University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Richard III.

Hazlehurst had gone out with his friends, and continued
walking on the piazza, first with Charlie and then with Ellsworth;
at length Mrs. Stanley called him from the window
to say good-bye, as she did not expect to see him again before
the cruise; the other ladies also wished him a pleasant excursion
at the same moment.

“Good fishing and no musquitoes—which, I take it, is all
that is desirable on such an occasion,” said Mrs. Creighton,
smiling brightly but carelessly, as she offered her hand.

“Thank you; I suppose you have no commands for Cape
Cod?”

“None at all, I believe, unless you can bring us the true
Yankee receipt for chowder, which Mr. Stryker was explaining
this evening.”

“You will be off so early to-morrow that we shall scarcely
see you, Harry,” said Miss Wyllys. “You must come back
to us, however, and fall into the old habit of considering
Wyllys-Roof as home, whenever you please,” she added
kindly.

Harry's thanks were expressed with feeling.

“And in the mean time I hope you will have a pleasant
cruise,” said Elinor. “Fair winds and better prospects
attend you!”—and as she raised her eyes, Harry observed
they had filled with tears when she made this allusion to his
difficulties. Perhaps Ellsworth made the same remark, and
appreciated her kindness; for when Elinor turned to wish
him good-night we strongly suspect that his countenance said
so; there could be no doubt at least, that she blushed at the
time, though pale but a moment before.

After the ladies had gone, Mr. Wyllys and Ellsworth went
off together, and Harry returned to the piazza.

It was perhaps inconsiderate in Hazlehurst to continue
walking so late, for the sound of his footsteps fell regularly
on the stillness of the night, long after the family had gone
to rest, and may possibly have disturbed some of his friends;
but many busy thoughts of the past and the future crowded
on his mind, while pacing that familiar spot, the piazza of
Wyllys-Roof. It is time that these thoughts should be partially
revealed to the reader, and for that purpose we must
pause a moment, in order to look backward.

Long since, Harry's heart had warmed again towards his
old playfellow, Elinor. As soon as the first novelty of a life
at Rio had worn off, Harry, whose affections were strong,
began to miss his old friends; the more so, since Mr. Henley,
although his principles and talents entirely commanded his
secretary's esteem, was not a pleasant companion in everyday
life. Hazlehurst soon began to contrast the minister's
formal, old bachelor establishment with the pleasant house
of his friend Ellsworth, where Mrs. Creighton did the honours
charmingly, and with the cheerful home of his brother, where
his sister-in-law always received him kindly: still oftener
he compared the cold, stately atmosphere which seemed to
fill Mr. Henley's house, with the pleasant, genial spirit which
prevailed at Wyllys-Roof, where everything excellent wore
so amiable an aspect. Until lately he had always been so
closely connected with the family there, that he accused himself
of not having done full justice to all their worth. He
took a pleasure in dwelling on Mr. Wyllys's high moral character,
so happily tempered by the benevolence of cheerful
old age; he remembered the quiet, unpretending virtues of
Miss Wyllys, always mingled with unvarying kindness to
himself; and could he forget Elinor, whose whole character
was so engaging; uniting strength of principle and intelligence,
with a disposition so lovely, so endearing? A place in
this family had been his, his for life, and he had trifled with it,

rejected it; worse than that—well he knew that the best place
in Elinor's generous heart had once been wholly his; he had
applied for it, he had won it; and what return had he made for
her warmest affections? He had trifled with her; the world
said he had jilted her, jilted the true-hearted Elinor, his friend
and companion from childhood! Knowing her as well as
he did, he had treated her as if she were a mere ball-room
coquette; he had forgotten her as soon as if it had been a
mere holiday fancy of a boy of fifteen. He had been completely
infatuated, dazzled, blinded by a beautiful face. That
it was sheer infatuation was now evident; for, absent from
both Elinor and Jane, all feeling for the latter seemed to have
vanished like a dream. It is said that love without hope
cannot live: the question must be settled by those who have
suffered most frequently from the wounds of Cupid; but it
seems evident, at least from Harry's experience, that love
which has fed plentifully upon hopes for some months, when
suddenly put upon a change of diet, and receiving a large
dose of mortification to boot, falls immediately into a rapid
decline. The recollection of his fancy for Jane was now
unpleasant under every aspect, but where it was connected
with Elinor he soon began to consider it as particularly painful.
He regretted that he had engaged Elinor in the hasty,
boyish manner he had done, before going abroad; had he
not taken this step, the momentary mortification of a refusal
by Jane would have been the only evil; Elinor would not
have suffered, and all might have gone well. Gradually the
idea gained upon him, that it was not impossible to repair
the past. His conduct had been unpardonable, no doubt;
yet, perhaps it might be forgiven. But even if Elinor could
forget his inexcusable fickleness, would her friends ever consent
to risk her future peace with one who had so recklessly
trifled with her already? Mr. Wyllys had been deeply indignant
at his conduct; his whole manner had changed,
there had been a cold civility in it when they had met, which
Harry had felt keenly — it amounted almost to contempt.
Miss Wyllys, too, was no longer the kind, indulgent Aunt
Agnes of his boyhood; there was a very decided coldness
and reserve in her whole expression, which it seemed all but
impossible to overcome. He wished, however, that he had
it in his power to make advances towards a reconciliation;
he was prepared for merited coldness at first, but he would
willingly submit to it as a just penance, if he could but hope
eventually to regain his position with Elinor. Such a wife
as Elinor would be, was worth a serious struggle to obtain.
Then, at other moments, this idea appeared preposterous to
him; how could the Wyllyses ever forgive him after so keen
an insult, so cruel a blow? No, it was a dream; he would
not indulge in it any longer; he would not think of marrying;
he would turn out an old bachelor diplomatist, like Mr.
Henley. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Creighton was
entirely forgotten in these reveries of Harry's, which formed
occasional interludes to his diplomatic labours while at Rio.
On the contrary she was remembered quite frequently; and
every one who knew her must always think of the pretty
widow as a charming woman; clever, graceful, gay, and
well-bred. Nor had Hazlehurst been blind to her peculiarly
flattering manner towards himself. The lady was his friend
Ellsworth's sister, which was another claim; she was generally
admired too, and this alone, with some men, would
have given her a decided advantage: since we are revealing
Harry's foibles, however, we must do him the justice to say,
that he was not one of the class referred to. When he liked,
he liked honestly, for good reasons of his own. At the time
he left home with Mr. Henley, he had not been able to decide
entirely to his own satisfaction, whether Mrs. Creighton
really had any partiality for him or not; he waited with a
little interest and a little curiosity, to know what she would
do after he left Philadelphia. News soon reached him that
the lady was gay and charming as ever, much admired, and
taking much pleasure in admiration, as usual. He had
known Mrs. Creighton from a girl; she was a year or two
older than himself, and had been a married woman while he
was still a boy, and he had been long aware of her reputation
as a coquette; this had no doubt put him on his guard.
He had occasionally remarked her conduct himself; and
having been so intimate with women of very different characters
— his brother's wife, Miss Wyllys, and Elinor— he
knew very well that all women were not coquettes; he had
received a higher standard of female delicacy and female
truth than many young men. So long, therefore, as he believed
Mrs. Creighton a decided flirt, he was in little danger
from her: the lady, however, was no common coquette—
cleverness, tact, good taste, gave her very great advantages;
she was generally admired, and Hazlehurst expected daily
to hear that she was married.

He had become very tired of Rio Janeiro, and very desirous
of returning home, long before Mr. Henley was recalled
to exchange the court of Brazil for that of St. Petersburgh.
Sincere respect for Mr. Henley had alone kept him at Rio;
and when he arrived at Norfolk, he was still undecided
whether he should continue in the legation or not. He
found that all his friends were at Saratoga, and he hastened
there; he was anxious to see the Wyllyses, anxious to see
Elinor, and yet he dreaded the first meeting—he had already
determined to be guided entirely in his future steps by their
manner towards himself; if they did not absolutely shun
him, he would make an effort for a complete reconciliation.
He knew Elinor was unmarried; he had never heard of any
engagement, and he might then hope to regain all he had
lost. He arrived, he was received kindly, and the sight of
Elinor's plain face did not change his determination; on the
contrary, he found her just what he remembered her, just
what he had always known her to be—everything that was
naturally feminine and amiable. But if Elinor were still
herself, Harry soon found that her position had very materially
altered of late; she was now an heiress, it seemed.
What a contemptible interpretation might be placed on his

advances under such circumstances! Then came the discovery
of Mr. Ellsworth's views and hopes; and his friend
was evidently sanguine of success. Thus everything was
changed; he was compelled to remain in the back-ground,
to avoid carefully any interference with his friend.

There appeared no reason to doubt that Elinor would, ere
long, marry Ellsworth; she herself certainly liked him, and
her friends very evidently favoured his suit. On the other
hand, Mrs. Creighton seemed particularly well pleased with
his own return; she was certainly very charming, and it was
by no means an unpleasant task to play cavalier to his friend's
sister. Still he looked on with great interest, as Ellsworth
pursued his courtship; and he often found himself making
observations upon Elinor's movements. “Now she will
do this” — “I am sure she thinks that” — “I know her
better than Ellsworth”—“She can't endure Stryker”—and
other remarks of the kind, which kept his attention fixed
upon his old playfellow; the more closely he observed her
the more he saw to love and admire; for their former long
intimacy had given him a key to her character, and greater
knowledge of the world enabled him fully to appreciate her
purity of principle, her native grace and modesty, the generous
tone of her mind, the unaffected sweetness of her disposition.
It appeared strange and unpleasant to him, that
he must now draw back and see her engrossed by Ellsworth,
when she had so long been his own favourite companion;
still he had no right to complain, it was his own fault that
matters were so much changed. As for Mrs. Creighton,
Harry could not satisfy himself with regard to her real feelings;
there were times when he thought she was attached
to him, but just as it began to appear clear that she was not
merely coquetting, just as he began to inquire if he could ever
offer himself to a woman whom he admired very much, but
whom he did not entirely respect, the pretty widow would
run off, apparently in spite of herself, into some very evident
flirtation with Stryker, with de Vaux, with Mr. Wyllys, in

fact, with any man who came in her way. Generally he
felt relieved by these caprices, since they left perfect liberty
of action to himself; ocasionally he was vexed with her
coquetry, vexed with himself for admiring her in spite of it
all. Had Harry never known Mrs. Creighton previously,
he would doubtless have fallen very decidedly in love with
her in a short time; but he had known her too long, and
half mistrusted her; had he never known Elinor so thoroughly,
he would not have understood Mrs. Creighton. He
involuntarily compared the two together; both were particularly
clever, well-bred, and graceful; but Harry felt that one
was ingenuous, amiable, and natural, while he knew that the
other was worldly, bright, but cold, and interested in all her
views and actions. Elinor's charm lay in the perfect confidence
one reposed in the firmness of her principles, the
strength of her affections, softened as they were by feminine
grace of mind and person. Mrs. Creighton fascinated by
the brilliant gloss of the world, the perfection of art, inspired
by the natural instincts of a clever, educated coquette. There
had been moments when Hazlehurst was all but deceived
into believing himself unjust towards Mrs. Creighton, so
charmingly piquant, so gracefully flattering was her manner;
but he owed his eventual escape to the only talisman which
can ever save a young man, or an old one either, from the
wiles of a pretty, artful coquette; he carried about with him
the reflection of a purer model of womanly virtue, one gradually
formed from boyhood upon Elinor's mould, and which
at last had entirely filled his mind and his heart.

Since the commencement of the Stanley suit, Hazlehurst
had become quite disgusted with Mrs. Creighton's conduct;
art may reach a great way, but it can never cover the whole
ground, and the pretty widow involuntarily betrayed too many
variations of manner, graduated by Harry's varying prospects;
his eyes were completely opened; he was ashamed of himself
for having been half-persuaded that she was attached to him.
How different had been Elinor's conduct! she had shown

throughout a warm, unwavering interest in his difficulties,
always more frankly expressed in his least encouraging
moments; indeed she had sometimes blushed, from the fear
that her sympathy might be mistaken for something more
than friendly regard for her kinsman. Harry saw it all; he
understood the conduct of both, and he felt Elinor's kindness
deeply; he was no longer ungrateful, and he longed to tell
her so. True, she would ere long become his friend's wife,
but might he not, under the circumstances, be permitted first
to declare his feelings? It would, perhaps, be only a just
atonement for the past—only what was due to Elinor. Harry
tried to persuade himself into this view of the case, as he
looked up towards her window, invoking a blessing on her
gentle head.

Hazlehurst's reflections, while on the piazza, had commenced
with his pecuniary difficulties, and the consequences
of his late defeat, but they gradually centered on Elinor in a
very lover-like manner, much in the shape we have given
them. But at length the moon went down behind the wood,
and those whose rooms were on that side of the house found
that the sound of his footsteps had ceased; and nothing
farther disturbed the stillness of the night.

“Did you see the Petrel this morning, grandpapa?” said
Elinor, as she was pouring out the coffee at the breakfast-table.

“No, I did not, my child; I took it for granted they were
off before sun-rise, and did not look for them.”

“They were behind their time; they were in sight from
my window about an hour since.”

“Some of the youngsters have been lazy, I suppose; I
hope Harry was not the delinquent.”

“I heard him pass my door quite early,” observed Miss
Agnes.

“When I saw them,” said Elinor, “they had drawn off
from the wharf, and were lying in the river, as if they were
waiting for something that had been forgotten; the boat looked

beautifully, for there was very little air, and she lay motionless
on the water, with her sails half-furled.”

“Perhaps they stopped for Mr. Hubbard to make a
sketch,” said Ellsworth to Elinor.

“Hardly, I should think; time and tide, you know, wait
for no man—not even to be sketched.”

“But Hazlehurst told me his friend Hubbard had promised
to immortalize the Petrel and her crew by a picture;
perhaps he chose the moment of departure; you say she
appeared to great advantage then.”

“I should think he would prefer waiting for some more
striking moment. Who knows what adventures they may
meet with! Mr. de Vaux expects to win a race; perhaps
they may catch a whale, or see the sea-serpent.”

“No doubt Mr. Stryker would try to catch the monster, if
they were to meet with him; his fishing ambition is boundless,”
said Mrs. Creighton.

“But there is no fashionable apparatus for catching sea-serpents,”
observed Elinor; “and Mr. Stryker's ambition is
all fashionable.”

“Stryker is not much of an Izaak Walton, certainly,” remarked
Ellsworth. “He calls it murder, to catch a trout
with a common rod and a natural fly. He will scarcely be
the man to bring in the sea-serpent; he would go after it
though, in a moment, if a regular European sportsman were
to propose it to him.”

“I almost wonder we have not yet had an English yacht
over here, whale-hunting, or sea-serpent-hunting,” said Mrs.
Creighton; “they are so fond of novelty and wild-goose
chasing of any kind.”

“It would make a lion of a dandy, at once,” said Ellsworth,
“if he could catch the sea-serpent.”

“A single fin would be glory enough for one lion,” said
Elinor; “remember how many yards there are of him.”

“If Stryker should catch a slice of the serpent, no doubt

he will throw it into his chowder-pot, and add it to the receipt,”
said Mr. Wyllys.

“Well, Miss Wyllys, I think you and I might engage to
eat all the monsters he catches, as Beatrice did Benedict's
slain,” said Mrs. Creighton.

“Do you intend to make up with Stryker, à la Beatrice?”
asked the lady's brother. “It is some time now that you
have carried on the war of wit with him.”

“No, indeed; I have no such intentions. I leave him
entirely to Miss Wyllys; all but his chowder, which I like
now and then,” said the lady, carelessly.

“I am sorry you will not be here, Mrs. Creighton, for the
pic-nic to the ladies, which de Vaux is to give when he
comes back,” said Mr. Wyllys; “Mr. Stryker will give us a
fine chowder, no doubt.”

“Thank you, sir; I should enjoy the party exceedingly.
I must not think too much of it, or I might be tempted to
break my engagement with the Ramsays.”

“Have you really decided to go so soon?—I was in hopes
we should be able to keep you much longer,” said Miss
Wyllys.

“I should be delighted to stay; but in addition to my visit
to the Ramsays, who are going to town expressly for me, I
must also pick up my little neice.”

Miss Wyllys then made some inquiries about Mr. Ellsworth's
little girl.

“She was very well and happy, with her cousins, when I
heard from my eldest sister, a day or two since,” he replied.
“She has been with me very little this summer; I hope we
shall be able to make some pleasanter arrangement for the
future,” he added, with a half-glance at Elinor.

“My brother has a very poor opinion of my abilities, Miss
Wyllys; because I have no children of my own, he fancies
that I cannot manage his little girl.”

“I am much obliged to you, Josephine, for what you have
done for her, as you very well know.”

“Oh, yes; you are much obliged to me, and so forth; but
you think Mary is in better hands with Mrs. Ellis, and so do
I; I cannot keep the little thing in very good order, I acknowledge.”

“It must be difficult not to spoil her, Mrs. Creighton,”
remarked Mr. Wyllys. “She is a very pretty and engaging
child—just the size and age for a pet.”

“That is the misfortune; she is so pretty that Frank thinks
I make a little doll of her; that I dress her too much. I
believe he thinks I wear too many flowers and ribbons myself;
he has become very fastidious in his taste about such
matters lately; he wishes his daughter to dress with elegant
simplicity; now I have a decided fancy for elegant ornament.”

“He must be very bold, Mrs. Creighton, if he proposes
any alteration to you.”

“I agree with you, entirely,” said the lady, laughing;
“for the last year or two I have been even less successful in
suiting him than of old. He seems to have some very superior
model in his mind's eye. But it is rather annoying
to have one's taste in dress criticised, after having been accustomed
to hear it commended and consulted, ever since I
was fifteen.”

“You must tolerate my less brilliant notions for the sake
of variety,” said her brother, smiling.

“I shall hope to make over Mary's wardrobe to some other
direction, before she grows up,” said Mrs. Creighton; “for
you and I would certainly quarrel over it.”

The party rose from table. Elinor felt a touch of nervousness
come upon her, as she remarked that Mr. Ellsworth
seemed to be watching her movements; while his face had
worn rather a pre-occupied expression all the morning, seeming
to threaten something important.

The day was very pleasant; and as Mr. Wyllys had some
business at certain mills on Chewattan Lake, he proposed a
ride on horseback to his friends, offering a seat in his old-fashioned
chair to any lady who chose to take it.

Mrs. Creighton accepted the offer very readily.

“I have not been in any carriage so rustic and farmer-like
these twenty years,” she said.

“I shall be happy to drive you, if you can be satisfied
with a sober old whip like myself, and a sober old pony
like Timo.”

“It is settled then; you ride I suppose, Miss Wyllys.

Elinor assented; Mary Van Alstyne was also to go on
horseback. Mr. Ellsworth thought that he would have preferred
escorting one lady instead of two on that occasion.
He seemed destined that morning to discover, that a lover's
course is not only impeded by important obstacles, but often
obstructed by things trifling in themselves. Before the chair
and horses appeared at the door, there was an arrival from
Longbridge. Mr. Taylor and his daughter, Miss Emma,
had come from New York the previous evening, and now
appeared at Wyllys-Roof; the merchant had come over
with the double object of blessing his grandchild, and taking
his share in a speculation then going on in the neighbourhood.
The Taylors had been asked to Wyllys-Roof, at any
time when they wished to see Jane, and they had now come
for twenty-four hours, in accordance with the invitation. At
first Mr. Ellsworth supposed the ride to Chewattan Lake
must be abandoned, but it was only deferred for an hour.
Miss Emma Taylor, ever ready for an enterprise of liveliness,
had no sooner embraced her sister-in-law, and learned that
some of the family had proposed riding, than she immediately
expressed a great desire to join them. Mary Van Alstyne
very readily gave up her horse and habit to the young lady;
and Mr. Ellsworth walked over to Broadlawn, to invite Bob
de Vaux, a boy of sixteen, to be her especial escort. He
thought this a very clever manœuvre of his own. While
these arrangements were going on, and the Taylors were
taking some refreshment, Mr. Taylor had found time to express
his regrets at the result of the law-suit.

“I was much disposed, however, to anticipate such a verdict,”

he observed; “Mr. Clapp is a very talented lawyer
for so young a man; this cause, which has attracted so much
attention, will probably make his fortune at the bar. But I
was fearful, sir, from the beginning, that neither yourself nor
your friend, Mr. Hazlehurst, was fully aware of Mr. Clapp's
abilities.”

“I do not conceive, however, that the cause was won by
Mr. Clapp's legal acumen,” observed Mr. Wyllys, drily.

“Perhaps not; still, I understand that he succeeded in
making out a very strong case in behalf of his client.”

“Of that there is no doubt.”

“And the less foundation he had to work on, the greater
his talents must appear,” said Mr. Taylor, with a look, which
expressed both admiration for Mr. Clapp, and the suspicion
that he had been assisting an impostor.

“The kind of talent you refer to is not of a very enviable
character, I think,” said Mr. Wyllys.

“I don't know that, my dear sir,” added Mr. Taylor, as
he drank off a glass of wine; “it is a talent which has
gained a fine property at least. I regret, however, that my
friend, Mr. Hazlehurst, should have suffered so heavy a loss.”

“Mr. Wyllys bowed; and well aware that his own views
of the case and those of Mr. Taylor would not agree, he
changed the conversation.

“You will find your old place much changed,” observed
Miss Wyllys to the merchant.

“Yes, madam; I understand considerable alterations have
been made at my former mansion. I had almost forgotten
this morning that the estate was no longer mine, and was
half-inclined to enter the gate as we passed it.”

“I am delighted, pa, that it is not yours any longer!” exclaimed
Miss Emma, with a liveliness which accorded particularly
ill with her deep mourning-dress. “We shall have
ten times more fun at Rockaway; Colonnade Manor was
the stupidest place in creation; we were often a whole day
without seeing a beau!”

At length, Miss Emma having declared herself more than
sufficiently rested, she put on the habit; and the chair and
horses were brought to the door. Mr. Taylor was to set out
shortly after, in another direction, to go over the manufactory
in which he was about to become interested.

All agreed that the day was delightful. There was a fine
air, the dust had been laid by a shower, and as the road led
through several woods, they had not too much sun. For a
while the four equestrians kept together, and common-place
matters only were talked over; the Petrel was not forgotten.
Miss Emma Taylor declared she would have gone along, if
she had been on the spot when they sailed. Bob de Vaux
said his brother Hubert had offered to take him, but he did
not care to go; he had rather ride than sail, any day.

“Here's for a gallop then!” exclaimed the young lady,
and off the two set at a rapid pace.

“How does that flirtation come on?” asked Miss Emma,
when they lessened their pace at some distance in advance
of the rest of the party.

“All settled, I believe,” replied the youth.

“What, actually engaged? I have been quite exercised
about all your doings over here, this summer; you must
have had a lively time, three or four flirtations all going on
at once. But, do you know I am bent on spiting Mr. Ellsworth
this morning. He meant to have a tête-à-tête, I know,
and only asked you just to get rid of me. But he shan't
have a moment's peace to pay for it; let's turn round and
go back again at full speed.”

Bob de Vaux had not the least objections; he liked motion
and mischief almost as much as did the lively belle; they
both enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and succeeded in provoking
Mr. Ellsworth not a little. Miss Emma and her
companion were in high glee at their success; they would
first ride half a mile by the side of the others, then gallop
off to a distance, and at a signal from the young lady, suddenly

facing about they would return, just in time, as Miss
Emma thought, to cut short any tender speech.

“That young lady seems to have gone twice over every
foot of the road,” innocently observed Mr. Wyllys, little
aware of her object.

“What a restless creature it is!” replied Mrs. Creighton;
“she must worry her horse as much as she annoys her rational
companions.”

“Miss Taylor is a perfect rattle,” remarked Mr. Ellsworth.
“Quite inferior to her sister, Mrs. Hunter, I should say.”

“Her excess of spirits will wear itself out one of these
days, I dare say,” replied Elinor.

“It is to be hoped so,” said the gentleman, drily.

When they reached the lake they dismounted, and passed
half an hour at a farm-house, to rest, and lunch upon iced
milk and dew-berries, which the farmer's wife kindly offered
them. Mrs. Creighton professed herself rather disappointed
with Chewattan Lake; the shores were quite low, there was
only one good hill, and one pretty, projecting point, with a
fine group of elms standing in graceful relief against the
sky; she thought Mr. Hubbard's painting had flattered
nature. Mr. Ellsworth would not allow that Charlie ever
flattered; but remarked that it was his peculiar merit, to
throw a charm about the simplest water scene; and his last
view of Chewattan Lake was certainly one of his happiest
pictures.

On their way home, Miss Emma and her companion again
commenced their quizzing system. Towards the end of the
ride, however, the young lady relaxed a little in her vigilance;
when they reached a turnpike-gate, about two miles
from Wyllys-Roof, she suddenly proposed to Bob de Vaux
to run a race with Elinor and Mr. Ellsworth.

“What do you say to it, Miss Wyllys?”

“Excuse me; I had much rather not.”

“Oh, but you don't know what I mean. Now, you and

Mr. Ellsworth go cantering and trotting along, in such a
sober, Darby and Joan fashion, that I am sure Mr. de Vaux
and I can turn off here, take this by-road, which you know
comes in nearly opposite your gate, and although it is twice
as far round, I bet you a pair of gloves we are at Wyllys-Roof
before you.”

“Done!” exclaimed Mr. Ellsworth, delighted with the
idea; and off the young lady gallopped with her companion.

It is not to be supposed that the gentleman allowed the
half-hour that followed to pass unimproved. He could speak
at last, and he admired Elinor too sincerely, not to express
himself in terms both warm and respectful. Although Elinor
had been for some time fully prepared for this declaration,
yet she did not receive it without betraying feeling and
embarrassment. Emotion in woman, at such moments, or
in connexion with similar subjects, is generally traced to one
cause alone; and yet half the time it should rather be attributed
to some other source. Anxiety, modesty, mere nervousness,
or even vexation at this very misinterpretation, often
raise the colour, and make the voice falter. Elinor had fully
made up her mind, and she felt that a frank explanation was
due to Mr. Ellsworth, but her regard for him was too sincere
not to make the moment a painful one to her. He was rejected;
but rejected with so much consideration, so much
modesty and feeling, so much good sense, that the very act
only increased his regret. He was much disappointed, for
he had been a hopeful suitor. Elinor had always liked him,
and he had thought her manner encouraging; Mr. Wyllys
and Miss Agnes had not concealed their approbation; and
Mrs. Creighton had often told him she had no doubt of his
success. He was more than mortified, however, by the refusal,
he was pained. Elinor repeated assurances of respect
and friendship, and regret that she felt herself unable to return
his regard as it deserved. She even alluded to his
generosity in overlooking her want of personal attractions;
she said she had, on that account, been slow to believe that

he had any serious object in view. At the time he had first
proposed, through her grandfather, she herself had wished
to prevent his going any farther, but her friends had desired
her to defer the answer; he himself had begged her to do
so, and named the time fixed—she had reluctantly consented
to this arrangement; and, although the more she knew of
Mr. Ellsworth, the more highly she esteemed and respected
him, yet the result had been what she first foresaw; she
could not conscientiously offer him the full attachment he had
a right to expect from a wife.

Mr. Ellsworth rode on in silence for a moment.

“Is it then true, Miss Wyllys, that I must give up all idea
of obtaining a more indulgent hearing, at some future day?”

“Judge for yourself if I am capricious, Mr. Ellsworth.
Do not imagine that I have lightly rejected the regard of a
man whom I esteem so highly as yourself. I could scarcely
name another in my whole acquaintance, for whom I should
have hesitated so long; but—” Elinor paused, suddenly
became very red, and then deadly pale.

“But—what would you say, Miss Wyllys? — go on, I
entreat!” exclaimed Mr. Ellsworth.

It was a moment before Elinor rallied. She then continued,
in a low voice, and in an agitated, hesitating manner:

“Mr. Ellsworth, I shall speak with perfect frankness;
your kindness and forbearance deserve it. When I consented
to wait so long before giving you a final answer, it was chiefly
that I might discover if I could regain entire command over
feelings which have not always been my own. I am afraid
you are not aware of this. The feeling itself to which I
allude is changed; but be it weakness or not, it has left
traces for life. I was willing to make an experiment in
favour of one who deserved the full confidence of my friends
and myself; but the trial has not succeeded; if I know myself,
it can never succeed—I shall never marry.”

And then after a moment's silence she gently continued,
in a calmer tone:

“But you will soon forget all this, I trust. You will find
elsewhere some one more worthy of you; one who can better
repay your kindness.”

Mr. Ellsworth chafed a little under this suggestion; though
not so much as a more passionate man might have done.

“To forget one of so much womanly excellence as yourself,
Miss Wyllys, is not the easy task you seem to suppose.”

Elinor could have sighed and smiled as the thought recurred
to her, that Harry had not found it very difficult to
forget her. They had now reached the gate, on their way
home, and turning towards her companion as they entered,
she said:

“I hope, indeed, you will always remember that you have
very sincere friends at Wyllys-Roof, Mr. Ellsworth; believe
me, friends capable of appreciating your merits, and aware
of what is their due.”

Mr. Ellsworth thanked her, but he looked very evidently
disturbed. When they reached the piazza he helped Elinor
from her horse, perhaps more carefully than usual; Miss
Emma Taylor and her cavalier had already arrived; and
the young lady immediately attacked Mr. Ellsworth, bidding
him remember his bet. When Mrs. Creighton stepped from
the chair, she looked for her brother and Elinor, a little curious
to discover if anything decisive had passed, but both had
already entered the house.

Mr. Wyllys learned in the course of the day, from Ellsworth
himself, that he had been rejected; he was very much
disappointed, and more disposed to find fault with Elinor
than he had ever been before.

“I am afraid you have not acted wisely, Elinor,” said her
grandfather; words more like a reproof than any that Elinor
could remember to have heard fall from his lips, addressed
to herself.

Miss Agnes also evidently regretted her niece's decision;
but she said nothing on the subject. As for Mrs. Creighton,
she thought it all easy to be understood.

“You may say what you please, Frank, about Miss Wyllys,
but you will never persuade me she is not a coquette.”

But this Mr. Ellsworth would by no means allow.

Elinor laid her head on her pillow that night with the
unpleasant reflection, that four persons under the same roof
were reproaching her for the step she had taken that day.
But she herself knew that she had acted conscientiously.