 | CHAPTER XXII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
“And e'en to wakeful conscience unconfest,
Her fear, her grief, her joy were his alone.”
Coleridge.
The melancholy disaster of the Petrel happened on Monday;
it was not until the Thursday following that the evil
tidings reached Longbridge.
Elinor, accompanied by Mary Van Alstyne, set out quite
early in the morning to pay some visits at different country-houses
in the neighbourhood. They had been out some
little time, having driven several miles, and made three or
four calls, when they reached Mrs. Van Horne's. On entering
the parlour they found the mistress of the house was not
there, but a much less agreeable person, the elder Mrs. Tibbs,
the greatest gossip in Longbridge.
“I am glad to see you this morning, young ladies,” she
said.
“Thank you, ma'am; it is a very pleasant morning, certainly,”
replied Elinor, as she took a seat on the sofa.
“Very pleasant, yes; but I was fearful you might have
been kept at home by the bad news we Longbridge people
have just heard.”
“It does not seem to have kept you at home either, Mrs,
Tibbs, whatever it may be,” replied Elinor, smiling; for she
knew that any news, whether good or bad, always set this
nature of the intelligence that awaited her!
“No; I thought my good friend, Mrs. Van Horne, might
feel uneasy about her son, and came over to be with her.”
“Mrs. Van Horne! Has anything happened to the
family?”
“You haven't heard the news then?—I am surprised at
that. But here is an account of the accident in the New
Haven Eagle. It has made us all feel quite dreadfully at
home!”
“What has happened?—Pray tell us!” exclaimed Elinor,
now looking alarmed.
“Here is the account; but perhaps you had better let Miss
Mary read it; she was not so intimate with the deceased.”
“What is it?—let me see the paper, Mary. An accident
to one of the Van Hornes!” and she took the sheet from the
table. Her eye immediately fell on the following article:
“Our city was painfully excited this morning by the intelligence
which reached here, of a distressing accident to a
beautiful little schooner, the property of Hubert de Vaux,
Esq., of New York, which was seen in our waters only a
few days since, and attracted universal admiration in our
port.”
Elinor's eyes could see no farther; she stretched out the
paper to her cousin, saying in a faint voice, “Mary, read!”
Mary Van Alstyne took the paper, and continued silently
to look over the passage.
“This little schooner, bound on a cruise of pleasure, had
reached Martha's Vineyard, when, during the sudden squall
which passed over this section also on Monday, she capsized,
and melancholy to relate, four persons lost their lives. The
party consisted of Mr. de Vaux himself, Colonel Stryker,
and Dr. Van Horne, of New York; Charles Hubbard, Esq.,
the distinguished young artist; Henry Hazlehurst, Esq., our
Secretary of Legation to the court of Russia, where he was
shortly to proceed with Mr. Henley, our Envoy; and also
There were in addition five men in the crew. We
regret to add that Mr. Hazlehurst and Mr. Hubbard, a negro
sailor known as Black Bob, and another man, name not
mentioned, were drowned; the bodies were all recovered,
but every effort to restore life proved unavailing.”
Mary Van Alstyne had strong nerves, but the suddenness
of these melancholy tidings, and a dread of the effect upon
Elinor, made her turn deadly pale.
“Tell me, Mary,” said her cousin faintly.
Mary waited a moment to recover herself, when the question
was anxiously repeated. She took Elinor's hand and
sat down by her side, using every precaution of delicacy and
tenderness in breaking the bad news to her cousin; she approached
the worst as gradually as she could, and mentioned
every favourable circumstance first; while Elinor sat trembling
in every limb, yet endeavouring to retain command
over her senses and her feelings. But it was in vain; when
Mary was at length forced to confess that two of their friends
were among the lost, Elinor put her hand to her heart, while
her eyes were fixed on her cousin's lips; when the name of
Hazlehurst was at length reluctantly pronounced, she started
from her chair, and fell quite insensible on the floor, at her
companion's feet.
It was a long time before she could be restored. Mrs.
Van Horne and the doctor, who was happily in the house,
did all in their power to relieve their young friend; and Mrs.
Tibbs was really quite distressed and mortified, when she
found the effects of her allusion to the accident were so
serious.
“Poor young thing!—I'd no notion, Mrs. Van Horne, that
she would have taken it so much to heart. Do you suppose
she was engaged to one of the young gentlemen?”
An imploring look from Mary Van Alstyne said to the
doctor as plainly as look could speak, “Do send her away!”
The doctor was very ready to do so, and by virtue of his
room, where he permitted himself to give her a sharp reprimand
for having been in such haste to tell the evil tidings.
It was some time before Elinor fully recovered her consciousness;
her first words expressed a wish to be carried
home.
“Home, Mary,” she said faintly.
Mrs. Van Horne, who was deeply interested in her young
friend, was anxious she should remain where she was until
her strength had entirely returned.
“I am strong now,” said Elinor feebly, making an effort
to rise.
Mary looked inquiringly at the doctor.
“You shall go in a few minutes, my dear Miss Elinor,”
said the doctor after an instant's hesitation; he thought it
best that she should do so, but determined that his wife and
himself would accompany her to Wyllys-Roof.
“Mary,' said Elinor, with an effort, looking towards Mrs.
Van Horne, “ask if—”
Mary guessed that she wished to know if the Van Hornes
had heard anything in addition to the account in the paper.
Without speaking, she looked the question.
“We have had a few lines, sent us by Mrs. de Vaux from
New York,” said Mrs. Van Horne, gently.
Elinor closed her eyes, and fell back again on the cushion.
“You must not talk, my dear,” said the doctor kindly.
Young de Vaux had in fact written a line or two to his
mother, who was in New York, by the boat which he sent
off immediately to engage a small steamer, as soon as the
squall had passed over; and this note had been considerately
forwarded by Mrs. de Vaux to the Van Hornes, as it mentioned
the safety of their own son. It ran as follows:
We are greatly distressed by a
melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since.
of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You
will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return
immediately.
The doctor handed this note to Mary, at a moment when
Mrs. Van Horne was bending over Elinor.
In a few minutes Elinor made another request to be carried
home.
“Pray take me home, doctor,” she said; “I can go now.”
The doctor felt her pulse, and observing that although very
feeble, she seemed to have command of herself, he thought
the air and motion would be of service. The carriage was
ordered, she took a restorative, and making a great effort to
rally, leaning on the doctor's arm she walked to the door.
Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne accompanied her, as well as her
cousin.
“Thank you,” she said with her usual gentleness, as she
remarked their kind intention, and then throwing herself
back in her seat she closed her eyes; her face was deadly
pale, large tears would force themselves slowly from beneath
her eyelids, and a shudder pass over her limbs; and yet it
was evident she made a strong effort to control her emotion.
There was something in her whole expression and manner,
that bore all the stamp of the deepest feeling; it was no
common nervousness, no shock of sudden surprise, nor
merely friendly sympathy; it was the expression of unalloyed
grief springing from the very depths of a noble heart.
Even Dr. Van Horne, whose nerves had been hardened
by the exercise of years amid scenes peculiar to his calling,
could scarcely refrain from shedding tears, as he looked with
compassion and with respect at his young friend. She
seemed quite indifferent to the observation of others; her
heart and mind were apparently engrossed by one idea, one
feeling, and all her strength engaged in facing one evil.
Mrs. Van Horne had not supposed that the bad news
would have affected her so deeply, nor was Mary Van Alstyne
prepared for the result; but however Elinor might have
hitherto deceived herself, however much her friends might
have misunderstood her, the truth was now only too clear;
her heart had spoken too loudly to be misunderstood — it
was wholly Hazlehurst's.
They drove on steadily and slowly, the silence only interrupted
by occasional remarks of Elinor's companions, as they
offered her some assistance. When they came in sight of
the Hubbard cottage, Mary Van Alstyne's heart sunk anew,
as she remembered the blow which had also fallen upon
their good neighbours.
Elinor's efforts for self-command increased as she drew
near home—for the sake of her friends, her aunt and grandfather,
she strained every nerve; but on reaching the house
it was in vain, her resolution gave way entirely when she
saw Bruno lying in his usual place on the piazza. She
became so much agitated that it was feared she would again
fall into a deep swoon, and she was carried from the carriage
to a sofa in the drawing-room. Neither Miss Agnes nor
Mr. Wyllys was at home; they had gone to their afflicted
neighbours the Hubbards. An express had brought a report
of the melancholy catastrophe, not half an hour after Elinor
had left Wyllys-Roof in the morning; the lifeless body of
our poor young friend, Charlie, was to reach Longbridge
that afternoon, and Hubert de Vaux had come to request
Miss Agnes to break the sad truth to the bereaved mother
and sister. Jane also was absent, she was in New York
with the Taylors; but Elinor's faithful nurse and the old
black cook came hurrying to her assistance, as soon as they
knew she had reached the house so much indisposed.
Miss Agnes was sent for; but Elinor had revived again
when her aunt returned, though she was still surrounded by
the anxious circle, Mary, the Van Hornes, her nurse, and old
Hetty. When she heard the footsteps approaching, she made
spare her aunt a sight of all her weakness.
“You had better lie still, my dear Miss Elinor,” said the
doctor kindly, offering her a glass of some restorative.
Miss Agnes entered the room and advanced anxiously to
the sofa.
“My poor child!” exclaimed Miss Wyllys. “What is
it, doctor?—illness?” she added anxiously.
The doctor shook his head. “She heard the news too
suddenly,” he said.
Mr. Wyllys now followed his daughter. Elinor turned
her eyes towards the door as he entered; a cry burst from
her lips—she saw Hazlehurst!
Yes, Hazlehurst standing in the doorway, looking pale
and distressed, but living, breathing, moving!
In another second Elinor had started to her feet, sprung
towards him, and thrown herself in his arms—heedless of
the family, heedless of friends and servants about her, forgetting
in that one sudden revulsion of feeling, the whole
world but Harry.
Hazlehurst seemed quite forgetful himself of the everyday
rules of society, and the merely friendly position in which
they had stood at parting, but a week before; his whole expression
and manner now betrayed an interest in Elinor too
strong to be disguised, and which could be explained in one
way only.
All this was the work of a moment; the various degrees
of amazement, produced by the sudden appearance of Harry,
on some individuals of the group of spectators, the surprise
of others at the strong emotions betrayed by the young couple
had not subsided, when an exclamation from Hazlehurst
himself again fixed their attention entirely on Elinor.
“She has fainted!” he cried, and carried her to the sofa.
But joy is life to the heart and spirits; Elinor lost her
consciousness for a moment only. She raised her eyes and
fixed them upon Hazlehurst, who still held one of her hands.
“It is Harry!” she exclaimed, and burst into tears. She
felt that he was safe, that he was by her side; she already
felt that he loved her, that they understood each other; and
yet she was still quite incapable of giving anything like a
reason for what had passed. It was all confusion in her
mind, all indistinct but the blessed truth that Harry was safe,
accompanied by a hope she had not dared to cherish for
years. She was still feeble and agitated, her colour varying
with every beat of her heart; her face now covered with a
deep natural blush at the sound of Harry's voice, at the expression
of his eye; now deadly pale again as she caught
some allusion to the Petrel.
The doctor recommended that she should be left alone
with Miss Wyllys. Her grandfather kissed her tenderly
and left the room, as well as the rest of the party; with one
exception, however—Hazlehurst lingered behind.
Having reached the adjoining room, explanations were
exchanged between the friends. Mr. Wyllys learned that
Elinor and the Van Hornes had supposed Harry lost, from
the paper, and the first hurried note of de Vaux. When
they arrived at Wyllys-Roof, there was no one there to give
them any later information; Mammy Sarah, the nurse, knew
no more than themselves; she had heard the Broadlawn
story, after having seen young de Vaux leave the house with
Miss Agnes, when they first went to the Hubbards'. Hazlehurst
had not accompanied his friend, for he had seen Mr.
Wyllys in a neighbouring field, and went there to give
him the information; and thence they had both gone to the
cottage, where they remained until Mrs. Clapp and Mr.
Joseph Hubbard arrived from Longbridge. Neither Mr.
Wyllys nor Miss Agnes had received the least intimation of
the accident, until they heard a correct account from de Vaux,
and Harry himself; consequently they had not felt the same
alarm for Hazlehurst.
Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne were much gratified by hearing,
that Hazlehurst's restoration was owing to the devoted perseverance
had given up the hope of reviving him, after long and ceaseless
exertions, that signs of life were discovered. They also
now learned the circumstances of the accident, the fact that
two instead of four persons were lost, and they found that it
was in endeavouring to save Charlie that Harry had so nearly
lost his own life. But we leave them together to express
their natural feelings of gratitude for those who had escaped,
sympathy with the sufferers, their surprise at Harry's appearance,
and all the varying emotions of such a moment.
While this conversation was passing in one room, Elinor
was in some measure recovering from the first sudden shock
of the morning in the other. Harry seemed fully determined
to maintain his post at her side, and still kept possession of
her hand; in fact, the solemn, anxious moment, hallowed
by grief, at which the disclosure of their mutual feelings had
been made, seemed to banish all common, petty embarrassments.
Miss Agnes and Harry required but a word and a
look to explain matters; the aunt already understood it all.
“Poor Charlie!” exclaimed Elinor, with a half-inquiring
look, as if with a faint hope that he too might have returned,
like Harry.
“Our friend is gone, dearest!” said Harry, his eyes moistened
with tears as he spoke.
Elinor wept, and a silence of a minute ensued. “His
poor mother, and his sister!” she exclaimed at length.
“His two mothers, rather,” said Harry, with a faltering
voice.
After another silence, Elinor turned to Hazlehurst with
an anxious look, saying:
“And your other friends?”
“All safe, love.”
“The crew too?”
“One of the crew is lost; Black Bob, a sailor from Longbridge.”
“I remember him; he had no family I believe, Aunt,”
she said.
“None, my child, that I have ever heard of.”
“The heaviest blow has fallen upon the Hubbards,” said
Harry.
After a pause, in which aunt and niece had prayed for the
mourners, Elinor again made some inquiries.
“Were all in the Petrel at the time?” asked Elinor.
“Smith and our poor Charlie, the negro and a boy were
crossing a bay in the Petrel, when she capsized, by the bad
management of the negro, who had been drinking. The
rest of us were on shore.”
“You were not in any danger then?” said Elinor, as if
relieved that he had not even been exposed to past peril.
“I owe my life to my friend Van Horne,” he replied.
Elinor shuddered, and turned deadly pale again. Harry
threw his arms about her and embraced her fervently, until
Elinor, who had now partially recovered the common current
of her ideas, made a gentle struggle to release herself.
“But you were not in the Petrel?” she said again, as if
anxious to understand all that related to him.
“We all went to our friends as soon as we saw the schooner
capsize,” said Harry.
“Hubert de Vaux told me that Harry swam some distance,
with the hope of saving poor Charles, who could not swim
himself,” said Miss Agnes. “It was in that way, my child,
that he was exposed.”
“To save Charlie!—that was like you,” said Elinor, with
a glow on her cheek.
“There was no danger—no merit whatever in doing so—
I have often swum farther,” said Harry; “the only difficulty
was caused by my becoming entangled in some ropes, which
drew me under water.”
“But where was the boat?”
“It was not at hand at the moment; they brought it as
soon as possible.”
“Did Charlie speak?” asked Elinor, sadly.
“My poor friend was insensible when I reached him.”
Again a moment's pause ensued.
“I must not forget to tell you, love, that we owe a great
deal to another friend of ours,” said Harry, smiling. “You
will be glad to hear that Bruno behaved nobly; he first discovered
the ropes in which we were entangled.”
“Bruno!—Where is my noble dog? Pray call him; let
me see him!”
Harry went to the door, and there was Bruno lying across
the threshold, as if waiting to be admitted; he came in at
Harry's call, but not with his usual bound; he seemed to
understand that if his old master had been saved, his master's
friend was lost. The noble creature was much caressed by
Miss Wyllys and Elinor; and we are not ashamed to confess
that the latter kissed him more than once. At length, Miss
Agnes observing that her niece was very much recovered,
rose from her seat, and stooping to kiss Elinor's forehead,
placed her hand in that of Harry, saying with much feeling,
as she joined them, “God bless you, my children!” and
then left the room.
As for what passed after Miss Agnes left her young friends,
we cannot say; Bruno was the only witness to that interview
between Harry and Elinor, and as Bruno was no tell-tale,
nothing has ever transpired on the subject. We may
suppose, however, that two young people, strongly attached
to each other, united under such peculiar circumstances, did
not part again until a conclusive and satisfactory explanation
had taken place. Harry no doubt was enabled to quiet any
scruples he may have felt with regard to Ellsworth; and
probably Elinor was assured, that she had entirely mistaken
Hazlehurst's feelings during the past summer; that Mrs.
Creighton was his friend's sister, and a charming woman,
but not the woman he loved, not the woman he could ever
love, after having known his Elinor. Then, as both parties
were frank and warm-hearted, as they had known each other
solemn, there was probably more truth, less reserve, and
possibly more tenderness than usual at similar meetings.
Doubtless there were some smiles; and to judge from the
tone of both parties on separating, we think that some tears
must have been shed. We are certain that amid their own
intimate personal communications, the young friend so dear
to both, so recently lost, was more than once remembered;
while at the same time it is a fact, that another communication
of some importance to Harry, the disclosures of Stebbins,
was forgotten by him, or deferred until the interview was
interrupted. Mr. Wyllys entered to let Harry know that
Hubert de Vaux had come for him.
“De Vaux is here waiting for you, Harry,” said Mr.
Wyllys, opening the drawing-room door.
“Is it possible, my dear sir?—Is it so late?” exclaimed
Harry.
It was in fact de Vaux, come to accompany Harry to Longbridge,
to meet the body of our poor Charlie: so closely, on
that eventful day, were joy and sadness mingled to the
friends at Wyllys-Roof.
Elinor had risen from her seat as her grandfather approached.
“You feel better, my child,” he said kindly.
“I am happy, grandpapa!—happy as I can be to-day!”
she added, blushing, and weeping, and throwing her arms
about his neck.
“It is all right, I see. May you be blessed, together, my
children!” said the venerable man, uniting their hands.
After an instant's silence, Elinor made a movement to leave
the room.
“I am going to Longbridge, but I shall hope to see you
again in the evening,” said Harry, before she left him.
“When you come back, then. You are going to Longbridge,
you say?”
“Yes,” said Harry sadly; “to meet Van Horne and
Smith, with—”
Elinor made no reply; she understood his sad errand;
offered him her hand again, and left the room. She retired
to her own apartment, and remained there alone for a long
time; and there the young girl fell on her knees, and offered
up most fervent, heartfelt thanksgivings for the safety of one
she loved truly, one she had long loved, so recently rescued
from the grave.
That afternoon, just as the autumn sun was sinking towards
the woods, throwing a rich, warm glow over the
country, a simple procession was seen moving slowly and
sadly over the Longbridge highway. It was the body of
Charlie Hubbard, brought home by his friends, to pass a few
hours beneath his mother's roof, ere it was consigned to its
last resting-place under the sod. We have not yet dared
to intrude upon the stricken inmates of the old grey cottage;
we shall not attempt to paint their grief, such grief is sacred.
The bereaved mother, half-infirm in body and mind, seemed
to feel the blow without fully understanding it: Patsey, poor
Patsey felt the affliction fully, comprehended it wholly.
Charlie had been her idol from infancy; she had watched
over the boy with an engrossing affection, an earnest devotion,
which could be only compared to a mother's love, which
might claim a mother's sacred name. She was entirely
overcome when the young artist's body was brought into the
house, and placed in the coffin, beneath his father's portrait.
“My boy!—my brother!—Charlie!” she cried wildly;
all her usual calmness, her usual firmness giving way at the
moment, as the young face she loved so tenderly was first
disclosed to her view, pale and lifeless. But the fine features
of the young artist, almost feminine in their delicate beauty,
returned no answering glance—they were rigid, cold, and
partially discoloured by death.
Hazlehurst and de Vaux passed the night beside the body
the bereaved mother and sisters.
Early on the following morning, Mr. Wyllys and Elinor
came to take a last look at their young friend.
`Can it indeed be true?—Charlie gone for ever, gone so
suddenly!' thought Elinor, as she leaned over his body,
weeping with the sincere, heartfelt grief of a true friend,
until Hazlehurst, pained by her emotion, gently drew her
away; not, however, before she had bent over poor Charlie,
and gently kissed the discoloured forehead of her young
companion, for the first and the last time.
Patsey's grief, though not less deep, was more calm than
at first. Again and again she had returned to her young
brother's coffin, with varying feelings; now overwhelmed
by poignant grief, now partially soothed by the first balm of
holy resignation; now alone, now accompanied by her friends.
Once, early that morning, the infirm mother was brought
into the room to look for the last time on the face of her son;
she was carried in a chair and placed by the coffin, then
assisted to rise by Miss Agnes and her daughter Kate. Her
tears flowed long, falling on her boy's cold, but still beautiful
features; she wiped them away herself, and with an humble
phrase of resignation, in the words of Scripture, expressed
the thought that ere long she should be laid by his side.
Her's was not the bitter, living grief of Patsey; she felt that
she was near the grave herself. Tears of gentle-hearted
women were not the only tears which fell upon Charlie's
bier; his uncles, his elder brothers, and more than one true
friend were there. But amid all the strong, contending
emotions of those who crowded the humble room, who hung
over the coffin, still that youthful form lay rigid in the fearful
chill, the awful silence of death; he, whose bright eye,
whose pleasant smile had never yet met the look of a friend
without the quick glance of intellect, or the glow of kindly
feeling. Patsey felt the change; she felt that the being she
loved was not all there, the dearer portion was already beyond
consolations of Christian hope; for the unfeigned faith and
the penitent obedience of the Christian, had been known to
Charlie Hubbard from childhood; nor had they ever been
forgotten by the young man.
Soon after sun-rise, friends and neighbours began to collect;
they came from miles around, all classes and all ages—for
the family was much respected, and their sudden bereavement
had excited general compassion. The little door-yard
and the humble parlour were filled, with those who justly
claimed the name of friends; the highway and an adjoining
field were crowded with neighbours.
After a solemn prayer within the house, those who had
loved the dead fixed their eyes for the last time on his features;
the coffin was closed from the light, the body was
carried for the last time over the threshold, it was placed on
a carriage, and the living crowd moved away, following the
dead, with the slow, heavy movement of sorrow. The
mother, the sisters, and the nearest female friends remained
in privacy together at the house of mourning. As the funeral
train moved along the highway towards Longbridge, it gradually
increased in length; the different dwellings before
which it passed had their windows closed, as a simple token
of sympathy, and on approaching the village, one bell after
another was heard, tolling sadly. The hearse paused for a
moment before the house of Mr. Joseph Hubbard; those
who had come thus far in carriages alighted, and joined by
others collected in the village, they moved from there on
foot. Several brother artists from New York, and other
associates of the young man's, bore the cloth which covered
his coffin; and immediately after the nearest relatives, the
elder brothers, and the uncles, came Hazlehurst and de Vaux,
with the whole party of the Petrel, and the crew of the little
schooner: and sincerely did they mourn their young friend;
it is seldom indeed that the simple feeling of grief and compassion
pervades a whole funeral train so generally as that
loved by all who knew him; he was carried to the grave
among old friends of his family, in his native village—and
there were many there capable of admiring his genius and
respecting his character. As the procession entered the enclosure
it passed before a new-made grave, that of the negro
sailor, who had been decently interred by the directions of
de Vaux, on the preceding evening, the party of the Petrel
having also attended his funeral. On reaching the final
resting-place of the young artist, among the tombs of his
family, by the side of his father the minister, an impressive
prayer and a short but touching address were made; the
coffin was lowered, the earth thrown on it, and the grave
closed over Charlie Hubbard: the story of his life was told.
Harry was the last to leave the spot. While the funeral
train returned with the mourners to the house of Mr. Joseph
Hubbard, he remained standing by the grave of his friend,
his mind filled with the recollection of the brilliant hopes so
suddenly extinguished, the warm fancies so suddenly chilled,
the bright dreams so suddenly blighted by the cold hand of
death. The solemn truth, that the shadow of death had also
passed over himself was not forgotten; life in its true character,
with all its real value, all its uncertainties, all its responsibilities,
rose more clearly revealed to him than it had
ever yet done; he turned from Charlie's grave a wiser man,
carrying with him, in the recollection of his own unexpected
restoration, an impulse for higher and more steadfast exertion
in the discharge of duty.
But if Hazlehurst's thoughts, as he retraced his solitary
way towards Wyllys-Roof, were partly sad, they were not all
gloomy. Wisdom does not lessen our enjoyment of one real
blessing of life; she merely teaches us to distinguish the false
from the true, and she even increases our happiness amid the
evils and sorrows against which we are warned, by purifying
our pleasures, and giving life and strength to every better
thought and feeling. When Harry entered the gate of
now his betrothed wife, awaiting his return on the piazza;
he joined her, and they had a long conversation together in
the fullness of confidence and affection. They were at length
interrupted by Miss Agnes, who returned from the Hubbards'.
The young people inquired particularly after Miss Patsey.
“She is much more calm than she was yesterday; more
like herself, more resigned, thinking again of others, attending
to Mrs. Hubbard; she seems already to have found some
consoling thoughts.”
“It seems, indeed,” said Harry, “as if Hubbard's memory
would furnish consolation to his friends by the very greatness
of their loss; his character, his conduct, were always so excellent;
the best consolation for Miss Patsey.”
“It is touching to see that excellent woman's deep affection
for one, so different from herself in many respects,” observed
Mr. Wyllys.
“Fraternal affection is a very strong tie,” said Miss Agnes
gently.
She might have added that it is one of the most honourable
to the human heart, as it is peculiar to our race. Other
natural affections, even the best, may be partially traced
among the inferior beings of creation; something of the
conjugal, paternal, and filial attachment may be roused for a
moment in most living creatures; but fraternal affection is
known to man alone, and would seem in its perfect disinterestedness,
almost worthy to pass unchanged to a higher
sphere.
“I have often thought,” said Mr. Wyllys, “that the affection
of an unmarried sister for a brother or a sister, whose
chief interests and affections belong by right to another, if
not the most tender, is surely the most purely disinterested
and generous which the human heart can know: and single
women probably feel the tie more strongly than others.”
Mr. Wyllys was thinking, when he spoke, of his daughter
Agnes and Patsey Hubbard; and he might have thought of
such instances are very common.
“I have never had either brother or sister, but I can well
imagine it must be a strong tie,” said Elinor.
“I flattered myself I had been a sort of brother to you in
old times,” said Harry smiling.
“Your romantic, adopted brothers, Nelly, are not good for
much,” said her grandfather. “We tried the experiment
with Harry, and see how it has turned out; it generally
proves so, either too much or too little. Don't fancy you
know anything about plain, honest, brotherly affection,” he
added, smiling kindly on his granddaughter, who sat by his
side.
Probably Harry was quite as well satisfied with the actual
state of things.
“But Charlie was also a son to Miss Patsey,” he added,
after a moment.
“Yes; he had been almost entirely under her care from
an infant,” replied Miss Agnes.
“Poor Charlie!—little did I think that bright young head
would be laid in the grave before mine!” said Mr. Wyllys.
A moment's pause ensued.
“Much as I loved Hubbard, much as I regret his loss,”
said Harry, “I shall always think of him with a melancholy
pleasure.”
“Excepting his loss, there does not seem indeed to be one
painful reflection connected with his name,” observed Miss
Agnes.
“Cherish his memory then among your better recollections,”
added Mr. Wyllys, to Harry and Elinor. “And an
old man can tell you the full value of happy recollections;
you will find one day the blessing of such treasures of
memory.”
“It is a legacy, however, which the good alone can leave
their friends,” said Miss Agnes.
And so it proved, indeed; after the first severe grief of
was remembered among his friends with a peculiar tenderness,
connected with his youth, his genius, his excellent character,
his blameless life, and early death. Life had been
but a morning to Charlie Hubbard, but it was a glowing
summer morning; its hours had not been wasted, abused,
misspent; brief as they were, yet in passing they had brought
blessings to himself, to his fellow-beings; and they had left
to those who loved him the best consolations of memory.
| CHAPTER XXII. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |