 | CHAPTER II. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
“Yonder, sure, they are coming.”
As You Like It.
The weather had been more than usually warm for several
weeks, and the morning after Charlie's return to Longbridge,
when the steamboat North America left the wharf at New-York,
her decks and cabins were filled by some five or six
hundred passengers. There were men, women, and children,
of various characters, colours and conditions. The
scene on deck was pleasing and cheerful; the day was
lovely, the steamer looked neat and bright, and the great
majority of the females were gaily dressed in their summer
attire; most of the faces looked good-humoured, as if pleased
to escape from the heat and confinement of the town, to
cooler air, and a sight of the water and green woods. One
might have supposed it a party of pleasure on a large scale;
in fact, Americans seem always good-natured, and in a
pleasant mood when in motion; such is their peculiar temperament.
The passengers on board the North America soon
began to collect in knots, family-groups, or parties of acquaintance;
some chatting, some reading, some meditating.
There was one difficulty, however, want of space to move
about in, or want of seats for some of those who were
stationary.
After the boat had fairly begun her trip, and people had
settled themselves as well as they could, according to their
different fancies, a pretty little woman appeared at the door
of the ladies' cabin. In her light hair, and somewhat insipid
face, encased in an extremely fashionable hat, we recognise
Mrs. Hilson. Turning towards a gentleman who
seemed waiting near the door for her, she addressed him.
“Now, Monsieur Bonnet, do exert your gallantry, and
cannot stay here;—where are Emmeline and the Baron?”
“You see, Madame,” he said, pointing towards the couple,
Montbrun take a tabouret at once, when we come on board,
and Mademoiselle Emmeline now has it. It was very maladroit
in me not to keep one for you; I beg a t'ousand
pardons.”
“Haven't you got a seat; that is a pity. But I dare say
you can easily find one.”
“Vraiment, ma chère Madame Eel-sun, there is no sacri
fice I would not make to procure you one. I am désolé it
should be impossible. I have been looking; but all the
tabourets and chair are taken by ladies and gentlemans.
You have a drôle de manière of travel in this countree; so
many people together, the ladies must be victimes sometime.”
“Oh, no; you don't know how to manage, that is all.
Has not the Baron a chair?”
“Non, Madame; you see he is debout.”
“Well, there are some gentlemen seated; I see three or
four—one quite near you. Ask him for his chair.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and looked bewildered.
“Pray, ask that gentleman for his chair,” repeated the
lady, pointing with her parasol to a person sitting at no great
distance.
“But, Madame, the gentleman will not know what a
charming lady wish for the chair—he will not give it.”
“Oh, no danger; if you tell him it is for a lady, of course
he will let you have it. Why, how slow you are about it;
you are almost as bad as Captain Kockney, who never did
anything when he was asked.”
“Ah, Madame, de grâces do not say that!—I go.”
And Monsieur Bonnet, edging his way here and there
behind the ladies, and begging ten thousand pardons, at
length reached the person Mrs. Hilson had pointed out to
him.
“What did you say?” exclaimed this individual, looking
up rather gruffly, at being addressed by an utter stranger.
“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” continued Monsieur Bonnet;
“a lady is very much oppressed with fatigue, and send me to
beg you will be aimable to give her your chair.”
“What is it?” repeated the man, who looked like an
Englishman; “I don't understand you.”
Monsieur Bonnet again urged his request, in terms still
more civil. It would be rendering a very great service to
the lady, he said.
“I am not acquainted with the lady; I advise you to look
for an empty chair,” replied the other, resolutely turning his
face in an opposite direction.
Monsieur Bonnet shrugged his shoulders, and was moving
towards Mrs. Hilson au dèsespoir, when a gentlemanly-looking
man, who was seated, reading, not far from the Englishman,
rose and quietly offered his bench for the use of the lady.
Monsieur Bonnet was, of course, all gratitude, and returned
enchanté to Mrs. Hilson, who took the matter very quietly;
while M. Bonnet seemed surprised at his own success.
The gentleman who had given up his seat, was obliged to
continue standing; shutting up his book, he began to look
about him, among the crowd, for acquaintances. There was
a very gay, noisy party, at no great distance, which first
attracted his attention; it consisted of two pretty young
women in the centre of a group of men. The shrill voice
and rattling laugh of one lady, might be very distinctly heard
across the deck; the other was leaning back listlessly in her
chair: one of the young men was reading a paper with a
sort of family expression, as if the ladies were his near connexions;
and, on a chair, at the side of the silent lady, sat
an old gentleman, with a very rusty coat, snuffy nose, and a
red handkerchief spread on one knee, while on the other he
held a pretty little boy, about two years old.
“I tell you I know she was dead in love with him!” cried
the rattling young lady, at the top of her voice. Then, observing
bowed with a coquettish graciousness. The bow was returned,
but the gentleman did not seem very anxious to
approaeh the party; when the young lady, beckoning with
her finger, obliged him to draw near.
“Now, Mr. Ellsworth, you are just the man I wanted.
Three of these gentlemen are against me; I have only one
on my side, and I want you to help me to fight the battle.”
“Must I enlist, Miss Taylor, before I know whether the
cause is good or bad?”
“Oh, certainly, or else you are not worth a cent. But I'll
tell you how the matter stands: you know Helen de Vaux
and you were at the Springs, last summer, when she and
Mr. Van Alstyne were there. Well, I say she was dead in
love with him, though she did refuse him.”
“Was she?” replied Mr. Ellsworth.
“Why, I know she was; it was as plain as a pike-staff to
everybody who saw them together. And here, these good
folks provoke me so; they say if she refused him she did
not care for him; and here is my ridiculous brother-in-law,
Mr. St. Leger, says I don't know anything about it; and my
sister Adeline always thinks just as her husband does.”
“That's quite right, my dear,” said the rusty Mr. Hopkins,
taking a pinch of snuff. “I hope you will follow her
example one of these days.”
“What are the precise symptoms of a young lady's being
dead in love?” asked the quiet, business-looking Theodore
St. Leger.
“Oh, you know well enough what I mean. You may
say what you please about Helen de Vaux not caring for
him, I know better,” continued the young lady, in a voice
that might be heard on the other side of the boat.
“As Miss de Vaux's mother is on board, suppose you refer
the question to her,” said Mr. Ellsworth, in a dry manner.
“Is she?—I hope she didn't hear us,” continued the young
lady, lowering her voice half a tone. “But you need not
about it.”
“You are going to the Springs, I suppose,” said Mr.
Ellsworth, by way of changing the conversation.
“I wish we were! No; Adeline has taken it into her
head to be romantic, for the first time in her life. She says
we must go to the Falls; and it will be a fortnight lost from
Saratoga.”
“But, have you no wish to see Niagara?”
“Not a bit; and I don't believe Adeline has, either. But
it is no wonder she doesn't care about the Springs, now she's
married; she began to go there four years before I did.”
“Have you never been to Niagara, Mrs. St. Leger?” continued
Mr. Ellsworth, addressing the elder sister; who, from
the giddy, belleish Adeline, was now metamorphosed into
the half-sober young matron—the wife of an individual, who
in spite of the romantic appellation of Theodore St. Leger,
was a very quiet, industrious business-man, the nephew and
adopted son of Mr. Hopkins, Adeline's Boston escort. She
had been sitting contentedly beside the old gentleman, for
the last half hour, leaving her unmarried sister to entertain
the beaux, according to etiquette.
“No, I have never been to the Falls; and all our party
but my sister Emma, seemed to think it would be a pleasant
jaunt.”
“Mr. Hopkins has entered into an engagement to supply
me with at least two beaux at a time, and a regular change
all the way to Niagara, or else I shouldn't have come,” said
Miss Emma.
“We are engaged at least by the day, I hope,” interposed
one of the attendant young men.
“No, indeed; I should be tired to death of you, for more
than an hour at a time. I sha'n't speak to you again, until
we have passed West Point.”
“I have had no trouble as yet, my dear, in picking up
recruits,” said Mr. Hopkins, whose attention seemed equally
on his knee—his great-nephew.
“If there are two, that's all I care for; but I hate to have
only one person to talk to.”
Mr. Ellsworth bit his lips, to prevent their expressing his
opinion, that the young lady must always have a large circle
of listeners.
“Have you seen Mr. Wyllys's party this morning?” inquired
Adeline.
“The Wyllyses!—Are they on board?” exclaimed Mr.
Ellsworth, with surprise and pleasure. “I thought them at
Saratoga by this time.”
“Oh, no; they are somewhere on the other side of the
boat; my sister-in-law, Mrs. Taylor's little girl is with them.
By-the-bye, Emma, I am going into the cabin to look after
Jane; will you go with me?”
“No, indeed; I hate the cabin of a steamboat!”
Adeline was quite satisfied to leave her sister with the
prospect of a good supply of young men to flirt with; though
matrimony had changed her in some respects, she still considered
it a duty to encourage to the utmost, all love-affairs,
and flirtations going on in her neighbourhood. Mr. Hopkins
resigned the little boy to his mother's care; Mr. St. Leger
helped his wife through the crowd; and, under cover of the
movement made to allow Adeline to pass, Mr. Ellsworth
made his escape. His eye had been already directed towards
the opposite side of the boat, where he had discovered the venerable,
benevolent face of Mr. Wyllys, with three ladies near
him. Mr. Ellsworth immediately recognised Miss Agnes,
Elinor, and Mary Van Alstyne. It was several minutes
before he could edge his way through the crowd, to join them;
but when he reached the spot, he was received very cordially
by Mr. Wyllys and Miss Agnes, in a friendly manner by
Mary Van Alstyne, and possibly there was something of
consciousness betrayed by Elinor.
“I thought you already at Saratoga!” exclaimed Mr.
Ellsworth.
“We were detained several days, waiting for Mrs. Taylor,”
replied Elinor, to whom the remark was made.
“We shall not be at Saratoga until Monday,” added Mr.
Wyllys; “we are going to pass a day or two with our friends,
the V—s, at Poughkeepsie.”
“I am very sorry to hear it,” continued Mr. Ellsworth;
“I have promised to carry Mrs. Creighton to Nahant, about
that time, and shall have my usual bad luck in missing you.”
“We must persuade Mrs. Creighton not to run away,”
said Mr. Wyllys.
As Elinor stooped at that moment, to untie the hat of the
pretty little creature at her side, it was impossible to say
whether this intelligence were displeasing to her or not.
“That is Mrs. Taylor's child, is it not?” observed Mr.
Ellsworth, looking at the little girl. “She is very like Mrs.
St. Leger.”
“Do you really think so?—we fancy her like her mother,”
said Elinor.
“How is Tallman Taylor now?—he was not well when
they passed through Philadelphia.”
“He looks badly still,” said Miss Agnes. “He is very
imprudent, and distresses Jane very much by his carelessness.”
“Gentlemen never seem to do what is right when invalids,”
observed Mary Van Alstyne, smiling. “They are either
very reckless, and indifferent to their health, or else over-careful.”
“What do you say, Mr. Ellsworth; is that account true?”
asked Miss Wyllys.
“I dare say it is—I have no doubt we are very troublesome
to our nurses. But, fortunately, women are endowed
with a double stock of patience, to make up for our deficiencies.
Is Mr. Taylor on board?—I have not seen him.”
“No; he remained in town to attend to some business,”
however, who was very anxious to get into the country, on
account of her youngest child.”
“I see, Mr. Ellsworth, that old Ironsides has arrived at
Norfolk, bringing Mr. Henley from Rio,” observed Mr.
Wyllys.
“Certainly; she arrived on Tuesday.”
“I saw it in the Globe, last night, grandpapa, Mr. Henley
had arrived at Washington. Harry is with him, of course,”
said Elinor, in a quiet, natural tone.
“I supposed you knew of their arrival,” observed Mr.
Ellsworth. “I have a letter from Hazlehurst in my pocket.
He seems to have had quite enough of Rio.”
“Mr. Henley, I understand, is talked of as minister to
Russia,” said Mr. Wyllys.
“Yes; I believe that affair is settled.”
“Does Hazlehurst mention whether he is going with Mr.
Henley?”
“That may be a state secret,” said Elinor, smiling.
“He has had an offer of the situation, I believe—but does
not seem to have made up his mind; he is coming home to
look about him, he says, having three months' vacation at
any rate.”
The shrill tone of Miss Emma Taylor's voice was at this
moment heard so distinctly, from the other side of the boat
that Mr. Wyllys looked up from his paper, and Mr. Ellsworth
smiled. It was very evident the young lady had inherited
the peculiar tone of voice, and all the cast-off animation
of her elder sister.
“Miss Taylor seems to be in very good spirits,” remarked
Mr. Ellsworth.
“Yes; she always talks and laughs a great deal,” replied
Mary Van Alstyne.
“They are no longer your neighbours, I understand, sir.”
“No; Mr. Taylor sold Colonnade Manor this spring; De
Vaux has purchased it, and changed the name of the place.
improvement.”
“And where does Mr. Taylor's family pass the summer?”
“Why, Jane tells me he is building something he calls a
cottage, at Rockaway, within a stone's throw of the principal
hotel. They thought Longbridge too quiet.”
Mrs. Taylor's little girl had, by this time, become very
sleepy, and a little fretful; and Miss Agnes advised her
being carried to her mother. Elinor led her away, rather,
it is believed, to Mr. Ellsworth's regret.
It was no easy task to make one's way among the nurses,
and babies, and baskets, filling the ladies' cabin, which was
more than usually crowded. But at length Elinor reached
Jane and Adeline, who were sitting together.
A single glance was sufficient to show that a change had
come over these two young women, since the giddy days of
their girlhood. Jane was pale, but beautiful as ever; she
was holding on her knees a sick child, about two months old,
which apparently engrossed all her attention. What would
be her system as a mother, might be foretold by the manner
in which she pacified the little girl Elinor had brought with
her.
“Give her some candy, Dinah,” she said to the black
nurse; whose broad, good-natured face was soon covered
with shining marks of affection, from the hands of the pretty
little charge.
Adeline was less changed in her appearance than her
sister-in-law; that is to say, she was as pretty as ever, and
neither thin nor pale. But there was something in her expression,
and a great deal in her manner, that was no longer
what it had been of old. That excessive animation which
had distinguished her as a belle, had been allowed to die
away; and the restless expression, produced by a perpetual
labour to make conquests, which was, at one time, always to
be traced upon her features, had now vanished entirely. In
its place there was a touch of matronly care and affection,
by the side of her child, driving away the flies from the little
thing, who was sleeping in a berth. Adeline Taylor had
married well, in the best sense of the word. Not that she
deserved much credit for doing so, since she had only accidentally,
as it were, become attached to the young man who
happened to be the most deserving among her suitors.
Chance had had a great deal to with the match, as it has
with many matches. She had, however, one merit—that of
not rejecting him on account of his want of fortune; although
at the time, she might have married a man who would have
given her a four-story, four-window house in Broadway.
Mr. Taylor had not interfered: she had done as she pleased
in the affair. It is true, that her father rather inclined towards
the richest suitor; still, he took it for granted, that if
Theodore St. Leger had not a fortune at the time, being a
merchant, he would, of course, make one in a few years.
But Mr. Taylor's son-in-law was a man of very different
character from himself; he was a quiet, prudent, unostentatious
young man, of good abilities, who had received by
education excellent principles, and moderate views, and who
had fallen in love with Adeline's pretty face. Mr. Hopkins,
his uncle and adopted father, was a very worthy man, though
a little eccentric, and rather too much given to snuff, and old
coats, and red handkerchiefs. No one stood better on Change
than John Hopkins, whose word had been as good as his
bond, throughout a long life. He was a man of some property
too, but he had only given his nephew enough to begin
life very moderately. Even with the very liberal allowance
which Mr. Taylor freely gave his children, Adeline, when
she married, was obliged to live in a much plainer and
quieter way than she had done for the last five or six years.
Altogether, however, the young couple seemed to agree
very well, in spite of the difference in their characters: a
pretty, good-natured wife was all the young merchant had
wished for; and Adeline was really attached to her husband,
rather too much after the fashion of those of Uncle Hopkins.
Jane's fate had proved less happy than that of her friend
Adeline. Tallman Taylor's habits of extravagance had led
them into difficulties in more ways than one. He had spent
far more than his income, and his carelessness in business had
proved a great disadvantage to the house with which he was
connected. During the last year, matters had grown worse
and worse; he had neglected his wife, and lost large sums at the
gambling-table. Poor Jane had passed some unhappy months,
and traces of sorrow were to be seen on her pale face. Towards
the last of the winter, young Taylor had been dangerously
ill with a malignant fever prevailing in New Orleans;
and as a long convalescence interfered with his dissipated
habits, and confined him for some time to his own house, his
friends hoped that he would have time and leisure to make
some useful reflections. But they were deceived; sickness
and suffering only made him more selfish and irritable: poor
Jane had already paid a heavy penance for her duplicity,
and her obstinancy in marrying him. Mr. Taylor had quarrelled
with his partners; and it was the object of his present
visit to New York, to persuade his father to make some
heavy advances in his behalf, as otherwise he would be ruined.
Jane, it is true, knew but little of her husband's affairs; still,
she saw and heard enough to make her anxious for the future,
and she gave herself up to melancholy repining, while her
manner lost all cheerfulness. Her father's family were in
Charleston, and she had not seen them for more than a
twelvemonth; but Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, Miss Agnes, and
Elinor had done all that was possible to supply their place,
since she had been in their neighbourhood. Adeline, too,
was well enough disposed towards her sister-in-law, but she
had neither the good sense nor the delicacy of Miss Wyllys
and Elinor, and was far less successful in her friendly efforts.
The society of her aunt and cousin seemed a relief to Jane;
and it was at their request that she was going to pass a fortnight
ordered by her physician.
Elinor, on joining her cousin in the cabin, tried to persuade
Jane to have the sick child carried on deck, for the sake of
the fresh air, but she did not succeed; and not wishing to
leave Mrs. Taylor, she took off her hat, and remained some
time in the cabin—a piece of good-nature which Mr. Ellsworth
seemed to think ill-timed. As they drew near the
Highlands, however, she returned to her seat on deck; for
the morning was lovely, and she did not wish to lose the
scenery. She found Mrs. Hilson sitting near her aunt.
“Ah, Miss Elinor!—how do you do?” exclaimed the city
lady. “It is the first time I have had a chance of seeing
you since you returned from the West Indies. You have
not been much in New York, I believe, since you arrived?”
“Only for a day or two.”
“And how did you like the West Indies? Is there much
aristocracy at Havana?”
“We found it very pleasant there; and the climate was
of so much service to my aunt, that I shall always remember
Havana with gratitude.”
“You did not go into society, then?”
“Oh, yes; we made many pleasant acquaintances.”
“Well, if I go abroad, I hope it will be to England;
though I should like very well to visit the stores of Paris.”
“Have you seen your cousin, Charles Hubbard, since he
arrived from Italy?” inquired Elinor.
“Yes; he called at our boarding-house. He is at Longbridge
now, but he is coming to Saratoga, shortly; for he
told me he had engaged to take several views of Lake
George.”
“I am sorry he did not come to see us in town; but I am
delighted to hear he is going to Saratoga. Grandpapa, Mrs.
Hilson tells me Charles Hubbard will be at Saratoga, with
us!”
“I am very glad to hear it, my child; I want to see
Charlie.”
“Has he brought home many pictures?” continued Elinor.
“I really don't know; I did not think of asking him.”
“I should suppose you would be anxious to see your
cousin's paintings.”
“Oh, no; portraits are the only pictures that interest me.
I always have the `Book of Beauty,' whenever it comes out;
you know they are likenesses of the Peeresses of the English
Nobility.”
Elinor bowed. “Yes, I have seen the book.”
“I have the `Children of the Nobility,' too, bound in
crimson silk; it is a very fascinating collection. My friend,
Mrs. Bagman, tells me they are excellent likenesses, particularly
the children of his Royal Highness, the Lord-Mayor.”
Absurd as such a mistake in heraldry may seem, one
might vouch for having heard others quite as extraordinary.
“They may be like,” said Elinor, smiling in spite of herself;
“but I cannot agree with you as to their beauty. I
have seen the volume, and it struck me the artists must have
made caricatures of many of the children, who, no doubt,
were pretty in reality.”
“I was looking at those engravings only yesterday,” said
Mr. Ellsworth, anxious to engage Elinor's attention; “they
almost amount to a libel on childhood; they give the idea of
mincing, affected little creatures, at the very age when children
are almost invariably natural and interesting. I should
quarrel very much with a portrait of my little girl, in the
same fashion.”
“But it is very seldom you see portraits of children, that
are really child-like,” observed Elinor. “And then what a
trial, to paint a pretty, innocent little creature, in full dress,
starched and trim!”
“Children are charming subjects when properly treated;
I delight in such pictures,” said Mary Van Alstyne.
“You would have been often delighted then, in Italy, Miss
as his men and women.”
Mrs. Hilson, unwilling to be thrown out of the conversation,
again addressed Elinor.
“When you joined us, Miss Wyllys, we were speaking
of the fire opposite your hotel. Were you not dreadfully
alarmed? I hear you were there; although I did not find
you at home when I called.”
“We were disturbed, of course; but I can't say that we
were personally alarmed. The wind, you may remember,
carried everything in the opposite direction.”
“Did it? Well, I was too much frightened to notice anything;
you know it was in the same block as our boarding-house.”
“Yes; you were nearer the danger than we were.”
“Oh, I was dreadfully frightened. There was one of our
ladies wanted to persuade me to look at Trinity Church,
lighted up by the fire; I believe she really thought it a fascinating
sight. Here comes a gentleman who was staying at
your hotel, and has not got over his fright yet; it is one of
my escorts—I have two, the Baron and this gentleman; but
the Baron is not on deck now—let me introduce you; Monsieur
Bonnet, Miss Wyllys. I do believe, Monsieur Bonnet,
you were as much alarmed as I was.”
“Alarm—Ah, Madame, I was èbloui by the fire. In all
my life, I never saw real incendie before; though, of course,
I saw the Panorama of the incendie de Moscou—I was not in
Russie with l'Empereur. At the spectacle we have incendies
sometimes; but never in the street. Ah, I did not see
that house until the roof fall, when light burst through my
volets, and I spring to the window.”
“I should have thought the noise would have called you
out before that.”
“Du tout; when I hear cries, and people marching, I
think tout bonnement it was an émeute, and I turn round to
finish my sleep; I think myself happy not to belong to the
rappel.”
“What did you think it was?”
“An émeute, sans doute, say I to myself. It was un
tintamarre épouvantable.”
“An émeute; pray, what is that?”
“Emeute? A little révolution, as we have in Paris constamment.”
“Why, my dear sir, our revolutionary war took place
more than fifty years ago. Did you expect to find us fighting
now?”
“Certainement; I thought the wheel I hear was cannon.
But mon ami Eel-sun tell me next day, there is incendie
every night somewhere in New York. Un drôle de divertisement,
vraiment. It is a great désagrément, of a city
otherwise so beautiful, with so many charming ladies.”
“Thank you, sir; you are very polite. I believe, Miss
Wyllys, that French gentlemen, no matter what they talk
about, always find an opportunity to pay a compliment.”
“C'est tout naturel; cela va sans dire; it is only our
devoir, Madame, to exprimer to the ladies some of the many
agreeable things they inspire.”
“Worse and worse,” said Mrs. Hilson, laughing. “How
different you are from Captain Kockney; he never said a
civil thing to me, all the time he was in New York.”
“Le capitaine Coquenais was an Anglais, who cannot
feel the true politesse Française.”
“He used to say it is not aristocratic to be polite to other
people; he belongs to the English aristocracy, you know.”
“L'aristocratie! Oh, that is a vile state of things. La
vieille aristocratie of France, Madame, was the cause of our
révolution. But in France now, and in America, those
happy countree, the spirit of aristocracy is extinct.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Bonnet,” said Mrs. Hilson,
quite indignantly. “It is true there are many plebeians in
aristocracy.”
“Ah, vous plaisantez avec tant de grâce, Madame!”
“It is pleasant, certainly, to me; though some people may
not appreciate it. I am a very aristocratic spirit.”
“Ah, sans doute, Madame; you have so much esprit,
you laugh at me,” said the Frenchman, who took Mrs. Hilson's
protestation as a joke.
“No, indeed; I never was more serious in my life. I
should suppose you would have been struck with the high
state of aristocracy at our boarding-house, for instance.”
Monsieur Bonnet could only shrug his shoulders, being
quite at a loss for the lady's meaning.
“Yes; I am thoroughly patrician and aristocratic; if we
only had a despotic government, to take away all privileges
from plebeians, I should be perfectly happy. My language
surprises you, I perceive; but it is quite natural that a descendant
of a Scotch Baronet, the Duke of Percy, should
have similar feelings.”
More and more bewildered, Monsieur Bonnet was reduced
to a bow. Happily, as he thought, the warning bell was
rung; and the usual cry, “Passengers for West Point please
look out for their baggage!” changed the current of Mrs.
Hilson's ideas, or rather the flow of her words.
In another moment, Mrs. Hilson and Monsieur Bonnet,
with a score or two of others, were landed at West Point,
and the ladies of Mr. Wyllys's party felt it no little relief to
be rid of so much aristocracy.
The boat had soon reached Poughkeepsie, and much to
Mr. Ellsworth's regret, Mr. Wyllys and his family went on
shore. Mr. Ellsworth had been introduced to Elinor at
Jane's wedding. He was a man of thirty, a widower, with
an only child, and had for several years been thinking of
marrying again. After having made up his mind to take the
step, he next determined that he would not marry in a hurry.
He was not a man of quick passions, and was sometimes
manner charming, and soon discovered that she had
every recommendation but beauty, the want of which was
her only drawback; he liked her family, and probably was
not sorry to hear that she would have a large property. But,
unfortunately, he seldom met Miss Elinor Wyllys; she was
a great part of her time in the country, and he knew nobody in
the immediate neighbourhood. He had not been asked to
Wyllys-Roof; nor was he, a very recent acquaintance, on
terms sufficiently intimate, to present himself at the door,
bag and baggage, without an invitation. More than a twelve-month
intervened, in the mean time; but he was still thinking
enough of Elinor to make him wish for a meeting, when,
accidentally, they passed a few days together at Old Point
Comfort, and afterwards met again, not exactly by accident
it is believed, at the Sulphur Springs, in Virginia. His good
opinion of Elinor was not only confirmed by this intercourse,
but his admiration very much increased. It was only natural
it should be so; the more one knew Elinor, the more one
loved her; good sense, intelligence, sweetness of disposition
like her's, united to the simple grace of manner, peculiarly
her own, were best appreciated by those who saw her daily.
Quite unaware of Mr. Ellsworth's views, and unconsciously
influenced at first, perhaps, by the fact that he was an old
friend of Harry's, she soon liked him as a companion, and
received him with something more than mere politeness.
“It is always pleasant to meet with an agreeable, gentlemanly,
well-informed man,” thought Elinor: a train of reflection
which has sometimes carried young ladies farther
than they at first intended. Under such circumstances, some
ardent spirits would have settled the question during a fortnight
passed with the lady they admired; but Mr. Ellsworth,
though he thought Elinor's manner encouraging, did not
care to hazard a hasty declaration; he preferred waiting a
few weeks, until they should meet again in Philadelphia,
where the Wyllyses intended passing the winter. But unfortunately,
Agnes was taken ill, and on her partial recovery, was ordered
to a warm climate before the cold weather; and Elinor
merely passed through Philadelphia on her way to the West
Indies, with her aunt and grandfather. Mr. Ellsworth was,
of course, disappointed; he expressed his regrets as warmly
as he dared, during a morning visit, in a room half-full of
company; and he hinted in terms so pointed at his hopes of
a happy meeting in the spring, that Elinor's suspicions were
for the first time excited, while those of Mr. Wyllys and
Miss Agnes were only confirmed. Since then, Mr. Ellsworth
and Elinor had only seen each other once, in the
street, until they met on board the steamboat, on their way
to Saratoga.
| CHAPTER II. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |