she had wept during the last few weeks, yet it was always in spite of herself, at moments when the tears were forced from her by some sudden recollection of the past, or some distressing glimpse of the future. On the present occasion, instead of encouraging solitary grief, she returned to the drawing-room, and read aloud to her aunt, who was busy with her needle.
But Harry’s second visit to Philadelphia was not to pass without their meeting. Mr. Wyllys, Miss Agnes, and Elinor were spending the evening at the house of a friend, when, to the surprise and regret of all parties, Hazlehurst walked in with one of the young men of the family, with whom he was intimate. It was the first time they had met since the alarm on the piazza at Wyllys-Roof. Poor Elinor, at the first glance, when the door opened, turned deadly pale, as she always did when agitated. Harry, as he crossed the room to make his bow to the lady of the house, felt excessively uncomfortable; when he turned, not a little embarrassed, towards the rest of the party, he received a slight and cool movement of recognition from Mr. Wyllys, who was standing at a corner of the fire-place. Miss Agnes made an effort to say good evening, in her usual tone; and Harry replied that he was very glad to find they were to be in Philadelphia for the winter, words which were as far from the truth as possible. Elinor would have given much to look and speak as calmly as her aunt; but she could only bow in silence, for at the moment she dared not trust her voice. The lady of the house, who knew very well how to account for a meeting which seemed very ceremonious between near connexions, who had always been so intimate, did her best to make matters go off well; and her son, who was also in the secret, rattled away to Elinor to the best of his ability. But there was a very perceptible touch of cool disapprobation in Mr. Wyllys’s manner, and a something that was not quite natural, in the tones of Miss Agnes’s voice. Harry felt as if he were doing penance, and he felt, moreover, as if he richly deserved it. But the worst was to come. There was another lady present, a New Yorker, who had lately seen Hazlehurst very often with the Grahams, in his character of Jane’s admirer, and she innocently asked him when he was going to return to New York. “In a day or two,” he replied. “You will not leave the post vacant very long, I dare say,” observed the lady. Harry’s answer was not very distinctly heard, and he coloured as much as it is in the power of man to do. The lady happily observed how much he was annoyed, and changed the conversation. Hazlehurst was not in a mood to pay a long visit: he soon rose to take leave. Elinor, in the mean time, made a great effort for self-command. She knew that she was the injured party, and yet she felt superior to all the littleness of resentment–she acquitted Harry and Jane of all intentional trifling with her feelings. The gentle, quiet dignity of her manner gradually expressed what was passing in her mind. As Harry passed near her, and bowed, collecting all her self-possession, she wished him good-evening, with a calm, sweet voice.
It was now Hazlehurst’s turn to be much the most embarrassed of the two; he bowed, and muttered something about calling, in a voice much less clear than her’s had been; then fairly giving up the matter in despair, he quitted the ground with another bow. On leaving the house, he walked rapidly down Walnut-Street, very much dissatisfied with himself, and out of humour with his friend, for having brought him into such an awkward scene.
The next day, when Elinor thought over what had passed, she felt relieved that the first meeting, which she had so much dreaded, was over; although she knew it must he a long time before she could see Jane and Harry with perfect composure; she knew there must be other unpleasant moments in store for her. There was no danger but that Elinor would do all in her power to subdue her feelings for Harry, and yet she sometimes reproached herself with having done too little; her interest in him was still too strong. She shrunk sensitively from longer encouraging any weakness for him; it had now become a want of delicacy to do so, it would soon be almost sinful. She knew that if she did not succeed in the endeavour it would be her own fault only; for her whole education had taught her that there was no passion, of whatever nature, too strong to be conquered by reason and religion, when their aid was honestly sought.
Miss Agnes, on the contrary, who knew how unexpectedly, and how deeply, Elinor’s feelings had been wounded, was fearful that her adopted child was making too great an effort for self-control; with a girl of her principles and disposition there was danger of this. Elinor, since the first day or two, had sensitively avoided every approach to the subject when conversing with her aunt. Miss Agnes knew that time alone could teach her the lesson of forgetfulness, and she now dreaded some reaction; although admiring Elinor’s courage and resolution, she wished her occasionally to give a more natural vent to her feelings. It struck her that the time for one open conversation on the subject had come, and the result proved that her opinion was correct. Elinor threw off a constraint that was not natural to her character, and which had been kept up from an exaggerated sense of duty. She now spoke with perfect frankness, nothing was concealed; grief, regrets, struggles, all were confided to her aunt, whose sympathy was grateful to her, while the advice given with kindness and good sense, was of real service.
Many young people who knew Miss Wyllys, would have smiled at the idea of her being a good counsellor on such an occasion, for her own life, though useful and happy, had been quite uneventful. The death of her mother, and the marriage of her brothers and sister, had left her, when still a young and pretty woman, the only companion and solace of her father. These duties were soon increased by the charge of her orphan niece, and her time and attention had since then seemed engrossed by these cares and pleasures. Miss Wyllys was actually never known to have had a regular suitor. Whether she might not have had her share of declared admirers had she chosen to be encouraging, we cannot say; it is a subject upon which we have no authorities.
Of course Miss Agnes could not be expected to know anything about love, beyond what she had learned from books, or from observation. She was, nevertheless, a much better adviser than many a younger and more experienced friend. Where the head and the heart are both in the right place, instinct soon teaches us how to sympathize with our fellows in all troubles that really belong to our nature.
It appeared to Elinor as if, in future, there would be an additional tie between her aunt and herself; for she looked forward to leading a single life, hoping to pass her days like Miss Agnes, in that sphere of contented usefulness which seemed allotted to her.
When Elinor had returned to her own room, after the conversation to which we have alluded, she went to a writing-desk, and drew from it a letter. It was the same she had received on her seventeenth birth-day. It was from her mother. During the lingering illness which caused her death, Mrs. Wyllys, deeply anxious for the welfare of her orphan daughter, had written several of these letters, adapted to her child’s capacity at different ages, and placed them in the hands of Miss Agnes, with the request they might be given to Elinor at the dates marked on the envelope of each. They had proved a precious legacy for the young girl, and a guide to Miss Agnes in her education; for the aunt had never forgotten that she was the mother’s representative only; Elinor having always been taught to give the first place to her parent’s memory. It seemed, indeed, as if her mother’s spirit had never ceased to linger near her, exerting its silent influence. The letter to which Elinor attached so high a value is given below.
“Wyllys-Roof, August 13th, 18–.
“MY OWN BELOVED CHILD,
“You will not receive this letter until you have reached the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been laid in her grave.
“To separate from you, my darling child, has cost your mother a bitter pang. There is no severer trial of faith to a Christian woman, than to leave her little ones behind her, in a world exposed to evil and sorrow; and yet, although so near death myself, it is my wish that you may live, dearest, to taste all that is good in life. Few mothers are blessed in death, as I am, with the power of leaving their orphans to such kind and judicious guardians as your grandfather and aunt; should they be spared, you will scarcely feel the loss of your parents. Oh, how fervent is my prayer that they may live to guard, to cherish you! And when the task they have so piously assumed is fully completed, may they long enjoy the fruits of their cares!
“It is with singular feelings that I write to you as a woman, my child, and appeal to thoughts and sentiments, of which you are at this moment so utterly unconscious; sitting, as you now are, at my feet, amid your playthings, too busy with a doll, to notice the tears that fall upon these last lines I shall ever have it in my power to address to you. But the hope that this letter may, one day, long after I have left you, be a tie between us, my Elinor, is grateful to your mother’s heart, and urges me to continue my task. I have a double object in writing these letters; I wish to be remembered by you, dear, and I wish to serve you.
“During the last few months, since my health has failed, and since you, my child, have been the chief object of interest to me in this world, I have often endeavoured to pass over in my mind, the next dozen years, that I might fancy my child, what I trust she will then be, qualified in every essential point to act for herself, in the position to which she belongs. I trust that when this, my last letter, is placed in your hands, you will already have learned to feel and acknowledge the important truths that I have endeavoured to impress on you, in those you have previously received. You are already convinced, I trust, that without a religious foundation, any superstructure whatever must be comparatively worthless. I should he miserable, indeed, at this moment, if I could not hope that sincere, single-hearted piety will be the chief influence of your life; without it, you could never know true happiness, or even peace. Rest assured, my child, that while it sweetens every blessing, it soothes under every evil. Many have given the same testimony when they stood, like your mother, within the shadow of death. I have every reason, my beloved daughter, to hope that under the guidance of an humble, sincere Christian, like your aunt, you also will arrive at the same blessed conviction; I know that so long as she lives, her example, her prayers, her vigilance will never be wanting. I have every reason to believe that you will be led to seek that which is never earnestly sought in vain.
