University of Virginia Library

10. REDWOOD.

10. CHAPTER X.

Those only who have observed the
magical effect produced upon a young
lady by the presence of a candidate for
her favour, whom she deems it worth
her efforts to obtain or retain, can have
an adequate notion of the change wrought
on Caroline Redwood since the arrival
of the Westalls. Instead of the listless,
sullen girl, who yawned away her days
in discontent or apathy, she became spirited,
active, and good-humoured. Even
her interest in the concerns of Ellen

Bruce, and her suspicions of that artless
girl's designs, were suspended in the
ardour of her present pursuit, and she
seemed to think of nothing and to care
for nothing but how she should secure
the triumph of her vanity. Every one
noticed the change; (excepting Ellen,
who had of late almost wholly withdrawn
from the family circle) indeed, it
was so manifest that Miss Deborah, who
had taken a decided dislike to Caroline,
and who was rather remarkable for the
inveteracy of her opinions, was heard to
say, that “since the girl's sweetheart
had come, she was as bright as a September
day after the fog was lifted; but
for her part she liked to see people have
sunshine within them like Ellen.” This
declaration was made by Miss Debby in
an imprudently loud tone of voice, as
she stood at a window gazing on Mr.
Redwood's carriage that had been ordered
for an afternoon's drive. Mr. Redwood,
Caroline, and Mrs. Westall were
already in the carriage, and Charles
Westall had returned to the parlour in
quest of some article Mr. Redwood had
forgotten; while he was looking for it,
Deborah's comment fell on his ear, and
probably gave a new direction to his
thoughts, for during the ride Caroline
rallied him on his extraordinary pensiveness;
and finally perceiving that his
gravity resisted all her efforts to dissipate
it, she proposed that if he had not lost
the use of his limbs as well as of his
tongue, he should alight from the carriage
with her and walk to a cottage, to
which they perceived a direct path
through a field, while the carriage approached
by the high road which ran
along the lake shore and was circuitous.
Westall assented rather with politeness
than eagerness; but when he was alone
with Caroline, when she roused all her
powers to charm him, he yielded to the
influence of her beauty and her vivacity.
Never had she appeared so engaging—
never so beautiful—the afternoon was
delicious—their path ran along the skirts
of an enchanting wood—its soft shadows
fell over them, the birds poured forth
their melody; and, in short, all nature
conspired to stimulate the lover's imagination
and to quicken his sensibility.
Charles forgot the sage resolutions he
had made to withhold his declaration till
he had satisfied certain doubts that had
sometimes obtruded on him, that all in
Caroline was not as fair and lovely as it
seemed; he forgot Miss Deborah's hint
—forgot every thing but the power and
the presence of his beautiful companion,
and only hesitated for language to express
what his eyes had already told her.
At this moment both his and Miss Redwood's
attention was withdrawn from
themselves to a little girl who appeared
at the door of the cottage, from which
they were now not many yards distant.
On perceiving them she bounded over
the door step, then stopped, put up her
hand to shade her eyes from the sun,
and gazed fixedly on them for a moment,
then again sprang forward, again stopped,
covered her eyes with both her
hands, threw herself at full length on the
grass, laid her ear to the ground and
seemed for a moment to listen intently;
she then rose, put her apron to her eyes
and appeared to be weeping, while she
retraced her way languidly to the cottage.
Caroline and Westall, moved by
the same impulse, quickened their pace,
and in a few moments reached the cottage
door, to which a woman had been
attracted by the sobs of the child, and
was expostulating with her in an earnest
tone. “God help us, Peggy, you'll just
ruin all if you go on in this way;” she
paused on perceiving that the child had
attracted the attention of the strangers;
and in reply to Westall's asking what
ailed the little girl, she said, “it's just
her simplicity, Sir; but if you and the
lady will condescend to walk into my
poor place here, I will tell you all about
it, or Peggy shall tell it herself, for when
she gets upon it her tongue runs faster
than mine: but bless me, here comes a
grand coach—look up, Peggy, you never
saw a real coach in your life.” Peggy
now let fall the apron with which she
had covered her face—a face if not
beautiful, full of feeling and intelligence.
She seemed instantly to forget her affliction,
whatever it was, in the pleasure of
gazing on the spectacle of the real coach.
“Ah, aunt Betty,” she exclaimed, “it
is the grand sick gentleman that is staying
at Mr. Lenox's.” The carriage drew
up to the door, and Mrs. Westall and
Mr. Redwood, attracted by the uncommonly
neat appearance of the cottage,
alighted and followed Caroline and
Charles, who had already entered it.
The good woman, middle-aged and of a
cheerful countenance, was delighted with
the honour conferred on her, bustled
around to furnish seats for her guests—
shook up the cushion of a rocking chair
for Mr. Redwood, and made a thousand
apologies for the confusion and dirt of
her house, which had the usual if not the
intended effect of calling forth abundance
of compliments on its perfect order
and neatness. “And now, Peggy,” she
said, as soon as they were all quietly
seated, “take the pitcher and bring some
cold water from the spring, that's what
the poor have, thank God, as good as
the rich, and it is all we have to offer.”
The little girl obeyed, and as soon as she
was out of hearing, the woman turned to
Westall. “It was your wish, Sir, to
know what ailed the child; the poor
thing has just got the use of her eyesight,
and she has been expecting some
one that she loves better than all the
world; and when she saw this young
lady with you, she thought it was her
friend—though to be sure she is shorter
than this lady; but then Peggy, poor
thing, does not see quite right yet, and
then when she is puzzled she just lies
down to the ground as you saw her, for
that was her way to listen, and she knows
Miss Ellen's step, for as light as it is,
when my poor ear can't hear a sound.”

“How did she become blind, my good
woman, and how did she recover her
sight?” asked Westall.

“It is a long story, Sir: when she was
one year old, she laid in the measles, and
her mother dying at the same time, and
I sick of a fever, and the child, God forgive
me, was neglected, and there came
a blind over her eyes, and shut them up
in darkness.” “Not all darkness,” said
the little heroine of the story, who reentered
with the water, “you know,
aunt Betty, I could see a glimmer of sunshine.”
“Yes, and that it was that gave
the doctor hopes of her.” “No, no,”
interrupted the child, “it was Miss Ellen
that gave the doctor hopes.”

“Lord bless her,” continued the
woman, smiling, “Peggy thinks there's

nothing good done in the world, but
Miss Ellen does it, and to be sure she
has been an angel to Peggy.”

“And how,” asked Mr. Redwood,
whose interest in Peggy's history seemed
much augmented since the mention of
Miss Ellen, “how came Miss Bruce to
know your child?”

“God brought them together, Sir; it
was his own work; but the child is not
mine, her poor mother lies in the graveyard
there in the village, far from all her
own people, for we are from old England,
Sir. My sister, poor Fanny, was a wild
thing, the youngest of ten of us, and I
the oldest. My mother died and left
her a baby in my arms; and she was like
my own, and we all, and father more
than all, petted her, and when she was
sixteen, she had just her own way, and
married a young soldier lad of our village,
and my father turned her from his
door, and would not hear to forgiving
her. But I, Lord help me! I had no

right not to forgive her; and so I came
over to Canada with her when her husband's
regiment was ordered there. I
had a little money of my own, and we
paid our own way, but when that was
gone, our distresses and hardships threw
her in the consumption. Her husband
got into bad company, deserted and came
off to the States; we followed—she with
the baby—Peggy that is—in her arms.
We persuaded her husband to take this
bit of a place, but he soon left us, and,
as I told you before, Fanny died, and
left me alone in the world, as you may
say, with Peggy—and she blind; but, Sir,
I have always been of a contented disposition,
and I meant to be resigned to
whatever it pleased the Lord to send
upon me; but I must own, when I found
Peggy was blind, and the doctors told
me nothing could be done for her, I had
my match. It was the bitterest sorrow
I ever felt when life was spared, but I
thought to myself, what can't be cured
must be endured; so I went to work.
The Lord has blessed us, and Peggy and
I have lived these six years as comfortable
and as contented may be as those
that are richer, and seem to be happier.”

“No doubt, no doubt, my good woman,”
said Mr. Redwood, struck with
admiration of the simple creature's practical
philosophy; “but you have told us
so much of your story that you must give
us the rest.”

“Yes, yes,” said little Peggy, “do,
aunt Betty, tell them about Miss Ellen,
they'll like to hear that best of all: now
don't go away,” said she, turning to Caroline,
who had risen from her chair, and
was walking towards the door.

“I am not going away, child,” she
answered, pettishly, “I prefer standing
at the door.”

“It is five weeks to-morrow,” continued
the narrator, “since I first saw
Miss Ellen; it was the very morning after
young Mr. Allen's funeral. I saw her

that morning and the next sitting on
that rock by the elm tree yonder, ladies;
she had a pencil in her hand, and a big
book on her lap, and a paper on it; and
the second morning Peggy heard her
humming some songs to herself, and she
crept close to her: the silly thing would
any time leave her breakfast for an end
of a song. I saw the young lady noticed
Peggy, and then I made bold to walk
up to her; and will you believe me,
ladies! she had been picturing on her
paper this little hut and the half withered
tree, and that old bench with my washtub
turned up on it, and my old cow, as
she stands eating her morning mess, and
Peggy stroking her! and I could not but
ask her why she did not choose to draw
out some of the nice houses in the village
with two chimnies, and a square roof to
them, and a pretty fence to the dooryard,
and the straight tall poplars; but
she smiled, and said `this suited her
fancy better;' and then she began talking
to me of Peggy, and when she found
she was quite blind, she just laid down
her pencil and her book and all, and took
the child in her lap, and said, `something
must be done for her;' and when she
said so, the tears stood in her blue eyes;
and God knows, I never saw tears so
becoming; and from that time, ladies,
she came every morning, and sate here
three or four hours, teaching Peggy to
sew, and learning her hymns and songs.”

“Caroline, Caroline, do you hear
that?” asked Mr. Redwood, impetuously.

“Lord, papa, I am not deaf—certainly
I hear.”

“Go on, good woman,” said Mr. Redwood.

“The child's quickness, Sir,” continued
the aunt, “seemed a miracle to
me; for, God forgive me, I had never
thought of her learning anything. Peggy,
get those bags you made that Miss Ellen
said you might sell.”

The child instantly produced the bags,

which were made of pieces of calico very
neatly sewn together. Caroline interrupted
the story while she bargained
with the little girl for the bags, for which
she paid her most munificently.

The aunt seemed more sensible of the
extent of Miss Redwood's generosity
than the child, for she was voluble in
her thanks; and then proceeded to say
that Miss Ellen, not satisfied with doing
so much, brought Doctor Bristol to look
at Peggy's eyes. “Doctor Bristol,” she
said, “had come to live in Eton since
she had given up Peggy's eyes as quite
gone, and therefore she had never shown
the child to him. But Doctor Bristol
had learned some new fashioned ways
that other doctors in the country knew
nothing about, and as soon as he looked
at the child, he said one of the eyes might
be restored. Then poor Peggy was so
frightened with the thought of an operation,
and I could do nothing with her,
for I had always let her have her own

way; for who, ladies, could have the
heart to cross a blind child? but Miss
Ellen, God bless her, could always make
her mind without crossing her, for she
loves Miss Ellen better than any thing
on earth, or in heaven either, I fear me;
and she would liken her to strawberries
and roses, and every thing that was most
pleasant to the senses the poor thing had
left—and she would say that her voice
was sweeter than the music of the birds,
or the sound of the waters breaking on
the shore, when a gentle breeze came
over the lake of a still evening, for that
was the sound she loved best of all, and
would listen to it sometimes for an hour
together without speaking or moving.”

It seemed that Miss Redwood's patience
could no longer brook the minute
and excursive style of the narrator, as
she proposed to Mrs. Westall in a whisper,
that they should cut the woman's
never-ending story short and pursue their
ride. Mrs. Westall acquiesced, with a

`just as you please, my dear;' but Mr.
Redwood, guessing the purport of his
daughter's whisper, interposed with a
request in a low voice, that she would
not prolong their delay by interrupting
the good woman's story, as the pain in
his arm warned him that it was time for
him to return; then turning to the aunt,
he asked her “how she brought the girl
finally to consent to the operation?”

“Oh, it was Miss Ellen that made her
consent, and she would only do it by
promising that she would stay by her and
hold her head. God knows I could not
have done it, well as I love her, to have
saved her eyes, for I was all in a shiver
when I saw the doctor fix her by that
window, and Miss Ellen stood behind
her, and Peggy leaned her head back on
to Miss Ellen's breast, and one of Miss
Ellen's hands was on the child's forehead,
and the other under her chin, and she
looked, God bless her, as white as marble,
and as beautiful as an angel. I had

but a glance at them, for when the doctor
took out his long needle I covered my
eyes till I heard them say it was all over,
and Peggy had not made a movement or
a groan. Miss Ellen bade me not to
speak yet, and the bandage was put over
the child's eyes, and she was laid there
on the bed, and Miss Ellen motioned
to me to go out with her, and as I stepped
from the door, she sunk like a dying
person into my arms; but still it seemed
she could only think of Peggy, for she
put up her hand for a sign to me to be
quiet, and then the breath seemed quite
gone out of her. I laid her on the turf
and fetched some cold water, and she
soon came to herself, and bade me say
nothing of it to the doctor; and she came
in again and told the doctor she should
come back in the evening and sit the
night with Peggy, for she would trust no
one else for the first night, for the doctor
said all depended on keeping her quiet;
and the last word she said, was to beg he
would not tell any of the family at Mr.
Lenox's that she was coming here, for
they, she said, fancied she was not well,
and would not permit it.” At this simple
explanation of the absence which
Caroline had placed in a suspicious light,
her father turned on her a look full of
meaning—she blushed deeply, but neither
spoke, and the aunt proceeded.

“All went on well to the third day,
and then Miss Ellen came with leave to
take off the bandage, and she asked
Peggy what she wished most in the world
to see. “Oh you, you, Miss Ellen,” she
said; and then the dear young lady stood
before her, and took off the bandage;
and then, bless you, ladies, her piercing
scream of joy when the light touched
her eye—oh!—I heard my father curse
poor Fanny—I saw her die in a strange
land; but never any thing went so deep
into my heart as that scream. I fell on
my knees, and heard nothing and saw
nothing, till I felt Peggy's arms round

my neck, and heard her say, `Oh aunt,
I see her—I see you.”'

Many more eloquent tales have produced
less sensation than the simple
story of this good aunt. Mrs. Westall
wiped the tears from her eyes—Caroline
put her handkerchief to hers—Mr. Redwood's
speaking face showed that other
and deeper feelings than compassion and
sympathy had been awakened; and
Charles, who had drawn the little girl
close to him, asked a hundred questions
in relation to Miss Bruce, and expressed
by his caresses his pleasure in her simple
expressions of gratitude and love.

The party now took a very kind leave
of Peggy and her aunt, and returned
home; all in rather a contemplative frame
of mind. Mr. Redwood once turned
abruptly to his daughter, and asked her
if she remembered the quotation he had
made to her, that the `simplest characters
sometimes baffle all the art of decipherers?'

“She remembered it,” she said, “but
she thought simple characters were not
worth deciphering.” After they reached
home, the ceremony of tea came in aid
of Caroline's efforts, and changed the
train of association, and seconded by
Mrs. Westall, she succeeded in exciting
a more lively tone of spirits in the party;
but fate seemed determined not to suspend
its persecutions, for after tea, when
she seemed quite to have forgotten the
incidents of the ride, and her gaiety had
arrived to its usual pitch, it was suddenly
checked by Miss Deborah, who came
into the parlour and informed Mr. Redwood
“that Billy Raymond, the lame
boy that supported his old mother by
fishing, had called to see if the stranger
gentleman would have the generosity to
pay him the damages for his fishingtackle,
that Miss Redwood had lost at
the time of her frolic in his canoe?”
This was the first time Mr. Redwood
had heard any hint of the canoe adventure,

and he inquired into the particulars.
Caroline carelessly detailed them,
and Mr. Redwood ascertaining from
Deborah the amount of the boy's loss,
gave her a sum for the applicant which
she deemed a most liberal compensation;
for shaking the silver in her hand, while
her eye glistened with an honest joy at
the good fortune of her protegé—

“Thank'e, thank'e, squire,” said she,
“this is profit, and no loss to Bill—the
lad is a worthy lad, and thank the Lord
his bread has not been cast on the waters
without coming to him again. It is
well, young folks,” she continued, turning
her eyes on Miss Redwood and
Westall, “it is well when the heart and
the purse of a gentleman fall in company
—here,” and she opened her hand and
surveyed the glittering coins, “here is
what will make a young heart leap with
joy—and an old one too, and that is not
so easy a matter—and after all, squire,
it is but a drop from your full bucket.

Oh, you rich ones might be god-like on
the earth if ye would.”

“And how, Miss Debby?” inquired
Mr. Redwood, pleased with her earnestness;
“if you will furnish me an easy
rule I may possibly adopt it.”

“Make the cause of the poor thine
own: the rule is not overly easy, squire,
as maybe you have found. It is a hard
tug to keep up with them scripter rules,
they are all a-head of us.”

“Miss Deborah's sagacity or experience,”
observed Westall to Mr. Redwood,
“has led her to one of the most
satisfactory proofs of the divine origin
of our religion.” Mr. Redwood averted
his eyes, knit his brow, and adjusted
the sling of his arm, while Caroline putting
up her fan to shelter herself from
her father's observation, whispered,
“Lord, Mr. Westall, do you not know
that papa is an infidel?”

“Your father?”

“Oh yes—it is indeed quite shocking,”

—how far the sudden gravity of Westall's
face would have prompted her to proceed
in her lamentations, is uncertain,
for her attention was called by her father,
who willing to divert the conversation
from the channel into which it had fallen,
asked her why she had never mentioned
the affair of the canoe to him?

“Oh, I quite forgot it, Sir,” she replied,
“in my pleasure at seeing Mrs. Westall”—
and her son, her eyes added, as she sent
a sparkling glance to Charles. Her reply
did not appear entirely to satisfy
Westall, even with the flattering appendage
to which her kind look had supplied;
after musing a moment he said,
“I hope Miss Redwood has not forgotten
her friend's presence of mind on
that occasion?”

“Miss Bruce's? — certainly not —
though it deprived me of the romance
of being rescued by you, Mr. Westall,
which you know would have been quite
an incident for a novel.”

“I don't know about incidents,” said
Debby, who was arrested as she was
leaving the room by the allusion to Ellen,
“but I think if any body had saved me
from the accident of being drowned or
ducked, I should not have left it to
other folks to tell of it.”

There was one unsuspected and most
unwilling auditor of this conversation—
Ellen Bruce. She had been indulging
herself with the refreshment of a short
walk, and was just re-entering the door,
and lingering to gaze on the dewy landscape
glittering in the moon-beams, when
her ear caught Charles Westall's inquiry
in relation to herself: she was awkwardly
situated, for she could not advance without
being observed, nor remain without
being an involuntary listener to a conversation
that seemed now to have turned
upon herself. While she was hesitating,
Mr. Redwood inquired of Debby “why
Miss Bruce latterly confined herself so
much to Mrs. Allen's room?”

“Why,” said Deborah, “the fact is,
that the old lady is broke to pieces with
her troubles, and the moment Ellen is
out of her sight she moans for her like a
child whimpering for its mother: we all
try to spell her, but none of us can do
any thing right but Ellen: it is past all
belief what she does for the old lady—it
is enough to wear out the strength of
Sampson. I talk to Mrs. Allen, but she
is quite past hearing to reason, though
there was never a nicer reasonabler woman
than she has been in her day.”

“It is quite surprising,” observed Caroline,
languidly to Mrs. Westall, “what
labours these New England women perform.”

“Surprising indeed,” echoed Mrs.
Westall, “but it's all in habit, my dear.”

“New-England women—habit!” exclaimed
Deborah; “I'll tell you what—
it is not being born here or there, it is
not habit; it is not strength of limb, but
here,” and she struck her hand against

her heart, “here is what gives Ellen
Bruce strength and patience.”

There was energy if not eloquence in
Deborah's manner, and Charles Westall,
who had listened to the conversation
from the beginning, with an interest that
had manifestly nettled Caroline, inquired
“what relation Mrs. Allen bore to Miss
Bruce?” “None,” replied Deborah,
and then seeming suddenly to recollect
that the fisherman was awaiting her, she
left the room.

“This is an uncommon devotion on
the part of Miss Bruce,” said Westall;
“but after what we have heard this afternoon
it cannot surprise us—there is something
singularly pure and lovely in her
whole expression and manner, in perfect
unison with her disinterested conduct.”

“She is indeed quite a genteel young
woman,” observed Mrs. Westall. “Pray,
Miss Redwood, how is she connected
with the Lenoxes?”

“Not at all as far as I can ascertain,”

replied Caroline. “She seems to be
quite as mysterious a personage as the
man in the iron mask. I have tried in
vain to find out whether she has, or ever
had, father or mother, brethren or sisters
—and I have finally come to the conclusion,
that she is, as you know, papa, old
Colonel Linston used to call such people,
of the Melchisedeck family.”

There was a harshness, a levity bordering
on impiety in Miss Redwood's
reply; it sent a sudden light in upon
Charles Westall's mind. He had been
amusing himself with drawing and undrawing
the strings of Caroline's reticule
—he threw it aside, not with that lover-like
manner that resembles so much the
profound reverence with which the
priest handles the consecrated vessels,
but very carelessly—and left the room.
In the passage he met Ellen, who on his
approach had darted forward in the hope
of avoiding him. It was impossible—
and it was apparent that she had overheard

the conversation—her face was
flushed and her manner troubled—her
eye met Westall's: a single glance intimated
the suffering of the one and the
indignant feeling of the other—their fine
spirits had been kindled by the same
spark—it was one of those moments
when the soul sends its bright illuminations
to the face, and does not need the
intervention of language. Ellen's first
impulse had been to pass to her own
apartment, but Westall's look had
changed the current of her feelings—
such is the power of sympathy. “Stay
one moment, Mr. Westall,” said she,
hastily entering Mr. Redwood's apartment,
while Westall paused at the
door.

Her appearance was electrifying—Caroline
rose from her seat, Mr. Redwood
exclaimed, “good heavens!” and Mrs.
Westall signed out, “what a pity!”

“Miss Redwood,” said Ellen, “I have
not come to excuse my listening, that

was involuntary, but as far as I am able,
to shield the memory of my mother from
your reckless insinuations.” The word
“mother,” seemed to choke her; a sudden
faintness came over her, and she
clung for support to the side of the easychair
on which Mr. Redwood was sitting:
after a moment's struggle with her feelings,
the blood that had retreated to her
heart flowed again to her cheeks, and she
went on:—

“Miss Redwood, it is true I am a solitary
being in this world, but I have not
sought to wrap myself in mystery; I
hoped the obscurity of my condition
would shelter me from observation and
curiosity—it has not—there may be
mystery in my brief story, but there is
no disgrace. My mother died while I
was still an infant. I only know that
my father survived her—and that he
was—her husband.” Here Ellen's voice
quite failed her, but after a moment's
pause she proceeded with tolerable composure.

“This was her last solemn
declaration. The proofs of her marriage
and other private documents are in my
hands, in a locked casket. It was my
mother's dying injunction that it should
not be opened till a period arrived,
which she named. I have guarded it,”
she added, clasping her hands and raising
her fine eyes, “as the Israelites guarded
the ark of the living God. The time is
now not far distant when I am at liberty
to examine its contents—to explore my
own history.”

“But, my God!” interrupted Mr.
Redwood, “Miss Bruce—Ellen—my
poor child—have you quietly complied
with so strange, so arbitrary a request?”

“I never heard any thing so unaccountable,
so ridiculous,” exclaimed Caroline.
“Nor I,” said Mrs. Westall;
“it is indeed inexplicable.”

Westall said nothing: his eyes were
rivetted with intense eagerness on Ellen,
who replied, “can it be inexplicable to

you, Mrs. Westall, who have a devoted
son, to you, Miss Redwood, who can
render a daily service to your parent, that
I should hold sacred and dear the only
act of filial duty that remains to me?”

“You are too scrupulous, Miss Bruce,”
said Mr. Redwood. “It cannot be your
duty to comply with so unreasonable, so
irrational a restriction: you may have a
parent living, to whom your filial piety
might be of some avail while you are
rendering this fanciful homage to her
who is insensible and unknowing as the
clods of the valley.”

“I do not believe it, Sir!” replied
Ellen with impetuosity. “My mother
seems always near to me; I hear her
voice, I feel her influence in every event
of my life; why she imposed this restriction
on me, I know not, but that it had
a sufficient cause I may trust to the tenderness
of a dying mother's heart.”

Charles Westall had listened with
breathless interest; he now advanced

involuntarily, and seizing Ellen's hand,
“admirable being!” he exclaimed, “your
enthusiasm cannot be taken from you—
persevere—and,” he added, in a softened
and tremulous voice, “God shield you
from the shafts of the careless, the cruel,
or the envious.”

Ellen certainly felt a glow of gratitude
and delight that there was one who perfectly
understood her: such sympathies
are well compared to the perfect accords
of fine instruments. She had hardly uttered
a fervent “thank you, Mr. Westall,”
before a sudden feeling of the awkwardness
of her conspicuous situation came
over her;—her natural timidity had been
controlled by stronger feelings, but now
yielding to it, she abruptly left the room
to seek the shelter of her own apartment.

Westall's last words to Ellen were still
ringing in Caroline's ears. “I trust,
Sir,” said she, addressing herself to him,
“that you did not mean to do me the

honour to class me among the `careless,
cruel, or envious?”'

“Oh no, my sweet Caroline,” exclaimed
Mrs. Westall, “how can you
ask such a question: he did not indeed
—you did not, my son—of course you
could not?”

Westall did not second his mother's
earnest defence; he merely said coldly,
“that he hoped Miss Redwood was not
conscious of deserving to be so classed.”

“Lord bless me!—no,” replied Caroline,
“I had not thought of hurting the
girl's feelings; who could have dreamed
that she was listening at the door? But
you know the old proverb, Mrs. Westall,
`listeners never hear any good of themselves.”'

“That is too often true, my love,”
replied Mrs. Westall.

“Mother!” exclaimed Charles Westall,
in a tone that savoured of reproach,
but had still more of grief than resentment
in it; and then unable to endure

any longer his mother's sycophancy, and
perhaps unwilling to expose his own
emotion, he left the room.

“Shame on you, Caroline!” said her
father.

“Now really,” interposed Mrs. Westall,
“I do not see that Caroline is at
all in fault: how could she divine that
Miss Bruce was within hearing?—indeed,
my dear Sir, it was mere pleasantry
on her part. It is a pity Miss Bruce,
who appears so amiable, should tell such
an incredible story; no one can believe
it, you know, unless it be Charles. It is
just like him to be taken with such romance;
it was my dear husband's greatest
fault; but I own, Caroline, I am
shocked at Charles's inadvertence; I am
sure it was unintentional.”

“It is quite indifferent to me, whether
it was or not,” replied Caroline, pouting,
and evidently far enough from the stoical
feeling she professed. Mrs. Westall
perceived that this was not a propitious

moment, and whispered to Caroline that
Charles should do penance by going
home at an hour so much earlier than
usual, she took her leave, and returned
to the village with her son. This was
the first time that their return had not
been animated by a conversation about
Miss Redwood. This evening her name
was not mentioned—neither spoke of
the scene at the cottage, nor of Ellen's
extraordinary disclosure. They mutually
understood that their feelings did
not harmonize, and both maintained
silence. When they parted for the night,
Charles kissed his mother, as was his
custom, tenderly; and as he closed the
door she heard him sigh deeply. She
regretted that she had pained him, but
she thought it a pity that he had such
peculiar feelings.