ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF `BEDWOOD.'
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Once more with cheerfulness; but, when she spoke
Of earlier days, a soft and dewy light
Shone in her dovelike eyes, as if a tear
Had burst from its sealed fountain.
`La Nature fait le mérite,
La Fortune le met en preuve.'
Many fortunate travellers on the western border of
Massachusetts, and not many miles from the Hudson,
have been refreshed at the inn of Reliance Reynolds.
Reliance, as his name indicates, was born in the good
old times. We are aware that the enthusiasts about the
`progress of the age,' deny this golden period any but a
retrospective existence, and maintain that, retrace the
steps of the human family far as you will, it is like the
age of chivalry, always a little behind you. But we adhere
to the popular phraseolgy and call those, `good old
times,' when the Puritanical nomenclature prevailed;
when such modest graces as faith and temperance had
not been expelled from our taverns, kitchens, and work-shops,
by the heroes and heroines of romance—the Orlandos
and Lorenzos, Rosamonds and Anna Matildas.
Reliance belonged to the `good old times,' too, in the
more essential matter of downright honesty, simplicity,
and respectful courtesy. His was a rare character in
New England—a passive spirit, content to fill and fit the
niche nature had prepared for him. It was not very high,
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but he never aspired above it; nor very low, but he never
sank below it. He was the marvel of his neighbours,
for he could never be persuaded into an enterprise, or
speculation. He never bought a water privilege, nor
an oar bed; subscribed to a county bank, or `moved to
the West;' or in any mode indicated that principle in
man, which, in its humble operations, is restlessness, in
its lofty aspirations, a longing after immortality. Reliance's
desires never passed the bounds of his premises,
and were satisfied, even within them, with a very moderate
share of power. He stood at his door, his hat in
his hand, to receive his guests; he strictly performed
the promise of his sign, and gave `good entertainment
to man and horse;' he rendered a moderate bill and received
his dues with a complacent smile, in which gratitude
was properly tempered with a just sense of his own
rights. In short, as must be already quite manifest,
Reliance, though a pattern landlord, is a very poor
subject for a storyteller; his qualities, like the colors
in a ray of light, all blending and forming one hue, and
his life, presenting the same monotonous harmony.
We should not have forced him from his happy obscurity
into the small degree of notoriety he may incur
on our humble page, but for his being the adjunct of his
wife, an important personage in our narrative.
Mrs Reynolds, too, like her husband, performed exactly
the duties of her station. She never perhaps read
a line of poetry, save such as might lurk in the `Poet's
Corner' of a village paper, but her whole life was an illustration
of the oldfashioned couplet—
`Honor and shame from no condition rise,
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.'
She never was presidentess of a `society for ameliorating
the condition of the Jews,' or secretary or treasurer
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of any of those beneficent associations that rescue the
latent talents of women from obscurity and mettrent en
scéne gems and flowers that might otherwise shine and
exhale unnoticed and unknown; but though humble
was her name and destiny, her memory is dear to the
wayfaring. Quiet, order, and neatness, reigned at her
bed and board. No pirates harbored in her bedsteads,
no bad luck, that evil genius of housewives, curdled her
cream, spoiled her butter or her bread, but her table
was spread with such simple, wholesome fare as might
have lit a smile on the wan visage of an old dispeptic;
and this we take to be the greatest achievement of the
gastronomic art.
With the duties of life so peacefully and so well performed,
our good hostess ought, according to all the
rules of happiness, to have been happy; but it is our
melancholy duty to confess she was not, and to explain
the cause. She had been married many years without
having any children; that blessed possession that in
transmitting, the parents' existence, seems to extend its
bounds, and to render even here, the mortal immortal.
In addition to the feeling, common to all women, who
naturally crave the sweetest objects for their tenderest
and strongest affections, Mrs Reynolds lamented
her childless state with a bitterness of repining approaching
to that of the Hebrew wives. With everything
else in her possession that could inspire contentment, her
mind was fixed on this one desired good, and, like Hannah
of old, she was still a `woman of a sorrowful spirit.'
She had endeavoured to solace herself with the children
of her kindred, and several, from time to time, had been
adopted into her family; but some proved disagreeable,
and others homesick, and there was always a paramount
duty or affection that interfered with her's, till finally her
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almost extinguished hopes were gratified, and Providence
gave her a child worthy all her care and love.[1]
In the autumn of 1777, two travellers arrived just
at nightfall at Reynold's inn. Its aspect was inviting;
situated in the heart of a fertile valley that had lately
been refreshed by the early rains of autumn, and in its
bright garb resembling a mature beauty that had happily
harmonized some youthful tints with her soberer graces.
A sprightly, winding stream gave life and music to
the meadows. On every side the landscape was undulating
and fertile, but not then as extensively cultivated as
now, when, to the Tauconnuc on the south, and the lofty
blue outline of the Catskills on the west, the eye ranges
over a rich and enjoyed country. Beside the accidental
charm of a pretty landscape, the inn had advantages
peculiar to itself. Instead of being placed on
the roadside, as most of our taverns are—for what reason
we know not, unless a cloud of travellers' dust be typical
of a shower of gold to the vision of mine host—
Reynolds's inn was separated from the highway by a
court yard, shaded by two wide spreading elms, and enlivened
with a profusion of autumnal flowers, marigolds,
cockscombs, and china asters.
There was nothing that indicated any claims to particular
civility in the appearance of our travellers. They
were well looking and respectably apparelled; and, accordingly,
having announced their determination to
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remain for the night, they were shown to an inner
room, the parlour, par excellence, where Mrs Reynolds appeared,
and having opened a door which admitted the
balmy air and a view of the western sky, just then brightened
by the tints of the setting sun, she received their
orders for their supper, and retired without one of those
remarks or inquiries by which it is usual, on such occasions
to give vent to curiosity. Nothing passed between
our travellers in the dull interval that elapsed before
their meal was ready, to give to our readers the
least clue to their origin or destiny. One of them lulled
himself into a doze in the rocking chair, while the other,
younger and more active and vivacious, amused himself
out of doors, plucking flowers, enraging an old petulant
cock turkey, and mocking the scolding of some Guinea
hens, the Xantippes of the feathered race.
The interval was not long. The door opened and the
tea table was brought in, already spread (a mode we
wish others would adopt from our pattern landlady),
and spread in a manner to characterize our bountiful
country.
What a contrast does the evening meal of our humblest
inn present to the leanness of an English tea table!
A cornucopia would have been the appropriate
symbol for Mrs Reynolds's table. There were beef steaks,
and ham and eggs; hot cakes and toast; bread and gingerbread;
all the indigenous cakes, such as crullers and
nutcakes, &c.; honey, sweetmeats, apple sauce, cheese,
pickles, and an afterpiece of pies. Kind reader, do not
condemn our bill of fare as impertinent and vulgar.
We put it down to show the scared political economists,
that, with us, instead of the population pressing on the
means of subsistence, the means of subsistence presses
on the population.
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Our travellers fell to their repast with appetites
whetted by a long fast and a day's ride. Not a
word was spoken, till a little girl, who was sitting on
the doorstep caressing a tame pigeon, perceiving that
one of the guests had garnished his buttonhole with
a bunch of marigolds, plucked a rose from a monthly
rose bush, trained over a trellis at the door, and laid it
beside his plate. He seemed struck with the modest
offering, and, turning with a look of gratitude to the
child, he patted her on her head, and exclaimed instinctively,
`Merci, merci, ma petite!' and then correcting
himself, he said, in very imperfect English, `I
thank you, my little girl.'
The child's attention was fixed by the first word he
uttered, and as he addressed his companion in French,
her countenance indicated more emotion than would naturally
have been excited by the simple circumstance of
hearing, for the first time, a foreign language. `Qu'elle
est belle, cette petite,' he continued, turning to his companion;
`c'est la beauté de mon pays—voilà, brunette, et les
yeux, si grands, si noirs, et la tournure aussi—quelle grâce,
quelle vivacité! Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur, c'est tout-a-fait
Françoise.' As he proceeded the child advanced
nearer to him. She shook back the rich, dark curls
that shaded her face, bent her head forward, half parted
her bright lips, and listened with the uncertain and
eager expression of one who is catching a half remembered
tune, the key to a thousand awakening recollections.
It was evident that she did not comprehend
the purport of the words, and that it was the sound
alone to which her delighted ear was stretched.
A smile played about her lips, and tears gathered in
her eyes, and there seemed to be a contrariety of emotions,
confounding even to herself; but that which finally
prevailed was indicated by her throwing her apron over
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her head, and retreating to the doorstep, where she sat
down, and for some moments, vainly attempted to stifle
her sobs. She had just become tranquil, when Mrs
Reynolds entered.
The elder traveller said, in an interrogating tone,
`That is your child, ma'am?'
`I call her mine,' was the brief and not very satisfactory
reply.
`She resembles neither you nor your husband,' resumed
the traveller.
`No; she does not favor us.'
`I fancied she had a French look.'
`I can't say as to that,' replied the landlady; `I
never saw any French people.'
`My friend here is a Frenchman,' pursued the traveller,
`and the little girl listened to him so intently, that
I thought it possible she might understand him.'
`No, I guess she did not sense him,' replied Mrs
Reynolds, with an air of indifference; and then turning
hastily to the child, `Mary,' she said, `there is more
company; go and see if your father does not want you.'
She went, and did not return. Mrs Reynolds herself
removed the table. The elder gentleman sat down to
write a letter; while the Frenchman walked to and fro,
opened the doors, and peeped in every direction to get
a glimpse of the little girl, who seemed to have taken
complete possession of his imagination. Once, as she
ran through the passage, he called to her, `Doucement!
doucement! mon petit ange'—she stopped as if she were
glued to the floor. `How call you your name, my dear?'
`Mary Reynolds, sir.'
`Then Madame there, Mistress Reynolds, is your
maman?'
`She is—
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`Mary, what are you staying for? Here—this instant!'
screamed Mrs Reynolds from the kitchen door, in a tone
that admitted no delay, and the child ran off without
finishing her sentence.
`C'est bien singulier!' muttered the Frenchman.
`What do you find so singular, Jaubert?' asked his
companion, who had just finished his letter, and thrown
down his pen.
`Oh! it is nothing—perhaps—but—'
` “But” what, my friend?'
`Why, there seems to me some mystery about this
child; something in her manner, I know not what, that
stirs up strange thoughts and hopes in my mind. She
is not one of the pale, blond beauties of your climate.'
`Ah! my good friend, we have all sorts of beauties in
our clime. All nations, you know, have sent us their
contributions. The blue eye and fair skin, the Saxon
traits, certainly prevail in our Eastern States; but you
know we border on New York, the asylum of the dark
eyed Huguenots, and it is not impossible that to this
child may have been transmitted the peculiarities of
some French ancestor. Nothing is more common than
a resemblance between a descendant and a far off
progenitor.'
`Ah! it is not only the French, the Norman aspect,
the—do not ridicule me—the Angely traits that attract
me; but you yourself noticed how she listened to my
language, and then this Mistress Reynolds does not
say she is her child, but only she calls her so.'
`Pshaw! Is that all? It is the way of my country
people, Jaubert; their indirectness is proverbial. If
one of them were to say “yes” or “no,” you might
suspect some deep mystery. I confess I was at first
startled with the little girl's emotion, but I soon perceived
it was nothing but shame and embarrassment at
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the curiosity she had betrayed. I see how it is, Jaubert;
fruitless and hopeless as is our search, you cannot bear
to relinquish it, and are looking for some coup de théâtre—
some sudden transition from disappointment to success.'
We have put into plain English a conversation that
was supported in French, and was now broken off by
the approach of Mrs Reynolds, who came to tell the
travellers their bedrooms were ready. By the light of
the candle she brought, she discovered Mary, concealed
in a corner of the passage close to the door, where, in
breathless stillness, she had been listening. `You here,
Mary!' exclaimed the good woman; `I thought you
had been in bed this half hour. You will make me
angry with you, Mary, if you do not mind me better
than this,' she added in an under tone, and the child
stole away, but without looking either very penitent or
very fearful; and in truth she had cause for neither
penitence nor fear, for she had only gratified an innocent
and almost irrepressible inclination, and as to
Dame Reynolds's anger, it was never formidable.
The travellers retired to their respective apartments,
and while the landlady lingered to adjust her parlour, the
letter that had been left on the table caught her eye.
Nothing could be more natural than for her to look at
the superscription. Painfully she spelt out the first
line. `A Monsieur, Monsieur'—but when she came to
the next, her eye was rivetted, `St Jean Angely de Creve-C
æur.' After gazing on it till she had made assurance
doubly sure, she was hastening to her husband to participate
the discovery with him, when, apparently changing
her intentions, she retreated, bolted the door, and
returned to the examination of the letter. It was unsealed.
Reluctant to open it, she compromised with
her conscience, and peeped in at both ends, but the
writing was not perceptible, and her interest overcoming
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her scruples, she unfolded the letter. Alas! it was in
French. In vain her eye ran over the manuscript to
catch some words that might serve as clues to the rest.
There was nothing in all the three pages she could
comprehend, but `arrivé à New York'—`la rivière d'
Hudson'—`le manoir de Livingston.'
She was refolding the letter, when the following
postscript, inadvertently written in English, caught her
eye; `As we have no encouragement to proceed farther
in our search, and Jean and Avenel are all impatience,
Jaubert will embark in the Neptune, which is to sail on
the first.'
A gleam of pleasure shot across Mrs Reynolds's face,
but it soon darkened again with anxiety and perplexity.
`Why did I open the letter?' she asked herself. `Why
did I look at it at all? But nobody will ever know that
I have seen it unless I tell it myself; and why should I
tell?' A burst of tears concluded this mental interrogation,
and proved that, however earnestly her heart
might plead before the tribunal of conscience, yet the
stern decision of that unerring judge was heard. Selfinterest
has a hard task when it would mystify the path
of one who habitually walks by the clear light of truth
straight onward in the path of duty.
It may seem unnatural to the inexperienced, that
Mrs Reynolds did not communicate her embarrassment
and irresolution, from whatever cause they proceeded,
to her husband; but she well knew what would be the
result of a consultation; for he, good man, never viewed
a subject but from one position, and we are all slow to
ask advice that we foresee will be counter to our wishes.
Mrs Reynolds, so far then from appealing to the constituted
authority of her household, locked her discovery
within her own bosom, and, to avoid all suspicion and
inquiry, she composed herself as soon as possible, and
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retired to her bed, but not to sleep; and at peep of dawn,
she was up and prepared to obtain all the satisfaction
that indirect interrogation could procure from the travellers,
and her mental resolution, invigorated by a night's
solitary reflection, was `to act up to her light.'
They had ordered breakfast at a very early hour, and
she took care to be the only person in attendance on
them. When they were seated at table, she placed
herself in a rocking chair behind them, a position that
happily reconciles the necessity of service with the
dignity of independence, and began her meditated approaches,
by saying to her own countryman, `I believe
you left a letter here last night, sir; I laid it in the cupboard
for fear of accidents.'
`Thank you, ma'am; I ought to have been more
careful. It was a letter of some consequence.'
`Indeed! Well, I was thinking it might be.'
`Ah! what made you think so?'
Now we must premise, that neither of the parties
speaking, knew anything of that sensitiveness that starts
from a question as if an attack were made on private
property; but they possessed, in common, the good-natured
communicativeness that is said to characterize
the New England people, who, in their colloquial traffic,
as in other barter, hold exchange to be no robbery.
Most women are born diplomatists, and Mrs Reynolds
took care to reply to the last interrogatory so carefully
as not to commit herself. `It stands to reason,' she
said, `a letter that is to go all the way over the wide
sea to the old countries, should be of consequence.'
`Yes—it is a long voyage.'
`You have taken it yourself, perhaps, sir?'
`I have. I went out an officer on board one of our
cruisers, and was wrecked on the coast of France.'
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`Of France! Well, we are hand and glove with the
French now; but I tell my husband it seems to me like
joining with our enemies against those of our own
household.'
`Ah! Mrs Reynolds, “friends are sometimes better
than kindred.” I am sure my own father's son could
not have been kinder to me than was Monsieur Angely
de Crève-Cœur—hey, Jaubert?'
`Ah! vraiment, Monsieur! c'est un bien brave homme,
Monsieur St Jean Angely.'
`Angely!' said Mrs Reynolds, as if recalling some
faded recollection, `Angely—I think I have heard that
name before.'
`It may be. The gentleman I speak of resided
some time in this country.'
`But it can't be the same,' replied Mrs Reynolds;
`for the person I speak of lived over in Livingston's
manner; and kind to strangers he could not be, for he
deserted his own flesh and blood, and went off early in
the war.'
`It may be the same for all that, and must be. As
to his deserting his children, “thereby hangs a tale;”
but it is a long one.'
`Well, sir, if you have anything to say in his favor,
I am bold to say I think you ought to speak it; especially
as the gentleman seems to have stood your friend
in a cloudy day. The story certainly went sadly against
him here.'
`I have not the slightest objection, ma'am, to telling
the story, if you have the patience to hear it; especially
as I see I must wait till Jaubert has finished two more
of your nice fresh eggs—“eggs of an hour,” Mrs
Reynolds.'
`We always calculate to have fresh eggs, sir. But
what was you going to say of Mr Angely?' she added,
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betraying, in the tremulous tones of her voice, some
emotion more heart stirring than curiosity. Jaubert
turned a glance of inquiry on her that was answered by
a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks; but the narrator
proceeded without noticing anything extraordinary.
`It was my good, or ill luck,' he said,—`and it is only
in the long run we can tell whether luck be good or ill—
but it was my luck to be shipwrecked on the coast of
Normandy, and good luck it certainly was, Jaubert, in
my distress, to make such a port as the Château de
Crève-Cœur—the castle, or, as we should call it here,
Mrs Reynolds, the estate of the Angely's. A fine family
they are. You may think what a pleasure it was to
me to find a gentleman acquainted with my country,
and speaking my language as did Mr St Jean Angely.
He was kind and affable to me, and always doing something
for my pleasure, but I could see he had a heaviness
at his heart—that he was often talking of one thing
and thinking of another—nothing like so gay as the
old gentleman, his father; who was like a fall flower—
one of your marigolds, Mrs Reynolds, spreading itself
open to every ray of sunshine, as if there were no frosts
and winter and death at hand. I felt a pity for the
young man. With everything that heart could desire,
and without a heart to enjoy, he seemed to me like a
sick man seated at a feast of which he could not taste.
The day before I was to have come away, he took me
aside, and, after saying that I had won his entire confidence,
he disclosed to me the following particulars:—
`He entered the French army early in life, and while
yet a hotblooded, inconsiderate youth, he killed a brother
officer in a duel, and was obliged to fly his country.
He took refuge in Lisbon. Judgment, I may say mercy,
too—in the dealings of Providence, Mrs Reynolds,
one is always close on the track of the other—followed
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him thither. Mr Angely found employment in a mercantile
house, and was standing writing at his desk at
the moment of the terrible earthquake that laid Lisbon
in ruins. The timbers of the house in which he was,
were pitched in such a manner as to form a sort of arch
over his head, on which the falling roof was sustained,
and thus he was, as it were, miraculously delivered
from danger. From Lisbon he came to this country.
“Mechanics,” says a Spanish proverb, “make the best
pilgrims,” but, I am sure, not better than Frenchmen;
for cast them where you will, they will get an honest
living. Mr Angely came up into Livingston's Manor,
and there he took a fancy to a pretty Yankee girl, the
only child of a widow, and married her. He earned a
subsistence for his family by surveying. The country
was new, and skilful surveyors scarce. After a few
years his wife died and left him three children.'
`Three!' repeated Mrs Reynolds, involuntarily sighing.
`Yes, poor things! there were three of them; too many
to be left in these hard times fatherless and motherless.'
`Ah sir! and what must we think of the father that
could forsake his little children at such a time?'
`Think no evil, my friend; for Mr Angely did not
deserve it. He was employed by Mrs Livingston, early
in the war, to go down the river to survey some land
near New York. There he was taken by the British
as a spy, and, in spite of his remonstrances, sent to
England. This was before the French had taken part
with us, and he obtained leave to go to France, on giving
his parole that he would not return to America.
He received a parent's welcome, and the affair of the
duel being nearly forgotten, a pardon was obtained for
him without difficulty. If he could have forgotten his
children, he would have been as happy as man could
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be; but his anxiety for them preyed on his health and
spirits; and when I arrived at the château, his friends
imagined he was sinking under some unknown disease.
He had not communicated to his father the fact of his
marriage and the existence of his children when I arrived
there. The old gentleman, kind hearted and reasonable
in the main, has all the prejudices of the nobility
in the old countries about birth, and his son was
afraid to confess, that he had smuggled an ignoble little
Yankee into the ancient family of the Crève-Cœurs.
So good an opportunity as I afforded of communicating
with his children, could not be passed by, and he at
length summoned courage to tell the truth to his father.
At first he was wroth enough, and stormed and vapored;
but after a little while his kind nature got the mastery of
the blood of the Crève-Cœurs, and he consented to the
children being sent for—the boys, at least.'
`Only the boys!' exclaimed Mrs Reynolds, feeling
relieved from an insupportable weight.
`Only the boys. But the old gentleman might have
as well saved all his credit and sent for the girl too;
but that was not his pleasure. Well, Monsieur Jaubert
here, a relative and particular friend of the family,
came out with me to take charge of the children. We
found the boys without much difficulty; two noble
little fellows that a king might be proud of. After
waiting for some time for Monsieur Angely's return, the
overseers of the poor, believing he had abandoned his
children, bound them out. The little girl had been
removed to some distance from her brothers. We found
the place where she had been, but not the family. The
husband and wife had quarrelled, and separated, and disappeared;
and all the information we could obtain, was
a vague story that such a child had lived there and had
run away; and as nobody in these troublesome times
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can do more than look after their own children, this
poor thing was left to her fate. Hopeless as it appears,
Jaubert is not willing to give up our search. He fancies
every brunette he sees is the lost Marie, and only last
evening he would have persuaded me, that your black
eyed little girl might be this stray scion of the Creve-Coeurs.
'
Mrs Reynolds rose and left the room, and did not
return till she was sufficiently composed to ask, in an
assured voice, `What was their object in looking for the
girl, if the father did not mean to reclaim her?'
`He did mean to reclaim and provide for her,' replied
the traveller, `and for that purpose I have ample funds
in my hands. He only conceded to the old gentleman
her remaining in the country for the present.'
`Had you any direction as to how you were to dispose
of her?'
`Yes, positive orders to convey her to Boston, and
place her under the guardianship of a French lady who
resides there, a friend of Mr Angely—one Madame
Adelon.'
`But could you find no trace of the child?'
`Not the slightest.'
`And you have determined to make no farther inquiry?'
`Why should we? Inquiry is useless, and would but
delay to a tempestuous season, Jaubert's return with
the boys.'
Our readers are doubtless sufficiently aware, that the
adopted child of our good landlady was the missing child
of Monsieur Angely. A few words will be necessary
to explain how she became possessed of her.
