 | CHAPTER XVI. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
The purpose of to-day
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.”
Cowper.
After an absence of a week, or ten days, Harry returned
to Wyllys-Roof, not at all sorry to hear that he was too late
to see the Grahams, as they were going to New York the
next morning. He was very attentive to Elinor—pointedly
so. Once or twice she was going to jest with him upon the
subject, and inquire the cause of this studied gallantry; but
observing he was still a little out of spirits, she contented
herself with thanking him for the books he had brought her.
The next day proved so mild, so hazy, and Indian-summer-like,
that Hazlehurst proposed to take advantage of it, to
give the ladies a row on the river. They were out for a
couple of hours, landed on the opposite bank, and paid a
visit to their friends, the Bernards, who lived a mile or two
below them. The air was delightful, the country looked
beautiful—fresher, perhaps, than at midsummer; for the heat
was no longer parching, and the September showers had
washed away the dust, and brought out the green grass again.
Harry had become interested in the conversation, and was
particularly agreeable; Miss Agnes was pleased with his
remarks, and Elinor thought she had never passed a pleasanter
morning; she was little aware that it was to be fol
lowed by many anxious, painful days.
They landed, as usual, at the boat-house; and the ladies
prepared to walk slowly across the lawn, while Harry secured
the boat and oars. As they approached the house,
they were surprised to see several of the servants collected
see the ladies. Old Hetty, a superannuated negro cook,
who had lived all her life in the family, was wringing her
hands, and wiping her eyes with her apron; while Mammy
Sarah, Elinor's former nurse, a respectable white woman,
was talking to the boy.
Elinor quickened her pace, and hastened before her aunt,
to inquire into the cause of this distress.
“What is it, Mammy?” she asked, on reaching the piazza.
“What is the matter?”
“Oh, dearie me; Miss Elly, Miss Elly!” exclaimed old
Hetty, with a fresh burst of tears.
“Tell us—Hetty—Mammy—what has happened?” said
Miss Wyllys, as she approached.
“Oh, Miss Aggess, Miss Aggess—dreadful news!” said
the old negro woman, burying her face in her apron.
“My father?” asked Miss Agnes, faintly, and trembling
with alarm.
“No, ma'am,” said Mammy Sarah, looking very sad,
however; “Mr. Wyllys is very well, and we were hoping he
would come in before you, so that we could get at the truth.”
“Let us hear what you have to say, at once, Mammy,”
continued Miss Agnes, anxiously.
“Billy, here, has brought bad news from Longbridge.”
“Dreadful news!” interposed old Hetty. “Oh, Miss
Aggess! Billy say Miss Jane—”
“What is it?—Speak plainly!” cried Miss Wyllys.
“There's an accident happened to the steamboat,” added
Mammy.
“B'iler bust — dearie me—Miss Jane's scall to death!”
exclaimed Hetty.
A cry of horror burst from Elinor and her aunt, and they
turned towards Mammy Sarah.
“I hope it isn't quite so bad, ma'am,” said Mammy; “but
Billy says the steamboat boiler did really burst after she had
got only half a mile from the wharf.”
A second sufficed for Miss Agnes and Elinor to remember
Hetty's fondness for marvels and disasters, and they hoped
ardently that the present account might be exaggerated.
They turned to the boy: “What had he heard?” “Whom
had he seen?” Billy reported that he had seen the boat
himself; that he had heard the cries from her decks, which
the people in the street thought had come from some horses
on board, that must have been scalded; that another boat
had gone out to the Longbridge steamer, and had towed her
to a wharf a few rods from the spot where the accident happened;
that he had seen, himself, a man on horseback,
coming for the doctor; and the people told him five horses
had been killed, two men badly hurt, and Mr. Graham's
eldest daughter was scalded so badly that she was not expected
to live.
Miss Wyllys's anxiety increased on hearing the boy's
story; she ordered the carriage instantly, determined that
under any circumstances, it would be best to go to Longbridge
at once, either to discover the truth, or to assist Mrs.
Graham in nursing Jane, if she were really badly injured.
At this moment, Harry returned from the boat-house.
“What is the matter?” he exclaimed, springing up the
piazza steps, and looking round upon the sad and anxious
faces.
“We have heard bad news from Longbridge,” said Miss
Wyllys; but before she could explain herself, old Hetty
burst into tears again, and turning to Hazlehurst, exclaimed:
“Oh, Massa Harry!—dreadful news!—Miss Jane scall to
death in steamboat!”
Miss Wyllys was so much struck with the effect of these
words on Harry, that for an instant she forgot to say “she
trusted the story had been exaggerated.” Hazlehurst lost all
colour — stood speechless and motionless for a moment.
Elinor was too much agitated herself to speak. Suddenly,
Harry met Miss Agnes's eye; he turned from her, rushed
through the house, and continued walking rapidly up and
own feelings. Amid all her anxiety for Jane, Miss Wyllys
could not but remark Hazlehurst's manner—he seemed entirely
overcome by his emotion; and yet he had not asked
one question, nor made one offer to do anything for Elinor,
or herself; and one would have thought it more natural that
at such a moment he should have remained with them, pained
and distressed as they were. Elinor only thought that Hazlehurst's
feelings did credit to his heart; her own was full of
grief for the suffering of her playfellow and companion,
whom she had loved almost as a sister.
Some twenty minutes were passed in this manner by the
aunt and niece, with feelings better understood than described.
They were waiting for the carriage, and nothing could be
done in the mean time; it seemed an age to Elinor before
the coachman could be found, and the horses harnessed.
While her aunt and herself were in tears, pacing the piazza
together, they were surprised by the appearance, on the
Longbridge road, of the old-fashioned chair in which Mr.
Wyllys usually drove about his farm. Miss Agnes distinctly
saw her father driving, with a lady at his side. They were
approaching at a very steady, quiet pace. As they entered
the gate, Miss Agnes and Elinor hastened to meet them; they
saw Harry stopping to speak to Mr. Wyllys, and then Miss
Wyllys heard her father's voice calling to herself.
“All safe!” he cried. “It was a misunderstanding; Jane
is quite well; though a poor young woman, bearing the same
name, has been scalded.”
“We were in hopes the news had not reached you yet,”
said Mrs. George Wyllys, who accompanied her father-in-law.
“We were all dreadfully alarmed, at first, for the accident
was very much exaggerated.”
Miss Wyllys and Elinor were too thankful for Jane's
escape, to express anything but the relief they felt on hearing
of her safety.
“No one killed,” continued Mr. Wyllys. “They lost a
and the new chambermaid, whose name is Jane Graham,
had her feet badly scalded. But there is so little harm
done, considering what might have happened, that we have
reason to be very thankful for every one on board.”
“You may imagine how much alarmed I was,” continued
Mrs. Wyllys; “for I happened to be sitting at my own window,
which overlooks the river, you know, and I heard the noise
and cries from the boat, and knew the Grahams were on
board.”
Long explanations followed: Mr. Wyllys had had his
fright too. He had heard at the saddler's, that half Mr.
Graham's family were killed. Now, however, it only remained
for them to be thankful that their friends had all
escaped, and to hope Jane's namesake would soon recover.
“But how long is it since you heard the story? why did
you not send Harry off at once, to get at the truth?” asked
Mr. Wyllys.
“We were going ourselves,” replied Miss Agnes.
“What has become of Harry?—Where is he?” asked
her father.
But Harry had disappeared.
“He was much distressed at the news,” said Elinor.
“No wonder; it was a horrible idea. But he should
have jumped on horseback, and rode over to Longbridge to
find out the truth.”
Elinor looked round once more for Hazlehurst, as they
entered the house; but he was certainly not there.
“And what are the Grahams going to do?” asked Miss
Wyllys.
“They are off again this afternoon,” replied her father,
taking a seat on the sofa.
Hazlehurst was not seen again all the morning. Dinner
came, and he had not joined the family.
“He is in his room,” said Elinor; “I heard him walking
as I passed his door. I am afraid he is not well.”
The servant who was sent to let him know that dinner was
on table, returned with the answer, that Mr. Hazlehurst had
a bad head-ache, and begged Miss Wyllys would excuse him.
“That long row in the sun must have given Harry a head-ache,
Aunt Agnes,” said Elinor; “I am sorry we went so
far.”
“Perhaps so,” said Miss Agnes; although she did not
seem wholly to be of Elinor's opinion.
“Hazlehurst is no such tender chicken, Nelly; you must
not spoil him, child—do you hear?” said her grandfather,
smiling in a way that made Elinor colour. Miss Agnes was
silent during dinner; but as the whole family had scarcely
recovered from the alarm of the morning, the shade of
anxiety on her face was not remarked.
Harry remained in his room. As he had requested not
to be disturbed, he was left alone. Once, however, in the
course of the evening, a knock was heard at his door, and a
servant appeared.
“Miss Elinor sends you a cup of tea, sir, and hopes your
head is better,” said Thomas.
“Miss Elinor is very good—I am much obliged to her,”
was Harry's answer, in a low, thick voice; but the cup of
tea remained untasted, while Hazlehurst resumed his walk
across the room. When, shortly after, Elinor's voice was
heard singing her grandfather's favourite air of Robin Adair
in lower tones than usual, Harry again started from the table,
where he had laid pen and paper preparatory to writing, and
striking his hand against his forehead, he exclaimed:
“Ungrateful wretch, that I am!”
The next morning Elinor was up early, and taking the
garden basket, she went out to gather all the late flowers she
could find, to fill a jar for the drawing-room—singing gaily,
as she went from bush to bush, and gathering here a sprig
of honeysuckle, there violets or a late rose, blooming out
of season, and a few other straggling blossoms. After loitering
about the garden for half an hour, she returned to the
hour, driving up the avenue in the little wagon used for
errands about the country.
“Where have you been, Williams?” she asked, as he
drove past her towards the stable.
“To carry Mr. Hazlehurst over to Upper Lewiston, in
time for the six o'clock boat, Miss.”
Elinor could scarcely believe what she had heard. At
the same moment, Mr. Wyllys stepped out on the piazza.
“What is this, Elinor?” he asked. They tell me Harry
is off;—did you see him this morning?”
Elinor was obliged to say she had not.
“What can it mean! did he get any letters by last night's
mail?”
“Not that I know of,” said Elinor, much surprised, and a
little alarmed.
They found Miss Agnes in the drawing-room; she, it
seemed, already knew of Hazlehurst's departure. She said
little on the subject, but looked anxious and absent. Elinor
scarcely knew what to think; she was afraid to trust herself
to make any inquiries, preferring to wait until alone with her
aunt after breakfast. The meal passed over in silence. Mr.
Wyllys looked uneasy; Elinor was at a loss to know what
to think; neither of the ladies paid much attention to the
morning meal that day.
Miss Agnes rose from table, and went to her own room;
Elinor, neglecting her usual task as housekeeper, hastened
to follow her aunt, her mind filled with indistinct fears and
anxieties. Miss Agnes was walking about her room, looking
pained and distressed. Several letters were lying on a table
near her; two were unopened; one she had been reading.
“Letters!—my dear Aunt, from whom? Tell me, I conjure
you, what you know! Has anything happened to
Louisa—to Jane? Did Harry leave no message for me?”
cried Elinor, hurrying towards her aunt, whose face she
watched for an answer to each question, as she asked it.
her hand to Elinor.
“My dearest Aunt!—pray tell me what distresses you—
Ha! Harry's handwriting!” she exclaimed, as her eye fell
on the open letter by Miss Wyllys—“I know that letter is
from Harry; do not conceal anything; is it for me?”
“This letter is to me, my child,” replied her aunt, taking
up the one she had been reading; wishing to give Elinor all
the preparation in her power, for a blow which she knew
must fall heavily, since it was so entirely unexpected.
“But there are two other letters,” cried Elinor, “one of
them is for me, I am sure. Let me see it at once, Aunt;
you cannot deny that it is for me—and if it contain bad
news, you know that I can command myself when necessary.”
Miss Agnes's hand trembled as she took the letters.
“My child! My beloved Elinor!” she said.
“Dearest Aunt, you torture me! Tell me, I beseech
you, what we have to fear!”
“You shall know all,” Miss Agnes replied, seating herself,
and endeavouring to be calm. “You will be much
distressed, my child; but I know that you will be now, what
you always have been, reasonable, and true to yourself—to
your grandfather—to me,” added Miss Wyllys, in a voice
almost inarticulate.
A thousand indistinct ideas passed through Elinor's mind
with the rapidity of lightning, while her aunt was speaking;
illness of some absent friend suggested itself—yet who could
it be? Not Harry, surely, for he had gone over to Upper
Lewiston that morning — yet her fears instinctively centred
upon Hazlehurst.
“It is something relating to Harry, I am sure,” she said.
“Is he ill?—is he in trouble?” she asked in a faint voice,
while a prayer for resignation sprang from her heart, with
the words.
“You are right,” replied Miss Wyllys, in a faltering voice;
and seating herself by her niece, she continued, “He is well.
suspicions, my dearest child, of what has happened?”
“Suspicions!”—exclaimed Elinor, in astonishment, “what
is there for me to suspect? My dearest Aunt, I am more
and more perplexed—explain it all yourself—who is it you
are concerned for?”
“My only concern is for you, dearest; my only regret,
that trouble should have been brought on you by those dear
to you—by your grandfather, by myself, by your cousins.”
“By you!—by my cousins—what cousins?”
“Harry—Jane—Have you remarked nothing?”
“Harry! what can he have done?”
“You must forget him,” said Miss Wyllys; and as Elinor
looked eagerly in her aunt's eyes, she read there all that
Miss Agnes had not courage to tell in words.
Half starting from her seat, she exclaimed, “Harry!—and
Jane too!” and as a deadly paleness came over her face, she
fell back, unconscious, on the sofa. Her faintness lasted but
a moment; too short a time, indeed, to allow the impression
of what she had heard to pass from her mind. She burst
into tears. “Oh, Aunt Agnes! — Is it really true? — Can
Harry have changed? can he have been so unkind to me?—
And Jane, too!” she exclaimed at intervals.
Her aunt answered only by her caresses, silently pressing
her lips upon Elinor's forehead.
Elinor threw her arms about Miss Agnes's neck, weeping
bitterly.
“But is it really true? Is there not some mistake? Is it
possible he felt so little for me? Oh, dearest Aunt!—And
Jane, too!”
Miss Wyllys said that she knew nothing of Jane's feelings;
but that the manner of both Jane and Harry had struck her
several times as singular; though now but too easily accounted
for. During the last ten days, she had begun to fear
something wrong.
“Never, for one second, had I a doubt of either!” cried
before asked for so eagerly.
A package had been given by Harry to the chambermaid,
that morning, requesting her to place it in Miss Agnes's
hands as soon as she left her room. It contained three letters.
That to Miss Agnes herself, was full and explicit. He now
wrote, he said, because he felt concealment to be no longer
possible, after the manner in which he had betrayed himself
on hearing of the steamboat accident. He felt convinced that
his emotion had been observed by Miss Wyllys, and he
almost hoped the suspicions of Elinor had been aroused.
He hoped it, for he felt that longer concealment would be
unworthy of Elinor, and of himself, since he had not been
able to control his feelings. He acknowledged that a frank
confession was now due to her.
“I know,” he said, “that you will reproach me severely
for my want of faith, and I feel that I deserve far more than
you will say. But do not think that I erred from deliberate
forgetfulness of all that I owed to Elinor. I was for a long
time unconscious of the state of my own feelings; and when
at length I could no longer deceive myself, the discovery of
my weakness was deeply painful and mortifying. You
know what has been my situation since last spring—you
know to what I have been exposed. Greater caution might
no doubt have been used, had I not been misled by blindness,
or self-confidence, or vanity, call it what you please. No
one can reproach me as severely as I reproach myself. But
although my feelings had escaped my own control before I
knew it, yet I determined from the first that my actions should
at least be worthy of Elinor. I instantly became more
guarded. No human being, I believe, until to-day, suspected
my folly. Do not reproach Jane. The fault is entirely with
me; Jane has been blameless throughout.”
He concluded by hoping that his letter would not for a
moment be considered by Miss Wyllys or Elinor, as an attempt
to break his engagement, which he was still anxious
been made, a separation for some time would be preferable
for all parties. He proposed to travel for six months, and at
the end of that time he hoped to have conquered his own
weakness, and to be forgiven by Elinor.
Bitter tears were shed by Elinor, in reading this letter.
The note to herself was short. He had not the courage to
repeat to her directly, what he had said to Miss Wyllys.
“I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure
longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must
have remarked my emotion this morning—Miss Wyllys now
knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach
myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful
as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play
the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of
kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in
time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself.
There are said to be young ladies with hearts so tender,
as to be capable of two or three different love affairs, and an
unlimited number of flirtations, in the course of a twelve-month;
but Elinor's disposition was of a very different stamp.
Her feelings were all true and strong; her attachment for
Harry little resembled that mixture of caprice and vanity to
which some young people give the name of love. With
something of fancy, and a share of the weakness, no doubt,
it was yet an affection to which every better quality of her
nature had contributed its share. Hazlehurst's determination
never to forgive himself for the sorrow he had caused
her, was a just one. His fickleness had deeply wounded a
heart, warm, true, and generous, as ever beat in a woman's
bosom.
Bitterly did Elinor weep, that first day of grief, humiliation,
and disappointment. She did not hesitate, however, for
a moment, as to the course to be pursued, and even felt indignant
him to his engagement, with the feelings he had avowed.
She answered his note as soon as she could command herself
sufficiently to write.
“I do not blame you—your conduct was but natural; one
more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably
have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the
truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed.
My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual
friends know the position in which it is best we should continue
for the future. May you be happy with Jane.
Elinor, at this moment, felt keenly the disadvantages of
homeliness, which she had hitherto borne so cheerfully, and
had never yet considered an evil. Beauty now appeared to
her as a blessed gift indeed.
“Had I not been so unfortunately plain,” thought Elinor,
“surely Harry could not have forgotten me so soon. Oh,”
she exclaimed, “had I but a small portion of that beauty
which so many girls waste upon the world, upon mere vanity;
which they are so ready to carry about to public places—
through the very streets, to catch the eye of every passing
stranger, how highly should I prize it, only for the sake of
pleasing those I love! What a happy thought it must be to
those blessed with beauty, that the eyes of their nearest and
dearest friends never rest upon them but with pleasure!
How willingly would I consent to remain plain to ugliness,
plain as I am, in the eyes of the world, for the precious
power of pleasing those I love!”
Mr. Wyllys and Miss Agnes, of course, approved the step
Elinor had taken. They were both deeply pained by Harry's
conduct; they both regretted having allowed the engagement
to take place so early, and at the moment of Harry's absence.
Miss Wyllys, indeed, blamed herself severely for not having
contrary, indignation against Harry was the strongest feeling.
“Heartless young coxcomb!” he exclaimed; “to dare to
trifle with Elinor. I had a good opinion of him; I thought
he had too much sense, and too much feeling, not to appreciate
Elinor, though her face may not be as pretty as some
others. Agnes, he must never be asked to Wyllys-Roof
again. I can never forget his treatment of my grandchild.”
| CHAPTER XVI. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |