University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Our readers no doubt will think it is
quite time that we should return from
our long digression to the family at
Eton. There nothing occurred worthy
their notice till one evening Mrs. Lenox
entering Miss Bruce's apartment, said,
“Ellen are you here, and quite alone?”
“Quite alone,” replied Ellen, “Miss
Redwood has not left her father's room
since they took their tea.”

“I am glad of it—glad the girl has
the grace to stay with him even for half
an hour, though her society seems to be
of little use or consolation; and particularly
glad, dear Ellen, to find you

alone. I must interrupt your starlight
meditations, or rather give you an interesting
subject for them: but we shall
want a light, for I have brought you a
letter to read.”

“A letter!”—

“Yes, my dear, a letter, and to me
the most delightful I ever received.”
She was about to proceed to divulge its
contents, when both she and Ellen were
startled by a sound about Miss Redwood's
bed. Mrs. Lenox advanced to
the bed and laid her hand on it. “There
is no one here,” she said, “I fancied
I heard a sound.” “I fancied so too,”
said Ellen.

“Happily we were both mistaken,
my dear, for I should be very sorry to
tell my story to any ears but yours.
Ellen, I am the proudest and happiest of
mothers; I have just received a letter
from George, which proves that he is
worthy of his prosperity.”

“I am very glad of it.”

“And do you not yet, Ellen, suspect

the reason you have to be glad—do you
not know that George loves you?”

“Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed Ellen
involuntarily.

“Hope not, my dear Ellen! I am
sure there is not another in the world so
worthy of his love—not another, who
would be such an ornament to the station
in which George will place his
wife—not another that I should be so
happy to call my child.” She paused
for a moment for a reply, but Ellen
said nothing.

“Do not,” Mrs. Lenox continued,
“repress your feelings. George, like a
dutiful son, has made me his confidante,
and why should not you? George himself
can hardly love you better than
I do.”

“Thank you—thank you, Mrs.
Lenox.”

“No, my dear, you must not thank
me, you are worthy your good fortune,
and your own merit has secured it.
I have used no influence, though I

would have done any thing to have
brought about the connection; but this
is George's unbiassed decision, he confesses
to me he has loved you ever since
he was a boy. Is not such a good and
constant heart worth having, Ellen, not
to mention being the wife of a celebrated
young clergyman?”

Here the happy mother again paused,
and again wondered she received no
reply.

“Not a word, Ellen? well, you shall
have your own way; it is in vain to
expect common sense, or a common
way of showing it, from girls in love:
so I will just bring you a candle, and
leave you to read the letter by yourself:
only remember that the southern mail
goes, out to-morrow, and that lovers like
to have their declarations come back to
them as quick as echoes.”

Thus saying, Mrs. Lenox rose to leave
the room, when Ellen caught her by the
arm, and exclaimed, “stop one moment
Mrs. Lenox, and hear me.”

“Hear you, dear Ellen; George
himself could scarcely be more delighted
to hear you.” Ellen's tongue seemed to
be again paralysing, but making a strong
effort, she said, “you know, Mrs. Lenox,
what reasons I have for wishing to defer
for the present all thoughts of marriage;
you know that I ought not to involve
any one in my unhappy destiny; you
know—George does not—that possibly
disgrace awaits me.”

“But, my dearest Ellen, what is all
this to the purpose? Have you so poor
an opinion of my son's attachment to
you, as to fancy that the worst issue of
your uncertainties which you can apprehend
would be a straw in his way? No!
he loves you, for yourself alone—truly
—devotedly loves you.”

Ellen was quite overcome with the
generous, affectionate zeal of the mother,
and bursting into tears, she clasped Mrs.
Lenox's hand in hers, and said, “I do
not deserve this, my dear, kind friend;
I have not been frank with you. I

do not,” she added, faltering, “I do not
love George.”

“Not love him!” exclaimed Mrs.
Lenox, drawing back from Ellen, “not
love him, Ellen! it can't be, child—it is
impossible.” Poor Ellen at this moment
wished it were impossible; she sunk
back in her chair, and dark as the room
was, instinctively covered her face with
her handkerchief, while her friend, in
great agitation, walked up and down
the room, talking half to herself and half
to Ellen. “Not love him! I cannot
believe it; you have always known him.
You know there is not a blemish on
his character. A pious minister—a man
of education and talents—very good
talents—quite uncommon talents—and
a better tempered boy never lived; and
as to his appearance, there may be
handsomer men than George, but there
never was a pleasanter look—a good
faithful son he has been—and brother,
and that is a sure sign he will be a good
husband: and he loves you, Ellen;” she

concluded, pausing, and placing her
hand on Ellen's shoulder, “and you
can't be in your right mind if you do
not love him.”

Ellen felt that it would be in vain to
attempt to convince the fond mother
that that could be a right mind which
did not, as she would think, justly appreciate
George's merits: and she was
too delicate, too gentle to attempt to
vindicate herself. She was grateful for
the mother's and the son's generous preference
of an isolated being; and approaching
alone the crisis of her fate,
she was reluctant to refuse the kind protecting
arm that was stretched out to
succour and protect her.

She faltered for a moment in the resolution
she had instinctively taken: she
could not bear to afflict, perhaps to
alienate her partial friends—she might
be able to command her affections. But
alas! the spirit would not come when
she did call it; for when Mrs. Lenox,
suspecting some infirmity of purpose

from Ellen's continued silence, said, in
a softened tone, “It was but a girlish
silly feeling after all—was it, dear Ellen?
you will not be such a child as to throw
away the prize you have drawn.” She
replied with a dignified decision that
blasted Mrs. Lenox's reviving hopes. “I
have nothing to give for that prize, and
it cannot be mine. George must seek
some one who can return his affections,
and thus deserve them—I cannot.”

“Well, this is most extraordinary,”
replied Mrs. Lenox, “why what do you
wish for? what do you expect, Ellen?”

“Nothing, nothing in the world,
Mrs. Lenox, but your, and your son's
forgiveness, for what must seem to
you ingratitude, insensibility; for myself,”
she added, “my path is a solitary
one; but there is light on it from heaven;
and if I can preserve the kindness
of my friends, I shall have courage and
patience for the rest.” There was so
much purity and truth and feeling in
Ellen's words, that Mrs. Lenox could

not retain the resentment that in spite
of her better feelings had risen in her
bosom. “Our forgiveness!” she replied,
kindly, “Oh Ellen, you need not
ask our forgiveness. George, poor fellow,
thinks you can do no wrong, and
I always did think so: and even now
I do not feel so much for my son as to
see you so blind to your own happiness.”

How long this conference, so unsatisfactory
to the mother and embarrassing
to Ellen, might have continued, it is
impossible to say, had it not been interrupted
by the entrance of Miss Redwood.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “a tête a tête,
confidential, no doubt; I am sorry to
interrupt it,” she continued, looking at
both the ladies, and observing the signs
of emotion that were too evident to
escape notice; “it seems to have been
interesting. Come Lilly, you lazy
wretch,” she added, turning to the servant,
who was lying stretched out on
the floor at the foot of the bed, “get
up, and undress me; I have been dying

with sleep this half hour, while papa
was prosing away at me.”

Lilly's appearance on the floor at the entrance
of the light explained to the ladies
the noise they had heard; they exchanged
looks of mutual intelligence, but both
concluding she had been asleep, they
gave themselves no farther concern about
her. Mrs. Lenox bade the young ladies
good night, and repaired to her husband
with a heavy heart to acquaint him
with the result of George's suit. He,
good easy man, after expressing some
surprise, concluded with the truisms,
that girls were apt to be notional; that
to be sure Ellen was a likely young
woman, but there were plenty of fish in
the sea, and good ones too, that would
spring at a poorer bait than George
could throw out; and besides, he added,
by way of consolation, there was something
of a mist about Ellen, and though
he should not have made that an objection
seeing that she was a good girl, and
George had an idea about her, yet, as

matters had turned out as they had, he
believed it was all for the best. Mrs.
Lenox thought her husband had very
inadequate notions of Ellen Bruce's
merits, but she was wise enough to
refrain from disturbing his philosophy
on this trying occasion.

Soon after Mrs. Lenox left the young
ladies' apartment, Miss Bruce took her
hat and shawl and stole softly down
stairs. Miss Redwood listened to her
footsteps till she heard the house door
close after her. “In the name of Heaven,
Lilly,” she demanded of her servant,
“what can she have gone out for at this
time in the evening?”

“I am not the witch that can tell
that, Miss Caroline; but one thing I
can tell, I heard her say to Doctor Bristol
as I passed them, standing together in
the entry just before he went away to-day,
`I shall not fail to be there.”'

Nothing could be more indefinite than
Lilly's information; however, it was

more satisfactory than none, and after
pondering on it for a moment, her mistress
said, “your ears are worth having,
girl—tell me, did you hear what Miss
Bruce and Mrs. Lenox were talking
about in the dark here?” “That did I,
Miss Caroline, trust me for using my
ears. I waked when Mrs. Lenox came
into the room, and was just starting
up, when, thinks I to myself, they'll be
saying something about Miss Cary, and
I'll just lie snug and hear it—it will be
nuts for her.”

“Did they talk about me? what said
they? tell me quick.”

“Why, Miss Cary, they said just
nothing at all about you: no more than
if you was'ent nobody.”

“What in the name of wonder then
did they talk about—what could they
have to say?” asked Miss Redwood,
wondering internally that there should
be any field of vision in which she was
not the most conspicuous object.

“Oh, Miss Cary,” replied Lilly, their
talk was all about themselves; that is to say
about Miss Bruce and Mr. George Lenox,
that I told you was going to marry her;
but it appears she is all off the notion of
it now, though his mother begged her
as hard as a body might beg for your
striped gown that you don't wear any
more, Miss Cary.”

“My striped gown—you may have it
Lilly, but tell me what Mrs. Lenox said,
and what Miss Bruce, and all about it.”
Lilly proceeded to the details, and by
her skilful use of the powers of memory
and invention, she made out a much
longer conversation then we have reported
to our readers; from which conversation
Caroline deduced the natural inference
that Miss Bruce would not sacrifice
the opportunity of an advantageous connexion
without a good and sufficient reason.
What could be that reason? The attempt
to solve this mystery led her into a
labyrinth of conjectures, from which

there was no clue for extrication but the
apparent and mutual interest that subsisted
between her father and Miss Bruce.
It was possible that Ellen indulged hopes
of a more splendid alliance than that
with George Lenox. Caroline really
had too much sense to allow much force
to this extraordinary conclusion; still she
continued alternately to dwell on that,
and on the reason of Miss Bruce's absence,
till Lilly spoke of the expected
arrival of the Westalls. This opened
a new channel for her thoughts—the
debût of a new beau, a possible admirer,
could rival any other interest, and before
she sunk to sleep, Ellen's affairs subsided
to the insignificance which they really
bore in relation to Miss Redwood.

Caroline found other influences as unfriendly
to sleep as the “bracing air of
the lake.' She awoke with the first
beam of day, and instinctively raised her
head from her pillow to ascertain whether
Ellen Bruce's bed was unoccupied; it

was, but her ear caught the sound of a footstep
in the entry, and immediately after
Ellen entered with as little noise as possible.
“You need not be so quiet, Miss
Bruce,” said Caroline, “I am wide awake.”

“I am happy if I do not disturb
you,” replied Ellen, “still I must be
quiet on account of the family.” `Ah,'
thought Caroline, `the family then know
nothing of this manœuvre.' “You look
excessively pale and wearied, Miss
Bruce.”

“I am wearied,” replied Ellen, without
gratifying or even noticing Miss
Redwood's curiosity: “but,” she added,
as she threw herself on the bed, “I shall
have time before breakfast to refresh
myself.”

Caroline with the transmuting power of
jealousy, had converted Ellen's simplest
actions into aliments for her suspicions,
and now that a circumstance had occurred
which did not readily admit of an explanation,
she exulted in the expectation

of a triumph over her father, who had
treated her curiosity in relation to Ellen
as quite childless and groundless. “Your
favourite, papa,” she said, seizing a
favourable opportunity when she was
sitting alone with her father after dinner,
“has a singular taste for walking.”

“It may appear singular to you, Caroline,
with your southern habits; but
I imagine you will not find it uncommon
at the north.”

“O, north or south, papa, I fancy it
is not common for lady pedestrians to
pass the whole night in promenades.”

“The whole night—what do you
mean, my child?” Caroline explained.
Her father listened to her detail with
undisguised interest, and after a few
moments' pause, he said, “it would have
been natural and quite proper, as you
are Miss Bruce's room-mate, that you
should have asked of her the reason of
her absence last night—did you so?

“Oh, thank you, papa, no; I have
not yet taken lessons enough of these
question-asking Yankees, to inquire into
that which this lady of mysteries evidently
chooses to keep secret, even from
her dear friends the Lenoxes.”

“Well, my dear, since you will not
or cannot gratify your curiosity, I advise
you to suspend it, and to do yourself
and Miss Bruce the justice to remember
the remark of a sagacious observer,
that the `simplest characters
sometimes baffle all the art of decipherers.'
You look displeased, Caroline—let
us talk on some subject on
which we shall agree better. I think
we may look for the Westalls to-day.”

“Thank Heaven!—any change will
be agreeable.”

“Agreeable as a change, no doubt—
but the society of the Westalls will, I
hope, have some more enduring charm
than novelty; the mother I am certain
will be quite to your taste—and to the

son, if report speaks truly, no young
lady can be indifferent.”

“How papa, is he handsome, clever,
rich, accomplished?”

“Handsome—If I had seen Charles
Westall within the last half hour, I
should hardly presume to decide on so
delicate a point: he was but four years
old when I parted from him, of course I
only recollect him as a child. I have
been told however by some Virginians
who have visited the north that he is
the image of his father; if so, he has an
appearance that ladies usually honour
with their favour—manly, intelligent,
and expressive of every benevolent
affection.”

“Not one of your soft-amiable gentle-zephyr
youths I hope, papa?—they are
my aversion.”

“Not precisely; but if his face resembles
his father's, it rather indicates a
natural taste for domestic life than for
the `shrill fife and spirit-stirring drum'

—for the peace than the war establishment;
but I shall leave you to decide
on his beauty, Caroline,” continued Mr.
Redwood, as he noticed a slight blush
on his daughter's cheek at what she
considered an allusion to her military
preference. “`Is he clever?' is I think
the second question in the order of your
interrogatories; to this point I have the
most satisfactory testimonials: he has
received the first honours of the first
university in our country—has finished
the study of the law with one of the
most eminent men at the north, and has
received the proposal of a most advantageous
partnership with his instructor,
which he has just accepted.”

“Then if he is going into the drudgery
of business, he is not rich of course,
papa?

“No, Caroline, he is not rich,”—Mr.
Redwood was on the point of adding,
“and of what consequence is that to
us?” but he remembered in time, that it

was his policy to conceal from his wayward
daughter his own views; and he
said, after a momentary pause, “his
father's rash generosity impoverished his
estate. The father was an enthusiast,
Caroline; he thought as we all do of
the curse of slavery.”

“The curse of slavery? lord, papa,
what do you mean? there is no living
without slaves.”

“I fear, my child, that we shall find
there is no living with them; but besides
the universal feeling in relation to
the evil of slavery, Westall's father had
some peculiar notions.—During his life,
he gave to many of his slaves their freedom.”

“Oh shameful!” exclaimed Caroline,
“when every body allows, that all our
danger is from the freed slaves.”

