University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

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.

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

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—

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

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.

“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

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?”

“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.

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

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.