Mrs Reynolds and her husband were, two years prior
to this period, approaching the close of a winter day's
ride. Their sleigh was gliding noiselessly through a dry,
new fallen snow, when their attention was arrested by
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the moanings of a child. To stop the horses and search
for the sufferer from whom the sounds proceeded, was
the instinctive impulse of benevolence. They had not
gone many yards from the road, when, nestled close to
a rock, and in some measure defended from the cold by
a clump of laurels, they found a little girl, her hands and
feet frozen, and nearly insensible. They immediately
carried her to the sleigh, and put their horses to their
utmost speed; but, as they were none of the fleetest,
and the nearest habitation was at several miles distance,
a considerable time elapsed before they could obtain the
means of restoration, and in consequence of this delay,
and of severe previous suffering, it was many weeks
before the child recovered. In the mean time, though
Mrs Reynolds's residence was not more than thirty
miles from the place where she had found the child, no
inquiry was made for her. The account she gave of
herself sufficiently explained this neglect. She said she
had no mother; that her father had left home just after
the snows melted and the birds came back; that he had
left her and her two brothers, Jean and Avenel, with a
woman to take care of them; that when this woman
had waited a great while for their father, she grew tired
and was cross to them, and then she too went away, and
left them quite alone. Then she said they had nothing
to eat, and she supposed they were the poor, for the
men they called the overseers of the poor took her and
her brothers, and separated them, and she was carried
a great way off to a woman who was very cross to her,
and cross to her own children, and her husband was
cross too. One night he came home in a great passion,
and he began to whip his wife with his big whip, and his
wife beat him with the hot shovel, and she, the child,
was scared, ran out of the house, and far up into a wood,
to get beyond their cries; and when she would have
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returned, the snow was falling, and she could not find
the path, and she had wandered about till she was so
cold and tired she could go no farther. Her name,
she said, was Angely, and she believed her father was
called a Frenchman. The only parental relic she
possessed confirmed this statement. It was a locket
which she wore suspended at her neck. It contained a
lock of hair; an armorial crest was engraven on the
back, and under it was inscribed, `St Jean Angely de
Crève-Cœur.' This simple story established the conviction,
that had been gaining strength in Mrs Reynolds's
mind, with every day's attendance on the interesting
child, that they had been brought together by the special
providence of God; and most faithfully did she discharge
the maternal duties that she believed had been
thus miraculously imposed on her. The little girl was
on her part happy and delighted, and though she sometimes
bitterly lamented her father and brothers, yet, as
the impressions of childhood are slight, the recollection
of them was almost effaced when the mysterious energies
of memory were awakened by the sound of a language
that seemed to have been utterly forgotten. These
events occurred during the revolutionary war, a period
of disaster and distress, when a very diligent search for
a friendless child was not likely to be made, and as no
inquiry ever reached Mrs Reynolds's ear, and as she
deemed the foundling an orphan, she had not hesitated
to appropriate her. Her name was changed from Marie
Angely to Mary Reynolds; and the good woman seemed
as secure and happy as any mother, save when she was
reminded of the imperfection of her title by the too
curious inquiries of travellers. On these occasions, she
was apt to betray a little irritability, and to veil the truth
with a slight evasion, as in the instance which excited
the suspicion of our sagacious Frenchman.
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Her condition was now a pitiable one. She had the
tenderness, but not the rights of a parent. She was
habitually pure and upright; but now she was strongly
swayed by her affections. She would have persuaded
herself, that the abandonment in which she first found
the child, invested her with a paramount claim; but the
stranger's story had proved that her father had not
voluntarily abandoned her. Then she thought, `It cannot
be for Mary's interest, that I should give her up;'
and her mind took a rapid survey of the growing property
of which the child was the heir apparent. But she
would ask herself, `What do I know of the fortune of
her father?' `But surely he cannot, he cannot love
her as I do.' `Ah I do not know the feeling of a real
parent;' and a burst of tears expressed the sadness of
this conviction, and obliged her abruptly to withdraw
from the presence of her guests, and leave them amazed
at her sudden and violent emotion, while she retired to
her own apartment, to implore guidance and support
from Heaven. Those who honestly ask for light to point
out a way which they would fain not see, and for power
to endure a burden from which their nature shrinks, are
often themselves astonished at the illumination vouchsafed,
and the strength imparted. This was the experience
of Mrs Reynolds. She rose from her devotions
with the conviction, that but one course remained to her,
and with a degree of tranquillity, hastened to Mary's
bedroom.
The child was just risen and dressed. Without any
explanation to her—she was at the moment incapable
of making any—she tied her locket, her sole credential,
around her neck, led her down stairs, and placing her
hand in Jaubert's, she said, `You have found the child!'
and then retreated to hide the emotion she could not
subdue.
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It was fortunate for her, that she was not compelled
to witness the gay demonstrations of Jaubert's ecstasies.
the graver, but not more equivocal manifestations of
his companion's satisfaction, and the amazement and
curiosity of the little girl, who was listening to the
explanation of the strangers, with childlike animation,
without adverting to her approaching separation from her
who had given her the affection and cares of a parent.
But when she came to be severed from this kind
friend, she made amends for her thoughtlessness. She
clung to her as if nature had knit the bonds that united
them, and, amid her cries and sobs, she promised always
to remember and love her as a mother. Many have
made such promises. Marie Angely kept them.
Ten years subsequent to the events above narrated,
a letter, of which the following is a translation, was
addressed by a foreigner in a high official station in
this country, to his friend.
`Dear Berville—
`It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the
true church, that confession of a sin is the first step
towards its expiation.
`Let me, then, invest you with a priest's cassock, and
relieve my conscience by the relation of an odd episode
in my history. When I parted from you, I was going
with my friend, Robert Ellison, to visit his father, who
has a beautiful place on the banks of the Hudson.
Young Ellison, as you know, is a thorough republican,
and does not conceal his contempt for those of his
compatriots, who, professing the same principles, are
really aristocrats in their prejudices and manners; who,
having parted, and as they pretend voluntarily, with the
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substance, still grasp at the shadow. To test these
false pretensions, and to mortify an absurd pride, he
joyfully acquiesced in a proposition I made to him, to
lay aside the pomp and circumstance of my official
character, and to be presented to his friends without
any of the accidental advantages with which fortune has
invested me. You will inquire my motive, for you will
not suspect me of the absurdity of crusading against
the follies of society, the most hopeless of all crusades.
No, as our own Moliére says,
C'est une folie, à nulle autre seconde,
De vouloir se méler de corriger le monde.
My motives were then, in the first place, a love of
ease, of dishabille; an impatience of the irksomeness of
having the dignity of a nation to sustain; and, in the
second place, I wished to ascertain how much of the
favor lavished on me I should place to the account of
the ambassador, and how much I might reserve to my
own proper self.
`You may call this latent vanity. I will not quarrel
with you. I will not pretend that I was moved solely
by a love of truth, by a pure desire to find out the realities
of things; but alas! my dear Berville, if we were
to abstract from the web of our motives, every thread
tinged with self, would not warp and woof too disappear?
Let, then, my motive be what it might, you will
allow the experiment required courage.
`We had some difficulty in settling the precise point
at which to gage my pretensions. “Do not claim a drop
of noble blood,” said my friend, “it would defeat your
purpose. There is something cabalistic in that word
`noble.' The young ladies at — would at once invest
you with the attributes of romance; and the old dowagers
would persecute you with histories of their titled
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ancestors, and anecdotes of lords and ladies that figured in the
drawing rooms of the colony. Neither must you be a
plain gentleman of fortune, though that may seem to
you a sufficient descent from your high station; but fortune
has everywhere her shrines and her devotees.
You must be the artificer of your own fortune, a talented
young man who has no rank or fortune to be spoken
of. What say you to the profession of a painter, a portrait
painter, since that is the only branch of the art
that gets a man bread in this country.” I acceded
without shrinking, secretly flattering myself that my
friend either underrated my intrinsic merit, or did the
world rank injustice.
`When we arrived we found a large party of the neighbouring
gentry assembled to dine at —. I was received
with great courtesy by the elder Ellison, and with kindness
by Madame, on the ground, simply, of being an acquaintance
of their son's. My friend took care to prevent
any elation from my reception by saying to me in a
low voice, “My father, God bless him, has good sense,
good feeling, and experience, and he well knows that the
value of gold does not depend on the circulation it has obtained;”
and truly if he had known that I bore the impress
of the king's countenance he could not have received
me more graciously. There might have been more
formality in his reception of the public functionary, but
there could not have been more genuine hospitality.
He presented me to his guests, and here I was first
reminded of my disguise. Instead of the sensation I
have been accustomed to see manifested in the lighting
up of the face, in the deferential bow, or the blush of modesty,
no emotion was visible. No eye rested on me,
not a link of conversation was broken, and I was suffered,
after rather an awkward passage through the ceremony,
to retire to my seat, where I remained, observing, but not
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observed, till dinner was announced. From the habit of
precedence, I was advancing to lead Madame to the dining
room, when I encountered my friend's glance, and
shrunk back in time to avoid what must have appeared an
unpardonable impertinence. I now fell into my modest
station in the rear, and offered my arm to an awkward,
bashful girl, who I am sure had two left hands by the
manner in which she received my courtesy, and who
did not honor me so far as to look up to see who it was
that had saved her from the mortifying dilemma of leaving
the drawingroom alone. I helped my companion
from the dish nearest to me, and waited myself till
Madame, reminded by her son of her oversight, sent me
a plate of soup. I was swallowing this, unmolested by
any conversation addressed to me, when my friend's
father said to him, “When have you seen the French
ambassador, Robert? I hoped you would have persuaded
him to pay us a visit.”
