Elinor Wyllys by Susan Fenimore CooperOr, the Young Folk of Longbridge (page 4)

“Don’t pretend any longer, Jane, that you didn’t know it,” whispered Adeline, as they were stooping together over a bundle of hoods and shawls. Jane made no answer. “Now, confess that you knew he was serious before you left Paris.”

“I did not think much of it for some time,” said Jane.

“Well, I supposed from your letters that you knew long ago that he was desperately in love with you. Trust me, we’ll settle it all between us.”

“Oh, hush,” said Jane, “there is somebody coming–I know it’s wrong–“

“Nonsense–wrong indeed! I should like to know where is the great harm if he does break his engagement?”

Elinor moved away when she found the conversation was meant to be private. But she had unintentionally heard enough to make her anxious for Jane. “Was not Adeline leading her into difficulty?” She felt uneasy, and thought of nothing else during her drive home. It would not do to consult Miss Wyllys; but she determined to speak to Jane herself, the first time she saw her. Unfortunately, her cousin was going to New York, and nothing could be done until she returned to pass a fortnight at Wyllys-Roof before going to town for the winter.

CHAPTER XV.

————————-“the reward
Is in the race we run, not in the prize.” ROGERS.

{Samuel Rogers (English poet, 1763-1855), “Italy: A Character” lines 39-40}

MISS PATSEY had never, in her life, been to a regular ball, before this house-warming of Uncle Josie’s; but not even the novelty of a ball could keep her in bed an hour later than usual. Charlie and herself had returned home some time after midnight, with the Wyllyses; but the next morning she rose with the chickens, and before the October sun, to pursue, as usual, her daily labours. It was truly surprising how much Patsey Hubbard found time to do in a single day, and that without being one of your fussy, utilitarian busy-bodies, whose activity is all physical, and who look upon half an hour passed in quiet thought, or innocent recreation, as so much time thrown away. Our friend Patsey’s career, from childhood, had been one of humble industry, self-forgetfulness, and active charity; her time in the gay hours of youth, as well as in the calmer years of mature experience, had been devoted to the welfare and happiness of her parents, her brothers and sisters. From a long habit of considering the wants and pleasures of others first, she always seemed to think of herself last, as a matter of course. She had had many laborious, anxious hours, many cares; but it is far from being those who have the most trouble in this world, who complain the loudest; no one had fewer wants, fewer vanities, fewer idle hours than Miss Patsey, and, consequently, no one could be more generally cheerful and contented. There is nothing so conducive to true, healthful cheerfulness, as the consciousness of time well-spent: there is no better cure for the dull spirit of French ENNUI, or the gloom of English BLUES, than regular, useful occupation, followed by harmless recreation.

Any one who had followed Patsey Hubbard through the varied duties of a single day, would have acknowledged that there is no spectacle in this world more pleasant, than that of a human being, discharging with untiring fidelity, and singleness of heart, duties, however humble. The simple piety of her first morning prayer, the plain good sense of her domestic arrangements, and thorough performance of all her household tasks, her respectful, considerate kindness to her step-mother, and even a shade of undue indulgence of Charlie–all spoke her character–all was consistent.

Happy was Patsey’s little flock of scholars. Every morning, at nine o’clock, they assembled; the Taylor children usually appeared in Leghorn gipsies, and silk aprons; the rest of the troop in gingham “sun-bonnets,” and large aprons of the same material. There were several little boys just out of petticoats, and half-a-dozen little girls–enough to fill two benches. The instruction Patsey gave her little people was of the simplest kind; reading, spelling, writing, and arithmetic, learning a few simple verses, with sewing and marking for the girls, made up the amount of it. Most people, in these days of enlightenment, would have been very much dissatisfied with her plan, for it actually excluded all the sciences, and all the accomplishments. Patsey had two reasons for confining herself to the plainest branches of education only; in the first place, she did not think herself capable of teaching anything else; and, secondly, she doubted whether her scholars were capable of learning anything better or more useful for themselves. Mr. Taylor thought she had very low views of infant education; and yet, you could not have found anywhere a set of children, between three and ten, who were more thoroughly taught what their instructor professed to teach. Happy would it be for these little creatures, if they never acquired any worse knowledge than they gained under Patsey’s care! She had an eye to their tempers, their morals, and their manners; she trained the little girls to be modest and gentle–the little boys to be respectful and obliging; while she endeavoured to make all alike honest, open, cheerful, and sincere. Were not these lessons quite as important to most children, between the ages of three and ten, as chemistry, astronomy, and natural philosophy?

{“Leghorn gipsies” = fashionable hats (named after Leghorn, Italy) with large side flaps; “marking” = embroidering identifying names or initials on linen}

The day following Uncle Josie’s house-warming, Miss Patsey released her little flock an hour earlier than usual; they were allowed to pass the time playing in an adjoining meadow, until sent for by their parents. There was to be a tea-party at the “old gray house” that evening–a very unusual event; ten invitations had been sent out. The fact is, Miss Patsey had received a basket of noble peaches, the day before, from one of her neighbours; and Uncle Josie had already, early in the morning, sent over a wagon-load of good things to replenish his niece’s larder–the remains of the last night’s supper; among other delicacies there was a bit of boned turkey, for Mrs. Hubbard’s especial benefit. Patsey scarcely knew what to do with so many luxuries. She sent a basket of fruits and jellies to a couple of sick neighbours, by Charlie; still, there was more than her mother, Charlie, and herself, could possibly do justice to in a week. She determined to give a little tea-party; it was eighteen months since she had had one, and that had been only for the Wyllyses. Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne, the Taylors, the Wyllyses, and the Clapps were accordingly invited; and Patsey proceeded to burn some coffee, and make short-cake. The little parlour was more carefully swept and dusted than ever, five additional chairs were brought in, and a fire was made, on account of Mrs. Hubbard. Then, about four o’clock, the ladies made their toilette; Mrs. Hubbard was dressed in a smart new calico, with a cap, made by Elinor, and was then seated in the best rocking-chair. As for Patsey, herself, she could not think of wearing the elegant new dress, Uncle Josie’s present–that was much too fine; she preferred what had now become her second-best–a black silk, which looked somewhat rusty and well-worn. To tell the truth, this gown had seen good service; it had been not only turned, but re-turned–having twice gone through the operation of ripping and sponging; and doubtful as the fact may appear to the reader, yet we have Miss Patsey’s word for it, that a good silk will bear twice turning, but then it must be a silk of a first-rate quality, like her own. It had been, indeed, the standing opinion of the family for the last five years, that this particular dress was still “as good as new.” As for the changes in fashion that this black silk had outlived, who shall tell them? It was purchased in the days of short waists and belts, “gig-ohs,” and “pal-reens,” as they were called by the country damsel, whose scissors first shaped the glossy “gro de nap.” Waists, long, longer, longest, succeeded; sleeves, full, fuller, fullest, followed; belts were discarded, boddices {sic} began to appear; still Miss Patsey’s silk kept up with the changes, or rather, did not entirely lose sight of them. If you had seen her at a little tea-party at Wyllys-Roof, wearing this silk, “nearly as good as new,” with a neat and pretty collar of Elinor’s work, you would have been obliged to confess that her dress answered a rule given by a celebrated philosopher–you would not have remarked it. Had you chanced to meet her of a Sunday, in Mr. Wyllys’s carriage–the Wyllyses always stopped on their way to St. John’s Church, at Longbridge, to offer a couple of seats to the Hubbards, who were set down at the door of their father’s old Meeting-house–had you seen her of a Sunday, with a neat straw hat, and the black silk gown, you would have been obliged to acknowledge that her dress had the double merit, by no means common, of according with her circumstances, and the sacred duties she was going to fulfil; the devotion of her neighbours would not be disturbed by admiration of her toilette.

{“burn some coffee” = roast some coffee; “gig-oh” = a puffed “gigot” or “leg of mutton” sleeve; “pal-reen” = “pelerine”, a cape or mantle; “gro de nap” = “gros de Naples”, a weave of silk with a corded effect (French)}

At five o’clock, Miss Patsey’s company began to assemble; the Wyllyses were the first to appear; then came Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Van Horne, and Mrs. Clapp; Adeline excused herself, she thought it a bore, Charlie was not worth flirting with. The doctor, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Clapp, were expected after tea. And a pleasant, good-natured evening it proved to be. Miss Patsey’s coffee was excellent; the little black girl, engaged for the occasion, performed her duties to admiration. Mrs. Taylor thought that she had scarcely passed such a quiet, pleasant afternoon, since the halcyon days before her husband was a rich man; she was much interested in discussing with Miss Patsey, and Miss Wyllys, and Mrs. Van Horne, various recipes for making bread, hoe-cake, and other good things. As for Elinor, she told Charlie she had left her work at home, on purpose that she might have time enough to look over all his sketches–everything he had to show, old and new. The drawings, and several oil-paintings were accordingly produced, and looked over by the young people, and Mr. Wyllys, who had taken a chair by the table, and joined them. Elinor knew nothing of drawing, but her general taste was good; she asked many questions about the details of the art, and was amused and interested by Charlie’s remarks.

{“left her work at home” = the knitting or similar hand-work engaged in by ladies while they conversed}

“Show us everything, Charlie,” said Mr. Wyllys. “I befriended your genius, you know, in the days of the slate and compound interest; and, of course, I shall think it due to my own discernment to admire all your works.”

“Of course, you are not afraid of my criticisms,” said Elinor; “I don’t know enough to be severe.”

“People who know little, my child, generally make very severe critics,” said Mr. Wyllys.

“When they know LITTLE, grandpapa; but mine is honest, humble ignorance. I know nothing at all on the subject.”

“Do you remember, Miss Elinor, that Hogarth said anybody possessing common sense was a better judge of a picture than a connoisseur?”

{“Hogarth” = William Hogarth (1697-1764), English artist and printmaker.}

“Did Hogarth say so?–I shall begin to feel qualified to find fault. That is a very pretty group of children, grandpapa.”

“Very pretty;–some of Miss Patsey’s little people. And here is another, quite natural and graceful, Charlie.”

“I never see my sister’s little scholars but I am tempted to sketch them. Children are such a charming study; but I am never satisfied with what I do; a picture of children that is not thoroughly childlike is detestable. Those are mere scratches.”

“What are these faint outlines of figures, with dashes of colouring here and there?” asked Elinor.

“Oh, those are mere fancies, made entirely for amusement. They are rude sketches of my own ideas of celebrated pictures that I have never seen, of course; only as exercises for idle moments–one way of practising attitudes of figures, and composition. I keep them more as a lesson of humility than anything else, for me to remember my own poor conceits when I see the originals, if that happy day ever come.”

“I thought you gave yourself up entirely to landscapes, Charlie–do you think seriously of pursuing both branches?” asked Mr. Wyllys.

“No, sir; I give the preference to landscapes; I find, at least, that field quite wide enough. It seems scarcely possible to unite both, they are so different in character and detail, and require such a different course of study.”

“That is the great point with you, my boy; you must not waste too much time upon the ideal portion of the art; you must remember that the most beautiful ideas in the world will be lost, if the execution is not in some measure worthy of them.”

“I am so well aware of that, sir, that I have done nothing but study the practical part of my trade for the last three months, and I feel that it has been of service to me.”

“There is water in all your sketches, I believe,” said Elinor. “You must be very partial to it.”

“I am, indeed–it is a most delightful study–I should be afraid to tell you all the pleasure I have in painting water–you would laugh at me, if I once set off upon my hobby.”

“Not at all; you have made me an honest admirer of every variety of lakes and rivers, since I have seen your pictures.”

“When did you first take to water, Charlie?” asked Mr. Wyllys.

“Oh, long ago, sir, when I was a little bit of a shaver. Have you never when a child, Miss Elinor, received great pleasure, perhaps a lasting impression, from some natural object that you still remember distinctly?”

“Yes, I know what you mean–I recollect perfectly several things of the kind. I believe children have more observation, and feeling for what is beautiful, than is generally supposed.”

“It is very probable that most children have similar sensations. I am glad that you do not laugh at me; there are few persons to whom I confess my violent partiality for water; most people would think it ridiculous.”

“You are right, Charlie; one can talk to the world in action only; it never believes the truth in any shape, until forced to acknowledge it. You are pursuing the right course, however; you have spoken quite clearly in your view from Nahant–your friends have every reason to urge you to persevere. But does not Mr. —– tell you to pay more attention to your foliage and buildings? you rather neglect them for the water.”

“Yes, sir; I am well aware of my defects in that respect, and next summer I hope to devote a great deal of time to foliage.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Van Horne and Mr. Taylor, followed shortly after by Mr. Clapp.

“You are late, William,” said pretty little Mrs. Clapp to her husband. “Did you leave the children all safe? Did the baby cry for me?”

“Perfectly safe–all sound asleep,” replied Mr. Clapp, passing his fingers through his curls. But his wife, who knew every expression of the face she thought so handsome, fancied William looked pale and uneasy; some business had gone wrong, perhaps.

“Quite a select circle,” observed Mr. Taylor, sitting down by Miss Wyllys, leaning his chair back, and rolling his thumbs, one over the other.

“I have not had a pleasanter evening in a great while,” said Mrs. Taylor. “It puts me in mind, husband, of old fashioned tea-parties, when we lived altogether in the country. We used to go at two o’clock, and stay until sunset. I think such sociable parties are much pleasanter than late, crowded balls.”

“Ha! ha!–that may be your opinion, Mrs. Taylor; a quiet party does very well where one is intimate, no doubt; but I conclude that younger ladies, Adeline, and her friends Miss Graham and Miss Wyllys, would give a different verdict.”

“Miss Taylor seems quite partial to large parties,” said Elinor, quietly, for the remark was addressed to her.

“Yes, Adeline and her ‘chum’ both like plenty of balls and beaux, I reckon.”

“What has become of your patient, doctor?” inquired Miss Patsey. “The poor man at the tavern–do you think he will get well?”

“I have no doubt the fellow will outlive half-a-dozen such fits. I left him last night under guard of two men, to keep him from hanging himself; and this morning, when I went to look after him, he was off. He was so much better, that he had been persuaded by some messmate to ship for a cruize–only a three years’ whaling voyage. Regular Jack-tar fashion–a frolic one day, a fit the next, and off for the end of the world the third.”

“He has left Longbridge, has he?” said Mr. Wyllys. “I was just going to inquire after him, for they have a story going about, that he used very threatening language in speaking of myself and Hazlehurst. Did you happen to hear him, doctor?”

“He did use some wild, incoherent expressions, sir, to that effect, when I was with him; but the threats of a raving man are not of much consequence.”

“Certainly not. But I have no idea who the man can be; I don’t know a single common seaman by sight or name–at least, the only one I ever knew is long since dead. It is singular that this fellow should have known my name even; they say he was a stranger at Longbridge.”

“Entirely so, I believe.”

“What was his name?”

“William Thompson, they told me.”

“If he is a sailor, he probably has a dozen aliases,” interposed Mr. Clapp, who had been listening very attentively.

“By-the-bye, Clapp, they say he included you in his kind wishes.”

“Yes, sir, so I understand.”

“William, you never mentioned it to me!” said his wife.

“No, my dear; I did not attach any importance to the story,” replied the lawyer, pulling out his handkerchief with one hand, and running the other through his hair–looking a little nervous and uneasy, notwithstanding.

“He did not exactly threaten you, Mr. Clapp, while I was with him,” said the doctor; “he seemed rather to depend upon you as an ally.”

“Still more singular,” said Mr. Clapp, with a glance at Mr. Wyllys.

“That was very strange!” exclaimed his wife–“what could the man mean?”

“It is by no means easy to explain the meaning of a drunken man, my dear. It is just possible he may have heard my name as a man of business. I have had several sailors for clients, and one quite recently, staying at the same tavern.”

“I dare say, if explained, it would prove to be Much ado about Nothing,” said Mr. Wyllys. “Since the fellow was drunk at the time, and went off as soon as he grew sober, the danger does not seem very imminent.”

{“Much ado about Nothing” = an allusion to Shakespeare’s play of that name}

“Precisely my opinion, sir,” said Mr. Clapp.

“Grandpapa, do you remember the sailor who was found near our house, one night, about two years ago? It was my birth-day, and we had a little party–have you forgotten?”

“True, my child; I have never thought of the fellow since; but now you speak of him, I remember the fact.”

“Do you not think it is probably the same person?–you know Harry had him locked up: perhaps he owes you both a grudge for the treatment he received at Wyllys-Roof, upon that occasion.”

“That accounts for the whole affair, Miss Elinor–you have cleared up the mystery entirely,” said Mr. Clapp, looking much relieved. He not only appeared grateful to Elinor for the explanation given, but seemed to extend the obligation to all the family; for he was particularly attentive to Mr. Wyllys, and Miss Agnes, during the whole evening–and the next morning, early, drove out to Wyllys-Roof, expressly to carry some brook-trout, for Mr. Wyllys’s breakfast. The lawyer informed several persons, who alluded to the story, of this simple explanation, which seemed to satisfy all who heard it. The whole affair was soon forgotten, for a time, at least.

CHAPTER XVI.

“Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.”
COWPER.

{William Cowper (English poet, 1731-1800), “Human Frailty” lines 1-4}

AFTER an absence of a week, or ten days, Harry returned to Wyllys-Roof, not at all sorry to hear that he was too late to see the Grahams, as they were going to New York the next morning. He was very attentive to Elinor–pointedly so. Once or twice, she was going to jest with him upon the subject, and inquire the cause of this studied gallantry; but observing he was still a little out of spirits, she contented herself with thanking him for the books he had brought her.

The next day proved so mild, so hazy, and Indian-summer-like, that Hazlehurst proposed to take advantage of it, to give the ladies a row on the river. They were out for a couple of hours, landed on the opposite bank, and paid a visit to their friends, the Bernards, who lived a mile or two below them. The air was delightful, the country looked beautiful–fresher, perhaps, than at midsummer; for the heat was no longer parching, and the September showers had washed away the dust, and brought out the green grass again. Harry had become interested in the conversation, and was particularly agreeable; Miss Agnes was pleased with his remarks, and Elinor thought she had never passed a pleasanter morning; she was little aware that it was to be followed by many anxious, painful days.

They landed, as usual, at the boat-house; and the ladies prepared to walk slowly across the lawn, while Harry secured the boat and oars. As they approached the house, they were surprised to see several of the servants collected on the piazza, listening so intently to a lad that they did not see the ladies. Old Hetty, a superannuated negro cook, who had lived all her life in the family, was wringing her hands and wiping her eyes with her apron; while Mammy Sarah, Elinor’s former nurse, a respectable white woman, was talking to the boy.

Elinor quickened her pace, and hastened before her aunt, to inquire into the cause of this distress.

“What is it, Mammy?” she asked, on reaching the piazza. “What is the matter?”

“Oh, dearie me; Miss Elly, Miss Elly!” exclaimed old Hetty; with a fresh burst of tears.

“Tell us–Hetty–Mammy–what has happened?” said Miss Wyllys, as she approached.

“Oh, Miss Aggess, Miss Aggess–dreadful news!” said the old negro woman, burying her face in her apron.

“My father?” asked Miss Agnes, faintly, and trembling with alarm.

“No, ma’am,” said Mammy Sarah, looking very sad, however; “Mr. Wyllys is very well, and we were hoping he would come in before you, so that we could get at the truth.”

“Let us hear what you have to say, at once, Mammy,” continued Miss Agnes, anxiously.

“Billy, here, has brought bad news from Longbridge.”

“Dreadful news!” interposed old Hetty. “Oh, Miss Aggess! Billy say Miss Jane–“

“What is it?–Speak plainly!” cried Miss Wyllys.

“There’s an accident happened to the steamboat,” added Mammy.

“B’iler bust–dearie me–Miss Jane’s scall to death!” exclaimed Hetty.

A cry of horror burst from Elinor and her aunt, and they turned towards Mammy Sarah.

“I hope it isn’t quite so bad, ma’am,” said Mammy; “but Billy says the steamboat boiler did really burst after she had got only half a mile from the wharf.”

A second sufficed for Miss Agnes and Elinor to remember Hetty’s fondness for marvels and disasters, and they hoped ardently that the present account might be exaggerated. They turned to the boy: “What had he heard?” “Whom had he seen?” Billy reported that he had seen the boat himself; that he had heard the cries from her decks, which the people in the street thought had come from some horses on board, that must have been scalded; that another boat had gone out to the Longbridge steamer, and had towed her to a wharf a few rods from the spot where the accident happened; that he had seen, himself, a man on horseback, coming for the doctor; and the people told him five horses had been killed, two men badly hurt, and Mr. Graham’s eldest daughter was scalded so badly that she was not expected to live.

Miss Wyllys’s anxiety increased on hearing the boy’s story; she ordered the carriage instantly, determined that under any circumstances, it would be best to go to Longbridge at once, either to discover the truth, or to assist Mrs. Graham in nursing Jane, if she were really badly injured. At this moment, Harry returned from the boat-house.

“What is the matter?” he exclaimed, springing up the piazza steps, and looking round upon the sad and anxious faces.

“We have heard bad news from Longbridge,” said Miss Wyllys; but before she could explain herself, old Hetty burst into tears again, and turning to Hazlehurst, exclaimed:

“Oh, Massa Harry!–dreadful news!–Miss Jane scall to death in steamboat!”

Miss Wyllys was so much struck with the effect of these words on Harry, that for an instant she forgot to say “she trusted the story had been exaggerated.” Hazlehurst lost all colour–stood speechless and motionless for a moment. Elinor was too much agitated herself to speak. Suddenly, Harry met Miss Agnes’ eye; he turned from her, rushed through the house, and continued walking rapidly up and down the avenue, apparently forgetful of everything but his own feelings. Amid all her anxiety for Jane, Miss Wyllys could not but remark Hazlehurst’s manner–he seemed entirely overcome, by his emotion; and yet he had not asked one question, nor made one offer to do anything for Elinor, or herself; and one would have thought it more natural that at such a moment he should have remained with them, pained and distressed as they were. Elinor only thought that Hazlehurst’s feelings did credit to his heart; her own was full of grief for the suffering of her playfellow and companion, whom she had loved almost as a sister.

Some twenty minutes were passed in this manner by the aunt and niece, with feelings better understood than described. They were waiting for the carriage, and nothing could be done in the mean time; it seemed an age to Elinor before the coachman could be found, and the horses harnessed. While her aunt and herself were in tears, pacing the piazza together, they were surprised by the appearance, on the Longbridge road, of the old-fashioned chair in which Mr. Wyllys usually drove about his farm. Miss Agnes distinctly saw her father driving, with a lady at his side. They were approaching at a very steady, quiet pace. As they entered the gate, Miss Agnes and Elinor hastened to meet them; they saw Harry stopping to speak to Mr. Wyllys, and then Miss Wyllys heard her father’s voice calling to herself.

{“chair” = a light, one-horse carriage}

“All safe!” he cried. “It was a misunderstanding; Jane is quite well; though a poor young woman, bearing the same name, has been scalded.”

“We were in hopes the news had not reached you yet,” said Mrs. George Wyllys, who accompanied her father-in-law. “We were all dreadfully alarmed, at first, for the accident was very much exaggerated.”

Miss Wyllys and Elinor were too thankful for Jane’s escape, to express anything but the relief they felt on hearing of her safety.

“No one killed,” continued Mr. Wyllys. “They lost a couple of horses; two of the men were hurt, but not dangerously; and the new chambermaid, whose name is Jane Graham, had her feet badly scalded. But there is so little harm done, considering what might have happened, that we have reason to be very thankful for every one on board.”

“You may imagine how much alarmed I was,” continued Mrs. Wyllys; “for I happened to be sitting at my own window, which overlooks the river, you know, and I heard the noise and cries from the boat, and knew the Grahams were on board.”

Long explanations followed: Mr. Wyllys had had his fright too. He had heard at the saddler’s, that half Mr. Graham’s family were killed. Now, however, it only remained for them to be thankful that their friends had all escaped, and to hope Jane’s namesake would soon recover.

“But how long is it since you heard the story? why did you not send Harry off at once, to get at the truth?” asked Mr. Wyllys.

“We were going ourselves,” replied Miss Agnes.

“What has become of Harry?–Where is he?” asked her father.

But Harry had disappeared.

“He was much distressed at the news,” said Elinor.

“No wonder; it was a horrible idea. But he should have jumped on horseback, and rode over to Longbridge to find out the truth.”

Elinor looked round once more for Hazlehurst, as they entered the house; but he was certainly not there.

“And what are the Grahams going to do?” asked Miss Wyllys.

“They are off again this afternoon,” replied her father, taking a seat on the sofa.

Hazlehurst was not seen again all the morning. Dinner came, and he had not joined the family.

“He is in his room,” said Elinor; “I heard him walking as I passed his door. I am afraid he is not well.”

The servant who was sent to let him know that dinner was on table, returned with the answer, that Mr. Hazlehurst had a bad head-ache, and begged Miss Wyllys would excuse him.

“That long row in the sun must have given Harry a head-ache, Aunt Agnes,” said Elinor; “I am sorry we went so far.”

“Perhaps so,” said Miss Agnes; although she did not seem wholly to be of Elinor’s opinion.

“Hazlehurst is no such tender chicken, Nelly; you must not spoil him, child–do you hear?” said her grandfather, smiling in a way that made Elinor colour. Miss Agnes was silent during dinner; but as the whole family had scarcely recovered from the alarm of the morning, the shade of anxiety on her face was not remarked.

Harry remained in his room. As he had requested not to be disturbed, he was left alone. Once, however, in the course of the evening, a knock was heard at his door, and a servant appeared.

“Miss Elinor sends you a cup of tea, sir, and hopes your head is better,” said Thomas.

“Miss Elinor is very good–I am much obliged to her,” was Harry’s answer, in a low, thick voice; but the cup of tea remained untasted, while Hazlehurst resumed his walk across the room. When, shortly after, Elinor’s voice was heard singing her grandfather’s favourite air of Robin Adair in lower tones than usual, Harry again started from the table, where he had laid pen and paper preparatory to writing, and striking his hand against his forehead, he exclaimed:

{“Robin Adair” = Irish folksong, though often identified with Scotland, with words ca. 1750 by Lady Caroline Keppel; it is the only specific tune Elinor is ever heard to sing}

“Ungrateful wretch, that I am!”

The next morning Elinor was up early, and taking the garden basket, she went out to gather all the late flowers she could find, to fill a jar for the drawing-room–singing gaily, as she went from bush to bush, and gathering here a sprig of honeysuckle, there violets or a late rose, blooming out of season, and a few other straggling blossoms. After loitering about the garden for half an hour, she returned to the house. She was surprised to see the coachman, at that early hour, driving up the avenue in the little wagon used for errands about the country.

“Where have you been, Williams?” she asked, as he drove past her towards the stable.

“To carry Mr. Hazlehurst over to Upper Lewiston, in time for the six o’clock boat, Miss.”

Elinor could scarcely believe what she had heard. At the same moment, Mr. Wyllys stepped out on the piazza.

“What is this, Elinor?” he asked. “They tell me Harry is off; did you see him this morning?”

Elinor was obliged to say she had not.

“What can it mean! did he get any letters by last night’s mail?”

“Not that I know of,” said Elinor, much surprised, and a little alarmed.

They found Miss Agnes in the drawing-room; she, it seemed, already knew of Hazlehurst’s departure. She said little on the subject, but looked anxious and absent. Elinor scarcely knew what to think; she was afraid to trust herself to make any inquiries, preferring to wait until alone with her aunt after breakfast. The meal passed over in silence. Mr. Wyllys looked uneasy; Elinor was at a loss to know what to think; neither of the ladies paid much attention to the morning meal that day.

Miss Agnes rose from table, and went to her own room; Elinor, neglecting her usual task as housekeeper, hastened to follow her aunt, her mind filled with indistinct fears and anxieties. Miss Agnes was walking about her room, looking pained and distressed. Several letters were lying on a table near her; two were unopened; one she had been reading.

“Letters!–my dear Aunt, from whom? Tell me, I conjure you, what you know! Has anything happened to Louisa–to Jane? Did Harry leave no message for me?” cried Elinor, hurrying towards her aunt, whose face she watched for an answer to each question, as she asked it. Miss Wyllys made an effort to compose herself, and held out her hand to Elinor.

“My dearest Aunt!–pray tell me what distresses you–Ha! Harry’s handwriting!” she exclaimed, as her eye fell on the open letter by Miss Wyllys–“I know that letter is from Harry; do not conceal anything; is it for me?”

“This letter is to me, my child,” replied her aunt, taking up the one she had been reading; wishing to give Elinor all the preparation in her power, for a blow which she knew must fall heavily, since it was so entirely unexpected.

“But there are two other letters,” cried Elinor, “one of them is for me, I am sure. Let me see it at once, Aunt; you cannot deny that it is for me–and if it contain bad news, you know that I can command myself when necessary.”

Miss Agnes’s hand trembled as she took the letters.

“My child! My beloved Elinor!” she said.

“Dearest Aunt, you torture me! Tell me, I beseech you, what we have to fear!”

“You shall know all,” Miss Agnes replied, seating herself; and endeavouring to be calm. “You will be much distressed, my child; but I know that you will be now, what you always have been, reasonable, and true to yourself–to your grandfather–to me,” added Miss Wyllys, in a voice almost inarticulate.

A thousand indistinct ideas passed through Elinor’s mind with the rapidity of lightning, while her aunt was speaking; illness of some absent friend suggested itself–yet who could it be? Not Harry, surely, for he had gone over to Upper Lewiston that morning–yet her fears instinctively centred upon Hazlehurst.

“It is something relating to Harry, I am sure,” she said. “Is he ill?–is he in trouble?” she asked in a faint voice, while a prayer for resignation sprang from her heart, with the words.

“You are right,” replied Miss Wyllys, in a faltering voice; and seating herself by her niece, she continued, “He is well. If he is in trouble, it is from his own choice. Have you no suspicions, my dearest child, of what has happened?”

“Suspicions!”–exclaimed Elinor, in astonishment, “what is there for me to suspect? My dearest Aunt, I am more and more perplexed–explain it all yourself–who is it you are concerned for?”

“My only concern is for you, dearest; my only regret, that trouble should have been brought on you by those dear to you–by your grandfather, by myself, by your cousins.”

“By you!–by my cousins–what cousins?”

“Harry–Jane–Have you remarked nothing?”

“Harry! what can he have done?”

“You must forget him,” said Miss Wyllys; and as Elinor looked eagerly in her aunt’s eyes, she read there all that Miss Agnes had not courage to tell in words.

Half starting from her seat, she exclaimed, “Harry!–and Jane too!” and as a deadly paleness came over her face, she fell back, unconscious, on the sofa. Her faintness lasted but a moment; too short a time, indeed, to allow the impression of what she had heard to pass from her mind. She burst into tears. “Oh, Aunt Agnes!–Is it really true?–Can Harry have changed? can he have been so unkind to me?–And Jane, too!” she exclaimed at intervals.

Her aunt answered only by her caresses, silently pressing her lips upon Elinor’s forehead.

Elinor threw her arms about Miss Agnes’s neck, weeping bitterly.

“But is it really true? Is there not some mistake? Is it possible he felt so little for me? Oh, dearest Aunt!–and Jane, too!”

Miss Wyllys said that she knew nothing of Jane’s feelings; but that the manner of both Jane and Harry had struck her several times as singular; though now but too easily accounted for. During the last ten days, she had begun to fear something wrong.

“Never, for one second, had I a doubt of either!” cried Elinor. She now dreaded to receive the letter, she had before asked for so eagerly.

A package had been given by Harry to the chambermaid, that morning, requesting her to place it in Miss Agnes’s hands as soon as she left her room. It contained three letters. That to Miss Agnes herself, was full and explicit. He now wrote, he said, because he felt concealment to be no longer possible, after the manner in which he had betrayed himself on hearing of the steamboat accident. He felt convinced that his emotion had been observed by Miss Wyllys, and he almost hoped the suspicions of Elinor had been aroused. He hoped it, for he felt that longer concealment would be unworthy of Elinor, and of himself, since he had not been able to control his feelings. He acknowledged that a frank confession was now due to her.

“I know,” he said, “that you will reproach me severely for my want of faith, and I feel that I deserve far more than you will say. But do not think that I erred from deliberate forgetfulness of all that I owed to Elinor. I was for a long time unconscious of the state of my own feelings; and when at length I could no longer deceive myself, the discovery of my weakness was deeply painful and mortifying. You know what has been my situation since last spring–you know to what I have been exposed. Greater caution might no doubt have been used, had I not been misled by blindness, or self-confidence, or vanity, call it what you please. No one can reproach me as severely as I reproach myself. But although my feelings had escaped my own control before I knew it, yet I determined from the first that my actions should at least be worthy of Elinor. I instantly became more guarded. No human being, I believe, until to-day, suspected my folly. Do not reproach Jane. The fault is entirely with me; Jane has been blameless throughout.”

He concluded by hoping that his letter would not for a moment be considered by Miss Wyllys or Elinor, as an attempt to break his engagement, which he was still anxious to fulfil. But he thought that, now the explanation had been made, a separation for some time would be preferable for all parties. He proposed to travel for six months, and at the end of that time be hoped to have conquered his own weakness, and to be forgiven by Elinor.

Bitter tears were shed by Elinor, in reading this letter.

The note to herself was short. He had not the courage to repeat to her directly, what he had said to Miss Wyllys.

“I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must have remarked my emotion this morning–Miss Wyllys now knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself.

“H. H.”

There are said to be young ladies with hearts so tender, as to be capable of two or three different love affairs, and an unlimited number of flirtations, in the course of a twelvemonth; but Elinor’s disposition was of a very different stamp. Her feelings were all true and strong; her attachment for Harry little resembled that mixture of caprice and vanity to which some young people give the name of love. With something of fancy, and a share of the weakness, no doubt, it was yet an affection to which every better quality of her nature had contributed its share. Hazlehurst’s determination never to forgive himself for the sorrow he had caused her, was a just one. His fickleness had deeply wounded a heart, warm, true, and generous, as ever beat in a woman’s bosom.

Bitterly did Elinor weep, that first day of grief, humiliation, and disappointment. She did not hesitate, however, for a moment, as to the course to be pursued, and even felt indignant that Harry should have believed her capable of holding him to his engagement, with the feelings he had avowed. She answered his note as soon as she could command herself sufficiently to write.

“I do not blame you–your conduct was but natural; one more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed. My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual friends know the position in which it is best we should continue for the future. May you be happy with Jane.

“ELINOR WYLLYS.”

Elinor, at this moment, felt keenly the disadvantages of homeliness, which she had hitherto borne so cheerfully, and had never yet considered an evil. Beauty now appeared to her as a blessed gift indeed.

“Had I not been so unfortunately plain,” thought Elinor, “surely Harry could not have forgotten me so soon. Oh,” she exclaimed, “had I but a small portion of that beauty which so many girls waste upon the world, upon mere vanity; which they are so ready to carry about to public places–through the very streets, to catch the eye of every passing stranger, how highly should I prize it, only for the sake of pleasing those I love! What a happy thought it must be to those blessed with beauty, that the eyes of their nearest and dearest friends never rest upon them but with pleasure! How willingly would I consent to remain plain to ugliness, plain as I am, in the eyes of the world, for the precious power of pleasing those I love!”

Mr. Wyllys and Miss Agnes, of course, approved the step Elinor had taken. They were both deeply pained by Harry’s conduct; they both regretted having allowed the engagement to take place so early, and at the moment of Harry’s absence. Miss Wyllys, indeed, blamed herself severely for not having used all her influence to prevent it. With her father, on the contrary, indignation against Harry was the strongest feeling.

“Heartless young coxcomb!” he exclaimed; “to dare to trifle with Elinor. I had a good opinion of him; I thought he had too much sense, and too much feeling, not to appreciate Elinor, though her face may not be as pretty as some others. Agnes, he must never be asked to Wyllys-Roof again. I can never forget his treatment of my grandchild.”

CHAPTER XVII.

“May this be so?”
SHAKSPEARE.

{William Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing”, III.ii.117}

WHILE the family at Wyllys-Roof were in this distress, Miss Agnes had received the parting visit of the Taylors. The porticos of Colonnade Manor rose before closed windows; the house was abandoned for the winter; while Mr. Taylor and Miss Adeline were engaged in putting the finishing touch to the elegance of No. five hundred and —–, Broadway, preparatory to the display of the winter.

Mr. Taylor was getting at home in New York. The atmosphere of a large town, thoroughly commercial, was just fitted to his nature. He had certainly every reason to be satisfied with the rapidity with which he had mounted towards the top of the Wall-Street ladder. He was already cheek-by-jowl with certain heavy men of the place; he walked down Broadway of a morning with “Mr. A. of the Ocean,” and up again of an afternoon with “Mr. B. of the Hoboken;” he knew something of most of the great men of the commercial world; and as for the rest of the community, he cared little enough for them or their interests. His house was as handsome and as finely furnished as he could wish, his children were as expensively dressed, as expensively schooled, as any in the land. He had become accustomed to the first burst of luxury, and began already to look upon a hundred things as necessaries, of the uses of which he had been ignorant five years before. He thought New York a commercial paradise; not only the place to make a fortune, but the very spot to spend it in. He wondered at Mr. Hubbard; who could be satisfied to retire from business so early, and was content to live at Longbridge, the village where he was born. Mr. Taylor looked upon himself as already a great man, but he intended to be a greater man still, by a million, or more.

About a week after the Taylors arrived in town, they gave a party–quite a small affair, very sociable, some eighty or ninety people only. The following morning, Mrs. Taylor, fatigued with the toils and cares of gaiety, went to her own room to refresh herself by darning more stockings than usual; while Mr. Taylor, who had laboured hard the evening before by endeavouring to be very ‘affable’ to some twenty new acquaintances, sought the relief of his counting-house. As he walked down Broadway, his thoughts were divided between two subjects. He had purchased some lots the previous week, which proved so indifferent a bargain, that he was anxious to persuade a particular friend to take them off his hands. He had also just received letter from his son, lately Tom Taylor, now T. Tallman Taylor, Esquire. The young man had made very heavy demands upon his father’s banker lately. Mr. Taylor was perfectly satisfied that his son should spend his money freely, and had given him a very liberal allowance, that he might be enabled to cut a figure among his countrymen in Paris. But his progress in acquiring habits of extravagance had become of late rather more rapid than was desirable. As he was to return, however, in the course of a few weeks, his father hoped that he would be able to play the dandy in New York at less cost than in Paris.

Mr. Taylor’s meditations were interrupted by Mrs. Hilson, who stopped to speak to him as he passed; she wished to inquire if Miss Adeline were at home, as she was anxious to see her, having a piece of news to communicate. Having given a satisfactory answer, the merchant pursued his course towards the regions of commerce, at one extremity of Broadway, and the city-lady went her way towards the regions of fashion in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Hilson had already returned to her suite of apartments, and her intimate friend, Mrs. Bagman. At the boarding-house she patronised; and every morning between the hours of twelve and three, she might be seen at the window of the drawing-room, if it rained, or flitting up and down Broadway if the sun shone, generally attended by Captain Kockney, the long {sic} Englishman, whom she took great pleasure in showing off to the public. On the present occasion she was alone however, and fortunate enough to find Miss Adeline and the French furniture visible, for it was the first time she had been in the new house. The rose-coloured damask, and the pea-green satin of the two drawing-rooms was much admired, and many compliments were lavished upon the gilt clocks, the Sevres vases, &c., when Mrs. Hilson remembered she had a piece of news to share with Miss Taylor.

“And such news–so unexpected to us all; you will be so surprised! The engagement between Miss Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst is actually broken off!”

Adeline was not so much astonished as Mrs. Hilson supposed she would be.

“I am very quick at seeing such things,” she said. “I was sure it would come to that; though Miss Wyllys did not seem to suspect anything herself. But no wonder–an engagement of two years is too long for anybody. I am sure that in two years I should get tired of the handsomest beau in New York.”

The ladies had each their surmises as to which of the parties had taken the first step, and what was probably the cause; but although Miss Taylor had a pretty correct idea of the state of things, she did not express her opinion on the subject very decidedly. Mrs. Hilson soon made her curtsey, expressing the hope that they should see each other very often during the winter; a hope which Miss Adeline was determined not to gratify, for Mrs. Hilson’s standing was not sufficiently fashionable to satisfy her. The visitor had no sooner left the room, than she ran up stairs to put on her last Paris hat, and her handsomest cashmere, and then hurried off to Barclay-Street to enjoy a confidential meeting with Jane.

The young ladies were closeted together for an hour. We have no authority for revealing what passed, and can only observe that Jane returned to the drawing-room with a heightened colour, and there was a certain expression of mystery still lingering about Miss Adeline’s face.

“Have you any commands for Boston, Mrs. Graham?” the young lady inquired in her usual flippant manner. “I think I shall go there next week, to pay a short visit to a friend of mine; I wish I could hear of an escort.”

Mrs. Graham thanked her civilly, but declined the offer of her services.

“Have you really made up your mind to go to Boston?” asked Jane.

“Why, not positively. It depends, as I said before, upon my finding an escort. I have six pressing invitations from different quarters, most of them acquaintances that I made last summer at Saratoga; and I have been hesitating between Albany, Boston, or Baltimore. I am determined to go somewhere to spend the next three weeks, till the gaiety begins in earnest, and Tallman comes back.”

“Is your brother expected so soon?” asked Mrs. Graham.

“Yes, he must have sailed now. We heard from him last night; he will be here next month, I hope, just in time for the first great parties. What would you advise me to do, Jane, to get rid of the time until then?”

“I had much rather you would stay at home; if you go, I shall miss you very much.”

“But then we shall have the pleasure of corresponding–I like the excitement of receiving a good long letter, full of nonsense, above all things.”

“You must not forget to let me know which way you are really going,” said Jane. “I will write, though I can’t promise you a long letter; I never wrote a long letter in my life.”

“Well, you must write, at any rate, I shall see you half-a-dozen times between this and Monday. I rather think I shall decide upon Boston. Miss Lawrence says there are some delightful young gentlemen there, and has promised to give me a ball. If I go, I shall try hard to bring Miss Lawrence back with me. Mind, Jane, you don’t make too many conquests while I am gone. You must reserve yourself for the one I have recommended to you. Oh, by-the-bye, Mrs. Graham, I forgot to tell you the news; I am astonished you have not heard it already.”

“Pray, what is it?” asked Mrs. Graham.

“It seems the engagement between Miss Wyllys and Mr. Hazlehurst has been broken off.”

“You are mistaken, surely! We have heard nothing of it, and it is highly improbable. If there be such a story, let me beg you will not mention it again, Miss Taylor!”

“Oh, there is no mistake, I’m quite sure. I have heard it three times already this morning, from Longbridge people; first Mrs. Hilson told me, and then I met John Bibbs, and Edward Tibbs, who said the same thing. Mrs. George Wyllys, it seems, contradicted the engagement openly; Miss Hubbard heard her, and wrote it to her sister.”

“How grieved I should be if this story were to prove true; you surely never remarked anything, Jane?”

“Elinor seemed to me just as usual; but Adeline thinks there has been some change,” said Jane, a little embarrassed.

“Oh, yes, give me credit for being quick-sighted; I suspected something the first time I saw them together after Mr. Hazlehurst came back.”

“It is what none of their other friends appear to have done, Miss Taylor,” said Mrs. Graham, a little severely.

“I dare say not; but I am very quick at seeing such things. If Jane has any mysteries, she had better not pretend to keep them from me. But it is no wonder that the engagement was broken off–I don’t believe in long engagements. We must not let Jane drag matters on at that rate when her turn comes;” and then kissing her friend tenderly, and making a curtsey to Mrs. Graham, without remarking the disapproving expression of that lady’s face, the lively Adeline left the mother and daughter alone.

“I dislike that Miss Taylor, excessively, Jane,” observed her mother, “she is very disagreeable to me; I wish you would find some better companion while we are in New York. There are the Howards, and de Vaux’s–very amiable, pleasant girls, and for a great many reasons far better associates for you.”

“But I don’t know them so well. Adeline is a great belle, mamma, as much so as any girl in town.”

“She is not at all to my taste, I confess. Your father, too, dislikes the Taylors very much. The way in which she spoke of this story about Elinor’s engagement was really unfeeling. Not that I believe it; but breaking off an engagement without good reason, is no such trifle in my opinion, as it seems to be in that of Miss Taylor.”

Jane looked quite agitated; she blushed so much that her mother would probably have remarked it, had she not been, at the moment, stooping over her little invalid boy, who was lying on the sofa near her.

“Miss Taylor has no claim whatever upon you, that I can see,” continued Mrs. Graham. “It is true she was kind to you when you were ill with the whooping-cough at school; but so were your other companions–and I am sure she has not been half so considerate and good to you as Elinor, and yet you seem to prefer Miss Adeline now.”

Poor Jane looked down, and coloured still more.

“Adeline would do anything for me, mother,” she said, in a low voice; “You don’t know how much she is attached to me; I can’t help liking her,” and Jane began to shed a few tears.

“Foolish child!” said her mother, beginning to relent, as she usually did on such occasions, “I don’t wish you to be uncivil to her; but I should like you to be more with Kate Howard, and Anne de Vaux;” and the conversation ended, as several others of the same description had done, by leaving things precisely as they were before. Mrs. Graham, indeed, looked upon herself as having showed much decision on the occasion, and acted as a watchful mother, by having made these objections, fruitless as they proved to be.

The report that the engagement between Elinor and Harry had been broken off, was soon known to be correct. It caused some surprise to all who knew them, and much regret to their friends. Mrs. Stanley, who felt a warm interest in both Harry and Elinor, was grieved and disappointed. The Grahams, and Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, felt very unpleasantly when the cause of the rupture came to be suspected. Mrs. Graham was, however, relieved by finding that there was no understanding between Harry and her daughter–thus far at least all was right; no explanation had taken place between them, and Jane even assured her mother that when in Paris, she had had no idea that Hazlehurst was attached to her. Still there were many blushes whenever the subject was alluded to, there were confidential meetings with Adeline, and other symptoms which left little doubt to her friends that Jane’s feelings were interested. Mrs. Graham was obliged to console herself with the idea, that the mischief had, at least, been unintentional on the part of her daughter.

Harry, himself, was much mortified by the reception of Elinor’s note, which, by showing the full consequence of his conduct, made it appear more culpable in his own eyes than he had yet been willing to believe it. He even wrote a second time, begging Elinor to re-consider her decision. Full as his fancy was of Jane, yet his regard, one might say his affection, for Elinor, was too well-founded, and of too long standing, for him to endure quietly the idea of having trifled with her. She remained firm, however; her second answer was as decided as the first. Harry’s self-reproach was sincere, at least, and he had never before felt so much dissatisfied with himself.

He was less eager than one might suppose, to profit by his newly-acquired liberty. He was in no hurry to offer Jane the attentions which had so lately been Elinor’s due. It is true that his position was rather awkward; it is not every faithless swain who is obliged to play the lover to two different individuals, within so short a period, before the same witnesses. At length, after doing penance for a while, by encouraging humiliating reflections, some fear of a rival carried Hazlehurst on to New York, in his new character of Jane’s admirer. The first meeting was rather awkward, and Harry was obliged to call up all his good-breeding and cleverness, to make it pass off without leaving an unpleasant impression. “Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute,” however, as everybody knows. The sight of Jane’s lovely face, with a brighter colour than usual, and a few half-timid and embarrassed glances from her beautiful dark eyes, had a surprising effect in soothing Harry’s conscience, and convincing his reason that after all he had not acted so unwisely. He soon showed himself very much in earnest in seeking Jane’s favour; though he persuaded himself that he must always do justice to Elinor’s excellence. “She is just the woman for a friend,” he observed to himself, “and friends I trust we shall be, when the past is forgotten. But Jane, with her transcendant {sic} beauty, her gentle helplessness, is the very creature that fancy would paint for a wife!”

{“Ce n’est que le premier….” = it’s only the first step that hurts (French)}

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Be patient, gentle Nell, forget this grief.” Henry VI.

{William Shakespeare, “2 Henry VI”, II.iv.26}

THE Wyllyses remained later than they had intended in the country. Elinor, indeed, proposed to her aunt that they should pass the winter at Wyllys-Roof, but Miss Agnes and her grandfather were unwilling to do so. The variety of a life in town would be preferable for her sake to the quiet monotony of a country winter. They knew she had too much sense to wish to play the victim; but it was only natural to believe, that in a solitary country life, painful recollections would force themselves upon her oftener than among her friends in town, where she would he obliged to think less of herself, and more of others.

It had been a great relief to her to find, that Jane had not acted as unworthily as Miss Agnes had at first feared; in spite of what she herself had overheard at Miss Hubbard’s party, Elinor threw off all suspicion of her cousin, as soon as she learned that Jane denied any previous knowledge of the change in Harry’s feelings. Hazlehurst, himself, had said in his letter that she was blameless.

“Then,” she exclaimed, “I shall at least be able to love Jane as before!” She immediately sat down, and wrote her cousin a short, but affectionate letter, containing only a slight allusion to what had passed. Jane’s answer, of course, avoided wounding her feelings, and their intercourse was resumed.

“The time will come, I trust,” she thought, “when Harry, too, will be a friend again.” But she felt the hour had not yet arrived. She could not so soon forget the past. It was no easy task, suddenly to change the whole current of feeling which had filled her mind during the last two years. In spite of her earnest resolutions, during the first few weeks, thoughts and feelings of the past would recur too often. For some time Elinor was very unhappy; she felt that the strongest and deepest affections of her heart had been neglected, rejected, undervalued, by one whose opinion she had learned to prize too highly. She wept and blushed to think how much she had become attached to Harry, since she had looked upon him as her affianced husband. She could not but feel herself free from all reproach towards him; it was he who, unsought by her, had wished to draw a closer tie between them. He had succeeded but too well, and then he had forgotten her. The temptation which had proved too strong for him, would not have deserved the name, had the case been reversed, had she been exposed to it. And yet she did not reproach him; men think so much of beauty, and she was so very plain! It was but natural at such a moment, that she should be oppressed by an over-wrought humility. She accused herself of vanity, for having at one time believed it possible Harry could love one like herself. But how happy was Jane!

Her efforts to struggle against low spirits were the greater, for the sake of her aunt and her grandfather. She made it a duty to neglect no regular task, and much of her time was occupied as usual; but the feelings which she carried about to her employment, were very different from what they had been heretofore. It was her first taste of sorrow; well might her aunt deeply reproach Hazlehurst for his versatile conduct towards her beloved child. Elinor flattered herself that Miss Agnes knew not half of what she felt. In general she succeeded in being quite calm, and attentive to others; she was always sweet-tempered, and unrepining. But she could not read, herself, the expression of her own countenance, so tenderly watched by her aunt. She was not aware that the musical tones of her voice were no longer cheerful; that instead of the gay, easy conversation in which she used to bear her part, she was now at times absent, often silent; she whose graceful wit and youthful spirits had been until lately the joy of her family. Mr. Wyllys’s indignation against Hazlehurst would have been boundless, if he could have seen him at such moments, as was often now the case, sitting by the side of Jane, admiring the length of her eye-lashes, the pearly smoothness of her complexion, and the bright colour of her lips, as she uttered some very common-place remark. Such had now become Hazlehurst’s daily pleasure, his daily habit.

[“versatile” = inconstant, fickle}

Miss Agnes purposely left to her niece, this year, all the arrangements for their removal to town; and Elinor was obliged to be very busy. It happened too, quite opportunely, perhaps, that just at that time Mrs. George Wyllys was coming over oftener than usual, to consult her father-in-law and Miss Agnes. Against Mr. Wyllys’s advice, she had to withdraw her eldest boy from the school where he had been first placed, and now a new choice was to be made. Mr. Wyllys recommended a small establishment in their own neighbourhood, recently opened by Miss Patsey’s brother; he thought it equally good with the one she had in view, and with the additional advantage of more moderate terms, and a smaller number of boys. But Mrs. Wyllys had a great deal to say on the opposite side of the question; the low price was an objection in her eyes.

“There, my dear sir, you must allow me to differ from you. I have always intended to devote a large portion of my means to the education of my children; economy in such a case, I cannot look upon as economy at all.”

“Certainly, Harriet, you are perfectly right to secure to your children every advantage in your power. But this is not a case in point. Thomas Hubbard, you know, was a principal in the very school which you have in view, and only withdrew last spring on account of ill health. He still continues the same system, and has the same masters, with the advantage of only four boys besides Evert, to occupy his attention.”

This was too plain to be contradicted. “But in my opinion, sir, a large school is very much to be preferred for a boy. I have thought a great deal on the subject, since Evert has been of an age to leave me.”

“But what are your reasons for preferring a large school to a small one?”

“I think it a better preparation for their entrance into life. And then they have the advantage of choosing their intimates from a larger number of boys; Evert’s disposition will make it particularly desirable for him. I am sure, if he were shut up with two or three boys only, he would find it so dull that he would be disgusted.”

“Well, my dear, I view the matter in a different light,” replied Mr. Wyllys, who would never allow himself to be silenced, or forced to advise anything against his conscience; though many men would have been worried into it by such a woman. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wyllys was the only guardian of her children, and Mr. Wyllys was often obliged to see his daughter-in-law act in a manner that he thought ill-judged; but though very good-natured, he could never be talked into being a party to such plans. “It is precisely on account of Evert’s high spirits that I should like a small school for him. He would be less likely to get himself and others into scrapes; he would be more under his master’s eye.”

“I think, sir, from the conversation I had with Mr. Stone, he is just the man to obtain an influence over Evert.”

“You would like Hubbard still better, if you knew him.”

“I doubt it very much, sir; I am sick of the very name of Hubbard. Those Longbridge Hubbards are enough to spoil a paradise.”

“Well, Harriet,” said Mr. Wyllys, “you seem to have made up your mind; so have I; now what is to be done?”

“Of course, sir, your opinion has great weight with me; you know I am always guided by you.”

“Then the matter is settled, and Evert goes to Hubbard’s.”

Mr. Wyllys thought he had succeeded, on this occasion, in gaining his point, by taking his daughter-in-law at her word; but the very next morning she drove over to Wyllys-Roof, with a new view of the subject; and it was not until after half-a-dozen more conversations, that the matter was finally settled, by Mr. Wyllys refusing to give any more advice; when his daughter-in-law, of her own accord, determined to send her boy to Mr. Hubbard’s school. It must be confessed that some women, endowed too with certain good qualities, are very trying, and possess a most vexatious vein of caprice. In the mean time the child was taken sick; he was ill for several weeks, and Elinor assisted in nursing him.

Independently of these consultations, and cares about her little cousin, there were other claims upon Elinor’s attention at this time, and those the least romantic in the world. Within the last few weeks, all the men of Longbridge seemed to have their heads full of a new rail-road, one of the first that were made in this country. All the property Elinor had inherited from her father was in this village, and so placed as to have its value very much increased by this intended piece of internal improvement. Mr. Hubbard was one of those most interested in the project, which was of some importance to Mr. Wyllys, also. The gentlemen had many meetings on the subject, and Elinor was obliged to hear a great deal that was going on; which houses were to be pulled down, which streets widened, what engineer was to be employed, where the rails were to come from, at what time they hoped to get the act through the Assembly. Mr. Taylor, of course, was not the man to allow anything approaching to speculation, to take place in his neighbourhood without having something to do with it himself. He came over to Longbridge expressly to help matters on; and as Colonnade Manor was shut up, Mr. Wyllys, always hospitably inclined, asked him to his own house for a day or two. With such a spirit under their roof, little else was heard of besides stocks and lots, wharves and stores. Elinor’s property was known to be much interested in the affair, and Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Taylor thought it necessary to congratulate her. Mr. Taylor, indeed, would have been much shocked had he known how very little she cared about the matter.

{“a new rail-road” = The Camden and (Perth) Amboy line crossed New Jersey in 1833, and the Philadelphia and Columbia (Penn.) line opened in 1834}

“We shall have to consult you, Miss Elinor, in our proceedings,” said Mr. Hubbard, as they were sitting at the dinner-table; perhaps you don’t know it, but you will be one of our stockholders, and much interested in our success, I assure you.”

“My grandfather tried last night to give me some notions on the subject, Mr. Hubbard; but I am afraid he was not very successful.”

“Oh, I don’t know that,” said Mr. Wyllys; “I shall make quite a business woman of you, yet, Nelly.” In fact, her grandfather had taken the moment to assure Elinor that it was high time she should have some just ideas on such subjects, and insisted on her listening to all his explanations, and doing her best to comprehend them. Elinor tried to be a docile pupil, and really acquired some useful information, which may appear singular to romantic young ladies, who set up for broken-hearted; as her only object, however, was to gratify her grandfather, we hope she will be forgiven for anything so much out of character in a heroine.

“It is a beautiful speculation, Miss Wyllys,” observed Mr. Taylor. “I suppose you know enough about these things, to be glad to hear that in a year or two, you will probably realize two hundred per cent. on your lots in Water-Street, where the depot is to be built.”

“It all sounds very grandly, certainly,” said Elinor, smiling.

“We shall make a fortune for you, Miss Elinor,” added Mr. Hubbard. “You will be the great lady of Longbridge.”

“I dare say, Nelly, you will find some way of spending the money; young ladies know very well how to get rid of it, let it come ever so fast.”

“Yes, sir, my daughters are very expert at that; Emmeline thinks nothing of giving fifty dollars for a flimsy pocket-handkerchief, and as much for a flighty-looking hat. But I’ve no objections; I’ll tell you in confidence, that is what we make our money for, Miss Elinor–for our children to spend,” added Mr. Hubbard, smiling good-naturedly. “I dare say you will find a right use for some of yours. It will be in good hands, and I hope you may long enjoy it,” said he, making a bow to Elinor, as he drank off a glass of Madeira.

{“fifty dollars for a flimsy pocket-handkerchief” = this remark by Mr. Hubbard reflects James Fenimore Cooper’s little-known novelette, “The Autobiography of a Pocket-Handkerchief” (1843), as do many aspects of the greedy and ostentatious Taylor family whom Emmeline Hubbard seeks to emulate}

Mr. Taylor, though he joined in the toast with some “affable” remark, as usual, could not help regretting that so much money, and consequently the power of making so much more, should not be in the hands of one who could turn it to better account than Miss Elinor Wyllys. He had a very poor opinion of Mr. Wyllys’s money-making abilities, and thought him very “unenterprising.” That gentleman, on the contrary, when brought in closer contact with Mr. Taylor, began to have a clearer insight into his character, and while he found him uncommonly clever, discovered that several of his propositions betrayed anything but high principles. He began to believe that Mr. Graham’s dislike was not ill-founded.

Mr. Hubbard, in the mean time, who had known Elinor from a child, was thinking how he could say something agreeable about love and beaux, supposed always to be pleasant subjects to young ladies. He felt some doubts about hinting at Hazlehurst, for he thought he had heard the engagement was broken off. Happily for Elinor, the party rose from table before anything had suggested itself.

At length Mrs. Wyllys’s boy recovered, and was sent off to school; and this rail-road matter was also satisfactorily settled. As there was nothing more to detain the family in the country, the Wyllyses went to Philadelphia, and took possession of their lodgings for the winter.

CHAPTER XIX.

“Had you not lately an intent, speak truly, To go to Paris?”
SHAKSPEARE.

{William Shakespeare, “All’s Well That Ends Well”, I.iii.218-219}

MISS TAYLOR paid her visit to Miss Lawrence. One morning at breakfast she informed her parents that she intended to make an excursion to Boston. “Whom was she going to see?” asked her father. “Miss Lawrence, a young lady who had passed three days at the Springs, at the hotel where they stayed, and with whom she had become very intimate.” “How long was she going to be absent?” inquired her mother. “She thought of remaining a fortnight; perhaps three weeks, if she found it very pleasant. Mr. Powell, the young gentleman who was to be her escort, had been introduced to her the evening previous at a ball, and she thought him sufficiently fashionable in his appearance, to have the honour of taking charge of herself and her baggage.” Her father observed that he would bring a supply of money for her, when he came home to dinner; her mother offered to look over her stockings. Everything thus settled, the next morning Mr. Taylor and Miss Adeline drove to the East-River wharf, where the Boston boat lay: here they met with a slight difficulty; the gentleman engaged as an escort could not be found; something had interfered with his journey. Nothing was easier than to pick up another, however. Mr. Taylor looked about him, saw a face he knew slightly, and remembered the name that belonged to it.

“Good morning, sir; are you going to Boston, Mr. Hopkins?”

Mr. Hopkins bowed, and declared that he was going to Boston.

“I have a daughter on board, sir; and the young gentleman who was to be her escort is not here; will you be so good as to look after her?”

Mr. Hopkins would be very happy to take charge of Miss Taylor. But Adeline was almost in despair when she saw him. How could one of the most dashing belles in New York, consent to sit, in view of all the passengers, side-by-side with such a fat, rusty, snuffy, little old gentleman, who more green spectacles, and had a red silk handkerchief spread on his knee? Suppose he should ask her to walk, how could she pace up and down the promenade-deck arm-in-arm with such a figure? She, Adeline Taylor, whose travelling dress was faultless, and who had expected to have a charming flirtation with Albert Powell! What could she do? The fates, and the warning bell, decided the question; it was too late to look out for some better-looking escort. Mr. Taylor had hardly time to shake hands with his daughter, and jump on the wharf, ere the whizzing of the steam had ceased, and the plashing of the wheels was heard. Adeline sank on a bench beside the rusty old gentleman for a moment, but soon fled to the ladies’ cabin for refuge.

During the whole jaunt, the fat, snuffy Mr. Hopkins was kind and good-natured to Adeline, whenever she would allow him. He thought she must be lonely, and she had been obliged to confess that she knew no one on board; so the old gentleman held it incumbent on him to be sociable. He took some pea-nuts out of his pocket, and offered her a handful; he gave her a couple of newspapers to read; asked her questions about her family, brothers and sisters, and seemed to look upon her as a school-girl. He was not the least impressed with her elegance and finery, and quite unaware of her belle-ship; he even once called her “my dear.” Then, the red silk handkerchief was always either on his knee, or in his hand! It would he difficult to say whether Adeline would have survived the mortification of such an escort, had it not been for two circumstances, which changed the current of her thoughts. There were several elegantly dressed young ladies on board, and she soon succeeded in getting up an intimacy with two of them; they exchanged cards and invitations to each other’s houses, and through the same means Adeline was introduced to a couple of beaux. Between breakfast and dinner, these new bosom-friends and herself were inseparable, but, unfortunately, they were only going half-way. The grief of separation was, however, somewhat assuaged with Miss Taylor by sea-sickness, which, as every one knows, is very destructive to sentiment and sensibility. As long as they were tossing about near Point Judith, the snuffy old gentleman, who was not in the least sea-sick himself, was very faithful in his inquiries after Adeline, and proposed several remedies to her, through the stewardess. At length they reached Boston. As they drove to the door of Miss Lawrence’s father, Mr. Hopkins asked “how long she intended to remain in Boston?” “About a fortnight,” Adeline replied.

{“Point Judith” = prominent cape on the coast of Rhode Island, south of Narragansett}

“I shall be going back to New York about the same time, my dear, and if you have not got some one more to your taste, I’ll take care of you on your way home, with pleasure,” said the fat old gentleman, sprinkling a handful of snuff on Miss Taylor’s grey silk, and brandishing the red handkerchief at the same time.

Adeline’s thanks were very faintly uttered; but gratitude is not a fashionable virtue. It was fortunately so dark that the rusty old gentleman could scarcely be seen as he took leave of the elegant Miss Taylor at Mr. Lawrence’s door, and thus the young lady’s mortification was over.

At the end of the three weeks, Adeline returned home, bringing glowing accounts of the delights of Boston, and talking a great deal about several “delightful young gentlemen,” and occasionally mentioning a certain Theodore St. Leger. She had heard that the Boston people were all BLUE; but it must be a calumny to say so, for she had had a very lively time–plenty of fun and flirtation. Miss Lawrence returned with her, and of course a party was given in her honour; there were some eighty persons present, all free from the shackles of matrimony, apparently to give the Boston young lady an opportunity of meeting a representation of her peers, the marriageable portion only of the New York community. The evening was pronounced delightful by Miss Lawrence; but all the guests were not of the same opinion.

{“BLUE” = literary or learned, from “blue-stocking”}

“What an absurd custom it is, to have these young people parties,” said Harry Hazlehurst, who was on one of his frequent visits to New York at the time, and was sitting in Mrs. Graham’s drawing-room, with that lady, Jane, and Mrs. Stanley.

“I agree with you; it is a bad plan,” observed Mrs. Stanley.

“The first of the kind that I went to, after we came home, made me feel ashamed of myself; though Dr. Van Horne, I suppose, would accuse me of high-treason for saying so.”

“But most young people seem to enjoy them,” said Mrs. Graham.

“It is paying us but a poor compliment to say so. One would think the young people were afraid to laugh and talk before their fathers and mothers. I really felt the other night as if we were a party of children turned into the nursery to play, and eat sugar-plums together, and make as much noise as we pleased, without disturbing our elders. It is a custom that appears to me as unnatural as it is puerile. I hope you don’t like it,” he added, turning to Jane.

“I care very little about it.”

“I am glad, at least, you do not defend it.”

“There are a few families you know, Harry, who never give those kind of parties,” observed Mrs. Stanley.

Hazlehurst’s conscience felt a twinge, for he knew she was thinking of Elinor, whom Miss Wyllys had never allowed to give these UNMARRIED parties; though she went to other houses, when asked.

“Miss Taylor had collected a tribe of Europeans of all sorts, last night; half-a-dozen Englishmen, and a vulgar Frenchman,” observed Harry, by way of changing the conversation. “I was surprised when my friend Townsend told me he was invited; he did not know the Taylors, and only arrived a week since.”

“Adeline invited him on purpose; Miss Lawrence is very fond of foreigners, and you know Mr. Taylor calls on all the strangers who arrive,” said Jane.

Harry’s lip curled a little.

“How disagreeable that Captain Kockney is,” continued Jane.

“More than disagreeable,” replied Harry. “I should not have used so soft a word. I was not a little amused, by-the-bye, to see how the fellow cooled off when Townsend and Ellery came in. Your low set of English have such a thorough awe of those a few degrees above them.”

“That Mr. Kockney is so very forward and vulgar,” said Mrs. Graham, “that I wonder anybody can endure him. I was disgusted with his manner on board the steamboat from Longbridge, the other day.”

“He is beneath notice,” said Harry.

“I am not sure, either, that I like your friend, Mr. Ellery, Harry.”

“Ellery is no friend of mine; but, pray, don’t name him in the same breath with that Kockney.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Ellery is a gentleman, evidently; but I don’t like his manners, there is something affected about him.”

“Certainly, he knows how to play the coxcomb, and condescends to do so quite too often. But I hope you like Townsend; he is really a fine fellow.”

“Mr. Townsend has very different manners.”

“Yes, he has the best English manner; quite natural, and not afraid to be civil. It is only the best of the English who are quite free from nonsense. Ellery aims at effect, half the time; Townsend has too much sense to do so.”

“Well, I really wonder,” said Jane, “how Mrs. Hilson can endure that Captain Kockney.”

“The silly little soul knows no better.”

“To be sure, she is quite as ridiculous as he is.”

“She is really very silly,” said Mrs. Stanley. “It is a pity that good, worthy Mr. Hubbard should have daughters so little like himself, and so much like their mother.”

“She is very pretty, though, and dresses very well,” said Jane. “Would you believe it, mamma, the other day, when she called at Adeline’s she wore a collar precisely like the prettiest of those I brought from Paris.”

“Does she visit a great deal at Mrs. Taylor’s?” inquired her mother.

“Oh, no; Adeline can’t endure her. But she cannot get rid of her entirely, because they meet in the country. Adeline would like to drop the acquaintance altogether, but she says Mrs. Hilson won’t let her, because Mrs. Taylor’s is the only fashionable house where she visits.”

“These Taylors have really done wonders in the last few years,” said Mrs. Stanley, smiling.

“They have been quite as persevering, I dare say, as Mrs. Hilson can be. They are a very vulgar, pushing family,” observed Mrs. Graham.

Jane coloured, and Harry feared she would shed a tear or two. She was quite agitated. “Dear Jane,” he thought,” what an affectionate heart she has!” By way of consoling her, probably, and at the same time obtaining a better view of her downcast face, he took a seat beside her. He even refrained from making an observation which he had in petto, upon the volatile character and manners of Miss Taylor, reserving it for the future; determining that when they were man and wife, Jane should have the full benefit of his opinion of her friend.

{“in petto” = in mind}

Let it not be supposed that Harry was too sure of success, in thus looking forward to his marriage with Jane as no very improbable event. Since he had appeared in the family as her suitor, her manner had been encouraging. There were blushes and moments of embarrassment which looked very favourably; and had he been obliged to proclaim all his hopes, he would have confessed that the same flattering signs had been observed by him in Paris, and had contributed not a little to increase the warmth of his own feelings. There was now a rival in the field, and one by no means to be despised; but, although young de Vaux was good-looking, agreeable, and very much in love, Jane did not seem disposed to smile upon him. To do her justice, she was no coquette; she was too indolent by nature, to labour very hard to secure several conquests at the same time. Miss Graham was very much admired, however, and was generally proclaimed the beauty of the season; while Harry soon began to feel the vanity of the favoured man.

But if she were a beauty, Adeline was a belle; a pretty, and a rich belle, moreover, and Miss Taylor’s train of admirers was much larger than that of Miss Graham. So numerous indeed were her followers, that she was seldom seen alone. If she visited, it was with an attendant beau; if she were walking in Broadway, she had generally one on each side of her; and at a party she was always talking to half-a-dozen young men at a time. Miss Adeline was, undeniably, a very popular belle. But all this homage was sometimes attended with difficulties: one morning she wrote an urgent note to her friend Jane, requesting that she would come to see her, for she was unwell herself, and wanted advice in a momentous affair.

The sympathising Jane had no sooner appeared, than Adeline exclaimed, {sic}

“I am so perplexed, that I really don’t know what to do! You must decide for me.”

“How can I help you? What is the matter?” inquired Jane.

“Why you know to-night is Mrs. Thompson’s great ball, and I am going, of course; though I have a very bad cold.”

“Yes, you are really quite hoarse.”

“No wonder! I have been so pestered by serenades for the last fortnight, that I have not had one good night’s rest. I had to get up and show myself at the window, until I caught one cold after another.”

“Perhaps you had better not go to-night.”

“You may be sure I shan’t stay at home unless I have to keep my bed; I am already engaged for five dances. But just look at the centre-table.”

Jane turned her eyes towards the table, which was covered with flowers.

“How beautiful they are!” she exclaimed, going to look at them. “One, two, four, six bouquets!–Where did they all come from?”

“Don’t ask me; I am sick of the very sight of flowers!”

“This, with the variegated camellias, is beautiful!”

“Yes, it’s pretty enough; but what shall I do with it?”

“Why, take it to the party this evening, of course.”

“No, indeed; it came from Mr. Howard, and I can’t endure him.”

“Which have you chosen, then?”

“That is the very question; I don’t know how to settle it.”

“Take this one with the passion-flower.”

“No, that I shan’t; for it was sent just to spite me. Mr. Grant sent it–and I told him last night that I hated passion flowers, and everything else that is sentimental. What shall I do?–It is so provoking!”

“Suppose you put them all in water, and go without any.”

“My dear Jane, how you talk! That’s what I never did in my life. Go to a ball without a bouquet!–I can’t think of such a thing!”

“We can untie them, and make up one ourselves, taking the prettiest flowers from each.”

“That won’t do, either; for it’s only the gardeners that can do up these things decently. I wouldn’t, for the world, carry one that looked as if I had made it up myself.”

“Well,” said Jane, in despair, “I really don’t know what else to advise.”

“I do believe the young gentlemen have leagued together to provoke me! And this is not all, there are three more in water up-stairs.”

“You might take the first that came; perhaps that would be the best plan.”

“Would you have me take this ridiculous-looking thing, with only one camellia in it! No, indeed;” and for a moment the two young ladies sat down by the centre-table, looking despondingly at each other and at the flowers.

“If I could only take the one I like best, it would be the easiest thing in the world; but, you know, all the other gentlemen would be offended then.”

“Which do you like best?” asked Jane.

“Why this one, with the white camellias; it came from Theodore St. Leger; he told me he would send one with white flowers only.” Adeline’s colour rose a little as she spoke, and as that was not a common occurrence with her, it looked suspicious.

“Did Mr. St. Leger dance with you last night?”

“Why, no, child, he never dances; I didn’t see him dance, all the time we were in Boston.”

“I thought you liked him,” said Jane, with innocent surprise.

“I like him well enough, after a fashion; as well as one can like a man who never dances, and don’t talk much. He is very stupid, sometimes, and dresses very badly too.”

“Is he handsome?” asked Jane.

“No, he is as ugly as he can be; I really think he looks just a little like that old Mr. Hopkins, his uncle.”

“What in the world makes you like him then?”

“I am sure I don’t know. But don’t fancy I really care about the man. He is going back to Boston next week, and I don’t suppose I shall ever see him again; but I thought I would take his bouquet, to-night, because he was so polite to me; and he will be there. Oh, my dear Jane, talking of Boston, I have hit upon an idea!”

“Well, what is it?”

“I saw a girl at a party there–by-the-bye, it was Theodore St. Leger’s sister–who had her dress trimmed with natural flowers; that’s just the thing for me!” cried Adeline, clapping her hands. The difficulty thus happily removed, the young ladies ran up stairs, to determine more fully upon trimming a certain white crape with the eight bouquets, divided for the purpose. The white one, the offering of Mr. St. Leger, was reserved for the place of honour, in Adeline’s hand.

CHAPTER XX.

“Thy young and innocent heart,
How is it beating? Has it no regrets? Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there?” ROGERS.

{Samuel Rogers (English poet, 1763-1855), “Italy: The Nun” lines 71-73}

SISTERS’ children, though bearing different names, and classed by the world in different families, are generally much more alike than those of brothers; they are apt to have more habits, tastes, and feelings in common. And the reason is evident; it is usually the mother who controls the internal family policy, who gives the colouring to what may be called the family atmosphere. The father may pass a statute once in a while, but the common-law which regulates the every-day proceedings of the little community flows from the mother; and we all know that the character is moulded rather by daily practice in trifles, than by a few isolated actions of greater importance in themselves. The aims and views which people carry with them through life, generally spring up from seeds received in the nursery, or at the family fire-side. Even with men this is the case. The father may inculcate this or that political creed into his son, he may direct his choice to this or that profession; but the manner in which the youth carries out his political principles, the way in which he fills his profession, will depend on the impulses and motives cultivated in childhood, and early youth; for it is then that the character receives its bias. The mother’s influence and example are often to be traced in those minute shades of taste and opinion, which are the foundation of our partialities, or our dislikes; and, of course, the daughters of a family, from being more constantly subject to this influence, imbibe a larger share of it. It is immaterial whether the mother be aware of the importance of her duties, of the weight of this responsibility, or not; for good or for evil, the effect will still be felt, though varying, of course, in different circumstances.

Elinor had not seen her cousin, Mary Van Alstyne, her mother’s niece, for several years, and she now met her in Philadelphia with great pleasure. Miss Van Alstyne was some five or six years older than herself; this difference in years had, indeed, been the chief reason why they had never yet been very intimate. But the same distance which separates girls of twelve and eighteen, is, of course, less thought of at twenty and six-and-twenty, when both are fairly launched into the world. Mary Van Alstyne and Elinor found much to like in each other on a closer acquaintance; and Miss Wyllys observing that the two cousins suited each other so well, drew them together as much as possible, in order that Elinor might have some one to fill the empty places of her former companions, Jane and Harry.

Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst was a near neighbour of the Wyllyses in Philadelphia; but Elinor had too much dread of meeting Harry, to go there often; and it was only when she knew that he was in New York, that she went to his brother’s. The change in their position was too recent to allow of her seeing him with composure; their family connexion, and the intimate terms upon which they had hitherto lived, only made their present estrangement much more awkward than usual. Elinor tried to think it fortunate that he should now be so often in New York.

The first time he was in Philadelphia after the Wyllyses were settled there for the winter, Elinor escaped seeing him. As she came in one morning from a ride with her grandfather, she found his card on the table. It told the whole story of what had passed; for she could not remember his having ever left a card at their house before; he had been as much at home there as herself, until the last six weeks. The sight of it caused her a very painful feeling, and did away all the good effect of the pleasant ride she had just taken on the banks of the Schuylkill. As she walked slowly up-stairs to change her habit, her eyes filled with tears; and had she been endowed with the proper degree of romance for a regular heroine, she would probably have passed the morning in hysterical sobs. But as she had quite as much good sense, as fancy and feeling, she was by no means romantic; she had never fainted but once in her life; and although it must be confessed