University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
LOVERS.

Sidney Romilly seemed now fast approaching the
crisis which, by the universal consent of authors, rounds
the period of a novel hero's historic existence; and the
sage reader, no doubt, anticipates his exemption from
further trials, and that he is soon to be consigned to marriage
and obscurity.

Whether such anticipations will be realized, time
and this authentic memoir will finally decide; but certain
it is that the whole village were sanguine in the belief
an attachment between the young Squire Romilly, as
by courtesy they called Sidney, and the fair Annie Redington,
and that their union was considered as a matter
certain as the coming of the Fourth of July; not that
they ventured positively to assert that their wedding
would be celebrated on that important day, though the
probability of such an event was actually hinted.

Nor would one have inferred from the equanimity,
not to say triumph, with which Sidney listened to the
raillery of his friend Perkins, and the sly hints of his
own family, whose smiles, whenever the subject was alluded
to, spoke their entire approbation, that he was at
all chagrined at bearing the appellation of a lover, nor
that he had any aversion against assuming a still tenderer
and more sacred title. But when he felt nearly secure

of possessing the affection of Annie, and only waited a
favorable opportunity to urge his suit, a circumstance
occurred which again plunged him into perplexity and
distrust.

The partner of Mr. Redington, Annie's father, died
about this time, and on his death-bed made a disclosure
of the fraud and villany he had practiced against the
widow and infant of his friend. In his will he left seven
thousand dollars as the sum to which Annie was entitled
in behalf of her father, and three thousand as a
reparation for the wrong he had done, in thus retaining
so long, her just inheritance. Such an event was unparalleled
in the annals of Northwood, and created matter
of conversation, inquiry, and wonder, at every
tea-party and gathering in the village for a long time
after.

But the old deacon was the person most affected by
the intelligence, even more than Annie. The letter
bearing the glorious, or rather golden news, was directed
to him, and in the first transports, occasioned by being
invited to come to Boston and receive such a large sum
of money, he forgot he was not the owner thereof.
The disagreeable truth, however, soon occurred, and
after meditating a while on the affair, he came to the
determination to keep the management of the property
in his own hands as long as possible. For this purpose
it would be necessary to discourage the attentions of
Sidney, and prevent his marrying the heiress; this he
determined to attempt. It would, he feared look a little
like selfishness, as he had of late expressed great
partiality for the young man, and shown that he sanctioned
the connexion that was to unite him to his niece.
This approbation proceeded, not from a wish to promote
the happiness of either, but because he should, in
the event Annie's marriage, be freed from the duty of
providing for her.

These things, however, he kept and pondered in his
own mind; to Annie, he was all indulgence, frequently
declaring he felt more gratified she should thus have an

independence secured to her, than at anything which
could have happened, except to witness another reformation,
and see her and his own daughter both partakers
of the outpourings of divine grace.

For neither Annie's sincerity nor gentleness, her unfeigned
desire to understand her duties, and her scrupulous
exactness in complying with every command,
and enduring every sacrifice they demanded, were of
any avail to satisfy the rigid requirements of her uncle's
creed. She had never, as he could learn, (she was an
Episcopalian,) been specially awakened, and could not
tell the precise moment when heart was changed from
stone to flesh, consequently she was still in the gall of
bitterness and bonds of iniquity; and all her excellencies
were only the effect of education, or

Annie, meanwhile, was not indifferent to the prosperity
which awaited her; but Sidney was connected with
every plan of future happiness her bright fancy was industriously
forming; and to meet the declaration which
she hoped—hoped while blushing at her own hopes—he
would soon make, with candor and kindness, was the
sweet yet agitating thought which oftenest occurred.

“I must not now,” thought she, “affect indifference;
his sensitive mind would instantly ascribe it to the pride
and vanity of newly acquired wealth—and what is wealth
in the scale of one who truly loves! I never esteemed
Sidney less for his accidental loss of fortune, and shall I
wrong him by thinking its accidental possession—for I
can claim no merit of acquiring it—will, in his estimation,
add lustre to my merits, or ardor to his affection?”

Thus the lovely heiress reasoned and determined; but
her lover was not in haste to avail himself of her partiality.
In truth, however strange it may appear to the
real fortune-hunter, he was sorry she had become an
heiress. He felt humbled to think he should appear like
one obliged by her acceptance; and the fear, lest she

should entertain the same doubts respecting the purity
of his attachment now there existed a motive which
might possibly excite it independently of her merits, as
he had done while possessing a fortune, made him feel a
painful diffidence, a kind of self-reproach in proposing
himself, which he could not well overcome.

Neither was this diffidence at all removed by the behavior
of the deacon. He had, all at once, assumed an
air of distance and even dislike to Sidney, so palpable
and pointed that the latter could not misunderstand it;
and though the good graces of the old gentleman were
not greatly to be coveted, yet the thought that such rudeness
might be sanctioned by Annie to discourage his
pretensions, gave him exquisite pain. He never credited
such fancies, yet to think them possible mortified him,
and to complete his chagrin, Ephraim Skinner again
commenced his regular visits to the deacon's, and fortified
by his own impudence, and his interest supported by the
authority and favor of the uncle, he was not without
hopes of obtaining the smiles of the niece.

Annie's treatment of this intruder was as cold and
contemptuous as common civility warranted, but still he
persevered, and always being aided by the deacon, he
usually, in spite of her ill-concealed disdain, contrived
either to obtain the seat next to her, or prevent Sidney
from occupying it. Indeed the agitation of the latter
often utterly incapacitated him from offering those little
attentions to Miss Redington which he could so gallantly
have performed had she been totally indifferent to him;
and thus his embarrassments, her delicacy, Skinner's impertinence,
and the deacon's cunning, seemed every day
to increase the difficulties of the lovers' coming to an explanation.

This state of things was soon penetrated by Dr. Perkins,
but as he had discovered the state of Annie's affections,
and knew that Sidney would ultimately be successful,
he determined not to interfere, but let him
manage to win the fair lady himself, who was certainly
worth all his exertions. He was even a little mischievous,

for he whispered to Sidney, in great confidence, that he
fancied Miss Redington's accession of wealth had already
begun to make her feel dissatisfied with a residence in
that unfashionable place, and that he presumed she would
soon depart for Boston; but when he perceived the serious
dejection of her lover, and knew with his sensitiveness
of feeling he was refining away both his own happiness
and hers, the good natured physician, pursuing his
vocation of relieving pain, thought it would be but
charity to attempt a plan for bringing them together.

Sidney's daily occupation on his farm left him but little
leisure for calls or visits; and during the month which
had elapsed since Annie became an heiress, he had not
once been to deacon Jones' without encountering Skinner,
who would never depart till he saw his rival fairly off;
and so, in all that time, there had never occurred an opportunity
of private conversation between the lovers.

But now the doctor, having previously arranged who
were to form the party, proposed a stroll, to visit a certain
cave or den, where tradition reported a celebrated
Indian warrior once resided. The company assembled
and set off without Skinner's once surmising the excursion,
as the doctor feared, should he learn it, he would
join them, though he should come an uninvited guest.

They had, as such parties always have, a most delightful
time, and on their return, while they were slowly
pursuing the meanderings of that identical stream which
has several times been mentioned in this history, Perkins
by some specious pretense, contrived, when Sidney and
his partner had walked a little before the company, to
detain the others till the lovers were fairly out of sight;
and then he proposed walking a little distance in another
direction to examine and procure some water from a curious,
boiling spring. He praised the purity of the water,
and regretted exceedingly, Sidney and Annie were beyond
call, as they must now be deprived of an opportunity
of partaking it; and so well did he play his part,
that not one of the party, not even his wife, suspected
the motives by which he was actuated.

As for the lovers, they would not have regretted being
deprived of the waters, had the spring been the genuine
Helicon, or flowing with the elixir vitiœ, while, with her
arm fast locked in his, they trod the flowery path, sometimes
conversing with animation, but oftener yielding to
that delicious silence, the heart's deep enjoyment in the
presence of the beloved object.

They heeded not their separation from their party, till,
on reaching a spot always sacred to Sidney, the place
where he had dreamed of his father, and where, since
his death, he had often retired, but always alone, he
looked back and saw no one following.

“We will pause here,” said he, “till they overtake
us. Perkins is doubtless delivering some of his botanical
or mineralogical lectures; but I do not, at this time,
regret being deprived of listening to the display of his
eloquence. Miss Redington, will you sit down? you
must be fatigued with your long walk.”

Annie assented, not by an answer, but by seating herself
where he directed her. This was on the trunk of a
tree close to the margin of the stream, and shaded by the
wide spreading branches of a lofty elm, that threw its
gigantic shadow nearly across the water, while beneath
its shade on the bank where they sat, the herbage
assumed that deep green color and softness of texture
that it always wears in such sheltered situations.

The sun, though now fast declining, threw a rich lustre
on the long line of forest trees, stretching to an almost
interminable length in the distance before them; and the
bold summits of the far off mountains shone like molten
gold, while the blue mists already gathering around their
sides, were softened in the distance till they resembled
fine veils, spread to conceal the recesses in the dark cliffs
from the intrusion of mortal eye.

The air was perfectly still, and a calm seemed reigning
over all nature; and though from the adjacent thickets
the voices of a few birds were heard at intervals, their
notes were low and languid, compared with the full,

sprightly, joy-inspiring chorus they pour in the season of
spring.

Even the waters appeared to share in the calm of
repose which nature was enjoying, as the stream, with
scarcely a ripple, stole along, while the sun-beams seemed
to sleep on its still surface. But one spot looked deep
and dark; it was where the stream was suddenly compressed
by a huge rock that projected into the bed of the
river, and on that dark spot Annie's eye was resting, as
Sidney, who watched her glance, observed, “I never
look on that place without an involuntary shudder.”

“And why? I see nothing very terrible in its appearance.”

“Not in its appearance. The terrible is in the recollections
it awakens. Perhaps you may have heard I
was once very near meeting my doom in that water.”

“I never heard the circumstance,” said Annie. “Pray
when did it occur?”

“Long, long ago; it is a remembrance of my childhood,
and often comes over my mind like the impressions
of a frightful dream. If you will permit me to be
the hero of my own tale, I will relate the incident.”

He sat down close beside her, while she looked up into
his face with an expression that not only promised attention,
but such an interest in his narrative, that for a few
moments he forgot what he had promised to relate.

She reminded him at length, and he began and described
minutely and pathetically, the thoughts and feelings
which had agitated him when he felt himself drowning,
and related the manner of rescue by his father;
then his dream came so vividly on his fancy he could
not but proceed to detail it. Never before had he mentioned
it to mortal; it was one of those hallowed impressions,
awful, mysterious, yet soothing, which the heart
broods over in silence, and while watching for the fulfilment
of the prophecy, feels the oracle must be incommunicable.

But Annie could understand it, and she listened with
breathless attention; her color, and the expression of

her beautiful countenance varying with every change in
the story; now pale with terror—trembling with anxiety
—eager with expectation—flushed with hope—and
radiant with joy!

Had Sidney watched her changing cheek he would
not have made the desponding observation with which
he closed his history.

“And I confess to you, Miss Redington, weak as it
may appear to give heed to an airy dream, that the
assurance of happiness, my father, in that vision gave
me, has supported my courage and lighted my path
while pursuing the course which I fancied his injunctions
suggested. But shadows are gathering, and lately hope
had hardly deigned even to cheat me with the promise
of future felicity.”

As he ended he turned to gaze, and met her soft blue
eyes glistening with tears of sympathy; the blush, the
tremor of her hand, that unconsciously to himself he had
taken, all conspired to awaken a sudden revulsion of
feelings. His pulse throbbed violently; but the animation
of hope and joy flashed from his dark eye and
lighted up his fine features, as bending towards her he
softly whispered,

“Annie—Miss Redington, O! would you but condescend
to be my friend, my companion, life would indeed
be a flowery path! Tell me, may I not hope?”

What answer Annie gave I have never been able to
learn; but that it did not sentence her lover to immediate
banishment may be inferred from the circumstance
that although they passed nearly an hour on the same
spot, yet neither thought of the progress of time, the
protracted absence of their party, nor indeed of aught on
earth, save of each other. From this dream of love and
bliss, they were at length aroused by the loud, merry
tones of the doctor, calling out, as he advanced, laughing,
towards them.

“Well, Sidney, have you surveyed the stream with
sufficient accuracy? or are you intending to wait the

rising of the moon, and watch how sweetly her soft
beams will rest on the waters?”

“We shall have to wait the rising of the sun, I believe,
if we wait the coming of our party,” retorted Sidney,
with a face of such happiness that no one could mistake
the feelings that inspired it. “Pray where have you
been loitering so long? Miss Redington”—

“Has been impatient at our stay,” interrupted Perkins,
looking on her blushing cheek with a most provoking
inquisitiveness; “and you have both passed the
time in surmises on what could possibly detain us, and
every minute has seemed an hour.”

“No, no, you need not, Warren, imagine your presence
so essential to our happiness. We have neither
thought nor spoken about you,” said Sidney.

“Nor of any subject, I presume; you have undoubtedly
been in one of your musing moods, and though I
would not undervalue `divine contemplation,' yet I must
confess a man, while under her influence, is dull company
for me. I willingly resign him to the stars and his
own fancies. And now Annie, I know by her countenance,
is of my opinion; she must have found it tedious
sitting there so silent and gazing on the water. Romilly,
though you are inclined to be a Zeno, I beg you
would not attempt to make proselytes to your sect; certainly
we shall not permit Annie to be one. And I am
beginning seriously to fear for her spirits, as she is nothing
so gay and sociable as she was before becoming
acquainted with you. I believe I must prohibit your
access to her society; come, Annie, take my arm, and I
will conduct you to our party, and let this philosopher
follow at his leisure; he will doubtless prefer a lonely
ramble.”

“I shall ramble alone no longer, Warren,” replied
Sidney, putting back the offered arm of the former, and
drawing Annie's closer within his own; “Annie has
promised to share my journey—for life.”

The doctor's face, that usually seemed the reflection
of a merry heart, wore an air of serious and unaffected

emotion, while he congratulated them on the happiness
awaiting their path; and with fervency offered his best
wishes for their permanent felicity.

The intelligence soon circulated through the village,
but nearly all who heard it declared they were not in
the least surprised; that it was just what they had been
expecting; and several asserted the engagement was made
in the spring, when Sidney concluded to stay. One or
two even hinted they had learned such an arrangement,
at that time, from the parties themselves. And the approbation
of the measure, with one two exceptions,
seemed unanimous; the people agreeing that Sidney,
for generosity and kind behavior to his family, merited
as good a wife as Annie, and as rich.

Merrill was in ecstasies at the news. It was reported
that hearing it while reaping, he instantly threw down
his sickle, changed his dress, saddled his horse, and
rode over to congratulate his patron; but Merrill always
asserted he did a good day's work before he went.

Though for his own part, he said, he should not have
valued spending a week in rejoicing, if it would have
added to the happiness of the lovers; yet, as he knew it
would not, and guessed they would much rather look at
each other than at him, and feared the boys would be lazy
if he was away; and so he didn't go over to see the
young squire and wish him joy till just about sundown.

But the envy, rage, and thirst for vengeance of merchant
Skinner were too potent for control, and he
expressed his feelings in such unseemly language and
unchristian wishes against both parties, and especially
Sidney, that the deacon, although his own spirit was
sorely vexed on the occasion, did feel it his duty to admonish
him, warning him against the sin of wrath and
ungodly swearing, and entreating him to consider the
unprofitableness of yielding to such angry passions.

“Though,” said he, “I am as much grieved as you
can be, yet I consider it my duty to be still. Indeed, I
mourn more for the child than myself, for Annie seems

as near as my own daughter, and I always intended to
be a father to her. But I have told her if she will marry
Sidney Romilly, though I confess he has some good and
agreeable things in his character, yet being brought up
away there among slaves and papists, I think his principles
are little better than the heathen, and so I told Annie,
if she would marry him, and did ever come to want,
as I thought most likely she would, she needn't apply
to me. I had cleared my conscience in advising her, and
I never would assist her with a cent.”

And thus, in the midst of this happy and rejoicing
family, the deacon maintained his obstinate opinion that
Annie was throwing herself away; and if one of his favorite
texts of scripture may be literally understood,
namely, “that by the sadness of the countenance the
heart is made better,” he was certainly very fast progressing
towards perfection.

Many philosophers have asserted that the earth has,
ever since the creation, contained the same quantity of
matter; what, at any time, appears like loss in one element
or object is compensated by an equal gain in some
other element or object.

If such be the equalizing principle in the material
world, can we not imagine its influence extended and
regulating the moral world likewise? From the misery
and disappointments of one individual may, and indeed
we know there often does, arise an increase of felicity and
fortune to another, and the overthrow of a mighty kingdom
shall prove the means of aggrandizement to a rival
nation; and consequently it might be inferred there is,
in every period, the same aggregate of moral worth and
human happiness.

Could this position be established, the melancholy of
the deacon would not demand our sympathy, because
the increasing felicity of the lovers more than counterbalanced
the pain of his chagrin. The happiness of Sidney
will need no other confirmation than a letter which
he wrote to Mr. Frankford immediately after his explanation
with Annie, and a copy of which I shall insert, as

his feelings and sentiments are much more vividly and
touchingly displayed by his pen than mine.