PART II - CHAPTER I

Tales for Fifteen

by James F. Cooper

PART II - CHAPTER I, TALES FOR FIFTEEN by James F. Cooper
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ON one of those clear, cold days of December,
which so frequently occur in our climate, two very
young women were walking on the fashionable
promenade of New-York. In the person of the elder
of these females there was exhibited nothing more
than the usual indications of youth and health; but
there were a delicacy and an expression of
exquisite feeling in the countenance of her
companion, that caused many a plodding or idle
passenger to turn and renew the gaze, which had
been attracted by so lovely a person. Her figure
was light, and possessed rather a character of
aerial grace, than the usual rounded lines of earthly
beauty; and her face was beaming more with the
sentiments of the soul within, than with the
ordinary charms of complexion and features. It was
precisely that kind of youthful loveliness that a
childless husband would pause to contemplate as
the reality of the visions which his thoughts had
often portrayed, and which his nature coveted as
the only treasure wanting to complete the sum of
his earthly bliss. It truly looked a being to be loved
without the usual alloy of our passions; and there
was a modest ingenuousness which shone in her
air, that gently impelled the hearts of others to
regard its possessor with a species of holy
affection. Amongst the gay throng, however, that
thoughtlessly glided along the Broadway, even this
image of female perfection was suffered to move
unnoticed by hundreds; and it was owing to the
obstruction offered to the passage of the ladies, by
a small crowd that had gathered on the side-walk,
that a gentleman of uncommon personal
endowments enjoyed an opportunity of examining it
with more than ordinary attention. The eldest of
the females drew her companion away from this
impediment to their passage, by moving towards
the opposite side of the street, and observing, as
they crossed, with an indifference in her manner--

"It is nothing, Charlotte, but a drunken man; if
people will drink, they must abide the
consequences."

"He does not seem intoxicated, Maria," replied the
other, in a voice whose tones corresponded with her
appearance; "it is some sudden illness."

"One that, I dare say, he is accustomed to," said
Maria, without having even taken such a look at the
sufferer as would enable her to identify his colour;
"he will be well enough after he has slept."

"But is the pavement a place for him to sleep on?"
rejoined her companion, still gazing towards the
miserable object; "and if he should be ill!--why do
they not raise him?--Why do they suffer him to
injure himself as he does?"

The speaker, at the same time that she shrunk in a
kind of sensitive horror from this exhibition of
human infirmities, now unconsciously stopped, with
an interest in the man that she could not controul,
and thus compelled Maria to pause also. The crowd
had withdrawn from the man, giving him sufficient
room to roll over, in evident pain, while they yet
stood gazing at him, with that indefinable feeling
of curiosity and nerveless sympathy, which
characterises man when not called on to act, by
emulation, vanity, or the practice of well-doing. No
one offered to assist the sufferer, although many
said it ought to be done; some spoke of sending for
those who monopolized the official charity of the
city; many, having satisfied their curiosity, and
finding that the moment for action was arriving,
quietly withdrew from a trouble that would interfere
with their comforts or their business--while a few
felt an impulse to aid the man, but hesitated in
being foremost in doing that which would be
honourable to their feelings, but might not accord
with their condition, or might seem as the
ostentatious display of unusual benevolence.
Where men are congregated, conduct must be
regulated by the touchstone of public opinion; and,
although it is the fashion of New-York to applaud
acts of charity, and to do them too in a particular
manner--it is by no means usual to run to the
assistance of a fellow creature who is lying in
distress on a pavement.

{those who monopolized the official charity = in
1821 the only officially supported charitable
organization in New York City was the City
Dispensary -- municipal aid to others having been
cut off in 1817 on the grounds that charity to the
poor only made them lazy and improvident}

Whatever might be the impulses of the gentleman
whom we have mentioned, his attention was too
much absorbed by the conversation and manner of
the two ladies to regard any thing else, and he
followed them across the street, and stopped also
when they paused to view the scene. He was
inwardly and deeply admiring the most youthful of
the females, for the natural and simple display of
those very qualities that he forgot himself to
exercise, when he was roused with a feeling of
something like mortification, by hearing Charlotte
exclaim, with a slight glow on her cheek--

"Ah! there is George Morton coming--he surely will
not pass the poor man without offering to assist
him."

The gentleman turned his head quickly, and noticed
a youth making his way through the crowd,
successfully, to the side of the sufferer. The
distance was too great to hear what passed--but an
empty coach, whose driver had stopped to gaze
with the rest, was instantly drawn up, and the man
lifted in, and followed by the youth, whose
appearance had effected these movements with the
silence and almost with the quietness of magic.

