University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

The second morning after the party at Mr. Dryman's,
Fleetwood sat in the parlor of his hotel, over
a cup of coffee and an omelette, scanning the newspapers,
which had been brought in withhis breakfast.
As he glanced carelessly along the columns for
some paragraph of interest, his attention was slightly
awakened by one promising to give some account
of recent movements in the fashionable world.
After listlessly perusing a few lines, he found that
it contained a sketch of the party of the night before.
He read on, and remarked his name conspicuous
among those of others, who were present. The
following was the passage in which it occurred:—
“The entrance of Mr. Fleetwood of Fleetwood,
“was the signal for a general levelling of quizzing
“glasses on the part of the ladies. This young
“man, by the death of both his parents without
“other issue, was left at an early age the inheritor
“of a large and princely estate, including the noble
“place on the banks of the Hudson, well known by
“the family name. He is good-looking, but said to
“be eccentric and peculiar in his habits and notions
“of life. He was no proof, however, against the
“charms of Miss Emily G—, who, in spite of
“the frowns and evident anger of Count La Salle,
“received her new admirer with unequivocal marks
“of favor. Was it merely to encourage another
“moth to singe its wings in the candle-flame? One
“would think that the young lady had numbered

“victims enough. Both in Europe and in this
“country, she has received offers without number
“from the most eligible men in society. Fleet
“wood is certainly a formidable competitor—but
“he had better look out.”

“Pshaw!” muttered Fleetwood throwing aside
the newspaper with disdain, and sipping his coffee,
as if to take out the taste of the paragraph. “What
license these `pickers-up of unconsidered trifles'
for the public maw, assume with a man's name and
character! Should this impertinent tittle-tattle fall
under Adelaide's eye, I am sure she will prize it at
its worth.”

Re-assured by this conviction, Fleetwood attacked
the omelette, until there was little left of its fair
proportions. He suddenly paused, and set down
his knife and fork.

“And next Saturday,” soliloquized he, “I shall
be a married man! Have I been hasty in taking
this step? Have I been inconsiderate? Ah, no
—Adelaide is purity itself—and did I need an excuse
for our immediate union, surely the circumstance
of her present position would be enough.
But is it pity, that has any weight in urging me to
this consummation? Tell me, my heart—is it pity?
No, no! Is not Adelaide my equal—perhaps my
superior in every respect, save those of birth and
fortune? It is love, and love only, that impels me.
Yes, Adelaide, thou art the first and shalt be the
last, for whose sake that passion has been awakened
in my soul. Nor time nor accident shall dim its
ever full and radiant flame.”

It is something of a bathos to descend from a
rhapsody like this, to bread and butter; but, as a
candid chronicler, I must confess that Fleetwood
having uttered it, did take up a piece of toast and
finish his breakfast like a man with a good appetite.

He had hardly done this, when a servant threw
open the door, and announced “Mr. Gordon.”

“Show him up,” said Fleetwood.

The individual who entered was a fine specimen
of a well preserved “gentleman about town.” His
features, though a little sunken about the cheeks,
were still handsome. His hair was slightly grizzled
about the ears; and a keen pair of gray eyes lent
animation to his face. His figure was erect and
tall. He was dressed in unexceptionable taste, and
there was an air of elegance about him, which gave
the assurance that there was no circle of gentlemen,
in which he would not have been perfectly at
his ease. He entered the room with a free and
cordial bearing, and bowing slightly, said:

“Hearing that a son of my old friend, Frederick
Fleetwood, was in town, and at this house, I could
not miss the opportunity of calling to take him by
the hand.”

“You are welcome, Sir,” returned Fleetwood,
advancing to receive his greeting. “I always rejoice
to meet any man who knew my father.”

“I was indebted to my daughter,” rejoined Mr.
Gordon, “for my first knowledge of your presence
in the city. You may remember meeting her at
the party on Saturday evening.”

“The event was one not likely to be soon forgotten,”
returned Fleetwood. “Will you not be
seated?”

“I can stop only a moment now—having a dozen
engagements in Wall street. But you will dine
with us to-day—will you not? Our hour is five.
You will find the number of my house on this card.”

Fleetwood could not give a good reason for declining
the invitation—and so he accepted it promptly;
and Mr. Gordon, after a parting shake of the
hand with the `son of his old friend,' took his leave.

After a day spent over papers and parchments

at his lawyer's, Fleetwood knocked at the door of
Mr. Gordon's sumptuous up-town abode, with its
patrician, free-stone front and lofty windows. A
servant in livery ushered him into the parlor; and,
on looking round, Fleetwood found himself alone.
He stood in the room fronting upon the street, and
as he glanced in the opposite direction, he was surprised
at the apparent extent and magnificence of
the communicating apartments. Between the two
spacious parlors, which occupied each end of the
house, was an oval saloon, the walls of which were
covered with fluted silk of a light crimson hue,
spangled with stars of considerable size. Passing
into this apartment he was again amazed by the
seeming distance of the enclosed space before him.
Through the second elegantly decorated parlor
were seen open windows reaching to the floor, and
leading into what appeared a wilderness of exotic
trees, shrubs and flowers of the rarest beauty and
most exquisite fragrance, among which Canova's
Hebe stood over a fountain pouring water into a
marble basin, embossed with figures in bas-relief.
Struck with admiration, Fleetwood passed on—it
seemed so like enchantment to be transported at
once from the dust of a crowded street into a bower
of such extent and freshness of verdure! As he
drew near, he saw that the effect of size and distance
was produced by an ingenious arrangement
of mirrors; and he could not but accord his admiration
anew to the art and skill, which had contrived
so agreeable and forcible an illusion. After
lingering among the flowers, of which he was passionately
fond, for a few moments, he retraced his
steps. And now an effect which had excited his
suprise on his first entrance, again arrested his attention.
The weather without was overcast; but
throughout these voluptuous apartments a soft amber
glow, slightly suffused with crimson, was shed.
It was as if the fierce light of the noonday sun had
been softened and subdued by thick saffron curtains;
and it produced that genial sensation of content,
which the `blest power of sunshine' always produces
upon persons impressible to atmospherical influences.
After some examination, Fleetwood discovered
that the efflux must come through certain portions
of the ornamented ceiling, which were formed of
amber-stained glass, and which probably received
the light from a sky-window in the roof of the house.
He could not but admire both the novelty and success
of the contrivance. The exquisite taste of the
furniture also claimed his attention—there was such
adaptation in every article! So precisely fitted
was it by its color and size for the place it occupied!
An exquisite sense of the beautiful in art, thought
Fleetwood, must surely be possessed by the person
who presided over these arrangements! He moved
towards the parlor which he had first entered. A
harp and piano-stool stood in one corner, and on the
floor near them was a glove. He picked it up. It
was small, and white as a snow-drift on the top of
an iceberg. A faint but delicious fragrance seemed
to exhale from the delicate kid. Fleetwood felt as
if he were wandering in the gardens of Epicurus.
A noiseless turn of the door-handle—and enter Miss
Gordon!

She wore a light muslin robe, which floated over
another of a faint straw color, so cut and arranged
as to show off her figure to the best possible advantage.
Her hair, plainly parted and wound in a knot
on the top of her head, offered no impediment to the
display of its classic contour. Her complexion, always
delicate and transparent, seemed luminous
like a `lily in bloom,' in the peculiar light shed
through the apartment. Consummate grace was
in all her movements.

“Good evening, Mr. Fleetwood,” she said, as she

entered the room. “What a pleasant surprise it
was to find that your father and mine were friends!”

“The surprise was as agreeable to me as it could
be to any one else,” replied Fleetwood, bowing.

“But do you not remember ever hearing your
father mention the acquaintance?” continued Miss
Gordon, as she attempted to join the little clasp,
which fastened her glove at the wrist.

“Allow me,” said Fleetwood, performing the office
for her, during which he could not fail to see
that the hand he held was as small and symmetrical
as a sculptor could have wished. And then summoning
his powers of recollection, Fleetwood endeavored
to recall a circumstance, which would
enable him to answer her inquiry in the affirmative.
After ruminating for a moment, he replied:—

“I have an indistinct remembrance of hearing
him mention the name more than once—but it was
in connection with another—what it was, I forget
—ah! Challoner.”

Emily's countenance fell, but she instantly rallied,
and said: “There was good excuse for your forgetting
us, since you knew us only by report. I
hope that your memory will be more tenacious now.”

“I trust I may not have occasion to say, in the
words of the song. `Teach, O, teach me to forget!”'
replied Fleetwood.

The entrance of Mr. Gordon with a lady on his
arm, here interrupted the conversation. The lady
was introduced as Mrs. Gordon, his sister-in-law.
She was of the order termed “stylish” in appearance;
but the freshness of youth was gone from her
features, and she served as an excellent foil to Emily's
radiant charms.

Mr. Gordon was a widower; and Emily was the
eldest of a family of six children. With admirable
discretion, however, the remaining five were banished
to the country during the greater part of the

year, until entitled by age to take their places in
society.

After a few conversational common-places, during
which Mr. Gordon found an opportunity of informing
his young guest that to Emily belonged the
sole credit of all the interior arrangements of the
house, dinner was announced. Mr. Gordon handed
down his sister-in-law. Fleetwood gave his arm to
Emily and followed them into the dining-room.
They sat down to a circular table, and after soup,
salmon and green peas, followed all the choicest
dishes, which French ingenuity could prepare.
Champagne and burgundy sparkled in their glasses;
and the excitement of an animated conversation
sparkled in their eyes. Mr. Gordon well knew
how to keep the shuttlecocks of small talk in motion.
He had seen much of the world, and of the best
society in it; and his fund of anecdote was as rich
as it was exhaustless. He threw down a sterling
piece of information, or a solid and interesting fact
new to his hearers, with the same nonchalance and
air of liberality with which he uttered a light jest or
indulged in a polite repartee. Fleetwood could not
but confess to himself that he had never passed a
couple of hours more agreeably at the dinner table.
As the ladies rose to take their departure, Mr. Gordon
proposed that Emily should give them a parting
song. There was a piano-forte in the room; and
she readily complied with the request.

“Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour”
was the song selected—and she imparted to it all
that warmth and earnestness of expression, of which
it is so peculiarly susceptible. Fleetwood joined
with great sincerity in the applause, which Mr. Gordon
set the example of by drumming with the handle
of his knife upon the table and crying “bravo!”
The ladies made their escape to the sound.

“And now, my dear boy, let us try a fresh bottle

of this Lafitte. It is as mild and smooth as milk,
and far more harmless,” said Mr. Gordon, as the
servant brought in fresh glasses and a dusty bottle
just uncorked.

Fleetwood began to think he had drunk enough,
but, before he could reply, his glass was full. The
wine was certainly delicious, and destitute of that
alcoholic pungency which he disliked. It seemed
as if one might drink it like water, and with as
much impunity as to its effects. Mr. Gordon's
eyes beamed with satisfaction, as he saw the glass
of his guest empty a second and a third time.

Cigars were placed on the table. Each took
one and lighted it. The Lafitte again flowed.

“What do you mean to do with yourself for the
rest of the season, Fleetwood?” asked Mr. Gordon,
carelessly brushing off, with his little finger, the
fresh ashes of the fragrant Havana.

“That will depend, in a measure, sir, upon the
wishes of my wife,” replied Fleetwood.

“Eh? Your wife? Is it possible? What!
Do you mean to marry?”

“To be sure I do, and at once. Next Saturday
finds me a married man.”

“The devil it does!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon,
bringing down his glass so heavily that the Burgundy
spilt upon the table. “And who is the
lady?” he added, drawing his breath with difficulty
for a moment.

“Her name is Adelaide—Adelaide Winfield!”

Gordon involuntarily struck his clenched fist
upon the table, and with so much vehemence that
his guest looked up amazed; but Gordon's face, if
it had borne any other expression, was in the
twinkling of an eye brightened with a smile, so
that he met Fleetwood's gaze without blenching.
The clenched fist lay upon the table, but there was
no sign that it had been thrust down with any

other emotion than that of sympathy and congratulation.

“I was thinking,” said Gordon, and he paused a
moment to take a few puffs of his cigar—“I was
thinking what a career you might run in society
during the next two years if you chose to remain
unmarried. Don't marry next week, my dear boy,
nor next year. Go to Paris—to Vienna—Munich,
London, Florence, Rome—study life a little, and
woman in particular—the lady of your love can
wait till you return—you will have opportunities
that few young men have enjoyed for mingling in
the best society of Europe. I can give you letters
that will place you at once on velvet in the most
desirable circles. What, Fleetwood, it is abominable,
that with your wealth and advantages, and at
your age, you should dream of sinking into a humdrum
husband! Wait a while, man; and marriage
will do very well by and by, when you want a
new sensation, or when you are prepared to enter
on the serious business of life.”

“There are circumstances, Mr. Gordon—peculiar
ones, I may add—which render my determination
unalterable. I marry on Saturday; and, notwithstanding
your arguments, I shall consider myself
the most fortunate of men when Adelaide Winfield
is my wife.”

“Winfield—Winfield—pray to what family of
Winfields does she belong?” asked Gordon, fixing
upon his guest a careless but penetrating glance.

“Hang her family! What do I care for that?
I marry her, and not her family,” replied Fleetwood.

“Probably one of the Winfields of Baltimore,”
said Mr. Gordon, musingly. “An excellent family
—unexceptionable in every respect!”

So habitual was Fleetwood's reverence for truth,
that he could not even bear to see a false impression

formed by another, which he had it in his
power to remove. This trait in his character was
brought out in still bolder relief by the slight effect
of the wine upon his naturally frank and communicative
temper. He accordingly replied:

“To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Gordon, the
girl is illegitimate. At any rate, she has been
brought up in ignorance of her parents, and has
not a single friend, except myself, of any influence
or position in society.”

“And you would marry such a girl?”

“Why, my dear sir, do you not see that under
those circumstances there is all the more reason
why I should make her my wife?”

“I must confess, that never occurred to me,” replied
Mr. Gordon, drily, and looking intently at his
guest, as if to get more light in regard to his true
character before proceeding further.

“She is a noble creature, sir,” said Fleetwood,
warming in her praise. “Rank and fortune might
have given her more attractions than ought justly
to fall to the lot of one woman—but they could not
have increased her charms in my eyes.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“How can you ask that question of a lover?
She is beautiful as—O, I cannot describe her—but
do you know I have several times traced a kind
of resemblance—a sort of floating, fleeting, indefinable
resemblance, between her and your daughter?”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon, biting his lips
to prevent their quivering from being remarked.
And then rising from his seat, he continued: “Let
us join the ladies in the saloon—your unemptied
glass is a hint that you will drink no more.”

“Such Burgundy would make Father Matthew
himself violate his cold water pledges,” replied

Fleetwood. “But I have reached my ultimatum,
and second your motion to adjourn.”

They found Emily and her aunt in the conservatory.
At a gesture from her father, unseen by
Fleetwood, the former left their young guest with
the elder lady for a few moments, during which
Emily was carrying on an earnest conversation, in
a low tone of voice, with her father. When she
rejoined Fleetwood, she made an evident effort to
entertain him, but there was a constraint in her
manner, a pensiveness in her voice, which he had
never before observed. The conservatory was
lighted up by colored lamps; and although the
space it occupied was but small, there were labyrinthine
walks through it so ingeniously contrived,
that it was difficult for a person introduced for the
first time to arrive at any just conclusion as to its
extent. Mrs. Gordon and her brother-in-law had
disappeared. Fleetwood remained to examine the
plants with Emily. Linked arm in arm they strolled
through the marble walks. Rich odors floated
about them from the commingled flowers, some in
bloom and some just bursting from the bud. The
plashing of the fountain that imparted freshness to
the air, was the sole noise that disturbed the prevailing
silence. Fleetwood tried several times in
vain to engage his fair companion in conversation.
The most suggestive topics failed to draw forth
more than a monosyllabic reply. She was evidently
sad and preoccupied. At length, after full
two minutes of silence, during which they continued
to pace the flowery labyrinth, Emily stopped suddenly,
and putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
burst into violent weeping.

“I fear that something disturbs you, Miss Gordon,”
said Fleetwood, tenderly.

She put down her handkerchief, and looked him

in the face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and
her eyes shone with unwonted lustre.

“Fly at once from this house, if you would preserve
your happiness—your honor,” she said, in a
deep but low and earnest whisper. “Go at once
to her whom your heart has chosen—marry without
delay—believe nothing against her that you
hear, nothing that you see—fly, and secure the
happiness of both before it is too late.”

Fleetwood was astounded at language like this
from one whom he had hitherto regarded as a
pattern of discretion and good sense. He could
put but one construction upon her conduct; and
although that construction was one favorable to
himself, he was perhaps justified in adopting it,
without subjecting himself to the imputation of
vanity or self-conceit. Emily had evidently just
heard of his intended marriage. She had formed
hopes herself, notwithstanding their slight acquaintance,
which were thus dashed to the ground. The
disappointment working upon a romantic temperament
had produced the ebullition of feeling she
had just displayed. Such were the interpretations
of her language, which now flashed across Fleetwood's
mind.

“Compose yourself, my dear Miss Gordon,” he
said, hardly knowing whether to reply in a tone of
badinage or seriousness. “I grant there is danger
in your society, but”—

“Ah! do not, as you value your happiness,
think lightly of my warnings,” interrupted Emily;
“must I be more plain? Yes, I may not again be
in the mood to tell you all—there may be inducements
to silence, which I cannot, dare not resist.
You think I am in love with you—you never were
more mistaken in your life.”

Fleetwood coughed slightly, blushed, and felt like
a fool. He could not deny the accusation.

Emily continued: “But do as I have bid you
—fly and consummate your marriage with her you
have chosen. You still look incredulous and amazed.
Know then that—”

At this moment, the sound of Mr. Gordon's voice
was heard so near that both the interlocutors were
startled.

“Emily, my dear,” said he, appearing from behind
a japonica tree of magnificent proportions,
“your aunt and I, are desirous of hearing you try
the new song to the accompaniment of your harp.
I am sure Mr. Fleetwood will not object.”

Fleetwood drew back to make way for Mr. Gordon's
approach. The latter took his daughter's
hand. At the same time a suppressed cry of pain
escaped from her lips. It was so slight, however,
that Fleetwood hardly regarded it at the moment.

Emily turned one last, beseeching glance upon
him, and then, with a constrained smile, permitted
her father to lead her to the harp. Bending over
the instrument, she paused for some moments with
her hands upon the strings, while a deep silence
pervaded the room. Fleetwood was too much lost
in wonder to speak, and Mr. Gordon seemed to be
struck dumb by some deep emotion, which, with
all his command of his muscles, he hardly succeeded
in disguising. At length, he exclaimed: “Come,
my dear, why don't you play?”

Starting from an evident fit of abstraction, and
running her hands over the strings, Emily commenced
a strain, full of such appealing melancholy,
that her father exclaimed petulantly: “We didn't
ask for a funeral hymn, my dear—give us something
animated and gay.”

She obeyed; and how sportively the notes seemed
to leap out from beneath her fingers! A new
creation of emotions was called into existence, as
if by a spell in the mind of the listener. As she

ceased, Fleetwood rose, and approaching her side,
earnestly expressed his gratitude for what he had
heard. He saw that she had been severely tasked
by the effort; and, with a repetition of thanks for
the rich strains, bade her good evening.

“Will you go so soon, Frederick?” said Mr
Gordon.

“Indeed you must excuse me,” replied Fleet
wood. “Good night, Mr. Gordon! Ladies, good
night!”

Mr. Gordon accompanied him to the street door.
The rain was falling in torrents. “You must stay
with us to-night,” said Mr. Gordon. “A servant
can go to your hotel for such clothes as you may
wish in the morning.”

“I will accept your invitation,” replied Fleetwood.
“I do not fancy a shower-bath except when
my skin is divested of broadcloth.”

“It threatens to be quite a furious storm,” said
Mr. Gordon, closing the door. “You are wise in
remaining.”