“I must be brief, dear child, lest my strength should fail. From the many thoughts that crowd upon me, I can only select a few, which my own experience has taught me to value as important. In the first place, let me warn you never to forget the difference between Christian education, and all others. Remember that Christian education has for its foundation the heart-felt conviction of the weakness of human nature; for a being bearing the name of a Christian to lose sight of this truth, is the grossest of all inconsistencies. The great and the learned among those who are merely philosophers, preach, as though to know what is good, and to practise it, were equally easy to mankind. But the Christian alone knows that he must look beyond himself for guidance, and for support. He knows only too well, that there are times when the practice of some plain and evident duty, costs his feeble nature a severe struggle–in no instance will he dare trust his own strength alone. He knows that even in those cases where duly is also a pleasure, he must still be watchful and humble, lest he fall. One would think this truth so obvious, from daily observation, as to be undeniable; but it is now the fashion to laud human nature, to paint flattering pictures only. Humility is thought debasing; but Truth alone is honourable, and Humility is Truth. You will find the actions of those who acknowledge this truth, more honourable to the human race, than the deeds of those who deny it. The true dignity of human nature consists, not in shutting our eyes to the evil, but in restraining it; which, with our Maker’s help, we may all do, for the blessing of our Creator is still within our reach, still vouchsafed to the humble Christian. If such be your views, my daughter, you will be prepared to find difficulties in acquiring and practising those virtues which it is the duty of life to cultivate; you will be prepared to meet those difficulties with the sincere humility of a Christian, and with Christian exertion.
“My child, love the Truth, and the Truth only.
“Cultivate daily a pious, thankful, humble disposition.
“Love those near you heartily; live for them as well as for yourself.
“Eschew all envy, and petty jealousies, and rivalries; there is perhaps no other evil that so often poisons our daily blessings.
“Cultivate your judgment. Never forget the difference between things of importance and trifles; yet remember that trifles have also their value. Never lose sight of the difference between form and spirit; yet remember that in this material world, the two should seldom be put asunder. The true substance will naturally have its shadow also.
“Cultivate a sweet, frank, cheerful temper, for your own sake, and for the sake of those you love.
“Cultivate your abilities in every way that comes naturally within your reach; it is seldom worth while for a woman to do more than this. In all you learn, aim at giving pleasure to others, aim at being useful to them, as well as at improving your own faculties.
“Enjoy thankfully all the blessings of life; and they are innumerable.
“There is one subject, of some importance to you individually, my child, which I have not yet alluded to in either of my letters; I have purposely deferred it until you will be better fitted to understand me. You will have one personal evil to contend against, my dear Elinor; your face will be plain, your features will be homely, darling. It is a weakness, my child, and yet I regret you should suffer from this disadvantage; rest assured, that in every little mortification to which you may be exposed, your mother, had she lived, would have felt with you. I trust that this will be the first time your attention will be seriously fixed upon the subject, and that as a child you will scarcely have thought upon it. Let us then, dear, look upon the matter together for a moment, calmly and steadily; we will not blind ourselves to the advantages of beauty, neither will we exaggerate the evils of a want of it. You will soon discover, from your own observation, that beauty in women, as in children, is delightful in itself; it throws a charm over the words and actions of the favoured person. In a worldly sense it is also a woman’s power; where other qualifications are equal, you may often observe that beauty alone confers a striking superiority. In some respects its advantages are even greater than are usually allowed, in others again they are far less. Were we to judge by the space it fills in general observation, and in conversation, we should believe it the one all-important qualification in women, that nothing else can be compared with it. But to adopt this opinion would be grossly to exaggerate its importance. Nor can we believe, on the other hand, what some prudent writers for the young have affirmed, that the superiority of beauty is only momentary; that the eyes tire of a beautiful face which they see daily, that in all cases it vanishes with early youth. No, my child, I do not wish you to believe this, for I cannot believe it myself. For years, the beauty of my sister Elizabeth has been a daily source of pleasure to me, and I doubt not to others also. My aunt, Mrs. Graham, though past fifty, is still a handsome woman, and her appearance must be pleasing to every one who meets her; while, on the contrary, people still amuse themselves at the expense of Miss Townley, whose face is strikingly plain. Hundreds of examples might be cited to prove that the charm of beauty does not generally vanish so soon, that one does not tire of it so easily. And then if a woman lose her beauty entirely, still the reputation of having once possessed it, gives her a sort of advantage in the eyes of the world. If mere notoriety be an advantage, and in the opinion of the worldly it is so, the superiority of beauty over ugliness lasts longer than life; many women are remembered, who had nothing but beauty to recommend them to the notice of posterity. But observe, my child, that if these advantages are evident, they are chiefly of a worldly nature. A beautiful woman may receive general admiration, and that homage which gratifies vanity, but she must depend on other qualities if she wish to be respected, if she wish to be loved through life. I hope, my child, you will always be superior to that miserable vanity which thirsts for common admiration, which is flattered by every offering, however low, however trivial. I trust that the mere applause of the world will have no influence upon your heart or your understanding. Remember what it is that we call the world–it is a ground governed by a compromise between the weaknesses of the good among us, and the virtues of the bad; the largest portion of vanity and folly–sometimes even vice–mingled with the least portion of purity and wisdom that a community bearing a Christian name will tolerate. You, I trust, will learn to seek a higher standard.
“If borne in a right spirit, my dear Elinor, the very want of beauty, or of any other earthly good, may be the means of giving you the benefit of far higher blessings. If it make you more free from vanity, from selfishness, it will make you far happier, even in daily life. It may dispose you to enjoy more thankfully those blessings actually in your possession, and to make a better use of them.
“Under this and every other disadvantage, my child, remember two things: to give the evil its just importance only, and to make a right use of it.
“I trust that your temper will be such, that you will not for a moment feel any inclination to repine that others should enjoy a blessing denied to you, my love. Refrain even from wishing for that which Providence has withheld; if you have a right faith, you will be cheerful and contented; if you are really humble, you will be truly thankful.
“Do all in your power, my Elinor, towards making your home, wherever it may be, a happy one; it is our natural shelter from the world. If in public you meet with indifference and neglect, you can surely preserve the respect of those who know you; and the affection of your friends may always be gained by those quiet, simple virtues, within the reach of every one.
“In one way, my dearest child, the want of beauty may affect your whole career in life–it will very probably be the cause of your remaining single. If I thought you would be united to a husband worthy of your respect and affection, I should wish you to marry; for such has been my own lot in life–I have been happy as a wife and a mother. But I am well aware that this wish may be a weakness; the blessings of Providence are not reserved for this or that particular sphere. The duties and sorrows of married life are often the heaviest that our nature knows. Other cares and other pleasures may be reserved for you, my child. In every civilized Christian community there have always been numbers of single women; and where they have been properly educated, as a class they have been respectable–never more so than at the present day. They often discharge many of the most amiable and praiseworthy duties of life. Understand me, my child; I do not wish to urge your remaining single; that is a point which every woman must decide for herself, when arrived at years of discretion; but I would have you view a single life with sufficient favour to follow it cheerfully, rather than to sacrifice yourself by becoming the wife of a man whom you cannot sincerely respect. Enter life prepared to follow, with unwavering faith in Providence, and with thankfulness, whichever course may be allotted to you. If you remain single, remember that your peace is more in your own hands than if married–much more will depend solely on the views and dispositions you encourage. As appearance has generally so much influence over men, and marriage is therefore a less probable event to you than to others, my love, let your mother caution you to watch your feelings with double care; be slow to believe any man attached to you, unless you have the strongest proof of it.
“Whatever be your position, never lose sight, even on trifling occasions, of common sense, and good-feeling. Remember, in any case, to guard carefully against the peculiar temptations of your lot, to bear patiently its evils, and to enjoy thankfully its peculiar blessings.
“There are many things that I should still wish to say to you, my beloved daughter; and yet I know that the cautions I give may be unnecessary, while other evils, which I have never feared, may befall you. My inability to guide you as I wish, my darling child, directs us both to a higher source of wisdom and love. Let us both, at all times, implicitly place our trust where it can never fail, though blessings be not bestowed in the way we fond creatures would choose.”
[Here followed a sentence, in words too solemn to be transferred to pages as light as these.]
“Love your aunt, your second mother, truly and gratefully. She has already bestowed on you many proofs of kindness, and she has always been a faithful friend to your father, and to your mother. Love the memory of your parents, my child; think of us sometimes–think of your father–think of your mother. Honour their memory by a recollection of their instructions, by a well-spent life. Since your birth, my child, I have scarcely had a hope or a fear, unconnected with you; if I were to ask to live, it would be only for your sake, my darling daughter.
“Your mother’s tenderest blessing rests upon you, my beloved Elinor, through life!
“MARY RADCLIFFE WYLLYS”
This letter had been often read and studied by Elinor, with the gratitude and respect it deserved, as a legacy from her mother; but lately she had been disposed to enter more fully into the feelings by which it had been dictated. Every word which applied to her present situation, sunk deeply into her heart.
CHAPTER XXI.
“Merrily, merrily dance the bells;
Swiftly glides the sleigh!”
Newspaper Verses.
{source not located}
EARLY in December, a new glazed card was to be seen on most of the fashionable tables in New York. It was of the particular tint most in favour that season, whether bluish or pinkish we dare not affirm, for fear of committing a serious anachronism, which might at once destroy, with many persons, all claim to a knowledge of the arcana of fashionable life. Having no authorities at hand to consult, the point must be left to the greater research of the critical reader. This card bore the name of T. TALLMAN TAYLOR; but whether in Roman or Italic characters we dare not say, for the same reason which has just been frankly confessed. It was, however, a highly fashionable bit of pasteboard, as became the representative of a personage who returned to New York, claiming the honours of fashion himself. This was no less a person than the Son of Mr. Pompey Taylor. But the T. Tallman Taylor, whose whole appearance was pronounced unexceptionable by the New York belles, from the points of his boots to the cut of his moustaches, was a very different individual from the good-looking, but awkward, ungainly youth, introduced to the reader two or three years since, at Wyllys-Roof. He had, in the mean time, learned how to stand, how to sit, how to walk, how to talk in a drawing-room. He had learned what to do with his cane and his hat, how to manage his pocket-handkerchief and his gloves; branches of knowledge which an American who sets about acquiring them, usually learns quite rapidly. He was also very much improved in riding and dancing, and was said to fence well. These, with the addition of a much better French accent, were the principal changes perceptible to the ladies, who pronounced them all for the better. Among the young men he was soon found to be an excellent judge of Chateau Margaux and Rudesheimer; some also thought him knowing in horse-flesh, while others doubted his qualifications in that respect. His father, moreover, soon discovered that he had become an adept in the art of spending money; among his intimates, cards, and the billiard-table, with other practices of that description, were hinted at, as the way in which he got rid of his dollars. But as these were subjects not mentioned in general society, it was as yet the initiated only, who were aware of young Taylor’s Paris habits of this kind.
{“Chateau Margaux and Rudesheimer” = two famous wines}
His father had, of late years, learned to set too high a value upon the world, and everything worldly, not to be much gratified by the change that had taken place in his son. As for Adeline, she gloried in his six-feet and his black moustaches, his Paris waistcoat and London boots; while his honest-hearted mother would have loved him just as much under any other metamorphosis he had chosen to assume. Such as he was, young Taylor soon became quite a favourite beau with the New Yorkers, and was invited to most houses. He proved himself quite a ladies’ man; no lazy, grumbling dandy, but a smiling, assiduous beau. He had not been in New York a month, before he was known to have sent a number of bouquets to different belles, and was supposed to have given more than one serenade to his sister’s friend, Miss Hunter.
The last day of December, all New York was set in motion by a fall of snow, sufficient to allow of pretty good sleighing for four-and-twenty hours. Like such occasions in general, it became a sort of holiday. And really, the novelty, the general movement, the bustle and gaiety, the eagerness to enjoy the pleasure while it lasts, always render such scenes very enlivening. Every vehicle with runners, and every animal bearing the name of a horse, are put in requisition for the day. The dashing sleighs crowded with gaily dressed people, the smiling faces and flying feathers of the ladies, the rich cloths and furs, the bright colours of the equipages, and the inspiriting music of the merry bells, give to Broadway, at such times, quite a carnival look. The clear, bracing air disposes people to be cheerful; even the horses feel the spirit of the moment; they prance their heads proudly, and shake the bells about their necks, as if delighted with the ease and rapidity of their motion; sympathizing foot-passengers stop to give their friends a nod, and follow their rapid course with good-natured smiles. Young people and children are collected for a frolic, and family parties hurry off to drink coffee and mulled wine, to eat plum-cake and waffles at the neighbouring country-houses. It is altogether a gay, cheerful sight, enjoyed with all the more zest from its uncertainty.
Hazlehurst was delighted, as he went to his window, the morning in question, to find the roofs and pavements covered with snow. For several years he had had no sleighing, and he promised himself a very pleasant day. Mrs. Stanley was going to remain quietly at home. He sent to a livery-stable to secure a good horse and a pretty cutter for himself and immediately after breakfast hurried off to Mrs. Graham’s lodgings, with the hope of obtaining Jane as a companion. “And who knows,” thought he, “what may happen before evening.”
He had just reached Mrs. Graham’s door, when a very dashing sleigh, drawn by four fine horses, drew up from the opposite direction. Young Taylor was in the coachman’s seat; Miss Hunter, Adeline, and a quiet-looking young man, whom we shall introduce as Theodore St. Leger, were in the sleigh. Miss Adeline threw off her over-cloak, and as she gave her hand to Mr. St. Leger, to jump from the sleigh, called out to Harry in her usual shrill voice, {sic}
“Good morning, Mr. Hazlehurst, you are exact at the rendez-vous, for of course you got my note. But you ought to have brought a lady with you; you mustn’t run away with Jane; she is to be of our party in the sleigh, do you hear?” continued the young lady, trying hard to look pretty and positive, at the same time. “I hope you didn’t mean to ask her to go with you.”
“Yes, I did,” replied Harry, rather stoutly. “Miss Graham told me the other day, she quite longed for sleighing, and made something very like a promise to go with me if we had any snow.”
“Oh, but not to-day; I must have her in the sleigh with me! Now, Jane, dear,” continued the young lady, tripping into the drawing-room followed by her brother and Harry, “put on your hat at once, that’s a good girl; we wouldn’t miss having you for the world.”
Harry had often been provoked with Adeline’s constant appropriation of Jane to herself, when they were together; and he determined, if he could prevent it, she should not succeed this time.
“Miss Taylor is very decided,” he said, “but so am I. And I think you must remember you were pledged to me for the first sleighing, if we were so fortunate as to have any.”
“It’s no such thing, I’m sure;–is it, Jane?”
“Pray, remember we are two to one, Miss Graham,” said young Taylor, on the other side, in an insinuating voice.
“But we can all go together,” said Jane, blushing, and scarcely knowing what to do.
“If Mrs. Graham were here,” added Harry, “I think she would certainly trust you with me. I have a very good horse, one that I have driven all along, and he is perfectly safe.”
“So are ours, all four of them,” said Adeline; “and I’m sure there must be more safety with four safe horses, than with one!”
“Perfectly safe, Miss Graham, I assure you,” added young Taylor. “Of course I should not press you unless I felt sure you would run no risk.”
“Pshaw!” said Adeline. “Why should we stand here, talking about the risk and danger, like so many old grey-beards. Put on your hat, dear, that’s a darling, without any more palaver. Anne Hunter and Mr. St. Leger are waiting for us at the door; you know we are going to Bloomingdale, to lunch, at Mrs. Hunter’s. We shall have a charming time; and Mr. Hazlehurst is going with us too. Of course you got my note,” she added, turning to Harry.
{“Bloomingdale” = a fashionable and still rural area of Manhattan Island, though a part of New York City}
“No, I did not; but I should have been obliged to decline your invitation, Miss Taylor,” said Hazlehurst, bowing a little stiffly. “I have made arrangements for going on Long Island.”
“Oh, that’s a pity; I am really sorry, for I wanted you to be of our party; only I couldn’t have you run away with my friend Jane. Silence gives consent, Jane. You didn’t answer my note, this morning.”
“Perhaps I had better not go at all,” said Jane, not a little perplexed. “Mamma is not at home, and will not know what has become of me.”
“Nonsense, child; Mrs. Graham will know you are in very good hands. You have been out with me a hundred times before, and you surely don’t think there is any more danger because Tallman is of the party.”
“I hope not,” added young Taylor, in an insinuating manner; “I’m a first-rate whip, Miss Graham.”
“Now, just tell the truth; didn’t you mean to go with me, before Mr. Hazlehurst came in?” said Adeline–“no fibbing, mind.”
“I only received your note ten minutes since,” replied Jane; “but I did think of going with you.”
“I should like to know why you hesitate, then. First come, first served. Now, the best thing you can do, Mr. Hazlehurst, is to change your mind, and ask one of the Miss Howards, and join our party, too. I really wish you would!”
“You are very good,” said Harry, coldly; “but I must beg you to excuse me.”
Jane allowed herself to be shawled and cloaked by young Taylor, and the affair was settled. But Harry thought she did not seem quite satisfied with herself, for she changed colour several times, and he even remarked that her fingers trembled as she tied the strings of her hat. This rather softened his feelings towards her; but he still felt extremely provoked with the meddling Adeline, and her officious brother. As he did not wish to play the worsted man, however, he tried to put a good face on the matter, and accompanied the party down-stairs, helped the ladies into the sleigh, wished them a pleasant drive, and went off himself, at a rapid pace, towards the Long-Island ferry.
He was exceedingly out of humour with Adeline, and reproached Jane not a little for allowing herself to be so often guided by her trifling friend. The occurrence of the morning, hastened his determination to bring matters to a conclusion. That very evening should decide the point. He must have been more than modest to have doubted the result; Jane’s manner he had long thought just what he could wish from one so little demonstrative as herself. Hubert de Vaux, it is true, had been very assiduous of late, but Jane had never given him any sign of preference, sufficient to excite Harry’s jealousy. Mr. Graham was expected every day from Charleston, to pass the remainder of the winter with his family; as he had already given one daughter to the elder Hazlehurst, and no serious objection could be raised against Harry, his prospects were very promising. Before long, the gentle, lovely Jane would be his own; his would be the enviable lot, of carrying off the beautiful prize.
Hazlehurst had time to make these reflections, and disperse his ill-humour, before he reached the wharf at Brooklyn. Here he met Charlie Hubbard, whom he had not seen for some time, not, indeed, since his rupture with the Wyllyses. Charlie’s greeting was not quite as warm as usual; he did not seem as much pleased at this unexpected meeting, and the offer of a seat in Harry’s cutter, as one might have supposed. Hazlehurst was so cordial, however, and urged the young painter so much to take a turn with him on the Island, that, after a little hesitation, Hubbard accepted.
“Come, Charlie; I am sure you haven’t any very good reason for not making the most of the snow, like the rest of us.”
“Perhaps not,” said Charlie; and he took his seat with Harry.
Hubbard gave a good account of himself and his family. He had received several orders; and his pet picture of the moment was going on finely. His youngest sister was in town, taking music lessons, to fit her for her future occupation; and he had just sent Miss Patsey a pair of globes for her school, as a New Year’s gift; the most expensive present, by-the-bye, Charlie had ever made in his life.
“I feel quite rich,” said the young man, “since I pocketed a hundred a-piece for my two views of Nahant. To be sure, I never expect to make a fortune; if I can earn enough to support my mother and sister, and paint only such pictures as I please, that is all I want of the good things of this world.”
“It’s all very well to say so now, Charlie, that you have received your two hundred; but wait till you are the great Mr. Hubbard, and expect two thousand for your last view of Coney-Island.”
“That day will never come, to me, or to any other man, perhaps, in this country,” replied young Hubbard. “I go to work with my eyes open, as you well know. My uncles have talked the matter over with me a hundred times, if they have once; they have showed me what I could do if I took to making money, and what I could not do if I took to painting. They have offered to help me on; Mr. Taylor would take me into his counting-house, to-morrow; and Hilson offers to make me an auctioneer. But I have chosen my profession, and I shall abide by it. I have no wish for wealth. I should never be tempted to sell my soul for money–no, nor my good name, or my independence: for I do not feel willing to barter even my time and tastes for riches. I can honestly say, money has no charms for me. A comfortable subsistence, in a very moderate way, is all I should ask for.”
“I know it, Hubbard, and I honour your decision,” said Hazlehurst, warmly. “It is impossible, however, but that genius like yours should make its way; and I hope you may meet with all the success you deserve, even though it bring you more money than you wish for: one of these days when there is a Mrs. Hubbard, you may want more than you require now.”
A shade of feeling passed over the young artist’s fine face, as Harry carelessly uttered these words; it seemed to spring from some painful thought. It was unobserved by Hazlehurst, however, who was not looking at his companion at the moment. Charlie was soon roused by Harry’s inquiries as to his plans for travelling in Europe. The young men then spent a pleasant hour in discussing different works of the great masters, which Hubbard, as yet, knew only from engravings and books. Surrounded by snow and ice, they talked over the atmospheres of Italy and Greece.
CHAPTER XXII.
“Happy New-Year!”
THE streets had been cleared of the snow for New-Year’s day, by a thaw, and a hard shower in the night. The sun rose bright and clear; and, as usual, early in the morning, that is to say morning in its fashionable sense, the greater part of the male population of the town were in motion, hurrying in all directions towards the houses of their female friends and relatives. It appeared as if the women had suddenly deserted the city, and the men were running about, half-distracted, in pursuit of them. After the markets and churches were closed, few indeed were the females to be seen in the streets; while, on the contrary, troops of men of all ages, were hurrying over the side-walks of Broadway, usually enlivened by the gay dresses and bright faces of the ladies. There were young men running a race against time, carrying lists in their hands with an impossible number of visits to be paid during the day; there were boys taking their first steps in this yearly course of gallantry; there were elderly men walking more leisurely from one favoured house to another. All, but a few grumblers here and there, looked smiling and good-humoured. As the black-coated troop hastened hither and thither, they jostled one another, now nodding, now shaking hands; here, old friends passing without seeing each other; there, a couple of strangers salute one another in the warmest manner. The doors of the houses seemed to open of themselves; men were going in, men were coming out. The negroes looked more lustrous and light-hearted than ever; the Paddies, cleaner and more bothered; the regular Knickerbockers, to the manner born, were, of course, in their element.
{“visits” = for men to make short calls at as many homes as possible on New Year’s Day was an old New York City custom; “Paddies” = Irish; “Knickerbockers” = traditional term for native New Yorkers}
We have heard nice calculations as to the precise number of calls, that an able-bodied, well-trained New-Year’s visiter can accomplish between midnight and midnight; allowing, of course, a couple of hours for the toilette, and a moment to snatch a mouthful at breakfast and dinner: it is affirmed, however, that as great generals have passed days of battle without food, so your chivalrous Knickerbocker should be willing to forego, on such an occasion, even a sight of the roast turkey and cranberries. Allowing the individual, however, something to sustain nature, that he may be the better enabled to perform his duties, it is supposed that a beau, in good visiting condition, should pay his court in not more than three hundred, nor less than fifty drawing-rooms. But, then, to do this, a man must have method; he must draw up his plan of action before-hand; he must portion out his districts, as they lie on each side of that longest of streets, Broadway; he must not only study the map of the city closely, but he must possess an accurate knowledge of the localities; he must remember that some houses have stoops of twelve steps, that some drawing-rooms are not on the first floor. He must NOT allow himself to be enticed into any flirtation whatever, beyond a glance or a smile; he must NOT indulge the hope of calling twice upon the sweet creature he most admires; he must NOT be tempted to sink, even for a moment, upon the most comfortable of ottomans or divans; he must NOT return home to re-adjust his locks, to change either boots, gloves, or handkerchief. We have heard it asserted, that owing to some unfortunate weakness of this kind, many a promising youth, unaccustomed, probably, to the hardships of such visiting, has been distanced in the gallant race of the day, by more methodical men–by men who were actually encumbered with over-shoes and greatcoats!
It is amusing to watch the hurried steps of some experienced visiter without doors; the decision of his movements, the correctness of his calculation in passing out of one house into another; and one is sure to know a raw recruit, by his anxious, perplexed manner and expression.
The scene within doors is quite as amusing as it is without. Everything wears a holiday look; it is evidently no common morning reception; the ladies’ dresses look gayer and fresher, their smiles brighter than usual; the house, the furniture, and the inmates, all wear their most agreeable aspect. The salver of refreshments speaks at once the occasion; for there, in the midst of richer cakes, stands the basket of homely “New-Years’ cookies,” bequeathed to their descendants by the worthy vrows of New-Amsterdam. The visiters appear, first singly, then in parties. Here comes a favourite partner of the young ladies, there a mere bowing acquaintance of the master of the house. This is an old family friend, that a neighbour who has never been in the house before; here is a near relative, there a passing stranger. The grey-haired old gentleman who has the arm-chair wheeled out for him, announces his fiftieth visiting anniversary; the buckish youth, his grandson, has already made his bow, and off again; so {sic} finish his gallant duties. Now we have a five minutes visit from a declared lover; and who follows him? One who advances slowly and steadily, with a half-inquiring look; the lady of the house sees him, gives a glance of surprise, is gratified, accepts the offered hand immediately. That is a reconciliation; old friendship broken off, now renewed, a misunderstanding forgotten–that is one of the pleasantest visits of the day. All come, bow, look, and speak their friendly good-wishes, and are off again to make room for others.
{“New Years’ cookies” = the Dutch in New York had special recipes for cakes and “cookies” for each major holiday, such as New Year’s Day; vrows” = wives, in old Dutch New York}
Long may this pleasant, cheerful, good-natured, lively custom be perpetuated among us! As long as the side-walks of Manhattan and the canals of Amsterdam last, so long may Santa Claus bring his Christmas gifts to the little folk; and so long may the gallant Knickerbockers pay to their female friends the homage of a PERSONAL visit at New-Year’s. Cards on every other day in the year, if necessary; but, on New Year’s, carry your good wishes in person. Should not, indeed, a custom so pleasant spread throughout the whole country, like crackers, waffles, Dutch blood, and many other good things brought originally from Holland?
On the particular New-Year’s day at which we have arrived in our narrative, an individual of the reader’s acquaintance, instead of joining the busy throng of visiters, was seen turning his steps through a bye-street, towards the Battery. He walked slowly through Greenwich-Street, apparently busy with thoughts of his own, and entering the Battery-Gate he continued for some time pacing the paved walk near the water.
“There is a fellow who seems to have nothing to do to-day,” said a young man to his companion, as they were hurrying across the Battery from one end of State-Street to the other. “I should like to hire him as proxy, to show himself in a score or two of houses in my place. I should hand him over half my list at once, if I thought the ladies would submit to the exchange; he looks like a presentable chap, too.”
“Why, it is actually Harry Hazlehurst! What can he be doing, moping about in that fashion?”
“Hazlehurst, is it? Oh, ho!–you have heard the hubbub they have had at the Graham’s, I suppose?”
“Not I–What is it?”
“There was quite a scene there, yesterday; my sister had the news from Adeline Taylor, a great friend of her’s; so it comes very straight.”
“I thought all was going on there as smoothly as possible. I expected an invitation to the wedding before long.”
“To be sure; so did everybody. But it seems the beauty has ideas of her own. In the first place she refused Hazlehurst, rather to the astonishment of himself and all his friends, I believe.”
“Refused Hazlehurst!–You don’t say so!”
“And that is only half the story. She took the same opportunity, while weeping and trembling, to confide to her mamma that her heart had been for some time, how long I cannot tell you precisely, the property of Tall. Taylor.”
“What, Tallman Taylor? That is news, indeed–I never should have dreamt of such a thing.”
“Miss Adeline Taylor is the authority. It seems the affair has been going on, no one knows how long, and Miss Taylor has had the management of it. These girls are sly minxes; they are not to be trusted, half of them.”
“And what says Taylor to all this?”
“What does he say? Why he is in a sort of ecstasy of despair, I suppose; for the Grahams won’t hear of the match. It was no news to him; they have been engaged, I tell you, for months,”
At that moment the two young men entered the door of a house in State-Street. Although their story was, upon the whole, correct; yet, we happen to be still better informed on the subject, and shall proceed to account, in our own way, for Hazlehurst’s solitary walk.
When Miss Adeline and her party had returned from sleighing, Harry went to Mrs. Graham’s, and finding Jane alone, he immediately seized the moment to explain himself, beginning by a lover-like remonstrance upon her having joined the Taylors, instead of going with him as she had already promised to do. Jane was excessively embarrassed. As Harry proceeded, she became more and more agitated. Her manner was so confused, that it was some time before Hazlehurst could understand that she wished to refuse him. Had she not actually wept, and looked frightened and distressed, he might have given a very different interpretation to her embarrassment. At length, in answer to a decided question of his, she confessed her attachment to another person; and, never was lover more surprised by such an acknowledgement. Pained, and mortified, and astonished as Harry was, the name of “Hubert de Vaux!” passed his lips before he was aware he had spoken.
“Oh, no; no;” said Jane. “I never cared at all for Mr. de Vaux.”
Harry’s astonishment increased. He could scarcely believe that he had heard her correctly. To whom could she possibly be attached?
“Oh, I wish I had some one here to advise me! Adeline may say what she pleases, I cannot conceal it any longer.”
Harry listened in amazement.
“Is it possible,” he said, at length, “that there is some difficulty, some embarrassment, that prevents your acting as you would wish? My dear Jane, confide in me. You cannot doubt that I love you, that I have long loved you;” and Harry then ran over a variation of his first declaration. But Jane’s trouble seemed only to increase.
“Oh, stop, Harry; don’t talk in that way,” she said; “I ought to have told you before. I wished to tell you when you first came on to New York, but Adeline said we should risk everything by it.”
“What can you possibly risk? What is it you wish to tell me?”
“I was very sorry when you broke with Elinor–I never can have any other feeling for you than I have always had: I have been for some time, almost—–engaged–to–to–Mr. Taylor–“
“You—–engaged to Mr. Taylor!”
“No—–not engaged—–only I have not refused him–We know father and mother dislike Mr. Taylor’s family so much–“
It was but natural that Harry should feel indignant at having been deceived by the under-current of plotting that had been going on; that he should feel mortified, ashamed of himself, and disappointed, at the same time; vexed with Jane, and almost furious against the meddling, officious Adeline, and her presuming brother. From a long acquaintance with Jane’s character, it flashed upon his mind in a moment, that she must have been misguided, and gradually led on by others. But the mischief was done; it was evident that at present, at least, she cared no more for him than she had always done; while, on the contrary, young Taylor had insinuated himself into her affections. He could not endure to think, that while Jane was indifferent to himself, his successful rival should be one whom he so much disliked. Yet, such was the fact. It was infatuation on the part of Jane, no doubt; and yet how often these deceptions have all the bad effects of realities! He had been silent for some minutes, while the tears were streaming freely from Jane’s beautiful eyes.
“Oh, if I had not been so afraid that father would never give his consent, I should not have waited so long. If I only knew what to do now?”
Harry came to a magnanimous resolution. “I forgive you, Jane,” he said, “the pain you have caused, since I cannot but think that it is not the fruit of your own suggestions. You could not deliberately have trifled with me in this way; I owe it, no doubt, to the goodness of Miss Taylor,” he added, bitterly. Jane made no answer, but continued to weep. Harry felt some compassion for her, in spite of her unjustifiable conduct towards himself. In the course of half an hour, she had fallen very much in his estimation; but he determined to return good for evil, by urging her to take the only step now in her power–the only one proper under the circumstances. He begged her, as she valued her future peace, to reveal everything to her mother; and to be guided in future by Mrs. Graham. But Jane seemed terrified at the idea.
“Oh,” said she, “father will be so angry! And we expect him every day: Mother, too, I know, will think I have behaved very badly to you.”
It is probable she might not have had the courage to follow his advice, had not Mrs. Graham accidentally entered the room at the moment. Her attention was immediately attracted to the unusual expression of Harry’s face, and the tearful, woe-begone look of her daughter, which she could in no way account for. Harry, merely answering her inquiries by a bow, arose and left the room, leaving the mother and daughter together.
Poor Mrs. Graham was little aware of what awaited her. She could not be called a woman of very high principles, but she had more feeling, and, of course, more experience than Jane. When she discovered the true state of things, she was very much shocked. She had never had the least idea of what had been going on around her; far from it, indeed, she had never for a moment doubted that, before long, her daughter would become the wife of young Hazlehurst.
Little by little she gathered the whole truth from the weeping Jane. It appeared that the two or three meetings which had taken place between Jane and young Taylor, just before he sailed, had been sufficient for him to fancy himself in love with her. He made a confidante of his sister Adeline, who, as one of the older class in her boarding-school, considered all love-affairs as belonging to her prerogative. Her friend, Miss Hunter, was a regular graduate of the Court of Love, according to the code–not of Toulouse–but of a certain class of school-girls in New-York. This young lady had gone through the proper training from her cradle, having been teased and plagued about beaux and lovers, before she could walk alone. She had had several love-affairs of her own before she was fifteen. “All for love,” was her motto; and it was a love which included general flirtation as the spice of unmarried life, and matrimony with any individual whatever, possessing a three-story house in Broadway, as the one great object of existence. Adeline had, of course, profited by such companionship; and, at the time her brother confessed himself in love with Miss Graham, after having met once on board a steamboat, and once at an evening party, she was fully equal to take the management of the whole affair into her own hands. It is true, young Taylor had entered into a boyish engagement at college; but that was thought no obstacle whatever. She delighted in passing her brother’s compliments over to Jane; in reporting to him her friend’s blushes and smiles. With this state of things, young Taylor sailed for Europe; but Adeline gloried too much in her capacity of confidante, to allow the matter to drop: not a letter was written but contained some allusion to the important subject. In the course of the year she had talked Jane into quite a favourable state of feeling towards her brother; he would probably himself have forgotten the affair, had not Miss Graham arrived in Paris at the moment she did.
They saw each other, of course, and the feelings which Adeline had been encouraging during the last year, and which otherwise would have amounted to nothing at all, now took a serious turn. Young Taylor was very handsome, and astonishingly improved in appearance and manners. Jane, herself, was in the height of her beauty, and the young man had soon fallen really in love with her. Unfortunately, just at the moment that he became attentive to her, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, who was confined to the house that winter, had confided Jane to the care of Mrs. Howard, the lady who had brought her from America. Young Taylor soon found out that he was rather disliked by Mr. and Mrs. Hazlehurst, and preferred securing Jane’s favour, if possible, without attracting the attention of her friends. Adeline, on her part, had discovered that her own family were no favourites with Mr. and Mrs. Graham; of course she recommended the proper degree of mystery, under the name of prudence. Young Taylor left Paris for England, about the time that Harry returned from his eastern journey; but before parting from Jane, he explained himself; and if he had not been accepted, he had certainly not been refused. Thus matters stood when the whole party returned home. Mr. Graham was known to be a violent, passionate man, and as he had taken no pains to conceal his dislike to Tallman Taylor’s father, the young people had every reason to believe that he would refuse his consent. The idea of a clandestine marriage had once occurred to Adeline, but never with any serious intention of proposing it. Had she done so, she would not have been listened to. Jane had not lived so much with Miss Wyllys and Elinor, without deriving some good from such association; besides, she did not think the step necessary. She believed that Mr. Graham would give his consent after a while; and young Taylor was obliged to submit for the present. As for his college engagement, he had paid it no more attention than if it had never taken place; it had been long since forgotten, on his part.
Little by little, Mrs. Graham gathered most of these facts from her daughter, whose weeping eyes and pale face would have delighted Adeline, as being just what was proper in a heroine of romance, on such an important occasion. But Adeline could not enjoy the sight of all the misery which was the fruit of her two years’ labours, for Mrs. Graham insisted that Jane should see none of the family until her father had arrived; and knew the state of things.
Harry Hazlehurst, although not quite as well informed as the reader, knew essentially how matters stood. He knew at least, that Jane and young Taylor were all but pledged to each other; he knew what had been Adeline’s conduct–what had been his own treatment; and as he walked slowly from one end of the Battery to the other, his reflections were anything but flattering to himself, or to any of the parties concerned. He blamed Mrs. Graham for her want of maternal caution and foresight; he blamed his brother, and sister-in-law, for their blindness in Paris; Jane, for her weakness, and want of sincerity to himself; Adeline, for such unjustifiable management and manoeuvring; and young Taylor, for what he called his “presumption and puppyism.” And to think that he, Harry Hazlehurst, who prided himself upon being clear-sighted, had been so completely deceived by others, and what was worse, by himself! He was obliged to remember how sure he had felt himself of Jane; it was humiliating to think what a silly part he had been playing. Then came a twinge or two, from the consciousness that he had deserved it all, from his conduct to Elinor. He tried to persuade himself that regret that Jane should fall into hands he fancied so unworthy of her–that she should be sacrificed to a mere second-rate sort of dandy, like young Taylor, was his strongest feeling at the time. But he was mistaken: there was a good deal of the lover in his recollection of Jane’s transcendant {sic} beauty. He hoped that she would yet be saved from the worst–from becoming the wife of Tallman Taylor. He felt convinced that Mr. Graham would refuse his consent to the marriage.
The next day, Harry returned to Philadelphia. The astonishment of all those interested in himself and Jane, at this rupture, was very great. If Mrs. Stanley had been grieved at Harry’s difficulties, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst was made quite unhappy by her sister’s conduct. She reproached herself severely for her blindness; for not having taken as much care of Jane as she ought to have done under the circumstances. Like all her family, she disliked young Taylor; who, in fact, had nothing to recommend him but his handsome face, and his father’s money. Miss Wyllys, too, was much pained by the conduct of one who had been so often under her care–one, in whose welfare she was so warmly interested. She received the news in a note from Mrs. Hazlehurst, who preferred giving it in that form; and as Miss Wyllys was alone with Elinor, she immediately handed the billet to her niece.
It must be confessed that Elinor’s heart gave one bound at this unexpected news. She was more moved by it than any one; more astonished that Jane should have refused Harry; that she should have preferred to him that silly Tallman Taylor; more shocked at the double-dealing that had been going on; and more pained that Jane, who had been to her as a sister, should have been so easily misled. Another thought intruded, too–Harry would be free again! But the idea had hardly suggested itself, before she repelled it. She soon felt convinced that Mr. Graham would break off the engagement between his daughter and Mr. Taylor, and that after a while her cousin’s eyes would he opened to Harry’s merits, which were numberless in her eyes. Miss Agnes strongly encouraged this opinion; and Elinor fully determined that her aunt’s counsels, her mother’s letter, and her own experience, should not be thrown away; she would watch more carefully than ever against every fancy that would be likely to endanger anew the tranquillity she had in some measure regained.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set, May’st hear the merry din.”
COLERIDGE.
{Samuel Taylor Coleridge (English poet, 1772-1834), “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (I) lines 5-8}
THE events of the next two months surprised Jane’s friends in Philadelphia, almost as much as her rejection of Harry had done. Mrs. Hazlehurst, of course, knew what was going on in her father’s house, and from time to time informed Miss Wyllys and Elinor of what passed. Elinor had written to Jane, but it was a long time before she received an answer; her cousin appeared engrossed by her own affairs; as this was common with Jane at all times, it was but natural that she should be so, at a moment which was of so much importance to herself. Mr. Graham arrived at the time appointed; and, of course, he was very much displeased by the news which awaited him. He would not hear of Jane’s marrying young Taylor, whose advances he received as coldly as possible, and even forbade his daughter’s seeing any of the Taylor family. Jane was very much distressed, and very much frightened. As for Miss Taylor, her indignation was so great, that she determined to pay no respect to Mr. Graham’s hostility; she wrote to Jane a long letter, much in her usual style, giving very pathetic accounts of Tallman’s despair. This letter Jane had not the moral courage to show to either of her parents; she soon received another, with a note from young Taylor himself. As she was reading them one morning, her father unexpectedly entered the room, and was thrown into a great passion by the discovery. His temper was violent, and he was subject to fits of passion which terrified his children; although, in other respects, by no means an unkind parent. Upon this occasion, Jane was frightened into hysterics, and afterwards, owing to the agitation which had been preying on her mind for some months, she was thrown into a low nervous fever. During the four or five weeks that she was ill, every morning Miss Taylor called to inquire after her friend, although she was not admitted. By this conduct, Mrs. Graham’s heart, which was of no stern material, was much softened. At length she went to the drawing-room to see Miss Taylor, for a moment. Adeline improved the time so well, that she placed herself and her brother better with Mrs. Graham than they had ever yet been. Jane’s illness increased; her parents became seriously alarmed, and Mr. Graham expressed something like regret that he had been so hasty. His wife often remembered his words during her daughter’s tedious convalescence, which was interrupted by a relapse. In short, matters began to look less discouraging for young Taylor’s suit. There could be no doubt, at least, that he was very much in love with Jane: Hazlehurst was quite mistaken in supposing that the perfection of her profile, the beautiful shape of her head, the delicacy of her complexion, or other numberless beauties, could only be appreciated by one whose taste was as refined as his own: they had produced quite as deep an effect on young Taylor. During Jane’s illness, he had shown the proper degree of distress and anxiety, all of which was reported in the most pathetic manner to Mrs. Graham, and whispered to Jane by Adeline, who, having once been received again into the house, kept her footing there and managed an occasional interview with her friend. In short, as we all know, tyrannical parents are very rare in America; the fault in family discipline lies in the opposite direction.
His daughter’s pale face, his wife’s weakness, and Adeline’s good management, and improvement of every concession, at length worked a change in Mr. Graham. At the proper moment, Tallman Taylor renewed his offer in the warmest and most flattering terms; supported by his father, and his father’s hundreds of thousands, he this time received a more favourable answer. Mr. Graham was one of those men, who have no very high opinion of women; he did not wish to make his daughter miserable for life; and he thought she had too little character to conquer the fancy that had filled her mind, and made her ill. Then, young Taylor was rich, and she could throw away money on those knick-knacks and frippery, to which, according to Mr. Graham, women attach such exorbitant value. If she did not marry him, she would fancy herself a victim, and miserable; if she did marry him, she would fancy herself happy: that seemed to him the amount of the matter, and with these views he at length gave a reluctant consent. Mrs. Graham had already given hers; Tallman Taylor was certainly not the son-in-law she would have chosen; but she was farther from being dissatisfied, than many of her friends thought she would be under the circumstances. Neither the story of his college engagement, nor the unpleasant rumours respecting his Paris career, had reached Mr. or Mrs. Graham; the first was known only to Adeline and Jane, the last to a few male intimates. The news, very naturally, caused a good deal of sensation among Jane’s friends in Philadelphia; it was really distressing to Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, who looked upon her sister as thrown away, and reproached herself more than ever for having allowed Jane to go out so often in Paris with their thoughtless friends, the Howards. She could not endure to think of young Taylor, as actually her brother-in-law, the husband of her beautiful sister. She had not supposed that the matter would be settled in this way; she had believed her father’s opposition too strong to be overcome.
As for Harry, he, of course, soon heard the news from his brother. How much of love and of mortification were still lingering in his mind, we cannot precisely affirm. His feelings for Jane had certainly altered very much since the discovery of the double-dealing that had been going on; but weak as she had proved herself, she was still much too lovely, much too well-bred, at least, to be bestowed upon one whom he disliked as much as Tallman Taylor. There seemed to be something of the dog in the manger, connected with his regret for Jane’s fate, since he had already decided that if she were ever free again, he would not repeat his offer; she had shown herself to have so little character, that he would not allow himself to be again influenced by her beauty, surpassing as it was. In fact, Harry had determined to give up all idea of love and matrimony, for the present, at least. He went into society less than of old, and gave himself up very much to his profession, or other literary pursuits in which he had become engaged. He had been admitted to the bar, and had entered into a partnership with his travelling companion, Mr. Ellsworth; much of his time was now passed at his brother’s house, or at that of his friend. He liked his sister-in-law, and he found Ellsworth’s sister, Mrs. Creighton, who was at the head of her brother’s establishment, a very agreeable woman; she was very pretty, too, and very clever. The Wyllyses were already in the country, when the news of Jane’s engagement reached them; the winter had broken up early, and, as usual, at the first signs of spring they had returned to Wyllys-Roof. Of course, they regretted Jane’s partiality for Tallman Taylor; to Elinor it appeared almost as unaccountable as her insensibility to Harry’s merits. Mrs. George Wyllys was loud in her declamations against it; next to the Hubbards, she looked upon the Taylors as the most disagreeable family of her acquaintance. She had a great deal to say about the dull, prosy mother, the insufferable father, the dandy son, and the rattling, bellish daughter. Miss Patsey, also, had her moments of wonder; but she wondered in silence; she did not appear to have any higher opinion of the son, than she had formerly entertained of the father. With these exceptions, the community of Longbridge in general, who had known Jane from her childhood, approved highly of the connexion; both parties were young, handsome, and they would be rich, all which looked very well at a distance.
Three months of courtship passed over; Jane recovered entirely, and was as blooming and lovely as ever; young Taylor was all devotion. The satisfaction of his family at this connexion with the Grahams was very great; it gratified Mr. Taylor’s wishes in every way. It is true, Miss Graham would not have much fortune herself, but Tallman had enough to begin life handsomely. He hoped the marriage would take place soon, as he wished his son, whom he had made his partner, to take more interest in the business than he had yet done. In every respect but money, Jane was just what he would have wished for a daughter-in-law; she was fashionable, she was beautiful, and the position of her family gratified his vanity. As for the plain, good-hearted Mrs. Taylor, she already loved Jane as a daughter; and to her it appeared the most natural thing in the world, that Tallman should marry his sister’s friend. Adeline, herself, was of course enchanted.
The wedding took place in June. Thanks to Miss Taylor’s influence with the bride, it proved quite a brilliant affair. The ceremony was performed in the evening, and immediately afterwards the newly-married couple received the compliments and congratulations of their friends. Jane was attended, on the occasion, by six of her young companions; and as many young men, with white favours in their button-holes, were very busy all the evening, playing masters of ceremonies, escorting all the ladies as they arrived, from the door to the spot where the bride was stationed. Jane looked surpassingly beautiful; it was the general remark, that she had never appeared more lovely: the ladies pronounced her dress perfect, and the gentlemen admired her face quite as much. All agreed that a handsomer couple had not been seen for some time. It was, indeed, a pretty sight–the beautiful bride, the centre of a circle of her young friends, all, like herself, in white, and in full dress; pretty creatures themselves, wearing pretty ornaments of flowers and lace, pearls and embroidery. We say they were pretty; there was one exception, however, for Elinor was there, and many remarks were made on her appearance.
“What a pity that Miss Wyllys should be so plain,” observed Mrs. Creighton, whose husband had been a connexion of the Grahams. “It is the first time I have seen her for several years, and really I had forgotten how very plain she is.”
“Plain, why she is downright ugly!” exclaimed the youth to whom she was talking. “It is a sin to be as ugly as that. No wonder Hazlehurst was frightened out of the engagement; I am only surprised he ever got into the scrape!”
“But Miss Wyllys is very clever and agreeable, I understand.”
“Is she?”–was the careless reply. “I see Hazlehurst is here this evening.”
“Yes, he came on with his sister-in-law, Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst, and myself.”
“Well, he has a fine opportunity of comparing his two lady-loves together. Upon my word, I never saw a greater contrast. I wish Miss Wyllys had not accepted the invitation, though; she is enough to frighten one away from the whole set–and the rest are very pretty girls, the whole of them.”
“Can you point out Mr. Taylor?–Not the groom; I have seen him, of course; but his father.”
“Don’t you know the boss? It is that tall, stiff-looking man, talking to Mrs. Stanley. You see he is trying to look very amiable.”
“Yes–that is he, is it? Much the sort of man I should have supposed him. And now, which is Mrs. Taylor?”
“Mrs. Taylor–let me see; there she is, in grey satin and diamonds. I never saw her but once before in my life. She is a very quiet sort of a body, and keeps out of sight most of the time.”
“Very different from her daughter then, for Miss Taylor always put herself en evidence, I believe. If one don’t see her, they are sure to hear her.”
“To be sure, Miss Taylor is all life and spirits. She is the most lively, animated girl I ever knew. By-the-bye, I think it an odd fancy in Hazlehurst to show himself here to-night; for there was a great fuss last winter, at the blowup–all the town was talking about it.”
“He is a very near connexion, you know; I suppose his absence would have been more remarked than his being here. Besides, if he was in love once, he has had time to get over it, in the last six months. He does not look much as if he wore the willow still.”
{“wore the willow” = grieved for the loss of a loved one}
“Hazlehurst is very clever, I am told; I don’t know him much, myself.”
“Oh, yes–very clever. But I am not a fair judge, perhaps; he is my brother’s friend, and I may be prejudiced in his favour. How very warm it is! can’t we find a seat near a window?”
The gentleman offered his arm with alacrity, and the speakers moved away.
The seats they had left were taken by Mrs. de Vaux and Colonel Stryker: the lady, a middle-aged woman, fashionably dressed; the gentleman, rather more than middle-aged in his appearance, and decidedly less so in his dress and manners.
“Young Taylor is a handsome fellow, and looks the bride-groom very well!” exclaimed Mr. Stryker. “How these Taylors have pushed upwards; I never heard of them before I went to Europe this last time, five or six years ago.”
“That is just about the moment they first burst upon the horizon. Mr. Taylor seems determined to make up for lost time. He is very disagreeable to us ladies; but the gentlemen like him on account of his cleverness; they say he is a genius in all business matters.”
“To judge by his expression, the man seems ambitious of ‘les succes de salon,’ also. Where did he import his manners from, I wonder?–they have a sort of bright, new look, as if he had not yet worn the gloss off.”
{“les succes de salon” = drawing-room victories (French)}
“Don’t laugh at him;–he gives excellent dinners.”
“Does he? Can’t you introduce me, immediately? ‘Ici l’ont fait noces et festins.’ I seem to smell the turtle-soup, already.”
{“Ici l’ont….” = wedding feasts and banquets given here (French)}
“I doubt whether you taste it, nevertheless, until next autumn. Everybody is going out of town; they say that is the only drawback to the satisfaction of the Taylors at this wedding.”
“What is the drawback, pray?”
“They cannot have as many grand parties as they are entitled to, on account of the season.”
“That must be distressing, indeed, to the brides-maids. By-the-bye, I see Miss Wyllys is one of them. She is going to turn out a fortune, I hear;–do you know her?”
“From a child. Last year no one dreamed of her being a fortune; but within the last few months, Mr. de Vaux tells me, she has inherited a very handsome property from one of her mother’s family; and, in addition to it, some new rail-road, or something of that kind, has raised the value of what she owned before.”
“What is the amount, do you know?”
“Upwards of two hundred thousand, Mr. de Vaux thinks.”
“Miss Wyllys is certainly no beauty; but, do you know, I think there is something decidedly distinguished in her appearance and manner! I was only introduced the other day; I did not happen to know the Wyllyses.”
“I have known them all my life, and like them all very much. I rather wonder, though, at Miss Elinor’s being here as bride’s-maid. But it is a reconciliation, I suppose. Perhaps she and young Hazlehurst will make up again, and we may be invited to another wedding, before long.”
“Perhaps so. How long does it take a young lady to resent an infidelity? A calendar month, I suppose; or, in extreme cases, a year and a day. By-the-bye, the pretty widow, Mrs. Creighton, has thrown off her weeds, I see.”
“Yes, she has come out again, armed for conquest, I suppose. What a flirt she is! And as artful as she is pretty, Mr. Stryker. But perhaps you are one of her admirers,” continued the lady, laughing.
“Of course, it is impossible not to admire her; but I am afraid of her,” said Mr. Stryker, shrugging his shoulders. “I am horribly afraid of all pretty widows.”
“Mr. Hazlehurst does not seem afraid of her.”
“Not a bit–he is there half his time; but then he is young and venturesome. We old campaigners are more wary.”
“He is an old friend of her brother’s, I believe; is Mr. Ellsworth here?”
“Yes, there he is, talking to Miss Wyllys. Perhaps he may interfere with your prediction about her and my friend Hazlehurst.”
“Possibly; but a-propos of weddings; why don’t you marry, yourself, Mr. Stryker? You have been a delightful beau now, for how many years?” asked the lady, mischievously.
“Oh, these five lustres, I suppose; for I began early,” replied Mr. Stryker, who had too much worldly wisdom, not to make a merit of frankness, where he could not help it.
{“lustre” = a period of five years}
“Six, you mean,” said Mrs. de Vaux, laughing.
“No, five, honestly counted. I don’t know exactly how old I may be; but the other day I heard a fellow say, ‘Stryker can’t be more than five-and-forty;’ and I dare say be was right.”
“Well, allowing you are only five-and-forty, don’t you mean to marry, one of these days?”
“Certainly.”
“Don’t you think it time to look about you?”
“High time; but who will have me?” continued Mr. Stryker, with great complacency of manner.
“Oh, half the young ladies in the room, I dare say; excepting, of course, those who have refused you already,” said Mrs. de Vaux, mischievously; for it was suspected that Mr. Stryker had met with several rebuffs. This lady and gentleman in spite of their smiling countenances and friendly manners, owed each other a grudge, of old standing. Who does not know that where the spirit of littleness and vanity is all-powerful, these petty trials and triumphs are too often the chief spring of action; as was the case with Mr. Stryker and Mrs. de Vaux. Happy they, who have good principle and good feeling enough, to cast off folly on so small a scale!
“Tell me what is your taste, and I will look out for you,” continued Mrs. de Vaux.
“How kind you are!–you don’t include Miss de Vaux, of course; for she can’t endure me. Like all modest men, I require only nine hundred and ninety-nine perfections in my wife. But then I insist chiefly on two essentials: she must have money, and she must not have brothers and sisters; I have an invincible antipathy to collaterals, whether of blood or connexion.”
“Miss Wyllys is the very person for you. Quite a fortune now, they say; and an orphan, without brother or sister; all you require. Then, you like her appearance, you say; though she is plain, she is clever, too, and amiable.”
“Of course; all young ladies are amiable, are they not?”
“I only know of one objection–she is too good for you.”
“Goodness is not to be despised in a wife. I shall require it from the future Mrs. Stryker; though not very particular about the rest of the world. I am much obliged to you, Mrs. de Vaux, for the suggestion; I’ll think of it,” said Mr. Stryker, deliberately crossing one leg over the other, to make himself comfortable.
“You, who know everybody, Mr. Stryker,” said the lady, “pray, tell me, who is that bright-faced young man, or rather, boy, standing near Mr. Wyllys and Mrs. Stanley?”
“You wish to mortify me–I never saw the lad before.”
“I can answer your question, Mrs. de Vaux,” observed Harry, who had just approached, and made his bow; “that is my friend, Charlie Hubbard, the artist. Don’t you remember the fine view of Lake Ontario, that was so much admired at the Exhibition, this spring?”
“Certainly. Is that the young man?–He looks like a genius.”
“Rather as a genius should look; your great lions are often very tame-looking animals,” observed Mr. Stryker.
“Hubbard’s face only does him justice, however; he is full of talent,” said Harry.
“I Some of his pictures are certainly very fine,” observed Mrs. de Vaux.
“I never saw water like his,” continued Hazlehurst; “such variety, and always true to nature. He almost persuades one to believe all he says about water: he maintains that it has more variety of expression than any other inanimate object, and has, withal, an independent character of its own; he says it is second only to the human countenance.”
“He seems quite an enthusiast,” said Mrs. de Vaux.
“Won’t he take it all out in talk?” asked Mr. Stryker, drily.
“Look at his view of Hell-Gate on a cloudy evening, and say so if you can!” exclaimed Harry, warmly.
{“Hell-Gate” = a narrow channel in New York City’s East River}
“Well, after all, he says no more for water, than has been said by the poets of all nature, from the time of the first pastoral; they tell us that the sun will make a bare old mountain smile, and the wind will throw the finest forest into a fuss.”
“I defy you to prove any fuss upon Charlie’s works!”
“Perhaps not–Where is his study? I should like to see what he has done. Is his pencil always amphibious?”
“Yes; I believe he has never yet painted a landscape, without its portion of water. If you wish to see his study, you must go soon; he sails for Italy next month.”
“If his partiality for water is really honest, it may help him on in his profession. Has he a good execution?–that is all-important.”
“Decidedly good; and he improves every day. Execution is really all-important to Hubbard; for there can be no doubt that he possesses all an artist’s conception.”
“I suspect though, his notion about expressive water is not original. It appears to me, some German or other calls water, ‘the eyes of a landscape.'”
“Very possibly; but Charlie Hubbard is not the man to steal other people’s ideas, and pass them off for his own.”
“You make a point of always believing the worst of everybody, Mr. Stryker,” said Mrs. de Vaux.
“I wish I could help it.” said the gentleman, raising his eyebrows.
“Suppose, Mr. Hazlehurst, you take him to Mr. Hubbard’s studio, and force him to admire that fine picture of Lake Ontario. I should like to see it again, myself; and Mr. de Vaux has been talking of carrying us all to Mr. Hubbard’s, some time.”
Harry professed himself quite at Mrs. de Vaux’s service. Mrs. Stanley, he said, was going to see his friend’s pictures the very next day. A party was soon arranged, the hour fixed, and everything settled, before supper was announced. As Mrs. de Vaux and Mr. Stryker moved towards the door, they were followed by Mrs. Creighton and Harry.
“Who was the young man you were talking with at supper, Josephine?” asked Mr. Ellsworth, as he stepped into the carriage after Mrs. Creighton and Harry, in driving away from the wedding.
“Which do you mean?”
“A mere boy–one of the groomsmen, by the white favours in his button-hole.”
“Oh, that was the groom’s brother, Mr. Pompey Taylor, the younger, a very simple, and rather an awkward young gentleman. I had the honour of making the acquaintance of all the family, in the course of the evening. I was quite amused with Mr. Taylor, the father; he really seems to have as great a relish for the vanities of life, as any young girl of fifteen.”
“Because they are quite as new to him,” said Hazlehurst.
“That is difficult to believe of a clever, calculating man of fifty,” observed Mr. Ellsworth.
“All clever men of fifty are not quite free from nonsense, take my word for it,” said the lady.
“I appeal to Mr. Hazlehurst, who knows Mr. Taylor; as for myself, I am convinced by the man’s manner this evening.”
“You are certainly correct in your opinion, Mrs. Creighton. Mr. Taylor is, no doubt, a clever man; and yet he takes delight in every piece of finery about his house. He is more possessed with the spirit of sheer ostentation, than any man I ever met with.”
“Ah, you want to save the credit of your sex, by setting him down as an exception!–that is not fair, Mr. Hazlehurst.”
It was a pity that the pretty smile which the lady bestowed on her brother’s friend was entirely thrown away; but the lamp-light happened to be little more than darkness visible.