 | CHAPTER XII. Redwood |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
What much has changed my sceptic creed.”
Marmion.
Mr. Redwood, as has been said, retreated
to his room; and Caroline, with
the appearance at least of passive obedience,
followed him. A few moments'
reflection restored to her her self-confidence.
She now for the first time in her
life felt the operation of powerful motives,
and the strength of her own passions.
She was destitute of natural sensitiveness,
and emboldened by the hardy
resolution that had never experienced
trial nor defeat. Determined to repair
the faults of her sudden gust of passion
by a wariness that should baffle her father's
penetration, she folded her arms, and
awaiting her father's pleasure—while he
walked the room in extreme, and as his
varying colour indicated, uncontrolable
agitation. He complained of his arm —
it was excessively painful; “then, Sir,”
said his daughter, with the most perfect
nonchalance, “the attendance of the
physician would be more appropriate
than mine.”
“No!” replied Mr. Redwood, in a
thrilling tone; “no—there is no physician
that can heal my wounds. Oh
Caroline!” he continued, suddenly
taking her hand, “you are my child, my
only child”—he was choked by his emotion,
and unable to proceed; he again
turned from her, while she with a coolness
which bordered on insult, replied,
“yes, Sir, so I flattered myself; but you
announce it as if it were a discovery.”
Mr. Redwood sunk into a chair, his
face betrayed the strong mental conflict
he was suffering. The emotion his
and remarks, to which, as he thought his
conscience could alone give significance,
had led him to suppose that she had in
some way possessed herself of his early
history, and he had suddenly resolved
to obtain from her all she knew, and to
disclose to her all of which she was ignorant.
Her manner had checked—
congealed the current of his feelings;
his habitual reserve, which in this moment
of excitement a kind tone, a single
expression of gentleness, of affectionate
sympathy, would have dissipated for
ever, resumed its power over him. He
sat silent and abstracted until Caroline
said, “as you seem to have no farther
occasion for me, Sir, I will go to my own
apartment.”
“No, stay, Caroline—you must first
explain to me your singular conduct to
Miss Bruce.”
Miss Redwood said there was nothing
to explain — she meant nothing — she
must give a reason for every movement
—her manner might have been a little
hurried—she was not very well—she was
fatigued with her walk—teased to death
with old Lenox's impertinence, and disgusted
with Miss Bruce.
“But why disgusted, Caroline? It
seems to me nothing could be more proper
than the gentle check Miss Bruce
gave to Lenox; nothing more innocent
and unmeaning than what she said.”
“You certainly, Sir, are the most competent
judge of her meaning—if you
were not offended it was quite unnecessary
that I should be provoked.”
“Caroline? what would you say, what
would you insinuate?”
“Nothing in the world, Sir,” she answered,
and added with a bitter smile,
“nothing but what you may choose to
understand. I am not accustomed,” she
continued, undisturbedly enduring her
father's piercing gaze, “I am not accustomed
to my expressions. Miss Bruce
may walk in mystery, and talk enigmas
with impunity, while my poor simple
phrases are received like the dark sayings
of a sybil.”
Mr. Redwood's suspicions were again
averted by his daughter's skill and daring
in parrying his question. After a few
moments' consideration, he wondered
they had been excited, and believed that
she had accidentally touched the secret
spring which he alone commanded. He
said something of the excitability of his
feelings in his present weak state, and
did not permit Caroline to leave him
without exhorting her to be more careful
and conciliating in her manners for
the little time they should remain at
Eton. He again departed from the strict
reserve he had imposed upon himself,
and hinted how much he should be
pained by Caroline's losing the esteem
of Westall, and even how much he
returning the young man's affections.
She replied, “that to secure Mr. Westall's
affections she had no reason to believe
would be a difficult enterprise—as
to her own, she was in no haste to dispose
of them.”
Her father commended her reserve,
said he had no wish to control her choice
of a husband, and perhaps no right to
expect her confidence.
“Our intercourse, Sir,” she said, rising
to leave the room, “has not been particularly
confidential.”
