Every one present who might aspire to such
distinction, asked Lady Anne's hand, and each soli-
citation enriched the prize to Meredith, for (if it
be allowed thus to speak of such high concern-
ments), he graduated even ladies' favours by their
market value.

   Miss Ruthven had not been dancing herself; she
was conscious of not dancing well; but hovering
about the dance, and expressing, whenever she
caught Meredith's eye, by animated gestures and
significant glances, her admiration of his partner.
At the first opportunity she said to Lady Anne, in
a low voice, but not too low to be heard by Mere-
dith, -- "How very glad I am that my dear friend,
Isabella Linwood, is not here."

   "And how very sorry I am! -- but pray, Miss
Ruthven, why are you glad?"

   "Oh, you know -- you faultless creature, I am
sure you know."

   "Indeed, I cannot conjecture."

   "Then, if I must tell, one does not like to see
one's friends outshone. Isabella Linwood has so

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   Meredith made no reply, for at this moment he
caught Isabella's eye as she entered the room, lean-
ing on Sir Henry's arm. She was dressed in a
white silk gown, without any ornament or decora-
tion whatever, save a rich Brussels lace veil, which
she had put on partly to screen and partly to
apologize for her very simple and rather inappropri-
ate toilet.

   "Ah, console te mon amie!" exclaimed Lady
Anne, touching Miss Ruthven's arm with her fan,
"look at that peerless creature, and tell me now
whose light will wax dim. I like my own looks
as well, I am sure, as anybody else likes them,
but I can see that I am quite une chose terrestre
compared with Isabella Linwood -- n'est ce pas
mon cousin."

   "Les choses terrestres are best adapted to the
sphere for which they are created," said Meredith,
turning, with a bitter smile, from what he thought
a very cold salutation from Miss Linwood, to begin
the second dance with Lady Anne.

   Isabella stood for a moment with the rest, ad-
miring and wondering at Lady Anne's perform-
ance; then, intent on the object which alone brought
her to Sir Henry's, she begged five minutes' audi-
ence in the library. "There she goes," thought
Mrs. Meredith, taking a long breath, as if relieved

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   "Ah," thought Meredith, as following Isabella
with his eyes he blundered in the dance -- "there
is something of the terrestre in that movement -- I
will profit by it."

   "Quite as terrestrial as the rest of us," thought
Helen Ruthven, and as she stationed herself next
to Mrs. Meredith, and made some very acceptable
remarks about Miss Linwood, she felt like a polit-
ical manoeuvrer, who having started rival candi-
dates, flatters himself he shall run in to the goal
between them.

   "To what am I indebted for this grace, Miss
Linwood," asked Sir Henry, rather to relieve Isa-
bella than to inform himself of what he already
anticipated.

   "I am here a beggar, Sir Henry."

   "In your brother's behalf? -- I understand, -- a
very painful subject, my dear young lady, -- I feel,
on my honour I do, the deepest sympathy with your
father. You are aware that I have done all in my
power for the misguided young man, and that he
has not accepted my overtures."

   "And that his refusal is the warrant of his
honour -- is it not, Sir Henry."

   "Why, there are many modifications of this
principle of honour. You would not hold a thief
bound by his oath to his comrades, if he were of-
fered pardon and enrolment among honest men as
his reward for abandoning them?"

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   An indignant reply rose to Isabella's lips, but
she remembered in time that she came as a suitor,
and saying that she would not waste Sir Henry's
time with arguing on a subject on which they must
utterly differ, she went straight to her point. "You
must, sir," she said, "believe that my brother came
to the city for the motive he avows, and for no
other."

   "What proof have I of this?" asked Sir Henry,
with a tormenting smile.

   "The word of a man of truth."

   "And the faith of an all-believing girl. This
may be very sufficient evidence in a cour d'amour
-- it would hardly suffice in a court-martial. But
proceed, my dear Miss Linwood, and tell me pre-
cisely your wishes. You may rely on my desire
to serve you."

   Sir Henry's tone was earnest and sincere, and
Isabella was encouraged. "My brother," she said,
"has, thank Heaven, shown himself equal to bear-
ing well the adverse turns of a soldier's fortune.
He endures manfully his imprisonment in the dark,
filthy, crowded prison allotted to the Americans --
the honest yeomen of the land. He suffers, with-
out complaint, Sir Henry, the petty tyranny of the
atrocious keeper of these poor men."

   "Tut, tut, my dear, -- it is the fortune of war."

   Isabella had again to quell her pride, before she
could command her voice to proceed with due hu-
mility. "All he asks, Sir Henry, all that I ask

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   "It is impossible, my dear girl -- you overrate my
powers -- I am responsible -- "

   "To God -- so are we all, Sir Henry, and hap-
piest are those who have most of such deeds as I
ask of you to present at his tribunal. But are you
not supreme in these provinces? and may you not
exercise mercy without fearing that man shall mis-
call it?"

   "My powers, thanks to my gracious sovereign,
are ample; but you have somewhat romantic no-
tions of the mode of using them. I am willing to
believe -- or rather," he added with a gracious
smile, "to believe that you believe your brother's
story to be a true one; but, Miss Linwood, this
view of the ground must not alter, to speak en
militaire, our demonstration. We are bound, as I
have communicated to you, through our friend Mr.
Jasper Meredith -- we are bound, by the policy of
war, to avail ourselves of the accident, if it be one,
that enables us plausibly to impute to Washing-
ton an act held dishonourable in all civilized
warfare."

   "Then, in plain English," said Isabella, with a
burst of indignation this time irrepressible, "the

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   Sir Henry made no reply, but strided with fold-
ed arms up and down the apartment. A glance at
his irritated countenance recalled Isabella to her-
self. "Forgive me, Sir Henry," she said, if, feeling
only that my poor brother is a victim to this horri-
ble `policy of war,' I have spoken more boldly than
was fitting a humble, miserable suitor."

   Whether it is that the tone of submission is that
which Heaven has ordained for women, and that
which is the natural vehicle of a lofty sense of su-
periority is a falsetto in which she rarely succeeds,
we cannot say; but true it is, that the moment Isa-
bella's voice faltered, Sir Henry's brow relaxed,
and condescending to her weakness, he said, "It
can hardly be expected, Miss Linwood, that a
young lady should comprehend a subject quite out
of her line -- we will, therefore, if you please, waive
its farther discussion, and return to the drawing-
room."

   "Excuse me, Sir Henry, I cannot go back to
the drawing-room," replied Isabella, in spite of her
efforts bursting into tears, -- "I came here solely
for the purpose of obtaining something for poor
Herbert, and I have utterly failed." It is not in
man -- a gentleman and a soldier, to be unmoved
by the tears, the real distress of a young and
beautiful woman. Sir Henry too, to his friends --
to those of his own household (we have it on poor
Andre's testimony), was generous and kind hearted.

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   "My dear girl," he said, "pray do not make your-
self so unhappy. You know not how much your
brother is already indebted to you -- if he were not
fenced about by such friends, your father on one
side, and yourself and your devoted knight on the
other -- do not blush, my dear young lady -- he would
have fared much worse than he has, I assure you.
He has only to suffer durance with patience -- our
bark is worse than our bite, and, believe me, the
war cannot last much longer."

   "And he must remain in prison while the war
lasts?"

   "I fear so."

   "Then, for mercys' sake, Sir Henry, grant us one
favour. My father is old. His health and fortune,
as you know, are shattered. This cruel war sever-
ed him from his only son, and drew down on poor
Herbert the displeasure which has ended in all this
wretchedness. Something may be saved from the
wreck, their disjointed affections may be re-united
if -- if they are permitted to meet?"

   "If your father wished to visit your brother, he
would have asked permission -- it certainly would
not have been refused."

   Isabella well knew that her father, after having
once (to use his favourite phrase) set his foot down,
would not make so violent a recession as such a
step demanded; but not choosing to allude to his
infirmities, and anxious to secure for Herbert a
greater alleviation than a single interview, she
availed herself of an obvious reason. "My father,"

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   "This would be indeed an extraordinary depart-
ure from all form and precedence."

   "Yes; but it would be the very essence of kind-
ness, which is better than all form and precedence.
Oh, Sir Henry, have you not sometimes sleepless
hours in the silent watches of the night; and will
not then the thought that you have solaced an old
man, your friend, and restored peace and love to
his habitation, be better than the memory of vic-
tories -- dear Sir Henry, will it not?"

   "I should be too happy to oblige you -- it would
be a very great pleasure; but indeed, indeed, my
dear Miss Isabella, this is an extraordinary prop-
osition."

   "So much the better fitting you to accede to it;
you who have the power to depart from the vulgar
beaten track. You may have little reason to re-
member with pleasure this vexatious war, Sir
Henry; but the good you have done by the way
will be like the manna of the wilderness."

   Isabella had touched the right cord. "Well,
my dear Miss Belle, tell me precisely what you
want, and what security you can give that my trust
will not be abused."

   "I want an order from you to Cunningham,
directing him to permit my brother to leave the
prison in the evening between any hours you shall

SMALL | MEDIUM

see fit to assign; and for your security, Sir Henry,
I can offer the surest, the word not only of a man
of honour, as you have said there are many and
uncertain modifications of that principle, but the
word of a man bound to you by every tie of grati-
tude and good faith."

   "You have persuaded me, my dear, against my
better reason, it may be, but you have persuaded
me; and to-morrow, after our cabinet-council, I
will send you the order."

   "Oh, no -- to-night, Sir Henry," urged Isabella,
with her characteristic decision, determining to
leave nothing to the possible influence of a cabinet-
council or a treacherous to-morrow; "to-night, if
you would make me completely happy. Here
on the table is pen, ink, and paper; and here is a
chair -- sit down, and write three lines, and I will
go home with them, and fall down on my knees,
and pray God to bless you for ever and ever."

   If Sir Henry had been told one hour before that
he should be persuaded to such an act, he might
have exclaimed with Hazael -- "Am I a dog," that
I should be thus managed! But, like many other
great men, he yielded to a superior mind, albeit in
the form of woman. He wrote the order, taking
care to qualify it by requiring Cunningham to
guard young Linwood's egress and ingress from
observation, and stipulating that he should be at-
attended by Cunningham himself, the most for-
midable of the bulldog race of jailers.

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   "Now," said Sir Henry, after Isabella, with a
transport of gratitude, had received the order, and
was about to take her leave, "you must not run
away -- you, of all others, are bound to grace a fête
given to Jasper Meredith's cousin -- you owe me
this."

   "And most gratefully will I pay you all I can
of the debt I owe you, Sir Henry," she replied,
giving him her hand, and returning to the drawing-
room. The consciousness of the advantage she
had gained, the buoyant spirit of youth, that having
taken one step from the starting point believes the
race won, lit up her eye and cheek with their
natural brightness. If a mask had fallen from her
face, the change would not have been more start-
ling to some of her observers, nor more puzzling
to others.

   "I do marvel, cousin Jasper," said Lady Anne,
when they were driving home, "that you have
never fallen in love with Isabella Linwood!"

   "And how do you know that I have not?" he
asked, willing to try the ground of her conclusions.

   "How! bless me, do you think I am stone-blind?
-- you have not danced with her -- you have scarcely
spoken to her this evening, when she appeared so
perfectly irresistible."

   "I fancy, my dear," interposed Mrs. Meredith,
"that your cousin Jasper, like other men of his
stamp, prefers a person less prononcée -- more
quiescent -- more ductile than Miss Linwood."

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   "You mean, aunt, not shining with a light of her
own -- more of a reflector."

   "Pardon me, my dear Lady Anne, you inter-
rupted me. I was going on to say, that men who
are conscious of eminent talents, prefer those who,
not ambitious to shine, will amuse and sooth their
hours of relaxation."

   "Lesser lights -- I understand you perfectly,"
said Lady Anne, cutting in to escape her aunt's
tedious circumlocution: "do tell me, Jasper," she
continued, "if you observed how changed Miss
Linwood appeared when she returned to the draw-
ing-room? I was dancing with that tiresome colo-
nel, and you were talking to me."

   "I was talking with you -- how could I observe
another?"

   "Miss Linwood mistakes," said Mrs. Meredith,
"in assuming such violent contrasts -- in making
such sudden transits from grave to gay. He is a
poor artist who resorts to glaring lights and deep
shadows to set off his pictures -- she wants toning
down."

   The mother was not more at fault in her ex-
pressed opinion, whether sincere or not, than her
son was in his mental inference from the sudden
change in Isabella's deportment. None are more
fallible in their judgment than people of the world,
and simply because they make no allowance for
truth as a basis of action. Notwithstanding Mere-
dith's disclaimer, he had observed, and narrowly,

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the change so obvious, and thus had reasoned upon
it: -- "Isabella was piqued at my devotion to my
cousin; she was, for no woman is above these lit-
tle vanities, vexed at Lady Anne's superlative dan-
cing; but she soon rallied, and determined to ap-
pear high as the stars above me, and all these mat-
ters. Her pride is invincible; it is quite time to
show her that her power is not. Women are des-
tined to be the `lesser lights.' I have most gener-
ously committed myself, while she has remained as
silent, if not as cold, as a statue; therefore I am at
liberty to retreat, if I should -- at any future time --
choose to do so. When I am with her, I feel her
full supremacy; but away from her, on reflection,
I can perceive that an alliance with my cousin
might, in the end, be quite -- that is, very tolerable,
and vastly more eligible (and in these times that
must be thought of) than this long, long dreamed-
of marriage with Isabella Linwood."

---

-101-

Chapter 26

CHAPTER XXVI.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   "The wonder, or a woman keeps a secret."

   Isabella moulded and arranged every thing to
profit by Sir Henry's boon. She persuaded her
father (one is easily led the way the heart inclines),
in consideration of Herbert's past sufferings and
uncertain future, to acquiesce in a present oblivion
of his offences. She exacted a promise from
Herbert that he would hear her father laud King
George, his ministers, and all their acts, without
interposing a disqualifying word, or even a glance;
and, what was a greater feat for him, that he would
sit quietly and hear the names of Washington,
Franklin, Jay, Hamilton, La Fayette, all that he
most honoured, coupled with the most offensive
epithets. This vituperation she knew was a sort
of safety-valve, by which her father let off the
passion that might otherwise burst on poor Her-
bert's head. She felt that no sacrifice short of
that of principle was too great to obtain affec-
tionate intercourse between the father and son;
that between those thus related, there never could
be a "good war, nor a bad peace."

   As Sir Henry had exacted a strict secrecy as to
his indulgence, Isabella congratulated herself that

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she had long before this persuaded her father to
dismiss Jupiter (an irreclaimable gossip), on the
ground that he was a useless piece of lumber; but
really, because Rose had declared that it exceeded
the ability of her commissary department to sup-
ply his rations. Rose herself was worthy of all
confidence. Mrs. Archer, of course, was one of
the family cabinet.

   The awkwardness of the first meeting got over,
all difficulties were past. Little differences, if let
alone, soon melt away in the warmth of hearty af-
fection. Herbert was obliged sometimes to bite
his lips, and at others, when his frank and hasty
spirit prompted a retort, a glance from Isabella
kept him silent.

   It was not till Herbert's second or third visit that
Mr. Linwood manifested the uneasiness incident
to persons of his age and habits when put out of
their accustomed track. Rivington's Royal Gazette,
issued twice a week, and the only newspaper in the
city, was to Mr. Linwood, as newspapers are to
most men, one of the necessaries of life. "My
dear," he asked his wife, "where is the paper?"

   "I left it below, my dear; there is nothing in it."
Mrs. Linwood had ventured this omission from
consideration to Herbert, whose temper she feared
might boil over at the hearing of one of those high-
toned tory gazettes.

   "Pshaw -- nothing in it! just so all women say,
unless they find some trumpery murder or ship-

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SMALL | MEDIUM
wreck. Belle, be good enough to bring the paper
and read it to me; and do ask Rose to bring us in
a stick of wood -- it is as cold as Greenland here --
five pounds I paid Morton yesterday for a cord of
hickory. D -- n the rebels, I wish I had their bones
for firewood."

   "They do their best, sir, to make it hot for the
tories," said Herbert, very good-humouredly.

   "Ah, Herbert, my son, I forgot you were here;
I did indeed. But I can't be mealy-mouthed -- I
must speak out, come what come will. But 'tis
hard not to be able to get the wood from our own
farms, is it not?"

   "Very hard, sir, to be deprived of any of our
rights."

   "Rights!" Isabella entered, and Mr. Linwood
added in a softened tone, "Have a care, my boy;
there are certain words that fall on my ear like
sparks on gunpowder."

   "Here is something to prevent your emitting
any more sparks just now, Mr. Herbert," said Isa-
bella, giving him a Boston paper, while she retained
the orthodox journal to read aloud.

   "What's that? -- what's that?" asked her father.

   "A Boston paper, sir, sent to you with Colonel
Robertson's compliments."

   Herbert read aloud a few lines written on the
margin of the paper, chuckling in spite of his
filial efforts to the contrary: "Major-general Put-
nam presents his compliments to Major-general

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Robertson, and sends him some American news-
papers for his perusal. When General Robertson
shall have done with them, it is requested they be
given to Rivington, in order that he may print
some truth."

   "The impudent renegado! Come, Isabella,
what says Rivington to-day?"

   Isabella read aloud an order from Sir Henry
Clinton, "That all negroes taken fighting in the
rebel cause should be sold as slaves: and that all
deserting should live at what occupation they
pleased within the British lines!"

   "Very salutary that!" interposed Mr. Linwood.
"Black sons of Belial -- they fighting for liberty,
d -- n 'em!"

   Herbert cleared his throat. "My father -- my
upright father applauding a bounty offered to cow-
ardice and treachery! -- Oh the moral perversions
engendered by war!" thought Isabella; but she
wisely kept her reflections to herself, and, stri-
king another chord, ran over one of Rivington's ad-
vertisements of fancy articles for sale by himself,
the sole editor and publisher in the city. Oh,
Smetz, Stewart, Gardiner, Tryon, Bailly, ye min-
isters to the luxury of our city! well may ye ex-
claim, in your rich repositories of the arts and in-
dustry of the old world --

   "Great streams from little fountains flow!"

   For the curious in such matters, we permit our

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SMALL | MEDIUM
heroine to read aloud verbatim: "For sale at this
office, scarlet dress-frocks, with silk lining and
capes, the work of celebrated operators west of
London; the celebrated new-fashioned buckle,
which owes its origin and vogue to the Count d'Ar-
tois, brother to the King of France; of the locket
or depository for preserving the gentle Saccharissa's
hair, a great variety; crow-quills for the delicate
Constantia; scarlet riding-dresses for ladies, made
to suit the uniform of their husbands or lovers;
canes for the gallant gay Lothario; gold and silver
strings for plain walking-canes, with silver and
gold tassels for plain Master Balance; vastly snug
shaving equipages; brocaded shoes and slippers;
ladies' shuttles for the thrifty in the knotting amuse-
ments; songs suited to the various humours and
affections of the mind."

   "Bravo, friend Rivington!" exclaimed Herbert,
"you do not expend all your imagination in the
invention of news."

   "Is there nothing but this nonsense in the paper,
Belle? What is that in capitals about letters from
England?"

   Isabella resumed: "Letters from England say
they will never acknowledge the Independence
of the United States, while there is a soldier to be
raised, or a tester to be expended, in the three king-
doms!"

   "John Bull for ever! What say you to that,
Mr. Herbert?" asked his father, exultingly.

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   "Nous verrons, sir! -- but, mercy upon us!
what is this?" Herbert read aloud from the Bos-
ton paper: "We regret to state that the daughter
of Mrs. Lee, of Westbrook, left her mother's house
two weeks since, with the supposed intention of
going to New-York. The young lady has been for
some time in a state of partial mental alienation."
A description of Bessie's person followed, and an
earnest request that any information obtained might
be transmitted to the unhappy mother.

   Both Herbert and Isabella were filled with con-
sternation and anxiety; and, after revolving the
past, both came to the same conclusion as to the
probable origin of poor Bessie's mental malady.
Mr. Linwood, who only recollected her as a quiet,
pretty little girl, exhausted his sympathy in a few
inquiries and exclamations, became somewhat im-
patient of the sadness that had overclouded his
children. "We are as doleful as the tombs here,"
he said: "What can keep your aunt Archer to-
night, Isabella? -- Ah, here she comes -- right glad
to see you, Mary. Belle and Herbert are knocked
up by an unlucky bit of news." The news was
communicated to Mrs. Archer, who entered deeply
into their feelings.

   "Ah," said she, "this explains a note I received
this morning from Captain Lee."

   "From Eliot?" exclaimed Herbert.

   "Yes; he sent by a courier, who came to Sir
Henry, a most acceptable present -- a set of chess-

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men for the children, which he has contrived, and,
aided by an ingenious private, made for them."

   "Chessmen contrived by a rebel!" said Mr.
Linwood -- "of course he has left out the king,
queen, and bishop?"

   "Pardon me -- he may think kings, queens, and
bishops very fit playthings."

   "But what says the note?" asked Herbert, im-
patiently.

   "It says, that if the chessboard should fail to be
of use to Ned and Lizzy, it has at least served
the purpose of partially diverting his thoughts from
a grief that almost drives him mad. Of course he
alludes to this sad affair."

   "Undoubtedly," replied Herbert; "and this
business of the chessboard is just like himself --
he is the most extraordinary fellow! I never
knew him in any trouble, small or great, that he
did not turn to doing something for somebody or
other by way of a solace -- a balm to his hurt
mind."

   "I do not wonder you love him so devotedly,"
said Isabella.

   "Oh, Belle," whispered Herbert in return, "had
Heaven but have put him in Jasper's place, or
made Jasper like him!"

   Mrs. Archer caught the words, and in spite of
her own discretion and Isabella's painful blushes,
she uttered a deep and insuppressible "Amen."

   "Come, come, what are you all about?" said

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Mr. Linwood: "suppose you imitate this wonder-
ful hero of yours in the use of his mental panacea,
and comfort me with a game of whist. Do you
play as deep a game as you used to, Herbert;
trump your partner's trick, and finesse with a
knave and ten spot?"

   Herbert confessed he had forgotten the little he
knew. "Well, then, you may brood over your
Yankee paper, and we will call in your mother,
who, in five-and-twenty years' drilling, has learned
just enough not to trump her partner's tricks."

   Mrs. Linwood was summoned, and the party
formed. Mr. Linwood was in high good-humour,
and though Isabella made some inscrutable plays,
all went smoothly till the family party was alarmed
by a tap at the door; and before any one had time
to reply to it, the door was opened, and Lady Anne
Seton appeared. Startled by the appearance of a
stranger, and somewhat disconcerted by perceiving
the embarrassment caused by her intrusion, "Shall
I go back?" she asked, her hand still on the door.

   "Oh, no -- no," cried Mr. Linwood, "come in,
my dear little girl, by all means; you promised
me a game of piquet, and I, an old savage, forgot
it, and so I have forfeited my right, and now make
it over to this young man, my son Herbert." Lady
Anne turned a surprised, sparkling, and inquiring
glance to Herbert, as much as to say, "Is it possi-
ble!" and Herbert made his bow of presentation.
"You know," continued the father, "that this

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young man is in limbo; but you do not know, and be
sure you let no one else know, that Sir Henry, God
bless him! permits the rascal to visit us privately."

   "Am I really trusted with an important secret?
-- delightful! -- and does any thing depend on my
keeping it?"

   "The continuance of my brother's visits and
Sir Henry's favour," replied Isabella, emphat-
ically, alarmed at the necessity of confiding their
secret to one so gay and inexperienced as Lady
Anne.

   Inexperienced she was, but true and single-
hearted. "Do not look so solemn, my dear Miss
Linwood," she said; "indeed I will not tell. I am
too much puffed up with the first important secret
I ever had in my keeping to part with it carelessly.
I am even with aunt and Jasper now, with their
everlasting private talks; and when it is stupid at
home, I may come here, may I not?"

   "Always," interposed Mr. Linwood, really de-
lighted with the accession of the charming girl to
their circle. Mrs. Linwood, who only waited for
her husband to strike the key-note, was voluble in
her hospitable expressions. Herbert looked the
most unequivocal welcome; and Lady Anne, never
querulous, did not trouble herself about Isabella's
merely civil assent, and perhaps did not notice it.
From this time her visits were almost as regular
as Herbert's. She was little addicted to romance;
but every young girl has a spice of it, and Herbert's

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romantic and precarious position increased the
charm of his frank and spirited character. A dear
lover of sunshine was Herbert; and these short
domestic interludes, brightened by Lady Anne,
were hours in paradise to him. All day in his
gloomy prison he looked forward to his release
from purgatory; and, once engaged at a side-table
with his lively partner in the most fascinating of
all tête-à-tête games, or round the petit-souper,
which his good mother spent the day in contriving
and concocting, he forgot the ills of life, till the
summons from his keeper reminded him that he
had still to buffet with his portion of them.

   "If I do not mistake," said Mrs. Archer to Isa-
bella, after the breaking up of one of their even-
ing meetings, "Herbert and Lady Anne are be-
ginning to see visions, and dream dreams."

   "Heaven forbid!"

   "And why, my dear Belle, should Heaven for-
bid so natural and pleasant a consequence of their
familiar intercourse?"

   "How can you ask, aunt Mary? I could not
forgive Herbert if he were so soon to forget poor
Bessie."

   "We must take man as he is, Belle. Herbert
is too lighthearted to cherish a hopeless passion; he
regards his love for Bessie Lee as a dream, and, rely
on it, he is thoroughly awakened from it. You
must have perceived that he has not been despe-
rately afflicted about your unfortunate little friend?"

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   "Yes, I have -- but men do not show their feel-
ings."

   "Some men do not, but Herbert does; and rely
on it, Belle, he is not of a temper to continue to
love a person (even if poor little Bessie were not,
as she must now be, utterly lost to him) whose
heart is another's."

   "I suppose you are right, aunt Mary," replied
Isabella, after a moment's hesitation, colouring
deeply; "the whole sex are alike incapable of the
generosity of unrequited affection!" Unacknowl-
edged was her mental reading of unrequited.

   "Substitute folly or weakness for generosity,
Belle, and you will take a more masculine, and, it
may be, a more rational view of the case."

   "Oh, aunt Mary, are you, like the rest of the
world, giving up all feeling for what you call ra-
tionality!"

   "No, my dear child, but I have learned that
what you call feeling, what constitutes the dream
of a few weeks, months, or it may be years of
youth, makes but a small portion of the reality or
the worth of life. Providence has kindly so organ-
ized man, that he cannot waste his affections in
one hopeless, fruitless concentration; nor lose life
in a tissue of vain regrets. The stream that is
obstructed in one course will take another, and en-
rich and beautify regions for which it did not, at
first, seem destined."

   Isabella was not just now in a humour to assent

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to Mrs. Archer's conclusions, but her mind was
the good ground in which the seed could not be
lost. She was conscious that, though her aunt's
strictures were ostensibly directed to Herbert, they
had some bearing on herself. She was in a posi-
tion the most tormenting to a mind prompt both to
decide and act. Since Lady Anne's arrival she had
rarely seen Meredith. This she admitted was in
part her own fault. She had been restrained by
her promise to Sir Henry Clinton from communi-
cating to Jasper the favour granted Herbert. "But
when she gave the promise to Sir Henry, ought she
not to have excepted Jasper? Was it not due to
him? and would she not have made the exception,
through all the blushing and faltering it must have
cost her, had she not felt sure that Sir Henry him-
self would have made Meredith a party to the se-
cret?"

   Sir Henry, after a little reflection, was ashamed
of the spell that had been wrought on him, and com-
municated it to no one.

   Meredith, partly spurred by pride, partly led on
by the incessant manoeuvres of his mother, and
partly incited by the worldly advantages of an
alliance with Lady Anne, and flattered too by his
cousin's frank and affectionate manner, was fast
verging towards that point, to attain which his
mother had compassed sea and land.

   He had confidently expected that Isabella would
at once and fully have reciprocated his declarations

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of attachment. Her reserve had abased his pride,
piqued his vanity, and disappointed his affection.
He believed he truly loved her, and he did, as
truly as he could love. But Jasper Meredith's
love, like water that rises through minerals, was
impregnated with much foreign material. He at
first had no formed purpose in his devotion to Lady
Anne; but after being twice or thrice repulsed from
Mr. Linwood's door by "My master is better, sir
but not yet down stairs;" and "Miss Isabella is
very much engaged," he half resolved no longer
to resist the "tide in his affairs that was leading
on to fortune."

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Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII.

     "Some die of weariness,
Some of disease, and some insanity,
And some of withered or of broken hearts;
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are numbered in the lists of fate,
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names."


