University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Humphreys.

Alonzo arrived at the residence of
his friend near the close of day. Vincent
and his wife were at tea with several young
ladies who had passed the afternoon with
Mrs. Vincent. Haventon cast an active
glance around the company in hopes to find
Melissa, but she was not there. On invitation,
he accepted a seat in the circle. After
tea, Vincent led him into an adjoining room:
“You have come in good time,” said he;
“something must speedily be done or you
lose Miss Bloomfield for ever: the day after
you left here her father received a letter from
Bowman, in which, after alluding to the circumstances
of your father's insolvency, he
hinted that the consequence might probably be
a failure of the proposed marriage, which
might essentially injure the reputation of a lady

so delicately situated, and of so respectable
a character and family; to prevent which, and
to place her beyond the reach of calumny, he
offered to marry her at any appointed day,
provided he had her free consent. As Bowman
by the recent death of his father has
been put in possession of a splendid fortune,
the proposition allured the Colonel, who
wrote him a complaisant answer, with an invitation
to his house. He then endeavoured to
extort a promise from Melissa that she would
break off all connexion with you, and admit
the addresses of Bowman: to this she could not
consent; she urged that with the approbation
of her parents she was engaged to you by the
most solemn ties; that to her father's will she
had hitherto yielded implicit obedience, but
that hastily to break such sacred obligations,
formed, sanctioned and approved by him,
was what her conscience would not permit her
to do. Were he to command her to live single,
life might be endured, but to give her
hand to any except to you, would be to perjure
those principles of truth and justice
which he himself had ever taught her to hold
most inviolable. Her father grew outrageous;
charged her with disobedience, with a blind inconsiderate
perverseness, by which she would
bring ruin upon herself and indelible disgrace
upon her family. She answered only with her
tears. Her mother interposed and endeavoured
to appease his anger, but he spurned her
from him, and rushed out of the room, uttering
a threat that force should succeed persuasion
if his commands were not obeyed. To
add to Melissa's distress, Bowman arrived
yesterday; and I hope in some measure to
alleviate it, Edgar, her brother, came this
morning. Mrs. Vincent's visitors have departed,
and she has despatched a message to
inform Melissa of your arrival, and to request
her to come her immediately. She will undoubtedly
comply with the invitation if not
prevented by something extraordinary. I
should have written you had I not hourly expected
your arrival.”

Mrs. Vincent now came to the door of the
room and beckoned to her husband, who went
out, but instantly returned leading in Melissa,
after which he retired. “Oh, Alonzo!”
was all she could say, and burst into tears.
Haventon led her to a seat, gently pressed
her hand, and mingled his tears with hers,
but was unable to speak. Recovering at
length, he begged her to moderate her grief:

“Where is your fortitude and your firmness,”
said he, “Melissa, which I have so often
seen triumphing over affliction?” Her extreme
anguish prevented reply. Deeply affected
and alarmed at the storm of distress
which raged in her bosom, he endeavoured to
console her, though consolation was a stranger
to his own breast. “Let us not,” he continued,
“increase our flood of afflictions by
a tide of useless sorrow: perhaps more prosperous
days are yet in reserve for us; happiness
may still be ours.”

“Never, never!” she exclaimed, “Oh,
what will become of me?”

“Heaven cannot desert you;” said Alonzo;
“as well might it forsake its angels.
This thorny and gloomy path may lead to
fair fields of light and verdure. Tempests
are succeeded by calms; war ends in peace;
the splendours of the brightest morning arise
on the wings of blackest midnight: troubles
with not always last: life at most is short;
death comes to the relief of the virtuous
wretched, and transports them to “another and
a better world,” where sighing and sorrows

cease, and the tempestuous passions are known
no more.”

The rage of grief which had overwhelmed
Melissa, began now to subside, as the waves
of the ocean gradually cease their tumultuous
agitation after the turbulent winds are laid asleep.
Deep sobs and long drawn sighs succeeded
to a suffocation of tears. The irritation
of her feelings had caused a more than
usual glow upon her cheek, which faded away
as she became composed, until a livid paleness
spread itself over her features. Alonzo
feared that the delicacy of her constitution
would fall a sacrifice to the sorrow which
preyed upon her heart, if not speedily alleviated;
but where, alas, were the means of
alleviation!

She informed him that her father had that
evening ordered her to prepare to become the
wife of Bowman; her disobedience, he said,
was no longer to be borne; “No longer,”
he exclaimed, “will I tamper with your perverseness;
you are determined to be poor,
wretched and contemptible; I will compel
you to be rich, happy and respected. You
suffer the jack-a-lantern, fancy, to lead you

into swamps and quagmires, when, did you
but follow the fair light of reason, it would
conduct you to honour and real felicity. Happiness
and misery await your choice: marry
Bowman, and you roll in your coach and
flaunt in your silks; your furniture and your
equipage are splendid, your associates of the
first character, and your family rejoice in your
prosperity: marry Haventon, and you sink into
obscurity, are condemned to drudgery, poorly
fed, worse clothed, and your relations and acquaintance
shun and despise you. The comparison
I have here drawn between Bowman and
Haventon is a correct one, for even the wardrobe
of the former is of more value than the
whole fortune of the latter. I give you now
two days for consideration and reflection; at
the end of that time I shall expect your decision,
and hope you will decide discreetly:
but remember, that you become the wife of
Bowman, or you are no longer acknowledged
as my daughter.”

“Thus,” said Melissa, “did my father
pronounce his determination, which shook my
frame, and chilled with horror every nerve
of my heart, and immediately left me. My
aunt added her taunts to his severities, and

Bowman interfered with his ill-timed consolation.
My mother and Edgar ardently strove
to allay the fever of my soul, and mitigate
my distress: but the stroke was almost too
severe for my nature. Habituated only to
the smiles of my father, how could I support
his frowns! Accustomed to receive his blessings
alone, how could I endure his sudden
malediction!”

Description would fail in painting the sensations
of Alonzo's bosom at this recital of woe;
but the endeavoured to mitigate her sorrows
by the consoling hope of more cheering prospects
and happier hours.

Vincent and his lady came into the room:
they strenuously urged the propriety and the
necessity of an immediate and inseparable
union between the distressed pair. “It will at
least disperse the clouds of affliction which
now surround you,” said Mrs. Vincent, “and
in future you can scarcely anticipate superior
calamity.”

“The measure would be hazardous,” remarked
Melissa.

“My circumstances,” said Alonzo—

“Not on that account,” interrupted she,
“but my father's displeasure”—

“Will be the same whether you marry Alonzo
or refuse to marry Bowman,” replied
Vincent.

Her resolution appeared to be shaken.

“Come here, Melissa, tomorrow evening,”
said Mrs. Vincent; “mean time you will consider
the matter and then determine.” To
this she assented, and prepared to return
home.

Haventon walked with her to the gate which
opened into the yard surrounding her father's
house: it was dangerous for him to go farther;
should he be discovered with Melissa, even by
a domestic of the family, it must increase the
persecutions against her. They parted: he
stood at the gate, gazing anxiously after her
as she walked up the long winding avenue,
bordered with the odour-flowering lilac and
lofty elm, her white robes now invisible, now
“dimly seen,” as she turned the angles of the

walk, until they were totally obscured, mingling
with the gloom and darkness of the night.
“Thus,” thought he, “fades the angel of peace
from the visionary eyes of the war-worn soldier,
when it ascends in the dusky clouds of
early morning, while he slumbers on the field of
recent battle.” With mournful forebodings
he returned to the house of Vincent.

He arose after a sleepless night and walked
into an adjoining field. He stood leaning in
deep contemplation against a tree, when he
heard quick footsteps behind him; he turned
and saw Edgar approaching; in a moment
they were in each other's arms and mingled
tears; they returned to Vincent's and conversed
largely on present affairs.

“I have discoursed with my father on the
subject,” said Edgar; “I have urged him
with every possible argument to relinquish
his determination; I fear however he is inflexible.
To assuage the tempest of distress
which rent Melissa's bosom, was my next object,
and in this I have not been unsuccessful;
you will see her this evening and will find her
more calm and resigned. You, Alonzo,
must exert your fortitude: the ways of Heaven

are inscrutable, but they are right; we
must acquiesce in its dealings; we cannot alter
its decrees: resignation to its will, whether
merciful or afflictive, is one of those eminent
virtues which adorn the good man's character,
and which ever find a brilliant reward
in the regions of unsullied splendour, far beyond
trouble and the tomb.”

Edgar told Alonzo that circumstances compelled
him that day to depart for the army.
“I would advise you,” he continued, “to
remain here until your affair comes to some
final issue; it must, I think, ere long be determined;
possibly my father may relent;
perhaps you and my sister may yet be happy.”

Haventon feelingly expressed his gratitude
to Bloomfield. He found in him that disinterested
friendship which his early youth had
experienced. Edgar the same day departed
for the army.

In the afternoon Alonzo received a note
from Melissa's father, requesting his immediate
attendance. Surprised at the incident,
he repaired there instantly. The servant introduced
him into a room where Col. Bloomfield

and his sister were sitting: the former
motioned him to a seat, and then thus addressed
him:

“Understanding you were in the neighbourhood,
I have sent for you to make a proposition,
with which, after what has taken
place, I think you cannot hesitate to comply.
The occurrence of previous circumstances
may lead you to suppose that my daughter is
under obligations to you, which may render
it improper for her to form marriage connexions
with any other. Whatever embarrassments
your addresses to her may have produced,
it is in your power to remove them,
and if you are a man of honour you will not
hesitate to do so. You cannot wish to involve
Melissa in your present penurious condition,
unless you are willing to make her
wretched. It therefore only remains for you
to give me a writing voluntarily resigning all
pretensions to the hand of my daughter; and
if you desire she may be happy, honourable
and respected in life, this, I say, you will
readily do.”

He paused.

“I cannot perceive,” replied Haventon,
“any particular advantage that can arise from
such a measure; it will neither increase nor
diminish the power you possess to command
obedience to your will, if you are determined
to command it, either from your daughter—
or your servant.”

“There, brother,” bawled Miss Martha,
half squeaking through her nose which was
well charged with rappee, “there! did'nt I
tell you so? I knew the fellow would come to
no terms, no more than will your refractory
daughter. This love fairly bewitches such
foolish, crack-brained youngsters. But say,
Mr.—what's your name,” addressing herself
to Haventon, “will love heat the oven? Will
love boil the pot? Will love clothe the back?
Will love”—

“You will not,” interrupted Col. Bloomfield,
speaking to Alonzo, “it seems, accede
to my proposition. I have then one demand to
make, which of right you cannot resist; promise
me that you will never see my daughter
again unless by my permission.”

“At the present moment I am prepared to
promise you nothing, Sir,” replied Alonzo,
with some warmth.

“There, again,” exclaimed the old maid,
“just so Melissa told you this morning when
you requested her to see him no more. The
fellow has certainly crazed her. If I had him
to deal with! Things wasn't so when I was
a girl; I kept the rogues at a distance, I'll
warrant you. I always told you, brother,
what would come of your indulgence to your
daughter; and I should not wonder were you
soon to find that the girl had eloped, and your
desk robbed into the bargain.”

Alonzo hastily arose; “I suppose,” said
he, “my presence may be dispensed with.”

“Well, young man,” said Col. Bloomfield,
“since you will not comply with any overtures
I make; since you will not accede to any
terms I propose, remember, Sir, I now warn
you to break off all communication and correspondence
with Melissa, and to relinquish
every expectation concerning her. I shall
never consent to marry my daughter to a
beggar.”

“Beggar!” involuntarily exclaimed Alonzo,
and his eyes flashed resentment; but he
recollected that it was the father of Melissa
who had thus insulted him, and he suppressed
his indignation. He rushed out of the house
and returned to Vincent's. He had neither
heard nor seen any thing of Melissa or Bowman.

Night came on, and he ardently and anxiously
expected Melissa; he anticipated the
consolation her presence would bestow. Edgar
had told him she was more composed;
he doubted whether it were proper to excite
anew her distress by relating his interview
with her father, unless she was already apprized
of it. The evening passed on, but
she came not. Alonzo grew restless and uneasy;
he looked out, then at his watch; Vincent
and his lady assured him she would soon
be there: he paced the room; still he became
more impatient: he walked out on the
way she was expected to come; sometimes
he advanced hastily, at others he moved
slowly; then stood motionless, listening in
breathless silence, momentarily expecting to
discover her white form approaching through
the gloom, or to hear the sound of her footsteps

advancing amidst the darkness. Shapeless
objects, either real or imaginary, frequently
crossed his sight, but like all unreal
phantoms of night, they suddenly passed
away and were seen no more. At length he
perceived a dusky white form advancing in
the distant, dim obscurity: it drew near;
his heart beat quick; his fond hopes told him
it was Melissa; the object came up and hastily
passed him with a “Good night, Sir.”—It
was a stranger in a white surtout. Alonzo
hesitated whether to advance or to return. It
was possible, though not probable, that Mclissa
might have come some other way. He
hastened back to Vincent's; she had not arrived.
“Something extraordinary,” said
Mrs. Vincent, “has prevented her coming;
perhaps she is ill.” Alonzo shuddered at the
suggestion: he again looked at his watch; it
was half past eleven o'clock: he instantly
sallied out and took the road to her father's.

The night was exceedingly dark and illuminated
only by the feeble glimmer of half
clouded twinkling stars. When he came
within sight of the house, and as he drew
nearer, no lights were visible, all was still and
silent. He entered the yard, walked up the

avenue and approached the door: the familiar
watch-dog which lay near the threshold fawned
upon him, joyfully whining and wagging his
tail: “Thou still knowest me, Curlow,” said
Alonzo, “thou hast known me in better days;
I am now poor and wretched, but thy friendship
is still the same; how much more benevolent
art thou than man!”

A death-like stillness prevailed all around,
interrupted only by the discordance of the
nightly insect and the hooting of the solemn
owl from a neighbouring forest. The dwelling
was shrouded in darkness: in Melissa's
room no gleam of light appeared. “They
are all buried in sleep,” said he, deeply
sighing, “and I have only to return in disappointment.”
He then walked towards the
street; casting a glance back, the blaze of a
candle caught his eye; it passed rapidly along
the lower rooms, now gleaming, now intercepted,
as the walls or the windows intervened,
and suddenly disappeared; he gazed
earnestly a few moments, and hastily returned:
no noise was to be heard, no new object
was discernable: he clambered over the garden
wall and went around to the back side of
the house; there all was dark and silent as

in front: immediately a faint light appeared
through one of the upper casements, it grew
brighter, a candle entered the chamber, the
sash was flung up and Melissa seated herself
at the window.

The weather was sultry; she held a fan in
her hand; her countenance though stamped
with deep dejection was marked with serenity,
but pale as the drooping lily of the valley.
Haventon placed himself directly under the
window and in a low voice called her by name.
She started wildly, looked out and faintly
cried “Who's there?”

He answered “Alonzo.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “Is it
you? I was disappointed in meeting you at
Vincent's this evening; my father will not
suffer me to go out without attendants. I am
now constantly watched and strictly guarded.”

“Guarded!” he replied; “At the risk of
my life I will rescue you from the tyranny
with which you are oppressed.”

“Be calm, Alonzo,” said she; “I think it
will not long last: Bowman will soon depart,
after which there will undoubtedly be some
alteration. Desire Mrs. Vincent to come
here tomorrow; I believe they will trust me
to see her; I can from time to time inform
you of passing events, so that you may know
what changes take place. I am placed under
the care of my aunt, who suffers me not to
step out of her sight. We pass the night in
an adjoining apartment, from whence, after
she had fallen asleep, I stole out and went
down with a design to walk in the garden,
but found the doors all locked and the keys
taken out: I returned and raised this window
for fresh air. Hark!” she continued, “my
aunt calls me; she has waked and misses me;
I must fly to her chamber. You shall hear
more from me tomorrow by Mrs. Vincent,
Alonzo.” She then let down the window
and retired.

Haventon withdrew slowly from the place,
and repassed the way he came. As he sprang
back over the garden wall, he found a man
standing at its foot very near him: after a
moment's scrutiny he perceived it to be Bowman.

“What, my chevalier,” said he to Alonzo,
“such an adept in the amorous science
already? Hast thou then eluded the watchful
eyes of Argus and the vigilance of the dragon?”

“Unfeeling and impertinent intruder!” retorted
Haventon, seizing hold of him, “Is
it not enough that an innocent daughter endure
a merciless parent's persecuting hand,
but must thou add to her misery by thy disgusting
interference!”

“Quit thy hold, Tarquin,” said Bowman;
“art thou determined after storming the fortress
to murder the garrison?”

“Go!” replied Alonzo, quitting him;
“Go, Sir! you are unworthy of my anger.
Pursue thy grovelling schemes; strive to
force to your arms a lady who abhors you,
and were it on no other account must ever
continue to despise and hate you.”

“Haventon,” answered Bowman, “I perceive
thou knowest me not. You and I were
rivals in one pursuit—the hand of Miss
Bloomfield. Whether from freak or fancy,

the preference was given to you, and I retired
in silence. From a coincidence of consequences
her father has now been induced to
give that preference to me. My belief was
that Melissa would comply with her father's
will, especially after her prospects of connecting
with you were cut off by the events which
have ruined your fortune. You, Haventon,
have yet, I find, to learn the character of women;
it has been my particular study. Miss
Bloomfield, now ardently impassioned by first
impressions, irritated by recent disappointment,
her passions delicate and vivid, her affections
animated and unmixed, it would be
strange if she could suddenly relinquish primitive
attachments founded on such premises
without a struggle; but remove her from
your presence for one short year, with only
distant and uncertain prospects of seeing you
again; admit me as the substitute in your absence,
and she accepts my hand as freely as
she would now receive yours. I had no design,
it was never my wish, to marry her
without her voluntary consent; that I believe
will yet be obtained. Under existing circumstances
it is impossible but that you must be
separated for some considerable time; then,
when cool deliberation succeeds to the wild
vagaries, the electric fires of frolic fancy, she
will discover the dangerous precipice, the
deadly abyss to which her present conduct and
inclinations lead; she will see that the blandishments
without the possessions of life
must fade and die; will discriminate between
the shreds and the trappings of taste, and
prefer indifference and splendour to love and
a cottage. At present I relinquish all farther
pursuit: tomorrow I return to New-London.
When Melissa, from calm deliberation and
the advice of friends, shall cheerfully agree
to yield me her hand, I will return and receive
it. I came from my lodgings this evening to
declare these intentions to her father, but it
being later than I was aware of, the family
had retired to rest; I was about to return,
when I saw a light from the chamber window,
which soon withdrew; I stood a moment by
the garden wall, when you approached and
discovered me.” So saying, he bade Alonzo
good night, and walked hastily away.

“I find he understands not the character
of Melissa,” thought Haventon, as he returned
to Vincent's.

The next day Alonzo told the Vincents of
all that had passed, and it was agreed that
Mrs. Vincent should visit at Col. Bloomfield's
that afternoon: she went at an early
hour. Alonzo's feelings were on the rack
until she returned, which happened much
sooner than was expected, when she gave
the following information:

“On arriving there,” said she, “I found
Melissa's father and mother alone; the latter
was in tears, which she endeavoured to conceal;
the former soon withdrew. After some
conversation I inquired for Melissa: Mrs.
Bloomfield burst into tears, and told me
that this morning Melissa's aunt had invited
her to ride out: a carriage was provided,
which, after a large trunk had been placed
therein, drove off with only her and Miss Martha;
that Col. Bloomfield had just informed
her that he had sent their daughter to a distant
part of the country, where she was to reside
with a friend until Haventon should depart
from the neighbourhood. The reason of this
sudden resolution was his being apprized by
Bowman, that notwithstanding his precaution,
Melissa and Alonzo had an interview
the last evening. Where she was sent to, the

old lady could not tell, but she was convinced
that Melissa was not aware of the design
when she consented to go. Her aunt had resided
heretofore, alternately, with the different
relatives of the family, in various parts of
the state, to one of which places they had
probably gone.”

Alonzo listened to Mrs. Vincent's relation
with inexpressible agitation. He sat silent a
few moments; then suddenly starting up, “I
will find her if she be on the earth!” said he,
and in spite of Vincent's attempts to prevent
him, rushed out of the house, flew to the
road, and was soon out of sight.

Melissa had not indeed the most distant
suspicion of the designs of her father and
aunt. The latter said that she was going to
take a morning ride, and invited her niece to
accompany her, to which she consented: she
did not even perceive the trunk which was
fastened on behind the carriage. They were
attended by a single servant, and drove to a
neighbouring town where Melissa had frequently
been with her father or mother to
purchase articles of dress; there they alighted
at a friend's house and lingered away the

time until dinner, after which they prepared,
as she supposed, to return, but found to her
surprise when they entered the carriage, that
her aunt ordered the driver to proceed a different
way. She inquired if they were not
going home. “Not yet,” said Miss Martha.
Melissa grew uneasy; she expected to see
Mrs. Vincent that afternoon; what disappointment
must Alonzo experience if he
heard nothing from her! She begged her
aunt to return, as she expected the company
of some ladies that afternoon. “You cannot
see them, child,” answered the old maid.
Melissa knew it was in vain to remonstrate;
she supposed her aunt was bent on visiting
some of her acquaintance, and remained
silent.

They arrived at another small village and
alighted at an inn, where they tarried while
the servant was ordered out on some business
unknown to Melissa. When they again seated
themselves in the carriage she perceived
several large packages and bundles which had
been deposited there since they left it. She
inquired of aunt Martha what they contained;
“Articles for family use, child,” she
replied, and ordered the driver to proceed.

They passed along winding and solitary
paths, into a by-road which led through an
unfrequented wood, that opened into a rocky
part of the country, bordering on the Sound.
Here they stopped at the only house in view;
it was a miserable hut built of logs and covered
with slabs. They alighted from the carriage,
and Miss Martha handing the driver a
large bunch of keys; “Remember to do as I
have told you,” said she, and he drove rapidly
away. It was with some difficulty they
got into the hut, as a meagre cow with a long
yoke on her neck, a board before her eyes and
a cross-piece on her horns, stood with her
head in the door; on one side of her were
four or five half-starved squeaking pigs; on
the other a flock of gaggling geese. As they
entered the door, a woman who sat carding
wool jumped up: “La me!” she cried,
“here is Madam Bloomfield; welcome here
again: how does Madam do?” dropping a
low curtsey. She was dressed in a linseywoolsey
short gown, a petticoat of the same;
her hair hanging about her ears; bare-headed
and barefoot. Three dirty, ragged children
were playing about the floor, and the furniture
was of a piece with the building.

“Is my room in order?” inquired Martha.

“It hasn't been touched since Madam was
here,” answered the woman, and immediately
stalked away to a little back apartment,
which they entered after her: it was small,
but neatly furnished and contained a single
bed. This appendage had been concealed from
Melissa's view, as it was opposite the side of
the house at which she alighted.

“Where is Jeffrey?” asked Martha.

“My husband is in the garden,” replied
the woman; “I will call him;” and out she
scampered. Jeffrey soon appeared, and exhibited
an exact counterpart to his wife.

“What does Madam please to want?” inquired
he, bowing three or four times.

“I want you, Jeffrey,” she answered; and
immediately gave some directions in a whisper
to him and his wife.

“Dear, doleful!” exclaimed the woman;
“Madam a'n't a going to live in that terrible
place.” Melissa could not understand her

aunt's reply, but heard her give orders to
“first hang on the teakettle.” This was
done, when the man and his wife went out,
and Martha prepared tea in her own room.
In about an hour they returned, and gave the
same bunch of keys to Martha which she had
given to the servant who drove the carriage.

Melissa was involved in inscrutable mystery
respecting these extraordinary proceedings;
she conjectured that they boded her no
good, but could not prenetrate into her aunt's
designs: she frequently looked out hoping to
see the return of the carriage, but was disappointed.
When tea was made ready she
could neither eat nor drink: after her aunt
had disposed of a dozen cups and an adequate
proportion of buttered biscuit and
dried beef, she directed Melissa to prepare to
take a walk.

The sun was low; they proceeded through
fields in a foot path, over rough and uneven
ways, directly towards the Sound; they walked
about a mile, when they came in sight of
a large, old-fashioned, castle-like building, surrounded
with a moat, crossed by a drawbridge,
and with high, thick, wooden walls; the build

ing was almost totally concealed on all sides
from view, by irregular rows of large locust and
elm trees, dry Prim[1] hedges and green shrubbery.
The gate which opened into the yard
was made of strong hard wood, thickly crossed
on the outside with iron bars and filled
with old nails and spikes. After passing the
bridge, Melissa's aunt raised it, unlocked the
gate, and they entered the inclosure, which
was overgrown with rank grass and rushes;
the avenue which led to the house was almost
in the same condition. The mansion was
of real Gothic architecture, built of rude
stone with battlements; the doors were constructed
in the same manner as the gate at
which they entered; they opened one of them,
which creaked heavily on its hinges, and
went in, ascended a flight of stairs, wound
through several dark and empty rooms, till
they came to one which was handsomely furnished,
with a fire burning on the hearth;
two beds were in the room, with tables,
chairs and other conveniences for housekeeping.
“Here we are safe,” said Miss Martha,
“as I have taken care to lock all the doors and
gates after me. And here, Melissa, you are
in the mansion of your ancestors. Your
great grandfather who came over from England
built this house in the earliest settlement
of the country, and here he resided until his
death. The reason why the moat, with so
high and thick a wall, were formed around it,
and the doors and gates so strongly fortified,
was to secure it against the Indians, who frequently
committed depredations on the early
settlers. Your grandfather came into possession
of this estate after his father's death;
it fell to me by will, with the lands surrounding
it. The house has sometimes been tenanted,
at others not; it has now been vacant
for a few years. The lands are rented yearly.
Jeffrey, the person from whose house we
last came, is a servant to one of my overseers
and tenants. I had a small room built adjoining
that hut, where I generally reside for
a week when I come to receive my rents. I
have thought frequently of fitting up this
place for my future residence, but circumstances
have hitherto hindered my carrying
the scheme into effect, and now perhaps it
will never take place.

“Your perverseness, Melissa, in refusing to
comply with the wishes of your friends has
induced us to adopt the plan of bringing you
here, where you are to remain until Haventon
leaves the neighbourhood of Bloomfield
Vale, at least. Notwithstanding your father's
injunctions and my vigilance, you had a clandestine
interview with him last night; so we
were told by Bowman this morning, before
he set out for New-London, who discovered
him at your window. It therefore became
necessary to remove you immediately. You
will want for nothing; Jeffrey is to supply us
with every thing that is needful. You will
not be long here; Haventon will soon be
gone; you will think differently; return
home, marry Bowman, and become a lady.”

“My God!” exclaimed Melissa; “Is it
possible my father can be so cruel? Is he so
unfeeling as to banish me from his house, and
confine me within the walls of a prison like a
common malefactor!” She flung herself on
the bed in a state little inferior to distraction.
Her aunt told her it was all owing to her own
obstinacy, and because she refused to be
made happy, and went to preparing supper.

Melissa heard none of these observations:
she lay in stupifying agony, insensible to all
that passed. When supper was ready her
aunt attempted to arouse her; she started
up, stared around her with a wild and agonizing
countenance, but spake not a word.
Martha became alarmed; applied stimulants
to her temples and forehead, and persuaded
her to take some cordials; but she remained
seemingly insensible throughout the night;
just at morning she fell into a slumber, interrupted
by incoherent moanings, convulsive
startings, long sighs, intermitting sobs, and
frequent, sudden and restless turnings from
side to side; at length she appeared to be in a
calm and quiet sleep for nearly an hour. About
sunrise she awoke; her aunt sat by her
bed-side; she gazed languidly about the
room, then bursting into tears, wept a long
time; Martha endeavoured to console her,
for she really began to tremble lest Melissa's
distress should produce her immediate dissolution;
towards night, however, she became
more calm and resigned, but a slight fever
succeeded, which kept her confined for several
days, after which she slowly recovered.