 | CHAPTER XX. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
“Thy young and innocent heart,
How is it beating? Has it no regrets?
Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there?”
Rogers.
Sisters' children, though bearing different names, and
classed by the world in different families, are generally much
more alike than those of brothers; they are apt to have more
habits, tastes, and feelings in common. And the reason is
evident; it is usually the mother who controls the internal
family policy, who gives the colouring to what may be called
the family atmosphere. The father may pass a statute once
in a while, but the common-law which regulates the everyday
proceedings of the little community flows from the
mother; and we all know that the character is moulded
rather by daily practice in trifles, than by a few isolated
actions of greater importance in themselves. The aims and
spring up from seeds received in the nursery, or at the family
fire-side. Even with men this is the case. The father may
inculcate this or that political creed into his son, he may
direct his choice to this or that profession; but the manner
in which the youth carries out his political principles, the
way in which he fills his profession, will depend on the
impulses and motives cultivated in childhood, and early
youth; for it is then that the character receives its bias.
The mother's influence and example are often to be traced
in those minute shades of taste and opinion, which are the
foundation of our partialities, or our dislikes; and, of course,
the daughters of a family, from being more constantly subject
to this influence, imbibe a larger share of it. It is immaterial
whether the mother be aware of the importance of her
duties, of the weight of this responsibility, or not; for good
or for evil, the effect will still be felt, though varying, of
course, in different circumstances.
Elinor had not seen her cousin, Mary Van Alstyne, her
mother's niece, for several years, and she now met her in
Philadelphia with great pleasure. Miss Van Alstyne was
some five or six years older than herself; this difference in
years had, indeed, been the chief reason why they had never
yet been very intimate. But the same distance which separates
girls of twelve and eighteen, is, of course, less thought
of at twenty and six-and-twenty, when both are fairly launched
into the world. Mary Van Alstyne and Elinor found much
to like in each other on a closer acquaintance; and Miss
Wyllys observing that the two cousins suited each other
so well, drew them together as much as possible, in order
that Elinor might have some one to fill the empty places of
her former companions, Jane and Harry.
Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst was a near neighbour of the Wyllyses
in Philadelphia; but Elinor had too much dread of
meeting Harry, to go there often; and it was only when she
knew that he was in New York, that she went to his brother's.
seeing him with composure; their family connexion, and
the intimate terms upon which they had hitherto lived, only
made their present estrangement much more awkward than
usual. Elinor tried to think it fortunate that he should now
be so often in New York.
The first time he was in Philadelphia after the Wyllyses
were settled there for the winter, Elinor escaped seeing him.
As she came in one morning from a ride with her grandfather,
she found his card on the table. It told the whole
story of what had passed; for she could not remember his
having ever left a card at their house before; he had been
as much at home there as herself, until the last six weeks.
The sight of it caused her a very painful feeling, and did
away all the good effect of the pleasant ride she had just
taken on the banks of the Schuylkill. As she walked
slowly up-stairs to change her habit, her eyes filled with
tears; and had she been endowed with the proper degree of
romance for a regular heroine, she would probably have
passed the morning in hysterical sobs. But as she had quite
as much good sense, as fancy and feeling, she was by no
means romantic; she had never fainted but once in her life;
and although it must be confessed she had wept during the
last few weeks, yet it was always in spite of herself, at
moments when the tears were forced from her by some sudden
recollection of the past, or some distressing glimpse of the
future. On the present occasion, instead of encouraging
solitary grief, she returned to the drawing-room, and read
aloud to her aunt, who was busy with her needle.
But Harry's second visit to Philadelphia was not to pass
without their meeting. Mr. Wyllys, Miss Agnes, and Elinor
were spending the evening at the house of a friend, when,
to the surprise and regret of all parties, Hazlehurst walked
in with one of the young men of the family, with whom he
was intimate. It was the first time they had met since the
alarm on the piazza at Wyllys-Roof. Poor Elinor, at the
always did when agitated. Harry, as he crossed the room to
make his bow to the lady of the house, felt excessively uncomfortable;
when he turned, not a little embarrassed, towards the
rest of the party, he received a slight and cool movement of
recognition from Mr. Wyllys, who was standing at a corner of
the fire-place. Miss Agnes made an effort to say good evening,
in her usual tone; and Harry replied that he was very glad
to find they were to be in Philadelphia for the winter, words
which were as far from the truth as possible. Elinor would
have given much to look and speak as calmly as her aunt;
but she could only bow in silence, for at the moment she
dared not trust her voice. The lady of the house, who knew
very well how to account for a meeting which seemed very
ceremonious between near connexions, who had always been
so intimate, did her best to make matters go off well; and
her son, who was also in the secret, rattled away to Elinor
to the best of his ability. But there was a very perceptible
touch of cool disapprobation in Mr. Wyllys's manner, and a
something that was not quite natural, in the tones of Miss
Agnes's voice. Harry felt as if he were doing penance, and
he felt, moreover, as if he richly deserved it. But the worst
was to come. There was another lady present, a New
Yorker, who had lately seen Hazlehurst very often with
the Grahams, in his character of Jane's admirer, and she
innocently asked him when he was going to return to New
York. “In a day or two,” he replied. “You will not
leave the post vacant very long, I dare say,” observed the
lady. Harry's answer was not very distinctly heard, and he
coloured as much as it is in the power of man to do. The lady
happily observed how much he was annoyed, and changed
the conversation. Hazlehurst was not in a mood to pay
a long visit: he soon rose to take leave. Elinor, in the mean
time, made a great effort for self-command. She knew that
she was the injured party, and yet she felt superior to all the
littleness of resentment—she acquitted Harry and Jane of
dignity of her manner gradually expressed what was passing
in her mind. As Harry passed near her, and bowed, collecting
all her self-possession, she wished him good-evening,
with a calm, sweet voice.
It was now Hazlehurst's turn to be much the most embarrassed
of the two; he bowed, and muttered something
about calling, in a voice much less clear than her's had been;
then fairly giving up the matter in despair, he quitted the
ground with another bow. On leaving the house, he walked
rapidly down Walnut-Street, very much dissatisfied with
himself, and out of humour with his friend, for having brought
him into such an awkward scene.
The next day, when Elinor thought over what had passed,
she felt relieved that the first meeting, which she had so
much dreaded, was over; although she knew it must be a
long time before she could see Jane and Harry with perfect
composure; she knew there must be other unpleasant moments
in store for her. There was no danger but that Elinor
would do all in her power to subdue her feelings for Harry,
and yet she sometimes reproached herself with having done
too little; her interest in him was still too strong. She
shrunk sensitively from longer encouraging any weakness
for him; it had now become a want of delicacy to do so, it
would soon be almost sinful. She knew that if she did not
succeed in the endeavour it would be her own fault only;
for her whole education had taught her that there was no
passion, of whatever nature, too strong to be conquered by
reason and religion, when their aid was honestly sought.
Miss Agnes, on the contrary, who knew how unexpectedly,
and how deeply, Elinor's feelings had been wounded, was
fearful that her adopted child was making too great an effort
for self-control; with a girl of her principles and disposition
there was danger of this. Elinor, since the first day or two,
had sensitively avoided every approach to the subject when
conversing with her aunt. Miss Agnes knew that time
now dreaded some reaction; although admiring Elinor's
courage and resolution, she wished her occasionally to give
a more natural vent to her feelings. It struck her that the
time for one open conversation on the subject had come, and
the result proved that her opinion was correct. Elinor threw
off a constraint that was not natural to her character, and
which had been kept up from an exaggerated sense of duty.
She now spoke with perfect frankness, nothing was concealed;
grief, regrets, struggles, all were confided to her aunt,
whose sympathy was greateful to her, while the advice given
with kindness and good sense, was of real service.
Many young people who knew Miss Wyllys, would have
smiled at the idea of her being a good counsellor on such an
occasion, for her own life, though useful and happy, had
been quite uneventful. The death of her mother, and the
marriage of her brothers and sister, had left her, when still a
young and pretty woman, the only companion and solace of
her father. These duties were soon increased by the charge
of her orphan niece, and her time and attention had since
then seemed engrossed by these cares and pleasures. Miss
Wyllys was actually never known to have had a regular
suitor. Whether she might not have had her share of declared
admirers had she chosen to be encouraging, we cannot
say; it is a subject upon which we have no authorities.
Of course Miss Agnes could not be expected to know
anything about love, beyond what she had learned from
books, or from observation. She was, nevertheless, a much
better adviser than many a younger and more experienced
friend. Where the head and the heart are both in the right
place, instinct soon teaches us how to sympathize with our
fellows in all troubles that really belong to our nature.
It appeared to Elinor as if, in future, there would be an
additional tie between her aunt and herself; for she looked
forward to leading a single life, hoping to pass her days
which seemed alloted to her.
When Elinor had returned to her own room, after the
conversation to which we have alluded, she went to a writing-desk,
and drew from it a letter. It was the same she had
received on her seventeenth birth-day. It was from her
mother. During the lingering illness which caused her
death, Mrs. Wyllys, deeply anxious for the welfare of her
orphan daughter, had written several of these letters, adapted
to her child's capacity at different ages, and placed them in
the hands of Miss Agnes, with the request they might be
given to Elinor at the dates marked on the envelope of each.
They had proved a precious legacy for the young girl, and
a guide to Miss Agnes in her education; for the aunt had
never forgotten that she was the mother's representative only;
Elinor having always been taught to give the first place to her
parent's memory. It seemed, indeed, as if her mother's
spirit had never ceased to linger near her, exerting its silent
influence. The letter to which Elinor attached so high a
value is given below.
“You will not receive this letter until you have reached
the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been
laid in her grave.
“To separate from you, my darling child, has cost your
mother a bitter pang. There is no severer trial of faith to
a Christian woman, than to leave her little ones behind her,
in a world exposed to evil and sorrow; and yet, although
so near death myself, it is my wish that you may live, dearest,
to taste all that is good in life. Few mothers are blessed in
death, as I am, with the power of leaving their orphans to
such kind and judicious guardians as your grandfather and
aunt; should they be spared, you will scarcely feel the loss
of your parents. Oh, how fervent is my prayer that they
have so piously assumed is fully completed, may they long
enjoy the fruits of their cares!
“It is with singular feelings that I write to you as a woman,
my child, and appeal to thoughts and sentiments, of which
you are at this moment so utterly unconscious; sitting, as
you now are, at my feet, amid your playthings, too busy with
a doll, to notice the tears that fall upon these last lines I shall
ever have it in my power to address to you. But the hope
that this letter may, one day, long after I have left you, be a
tie between us, my Elinor, is grateful to your mother's heart,
and urges me to continue my task. I have a double object
in writing these letters; I wish to be remembered by you,
dear, and I wish to serve you.
“During the last few months, since my health has failed,
and since you, my child, have been the chief object of
interest to me in this world, I have often endeavoured to
pass over in my mind, the next dozen years, that I might
fancy my child, what I trust she will then be, qualified in
every essential point to act for herself, in the position to
which she belongs. I trust that when this, my last letter, is
placed in your hands, you will already have learned to feel
and acknowledge the important truths that I have endeavoured
to impress on you, in those you have previously received.
You are already convinced, I trust, that without a
religious foundation, any superstructure whatever must be
comparatively worthless. I should be miserable, indeed, at
this moment, if I could not hope that sincere, single-hearted
piety will be the chief influence of your life; without it, you
could never know true happiness, or even peace. Rest
assured, my child, that while it sweetens every blessing, it
soothes under every evil. Many have given the same testimony
when they stood, like your mother, within the shadow
of death. I have every reason, my beloved daughter, to
hope that under the guidance of an humble, sincere Christian,
like your aunt, you also will arrive at the same blessed
her prayers, her vigilance will never be wanting. I have
every reason to believe that you will be led to seek that
which is never earnestly sought in vain.
“I must be brief, dear child, lest my strength should fail.
From the many thoughts that crowd upon me, I can only
select a few, which my own experience has taught me to
value as important. In the first place, let me warn you never
to forget the difference between Christian education, and all
others. Remember that Christian education has for its foundation
the heart-felt conviction of the weakness of human
nature; for a being bearing the name of a Christian to lose
sight of this truth, is the grossest of all inconsistencies. The
great and the learned among those who are merely philosophers,
preach, as though to know what is good, and to practise
it, were equally easy to mankind. But the Christian
alone knows that he must look beyond himself for guidance,
and for support. He knows only too well, that there are
times when the practice of some plain and evident duty,
costs his feeble nature a severe struggle—in no instance will
he dare trust his own strength alone. He knows that even in
those cases where duty is also a pleasure, he must still be
watchful and humble, lest he fall. One would think this
truth so obvious, from daily observation, as to be undeniable;
but it is now the fashion to laud human nature, to paint
flattering pictures only. Humility is thought debasing; but
Truth alone is honourable, and Humility is Truth. You
will find the actions of those who acknowledge this truth,
more honourable to the human race, than the deeds of those
who deny it. The true dignity of human nature consists,
not in shutting our eyes to the evil, but in restraining it;
which, with our Maker's help, we may all do, for the blessing
of our Creator is still within our reach, still vouchsafed
to the humble Christian. If such be your views, my daughter,
you will be prepared to find difficulties in acquiring and
practising those virtues which it is the duty of life to cultivate;
the sincere humility of a Christian, and with Christian
exertion.
“My child, love the Truth, and the Truth only.
“Cultivate daily a pious, thankful, humble disposition.
“Love those near you heartily; live for them as well as
for yourself.
“Eschew all envy, and petty jealousies, and revalries;
there is perhaps no other evil that so often poisons our daily
blessings.
“Cultivate your judgment. Never forget the difference
between things of importance and trifles; yet remember that
trifles have also their value. Never lose sight of the difference
between form and spirit; yet remember that in this
material world, the two should seldom be put asunder. The
true substance will naturally have its shadow also.
“Cultivate a sweet, frank, cheerful temper, for your own
sake, and for the sake of those you love.
“Cultivate your abilities in every way that comes naturally
within your reach; it is seldom worth while for a
woman to do more than this. In all you learn, aim at giving
pleasure to others, aim at being useful to them, as well as
at improving your own faculties.
“Enjoy thankfully all the blessings of life; and they are
innumerable.
“There is one subject, of some importance to you individually,
my child, which I have not yet alluded to in either
of my letters; I have purposely deferred it until you will be
better fitted to understand me. You will have one personal evil
to contend against, my dear Elinor; your face will be plain,
your features will be homely, darling. It is a weakness, my
child, and yet I regret you should suffer from this disadvantage;
rest assured, that in every little mortification to
which you may be exposed, your mother, had she lived,
would have felt with you. I trust that this will be the first
time your attention will be seriously fixed upon the subject,
Let us then, dear, look upon the matter together for a moment,
calmly and steadily; we will not blind ourselves to the advantages
of beauty, neither will we exaggerate the evils of a
want of it. You will soon discover, from your own observation,
that beauty in women, as in children, is delightful in
itself; it throws a charm over the words and actions of the
favoured person. In a worldly sense it is also a woman's
power; where other qualifications are equal, you will often
observe that beauty alone confers a striking superiority. In
some respects its advantages are even greater than are usually
allowed, in others again they are far less. Were we to judge
by the space it fills in general observation, and in conversation,
we should believe it the one all-important qualification
in women, that nothing else can be compared with it. But
to adopt this opinion would be grossly to exaggerate its importance.
Nor can we believe, on the other hand, what some
prudent writers for the young have affirmed, that the superiority
of beauty is only momentary; that the eyes tire of a
beautiful face which they see daily, that in all cases it vanishes
with early youth. No, my child, I do not wish you to believe
this, for I cannot believe it myself. For years, the
beauty of my sister Elizabeth has been a daily source of
pleasure to me, and I doubt not to others also. My aunt,
Mrs. Graham, though past fifty, is still a handsome woman,
and her appearance must be pleasing to every one who meets
her; while, on the contrary, people still amuse themselves
at the expense of Miss Townley, whose face is strikingly
plain. Hundreds of examples might be cited to prove that
the charm of beauty does not generally vanish so soon, that
one does not tire of it so easily. And then if a woman lose
her beauty entirely, still the reputation of having once possessed
it, gives her a sort of advantage in the eyes of the
world. If mere notoriety be an advantage, and in the
opinion of the worldly it is so, the superiority of beauty
over ugliness lasts longer than life; many women are remembered,
the notice of posterity. But observe, my child, that if these
advantages are evident, they are chiefly of a worldly nature.
A beautiful woman may receive general admiration, and that
homage which gratifies vanity, but she must depend on other
qualities if she wish to be respected, if she wish to be loved
through life. I hope, my child, you will always be superior
to that miserable vanity which thirsts for common admiration,
which is flattered by every offering, however low, however
trivial. I trust that the mere applause of the world will
have no influence upon your heart or your understanding.
Remember what it is that we call the world—it is a ground
governed by a compromise between the weaknesses of the
good among us, and the virtues of the bad; the largest portion
of vanity and folly — sometimes even vice — mingled
with the least portion of purity and wisdom that a community
bearing a Christian name will tolerate. You, I trust,
will learn to seek a higher standard.
“If borne in a right spirit, my dear Elinor, the very want
of beauty, or of any other earthly good, may be the means
of giving you the benefit of far higher blessings. If it make
you more free from vanity, from selfishness, it will make you
far happier, even in daily life. It may dispose you to enjoy
more thankfully those blessings actually in your possession,
and to make a better use of them.
“Under this and every other disadvantage, my child, remember
two things: to give the evil its just importance only,
and to make a right use of it.
“I trust that your temper will be such, that you will not
for a moment feel any inclination to repine that others should
enjoy a blessing denied to you, my love. Refrain even
from wishing for that which Providence has withheld; if you
have a right faith, you will be cheerful and contented; if you
are really humble, you will be truly thankful.
“Do all in your power, my Elinor, towards making your
home, wherever it may be, a happy one; it is our natural
and neglect, you can surely preserve the respect of
those who know you; and the affection of your friends may
always be gained by those quiet, simple virtues, within the
reach of every one.
“In one way, my dearest child, the want of beauty may
affect your whole career in life—it will very probably be the
cause of your remaining single. If I thought you would be
united to a husband worthy of your respect and affection, I
should wish you to marry; for such has been my own lot in
life—I have been happy as a wife and a mother. But I am
well aware that this wish may be a weakness; the blessings
of Providence are not reserved for this or that particular
sphere. The duties and sorrows of married life are often
the heaviest that our nature knows. Other cares and other
pleasures may be reserved for you, my child. In every
civilized Christian community there have always been numbers
of single women; and where they have been properly
educated, as a class they have been respectable—never more
so than at the present day. They often discharge many of
the most amiable and praiseworthy duties of life. Understand
me, my child; I do not wish to urge your remaining
single; that is a point which every woman must decide for
herself, when arrived at years of discretion; but I would
have you view a single life with sufficient favour to follow
it cheerfully, rather than to sacrifice yourself by becoming
the wife of a man whom you cannot sincerely respect.
Enter life prepared to follow, with unwavering faith in Providence,
and with thankfulness, whichever course may be
allotted to you. If you remain single, remember that your
peace is more in your own hands than if married—much
more will depend solely on the views and dispositions you
encourage. As appearance has generally so much influence
over men, and marriage is therefore a less probable event to
you than to others, my love, let your mother caution you to
watch your feelings with double care; be slow to believe
proof of it.
“Whatever be your position, never lose sight, even on
trifling occasions, of common sense, and good-feeling. Remember,
in any case, to guard carefully against the peculiar
temptations of your lot, to bear patiently its evils, and to
enjoy thankfully its peculiar blessings.
“There are many things that I should still wish to say to
you, my beloved daughter; and yet I know that the cautions
I give may be unnecessary, while other evils, which I have
never feared, may befall you. My inability to guide you as
I wish, my darling child, directs us both to a higher source
of wisdom and love. Let us both, at all times, implicitly
place our trust where it can never fail, though blessings be
not bestowed in the way we fond creatures would choose.”
[Here followed a sentence, in words too solemn to be
transferred to pages as light as these.]
“Love your aunt, your second mother, truly and gratefully.
She has already bestowed on you many proofs of kindness,
and she has always been a faithful friend to your father, and
to your mother. Love the memory of your parents, my
child; think of us sometimes—think of your father—think
of your mother. Honour their memory by a recollection of
their instructions, by a well-spent life. Since your birth, my
child, I have scarcely had a hope or a fear, unconnected with
you; if I were to ask to live, it would be only for your
sake, my darling daughter.
“Your mother's tenderest blessing rests upon you, my
beloved Elinor, through life!
This letter had been often read and studied by Elinor
with the gratitude and respect it deserved, as a legacy from
her mother; but lately she had been disposed to enter more
fully into the feelings by which it had been dictated. Every
word which applied to her present situation, sunk deeply into
her heart.
| CHAPTER XX. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |