University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

One bright summer's day, Bradshaw called on
Miss Carlton, at Mrs. Holliday's, and found her
alone, looking over the prints in a costly and beautiful
album, which her father had given her.

“Clinton,” she exclaimed, as he entered the room,
“you have just come in time. Now you shall not
refuse. I had just rung the bell to send John to your
office with a peremptory note, sir, requiring—a
lady has a right to require—that you would write
in my album; it is a high honour, sir. I wish
you to write in it the first. Come, though I've
heard you say that you never would write in an
album—they were such namby pamby things—
yet this is not a namby pamby one; and I did not
buy it for the vanity of receiving compliments in
it; it was given me by my father.”

“It is a beautiful one,” said Bradshaw, taking a
seat by her side, and looking over it; “these pictures
are in fine taste. See that one, Mary; how
devotedly that lover holds his lady's hand. Have
there not been moments in your life when you
wished you could be like that picture, for ever to
remain as you were, when now should be for ever.”

“There may come such moments,” said Miss
Carlton, slightly blushing, and laughing, as she
threw back her curls, “but remember, now I'm
fancy free.”

“Ah! those are beautiful lines of Moore's, written
in a lady's album, in which he hoped that in her
heart he could find an unwritten place, as in her
book. He says:

Your heart, then, is unwritten upon, Mary—and
who may write there?”

“It must be done with sympathetic ink, sir,” said
she, archly; “the name on my heart can only be
read by the light of the flame from another's.”

“Good! good!—report says that Mr. Bates, and
Turnbull, and Talbot, have all been at your shrine.
Have neither of those gentlemen kindled flame
enough to make the ink visible?”

“Oh! I don't know; they hav'n't tried yet.”

“Talbot has been trying, I'm told, for some
time.”

“He has not tried hard enough, then—there
must be more fuel on the flame.”

“He goes with you to the Springs, does he not?”

“No, he does not go with us to the Springs.
He goes, I believe, as others go.”

“And Mary, I suppose, this is to be the first of
your going formally into company, as the fashionable
phrase it?”

“I don't care about going to the springs. I
would rather stay at home; but father wishes it.”

“Well! Talbot will have many opportunities.
You had better say yes to him, Mary, at once.”

“Yes to him, at once!” exclaimed Miss Carlton,
angrily. “Clinton, don't you persuade me too
much; recollect, you have an eloquence that is irresistible,
folks say.”

“Ah! Mary, if I had, I would not plead Talbot's
cause for the wealth of the Indies, I would—”

Here the servant entered, and announced visiters.

Bradshaw sat a few moments after their announcement,
and then withdrew, taking with him
the album. He went to his office, and after walking
up and down the floor, five or ten minutes,
he wrote in it the following

Bradshaw had scarcely written the lines, when
he saw, passing by his window, Mrs. Holliday's

servant: he called him in, and after wrapping the
album up, carefully, desired him to give it to Miss
Carlton.

The next Sabbath was a beautiful day. Bradshaw,
who had been up late the previous evening
at his studies, did not arise until the first church
bells disturbed his reveries; when, looking out upon
the beauty of the morning, he determined to visit
the Purchase.

He mounted his horse, and, turning from the
turnpike, entered an old county road, now scarcely
ever used, that wound round by Mr. Carlton's, leading,
by the foot of his garden, to the Purchase.
The sounds of the church-bells grew fainter and
fainter, as, with a free rein, he dashed along. The
road was unpaved, narrow, and winding. He often
had to bow his head, to avoid the branches of the
trees, which hung over it, from either side. The
bright day infused its gladness into his spirit, and
merrily, merrily, he went. As he passed by Mr.
Carlton's garden, he saw Mary Carlton standing by
the door of the summer-house, and he called out to
her—

“What! Mary,—not at church?”

“No; they're all gone. They called round for
me: I was to go—but, being, like the rest of my
sex, capricious, I all at once determined to remain.
They return here, and dine. Are you going to
church?”

“Not unless you go. Are you all alone?”

“There is nobody but the servants about the
house, and the house-keeper. You had better go
to church.”

“I think not, Mary. I will put my horse up,
and be by your side in a moment, fair lady; and
if you convince me I ought to go to church, by the
same argument I'll convince you, and we'll go together.”

Bradshaw rode to the house, gave his horse to a
servant, and entered the garden.

“There, Mr. Clinton Bradshaw, is one of the
prettiest roses you ever saw. Let me put it in the
button-hole of your vest: no! in your coat—it will
look prettier. Why have you such a Byronian
propensity for wearing black? I declare, if Sully
were to paint your portrait, and it was ever so
good a likeness, I should not know it, unless he put
you in sables.”

“Why, Mary, you have on black, too.”

“But I don't always wear black.”

“No!—you look well in any thing. That's a
beautiful silk, and then it fits you so well; and that
pearl buckle. Why, you're a lady of taste.”

“You've too many pretty speeches lately, Clinton.
Come, I want you to find fault with me.”

“Find fault with you! I can do that easily.”

“How?”

“By indulging my imagination.”

“There it is again! Clinton, you are an abominable
flatterer; and you've no conscience about
it—you flatter all alike, and, I expect, commit your
pretty things to memory, beforehand.”

“Yes, I always have them by heart.”

“So Miss Penelope Perry says. Upon my word,
sir, you paid a great compliment to the rest of the
ladies, on the fourth of July, to leave them all, and

wander away in the woods, for heaven knows how
long, with Miss Penelope. Mr. Selman is convinced,
no doubt, that you take a deep interest in
his suit.”

“Yes, he is thoroughly convinced of it, I hope.”

“No doubt; and of what is Miss Penelope convinced?
Has your eloquence persuaded her to accept
Mr. Selman?”

“I hope Mr. Selman's eloquence has had that
effect, without my aid.”

“You were the junior counsel, I suppose, then,
Squire Bradshaw, and opened the case—just made
a statement of it. Miss Penelope came out to the
Purchase last night, and has gone to church with
Mr. Selman. She said she expected you out; and,
from her manner, one might think she wished you
to continue the pleading—or, perhaps, you intend
to file a declaration in another case.”

“I shall have no opportunity. Miss Penelope
goes with you to the Springs, does she not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does she go with you to Washington?”

“No—I believe she returns. Did she not tell
you?”

“No. Mary, you will be away a long time, if
you go from the Springs to Washington, and stay
there until congress adjourns.”

They had, during this conversation, entered the
summer-house and seated themselves by a table,
on which were books, fancy baskets, and a number
of other articles; among them, Miss Carlton's
album. Bradshaw turned over the leaves of the
album while he spoke, and, in doing so, he discovered

that the lines he had written in it were cut
out.

“Mary,” he asked—“what has become of my
scribbling?”

“I cut it out,” said she, blushing.

“Ah, Mary—then you thought them unworthy
of your book?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you did not like the sentiments?” asked
he, his brow slightly flushing.

“Perhaps, Mr. Clinton, I may like the sentiments
so much, as to have cut them out to keep
them all to myself,—liking them above even the
vanity of showing them. But here, sir,” said
she, rising from his side, and plucking a flower,
“here's a sprig of heart's ease for you,—I must
run to the house to give some directions about
dinner, that I had forgotten,—and, Mr. Clinton,
by the time I return, do you write me some verses
on it. I take so much care of your verses, that
you can't refuse.” And she, laughing, left him.
Bradshaw gazed fondly after her; and, as she entered
the house, he wrote on the blank sheet of a
novel, the following

“Here!” exclaimed Miss Carlton, as she returned,
and entered the summer-house—“here's
the squirrel you gave me: I've made him quite
tame; but I still have to keep a chain round him.
Let me see what you have written. Ah!—what
a Byronian hand you write. Give you back your
heart. I doubt, Mr. Clinton, if you ever had a
heart. A wretched hand—a wretched hand, you
write, sir. You'll have to make your declaration
by word of mouth to Miss Penelope. If you
write it, the only passion you'll awaken, will be
downright anger at your abominable scrawl. Look
yonder!—there they come from church. How
well your sister rides. Mr. Willoughby is by
her side: he's one of the handsomest men I ever
saw. And there's Miss Penelope and Mr. Selman:
just observe how Mr. Selman amuses himself
with switching the leaves off of the trees.
Come,” said she, putting the novel, in which the
verses were written, into a fancy basket which
she held in her hand, and throwing her handkerchief
over it—“we must not be found here têteà-tête:
Miss Penelope will grow jealous. Come,
bring my squirrel.”

“No, Mary, let us remain here a moment.
How beautifully they wind along!—Kentuck's a
glorious horseman.”

“Yes, sir. And what do you think of Miss
Penelope?—This afternoon you may have an opportunity
of filing your declaration.”

“Stay, Mary, and let me file it now,” said
Bradshaw, seizing her hand, and speaking in a
trembling tone.

“No! no!—Come, Clinton, let's go to the
house,” exclaimed Miss Carlton, trying to laugh
away a blush.

Bradshaw held her hand a prisoner, while he
said—

“Mary, you are on the eve of leaving for the
Springs, and then for Washington. You will be
absent a long time. I may not have another opportunity
of speaking to you before you depart.
Hear me, Mary,”—and he gently drew her to a
seat.

She bowed her head till her rich curls covered
her cheek, as Bradshaw continued, in a voice that
had passion and eloquence in its every tone—

“Where you go, you will have many lovers,
Mary. I know it—I feel it: the proudest, the
wealthiest, the greatest of the land. They will
gather around you in the beautiful and brilliant
scenes, where you will be loveliest. And I—I—
will you sometimes remember me then?—I will
look after you, and listen to hear of you, with
more passionate fondness than I can tell. Will
you sometimes think of me, then, Mary?”

“I will,” murmured Mary.

“Mary, I have sometimes hoped that you had
a regard for me; but, then, it seemed to me but
as a sister's. Shall it be more, Mary—say, shall
it be more?”

Mary whispered that it should.

“Bless you, bless you, my beautiful, my own

Mary, for what you have said. Mary, you have
not been much in the world yet. In it, courted,
admired, loved, worshipped, idolized, as you will
be, this preference will be tried in a way that you
dream not of. I would not steal your heart. I
ask no pledge from you, which another may make
you repent you have given. But if, when you
return from the world—then, when I am more in
it than I am now, for, by the spirit of the Pilgrims,
I will be—then, if I may thus hold your
hand, and learn from you that your feelings are
unchanged, I shall be happier—no, no: there is a
passion beyond words. Mary, I have not had
one dream of ambition in which you were not the
guardian angel. I have not built one fairy castle
in which you were not the loved one. My household
gods can never make me happy, unless you
are by my hearth. I struggle in the thick crowd
to deserve you. 'Tis not so much that my name
may sound in men's ears that I press on, but that
you may pronounce it, and deem it not unworthy
to be yours.”

Bradshaw caught her in his arms, passionately,
as he spoke. At this moment, the garden gate was
heard to open, and Miss Carlton sprang away from
her lover, exclaiming, “O! my squirrel, my squirrel,
he's gone.” And she hastened out of the summer-house
after him, and Bradshaw followed.

It was the party from church that entered the
garden.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Miss Penelope, laughing:
“your sudden determination to stay at home
was to catch runaway squirrels, was it?”

Miss Carlton was very much confused; but Bradshaw
stepped before her, so as to hide her confusion.
He had caught the squirrel, and he handed
it to Miss Penelope, saying,

“You see, Miss Penelope, it is easy to catch runaway
squirrels, when you have a chain round their
necks. No matter how far you go into the woods,
there is no danger of their escaping—they become
attached—they'll always play about the place
where you are—at any moment you may seize
the chain, and draw them to you.”

“Very well, Miss Mary Carlton,” said Miss Penelope,
turning away from Bradshaw, with a consciousness
of what he meant: “so I suppose your
sudden determination kept Mr. Bradshaw from going
to church.”

Mary Carlton, who had recovered from her confusion,
said, archly, “Do you think, Miss Penelope,
that I will let you run away with all the beaux?
No, indeed. Mr. Bradshaw was quite pious this
morning—as anxious as Robinson Crusoe to see and
hear the church-going belle. He wanted another
tête-à-tête, like that of the battle-ground, but gallantry
forbade him to leave me; and I peremptorily
refused to go to church with him—for I have no
intentions of furthering your designs on two or three
gentlemen at once.”

Selman, who was by the side of Miss Penelope,
complacently switching his boots with his riding-whip,
started and looked blank, when the latter
part of the sentence fell upon his ear, while Miss
Penelope exclaimed,

“And so, Mr. Bradshaw, you would not come to

church, you're out of my books entirely, sir: I've
done with you.”

“Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw, “you must not
pronounce judgment before you hear the cause.—
I'll have to get Selman to plead it for me.”

“Yes,” said Miss Penelope, “you should; Mr. Selman
is so admirable a pleader, no doubt, in his
own causes.”

