Cleaveland, at first, would not guess to what she referred; and, perceiving that he did not understand her, she continued: “I know it is a very delicate matter for me to take it for granted that you would like to marry Caroline. If I am mistaken, there is no harm done, and you will excuse me; if I am not mistaken, it would be too late, after you young people had settled the matter between you, for me to express my decided disapprobation of it, and therefore I do it now. I appeal to you, Mr. Cleaveland, as a mother, whose soul is bound up in her child, to give up all thoughts of a connection which would fall very far short of my hopes and wishes for my daughter.”
For a moment, poor Cleaveland sat like one stupified. Then, without any parting salutation to Mrs. Rutherford, without even a single word in reply to her strange harangue, he hastily left the house. He retreated to his own room; but experienced there a stifling sensation, which he thought to relieve by going into the open air; and pursuing his way to a favorite haunt, he met Caroline just emerging from the little grove he was about to enter.
Not daring to trust himself with her a moment, and unable to command his voice, he hastily passed her with hardly the seeming of a recognition. Her headache had left her much exhausted, and a dizzy faintness now came over her, so that it was with great difficulty that she reached her home, although not very far distant.
Meanwhile her lover was in a most piteous state of agitation and perplexity. Was he obliged in honor to heed the matrimonial veto? Believing that Caroline was attached to him, was it right to keep her in ignorance of his love? Her father, too, had given him the most undoubted proofs of his esteem; and so far from showing any jealousy or suspicion of him, had always acquiesced entirely in all those arrangements which had brought them together so much, might he not refer the matter to him? But to appeal to the husband against his wife—to the daughter against her mother—this would be neither manly nor delicate, perhaps not honorable; he was not quite sure. To fly, then, was his only refuge.
He wrote a note to Mrs. Garrison, complaining of illness, saying that he had been induced, by unexpected circumstances, to leave town, contrary to his first intentions, on the following day; but that, on the whole, he preferred not taking leave of them personally, as the parting would, on his part, be a very painful one. He thanked her, in glowing terms, for all her kindness, adding, that he never expected to be so happy again as under her roof.
Mrs. Garrison was surprised by this last expression; surprised by his hasty departure, and by his omitting to make his adieus in person; and had a vague idea of some mystery in the matter, which she hoped time might solve. He went off at two o’clock in the morning.
Mrs. Rutherford took especial care to conceal the fact of his having called to see her, from Caroline, who forbore to make any inquiries; and Mr. Rutherford being out of town, no investigation was made upon the subject.
Poor Caroline! her brightness was, for the present, all obscured. Her headache returned violently, and she was really ill for some days; but even after she had no longer an excuse for playing the invalid, her spirits did not return; she had sleepless nights and languid days, and her very soul seemed to have died away within her.
Her father was excessively distressed. At first he tried to rouse her spirits by a little raillery. “You remind me,” said he, “of a fine peach-tree which I came near losing last spring. It was in full life and beauty, just as you were, but suddenly a blight came over it which threatened its destruction. I dug around the root and found one little worm there—that removed, the tree flourished again.”
Poor Caroline made no reply, but burst into tears and retreated to her room.