 | CHAPTER XXV. Redwood |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
Forth from the darkest hour of night!”
Young Lady's Scrapbook.
We must now return to relate the incidents
that had occurred while Caroline
and her lover were pursuing their clandestine
expedition. Ellen and Westall
were left slowly retracing their way to
the Springs, and poring over Mrs. Harrison's
letter. Whatever might have
been the excellent old lady's epistolary
talents, Westall certainly thought her
letter a chef d'œuvre when he read the
following passage:—
“I have no hesitation, my beloved
Ellen, in giving you a decision on the
subject you have referred to me. You
patience, and I am sure your
fortitude will be equal to the issue, whatever
it may be. I see no reason for
delaying one moment to penetrate the
mystery of your birth. I have, as you
well know, admired and encouraged
your fidelity to the letter of your mother's
dying injunctions; and I do not
see that you depart from its spirit now.
The box was not to be opened till you
had arrived at the age of twenty-one,
except in case you should previously
make a matrimonial engagement. The
engagement made, you were at liberty
to explore the box: but your own delicate
scruples (which I perfectly approve)
induce you to defer your engagement,
till you ascertain what bearing
this long dreaded, long desired secret
may have on your history. Though I am
convinced that whatever discovery you
may make will not affect the wishes or
decision of your lover, yet you are right
to yourself.
“I do not ask for riches or honours
for you, my dear Ellen, but my earnest
desire is, that you may have sprung
from virtuous parents, whose memory
you may cherish with an honest pride,
and to a reunion with whom you may
look forward with eager and well-founded
hope: whatever may be the event, do
not delay to inform me of it; remember
that I must weep or rejoice with
you; that the light which shines on you,
will send its cheering ray to my old
heart; or if there must be clouds in
your heaven, that they will overshadow
me too—for we have the same horizon.”
Mrs. Harrison's advice was most acceptable
and most gratefully received,
as advice always is, when it happens to
coincide with the strongest inclinations
of the heart. When the lovers reached
the house, they heard the bell ringing
which announced the tea hour, and perceived
to the tea-room.
As they ascended the steps of the
piazza, Westall said, “let us improve
the present opportunity, Ellen—the east
parlour is vacant, and for a short time
at least we shall be in no danger of
interruption there. I will order candles
while you go for your treasure.”
Ellen assented—left him, and re-appeared
in a few moments with the box
in her hand: her cheeks were alternately
deeply flushed and deadly pale.
Westall understood too well the source
whence her feelings flowed to attempt
to check them. Ellen tried to unlock
the box, but she could not—she shivered
with emotion. “Do you open it,” she
said, giving it to Westall, “for I cannot.”
Westall as he took the box from her,
perceived that her hands were as cold as
marble. “Had you not better defer
this, Ellen?” he asked.
“No, no, I am prepared for any
thing now,” she replied, sinking on her
knees before the table on which Westall
had placed the box.
Westall turned the key, and disclosed
to her eager eye the interior, containing
nothing but a small miniature case.
The bright glow of expectation faded
from Ellen's cheek, “Oh my mother!
my mother!” she exclaimed, in a voice
in which bitter disappointment and tender
expostulation mingled.
Westall took her clasped hands between
his—both were silent for a few
moments: he then said, “My dear
Ellen, do not distress yourself thus—
have not your fears vanished with your
hopes? this unforeseen result pains you,
but is it not better, far better, than much
that you have apprehended? and severe
as your disappointment is, Ellen, will
you not be consoled by the devotion of
my life to you?”
Ellen only replied by laying her head
on her hands and weeping bitterly.
Westall proceeded to urge every consolation
which the stimulated tenderness
of a lover could suggest, but Ellen was
deaf to all that he said. It seemed as if
she had been that moment torn from the
bosom of her mother, and was left alone
in the universe.
“Oh, it was then an artifice,” she
said: “Caroline Redwood spoke the
cruel truth. I could have borne any
thing but this,” she continued, with an
impetuosity that startled Westall—“for
this I was not prepared.”
“My mother! must I never vindicate
—must I never speak your name!”