“Strange girl!” exclaimed her father,
as she closed the door after her; “what
has so suddenly invested you with the
power to torture me?”
Mr. Redwood began now to talk of
recommencing his journey, which Dr.
Bristol assured him he might do after a
few days without any hazard. As the
time approached for his departure, he
felt a growing reluctance to leave the
such genuine kindness, and whose simple
and tranquil pleasures had in some
degree restored a healthful tone to his
mind. From day to day he delayed
fixing the time of their departure, for
which both Mrs. Westall and Caroline
had become excessively impatient. The
blessing, whatever it may be, of `those
that wait,' seemed to have descended
upon Charles Westall. He was, as he
insisted it became him to be, since he
was in attendance on his superior, a monument
of patience. It is possible that
his virtue was in part owing to his being
indulged almost constantly with Miss
Bruce's society. Mrs. Allen, as Deborah
had suggested, had become quite
childish; and of late she had taken a
whim to sit constantly in the parlour,
where the company was in the habit of
assembling. She took no part in the
conversation which she probably did not
understand, but (as we have sometimes
the variety of tones and objects
appeared to afford her a kind of excitement
and relief.
Caroline was evidently annoyed by
this new arrangement, but she had tact
enough to conceal how hard it was for
her to submit to it, and to deport herself
with such decent decorum and medium
civility, as in general to avert observation,
and most effectually to conceal her
secret sentiments.
Mrs. Westall, who was really amiable
when not perverted by a bad influence,
was sometimes won by the sweetness of
Ellen's manners to forget the superior
attractions of Miss Redwood; and Ellen,
happy in her own integrity, and unconscious
of design, was frank, natural, and
often spirited: so much so, that Westall
thought that if she had not all the pensive
and serious beauty which Deborah had
attributed to her, she possessed a variety
and animation that were more in harmony
with the inconsequence of a feeling
and generous nature, he abandoned himself
without a calculation for the future
to present influences. If the ladies
walked, and the mother flattered herself
that by her skilful disposition she had
secured Charles's attendance to Caroline,
he was sure to revert to Ellen's side in
some direct way, that distanced manoeuvring—if
he read aloud, at every fine
passage his eye appealed to Ellen —
in every conversation they expressed
almost simultaneously the same sentiment.
On one occasion their sympathy was
elicited in a way that excited some
apprehension in the observers as to
its dangerous tendency. Caroline had
arranged a Turkish turban on Mrs.
Westall's head, which she pronounced
to be surprisingly becoming.
“See, papa,” she said, “does not Mrs.
this turban?”
“The turban does you infinite credit
certainly, Caroline,” replied her father,
“but I cannot pay it a compliment which
would imply that any disposition of her
dress could make Mrs. Westall look
twenty years younger.”
“Ah my dear Caroline,” interposed
Mrs. Westall, “you know not how far
you tax your father's sincerity; he knew
me twenty years ago—and he perceives
that (as Miss Debby insists, you know)
`every year has made its mark.' Time
makes sad havoc in twenty years,” she
continued addressing herself to Mr.
Redwood; “I think it is little more than
that since my beautiful friend, Mary
Erwine, was staying with me, and you
were almost constantly at our house—
bless me, Caroline, you have run that
pin half way into my head.”
Caroline `begged pardon—said she
would go and meet Mr. Westall, who she
saw coming up from the lake, and bespeak
his suffrage for her taste.'
The mention of Mary Erwine appeared
to have revived the past in Mrs.
Westall's memory. “Pray, Mr. Redwood,”
she asked, “did you ever see
Mary after she went to live with the
Emlyns?”
“Yes—repeatedly.”
There was something startling in the
tone of Mr. Redwood's voice, for Ellen,
who was sitting beside Mrs. Allen at one
extremity of the room, let fall a book
which she was intently perusing, and
looked involuntarily at him: and Mrs.
Westall said with a smile, “you remind
me of one of my dear Edmund's sentimental
fancies—he thought you were in
love with Mary.” Mr. Redwood made
no reply, and she continued—“I knew
you would not think of her of course;
poor Mary—she was a sweet creature—
perfect beauty. She left Virginia I think
soon after you embarked for Europe:
indeed it was not long after that she
died. I never could endure to think of
her melancholy fate—so beautiful and so
young—not seventeen when she died.”
“Miss Bruce,” interrupted Mr. Redwood,
“may I trouble you for a glass of
water?” Ellen brought one from an adjoining
room.
“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Westall,
“it never struck me before, but I really
fancy Miss Bruce resembles Mary; did
it ever occur to you?”
“Yes, madam, I perceived it, I was
struck with it the first time I saw Miss
Bruce.”
Mr. Redwood spoke quick and with a
tremulous voice, he knew that he had
betrayed emotion, and anxious to put a
stop to the conversation, he turned suddenly
to Ellen, and asked her what book
she was reading.
“The Absentee.”
“The Absentee—a tale of Miss Edgeworth's,
I believe; will you do me the
favour to read aloud?”
“Certainly; but I am near the conclusion
of the book.”
“That is of no consequence; the story
is, in my view, always a subordinate part,
and the sense and spirit of Miss Edgeworth's
dialogue, open her books where
you will, is sure to instruct and entertain
you.”
“Well, Sir, then I will begin where I
am, just at the adjustment of an account
with a Mr. Solo, `no vulgar tradesman.”'
Ellen read aloud, but she had not read
far when Caroline entered with Charles
Westall; and she laid aside her book
while the turban was discussed. Westall
pronounced it to be beautiful, declared
it could not have been in better taste if
his mother had had the graces for her
Coîffeurs.”
“But, Miss Bruce,” he said, addressing
Ellen, “I entreat that we may not interrupt
your reading.”
“No, Miss Ellen,” said Mr. Redwood,
“they must not—I as an invalid have a
right to be humoured—I beg you will
proceed.”
Ellen resumed the book, and read with
feeling and expression the ever-memorable
scene of Colambre's declaration to
Grace Nugent, till she came to the passage
where Colambre says, there is an
`invincible obstacle' to their union. Her
voice faltered; but she would have had
enough self-command to proceed, had
not Mr. Redwood inquired, “what obstacle
could be invincible where a creature
so artless, so frank, so charming,
was in question?”
“A sufficient obstacle, papa,” interposed
Caroline; “Lord Colambre believed
that Miss Nugent's mother was
not `sans reproche.”'
“That may be a sufficient obstruction
“but in real life, with a man of
sense and feeling, a man deeply in love,
too, I fancy it would not be a very serious
objection. What say you, Charles,
you are a young man of the class I have
named?”
Mr. Redwood looked to Westall for a
reply; he perceived his question had
disconcerted him—he looked at Ellen,
her face was crimson—the application
that had been made of the fictitious incident
instantly flashed across his mind.
“I perceive,” he added, with his usual
adroitness, “that I have proposed a nice
question in ethics. I am no casuist, and
was not aware that it admitted a doubt.”
“Nor does it,” said Westall, recovering
himself completely. “I know not how
it may be in the artificial ethics of the
world, but it seems to me to be the decision
of natural justice that the fault of
one person cannot be transferred to another—that
it cannot be right to make an
parent.”
Ellen took a long breath, and oppressed
with the consciousness of feelings which
she feared to expose, she experienced the
greatest relief from an opportunity that
was afforded her to escape from the
apartment, without attracting observation
to herself, by Deborah's appearance
at the door with a letter in her hand, and
a summons to Mrs. Lenox.
Mrs. Westall and Caroline fell into a
conversation which, though conducted in
a whisper, appeared to be very interesting
to themselves. Westall took up the
book Ellen had laid down: his eyes
seemed spell-bound to the page she had
been reading, for Mr. Redwood (whose
vigilance was now thoroughly awakened,)
observed that he did not turn the leaf;
and Mr. Redwood had himself an ample
fund for meditation in the possibility
that had now for the first time occurred
to him that Ellen, the undesigning artless
project.
In the evening, after Mrs. Westall and
her son had returned to the village, and
Miss Redwood had retired to her apartment,
Mr. Redwood was still sitting in
the parlour, reading some newspapers
which had been received by the day's
mail, when Ellen entered, and after apologising
for interrupting him, said, “that
she had just determined on leaving Eton
in the morning, and she was not willing
to go without expressing her gratitude
to Mr. Redwood for the kind attentions
he had bestowed on her.”
Mr. Redwood, after expressing his
surprise and regret, inquired the cause of
this sudden arrangement, and Ellen stated
to him that Mrs. Allen had just received
a letter from Emily, in which,
without expressly allowing that she was
unhappy, she betrayed discontent—It
professed to be written merely to inform
her grandmother that `she was
the same blessing;' she said `it was
a big cross she had taken up; that all that
called themselves shakers, were not
shakers indeed; that wherever there were
true disciples, there was also a Judas;
that she had many thoughts of her grandmother,
and sometimes it was so much in
her heart to go home to her, that she
believed that she had a call to leave
“the people;” but that her elder sister,
who was gifted to interpret, told her such
thoughts were temptation.' The conclusion
of the letter, Ellen said, was evidently
drenched with the poor girl's
tears. She had written one sentence
repeatedly, and as often crossed it out;
they had been able, after many vain attempts,
to decipher it; it ran thus:—
“I send my kind remembrance, as in
duty bound, to James Lenox, for all his
goodness to my natural brother, and to
me in times past: tell James also, that if
he knew what trouble some people have,
pity them from his heart.”
“This, Sir,” continued Ellen, “is to
you an unmeaning jargon; but we, from
our knowledge of poor Emily, infer from
it that she is tired of her unnatural seclusion;
that her early attachment to
James has revived, in spite of her dutiful
efforts to extinguish it; and we have
fears that she is suffering persecution in
some way which she dare not communicate.
The letter must have been written
and conveyed away secretly, as it was
post-marked `Albany;' and the experienced
ones would never have permitted
such a document to issue from their
retreat.”'
“And why,” asked Mr. Redwood,
“should this letter occasion your departure?”
“It has been determined in a family
conference,” replied Ellen, “that an
effort shall be made to rescue Emily.
James, who in truth has long loved her,
avows his attachment, but is afraid of
appearing in the enterprise, lest Emily
should be persuaded by her spiritual
guides that he is an emissary from the
arch enemy. Deborah, who looks upon
herself as a natural protector of the weak
and oppressed, has volunteered a crusade
to the shakers, provided I will accompany
her. She has an extraordinary
confidence in my influence with Emily—
and with Susan too, the `elder sister.”'
Mr. Redwood inquired `if it were
possible that she would undertake such
an enterprise with no protector but Deborah?'
Ellen assured him `that nothing was
more common or safe, than for females
to travel from one extremity of New-England
to the other, without any other
safeguard than the virtue and civility of
the inhabitants; that where there was
no danger there was no need of protection,
and that for her own part she should
arm as sufficient a defence for these modern
times, as a gallant knight or baron
bold would have been in the days of
danger and of chivalry.'
Mr. Redwood ventured to hint, that
although Miss Debby might be a sturdy
protector, she certainly was a ludicrous
chaperone for a young lady.
Ellen frankly confessed that she felt a
little squeamishness on that account:
“but, Sir,” said she, “I never could
forgive myself, if I permitted a foolish
scruple of that kind to prevent me from
rendering an essential service to the
Allens. I owe them a vast debt, and I
have small means to pay it.”
Mr. Redwood commended her motive,
and half an hour after was perhaps glad
that it controlled her, but at this moment
his reluctance to part with her overcame
his apprehension that she might possibly
interfere with the accomplishment of his
favourite project—he earnestly urged
reasons for their going at once
which she could not oppose.
“Then, my dear Miss Bruce, if I
must part with you, allow me to say that
I feel an interest almost paternal in the
issue of your hopes—not the generous
hopes you are indulging for this little
shaker girl, but those which relate to the
development of your own history. Oh
Ellen!” he continued with emotion, and
fixing his melancholy eye steadfastly on
her, “you little dream of the supernatural
power your face possesses over my
feelings—my memory: there are thoughts
that quite unman me;” he clasped his
hands and was silent, while Ellen awaited
in amazement and trembling expectation
what he should next say: but after a
moment's pause, he resumed his composure
and proceeded in his ordinary tone.
“Your society, Ellen, has been a cordial
to my weary spirit. I have worn out the
world; but here in this still place, amid
of contentment dwells, here,” he added,
taking Ellen's hand, “where I have seen
that it is possible to forego the display of
talent and the gratification of taste, to
practise the obscure virtues which are
the peculiar boast of your religion—the
virtues silent and secret, that neither ask
nor expect earthly notice or reward—
here I have felt a new influence—I have
seemed to breathe a purer, a heavenly
air—and I have sometimes hoped”—
“What, Sir, what?” exclaimed Ellen,
eagerly.
“That you would make a convert of
me, my sweet friend.”
“Would to heaven!” said Ellen.
“Nay,” replied Mr. Redwood, mournfully
shaking his head, “I believe it is
too late. It is a beautiful illusion; but
I have outlived all illusions, Ellen: the
man cannot return to the leading-strings
of infancy—he cannot unlearn his philosophy—he
cannot forget his experience.”
“But he can examine if his philosophy
be the true one—Oh, Mr. Redwood”—
Ellen blushed and faltered, her heart was
overflowing—but the natural timidity of
a woman in the presence of a man, her
elder and her superior, restrained her:
she was frightened at her own daring—
and while she hesitated, Mr. Redwood
said, “spare yourself any farther trouble
about me, Ellen—I am too rigid to bend
to a new yoke. It would be as impossible
for me to adopt your faith as for you
to assume the manacles of your friend
Susan Allen. But I am not cruel
enough to wish to weaken your hopes—
we will waive this subject—do you go
without seeing the Westalls?”
“Yes, Sir, we go early.”
“I am sorry for it; they will regret it
—they both esteem you, Miss Bruce.
We must all support your departure as
well as we can—when you are gone,
much as I like the Lenoxes, I shall no
longer find it impossible to tear myself
us to New-York and Philadelphia,
perhaps to Virginia. Westall shall never
leave us if we can detain him. Ellen,
you are worthy of all confidence, and I
will venture to tell you, what indeed you
may have already discerned, that I am
extremely desirous to ally my daughter
with Charles Westall. You look grave
—you do not think Caroline worthy so
happy a destiny?”
Mr. Redwood perceived that Ellen
was embarrassed, and he proceeded, “I
will not tax your sincerity, Miss Bruce;
my daughter has faults, great faults—
still she has splendid attractions: her
beauty might gratify the pride of any
man—her fortune is immense—and if
she has faults, why I know no one so
likely to cure them as Charles Westall.
I have not, I confess, as yet observed
any indications of a particular interest
in her; but she has insinuated in a conversation
that we have had together, that
reject him.”
Ellen walked to the window and threw
up the sash. “You look pale, Miss
Bruce, are you not well?” continued
Mr. Redwood.
“Perfectly well,” she replied, “but
the evening is oppressively warm.”
“I was not aware of that,” said Mr.
Redwood, shivering as the chill air blew
on him from the window.
“I believe it is not very warm,” replied
Ellen, closing the window. “I
am a little fatigued with the preparations
for our journey,” she added, re-seating
herself with her face averted from Mr.
Redwood.
“I will detain you but one moment
longer, Miss Bruce; should you from
your own observations conclude that
Westall was interested in my daughter?”
“I cannot say, Sir—I know nothing
of the manners of the world.”
“It is not necessary you should: women
surpasses the sagacity of experience—tell
me then frankly the result of your observations.”
Ellen after making a vain effort to reply
with composure, stammered out, that
“Miss Redwood certainly must know,
and Miss Redwood had said”—Here
she hesitated again, and Mr. Redwood
compassionating her embarrassment,
said, “you are right, Ellen; you are too
prudent to flatter my wishes.”
Ellen, anxious to avail herself of this
moment, rose, and giving Mr. Redwood
her hand, bade him farewell; he reiterated
his expression of interest and kindness,
and they parted. “Poor girl!”
thought Mr. Redwood, as she closed the
door; “it is as I suspected: the most
virtuous seem always the most persecuted
by destiny. Why should another thorn
be planted in her innocent bosom?”
Mr. Redwood felt a consciousness that
he might avert the destiny he deprecated
not for the difficult sacrifice of a favourite
object. Believing as he had, that the
best owe most of their virtue to the applause
of society, or to the flattery of
their little world; the unostentatious
goodness of Ellen (dignified as he deemed
her by talents and improvement) had
made a deep and ineffaceable impression
on him. He sate for a long time meditating
on her character and singular history;
he thought that if there were ever
two beings formed to make a joyous path
over this wilderness world, they were
Ellen and Westall. He reproached himself
with wishing to interpose his plans
to frustrate such possible happiness. He
thought he never came in contact with
the good and lovely without inflicting
suffering on them.
It had been Mr. Redwood's destiny
through life to feel right and to act
wrong—to see and to feel, deeply feel,
the beauty of virtue, but to resign himself
wrong. His impulses were good—but
what is impulse without principle? what
is it to resist the eternal solicitations of
selfishness, the sweeping tempests of
passion?
Mr. Redwood had an unconquerable
wish to bestow some benefit on Ellen.
He had none in his power but of a pecuniary
nature, and that it was difficult to
offer without offending her delicacy. He
determined, however, to do it, and he
enclosed bank notes to the amount of
five hundred dollars in the following
note:
“My dear Miss Bruce must not
punish my temerity in offering her the
enclosed, by refusing to accept it. Being
a parent, I understand the wants of a
young lady—allow me then to act as the
representative of your father. By permitting
me now and in future to supply
those vulgar wants, from which none of us
are exempt, you will make me a convert
is enviable.”
After sealing the pacquet, he gave it
to Deborah with a request that she would
not deliver it until after she and her companion
had left Eton.
Ellen retired to her room to occupy
herself with the preparations for her
journey. Her wardrobe was simple, but
neat, and not inelegant. It had been
amply furnished, not only with necessaries,
but with the little luxuries of a lady's
equipage, by Mrs. Harrison, from the
abundant stores of her youthful and
prosperous days. The costume in which
a lady of fortune had figured twenty
years gone by, would have been quite
too antique, but, happily, Ellen's taste
and ingenuity enabled her gracefully to
adapt it to her own person and the
fashion of the day. The journey she
was about to undertake was a long one,
and, in obedience to the wise caution of
Mrs. Lenox, she prepared for any delay
by Deborah, who said that as she had not
journied for twenty years, she should not
hurry home. After packing her trunk,
she made a safe corner in it for her casket,
little dreaming that the spirit was
not there. She had never been separated
from it since it was first transferred
to her possession. She locked her trunk,
arranged her dressing case, and took up
her Bible to place in it—a beautiful little
Bible with gold clasps, the gift too of
Mrs. Harrison. Her recent conversation
with Mr. Redwood made her feel its value,
particularly at this moment. Her
eye glistened while she kissed it with an
emotion of gratitude at the thought of
the solace it had been, and would be to
her. Such emotions prove that religious
sufferers have a compensation for their
trials. A wish suddenly arose in Ellen's
mind that she could impart the truths
and consolations of that book to Mr.
Redwood. The thought seemed like
can blame an enthusiasm so benevolent?
She wrapped the book with this short
note in an envelope:—“My dear Mr.
Redwood, accept and value this treasure
for the sake of your friend Ellen Bruce,
may I not say for your own sake—God
bless you.”
