 | CHAPTER XXIII. Redwood |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
Hast the true tokens of a noble mind,
But the world wins thee.”
Crabbe.
Miss Campbell and Ellen rose by
appointment on the following morning,
at the dawn of day, that they might
witness the departure of Deborah and
Emily. As they all stood on the piazza,
awaiting the arrangement of the baggage
in the chaise, Deborah drew Ellen aside.
“Look here,” she said, undrawing a
bag and discovering one corner of a
pacquet, “here is the identical money
you refused to receive from Mr. Redwood;
he sent it to me last night for a
child—God bless him—it is true—he
has given it, and I have taken it with a
thankful heart and a prayer (as in duty
bound) that the Lord would return it to
him a hundred fold, in something better
than silver and gold. I shall keep the
present a secret till Emily's wedding-day,
which I'm sure is not far off; and Ellen,”
she added, after a moment's pause, “I'm
thinking that another wedding-day is
coming among our friends. Now what
do you look down for? If there is any
body in the land might hold up their
heads with a good grace, it's you; for
to my notion there is not a nobler man in
'varsal world, view him in what light you
will, than this same Charles Westall.”
“But, Deborah,” interrupted Ellen,
“I am not”—
“Engaged—I know that”—
“Ma'am, your chaise is ready,” said
the servant.
“Coming in a minute. I know how
night, when I got this pacquet from Redwood,
my heart was so full I thought
I could not sleep till I had told you. I
looked in your room — you was not
there; I came on to the piazza—you and
Mr. Charles Westall were standing by
the door yonder; while I was hesitating
whether to go back without interrupting
you, I heard a few words, just
enough to give me a little insight into
the business. I thought it fair to tell
you; and besides, I wanted to charge
you not to be notional; for a girl of your
sense, Ellen, you are apt to be a little
notional, which is not your fault, but
comes of your living with Mrs. Harrison,
and reading too many verses, which are
apt to make girls dreamy.”
“Miss Debby,” cried Emily, “every
thing is ready, and the sun is rising.”
“Coming child, coming. One word
more, Ellen—” and here Deborah paused,
for the first time in her life at a loss
with the butt end of her whip on the
railing, made figures with the lash on
the floor, knit her brow, bit her lips, but
did not speak till spurred by a second
call from Emily; and then the tears
gushed from the good creature's eyes as
she said, “Ellen, you are rich in nothing
but the grace of God; the best riches I
know: but then there's neither quails
nor manna now-a-days, and one must
look a little to the needful. When my
father died, (a thrifty prudent man) he
left me fifty pounds lawful. It has been
in good hands, and has run up to between
two and three hundred. I have enough
for myself besides, Ellen, laid up for a
wet day, so that is all to be yours. Now
don't speak, but hearken to me—besides
the money, I have a nice store of table
linen for you, and some coverlits, and
feather beds.”
“Oh Deborah, Deborah!”—
“Say nothing, child—I can't bear it.
the Lord bless you, child, and all that
care for you,”—and she strided across
the piazza without giving Ellen time to
open her lips; shook Miss Campbell's
hand heartily as she passed, took her
seat in the chaise, and the moment Emily
had taken a hurried leave of Ellen, she
drove off, followed by the blessings and
prayers of her grateful young friend.
The two ladies stood silently gazing
after the old chaise as it slowly descended
the hill. After a few moments, Miss
Campbell turned suddenly round, and
observing that the tears were streaming
from Ellen's eyes, “who would think,”
she said, “that Miss Deborah would
call forth such a sentimental tribute;
and yet I could find it in my heart to
cry heartily too, for sure I am, I never
shall look upon her like again.”
“She deserves every tribute,” replied
Ellen, “that can be paid to
genuine worth. Under her rough exterior
joy to look into—full of all honest
thoughts and kindly affections.”
“Yes, I believe you; and now, dear
Ellen, though more than half an angel
yourself, I am going to expose a heart
to you that has no such high qualifications;
so get your hat and shawl, and
we will stroll into some of these woods,
far out of the sight and hearing of the
`world's people.'
The two ladies ascended the hill above
the spring, and leaving the highway,
took a foot-path that indents a beautiful
grove. They soon reached a place of
perfect seclusion, and seating themselves
on a rock, they remained for some
time silent; Ellen awaiting Miss Campbell's
communication, and she with
some embarrassment picking the leaves
from a branch she had plucked in her
way, and strewing them about her: at
last, throwing away leaves, branch, and
all, she said, “I hardly know, Ellen,
of myself, on account of the confidence
I am about to repose in you. It seems
so like the girlish prating of a Miss in
her teens; after our brief acquaintance
to unveil to you the state of my heart,
when even I myself have not yet dared
to take one calm survey of it. But there
is a charm about you, Ellen—an `open
sessime' that unlocks all hearts—you
have touched the master-spring of mine,
and it must be shown to you as it is,
with all its light and all its darkness:
believe me, you will find it “o'er good
for banning, and o'er bad for blessing.”
“Well, dear Miss Campbell, do dispense
with any more preparation; I have
already felt such sweet and kindly influence
from this unknown country, that I
long to explore it.”
“Will you pay my frankness in kind,
Ellen? Never mind—do not blush; I
see you belong to the sentimental class,
who never tell their love, and I will be
you will be just and tell me—all that I
have not already guessed.
“To begin then with the beginning.
I might almost use the concise style of
a certain ludicrous personage and say,
`I was born and up I grew'—but that
there were circumstances that occurred
in our family, in my youth, which affected
my character and relations in
life. My father was a lawyer, a man of
talents, and rising rapidly in his profession
when he was carried off by the
yellow fever, then raging in our city.
I was but a month old when he died.
My mother took refuge among the Moravians
in Bethlem. The sudden death
of my father blasted her happiness and
hopes; and the fatigue of removal, so
soon after her confinement, threw her
into a decline; she languished two
years, and then followed my father.
The Moravian sisters had attended to
all her wants with exemplary devotion.
kind hearts; I was exclusively attached
to them, and as my aunt Armstead was
then engrossed with a plentifully stocked
nursery, and I had no other near female
relative, my friends were easily persuaded
to permit me to remain under
the care of one of the sisters of
Bethlem.
“When I was ten years old, my uncle
Richard Campbell, who was my guardian,
came to see me; he was then,
and still is, a bachelor; he is a merchant,
and has amassed a large fortune,
all, as I am told, in a very regular way
of trade, and by the faithful application
of every maxim in poor Richard's almanac.
He was my father's eldest brother;
had courted in his youth a very
charming young girl, who preferred and
married his younger brother, a poor helpless
genius. This disappointment inclined
my uncle Richard to distrust our
whole sex, one of them having made such
chance, and he is said never to have
jeoparded his fortune by offering to participate
it with any other lady. His
younger brother, and successful rival,
abandoned his country and went to England,
in the hope of carrying his literary
talents to a better market than he could
find for them at home. There he had
small successes and great discouragements;
and, after struggling a few years,
he died and left his wife unprovided
with every thing but three or four children,
rather an unproductive property
you know. She preferred remaining in
England to returning, to be either a
dependent on her friends or a reproach
to them; and with the aid of occasional
remittances from my good aunt Armstead,
and some little remnant of her
father's estate, and with faculties of industry
and economy in her situation
deserving of all praise, she contrived
to subsist and educate her family respectably.
a genius, a painter by profession, and a
man of sense; but of him more anon.
“My uncle Richard preserved towards
the poor widow of his brother the
resentment of a mean mind; and there
is, as far as I know, no reason to believe
that in all her embarrassments he ever
extended to her the slightest aid. As I
told you, when my uncle first saw me
I was ten years old, a little prim miniature
old maid, dressed in the formal
fashion of the Moravians, as staid in my
deportment, and as precise in all my
movements, as the good ancient maiden
who had formed me after her own model.
In short, I was my uncle's beau
ideal. He was just then meditating a
selection of some one of his young relations
to inherit his property—of some
one who by the hardest slavery, the
slavery of the mind, the complete subjection
of the will, might deserve the
rich inheritance he has to bestow. Most
choice fell upon myself: unfortunate for
both, for if there ever existed two beings
who had not one principle of affinity, they
are my uncle and myself. He is a conceited
bigot in every thing, from his
religion down to his particular mode of
tying on his neckcloth; he is ignorant
of every thing but how to get and how
to keep money: in short, dear Ellen,
for his character is not worth the drawing,
the breath of intellectual and moral
life has never been breathed into him.”
“And is this the uncle, Miss Campbell,
whose fortune you are to inherit?”
inquired Ellen.
“The same, my dear—and do not suspect
me of ingratitude. I have faults
enough, heaven knows, but ingratitude
is not one of them—a good word, a kind
look, were never thrown away upon me;
but I owe my uncle nothing. He selected
an heir, because he chose to control his
property as long as possible; and he
should prove an obedient machine, a
meek subject to his will.”
“You must have convinced him of
his mistake long before this,” said Ellen;
“how have you retained his favour?”
“Oh, he is completely enlightened,
my dear; but, luckily for my worldly
prospects, he prides himself on never
changing his purpose. But I have gone
beyond my story. He took me home
with him, placed me at a public school,
where I had companions of my own age,
and I soon lost the quiet deportment
that had been the effect of the law of
imitation, and all the orderly virtues
that had been produced by careful pruning
and training. I was like a plant
transferred from the cellar to the genial
influences of air, sunshine, and showers.
My uncle had scarcely announced his
decision to the world, and pronounced
his infallible opinion of my merits, before
I was transformed into a gay,
to yourself, my dear Ellen, such a
child, with all the uproar and misrule
that follows in her train, introduced into
the house of a sober citizen, a priggish
old bachelor, with as much Pharisaical
exactness in the arrangement of his
household and furniture as if his salvation
depended on preserving the mutual
relation of chairs and tables.
“His servants were always in my interest,
for I was generous to them to the
extent of my ability, and they contrived
so to shelter and excuse my faults, that
my uncle endured my residence with
him for two years; then on one unlucky,
or rather lucky day, since I may date
from it my escape from thraldom, as I
was returning from school with a troop
of my young friends, I met old Dickey,
a blind fiddler, who used to patrole the
streets led by his dog, and who was the
familiar friend of every child in the city.
We were near my uncle's door; I was
of the consequences, I invited
Dickey in, pressed my companions to
follow—we ejected the chairs and tables
from the parlour, and in five minutes
were dancing as merrily as ever fairies
tripped it over a green. In the height
of our mirth, my uncle entered to witness
the horrible sacrilege to which his
immaculate parlour was devoted. Children,
Dickey, dog, and all, were instantly
sent packing. I followed in their train,
full of resentment at the indignity that
had been offered to me by such treatment
of my guests, and heroically resolved
never to enter my uncle's house
again. I went to my aunt Armstead's,
and poured my wrongs into her kind
bosom. She, no doubt, saw that my
folly surpassed my uncle's severity, but
she is the most indulgent being in the
world— she had an excessive partiality
for me, and without reprimanding me
very severely, she took the prudent
to him the absolute necessity, for
his own comfort, as well as my prosperity,
of placing me under female surveillance.
She proposed taking charge
of me herself, and in pleading my cause
she paid such deference to my uncle's
will and whims, that she obtained her
point without much difficulty—indeed
I believe, if the truth were known, the
quiet angels in Heaven were not more
rejoiced to be rid of the rebel spirit and
his misguided followers, than my uncle
was to be relieved from me and the little
mob that was for ever at my heels.
“In my aunt's family I have lived in
indulgence so unbounded, that it would
have been ruinous to me, but for the
salutary influence of those domestic
affections, which next to the control and
regulation of principle, are certainly the
best security for virtue. I could sketch
my own character, my dear Ellen, but I
am afraid I should not much like to look
French call grand succés in the world,
and yet I am more than half wearied
with it— at least when I am beyond the
syren sounds of pleasure I can feel an
anchorite's contempt for it. I have been
at the very head of society in Philadelphia—I
may say it to you, because it is
evidently no merit in your eyes; you
care for none of these things. I had
rivals who excelled me in every particular
attraction of a fine lady—many that
were far richer than I could hope to be,
some that were far handsomer than my
glass, my vanity, or even my flatterers
told me that I was—some that I felt to
be far wittier, and some that I knew to
be much more accomplished,— but I
united more than any one of them all.
I had not beauty enough to be that most
insipid of all creatures, a mere belle—
nor literature enough to fall into that unhappy
class, the blue stockings, the terror
of our city beaux, the dread of our
expectations to throw me into the vulgar
class of the fortunes; but I had enough
of each to attract the votaries of every
class—I have been surrounded by admirers,
and yet I have walked among
them with an unscathed heart till within
these few weeks; and now, my dear
Ellen, be kind enough to look the other
way, for though I have not all your
sentimental reserve, I have a little
maidenly pride of my own, which I
would rather not discourage.
“You noticed the gentleman who was
with me when I first had the happiness
to see you — he is an acquaintance of a
few weeks standing, and yet, shall I confess
all to you? — he has made himself
perfectly indispensable to my happiness.”
“That may be,” said Ellen.
“Yes, my dear, and I suspect there
are some who live and act more by rule
than I do, who find that such things are.
I despise and distrust as much as you
all the folly connected with it, but my
late experience has made me a little
superstitious in regard to the old orthodox
doctrine that `matches are made in
heaven.”'
“But why so? If the account your
cousin has given of Mr. Howard is a just
one, (and your cousin seems not to be an
enthusiast,) there is nothing supernatural
in his winning your affections, and certainly
there is nothing extraordinary in
his reciprocating them—reciprocal I am
sure the attachment must be.”
“Certainly, or you would never have
heard mine aforesaid confession. Howard
and I understand each other, but there
are obstacles in my way that he does not
understand.
“I have always been interested in the
character and destiny of my cousin Fenton
Campbell, the eldest son of the aunt
of whom I spoke to you, who resided in
England. From the accounts we have
genius with the good sense of his mother.
He has already attained some distinction
in his profession, and has long been the
support of his mother and sisters. My
aunt Armstead and I have taken especial
pains that every account of his thriftiness
should be poured into my uncle Richard's
ear: and two years ago, when I had
mortally offended my uncle, by doing
something he had forbidden, or not doing
something he had commanded, I forget
which, I entreated my aunt to seize the
favourable moment to urge Fenton's equal
claims to mine, and his superior merits,
and to induce my uncle to make a will
which should divide his fortune equally
between us.”
“That was indeed generous, Miss
Campbell.”
“No, my dear, not particularly generous.
I was moved to it more by my
impatience under my obligations to my
motive.”
Ellen's animated countenance evinced
that she admired the magnanimity that
spurned a self-delusion, and Miss Campbell
proceeded—
“My uncle was persuaded: he announced
his resolution to me, which, as
you may imagine, I received with very
provoking nonchalance; and he wrote
to Fenton, and promised him, that provided
he would come immediately to
this country, and fix his residence here,
he should inherit the half of his estate.
Fenton returned a very calm expression
of his gratitude, but said it was entirely
out of his power to perform the required
conditions, as his mother was in a declining
state of health, too feeble either
to endure a voyage, or to be left by her
son. He particularly requested that his
mother might not be informed of his
uncle's generous intentions in regard to
much as to be in any mode an obstacle
to the prosperity of her family. This
letter of Fenton's of course deepened my
favourable impressions of him, but it had
quite a contrary effect upon my uncle, who
thought that no folly could surpass the
giving the go-by to such a chance of fortune.
Poor slave of mammon! he could
not forgive Fenton for not forsaking all
other duties, to bow down and worship
the golden image he had set up. Aunt
Armstead wrote to him, repeatedly and
urgently, to come over for a few months
to conciliate my uncle, and confirm his
wavering mind, but no motive could persuade
him to leave his mother. My
uncle suspended his arrangements: his
displeasure against Fenton prevented a
decision in his favour, while the frequent
accounts he received of the young man's
diligent application to his profession
kept alive his wish to deposit a part of
his fortune in his prudent hands.
“Thus matters remained till about
six months since, when we received the
intelligence of my aunt Campbell's
death. My uncle Richard renewed his
proposition to Fenton; he accepted it,
and three months ago arrived in Philadelphia.
“I have not yet seen him. My aunt
Armstead removed to her country place
in Jersey the week before his arrival.
Cousin William tells me that the old
gentleman has taken surprisingly to
Fenton, attracted by the gravity of his
manners, which William imputes to his
laborious sedentary life, and to his grief
for the recent loss of his mother, whom
he most tenderly loved. So far all is
well—but now, dear Ellen, come the
cross purposes. My uncle has taken it
into his wise head to institute a partnership
concern between Fenton and myself;
and on the very day of Fenton's
arrival in this country, he announced by
letter his supreme will to me, in much
his orders to a supercargo. Three
months ago this would have been well
enough; for I have had a sort of indefinite
purpose to keep myself fancy free
till I could see this cousin of mine—
nothing else, I believe, has kept me
single so long.”
“So long!” exclaimed Ellen, smiling.
“Yes, my dear, `so long;' for you
must know I am on the verge of three-and-twenty,
an age un peu passé in the
world of fashion, and quite unknown in
the lives of heroines, for excepting lady
Geraldine, the most spirited of Miss
Edgeworth's characters, and whom
(heaven bless her for it!) she has made,
I think, to arrive at the mature age of
two-and-twenty, I do not remember in
all romance, a single heroine that had
attained her majority.”
“But you surely do not suriously
mean, my dear Miss Campbell, that any
marriage?”
“My sweet little methodistic Ellen, I
am very much afraid it would; depend
upon it, one cannot live altogether in
the world and not be of the world: but
let me go on with my story, and you
will find that I am in danger of a romantic
folly that would be more appropriate
to your innocence and sweet simplicity.
“My cousin, instead of coming immediately
to my aunt's, remained in the
city. I was a little piqued at his delay,
for I thought it would have been much
more natural and disinterested for him
to look after us than to remain hanging
about my uncle. In the meantime, as
heaven decreed, William Armstead
brought home with him his friend,
Howard; he was a Bostonian; that
prejudiced me in his favour, for I like
the eastern people particularly: they
the flexible graces that flourish at the
south, but they have great intelligence,
high cultivation, and above all, a manly
dignity of manners, a simplicity and
naturalness, an elevated tone of moral
feeling, a”—
“Do you speak of a class or an individual?”
asked Ellen, archly.
“Both, Ellen, both—a noble class,
and a most worthy representative of that
class. But to proceed. We were in
the country. Howard might not have
fancied me elsewhere; but there all that
is good and ethereal in my nature rises
superior to every artificial influence,
`the malt's aboon the meal'—moonlight
—rural walks, and all the appliances
and means of love came in aid of our
mutual liking; and, before we parted,
we were fast approaching the last interesting
scene in the love drama—the
exchange of mutual vows. At this critical
moment Howard received letters
days; he is to be here to-morrow, and
it was partly from the wish to have such
a friend as you near me at this important
juncture, that I so earnestly entreated
you to remain at Lebanon.
There is a pitfall before me: I am certain
that if I fill up the measure of my
iniquities by refusing obedience to my
uncle in the matter of his nephew, I
shall incur his everlasting displeasure
and the penalty of disinheritance.”
“That,” said Ellen, “can be of little
consequence, since you do not incur the
penalty by any violation of duty.”
“Of little consequence! Would to
heaven, Ellen, I were as unsophisticated
as you are; or that I had never been
`clasped with favour in fortune's tender
arms.”' An unwonted seriousness overspread
Miss Campbell's face as she
added, “I certainly am not selfish. I
disdain the vulgar distinction of wealth;
but who can escape or evade the force
the ease and indulgence of fortune, to
the power it confers, and the deference
that attends it. How shall I encounter
toil and submit to privations? How
shall I bear the neglect of those who
have courted my favour, who have felt
honoured by my slightest attention?”
“By rising to an elevation they never
can reach, Miss Campbell,” said Ellen,
affectionately taking her hand. “If you
love Howard, if he deserves your love,
he is worth this sacrifice.”
“Upon my word, young ladies, talking
of love and lovers before breakfast,”
spoke a voice behind them, which made
both the ladies start, and turning round
they perceived William Armstead approaching
them with a letter in his hand.
“I have been looking for you, cousin
Grace,” he said, “this half hour, and
have at length traced you to this place:
who would have expected to find you
sentimentalising in a shady grove—and
Grace quite out of her element, Miss
Bruce. Grace, I have a letter here for
you from our worthy uncle, which, if I
mistake not, will contain matter of fact
that will dispel all your morning fancies;
and I have a piece of news for you too.”
“Has Howard arrived?” exclaimed
Miss Campbell.
“You need not blush, Grace, because
your tongue is obedient to your heart.
No—Howard has not arrived, but Fenton
has.”
“Fenton,” replied Miss Campbell in
a disappointed tone, and the colour retreated
from her cheeks as suddenly as
it had appeared. “Oh, William, I could
almost wish you the fate of Ascalaphus
for bringing me such news.”
Miss Campbell broke the seal of her
uncle's letter, and ran her eye hastily
over it; and as she read half to herself
and half aloud, her companions caught
these broken sentences—`take it very
more punctual, but says nothing as to
the business in hand'—`two for the divisor,
don't like that'—`will have neither
subtraction nor division to my
capital'—`obey orders, marry Fenton,
you shall have the sum total'—`disobey
and you are a cypher the wrong side of
the figure.'
Miss Campbell's indignation mantled
into her face and sparkled in her eyes,
and she tore the letter to fragments and
scattered it to the winds. “Mean, sordid
being!” she exclaimed; “and he
thinks I will traffic with my affections
as he does with his merchandise! No,
let his silver and gold perish —I will
marry whom I please, and when I
please!”
Ellen with the impulsive sympathy of
generous feeling, pressed the arm into
which hers was locked; and Armstead
said, “spoken worthy of yourself, my
dear Grace; but consider well and
be retracted. You are a woman of
sense, and you know it is one thing to
wish to attain a difficult summit, and
quite another to reach it. You are a
woman of prudence—a woman of the
world, and you know that the visions of
youthful love bear a very faint resemblance
to the realities of life. You
know, dear Grace, that it would be at
least as difficult for a fashionable woman
like you to play love in a cottage, as for
a camel to go through the eye of a needle
—consider well, cousin, consider well
before you take an unchangeable resolution.”
“I have considered, William—have I
not, Ellen?”
Ellen smiled without replying, for she
feared that her friend's hasty resolution
had been somewhat quickened by resentment
against her uncle: luckily the
warmth of Grace Campbell's feelings at
half incredulous expression of Ellen's
face.
“I have considered, William,” she
repeated, “and if your friend will take
my unportioned hand, Fenton shall be
welcome to all my uncle's paltry wealth
—he shall see that I despise it, and the
world shall know that I disdain its
splendour.”
“And you, my dear Miss Campbell,”
said Ellen, with enthusiasm, “will have
the secret consciousness of having acted
right and nobly.”
“Ah, thank you, Ellen, for your
prompting. I am apt I believe to forget
secret feelings. I have been a gallery
picture, you a sweet little cabinet article;
but times are changing with me,
and you will teach me better.”
“I am thinking, Grace,” said Armstead,
“how Howard will relish these
changing times, it would be a disappointment
and disinterested as yourself.”
“Howard not disinterested! your
friendship grows cold, William.”
“Not at all—we may as well look
truth in the face, cousin, though it
should come to us through the medium
of a friend or lover—love matches among
people who have lived in a certain style,
you know, are getting to be quite obsolete—we
are beginning to regard them
as only becoming boys and girls—only
suited to the infancy of society.”
“I know not whether you are sarcastic
or serious, William.”
“Perfectly serious,” rejoined William;
“and as serious in my opinion that
Fenton Campbell is to the full as disinterested
as Howard.”
“Impossible! we have all been mistaken
in Fenton: he is a cold calculating
Englishman—his servility to my uncle
proves it. It was unworthy any man
to me.”
“Come, Miss Bruce,” said Armstead
to Ellen, “hasten your friend's pace,
she will work herself into such a holy
indignation against poor Fenton before
we reach home, that she will not be
able to receive him with common civility.
Come, my dear Grace, forget
your displeasure—look again like yourself,
if it is only to let Fenton see the
gem sparkle which he has forfeited.”
In vain Armstead continued his efforts
as they approached the house to dispel
his cousin's gravity: he reasoned, he
rallied, but all in vain—the fear he had
insinuated into her mind in relation to
Howard had taken complete possession
of her: she blamed herself for the frankness
of her communications; and, for a
few moments at least, she would have
rejoiced to have been even as destitute
as Ellen of extrinsic attractions.
Conscious that the agitation of her
mind unfitted her for meeting her cousin
with the indifference and calm civility
which her pride prompted her to assume
towards him, she approached the door
of the parlour, where Armstead told
her that his mother with Fenton was
awaiting her, with a slow and most reluctant
step.
“Come in with me, Ellen,” she said, as
her friend was turning away, “I always
do better in company than alone;”
but as she reached the threshold of the
door, she hesitated, and turning to Armstead
said, “Do you, William, go in
and invent some apology for me, I will
meet Fenton at breakfast—it will save
us both useless embarrassment.”
“Pshaw, Grace! don't behave like a
child,” replied her cousin, and at the
same instant he settled the mode of proceedure
by throwing open the door, and
saying with affected formality, “Miss
my cousin Fenton—my some time friend
Howard.”
Grace forgot for once whether she was
in company or alone—forgot every thing
but the surprising certainty that Howard
and Fenton were the self-same person
—every trace of displeasure vanished
from her face, unmixed delight shone in
her brightened eye and glowing cheek,
and without noticing the joyful expression
of her aunt's face, the ludicrous
twist of William Armstead's mouth, or
the sympathy that moistened Ellen's
eye, she gave Fenton her hand, and in
virtue of his being friend, lover, or
cousin, one or all, permitted him to
devour it with kisses.
“Come, my dear mother, come, Miss
Bruce,” said William Armstead, “I
believe we may trust to the good faith of
our friends to make their compact without
witnesses.” And as he followed the
ladies out of the room, he turned, and
of the head, said, “beware, cousin Grace,
beware of a `cold calculating Englishman!”'
“Well, William,” asked Mrs. Armstead,
“how have you contrived to keep
Fenton's secret so long? you ought to
have told me—you surely might have
trusted me—you know I am no babbler.”
“I know, dear mother, thou wilt not
utter what thou dost not know.”'
“Oh, for shame Will! I cannot
possibly comprehend of what mighty
consequence it could be in the first place
to devise this secret—and then to keep
it.”
“Ah, there it is: and this question
would have arisen in your mind long
ago, and in spite of any resolution to
the contrary, some significant look or
word would have betrayed our ambush
before we had effected our purpose.”
“Still, Mr. Armstead,” said Ellen,
“I think your mother's question is a
seem a little juvenile and romantic in a
man of five-and-twenty; and a man too
of Mr. Campbell's gravity of manners.”
“If it seems to you romantic, Miss
Bruce, it must need explanation; and
I am certain that the explanation will
satisfy you, that Fenton has been sufficiently
rational, and you, my dear
mother, that in keeping his counsel,
your son has been only prudent.”
Armstead then proceeded to say that
his cousin had long had the most favourable
impression of Grace's character,
partly the consequence of the young
lady's letters to his mother, which were
often accompanied by generous gifts,
always offered in the most graceful
manner; and partly the consequence
of the zealous affection with which his
mother had mentioned Grace in her
letters to her sister-in-law, and to her
nephew; and finally, as he reminded his
mother, of her having (notwithstanding
betrayed Grace's agency in the alteration
of her uncle's will.”
Here Mrs. Armstead interrupted her
son to say `that it was very fortunate
she did make that communication; for
in a private letter which she received
from Fenton at the time, he had declared
that, without the knowledge of that circumstance,
he never would have accepted
his uncle Richard's proposition.'
“No doubt, dear mother, you had
excellent reasons (as who has not in a
like case,) for telling the secret, and
abundant consolations for having told it;
but allow me to finish my story. Fenton
with all these prejudices in Grace's favour,
arrives in Philadelphia; is introduced
to my uncle, and favourably received.
He learns our absence from the
city, and determines to follow us immediately;
he calls the next morning to
take leave of my uncle, and is informed
by him with his usual grossierté, of the
Grace. Fenton knew enough of his
consin to believe that she would be as
averse from giving her heart, as Falstaff
was his reasons, on compulsion; and
when I arrived, most opportunely, in
Philadelphia on the day he had received
this pretty piece of information from my
uncle, I found him in a web of such
doubts and difficulties, as you sentimentalists,
Miss Bruce, are apt to weave
about yourselves.”
“But we sentamentalists,” rejoined
Ellen, “since you insist on placing me
in that class, are not apt to expose our
difficulties to the profane eyes of scoffers.”
“No—and so my cousin would probably
have lost himself in a labyrinth,
from which no device of human ingenuity
could have extricated him, had not some
expressions that fell from my uncle revealed
to me the secret of his perplexities.
I went immediately to Fenton,
suggested the scheme which has succeeded
so happily. My uncle Richard
knew the young people were together,
and believed that all was going on well
in obedience to his orders—the complete
retirement of my mother's place protected
us from observation, and my
lofty cousin has been wooed and won
in a manner most flattering to her own,
and to Fenton's pride.”
| CHAPTER XXIII. Redwood | |