter assumed a graver cast—her
vanity—the pride of beauty, wealth,
and station, became interested in the
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
contest with Ellen—and subsequently
still stronger motives stimulated her
rivalry, and made success important.
Never was there a man who had less
of the coxcomb than Westall, but he
could not choose but see the net that
was spread in his sight. To an indifferent
observer of the effect of Miss Redwood's
efforts, it would have been plain
that `the lightnings played on the impassive
ice,' but she did not so interpret
Westall's frequent abstractions and
studied politeness; for vanity dulls the
keenest perceptions, and is itself at least
as blind as love.
When the party arrived at Lebanon,
Mr. Redwood's first impulse at the unexpected
sight of Ellen was sincere
pleasure; Caroline's alarm, Mrs. Westall's
regret, and her son's unqualified
delight.
Ellen persisted in secluding herself
almost wholly in her own apartment:
she resisted the solicitations of Mr.
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
Redwood, who could not voluntarily
forego the pleasure of her society, the
only pleasure of which he now seemed
susceptible; she studiously avoided
meeting Westall, except in the public
rooms, and she had always some pretext
to decline the walks he proposed,
and the rides he arranged to include her.
Caroline, who seemed only to notice
her by a freezing bow as they sometimes
met in their passage to and from the
eating room, really watched every movement,
and after balancing all the motives
that she believed could operate on
Ellen's mind, she came to the conclusion,
that her rival had abandoned the
field. This somewhat abated her own
ardour—the devotion of a host of admirers,
who were crowding around her
for recognition or introduction, and the
highly seasoned flatteries of Captain
Fitzgerald, gave her a distaste to the
tame civilities of Westall, and not three
days had elapsed before she was
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
vacillating between the gratification of her
pride and resentment, and the pleasure
of granting the suit which Fitzgerald
was already pressing upon her.
Deborah was the only member of
either of the two parties who was quite
satisfied and tranquil; but she was determined,
as she said, not to come so
far and spend so much time and
money without having her `pennyworth
of pleasure.' The affair of the
changeable had caused her but a momentary
vexation, the only indications
that she remembered it were, that she
had carefully refolded and restored it to
her trunk without one word of comment,
and that she never again appeared in
that ambitious array. If ever a shadow
obscured Deborah's good nature, it was
as fleeting as an April cloud. The notice
of Mr. Redwood and Westall,
which they seemed proud of bestowing,
was a warrant for her respectability.
And though the town-bred young ladies
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
thought her quite terrible, and their
beaus pronounced her a monster, the
lovers of the picturesque admired her
figure as she strided through the rooms,
staring about her with fearless curiosity,
with her holiday work, (her knitting) in
her hands. She was sometimes seen
surrounded by a group of boys, relating
to them a revolutionary story with all
the animation of personal experience;
and her little auditors (for boys are
naturally belligerents) would warm with
the spirit of their fathers, and long to
`fight their battles o'er again.' She
even attracted the notice of the French
Ambassador, who made many inquiries
of her in relation to the mode of agriculture
and domestic economy of our
common farmers, and seemed so satisfied
of the accuracy and intelligence of her
replies, that he condescended to record
them in his note book.
But Deborah's stable mind was quite
unmoved by attention or neglect. She
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
inquired every body's name, and learned
something of every body's history. She
sometimes mingled in the crowd, and
took part in the conversation, and sometimes
stood aloof making her own observations.
In short, she went up and
down wherever she listed with lawless
independence; and her sagacity, simplicity,
and good nature always obtained
her sufferance, and sometimes procured
her attention and respect.
This was the posture of affairs when
our female friends on entering the parlour
one morning in their way to the
breakfast-room, were encountered by
the Armstead party. Miss Campbell
sprang towards Ellen, exclaiming,
while her fine face witnessed her sincerity,
“my dear Miss Bruce, I am delighted
to find you are not gone from
Lebanon. I should have died with uncertainty
and impatience the last five
minutes, but that I most opportunely
met my friend Charles Westall, at whom
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
I have been speering questions about
you, which he answered as patiently as
if he had been bred in the Socratic
school—and, to do him justice, he asked
as many as he answered. But how
comes it,” she added, hardly allowing
Ellen time to return the kind greetings
of the other members of her party,
“how comes it that you have not mentioned
our meeting, and the fortunate
incident that broke the ice of ceremony,
and made us friends at once? I have
thought of nothing else since, at least it
has given an agreeable hue to all my
other thoughts: you hesitate—you were
too modest to proclaim your own heroism.
Oh, my dear Miss Bruce, the days
are past when one might `do good by
stealth, and blush to find it fame'—this
is the age of display—of publication.
However, thanks to my generous interposition,
you have lost nothing on this
occasion by your modesty. I have told
the whole story to Mr. Westall—every
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
particular of it, with a suitable number
of epithets and exclamations, and have
had the pleasure of hearing him put all
his ohs and ahs in the right places, and
with the right emphasis, and conclude
with a `just like Miss Bruce.'
“But here,” she continued, seeming
at least not to notice the deep blush that
suffused Ellen's cheeks, “here comes
the eighth wonder of the world—the
beautiful Miss Redwood—and we common
mortals must fall back to gaze on
her.”
Caroline entered leaning on Mrs.
Westall's arm; her father was beside
her. Captain Fitzgerald joined them as
they came into the room, and they passed
near the window at which Westall and
the ladies were standing. Fitzgerald
recognised Miss Campbell in a dubious
inquiring manner, which expressed, `do
we meet as friends?' and her cold bow
replied unequivocally, `as strangers.'
Caroline turned towards Westall—
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
“your mother, and papa,” she said,
“have settled it that we take our drive
to the shakers after breakfast. You are
no laggard, and we shall depend on
your being ready—and do be so good as
to get a direction from Miss Bruce to
aunt, the elect lady.”
“Your aunt the elect lady!” exclaimed
Miss Campbell.
“No, replied Ellen,” quite unmoved
by a stroke that was meant to mortify
her, “I have no aunt among the shakers,
neither, if I understand their order, is
there any `elect lady.”'
“Oh, I was mistaken then,” said Caroline,
“it is this Miss Allen's aunt, that
I allude to—perhaps,” she added, still
addressing Westall, “you may persuade
her to go with us as pioneer: she must
be quite familiar with the curiosities of
the place, and possibly she may favour
us with an introduction to some of the
gifted brethren.”
Poor Emily blushed and trembled as
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
every eye turned on her, and edging
herself behind Ellen, she whispered in
all simplicity, “do tell her I can't go.”
“My dear Emily, Miss Redwood
knows you cannot go.”
“Afraid of being reclaimed,” said
Caroline, enjoying the confusion into
which she had thrown the simple girl.
“Never mind, child, we shall do very
well without you—I will trust to luck
for a chance to quiz some of the old
broad brims,”
“Caroline,” said Mr. Redwood, “we
shall lose our places at the breakfast
table by this delay. Do you go with us,
Westall?”
“The ladies must excuse me, I have
an engagement after breakfast.”
“Miss Redwood bit her lips with
vexation, and then turning to Captain
Fitzgerald, “have you too an engagement?”
she said.
“No engagement but on the field of
battle could supersede your commands,
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
Miss Redwood,” replied the gallant captain.
“Then you will occupy the vacant
seat in our carriage?”
Fitzgerald bowed his delighted assent,
Mr. Redwood asked Westall in a whisper,
if his engagement would interfere
with his giving him half an hour after
he should return from his ride? Westall
replied, “certainly not;” and they made
an appointment to meet in the course of
the morning.
Westall, true to the moment of his
appointment, tapped at Mr. Redwood's
door and was admitted. He found him
extremely pale and somewhat agitated.
“You are not, Sir, I fear, as well as
usual this morning,” he said, “your
ride has fatigued you?”
“I am as well as usual,” he replied,
in a melancholy tone, “but my health
is every day becoming worse: disease
would do its work soon enough, but
there are other causes that accelerate
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
my decline:” he paused for a moment.—
“Westall, I am going to repose a confidence
in you that I never knew any
other man, your father excepted, worthy
of.—I have a weight on my mind from
which you only can relieve me;”—he
paused again, and seemed embarrassed.
“It is a delicate subject. I hoped—I
expected that you would have first
spoken to me upon it, but you may have
your own scruples—I know not—I am
lost in conjectures—at any rate, my
frankness demands an equal frankness
in return.”
“Charles,” he continued with a firmer
voice, “it has long been my favourite,
almost my only project, to give my
child to you—to obtain for myself a
virtuous son—to secure to her a safe
and happy destiny—your father's generosity
impaired your inheritance; Caroline's
will supply its defects—my daughter
loves you—I do not commit her
delicacy in saying so—the sentiment
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
does equal credit to her head and heart—
how long it will endure delay on your
part I cannot say: she is a flattered and
somewhat spoiled beauty—and this Fitzgerald
is laying siege to her.”
At this moment Westall almost wished
he had a heart to give to the daughter
of Mr. Redwood, but he did not hesitate
as to the course he should pursue: after
saying he was certain Mr. Redwood had
misunderstood his daughter's sentiments
in relation to him, he made a manly
avowal of his attachment to Ellen, and
related, with such reserves as a lover
would be apt to make, the events and
conversation of the morning of her
departure from Eton.
Mr. Redwood was quite unprepared
for this communication, for though his
acquaintance with Ellen Bruce, and his
vigilant observation of Westall, had
shaken the dominion of his long cherished
dogma of the selfishness of his
race, and though he had of late much
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
inclined to believe there were principles
that might modify and control this selfishness;
yet it seemed to him utterly incredible
that a young man without fortune,
without patronage, and with talents
to generate ambition, should forego the
brilliant advantages of an alliance with
his daughter, for the sake of pure love,
such as he had deemed only existed in
romances and poetry, and was almost
too obsolete to obtain a place there.
He received Westall's disclosure with
an intense interest. Admiration for his
young friend, and bitter disappointment
at the utter defeat of his own projects,
struggled for the mastery: he remained
silent till Westall said, “you may deem
my hopes presumptuous, Sir, but you
cannot, I am certain, think them dishonourable
to me.”
“Dishonourable! no, my dear Charles—
my only wonder is that you have fallen
in love with a poor little girl who has
nothing but the best heart in the world
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
to give you—dishonourable! would to
God my youth had been rectified by the
principle that governs yours.”
Memory and conscience were busy,
and sent their witness into Redwood's
pallid cheek. “Westall, I am a miserable
man—life has no attractions—no
consolations for me—death no repose.
I had a deep thirst for happiness—my
spirit soared above the vulgar pleasures
of the world, but I have fettered—wasted—
degraded it; and now I suffer the
fierce pangs of remorse for the past—of
despair for the future. Westall, there is
a misery for which language has no expression,
in approaching the grave with
the consciousness of having lost the noble
ends for which life was given.
“Had I been borne along, as thousands
are, like a leaf upon the waters, and
left no trace behind, I should have comparative
peace; but”—he folded his hands
upon his breast—“I have dispossessed
this temple of the divinity for which it
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
was formed, I have destroyed the innocent—
contaminated the pure—and my
child — my only child — the immortal
creature whose destiny was entrusted
to me, I have permitted to be nursed in
folly, and devoted to the world without
a moral principle or influence!”
The wild melancholy of Redwood's
countenance, and the import of his language,
alarmed Westall:—“let me beseech
you, Sir,” said he, “to be more
composed—your strength is unequal to
the agitation of your spirits—you know
not what you are saying.”
“Not know what I am saying,” he replied,
with a bitter smile: “oh, Westall,
I am wearied with the dreary solitude of
my own mind—the spirit of your father,
young man, is in your face—his gentleness
in your heart: I must have your
sympathy, your aid—if indeed relief is
possible. I have sought relief here,” he
continued, drawing a Bible from beneath
his pillow, “this was the gift of your
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
sweet Ellen. At midnight and in secresy
I have explored its pages—and I believe
its record is true—at least I am inclined
to believe it; but when the evidence of
its divine original forces its way to my
convictions, the arguments and the ridicule
of infidelity recur to my mind, and
the habits of scepticism hold it in suspense.
And if it be true, its decisions
are against me—its promises are all to
the pious, the upright, and the benevolent.”
“And is there no promise to the penitent?”
asked Westall. “Believe me,
this book contains the provisions of a
father for his children; and there is no
condition of the human mind, no modification
of human destiny, which they cannot
reach.”
“Do not, Charles, make me the dupe
of my necessities; do not send the light
of hope into my mind, to render the darkness
that shall succeed more horrible.
Of what avail can be that penitence into
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
which we are scourged by the fear of the
future? Charles, I have already gone
too far with you for half-way confidence,
and I have no longer any motive for reserve.
As I draw near the limit of life,
the opinion of my fellow-men, which has
ruled me with despotic control, is reduced
to its real insignificance. I ask
your patience, while I relate to you some
events of my life, of which there is now
no record, but that which is written as
with the point of a diamond on my conscience.”
“You are wearied already with the
exertions of this morning,” said Westall,
with instinctive delicacy, “had you not
better suspend our conversation for the
present?”
“No, my dear friend, nothing will refresh
me so much as unburthening my
heart to you.—I have now nerved myself
to the effort, and I feel equal to it—I
may never again.”
He then proceeded to relate the
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
circumstances of his life with which our
readers are already acquainted. His
narrative was often interrupted by emotions
too strong to be repressed; and as
he concluded, he said to Westall, who
had listened in breathless silence, “you
now perceive, Charles, what reason I
have for remorse.”
“But why,” asked Westall, stimulated
by a governing feeling of compassion to
suggest something that might alleviate
Mr. Redwood's misery, “why this deep
remorse? Your life has been stained but
by one criminal action, and that committed
in the thoughtless period of youth.”
“Ah, Charles! do not soften matters
to me now—that one action has cast its
dark shadows over every period of my
life: say you one criminal action? what
call you my total neglect of my daughter?
what that cold indifference to the happiness
of the human family which has permitted
me to lock those talents in my
own breast, which might have been
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
employed for their benefit?—what kind
term will you bestow on my cold scepticism?
what on my useless, daring speculations?
No no, my friend,” he added,
impetuously, “you must not—cannot
flatter me now—it is too late—I have
learned truly to estimate the barrenness,
the misery of that life which has no higher
objects of pursuit than those that perish
in the using. I must endure the effects
of that folly which passes by the pure
fountains of happiness in the path of life,
and of that selfishness which makes a
dreary desert of the world.
“I was made for something better than
a man of the world. This consciousness,
which has never forsaken me, has sharpened
the sting of conscience, and has
made me probably suffer more and enjoy
less, than most men would have done in
my circumstances. Do not reply to me
now, Charles. You are in no state of
mind to give me the counsel and aid I
so much need. I perceive the
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
compassionate interest that I have awakened,
and am grateful for it. Once I should
have scorned it, but now it is balm to
my hurt mind.
“With my present feelings, Westall,
you will not be surprised at my anxiety
to make all the amends in my power to
my daughter for my neglect of her. I
am not blind to her faults—they are,
alas! too glaring not to be seen; but
I hoped every thing from her youth and
the influence of your character; and
I thought, and still think, that she has a
deeper interest in you than I believed
her capable of feeling in any one. But
that is all past—it was my last dream—
you have chosen well. I cannot boast
my principles—but Ellen suits my
tastes; and feeling her loveliness as I
have felt it, I cannot now but wonder
that I ever should have indulged the
extravagant expectation that you would
fix your affections elsewhere. Charles,
your sweet friend resembles the only
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
person I ever truly loved: resembles her
in her face and figure, and still more in
the gentleness and purity of her character.
Oh, had I possessed such a child!—
poor Caroline! The world would
wonder, Westall, if it knew that the
beautiful idol to whom it renders homage
is the object of her father's pity—of his
remorse—but I forget your interests in
my perpetual recurrence to my own
anxieties.
“You must persuade Ellen to give up
her scruples in regard to her mother's
restrictions; there can be but one rational
opinion about them. She was
doubtless some sentimental deluded
young creature, whose tenderness for
her offspring induced her to devise this
innocent little artifice to keep her in
ignorance of her parentage.”
Westall had too entire a sympathy
with Ellen to regard the matter in this
light, but he declared with sincerity,
that though on her account he trusted
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
that her long cherished hopes might not
be disappointed, as far as related to
his own feelings, the result would be a
matter of perfect indifference.
“No parentage,” he said, “could
confer honour on Miss Bruce—none
could touch the essential dignity of her
character.”
Mr. Redwood smiled at his enthusiasm;
but he respected it. He entreated
Westall to give him as much of his time
as possible; `he knew,' he said, `that
it would be a sacrifices to him, but he
believed that sacrifices were neither difficult
nor painful to those who were
habitually disinterested.'
Mr. Redwood expressed the greatest
anxiety in regard to Fitzgerald's attentions
to his daughter. He said he had
learned that this gentleman was a younger
branch of a noble family, turned into
the army to seek his fortune in a military
life, for which he had no other qualifications
than a fine figure and
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
handsome face—and that moreover he was
distinguished among the officers of his
regiment for his dissipated habits.
These were certainly sufficient grounds
of alarm; and they increased now to a
frightful degree the harassed and troubled
state of mind which seemed to be
hastening Mr. Redwood to the grave.
At one moment he resolved to leave
the Springs immediately, and the next
was convinced that he was unequal to
the effort. Westall remained with him
until summoned away by the dinner
bell; he then left him somewhat tranquillized,
and with the resolution that
he would spare no efforts to minister to
the peace of his mind. Such was the
benevolent interest he felt in him, that
he would have compassed sea and land
to inspire him with a just hope and
a quiet resignation.
-- --
CHAPTER XX.
“Call you this a quiz?” said my uncle, “in my day it would
have been called a lie.”
Plain Dealer.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
Miss Campbell valued herself on
never feeling or doing any thing by
halves—she had taken a decided liking
to Ellen—with her cordial admiration
there mingled a little of the pride of
a discoverer: a complacent sense of the
merit of having first felt Miss Bruce's
attractions, and asserted her claims. She
attached herself almost exclusively to
her, and Westall was delighted to observe
after dinner that Ellen, instead
of retiring immediately to her own room
as usual, accompanied Miss Campbell
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
and her party to the drawing-room.
Miss Redwood observed that he was
following them—she beckoned to him
and said, “be good enough to tell Miss
Deborah, that during my ride this morning
I met her neighbour Martin, I stopped
him to enquire after the Lenoxes.
He told me they were all well excepting
old Mrs. Allen, who is very ill,
and afraid she shall not live to see her
grandchild.”
Westall went as unwillingly as ever
schoolboy crept to school to deliver a
message which must hasten Ellen's departure.
Fitzgerald had overheard the
communication, and looked at Caroline
inquisitively.
“A ruse de guerre,” she whispered.
“It is such a bore to meet that giant
Miss Deb by and her suite at every turn,
that I have tasked my invention to get
rid of them.”
“Oh, a quiz, admirable—skill against
ignorance—the only mode of warfare
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
with savages. 'Pon honour, Miss Redwood,
I cannot imagine how you have survived
your exile among those barbarians.
The condition of society in these northern
states is quite terrible—insufferable
to those whose felicity it has been to live
where the natural distinctions of rank
are preserved.”
“I assure you, Captain Fitzgerald, I
was excessively annoyed. I found it
quite impossible to make those people
feel they were not my equals.”
“Your equals! good heavens! had
the animals `organs, senses, affections,
passions'! Would to heaven,” he added,
lowering his voice, “Miss Redwood
would consent to go where the eye and
the heart will confess that she has no
equal.”
“That would be heaven, indeed!”
replied Caroline, turning her eye on Fitzgerald
with an expression that authorised
his most daring hopes.
“Yes, heaven,” he replied, “not a
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
puritanical heaven of liberty and equality,
but a place where beauty, rank,
and fashion, are far above this plebeian
fog—a place worthy of you, Miss Redwood,
where there are queens, and subjects,
and worshippers—love and loyalty.”
It is impossible to say how long the
captain would have continued his battery,
had not his fluency been suddenly
checked by one of those provoking interruptions
to which all lovers are liable.
Mrs. Westall, to whom Mr. Redwood
(too ill to appear at dinner) had consigned
his daughter, tired of playing
solitaire with his fair protegée, was all
eye and ear for Fitzgerald, and deaf and
dumb to every body else, took the
liberty to remark that all the ladies
except themselves had retired from the
table, and rising at the same moment,
she proposed to Caroline an adjournment
to the drawing-room.
Miss Redwood would rather have
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
deferred the movement, for she dreaded
encountering Deborah. “Come with
us,” she whispered to Fitzgerald, who
stood awaiting with deference the ladies'
departure: “if we are obliged to meet
the old amazon, heaven help us! We
shall need all our combined skill to parry
her downright questions.”
“As your auxiliary, Miss Redwood,”
replied Fitzgerald, proceeding towards
the drawing-room with the ladies, “I
fear nothing: but upon my soul, without
a divinity to inspire me, I should never
muster courage to encounter one of these
question-asking Yankees. I had rather
march up to the cannon's mouth.”
“Thank heaven,” said Caroline,
casting her eyes around the drawing-room,
and ascertaining that Deborah was
not there, “we are safe for the present.
If you will open the piano for me, Captain
Fitzgerald, I will play the air you
were asking for this morning.”
Captain Fitzgerald arranged the piano
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
—Miss Redwood took her seat at it,
and Mrs. Westall left her and joined
Ellen, who was sitting on the other side
of the room in an animated conversation
with Grace Campbell.
“Your fair friend, Mrs. Westall,” said
Miss Campbell, “has certainly made a
conquest of Captain Fitzgerald—a conquest
that I suspect will lead very soon
to an amicable treaty.”
“Appearances justify your opinion,
certainly,” replied Mrs. Westall; “and
provided Mr. Redwood ratifies the
treaty, I know no one that will interpose,
or even feel an objection.”
“I don't know,” said Miss Campbell,
“I have no particular admiration for
Miss Redwood; but I declare to you,
I think she is too young and too beautiful
to be sacrificed to a mere fortune-hunter.”
“She is heartless,” replied Mrs.
Westall, “and therefore fair game for
a fortune-hunter.”
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
Charles Westall noticed that his mother
spoke with uncommon asperity;
but her gentlest tones had never delighted
him so much, as an expression
that indicated a state of feeling which
he had long hoped that her own observation
and reflections would produce
without his interference. He perceived
that she was completely alienated from
Miss Redwood, and that the re-action of
her feelings was all in Ellen's favour,
and with a very pardonable filial enthusiasm,
he mentally congratulated himself
on always having believed that his mother's
good sense and good feeling
would finally rectify her opinions.
Probably Ellen's thoughts had received
a direction from Mrs. Westall's
observation; but suddenly recalling
them to the point whence they had
started, she asked Miss Campbell “if
she thought Fitzgerald was really in love
with Caroline Redwood?”
“In love!—Oh my sweet innocent,
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
in what blessed ignorance of the present
generation you must have lived. In
love—no, believe me there is no love
extant, unless it be,” and she glanced
her laughing eyes with most provoking
significance towards Westall, “unless it
be on the shores of romantic lakes, or in
such sweet sequestered vales as you
describe that in which your friend Mrs.
Harrison resides—Fitzgerald in love!—
his device is a golden arrow—his motto,
the old proverb—`Without Ceres and
Bacchus, love is cold.”'
“Shame on you, Grace,” said young
Armstead, “you are a most ungracious
girl. You should adopt the mode of
some pretty simpering fair ones of my
acquaintance, who imitate bereaved
widows, and always speak of their late
lovers as they do of their deceased husbands
with a `poor dear' prefixed to
their names. `Poor dear Fitzgerald'
would be a becoming mention of one of
your most devoted worshippers.”
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
“It was to the golden trappings of the
idol that Fitzgerald bowed, William:
his sacrifice was like the priests of Baal,
the fire came not near it.”
“You may carry your analogy still
farther, Grace; for to your praise be it
spoken, there was `no voice, nor answer,
nor any that regarded.”'
“I deserve no praise for that,” replied
Miss Campbell, while a smile betrayed
that she was not displeased to have it
known that she disdained the flatteries
of Miss Redwood's admirer: “I deserve
no praise for seeing through that
soulless creature—a mere parade-day
officer, who dishonours the uniform that
has been and is worn by so many heroes
You and I, William, were brought up in
the old school, nursed in Anglo-American
prejudices, taught to believe that all
virtue, valour, genius, were of British
birth and growth: experience has abated
some of the articles of my creed, and
softened others. I have seen many an
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
American shop-boy, many a gawky young
farmer, who had more cleverness than
such a British officer as Fitzgerald: more
knowledge, more of every thing that is
essentially respectable.”
“You are so enlightened, Miss Campbell,”
said Westall, “you should disabuse
some of your fair countrywomen of their
prejudices.”
“It is impossible, utterly impossible.
Such an enterprise would be as rational
as a crusade against artificial flowers and
ostrich feathers. So long as these redcoated
gentry shall play the most elegant
game at chess, or whist—hand a lady to
the dinner table in the most graceful
manner—carve the dish next her secundum
artem, and in short, perform all the
little etiquettes of society with unparalleled
grace, they must remain the favourite
ornaments of our drawing-rooms—
our fair ladies will overlook their little
irregularities in morals; and rational and
virtuous men, like you, Mr. Westall, and
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
my cousin William, (you do not merit the
compliment from me, Will, but I put you
in to make the party stronger,) such men
must yield to them the precedence.”
“Oh, Grace!” said Mrs. Armstead,
“little did I ever expect to hear such a
philippic against any thing British from
the lips of one of your grandfather's
descendants.”
“My dear aunt, you mistake me if
you imagine that I mean to limit my
criticisms to our foreign military beaus—
no, unfortunately we have a large class
of native productions that have equal
claims to a polished exterior, and essential
good-for-nothingness. If my dear
grandpapa could take a peep into my
heart at this moment, he would be quite
satisfied with the loyal affection I bear
to the land of his birth; and I flatter
myself that the old gentleman, belonging
as he doubtless does now to the universal
nation of the good and happy,
would rejoice that his descendants are
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
all Americans, and only attached to the
parent land by the indissoluble ties of
respect and affection. I do not believe
that we `love Cæsar less,' but we certainly
`love Rome more.”'
“Well, my dear Grace,” replied Mrs.
Armstead, “I am glad to find that if you
have caught the national enthusiasm, the
epidemic of the day, you are not a traitor
to England.”
“So far from it, mother,” said young
Armstead, “that I will hazard a prophecy,
that within six months from this fifteenth
day of August, our cousin Grace will be
the wife of an Englishman.”
“You are a false prophet, Will.”
“Time, not you, Grace, must pronounce
that decision; and I call this
honourable company to witness that I
rest my prophetic fame upon this prediction.”
By a natural train of thought Mr.
Howard, whom Ellen had seen devoted
to Miss Campbell when they met at the
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
village-inn, occurred to her mind, and
she asked Grace, `why he was not still
of her party?'
“He was suddenly summoned away,”
she replied, “by letters from home:”
and, to avert observation from her rising
colour, she looked out of the window.
“I stand to my prediction, Grace,”
whispered Armstead, “in spite of your
treacherous blushes.”
“Mr. Westall,” exclaimed Miss Campbell,
“you were inquiring for Deborah,
here she comes with the little shaker.”
“For mercy's sake, Miss Campbell,”
said Ellen, “do not let Emily hear you
call her so. The poor child has been
frightened to death since Miss Redwood's
address to her this morning made her an
object of notice. Her story is now, I am
told, though fortunately she does not
know it, in every body's mouth.”
Westall met Deborah at the door, and
drew her aside to communicate Miss
Redwood's message. Emily entered the
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
room alone, and looked fearfully around
her.
“Poor little timid distressed thing,”
said Miss Campbell, “she looks like a
lamb that has strayed from the shepherd
into a company of wolves.”
Ellen advanced towards the bashful
girl, and drawing Emily's arm within her
own, she led her to a seat where she was
sheltered from observation.
Westall qualified the information he
reluctantly communicated to Deborah,
and urged that one day's delay could not
be of consequence. She, however, with
her usual promptitude, determined to
leave the Springs the next morning, and
immediately announced her determination
to her companions, without deeming
it necessary to avow the cause of
it.
A bright beam of pleasure shot from
Emily's eyes. Ellen's turned involuntarily
towards Charles Westall, and one
brief glance contradicted all her
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
wellmaintained reserve and scrupulous silence.
Loud exclamations, expressive of disappointment,
from all the Armstead
party, and, louder than all the rest,
Miss Campbell's, attracted a momentary
attention from Miss Redwood. She
paused in the midst of the successful
performance of a favourite march, and
exchanged a significant nod with Fitzgerald;
she then struck the notes with
a stronger hand, but she could not drown
the unwelcome sounds of `do, Miss
Bruce, stay one day longer—Oh, Miss
Debby, one day cannot make any difference—
just one day.'
But Miss Deborah, affirming that it
had all along been her intention to go
within a day or two, remained inexorable,
and the young ladies left the
drawing-room to arrange their affairs
for their departure.
Mrs. Westall followed Ellen to the
stairs, and detaining her there till her
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
companions had passed up, she said, “if
my feelings or wishes have ever done
you injustice, forgive me, Ellen—believe
me, there is now but one other so
dear—so interesting to me as you are.”
Ellen faltered out, “I am very grateful,”
and turned hastily away, leaving
Mrs. Westall quite satisfied with the
significance which her glowing cheek
and moistened eye gave to her scanty
expression.
Ellen had scarcely reached her own
apartment, when Miss Campbell came
running to her quite out of breath:
“suspend your packing operations, my
dear Ellen,” she said, “and sit down
and listen to me for a moment, I cannot
be ceremonious with you—I have the
greatest favour to ask of you—and you
cannot, must not deny me. Will you
remain here for ten days as my guest?
I bar a negative. Now do not make up
your mouth for any excuses till you have
heard me out. You told me this
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
morning that your old friend Mrs. Allen no
longer needed your services, and that
you were only going this roundabout
way to Vermont, because you had no
other way of getting to Mrs. Harrison.
Now my aunt is going to Boston—she
has a vacant seat in her carriage—Lansdown
is but a few miles off the direct
route, and my aunt says nothing will
delight her so much as to take you to
Mrs. Harrison. She bids me tell you
that Mrs. Harrison was an acquaintance
of her mother's, and that you must not
refuse her an introduction to her.”
Ellen's decision vibrated between a
strong inclination to remain and a natural
reluctance (which even Miss Campbell's
extreme cordiality could not remove,)
to receive such favours from
persons nearly strangers to her. While
she deliberated, and Grace Campbell
urged her request, they were interrupted
by a servant who brought Ellen a note.
“This note, whoever it comes from,”
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
said Miss Campbell, “will, I trust, induce
you to decide to remain. You
seem now as much puzzled as poor
Launcelot Gobbo was with the opposing
counsel of the fiend and his conscience.
Conscience is on my side I am
sure.”
“And the note too,” said Ellen, refolding
it; “and now if Miss Deborah
will relinquish her right to me, I will
throw away all squeamishness, and
gratefully accept your invitation.”
The note was from Mr. Redwood, and
contained an earnest entreaty that Ellen
would defer her departure for a few
days. It was written hastily, was almost
illegible, and concluded thus: “I
once meditated an injury against you—
it is now my earnest wish to repair the
fault of that intention—my life is fast
ebbing—do not refuse the last favour I
can ever ask of you.”
The note Ellen rightly believed was
the fruit of Westall's intervention, but
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
he could not have dictated the purport
of it, and her delicacy was satisfied, now
that she had a motive to remain, independent
of her lover. The ladies proceeded
to Miss Deborah's apartment,
and she, having heard the proposed arrangement,
acquiesced with her usual
rationality.
She seated herself on her trunk, and
resting her elbows on her knees. “Not
but what I am loth to part with you,
Ellen,” she said, “for the Lord knows,”
and she brushed a tear from the corner
of her eye, “nobody ever wanted to
leave you yet; but then there is reason
in all things—you have taken a long
journey, all for those that's neither kith
nor kin to you, and now that you are
happy among your mates, it is but fair
you should have a play-spell: besides, it
would be rather tough for our poor old
horse to draw us all over the hills,
and he should be considered too—to be
sure I calculated to walk up the hills,
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
but then I have come to that time of
life, when I had rather ride than walk—
so all is for the best.”
“We can all say `amen' to that, Miss
Deborah,” said Miss Campbell; “you
are a perfect philosopher. I am delighted—
Ellen looks resigned—and your
little Emily there most provokingly
happy.”
“Well,” replied Debby, “contentment
is a good thing, and a rare—but I
guess it dwells most where people would
least expect to find it. There's Ellen
Bruce, she has had troubles that would
fret some people to death, and yet I have
seldom seen her with a cloudy face.”
“How do you account for that, Miss
Debby? I am curious to get at this
secret of happiness; for I have been in
great straits sometimes, for the want of
it.”
“Why, I'll tell you. Now, Ellen,
I don't mean to praise you”—and she
looked at Ellen, while an expression of
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
affection spread over her rough featured
face. “The truth is, Ellen has been so
busy about making other people happy,
that she has no time to think of herself;
instead of grieving about her own
troubles, she has tried to lessen other
people's; instead of talking about her
own feelings and thinking about them,
you would not know she had any, if you
did not see she always knew just how
other people felt.”
“Stop, stop, Deborah, my good
friend,” said Ellen, “you must not turn
flatterer in your old age.”
“Flatterer!—The Lord have mercy
on you, girl; nothing was farther from
my thoughts than flattering. I mean
just to tell this young lady, for her information,
that the secret of happiness was
to forget yourself, and care for the happiness
of others.”
“You are right—I believe you are
right,” said Miss Campbell, with
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
animation; “though I have practised very
little after your golden rule.”
“The more's the pity, young woman;
for, depend on't, it's the safe rule and
the sure; I have scriptur warrant for
it, beside my own observation, which,
as you may judge, has not been small.
It's a strange thing this happiness; it
puts me in mind of an old Indian I have
heard of, who said to a boy, who was
begging him for a bow and arrow, `the
more you say bow and arrow, the more
I won't make it.' There's poor Mr. Redwood,
as far as I can find out, he has
had nothing all his life to do but to
go up and down and too and fro upon
the earth, in search of happiness; look
at his face, it is as sorrowful as a tombstone,
and just makes you ponder upon
what has been, and what might have
been: and his kickshaw of a daughter—
why I, Debby Lenox, a lone old
woman that I am, would not change
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
places with her—would not give up my
peaceable feelings for hers, for all the
gold in the king's coffers: and for the
most part, since I have taken a peep
into what's called the world, I have seen
little to envy among the great and the
gay, the rich and handsome.”
“And yet, Miss Debby,” said Grace,
“the world looks upon these as the
privileged classes.”
“Ah! the world is the slave of its own
fooleries.”
“Well, Miss Deborah, I have unbounded
confidence in your wisdom;
but, since my lot is cast in this same
evil world, I should be sorry to think
there was no good in it.”
“No good, Miss!—that was what
I did not, and would not say. There is
good in every thing and every where, if
we have but eyes to see it, and hearts to
confess it. There is some pure gold
mixed with all this glitter; some here
that seem to have as pure hearts and
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
quiet minds as if they had never stood
in the dazzling sunshine of fortune.”
“You mean to say, Deborah,” said
Ellen, “that contentment is a modest,
prudent spirit; and that for the most
part she avoids the high places of the
earth, where the sun burns and the
tempests beat, and leads her favourites
along quiet vales and to sequestered
fountains.”
“Just what I would have said, Ellen,
though it may not be just as I should
have said it,” replied Deborah, smiling.
“You young folks like to dress every
thing off with garlands, while such a
plain old body as I only thinks of the
substantials. But here I am preaching,
while Emily, as busy as a little bee,
has packed every thing and tied every
bundle and box; her heart is already
half way to Eton. I wish it was as
short a journey to my old limbs as it is
for your young spirits, Emily. Now
don't redden up, child, like the sky
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
at sunset: true love is a creditable feeling,
and I hope you know it to be so
now that we have sifted that shaker
chaff out of your mind. Come, Miss
Campbell and Ellen, we will go on to
the piazza, and leave Emily to the company
of her own thoughts.”
The young ladies followed Deborah
to the piazza. Mr. Redwood and his
daughter, Fitzgerald and Westall, were
sitting at one extremity of it. Deborah
proposed joining them; but Ellen begged
they might remain where they were.
“I cannot,” she said, “voluntarily inflict
my presence on Miss Redwood. I
never approach her that she does not
shrink from me as if I breathed a poisonous
influence.”
“Or rather,” said Miss Campbell, “as
a condemned spirit shrinks from the
healthful air of morning. She is not
worth heeding, Ellen: it is the folly
of her haughtiness, or perhaps,”—and
she looked at Ellen with an arch smile—
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
“there has been some rivalry in the
case; she may have detected too soon
the `fair speechless messages that pass
between certain eyes and yours. Do
not colour, dear Ellen; Miss Debby
says truly, `it is a creditable feeling.”'
“Spare your raillery, Grace; this
is no subject for it. There is no rivalry
in the case, I assure you. Whatever
my feelings may be, you perceive that
all Miss Redwood's are now exclusively
devoted to Captain Fitzgerald; and yet
her dislike towards me, or rather hatred,
for I must give it that harsh name, has
no relenting.—I never approach her—I
never pass her, even in her happiest
moods, that her brow does not contract,
and every feature becomes rigid, with
an expression that it would seem impossible
for so young and beautiful a face
to wear.”
“Pshaw, Ellen!” said Deborah;
“the girl is whimsical, and her whims
are no more worth your minding than
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
the freaks of a fretful child. Come
along with us. I must see Mr. Redwood
once more, and sorry am I it's
the last time, for he suits my fancy better
than many a better man.”
Ellen seemed still reluctant, when
Charles Westall joined the ladies with a
request, as he said, from Mr. Redwood,
that they would consider his inability to
come to them, and favour him with their
company. The ladies acquiesced, and
Miss Campbell took Deborah's arm, on
the pretext that she could not accommodate
her quick step to Ellen's lagging
pace.
This benevolent manœuvre gave Westall
an opportunity to satisfy his impatient
curiosity as to Ellen's decision in
regard to her departure, and when they
reached Mr. Redwood, the speaking
animation of his countenance evinced
how much he was delighted with the
result of his enquiry. Miss Redwood
stood with her back to the company,
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
apparently entirely engrossed in settling
with Captain Fitzgerald the comparative
beauty of the liveries of half-a-dozen
servants who stood at the spring below
them.
A faint gleam of pleasure lit up Mr.
Redwood's pale and desponding face, as
Ellen approached him; he took her
hand. “Miss Deborah,” he said, “is
very good to consent to leave you.”
Caroline turned suddenly round, and
darted a look of eager inquiry at Ellen.
“And you, my dear Miss Bruce,” he
added, in a low voice, “very kind to
grant my poor request.”
“Caroline, Miss Bruce remains a few
days longer at Lebanon, I hope you will
do every thing in your power to prove
that her stay is not a matter of indifference
to you.” Caroline bowed—she
looked absolutely pale. “Your favourite
book, my dear Ellen,” continued
Mr. Redwood, “asserts, I believe, that
it is more blessed to give than to
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
receive; if so, I shall be the cause of great
happiness to you, though not in a mode
most flattering to my own pride.”
Every word that her father uttered
increased Caroline's agitation; it was
too apparent to escape observation, and
for once the same thought flashed
through Fitzgerald's and Miss Campbell's
mind—the same thought, but it
produced a very different effect. “Good
heavens,” said Miss Campbell mentally,
“does the foolish girl really fancy that
her poor father, who is so fast going
where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage, is projecting a lovematch
with Ellen, or that she will marry
a half disembodied spirit!” `Ah,' thought
Fitzgerald, `the girl is keen-sighted, she
foresees a match—these second marriages
make horrible havoc with fortunes.
'
Mr. Redwood charged Deborah with
many kind remembrances to his Vermont
friends, and she, really affected at
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
the thought of parting from him for ever,
and always unobservant of forms,
turned hastily away without saying a
word to Caroline. Suddenly recollecting
herself she returned. “Good bye
to you, Miss Caroline,” she said, “the
Lord bless you, and make you a blessing
and a comfort to your father, which he
much needs; and don't,” she added in a
whisper, “don't do any thing to fret
him, for his life hangs as it were, by a
cambric thread; and oh, now I think of
it,” and she checked herself as she was
again turning away, “I thank you heartily
for remembering John Martin's
errand to me, it was very thoughtful of
you—and I assure you, Miss Caroline,
though my memory is something broken,
I never can forget a kindness.”
Mr. Redwood was evidently gratified
with the good nature which led Deborah
to magnify a trifling courtesy “My
dear Caroline,” he said, “I am glad
that you have had an opportunity of
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
obliging Miss Deborah—where did you
see John Martin?”
“Oh, I have not seen him at all,” replied
Caroline, making an effort to shelter
her mortification by a careless laugh.
“Only a quiz upon Miss Debby, papa—
a merry thought of mine, which I
know you will forgive, since it has led to
an indefinite postponement of Miss
Bruce's departure.—Captain Fitzgerald,
you promised to shew me the setting sun
from the hill—a pretty view I am told—
have you ever seen it, Miss Campbell?
Farewell, Miss Deborah.”
Miss Redwood walked away with
Captain Fitzgerald with apparent unconcern.
This was not the first time that
Caroline had shewn, in pressing emergencies,
a perfect self-command, though
on slight occasions she was a very child
in exposing every shade of passion.
“I hope all you good rational people,”
said Mr. Redwood with a sigh, “will
remember that my child is but
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
eighteen; and now may I beg a few moments'
private conversation with Miss
Bruce?”
“A few moments, certainly,” replied
Miss Campbell: “come, Mr. Westall,
I challenge you to a turn on the piazza,
and we will see which bears privation
with most magnanimity.”
“Do you believe the old gentleman is
really going to make love to Miss
Bruce?” asked Grace Campbell, as she
turned away.
“Not on his own account, I fancy,”
replied Westall.
“Ah, I comprehend—but depend on
it, a love cause is better in the hands of
the principal than the most eloquent
agent.”
And so it proved; for though Mr.
Redwood frankly avowed to Ellen the
disappointment of his own hopes, and
though he urged her with all the energy
of strong feeling and the most affectionate
interest, to waive her scruples—
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
though he begged on his own account,
that before he died he might have the
happiness of seeing the two persons in
whom he felt the strongest interest
united: it was not till Westall, availing
himself of an opportunity that occurred
in the evening to plead his own cause
with the irresistible zeal of true and
well-requited love, that Ellen gave her
promise—that she would write to Mrs.
Harrison—lay the case before her, and
abide by her decision.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIII.
———“Thou I find
Hast the true tokens of a noble mind,
But the world wins thee.”
Crabbe.
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
Miss Campbell and Ellen rose by
appointment on the following morning,
at the dawn of day, that they might
witness the departure of Deborah and
Emily. As they all stood on the piazza,
awaiting the arrangement of the baggage
in the chaise, Deborah drew Ellen aside.
“Look here,” she said, undrawing a
bag and discovering one corner of a
pacquet, “here is the identical money
you refused to receive from Mr. Redwood;
he sent it to me last night for a
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
marriage-portion for Emily: it is true,
child—God bless him—it is true—he
has given it, and I have taken it with a
thankful heart and a prayer (as in duty
bound) that the Lord would return it to
him a hundred fold, in something better
than silver and gold. I shall keep the
present a secret till Emily's wedding-day,
which I'm sure is not far off; and Ellen,”
she added, after a moment's pause, “I'm
thinking that another wedding-day is
coming among our friends. Now what
do you look down for? If there is any
body in the land might hold up their
heads with a good grace, it's you; for
to my notion there is not a nobler man in
'varsal world, view him in what light you
will, than this same Charles Westall.”
“But, Deborah,” interrupted Ellen,
“I am not”—
“Engaged—I know that”—
“Ma'am, your chaise is ready,” said
the servant.
“Coming in a minute. I know how
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
it stands, Ellen, pretty nearly; for last
night, when I got this pacquet from Redwood,
my heart was so full I thought
I could not sleep till I had told you. I
looked in your room — you was not
there; I came on to the piazza—you and
Mr. Charles Westall were standing by
the door yonder; while I was hesitating
whether to go back without interrupting
you, I heard a few words, just
enough to give me a little insight into
the business. I thought it fair to tell
you; and besides, I wanted to charge
you not to be notional; for a girl of your
sense, Ellen, you are apt to be a little
notional, which is not your fault, but
comes of your living with Mrs. Harrison,
and reading too many verses, which are
apt to make girls dreamy.”
“Miss Debby,” cried Emily, “every
thing is ready, and the sun is rising.”
“Coming child, coming. One word
more, Ellen—” and here Deborah paused,
for the first time in her life at a loss
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
how to express herself. She drummed
with the butt end of her whip on the
railing, made figures with the lash on
the floor, knit her brow, bit her lips, but
did not speak till spurred by a second
call from Emily; and then the tears
gushed from the good creature's eyes as
she said, “Ellen, you are rich in nothing
but the grace of God; the best riches I
know: but then there's neither quails
nor manna now-a-days, and one must
look a little to the needful. When my
father died, (a thrifty prudent man) he
left me fifty pounds lawful. It has been
in good hands, and has run up to between
two and three hundred. I have enough
for myself besides, Ellen, laid up for a
wet day, so that is all to be yours. Now
don't speak, but hearken to me—besides
the money, I have a nice store of table
linen for you, and some coverlits, and
feather beds.”
“Oh Deborah, Deborah!”—
“Say nothing, child—I can't bear it.
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
I won't be gainsayed. Good bye, Ellen,
the Lord bless you, child, and all that
care for you,”—and she strided across
the piazza without giving Ellen time to
open her lips; shook Miss Campbell's
hand heartily as she passed, took her
seat in the chaise, and the moment Emily
had taken a hurried leave of Ellen, she
drove off, followed by the blessings and
prayers of her grateful young friend.
The two ladies stood silently gazing
after the old chaise as it slowly descended
the hill. After a few moments, Miss
Campbell turned suddenly round, and
observing that the tears were streaming
from Ellen's eyes, “who would think,”
she said, “that Miss Deborah would
call forth such a sentimental tribute;
and yet I could find it in my heart to
cry heartily too, for sure I am, I never
shall look upon her like again.”
“She deserves every tribute,” replied
Ellen, “that can be paid to
genuine worth. Under her rough
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
exterior she bears a heart that angels might
joy to look into—full of all honest
thoughts and kindly affections.”
“Yes, I believe you; and now, dear
Ellen, though more than half an angel
yourself, I am going to expose a heart
to you that has no such high qualifications;
so get your hat and shawl, and
we will stroll into some of these woods,
far out of the sight and hearing of the
`world's people.'
The two ladies ascended the hill above
the spring, and leaving the highway,
took a foot-path that indents a beautiful
grove. They soon reached a place of
perfect seclusion, and seating themselves
on a rock, they remained for some
time silent; Ellen awaiting Miss Campbell's
communication, and she with
some embarrassment picking the leaves
from a branch she had plucked in her
way, and strewing them about her: at
last, throwing away leaves, branch, and
all, she said, “I hardly know, Ellen,
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
whether to be most ashamed or proud
of myself, on account of the confidence
I am about to repose in you. It seems
so like the girlish prating of a Miss in
her teens; after our brief acquaintance
to unveil to you the state of my heart,
when even I myself have not yet dared
to take one calm survey of it. But there
is a charm about you, Ellen—an `open
sessime' that unlocks all hearts—you
have touched the master-spring of mine,
and it must be shown to you as it is,
with all its light and all its darkness:
believe me, you will find it “o'er good
for banning, and o'er bad for blessing.”
“Well, dear Miss Campbell, do dispense
with any more preparation; I have
already felt such sweet and kindly influence
from this unknown country, that I
long to explore it.”
“Will you pay my frankness in kind,
Ellen? Never mind—do not blush; I
see you belong to the sentimental class,
who never tell their love, and I will be
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
generous and tell you all; and, perhaps,
you will be just and tell me—all that I
have not already guessed.
“To begin then with the beginning.
I might almost use the concise style of
a certain ludicrous personage and say,
`I was born and up I grew'—but that
there were circumstances that occurred
in our family, in my youth, which affected
my character and relations in
life. My father was a lawyer, a man of
talents, and rising rapidly in his profession
when he was carried off by the
yellow fever, then raging in our city.
I was but a month old when he died.
My mother took refuge among the Moravians
in Bethlem. The sudden death
of my father blasted her happiness and
hopes; and the fatigue of removal, so
soon after her confinement, threw her
into a decline; she languished two
years, and then followed my father.
The Moravian sisters had attended to
all her wants with exemplary devotion.
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
My helpless infancy had interested their
kind hearts; I was exclusively attached
to them, and as my aunt Armstead was
then engrossed with a plentifully stocked
nursery, and I had no other near female
relative, my friends were easily persuaded
to permit me to remain under
the care of one of the sisters of
Bethlem.
“When I was ten years old, my uncle
Richard Campbell, who was my guardian,
came to see me; he was then,
and still is, a bachelor; he is a merchant,
and has amassed a large fortune,
all, as I am told, in a very regular way
of trade, and by the faithful application
of every maxim in poor Richard's almanac.
He was my father's eldest brother;
had courted in his youth a very
charming young girl, who preferred and
married his younger brother, a poor helpless
genius. This disappointment inclined
my uncle Richard to distrust our
whole sex, one of them having made such
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
an erroneos calculation as to the main
chance, and he is said never to have
jeoparded his fortune by offering to participate
it with any other lady. His
younger brother, and successful rival,
abandoned his country and went to England,
in the hope of carrying his literary
talents to a better market than he could
find for them at home. There he had
small successes and great discouragements;
and, after struggling a few years,
he died and left his wife unprovided
with every thing but three or four children,
rather an unproductive property
you know. She preferred remaining in
England to returning, to be either a
dependent on her friends or a reproach
to them; and with the aid of occasional
remittances from my good aunt Armstead,
and some little remnant of her
father's estate, and with faculties of industry
and economy in her situation
deserving of all praise, she contrived
to subsist and educate her family
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
respectably. Her eldest son is said to be
a genius, a painter by profession, and a
man of sense; but of him more anon.
“My uncle Richard preserved towards
the poor widow of his brother the
resentment of a mean mind; and there
is, as far as I know, no reason to believe
that in all her embarrassments he ever
extended to her the slightest aid. As I
told you, when my uncle first saw me
I was ten years old, a little prim miniature
old maid, dressed in the formal
fashion of the Moravians, as staid in my
deportment, and as precise in all my
movements, as the good ancient maiden
who had formed me after her own model.
In short, I was my uncle's beau
ideal. He was just then meditating a
selection of some one of his young relations
to inherit his property—of some
one who by the hardest slavery, the
slavery of the mind, the complete subjection
of the will, might deserve the
rich inheritance he has to bestow. Most
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
unfortunately for him and for me, his
choice fell upon myself: unfortunate for
both, for if there ever existed two beings
who had not one principle of affinity, they
are my uncle and myself. He is a conceited
bigot in every thing, from his
religion down to his particular mode of
tying on his neckcloth; he is ignorant
of every thing but how to get and how
to keep money: in short, dear Ellen,
for his character is not worth the drawing,
the breath of intellectual and moral
life has never been breathed into him.”
“And is this the uncle, Miss Campbell,
whose fortune you are to inherit?”
inquired Ellen.
“The same, my dear—and do not suspect
me of ingratitude. I have faults
enough, heaven knows, but ingratitude
is not one of them—a good word, a kind
look, were never thrown away upon me;
but I owe my uncle nothing. He selected
an heir, because he chose to control his
property as long as possible; and he
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
selected me, because he fancied that I
should prove an obedient machine, a
meek subject to his will.”
“You must have convinced him of
his mistake long before this,” said Ellen;
“how have you retained his favour?”
“Oh, he is completely enlightened,
my dear; but, luckily for my worldly
prospects, he prides himself on never
changing his purpose. But I have gone
beyond my story. He took me home
with him, placed me at a public school,
where I had companions of my own age,
and I soon lost the quiet deportment
that had been the effect of the law of
imitation, and all the orderly virtues
that had been produced by careful pruning
and training. I was like a plant
transferred from the cellar to the genial
influences of air, sunshine, and showers.
My uncle had scarcely announced his
decision to the world, and pronounced
his infallible opinion of my merits, before
I was transformed into a gay,
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
laughing, romping, reckless child. Figure
to yourself, my dear Ellen, such a
child, with all the uproar and misrule
that follows in her train, introduced into
the house of a sober citizen, a priggish
old bachelor, with as much Pharisaical
exactness in the arrangement of his
household and furniture as if his salvation
depended on preserving the mutual
relation of chairs and tables.
“His servants were always in my interest,
for I was generous to them to the
extent of my ability, and they contrived
so to shelter and excuse my faults, that
my uncle endured my residence with
him for two years; then on one unlucky,
or rather lucky day, since I may date
from it my escape from thraldom, as I
was returning from school with a troop
of my young friends, I met old Dickey,
a blind fiddler, who used to patrole the
streets led by his dog, and who was the
familiar friend of every child in the city.
We were near my uncle's door; I was
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
in the humour of a frolic, and thoughtless
of the consequences, I invited
Dickey in, pressed my companions to
follow—we ejected the chairs and tables
from the parlour, and in five minutes
were dancing as merrily as ever fairies
tripped it over a green. In the height
of our mirth, my uncle entered to witness
the horrible sacrilege to which his
immaculate parlour was devoted. Children,
Dickey, dog, and all, were instantly
sent packing. I followed in their train,
full of resentment at the indignity that
had been offered to me by such treatment
of my guests, and heroically resolved
never to enter my uncle's house
again. I went to my aunt Armstead's,
and poured my wrongs into her kind
bosom. She, no doubt, saw that my
folly surpassed my uncle's severity, but
she is the most indulgent being in the
world— she had an excessive partiality
for me, and without reprimanding me
very severely, she took the prudent
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
resolution to go to my uncle, and represent
to him the absolute necessity, for
his own comfort, as well as my prosperity,
of placing me under female surveillance.
She proposed taking charge
of me herself, and in pleading my cause
she paid such deference to my uncle's
will and whims, that she obtained her
point without much difficulty—indeed
I believe, if the truth were known, the
quiet angels in Heaven were not more
rejoiced to be rid of the rebel spirit and
his misguided followers, than my uncle
was to be relieved from me and the little
mob that was for ever at my heels.
“In my aunt's family I have lived in
indulgence so unbounded, that it would
have been ruinous to me, but for the
salutary influence of those domestic
affections, which next to the control and
regulation of principle, are certainly the
best security for virtue. I could sketch
my own character, my dear Ellen, but I
am afraid I should not much like to look
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
at the picture. I have had what the
French call grand succés in the world,
and yet I am more than half wearied
with it— at least when I am beyond the
syren sounds of pleasure I can feel an
anchorite's contempt for it. I have been
at the very head of society in Philadelphia—
I may say it to you, because it is
evidently no merit in your eyes; you
care for none of these things. I had
rivals who excelled me in every particular
attraction of a fine lady—many that
were far richer than I could hope to be,
some that were far handsomer than my
glass, my vanity, or even my flatterers
told me that I was—some that I felt to
be far wittier, and some that I knew to
be much more accomplished,— but I
united more than any one of them all.
I had not beauty enough to be that most
insipid of all creatures, a mere belle—
nor literature enough to fall into that unhappy
class, the blue stockings, the terror
of our city beaux, the dread of our
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
fashionables — nor sufficiently brilliant
expectations to throw me into the vulgar
class of the fortunes; but I had enough
of each to attract the votaries of every
class—I have been surrounded by admirers,
and yet I have walked among
them with an unscathed heart till within
these few weeks; and now, my dear
Ellen, be kind enough to look the other
way, for though I have not all your
sentimental reserve, I have a little
maidenly pride of my own, which I
would rather not discourage.
“You noticed the gentleman who was
with me when I first had the happiness
to see you — he is an acquaintance of a
few weeks standing, and yet, shall I confess
all to you? — he has made himself
perfectly indispensable to my happiness.”
“That may be,” said Ellen.
“Yes, my dear, and I suspect there
are some who live and act more by rule
than I do, who find that such things are.
I despise and distrust as much as you
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
can, the idea of love at first sight, and
all the folly connected with it, but my
late experience has made me a little
superstitious in regard to the old orthodox
doctrine that `matches are made in
heaven.”'
“But why so? If the account your
cousin has given of Mr. Howard is a just
one, (and your cousin seems not to be an
enthusiast,) there is nothing supernatural
in his winning your affections, and certainly
there is nothing extraordinary in
his reciprocating them—reciprocal I am
sure the attachment must be.”
“Certainly, or you would never have
heard mine aforesaid confession. Howard
and I understand each other, but there
are obstacles in my way that he does not
understand.
“I have always been interested in the
character and destiny of my cousin Fenton
Campbell, the eldest son of the aunt
of whom I spoke to you, who resided in
England. From the accounts we have
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
received of him, he inherits his father's
genius with the good sense of his mother.
He has already attained some distinction
in his profession, and has long been the
support of his mother and sisters. My
aunt Armstead and I have taken especial
pains that every account of his thriftiness
should be poured into my uncle Richard's
ear: and two years ago, when I had
mortally offended my uncle, by doing
something he had forbidden, or not doing
something he had commanded, I forget
which, I entreated my aunt to seize the
favourable moment to urge Fenton's equal
claims to mine, and his superior merits,
and to induce my uncle to make a will
which should divide his fortune equally
between us.”
“That was indeed generous, Miss
Campbell.”
“No, my dear, not particularly generous.
I was moved to it more by my
impatience under my obligations to my
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
uncle, than by any more disinterested
motive.”
Ellen's animated countenance evinced
that she admired the magnanimity that
spurned a self-delusion, and Miss Campbell
proceeded—
“My uncle was persuaded: he announced
his resolution to me, which, as
you may imagine, I received with very
provoking nonchalance; and he wrote
to Fenton, and promised him, that provided
he would come immediately to
this country, and fix his residence here,
he should inherit the half of his estate.
Fenton returned a very calm expression
of his gratitude, but said it was entirely
out of his power to perform the required
conditions, as his mother was in a declining
state of health, too feeble either
to endure a voyage, or to be left by her
son. He particularly requested that his
mother might not be informed of his
uncle's generous intentions in regard to
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
him, as nothing would distress her so
much as to be in any mode an obstacle
to the prosperity of her family. This
letter of Fenton's of course deepened my
favourable impressions of him, but it had
quite a contrary effect upon my uncle, who
thought that no folly could surpass the
giving the go-by to such a chance of fortune.
Poor slave of mammon! he could
not forgive Fenton for not forsaking all
other duties, to bow down and worship
the golden image he had set up. Aunt
Armstead wrote to him, repeatedly and
urgently, to come over for a few months
to conciliate my uncle, and confirm his
wavering mind, but no motive could persuade
him to leave his mother. My
uncle suspended his arrangements: his
displeasure against Fenton prevented a
decision in his favour, while the frequent
accounts he received of the young man's
diligent application to his profession
kept alive his wish to deposit a part of
his fortune in his prudent hands.
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
“Thus matters remained till about
six months since, when we received the
intelligence of my aunt Campbell's
death. My uncle Richard renewed his
proposition to Fenton; he accepted it,
and three months ago arrived in Philadelphia.
“I have not yet seen him. My aunt
Armstead removed to her country place
in Jersey the week before his arrival.
Cousin William tells me that the old
gentleman has taken surprisingly to
Fenton, attracted by the gravity of his
manners, which William imputes to his
laborious sedentary life, and to his grief
for the recent loss of his mother, whom
he most tenderly loved. So far all is
well—but now, dear Ellen, come the
cross purposes. My uncle has taken it
into his wise head to institute a partnership
concern between Fenton and myself;
and on the very day of Fenton's
arrival in this country, he announced by
letter his supreme will to me, in much
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
the same terms he would employ to convey
his orders to a supercargo. Three
months ago this would have been well
enough; for I have had a sort of indefinite
purpose to keep myself fancy free
till I could see this cousin of mine—
nothing else, I believe, has kept me
single so long.”
“So long!” exclaimed Ellen, smiling.
“Yes, my dear, `so long;' for you
must know I am on the verge of three-and-twenty,
an age un peu passé in the
world of fashion, and quite unknown in
the lives of heroines, for excepting lady
Geraldine, the most spirited of Miss
Edgeworth's characters, and whom
(heaven bless her for it!) she has made,
I think, to arrive at the mature age of
two-and-twenty, I do not remember in
all romance, a single heroine that had
attained her majority.”
“But you surely do not suriously
mean, my dear Miss Campbell, that any
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
such motive would influence you in
marriage?”
“My sweet little methodistic Ellen, I
am very much afraid it would; depend
upon it, one cannot live altogether in
the world and not be of the world: but
let me go on with my story, and you
will find that I am in danger of a romantic
folly that would be more appropriate
to your innocence and sweet simplicity.
“My cousin, instead of coming immediately
to my aunt's, remained in the
city. I was a little piqued at his delay,
for I thought it would have been much
more natural and disinterested for him
to look after us than to remain hanging
about my uncle. In the meantime, as
heaven decreed, William Armstead
brought home with him his friend,
Howard; he was a Bostonian; that
prejudiced me in his favour, for I like
the eastern people particularly: they
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
have not, perhaps, the air of fashion,
the flexible graces that flourish at the
south, but they have great intelligence,
high cultivation, and above all, a manly
dignity of manners, a simplicity and
naturalness, an elevated tone of moral
feeling, a”—
“Do you speak of a class or an individual?”
asked Ellen, archly.
“Both, Ellen, both—a noble class,
and a most worthy representative of that
class. But to proceed. We were in
the country. Howard might not have
fancied me elsewhere; but there all that
is good and ethereal in my nature rises
superior to every artificial influence,
`the malt's aboon the meal'—moonlight—
rural walks, and all the appliances
and means of love came in aid of our
mutual liking; and, before we parted,
we were fast approaching the last interesting
scene in the love drama—the
exchange of mutual vows. At this critical
moment Howard received letters
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
that obliged him to leave us for a few
days; he is to be here to-morrow, and
it was partly from the wish to have such
a friend as you near me at this important
juncture, that I so earnestly entreated
you to remain at Lebanon.
There is a pitfall before me: I am certain
that if I fill up the measure of my
iniquities by refusing obedience to my
uncle in the matter of his nephew, I
shall incur his everlasting displeasure
and the penalty of disinheritance.”
“That,” said Ellen, “can be of little
consequence, since you do not incur the
penalty by any violation of duty.”
“Of little consequence! Would to
heaven, Ellen, I were as unsophisticated
as you are; or that I had never been
`clasped with favour in fortune's tender
arms.”' An unwonted seriousness overspread
Miss Campbell's face as she
added, “I certainly am not selfish. I
disdain the vulgar distinction of wealth;
but who can escape or evade the force
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
of habit, accustomed as I have been to
the ease and indulgence of fortune, to
the power it confers, and the deference
that attends it. How shall I encounter
toil and submit to privations? How
shall I bear the neglect of those who
have courted my favour, who have felt
honoured by my slightest attention?”
“By rising to an elevation they never
can reach, Miss Campbell,” said Ellen,
affectionately taking her hand. “If you
love Howard, if he deserves your love,
he is worth this sacrifice.”
“Upon my word, young ladies, talking
of love and lovers before breakfast,”
spoke a voice behind them, which made
both the ladies start, and turning round
they perceived William Armstead approaching
them with a letter in his hand.
“I have been looking for you, cousin
Grace,” he said, “this half hour, and
have at length traced you to this place:
who would have expected to find you
sentimentalising in a shady grove—and
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
before breakfast too? You are leading
Grace quite out of her element, Miss
Bruce. Grace, I have a letter here for
you from our worthy uncle, which, if I
mistake not, will contain matter of fact
that will dispel all your morning fancies;
and I have a piece of news for you too.”
“Has Howard arrived?” exclaimed
Miss Campbell.
“You need not blush, Grace, because
your tongue is obedient to your heart.
No—Howard has not arrived, but Fenton
has.”
“Fenton,” replied Miss Campbell in
a disappointed tone, and the colour retreated
from her cheeks as suddenly as
it had appeared. “Oh, William, I could
almost wish you the fate of Ascalaphus
for bringing me such news.”
Miss Campbell broke the seal of her
uncle's letter, and ran her eye hastily
over it; and as she read half to herself
and half aloud, her companions caught
these broken sentences—`take it very
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
ill I get no advices from you'—`Fenton
more punctual, but says nothing as to
the business in hand'—`two for the divisor,
don't like that'—`will have neither
subtraction nor division to my
capital'—`obey orders, marry Fenton,
you shall have the sum total'—`disobey
and you are a cypher the wrong side of
the figure.'
Miss Campbell's indignation mantled
into her face and sparkled in her eyes,
and she tore the letter to fragments and
scattered it to the winds. “Mean, sordid
being!” she exclaimed; “and he
thinks I will traffic with my affections
as he does with his merchandise! No,
let his silver and gold perish —I will
marry whom I please, and when I
please!”
Ellen with the impulsive sympathy of
generous feeling, pressed the arm into
which hers was locked; and Armstead
said, “spoken worthy of yourself, my
dear Grace; but consider well and
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
warily before you take a step which cannot
be retracted. You are a woman of
sense, and you know it is one thing to
wish to attain a difficult summit, and
quite another to reach it. You are a
woman of prudence—a woman of the
world, and you know that the visions of
youthful love bear a very faint resemblance
to the realities of life. You
know, dear Grace, that it would be at
least as difficult for a fashionable woman
like you to play love in a cottage, as for
a camel to go through the eye of a needle—
consider well, cousin, consider well
before you take an unchangeable resolution.”
“I have considered, William—have I
not, Ellen?”
Ellen smiled without replying, for she
feared that her friend's hasty resolution
had been somewhat quickened by resentment
against her uncle: luckily the
warmth of Grace Campbell's feelings at
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
the moment prevented her noticing the
half incredulous expression of Ellen's
face.
“I have considered, William,” she
repeated, “and if your friend will take
my unportioned hand, Fenton shall be
welcome to all my uncle's paltry wealth—
he shall see that I despise it, and the
world shall know that I disdain its
splendour.”
“And you, my dear Miss Campbell,”
said Ellen, with enthusiasm, “will have
the secret consciousness of having acted
right and nobly.”
“Ah, thank you, Ellen, for your
prompting. I am apt I believe to forget
secret feelings. I have been a gallery
picture, you a sweet little cabinet article;
but times are changing with me,
and you will teach me better.”
“I am thinking, Grace,” said Armstead,
“how Howard will relish these
changing times, it would be a
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
disappointment to find him not as magnanimous
and disinterested as yourself.”
“Howard not disinterested! your
friendship grows cold, William.”
“Not at all—we may as well look
truth in the face, cousin, though it
should come to us through the medium
of a friend or lover—love matches among
people who have lived in a certain style,
you know, are getting to be quite obsolete—
we are beginning to regard them
as only becoming boys and girls—only
suited to the infancy of society.”
“I know not whether you are sarcastic
or serious, William.”
“Perfectly serious,” rejoined William;
“and as serious in my opinion that
Fenton Campbell is to the full as disinterested
as Howard.”
“Impossible! we have all been mistaken
in Fenton: he is a cold calculating
Englishman—his servility to my uncle
proves it. It was unworthy any man
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
of spirit to be the bearer of this letter
to me.”
“Come, Miss Bruce,” said Armstead
to Ellen, “hasten your friend's pace,
she will work herself into such a holy
indignation against poor Fenton before
we reach home, that she will not be
able to receive him with common civility.
Come, my dear Grace, forget
your displeasure—look again like yourself,
if it is only to let Fenton see the
gem sparkle which he has forfeited.”
In vain Armstead continued his efforts
as they approached the house to dispel
his cousin's gravity: he reasoned, he
rallied, but all in vain—the fear he had
insinuated into her mind in relation to
Howard had taken complete possession
of her: she blamed herself for the frankness
of her communications; and, for a
few moments at least, she would have
rejoiced to have been even as destitute
as Ellen of extrinsic attractions.
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
Conscious that the agitation of her
mind unfitted her for meeting her cousin
with the indifference and calm civility
which her pride prompted her to assume
towards him, she approached the door
of the parlour, where Armstead told
her that his mother with Fenton was
awaiting her, with a slow and most reluctant
step.
“Come in with me, Ellen,” she said, as
her friend was turning away, “I always
do better in company than alone;”
but as she reached the threshold of the
door, she hesitated, and turning to Armstead
said, “Do you, William, go in
and invent some apology for me, I will
meet Fenton at breakfast—it will save
us both useless embarrassment.”
“Pshaw, Grace! don't behave like a
child,” replied her cousin, and at the
same instant he settled the mode of proceedure
by throwing open the door, and
saying with affected formality, “Miss
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
Campbell, allow me to introduce to you
my cousin Fenton—my some time friend
Howard.”
Grace forgot for once whether she was
in company or alone—forgot every thing
but the surprising certainty that Howard
and Fenton were the self-same person—
every trace of displeasure vanished
from her face, unmixed delight shone in
her brightened eye and glowing cheek,
and without noticing the joyful expression
of her aunt's face, the ludicrous
twist of William Armstead's mouth, or
the sympathy that moistened Ellen's
eye, she gave Fenton her hand, and in
virtue of his being friend, lover, or
cousin, one or all, permitted him to
devour it with kisses.
“Come, my dear mother, come, Miss
Bruce,” said William Armstead, “I
believe we may trust to the good faith of
our friends to make their compact without
witnesses.” And as he followed the
ladies out of the room, he turned, and
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
with a very wise and cautionary shake
of the head, said, “beware, cousin Grace,
beware of a `cold calculating Englishman!”
'
“Well, William,” asked Mrs. Armstead,
“how have you contrived to keep
Fenton's secret so long? you ought to
have told me—you surely might have
trusted me—you know I am no babbler.”
“I know, dear mother, thou wilt not
utter what thou dost not know.”'
“Oh, for shame Will! I cannot
possibly comprehend of what mighty
consequence it could be in the first place
to devise this secret—and then to keep
it.”
“Ah, there it is: and this question
would have arisen in your mind long
ago, and in spite of any resolution to
the contrary, some significant look or
word would have betrayed our ambush
before we had effected our purpose.”
“Still, Mr. Armstead,” said Ellen,
“I think your mother's question is a
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
rational one—certainly this artifice does
seem a little juvenile and romantic in a
man of five-and-twenty; and a man too
of Mr. Campbell's gravity of manners.”
“If it seems to you romantic, Miss
Bruce, it must need explanation; and
I am certain that the explanation will
satisfy you, that Fenton has been sufficiently
rational, and you, my dear
mother, that in keeping his counsel,
your son has been only prudent.”
Armstead then proceeded to say that
his cousin had long had the most favourable
impression of Grace's character,
partly the consequence of the young
lady's letters to his mother, which were
often accompanied by generous gifts,
always offered in the most graceful
manner; and partly the consequence
of the zealous affection with which his
mother had mentioned Grace in her
letters to her sister-in-law, and to her
nephew; and finally, as he reminded his
mother, of her having (notwithstanding
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
her surprising talent at keeping a secret)
betrayed Grace's agency in the alteration
of her uncle's will.”
Here Mrs. Armstead interrupted her
son to say `that it was very fortunate
she did make that communication; for
in a private letter which she received
from Fenton at the time, he had declared
that, without the knowledge of that circumstance,
he never would have accepted
his uncle Richard's proposition.'
“No doubt, dear mother, you had
excellent reasons (as who has not in a
like case,) for telling the secret, and
abundant consolations for having told it;
but allow me to finish my story. Fenton
with all these prejudices in Grace's favour,
arrives in Philadelphia; is introduced
to my uncle, and favourably received.
He learns our absence from the
city, and determines to follow us immediately;
he calls the next morning to
take leave of my uncle, and is informed
by him with his usual grossierté, of the
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
contents of the letter he had written to
Grace. Fenton knew enough of his
consin to believe that she would be as
averse from giving her heart, as Falstaff
was his reasons, on compulsion; and
when I arrived, most opportunely, in
Philadelphia on the day he had received
this pretty piece of information from my
uncle, I found him in a web of such
doubts and difficulties, as you sentimentalists,
Miss Bruce, are apt to weave
about yourselves.”
“But we sentamentalists,” rejoined
Ellen, “since you insist on placing me
in that class, are not apt to expose our
difficulties to the profane eyes of scoffers.”
“No—and so my cousin would probably
have lost himself in a labyrinth,
from which no device of human ingenuity
could have extricated him, had not some
expressions that fell from my uncle revealed
to me the secret of his perplexities.
I went immediately to Fenton,
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
disclosed to him my discoveries, and
suggested the scheme which has succeeded
so happily. My uncle Richard
knew the young people were together,
and believed that all was going on well
in obedience to his orders—the complete
retirement of my mother's place protected
us from observation, and my
lofty cousin has been wooed and won
in a manner most flattering to her own,
and to Fenton's pride.”
-- --
CHAPTER XXIV.
“God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems, as it is the fountain whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own.”
Cowper.
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
Some days glided away while the gay
society at Lebanon presented nothing to
the eye of a casual observer but a brilliant
surface of pleasure. But we claim
to be among those gifted personages,
who, like the Diable boiteux, are permitted
to penetrate below the surface,
to visit secret retirements, to dive into
the depths of hidden thoughts, to explore
their recesses, and to discover them to
the curious eye. Availing ourselves of
our prerogative, we beg our readers to
quit with us the thronged piazzas, the
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
dancing hall, the lively coteries that fill
the public rooms, and take a peep into
the respective apartments of the individuals
we have presumed to introduce to
their notice.
And first, as entitled to our chief interest,
is Ellen—who, in spite of the beseeching
looks of Westall and the raillery
of Grace Campbell, persisted in
secluding herself in her own room.
“What romantic whim have you
taken into your head, Ellen?” said her
friend, who had followed her from the
breakfast-table one morning. “Come,
my dear, you must not shut yourself up
in this cell any longer—I bring an absolute
requisition for you from my aunt
Armstead, who has ordered the carriage
to carry us all to see the shakers, and
ramble about the hills in the neighbourhood,
to spy out the beauties of the
land. Fenton will take his port-folio
with him, and while in sketching nature,
he is paying his devotions to his first
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
love, I shall be at liberty to give you a
lecture upon your duties.”
“Well, Miss Campbell, I will go with
you.”
“Thank you, my dear; but pray do
not look as if you were going to the
stake.”
This was the day on which Ellen expected
a reply to her letter to Mrs.
Harrison, and she could not conceal,
and dared not explain the reluctance
with which she consented to an arrangement
that must retard the time of her
receiving it. She tried to evade Miss
Campbell's scrutiny, by saying with a
forced smile, “such a frail creature as
I am may well feel dread of a lecture on
my duties; but you may perhaps lessen
it by telling me what those are that are
to be the subject of your preaching.”
“Kindness to your lover—frankness
to your friend, Ellen. There is poor
Westall turned off with the `fezzenless
bran' of common-place civility, and I,
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
who have poured all my love-lore into
your ears, am obliged to make out the
history of your heart as well as I can by
the index of the changeful cheek—sometimes
deadly pale, and then lit up by a
glow that seems the shadow of your
thoughts, so quickly does it brighten
and fade away. You see, my dear,
mysterious as you are, I have noted and
comprehend the signs of the times.”
“Believe me, my dear friend,” said
Ellen, taking Grace's hand affectionately,
“I have a reason for the suspension
of my intercourse with Westall—for
my reserve to you, a day or two will, I
trust in heaven, end this mystery; and
when I am absolved from the necessity
of any farther reserve, you shall know
all.”
“God speed the happy hour, my
sweet Ellen, and show me that you have
reason, even in your madness.”
The ladies were interrupted by Mrs.
Westall, who appeared at the door with
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
her work-box in her hand, `come,' as
she said, `to sit the morning with Miss
Bruce.'
“Miss Bruce is engaged to ride with
me, and I hope you will do me the favour
to change your purpose, Mrs.
Westall,” said Miss Campbell, “and
occupy a seat in my aunt's carriage,
which we want very much to have
agreeably filled.”
Mrs. Westall assented readily to the
polite request, and while she went for
her hat and shawl, Miss Campbell said,
“your good mother elect has taken you
mightily into favour of late, Ellen.
Straws show which way the wind blows.
I overheard her yesterday zealously
stating your claims to gentility to the
Elmores of New-York—a point, you
know, of infinite moment in the judgment
of the daughters of a ci-devant
barmaid.”
“And was Mrs. Westall able to
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
establish my right to the favourite epithet
`genteel?”'
“The pass-word with certain people—
yes, my dear, perfectly, I believe; for,
after hearing her statement, one of the
young ladies observed that her mamma
said she `was sure you was genteel from
the first moment she saw you, you wore
such particularly fine lace, and a real
camel's hair; those,' she said, `were
mamma's criterions for knowing a lady,
they were so lady-like.”'
“Oh, what would mamma have said,”
exclaimed Ellen, “if she had known
that I was indebted to the generosity of
Mrs. Harrison for all my lady-like qualities?”
“I can't say, my dear, for the inquisition
of the young ladies was suddenly
interrupted by Mrs. Harris, a relation
and dependant of the Osmer family,
who rests her fame on her patrician
blood, and who, therefore, had another,
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
though perhaps not quite as absurd a
criterion by which she would graduate
your rank; `pray,' she said, `Mrs.
Westall, can you tell me the maiden
name of Miss Bruce's mother? I once
had a very distant relation who married
a Bruce.' Mrs. Westall seemed a little
embarrassed—said she did not know;
and Mrs. Harris turned to Caroline Redwood
who sate next her, and said, `you,
Miss Redwood, can probably inform
me something of Miss Bruce's parentage.
' `I, ma'am!' exclaimed Miss Redwood;
`indeed I know nothing of Miss
Bruce: I believe her parents are dead:'—
and her immoveable colour, Ellen, for
once did move, and she was so pale for
a moment that I really thought the girl
was going to faint. Is it not very
strange she should have shown so much
emotion on the subject?”
“Yes, very strange; but nothing
from Miss Redwood can ever surprise
me,” said Ellen.
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
Miss Campbell looked on Ellen for a
moment earnestly, and then said, with a
little hesitation, “the old woman's curiosity
is natural enough, and I should
like to gratify it. Do tell me, Ellen,
your mother's maiden name?”
“I cannot tell you, Miss Campbell—
do not ask me,” replied Ellen, with a
trembling voice.
“Forgive me, my sweet friend,” exclaimed
Grace Campbell, recovering her
usual frank manner, and throwing her
arm around Ellen's neck and kissing her
pale cheek; “forgive my silly curiosity—
every shade of it has passed away.
I care not what mine the diamond comes
from, so long as I know by every test
that it is a diamond of the first water.
Come, put on your `real camel's hair,'
it is a cool morning, and my aunt is waiting
for us.”
The ladies joined Mrs. Westall in the
passage, and they proceeded together.
“Where is your son this morning, Mrs.
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
Westall?” asked Grace Campbell; “he
hardly deserves an inquiry, recreant
knight that he is.”
“Oh, say not so, Miss Campbell; he
is detained from us by a painful duty;
he has scarcely left Mr. Redwood's bedside
for the last two days—poor man:
Charles thinks him declining rapidly.”
“There is no doubt,” replied Miss
Campbell, “that he is sinking very fast.
I saw him yesterday sitting by his window;
I observed he had the ghastly paleness
of death, and though he bowed to
me with his usual courtesy, not a muscle
of his face moved.”
“I hope,” said Ellen—“I believe he
is not as sick as you imagine; he suffers
from extreme depression of spirits.”
“Yes,” said Miss Campbell; “but
this very depression aggravates his disease.
He is, as far as I can learn, in
the very depths of nervous misery. I
heard his insensible daughter say to
Fitzgerald yesterday, that she expected
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
her father would come out a methodist
at last, for she never went into his room
that she did not find him with a Bible in
his hands.”
“A Bible!” exclaimed Ellen—“God
be praised!”
Miss Campell caught the fine expression
of Ellen's upraised eye—“What a
little enthusiast you are, Ellen. You
would make an admirable lay-preacher;
but in the present rage for division of
labour, it is not proper to preach and
practise too; so you shall practise and
I will preach: shall we unite our talents
for the consolation of Mr. Redwood?”
“I should rejoice in any vocation
that could administer consolation to
him,” replied Ellen.
“No doubt, my dear,” said her lively
friend; “but pray keep your holy zeal
to yourself, for here comes Fenton, a
sworn disciple of Gall and Spurzheim,
and we shall have him exploring your
head for the `organ of veneration,' and
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
your heart for its correspondent qualities;
and then I am afraid I shall find to
my cost that he is without the `organ
of adhesiveness'—that, I suppose, may
stand for constancy in your bump metaphysics,
Fenton?”
“Yes, my dear Grace; and if I do
not possess it, and finely developed too,
I will sacrifice my theory to experience,
like a true philosopher.”
Miss Campbell was about to reply
when her aunt said, “you forget we
are waiting for you, Grace. Fenton,
hand Mrs. Westall to the carriage.
Give heaven all due thanks, Mrs.
Westall, that you have not a pair of
lovers on your hands.”
“I should be in a much more grateful
humour if I had,” replied Mrs. Westall,
looking kindly on Ellen.
Ellen would have comprehended Mrs.
Westall's meaning without the interpreting
glance that beamed on her from
Miss Campbell's eye, and she sprang
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
into the carriage after her friend, her
heart quite lightened of one burden that
had pressed sorely on it.
In the meantime Westall, abstracting
his mind as far as possible from his own
deeply interesting concerns, was performing
his benevolent duty at the bedside
of Mr. Redwood, whose decline
was indeed more rapid than even his
friend, who knew the feverish state of
his mind, could have anticipated. At
times, fixed in the gloom of deep despondency,
his mind seemed cut off
from all communion with the external
world: his appearance was that of a
man suffering from the frightful images
of a dream—his fixed and glassy eye—
the drops of sweat that stood thick on
his livid brow—his fixed posture—his
clenched hands—his whole attitude and
expression betrayed utter despair. At
these moments all Westall's efforts to
arouse him seemed not to make the
slightest impression on his senses—but,
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
suddenly, he would turn his eager eye
on his young friend, and listen to him as
if the sentence of life or death was on
his lips, while Westall set forth the arguments
for the truth of our religion with
which his familiarity with its evidences
furnished him, and suggested its hopes
and consolations. There were intervals
too, when Redwood felt as if he had
attained a living fountain—as if his spirit
was for ever emancipated from the bondage
of doubt and despondency, and
peace was commanded on his troubled
mind: but these intervals were short.
“Ah Westall,” he would exclaim, “I
am afraid to trust myself. I know not
how far my mind is enfeebled by disease.
I know not how far my faith and hope
may have their source in the strong
necessity I feel for present relief. The
objects of sense are becoming dim to
my sight—the cold shadows of death
are settling about me: my dear Charles,
in this frightful state, can I calmly
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
investigate the evidence of the truth of a
religion which promises pardon to the
penitent for the past—resurrection and
immortal life for the future?”
“But, my dear Sir,” replied Westall,
“there have been men, in intellectual
power the first of their species, who in
the full vigour of their faculties, with the
aids of learning and leisure, have calmly
pursued their honest inquiries, and have
received our blessed religion as the rule
of life—the victory over death.”
“True — true, Westall; but names
have now no authority with me. I have
been too long their dupe and victim.
Oh, how in my folly I have admired,
and praised, and almost worshipped
those leaders of our sect, who lived fearlessly,
and braved undaunted the terrors
of death! Now I see nothing in what
seemed to me their philosophic fortitude,
but an obstinate vanity, a pride of opinion,
a self-deifying, that made them
render homage to their own
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
consequence, when they should have sought
the God of their spirits.
“Westall, I shudder at the thought of
such a death as Gibbon's, Hume's, Voltaire's—
if their indifference to the future
was unaffected, what a voluntary degradation
to the level of the brute creation!
if pretended, what mad audacity!”
“But surely,” said Westall, “there is
honest scepticism in the world. There
are minds so constituted, or exposed to
such unhappy influences, that unbelief
becomes a condition almost irresistible.”
“Yes—it may be so,” replied Mr.
Redwood; “it must be so—but for my
own case, I have no such flattering
unction. Humbling as the confession
is, Charles,” he added, (taking up the
Bible which now was almost always in
his hands,) “till within this last month, I
have never read this book with seriousness—
never but from idle curiosity, or
to find exercise for my ingenuity, or
food for my ridicule: and now I would
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
give worlds for one year, nay, one month
of the life that in my folly and madness I
have cursed as a weary burden imposed
by arbitrary power, that my mind might
be opened to the light which has dawned
on it from that book—my heart reformed
by its rules—renewed by its
influence.”
“God grant you, my dear Sir,” said
Westall, fervently grasping Mr. Redwood's
hand, “not one but many years
to be blessed with its efficacy. But for
the present let me entreat you to dismiss
all agitating thoughts, and to make an
effort only for that resignation which is
the first principle of our religion, and
which will certainly produce inviolable
repose.”
The conversation of the gentlemen
was interrupted by the entrance of Miss
Redwood, who came to make her usual
morning visit. She lingered longer than
usual, and inquired with more particularity
into her father's symptoms. She
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
entreated him to send to town for a physician—
examined the vials on his table,
and expressed her fears that every thing
was not going on right. Her father observed
a good deal of agitation in her
manner—he thought it indicated unusual
solicitude, and he was touched by it.
“My dear Caroline,” he said, “all
might perhaps go right, if you would
come and help my kind friend Charles
to nurse me.”
“Lord, papa, I would with all my
heart: I should like to do any thing—
every thing for you; but you know I am
no nurse, and sickness is so frightful.”
“Frightful, indeed, Caroline; but a
child's tenderness might, I think, deprive
if of half its terrors.”
“Well, dear sir,” whispered Caroline,
slipping a letter into her father's hand,
“grant the petition this letter contains,
and I will stay day and night with you
for a fortnight to come.”
Mr. Redwood took the letter and
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
detained Caroline's hand, though she was
evidently impatient to withdraw. Westall
rose to leave the room. “Stay, I intreat
you, Westall, and you, Caroline—one
moment's patience, my child—I anticipate
the contents of this letter. Charles
must be the bearer of my answer to it:
you should have no reserves from him
Caroline, for, after I am gone, he must
be your protector till your marriage
transfers that duty to another.”
“I hope, Sir,” replied Miss Redwood,
with a look of anxiety and displeasure,
“that I shall be permitted to choose my
own protector.”
Westall walked to the extreme part of
the room to relieve Caroline as far as
possible from the embarrassment of his
presence, while her father read the letter,
which contained, as he expected, a declaration
of Captain Fitzgerald's love for
his daughter, and respect for himself,
written in good setterms, and according to
the most approved formularies, and
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
concluding with the modest request, authorized
by Miss Redwood, that Mr. Redwood
would consent to their immediate
union.
“Is it possible, Caroline,” said Mr.
Redwood, laying his finger on the last
request in the letter, “that you authorized
or approved this?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you would desert your sick—
your dying father, to go off with this
fellow—a stranger—a fortune-hunter, a
profligate!”
“Caroline's colour deepened at every
additional epithet her father bestowed
on her lover; she flashed an indignant
glance on Westall, as if she would have
said, `an enemy hath done this;' and
commanding her voice as well as she
was able, she replied, “you are very
unjust, papa; your mind has been set
against us; and you forget that if Captain
Fitzgerald or I had deserved your
cruel suspicions, we should have taken a
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
very different course; if your fears are
well-founded, a short time would leave
me at liberty to bestow my hand and
fortune when and where I please; but I
neither expected nor wished that liberty.
Fitzgerald, whatever you may think, is
a man of honour; and I am sure he is
sincere, when he says in his letter that
next to my affections, he desires your
favour.”
“No doubt, no doubt—my favour and
its consequences; but he shall have
neither—Westall, tell him so,” added
Mr. Redwood, raising his voice above
his daughter's, who was giving vent to
her feelings in hysterical sobs: “tell
Fitzgerald I will never consent to his
marriage with my daughter; tell him
that I am a dying man, but let him
found no hopes thereon, for I am resolved,
that if my daughter ever marries
him, she shall forfeit her fortune.”
“And who,” said Caroline, recovering
perfectly her self-possession, “who
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
shall receive it? the smooth pious Ellen
Bruce—or the kind friend Charles Westall—
or perhaps some missionary or tract
society?”
“Oh Caroline, Caroline!” exclaimed
her father, in sorrow more than in anger,
“God forgive you.” After a moment's
pause, he added, in a voice faultering
from extreme weakness, but thrilling
from the earnestness which deep feeling
gave to its tones, “oh, my child, give
me your confidence for the few days of
life that remain to me—think no more
of this man—he is not worthy of you—
he is not worthy the trust of any delicate
woman: give to my last hours, Caroline,
the consolation of a voluntary surrender
of your feelings and judgment to mine.”
Caroline made no reply.
“Speak for me, Westall,” continued
Mr. Redwood, raising himself, and leaning
his head against the post of his bedstead,
“speak for me, I have neither
voice nor strength.”
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
“It is unnecessary, Sir,” said Westall,
and he turned an appealing look on Caroline,
as he added, “Miss Redwood will
not, I am certain, resist what you have
already said.”
“And who, or what, Sir,” asked Caroline,
her spirit rising from the control of
her better feelings, “has given you a
right to interfere in my private concerns?”
“Your father.”
“My father, Sir, cannot delegate his
rights nor my obedience.”
“But your father, Caroline,” interposed
Mr. Redwood, “can make your
obedience a necessity—go, Westall, and
make my decision known to Fitzgerald.”
“Permit me, Sir, at least,” said Caroline,
“to be the bearer of your message.
It should, I think, be tempered by some
friendliness in the messenger.”
“Go then, child—and if you have no
regard for me, respect yourself; open
your eyes to the real views of this man,
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
and dismiss him for ever from your
thoughts.”
Caroline deigned no reply, but left the
room, her face indicating the determination
of an imperious spirit.
“Oh Westall, Westall!” exclaimed
Redwood, “from what misery I might
have saved myself and my child by the
timely performance of my duties to her.”
He seemed for a few moments lost in
sorrowful reflections, and then starting
up, he asked Westall if there were yet
no letters from Mrs. Harrison.
Westall, whose ear had been quickened
by his impatience, said he trusted
there was a letter at the office, for he
had just heard the horn of the post-coach
as it descended the eastern mountain.
“Go then, dear Charles, and get the
letter—the warrant for your happiness;
and God grant that I may see the best
blessings of his providence resting on
you before I die.”
After a long interview with her lover,
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
which was spent chiefly in listening to
passionate declarations of disinterested
affection, which she more than half believed,
Miss Redwood retired to her
room in great agitation of spirits and
summoned her servant. When Lilly appeared,
she received a communication
which rendered it necessary that she
should make new arrangements of her
mistress's baggage—trunks and bandboxes
were emptied on to the bed,
chairs, and floor, and from the chaos of
fine clothes, the mistress and maid proceeded
to make such selections as their
taste and discretion dictated.
Neither the principal nor agent
seemed to possess the calmness necessary
to the execution of these sudden
preparations. Indeed it was difficult to
say which was most flurried with her
own individual purposes and expectations.
Lilly on sundry pretexts went
often out of the room, and always returned
in a humour to deserve the
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
pettish rebuke which she received from
Caroline. But the rebuke was no
sooner given than retracted; for Caroline,
afraid of the consequences of provoking
the girl, conciliated her by some
petty gift—some olive-branch symbol,
which mistresses and maids both comprehend.
Those only who understand
the momentous and intricate details of
a fine lady's wardrobe, will believe that
the remainder of the day was consumed
in packing a trunk of ordinary dimensions.
Caroline then proceeded herself to
arrange her dressing-case: after having
stowed away compactly its usual apparatus,
she inclosed the treasure rifled
from Ellen in a sheet of paper, carefully
sealed it, and then placed it in the dressing-case.
She laid in her purse also,
locked it, and gave the key to Lilly.
“Now Lilly,” she said, “I believe
every thing is ready. I trust in heaven
we shall return to-morrow; but if we
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
do not, we have secured every thing of
value.” Miss Redwood looked at her
watch; “it is time to go,” she said,
hurrying on her hat and shawl: “do
you, Lilly, drag the trunk to the farther
stair-case, you'll find a man there ready
to receive it—then return and take the
dressing-case in your own hands—remember,
girl, my purse is in it, and I
had rather you should lose your own
soul than that any thing should happen
to it—but stop, let me see, cannot I
take it myself; just tuck it under my
shawl—no one will observe it.”
Lilly gave the dressing-case to her
mistress: “but Lord bless me, Miss
Caroline,” she said, “it makes you such
a figure—just look in the glass.”
Caroline looked, but for once her appearance
seemed to be a secondary
object.
“I will take it myself, Lilly,” she said,
“it's nonsense to stand here deliberating
about it. I shall only carry it to
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
the door, and then give it to Captain
Fitzgerald.”
Caroline opened the door—Lilly laid
her hand on it, “Now, Miss Cary,” she
said beseechingly, “do give it to me for
once. It will look so unbecoming for
the captain to be seen carrying your
dressing-case—Lord help us, such a footman's
job!”
“Hush, girl, I must go.”—“You may
go, Miss Cary, but for goodness' sake
give me the dressing-case—why I shall
whip down the hill, across the fields, and
be at the carriage before you.”
“Take it then, you fool,” said Caroline:
and she resigned the dressing-case, and
turned hastily away. She stole along
the passage with the silent tread of a
culprit: when she came to her father's
door a pang of remorse, probably aided
by an emotion of filial feeling, checked
her footsteps, `he looked so terribly
sick this morning,' she said mentally—
`Good heaven! should I never see him
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
again.' She lifted her hand to knock for
admittance, when she was arrested by a
voice that alarm just raised above a
whisper—“Miss Redwood! my dear
Miss Redwood! what are you doing?—
For heaven's sake no more delay.” The
thought of her father vanished from her
mind—she bounded forward—gave her
arm to Fitzgerald, and they passed together
unobserved out of the house.
The last ray of summer's long twilight
was not quite lost in the shadows of the
evening, and the fugitives prudently selected
the most unfrequented road, by
which to descend to the plain below,
where a carriage was in waiting for
them.
The poets say, `the course of true love
never doth run smooth,' and so thought
Miss Redwood, when half way down the
hill she and her companion were encountered
by Ellen and Westall. — Westall
had, early in the day, obtained possession
of the looked-for letter from
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
Lansdown, and having awaited Ellen's return,
till patience had had her perfect work,
and would work no longer, he had sallied
forth in the expectation of meeting the
returning party, as he did at no great
distance.
They had been delayed by an accident
that had lamed one of their horses, a
circumstance that afforded a pretext to
Westall to propose to the young ladies
to quit the carriage and walk up the hill;
and he, leaving Miss Campbell with
her natural escort Fenton, proceeded
with Ellen, and for a very good reason
had preferred, as lovers are apt to do,
without any reason at all, the most retired
road.
As soon as they were removed from
observation, he produced Mrs. Harrison's
letter, and Ellen was attempting to read
it by the feeble light, when they were
met by Miss Redwood and Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald internally cursed the unlucky
encounter, and Caroline drew her
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
bonnet closer; but any apprehensions they
might feel seemed quite unnecessary,
for Ellen did not raise her eyes from the
letter, and Westall only noticed them by
slightly touching his hat, being at the
moment too much engrossed with his
own affairs to have any suspicions excited
in relation to theirs. They therefore
proceeded unmolested to the place
where the carriage was stationed, a servant
let down the steps, and Fitzgerald
was hurrying Caroline into it, when
she started back, exclaiming, “Good
heavens! Lilly is not here—I cannot go
till she comes.”
The servant who had brought the
trunk, on being inquired of, said that the
girl had left him with the declaration
that she would follow immediately.
“Then,” said Caroline, “there is no
alternative—we must wait—I cannot and
will not go without her.”
It certainly was not Fitzgerald's cue
as yet to cross the will or whims of Miss
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
Redwood, and he submitted with the
best grace he could assume. A servant
was sent back to the Springs to hasten
the faithless girl, and returned after an
interval that had seemed to the anxious
and impatient lovers interminable, with
the perplexing information that Lilly
was no where to be found.
Caroline was in despair, and Captain
Fitzgerald, impatient at her manifesting
a degree of feeling which he deemed out
of all proportion to the importance of
the occasion, could scarcely curb his
displeasure while he urged the necessity
of their proceeding immediately.
“We are mad to delay thus, my dear
Miss Redwood,” said he; “you are,
no doubt, missed before this time: that
meddling fellow, Westall, will be sure to
tell your father that he saw us: our
plans will be counteracted—my happiness
sacrificed. The girl is doubtless
detained by some trifling accident; or
if by her own fault, her insolence shall
-- 204 --
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
be chastised to-morrow—for to-morrow,
my dear Miss Redwood, we shall beyond
all question, return.”
“Think you so—are you sure of it,
Captain Fitzgerald?”
“Absolutely sure—it cannot be otherwise.”
“Then order the coachman to drive
on,” said Caroline, sinking back into the
carriage in a state of mind ill suited to
the errand on which she was going.
In vain Fitzgerald essayed to soothe,
to argue, to flatter her into her usual
spirits. Her imagination pictured a
dying unforgiving father: the beseeching
pathetic tones of his voice, to which
in the morning she had refused to listen,
rang in her ears like a funeral knell: she
was now tortured with the fear that
Lilly had been treacherous, and now with
the possibility that the secrets of the
dressing-case might be accidentally revealed;
and when she arrived at the
place of their destination, a village inn
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
a few miles from Lebanon, her feelings
were wrought up to a pitch of excitement
little short of frenzy.
Fitzgerald ascertained that the pastor
of the village was absent, but that fortunately
there had just arrived at the inn
an itinerant clergyman, who, to use his
own homely phrase, was `candidating
about the country,' and though a very
inferior member of a most respectable
body, he was regularly licensed, and
was therefore legally qualified to perform
the marriage ceremony. Some
time elapsed before Miss Redwood became
so much tranquillized that Fitzgerald
deemed it prudent to expose her
to the observation of a third person.
She at last yielded, partly to the influence
of her lover, and partly to the
propriety—the now inevitable necessity—
of controlling her feelings. The
clergyman was summoned—he took his
station—appointed to the parties theirs,
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
and then drawing a hymn-book from
his pocket, he said, `it would be pleasing
if the gentleman and lady would
commence the present solemn exercise
by singing a hymn.'
“Singing a hymn!” exclaimed Fitzgerald:
“Is that a necessary part of
the marriage service in this country,
Sir?”
“Oh no, Sir, not necessary, but very
suitable. I don't know what the custom
may be here in York state, but in Connecticut
it is quite customary to close a
marriage opportunity with a singing exercise.
I thought upon the present interesting
occasion it would be best to
begin with the singing, as the young
lady looks a little flurried, and might
not be able to unite with us after the solemnity
is concluded.”
“We will dispense with the hymn,
Sir,” said Fitzgerald, smothering an imprecation
on the whole body of
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
puritanical parsons. “Please to proceed to
do your office, and with all possible
brevity.”
The clergyman, however, had quite
too much respect for professional details
to comply with the last injunction. He
began with a dissertation on the happiness
of the married state; he then proceeded
to an exhortation to the faithful
performance of its duties, and closed
his prefatory `exercise' with a prayer,
which it is to be feared failed to produce
one sentiment of devotion in the parties.
The prayer finished, he began the
service that was to bind Caroline indissolubly
to Fitzgerald, when the whole
party was startled by loud and reiterated
knocking at the outer door.
Fitzgerald's conscience foreboded evil:
he quitted Caroline's side, and sprang
towards the door to turn the key; but
no key, no bolt, no means of fastening
were to be found. He returned to Caroline;
she was trembling excessively; he
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
took her hand, and whispered, “for
heaven's sake be composed—what should
we fear from an interruption?” and then
addressing the clergyman, he said, somewhat
sternly, “proceed, Sir, to your
duty.”
But the good meek man was not at all
qualified for so energetic a measure,
and while he hesitated, the noise in the
passage increased. The intruder had
made good his entrance, and was in an
altercation with the landlord. The declaration
“I must see them, Sir, and
that instantly,” reached the ears of the
lovers, and was directly followed by the
throwing open of the door, and the appearance
of Charles Westall.
“Why this impertinent intrusion,
Sir?” said Fitzgerald, advancing to
Westall with an air of defiance.
“This is no time, Captain Fitzgerald,”
replied Westall, quite unmoved, “for us
to bandy insults; our quarrel, if we have
any, must be deferred; my business is
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
with Miss Redwood, and admits of no
delay. Miss Redwood,” he added, turning
to Caroline, and taking her hand, “I
beseech you to return with me to your
father. I have left him in a state that
precludes all hope of his life; that precludes,
I fear, the hope that he will even
recover his consciousness.”
“Then of what use, Sir, can Miss
Redwood's return be?” interposed Fitzgerald.
“Of what use!—I appeal to you Miss
Redwood: your father may be conscious
of your presence; an act of duty and
affection may soften the anguish of the
dying hour; and it may, Miss Redwood,
be a source of consolation for yourself,
which, believe me, you will need.”
“I will go with you, Mr. Westall,”
replied Caroline, in a faultering voice,
and she threw on her hat and shawl,
which were lying beside her, and offered
her arm to Westall.
Fitzgerald thrust himself between
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
Westall and Caroline, and seizing her
arm turned fiercely to Westall, “Stand
off, Sir!” said he; “I have a right to
Miss Redwood. Miss Redwood, you
have plighted your faith to me; you cannot—
shall not leave me till the priest has
done his office.”
“Captain Fitzgerald,” said Westall,
“you need not apprehend any interference
with your rights: matters have
gone too far between you and Miss Redwood
to be retraced: all that I ask—all
that I wish is, that you will not attempt
to deter her from doing an imperious
duty, which omitting to do will disgrace
her eternally.”
Fitzgerald was softened by the admission
of what he feared would be a contested
right, he relinquished Caroline's
arm, and permitted Westall, without
any farther opposition, to lead her to his
carriage.
Westall then returned for a moment
to Fitzgerald, to beseech him to take all
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
feasible measures to prevent the publicity
of the evening's expedition; if not
prevented, he thought it might be deferred
till Miss Redwood had left the
Springs, and she thus saved from the disgrace
to which a lady is always exposed
by a clandestine affair. He then left
Fitzgerald to take such means as his
own prudence should suggest to effect
this desirable purpose, and proceeded
with Caroline, as expeditiously as possible,
to the Springs, where they arrived
between twelve and one o'clock. Caroline
fortunately did not encounter any
person on her way to her own room,
whither she went to await the summons
which Westall promised to send her as
soon as he could ascertain her father's
present condition.
It may be necessary to account for
what appears to have been very impolitic
haste on the part of Caroline and her
lover. The threatening symptoms of
Mr. Redwood's increasing illness,
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
certainly warranted the natural hope of
Fitzgerald, that Miss Redwood's parent
did not possess the gift of immortality,
which impatient fortune-hunters are apt
to attribute to rich old fathers — and
the constant and even growing favour of
the beautiful daughter, authorized the
confident expectation which the gallant
Captain indulged, of a successful termination
of his campaign; when, lo! one
of those adverse accidents, that happen
alike in love and war, occurred to frustrate
his plan of operations: this was
none other than the receipt of a letter
from his commanding officer, containing
an order to rejoin his regiment; and the
information that the regiment was ordered
to a station in the West Indies.
The Captain perceived, at once, that
in this exigency a coup de main was the
only mode of extrication from his embarrassments.
He immediately informed
Miss Redwood of his recall; but as he
knew that the young lady had set her
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
heart on a voyage to Europe, he prudently
deferred to a subsequent opportunity
the communication of the appointment
of his regiment to the West India
station. It had become necessary to
make a premature application to Mr.
Redwood: Caroline, as has been seen,
unable to resist the pleadings of her
lover, consented to be the medium of it.
Mr. Redwood's decided answer precluded
the hope that he would change his
mind. It was impossible for the Captain
to await the lingering termination of his
sickness, and the hacknied procedure of
a clandestine marriage was the last and
only resort.
Few fathers are inexorable, and nothing,
as Fitzgerald thought, was more
improbable than that Mr. Redwood,
with a spirit subdued by a mortal sickness,
would withhold his forgiveness
from his only child; and, in the very
worst supposeable case, (for which Caroline
had provided by the arrangement of
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
her baggage) the affairs of the heiress
might be committed to an agent.
Thus had the Captain, after a survey
of the whole ground, with the prudence
of a skilful officer, provided for every
contingency but precisely that one which
for the present suspended his victory.
-- 215 --
CHAPTER XXV.
“Breaks not the morning's cheering light
Forth from the darkest hour of night!”
Young Lady's Scrapbook.
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
We must now return to relate the incidents
that had occurred while Caroline
and her lover were pursuing their clandestine
expedition. Ellen and Westall
were left slowly retracing their way to
the Springs, and poring over Mrs. Harrison's
letter. Whatever might have
been the excellent old lady's epistolary
talents, Westall certainly thought her
letter a chef d'œuvre when he read the
following passage:—
“I have no hesitation, my beloved
Ellen, in giving you a decision on the
subject you have referred to me. You
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
have borne your probation with unremitting
patience, and I am sure your
fortitude will be equal to the issue, whatever
it may be. I see no reason for
delaying one moment to penetrate the
mystery of your birth. I have, as you
well know, admired and encouraged
your fidelity to the letter of your mother's
dying injunctions; and I do not
see that you depart from its spirit now.
The box was not to be opened till you
had arrived at the age of twenty-one,
except in case you should previously
make a matrimonial engagement. The
engagement made, you were at liberty
to explore the box: but your own delicate
scruples (which I perfectly approve)
induce you to defer your engagement,
till you ascertain what bearing
this long dreaded, long desired secret
may have on your history. Though I am
convinced that whatever discovery you
may make will not affect the wishes or
decision of your lover, yet you are right
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
to leave him the liberty which you reserve
to yourself.
“I do not ask for riches or honours
for you, my dear Ellen, but my earnest
desire is, that you may have sprung
from virtuous parents, whose memory
you may cherish with an honest pride,
and to a reunion with whom you may
look forward with eager and well-founded
hope: whatever may be the event, do
not delay to inform me of it; remember
that I must weep or rejoice with
you; that the light which shines on you,
will send its cheering ray to my old
heart; or if there must be clouds in
your heaven, that they will overshadow
me too—for we have the same horizon.”
Mrs. Harrison's advice was most acceptable
and most gratefully received,
as advice always is, when it happens to
coincide with the strongest inclinations
of the heart. When the lovers reached
the house, they heard the bell ringing
which announced the tea hour, and
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
perceived that the company was thronging
to the tea-room.
As they ascended the steps of the
piazza, Westall said, “let us improve
the present opportunity, Ellen—the east
parlour is vacant, and for a short time
at least we shall be in no danger of
interruption there. I will order candles
while you go for your treasure.”
Ellen assented—left him, and re-appeared
in a few moments with the box
in her hand: her cheeks were alternately
deeply flushed and deadly pale.
Westall understood too well the source
whence her feelings flowed to attempt
to check them. Ellen tried to unlock
the box, but she could not—she shivered
with emotion. “Do you open it,” she
said, giving it to Westall, “for I cannot.”
Westall as he took the box from her,
perceived that her hands were as cold as
marble. “Had you not better defer
this, Ellen?” he asked.
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
“No, no, I am prepared for any
thing now,” she replied, sinking on her
knees before the table on which Westall
had placed the box.
Westall turned the key, and disclosed
to her eager eye the interior, containing
nothing but a small miniature case.
The bright glow of expectation faded
from Ellen's cheek, “Oh my mother!
my mother!” she exclaimed, in a voice
in which bitter disappointment and tender
expostulation mingled.
Westall took her clasped hands between
his—both were silent for a few
moments: he then said, “My dear
Ellen, do not distress yourself thus—
have not your fears vanished with your
hopes? this unforeseen result pains you,
but is it not better, far better, than much
that you have apprehended? and severe
as your disappointment is, Ellen, will
you not be consoled by the devotion of
my life to you?”
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
Ellen only replied by laying her head
on her hands and weeping bitterly.
Westall proceeded to urge every consolation
which the stimulated tenderness
of a lover could suggest, but Ellen was
deaf to all that he said. It seemed as if
she had been that moment torn from the
bosom of her mother, and was left alone
in the universe.
“Oh, it was then an artifice,” she
said: “Caroline Redwood spoke the
cruel truth. I could have borne any
thing but this,” she continued, with an
impetuosity that startled Westall—“for
this I was not prepared.”
“My mother! must I never vindicate—
must I never speak your name!”
Again and again she took up the box,
examined it without and within, and
dropping it, exclaimed, “oh my mother,
is this all?”
There was something so sacred in
Ellen's grief—something so touching in
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
her brief expressions, and in the indescribable
language of her beautiful countenance,
that even her lover, whose
heart vibrated to every pulsation of hers,
was compelled to silence.
Mechanically he took up the miniature
case, and passing his eye over it, he perceived
a fragment of paper adhering to
the edge of it, on which was written in a
delicate female hand, “From my”—
the remainder of the sentence had been
torn off. It occurred to Westall at once
that there might have been some foul
play, and he was on the point of suggesting
his conjecture to Ellen, when
they were both startled by some one
tapping at the door, and then impatiently
opening it.
“Pardon my intrusion,” said Miss
Campbell, instinctively shrinking back
and then advancing, “my errand admits
of no ceremony—Mr. Westall, you must
go immediately to Mr. Redwood, his servant
has been anxiously looking for you
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
---he says his master is extremely ill,
and sends to entreat you not to delay a
moment to come to him.”
“I cannot go now,” said Westall,
insensible for the moment to any suffering
but Ellen's.
“You must go,” said Miss Campbell,
with an imperative decision, which indicated
that she had more reason for her
urgency than her words expressed, and
Westall whispering an entreaty to Ellen
that he might be permitted to see her
again in the course of the evening, left
the ladies to witness a scene of more
remediless grief than Ellen's. Miss
Campbell remained for a few moments
an embarrassed spectator of Ellen's
emotion: it surprised and affected her
the more, because there was in Ellen's
ordinary manner such an instinctive
shrinking from the display, or the exposure
of her feelings. Grace was not
however of a temper to remain for any
length of time a silent or inactive
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
observer of a friend's sufferings, and after
a few moments she kindly passed her
arm round Ellen and said, “what rude
storm has assailed you, my dear Ellen?”
Ellen made no effort to reply, and
after a little pause her friend added,
“though you will not let me feel with
you, you must permit me to think for
you, Ellen—you are exposed to intrusion
here. Let me go with you to your
room—I will stipulate to make no demands—
no inquiries—only suffer me to
remain with you till you are more composed.”
Ellen returned the pressure of her
friend's hand in token of her acquiescence,
and taking up once more her box
with a heart-bursting sigh, she retreated
to her own apartment with Miss Campbell;
and there, after having recovered
from the first shock of her disappointment,
she rewarded the delicate kindness
and affectionate interest of her
friend by confiding to her the few
-- 224 --
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
particulars of her long-cherished hopes, and
the final utter demolition of them.
And now we must leave her, listening
to such consolation as the inventive
mind of her friend could suggest, while
we follow Charles Westall to the apartment
of Mr. Redwood, whom he found
walking to and fro in the greatest agitation,
supported by his servant.
At the sight of Westall he sunk into a
chair, exclaiming, “it is all over, Charles—
she has gone—she has left me to die
here—gone without one parting word—
misguided miserable girl!”
The recollection of his meeting with
Miss Redwood darted across Westall's
mind, and he comprehended at once
Mr. Redwood's emotion and the language
he held.
“Impossible, Sir!” he said, “she cannot
have gone without leaving some explanation—
some communication for you—
go Ralph, and find Miss Redwood's
servant, and bid her come here.”
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
“Find Lilly!” replied the man, “I
might as well look for the wind that
blew yesterday, Mr. Westall; Lilly has
gone faster one way than Miss Caroline
has the other.”
“Lilly gone—and not with her mistress?
Do you then, Ralph, go yourself
to Miss Redwood's room, and look
on her dressing-table; she may possibly
have left a letter there for her father.”
“And of what avail, Charles, if she
has?” asked Mr. Redwood—“what explanation
can soften the terrible truth?
but go, Ralph, go.
The man obeyed, but not till he had
whispered to Westall, “keep a steady
eye on master: the fever betimes mounts
to his head, and then he is raving.”
The man's apprehensions seemed
quite superfluous, for excepting a few
rational exclamations, such as “poor—
poor girl!” “Oh God, thou art most
just!” “Charles, this last blow is too
much for me!” Mr. Redwood remained
-- 226 --
[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
silent till the servant returned holding
in his hand a large pacquet, which he
said `might be for master, though there
was no writing on the top of it.'
Mr. Redwood snatched it from him
and broke the seal. As he unfolded the
pacquet, a miniature rolled from it on
to the floor, and Westall picked it up.
The image of the only relict in Ellen's
box was still vivid in Westall's mind,
and it was not strange that he should
have instinctively compared the dimensions
of the miniature with the case in
Ellen's possession, and hardly conscious
of the several links in the chain of his
thoughts, he turned the miniature to examine
the back of it. The upper part
of the paper that had been pasted over
it, was torn off, and on that remaining
was traced in the same hand-writing
that was on Ellen's fragment, “beloved
husband to his faithful Mary.”
A faint light dawned on Westall's
mind, when his attention was withdrawn
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
by a sudden exclamation from Mr. Redwood.
“In the name of heaven,” he said,
“what does this mean? how did Caroline
get possession of these papers?”
and he held up the certificate of his marriage
with Mary Erwine, and the letter
directed “to my child.” “Oh, Charles,”
he added, “my head—my head;” and
he pressed both hands to his head as if
his thoughts were bursting it. “Oh
memory—memory!—think for me—tell
me what these mean!”
“Be composed Sir,—I beseech you,”
said Westall, in the calmest tone he
could assume: then opening the letter
he glanced his eye rapidly over it, refolded
it and paused; he could not
speak: his first impulse was to fly to
Ellen and tell her that Mr. Redwood
was her father. The fearful wildness of
Mr. Redwood's eye still fixed inquiringly
on him, recalled him to the present
necessity. The discovery must be first
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
made to him; and Westall lost every
other consideration in his anxiety to
make the communication in such a way
as not to destroy the equipoise of Mr.
Redwood's mind, which seemed now
utterly unable to sustain any additional
excitement.
He still hesitated—it appeared that
Mr. Redwood understood his apprehensions,
for grasping his hand, he said,
“Speak quickly, Charles, while I can
comprehend you.”
“Be patient, Sir—be calm, I entreat
you,” replied Westall; “there is a blessing—
an unspeakable blessing in reserve
for you—this letter is from Mary Erwine—
from your wife to her child.”
“To her child, Charles!—you perplex
me—you disturb me; she had no child.”
“Yes, Mr. Redwood,” replied Westall,
almost choking with his own emotions,
“her child, and God be praised,
that child lives—lives to love and to
bless you.”
-- 229 --
[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
“What is it you mean, Westall? explain
yourself,” said Mr. Redwood,
covering his face with his hands.
Westall described as concisely as possible
the condition in which he had
found the box left by Ellen's mother;
and he read aloud some passages of the
letter which placed, beyond the possibility
of doubt, the fact that Mr. Redwood's
wife left a child, and that that
child was Ellen Bruce.
Westall did not deem it necessary to
allude to the mode by which these testimonials
must have passed into Caroline's
possession.
Mr. Redwood listened in breathless
silence, till Westall had concluded.
Not an exclamation, not a sound
escaped from him, save the audible
beating of his heart. After a few
moments he uncovered his face, a
smile passed over it as wild and transient
as the flashings of lightning on the
dark cloud. “Send for Ellen,” he said,
the effort to speak slowly and calmly
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
too apparent in his voice: “do you stay
with me, Charles—I must not be left
alone: the light burns dimly here,” he
added, pressing his hand to his head.
“Do not send for her now,” said
Westall, “give this night to tranquillity—
to happy anticipations. To-morrow
you will be better prepared to see her.”
“To-morrow! now or never, Charles;
send without one moment's delay.”
Westall took out his pencil to write a
note to Ellen. Mr. Redwood stopped
him, “No, my dear Charles,” he said,
“go yourself—the poor child will need
some preparation—she will need your
support. I shall do well enough—I am
better—much better now.”
Westall went and returned with Ellen,
in a space of time that seemed brief,
even to Mr. Redwood. Ellen was as
pale as marble; but a celestial joy shone
in her face—she sprang towards her father:
he rose, stretched out his arms to
receive her, and folding her in them,
they wept together.
-- 231 --
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
After a moment he started back, and
gazed wildly on Ellen. “Ellen Bruce, my
child?” he said—“is it not all a dream?
Speak to me Ellen—call me father—forgive
me in your mother's name.”
Ellen's resolution forsook her: alarmed,
trembling, and weeping, she sunk on
her knees; her father shook his head,
and would have stooped to raise her, but
utterly exhausted by the conflict of his
feelings, he leaned on Westall's shoulder.
A single look from Westall roused all
Ellen's energies; she sprang to her father's
aid, and assisted Westall to lay
him on the bed.
“He is insensible for the moment,”
whispered Westall, “but he will soon
recover his consciousness, and then, my
dear Ellen, his life—more than life, his
reason will depend on your fortitude and
calmness.”
Westall then gave into Ellen's hands
the miniature, the certificate, and the
letter—the last she kissed again and again
-- 232 --
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
—poured over it a shower of tears, and
not daring then to trust herself to look in
it, she placed it in her bosom.
She then took her station beside her
father, and watched with inexpressible
anxiety every variation of his changeful
countenance. He soon recovered sufficiently
to speak, but his first words confirmed
their worst fears; for they were
the ravings of delirium. He laughed
and wept alternately—he called on Ellen—
on her mother—on Westall; but most
frequently and with most impetuosity,
he demanded Caroline. He seemed to
imagine that she was on the brink of a
precipice, and to feel that he vainly
sought to rescue her.
So much did his madness appear to
be stimulated by this fancy, that after a
short consultation Westall and Ellen determined
that an effort should be made
to induce Miss Redwood to return immediately,
to try what effect her presence
might produce on her father.
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
Ralph was sent to ascertain, if possible,
the destination of the fugitives; and
having succeeded in insinuating himself
into the confidence of one of Fitzgerald's
agents, he returned in a short time with
the information, that they might probably
be found at a village inn, at no
great distance from the Springs.
Westall's next care was to determine
to whom he should apply to undertake
so delicate an embassy, and while he
was deliberating, Ellen said, “go yourself,
I beseech you, Mr. Westall. Ralph
and I can do every thing here, and you,
and you alone can persuade Miss Redwood
to return—to return,” she added,
with a faltering voice, “before it is too
late.”
“Alas! my dear Ellen,” replied Westall,
glancing his eye at Mr. Redwood,
who after a paroxysm of raving had sunk
on his pillow, pale and exhausted, “it
is I fear already too late.”
“Oh, do not say so—it may not be—”
-- 234 --
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
said Ellen, and she bent over her father
with a look of great anxiety, then turning
suddenly to Westall, “we may at
least,” she said, “save Caroline from
the disgrace that must fall on her, if it is
known that she has deserted her father
in this extremity.”
“Generous being!” exclaimed Westall,
“you shall be obeyed, but I cannot
leave you here alone.”
“Ask Grace Campbell then, to come
to me—but no,” she added, looking towards
the bed and observing that her
father was sinking to sleep, “perfect
quiet will be best—now go, and God
speed you.”
Westall departed, admiring with enthusiasm
(as lovers are wont to admire the
virtues that belong to the objects of their
tenderness) the self-command of Ellen,
and the generosity with which she could
forego, at this crisis of her life, the indulgence
of her sensibilities, to consider
how she might preserve the honor of
-- 235 --
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
one who had so relentlessly inflicted suffering
on her.
The moment Westall left her, Ellen
sent the servant into an adjoining room
that she might avoid the risk of breaking
her father's slumbers by the slightest
noise. Hour after hour she sate on his
bedside, gently chafing his icy hands,
wiping the cold dew from his forehead,
and noting every breath he struggled to
inhale, and every convulsive motion of
his distorted features. At length his
feverishness abated — he ceased to be
restless—the firm grasp of his hand relaxed—
a gentle warmth was diffused
throughout his system, and his respiration
became quiet as an infant's.
Ellen raised her hands and eyes in
silent and devout thankfulness, and withdrawing
from the bed, she took from her
bosom her mother's letter, and opened
it with a mingled feeling of awe, of apprehension,
and of tenderness.
Could it be otherwise? it was the
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
record of the wrongs of her departed
mother first to be learned in the presence
of her dying father. Repeatedly she
fixed her eyes on the letter, but they
were so dimmed with her tears, that she
could not distinguish one word from
another. At last an intense interest in
her mother's fate subdued every other
feeling, and she succeeded in reading the
letter which will be found in the next
chapter.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVI.
Methinks if ye would know
How visitations of calamity
Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there!”
Southey.
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
“My Child — If the injunction is
obeyed with which I shall consign to
my friend the box that is to contain this
letter, long before you behold it the hand
that now traces these lines will have
mouldered to dust—the eye that now,
as you lie on my bosom, pours its tears
like rain upon your sweet face, shall
weep no more for ever; and the heart
that now throbs with hopes and fears
for you, my love, shall have ceased to
beat with mortal anxieties and mortal
hopes.
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
“Sweet innocent — gift of God —
image of immaculate purity — thy mother
would preserve thee, an unsullied
treasure for the riches of Christ's kingdom—
a stainless flower for the paradise
of God: thy mother would shelter thee
so that the winds of heaven should not
breathe unkindly on thee. But this
cannot be. Thou must be exposed to
the dangers of human life, solicited by
its temptations, and pierced by its sorrows—
and thy mother, thy natural guard
and shield, must be taken from thee.
Thy mother can do nothing for thee——
Said I nothing!—God forgive me. I
can do—I have done all things—I have
resigned you to Him whose protection is
safety—whose favour is life. I have
believed his promises—I have accepted
his offered mercy; and in faith, and
nothing wavering, I have committed my
orphan child to Him. And now, though
thy path should be laid through the
waters, they shall not overwhelm thee,
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
and through the fire, it shall not kindle
upon thee.
“My child, I am now to account to
you for a resolution, which, should it
please God to preserve your life, must
materially affect your future destiny.
“I beseech you to permit no unkind
thoughts of your mother to enter your
gentle bosom. Remember that if I
deprive you of your rights, degrade you
from the station in which you were
born, and remove you from honours and
riches, it is that you may become an
`heir of the kingdom;' remember my
motive—read the brief history and unhappy
fate of your mother, and you
will not—must not blame her.
“My father's name was Philip Erwine.
He was a Scotchman by birth, the only
son of a rich and respectable family. He
was educated for the church, and preparing
to enter life with the most happy
prospects, when they were for ever
clouded by a clandestine marriage, which
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
the world deemed imprudent, and his
father unpardonable, with a portionless,
obscure girl, whose maiden name, Ellen
Bruce, I have given to you. My grandfather
discarded his son from his home
and his affections, and only cherished
the remembrance of this one act of disobedience.
Oh my child, the pride of
this world is cruel tyranny!
“My father subsisted for some months
on scanty remittances secretly made him
by his mother; but she died soon after.
My grandfather married again—had more
children—and my father, thus cut off
from all hope of reconciliation, emigrated
to America. My parents were
strangers in a strange land, and obliged
to meet the evils which the poor and
friendless must always encounter. My
father, nursed in the lap of indulgence,
sunk under privation, and became utterly
spiritless and dejected. My noble
mother, with an `inborn royalty of
mind' that makes the trappings of
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
earthly distinctions seem poor indeed,
endured all her trials without a murmuring
word, or even look. She made incredible
exertions for the support of her
family, and maintained an outward cheerfulness,
while her heart was sinking with
the consciousness of having been the
cause of my father's calamities. Her
health and life were the sacrifice. I
have since heard my father confess that
when he laid her in the grave, he was
first roused to a sense of my wants and
his duties.
“He left New-York, the scene of his
sufferings, and fixed his residence in a
village on Long-Island Sound. There
he obtained a comfortable living by
teaching the children of some gentlemen
whose summer residences were in the
vicinage. Whenever he was compelled
to be absent from me, I was left in the
care—the vigilant, maternal care, of the
kindest-hearted woman in the world,
who afterwards married a Mr. Allen,
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
and went to reside in Massachusetts.
I was the constant companion of my
father's solitude—the consolation, he
called me, of his exile. All the treasure
of his heart was lavished on me: I was
the refuge of his affections, and nurtured
with a thoughtful tenderness that quite
disqualified me for the indifference of a
selfish world—quite unfitted me for the
rude storm that has since assailed me,
and before which I have fallen.
“My father was a good man: adversity
had made him an humble Christian:
still he possessed the pride natural to
the human heart, and I, his only child,
was the object of all that pride. Yes,
my love, he was proud of thy mother's
beauty—that fatal beauty that has been
the source of all my griefs—that beauty
which is now perishing by disease, and
soon will be quite effaced by death.
Thank God, I was never proud of it: in
my simplicity, I was ignorant of its
value and its danger.
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
“My father would sometimes bewail
for me the loss of distinctions, which
were no loss to me, for I had never
known them; and in the joyous independence
of childhood, I could frolic away
his sadness, and prove to him, by the
contentment of my spirit, the vanity of
his desires.
“I had just attained my fourteenth
year when I lost my father. I pass
over that period of my life. My support—
my defence was taken from me—the
world was all before me, and I would
gladly have turned back and laid me in
my father's grave. Thank heaven, my
child, there is a misery you cannot feel!
“My father did not leave me without
a provision. Tender as the parent bird
that plucks the down from its own breast
to feather the nest for its young, he had
practised the severest economy—deprived
himself of every, the least indulgence,
that he might reserve his small
earnings for my sake.
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
“Mrs. Allen, to whose guardianship
my father had left me, sent me to a
boarding-school to acquire some slight
accomplishments, which she hoped,
with the solid instruction I had already
received, would qualify me for a teacher,
and thus secure to me the means of
permanent independence. I had been
one year at school—my education was
finished, or rather my small means were
expended, when a Mrs. Westall came
with her husband from Virginia to visit
her northern friends. Though some
years older than I, we had been playmates
in our childhood. She remembered
with kindness our youthful intimacy.
My youth and loneliness interested
her husband's benevolent heart:
he invited me to accompany his wife to
the south, and promised, if I became
dissatisfied with my home in his family,
to obtain for me among his rich neighbours
an agreeable situation as teacher.
“Now, my child, your mother claims
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
your pity, your sympathy, your forgiveness,
while you read the record of
an indiscretion that casts her into an
early grave, and condemns you to
orphanage.
“The day after our arrival at Mr.
Westall's plantation, I had stolen just
at sunset into the garden with my friend's
little boy, Charles Westall—the thought
of this child throws a bright gleam across
the track of memory, and I pause to
dwell on it as the traveller in a desert
lingers to pluck a sweet and solitary
flower. Scarcely less a child than himself,
I was the favourite companion of
his sports. He had chased me through
the walks, and having caught me, he
made me kneel on a turfed bank, that he
might, as he said, crown me his queen.
He pulled the comb from my hair, and
was weaving knots of honey-suckles and
rosebuds among my curls, when we
were startled by the rustling of the
branches of some high shrubs behind
which we had retreated. We both looked
-- 246 --
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
up and perceived a gentleman, a stranger,
gazing intently on us.
“Little Charles sportively drew the
branches around me, saying, `this is my
Mary, my queen—and nobody shall
look on her till she is crowned.”'
“`Such a nymph,' said the stranger,
`should have a guardian angel and a
sylvan veil.'
“These were the first words I ever
heard from your father; this was the
first time I ever saw him, and from this
moment he was never absent from my
thoughts: wherever I was, in society or
in solitude, Henry Redwood's voice rung
in my ears; his image was for ever before
me. Look, my child, at the picture
which you will find with this letter:
look on those eyes—the lofty brow—the
mouth—and then imagine what his face
must have been, when kindled with the
inspiration of the living spirit.
“I was young and ignorant—artless
and unsuspicious—constantly exposed
to the charms of his genius and
-- 247 --
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
accomplishments—to the fascinations of his
tenderness—and if I had ever doubted
(which I did not) that he was all that he
seemed, his being the friend of Mr.
Westall would have quieted my fears.
“Here I have paused to look over what
I have written, and I blush at my own
inconsistency. I blame myself, and yet
I seek a justification in my child's eyes;
this is natural, for alas! the heart is deceitful.
But I will do so no more—I
will tell the simple truth, and trust to
my child's heart to plead for her mother.
“Not many months elapsed before I
married Mr. Redwood clandestinely,
and without much scruple or reluctance.
Every sentiment of duty and propriety
was lost in the fervour of a first attachment,
and in the fearless confidence
which youth and love inspired.
“He urged the necessity of secresy,
and assigned many reasons for it. I received
them implicitly, or scarcely listened
to them, for I had cast the care of
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
my honour and happiness upon him, and
my affection was unclouded by a single
doubt or anxiety.
“Soon after our marriage, Mr. Westall
died suddenly—the kindness of Mrs.
Westall detained me with her for some
time: I then left her to take charge of
the children of a Mr. Emlyn, whose
plantation adjoined that of my husband's
father. Our opportunities of meeting,
though somewhat diminished by my
residence with strangers, were still frequent,
but they exposed me to suspicions
and remarks that made me
miserable.
“The last time I saw my husband I
confessed my anxieties to him. I even
hinted my expectation of your existence;
that I believe he did not understand, and
I had not courage to explain myself. I
observed that he felt unusual emotion at
parting with me, and the next morning
I received the information that he had
gone on a tour of pleasure to Europe, to
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
be absent one or two years. With this
intelligence, which almost deprived me
of my senses, your father sent me, by
mistake, some letters that had passed
between him and one of his friends,
from which I discovered that while he
felt some tenderness for me, he regretted
that he had encumbered himself with an
insuperable obstacle to his advancement
in the world.
“He was the world to me—and I
found myself worse than insignificant to
him. Every fibre of my affections was
clasped around him, and I was thus in a
moment rudely torn away: poverty I
had never dreaded — calamity in any
other shape I could have borne—but I
merited the chastisement. I also discovered
from these fatal letters that your
father was an unbeliever; not merely
that he rejected the truths of revelation,
but that he could even treat a future retribution
and the hope of immortality as
childish illusions.
-- 250 --
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
“Oh, how then, in the bitterness of
my sorrow and disappointment, did I
blame myself that I had so long forgotten
my Christian duty, and had looked upon
my husband's indifference to religion (for
his unbelief I never suspected,) as what
was to be expected in a young man.
My child, I deserved my fate—I was
born of a Christian mother, watched and
guided by a Christian father—religious
principles were deeply rooted in my
heart; and yet for awhile every thought
of duty was suspended—every affection
was melted into one deep absorbing
passion—my whole existence was resolved
into one sensation—alas, this it is
to love!
“As soon as I became sufficiently
tranquil to think of the future, I took a
resolution to go to Philadelphia, without
any very definite purpose but to hide
myself from every one who had ever seen
me, and to escape from a scene where
every object renewed my anguish, and
-- 251 --
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
where I was no longer capable of performing
the duties I had undertaken.
“Oh that terrible journey!—I was
alone and unprotected, and so young and
so wretched, that every body noticed
me, and I had such mortifications and
trials to endure! But I will not make
your heart bleed by relating them—why
should I? they are past for ever.
“The journey was fatiguing to me—
my sorrows preyed on my health, and
before I reached Philadelphia, I was
seized with a nervous fever, which obliged
me to remain at a German settlement.
I recovered partially from it, but
it left my mind in a state of alternate
apathy and insensibility, which rendered
removal impossible. I hired a
lodging in a very poor German family,
where I awaited my confinement. I
was careless about my life, and took no
thought for my health, which ordinary
attention might perhaps have restored,
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
but long fastings and sleepless nights,
when my weary spirit knew no rest,
have wasted my strength; and now I
would give worlds for a little space of
that life which my wilful neglect, and
my guilty despair have destroyed.
“Your birth, awakened me to a new
existence—breathed a new spirit into
me—created ties to life; and from the
first moment I folded you to my bosom,
I would have accepted existence on any
terms: no condition, however deserted
and neglected, has now any terrors for
me. All other feelings and desires are
extinguished in the pure flame of maternal
love, and for you, my child, alone I
would live.
“But it cannot be—a terrible cough
racks my frame—the fires of consumption
are kindled on my cheek, and every
day I see and feel the steady and sure
approach of death—I weep over you,
and the kind creatures that are about
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
me weep to see me, and the long silent
watches of the night I pass in praying
for you.
“In my still solitude, when thou wast
sleeping all unconscious on my bosom, I
have heard a voice saying unto me,
`leave thy child with me.' I have
obeyed the voice—I have resigned you
to the protection of that good Being,
who in tender compassion hast declared
himself the orphan's God.
“And now it is deeply impressed on
my mind that I ought to do something
to preserve my lamb from the danger of
wandering from the fold of the good
Shepherd. Your father, by deserting
me, has forfeited his right to you. When
I am no longer in the way of his worldly
prospects, his heart may be touched
with compunction for the wrong he has
done me; you might awaken a parent's
feelings, and he might invest you with
your rights.
“All this might be—and what would
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
you gain? the unwilling sufferance—the
scanty favour, it may be, of a proud and
selfish family; for such, from the confession
of your father, are his connexions.
But for this shall I expose
you to the danger, the almost inevitable
certainty, of alienation from the christian
hope?
“It must not be—I behold something
in your innocent face—the emblem of
heaven—I feel something in the soft
touch of your little hand that appeals to
your mother's heart to direct your course
in the path that leads to the mansions in
our Father's house.
“I have at last taken an immoveable
resolution to keep your existence a secret
from your father, and to preserve from
you, and from every one, the knowledge
of my connexion with him till you are
of an age when you will be secure from
his influence—when your character will
be formed by wise and christian care.
“You must not, my child, think
-- 255 --
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
hardly of me for keeping you so long in
ignorance of your parentage—I dare not
leave any thing to hazard—the very
young do not know how to choose good
from evil, and heaven preserve you from
the hard school of experience in which
your poor mother has been taught!”
Here there occurred a blank in the
letter; and the remainder (scarcely
legible) was as follows:—
“Since writing the above, I have
been too weak to use my pen. In the
meantime my kind, generous, best
friend, Mrs. Allen, has complied with a
request I sent her, and come to me from
her distant home. Ah, how has she
grieved to find me so sick, and in this
mean lodging; but I have not suffered
from its poverty, and I chose it that I
might not diminish the pittance I have
saved for you—the remnant of the liberal
supply my husband sent me at his
departure.
-- 256 --
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
“I have found in this humble dwelling
all the kindness I needed, and have
enjoyed an inward peace that springs
from the reflection that I have for you,
my child, sacrificed earth to heaven.
“Mrs. Allen remonstrates with me.
I see that she thinks I have been so
long lonely and sorrowful that my mind
is not quite right, but she is mistaken—
I am sure she is mistaken. She tells
me that I may involve you in many embarrassments—
she suggests a thousand
difficulties that may occur, but I cannot
consider them now—I cannot go back to
the world—my thoughts are all the
other way.
“She does not oppose me any longer,
but has most solemnly promised to fulfil
my wishes, though she still calls them
strange and singular. She says I am
young—I am young in years, but in the
last twelvemonths I have grown very
old. Oh to the wretched, hours are
years, and weeks are ages!
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
“She begs me to be governed by her
discretion, but I cannot.
“She knows not—no one knows—
how to look upon the troubled and vanishing
dream of this life, till the light
of another falls upon it. No one knows
how mean every thing that is transient
and perishable appears to me—how insignificant
the joys, nay even the sufferings
that are past, as I stand trembling
on the verge of that bright world of innocence
and safety, where I hope to appear
with the child God has given me.
“My last prayer will be for you, my
child—and for your father—God have
mercy on him!”
Every word of this letter, which may
appear very long and tedious to an indifferent
reader, sunk deep into Ellen's
heart. It seemed to her as if the book
of Providence was unsealed and open
before her, and as the bright light fell on
the path by which she had been led to the
present period of her existence, `Oh my
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
mother!' she exclaimed, `hast thou not
been with me a guardian spirit to lead
me by the way which was disclosed to
thy prophetic eye?”
Her emotions were deep and indescribable—
stronger than any other were
gratitude to her mother, and admiration
of the courage and single-heartedness
with which she had renounced the world
for her.
“I might,” she thought, “like Caroline,
have been the slave of the world—
the victim of folly: I might have followed
my poor father through the dark and
dreary passages of unbelief, but for that
good part which my sainted mother
chose for me.”
A thousand reflections crowded on her
mind: but gratitude for the past—her
own bright hopes of the future—every
other feeling was soon lost in an extreme
solicitude for her father's recovery.
She knelt by his bed-side—But there
are feelings too sacred to be drawn from
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
their silent sanctuary—there are services
too hallowed to be described. They are
seen in secret, and rewarded, as Ellen's
were, openly.
We must now recur to Caroline, who,
on re-entering her own room, was startled
by the spectacle of her dressing-case,
the lid open, and pacquet and purse
gone. She seized the dressing-case,
emptied out every article it contained,
in the vain hope that in some corner the
treasure might lurk, but fruitless was
the search, and she dropped it and burst
into tears.
“Oh,” she said, “had the wretch
taken any thing else—my money—my
trinkets—any thing but this—the loss
of this may ruin me.”
While she was thus bewailing her calamity,
she heard a gentle tap at the
door, and on opening it Ellen appeared.
Caroline started back, and said haughtily,
“Has Westall sent you to me,
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
Miss Bruce?—I could have dispensed
with this favour.”
“No, Miss Redwood,” replied Ellen,
advancing into the room with an air of
dignity and gentleness, “I have come
here on my own errand—Caroline, your”—
here for the first time there was a
slight tremulousness in her voice, and
after a moment's pause, she added, “our
father”—
“You have it then?” shrieked Caroline.
“Yes,” replied Ellen, “I have it—
Providence has restored to me my right;
but you, Caroline have nothing to fear
from me—let the past be for ever forgotten.
Our father, Mr. Westall, and
myself, are all that know where these
precious documents were found: and is
not the secret safe with us? We are the
persons most concerned for your honour—
are we not? Forget the past then,
and regard me without fear or distrust.”
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
Caroline was touched with Ellen's
generosity, and deeply mortified, for the
moment at least, at the wrong she had
done her.
“I never meant,” she said, as soon as
she could command her voice sufficiently
to put the words together, though
in the most embarrassed and stammering
manner, “I never meant, Ellen, to
keep those papers from you for ever. I
do not believe I should have kept them
so long, but I thought that you could
not suffer from the loss of that which you
were ignorant you possessed; and I
knew that when papa discovered you
were his child, he would care nothing
for me. It was uncertain, you know,
for a long time, which of us Westall preferred,
and though I have since felt a
perfect indifference for him, I did then
wish—at least I should not have disliked
his addresses, and I was sure if
papa knew all, he would throw his influence
into your scale, and then Charles
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
Westall would have no reason for preferring
me, as, your rights acknowledged,
your fortune would be equal to
mine, and that I could not but think
very unfair, as nearly all papa's fortune
came from my mother, and yours, you
know, was quite pennyless.”
Self-justification is the natural tribute
even in the most hopeless circumstances,
to the law of rectitude written on the
heart. Lame and impotent as was Caroline's
attempt to justify herself, Ellen
replied without appearing to notice any
of its inconsistencies.
“You have not,” she said, “rightly
judged me, Caroline. If you could
have imagined the joy—the gratitude I
have felt this evening, you would not, I
am sure you would not have deferred
my happiness. My mother's name is
vindicated—sanctified my faith has always
held it; but it is now beyond the
reach of suspicion or imputation. You
know not, Caroline, how should you
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
know! the dreadful solitude of living
without a natural tie to your fellowcreatures.
You know not the exquisite
sensations I have felt this night, even
amidst afflicting fears, beside my father's
bed.”
Ellen's emotion checked her utterance
for a moment: she then added,
“Caroline, it is best that we should understand
one another perfectly. Your
mother's fortune is as entirely yours as if
I had never had an existence. I have
not the right, and certainly, I have not
the wish to interfere with your inheritance
in the smallest degree. All that I
covet, is an equal share of our father's
affections: your confidence I hope to
win; your sisterly affection I will try to
deserve.”
After a short pause, Ellen added in
conclusion, “there is one arrangement,
Caroline, which, if I insist on controlling,
you must not think I too soon assume
the rights of an elder sister. It is my
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
wish that our relationship should remain
a secret for the present.”
Caroline looked astonished. Ellen,
without seeming to notice her surprise,
proceeded, “in the present state of my
feelings I wish particularly to avoid observation
and remark. The avowal of
my engagement with Mr. Westall, and
your friendship, will give me a right to
share with you the care of our father.
Should he not recover, the secret shall
never be divulged—it is enough that I
know it—for worlds I would not cast a
shadow over his fair name.”
In assigning her motives, Ellen had
avoided any reference to what she knew
must be Caroline's wishes on the subject.
Caroline felt this delicacy to her
heart's core; she was subdued by the
pure goodness of Ellen; she felt the influence
of the holy principle that governed
her sister's mind, and penetrated
with a poignant contrition like that
which made the Egyptian king exclaim,
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
`truly, I have sinned against the Lord
your God and against you;' she sunk
on her knees—the pride and haughtiness
of her soul were vanquished—she
stretched out her arms with an almost
oriental abjectness. Ellen raised her
and clasped her arms around her. It
may not be too much to say, that the
beautiful sisters were a spectacle at
which heaven might rejoice; for they
seemed to embody penitence and perfect
love.
“Oh, Ellen!” exclaimed Caroline, as
soon as she could speak, “is it possible
that you will not after all triumph over
me? Can you forgive my slights—my
insults? Can you forget the wrong I
have done you?”
“All is forgiven—all forgotten,” replied
Ellen; “think no more of it, Caroline.
Let us now think of nothing but
how we shall best minister to our
father's restoration; for this we will
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
unite our hearts and efforts. Let us go
together to his room.”
“Yes, I will go—I will do every thing
you ask of me, Ellen,” said Caroline;
“but first tell me, for I never can speak
on the subject again, first tell me where
those papers were found. Did Lilly
give them to you?”
Ellen could not satisfy Caroline's curiosity
to know the particulars of her servant's
unfaithfulness. She could inform
her that the pacquet had been
found in her apartment.
The truth was, that Lilly, during her
northern summer, had formed too intimate
an acquaintance with `the mountain
nymph, sweet liberty,' and had
conceived too strong a friendship for her
to be willing ever again to leave her
dominions.
She had, too, in imitation of her mistress,
been carrying on a snug love
affair of her own with the servant of a
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
West India planter then at Lebanon.
Miss Redwood's clandestine arrangement
were the signal for the execution
of Lilly's plans, and they afforded an
insurance from the danger of immediate
pursuit—the only security she needed.
Lebanon is a border town, and the
boundary line of New York once passed
and Massachusetts entered, Lilly was
assured of the protecting hospitalities
of the people of her own colour; and
it had even been hinted to her that in
case her retreat was discovered, the
white inhabitants would be very backward
to enforce her master's rights.
Thus encouraged, Lilly availed herself
of the propitious moment of Caroline's
departure, subtracted the purse from the
dressing case, and not wishing to encumber
herself with any superfluity, she left
the dressing-case, and in her haste left
it open, and made good her retreat.
What particular grounds there might
-- 268 --
[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
have been in this instance for the intimations
given to Lilly, we cannot say;
but it must be confessed, that our northern
people are quite careless of the
duty of protecting slave property, and
that they manifest a provoking indifference
to the rights and losses of slaveholders.
Indeed, so notorious is their
fault in this particular, that their southern
brethren seldom run the risk of an
irrecoverable loss by exposing their servants
to the danger of an atmosphere
infected with freedom; and those among
them who possess the greatest abundance
of these riches, which emphatically
take to themselves wings and fly away,
prudently make their northern tours attended
by white servants.
The sisters found their way through
the dimly lighted passages to their father's
apartment. Westall met them at
the door; he perceived, at a single
glance, that all was right between them.
-- 269 --
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
“Thank heaven,” said he, “you are
both here; your father has just pronounced
your names.”
“Is he conscious?” whispered Ellen.
“I do not know; but he seems quite
calm and refreshed.”
Caroline and Ellen approached the
bed together. Mr. Redwood looked at
them with an expression of surprise and
inquiry, and a slight convulsion agitated
his face. They both bent over him and
kissed him. He joined their hands,
clasped them in his, and raised his eyes—
peace, gratitude, and devotion, spoke
in them. He said nothing; he seemed
to fear the effort to speak. After a few
moments he relinquished the hands of
his children and closed his eyes. Tears
stole through his eye lids, and a sweet
serenity overspread his countenance.
“This is heaven's own peace,” whispered
Westall; “the world cannot give
it—the world cannot take it away.”
-- --
CHAPTER XXVII.
And as the morning steals upon the night,
Melting the darkness, so his rising senses
Began to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
His clearer reason.
Tempest.
Heaven hath a hand in these events.
King John.
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
The night and its afflictions, which we
have just faithfully recorded, passed
away, and joy came with the morning.
Mr. Redwood's condition was already
much amended. He experienced, to its
full extent, the restorative power of happiness.
His disease had been more
moral than physical, and it yielded to
moral influences.
Without superstition one might have
-- 271 --
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
believed that Ellen possessed a `healing
gift,' so beneficent was the effect of her
vigilant care. She was constantly at
her father's bedside, ministering to his
mind and body, and performing all those
tender and soothing offices which the
sick so often feel to be more efficacious
than the most skilfully compounded
drugs.
She never left her father's room but for
the purpose of renovating her strength
and spirits by a few turns on the piazza
with Westall. If her lover ever thought
that her filial duty abstracted her too
much from the reciprocation of their
mutual feelings, (a natural jealousy, for
a man is never satisfied without expressing
what a woman is content with feeling,)
he was quite consoled when, during
these brief interviews, he listened to the
detail of her feelings in relation to himself—
of her hopes and misgivings; in
short, to that whole history of the heart
which is such delightful music to the
-- 272 --
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
lover's ear—and such very dull music to
every other.
Ellen communicated to Mrs. Westall
and Miss Campbell the discovery of her
parentage. Both, as might have been
expected, received the intelligence with
inexpressible delight: all human happiness
must be qualified, and that of the
two ladies was considerably abated by
Ellen's injunction to temporary secresy,
and by her passing without the slightest
notice over the particulars that led to the
discovery. After Ellen had concluded
her communication, and had received
the embraces and congratulations of her
friends, Grace Campbell's smiles triumphed
over the tears with which they
had been conflicting, and she turned to
Mrs. Westall and said, “Well, my dear
madam, I suppose you and I must put
down all of mother Eve within us, for no
evil spirit will enter this paradise that
Ellen has conjured about her, to devise
ways and means to relieve our curiosity.”
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
“And, my dear friends,” said Ellen,
“I am sure you will be content to endure
that curiosity which could only be
relieved by an evil spirit.”
“Oh, I don't know—at any rate, I
had rather not be tempted,” replied Miss
Campbell. “But, my dear Ellen, as
we are not permitted to see the ring or
lamp—the magic means, whatever they
may be, by which you have attained
the happy finale of your fairy tale—do
gratify me in one particular—suffer me
to produce a grand sensation once in my
life—allow me to proclaim you Ellen
Redwood before the world and in the presence
of your disdainful sister?”
“I cannot.”
“And why not?”
“Because, my sister is no longer disdainful,
but kind and affectionate; and
besides, my dear Grace, you know that
I have a rustic aversion to notoriety;
and more than all that, our arrangements
are already made. Should my
-- 274 --
[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
father continue to convalesce as rapidly
as he has done for the last four-and-twenty
hours, he will be able to leave
here on Thursday next, one week from
this day—the day appointed for the departure
of your party. Caroline and
Fitzgerald are to be married, quite privately,
in my father's room, on Wednesday
morning, and are to proceed immediately
to Canada; and I am to resign
the place your aunt kindly offered
me in her carriage, and, with your leave,
Mrs. Westall, am to occupy that which
Caroline vacates in our father's.”
“A most delightful arrangement,” exclaimed
Mrs. Westall.
“A delightful arrangement to you
ladies doubtless,” said Miss Campbell;
“but I confess I do not feel particularly
flattered that Ellen should sever herself
from our party with so much nonchalance,
and form her exquisite plans without
the slightest reference to us.”
“You have not heard all our plans,
-- 275 --
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
my dear Grace,” replied Ellen, with
slight embarrassment; “we have been
compelled by the necessity of the case
to form them hastily: my father has expressed
a wish that Caroline and I
should be married at the same time; to
this I could not consent; my duty to
Mrs. Harrison — my affection for her,
forbids it. My father is making an effort
to go to Lansdown, that he may see
my beloved friend, and express his gratitude
for her maternal kindness to his
child.”
Ellen hesitated, and Miss Campbell
said, “this is all very pretty and very
proper, but still there is no consolation
for my self-love.”
“You have not heard Ellen out, Miss
Campbell,” interposed Mrs. Westall;
“the most agreeable part of all these
arrangements is yet to come; a part,
which in right of Charles Westall's mother,
I have already been consulted on.
My dear Ellen, I will take pity on your
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
girlish reluctance to come to the point,
and just tell Miss Campbell, in direct
terms, that your wedding is to be celebrated
at Lansdown, on the first day of
September.”
“Since Mrs. Westall has helped me
on so far, my dear Grace,” said Ellen,
“I will come to that point to which all
this preamble has tended, and in as direct
terms as Mrs. Westall's, beg the
favour of you to persuade your aunt to
accommodate her progress to our snail's
pace, in order that I may have your support
as my bride's-maid.”
“Thank you, thank you, Ellen. Now
I can perceive that your arrangements
are all delightful. Persuade my aunt!—
bless her, I can persuade her to anything;
and if I could not, I would poison
the horses—bribe the coachman to turn
the carriage off some of your northern
precipices—any thing for the pleasure of
seeing you married to Charles Westall.”
After an instant's pause Miss Campbell
-- 277 --
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
added, “in romance all the business of
life ends with a wedding, but in real life
that seems to be the starting point.
Now, as I am a little worldly in my
views, I should like to know, Ellen,
whether you and Westall are going to
set up housekeeping in the Harrison
mansion, and live upon love and verses,
as Miss Debby would say?”
“Ellen assured Miss Campbell that
she had no such romantic views, that on
the contrary all due respect had been
paid to their temporal affairs. She informed
her that on account of Mr. Redwood's
health, they were to pass the
winter in Virginia—that in the Spring
they were to return to New-England—
that Mr. Westall was then to form a
partnership which had long been projected
with an eminent lawyer, and enter
upon the business of his profession.
“My prudence is quite satisfied,” said
Miss Campbell, when Ellen had concluded:
“and now, my dear friend,
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
“tell me, are you never to appear as
Ellen Redwood?”
“My father insists on my bearing
that name from the moment we leave
Lebanon”
“That is as it should be,” said Miss
Campbell—and the ladies separated.
“Fitzgerald, who had felt himself at
the mercy of events which he could not
control, passed a week of impatience and
anxiety: but a week, though `it may be
tedious, cannot be long,' and the day
arrived that was to assure his right to
Caroline Redwood. There were some
indications that it might not have been
impossible to persuade the young lady
to retract her engagement, but it seems
that her friends did not deem it expedient
to interfere, for they never spoke
to her upon the subject.
“Ten o'clock was the time appointed
for the marriage ceremony, and at that
hour Fitzgerald led Caroline into her
father's apartment.
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
Ellen, Westall, and his mother were
there, awaiting them. Mr. Redwood
was sitting on his easy-chair, his health
and spirits obviously and surprisingly
renovated. He had summoned all his
fortitude for the occasion; but he shuddered
when he saw his daughter come
into his presence for the last time, and
thought of the probable destiny to which
he was about to resign her. She had
never looked so lovely as at this moment—
the events of the preceding week had
softened her heart, and touched her
beautiful face with a moral expression.
Mr. Redwood received Fitzgerald
with politeness, rather chilled by extreme
reserve. He drew Caroline to
him, and put his arm round her—“My
dear child,” he said, “before the clergyman
is admitted, I have somewhat
to say to you. We have already exchanged
forgiveness—mutual it should
not have been, but that you made it so,
for my parental faults met with their
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
just retribution in your breach of filial
duty—that is all past, and we will forget
it if we can.
“Caroline, I have made Ellen acquainted
with your generous wish that
a large portion of your fortune should
be conveyed to her; but Ellen is a nice
casuist, and she has convinced me that
I have no right to make any disposition
of a property which descends to you
from her mother.”
“Oh, Ellen!” whispered Caroline to
her sister, “will you not allow me to
make some atonement to you?”
“My dear Caroline,” replied Ellen,
“if I needed an atonement, your kindness
and confidence are an ample one—
that I have accepted — I can accept no
other.”
“My small patrimonial inheritance,”
resumed Mr. Redwood, “has been increased
by the legacy of an uncle, and
though my fortune is still moderate, it
is quite adequate to my own wants, and
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
to Ellen's very maderate desires. Captain
Fitzgerald, my dear Caroline, must
pardon me, if I avail myself of my right
to remain your steward during my life.
The income of your fortune shall be regularly
transmitted to you, wherever
your husband's destiny may take you.
God grant that the restoration of peace
to his country may enable him to perform
his promise to resign his commission,
and come and reside among us.”
After a brief pause, Mr. Redwood
continued, “I am now going, my dear
child, to bestow on you an inestimable
treasure,” he put into her hands the
Bible he had received from Ellen, “this
your sister gave to me with prophetic
benevolence—she knows that her purpose
has been accomplished—the dark
shadows of unbelief have passed from
my mind for ever— the terrors that
threatened to annihilate my reason are
vanquished—the life-giving truths, and
immortal hopes of that book have
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
translated me from darkness to light. My
friends,” he added with increased energy,
“you know not what it is to endure the
evils of life with the horrible belief that
the grave is the place of final extinction—
of eternal death; neither can you
know,” and a divine joy seemed to illuminate
his countenance, “neither can
you know the rest of my wearied spirit—
the gratitude I feel to the blessed Redeemer—
the resurrection and the life.”
He was silent for a moment and then
said, “receive my blessing, my child,
and remember that it is my last injunction,
that you make this book your
guide.”
Caroline, deeply affected, knelt before
her father—Ellen sunk on her knees beside
her, and clasping her arm around
her sister, she raised her tearful eyes to
Mr. Redwood, “severed — strangers,”
she said, “as we have been on earth,
we may yet be a family in heaven.”
“God grant it, my children!”
-- 283 --
[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
responded her father fervently, and for a
few moments he bent his head in silence
over his daughters: he then raised them,
gave Caroline's hand to Fitzgerald and
Ellen's to Westall.
The clergyman was summoned —the
nuptial ceremony performed —Caroline
received the farewell embraces of her
friends, and left them for ever.
We fancied we had finished our humble
labours, when by a lucky chance a
letter, written by Deborah Lenox, and
addressed to Mrs. Charles Westall, —,
Massachusetts, fell into our hands. As
it was written nearly two years subsequent
to the date of these memoirs, and
contained some interesting notices of
the personages that figure in them, we
immediately transmitted it to our printer.
It was sent back with a respectful request
from the compositors of the press,
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
(those accomplished orthographers) that
the spelling might be rectified. In reward
of their patient toil in our behalf,
it has been deemed a duty to gratify
their fastidiousness, and Deborah's epistle
has been reluctantly re-written—letters
have been transposed, subtracted,
and added, and we believe its orthography
is now quite perfect. In no
other way would we consent to alter it,
for we respect the peculiarities of our
honest friend, and are willing to have
the sybil with her contortions.
“Eton, Vermont state, 20th July, in the
year of our Lord 18—.
“My dear Ellen,
“I guess you will be surprised to see
my pot-hooks and trammels, and puzzled
enough you will be to read them;
but I could not let so good an opportunity
pass without letting you know that
the Lord has spared our lives to this date,
and that all your friends at Eton are
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
well, except the minister, who enjoys
a poor state of health.
“The reason you do not receive a
letter from sister Lenox by this opportunity,
is, that she does not know of it,
on account of her having journeyed to
New-York to meet George and his bride,
who we hear, though she has the disadvantage
of being born and bred at
the south, is as likely and prudent and
and notable a woman as if she had the
good fortune to be brought up in New-England,
which leads a reflecting person
to consider that it is best to lay aside
their prepossessions, and to believe that
there are good people every where. I
did not expect George would have got
over his disappointment so soon; but
he has acted a rational part, for it stands
to reason that a man can find more than
one woman in the world to make him
happy; that is to say, if he can't get
cake, he had better take up with gingerbread.
-- 286 --
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
“But before I go any farther, I ought
to finish giving you the reasons why
you must put up with a letter from such
a poor scribe as I am, instead of receiving
one from any of the rest of the family,
who all write, Lucy and all, coarse hand
and fine, very nicely. The girls are
busy, excepting Lucy, preparing tea
for our grand visitors. James's wife,
kind-hearted little soul that she is, has
gone to fix off Peggy; and Lucy is at
knitting society, which has lately been
established in aid of the pious youth at
the Cornwall school, and foreign and
domestic missions. So you see, my
dear Ellen, I e'en have to put my hand
to the plough.
“You and I never did a better chore
than getting Emily back among us:
it would gladden your heart to see her
old grandmother, who is truly a new
creature, and owns, like Job, that she
is more blessed at the end than at the
beginning. Emily makes a first-rate
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
wife, which I take to be partly owing
to her having learnt many prudent and
prospering ways among them shakers;
and I do think if they could be
prevailed on to turn their settlement
into a school to bring up young folks
for the married state, they would be
a blessing to the world, instead of a
spectacle to show how much wisdom
and how much folly may be mixed up
together.
“Little Peggy came here this morning,
with a basket of new-fashioned early
beans, a present from Deacon Martin to
me; the deacon and I have had a strife
which should have the first beans, and
he has won the race; and by the way,
I do not believe you have heard about
the deacon's marriage, which has made
quite a stirring time here at Eton. You
must know that a few weeks after the
deacon lost his wife, he felt so lonesome
without a companion that he came to
sister Lenox to recommend a suitable
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
one, and she directly spoke a good word
for Peggy's aunt Betty, who is, as it
were, alone in the world, and though a
poor body, she comes of creditable stock
in the old countries; and what is more
to the purpose, her walk and conversation
among us has been as good as a
preachedsermon—that is to say, a moral
discourse. Well, the deacon was quite
taken with the notion, for Betty is a
comely woman to look to yet, though
well nigh on to fifty, and he went diectly
to lay the matter before some of the
church-members, and they made atrong
objections to the match, on account of
Betty's so often breaking the third commandment,
which comes, I suppose, of
her being brought up in Old England,
where they are by no means so particular
about teaching the youth their catechise
as with us. The deacon, however, had
set his face as a flint, and there were
consultations about it, till at last two of
the brethren agreed to go and talk to
-- 289 --
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
Betty on the subject, and make her
promise that she would put a tight rein
on her tongue.
“Betty promised every thing they
asked; but you know when a body
always goes in the same track it makes
a deep rut, and it is next to an impossibility
to turn out of it: and so, while
Betty was talking with them, every other
sentence was `God help us, gentlemen,'
and `God bless your souls, I'll do my
best,' and so on; and they came away
more dead set against the match than
ever. But Martin went on in spite of
them, and married her; and except in
the matter of the third commandment,
there is not a more exemplary deacon's
wife in the state than Betty makes.
“But I shall never come to the end
of my letter, if I go on at this rate.
I find that the older I grow, the more I
love to talk; and some how or other
I always did love, above all things, to
hold discourse with you, Ellen. To go
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
back then to my last starting point. I
emptied out Peggy's basket and went
to open the door for her, and what
should I see but a fine coach with a noble
span of horses turning up to our gate,
and who of all the people in the world
should be in it but Mr. Fenton Campbell
and his wife, Grace Campbell that was!
“I did not know her at first glance,
for she is dressed in deep mourning for
her uncle Richard Campbell, who has
died lately; sorry enough, I dare say, to
leave all his other accounts to go to his
last one. However, the moment she
smiled one of her own beautiful smiles,
as bright as the sun at mid-day. I knew
her, and she sprung out of the carriage
and was on the door-step at a bound,
and shaking both my hands, just with
that warm-hearted way of hers, she
came in and sat down, and directly we
fell to talking of you, and our tongues
went as spry as that old woman's, who,
as a humoursome gentleman said, had
-- 291 --
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
hers fastened in the middle that it might
run at both ends!
“Peggy's ear is always nailed the
minute she hears your name, and she
kept drawing closer and closer to us,
and at last the poor thing began to cry;
and when Mrs. Campbell made some
inquiries about her, and when she heard
her story, and learned that you wished
Peggy to go and live with you as soon
as her aunt would spare her, and that
her aunt had given her consent,and tha
Peggy was only waiting for an opportunity,
and was all on tiptoe for it, she
just spoke a word to her husband, and
then told Peggy that if she would be
ready in the morning, she would take
her to you. I thought the child would
have gone clean out of her wits with joy:
her eyes, the blind one as well as the
other, looked as if they would have
danced out of her head; she clapped her
hands, and whirled around, and fell on
her knees, and kissed Mrs. Campbell's
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
gown—poor thing! she is too feeling a
creature for this world; and I am thankful
she is going to you, Ellen, who know
all about feelings, and can temper hers.
“I don't well see where Mrs. Campbell
will stow the child away, for her
carriage is filled with all sorts of notions,
and a large kind of pocket-books which
they call port-folios, and which Mrs.
Campbell says are filled with her husband's
drawings, for they have been to
the falls, and to Quebec, and so on, and
you know painting is his fancy; and I
judge it takes a great deal of room to
draw such large lakes and rivers on.
However, she has determined of her own
accord to take Peggy, and I always find
your real noble-minded people can contrive
a way to do every kind action that
turns up in their path.
“Mrs. Campbell had not heard a
word of the death of Captain Fitzgerald
and his wife, till I told her about it: and
I declare Ellen, it was a teaching
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
providence to me when I heard it; and
I could not but think of the time when
I saw them at Lebanon, so young, so
blooming, and so handsome, stepping
over the earth with a step so light and
so lofty, that it seemed not to be in all
their thoughts that they must ever lie
down under the cold clods.
“Poor young creature! I am sure,
when she was flaunting away here at
Eton, I never thought I should have
wet my old eyes for her; but for all, I
did cry like a child when sister Lenox
received your father's letter, telling all
about her death, and that her last
words
were to beg them to send her little girl
to you, and ask you to make her like
yourself.
“The dealings of providence are
sometimes mysterious; but he that runs
may read this dispensation. However,
Ellen, as it would not be pleasing to
you to have any thing cast up against
your sister, especially since she is dead
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
and gone, I will say no more upon this
head; only to observe, that if this child
lives to grow up under your training,
the world will see that a woman's being
beautiful and rich need not hinder her
from being wise and good too: and it
seemeth to me, that though God respecteth
not the outward show, the
more beautiful the temple is, the more
fitting it is for a dwelling-place of his
spirit; and I think it would be a pleasing
and edifying sight to see the perfection
of earth, and the beauty of heaven
built up and fitly framed together.
“Often, when I am alone and considering,
my thoughts turn upon you
Ellen, and upon all that happened before
your sister went off to them West
Indies, which have proved her death;
and thinking of you brings to mind some
passages of Scripture, which have been
remarkably acted upon in your life; and
first, in the sixteenth chapter of Proverbs
and the seventh verse, Solomon
-- 295 --
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
says, `when a man's ways please the
Lord, he maketh even his enemies to be
at peace with him'—and in the New
Testament scriptures it is written, `be
not wearied with well doing'—overcome
evil with good,' and so on Now, in
my view, these texts appear as a kind
of history to what passed between you
and Caroline; and it is a comforting
thing to see such a plain agreement between
the book of experience and the
book of God's word—that is to say,
to see a Christian's life a scripture proof.
“Caroline's behaviour at the upshot,
was a satisfaction to me in many ways,
and especially as it helped to build me
up in the doctrine I have always maintained,
namely, that there is no soil so
hard bound and so barren but what,
if you work upon it long enough, you
make it bring forth some good thing at
last; not that it will equal that soil
which is warm and rich at the start, and
is from the beginning diligently opened
-- 296 --
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
for the sun of God's grace to shine in
upon it, and the dews of heaven to
nourish it—a soil like—I must write it
out—like your heart, Ellen.
“You need not to have said so much
in your letter about your gratitude for
my offer of the hundred pounds, feather
beds, and so forth, for I knew you did
not despise it, and that it was true, as
you say, that you only refused it on
account of your house being entirely
filled with Mrs. Harrison's furniture, and
your sister's handsome presents.
“Your worldly condition, Ellen,
seemed to me to be conformable to
Agur's prayer—`give me neither poverty
nor riches'—a prayer that every
one professes to approve, but I am sorry
to say, I have observed but few whose
conduct bears out the profession.
“Before I finish my long preachment,
I wish to send my compliments to Mrs.
Harrison, who I hear looks ten years
younger since she went to live with you;
-- 297 --
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
and my duty to Mr. Redwood, who, I
hope, now he is so happy, won't take
Mrs. Fitzgerald's death very deeply to
heart, since we must all have criss-cross
lines in this life.
“In conclusion, my dear Ellen, I
have only to say, that as your light has
shone brightly in adversity I pray it may
shine on in prosperity, making glad
many hearts long and long after death
hath closed the eyes of
“Your old friend,
DEBORAH LENOX.”
LONDON:
SHACKELL AND ARROWSMITH, JOHNSON'S-COURT,
FLEET-STREET.
END.
Back matter
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria, 1789-1867 [1824], Redwood: a tale, volume 3 (E. Bliss and E. White, New York) [word count] [eaf337v3].
