University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Before progressing with my story, I must tell my
reader something more of the Blairs. So, reculer pour
mieux sauter, James Blair, an Irishman of education,
and some property, married the girl of his heart, and
came immediately to this country. Having an eye
for the picturesque, he purchased a farm on that loveliest
of American rivers, the Juniata. But James
Blair, bred to a mercantile life, had no “faculty” for
farming; then he met with sickness, losses, and discouragements,
and—oh, 'tis the old, old story, became
a drunkard, and all was over with him. But Mary,
poor Mary Blair, was a jewel of a wife, for a saint or
a sinner—only she would have lasted longer if her
“Jamie” had had more of the former, and less of the
latter in his composition. But, as she wasted away
in her patient broken-heartedness, there was one to
take her place. Elizabeth Blair was one of those
rare characters of whom “the world is not worthy.”
A spectacle for angels was her life of unobtrusive, unwearying,
unmurmuring goodness. From the age
of eighteen, when her mother's health failed utterly,
to her twenty-first year, the period when she was in
troduced to my reader, she had, by her own labours,
clothed and fed her father and his family. In household
duties, and the care of the invalid mother, she
was assisted by her sister somewhat; but she alone

was the hope, the dependence, the “light in a dark
place,” the sustaining pillar, the animating soul of
that sad, neglected family. She was school-teacher,
mantua-maker, milliner, tailoress,- all things for the
good and comfort of those she loved. Dear Elizabeth!
when I remember your meek piety, your energy,
patience, sweetness, and courage, I were humbled at
the very thought of you, did I not know that there is
no reproach in your goodness.

But in her mother's last illness the noble girl had
over-tasked herself; and, after hard struggling against
disease, she became alarmingly ill, with a nervous
fever. Again, weeping more bitterly than ever, went
little Jamie for the minister, whom he met returning
from the parochial visit narrated at the close of the
last chapter. Elibridge turned pale at the intelligence
which the boy sobbed forth, and accompanied
him immediately home. He found Elizabeth manifesting
the same serene resignation which had hallowed
the deathbed of her mother. Before he left,
however, Dr. N— arrived, and pronounced her
better, and the angel of hope revisited that desolate
home. Slowly, very slowly, came back strength and
health to that overwrought spirit and frame; and
pleasant and profitable were the young clergyman's
frequent visits to the interesting invalid. He was
sometimes accompanied by Katherine, who professed
to love her cousin fervently; and he did not fear for
his heart, because he constantly encountered there
the young physician, to whom it was rumoured Elizabeth
Blair was betrothed.

At last, the invalid had so far recovered as to appear
at meeting. Pale, very pale, she was; but lovelien
than ever thought those who loved her.

Elbridge saw that it now would be but proper for
him to make his visits less frequent, and he did so.
Then was he haunted by a strange feeling of unrest—
he forgot his engagements—he talked to himself—he
grew careless of his dress—he lost his appetite;—in
short, he was in love; but not with Katherine Denny;
oh no, not with Katherine Denny.

When our hero became aware of his dangerous
malady, he began treating it with promptness and
severity. He first prescribed for himself total absence
from a certain abode of beauty and worth—love's own
log temple, built in the wilderness.

A dead failure! for did he not see that face, delicately
flushed with returning health, looking up to
him with sweet seriousness, every blessed Sunday?

Matters were in this interesting state when, while
returning one Sabbath evening from a neighbouring
town, where he had been preaching, a storm compelled
him to seek a night's shelter in a farmhouse
by the way. Soon after, who should ride up but
Dr. N—. He came in, dripping with the rain, and
laughing in his own peculiar and joyous manner.

“The doctor,” now one of my most valuable and
reliable of friends, was one you might see once and
remember always. His frank, handsome, heart-beaming
countenance daguerreotyped itself inevitably
upon the memory. He was the “prince of good felt
lows,” in the very best sense of the term. With his

freedom of mind, warm, unchecked affections, and
hopeful, cheerful philosophy, he lived up to the full
measure of life. Once or twice during the evening,
as his fine face glowed with the inspiration of some
thought, flashingly beautiful, or exquisitely grotesque,
Elbridge was slightly conscious of a certain unministerial
feeling, known to the world as jealousy; but
he coughed it down, as out of order, being the sug
gestion of a “gentleman in black,” not “in good and
regular standing.”

When the hour for retiring came, as there was but
one “spare bed,” Elbridge was obliged to “turn in”
with his unconscious rival. Some time in the night
the doctor awoke. The storm had passed, and the
moon was shining purely pale through the uncurtained
window. Above him bent Elbridge, with his
large, luminous eyes, fixed with a peculiar and
searching expression upon his face, and his hand
pressed closely against his heart.

“What the deuce—!” cried the startled doctor.

“Hush,” said the clergyman, in a solemn tone, “I
want you to tell me the truth.”

“Well, do you think you have got to take a fellow
by the heart before you can get that!”

“Pardon me,” said Elbridge, but without removing
his hand, “I have to ask you a question on which
my life's happiness depends. Will you answer me
truly?”

“I will, if it is in my power.”

“Do you love Elizabeth Blair?”

“Yes.”

“That is sufficient,” said Elbridge, falling back
upon his pillow.

“Sufficient, is it?” said N—, and he turned
himself wall-ward. But, presently, his good feelings
getting the etter of his waggery, he continued: “I
do love Lizzie Blair—that's a stubborn fact—love her
as a sister; but if it will be any comfort to you, my
dear sir, to know it, long before I ever saw her, I
bargained myself off to just the finest girl in the
Union. So, if you can win Elizabeth's love, and
deserve it, I bid you God-speed!”

In the morning, Elbridge unfortunately found himself
oppressed with a heavy cold, in consequence of
his exposure to the preceding evening's storm. He
was really ill, grew rapidly worse, and the next day
was prostrate with inflamed lungs. He recovered, of
course,—I would not have the heart to choose a Paul
Dombey for a hero—but only after weeks of severe
suffering; and then, Dr. N—, who had been his
physician and constant nurse, gravely assured him
that he must abandon preaching altogether, for years
to come. Oh, it was a bitter moment to the young
clergyman! He groaned deeply, and bowed his face
on his almost transparent hand; and, when he at last
looked up, his dark eye-lashes were glistening with
tears. Had all his intense longings, his hungering
and thirsting after opportunities of greater usefulness
in that most holy of professions, come to this!

While yet suffering from this unexpected trial, a
letter was brought in, which he read aloud to the doctor.
It was from his parents, and urged, in affectionate

terms, his immediate return home. Their eldest
sons were travelling, their daughter was married, and
they were left quite alone.

“Really, this reconciliation at this time, seems
providential,” remarked the doctor, “and you will
surely return to Virginia as soon as you have sufficient
strength.”

“Yes, but I must see Elizabeth before I go—I
cannot endure this terrible suspense—my life seems
balancing on a thread.”

“Well, go to her,” rejoined the doctor, “she is a
frank, straight-forward girl, and will tell you the truth
without your taking the trouble to lay your hand on
her heart.”

“But, my dear N—, should I succeed in winning
her love, I sometimes fear I shall be doing her an
unkindness in taking her from the social sphere in
which she has always moved; that she will be but ill
at ease in the society of my family and friends.”

“I tell you, Elbridge,” exclaimed N—, “you
either don't half deserve our Elizabeth, or you don't
half know her. As your wife, believe me, you will
have reason to be proud of her in any circle of
American society. With the highest natural grace,
elegance, and dignity, she has any amount of tact
and adaptedness, and is fitted for any sphere, however
exalted, to which the man she loves may raise
her. So don't fear introducing her to your aristocratic
connections, she will make her own way
bravely. But here we are, coolly discussing these

matters, when heaven only knows whether the girl
will have you at all, at all.”

And it seemed a doubtful matter for some time
after. As soon as Elbridge was strong enough, he
rode up to the Blairs', and day after day repeated his
visit. But there was Mary Blair, a laughing, teazing,
gipsy of a creature, always at her sister's side,
and Elbridge was suddenly the most bashful of men.
Finally, calling up all his courage, he begged her to
join him in a walk. “Certainly, if you desire it,”
she calmly said, and tying on her neat sun-bonnet,
was soon strolling by his side. For some moments
the poor fellow could not utter a syllable, but at last
let his warm, honest heart speak for itself in these
simplest of words:—

“Elizabeth, I love you, ardently, devotedly;—do
you return my affection?”

“Mr. Elbridge,” she rejoined in a voice slightly
tremulous, “though I have admired and revered, I
have never yet presumed to love you; but if the
grateful affection of a poor, uncultivated girl like me
can add to your happiness, I do not think it will be
long withheld.”

And thus they parted.

At their next meeting, Elizabeth, suffering her
lover to retain her coy, little hand in his, said with an
enchanting smile, and in the sweetest of tones, “I
have been thinking over our last evening's conversation,
and looking closely into my heart, and I find
that I have been loving you all along.”