“`Perhaps he may,” replied my friend, “before the
summer is over. He is at present out of the city on
some excursion.”
“`A prodigious favorite is your son with the French
ambassador, as I hear from all quarters,” said a gentleman
who sat next Mr Ellison.
“`Ah! is that so, Robert? Are you intimate with
Monsieur —?”
“`He does me the honor to permit my society, sir.”
Every mouth was now opened in praise of the ambassador.
None of the company had seen him, but all had
heard of his abilities, the charms of his conversation,
his urbanity, his savoir plaire. “You must be proud of
your countryman, M. Dufau?” (this was my assumed
name) said my host, with that courtesy that finds a word
for the humblest guest.
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`I said it was certainly gratifying to my national
feeling to find him approved in America, but that, perhaps
it was not his merit alone that obtained him such
distinguished favor; that I had understood he was a
great admirer of this country, and though I should do
him injustice to say “he praised, only to be praised,”
yet I believed there was always a pretty accurately
measured exchange in this traffic.
“`The gentleman is right,” said an old Englishman
who sat opposite to me, and who had not before vouchsafed
to manifest a consciousness of my existence;
“this is all French palaver in Monsieur —. He
cannot be such a warm admirer of this country. The
man knows better; he has been in England.”
`I was too well acquainted with English manners
to be startled by any manifestation of that conviction
which an Englishman demonstrates in every part of
the world, that his nation has no equal; but I instinctively
defended my countryman, and eager for an opportunity
to test the colloquial powers so much admired in
the ambassador, I entered the lists with my English
opponent, and thus stimulated, I was certainly far more
eloquent than I ever had been before, on the history,
the present condition, and the prospects of this country.
But alas for the vanity of M. Dufau! my host, it is
true, gave me all the attention he could spare from the
courtesies of the table, but save his ear, I gained none
but that half accorded by my contemptuous, testy, and
impatient antagonist, who after barking out a few sentences
at me, relapsed into a moody silence.
`I next addressed some trifling gallantries to my
bashful neighbour, fancying that she who was neglected
by everybody else, would know how to appreciate my
attentions; but her eyes were rivetted to a fashionable
beauty at the upper extremity of the table, and a half a
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dozen “no, sirs” and “yes, sirs,” misplaced, were all
the return I could obtain from her. To remain silent
and passive, you know, to me, was impossible; so I next
made an essay on a vinegar faced dame on my left, far
in the wane of life. “If my civilities have been lead
elsewhere, in this market,” thought I, “they will at
least prove silver or gold.” But here I received my
cruellest rebuff; for the lady, after apparently listening
to me, said, “I do not understand you.” I raised my
voice, but she, determining to shelter the infirmity of
age at my expense, replied, “I am not so deaf, sir, but
really you speak such broken English, that I cannot
understand you.” This was too much, and I might
have betrayed my vexation, if an intelligent and laughing
glance from my friend had not restored my good
humor, and a second reflection, suggesting that it was
far more important to the old woman's happiness that
her vanity should remain unimpaired, than it could be to
me to have mine reduced, even to fragments, I humbly
begged her pardon, and relapsed into a contented silence,
solacing myself with the thought, that our encounter
was but an illustration of that of the china and earthen
jars. But I will not weary you with detailing all the
trials of my philosophy, but only confess that the negligence
of the servants was not the least of them—the
grinning self-complacency with which these apes of
their superiors signified to me that my wants might be
deferred.
`After all, my humble position would not have been
so disagreeable, if I had been accustomed to it. The
world's admiration, like all other luxuries, in the end
becomes necessary, and then, too, like other luxuries,
ceases to be enjoyed, or even felt, till it is withdrawn
and leaves an aching void. If this is Irish, set it down
to my broken English.
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`After dinner, I followed the ladies to the drawing-room,
and was presented by my friend to Miss —, a
reigning beauty. She received me with one of those
gracious smiles, that a hacknied belle always bestows
on a new worshipper at her shrine. These popular
favorites, be it clergyman, politician, or beauty, are as
covetous of the flatteries they receive, as a miser is of
gold. No matter how unclean the vessel from which
the incense rises; no matter what base alloy may mingle
with the precious metal. Have you ever encountered
one of these spoiled favorites in the thronged street,
and tried to arrest the attention for a moment; to fix
the eye that was roving for every tributary glance? If
you have, you will understand without my describing it,
the distrait manner with which the belle received my
first compliments. Even this was not long accorded me,
for a better accredited and more zealous admirer than
myself appearing, she left me to my meditations, which
were not rendered the more agreeable by my overhearing
an old lady say, in a voice, which, though slightly
depressed, she evidently made no effort to subdue to
an inaudible key, “I wonder what possessed Robert
Ellison to bring that French portrait painter here!
How the world has changed since the Revolution!
There is no longer any house where you don't meet
mixed society.” My friend had approached in time to
overhear her as well as myself. “The ignorant old
fool!” he exclaimed, “shall I tell her that artists are
the nobility of every country?”
“`No,” said I, “do not waste your rhetoric; there
is no enlightening the ignorance of stupidity; a black
substance will not reflect even the sun's rays.”
`Ellison then proposed that I should join a party at
whist; but I complained of the heated air of the drawing-room,
and, availing myself of my insignificance, I
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followed the bent of my inclinations, a privilege the humble
should not undervalue, and sauntered abroad. The
evening was beautiful enough to have soothed a misanthrope,
or warmed the heart of a stoic. Its peace, its
salutary, sacred voice restored me to myself, and I was
ashamed that my tranquillity had been disturbed. I
contemned the folly of the artificial distinctions of life,
and felt quite indifferent to them—when alone.
`The ground in front of my friend's house slopes to
the Hudson, and is still embellished with trees of the
majestic native growth. Where nature has left anything
to be supplied by art, walks have been arranged and
planted; but carefully, so as not to impede the view of
the river, which was now in perfect repose. A sloop
lay in the channel, its sails all furled, idly floating on
the slumbering surface. While I was wishing my friend
were with me, for I am too much of a Frenchman to
relish fully even nature, the favorite companion of sentimentalists,
in solitude, I saw a boat put off from the little
vessel, and row slowly towards the shore. Presently a
sweet female voice swelled on the stillness of the night,
accompanied by the notes of a guitar, struck by a practised
hand. Could any young man's mercury resist
moonlight and such music? Mine could not, and I very
soon left behind me all of terra firma that intervened
between me and the siren, and ensconced myself in a
deeply shaded nook at the very water's edge, where I
could see and hear without being observed. The boat
approached the spot where I stood, and was moored at
half a dozen yards from my feet; but as my figure was
in shadow, and sheltered by a thick copse of hazel
bushes, I was perfectly concealed, while, by a flood of
moonbeams, that poured on my unsuspicious neighbours,
I saw them as plainly as if it were daylight. These
were two men, whom I soon ascertained to be the captain
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of the sloop and an attendant, and that they were going
to a farm house in the neighbourhood for eggs, milk, &c.
The two females were to remain in the boat till their
return. The lady of the guitar was inclined to go with
them as far as the oak wood on the brow of the hill;
but the captain persuaded her to remain in the boat, by
telling her there was a formidable dog on the place, which
she might encounter. As soon as the captain was gone,
her companion, an elderly, staid looking country woman,
said to her, “Now, child, as I came here for your
pleasure, you must siag for mine. None of your new-fangled
fancies, but good Old Robin Grey.”
“`Oh, Robin Grey is a doleful ditty; but anything
to reward you for indulging me in coming on shore.”
`She then sung that touching ballad. The English,
certainly the Scotch, excel us as much in the pathos of
unembellished nature and truth, as we do them in all
literary refinement, ingenuity, and grace. I know not
how much of the tribute that gushed from my heart was
paid to the poetry and music, and how much to the
beautiful organ by which they were expressed, for the
fair musician looked herself like one of the bright creations
of poetry. I would describe her, but description
is cold and quite inadequate to convey an idea of her,
and of the scene with which she harmonized. It was
one of nature's sweetest accords; the balmy air, the
cloudless sky, the river, reflecting like a spotless mirror
the blue arch, the moon and her bright train; my enchantress,
the embodied spirit of the evening, and her
music the voice of nature. I might have forgotten that
I was in human mould, but I had one effectual curb to
my imagination; one mortal annoyance. Argus, confound
him! had followed me from the house, and it
was only by dint of continued coaxing and caressing
that I could keep him quiet. Before the ballad was
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finished, however, he was soothed by its monotonous
sadness, and crouching at my feet, he fell asleep, I believe.
