 | CHAPTER VI. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“The foam upon the waters, not so light.”
Cowper.
As usual at Saratoga, early the next morning groups of
people were seen moving from the different hotels, towards
the Congress Spring. It was a pleasant day, and great
numbers appeared disposed to drink the water at the fountain-head,
instead of having it brought to their rooms. The
Hazlehursts were not the only party of our acquaintances
who had arrived the night before. The Wyllyses found
Miss Emma Taylor already on the ground, chattering in a
high key with a tall, whiskered youth. The moment she
saw Elinor, she sprang forward to meet her.
“How do you do, Miss Wyllys?—Are you not surprised
to see me here?”
“One can hardly be surprised at meeting anybody in such
a crowd,” said Elinor. “When did you arrive?”
“Last night, at eleven o'clock. We made a forced march
from Schenectady, where we were to have slept; but I persuaded
Adeline and Mr. St. Leger to come on. You can't
think how delighted I am to be here, at last,” said the pretty
little creature, actually skipping about with joy.
“And where is Mrs. St. Leger?”
“Oh, she will be here in a moment. She has gone to
Jane's room. I left her there just now.”
The platform round the spring was quite crowded. In
one party, Elinor remarked Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline
Hubbard, escorted by Monsieur Bonnet and another Frenchman.
They were soon followed by a set more interesting to
Elinor, the Hazlehursts, Mrs. Creighton, and her brother.
“I hope none of your party from Wyllys-Roof are here
from necessity,” said Harry, after wishing Elinor good-morning.
“Not exactly from necessity; but the physicians recommended
to Aunt Agnes to pass a fortnight here, this summer.
You may have heard that she was quite ill, a year ago?”
“Yes; Robert, of course, wrote me word of her illness.
But Miss Wyllys looks quite like herself, I think. As for
Mr. Wyllys, he really appears uncommonly well.”
“Thank you; grandpapa is very well, indeed; and Aunt
Agnes has quite recovered her health, I trust.”
“Miss Wyllys,” said Mr. Stryker, offering a glass of the
water to Elinor, “can't I persuade you to take a sympathetic
cup, this morning?”
“I believe not,” replied Elinor, shaking her head.
“Do you never drink it?” asked Mrs. Creighton.
“No; I really dislike it very much.”
“Pray, give it to me, Mr. Stryker,” continued Mrs.
Creighton. “Thank you: I am condemned to drink three
glasses every morning, and it will be three hours, at this
rate, before I get them.”
“Did you ever hear a better shriek than that, Miss
Wyllys?” said Mr. Stryker, lowering his voice, and pointing
the spring, engaged in a noisy, rattling flirtation. After
drinking half the glass that had been given to her, she had
handed it to the young man to whom she was talking, bidding
him drink it without making a face. Of course, the
youth immediately exerted himself to make a grimace.
“Oh, you naughty boy!” screamed Miss Taylor, seizing
another half-empty glass, and throwing a handful of water
in his face; “this is the way I shall punish you!”
There were two gentlemen, European travellers, standing
immediately behind Elinor at this moment, and the colour
rose in her cheeks as she heard the very unfavourable
observations they made upon Miss Taylor, judging from
her noisy manner in a public place. Elinor, who understood
very well the language in which they spoke, was so
shut in by the crowd that she could not move, and was compelled
to hear part of a conversation that deeply mortified
her, as these travellers, apparently gentlemanly men themselves,
exchanged opinions upon the manners of certain
young ladies they had recently met. They began to compare
notes, and related several little anecdotes, anything but
flattering in their nature, to the delicacy of the ladies alluded
to; actually naming the individuals as they proceeded.