George Morton was far from possessing the elegant
exterior of the uneasy observer of this scene, yet
were the eyes of the lovely young woman who had
caught his attention, fixed in evident delight on his
person, until it was hid from view in the carriage;
when, drawing a long breath, as if relieved from
great uneasiness, she said, in a low voice--

"I knew that George Morton would not pass him so
unfeelingly--but where are they going?--not far, I
hope, on this cold day--and George without his
great coat."

There was a plaintive and natural melody in the
tones of the speaker's voice, as she thus
unconsciously uttered her concern, that impelled
the listener to advance to the side of the carriage,
where a short conversation passed between the
gentlemen, and the stranger returned to the ladies,
who were yet lingering near the spot, apparently
unwilling to depart from a scene that had so deeply
interested one of them. Raising his hat, the
gentleman, addressing himself to the magnet that
had attracted him, said--

"Your friend declines the offer of my coat, and says
that the carriage is quite warm--they are going to
the alms-house, and I am happy to inform you that
the poor man is already much better, and is
recovering from his fit."

{The New York City Almshouse, at Bellevue on the
East River, housed over 1,500 inmates at a time
(with annual deaths approaching 500), and served
as a last refuge for the destitute of all ages}

Charlotte now for the first time observed the
speaker, and a blush passed over her face as she
courtesied her thanks in silence. But her
companion, aroused from gazing at the finery of a
shop window, by the voice of the stranger, turned
quickly, and with very manifest satisfaction,
exclaimed--

"Bless me! Mr. Delafield--I did not observe you
before!--then you think the poor wretch will not
die?"

"Ah! assuredly not," returned the gentleman,
recognizing the face of an acquaintance, with an
animation he could not conceal: "but how
inadvertent I have been, not to have noticed Miss
Osgood before!"--While speaking, his eyes rested
on the lovely countenance of her friend, as if, by
their direction, he meant to explain the reason of
his remissness.

"We were both too much engaged with the
sufferings of the poor man, for until this moment I
did not observe you," said the lady--with that kind
of instinctive quickness that teaches the fair the
importance of an amiable exterior, in the eyes of
the other sex.

"Doubtless," returned the gentleman, gravely, and
for the first time withdrawing his gaze from the
countenance of Charlotte; but the precaution was
unnecessary:--the young lady had been too much
engrossed with her own sensations to notice the
conduct of others, and from the moment that the
carriage had driven out of right, had kept her eyes
on the ground, as she walked silently and
unobtrusively by the side of her companion.

"Miss Henly--Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Maria.
The silent bow and courtesy that followed this
introduction was succeeded by an animated
discourse between the gentleman and his old
acquaintance, which was, but seldom interrupted by
any remark from their more retiring companion.
Whenever she did speak, however, the gentleman
listened with the most flattering attention, that
was the more remarkable, from the circumstance of
his talking frequently at the same time with Maria
Osgood. The trio took a long walk together, and
returned to the house of Mr. Henly, in time for the
necessary arrangements for the coming dinner. It
was when within a short distance of the dwelling of
Charlotte that the gentleman ventured to allude to
the event that had made them acquainted.

"The fearless manner in which you predicted the
humanity of Mr. Morton, would be highly gratifying
to himself, Miss Henly," he observed; "and were I of
his acquaintance, it should be my task to inform
him of your good opinion."

"I believe Mr. Morton has not now to learn that,"
said Charlotte, simply, but dropping her eyes; "I
have been the next door neighbour of George all my
life, and have seen too much of his goodness of
heart not to have expressed the same opinion
often."

"But not to himself," cried Maria; "so, Mr. Delafield,
if you wish to apprise him of his good fortune, you
have only to attend my music party to-morrow
evening, and I will take particular care that you get
acquainted with the humane hero."

The invitation was gladly accepted, and the
gentleman took his leave at the door of the house.

"Well, Charlotte, you have seen him at last!" cried
Maria, the instant the door had closed; "and I am
dying to know how you like him!"

"To save your life," said the other, laughing, "I will
say a great deal, although you so often accuse me
of taciturnity--but who is HIM?"

"Him! why, Delafield!--Seymour Delafield!--the
pattern for all the beaux--the magnet for all the
belles--and the delight of all the parents in town!"

"His own, too?" inquired Charlotte, a little archly.

"He has none--they are dead and gone--but their
money is left behind, and that brings him fathers
and mothers by the dozen!"

"It is fortunate that he can supply their loss in any
way," said Charlotte, with emphasis.

"To be sure he can; he can do more than you or I
could, my dear; he can pick his parents from the
best in the city--and, therefore, he ought to be well
provided."

"And could he be better provided, as you call it, in
that respect, than ourselves?" asked Miss Henly, a
little reproachfully.

"Oh no, surely not; now if he were a woman, how
soon would he be married!--why, child, they say he
is worth at least three hundred thousand dollars!--
he'd be a bride in a month!"

"And miserable, perhaps, in a year," said Charlotte;
"it is fortunate for him that he is a man, by your
tale, or his wealth might purchase misery for him."

"Oh! no one can be miserable that is well married,"
cried Maria; "Heigho! the idea of old-maidism is too
shocking to think about!"

"Why does not Mr. Delafield get married, then, if
marriage be so very desirable?" said Miss Henly,
smiling at the customary rattle of her companion:
"he can easily get a wife, you say?"

{rattle = trivial chatter}

"It is the difficulty of choosing--there are so many
attentive to him--"

"Maria!"

"Mercy! I beg pardon of female delicacy!--but since
the young man has returned from his travels, he
has been so much--much courted--nay, by the old
people, I mean--and the girls beckon him about so-
-and it's Mr. Delafield, have you read Salmagundi?--
and, Mr. Delafield, have you seen Cooke?--and, Mr.
Delafield, do you think we shall have war?--and
have you seen Bonaparte? And, in short, Mr.
Delafield, with his handsome person, and three
hundred thousand dollars, has been so much of all-
in-all to the ladies, that the man has never time to
choose a wife!"

{Salmagundi = a series of comic essays (1819-
1820) by New York City writer James Kirke Paulding
(1778-1860), emulating an earlier series by
Washington Irving and others; Cooke = probably
Thomas Potter Cooke (1786-1864), a noted English
actor; Bonaparte = Napoleon Bonaparte died on St.
Helena in 1821}

"I really wonder that you never took the office upon
yourself," said Charlotte, busied in throwing aside
her coat and gloves; "you appear to have so much
interest in the gentleman."

"Oh! I did, a month since--the moment that he
landed."

"Indeed! and who was it?"

"Myself."

"And have you told him of your choice?" asked the
other, laughing.

"Not with my tongue: but with my eyes, a thousand
times--and with all that unspeakable language that
female invention can supply:--I go where he goes--
if I see him in the street behind me, I move slowly
and with dignity; still he passes me--if before me, I
am in a hurry--but{"}--

"You pass him?" interrupted Charlotte, amused with
her companion's humour.

"Exactly--we never keep an equal pace; this is the
first time that he has walked with me since he
returned from abroad--and for this honour I am
clearly indebted to yourself."

"To me, Maria?" said Charlotte, in surprise.

"To none other--he talked to me, but he looked at
you. Ah! he knows by instinct that you are an only
child--and I do believe that the wretch knows that I
have twelve brothers and sisters--but you had
better take him, Charlotte; he is worth twenty
George Mortons--at least, in money."

"What have the merits of George Morton and Mr.
Delafield to do with each other?" said Charlotte,
removing her hat, and exhibiting a head of hair that
opportunely fell in rich profusion over her shoulders,
so as to conceal the unusual flush on her,
ordinarily, pale cheek.

This concluded the conversation; for Charlotte
instantly left the room, and was occupied for some
time in giving such orders as her office of assistant
in housekeeping to her mother rendered necessary.

Charlotte Henly was the only child that had been
left from six who were born to her parents, the
others having died in their infancy. The deaths of
the rest of their children had occasioned the
affection of her parents to center in the last of their
offspring with more than common warmth; and the
tenderness of their love was heightened by the
extraordinary qualities of their child. Possessed of
an abundance of the goods of this world, these
doating parents were looking around with intense
anxiety, among their acquaintance, and watching
for the choice that was to determine the worldly
happiness of their daughter.

Charlotte was but seventeen, yet the customs of
the country, and the temptations of her expected
wealth, together with her own attractions, had
already placed her within the notice of the world.
But no symptom of that incipient affection which
was to govern her life, could either of her parents
ever discover; and in the exhibitions of her
attachments, there was nothing to be seen but that
quiet and regulated esteem, which grows out of
association and good sense, and which is so
obviously different from the restless and varying
emotions that are said to belong to the passion of
love.

Maria Osgood was a distant relative, and an early
associate, who, although as different from her
cousin in appearance and character as black is from
white, was still dear to the latter, both from habit
and her unconquerable good nature.

George Morton, the youth of whom such honourable
mention has been made, was the son of a
gentleman who had long resided in the next
dwelling to Mr. Henly in the city, and who also
possessed a country house near his own villa.
These circumstances had induced an intimacy
between the families that was cemented by the
good opinion each entertained of the qualities of
the other, and which had been so long and so often
tried in scenes of happiness and misery, that were
known to both. Young Morton was a few years the
senior of Charlotte; and, at the time of commencing
our tale, was but lately released from his collegiate
labours. His goodness of heart and simplicity of
manners made him an universal favourite; while the
peculiarity of their situation brought him oftener
before the notice of Charlotte than any other young
man of her acquaintance.--But, notwithstanding the
intimation of Maria Osgood, none of their friends in
the least suspected any other feeling to exist
between the youthful pair than the natural and very
obvious one of disinterested esteem. As the family
seated themselves at the dinner table, their guest
exclaimed, in the heedless way that characterised
her manner--

"Oh! Mrs. Henly, I have to congratulate you on the
prospects of your soon having a son, and one so
amiable and attractive as your daughter."

"Indeed!" returned the matron, comprehending the
other's meaning intuitively, "and what may be the
young gentleman's name?"

"You will be the envy of all the mothers in town,"
continued Maria, "and deservedly so. Two such
children to fall to the lot of one mother!--Nay, do
not shake your head, Charlotte; it must and shall
be a match, I am determined."

"My friendship for you would deter me from the
measure, should nothing else interfere," said
Charlotte, good humouredly.

"Ah! I have already abandoned my pretensions--
twelve brothers and sisters, my dear, are a dreadful
addition to bring into a family at once!"

"I am sure I do not think so," returned Charlotte,
timidly glancing her eye at her mother; "besides, I
feel bound in honour to remember your original
intention."

"I tell you I have abandoned it, with all thoughts of
the youth."

"And who is the youth?" asked Mrs. Henly, affecting
an indifference that she did not feel.

"You will have the handsomest son in the city,
certainly," said Maria; "and, possibly, the richest--
and the most learned--and, undeniably, the most
admired!"

"You quite excite my curiosity to know who this
paragon can be," said the mother, looking at her
husband, who returned the glance with one of equal
solicitude.

"I do not think he is more than four and twenty,"
added Maria; "and his black eyes would form a
charming contrast to your blue ones."

"To whom does Miss Osgood allude?" asked Mrs.
Henly, yielding to a solicitude that she could no
longer controul.

"To Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Charlotte, raising
her mild eyes to the face of her mother, and
smiling, as she delicately pared her apple, with a
simple ingenuousness that banished uneasiness
from the breast of her parent in an instant.

"I know him," said Mr. Henly; "but I did not think
you had ever seen him, Charlotte."

"We met him in our morning walk, sir, and Maria
introduced him."

"He is thought to be very handsome," continued her
father, helping himself to a glass of wine while
speaking.

"And very justly," returned the daughter; "I think
him the handsomest man that I have ever seen."

"Have I your permission for telling him so?" cried
Maria, with a laugh.

"I have not the least objection to his knowing it, on
my own account, except from the indelicacy of
complimenting a gentleman," said Charlotte, with
perfect simplicity; "but whether it would be
beneficial to himself or not, you can best judge."

"You think him vain, then?" observed her mother.

"Not in the least; or, rather, he did not exhibit it to
me"--was the answer, with the same open air as
before.

"He has also a great reputation for good sense,"
continued her father, avoiding the face of his child.

"I thought he had wit, sir."

"And not good sense?"

"Am I a judge?" asked Charlotte, rising, and holding
a lighted paper to her father, while he took a new
segar.

Her clear blue eyes resting on him in the fulness of
filial affection, as she performed this office, and the
open air with which she bent forward to receive the
kiss he offered in thanks, removed any
apprehensions which the name of their morning's
companion might have excited.

Mr. Henly knew nothing concerning this young man
that would induce him at all to avoid the connexion,
but still he had not yet examined his character with
that searching vigilance that he thought due to the
innocence and merit of his child. Determining within
himself, however, that this was a task that should
no longer be neglected, he rose, and telling the
ladies that he left the bottle with them, withdrew
to his study.

The door had hardly closed behind Mr. Henly, when
George Morton entered the dining parlour, with the
freedom of an old and favourite friend, and telling
Mrs. Henly that, in consequence of his family's
dining out, and his own engagements, he was
fasting, and begged her charity for a meal. From
the instant that he appeared, Charlotte had risen
with alacrity, and was no sooner acquainted with
his wants, than she rung to order what he required.
She brought him a glass of sparkling wine with her
own hands, and pushing a chair nearer to the fire
than the one he occupied, she said--

"Sit here, George, you appear chilled--I thought you
would miss your coat."

"I thank you," returned the youth, turning on her an
eye of the most open affection; "I do feel unusually
cold, and begin to think, that with my weak lungs it
would have been more prudent to have taken a
surtout."

{surtout = overcoat}

"And how was the poor man when you left him?"

"Much better, and in extremely good quarters," said
George; but, turning quickly to Miss Osgood, he
added, "So, Miss Maria, your beau has
condescended to walk with you at last?"

"Yes, Mr. Impudence," said Maria, smiling; {"}but
come, fill your mouth with food, and be silent."

He did as requested, and the conversation changed.