University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE MEETING.

A month had clapsed since the interment of
O'Hara, and the family had in some measure recovered
their cheerfulness, when an incident occurred
by which their tranquility was again interrupted.
It was Sunday, and they were, as usual,
attending religious worship in the village of

Cleveland, when about the middle of the service,
every eye, (except a few more properly employed)
was attracted by the entrance of two military
officers in full dress, to whom several pew doors
were thrown open, as they advanced up the principal
aisle of the church. Although they entered
one adjoining that of Fleming, Catharine neither
saw nor heard them. Her external eyes were
closed, and those of her mind lifted with humble
reverence to her Heavenly Parent. Mentally accompanying
the clergyman in his address to the
throne of mercy, she poured out her pure soul in
grateful thanksgiving for her creation, preservation,
and all the blessings she enjoyed. A regiment
at that moment might have marched into the
church unperceived by Catharine.

On resuming her seat, however, an unusual severity
in her father's aspect caught her attention.
Her eye anxiously followed his indignant gaze,
and lighted on the image of—Sandford!

I will not pretend that Catharine's devotion,
pure and sincere as it was, had effectually guarded
her mind against the effects of surprise; that
is more than we have a right to expect from the
weakness of humanity. The color forsook her
cheek, and she clung to her mother for support.
Alarmed at her daughter's indisposition, Mrs.
Fleming led her from the pew, but had scarcely
gained the aisle, when she fainted in her arms.

Fleming flew to her assistance, and so did several
females of her acquaintance. “Permit me,
sir,” said Sandford, offering his aid, and starting
with unaffected surprise on discovering whom he
was addressing—whom he was supporting.

The whole party left the church, followed by
the other officer; when the transition to the open

air immediately revived the lovely object of their
solicitude; who, shuddering with terror, shrunk
from the support of Sandford, and canght her
father's arm.

“Nay, my dear, do not be ungrateful—thank
that gentleman for his gallantry—have you forgotten
your generous preserver?” This was uttered
by Fleming, in a tone of the most cutting
irony. He then turned to the confused object of
his sarcasm, and continued—“It really seems,
captain Sandford, that you are sent by Heaven to
protect my daughter on every critical emergency.
Do me, sir, the honor to favour me with your address,
that I may call on you to-morrow, and thank
you as I ought.”

Sandford was thunderstruck at this address;
for the tone and manner of the speaker convinced
him that some explanation had taken place not
much to his advantage. He secretly wished himself
a thousand miles off—or rather, he wished all
the rest of the party at that distance, with the exception
of Catharine. He was completely taken
by surprise, and knew not what to say, or how to
act; but at length stammered out something about
a vessel that was on the point of sailing for Buffalo,
in which he and his friend had engaged a
passage, and awkwardly expressed his regret that
his time was too limited to wait on Mr. Fleming.
Then making a hasty bow, he seized the other
officer by the arm, and hurried him out of sight,
while Catharine was conducted by her parents to
the house of an acquaintance, with whom they
had promised to dine.

The delicacy of Catharine's frame could not
immediately surmount the shock it had received;
she continued agitated and dejected during the

intermission, and when the afternoon service was
about to commence, expressed a desire to return
home. Fleming, who readily assented to her
wish, ordered the waggon to be brought up, and
handed in the females, but declined accompanying
them, as he preferred walking that distance in the
cool hour of twilight, and wished also to attend
the afternoon meeting.

During the ride, both mother and daughter
were silent and thoughtful; but very different
were the subjects of their meditation. Catharine
was reflecting on the similar effects of opposite
causes. The sudden appearance of George instead
of Sandford, would doubtless have imparted
an agitation to her frame, equal to that which
had lately overpowered it; but how different
would have been her present sensations! Joy—
rapture would have filled that bosom which was
now laboring with sighs of sadness and regret.

Mrs. Fleming had marked the indignant scorn
of her husband's deportment towards Sandford,
his subsequent thoughtfulness, and final determination
to tarry at Cleveland the remainder of the
day. These circumstances gave rise to many
doubts and questions in her mind. He had never
been remarkably exact in the performance of devotional
exercises; why then did he, on the present
occasion, express so particular a desire to
attend to those duties? Might it not be his intention
to seek another interview with Sandford? If
so—she trembled for the consequences.

This train of thinking was continued, until
busy fancy had conjured up a thousand distressing
fears for the safety of her husband. The more
she reflected, the more plausible appeared the
grounds on which her terrors were erected; until

her feelings became so powerfully affected, that
she determined to end the dreadful suspense by
returning immediately to Cleveland.

Their habitation was now in full view, and separated
from them only by a beautiful meadow,
around which winded the carriage road, long and
circuitous. Here Mrs. Fleming, assuming a composure
to which her bosom was a stranger, first
mentioned her intention of returning to the village.
“It will be a long walk for your father,”
said she to Catharine, “and I feel an inclination
to repeat the ride. If you have no wish to accompany
me, (and I would rather recommend repose)
you may alight here, and walk to the
house. The path is pleasant, and the cool shade
will refresh you. If you find yourself sufficiently
composed, assist Susan in preparing tea against
our return.”

Catharine alighted, and entered the meadow,
while her mother ordered Thomas to drive back
to Cleveland with as much expedition as possible.
They arrived at the church door just as the congregation
was dismissed; and Mrs. Fleming
watched with trembling anxiety as they came out,
but her husband met not her view.

She now repaired to the house of her friend,
who was not a little surprised at her unexpected
return; but informed her that Fleming had accompanied
her husband to church, and that she
expected them back every moment.

The fears of Mrs. Fleming were not entirely
destitute of foundation. Her husband had been
in search of Sandford, accompanied by his friend,
and his determination was, to make a public exposure
of his baseness, and then act as circumstances
might dictate. Had they met, consequences

of a serious nature might have been produced;
for the least insolence on the part of
Sandford would have insured that hero a sound
cudgeling; and the other officer would probably
have thought it his duty to interfere in behalf of
his friend.

But fortunately they did not meet. The packet
in which the officers had embarked for Buffalo,
sailed while Fleming was at dinner, and was nearly
out of sight, when he finally ascertained that
she contained the object of his pursuit. He therefore
continued to stroll along the beach with his
friend, until the declining sun warned them to return—when
tranquility was again restored to the
almost distracted bosom of his affectionate consort.

In the mean time, Catharine found her little
walk so agreeable, that she felt in no haste to terminate
it. A row of sugar-maples on the margin
of a pure rivulet, effectually screened her from
the rays of the sun; birds were singing in the
branches, and a thousand wild flowers scattered
in her path. The refreshing breeze, at intervals,
gently breathed upon her cheek, and wantoned
with a profusion of ringlets, that hung below her
black straw hat. But though the placid smile of
nature had lulled into quiet the recent perturbation
of her spirits, her reflections still flowed in a
melancholy course, and were not inaptly represented
by the sable habiliments of her person.
She recalled to her recollection the time when
that meadow was a thick grove, in which she had
often strayed with George, and listened with delight
to the music of his voice, or the fascinating
tones of his harp. She recollected the particulars
of their first interview, and his application to be

come the pupil of her grandfather; his eagerness
to receive his old tutor's instructions, and his patient
assiduity in learning those airs which she
had intimated were her particular favorites.

His poor blind tutor was dead! Her dear grand-father,
who loved her so tenderly, and for whom
she felt all the affection of a daughter, would never
more press her to his fond bosom, or receive
pleasure from her dutiful attentions! His harp
was forever silent, for the hand of its master was
mouldering in the dust!

Her feelings became enthusiastic, and she exclaimed
aloud—“Sainted spirit of my dear grand-father!
if it be possible for angels to remember
those on earth who were once the objects of their
love, look down in pity on your poor Catharine,
and whisper peace to her disconsolate bosom!”

A soft strain of music—more sweet—more seraphic
than any that had ever met her ear, at that
moment floated along on the delighted breeze.

She was near the house, and the sounds evidently
proceeded from thence. But what hand
could produce them? She almost believed that
the spirit of her grandfather was permitted in this
manner to answer her ejaculation. She trembled,
but not with terror; her sensations were
undefinable.

The music ceased, and Catharine timidly advanced;
when through an open window a military
uniform met her view, and the idea of Sandford

shot like a bolt of ice through her trembling
heart. While she was hesitating how to act,
whether to retreat or advance, the door opened,
and an officer darted towards her. Terror lent
her wings, and she fled, but in a few moments
found herself in the arms of George Washington
Willoughby.

“Catharine! my dear Catharine!” exclaimed
he, “why do you fly me? Has the presence of
George become hateful to you?”

She reclined her head gently on his shoulder,
and with a look of unutterable tenderness replied:
“O no—O no! not you—Never would I fly from
you. I thought it was—” She hesitated.

“Whom, lovely creature?”

“I was frightened at your sudden appearance.
O George, you have been absent a great while!”

“If Catharine thinks it long, then my return
is blest,” replied George as he led her to a seat
in a little rustic arbor covered with the full-blossomed
bean, where after a tete a tete of three
hours, they doubted that as many minutes had
passed, so entirely were they occupied with mutual
inquiries, replies, explanations, declarations,
and confessions—assurances of affection and vows
of eternal fidelity. It was not until they heard
the waggon drive up to the house, that Catharine
once recollected father, mother, Susan, or the
tea.