“Westall endeavoured as far as possible
to obviate that danger. He reserved
the noble gift for those who were qualified
for it by some useful art, or a habit

of independent industry. At his death
he bequeathed their liberty to all who
remained on the plantation. This it appears
he deemed not generous but just,
as he stated in his will, that in resigning
his property in them he merely restored
to them a natural right which they had
received from their Creator, and which
he had only withheld in the hope of
fitting them to enjoy it, but which he
would not leave in the power of any one
to detain from them.”

“What nonsense, papa; and so by
the indulgence of these whims he beggared
poor Charles?”

“It cannot be denied that young
Westall's inheritance was impaired by
his father's singular, or it may be, fanatical
notions of justice: for the value of
a southern plantation is graduated by
the number of its slaves, and without
them it is much in the condition of a
cart without a horse. There was no
hypocrisy in my friend's professed dislike

of slavery; it was deep-rooted and
unconquerable, and to it he sacrificed
every pecuniary advantage. According
to the absolute provision of his will his
plantation was sold, and his widow and
son removed to the north. Charles's
fortune, though reduced, has been adequate
to the expenses of a first-rate education;
he has inherited the disinterestedness
of his father's spirit, for I find
that since coming of age he has vested
nearly all that remained of his property
in an annuity for his mother; he has a
few thousand dollars left to start with,
and as the `winds and waves are always
favourable to the ablest navigators,'
I do not doubt that his talents and industry
will ensure him success. As to
his accomplishments, Caroline, you and
I affix probably different meanings to
the term, and therefore I will leave you
to satisfy your interrogatory on that
head after you shall have seen him.”

“Different meanings, papa; every

body knows what accomplished means
—does he speak French? does he dance
well? Is he genteel and elegant, and
all that?”

“Oh perfectly genteel, my dear,”
replied the father with a smile, “he was
born and bred a gentleman, and has the
mind and spirit of a gentleman; he is, I
am told, approved by wise fathers,
courted by discreet mothers, and what
you will probably consider much more
unequivocal testimony—the favourite of
fair daughters. But, Caroline,” continued
Mr. Redwood, checking himself
from the fear that his daughter would
perceive his solicitude to secure her
favourable opinion of Westall, “I think
your long confinement to the house has
robbed you of your bloom. The rumour
of your beauty has doubtless reached
the ears of my young friend, and I should
be sorry that your first appearance
should not answer his expectations—ah,
there goes Miss Bruce on one of her

walking expeditions. Miss Bruce,” he
added, speaking to Ellen through the
window, “you are an absolute devotee
to nature—will you permit my daughter
to be the companion of your walk,
and show her some of the shrines at
which you worship?”

“I am only an admirer, not an idolater,”
replied Ellen, smiling; “and I
am certain, that if Miss Redwood will do
me the favour to accompany me, she
will answer for me that my homage is
reasonable.” Miss Redwood readily
acquiesced in the arrangement—the wish
to restore her bloom was a controlling
motive; and the animating expectation
of the arrival of the Westalls had for
the moment made her forget her dislike
to Ellen: Lilly was summoned with
her hat and gloves, and the young ladies
proceeded arm in arm towards the lake.

“What a delightful compensation we
have,” said Ellen, “for the suffering
from our long sultry summer days in the

reviving influence of the approaching
evening; its sweet cool breath refreshes
all nature, and restores elasticity and
vigour to mind and body.”

“You have, no doubt, an advantage
in your cool evenings,” replied Caroline,
“the only one, as far as I see, of the
north over the south.”

Ellen suppressed her opinion—perhaps
partial—that her companion did
not see very far. “I am not such a
bigot,” said she, “as to believe that your
country does not possess, in many respects,
the advantage over ours; but I
confess I have prejudices so strong in
favour of our lofty mountains, deep valleys,
and broad lakes, that I do not believe
I should ever admire the tame
level of Carolina; but it is hardly necessary
for me to be thus boastful while
this scene is itself so eloquently pleading
its claims to your admiration: look, Miss
Redwood,” she continued, “where the
lake reflects the bright tints of the evening

sky, and there where the long shadows
of the trees seem to sleep on its
bosom—is there, can there be in the wide
world a lovelier spot than this?”

“It may be,” replied Caroline, “it is,
no doubt, exceedingly pretty; but to
own the truth to you, Miss Bruce, I can
never forget that this lake shore was the
scene of our disaster. After that horrible
storm and fright it is natural it
should have no beauty in my eyes; besides,
you know, one that is not used to
the country gets so tired of it, that it is
quite impossible to admire it; but see,”
she added, changing her languid tone to
one nearly as animated as Ellen's had
been: “see, Miss Bruce, those beautiful
wild flowers that are growing there close
to the water's edge; I should so like to
get them to dress my hair against the
Westalls arrive: they would form a
beautiful contrast. I had a bunch of
snow-drops last winter that all the world
said were particularly becoming to me;

these flowers are as white and beautiful,
and being natural, they would have
quite a rural pretty effect.”

“A beautiful effect no doubt, Miss
Redwood, but alas! they are `not to be
come at by the willing hand;' if we had
the imagination of some poets, who are
fond of infusing their own sensations into
flowers, we might fancy these were enjoying
their security, and laughing at
the vanity of your wishes.”

“But,” said Caroline, “it surely is
not impossible to get at them;” and
espying a fisherman's canoe which was
fastened to a tree against which they
were standing, she proposed to Ellen,
who, she said, she was sure knew how to
guide it, to procure the flowers for her.

“Indeed, Miss Redwood,” replied
Ellen, “I am no water-nymph, and
these canoes require as much skill to
guide them as the egg-shells in which
witches and fairies are said to traverse
the waters.”

“But, the water is not deep,” insisted
Caroline, “and if the worst happens, you
will but get your clothes wet, and you
have nothing on that can be injured.”

The inexorable Ellen resisted this
argument, though Miss Redwood enforced
it by a rapid glance of comparison
from Ellen's simple muslin frock to her
own richly trimmed silk dress.

There was an inlet of water where
the ladies stood, around which the
margin curved to the point where the
flowers grew at the base of a rock, and
so near the water's edge (for the earth
had been worn away by the surge) that
it could hardly be said from which element
they sprung, earth or water. A
small birch tree had grown out of a cleft
in the rock, and was completely overgrown
by a grape vine, which, after
embowering it, dropped its rich drapery
over the perpendicular side of the rock,
and hung there, in festoons so light and
graceful, that one might fancy they had

sportively peeped over the rock to look
at their beautiful image in the pure
mirror below. After Caroline's last
argument had failed, she jumped into
the canoe herself, and unhooking it from
the tree to which it was attached, she
exultingly exclaimed, “nothing venture,
nothing have;” and gaily pushed off
towards the object of her wishes.

The water was shallow, and apparently
there was not the least danger.
Caroline, however, had given too powerful
an impetus to the frail bark she was
guiding, and it struck against the rock
with so much force as to recoil with a
fluttering motion. Caroline was frightened,
and increased by her agitation the
irregular motion of the canoe; Ellen
perceived the dangerous operation of her
terrors, but before she could make her
comprehend that all that was necessary
was that she should sit down quietly,
Caroline had grasped the pendant vine
which was strong and tenacious, and the

canoe had passed from under her. It
drifted a few yards, and then remained
stationary at the base of the rock. The
rock was perpendicular, and too high
for Miss Redwood too reach its summit.
Ellen perceived, at a single glance, the
dilemma in which Caroline's fears had
involved her, and perceived and adopted
the only mode of extricating her from
her awkward situation. She ran around
the curve of the shore, ascended the
rock where the ascent was gradual, and
letting herself down as gently as possible
into the canoe, she rowed immediately
to the relief of the distressed
damsel, whose arms already trembled
with the weight which they sustained.
“Oh, I am dead with fright!” she exclaimed,
as soon as a certainty of recovered
safety restored to her the use of
her tongue: “for Heaven's sake tell
me, Ellen, how you got to me; I thought
you dropped from the skies.” Ellen
explained that she had reached her by
natural and easy means. “Well,” said
Caroline, “it was very good—very kind
of you, and I never—never shall forget
it; but pray get me back to the shore
—for all the flowers in Paradise I would
not endure such another fright.”

“But we will not,” said Ellen, “return
to the shore without a trophy for
your daring to venture to the only place
where even fear could create peril.
These flowers,” she added, plucking
them, “were the cause of all the mischief,
and they shall die for it.”

She then rowed back to the shore,
and was tastefully arranging the flowers
in Caroline's hair, saying, at the same
time, that “if she had made herself a
water-nymph, they would still have been
a fit coronal for her,” when the attention
of both the ladies was attracted by
the rapid approach of a gentleman
whom they perceived to be a stranger.
A frock coat and Madras cravat announced
a traveller; and a brief glance

of Caroline's practised eye satisfied her
who it must be that so gracefully wore
this costume—and as he came up to
them she exclaimed, `Mr. Westall!' It
was Charles Westall conducted by little
Lucy Lenox. He courteously thanked
Miss Redwood for saving him from the
awkward necessity of introducing himself.
He had, as he said, just arrived at Mr.
Lenox's with his mother, and had been
sent by her with his little guide in quest
of Miss Redwood; that while descending
the hill he had been a witness of Miss
Redwood's danger, and had hastened on
in the hope of being so fortunate as to assist
at her rescue; but fate had been unkind to
him, for the pleasure of playing the hero
on this occasion was not only wrested
from him, but he was forced to witness
and admire the celerity with which the
rescue had been effected without his
aid. Miss Redwood turned to introduce
Ellen, but she had walked forward
with Lucy, who, with childish eagerness,
was telling her how frightened she
was when she saw her jump from the
rock, and that for a million Miss Redwoods
she would not have had Ellen
run the risk of being drowned.

Never was there a happier moment
for the power of Miss Redwood's beauty.
The joy of recovered safety, and the
pleasure of surprise had deepened her
colour; her gratitude to Ellen had given
a touch of unwonted softness to her expression,
and the simple decoration of
the white flowers mingling with her
jet glossy curls, was far more beautiful
than their usually elaborate arrangement.

When the ceremony of introduction
to Mrs. Westall was over, and Caroline
with extraordinary animation had expressed
her pleasure at the interview,
Mrs. Westall, impatient to ascertain
the first impression on her son, whispered,
“Charles, is she as beautiful as
you expected?”

“As beautiful, mother! you honour
my imagination too much; she is more
beautiful than any vision of my dull
brain.”

For a few days after the arrival of
the Westalls the “sands of time” were
“diamond sparks” to the visitors at
Eton. Charles Westall and Caroline
Redwood seemed verging towards
that point of happy agreement so
much desired by both their parents—
desired by Mr. Redwood, because his
experience had taught him that virtue
is the only basis of confidence or happiness,
and with an inconsistency not uncommon
or surprising, he preferred that
virtue should be fortified by religious principle.
He had preserved an affectionate
recollection of Westall's father, and he
fancied that he was paying him a tribute
in giving to his son the noble fortune of
his own child, and when his conscience
whispered that the fortune was a poor
compensation for the incumbrance that

went with it, he found some consolation
in attributing Caroline's faults to the
bad influence of her grandmother, and
in the hope that, young as she was, her
character might be remoulded. All that
he had heard of Westall from the reports
of others, or had gathered from occasional
correspondence with him, had
inspired regard for him; that regard
was now becoming affection. Charles
Westall's resemblance to his father
recalled to him the early and happiest
period of his life, that period when his
heart was light and fearless, and his
mind unclouded by the dark shadows
that a vain and false philosophy had since
cast upon it.

Mr. Redwood's apprehensions that
Captain Fitzgerald had taken such possession
of his daughter's imagination as
to endanger the success of a rival vanished
when he perceived that she devoted
herself with characteristic childishness
to the present object. Of the

happy result of her efforts to captivate
Charles Westall, he had no doubt; and
common experience would perhaps justify
his conclusion that no young man
could resist the apparent preference of
a spirited young beauty with fortune
enough to atone for a thousand faults.
A superficial observation satisfied him
that he was secure of Mrs. Westall's
influence for his daughter; he perceived
that the progress of time had not diminished
the worldliness of disposition
which his sagacity had detected even
when it was sheltered by the charms of
youth.

Mrs. Westall was one of those ladies
who are universal favourites: her face
was pleasing, her person graceful, and
her manners courteous; with these medium
charms, she attracted attention
without provoking envy; she had no
strong holds in her mind for prejudice
or austere principle. She was one of
that large class who take their form and

pressure from the society in which they
happen to be cast;—a thorough conformist.
In our eastern country, she was,
if not strict, quite exact in her religious
observances. She would have preferred
the lenient bosom of episcopacy, because
of its agreeable medium between the
latitudinarians and the puritans, and perhaps
too on account of its superior gentility.
But as her location in a country
town precluded the privilege of choice,
she offered an edifying example, by
quietly waiting on the services of a congregational
meeting every Sunday, and
occasionally attending a “lecture” or a
“conference” during the week. She
contributed to the utmost limit of her
ability to the good and religious objects
that engage the zeal and affections of our
community. This virtuous conduct was
more the effect of imitation than of independent
opinion; for Mrs. Westall,
with the resources of fortune, and in
fashionable life, had remonstrated with
some energy (she was not capable of
much) against the strictness and enthusiasm
of her husband. If again restored
to the world, she would without an
effort have conformed to its usages, and
endured the excesses of genteel dissipation.
In one of our cities she might
have held Sunday evening levees, or in
Paris have strolled out the day of “holy
rest” in the public gardens, or forgotten
it at the opera, or a fashionable card
party.

How such a woman could interest
Edmund Westall, those only ought to
inquire who have never observed how
much early attachments are controlled
by local, and (as it seems) purely accidental
circumstances. Westall, during
his college life, resided in the family of
his wife's parents. He was captivated
by the sweetness of her temper and the
simplicity of her manners; he trusted
for the rest with the facility of youthful
love, that hopes, believes, and expects

all things. He did not live long enough
to awake from the lover's dream, though
he occasionally saw a trait of worldliness
which he imputed to the humble
circumstances in which his wife had
been bred, thinking that they (as they
often do) had led her to an undue estimation
of the advantages of wealth,
rank, and fashion. Westall was deemed
an enthusiast, and perhaps he was so, for
his interest in the happiness of others
often led him to a singular forgetfulness
of himself, and his means were sometimes
inadequate to effect his benevolent
and philanthropic plans. Like other
enthusiasts, he was apt to forget that the
materials he had to work with were sordid
and earthly; and, like them, he was
compelled to endure the ridicule of those
base spirits that were making idols of
their silver and their gold, while he was
on the Mount in the service of the living
God. Charles Westall was four years
old when he lost his parent: the recollections
he preserved of him were like
the “glimpse a saint has of heaven in
his dreams.” He remembered being led
by him to the cabins of his infirm or sick
slaves, and some particulars of his humane
attentions to them. He recollected
the melting tenderness of his eye and the
tone of his voice when he had commended
him for a kind action. But his
most vivid impression was of the last
moment of his father's life, when he had
laid his hand upon his child's head, and
in the act of resigning him, had fervently
prayed that he might be kept
“unspotted from the world.” Charles
could not then comprehend the full import
of the words; but afterwards,
amidst the temptations of life, he felt
their efficacy. At an early period his
mother had given into his possession his
father's private papers. Through them
he came to an intimate knowledge of
his father's character—of his many virtuous
efforts and sacrifices—of his hopes
and fears in relation to himself—of his
deepest and holiest feelings; thus the
son was admitted into the sanctuary of
the father's heart, and held, as it were, a
spiritual communion with him. From
these precious documents, Charles Westall
realized all that has been hoped from
the ministry of a guardian spirit; they
became a kind of external conscience to
him; saving him from many an error
into which the buoyant careless spirit of
youth might otherwise have betrayed
him. Few living parents exert such an
influence over the character of a child.