“I have something to tell you, too, Mr. Edward,” said his mother; “and as you are out of breath, and out of your wits, I will tell my story first, which I assure you is quite a romantic little tale to pick up by the way-side.”
“Well, do be quick, mother, if you please, for what I have to say is so wonderful.”
“No doubt; each one always thinks his own wonder the most wonderful. But I will not try your patience any longer. Do you remember our speculating on an empty carriage, which we saw drawn up under a tree with a man standing by it, about half a mile back?”
“Yes, very well—but what of that, mother?”
“It was an idle inquiry about that carriage of the good-natured communicative blacksmith that led to the story, which I am going to tell you. It seems that carriage is to convey a young woman to New-York, whence she sails for France.”
“Oh, I saw her—I saw her,” exclaimed Edward. “It can be none other.”
“Well, Edward,” said Mrs. Sackville, “I will give place to you; for I see you are in such a state of fermentation, that I am afraid your story will evaporate in exclamations, while I am telling mine.”
Edward thus relieved from restriction, proceeded to recount with the animation of an eye-witness, all he had seen and heard. His audience listened to him with the most flattering attention, and at the conclusion, repaid him with exclamations, that proved they were adequately impressed with the extraordinary scene he had witnessed.
Julia wished he had noticed whether the chief (for thus he had chosen throughout his narrative to designate his hero) wore moccasins or shoes, and whether his legs below his mantle, were bare, or covered with leggins. She thought too, he might just have staid to see whether the girl made the vow or not: and his mother congratulated him that the Indians had not executed summary justice on him, and shot him flying for a spy.
“My story,” said Mrs. Sackville, “will serve, Ned, as a sequel to yours, or rather, an explanation of it. It seems that this young girl, who is a Miss Bernard, had left the carriage when we saw it, on the pretence of going to take leave of her mother's sister, who is doubtless the old woman you saw. You were so fortunate as to discover her real errand. She is the daughter of a Frenchman—Rodolph Bernard. His family was noble and rich: they and their fortunes were sacrificed in the convulsions of the French revolution, and Bernard alone escaped and reached America, with nothing but his life. It appears from my blacksmith's story, that young Bernard had a good deal of spirit and enterprise, and more education than most of the young nobles of that time. I wish you to observe, my children, that knowledge is a treasure not impaired by a change of circumstances, but an immutable good in every extreme of fortune. Bernard remained in New-York for a year or two, and subsisted by teaching French to some Americans, and mathematics to his own countrymen. He was then employed by a company of French gentlemen, to explore the western part of this State, then a wilderness, and to furnish them such information as should enable them to make an advantageous purchase of the government. This was not quite thirty years ago: and then the cultivated country and beautiful villages through which we have passed, were for the most part a trackless wilderness.