Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth a novel of American life |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. | CHAPTER XII. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
 | CHAPTER XII. Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
I am in,
And must go on: and since I have put off
From the shore of innocence, guilt be now my pilot!
Massinger.
After parting with his daughter on the stairs, previous
to her entering the saloon where Fleetwood
was in waiting, Mr. Gordon anxiously revolved in
his mind the circumstances which had that day
come to his knowledge.
“So!” muttered he, as he pushed his fingers
through his hair, and lifted it from his hot forehead
—“my young man has chosen for a mate that very
girl, whose existence for the last ten years has given
me so many uneasy moments—and, who threatens
to stand soon, like the inexorable angel of fate,
between me and renewed affluence. Hell itself
must have brought about this conjunction. How
shall it be averted? Emily's fascinations will not
be enough to break his allegiance. He is of a constant
and generous temper. Nor will it be enough
to persuade him that Adelaide is doubly the child
of shame. No circumstance of birth will alter his
feelings of attachment. But could he be made to
believe her individually unworthy!—for instance
wantonness lingered in her blood—that would be
devilish!—no, no, no—it were a plot worthy of
fiends!”
Mr. Gordon walked hastily across the entry, as
if to escape the suggestion which had presented itself
to his mind. What he at first shuddered at, he
at length embraced.
“It is the most sure and effective mode,” said he,
resuming his soliloquy—“indeed it is the only one,
which I at present see for detaching him from the
pursuit. But how is it to be managed? Ay, that
indeed! We must first discover how the land lies.
I must see Augusta at once, and learn what I can
about the girl. If the mother is bent on this match,
the obstacles in the way of its prevention will be
formidable. But perhaps she is ignorant of it as
yet—for it is very evident that Fleetwood knows
nothing about her—his prospective mother-in-law.
We must move promptly if at all in this affair. I
will seek Augusta this very hour. Ha! that was
a rousing peal! Poor Emily must be in hysterics
by this time. How the rain pours! No matter.
The game is an important one to me—and must be
won. The luck has held good thus far,—why
should it not continue to the end?”
Throwing his Mackintosh over his shoulders,
and seizing his hat and umbrella, Gordon issued
from the front door into the wet and gloomy street.
The water poured in turbid torrents along the gutters
on either side. The roar of the wind and the
dashing of the rain drowned every other sound.
The gas lights shed but a dim lustre through the
thick drops that were flowing down the glass
sides, that protected them from extinction.
Gordon hurried along the sidewalk of the stately
street, in which he dwelt, until, reaching the main
thoroughfare of the city, he traversed it for nearly
street, where the houses were mostly of a mean
and squalid appearance. Onwards he hurried, until
he stopped before one, which though surrounded
by inferior habitations, was in itself neat and commodious
in its external appearance. Without
pausing to question himself as to the purpose of his
mission, he rang the bell vehemently. While he
yet stood on the steps, a carriage was heard rattling
over the pavements; and, the moment afterwards,
it drew up before the house. The coachman descended
from his seat, and opened the door of the
vehicle. A female thrust out her head, and cried:
“coachman, give the bell a thundering pull!”
Gordon recognised the figure and voice of the
speaker. It was she, whom he had come to seek.
So leaving it to the coachman to summon the servants
to the door, he approached the carriage to
make himself known to the inmate and offer the
protection of his umbrella.
“Why, Gordon, you don't say this is you?” said
Mrs. Winfield as the light of the coach-lamp struggling
through the surrounding mist was reflected
on his features.
“Hush! I did not perceive that you had a companion,”
said Gordon drawing back so as not to be
observed.
“Do not be concerned,” whispered Mrs. Winfield:
“she does not know you, though you may
know her—it is Adelaide.”
“Saints and fiends! Is it possible?” exclaimed
Gordon in a low, husky tone. “But this is
strange!”
The door of the house was at length opened by
a black female servant. Gordon handed Mrs. Winfield
up the steps into the entry; and, returning to
the coach, accosted Adelaide as she was descending
and offered her his arm.
“It is a fearful storm, young lady—let me assist
you into the house,” said Gordon, an involuntary
emotion of tenderness coming over him.
Adelaide accepted the proffered support—and
the next moment Gordon stood in the entry with
the two females. He looked from one to the other
with undisguised interest and astonishment. The
door was closed—and the carriage was soon heard
rattling away.
They followed Mrs. Winfield up stairs to a parlor
neatly furnished, and lights being brought, Adelaide
gazed inquiringly around, and then sank fatigued
into a chair.
“You are weary, my dear,” said Mrs. Winfield,
patting her on the forehead. “Nay, you must not
feel disappointed because your lover did not meet
you at the boat to escort you. It was hardly fair
to expect him in such a storm.”
“Irene,” said Mrs. Winfield, addressing the
black, “show Miss Adelaide to the sleeping-room
over head. My dear child, you need repose. Do
not doubt but your lover will be here to see you the
first thing in the morning. Rest content.”
“Your advice is good,” returned Adelaide; “I
feel strangely wearied and depressed.”
She approached as if with the intent of kissing
her mother's cheek, but as she drew near she seemed
to recoil, and then with an effort she lifted her
hand to her lips, bade her good night, made a slight
courtesy to Mr. Gordon, and, addressing Irene
kindly, bade her lead on to bed.
“And now, tell me, Augusta, what does all this
mean?” exclaimed Gordon, rising hastily and taking
a seat by Mrs. Winfield, as the door closed
upon Adelaide and her attendant.
“It's a long story, Gordon, and I have not made
up my mind whether or no I shall tell you. While
brought you here?”
“I have learned by the merest accident that
Adelaide is engaged to be married.”
“Ay. You have not been misinformed.”
“You know it yourself, then?”
“To be sure I do! Proceed.”
“Fleetwood, the young man, to whom she has
affianced herself, has been my guest this very day
—he is now at my house, and will pass the night
there—I had the intelligence of his engagement
from his own lips.”
“That is strange indeed! strange, strange indeed!”
exclaimed Mrs. Winfield. “How have we
managed, Gordon, without any concert, to get both
the lovers into our hands? I do not understand
that.”
“It was partly accident and partly design,” replied
Gordon. “I did not know when I invited
Fleetwood to dine with me to-day that he had any
intention of marrying, or that he knew such a being
as Adelaide—I was damnably startled, as you may
suppose, when he communicated the fact.”
“Well; and now that you know it, what would
you do?”
“Prevent the union for both our sakes.”
“I can see how it will affect your interests, but
not so readily how it will reach mine.”
“Do you wish to part at once with all control
over Adelaide—to have her wedded to a man, who
will forbid your ever seeing her again, when she is
once his wife?”
“And is Fleetwood such a man?”
“Most undoubtedly. He comes of a haughty
family, and, if he marries Adelaide, he will only do
so upon condition that she drops all intercourse
with her mother—with you. She will place her
to you, whom she has known hardly a week.”
“From what I have seen of the girl I think you
have judged her rightly, Gordon. Not to keep you
longer in suspense, I have already made up my
mind that she shall not marry Fleetwood were he
ten times as rich as he is.”
“I rejoice to hear it. You consult your own
dignity and happiness in rejecting this alliance. Adelaide must either not marry at all, or she must
be sent abroad, and marry a foreigner.”
“I have my own plans for the girl, Gordon.
She would succeed admirably on the stage, and I
have told her so.”
“We will not discuss that question now,” said
Gordon impatiently. “What we must consider is,
how shall we break off this match—for I suppose
you are aware that the marriage day is fixed.”
“O, I know all about it. Will you believe me
—the little hussy refused to yield to my entreaties,
my commands to accompany me to the city. It
was only by stratagem that we got her here.”
“Indeed! How was that?”
“You must know that there is another party,
who has taken an interest in the affair. You remember
young Glenham—the unmarried one, I
mean?”
“I have a bowing acquaintance with him, as a
member of the same club.”
“He is himself as anxious as we can be to prevent
this marriage—either from love for the girl or
hatred of Fleetwood, I don't know which. At any
rate he suggested and carried out the contrivance,
by which we have been able to induce Adelaide to
come with me peaceably to this place.”
“And what was Master Glenham's notable project?”
“He persuaded the girl to address a letter to her
that, it was an easy matter to frame such a reply as
suited our purposes.”
“Ah! I perceive—the way it was done was by
forgery.”
“Exactly.”
“But has Adelaide suspected nothing?”
“I have yet seen no serious signs of distrust.
The only surprise she has evinced was on board
the steamboat, when, after reading and re-reading
the letter and examining every fold, she exclaimed,
`I wonder why he did not seal it with that little
watch-key he carries, containing a stone engraved
with his initials—but perhaps he was in so much of
a hurry that he took the seal, which was most convenient—and
yet what could have been more convenient
than that?' These were her very words.”
“It will be an easy matter,” returned Gordon,
“to procure the watch-key should we have occasion
to send her any more letters. But where is
Glenham? He may be made useful.”
“He will be in the city early to-morrow.”
“Send him to me the moment he arrives. You
agree with me in the determination to prevent this
marriage?”
“To be sure I do! If it cannot be prevented
by fair means, it must be by foul.”
“My sentiments precisely! and Master Glenham's
too, if I may judge from the trouble he has
already taken.”
“I readily detect your motives, Gordon, for defeating
the plans of the lovers. You are afraid
that Fleetwood may be rich enough to buy a certain—”
“Hush! hush!” said Gordon, anxiously placing
his hand before the lips of the speaker—“you misapprehend—indeed
you are mistaken—cannot you
make a shrewder guess?—have you forgotten that
a year or two older, whom I would see married?
And who more eligible than he?”
“True! that may be an additional reason why
you would break up this threatened alliance,” said
Mrs. Winfield. “But at the same time, I know
well enough, that you are afraid I may be bought
—that I may”—
“I protest against your entertaining any such
suspicion,” exclaimed Gordon, looking around, as
if fearful there might be listeners. “Do not suppose
me so ungrateful—so unjust—”
“Well, well—it matters not,” said Mrs. Winfield,
“we are agreed upon the point, which immediately
claims our attention—Fleetwood must be
made to give up the idea of marrying Adelaide—
how is that to be done?”
“We have three days yet,” returned Gordon,
“in which to contrive something—he will not probably
leave the city till Friday. If Glenham is
really jealous I am willing to trust to his invention
to plot the means of effecting our object—there is
nothing which so sharpens the inventive faculties
as jealousy.”
“You are right. We will therefore come to no
decision until we have consulted with Glenham.”
“Now then, I will take my leave,” said Gordon,
rising—“you need repose after your journey—good
night, Augusta!”
“Good night to you, Gordon—I shall see you
again, soon, I suppose?”
Gordon moved towards the door—then paused
irresolutely, as if he had something to say, to which
he did not well know how to give expression.
“I had but a moment's glance at Adelaide,” said
he at length—“but I could see that she has grown
up into a beautiful and well-bred woman—she will
be secure—that is, she will meet with nothing to
nothing yet, I presume, except that you are her
mother?”
“You would know if my biography is familiar
to her?—do not be alarmed—I will be discreet—
she shall meet with nothing to awaken her distrust,
if I can help it.”
“Everything depends on you, my dear. So,
once more, good night!”
Gordon hastened homeward. The thunder
shower had ceased by the time he reached the door
of his house; and the moon broke forth from a circle
of purple clouds, displacing the thick gloom
which had enshrouded the city.
“Let me consider—is there anything more for
me to do to-night?” mused he as he stood upon his
door-steps. “Ay—there is the seal, which Adelaide
missed—how shall I procure it? I have it—
Fleetwood shall occupy the crimson sleeping-room
—the spring door behind the window-shutter will
admit me—I can easily detach the watch-key from
the chain. Should he miss it in the morning he
will naturally suppose that he has dropped it on the
carpet—ay, that will do—but is not this business
villainous?—no matter—the first step has been taken,
and it would be dastardly now to retreat.”
Gordon turned to ring the bell, when the door
opened, and La Salle made his appearance.
“Good evening, Count! Are you in haste?”
said Gordon.
“I am in haste,” replied La Salle. “I wish you
good evening, sir.”
“Something has ruffled him,” thought Gordon, as
he entered and closed the door—“can it be that
Emily has made love before his eyes to Fleetwood?
That must be it! Ay, she has played her part
well. If so, we may yet find it for our advantage
to make La Salle one of the dramatis personœ of
can be made useful—but how?”
| CHAPTER XII. Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth | |