University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Some days glided away while the gay
society at Lebanon presented nothing to
the eye of a casual observer but a brilliant
surface of pleasure. But we claim
to be among those gifted personages,
who, like the Diable boiteux, are permitted
to penetrate below the surface,
to visit secret retirements, to dive into
the depths of hidden thoughts, to explore
their recesses, and to discover them to
the curious eye. Availing ourselves of
our prerogative, we beg our readers to
quit with us the thronged piazzas, the

dancing hall, the lively coteries that fill
the public rooms, and take a peep into
the respective apartments of the individuals
we have presumed to introduce to
their notice.

And first, as entitled to our chief interest,
is Ellen—who, in spite of the beseeching
looks of Westall and the raillery
of Grace Campbell, persisted in
secluding herself in her own room.

“What romantic whim have you
taken into your head, Ellen?” said her
friend, who had followed her from the
breakfast-table one morning. “Come,
my dear, you must not shut yourself up
in this cell any longer—I bring an absolute
requisition for you from my aunt
Armstead, who has ordered the carriage
to carry us all to see the shakers, and
ramble about the hills in the neighbourhood,
to spy out the beauties of the
land. Fenton will take his port-folio
with him, and while in sketching nature,
he is paying his devotions to his first

love, I shall be at liberty to give you a
lecture upon your duties.”

“Well, Miss Campbell, I will go with
you.”

“Thank you, my dear; but pray do
not look as if you were going to the
stake.”

This was the day on which Ellen expected
a reply to her letter to Mrs.
Harrison, and she could not conceal,
and dared not explain the reluctance
with which she consented to an arrangement
that must retard the time of her
receiving it. She tried to evade Miss
Campbell's scrutiny, by saying with a
forced smile, “such a frail creature as
I am may well feel dread of a lecture on
my duties; but you may perhaps lessen
it by telling me what those are that are
to be the subject of your preaching.”

“Kindness to your lover—frankness
to your friend, Ellen. There is poor
Westall turned off with the `fezzenless
bran' of common-place civility, and I,

who have poured all my love-lore into
your ears, am obliged to make out the
history of your heart as well as I can by
the index of the changeful cheek—sometimes
deadly pale, and then lit up by a
glow that seems the shadow of your
thoughts, so quickly does it brighten
and fade away. You see, my dear,
mysterious as you are, I have noted and
comprehend the signs of the times.”

“Believe me, my dear friend,” said
Ellen, taking Grace's hand affectionately,
“I have a reason for the suspension
of my intercourse with Westall—for
my reserve to you, a day or two will, I
trust in heaven, end this mystery; and
when I am absolved from the necessity
of any farther reserve, you shall know
all.”

“God speed the happy hour, my
sweet Ellen, and show me that you have
reason, even in your madness.”

The ladies were interrupted by Mrs.
Westall, who appeared at the door with

her work-box in her hand, `come,' as
she said, `to sit the morning with Miss
Bruce.'

“Miss Bruce is engaged to ride with
me, and I hope you will do me the favour
to change your purpose, Mrs.
Westall,” said Miss Campbell, “and
occupy a seat in my aunt's carriage,
which we want very much to have
agreeably filled.”

Mrs. Westall assented readily to the
polite request, and while she went for
her hat and shawl, Miss Campbell said,
“your good mother elect has taken you
mightily into favour of late, Ellen.
Straws show which way the wind blows.
I overheard her yesterday zealously
stating your claims to gentility to the
Elmores of New-York—a point, you
know, of infinite moment in the judgment
of the daughters of a ci-devant
barmaid.”

“And was Mrs. Westall able to establish

my right to the favourite epithet
`genteel?”'

“The pass-word with certain people
—yes, my dear, perfectly, I believe; for,
after hearing her statement, one of the
young ladies observed that her mamma
said she `was sure you was genteel from
the first moment she saw you, you wore
such particularly fine lace, and a real
camel's hair; those,' she said, `were
mamma's criterions for knowing a lady,
they were so lady-like.”'

“Oh, what would mamma have said,”
exclaimed Ellen, “if she had known
that I was indebted to the generosity of
Mrs. Harrison for all my lady-like qualities?”

“I can't say, my dear, for the inquisition
of the young ladies was suddenly
interrupted by Mrs. Harris, a relation
and dependant of the Osmer family,
who rests her fame on her patrician
blood, and who, therefore, had another,

though perhaps not quite as absurd a
criterion by which she would graduate
your rank; `pray,' she said, `Mrs.
Westall, can you tell me the maiden
name of Miss Bruce's mother? I once
had a very distant relation who married
a Bruce.' Mrs. Westall seemed a little
embarrassed—said she did not know;
and Mrs. Harris turned to Caroline Redwood
who sate next her, and said, `you,
Miss Redwood, can probably inform
me something of Miss Bruce's parentage.'
`I, ma'am!' exclaimed Miss Redwood;
`indeed I know nothing of Miss
Bruce: I believe her parents are dead:'
—and her immoveable colour, Ellen, for
once did move, and she was so pale for
a moment that I really thought the girl
was going to faint. Is it not very
strange she should have shown so much
emotion on the subject?”

“Yes, very strange; but nothing
from Miss Redwood can ever surprise
me,” said Ellen.

Miss Campbell looked on Ellen for a
moment earnestly, and then said, with a
little hesitation, “the old woman's curiosity
is natural enough, and I should
like to gratify it. Do tell me, Ellen,
your mother's maiden name?”

“I cannot tell you, Miss Campbell—
do not ask me,” replied Ellen, with a
trembling voice.

“Forgive me, my sweet friend,” exclaimed
Grace Campbell, recovering her
usual frank manner, and throwing her
arm around Ellen's neck and kissing her
pale cheek; “forgive my silly curiosity
—every shade of it has passed away.
I care not what mine the diamond comes
from, so long as I know by every test
that it is a diamond of the first water.
Come, put on your `real camel's hair,'
it is a cool morning, and my aunt is waiting
for us.”

The ladies joined Mrs. Westall in the
passage, and they proceeded together.

“Where is your son this morning, Mrs.

Westall?” asked Grace Campbell; “he
hardly deserves an inquiry, recreant
knight that he is.”

“Oh, say not so, Miss Campbell; he
is detained from us by a painful duty;
he has scarcely left Mr. Redwood's bedside
for the last two days—poor man:
Charles thinks him declining rapidly.”

“There is no doubt,” replied Miss
Campbell, “that he is sinking very fast.
I saw him yesterday sitting by his window;
I observed he had the ghastly paleness
of death, and though he bowed to
me with his usual courtesy, not a muscle
of his face moved.”

“I hope,” said Ellen—“I believe he
is not as sick as you imagine; he suffers
from extreme depression of spirits.”

“Yes,” said Miss Campbell; “but
this very depression aggravates his disease.
He is, as far as I can learn, in
the very depths of nervous misery. I
heard his insensible daughter say to
Fitzgerald yesterday, that she expected

her father would come out a methodist
at last, for she never went into his room
that she did not find him with a Bible in
his hands.”

“A Bible!” exclaimed Ellen—“God
be praised!”

Miss Campell caught the fine expression
of Ellen's upraised eye—“What a
little enthusiast you are, Ellen. You
would make an admirable lay-preacher;
but in the present rage for division of
labour, it is not proper to preach and
practise too; so you shall practise and
I will preach: shall we unite our talents
for the consolation of Mr. Redwood?”

“I should rejoice in any vocation
that could administer consolation to
him,” replied Ellen.

“No doubt, my dear,” said her lively
friend; “but pray keep your holy zeal
to yourself, for here comes Fenton, a
sworn disciple of Gall and Spurzheim,
and we shall have him exploring your
head for the `organ of veneration,' and

your heart for its correspondent qualities;
and then I am afraid I shall find to
my cost that he is without the `organ
of adhesiveness'—that, I suppose, may
stand for constancy in your bump metaphysics,
Fenton?”

“Yes, my dear Grace; and if I do
not possess it, and finely developed too,
I will sacrifice my theory to experience,
like a true philosopher.”

Miss Campbell was about to reply
when her aunt said, “you forget we
are waiting for you, Grace. Fenton,
hand Mrs. Westall to the carriage.
Give heaven all due thanks, Mrs.
Westall, that you have not a pair of
lovers on your hands.”

“I should be in a much more grateful
humour if I had,” replied Mrs. Westall,
looking kindly on Ellen.

Ellen would have comprehended Mrs.
Westall's meaning without the interpreting
glance that beamed on her from
Miss Campbell's eye, and she sprang

into the carriage after her friend, her
heart quite lightened of one burden that
had pressed sorely on it.

In the meantime Westall, abstracting
his mind as far as possible from his own
deeply interesting concerns, was performing
his benevolent duty at the bedside
of Mr. Redwood, whose decline
was indeed more rapid than even his
friend, who knew the feverish state of
his mind, could have anticipated. At
times, fixed in the gloom of deep despondency,
his mind seemed cut off
from all communion with the external
world: his appearance was that of a
man suffering from the frightful images
of a dream—his fixed and glassy eye—
the drops of sweat that stood thick on
his livid brow—his fixed posture—his
clenched hands—his whole attitude and
expression betrayed utter despair. At
these moments all Westall's efforts to
arouse him seemed not to make the
slightest impression on his senses—but,

suddenly, he would turn his eager eye
on his young friend, and listen to him as
if the sentence of life or death was on
his lips, while Westall set forth the arguments
for the truth of our religion with
which his familiarity with its evidences
furnished him, and suggested its hopes
and consolations. There were intervals
too, when Redwood felt as if he had
attained a living fountain—as if his spirit
was for ever emancipated from the bondage
of doubt and despondency, and
peace was commanded on his troubled
mind: but these intervals were short.
“Ah Westall,” he would exclaim, “I
am afraid to trust myself. I know not
how far my mind is enfeebled by disease.
I know not how far my faith and hope
may have their source in the strong
necessity I feel for present relief. The
objects of sense are becoming dim to
my sight—the cold shadows of death
are settling about me: my dear Charles,
in this frightful state, can I calmly investigate
the evidence of the truth of a
religion which promises pardon to the
penitent for the past—resurrection and
immortal life for the future?”

“But, my dear Sir,” replied Westall,
“there have been men, in intellectual
power the first of their species, who in
the full vigour of their faculties, with the
aids of learning and leisure, have calmly
pursued their honest inquiries, and have
received our blessed religion as the rule
of life—the victory over death.”

“True — true, Westall; but names
have now no authority with me. I have
been too long their dupe and victim.
Oh, how in my folly I have admired,
and praised, and almost worshipped
those leaders of our sect, who lived fearlessly,
and braved undaunted the terrors
of death! Now I see nothing in what
seemed to me their philosophic fortitude,
but an obstinate vanity, a pride of opinion,
a self-deifying, that made them
render homage to their own consequence,

when they should have sought
the God of their spirits.

“Westall, I shudder at the thought of
such a death as Gibbon's, Hume's, Voltaire's—if
their indifference to the future
was unaffected, what a voluntary degradation
to the level of the brute creation!
if pretended, what mad audacity!”

“But surely,” said Westall, “there is
honest scepticism in the world. There
are minds so constituted, or exposed to
such unhappy influences, that unbelief
becomes a condition almost irresistible.”

“Yes—it may be so,” replied Mr.
Redwood; “it must be so—but for my
own case, I have no such flattering
unction. Humbling as the confession
is, Charles,” he added, (taking up the
Bible which now was almost always in
his hands,) “till within this last month, I
have never read this book with seriousness—never
but from idle curiosity, or
to find exercise for my ingenuity, or
food for my ridicule: and now I would

give worlds for one year, nay, one month
of the life that in my folly and madness I
have cursed as a weary burden imposed
by arbitrary power, that my mind might
be opened to the light which has dawned
on it from that book—my heart reformed
by its rules—renewed by its
influence.”

“God grant you, my dear Sir,” said
Westall, fervently grasping Mr. Redwood's
hand, “not one but many years
to be blessed with its efficacy. But for
the present let me entreat you to dismiss
all agitating thoughts, and to make an
effort only for that resignation which is
the first principle of our religion, and
which will certainly produce inviolable
repose.”

The conversation of the gentlemen
was interrupted by the entrance of Miss
Redwood, who came to make her usual
morning visit. She lingered longer than
usual, and inquired with more particularity
into her father's symptoms. She

entreated him to send to town for a physician—examined
the vials on his table,
and expressed her fears that every thing
was not going on right. Her father observed
a good deal of agitation in her
manner—he thought it indicated unusual
solicitude, and he was touched by it.

“My dear Caroline,” he said, “all
might perhaps go right, if you would
come and help my kind friend Charles
to nurse me.”

“Lord, papa, I would with all my
heart: I should like to do any thing—
every thing for you; but you know I am
no nurse, and sickness is so frightful.”

“Frightful, indeed, Caroline; but a
child's tenderness might, I think, deprive
if of half its terrors.”

“Well, dear sir,” whispered Caroline,
slipping a letter into her father's hand,
“grant the petition this letter contains,
and I will stay day and night with you
for a fortnight to come.”

Mr. Redwood took the letter and detained

Caroline's hand, though she was
evidently impatient to withdraw. Westall
rose to leave the room. “Stay, I intreat
you, Westall, and you, Caroline—one
moment's patience, my child—I anticipate
the contents of this letter. Charles
must be the bearer of my answer to it:
you should have no reserves from him
Caroline, for, after I am gone, he must
be your protector till your marriage
transfers that duty to another.”

“I hope, Sir,” replied Miss Redwood,
with a look of anxiety and displeasure,
“that I shall be permitted to choose my
own protector.”

Westall walked to the extreme part of
the room to relieve Caroline as far as
possible from the embarrassment of his
presence, while her father read the letter,
which contained, as he expected, a declaration
of Captain Fitzgerald's love for
his daughter, and respect for himself,
written in good setterms, and according to
the most approved formularies, and concluding

with the modest request, authorized
by Miss Redwood, that Mr. Redwood
would consent to their immediate
union.

“Is it possible, Caroline,” said Mr.
Redwood, laying his finger on the last
request in the letter, “that you authorized
or approved this?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you would desert your sick—
your dying father, to go off with this
fellow—a stranger—a fortune-hunter, a
profligate!”

“Caroline's colour deepened at every
additional epithet her father bestowed
on her lover; she flashed an indignant
glance on Westall, as if she would have
said, `an enemy hath done this;' and
commanding her voice as well as she
was able, she replied, “you are very
unjust, papa; your mind has been set
against us; and you forget that if Captain
Fitzgerald or I had deserved your
cruel suspicions, we should have taken a

very different course; if your fears are
well-founded, a short time would leave
me at liberty to bestow my hand and
fortune when and where I please; but I
neither expected nor wished that liberty.
Fitzgerald, whatever you may think, is
a man of honour; and I am sure he is
sincere, when he says in his letter that
next to my affections, he desires your
favour.”

“No doubt, no doubt—my favour and
its consequences; but he shall have
neither—Westall, tell him so,” added
Mr. Redwood, raising his voice above
his daughter's, who was giving vent to
her feelings in hysterical sobs: “tell
Fitzgerald I will never consent to his
marriage with my daughter; tell him
that I am a dying man, but let him
found no hopes thereon, for I am resolved,
that if my daughter ever marries
him, she shall forfeit her fortune.”

“And who,” said Caroline, recovering
perfectly her self-possession, “who

shall receive it? the smooth pious Ellen
Bruce—or the kind friend Charles Westall
—or perhaps some missionary or tract
society?”

“Oh Caroline, Caroline!” exclaimed
her father, in sorrow more than in anger,
“God forgive you.” After a moment's
pause, he added, in a voice faultering
from extreme weakness, but thrilling
from the earnestness which deep feeling
gave to its tones, “oh, my child, give
me your confidence for the few days of
life that remain to me—think no more
of this man—he is not worthy of you—
he is not worthy the trust of any delicate
woman: give to my last hours, Caroline,
the consolation of a voluntary surrender
of your feelings and judgment to mine.”

Caroline made no reply.

“Speak for me, Westall,” continued
Mr. Redwood, raising himself, and leaning
his head against the post of his bedstead,
“speak for me, I have neither
voice nor strength.”

“It is unnecessary, Sir,” said Westall,
and he turned an appealing look on Caroline,
as he added, “Miss Redwood will
not, I am certain, resist what you have
already said.”

“And who, or what, Sir,” asked Caroline,
her spirit rising from the control of
her better feelings, “has given you a
right to interfere in my private concerns?”

“Your father.”

“My father, Sir, cannot delegate his
rights nor my obedience.”

“But your father, Caroline,” interposed
Mr. Redwood, “can make your
obedience a necessity—go, Westall, and
make my decision known to Fitzgerald.”

“Permit me, Sir, at least,” said Caroline,
“to be the bearer of your message.
It should, I think, be tempered by some
friendliness in the messenger.”

“Go then, child—and if you have no
regard for me, respect yourself; open
your eyes to the real views of this man,

and dismiss him for ever from your
thoughts.”

Caroline deigned no reply, but left the
room, her face indicating the determination
of an imperious spirit.

“Oh Westall, Westall!” exclaimed
Redwood, “from what misery I might
have saved myself and my child by the
timely performance of my duties to her.”

He seemed for a few moments lost in
sorrowful reflections, and then starting
up, he asked Westall if there were yet
no letters from Mrs. Harrison.

Westall, whose ear had been quickened
by his impatience, said he trusted
there was a letter at the office, for he
had just heard the horn of the post-coach
as it descended the eastern mountain.

“Go then, dear Charles, and get the
letter—the warrant for your happiness;
and God grant that I may see the best
blessings of his providence resting on
you before I die.”

After a long interview with her lover,

which was spent chiefly in listening to
passionate declarations of disinterested
affection, which she more than half believed,
Miss Redwood retired to her
room in great agitation of spirits and
summoned her servant. When Lilly appeared,
she received a communication
which rendered it necessary that she
should make new arrangements of her
mistress's baggage—trunks and bandboxes
were emptied on to the bed,
chairs, and floor, and from the chaos of
fine clothes, the mistress and maid proceeded
to make such selections as their
taste and discretion dictated.

Neither the principal nor agent
seemed to possess the calmness necessary
to the execution of these sudden
preparations. Indeed it was difficult to
say which was most flurried with her
own individual purposes and expectations.
Lilly on sundry pretexts went
often out of the room, and always returned
in a humour to deserve the pettish

rebuke which she received from
Caroline. But the rebuke was no
sooner given than retracted; for Caroline,
afraid of the consequences of provoking
the girl, conciliated her by some
petty gift—some olive-branch symbol,
which mistresses and maids both comprehend.
Those only who understand
the momentous and intricate details of
a fine lady's wardrobe, will believe that
the remainder of the day was consumed
in packing a trunk of ordinary dimensions.

Caroline then proceeded herself to
arrange her dressing-case: after having
stowed away compactly its usual apparatus,
she inclosed the treasure rifled
from Ellen in a sheet of paper, carefully
sealed it, and then placed it in the dressing-case.
She laid in her purse also,
locked it, and gave the key to Lilly.

“Now Lilly,” she said, “I believe
every thing is ready. I trust in heaven
we shall return to-morrow; but if we

do not, we have secured every thing of
value.” Miss Redwood looked at her
watch; “it is time to go,” she said,
hurrying on her hat and shawl: “do
you, Lilly, drag the trunk to the farther
stair-case, you'll find a man there ready
to receive it—then return and take the
dressing-case in your own hands—remember,
girl, my purse is in it, and I
had rather you should lose your own
soul than that any thing should happen
to it—but stop, let me see, cannot I
take it myself; just tuck it under my
shawl—no one will observe it.”

Lilly gave the dressing-case to her
mistress: “but Lord bless me, Miss
Caroline,” she said, “it makes you such
a figure—just look in the glass.”

Caroline looked, but for once her appearance
seemed to be a secondary
object.

“I will take it myself, Lilly,” she said,
“it's nonsense to stand here deliberating
about it. I shall only carry it to

the door, and then give it to Captain
Fitzgerald.”

Caroline opened the door—Lilly laid
her hand on it, “Now, Miss Cary,” she
said beseechingly, “do give it to me for
once. It will look so unbecoming for
the captain to be seen carrying your
dressing-case—Lord help us, such a footman's
job!”

“Hush, girl, I must go.”—“You may
go, Miss Cary, but for goodness' sake
give me the dressing-case—why I shall
whip down the hill, across the fields, and
be at the carriage before you.”

“Take it then, you fool,” said Caroline:
and she resigned the dressing-case, and
turned hastily away. She stole along
the passage with the silent tread of a
culprit: when she came to her father's
door a pang of remorse, probably aided
by an emotion of filial feeling, checked
her footsteps, `he looked so terribly
sick this morning,' she said mentally—
`Good heaven! should I never see him

again.' She lifted her hand to knock for
admittance, when she was arrested by a
voice that alarm just raised above a
whisper—“Miss Redwood! my dear
Miss Redwood! what are you doing?—
For heaven's sake no more delay.” The
thought of her father vanished from her
mind—she bounded forward—gave her
arm to Fitzgerald, and they passed together
unobserved out of the house.

The last ray of summer's long twilight
was not quite lost in the shadows of the
evening, and the fugitives prudently selected
the most unfrequented road, by
which to descend to the plain below,
where a carriage was in waiting for
them.

The poets say, `the course of true love
never doth run smooth,' and so thought
Miss Redwood, when half way down the
hill she and her companion were encountered
by Ellen and Westall. — Westall
had, early in the day, obtained possession
of the looked-for letter from Lansdown,

and having awaited Ellen's return,
till patience had had her perfect work,
and would work no longer, he had sallied
forth in the expectation of meeting the
returning party, as he did at no great
distance.

They had been delayed by an accident
that had lamed one of their horses, a
circumstance that afforded a pretext to
Westall to propose to the young ladies
to quit the carriage and walk up the hill;
and he, leaving Miss Campbell with
her natural escort Fenton, proceeded
with Ellen, and for a very good reason
had preferred, as lovers are apt to do,
without any reason at all, the most retired
road.

As soon as they were removed from
observation, he produced Mrs. Harrison's
letter, and Ellen was attempting to read
it by the feeble light, when they were
met by Miss Redwood and Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald internally cursed the unlucky
encounter, and Caroline drew her bonnet

closer; but any apprehensions they
might feel seemed quite unnecessary,
for Ellen did not raise her eyes from the
letter, and Westall only noticed them by
slightly touching his hat, being at the
moment too much engrossed with his
own affairs to have any suspicions excited
in relation to theirs. They therefore
proceeded unmolested to the place
where the carriage was stationed, a servant
let down the steps, and Fitzgerald
was hurrying Caroline into it, when
she started back, exclaiming, “Good
heavens! Lilly is not here—I cannot go
till she comes.”

The servant who had brought the
trunk, on being inquired of, said that the
girl had left him with the declaration
that she would follow immediately.
“Then,” said Caroline, “there is no
alternative—we must wait—I cannot and
will not go without her.”

It certainly was not Fitzgerald's cue
as yet to cross the will or whims of Miss

Redwood, and he submitted with the
best grace he could assume. A servant
was sent back to the Springs to hasten
the faithless girl, and returned after an
interval that had seemed to the anxious
and impatient lovers interminable, with
the perplexing information that Lilly
was no where to be found.

Caroline was in despair, and Captain
Fitzgerald, impatient at her manifesting
a degree of feeling which he deemed out
of all proportion to the importance of
the occasion, could scarcely curb his
displeasure while he urged the necessity
of their proceeding immediately.

“We are mad to delay thus, my dear
Miss Redwood,” said he; “you are,
no doubt, missed before this time: that
meddling fellow, Westall, will be sure to
tell your father that he saw us: our
plans will be counteracted—my happiness
sacrificed. The girl is doubtless
detained by some trifling accident; or
if by her own fault, her insolence shall

be chastised to-morrow—for to-morrow,
my dear Miss Redwood, we shall beyond
all question, return.”

“Think you so—are you sure of it,
Captain Fitzgerald?”

“Absolutely sure—it cannot be otherwise.”

“Then order the coachman to drive
on,” said Caroline, sinking back into the
carriage in a state of mind ill suited to
the errand on which she was going.

In vain Fitzgerald essayed to soothe,
to argue, to flatter her into her usual
spirits. Her imagination pictured a
dying unforgiving father: the beseeching
pathetic tones of his voice, to which
in the morning she had refused to listen,
rang in her ears like a funeral knell: she
was now tortured with the fear that
Lilly had been treacherous, and now with
the possibility that the secrets of the
dressing-case might be accidentally revealed;
and when she arrived at the
place of their destination, a village inn

a few miles from Lebanon, her feelings
were wrought up to a pitch of excitement
little short of frenzy.

Fitzgerald ascertained that the pastor
of the village was absent, but that fortunately
there had just arrived at the inn
an itinerant clergyman, who, to use his
own homely phrase, was `candidating
about the country,' and though a very
inferior member of a most respectable
body, he was regularly licensed, and
was therefore legally qualified to perform
the marriage ceremony. Some
time elapsed before Miss Redwood became
so much tranquillized that Fitzgerald
deemed it prudent to expose her
to the observation of a third person.

She at last yielded, partly to the influence
of her lover, and partly to the
propriety—the now inevitable necessity
— of controlling her feelings. The
clergyman was summoned—he took his
station—appointed to the parties theirs,

and then drawing a hymn-book from
his pocket, he said, `it would be pleasing
if the gentleman and lady would
commence the present solemn exercise
by singing a hymn.'

“Singing a hymn!” exclaimed Fitzgerald:
“Is that a necessary part of
the marriage service in this country,
Sir?”

“Oh no, Sir, not necessary, but very
suitable. I don't know what the custom
may be here in York state, but in Connecticut
it is quite customary to close a
marriage opportunity with a singing exercise.
I thought upon the present interesting
occasion it would be best to
begin with the singing, as the young
lady looks a little flurried, and might
not be able to unite with us after the solemnity
is concluded.”

“We will dispense with the hymn,
Sir,” said Fitzgerald, smothering an imprecation
on the whole body of puritanical

parsons. “Please to proceed to
do your office, and with all possible
brevity.”

The clergyman, however, had quite
too much respect for professional details
to comply with the last injunction. He
began with a dissertation on the happiness
of the married state; he then proceeded
to an exhortation to the faithful
performance of its duties, and closed
his prefatory `exercise' with a prayer,
which it is to be feared failed to produce
one sentiment of devotion in the parties.

The prayer finished, he began the
service that was to bind Caroline indissolubly
to Fitzgerald, when the whole
party was startled by loud and reiterated
knocking at the outer door.

Fitzgerald's conscience foreboded evil:
he quitted Caroline's side, and sprang
towards the door to turn the key; but
no key, no bolt, no means of fastening
were to be found. He returned to Caroline;
she was trembling excessively; he

took her hand, and whispered, “for
heaven's sake be composed—what should
we fear from an interruption?” and then
addressing the clergyman, he said, somewhat
sternly, “proceed, Sir, to your
duty.”

But the good meek man was not at all
qualified for so energetic a measure,
and while he hesitated, the noise in the
passage increased. The intruder had
made good his entrance, and was in an
altercation with the landlord. The declaration
“I must see them, Sir, and
that instantly,” reached the ears of the
lovers, and was directly followed by the
throwing open of the door, and the appearance
of Charles Westall.

“Why this impertinent intrusion,
Sir?” said Fitzgerald, advancing to
Westall with an air of defiance.

“This is no time, Captain Fitzgerald,”
replied Westall, quite unmoved, “for us
to bandy insults; our quarrel, if we have
any, must be deferred; my business is

with Miss Redwood, and admits of no
delay. Miss Redwood,” he added, turning
to Caroline, and taking her hand, “I
beseech you to return with me to your
father. I have left him in a state that
precludes all hope of his life; that precludes,
I fear, the hope that he will even
recover his consciousness.”

“Then of what use, Sir, can Miss
Redwood's return be?” interposed Fitzgerald.

“Of what use!—I appeal to you Miss
Redwood: your father may be conscious
of your presence; an act of duty and
affection may soften the anguish of the
dying hour; and it may, Miss Redwood,
be a source of consolation for yourself,
which, believe me, you will need.”

“I will go with you, Mr. Westall,”
replied Caroline, in a faultering voice,
and she threw on her hat and shawl,
which were lying beside her, and offered
her arm to Westall.

Fitzgerald thrust himself between

Westall and Caroline, and seizing her
arm turned fiercely to Westall, “Stand
off, Sir!” said he; “I have a right to
Miss Redwood. Miss Redwood, you
have plighted your faith to me; you cannot—shall
not leave me till the priest has
done his office.”

“Captain Fitzgerald,” said Westall,
“you need not apprehend any interference
with your rights: matters have
gone too far between you and Miss Redwood
to be retraced: all that I ask—all
that I wish is, that you will not attempt
to deter her from doing an imperious
duty, which omitting to do will disgrace
her eternally.”

Fitzgerald was softened by the admission
of what he feared would be a contested
right, he relinquished Caroline's
arm, and permitted Westall, without
any farther opposition, to lead her to his
carriage.

Westall then returned for a moment
to Fitzgerald, to beseech him to take all

feasible measures to prevent the publicity
of the evening's expedition; if not
prevented, he thought it might be deferred
till Miss Redwood had left the
Springs, and she thus saved from the disgrace
to which a lady is always exposed
by a clandestine affair. He then left
Fitzgerald to take such means as his
own prudence should suggest to effect
this desirable purpose, and proceeded
with Caroline, as expeditiously as possible,
to the Springs, where they arrived
between twelve and one o'clock. Caroline
fortunately did not encounter any
person on her way to her own room,
whither she went to await the summons
which Westall promised to send her as
soon as he could ascertain her father's
present condition.

It may be necessary to account for
what appears to have been very impolitic
haste on the part of Caroline and her
lover. The threatening symptoms of
Mr. Redwood's increasing illness, certainly

warranted the natural hope of
Fitzgerald, that Miss Redwood's parent
did not possess the gift of immortality,
which impatient fortune-hunters are apt
to attribute to rich old fathers — and
the constant and even growing favour of
the beautiful daughter, authorized the
confident expectation which the gallant
Captain indulged, of a successful termination
of his campaign; when, lo! one
of those adverse accidents, that happen
alike in love and war, occurred to frustrate
his plan of operations: this was
none other than the receipt of a letter
from his commanding officer, containing
an order to rejoin his regiment; and the
information that the regiment was ordered
to a station in the West Indies.

The Captain perceived, at once, that
in this exigency a coup de main was the
only mode of extrication from his embarrassments.
He immediately informed
Miss Redwood of his recall; but as he
knew that the young lady had set her

heart on a voyage to Europe, he prudently
deferred to a subsequent opportunity
the communication of the appointment
of his regiment to the West India
station. It had become necessary to
make a premature application to Mr.
Redwood: Caroline, as has been seen,
unable to resist the pleadings of her
lover, consented to be the medium of it.
Mr. Redwood's decided answer precluded
the hope that he would change his
mind. It was impossible for the Captain
to await the lingering termination of his
sickness, and the hacknied procedure of
a clandestine marriage was the last and
only resort.

Few fathers are inexorable, and nothing,
as Fitzgerald thought, was more
improbable than that Mr. Redwood,
with a spirit subdued by a mortal sickness,
would withhold his forgiveness
from his only child; and, in the very
worst supposeable case, (for which Caroline
had provided by the arrangement of

her baggage) the affairs of the heiress
might be committed to an agent.

Thus had the Captain, after a survey
of the whole ground, with the prudence
of a skilful officer, provided for every
contingency but precisely that one which
for the present suspended his victory.