Byron.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   Bessie Lee's sylvan lodge harmonized so well
with her wild fancies, that when she awoke it
seemed no more strange to her than her accustom-
ed sleeping-place. Whatever she might be destin-
ed afterward to suffer from this exposure on the
damp earth through a cold autumnal night, she was
as unconscious of the ills that flesh is heir to as
if she were a disimbodied spirit. "Sluggard that
I am!" she exclaimed, starting up and shaking off
the heavy dew-drops, "the spirits of morning are
at worship, and I sleeping! the birds are singing
their hymns, and I, that have been watched and
guarded, am silent." She leaned her cheek on the
mossy stem of a tree, and began to repeat the
Lord's prayer: " `Our father' -- ay, nature wor-
ships with me -- beautiful waterfall, majestic trees,
glad light, is he not our father? -- `hallowed be his
name,' -- ye hallow his name, for ye are the manifes-
tations of his wisdom, the ministers of his love,

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the shadows of celestial beauty! -- `thy kingdom
come' -- it is come here -- obedience, peace, serenity,
are his kingdom -- war is not -- care is not -- love is
not -- love to fallible mortals, for there no peace is
-- so I will on my pilgrimage, and break the last
link in the chain -- then will I return here, finish my
prayer, and lay me down and rest again."

   Thus mingling with her celestial meditations
one earthly purpose, she retraced her way to the
road, and looked about in vain for her horse, who,
having obeyed his rational impulses, was now far
on his way homeward. "It was not kind of you,
Steady," she said, as she came to the conclusion
he had abandoned her; but without one thought of
relinquishing her purpose, or one doubt of her
ability to effect it. She walked on for about half a
mile, and probably began to have some obscure
sense of tremulousness and weakness, for, seeing a
horse equipped with saddle and bridle hitched to
the fence, and a basket standing by him containing
biscuits and apples, she laughed aloud, exclaiming,
"Who would have thought it!" and then checking
herself, raised her eyes devoutly and added, "yet,
I might have known they would be provided
by the wayside, just when I wanted them. I
wonder there is not a woman's saddle, but I can
manage;" and taking the basket in one hand, she
mounted, and rode briskly on. She proceeded
without any hinderance or molestation whatever,
now and then, probably, from an insupportable feel-

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SMALL | MEDIUM
ing of weariness, dismounting and lying for a mo-
ment under the shadow of a tree. It was about
the middle of the afternoon, when she was enter-
ing the street of a little village, that she heard be-
hind her the trampling of horses on the full gallop,
and outcries of "Stop thief!" Her horse, incited
more by the uproar at his heels than by any impulse
she was able to give him, sprang forward. The
people rushed from their houses -- their screams
bewildered her. She gazed fearfully around her;
her wearied horse soon slackened his speed, and one
of her pursuers reached her just at the moment that,
having dropped the bridle from her powerless hand,
she was falling from her saddle. "Time you was
spent, young madam," cried her rough assistant, as,
supporting half her weight, he prevented her sink-
ing to the ground.

   The people of the village, chiefly women and
children, gathered around, all gazing on Bessie
with scrutinizing glances. Her wandering eye and
blanched cheek must have half told her story, for
not one of them spoke till she, drawing up from the
arm that supported her, asked, with an air of offend-
ed dignity, "Why are ye so unmannerly to me?"

   "Ha, ha -- not quite so topping, miss -- serve
your writ, Mr. Sheriff," replied one of her pursu-
ers. "Pretty high, to talk about manners, when
you've been riding fifty miles on a stolen horse."

   "Stolen!" echoed Bessie, "indeed, I did not
steal him."

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   "How upon 'arth did you get him then? answer
that."

   "I took him -- " the standers-by interrupted her
with a coarse laugh; but Bessie, without heeding
them, proceeded: "I took him, where he stood
awaiting me."

   "Now, if that is not a high joke! Just hear
me, good people -- the sheriff can swear to all
I say. This is Squire Saunders's horse -- you
have all heard of the squire?" They had all
heard of Squire Saunders, whose fame rayed
through a large circle. "Well, the squire rode up
to his wood-lot this morning, to see about a trespass
that's committing there -- you know, sheriff; and
the squire just hitched his horse to the fence, and
went up into the woods, and got out of his reckon-
ing; and two hours after, when he came upon the
road -- "

   "Take care of that poor young woman," cried a
benevolent looking man who was passing in an ox-
cart, "don't you see she can't stand?"

   "I am tired," said Bessie, sinking to the ground,
and putting her hand to her head; "this noise tires
me."

   The spectators exchanged glances of inquiry
and pity; the sheriff looked compassionate; his
companion sturdy, and resolved not to be taken in.
The man of the ox-cart stopped his vehicle, and
joined the group: "Are ye all blind and deaf," he

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added, "that ye do not see the poor girl's mind is
unsettled?"

   "Oh no, friend," said Bessie, shaking her head,
and looking up with a faint smile, "you are very
much mistaken -- my mind is not the least unsettled
-- indeed, it every day becomes stronger and more
capable than it was."

   Her champion looked to the standers-by for their
assent to this confirmation of his opinion, and then
turning to the sheriff, said, "You will not, I am
sure, trouble her farther?"

   "No, I'll be hanged if I do!"

   "Nor you?" appealing to the sheriff's attendant.

   "I don't know -- if I were sure -- I don't like to
be outwitted -- remember, sheriff, it was for horse
and thief the squire offered the reward."

   "The devil take the reward, Dan!"

   "You may say so -- for you that's got an office
can afford it, but I'm a volunteer. But since you
all take on so about it, if you're a mind to contrib-
ute and pay something towards my expenses and
trouble and so on, I'll trust to the squire for the
rest."

   "I have not one copper to pay," said Bessie's
friend.

   "Pay! is that all he wants?" asked Bessie,
thrusting her hand into her pocket, and giving into
his greedy grasp her few coins; "perhaps it was
meant," she added, in a confidential tone to her
champion, "that I should pay for the use of the

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SMALL | MEDIUM
horse, but I know he was provided for me. Are
you satisfied?" she asked, in a tone to pierce the
heart; "indeed, I have given you all."

   "He shall be satisfied -- he must be satisfied!"
cried every voice at once; and the man, perceiving
the general sentiment was against him, was glad to
mount his horse and follow the sheriff, who was al-
ready leading away Squire Saunders's recovered
property. It was evident the sheriff's organ of be-
nevolence had resisted the influence of his station.

   "And now what is to be done with this poor
helpless thing?" asked Barlow, the kind-hearted
man who had so far befriended Bessie. At this
question, two or three of the spectators slunk
away; the rest exchanged fearful and uncertain
glances; one or two murmured that they "did not
love to have crazy folks in their houses;" and it
was obvious that the benevolence of all was re-
strained by that irrational fear which so much in-
creases the sufferings of those who are mentally
diseased. No one offering an asylum for the poor
wanderer, Barlow turned to her and asked, "What
will you do now, my poor child?"

   "Oh, go on."

   "Go on! where, in the name of wonder?"

   "To New-York."

   "Impossible! how are you to go?"

   "I must go -- more than life depends on it -- now,
I cannot tell exactly. I do not think I could walk
very far," she vainly attempted to rise; "but do

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not be concerned about me, for certainly He who
hath helped me so far will not now desert me."

   The gentle girl's unconsciousness of her wants
was more touching than the most passionate appeal.

   "Will you go home with me?" asked Barlow,
after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice.

   "Oh, no, I thank you; I cannot lose any time."

   "Poor child! but," he added, "I live six miles
nearer to New-York than this, and I can take you
so far on your way."

   "Then indeed I will go. Did I not tell you,
O ye of little faith, that the way would be pro-
vided?" Again, and again without success, she
attempted to rise.

   "Lend a hand, neighbours," said Barlow; "the
straw on my cart is clean, and we will lay her on
it." Bessie was placed in the cart, and driven to
Barlow's humble habitation, a dwelling-house ad-
joining a blacksmith's shop, within a few miles of
Hartford, in Connecticut.

   Barlow would have been justifiable, if ever man
was, in going on "the other side," and leaving Bessie
Lee to the chance mercies of others. But Barlow's
heart bore a faint resemblance to his own anvil;
the stroke of his fellow-creature's necessities al-
ways brought forth sparks of kindness.

   "Dear me!" exclaimed his wife, when he entered
their little dwelling, supporting Bessie with one
arm; "who have you got here?"

   "Open the door into the bedroom, Martha, and

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I'll tell you afterward." The door was promptly
opened, the bedspread turned down, and Bessie
laid upon the clean inviting bed.

   "Oh, thank you, thank you!" she said; "I shall
tell mother and Eliot how very kind you are to me."

   "Dear me!" said pitiful Mrs. Barlow.

   "Oh, ma'am, I am very well," said Bessie, reply-
ing to her compassionate look; "only a little tired
-- do not let me oversleep to-morrow morning."

   "Give her some warm milk, Martha; and let
her sleep, if she can -- it's her only chance."

   The hospitality was done, and Bessie left to the
ministry of nature, while Barlow related to his mar-
velling wife all he knew of her. "Well," said she,
as he concluded, "I do feel for her folks; and yet
she don't look as if she belonged to this world. I
have dreamed of seeing angels, and she looks like
them; but like nothing made out of clay. I'm
glad you brought her home, Barlow; it's a great
easement to the heart to do a kindness, though we
are in a poor case to entertain strangers, even if
they be angels."

   "We be in a poor situation; but it would have
been awful to have left such a young, delicate, in-
nocent, beautiful fellow-creature to perish by the
wayside!"

   "Dear me! yes, indeed."

   "Or to have left her to people that were so slack
about helping her."

   "It would."

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   "And so, knowing your feelings, Martha, I've
done what I have done."

   "You've done right, Barlow."

   "I don't know, you are so poorly, and the boys
sick. Have they missed their chill to-day?"

   "No, neither they nor I."

   Barlow rose, looked at the pale faces of his little
boys, who were lying in a truckle-bed, then at his
sickly wife, and shook his head.

   "Martha, I am afraid I have been presumptuous."

   "Dear me, husband! don't worry about that;
what would be the use of sickness if it did not give
us feelings for others?"

   "True, Martha; and somehow I could not help
it; and now I can't but think Providence will help
us through with what his finger pointed out. I
have repented of a great many things in my day;
but I never saw reason to repent of a good deed --
look in the bedroom, Martha, and see if she is
sleeping."

   "Dear me, no! but there's a quiet smile on her
lips, and her beautiful eyes are raised; and she
seems just like a lamb looking at the shepherd."

   "If she's still she may fall asleep; so let us ask
a blessing on her and the rest of us, and then we'll
to bed ourselves."

   What grace and dignity do the devotion and
compassion of such pure hearts impart to the dwel-
ling of the poor man! Oh ye, who fare sumptuously
every day, imitate him in his only luxury -- the
luxury of deeds never to be repented of!

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Chapter 28

CHAPTER XXVIII.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   "The man I speak of cannot in the world be singly counter-
poised."

   A week subsequent to Bessie Lee's arrival at
Barlow's, a violent hallooing and knocking were
heard at the blacksmith's shop; and no answer
being given, Barlow's house-door was soon beset
with impatient knocks and cries of -- "Halloo,
blacksmith, you are wanted!"

   Barlow rose from the bed, where he had been
laid by a severe attack of intermittent fever, and
answered, that he was utterly unable to go to his
workshop. "What does he say?" asked a young
gentleman in a foreign accent, who with two or
three attendants was impatiently awaiting Barlow's
services.

   "He says he cannot come, sir."

   "Cannot! Ce n'est pas le mot d'aujourd'hui."

   "Neither, I think, sir," replied the first speaker,
is must current in these parts."

   "Vous avez raison, mon ami; mais mon Dieu!
What are we to do?"

   The gentleman, being very much in the habit of
overcoming other men's impossibilities every day
of his life, dismounted, gave his bridle to an at-

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tendant, and walked up to the open door of our
friend Barlow, who, on seeing the uniform of an
American general officer, was somewhat abashed,
though its wearer was a fair young man, with a
remarkably gentle and benignant countenance. "If
it were barely possible, sir," said Barlow, "I should
be happy to serve you; but I am scarcely able to
stand."

   "Ah, my good friend, I see you are in a bad
position, and your wife too. How long have you
been ill, madame?"

   "I have had the fever 'nagur, sir, six weeks, off
and on."

   "Fever 'nagur! Qu'est que c'est?" asked the
gentleman, aside, of his companion.

   "Fever and ague."

   "Ah, je comprends! very bad malady, madame,
very bad; you should take every day a little port
wine."

   Mrs. Barlow smiled. "Dear me! yes, sir, if I
had it."

   "You go or send often to Hartford?" resumed
the stranger, addressing Barlow.

   "Almost every day, sir."

   "Ah, very well! I have some port wine there
in a friend's cellar. I will give you an order for a
bottle or two; and I pray you to send for it; and
you and your wife, and these little fellows, who by
their blue lips have the ague too, shall drink to my
health and your own."

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   "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Barlow; "a little
port wine is what I have been all along thinking
would cure us -- dear me!"

   "Is it only one horse, sir, that wants shoeing?"
asked Barlow, tying a handkerchief round his
throat.

   "Only one, my good friend; my own brave
beast, who has done much good service, and has
much more to do. Pauvre bête! it goes to my
heart to have his hoof broken up."

   Barlow felt as if his strength came with the
sympathy and consideration manifested by the per-
son who needed it. "I guess, sir," he said, "I could
stand long enough to do so small a job."

   "Ah, my friend, mille -- a thousand thanks; but
spare your strength to do what no one else can
do. Here, orderly, kindle up the blacksmith's fire,
quickly." While this was in preparation, the
stranger took writing materials from his pocket,
and addressed the following note to a person whose
munificence is still remembered, though he has
long ago gone to the enjoyment of his treasures,
where he was then wisely laying them up.

---

Letter

"My dear Wadsworth,

    -- I have just chanced
to call at a poor blacksmith's, who, with his worthy
family, is at death's door with a protracted inter-
mittent. It seems to me that port, like that I
drank with you yesterday, might restore them.
As the man looks like too independent an American

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to beg a favour, I have taken the liberty to give
him this order for a bottle or two, telling him, with
a poetic truth, that I had wine in your cellar. It is
your own fault if all your friends feel that they
have a property in your possessions. Adieu."

   Just as the stranger had signed and sealed this
billet, the inner door opened, and Bessie Lee ap-
peared, her cheeks died with fever, her eyes bright
as gems, her lips of the brightest vermilion, and
her beautiful hair hanging in many a tangled curl
over her face and neck. "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed
the stranger.

   "Dear me! my child, go back," said Mrs. Bar-
low, gently repulsing her. Bessie, however, with-
out heeding her, pressed forward, and addressing
herself to the stranger in an energetic, business
sort of a way, "You are going to New-York?" she
said.

   "Not exactly, young lady; but I am going in
that direction."

   "Do go back into the bedroom, -- do, husband,
persuade her -- "

   "No, no, Martha, let her have her own way."

   "Thank you," said Bessie. "Will you be kind
enough, sir, to step into my room? -- this buzzing
confuses me."

   The stranger, with characteristic sagacity, had
already half penetrated the truth. He motioned
to Bessie to precede him, saying in a low voice to

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Mrs. Barlow, "Your husband is right. It is best
your child should have her own way."

   "Dear me, she is not our child, sir!"

   "She does not look as if she were," thought the
stranger; but there was no time for farther ex-
planation. As soon as they were fairly within the
inner room, Bessie shut the door. She seemed at
first disconcerted; but instantly rallying, she said,
"I am unknown to you, sir, but your face seems to
have that heavenly sentence written on it: `Ask and
it shall be given to you.' "

   "Then why do you hesitate?"

   "They would think it so strange that I should
be asking such a favour of a stranger -- a young
gentleman -- "

   "Who are they?"

   "My mother and brother."

   "Their names, my friend?"

   "I cannot tell their names. My present object
is to get to New-York as soon as possible, where I
have business of the greatest importance. I have
been staying here for some days with very kind
people. I would not wound their feelings on any
account," she added, in a whisper; "but they are
very weak-minded -- no judgment at all; indeed,
there are few people that have, so I do not choose
to confide to them the reason of my actions. All
will be explained and published when I return
from New-York."

   "But, my dear young lady, are you aware that
New-York is in possession of the enemy?"

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   "Oh, sir, I have no enemies."

   "Rough soldiers -- foreign soldiers, my fair
friend, will make no exception in your favour."

   "You do not know," she replied, drawing up
her little person with an air of assured but myste-
rious superiority, "you do not know that I am one
of those of whom it was said, that `their angels
do always stand before my Father;' and I could tell
you of such difficult passes where invisible spirits
have guided and tended me -- so faithfully! but that
at another time. There is not the slightest danger
in my going to New-York -- indeed, I have no
choice; I must go."

   "Do you know any one in New-York?"

   "Yes, Miss Linwood, the friend to whom I am
going."

   "Miss Linwood? Miss Isabella Linwood? Ah,
I have heard of her."

   "She is not my only -- " friend, she was going
to say; a shade passed over her countenance, and
she added, "acquaintance in New-York. Now,
sir, all that I am going to ask of you is for liberty
to ride behind you, or one of your attendants, as
far as you go on my way."

   The stranger, compassionate as he felt, could
scarcely forbear a smile. "We should be hardly
a proper escort for you, my fair friend," he replied.

   "Oh, fear not for that; I am so fenced about --
so guarded by unseen and powerful spirits, that it
matters not with whom, if I but get forward."

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   After a moment of anxious thought, "Tell me,
young lady," he replied, "the name of that brother
of whom you spoke, and on my honour I will do
all in my power for you."

   "No -- never -- this is a temptation of that evil
one who so long led me astray, to turn me again
from the straight path, to frustrate my purpose. I
do not blame you, sir. He has before, in my
dreams and at other times, whispered to me,
that if I were but to speak my brother's name, I
should be cared for; but this would be trusting to
a human arm. No: his name must not pass my
lips." If she had then spoken it, how different
would have been the fate of many individuals!

   The benevolent stranger perceived that the im-
pressions (whether illusions or not) from which
Bessie acted were ineffaceable, and that she had
that fixedness of purpose from which it seems im-
possible, by reason or art of any sort, to turn an
insane person. He was at an utter loss what to
do or say, and merely murmured, "Would to
Heaven I could serve you!"

   "You would and cannot! Indeed, you look to
me like those favourites of Heaven, who both will
and can. Who are you?"

   "I am more generous than you, my friend, and
I will tell you. My name is La Fayette."

   "La Fayette! Now is it not wonderful," ex-
claimed Bessie, clasping her hands and looking up-
ward, her whole face bright and rapturous, "Is it

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not wonderful that he who is chosen and set apart
of God for the cause of freedom, the friend of
Washington, the best friend of my struggling
country, should be guided to this little dwelling to
find me out and aid me? You cannot choose but
serve me," she added, laying her hand on his, and
faintly and wildly laughing.

   "And I will serve you, my poor girl, so help
me God!" he replied, kissing her faded, feverish
hand. "Sit you here quietly, and I will see what
can be done."

   "I will wait patiently, but remember, there is
but one thing to be done."

   La Fayette appeared in the outer room: his eyes
were suffused with tears, and for a moment he
found it difficult to command his voice. "You
can make nothing of her," said Mrs. Barlow, look-
ing inquiringly. "No? I thought so -- she is the
meekest and the beautifullest mortal, the gentlest
and the most obstinate, that ever I came across."

   "Where is your husband, my good friend?"

   "Shoeing your horse, sir."

   "Ah, that's very kind, very kind indeed; I will
go and speak with him." Accordingly, he pro-
ceeded to the workshop, and there received from
Barlow all the particulars he could communicate
of poor Bessie Lee. "It is not only her master
beautiful looks, sir," said Barlow, in conclusion;
"but she seems so pure in heart, and so well nur-
tured, and so pretty spoken. She draws many a

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tear from us -- being weak and sick, sir, makes one
easy to cry."

   "The fountain of such tears is a good heart, my
friend; and no one need apologize for letting them
gush out now and then. You say you have made
every effort to find out who the poor girl is?"

   "Yes, sir, indeed I have; but it is impossible.
I have thought of advertising the stray lamb," he
added, with a smile; "but somehow I did not love
to put her in the newspapers."

   "That, perhaps, would have been wisest; but
now I think the best thing that can be done is to
gratify her ruling desire, and get her to New-York
as soon as possible."

   "Ay, indeed, sir; but how get her there now?"

   "Why, my friend, you must furnish the way,
and I the means. You know that those of us who
are best off in these times have no superfluity. I
cannot spare more than a guinea from the small
sum I have with me."

   "A guinea is a great sum, sir, in these hard
times; but -- "

   "But not enough to get the young lady to New-
York, I am aware of that; and therefore, in addi-
tion, I shall give you my watch, which, being fine
gold and a repeater, will enable you to raise enough
for her necessities, and a surplus to make your
family comfortable till you come to the anvil again."

   "This is too much," replied Barlow, bending
low over the horse's hoof; either his gratitude or

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his sickness making it "easy for him to cry
again."

   "Not too much, nor quite enough, my friend.
You will find some worthy man and woman to ac-
company her to the American lines; and I will do
what I can to secure her safe conduct. She will
certainly go safely to the British posts, and beyond,
I trust. Surely none of God's creatures, who have
a trace of his image, can be inhuman to her; but
we must take all precautions."

   "Yes, indeed, sir; war, like a slaughter-house,
breeds vermin; and there be those abroad whose
hearts are as hard as my anvil."

   "We will do our best to protect her from such."

   La Fayette then wrote an earnest recommenda-
tion of Bessie to the protection and kindness of all
Americans. He requested the American officer to
forward her under the protection of a flag, and
finally addressed a note to the British commander,
and all his officers and agents, stating the condition
of the young person whom he commended to their
humanity, and praying them to expedite her prog-
ress to New-York, where (as he thought proper
to state, knowing Mr. Linwood to be a tory), the
friend to whose house she was going, Robert Lin-
wood, Esq., resided. The surprise of Barlow when
he received these notes, and saw the powerful, all-
honoured, and loved name of La Fayette attached
to them, is indescribable. La Fayette gave the
watch into his hands, and without waiting for his

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thanks, he pressed Barlow's hand, mounted his
horse, joined his companions, and rode off at full
speed. Barlow gazed after him till the cavalcade
disappeared; then, after a fervent thanksgiving to
God, he said, looking at the watch, "I must pledge
this; but if Heaven prosper me I will redeem it,
and leave it, as better than all my fast property, to
my children."

   We have graced our page by recording here one
of His unnumbered good deeds, who has filled up
the measure of human benevolence by every mani-
festation, from the least to the greatest, of this di-
vine quality.*

---

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Chapter 29

CHAPTER XXIX.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

"But this was what I knew had come to pass,
When, answ'ring with your vacant no, and yes,
You fed upon your thoughts and mark'd me not."

   "My dear Lady Anne," said Mrs. Meredith to her
niece, as they were one morning sitting together,
"you seem to have taken a wonderful liking to that
knotting" (Lady Anne had become, as our friend
Rivington has it, "thrifty in the knotting amuse-
ment") -- "where in the world did you learn it?"

   "Mrs. Linwood taught me."

   "So I should think. It is as monotonous as
she is."

   "Oh, aunt, I find it charming! It is the very
perfection of existence to have an occupation like
this for your fingers, while your heart and mind
are left free to rove to the end of the world, or,
what is better still, to be at the service of some
agreeable companion you may chance to have be-
side you."

   "Chacun à son gout!" said Mrs. Meredith,
taking up a book, with a vexing consciousness that
she was not the "agreeable companion" preferred
to her niece's maiden meditations. Lady Anne
had not spoken five words for the hour they had
been sitting together. As the morning was rainy

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the ladies were like to remain uninterrupted; and
it was too tempting an opportunity for Mrs. Mere-
dith to make an attack she had long been medita-
ting, to be foregone; so she put aside her book and
her vexation, and said in a voice sufficiently un-
toned for an old diplomatist, "You seem quite
fond of the Linwoods, my love?"

   "I am, aunt."

   "You find the choleric, peevish, egotistical old
man charming?"

   "Indeed, I do sincerely think him a delightful
old gentleman."

   "And that living manifestation of all the medi-
ocrities, his patient consort?"

   "The most amiable woman in the world."

   "And their lofty, capricious daughter, now silent
and infolded in her own sublimities, like a wor-
shipped idol on its pedestal, and now gracious as a
new-made queen?"

   "And always captivating and gentle, aunt." Mrs.
Meredith threw up her hands and eyes: "I mean
almost always gentle as a woman should be. For
my part, I do not fancy perpetual sunshine. I am
much of a certain English sea-captain's way of
thinking, who, after being becalmed in the sunny
waters of France, sailed away in one of his own
northeasters and thick fogs, and thanked Heaven
he was out of that d -- d sunshine."

   "Your illustration is a fortunate one, Lady Anne;
I congratulate you on your peculiar taste. But

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for this gusty variety in the temper of your friend,
your long evenings with that little family coterie
would be rather of the becalmed order."

   "The evenings never seem long to me," replied
Lady Anne, her face dimpling with recollected
pleasure.

   "How in the world do you kill time?"

   "Oh, the old gentleman, and Mrs. Archer, and
Isabella and her mother, play whist."

   "And you sit by and look on? -- this is inscruta-
ble, that you, my dear child, who are so admired,
courted, worshipped, should be content to play so
obscure a part. If there were a young man in the
case -- if that son of Mr. Linwood were at home --
by-the-way, they seem to make themselves ex-
ceedingly comfortable while he is in durance --
yes, if the juice of `that little western flower' were
on your eyelids, I could understand why you
should thus `madly dote.' "

   Lady Anne laughed and shook her head, as if to
say, "Puzzle it out if you can."

   Mrs. Meredith was displeased; but like many
persons who have self-command and good taste,
she chose to show her angry feelings in the light
of gentle emotions. Her voice faltered, and her
eyes filled with tears (her eyes, it may be remem-
bered, were fine, the prototypes of her son's brilliant
orbs). "I ought, my dear girl," she said, "to be
satisfied if you are; but I have so set my heart
upon you, the only child of my dear lamented

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brother. I had hoped that Jasper and I should
make our home attractive to you; that we might
have, at least, a portion of your affection."

   "My dear aunt!" exclaimed Lady Anne, throw-
ing down her knotting, "I -- I -- " do love you dearly,
she was on the point of adding, but she was too
honest to indulge her good-nature at the expense
of truth, and she said, "I feel your kindness to me
-- I should be most ungrateful if I did not."

   "Grateful, undoubtedly, you are; and so you
would have been to any faithful guardian; but the
heart asks something more. You manifest neither
to me nor to Jasper more than the affection of a
common relative. Whatever place I may take in
the scale of your friends, your cousin is certainly
no common person."

   "No, indeed, that he is not," said Lady Anne,
charmed that she could sooth her aunt and speak
sincerely. "Jasper is by far the most agreeable
gentleman you have introduced to me here. He
is a little abstracted now and then; but when he
knows what he is saying, he is perfectly delightful.
I told Isabella Linwood last evening that it was a
mystery to me -- une veritable merveille -- that she
had never fallen in love with Jasper."

   "What did she say?" asked Mrs. Meredith,
eagerly, and off her guard.

   "I do not remember. I believe she said nothing."

   "A provoking, inscrutable person she is," thought
Mrs. Meredith; and then made a remark which she

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meant to be what the lawyers call leading: --
"There was a report before we came of an attach-
ment between Jasper and Miss Linwood."

   "Bless me! was there?"

   "Why are you surprised?"

   "For the best reason in the world, aunt -- neither
seems to fancy the other. As for Isabella, when-
ever I praise cousin Jasper, she is either quite si-
lent, or turns the conversation, as if she did not
like to appear to disagree with me."

   "Ah, my young lady," thought the aunt, "you
do not see quite through a millstone."

   Jasper at this moment entered. "Come here,
cousin," said Lady Anne; and when he had ap-
proached, she added, in a playful voice, putting her
hand (the prettiest hand in the world) on his arm,
"Were you ever in love with -- " her mischievous
pause nearly suspended the pulsations of Meredith's
heart, "with -- don't be scared -- the most loveable
person in the world?"

   He had recovered himself. "If I never have
been," he replied, seizing her hand and kissing it,
"I shall soon be -- irretrievably."

   The past, the future, rushed upon him, and over-
powered his self-command. He turned from Lady
Anne and left the apartment. "Oh, Jasper! Jas-
per!" cried Lady Anne, blushing, laughing, and
springing after him, "stop one minute -- you did
not understand me." But before she reached the
stairs, the outer door closed after Meredith. Mrs.

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Meredith clasped her hands. Jasper was won --
Lady Anne must of course be! -- and she seemed
to herself to have reached the summit of her Pis-
gah, and thence to descry the promised land for
which she had come to the wilderness. That
"there is many a slip between the cup and the
lip" is a proverb somewhat musty; but it pithily
indicates the sudden mutations to which poor
humanity is liable.

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Chapter 30

CHAPTER XXX.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

"I would to Heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?
No! I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,
And what a prisoner."