I forgot him. Suddenly “the dainty spirit” changed
from the low breathings of melancholy to a gay
French air—the very air, Berville, that Claudine, in her
mirthful moments, used to sing to us. The transition
was so abrupt that it seemed as if the wing of joy had
swept over the strings of her instrument. I started
forth from my concealment. That was not all. Argus
sprang out, too, and barking furiously, bounded towards
the boat. The old woman screamed, “There is the dog!”
and the young lady, not less terrified, dropped her
guitar, and, unhooking the boat, she seized an oar and
pushed it off without listening to my apologies and assurances.
In her agitation she dropped the oar, and
her companion, still more tremulous than herself, in her
attempt to regain it, lost the other, which she had instinctively
grasped. As soon as the first impulse imparted
to the boat was expended, it scarcely moved at
all, and I had leisure to explain my sudden appearance,
and to say that my dog, far from being the formidable
animal they imagined, was a harmless spaniel, who
should immediately make all the amends in his power
for the terror he had caused. I then directed him to
the floating oars. He plunged into the water and
brought them to me, but he either did not, or would not
understand my wish that he should convey them to the
boat, which, though very slowly, was evidently receding
from the shore. I then, without farther hesitation,
threw off my coat, swam to the boat, and receiving
there the oars from Argus's mouth, I soon reconducted
the boat to its haven. There was something enchanting
to me in the frankness with which my fair musician
expressed her pleasure at the homage I had involuntarily
paid to her art, and the grace with which she
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received the slight service I rendered her. Perhaps I
felt it the more for the mortifying experience of the day.
I do not care very nicely to analyze my feelings, nor to
ascertain how much there was of restored self complacency
in the delicious excitement of that hour.'
`The elderly lady, for lady she must needs be since
my fair incognita called her mother, expressed a matronly
solicitude about the effect of my wet garments,
but I assured her that I apprehended no inconvenience
from them, and I begged to be allowed to remain at my
station till the return of their attendants. The circumstances
of our introduction had been such as to dissipate
all ceremony. Indeed, this characteristic of English
manners would have as ill fitted the trustful, ingenuous,
and gay disposition of my new acquaintance,
as a coat of mail her light, graceful person. She sung,
at my request, our popular opera airs, with more effect,
because with far more feeling, than our best professed
artists. She talked of music, and of the poetry of nature,
with genius and taste; and she listened with that
eager and pleased attention, which is the second best
gift of conversation. I should have taken no note of
the passage of time but for the fidgetting of the old lady,
who often interrupted us with expressions of her concern
at the captain's delay, for which he, quite too
soon, appeared to render an account himself. As I was
compelled to take my leave, I asked my fair unknown
if I might not be allowed to think of her by some more
accurate designation than the “Lady of the Guitar.”
“`My name is”—she replied promptly, and then, after
a moment's hesitation, added, “No—pardon me, your
romantic designation better suits the adventure of the
night.” I was vexed at my disappointment, but she
chased away the shade of displeasure by the graceful
playfulness with which she kissed her hand to me as the
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boat pushed off. I lingered on the shore till she had
reached the vessel, and then slowly retraced my steps
towards the house. I was startled by meeting my
friend, for my mind was so absorbed that I had not
heard his approaching footstep. “Ah!” he exclaimed,
`is this your philosophy? turned misanthrope at the
first frown from the world?”
“`My philosophy,” I replied, “has neither been vanquished,
nor has it conquered, for I had forgotten all its
trials.”
`My friend evidently believed, notwithstanding my disclaimer,
that my vanity required some indemnity for the
humiliations it had sustained, and he repeated to me
some assuaging compliments from his father. “But,” he
concluded, “tell me, have you really turned sentimentalist,
and been holding high converse with the stars?”
`With a most brilliant star,' I replied, and related
my adventure.
`Ellison's curiosity was excited, and he proposed we
should take our flutes, go out in the barge, and serenade
the “Lady of the Guitar.” I, of course, assented,
and the next half hour found us floating around the little
vessel like humble satellites. We played an accompaniment
and sung alternately, he in English, and I in
French; but there was no token given that the offered
incense was accepted; no salutation, save a coarse one
from the captain, who invited us to go “on board and
take some grog.” We of course declined his professional
courtesy. “Then, for the Lord's sake, lads,” he
said, “stop your piping, and give us a good birth.
Sleep, at this time o' night, is better music than the jolliest
tune that ever was played.”
`Thus dismissed, and discomfited by the lady's neglect,
we resumed our oars and were preparing to return
to the shore, when the cabin window was gently
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raised, and our fair incognita sung a sweet little French
air, beginning “Adieu, adieu!” We remained, sound,
motion, almost breath suspended till the song was
finished.'
“So sweetly she bids us adieu,
I think that she bids us return,”
said my friend, and we instantly rowed our boat towards
the stern of the vessel. At this moment the sash was
suddenly dropped, and taking this for a definitive “Good
night,” we retired.
`Now, dear Berville, I have faithfully related the
adventures of my masquerade—my boyish pastime, you
may call it. Be it so. This day has been worth a year
of care and dignity. I shall return to New York in a
few days. Till then farewell. Yours,
Constant.'
But though M. Constant professed himself satisfied
with his day, there was a lurking disquietude at his
heart. He had written to assure himself there was
nothing there he dare not express, and yet he had concluded
without once alluding to the cause of his self-reproach.
He had folded the letter, but he opened it,
and added;—
`P. S. I did not describe to you my friend's vexation
that the responded song was in French. “Ah!” said
he, “I see there is no chance for such poor devils as I,
so long as you are neither married nor betrothed.”'
He again closed the letter, and was for a moment
satisfied that there could be nothing in the nature of that
which he had so frankly communicated that required
concealment. He walked to the window and eyed the
little vessel as a miser looks at the casket that contains
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his treasure; then starting from his reverie, he took
from his bosom a miniature, and contemplated it steadfastly
for a few moments; `It is my conscience that
reproaches me,' he said, `and not this serene, benign
countenance. O Emma! thou art equally incapable of
inflicting and resenting wrong, and shall thy trust and
gentleness be returned by even a transient treachery?
Am I so sure of faithfully keeping the citadel that I
may parley with an enemy?'
The result of this self-examination was a determination
to burn the letter, and to dismiss forever from his mind
the enchantress whose power had so swayed him from
his loyalty. But though he turned from the window,
resolutely closed the blind, and excluded the moonlight,
which he fancied influenced his imagination as if he
were a lunatic; though he went to bed and sunk into
oblivious sleep, the spirit was not laid. Imagination
revelled in its triumph over the will. He was in France,
in beautiful France—more beautiful now than in the
visions of memory and affection. He was at his remembered
haunts in his father's grounds; the `Lady of the
Guitar' was with him; she sang his favorite songs; he
saw her sparkling glance, her glowing cheek, her rich,
dark tints,
`The embrowning of the fruit that tells
How rich within, the soul of sweetness dwells;'
he heard the innocent childlike laugh, that,
—`without any control,
Save the sweet one of gracefulness rung from her soul.'
Then there was interposed between him and this embodied
spirit of his joyous clime a slowly moving figure;
a cold, fair, pensive countenance, that had more of sorrow
than resentment, but still, though its reproach was
gentle, it was the reproach of the stern spectre of
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conscience. He cast down his eyes, and they fell on the
word `BETROTHED,' traced in the sand at his feet. The
`Lady of the Guitar' was gaily advancing towards him.
Another step and her flowing mantle would have swept
over the word, and effaced it forever. He raised his
hand to deprecate her approach, and awoke; and while
the visions of sleep still confusedly mingled with the
recollections and resolutions of the preceding day, he
was up and at the window; had thrown open the blind
and ascertained that the vessel still lay becalmed in the
stream. That virtue is certainly to be envied, that does
not need to be shielded and fortified by opportunity and
circumstance. If the vessel had disappeared, the recollections
of the evening might have been as evanescent
and ineffectual as the dreams of the night; but there it
was, in fine relief, and as motionless as if it were encased
in the blue waters. In spite of M. Constant's excellent
resolutions, he lingered at the window, and returned
there as if he were spellbound. Strange power that
could rivet his eyes to an ill shapen little Dutch skipper!
But that body did contain a spirit, and that spirit, seemingly
as perturbed as his own, soon appeared, moving
with a light step to and fro on the deck.
The apartment M. Constant occupied, was furnished,
among other luxuries, with a fine spyglass. To resist
using this facility for closer communion was impossible;
and by its aid he could perceive every motion of the
`lady of his thoughts,' almost the changes of her countenance.
He saw she was gazing on the shore, and
that she turned eagerly to her companion to point her
attention to some object that had caught her eye, and
at the same moment he perceived it was his friend, who
was strolling on the shore. Ellison saw him too, and
waved his handkerchief in salutation. M. Constant
returned the greeting, threw down the glass, and
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withdrew from the window with a feeling of compunction at
his indulgence, as if he had again heard that word
betrothed spoken. Why is it that external agents have
so much influence over the mysterious operations of
conscience? Why is it that its energy so often sleeps
while there is no witness to the wrong we commit?
`Keep thy heart, for out of it are the issues of life.'
After breakfast, Ellison said to M. Constant, `I am
afraid you find your masquerade dull. Let us beguile
the morning by a visit to your “Lady of the Guitar.”
There is nothing lends such wings to time as a pretty
girl. Our guests are a dull concern.'
`A dull concern, when there is a beauty and a fortune
among them!'
`Yes, a sated belle is to me as disagreeable as a
pampered child; as my grandmother's little pet Rosy,
whom I saw the other day, tossing away her sugar plums,
and crying “'T is not sweet enough;” and as to fortune,
though I am neither a philosopher nor a sentimentalist,
I shall never take the temple of Hymen in my way to
wealth; for of all speculations, a matrimonial speculation
seems to me the most hazardous, and the most disgraceful.
But we loiter. Will you pay your devoirs to our
unknown?'
`I believe not; I have letters to write this morning.'
`To Emma? Pardon me—I do not mean to pry into
your cabinet, but if the letters are to her they may be
deferred. She is a dear good soul and will find twenty
apologies for every fault you commit.'
`If they are to her, such generosity should not be
abused. No, I will not go. But on what pretext will you?'
`Pretext indeed! does a pilgrim seek for a pretext
to visit my Lady of Loretto, or the shrine of any other
saint? Here comes the gardener with a basket of fine
fruit which I have ordered to be prepared, and of which
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I shall be the bearer to the sufferers pent in that dirty
sloop this breathless August morning—from mere philanthropy
you know. Commend me to Emma,' he added
gaily; `I will bear witness for you that your enthusiasm
for this unknown was a mere coup de la lune, and that
when daylight appeared you were as loyal, and—as
dull as a married man.'
Ellison's raillery did not render the bitter pill of self-denial
more palatable to M. Constant. He turned
away without reply, but instead of returning to his
apartment he obtained a gun, and inquiring the best direction
to pursue in quest of game, he sauntered into a
wooded defile that wound among the hills, and was so
enclosed by them as not to afford even a glimpse of the
river. Here he threw himself on the grass, took a
blank leaf from his pocketbook and began a sonnet to
constancy, but broke off in the middle; scribbled half
a dozen odd lines from the different songs that had entranced
him on the preceding evening; sketched a guitar,
then rose, and, still musing, pursued his way up the
defile. The path he had taken led him around the base
of an eminence to a rivulet that came frolicking down a
hill, now leaping, and now loitering with the capricious
humor of childhood. He traced it to its source, a
clear fountain bubbling up from the earth at the foot of
a high, precipitous rock. Clusters of purple and pink
wild flowers hung from the clefts of the rock, wreathing
its bare old front, and presenting a beautiful harmony in
contrast, like infancy and old age. The rock and the
sides of the fountain formed a little amphitheatre, enclosed
and deeply shaded by the mountain ash, the aromatic
hemlock and the lofty basswood. This sequestered
retreat, with its fresh aspect and sweet exhalations,
afforded a delicious refuge from the fierce heat and
overpowering light of an August day. M. Constant
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was lingering to enjoy it when his ear caught the sound
of distant and animated voices. He started, and for a
moment thought himself cheated by the illusions of a
distempered fancy; but, as the sounds approached nearer,
he was assured of their reality, and they affected him
like the most painful discord, though they were produced
by the sweet, clear, penetrating voice of the unknown,
and the hitherto welcome tones of his friend.
The impropriety of a young girl straying off into such
a solitude with an acquaintance of an hour was obvious,
but was perhaps more shocking to M. Constant than
it would have been to a perfectly disinterested observer.
It gave a dreadful jar to his preconceived notions, and
contrasted, rudely enough, with the conduct of the preceding
night, when the lady had, with such scrupulous
delicacy, forborne to show herself on the deck of the
sloop. As they drew nearer he thought there was
something in the gay, familiar tones of Ellison, disgusting;
and the laugh of the lady, which before had seemed
the sweetest music of a youthful and innocent spirit, was
now harsh and hoydenish. The strain of their conversation,
too, for they were near enough to be heard distinctly,
while the windings of the path prevented his being
seen, though it was graceful chitchat enough, appeared
to him trifling and flippant in the extreme. As
they came still nearer he listened more intently, for he
had a personal interest in the subject.
`And so, my “Lady of the Guitar,”' said Ellison, `you
persist in preserving that scrap of paper, merely, I presume,
as a specimen of the sister arts of design and poetry.
You are sure those scratches are meant for
a guitar, and not a jewsharp, and that the fragment
is a sonnet and not a monody?'
`Certainly it is a sonnet; the poet says so himself.
See here—“Sonnet à la Constance.”'
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`Well, it is certainly in the strain of a “lament.”
My friend was in a strait; what he would do he could
not. Constancy is a very pretty theme for a boarding-school
letter, but I am afraid the poor fellow will not
find his inspiration in this tame virtue?'
`Ah! these tame virtues, as you call them,' replied the
lady, `are the salutary food of life, while your themes
of inspiration are intoxicating draughts, violent and
transient in their effects.'
`A very sage lesson, and very well conned. Did your
grandmother teach it to you?'
`No matter—I have got it by heart.'
`O those moral New Englanders, they change all the
poetry of life to wise saws. Thank heaven you have
escaped from them in time to retain some portion of your
original mercurial nature. But now let me tell you, my
sage young friend, that same paper may prove as dangerous
where you are going as a match to a magazine.
So let me advise you, either keep it quite to yourself, or
give it to the winds.'
`You talk riddles, Mr Ellison; but I will not be quizzed
into believing this little castaway scrap of paper
can be of any import.'
`Let me label it for you then, if, as I see, it is to be filed
among the precious stores of your pocketbook.'
There was a short pause when the lady, as M. Constant
supposed, looking over Ellison's superscription,
read aloud, `Love's Labor Lost,' and then exclaimed,
`Pshaw, Robert, how absurd!' and tore off the offensive
label, while he laughed at her vexation.
M. Constant felt that it would be very embarrassing
for him to be discovered as a passive listener to this
coversation. He had been chained to the spot by an
interest that he would gladly not have felt, but which he
could not suppress.
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Another turn would bring them directly before him.
To delay longer without being seen was therefore impossible.
As he put aside the rustling branches, he heard
Ellison exclaim, `Ha! there are some startled quails;'
but before his friend could take a more accurate observation,
he had sprung around an angle of the rock,
and was beyond sight and hearing.
The gentlemen met before dinner. M. Constant was
walking on the piazza, apparently moody and little disposed
to sympathize with Ellison's extravagant expressions
of admiration of the unknown, or of regret that the
fresh breeze was now wafting the vessel and its precious
cargo far away.
`In the name of Heaven, Constant,' he said, `what
has so suddenly turned you to ice? Last night you
seemed to think it necessary to invent—pardon me—allege
some apology for your prompt sensibility, and
you said it was not the beauty, the voice, the grace, or
any of the obvious and sufficient charms of this young
enchantress—that was your word—that fascinated you,
but it was a resemblance to the glowing beauties of
your own clime; and now, if you had been born at the
north pole and she at the equator, you could not manifest
less affinity.'
`There are certain principles,' replied M. Constant,
coldly, `that overcome natural affinities. I hope you
have passed your morning agreeably.'
`Agreeably? Delightfully! Our incognita is more
beautiful than you described her.'
`Is she then still incognita to you?' asked M. Constant
with a penetrating glance.
`Not exactly; she favored me with her name.'
`Her name! what is it?'
`Pardon me, I am under a prohibition not to tell.'
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`The lady certainly makes marked distinctions. She
is as reserved towards others, as frank to you.'
`She had her reasons.'
`Doubtless; but what were they?'
`Why, one was that I refused to tell her your name.'
`And why did you that?'
`I had my reasons, too.'
M. Constant was vexed at the mystery his friend affected.
He was annoyed, too, at his perfect self complacency
and imperturbable good nature, and, more than
all, ashamed of his own irritability. He made an effort
to overcome it, and to put himself on a level with
Ellison. He succeeded so far in his efforts as to continue
to talk of the lady with apparent nonchalance till
he was summoned to dinner; but though he tried every
mode his ingenuity could devise, he could not draw
from his friend the slightest allusion to the lady's extraordinary
visit to the shore, or any particular of their interview,
which explained the perfect familiarity that
seemed to exist between them; and what made this
mystery more inscrutable, was the tone of enthusiasm
which Ellison maintained in speaking of the lady, and
which no young man sincerely feels without a sentiment
of respect.
In spite of M. Constant's virtuous resolutions and efforts,
the `Lady of the Guitar' continued to occupy his
imagination, and he determined to take the surest measures
to dispel an influence which he had in vain resisted.
As he parted from his friend at night, he announced his
intention of taking his departure the following morning.
After expressing his sincere regret, Ellison said, `You
go immediately to town?'
`No; I go to Mr Liston's.'
`Ah! is it so?'
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`Even so, Ellison; but no more till we meet again.
I have supported my masquerade with little spirit; but
do not betray me, and we, neither of us, shall lose reputation.
'
M. Constant had for a long time been on terms of
intimacy and friendship with Miss Liston. This lady
belonged to one of the most distinguished families in
our country. She was agreeable in her person, had a
fund of good sense, was well informed and perfectly
amiable. Such characters are admirable in the conduct
of life, if not exciting to the imagination; that
precious faculty, which, like the element of fire, the most
powerful and dangerous agent, may warm, or may consume
us. Long and intimate friendship between unfettered
persons of different sexes is very likely to terminate,
as that of M. Constant and Miss Liston terminated,
in an engagement.
He had a sentiment of deep and fixed affection for
her, which, probably, no influence could have materially
affected; but when that being crossed his path who seemed
to him to realize the brightest visions of his youth,
he felt a secret consciousness that the fidelity of his affection
was endangered. The little mystery in which
the unknown was shrouded, the very circumstance of
calling her `the unknown,' magnified the importance of
the affair, as objects are enlarged, seen through a mist.
He very wisely and prudently concluded that the surest
way of dispelling all illusion, would be frankly to relate
the particulars to Miss Liston, only reserving to himself
certain feelings which would not be to her edification,
and which he believed would be dispelled by
participating their cause with her. Accordingly, at their
first meeting he was meditating how he should get over
the embarrassment of introducing the subject, when Miss
Liston said, `I have a great pleasure in reserve for
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you,' and left him without any farther explanation, and
in a few moments returned, followed by a lady, and
saying as she reentered, `Marie Angely, you and Constant,
my best friends, must not meet as strangers.'
A half suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of
both. All M. Constant's habitual grace forsook him.
He overturned Miss Liston's workstand, workbox,
and working paraphernalia, in advancing to make his
bow. Miss Angely's naturally high color was heightened
to a painful excess; she made an effort to reciprocate
the common courtesies of an introduction, but in
vain; the words faltered on her lips, and after struggling
a moment with opposing feelings, the truth and
simplicity of her heart triumphed, and turning to Miss
Liston, she said, `Your friend, Emma, is the gentleman
I met on the river.'
Miss Liston had been the confidant of all her romantic
young friend's impressions from her moonlight
interview with the stranger, and it was now her turn to
suffer a full share of the embarrassment of the other
parties. She looked to M. Constant for an explanation.
Never had he, in the whole course of his diplomatic career,
been more puzzled; but after a moment's hesitation
he followed Miss Angely in the safe path of ingenuousness
and truly told all the particulars of his late adventures,
concluding with a goodhumored censure of his
friend Ellison, who had long and intimately known Miss
Angely, and who, to gratify his mischief loving temper,
had contrived the mystery which led to the rather awkward
dénouement.
Thus these circumstances, which might have been woven
into an intricate web of delicate embarrassment and
romantic distress, that might have ended in the misery of
one, perhaps of all parties, were divested of their interest
and their danger by being promptly and frankly disclosed.
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Miss Angely, whom our readers have already recognised
as the little girl of the inn, had met with Miss Liston
at a boarding school in Boston, where, though Miss
Liston was her elder by several years, they formed an
enthusiastic, and, rare in the annals of boarding schools,
an enduring friendship. Marie Angely had faithfully
discharged the debt of gratitude to Mrs Reynolds, and
though acquiring, as may be supposed, somewhat of the
fastidiousness that accompanies refined education and
intercourse, no one could perceive any abatement of her
respect or affection for her kind protectress, or the slightest
diminution of her familiarity with her. She passed a
part of every summer with her, always called her mother,
and, by the fidelity of her kindness and the charm of her
manner, she diffused light and warmth over the whole
tract of Mrs Reynolds's existence. She linked expectations,
that might have been blasted, to a happy futurity,
and cherished and elevated affections, which, but
for her sunny influence, would have been left to wither
and perish. Oh that the fortunate and happy could know
how much they have in their gift!
Miss Angely had been on one of her annual visits to
her humble friend, and was on her way, accompanied
by her, to New York, where she was to join Miss Liston,
when the incidents occurred which we have related.
There is nothing in the termination of our tale to indemnify
the lover of romance for its previous dulness;
but it is a true story, and its materials must be received
from tradition, and not supplied by imagination.
M. Constant was, in the course of a few weeks, united
to Miss Liston. This lady had long cherished a
hope that her friend would be a permanent member of
her family, and she used every art of affection to persuade
her to remain with her at least so long as she
should decline the suits of all the lovers who were now
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thronging around her, attracted by her beauty, or loveliness,
or the eclat she derived from her intimacy with
the wife of the ambassador. M. Constant did not very
warmly second his wife's entreaties. He perhaps had a
poignant recollection of certan elective affinities, and his
experience taught him the truth, if indeed he had not
derived it from a higher source, that, in the present infirm
condition of human virtue, it is always safest and
best not voluntarily to `enter into temptation.'
Miss Angely returned to Boston. M. Constant's
union with Miss Liston was one of uninterrupted confidence
and conjugal happiness; but it was not destined
to be of long duration. His wife died in about a year after
their marriage. Among her papers was found a letter
addressed to her husband, written in expectation of
the fatal issue of the event that had terminated her life,
in which she earnestly recommended her friend as her
successor. In due time her request was honored. M.
Constant married Miss Angely. After residing for some
time in America, they went to France, where she was
received as an ornament to her noble family, and acknowledged
to be `the brightest jewel in its coronet.'
Far from the mean pride of those who shrink from recurring
to the humble stages in their progress to the
heights of fortune, Madame Constant delighted in relating
the vicissitudes of her life, and dwelt particularly on
that period, when, as Mrs Reynolds's handmaid, she considered
herself honored in standing behind the chair of
the wife of the great General Knox.
`The longest day comes to the vesper hour.' Madame
Constant closed at Paris a life of virtue, prosperity,
and happiness, in July 1827.
eaf340.n1[1] We would gladly have had it in our power to be exact in dates,
as our story in good faith is true in all, even the least important particulars.
Some few circumstances, and the `spoken words,' had escaped
tradition, and of course were necessarily supplied, as the proper
statue receives a foot or finger from the ruder hand of modern art.
The name of the heroine having been subsequently merged and forgotten
in that of her husband, we have ventured to retain it. The
rest we have respectfully veiled under assumed appellations.
