University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Mary Carlton was still at Washington with her
father. Congress was holding one of its long sessions,
and she wrote to Emily Bradshaw, she was desirous
to get home once more, but her father insisted
upon her staying with him, until the adjournment
of congress, when he would return to Oak
Park, (the name of his estate adjoining the Purchase,)
and spend the summer there. “Home,
home, home,” she wrote in her letter, “I am almost
crazy to get home.” “There is no place
like home,” I sing the song so often, that I really
believe the folks here begin to think I know no
other. Oh! how I long to see you all. How is
Mrs. Penelope Selman? and what does she think
of matrimony? and how does her loving lord bear
the yoke connubial? How she used to worry him!
does she worry him still? and how in the name of
love, and matrimony does he bear it! And how is
our friend Kentuck?—I beg pardon, I remember
with what precision you always called him, Mr.
Wil-lough-by. What pro-di-gi-ous dignity some
ladies have on some occasions! Emily, Emily,
you're sly, very, very sly. You mention Ken—

Mr. Wil-lough-by, so seldom in your letters, and
with such an indifferent kind of a style, that one
would think, who didn't know you, and who didn't
know our sex, that he was the most casual acquaintance
in the world. Do you remember that Miss
Edith Bellenden, in Old Mortality, in writing to
her uncle, the major, speaks of trumpery novels,
and such gear in her letter, and only has a word
or two in the postscript, for the danger of her lover
Morton? Now you are a heroine, very much like Miss
Edith Bellenden, I take it, Miss Emily Bradshaw.—
I've heard it all from Penelope: she wrote me a long
letter the very moment she heard it—on the afternoon
of the day when Ken—Mr. Wil-lough-by's
uncle, what a strange man, went to the Purchase
with Clinton—does Mr. Clinton ride ghosts about?
Is the uncle a vampire?—And so you accepted
the poor disinherited knight, when he hadn't a
cent? how provoking, that you will have to be the
richest bride in the country. You were so much
in the pouts, when you heard it was all a sham,
that you could not write to me, I suppose; you'll
now play Miss Lydia Languish, of course, and lead
your lover a life of it. Or will you just be married
in a plain kind of a way, and no more of it? Penelope
is deeply interested for you. She tells me, Mr.
Wil-lough-by is the most devoted lover extant.
Well, I once thought that your devotion to your
pilgrim-name, was so great you would never change
it. But then there is so much chivalry and constancy
in a Kentuckian—and such a Kentuckian!
How did he make his declaration, Emily? He told
you, with a most funereal face, he was not worth
one cent, and you “loved him for himself alone?”
Where did you own the “soft impeachment?”—in
the country, I hope, for the sake of all “true
loviers.” Apropos; a gentleman had the—what
shall I call it—you now are a judge and can decide?
had the — to tell me the other day,
making a quotation from Halleck to express himself,
that, think of his impudence, Emily, for ain't
it impudence? that a declaration, when a girl truly
loved the declarer, sounded to her,

“`World-seeking!' well, we seek a world, when
we seek true love; for the `world of the heart' is
all the world to us. What, though we find that
world—too often, like the Genoese, we meet with
cold neglect.—I declare now, isn't that an envious
reflection, considering under what circumstances I
write to you? Pray, has such a world been discovered
yet? are you upon the voyage, and do you
mean to be the discoverer? That is, are you sanguine
as to that point? Envy again.

“Congratulate me! I have an old beau here.
Understand; not one who has been paying his distresses
to me for a long time, and is, therefore, an
old beau, but one who has seen the olden time, a
man of eld, as ancient, to be as limited in the computation
of his years as truth will possibly admit,
as ancient as my father, and looking, at least, twenty

years older. Fancy me cocking up my chin,
while I write the name of the Honourable James
Wortley, Secretary of the —! He has a very
large fortune!! he lives here in great style!!! he
is an aspirant to the presidency!!!! My father
and the Honourable Secretary are as thick as two
lovers. My father eulogizes the Secretary in a
good set speech three times a-day; namely, at
breakfast, dinner, and supper; and between whiles,
he drags him into his discourse so often that I suspect
the discourse is frequently made for the sake
of the parenthesis, as Miss Edith Bellenden's letter
was written that she might append to it a postscript.
Let me inform you, nevertheless, that though he is
ancient of days, he is an agreeable and intellectual
man; but you know his reputation. You have only
heard of his talents—his great political knowledge,
&c., &c. You ought to see himself. Could you
ever abide your courtly cold man, except at a birth-night
ball? You ought to see him, as I say—yes,
you must see him: I shall bring him in my train,
ahem! to Oak Park, that you may. I shall have
him dye his hair first of a raven black—it is now of
a blue-black—his last dye not being good—with,
here and there, a grayish streak, like the silk that
I wore the last time you saw me, and got stained—
hold himself very erect—he always is erect, when
he thinks of the weight of years he carries—and
of this your blooming presence will remind him—
get his coat judiciously padded, a new set of teeth,
and, after this preparation, now, that I know
you have been won, you shall see him. He shall
put on his fascinations, but not all of them; for I
would not throw Mr. Willoughby in the shade
completely. You shall see what I have done at
Washington:—and, if you had not thrown yourself
away on a wild Kentuckian, I meant, on my return,
to have taught you and two or three other
girls, good and true, of our set, my trick of winning
hearts; and, like Captain Bobadil, (I have been to
the theatre so often, that you see all my thoughts
find resemblances there.—Oh! for the green fields
once more,) with his select company, we would
kill off any number of men, `by computation.'—`By
computation!' Ay, when you see my beau putting
his best foot foremost—it will be his left, for he has
lately had a twinge of the gout in the right, which
has swollen it considerably, and made him limp on
that side—it will be impossible for you to tell how
many years he computes—as impossible as it is to
compute the number of worldly advantages which
my dear papa thinks will result from—no, I won't
say the word. It takes two to make a bargain, it
is said, and, therefore, papa and the Honourable
Secretary, being two, think they have made a bargain
on certain persons being one, but—would you
believe it?—it takes three to make the bargain I
speak of. Wait till we meet—I'll keep you awake
a whole night listening.

“Do, my dear Emily, in consideration of my
father's health and mine, and of the young gentleman's
who will attend us—some day when you are
walking with Mr. Wil-lough-by—he caring not
whither, so you walk with him—do wend your way
to Oak Park, and see—oh, what a climax!—that
the rooms are well aired. Do, now,—there's a

good girl—and for your reward, be gentle love
about your pillow. May he—the boy—love, I mean,
why was he not a girl?—or, to please prudes, why
not it?—may he seek your lattice with the dew of
fairest flowers upon his wing, and leave it on your
lip to be stolen, when you are willing. Don't you
think I want an `ounce'—no, a pound `of civet, to
sweeten my imagination.' Don't let Priscilla Perry
see this letter for the world. Don't read this part
to Penelope, for she will, in her mischief, repeat it
to Priscilla, and I shall depart from her good
graces for ever, but not before that `good apothecary'
has dosed me to death with lectures on
propriety.

“This moment, John came in, and gave me your
letter. My dear, dear Emily, you deserve to be
happy, and indeed you will be. The most romance-loving
lady in the land would be satisfied with your
fate.

“Kentuck is a noble fellow. Do you know you
will be envied by every girl in the country—except
one? It is so romantic, I laid down my pen, and
cried and laughed for an hour. I shall soon be
home, but I see how it is, we shall roam no more
together over the Purchase. Three's bad company.
Well, ma'am, do you mean to live in Kentuck?
I mean the state. No! no! Emily, that must not
be; it must be stipulated in the bond that you do
not leave us. Mr. Willoughby has no relative but
his uncle, and he must be content to remain. Wait
till I get home. We girls must make the old gentleman

as pleased as Punch with himself, and with
us, and keep him. If he says he wont stay, and
expects to take you with him, I will invite him out
to take a walk with me, inveigle him by the bank
of the deepest part of the branch, and give him a
sly push in, and so end the matter; for you must
not, must not leave us. But I know your father
and mother could not part with you—oh, how I
have been worrying myself, for fear you would
leave us.

