University of Virginia Library

61. CHAPTER LXI.
AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY.

The spirits of Catharine were, for some time,
supported by the hope of her father's speedy
restoration to liberty; which hope was assiduously
cherished by her friends in Ithaca, and by the
letters of major Willoughby, Amelia, and George.
But, “hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and
before the winter had half expired, the heart of
Catharine had become cheerless as the season.
A settled melancholy took possession of her soul,
blanched her sunken cheeks, and dimmed the
mild lustre of her humid eyes. In vain her affectionate
aunt strove to impart comfort and
peace to her afflicted bosom; and equally fruitless
were the assiduities of her gay young cousin.
She faintly smiled her thanks for their tender exertions,
and eagerly retired to that solitude in
which she could yield to the impulse of her feelings,
and weep unobserved.

About the middle of January, she was deprived
of the enlivening society of her cousin, who
commenced a tour to the southward, for the purpose
of consummating a matrimonial negociation
which had been commenced previous to the death
of his father, while the lover was a clerk in a
compting-house at New-Orleans. The object of
his attachment was the daughter of his employer,
an opulent merchant in that city, who most cordially

approved his daughter's choice, and only
withheld his consent until the young gentleman
should become of age. This period had now
arrived, and young Woodcock, rich in wealth,
love, and honor, commenced the journey which
was to terminate in the bower of connubial felicity.
He was not expected to return short of a
twelvemonth.

As the spring approached, the health of Mrs.
Woodcock began to decline; until, at length, her
complaint assumed the alarming symptoms of a
confirmed dropsy; and before midsummer she
was unable to leave her chamber. Catharine
began now to fear that Heaven would spare her
no friends to console or protect her. The idea
of being soon thrown on the wide world, a friendless
orphan, was ever present to her imagination,
and had not Hope still whispered the name of
Willoughby, she would have soon fallen a victim
to melancholy, and only looked, only asked for
peace beyond the grave.

Thus drooping in despondency, every image
presented to her imagination received a tincture
of gloom from the sombre medium through which
she beheld it, while the dæmon of melancholy
sat like an Incubus on her heart, and retarded
the circulation of its fluids. Deprived of her
parents—dependent on the bounty of others, and
far distant from the dearest object of her affections,
she felt like an insulated, deserted being—
an exile, friendless and alone. Nay, her gloomy
fancy even suggested doubts of that affection
with which the bosom of our hero so ardently
glowed.

“If he really loved me, (thought she) would
he thus endure the anguish of so long a separation?

Would he not have abandoned every other
pursuit, and flown to give me comfort, when the
news of my sorrows first reached him? Alas! he
does not—cannot love like me! Catharine may
sink under her afflictions, and George will then
too late lament his neglect and voluntary absence.
He will be very unhappy that he did not see me
before I died!”

Such free indulgence did she give to these melancholy
fancies, and so tenderly did she cherish
them, that they became established in her mind
for facts, and she actually wrote to her lover bidding
him an affectionate adieu, and hoping to meet
him in that world to which she was rapidly hastening.
My readers shall have a peep at this
epistle in another place, if they will exercise a
little patience.

It was near the close of a beautiful day in the
beginning of July. Catharine was seated on a
sofa by the side of her aunt, whom she was regaling
with a page of her favorite Hervey, when
the servant announced a gentleman who wished
to see Miss Fleming. Catharine's heart beat
very rapidly at that moment, but it sunk in disappointment
when she saw a stranger enter the
room. His stature was a little below the common
size, his features coarse and his manners
unpolished. He approached the ladies with a
bow, and then with a downcast look and hesitating
voice, accosted Catharine—

“Miss Fleming, I am a messenger from your
father.”

“O, where is he?” exclaimed they, both at
once. “How is my father?” “Where is my
brother?”

“Mr. Fleming is in New-York—not so well
in health as I could wish—but—”

“Oh! he is dead! My poor father is dead!”
exclaimed Catharine bursting into tears. “I
know it by your manner—I can read it in your
looks. Oh! aunt—we shall never see him more!”

“Your fears overstep the fact,” replied the
stranger. “He is not dead. True, he is ill—
very ill; but he may yet recover. This letter,
though not written by his own hand, was dictated
by his own lips, and will explain the purport of
my embassy.”

So saying, he delivered the letter to Catharine,
and took a seat near the sofa. The agitated girl
summoned all her little strength to break the seal,
and then read aloud as follows:

“O, sir, let us depart instantly—another
moment may be too late. I am resolved to accompany
you—dear aunt, make no objections—it
is to see a dying father—to close
his eyes—”

Choked with grief, she now sunk exhausted
on the sofa. The aunt was herself much affected,
and a tear trembled in the stranger's eye.

“Where have you left your sister?” asked
Mrs. Woodcock.

“In the carriage at the door, ready to pay her
respects here, as soon as I had prepared the way
for an introduction. With your leave, I will now
show her up.”

Captain Miller left the room, and in a moment
after returned with a very pretty female in the
plain dress of a quakeress, whom he introduced
as Julia Miller. Though small of stature, her
shape was symmetry itself; the flush of health
bloomed on her cheeks, the flash of vivacity
sparkled in her jet black eye, and her whole
countenance was expressive and animated. She
gracefully approached Catharine, took a seat by
her side, and in the most tender manner, endeavored
to soothe her sorrows and inspire her with
hope and consolation. She so far succeded that
the latter began to make arrangements for her
departure with a considerable degree of composure.

At sunrise the next morning, the carriage of
captain Miller, containing himself, his sister, and
Catharine, was on the road to Owego, and before
dark arrived at Unadilla. Another day's journey
brought them to Bethel, a third to Goshen, and
a fourth to Peramus, a village in Jersey, on a
branch of the celebrated Passaic, about twenty
miles from New-York.

As they approached the city, the weeping
Catharine became more and more agitated—she
trembled to encounter the moment which was to
dispel her doubts, and perhaps confirm her worst
fears. Still, however, she grew more impatient
of delay, and imagined that the last day's journey
was very tardily performed. There was
indeed some grounds for such an idea, for the driver
affirmed that one of the horses had sprained
a leg, and could not proceed with his usual speed.
They dined at Hackensack, and were obliged to
tarry two hours after dinner while a blacksmith
repaired some part of the carriage. This, together
with some unavoidable subsequent delays,
so retarded their progress, that the sun was setting
when the carriage drove into the steam-boat at
Powles-Hook. In a few minutes more, Catharine
found herself in the city where she had first
landed on her emigration to America, but where
she was now a total stranger.

The carriage rattled onward over the pavements
of Cortlandt-street, and Catharine awaited
in silence the moment that it was to stop at the
door of captain Miller, which, Julia had previously
informed her, was at No. 176 Chatham-square.
It was now quite dark, and her impatience increased;
her companions had become silent and
thoughtful, while her own reflections were of the

most gloomy cast. The crisis of her fate was at
hand—either she was to find herself already a
helpless orphan, or had arrived in season to receive
the verbal blessing and close the eyes of a
dying father. The carriage still rolled on, and
she wondered what remote corner of the city was
called Chatham-square.

At length they stopped in front of a genteel
looking house. Miller sprang from the carriage
and handed out the ladies, whom he conducted
into the house in silence. “Courage, my dear,”
said Julia to Catharine as she felt her tremble
while she supported her into the house—“In a
moment you will embrace your father.”

“Ah! if he be still living,” replied Catharine.

An elderly lady now met them in the hall, to
whom Julia introduced Catharine, and who informed
her that her father was much better.

“O lead me to him instantly,” cried Catharine.
“Better or worse, I must see him while my
strength remains.”

“He has just fallen into a sweet sleep,” replied
the lady, “and I fear your agitation would disturb
him. Compose yourself a few minutes, and
swallow some refreshments, which you very much
stand in need of, and then you shall be gratified.”

Catharine felt that she did indeed require rest
and refreshment, and therefore suffered herself
to be led by Julia and her mother into a
back parlor, where tea was already prepared,
and of which the young ladies partook without
changing their travelling dresses. During this
little repast, Catharine's mind received still more
relief than her exhausted frame, for the cheerful
old lady gave her such encouraging accounts of
her father's health, and assurances of his convalescence,

that Catharine's bosom bounded with
hope, and her countenance wore even an occasional
smile.

“His physician was here but a few moments
before you arrived,” continued the good hostess,
“and after administering an opiate, assured both
him and myself that nothing would prove so
great a restorative as sleep, and begged that he
might not be disturbed. He began to recover
four days ago, and has frequently expressed his
regret that he permitted his daughter to be alarmed
by the steps that had been taken. He set up
to-day for several hours, appeared very cheerful,
and had a very flattering appetite. I congratulate
you, my dear Miss Fleming, on the good
news it is my happiness to communicate. One
half hour more of sleep, will make a new man
of him.”

In this manner the old lady ran on, as she
handed the tea and cake to the young ones, and
Catharine suffered the half-hour to expire with a
tolerable degree of patience. She then renewed
her request to be conducted to her father, whom
she promised not to disturb while he appeared
disposed to sleep; she only wished to sit by him
and watch his slumbers until he awoke.

The old lady now consented, and led her up
stairs to a chamber very elegantly furnished,
where a candle was burning.

“There lies your father,” said she in a whisper,
“on that sofa. Take a seat by him, and in
a few moments Julia and I will rejoin you. Be
careful and not disturb him. Excuse me for a
few minutes.”

Catharine approached the sofa, and for a moment
hesitated, before she could summon sufficient

fortitude to raise the cloak which covered that
face she so much wished, yet so dreaded to behold.

“Perhaps (thought she) it is so emaciated by
disease, that I shall not be able to trace the features;
how shall I support the shock which I
must experience on contemplating the ravages
of sickness in the countenance of the best of fathers.”

With a trembling hand, she raised the covering,
but the arm of the sofa so shaded the visage
that its emaciated appearance was not visible.
She bent over him a moment in silence, and then
obeyed the irresistible impulse of her feelings,
by stooping down and imprinting on his lips a
kiss of filial affection.