University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Dwight.

They were both equally surprised at so
unexpected a meeting, and could scarcely
credit their own senses. How Alonzo discovered
her solitude; what led him to that
lonely place; how he crossed the canal and
scaled the wall, were queries which first arose
in the mind of Melissa. He likewise could
not conceive by what miracle he should find
her in a remote, desolate building, which he
had supposed uninhabited. With rapture he
took her trembling hand; tears of joy choked
their utterance.

“You are wet, Alonzo,” said Melissa, at
length; “we will go up to my chamber, I
have a fire there, where you can dry your
clothes.”

“Your chamber!” replied he; “who then
inhabits this house?”

“No one except myself,” she answered;
“I am here alone.”

“Alone!” he exclaimed; “Here alone,
Melissa! Good God! Tell me how—why—
by what means are you here alone?”

“Let us go to my room,” she answered;
“and I will tell you all.” He followed to
her apartment and seated himself by the fire.
“You want refreshment,” said she, which
was indeed the case, as he had been long without
any, and was wet, hungry and weary.

She immediately began to prepare supper
and soon had it ready, when a comfortable
repast was spread for his entertainment.

And now, reader, if thou art a child of
nature; if thy bosom be susceptible of refined
sensibility, contemplate for a moment, Melissa
and Alonzo seated at the same table, a table
prepared by her own hands, in a lonely
mansion, distant from society, and no one present
to interrupt them. After innumerable

difficulties, troubles and perplexities; after serious
embarrassments and a painful separation,
they were once more together, and for some time
every other consideration was lost. the violence
of the storm had not abated; the lightning
still blazed, the thunder bellowed, the
wind roared, the sea raged, the rain poured,
mingled with rattling hail. They heard little
of it. She told him all that had happened to
her since they parted, except of the strange
noises and awful sights which had terrified
her during her confinement in that solitary
building; this she considered unnecessary
and untimely in their present situation.

Alonzo informed her that soon as he learned
the manner in which she had been sent
away, he left the house of Vincent and repaired
to her father's, to see if he could not
find out by some of the domestics where she
was concealed. None of them knew any
thing about it. He did not put himself in
the way of her father, as he was apprehensive
of ill treatment. He then went to several
places among the relatives of the family,
where he had heretofore visited with Melissa,
most of whom treated him with a cautious
coldness. At length he came to the house of

Bergher; there he was received with the ardour
of friendship. They had heard his story;
Melissa had kept up a correspondence
with Mrs. Bergher and Katherine; they were
therefore apprized of all, except Melissa's
removal from her father's house; of this
they knew nothing until informed thereof by
Haventon.

“I am surprised at the conduct of my kinsman,”
said Bergher; “for though his injunctions
are like the laws of the Medes and
Persians, yet I have ever believed that the
welfare of his children lay nearest his heart.
In the present instance he is certainly pursuing
a mistaken course. I will visit him; possibly
he may be induced to adopt milder
measures.” He then ordered his horse, desiring
Haventon to remain at his house until
he made the experiment.

Alonzo was entertained with the most
friendly politeness by the family; he found
that they were deeply interested in his favour
and the welfare of Melissa. Here for the
first time he saw and became acquainted with
the Baron Du Ruyter, and was highly pleased
with his manners. Du Ruyter, instead of

returning to Germany, fired with the flame
of patriotism, espoused the American cause,
had been honoured with the station of general
of brigade, and was soon to repair to the
army.

The ensuing evening Bergher returned.
“It is in vain,” said he, “to reason with my
kinsman: he is determined that his daughter
shall marry your rival. He will not even inform
me to what place he has sent her; his
sister however is with her, and they must be
at the residence of some of their connexions.
I will dispatch my son Roderick among them,
perhaps he will be able to make some discovery.”
The next morning Roderick departed,
and was gone five days, but could not
obtain the least intelligence either of Melissa
or her aunt, although he had visited almost
all the relatives of the family.

“There is some mystery in this affair,”
said Bergher. “I am very little acquainted
with Miss Martha; I have understood that
she derives a decent support from her patrimonial
resources, which it is said are pretty
large, and that she resides alternately with
her different relations. I have also been informed

that my kinsman expects her fortune
to come into his family in case she never marries,
which in all probability she now will
not, and that she in consequence holds considerable
influence over him. Doubtless his
daughter is concealed at some place where
her aunt usually resides. I judge it cannot
be long before the secret is disclosed. You,
Mr. Haventon, are welcome to make my
house your home; and if the object of your
search can be found, she shall be treated as
my daughter.” Alonzo thanked him for his
friendship and proffered kindness: “I must
continue,” said he, “my inquiries for Melissa;
the result you shall know.”

He then departed, and travelled through the
neighbouring villages and adjoining towns, making
at almost every house such examination
as he considered necessary on the occasion.
He at length arrived at the inn in the last little
village where Melissa and her aunt had stopped
when they went to the mansion. Here
the innkeeper informed him that two ladies
answering to his description had been at his
house; he named the time, which was the
day on which they left Bloomfield Vale. The
innkeeper told him that they purchased some

articles in the village, and drove off to the
south. Alonzo then traversed the country
adjoining the Sound, far to the west, and
was returning eastward, when he was overtaken
by the shower. No house being within
sight, he resorted to the forest for shelter;
from a little hilly glade in the wilderness he
discovered the lonely mansion, which from
its appearance he very naturally judged to
be uninhabited. The tempest soon becoming
severe, he thought he would endeavour to
reach the house; when he arrived at the moat
he found it impossible to cross it, or ascend
the wall; and he stood in momentary jeopardy
of his life from the falling timber, some
of which was broken or torn up by the tornado,
some splintered by the fiery bolts of
heaven. At length a large, tall tree, which
stood near him on the verge of the canal,
was hurled from its foundation, and fell with
hideous crash across the moat, its top lodging
on the wall; he scrambled up on the trunk,
and advanced along on the fallen tree; by
the incessant glare of lightning he was able
to see distinctly; the top of the tree was
partly broken by the force of the fall, and
hung over the inclosure; by these branches
he let himself down into the yard, proceeded
to the house, found the door open, which Melissa
had left so in her fright, and entered into
one of the rooms, where he proposed to stay
until at least the storm was over, still supposing
the house unoccupied, until the noise of
locking the door, and the light of the candle,
drew him from the room, when to his infinite
surprise he discovered Miss Bloomfield, as
previously related.

Melissa listened to this narrative with varied
emotion. The fixed obduracy of her
father, the generous conduct of the Berghers,
the constancy of Alonzo, filled her heart with
inexpressible sensations. She foresaw that
her sufferings were not shortly to end. She
knew not when her sorrows would close.

Haventon was shocked at the alteration
which appeared in the features of Melissa.
The rose had faded from her cheek, except
when transiently suffused with a hectic
flush. A livid paleness sat upon her countenance,
and her fine form was rapidly wasting.
It was easy to foresee that the floods of grief
which overwhelmed her, unless shortly removed,
would soon sink her to the tomb.

The storm had now passed into the regions
of the east; the wind and rain had ceased,
the lightning more unfrequently flashed, and
the thunder rolled at a distance. The hours
moved hastily; day would soon appear. Hitherto
they had thought only of the present
moment; it was time to think of the future.
After the troubles they had experienced, after
so fortunate a meeting, they could not endure
the idea of another and an immediate
separation; and yet immediately separate
they must. It would not be safe for Alonzo
to stay there even until the rising of the sun,
unless he was concealed; and of what use
could it be for him to remain there in concealment?

In this dilemma there was but one expedient.
“Permit me,” said Alonzo, “to remove
you from this solitary confinement.
Your health is impaired. To you your father
is no longer a parent; he has steeled his bosom
to paternal affection; he has banished
you from his house, placed you under the
tyranny of others, and confined you in a lonely,
desolate building, far from the sweets of
society, and this only because you cannot
heedlessly renounce a most solemn contract,

formed under his eye and sanctioned by his
immediate approbation. Pardon me, Melissa,
I would not wish unjustly to censure your
father, but allow me to say, that after such
treatment you are absolved from implicit obedience
to his rigorous, cruel and stern commands.
It will therefore be considered a
duty you owe to your preservation, if you
suffer me to remove you from the unusual severity
with which you are oppressed.”

Melissa sighed, and wiping a tear which
fell from her eye: “Unqualified obedience to
my parents,” said she, “I ever considered
the first of duties, and have religiously practised
thereon. But where, Alonzo, would
you remove me?”

“To any place you shall appoint,” he answered.

“Alas! I have nowhere to go,” she replied.

“If you will permit me to name the place,”
said he, “I will mention Bergher's: he will
espouse your cause, and if conciliation be
possible, will reconcile you to your father.
You are intimate with the family, and are

distantly connected. They are all your
friends, and sincerely sympathize in your
sufferings. It was their express desire, if
you could be found, to have you brought to
their house. Your removal can be effected
without its being known that I had any agency
in the business. There you can remain
either in secret or openly, as you shall choose,
until some change in our affairs takes place.
Be governed by me in this, and in all things
I will obey you thereafter. I will then submit
to the future events of fate; but I cannot,
Melissa, I cannot leave you in this doleful
place.”

Melissa arose and walked the room in extreme
agitation. What did her duty enjoin?
She had indeed determined to quit the house
for reasons of which Alonzo knew nothing.
But should she leave it in the way previously
contemplated, she would probably be
immediately remanded back, more strictly
guarded, and more severely treated. To continue
there under existing circumstances,
would be impossible, and long to exist. She
therefore came to a determination—“I will
go,” she said, “to Bergher's.”

It was then concluded that Alonzo should
proceed to the house of Vincent, apprize that
family of the circumstances, procure a carriage
and return at eleven o'clock the next night.
Melissa was to leave the drawbridge down
and the gate open. If Jeffrey should come to
the house the succeeding day, she would persuade
him to let her still keep the keys. But
it was possible her aunt might return: this
would render the execution of the scheme more
hazardous and difficult: a signal was therefore
agreed on; if Martha should be there, a candle
was to be set at the window fronting the gate,
in the chamber; if not, it would be placed against
a similar window in the room below. In
the first case, Haventon was to rap loudly at the
door, Melissa would then run down under pretence
of seeing who was there, fly with Alonzo
to the carriage, and leave her aunt to scrape acquaintance
with the ghosts and goblins of the
old mansion. For even if Martha should return,
which was extremely doubtful, Melissa
thought she could contrive to let down the
bridge and unlock the gate in the evening,
without her aunt's knowledge. At any rate,
she was determined not to let the keys go out
of her hands, unless they were forced from
her, until she had escaped from that horrid

and dreary place. Had Alonzo been apprized
of the terrors she had there encountered,
what would have been his sensations!
but these she wisely concealed.

Daylight began to break from the east, and
Haventon prepared to depart. Melissa accompanied
him to the bridge, which they let
down; he passed over, and she slowly withdrew,
both frequently turning to look back.
At the gate she paused; Alonzo stopped also;
she waved a white handkerchief, and he bowed
in answer to the sign. She then leisurely
entered and slowly closed the gate. Alonzo
could not forbear climbing up into a tree to
catch another glance of her as she passed up
the avenue. With lingering step he saw her
move along, soon receding from his view in
the grey twilight of a misty morning. He
then descended and hastily proceeded on his
journey.

Streams of glory now painted the eastern
skies. The glittering day-star, harbinger of
light, began to transmit its retrocessive lustre.
Thin scud flew swiftly over the moon's decrescent
form. Low, hollow winds murmured
among the bushes, or brushed the limpid

drops from intermingling foliage. The firefly
sank, feebly twinkling, amidst the weedy
herbage of the fields. The dusky shadows
of night fled to the deep glens and rocky caverns
of the wilderness. The American lark
soared high in the air, consecrating its matin
lay to morn's approaching splendours. The
woodlands began to ring with native melody.
Forest tops, on high mountains, caught the
sun's first ray, which widening and extending,
soon spangled the landscape with brilliants of
a thousand various dies.

As Haventon came out of the fields near
the road, he saw two persons passing in an
open chaise; they suddenly stopped, earnestly
gazing at him: they were wrapped in long
riding-cloaks, and it could not be distinguished
from their dress whether they were men
or women. He stood not to notice them, but
made the best of his way to the residence of
the Vincents, where he arrived about noon.
Rejoiced to find that he had discovered Melissa,
they applauded the plan of her removal
and assisted him in obtaining a carriage.
A chaise was procured, and he set out to return,
promising to see Vincent again, soon
as he had removed Melissa to Bergher's. He

made such use of his time as to reach the
mansion at the hour appointed. He found
the draw-bridge down, the gate open, and
saw, as had been agreed upon, the light at the
lower window, glimmering through the
branches of trees. He was therefore assured
that Melissa was alone. His heart beat; a
joyful tremour seized his frame: Miss
Bloomfield was soon to be under his protection,
for a short time at least. He drove up
to the house, sprang out of the carriage, and
fastened his horse to a locust tree; the door
was open, he went in, flew lightly up stairs,
entered her chamber—Melissa was not there!
A small fire was blazing on the hearth, and a
candle burning on the table. He stood petrified
with amazement; then gazed around in
anxious solicitude. What could have become
of her? It was impossible, he thought,
but that she must be there. Had she been
removed by fraud or force, the signal-candle
would not have been at the window. Perhaps
in a frolicksome moment, she had concealed
herself, for no other purpose than to
cause him a little perplexity. He therefore
took a candle and searched every corner of
the chamber, and every room in the house,
not even neglecting the garret and the cellar.
He then placed the candle in a lantern, hastened
into the yard, and examined the outhouses;
he next went round the garden and the inclosure,
strictly exploring and investigating
every place, but he found her not. He repeatedly
and loudly called her by name; he was answered
only by the solitary echoes of the wilderness.
Again he returned to the house, traversed
the rooms, there also calling on the
name of Melissa; his voice reverberated from
the walls, dying away in solemn murmurs in
the distant, empty apartments. Thus did he
continue his anxious scrutiny, alternately, in
the house and the inclosure, until day, but no
traces could be discovered, nothing seen or
heard of Melissa. What had become of her
he could not form even a conjecture. Nothing
was removed from the house: the beds, the
chairs, the table, all the furniture remained in
the same condition as when he was there the
night before; the candle, as had been agreed
upon, was at the window, and another burning
on the table; it was therefore evident
that she could not have been long gone when
he arrived. By what means she had thus
suddenly disappeared was a most deep and
inscrutable mystery.

When the sun had arisen he once more
repeated his inquisitive search, but with the
same effect. He then, in extreme vexation
and disappointment, flung himself into the
chaise, and drove from the mansion. Frequently
did he look back at the building,
anxiously did he scrutinize every surrounding
and receding object. A thrill of pensive
recollection vibrated through his frame as
he passed the gate, and the keen, agonizing
pangs of blasted hope, pierced his
heart, as his carriage rolled over the bridge.
Once more he cast a “longing, lingering
look” upon the premises behind, sacred only
for the treasure they lately possessed, then
sank backward in his seat, and was dragged
slowly away.

He had been informed by Melissa that Jeffrey's
hut was situate about one mile north
from the old mansion. When he came out
near the road he left his horse and carriage,
after securing them, went in search of the cottage,
and soon discovered it. He knocked at
the door, which was opened by Jeffrey, whom
Alonzo readily knew, from the portrait Melissa
had drawn of him. The man started in
amazement.

“Understanding,” said Alonzo, “that you
have the charge of the old building in yonder
field, I have come to know if you can inform
me what has become of the lady who has been
confined there.”

“Confined!” said he, “I did not know she
was confined.”

Recollecting himself, “I mean the young
lady who has lately resided there with her
aunt,” replied Alonzo.

“She was there last night,” answered the
other, “but old Madam has gone into the
country and has not returned.”

Haventon then told him of the situation of
the mansion, and that the young lady was
gone likewise. Jeffrey said she was there about
sunset and according to her request he had
left the keys of the gate and bridge with her.
He desired Alonzo to tarry there until he ran
to the building. He returned in about half
an hour: “she is gone, sure enough,” said
he; “but how or where, it is impossible for me
to guess.” Convinced that he knew nothing

of the matter, Alonzo left him and returned
to Vincent's.

Vincent and his lady were much surprised
at Alonzo's account of Melissa's sudden
disappearance, and they wished to ascertain
whether her father's family knew any
thing of the circumstance. Social intercourse
had been suspended between the families of
Vincent and Col. Bloomfield, as the latter had
taxed the former with improperly endeavouring
to promote the views of Haventon. They
therefore procured a neighbouring woman to
visit Mrs. Bloomfield, to see if any information
could be obtained concerning Melissa;
but the old lady had learnt nothing since her
departure with Martha, who had never yet returned.
Alonzo left Vincent's, and went to
Bergher's. He informed them of all that had
happened since he was there, of which, before,
they had heard nothing. At the houses
of Bergher and Vincent, he resided some time,
while they made the most diligent search to
discover Melissa, but not a particle of information
could be obtained.

He then travelled into various parts of the
country, making such inquiries as caution dictated,

of all whom he saw, but he found none
who could give him the least intelligence of
his lost Melissa. In the course of his wanderings
he again passed near the old mansion:
he felt an inclination once more to visit
it; he proceeded over the bridge, which was
down, but found the gate locked. He therefore
hurried back and called on Jeffrey. On
questioning him whether he had yet heard
any thing of the young lady and her aunt,
“All I know of the matter,” said Jeffrey, “is,
that two days after you was here, old Madam
came back with a strange gentleman, and ordered
me to go and fetch the furniture away
from the room they had occupied. I asked
her what had become of young Madam. She
told me that young Madam had behaved improperly,
and she found fault with me for
leaving the keys in her possession, though I
did not know that any harm could come of it.
From the discourse which my wife and I afterwards
overheard between old Madam and the
strange gentleman, I understood that young
Madam had been sent to reside with some
friend or relation at a great distance, because
her father wanted her to marry a man, and
she wanted to marry somebody else.”

From Jeffrey's plain and simple narrative,
Alonzo concluded that Melissa had been removed
by her father's orders, or through the
agency or instigation of her aunt. Whether
his visit to the mansion had been somehow
discovered or suspected, or whether she was
removed by some preconcerted or antecedent
plan, he could not conjecture. Still, the situation
in which he found things on the night he
went to convey her away, left an inexplicable
impression on his mind. He could in no
manner account how the candle should be
placed at the window according to agreement,
unless it had been done by herself, and
if so, how had she so suddenly disappeared?

He asked Jeffrey where Melissa's aunt now
was. “She left here yesterday morning,” he
answered, “with the strange gentleman I
mentioned, on a visit to some of her friends.”

“Was the strange gentleman you speak of
her brother?” asked Alonzo.

“I believe not,” replied Jeffrey, smiling,
and winking at his wife; “I know not who
he was; somebody that Madam seems to like
pretty well.”

“Have you the care of the old house?”
asked Alonzo.

“Yes,” answered he; “I have the keys; I
will go with you there if you wish; perhaps
you will like to buy it; Madam said yesterday
she intended to sell it.” Alonzo told him
he had no thoughts of purchasing, thanked
him for his information and departed.

Convinced now that Melissa was removed
by the agency of her persecutors, he compared
the circumstances of Jeffrey's story.
“She had been sent to reside with some
friend or relation at a great distance.” This
great distance he believed to be New-London,”
and her friend or relation, Glenford,
her cousin, with whom she would be safe,
and Bowman have an opportunity of renewing
his addresses. Under these impressions
he did not long hesitate what course to adopt;
he determined to repair to New-London immediately.

In pursuance of this design he went to his
father's. He found the old gentleman with
his man contentedly tilling his farm, and his
mother cheerfully attending to household affairs,
as their narrow circumstances would

not permit her to keep a maid without embarrassment.
Haventon's soul sickened on comparing
the present state of his family with its
former affluence; but it was an unspeakable
consolation to see his aged parents contented
and happy in their humble situation, and
though the idea could not pluck the thorn
from his bosom, yet it tended temporarily to
assuage the anguish of the wound.

“You have been long gone, my son,” said
his father; “I scarcely knew what had become
of you. Since I have been a farmer
I know little of what is going on in the world;
and indeed we were never happier in our
lives: after stocking and paying for my farm,
and purchasing the requisites for my business,
I have considerable money at command. We
live frugally, and realize the blessings of
health, comfort and contentment; our only
disquietude is on your account, Alonzo:
your affair with Miss Bloomfield, I suppose,
is not so favourable as you could wish; but
despair not, my son; hope is the harbinger of
fairer prospects; rely on Providence, which
never deserts those who submissively bow to
the justice of its dispensations.”

Unwilling to disturb the serenity of his
parents, Alonzo did not disclose to them his
troubles; he answered that probably affairs
would yet take a favourable turn; but that as in
the present state of his mind he thought change
of situation might be of advantage, he asked
liberty to travel for some little time. To this
his father consented, and offered him a part
of the money he had on hand, which Alonzo
refused, saying he did not expect to be long
gone, and his resources had not yet failed
him. He immediately sold off his books,
horses, carriages, and his wardrobe, the insignia
of his better days, but now useless appendages,
from which he raised no inconsiderable
sum. He then took a tender and affectionate
leave of his parents and set out for
New-London.

He journeyed along with a heavy heart
and in an enfeebled frame of spirits. Through
disappointment, vexation and the fatigues he
had endured while wandering about for so
long a time in search of Melissa, despondency
had seized upon his mind and indisposition
upon his body. He put up the first night
within a few miles of New-Haven, and as he
passed through that town the next morning,

the scenes of early life in which he had there
been an actor, moved in melancholy succession
over his recollection. That day he grew more
indisposed; he experienced an unusual languor,
listlessness and debility; chills, followed
by hot flashes, succeeded; then heavy
pains in the head and back, with incessant
and intolerable thirst. It was near night
when he reached Killingworth, where he
halted, as he felt unable to go farther; he
called for a bed, and through the night was
racked with severe pain, and scorched with
a burning fever.

The next morning he requested that the
physician of the town might be called, who
came and ordered a prescription which gave
his patient some relief; and by strict attention
he was able in a few weeks to pursue his
journey. He arrived at New-London, and
took lodgings with a private family of the
name of Wyllys, in a retired part of the town.

The first object was to ascertain whether
Melissa was at her cousin's. But how should
he obtain this information; he knew no persons
in the town except it were those whom he
had reason to suppose were leagued against

him. Should he go to the house of her cousin
it might prove an injury to her if she was
there, and could answer no valuable purpose
if she was not. The evening after he arrived,
he wrapped himself up in his cloak, and
walked towards Glenford's house: he stopped
when he came against it to see if he could
make any discoveries. As people were passing
and repassing the street, he got over into a
small inclosure, and stood under a tree about
thirty yards from the building; he had not long
occupied this station before a lady came to the
chamber window, which was flung up, opposite
to the place where he stood; she leaned
out, looked earnestly around for a few minutes,
then shut it and retired. She had
brought a candle into the room, but did not
bring it to the window, of course he could
not distinguish her features so as to identify
them. He knew it was not Mrs. Glenford,
and from her appearance he believed it to be
Melissa. Again the window opened, and
again the same lady appeared; she took a
seat at a little distance within the room, and
reclined with her head upon one hand, her
arm appearing to be supported by a toilet or
table. Alonzo's heart beat violently; he now
had a side view of her face, and was more
than ever convinced that it was Melissa; her
delicate features, pale and dejected as when
he last saw her; her brown hair, falling in
artless circles around her neck, her arched
eyebrows and pensive aspect. He moved towards
the house with a design if possible to
draw her attention, and should it really prove
to be Melissa, to discover himself; he had
proceeded but a few steps before she arose,
shut the window, retired, and the light disappeared.
He waited a considerable time, but
she came no more. Supposing she had retired
for the night, he slowly withdrew, chagrined
at his disappointment, yet pleased
with the discovery he had made.

The people with whom Haventon had taken
lodgings were fashionable and respectable.
The following afternoon they had appointed
to visit a friend, and invited him to accompany
them; when they named the family
where their visit was intended, he found it
was Glenford's; he therefore declined going
under pretence of business; he however
waited with anxiety for their return, hoping
he should be able to learn by their conversation
whether Melissa was there or not.

When they returned he made some inquiries
respecting the families in town, until the
discourse turned upon Glenford's. “The
young lady who resides there,” said Mrs.
Wyllys, “is undoubtedly in a confirmed decline;
she will never recover.”

Alonzo started, deeply agitated: “Is the
lady a relative of the family?” he asked.

“She is sister to Glenford's wife,” answered
Mr. Wyllys; “her father lives in Newport,
and she has come here with the view of amending
her health.”

“Do you not think,” said Mrs. Wyllys,
“that she resembles Miss Bloomfield, their
cousin, who resided there some time ago?”

“Very much, indeed,” replied her husband,
“only she is not so beautiful.”

Again was Alonzo disappointed, and again
did he experience a melancholy pleasure:
the previous evening he trusted he had discovered
Melissa, but to find her in a hopeless
decline was worse than that she should
remain undiscovered.

“It is reported,” said Mrs. Wyllys, “that
Miss Bloomfield has been on the verge of
matrimony, but that the treaty was somehow
broken off; perhaps Bowman will renew his
addresses, should this be the case.”

“Bowman has other business than addressing
the ladies,” answered Mr. Wyllys; “he
has marched to the lines near New-York with
his new-raised company of volunteers.”

From this discourse Haventon perceived
Melissa was not the person he had seen
at her cousin's the preceding evening, and
that she was not there; and also that Bowman
had left the town. Where to search next,
or what course to pursue, he could not determine.

The ensuing morning he arose early and
wandered about the town. As he passed by
the house of Glenford he saw the lady who
had appeared at the window, walking in the
garden; her air, her figure, had very much
the appearance of Melissa, but the lineaments
of her countenance, when viewed by
the light of day, were widely dissimilar.
Alonzo felt no strong curiosity farther to

examine her features, but passing on, returned
to his lodgings.

How he was now to proceed he could not
readily decide. To return home appeared
as useless as to tarry where he was. For
many weeks had he travelled and searched
every place where he thought it probable Melissa
might be found; both among her relatives
and elsewhere, the strictest inquiries
had been made; he had used every effort to
obtain some clue to her removal from the old
mansion, but could learn nothing but what he
had been told by Jeffrey. If his friends
should even find her, they could not inform
him thereof, as no one knew where he was.
Would it not therefore be best for him to return
and consult with those friends, and if
nothing had been heard of her, pursue some
other mode of investigation? He could at
least leave directions where he might be
written to, in case they should have any thing
whereof to apprize him.

An incident tended to confirm this resolution.
He one night dreamed that he was sitting
in a strange house, reflecting on his present
situation, when Melissa suddenly entered.

Her countenance was pale, sickly and dejected;
her elegant form had wasted away,
her eyes were sunk, her cheeks fallen, her
lips livid. He fancied it to be night: she
held a candle in her hand; smiling languidly
upon him, she turned and went out,
beckoning to him as she retired: he thought
he immediately arose and followed her; she
glided through several winding rooms till finally
he lost sight of her, and the light gradually
fading away, he was involved in deep
darkness; he groped along, and at length
saw a faint, distant glimmer, the course of
which he pursued until he came into an extensive
apartment hung with black tapestry,
and illuminated by a number of bright torches;
in one corner thereof appeared a hearse,
on which some person was laid; he went up
to it; the first object that arrested his attention
was the lovely form of Melissa, shrouded
in the sable vestments of death! Cold
and lifeless, stretched upon the hearse, beautiful
even in dissolution. The dying smile
of complacency had not yet deserted her
cheek: the music of her voice had ceased;
her fine eyes were closed for ever; animation
no longer enlightened her features, but loveliness
was still there. Insensible to objects
in which she once delighted; to afflictions
which had blasted her youth and blooming
prospects, and drained the streams of life,
she lay like blossomed trees of spring, overthrown
by rude and boisterous winds. The
deep groans which convulsed the distracted
bosom, and shook the trembling frame of Alonzo,
broke the delusive charm; he awoke,
rejoiced to find it but a dream, though it impressed
his mind with doleful and portentous
forebodings and apprehensions.

It was long before he could again close his
eyes to sleep; he at length fell into a slumber,
and again he dreamed. He fancied
himself with Melissa at the house of her father,
who had consented to their union, and
that the marriage ceremony was soon to be
performed. He thought she appeared as in
her most fortunate and sprightly days, before
the darts of adversity and the thorns of affliction
had wounded her heart. Her father
seemed to be divested of all his awful sternness,
and received him graciously and with
complacency. His own parents were there
also, and apparently happy. A large concourse
of his former friends were assembled;

Edgar was among them, who taking the hand
of Melissa, placed it in Alonzo's. He awoke,
and the horrors of his former dream
were dissipated by the happy influences of
the latter. “Who knows,” he said, “but this
may be the case; but that the sun of peace
may yet dispel the glooms of these afflictive
hours?”

He arose, determined to return home in a
few days. He went out and enjoyed his
morning walk in a more composed frame of
spirits than he had for some time experienced:
he returned, and as he was entering
the door, saw the weekly newspaper of the
town, which had been published that morning
and which the carrier had just thrown
into the hall. The family had not yet arisen.
He took the paper, carried it to his chamber,
and opened it to read the news of the day;
he ran his eye hastily over it, and was about
to lay it aside, when the obituary arrested
his attention, by a display of broad black
lines. The first article he read therein was as
follows:

The paper dropped from his palsied hand—
a sudden faintness came upon him—the room
grew dark—he staggered, and fell senseless
upon the floor.