University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

At the breakfast table the next morning the event
of the serenade was a matter of general remark
among the pupils. Miss Holyoke had fortunately
slept through it all; and although a little scandalised
by the interest which the young ladies of her establishment
seemed to take in the affair, she did not
attach to it that importance, which it would seem
to merit. No one for an instant imagined that the
compliment was intended for Adelaide. She alone
had heard her name breathed in the serenade. Indeed,
several of the elder girls looked very mysterious,
as if to say as plainly as they could by looks,
“we could tell, if we would, for whom it was all
designed.”

It would be unnecessary to relate with minuteness,
all the incidents which forced upon Fleetwood's
mind the conviction that not only was the
state of Adelaide's feelings unfavorable to himself,
but that she regarded Glenham with a flattering
degree of partiality. Let it not be inferred from
this that Fleetwood had committed himself by a
formal offer of his hand. The remembrance of
those parental injunctions, to which we have alluded,
would alone have been sufficiently potent to deter
him from such inconsiderate haste; and no man of
sagacity need run the hazard of a verbal refusal
where he is dealing with a woman of candor and
refinement. There are a thousand delicate ways

by which she will signify to him that his attentions
are not agreeable.

The day after the serenade being the Sabbath,
Fleetwood attended the village church in the hope
of finding an opportunity of forwarding his acquaintance
with Adelaide. After service was over he
joined her; and the road homeward being muddy
from a recent shower, he offered his arm by way
of guide. This she declined. Shortly afterwards
they were joined by Glenham, who also proffered
his arm, when much to his companion's surprise, it
was accepted. A little more knowledge of the
mysteries of the female heart would have caused
Fleetwood to put a different construction upon this
act, but as it was, he regarded it at the moment as a
decided token of preference. Other indications
equally significant followed. Add to these, Glenham
invariably boasted of his rapid success; and,
at length, Fleetwood, unable to elicit a faint sign of
encouragement, resolved, after many a heart-pang, to
abandon the trial. Love requires some hope, however
small, for its aliment; and he had as yet received
none. After remaining some ten days longer at
Soundside, during which Glenham had so far mollified
Miss Holyoke that she interposed no obstacle
to their visits, Fleetwood called to take a final farewell
of Adelaide.

On his way he encountered Glenham.

“You seem in bad humor, Glenham? What is
the matter?”

“We have been barking up the wrong tree, Fred,
puppies that we have been.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear fellow. Explain.”

“Having reason to believe that our incognita
was an heiress, I made her an offer of my hand this
morning, and—can you conceive it?—the girl had
the assurance to refuse me most unhesitatingly.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Fleetwood, his eyes
sparkling with delight.

“You needn't look so well pleased, my boy. You
will not have her even if you could when you hear
all.”

In accounting for Glenham's conduct, it should be
borne in mind that Adelaide's singular personal attractions
were of a character to make the most
frigid heart beat with emotion in her presence.
Glenham was as seriously in love as his sensual nature
would permit, notwithstanding the pretence
that his belief that the girl was an heiress was the
main motive of his offer. Fleetwood, supposing that
he was sincere in this profession, naturally felt no
pity for his discomfiture; and exulted in the thought
that Adelaide might yet be won.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked in reply
to Glenham's last remark.

“There is a stain upon her escutcheon—the bar
sinister—” muttered Glenham significantly.

“What! Do you mean to say she is —”

“Ay, it is a deplorable fact. Her father and mother
were never married; and considering the existing
prejudices of society, I think we had better cut
her acquaintance.”

“Poor girl! poor girl!”

“Poor girl! Nonsense! She ought to be amenable
to the law for procuring lovers under a false
pretence—under the pretence that she was a lady.”

“And so she is, and ever must be!” exclaimed
Fleetwood with animation; “a lady by nature's
own stamp, which no outward circumstance can
ever efface! Did we not thrust ourselves upon her
acquaintance in spite of all rebuffs? Has she ever
by a look or word encouraged our addresses?”

“Stop, stop,” interposed Glenham; “you forget,
my dear fellow, the day she refused your arm and
took mine.”

“That act may be construed in two different
ways,” replied Fleetwood.

“What! Do you pretend to say that she has not
all along encouraged me in preference to yourself?”

“I know not what to think,” mused Fleetwood,
in whose mind some dim notions of the true state of
the case began to dawn. “Poor Adelaide! beautiful,
accomplished, high-bred—is she then an outcast
from that society which she is so fitted to
adorn? Poor girl! I can now imagine why she
has repelled my advances; why she has avoided
extending the slightest encouragement to my attentions.
But now the gulf between us is impassable!”

“Of course,” continued Glenham, “no gentleman
would now think of making love to her with any
matrimonial intentions. But I shall keep up the acquaintance
pour passer le temps. It would be impossible,
of course, for me now to occupy the relation
of a husband; but I may persuade her to place
herself under my protection nevertheless, one of
these days.”

Fleetwood started as if a venomous reptile had
touched his flesh with its cold slime. He conceived
a sort of loathing for his companion, indicated rather
by looks than words.

“Surely, Glenham,” said he, “you wouldn't be
such a craven villain as to approach the unfortunate
girl with any other thoughts than those of kindness
and respect?”

“Be more choice in the epithets you apply to
conduct, which you assume as possible on my part,”
retorted Glenham.

“I am glad to hear you speak of it as an assumption,”
replied Fleetwood. “Come, come; we will
not quarrel. You can now see that the girl had
good reason to refuse you; and your self-complacency
need not suffer in the retrospect. As for myself
I was on my way to take leave of her—a final

one it is likely to be now. Let us not seek, Glenham,
to add to the misfortunes, which her very birth
imposed upon her. By heavens! since I cannot be
her lover, I will be her brother, if she will let me,
and I can occupy the position without harm to her
reputation.”

“A brother!” sneered Glenham. “Truly it is
quite refreshing to meet with such verdure in a
young man with ten thousand a-year.”

“Well, as I said before, we will not quarrel,” continued
Fleetwood, with an evident desire to get rid
of his companion. “Have you any commands for
the city? I leave this afternoon in the Bridgeport
boat.”

“Farewell, don't be too fraternal, Fleetwood,”
said Glenham, turning away with a smile, which his
companion did not altogether like.

Fleetwood walked on. The revelations he had
just received in regard to Adelaide awakened in
his mind a succession of conflicting thoughts. First
came an emotion of joy at the recollection of Glenham's
dismissal. Then followed the misgiving,
that she may have loved while she refused him, and
that the cause of the refusal was merely her unfortunate
position in a social point of view. And
lastly occurred the despairing consideration of the
insuperable bar, which this latter circumstance
placed to his own union with her. Could he be so
neglectful of parental prejudices and injunctions, as
to entertain for a moment the idea of wedding one,
who was a Pariah by birth? Should he, the last
of his race, although tracing back his lineage to
the best blood of England and France, should he
select for the mother of his children one, upon
whose genealogy charity would always have to
drop her veil? The impracticability of the thing
effaced the last vestige of hope from his heart.

In the midst of these ruminations he approached

a narrow grove of pines, which bordered on one
side the play-ground attached to Miss Holyoke's
“Seminary for Young Ladies.” The weather was
warm, and he paused under the shade of a tree to
rest himself. Suddenly a troop of girls, amid
shouts and laughter, came forth with bows and
arrows and dressed in archery costumes. One of
them carried a target attached to a pointed staff,
the end of which she thrust firmly in the ground.
And now began the trials of skill. As every successive
arrow fell wide of the mark, a peal of
girlish laughter greeted the failure. The general
mirth was at its height, when Fleetwood saw a new
candidate approaching the scene of action. She
was dressed partially in white, a dark green boddice
setting off to advantage the upper portion of
her figure. A quiver filled with arrows was slung
gracefully over her shoulders, and she carried a
bended bow with an arrow set in the string in her
hands. A straw hat afforded protection to her face
from the sun. She was followed by a lame dog,
which limped after her with difficulty. Fleetwood
at once recognized Adelaide in the new comer.

But however welcome her appearance might be
to him, it seemed to produce a very different effect
upon the young girls, who occupied the playground.
They at once checked their noisy ebullitions
of mirth, withdrew from their sports, and
gathered about one of their number, who, as Adelaide
approached, led her companions in an opposite
direction towards the house. It was not until
Adelaide had reached the archery ground, that she
seemed to be aware of its abandonment by her
schoolmates and of the cause of their departure.
And then she mechanically dropped the bow from
her hands, and slowly snapping the arrow, which
she held, into pieces, flung them upon the ground
at her feet. An expression of deep sorrow, unmingled

with one taint of anger, came over her
face. An old apple-tree, scathed and leafless, offered
its bent trunk for a support. She drooped
her forehead upon its rough bark, and lifting her
hand as if to keep back the tears that threatened
to gush forth, gave way to bitter reflections.

Unseen, but seeing, Fleetwood watched her every
movement, indescribably graceful and picturesque
as it was. His indignation had been aroused by
the unfeeling conduct of those who had shunned
her presence. His intensest sympathies were at
once awakened in her behalf. She was alone in
the wide world—perhaps, like himself, without a
relative. She was avoided by those who were
immeasurably her inferiors in every external and
internal grace. Why should he pause? Why
should he not fly to her side, and pour out the
natural promptings of his heart in her ear? Ah,
Fleetwood! It is not argument—it is not generosity
—it is not philanthropy, that impels you. You
are in love, man—and there is no imprudence, of
which you would not be guilty, rather than be shut
out from the haven of your hopes.