University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

It is probably well known to most of
our readers, that Lebanon is a favourite
resort during the hot months. It lies on
a post-road from Boston to Albany—is
of easy access from New York—and
from the beauty of its scenery, the salubrity
of its air, and its proximity to Saratoga
springs, attracts, for a short time
at least, the throng of visitors to those
celebrated waters. The mineral spring
that is nominally the chief attraction
of the place, should not be forgotten;

if not as efficacious as its neighbours
would fain believe, it is at least innocent—no
one can forget it who has seen
the bright waters for ever bubbling
up from the bosom of the earth, and
admired the sycamore tree that stands
beside the sparkling fountain like its
guardian genius, and drops its protecting
branches over it.

Our travellers were fortunate in the
time of their arrival: large parties had
left the place the preceding day, and
they were able to obtain two apartments
in Mr. Hull's well-known house;
one was assigned to Ellen, and the
other Emily shared with her relation
and true friend Deborah.

Ellen, wearied as she was, did not
retire to bed until she had written a
note to the `elder sister,' containing
all the particulars of Emily's distressful
experiences and providential rescue;
nor till she had obtained a promise from
her landlord that he would despatch

it with the first ray of light. The commission
was faithfully executed, as
might have been expected from his
obliging character.

Even after Ellen had performed this
duty, it was long ere she could compose
her mind to sleep. Relieved of all
anxiety concerning Emily, her thoughts
reverted to the friends she had left at
Eton; hovered about Mr. Redwood
with an undefinable interest, and finally
concentrated on Charles Westall. All
the circumstances of her brief intercourse
with him passed in revision before
her; and she dwelt on each particular
over and over again, as a miser counts
his treasures—the cherished recollections
of memory gave place to the (perhaps
unbidden) visions of hope, and all
at last faded away like the bright tints
of the evening cloud, and she sunk into
profound repose.

Deborah's weariness prevailed over
the force of long habit, and neither she

nor her protegees awoke till a late hour
in the morning, when, in compliance
with Ellen's persuasions, she ordered
breakfast in her room: after partaking it
with her usual appetite, she left her
less enterprising companions, and sallied
forth to reconnoitre the premises, and
to try the effect of bathing on her rheumatism.

Neither Ellen nor Emily felt any disposition
in the present state of their
minds to remain at Lebanon. Emily's
affections, released from the captivity of
an imaginary duty, had bounded forward
to their natural destination; and
Ellen was impatient to accelerate her
return to Mrs. Harrison, to whom alone
she could unburthen her heart, but they
both knew that Deborah had resolved
to remain at the springs for some days,
and that her resolution once formed,
was quite as immutable as the laws of
the Medes and Persians. They felt too
that after the great inconveniences the

good woman had endured, and the essential
services she had rendered them,
there would be a species of ingratitude
in opposing her wishes. Ellen had not
a nature to resist the persuasion of such
a motive: the gentle Emily never resisted
any thing, and they both prepared
to appear with the best grace they
could before the gay and the fashionable
under the conduct of Miss Deborah.
Emily's life had been too retired and
humble to expose her to any mortification
from the appearance and manner of
her chaperone, yet she shrunk with
natural timidity from the possibility that
her history might be known, and that
she might therefore be exposed to the
curious gaze and free remarks of strangers.
But Ellen encouraged her with
the assurance that as they were all
strangers, there was no clue to the discovery
that she was the little runaway
shaker, and having made her doff her
shaker dress, and put on a simple mourning
frock which she had provided for
her, she re-modelled her hair—formed
some becoming curls on her temples—
and imparted such a wordly tastefulness
to her appearance, that the simple
girl confessed herself so completely metamorphosed,
that she hardly recognised
her own image.

As neatness and simplicity were the
presiding graces at Ellen's toilette, its
duties were very expeditiously despatched.
Happily for her, since she
did not possess the gifts of fortune, the
loveliness of her face and figure made
her superior to her favours or arts, at
least so thought Deborah, as well as
more competent judges; for when she
re-entered after her perambulations, she
said (the only speech of hers on record
that betrays any femality,) she did not
believe the United States could produce
two girls “prettier to look at.”
Ellen felt some consternation when she
added, that “though she was not much

of a dresser, she liked to rig out suitably
to her voyage; and as she had observed
by the ladies she had met, that Lebanon
was a dressy place, her young folks
should not be ashamed of her.”

She then proceeded to unpack her
trunk, and drew from its stores, a `lutestring
changeable,' a manufacture of the
olden time, in which the colours were
skilfully combined, to produce a constant
alternation from one hue to another;
the fancy of Deborah's youth had
been orange and purple, and as it
was her pride and boast that she never
altered her apparel in subservience to
the whims of fashion, the `changeable'
that had remained through all chances
and changes unchanged, and always
“like a robe canonical, ne'er seen, but
wondered at,” was once more dragged
forth to the light of day, and its antique
and unbending dignity exposed to the
levity of modern gossamer belles.

Ellen watched Deborah with dismay,

while she drew on the closely fitted
sleeve, and laced the formal waist, and
adroitly placed her gold beads over her
kerchief that their light might not be
hid. After her first and brief sacrifice
to the graces, turning to Ellen, she said,
with a complacency that her young
friend could not but pity, “now I think
I am fit company for any body—what
do you say, Ellen?”

“Fit company for any body you
always are, Miss Deborah,” replied Ellen,
“without any outward adorning; but
I think your dress admits of one improvement;”
and while she made an effort to
restrain the smile that in spite of her
hovered on her lips, she persuaded
Deborah that a lace shawl, which she
dexterously threw over her shoulders,
improved her appearance. Deborah
assented, and the dinner bell ringing,
our heroine, with the courage of a
martyr, slipped her arm into one of
Deborah's, while Emily, in happy ignorance

of the ludicrous antiquity of her
friend's costume, took the other. Thus
they entered the dining room where the
company was already assembled, and
having taken their seats, were precisely
at that point of momentary silence that
precedes the general onset. The rustling
of Deborah's silk attracted some
observation, but it was not till she
moved to the head of the table, and took
possession of a seat that had been reserved
for a gentleman who usually
occupied it, while Ellen and Emily slid
into vacant chairs on each side of her,
that every eye was fixed upon the novel
group. Deborah's figure, in her usual
apparel, was rather grotesque, but not
sufficiently so to provoke or excuse
laughter—she would have looked between
Ellen and Emily like the gnarled
oak, somewhat scathed by time and
accident, but still respectable in its
hardy age, whose firm protection the
tender vines had sought, and bloomed
around it in all the freshness of youth
and beauty. But the yellow and purple
changeable was irresistibly ludicrous.
Some lively girls who sat near the head
of the table began a titter: the infection
was caught by their neighbours, and all,
even grave matrons and staid old gentlemen,
were compelled to turn their
faces, hide them with their handkerchiefs,
or outrage all breeding, violate
all decorum, and laugh outright. Poor
little Emily, not discerning the subject
of the mirth, and seeing it was directed
towards the part of the table she occupied,
believed herself the subject of it,
and half frightened out of her senses,
averted her head to conceal her blushes,
and her tears. Deborah's sagacity was
at fault for a moment, but the truth
suddenly flashed across her mind, and
involuntarily rising and turning to Ellen,
“am I their music?” she exclaimed;
when seeing that Ellen too—for the
truth must be told—had lost all command
of her risibles, and had joined the
laughers, her astonishment expressed,
“and thou, too? this is the unkindest
cut of all;” and she would have probably
said something equivalent to it, but the
attention of the company was diverted
by a bustle at the door; and Mr. Redwood
entered, leading in Mrs. Westall,
and followed by Miss Redwood attended
by Charles Westall.

Deborah's tall figure standing erect at
the head of the table first caught Mr.
Redwood's eye, and to the surprise of
the company he exclaimed, “Miss Deborah!—my
old friend—God bless you,
I am glad to see you and Miss Bruce—
my dear Ellen,” he said, advancing with
the greatest cordiality, and shaking Deborah's
hand heartily, and kissing
Ellen's, “this is delightful, to meet you
again—and so unexpectedly!”

Deborah forgot her irritation in her
sudden pleasure, and returned Mr. Redwood's
greeting with all her heart. “I

thought, Sir,” she said, “that you were
half way to Boston by this time.”

“I was half way there, Miss Deborah,
but my courage failed me:—I found
my strength and spirits unequal to enjoying
the society of Boston. I have
not philosophy enough to resist its
allurements, so I turned my face homeward,
and have been guided hither,”
he concluded, looking at Ellen, “by my
good genius.” Ellen, disconcerted by the
unexpected appearance of the party,
could not command words to reply to
Mr. Redwood, or to return Mrs. Westall's
polite recognition.

Mr. Redwood observed her embarrassment.
“We are keeping our friends
standing,” he said; “let us pass on,
Mrs. Westall; my daughter I believe is
at the lower end of the room:” then
lowering his voice to Ellen, he added,
“we shall see you immediately after
dinner.”

Deborah looked after Mr. Redwood

as he walked away, and shook her head:
“he is dreadfully changed, Ellen, since
we left him—poor man, he is not long
for this world.”

Ellen had noticed that his face, as the
glow of surprise faded from it, reverted
to a sickly, ghastly paleness: but at this
moment a subject of stronger interest
occupied her mind. She ventured a
timid glance towards that part of the
room to which Miss Redwood had
turned on seeing her: there appeared
to be some delay about the arrangement
of the seats for the new comers. In the
meantime Miss Redwood was still
standing with her hand in Westall's, and
receiving the compliments of a gentleman
in the uniform of a British officer,
who had just approached from the table.
Ellen fancied she saw, for the feelings
that made her heart at that moment
throb almost audibly have a wonderful
effect on the vision—she fancied she saw
a mingled expression of impatience and

joy on Westall's countenance, and a moment
after she heard him coming towards
her with rapid steps.

The dread of observation—the fear of
exposing those emotions that every delicate
woman instinctively conceals, restored
to her at once her self-command,
and when she gave Westall her hand,
she simply evinced the frank pleasure
that became the reception of any friend,
and she preserved her self-possession in
spite of Deborah's exclaiming with her
usual bluntness, “Well, now Mr. Westall,
it does a body's heart good to see the
face of a friend in a strange land, and
especially yours, and looking so joyful
too.”

“I shall like my face the better all
my life,” replied Westall, “for speaking
such plain truth: it would be but a poor
index if it did not make the pleasure of
this unexpected meeting intelligible.
Miss Bruce, I rejoice to see,” he added,
in an under tone, “that you have been

successful in your benevolent mission—
but my mother is beckoning to me—
farewell till after dinner.”

So important an event as the arrival
of a celebrated beauty at a watering-place
effected a complete diversion in
favour of Deborah's changeable—and
the regard shown to her by Mr. Redwood
shielded her from the ridicule of
the company.

After complimenting by her keen relish
a variety of viands within her reach, Deborah
turned to observe how her protegées
fared. “I am glad, Emily,” she
said, “to see you have an appetite; but
Ellen child, what ails you? you eat as
people eat in dreams, that is to say, you
don't eat at all: you must be more nice
than wise, not to find something to suit
your palate on this table, where there is
such a fulness, and all fresh too. Take
a piece of the chicken, Ellen—it is a
nice chicken for the time o' year—by the
way, I must find out how this young

Mr. Hull feeds his chickens—try a piece,
Ellen—” Ellen declined it. “Well then,
take a piece of the lamb, child. I can
assure you it is a firstling of the flock,
tender and fat; or if you don't fancy
lamb, let that gentleman help you off
the dish next him—what do you call it,
Sir?”

“Ragout, madam.”

“Well, I never heard the name before,
and I can't tell now any more than
when I ate it, whether it's fish or flesh,
but for a new-fashioned thing it's very
pretty tasted—the fare is excellent. I
have ate a little of all, and I freely give
it my recommend. Come, Ellen, don't
split peas any longer, but take a little
something—do.”

Ellen continued, however, obstinately
to refuse Deborah's solicitations; and
her attention being soon engrossed by
the pies and puddings which she appeared
to deem worthy successors of the
meats, Ellen was relieved from her persecutions,

and permitted for a short interval
to chew the food of sweet and
bitter fancies—a kind of food that had
quite spoiled her appetite for any
grosser elements.

The unforeseen meeting with the Redwood
party, had suggested to Ellen's
mind hopes and fears—resolutions and
irresolutions. It must be confessed that
there was something in the expression
of Charles Westall's face, and in the
tones of his voice, that conveyed to her
heart an assurance of consolation for any
evils that might await her. Love insinuates
its language through the eyes and
in the modulations of the voice, but
those alone whose senses have been
touched by the magic herb of Oberon
can comprehend it—to all others it is
like the `harmony of immortal souls'—
they cannot hear it. Who could have
imagined that Ellen had deduced from
her brief interview with her lover the
absolute certainty that she had nothing

to fear from the arts of Miss Redwood!
Who could have imagined that it
strengthened her resolution to await the
reversion of Mrs. Westall's kindness, and
the developement of her own history!
But so it was. Certain that his attachment
to her had not been shaken by
Caroline's artifices, nor his mother's distrust,
she was willing to leave all the rest
to time and chance; or rather—for we
are doing injustice to the religious habits
of her mind—to the kind Providence that
had thus far watched over her.

Ellen dreaded coming in collision
again with Miss Redwood: she trembled
at the recollection of the unaccountable,
mysterious hatred which Caroline had
expressed at their last interview; but
after a little reflection she arrived at the
tranquillizing conclusion that the eclat
that would attend Miss Redwood on the
scene where they were now to play their
parts, would render her quite indifferent
to so insignificant a personage as herself;

and in the shelter of her humility, she
hoped to pass without observation or
envy. She resolved to forego the pleasure
of Mr. Redwood's society, to make
the more difficult sacrifice of Westall's,
and in short, to seclude herself, as much
as possible, in her own apartment.

Ellen learned from the remarks of the
persons sitting around her, that Miss
Redwood's fame had preceded her arrival.
“Poor girls!” said a good-natured
looking old gentleman, who was surrounded
by his nieces, to whom he addressed
himself, “you may hang your
harps upon the willows now, or play a
requiem on them to your departed glory
—this southern luminary will quench
your light. See, my poor little Anne,
your military beau has fallen within the
sphere of her attractions already.”

“I could not in reason, uncle,” retorted
the young lady, “expect such a
light material as Fitzgerald, to resist
Miss Redwood's solid attractions. Give

up your old-fashioned whim, uncle, of
leaving a modicum to your relations to
the seventeenth degree—banish all,” she
continued, glancing her eyes sportively
around upon her companions—“sisters,
cousins, all — all, but faithful Anne.
Make me your sole heiress, uncle—add
golden spurs to my armour, and Fitzgerald
the prize, I will not fear to enter
the lists against Miss Redwood.”

“That's a brave girl, Anne, and a
good-tempered girl, too,” replied her
uncle, patting her cheek. “I like a
girl that can lose an admirer, and bear
a joke about it; you are ten times prettier
Anne, in my eyes, than Miss Redwood.
I would not exchange your good-humoured
dimples for all her beauty. I
observed that as she entered the room,
something crossed my young lady's
humour—she flashed the fires of her
bright eyes towards this end of the table,
and `the angry spot did glow on Cæsar's
brow.”'

There was a fat lady sitting next the
speaker, blowing away sturdily with her
fan, and waiting impatiently for her turn
to pur forth. She was one of those
busy people, whose minds seem to be
a sort of alms-basket, into which they
collect odds and ends of information
that belong to every body's affairs but
their own. After saying that she fancied
any one who thought Miss Redwood
was not amiable would find himself
greatly in error, she detailed, with
the air of consequence with which she
felt herself invested by the possession
of such important particulars, the news
she had picked up about the Redwood
party, in which, as our readers will observe,
there was the usual proportion of
truth that obtains in such rumours.

“An express,” she said, “had arrived
the day before to secure rooms for the
party. They had been detained a long
time in a miserable hovel in Vermont,
in consequence of a terrible wound which

Mr. Redwood had received when he
was wrecked on the lake, or overturned
in his carriage—she was not sure which,
but she understood the account was in
the newspapers at the time. Poor Miss
Redwood had suffered shockingly. Her
friends had been apprehensive that her
life would be sacrificed to her fatigue
and confinement with her father. Her
life at the time of the accident had been
saved by the young gentleman who was
with them; and it was believed, indeed,”
she added with a simper, “she might
say it was certain they were now engaged;
for Mr. Redwood, who had withheld
his consent on account of the young
man's want of fortune, had lately become
interested in Mr. Westall, and all now
was going on smoothly.”

“What trumpery! what nonsense!”
Deborah repeatedly ejaculated in an
under voice, as the narrator proceeded,
when Ellen, frightened lest she should
take up her testimony, whispered a caution

which she had the prudence to
heed.

Some one asked of the lady informer
the source of her information. She said
that a particular friend, who had left the
springs that morning, had shewn her a
letter from a lady in Charleston, who
had seen a letter which had been received
from Miss Redwood.”

“Your information, madam, is doubtless
authentic,” said the old gentleman,
affecting a credulity which he was far
enough from feeling; “but I am quite
happy to observe, that the apprehensions
of the young lady's friends concerning
her health were groundless. She
is a perfect Hebe.”

“Oh, that may well be, Sir—young
people recover surprisingly; but it is
sure that Miss Redwood remained with
her father night and day for weeks—
how could she help it! The people, you
know, so far in the country, are quite
barbarians.”

Ellen, perceiving that it would be
utterly impossible for Deborah to suppress
her indignation much longer, proposed
withdrawing from the table, and
Deborah assented, loth to retreat without
giving battle.

As they left the dining-room, the British
officer, who had taken his seat next
Miss Redwood, (and who was the same
Captain Fitzgerald of whom she had
made such honourable mention in a letter
to her grandmother) said to her, “in
the name of heaven, who is that ancient
oddity? I saw your father address her
as he came into the room.”

“She is a Vermont woman—a demisavage,
that we met in our travels.”

“So I imagined—she looks like a
Yankee militia major, dressed in his
mother's wedding gear; but that pretty
girl with her, who seems to belong to
another age and country, who is she?”

“The one in black, you speak of?”

“Pardon me—she is an innocent

looking little concern enough, but I
spoke of the other, who is, as Hamlet
says, you know, `far more attractive
metal.”'

“Oh, she is—I don't precisely know
—she is a connection of the old woman's
—at least a sort of dependent on her.”

Captain Fitzgerald observed that for
some reason or other, his inquiry had
been displeasing to Miss Redwood, and a
firm believer in whatever impeaches the
virtue of the female sex, he remembered
the cynical rule that forbids a man to
flatter one woman in the presence of
another. “I should not have noticed
the young lady,” he said, “but there has
been such an absolute dearth of beauty
here since my arrival! Upon my soul,
Miss Redwood,” he added, with a prudent
depression of voice, “I should
have forgotten what beauty was, but
for a certain bright image indelibly
stamped on the tablets of my memory.
This young lady had one indisputable

charm; she was your herald—the morning
star that preceded the sun—but
what could have induced a civilized
being to come to a watering place under
such auspices?”

“My evil genius,” thought Caroline,
and she said, “I think I heard they
were going to visit the shakers in the
vicinity. They have some connexions
there—I fancy they have merely stopped
here, en passant, for their dinner, but
really,” she concluded, shrugging her
shoulders, “I know nothing about them:
one can't, you know, fill one's head with
the affairs of such people.”

Mr. Redwood had observed with a
feeling of impatience Captain Fitzgerald's
devotion to his daughter: he had
been waiting for a pause in their conversation,
which was conducted in an
under tone, to remind her “that she had
not,” as he said, “yet paid her respects to
Miss Bruce, and their good friend Deborah.”

“Shall I have the honour of conducting
you to the drawing-room, Miss Redwood?”
asked Westall, who had been
long watching for an opportunity to follow
Ellen.

“Thank you—no, I must first go to
my room and dispose of my riding
dress; but I will be obliged to you to
make my apologies to the Vermontese,
as they will probably be gone before
I have an opportunity of seeing them.
Come, Mrs. Westall, shall we find our
way to our apartment?”

“Excuse my mother, Miss Redwood,”
said Westall. “You will not,” he added,
turning to Mrs. Westall, “risk losing
the pleasure of seeing our friends?”

“Certainly not—I will first go with
Miss Redwood, and then return to you,
Charles.”

“Do not put yourself to any inconvenience
on my account, Mrs. Westall
—the attendance of my servant will do
just as well as yours.”

Mrs. Westall felt the insulting implication
of Miss Redwood's reply. She
had been blinded by her self-love, and
her next strongest passion—her ambition
for her son—Miss Redwood's sudden
and exclusive devotion to Fitzgerald
had done more towards enlightening
her mind on the subject of the young
lady's merits, than all their previous
intercourse, and she left her with a feeling
that prepared her to see Ellen in the
most favorable light.