University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Fleetwood did not defer his departure. A few
hours after taking leave of Adelaide, he was pacing
the deck of one of the steamboats that ply between
the city of New York and the many beautiful
villages that look out upon the waters of the Sound.
His thoughts were of the sudden and unexpected
step he had taken towards matrimony, and they of
course partook of that rose-colored hue, with which
love ever imbues surrounding objects. He half
regretted that he had not brought Adelaide with
him as his wife. Strangely tender visions of her
loveliness, her forlorn situation, her grace and
genius flitted through his mind, until he reproached
himself with having forsaken her even for the few
days during which it was his intention to be absent.
He never once put himself the question, am I acting
a prudent part? So much did it seem to him
a matter of course, that loving her as he did, he
should seek to make her his own!

But though the absence of the beloved one might
occasion regret, never before had he thought life
so full of sweetness and of blissful import. The
meanest and most common-place object seemed all
at once invested with an interest, which it never
before possessed. They passed an island—a
narrow bar of sand with a few stray blades of grass
scattered along its centre, as if to set off the baldness
of the remaining portions, while a stunted poplar
marked the spot where stood a small hut nearly

dismantled by the tempests and the droughts of
successive seasons. A more desolate looking strip
of barren land could hardly be imagined; but here
a fisherman and his wife contrived to live and
thrive. Fleetwood had often wondered, in passing
this sand-bar, how any of God's intelligent creatures
could exist contentedly upon it. What monotony,
what vacuity, what poverty of occupation, physical
and mental, must they experience! A prison would
be preferable, for there one might have the excitement
of planning an escape; but to remain summer
and winter, year in and year out, on that bleak,
blasted, solitary specimen of a miniature desert,
was more than he could suppose humanity capable
of! It seemed cruelty to compel the very household
cat, that might be seen occasionally creeping
along the sands, to take up its abode there, so dull
and dismal did everything about it appear! Such
were the feelings with which Fleetwood was accustomed
to regard this spot. But now how were
they changed! He gazed on it, and by some
miraculous alchemy it seemed to have been transmuted
into a fairy isle, with luxuriant bowers and
ever-varying landscapes; and he thought, that even
there, with Adelaide, he would be well content.
The wind that sighed through the dismantled hut
would but cause him to press her closer to his
bosom; and the waves that tossed their spray over
the whole breadth of the isle would but make him
the more anxious to shield her with his protecting
love. The solitude would not be irksome, for they
would be all in all to each other; and under such
circumstances society would be intrusive. In short,
our hero almost persuaded himself that the dreary
little sand-bar would be a very proper and delightful
place, whereon to pass the honey-moon. Yes;
it is the soul that sees; and makes “a heaven of
hell—a hell of heaven.”

Fleetwood had passed hardly a week in the city
since the attainment of his majority. After finishing
his collegiate studies he had visited the different
states of the Union, stopping at every place that attracted
him by its beauty, and studying the local
peculiarities of the people. But now, on reaching
New York he drove to one of the principal hotels,
and after engaging the best parlor and bed-room for
his accommodation, dressed and walked forth to call
on his lawyer, Mr. Dryman. On approaching the
door of that gentleman's house, shortly after night-fall,
he found from the letting-down of carriage-steps
and the lights from the windows, that preparations
for a party of some kind were going on. He knocked,
and leaving his card with the servant told him
to tell Mr. Dryman that he would call on him at his
office on the morrow; but he had not proceeded
many paces on his way home to his hotel, when the
same servant, panting with the exertion of running,
arrested his steps, and begged him to return.

Fleetwood did not feel the lack of company.
His thoughts of Adelaide were society enough for
him; but he felt too well disposed towards the world
and all the people in it, at that moment, to refuse
any one a reasonable request. He accordingly retraced
his steps. Mr. Dryman met him at the door.

“My dear Frederick,” said Mr. Dryman, seizing
his right hand in both of his, “this is truly an unexpected
pleasure. How are you, my young friend?
I have been lamenting to Mrs. Dryman all day that
you were not in the city. Come in. You will be
quite an accession to her little dancing party. Some
pretty girls here! Take care, Fred. But you are
somewhat fastidious, if I remember aright.”

And with these remarks, Mr. Dryman led him
by the arm into the gentlemen's withdrawing-room,
and from thence into the parlor, where the company
were assembled. He had never been introduced

to the lady of the house; for, notwithstanding the
familiar manner in which Dryman chose to accost
him, the truth was that the intercourse between the
lawyer and his youthful client had always been as
brief as a necessary attention to occasional business
would permit.

“This is Mr. Fleetwood, my dear. I needn't say
a word more in his behalf,” said Mr. Dryman, a
little flushed with the importance of his announcement,
pushing his way through a circle of young
gentlemen in white kid gloves, and ladies in light
satins.

Fleetwood could not but be conscious of that irrepressible
flutter which takes place in an assembly
upon the announcement of a person, of whom all
have heard, and whom all are curious to see. The
fact was, that Fleetwood had very innocently furnished
an unfailing topic of conversation to Mrs.
Dryman for a whole season. On the credit of her
husband's acquaintance with him she had been invited
to many a house, where there were marriageable
young ladies in the family, and where her
stories of his immense wealth, his elegant personal
appearance, and his attractive manners, coupled
with his remarkable indifference to the approbation
of that mysterious portion of the community known
as fashionable society, never failed to excite eager
and interested hearers. Her look of surprise and
exultation may be imagined when she found herself
face to face with the hero, in whose praise she
she had gossiped so often to so much advantage.
Curtseying profoundly she looked around, as she
rose from her obeisance, with a significant air of
triumph upon the surrounding group of young ladies,
the shrillness of whose commingled voices had
subsided a little as Fleetwood entered.

“We have been wondering for some time, Mr.
Fleetwood, why you could not find charms enough

in the city for at least a flying visit,” said Mrs. Dryman.

“I am not insensible to its charms, madam,” was
the reply. “If I were, I should be in imminent peril
of being cured of my obtuseness this evening.”

Mrs. Dryman looked delighted. It was just the
reply that pleased her best.

“You must dance, Mr. Fleetwood,” she continued.
“Let me present you to a partner. A
cotillion is about to be formed.”

“Do with me as you will, Madam. Though an
accidental recruit you shall not find me backward.”

“Do you see any one to whom you would like to
be introduced, Mr. Fleetwood?”

“I can reply to that question, Madam, without
taking a survey of the field. Introduce me to one
of two ladies in the room—the prettiest or the
homeliest. It is a matter of indifference to me
which.”

“How very odd! But come, I will choose for
you; and the lady shall be Miss Emily Gordon,
whom you see standing yonder by the orange-tree,
beleaguered by ten beaux at once.”

“Do you mean that lady with the cloud-like drapery
floating about her figure—with the fair, clear
complexion, and hair, the hue of which may be said
to be the disputed territory that lies on the borders
of red and auburn? Come now, I admit that she is
more than pretty—she is beautiful.”

Without more words, Mrs. Dryman took her
visitor's arm, and conducting him across the intervening
space, introduced him to Miss Gordon, and
then withdrew for a while to see if the preparations
for supper were all going on smoothly.

“It must be an idle ceremony for me to ask you
to dance the next cotillion with me, Miss Gordon,”
said Fleetwood. “As a matter of course, you are
engaged.”

“Not so; for I have declined dancing again,”
she replied. “But do not let me detain you from
the amusement. The set is forming.”

“I thank you, I am well content to remain where
I am.”

An animated conversation ensued. Fleetwood
could not but confess to himself that he had rarely
met with so agreeable and charming a person. She
was piquante without being ill-natured in her remarks;
and the knowledge which she displayed of
the world, of society, and the current theories of the
day for its reform, surprised and amused him. The
causes of the distress, the destitution and vice prevalent
among the great mass of mankind, became
the theme of a mutually earnest discussion. Emily
was inclined to attribute their existence and increase
to defects in the outward organization of society;
and she believed that Fourier had hit upon the most
feasible plan for a reform.

“Fourier's error, as it seems to me,” replied Fleetwood,
“is in beginning at the wrong end—in attempting
to reform the external before the internal
state, whereas it is the latter that must ever supersede
and mould the former. What folly to talk of
making men and women herd together in one vast
caravansery, while envy, hatred and all uncharitableness
are in their hearts! But his system of association,
he tells us, will harmonise the passions,
and produce that favorable state, which in my
opinion must precede and not follow that dwelling
together in unity, which he recommends. The
idea is fallacious, Miss Gordon. The world is an
arena for the soul's discipline—so reason and revelation
teach us. It matters not what the external
form of life may be, so that the internal be pure,
and active and good. There is no truth more self-evident
to my mind, than that sin brought into the
world all our wo—physical as well as moral—social

as well as individual. Who can deny that the sins
of the fathers are visited on their children? When
I have a twinge of the gout, it is not my own indulgences
in Madeira-tippling that I am paying for,
but those of my great grandfather. And so we see
mental and moral, as well as physical taints bequeathed
through successive generations. If my
ancestors were purer and better than my neighbor's,
where is the injustice if I am born a better
and purer and healthier man than he? The menial
who cleans my boots was born to drudgery and
wretchedness, while I was born to affluence and
ease. But is Heaven therefore unjust? Undoubtedly
it is the duty of every good man to reduce as
much as possible the amount of distress and poverty
in the world. But the inequalities in human condition,
are not to be levelled by social systems of
man's invention. The fault (not to speak it profanely)
is interior and innate. You must go back
to the policy of the ancient Spartans, and put to
death every infant that is born into the world with
mental or bodily defects, if you would carry out
Fourier's plan effectually.”

“And are they then a necessary part of civilization—the
wretchedness, the squalor, the precarious
subsistence, the absence of regular employment of
the lowest and most numerous laboring class?
Must men be driven to crime, and women to dishonor
to sustain life—and is there not something
wrong in the social organization, which compels
them to such alternatives?”

“You must remember,” replied Fleetwood, “that
we are indebted to the effervescence of the work-houses
of Europe, for the pauperism and crime,
with which our large cities have been prematurely
infected. This fact is notorious. Who can tell
what would have been the state of our laboring
population, if, after the declaration of our independence,

the country had been left to its natural
growth, without any accessions from abroad? We
might not have boasted perhaps of our leagues of
railroad, our stupendous canals, and other public
works, but it is not unlikely that we could have
pointed with pride to an unsullied escutcheon—to
contented labor receiving its adequate reward
throughout our borders—to a moral, intelligent,
patriotic and thrifty people. Our institutions, in
their effect upon the laboring classes, have not been
fairly tested, owing to these tremendous irruptions
from monarchichal Europe. It is impossible to say
what our republicanism might not have done for
the prevention of the social evils you deplore, for
we have had engrafted upon us, even in our infancy,
the vices and miseries of the old world.”

“But surely the system of Fourier, in finding
congenial employment for all, is calculated to do
away with much existing misery and destitution?”

“I do not deny that his system is a very good
one for those who can live under it. I should
esteem it a most cheering sign of the progress of
the race to see whole communities forming themselves
into phalanxes and living together like amiable
children of one family; but to suppose people
capable of doing this, is to suppose that they have
attained a state of angelic goodness. The evils
they have inherited and the evils they have taken
unto themselves of their own accord must be pretty
thoroughly rooted out before they can enter harmoniously
upon such a plan of life. While human
nature is as it is, the scheme is chimerical. But
there comes Mrs. Dryman to interrupt us! The
theme is a vast one we have broached—too grave
for an evening party—and too unwieldy for an
amateur like myself to handle.”

As Fleetwood concluded his remark, Mrs. Dryman
approached, having hold of the arm of a young

man of rather distingué appearance, whom he had
not before noticed. She separated from her attendant
as she drew near, and announced that supper
was ready. Fleetwood turned to give his arm
to Miss Gordon, but found that he had been anticipated
by the stranger.

“You shall be my conductor, and we will lead
the way,” said Mrs. Dryman, suiting the action to
the world. “Do you know,” continued she, as she
approached the supper-room with Fleetwood, “that
you have given mortal offence to Count La Salle
by your very acceptable attentions, as they appeared,
to Miss Gordon?”

“And who is Count La Salle?”

“A young Frenchman, who comes here with
letters from our minister in Paris, and other respectable
sources. He is desperately enamored of Miss
Gordon, and until this evening I supposed that his
attentions were not altogether indifferent to her.
He has been watching you for the last ten minutes
with not the most amiable glances, and the poor
man must have bitten his nails to the quick during
that time.”

“I am sorry I should have given him cause for
discomposure,” said Fleetwood.

They entered the supper-room, and after the
customary havoc among stewed oysters, ices and
champagne, Fleetwood resumed the conversation
by the inquiry, “And who is Miss Gordon?”

Mrs. Dryman looked at him, as if she thought he
was quizzing her by the interrogatory, so impossible
did it seem that any young man about town
should be ignorant of one so much courted and
caressed.

“Indeed you must make allowances for my rustic
education,” said Fleetwood, deprecatingly.
“Consider that I have rarely passed more than a
week at a time in the city.”

“Why, she is the reigning belle,” exclaimed Mrs.
Dryman. “No party is considered complete where
Emily Gordon is not present. And then she is so
accomplished, that she is as great a favorite with
philosophers as with fops.”

“Indeed!”

“Oh, yes, I assure you it is true. In the principal
European capitals she was quite as much of a
belle, during the last two winters, as she is here.
She speaks French and Italian as if those languages
were her mother tongue; and then she sings like
a prima donna.”

Mrs. Dryman's account was not exaggerated.
And Emily Gordon had preserved her youth and
freshness of manner with marvellous success. No
one, unless informed, would have imagined that she
was hackneyed in the ways of society. She did
not seem to have lost any of her bloom at midnight
routs, nor to have made callous any of the susceptibilities
of her heart in the school of fashion. Fleetwood
found himself once more in communication
with this dangerous beauty before the breaking-up
of the party. There was something about her
features—something vague and undefined—that
reminded him of Adelaide. Now he thought it
was in her eyes—the next moment in her smile—
and then in the tones of her voice. And did she
cause him to forget, even for an instant, her, the
beautiful and lovely one, whom he had that day
wooed and won? Not at all. But, by a system
of tactics, so subtle that he was unconscious of
them, she managed to keep him for the rest of the
evening by her side. When, as the company were
departing, he threw her shawl over her shoulders,
he caught the eyes of Count La Salle fixed upon
him with a glance of defiance.

“That fellow is disposed to be impertinent,”

thought Fleetwood; “it will not do to let him imagine
that I have shown the white feather.”

A few minutes afterward he was retracing his
steps homeward to his hotel. It was a clear starlight.
The air was soft and mild. It seemed to
him a week since his head last pressed the pillow—
such a series of emotions and thoughts had been
crowded into a few hours. “Dear Adelaide!”
soliloquized Fleetwood, as he took a last look at
the stars before entering his hotel, “as I have eyes
to see and ears to comprehend, you are incomparably
her superior. Light of my life, good
night!”