The asylum, or, Alonzo and Melissa an American tale, founded on fact |
| 1. | CHAPTER I. |
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 | CHAPTER I. The asylum, or, Alonzo and Melissa |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
How lightly flew the gladsome day!
Gay dreams of bliss brought on the morrow,
And gilt the sun's declining ray.
Hope pictured years of tranquil pleasure,
Peace and content she held to view;
My trusting heart dwelt o'er its treasure,
And thought the lovely vision true.
Mrs. Rose.
Sometime previous to the commencement
of the American revolution, there resided,
in the western part of Connecticut, a
gentleman of English extraction, whose ancestors
were among the earliest settlers of
this country. The patrimony he inherited
from his father, he had, by various speculation,
increased until he became the richest
man in those parts. His property lay in numerous
cultivated farms, most of which were
advantageously rented; in valuable wild
security. His name was Bloomfield.
He was the descendant of an ancient and
once noble family, on which he prided himself
with all that distinguished haughtiness so characteristic
of national prejudice and manners,
but without possessing a disposition to shine
in the circles of the gay, or to lavish any portion
of his fortune in grandeur and equipage,
or what the world style the pleasures of high
life. While he looked upon the poorer class
as an inferior kind of beings in society, he
esteemed the rich as an order of nobility.
“By prudence and perseverance,” he would
say, “any man in this country may become
independent. It is the idle and the dissipated,
only, who are poor.” For calamities and accidents,
he made no allowance, as these, he
believed, his foresight and sagacity had enabled
him to evade; and he considered, also,
that his own wealth had been principally acquired
by diligent application to business.
He knew little of literature beyond the name,
having received nothing more than a common-school
education; but to balance this, he was
deeply skilled in the worth of a dollar, and well
casting accounts, or in calculating compound
interest, he was an adept, even to farthings.
For money loaned, he took mortgages on
lands and tenements, in security, and as there
frequently occurred failures in the payment,
he often had opportunities of purchasing the
involved premises at his own price.
He was likewise perfectly acquainted with
the art of bargaining. If a farmer, either from
embarrassment, or with a view to amend his situation,
held his possessions for sale, the ready
money of Col. Bloomfield would effect more
than the most responsible paper of others,
though at prompt instalments. This, he called,
“striking while the iron was hot.” Merchants
and tradesmen, besides interest, were
willing to give him premiums for the loan of
cash, which was extremely scarce in those
days, as there were, then, no banks in this
country, by which they could be accommodated.
The labourer and mechanic, sure of
present pay, would work for him at reduced
wages. Being under no necessity to sell, he
strictly watched and always obtained the
highest market-price for the produce of his
farms. Thus, while he daily experienced a
only, the appearance of a plain Connecticut
farmer.
He had been advanced to various grades of
office; was justice of the peace; had frequently
been a member of the legislature;
was colonel of a regiment of militia, which
office he had held for several years, and for
as long a time had been deacon of the church.
Strictly honest in his dealings, and never having
sacrificed upon the altar of the refined
passions, he held every infraction of justice
and integrity as criminal, and knew not how
to pardon even errors and failings. Hence,
shrouded in a repulsive, but self-created dignity,
he commanded, among his acquaintance,
a sort of invidious respect. The poor of his
neighbourhood knew no more why they
feared, than why they could not love him;
still none hated him. The number of
his enemies were few; of his friends, still
less.
He had lived till he was a bachelor before
he married; he then chose his wife as he would
have done a farm, not so much for beauty as
convenience. She was the daughter of a respectable
amiable, her manners and habits mild, retiring,
and domestic. She superintended the
affairs of her household with the strictest care
and prudence. Unlike some flaunting dames
of the present day, she did not esteem it dishonourable
to lay her hands to the spindle and
the distaff. Indeed, we could not give a more
correct description of her character, than by
referring to that of Solomon's heroine, as delineated
in the last chapter of his Proverbs.
They had but two children; the eldest a
son, whom they called Edgar; the other a
daughter, named Melissa. Though destitute
himself, yet having learnt the value of
education, he determined to provide the means
of obtaining it for his children; and being a
rigid presbyterian, he concluded that his son
could no where figure so well, or gain so much
eminence, as in the sacred desk. Edgar,
therefore, was kept at school till he arrived
at a suitable age, when he was entered at
Yale College.
Melissa was sent to New-London, under
the charge of a maiden aunt, to reside with
a relative of the family who had settled there,
designed for her, at a celebrated female academy
in that place. This relative, whose
name was Glenford, was cousin to her by the
mother's side. Having but recently married,
he had no children.
Martha Bloomfield, Melissa's aunt, who attended
her, was about forty years old. She
had been a reigning toast, in her youth, but
a coquette and a prude. Hence, her numerous
admirers relinquished their pretensions as
her beauty and the graces deserted her. She
had received the most flattering offers, some
of which she refused, and suspended others.
She was, in many respects, the counterpart
of Col. Bloomfield, her brother. Her family
and fortune, she thought, connected with her
personal accomplishments, would, at any time,
ensure her a choice among the humble devotees
who sighed at her feet, if she should condescend
to make the selection. Like many
calculators of superior wisdom and understanding,
she did not discover her error until
too late to retrieve it.
Still, she was not without consolation;
her father had provided amply for her in his
were more than adequate to her maintenance.
Though she frequently visited among her numerous
relatives, yet she principally resided
with Melissa's father, who, by humouring her
peculiarities, consulting her on trivial occasions,
and sometimes adopting her advice,
when it did not run counter to his own opinion,
induced her to suppose that she held no
small influence over him. He had an object
in view by this; her fortune he hoped to secure
in his own family, provided she should
never marry, which, probably, would be the
case. She was called Aunt Martha by the
family, and Miss Martha by her other acquaintance.
In due time, Melissa's education being
finished, and Edgar having graduated, they
returned to their paternal residence, which
bore the name of Bloomfield Vale.
Col. Bloomfield, though an austere man,
was extremely attached to his children. They
were the solace of his life, the hope and comfort
of his declining years. But his tenderness
did not injure them by too much indulgence.
He early taught them that his advice
were not to be disputed, and that the line of
conduct marked out by him was to be undeviatingly
pursued. Hence it followed that
his will need only be known, to be strictly
obeyed.
From the splendid fortune to be divided
between them, he foresaw that they must obtain
eminence and distinction in society, provided
they connected honourably, and sustained
unblemished characters; and though
his expectations had been, thus far, realized;
though present prospects gave earnest of future
felicity, yet he most anxiously hoped to
see them happily settled in life while under
his immediate care, and before he should descend
to the tomb.
Edgar appeared calculated for the station
to which he was designated. Cheerful, but
decently reserved; liberal in sentiment, his
soul was the seat of honour, integrity, and
virtue. Though selected for a particular
church, to which he, also, gave the preference,
he was no bigot in religion. He knew that
there were different sects of Christians, and
he believed that the portals of Heaven were
to reform, he would be prepared to
love mankind; to cast the mantle of charity
over their failings, correct their errors by
mildness, and to extend the cherishing hand
of forgiveness to the repentant. While his
mind had been informed, his heart was expanded
by the enlightening rays of science.
Melissa, now seventeen years of age, whose
taste had been properly directed by a suitable
education, possessed a mind adorned with
those delicate graces which are the first ornaments
of female excellence. Neither prudery
nor coquetry mingled in her character.
Her soul was too serene to be the sport of
freak or caprice. She would not start at a
shadow, or shriek at the sudden rustling of a
leaf. She knew not to blush at a compliment,
or faint in crowded assemblies. Her fortitude
could not be alarmed by the wild phantoms
of imagination, or the startling suggestions
of superstition.
She was not esteemed a striking beauty,
but her appearance was pleasingly interesting.
Her figure elegant; hair of a light brown;
in her cheek, the tinges of the lily and the
the inimitable die of health. Her aspect was
attempered with a pensive mildness, which,
in her gayer moments, would light up into
sprightliness and vivacity. Though, on first
impressions, her countenance was marked by
a sweet and thoughtful serenity, yet she eminently
possessed the power to
“The glance that lightens and the smile that burns”
the texture of which were happily blended
“The mildest shadows of the grove.”
The seat of Col. Bloomfield stood at a little
distance from the main road. It was surrounded
with cultivated fields, woodlands,
meadows, and pastures, interspersed with
valleys and hills, among which, small rivulets
variously meandered. At some distance from
the house, was a very broad and elevated eminence,
styled the Mountain; it commanded
an extensive prospect of country; of forests
farm-houses, towns and villages; also, of
mainland, and the opening thereof to the distant
ocean.
Amidst these rural and solitary scenes, Melissa
loved to wander. The devious recesses
of the woods, the blossomed banks of plaintive
streams, the fragrance of verdant fields,
and the wild melody of various birds, in the
green season of the year, yielded her sincerer
pleasure, than the most brilliant splendours
of ball-rooms and assemblies. Here, with
Edgar, could she realize and retrace the innocent
and happy incidents of their earliest
childhood. Here had they chased the gay
butterfly from flower to flower, till it soared
away, leaving them perplexed to discover
why the gaudy flutterer should so assiduously
shun the approach of those who intended it no
manner of harm; there they waded the narrow
brook to select the shining, transparent
pebbles, from its shallow bed; here they
basked on the sunny hill side, or reclined beneath
intermingling branches, watching the
labours of the industrious bee, while collecting
its sweets from the blooms around; admiring
the diligent ant, as it brought up the
grains of sand from its subterraneous cells,
caverns it had thus prepared; or remarking,
with still more fixed attention, the labours of
the parent bird, as, with mechanic powers,
peculiarly its own, it constructed its curious
nest, or provided for its unfledged young,
with examplary care, and paternal solicitude.
In yonder field had they stained their hands
with the rich strawberry, or with hurtleberries
in the adjoining shrubbery; or wounded their
little fingers in plucking the fruit of the prickly
bramble. Here had they striven, in friendly
emulation, to cull the gayest flowers from
the varied myriads which spangled the plain.
On yonder hill they had counted the numerous
vessels as they sailed up and down the Sound.
They recollected how they had often sat on
some high rock, viewing the sweaty reapers
gathering the ripe harvest in the surrounding
fields, or the dusty plowman turning the broad
furrow behind his lagging team, while the
music of numerous different birds, the song
of the grasshopper, the low hum of bees,
and the variant notes of a thousand diverse
insects, floated on the loitering breeze. Frequently
had they lingered until the whipperwill's
cheerful lay, from an adjacent thicket,
warned them of approaching twilight. Sometimes,
rising suddenly over the woody summits, they
had hastened homeward with trembling speed,
while the vivid lightning crinkled across their
path, and the volleying thunder pursued close
behind them.
With pleasure could they now recal those
happy days of infancy and innocence, because
their young minds were yet unimbittered by
sorrow, and undisturbed by the serious carcs
of life. After a lapse of years, and a separation
from their beloved parents and home,
they traversed, with transport, the same fields
and woodlands, where, in childhood, they had
experienced so many joyful hours. Birds of
the same note and plumage flitted from bough
to bough, or warbled their untaught melody
along the landscape. There stood the tall
hickory, under which they had so often gathered
their winter stores of walnuts; here the
branching chesnut, whose thorny balls they
were wont, cautiously, to assail, to obtain
the delicacy within; yonder the butternut,
and the humble hazle, they had been accustomed
to rifle of their nutricious treasures.
The little hillock, in the midst of the lawn,
where, by moonlight, they had, so frequently,
had suffered no change. The orchards and
the gardens, the fields and the flowers, the
brooks, the groves, the shrubbery, and the
fruit-trees, were the same, and revived in
their bosoms sensations solemnly pleasing, as
they strolled leisurely among them.
The amusements of that day, though not
so diversified, were, yet, more rational than
many of the present, particularly in country
towns. Those in which Edgar and Melissa
joined when connected with mixed company,
consisted, in the summer, of excursions on
horseback, or in carriages, to some place in
the country, famous for hurtleberries or strawberries;
often to the margin of the Sound;
thence would they stray along the white sandy
beaches, which, at low water, extended far
from the shore; or divert themselves for an
hour by venturing out in a sail-boat; and,
generally, once in the season, they crossed,
with a large party, to Long-Island, where
they would pass a week among acquaintance.
In the winter, sleigh-rides to neighbouring
towns and villages were customary, and
though not frequently, yet occasionally, they
attended dancing assemblies. These, with
the principal portion of their public diversions.
At New-London, Melissa become acquainted
with a young gentleman of that town, who
possessed an independent fortune which had
devolved upon him by the death of his father.
He was of a gay and volatile character; his
manners rather voluptuous than delicately refined;
his address was easy; though confident,
yet not ungraceful. He led the ton in fashionable
circles, and gave taste its zest, and was
quite a favourite with the New-London belles.
His name was Bowman.
Among the gallants who had paid respectful
attention to Melissa, Bowman had been the
most particular. He was her partner at balls,
and her attendant in mixed companies. When,
with her aunt, she returned to her family, he
escorted them; and having some distant connexions
residing in a village not far from
Bloomfield Vale, he frequently visited them,
and, of course, Melissa, which, indeed, appeared
to be his principal object. When
there, he attended her in parties of pleasure
and recreation, and to her selected circles
seemed to warrant, a rumour obtained
circulation that Miss Bloomfield was shortly
to exchange her name for that of Mrs. Bowman.
By inquiry, her father soon learned that
the family of the young gentleman claimed
the first respectability, and that his fortune
was equal to his wishes. He did not, therefore,
forbid his visits; for though he was not
exactly the man he would have selected for
his son-in-law, yet being addicted to no
public vice, and not destitute of abilities,
he trusted that when the wild vagaries of
youthful levity should evaporate, objects
of a different nature would be pursued, such
as might ensure eminence, and what is esteemed
felicity.
On further acquaintance with Bowman, he
discovered that he possessed a yielding temper;
not suddenly or causelessly irritable,
but rather forbearing. He thought, also,
that, through the exuberance of frivolity, he
could perceive the prolific germs of real honour,
and, on the whole, considered him as a
character with whom his daughter might be
her discretion and discernment, he felt himself
safe to rely. Her choice, he had ever trusted
and believed, would comport with his own.
From Bowman, he shortly expected a declaration,
and if it accorded with his daughter's
wishes, he concluded to sanction it.
One day Bowman called on Melissa, and
invited her to take an airing in his curricle.
Delighted with the scenery rural prospects afford,
she consented. They rode out through
different parts of the country, now ascending
high hills, now rolling into valleys; sometimes
the road leading between thick woods, then
over plains, interspersed with meadows and
orchards, which now blooming in all the glory
of spring, cast their exhilirating fragrance
to the passing gales. Farm-houses and cottages
appeared in various directions; and
bounded by lofty groves, extended fields,
chequered by fenced cultivation, swelled into
gentle acclivities, or sank into verdurous
vales, over which were sprinkled flocks of
sheep, and cattle of various colour, grazing
the rich pastures, ruminating under shady
trees, or drinking at the crystaline brooks
whispering murmur.
As they were returning, they entered a
copse, where grew the wild honeysuckle,
mingling its premature fruit with its early
flowers. Bowman stepped out to gather some
of the former, Melissa remaining in the carriage.
While thus engaged, the report of a
gun, fired by a sportsman, was heard just by
them. Alarmed at the noise, the horses
sprang forward, and ran, furiously, along
the road till they came to an opening, when
they took to the fields. Melissa endeavoured
to stop them, but her strength was insufficient.
They hurried her towards a dangerous declivity.
At that moment, a gentleman who was
journeying on the road, perceiving her perilous
situation, spurred his horse at full speed,
came up with the curricle, and, at the risk of
his life, stopped the career of the horses,
just as they were on the point of plunging
down a steep, rocky precipice, which must
have dashed the carriage to atoms, and precipitated
Melissa into eternity. The sudden
check flung her to the ground; the gentleman
alighted, and raised her. She had not fainted,
but with the fright, and the shock received
bewildered. She immediately revived,
so as to thank her preserver in terms of the
most ardent gratitude. He was satisfied, he
said, provided she was safe, but he was apprehensive
she had received serious injury.
She assured him the effect was but slight.
Bowman soon came up, and joined in presenting
acknowledgements to the stranger.
The parties were shortly prepared for separation,
Bowman and Miss Bloomfield to pursue
their route homeward, and the stranger
his journey. For so short an acquaintance,
the parting seemed affectionate; considering
the circumstances, no wonder it should be so.
After renewed salutation the gentleman
mounted his horse, and the carriage moved
on. When at some distance, Melissa, perhaps
involuntarily, looked back; the stranger
remained still fixed to the spot where they had
left him, gazing stedfastly after them. Perceiving
that she observed him, he instantly
turned his horse, and gallopped swiftly away.
From the incidents which had thus occurred,
Miss Bloomfield became so indisposed,
that, by the time they reached home, she was
alarmed at her situation, gathered around
her, anxiously inquiring the cause of her illness,
of which Bowman gave them an account.
A physician was immediately called, who,
after prescribing, intimated that rest and quietness
would tend to restore her. She took a
composing preparation, and retired to bed, her
parents and Edgar watching, alternately, by
her pillow. After a short slumber, she appeared
very restless, and before morning was
attacked with a high fever. The physician
was again sent for, who advised bleeding,
which being performed, and a gentle anodyne
administered, she soon sank into calm sleep,
and when she awoke, found herself much
better, and entirely free from fever; but for
several days she was not able to leave her
room, during which, Bowman daily visited
her and endeavoured to cheer her spirits,
sometimes by reading to her from authors he
knew she admired; at others, in sketching
subjects for her pencil, in the use of which
she was not an ordinary proficient; or in selecting
airs for her harpsichord, which she
touched with excellent skill and admirable
pathos.
In reflecting upon the late circumstances of
her preservation, Melissa considered the event
as almost miraculous. When in the carriage,
whirled along by impetuous horses, rendered
frantic by affright, she saw herself on the
verge of a tremendous precipice, ready to
be plunged, and dashed to pieces, among the
rocks below, she recommended her soul to its
Creator, and gave herself up as lost. Thus
suddenly, and casually, to be snatched from,
to the human eye, inevitable death, impressed
her mind with sensations not to be
obliterated. The agitation of her senses,
more than bodily injury, had produced illness.
From the fall she experienced no other inconvenience
than a severe shock, the effects
of which were not serious.
But who was the person by whose unexpected
interposition she had been thus wonderfully
preserved? Yet why should she ask this
question? Who would not have done the same
in like circumstances? A stranger, journeying
on the road, perceives a fellow-creature in
imminent danger, and extends the hand of
relief. This was all that had been done;
still, she could not help viewing him as her
guardian angel, and feeling a strong curiosity
about twenty years of age, and she imagined
she had never seen a person whose manners
and address, on a single introduction, were
so prepossessing. Thus it is with the generous
heart; a disinterested favour conferred
thereon, especially if the act tends to extricate
from perilous situations, calls forth all its
gratitude, all its acknowledgements. From
circumstances attending the event, Melissa
beheld the stranger in a different point of light,
probably, than she would have done in any
other way he could have been introduced.
She was soon able to walk abroad, and indulge
in her favourite rambles over her father's
grounds, or to assist her mother in domestic
employments, to which she daily devoted
some hours, when at home, and unengaged
by company. Edgar aided his father
in managing the concerns of his landed estates,
in collecting his rents, and settling
with his tenants. Bowman had returned to
New-London.
As has been mentioned, Melissa's aunt,
who now resided with Col. Bloomfield, possessed
the reversion of several farms, the
periods, to visit, for the purpose of receiving
her rents, and to see how they managed matters.
If any of them failed in punctual payment,
or if they did not conduct affairs to
her satisfaction, she made no scruple in turning
them off at quarter-day, and supplying
their places with others, more agreeable to
her mind. This, she said, was keeping a
“sharp look out,” though in consequence of
such sharpness, her lands were, generally, in
a bad state of cultivation; for the renters not
knowing whether they should hold possession
over one year, the term for which her leases
were given, improved only the best part,
leaving the remainder to its fate. Some of
those farms lay a considerable distance in the
country.
On one of those visiting tours she invited
her niece to accompany her, who readily assented.
They travelled in a chaise, attended
by a servant. The road was rough and uneven,
which, with the intense heat of a summer
sun, caused Melissa, before night, to complain
of a violent headache. She, however,
proceeded on till late in the evening, as her
aunt wished to reach the residence of a Mr.
formerly rented some of her possessions, and
still lived near them. He kept an excellent
house, she said, was, as well as his wife, a
foreigner, but a very honest man, and had,
from extreme poverty, arisen to affluence,
within a few years. His wife, she farther
observed, appeared to possess the characteristics
and qualifications of high life; it had
been rumoured that some very singular circumstances
attended their history, but of
what nature they were, she could never discover.
It was late when they reached the house of
Bergher. Melissa was too ill to take any kind
of refreshment, and soon retired to rest. By
morning the pain in her head abated, but left
her extremely languid and faint; her aunt,
therefore, advised her to tarry there until she
should return, which, she assured her, would
be “in a few days at farthest;” the family
joined in the advice, and Melissa, considering
herself too feeble to continue the journey,
consented. Miss Martha, after seeing her
accommodated with every convenience, and
charging Mrs. Bergher to “mind and take
good care of her,” departed.
The Bergher family, exclusive of servants,
consisted of the parents, and five children;
the eldest was a son, about twenty-two years
old; the second, a daughter, aged about nineteen;
the others, a son and two daughters,
were yet in childhood and infancy. Bergher
appeared about forty-five years of age, his
wife a little younger; she was a woman of
amiable manners, and of deportment which
evinced her having been acquainted with the
courtly circles of life; though faded, she
still retained the traits of former beauty. The
countenance of Bergher was open and frank,
but spoke firmness, fortitude and decision.
The children were amiable and lovely, but
knew little of the world, having never mixed
much in company.
A separate chamber was assigned to Miss
Bloomfield, who, from the family, received the
politest attention. She had brought a few
books in her trunk, with which she could amuse
herself in the absence of her aunt, the
day after whose departure, she experienced
returning health, and walked out to view the
surrounding scenery.
An extended tract of cultivated land was
spread around the habitation of Bergher, variegated
with young harvests, meadows, corn
and clover fields, orchards and wood-lots.
The house was not elegant, but ample and
convenient, as were, also, the barns, cribs, and
granaries. On an adjacent stream stood those
useful, and in a new country, indispensible
engines, a grist, and saw-mill. An old log-hut,
the emblem of former wretchedness,
nearly adjoined one of the out houses; it
was constructed of the rudest materials, and
pointed with clay; the chimney was composed
of rough stone and mortar, taken from
the fields around; it contained but one room,
of about twenty feet square; slabs were its
roof, and for windows, small holes were cut
through the logs. It was now falling into
ruins, and served only for a hog-pen; there
the farmer fattened his swine, where formerly
he fed his children.
With Katherine, and sometimes attended
also by Roderick, the two eldest children,
Melissa frequently wandered about the plantation.
From a high eminence the eye surveyed
a wide and varying landscape, glowing in voluptuous
vegetation; and a glimpse of the
painted glass, bordered on each side with
fringes of native green, over which slept the
light clouds of summer, as if rejoicing to repose
on the bosom of their parent element.
Returning, one afternoon, from a solitary
ramble, she saw a man in a sulkey, driving
towards the house, with a servant on horse-back
behind him. His dress attracted Melissa's
attention; he wore a scarlet coat, deeply
trimmed with gold lace, a yellow vest,
richly embroidered, with a large star, wrought
in silver, on the breast; in his hat was a costly
plume of feathers, decorated with a valuable
diamond. She entered the house, and
the stranger soon after. To appearance, he
was about fifty years old, of stately mien
and commanding aspect. Politely bowing to
all present, he spoke in a language Melissa
did not understand; Mrs. Bergher started,
and gazing at him with apparent amazement,
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and fainted.
The gentleman raised her, Katherine
flew to her, sprinkled water in her face, and
she revived. “Oh my brother!” she exclaimed,
“Is it possible you yet live?” She
said something more, to which the stranger,
conversed in a foreign language. The youngest
boy was ordered to call his father from
the field, and Melissa, who had caught the
sympathetic infection, thinking her presence
might be obtrusive, retired to her chamber.
At supper, the stranger was introduced to
her by the title and appellation of the Baron
Du Ruyter, a brother of Mrs. Bergher. His
address was easy, disgnified and respectful;
he spoke the English language imperfectly.
Surprise, and inquisitive anxiety, were excited
in the mind of Melissa. What her aunt
had said respecting the Bergher family recurred
to her memory. That they were connected
with nobility was now evident; but
of what nation, why they had abandoned their
country in indigence, and so long been excluded
from the world, were circumstances
she would willingly have heard explained, but
improper, as she believed, for her to inquire
into.
The next morning Mrs. Bergher entered
Melissa's chamber, and after being seated,
thus addressed her:
“You, probably, Miss Bloomfield, were
surprised at my emotions, yesterday, on the
arrival of my brother; but your wonder would
cease if you knew my reasons; they include
something more than a meeting between such
tender friends, after so long an absence.”
“They evinced feelings which I shall ever
venerate,” said Melissa, “and I seek no farther
explanation.”
“I never had any other brother,” continued
Mrs. Bergher, “and in the most trying time
of my life, he was, almost my only friend.
We were parted many, very many years ago,
by tragical events, since which time I have
supposed, nay, confidently believed him in the
silent grave. Judge then of my feelings on
seeing him suddenly stand before me, on
hearing his voice pronounce the name of sister,
on thus receiving him as from the dead!
From what you have seen and heard, you,
no doubt, conjecture that singular incidents
have attended our lives; you are right; singular,
and extraordinary indeed are the records
of our fortune. You are young, Miss
Bloomfield, and as yet, can have seen but little
of the world, and of course, know nothing
history could be of any service to you—but
I think it never can; it is impossible you
should ever be placed in circumstances subject
to the dangers I have experienced, or the difficulties
I have encountered.
“I could not wish to intrude upon your family
secrets,” replied Melissa, “or request a
narrative of your life, if the recital would
give you the least pain.”
“By the arrival of my brother,” returned
Mrs. Bergher, “we are relieved from anxieties
and embarrassments which, for several
years, have rendered, as it respects our affairs,
secrecy, silence, and seclusion, indispensible;
this being the case, we can experience
no reluctance in disclosing, to the
world, if necessary, the whole transactions
of our past lives. I have written, at different
periods, an abstract of the principal scenes in
which I have been an actress, with the attending
occurrences, from my earliest childhood.
Some part thereof was originally written
in the German language; but since our settlement
in this country it has been revised
and translated into English by Bergher. This
the mystery in which certain events were involved
when we left our native country; my
brother has elucidated them, which enables
me to supply the deficiencies in my narrative,
and which I shall immediately do, as I design
to preserve it as a memorial for my children.
“You, Miss Bloomfield, are the first person
to whom I have revealed so much; and I
am pleased that it is so. I shall ever consider
myself under obligations to your family;
they assisted us when we were strangers and
destitute, poor and friendless; they aided
and relieved us in our distress, without even
the prospect of reward. I wish them, now,
to become acquainted with our history; I
can cheerfully entrust you with a perusal of
my journal, and will”—At this moment
Katherine entered the chamber to inform them
breakfast was waiting, and her mother discontinued
her discourse.
It was four days after this before Miss Martha
returned, during which time, with that
anxiety attendant on curiosity, Melissa had
expected that Mrs. Bergher would have renewed
the subject she left unfinished, when
she was disappointed.
It was early in the morning when her aunt
arrived, having slept at the house of one of
her tenants a few miles off, probably to save
expense. She requested her niece to “get
ready as fast as possible, as she meant to
reach home that night.” While Melissa was
preparing, Mrs. Bergher came to her chamber,
and putting into her hands a packet,
“Here,” said she, “are the outlines of my
history, make such use thereof as you please,
only return me the manuscript, which I wish
to retain for the purposes I have mentioned.
It may tend to amuse you, nor is it impossible
but it may serve as a beacon to guide your
footsteps in some wildering maze of your
future life.”
They were soon ready to depart. Melissa
took a tender leave of the family, to whom
she had become greatly attached. Bergher
and the Baron had, the day previous, gone to
a neighbouring town, on some business, and
had not returned. She did not, therefore,
inform her aunt of Du Ruyter's arrival, determined
she would be better prepared to make the disclosure.
They reached home by sunset; the
next day she opened the packet, and at intervals
read as in the succeeding pages.
| CHAPTER I. The asylum, or, Alonzo and Melissa | |