"Soon after I arrived here; my uncle came into my chamber one day.

"Melissa, said he, I find by your father's letters that he considers you to have formed an improper connection. I wish you to give me a true statement of the matter, and if any thing can be done to reconcile you to your father, you may depend upon my a.s.sistance. I have seen some troubles in this way myself, in my early days; perhaps my counsel may be of some service."

"I immediately gave a correct account of every particular circ.u.mstance, from the time of my first acquaintance with you until my arrival at this house. He sat some time silent, and then told me that my father, he believed, had drawn the worst side of the picture; and that he had urged him to exert every means in his power to reclaim me to obedience: That Beauman was to follow me in a few months, and that, if I still refused to yield him my hand, my father positively and solemnly declared that he would discard me forever, and strenuously enjoined it upon him to do the same. "I well know my brother's temper, continued my uncle; the case is difficult, but something must be done. I will immediately write to your father, desiring him not to proceed too rashly; in the mean time we must consider what measures to pursue. You must not, my niece, you must not be sacrificed." So saying, he left me, highly consoled that, instead of a tyrant, I had found a friend in my new protector.

"Alfred was made acquainted with the affair, and many were the plans projected for my benefit, and abandoned as indefeasible, till an event happened which called forth all the fort.i.tude of my uncle to support it, and operated in the end to free me from persecution.

"My uncle's daughter, by his first wife, was of a very delicate and sickly const.i.tution, and her health evidently decreasing. After she came to this place, she was sent to a village on one of the high hills of Pedee, where she remained a considerable time; she then went to one of the inland towns in North Carolina, from whence she had but just returned with Alfred when I arrived. Afterwards I accompanied her to Georgetown, and other places, attended by her father, so that she was little more known in Charleston than myself. But all answered no purpose to the restoration of her health; a confirmed hectic carried her off in the bloom of youth.

"I was but a few months older than she; her name was Melissa, a name which a pious grandmother had borne, and was therefore retained in the family. Our similarity of age, and in some measure of appearance, our being so little known in Charleston, and our names being the same, suggested to Alfred the idea of imposing on my father, by pa.s.sing off my cousin's death as my own. This would, at least, deter Beauman from prosecuting his intended journey to Charleston; it would also give time for farther deliberation, and might so operate on my father's feelings as to soften that obduracy of temper, which deeply disquieted himself and others, and thus finally be productive of happily effecting the designed purpose.

"My uncle was too deeply overwhelmed in grief to be particularly consulted on this plan. He however entrusted Alfred to act with full powers, and to use his name for my interest, if necessary. Alfred therefore procured a publication, as of my death, in the Connecticut papers, particularly at New London, the native place of Beauman. In Charleston it was generally supposed that it was the niece, and not the daughter of Col. D----, who had died.--This imposition was likewise practised upon the s.e.xton, who keeps the register of deaths.[A] Alfred then wrote a letter to my father, in my uncle's name, stating the particulars of my cousin's death, and applying them to me. The epitaph on her tombstone was likewise so devised that it would with equal propriety apply either to her or to me.

[Footnote A: This was formerly the case.]

"To undeceive you, Alonzo, continued Melissa, was the next object. I consulted with Alfred how this should be done.----"My sister, he said, (in our private circles he always called me by the tender name of sister,) I am determined to see you happy before I relinquish the business I have undertaken: letters are a precarious mode of communication; I will make a journey to Connecticut, find out Alonzo, visit your friends, and see how the plan operates. I am known to your father, who has ever treated me as a relative. I will return as speedily as possible, and we shall then know what measures are best next to pursue."

"I requested him to unfold the deception to my mother, and, if he found it expedient, to Vincent and Mr. Simpson, in whose friendship and fidelity I was sure he might safely confide.

"He soon departed, and returned in about two months. He found my father and mother in extreme distress on account of my supposed death: my mother's grief had brought her on the bed of sickness; but when Alfred had undeceived her she rapidly revived. My father told Alfred that he seriously regretted opposing my inclinations, and that, were it possible he could retrace the steps he had taken, he should conduct in a very different manner, as he was not only deprived of me, but Edgar also, who had gone to Holland in an official capacity, soon after receiving the tidings of my death. "I am now childless," said my father in tears.

Alfred's feelings were moved, and could he then have found you, he would have told my father the truth; but lest he should relapse from present determinations, he considered it his duty still with him, to continue the deception.

"On enquiring at your father's, at Vincent's, and at Mr. Simpson's, he could learn nothing of you, except that you had gone to New London, judging possibly that you would find me there. Alfred therefore determined to proceed to that place immediately. He then confidentially unfolded to your father, Vincent, and Mr. Simpson, the scheme, desiring that if you returned you would proceed immediately to Charleston. My father was still to be kept in ignorance.

"Alfred proceeded immediately to New London: from my cousin there he was informed of your interview with him; but from whence you then came, or where you went, he knew not; and after making the strictest enquiry, he could hear nothing more of you. By a vessel in that port, bound directly for Holland, he wrote an account of the whole affair to Edgar, mentioning his unsuccessful search to find you; and returned to Charleston.

"Alfred learnt from my friends the circ.u.mstances which occasioned my sudden removal from the old mansion. The morning you left me you was discovered by my aunt, who was pa.s.sing the road in a chair with a gentleman, whom she had then but recently become acquainted with. My aunt knew you. They immediately drove to John's hut. On finding that John had left the keys with me, she sent him for them; and on my refusing to give them up, she came herself, as I have before related; and as she succeeded no better than John, she returned and dispatched a message to my father, informing him of the circ.u.mstances, and her suspicions of your having been to the mansion, and that, from my having possession of the keys and refusing to yield them up, there was little doubt but that we had formed a plan for my escape.

"Alarmed at this information, my father immediately ordered his carriage, drove to the mansion, and removed me, as I have before informed you.

"I ought to have told you, that the maid and man servant who attended me to Charleston, not liking the country, and growing sickly, were sent back by my uncle, after they had been there about two months."

Alonzo found by this narrative that John had deceived him, when he made his enquiries of him concerning his knowledge of Melissa's removal. But this was not surprising: John was tenant to Melissa's aunt, and subservient to all her views;--she had undoubtedly given him instructions how to act.

"But who was the strange gentleman with your aunt?" enquired Alonzo.

"This I will also tell you, answered Melissa, tho' it unfolds a tale which reflects no great honour to my family.

"Hamblin was the name which this man a.s.sumed: he said he had been an eminent merchant in New York, and had left it about the time it was taken by the British. He lodged at an inn where my aunt frequently stopped when she was out collecting her rents, where he first introduced himself to her acquaintance, and ingratiated himself into her favour by art and insidiousness. He accompanied her on her visits to her tenants, and a.s.sisted her in collecting her rents. He told her, that when the war came on, he had turned his effects into money, which he had with him, and was now in pursuit of some country place where he might purchase a residence to remain during the war. To cut the story as short as possible, he finally initiated himself so far in my aunt's favour that she accepted his hand, and, contrary to my father's opinion, she married him, and he soon after persuaded her to sell her property, under pretence of removing to some populous town, and living in style. Her property, however, was no sooner sold (which my father bought for ready cash, at a low price) than he found means to realize the money, and absconded.

"It was afterwards found that his real name was Brenton; that he had left a wife and family in Virginia in indigent circ.u.mstances, where he had spent an ample fortune, left him by his father, in debauchery, and involved himself deeply in debt. He had scarcely time to get off with the booty he swindled from my aunt, when his creditors from Virginia were at his heels. He fled to the British at New York, where he rioted for a few months, was finally stabbed by a soldier in a fracas, and died the next day. He was about thirty-five years old.

"All these troubles bore so heavily upon my aunt, that she went into a decline, and died about six months ago.

"After Alfred returned from Connecticut, he wrote frequently to Vincent and Mr. Simpson, but could obtain no intelligence concerning you. It would be needless, Alonzo, to describe my conjectures, my anxieties, my feelings! The death of my cousin and aunt had kept me in c.r.a.pe until, at the instance of Alfred, I put it off yesterday morning at my uncle's house, which Alfred had proposed for the scene of action, after he had discovered the cause of my fainting at the theatre. I did not readily come into Alfred's plan to deceive you: "Suffer me, he said, to try the constancy of your _Leander_;----I doubt whether he would swim the h.e.l.lespont for you." This aroused my pride and confidence, and I permitted him to proceed."

Alonzo then gave Melissa a minute account of all that happened to him from the time of their parting at the old mansion until he met with her the day before. At the mention of Beauman's fate Melissa sighed. "With how many vain fears, said she, was I perplexed, lest, by some means he should discover my existence and place of residence, after he, alas, was silent in the tomb!"

Alonzo told Melissa that he had received a letter from Edgar, after he arrived in Holland, and that he had written him an answer, just as he left Paris, informing him of his reasons for returning to America.

When the time arrived that Alonzo and Melissa were to set out for Connecticut, Melissa's uncle and Alfred accompanied them as far as Georgetown, where an affectionate parting took place: The latter returned to Charleston, and the former proceeded on their journey.

Philadelphia was now in possession of the British troops. Alonzo found Dr. Franklin's agent at Chester, transacted his business, went on, arrived at Vincent's, where he left Melissa, and proceeded immediately to his father's.

The friends of Alonzo and Melissa were joyfully surprised at their arrival. Melissa's mother was sent for to Vincent's. Let imagination paint the meeting! As yet however they were not prepared to undeceive her father.

Alonzo found his parents in penurious circ.u.mstances; indeed, his father having the preceeding summer, been too indisposed to manage his little farm with attention, and being unable to hire laborers, his crops had yielded but a scanty supply, and he had been compelled to sell most of his stock to answer pressing demands. With great joy they welcomed Alonzo, whom they had given up as lost. "You still find your father poor, Alonzo, said the old gentleman, but you find him still honest.--From my inability to labour, we have latterly been a little more pressed than usual; but having now recovered my health, I trust that that difficulty will soon be removed."

Alonzo asked his father if he ever knew Dr. Franklin.

"We were school-mates, he replied, and were intimately acquainted after we became young men in business for ourselves. We have done each other favours; I once divided my money with Franklin on an urgent occasion to him; he afterwards repaid me with ample interest--he will never forget it."

Alonzo then related to his father all the incidents of his travels, minutely particularizing the disinterested conduct of Franklin, and then presented his father with the reversion of his estate. The old man fell on his knees, and with tears streaming down his withered cheeks, offered devout thanks to the great Dispenser of all mercies.

Alonzo then visited Melissa's father, who received him with much complacency. "I have injured, said he, my young friend, deeply injured you; but in doing this, I have inflicted a wound still deeper in my own bosom."

Alonzo desired him not to renew his sorrows. "What is past, said he, is beyond recal; but a subject of some importance to me, is the object of my present visit.--True it is, that your daughter was the object of my earliest affection--an affection which my bosom must ever retain; but being separated by the will of Providence--for I view Providence as overruling all events for wise purposes--I betook myself to travel.

Time, you know it is said, sir, will blunt the sharpest thorns of sorrow.--[The old man sighed.]----In my travels I have found a lady so nearly resembling your daughter, that I was induced to sue for her hand, and have been so happy as to gain the promise of it. The favour I have to ask of you, sir, is only that you will permit the marriage ceremony to be celebrated in your house, as you know my father is poor, his house small and inconvenient, and that you will also honour me by giving the lady away. In receiving her from your hands, I shall in some measure realize former antic.i.p.ations; I shall receive her in the character of Melissa."

"Ah! said Melissa's father, were it in my power--could I but give you the original; But how vain that wish! Yes, my young friend, your request shall be punctually complied with: I will take upon myself the preparations. Name your day, and if the lady is portionless, in that she shall be to me a Melissa."

Alonzo bowed his head in grat.i.tude; and after appointing that day week, he departed.

Invitations were once more sent abroad for the wedding of Alonzo and Melissa.--Few indeed knew it to be the real Melissa, but they were generally informed of Alonzo's reasons for preferring the celebration at her father's.

The evening before the day on which the marriage was to take place, Alonzo and Melissa were sitting with the Vincents in an upper room, when a person rapped at the door below. Vincent went down, and immediately returned, introducing, to the joy and surprise of the company, Edgar!

Here, again, we shall leave it for the imagination to depict the scene of an affectionate brother, meeting a tender and only sister, whom he had long since supposed to be dead! He had been at his father's, and his mother had let him into the secret, when he immediately hastened to Vincent's. He told them that he did not stay long in Holland; that after receiving Alonzo's letter from Paris, he felt an unconquerable propensity to return, and soon sailed for America, arrived at Boston, came to New-Haven, took orders in the ministry, and had reached home that day. He informed them that Mr. Simpson and family had arrived at his father's, and some relatives whom his mother had invited.

The next morning ushered in the day in which the hero and heroine of our story were to consummate their felicity. No _cross purposes_ stood ready to intervene their happiness, no obdurate father, no watchful, scowling aunt, to interrupt their transports. It was the latter end of May; nature was arrayed in her richest ornaments, and adorned with her sweetest perfumes. The sun blended its mild l.u.s.tre with the landscape's lovely green; silk-winged breezes frolicked amidst the flowers; the spring birds carolled in varying strains:

"The air was fragrance, and the world was love."

Evening was appointed for the ceremony, and Edgar was to be the officiating clergyman.

"To tie those bands which nought but death can sever."

When the hour arrived, they repaired to the house of Melissa's father, where numerous guests had a.s.sembled. Melissa was introduced into the bridal apartment, and took her seat among a brilliant circle of ladies.

She was attired in robes "white as the southern clouds," spangled with silver, and trimmed with deep gold lace; her hair hung loosely upon her shoulders, encircled by a wreath of artificial flowers. She had regained all her former loveliness; the rose and the lily again blended their tinges in her cheek; again _pensive sprightliness_ sparkled in her eye.

Alonzo was now introduced, and took his seat at the side of Melissa. His father and mother came next, who were placed at the right hand of the young couple: Melissa's parents followed, and were stationed at the left. Edgar then came and took his seat in front; after which the guests were summoned, who filled the room. Edgar then rising, motioned to the intended bride and bridegroom to rise also. He next turned to Alonzo's father for his sanction, who bowed a.s.sent. Then addressing his own father, with emotions that scarcely suffered him to articulate. "Do you, sir, said he, give this lady to that gentleman?" A solemn silence prevailed in the room. Melissa was extremely agitated, as her father slowly rising, and with down-cast eyes,

"Where tides of heavy sorrow swell'd,"

took her trembling hand, and conveying it into Alonzo's, "May the smiles of heaven rest upon you, he said; may future blessings crown your present happy prospects; and may your latter days never be embittered by the premature loss of near and dear----"

Pungent grief here choaked his utterance, and at this moment Melissa, falling upon her knees, "Dear father! she exclaimed, bursting into tears, pardon deception; acknowledge your daughter--your own Melissa!"

Her father started--he gazed at her with scrutinizing attention, and sunk back in his chair.--"My daughter! he cried--G.o.d of mysterious mercy! it is my daughter!"