University of Virginia Library

63. CHAPTER LXIII.
A LOVER'S RACE.

It was not quite sunset, when George knocked
at the door of the mansion which he believed contained
the dear object of his precipitate journey
—unless already relieved from her sufferings by
death. A little black girl received him at the
door, whom he followed, without ceremony, to the
chamber of her mistress. With a palpitating
heart he entered the room, where two or three elderly
ladies were taking tea with Mrs. Woodcock,
whom he instantly recognized by the external effects

of her malady. After throwing a timid
glance of enquiry round the room, he summoned
sufficient firmness to name Catharine.

“Poor girl!” exclaimed the aunt, wiping a
tear from her eye; “we were just speaking of
her—she has gone a long and melancholy journey.”

Our hero had no idea of any journey that Catharine
could be supposed to have taken, except
that which every mortal is destined to perform.
His worst fears were therefore now verified, and
with a groan that seemed to rend his bosom, he
rushed out of the room, without waiting for any
further explanation, leaving the ladies to form
their own opinions on the state of his intellect.
His sudden entrance had not a little surprised
them, for he had forgotten to announce his name;
but his precipitate exit had heightened their surprise
to wonder and astonishment.

After wandering about in solitude and darkness,
for more than two hours, George became
somewhat composed, and again entered Mrs.
Woodcock's apartment with as little ceremony
as before. Her visiters had departed, and
the good lady was now in consultation with
her physician. For some moments our hero
stood before them speechless; but at length in a
faltering voice, he enquired—

“When did the dear angel take her departure?”

“My poor niece was taken away this morning
at sunrise,” replied the aunt; and then after
surveying George a moment, she added—“Have
I not the pleasure, sir, of addressing captain Willoughby?”

“Pardon my rudeness, madam. Major Willoughby
is my father. Now suffer me to take one
look at the form which enshrined so pure a soul.
Let me have the melancholy satisfaction of beholding
all that remains on earth of the lovely
Catharine.”

The good lady lost no time in undeceiving the
bewildered George as to the nature and occasion
of Catharine's long and melancholy journey, and
the reader is left to conjecture his feelings, for I
know of no language adequate to describe them.
But among the various sensations which agitated
his bosom, surprise was not the least. He had travelled
a hundred and twenty miles in a few hours,
to obtain a parting look from a dying mistress, and
had arrived in season to learn that the object of
his journey had just commenced one herself of
twice the distance!

His pleasure, however, was fully equal to his
surprise, and early the next morning, (after receiving
the address of captain Miller, which had
been left with Mrs. Woodcock) he departed for
New-York, and entered the steam-boat at Powles-Hook
at the same time that Catharine landed at
the foot of Courtlandt-street. He proceeded directly
to the City-Hotel, and took lodgings for
the night.

On the following morning he proceeded directly
to Chatham-square, and sought for the No. 176;
but to his great surprise he perceived that there
must have been some mistake in the direction he
had received, as there was not so high a number
in the square. He next knocked at every door,
but no captain Miller was to be found. He then
applied, with no better success, at every house
and store in Chatham-street, from the Park to the

Bowery, and from Catharine-street to Tammany-Hall.
No captain Miller was to be heard of, nor
any one of that name in this part of the city, except
William H. Miller, saddler, and John S.
Miller, broker.

Not yet discouraged, he procured Longworth's
Directory, and transcribed a list of all the Millers
in the city, beginning with Aaron, the lamp-lighter,
and ending with Zephaniah, the blacksmith,
including Silvanus, the rev. Samuel, and
above ninety others, all of whom he called upon
in succession, without obtaining any intelligence
of his Catharine. Nothing now remained, but to
write an account of his ill-success to her aunt, and
wait for her answer, which might furnish him with
some clue to a discovery.

On the following evening as he was strolling
the promenade of the West Battery, he heard his
name mentioned by some one behind him, and on
turning his head encountered the eyes of Sophia,
in company with two elegant females and three
gentlemen, two of whom were in regimentals.
Although much surprised at this unexpected
meeting, George felt no inclination to address her,
and to avoid her accosting him (were she so disposed)
he immediately struck into another path
and continued his contemplative ramble.

In a few minutes, however, he met the same
party before he was aware of it, when Sophia demanded,
in an exulting tone—

“Where is Miss Fleming?”

There was a fiend-like expression lurking in
the piercing eye of the speaker, that was visible
in the moon-beam, and almost made George shudder
as it met his view. A horrid presentiment of
no definite shape or form flitted across his mind,

as he replied to her question, while her party
paused directly before him—

“If you know, have compassion on me, and
tell me.”

“I will tell you,” answered she, while her aspect
brightened with a demoniac pleasure. “I
will tell you, or my vengeance will not be complete.
Catharine Fleming is in the arms of your
friend Sandford, and both are far beyond your
reach. Shall I extend my compassion, and tell
you who placed her there?

Did I not tell you that I knew my instrument and
that revenge should be mine? I am now revenged,
and you may go shoot yourself.”

So saying she walked on with her party, who
seemed much delighted with her ready quotation
from Zanga. After a little hesitation our hero
turned to pursue them, hoping to gain some information
that would remove the perplexing
doubts and fears that now occupied his mind.

“Shall I introduce you, major?” demanded
an officer at his elbow. “I have the felicity of
being a satellite of this new planet that has just
arisen in our hemisphere, and if you wish to revolve
in the same fashionable orbit, permit me to
present you as my friend.”

George stared at the speaker a moment, and
then replied—

“I am as ignorant of your meaning, sir, as you
appear to be of my rank. I have not the honor
of being a major.”

“O, sir, I beg ten thousand pardons—I hope
no offence? I perceive my mistake now; but the
first glance by moonlight deceived me—I took you
for the major of our battalion—indeed I did.”

“Your error is quite excusable, sir,” replied
George.

“Thank you, sir—thank you a thousand times,
but my mistake arose from your gazing so wishfully
after the party which has just passed us.
Accept my arm, sir, and I will explain myself.
You must know, sir, that the offer I inadvertently
made to yourself, would have been highly gratifying
to the major for whom I mistook you. Although
a married man, he is a keen dog after forbidden
game—well known at the Hermitage.
Perhaps, sir, you are not acquainted at the Hermitage?”

“I am not, sir.”

“So much the better, because I shall have the
pleasure of introducing you. Mrs. Beacham is a
very accommodating lady—always glad to see her
friends, of whom I have the honor to be one, sir,
and shall be very proud to present you as a friend
of mine.”

“You are very kind, sir,” replied George,
“and I entertain a due sense of the future honor
you intend me. But having a little taste for astronomy,
I should esteem it as a present favor, if
you would say something more of the new planet
you mentioned. Is it now visible?”

“Good—very good—excellent!—Where do
you buy your snuff, sir? The planet to which I
allude is now visible—our evening star—a second
Venus—she has totally eclipsed all her cotemporaries,
and is at this moment in conjunction with
Mars. But to descend from metaphor, sir, I

mean that angel hanging to the colonel's arm—a
diamond of the first water, just imported from—
nobody knows where—and come consigned to—
nobody knows who. It is, however, the general
opinion among us, that she dropped from the
heavens.”

“She must be a fallen angel, then,” replied
George, fixing his eye on Sophia, behind whom
they continued to walk.

“Good, sir—very good—excellent!—Where
do you buy your snuff, sir? She is indeed one of
the higher order of that fraternity; but entirely
new—just initiated. Shall I introduce you, sir?
Depend upon it, you may as well resign your
commission, as decline so fashionable an acquaintance.
You'll be thought nothing of, unless
you move in her circle, and you see that she has
nothing but plumes and epaulets in her train.”

“I feel properly grateful for your kind intentions,
sir,” answered our hero, smiling at the singular
manners of the stranger, “but you must
excuse me, at present, for declining the honor.
Who are the others in company?”

“What, the females?—You could not propose
a question I can more easily answer. In these
affairs, sir, I am a walking directory. One week
ago those two females were goddesses—this evening
they are something less than women.”

“And what has so suddenly reduced them?”

“Nothing else, sir, but the entrance of a new
character, to whom all worship is now directed.
She on the right, sometimes dashes through
Broadway, driving herself tandum, with a cypher
on her gig very much resembling an L. A certain
great man, who shall be nameless, is said to employ
many of his leisure moments in studying
Harvey; and that, you will say, is good—very

good—excellent!—when I inform you that the
fair Cyprian's name is Sally Harvey. She on the
left, has been a great beauty, and much caressed
by the higher ranks, but is now also in the
wane, from the cause aforesaid. Her name is
Harriet—a very soft, pretty, poetical kind of a
name; but is coupled with one not quite so
smooth, and that is, Stagg. Once more—sir, shall
I introduce you? No? Well, then I must bid you
adieu, for they are leaving the Battery, and I am
a satellite you know. Good night.”

So saying, this military butterfly flew after the
party, who had just reached the gate—leaving our
hero at once amused and surprised at the first
animal of the species he had ever met with.

The day had been sultry, and the sea-breeze
now felt peculiarly refreshing; our hero, therefore,
continued to pace the area between the railing
and the verdant parapet, until the company,
which had been very numerous, gradually disappeared,
and he at length found himself in solitude
on this lately thronged promenade. The city
clocks struck eleven, and he reluctantly moved
from the delightful spot. As he turned the north
angle of the parapet, a tall figure stood before
him, in whom he instantly recognized his Mentor
—the Mysterious Chief. With a respectful inclination
of the body, George signified his attention,
while the chief thus accosted him:

M. C. Where did we last confer?

George. On the western bank of the Niagara.

M. C. What were then my parting words?—
You hesitate, but you have not forgotten them.
What was then your promise?

George. To regulate my future conduct by the
precept you gave me.

M. C. And have you kept that promise?

George. I have—as far as my ability extended.

M. C. You deceive yourself. The banner of
your country again waves over a fortress of your
country's enemy. Why did not your hand assist
to place it there? Why did George Washington
Willoughby desert the standard of Freedom at the
moment she required his services?

George. Was there not a cause?

M. C. No evil exists without one. But you
have abandoned the service of your country,
without serving any one. Your duty was plain,
but you neglected to perform it. How is such
conduct to be reconciled to my precept? You
should have performed your duty, and trusted to
Heaven for the rest. The cause you would plead
is no more a palliation of the fault, than that of the
adulterer or drunkard—“It is painful to desist.”
So might the murderer say, and allude to his
thirst for revenge.

George. And is my journey then a crime?

M. C. No—but the selfishness which prompted
it, is an enemy to your happiness, and must therefore
be overcome and reduced to a state of vassalage.
Why have you not remembered my
counsel? While you stood on the ground consecrated
by your brave father's blood, I cautioned
you against suffering a rival to engross those affections
which were to be devoted to your country.
Patriotism, I told you, must rise superior to
all selfish considerations; and I assured you, that
if any object was suffered to stand between you and
duty—such object should be removed; for your
country claimed you, and must have you undivided—entire.
Do you remember this?

George. I do.

M. C. Such object is removed.

George. O, pity me, and tell me where.

M. C. You have this evening been told—and
the devil will utter truths when they promote his
ends.

George. Then death alone can end my misery.

M. C. Death cannot deprive you of that self-love
which is the source of your misery, because
all loves are seated in the soul. Hope not, then,
to find a friend in death, until that enemy is defeated.
Learn to act as the agent of Providence,
and not as if you were yourself a god. Every
man who acts entirely from himself, without remembering
(and continually acknowledging with
the heart) from whom he derives the powers of
action, makes himself a god, and commits profanation.
This is that forbidden fruit which destroyed
our race, and the serpent which offers it
is self-love. But be persuaded to shun such impiety,
and you may yet be happy.

George. Happy! and Catharine in the arms of
another! Never!—never!

M. C. Despair is impious, because it is the
annihilation of that confidence in the divine providence
which Heaven commands us to cherish.
Be a man, and never again lose sight of this confidence.
Return to your duty—observe my counsels,
and you shall yet defeat a host. If you
strictly adhere to the precepts I have given you,
I pledge the word of him who never lied, that
where your general drives a hundred, you yourself
shall put a thousand to flight; that peace shall
follow your victories, and that happiness shall
wait on peace. Follow my advice—or we meet
no more.

Before George could reply, his Mentor had disappeared.
Deeply musing on a promise which
appeared extravagant (if not impossible to be accomplished)

our hero departed from the Battery,
and repaired to his lodgings. But sleep was a
stranger to his pillow, and he passed the night in
meditation; the result of which was, a determination
to return immediately to the army, commend
Catharine to the care of Heaven, scrupulously
perform his duty, and throw every care
upon Providence.

Having founded this resolution on a genuine
basis, and applied to the proper source for assisttance
in keeping it, our hero rose in the morning
with an almost supernatural mental energy, and
immediately commenced his journey to the frontiers,
where he arrived on the fifteenth of July.
Here he found a letter from O'Hara, in which the
writer stated that he had, at his own request,
been transferred to the squadron on Lake Champlain.