University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

In due course of time, Mr. Carlton returned to
Oak Park, with Mr. Wortley as his guest. The
worthy politicians had been gathering their forces
with all possible care—rummaging in the remotest
parts of the state, like an old wife in a sly corner,
for some article she had packed away against the
day she should want it. Many an old politician,
who had been laid upon the shelf, and who deemed
himself so entirely forgotten, as to have sundry suggestions
from his wounded vanity, on the propriety
of taking the other side, in order to remind his former
friends of his existence, and his country of his
patriotism, in some flaming resolutions that he contemplated
introducing in the first county meeting
that should be held, was speedily disabused of his
erroneous impressions, and forthwith made firm, either
by a letter, visit, or completary frank of “public
documents,” long enough for a year's reading.

Mr. Carlton, knowing his daughter was treated
by the Bradshaws with parental care, gave himself
no trouble on her account, during her childhood.
He felt, indeed, that the inmates of the Purchase
were better guardians for her than any he could
appoint, or than he could be himself. As she grew
up, by tacit consent, she visited her friends and relatives,
the Holidays, and between her father and

them, a cold courtesy was, at length, established.
His professional business, his speculations in property,
and in politics, left him not leisure, sometimes
for months, to call and see his daughter. He
was satisfied to know that she was well, and with
his neighbours, whose solid, unworldly qualities he
could not but respect, while he felt that to imitate
them, was not the way to advance in the world;
and, therefore, he was content to praise them.
Full of schemes for the accumulation of wealth,
and for political advancement, years glided away,
and the flowers at the Purchase budded together
unsevered by Mr. Carlton. As Mary grew up,
her father oftener called to see her: he took great
delight in her playfulness, vivacity, and wit, became
proud of her, but there was no communion
of the heart between them. When Mary was
told that her father would be out at such a time
to see her, she would say to Emily Bradshaw, with
an arch smile, for she possessed a natural observation
of character, and understood what would please
her father, “Now, Emily, I must put off my puritanism,
look my liveliest and prettiest, and put on
my most fashionable dress; for if my father thought
me the least puritanical in my notions, he would
whisk me off to boarding-school.”

Mr. Carlton, therefore, knew little of his daughter's
feelings, even in her childhood, and as she
grew older, if possible less, for she discovered how
entirely he wished her to act a worldly part, and
naturally shrunk from conversing with him, on
schemes where she felt she must thwart him. He
had her taught every accomplishment, and lavished

jewelry, dress, and wealth upon her, believing it,
judging from himself, the best way to win her affections,
or rather to control them to his own bestowal,
which he was determined to do, for his political
advancement, as well as for her worldly advantage.
Of the boy, Clinton Bradshaw, he had thought
not at all—and when Clinton grew towards manhood,
and his great talents became a topic of public
notoriety and praise, Mr. Carlton had an early opportunity
of finding him one whom he could not
use, and who would probably one day cross his path,
unless he advanced very rapidly; for one of Clinton's
first speeches, was at a political meeting, got
up by Mr. Carlton, for the purpose of producing a
certain effect, by the passage of a set of resolutions
which he had brought with him, cut and dry,
for the occasion. Bradshaw took a stand against
the resolutions, and offered an amendment to them,
which, after a long debate between him and Mr.
Carlton, was carried. Mr. Carlton felt himself under
too many obligations to the Bradshaws to show
any dislike towards Clinton; in fact, motives of policy
were more than sufficient to restrain such an
exhibition, were his dislike even deeply rooted,
which it was not: and if Clinton had shown the
least symptom of being subservient to him, they
would have been very good friends, as the world
goes. Bradshaw supported Mr. Carlton for congress,
though latterly, he was dissatisfied with some of his
votes; and was certain to differ with him on the presidential
candidate, if Mr. Wortley was his choice.

