University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
A Separation instead of a Union.

The tale which Catalina had to tell, in explanation
of her long absence, may easily be imagined.
Thanks and blessings were poured out from the lips
of the good parents. The old gentleman called the
daughter and the nephew into his presence, and
placing her hand in his, solemnly and affectionately
blessed them both as his dear children. “You have
thrice saved her life, may she prove a blessing to
yours.”

“D—n it,” said little Ariel—“d—n it, Sybrandt,
who would have though it! But come, I want you
to go look at old Frelinghuysen's ox. He is grown
as big as an elephant.”

“It was not for nothing,” thought the silent Dennis—“it
was not for nothing he studied these old
Greeks and Romans. I wish Dominie Stettinius
were here to hear this:” and the worthy man felt
proud of his adopted son.

And now it became necessary to settle the question
whether the visit to New-York should be paid
or not paid. All things were prepared, the vessel
ready, and the lady-cousin in the capital apprized
of her invitation having been accepted. The colonel
thought they had better send an apology, and get
off as well as they could. Catalina—I confess it
with the candour becoming my profession—Catalina

fluttered between her love and her desire of
novelty. What woman could ever yet resist the
temptations of travelling and seeing the world?
She, however, dutifully left it to her parents to decide.
Madam Vancour was a woman, a very excellent
woman—yet she was a woman. She did not exactly
oppose the union of the two cousins, but still
her heart was not in it. Ambition was too strong
for gratitude. Like almost all the American women
of that and indeed every succeeding age, she had
imbibed, from her earliest years, a silly admiration
of every thing foreign; foreign horses, foreign
dogs, foreign men, and, most especially, foreign
officers. Every thing provincial, as it was called,
she considered as bearing the brand of inferiority in
its forehead. She had, moreover, long cherished a
latent ambition to see Catalina wedded to one of his
majesty's little officials, who assumed vast consequence
at that time—who tacked honourable to his
name, and bore the arms of some one of the illustrious
houses who figured in the court calendar, in
the midst of griffins, sphinxes, lions, unicorns, vultures,
and naked savages with clubs—fit emblems
of the rude plunderers who first adopted these apt
distinctions. The good lady, perhaps half-unconscious
of her motives, almost hoped that Catalina
would forget her rustic Corydon in the gay scenes
and various sights of the metropolis, and conquer,
and be conquered by, some brilliant aid-de-camp, perhaps
a baronet, with bloody hand for his crest.
Accordingly it was settled the visit should take place
the next day, as was originally contemplated.

Sybrandt yielded with an aching heart and a bad
grace to what he could not prevent. The busy
fiends and phantoms that beset his earlier days rose

up to his imagination, and flapped their wings, and
whispered gloomy anticipations. She would have
gay admirers, for she was an heiress and a beauty.
She would be distant from her parents, her home,
her fireside, and from all those early associations
with objects of nature, which serve as anchors by
which the heart rides steadily in all the vicissitudes
of wind and tide, and calm and tempest. “And then
the cursed red-coats,” whispered one malignant
demon, with a diabolical grin; “if she resists them,
and the fashion, and the example of every female,
young and old, married and single, she must be more
than woman.” Such gloomy, irritating, peevish
thoughts crowded on his heart the next day, as he
accompanied Catalina to the vessel which was to bear
her away; but his pride buried them with its own
hands deep in his bosom.

“I shall return with the birds in the spring,” said
she, observing his dead silence. “You must be
happy, but you must not forget me,” and she placed
her snowy hand in his. Sybrandt could scarcely
feel it, 'twas so soft.

“Those who are left behind at home never forget,”
said the youth. “All that I see, and all that I
hear, is the same to-day, to-morrow, and the next,
and the next day. How then can I change?”

“You think, then, there is more danger that I
should change,” said Catalina, with a tender smile.

“Such miracles have come to pass,” replied he,
answering her smile with one of melancholy.

“Sybrandt,” said she, with solemn emphasis, “see,
the river out of which you dragged me when I was
drowning is the same that rolls by the city whither I
am now going. I shall see it every day from my
window. The sun that shines there by day is the

same that yesterday saw you rescue me from
murder; and the same stars that witnessed your
nightly watchings for my safety, stand in the firmament
there as well as here. The same air, the same
light, the same nature, and the same God, the same
memory, the same heart, will be with me wherever
I go. Be just to me, dear Sybrandt; I cannot, if I
would, forget thee!”

The jealous demons fled before this bright emanation
of truth and virtue, and Sybrandt became reassured.
A silent pressure of hands conveyed their
last farewell greetings, and in a few minutes Sybrandt
was seen standing alone on a green projecting
point of the river, watching the vessel as it
glided swiftly out of sight. When it was no longer
visible, he turned himself towards home, and the
world seemed to him suddenly changed into emptiness
and nothing.