University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

As soon as the Westalls were gone,
Caroline rose to leave her father's room.
“Stop for one moment, my child,” said
he, “I hope that the experience of this
day and evening has taught you, if not
to be more generous in your judgments,
to be more careful in the expression of
them. I think you cannot fail to learn
this lesson from the story of the blind
child, which has furnished the solution
to those mysterious morning walks, and
that more mysterious night's absence
which perplexed you so much, while you
had nothing else to employ your thoughts
upon.”

“Yes, Sir, that riddle is read; but
Miss Bruce has been so good as to give
out another, which even you may be
puzzled to solve.”

“I shall not make the effort, Caroline.
I entreat you to atone by your attentions
to Miss Bruce for your unjust suspicions,
and for your rudeness this evening;
common justice requires that you
should do so; and besides, I can assure
you, it will not be an easy matter to efface
the impression that your unfortunate remarks
in relation to her have made on
Westall's mind.”

“I care not, Sir, whether they are
effaced or not,” replied Caroline, sullenly.

“Pursue your own way then, Miss
Redwood. I shall not attempt to guide
you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” replied the daughter
in a cool sarcastic tone which she
could sometimes assume; and then wishing
her father a good night, she retired

to her own apartment in a state of mind
resembling that of a petted child deprived
of its play-things.

She was surprised to find that Ellen,
who had of late been constantly with
Mrs. Allen, was already in her room.
Ellen, believing that Caroline was still
occupied with her guests, had taken her
precious casket from one of her drawers,
had placed it on the window-ledge, and
was sitting in a deep reverie with her
cheek leaning on it, when Caroline's
entrance startled and somewhat disconcerted
her.

We ought not perhaps to draw aside
the veil and disclose her secret meditations.
It is better to appeal to the experience
of other young ladies to determine
whether it is not probable that the
thoughts of Westall, and of the animated
interest he had expressed for her, had
not some part in her reverie, and whether
the pleasure he had awakened did not
more than counterbalance the pain Caroline

had inflicted. There was a newlyfallen
tear on the box which would not
perhaps justify such a conclusion, but
then her face was so bright and peaceful,
that a malignant spirit might have shrunk
in despair from the attempt to cast a
shadow over it. She rose at Caroline's
entrance to replace the box in the drawer.
“Ah,” said Caroline, “that is your precious
casket—is it, Miss Bruce? pray
allow me to look at it.” She took it
from Ellen's hand, and carelessly shaking
it, said, “it is quite light, there is
something rattles though—should it be
a miniature? Lord! I would open it,
perhaps the painting will be spoiled—I
should like of all things to know whether
it is a hoax—now do not look so like a
tragedy-queen—all I mean is that it may
have been a way your mother adopted
to save your feelings—after all, perhaps
it is nothing, it is not larger than one of
my jewel cases.”

“It contains all my jewels, Miss Redwood;

permit me to take it,” replied
Ellen, with some emotion; for she could
no longer endure to see that handled and
discussed with so much levity, which she
had never touched but with a sentiment
resembling religious awe.

While Ellen replaced the box in the
drawer, Caroline watched her, saying at
the same time, (for she was displeased at
Ellen's manner of resuming it) “I cannot
have the slightest curiosity about the
contents of your box, of course, Miss
Bruce; but if they were as important to
me as they are to you, I should not hesitate:
it is quite silly to suppose there
would be any harm in just taking a peep.”

“My mind is entirely at rest on the
subject,” replied Ellen. “There are
feelings, Miss Redwood, that can control
curiosity—even the most natural and
reasonable curiosity. I am sorry that
my poor concerns have been obtruded on
your notice, but since they have been,
the greatest favour you can do me now

is to forget them;” then bidding Caroline
good night, she returned to Mrs. Allen.

`Forget them,' Caroline could not;
the demon of curiosity had taken possession
of her mind. She had suffered
injurious thoughts of Ellen, till she had
come to consider her as an enemy, of
whom it was right to take any advantage.
Her self-importance had been mortified
by the deference paid to Ellen by the
Lenoxes; her self-love offended by her
father's excessive admiration. Caroline
had the passions of a strong character,
and the habits of a weak one. In her
idleness her thoughts had brooded over
Ellen's conduct, till she had magnified
the most trivial circumstances into a
ground of alarm or anxiety; but since
the arrival of Charles Westall she had
almost forgotten her, and quite forgotten
her silly fancy of the danger of what she
called a `sentimental affair' between
Ellen and her father. The events of the
day and evening had thrown a strong

light on her rival, and cast her quite into
the shade: this was enough to relume
the fires of envy in Caroline's bosom, if
they were not already kindled by the
interest Westall had manifested in Ellen.

A most convenient opportunity now
offered to gratify her curiosity, perhaps
to confirm her malicious conjectures. It
was possible that the key to one of her
trinket cases might open Ellen's box;
there could be no harm in trying just to
see if one would suit. She drew out the
drawer in which she had seen Ellen replace
her casket, and then paused for a
moment—but, `c'est le premier pas qui
coûte;” the first wrong step taken, or
resolved on, the next is easy and almost
certain. She carried the box to the
light, found a key that exactly fitted, and
then the gratification could not be resisted.

She opened the box—a miniature laid
on the top of it. Caroline started at the
first glance as if she had seen a spectre—

she took it out and examined it—a name
legibly written on the reverse of the
picture confirmed her first impressions.
She replaced it in the box—she would
have given worlds that she had never
seen it—but the bold, bad deed, was
done; and, `past who can recall, or done
undo?' After pacing the room for a
few moments in agitation of mind bordering
on distraction, she returned to the
examination of the box: there was in it
a letter directed `To my child.'—It was
unsealed, unless a tress of beautiful hair
which was bound around it might be
called a seal. There was also a certificate
of the marriage of Ellen's mother to
the original of the picture. Caroline's
first impulse was to destroy the records:
she went to the window, threw up the
sash, and prepared to give Ellen's treasure
to the disposition of the winds—but
as she unbound the lock of hair that she
might reduce the letter to fragments, it
curled around her hand, and awakened
a feeling of awe and superstition. She
paused; she was familiar with folly, but
not with crime; she had not virtue
enough to restore Ellen's right, nor hardihood
enough to annihilate the proof of
it: a feeble purpose of future restitution
dawned in her mind—the articles might
be safely retained in her own keeping—
future circumstances should decide their
destiny—her grandmother ought to see
them. This last consideration fixed her
wavering mind, and she proceeded to
make her arrangements with the caution
that conscious guilt already inspired.
She let fall the window-curtains, secured
herself from interruption by placing the
scissors over the latch of the door, and
then refolded the letter, and carefully
removed the miniature from its setting,
tore the name from the back of it, and
placed it with the hair, the letter, and
the certificate, in a box of her own, which
she securely deposited at the bottom of
one of her trunks. In order to avoid a
suspicion that might arise in Ellen's
mind, should she miss the sound of the
miniature, Caroline prudently restored
the setting to the box, and then locked
and replaced it in the drawer.

For a moment she felt a glow of
triumph, that the result of her investigation
had made her the mistress of
Ellen's destiny; but this was quickly
succeeded by a deep feeling of mortification,
a consciousness of injustice and
degradation, and a fearful apprehension
of the future;—even at this moment,
who would not rather have been the innocent
Ellen, spoiled of the object of
years, of patient waiting and intense expectation,
than the selfish, ruthless Caroline!—who
would not rather have been
the injured than the injurer!

Caroline endeavoured to compose herself
before she summoned her servant,
for she already shrunk from the eye of
an obsequious menial—so surely do fear
and shame follow guilt. When Lilly

came, in obedience to her call, and entering,
exclaimed, “the Lord pity us!
Miss Cary, you are as pale as a ghost,
and all in a tremble,—do let me speak to
Mistress Lenox.” Caroline replied, “no,
no, Lilly, I am only shivering with the
horrid air from the lake: mind your own
affairs and undress me, and do not leave
my bed-side till you see I am quite fast
asleep. These terrible cold damp evenings
at the north make one so wakeful
and restless!”

The succeeding morning Charles Westall
came as usual with his mother to Mr.
Lenox's. On their way Mrs. Westall,
assiduous to gratify her favourite, had
lingered to gather some wild honeysuckles
for her, saying at the same time
to her son, “that those beautiful and
fragrant flowers were emblematical of
Caroline.” Charles made no reply; but
he thought that though the beauty of the
flowers might be emblematical of Caroline,
their fragrance was a truer emblem

of that virtue which sends sweet incense
to heaven, and is to beauty what the perfume
is to the flower. As he proceeded
forward, at a sudden turn of the road he
caught a glimpse of Miss Redwood just
issuing from Mr. Lenox's court-yard.
He felt an invincible disinclination to
meet her alone, and seeing that he was
not perceived by her, he placed his hand
on the garden-fence and sprang over it,
and turning around some shrubbery, he
was no longer within the range of Miss
Redwood's observation. The spell of
her beauty was broken; the power of
the enchantress over him for ever lost by
the revelation which she had made of
her character in the conversation of the
preceding day. “Thank Heaven!” exclaimed
Westall, audibly, “I have awoke
before it is too late.”

“And what is that you thank Heaven
for, young man?” inquired Debby, who
was sitting under the shade of an apple
tree shelling some beans.

“Why, Miss Deborah,” replied Westall,
smiling at his own abstraction, “is
there not always enough of good received
or danger escaped to be thankful
for?”

“A plenty, young man—a plenty,
especially with you young folks, who
have not the clearest light to walk by,
and are too full of conceit to see by the
candle of older people's experience.
Pride and conceit are your ruin: I don't
mean yours in particular, Mr. Westall,”
Deborah continued, casting a side and
approving glance at his fine modest and
benignant countenance, “but the rising
generation in general—it is pride and
conceit that keep up such a will-worship,
as the great Bunyan would call it. There
is that Carliny girl, all nature could not
convince her that all God's creatures
wer'n't made for her sarvice and convenience.—The
girl is no fool neither,
nat'rally she is rather bright; the fault
is in her bringing up; that I own is a

master-puzzle to me how such a reasonable
smart man as squire Redwood—a
very pretty behaved man too, especially
when you consider that he has lived in a
slave country—how he could have good
materials worked up into such a poor
manufacture. It is quite a pleasure,”
continued Deborah, stimulated to proceed
as others might have been by so
patient a listener, “It is quite a pleasure
to meet such a man as the Squire, who
has travelled in the old countries, and
taken note of what he has seen; for he
a'n't like those travellers I have heard a
man liken to Jonah in the whale's belly,
who go a great ways and see nothing.
But, after all,” she continued, giving the
tin pan into which she was shelling her
beans, an energetic shake, “after all, I
don't know what good such stores of
knowledge do people, if they don't make
them of some sarvice in their conduct
and happiness. To my mind, Mr. Westall,
it is as if men were to gather all the
nourishing rains into great cisterns, and
there keep them, instead of letting them
fall upon the earth, to bring forth good
entertainment for man and horse, as the
tavern signs say. Now there is my sister
Lenox: she has not what are called
shining talents; but, Mr. Westall, she
has used all she has, in the true scriptur
way. Just cast your eye about this garden;—I
don't mean to praise myself,
though I take all the care of it, 'bating
the help I get from the boys, but poor
tools at such work—look round at the
long saace, the short saace, and the green
saace[1] ; they are all of my planting; and
as you may observe, there is not a spot
in the garden as big as your hat crown
that has not some good and useful thing
tucked into it, except it may be the
pinies and pinks and roses—and them are
good for sore eyes and other kinds of ailments,
besides being pretty notions for
the children;—well, this garden is a parfect
picture of Miss Lenox's management
of her family. Eleven children has she
brought up, that is, the most of them are
brought up, and the rest in a thriving
way—and an honour and a credit will
they be to her, and a blessing to the
world, when she has played her part out
above ground; and that time must come
to her, as to all,” continued Debby, passing
the back of her hand across her
eyes, “and it is a time she need not
shrink from,—for such a life is what you
may call a continual making-ready for it.
In my view, though it has never fallen
to my lot to be married and have children—but
that is neither here nor
there—in my view there can't be so
praiseful a monument to the memory of
a parent as a real good child. I never
mind this rhodomontade upon tomb-stones
any more than so much novel
writing; some of it may be true—the
poor creatures that's mouldering away
below, has lived and died, so much we
know is sartin; but for the most part it's
like one of the stories of that Gulliver
revived, that's so divarting to the boys.
Yes, a real virtuous child is a crown of
glory to the parent; and as I said before,
all the tomb-stones in the world, even
them peramids and obelisks, and things
cut out of brass, and made of a kind of
marble mason-work that squire Redwood
tells about in the old countries,
they a'n't to be mentioned with it.”

“It surprises me,” said Westall, who
was evidently greatly interested by the
honest and affectionate zeal with which
Deborah lauded her sister—“It surprises
me, Miss Deborah, that with such
very correct views of the happiness and
duties of parents, you should have chosen
a single life.”

Deborah's smile showed she was not
insensible to the compliment implied in

the word chosen; for like other maidens,
she preferred it should be understood
that she did not walk in the solitary
path of celibacy by compulsion. “Oh,
it was a whim of my own,” she replied,
“and there is no danger of such whims
being catching—sooner or later every
body slides off into the beaten road of
matrimony.”

“But it is a pity, Miss Deborah, that
you should have been governed by such
a whim.”

“Why I don't know, Mr. Westall—I
don't know. In the first place, there is
no danger in the example, for there's
nobody that will follow it of their own
good-will. I don't wish to speak my own
epitaph, 'logium, or whatever you call it,
but to my mind, a lone woman that no
one notices, no one praises, that is not
coaxed into goodness, that envies no one,
minds her own affairs, is contented and
happy—such a woman is a sight to behold!”

“And to admire—certainly. I agree
with you entirely, Miss Debby,” replied
Westall.

Deborah turned her eye upon Westall,
pleased with his cordial concurrence in
her own opinion, but his had been attracted
by a groupe that seemed to have
just taken their stations at the entrance
door, which we have before had occasion
to notice on the north side of Mr.
Lenox's house. “Oh, I see how it is,
young man,” she said, good naturedly,
“old women have no chance at ears or
eyes when young ones come in sight,
especially those so comely as she is.”

“I do not see Miss Redwood,” replied
Westall, his eyes still rivetted to the
spot.

“Bless your dear heart, no, but you
see one that is worth as many of her as
can stand 'twixt here and Carliny.”

“But it was beauty you spoke of, Miss
Debby; and with all your partiality, I
presume you do not pretend that Miss

Bruce has as much beauty as Miss Redwood?”

“Do not—but indeed I do though,
and I could prove it too, to the satisfaction
of any reasonable person.”

“Ah,” replied Westall, “that is a matter
of taste, that has not much to do with
proof or reason; but let me see, Miss
Debby, how you make out your case.
I will be the champion of Miss Redwood's
beauty, and sure no knight ever
had a fairer cause for his chivalry. What
do you say to that incomparable hair,
black and glossy as a raven's plumage,
turning into rich curls whenever
it escapes from the classic braids that
confine it?”

“Oh, you talk too high grammar for
me, Mr. Westall. Well, I never before
heard there was any beauty in black
hair; why mine was as black as hers before
it turned gray, and I never heard
a word said about the beauty of it. Now
tell me, Mr. Westall, on your conscience,

if you can think that black hair plaited,
and twisted, and fussified, to be compared
with Ellen's beautiful brown hair?
why, man, I don't believe you ever saw
it when she was combing it.”

“No, I certainly never had that privilege.”

“Well,” proceeded Debby, in her
earnestness, not heeding the smile that
hovered on Westall's lip, “I can tell you
it reaches almost to the tops of her shoes;
and then, when she doubles it into them
rich folds, and fastens it with her comb,
and parts it from the front in a kind of a
wave—did you ever see any thing that
had a cleaner, prettier look? and so
bright and polished as if the sun was
shining into it.”

“I yield the point of the hair, Miss
Debby; but what do you say to Miss
Redwood's high marble brow?”

“Proud, proud, Sir, and as cold as
marble. Now Ellen's is just what a
woman's should be, modest and meek.

I am not gifted at description; but if
you ever saw that picture of the Virgin
Mary that our George sent home to his
mother, (and between you and I, I
always thought it was because it was such
a likeness of Ellen that he sent it) you
will know what I mean: look at the
forehead, the temple, the mouth, the
eyes—yes, most especially the eyes, and
you will say, `this is an immortal creatur'—you
need not smile, Mr. Westall:
what I mean is, that that face has been
lit up by a spark from heaven, as the
hymn-book says, `a vital spark of heavenly
flame,' and a spark that will never die.
Now I should like to know if you get
any such idea from Miss Redwood's flesh
and blood?”

“Oh, Miss Debby, I confess myself
vanquished: I give up the face, but you
will certainly have the candour to allow
that Miss Redwood has the finest figure;
so tall and graceful—she moves like
Juno.”

“That I won't deny. She is just like
one of them heathen idols: every motion,
sitting or rising, walking or standing,
seems to say, look at me! worship me!—
but Ellen!—she is behind a cloud just
now; but if you had seen her as I have
seen her, every step as light and springy
as a fawn's, and now, if you take notice,
her motions are all free like a child's, she
never seems to think any one is looking
at her. I never read any to speak of, in
poetry, and novel books, and such things,
so I can't compare Miss Redwood to any
of the gentry you find there, but she
always brings to my mind the daughters
of Zion spoken of by the Prophet Isaiah,
in his third chapter, 16th verse and on;
while Ellen is like those Christian women
the apostle commends, whose adorning
is not outwardly, but that of a meek and
quiet spirit: there is just the difference
between the two girls that there is between
the pomp and show and to-do of
the old Jewish worship, and of that of

our times, which is, (that is, ought to be)
in spirit and in truth.”

“Oh, you are blind, Miss Debby,”
replied Westall, laughing, “there is no
use in contesting the point with you, but
I will go and see if I can discover any of
these surprising charms;” so saying, he
walked towards the house, while Deborah
following him with her eyes, could
not help wondering that a young man
who seemed to her not to want sense or
discernment should not, after all, know
darkness from light.

There had been showers during the
night which had changed the air from
extreme sultriness to a delicious purity
and coolness. Even old Mrs. Allen's
frame seemed newly braced by the sweet
freshening breezes that came over the
lake. Ellen had persuaded her to have
her easy chair drawn to the door, in the
hope that she would be cheered by the
bright scene before her. After adjusting
her pillows, placing a footstool at

her feet, and putting her snuff-box and
handkerchief into her lap, “Oh,” said
she, “Mrs. Allen, is it not a glorious
morning? Look at the mountains beyond
the lake, how bright and distinct
they look.”

“My eyes are dim, child—I cannot
see them.”

“Now,” said Ellen, placing the old
lady's spectacles over her eyes, “now
you can see: oh, only look where the
mist still rests between the mountains,
and looks like a flood of melted silver;
and there where it is rising up the side
of the mountain—so bright, one might
fancy it enrobed spirits of the air—and
above, what a silvery curtain it hangs
over that highest point—and there it has
risen, and is melting away on the pure
blue of the sky: the lake too is alive
with the spirit of the morning, and the
merry waves as they come dancing on
before the breeze, seem to laugh as they
break on the shore.” Ellen was an

enthusiast in her susceptibility to the
influence of natural beauty; the bright
scene before her had kindled a rapturous
sensation which might excuse one moment
of forgetfulness that her old friend's
senses were dull and cold; that the
chords were broken, over which the glad
voice of nature might breathe, discoursing
sweet music. “Here, Ellen,” said
she, languidly, “put away these spectacles—the
days have come that I have
no pleasure in them: there is a heavy
weight on my heart, child, and it will
not bound at such sights.”

“But, dear Mrs. Allen, throw aside
the weight for a little while,” said Ellen,
while she playfully held the spectacles
over the old lady's eyes, “you must
enjoy this morning—all nature rejoices
—the birds fill the sweet air with their
music; and see those insects, what myriads
of them are whirling in a giddy
circle.”

“And look, aunt Allen,” said little

Lucy Lenox, who had just joined them,
“look at the hay-makers, how busy and
happy they are!”

“But, Eddy is not among them,”
replied the old lady, giving way to a
childish burst of tears. “Where shall I
look for my children, Ellen?”

“Oh, Mrs. Allen, all this beauty is
but a shadow of that brighter sphere to
which Edward is gone.”

“But, my little Emily, that lost one!”

“The lost one may be yet found,
dear Mrs. Allen, it is not right for you
to despair.”

“Your ministry is a kind one, my
young friend,” said Mr. Redwood, advancing
from his room where he had been
listening to Ellen; “but vain I am afraid.
The sick cannot swallow the food of the
healthy; Mrs. Allen and I have travelled
so far on this wearisome journey of
life that we have exhausted the resources
of youth.”

“Mrs. Allen either did not hear or

heed Mr. Redwood. “Lucy,” she said,
“get your Testament and read me a few
chapters; that is all the comfort left to
me.”

“There are then,” said Ellen, looking
timidly at Mr. Redwood, “some resources
that cannot be exhausted.”

“Happy are those who think so,” replied
Mr. Redwood, with an equivocal
smile, which indicated that his respect
for Ellen alone prevented him from saying,
`that such a nostrum might do for
an old woman, but had no efficacy for
more enlightened subjects.'

Lucy brought her Testament, and seating
herself on Mrs. Allen's footstool,
began her reading.

“Lucy,” said Ellen to Mr. Redwood,
“is quite a rustic, like the rest of us—
unlearned in the forms of courtesy.”

“I should be sorry, Miss Bruce, that
you should deem me such a bigot to the
usages of the world, as to require that an
essential kindness should be deferred to

the forms of politeness. No, so far
from it, that if Miss Lucy will permit me,
I will be one of her auditors.” So saying,
he seated himself, and Ellen, having
brought her portfolio from an adjoining
room, placed herself on a bench under
the elm tree which grew a few yards from
the door-step. She was just finishing a
sketch of the view from Mr. Lenox's
house, which she had promised to George
Lenox. Lucy proceeded with her reading,
and Mr. Redwood listened with
apparent interest, which might be accounted
for by the novelty of the book
to him; for, `en philosophe,' he had
judged and condemned without examining
the only record that pretends to any
credible authority to teach us our duties
and our destiny.

The lecture would have been long,
and might have been profitable, but it
was interrupted by the approach of Mrs.
Westall and Miss Redwood; they had
been joined by Mr. Lenox, and Charles

Westall, who was just issuing from the
garden gate as the ladies entered the
yard. “I did not know that this was an
accomplishment of yours, Miss Bruce,”
said Westall, advancing to her, and casting
his eye over her drawing, which was
too faithful a copy of the scene before
them to be mistaken.

“My knowledge of the art does not
merit so dignified a name, Mr. Westall;
slight as it is, however, it is a great gratification
when it gives me the opportunity
of gratifying an absent friend.”

“And do you limit your benevolence
to the absent, or will you permit me to
examine the contents of your port-folio?”

“Certainly,” said Ellen, “although
it will hardly reward you for the trouble.”
Ellen was unostentatious, and at the same
time free from that false modesty which
has its source in pride. She would have
shrunk from any thing approaching to
an exhibition of any of her talents, but
she did not either from vanity or false

humility imagine that there was in the
efforts of her skill in drawing anything
either to do her honour or discredit.

Westall seemed in a most provokingly
admiring humour. Not a graceful line,
a happy light, or fortunate shadow
escaped his observation. He called his
mother and Miss Redwood, to point out
to them a thousand beauties. Caroline's
colour, brilliant from exercise, was certainly
heightened as she approached
Ellen. She looked over the drawings
languidly, and said, “they were pretty
sketches for any one who fancied landscapes.”
Her mind was evidently intent
on something beside the drawings, for
her eye wandered from her father to
Ellen for a few moments, when she seated
herself with an expression of sullenness
and abstraction that recalled the transactions
of the preceding evening to all
that had witnessed them: an awkwardness
came over the whole party. Ellen
busied herself with arranging and replacing

her drawings; the operation did not
seem to be accelerated by Westall's
efforts to aid her.

Mr. Redwood gazed on the two girls
with feelings sufficiently mortifying to
his paternal pride; he had abused the
noblest feelings of his nature, but not
extinguished them; his aspirations went
beyond the mean gratification of his
vanity, which might have been derived
from the rare beauty of his daughter.
The classic elegance of her figure, the
brilliancy of her complexion (the more
striking for its singularity in our southern
country) the symmetry of her features,
and that perfect control of her graceful
movements which pride and fashionable
success had given to her, invested her
with a right to the infallible decision of
the beau-monde, which had already pronounced
her an unrivalled beauty. `Ah,'
thought her father, as he explored her
face in vain for some expression that
might consecrate so fair a temple, and

sighed at the pride, discontent, and scorn
which he met there, `ah, my child, you
look like a fit idol for a pagan worship;
men would deify you, but you are all
earthly. This Ellen Bruce,' thought he,
as he turned his eye towards her, `has
such a look of spirituality, so bright, and
so tranquil too, that if there is a heaven
she is surely destined to it.' Ellen had
in truth a face of the beatitudes. `My
child,' thought Mr. Redwood, as he
pursued his melancholy reflections, `has
no right to such an expression. Ellen's
is “full of notable morality which it doth
delightfully teach,” and might almost
inspire.'

Mr. Redwood was roused from his reverie
by Lenox, who observing that his
guest looked unusually grave, said, “why
how now, Squire Redwood, can't all
these women folks keep you in heart—or
maybe you are heart-whole, but it is the
arm pains you?”

“No,” replied Mr. Redwood, “the

arm is doing well enough, and will I hope
soon be at the service of any of the ladies;
but it is not their province, Sir, to keep
the heart whole.”

“I don't know as to that,” replied
Lenox: “it is true wife gave mine
something of a jerk when I was young;
but I am one of the contented sort, Sir,
and contentment, as likely you may have
observed, is an article that is not to be
bought.”

“I believe not, friend Lenox, for if
all men were of my mind, they would be
all buyers and no sellers.”

“Well, that is honest, Squire, I like
that. If it was to be bought, I'm thinking
you could make the purchase, if any
body, for I judge you to be something
of a nabob. What may be your yearly
income, Squire?”

Mr. Redwood was not prepared for so
direct an investigation of his pecuniary
affairs, he replied, “indeed, Sir, I do not
know.”

“Don't know!” exclaimed Lenox,
quite unsuspicious of the impropriety of
his inquiry—“that's surprising—I took
the Squire for one of those smart knowing
people that understands all about
their own affairs. It must take,” he
continued, surveying Caroline, “a pretty
considerable handsome sum to furnish
your daughter with all the fine clothes I
see her wear. I dare say that her gewgaws
(no offence, Miss Caroline, I only
mean the flourishes) and your coach, and
such kind of nick-nacks, cost you as
much as it does a plain man like me to
support my whole family, and bring them
up in what may be called an honourable
manner.”

“It is very possible,” replied Mr.
Redwood.

“Well,” pursued the indefatigable
man, “this is a free country, and every
man has a right to do what he will with
his own; if you are a mind to dress Miss
Caroline in diamonds and gold beads, it

is none of my affair. You never had any
other child, I believe, Sir?”

“No, Sir.”

“That is a pity—such a fortune as you
have to give makes a girl a sort of a prey
to all the hungry hunters after money;
but may be you calculate to divide some
of your property with your other relations?”

“I have made no calculations on the
subject, Sir.”

“I wonder you have never married
again, Mr. Redwood; I conclude you
was never married but once?”

“You have a right to your own conclusions,
Sir,” replied Mr. Redwood, so
sternly, that Ellen involuntarily looked
towards him. His eye met hers, and he
was mortified that he should have betrayed
his vexation, and he became still
more disconcerted when Ellen said playfully,
“oh Mr. Lenox, do not expect
Mr. Redwood to tell all the secrets of
his life before `the women folks.”'

“Secrets of my life!” echoed Mr.
Redwood, but in a smothered voice,
while Caroline, who had been listening
intently to the close of the conversation,
sprang on her feet, and grasping Ellen's
arm, exclaimed, looking on her as if she
would have pierced her soul with the inquiry,
“Ellen Bruce! what do you
mean?”

The movement had been involuntary.
Caroline, unused to control her slightest
emotions, could not resist the mastery of
a strong passion. Ellen turned on her a
look of such surprise and innocence, that
she sunk back alarmed at her own precipitancy.
Every eye was now fixed on
her, as if to demand an explanation;
while Mr. Redwood, whose mottled cheek
and contracted brow betrayed strong
emotion, was the first to recover his selfpossession;
and when Caroline, hiding
her face with her handkerchief, said,
“excuse me, Miss Bruce, I am not well
this morning,” her father said, sternly,

“your extraordinary conduct needs that
apology, Caroline—oblige me with a few
minutes in my room.”

The request had too much the tone of
a command to be disregarded; and Caroline
(glad too to escape observation)
followed her father. Mr. Redwood before
entering his room turned to Mr. Lenox,
and with the air of courtesy that always
distinguished him, said, “my good friend
Lenox, you must forgive my rudeness.
We southern people are a little shy, and
do not understand this game of question
and answer as well as you frank
northerners.”

“Oh, no offence, Sir, none in the
world,” said the good-natured Lenox,
“it is a free country, Sir, that we live in,
and every man has a right to his own notions,
be they ever so notional; that is
my doctrine.”

“And a very liberal one, Sir,” replied
Mr. Redwood, slightly bowing, and smiling
as he closed the door after him.

“Well, well,” said Lenox, “women
are strange cattle. Why what ailed the
girl, Ellen: is she hystericky? or may
be,” he added, lowering his voice, and
chuckling with the pride of a discoverer,
“may be she is afraid you'll get away her
sweetheart, Ellen, ha? have I guessed
it?” It was now poor Ellen's turn to
blush: she recollected suddenly that
Mrs. Allen had been sitting in the air too
long, and begged Mr. Lenox to assist
her to her room, whither she followed,
leaving Mrs. Westall and her son to their
own musings.

Charles Westall returned to the examination
of the drawings which Ellen,
in the haste of her attention to Mrs.
Allen, had forgotten.

Little Lucy stood by his side; “there,”
said he, to the child, “do you know that
Miss Bruce has put you into the picture,
just as you sat reading to your aunt?”

“Oh, has she! George will be glad to
see me there?”

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

“My brother; don't you know George?”

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

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

“Does he?” exclaimed Westall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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