It was in answer to Arthur's letter, expressing great anxiety to hear from
home, in consequence of so long a time having passed without his receiving
his usual letters, that Mr. Weston wrote him of Alice's illness. She was
then convalescing, but in so feeble and nervous a condition, that Dr.
Lawton advised Arthur's remaining where he was--wishing his patient to be
kept even from the excitement of seeing so dear a relative. Mr. Weston
insisted upon Arthur's being contented with hearing constantly of her
improvement, both from himself and Mrs. Weston. This, Arthur consented to
do; but in truth he was not aware of the extent of the danger which had
threatened Alice's life, and supposed it to have been an ordinary fever.
With what pleasure did he look forward, in his leisure moments, to the time
when it would be his privilege always to be near her; and to induce the
tedious interval to pass more rapidly, he employed himself with his
studies, as constantly as the season would allow. He had formed a sincere
attachment to Abel Johnson, whose fine talents and many high qualities made
him a delightful companion. Mr. Hubbard was a connection of young
Johnson's, and felt privileged often to intrude himself upon them. It
really was an intrusion, for he had at present a severe attack of the
Abolition fever, and he could not talk upon any other subject. This was
often very disagreeable to Arthur and his friend, but still it became a
frequent subject of their discussion, when Mr. Hubbard was present, and
when they were alone.
In the mean time, the warm season was passing away, and Alice did not
recover her strength as her friends wished. No place in the country could
have been more delightful than Exeter was at that season; but still it
seemed necessary to have a change of scene. September had come, and it was
too late to make their arrangements to go to the North, and Alice added to
this a great objection to so doing. A distant relation of Mr. Weston, a
very young girl, named Ellen Graham, had been sent for, in hopes that her
lively society would have a good effect on Alice's unequal spirits; and
after much deliberation it was determined that the family, with the
exception of Miss Janet, should pass the winter in Washington. Miss Janet
could not be induced to go to that Vanity Fair, as she called it; and if
proper arrangements for her comfort could not be made, the project would
have to be given up. After many proposals, each one having an unanswerable
difficulty, the old lady returned from town one day, with a very satisfied
countenance, having persuaded Mrs. Williams, a widow, and her daughter, to
pass the winter at Exeter with her. Mrs. Williams was a much valued friend
of the Weston family, and as no objection could be found to this
arrangement, the affair was settled. Alice, although the cause of the move,
was the only person who was indifferent on the subject. Ellen Graham, young
and gay as she was, would like to have entered into any excitement that
would make her forget the past. She fancied it would be for her happiness,
could the power of memory be destroyed. She had not sufficient of the
experience of life to appreciate the old man's prayer, "Lord, keep my
memory green."
Ellen at an early age, and an elder brother, were dependent, not for
charity, but for kindness and love, on relatives who for a long time felt
their guardianship a task. They were orphans; they bore each other company
in the many little cares of childhood; and the boy, as is not unusual in
such a case, always looked to his sister for counsel and protection, not
from actual unkindness, but from coldness and unmerited reproof. They
never forgot their parting with their mother--the agony with which she
held them to her bosom, bitterly reflecting they would have no such
resting-place in the cold world, in which they were to struggle.
Yet they were not unkindly received at their future home. Their uncle and
aunt, standing on the piazza, could not without tears see the delicate
children in their deep mourning, accompanied only by their aged and
respectable colored nurse, raise their eyes timidly, appealing to them for
protection, as hand in hand they ascended the steps. It was a large and
dreary-looking mansion, and many years had passed since the pictures of the
stiff looking cavalier and his smiling lady, hanging in the hall, had
looked down upon children at home there. The echoes of their own voices
almost alarmed the children, when, after resting from their journey, they
explored the scenes of their future haunts. On the glass of the large
window in the hall, were the names of a maiden and her lover, descended
from the cavaliers of Virginia. This writing was cut with a diamond, and
the children knew not that the writing was their parents'. The little ones
walked carefully over the polished floors; but there seemed nothing in all
they saw to tell them they were welcome. They lifted the grand piano that
maintained its station in one of the unoccupied rooms of the house; but the
keys were yellow with age, and many of them soundless--when at last one of
them answered to the touch of Ellen's little hand, it sent forth such a
ghostly cry that the two children gazed at each other, not knowing whether
to cry or to laugh.
Children are like politicians, not easily discouraged; and Ellen's "Come
on, Willy," showed that she, by no means, despaired of finding something to
amuse them. They lingered up stairs in their own apartment, William
pointing to the moss-covered rock that lay at the foot of the garden.
"Willy, Willy, come! here is something," and Willy followed her through a
long passage into a room, lighted only by the rays that found entrance
through a broken shutter. "Only see this," she continued, laying her hand
on a crib burdened with a small mattress and pillow; "here too," and she
pointed to a little child's hat that hung over it, from which drooped three
small plumes. "Whose can they be?"
"Come out o' here, children," said the nurse, who had been seeking them.
"Your aunt told me not to let you come into this part of the house; this
was her nursery once, and her only child died here."
The children followed their nurse, and ever afterward the thought of death
was connected with that part of the house. Often as they looked in their
aunt's face they remembered the empty crib and the drooping plumes.
Time does not always fly with youth; yet it passed along until Ellen had
attained her sixteenth year, and William his eighteenth year. Ellen shared
all her brother's studies, and their excellent tutor stored their minds
with useful information. Their uncle superintended their education, with
the determination that it should be a thorough one. William did not intend
studying a profession; his father's will allowed him to decide between
this, or assuming, at an early age, the care of his large estate, with
suitable advisers.
Ellen made excellent progress in all her studies. Her aunt was anxious she
should learn music, and wished her to go to Richmond or to Alexandria for
that purpose, but Ellen begged off; she thought of the old piano and its
cracked keys, and desired not to be separated from her brother, professing
her dislike to any music, but her old nurse's Methodist hymns.
William was tall and athletic for his age, passionate when roused by
harshness or injustice, but otherwise affectionate in his disposition,
idolizing his sister. His uncle looked at him with surprise when he saw him
assume the independence of manner, which sat well upon him; and his aunt
sometimes checked herself, when about to reprove him for the omission of
some unimportant form of politeness, which in her days of youth was
essential. Ellen dwelt with delight upon the approaching time, when she
would be mistress of her brother's establishment, and as important as she
longed to be, on that account. Though she looked upon her uncle's house as
a large cage, in which she had long fluttered a prisoner, she could not but
feel an affection for it; her aunt and uncle often formal, and uselessly
particular, were always substantially kind. It was a good, though not a
cheerful home, and the young look for joy and gaiety, as do the flowers for
birds and sunshine. Ellen was to be a ward of her uncle's until she was of
age, but was to be permitted to reside with her brother, if she wished,
from the time he assumed the management of his estate.
The young people laid many plans for housekeeping. William had not any love
affair in progress, and as yet his sister's image was stamped on all his
projects for the future.
Two years before Ellen came to Exeter, William stood under his sister's
window, asking her what he should bring her from C----, the neighboring
town. "Don't you want some needles," he said, "or a waist ribbon, or some
candy? make haste, Ellen; if I don't hurry, I can't come home to-night."
"I don't want any thing, Willie; but will you be sure to return to-night? I
never sleep well when you are away. Aunt and I are going on Tuesday to
C----; wait and we will stay all night then."
"Oh, no," said William, "I must go; but you may depend upon my being back:
I always keep my promises. So good-by."
Ellen leaned from the window, watching her handsome brother as he rode down
the avenue leading into the road He turned in his saddle, and bowed to
her, just before he passed from her sight.
"Oh, mammy," she said to her attendant, for she had always thus
affectionately addressed her; "did you ever see any one as handsome as
Willie?"
"Yes, child," she replied, "his father was, before him. You both look like
your father; but Master Willie favors him more than you do. Shut down the
window, Miss Ellen, don't you feel the wind? A strong March wind aint good
for nobody. Its bright enough overhead to-day, but the ground is mighty
damp and chilly. There, you're sneezin; didn't I tell you so?"
Late in the same day Ellen was seated at the window, watching her brother's
return; gaily watching, until the shadows of evening were resting on his
favorite rocks. Then she watched anxiously until the rocks could no longer
be seen; but never did he come again, though hope and expectation lingered
about her heart until despair rested there in their place.
William was starting on horseback, after an early dinner at the tavern in
C----. As he put his foot in the stirrups, an old farmer, who had just
driven his large covered wagon to the door, called to him.
"You going home, Mr. William?" said he.
"Yes, I am; but why do you ask me?"
"Why, how are you going to cross Willow's Creek?" asked the old man.
"On the bridge," said William, laughing; "did you think I was going to jump
my horse across?"
"No, but you can't cross the bridge," said the farmer, "for the bridge is
broken down."
"Why, I crossed it early this morning," said William.
"So did I," said the farmer, "and, thank God, I and my team did not go down
with it. But there's been a mighty freshet above, and Willow's Creek is
something like my wife--she's an angel when she aint disturbed, but she's
the devil himself when any thing puts her out. Now, you take my advice, and
stay here to-night, or at any rate don't get yourself into danger."
"I must go home to-night," said William; "I have promised my sister to do
so. I can ford the creek;" and he prepared again to start.
"Stop, young man," said the farmer, solemnly, "you mind the old saying,
'Young people think old people fools, but old people know young people are
fools.' I warn you not to try and ford that creek to-night; you might as
well put your head in a lion's mouth. Havn't I been crossing it these fifty
years? and aint I up to all its freaks and ways? Sometimes it is as quiet
as a wearied baby, but now it is foaming and lashing, as a tiger after
prey. You'd better disappoint Miss Ellen for one night, than to bring a
whole lifetime of trouble upon her. Don't be foolhardy, now; your horse
can't carry you safely over Willow's Creek this night."
"Never fear, farmer," said William. "I can take care of myself."
"May the Lord take care of you," said the farmer, as he followed the youth,
dashing through the town on his spirited horse. "If it were not for this
wagon-load, and there are so many to be clothed and fed at home, I would
follow you, but I can't do it."
William rode rapidly homeward. The noonday being long passed, the skies
were clouding over, and harsh spring winds were playing through the woods.
William enjoyed such rides. Healthy, and fearing nothing, he was a stranger
to a feeling of loneliness. Alternately singing an old air, and then
whistling with notes as clear and musical as a flute, he at last came in
sight of the creek which had been so tranquil when he crossed it in the
morning. There was an old house near, where lived the people who received
the toll. A man and his wife, with a large family of children, poor
people's inheritance, had long made this place their home, and they were
acquainted with all the persons who were in the habit of traveling this
way.
William, whom they saw almost daily, was a great favorite with the
children. Not only did he pay his toll, but many a penny and sixpence to
the small folks besides, and he was accustomed to receive a welcome.
Now the house was shut up. It had rained frequently and heavily during the
month, and the bright morning, which had tempted the children out to play,
was gone, and they had gathered in the old house to amuse themselves as
they could.
The bridge had been partly carried away by the freshet. Some of the beams
were still swinging and swaying themselves with restless motion. The creek
was swollen to a torrent. The waters dashed against its sides, in their
haste to go their way. The wind, too, howled mournfully, and the old trees
bent to and fro, nodding their stately heads, and rustling their branches
against each other.
"Oh, Mr. William, is it you?" said the woman, opening the door. "Get off
your horse, and come in and rest; you can't go home to-night."
"Yes, I can though," said William, "I have often forded the creek, and
though I never saw it as it is now, yet I can get safely over it, I am
sure."
"Don't talk of such things, for the Lord's sake," said Mrs. Jones. "Why, my
husband could not ford the creek now, and you're a mere boy."
"No matter for that," said William. "I promised my sister to be at home
to-night, and I must keep my word. See how narrow the creek is here!
Good-by, I cannot wait any longer, it is getting dark."
"Don't, try it, please don't, Mr. William," again said Mrs. Jones. All the
children joined her, some entreating William, others crying out at the
danger into which their favorite was rushing.
"Why, you cowards," cried William, "you make more noise than the creek
itself. Here's something for gingerbread." None of the children offered to
pick up the money which fell among them, but looked anxiously after
William, to see what he was going to do.
"Mr. William," said Mrs. Jones, "come back; look at the water a roaring and
tossing, and your horse is restless already with the noise. Don't throw
your life away; think of your sister."
"I'm thinking of her, good Mrs. Jones. Never fear for me," said he, looking
back at her with a smile, at the same time urging his horse toward the edge
of the creek, where there was a gradual descent from the hill.
As Mrs. Jones had said, the horse had already become restless, he was
impatiently moving his head, prancing and striking his hoofs against the
hard ground. William restrained him, as he too quickly descended the path,
and it may be the young man then hesitated, as he endeavored to check him,
but it was too late. The very check rendered him more impatient; springing
aside from the path he dashed himself from rock to rock. William saw his
danger, and with a steady hand endeavored to control the frightened animal.
This unequal contest was soon decided. The nearer the horse came to the
water the more he was alarmed,--at last he sprang from the rock, and he and
his rider disappeared.
"Oh, my God!" said Mrs. Jones, "he is gone. The poor boy; and there is no
one to help him." She at first hid her eyes from the appalling scene, and
then approached the creek and screamed as she saw the horse struggling and
plunging, while William manfully tried to control him. Oh! how beat her
heart, as with uplifted hands, and stayed breath, she watched for the
issue--it is over now.
"Hush! hush! children," said their mother, pale as death, whose triumph she
had just witnessed. "Oh! if your father had been here to have saved
him--but who could have saved him? None but thou, Almighty God!" and she
kneeled to pray for, she knew not what.
"Too late, too late!" yet she knelt and alternately prayed and wept.
Again she gazed into the noisy waters--but there was nothing there, and
then calling her frightened and weeping children into the house, she
determined to set forth alone, for assistance--for what?
* * * * *
Oh! how long was that night to Ellen, though she believed her brother
remained at C----. She did not sleep till late, and sad the awakening.
Voices in anxious whispers fell upon her ear; pale faces and weeping eyes,
were everywhere around her--within, confusion; and useless effort without.
Her uncle wept as for an only son; her aunt then felt how tenderly she had
loved him, who was gone forever. The farmer, who had warned him at the
tavern-door, smote his breast when he heard his sad forebodings were
realized. The young and the old, the rich and the poor, assembled for days
about the banks of the creek, with the hopes of recovering the body, but
the young rider and his horse were never seen again. Ah! Ellen was an
orphan now--father, mother, and friend had he been to her, the lost one.
Often did she lay her head on the kind breast of their old nurse, and pray
for death.
As far as was in their power, her uncle and aunt soothed her in her grief.
But the only real comfort at such a time, is that from Heaven, and Ellen
knew not that. How could she have reposed had she felt the protection of
the Everlasting Arms!
But time, though it does not always heal, must assuage the intensity of
grief; the first year passed after William's death, and Ellen felt a wish
for other scenes than those where she had been accustomed to see him. She
had now little to which she could look forward.
Her chief amusement was in retiring to the library, and reading old
romances, with which its upper shelves were filled; this, under other
circumstances, her aunt would have forbidden, but it was a relief to see
Ellen interested in any thing, and she appeared not to observe her thus
employing herself.
So Ellen gradually returned to the old ways; she studied a little, and
assisted her industrious aunt in her numerous occupations. As of old, her
aunt saw her restlessness of disposition, and Ellen felt rebellious and
irritable. With what an unexpected delight, then, did she receive from her
aunt's hands, the letters from Mrs. Weston, inviting her to come at once to
Exeter, and then to accompany them to Washington. She, without any
difficulty, obtained the necessary permission, and joyfully wrote to Mrs.
Weston, how gladly she would accept the kind invitation.