 | The coronal |  |
THE YOUNG WEST-INDIAN.
I am one of those wayward characters,
whom the philosophic call romantic, and the
money-living, a strange, unaccountable being.
Left with a small patrimony, which a thrifty
man would have increased into affluence, I
chose to indulge my ruling inclination, which
was to see men and manners in every variety
of light and shadow; and after thirty years'
experience, I do not blush at my choice.
Nothing tends so much to ameliorate personal
character as this kind of passing collision
with the motley crowd. Our local prejudices
are overcome by finding the same
great machinery of heart and mind every
where in motion; and the pride of human
nature bows down, at so frequently seeing
the tremendous velocity of excited passion,
destroying the equilibrium of the mightiest
intellect. The thousand trifling instances of
to practise, act on his temper like rolling friction,
destroying its inequalities, and polishing
its surface; and the morbid sensibility which
loathes human folly, even in its most harmless
forms, gradually loses its annoying power:
for it needs but brief experience to prove,
that a nerve thrust out at every pore is an
uncomfortable armour for this world's conflicts.
Many of my acquaintance pity my philosophic
enjoyment, and hint that concentrated
affections are more productive of intense
happiness, than such widely diffused interest
possibly can be. Alas! I doubt it not; but
their kindness touches a broken and voiceless
string. They know not that its melody
has departed; for manhood often endures
with cheerfulness what it neither conquers
nor avows; and if the sun of youthful love,
making heaven so bright and earth so verdant,
is obscured by a morning cloud, it is
surely both wise and virtuous to leave the
heart open to the gladdening influence of
others' happiness. At least, during all my
to please and be pleased, the genuine
antidote to all corroding thoughts. The
incidents I have met with have been various,
and in many cases extraordinary. One so
remarkably indicates the finger of an overruling
Providence, that I cannot forbear giving
it in all its details.
It was in the summer of 1808, that I sailed
from Cuba, in a merchant-vessel, bound to
Boston. I awoke on board early on a bright
and sunny morning. The sea sparkled as if
dolphins were sporting on its surface; the
sails of the Amphitrite filled; and her prow
rose above the waves, as if she were a gallant
bird eager for her homeward flight; and the
fair Spanish island, wreathed with lemon and
citron, reposed in the distance, like a beautiful
Naiad on her ocean pillow. We had
dropped down from the wharf during the
night-time, and were waiting the arrival of
passengers from the shore. The sun had
not risen far above the horizon, when, in
answer to a loud and somewhat impatient
signal from the captain, a boat pushed off
arm, left a billowy wake behind them,
fretting and foaming for awhile, but subsiding
into peacefulness as rapidly as the excitements
of our early days. The loud strokes
sounded nearer and nearer; presently we
heard the drops trickle from the oars as they
slowly rose from the water, and soon this
was interrupted by a harsh, grating sound,
as the boat rubbed against our larboard side.
A gentleman, with sharp nose and lips closely
compressed, ordered a rope-ladder to be lowered
for his wife and child. By the united
assistance of her husband's arm from below,
and mine reaching over the quarter deck, a
pale, but very interesting looking woman,
ascended the vessel, and was immediately
followed by a little girl, apparently four or
five years old, whose olive cheek and burning
eye betrayed a Spanish origin. The gentleman
himself, a few moments after, leaped on
deck, and by his rapid and minute inquiries,
I soon discovered that he was Mr. Reynolds,
a New-England merchant, and chief owner
of the Amphitrite. For one roaming about
up and down its hazy atmosphere,
nothing could be more fortunate than the
arrival of the lady and her pretty companion.
My heart always warmed toward childhood,
with feelings as bright and pure as that holy
world from whence the stream of tenderness
is poured into the human soul; but I had
never met with a child so attractive as Angelina.
Soul shone through her whole face,
and played hide and seek like sunshine on a
rapid stream. It seemed as if a mischievous
elfin now wielded his sceptre from her eye's
diamond throne—now hid himself in the
labyrinth of a dimple—and anon, danced in
the corner of her laughing lip. The deep
brown hue of her cheek, gave a richness and
glow to this light of expression, like the setting
sun mantling autumnal foliage. Her
long black hair, slightly curling, clung round
her, like a fairy veil of clouds, and gave to
her slender figure that waving outline so essential
to beauty. Her voice was, as I had
imagined the murmur of oriental fountains,
forever joyful and melodious in its gurgling
the tiny star-crested bird, feeding on the
acacia's honey-drop, and drinking dew from
the rose-leaf. If a fish sprang from the water,
she would clasp her hands, and bound
along the deck, as if her little heart was too
full of joy; and when night slowly gathered
up the folds of her spangled drapery, and
walked through the heavens in her majesty,
she would fix her eyes on the distant star
with such a look of earnestness and inspiration,
that I almost imagined the mysterious
fancies of the poet were then streaming in
upon her infant mind. I frequently noticed
a deep and tender melancholy in Mrs. Reynolds'
eye, as she watched the motions of
this fascinating little being. The look was
like plaintive music—an expression of that
quiet, resigned suffering, which the destiny
of woman too often stamps upon her countenance;
and it never failed to bring the sensitive
Angelina to her side, even in her moments
of most boisterous glee. A few days
after we put out to sea, a bird flew from the
direction where I had told her we left her
Angelina clapped her hands, tossed back her
head, and laughed with such a clear, ringing
sound of joy, that even the cabin boy smiled
with delight. She continued watching the
little warbler, until he spread his wings to
rise in the pure bright atmosphere, and then,
with childish eagerness she shouted, “Little
bird! little bird! have you seen brother Orlando?”
She sighed when the bird disappeared
among the clouds, and turning, encountered
one of those exceedingly pathetic
glances with which her friend so often regarded
her. With sudden impulse she threw
her arm around Mrs. Reynolds' waist, and
gazed in her face with that touching, indescribable
expression of cherub love, by which
childhood endeavours to sympathize with
sorrows it cannot comprehend. “Kiss me,
mamma,” said the little innocent; and perceiving
a tear in her friend's eye, she added,
still more soothingly, “will you kiss your
dear Angelina once, mamma?” Though
unable to conjecture the cause of the lady's
emotion, I saw plainly that her heart was
and as she rose, apparently with the
intention of retiring to her cabin, I respectfully
opened the door, and gently detaining
Angelina by the hand, I persuaded her to
remain on deck with me. Mr. Reynolds, in
the mean time, walked to and fro, with the
most profound indifference to all that was
passing; but as his wife descended the stairs,
he followed her with a more stern and lowering
look than I had ever seen in his dead-language
face. A variety of circumstances,
which had occurred since this interesting
family came on board, had strongly excited
my curiosity, and none more than Mr. Reynolds'
cold and severe manner towards the
lovely beings who were dependent upon him
for kindness and protection. “Could it be
possible,” I asked myself, “that the father
of the beautiful Angelina was the only one
in the ship whose heart did not warm toward
her? No; she must be Mrs. Reynolds'
daughter, by a former, and more beloved
husband.” However, politeness forbade my
hinting, directly or indirectly, any of the
and distressed my heart. I saw no more of
Mrs. Reynolds that day. Towards evening,
when Angelina was sent for from below, she
very reluctantly bade me good night, and
said, “I will tell mamma how good you have
been to me, and how many pretty stories
you have told me.” “Take her to the cabin,”
said Mr. Reynolds, speaking sharply to
the domestic—“I think every body does
their best to spoil that child.” With as
much politeness as I could assume, I observed
that such exceeding beauty, united to
the artlessness of infancy, was surely enough
to excite a strong interest in any heart. “If
one might judge of your years by your countenance,”
replied he, “it is over late for you
to learn that beauty is a curse, both to her
who owns it, and to him on whom she confers
it.” He said this with much bitterness
of manner, and turned from me with a look
that forbade all further attempts at conversation.
A few days before our arrival in Boston,
Angelina came running toward me, as I stood
the mysterious conduct of him whom I then
supposed to be her father. “See,” said she,
“I asked mamma if I might give you this,
and she says I may, because you are so very
kind to me.” She held up a valuable ring
as she spoke. “It has my little picture in
it,” added she—and she pressed a spring, by
which two golden hands unclasped, and discovered
an excellent miniature. I kissed
my little favourite, and going up to Mrs.
Reynolds, I placed the ring in her hand,
and smilingly said, “your little daughter has
evinced the warmth of her heart by a present
of most extravagant generosity; but the
remembrance of the little creature who gave
it will be a thousand times dearer to me than
the valuable trinket of which her childish
thoughtlessness was going to deprive you.”
“It was my wish that Angelina should offer
you this,” replied Mrs. Reynolds. “I had
two done by different artists of almost equal
merit, during my stay in Cuba—she is not
my child, and you have shown a most uncommon
affection for her; beside, she may”
the approach of her husband, whom I
had left sleeping in the cabin—“beside,”
continued she, in a lower tone, “she may
need assistance from some kind friend, if my
life terminates as speedily as I sometimes
think it will.” With all the deference which
her singular situation demanded, I offered
any services in my power. “Why I recommend
her to the protection of a stranger, instead
of—of my husband,” replied the lady,
“is an avowal which I cannot make with
either delicacy or dignity, perhaps; but there
is something in your countenance and manner
which encourages me to confide in you.”
I bowed my thanks, and the lady continued.
“Angelina is motherless, and her father was
one of my earliest friends. I married Mr.
Reynolds in England; and, on account of
the languid state of my health and spirits, he
two years after carried me to Cuba, and
made arrangements for my stay there during
a long absence in the East-Indies, which
business rendered necessary. I was under
the protection of a widowed aunt of my husband,
Angelina's nurse came to visit one of my
aunt's servants, and brought the child with
her. She was then only two years old, but
her countenance had nearly as much character
as it now has, and instantly brought to
my mind a Spanish youth who was educated
in England, and in whom my father took
much interest. I eagerly inquired her name,
and when she lisped out Angelina Gindrat,
I for the first time knew that the companion
and playmate of my early days was a wealthy
planter in the island of Cuba. I had heard
of his marriage long before my own took
place,”—she paused, and blushed deeply at
the inferences which might be drawn from
her embarrassment, then added, “but I now
for the first time learned that he was united
to a warm-hearted West Indian girl, who
brought him a fortune almost princely in its
revenues. I soon after became acquainted
with Angelina's charming mother. For one
year we were as sisters; but at the end of
that time, one of these violent fevers so common
in the Indies, attacked my friend, and
days. I saw Mr. Gindrat but seldom after
her death; but he confided his daughter to
our care; and when my husband sent me
word that it was his intention to settle in
America, and that I must hold myself in
readiness to sail in the Amphritite, he earnestly
entreated that I would take his little
girl to Boston, and educate her as if she were
my own. When this was suggested to Mr.
Reynolds, he made no objection, but, on the
contrary, seemed pleased with the child, and
with the idea that the ample remittances
made for her support and education, would
enable us to live in rather more style than
his income warranted. But I know not how
it is,” said she, turning her face from me as
she spoke; Mr. Reynolds does not like it,
that I have lost my girlish buoyancy of spirit.
He attributes it to—may Heaven forgive
him for the unjust suspicion which hardens
his heart against the little Angelina—
I cannot talk on this subject,” continued she,
dashing away the tears that crowded to her
eyes. “I am going entirely among strangers,
you hear of my death, see that Mr. Gindrat
is timely informed of it; and on no account
lose sight of the little being for whom you
have shown such uncommon affection.” I
readily promised to comply with this request.
No more conversation passed at the
time; but the frankness with which she had
trusted to me, warranted me in making every
possible inquiry concerning her young charge.
In the course of several succeeding conversations,
I learned that Mr. Gindrat was
in a declining state of health, and that all his
immense property would descend to Angelina
and her brother Orlando. This brother was
a year or two older than his sister, and exceedingly
attached to her. He was absent
in a distant part of the island when the Amphitrite
was ready to sail, and our detention
had been occasioned by her father's anxious
desire that his children should embrace each
other, before a separation which he deemed
necessary for his daughter's improvement and
future welfare. Nothing important to my
story occurred during the voyage. Mr. Reynolds
manner; Mrs. Reynolds, always modest and
dignified in her reserve, seemed involuntarily
to look to me for that kindness which her
desolate feelings so much required; and Angelina
every hour twined herself more closely
around my affections.
At length Boston appeared in view,
arousing in my mind all the thousand endearing
associations of home and country.
The joy of a returning traveller was, however,
tinged with sadness I could not control,
for I was soon to part with the fascinating
Angelina, and Mrs. Reynolds' words had
given me a sort of fearful foreboding of her
destiny. I made preparations to depart
from the vessel with lingering reluctance.
My farewell to the harsh-tempered merchant
was briefly said, and civilly answered. Mrs.
Reynolds' manner betrayed feelings strongly
repressed, and she looked timidly at her
husband as she said, “you must let us see
you in Franklin street.” Angelina was
folding up her waxen doll in many coverings,
that it might be safely carried on shore.
threw down her playthings and clasped her
arms around my neck as she said, “Are you
going away, and wo'nt you come back to see
Angelina ever again.” “I hope so, my
love,” replied I, fervently kissing her high
ingenuous forehead, “but I must go now.”
She did not burst into tears, as I had expected,
but seating herself, and leaning her
head on her little hand, she heaved a deep,
but long-drawn sigh. The harp of sorrow
utters no note so deeply distressing, so thrillingly
pathetic, as the sigh of childhood.
Tears and cries are the natural expressions of
their vehement feelings, and they speak grief
as transient as snow flakes in a sunny sky;
but sighs are the language of a heart grown
old—they are taught by blighted hope and
chilled affection. What has happy childhood
to do with sighs!
This mute sorrow made Angelina dearer
than ever to my heart. I thought then, and
I think now, that a merciful Providence filled
my soul with such exceeding love for the little
stranger, that I might minister to his own
wise purposes.
During a stay of three months in Boston,
I occasionally visited at Mr. Reynolds' house,
and frequently witnessed scenes similar to
those with which I have already made the
reader acquainted. My visits were shorter
and less frequent than they would have been
in a happier family; for the sorrows of a
young and evidently much-abused wife, were
dangerous to sympathize with, and impossible
to alleviate.
At the end of the time I have mentioned,
business demanded my presence at the lead-mines
in Missouri. I called to bid farewell
to my friends in Franklin street, promising to
see them the moment I returned. Mr. Reynolds
was more kind to my favourite than I
had ever before seen him; and Mrs. Reynolds
seemed happy in the hope that her
artless witchery would eventually overcome
the sternness of his nature. Angelina, accustomed
to my absence for weeks, regarded my
departure as a common occurrence, and
abated nothing of her charming vivacity.
Never shall I forget how she looked as she
stood watching at the window to see my carriage
reflected from a crimson curtain on her
sweet face, so full of affection that its image
was a talisman of comfort for many a long
year after.
It required no effort to keep the promise I
had made. I had scarcely been in Boston
one hour after my return, when I found myself
opposite Mr. Reynolds' house, watching
the windows with throbbing eagerness. The
smiling figure I expected to see was not
there. I rang the bell impatiently, asked
the servant in a hurried tone, “Is Mrs. Reynolds
at home,” and pressed forward with an
impetuosity which my sense of decorum
could not restrain. “Sir,” replied the servant,
“she has been dead this fortnight.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed. “Yes sir, she is
dead.” “And where is Angelina? How is
the little West-Indian girl?” “She died two
days after. They were both attacked with
a malignant fever, and died in the country.”
The blow fell upon me with such stunning,
stupifying force, thought and feeling seemed
suspended. Reeling and dizzy with misery
“He is at the compting-room,” replied
the domestic; “but walk into the
parlour, sir, you are very pale.” He opened
the door, and, hardly knowing what I did, I
entered. There hung the crimson curtain,
just as it had hung when I saw the little face
I loved so well, peeping from behind its folds.
Then, indeed, memory came upon my heart
in a rush of agony. The numbness was
taken from my soul, and I felt the full extent
of my affliction. I will not describe the remainder
of that day. Those who have ever
loved strongly, and lost the object of their affections,
will imagine, more vividly than
words can portray, that terrible void in the
human soul, when the earth is a wilderness,
and the heavens shrouded in blackness. It
was not until several days after, that I could
see Mr. Reynolds, talk of their death, and
visit their graves. I lingered long on the
spot where they told me the suffering wife
and the joyful little innocent slept side by
side. “It is ever thus,” thought I, “the
brightest and fairest buds are soonest removed
are those who never know the autumn-leaf
of feeling, the chill drear atmosphere of a
desolated heart.”
* * * * * * * *
When I lost the object of my early attachment,
a few days before the solemn marriage-vow
was to connect us forever, for weal or
woe, I had found change of scene one of the
best restoratives for my wounded and restless
spirit; and now that my clinging affections
were a second time driven from their strong
hold, I resorted to the same means of cure.
I visited France and England, and made myself
familiar with most of the scenes consecrated
by history or tradition. I remained
abroad nearly nine years, during which time
I saw announced in the public papers the
death of Mr. Gindrat, the father of my lamented
little friend; and heard several particulars
of Mrs. Reynolds' history. The
Spanish youth, as she called him, was, as I
suspected, her first lover; and he had gained
her heart at that enthusiastic period when it
clings to a dear object with a strength which
or the tempting signal of ambition. When
his education was finished, he married a
West-Indian heiress. His English playmate
heard of his union, and from that time cared
little whether her path of life were in sunshine
or shadow. She never, even in her
inmost thought, reproached Mr. Gindrat.
The world excused him from blame because
he had made no open declaration, and had,
of course, broken no vows; but is a cold,
spiritless morality which dictates a creed like
this. He who makes his eyes telegraphs of
a love he does not utter, and, by a thousand
unnecessary attentions, wreaths himself more
closely around a heart that cherishes his looks
and records his minutest actions, is answerable
for the blight and mildew of that heart.
Some said this was the view Mr. Gindrat
himself took of the subject; and that the
tacit compact he had broken, cast a shade of
melancholy over his future life. Angelina
Lee, for such was Mrs. Reynolds' name,
gave no indications of misery which a common
observer would have noticed; but she
seemed to act the cheerfulness she no longer
felt. Her father was anxious to see her married,
for a reason more powerful than the
world suspected; the irretrievable embarassment
of his fortune. Mr. Reynolds, a stern,
vindictive, unprincipled, but gallant man,
had long been struck with her beauty, and
had an eye upon her expected fortune. He
offered his hand—her father urged his claims
—and partly from a listlessness of spirit
which shrunk from contention with her father's
will—and partly from that love of
homage which exists more or less in every
heart, she consented to become his wife.
Had his love for her been genuine, all would
have been well; for kindness will cure most
mental diseases; but he was vexed at her
father's loss of property, and put no check
upon his harsh, tyrannical nature. The idea
that disappointed affection occasioned his
wife's ill health, and the unjust suspicion that
she knew of her former lover's residence in
Cuba, before she expressed a wish to go
there, increased this evil to the utmost; and
to the nature of her affection for Angelina,
infuriated his hatred toward the child,
although his grasping avarice would not allow
him to relinquish the care of one so opulent.
I have already told how happily they both
escaped from his tyranny; and as nothing
connected with the young West-Indian transpired
until after my return to America, I
must beg the reader to pass over this long
period, and allow his imagination to accompany
me on one of the first excursions I
made in my native land, in the autumn of
the year 1817.
Several of my friends having heard that
there was plenty of game at Weston and
Sudbury, proposed to collect a shooting
party to ascertain the truth of the report. A
mere love of rambling induced me to join
them; for Cowper had so early inspired me
with a reluctance to take away life, that all
the boasted excellencies of Joe Mantons and
percussion caps could never tempt me to be
a sportsman. I had heard that something in
commemoration of one of King Philip's numerous
and the love of seeking out all
that our infant country dignifies with the
name of antiquities, soon led me to desert a
scene where I could neither gratify taste nor
display skill. My companions humoured my
wayward propensities by pointing out the
direction of the place, and promising to be
altogether independent of me in their homeward
arrangements, should my long stay render
it necessary. The route they indicated
led over fence and wall, brake and brier. I
wandered on until I grew weary of hobbling
over potato fields, like a boy stumbling
through the first pages of Virgil, and climbing
slope after slope, like a man condemned
to the tread-mill. Seeing a lad in the high
road, dragging lazily along after a couple of
sleepy oxen, I hastened to overtake him, and
inquire where Wadsworth's monument was
to be found. “Whir-ho,” shouted the yeoman,
in sharp and angular tones, at the same
time laying his whip parallel with the eyes
of his oxen. “What might you say, sir?”
“I asked you to tell me where the monument
any monerment in these parts,” replied the
lad, tipping his hat on one side in a very
knowing way, and passing his brawny fingers
through his stiff red hair, till his skull bore
no small resemblance to an enchanted haystack,
“but I've read in the prints that
they 're going to put up a monerment at
Washington that 'll cost uncle Sam a power
o' dollars.” “What I was speaking of,”
answered I, “is a memorial of Wadsworth
and Bruklebank, massacred in King Philip's
wars.” “According to my idees,” replied
my informer, “a memorial is another guess
sort o' thing from a monerment. Dad sent
a memorial to uncle Sam, about losing one
of his toes in the old war; but it 'ill be long
enough afore dad has a monerment, I guess.”
“Can you or can you not tell me where the
place is?” repeated I, half vexed and half
amused with the ignoramus. “That depends
a bit upon what place you mean. I
guess as how you 're from Boston. Some
how or other, they hear of all sorts of things
down there.” Seeing I was not likely to gain
the follow had that mischievous love of hoaxing
his city brethen, so common in the interior,
I passed briskly on, but was soon stopped
by a shrill “halloo, mister! if so be
there is such a place round here, our schoolmaster
can tell you all about it. He's a
curous man for larning. If you was to ax
him, `can't you tell me where sich a place
is?' and he was to say, `no,' he'd mean yes.”
“How so?” asked I, “that's no proof of his
wisdom.” “But it is though; for you see
there's a negative in your question, and if
there was a negative in his answer, it would
be double you see—and the grammar'd stand
him out in saying, that 'are was an affirmative.”
Smiling at this parade of scholastic
lore, I inquired where the redoubtable pedagogue
resided. “Why he boards round, sir,
because the town can't afford to pay his
board; but he's a curous larnt man—he
could tell you the latitude of your tongue,
and the longitude of your head, if you axed
him.” “Your tongue has pretty great latitude,
I think, sir,” replied I. “Not up to
buffoon, tipping a wink with that odd mixture
of impudence, vulgarity and archness, peculiar
to those who style themselves “crank
country lads.”
What more his wit or his wisdom might
have chosen to amuse me with, I know not
—for he stopped his conversation, and pointing
to a dilapidated farm-house, exclaimed,
“there's uncle Joe's house. I guess the
master lives there. If he an't at home, maybe
uncle Joe can tell you about the monerment.”
Then whistling to his oxen to
quicken their pace, he, without further ceremony,
left me to my adventures. I found
all attempts to make myself heard at the front
door of the mansion entirely useless; and I
continued walking round and round the domains,
until half a dozen brick-red milk-pans,
a strainer spread over a wooden pail, and a
checked apron drying on a plough-handle,
gave indications of an inhabitated country.
In answer to my knock, I heard a sharp,
shrill voice call out, “Go to the door, Joe.”
But a laconic “walk!” uttered in tones as
organ, was the only notice taken of the sharp
command. Doubtful as the word was in its
import, and ungracious in its utterance, I
thought best to understand it in its most
hospitable sense. Accordingly raising the
wooden latch by a leathern string, somewhat
slippery from many a greasy touch, I ventured
to explore the interior of the building.
It certainly had not the recommendation
which plain exteriors frequently have. A
pumpkin-shell full of cobbs, surmounted by
a pair of broken bellows; one andiron beheaded,
and the other sinking down beneath
the weight of years; towels which an antiquary
might have sworn were stripped from
Egyptian mummies, and a floor that could
never again be frightened into paleness by
mop, or broom—all proclaimed that neatness
and comfort were strangers there.
When I made known my errand, the old
man laid his pipe in the ash-hole, and thrusting
his hands into his ragged pockets, to
which his idle fingers owed a heavy rent, he
said—“The school-master an't to home;
till I've split some wood, and hung on the
tea-kettle for my old woman.” The matron,
who had wiped her spectacles on a tattered
silk handkerchief, and stared at me to her
heart's content, here answered in her sharpest
tones, “no you won't I can tell you, Joe.
You an't a fit man to be out o' the sight o'
your chimly, as long as grog's made o' potatoes.
When that lazy witch of a Peg comes
home from the meadow, she can show the
stranger gentleman the way; for she and
Master Dudley know all the out-o'-the-way
places hereabouts. Wherever she's lagging,
I'll be bound he's with her. Well I
hope good'll come on't. That's all I've got
to say.” While she was speaking, I noticed
from the window a young man, bearing a
well-filled bag on his shoulder, coming toward
the house in earnest conversation with a barefooted,
ill-dressed girl. “There's our Peg,”
exclaimed the old virago, taking off her
spectacles in a desperate hurry:—“It's jest
as I knowed 'twould be.” A moment after,
the object of her irritation entered, and chained
my attention as if by a magic spell.
Her ragged straw bonnet had fallen back
from her forehead, and through one of its
loop-holes a sun-beam darted on the most
brilliant eyes I had ever beheld, and gave
additional richness to dark cheeks, highly
flushed by air and exercise. Her movements
had nothing of rustic angularity; on the contrary,
there was a gliding gracefulness of
manner which her coarse and narrow dress
could not entirely fetter.
“In truth,” thought I, “this forlorn place
seems much unlike a paradise of poverty;
but if it were, thou, my pretty damsel, might
surely be its angel.” She blushed and smiled
as she met my glance of delighted surprise;
and at that moment she looked so
like Angelina standing beneath the crimson
curtain, that I would fain have clasped her to
my heart.
The delightful dream was interrupted by a
sharp reprimand from the old woman, for
having been so tardy in filling the bag with
cranberries. She concluded by saying—“I
guess we shall make a profitable spot o' the
work o' taking Master Dudley to board.” I
to whom she alluded. His countenance
pleased me exceedingly, though his features
were far from handsome. A slight degree
of sadness tinged an expression remarkably
ingenuous and intellectual, and made his face
the sun-dial of the soul, where genius might
mark all its changes in alternate sunshine and
shadow.
With a voice and manner which indicated
the respect he had inspired, I asked him to
accompany me to the spot consecrated by
King Philip's battle. He readily complied
with my request, assuring me that it was just
beyond the neighbouring meadow. The old
man had meekly resumed his pipe, and languidly
nodded his head in answer to my parting
salutation. The old woman was busily
emptying her cranberries, and did not notice
that, as we left the house, the eyes of the
young people met, and spoke volumes at a
glance. Surely the eye is the vocabulary of
disembodied spirits; for human sounds have
never yet been able to define its rapid comprehensive
language. Responding to his
“that young girl possesses singular
beauty.” “Yes,” answered Mr. Dudley,
“and talents still more extraordinary. She
is but fourteen years old, and has never had
advantages superiour to those afforded by
my school; yet you would be astonished at
her instinctive sense of all that is sublime or
beautiful.” There was a dignified enthusiasm
in the speaker's manner, which confirmed
the favourable impression I had received
from his countenance. “This is no place
for such minds,” answered I; “pardon me
if I ask why you bury your talents here.
Why not come forward and join in the honourable
competition of intelligent men?”
“Poverty, a chain which has kept down
many spirits more ambitious than my own,
first brought me here,” rejoined he; “and
pity for the poor girl you have just seen, induces
me to remain.” “In what way can
your residence here benefit her,” said I.
“I should think it might possibly prove injurious
to you both.” “I understand you,”
replied he, colouring deeply. “The interest
disinterested, and precisely such as would
have been awakened in any mind, acquainted
with her desolate situation and extraordinary
gifts. With tears in her eyes, she last winter
entreated me to teach her occasionally during
the long evenings, that she herself might
soon be qualified to instruct. I promised I
would. I found in her an uncommon facility
in acquiring knowledge; and cost me what
it will, I will not leave her till she is able by
her own exertions to throw off the yoke of
unfeeling tyranny which now bows her to
the earth.” “Are not her grand-parents
kind to her, then,” inquired I. “They are
no relations of her's,” rejoined Dudley.
“Their name is Hager, her own is Margaret
Williams. She was brought here, when
about four years old, by a gentleman who
called himself Vinton. He paid her board
until she was eight years old; but since that
time they have heard nothing from him, and
all inquiries for such a man have proved fruitless.
Her work has been worth something
to them, so they have not turned her adrift
receives is given grudgingly enough.” “The
state of things within doors,” said I, “does
not indicate so much energy as you represent
Margaret to possess.” “She is the slave,
and not the superintendant there,” answered
he. “Besides, what is human nature without
motives to impel it to exertion? No
thanks reward her toil—no smile of approbation
shows that her carefulness is noted—but
I forget, you are a stranger—and here we
are by the side of what is called the monument.”
A rude pile of earth and bricks, against
which leaned a stone bearing the date of the
battle, and the names of Bruklebank, Wadsworth,
&c. was all that marked the spot. In
my eyes it was more venerable than many a
lofty pile I had seen in foreign abbeys. They
spoke the idle pageantry of regal folly, or
commemorated the mad projects of unprincipled
ambition; but this was one of the humble
memorials of our forefathers—men of
obscure rank, yet born to a lofty destiny—
outposts from the vanguard of our youthful
across the pit-falls in her dangerous path,
and bade the car of liberty crush them in its
onward course.
At another time, I should have given myself
up longer to these heart-stirring recollections;
but I was really touched by the
details I had just heard, and I plainly saw
the feelings of my young companion were
wounded by my seeming coldness. After
walking a few steps from the monument, in
silence, I said, “you must excuse a blunt old
bachelor, Mr. Dudley, if he does ask such
an abrupt question, as, what do you mean to
do with yourself hereafter?” “The only
definite purpose I have,” replied the young
man, “is to obtain a liberal education, if
possible. My course will be guided by the
leadings of Providence.” “Why do you not
go to West Point?” said I. “Because I
have neither friends, nor influence,” rejoined
he. “It has been my favourite project, I
acknowledge; but alone and unassisted as I
am in the world, it would be presumption in
me to hope for it.” “I like your looks and
“and it shall not be my fault if your ambitious
wishes are not fulfilled. As for that
charming Margaret, who has awakened your
pity so much, if you are not afraid to trust
her to an old fellow like me, I will support
her at the best school in Boston for three
succeeding years.” Mr. Dudley looked at
me a moment, as if he wished to penetrate
my very soul, and said, “if you mean as you
say, sir, may heaven bless you for the
thought.” “I do mean as I say,” rejoined I.
“I am alone in life, with an easy fortune, and
I find the bank of benevolence pays me the
largest dividend of happiness.”
Mr. Dudley seemed to forget my promises
concerning West Point, but he talked of
what Margaret Williams might be made by
education, and thanked me for my purposes
towards her, with a fervent gratitude, which
renewed my own youthful affections.
When we returned to Mr. Hagar's miserable
dwelling, we found every thing much as
we had left it, excepting that the hearth was
neatly washed, and the supper-table spread
the good dame's leave to share their repast,
I began to talk of the subject which had so
much interested Mr. Dudley on his walk
homeward. When I asked Margaret if she
would accompany me to Boston, and go to
school there, she looked timidly first at me,
and then at Mr. Dudley, and covering her
face with both her hands, burst into tears.
The old man seemed somewhat moved, and
said the poor orphan was welcome to a corner
of his house so long as he lived. “Which
won't be long, at the rate you've gone on of
late years,” rejoined his wife. “Peggy has
been a bill of expense to us long enough;
and it's a hard case to have her go off as
soon as she's good for something.” “I will
satisfy you in that respect, good woman,”
said I; “we shall not quarrel about the
terms, if Margaret will but say she will go
with me.” “You are a stranger to us, sir,”
resumed the matron; but doubtless you have
good reasons for taking such a violent liking
to Peggy.” “His stainless reputation is no
stranger to me,” said Mr. Dudley, “though
name of* * *is associated with too many
generous deeds, not to be known at the remotest
corners of Massachusetts.” “Then
you think I had better go,” said Margaret.
“Most certainly I do,” replied Mr. Dudley.
“And will you say yes, now?” said I, affectionately
passing my hand over her long
black hair, as she stood beside me. The
poor orphan sunk kneeling at my feet, and
wept in the full gratitude of her heart, till
even her stern mistress turned towards the
window, to conceal her tears. I raised her
up with many assurances of kindness and protection;
she continued to weep, till, as I held
her hand within mine, her eye glanced upon
Angelina's ring. The eager curiosity with
which she regarded it, called to my mind,
what her height and womanly bearing had
well nigh made me forget, that she was but
a child—an artless, uncultured child! I
touched the spring and revealed the miniature
of my little favourite. “Oh, it is very beautiful,”
exclaimed she. “You never saw
such a ring before, I suppose?” said I.
speaking in a very slow and hesitating manner.
She gazed in the fire very thoughtfully
for a moment, then sighing deeply, looked
in my face with an expression so like Angelina's,
when I first bade her farewell on board
the Amphitrite, that I felt determined she
should henceforth be my daughter. Once,
the wild idea did cross my brain, that she
was strangely like my lamented favourite, and
that the news of her death might all have
been a deception. But I had been at her
grave, I had heard the servants talk of the
burial, and the nurse describe her last moments;
and I smiled that imagination should
try to play such wild freaks with me.
For various reasons, I deemed it prudent
to remain at the farm-house that night, rather
than expose myself and my interesting protege
to the curiosity, and perchance the
jests, of my companions. I knew that my
oddity had long since placed me in an easy-chair
for life; and that my friends were willing
to grant me as much liberty as they did
their favourite dogs; allowing me to strike
when and how I could.
I will not detail the various instances of
avarice and hard-heartedness, which were
elicited during the bargain I made with Mrs.
Hagar. Suffice it to say, the sum I promised
to pay her, as an indemnification for Margaret's
services, was certainly much larger
than I should willingly have given, had not
the country maiden so powerfully reminded
me of the fascinating little West-Indian. To
be brief, I seated Margaret beside me in the
stage, the following morning, claiming from
Mr. Dudley a promise to visit us in a few
weeks. “I will own all my errors first,”
said he smiling; “and then if you forgive
me, I shall feel proud to avail myself of your
invitation. I knew you by report, and I told
you Margaret's story, in hopes your quick
feelings and ready benevolence might be
aroused in her behalf.” “I thank you for
the stratagem,” said I, warmly shaking him
by the hand. “Unless your own conduct
alters my opinion of you, you will find me an
active friend.” A few kind words to the
of Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, closed
the farewell scene. As for the old people,
they showed little emotion, except a vulgar
curiosity and wonder at my unaccountable
interest in their Peggy. To part from such
a home could not be very afflicting to any
heart. For a few days Margaret was melancholy,
and more than once I found her in
tears over the Gentle Shepherd; but she
soon became gayer than I had imagined it
was in her nature to be. All that Mr. Dudley
had said of her genius was more than
verified. It seemed as if she were gifted
with an additional sense, a sort of spiritual
ear, to which every waving flower and bending
shrub spoke strange melody. Her progress
was so rapid, that Mr. ****'s adopted
daughter soon became the wonder of the
whole school. Before two years had expired,
I received a letter from Mr. Fitzroy, a rich
planter in South-Carolina, entreating that
Miss Williams might return home with his
daughter, who was about to leave school.
Margaret's deference and modest affection
thinking that a visit to the south, under such
patronage, and with such a young lady as I
knew her friend to be, would be a great advantage
to her, I consented that she should
visit Carolina for one year. During this
time, I frequently received letters from her,
always full of deep, poetic fancy, and the
most enthusiastic, grateful affection. If the
reader finds it difficult to imagine so sudden
a change of character, I assure him it was no
less wonderful to me than it is to him.
There are minds which seem to have an instinctive
perception of all that is tasteful and
refined; and Margaret's was such. She had,
as it were at once, grown a tall, beautiful,
graceful girl, and had become the pride of a
foolish old heart, that at first clung to her in
pity. And where was the poor youth who
at first revealed the treasures hidden in her
heart and mind? He was at West Point.
And when Margaret made her visit to the
south, his name stood highest among that
celebrated band, which has so happily united
the courtliness of the drawing-room with
a mighty citadel, around which
the woodbine falls in accidental profusion,
giving lightness to its outline, without concealing
its strength.
* * * * * * *
The reader is, I suppose, well nigh weary
of following me in my rambles, now pausing
by the road-side to dissect a thistle, and anon
passing over whole fertile gardens without a
glance; but thus have I done in life, and
thus must he suffer me to do in my story, if
he ever wishes to hear its conclusion.
A letter from Margaret, dated in the autumn
of 1820, informed me that Mr. Fitzroy,
his daughter, and herself, were about making
a northern tour, and wished very much that
I should join them at New-York. I was not
certain, at the time, I should be able to do
this; but I promised to meet them on their
return. About a week after they left the
city, I arrived there, and immediately took
passage in the steam-boat, on the North River,
thinking I should hear of them at West-Point,
Lake George, or some other of the
in their route. The passengers were, as
usual, an odd assemblage of all sorts of nations,
tribes, and tongues. A half facetious,
half fretful, old yankee was complaining bitterly
of the noise, and telling the captain he
ought to keep padlocks for the eyes in a
place like that; a Frenchman was tapping
his box with the most graceful air, and annoying
every body with his snuff and his voulezvous;
an Irishman, in his uncouth national
sounds, was most eloquently describing the
death of Emmett; and a little Dutch woman
with three chubby children, poured forth
a continual torrent of words as unmusical as
the rattling of a coal-cart over the pavements
of a city. Apart from all, sat a handsome,
but very dark-complexioned, young man,
completely absorbed in the enchanting pages
of Ivanhoe. He raised his eye as I stepped
on deck, but its long, dark lash fell almost instantly.
I took up a newspaper, and glancing
over its columns for a time, left the
interesting stranger to pursue his delightful
occupation in peace. It was long before he
voice, made some casual remark concerning
the beauty of the day. This observation
was a very common one; but the words
were arranged with such unstudied elegance,
and his pronunciation had so much of music
about it, that my attention was immediately
excited.
There is a sort of free-masonry by which
intelligent and highly cultivated souls form a
rapid knowledge of each other. The conversation
soon passed to interesting subjects. A
fine head of Cicero, which I noticed on his
watch-seal, led to gems, and cameos, and
Herculaneum, and the curiously carved ring,
said to have been found there. On every
topic, his rich, classical mind, poured itself
out with the same delightful yet unostentatious
enthusiasm. “We are sinning against
nature,” said he, smiling, “to be talking of
antiquity, when such a scene of imposing
grandeur is presented to our view.” My
eye followed him as he pointed to the Highlands,
which were now before us; `some of
the heights swelling in gradual and noble elevation
rising from the water in a perpendicular
mass, and starting into sharp and pointed
bluffs, as if thrown up there by the hand of
art. The noble river stole along in fearful
silence, as if sensible of the frowning majesty
which looked down upon its motion;' and
the vessel, rapidly `walking the water like a
thing of life,' seemed proud of her magnificent
pathway. The little waves sporting
and sparkling round her prow, the soft, silvery,
sunny stream, trembling in her rear,
and the wreaths of smoke rising as if in incense
to the beauty of the scene, all conspired
to make a steam-boat passing the Highlands
one of the grandest objects I had ever
seen. Soon the fortifications and buildings
of West Point burst upon the view. At first
we caught a distant glimpse of glittering arms,
and then of the youthful band standing forth
in all the pride of military discipline, as if
ready for the work of death. “I had no idea
of such scenery in America,” exclaimed the
stranger. “It brings to my eye the wild
picturesque, and sublime scenes which Scotland's
imagination.” “And yet,” replied I, “it
stands in its own simple majesty, without any
of that pageantry of association which throws
such enchantment around Europe and Asia.”
“Every thing about your country has to the
philosophic mind associations of moral grandeur,”
rejoined he, “though destitute of the
gorgeous blazonry of chivalry, or the wild
romance of the crusades.” “You are then
a foreigner?” said I. “I am so,” replied
he, “in every country; for I have been too
much a wanderer to call any place my home;
perhaps England best deserves that appellation.”
I seemed to have aroused melancholy recollections.
A cloud passed over the clear
expression of his face, and he was silent for
several moments. Wishing to give a more
pleasant turn to the conversation, I slipped
my ring from my finger, and handing it to
him, I said, “we were speaking of ancient
rings just now—there is one of very curious
workmanship.” As the hands unclasped,
he sprang up with an exclamation that pierced
of strong emotion he grasped my arm, till the
veins swelled beneath his pressure. It was
an instant before he could summon steadiness
enough to say, “Oh, tell me whence came
that ring!” When he was a little calmer, I
told him its history as briefly as possible, for
my curiosity was strongly excited to know
the cause of such vehement interest. He
listened with varied, but intense, expression
as I proceeded, and suddenly interrupted me
by exclaiming, “and where is that little
West-Indian girl? Oh, sir, I'd give you
wealth enough to buy a thousand consciences,
if you could but tell me where she is!”
“The interesting little creature has been
twelve years in her grave,” said I; “but may
I ask who it is that thus cherishes her memory?”
“I am her brother Orlando,” replied
he, “and I have a tale of fearful wickedness
to tell you, about the charming companion
of my infancy; but I have not time to detail
it now. The boat is slackening her course
and makes for the shore. I land at West
Point—I trust you do too.” I answered
preparations to quit the boat. My curiosity
was so painfully excited, that I could hardly
wait until the possession of a private room at
the lodging house gave him an opportunity
to explain his meaning.
“I left Cuba for England, soon after my
sister went to America,” he resumed; “and
there I continued until after my father's
death. I remained abroad and travelled even
into the interiour of Asia, partly from a love
of adventure, and partly because no fire-side
endearments awaited me in Cuba. During
my childhood, I received letters from Mr.
Reynolds, informing me of my sister's health
and progress in her education. Afterwards
I received letters from herself which indicated
entire contentment with her situation. It
is not a year since I received one, in which
she excused a draft upon our agent for a very
large sum, by saying she found great calls
upon her benevolence. I was glad she possessed
this spirit. I answered the letter by
a promise to be in Boston during the summer
of 1820. I came—I eagerly inquired for
called in his debts very rapidly, left his affairs
half settled, started very suddenly for Calcutta,
and been shipwrecked. I asked for
Angelina, and was assured she died soon
after she came to this country, and the
grave-stone bearing her name and age was
then shown to me.” “The villain,” exclaimed
I; “he concealed it, that he might
appropriate her property to his own use!”
“Oh, I could forgive him that,” cried the
brother, almost convulsively; “yes, I could
have forgiven him if he had taken the last
shilling of my fortune; but—the child still
lives—and I cannot discover her!” “The
proof—tell me the proof,” said I. “I
searched out one of the old servants,” he
replied, “that I might learn all the particulars
of my sister's illness. At first she shook
her head mysteriously, and said she believed
there had been some strange doings; and at
last I induced her to tell me the old nurse
had, on her death-bed, confessed that the
child which slept under that grave-stone was
not Angelina Gindrat, but her own daughter;
for the deception; and that she believed the
little West-Indian was put out at service in
the country. Further than this, all my inquiries
have been fruitless. I cannot discover
the least trace of my injured sister;
and I am roaming about the country with a
sort of indefinite hope that Providence will
lead me to a discovery of her retreat.” A
sudden light came upon my mind, like an
electric flash; and I was just on the point of
saying, “your hope is realized!” but recollecting
the extreme uncertainty of my conjectures,
and the cruelty of exciting vain
expectations, I checked the tumult of my
feelings, and asked if there were any peculiarity
by which he should know his sister.
“In my boyhood,” answered he, “I pricked
upon her right arm a carrier-dove, with a
letter in his mouth; and on the day she bade
me farewell, she held it to my lips and bade
me kiss it.” I well recollected it, for Angelina
had a hundred times talked of Orlando's
little bird. Much conversation followed. I
advised Mr. Gindrat to remain at West Point
see many strangers there, and by some extraordinary
accident, light might gleam on
this singular story; but I did not venture to
express a hope which amounted almost to
entire conviction. He consented to follow
my advice, and I left him, to communicate
with all speed, my hopes and fears to young
Dudley. The Cadet gave me a reception
exceedingly cordial and enthusiastic. “To
see you at any time, is happiness for me,”
said he, “but now, you are the very man, of
all the world, I most wished to see; for I
have lately received a commission from Miss
Williams to find you, at all events, and bring
you into her presence at the military ball,
which is to be at New-York, the ensuing
week. You are such a bird on the wing,
that I have despatched letters to Philadelphia,
Canandaigua, and New-York, which
are the three last places from whence your
letters have been dated, in hopes some one
of them would reach you.” As soon as the
bustle of meeting was over, I told him all
with which the reader has been made acquainted,
my belief that Angelina Gindrat and Margaret
Williams were one and the same person.
I was a little disappointed at the calmness,
and even sadness, with which Mr. Dudley
heard my disclosure; and I reproached him
for want of sympathy in my daughter's good
fortune. “I will deal frankly with you,”
replied the young man. “As your adopted
child, admired and flattered by the rich and
intelligent, I have long felt that my hold upon
her remembrance was exceedingly precarious;
but if she is heiress to this immense
fortune, her hand will soon be sought by
numbers, superior to me in all respects.” “I
have no right to answer for Margaret's feelings,”
rejoined I, “but of one thing I am
certain: this change of fortune will make no
change in her romantic nature.” This assurance
somewhat dispelled his gloom, and
having naturally the slightest possible degree
of selfishness in his disposition, he soon
entered with enthusiasm into all my hopes
and fears. When I asked him if he had ever
heard Mrs. Hagar describe the Mr. Vinton
that he had. In every respect the description
corresponded with my vivid recollection
of Mr. Reynolds. A thousand trifling details
tended so much to confirm my suspicions,
that my eagerness to meet Margaret grew
painful in its excess. Report said that the
great southern beauty, Miss Fitzroy, was to
be in New-York two days before the ball.
Young Dudley and Mr. Gindrat accompanied
me there. I awaited their arrival with the
most eager impatience, and clasped Margaret
to my heart the moment she alighted from
the carriage. I pass over all the delight of
meeting; all the thousand kind things said
and thought; all the joy and timidity of
young Dudley; and only pause to mention
that in the short space of two days, I three
times surprised Margaret Williams entirely
absorbed in Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd,
before I introduce my readers to the
lighted ball-room. When I entered, with
Margaret leaning on my arm, much of the
company had already assembled, and an audible
buzz of admiration followed her as we
groups of beautiful heads, always give to a
ball-room the mellow brilliancy of fairy-land;
but a military ball has charms peculiar to itself;
it seems like a fragment of chivalry,
and partakes of the high, poetic interest of
tilts and tournaments. As I looked round
upon the gay scene, I heard a loud whisper
of applause, and soon perceived that it announced
the entrance of my friend Miss
Fitzroy. Her blazing and radiant beauty
was of a character totally different from my
Margaret's. Her face and figure were the
statuary's embodied dream; her complexion
was dazzlingly fair, and her eyes had an expression
lucid and tranquil, as Lake George
by summer's moonlight. In the Venus de
Medicis, art studied nature, and in one form
concentrated the graces of a thousand models;
but it now seemed as if nature, vexed
at the successful rivalry, had studied every
line of beauty from Praxiteless to Canova,
and thrown over the whole the rich colouring
of Titian. She glided through the room
with a majestic, swan-like motion, so modest
of her charms. While I was
listening to some eloquent badinage upon
having hurried Margaret away from her, I
saw Mr. Gindrat enter. I had seen him
much, and become more and more interested
in him during the brief period I have mentioned;
but as I became convinced that
Margaret was his sister, I earnestly wished
that he should meet her in public, and judge
of her as an entire stranger. That she was
Angelina Gindrat I had now no doubt; for
under the pretence of telling her fortune, I
had asked her to show me her arm. The
carrier-dove and his letter were there as plain
as when I first kissed that little arm on board
the Amphitrite; and with deep fervour my
heart thanked the all-wise Being who had
thus enabled me unconsciously to fulfil my
promise to Mrs. Reynolds. With excitement
almost too tumultuous to be happy, I sought
Mr. Gindrat, to introduce him to Margaret.
“Who are those beautiful ladies you have
just left?” inquired he, after the first salutation
had passed. “It is the celebrated Miss
Williams,” replied I. “The one with pearls
in her hair is the famous beauty.
Eyes fit for Phœbus' self to gild the world with;
And there's a brow arch'd like the state of Heaven;
Look, how it bends, and with what radiance,
As if the synod of the Gods sat under;
Look there, and wonder!”
“She is indeed a beautiful creature,” rejoined
he, “but what a queen-like figure
stands beside her! How genius pours forth
in torrents of expression! and how much
graceful vivacity there is in the very bend of
her neck!” “She is my adopted daughter,”
said I, “and if you wish, I will introduce
you.” “But why have I not heard of her
before!” asked he, in a tone of surprise.
“Oh, we have had weightier matters to talk
of, you know, and rich young men are apt to
suspect fathers, who are too anxious to introduce
their daughters.” Smiling, he followed
me toward the ladies, and I introduced him
as a friend from Europe. Both were obviously
prepossessed in his favour; and it was
that Miss Fitzroy had never before condescended
to treat any gentleman with so much
attention. She accepted his invitation to
dance, and they took their places at the
head of the first cotillion. Two reputed lovers
of Margaret's were making their way
toward her, when she involuntarily gave an
earnest glance toward the place where Dudley
stood aloof, apparently in no very cheerful
mood. He met the expressive look, and
was instantly at her side. I heard much
animated conversation whenever the couples
met in the windings of the dance; and when
the ladies were seated near me, Gindrat took
his station at Margaret's side. “These
orange and lemon trees,” said he, “almost
make me imagine myself in my native island;
and there are flowers here to night,” added
he, with marked emphasis, “so like the productions
of my sunny clime, that the recollections
of my childhood come vividly before
me; and he went on describing the beauties
of tropical regions with surprising volubility
and eloquence. Miss Fitzroy listened with
admirers frown; and Margaret gave one of
her most fascinating smiles, as she said, “I
have strange thoughts sometimes. As you
describe these scenes, it seems to me like recalling
a dream long since forgotten. Visions
crowd on my memory, and are gone before
I can trace their outline. I am half tempted
to believe in the transmigration of souls. Who
knows but that, as a happy little bird, I have
floated over the scenes you describe so well?
Gindrat listened with a mingled air of deference
and admiration; and Dudley gave me
a glance full of prophetic meaning. The
two beauties were soon after engaged in another
dance. Margaret was Mr. Gindrat's
partner, and I watched their growing interest
in each other, with a heart even more happy
than their own. I had resolved that the denouement
should take place the next day,
and my imagination was rapidly running over
the scene—when Margaret chanced to drop
her bracelet. Mr. Gindrat took it up, and
as she stepped aside to clasp it he remarked
the beauty of the workmanship. It was an
yellow ground. After looking at it, an instant,
“May I have the honour?” said he,
offering to place it upon her arm. Her lace
sleeve was slightly deranged, and she turned
her arm to adjust it. A half suppressed
ejaculation burst from Gindrat's lips, and
reeling with faintness, he leaned against the
folding doors. I supported him to the air.
“Put me into a carriage,” said he quickly,
“and come with me—come with me.” I
saw how it was—the transparent sleeve had
betrayed the carrier-dove, and all my plans
of a regular catastrophe were frustrated.
* * * * * * *
When I asked my new friend to forgive me
for thus concealing my conjectures—“Say
nothing of forgiveness,” cried he. “To
find her at all, would have been a blessing.
Yes, even in ignorance and obscurity; but
to find her thus—so elegant—so well educated—Oh,
may heaven bless you! may heaven
bless you! Money can, and shall reward
may heaven bless you!”
All the wonder and joy which followed
can be better imagined than expressed.
Crowds of suitors contended with each other
for the bright West-Indian prize. To all,
she gave a kind, but very decided negative;
and all her friends, except Frank Dudley,
divined the cause. The sight of Allan
Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd marked in many
interesting places, and blistered with tears,
did at length enable hope to weigh down the
long fluctuating scale in his distrustful mind.
Mr. Gindrat felt grateful to his sister's long-tried
friend, the beautiful Miss Fitzroy; and
in his enthusiastic nature, gratitude changed
to love almost as suddenly as the aloe bursts
into blossom when touched by fairy wand.
Both the lovers were made happy by a frank
avowal of reciprocated attachment; and one
bright June day witnessed their splendid
bridals. Mr. Gindrat has sold his West-India
property, and purchased two beautiful
plantations in Virginia; and Angelina and
piazzas. I care less about rambling, now
that my heart has such a happy home; but
I have not lost, and I trust I shall never lose,
an active, affectionate interest in my fellow
creatures, though I am an odd old bachelor.
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