University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

With all his energies, Bradshaw devoted himself
to electioneering. In the neighbourhood of the
Purchase, he completely stole a march on Mr.
Carlton, as he, before that wily gentleman was
aware, had visited all the old farmers, who knew
him when a boy, and their sons, with whom he had
grown up to manhood, and interested them in his
success. He knew he had to contend against the
united influence of wealth, and long established,
and extensive political connexions. If Bradshaw
had been consulted himself, on the propriety of his
being a candidate in opposition to Mr. Carlton, he
would have refused, in all probability. But when
he found, that a very large meeting had voluntarily
nominated him in his absence, and that the
friends of Carlton, in public and in private, by
speech and by the press, were leaving no stones
unturned, not even the dirtiest, to injure his character,
personal and political, he determined, come
what might, to be a candidate. Having made this
determination, he knew well, that to place himself
on the course, with any chance of success, it was
necessary his exertions should be untiring. Therefore,
long before the usual time for calling the

meetings, at which the candidates addressed the
voters from the stump, Bradshaw again and again
visited his political friends in town and country.
He frankly told them why he was so anxious;
that he felt it a personal as well as political matter.
But he made no noise in his operations:
apparently, he was leisurely strolling through
town with little to occupy him; gallanting a lady,
may be, when observed on the main streets, and,
when seen in obscure places, appearing to have no
particular purpose—with a group at a corner—
he paused but a moment, like a passer-by, who
has been caught by a casual remark, or who stops
to make one. As usual, he went on Sundays to
the country church, but there was nothing of the
electioneerer in his manners; they were unchanged.
His courtesy obtained no increase, and he did not
appear more anxious than formerly, to recognise
an old acquaintance, or to form new ones.

Bradshaw had a quality which Lord Bacon has
praised in Cæsar; a singular power of extinguishing
envy. He conversed with men generally upon
such topics as they wished, and upon which he
knew them acquainted; he never appeared solicitous
of distinction; he never assumed; he never
seemed doubtful of men's regard, nor anxious for
it; he was not the least envious of the standing of
other men, and he took his place in all companies
as if every body knew it was his, and he himself
thought not at all upon it, but was there—no matter
how flattering the situation—if we may so express
ourselves—naturally. He never seemed to
dream that any one, however wealthy or renowned,

had the least wish, or would dare for a moment, by
slightest word, or tone, or look in his presence, to
derogate from his standing or character, (a great
point, by the by, in character, this last.)

“Willoughby,” said Cavendish to Kentuck, one
day, “did you ever see such a fellow as Bradshaw!
He takes all this abuse on one side, and puff on the
other, as a matter of course; how he has schooled
himself, or something else!”

“That's a fact!” was the reply. “The truth is,
Judge, Bradshaw never seems to presume the least,
and he has the profoundest admiration for talent,
and would show all deference to its possessor, did he
meet him at a dinner party or ball; but the moment
Bradshaw was his competitor at the bar, in congress,
any where, that moment he would act, as if
he were the equal of the greatest man he might so
meet, and he has the knack of making the by-standers
think it is perfectly a fair match—`Greek
meeting Greek.' His friends never feel for him in
any situation; the truth is, his ambition is of the
loftiest, and he feels now that he is just getting
upon the course, where he has a right to enter
among the full bloods; and as his strength never yet
has been tested, no one knows what he can do.
The other day Bradshaw and I dined with Wortley;
the old fellow finds that Bradshaw may be a
spoke in his wheel, (for though he knows Clinton
is opposed to his pretensions to the presidency, yet
it is his character to conciliate,) and he was all
courtesy.”

“Was Carlton there?”

“O! yes, Bradshaw and he spoke not to each

other. Well, W— was there, the great lion;
he voted with Carlton on this certain measure, you
know; and, of course, he and Bradshaw differ.
W— lugged the measure into conversation, I
thought with a spirit bent on controversy; Carlton
doing all he could to draw him out. It was not
exactly the place, at a dinner table; however,
W— talked hard at Bradshaw for some time: I
thought him really personal. Bradshaw bore it
till he could bear it no longer, and then he entered
the list. It was a large dinner party, and all were
hushed at the self-possessed sarcastic way Bradshaw
took him up. Well, Bradshaw three times
set him right with regard to opinions which W—
attributed to distinguished men of the revolution;
and gave him chapter and verse; and he showed
in every respect more knowledge of the subject,
more self-possession, and more power. Nobody
seemed to think, what is a fact, that he has been
thinking upon that subject these six months. He
met Carlton upon it, at the meeting called on Carlton's
return; and he has since been preparing himself,
still on this theme, for the coming stump meetings.
You have no idea how Bradshaw studies
even his stump speeches. I don't mean the language;
that he leaves pretty much to the impulse
of the occasion. But there is not a point that may
come up in this contest, that Bradshaw has not
made himself master of thoroughly. He could get
up now out of his bed, if he is in it, and express
his opinions, on any subject Carlton may chose to
touch upon, right out; and he'll give you the why
and wherefore, apparently, as extemporaneously
as the morning salutation.”

Weeks rolled on. Bradshaw and Carlton had
had many stern encounters on the stump. The
election day approached. The press on both sides
was daily becoming more rabid: both sides were
sanguine. Handbills began to be circulated.

Often, from the stern strife of politics—a strife
with her father, in which every weapon had been
used to wound him personally—did Bradshaw turn,
in thought, to Mary Carlton, and check the vehemence
of his passion; but, with unconquerable will,
he kept his energies ever watchful, and his spirit
ever firm. Twice he had written to Mary, but
had received no answer. His sister, with Mr. Chesterton
and Willoughby, had taken a pleasure jaunt
to a neighbouring city—or, rather, they had attended
Mr. Bradshaw, who had gone on some important
business to his church, to a general conference
there; and, from her, he could not hear of
Mary. A friend, who had passed through the upper
part of the state, told him that he had called
to see Miss Carlton, who, he understood, was with
Mrs. Holliday, at a medicinal spring, which was
celebrated for its waters; and that he was told she
was not in good health—but he did not see her.
“Not well! Why don't I hear from Mary? 'Tis
strange!” Such thoughts would occur to Bradshaw
a thousand times, in the course of the day;
but they would be as often banished by the exciting
scenes in which he was an actor, or by the
reflection—“She does not like to be here while the
contest is going on between her father and myself.
She might, at least, write to me. Perhaps she has.
The letter may have miscarried: some foul work,

may be,”—and again he would be called from love
to ambition.

Where is Mary Carlton?

“Daughter!” said Mr. Carlton to Mary, a few
days after she had left town, and while she was
with Mrs. Holliday, on a farm, where we have said
that lady was spending a few weeks, whither Mary
Carlton had gone to consult her, and where her father
had followed her, a few days afterwards—
“Daughter, (the tone was full of gentleness,
changed, indeed, from their last meeting,) my dear
daughter, I was wrong, very wrong, in wishing you,
so peremptority, to marry Mr. Wortley: let that
pass—forget it. What can I have, but your happiness,
in view? You are my only child. I have
none else to leave my fortune to. I was wrong—
but, be assured, it is true what I have told you:
this Bradshaw is unworthy of you. This girl—this
Jane Durham—is a creature, whom, some years
since, he defended for murder, and, by some unexpected
management, contrived to save from condign
punishment. I'm told she is a woman of some attractions;
but you may judge what she is, when
she was found in that miserable lane, and accused
of murder. Be a woman, my daughter—thank
God you are saved from him. I have not minced
the matter with you. She has been, from that time
to this—all the while he was wooing you—his mistress.
There is no doubt of it. An intimate friend
of mine, who has your interests, your welfare, deeply

at heart, informed me of the fact. You have
observed, yourself, that the newspapers which I
sent you, darkly hinted of it. Before the election
day, which is now drawing very near, there will
be, I expect, a public exposition of the business.
Bradshaw has acted, they say, with great perfidy—
though that I cannot well believe, in this instance;
for she was a wretched thing, fit for any deed, when
he saw her. We have talked it over two or three
times. Now, daughter, I don't want you to be
precipitate. Remain here till after the election is
over—that's all I ask of you—so that you will not be
subject to his wily arts; for, be assured, though he
loves you, my daughter, so much, as he says,—yet,
you may be sure, such is his anxiety to defeat your
father in this election, that he will not seek you—
he will not think of you; and, surely, your woman's
pride, your sense of self-respect, will prevent you
from throwing yourself in his way. Consult your
aunt, my daughter—you think her your best friend
—consult her. I have spoken with her—consult
her. Be a woman, daughter—be a woman. Good
bye. I must hurry to town. This man, who has
so much love for you, my daughter, spares not, on
that account, your father. In all my life—now, I
may say, an old man, at least, in comparison with
him; for I am old enough to be his father,—in all
my life, I never have been met with such bold and
unsparing denunciation, and sarcastic levity and ridicule,
totally devoid of all respect, as from this man.
But it is not on my own account, daughter, I thus
speak to you—'tis for you. I would save you. I
know you are indebted to his family for kindnesses;
but do not let your regard for them plead for him.
I did not think you would be grieved so much. Be
a woman, daughter.” And the father took his leave,
mounted his horse, and hastened to town.

“Merciful God!” exclaimed Mary, after her father
had left the room, “take this load off my heart!
Oh! take this load from off my heart—or break it,
in thy mercy!—break it, and let me die! No!”
she continued, wildly walking across the room—“I
will not, must not, cannot, believe it. Can Clinton
be so false, so base?—have we not grown up together?
Yes! yes!—and this love has twined itself
into my very being. If it be true, my woman's
pride shall support me, though I die! My father
never was so kind to me—he seemed to feel for me.
Now, I remember—now, I remember: Clinton did
not deny he laughed in the court-house, when Talbot
spoke of my engagement to Mr. Wortley; but
it—all this my father has told me—may be a trick
of Talbot's. But my aunt seems to believe—she,
who thought so much of Clinton. O! his baseness!
The day of the trial he spoke to Jane Durham, and
went with her to the jail—his perfidy! to come to
me, with his endearments, from this wanton's” —
She buried her face in her hands. “There's aunt
coming. I will consult her. Aunt, what shall I
do?” said Mary, struggling to be self-possessed.

“My dear niece,” said Mrs. Holliday, taking her
hand affectionately, “I do not know what to think
of it. I have always believed that Clin—that Mr.
Bradshaw was attached to you. I have always
thought him a young man of high honour; and I
have often looked forward to the time, with pride

and pleasure, when you and he would be one;
(Mary wept;) but—but, if this is true; and, really,
these hints in the newspaper—what your father
says—what I told you Nancy, the apple-woman,
said to me, when this girl was tried—it had slipped
my mind, as an idle gossip, until I heard your father's
account, and then it occurred to me,—I can
hardly believe it, Mary, after all; but, dear, we
will go to the springs, and stay there awhile. Be
comforted: all may yet be well; but if it is true,
niece, you must forget him.”

Mary spoke not for a moment, and then exclaimed,
“I will try, I will—but, aunt we—I—let
us go to the springs; let us go to the springs, aunt.”
Mrs. Holliday left the room, and Mary continued
to herself—“I had no letter from Clinton, from —
county; he said he would write. He will not write
to me here, expecting me home; nor will Emily.
If he does write, what's that to me?—I will return
them; he shall explain all his conduct—and—and
—he will—he will.”

Accordingly, Mary and her aunt passed into the
interior of the state, to the springs. But Mary
could not quiet her spirit, or regain her vivacity;
she tried to rally her pride—for there was much
of it in her character; but for once it failed. Her
first girlish preference had been for Bradshaw, and
never, for one moment, had a rival crossed him in
her dream of love. If she had reached womanhood
before love usurped her thought, and “fancy
free' had gone forth into the world, the courted
of many, before she made a choice, such was her
character, that, perhaps, she never could have

been o'er mastered by the passion so entirely. But,
the boy who won her heart—how superior to all
the boys around him! and the man who held her
heart, had realized more than the promises of his
boyhood had given. The voice, that in itself was
the most eloquent she had ever heard, had gushed
out in tenderness to her—had praised her above all,
in her childhood. The eye, that in itself was the
brightest she had ever seen, for years had looked
in hers with glances that, each year, the more told
her were love's. That voice had grown deeper;
there was more pathos in it; and the eye had
grown darker, and there was more fire in its beam;
but voice nor eye had not altered in the passion
they expressed; they had but learned to express
it with more intense power. The past to her was
but a memory of him—and to the future she had
sent hope forth like the dove from the ark; it had
returned with a promise, and gone forth again and
found a resting place. Alas! thought she, where
the bitter waters must o'erwhelm me.

At last, after they had been at the springs some
time, Mary said to her aunt, “My dear aunt, this
doubt, with nothing to confirm or destroy it, I cannot
bear; let us go to town. There may be—there
is something false and foul in all this: at least,
when I see Emily, I will speak plainly to her and
to Clinton, and know the truth, and act accordingly.
I cannot bear this—let us go, my dear aunt,
to town; come, do, dearest aunt, let us go; we will
get in just after the election—if it is true, it is all
told: this suspense, I cannot bear it. I am peevish,
aunt, forgive me”—and she threw her arms round
her aunt's neck, and sobbed aloud.

To please Mary, Mrs. Holliday, who felt a mother's
attachment for her, immediately gave orders
for their departure. They travelled the first half
day in her carriage; but, in making a sudden turn,
in a declivity of the road, which was very rough,
the fore wheel of the vehicle was broken. Luckily,
no one was hurt; but, in such an out of the way
place, it was impossible soon to get the wheel
repaired. The accommodation stage came up as
they were standing beside the broken carriage, and
deliberating what to do. There were, happily, vacant
seats in it; and the baggage was transferred
from the carriage, which was left in the charge of
the coachman, with orders to have it repaired, and
away dashed the stage. Travelling in the stage,
they arrived in town sooner than was their calculation,
when they started in Mrs. Holliday's carriage,
as they travelled much faster. It was on
the evening previous to the election, an hour after
nightfall, that the stage dashed into the city.—
“Where shall I set you down?” asked the driver
of the passengers.

Mrs. Holliday told where her residence was.
Another passenger said, that his residence was immediately
on the way to Mrs. Holliday's. “Do
you know,” asked he, “where Mr. Glassman
lives?”

“What? Glassman the lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“I live just three doors above.”

“Ay, ay,” ejaculated the driver.

The stage soon stopped at the last mentioned
passenger's door; a hack that had been rattling behind

it for the last square, stopped at the door immediately
below. Mary Carlton was seated on
the back seat of the stage next to the house, and
having heard that June Durham lived near Glassman's,
her attention was acutely directed to the
hack. “Let's have a light!” said the stage driver
to the passenger, as the latter descended from the
vehicle, “and tell us which is your trunk?”

At the moment the stage passenger returned
with a light, the door of the house below opened,
and two persons—a male and female came forth.
Mary Carlton started, could it be Clinton Bradshaw,
and was that the girl he defended for murder?
The female took the man's arm, the hack
door was opened, and as he was assisting her in,
she said, in a soft voice—

“Wait one moment, I have forgotten something.”

She turned, and in a quick step re-entered the
house. The man advanced towards the stage and
asked the driver, “Jerry, what to they say of the
election up the country?”

At this moment, the light shone full upon the
face of the speaker, and Mary Carlton recognised
at once, the voice and the features of Clinton
Bradshaw.

“Squire, is that you?” said Jerry, leaving a strap
half unbuckled, and advancing to take Bradshaw's
proffered hand.

“Yes, Jerry: how goes the election in the
county?”

“Why, squire, at Pottstown, you'll have to
crack your whip the hardest—I'm mightily thinking
the old chap 'll beat you there—at long swamp,
it'll be neck and neck,” continued Jerry, resuming

his occupation, as Bradshaw turned towards the
female, who, at this moment, descended the steps
of the door below: “but they do say, that all
round the country, by your fathers'—I was up
through there dealing in horses, last week—they
do say, that you'll beat him.”

“Are you ready, Jane?” said Bradshaw to the
female.

“Yes,” said she, and he handed her into the
carriage, and followed himself, calling out as the
door closed on him—“Good night to you, Jerry;
crack your whip loud, to-morrow, Jerry, and have
your hacks out early.”

“Ay, ay, squire, there's no miss in me,” replied
Jerry, as the hack drove off. “There's your trunk,”
continued Jerry, to the passenger. “Dang it! this
here smashed buckle kept me a long time. The
squire's a keener—he's wide awake on all pints, I
tell you—I wonder what he's after, now. Gosh!
he'll run to-morrow like furies.”

“I hope not,” said the passenger, as Jerry
mounted his box, “but I wouldn't care much
where he runs, if he wouldn't run to — ”

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed Jerry, cracking his whip,
“you don't bet on him, hey—you go for the old
racer;” and away rattled the stage.

“Come, niece, love, get out, my dear,” said
Mrs. Holliday, who had descended from the stage,
at her door, and stood offering her hand to Mary.

“Yes, aunt, yes,” said Mary, mechanically
stepping out, and entering the house with her
aunt. “It's true, aunt; it's all true,” said she,
throwing herself on the sofa;—it's all true: dear,
dear aunt, shall we go back again?”