University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

It cannot be supposed that a young man of
Fleetwood's prospects in life and personal advantages,
should have lived so unexposed to peril as to
be likely to be seriously captivated by a casual
sight of a pretty face. But his taste for the beautiful
in nature as well as art, was too refined not to
be awakened by the strange loveliness both of features
and expression, which distinguished Adelaide.
It had been his intention to quit Soundside for New
York, whither he had been summoned by his lawyer,
the day after his shooting excursion on the

beach. An interview with Glenham, the morning
of that day, caused him to change his intention.

“How fares our cousin Hamlet?” cried Glenham,
as he caught sight of Fleetwood in the act of
throwing open the folding windows of his apartment.

“I humbly thank you, well,” was the reply.
“What a superb morning! Are you for the city?”

“By no means. Here's metal more attractive.”

“A new discovery, eh? What is it, Glenham?”

“Have you forgotten the fair equestrian—little
Velvet Cap? Fickle, unimpressible, invulnerable
champion that you are! Don Giovanni himself
would have been more constant.”

“I have not forgotten her,” said Fleetwood joining
his companion on the piazza. “I met her last
night in my dreams. Would that I might always
sleep if I could have such dreams! But I have a
letter from Dryman telling me I must be in the
city to-day. I will be back here soon—and who
knows but I may stumble once more upon the fair
unknown?”

“I intend calling and paying my respects this
morning.”

“You! But, Glenham, what claim have you to
call? She doesn't know you!”

“The deuce she doesn't! Didn't I frighten her
horse with my gun? I must call and make an
apology.”

“But Miss Sunflower—I beg her pardon, Holyoke—expressly
told us that none but the relatives
of the pupils were allowed to visit them.”

“Is it possible, my dear fellow, that you are so
exceedingly verdant as to mind such a prohibition,
where a pretty girl is concerned?”

“If you go, I will stay and go too,” said Fleetwood.

“Bravo, Fred!” returned Glenham. “I begin to

think that you are really in for it. But I shall cut
you out. There is no chance for you whatever,
my dear boy. I have got to pass a whole month
longer at Blackberry Hill—a whole month—with
nothing to do, if I choose, but make love. I look
upon the appearance of the incognita, under these
circumstances, as little less than providential.”

“She is not a woman to be insulted,” said Fleetwood
with sudden emotion, for there was something
in the tone of assurance of his companion,
which jarred most ungraciously upon his feelings.

“I wonder who she is, and who her papa is, and
whether he is respectable, that is, lives upon the
interest of his money,” said Glenham, not noticing
his companion's remark. “But come;” he continued—“the
Holyoke Seminary is at least three miles
distant—let us mount our horses and set forth.
This being a Saturday, we shall be likely to find
that there is an intermission of the school.”

Fleetwood complied with the suggestion. But
he felt in no mood for talking, on the road. If any
remarks were made they came from Glenham, and
would hardly add by their repetition any contributions
of value to our ethical literature.

Arriving at the gate of the Seminary, the young
men tied their horses and passed under an arch of
old, umbrageous elms towards the house. Glenham,
who naturally took precedence in impudence,
led the way. As they approached the piazza the
tones of a piano accompanied by a female voice
arrested their attention and their steps. A song
from “Amilie,” beginning “To the vine-feast” was
recognized at once by Fleetwood. He was charmed
with the animation and enthusiasm thrown into
it by the singer. He half wished that she might
be Adelaide. A step farther, and he found that his
wish was granted.

On hearing footsteps she rose to quit the apartment.

Seeing her about to escape, Glenham, without
more ado, threw open the front door, entered
the room, and confronted her with a profound bow.
Adelaide did not recognize the gentleman, and
quietly remarking that she would order the servant
to send Miss Holyoke to him, she continued her
steps towards the door.

“The gentleman who saved your life, Mr. Fleetwood!”
said Glenham, pointing towards his companion,
who at this moment entered, and who, half
abashed at the audacious example he had unreflectingly
followed, bowed respectfully and said: “Being
about to leave this place for the city. I could
not relinquish the pleasure of satisfying myself in
person that you had received no injury from yesterday's
accident.”

“And I, Miss Winfield,” (Glenham had been examining
the corners of a handkerchief she had left
on the piano,) “I could not rest till I had apologised
for being the unfortunate cause of your horse's flight.
From this time forth I forswear shooting.”

“Really, gentlemen”—said Adelaide; but the
door opened, as she began, and in swept Miss Holyoke.
From the expression of her face, on seeing the
visitors, Glenham perceived at once that an extraordinary
propitiation was necessary. Never did
he display to more advantage his gift of impromptu
lying.

“Ahem! I have called, Miss Holyoke,” he
said, with a look of grave importance—“I have
called at the request of two or three fashionable
families of my acquaintance in New York to learn
your terms of tuition, and inquire into the nature of
the studies pursued at your far-famed seminary.”

The expression of acerbity and indignant inquiry
on the lady's face at once gave place to one of gracious
affability.

“Will you be seated, gentlemen,” she said with a
condescending smile.

“Mr. Fleetwood, madam, you already know,
I believe,” said Glenham. “I had the honor to introduce
him to you on the beach. Mr. Fleetwood,
may I ask you to do a similar kind office for me?”

“Certainly, certainly,” murmured Fleetwood, dismayed
at his companion's assurance. “This is
Mr. Glenham, madam; he belongs to one of our
oldest New York families, and his aunt's country
seat is on that hill—Blackberry Hill—which you
see at some four miles' distance.”

“I have often heard of Miss Glenham,” said Miss
Holyoke, for whom as an old maid she felt no little
sympathy.

“Had she not been too infirm, she would have
visited you herself on this errand,” interrupted Glenham.
“She begged me to present her respects, and
to say that she would be most happy to receive you
at Blackberry Hill.”

“She does me too much honor,” simpered Miss
Holyoke; and then, seeing that Fleetwood was undertaking
to engage Adelaide in conversation, she
exclaimed: “Adelaide, you may go to your studies;”
but a second consideration, not altogether
disinterested in its nature, occurred to Miss Holyoke.
She could not forbear reflecting that so creditable
a specimen as Adelaide, of what she was
pleased to consider the fruits of her instruction,
would serve to impress Glenham favorably as to
the character and advantages of her school. “You
may remain, Adelaide, upon the whole,” added the
instructress. And then a little embarrassed as to
whether she should violate a rule or commit an indecorum
she concluded by introducing “Miss Winfield”
to both the young gentlemen.

With unfeigned reluctance, Adelaide remained.
Shy as she was of forming acquaintances among

females, it was natural that for the same cause she
should be far more reserved towards individuals of
the other sex. There was something, however, in
the circumstances under which Fleetwood approached
her, and in his grace and respectfulness
of manner, which rendered her more than usually
incautious as soon as she became interested in conversation.
Wishing to measure the extent of her
literary attainments, Fleetwood took occasion to allude
to a new and elegant translation of Goethe's
Faust, which had just appeared. He asked Adelaide
if she had seen it. She replied that she had
not, and added that the man who could produce an
adequate translation of Faust must have the genius
to write a poem equal to the original. “Then you
read the original?” asked Fleetwood, putting his
question in German, of which he had a smattering.
To his surprise Adelaide replied in the same tongue,
with so pure an accent, and so much fluency, that
he inadvertently exclaimed: “Then you are yourself
a German?” “Not so.” replied Adelaide;
“but I lived some years in a German family.”

The conversation turned upon music; and Adelaide
discoursed upon the subject in a vein of originality
and enthusiasm, which convinced her hearer
that she had given it her profound and well directed
study. Of all the great masters Mozart was her
favorite. She regarded him as bearing the same
relation to Beethoven that Shakspeare did to Milton.
Bellini she considered the Tom Moore of
composers; Rossini the Byron.

Little had Fleetwood imagined that accompanied
with so much personal loveliness he should find so
much good sense, talent and vivacity. He was
charmed in spite of himself; and when Glenham
rose, and signified to him that it was time to depart,
for that they had been there half an hour, he was on

the point of exclaiming, “then it is the shortest half
hour that I ever knew!”

As soon as they were in their saddles, Glenham
began: “Acknowledge, Fleetwood, that I am the
most generous man alive.”

“Say the most audacious, and you will not be far
from the truth,” was the reply.

“Is this all the gratitude I get for keeping that old
woman in a sweet humor, while you undertook to
commend yourself to the good graces of the young
one? But, no matter! My turn will come soon.
I lay my foundations broad and deep. I shall attack
the enemy from an ambuscade. I have already
made wonderful progress. Will you believe
it, Fleetwood? I am invited to make one of the
board of examiners at the next exhibition of the
school.”

“Did you find out anything about her?” asked
Fleetwood.

“About the incognita? No. Nothing very satisfactory.
Miss Holyoke twice evaded my question
as to who the girl was and where she came from.
I shouldn't wonder if she were an heiress from this
circumstance.”

“She is beautiful—very beautiful—and high-spirited
too—I could see that. Do you know, Glenham,
that I am half in love?”

“You don't say so! What will you give me for
not coming in your way?”

“Pshaw! I will let her know before to-morrow
that I am her admirer. Let me see! Could we
not get up a serenade?”

“Nothing easier. You have only to drive to
Norwalk, and engage the band that came down yesterday
in the steamboat.”

“I will do it at once,” exclaimed Fleetwood.

“That is right,” said his companion. “And I
will take the credit of the thing,” he added, sotto voce.

About one o'clock the next morning, a strain of
wind music under Adelaide's window disturbed the
deep and solemn stillness of the hour. For some moments
her waking faculties seemed to struggle with
a sense of Elysian sweetness, in which her spirit
sought to be detained. An undetermined twilight
of the mind, between sleeping and waking, succeeded;
for a moment her soul was on tiptoe, as
it were, all faculties merged in that of hearing. At
length her eyes opened. She was awake. The
serenaders were playing “Oft in the stilly night.”
She arose, drew a shawl about her shoulders, and
looked from the window, which she had left partly
open on retiring. Half a dozen musicians were
grouped under a tree. Apart from them, on a patch
of moonlight that fell upon the flag-stones leading
to the front door, stood a figure, which she recognised
at once as that of Fleetwood. He had a guitar
in his hand, and seemed to catch sight of her as
she looked forth, for he threw off his cap, and bowed,
and as the music terminated at that instant he
lifted his guitar and sang:—

He ceased, and looked to receive some token that
his appeal was not unheeded. But a white curtain
was dropped where he before caught a glimpse of
Adelaide's figure. There was certainly no encouragement
to a lover in this sign. The band
played a few more popular airs, and then the whole
party retired, Fleetwood more than ever enamored
because of the discouragement he had encountered.

And what became of Adelaide? Acutely alive
to the influences of music, and a critical judge, she
had listened to the serenade with emotions of delight,
such as she had never before experienced.
But it was not her taste for art alone that was gratified
on this occasion. All the finer sensibilities of
her nature were touched. For some minutes after
the serenaders had departed she sat lost in a reverie.
Her eyes dilated—her breast heaved—and
a proud smile sat throned upon her lips—as if
visions of transcendant beauty had been suddenly
revealed. Then, as if they had been as quickly
withdrawn, her countenance fell. She rose, and
looking upwards with an expression of unutterable
despair, buried her face in her hands, and gave vent
to her tears. The spell of young romance was
at an end. The reality that succeeded was too
dark and cold.

Modern science has proved that there are persons
with a nervous organization so wonderfully
delicate, that they form correct impressions instantaneously
in regard to the character of those with
whom they are brought in contact. A sort of
instinct like that which makes a dog slink away
from the person who is about to strike him, although
no outward premonitory sign of the act has been
given, seems to tell them whom to avoid and whom
to trust. Well may Adelaide have been startled,
therefore, when she awoke to a consciousness of

the direction in which the needle of her heart's
compass was now pointing.

“Let me shun these dreams before it is too late,”
she hoarsely whispered, while her frame involuntarily
shuddered. “They can never be realised by
one who is a —. Merciful God, why was I
born? The endearing amenities of home are not
for me; the ties of consanguinity do not exist—and
love, should I ever feel it, can lead only to anguish
and life-long wretchedness!”

And then, as if struck with contrition for these
repining thoughts, she poured out her soul in a
prayer to heaven for forgiveness. It was not till
the crimson of sunrise had mingled with the waning
light of the moon, that she sank into a calm and
dreamless sleep.