 | CHAPTER XX. Redwood |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
“Call you this a quiz?” said my uncle, “in my day it would
have been called a lie.”
Plain Dealer.
Miss Campbell valued herself on
never feeling or doing any thing by
halves—she had taken a decided liking
to Ellen—with her cordial admiration
there mingled a little of the pride of
a discoverer: a complacent sense of the
merit of having first felt Miss Bruce's
attractions, and asserted her claims. She
attached herself almost exclusively to
her, and Westall was delighted to observe
after dinner that Ellen, instead
of retiring immediately to her own room
as usual, accompanied Miss Campbell
Miss Redwood observed that he was
following them—she beckoned to him
and said, “be good enough to tell Miss
Deborah, that during my ride this morning
I met her neighbour Martin, I stopped
him to enquire after the Lenoxes.
He told me they were all well excepting
old Mrs. Allen, who is very ill,
and afraid she shall not live to see her
grandchild.”
Westall went as unwillingly as ever
schoolboy crept to school to deliver a
message which must hasten Ellen's departure.
Fitzgerald had overheard the
communication, and looked at Caroline
inquisitively.
“A ruse de guerre,” she whispered.
“It is such a bore to meet that giant
Miss Deb by and her suite at every turn,
that I have tasked my invention to get
rid of them.”
“Oh, a quiz, admirable—skill against
ignorance—the only mode of warfare
I cannot imagine how you have survived
your exile among those barbarians.
The condition of society in these northern
states is quite terrible—insufferable
to those whose felicity it has been to live
where the natural distinctions of rank
are preserved.”
“I assure you, Captain Fitzgerald, I
was excessively annoyed. I found it
quite impossible to make those people
feel they were not my equals.”
“Your equals! good heavens! had
the animals `organs, senses, affections,
passions'! Would to heaven,” he added,
lowering his voice, “Miss Redwood
would consent to go where the eye and
the heart will confess that she has no
equal.”
“That would be heaven, indeed!”
replied Caroline, turning her eye on Fitzgerald
with an expression that authorised
his most daring hopes.
“Yes, heaven,” he replied, “not a
but a place where beauty, rank,
and fashion, are far above this plebeian
fog—a place worthy of you, Miss Redwood,
where there are queens, and subjects,
and worshippers—love and loyalty.”
It is impossible to say how long the
captain would have continued his battery,
had not his fluency been suddenly
checked by one of those provoking interruptions
to which all lovers are liable.
Mrs. Westall, to whom Mr. Redwood
(too ill to appear at dinner) had consigned
his daughter, tired of playing
solitaire with his fair protegée, was all
eye and ear for Fitzgerald, and deaf and
dumb to every body else, took the
liberty to remark that all the ladies
except themselves had retired from the
table, and rising at the same moment,
she proposed to Caroline an adjournment
to the drawing-room.
Miss Redwood would rather have deferred
encountering Deborah. “Come with
us,” she whispered to Fitzgerald, who
stood awaiting with deference the ladies'
departure: “if we are obliged to meet
the old amazon, heaven help us! We
shall need all our combined skill to parry
her downright questions.”
“As your auxiliary, Miss Redwood,”
replied Fitzgerald, proceeding towards
the drawing-room with the ladies, “I
fear nothing: but upon my soul, without
a divinity to inspire me, I should never
muster courage to encounter one of these
question-asking Yankees. I had rather
march up to the cannon's mouth.”
“Thank heaven,” said Caroline,
casting her eyes around the drawing-room,
and ascertaining that Deborah was
not there, “we are safe for the present.
If you will open the piano for me, Captain
Fitzgerald, I will play the air you
were asking for this morning.”
Captain Fitzgerald arranged the piano
and Mrs. Westall left her and joined
Ellen, who was sitting on the other side
of the room in an animated conversation
with Grace Campbell.
“Your fair friend, Mrs. Westall,” said
Miss Campbell, “has certainly made a
conquest of Captain Fitzgerald—a conquest
that I suspect will lead very soon
to an amicable treaty.”
“Appearances justify your opinion,
certainly,” replied Mrs. Westall; “and
provided Mr. Redwood ratifies the
treaty, I know no one that will interpose,
or even feel an objection.”
“I don't know,” said Miss Campbell,
“I have no particular admiration for
Miss Redwood; but I declare to you,
I think she is too young and too beautiful
to be sacrificed to a mere fortune-hunter.”
“She is heartless,” replied Mrs.
Westall, “and therefore fair game for
a fortune-hunter.”
Charles Westall noticed that his mother
spoke with uncommon asperity;
but her gentlest tones had never delighted
him so much, as an expression
that indicated a state of feeling which
he had long hoped that her own observation
and reflections would produce
without his interference. He perceived
that she was completely alienated from
Miss Redwood, and that the re-action of
her feelings was all in Ellen's favour,
and with a very pardonable filial enthusiasm,
he mentally congratulated himself
on always having believed that his mother's
good sense and good feeling
would finally rectify her opinions.
Probably Ellen's thoughts had received
a direction from Mrs. Westall's
observation; but suddenly recalling
them to the point whence they had
started, she asked Miss Campbell “if
she thought Fitzgerald was really in love
with Caroline Redwood?”
“In love!—Oh my sweet innocent,
generation you must have lived. In
love—no, believe me there is no love
extant, unless it be,” and she glanced
her laughing eyes with most provoking
significance towards Westall, “unless it
be on the shores of romantic lakes, or in
such sweet sequestered vales as you
describe that in which your friend Mrs.
Harrison resides—Fitzgerald in love!—
his device is a golden arrow—his motto,
the old proverb—`Without Ceres and
Bacchus, love is cold.”'
“Shame on you, Grace,” said young
Armstead, “you are a most ungracious
girl. You should adopt the mode of
some pretty simpering fair ones of my
acquaintance, who imitate bereaved
widows, and always speak of their late
lovers as they do of their deceased husbands
with a `poor dear' prefixed to
their names. `Poor dear Fitzgerald'
would be a becoming mention of one of
your most devoted worshippers.”
“It was to the golden trappings of the
idol that Fitzgerald bowed, William:
his sacrifice was like the priests of Baal,
the fire came not near it.”
“You may carry your analogy still
farther, Grace; for to your praise be it
spoken, there was `no voice, nor answer,
nor any that regarded.”'
“I deserve no praise for that,” replied
Miss Campbell, while a smile betrayed
that she was not displeased to have it
known that she disdained the flatteries
of Miss Redwood's admirer: “I deserve
no praise for seeing through that
soulless creature—a mere parade-day
officer, who dishonours the uniform that
has been and is worn by so many heroes
You and I, William, were brought up in
the old school, nursed in Anglo-American
prejudices, taught to believe that all
virtue, valour, genius, were of British
birth and growth: experience has abated
some of the articles of my creed, and
softened others. I have seen many an
farmer, who had more cleverness than
such a British officer as Fitzgerald: more
knowledge, more of every thing that is
essentially respectable.”
“You are so enlightened, Miss Campbell,”
said Westall, “you should disabuse
some of your fair countrywomen of their
prejudices.”
“It is impossible, utterly impossible.
Such an enterprise would be as rational
as a crusade against artificial flowers and
ostrich feathers. So long as these red-coated
gentry shall play the most elegant
game at chess, or whist—hand a lady to
the dinner table in the most graceful
manner—carve the dish next her secundum
artem, and in short, perform all the
little etiquettes of society with unparalleled
grace, they must remain the favourite
ornaments of our drawing-rooms
—our fair ladies will overlook their little
irregularities in morals; and rational and
virtuous men, like you, Mr. Westall, and
compliment from me, Will, but I put you
in to make the party stronger,) such men
must yield to them the precedence.”
“Oh, Grace!” said Mrs. Armstead,
“little did I ever expect to hear such a
philippic against any thing British from
the lips of one of your grandfather's
descendants.”
“My dear aunt, you mistake me if
you imagine that I mean to limit my
criticisms to our foreign military beaus
—no, unfortunately we have a large class
of native productions that have equal
claims to a polished exterior, and essential
good-for-nothingness. If my dear
grandpapa could take a peep into my
heart at this moment, he would be quite
satisfied with the loyal affection I bear
to the land of his birth; and I flatter
myself that the old gentleman, belonging
as he doubtless does now to the universal
nation of the good and happy,
would rejoice that his descendants are
parent land by the indissoluble ties of
respect and affection. I do not believe
that we `love Cæsar less,' but we certainly
`love Rome more.”'
“Well, my dear Grace,” replied Mrs.
Armstead, “I am glad to find that if you
have caught the national enthusiasm, the
epidemic of the day, you are not a traitor
to England.”
“So far from it, mother,” said young
Armstead, “that I will hazard a prophecy,
that within six months from this fifteenth
day of August, our cousin Grace will be
the wife of an Englishman.”
“You are a false prophet, Will.”
“Time, not you, Grace, must pronounce
that decision; and I call this
honourable company to witness that I
rest my prophetic fame upon this prediction.”
By a natural train of thought Mr.
Howard, whom Ellen had seen devoted
to Miss Campbell when they met at the
she asked Grace, `why he was not still
of her party?'
“He was suddenly summoned away,”
she replied, “by letters from home:”
and, to avert observation from her rising
colour, she looked out of the window.
“I stand to my prediction, Grace,”
whispered Armstead, “in spite of your
treacherous blushes.”
“Mr. Westall,” exclaimed Miss Campbell,
“you were inquiring for Deborah,
here she comes with the little shaker.”
“For mercy's sake, Miss Campbell,”
said Ellen, “do not let Emily hear you
call her so. The poor child has been
frightened to death since Miss Redwood's
address to her this morning made her an
object of notice. Her story is now, I am
told, though fortunately she does not
know it, in every body's mouth.”
Westall met Deborah at the door, and
drew her aside to communicate Miss
Redwood's message. Emily entered the
her.
“Poor little timid distressed thing,”
said Miss Campbell, “she looks like a
lamb that has strayed from the shepherd
into a company of wolves.”
Ellen advanced towards the bashful
girl, and drawing Emily's arm within her
own, she led her to a seat where she was
sheltered from observation.
Westall qualified the information he
reluctantly communicated to Deborah,
and urged that one day's delay could not
be of consequence. She, however, with
her usual promptitude, determined to
leave the Springs the next morning, and
immediately announced her determination
to her companions, without deeming
it necessary to avow the cause of
it.
A bright beam of pleasure shot from
Emily's eyes. Ellen's turned involuntarily
towards Charles Westall, and one
brief glance contradicted all her well-maintained
Loud exclamations, expressive of disappointment,
from all the Armstead
party, and, louder than all the rest,
Miss Campbell's, attracted a momentary
attention from Miss Redwood. She
paused in the midst of the successful
performance of a favourite march, and
exchanged a significant nod with Fitzgerald;
she then struck the notes with
a stronger hand, but she could not drown
the unwelcome sounds of `do, Miss
Bruce, stay one day longer—Oh, Miss
Debby, one day cannot make any difference—just
one day.'
But Miss Deborah, affirming that it
had all along been her intention to go
within a day or two, remained inexorable,
and the young ladies left the
drawing-room to arrange their affairs
for their departure.
Mrs. Westall followed Ellen to the
stairs, and detaining her there till her
my feelings or wishes have ever done
you injustice, forgive me, Ellen—believe
me, there is now but one other so
dear—so interesting to me as you are.”
Ellen faltered out, “I am very grateful,”
and turned hastily away, leaving
Mrs. Westall quite satisfied with the
significance which her glowing cheek
and moistened eye gave to her scanty
expression.
Ellen had scarcely reached her own
apartment, when Miss Campbell came
running to her quite out of breath:
“suspend your packing operations, my
dear Ellen,” she said, “and sit down
and listen to me for a moment, I cannot
be ceremonious with you—I have the
greatest favour to ask of you—and you
cannot, must not deny me. Will you
remain here for ten days as my guest?
I bar a negative. Now do not make up
your mouth for any excuses till you have
heard me out. You told me this morning
longer needed your services, and that
you were only going this roundabout
way to Vermont, because you had no
other way of getting to Mrs. Harrison.
Now my aunt is going to Boston—she
has a vacant seat in her carriage—Lansdown
is but a few miles off the direct
route, and my aunt says nothing will
delight her so much as to take you to
Mrs. Harrison. She bids me tell you
that Mrs. Harrison was an acquaintance
of her mother's, and that you must not
refuse her an introduction to her.”
Ellen's decision vibrated between a
strong inclination to remain and a natural
reluctance (which even Miss Campbell's
extreme cordiality could not remove,)
to receive such favours from
persons nearly strangers to her. While
she deliberated, and Grace Campbell
urged her request, they were interrupted
by a servant who brought Ellen a note.
“This note, whoever it comes from,”
you to decide to remain. You
seem now as much puzzled as poor
Launcelot Gobbo was with the opposing
counsel of the fiend and his conscience.
Conscience is on my side I am
sure.”
“And the note too,” said Ellen, refolding
it; “and now if Miss Deborah
will relinquish her right to me, I will
throw away all squeamishness, and
gratefully accept your invitation.”
The note was from Mr. Redwood, and
contained an earnest entreaty that Ellen
would defer her departure for a few
days. It was written hastily, was almost
illegible, and concluded thus: “I
once meditated an injury against you—
it is now my earnest wish to repair the
fault of that intention—my life is fast
ebbing—do not refuse the last favour I
can ever ask of you.”
The note Ellen rightly believed was
the fruit of Westall's intervention, but
of it, and her delicacy was satisfied, now
that she had a motive to remain, independent
of her lover. The ladies proceeded
to Miss Deborah's apartment,
and she, having heard the proposed arrangement,
acquiesced with her usual
rationality.
She seated herself on her trunk, and
resting her elbows on her knees. “Not
but what I am loth to part with you,
Ellen,” she said, “for the Lord knows,”
and she brushed a tear from the corner
of her eye, “nobody ever wanted to
leave you yet; but then there is reason
in all things—you have taken a long
journey, all for those that's neither kith
nor kin to you, and now that you are
happy among your mates, it is but fair
you should have a play-spell: besides, it
would be rather tough for our poor old
horse to draw us all over the hills,
and he should be considered too—to be
sure I calculated to walk up the hills,
life, when I had rather ride than walk—
so all is for the best.”
“We can all say `amen' to that, Miss
Deborah,” said Miss Campbell; “you
are a perfect philosopher. I am delighted—Ellen
looks resigned—and your
little Emily there most provokingly
happy.”
“Well,” replied Debby, “contentment
is a good thing, and a rare—but I
guess it dwells most where people would
least expect to find it. There's Ellen
Bruce, she has had troubles that would
fret some people to death, and yet I have
seldom seen her with a cloudy face.”
“How do you account for that, Miss
Debby? I am curious to get at this
secret of happiness; for I have been in
great straits sometimes, for the want of
it.”
“Why, I'll tell you. Now, Ellen,
I don't mean to praise you”—and she
looked at Ellen, while an expression of
face. “The truth is, Ellen has been so
busy about making other people happy,
that she has no time to think of herself;
instead of grieving about her own
troubles, she has tried to lessen other
people's; instead of talking about her
own feelings and thinking about them,
you would not know she had any, if you
did not see she always knew just how
other people felt.”
“Stop, stop, Deborah, my good
friend,” said Ellen, “you must not turn
flatterer in your old age.”
“Flatterer!—The Lord have mercy
on you, girl; nothing was farther from
my thoughts than flattering. I mean
just to tell this young lady, for her information,
that the secret of happiness was
to forget yourself, and care for the happiness
of others.”
“You are right—I believe you are
right,” said Miss Campbell, with animation;
little after your golden rule.”
“The more's the pity, young woman;
for, depend on't, it's the safe rule and
the sure; I have scriptur warrant for
it, beside my own observation, which,
as you may judge, has not been small.
It's a strange thing this happiness; it
puts me in mind of an old Indian I have
heard of, who said to a boy, who was
begging him for a bow and arrow, `the
more you say bow and arrow, the more
I won't make it.' There's poor Mr. Redwood,
as far as I can find out, he has
had nothing all his life to do but to
go up and down and too and fro upon
the earth, in search of happiness; look
at his face, it is as sorrowful as a tombstone,
and just makes you ponder upon
what has been, and what might have
been: and his kickshaw of a daughter
—why I, Debby Lenox, a lone old
woman that I am, would not change
peaceable feelings for hers, for all the
gold in the king's coffers: and for the
most part, since I have taken a peep
into what's called the world, I have seen
little to envy among the great and the
gay, the rich and handsome.”
“And yet, Miss Debby,” said Grace,
“the world looks upon these as the
privileged classes.”
“Ah! the world is the slave of its own
fooleries.”
“Well, Miss Deborah, I have unbounded
confidence in your wisdom;
but, since my lot is cast in this same
evil world, I should be sorry to think
there was no good in it.”
“No good, Miss!—that was what
I did not, and would not say. There is
good in every thing and every where, if
we have but eyes to see it, and hearts to
confess it. There is some pure gold
mixed with all this glitter; some here
that seem to have as pure hearts and
in the dazzling sunshine of fortune.”
“You mean to say, Deborah,” said
Ellen, “that contentment is a modest,
prudent spirit; and that for the most
part she avoids the high places of the
earth, where the sun burns and the
tempests beat, and leads her favourites
along quiet vales and to sequestered
fountains.”
“Just what I would have said, Ellen,
though it may not be just as I should
have said it,” replied Deborah, smiling.
“You young folks like to dress every
thing off with garlands, while such a
plain old body as I only thinks of the
substantials. But here I am preaching,
while Emily, as busy as a little bee,
has packed every thing and tied every
bundle and box; her heart is already
half way to Eton. I wish it was as
short a journey to my old limbs as it is
for your young spirits, Emily. Now
don't redden up, child, like the sky
and I hope you know it to be so
now that we have sifted that shaker
chaff out of your mind. Come, Miss
Campbell and Ellen, we will go on to
the piazza, and leave Emily to the company
of her own thoughts.”
The young ladies followed Deborah
to the piazza. Mr. Redwood and his
daughter, Fitzgerald and Westall, were
sitting at one extremity of it. Deborah
proposed joining them; but Ellen begged
they might remain where they were.
“I cannot,” she said, “voluntarily inflict
my presence on Miss Redwood. I
never approach her that she does not
shrink from me as if I breathed a poisonous
influence.”
“Or rather,” said Miss Campbell, “as
a condemned spirit shrinks from the
healthful air of morning. She is not
worth heeding, Ellen: it is the folly
of her haughtiness, or perhaps,”—and
she looked at Ellen with an arch smile—
case; she may have detected too soon
the `fair speechless messages that pass
between certain eyes and yours. Do
not colour, dear Ellen; Miss Debby
says truly, `it is a creditable feeling.”'
“Spare your raillery, Grace; this
is no subject for it. There is no rivalry
in the case, I assure you. Whatever
my feelings may be, you perceive that
all Miss Redwood's are now exclusively
devoted to Captain Fitzgerald; and yet
her dislike towards me, or rather hatred,
for I must give it that harsh name, has
no relenting.—I never approach her—I
never pass her, even in her happiest
moods, that her brow does not contract,
and every feature becomes rigid, with
an expression that it would seem impossible
for so young and beautiful a face
to wear.”
“Pshaw, Ellen!” said Deborah;
“the girl is whimsical, and her whims
are no more worth your minding than
along with us. I must see Mr. Redwood
once more, and sorry am I it's
the last time, for he suits my fancy better
than many a better man.”
Ellen seemed still reluctant, when
Charles Westall joined the ladies with a
request, as he said, from Mr. Redwood,
that they would consider his inability to
come to them, and favour him with their
company. The ladies acquiesced, and
Miss Campbell took Deborah's arm, on
the pretext that she could not accommodate
her quick step to Ellen's lagging
pace.
This benevolent manœuvre gave Westall
an opportunity to satisfy his impatient
curiosity as to Ellen's decision in
regard to her departure, and when they
reached Mr. Redwood, the speaking
animation of his countenance evinced
how much he was delighted with the
result of his enquiry. Miss Redwood
stood with her back to the company,
with Captain Fitzgerald the comparative
beauty of the liveries of half-a-dozen
servants who stood at the spring below
them.
A faint gleam of pleasure lit up Mr.
Redwood's pale and desponding face, as
Ellen approached him; he took her
hand. “Miss Deborah,” he said, “is
very good to consent to leave you.”
Caroline turned suddenly round, and
darted a look of eager inquiry at Ellen.
“And you, my dear Miss Bruce,” he
added, in a low voice, “very kind to
grant my poor request.”
“Caroline, Miss Bruce remains a few
days longer at Lebanon, I hope you will
do every thing in your power to prove
that her stay is not a matter of indifference
to you.” Caroline bowed—she
looked absolutely pale. “Your favourite
book, my dear Ellen,” continued
Mr. Redwood, “asserts, I believe, that
it is more blessed to give than to receive;
happiness to you, though not in a mode
most flattering to my own pride.”
Every word that her father uttered
increased Caroline's agitation; it was
too apparent to escape observation, and
for once the same thought flashed
through Fitzgerald's and Miss Campbell's
mind—the same thought, but it
produced a very different effect. “Good
heavens,” said Miss Campbell mentally,
“does the foolish girl really fancy that
her poor father, who is so fast going
where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage, is projecting a love-match
with Ellen, or that she will marry
a half disembodied spirit!” `Ah,' thought
Fitzgerald, `the girl is keen-sighted, she
foresees a match—these second marriages
make horrible havoc with fortunes.'
Mr. Redwood charged Deborah with
many kind remembrances to his Vermont
friends, and she, really affected at
and always unobservant of forms,
turned hastily away without saying a
word to Caroline. Suddenly recollecting
herself she returned. “Good bye
to you, Miss Caroline,” she said, “the
Lord bless you, and make you a blessing
and a comfort to your father, which he
much needs; and don't,” she added in a
whisper, “don't do any thing to fret
him, for his life hangs as it were, by a
cambric thread; and oh, now I think of
it,” and she checked herself as she was
again turning away, “I thank you heartily
for remembering John Martin's
errand to me, it was very thoughtful of
you—and I assure you, Miss Caroline,
though my memory is something broken,
I never can forget a kindness.”
Mr. Redwood was evidently gratified
with the good nature which led Deborah
to magnify a trifling courtesy “My
dear Caroline,” he said, “I am glad
that you have had an opportunity of
see John Martin?”
“Oh, I have not seen him at all,” replied
Caroline, making an effort to shelter
her mortification by a careless laugh.
“Only a quiz upon Miss Debby, papa
—a merry thought of mine, which I
know you will forgive, since it has led to
an indefinite postponement of Miss
Bruce's departure.—Captain Fitzgerald,
you promised to shew me the setting sun
from the hill—a pretty view I am told—
have you ever seen it, Miss Campbell?
Farewell, Miss Deborah.”
Miss Redwood walked away with
Captain Fitzgerald with apparent unconcern.
This was not the first time that
Caroline had shewn, in pressing emergencies,
a perfect self-command, though
on slight occasions she was a very child
in exposing every shade of passion.
“I hope all you good rational people,”
said Mr. Redwood with a sigh, “will
remember that my child is but eighteen;
private conversation with Miss
Bruce?”
“A few moments, certainly,” replied
Miss Campbell: “come, Mr. Westall,
I challenge you to a turn on the piazza,
and we will see which bears privation
with most magnanimity.”
“Do you believe the old gentleman is
really going to make love to Miss
Bruce?” asked Grace Campbell, as she
turned away.
“Not on his own account, I fancy,”
replied Westall.
“Ah, I comprehend—but depend on
it, a love cause is better in the hands of
the principal than the most eloquent
agent.”
And so it proved; for though Mr.
Redwood frankly avowed to Ellen the
disappointment of his own hopes, and
though he urged her with all the energy
of strong feeling and the most affectionate
interest, to waive her scruples—
that before he died he might have the
happiness of seeing the two persons in
whom he felt the strongest interest
united: it was not till Westall, availing
himself of an opportunity that occurred
in the evening to plead his own cause
with the irresistible zeal of true and
well-requited love, that Ellen gave her
promise—that she would write to Mrs.
Harrison—lay the case before her, and
abide by her decision.
| CHAPTER XX. Redwood | |