University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Adelaide entered the room, where Glenham and
Mrs. Winfield were awaiting her return—she entered
with a firm step and a countenance, to which
the grave and fixed determination she had taken
added new dignity.

“My daughter,” said Mrs. Winfield, “this gentleman
has been trying to persuade me to yield to
your wishes. At the same time as a lawyer he
cannot but allow, that I have the right to compel
you to accompany me.”

“Let me entreat you, Mrs. Winfield,” interrupted
Glenham, “not to dream for a moment of such
an alternative as compulsion. Your daughter has
strong and excellent motives—motives, which you
cannot but respect—for persisting in her resolution.
Why not remain with her here till the return of Mr.
Fleetwood?—and then I am sure that every thing
will be amicably arranged.”

“I told you, Sir,” replied Mrs. Winfield, “that I
wished to consult you as a lawyer—and you already
go over to the other side. Pray tell me
definitely whether I can legally enforce my claims
upon this young lady's obedience?”

“We can do many things legally, which we
could not do justly and humanely,” replied Glenham.

“You evade my question, Sir. Can I, if disposed
to call in the aid of the law force Adelaide to

quit this place immediately for my home in New
York? I beg that you will answer me briefly, yes
or no.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Adelaide, as she
stood with folded arms in the centre of the room,
regarding Mrs. Winfield and Glenham—“it is quite
unnecessary for the gentleman to answer. My
mind is made up. I shall not in any event quit this
place. Not even the threat of violence can shake
my resolution. But why need we embitter the
moments of our first interview, my mother, by this
altercation? Listen to reason, I pray you. I will
write Fleetwood this very afternoon, begging him
to return here at once, or to consent to await my
arrival in New York. This is Saturday. He will
receive my letter to-morrow morning, and by
Monday I shall have his reply. You can surely
tarry here till then.”

“I shall do no such thing, you obstinate, ungrateful”—

Glenham cut short Mrs. Winfield's angry exclamations
by drawing her aside towards one of the
glazed recesses of the apartment, and accosting her
in a whisper. His communication had the effect
of appeasing her indignation at once; for the
choleric flush that had overspread her face disappeared,
and she said aloud: “Well, Sir, you have
prevailed—Adelaide shall do as she proposes, and
I will wait here till Monday, although much against
my will.”

Adelaide was touched by her tone of compliance,
however tardy, and taking her hand she pressed it
to her lips, and said: “I fear you think me head-strong,
self-willed and undutiful—but O, try me on
any point but this, and see if I do not answer your
expectations.”

“There, there, you are a dear child,” said Mrs.

Winfield, hurriedly; “now go and write your
letter, and see that it is sent forthwith.”

“It is too late to send it by the Bridgeport
route,” said Glenham, looking at his watch. “You
must let me leave it at Norwalk. It will be in the
way of my afternoon's ride.”

“You are very kind,” replied Adelaide. “I will
place the letter in your hands in five minutes;” and
she glided out of the apartment.

The infernal scheme, which had entered Glenham's
brain, will readily be conjectured; but Adelaide
knew too little of this world's wickedness to
distrust for a moment the sincerity of his proposition.
Opening the little portfeuille, where for years
her stock of note paper had lain untouched, she sat
down to write. She described, in a few concise
sentences, the position in which she was placed,
and called upon Fleetwood for counsel and direction,
promising to abide by his wishes at all hazards.
She alluded in no unfilial terms to her mother; but
expressed a conviction that all would be well. She
closed by saying that she should expect a reply by
the following Monday. The letter was in Glenham's
hands within the time she had promised.

No man, who is not accustomed from high and
stable principles to repel the first promptings of
evil in his heart, can tell into what depth of guilt
he may be hurried by circumstances. Glenham
was selfish and sensual in his impulses; and the
low, appealing voice of conscience was rarely
heard amid the din of passions, which he was not
apt to question and chastise. Notwithstanding he
had declared that he would not marry Adelaide,
knowing as he then did her questionable position
in society, still he felt as if Fleetwood had done
him a personal wrong in engaging himself to her
so suddenly and unexpectedly. He even persuaded

himself that Adelaide had been guilty of duplicity,
inasmuch as she had hitherto studiously avoided
extending any encouragement to Fleetwood, to
whom she now considered that a higher allegiance
was due than that which she owed even to a
mother.

Glenham hurried home, and entering his apartment
locked the door, and drew forth the letter,
which Adelaide had so guilelessly entrusted to his
care. With an eager hand he broke the seal, and
perused the contents.

“His ever affectionately and devotedly!” muttered
Glenham, quoting the last line of the note.
“That shall never be if I can help it: His—his—
must everything be his? He has wealth, accomplishments,
personal attractions, perfect freedom
and independence, and now he would fill the
measure of his felicity by this union! It is his
money that has won the girl's heart. I am sure
she would otherwise prefer me—has she not all
along shown her preference? Fleetwood—d—n
him—with what contemptuous anger he regarded
me when I spoke of extending to the girl a protection
that was not the protection of a husband!
D—n him—he thinks there shall be no more cakes
and ale in the world because he is virtuous. Hold
awhile—and I may show him yet that the girl, to
whom he has condescended to offer marriage, is
not too good for an humbler and less reputable
companion to me. And she—she shall be punished
for presuming to refuse my hand. True, I regarded
the offer at the time as one which might be kept or
broken, according as it might turn out, as she
might be rich or poor—of a high or low family—
but she had no reason to doubt my sincerity—and
the jade refused me with all the condescension of
a princess, phrasing her sentence of rejection in the
daintiest language. She refused me. But I am

wasting time in denunciation, when I should be
plotting action.”