Again and again she took up the box,
examined it without and within, and
dropping it, exclaimed, “oh my mother,
is this all?”
There was something so sacred in
Ellen's grief—something so touching in
language of her beautiful countenance,
that even her lover, whose
heart vibrated to every pulsation of hers,
was compelled to silence.
Mechanically he took up the miniature
case, and passing his eye over it, he perceived
a fragment of paper adhering to
the edge of it, on which was written in a
delicate female hand, “From my”—
the remainder of the sentence had been
torn off. It occurred to Westall at once
that there might have been some foul
play, and he was on the point of suggesting
his conjecture to Ellen, when
they were both startled by some one
tapping at the door, and then impatiently
opening it.
“Pardon my intrusion,” said Miss
Campbell, instinctively shrinking back
and then advancing, “my errand admits
of no ceremony—Mr. Westall, you must
go immediately to Mr. Redwood, his servant
has been anxiously looking for you
and sends to entreat you not to delay a
moment to come to him.”
“I cannot go now,” said Westall,
insensible for the moment to any suffering
but Ellen's.
“You must go,” said Miss Campbell,
with an imperative decision, which indicated
that she had more reason for her
urgency than her words expressed, and
Westall whispering an entreaty to Ellen
that he might be permitted to see her
again in the course of the evening, left
the ladies to witness a scene of more
remediless grief than Ellen's. Miss
Campbell remained for a few moments
an embarrassed spectator of Ellen's
emotion: it surprised and affected her
the more, because there was in Ellen's
ordinary manner such an instinctive
shrinking from the display, or the exposure
of her feelings. Grace was not
however of a temper to remain for any
length of time a silent or inactive observer
a few moments she kindly passed her
arm round Ellen and said, “what rude
storm has assailed you, my dear Ellen?”
Ellen made no effort to reply, and
after a little pause her friend added,
“though you will not let me feel with
you, you must permit me to think for
you, Ellen—you are exposed to intrusion
here. Let me go with you to your
room—I will stipulate to make no demands—no
inquiries—only suffer me to
remain with you till you are more composed.”
Ellen returned the pressure of her
friend's hand in token of her acquiescence,
and taking up once more her box
with a heart-bursting sigh, she retreated
to her own apartment with Miss Campbell;
and there, after having recovered
from the first shock of her disappointment,
she rewarded the delicate kindness
and affectionate interest of her
friend by confiding to her the few particulars
the final utter demolition of them.
And now we must leave her, listening
to such consolation as the inventive
mind of her friend could suggest, while
we follow Charles Westall to the apartment
of Mr. Redwood, whom he found
walking to and fro in the greatest agitation,
supported by his servant.
At the sight of Westall he sunk into a
chair, exclaiming, “it is all over, Charles
—she has gone—she has left me to die
here—gone without one parting word—
misguided miserable girl!”
The recollection of his meeting with
Miss Redwood darted across Westall's
mind, and he comprehended at once
Mr. Redwood's emotion and the language
he held.
“Impossible, Sir!” he said, “she cannot
have gone without leaving some explanation—some
communication for you
—go Ralph, and find Miss Redwood's
servant, and bid her come here.”
“Find Lilly!” replied the man, “I
might as well look for the wind that
blew yesterday, Mr. Westall; Lilly has
gone faster one way than Miss Caroline
has the other.”
“Lilly gone—and not with her mistress?
Do you then, Ralph, go yourself
to Miss Redwood's room, and look
on her dressing-table; she may possibly
have left a letter there for her father.”
“And of what avail, Charles, if she
has?” asked Mr. Redwood—“what explanation
can soften the terrible truth?
but go, Ralph, go.
The man obeyed, but not till he had
whispered to Westall, “keep a steady
eye on master: the fever betimes mounts
to his head, and then he is raving.”
The man's apprehensions seemed
quite superfluous, for excepting a few
rational exclamations, such as “poor—
poor girl!” “Oh God, thou art most
just!” “Charles, this last blow is too
much for me!” Mr. Redwood remained
in his hand a large pacquet, which he
said `might be for master, though there
was no writing on the top of it.'
Mr. Redwood snatched it from him
and broke the seal. As he unfolded the
pacquet, a miniature rolled from it on
to the floor, and Westall picked it up.
The image of the only relict in Ellen's
box was still vivid in Westall's mind,
and it was not strange that he should
have instinctively compared the dimensions
of the miniature with the case in
Ellen's possession, and hardly conscious
of the several links in the chain of his
thoughts, he turned the miniature to examine
the back of it. The upper part
of the paper that had been pasted over
it, was torn off, and on that remaining
was traced in the same hand-writing
that was on Ellen's fragment, “beloved
husband to his faithful Mary.”
A faint light dawned on Westall's
mind, when his attention was withdrawn
“In the name of heaven,” he said,
“what does this mean? how did Caroline
get possession of these papers?”
and he held up the certificate of his marriage
with Mary Erwine, and the letter
directed “to my child.” “Oh, Charles,”
he added, “my head—my head;” and
he pressed both hands to his head as if
his thoughts were bursting it. “Oh
memory—memory!—think for me—tell
me what these mean!”
“Be composed Sir,—I beseech you,”
said Westall, in the calmest tone he
could assume: then opening the letter
he glanced his eye rapidly over it, refolded
it and paused; he could not
speak: his first impulse was to fly to
Ellen and tell her that Mr. Redwood
was her father. The fearful wildness of
Mr. Redwood's eye still fixed inquiringly
on him, recalled him to the present
necessity. The discovery must be first
other consideration in his anxiety to
make the communication in such a way
as not to destroy the equipoise of Mr.
Redwood's mind, which seemed now
utterly unable to sustain any additional
excitement.
He still hesitated—it appeared that
Mr. Redwood understood his apprehensions,
for grasping his hand, he said,
“Speak quickly, Charles, while I can
comprehend you.”
“Be patient, Sir—be calm, I entreat
you,” replied Westall; “there is a blessing—an
unspeakable blessing in reserve
for you—this letter is from Mary Erwine—from
your wife to her child.”
“To her child, Charles!—you perplex
me—you disturb me; she had no child.”
“Yes, Mr. Redwood,” replied Westall,
almost choking with his own emotions,
“her child, and God be praised,
that child lives—lives to love and to
bless you.”
“What is it you mean, Westall? explain
yourself,” said Mr. Redwood,
covering his face with his hands.
Westall described as concisely as possible
the condition in which he had
found the box left by Ellen's mother;
and he read aloud some passages of the
letter which placed, beyond the possibility
of doubt, the fact that Mr. Redwood's
wife left a child, and that that
child was Ellen Bruce.
Westall did not deem it necessary to
allude to the mode by which these testimonials
must have passed into Caroline's
possession.
Mr. Redwood listened in breathless
silence, till Westall had concluded.
Not an exclamation, not a sound
escaped from him, save the audible
beating of his heart. After a few
moments he uncovered his face, a
smile passed over it as wild and transient
as the flashings of lightning on the
dark cloud. “Send for Ellen,” he said,
the effort to speak slowly and calmly
with me, Charles—I must not be left
alone: the light burns dimly here,” he
added, pressing his hand to his head.
“Do not send for her now,” said
Westall, “give this night to tranquillity
—to happy anticipations. To-morrow
you will be better prepared to see her.”
“To-morrow! now or never, Charles;
send without one moment's delay.”
Westall took out his pencil to write a
note to Ellen. Mr. Redwood stopped
him, “No, my dear Charles,” he said,
“go yourself—the poor child will need
some preparation—she will need your
support. I shall do well enough—I am
better—much better now.”
Westall went and returned with Ellen,
in a space of time that seemed brief,
even to Mr. Redwood. Ellen was as
pale as marble; but a celestial joy shone
in her face—she sprang towards her father:
he rose, stretched out his arms to
receive her, and folding her in them,
they wept together.
After a moment he started back, and
gazed wildly on Ellen. “Ellen Bruce, my
child?” he said—“is it not all a dream?
Speak to me Ellen—call me father—forgive
me in your mother's name.”
Ellen's resolution forsook her: alarmed,
trembling, and weeping, she sunk on
her knees; her father shook his head,
and would have stooped to raise her, but
utterly exhausted by the conflict of his
feelings, he leaned on Westall's shoulder.
A single look from Westall roused all
Ellen's energies; she sprang to her father's
aid, and assisted Westall to lay
him on the bed.
“He is insensible for the moment,”
whispered Westall, “but he will soon
recover his consciousness, and then, my
dear Ellen, his life—more than life, his
reason will depend on your fortitude and
calmness.”
Westall then gave into Ellen's hands
the miniature, the certificate, and the
letter—the last she kissed again and again
not daring then to trust herself to look in
it, she placed it in her bosom.
She then took her station beside her
father, and watched with inexpressible
anxiety every variation of his changeful
countenance. He soon recovered sufficiently
to speak, but his first words confirmed
their worst fears; for they were
the ravings of delirium. He laughed
and wept alternately—he called on Ellen
—on her mother—on Westall; but most
frequently and with most impetuosity,
he demanded Caroline. He seemed to
imagine that she was on the brink of a
precipice, and to feel that he vainly
sought to rescue her.
So much did his madness appear to
be stimulated by this fancy, that after a
short consultation Westall and Ellen determined
that an effort should be made
to induce Miss Redwood to return immediately,
to try what effect her presence
might produce on her father.
the destination of the fugitives; and
having succeeded in insinuating himself
into the confidence of one of Fitzgerald's
agents, he returned in a short time with
the information, that they might probably
be found at a village inn, at no
great distance from the Springs.
Westall's next care was to determine
to whom he should apply to undertake
so delicate an embassy, and while he
was deliberating, Ellen said, “go yourself,
I beseech you, Mr. Westall. Ralph
and I can do every thing here, and you,
and you alone can persuade Miss Redwood
to return—to return,” she added,
with a faltering voice, “before it is too
late.”
“Alas! my dear Ellen,” replied Westall,
glancing his eye at Mr. Redwood,
who after a paroxysm of raving had sunk
on his pillow, pale and exhausted, “it
is I fear already too late.”
“Oh, do not say so—it may not be—”
with a look of great anxiety, then turning
suddenly to Westall, “we may at
least,” she said, “save Caroline from
the disgrace that must fall on her, if it is
known that she has deserted her father
in this extremity.”
“Generous being!” exclaimed Westall,
“you shall be obeyed, but I cannot
leave you here alone.”
“Ask Grace Campbell then, to come
to me—but no,” she added, looking towards
the bed and observing that her
father was sinking to sleep, “perfect
quiet will be best—now go, and God
speed you.”
Westall departed, admiring with enthusiasm
(as lovers are wont to admire the
virtues that belong to the objects of their
tenderness) the self-command of Ellen,
and the generosity with which she could
forego, at this crisis of her life, the indulgence
of her sensibilities, to consider
how she might preserve the honor of
on her.
The moment Westall left her, Ellen
sent the servant into an adjoining room
that she might avoid the risk of breaking
her father's slumbers by the slightest
noise. Hour after hour she sate on his
bedside, gently chafing his icy hands,
wiping the cold dew from his forehead,
and noting every breath he struggled to
inhale, and every convulsive motion of
his distorted features. At length his
feverishness abated — he ceased to be
restless—the firm grasp of his hand relaxed
— a gentle warmth was diffused
throughout his system, and his respiration
became quiet as an infant's.
Ellen raised her hands and eyes in
silent and devout thankfulness, and withdrawing
from the bed, she took from her
bosom her mother's letter, and opened
it with a mingled feeling of awe, of apprehension,
and of tenderness.
Could it be otherwise? it was the record
mother first to be learned in the presence
of her dying father. Repeatedly she
fixed her eyes on the letter, but they
were so dimmed with her tears, that she
could not distinguish one word from
another. At last an intense interest in
her mother's fate subdued every other
feeling, and she succeeded in reading the
letter which will be found in the next
chapter.
| CHAPTER XXV. Redwood | |