She left the pacquet with Mrs. Lenox
to be delivered after her departure. As
she was returning to her own room she
heard Westall's voice in the parlour: he
had come back with some message from
his mother for Miss Redwood. Ellen
obeyed the first impulse of her feeling,
and moved towards the parlour door:
she felt her heart beating violently, and
surprised and alarmed at her own agitation,
she retreated reluctantly to her
apartment. `Perhaps,' she thought,
`Mr. Redwood will tell him that I am
going away, and he will ask to see me'—
but soon after she heard him shut the
parlour door—heard him go out of the
footsteps she burst into tears;
shocked at the discovery of her own
feelings, she hastily undressed, and threw
herself on the bed in the hope that sleep
would dispel the images that crowded
her mind, but sleep she could not. In
the multitude of her thoughts; her anxiety
for Emily, her concern at leaving
Mrs. Allen, her regret at parting with
Mr. Redwood, there was still one that
predominated over every other. Was it
possible that Westall, pure, excellent,
elevated as he was, could love Caroline
Redwood? or worse—not loving, could
he marry her? It must be so—if it were
not, all womanly feeling would have
forbidden the communication Caroline
had made to her father. Ellen tried to
persuade herself that she had no other
interest in it than that benevolent one
which it was natural and right to feel in
Westall's happiness: but alas! the melancholy
result of her `maiden meditation,'
involuntarily, she covered her face with
her hands as if she would have hidden
from her own consciousness the tears
and blushes which the discovery cost
her.
At this moment she was startled by a
loud shriek from Caroline. She sprang
to her bedside, and Caroline grasping her
arm, stared wildly at her, as if the phantom
that had scared her sleep had not
yet vanished.
“You were dreaming, Miss Redwood.”
“Dreaming! was I dreaming?” said
Caroline, still continuing her fixed gaze
on Ellen, “bring the light nearer, Ellen.
Yes, thank God! I was dreaming.”
“What dream, Miss Redwood, could
thus terrify you?”
“Oh Ellen, I thought I saw you and
Westall standing together on the summit
of that rock on the lake-shore; and
there was a soft silvery cloud floating
just over you, it parted, and I saw a
it; her garments of light floated on the
bright cloud; she had a chaplet of white
flowers in her hand like those you
plucked for me: while I was gazing to
see if she would place it on your head;
the earth trembled where I stood, a
frightful chasm yawned before me, and
my father was hurling me into it, when
I awoke.”
“It was a strange dream,” said Ellen,
with a melancholy smile.
“How strange, Miss Bruce? can you
read dreams? have you faith in them?”
“Not the least;” and it is well for
me that I have not, for in this case, as
dreams are interpreted by contraries,
you would be on the rock and I in the
chasm.”
“That is true,” replied Caroline; “but
it was, as you say, a strange dream;
even now I see his eye bent on you.”
“Whose eye?” inquired Ellen, who
her senses.
“Westall's,” she replied, her brow
again contracting.
“Your dream then is already working
by rule, for his eye will never be bent
on me again.”
“Never, what do you mean, Miss
Bruce?”
Ellen explained to Caroline that
she was to leave Eton in the morning,
and should not return for some weeks.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Caroline,
springing from the bed, entirely unable
to control the relief she felt from Ellen's
information.
Ellen rose also: she said nothing, but
her face expressed so plainly: “In what
have I offended?” that after a moment's
pause, Caroline proceeded to say, “It is
in vain, Ellen Bruce, it is useless longer
to conceal my feelings towards you,
sleeping or waking they are always the
met, you have in every way injured me,
crossed my purposes, baffled my hopes,
and all under cover of such artlessness,
such simplicity. Above all things I hate
hypocrisy, and I will have the satisfaction
of telling you before you go that I
at least have seen through your disguises,
and neither set you down for an innocent
nor a saint.”
Ellen was confounded with this sudden
burst of passion. “I know not,
Miss Redwood,” she said, calmly, “what
you mean by your insinuations. I know
not how I have interfered with you: but
one thing I know, that your opinion,
determined as you are to misunderstand
and misrepresent me, ought not—cannot
affect my happiness.”
“Lord bless me, how heroic! but
there is one whose opinion may possibly
affect your happiness. Mrs. Westall
sees through you as plainly as I do, and
not succeed in wheedling her son out of
his affections and senses with all your
pretty romantic devices.”
“My devices! oh, Miss Redwood,
you are cruel—what are my devices?”
“Really, Miss Ellen Bruce, you flatter
yourself they have all passed current
with us simple ones—the trumpery story
about the box—a fine Arabian night's
entertainment, truly; your dragging that
old woman day after day into the parlour
to practise your benevolence upon, as
the milliners display their fashions on
their blocks; the pretty tale of the blind
girl, admirably got up to be sure, with a
hundred other inferior instances of your
mode of practice upon the romantic unsuspecting
Westall.”
Ellen could have borne unmoved Caroline's
malice, but the thought of the
odious light in which she should be presented
to Westall quite overcame her
Mrs. Westall so ungenerous—so unjust,”
said she, bursting into tears.
`Ah,' thought Caroline, `I have
touched the vulnerable spot;' and she
would have proceeded with savage barbarity
in the application of her tortures,
but she was interrupted. Mrs. Lenox
tapped at the door to say that Deborah
was in readiness, and to beg Ellen to
despatch her preparations.
Mrs. Lenox's voice operated as a sedative
upon Caroline: she sat down and
fixed her eyes on Ellen, while she with
trembling hands proceeded to array herself
for her departure. When every
thing was in readiness, she approached
Caroline, and said with a faltering voice,
“Miss Redwood, I forgive you; may
God forgive your unkind, unnatural
treatment of one who never injured you
in thought, word, or deed. I would ask
you to spare me when I am gone, but I
have no reason to hope for that. To
that appalled Caroline, “to God, my
father and my friend, I commit my cause
—I have no earthly protector, and I need
none. We part for ever; this for ever
compasses the limit of our earthly career,
and brings us to that presence where we
must next meet, where all injustice will
be exposed—all wrong repaired.”
Caroline had covered her eyes as if to
shut out the vision of innocence and
loveliness. Ellen's words touched her
with a feeling of remorse, and awakened
appalling fears: her passions were turbulent,
but not yet hardened into the
resolution of one inured to the practice
of evil. As Ellen turned from her she
started from the bed and exclaimed,
“stay, Ellen Bruce, stay—give me one
moment's time.” Ellen paused and looked
at her with mute amazement, while
she walked the room in the agony of indecision.
Among other valuable branches
of education, Caroline had been taught to
vain imaginations; her fancy had been
excited by the airy nothings of the night's
vision. Ellen's last words struck upon
her ear like the voice of prophecy. She
imagined that her innocent victim was
wrested from her, and that she beheld
the visible interposition of Heaven in
her behalf—that chasm, that dark deep
frightful chasm, yawned before her, and
the thought that she could in no way
close it up but by the restoration of the
rifled treasure came to her like an impulse
from a good spirit: obedient to it
she had risen from the bed, but she faltered
in the execution of her good purpose;
she shrunk from the train of evils
that her busy thoughts suggested: the
certain loss of Westall—Ellen's advancement
to fortune, rank and fashion equal
to her own—the exposure of her own
baseness—that she could not brook; and
`I cannot humble myself to her,' was the
mental conclusion of her deliberations
restore the articles as secretly as I took
them; the discovery will then be delayed
—Westall secured.'
This feeble intention to render imperfect
justice quieted her conscience:
while she was deliberating what gloss
she should put on her mysterious conduct,
Deborah opened the door. “Heyday,”
said she, “are you up, Miss Caroline?
well, I am glad of it, you will have
a chance to see the sun rise once in your
life; and when he comes sailing over
those hills, and pours a shower of light
on Champlain, you'll own there is not
such a sight in all the Car'linas: good
luck, and a husband to you, girl. Come,
Ellen, come, what signifies losing any
more lost time?”
Ellen assured Deborah she was quite
ready; and Deborah, who would not on
compulsion have performed a menial
service for a queen, took Ellen's trunk
in her arms, and commanding her to
the apartment.
Ellen looked inquiringly at Caroline:
“I have nothing farther to say, Miss
Bruce.”
“Then, farewell,” said Ellen. Caroline
bowed, and they parted.
| CHAPTER XII. Redwood | |