Nothing could exceed the grief and anger of the elder Mr. Gansevoort on
learning the conduct of his son. The first burst of his resentment fell
upon poor Ellen, whom he had long suspected of entertaining disloyal
views, and who he now fully believed had been chiefly instrumental in
forming the sentiments of her brother. Her continued repugnance to the
addresses of Major Bender, had already incensed her father most highly,
and, his anger being now literally without bound, he notified her, in
the most peremptory manner, that she must prepare for her immediate
marriage with that gentleman. In vain did she expostulate. “You alone,”
he said, “remain to inherit an ample estate, derived from the bounty of
a generous sovereign. Never shall it pass to rebellious hands. Son, or
son-in-law, never shall a traitorous subject lord it in these halls.”
Ellen was not without the most serious alarm. She knew well her father’s
firmness and her own helplessness. She did not doubt his power, in
conjunction with Sir Philip, to execute his threat in relation to her
marriage. The times were favorable to almost every scheme of iniquity
and fraud. Indeed, an event similar to the one threatened, and which had
proved almost tragical in its termination, had but recently taken place
in the city. There was none to whom she could look for help. Her mother
who alone had ever possessed any real influence over the iron will of
her other parent, had been many years deceased. She was literally
confined, a prisoner in her room, excepting when compelled to descend to
the parlor to receive the visits of Sir Philip, who did not fail, on his
part, to use every art and blandishment which a life of gallantry had
placed at his command to overcome her dislike. He painted in the most
alluring colors her reception in England as his bride; the sensation
which her beauty would make in the highest circles, and the prospect of
his own expected elevation to the peerage. It is needless to say that
his assiduities only increased her abhorrence. At length he assumed a
sterner tone. He claimed her hand as a matter of right, alledging that
prior to her brother’s arrival, her encouragement of his addresses had
been such as to constitute an implied contract of marriage. This
assertion was palpably false, but the change which he supposed Francis
had wrought in her political sentiments, he thought would give color to
it. The fulfillment of that contract, he said, he had a right to
enforce. Her father was anxious for their immediate marriage, and if she
persisted in interposing her childish objections, means could readily be
found to overcome every obstacle.
“Do not think,” he said, “that when every thing conspires to favor me, I
will be thwarted by a foolish whim. But let me beseech you to lay aside
your scruples; and if your regard for me is not now all that you would
desire, doubt not it will become so. The attachment which commences
after marriage, if less romantic in its character, is often the most
permanent. If my society is now displeasing to you, you shall be
relieved from it at once, until your feelings become tranquillized.
Business of the utmost importance calls me immediately from town, and my
absence may continue for several weeks. Let but the ceremony be
performed—”
“_Never!_ Sir Philip Bender,” she exclaimed with emphasis, starting from
her seat, which he had gradually approached. “It shall _never_ be. The
God of Heaven will protect me. I will _never_ be your bride.”
A flush of mingled mortification and anger reddened the cheek of Sir
Philip. Pausing a moment to recover his self-command, he coolly replied,
“My bride you certainly will be, although I can scarcely find it in my
heart to deprive the stage of so admirable an actress.” Having thus
spoken, he formally took leave, but with an expression of countenance
that bespoke the most determined resolution.
Frightened by threats, galled by taunts, every nerve strung to its
utmost tension with excitement, Miss Gansevoort hastily retired to her
room, where for many minutes her violent sobs, and the convulsive
heavings of her breast, alone testified her irrepressible emotion.
On the afternoon of the ensuing day, Colonel Gansevoort, and his
intended son-in-law, were seated together in a private parlor in the
mansion of the former. A profound silence existed, excepting the noise
occasioned by the scratching of Sir Philip’s pen, who was diligently
engaged in writing.
Answering the violent ringing of a bell, the maid of Miss Gansevoort
made her appearance.
“Is my daughter ready?” inquired Col. G.
“Please, sir,” responded the maid, “Miss Ellen is in a dreadful way. She
pulls out the roses—”
“A curse upon the roses!” exclaimed the other. “Fling them into the
fire, and see that she is dressed and in the adjoining parlor within ten
minutes.”
“If you please, sir, she is almost ready now. Every few minutes she gets
faint-like, and then we go on.”
Entirely unmoved by this statement, Bender deliberately finished, and
laid upon the table a neatly embossed marriage certificate, ready for
signature.
“Your priest can be depended on, I hope, Sir Philip?” inquired Col.
Gansevoort.
The other smiled as he slowly replied, “Doctor Felton owed his
appointment as navy chaplain to me, ten years ago, at a time when he had
not lost more than half of his faculties. His sight is dim now at the
best, and in a judiciously darkened room, will be found all that can be
desired; and as to hearing, he has laid no claim to the use of that
organ within my memory. But even were both senses perfect, I do not
think he would either see or hear more than I desire.”
Scarcely had he finished speaking when the clergyman was announced. His
appearance fully justified the eulogy which had just been pronounced
upon him. Of bulky form, and rubicund face, he shuffled with unsteady
gait into the room, and with attempted gayety, but in a husky and
scarcely audible voice, replied to the salutation of his patron.
“You may find my daughter a little eccentric in her conduct,” said
Colonel Gansevoort, after being introduced to the priest. “She is young
and romantic. It will not be necessary that you should take any
particular notice of these things.”
“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir—certainly not, sir,” mumbled the
chaplain rapidly, as with unsteady hand, in compliance with an
invitation from Sir Philip, he helped himself at the sideboard, to an
antidote against the cold.
The maid now made her appearance, to announce that her mistress was
ready; and the little party immediately proceeded into the adjoining
room, where, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, white as the
dress she wore, and to all appearance lifeless, sat the bride elect. She
was in reality in a swoon. No questions were asked—no explanations
made. Sir Philip stood beside her, and the ceremony went rapidly
forward. The priest knew the service by rote; he held his book merely
for form. Not a word of its contents could he have seen, if it had been
necessary. “Does she answer?” he inquired, putting his hand to his ear,
when the decisive interrogatory was put. Bender bowed, and the ceremony
went on.
“The ring?” inquired the chaplain.
Sir Philip produced the golden circlet, and after it had passed through
the hands of the priest, proceeded with gentlest motion to place it upon
her finger. The touch was like electricity to her frame. She sprang to
her feet, and catching the robe of the terrified chaplain, sank upon her
knees before him.
“No, no, no!” she shrieked, “it must not, shall not be.”
Bender hastily disengaged her hold, and leading Dr. Felton out of the
room, informed him that Miss Gansevoort was laboring under a fit, to
which she was subject, but which would soon pass off.
“Certainly, sir—yes, sir—of course, sir—poor thing!”
“Father, dear father,” exclaimed Ellen, turning next to him, and gasping
for breath as she spoke, “you do not, _cannot_ mean it. I implore, I
beseech you by the memory of my dear, sainted mother, to spare me. See,”
she said, pointing suddenly to a portrait of her deceased parent, “she
_looks_ at you! She _speaks_ to you! Her _eyes_, her _lips_ are moving!
God of heaven!” she exclaimed, “_she is coming down from the canvas!_”
Wrought up by excitement to a point of positive delirium, Ellen once
more fell senseless to the floor.
Her father, shocked and terrified, hastily threw open a blind, and gazed
for a moment in awe at the picture. It hung motionless against the wall.
Summoning her maids, he then ordered them to bear Ellen directly to her
room. To Sir Philip’s expostulations he briefly replied; “Do not believe
that my purpose is shaken. On the contrary, it is more fixed than ever.
I know that I am doing my duty, and that she will yet thank me for it.
But it is impossible to proceed now. One week from to-day she shall be
yours. Attend, then, with your wooden priest, and the honor of Edmund
Gansevoort stands pledged for the fulfillment of his word.” Bender saw
that it was vain to reply. Having therefore enjoined the strictest
confidence upon the chaplain, and made an appointment with him to attend
on the day named, that obsequious gentleman took his leave, muttering as
usual,
“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir,—certainly not.”