“Tell Clinton, that his canal speech has been
republished here very handsomely, in pamphlet
form, and that it sells like a novel, that Mr. Clay
quoted from it yesterday with high compliments,
that grave senators explore it with curious eyes—
that fair ladies repeat the beautiful extracts—and
last, though not least, that no less a personage
than your humble servant, whenever she hears
him puffed, takes unto herself the honour of boasting
of his acquaintance, and becomes garrulous of
the accomplishments, address, colloquial talents,
oratorical powers, flashing eye, and brave bearing
of Clinton Bradshaw, Esquire; for all which personal
praise, be it known to him, through you, he
is indebted to my imagination—which don't choose
to stop at trifles, when it gets a going—as he may
see in the above sentence.

“Give my love to your kind dear father and
mother; tell them I am happiest at the Purchase.
I am tired of the dissipation and heartlessness
around me. Remember me to every living thing
on the Purchase—to old Pete, and aunt Sally, and
all the race of Pete's young and old. I'll tell you
of a weakness of mine, last night—for weakness it

would be called here, and whenever I want to
make myself an object of ridicule in this community,
I'll tell it. You know how often we have knelt
at your dear mother's knee, and said, `Our Father
who art in Heaven,' after her, and how often since
we have said it together? Last night, I was at a
brilliant party. I had, just before going, heard
pleasing things of you—of home; there they were
repeated. I felt a strange giddy excitement. Arrived
at our rooms, when the party was over, I
threw myself on my pillow, while facts and fancies
whirled through my brain wildly. I fell, at
last, asleep, and awoke in the night, after an unhappy
dream—it struck me I had not said `Our
Father'—it was the first time I had neglected it
since we knelt at your mother's knee. It made
me feel so wretched that it was hours before I
sobbed myself to sleep. I am feverish and unwell
to-day; but it is the dissipation of this place, which,
thank heaven, will soon be over. I have scribbled
all this just to relieve myself.

“God bless you, my dear, dear Emily.

“M. C.”

“P. S. You are right. You always told me you
preferred Mr. Willoughby's society to any other
gentleman's—you never said you loved him—and
I don't know that any girl should confess it even
to herself—if she could help it, Emily, until my
gentleman has plumply and in good set terms made
his declaration—but alas! love, like murder, will
out.

M. C.”

Mr. Chesterton (Willoughby's uncle,) had become
a guest at the Purchase. He talked sometimes

of returning to Kentucky to look after his
estate; but the fear of the ridicule that would attach
to him, when the circumstances attending his
pretended death and endowment of an hospital
were known—(the friend who had written the
letter announcing his death to Willoughby, was
held to secrecy, but Chesterton feared the report
would travel to the west)—kept him no unwilling
guest at the Purchase. Emily's gentleness and
beauty won his regard, and the characters of Mr.
and Mrs. Bradshaw impressed him with a great
respect for them. Clinton, he said, would make
a marvel of a man if he wasn't such a d—d democrat.
The old gentleman prided himself upon
his aristocratic opinions. To his nephew, Mr.
Chesterton was abundantly kind, it was evident he
was making every reparation in his power for his
mistrust of him. Sometimes, when he thought of
Dodridge, he was restiff to put his threat into
execution; but, upon the main, he was more contented
than he had been for years. He bustled
into town to hear the news, and by the time he
had chatted with Bradshaw and half quarrelled
with his Jeffersonianism, and strolled around, his
cough would come on, he would say, and then
he would be off, in a hurry, for the Purchase, that
he might get where there was quietness and recruit.
He averred himself descended from an expatriated
cavalier, who left England in the troubles
of Cromwell's time, and settled in Virginia, and
thence, he said, his ancestors emigrated to Kentucky.
He said he never liked the Puritans till he
saw Emily Bradshaw, and now he considered it
providential that he had crossed the mountains, and
his nephew was to make such a match—for it was
good with men and horses—ugh! ugh!—to cross
the breed; and he was a great judge of horse-flesh.
Clinton Bradshaw knew how to humour him, to a
fraction, and to draw him out. At first, Mr. Bradshaw
had as strong a repugnance to Mr. Chesterton
as one of his chastened feelings and Christian
charity could entertain against any one; but it gave
place, when he came to know him better, to other
emotions. Notwithstanding Mr. Chesterton would
occasionally express some heathenish opinion, or let
slip an oath, he daily more and more suppressed
the one, and coughed lustily when he found himself
on the eve of uttering the other; and, in a short
time, there grew to be a real liking between them.
Mr. Bradshaw saw his daughter's affections were
deeply engaged by Willoughby, and that the Kentuckian
loved her with the full fervour of a manly
heart; and he was extremely solicitous that all
should harmonize. He could not bear the thought
of separating from his daughter. Mrs. Bradshaw
told the uncle that it must not be—she could not
part with Emily. Willoughby, in compliance with
Emily's wishes, and in obedience to his own, said
he meant permanently to locate himself with Emily's
relatives; and it was agreed that, after they
were married, if Mr. Chesterton wished, they would
make a visit west with him. Mr. Chesterton, at
first, expressed himself very desirous that his nephew,
when married, should live in the west; but,
having no relatives there, he daily became more
and more weaned from it, and wedded to his new
friends. He would frequently aver, among the
neighbours, with whom he soon became very familiar
and talkative, that he liked the old Puritan,
as he called Mr. Bradshaw, much; and that, if he
were put upon his oath, he would say Mr. Bradshaw
was the most honest man he had ever met
with. “A good man,” he pronounced him, “but a
d—d Puritan. We agree now like two pick-pockets;
but if he and I had lived in old Noll's time, and
had met, we'd have fought with a vengeance.” In
the evenings, at the Purchase, while the lovers
would stroll away, or sit apart, Mr. Bradshaw and
son, and Mr. Chesterton, would hold long conversations
“on things in general,” as the latter gentleman
expressed it, “and on methodism, farming, John
Wesley, Puritanism, the settlement of New England
and Virginia, and the revolutionary war, with
a host of other matters, in particular.” Mr. Chesterton
had read and travelled much; he had a
shrewd perception of character, where his passions
were not concerned, and he delighted to expatiate
upon it. Nothing pleased Clinton more than to
get him upon that topic, for he would show off all
his own eccentricities in describing those of others;
while he thanked God, with the sincerest belief,
“that he had not—ugh! ugh!—an oddity, whim-wham,
peculiarity, or eccentricity, in the world.
“This having a ridiculous point,” he would say,
“about one is no joke, gentlemen—no joke—understand
me—to yourselves, though others may find
great fun in it.”

Emily, leaning on Willoughby's arm, often took
the path-way to the park, to superintend the household
arrangements for her friend. The Kentuckian

was always by her side. Thus, weeks passed
away. In the mean time, the following paragraph,
from the pen of a Washington correspondent, who
was esteemed accurate, went the rounds:

“Among the things that are to be, rumour says
the Hon. Samuel Carlton will be elected to fill the
vacancy in the Senate, occasioned by the resignation
of — —, who has been appointed a judge.
Mr. Carlton, however, will have a powerful competitor
in General Murray, whose revolutionary services
were arduous and self-sacrificing. It is said
that Mr. Wortley, who is from Mr. Carlton's state,
will throw his influence in the scale of Carlton;
and the honourable secretary, from appearances
and report, has good and sufficient reason therefor.
Mr. Carlton's daughter, who has been the reigning
belle here all this winter, and who deserves all the
praise her beauty and accomplishments have won
her, is to bestow her hand—so rumour says, and
appearances justify it—on the honourable secretary.
This match, though equal in other respects, is
not in years—the secretary, however, does his best
to prevent and repair the dilapidations of time. At
all hours, he may be seen beside the blooming beauty,
whose sprightly vivacity and wit seem to impart
new life to him. He seems no longer deeply
immersed in politics.”

Clinton Bradshaw, carelessly, in the court-house,
picked up the newspaper; and glancing his eye
over it, fell on the above paragraph. He betrayed
an emotion, which, he had schooled himself to believe,
required sterner things to start. He had
scarcely calmed the disquiet of his brow, when
Cavendish (the court had not been called yet, and

the members of the bar were lounging around their
desks,) went up to him, where he was seated, with
a number of young men near, and asked—

“Bradshaw, have you heard the news from
Washington?”

The `from Washington,' put Bradshaw on his
guard, but—

In an indifferent tone he asked, “what news?”

“Why, that Mary Carlton is to marry Mr.
Wortley.”

“Heard it! to be sure I have—listen;” and
Bradshaw read the paragraph from the letter.
While he read, the young men gathered around
him. He betrayed no emotion in reading, and
when he finished, observed—

“There, gentlemen, our richest heiress, and loveliest
lady's gone—and my old schoolmate, too, whom
I have beaued so often, and talked so much romance
to.”

“Bradshaw, confound it,” said Cavendish, provoked
at his manner, “I thought you were in love
with her.”

“We were schoolmates, you know, Judge, and—
but I don't tell tales out of school—particularly on
myself. Miss Carlton has fascinations that would
make a lover of a stoic, but—

“Bradshaw, I shall suspect you of puppyism, if
you speak in this indifferent tone of a lady whom
you have known so long; and—

“Why, Judge—these gentlemen, judge us, judge

—the fair lady has made as great a hole in your
heart as in mine. Here's an admirable critique on
Booth, in Richard, the night before last: I become
stage-struck whenever I see him.”

“Bradshaw,” said Cavendish, without heeding
his last remark, “it must be true; Talbot is just
from Washington, and he swears to it. It is preposterous
to think she would marry that old man—
it's January and May.”

“Well, Judge, though it is preposterous, May
wedded January, you know; the blooming rose
was encircled by the snow. What a cold embrace!
The snow did its best to melt; the widow's mite
is as acceptable in the eye of charity as the rich
man's gold; and why may not the withered heart
be as acceptable in the court of love as one as full
of blood, and buoyant passions, even as your honour's.”
Thus will wounded pride jest with what
is dearest to it. “When did Mr. Talbot arrive?”
asked Bradshaw.

“Last night: he has been nearly all winter at
Washington.

“Ay! has he been a worshipper?—knelt he at
the shrine?”

“I suspect he did. Here's Talbot, now,” said
Cavendish.

Since the affair between Bradshaw and Talbot
in the court-house Restaurateur, they had been on
speaking terms, and Talbot had made advances to
sociability, which Bradshaw received without reciprocating,
but with the easy unembarrassed manner
which characterized him.

Talbot advanced to the circle, and was greeted

by his acquaintances. He offered his hand to
Bradshaw, which he took, and asked—

“What news from the capitol, Mr. Talbot?—you
bring sad tidings to the Judge and me. We have
been rivals for many years for Miss Carlton's smile;
and, from what we hear, we have agreed to pronounce
the grapes sour.”

Talbot had joined the group when he saw Bradshaw
with the intention of telling the news, and
enjoying his dismay. He was, therefore, astonished,
suspecting, as he did, Bradshaw's feelings, at
his tone of easy raillery.

“My tidings are from the newspapers, sir,” said
Talbot.

“Ay, coming fresh from Washington, we feared
you had some more authentic source of information—Judge,
there's hopes for us yet—these lying
letter writers will say any thing. Have you any
idea, Mr. Talbot, who wrote the letter?”

“Me—I—not I, sir.”

“Understand me, sir,” said Bradshaw, archly—
“I do not say that you wrote the letter—though
your friends here have given you credit for many
of the letters that have appeared in this journal—
they have been very accurate and very acute—
the letters, I mean.”

With a heart ill at ease, Bradshaw left the court-house.
“Can it be,” thought he, “that—no—'tis
false. But then to have her name coupled with
Wortley's in that manner—the tone of the letter
insinuates her willingness—yes, by heaven, Talbot
wrote that letter. In her letter to Emily she laughs
at Wortley—but a woman—who can read a woman!—It

cannot be—she has a hold on my very
heart-strings. What a gentle passion love is, when
undisturbed!—but mistrust plants daggers in the
heart. He who loves with his whole soul, and acts
nobly, amidst rivalry, suspicions, and morbid misgivings,
has a god-like spirit. Wortley and Carlton
have some political scheme between them—I
have no doubt. Carlton wants to be senator, and
Wortley aspires,—heaven save the mark!—to the
presidency, and to the daughter—I'm told he's
subtle as a serpent. Her father has suspicions of
our attachment. If I am re-elected to the legislature,
for whom go I for senator? there's the rub—
Mary will soon be home.”