University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The next morning, Bradshaw awoke with a
violent pain in his arm, occasioned by the manner
in which Willoughby seized it, when he jumped on
the burning roof beside him. He had also caught
a violent cold, which was accompanied with a severe
fever. Willoughby and Cavendish went to
see him in the morning, and found him in bed, ill,
and getting worse. They determined not to send
for a physician there, but to see Miss Bradshaw,
who was staying at Mrs. Holliday's with Miss Carlton,
and inform her of the circumstance. As soon
as Mrs. Holliday heard of it, she insisted that Bradshaw
should be removed to her house, where his
sister might attend him. This was too agreeable
to the affection of Miss Bradshaw, for her to make
any objection, other than to express a fear of the
trouble it would give. Mary Carlton smiled at
that. “You know, Emily,” she said, “he is very
patient: I have helped you to nurse him before.
Besides, I know he will soon be well enough to sit
up and talk; and then a whole host of beaux will
be coming to see him. I will see him, if he's sick;
and who'll want to be trolloping to a boarding-house?
No—he must come here.” In half an

hour, Miss Carlton and Miss Bradshaw stood by
Clinton's bed-side, at Mr. Holliday's. The speedy
administration of medicine, by a skilful physician,
broke the fever the second day after his confinement;
and he was able to sit up, though his arm
was terribly swollen.

“And, so,” said Miss Carlton, entering his room
with a newspaper in her hand, “Mr. Clinton Bradshaw,
you're a perfect hero—listen.” So speaking,
she read a full account of Bradshaw's adventure in
the lane, when he rescued Jane Durham from
Adams; and, also, a narrative of the events of the
fire: Willoughby's noble conduct, and Bradshaw's
aid, at the imminent risk of his own life. High compliments
were paid to Willoughby, for the risk he
ran to save the life of Adams, whose real character
was told. Speaking of Bradshaw, in conclusion,
the paper stated the fact, that when the multitude
heard the name of him who so daringly saved
the life of his friend, they greeted him with loud
and long huzzas. “This tribute of applause,” continued
the editor, “Mr. Bradshaw, though a very
young man, who has not yet commenced the practice
of the law, except in the criminal court, has
often received, for his great talents and splendid
eloquence in the assemblies of the people. We are
happy to know that it was given, in this instance,
to the impulses of a heart that is as brave and
magnanimous, as his genius is commanding.” This
was from one of the first editors in the country,
who never paid an undeserved compliment. Miss
Carlton attempted to read it in a mock-heroic strain,
but, before she got to the conclusion, she threw

down the paper and ran out of the room, to hide
her emotion. She soon returned, with a piece of
fancy work in her hand; and, seating herself on the
sofa, very busily engaged herself with it, for a few
minutes. At last, throwing back her curls, but
without looking at Bradshaw, she asked—

“Who is this `beautiful creature' that the paper
speaks of, Clinton?”

“A client of mine, Mary; and, you know, we
must keep the secrets of our clients.”

“You make great pretence to mystery, sir.”

“Not a particle. I scarcely know more of her
than the paper speaks of.”

“She is very pretty—is she?”

“Beautiful.”

“Can she, can she be a murderess?”

“I think not, Mary; there's a mystery in the
case, which I can't unravel.”

Here the servant entered, and said, there was
an old woman at the door, who wanted to see Mr.
Bradshaw.

“Who is she?” asked Bradshaw.

“The old woman, who sells cakes at the court-house,”
was the reply.

Bradshaw desired the servant to ask her in.
Nancy entered in her best habiliments. Her cap
was crimped with puritanical precision, and a
black silk dress of the finest, graced her person.
It was made after the ancient fashion, with pockets,
and the plaits in it were very carefully
folded.

Nancy made a courtesy to Miss Carlton, and advancing
to Bradshaw, she exclaimed, “Well, Bradshaw,”

(our readers have already observed, that
Nancy seldom said Mister,) “honey, I'm glad to
see ye; I sent Beck to inquire after ye, and I come
myself, yesterday, and the day before—but, I
wouldn't have ye disturbed—I only wanted to
know how ye were.”

“Thank you, Nancy, I am getting better; I
heard you were so kind as to call and ask after
me. Nancy, this lady is Miss Carlton, daughter
of Mr. Carlton, who lives next to my father's. I
believe you didn't see her when you were at my
father's.”

“No, I did not, but I heard tell of her. Honey,
ye're a bonnie lassie, as my first husband used to
say. I remember yer mother, well. Ye're like
her, but ye have better health. I knew ye
were not a Bradshaw; they have dark hair and
eyes. Bradshaw, honey, I've been this morn to
see the girl, Jane Durham. She's sore distressed,
on occasion of yer being hurt and sick; ye mus'n't
fail to do your best, in her case.”

“Have you heard any thing more, Nancy?”

“Nothing more, honey. I just stopped this noon,
at the jail, to see how things come on, and to have
a little talk with my old gossip, Mrs. Presley.
There I saw Jane Durham: she had heard of
yer being hurt, the day after it happened, by
the watchman, who brought Adams to jail. I
promised to send her word how ye were, by my
Beck. She's a forlorn, poor girl, my dear,” continued
Nancy, turning to Miss Carlton, “but she's
an injured woman, and she has a woman's feelings.
Ye're rich, my dear, and ye have friends, and ye

stand high in the world. Ye have all that wealth
can buy. Ye can never know—no, it is not in
God's providence; I hope it is not—that ye should
ever know the deep sorrow that has entered this
young woman's heart. Yet, why may ye not?—
why may ye not? Ye are beautiful: so is she. Ye
are rich: she is poor—yet, riches may fly from us
like thistles on the wind, and then friends go; and
any thing's a shelter that keeps rain and snow out.
Though we are sheltered, what can keep us from
sorrow? Honey, I don't speak to ye to hurt ye,
dear. No! if ye have not one sorrow, ye must have
another—for none of God's creatures are free.
Them that ye have not, honey, ye can feel for;
and I see that ye do: I see it in yer bright blue
eye. If Bradshaw should be forgetting of this poor
girl, ye must remind him, dear. She's no murderess—she's
no murderess. So, dear,” continued
Nancy, after a pause, looking fondly at Miss Carlton—“ye're
no Bradshaw, but ye and he have
been brought up together. I bethought me, at
first, that ye could not be brother and sister—I've
seen Bradshaw's sister, and a sweet one she is; but
ye two may be nearer and dearer: ye may be a
Bradshaw yet.”

So speaking; and telling Bradshaw that she would
call and see him, and bring him some fine fruit,
when the doctor would let him eat it, Nancy bid
him “good bye.” Miss Carlton, in great confusion,
without glancing at Bradshaw, left the room with
Nancy, to show her to the door.

“A Bradshaw, yet!” exclaimed Bradshaw, rising
and walking hurriedly up and down the room;

“that would be as sweet as satisfied ambition.
But ambition must be satisfied first; no, not satisfied;
but I must be on the course, leading, and the
goal in view, before that crowning joy can be. Can
it be, though I were?—she is so young, so beautiful,
so rich,—suiters will press around her with
every art that man can practise. I must meet a
dozen Richmonds in the field, and, perchance, have
to contend against her father. What cares she
for me, but as a sister cares? She showed emotion,
in reading that newspaper praise; so would
my sister show just such emotion—'tis natural—
we have lived together since our childhood. I have
pressed her lip, and held her tiny hand in playfulness,
before I knew what passion was, or dreamed
of it—and thus, in her innocence, she feels now.
Now, I cannot keep the fire from my lip, when I
press hers. She does not think of me as a lover.
Yet, by heaven, if her heart is unengaged, Mr.
Clinton Bradshaw, you have a tongue, and why not
seek to win her? I have every opportunity—I feel
that I have an influence over her; but it is, perchance,
but brotherly. And, if I have the opportunity,
is it manly, to win her with her splendid
dower, and in her glorious beauty, and I nothing
to throw into the other scale, but this frail form,
that she may love? No, no, no, Clinton Bradshaw;
this genius—this commanding genius, if you have
it, that this puffing paragraph talks of, must control
men first, and win the high places.”

He walked up and down the room rapidly, while
his flushed cheek and burning brow showed the
fever had not subsided.

“Yes, yes, I must win the high places first.
Bah! who would throw away ambition? Wolsey
thought not of the advice till he had lost all. In
this free land, thank God, we have no kingly power
to damp our aspirations. All may aspire. Be
blessings on republicanism! None can hold back
the spirit, in this land, that men would honour.
But,” said he, pausing before the glass, “must
every little circumstance touch my health? O,
that I had Willoughby's body, to endure! He looks
as fresh this morning as a May day breaking.
Will I last, will I last in this toilsome way before
me? By heaven! while I, from very sickness,
must lie upon the road-side, with feeble pulse and
drooping head, some one, whom I left in the dim
distance, may pass me. Well, well,” said he,
throwing himself on the sofa, “sometimes I think,
perhaps, 'tis in my better moments, that I might
wed Mary, and live upon the Purchase, and let my
days glide on, like the stream before our door.
Under my old patriarchal oaks! Yes! I could
live in peace, if Mary were by my side—as peacefully,
as contentedly, as happily as I lived in my
childhood, when each other's presence was joy
enough.”

Pursuing these reflections, he leaned on the
stand, beside him, and wrote the following

“No, no,” said he, pushing the stand from him;
“I've the blues from loss of blood and pain. This
is namby pamby speculation. I must go-ahead.”

Pursuing such reflections, Bradshaw wrapped
himself up in his cloak, and fell asleep on the
sofa.

After Nancy left Mrs. Holliday's, Mary Carlton
(she was alone, Miss Bradshaw having gone
out to get some little delicacy for her brother)
hurried to her chamber, and sat at the window
gazing out into the street, where her thoughts

were not for an hour. Her eye was animated,
and her colour went and came, though she sat
alone, at the course of her own thoughts. She
buried her face in her hands, while her rich curls
fell over them, and mused, and smiled, and wept,
and blushed, by turns. She seemed irresolute
what to do. Bradshaw, she thought, might want
something, and she ought to go and see. She hesitated,
and at last, with a noiseless step, opened
his door, and saw him asleep on the sofa. Stepping
to the stand, she beheld “Stanzas to Mary,”
in Bradshaw's handwriting. She read them hurriedly,
picked them up, put them down, gazed on
the manly brow of Bradshaw, so calm in sleep,
the eye closed like a weapon sheathed, and quickly
replacing the paper with scrupulous exactness,
but with a trembling hand, in the very spot she
found it, she left the room, with timid step and
fluttering heart, cautiously closing the door after
her.