The habitually placid expression of his face distorted
by malignant passions, Glenham paced the
floor with his mind bent upon contriving the means
for thwarting the plans of the lovers.

“The mother is on my side,” soliloquised he; “but
then Adelaide is evidently resolved to place her
duty to her selected husband far above that to her
newly-found parent. Compulsion cannot be employed.
It will but destroy the little influence
which her mother may have over her. Stratagem
is our proper weapon. Cunning can lead her unresistingly
into the net, to which force could never
drag her. Let me see. The mother—ah, the
mother! What will Fleetwood say when he finds
what a nice family he is going to marry into?
And yet such is his independence—moral and
pecuniary—that I am convinced the objection will
not weigh with him, so he is but sure that Adelaide
is pure and uncontaminated. It is that confidence
which must be undermined, broken down beyond
the possibility of question. And how shall that be
done? But this is a matter for after consideration.
How shall we get Adelaide into the city? There
lies our present difficulty. Once in her mother's
house, she can be easily managed. But she must
go there of her own accord, cheerfully and unsuspectingly.
How can she be induced to do that?
Pshaw! Could anything be more simple?”

Glenham looked among his papers for a letter in
Fleetwood's hand-writing. He at length found
one, which related to the purchase of some fishing-tackle;
he carefully examined the chirography,
and then drawing forth a blank sheet of paper, set
himself to the task of carrying out the project,
which had dimly dawned upon his mind the moment

Adelaide offered to write Fleetwood, and to
be guided by his reply.

The following Monday, at the hour expected,
Adelaide received from the hands of the carrier,
who usually attended the village post-office daily
for Miss Holyoke and her scholars, a letter, which
she eagerly and joyfully opened. It was as follows:

This letter was ingeniously contrived to give
satisfaction. No such idea as distrust of its genuineness
could possibly suggest itself to Adelaide's
mind. It was plain, affectionate, and to the point;
and the closing excuse for brevity was all-sufficient.
Adelaide handed it to her mother, and said, in a
cheerful tone “There, mother, read it—I am
ready to accompany you to the city at any moment
you please.”

“Then hasten, and prepare for your departure at
once,” said Mrs. Winfield, taking the letter, and
casting upon it a far less attentive glance than
Adelaide had expected.

With a suppressed sigh, Adelaide quitted the
room. Entering her own little apartment with a
servant, she speedily packed up her wardrobe and
library. The trunks were strapped, and carried
into the entry. Adelaide stood alone in the midst
of the little territory, which she had presided over
for so many years, and which she was now about
to resign probably for ever. Uncertainty as to her
fate, and the solicitude of preparation, had hitherto
procrastinated the thought of leave-taking. And
now the reality had come with an abruptness that
was almost heart-crushing. She looked from the
window, and the old elm before it, which had been
to her so like a friend since childhood, seemed to
stretch out its arms imploringly to detain her. The
rustle of its leaves sounded like the language of
entreaty. The knots and bossy rings upon its
trunk appeared to her like so many eyes, instinct
with an almost human expression of tenderness.
And then the little room—the scene of her studies,
her tears, her resolves, her prayers, her blameless
joys, her premature griefs! Mournful but dear
recollections! Even the dimity curtain that flapped
against the window-pane seemed to protest petulantly
against her departure. The familiar outline

of the surrounding landscape never appeared so
picturesque and lovely as at this moment. The
smooth waters of the Sound gleamed like a road
of silver in the distance, while the hills lifted their
piles of verdure high in the sunshine, as if proud of
their affluent drapery.

Cossack, the venerable dog, whose life she had
once saved, was sleeping on the front door-step in
happy unconsciousness of the bereavement which
awaited him. Taking one of the few remaining
gold pieces from her purse, Adelaide called an old
servant of the family, named Norah, and placed it
in her hands, requesting that she would take good
care of the animal.

“That I will, for your own sweet sake, and not
for the money,” replied Norah, whimpering at the
thought of losing her young mistress.

“Well, Norah, take the gold-piece then for a
keepsake—may it bring you good luck.”

“Bad luck to me when I part with it, Miss,” said
Norah, receiving the gift.

But Adelaide had other friends to take leave of,
and fearing that her mother would grow impatient,
she hastened to discharge her obligations. Miss
Holyoke was engaged in the school-room with her
pupils. Adelaide entered, and with a grace peculiarly
her own took leave of her companions.
There were some who, in spite of the injurious
whispers which had been circulated in regard to
her, could not but be won by the gentleness and
goodness which she had ever displayed towards
them. These followed her to the door, and shed
tears at the thought of her departure. Miss Holyoke
unbent so far as to kiss the cheek of her pupil,
and shake her hand at parting. The intercourse
between her and Adelaide had generally been
friendly, if not affectionate; but still there were

considerations of policy, which modified the regret
of the instructress at her pupil's departure.

Adelaide found the carriage at the door, and
Mrs. Winfield seated in it awaiting her arrival.
As she was about ascending the steps, old Cossack
came limping round the corner, barking as if aware
that her departure was to be a prolonged one.
Adelaide stooped and patted him on the headgwhile
old Norah came forth and threw a lasso about his
neck to keep him from following the vehicle.

Entering the carriage, Adelaide took the seat
opposite to her mother, and leaning back in one
corner, put her handkerchief to her eyes to hide
her tears.

The carriage rolled on in the direction of the
steamboat that was to convey the party to New
York.