   We change the scene from Mrs. Meredith's
drawing-room to the gloomiest cell in the city
prison, where, stretched on a heap of straw, lay a
poor wretch condemned to be hung at four o'clock
in the afternoon of that day. The door opened,
and Isabella entered, attended by Rose, and escort-
ed by a turnkey, who, having set down a candle to
aid the feeble light of the cell, went out himself
and locked the door upon them.

   "Take up the light, Rose," said Isabella, who
was shivering, not so much from the unsunned air
of the apartment, as at the presence of a fellow-
creature in such circumstances; "hold it near
him, Rose, so that I can see his face."

   Rose approached close to him and said, as if
announcing the visit of an angel, "Here's a lady
come to see you." He made no reply; and, after
an eager survey, she turned to her young mistress
and said, "His senses are clean gone!" Isabella
held Rose's arm while she gazed at him. His face
was ashen, his hair was in matted masses, and his

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pale blue eye wandered inexpressively. "Who
are you?" asked Isabella. The music of her voice
for an instant fixed his uncertain gaze, but he made
no reply; and again his eye was bent on vacancy.
"Who are you, friend?" she repeated.

   "I a'n't nobody," he replied, in a broken voice,
between a laugh and a sob.

   "Have you no friend?" He turned his face to
the straw, and muttered something inaudibly.
"What does he say, Rose?"

   "Turn up your face so the lady can hear," said
Rose. He obeyed; but Rose's voice seemed to
have broken the spell of her mistress's, and he re-
mained silent.

   "Rouse yourself, my good friend," said Isabella,
"I wish to be of service to you. Can you give
me any reason why you should not die the death
to which you are sentenced?"

   "No -- lief as not."

   "It cannot be -- you must have something --
some friend for whom you would like to live and
come out of this place."

   "Had! -- had!" the poor creature sobbed like
a child.

   "Tell me," said Isabella, eagerly, "the name
of this friend?" But the obstinate mood had again
seized him, and, though she varied the question
and put it in every possible form, he gave no sign
of answer.

   "Try him upon some other hook, Miss Belle,"
whispered Rose.

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   "How long had you been with the skinners
when you were taken?"

   Now he answered promptly -- "Years! -- years!"

   "Years? -- that cannot be."

   "Cannot? A'n't the minutes years to the child
that's crying for its mammy, hey?" He had risen
on his elbow; but he again sunk back on the
straw, and renewed his piteous crying.

   "What does this mean? What can be done
for him?" exclaimed Isabella. "My poor friend,
death is very near to you -- do you know it?"

   "Yes, yes, lady. Ha'n't they brought me a new
suit?" He pointed to the execution suit that was
folded up and lying beside him. "There be three
times in every one's life when they're sure of a new
suit: -- when they're born, when they're married,
and when they die. I've got my last and prettiest,
I'm thinking, for I remember granny reading about
the angels being in white robes."

   His mind seemed now more collected, and
Isabella ventured to ask him if he were willing
to die?

   "Glad on't -- don't look at me, lady, with that
bright watery eye -- I am glad on't."

   "Have you prayed for the pardon of your sins?"

   "Haven't any -- never had -- never wronged any-
body -- nor wished it -- nor thought on't."

   "Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Isabella, "what
is to be done?"

   "For me, lady? -- nothing."

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   "Do you not wish to live?"

   "Yes -- with him. 'Out him? -- no."

   "Who?" Isabella spoke too eagerly. He look-
ed at her, shook his head, then broke into an exult-
ing laugh like a boy who has seen a trap and es-
caped it.

   "Miss Belle," said Rose, "you are wasting
your tears and your feelings -- we must all die once,
and the stroke can't come in better time to him
than now, when he's so willing to go."

   "Willing? glad, hey! nobody cares for me, and
I cares for nobody but him; I think he be dead;
but," he added, laying his hand on Isabella's arm,
"be he dead or be he living, you'll see him --
your soul is kin to his, lady -- and mind you tell
him how the skinners kept me till the reg'lars
came -- did not tell 'em I was not a skinner --
cheated 'em, hey!"

   Isabella waited till he was through, and then
said quietly, "Who did you tell me to give your
message to?"

   "Misser Eliot." At the utterance of this name
poor Kisel sunk back on the straw, laughed and
cried, and attempted to whistle, but he was too weak
to control the muscles of his lips. By degrees
his voice subsided into low moanings, and his eye
wandered without light or direction from his mind.
The name had produced its effect upon Isabella
also. She had been incited to this visit to the
prison by Herbert, who had communicated to her

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the previous evening some particulars he had re-
ceived from a sub-keeper in the prison, in relation
to this condemned man, which had excited a fear
in his (Herbert's) mind that there was some mis-
take in relation to the culprit. Herbert had not,
however, the slightest suspicion that the poor vic-
tim was Kisel. One or two particulars of the
convict's apparent innocence and simplicity had
touched Isabella's heart, and all night she had been
disturbed by the impression that he was unjustly
condemned. Some young ladies would have rest-
ed satisfied with dropping a few pitiful tears over
such a mischance; but Isabella Linwood was of
another temper; and having no male friend on
whom she could rely, she went herself to the
prison, and easily obtained access to the prisoner's
cell. The moment Kisel pronounced Eliot's name,
she was convinced the condemned must be the
half-witted attendant of Captain Lee, whom she
had often heard Herbert describe; and she doubted
not that by going to Sir Henry Clinton and com-
municating her convictions, she might obtain an
order for having him identified by confronting him
with Herbert, or at any rate, that she should pro-
cure a respite of his sentence. Her carriage was
awaiting her; and having communicated her inten-
tions to Rose, she directed her to walk home, say-
ing she should go immediately to Sir Henry's.
Rose remonstrated. "What if he be the poor
man you think for, Miss Belle? life is nothing to

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him -- he can do nothing with it -- he would not
thank you for it."

   "But, Rose, the life of an innocent man is
sacred."

   "La, Miss Belle, they don't stand on such trifles
as innocence in war-times -- please don't go to Sir
Henry's. He won't think the man belonging to
Captain Lee alters the case much, and you don't
love to be denied, and -- I don't love to have you."

   Rose was right. Her young mistress did not
"love to be denied," but the discipline of events
was fast subduing her self-will, and counteracting
the indulgence and flattery of her friends. A
common nature is not taught by experience, and
may therefore be either the tool or victim of cir-
cumstances; but a creature like Isabella Linwood,
composed of noble elements (if, as with her, these
elements are sustained by religious principle), has
within herself a self-rectifying and all-controlling
power. "Rose little dreams," said she, as the car-
riage door closed upon her, "how my fondest wish-
es and expectations have been denied and defeat-
ed! God grant that the affections thus cast back
upon me may not degenerate to morbid sensibility
or pining selfishness, but that they may be employed
vigorously for the good of my fellow-beings! This
poor, harmless, broken creature, if I could but save
him! -- save him and render Eliot Lee a service --
Herbert's friend -- poor Bessie's brother -- and the
preserver of my dear little pet, Lizzy!"

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   In the midst of these meditations she was
shown into Sir Henry's library, where she perceiv-
ed Jasper Meredith seated at the table, reading, in
the identical spot where, a few weeks before, she
had received so passionate a declaration from him.
A most embarrassing reminiscence of the scene
struck them both. He started from the table, and
she asked the servant to show her to the drawing-
room. "The drawing-room was occupied;" and
thus, though the awkwardness of entering was in-
creased tenfold by the effort to avoid it, enter she
must.

   Seldom have two persons been placed in a more
singular position in relation to each other. Their
destiny, while it was governed by inflexible princi-
ples, seemed to have been at the mercy of the
merest accidents. "If," as Meredith had thought
a thousand times, while pursuing his retrospec-
tions, "if Isabella had not hesitated, and while she
hesitated, Helen Ruthven had not broken in upon
us, our fate would then have been fixed; or if, on
the second occasion, when I urged her decision,
she had not again hesitated till her impatient
father called her, I should not now be wavering
between my inclination and my better judgment!"

   But Isabella did hesitate, and that hesitation,
proceeding from the demands of her pure and
lofty nature, was her salvation, and a fatal rebuke
and spur to his vanity.

   They exchanged the ordinary salutations. Isa-

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bella sat down. They were in the same chairs
they had occupied at that memorable moment of
their lives; the same table was before them -- the
same books on the table. Feelings have their hab-
its, and so easily revert to their customary chan-
nels! A spell seemed to have been cast over them.
Neither spoke nor moved, till Isabella, starting as
one starts from a thrilling dream, rose and walked
to the window. "Ah," thought she, "what mem-
ories, hopes, dreams, `poor fancy's followers,' has
this place conjured up!"

   Jasper, moved by an irresistible impulse, follow-
ed her, and was arrested in his half-formed purpose
by the vision of Helen Ruthven, who, as she was
passing on the opposite side of the street, had seen
Isabella come forward, and had vainly tried to
catch her eye. She was smiling and bowing.
When she saw Meredith, she beckoned. "You
had best go to Miss Ruthven," said Isabella; "I
have some business with Sir Henry."

   "I will go, Miss Linwood," he replied; and ad-
ding bitterly, " `the will of man is by his reason
swayed,' " he disappeared. Isabella burst into
tears. Was ever a woman disinthralled from such
a sentiment as Isabella had felt, without efforts re-
peated and repeated, and many such pangs as she
now suffered, secretly endured. The struggle is a
hard one -- the conquest worth it.

   Sir Henry entered. "Your pardon, my dear
Miss Isabella. I believed Meredith was here, and

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thought you might chance to profit by the blessing
promised to those who wait -- but you look troub-
led -- your father is not worse, no? -- your brother
has not abused his liberty? -- papa does not frown
upon the faithful knight?"

   "Oh, no, no -- nothing of all this, Sir Henry -- I
have again come a petitioner to you, but not now
in my own cause." Isabella then proceeded to
state concisely and eloquently the case of the con-
demned; Sir Henry became graver as she proceed-
ed; and as she ended, losing a good deal of his
habitual courtesy, he said, "Really, Miss Lin-
wood, these are not matters for a young lady to
interfere with. The day for voluntary and roman-
tic righters of wrongs is past. This fellow has
been adjudged to death after due investigation,
before the proper tribunal, and I do not see that it
makes any essential difference in his favour even
if he should have had the honour of once being in
the service of a man who is so fortunate as to be
the friend of your brother, and to have rendered
an accidental service to your aunt. The poor
wretch, as you allow, was one of a band of skin-
ners when captured by a detachment of our sol-
diers. His comrades were hung last week, and I
have already granted a respite to this man for
some reason, what I do not precisely recollect, al-
leged by the proper officer."

   "He was ill -- unable to stand, when the others
suffered."

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   "Ah, yes -- I remember."

   Isabella urged her conviction that the prisoner
had been accidentally involved with the skinners.
She described his simplicity and imbecility of
mind, and, as it seemed to her, his utter incapacity
to commit the energetic and atrocious crimes per-
petrated by a band of desperadoes. But to all her
pleadings Sir Henry still returned the answer so
satisfactory to an official conscience: -- "His death
had been decreed by the laws in such cases made
and provided."

   Isabella said that so slight seemed to be the
prisoner's tenure of life, that if he were reprieved
for a week, Sir Henry might be relieved from the
responsibility of taking a life perhaps not forfeited.
But Sir Henry did not shrink from responsibility,
and though she still reasoned, and urged, it was all
in vain.

   He alleged that the press of important affairs
rendered it impossible for him to make a personal
investigation of the business; and that indeed it
was out of the question, occupying the station he
did, to attend minutely to such a concern. The
truth was, that Sir Henry was somewhat fortified
in his present decision by a secret consciousness,
that, on a former occasion, he had surrendered a
point purely to the influence of a lovely young
woman; and he was now resolved to maintain the
invincible.

   Isabella was obliged to take her leave, having

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failed in her errand of mercy, and feeling a just
indignation at the carelessness with which a man
could make his station an apology for neglecting
the rights of his fellow; and struck with the truth,
that the only reason for one man's occupying a sta-
tion more elevated than another, is, that it gives
him the opportunity of better protecting and serv-
ing his fellow-beings.

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Chapter 31

CHAPTER XXXI.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

"All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement,
Inhabit here! Some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country."

   The hour appointed for Kisel's execution drew
nigh. The premonitory bell was already sound-
ing, when a countryman, who had come from the
other side of the Hudson, sheltering his little boat
in a nook under some cedars growing where War-
ren-street now terminates, was proceeding towards
the city with a market-basket, containing butter,
eggs, &c. As he was destined to enact an im-
portant part in the drama of that day, it may not
be superfluous to describe the homely habiliments in
which he appeared. He had on a coarse dark-gray
overcoat, a sort of dreadnaught, of domestic manu-
facture, double-breasted, and fastened with black
mohair buttons, as large as dollars, up to his throat;
his cravat was a blue and white linen handker-
chief -- an enduring article, then manufactured by
all thrifty housewives; his stockings were blue and
white yarn, ribbed; his shoes cowhide, and tied
with leather thongs. A young man is rarely with-
out a dash of coxcombry, and our humble swain's
was betrayed in a fox-skin cap, with straps of the fur

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that decorated his cheek, much in the mode of the
brush-whisker of our own day. The cap was
drawn so close over his brow as nearly to hide
his dark pomatumed hair; and finally, his hands
were covered by scarlet and white mittens, full
fringed, and with his name, Harmann Van Zandt,
knit in on their backs.

   The storm of the morning had passed over.
The sun was shining out clear and warm for the
season; and as every one is eager to enjoy the last
smiles of our stinted autumn, the countryman
must have wondered, as he passed the few habita-
tions on his way to the populous part of the town,
not to see the usual group -- the good man with
his pipe, the matron knitting, and the buxom Dutch
damsel leaning over the lower portal of the door.
As he approached Broadway, however, the sounds
of life and busy movement reached his ear, and he
saw half a dozen young lads and lasses issue from
a house on his left, dressed in their Sunday gear,
their faces full of eager expectation, and each
hurrying the other.

   The good vrow, who stood on the door-step, was
giving them a last charge to hear every thing and
see every thing to tell her; for she "always had to
stay at home when any thing lively was going on."
As she turned from them, her housewife eye fell on
the countryman's market-basket. "Stop, neigh-
bour," said she, "and tell us the price of your but-
ter and eggs."

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   "Butter one dollar the pound, eggs three for a
shilling."

   "That's the prettiest price asked yet; but -- "

   "Ay, mother; but live and let live, you know."

   "Let live, truly. You Bergen people are turn-
ing your grass into gold."

   "We must make hay while the sun shines."

   "While the sun shines! Ah, it does shine as
through a knot-hole on a few, but the rest of us
are in solid darkness. Go your ways, friend; you'll
find lords and generals, admirals, commandants,
and jail-keepers, to buy your butter and eggs;
honest people must eat their bread without butter
now-a-days. The hawks have come over the water
to protect the doves, forsooth, and the doves' food,
doves and all, are like to be devoured."

   This was a sort of figurative railing much in-
dulged in by those who were secretly well-affected
to the country's cause, but who were constrained,
by motives of prudence, to remain within the Brit-
ish lines.

   It seemed to have struck a sympathetic chord in
the countryman; for drawing near the good woman,
whose exterior expressed very little resemblance
to the gentle emblem by which she had chosen to
personify herself, he said, kindly smiling, "Bring
me a knife, mother, and I'll give you a slice of
butter to garnish your tea-table when your comely
lasses come home."

   "This is kind and neighbourlike," said the wo-

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man, hastily bringing the knife and plate; "I
thought, the first minute you opened your lips, you
were freehearted. This an't the common way of
the Bergen people -- they sell the cat and her skin
too -- you have not their tongue, neither -- mine is
more broken than yours, and I'm only Dutch on
the mother's side."

   "Ah, mother, trading with gentlefolks, and such
fair-spoken people as you, gets the mitten off one's
tongue. But I must be going. Can you direct
me to Lizzy Bengin's? our Lida wants a pink
riband against Christmas."

   "Now don't say you come to market, and don't
know where Lizzy Bengin lives! Did you never
take notice of the little one-story building at the
very lower end of Queen-street, with the stoop
even with the ground, and plenty of cochinia, and
cookey horses, and men and women, in the window,
and a parrot hanging outside that beats the world
for talking?" The man gave the expected assent,
and his informant proceeded -- "That is Lizzy's;
and without going a step out of your way, you may
turn your butter and eggs into silver before you get
there. Call at the Provost -- Cunningham starves
the prisoners, and eats the fat of the land himself --
or at Admiral Digby's, who has the young prince
William under his roof, and therefore a warrant for
the best in the land -- or at Tryon's, or Robertson's,
or any of the quality; their bread is buttered both
sides; but the time is coming -- "

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   "When the bread shall be fairly spread for all.
I think so, mother; but I must be going -- so good-
day."

   "Good-day, and good luck to you -- a nice youth
and a well-spoken is that," said she, looking after
him; "and if butter must be a dollar a pound, I'm
glad the money finds its way into the pockets of
the like of him."

   Meanwhile, the subject of her approbation pur-
sued his way, and soon found himself in the midst
of a throng, who were hurrying forward to the
place of execution. The usual place for military
executions was in an apple orchard, where East
Broadway now runs; but the condemned having
to suffer as one of the infamous band of skinners,
was not thought worthy to swing on a gallows de-
voted to military men. Accordingly, a gallows was
erected in a field just above St. Paul's church.
Our friend of the butter and eggs found himself, on
reaching Broadway, retarded and encompassed by
the crowd. "Hold your basket up, fellow, and let
me pass," said a gentleman, who seemed eager to
get beyond the crowd. The countryman obeyed,
but turned his back upon the speaker, as if from
involuntary resentment at his authoritative tone.

   "Whither are you hastening, Meredith?" asked
another voice.

   "Ah, St. Clair, how are you? I am trying to get
through this abominable crowd to join my mother
and Lady Anne, who have gone to take a drive:

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my servant is waiting with my horse beyond the
barracks."

   "Your mother, Lady Anne, and Miss Linwood!"
An opening now before the countryman would have
allowed him to pass on, but he did not move.
"Upon my honour, St. Clair, I did not know that
Miss Linwood was with them. They talked of
asking Helen Ruthven."

   "And so they did. Lady Anne sent me to her,
but Miss Ruthven said, not very civilly I think, she
had no inclination for a drive, and begged me to
stop while she wrote you this note."

   Meredith opened the note, sealed with an anchor,
and containing only these two lines, exquisitely
written in pencil: -- "Could I endure any thing
called pleasure on the same day with my tête-à-tête
walk with you this morning? Oh, no -- there is
no next best. -- H. R."

   "You seem pleased, Meredith," resumed St.
Clair, as he saw Meredith's eye kindle and his
cheek brighten. Meredith made no reply, but
thrust the note into his pocket. He was pleased.
He felt much like a musician, whose ears have
been tormented by discords, when the keys are
rightly struck. "Lady Anne had hard work,"
continued St. Clair, "to persuade Miss Lindwood
to go with her. It seems she has got up her
nerves for this poor devil of a skinner. Lady Anne
persuaded her at last; indeed, I believe she was
glad to get beyond the tolling of the bell till the
rumpus is over."

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   "Women are riddles," thought Meredith; "they
feel without reason, and will not feel when reason
bids them." He had lost his desire to go alone to
join the ladies; and he offered St. Clair his horse,
saying he would himself ride his servant's. St.
Clair eagerly accepted his courtesy, and the two
gentleman elbowed their way through the crowd.
The countryman turned to gaze after them; and
while his eye followed Meredith with its keenest
glance, the wave of the multitude had set towards
him, and so completely hedged his way in front,
that, not being able to proceed, he thought best to
retreat a few yards to where the crowd was less
dense, and wait till the pressure was past, which
must be soon, as the procession with the prisoner
had already moved from the Provost. In the
meanwhile he secured the occupation of a slightly
elevated platform, an entrance to a house, where,
setting down his basket, he folded his arms, and
while detained, had the benefit of the various re-
marks of the passers-by.

   "What a disgrace it is," said a British subaltern
to his companion, "that those rebels," pointing to
some American officers, prisoners on parole, "are
permitted to walk the streets in uniform. It is too
annoying -- I hate the sight of them."

   "Yes," retorted his companion, laughing, "and
so you have ever since they distanced you skating
on the Kolch last winter."

   "A crying shame is it," said an honest burgher

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to a fellow-vestryman, "that a human creature is
going to his doom, and but one bell tolling. But
the Lord's temples are turned aside from all holy
uses -- our own sanctuary is a prison for soldiers,
and the Middle Dutch a riding-school!"

   "A soul's a soul," returned his companion;
"but the lordly English bells may not toll for the
parting of this poor wretch's; only the tinkling bell
of the Methodist Chapel, that's kept open, forsooth,
because John Wesley and his followers are loyal."

   "We shall have our pains for our trouble," said
a fellow, who seemed to have come to the spectacle
en amateur: "the boys say he never will stand it
to get to the gallows."

   "Move on -- move on," cried a voice that her-
alded the procession; and the crowd was driven
forward, in order to leave an open space around the
prisoner and his assistants.

   It is impossible for a benevolent man to look on
a fellow-creature about to suffer a violent death (be
his doom ever so well merited), without a feeling of
intense interest. The days of the culprits' youth,
of his innocence, of his parents' love and hope; the
tremendous present, and the possible future, all
rush upon the mind. It would appear that our
country friend was a man of reflection and senti-
ment; for, as he gazed at the prisoner, his cheek
was blanched, his brow contracted, and the excla-
mation, "Oh, God! oh, God!" burst from lips that
never lightly uttered that holy name.

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   Poor Kisel appeared as if nature would fain
save him from the executioner's touch. His head
had fallen on his bosom, his knees were bent and
trembling, and his step as wavering and uncertain
as that of a blind man. He was supported and
helped forward by a stout man on his right. When
he was within a few feet of the countryman, a ray of
consciousness seemed to shoot athwart his mind.
He raised his head, shook back his shaggy locks,
cast a wild inquiring glance around him, when his
eye encountering the stranger, he seemed elec-
trified, his joints to be reset, his nerves restrung.
He drew up his person, uttered a piercing shriek,
sprang forward like a cat, and, sinking at his feet,
sobbed out, "Misser Eliot, hey!"

   The multitude were for an instant palsied; not
a sound -- not a breath escaped them: and then a
rush, and a shout, and cries of "Seize him!" and
shrieks from those who were trodden under foot.

   "Stand back -- back -- back, monsters!" cried
Eliot, himself almost wild with amazement and
grief -- "give him air, space, breath, he is dying!"
He raised Kisel's head, and rested it on his breast,
and bent his face over him, murmuring, "Kisel,
my poor fellow!"

   Kisel's eye, gleaming with preternatural joy,
was riveted to Eliot's face. A slight convulsion
passed over his frame; drops of sweat, like rain,
gushed from every pore; and, while his quiver-
ing, half-smiling lips murmured inaudibly, "Misser

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Eliot! -- Misser Eliot!" they stiffened, his eyes
rolled up, and his released, exulting spirit fled.

   Eliot was but for one instant unmanned; but for
one instant did he lose the self-possession on which
even at this moment of consternation he was con-
scious that much more than his own individual
safety depended. He made no effort to escape
from observation; that would have excited sus-
picion; but said, calmly, still supporting Kisel's
head, "The poor man, I think, is gone; is there
not some physician here who can tell whether he be
or not?" A doctor was called for; and, while one
was bustling through the crowd, there were various
conjectures, surmises, and assertions. Some said
"he looked as good as dead when he came out of
the prison;" some asked "if he could have hoped
to have got away;" and others believed that the
excitement of the scene had maddened his brain.
Eliot said he had fallen at his feet like a spent
ball; and, while he was internally blessing God
that his poor follower had escaped all father suf-
fering, the medical man announced, with the au-
thority of his art, that life was extinct. The body
was conveyed to the prison for interment. The
crowd dispersed; and Eliot, feeling that Heaven
had conferred its best boon on Kisel, and extended
a shield over him, pursued his way to Lizzy Ben-
gin's shop.

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Chapter 32

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Les revers de la verité a cent milles figures, et un champ
indefiny,
Les Pythagoriens font le bien certain et finy, le mal in-
certain et infiny."


Montaigne.

   

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   While the circumstances related above were
in action, the ladies in their drive had stopped at an
opening to the Hudson, where the shore was shelv-
ing and indented with a footpath, on which the
full mellow rays of the afternoon sun shone. And
who would not pause to gaze at the noble Hud-
son, which, coming from its source in distant
mountains, infolds in its arms the city it has cre-
ated, wears on its bosom its little emerald island-
gems, reposes in the bay, and then finishes its
course through the portal of the Narrows?

   The river is now precisely what it then was, for
"man's hand cannot make a mark upon the waters;"
but on its shores what changes has that marvellous
instrument wrought! Where nature sat, like a
hermit, amid the magnificence of her solitary do-
main, are now bustling cities, fortified islands,
wharves and warehouses, manufactories, stately
mansions, ornamented pleasure-grounds, and citi-
zen's cottages, and the parent city extending up
and branching out in every direction, from the

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narrow space it then occupied, covering with its
thronged streets the wooded heights and bosky
dells, now, alas! reduced from the aristocracy of
nature to one uniform level. Then the city's
tributary waters bore on their surface a few fish-
ing-skiffs, and some two or three British men-
of-war. Now see the signals of population, en-
terprise, and commercial prosperity: schooners
from our own eastern and southern ports, neat-
ly rigged vessels from a hundred river-harbours,
mammoth steamers bringing in and carrying out
their hundreds at every hour of the day, ferry-
boats scudding to and fro, sail-boats dancing over
the waves, row-boats darting out and in, hither and
yon, packets taking their semiweekly departure
for England and France, ships with the star-span-
gled banner floating from the masthead, and rich
freighted argosies from all parts of each quarter
of the globe. What a change!

   Lady Anne heard the trampling of horses, and
put her head out of the coach window. A blush
suffused her sunny face at the recollection of her
parting with Meredith in the morning. Her em-
barrassment was as transient as the suffusion.
"Ah, cousin Jasper," she said, "you have come at
last; I have been waiting impatiently, sitting here,
like a dutiful niece (as I am), because aunt has
heard bugbear stories about American rattlesnakes,
and absolutely forbade my strolling along the shore
with Isabella. You will not be afraid, aunt, if the
gentlemen are with me?"

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   "Not in the least, my love; indeed, I will alight
myself if Major St. Clair will give an old lady his
arm."

   "She understands tactics," thought St. Clair;
"she will defile with me, and leave Jasper to
a tête-à-tête on vantage-ground!" He however
bowed en militaire, and gave Mrs. Meredith his
arm; and she, as he had foreseen, led him off in
an opposite direction from that which Lady Anne
had taken.

   Isabella had before alighted, and left her com-
panion, on the pretext of looking for an autumnal
flower that she knew grew on the river's bank; but
really, that she might, in the freedom of solitude,
and in the calm of a sweet country walk, indulge
her sad reflections. Isabella had learned to master
herself in great trials; but she had not yet learned
that far more difficult lesson, to be patient and se-
rene under small annoyances. She was vexed and
wearied with Mrs. Meredith's pompous talk and
commonplace and hollow sentiment, and some-
what disturbed by Lady Anne's kind-hearted, but
too manifest efforts, to divert her thoughts from the
tragedy enacting in the city, to which she had
imputed all the sadness that might have been in
part ascribed to another cause.

   Lady Anne had no enthusiasm for scenery. She
had never lived in the country, never been trained
in nature's school, nor a guest at her perpetual and
sweetest banquet; but she had youthful spirits

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stirred to joyousness by a ride, or a walk, or any
other exciting cause; and she laughed, rattled,
and bounded on, wondered where Isabella could
be, and at last, quite out of breath, sat down on a
grassy bank by a very high rock, around which
the pass was narrow and difficult. "I will not
venture that," said she, pointing to the path. "You
may go for Isabella, Jasper, and I will wait here
for you."

   "Thank you, sweet coz; but I prefer staying
here too, if you will permit me."

   "You may as well, I fancy. Isabella is rather
penseroso this afternoon; and as she very faintly
seconded my entreaties to aunt that I might go
with her, I think she prefers la solitaire. To tell
you the truth, Jasper, she is horribly blue to-day,
though I would not own it to aunt."

   "And why not?"

   "Oh, you know she is no favourite with aunt;
and when we really love a person, as I do really
and fervently Isabella Linwood, we are not fond
of speaking of their faults to those who do not like
them."

   "Then perhaps you think she is a favourite of
mine?"

   "Certainly I do -- is she not?"

   "She was."

   With what different import do the same words
fall on different ears. This "she was" hardly
reached Lady Anne's sensorium. Her thoughts

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were weighing something more important than any
of Meredith's words could be to her. Meredith's
heart throbbed as he pronounced them. Uttered
to Lady Anne, they seemed to him to cut the
gordian knot that bound him to Isabella. There
was another unseen, unwilling, and involuntary
auditor, who, as on the other side of the rock she
leaned breathless against it, proudly responded
from the depths of her soul "she was -- it is past
-- a finished dream to us both!"

   "How very nice these little scarlet berries are,"
said Lady Anne, picking some berries from their
evergreen leaves.

   "Very nice."

   "This is a lovely river, Jasper. How I should
like a nice cottage on this very spot."

   "And when your imagination builds the cot-
tage, coz, is there no one permitted to share it with
you?"

   Lady Anne picked the leaves from the stem in
her hand, strewed them around, and laughing and
blushing, said, "that absolute solitude in a cottage
would be just as stupid as in a palace."

   "On this hint shall I -- can I speak?" thought
Meredith.

   "Formerly, when I built castles in the air," con-
tinued Lady Anne, engrossed in her own sweet
fancies, and not dreaming of the interpretation
Meredith's deluded vanity was giving to her words,
"I always put wings to them, and would lodge

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them in London, Paris, or Italy, as suited the hu-
mour of the moment -- now I make them fixtures
in America."

   Meredith felt somewhat like the sportsman, who,
accustomed to the keen pursuit of game that incites
and eludes him, cares not for the silly prey that
runs into his toils. "Heigh-ho!" resumed Lady
Anne, awaking from a revery after a short pause;
"it is time we returned -- the sun is setting -- you
are very stupid, Jasper -- you have not spoken three
words."

   "My dear cousin, there are moments when it is
far more agreeable to look, and to listen, than to
speak."

   "But then, sir, you should look `unutterable
things.' "

   "We may feel them without looking or speak-
ing them -- do not go now -- there are few delicious
moments in life -- why not prolong them?"

   "You talk limpingly, Jasper, like one who has
conned a task, and recites it but half learned; there
should be a vraisemblance in compliments."

   "On my honour!"

   "Oh, never swear to them; these are like beg-
gars' oaths, nobody believes them." Lady Anne
was already on the wing. "Bless us," thought Mer-
edith, "a little dash of coquetry might make her
quite charming;" and springing after her, he gave
her his arm. When they met his mother at the
roadside, his face and air were so changed and so

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animated, that, in the flush of her hopes, she ven-
tured to whisper to him --

"`Not Hermia, but Helena I love
Who would not change a raven for a dove?"'

   He smiled assentingly, and his mother was per-
fectly happy.

   "Where is Isabella?" and "Where is Miss Lin-
wood?" "I thought she was on your side," and "I
thought she was on yours," was asked and reiter-
ated, and answered by the person in question ap-
pearing. She had left the shore, scrambled through
the wood, and come into the road in advance of
her party. They rallied her on her preference of
solitude, and she them (for she had regained her
self-command), on the willing forbearance with
which they had permitted her to enjoy it. Mrs.
Meredith, of course, first entered the carriage; and
while the young ladies were getting in, putting on
their cloaks, etc., she wrote on a card and gave
to her son the following hint from Metastasio: --

"E folle quel nocchièro
Che cerca un' altra stella,
E non si fida a quella
Che in porto lo guidó."

   "My sage mother is this sure star, by whose
directing `light I am to pilot my bark,' " thought
Meredith, as he read the pencilled words -- "well,
be it so."

   Mrs. Meredith's carriage stopped at Mrs. Lin-

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wood's door. Isabella alighted, and Lady Anne
was following her, when her aunt interposed. -- "My
dear child," she said, "I particularly wish you to
go home with me this evening."

   "I would, aunt -- but -- but I have promised Mr.
Linwood -- "

   "I appeal to your generosity, Miss Linwood; I
have not your passion for solitude, and I am quite
wretched without Lady Anne."

   Lady Anne's back was to her aunt; and she
turned up her eyes imploringly to Isabella, who
consequently resolutely professed herself afraid to
encounter her father if she should resign Lady
Anne. Lady Anne finished the parley by spring-
ing from the carriage, and promising her aunt to
be at home an hour earlier than usual. Mrs.
Meredith, vexed, puzzled, and disconcerted, drove
home.

   The young ladies were met at the door by Rose,
with a message from Mrs. Archer, requesting Isa-
bella, without a moment's delay, to come to her
house. "Make my excuses to papa," said Isa-
bella to Lady Anne, "and enact the good daughter
till I return."

   "Yes, that I will," said Lady Anne; "and the
good daughter would I be in reality all my life to
him," she thought; "but Herbert Linwood will not,
in his forlorn circumstances, declare his love for
me if he feels it; and I, like all the rest of my
sex, must keep the secret of my pure love as if it

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were a crime." Whether the open-hearted girl's
eyes and cheeks would betray the secret which
the austere proprieties of her sex forbade her to
tell, and whether on this hint Linwood would be
imboldened to speak, was soon put to the proof;
for one hour after, arriving on his evening visit,
Rose conducted him into the breakfast-room, in-
forming him that he must wait till a person who
was with his father on business should be gone.
Rose, sagaciously divining her young master's
inclinations, then went to Lady Anne and whis-
pered -- "Mr. Herbert is in the breakfast-parlour;
and do, miss, happen in there; poor boy, he has
enough of his own company in prison."

   Lady Anne did not wait for the request to be
repeated. She went, nor did she and Herbert ap-
pear in Mr. Linwood's room till after a repeated,
and finally very impatient summons from him;
and then they entered, and kneeling together at his
feet, asked his blessing on their plighted loves.

   He did not speak for half a minute, and then
laughing, while the tears gushed from his eyes,
"God bless you, my children!" he said -- "God
bless you! -- kiss me, my dear little girl -- this
has been pretty quickly hatched, though; but I
don't wonder; I loved you the first minute I saw
you."

   "And I, like a good son, dutifully followed my
father's example."

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   "Vous n'avez fait que votre devoir filial; fort
bien, monsieur!" said Lady Anne, archly.

   "My dear child!" interposed Mr. Linwood,
"now you are going really to be my child, don't
torment me with interlarding your English with
French. There's nothing I detest like cutting up
a plain English road with these French ditches.
It's a slipshod tongue, good enough for those that
are born to parlez-vous and gabble all their lives;
but English, my dear, is for men of sense and true-
hearted girls like you, that speak what they mean."

   Lady Anne promised to cure herself of a habit
into which she had unconsciously fallen; and a
pause followed, which gave Mr. Linwood time for
a reflection that clouded his brow.

   "This won't do, Herbert," he said; "I forgot
myself entirely, and so have you. What business
have you to be making love, and stealing away this
dear little generous girl's heart -- you, a proscribed
man -- holding your life by sufferance -- disgraced."

   "Not disgraced, sir!"

   "Oh, no! dear Mr. Linwood, not disgraced."

   "Well, well, 'tis a devilish ugly word to bestow
on one's own flesh and blood. But, my dear girl,
we must look truth in the face. Your aunt is a
woman of the world; she will accuse us; and she
may very well suspect us of conniving at this busi-
ness -- you have fortune -- we are poor." The proud
old man's blood mounted to his face -- "No, no; it
must not be. I take back my consent."

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   Herbert's face expressed the conflict of his love
with his sense of rectitude -- the last prevailed.
"My father is right," he said; "and I, headlong as
usual, have done just what I ought not to do."

   "You're right now, anyhow, my boy; you show
blood -- go up to the mark, though a lion -- " A
glance at poor Lady Anne, leaning on the side of
his easy-chair, with tearful eyes, mended his sen-
tence -- "I should say, though an angel were in the
way."

   "I have been far enough from the mark, sir; I
should have remembered in time that I was in the
enemy's talons; and, what is far worse, under the
censure of my own general."

   "As to that Herbert, as to that -- "

   "Be kind enough to hear me out, sir. I should
have remembered that I was penniless; that Lady
Anne is very young, careless for herself, and an
heiress; but how could I think of any thing," he
added, taking her hand, and pressing it to this heart,
"when I heard her generous, bewildering confes-
sion, that she loved me -- but that I loved her with
my whole soul?"

   "It's -- it's -- it's hard; but you must come to
it, my children. You must just set to work and
undo what has been done; you must forget one
another."

   "Forget! dear Mr. Linwood! Herbert may for-
get; for I think it seems very easy to him to
recede -- "

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   "Anne!"

   "Forgive me, Herbert; but really you and your
father place me in such an awkward position. Give
you up, I will not; forget you, I cannot. I cannot
extinguish my memory; and there is no thought in
it, waking or sleeping, but what concerns you. I
know it is very shocking and improper to say this
before you, Mr. Linwood, but it is true."

   "I love truth, my child -- such truth -- God knows
I do, too well."

   "Then sir," she continued, smiling archly through
her tears, "let me go on and speak a little more
of it." Her voice faltered. "I wish Isabella were
here -- any woman would feel for me."

   "God bless me, child, don't I feel for you -- look
at Herbert, the calf -- don't he feel for you?"

   "Herbert says I am so very young. I am sure
seventeen and past has years and wisdom enough
for not quite two-and-twenty. He says I am care-
less for myself; if I were as calculating as my
aunt Meredith, what could I do better for myself
than to supply the cruel deficiencies of my lot?
than to provide for myself the kindest and best of
fathers and mothers, and a sister that has not her
peer in the wide world? Herbert says I am an
heiress -- I am so; but what is fortune to me, if I
may not select the object with whom to share it? If
I am not two-and-twenty -- " she cast an arch glance
at Herbert, "I have lived long enough to see that
fortune alone is perfectly impotent. It does not

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create friends, nor inspire goodness, nor secure
happiness; but when it comes as an accessory to a
happy home, to love, and health, and liberal hearts;
ah, then it is indeed a boon from Heaven! Am I
not right, Mr. Linwood?"

   "Yes, by Jupiter, you are! Your views could
not be juster if you were as old as Methuselah,
and as wise as Solomon. But, my dear, we must
come back to the point -- what is very right for you,
and noble, would be very wrong for us. The Lin-
woods have always had a fair name, and now, when
every thing else is gone, they must hold fast to
that. Oh, Herbert, if you had only stuck to your
king, all would be well; but I won't reproach you
now -- no, no, poor boy! I never felt so much
like forgiving you for that d -- d blunder."

   "Then, for Heaven's sake, sir, say you forgive
me -- let that account be settled."

   "I will -- I do forgive you, my son; but it's the
devil and all to forget!" Herbert grasped the hand
his father extended to him. There was a silence
of a few moments, broken by Mr. Linwood say-
ing, "It's tough to come to it, my children; but
this must be the last evening you meet."

   "Lady Anne," said Rose, opening the door,
"Mrs. Meredith's carriage is waiting for you."

   "Let it wait, Rose."

   "But the footman bade me tell you, my lady,
that your aunt is ill, and begs you will come home
immediately."

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   "Then I must go," said the poor girl, bursting
into tears, all her natural buoyancy and courageous
cheerfulness forsaking her at the foreboding that
this might be a final separation. Mr. Linwood
hemmed, wiped his spectacles, put them on, threw
them down on the table, stirred the fire, knock-
ed down shovel, tongs, and fender, and cursed
them all; while Lady Anne retired with Herbert
to the farthest part of the room, to exchange words
that can never be appreciated rightly but by the
parties, and therefore must not be repeated. They
verily believed that mortals had never been so
happy -- never so wretched as they.

   Once there was a reaction in Lady Anne's mind.
She started from Herbert, and appealing to his
father, said -- "Think once more of it, Mr. Lin-
wood; why should you heed what my aunt or any
one else may impute to you? We have all felt
and acted right, naturally, and honestly. I cannot,
for my life I cannot, see why we should sacrifice
ourselves to their false judgments."

   Mr. Linwood shook his head. "It cannot be,"
said Herbert; "we must cast ourselves upon the
future; if," he added, lowering his voice, "it should
please Heaven to permit me to regain my freedom,
if -- but I am wrong -- I must not cherish these
hopes. Years may pass away before the war ends;
and in the meantime, you may bless another with
that love which -- "

   "Never end that sentence, Herbert Linwood.

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You may take back your own vows -- you cannot
give me back mine -- I will not receive them. My
love will not depend on your freedom, your name
with friend or foe: it will not be touched by cir-
cumstance, or time, or absence. Farewell, Her-
bert."

   One fond embrace she permitted -- the first -- was
it the last?

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Chapter 33

CHAPTER XXXIII.

   

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"Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stolen the impression of her fantasy,
With bracelets of thy hair -- rings, gawds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers
Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth."

   It will be remembered that Isabella, at her aunt's
summons, had gone to her house. She met Mrs.
Archer at her street door. Her face spoke of
startling intelligence before she uttered it. "My
dear Belle," she said, "I have the strangest news
for you. I went to your father's while you were
out; and just as my foot was on your door-step, a
man drove up in a wagon with a girl as pale as
death -- such a face! The moment he stopped she
sprang from the wagon. At once I knew her, and
exclaimed, `Bessie Lee!' "

   "Bessie Lee! Gracious Heaven!"

   "Yes; she asked eagerly if you were at home.
I perceived the inconvenience -- the impossibility
of your taking care of her in the present state of
your family. I felt anxious to do any thing and
every thing for the sister of young Lee; I there-
fore told her you were not at home, but she could

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see you at my house; and I persuaded her to come
home with me."

   "Dear Bessie! can it be possible that she is
here?"

   "Yes, I have left her in that room. Her at-
tendant told me that she arrived this morning at
Kingsbridge, with a decent man and woman, who
had passports from La Fayette, and a letter from
him to the commander of that post, commending
the unfortunate person to his humanity, and en-
treating him to convey her, under a proper escort,
to Mr. Linwood's."

   "Poor Bessie! Heaven has miraculously guided
her into the best hands. How does she appear?"

   "With scarcely enough of mortality to shield her
troubled spirit; fluttering and gentle as a stricken
dove -- pale, unnaturally, deadly pale -- a startling
brightness in her deep blue eye -- her cheeks
sunken; but still her features preserve the ex-
quisite symmetry we used to think so beautiful,
when a pensive, quiet little girl, she stole round
after you like a shadow. And her voice, oh Belle,
you cannot hear it without tears. She is mild and
submissive; but restless, and excessively impatient
to see you and Jasper Meredith. Twice she has
come to the door to go out in search of him. I have
ordered the blinds closed, and the candles lighted,
to make it appear darker without than it really is.
I could only quiet her by the assurance that I would
send for him immediately."

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   "Have you done so?"

   "No; I have waited to consult you."

   The house Mrs. Archer occupied was of the
common construction of the best houses of that
day, being double, the two front apartments separ-
ated by a wide hall, a drawing-room in the rear,
and a narrow cross-passage opening into a car-
riage-way to the yard. A few moments before
Isabella arrived, a person had knocked at the door
and asked to see Mrs. Archer; and being told that
she was particularly engaged, he asked to be shown
to a room where he might await her convenience,
as he had business of importance with her. He
was accordingly shown into an apartment opposite
to that occupied at the moment by Mrs. Archer
and Bessie.

   There he found the blind children, Ned and
Lizzy, so absorbed in a game of chess, that al-
though he went near them, and overlooked them,
they seemed just conscious of his presence, but not
in the least disturbed by it. They went on play-
ing and managing their game with almost as much
facility as if they had their eyesight, till after a
closely-fought battle Lizzy declared a checkmate.
Ned (only not superior to all the chess-players we
have ever seen) was nettled by his unexpected de-
feat, and gave vent to his vexation by saying, " Any-
how, Miss Lizzy, you would not have beaten if I
had not thought it was my knight, instead of yours,
on number four."

   "Oh, Ned!"

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   "You would not; you know I always get puz-
zled about the knights -- I always said it was the
only fault in the chessmen -- I always said I wished
Captain Lee had made them more different."

   "That fault is easily rectified," said the looker-on.

   "Captain Lee!" exclaimed Ned, whose memory
was true to a voice once heard, and who never, in
any circumstances, could have forgotten the sound
of Eliot's voice.

   "Hush, my dear little fellow, for Heaven's sake,
hush!" cried Eliot, aware of the imprudence he had
committed; but it was too late.

   Ned's feelings were as susceptible as his hearing.
He impetuously sprang forward, and opening the
door into the entry, where Mrs. Archer had just
uttered the last sentence we reported of her con-
versation with Isabella, he cried out, "Oh, mamma,
Captain Lee is here!"

   Eliot involuntarily doffed his fox-skin cap, and
advanced to them. Both ladies most cordially
gave him their hands at the same moment, while
their brows clouded with the thoughts of the sad
tidings they had to communicate. Conscious of
the precarious position he occupied, he naturally
interpreted the concern so evident on their faces
as the expression of a benevolent interest in his
safety. "Do not be alarmed, ladies," he said; "I
have nothing to fear if my little friends here be
quiet; and that I am certain they will be, when
they know my life depends on my remaining
unknown."

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   "Oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Ned,
bursting into tears; but he was soon soothed by
Eliot's assurances that no harm as yet was done.

   Mrs. Archer withdrew the children, while Miss
Linwood communicated to Eliot, as briefly as pos-
sible, the arrival and condition of his sister; and
he, rather relieved than distressed by the informa-
tion, told her that his deepest interest in coming to
the city was the hope of obtaining some tidings of
the poor wanderer. They then consulted how and
when they had best present themselves before her;
and it was decided that Miss Linwood should first
go into the apartment, and prepare her to see Eliot.

   Eliot retreated, and stood still and breathless to
catch the first sound of Bessie's voice; but he
heard nothing but the exclamation, "She is not
here!" Eliot sprang forward. The door of the
apartment which led into the side passage and the
outer door were both open, and Eliot, forgetful of
every thing but his sister, was rushing into the
street, when Bessie entered the street door with
Jasper Meredith! Impelled by her ruling purpose
to see Meredith, she had, on her first discovery of
the side passage, escaped into the street, where the
first person she encountered was he whose image
had so long been present to her, that seeing him
with her bodily organ seemed to make no new
impression, nor even to increase the vividness of
the image stamped on her memory. She had
thrown on her cloak, but had nothing on her head;

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and her hair fell in its natural fair curls over her
face and neck. Singular as it was for the delicate,
timid Bessie to appear in this guise in the public
street, or to appear there at all, and much as he
was startled by her faded, stricken form, the truth
did not at once occur to Meredith. The wild-
ness of her eye was subdued in the dim twilight;
she spoke in her accustomed quiet manner; and
after answering to his first inquiry that she was
perfectly well now, she begged him to go into Mrs.
Archer's with her, as she had something there to
restore to him. He endeavoured to put her off
with a commonplace evasion -- "he was engaged
now, would come some other time," &c., but she
was not to be eluded; and seeing some acquaint-
ances approaching, whose observation he did not
care to encounter, he ascended Mrs. Archer's steps,
and found himself in the presence of those whom
he would have wished most to avoid; but there
was no retreat.

   Bessie now acted with an irresistible energy.
"This way," said she, leading Meredith into the
room she had quitted -- "come all of you in here,"
glancing her eye from Meredith to Isabella and
Eliot, but without manifesting the slightest sur-
prise or emotion of any sort at seeing them, but
simply saying, with a smile of satisfaction, as she
shut the door and threw off her cloak, "I expected
this -- I knew it would be so. In visions by day,
and dreams by night, I always saw you together."

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   It was a minute before Eliot could command his
voice for utterance. He folded his arms around
Bessie, and murmured, "My sister! -- my dear
sister!"

   She drew back, and placing her hands on his
shoulders and smiling, said, "Tears, Eliot, tears!
Oh, shame, when this is the proudest, happiest
moment of your sister's life!"

   "Is she mad?" asked Meredith of Isabella.

   Bessie's ear caught his last word. "Mad!" she
repeated -- "I think all the world is mad; but I
alone am not! I have heard that whom the gods
would destroy they first make mad; men and
angels have been employed to save me from de-
struction."

   "It is idle to stay here to listen to these ravings,"
said Meredith, in a low voice, to Miss Linwood;
and he was about to make his escape, when Isa-
bella interposed: "Stay for a moment, I entreat
you," she said; "she has been very eager to see
you, and it is sometimes of use to gratify these
humours."

   In the meantime Eliot, his heart burning within
him at his sister's being gazed at as a spectacle by
that man of all the world from whose eye he
would have sheltered her, was persuading her, as
he would a wayward child, to leave the apartment.
She resisted his importunities with a sort of gentle
pity for his blindness, and a perfect assurance that
she was guided by light from Heaven. "Dear
Eliot," she said, "you know not what you ask of

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me. For this hour my life has been prolonged,
my strength miraculously sustained. You have all
been assembled here -- you, Eliot, because a
brother should sustain his sister, share her honour,
and partake her happiness; Jasper Meredith to re-
ceive back those charms and spells by which my
too willing spirit was bound; and you, Isabella
Linwood, to see how, in my better mind, I yield
him to you."

   She took from her bosom a small ivory box, and
opening it, she said, advancing to Meredith, and
showing him a withered rose-bud, "Do you re-
member this? You plucked it from a little bush
that almost dipped its leaves in that cold spring on
the hill-side -- do you remember? It was a hot
summer's afternoon, and you had been reading
poetry to me; you said there was a delicate praise
in the sweet breath of flowers that suited me, and
some silly thing you said, Jasper, that you should
not, of wishing yourself a flower that you might
breathe the incense that you were not at liberty to
speak; and then you taught me the Persian lan-
guage of flowers. I kept this little bud: it faded,
but was still sweet. Alas! -- alas! I cherished it
for its Persian meaning." Her reminiscence
seemed too vivid, her voice faltered, and her eye
fell from its fixed gaze on Meredith; but suddenly
her countenance brightened, and she turned to Is-
abella, who stood by the mantelpiece resting her
throbbing head on her hand, and added, "Take it,
Isabella, it is a true symbol to you."

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   Eliot for the first time turned his eye from his
sister, and even at that moment of anguish a thrill
of joy shot through every vein when he saw Isa-
bella take the bud, pull apart its shrivelled leaves,
and throw them from her. Meredith stood leaning
against the wall, his arms folded, and his lips
curled into a smile that was intended to express
scornful unconcern. He might have expressed it,
he might possibly have felt it towards Bessie Lee;
but when he saw Isabella throw away the bud,
when he met the indignant glance of her eye
flashing through the tears that suffused it, a livid
paleness spread around his mouth, and that feature,
the most expressive and truest organ of the soul,
betrayed his inward conflict. He snatched his
hat to leave the room; Bessie laid her hand on his
arm: "Oh, do not go; I shall be cast back into
my former wretchedness if you go now."

   "Stay, sir," said Eliot; "my sister shall not be
crossed."

   "With all my heart; I have not the slightest
objection to playing out my dumb show between
vapouring and craziness."

   "Villain!" exclaimed Eliot -- the young men ex-
changed glances of fire. Bessie placed herself
between them, and stretching out her arms, laid a
hand on the breast of each, as if to keep them apart.
-- "Now this is unkind -- unkind in both of you.
I have come such a long and wearisome journey
to make peace for all of us; and if you will but let

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me finish my task, I shall lay me down and sleep
-- for ever, I think."

   Eliot pressed her burning hand to his lips. "My
poor, dear sister," he said, "I will not speak another
word, if I die in the effort to keep silence."

   "Thanks, dear Eliot," she replied; and putting
both her arms around his neck, she added, in a
whisper, "do not be angry if he again call me
crazy; there be many that have called me so --
they mistake inspiration for madness, you know."
Never was Eliot's self-command so tested; and
retiring to the farthest part of the room, he stood
with knit brows and compressed lips, looking and
feeling like a man stretched on the rack, while
Bessie pursued her fancied mission. "Do you
remember this chain?" she asked, as she opened
a bit of paper, and let fall a gold chain over Mer-
edith's arm. He started as if he were stung. "It
cannot harm you," she said, faintly smiling, as she
noticed his recoiling. "This was the charm."
She smoothed the paper envelope. "As often as I
looked at it, the feeling with which I first read it
shot through my heart -- strange, for there does not
seem much in it." She murmured the words
pencilled by Meredith on the envelope,

"`Can she who weaves electric chains to bind the heart,
Refuse the golden links that boast no mystic art?'

   "Oh, well do I remember," she cast up her eyes
as one does who is retracing the past, "the night

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you gave me this; Eliot was in Boston; mother
was -- I don't remember where, and we had been
all the evening sitting on the porch. The honey-
suckles and white roses were in bloom, and the
moon shone in through their leaves. It was then
you first spoke of your mother in England, and
you said much of the happy destiny of those who
were not shackled by pride and avarice; and when
you went away, you pressed my hand to your
heart, and put this little packet in it. Yet" (turning
to Isabella) "he never said he loved me. It was
only my over-credulous fancy. Take it, Isabella;
it belongs to you, who really weave the chain that
binds the heart."

   Meredith seized the chain as she stretched out
her hand, and crushed it under his foot. Bessie
looked from him to Isabella, and seemed for a
moment puzzled; then said, acquiescingly, "Ah,
it's all well; symbols do not make nor change
realities. This little brooch," she continued, stead-
ily pursuing her purpose, and taking from the box
an old-fashioned brooch, in the shape of a forget-
me-not, "I think was powerless. What need had I
of a forget-me-not, when memory devoured every
faculty of my being? No, there was no charm in
the forget-me-not; but oh, this little pencil," she
took from the box the end of a lead pencil, "with
which we copied and scribbled poetry together.
How many thoughts has this little instrument un-
locked -- what feelings has it touched -- what affec-

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tions have hovered over its point, and gone thrilling
back through the heart! You must certainly take
this, Isabella, for there is yet a wonderful power
in this magical little pencil -- it can make such rev-
elations."

   "Dear Bessie, I have no revelations to make."

   "Is my task finished?" asked Meredith.

   "Not yet -- not quite yet -- be patient -- patience
is a great help; I have found it so. Do you re-
member this?" She held up before Meredith a
tress of her own fair hair, tied with a raven lock
of his in a true-love knot. "Ah, Isabella, I know
very well it was not maidenly of me to tie this; I
knew it then, and I begged it of him with many
tears, did I not, Jasper? but I kept it -- that was
wrong too. Now, Mr. Meredith, you will help me
to untie it?"

   "Pardon me; I have no skill in such matters."

   "Ah, is it easier to tie than to untie a true-love
knot? Alas, alas! I have found it so. But you
must help me. My head is growing dizzy, and I
am so faint here!" She laid her hand on her heart.
"It must be parted -- dear Isabella, you will help
me -- you can untie a true-love's knot?"

   "I can sever it," said Isabella, with an emphasis
that went to the heart of more than one that heard
her. She took a pair of scissors from the table,
and cut the knot. The black lock fell on the floor;
the pretty tress of Bessie's hair curled around
her finger: -- "I will keep this for ever, my sweet

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Bessie," she said; "the memorial of innocence,
and purity, and much-abused trust."

   "Oh, I did not mean that -- I did not mean that,
Isabella. Surely I have not accused him; I told
you he never said he loved me. I am not angry
with him -- you must not be. You cannot be long,
if you love him; and surely you do love him."

   "Indeed, indeed I do not."

   "Isabella Linwood! you have loved him." She
threw one arm around Isabella's neck, and looked
with a piercing gaze in her face. Isabella would
at this moment have given worlds to have answered
with truth -- "No, never!" She would have given
her life to have repressed the treacherous blood,
that, rushing to her neck, cheeks, and temples,
answered unequivocally Bessie's ill-timed question.

   Meredith's eye was riveted to her face, and the
transition from the humiliation, the utter abase-
ment of the moment before, to the undeniable and
manifested certainty that he had been loved by the
all-exacting, the unattainable Isabella Linwood, was
more than he could bear, without expressing his
exultation. "I thank you, Bessie Lee," he cried;
"this triumph is worth all I have endured from
your raving and silly drivelling. Your silent con-
fession, Miss Linwood, is satisfactory, full, and
plain enough; but it has come a thought too late.
Good-evening to you -- a fair good-night to you,
sir. I advise you to take care that your sister sleep
more and dream less."

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   There is undoubtedly a pleasure, transient it
may be, but real it is, in the gratification of the
baser passions. Meredith was a self-idolater; and
at the very moment when his divinity was prostrate,
it had been revived by the sweetest, the most un-
expected incense. No wonder he was intoxicated.
How long his delirium lasted, and what were its
effects, are still to be seen. His parting taunt was
lost on those he left behind.

   Bessie believed that her mission was fulfilled
and ended. The artificial strength which, while
she received it as the direct gift of Heaven, her
highly-wrought imagination had supplied, was ex-
hausted. As Meredith closed the door, she turned
to Eliot, and locking her arms around him, gazed
at him with an expression of natural tenderness,
that can only be imagined by those who have been
so fortunate as to see Fanny Kemble's exquisite
personation of Ophelia; and who remember (who
could forget it?) her action at the end of the flower-
scene, when reason and nature seeming to over-
power her wild fancies, she throws her arms around
Laertes's neck, and with one flash of her all-speak-
ing eyes, makes every chord of the heart vibrate.

   The light soon faded from Bessie's face, and she
lay as helpless as an infant in her brother's arms.
Isabella hastened to Mrs. Archer; and Eliot, left
alone and quite unmanned, poured out his heart
over this victim of vanity and heartlessness.

   Mrs. Archer was prompt and efficient in her

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kindness. Bessie was conveyed to bed, and Eliot
assured that every thing should be done for her
that human tenderness and vigilance could do.
After obtaining a promise from Mrs. Archer that
she would write a letter to his mother, and forward
it with some despatches which he knew were to
be sent to Boston on the following day; and after
having arranged matters for secret visits to his
sister, he left her, fervently thanking God for the
kind care that watched over her flickering lamp of
life.

   Shall we follow Eliot Lee to his hiding-place?
shall we betray his secret meditations? shall we
show the golden thread that ran through their dark
web? shall we confess, that amid the anxieties
(some understood by our readers, and some yet un-
explained) that lowered over him, a star seemed to
have risen above his horizon? Yes -- we dare con-
fess it; for a little reflection rebuked his presump-
tion, and he exclaimed, "What is it to me if she
be free?"

   Isabella passed the night in watching with Mrs.
Archer over her unconscious little friend; and as
she gazed on her meek brow, on the beautiful fea-
tures that were stamped with truth and tenderness,
her indignation rose against him who, for the poor
gratification of his miserable vanity, could meanly
steal away the treasure of her affections -- that most
precious boon, given to feed the lamp of life, and
light the way to heaven.

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   Mrs. Archer, at this crisis, felt much like one
who, having seen a rich domain relieved, by the
sudden interposition of Providence, from a perni-
cious intruder, is impatient to see it in possession
of a lawful proprietor. It was womanly and nat-
ural, that when she and Isabella were watching at
Bessie's bedside, she should descant on Eliot --
should recall his tenderness and gentleness to
Bessie, and the true heroism with which, for her
sake, he repressed the indignation that was ready
to burst on Meredith. Mrs. Archer thought Isa-
bella listened languidly, and assented coldly. She
told her so. "Dear aunt Mary," she replied, "my
mind is absorbed in a delicious, devout sense
of escape. From my childhood I have been in
thraldom -- groping in mist. Now I stand in a
clear light -- I see objects in their true colours -- I
am mistress of myself, and am, as far as relates
to myself, perfectly happy. Some other time we
will talk over what your friend said, and did, and
did not do, and admire it to your heart's content.
Now I am entirely selfish; I have but one idea --
but one sensation!" Mrs. Archer was satisfied.

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Chapter 34

CHAPTER XXXIV.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   "Chi puo dir com' egli arde é in picciol fuoco."

   Meredith left Mrs. Archer's in a state of fever-
ish excitement. He paced up and down the street,
trying by projects for the future to drive away the
memory of the past. The thought of his degra-
dation before Isabella Linwood was insupportable;
and the recollection that Eliot Lee had bestowed
the stinging epithet of villain on him in her pres-
ence, roused his strongest passions and stimulated
him to revenge. He turned his steps towards Sir
Henry Clinton's. "I shall but do a common
duty," he said, "in giving information that a rebel
officer, high in Washington's favour, is in disguise
in the city -- I shall, indeed, be summarily avenged,
if Tryon should requite on Lee's head the death
of Palmer." The man to whom his thoughts ad-
verted was he in relation to whom Putnam had
addressed to Tryon the famous laconic note.

---

Letter

"Sir,

    -- Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in the ser-
vice of your king, has been taken in my camp as a
spy, condemned as a spy, and will be hung as a spy.

   "P. S. -- He has been hanged."

---

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SMALL | MEDIUM

---

   The thought of such a catastrophe changed Mere-
dith's purpose. He had no taste for tragedy. He
believed that Eliot's visit to the city had relation
only to Bessie, and shrinking from adding such an
item to his account with her as the betrayal of her
natural protector, he turned back and retraced his
way homeward, meditating a retaliation better suit-
ed than revenge to his shallow character. Passions
flow from deep sources. Meredith's relations with
Isabella were far more interesting to him than the
life or death of Eliot Lee, or his poor sister; and in
trying to devise some balm for his wounded vanity,
he hit upon an expedient on which he immediately
resolved. This alluring expedient was none else
than an immediate engagement with Lady Anne
Seton; which, being antedated but by a few hours,
would demonstrate to Isabella Linwood that he,
and not she, had first thrown off the shackles; and
would leave for ever rankling in her proud bosom
the tormenting recollection that she had involun-
tarily confessed she loved him, as he had taunt-
ingly said, "a thought too late."

   His decision made, he hastened home, dwelling
with the most soothing complacency on his recent
meeting with his cousin on the banks of the Hud-
son, and smiling as he thought how delighted she
would be at his profiting by her hint, in thus soon
offering to be joint tenant of her love-built Ameri-
can cottage.

---

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   "Where is my cousin?" he asked, as he enter-
ed the drawing-room, and found his mother sitting
alone.

   "Where she eternally is," replied his mother,
throwing down her book and eyeglass, and rising
with the air of one who has borne a vexation till
it is no longer supportable; "it is the most inexpli-
cable infatuation; the girl seems absolutely be-
witched by Isabella Linwood."

   "But Miss Linwood is not at home this evening.
I left her at her aunt Archer's."

   "At Mrs. Archer's? -- you were with her there,
Jasper?"

   Meredith replied smiling, and without attempt-
ing to evade his mother's probing eye, "Yes, I was
there, but much against my will, for I had hoped
to pass this evening with you and my cousin."

   "Thank you, my son, thank you. I flattered
myself that all was settled in your mind -- defin-
itively settled -- when you so gallantly assured
Anne that you soon should be `irretrievably in
love,' leaving her to supply the little hiatus which
no girl, in like case, would fail to fill with her
own name. And now I will be perfectly frank
with you, Jasper -- indeed, if there is any thing on
which I pride myself, it is frankness. You under-
stood the intimation in the Italian stanza I gave
you from the carriage this afternoon?" Meredith
bowed. "It conveyed a little history in a few words,
my son; I have simply aimed to be `la stella,' by

---

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which you, a wise and skilful `nocchiero,' should,
taking advantage of fair winds and favourable tides,
guide your vessel into port. But why speak in
figures when we perfectly understand one another?
Our dear little Anne -- a sweet attractive creature,
is she not? -- was left to my guardianship, or
rather matronship, for your poor uncle was so very
thoughtless as to vest me with no authority to con-
trol her fortune, or her choice of a husband."

   "Bless my soul! is it possible?"

   "Too true, indeed. You now perceive in what
embarrassing circumstances I was placed. This
pretty girl on my hands, with her immense and un-
encumbered property; nothing short of the utmost
prudence and energy on my part could save her
from being the prey of fortune-hunters (alas! for
poor human nature! -- the lady uttered this without
a blush) -- rest assured, Jasper, that nothing would
have induced me in these perilous times to cross
the Atlantic, but my duty to my orphan niece."

   "And the remote prospect of benefiting me, my
dear mother."

   Mrs. Meredith was too intent on the interesting
subject upon which she was entering, to notice the
sarcasm her son had not the grace to suppress.
"I had my anxieties," she continued, "I frankly
confess to you, I had my anxieties before I arrived
about Miss Linwood, and -- some few I have had
since -- "

   Mrs. Meredith paused and fixed her eyes on

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SMALL | MEDIUM
Jasper. "On my honour you have not the slight-
est ground for them," he said.

   She proceeded. "Miss Linwood is in some re-
spects a superior young person -- she has not the --
the -- the talent of Helen Ruthven -- nor the -- the
-- the grace of Lady Anne (no wonder the per-
plexed diplomatist hesitated for a comparative that
should place Isabella Linwood below these young
ladies); but, as I said, she is a superior young per-
son -- a remarkable looking person, certainly; at
least, she is generally thought so. I do not particu-
larly like her style -- tenderness and manageable-
ness, like our dear Anne's, are particularly becom-
ing in a female. Miss Linwood is too lofty -- one
does not feel quite comfortable with her. On the
whole, I consider it quite fortunate you did not form
an attachment in that quarter -- prudence must be
consulted -- not that I would be swayed by pruden-
tial considerations -- certainly not -- no one thinks
more than I do of the heart; but when, as in your
case, Jasper, the taste and affections accord with a
wise consideration of -- of -- "

   "Fortune, my dear mother?"

   "Yes, Jasper, frankly, fortune -- I esteem it a re-
markably happy circumstance. Your own fortune
may or may not be large. The American portion
of it depends upon contingencies, and therefore it
would have been rash for you to have encumbered
yourself with a ruined family; for, as I am informed,
the Linwoods have but just enough to subsist de-

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cently upon from day to day. It is true, they
keep up a respectable appearance. Anne, by-the-
way, tells me they get up the most delicious petits
soupers there. It is amazing what pride will do!
-- what sacrifices some people make to appear-
ances!"

   "There must be something else than mere table
luxuries to make these suppers so attractive to my
cousin."

   "Undoubtedly; for as to that, you know, we have
every thing that money can purchase in this demi-
savage country; to be sure, Anne might have a
foolish, girlish liking for Miss Linwood, but then I
am quite confident -- I hesitate, for if there is any
thing on which I pride myself, it is being scrupu-
lous towards my own sex in affairs of the heart;
but I betray nothing, for though you are perfectly
free from coxcombry, you are not blind, and you
must have seen -- "

   "Not seen, but hoped, my dear mother," replied
Meredith, with a smile that indicated assurance
doubly sure.

   "Hope is the fitting word for you -- but your
hope may be my certainty. I betray no secrets.
Anne has not been confidential, but the dear child
is so transparent -- "

   "She seems, however, to have been rather
opaque in this Linwood attachment."

   "Yes, I confess myself baffled there -- you may
have opened a vein of conquetry, Jasper. I know

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not what it means, but it can mean nothing to alarm
us. It is very odd, though -- there is nothing there
to gratify her, and every thing here. This very
evening Governor Tryon called with the young
prince, to propose to get up a concert for her. By-
the-way, a pretty youth is Prince William! -- he left
this bouquet for Lady Anne. The honourable Mr.
Barton and Sir Reginald were here too, and the
Higbys -- and there she is, mewed up with that old
fretful Mr. Linwood. She must think, Jasper, you
are not sufficiently devoted to her."

   "She shall not think so in future."

   "Hark, there is the carriage! -- I sent her word
that I was not well. In truth, her absence has
teased me into a headache, and my own room will
be the best place for me." Thus concluding her
tedious harangue, the lady made a hasty retreat;
and before Lady Anne had exchanged a salutation
with Meredith, and thrown aside her hat and cloak,
her aunt's maid appeared with a message from this
"frank" lady, importing her sense of Lady Anne's
kindness in coming home, and informing her that
prudence obliged her to abstain from seeing her
niece till morning.

   "I am very sorry!" said Lady Anne, heaving a
deep sigh, sinking down in the arm-chair her aunt
had just left, resting her elbow on it, and looking
pensively in the fire.

   "You need not be so deeply concerned, my kind
cousin; my mother is not very ill," said Meredith,

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with difficulty forbearing a laugh at the disparity
between the cause and the effect on his apparently
sympathizing cousin.

   "Ill!" exclaimed Lady Anne, starting, "I did
not suppose that she was ill."

   "Then why, in the name of Heaven, that deep
sigh?"

   "There are many causes of sighs, cousin
Jasper."

   "To you, Lady Anne, so young, so gifted, so
lovely, so beloved."

   "That should be happiness!" she replied, cov-
ering her face with her hands to hide the tears that,
in spite of all the anti-crying tendencies of her
nature, gushed from her eyes.

   "Those dimpled hands," thought Meredith,
"hiding so childishly her melting face, might move
an anchoret; but they move not me. I am too
pampered -- to know that I have been loved by Is-
abella Linwood, with all the bitter, cursed mortifi-
cation that attends it, is worth a world of such tri-
umphs as this. Poor Bessie -- I remember too!
but, allons, I will take the good `the gods provide,'
since I cannot have that which they deny. Cous-
in -- "

   "Did you speak to me, Jasper?"

   "Now, by my life," thought Meredith, "my
words are congealed -- they will not flow to such
willing ears."

   "I am playing the fool," exclaimed Lady Anne,

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suddenly rising and dashing off her tears. "Good
night, Jasper -- I have betrayed myself -- no, no, I
did not mean that -- pray forget my weakness -- I
am nervous this evening for the first time in my
life, and I know nothing of managing nerves --
good night, Jasper!"

   Meredith seized her hand and held her back.
"Indeed, my sweet coz, you must not go now."

   "Must not go! Why not?" she replied, ex-
cessively puzzled by the expressive smile that
hovered on his lips.

   "Why not! Because you are too much of an
angel to shut your heart so suddenly against me
after allowing me a glimpse at the paradise within."

   "What do you mean?" she asked, now begin-
ning, from Meredith's manner, and from the well-
tutored expression of his most sentimental eyes, to
have some dim perception of his meaning, and to
be disconcerted by it.

   "Dear Anne, did you not, with your own pecu-
liar, enchanting ingenuousness, say you had be-
trayed yourself? Never was there a sweeter --
a more welcome treachery." He fell on his knee,
and pressed her hand to his lips.

   "For the love of Heaven, Jasper," she cried,
snatching her hand away, "tell me what I have
said or done."

   "Nothing that you should not, dearest cousin;
your betrayal, as you called it, was, I know, invol-
untary, and for that the dearer."

---

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   "Are you in earnest, Jasper?"

   "In earnest! most assuredly; and do you, Lady
Anne, like all your sex, delight in torturing your
captives? -- your captive I certainly am, for life."

   The truth was now but too evident to Lady
Anne; but she was so unprepared for it, her mind
had been so wholly preoccupied, that it seemed to
her the marvellous result of some absurd misun-
derstanding. At first she blushed, and stammer-
ed, and then, following her natural bent, laughed
merrily.

   To Meredith, this appeared a childish artifice
to shelter her mortification at having made, in
military phrase, a first demonstration. His in-
terest was stimulated by this slight obstacle; and
rallying all his powers, he began a passionate dec-
laration in the good set terms "in such cases made
and provided;" but Lady Anne cut him off before
he had finished his peroration. "This is a most
absurd business, Jasper; I entreat you never to
speak of it again. Aunt, or somebody, or some-
thing, has misled you -- misled you certainly are.
I never in my life thought of you in any other
light, than as a very agreeable cousin, nor ever
shall. I am very sorry for you, Jasper; but really,
I am not in fault, for I never, by word or look,
could have expressed what I never felt. Good
night, Jasper." She was running away, when she
turned back to add, "Pray, say nothing of this to
my aunt, and let us meet to-morrow as we have

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always met before." She then disappeared, and
left Meredith baffled, mortified, irritated, and most
thoroughly awakened from his dreams. Her face,
voice, and manner, were truth itself; and rapidly
reviewing their past intercourse, and carefully
weighing the words that had misled him, he came
to the conclusion that he had been partly misguided
by his mother, and partly the dupe of his previous
impressions. The measure of his humiliations
was filled up.

   But his vanity survived the severe and repeated
blows of that evening. Vanity has a wonderful
tenacity of life: it resembles those reptiles that
feed greedily on every species of food, the most
delicate and the grossest, and that can subsist on
their own independent vitality.

---

---

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Chapter 35

CHAPTER XXXV.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   "Heart! what's that?

   "Oh, a thing servant-maids have, and break for John the
footman."

   If Meredith could have borne off his charming
heiress-cousin, his love for Isabella might have
gone to the moon, or to any other repository of lost
and forgotten things. But, balked in that pursuit,
it resumed its empire over him. He passed a
feverish, sleepless night, revolving the past, and
reconsidering Isabella's every word and look du-
ring their interview of the preceding evening; and
finally, he came to a conclusion not unnatural (for
few persons give others credit for less of a given
infirmity than they themselves possess), that Isa-
bella's vanity had been wounded by the conviction
that she had been, for a time, superseded by
Bes ie Lee; and that the ground he had thus lost
might, by a dexterous manoeuvre, be regained.
Engrossed with his next move, he appeared at
breakfast-table as usual, attentive to his mother,
and polite to Lady Anne, who, anxious to express
her good-will, was more than ordinarily kind; and
Mrs. Meredith concluded that if matters had not
gone as far as she had hoped, they were going on
swimmingly. The breakfast finished, Lady Anne

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ran away from her aunt's annoying devotions to
the Linwoods, and Meredith retired to his own
room to write, after weighing and sifting each
word, the following note to Isabella. He did not
send it, however, till he had taken the precaution
to precede it by a written request to Lady Anne
(with whom he had found out too late that honest
dealing was far the safest) that she would, on no
account -- he asked it for her own sake -- commu-
nicate to any one their parting scene of the pre-
ceding evening. His evil star ruled the ascend-
ant, and Lady Anne received the note too late.

To Miss Linwood.

   "Montaigne says, and says truly, that `toutes
passions que se laissent, gouster et digerer ne
sont que mediocres;' but how would he -- how
shall I characterize a passion which has swallowed
up every other passion, desire, and affection of my
nature -- has grown and thriven upon that which
would have seemed fatal to its existence!

   "Isabella, these are not hollow phrases; you
know they are not; and be not angry at my bold-
ness; I know your heart responds to them, and,
though I was stretched on the rack to obtain this
knowledge, I thank my tormentors. Yes, by
Heaven! I would not exchange that one instant of
intoxicating, bewildering joy, when, even in the
presence of witnesses, and such witnesses! you
confessed you had loved me, for ages of a common

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SMALL | MEDIUM
existence. Thank Heaven, too, the precious con-
fession was not through the hackneyed medium of
words. Such a sentiment is not born in your
bosom to die. I judge from my own inferior na-
ture. I have loved on steadily, through absence,
coldness, disdain, caprice (pardon me, my proud,
my adored Isabella), in spite of the canker and
rust of delay after delay; in spite of all the as-
saults of those temptations to which the young
and fortunate are exposed. Can I estimate your
heart at a lower rate than my own?

   "As to that silly scene last evening, though it
stung me at the moment, and goaded me to an un-
meaning impertinence, yet, on a review of it, do
you not perceive that we were both the dupes of a
little dramatic effect? and that there is no reality
in the matter, except so far as concerns the lost
wits of the crazed girl, and the very natural afflic-
tion of her well-meaning brother, whose unjust
and hasty indignation towards me, being the result
of false impressions, I most heartily forgive.

   "As to poor Bessie Lee, I can only say, God help
her! I am most sincerely sorry for her; but neither
you nor I can be surprised that she should be the
dupe of her lively imagination, and the victim of
her nervous temperament. I ask but one word in
reply. Say you will see me at any hour you
choose; and, for God's sake, Isabella, secure our
interview from interruption."

   In half an hour, and just as Meredith was sallying

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forth to allay his restlessness by a walk in the
open air, he met his messenger with a note from
Miss Linwood. He turned back, entered the un-
occupied drawing-room, and read the following: --

---

Letter

   "I have received your note, Jasper; I do not
reply to it hastily; hours of watchfulness and re-
flection at the bedside of my friend have given the
maturity of years to my present feeling. I have
loved you, I confess it now; not by a treacherous
blush, but calmly, deliberately, in my own hand-
writing, without faltering or emotion of any sort.
Yes, I have loved you, if a sentiment springing
from a most attachable nature, originating in the
accidental intercourse of childhood, fostered by
pride, nurtured by flattery, and exaggerated by an
excited imagination, can be called love.

   "I have loved you, if a sentiment struggling
with doubt and distrust, seeking for rest and find-
ing none, becoming fainter and fainter in the dawn-
ing light of truth, and vanishing, like an exhalation
in the full day, can be called love.

   "You say truly. Bessie Lee is the dupe of a
too lively imagination, and the victim of a nervous
temperament. To these you might have added,
an exquisitely organized frame, and a conscience
too susceptible for a creature liable to the mistakes
of humanity. Oh, how despicable, how cruel, was
the vanity that could risk the happiness of such a
creature for its own gratification! I have wept

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bitterly over her; I should scarcely have pitied
her, had she been the unresisting slave and victim
of a misplaced and unrequited passion.

   "After what I have written, you will perceive
that you need neither seek nor avoid an interview
with me; that the only emotion you can now ex-
cite, is a devout gratitude that our former inter-
views were interrupted, and circumstances were
made strong enough to prevail over my weakness.

"Isabella Linwood.

"P.S. -- I have detained my messenger, and
opened my note to add, that your cousin has just
come in, and with a confidence befitting her frank
nature, has communicated to me the farce with
which you followed up the tragedy of last evening."

---

---

   Meredith felt, what was in truth quite evident,
that Isabella Linwood was herself again. He
threw the note from him in a paroxysm of vexation,
disappointment, and utter and hopeless mortifica-
tion; and covering his face with his hands, he en-
dured one of those moments that occur even in this
life, when the sins, follies, and failures of by-gone
years are felt with the vividness and acuteness of
the actual and present, and memory and conscience
are endued with supernatural energy and retributive
power.

   What a capacity of penal suffering has the All-
wise infused into the moral nature of man, even
the weakest!

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"The mind is its own place, and in itself,
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

   Meredith was roused by the soft fall of a foot-
step. He started, and saw Helen Ruthven, who
had just entered, and was in the act of picking up
the note he had thrown down. She looked at the
superscription, then at Meredith. Her lustrous
eyes suffused with tears, and the tears formed into
actual drops, and rolled down her cheeks. "Oh,
happy, most happy Isabella Linwood!" she ex-
claimed. Meredith took the note from her and
threw it into the fire. Miss Ruthven stared at him,
and lifted up her hands with an unfeigned emotion
of astonishment. After a moment's pause, she
added, "I still say, most happy Isabella Linwood.
And yet, if she cannot estimate the worth of the
priceless kingdom she sways, is she most happy?
You do not answer me; and you, of all the world,
cannot." Meredith did not reply by word; but
Miss Ruthven's quick eye perceived the cloud clear-
ing from his brow; and she ventured to try the
effect of a stronger light. "I cannot comprehend
this girl," she continued; "she is a riddle -- an in-
solvable riddle to me. A passionless mortal seems
to me to approach nearer to a monster than to a
divinity deserving your idolatry, Meredith. She
cannot be the cold, apathetic, statue-like person she
appears -- "

   "And why not, Miss Ruthven?"

   "Simply because a passionless being cannot in-

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spire passion -- and yet -- and yet, if she were a
marble statue, your love should have been the
Promethean touch to infuse a soul. Pardon me --
pity me, if I speak too plainly; there are moments
when the heart will burst the barriers of prudence
-- there are moments of desperation, of self-aban-
donment. I cannot be bound by those petty axioms
and frigid rules that shackle my sex -- I cannot
weigh my words -- I must pour out my heart, even
though this prodigality of its treasures `naught
enriches you, and makes me poor indeed!' "

   Helen Ruthven's broken sentences were linked
together by expressive glances and effective pauses.
She gave to her words all the force of intonation
and emphasis, which produce the effect of polish
on metal, making it dazzling, without adding an
iota to its intrinsic value. Meredith lent a most
attentive ear, mentally comparing the while Miss
Ruthven's lavished sensibilities to Isabella's jealous
reserve. He should have discriminated between
the generosity that gives what is nothing worth,
and the fidelity that watches over an immortal
treasure; but vanity wraps itself in impenetrable
darkness. He only felt that he was in a labyrinth
of which Helen Ruthven held the clew; and that
he was in the process of preparation to follow
whithersoever she willed to lead him.

   We let the curtain fall here; we have no taste
for showing off the infirm of our own sex. We
were willing to supply some intimations that might

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be available to our ingenuous and all-believing
young male friends; but we would not reveal to
our fair and true-hearted readers the flatteries, pre-
tences, false assumptions, and elaborate blandish-
ments, by which a hackneyed woman of the world
dupes and beguiles; and at last (obeying the in-
flexible law of reaping as she sows) pays the penalty
of her folly in a life of matrimonial union without
affection -- a wretched destiny, well fitting those
who profane the sanctuary of the affections with
hypocritical worship.

   While the web is spinning around Meredith, we
leave him with the wish that all the Helen Ruth-
vens in the world may have as fair game as Jasper
Meredith.

---

---

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Chapter 36

CHAPTER XXXVI.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

"Adventurous I have been, it is true,
And this fool-hardy heart would brave -- nay, court,
In other days, an enterprise of passion;
Yea, like a witch, would whistle for a whirlwind.
But I have been admonished."

   Our humble story treats of the concerns of in-
dividuals, and not of historical events. We shall
not, therefore, embarrass our readers with the par-
ticulars of the secret mission on which Eliot Lee
had been sent to the city by the commander-in-
chief. He needed an agent, who might, as the
exigency should demand, be prudent or bold, wary
or decided, cautious or gallant, and self-sacrificing.
He had tested Eliot Lee, and knew him to be
capable of all these rarely-united virtues. Eliot
had confided to Washington his anxieties respecting
his unfortunate sister, and his burning desire to go
to the city, where he might possibly ascertain her
fate. Washington gave him permission to avail
himself of every facility for the performance of his
fraternal duty, consistent with the public service
on which he sent him. His sympathies were alive
to the charities of domestic life. While the mili-
tary chieftain planted and guarded the tree that was

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to overshadow his country, he cherished the birds
that made their nests in its branches.

   Eliot was instructed to seek a hiding-place in
the city at a certain Elizabeth Bengin's, a woman
of strong head and strong heart, whose name is
preserved in history as one who, often at great
personal risk, rendered substantial service in the
country's cause. Dame Bengin and her parrot
Sylvy, who seemed to preside over the destinies
of the shop, and did in fact lure many a young
urchin into it, were known to all the city. The
dame herself was a thick-set, rosy little body,
fair, fat, and forty; her shop was a sort of thread
and needle store: but as the principle of division
of labour had yet made small progress in our young
country, Mistress Bengin's wares were as multi-
farious as the wants of the citizens. Mrs. Bengin's
first principle was to keep a civil tongue in her
own and in Sylvy's head, she "holding civility
(as she often said and repeated) to be the most dis-
posable and most profitable article in her shop."
It was indeed seriously profitable to her, for it sur-
rounded her with an atmosphere of kindness, and
enabled her, though watched and suspected by the
English, to follow her calling for a long while un-
molested.

   She gave Eliot an apartment in a loft over her
shop, to which, there being no apparent access,
Eliot obtained egress and ingress by removing a
loose board that, to the uninstructed eye, formed a
part of the ceiling of the shop.

---

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   From this hiding-place Eliot sallied forth to
execute his secret purposes, varying his disguises,
which were supplied by Mrs. Bengin, as caution
dictated. As all sorts of persons frequented the
shop, no attention was excited by all sorts of per-
sons coming out of it. Eliot's forced masquerading
often compelled him to personate various charac-
ters during the day, and at evening, with simply a
cloak over his own uniform, and a wallet over his
arm, like those still used by country doctors, and
precisely, as Dame Bengin assured him, like that
carried by the "doctor that attended the quality,"
he made his way, sheltered by the obscurity of the
night, to Mrs. Archer's, where he was admitted by
one of the children, whose acute senses caught the
first sound of his approaching footsteps. Eliot, in
spite of remonstrances from his prime minister,
Mrs. Bengin, had persisted in appearing in his own
dress at Mrs. Archer's. In vain the good dame
speculated and soliloquized; she could not solve
the mystery of this only disobedience to her coun-
sel. "To be sure," she said, "it makes a sight
of difference in his looks, whether he wears my
tatterdemalion disguises, wigs, scratches, and what
not, or his own nice uniform, with his own rich
brown hair, waving off his sunshiny forehead -- a
bright, pleasant, tight-built looking youth he is,
as ever I put my two eyes upon; and if he were
going to see young ladies, I should not wonder
that he did not want to put his light under a bushel;

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but, my conscience! to keep up such a brushing
and scrubbing -- my loft is not so very linty either
-- just to go before the widow Archer -- to be sure,
she is a widow; but then, there never was a man
yet that dared to have any courting thoughts of
her, any more than if she were buried in her hus-
band's grave; and this is not the youth to be pre-
suming."

   Dame Bengin knew enough of human nature to
have solved the mystery of Eliot's toilet, if she
had been apprized of one material fact in the case.
At Mrs. Archer's, watching at Bessie's bedside,
Eliot always found Miss Linwood; and though the
truest, the most anxious, and tender of brothers, he
was not unconscious of her presence, nor uncon-
scious that her presence mingled with his suffer-
ings for his sister a most dangerous felicity. His
fate was inevitable; he at least thought it so; and
that fate was an intense and unrequited devotion to
one as unattainable to him as if she were the inhabi-
tant of another planet. He did not resist his des-
tiny by abating one minute of those hours that were
worth years of a drawing-room intercourse. In
ordinary circumstances, Isabella's soul would have
been veiled from so new an acquaintance; but now,
constantly under the influence of strong feeling
and fresh impulses, and a most joyous sense of
freedom, her lofty, generous, and tender spirit
glowed in her beautiful face, and inspired and
graced every word and movement.

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   Her devotion to Bessie was intense; not simply
from compassion nor affection, but remembering,
that in her self-will she had insisted, in spite of her
father's disinclination, and her aunt's most reason-
able remonstrances, on Bessie's visit to the city,
she looked upon herself as the primary cause of
her friend's misfortunes, and felt her own peace of
mind to be staked on Bessie's recovery. What a
change had the discipline of life wrought in Isa-
bella's character! the qualities were still the same;
the same energy of purpose, the same earnestness
in action, the same strength of feeling, but now all
flowing in the right channel, all having a moral
aim, and all governed by that religious sense of
duty, which is to the spirit in this perilous voyage
of life what the compass is to the mariner.

   Of Bessie's recovery there seemed, from day to
day, little prospect. One hopeful circumstance
there was. The intelligent physician consulted by
Mrs. Archer had frankly confessed that his art
could do nothing for her, and had advised leaving
her entirely to the energies of nature. Would
that this virtue of letting alone were oftener imita-
ted by the faculty! that nature were oftener per-
mitted to manifest her power unclogged, and unem-
barrassed by the poisons of the drug-shop!

   Bessie was as weak and helpless as a new-born
infant, and apparently as unknowing of the world
about her. With few and brief exceptions, she
slept day and night. Her face was calm, peaceful,

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and not inexpressive, but it was as unvarying as a
picture. Her senses appeared no longer to be the
ministers of the mind; she heard without hearing,
and saw without seeing, and never attempted to
speak. At times, her friends despaired utterly, be-
lieving that her mind was extinct; and then again
they hoped it was a mere suspension of her facul-
ties, a rest preluding restoration.

   While fear and hope were thus alternating, a
week passed away. Eliot's mission was near
being accomplished. The evening of the follow-
ing day was appointed for the consummation of his
plans. The boats, with muffled oars and trusty
oarsmen, were in readiness, and the plan for the
secret seizure of a most important personage so
well matured, that it was all but impossible it
should be baffled. The most brilliant result seem-
ed certain: and well-balanced as Eliot's mind was,
it was excited to the highest pitch when a commu-
nication reached him from headquarters, informing
him that Washington deemed it expedient to
abandon the enterprise of which he was the agent;
and he was directed, if possible, to cross the Hud-
son during the night, and repair to the camp near
Morristown. And thus ended the hope of brilliant
achievement and sudden advancement; and he
went to pay his last visit to his sister -- for the last
time to see Isabella Linwood!

   She met him with good news lighting her eyes,

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"Bessie is reviving!" she said; "she has pressed
my hand, and spoken my name!"

   "Thank God!" replied Eliot, approaching the
bedside. For the first time Bessie fixed her eye
on him as if conscious at whom she was looking;
then, as he bent over her, she stretched out her
arms, drew his face to hers, and kissed him, feebly
murmuring, "dear Eliot!"

   The effort exhausted her, and she reverted to
her usual condition. "This must be expected,"
said Miss Linwood, replying to the shade of dis-
appointment that passed over Eliot's brow; "but
having seen such a sign of recovery, you will leave
her with a light heart?"

   Eliot smiled assentingly; a melancholy smile
enough. "You still," she continued, "expect to
get off to-morrow evening?"

   "No, my business in the city is finished, and I
go this very night."

   "To-night! would to Heaven that Herbert were
going with you!"

   "Not one regret for my going!" thought Eliot,
and he sighed involuntarily. "You seem," re-
sumed Isabella, "very suddenly indifferent to
Herbert's fate -- you do not care to know, before
you go, how our plans are ripening?"

   "Indifferent to Herbert's fate! -- to aught that
concerns you, Miss Linwood!"

   "A commonplace compliment from you, Cap-
tain Lee -- well, as it is the first, I'll forgive you --

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not so would Herbert, for making him secondary
in a matter where he is entitled to the honour, as he
has the misery of being principal. Poor fellow!
his adversities have not taught him patience, and
Rose tells me he is very near the illness he has
feigned, and that if he does not get off by to-
morrow night, he will fret himself into a fever."

   "Have you made Lady Anne acquainted with
your project?"

   "Yes, indeed! and her quick wit, loving heart,
and most ingenious fingers, have been busy in con-
triving and executing our preparations. She is wild
enough to wish to be the companion of Herbert's
flight -- this is not to be thought of -- but I have
promised her that she shall see him once more.
Lizzy Bengin will go with us to the boat, where, if
Heaven prosper us, he will be by eight to-morrow
evening. And then, Captain Lee, should you per-
suade General Washington to receive and forgive
him, we shall be perfectly happy again."

   "Perfectly happy!" echoed Eliot, in a voice
most discordant with the words he uttered.

   "Oh, pardon me! I did not mean that. It is
cruel to talk to you of happiness while Bessie is
in this uncertain condition -- and most unjust it is to
myself, for I never shall be happy unless she is re-
stored, and mistress of herself again."

   "Ah, Miss Linwood, that cannot be. In her
best days she had not the physical and mental
power required to make her `mistress of herself;'

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no, it can never be. If it were not for my mother,
who I know would wish Bessie restored to her,
even though she continue the vacant casket she
now is, I should, with most intense desire, pray
God to take her to himself -- there alone can a
creature so sensitive and fragile be safe and at
peace!"

   "You are wrong -- I am certain you are wrong.
There is a flexibility in our womanly nature that
is strength in our weakness. Bessie will perceive
the delusion under which she has acted and suffer-
ed, and which had dominion over her, because, like
any other dream, it seemed a reality while it lasted.
Yes, her affections will return to their natural chan-
nels to bless us all." Eliot shook his head de-
spondingly. "You are faithless and unbelieving,"
continued Isabella; and then added, smiling and
blushing, "but I reason from experience, and
therefore you should believe me."

   This was the first time that Meredith had been
alluded to. The allusion was intrepid and gener-
ous; and if a confession of past weakness, it was
an assurance of present, conscious, and all-suffi-
cient strength. That Eliot at least thought so,
was evident from the sudden irradiation of his
countenance; a brightness misinterpreted by Isa-
bella, who immediately added, "I have convinced
you, and you will admit I was not so very rash
in saying that we should all again be perfectly
happy."

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   Eliot made no reply; he walked to the extremity
of the room, paused, returned, gazed intently yet
abstractedly at his sister, then at Isabella, and then
mechanically took up his hat, laid it down, and
again resumed it.

   Isabella was perplexed by his contradictory
movements. "You are not going so soon?" she
said. He did not reply. "Shall I call my
aunt?" she added, rising.

   Eliot seized her hand, and withheld her. "No,
no, not yet -- Miss Linwood, I am playing the
hypocrite -- it is not alone my anxiety for my sister
that torments me -- that made your prediction of
happiness sound to me like a knell." He paused,
and then yielding to an irresistible impulse, he im-
petuously threw himself at Isabella's feet. " Isa-
bella Linwood, I love you -- love you without the
presumption of the faintest, slightest hope -- before
we part for ever, suffer me to tell you so."

   "Captain Lee, you astonish me! -- you do not
mean -- "

   "I know I astonish you, but I will not offend
you. Is it folly -- rashness -- obtrusiveness, to pour
out an affection before you, that expects nothing
in return, asks nothing but the satisfaction of being
known, and not offensive to you?"

   "Oh, no, no; but you may regret -- "

   "Never, never. From this moment I devote
my heart -- I dedicate my existence to you; inso-
much as God permits me to love aught beneath

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himself, I will love you. I must now part from
you for ever; but wherever I go your image will
attend me -- that cannot be denied me -- it shall de-
fend me from temptation, incite me to high re-
solves, pure thoughts, and good deeds."

   "Such homage might well make me proud," re-
plied Isabella, "and I am most grateful for it; but
your imagination is overwrought; this is a tran-
sient excitement -- it will pass away."

   "Never!" replied Eliot, rising, and recovering
in some degree the steadiness of his voice; "hear
me patiently; it is the only time I shall ever
ask your indulgence. I am not now, nor was
I ever, under the dominion of my imagination or
my passions. I have been trained in the school of
exertion, of self-denial, and self-subjection; and I
would not, I could not love one who did not sway
my reason, who was not entitled to the homage of
my best faculties. I have been moved by beauty,
I have been attracted by the lovely -- I have had
my fancies and my likings -- what man of two-and-
twenty has not? -- I never loved before; never
before felt a sentiment that, if it were requited,
would have made earth a paradise to me; but that
unrequited, unsustained but by its own independent
vitality, I would not part with for any paradise on
this earth."

   The flush of surprise that first overspread Isa-
bella's face had deepened to a crimson glow. If a
woman is not offended by such language as Eliot's,

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she cannot be unmoved. Isabella's was a listening
eye. It seemed to Eliot, at this moment, that its
rays touched his heart and burned there. She
passed her hand over her brow, as one naturally
does when the brain is becoming a little blurred in
its perceptions. "This is so very strange, so un-
expected," she said, in the softest tone of that
voice, whose every tone was music to her lover's
ear -- "in one short week -- it cannot be!"

   Isabella but half uttered her thoughts: she had
been misled, as most inexperienced observers are in
similar cases, by the tranquillity of Eliot's manner;
she respected and liked him exceedingly; but she
thought him unexcitable, and incapable of passion.
She had yet to learn that the strongest passions
are reducible to the gentlest obedience, and may
be so subjected as to manifest their power, not in
irregular and rebellious movements, but only in the
tasks they achieve. She did not now reflect or
analyze, but she felt, for the first time, there was
that in Eliot Lee that could answer to the capaci-
ties of her own soul.

   "This is, undoubtedly, unexpected to you," re-
sumed Eliot, "but should not be strange. When
I first saw you I was struck with your beauty;
and I thought, if I were a pagan, I should imbody
my divinity in just such a form, and fall down and
worship it -- that might have been what the world
calls falling in love, but it was far enough from
the all-controlling sentiment I now profess to you.

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Our acquaintance has been short (I date farther
back than a week); but in this short period I have
seen your mind casting off the shackles of early
prejudices, resisting the authority of opinion, self-
rectified, and forming its independent judgments
on those great interests in which the honour and
prosperity of your country are involved. I have
gloried in seeing you willing to sacrifice the pride,
the exclusiveness, and all the little idol vanities of
accidental distinctions, to the popular and generous
side.

   "Nay, hear me out, Isabella; I will not leave
you till you have the reasons of my love; till
you admit that I have deliberately elected the
sovereign of my affections; till you feel, yes, feel,
that my devotion to you can never abate." He
hesitated, and his voice faltered; but he resolutely
proceeded: "Other shackles has your power over
woman's weakness enabled you to cast off."

   "Oh, no -- no; do not commend me for that --
they fell off."

   "Be it so: they could not fetter you, that is
enough."

   "Then," said Isabella, somewhat mischievously,
"I think you like me for, what most men like not
at all -- my love of freedom and independence of
control."

   "Yes, I do; for I think they are essential to the
highest and most progressive nature; but I should

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not love it if it were not blended with all the ten-
derness and softness of your sex. The fire that
mounts to Heaven from the altar, diffuses its gentle
warmth at the fireside. Think you, that while
you have been tending my sister, I have been un-
mindful of your kindly domestic qualities, or blind
to the thousand womanly inventions by which I see
you ministering to the happiness of these unfortu-
nate children? Have you thought me insensible
to your intervention for my poor boy, Kisel, though
God, in much mercy to him, willed it should be
bootless? I do homage to your genius, talent,
and accomplishment, but I love your gracious, do-
mestic, home-felt virtues. I am exhausting your
patience." Isabella had covered her face; over-
powered with the accumulated proof that Eliot had
watched her with a fond lover's eye. After a slight
hesitation, he proceeded to obey a most natural, if
it be a weak longing. "Allow me, if you can,
one solace, one blessed thought to cheer a long
life of loneliness and devotion. I am bold in ask-
ing it; but, tell me, had I known you earlier, had
no predilection forestalled me, had no rival inter-
vened, do you think it possible that you should
have returned my love?"

   Some one says that all women are reared hypo-
crites -- trained to veil their natures; Isabella Lin-
wood, at least, was not. She replied, impulsively
and frankly, "Most certainly I should."

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   Eliot again fell at her feet. He ventured to take
her hand, to press it to his lips, to wet it with his
tears. "I am satisfied," he said; "now I can go;
and the thought that I might, under a happier star,
have been loved by Isabella Linwood, shall elevate,
guide, and sooth me, in all the chances and changes
of life."

   While Eliot was uttering these last words,
and while Isabella was absorbed in the emo-
tions they excited, the door was softly opened,
and Lizzy Archer, flitting across the room, said
in a low voice, "Oh, Captain Lee! what shall we
do? -- there are horrid soldiers watching at both
our doors for you -- mamma is out, and I could not
sleep -- I never sleep when you are here, for fear
something will happen -- I heard their voices at the
side door; and when I came through the hall, I
heard others through the street door -- what shall we
do? -- Cousin Belle, pray think -- you can always
think in a minute."

   But "Cousin Belle's" presence of mind had
suddenly forsaken her; and as Eliot's eye glanced
towards her, he saw she was pale and trembling.
A hope shot into his mind, a thought of the possi-
bility that if he were not now severed from her,
that which she had generously admitted might
have been, might still be. To exclude this new-
born hope seemed to him like the extinction of
life. He rapidly revolved the circumstances in
which he was placed. He had done, in the affair

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intrusted to him, all, and even more than his com-
mander expected; it had failed of consummation
through no fault of his; he was in the American
uniform, and thus captured, he might claim the
rights of a prisoner of war; the temporary loss
of his presence in camp would be unimportant to
the cause; and remaining for a time within reach
of Isabella Linwood might result in good, infinite
good, and happiness to himself. He wavered;
but the fixed habit of rectitude prevailed, the duty
of the soldier over the almost irresistible inclina-
tions of the man: he shut out the temptation,
and only considered the means of escape. "Dear
Lizzy," he said, "if I could find my way to your
skylight -- I have observed the descent would not
be dangerous from there to the back building, and
so down on the roofs of the other offices."

   "But," said Lizzy, for the little creature seemed
to have considered the whole ground, "if there
should be soldiers too at the back gate?"

   "I will avoid them, Lizzy, by going into the
next yard to yours, then over two or three walls,
till I find it safe to emerge into the street."

   "I can lead you to the skylight. I am very
glad I am blind, so I shall not need any light; for
that would show you to the soldiers, who are
standing by the side windows of the hall-door.
Oh, dear, I hope they won't hear my heart beat;
but it does beat so!"

   There were other hearts there that beat almost

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audibly besides poor Lizzy's; but there was no
time to indulge emotions. Eliot kissed his uncon-
scious sister; and then grasping the hand Isabella
extended to him, he would have said, "Farewell
for ever!" but his voice was choked, and the last
ominous word was unpronounced. His little guide
led him noiselessly up the stairs, through the en-
tries, and to the skylight; and then fondly em-
bracing him and promising to give his farewells to
"mother and Ned," she parted from him, and stood
fixed and breathless, listening till she believed he
had eluded those who were lying in wait for him,
when she returned to give full vent to her feelings
on Isabella's bosom, and to find more sympathy
there than she wotted of.

   We shall not follow our hero through his " immi-
nent dangers and hair-breadth 'scapes." Suffice it
to say, he did escape; and having passed the
Hudson in the same little boat that brought " Har-
mann Van Zandt" to the city, he eluded the British
station at Powles Hook, passed their redoubts, and
at dawn of day received at the camp at Morris-
town the warm thanks of Washington, who esti-
mated conduct by its intrinsic merit, and not, ac-
cording to the common and false standard, by its
results.

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Chapter 37

CHAPTER XXXVII.

   

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   "Good sir, good sir, you are deceived; it is no man at all!"

   At any other juncture, Mr. Linwood would have
been restless and unappeasable under the priva-
tion of Isabella's society; but now, in his interest
and sympathy in Herbert's affairs, and in his fond-
ness for Lady Anne, he found full employment for
his thoughts and feelings. Lady Anne persisted
in considering herself Herbert's betrothed; and in
spite of her aunt, who, as her niece affirmed, had
become insupportably cross and teasing, she per-
severed in spending all her evenings with the Lin-
woods. The charm that love imparts to those who
are connected with the object of a concentrated
affection, was attached to Herbert's father and
mother. Lady Anne felt the most tender anxieties
for her lover; but, sustained by the buoyancy of
youth, and a most cheerful and sanguine disposi-
tion, she was uniformly bright and animated. Her
sparkling eye and dimpled cheek were happiness
to Mr. Linwood; the old love cheerfulness as the
dim eye delights in brilliant colours.

   Mrs. Archer, who was always, in Mr. Linwood's
estimation, the next best to Isabella, devoted her
evenings to him. She saw, or fancied she saw,

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that Bessie's countenance expressed a pleased con-
sciousness of Isabella's presence; at any rate, she
knew that there was another countenance always
lighted up by it. Accordingly, she repaired every
evening to Mr. Linwood, and played rubber after
rubber, performing her tiresome duty with such zest
and zeal, that Mr. Linwood pronounced her a com-
fortable partner and respectable antagonist -- "a
deal more than he could say for any other woman."

   While the surface of this little society remained
as usual, there was a strong under-current at work.
Herbert, after his explanation with Lady Anne,
was resolved to leave no effort unmade to effect
his escape from durance, and put himself in the
way of those brighter hours that youth and health
whispered might come. His first step was taken
the morning after his parting with Lady Anne.
He enclosed the permit for his visits at home, sent
to him by Sir Henry Clinton, to that gentleman,
with an acknowledgment of his kindness, but with-
out assigning any reason for declining to avail
himself of it farther. He was careful not to in-
volve his honour by any pretences in relation to
that obligation; it was off his hands, and he thanked
Heaven he was now free to use whatever strata-
gem would avail him. He feigned illness. He
knew Rose would be sent to inquire after him;
and he also knew that, when told he was ill, she
would, by force or favour, obtain access to him.
Fortunately, she was admitted without hesitation;

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for Cunningham, conscious of the bad odour he
was in on account of his ill-treatment of the Amer-
ican prisoners, deemed it his best policy to inflict
no gratuitous hardship on the son of Mr. Linwood.
Rose, once admitted, became first counsellor and
coadjutor; and with the aid of the young ladies at
home, a project was contrived, of which this noble
creature was to be the main executer. Herbert's
illness, of course, continued unabated; and Rose
repeated her visits daily, and made her last, as she
hoped, the evening succeeding Eliot's escape.
"Lock me in," she said to the turnkey, "and
leave me a quarter of an hour or so. I want to
coax Mr. Herbert to take a biscuit; he'd die on
your dum stuff." Rose had, in fact, brought to
Linwood, daily, more substantial rations than bis-
cuit, and thus enabled him to gratify his appetite
without endangering his reputation as an invalid.
He was in bed when Rose entered, and out of it
the moment the turnkey closed the door -- "Oh,
Rose, God bless you! Is all arranged?" he asked.

   "Every thing, Mr. Herbert, snug as a bug in a
rug. The young ladies came with me to Mrs.
Lizzy's, and she is to be at Smith's house with
them precisely at seven. It is now half past six.
Mrs. Lizzy's boat, with the muffled oars, that's got
off many a prisoner before you, is now waiting for
you."

   "And are my sister and Lady Anne going to
Smith's house without any male attendant?"

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   "Dear, yes! they are wrapped in cloaks -- no-
body will known them; and Mrs. Lizzy is as good
a guard as horse, foot, and dragoon; there's not a
thimbleful of danger, Mr. Herbert, and they fear
none, bless their hearts! To be sure, Miss Belle
is no great of a soldier in common, and Lady Anne
will scream like all natur' at a mouse; but love is
a great help to courage in young parsons."

   While Rose was making these communications,
to which Herbert eagerly listened, she was doffing
an extra set of linsey-woolsey garments, and transfer-
ring them to her young master, who somewhat de-
layed their adjustment, by putting his feet first into
the "cursed petticoat," as he profanely termed it.
That most respectable feminine article arranged to
Rose's satisfaction, she put over it a shortgown, and
a checked handkerchief over all. "Now for the
beauties," she said, drawing from her pocket a
wig and mask, and holding them up in either hand,
"Miss Belle made one, and Lady Anne t'other."

   The mask, if it might be so called, was well
coloured, and bore a tolerable likeness to Rose.
Linwood was enchanted. "Which," he exclaim-
ed, "which did Lady Anne make, Rose?"

   "The mask."

   Linwood seized it, kissed it, and exclaimed,
"Admirably, admirably done!"

   "It was not half the trouble the wig was," said
Rose.

   "Oh, that is capital too, Rose."

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   "But you don't carry on so about it. Land's
sake! However, I suppose you love Miss Belle as
well, only it an't a kind of love that breeds antics."

   "True, Rose; you may be sure I shall never
love anybody better than I do my sister."

   Rose was satisfied, and proceeded to tie on the
mask, and adjust the fleecy locks. "It's a main
pity," she said, "to cover your pretty shining hair
with what looks like nigger's wool, as they call it."

   "Not a bit -- not a bit, Rose. I know some wool
that covers a far better head than mine -- more
capable, more discerning; and God never created
a nobler heart than beats under one black skin."

   "Pooh! Mr. Herbert." Rose's pooh was a dis-
claimer; but as she put it in, she brushed a tear
from her eye; then tying a mobcap and black silk
bonnet over the wig, and throwing over his shoulders
her short blue broadcloth cloak, and hiding his
white hands in her mittens, she laughed exultingly,
declaring she "should not herself know him from
herself." "Now you're readied," she said, "settle
down as you walk -- be prudent, Mr. Herbert -- look
before you leap. Don't answer them dum fellows,
when you go out, a word more than yes or no -- I
never do. Do your endeavours, and the Lord will
help you. He helps them as helps themselves --
hark! there comes the fellow."

   Before the turnkey opened the door she was in
bed, her head enveloped in the bedclothes; and
Herbert stood, her basket on his arm, apparently

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waiting. No suspicion was excited, nor questions
asked. They went out, and the door was relocked.
Rose raised her head to listen to their receding
footsteps. The footsteps ceased, and she heard
Cunningham's (the provost-marshal's) voice, "Well,
wench," he said, addressing, as she knew, her coun-
terfeit, "how goes it with your young master?"

   "Now the Lord o' mercy help him!" she exclaim-
ed; "he used to mimic Jupe -- if he only can me."

   She did not hear Herbert's reply; but she heard
Cunningham say, as if responding to it -- "Poorlier,
hey? I've got something here that will bring back his
stomach -- respects to your master -- mind, wench."
Again she heard Herbert's footsteps recede, and
Cunningham enter her cell, and shut and lock the
door.

   Cunningham's name was a terror to the whigs,
and to all that cared for them. The man's ex-
cessive cruelty and meanness may be inferred from
the extravagant allegations current at the time; that
he was in the habit of putting the American pris-
oners of war to death, in order to sequester the
rations allowed them. He had recently reason for
apprehensions that an inquiry would be instituted
into his conduct by the commander-in-chief, who
certainly did not authorize unnecessary cruelties,
if he neglected to take cognizance of them.

   Rose's head was well muffled in the bedclothes,
when Cunningham, coming up to the bed, said, "How
goes it, Mr. Linwood; bile uppermost yet? Come,

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lift up your head, and speak, man -- can't you give
an answer to a civil word? Come, come, I'm not
Tom nor Sam, to be put off this way -- next thing
you'll bolt, and I shall have it to answer for; but
they sha'n't say I did not do the good Samaritan by
you. You won't eat -- you won't hear to the doctor
-- the d -- l is in you, man; why don't you rise
up? Here's a dose you must take, any how -- it's
what they give in all cases, calomel and jalap --
come, man, if fair means won't do, foul must."
The patient continued obstinate, and Cunningham
set down the dose, which was mixed in a huge
coffee-bowl, beside a basket of vials, containing
sundry nauseous medicines, designed for the poor
prisoners, as if bad food were not poison and tor-
ture enough for them. A contest began, in which
Cunningham had reason to be astonished at the
strength of the invalid. In the scramble, Rose's
head was disengaged from the bedclothes; the
truth was revealed, and she sprang on him like a
tiger on its prey. The cowardly wretch shrunk
back, and drew a knife, crying out, "You d -- d
nigger!" Rose wrested it from him, and her spirit
disdaining the assassin's weapon, she thrust it into
the wall, exclaiming -- "Now we're even!"

   He sprung towards the door -- she pulled him
back, threw him down, put her knee on his breast,
and by the time he had made one ineffectual strug-
gle, and once bellowed for help, she had added
laudanum, castor-oil, and ipecacuanha to the calomel

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and jalap; and holding his nose between the thumb
and finger of one hand, she presented the over-
flowing bowl to his lips with the other. When
she had convinced him of her potentiality, by
making him gulp down one swallow, she merci-
fully withdrew the draught, saying, "If you offer
to move one inch, or make a sound, I'll pour it
down your throat to the last drop." She then re-
leased him from her grasp, and while he was pant-
ing and shuddering, she turned her back, mutter-
ing something of stringing him up in her clothes.
The "clothes," which she quickly disengaged from
their natural office, proved to be her garters. As
she stretched them out, trying their strength, "My
own spinning, twisting, and knitting," said she;
"they'll bear the weight of twenty such slim pieces
as you."

   "Are you going to hang me?" gasped out Cun-
ningham.

   "Hang you? Yes; but not harm you, if you're
quiet, mind. But I'd choke you twice over to give
Mr. Herbert time: so mind and keep your breath
to cool your porridge." She then turned him over,
bound his hands behind him with one garter, and
made a slip-noose with the other, while he, like a
reptile in the talons of a vulture, crawled and
squirmed with a hopeless resistance. "There's
no use," said Rose; "you're but a baby in my
hands -- it's the strong heart makes the strong arm."
She then set him upright on Herbert's bed, put

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the noose around his neck, and made the other end
fast to an iron hook in the wall. This was just
achieved, when a hurried footstep was heard, follow-
ed by a clattering at the door, and a call for " Mas-
ter Cunningham! -- Master Cunningham!" Rose
placed her foot against the foot of the bedstead;
Cunningham understood the menace, and suppress-
ed the cry on his lips. The calls were reiterated.
Cunningham cast one glance at Rose; her foot was
fixed, her lips compressed, and her eyes glaring with
a resolution stern as fate. Cunningham felt that the
alternative was silence or death, and his face con-
vulsed between the impulse to respond and the ef-
fort to keep quiet. The knocking and screaming
were repeated; and then finding them ineffectual,
the person went off to seek his master elsewhere.
Other sounds now roused Rose's generous spirit,
and tempted her to inflict the vengeance so well
deserved; but hers was not the mind to be swayed
by opportunity -- "convenience snug."

   The apartment adjoining Linwood's was spa-
cious, and crammed with American prisoners.
There was a communicating door between them,
through which could be distinctly heard any sound
or movement louder than usual. Loring, in his
customary evening round, had entered this apart-
ment. Loring was Cunningham's coadjutor, and
is described by Ethan Allen, who had himself no-
table experience in that prison, as "the most mean-
spirited, cowardly, deceitful, and destructive animal

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in God's creation." Rose heard Loring command
the prisoners to get to their beds, in his customary
phrase (we retrench a portion of its vulgarity and
profanity): "Kennel, d -- n ye -- kennel, ye sons
of Belial!"

   At this brutal address to persons whom Rose
honoured as a Catholic honours the saints, her
blood boiled within her. She hastily withdrew
her foot from the bedpost, and strided to the ex-
tremity of the narrow apartment; then turning
and stretching her arm towards Cunningham, she
said, with an energy that made his blood cur-
dle, "It is not for me to 'venge them, but God
will. Their children shall be lords in the land,
and sound out their fathers' names with ringing of
bells and firing of cannon, when you, and Loring,
and all such car'on, have died and rotted like dogs,
as ye are."

   The sounds in the adjoining apartment after
a while subsided, and with them Rose's ire. She
seated herself to await the latest hour when she
could retire from the prison, and elude the sus-
picion of the sentinel, the only person whose vigi-
lance she had to encounter.

   The footsteps had ceased from the passages, and
sleep seemed, like rain, to have fallen on the just
and the unjust -- the keepers and their prisoners.
Cunningham, seeing Rose preparing to take her
departure, begged her, in the most abject manner,
before she went, to release him from his frightful
position.

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   "No, no," she obstinately replied to his sup-
plications, "ye shall hang in iffigy, to be seen
and scorned by your own people; but one marcy
I'll do you; if you'll hold your tongue, I'll not let
out, while the war lasts -- while the war lasts, re-
member, that you were strung up there by a `d -- n
nigger' -- a nigger woman!"

   It appeared that Cunningham was glad to ac-
cept this very small mercy, by the report that after-
ward prevailed, that he had only escaped a fitting
end through the forbearance of Mr. Herbert Lin-
wood.

   Rose passed unmolested through the passage
and the outer door, which, being locked on the
inside, and the key in the wards, opposed no ob-
stacle to her retreat. The sentinel in the yard
saw and recognised her; but not being the same
who was on guard when the first Dromeo passed,
he merely inferred that Rose had been permitted to
remain longer than usual; and kindly opening the
gate, he responded civilly to her civil "good-night."

   Rose went home, not however to enjoy the quiet
sleep which should have followed so good a piece
of work as she had achieved, but to suffer, and see
others suffer, the most distressful apprehensions.

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Chapter 38

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

   

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     "Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now."

   Isabella and Lady Anne, cloaked and hooded,
repaired to Dame Bengin's some half hour, as may
be remembered, before the time appointed for their
meeting with Linwood. This forerunning of the
hour was to allow them to take advantage of Rose's
escort. It did not pass without a censure from
their wary coadjutor. "You lack discretion,
young ladies," she said; "and I lacked it too
when I let you in partners in this business. My
father used to say, `if you want to go safe over a
tottering plank, always go alone.' However, we
must make the best of it now: so just take this
box of ribands, and stand at the farther end of the
counter, and seem to be finding a match. It is
nothing strange for ladies to be tedious at that."

   The young ladies obeyed, but Lady Anne fretted
in an under voice at the delay; and Isabella ven-
tured a remonstrance, to which Dame Bengin, an
autocrat in her own domain, replied, "She must go
her own way; that full twenty minutes were left
to the time appointed for the meeting at Smith's
house, and time was money to her."

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   "I wish to Heaven I could wring that parrot's
neck," whispered Lady Anne; "I do believe the
people answer to its call." The parrot kept up a
continuous scream of "Come in! -- come in!" that
might have tormented nerves less excitable than
our friend's were at this moment.

   "I surmise we are going to have a storm," said
an old woman, who had stepped in for a penny-
worth of cochinia for her grandchildren; "its al-
ways a sign of a storm when Sylvy keeps up such
a chattering at night-fall." Lizzy Bengin went to
the door, and looked anxiously at the gathering
clouds.

   "Come in! -- come in!" cried Sylvy; and, as if
obedient to her summons, trotted in, one after
another, half a dozen urchins. One wanted "a
skein of sky-blue silk for aunt Polly: not too
light, nor too dark; considerable fine, and very
strong; not too slack nor too hard twisted." Lizzy
Bengin looked over half a dozen papers before she
could meet the order of her customer.

   "Pray send the whole to aunt Polly," cried
Lady Anne; "I will pay you, Bengin." The boy
stared, the dame seemed not to hear her, and bade
the boy run home and tell aunt Polly she hoped
the skein would suit.

   "Twopence worth of button-moulds -- just this
size, ma'am." The indefatigable Mrs. Bengin ex-
plored the button-mould box.

   "Mammy wants a nail of silk, a shade lighter

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than the sample." Mrs. Bengin looked over her
pile of silks.

   "Come in! -- come in!" still cried Sylvy, cer-
tainly not the silent partner of the house.

   "Aunty wants a dust of snuff, and she'll pay
you to-morrow."

   "How much is a drawing of your best bohea,
Mrs. Bengin?"

   "Mrs. Lizzy, uncle John wants to know if
you've got any shoes about little Johnny's size?"

   While Mrs. Bengin, who was quite in the habit
of securing the mint, anise, and cummin of her
little trade, was with the utmost composure satis-
fying these multifarious demands, the minutes
seemed ages to our impatient friends; Isabella took
out her watch. The dame perceived the move-
ment, and seemed to receive an impulse from it,
for she was dismissing the shoe inquirer with a
simple negative, when in came a black girl, with a
demand for "spirits of camphire."

   "What's the matter, Phillis?"

   "Madam Meredith has got the hystrikes."

   "Then she has my note," whispered Lady
Anne.

   While the camphire was pouring out, a sturdy
sailor-boy entered. "Ah, is that you, Tom Smith?
A hand of tobacco you're wanting? Well, first
come first served -- just be taking in Sylvy, while
I'm getting a cork to suit the vial." Mrs. Bengin
seemed suddenly fluttered by a look from Tom,

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and she bade the servant run home sans cork.
The moment Phillis had passed the threshold,
Lizzy said, "Speak out, Tom, there are none but
friends here!"

   "It's too late, Lizzy Bengin, you're lost!"

   The inquiries and replies that followed were
rapid. The amount of Tom's intelligence was,
that some combustibles had been discovered near
the magazine, and that as strange persons had
recently been observed going to and coming from
Lizzy's shop, it was believed that a plot had been
there contrived; the commandant had issued an
order for her apprehension, and men were by this
time on their way to seize her.

   Lizzy Bengin had so often been suspected, and
threatened, and eluded detection, that she did not
now believe her good fortune had deserted her.
She heard Tom through, and then said, "My boat
is ready and I'll dodge them yet."

   Isabella ventured to ask, with scarcely a ray of
hope, "if they might still go with her?"

   "Yes, if you're not afeared, and will be prudent.
Shut the shutters, Tom -- lock the door after us, and
keep them out as long as possible, that we may
gain time. Throw my books into the loft -- don't
let 'em rummage and muss my things, and look to
Sylvy." Her voice was slightly tremulous as she
added, "If any thing happens to me, Tom, be kind
to Sylvy!"

   By this time her cloak and hood were on, and

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they sallied forth. Dame Lizzy's valour was too
well tempered by discretion to have permitted her to
consent to the attendance of the young ladies, if
she had not, after calculating the chances, been
quite sure that no danger would be thereby incur-
red. She believed that her pursuers, after being
kept at bay by her faithful ally Tom, would be at
a loss where next to seek her. The place appoint-
ed for meeting Linwood was a little untenanted
dwelling, near the water's edge, called "Smith's
house." There he was to doff his disguise, and
there, should there be any uproar in the streets, the
young ladies could remain till all was quiet. Isa-
bella and Lady Anne were in no temper to con-
sider risks and chances. Life, to the latter, seemed
to be set on the die of seeing Herbert once more.
Isabella felt a full sympathy with this most natural
desire, and an intense eagerness to be immediately
assured of her brother's escape; so, clinging close
to their sturdy friend, they hastened forward.

   The old woman's interpretation of Sylvy's cries
proved a true one. A storm was gathering rapidly.
Large drops of rain pattered on the pavement, and
the lightning flashed at intervals. But the distance
to the boat, lying in a nook just above Whitehall,
was short, and the moon, some seven nights old,
was still unclouded. They soon reached "Smith's
house," and heard the joyful signal-whistle pre-
viously agreed on.

   "He is here!" exclaimed Isabella.

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   Lady Anne's fluttering heart was on her lips,
but she did not speak. Herbert joined them.

   "Now kiss and part," cried Lizzy Bengin. The
first command was superfluous; the second it
seemed impossible to obey. It was no time for
words, and few did they mingle with the choking
sighs of parting, but these few were of the mar-
vellous coinage of the heart, and the heart was
stamped upon them. The storm increased, and
the darkness thickened. "Come, come; this won't
do, young folks," cried their impatient leader; "we
must be off -- we've foul weather to cross the river,
and then to pass the enemy's stations before day-
light -- the hounds may be on our heels too -- we
must go."

   All felt the propriety, the necessity of this
movement. Lady Anne only begged that they
might go to the water's edge, and see the boat off.
Dame Bengin interposed no objection; that would
only have caused fresh entreaties and longer delay,
and they set forward. The distance to the boat
was not above a hundred yards; they had reached
the shore, Mrs. Bengin was already in the boat,
and Herbert speaking his last word, when they
heard the voices of pursuers, and the next flash of
lightning revealed a file of soldiers rushing to-
wards them. Lady Anne shrieked; Lizzy Bengin
screamed, "Jump in, sir, or I'll push off without
you."

   "Go," cried Isabella, "dear Herbert, go."

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   "I will not -- I cannot, and leave you in the
hands of these wretches."

   "Oh, no! do not -- do not, Herbert," entreated
Lady Anne, "take me with you." This was
enough and irresistible. Herbert clasped his arm
around her, and leaped into the boat.

   "Come with us, Isabella," screamed Lady Anne.

   "For God's sake, come, Belle," shouted Herbert.
Isabella wavered for an instant. Another glare of
lightning showed the soldiers within a few feet of
her, looking, in that lurid light, fierce and terrible
beyond expression; Isabella obeyed the impulse
of her worst fears and leaped into the boat; and
Lizzy, who stood with her oar fixed, instantly push-
ed from the shore. Curses burst from the lips of
their balked pursuers.

   "We'll have them yet," exclaimed their leader.
"To the Whitehall dock, boys, and get out a boat!"

   Our boat's company was silent. Herbert, amid
a host of other anxieties, was, as he felt Lady
Anne's tremulous grasp, bitterly repenting this last
act of a rashness which he flattered himself ex-
perience had cured, and Isabella was thinking of
the beating hearts at home.

   Dame Bengin, composed, and alone wholly intent
on the present necessity, was the first to speak.
"Don't be scared, little lady," she said; "sit down
quiet -- don't touch his arm -- he'll need all its
strength. Do you take the tiller, Miss Linwood --
mind exactly what I tell you -- I know every turn

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in the current -- don't lay out so much strength on
your oars, Captain Linwood -- keep time to the dip
of mine -- that will do!"

   Dame Bengin, with good reason, plumed herself
on her nautical skill. Her father had been a pilot,
and Lizzy being his only child, he had repaired, as
far as possible, what he considered the calamity of
her sex, by giving her the habits of a boy. Her
childhood was spent on the water, and nature and
early training had endowed her with the masculine
spirit and skill that now did her such good service.
The courage and cowardice of impulse are too
much the result of physical condition to be the oc-
casion of either pride or shame.

   The wind was rising, the lightning becoming
more vivid and continuous, and the pelting cold
rain driving in the faces of our poor fugitives.
The lightning gloriously lit up a wild scene; the
bay, a "phosphoric sea;" the little islands, that
seemed in the hurly-burly to be dancing on the
crested waves; and the shores, that looked like the
pale regions of some ghostly land. Still the little
boat leaped the waves cheeringly, and still no
sound of fear was heard within it. There is some-
thing in the sublime manifestations of power in the
battling elements, that either stimulates the mind
of man, "stirs the feeling infinite," and exalts it
above a consciousness of the mortality that invests
it, or crushes it under a sense of its own impo-
tence. Our little boat's company were a group

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for a painter, if a painter could kindle his picture
with electric light. Lizzy Bengin, her short mus-
cular arms bared, and every nerve of body and
mind strained, plied her oars, at each stroke giving
a new order to her unskilled but most obedient
coadjutors. Isabella's head was bare, her dark
hair hanging in masses on each side her face, her
poetic eye turning from "heaven to earth and earth
to heaven," her face in the lurid light as pale as
marble, and like that marble on which the sculptor
has expressed his own divine imaginings in the
soft forms of feminine beauty. Lady Anne sat at
Herbert's feet, her eye fixed on his face, passively
and quietly awaiting her fate, not doubting that
fate would be to go to the bottom, but feeling that
such a destiny would be far more tolerable with
her lover, than any other without him. This de-
pendance, "love overcoming the fear of death,"
inspired Herbert with preternatural strength. His
fine frank face beamed with hope and resolution,
and his eye, as ever and anon it fell on the loving
creature at his feet, was suffused with a mother's
tenderness.

   In the intervals of darkness they guided the
boat by the lights on the shores, and towards a
light that, kindled by a confederate of Lizzy Ben-
gin's for Herbert's benefit, blazed steadily, in spite
of the rain, a mile below Powles Hook.

   They were making fair headway, when they
perceived a sail-boat put off from Whitehall.

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They were pursued, and their hearts sunk within
them; but Lizzy Bengin soon rallied, and her in-
spiring voice was heard, calculating the chances of
escape. "The storm," she said, "is in our favour
-- no prudent sailor would spread a sail in such a
gusty night. The wind is flawy too, and we can
manage our boat, running first for one point and
then for another, so as to puzzle them, and in some
of their turns, if they have not more skill than any
man has shown since my father's day, they'll
capsize their boat."

   We dare not attempt to describe the chase that
followed; the dexterous manoeuvring of the little
boat, now setting towards Long Island, now back
to the city, now for Governor's Island, now up,
and then down the river. We dare not attempt
it. Heaven seems to have endowed a single
genius of our land with a chartered right to all
the water privileges for the species of manufac-
ture in which we are engaged, and his power but
serves to set in desperate relief the weakness of
his inferiors. The water is not our element,
and we should be sure to show an "alacrity in
sinking."

   Suffice it to say, it seemed that the efforts of
our little boat's crew must prove unavailing; that
after Dame Bengin's sturdy spirit had yielded to
her woman's nature, and she had dropped her
oars, and given the common signals of her sex's
weakness in streaming tears and wringing hands,

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Herbert continued laboriously to row, till Lady
Anne, fainting, dropped her head on his knee,
and Isabella entreated him to submit at once to
their inevitable fate. Nothing indeed now re-
mained but to run the boat ashore, to surrender
themselves to their pursuers, to obtain aid for
Lady Anne, and secure protection to her and Isa-
bella. The resolution taken, the boat was sud-
denly turned; the sail-boat turned also, but too
suddenly; the wind struck and capsized it. The
bay was in a blaze of light when the sail dipped to
the water -- intense darkness followed -- no shriek
was heard.

   After the first exclamations burst from the lips
of our friends, not a sound proceeded from them,
not a breath of exultation at a deliverance that in-
volved their fellow-beings in destruction. The
stroke of Herbert's oars ceased, and the fugitives
awaited breathlessly the next flash of lightning, to
enable them to extend their aid, if aid could be
given. The lightning came and was repeated, but
nothing was to be seen but the boat drifting away
at the mercy of the waves.

   A few moments more brought them to land,
where, beside their beacon-light, stood an unten-
anted fisherman's hut, in which they found await-
ing them a comfortable fire and substantial food.
These "creature comforts," with rest and rekindled
hope, soon did their work of restoration. And the
clouds clearing away, and the stars shining out

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cheerily, Lizzy Bengin, aware that her presence
rather encumbered and endangered the companions
of her flight than benefited them, bade them a
kind good-night, and sought refuge among some
of her Jersey acquaintance, true-hearted to her, and
to all their country's friends.

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Chapter 39

CHAPTER XXXIX.

   

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   "Good to begin well, better to end well."

   What was next to be done was as puzzling
to our friends as the passage of that classic trio,
the fox, the goose, and the corn, was to our child-
ish ingenuity. Duty and safety were involved
in Linwood's return to the American camp with
all possible expedition. General Washington was
at Morristown, and the American army was going
into winter quarters in its immediate vicinity.
Thither Linwood must go, and so thought Lady
Anne must she. "Fate," she said, "had seconded
her inclinations, and to contend against their united
force was impossible; why should she not give
her hand to Herbert at once and be happy, instead
of returning to vex and be vexed by her disap-
pointed aunt? After they had made sure of hap-
piness and Heaven's favour, for Heaven would
smile on the union of true and loving hearts, let
the world gossip to its heart's content about Lin-
wood running off with an heiress; he who was so
far above a motive so degrading and soul-sacri-
ficing, could afford the imputation of it, and would
soon outlive it." There was both nature and truth
in her reasoning, and it met with her lover's full
and irrepressible sympathy; with Isabella's too,
but not with her acquiescence.

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   Poor Isabella! it was hard for one who had her
keen participation in the happiness of others to
oppose it, and to hazard by delay the loss of its
richest materials. There was an earnest second-
ing of their entreaties, too, from a voice in the
secret depths of her heart, which whispered that
Eliot Lee was at Morristown; but what of that?
ay, Isabella, what of that? Once at Morristown,
her return to the city might be indefinitely delayed;
innumerable obstacles might interpose, and to re-
turn to her father was an imperative and undefer-
able duty. To permit Lady Anne to proceed with-
out her would be to expose her to gossip and calum-
ny. Isabella's was the ruling spirit; and after argu-
ments, entreaties, and many tears on the lady's part,
the lovers deferred to the laws of propriety as ex-
pounded by her; and it was agreed that Linwood
should escort the ladies to the outskirts of the Dutch
village of Bergen, which could not be more than
two or three miles distant; that there they should
part, and thence the means of returning to the city
without an hour's delay might easily be compassed.

   Accordingly, two hours before daylight, they set
forth, following, through obscure and devious foot-
paths, the general direction of Bergen. Miranda
truly says, "it is the good-will to the labour that
makes the task easy." Lady Anne had no good-
will to hers, and her footsteps were feeble and fal-
tering. The day dawned, the sun rose, and as
yet they saw no landmarks to indicate the vicinity

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of Bergen. Herbert feared they had missed their
way; but without communicating his apprehen-
sions, he proposed the ladies should take shelter
in a log-hut they had reached, and which he thought
indicated the proximity of a road, while he went to
reconnoitre.

   He had been gone half an hour, when Isabella and
Lady Anne were startled by the firing of guns.
They listened breathlessly. The firing was re-
peated, but unaccompanied by the sound of voices,
footsteps, or the trampling of horses.

   "It is not near," said Isabella to her little friend,
who had clasped her hands in terror; "Herbert
will hear it and return to us, and we are quite safe
here."

   "Yes; but if he is taken -- murdered, Isabella?
Oh, let us go and know the worst."

   "It would be folly," replied Isabella, "to ex-
pose ourselves, and risk the possibility of missing
Herbert; but if you will be quiet, we will creep up to
that eminence," pointing to a hill before them; "if
it is cleared on the other side, we may see without
being seen."

   They forthwith mounted the hill, which present-
ed a view of an open country, traversed by several
cross-roads. The point where they intersected, a
quarter of a mile distant, at once fixed their gaze.
A party of some thirty Americans, part mounted
and part on foot, were engaged in a hot contest
with more than an equal number of the enemy.

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Lady Anne grasped Isabella's arm, both were silent
for a moment, when a cry burst from Lady Anne's
lips, "It is -- it is he!"

   "Who? where -- what mean you?"

   "Your brother, Isabella! -- there, the foremost!
on the black horse!"

   "It is he! God have mercy on us! -- and there
is Eliot Lee!"

   Lady Anne's eye was riveted to Linwood.
"There are three upon him," she screamed; "fly,
fly! -- Oh, why does he not fly?"

   "He fights bravely," cried Isabella, covering her
eyes. "Heaven aid you, my brother!"

   "It's all over," shrieked Lady Anne.

   Isabella looked again. Herbert's horse had fallen
under him. "No, no," she cried; "he lives! he
is rising!"

   "But they are rushing on him -- they will cut
him to pieces!"

   Isabella sprang forward, as if she would herself
have gone to his rescue, exclaiming -- "My brother,
Herbert -- Oh, Eliot has come to his aid! God be
praised! -- See, Anne! -- look up. Now they fight
side by side! -- Courage, courage, Anne! Mercy
upon us, why does Eliot Lee turn back?"

   "Oh, why does not Herbert turn too? if he
would but fly while he can!"

   "Ah, there he comes!" exclaimed Isabella, with-
out heeding her companion's womanly wish, " ur-
ging forward those men from behind the wagons --

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On, on, good fellows! Ah, that movement is work-
ing well -- see, see; the enemy is disconcerted!
they are falling back! thank God, thank God!
See what confusion they are in; they are running,
poor wretches; they are falling under that back
fire!"

   The flying party had taken a road which led to
an enclosed meadow, and they were soon stopped
by a fence. This opposed a slight obstacle, but it
occasioned delay. The Americans were close
upon them; they turned, threw down their arms,
and surrendered themselves prisoners.

   Shortly after, Eliot Lee, his face radiant with a
joy that fifty victories could not have inspired,
stood at the entrance of the log-hut, informing the
ladies that Linwood had confided them to his care;
Linwood himself having received a wound, which,
though slight, unfitted him for that office, and ren-
dered immediate surgical aid desirable to him.
His friend had bidden him say to Miss Linwood
that they had wandered far from Bergen; and that
as they could not now get there without the danger
of encountering parties of the enemy, nothing re-
mained but to accept Captain Lee's protection to
Morristown.

   "Do you hesitate now, Isabella?" asked Lady
Anne, impatiently.

   "No, my dear girl, there is now no choice for us."

   "Thank Heaven for that. Nothing but neces-
sity would conquer you, Isabella." The necessity
met a very willing submission from Isabella; and

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she was half inclined to acquiesce in a whispered
intimation from Lady Anne, "that it was undoubt-
edly the will of Heaven they should go to Mor-
ristown." They were soon seated in a wagon, and
proceeding forward, escorted by Eliot and a guard,
and hearing from him the following explanation
of his most fortunate meeting with Linwood.

   Eliot Lee had been sent by Washington, with
wagons, and a detachment of chosen men, to afford
a safe convoy for some important winter-stores
that had been run across from New-York to the
Jersey shore for the use of the officers' families at
Morristown. In the meantime, a vigilant enemy had
sent an intimation of the landing of these stores,
and of their destination, to the British station at
Powles Hook, and a detachment of men had been
thence despatched with the purpose of anticipating
the rightful proprietors.

   Eliot, on his route, encountered one of the ene-
my's videttes, whom he took prisoner, and who, to
baffle him, told him the stores were already at Pow-
les Hook. Eliot, warily distrusting the information,
proceeded, and directly after, and just as he came
in view of the enemy's party, he met Herbert issu-
ing from the wood. A half moment's explanation
was enough. The vidette was dismounted, Her-
bert put in his place, armed with his arms, and a
golden opportunity afforded (to which the brave
fellow did full justice), to win fresh laurels where-
with to grace his return to the dreaded, and yet
most desired, presence of his commander.

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Chapter 40

CHAPTER XL.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   "Our profession is the chastest of all. The shadow of a fault
tarnishes our most brilliant actions. The least inadvertence may
cause us to lose that public favour which is so hard to gain."

   The quotation from a public reprimand of Wash-
ington to a general officer, which forms the motto
to this chapter, contains the amount of his reproof
to Linwood in their first and private interview.
Even this reproof was softened by the generous
approbation his general expressed of the manli-
ness and respectful submission with which he had
endured the penalty of his rashness. Linwood's
heart was touched; and, obeying the impulse of
his frank nature, he communicated the circum-
stances that had mitigated his captivity, and gave a
sort of dot and line sketch of his love-tale to the
awe-inspiring Washington. Oh the miracles of
love! But let not too much power be ascribed to the
blind god. Linwood's false impressions of Wash-
ington's impenetrable sternness were effaced by
his own experience, the most satisfactory of all
evidence. He found that this great man, like Him
whom he imitated, was not strict to mark iniquity,
and was, whenever he could be so without the
sacrifice of higher duties, alive to social virtues and
affections.

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   "Well, my young friend," he said, as Linwood
concluded, "you certainly have made the most of
your season of affliction, and now we must take
care of these generous companions of your flight.
Our quarters are stinted; but Mrs. Washington
has yet a spare room, which they must occupy till
they can return with safety to the city, and choose
to do so."

   Linwood thought himself, and with good reason,
requited a thousand fold for all his trials. His
only embarrassment was relieved, and he had soon
after the happiness of presenting his sister and
Lady Anne Seton to Mrs. Washington, a most
benign and excellent woman, and of confiding
them to the hospitalities of her household. Eliot
and Linwood's gallantry, in their rencounter with
the enemy, was marked, and advanced them in the
opinion of their fellow-officers; but the signal
favour it obtained from the ladies of Morristown,
must have been in part a collateral consequence of
the immense importance, to their domestic com-
fort, of those precious stores which our friends
had secured for them.

   Their sympathy in the romantic adventures of the
young ladies was manifested in the usual feminine
mode, by a round of little parties: from stern ne-
cessity, frugal entertainments, but abounding in
one luxury, so rare where all others now abound,
that it might be thought unattainable; the highest
luxury of social life -- what is it?

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   With the luggage of our heroines came encoura-
ging accounts from Mrs. Archer of Bessie Lee's
progress, assurances of Mr. Linwood's unwonted
patience, and hints that it would be most prudent
for her young friends to remain where they were till
the excitement, occasioned by their departure, had
subsided. Still Isabella was so thoroughly impress-
ed with the filial duty of returning without any vol-
untary delay, that at her urgent request, measures
were immediately taken to effect it; but obstacle
after obstacle intervened. Sir Henry Clinton was
about taking his departure for the south, and he put
off from time to time giving an official assurance of
an act of oblivion in favour of our romantic offend-
ers. The rigours of that horrible winter of 1780,
still unparalleled in the annals of our hard seasons,
set in, and embarrassed all intercommunication.

   It must be confessed, that Isabella bore these
trials with such gracious patience, that it hardly
seemed to be the result of difficult effort. It was
quite natural that she should participate in the over-
flowing happiness of her brother and friend. And
it was natural that, being now an eyewitness of the
struggles, efforts, endurance, and entire self-sacri-
fice of the great men that surrounded her, her mind,
acute in perception, and vigorous in reflection,
should be excited and gratified. There are those
who deem political subjects beyond the sphere of
a woman's, certainly of a young woman's mind.
But if our young ladies were to give a portion of

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the time and interest they expend on dress, gossip,
and light reading, to the comprehension of the con-
stitution of their country, and its political institu-
tions, would they be less interesting companions,
less qualified mothers, or less amiable women?
"But there are dangers in a woman's adventuring
beyond her customary path." There are; and
better the chance of shipwreck on a voyage of
high purpose, than expend life in paddling hither
and thither on a shallow stream, to no purpose at
all.

   Isabella's mind was not regularly trained; and,
like that of most of her sex, the access to it was
through the medium of her feelings. Her sympa-
thies were not limited to the few, the "bright, the
immortal names" that are now familiar as house-
hold words to us all. She saw the same virtues
that illustrated them conspicuous in the poor sol-
diers; in that class of men that have been left out
in the world's estimate, and whose existence is
scarcely recognised in its past history. The winter
of 1780 was characterized by Washington as "the
decisive moment, the most important America had
seen!" The financial affairs of the country were
in the utmost disorder. The currency had so de-
preciated, that a captain's pay would scarcely fur-
nish the shoes in which he marched to battle. The
soldiers were without clothes or blankets, and this
in our coldest winter. They had been but a few
days in their winter quarters before the flour and

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meat were exhausted; and yet, as Washington said
in a letter to Congress, after speaking of the patient
and uncomplaining fortitude with which the army
bore their sufferings, "though there had been fre-
quent desertions -- not one mutiny." Happy was it
for America that, in the beginning of her national
existence, she thus tested the virtue of the people,
and, profiting by her experience, was confirmed in
her resolution to confide her destinies to them!

   Something above the ordinary standard has been
claimed for our heroine; but it must be confessed,
after all, that she was a mere woman, and that the
mainspring of her mind's movements was in her
heart. How much of Isabella's enthusiasm in the
American cause was to be attributed to her inter-
course with Eliot Lee, we leave to be determined
by her peers. That intercourse had never been
disturbed by the cross-purposes, jarring sentiments,
clashing opinions, and ever-annoying disparities,
that had so long made her life resemble a troubled
dream. Eliot's world was her world; his spirit
answered to hers. During that swift month that
had flown away at Morristown, how often had she
secretly rejoiced in the complete severance of the
chain that had so long bound her to an "alternate
slave of vanity and love!" -- how she exulted in
her freedom -- freedom! the voluntary service of
the heart is better than freedom.

   There were no longer any barriers to Isabella
and Lady Anne's return to the city. The day was

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fixed; it came; and while they were packing their
trunks, and thinking of the partings that awaited
them, Lady Anne's eyes streaming, and Isabella's
changing cheek betraying a troubled heart, a letter
was handed to Lady Anne. She looked at the
superscription, threw it down, then resumed it,
broke the seal, and read it. Without speaking, she
mused over it for a moment, then suddenly dis-
appeared, leaving her affairs unarranged, and did
not return till Isabella's trunk was locked, and she
was about wrapping herself in her travelling furs.
She reproved her little friend's delay, urged haste,
suggested consolation, and offered assistance.
Lady Anne made no reply, but bent over her trunk,
where, instead of arrangement, she seemed to pro-
duce hopeless confusion. "How strange," she ex-
claimed, "that Thérése should have sent me this
fresh white silk dress!"

   "Very strange; but pray do not stay to examine
it now."

   "Bless Thérése! Here is my Brussels veil, too!"

   "My dear child, are you out of your senses?
Our escort will be waiting -- pray, pray make
haste."

   "And pray, dear Belle, don't stand looking at
me -- you fidget me so. Oh, I forgot to tell you
Captain Lee asked for you -- he is in the drawing-
room -- go down to him -- please, dear Belle." As
Lady Anne looked up, Isabella was struck with the
changed expression of her countenance; it was

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bright and smiling, the sadness completely gone.
But she did not stay to speculate on the change,
nor did she, it must be confessed, advert to Lady
Anne for the next fifteen minutes. Many thoughts
rushed through her mind as she descended the
stairs. She wondered, painfully wondered, if Eliot
would allude to their memorable parting at Mrs.
Archer's; "if he should repeat what he then said,
what could she say in reply?" When she reached
the drawing-room door, she was obliged to pause
to gain self-command; and when she opened it she
was as pale as marble, and her features had a stern
composure that would have betrayed her effort to
any eye but Eliot's; to his they did not.

   Eliot attempted to speak the commonplaces of
such occasions, and she to answer them; but his
sentences were lame, and her replies monosylla-
bles; and they both soon sunk into a silence more
expressive of their mutual feelings.

   "Lady Anne said he asked for me -- well, it was
but to tell me the cold has abated! -- and the sleigh-
ing is fine! and he trusts I shall reach the city
without inconvenience! What a poor simpleton I
was to fancy that such sudden and romantic devo-
tion could be lasting. A very little reality -- a little
everyday intercourse, has put the actual in the place
of the ideal!"

   If Isabella had ventured to lift her eye to Eliot's
face at this moment, she would have read in the
conflict it expressed the contradiction of her false

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surmises; and if her eye had met his, the conflict
might have ceased, for it takes but a spark to ex-
plode a magazine. But Eliot had come into her
presence resolved to resist the impulses of his
heart, however strong they might be. He thought
he should but afflict her generous nature by a sec-
ond expression of his love, and his grief at parting.
There had been moments when a glance of Isa-
bella's eye, a tone of her voice -- a certain indescri-
bable something, which those alone who have heard
and seen such can conceive, had flashed athwart his
mind like a sunbeam, and visions of bliss in years
to come had passed before him; but clouds and
darkness followed, and he remembered that Miss
Linwood was unattainable to him -- that if it were
possible by the devotion of years to win her, how
should he render that devotion, pledged as he was
to his country for a service of uncertain length, and
severed as he must be from her by an impassable
barrier of circumstances? As he had said to Isa-
bella, he had been trained in the school of self-
subjection, and never had he given such a proof of
it as in these last few moments; the last he ex-
pected ever to enjoy or suffer with her. Both
were so absorbed in their own emotions that they
did not notice the various entrances and exits of
the servants, who were bustling in and out, and
arranging cake and wine on a sideboard, with a
deal of significance that would have amused un-
concerned spectators. A louder, more portentous

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bustle followed, the door was thrown wide open,
and both Eliot and Isabella were startled from their
reveries by the entrance of Mrs. Washington,
attended by a gentleman in clerical robes, and fol-
lowed by Linwood and Lady Anne, in the bridal
silk and veil that Thérése, with inspiration worthy
a French chambermaid, had forwarded.

   "One word with you, Miss Linwood," said Mrs.
Washington, taking Isabella apart. "This dear
little girl, it seems, was left independent of all con-
trol by her fond father. The honourable scruples
of your family have alone prevented her surrender-
ing her independence into your brother's hands.
She has this morning received a letter from her
aunt, written in a transport of rage, at her son's
unexpected marriage with a Miss Ruthven. I
fancy it is a Miss Ruthven of the Virginia family
-- Grenville Ruthven's eldest daughter?"

   "Yes -- yes -- it is, madam," replied Isabella,
with a faltering voice. The emotion passed with
the words.

   "Lady Anne's aunt," resumed Mrs. Washing-
ton, "declares her intention of immediately re-
turning to England, and renounces her niece for
ever. Lady Anne and your brother have referred
their case to me; she saying, with her usual play-
fulness, that she has turned rebel, and put herself
under the orders of the commander-in-chief, or
rather, he being this morning absent, under mine.
I have decided according to my best judgment

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There seems to be no sufficient reason why they
should defer their nuptials, and endure the torments
and perils of a protracted separation. So, my dear
Miss Linwood, you have nothing to do but submit
to my decision -- take your place there as bride's-
maid -- you see your brother has already stationed
his friend, Captain Lee, beside him as groom's-
man -- Colonel Hamilton is waiting our summons
to give away the bride."

   At a signal from his mistress, a servant opened
the door to the adjoining room, and Hamilton enter-
ed, his face glowing with the sympathies and
chivalric sentiment always ready to gush from his
heart when its social spring was touched. Isa-
bella had but time to whisper to Lady Anne, "Just
what I would have prayed for had I dared to hope
it," when the clergyman opened his book and per-
formed his office. That over, Mrs. Washington, as
the representative of the parents, pronounced a
blessing on the bridal pair; and that no due cere-
monial should be omitted, the bridal cake was cut
and distributed according to established usage;
accompanied by a remark from Mrs. Washington,
that it must have been compounded by some good
hymeneal genius, as it was the only orthodox
plum cake that had been or was like to be seen in
Morristown, during that hard winter.

   Now came partings, and tears, and last kind
words, and messages that were sure to find their
way to Mr. Linwood's heart, and a bit of wedding-

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cake for mamma, who would scarcely have believed
her son lawfully married unless she had tasted it;
and last of all, an order for a fine new suit for
Rose, in compensation for that so unceremoniously
dropped at "Smith's house."

   At last, Isabella, in a covered sleigh, escorted by
a guard, and attended by her brother and Eliot Lee
on horseback, set off for the place appointed for
her British friends to meet her, and there she was
transferred to their protection.

   What Eliot endured, as he lingered for a moment
at Isabella's side, cannot be expressed. She felt
her heart rising to her eyes and cheeks, and by an
effort of that fortitude, or pride, or resolution, which
is woman's strength, by whatever name it may be
called, she firmly said, "Farewell!"

   "Eliot's voice was choked. He turned away
without speaking; he impulsively returned and
withdrew the curtain that hung before Isabella.
She was in a paroxysm of grief, her head thrown
back, her hands clasped, and tears streaming from
her eyes. What a spectacle -- what a blessed
spectacle for a self-distrusting, hopeless lover!

   "Isabella!" he exclaimed, "we do not then part
for ever?"

   "I hope not," she replied.

   The driver, unconscious of Eliot's returning
movement, cracked his whip, the horses started on
their course, and the road making a sudden turn,
the sleigh instantly disappeared, leaving Eliot feel

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ing as if he had been translated to another world --
a world of illimitable hope, immeasurable joy.

   "`I hope not."' Could Isabella have uttered a
more commonplace reply? and yet these words,
with the emotion that preceded them, were a key
to volumes -- were pondered on and brooded over,
through summer and winter -- ay, for years.

   "Ah, n'en doutons pas! à travers les temps et
les espaces, les àmes ont quelquefois des correspond-
ances mysterieuses. En vain le monde réel èlève
ses barrières entre deux êtres qui s'aiment; habi-
tans de la vie idéale, ils s'apparaissent dans l'ab-
sence, ils s'unissent dans la mort."

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Chapter 41

CHAPTER XLI.

"Boy, fill me a bumper -- now join in the chorus,
There's happiness still in the prospect before us;
In this sparkling glass all hostility ends,
And Britons and we will for ever be friends.
     Derry down, derry down."

--
Old Song.

   

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   More than three years from the date of our last
chapter had passed away. The European states-
men were tired of the silly effort to keep grown-
up men in leading-strings, and their soldiers were
wearied with combating in fields where no laurels
grew for them. The Americans were eager, the
old to rest from their labours, and the young to
reap the fruit of their toils; and all good and wise
men contemplated with joy the reunion of two
nations who were of one blood and one faith.
King George, firm or obstinate to the last, had
yielded his reluctant consent to the independence
of his American colonies; and the peace was
signed, which was welcomed by all parties, save
the few American royalists who were now to suf-
fer the consequences that are well deserved by
those who learn unwillingly, and too late, that their
own honour and interest are identified with their
country's.

   The 25th of November, 1783, was, as we are

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annually reminded by the ringing of bells and firing
of cannon, a momentous day in this city of New-
York. It was the time appointed for the evacuation
of the city by the British forces, and the entrance of
the American commander-in-chief with his army.
To the royalists who had remained in the garrisoned
city, attached from principle, and fettered by early
association, to the original government, this was a
day of darkness and mourning. With their foreign
friends went, as they fancied, all their distinction,
happiness, and glory. We may smile at their weak-
ness, but cannot deny them our sympathy. Such
men as Sir Guy Carleton (Sir Henry Clinton's suc-
cessor), who made even his enemies love him, had
a fair claim to the tears of his friends; and others
were there whose names grace the history of our
parent land, and names not mentioned that were
written on living hearts, and which made partings
that day

   "Such as press the life from out young hearts."

   Though on the very verge of winter, the day
was bright and soft. The very elements were at
peace. At the rising of the sun, the British flag
on the Battery was struck. Boats were in readi-
ness at the wharves to convey the troops, and such
of the inhabitants as were to accompany them, down
to Staten Island, where the British ships were
awaiting them. At an early hour, and before the
general embarcation, a gentleman, much muffled,

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and evidently sedulously avoiding observation, was
seen stealing through the by-streets to a boat, to
which his luggage had already been conveyed, and
which, as soon as he entered it, put off towards the
fleet. He looked soured and abstracted, eager to
depart, and yet not joyful in going. His attitude
was dejected, and his eyes downcast, till some
sound that betokened an approach to the ship roused
him, when suddenly looking up, he beheld, leaning
over the side of the vessel, an apparition that called
the blood and the spirit to his face. This apparition
was his wife -- Mrs. Jasper Meredith. There she
stood, bowing to him, and smiling, and replying
adroitly to such congratulations from the officers
of the ship as, "Upon my word, Mrs. Meredith,
you leave the country with spirit -- your husband
should take a leaf out of your book."

   Meredith entered the ship. His wife took him
by the arm and led him aside. "One word to you,
my dear love," she said, "before that cloud on
your brow bursts. I have known from the first
your secret intention, and your secret preparations
to go off with the fleet, and leave me here to get
on as I could. I took my measures to defeat
yours. You should know, before this time of day,
that I am never foiled in what I undertake -- "

   "No, by Heaven, never."

   "There's no use in swearing about it, my love;
nor will there be any use," she added, changing
her tone of irony to a cutting energy, "in doing

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what, as my husband -- my lord and master -- you
may do, in raising a storm here, refusing to pay my
passage, and sending me back to the city. Offi-
cers -- gentlemen, you know, all take the part of
an oppressed wife -- you would be put in Coventry,
and make your début in England at great disad-
vantage. So, my dear, make the best of it; let
our plans appear to be in agreement. It is in bad
taste to quarrel before spectators -- we will reserve
that to enliven domestic scenes in England."

   "In England! my mother declares she will never
receive you there; and I am now utterly depend-
ant on my mother."

   "I know all that; I have seen your mother's
letters." Meredith stared. "Yes, all of them; and
in them all she reiterates her governing principle,
that `appearances must be managed.' I shall con-
vince her that I am one of the managers, and the
prima donna in this drama of appearances."

   Meredith made no reply. He saw no eligible
way of escape, and he was, like a captive insect,
paralyzed in the web that enclosed him. "You
are convinced, I perceive, my dear;" continued his
loving wife, "be kind enough to give me a few
guineas; I paid my last to the boatmen, and it is
awkward being without money."

   Meredith turned from her, and walked hurriedly
up and down the deck; then stopped, and took out
his pocket-book to satisfy her demand; but his
purpose was suspended by his eye falling acci-

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dentally on the card, on which, ten years before,
he had recorded Effie's prediction. The card was
yellow and defaced; but like a talisman, it recalled
with the freshness of actual presence the long but
not forgotten past -- the time when Isabella Lin-
wood's untamed pulses answered to his -- when
Bessie Lee's soft eye fell tenderly upon him --
when he was linked in friendship with Herbert --
when the lights of nature still burned in his soul
-- while as yet his spirit had not passed under the
world's yoke, and crouched under its burden of
vanity, heartlessness, and sordid ambition. His
eye glanced towards his wife, he tore the card in
pieces, and honest, bitter tears flowed down his
cheeks.

   Bessie Lee, thou wert then avenged! Avenged?
Sweet spirit of Christian forgiveness and celestial
love, we crave thy pardon! Bessie Lee, restored
to her excellent mother, and to her peaceful and
now most happy home at Westbrook, was enjoy-
ing her renovated health and "rectified spirit."
The vigorous mind of Mrs. Archer, and Isabella's
frank communication of her own malady and its
cure, had aided in the entire dissipation of Bessie's
illusions, and no shadow of them remained but a
sort of nun-like shrinking from the admiration and
devotion of the other sex. She lived for others,
and chiefly to minister to the sick and sorrowful.
She no longer suffered herself; but the chord of
suffering had been so strained that it was weak-

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ened, and vibrated at the least touch of the miseries
of others. The satirist who scoffs at the common
fact of devotion succeeding love in a woman's
heart, is superficial in the philosophy of our na-
ture. He knows not that woman's love implies a
craving for happiness, a dream of bliss that human
character and human circumstances rarely realize,
and a devotedness and self-negation due only to
the Supreme. The idol falls, and the heart passes
to the true God.

"All things on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye."

That love of God, that sustaining, life-giving prin-
ciple, waxed stronger and stronger in Bessie Lee
as she went on in her pilgrimage. Her pilgrimage
was not a long one; and when it ended, the transition
was gentle from the heaven she made on earth to
that which awaited her in the bosom of the Father.

   We return to the shifting scenes in New-York.
The morning was allotted to the departure of the
British. "Rose," said Mr. Linwood, "give me
my cloak and fur shoes, and I will go through the
garden to Broadway, and see the last of them --
God bless them!"

   "And my cloak and calêche, Rose," said Mrs.
Linwood; "it is a proper respect to show our
friends that our hearts are with them to the last --
it should be a family thing. Come, Belle; and you,
Lady Anne, come too."

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   "With all my heart, dear mamma; but pray --
pray do not call me Lady Anne. I have told you,
again and again, that I have renounced my title,
and will have no distinction but that which suits
the country of my adoption -- that which I may
derive from being a good wife and mother -- the
true American order of merit."

   "As you please, my dear child; but it is a singu-
lar taste."

   "Singular to prefer Mrs. Linwood to Lady Anne!
Oh, no, mamma."

   Mrs. Linwood received the tribute with a grate-
ful smile, and afterward less frequently forgot her
daughter-in-law's injunction. Her affections al-
ways got the better of her vanity -- after a slight
contest. "Rose," continued Lady Anne, "please
put on little Herbert's fur cap, and take him out
to see the show too. Is not that a pretty cap,
mamma? I bought it at Lizzy Bengin's."

   "Lizzy Bengin's! Has Lizzy returned?"

   "Yes, indeed; and re-opened her shop in the
same place, and hung up her little household deity
Sylvy again, who is screaming out as zealously as
ever -- `Come in, come in.' Lizzy, they say, is to
have a pension from Congress."¹

   "The d -- l she is!" exclaimed Mr. Linwood;
"well, every thing is turned topsy-turvy now.
Come, are we not all ready? where lags Belle?"

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Isabella entered in a very becoming hat and cloak,
adjusted with more than her usual care, and her
countenance brilliant with animation.

   "Upon my word, Miss Belle," said her father,
passing his hand over her glowing cheek, "you
are hanging out very appropriate colours for this
mournful occasion."

   "The heart never hangs out false colours, papa."

   "Ah, Belle, Belle! that I should live to see you
a traitor too; but I do live, and bear it better than
I could have expected."

   "Because, papa, it no longer seems to you the
evil it once did -- does it?"

   "Yes, I'll be hanged if it don't, just the same;
but then, Belle, I'll tell you what it is that's kept
the sap running warm and freely in this old, good-
for-nothing trunk of mine. My child," the old
man's voice faltered, "you have been true and
loyal to me through all this dark time of trial and
adversity; you have been a perpetual light and
blessing to my dwelling, Belle; and Herbert -- if a
man serves the devil, I'd have him serve him faith-
fully -- Herbert, in temptation and sore trials, has
been true to the cause he chose -- up to the mark.
This it is that's kept me heart-whole. And, Belle,
if ever you are a parent, which God grant, for you
deserve it, you'll know what it is to have your very
life rooted in the virtue of your children, and sus-
tained by that -- yes, as mine is, sustained and
made pretty comfortable too, even though my king

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has to succumb to these rebel upstarts, and I have
to look on and see every gentleman driven out of
the land to give place to these rag-tag and bob-
tails."

   "But, papa," said Isabella, anxious to turn her
father's attention from the various groups gather-
ing in the street, and who, it was evident, were
only waiting, according to the previous compact, for
the last British boat to leave the wharf, to give ut-
terance to their joyous "huzzas;" "but, papa, you
have overlooked some important items in your con-
solations."

   "I have not mentioned them; but they are main
props. Anne, God bless her! and that little dog,"
he shook his cane lovingly at his grandson, who
crowed a response, "though he was born under
Washington's flag, and sucks in independence and
republicanism with his mother's milk, the little
rascal."

   In spite of Mr. Linwood's habitual vituperation,
it was evident that his cup of happiness was full
to overflowing, and that there was in it only a few
salutary bitter drops, without which there is no
draught commingled for human lips.

   Mrs. Archer with her children now joined her
friends, and they were all grouped under a fine old
locust that stood just without the wall of Mr. Lin
wood's garden, and was among the few trees that
retained any foliage at this advanced season.

   The last foreign regiment were passing from

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Broadway to the Battery, in the admirable order
and condition of British troops: their arms glitter-
ing, the uniform of the soldiers fresh and unsullied,
and that of the officers, who had seen little service
to deface and disarrange it, in a state of preserva-
tion rather indicating a drawing-room than a battle-
field. Mr. Linwood gazed after them, and said,
sorrowfully, "We ne'er shall look upon their like
again."

   "I hope not," muttered Rose to herself, in the
back-ground; "this a'n't to be the land for them
that strut in scarlet broadcloth and gold epaulets,
and live upon the sweat of working people's brows.
No, thank God -- and General Washington."

   "Ah," said Mrs. Archer, "there is good old
General Knyphausen turning the key of his door
for the last time. Heaven's blessing will go with
him, for he never turned it upon a creature that
needed his kindness." The good old German
crossed the street, grasped Mr. Linwood's hand,
kissed the hands of the ladies, and without speak-
ing, rejoined his suite and passed on.

   "Who are those young gallants, Isabella," ask-
ed Mr. Linwood, "that seem riveted to the pave-
ment at Mrs. -- 's door?"

   Isabella mentioned their names, and added,
"Miss -- is there, a magnet to the last moment
-- a hard parting that must be."

   No wonder it was deemed a "hard parting," if
half that is told by her contemporaries of Miss

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-- 's beauty and auxiliary charms be true; a mar-
vellous tale, but not incredible to those who see
her as she now is, after the passage of more than
fifty years, vivacious, courteous, and bright-eyed.

   While Lady Anne was deepening the colour on
Isabella's cheek by whispering, "Better a coming
than a parting lover!" our old friend Jupiter, arm
in arm with his boon companion "the gen'ral,"
was passing.

   "Where are you going in such haste, Jupe?"
asked his ex-master, in reply to Jupiter's respectful
salutation.

   "I am 'gaged to `black Sam' to dine with Gen-
eral Washington, sir."

   Mr. Linwood had been told that a fête was in
preparation at "black Sam's," the great restaura-
teur of his day, for General Washington and his
friends. He was ready to believe almost any ex-
travagance of the levelling Americans; but the
agrarianism that made Jupiter a party at the festive
board with the commander-in-chief rather as-
tounded him. "By the Lord!" he whispered to
Isabella, "Herbert shall come home and eat his
dinner."

   "You mean, Jupe," said Miss Linwood, without
directly replying to her father, "that you are en-
gaged to wait on General Washington, at black
Sam's?"

   "Sartin, Miss Isabella; did not I'spress myself
so?"

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   "Not precisely, Jupe; but I understood you so."

   Jupiter drew near to Miss Linwood, whom he,
in common with others, looked upon as the presi-
ding genius of the family, to unfold a wish that lay
very near his heart. But Jupe was a diplomatist,
and was careful not to commit himself in the terms
of a treaty. "Miss Belle," he said, "I hear Mrs.
Herbert Linwood has got a nice char'ot sent over
from England, and if she wants a coachman, I
don't know but I might like to come back to the
old place."

   "Very well, Jupe, I will speak to my sister, and
we will consider of it."

   "Do, Miss Belle, and I'll 'sider of it too. I
have not 'finitly made up my mind to stay in New-
York. They say there's to be such bustle and
racket here, building ships and stores, and all this
space," pointing to the still vacant space between
Broadway and the river, "all this space to be cov-
ered with housen bigger than them burnt down.
I'm afraid there'll be too much work and 'fusion
for me; 'tant genteel, you know, Miss Belle, and I
think of 'tiring to the manor."

   "That will be wisest, Jupe; New-York will no
longer be a place for idlers of any degree."

   Jupiter, all complacency in a classification which
sorted him with those whom he styled the genteel,
bowed and passed on.

   Music was now heard from the extremity of the
Battery. All had embarked save the band. The

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band, that had been the pride and delight of the
inhabitants, through winter and summer, now
struck up, for the last time, "God save the king!"
Every sound was hushed, and white handkerchiefs
were waved from balconies, windows, and doors.
Mr. Linwood uncovered his head, and the tears
trickled down his cheeks. As the music ceased,
Edward Archer, who stood with his arm over his
sister's shoulder, said, "Oh, Lizzy, how we shall
miss the band!"

   "Miss them! No, Ned; not when we get
back to dear breezy Beech Hill, and hear the birds,
and smell the flowers, and have none to hurt us nor
make us afraid."

   The last boat put off from the wharf, and at the
next instant the "star-spangled banner" was un-
furled from the flagstaff, and every bell in the city
poured forth its peal of welcome to the deliverer
of his country, who was seen, at the head of a de-
tachment of his army, approaching the city through
the Fields, then the general designation of all that
portion of New-York beyond the British palisades
which traversed Broadway at Chambers-street.

   Those who are familiar with the location of this
our noble street of Broadway, the pride of the me-
tropolis, can imagine the thrilling effect of the mo-
ment on the spectators. They saw the flag of an
independent empire waving on the Battery; beyond,
the bay, glittering in the meridian sun; and, floating
on the bay, the ships that were to convey their late

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masters for ever from the land that had rejected
them. At the upper extremity of the street ap-
peared General Washington, the spotless patriot,
the faultless military chieftain, the father of his
country; "first in war, first in peace, and first in
the hearts of his countrymen:" he on whom every
epithet of praise has been exhausted, and whose
virtues praise never yet reached. With him were
his companions in arms and glory, and following
him his soldiers, their garments worn and soiled,
and their arms broken and defaced. It mattered
not. The period of toils and hardship, of hope
and fear, of seed-time, was past -- the harvest was
to come, the abundant harvest to them, their chil-
dren's children, and the stranger within their gates.

   The procession drew near to Wall-street, where
it was to turn; a few paces lower down was the
locust-tree where our friends were grouped. As
the cavalcade approached, Mr. Linwood began to
show signs of fidgeting. Isabella's arm was in
his: "Let us go in, sir," she said.

   "Presently, my dear, presently; I'll have one
look at Washington. By George of Oxford! a
noble figure of a man! Ah, but for him, the rebels
would never have carried the day."

   "For him, and the Lord on their side!" invol-
untarily added Rose, who had advanced to give
her little charge a chance at a glance at his father.

   "The Lord on the side of such a ragged regi-
ment of ragamuffins? High sons of liberty, for-

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sooth!" replied Mr. Linwood, chuckling at the
wretched appearance of the American soldiers.

   "They are extremely ragged," said Mrs. Lin-
wood; "such a contrast to our army."

   "They are, God bless them!" said Isabella,
"and sacred, in my eyes, as the garments of the
saints, are these outward signs of their brave toils."

   "Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Herbert Linwood, "I see
my husband! -- and there, Belle, is Colonel Lee,
on the very horse General Putnam gave him. I
wish his poor man Kisel, of whom I have so often
heard him speak, had lived to amble after him this
day. `Poor fool!' Eliot will always have `one part
in his heart that's sorry yet for thee.' "

   Isabella's eye had followed the direction of her
sister's; her cheek became suddenly pale, and she
reiterated her wish to her father to return into the
house.

   "In a minute, my dear child, in a minute; let's
first see them wheel into Wall-street. Who is
that Colonel Lee you spoke of, Anne?"

   "Eliot Lee, sir. Did not Belle tell you how he
was sent with the detachment from the northern
army to the south, and how he behaved with such
gallantry at the taking of Cornwallis, that he re-
ceived a colonelcy immediately after from Con-
gress -- did you not tell, Belle?" she added, archly
smiling at her sister.

   The turn into Wall-street was now to be made,
and the officers riding ahead came nearly parallel

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to our friends. General Washington seeing, and
instantly recognising, Isabella Linwood and her
sister, saluted them. Mr. Linwood instinctively
doffed his hat, and bowed low to the commander
of the rebel army. Eliot Lee's eye met Isabella's,
and returned its brightest beam to the welcome
that flashed from hers. Herbert kissed his hand
to his friends, and stretched his arms to his boy.
Rose lifted the little fellow high in the air; he
was inspired with the animation of the scene, and
the word that was then shouted forth from a thou-
sand tongues, the first he ever uttered, burst from
his lips -- "Huzza!"

   The following, and many successive evenings,
Eliot Lee passed with the Linwoods. Those of
our kind readers whose patience has brought them
to the close of these volumes, will not be surprised
that our heroine, after her conquest over a mis-
placed, and, as it may strictly be termed, an acci-
dental passion, should return with her whole heart
his love who deserved, if man could deserve it, that
treasure.

   Did the course of their true love run smooth?
Yes, true love though it was, it did. The bare
fact that his daughter Isabella, who seemed to
him fit to grace a peerage, was to wed the portion-
less son of a New-England farmer, was at first
startling to Mr. Linwood. But, as few men are,
he was true to his theories; and when Isabella,

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quoting his own words on a former occasion,
frankly confessed that she had given her heart to
Eliot Lee, and "that meant her respect, honour,
esteem, and all that one of God's creatures can feel
for another," he replied, fondly kissing her, "Then
God's will be done, my child, and give your hand
too!"

   We are aware that the champions of romance,
the sage expounders of the laws of sentiment,
maintain that there can be but one love. We will
not dispute with them, though we honestly believe,
that in the capacities of loving, as in all other ca-
pacities, there be diversities of gifts; but we will
concede that such a sentiment as united Isabella
and Eliot Lee can never be extinguished; and
therefore can never be repealed. It blended their
purposes, pursuits, hopes, joys, and sorrows; it
became a part of their spiritual natures, and inde-
pendent of the accidents of life.

   As the cause of humanity and the advance of
civilization depend mainly on the purity of the in-
stitution of marriage, I shall not have written in vain
if I have led one mind more highly to appreciate its
responsibilities and estimate its results; its effect
not only on the happiness of life, but on that por-
tion of our nature which is destined to immortality:
if I persuade even one of my young countrywomen
so to reverence herself, and so to estimate the
social duties and ties, that she will not give her
hand without her heart, nor her heart till she is

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quite sure of his good desert who seeks it. And,
above all, I shall not have written in vain if I save
a single young creature from the barter of youth
and beauty for money, the merely legal union of
persons and fortunes multiplying among us, partly
from wrong education and false views of the ob-
jects of life, but chiefly from the growing imitation
of the artificial and vicious society of Europe.

   It is only by entering into these holy and most
precious bonds with right motives and right feel-
ings, that licentious doctrines can be effectually
overthrown, and the arguments of the more re-
spectable advocates of the new and unscriptural
doctrine of divorce can be successfully opposed.

   We boldly then advise our young friends so far
to cultivate the romance of their natures (if it be
romance to value the soul and its high offices
above all earthly consideration), as to eschew rich
old roué bachelors, looking-out widowers with large
fortunes, and idle, ignorant young heirs; and to
imitate our heroine in trusting to the honourable
resources of virtue and talent, and a joint stock of
industry and frugality, in a country that is sure to
smile upon these qualities, and reward them with
as much worldly prosperity as is necessary to hap-
piness, and safe for virtue.

[1] Lizzy Bengin actually received the pension.

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* One of the thousand pleasing anecdotes re-
lated of La Fayette at his last visit to America,
was, that a rich iron-merchant in one of our large
cities was presented to him, and after the cus-
tomary courtesies, took out his watch and showed
it to La Fayette, asking him if he remembered it.
La Fayette seemed to have an indistinct reminis-
cence of some circumstance connected with the
watch. "You do not remember, sir," said the
merchant, "that at a certain time and place" ( spe-
cifying both), "you stopped at a blacksmith's shop
to have your horse shod. The smith and his
family were ill, and in a most wretched condition.
He was obliged to be upheld while he shod the
horse. You told him you had no money to spare,
and gave him this watch. He pledged it -- after-
ward redeemed it, and here it is, still in his pos-
session!"

   As the circumstance related of La Fayette in
our text has no connexion with historical events,
we trust our friends of the legal profession will not
prove an alibi against us.

THE END.

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