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Updated: May 11, 2025
In some sickly hour of the early morning, I was cast out at Westfield, on Lake Erie, a town that looked like the back-yard of civilization, with weeds growing in it. Thence a trolley car, climbing over heightening hills that became progressively more beautiful, hauled me ultimately to the entrance of what the cynical conductor called "The Holy City."
The bodies of these two, with eighteen other mangled dead, had been removed to a town called Westfield, from which town of Westfield the account of the disaster had been telegraphed to the New York paper.
There was an accompanying letter from the Secretary which contained the following passage: 'We are specially anxious to know whether you possess the original of the engraving of which I enclose a photograph. It represents Sir , Lord Chief Justice under Charles II, who, as you doubtless know, retired after his disgrace to Westfield, and is supposed to have died there of remorse.
I think Westfield was wrong, under the circumstances, to visit me as constantly as he did; but my husband appeared to like his company, and even encouraged him to come. Many times he has asked him to drive me out, or to attend me to a concert or the theatre, as he knew that I wished to go, and he had business that required his attention, or felt a disinclination to leave home.
In not a single instance, when I thus went out, would not my pleasure have been increased, had my husband been my companion; and yet I liked the company of Westfield perhaps too well. The remains of former feelings may still have lingered, unknown to me, in my heart. But I was never false to my husband, even in thought; nor did Westfield ever presume to take the smallest liberty.
Somewhat doubtfully, he made inquiries upon the mainland and communicated with the agents of Mrs. Westfield in New York, with whom, to his delight, he managed to make the proper arrangements pending the rebuilding of the house. He had established himself bag and baggage and at the end of two weeks a row of canvases along the wall of his room bore testimony to his diligence.
"Henry Westfield; it is too late. Do not write to me again. I cannot listen to such language as you use to me without dishonour." This half-maddened the young man. He wrote several times urging Anna by every consideration he could name to break her engagement with Miller. But she laid his letters aside unanswered. An early day for the marriage was named.
Westfield had protested again about Hermia's growing intimacy with the Countess, who had quite innocently taken unto herself all of the fashionable vices of polite Europe. Hilda Ashhurst watched Hermia's expression a moment and then laughed. "Been catching it haven't you? Poor Hermia! It's dreadful to be the one chick in a family of ugly ducklings "
"I want no better proof than the fact that, entertaining sentiments such as are here avowed, you have visited her at all times, and under nearly all circumstances. You have abused a husband's and a brother's confidence. You have lain like a stinging viper in the bosom of friendship." "It is false!" replied Westfield, emphatically. W 's feelings were chafed to the utmost already.
Westfield's greatest effectiveness was when she was most ineffectual. "There's nothing more for me to say, I suppose," said Mrs. Westfield. "Nothing except that you approve," pleaded her niece wistfully. "I'll never do that," icily. "I don't approve of you at all. Why should I mince matters?
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