“Dirn it,” whispered Selman to Bradshaw,
“don't begin your foolery, and knock every thing
into a cocked hat.” While Mary Carlton said,

“Penelope, we know you're a kind of female
Napoleon, in the world of the heart—that you go
on conquering and to conquer; but I'll rally all the
girls as my allies, and then look out for a Waterloo
defeat.”

“Even then,” said Selman, “Miss Penelope will
have the consolation of knowing that she has had
the crown.”

“Oh! certainly, Mr. Selman; and, that your devotion
was to herself, and for herself—that it had
nothing to do with the jewels and the diadem.”

In the progress of the afternoon, Bradshaw left
the company, and sauntered out alone in a noble
grove, near the house. Selman, who surmised
there had been some tender passage in the summer-house,
between Bradshaw and Mary Carlton;
and who took, of course, a sympathetic interest in
such matters, joined him in his walk. Bradshaw
suspected his intentions, and was not long kept in
doubt; for Selman looked round cautiously, and
then, in a quick, but subdued, voice, he asked,

“Bradshaw, hey! how did you come on in the
summer-house?”

“What, on that subject, Selman?”

“Yes! Your own subject, I mean. I thought,
probably, there might be something between Miss
Mary and you. She took me up pretty short about
jewels. I don't like such allusions.”

“This is a devil of a world, Selman,” said Bradshaw,
with a most melancholy voice.

“Hey! What! Thunder! Has she rejected
you?”

“The thing's pretty much fixed, I suspect.”

“Well! I never was more astonished in my life—
never. I would not have believed it if you had
not told me. I always was satisfied she liked you.
Why, dirn it, she don't pretend to hide it—she
evidently prefers your company to all others.”

“Yes—that may be, Selman; but, you know,
she lived at the Purchase, and it may be only a
sisterly regard. When there's love in the business,
a lady is very apt to be shy, and, at least, affect to
like the society of others—particularly, when her
lover is by.”

“I don't know but what that's a fact—for you
say Miss Penelope likes me, and every body sees
she treats me just so.”

“It's hard to form a correct opinion of women,
Selman.”

“Hard! I consider it a matter of moral impossibility.
The more I think of it, the more I'm perplexed.
Just when you think you've fixed them,”
continued Selman, shaking his head with the gravity
of Lord Burleigh, in the Critic, “by Jove, they
fix you. But, Bradshaw, I'd no idea of it. Miss
Penelope has said to me, in confidence, that she

was satisfied Miss Carlton was attached to you—
her very words. She has refused Talbot, who's a
confounded good-looking fellow, and talented—refused
him, pint blank; and, as for Bates, she laughs
at him. Bradshaw, you stood it well; your manner
did not betray it. She was confused when we
came up. It's just the reverse with me. I always
look like a fool, or, at least, feel like one; and Miss
Penelope laughs. Why, you seemed in as good
spirits as usual, all day.”

“How do you and Miss Penelope come on?”

“O! I hav'n't spoken to her on that subject since
that dirn night of the dinner. I want her to forget
it. She treats me very well, though. Don't you
think so?”

“Yes, very.”

“The fact is, Bradshaw, I think Bates is a gone
chicken:—that whaling I gave him, did for him, at
any rate. Well! well! I thought you could get
any of the women: I did, upon my honour. I begin
to believe that Talbot, since Miss Carlton has
refused him, is making up to Miss Penelope—don't
you think so?”

“I saw him escort her to church, last Sunday.
Did she take his arm?”

“Take his arm!—no!—did she?” exclaimed Selman,
in great alarm. “She never would take
mine. I kept at a distance behind them, from
church—but I watched them. She didn't take his
arm—I'll swear to it—going home. Did you ever
see her?”

“Never. I've seen her take Kentuck's.”

“Yes, I know it; and I don't know what to make

of Willoughby, either. I hav'n't the faith in him I
used to have.”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Why, I suspect him of having a
sly hankering after Miss Penelope; and I don't
think its very friendly on his part. He's a confounded
fine-looking fellow, and he has a taking
way with the women. Have you heard him speak
of returning to Kentucky, lately?”

“No, I have not.'

“Nor I—not one word now-a-days. Bradshaw,
I wish you would find out what his feelings are
with regard to Miss Penelope.”

“I will. But, to tell you the truth, I don't think
you have any thing to apprehend from him. He's
your friend: he knows of your attachment; and,
I am satisfied, he entertains no thought that way.
You must not say a word on this subject of mine,
to any one, Selman.”

“Not I!—not a word!—what are you going to
do, Bradshaw?”

“Leave matters just as they are, and go-ahead
at the law!”

“Well, I would have sworn that she liked you,
and I believe it now just as firmly as if she had
told you so!”

During the latter part of this conversation, they
had left the grove, and were walking towards the
house. Bradshaw parted from Selman to visit the
stables. The latter, in profound and perplexed
rumination, on “the subject” of their conversation,
entered the porch, and met Miss Carlton leaving it.

“Which way, Miss Mary, all alone?”

“For my fancy basket, sir, that I left in the
summer-house.”

“Let me save you the trouble.”

“Thank you, sir, I doubt if you could find the
one I want, there are several baskets—but come on.”

“Miss Mary how did you enjoy yourself on the
fourth?”

“Oh! very well, sir. How did you enjoy yourself,
Mr. Selman? I thought you seemed quite in a
philosophic mood for such an exciting and patriotic
occasion.”

“I—Oh! Miss Mary, I enjoyed myself very much
towards the latter part of the day; in the morning,
I had a bad headach. I was prevented hearing
the oration. How did you like it?”

“Very much—I like every thing Clinton says.”

“Ah! every thing.”

“Yes, sir—every thing I hear him say. Why
do you echo me?”

“Oh nothing—I rejoice to know you're so universally
pleased with him—I wonder he don't get
married.”

“It may be, Mr. Selman, that Mr. Bradshaw,
like other gentlemen that you and I know of, don't
find the ladies so very consenting as your vanity
has led you to believe.”

Selman gave his coat collar a twitch, as if it did
not set to please him. By Jove, thought he, Bradshaw's
in a bad fix. He was in the act of concocting
a remark, when Miss Penelope, who had
observed them from the window of the house,
moved by impulses which our readers may easily
imagine, entered the garden. Towards night Emily

Bradshaw returned to the Purchase, her brother
and Willoughby escorted her there, and then proceeded
to town. Selman and Miss Penelope remained
with Mary Carlton. After the ladies had
retired to their chamber, while Mary stood before
the glass, arranging her hair for her pillow, Miss
Penelope, who sat at the open window looking out
upon the garden, and thrumming with her pretty
fingers against her lips, broke a silence of some
moments, by saying—

“The truth is, Mary, we must yield to these
creatures, the men, after all.”

Mary Carlton paused, in the act of confining a
stray curl under her cap, and, with an arch expression,
said—

“I know it—I suppose, Miss Penelope Perry,
you have no insuperable objections to yielding, have
you?”

“Why, not insuperable, exactly; but one hates
to give up ones liberty, and the pleasure of tormenting—It
won't do to torment a husband; as
soon as you begin it with him, my gentleman will
pick up his hat with such a provoking quietness,
and wend his way to his office or counting-room,
to the theatre, or on a fishing or gunning party,
with the indifference of a grand Mogul. I declare
to you, Mary, I hate the thought of it. I wonder
now if Henry Selman could bring me to consent to
have him, if he ever would take on such airs afterwards.”

“Its more than probable he would, unless you
abate the airs you put on now.”

“I wish I was a queen—Queen Elizabeth, as

Scott describes her, with Raleigh, Essex, Leicester,
all at her feet; wouldn't you like it?”

“Yes, for the pleasure of giving a princely hand
to such a princely fellow as Essex.”

“I don't believe I'd be merciful, as Mr. Bradshaw
says, to any of them. But then the misfortune is,
Mary, that we can't commence a flirtation, however
much in jest, without getting the heart touched
after awhile—this sentimentality is my abhorrence!
What a love-sick swain Mr. Henry Selman would
be, should he get involved in the tender passion.”

“What a love-sick swain he is you mean! And
the truth is, Penelope, you have not a proper regard
for his feelings.”

“Ho, ho, you're getting sentimental—quite a
sign, Miss Mary. You don't pretend to deny, now,
that there was some tender passages between you
and Mr. Bradshaw, to-day, in the summer-house,
do you?”

“Penelope, you seem to think, because Mr. Selman
has made a `tender of his affections to you,'
that every body else has received similar tenders.”

“You can't hide it from me, Mary. Mr. Bradshaw
was cunning enough to hide your confusion,
and try to confuse me; but I saw through it, and
I shrewdly suspect, from his manner and yours,
that his eloquence prevailed.”

“Ah! indeed, what makes you think so?” asked
Mary Carlton, affecting to put her question in an
indifferent tone.

“Oh, I've some experience Miss Mary, as well
as you. When a lady tries to hide a gentleman's

confusion, on such an occasion, it shows—but, come,
what do you think it shows?”

“It shows,” said Miss Carlton, laughing, “that
she has made a conquest, and is doubtful; rather
disposed to yield—but she wants pressing, hey!
Penelope; such, for instance, as you may form some
idea of, if you remember what happened in the
garden, after I left you and Mr. Selman there, to-day.”

“Go on!” exclaimed Miss Penelope.

“Well, when the lady is anxious to exhibit the
gentleman's confusion, it proves that she is a coquette,
who only cares for conquest—for glory;
that she has no clemency, and would chain the
conquered to the wheels of her triumphal car.”

“Go on, Mary, and tell us what's the sign when
the gentleman hides the lady's confusion.”

“Oh, I know no more—here ends my catechism.”

“Well, I'll instruct you; when a gentleman tries
to hide a lady's confusion, on such a tender occasion,
it shows that she has been wooed and won—
witness the summer-house this morning, when you
were catching runaway squirrels. You must keep
a tight chain round the neck of your squirrel, Mary,
I tell you. If you knew what was said to me on
the fourth, you would think there was some probability
of my cutting you out.”

“Ah, well, you were determined I should not cut
you out this afternoon. But, joking aside, what are
you going to do with Mr. Selman?”

“Do with him what you're determined to do
with Mr. Bradshaw—have him, I suppose; and I
declare to you I hate the thought—but as one

must settle down into matrimony, sooner or later,
the sooner the better.”

“A fair conclusion, Miss Penelope Perry.”

“Mary, Henry Selman is as blind as a beetle to
a smitation. Sometimes I really pity him; do you
think he didn't tell me, after you left us in the garden
this afternoon, that he was afraid you had acted
very coquettishly, and rejected Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Nullified the union! Poor fellow—he thought
Mr. Bradshaw's experience must tally with his
own. He did not know, that though you sometimes
pretend to hoist the single star, you are,
nevertheless, like the rest of woman kind, for union
to a man, as the epigram says.”

“Mary, you should have heard my sister Priscilla,
the evening of the fourth of July. Such a
lecture she did inflict on me! Poor Prisy has had
her day with the dashing beaux, and she begins to
settle down into an idea of parsons and sober sedate
gentlemen of a certain age. She has a sisterly
regard for me, and, I expect, when about my
years, she was a complete flirt; she flirted herself
out of two or three lovers, and is now as repentant
as any sinner you ever saw; she is so anxious
to make amends for it, that I have no doubt she
will accept the first staid, sober, discreet gentlemen
who offers. Indeed, she scolded so loudly, and
threatened such awful threats of telling mother—
whom Mr. Bradshaw has talked into believing
Henry Selman the best young man in the world—
of my improper conduct and total disregard of Mr.
Selman's feelings, as she called it, that I was forced
to promise her, that the next time the poor creature
talked to me of love, I would just stop his

mouth at once, and for ever, on that subject, by accepting
him. I suppose Mr. Bradshaw has persuaded
you to make him the happiest man in the
world—is not that the way these lovers phrase it?—
at such an early date, that it is too late for me, to
ask you to be my bridemaid, and I must be yours.”

Long before their conversation ended, their
cheeks were upon their pillows. Selman, who
rested in the adjoining room, reported to Bradshaw,
that long after midnight, he heard the indistinct
hum of their voices, and though (shameful that he
should confess such a thing,) he tried his hardest
to hear, he could not distinguish one word of their
conversation. What was farther said, we may
not relate, for we fear our fair readers have accused
us already of betraying secrets which gentlemen
are not entitled to hear.

Not long after the above conversation, Miss Penelope
and Selman were married. Mary and
Emily were her bridemaids, and Bradshaw and
Willoughby, his grooms'-men. In due time, Mary
Carlton went to the Springs. She corresponded
regularly with Emily Bradshaw, and gave her
piquant accounts of the motley crowd, among whom
she moved the most attractive belle. Frequent
reports reached Bradshaw of her conquests. These
reports not only told what gentlemen were wooing
her, but of engagements made, &c. &c. Talbot
was frequently mentioned as one of the best received
of her admirers. All this Bradshaw heard
with feelings which required a stubborn effort to
command. Though he would not believe them,
they gave him a heart-chill often, but he banished
them from his reflections with a stern pride.