Mr. Wortley was a gentleman of talents, who
had held several distinguished stations, and who

was one of the thousand and one talked of candidates
for the presidency. He was a native of the
same state with Mr. Carlton and Clinton. It was
thought his own state, as a matter of pride, would
certainly support him, and in the multiplicity of
candidates, it was believed by his friends, he
would be able to carry the vote in several other
states, as it was asserted, his popularity was fast
increasing. Therefore, there was no knowing
what would turn up, and consequently the knowing
ones who were on the fence ready to take the
strongest side, at the first break of the sun-shine
on Mr. Wortley's prospects, turned their faces to
him, whenever they could steal the time from others.

Mr. Carlton and Mr. Wortley had long been
friends, and the former had every reason to believe
that in the success of the latter, he would hold one
of the highest and most honourable offices in his
gift—an expectancy, which he could not found on
the anticipated success of any other candidate.
Mr. Wortley, also, was a man of wealth, and these
considerations were sufficient to impress the father
with the deepest conviction of the advantage of
such a match to his daughter. Occasionally, when
he heard his daughter teazed about Bradshaw,
a suspicion of her attachment would pass over his
mind—but nothing in her manner would revive it;
for, observing there was little or no cordiality between
her lover and her father, she never spoke to
her father of him, and he never mentioned Bradshaw
to her, from two motives: First, it occurred to
him, if his daughter was pleased with Bradshaw,
it was but a girlish partiality, which would be

soon forgotten in the bustle and adulation of fashionable
society—when she was away from him,
and heard not his name mentioned: Secondly, he
could not in his conscience speak against Bradshaw:
and, if he had reconciled his conscience to
it, which he could have done upon a push, expediency
would have told him, that as his daughter
was devotedly attached to Clinton's family, and
had every reason to be so, her generous feelings,
would be aroused in his vindication, and the very
effect might be produced, which he was endeavouring
to avoid—for we at least never dislike those
whom we vindicate, and we often learn to love them.

Bradshaw's attachment to Mary Carlton had
grown upon him unawares; and when he discovered
its unconquerable strength, or rather when
he discovered it was returned, he determined to
win a reputation, and the means of supporting her
in affluence; commensurate, somewhat, with her
expectancy, before he asked her hand. To this
his own pride, but more her father's manner towards
him, moved him.

The day after the arrival of Mr. Carlton and
his guest, at Oak Park, Bradshaw rode out to
make a formal visit to him; for there was a great
show of courtesy between them, particularly on
Mr. Carlton's part. But, somehow they kept, since
the political meeting we spoke of, the “ice of ceremony”
frozen to its hardest between them, which
Bradshaw seemed not unwilling to break; for his
manner was frank, unrestrained, and free, and, as
if he were not the least aware that there were any
passages in their intercourse disagreeable to Mr.
Carlton; while the manner of that gentleman to

him was that of pique, which he feared to vent,
and could not entirely conceal. In fact, Bradshaw
had the desire to be friendly with Mr. Carlton; but
he would not, by look, or smile, or tone, compromise
the independence of his conduct; or advance
a hair's breadth more than he was met. He quickly
perceived Mr. Carlton's manner had changed towards
him since his amendment to his resolution;
but he resolved to show him (Bradshaw was under
the impression Mr. Carlton knew he was attached
to Mary,) that while there was no change in himself,
he had acted, and would act, perfectly independent—with
uninfluenced and fearless purpose,
in expressing his opinions, and in acting upon them.

As Bradshaw gave his horse to a servant, he
asked for Mr. Carlton, and was told that he, with
Mr. Wortley, had taken a walk; the servant did
not know where, but he believed to some of the
neighbours.

“Electioneering,” thought Bradshaw. “Where's
Miss Mary?” he asked.

“I believe Miss Mary's in the garden, sir.”

Bradshaw entered the garden, and then the summer-house,
and found Miss Carlton arranging a
number of books which she had brought from the
dwelling, on a table.

“Mary, how blue you're getting!” he exclaimed.

“Ah, Clinton! is it you? Walk in, am I not
blue? yes, as blue, sir, as Mrs. —”

“No, Mary; you are not as blue as Mrs. —
Her blueness is that of skimmed milk—blue from
thinness. Her stocking won't take the dye, though
she dye it ever so often. But you're like the sky
above you—

“What, a quotation and a compliment again. I
thought you had done with such things, when
Penelope married.—”

“No, there are some who always remind us of
poetry and praise. What book is that open there?”

“Moore's Life of Sheridan—one of your idols.
And Moore says, sir, notwithstanding, Mr. Sheridan
was an exception that—`Nature delights to
put her costliest gems in the frailest vessels:' a
very foolish thing on the part of Dame Nature,
certainly; but the fact, if it be a fact, is, I suppose,
abundantly satisfactory to the vanity, and quite a
balm to the bodily condition of Mr. Clinton Bradshaw.
Clinton, Sheridan was a very scurvy fellow.
I shall detest the very mention of his name
—how he neglected that lovely and devoted wife
of his!—And yet I have no doubt he made as
many soft speeches as some I know of, when he
wooed her.” There was a strange coldness in her
tone, which Bradshaw did not understand.

“Doubtless, lady; for he knew how to make
speeches. What a time he had of it to win her!”

“Yes, and with what treachery he acted towards
his most intimate friend and to his brother!”

“Will not a lady forgive the treachery which is
practised for love of her? He may tell her, with
the poet, that `treachery was truth to thee.”'

“If she does, she is sure to be punished for it, as
Mrs. Sheridan was punished—`Treachery truth
to thee,' that's fiction, Clinton—false foul fiction
—Mrs. Sheridan found it out to her sorrow, indeed.”

“Mary, what's the matter? Why, such a tone?”

“Why, Mr. Talbot—no matter.”

“Mr. Talbot—no matter;”—but it is matter,
Mary; and matter of the deepest importance to
me, if it gives sorrow to you.”

“I meant to play the hypocrite and be `treacherous'
when I met you, but,—Clinton, Clinton, is
it true; can it be true, that you made a jest of me
publickly in the court-house, and said I was to
marry Mr. Wortley, called us January and May,
and laughed at me?”

“Ha! now I understand it—By heaven! Talbot
and I will meet upon that narrow pass ere long,
where one of us must leap the precipice,” muttered
Bradshaw between his clenched teeth.

“Clinton, Clinton Bradshaw, remember what
the violence of your passions have done—do no
injury.”

“Mary, what said he?” asked Bradshaw, in a
tone of assumed mildness. “What did Talbot
say I said of you, Mary?”

“That tone of calmness cannot deceive me,
Clinton,” said Mary, alarmed at the danger in
which a quarrel would involve her lover, and forgetting,
in the alarm, every feeling else;—“I
don't believe it—I meant not to tell it to you—
you must promise me on your honour to say nothing
about it.”

“Will my honour allow me to make such a
promise, Mary?”

“It will—it will.”

“Mary, listen to me:—Talbot has been poisoning
your ear against me—It is proper, you know

it is proper, Mary, that I should know what he
has said.”

“It was said to no one but myself, Clinton;—
let it pass.”

“No, Mary, it must not pass. If you will not
tell me, Talbot shall!”

“What, will you go, Clinton Bradshaw, and
represent me as a tale-bearer to you of what he
says!”

“Mary, you told me the last night—happy night
—we spent at the Purchase, that you had, in Washington,
when Talbot importuned you with his suit,
told him of what had passed between us. He knew,
then, that I loved you; that my love was not
frowned upon—nay, let me not hunt for delicate
phrases—was returned. Well, knowing this, (Bradshaw's
frame trembled with rage,)—knowing this,
he writes a letter that you are to marry another!
Yes, by heaven! I believe he wrote that letter—
a published letter: on the heel of it he returns and
proclaims the truth of the report; and while it
rings in my ears, in the jests and jeers and glad regrets
of those around me, he listens to hear what I
shall say—what I shall say, when pride, stung to
madness by suspicions and unrequited passion, buries
the barbed arrow in the heart, and smiles and
jests with the desolation that withers it. Yes! he
listens. Did I not know that he was listening? And
think you that I would suffer him, if you had so fallen
from your high promise, and wrecked my dearest
hopes, to read it on my brow?—

No! lady—I may die a martyr to this love I bear
you yet; but, like the Indian at the stake, no note of
lamentation shall break from me, to gladden the
heart of such as Talbot: it is not in my nature—
but it is in his, and he shall answer for it.” And he
started to go.

“Clinton—do not leave me! O! do not leave
me, in this ungovernable passion.”

“Listen to me, Mary. After this letter was
written—after Talbot confirmed the report—after
the jests and jeers that echoed it, rung in my ears
—at which, in the sin of my agony (for it was sinful,
it seems, to feel on this occasion) I dared to say
that such a union would be blooming May with
hoary January,—after all this, I met you: did I
taunt, did I reproach you—did I cast at you what
Talbot uttered, and mistrust you upon his authority?”

“O, Clinton! Clinton!” she exclaimed—“if I reproached
when you did not, 'twas because I loved
you the more.”

Bradshaw caught her to his heart. “My noble,
my frank, my beautiful love—forgive me. A conviction
of how unworthy I am of you, suffered me
not to read your feelings. Know you not that—”

At this moment, Mr. Carlton, accompanied by
Mr. Wortley and Talbot, (two of them, at least, astonished
witnesses of the scene,) stood before the
lovers. Talbot, if not so much astonished, was, at
least, as much enraged—for the latter part of the
conversation of the lovers had been overheard by
the intruding party, who had opened the gate unheard,
and whose footsteps had fallen noiselessly
on the grassy walk of the garden.

“Mary—Miss Carlton—what does this mean?”
exclaimed Mr. Carlton, in astonishment and anger.
“What does it mean, I say?” and he stamped upon
the floor furiously.

Mary sunk on a chair, which happened to be
near her; and bowing her head, in confusion, covered
her face with her left hand, while her right
one unconsciously remained in Bradshaw's grasp;
his unengaged hand was thrust into the bosom of
his vest—a habit with him. Talbot's glance upon
them was the concentration of envy and ill-will.

“What does this mean, Miss Mary Carlton?”
continued Mr. Carlton, more furiously. Mary spoke
not; and, turning to Bradshaw, he asked—“What
does this mean, sir, Mr. Bradshaw?”

“It means what it seems, Mr. Carlton,” said
Bradshaw, proudly—for he could not brook the
tone in which he was addressed.

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Carlton, “I see through
you; I've been informed of your character,”—here
he looked at Talbot, in a manner that told Bradshaw,
though it was not meant where the information
came from—“Sir, you're a villain!”

“Mr. Carlton,” said Bradshaw, “you well know
that your age, and the respect I bear your daughter,
protect you, or you would not use such language.”

Our readers, to understand the extent of Mr.
Carlton's passion, must be informed, that when Mr.
Wortley and Carlton left the house together, Mr.
Wortley recounted to Carlton the contents of a
host of letters he had received; giving him most
flattering accounts of his prospects for the presidency:
after which, and after saying, that in the
event of his elevation to that high office, he should

require, as he had often told him, his friendly aid;
he delicately hinted, that it would be the greatest
pride and pleasure of his life, if the tie between
them could be made yet stronger. Now these
worthies understood each other from the beginning;
but there's an explicitness in words, in airy words,
when they tell to hope her dream, that for a moment
seems to place the reality, which, in fact,
may be as far off as ever, in your grasp. Mr. Carlton
delightedly caught at the hint; and father and
son-in-law, that were to be, became entirely confidential
with regard to their anticipated domestic
relations. Mr. Carlton had no doubt, knew, in fact,
that his daughter's affections were entirely unengaged.
She might have had slight preference at
one time, which all girls, just from school will, for
a week or two, entertain; but latterly, this foolish
romance (if she had ever entertained such) had
given place to a proper view of things. Thus conversing,
like the lovers, they “forgot all time,”
until they were joined by Talbot, who had spent
the previous night at the Park; and who, in a conversation
on that evening with Mr. Wortley, in
answer to that gentleman's inquiries concerning
Bradshaw's talents and influence, for Mr. Wortley
was electioneering, and was curious about one so
much spoken of as Bradshaw, had not failed to let
him know that Clinton was opposed to his pretensions;
of which opposition, Talbot gave a most
exaggerated account; professing himself, at the
same time, the devoted friend of Mr. Wortley. He
pronounced Bradshaw's talents more overrated
than any man's he had ever known; and was
satisfied, he said, that he was as high as he ever
would be. Mr. Carlton was by at the conversation;
and Talbot afterwards spoke to him apart,
but with a hope that he would not let it be known
from whom it came, and told him that Bradshaw
was as much opposed to him as to Mr. Wortley,
and was, in fact, the chief promoter of a call for a
public meeting, that was to be held in the city
on the next evening; at which, it was rumoured,
the propriety of a measure, which Mr. Carlton had
warmly advocated in congress, was to be discussed.

Talbot, seated in a large bow-window of the
mansion, and hidden by the curtains, had overheard
Bradshaw ask for Mary Carlton, and saw
him enter the garden. He immediately seized his
hat and hurried out in search of Mr. Carlton and
Wortley; resolving, by hook or by crook, to lead
them to the garden, and prevent the tête-à-tête of
the lovers; for it not only awoke all his envy and
jealousy, to know that they were together, but he
dreaded an explanation between them of what
Bradshaw had said in the court-house, when the
report of Mary's marriage to Wortley was spoken
of, which he had foully misrepresented to her.

Let us return to the summer-house. The tone
and manner of Bradshaw increased the rage of Mr.
Carlton.

“You deserve worse language than any I can
use,” he exclaimed: “you have taken advantage
of my daughter's being at your father's, and endeavoured
basely to steal her affections—yes, sir,
steal her affections!”

“Father,” interrupted Mary Carlton, with dignity,

“there was no stealing in the case—I freely
gave my affections.”

“Don't speak to me—if you disobey, you'll find
yourself a beggar. Yes,” continued Mr. Carlton,
addressing Bradshaw, “steal her affections! Why
did you not speak to me, her father, as an honourable
man would have done? No, sir, this is
in keeping with the rest of your Jesuitical and
vil—”

“Mr. Carlton,” said Bradshaw, interrupting him,
“spare your lungs, I pray you, sir; there is to be
a public meeting to-night, when you may have to
use them. Mr. Talbot, it will not be agreeable to
Miss Carlton to have her name connected with
mine in recounting, either in letter writing, or
scandalous tattle, this scene. You act at your peril,
sir.”

“Clinton! Clinton!” exclaimed Mary, “remember
your promise; do not—do not—”

“Mary,” said Bradshaw, “your very slightest
wish shall be my inviolable law. Mr. Wortley, I
regret our acquaintance was not renewed under
less turbulent auspices; we have not had leisure
to exchange even the courtesies of a greeting. I
bid you good morning, sir:” and Bradshaw lifted
his hat, leisurely left the garden, mounted his
horse, and rode to the city. Bradshaw sat in his
office all the afternoon, brooding over what had
occurred. There was more tenderness in his love
for Mary Carlton than he had ever felt before; he
had loved her for her bewitching vivacity, for her
beauty, for her wit, for her mind—which was every
day impressing him more and more with its superiority

to the generality of her sex,—he had loved
her with a proud love, connecting her with the
dreams of his ambition; but now his heart gushed
over towards her, and he thought not of these
qualities—he thought of the pure and loving spirit
that dwelt in her bright form. He long mused in
a revery of love. Then the gentle emotions which
she called up fled as he thought of her father; and
as Talbot crossed his mind, an expression amounting
to loathing passed over his countenance. Bradshaw
had rather a taste than a talent for poetry,
and he often sought to express his emotions in a
hasty rhyme; seizing a pen he wrote as follows.
(Talbot's Christian name was Andrew.)