 | The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
THE
OLD MAID'S LEGACY.
1. CHAPTER I.
Old maids, at times, have singular notions of metaphysics,
and why should they not; since the remark
is equally applicable to some able professors, who
receive large salaries to declaim in colleges.
Penelope Singleton, early imbibed the idea that
there was no family as free from alloy as the Singletons
on this side of the Atlantic. There was
not a tradesman or mechanic to be found even
among the most distant branches of the genealogical
tree. All the Singletons were either gentlemen or
ladies;—born to consume, not to produce. Ornamental,
but not useful. Panoplied with these notions, Miss
Penelope was unapproached, and unapproachable.
Her brother, Reginald Singleton, of Singleton Hall,
was the magnus Apollo of the family. Every family
has its magnus Apollo. There is a white bird in all
flocks, no matter how black the rest may be. Reginald
had been a colonel in the
militia, before it
was customary to appear on parade armed with
corn-stocks and broom-sticks, and as he had been
believed that he had served under Washington.
This opinion he deemed it unnecessary to rectify,
and whenever the question was too closely pressed,
he would evade it by saying, “it was unpleasant to
talk about the services he had rendered his country.”
Like the rest of the family, the colonel was
a great stickler for gentility, and that he might maintain
his pretensions to the last, he died one day with
a fit of the gout in his stomach. There needs no
other proof that he was a gentleman; for as Galen
sagely remarks, the gout is the most aristocratic of
all diseases, and Galen was tolerable authority before
panaceas and catholicons came in fashion.
The colonel, like non-productives generally, died
involved. He had made a nice calculation that
Singleton Hall would supply his wants for a certain
number of years, and when that time elapsed the
accuracy of his arithmetic was fully tested. The
colonel died, having spent his last dollar, and his
property was found to be mortgaged for its full
value. It requires talents of no ordinary grade to
make a calculation of this description; for if he had
accidentally slipped a figure, and the gout in his
stomach had not come to his relief, at the precise
moment his resources had left him, it is no difficult
matter to conceive how the colonel would have been
astonished. It is the lot of many to play their part
through life with credit, but few have the knack to
time a happy exit, and that to the ambitious is all
important, for we are remembered only as we were
when we died, and not as when we lived.
The colonel, besides a host of creditors, left two
daughters to mourn his loss. The elder, whose
name was Isabel, was about twenty, and her sister
Mary two years younger. They were both lovely
girls, though the elder had been partially deprived
of reason for several years. The girls at the time
of our story resided in Singleton Hall, a splendid
mansion on the banks of the Delaware, without any
other means of support than the interest of what
and keep their coaches.
The time having arrived when aunt Penelope felt
that she was about to be gathered to her fathers, she
prepared to set her house in order; and though she
had herself done but little to perpetuate the Singleton
family, she imagined that the world would come
to an end, should it become extinct. What would
after ages do without them! No; Mary must be
married “to give the world assurance of a man.”
But who was worthy to receive the hand of the sole
heir of all the pride of the Singletons! No one but
a Singleton! Fortunately Mary had a cousin Arthur,
a lieutenant in the navy, otherwise her worthy
aunt would have condemned her to the Malthusian
life she had led herself.
Arthur was fixed upon for this important duty.
But he was at sea, and as the young couple had not
seen each other for four years, possibly in this world
of disappointments something might occur to thwart
her latest wishes. Accordingly, she framed her will
in such a way as she imagined would bring about
what she most desired. If there was any thing on
earth to be relied upon, it was the generosity of the
Singletons. There was not a selfish bone in the
body of one of them. Taking this position for
granted, she bequeathed all her fortune to Arthur
and Mary, but the one who should first refuse to
accept the other in marriage should be entitled to the
whole legacy. This was working by the rule of
contraries, but then she knew that neither would be
so selfish as to refuse for the purpose of enriching
himself.
There was a certain Mr. Jenkins living in the
vicinity of Singleton Hall. Joseph Jenkins, a cotton
spinner, who was as full of motion and bustle as
one of his own jennies. He belonged to that class
of men who appear to have been sent into the world
for no other purpose than to spin cotton, and make
money. He possessed the charm of Midas, and he
cared not a rush for high tariff or low tariff, for
gold. Your undistinguished Joseph Jenkins is the
right fellow to travel prosperously through this dirty
world. Your high sounding Mortimers and Fitzhughs,
too frequently sink dejected by the way-side;
but who ever heard of a Jenkins, Smith or Jones
sticking in the mire. And if such an accident should
chance to befall them, they have the consolation of
not being identified in the myriads of the same cognomen,
and shortly you see them brushing the dirt
from their heels, and travelling on as spruce and
impudently as ever. The name of Jones or Smith
is about as convenient an inheritance as a man's
godfather can bestow upon him.
Joseph Jenkins was a good fellow in the main.
He was as industrious as a brewer's horse, and at
the same time as liberal as a prince. Colonel Singleton
was charmed with his company, for Jenkins
lent him money freely, without examining too closely
into the security, and the cotten spinner was equally
charmed with the company of the colonel, as it afforded
him frequent opportunities of seeing the
fair face of Mary. And many a long yarn he spun
with her, until she began to look upon him with
much favour in spite of his plebeian calling.
Our veracious history commences in the month of
May, in the year 18—. The colonel and his sister
Penelope had resolved themselves into their primitive
elements, and notwithstanding the large space
they had occupied in their passage through this
world, they now remained perfectly quiet in a very
narrow compass, and in spite of their pride, their
possessions were upon an equality with the meanest
of their neighbours. Death is your only true radical;
he reduces all to the same level; a heap of
ashes;—nothing more! We occasionally meet with
men, loth to believe this fact, though solemnly proclaimed
every Sabbath from the pulpit.
It was the smiling month of May; the fields had
put on their livery of green; the blue birds were
singing on the budding trees, and old Delaware
never been subject to ice-bound fetters. Phœbus was
spurring his fiery footed steeds over the Jersey hills,
with such speed, as though he had over slept his time in
the rosy arms of Tethys, or in common parlance, it
was about two hours after sun rise, when a gallant, well
mounted, and gay as a bird in spring, rode up to the
lofty piazza in front of Singleton Hall. He dismounted,
deliberately fastened his fine bay hackney
to a post, there planted for the purpose, set his dress
in order, and then knocked at the door, with an air
that spoke, as plainly as a knock could speak, that he
was confident of receiving a cordial welcome. Having
waited some time and no one appearing, he repeated
the knock, rather impatiently, when an old
negro man unlocked the door, opened it, and stood
in the door-way. He was dressed in a drab frock-coat,
of the fashion of that described in the celebrated
ballad of Old Grimes; the cuffs and collar of which
were of tarnished scarlet, as an evidence that he belonged
to a family of distinction. There is nothing
like your negro in livery, for settling the true caste
of a family, from Maine to Georgia.
“Good morning, Cato; charming morning this,”
said the gentleman, as the old black stood in the
door-way.
“Fine day, Massa Jenkins,” replied Cato, for the
new comer was no other than the veritable Joseph
Jenkins, of cotton spinning celebrity.
“Is your Mistress stirring yet, Cato?”
“Yes, sar. She rises with the lark, every morning,
sar. We study to preserve our health at Singleton
Hall, sar.”
“That's right, Cato. There is no wealth like
health. The sun seldom catches me with my nightcap
on. We were not born to sleep out our existence.
Now, Cato, announce my arrival to Miss
Singleton, for I must be at the factory again in a
couple of hours. Business, business, you know,
must be attended to. Eh! Cato.”
“Yes, sar. And you had better lose no time, sar,
for you cannot see my young mistress, sar.”
“Cannot see her!” exclaimed Jenkins, “I, her
friend, lover—almost husband! to be denied an
interview! Come, come, old ebony, you are jesting.”
“No joke, sar. Miss Isabel charged me to give
you your dismissal in as polite a manner as possible.”
“My dismissal!” exclaimed Jenkins, starting like
a young tragedian in the ghost scene in Hamlet—
“My dismissal!”
“Yes, sar; no joke, sar,” continued Cato, with
philosophic phlegm, “as you will perceive by this
letter, written by Miss Singleton's own little white
hand. We do every thing according to etiquette at
Singleton Hall, sar.”
Cato handed Jenkins a letter, at the same time
slightly bending his erect body, and shaking his
curly gray head, which he considered the only legitimate
aristocratical bow, being modelled upon that
of his master, the colonel. Jenkins received the
letter, and with some agitation breaking the seal,
read as follows:
Circumstances that it is impossible for me to explain
to-day, compel me to postpone our union for
the present, and perhaps forever. If I have any
influence over you, pray suspend your visits at Singleton
Hall, until such time as I may deem it prudent
to recall you.
“It is plain; plain as noon day!” ejaculated
Jenkins.
“Very true, sar. Nothing could be plainer,”
responded Cato, bowing. “There is no mistake at
Singleton Hall, sar.”
“Here is a pretty piece of caprice! It was but
yesterday she partook of all my joy, and now—no
matter! Let those explain woman who can; for my
part, I would sooner attempt to unravel the riddle
of the Sphynx, or find out the philosopher's stone.”
“It would be an easier task, sar,” replied Cato.
“I am now sixty, and never attempted to unravel a
woman in my life; and strange to say, the older I
grow, the less am I inclined to undertake it.”
Jenkins heard nothing of the interruption of Cato,
for his mind was engrossed with reflections which
arose in too rapid succession even to give them utterance.
What was it had created this sudden revolution
in his matrimonial prospects? Had family
pride, which, according to his notions, was “vox et
preterea nihil,” made his bank stock, spinning-jennies,
cotton stuff, and rail-road scrip kick the
beam? Had she taken a sudden dislike to his person?—or
had some one made a more advantageous
offer? Had he been slandered?—or had he done
any thing to offend her delicacy? Various queries
of this kind arose in the mind of Mr. Jenkins, not
one of which could he answer satisfactorily; but on
one point he was perfectly satisfied, and that was
that he had been very shabbily treated, for it occurred
to Mr. Jenkins that he had already lent more money
on Singleton Hall than he ever expected to see
again, and its inmates had for years past, in all cases
of emergency, first applied to him for advice, and
never failed to receive assistance. Such reflections,
in a moment of irritation, might have occurred to a
less matter of fact mind than that of Mr. Jenkins,
and the obligation might have been cancelled by
giving them utterance; for it is somewhere laid
down, that as soon as you advert to a favour conferred
you deserve to be repaid with ingratitude—a
cheap and common mode, by the way, of repaying
an obligation—but Mr. Jenkins did nothing of the
kind; he kept his thoughts between his teeth, walked
silently and deliberately to the post where he had
hitched his horse, mounted, and retraced his steps
at a brisk canter.
“Good morning, sar, and a pleasant ride to you,”
exclaimed Cato, bowing; but Mr. Jenkins returned
no answer, and Cato entered the house and closed
the door.
2. CHAPTER II.
Miss Mary Singleton had witnessed the foregoing
interview from the parlour window, and though she
had overheard nothing she had seen enough to convince
her that her lover had departed in a less pleasant
humour than he approached the house. She
arose from the breakfast table as Cato entered.
“Well, Cato, has Mr. Jenkins gone?”
“Yes, Miss, as fast as his horse can carry him;
and a very fine horse dat too of Mr. Jenkins—good
bit of flesh for a factory man to ride, but not to be
compared to old master's Nicodemus. Han't got
the blood no how.”
“I hope you acquitted yourself of your message
with all delicacy.”
“O, certainly, Miss—old Cato never loses sight of
the family dignity no how. But my politeness was
thrown away. Massa Jenkins has gone off in a
furious passion. Only see how he puts the spur
to his nag. Hard life that, to be a factory man's
hackney.”
Miss Singleton looked out of the window, and
beheld her lover riding along the avenue as if he
had studied the art of horsemanship in the school of
the celebrated John Gilpin.
“Poor fellow!” she sighed, “he loves me very
much!”
“Never saw a man so much in love in all my life,”
responded Cato.
“Ah! Why do you imagine so?”
“Thing's very plain, missus. Only see how he
Nick were driving him.”
The young lady, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion
of Cato, withdrew, while the old man continued
watching the progress of the manufacturer,
inwardly congratulating himself upon the diplomatic
manner in which he had upheld the dignity of the
Singleton family. Indeed, since the death of his
master, he began to look upon himself as one of the
Corinthian pillars of the ancient house—in fact
the only one to sustain the magnificent ruin.
Old Cato's meditations were interrupted by a handsome
vehicle dashing along the avenue, which drove
up to the house and stopped at the door. A handsome
young fellow dressed in a naval uniform,
alighted and rang at the bell. Cato immediately recognised
in the new comer, Arthur Singleton, and
hastened to receive him in due form; but before
opening the door, he was heard crying out, “John,
William, Thomas!” but neither of these imaginary
personages making his appearance, after growling at
their negligence he opened the door, and with an air
of importance proceeded to ring a bell, which extended
to the back buildings.
“Never mind disturbing yourself, old man,” said
Arthur, “my servant can attend to the horses.”
“These fellows, sar, are always out of the way,
since the death of the colonel. But they shall all be
discharged. Useless varment! And you shall not
see one of them under this roof to night.” He could
make that assertion with safety.
“Come, come, be pacified, and don't make so much
disturbance on my account.”
“For whom should I make it, if not for Captain
Singleton?”
“So, you know me, it seems, old fellow.”
“Yes, sar. You are the only son of Marmaduke
Singleton, who was the brother of my old master the
colonel, peace to his remainders, who married a
Howard of Howard Park in Virginny, whose mother
was a Talbot, whose grandmother was a Calvert,—
“Stop, stop, Cato, why you are a living record; and
the genealogical tree, though long since reduced to
ashes is still green in your memory.”
“Ah! sar, these matters are too important to be forgotten;
and we who belong to good families should
set a proper value on our birthright, even when
there's nothing else remaining.”
“And are you also tinctured with family pride, old
lad?”
“Yes, sar,” replied the old black, standing more
erect, “Thank heaven, I can boast that the Catos
have been born and bred in the Singleton family for
two centuries. No low black puddle in these veins.
My great grandfather was old Cudjo, who married
Quashee, whose father was a king in Guinea. Their
eldest son was Sambo, famous in his day for playing
on the banjo. Sambo he married Phillis, then come
the first Cato—”
“I will hear the remainder when I am more at leisure,
so show me into the parlour, and announce my
arrival.”
Cato, with many bows, ushered the young officer
into the parlour, then returned to the piazza, and
again rang lustily at the bell; but no one appearing,
he called over the roll of imaginary servants, and
then showed the coachman the way to the stable, all
the time muttering at the want of attention on the
part of the “useless varment.”
Mary Singleton, upon whom the care of the
family had almost exclusively devolved, in consequence
of the mental aberration of her sister,
was of a tall and stately figure, though agile as a
sylph in her movements. Her eyes and luxuriant
hair were jet black, and her beautiful and
delicate features, had an expression of masculine
firmness, that denoted more decision of character
than might have been expected from so fragile
and lovely a being, educated in seclusion. Still this
very seclusion may have produced the results referred
to, as from her childhood she had been taught to
respect herself, and to believe that her family occupied
this kind have taken root, even the harshest collision
with the world proves insufficient to dissipate the delusion.
No one can patiently bear even a sprig to be
taken from the tree of his self-esteem. It germinates
in childhood, and too frequently in our progress
through this world, we find that it is all that the
world has left us. Well, let the world take all but
that, for it is heaven's own legacy—a green spot in
the desert.
Arthur had examined the pictures, with which the
room was decorated, over and over again, with the
eye of a connoisseur, not that he had a taste for the
arts, but for the lack of something to do, when his
fair cousin Mary entered; her cheeks were flushed,
and her manner somewhat embarrassed, as she said,
“A thousand pardons, cousin Arthur, for having
made you wait.”
“Nay, cousin, I should rather ask to be excused,
as I arrive a day sooner than my letter announced.
But my impatience was natural, and now I have seen
you, I regret we had not met earlier.”
This compliment only tended to increase the embarrassment
of Miss Singleton, which doubtless will
appear very strange to my fair reader; but it should
be borne in mind that my heroine was born and educated
in the country. Arthur, who had not the gift
of ornamental flourish in conversation, proceeded, it
must be allowed, not in the most diplomatic manner,
to explain the object of his visit.
“Cousin, you are aware we are destined for each
other. Under these circumstances it is natural on
our first interview to feel some embarrassment, but
I beseech you to banish all restraint with me. Speak
frankly, and act frankly.”
Miss Singleton making no reply, Arthur continued—
“As for myself, I acknowledge without hesitation
that I find you even more lovely than I anticipated;
and faith coz, I expected much too, for well I remembered
what a little sylph you were when we were
when the ocean rolled between us, and taxed my
imagination to present me with the full development
of your early promise.”
“And are you not disappointed, Arthur?” demanded
Mary, in a tone that denoted any thing but
satisfaction at the favourable impression she had
produced. This may appear strange, but still not
the less true.
“Disappointed!—I am but too happy that our
names have been joined together in the last will of
our aunt, and for myself I will undertake that there
shall be no lapse of the legacy.”
“You increase my embarrassment. I know not
how to answer.”
“Come, come, I am not that coxcomb to imagine
that my merit on a first interview could make as
favourable an impression as your's has done. But
to-morrow—”
“To-morrow! Shall I discover all your merit in
twenty-four hours?” replied Mary, archly. “Really,
cousin, you must acknowledge the term is rather
short for such a labour.”
“Not to an apt scholar, Mary, with a good preceptor.
But there's a clause in the will which forbids
my giving you longer time. To-morrow we must
demand each other's answer, and I forewarn you
that you will obtain no delay; for it would be dangerous
for me to prolong my stay near you, when
with a single word you can destroy all my hopes.”
“Pray be seated, and explain.”
“The will in question is one of the strangest acts
that can be imagined, even in an age resolved to be
astonished at nothing. Our aunt has laid down two
principles as incontestible truths; the first, that you
are the most accomplished woman on this side of the
Atlantic, and that the possessor of your hand will
be the happiest creature in christendom.”
“The jest pleases me. Pray go on.”
“On the first point I confess I am entirely of her
opinion, but as to the second—”
“Well, well—why hesitate? Let us hear the
second.”
“Pardon my confusion—she pretends that I am
exactly such a man as you are a woman.”
“It appears that she had not a bad opinion of the
family,” replied Mary, laughing.
“O, she was a woman of discernment, coz, and
notwithstanding her modesty, out of respect to her
memory we must admit that she was right. So,
these two principles being taken for granted—”
“It is easy to foresee the consequences.”
“Plain as noonday,” continued Arthur. “We are
absolutely formed for each other—there is no escape
for either, and in marrying we shall make a match
of both convenience and inclination.”
“And have we but twenty-four hours to make up
our minds?” demanded Miss Singleton.
“That's all. The will is positive.”
“It appears, notwithstanding the perfection which
our aunt supposed us to be possessed of, that she did
not believe us capable of standing a very long examination.”
“She rather presumed an examination to be altogether
unnecessary. But this is not all; she has
taken other means to insure our union. She leaves
all her fortune between us, in case we fulfil her
wishes, but, on the contrary, should one be refused
by the other—”
“She leaves that one all, no doubt, as a consolation,”
exclaimed Miss Singleton. “Cousin, I have
a great mind to make you rich. What say you?”
“Make me rich! How?—by rejecting me?”
“Certainly. True, you will lose the most accomplished
woman on this side the Atlantic; but then
you will receive a handsome fortune, without the
incumbrance of a wife.”
“Zounds! Have a care, or you will ruin me,”
exclaimed the young sailor. “The better to insure
the success of her plan, she makes that one her
sole legatee who shall first refuse the other.”
“Ah! that alters the case. I cannot reject you
on those terms, Arthur.”
“And she forbids all kind of collusion, on the
penalty of the estate passing to distant relations.”
They were interrupted by an exclamation at the
door:—“I tell you I will go in. It is useless. I will
see him again; I will.” Isabel entered the apartment
with a hurried step. Her long auburn hair
was straying in confusion, her gentle and lovely
countenance was animated and suffused with blushes,
and an unnatural wildness kindled in her deep blue
eyes. Her sylph-like form would have served as a
model for a poet when he peoples his ideal world
with all that is delicate and beautiful, and her gentle
mind might be likened to the eolean harp, that
discourses most eloquent music when wooed by the
summer breeze, but the first rude blast jars every
string and turns all the harmony to discord.
Isabel, looking around wildly, continued:—“I
wished—I came—I know not now why I came—but
there was something! Assist me sister. I tremble
and I blush as when you sometimes scold me. But
for all that you are very good to me, sister, very
good. Ah! hide me! I'm afraid”—she concealed
her face in Mary's bosom.
“Recover yourself, dear Isabel,” said Mary, and
turning to Arthur, continued, “You see, cousin, the
situation of this poor unfortunate.”
“I am distressed that my presence has caused
this apprehension,” he replied, and at the sound of
his voice Isabel raised her head, but did not turn her
face towards him.
“Mary, I believe he spoke to me. Did he not
speak?”
“He did.”
“O! how sweet his voice is! I remember that
voice.”
“My presence, I fear, offends her; I had better
retire.”
Isabel turned to him, her face illuminated with
smiles, and exclaimed hurriedly—
“O! no, no, no! Do not leave us. Stay, stay.”
She paused and looked at him intently—“Ah! I
have it. Stay—Arthur.”
“You have not forgot my name, then?”
“I just this moment recollected it. Arthur!—
Arthur!” she repeated, and laughed. “Is it not
strange I had forgotten it! When I spoke of you
to my sister, and said `he,' he loved me much, he
was very good to me, she always asked me, what he?
She could not understand me. Nevertheless it was
very clear. He—that meant Arthur. And you have
not forgotten my name, I hope?”
“Dear Isabel!”
“Right, that is my name. I knew you would not
forget it. But years ago you used to call me your
little Bell. We were children then. Still call me
so, and I shall feel like a happy child again.”
“My gentle little Bell.”
“That's it. The same gentle tone. It has rung
in my ears since we parted. I always hear it at
night, but never in the day time. But, Arthur—
you see I do not forget—I have two names now;
they have given me another since I last saw you,
and a very terrible one it is. Whenever I go to the
village, the little children follow me, and point their
fingers at me, crying `the silly girl, there goes the
silly girl.' My sister is very good to me—very—
she always calls me Isabel; and you too, Arthur—
you see—will you not call me Isabel?'
“I will call you my little Bell, as in the days of
our childhood.”
“Do, O! do! and then I shall dream of the green
fields and the flowers, and shall hear the gay birds
sing again as sweetly as they sang in our childhood.
It is strange that the birds no longer sing as blithely
as they used to.”
The major domo of Singleton Hall, old Cato,
now entered, and with many bows announced that
Arthur's chamber was now ready for him. That
the room assigned to him was that in which Lafayette
had slept the night after the battle of Brandywine,
somewhat antiquated, as, for the honour of the family,
nothing had been changed since that memorable
epoch.
“That's well, Cato,” replied Arthur, “a seaman
is not difficult to please. Give him but sea room
and a hammock, and he is satisfied.”
“Then, sar,” continued Cato, “there is a fine view
of the river, the green meadows, and a garden of
flowers under your window.”
“A fine view, and a garden of flowers! nothing
more is wanting. I love flowers.”
“Farewell, sister. Good-by, Arthur,” exclaimed
Isabel, gaily; and was about hurrying out of the
room.
“Where are you going, child?”
Isabel approached her sister, and said, with a mysterious
air—“I will return presently; but do not betray
me. Say nothing to any one. It is a secret.
Good-by, Arthur.” She raised her finger to Mary,
as if she would impose secrecy, and ran smiling out
of the room.”
“Where is she going in such haste?”
“I know not,” replied Miss Singleton. “Some
idea has struck her, but the light of reason no sooner
breaks upon her than she becomes crazed again.
Your pardon, cousin, you are fatigued. Cato, conduct
Lieutenant Singleton to his chamber.”
She was about to retire, and Arthur handed her
to the door of the apartment. Old Cato placed his
fore-finger beside his ebony proboscis, and thus gave
vent to his cogitations:—
“Well, all goes right. The captain will carry the
day. I was half afraid of that cotton spinning Massa
Jenkins; but O! these women! An officer's coat,
with a handsome man in it, is a good excuse for
changing her mind.”
Arthur returned, and clapping the old philosopher
on the shoulder, awakened him from his reverie, and
said,
“Well, Cato, you have not shown me the La Fayette
chamber.”
“Pardon me, captain. I wait on you. This way,
this way, sar;” and he showed him out with all the
ceremony of the grand chamberlain of the court of
France, or any other court where flummery is in
fashion.
3. CHAPTER III.
Colonel Singleton had been twice married; Isabel
was the daughter of the first wife, and Mary of her
successor. There exists a vulgar prejudice against
step-mothers; and the conduct of the colonel's helpmate
towards Isabel, did not form an exception to the
prevalent opinion. She was a haughty, selfish woman,
and ambitious that all the honours and wealth
of the family should descend to her own daughter, to
the exclusion of Isabel; and when she heard that
aunt Penelope purposed making her nephew Arthur,
and the colonel's eldest daughter her heirs, she determined
that her own child's name should be inserted
in the will, in the place of that of her sister; and
what cannot woman accomplish when she devotes all
her energies to one object.
Isabel's life became one series of annoyance; her
step-mother's dislike was manifested on all occasions,
and finally the poor girl perceived that even the affection
of her father was in some degree alienated
from her. In order to make “assurance double sure,”
her step-mother proposed that she should be married
to a penurious old man, who, attracted by her beauty,
had solicited her hand, and the colonel was tempted
by the proposal, as the suitor was wealthy, which
encouraged his helpmate to press the matter zealously,
and at the same time enabled her to cloak her
threatened, and the poor girl whose mind had been
enfeebled by a series of persecutions, finding herself
about to be consigned to the arms of an old man she
despised, fell into convulsions, from which she narrowly
escaped with life; and when she was restored
to health her tears ceased to flow; her countenance
was changed; and the vacant glare of the eye denoted
an alienated mind. About a year after this
event, death issued his summons for her step-mother;
but in the mean time aunt Penelope had made her
will, as already recited.
Early in the morning, following the arrival of Arthur,
Isabel was alone in the parlour, arranging a
beautiful bouquet of spring flowers. She performed
her task with an air of caution, as if she wished to
avoid being detected, and her blushing countenance
was illuminated by a smile of satisfaction. When
her task was completed, she murmured as she stood
gazing at it, “I love flowers—those were his words.
This will afford him pleasure, and I shall be very
happy.” Arthur entered the apartment without perceiving
her—she ran to him and said,
“Arthur—yes, it is you. I knew your step.”
“Isabel!—what, here alone!”
“Alone! oh, no; you are here!” she replied,
placing her hand upon her heart.
“My charming cousin.”
“And you—have you thought about poor Isabel,
since we parted last evening?”
“Have I thought of you? Indeed have I, incessantly.”
“I am glad of that. I have thought of you until I
dreamt that you had returned. Tell me, you have
been far distant, and have at length returned.”
“Yes, Isabel.”
“Heavens! If she should also return!”
“Whom do you mean?”
“My mother. Hark! do you not hear her,” she
exclaimed wildly. “She comes—that is her voice!
—there—there! Ah! she threatens me.” She
mercy, mercy, I beseech you. Do not force
me,—I cannot marry him. My heart's another's.
Ah! approach me not,” she continued with increased
violence. “I cannot, will not—death sooner.” She
recoiled and threw herself, trembling, into the arms
of her cousin.
“Dear Isabel, recover yourself.”
“Where am I! Who calls me, in that kind and
gentle voice! Ah—is it you, Arthur, is it you!
What has happened? How I burn here,” she added,
touching her forehead.
“You suffer.”
“O, no;” she replied in a voice of tenderness, and
smiling fondly on him, “O, no!—I have seen you
once again, and that repays me for all. But who
was it told me you had gone away—forsaken me.
It is not true, is it? You would not give me pain.
You love me too much for that, Arthur?”
“Indeed do I.”
“Take care,” she continued with an air of mystery,
“if you deceive me, I shall soon discover it.”
She ran smiling to the vase of flowers, and taking
one of them, carefully stripped it of its leaves, one
by one. “You remember, this is the way I tested
your love in our childhood.”
They were interrupted by Mary, who now entered
the parlour, followed by old Cato, who stood erect
at the door. She spoke to him as they entered—
“It is well, Cato; if he returns, let me know. Fortunately
he has gone without seeing Arthur,” she
added, in a low tone.
The bustling Mr. Joseph Jenkins, early as it was,
had already been at Singleton Hall, and this time
he determined to have an interview with his dulcinea,
for Joseph was as systematic in his love affairs
as he was in business, and he succeeded. The
interview was a brief one, and abruptly terminated
in the cotton spinner leaping on his hackney in a
huff, and starting off at a brisk trot, after bidding a
“Good morning, cousin. How do you like Singleton
Hall?” said Mary.
“It is a charming spot, and its inmates render it
more so. I have been conversing with Isabel. What
a strange existence. So young, so beautiful, and
for ever deprived of reason. But let us quit so painful
a subject. I thank you Miss, for the delicate
attention you have paid me.”
“How! in what manner?”
“I yesterday by chance, spoke of my taste for
flowers, and I find the parlour decorated with them.”
“No, cousin, it is not to me, but doubtless to old
Cato, that you are indebted for this attention.”
“At all events, allow me to present you this,” he
said, selecting a bouquet and presenting it to Mary.
Isabel, who watched him in silence, darted forward
and snatched the flowers from her sister, saying,
“That must not be. That bouquet is for me, me
only. It was I who gathered them.”
“You!” exclaimed Arthur.
“Yes. Why should that astonish you. I heard
you say that you loved flowers, and I remember a
little flaxen headed boy who used to gather the wild
flowers in the meadows with me; he loved them
much, and he loved me also.”
“It was for me then. Pardon me Isabel, I will
repair the wrong.” He took the bouquet and presented
it to her; she received it with a smile, and
pressed it to her heart, saying, “Now it shall never
leave me, but wither and fade there.”
“Truly, dear Arthur, you work miracles,” said
Mary. “Since your arrival she seems at times to
have some recollection.”
“Ah! look at her now. She has again fallen into
the reverie from which she escaped for a moment.”
Isabel stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Cato entered, and said to Miss Singleton in an under
tone,
“Massa Jenkins come back again, Missus.”
“Tell him, I will see him presently.” She apologised
to Arthur for abruptly leaving him, and went
out of the room with the old servant.
“I am glad they are gone,” said Isabel, “We can
now talk together. Tell me, Arthur, what were
we speaking of when my sister interrupted us.
Help me to recall my thoughts. How terrible it is
to forget, and to know that one forgets!”
“Dear Isabel, do not dwell on this subject, it injures
you much.”
“It has injured me; it injures me still. It was of
my step-mother we were speaking.”
“You have been very unhappy in my absence,
have you not?”
“O, yes; for I was fearful. But that is over; you
have returned, and my fears are gone. You will
defend me, will you not?”
“Certainly, I will protect you, and be ever near
you.”
“How you encourage me! My good sister also
often strove to encourage me, but she did not succeed
so well. Your presence, your looks, the tone
of your voice inspire me with confidence. Speak,
speak, I love to hear you speak.”
“Dear Isabel, listen to me. Let us try to reason
together.”
“O yes, yes, let us reason,” she exclaimed, laughing
and rubbing her hands.
“There is one thing I must premise, and that is,
if you relapse into your terrors, I shall believe that
you don't love me.”
“O, don't believe any such thing. I no longer
fear, and as a proof of it, I am now thinking of my
step-mother, speaking of her, and scarcely tremble.”
“Since that is the case, let us dwell on the subject,
and you shall see that it will cease to alarm
you. It is long since you beheld her?”
“I have not forgot that. One day she slept so
profoundly that they could not awaken her. Her
face was as pale as the vestments in which they
wrapped her, and they bore her to the church and
My sister Mary wept much, and I also wept, because
she grieved. Then they clothed me all in black,
and since that time I have been very happy, except
when she comes back to threaten me.”
“But she will never threaten you again.”
“Ah! do you believe so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“If you are sure, then I am satisfied. What a
weight you have taken from my mind. I am now
tranquil; breathe freely, and it is to you that I owe
this happiness. How I love you!”
“Dear Isabel!”
“But if you should again leave me!”
“Be composed. I am coming, perhaps, to remain
here always—to marry your sister.”
“Marry, marry my sister! Then who will marry
me?” she said dejectedly, and her mind suddenly
relapsed, as she continued, without recognising
him—
“You know not how constant I am. I was once
to have been married formerly, to one of my cousins
named Arthur—but this is a secret, which I have
told to no one except yourself. We were both very
young, and I loved him more than a brother, he was
so good, so gentle and generous. How happy I was
when he was near me. All the marvellous stories
and old legends of the country, were related to me
by him, and we had bright visions of the future.
But alas! one day he was forced to leave us; he
went on board his ship, and I saw him no more, but
I have always thought of him—always.”
“You saw him no more, Isabel? You do not recollect
me, then?” demanded Arthur in a tone of increased
interest.
“How! not recollect you,” she replied with an air
of gaiety, “thou art Arthur; I recollected thee immediately.”
“I have been unconsciously guilty; each word renders
me more criminal still. Can you ever pardon
me?”
“Pardon thee! Ah, yes! I always forgive when
I am supplicated; it would be so cruel to refuse.”
She drew nigher to him, paused and gazed fondly in
his face, as she added, “To prove I haven't forgot
you, I will search for the ring you sent me from the
sea side. I have preserved it carefully, and no person
has seen it. Wait for me here, and I will return
directly. Arthur, I love thee,—do not forget that
I am your betrothed.” She ran away smiling, and
kissed her hand to him as she closed the door.
Our hero was as much perplexed as most heroes
are, when they get two women into their heads at
the same time. He was amazed to discover that the
silken web, that he had unconsciously woven in his
boyhood, had been so closely intertwined with the
thread of that fair creature's life, as to serve as a
clue to lead her wandering mind even through the
mazes of her madness; and was the sole idea to
which she fondly clung in the general wreck and
ruin. He was at a loss how to act; by marrying
the one, he would disinherit the other; and by fulfilling
the conditions of the will, he would for ever
extinguish the returning spark of reason, in the mind
of the delicate being so long and devotedly attached
to him. At length, he resolved to ascertain the true
state of Mary's fortune, and should it prove ample,
he would reject her, and enrich her sister with
his hand and aunt Penelope's legacy. Old Cato entered
opportunely, to throw some light on the subject.
“My mistress begs you to excuse her absence,
captain,” said the old man bowing, “she will be disengaged
presently.”
“Stand on no ceremony with me. Fine property
this, old Cato?”
“Splendid estate; none better on the Delaware,
sar.”
“Still affords a very handsome living?”
“None better, sar. A fortune might be made
from this farm; but the Singletons are above selling
stock, and loans, and mortgages—”
“Enough, I am satisfied; and with this assurance
I can no longer hesitate not to marry your mistress.”
“Not marry her, sar? Pardon me, captain, you
misunderstand me,” exclaimed the old servant,
somewhat disconcerted.
“No, no, I understand you perfectly. Your mistress
is at least in easy circumstances.”
“Better than that, sar,—very rich. The greatest
fortune in these parts.” The old fellow knew this
to be a lie; but felt satisfied that it ought to be true.
Mr. Joseph Jenkins happened to bustle into the
parlour at this critical moment, and overhearing Cato's
boastful speech, exclaimed,
“Rich! A great fortune! they deceive you, sir,
she is ruined, totally ruined.”
“Ruined, sir!” exclaimed Arthur.
“Will you be silent, sar! He don't know what
he says, sar,” exclaimed the old man in confusion.
“Examine for yourself, sir,” continued Joseph
Jenkins, producing papers. “Read these documents,
and you will perceive that Singleton Place belongs
to me. I am the master here.”
Arthur cast his eyes over the papers and returned
them saying, “It is true. I cannot recover from
my surprise. Miss Singleton reduced to a state of
poverty.”
“If you longer doubt, behold the confusion of this
old domestic,” continued Jenkins. “That speaks
more plainly than all my words.”
“My poor cousin in distress!” sighed Arthur, “In
that case I will marry her.”
“How! you marry her! What the devil do you
mean?” exclaimed Jenkins with increased restlessness.
“Go and inform your mistress, Cato, that I am
ready to make her my wife this evening if she consents,”
said Arthur. The faithful old fellow's ebony
visage, “creamed and mantled like a standing pool,”
“This now is, just like a Singleton. Gem'man all
over!” Jenkins, after making a few nervous circuits
around the parlour, suddenly stopped, and said,
“How! marry her this evening! Do you intend to
insult me, sir?”
“Insult you? I was not thinking about you at
all.”
“Not thinking about me! But you shall think
about me. I will be thought about in this matter,
sir; and I demand the motives of your conduct,”
replied Joseph, testily.
“Indeed. But I am not in the habit of answering,
when interrogated in so gentle a manner,” replied
the other, coolly.
“Then there may be a mode of making you speak,”
said Joseph, with increased irritation.
“Pray, name it.”
“Pistols,” exclaimed the cotton spinner.
“Precisely. That is a branch of my business, and
I never neglect business.”
“I like you the better for that,” continued Jenkins.
“I have a pair of bull dogs in the next room;
I used to practise shooting at a mark with the old
colonel. We can jump into a boat, and be on the
Jersey shore in half an hour.”
“That's unnecessary trouble. You are at home
here, you know, and we can just step out behind the
stable, and settle the affair quietly. We shall avoid
both delay and trouble.”
“Zounds! you are right again!” exclaimed Jenkins.
“Do you know that you have risen fifty per
cent. in my esteem, and if I drill a hole through you,
I shall grieve for you, and do the decent thing by
your remains.”
“You are very good.”
“I give you my word and honour, sir.”
“Thank you; but I shall endeavour to dispense
with your grief.”
“A spirited young fellow!” exclaimed Jenkins. “I
begin to like him. A business man. I will go for
in five minutes.”
Jenkins bustled out, and at the same instant Isabel
rushed into the room, and threw her arms about
the neck of her cousin, who was about to follow him,
and exclaimed,
“Stay, stay, you shall not go. I know your fearful
purpose; but you shall not leave me. I'll hang
upon you.”
“Unfortunate! would you drive me to dishonour?”
“Would you drive me to despair?”
“Isabel, you will see me again in five minutes.”
“Yes, I shall see you again, as I saw my brother,
perhaps, brought back, pale and covered with blood.”
She shrieked and fainted in his arms. We omitted
to state in the proper place, that a son of Colonel
Singleton had been killed in a duel, and that Isabel's
aberration of mind was in some degree attributed to
the shock received on the occasion. It is of importance
to every family that one member, at least,
should be killed in a duel, as that circumstance alone
is sufficient to establish the courage and gentility of
all the survivors.
The shriek brought Miss Singleton and her major
domo into the parlour. Arthur consigned the unconscious
Isabel to the arms of her sister, and without
saying a word, hurried from the room. Isabel
slowly recovered; the expression of her countenance
was calm, and she assumed an air of gaiety, as she
said,
“Sister, if you only knew the good news I have to
tell you. She will never come back,—never! Then
there's going to be a wedding; do you know the
bride? I know her. And there will be a splendid
ball. I ought to open it with him. I love dancing
so much!”
The report of pistols was now heard, and Isabel
starting from her sister's arms, stood motionless for a
moment, then pressed her forehead with both hands,
and shrieked, “Ah! I remember now! Death is at
violently disengaged herself from Mary, who attempted
to restrain her, and rushed from the room.
Her sister and the old servant alarmed and amazed,
hastily followed her.
Isabel reached the spot where the combatants
stood opposed to each other, pistols in hand, ready
to fire a second time. She rushed between them,
her hair dishevelled, wildness in her looks, and
summoning all her energy, she shrieked, “Hold!
Forbear your murderous intent, I implore you, I
command you!” and fell senseless to the ground.
Our worthies forgot their angry feelings, in their
amazement at this singular interruption, and mutually
hastened to her assistance, and supported her
to the house. She was conducted to her chamber,
and the next moment the prompt and active Joseph
Jenkins was seen hurrying along the avenue, upon
his bay hackney, in pursuit of medical assistance,
without having intimated to any one his errand.
The doctor, like all prudent practitioners, could
not pronounce with certainty,—he was of opinion
that the fearful impressions she had received from
the duel, would have a decisive influence over her
mind; that a crisis had arrived, that would either
bring about a complete restoration to reason, or destroy
all hope of her recovery. This was considered
a sound, and certainly a safe opinion.
Joseph Jenkins returned to Singleton Hall, shortly
after the physician, and on entering the parlour, he
found Miss Singleton alone. She arose as he entered
and exclaimed in evident alarm—“Good heavens!
What is it brings you back after the scene which
has just passed? If my cousin should meet you!”
“Have no fear, Miss; I shall not be here long,”
replied Joseph, taking a stride or two across the
room.
“Ah! why speak to me so coolly. Can you believe”—
Now Joseph was any thing but cool, and he hastily
interrupted her with saying,
“No more of that, Miss. You have no need to
justify yourself to me. I came not here to reproach
you. If I have failed to please you, the fault is
mine, and not yours. You are handsome and lively,
—your cousin is a dashing, brave and generous
young fellow, but as for me, I am rough, plain and
without address. He is entitled to the preference;
but perhaps the future may prove that with all my
abruptness, I loved you as tenderly as he does. But
I do not wish that”—he turned his face to conceal
a starting tear. “I hope you may always be happy.
We are now about to part, but before we separate,
we have some affairs of importance to settle together.
Your father, at his death, owed to John Jones five
thousand dollars—here are the bonds; to me ten
thousand on mortgage—this is the instrument,” he
deliberately tore the papers into fragments, and
added, “now those debts are settled.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I restore the property to you unencumbered,
for I would not have your future husband
reproach the woman whom I have loved, with her
want of fortune.”
“Ah! Joseph, so much generosity.”
“No thanks, Miss. I only ask one thing from
you. If ever you should experience any reverse,
which is very possible, then think of your old friend.
Write to me, and the next mail will bring you a
satisfactory answer. Farewell, Miss, farewell.”
He bustled out of the room, and even Mary's tender
exclamation, of “Dear Joseph, listen to me,” in
no measure retarded his impetus. Finding he returned
no answer, and was already out of hearing,
she called aloud for Cato, who promptly obeyed the
summons, followed by the young lieutenant. She
turned to the old servant, and said in a low voice,
“Cato, hasten after Mr. Jenkins, who has just gone,
and tell him to defer his departure for an hour. I
wish to speak to him—must speak to him. Go.”
Cato left the room muttering, “what de devil signify,
running first after one, den after toder, and
were now seen from the parlour windows, scudding
along the avenue, at even a brisker gait than usual.
Possibly the horse felt that his master was several
thousand dollars lighter than when he came.
The young couple, finding themselves alone, again
attempted to broach the delicate subject of the will,
each feeling the impossibility of complying with its
conditions, and yet from generosity afraid to reject
the other. After much manœuvring and finesse on
both sides, without success, each came to the conclusion
that the other wished for nothing so ardently
as to have Aunt Penelope's will carried into effect,
and heaved a sigh of regret for the sudden and hopeless
passion. Old Cato entered at this critical juncture,
to inform Miss Singleton that he had despatched
a man on horseback after Mr. Jenkins, which
timely interruption relieved them from their mutual
embarrassment.
“What news have you of your mistress Isabel?”
demanded Arthur.
“You must see her directly, sar. She is looking
for you, and desires to speak to you.”
“To speak to me! Has she left her chamber?”
“Yes, sar. The doctor ordered that we should
obey her in every thing, and not contradict her.
Here she comes, sar.”
Isabel entered the apartment. Her manner had
undergone a striking change; it was now serious,
collected, composed. She calmly said:—
“Sister, I have caused you much trouble; is it not
so? But I am better at present—much better. I
thank you for all your attentions to me, but I have
a favour to ask; retire, for I would speak with my
cousin, alone.”
“Cousin, I leave you, and in a little time expect
to receive your answer,” said Mary, and left the
room, followed by Cato.
“What can she want with me? What is passing
in her mind? That singular air!” said Arthur,
mentally—“Isabel, my dear Isabel.”
“Sir.”
“Why this reserve?—why this coldness towards
me?”
“It becomes the position in which I find myself.”
“What do I hear! You, who seemed but yesterday—”
She proceeded, with slight emotion—“If my words
have not been always what they ought to be, it
would be generous on your part to forget the past,
as I shall study to forget it myself.”
“Unhappy that I am!” he exclaimed—“She no
longer recollects me, no longer loves me! This apparent
flash of reason may be only a new feature of her
madness. My dear Isabel, in the name of heaven
listen to me—look at me. I am Arthur, your cousin,
your friend,—in one word, he who has chosen you for
his betrothed.”
She became more deeply affected as she replied,
“I recollect you perfectly, Arthur; but this word
betrothed recalls to me the object of this interview.
I was your betrothed, it is true—I have not forgotten
that; but I come to give you back your promise,
and the ring with which you sealed it. Take it—
be henceforth free; marry my sister, and receive
every wish that I can form for your happiness.”
“Heavens! What say you, Isabel! Can you
imagine”—
“I know all, have heard all—even at a time when
I could not comprehend its meaning. But singular
changes have taken place. It seems that until now
I have not lived. Even yesterday I spoke without
reflection; I answered without listening, or listened
without understanding; but now the cloud has
vanished, ideas crowd upon me, words rush to explain
my thoughts, and I am no longer an object of
pity. This happiness I owe to Arthur. When near
him I am animated, exalted; but without him I feel
that I should relapse into my former state. Ah,
stay, stay always near me—never leave me—be my
support, my guide, my husband. I live only in thee,
for thee, and shall be nothing without thee.”
“Dear Isabel, you are once more restored to me.
Do not repent of the avowal that insures my happiness.
Speak, will you be my wife. You cannot
refuse me?”
“How, refuse what I so much desire,” she replied,
artlessly.
“You no longer believe that I love your sister?”
“O, no, no. I rely on you. You would not deceive
me; it would render me so unhappy.”
“But reflect. I am poor, without resources.”
“Poor! I scarcely know what that means.”
“I cannot surround you with luxuries.”
“I shall not love you the less—and ask no other
luxury.”
“No dress—no equipage.”
“Shall I appear less attractive in your eyes? If
not, I care not.”
“I can no longer resist,” he exclaimed, and falling
on his knees, passionately kissed her hand. Mary
entered at the same instant.
“Ah! cousin, you refuse me then. I came for
your answer, but you have anticipated a reply to all
my questions.”
“No, coz, I don't refuse you,” said Arthur,
rising. “I love you very much, but will marry
Isabel. I don't want to ruin you—keep the fortune.”
“You will marry her, coz? Then I will have
nothing to do with this legacy, which constrains us
both, and thank you for having laid it at the feet of
my sister.”
“This generosity—”
“Is mixed up with a little selfishness, Arthur, as
you will see in the end,” replied Mary.
There was a noise at the door, and Joseph Jenkins
bustled in, followed by Cato. He entered just as
Arthur was in the act of gallantly kissing Mary's
hand, in gratitude for her generosity.
“Death and the devil!” exclaimed Joseph—“and
was it for this that you brought me back?”
“Dear Joseph, be a witness”—said Mary.
“Damn it, I have seen too much already,” exclaimed
Jenkins.
Arthur commenced—“Mr. Jenkins, I wish you to
understand—”
“I don't want to understand any thing more.”
Isabel ran to him, and placed her sister's hand in
his, saying, “There, understand that. She is yours—
Arthur is mine. Will you kill him now?”
“Ha! What! How! Bless my soul! Mary, is it
so?” ejaculated Jenkins. Mary smiled and blushed
in a manner plain to be understood by the dullest
physiognomist, and the cotton-spinner whirled about
like one of his jennies.
“All very strange! Don't understand!” muttered
Cato. “Captain, will you marry—”
“Love has restored her to reason.”
“More strange still. You told me love usually
turns young ladies' heads. Can't understand, no
how I can fix him.”
Arthur and Jenkins became fast friends, and the
fallen family was once again restored to its former
consequence, through the exertions of the worthy
and unpretending Joseph Jenkins. He called his
eldest son Reginald, after his old friend, the colonel;
but he protested against christening his daughter
after Aunt Penelope, as he could not forget the annoyance
that her absurd legacy had occasioned.
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