Jessie Archer was, in truth, a lovely creature—with a heart full of all good and kindly feelings—with a soft, endearing manner, but with very little strength of character, or stability of purpose. She tenderly loved her Northern relatives, and parted from them at last, from her cousin William in particular, with many tears and passionate expressions of regret. She was not positively betrothed to this cousin—such a measure would have been opposed by their friends, on account of the extreme youth of the parties—but she knew well his love and his dear hope—that he looked upon her as his future bride, and she was well content with this understanding.
As a matter of course, and lover-like necessity, William Ashley corresponded with his cousin. At first, the letters on both sides were frequent, long, and confidential; but after the first year of absence, those of Miss Jessie changed gradually in their tone, and became “few and far between.” But William, who was faithful and believing, made a thousand kind excuses for this, and continued to write out of his own affectionate and changeless heart. But at length his Jessie ceased to write altogether. Two months went by, and then poor Ashley, in much distressful anxiety, wrote to her, entreating to be told the cause of her strange silence. There came a reply at last—a brief reply, written in the dear, familiar hand, but bearing for a signature, a strange name. She had been a fortnight married to a wealthy Virginia planter.
This home-thrust at his heart by a beloved hand; this sudden annihilation of his dearest hopes, by her whose sweet source and centre they had been, almost prostrated the young student, mind and body. He was proud, sensitive, and twenty-one; he had the heart and was at the age to feel acutely, to suffer and despair. His ambition died out—his energies flagged—then his appetite went by the board; his eye grew spiritless, his step heavy, and his cheek pale. “He must give up study,” said his mother. “He must take a journey,” said his sister, speaking one word for him and two for herself. This last proposition, which was strongly pressed, was finally acceded to; and the young gentleman set forth, dispirited and ill, under the care, (“protection,” she called it,) of his charming sister, Ellen. They went directly West, for a visit to the Falls; the very journey which William had always looked forward to as his bridal-tour. Now it seemed but to depress and sadden him the more; he was restless, moody, and abstracted—the very worst traveling-companion possible to have. Ellen found it exceedingly difficult to divert him from his melancholy thoughts and tender recollections, “pleasant and mournful to the soul.” The fine scenery along their route, constantly reminded him of the double pleasure he had anticipated in first viewing it with his beautiful bride.
At Buffalo, our travelers took the afternoon boat for Chippewa. It was a bright and breezy day, early in in July—water, earth and sky were lit up gloriously by the declining sun, as they swept down that grand, immortal river. As the brother and sister stood on deck, silently drinking in the rare beauty of the scene and hour, they noticed a party near them, distinguished amid all the crowd, by a certain quiet elegance of dress and manner, with a bearing of perhaps unconscious superiority. This was a family party, and consisted of an elderly gentleman, Mr. Harley, a wealthy banker, and an honorable citizen of New York—his wife, a sweet, motherly-looking woman—their daughter, Juliet, a fair and delicate girl of eighteen, and their only son, Master Fred, a lad of nine or ten.
Ashley was a thorough republican—poor and proud; and being now more than usually inclined to coldness and reserve, instinctively shrunk from all contact with this party, in whom he at once recognized the air patrician and exclusive. But toward evening, Mr. Harley made some courteous advances, and finally succeeded in getting up quite a free and animated conversation with his young fellow-traveler, with whose well-bred air and thoughtful countenance he had been attracted and impressed. They discoursed on the magnificent scenery around them, then on the battles and sieges, bold generalship and grand fighting which had made classic ground of the wild Niagara frontier; and Ashley, who was an admirable talker, soon became earnest and even eloquent, in spite of himself. All at once, in looking up, he met the beautiful blue eyes of Miss Juliet fixed upon him with evident interest and admiration. The young lady dropped her gaze instantly, while a deep blush suffused her bright, ingenuous face. An involuntary thrill of pleasure agitated the heart of Ashley, and his cold eye kindled with a new fire; but as thought returned—the thought of all the fickleness and coquetry, and heartlessness of woman, his brow clouded, he bit his lip, and with a few hasty words, turned abruptly, and drawing his sister’s arm within his own, walked to the side of the vessel, and there stood, silently and moodily, gazing down into the darkening waters and off into the deepening twilight.
Owing to some detention, the boat was later than usual, so that it was quite dark when they landed at Chippewa. On leaving the boat, Mr. Ashley and his sister found themselves directly behind the party with whom they had been conversing. Mr. Harley looking round and seeing them, began making some inquiries respecting the hotel of which they had made choice, when Master Fred, who, in his boyish independence, was walking alone, suddenly stumbled and fell—fell from the broad plank over which they were passing, into the river below. There were screams and shouts, and rushings to and fro, but no rescue was attempted, until Ashley, breaking from the clinging hold of his sister, leaped boldly into the deep, dark water. For a few moments, which seemed an age to the spectators, he searched in vain along the narrow space between the vessel and the wharf, but finally he espied the lad’s head appearing from under the boat, caught, and drew forth the already insensible child, and greatly exhausted himself, swam back to the plank with his precious burden. They were drawn on board together with joyful shouts and earnest thanksgiving.
As Ashley stood in the gangway, staggering and half blind, the crowd cheering and pressing around him, his sister flung her arms about his neck, and hung upon him, laughing and weeping hysterically. But the poor fellow was faint and chilled, and strove to release himself from her passionate embrace. But just as he stood free, he felt his hand clasped, but gently, timidly, and looking round, saw Miss Harley at his side. She hastily raised that cold, wet hand to her warm, quivering lips, and kissed it gratefully, while her tears, her irrepressible tears, fell upon it, as she murmured—“God bless you! God in heaven bless you!” and then hurried away to attend upon her brother, who had been carried back into the cabin. The little lad soon recovered sufficiently to be able to join the party, who together took their way to the Clifton House.
That night, after supper, which he had served in a private parlor, Mr. Harley sought the room of Ashley—his heart overflowing with gratitude toward the young hero, and his thoughts busy with plans of generous recompense. At the door he met a servant bearing away a wet traveling-suit, which sight quickened even more his warm and kindly feelings. He entered, to find Mr. Ashley wrapt in a dressing-gown, sitting by a table, his head bent down on his hands, a plate of light food, almost untasted, and a cup of tea, half drank, pushed back from before him. He was looking even paler and more spiritless than usual. In fact, our friend was completely exhausted by the excitement and exertion of the evening, and consequently deepened in moodiness and reserve. He rose, however, as his visiter entered, and bowing politely, begged him to be seated. But Mr. Harley came forward, took his hand, and pressing it warmly, looked kindly into that pale, quiet face, his own countenance all a-glow, and tears actually glistening in his deep-set, gray eyes. Ashley cast down his own eyes in painful embarrassment, which Mr. Harley perceiving, took the proffered chair, and strove to converse awhile on indifferent topics. But he soon came round to the subject nearest his heart—dwelt long and at large on his paternal joy and gratitude, not seeming to heed the impatience of his sensitive auditor, and finally closed with,
“I trust that there is some way in which I can prove my gratitude—in part reward you for your generous heroism. Tell me, my dear young friend, can I repay you in any way?”
To Ashley’s jealous ear there was a tone of patronage—an insulting jingle of the banker’s purse in these words, at which he involuntarily drew himself up, and curled his short upper-lip; and when Mr. Harley earnestly repeated his question, thus: