 | CHAPTER XXII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
“Happy New-Year!”
The streets had been cleared of the snow for New-Year's
day, by a thaw, and a hard shower in the night. The sun
rose bright and clear; and, as usual, early in the morning,
that is to say morning in its fashionable sense, the greater
part of the male population of the town were in motion,
friends and relatives. It appeared as if the women had
suddenly deserted the city, and the men were running about,
half-distracted, in pursuit of them. After the markets and
churches were closed, few indeed were the females to be seen
in the streets; while, on the contrary, troops of men of all
ages, were hurrying over the side-walks of Broadway,
usually enlivened by the gay dresses and bright faces of the
ladies. There were young men running a race against time,
carrying lists in their hands with an impossible number of
visits to be paid during the day; there were boys taking
their first steps in this yearly course of gallantry; there were
elderly men walking more leisurely from one favoured house
to another. All, but a few grumblers here and there, looked
smiling and good-humoured. As the black-coated troop
hastened hither and thither, they jostled one another, now
nodding, now shaking hands; here, old friends passing without
seeing each other; there, a couple of strangers salute
one another in the warmest manner. The doors of the houses
seemed to open of themselves; men were going in, men
were coming out. The negroes looked more lustrous and
light-hearted than ever; the Paddies, cleaner and more
bothered; the regular Knickerbockers, to the manner born,
were, of course, in their element.
We have heard nice calculations as to the precise number
of calls, that an able-bodied, well-trained New-Year's visiter
can accomplish between midnight and midnight; allowing,
of course, a couple of hours for the toilette, and a moment
to snatch a mouthful at breakfast and dinner: it is affirmed,
however, that as great generals have passed days of battle
without food, so your chivalrous Knickerbocker should be
willing to forego, on such an occasion, even a sight of the
roast turkey and cranberries. Allowing the individual, however,
something to sustain nature, that he may be the better
enabled to perform his duties, it is supposed that a beau, in
good visiting condition, should pay his court in not more than
to do this, a man must have method; he must draw up his
plan of action before-hand; he must portion out his districts,
as they lie on each side of that longest of streets, Broadway;
he must not only study the map of the city closely, but he
must possess an accurate knowledge of the localities; he
must remember that some houses have stoops of twelve steps,
that some drawing-rooms are not on the first floor. He must
not allow himself to be enticed into any flirtation whatever,
beyond a glance or a smile; he must not indulge the hope
of calling twice upon the sweet creature he most admires;
he must not be tempted to sink, even for a moment, upon
the most comfortable of ottomans or divans; he must not
return home to re-adjust his locks, to change either boots,
gloves, or handkerchief. We have heard it asserted, that
owing to some unfortunate weakness of this kind, many a
promising youth, unaccustomed, probably, to the hardships
of such visiting, has been distanced in the gallant race of the
day, by more methodical men—by men who were actually
encumbered with over-shoes and great-coats!
It is amusing to watch the hurried steps of some experienced
visiter without doors; the decision of his movements,
the correctness of his calculation in passing out of one house
into another; and one is sure to know a raw recruit, by his
anxious, perplexed manner and expression.
The scene within doors is quite as amusing as it is without.
Everything wears a holiday look; it is evidently no common
morning reception; the ladies' dresses look gayer and fresher,
their smiles brighter than usual; the house, the furniture,
and the inmates, all wear their most agreeable aspect. The
salver of refreshments speaks at once the occasion; for there,
in the midst of richer cakes, stands the basket of homely
“New-Years' cookies,” bequeathed to their descendants by
the worthy vrows of New-Amsterdam. The visiters appear,
first singly, then in parties. Here comes a favourite partner
of the young ladies, there a mere bowing acquaintance of the
neighbour who has never been in the house before; here is
a near relative, there a passing stranger. The grey-haired
old gentleman who has the arm-chair wheeled out for him,
announces his fiftieth visiting anniversary; the buckish youth,
his grandson, has already made his bow, and off again; so
finish his gallant duties. Now we have a five minutes' visit
from a declared lover; and who follows him? One who
advances slowly and steadily, with a half-inquiring look;
the lady of the house sees him, gives a glance of surprise,
is gratified, accepts the offered hand immediately. That is
a reconciliation; old friendship broken off, now renewed, a
misunderstanding forgotten—that is one of the pleasantest
visits of the day. All come, bow, look, and speak their
friendly good-wishes, and are off again to make room for
others.
Long may this pleasant, cheerful, good-natured, lively
custom be perpetuated among us! As long as the side-walks
of Manhattan and the canals of Amsterdam last, so long may
Santa-Claus bring his Christmas gifts to the little folk; and
so long may the gallant Knickerbockers pay to their female
friends the homage of a personal visit at New-Year's. Cards
on every other day in the year, if necessary; but, on New-Year's,
carry your good wishes in person. Should not, indeed,
a custom so pleasant spread throughout the whole
country, like crackers, waffles, Dutch blood, and many other
good things brought originally from Holland?
On the particular New-Year's day at which we have
arrived in our narrative, an individual of the reader's acquaintance,
instead of joining the busy throng of visiters,
was seen turning his steps through a bye-street, towards the
Battery. He walked slowly through Greenwich-Street,
apparently busy with thoughts of his own, and entering the
Battery-Gate he continued for some time pacing the paved
walk near the water.
“Ther is a fellow who seems to have nothing to do today,”
hurrying across the Battery from one end of State-Street to
the other. “I should like to hire him as proxy, to show
himself in a score or two of houses in my place. I should
hand him over half my list at once, if I thought the ladies
would submit to the exchange; he looks like a presentable
chap, too.”
“Why, it is actually Harry Hazlehurst! What can he
be doing, moping about in that fashion?”
“Hazlehurst, is it? Oh, ho!—you have heard the hubbub
they have had at the Graham's, I suppose?”
“Not I—What is it?”
“There was quite a scene there, yesterday; my sister had
the news from Adeline Taylor, a great friend of her's; so it
comes very straight.”
“I thought all was going on there as smoothly as possible.
I expected an invitation to the wedding before long.”
“To be sure; so did everybody. But it seems the beauty
has ideas of her own. In the first place she refused Hazlehurst,
rather to the astonishment of himself and all his
friends, I believe.”
“Refused Hazlehurst!—You don't say so!”
“And that is only half the story. She took the same
opportunity, while weeping and trembling, to confide to her
mamma that her heart had been for some time, how long I
cannot tell you precisely, the property of Tall. Taylor.”
“What, Tallman Taylor? That is news, indeed—I never
should have dreamt of such a thing.”
“Miss Adeline Taylor is the authority. It seems the
affair has been going on, no one knows how long, and Miss
Taylor has had the management of it. These girls are sly
minxes; they are not to be trusted, half of them.”
“And what says Taylor to all this?
“What does he say? Why he is in a sort of ecstasy of
despair, I suppose; for the Grahams won't hear of the match.
for months.”
At that moment the two young men entered the door of
a house in State-Street. Although their story was, upon
the whole, correct; yet, we happen to be still better informed
on the subject, and shall proceed to account, in our own way,
for Hazlehurst's solitary walk.
When Miss Adeline and her party had returned from
sleighing, Harry went to Mrs. Graham's, and finding Jane
alone, he immediately seized the moment to explain himself,
beginning by a lover-like remonstrance upon her having
joined the Taylors, instead of going with him as she had
already promised to do. Jane was excessively embarrassed.
As Harry proceeded, she became more and more agitated.
Her manner was so confused, that it was some time before
Hazlehurst could understand that she wished to refuse him.
Had she not actually wept, and looked frightened and distressed,
he might have given a very different interpretation
to her embarrassment. At length, in answer to a decided
question of his, she confessed her attachment to another
person; and, never was lover more surprised by such an
acknowledgement. Pained, and mortified, and astonished
as Harry was, the name of “Hubert de Vaux!” passed his
lips before he was aware he had spoken.
“Oh, no; no;” said Jane. “I never cared at all for Mr.
de Vaux.”
Harry's astonishment increased. He could scarcely believe
that he had heard her correctly. To whom could she
possibly be attached?
“Oh, I wish I had some one here to advise me! Adeline
may say what she pleases, I cannot conceal it any longer.”
Harry listened in amazement.
“Is it possible,” he said, at length, “that there is some difficulty,
some embarrassment, that prevents your acting as you
would wish? My dear Jane, confide in me. You cannot
doubt that I love you, that I have long loved you;” and
Jane's trouble seemed only to increase.
“Oh, stop, Harry; don't talk in that way,” she said; “I
ought to have told you before. I wished to tell you when
you first came on to New York, but Adeline said we should
risk everything by it.”
“What can you possibly risk? What is it you wish to
tell me?”
“I was very sorry when you broke with Elinor—I never
can have any other feeling for you than I have always had:
I have been for some time, almost—engaged—to—to—
Mr. Taylor—”
“You—engaged to Mr. Taylor!”
“No—not engaged—only I have not refused him—
We know father and mother dislike Mr. Taylor's family so
much—”
It was but natural that Harry should feel indignant at
having been deceived by the under-current of plotting that
had been going on; that he should feel mortified, ashamed
of himself, and disappointed, at the same time; vexed with
Jane, and almost furious against the meddling, officious
Adeline, and her presuming brother. From a long acquaintance
with Jane's character, it flashed upon his mind in a
moment, that she must have been misguided, and gradually
led on by others. But the mischief was done; it was evident
that at present, at least, she cared no more for him than
she had always done; while, on the contrary, young Taylor
had insinuated himself into her affections. He could not
endure to think, that while Jane was indifferent to himself,
his successful rival should be one whom he so much disliked.
Yet, such was the fact. It was infatuation on the part of
Jane, no doubt; and yet how often these deceptions have
all the bad effects of realities! He had been silent for some
minutes, while the tears were streaming freely from Jane's
beautiful eyes.
“Oh, if I had not been so afraid that father would never
give his consent, I should not have waited so long. If I only
knew what to do now?”
Harry came to a magnanimous resolution. “I forgive
you, Jane,” he said, “the pain you have caused, since I
cannot but think that it is not the fruit of your own suggestions.
You could not deliberately have trifled with me in
this way; I owe it, no doubt, to the goodness of Miss Taylor,”
he added, bitterly. Jane made no answer, but continued to
weep. Harry felt some compassion for her, in spite of her
unjustifiable conduct towards himself. In the course of half
an hour, she had fallen very much in his estimation; but he
determined to return good for evil, by urging her to take the
only step now in her power—the only one proper under the
circumstances. He begged her, as she valued her future
peace, to reveal everything to her mother; and to be guided
in future by Mrs. Graham. But Jane seemed terrified at
the idea.
“Oh,” said she, “father will be so angry! And we expect
him every day. Mother, too, I know, will think I have
behaved very badly to you.”
It is probable she might not have had the courage to follow
his advice, had not Mrs. Graham accidentally entered the
room at the moment. Her attention was immediately attracted
to the unusual expression of Harry's face, and the
tearful, woe-begone look of her daughter, which she could in
no way account for. Harry, merely answering her inquiries
by a bow, arose and left the room, leaving the mother and
daughter together.
Poor Mrs. Graham was little aware of what awaited her.
She could not be called a woman of very high principles,
but she had more feeling, and, of course, more experience
than Jane. When she discovered the true state of things,
she was very much shocked. She had never had the least
idea of what had been going on around her; far from it,
indeed, she had never for a moment doubted that, before
Little by little she gathered the whole truth from the weeping
Jane. It appeared that the two or three meetings which
had taken place between Jane and young Taylor, just before
he sailed, had been sufficient for him to fancy himself in love
with her. He made a confidante of his sister Adeline,
who, as one of the older class in her boarding-school, considered
all love-affairs as belonging to her prerogative. Her
friend, Miss Hunter, was a regular graduate of the Court of
Love, according to the code — not of Toulouse — but of a
certain class of school-girls in New-York. This young lady
had gone through the proper training from her cradle, having
been teased and plagued about beaux and lovers, before she
could walk alone. She had had several love-affairs of her
own before she was fifteen. “All for love,” was her motto;
and it was a love which included general flirtation as the
spice of unmarried life, and matrimony with any individual
whatever, possessing a three-story house in Broadway, as
the one great object of existence. Adeline had, of course,
profited by such companionship; and, at the time her brother
confessed himself in love with Miss Graham, after having
met once on board a steamboat, and once at an evening party,
she was fully equal to take the management of the whole
affair into her own hands. It is true, young Taylor had
entered into a boyish engagement at college; but that was
thought no obstacle whatever. She delighted in passing her
brother's compliments over to Jane; in reporting to him her
friend's blushes and smiles. With this state of things, young
Taylor sailed for Europe; but Adeline gloried too much in
her capacity of confidante, to allow the matter to drop: not
a letter was written but contained some allusion to the important
subject. In the course of the year she had talked
Jane into quite a favourable state of feeling towards her
brother; he would probably himself have forgotten the affair,
had not Miss Graham arrived in Paris at the moment she did.
They saw each other, of course, and the feelings which
Adeline had been encouraging during the last year, and
which otherwise would have amounted to nothing at all,
now took a serious turn. Young Taylor was very handsome,
and astonishingly improved in appearance and manners.
Jane, herself, was in the height of her beauty, and
the young man had soon fallen really in love with her.
Unfortunately, just at the moment that he became attentive
to her, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, who was confined to the
house that winter, had confided Jane to the care of Mrs.
Howard, the lady who had brought her from America.
Young Taylor soon found out that he was rather disliked by
Mr. and Mrs. Hazlehurst, and preferred securing Jane's
favour, if possible, without attracting the attention of her
friends. Adeline, on her part, had discovered that her own
family were no favourites with Mr. and Mrs. Graham; of
course she recommended the proper degree of mystery, under
the name of prudence. Young Taylor left Paris for England,
about the time that Harry returned from his eastern
journey; but before parting from Jane, he explained himself;
and if he had not been accepted, he had certainly not been
refused. Thus matters stood when the whole party returned
home. Mr. Graham was known to be a violent, passionate
man, and as he had taken no pains to conceal his dislike to
Tallman Taylor's father, the young people had every reason
to believe that he would refuse his consent. The idea of a
clandestine marriage had once occurred to Adeline, but never
with any serious intention of proposing it. Had she done
so, she would not have been listened to. Jane had not lived
so much with Miss Wyllys and Elinor, without deriving
some good from such association; besides, she did not think
the step necessary. She believed that Mr. Graham would
give his consent after a while; and young Taylor was
obliged to submit for the present. As for his college engagement,
he had paid it no more attention than if it had
part.
Little by little, Mrs. Graham gathered most of these facts
from her daughter, whose weeping eyes and pale face
would have delighted Adeline, as being just what was proper
in a heroine of romance, on such an important occasion.
But Adeline could not enjoy the sight of all the misery
which was the fruit of her two years' labours, for Mrs. Graham
insisted that Jane should see none of the family until
her father had arrived, and knew the state of things.
Harry Hazlehurst, although not quite as well informed as
the reader, knew essentially how matters stood. He knew
at least, that Jane and young Taylor were all but pledged to
each other; he knew what had been Adeline's conduct—
what had been his own treatment; and as he walked slowly
from one end of the Battery to the other, his reflections were
anything but flattering to himself, or to any of the parties
concerned. He blamed Mrs. Graham for her want of maternal
caution and foresight; he blamed his brother, and
sister-in-law, for their blindness in Paris; Jane, for her weakness,
and want of sincerity to himself; Adeline, for such
unjustifiable management and manœuvring; and young
Taylor, for what he called his “presumption and puppyism.”
And to think that he, Harry Hazlehurst, who prided himself
upon being clear-sighted, had been so completely deceived
by others, and what was worse, by himself! He was obliged
to remember how sure he had felt himself of Jane; it was
humiliating to think what a silly part he had been playing.
Then came a twinge or two, from the consciousness that he
had deserved it all, from his conduct to Elinor. He tried to
persuade himself that regret that Jane should fall into hands
he fancied so unworthy of her—that she should be sacrificed
to a mere second-rate sort of dandy, like young Taylor,
was his strongest feeling at the time. But he was mistaken:
there was a good deal of the lover in his recollection of Jane's
from the worst—from becoming the wife of Tallman Taylor.
He felt convinced that Mr. Graham would refuse his consent
to the marriage.
The next day, Harry returned to Philadelphia. The astonishment
of all those interested in himself and Jane, at this
rupture, was very great. If Mrs. Stanley had been grieved
at Harry's difficulties, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst was made
quite unhappy by her sister's conduct. She reproached
herself severely for her blindness; for not having taken as
much care of Jane as she ought to have done under the circumstances.
Like all her family, she disliked young Taylor;
who, in fact, had nothing to recommend him but his handsome
face, and his father's money. Miss Wyllys, too, was
much pained by the conduct of one who had been so often
under her care—one, in whose welfare she was so warmly
interested. She received the news in a note from Mrs.
Hazlehurst, who preferred giving it in that form; and as Miss
Wyllys was alone with Elinor, she immediately handed the
billet to her niece.
It must be confessed that Elinor's heart gave one bound
at this unexpected news. She was more moved by it than
any one; more astonished that Jane should have refused
Harry; that she should have preferred to him that silly
Tallman Taylor; more shocked at the double-dealing that
had been going on; and more pained that Jane, who had
been to her as a sister, should have been so easily misled.
Another thought intruded, too—Harry would be free again!
But the idea had hardly suggested itself, before she repelled
it. She soon felt convinced that Mr. Graham would break
off the engagement between his daughter and Mr. Taylor,
and that after a while her cousin's eyes would be opened to
Harry's merits, which were numberless in her eyes. Miss
Agnes strongly encouraged this opinion; and Elinor fully
determined that her aunt's counsels, her mother's letter, and
watch more carefully than ever against every fancy that
would be likely to endanger anew the tranquillity she had
in some measure regained.
| CHAPTER XXII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |