University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Miss Clarence left the auction room, overpowered
by confused and painful feelings. The mortification
of seeing her own portrait, however disguised
by the romantic position in which she was placed,
exposed at a public sale, and bid upon by Roscoe,
at first blunted every other sensation. But considerations
of deeper, and more painful, as well as of
more generous interest, soon arose in her mind, and
entirely possessed it. Seton was living—was enduring
the extremity of misery, for nothing short of
that, could have induced him to part with a picture,
which proved with what tenacity, with what fond
partiality, he had retained her image. Estimating
her personal charms, more humbly than any
one else would have done, Gertrude esteemed the
portrait, a lover's apotheosis of his mistress.

She had penetrated the crowded passage, and
reached the outer door, when it occurred to her, that
she might possibly obtain some clue to Seton, by ascertaining
from the auctioneer how the picture came
into his hands; and she turned to retrace her way
to the parlor, but she was daunted by perceiving
that her undecided movements were observed by
those who had noticed her flushed and agitated

countenance, as she had hurried through the entry;
and naturally interpreting others by her own consciousness,
she believed the resemblance of the picture
had been generally detected; and she felt herself
at the mercy of whatever conjectures and inferences
the vulgar and curious might make. More
than ever embarrassed, she turned again towards
the door, got into the carriage, and obeying a sudden
impulse, ordered the coachman to drive to No.
— Walker-street—Mrs. Roscoe's address. At first
occupied with the single desire to obtain Roscoe's
co-operation in finding Seton, she determined to
dissipate the little mystery in which she was involved.
`But why was this necessary to effect her purpose?'
`at least,' she thought, listening to those
long cherished feelings that were resuming their
force, `at least, why not retain my innocent incognita,
till there is some object to be effected by resigning
it. It certainly would not stimulate Gerald Roscoe's
zeal, to know he was serving Miss Clarence.

How much Gertrude's desire to see Roscoe's mother—the
woman of all her sex, she most desired
to know, influenced her in selecting the mode of
searching out Seton, we leave to those to determine,
who are skillful in unravelling the intricate web
of human motives. Certain it is, that when Mrs.
Roscoe's door was opened to her, and she was told
that lady was at home, she would have exchanged her
location for any other on the habitable globe. She
was however, somewhat reassured by finding the
parlor vacant. The landlady who admitted her,
went to summon Mrs. Roscoe, and Gertrude was
left to her own meditations. `This then, she thought,

`is the abode of the Roscoes—what a change, from
the sumptuous style in which they once lived! and
yet it does not differ much from the picture my imagination
has drawn, for here are the indications of
taste, and refinement, and intellectual occupation.
Her eye ran rapidly over the apartment. Nothing
could be more simple than the furniture, but there
was that grace and propriety in its arrangement,
that marks the habits and taste of a lady. A piano,
a guitar, and a flute, with music books, a few volumes
of the best French and Italian authors, some
choice English books, the best foreign and domestic
reviews, a port-folio of drawings, a freshly painted
bunch of flowers, copied from some natural ones
still blooming in a tumbler, indicated the luxuries
in which the Roscoes still indulged.

While Gertrude was eagerly gathering a little
history from these particulars, the mistress of
the house returned. She evidently thought some
apology necessary for the delay of Mrs. Roscoe's
appearance, and while she mended the fire, “I am
sure,” she said, “Mrs. Roscoe will be down directly;
it is quite contrary to her habits to keep
any one waiting. She has broken my Emma of
ever fixing after company comes. She says we
have no right to sacrifice others' time to our vanity,
and Emma looks upon every thing she says just
like the proverbs.”

Gertrude wondered that a lady whose punctuality
was so exact, should be so dilatory on this occasion.
Her impatience arose from the fear that
Roscoe might return before she should get away.
“Perhaps,” she said, rising with the intention of

going, “perhaps Mrs. Roscoe is particularly engaged.”

“Oh no, Miss, nothing that will keep her more
than a minute. Mr. Gerald came in just the minute
before you did, with some great news, I suppose,
for he was all out of breath, and he's telling it to
his mother. It's nothing disagreeable,” she continued,
observing Gertrude's countenance change,
“I never saw two persons look happier. I should
think Mr. Gerald had drawn a prize in the lottery.”

“I will not disturb them, then,” said Gertrude,
moving towards the door.

“You'll not disturb them in the least, ma'am—
there they are coming now.” Gertrude heard their
footsteps descending the stairs: to retreat without
being seen was impossible—to remain calmly where
she was seemed to Gertrude quite as much so.
They paused at the foot of the stairs, and were in
earnest conversation. Gertrude, unconscious what
she did, took up a book.

“My John's Spanish grammar,” said the landlady,
anxious to fill up the awkward chasm, and
having the liberal communicativeness natural to
persons of her order, who have rather a sympathetic
turn of mind, she proceeded, “Mrs. Roscoe is
giving my son lessons in Spanish. He is going
out supercargo to south America, and she is as
much engaged in it as if it was her own interest.”

“Does Mrs. Roscoe understand Spanish?” asked
Miss Clarence, hardly knowing what she said.

“La! yes, Miss, and every thing else I believe.
She has taught the world and all, to my Emma, so
she gets a genteel living as governess.”

“I thought Mrs. Roscoe was an invalid.”

“She is of the delicate kind, but she keeps off
the thoughts of it by being always busy doing good
to somebody, instead of pining and going to bed
as some ladies do. I never knew her give up but
once.”

“When was that?” asked Gertrude, who was
sustaining her part in the conversation with about
as much interest as a person does while sitting in a
dentist's chair, awaiting the coming of that dreaded
executioner.

“Why that, Miss,” replied the landlady, “was
when that dreadful business of Mr. Gerald Roscoe's
and the Laytons was going on.”

`What do you mean?' Gertrude would have inquired,
for her curiosity was now thoroughly awakened.
But again she heard approaching footsteps.
The loudest, firmest step was, however, evidently
retreating, and she breathed more freely—the door
was half opened, and she heard Roscoe, who was
leaving the house, turn back and say, “Oh, I forgot
to ask you if you went to see Miss Clarence
this morning?”

“Yes, I went; but there were half a dozen carriages
at the door, and I did not go in—and on
the whole I believe I shall not go at all.”

“You are right. It can be of no consequence
to her.” The outer door closed, and Mrs. Roscoe
entered. The blush of alarmed and conflicting
feelings was still on Gertrude's cheek. She was in
the presence of the woman who of all others she
most wished to please, and she was nearly deprived
of the faculties of speech and motion. Mrs. Roscoe

apologized for having kept her waiting. There
was a gentle courtesy and softness in her manners
that seemed rather to appeal for the indulgence of
others, than to indicate they needed it. Gertrude
was somewhat re-assured, made a bold effort, and
remarked that `it was unusually cold.' Mrs. Roscoe
thought on the contrary `it was the warmest
weather ever known at that season.'

Gertrude abandoned that ground, and observed
that our climate, was inconstant. Nobody could
controvert this position, and there was a full stop.
Mrs. Roscoe rung for more coal, begged Gertrude
to draw nearer to the fire, and exhausted all the little
resources of politeness. Fortunately Gertrude in
removing her chair, knocked down the Spanish
grammar, and now recovering in some degree the
possession of her mind, she made a graceful
allusion to what the landlady had said of Mrs.
Roscoe's occupations.

“Ah, poor Mrs. Smith! no Pharisee ever had a
more faithful trumpeter than she is to me.”

“The voice of the trumpeter could hardly be
mistaken for the genuine expression of gratitude.”

“But I am really the debtor to my good landlady;
those know not how much they bestow, who
give us objects of interest, and means of agreeable
occupation.” The ice was now broken, and never
did a little boat set free more gladly bound over the
waves, than Gertrude skimmed over the light topics
that followed, till she was checked by the very natural
thought, that there was no propriety in deferring
to announce her business. Mrs. Roscoe interpreted
the embarrassed pause in the conversation; she saw

that Gertrude's was the diffidence of excited sensibility,
not of gaucherie, and skilfully extending the
aid of a leading question, she said, “There is
perhaps a misunderstanding. Mrs. Smith is a
blunderer—you did not say you had business with
me?”

“Yes, indeed I did,” said Gertrude, recovering
herself, “but Mrs. Roscoe must blame herself if
the pleasure of seeing her has put every thing else
out of my head; I ought not to have forgotten that
I had no pretence for my intrusion but business. I
met Mr. Gerald Roscoe”—there may be those who
having felt similar emotions at pronouncing simply
a name, will pardon Gertrude for faltering at “Roscoe,”
for the deep mortifying crimson that overspread
her face, and for the tremulous tone in which she
blundered through the simplest sentence possible—
“I met Mr. Gerald Roscoe at an auction this morning”—she
would have proceeded to speak of the
picture, but the words and the blush were enough—
Mrs. Roscoe interrupted her, took her hand, and
said, her eyes beaming with animation, “I understand
all—I have the pleasure of seeing the lady of
Trenton Falls. My son has already told me of
his fortunate meeting with you this morning, and of
his”—

“His bidding on a picture for me,” said Gertrude,
eagerly putting this interpretation on a wish
she had implied by laying her hand on Roscoe's
arm.

“No,” replied Mrs. Roscoe, with a smile, “that
was not precisely Mr. Roscoe's understanding—he
flattered himself that the fortunate purchase was his

own—but the fates are against him; on coming
out of the auction room he met the painter of the
picture”—

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Gertrude, her cheek
suddenly losing its heightened color, and becoming
as pale as marble, “did he see him?”

“Yes—and he claimed the picture with such fervent
feeling, that my son, reluctant as he was to
part with it, resigned it to him. He took it, intreated
not to be followed, and disappeared.”

“Then all clue to him is again lost!”

“Will you give my son authority to search for
him?”

“Certainly—he will oblige me infinitely.”

Gertrude rose to take leave; Mrs. Roscoe laid
her hand on Gertrude's arm, “My young friend,”
she said, “we must not part strangers—strangers
we are not; but I have as yet thought of you as a
vision with which my imagination only could be
familiar. I am delighted to have the assurance of
my senses of your actual substantial existence—you
must not leave me now. It is quite time for my son
to return; let him have the pleasure of receiving
your commission from your own lips.”

“Oh, no, I cannot, indeed,” Gertrude replied, in
a manner so flurried that it was evident Mrs. Roscoe
had suggested the strongest motive for her instant
departure. “Then,” said Mrs. Roscoe, detaining
the hand Gertrude had extended to her, “at
least give me your name; we should know a lady
who moves in daylight, and carries a card-case, by
a less romantic designation than `the lady of Trenton
Falls.”'

This rational request placed Gertrude's incognita
in a very ridiculous light, and feeling that it
did so, she opened her card-case; but recollecting
that the step she had taken, though quite proper
for a stranger, was awkward for Miss Clarence,
and recollecting too that she had been neglected,
shunned, and, as she believed, contemned by both
mother and son, she reverted to her first decision,
and closing the card-case, said, “Pardon me, Mrs.
Roscoe, my name, unhappily, would dispel the little
interest which it has been my good fortune to excite,
and for which, mortifying as the confession is,
I know I am indebted to the accident of a trifling
mystery. It will be enough for Mr. Roscoe to
know that his inquiries may relieve the most painful
solicitude of one whom he has twice materially
served.”

“My son wants nothing to stimulate his zeal,
though he may not be too modest to ask for your
name to reward it; but pardon me, I perceive the
subject is painful to you. My son has it already in
his power to communicate some circumstances in
relation to your friend, of which you are ignorant.
He knows that the young man passes by an assumed
name, and at present sedulously conceals his place
of abode; something more he may have to tell, if
you allow him the opportunity.”

“Certainly; I will send my servant here to-morrow
for any information he may be able to give me,
and I beg that you, Mrs. Roscoe, will express to
him my sense of his kindness.” She then departed,
leaving Mrs. Roscoe in a half pleasing, half

painful state of uncertainty, but with a positive unqualified
interest in Gertrude, and sympathy with
Gerald.

“I have measured and weighed every circumstance,”
she said, after having related the particulars
of Gertrude's visit to her son, “and I can hit
on no solution more rational than the first that occurred
to me. Your heroine, Gerald, has undoubtedly
a clandestine attachment to this poor youth—
she is evidently a woman of education, of thorough
good-breeding, of sentiment, and uncommon refinement;
this painter is some `young Edwin' of lowly
fortune, frowned upon by her parents or guardians,
and she is naturally anxious to maintain secrecy,
while she still perseveres in her interest in the young
man—poor girl, I shall pity her when she comes to
know the history of his sufferings.”

Roscoe shook his head. “For Heaven's sake, my
dear mother,” he said, “do hit upon some other
solution—this is purely feminine, and savours of old-fashioned
ballad sentimentality.”

“Really, Gerald, it does not become a youth, who
falls in love at first sight with a nameless, mysterious
fair one, to rebuke his mother's sentimentality
—what other solution do you prefer? Would you
be resigned to the truth that her name was a dishonoured
one? disgraced by either parent?”

“I would prefer any reason for her mystery, independent
of herself.”

“Any explanation that left her affections free, and
attainable, Gerald?”

“Pretty well probed, mother. Yes, I would.”

“Amen, my son; I have no fears that you will

suffer from a predilection which as yet is a mere
fancy; to tell the truth, I am half in love with the
sweet girl myself. Abandon yourself to destiny.
Gerald; if her affections are pledged, or if she is
not worthy of yours, you will find it out in time;
diseases have their day, and incurable love is not the
malady of ours.”

“Love! Heaven preserve us! mother, you do
not fancy I am seriously in love?”

Mrs. Roscoe laughed—Gerald laughed, and
blushed, and looked—we blush too, to apply the
degrading epithet to the fine face of our hero, but it
is the only one that accurately describes a certain
expression that `happeneth to all men'—Gerald
Roscoe looked sheepish, and thus, for the time, the
discussion ended.

Meanwhile Gertrude, whose perseverance in her
mystery, we by no means approve, nor would hold
forth as a possible precedent for any of our young
friends, was congratulating herself on her success,
little dreaming of the suspicions to which she had
made herself liable. The visit had been as interesting
to her as a voyage of discovery. Every
thing she had seen and heard at Mrs. Roscoe's had
tended to confirm her favorable impressions of that
lady. She contrasted her elevated and happy mode
of life, with Mrs. Layton's indolence, indulgence, and
sacrifices to fashion; with the ignorance and vulgar expense
of the Browns and the Stanleys; and she learned
more of true philosophy and political economy
from the morning's observation, than she would have
gathered from volumes of dull treatises—more of

the just use of property, and the true art of happiness.

The following morning she sent a servant with a
note to Mr. Roscoe, containing a simple request,
that he would send her whatever information he had
obtained of her friend. The servant returned with
a note. Gertrude inquired of her messenger if any
questions had been put to him. “No; the gentleman
had given him the note without speaking one
word;” and Gertrude, ashamed that she had for a
moment suspected Roscoe's interest or curiosity
might overcome his delicacy, retired to her room,
locked her door, and closed her blinds, before she
read the note. Strange are the outward signs of hidden
feelins!

The note ran as follows: “I am mortified that I
“cannot relieve a `solicitude,' (worth the sufferings
“of its object to have excited,) by any satisfactory
“information of your friend. I have ascertained
“merely, that the picture, in the absence of its
“owner and painter, (for who but a witness of that
“scene could have made such a presentment of it?)
“was sent by his landlady to auction. He returned,
“and found it gone—and alarmed at his loss, and
“still more at the descration of the picture by an
“exposure to a public sale, he repaired to the auc
“tion. I met him, as my mother has already in
“formed you, and perceiving to what a degree his
“sensibility was excited, I taxed my wits and my
“magnanimity, and, without any absolute sacrifice
“of veracity, made it appear that the picture had
“not been seen by any eye but mine, and that I had
“assumed it as a trust for him. He took it, and

“thanked me, as if he had received something very
“like a gift of life; and then intreating that I would
“not inquire for him, and assuring me that I should
“hear from him at some future time, he left me. At
“your bidding, I have violated his wishes, and made
“a most thorough search for him. All I can ascer
“tain is, that he is constantly occupied with his art,
“and is solicitous to remain concealed. He has
“changed his lodgings, after having told his land
“lady that inquiry after him would be fruitless.
“My mother imprudently told you I had something
“to communicate of this person; but, unhappily, it
“is nothing that can enlighten you as to his present
“condition, or relieve any anxiety you may feel as
“to what may have been his past sufferings. He
“has suffered long and severely from a malady of
“the mind, which was finally relieved by judicious
“care and medical art. For many weeks past, I
“have reason to believe, his external condition has
“been tolerable. Whatever sorrows of the heart
“he may still endure, are, perhaps, quite as much
“to be envied as pitied.

“My mother bids me ask if there is not one drop
“of pity in your woman's heart for the pains and
“penalties of curiosity? For myself, I am at last
“resigned to the penance you have inflicted. I am
“grateful to fortune for past favors, and take them
“to be an earnest of her future smiles. The vision
“of a moonlight night, in the bewildering scenes of
“Trenton, might be the coinage of the o'er-wrought
“fancy; but daylight, a city, and an auction-room,
“are not visited by spirits, and a form that moves
“on our pavé and in our hackney-coaches, cannot

“escape the eye, always in quest of it—so says my
“awakened hope. I have made a covenant with
“my lips, and shall ask no questions, but humbly
“await the hour when you, or kind chance, shall
“reward my forbearance. I shall not wait long, if
“you are but half as much impressed as I am with
“my own greatness in this matter. If I can be of
“any farther use to you, I pray you to command
“the services of

“Your very humble servant,
“Gerald Roscoe.”

Gertrude's solicitude for Seton was rather augmented
than abated by this communication. It
was evident that Roscoe knew more particulars of
Seton's suffering than he imparted, and she was
left to conjecture, but not to exceed in her most
distressful imaginings, the real truth.

The main subject of Roscoe's letter did not so
utterly engross her but that she scanned every
word. `There is nothing in it,' thought she, after
having thoroughly weighed it—`nothing more
than bare curiosity—and why should I expect to
find any thing else? Poor Louis—how can my
thoughts wander from you!' Gertrude was yet to
learn that expectations arise unbidden and unauthorized—that
duty cannot control or guide our
subtle thoughts. Hers reverted to Roscoe. `Perhaps
I have done wrong—this assumption of mystery—my
gratuitous visit, are certainly contrary
to my father's maxim—that a young woman should
never depart from the established and salutary
rules of society—that she should live within the

barriers. But is not this fastidiousness? Life would
be dull enough if we must for ever walk in the trodden
path—never follow the inspiration of feeling.
Still, my going there, betrayed my feelings—what
feelings! How unlike Roscoe's letter is, to Louis'
distant, delicate, fearful devotion; but why should
there be any resemblance? What could that talking
woman mean by his affair with the Laytons.'

“Shall I take out your pink, or fawn colored
dress for this evening?” asked Gertrude's maid,
who entered, and interrupted and put to flight her
sweet meditations. The important decision between
the rival colours was soon made, and Gertrude
joined a brilliant musical party in the drawing-room.