The carriage, which in the noise made by its
approach along the gravel-walk, had aroused Adelaide
from her day-dreams, had but a single occupant,
and she was a female. Adelaide sat in
breathless expectation—why she could not tell.
The arrival of a carriage was a daily, oftentimes
an hourly, occurrence. Why, then, should an apprehension
be awakened now? She began to get
the better of her momentary agitation, when a
knock at the door brought it all back.

“Come in,” she said, with an involuntary sigh.

A servant entered, and saying, “your mother
wants you, Miss, down in the front parlor,” immediately
withdrew.

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

How could words of such import be uttered so
carelessly! Adelaide stood transfixed for a moment,
unable to take in their full significance. And
then, half gasping for breath, she murmured to herself:
“My mother—she said my mother wanted
me! Then I have a mother! Ah! why has she
not discovered herself before? For good reasons,
doubtless—reasons having regard to my own welfare.
A mother! Whom can she be like? What
are her features—her tones—the color of her hair
and eyes?”

Adelaide leaned upon the scroll of the sofa, and
pictured to herself the personal appearance of her
whom she so longed and yet feared to meet. She
imagined a face yet bearing the impress of youthful
beauty, where the lines had been worn by grief
and penitence rather than by time—eyes tender and
earnest in their glances, beamed with mournful but
affectionate lustre—the hair was like her own, of a
light auburn—the figure, though it had lost the fullness
it once possessed, was erect and graceful, and
the whole aspect was dignified and humble.

“Ah! she shall find in me a daughter, indeed!”
thought Adelaide, touched by the expression of
those features, which her own fancy had conjured
up.

With a beating heart she entered the parlor. A
female was standing before the mirror arranging
two bunches of frizzly curls, which were puffed out
on either side of her forehead. She turned as the
door was opened. “Alas!” thought Adelaide,
“and that is my mother!” How different was she
from the ideal which had presented itself to Adelaide's
mind! She saw a thick-set, coarse-looking
woman, upon whose features few traces of youth
and innocence could be discovered. Though not
absolutely ill-looking, there was nothing of that
charm in her countenance which refinement of

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

character and breeding gives to the expression.
Her complexion was slightly florid; and the double
chin usually set down as a characteristic of landladies
was hers in perfection. Her dress was
costly and ambitious; and she wore a profusion
of jewelry. Adelaide's first feeling was one of repugnance.

“Bless me, child! Is this Adelaide? Come
and kiss me, my dear,” exclaimed this woman, fixing
the clasp of one of the rings in her ear while
she spoke. “Dear me, how you have grown!”

Adelaide tremblingly made her way towards
her, and bending as much to hide her tears and
her disappointment as to comply with her mother's
invitation, took her hand and kissed it.

“And are you my mother?” she asked, looking
in her face.

“Why, to be sure, child! Do you suppose I
would have supported you else ever since you
were born? Who but a mother would have been
at the pains and expense of educating you as I
have done?”

“Most true!” sighed Adelaide. “But why,
mother, have you suffered me to remain in ignorance
of you so long?”

“I had my reasons, child—you may be sure of
that,” was the reply. “But come, I have settled
accounts with your school-mistress, and I want you
now to accompany me to the city.”

“To the city, mother—and when?”

“Now—this very hour—it will not take you long
to pack up your things—will it, child?”

“But, mother—”

“Well, child?”

“Is it necessary that our departure should be
immediate? May I not join you in the city—next
week, for instance?”

Adelaide thought of her promise to Fleetwood—

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

of his injunctions upon her to communicate a knowledge
of their intentions to no one till the day fixed
for their marriage had arrived. And then the guilt
of deceiving her mother—of withholding information
so important from one entitled to receive it—
forced itself powerfully upon her mind.

“Why, child, I thought you would he delighted
at the idea of going to the city,” said Mrs. Winfield—
“and now you ask leave to remain here
another week.”

“Yes, till next Saturday, mother—and remain
you, also.”

“And why till next Saturday, child? There is
some mystery in this. Explain.”

It was a marked trait in Adelaide's character to
be frank and unreserved. Perhaps it arose from a
natural courage, for it is the cowardly only who
fall into the habit of deception. Stratagem and
guile are the resorts of the feeble, never of the
strong. And therefore it is that the crimes of
poisoning and falsehood are more prevalent among
women than among their lords. The man, who is
bold and strong enough to knock you down with
his fists, will not assassinate you in the dark.

Adelaide saw no refuge from deception but in
communicating to her mother the real cause of her
not wishing to depart till the coming week. This
she did with a touching candor not easy to be resisted.

Mrs. Winfield was evidently unprepared for any
such disclosure. She was interested and surprised
by the recital. After a momentary pause, she replied:
“I have no knowledge whatever, my dear,
of this young man, to whom you tell me you are
engaged. He may be all that he has represented:
but it is well to be cautious in these affairs. Why,
it was only the other day that a beautiful young
girl in the city ran away with a fellow, whom she

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

supposed to be a great catch, when it turned out
that he had a wife and six children all living.”

“I will answer with my life for Fleetwood's
truth, mother!”

“And what girl wouldn't do as much for her
lover?” retorted Mrs. Winfield. “No, my dear.
We will not be precipitate. If the young man is
worth having—if he is truly attached—he will not
let such a prize as you are slip through his fingers,
because of the marriage being put off a week, or a
month, or even a year.”

“But, mother, you will suffer me to be true to
my appointment—to remain here till he comes, that
I may tell him why we should defer our union—
that I may give you an opportunity to acknowledge
his worth?”

“Nonsense, my dear; I have made up my mind
to take you to the city at once. If the young fellow
is worth having, I tell you, he will follow soon
enough on your track. Why can't he marry you
in the city as well as here?”

“It is not that, my mother—it is, that I would
see him according to my solemn promise—that I
would assure him personally of my fidelity—and
leave him to conciliate you as he may, and as he
undoubtedly will. Now do not urge me further,
my mother, to disobey his parting injunction.”

“And pray, Miss, to whom is your obedience
due? To him or to me? Come, now, be a good
girl, and go and get ready to return to New
York.”

“Indeed, madam, I cannot go,” replied Adelaide,
with firmness. “Yesterday, I might have felt
bound to obey you. To-day my obedience is due
elsewhere.”

“Upon my word, Miss, you are disposed to carry
it with a high hand,” returned Mrs. Winfield.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

“But remember, you are not yet eighteen, and I
can enforce my authority.”

“Ah! do not attempt it, my mother,” said Adelaide,
much agitated, clasping her hands imploringly.
“Let not our first interview, after long years of
separation, be one that must be painful to both.
Tarry here with me till Fleetwood returns. Should
I then oppose your wishes, it will be time enough
to talk of enforcing your authority. There are so
many accidents that may occur, so many occasions
for misapprehension in the event of my departure,
that indeed you must suffer me to remain.”

“Indeed I shall do no such thing,” exclaimed
Mrs. Winfield, her face reddening. “Have I spent
so much money on you ever since you were born,
now to be thwarted in a trifling matter like this?”

At this instant the door opened, and Mr. Glenham
entered the room. He started, as if surprised, on
seeing the occupants, and cast a penetrating glance
on the elder of the two, who returned a look of intelligence,
and rose as if to speak.

“Excuse me, Miss Winfield—I supposed I had
left my gloves upon the piano, but they do not seem
to be there,” said he, evidently at a loss for some
excuse for his intrusion.

“And do you not recognize me, Mr. Glenham?”
said Mrs. Winfield, advancing.

“Augusta!” He checked himself, and altered
his mode of address upon receiving a significant
glance from the person he so accosted. “Mrs.
Winfield, I would say,” he added. “And is it possible—
can it be that there is any relationship between—”

“Yes; this is my daughter, Mr. Glenham—my
daughter, Adelaide.”

Glenham was unaffectedly surprised at this communication;
and Adelaide was hardly less so at

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

perceiving that Mr. Glenham and her mother were
acquainted.

Mrs. Winfield seemed to be lost in thought for a
moment. Then, as if an idea had suddenly struck
her, she said: “My dear Adelaide, you may leave
the room for a few minutes. I will send for you
when I am ready to receive you again.”

Adelaide did not require a second intimation.
She quitted the apartment, and re-entering her own
little room, bent her head upon the pillow and fervently
prayed that she might not hate her mother.
The thought of Fleetwood's disappointment and
chagrin on finding that she had left the village,
crossed her mind, and she resolved to remain in
spite of all opposition. Then came the fear of
compulsion, and she was half inclined to fly and
hide herself from her mother's reach till Fleetwood
should return. The impracticability of this step
was, however, but too apparent; and with her
arms folded upon her breast she paced the floor in
impatient expectation of some message from the
woman, who had been so abruptly revealed to her
in the light of a parent. Could Adelaide have
listened to the conversation, which took place between
the parties she had left in the parlor, she
would have had additional cause for marvel and
anxiety.

“And little Adelaide is your daughter, eh?
Who would have imagined it?” exclaimed Glenham,
as the maiden left the room in obedience to
her mother's request.

“Yes, Glenham; and I wish to ask your advice
upon a matter which I fear is going to give me
some trouble. You are a lawyer, I believe?”

“To be sure I am, although I never had the
honor of receiving a fee. I am quite curious to
know the sensation. Can I render you any professional
assistance?”

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“Be serious, and attend. Do you know the
young man to whom Adelaide has engaged herself?”

“Whom do you mean?” exclaimed Glenham,
opening his eyes with astonishment.

“Ah! then it has been kept a secret!” said Mrs.
Winfield. “I think she said his name was Fleetwood.”

“Fleetwood! Oh! I see it all!” muttered Glenham,
rising from his seat, and with clenched hands
and pallid lips pacing the room. “I see it all!
Fool, dupe that I have been. How could I be so
blind?”

“And what ails you, my dear fellow?” said the
female, shrugging her shoulders.

“They must have been affianced this very day—
this very hour,” exclaimed Glenham, without noticing
the interrogation. “He must have passed you
on the road. I caught a glimpse of you in your
carriage, and you are indebted to that circumstance
for my presence here. I wondered what could
bring you to this sequestered spot. I see it all
now. But are you positively sure that the engagement
has taken place?”

“I have Adelaide's assurance to that effect. Is
not that enough?”

“Yes, more than enough. I would not have
believed that Fleetwood would have taken such a
step after what he knew of the girl!”

“And what was that?”

“But half of the real truth. He knew that her
parentage was questionable, but he did not know—”

“I understand—no offence—for I see you mean
none. What sort of a person is this Fleetwood?”

“Proud as Lucifer—and there lies the mystery
of his conduct. How could he have engaged himself
to Adelaide?”

“His pride was mastered by a stronger passion.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

You say he is proud. I do not like that. He
would object, I suppose, to his wife's ever having
any intercourse with me—with her mother?”

“You may be sure of that, Augusta. He would
never permit you to meet. But then he is rich,
and he would not begrudge you money if that
could make up for the loss of your child's society.”

“Money! I have enough of that. I am afraid
I shall not like this man. Adelaide is resolved to
marry him. What shall I do?”

“Take her to the city.”

“She refuses to go. Her marriage is fixed for
next Saturday.”

“Indeed! Well, that is characteristic of Fleetwood.
He is prompt to act when he has once
made up his mind.”

“The girl is evidently fixed in her determination
to remain here till her lover comes, notwithstanding
all my remonstrances against it. What shall
we do to get her to the city?”

“All that will be necessary, I think, will be to
persuade her that you have the legal power to
enforce your authority over her. I see a way of
doing this. You must make it appear that I am in
favor of your yielding to her wishes. I will remonstrate
earnestly against your taking her to the
city. She will be the more disposed to listen to
my advice on hearing me countenance her views.
But when you drive me to a plain answer to the
question, whether you can legally enforce your
commands, my reply will be so shaped that she
shall think it advisable to yield and accompany you
where you wish.”

“But should she not even then yield to my command?
What shall be my resource?”

“Physical compulsion.”

“And will the law allow it?”

“After you have proved first that she is your

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

daughter, and then that she is not of an age when
she is privileged to be her own mistress.”

“That would cause delay.”

“Undoubtedly. But I think it will be enough
for me to assure her that you have the legal power
of compulsion, and for you to threaten its employment
unless she will go with you at once. Rather
than submit to an indignity, when she finds that
resistance is useless, she will consent to accompany
you peaceably.”

“We will see if you are right.”

“But tell me, Augusta, what are your future
plans in regard to this girl?”

“If she marries, she shall marry a man who is
not ashamed to take her old mother by the hand.
If she remains single, I mean to make an actress
of her. She has a fine person and a good voice.
I think she would succeed on the stage.”

“Admirably!” exclaimed Glenham, his features
brightening with obvious satisfaction. “The girl
has talents and would unquestionably make a hit.
On the stage she might attain a more advantageous
position than any matrimonial alliance could
give her. Besides, if she married Fleetwood, after
the effervescence of passion began to subside, he
would reflect with dismay and regret upon the step
he had taken in uniting himself with your family.
He would begin by ill treating you, and end by ill
treating his wife.”

“Then he shall not have my daughter. I am resolved
on that. And now let us see if we can
induce Adelaide to return with me quietly to the
city.”

She rang the bell, and directed the servant to inform
Miss Adelaide, that her mother wished to see
her in the parlor immediately.

CHAPTER IX.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

The second morning after the party at Mr. Dryman's,
Fleetwood sat in the parlor of his hotel, over
a cup of coffee and an omelette, scanning the newspapers,
which had been brought in withhis breakfast.
As he glanced carelessly along the columns for
some paragraph of interest, his attention was slightly
awakened by one promising to give some account
of recent movements in the fashionable world.
After listlessly perusing a few lines, he found that
it contained a sketch of the party of the night before.
He read on, and remarked his name conspicuous
among those of others, who were present. The
following was the passage in which it occurred:—
“The entrance of Mr. Fleetwood of Fleetwood,
“was the signal for a general levelling of quizzing
“glasses on the part of the ladies. This young
“man, by the death of both his parents without
“other issue, was left at an early age the inheritor
“of a large and princely estate, including the noble
“place on the banks of the Hudson, well known by
“the family name. He is good-looking, but said to
“be eccentric and peculiar in his habits and notions
“of life. He was no proof, however, against the
“charms of Miss Emily G—, who, in spite of
“the frowns and evident anger of Count La Salle,
“received her new admirer with unequivocal marks
“of favor. Was it merely to encourage another
“moth to singe its wings in the candle-flame? One
“would think that the young lady had numbered

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

“victims enough. Both in Europe and in this
“country, she has received offers without number
“from the most eligible men in society. Fleet
“wood is certainly a formidable competitor—but
“he had better look out.”

“Pshaw!” muttered Fleetwood throwing aside
the newspaper with disdain, and sipping his coffee,
as if to take out the taste of the paragraph. “What
license these `pickers-up of unconsidered trifles'
for the public maw, assume with a man's name and
character! Should this impertinent tittle-tattle fall
under Adelaide's eye, I am sure she will prize it at
its worth.”

Re-assured by this conviction, Fleetwood attacked
the omelette, until there was little left of its fair
proportions. He suddenly paused, and set down
his knife and fork.

“And next Saturday,” soliloquized he, “I shall
be a married man! Have I been hasty in taking
this step? Have I been inconsiderate? Ah, no—
Adelaide is purity itself—and did I need an excuse
for our immediate union, surely the circumstance
of her present position would be enough.
But is it pity, that has any weight in urging me to
this consummation? Tell me, my heart—is it pity?
No, no! Is not Adelaide my equal—perhaps my
superior in every respect, save those of birth and
fortune? It is love, and love only, that impels me.
Yes, Adelaide, thou art the first and shalt be the
last, for whose sake that passion has been awakened
in my soul. Nor time nor accident shall dim its
ever full and radiant flame.”

It is something of a bathos to descend from a
rhapsody like this, to bread and butter; but, as a
candid chronicler, I must confess that Fleetwood
having uttered it, did take up a piece of toast and
finish his breakfast like a man with a good appetite.

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

He had hardly done this, when a servant threw
open the door, and announced “Mr. Gordon.”

“Show him up,” said Fleetwood.

The individual who entered was a fine specimen
of a well preserved “gentleman about town.” His
features, though a little sunken about the cheeks,
were still handsome. His hair was slightly grizzled
about the ears; and a keen pair of gray eyes lent
animation to his face. His figure was erect and
tall. He was dressed in unexceptionable taste, and
there was an air of elegance about him, which gave
the assurance that there was no circle of gentlemen,
in which he would not have been perfectly at
his ease. He entered the room with a free and
cordial bearing, and bowing slightly, said:

“Hearing that a son of my old friend, Frederick
Fleetwood, was in town, and at this house, I could
not miss the opportunity of calling to take him by
the hand.”

“You are welcome, Sir,” returned Fleetwood,
advancing to receive his greeting. “I always rejoice
to meet any man who knew my father.”

“I was indebted to my daughter,” rejoined Mr.
Gordon, “for my first knowledge of your presence
in the city. You may remember meeting her at
the party on Saturday evening.”

“The event was one not likely to be soon forgotten,”
returned Fleetwood. “Will you not be
seated?”

“I can stop only a moment now—having a dozen
engagements in Wall street. But you will dine
with us to-day—will you not? Our hour is five.
You will find the number of my house on this card.”

Fleetwood could not give a good reason for declining
the invitation—and so he accepted it promptly;
and Mr. Gordon, after a parting shake of the
hand with the `son of his old friend,' took his leave.

After a day spent over papers and parchments

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

at his lawyer's, Fleetwood knocked at the door of
Mr. Gordon's sumptuous up-town abode, with its
patrician, free-stone front and lofty windows. A
servant in livery ushered him into the parlor; and,
on looking round, Fleetwood found himself alone.
He stood in the room fronting upon the street, and
as he glanced in the opposite direction, he was surprised
at the apparent extent and magnificence of
the communicating apartments. Between the two
spacious parlors, which occupied each end of the
house, was an oval saloon, the walls of which were
covered with fluted silk of a light crimson hue,
spangled with stars of considerable size. Passing
into this apartment he was again amazed by the
seeming distance of the enclosed space before him.
Through the second elegantly decorated parlor
were seen open windows reaching to the floor, and
leading into what appeared a wilderness of exotic
trees, shrubs and flowers of the rarest beauty and
most exquisite fragrance, among which Canova's
Hebe stood over a fountain pouring water into a
marble basin, embossed with figures in bas-relief.
Struck with admiration, Fleetwood passed on—it
seemed so like enchantment to be transported at
once from the dust of a crowded street into a bower
of such extent and freshness of verdure! As he
drew near, he saw that the effect of size and distance
was produced by an ingenious arrangement
of mirrors; and he could not but accord his admiration
anew to the art and skill, which had contrived
so agreeable and forcible an illusion. After
lingering among the flowers, of which he was passionately
fond, for a few moments, he retraced his
steps. And now an effect which had excited his
suprise on his first entrance, again arrested his attention.
The weather without was overcast; but
throughout these voluptuous apartments a soft amber
glow, slightly suffused with crimson, was shed.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

It was as if the fierce light of the noonday sun had
been softened and subdued by thick saffron curtains;
and it produced that genial sensation of content,
which the `blest power of sunshine' always produces
upon persons impressible to atmospherical influences.
After some examination, Fleetwood discovered
that the efflux must come through certain portions
of the ornamented ceiling, which were formed of
amber-stained glass, and which probably received
the light from a sky-window in the roof of the house.
He could not but admire both the novelty and success
of the contrivance. The exquisite taste of the
furniture also claimed his attention—there was such
adaptation in every article! So precisely fitted
was it by its color and size for the place it occupied!
An exquisite sense of the beautiful in art, thought
Fleetwood, must surely be possessed by the person
who presided over these arrangements! He moved
towards the parlor which he had first entered. A
harp and piano-stool stood in one corner, and on the
floor near them was a glove. He picked it up. It
was small, and white as a snow-drift on the top of
an iceberg. A faint but delicious fragrance seemed
to exhale from the delicate kid. Fleetwood felt as
if he were wandering in the gardens of Epicurus.
A noiseless turn of the door-handle—and enter Miss
Gordon!

She wore a light muslin robe, which floated over
another of a faint straw color, so cut and arranged
as to show off her figure to the best possible advantage.
Her hair, plainly parted and wound in a knot
on the top of her head, offered no impediment to the
display of its classic contour. Her complexion, always
delicate and transparent, seemed luminous
like a `lily in bloom,' in the peculiar light shed
through the apartment. Consummate grace was
in all her movements.

“Good evening, Mr. Fleetwood,” she said, as she

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

entered the room. “What a pleasant surprise it
was to find that your father and mine were friends!”

“The surprise was as agreeable to me as it could
be to any one else,” replied Fleetwood, bowing.

“But do you not remember ever hearing your
father mention the acquaintance?” continued Miss
Gordon, as she attempted to join the little clasp,
which fastened her glove at the wrist.

“Allow me,” said Fleetwood, performing the office
for her, during which he could not fail to see
that the hand he held was as small and symmetrical
as a sculptor could have wished. And then summoning
his powers of recollection, Fleetwood endeavored
to recall a circumstance, which would
enable him to answer her inquiry in the affirmative.
After ruminating for a moment, he replied:—

“I have an indistinct remembrance of hearing
him mention the name more than once—but it was
in connection with another—what it was, I forget—
ah! Challoner.”

Emily's countenance fell, but she instantly rallied,
and said: “There was good excuse for your forgetting
us, since you knew us only by report. I
hope that your memory will be more tenacious now.”

“I trust I may not have occasion to say, in the
words of the song. `Teach, O, teach me to forget!”'
replied Fleetwood.

The entrance of Mr. Gordon with a lady on his
arm, here interrupted the conversation. The lady
was introduced as Mrs. Gordon, his sister-in-law.
She was of the order termed “stylish” in appearance;
but the freshness of youth was gone from her
features, and she served as an excellent foil to Emily's
radiant charms.

Mr. Gordon was a widower; and Emily was the
eldest of a family of six children. With admirable
discretion, however, the remaining five were banished
to the country during the greater part of the

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

year, until entitled by age to take their places in
society.

After a few conversational common-places, during
which Mr. Gordon found an opportunity of informing
his young guest that to Emily belonged the
sole credit of all the interior arrangements of the
house, dinner was announced. Mr. Gordon handed
down his sister-in-law. Fleetwood gave his arm to
Emily and followed them into the dining-room.
They sat down to a circular table, and after soup,
salmon and green peas, followed all the choicest
dishes, which French ingenuity could prepare.
Champagne and burgundy sparkled in their glasses;
and the excitement of an animated conversation
sparkled in their eyes. Mr. Gordon well knew
how to keep the shuttlecocks of small talk in motion.
He had seen much of the world, and of the best
society in it; and his fund of anecdote was as rich
as it was exhaustless. He threw down a sterling
piece of information, or a solid and interesting fact
new to his hearers, with the same nonchalance and
air of liberality with which he uttered a light jest or
indulged in a polite repartee. Fleetwood could not
but confess to himself that he had never passed a
couple of hours more agreeably at the dinner table.
As the ladies rose to take their departure, Mr. Gordon
proposed that Emily should give them a parting
song. There was a piano-forte in the room; and
she readily complied with the request.

“Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour”
was the song selected—and she imparted to it all
that warmth and earnestness of expression, of which
it is so peculiarly susceptible. Fleetwood joined
with great sincerity in the applause, which Mr. Gordon
set the example of by drumming with the handle
of his knife upon the table and crying “bravo!”
The ladies made their escape to the sound.

“And now, my dear boy, let us try a fresh bottle

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

of this Lafitte. It is as mild and smooth as milk,
and far more harmless,” said Mr. Gordon, as the
servant brought in fresh glasses and a dusty bottle
just uncorked.

Fleetwood began to think he had drunk enough,
but, before he could reply, his glass was full. The
wine was certainly delicious, and destitute of that
alcoholic pungency which he disliked. It seemed
as if one might drink it like water, and with as
much impunity as to its effects. Mr. Gordon's
eyes beamed with satisfaction, as he saw the glass
of his guest empty a second and a third time.

Cigars were placed on the table. Each took
one and lighted it. The Lafitte again flowed.

“What do you mean to do with yourself for the
rest of the season, Fleetwood?” asked Mr. Gordon,
carelessly brushing off, with his little finger, the
fresh ashes of the fragrant Havana.

“That will depend, in a measure, sir, upon the
wishes of my wife,” replied Fleetwood.

“Eh? Your wife? Is it possible? What!
Do you mean to marry?”

“To be sure I do, and at once. Next Saturday
finds me a married man.”

“The devil it does!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon,
bringing down his glass so heavily that the Burgundy
spilt upon the table. “And who is the
lady?” he added, drawing his breath with difficulty
for a moment.

“Her name is Adelaide—Adelaide Winfield!”

Gordon involuntarily struck his clenched fist
upon the table, and with so much vehemence that
his guest looked up amazed; but Gordon's face, if
it had borne any other expression, was in the
twinkling of an eye brightened with a smile, so
that he met Fleetwood's gaze without blenching.
The clenched fist lay upon the table, but there was
no sign that it had been thrust down with any

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

other emotion than that of sympathy and congratulation.

“I was thinking,” said Gordon, and he paused a
moment to take a few puffs of his cigar—“I was
thinking what a career you might run in society
during the next two years if you chose to remain
unmarried. Don't marry next week, my dear boy,
nor next year. Go to Paris—to Vienna—Munich,
London, Florence, Rome—study life a little, and
woman in particular—the lady of your love can
wait till you return—you will have opportunities
that few young men have enjoyed for mingling in
the best society of Europe. I can give you letters
that will place you at once on velvet in the most
desirable circles. What, Fleetwood, it is abominable,
that with your wealth and advantages, and at
your age, you should dream of sinking into a humdrum
husband! Wait a while, man; and marriage
will do very well by and by, when you want a
new sensation, or when you are prepared to enter
on the serious business of life.”

“There are circumstances, Mr. Gordon—peculiar
ones, I may add—which render my determination
unalterable. I marry on Saturday; and, notwithstanding
your arguments, I shall consider myself
the most fortunate of men when Adelaide Winfield
is my wife.”

“Winfield—Winfield—pray to what family of
Winfields does she belong?” asked Gordon, fixing
upon his guest a careless but penetrating glance.

“Hang her family! What do I care for that?
I marry her, and not her family,” replied Fleetwood.

“Probably one of the Winfields of Baltimore,”
said Mr. Gordon, musingly. “An excellent family—
unexceptionable in every respect!”

So habitual was Fleetwood's reverence for truth,
that he could not even bear to see a false

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

impression formed by another, which he had it in his
power to remove. This trait in his character was
brought out in still bolder relief by the slight effect
of the wine upon his naturally frank and communicative
temper. He accordingly replied:

“To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Gordon, the
girl is illegitimate. At any rate, she has been
brought up in ignorance of her parents, and has
not a single friend, except myself, of any influence
or position in society.”

“And you would marry such a girl?”

“Why, my dear sir, do you not see that under
those circumstances there is all the more reason
why I should make her my wife?”

“I must confess, that never occurred to me,” replied
Mr. Gordon, drily, and looking intently at his
guest, as if to get more light in regard to his true
character before proceeding further.

“She is a noble creature, sir,” said Fleetwood,
warming in her praise. “Rank and fortune might
have given her more attractions than ought justly
to fall to the lot of one woman—but they could not
have increased her charms in my eyes.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“How can you ask that question of a lover?
She is beautiful as—O, I cannot describe her—but
do you know I have several times traced a kind
of resemblance—a sort of floating, fleeting, indefinable
resemblance, between her and your daughter?”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon, biting his lips
to prevent their quivering from being remarked.
And then rising from his seat, he continued: “Let
us join the ladies in the saloon—your unemptied
glass is a hint that you will drink no more.”

“Such Burgundy would make Father Matthew
himself violate his cold water pledges,” replied

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

Fleetwood. “But I have reached my ultimatum,
and second your motion to adjourn.”

They found Emily and her aunt in the conservatory.
At a gesture from her father, unseen by
Fleetwood, the former left their young guest with
the elder lady for a few moments, during which
Emily was carrying on an earnest conversation, in
a low tone of voice, with her father. When she
rejoined Fleetwood, she made an evident effort to
entertain him, but there was a constraint in her
manner, a pensiveness in her voice, which he had
never before observed. The conservatory was
lighted up by colored lamps; and although the
space it occupied was but small, there were labyrinthine
walks through it so ingeniously contrived,
that it was difficult for a person introduced for the
first time to arrive at any just conclusion as to its
extent. Mrs. Gordon and her brother-in-law had
disappeared. Fleetwood remained to examine the
plants with Emily. Linked arm in arm they strolled
through the marble walks. Rich odors floated
about them from the commingled flowers, some in
bloom and some just bursting from the bud. The
plashing of the fountain that imparted freshness to
the air, was the sole noise that disturbed the prevailing
silence. Fleetwood tried several times in
vain to engage his fair companion in conversation.
The most suggestive topics failed to draw forth
more than a monosyllabic reply. She was evidently
sad and preoccupied. At length, after full
two minutes of silence, during which they continued
to pace the flowery labyrinth, Emily stopped suddenly,
and putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
burst into violent weeping.

“I fear that something disturbs you, Miss Gordon,”
said Fleetwood, tenderly.

She put down her handkerchief, and looked him

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

in the face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and
her eyes shone with unwonted lustre.

“Fly at once from this house, if you would preserve
your happiness—your honor,” she said, in a
deep but low and earnest whisper. “Go at once
to her whom your heart has chosen—marry without
delay—believe nothing against her that you
hear, nothing that you see—fly, and secure the
happiness of both before it is too late.”

Fleetwood was astounded at language like this
from one whom he had hitherto regarded as a
pattern of discretion and good sense. He could
put but one construction upon her conduct; and
although that construction was one favorable to
himself, he was perhaps justified in adopting it,
without subjecting himself to the imputation of
vanity or self-conceit. Emily had evidently just
heard of his intended marriage. She had formed
hopes herself, notwithstanding their slight acquaintance,
which were thus dashed to the ground. The
disappointment working upon a romantic temperament
had produced the ebullition of feeling she
had just displayed. Such were the interpretations
of her language, which now flashed across Fleetwood's
mind.

“Compose yourself, my dear Miss Gordon,” he
said, hardly knowing whether to reply in a tone of
badinage or seriousness. “I grant there is danger
in your society, but”—

“Ah! do not, as you value your happiness,
think lightly of my warnings,” interrupted Emily;
“must I be more plain? Yes, I may not again be
in the mood to tell you all—there may be inducements
to silence, which I cannot, dare not resist.
You think I am in love with you—you never were
more mistaken in your life.”

Fleetwood coughed slightly, blushed, and felt like
a fool. He could not deny the accusation.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

Emily continued: “But do as I have bid you—
fly and consummate your marriage with her you
have chosen. You still look incredulous and amazed.
Know then that—”

At this moment, the sound of Mr. Gordon's voice
was heard so near that both the interlocutors were
startled.

“Emily, my dear,” said he, appearing from behind
a japonica tree of magnificent proportions,
“your aunt and I, are desirous of hearing you try
the new song to the accompaniment of your harp.
I am sure Mr. Fleetwood will not object.”

Fleetwood drew back to make way for Mr. Gordon's
approach. The latter took his daughter's
hand. At the same time a suppressed cry of pain
escaped from her lips. It was so slight, however,
that Fleetwood hardly regarded it at the moment.

Emily turned one last, beseeching glance upon
him, and then, with a constrained smile, permitted
her father to lead her to the harp. Bending over
the instrument, she paused for some moments with
her hands upon the strings, while a deep silence
pervaded the room. Fleetwood was too much lost
in wonder to speak, and Mr. Gordon seemed to be
struck dumb by some deep emotion, which, with
all his command of his muscles, he hardly succeeded
in disguising. At length, he exclaimed: “Come,
my dear, why don't you play?”

Starting from an evident fit of abstraction, and
running her hands over the strings, Emily commenced
a strain, full of such appealing melancholy,
that her father exclaimed petulantly: “We didn't
ask for a funeral hymn, my dear—give us something
animated and gay.”

She obeyed; and how sportively the notes seemed
to leap out from beneath her fingers! A new
creation of emotions was called into existence, as
if by a spell in the mind of the listener. As she

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

ceased, Fleetwood rose, and approaching her side,
earnestly expressed his gratitude for what he had
heard. He saw that she had been severely tasked
by the effort; and, with a repetition of thanks for
the rich strains, bade her good evening.

“Will you go so soon, Frederick?” said Mr
Gordon.

“Indeed you must excuse me,” replied Fleet
wood. “Good night, Mr. Gordon! Ladies, good
night!”

Mr. Gordon accompanied him to the street door.
The rain was falling in torrents. “You must stay
with us to-night,” said Mr. Gordon. “A servant
can go to your hotel for such clothes as you may
wish in the morning.”

“I will accept your invitation,” replied Fleetwood.
“I do not fancy a shower-bath except when
my skin is divested of broadcloth.”

“It threatens to be quite a furious storm,” said
Mr. Gordon, closing the door. “You are wise in
remaining.”

CHAPTER X.

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

Adelaide entered the room, where Glenham and
Mrs. Winfield were awaiting her return—she entered
with a firm step and a countenance, to which
the grave and fixed determination she had taken
added new dignity.

“My daughter,” said Mrs. Winfield, “this gentleman
has been trying to persuade me to yield to
your wishes. At the same time as a lawyer he
cannot but allow, that I have the right to compel
you to accompany me.”

“Let me entreat you, Mrs. Winfield,” interrupted
Glenham, “not to dream for a moment of such
an alternative as compulsion. Your daughter has
strong and excellent motives—motives, which you
cannot but respect—for persisting in her resolution.
Why not remain with her here till the return of Mr.
Fleetwood?—and then I am sure that every thing
will be amicably arranged.”

“I told you, Sir,” replied Mrs. Winfield, “that I
wished to consult you as a lawyer—and you already
go over to the other side. Pray tell me
definitely whether I can legally enforce my claims
upon this young lady's obedience?”

“We can do many things legally, which we
could not do justly and humanely,” replied Glenham.

“You evade my question, Sir. Can I, if disposed
to call in the aid of the law force Adelaide to

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

quit this place immediately for my home in New
York? I beg that you will answer me briefly, yes
or no.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Adelaide, as she
stood with folded arms in the centre of the room,
regarding Mrs. Winfield and Glenham—“it is quite
unnecessary for the gentleman to answer. My
mind is made up. I shall not in any event quit this
place. Not even the threat of violence can shake
my resolution. But why need we embitter the
moments of our first interview, my mother, by this
altercation? Listen to reason, I pray you. I will
write Fleetwood this very afternoon, begging him
to return here at once, or to consent to await my
arrival in New York. This is Saturday. He will
receive my letter to-morrow morning, and by
Monday I shall have his reply. You can surely
tarry here till then.”

“I shall do no such thing, you obstinate, ungrateful”—

Glenham cut short Mrs. Winfield's angry exclamations
by drawing her aside towards one of the
glazed recesses of the apartment, and accosting her
in a whisper. His communication had the effect
of appeasing her indignation at once; for the
choleric flush that had overspread her face disappeared,
and she said aloud: “Well, Sir, you have
prevailed—Adelaide shall do as she proposes, and
I will wait here till Monday, although much against
my will.”

Adelaide was touched by her tone of compliance,
however tardy, and taking her hand she pressed it
to her lips, and said: “I fear you think me head-strong,
self-willed and undutiful—but O, try me on
any point but this, and see if I do not answer your
expectations.”

“There, there, you are a dear child,” said Mrs.

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

Winfield, hurriedly; “now go and write your
letter, and see that it is sent forthwith.”

“It is too late to send it by the Bridgeport
route,” said Glenham, looking at his watch. “You
must let me leave it at Norwalk. It will be in the
way of my afternoon's ride.”

“You are very kind,” replied Adelaide. “I will
place the letter in your hands in five minutes;” and
she glided out of the apartment.

The infernal scheme, which had entered Glenham's
brain, will readily be conjectured; but Adelaide
knew too little of this world's wickedness to
distrust for a moment the sincerity of his proposition.
Opening the little portfeuille, where for years
her stock of note paper had lain untouched, she sat
down to write. She described, in a few concise
sentences, the position in which she was placed,
and called upon Fleetwood for counsel and direction,
promising to abide by his wishes at all hazards.
She alluded in no unfilial terms to her mother; but
expressed a conviction that all would be well. She
closed by saying that she should expect a reply by
the following Monday. The letter was in Glenham's
hands within the time she had promised.

No man, who is not accustomed from high and
stable principles to repel the first promptings of
evil in his heart, can tell into what depth of guilt
he may be hurried by circumstances. Glenham
was selfish and sensual in his impulses; and the
low, appealing voice of conscience was rarely
heard amid the din of passions, which he was not
apt to question and chastise. Notwithstanding he
had declared that he would not marry Adelaide,
knowing as he then did her questionable position
in society, still he felt as if Fleetwood had done
him a personal wrong in engaging himself to her
so suddenly and unexpectedly. He even persuaded

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

himself that Adelaide had been guilty of duplicity,
inasmuch as she had hitherto studiously avoided
extending any encouragement to Fleetwood, to
whom she now considered that a higher allegiance
was due than that which she owed even to a
mother.

Glenham hurried home, and entering his apartment
locked the door, and drew forth the letter,
which Adelaide had so guilelessly entrusted to his
care. With an eager hand he broke the seal, and
perused the contents.

“His ever affectionately and devotedly!” muttered
Glenham, quoting the last line of the note.
“That shall never be if I can help it: His—his—
must everything be his? He has wealth, accomplishments,
personal attractions, perfect freedom
and independence, and now he would fill the
measure of his felicity by this union! It is his
money that has won the girl's heart. I am sure
she would otherwise prefer me—has she not all
along shown her preference? Fleetwood—d—n
him—with what contemptuous anger he regarded
me when I spoke of extending to the girl a protection
that was not the protection of a husband!
D—n him—he thinks there shall be no more cakes
and ale in the world because he is virtuous. Hold
awhile—and I may show him yet that the girl, to
whom he has condescended to offer marriage, is
not too good for an humbler and less reputable
companion to me. And she—she shall be punished
for presuming to refuse my hand. True, I regarded
the offer at the time as one which might be kept or
broken, according as it might turn out, as she
might be rich or poor—of a high or low family—
but she had no reason to doubt my sincerity—and
the jade refused me with all the condescension of
a princess, phrasing her sentence of rejection in the
daintiest language. She refused me. But I am

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

wasting time in denunciation, when I should be
plotting action.”

The habitually placid expression of his face distorted
by malignant passions, Glenham paced the
floor with his mind bent upon contriving the means
for thwarting the plans of the lovers.

“The mother is on my side,” soliloquised he; “but
then Adelaide is evidently resolved to place her
duty to her selected husband far above that to her
newly-found parent. Compulsion cannot be employed.
It will but destroy the little influence
which her mother may have over her. Stratagem
is our proper weapon. Cunning can lead her unresistingly
into the net, to which force could never
drag her. Let me see. The mother—ah, the
mother! What will Fleetwood say when he finds
what a nice family he is going to marry into?
And yet such is his independence—moral and
pecuniary—that I am convinced the objection will
not weigh with him, so he is but sure that Adelaide
is pure and uncontaminated. It is that confidence
which must be undermined, broken down beyond
the possibility of question. And how shall that be
done? But this is a matter for after consideration.
How shall we get Adelaide into the city? There
lies our present difficulty. Once in her mother's
house, she can be easily managed. But she must
go there of her own accord, cheerfully and unsuspectingly.
How can she be induced to do that?
Pshaw! Could anything be more simple?”

Glenham looked among his papers for a letter in
Fleetwood's hand-writing. He at length found
one, which related to the purchase of some fishing-tackle;
he carefully examined the chirography,
and then drawing forth a blank sheet of paper, set
himself to the task of carrying out the project,
which had dimly dawned upon his mind the

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

moment Adelaide offered to write Fleetwood, and to
be guided by his reply.

The following Monday, at the hour expected,
Adelaide received from the hands of the carrier,
who usually attended the village post-office daily
for Miss Holyoke and her scholars, a letter, which
she eagerly and joyfully opened. It was as follows:

“My dear Adelaide:—

“You were decidedly right in resisting your
mother's importunities to leave Soundside until you
had heard from me. I shall not forget such a proof
of your attachment and fidelity. My business here
is of that importance that I cannot possibly quit the
city till Friday afternoon. Otherwise I would
most gladly fly to you at once. Under these circumstances,
and since your mother is so exceedingly
anxious to have you accompany her, I do not
see but that we had better yield to her wishes.
Our marriage can as well take place here as at
Soundside; and I see no good reason why it should
be deferred beyond the period we originally fixed.
Present my respects to your mother, and tell her
that for her daughter's sake she shall be dear.
Should you see Glenham, remember me to him
kindly. I owe him much. Poor fellow! he has
cause to envy me your affection; but I know that
he is incapable of any such passion. Apply to him
unreservedly, should you have occasion for friendly
and discreet advice. Let me know you mother's
address, that I may call as soon as you reach the
city. I am compelled to write in haste, as I only
received your letter a few minutes since, and mine
will miss the mail if I delay even to tell you with
how much sincerity and love,

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

This letter was ingeniously contrived to give
satisfaction. No such idea as distrust of its genuineness
could possibly suggest itself to Adelaide's
mind. It was plain, affectionate, and to the point;
and the closing excuse for brevity was all-sufficient.
Adelaide handed it to her mother, and said, in a
cheerful tone “There, mother, read it—I am
ready to accompany you to the city at any moment
you please.”

“Then hasten, and prepare for your departure at
once,” said Mrs. Winfield, taking the letter, and
casting upon it a far less attentive glance than
Adelaide had expected.

With a suppressed sigh, Adelaide quitted the
room. Entering her own little apartment with a
servant, she speedily packed up her wardrobe and
library. The trunks were strapped, and carried
into the entry. Adelaide stood alone in the midst
of the little territory, which she had presided over
for so many years, and which she was now about
to resign probably for ever. Uncertainty as to her
fate, and the solicitude of preparation, had hitherto
procrastinated the thought of leave-taking. And
now the reality had come with an abruptness that
was almost heart-crushing. She looked from the
window, and the old elm before it, which had been
to her so like a friend since childhood, seemed to
stretch out its arms imploringly to detain her. The
rustle of its leaves sounded like the language of
entreaty. The knots and bossy rings upon its
trunk appeared to her like so many eyes, instinct
with an almost human expression of tenderness.
And then the little room—the scene of her studies,
her tears, her resolves, her prayers, her blameless
joys, her premature griefs! Mournful but dear
recollections! Even the dimity curtain that flapped
against the window-pane seemed to protest petulantly
against her departure. The familiar outline

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

of the surrounding landscape never appeared so
picturesque and lovely as at this moment. The
smooth waters of the Sound gleamed like a road
of silver in the distance, while the hills lifted their
piles of verdure high in the sunshine, as if proud of
their affluent drapery.

Cossack, the venerable dog, whose life she had
once saved, was sleeping on the front door-step in
happy unconsciousness of the bereavement which
awaited him. Taking one of the few remaining
gold pieces from her purse, Adelaide called an old
servant of the family, named Norah, and placed it
in her hands, requesting that she would take good
care of the animal.

“That I will, for your own sweet sake, and not
for the money,” replied Norah, whimpering at the
thought of losing her young mistress.

“Well, Norah, take the gold-piece then for a
keepsake—may it bring you good luck.”

“Bad luck to me when I part with it, Miss,” said
Norah, receiving the gift.

But Adelaide had other friends to take leave of,
and fearing that her mother would grow impatient,
she hastened to discharge her obligations. Miss
Holyoke was engaged in the school-room with her
pupils. Adelaide entered, and with a grace peculiarly
her own took leave of her companions.
There were some who, in spite of the injurious
whispers which had been circulated in regard to
her, could not but be won by the gentleness and
goodness which she had ever displayed towards
them. These followed her to the door, and shed
tears at the thought of her departure. Miss Holyoke
unbent so far as to kiss the cheek of her pupil,
and shake her hand at parting. The intercourse
between her and Adelaide had generally been
friendly, if not affectionate; but still there were

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

considerations of policy, which modified the regret
of the instructress at her pupil's departure.

Adelaide found the carriage at the door, and
Mrs. Winfield seated in it awaiting her arrival.
As she was about ascending the steps, old Cossack
came limping round the corner, barking as if aware
that her departure was to be a prolonged one.
Adelaide stooped and patted him on the headgwhile
old Norah came forth and threw a lasso about his
neck to keep him from following the vehicle.

Entering the carriage, Adelaide took the seat
opposite to her mother, and leaning back in one
corner, put her handkerchief to her eyes to hide
her tears.

The carriage rolled on in the direction of the
steamboat that was to convey the party to New
York.

CHAPTER XI.

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

When Fleetwood re-entered the parlor at Mr.
Gordon's, he found that during his brief absence
the ladies had disappeared.

“Amuse yourself with a book, Frederick, while
I recall the fugitives,” said Mr. Gordon, quitting
the room.

But Fleetwood found that the company of his
own perplexed meditations was quite sufficient.
Let us leave him to them, while we follow Mr.
Gordon in quest of his daughter.

He abruptly entered her sleeping-room, and standing
with his back leaning against the closed door,
and his arms folded, he regarded Emily for some
moments in silence. She was sitting in a large,
old-fashioned easy-chair, with her clasped hands
resting carelessly in her lap, and her eyes fixed
thoughtfully upon the floor. On seeing her father,
she started from her posture, and rising, turned on
him a half apprehensive and guilty glance.

“Have you not dutifully obeyed my injunctions?”
he said, in a bitter and measured voice, lingering
upon every word as if to wring from it all the
severity of which it was capable. “What, girl!
would you have betrayed me—thwarted me—
foiled me—your own father?”

“No, sir; indeed I intended to say nothing that

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

should throw a suspicion—that should raise a doubt
as to your—”

“Have a care, girl! Luckily your inuendoes
were misinterpreted. I heard them all, and watched
their effect—the self-satisfied youth construed
them as the wild and broken manifestations of a
sentimental fancy for himself—he supposed you
were in love with him—but it was not through any
fault of yours that his eyes were not opened, and
my plans defeated.”

“O, my father,” exclaimed Emily, wringing her
hands imploringly, “abandon this unholy scheme!
If adversity threatens us, let it come! Do not try
to avert it by unrighteous means, by injustice, by
deception. While we have free souls, what
though—”

“Have done with this tiresome canting. What
is it that I demand of you? That you so exercise
the fascinations you possess that this young Croesus,
who is now below, shall make you his wife.”

“Is Mr. Fleetwood then still below?” asked
Emily, in a despairing tone. “I thought he had
quitted the house.”

“He returned to escape the storm—he remains
here to-night—and—mark you—I expect you to
go down, and make yourself more agreeable than
you have seen fit to do as yet.”

“My father, did you not tell me that he was engaged—
that he was under a promise to marry this
very week?”

“And what if he is? How very scrupulous you
have grown all at once! Why, girl, I have seen
you so play the Syren before now as to make men
faithless to their wedded wives—as to make lovers
forsake their affianced mistresses, whom they
fancied they adored till they saw you. Have you
forgotten the bloody duel—the suicide—which are
among the trophies of your heartless coquetry?”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“My father, this is cruel—it is—

“It is true—and you know it.”

“Ah, then let me not add to the catalogue of my
offences. Let me not break the heart of an innocent
girl by driving the lover, to whom she has
confided all her hopes, to perfidy!”

“Bah! Why will you talk so, when you know
I despise cant? Girl's hearts are not so easily
broken—as you are well aware. Listen to me.
There are two all controlling reasons why this
match should be prevented. One is, that Fleetwood
must marry you and no one else—and the
other is, that of all women in the world he must
not marry Adela—the girl to whom he is engaged.”

“And why should she be proscribed more than
others?”

“For reasons, on which your prosperity and
mine and that of all my family may depend.”

“Indeed! I thought she was a nameless, obscure
girl—how can we be affected by her marriage?”

“It is no time for explanation now. Let me be
obeyed, unless you would see me ruined.”

Ah! do not urge me to this step. Do not drive
me to that, at which my conscience, my heart revolts!”

“Your heart! How long is it, Miss, since you
had such a toy? But I know the cause of your
refractoriness. You would wed that beggarly
Count, La Salle—you would wed him—and not
for love—but for his title.”

Emily hung her head as if a part at least of the
accusation were true.

“Look you, daughter,” continued Mr. Gordon,
detecting at once the effect of his remark; “were
you a fool—a green girl—it might be cruel in me
to urge you as I do upon this point. But you are

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

a woman of the world—from a child you have
been a sort of pet in the lap of society—you have
been bred to luxury, and must ever feel the need
of it—you have loved and been loved—you are at
an age when the reasoning faculties should be predominant.
Do I ask you to make a repulsive
match? On the contrary, would not nine hundred
and ninety-nine women out of a thousand, ay, and
men too, say that Fleetwood was infinitely the
Count's superior in intellectual and personal advantages,
as well as in those which the world
prizes so highly? You shake your head. Damnation,
girl, do you pretend to compare the two?
Why, La Salle is unworthy to lick the dust from
the other's shoes. Ah! but I forgot—the Count
has in one thing the advantage—Fleetwood doesn't
play on the fiddle—the one has the manners and
attainments of a gentleman—the other those of a
dancing-master.”

“Why will you compel me to injure a being
who has never done me harm?” asked Emily.

“Her very existence does you harm—does all
of us harm,” exclaimed Mr. Gordon, with violence.
“Look you, girl, am I a man to be subjected to the
indignities, the humiliations, the crushing, heart-wearing
annoyances of want, after having been
accustomed from my very birth to affluence and
the ready gratification of all my tastes? Should I,
think you, receive with patience the sneering condolence
of men who have for years looked up to
me with envy? Should I listen with equanimity
to their heartless commentaries upon my ruin?
Or, do you imagine, that should the time come, as
come it will if you thwart me in my plans, when
my grocer will refuse to trust me for a barrel of
flour until my last quarter's bill is paid—do you
imagine, that under such a mortification, I would
consent to live?”

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

“Ah, my father, surely, surely there is no danger
of any such event. We can reduce our establishment
many thousands a-year, and still live comfortably,
respectably.”

“Reduce our establishment! Why, girl, I have
lived for the last twelve months solely on the credit
of my splendid establishment. Take it away, and
absolute ruin would stare me in the face. A whole
legion of creditors would beleaguer me. Listen.
The stupendous expenses which I have been at for
the last ten years, have not been indulged in without
seriously impairing my fortune. On my last
return from Europe, I found that I had been in the
habit of spending more than double the amount of
my income. Instead of husbanding my resources,
selling off all my costly superfluities, and moving
into the country for a while, until I had made up
my losses, I foolishly launched into speculation in
the hope of retrieving in a few days the extravagances
of spendthrift years. I have been unsuccessful
in all my movements in Wall-street. A few
misdirected operations on a large scale in stocks
have been sufficient to rob me of a fortune. Everything
that is supposed to be my own is mortgaged
for its full value. My means of raising money are
exhausted. The little sum in cash which is left to
my credit in the bank is ebbing daily. What am I
to do when it is quite gone? Bred as a gentleman,
with no profession, no pursuit, to what can I
turn my hand, whereby to wring from the hard
world a pittance for the support of myself and
family? I look around, and see but one means of
escape from degradation and ruin. It is in your
marriage with Fleetwood. I made you cultivate
that odious Mrs. Dryman with the view of meeting
him. You have succeeded; and circumstances
have favored us far more than we could have
hoped. I know the exact extent of Fleetwood's

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

pecuniary resources. They are immense. He is
a gentleman by birth and character, and any girl
might be proud of him as a husband. She, to
whom he has rashly engaged himself, is—a disreputable
person. There are ways of proving this
to his satisfaction—and it will be done. How then
can you have any compunction, on her account,
about securing Fleetwood for yourself?”

“Do you mean to say,” asked Emily, “that in
any event, and independently of aught that I may
do, you shall break off this match of Fleetwood's?”

“Unquestionably. We have but to let him see
with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears,
and there is no fear but that he will repudiate the
girl, and with good and sufficient cause.”

Emily was deeply concerned at the revelations
her father had made. She had no reason to doubt
them, for he had never deceived her. Accustomed
to plenty, and never knowing what it was to have
a demand for money refused, she recoiled with dismay
from the prospect of actual poverty. And
then there were duties which she owed to others.
Her father's family was large and expensive. The
mother had died about two years before, leaving
six children, of whom Emily was the eldest. The
remaining five were considerably younger; and,
from motives of economy, Mr. Gordon had placed
them all at boarding-schools. What would become
of them in the event of such ruin and disaster as
threatened them, unless she came to the rescue?
Visions of orphan asylums, of milliner's apprentices,
and boys sent out to cruel task-masters to learn a
trade, flitted across her imagination, until, after
pacing the floor a few moments in an excited state
of mind, she placed her hand in her father's, and
exclaimed: “I'll do it!”

“That's a brave girl—that's my own daughter,”
said Mr. Gordon, rapturously. “Forgive me,

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

Emily, if I have been harsh—and forget the cutting
things I may have said.”

“You had reason in saying them, my father.
Had I dreamed that your necessities were of so
serious a nature, you would not have found me so
obstinate. I had scruples, it is true, but what you
say of the impossibility of Fleetwood's marrying
when he knows the truth in regard to her to whom
he is affianced, has set my mind at ease. But do
you not exaggerate the power of my charms to
captivate this young man?”

“Not at all. If you do but set about it with a
will, you can easily accomplish your object. But
you must forget all about the Count, my dear.”

“That I will try to do, my father—although, I
must say, that I think you were a little too hard
upon him.”

“Perhaps so—but you will confess that Fleetwood
is certainly the more eligible match of the
two?”

“Yes,” said Emily, with a sigh—“the more
eligible.”

Mr. Gordon was right in calling his daughter a
woman of the world. But she occasionally indulged
in day-dreams of what she might be could the
better part of her nature once gain the ascendant
and keep it. They had faded now.

“But we are wasting time,” said Mr. Gordon.
“We must not leave Fleetwood any longer alone.”

Emily cast a hasty glance at the mirror on her
toilet-table—re-arranged a stray curl—and, with
the glow of an anticipated conquest mantling her
cheeks, passed out of the room in advance of her
father. She descended the stairs slowly and
thoughtfully, as if to collect her thoughts in reference
to the kind of tactics which she ought to adopt
towards Fleetwood. He was already under a
misapprehension in regard to the state of her

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

affections. Should she encourage it, and win his pity
under the pretence of a misplaced passion, or should
she, by an apparent invincibleness and a cold indifference
to his fascinations, pique his vanity and
awaken the appetite of pursuit? She was still undetermined
as to the course which it would be
most expedient for her to choose, when she entered
the parlor.

Fleetwood was pacing the saloon. His thoughts
were of Adelaide: he was trying to fix before his
mind's eye a perfect representation of her features.
But the expression varied like the shifting lights
upon a tree, whose leaves are blown by the wind.
Emily was near enough to touch him before he was
aware of her presence.

“Your thoughts must be pleasant ones,” said she,
while he started on regarding her—“I trust I have
not put them to flight.”

“Had they been sad ones, most assuredly you
would have done so,” replied Fleetwood.

“Ah, would that I might believe I had even that
power over you!” sighed Emily.

“Will you take a seat, or will you walk?”

“I will walk.”

What could Fleetwood do but offer his arm?

“And is she very beautiful—she to whom—
who—” and Emily turned away her head as if to
hide her agitation. Then appearing to rally her
spirits, she exclaimed: “Of course, she is beautiful—
and she loves you devotedly—passionately?”

Fleetwood felt her arm tremble in his. What
reason had he to doubt the reality of her apparent
emotions—to doubt that he had suddenly become
to her an object of the tenderest attachment?

But did he waver for an instant in his loyalty towards
Adelaide? Not for an instant. And yet
a dangerous pity for Emily, who under such

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

circumstances had conceived for him so utterly hopeless
a passion, began to pull at his heart-strings.

The storm, which had been increasing in severity,
was now accompanied by tremendous peals of
thunder. Emily had inherited a nervous susceptibility
to the sound. It never failed to awaken a
sort of frantic alarm, under the influence of which
she entirely lost her self-control. And now, at the
first peal, she clung with unaffected terror to
Fleetwood's arm. She had composure enough,
however, to say:

“I am not myself when it thunders—pray, call
my father quickly—quickly!”

Fleetwood led her to a sofa, and went to pull the
bell. A minute elapsed, and no one came. He
was moving towards the entry to call Mr. Gordon
when another thunder-crash more violent than the
one which had preceded it, seemed to shake the
whole house.

“Do not leave me—do not leave me!” shrieked
Emily, darting towards him, and almost fainting
in his arms.

He lifted her to bear her towards the sofa. Her
breast heaved against his own.

“There is no affectation here,” thought he, as he
felt the quick and violent throbbing of her heart,
and saw the color forsake her cheeks.

He sat by her side—he held her hand—her head
rested upon his shoulder—and his left arm circled
her waist. Her curls brushed his cheek.

The door was opened—opened noiselessly—and
when, after a brief interval of silence, Fleetwood
looked up, he saw Count La Salle standing before
them.

With folded arms, his eyes flaming with jealousy,
and his lips quivering, La Salle stood and regarded
them. Fleetwood did not attempt to move Emily
from her position. At length her eyes opened, and

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

the first object they rested upon was La Salle.
She rose instantly to her feet, and assumed a look
of proud and dignified composure.

“I see I have entered inopportunely,” said the
Count. “I am de trop—I wish you joy, Mademoiselle,
of your new conquest. What pretty things
hearts are to play with! Won't you have another?”

“Had I ever given you any right, sir, to use
this language,” returned Emily, “it would still be
insolent; but having none, you are doubly unmannerly.”

“O, I did not expect to take you off your guard,”
said the Count—“not at all! A woman, who has
made up her mind to play the game, of which you
seem to be fond, must of course have tact and self-possession.
But why not give a hint to your footman
not to admit visitors on such occasions as the
present? These contretemps must be provoking to
so consummate a diplomatist as yourself in affairs
of the heart. But I beg pardon. I am detaining
you from more agreeable pastimes.”

Emily bowed, and replied: “I shall be pleased
to see you prove that you are truly aware of that
fact.”

“It is a loving and a fair reply, Mademoiselle,
and one which I had reason to expect from the
character of our past intercourse.”

“There has been nothing in that, sir, which you
are not at liberty to proclaim to the whole world.”

“You have said it, Mademoiselle: and you are
impatient at my stay. I humbly take my leave.”

“You can take nothing, with which I would
more willingly part,” retorted Emily, borrowing a
line from Hamlet.

“I thank you for your amiable attempts to exasperate
me, Mademoiselle,” replied the Count, his
accents tremulous with rage. “But I shall

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

compensate myself for this treatment by deeds—not by
words. As for you, sir,” continued he, turning to
Fleetwood, “you have been a party to it—an innocent
one, perhaps, and yet a responsible one.”

“You may put what construction you please,
sir, upon anything I have done or may do,” replied
Fleetwood, coldly.

“I thank you, sir, for the privilege,” returned La
Salle. “As the man says in the play, the time
may come when I can cry quittance! Till then,
sir, farewell! And farewell to you, Mademoiselle.”

La Salle strode out of the room without any
farther exhibition of his jealousy and spleen.

There was a cessation in the storm without.

“His conduct is inexplicable,” said Emily. “I
assure you I have avoided that man and his attentions
as much as possible.”

“Not knowing the relations that might exist between
you, I could not venture to say much,” said
Fleetwood.

“There are no relations save those of ordinary
acquaintanceship,” replied Miss Gordon.

“Since we are no longer likely to be interrupted
by the thunder, perhaps you will let me hear the
sound of your harp-strings again?” said Fleetwood,
taking her hand and leading her towards
the instrument.

“What shall be the theme?” inquired she.
“Pardon me—I forgot—there is but one theme
suitable to your frame of mind.” And she heaved
a deep sigh.

“Nay, Miss Gordon, my sympathies are not so
very exclusive as you seem to suppose. Sing to
suit yourself.”

After a long and melancholy but exquisitely melodiously
prelude, Emily sang those lines of Viola's,
“She never told her love,” so exquisitely wedded
to music by one of the masters of the English

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

school. Nothing could be more touching and
earnest than the expression she gave to the passage.
It seemed the out-gushing of a breaking
heart. Fleetwood was sensitively alive to the influence
of sweet sounds; and his ears drank in the
last vibrations of her voice and harp with eager
attention—with subdued feelings of commiseration—
almost tenderness. Emily, after she had finished
the strain, buried her face a moment in her hands;
and then, looking up, with an apparent effort to be
gay, she said: “I will sing you something less
grave—less—in earnest.” The last two words she
uttered in a whisper, as if to herself, but they were
not unheard by Fleetwood. Dashing her hand
over the strings, she carolled in a clear, triumphant
tone Ariel's enchanting strain, “Where the bee
sucks, there lurk I.”

Fleetwood was charmed—any lover of music
would have been—by her singing.

“Good night, Mr. Fleetwood,” she said, rising
suddenly at the conclusion of the melody. “It is
growing late—the servant will wait upon you to
your apartment—or, if my father has not retired, I
will send him to you. Good night!”

Her utterance was slightly choked, as she hurriedly
said these words.

“Good night, Miss Emily; and may your dreams
be as pleasant as Ariel's own.”

Emily was moving towards the door. She turned
as if to reply to Fleetwood's kind wish, and then
as if she dared not trust her voice, she abruptly
quitted the room. Shortly afterwards Mr. Gordon
entered, and conducted his young guest to the
apartment he was to occupy for the night.

The style in which this sleeping-room was fitted
up, accorded with the magnificence of the rest of
the house. The walls were hung with crimson
silk. The carpet was one of the softest and

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

thickest ever woven by a Turkish loom. The bed was
small, low and simply constructed, but gilt so as to
resemble massive gold. Two immense mirrors,
reaching from the ceiling to the floor, and imbedded
in the wall, occupied the principal part of the space
on either side of the richly carved marble fire-piece.

Fleetwood held a candle in his hand, and as he
advanced towards one of these mirrors, he started
and trembled at the reflection of an image, the
lineaments of which were stamped indelibly upon
his memory. Was it a false creation “proceeding
from the heat-oppressed brain?” For a moment
he stood spell-bound. He then turned his head
slowly to see whence the reflection came. It was
from a painting on the wall—a painting of a young
and beautiful female—how like it was to Adelaide!

“Whose portrait is that?” he earnestly asked.

Mr. Gordon hesitated, and bit his lip with suppressed
vexation. But Fleetwood's eyes were
fixed upon the painting, and he did not notice his
host's confusion.

“That is a fancy-piece,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly
recovering his self-possession. “The artist was
painting Emily, but failing in the likeness, he converted
it into what you see.”

“Strange!” murmured Fleetwood—“it is so like
Adelaide Winfield, that I should suppose she had
sat for it.”

“Ah, a lover's eyes sometimes detects resemblances
which no one else can discover,” said Mr.
Gordon, assuming an indifferent tone. “May you
be haunted, Frederick, by no visions less fair!
Good night!”

“Good night, sir! This room looks like the
very sanctuary of sleep—tired nature's sweet
restorer, balmy sleep! One can hardly tread the

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

carpet without a sensation of drowsiness. Good
night!”

Once more Fleetwood was alone. He stood for
some minutes with the candle uplifted over his
head, gazing at the portrait, which had excited his
surprise and curiosity.

“A singular coincidence!” murmured he, at
length placing the candle upon the mantel; and
then, sinking into a chair, which invitingly spread
its arms before him, he mused upon the occurrences
of the day. “Poor Emily! How she struggles
to hide the misplaced and wholly hopeless affection
which cannot be disguised! I will avoid her henceforth.
Could I ever have loved her, had I not seen
Adelaide? Let me compare the two. The one
debarred from all society, possesses yet a native
dignity and grace far more winning than any that
education could give. She only knows the world
from books. With few to love and very few to
praise, she has the besoin d'aimer to a degree that
is all the more intense because it has never found
objects on which to lavish its wealth. Look on
the other picture—here is Emily, who for years
has been a pet of society—has had admirers, lovers,
perhaps, without number—still she seems to preserve
her freshness of feeling—although occasionally
the traits of the hackneyed woman of the world
break forth. She is an enigma—and must be
studied profoundly to be known. On the contrary,
you can read Adelaide's character at the first interview.
Her ingenuousness is the most perfect that
I ever witnessed in a human being. She is the
only woman I ever met, whom I could not believe
to be capable of a stratagem. Feminine in all her
attributes, she has yet acquired from intercourse
with masculine minds in books a certain intellectual
vigor, which it is hard to reconcile with her uniform
gentleness. Compare the two in point of

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

personal attractions, and Adelaide's superiority
must be unquestioned. In accomplishments too
she excels. Both are musical—but Emily's voice
reminds me of concert-rooms and prima donnas,
while Adelaide's suggests dreams of angelic harmonies.
Yes, Adelaide, thou art in every way the
worthier of my choice—ay, worthier, notwithstanding
thou art nameless, friendless and unclaimed—
worthier even wert thou scorned by all the world,
save my own idolizing heart!”

Fleetwood took one last look at the portrait;
and then, perceiving by a glance at his watch that
the hour was late, he laid himself down to sleep—
nor did he long have to woo the influence of that
power which “knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.”
A soft but profound slumber soon sealed up his
senses.

All at once he started from his bed with his eyes
wide open, and a vague consciousness of the presence
of some one in the room. He looked about
him, exclaiming at the same moment, “Who's
there?” The weather had changed since he had
been asleep. The storm had passed away, and the
moon rode brightly in the skies, pouring a flood of
lustre into the room through the openings in the
saffron curtains, which fell in rich folds before the
windows.

Fleetwood started to his feet. He could have
sworn he saw a shadow move across the wall
opposite to the windows. He turned in the direction
of the light. He distinctly saw the curtain
move, and heard it rustle. Repeating his exclamation
of “Who's there?” he rushed to the embrasure.
The window was closed—so it was not possible
that the wind could have created the motion.
There was no one behind the curtains—no vestige,
no sound of a visitor. Nor could he discover any
mode of egress. There were inside

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

window-shutters. He unfolded them. The wall seemed solid
behind them—and there was no sign of any contrivance
by which they could be made to give
way.

“Pshaw!” said Fleetwood, returning to his
couch. “It must have been a delusion—I was
dreaming.”