More than one of these young girls was well known to
Elinor, and from her acquaintance with their usual tone of
manner and conversation, she had little doubt as to the truth
of the stories these travellers had recorded for the amusement
of themselves and their friends; at the same time, she
felt perfectly convinced that the interpretation put upon these
giddy, thoughtless actions, was cruelly unjust. Could these
young ladies have heard the observations to which they had
laid themselves open by their own folly, they would have
been sobered at once; self-respect would have put them
more on their guard, especially in their intercourse with
foreigners. It is, no doubt, delightful to see young persons
free from every suspicion; no one would wish to impose a
girl should not only be sans peur, but also sans reproche—
the faintest imputation on her native modesty is not to be
endured: and, yet, who has not seen pretty, delicate creatures,
scarcely arrived at womanhood, actually assuming a
noisy, forward pertness, foreign to their nature, merely to qualify
them for the envied title of belles? There is something
wrong, certainly, wherever such a painful picture is exhibited;
and it may be presumed that in most cases the fault
lies rather with the parents than the daughters. Happily,
the giddy, rattling school to which Miss Emma Taylor belonged,
is much less in favour now, than it was some ten or
fifteen years ago, at the date of our story.
“How little do Emma Taylor, and girls like her, imagine
the cruel remarks to which they expose themselves by their
foolish manners!” thought Elinor, as she succeeded at length,
with the assistance of Mr. Ellsworth, in extricating herself
from the crowd.
As the Wyllys party moved away from the spring, to
walk in the pretty wood adjoining, they saw a young man
coming towards them at a very rapid pace.
“Who is it—any one you know, Miss Wyllys?” asked
Mr. Ellsworth.
“He is in pursuit of some other party, I fancy,” replied
Elinor.
“It is Charlie Hubbard coming to join us; did we forget
to mention that he came up the river with us?” said Harry,
who was following Elinor, with Mrs. Creighton and Mr.
Stryker.
The young painter soon reached them, as they immediately
stopped to welcome him; he was very kindly received
by his old friends.
“Well, Charlie, my boy,” said Mr. Wyllys, “if Harry
had not been here to vouch for your identity, I am not sure
but I should have taken you for an exiled Italian bandit.
Have you shown those moustaches at Longbridge?”
“Yes, sir;” replied Charlie, laughing. “I surprised my
mother and sister by a sight of them, some ten days since;
it required all their good-nature, I believe, to excuse them.”
“I dare say they would have been glad to see you, if you
had come back looking like a Turk,” said Elinor.
“I am determined not to shave for some months, out of
principle; just to show my friends that I am the same Charlie
Hubbard with moustaches that I was three years ago without
them.”
“I suppose you consider it part of your profession to look
as picturesque as our stiff-cut broadcloth will permit,” said
Mr. Wyllys,
“If you really suspect me of dandyism, sir,” said Charlie,
“I shall have to reform at once.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Hubbard, that you have forgotten me,”
observed Mr. Ellsworth; “though I passed a very pleasant
morning at your rooms in New York, some years since.”
Charlie remembered him, however; and also made his
bow to Mrs. Creighton and Mr. Stryker.
“And how did you leave the Mediterranean, sir?” asked
Mr. Stryker, in a dry tone. “Was the sea in good looks?”
“As blue as ever. I am only afraid my friends in this
country will not believe the colour I have given it in my
sketches.
“We are bound to believe all your representations of
water,” remarked Mr. Wyllys.
“I hope you have brought back a great deal for us to see;
have you anything with you here?” asked Elinor.
“Only my sketch-book. I would not bring anything
else; for I must get rid of my recollections of Italy. I must
accustom my eye again to American nature; I have a great
deal to do with Lake George, this summer.”
“But you must have something in New York,” said Miss
Wyllys.
“Yes; I have brought home with me samples of water,
from some of the most celebrated lakes and rivers in Europe.”
“That is delightful,” said Elinor; “and when can we see
them?”
“As soon as they are unpacked, I shall be very happy to
show them to my friends. They will probably interest you
on account of the localities; and I have endeavoured to be
as faithful to nature as I could, in every instance. You will
find several views familiar to you, among the number,”
added Charlie, addressing Hazlehurst.
“I have no doubt that you have done them justice.”
“They are far from being as good as I could wish; but I
did my best. You will find some improvement, sir, I hope,”
added Charlie, turning to Mr. Wyllys, “since my first attempt
at Chewattan Lake, in the days of Compound Interest.”
“You have not forgotten your old enemy, the Arithmetic,”
said Mr. Wyllys, smiling. “I am afraid Fortune will never
smile upon you for having deserted from the ranks of trade.”
“I am not sure of that, sir; she is capricious, you know.”
“I should think you would do well, Charlie, to try your
luck just now, by an exhibition of your pictures.”
“My uncle has already proposed an exhibition; but I
doubt its success; our people don't often run after good pictures,”
he added, smiling. “If I had brought with me some
trash from Paris or Leghorn, I might have made a mint of
money.”
A general conversation continued until the party returned
towards the hotels. They were met, as they approached
Congress Hall, by several persons, two of whom proved to
be Mrs. Hilson, and Miss Emmeline Hubbard. Charlie had
already seen his cousins in New York, and he merely bowed
in passing. Miss Emmeline was leaning on the arm of M.
Bonnet, Mrs. Hilson on that of another Frenchman, whose
name, as the “Baron Adolphe de Montbrun,” had been constantly
on her lips during the last few weeks, or in other
words, ever since she had made his acquaintance. Charlie
kept his eye fixed on this individual, with a singular expression
of surprise and vexation, until he had passed. He
was no other than a man of very bad character, who
had been in Rome at the same time with himself, and having
married the widow of an Italian artist, a sister of one of
Hubbard's friends, had obtained possession of her little property,
and then deserted her. The whole affair had taken
place while Charlie was in Rome; and it will readily be
imagined that he felt no little indignation, when he met a
person whom he strongly suspected of being this very chevalier
d'industrie, flourishing at Saratoga, by the side of his
uncle Joseph's daughter.
Charlie had no sooner left the Wyllyses on the piazza at
Congress Hall, than he proceeded to make some inquiry
about this Frenchman. He found his name down in the
books of the hotel, as the Baron Adolphe de Montbrun, which
with the exception of Alphonse for the first name, was the
appellation of the very man who had behaved so badly at
Rome. He went to Mrs. Hilson, and told her his suspicions;
but they had not the least effect on the “city lady;” she
would not believe them. Charlie had no positive proof of
what he asserted; he could not be confident beyond a doubt
as to the identity of this person and the Montbrun of the
Roman story, for he had only seen that individual once in
Italy. Still, he was convinced himself, and he entreated his
cousin to be on her guard; the effect of his representations
may be appreciated from the fact, that Mrs. Hilson became
more amiable than ever with the Baron, while she was
pouting and sulky with Charlie, scarcely condescending to
notice him at all. Hubbard only remained twenty-four
hours at Saratoga, for he was on his way to Lake George;
before he left the Springs, however, he hinted to Mr. Wyllys
his suspicions of this Montbrun, in order to prevent that individual's
intruding upon the ladies of the Wyllys party;
for Mrs. Hilson delighted in introducing him right and left.
As for her other companion, M. Bonnet, he was known to
be a respectable merchant in New York.
Several days passed, during which our friends at Saratoga,
like the rest of the world there, walked, and rode, and drank
the waters, and seemed to pass their time very pleasantly;
although the ladies did not either dress or flirt as much as
many of their companions, who seemed to look upon these
two occupations as the peculiar business of the place. Jane's
spirits improved very much; there was much curiosity to
see her, on account of her reputation as a beauty; but, like
the rest of her party, she was only occasionally in the public
rooms.
“Have you seen the beautiful Mrs. Taylor?”—“I caught
a glimpse of Mrs. Taylor, the great beauty, this morning.”—
“What, the beautiful Jane Graham that was? is she as lovely
as ever?”—were remarks that were frequently heard in the
crowd.
Elinor also came in for her share of the public notice, and
the attention she attracted was, of course, of a directly opposite
character. There happened to be staying at Congress
Hall, just then, a very pretty young lady, from Savannah,
who was also considered a great fortune; she was known as
the “lovely heiress,” while Elinor, in contradistinction, was
spoken of as the “ugly heiress.”
“Do you know,” said a young lady, standing on the piazza
one evening, “I have not yet seen the ugly heiress. I should
like to get a peep at her; is she really so very ugly?” she
continued, addressing a young man at her side.
“Miss Wyllys, you mean; a perfect fright—ugly as sin,”
replied the gentleman.
Elinor, at the very moment, was standing immediately
behind the speakers, and Mr. Ellsworth, who was talking to
her, was much afraid she had heard the remark. To cut
short the conversation, he immediately addressed her himself,
raising his voice a little, and calling her by name.
The young lady was quite frightened, when she found the
“ugly heiress” was her near neighbour, and even the dandy
was abashed; but Elinor herself was rather amused with
of the speakers. Never was there a woman more free from
personal vanity than Elinor Wyllys; and she was indifferent
to remarks of this kind, to a degree that would seem scarcely
credible to that class of young ladies, who think no sound so
delightful as that of a compliment. On the evening in question,
the piazzas were crowded with the inmates of the hotels;
those who had feeling for the beauties of nature, and those
who had not, came out alike, to admire an unusual effect of
moonlight upon a fine mass of clouds. Elinor was soon
aware that she was in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Hilson
and her sister, by the silly conversation they were keeping
up with their companions. These Longbridge ladies generally
kept with their own party, which was a large one.
The Wyllyses were not sorry that they seldom met; for,
little as they liked the sisters, they wished always to treat
them civilly, on account of their father. The English art
of “cutting” is, indeed, little practised in America, except
in extreme cases; all classes are too social in their feelings
and habits to adopt it. It is, indeed, an honourable characteristic
of those who occupy the highest social position in
America — those who have received, in every respect, the
best education in the country—that, as a class, they are free
from the little, selfish, ungenerous feeling of mere exclusiveism.
“Oh, here you are, Miss Wyllys!” exclaimed Emmeline
Hubbard to Elinor, who was talking to Mrs. Creighton. “I
have been wishing to see you all the afternoon—I owe you
an apology.”
“An apology to me, Miss Hubbard? — I was not at all
aware of it.”
“Is it possible? I was afraid you would think me very
rude this morning, when I spoke to you in the drawing-room,
for there was a gentleman with you at the time. Of course
I ought not to have joined you at such a moment, but I was
anxious to give you the Longbridge news.”
“Certainly; I was very glad to hear it: the conversation
you interrupted was a very trifling one.”
“Oh, I did not wish to insinuate that you were conversing
on a particularly interesting subject. But, of course, I am
too well acquainted with the etiquette of polished circles, not
to know that it is wrong for one young lady to intrude upon
another while conversing with a gentleman.”
“If there be such a point of etiquette, I must have often
broken it very innocently, myself. I have never practised it,
I assure you.”
“Ah, that is very imprudent, Miss Wyllys!” said the fair
Emmeline, shaking her fan at Elinor. “Who knows how
much mischief one may do, in that way? You might actually
prevent a declaration. And then a young lady is, of
course, always too agreeably occupied in entertaining a
beau, to wish to leave him for a female friend. It is not
everybody who would be as good-natured as yourself at such
an interruption.”
“I have no merit whatever in the matter, I assure you;
for I was very glad to find that—”
Just at that moment one of Miss Hubbard's admirers approached
her, and without waiting to hear the conclusion of
Elinor's remark, she turned abruptly from the lady, to meet
the gentleman, with a striking increase of grace, and the
expression of the greatest interest in her whole manner.
Elinor smiled, as the thought occurred to her, that this last
act of rudeness was really trying to her good-nature, while
she had never dreamed of resenting the interruption of the
morning. But Miss Hubbard was only following the code
of etiquette, tacitly adopted by the class of young ladies
she belonged to, who never scrupled to make their manner to
men, much more attentive and flattering than towards one of
themselves, or even towards an older person of their own sex.
Elinor, however, had seen such manœuvres before, and
she would scarcely have noticed it at the moment, had it not
been for Miss Emmeline's previous apology.
Mrs. Hilson soon approached her. “Has Emmeline been
communicating our Longbridge intelligence, Miss Wyllys?
Do you think it a good match?”
“I hope it will prove so; we were very glad to hear of it.
Mary Van Horne is a great favourite of my aunt's, and Mr.
Roberts, I hear, is highly spoken of.”
“Yes; and he is very rich too; she has nothing at all
herself, I believe.”
“Do you know whether they are to live in New York?
I hope they will not go very far from us.”
“I suppose they will live in the city, as he is so wealthy;
Mary will have an opportunity of tasting the fascinations of
high life. I shall introduce her to a clique of great refinement
at once. Don't you think Saratoga the most delightful
place in the world, Miss Wyllys? I am never so happy as
when here. I delight so much in the gay world; it appears
to me that I breathe more freely in a crowd—solitude oppresses
me; do you like it?”
“I have never tried it very long. If you like a crowd,
you must be perfectly satisfied, just now.”
“And so I am, Miss Wyllys, perfectly happy in these
fashionable scenes. Do you know, it is a fact, that I lose
my appetite unless I can sit down to table with at least thirty
or forty fashionably dressed people about me; and I never
sleep sounder than on board a steamboat, where the floor is
covered with mattresses. I am not made for retirement,
certainly. Ah, Monsieur Bonnet, here you are again, I see;
what have you done with the Baron?—is not the Baron with
you?”
“No, Madame; he has not finish his cigar. And where
is Mlle. Emmeline?—I hope she has not abandonné me!”
said M. Bonnet, who, to do him justice, was a sufficiently
respectable man, a French merchant in New York, and no
way connected with the Baron.
“Oh, no; she is here; we were waiting for the Baron
and you to escort us to the drawing-room; but we will remain
will put you in good-humour, another of those marriages
you admire so much—one of the parties rolling in wealth
and luxury, the other poor as Job's turkey.”
“Ah, vraiment; that is indeed delightful; cela est fort
touchant; that show so much sensibilité, to appreciate le
mérite, though suffering from poverty. A marriage like that
must be beau comme un rève d'Amour!”
“You are quite romantic on the subject; but don't people
make such matches in France?”
“Ah, non, Madame; le froid calcul dominates there at
such times. I honour the beautiful practice that is common
in votre jeune Amérique; cela rappelle le siècle d'or. Can
there be a tableau more délicieux than a couple unis under
such circonstances? The happy époux, a young man perhaps,
of forty, and la femme a créature angélique;” here M.
Bonnet cast a glance at Miss Emmeline; “une crèature
angelique, who knows that he adores her, and who says to
him, `mon ami je t'aime, je veux faire ton bonheur,' and
who bestows on him her whole heart, and her whole fortune;
while he, of course, oppressed with gratitude, labours only
to increase that fortune, that he may have it in his power to
make the life of his bien aimée beautiful comme un jour de
fète!”
“You are eloquent, Mr. Bonnet.”
“N'est ce pas un sujet, Madame, to toucher le cœur de
l'homme in a most tender point; a man who could be insensible
to such delicacy, to such aimable tendresse, would be
no better than one of your sauvages, one of your Mohicans!”
“Well, I don't think so much of it, because it is very
common here; such matches happen every day.”
“And who are the happy couple you refer to at présent?”
“'Tis a young gentleman of New York city, Mr. Roberts,
who is going to marry a young lady, whose father is a neighbour
of pa's.”
“And what is the sum the young lady has bestowed upon
her grateful adorateur?”
“Oh, the lady has not anything to bestow in this case; it
is the gentleman, who is very wealthy, and doing a very
handsome business in New York.”
“Ah,” said M. Bonnet, taking a pinch of snuff, “that is
not so interesting I think, as when the mari is the favoured
party. The heart of man is more susceptible of lasting
gratitude for un tel bienfait.”
“The gentleman has all the money, this time; I don't
think Mary Van Horne will have a cent; do you, Miss
Wyllys?”
But Elinor was gone. As the Baron appeared, however,
Mrs. Hilson did not regret it.
“Ah, Baron, I thought you were never coming. You
ought to be much obliged to me, for I had just told Monsieur
Bonnet, we must not move till the Baron comes; the Baron
will not know where to find us.”
| CHAPTER VI. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |