University of Virginia Library

20. CONCLUSION.

The wound which Sir Robert Radnor had received
from Harris at the Meschianza, was
too severe for the already shattered state of his
constitution long to support. It was some weeks,
however, before any very alarming symptoms
appeared. The day after the fete, he was in
tolerable spirits; and was much pleased when
his esquire visited him for the purpose of delivering
to him the favour he had received in
his name, from Miss Lewis, after the tournament.
But what was his astonishment, when
in this gift he recognized a costly transparent
brooch, encircled with diamonds, which he had
presented to his first wife on her wedding day
about nineteen years before. At his request,
Harriet was soon in his presence.

“Miss Lewis,” said he, “let me thank you
for this very acceptable favour. The honour
of receiving it from you on this occasion endears
it greatly to me. But it is very dear to me
on another account. It was a marriage gift from

me to my first wife. Here are the initials of our
names; and I see the portion of her dark hair
which I caused to be embedded in the centre of
the jewel. My dear Miss Lewis, a thousand
thousand thanks for this precious relic! Can
you let me know any thing of its history?”

Mr. Lewis, who had just a few moments before
entered the apartment, replied to this
question:

“Sir Robert,” said he, “I alone can give
you the history of that brooch; and it is expressly
to do so that I now visit you. It was once,
as you have discovered, the property of your
wife. At her death it became the property of
mine, who was her sister; and it is now bestowed
on you by your own daughter.”

“My daughter!” exclaimed Sir Robert. “Is
Harriet my daughter? I was informed that my
child had died. But no—it must have been an
error. I see—I feel I have a child. Come to
me, Harriet! Embrace your father. I see
your mother's looks and form perfectly imaged
in yours!”

“Father!” said the astonished Harriet to
Mr. Lewis. “Is this so? Are you not my
father?”

“My child, no; except in true affection.
Sir Robert Radnor is indeed your father!”
said Mr. Lewis, evidently very much affected.

But the joy of Sir Robert knew no bounds.

He pressed his daughter to his bosom. “Heaven
be praised,” he exclaimed, “for his goodness
in giving me such a child, the express likeness
of her beautiful mother—and good, too, like
her!—Oh! my child, there was surely some
latent presentiment of this happiness in my
heart, from the first moment I saw you; for
ever since then, I have borne for you a father's
love. And you have shown for me a daughter's
duty.”

“And I have,” she replied, “felt a daughter's
affection, with a force of sympathy which
was to myself unaccountable.”

“You will wonder,” said Mr. Lewis, “that
I did not sooner apprize you of this connexion,
when I acknowledge that it was always known
to me. My reasons may not speak much for
my candour and disinterestedness. Yet I will
avow them. In the first place, my affection
for Harriet is truly parental. I have never had
offspring of my own; and from her infancy,
she has been to me instead of a daughter. I
felt reluctance, by disclosing the truth, to dissever
the endearing ties which bound her to
me. Secondly, Sir Robert, you will excuse me
for saying, that the motives which induced her
grandfather to give you wrong information in
relation to her death, continued, until very
lately, to influence me. You had left your
wife in Albany, in a delicate state. She wrote

often to you, but received only one or two
short replies. She died in child-birth, recommending
her offspring to the care of her father.
His feelings not being the most favourable
towards you, he did not wish to be disturbed
with your claims upon the tender plant, the
rearing of which he resolved to undertake.
He, therefore, deceived you, in respect to
its existence. I shortly afterwards, married
his only other child, your wife's sister,
whose strong affection for her little niece,
was gratified by her grandfather permitting
her to reside with us. At his death, which
took place many years ago, the old gentleman
divided his property between Harriet
and my wife. Shortly after that event,
we removed to this city. My wife died a few
years since, and there now remains with me no
one on earth, save Harriet, on whose attachment
I can place value or repose confidence.
I trust that this disclosure will not deprive
me of that filial regard which has so long
afforded me happiness, and which has become
necessary for the comfort of my remaining
days.”

“Never,” said Harriet, embracing the good
old man, with tears of tenderness in her eyes,
“never shall I withdraw from you the care,
the attention, and the affection of a daughter.”

“Your parental care of my child,” said Sir

Robert, “excites my warmest gratitude. But
let me remark, as to my apparent neglect, in
corresponding with her mother, that the hurry
and excitation of the very active and harassing
service in which I was then engaged, prevented
my writing so often, and at such length, as I
could have wished. Yet I, in truth, wrote
more and longer letters than she appears to
have received. The troubled nature of the
times and the insecurity and difficulty of mail
conveyances at that period, may well account
for the miscarriages which took place. However,
as the past cannot be recalled, regret is
useless. And since Providence has had in
store for me so great a blessing as that of a
daughter of whom I have so much reason to
be proud, I will endeavour to be duly thankful,
and shall cherish the precious gift with affection
and delight.”

But Sir Robert was not fated long to enjoy
the society of his new-found daughter. His
general debility was daily increasing. So feeble
was he, indeed, when the British army left
the city, that he was unable to accompany it.
He, therefore, resigned his commission, and
remained with his daughter.

Immediately after the American troops repossessed
Philadelphia, Edward Meredith, accompanied
by his mother, visited their suffering
relative, between whom and Mrs. Meredith,

a reconciliation, much to their mutual satisfaction,
took place.—Edward was now once
more in the full enjoyment of the society of
his beloved, with the additional advantages of
being a free man, and having nothing to fear
from the presence of armed foes or a ferocious
rival. He informed Harriet that he had
been encouraged to visit the Meschianza from
the facilities afforded to his admission by William
Barton, who, having entered the service
of Captain Delancey, as a royalist, had been
appointed one of the heralds. The practice of
wearing masks, which it was known would be
permitted to the guests, offered a disguise of
sufficient security, provided no accident occurred
to excite observation, “and that,” said he,
“I was willing to risk for the pleasure of beholding
you as a Nymph of the Blended Rose,
and the other glories of the day. I had nearly,
however, paid dear for my gratification. Immediately
after the encounter with Harris,
Barton whispered to me that the attention of
some officers was directed towards me, and
that if I did not instantly fly, I should be apprehended
as a spy. I perceived the officers
to whom he alluded. To fly would have been
ruin, for it would have confirmed their suspicion.
I observed my friend, the generous
Andre, near me. In my perplexity I resolved
to throw myself on his mercy, and claim his
protection.

“My God,” said he, in a low voice, “what
imprudence! Meredith, you are lost. But
stay; I will lull their suspicion, and get you
off safe, if I should die for it. Be my equery
for a moment: it will show them that I know
you, and will remove their suspicion.”

“I caught the reins of his horse. He dismounted,
and hastening to General Howe, requested
a passport to enable a friend desirous
of hastily visiting a sick relation in the country,
to pass the pickets on the lines. He obtained
it, and returned. “Stay not,” said he,
handing me the paper; “and avoid loitering
for my sake, as well as your own, for should
you be detected, it will go hard with me for
imposing on the General.”

I pressed his hand in token of gratitude,
and in half an hour was beyond the reach of
danger.

“Heaven bless the noble-minded youth,”
said Harriet. “He is, and he deserves to be,
beloved by every one. He was throughout,
the animating spirit of the gay entertainment.
In his own need may he never want a friend,
nor in his danger a protector!”

Meredith, with his whole heart, responded
the fervent prayer. Alas! what sorrowful regret
would the hearts of sympathizing thousands

have been saved from suffering, if it had
pleased Providence to have granted that earnest
petition, and to have ordained that the
traitor of West Point, and not the spy, might
have been the victim.

The end of Sir Robert Radnor was drawing
near. He became conscious of it; and under
the impression of this consciousness, one day
towards the latter end of June, he called Edward
and Harriet into his presence.

“My children,” said he, “I feel that I
have not long to live. But I have become resigned
to the inevitable dispensation. It is a
great consolation that my last hours shall be
spent in your society, and that my dying eyes
shall be closed by the hands of my own child.
My worldly affairs are all settled, save one important
matter; and when that shall be transacted,
I shall be no longer burthened with temporal
cares. I know your mutual attachment.
I approve of it. I rejoice at it; and I wish
your nuptials to take place without delay, that
I may have the satisfaction, while I yet live,
of witnessing your happiness, and of winding
up my concerns with this world, by pronouncing
my blessing upon you as my son and
daughter.”

In consequence of this request, Edward Meredith
was soon made happy in the possession of
his lovely bride.—How different was his lot from

that of his gay, accomplished, but unprincipled
rival! Fair, direct, and manly perseverance in
active duty, brought happiness to the one,
while the indulgence of fierce passions and the
commission of insidious crimes brought destruction
on the other. Thus, even in this
world, unerring justice may raise her scale and
weight the actions of men, in order to assign
to them their due proportion of punishment or
reward. That it is often otherwise, is equally
true; for here is not the consummation of
things. We are here but in probation. The
final decision and distribution are reserved for
a more lasting state of existence.

Were it not so, oh Balantyne! who could
reconcile thy virtues and thy sufferings, with
the impartiality of Eternal Justice? How few
of mankind have been more guiltless! yet how
few have endured more misery! And what
supported thee amidst the fiery trials, and prevented
thee from sinking under the terrors of
despair?—what but thy Christian confidence in
the due apportionment of the claims of justice,
which the Unerring Ruler of all will yet make
throughout his universal Creation!

Soon after the catastrophe which deprived
the sensitive and much-enduring Balantyne of
his last worldly comfort—his only child—he
removed for ever from the scene of the terrible
calamity. Philadelphia was his place of

retreat. There he resided for many years,
leading a life of contemplation, and almost entire
seclusion from the world.—It has already
been stated that from the papers left behind
him, at his death, this history has been compiled.
And it is hoped that, while the narrative
of his sorrows shall awaken the sigh of
pity in warm and generous hearts, the example
of his endurance will teach fortitude and
resignation to those stricken spirits who are
destined to bear the storms of adversity, so
that, like him, although they may grieve, they
may never despair; but be supported through
all their sufferings, by the consoling assurance
of RETRIBUTION HEREAFTER.