 | CHAPTER X. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
“C'est trop d'etre coquette et devote—une femme devrait opter.”
La Bruyere.
Emilie's spirits were stimulated by the recent
information of Marion's good fortune; and as soon
as the two friends were fairly in the carriage, and
away from the door, she said, “Is not this delightful
news of Marion? Of course it's nothing to me
—it can be nothing; but it would be very strange
if I did not feel it.”
“Very strange, Emilie.”
“You smile, Gertrude, and well you may, for it
is very odd that any thing can make me happy, even
for a moment; but I feel this morning as if, in spite
of fate, there were some good in store for me.”
Gertrude, far from repressing, cherished, and
strengthened the happy presentiments of Emilie's
innocent mind. And she had a right to do so, for
hers was not the common, easy, and half-selfish sympathy
with happiness. She was conscious of a plan,
and a determined resolution, if possible, to extricate
her friend from her unhappy engagement, and being
perhaps unwarrantably sanguine in her hope of
success, she felt as if Emilie's elation were a premonition
of coming happiness. Alas! how often
are wishes mistaken for premonitions! How often
the destructive storm is gathering, when the skies
are brightest and clearest to mortal vision!
“Emilie,” said Gertrude, “is not Marion, now
that he has it in his power to secure to you independence,
is he not bound as a true knight—a truelove,
to ascertain how far you consider your obligations
to Pedrillo sacred?
“He has had no opportunity to do so—perhaps,
Gertrude, you do not think Randolph still cares for
me?”
“I believe he does—I do not see how any one
can help caring for you—loving you tenderly, Emilie;
but I want his assurance, in case—”
“In case of what?—do speak, Gertrude.”
“Perhaps I have already spoken too much. In
case we need his co-operation: Now, Emilie, you
must not, positively, ask me any thing further.”
“I will not, dear Gertrude—I will obey you in
every thing. It is very strange that Randolph has
not made an effort to see me—that he has not written
to me, if he could not see me; yet, I am sure
all is right with him. How could he have any
hope, when he knows I am to be married, and so
soon, to Mr. Pedrillo—how can there possibly,” she
added, relapsing into her tone of despondency—
“how can there possibly be any hope?”
“Oh Emilie, `if he dare not hope, he does not
love;' but here we are coming to the place where I
saw the beautiful engraving I promised your mother.”
She ordered the coachman to stop. The ladies
alighted, and entered a fashionable bookstore,
to which was attached a show-room for paintings,
prints, and other productions of the arts. A gentleman
was standing at the counter, tossing over
some books; his attention was attracted by their entrance;
it brightened with the pléasure of recognition,
and was answered by, at least, an equal animation
from Emilie's eyes. It was Marion. He advanced
to them. “My dear Miss Clarence,” he
whispered to Gertrude, “allow me five minutes
conversation with Miss Layton.”
“There are some new songs, Emilie,” said Gertrude,
adroitly favoring the request; “you may look
them over, while I am selecting the prints;” and
passing into the inner room, she endeavored to monopolize
the attention of the only clerk in waiting.
Her effort was successful—he was too much engrossed
with his ready sales to his liberal customer, to
listen to the low energetic tones of Marion, or to
Emilie's soft tremulous replies. The words escaped
Gertrude's ear, but the murmuring sounds were as
intelligible as the most expressive notes of a tender
song. `Their loves must not be thwarted,' she
thought, as she wiped the gathering tears from her
eyes, `they shall have all my efforts—all my
thoughts!' Ah, Gertrude, why that sudden flush?
why is that eye so suddenly turned, cast down, and
raised again? and where are those thoughts that
were to be all given to the loves of your friends?
The shop-door had again been opened, and
Gertrude, dreading some impertinent interruption,
had turned her eye fearfully to Emilie. She encountered
Roscoe's sparkling glance. She was
abashed and agitated; she longed, yet dreaded to
know, whether he had seen her at Mrs. Layton's;
she feared to learn from his words, or looks, that he
suspected the secret reason of her mystery, and she
accident. These, and other thoughts, too rapid and
disjointed, to be defined, flashed, like meteors,
athwart her mind, and communicated embarrassment
to her face and manner, while Roscoe was advancing
towards her. Fortunately, all embarrassment
is not awkward. There is a charm in the
timid eye, the varying cheek, the softness and sensibility
of the faltering voice, that the self-possession,
the `loveless wisdom' of maidenly pride, may disdain,
but can never equal.
Gertrude had never appeared so interesting to
Roscoe, as at this moment. And why? Nothing
could seem less affecting, than their present uncircumstanced
encounter in a print-shop. All
their other meetings had occurred when her feelings
were strongly excited; but the exciting cause
was obviously independent of him. He now perceived—no,
not perceived, but hoped—faintly hoped
it may be, for he had not a particle of coxcombry,
but he did distinctly hope that her too visible
emotion, proceeded from a sentiment responding to
that which had most insidiously interwoven itself in
his affections and anticipations. True love, even
when far more assured than Roscoe's, is always unpresuming,
and never had he addressed her in so reserved
and deferential a manner, as at this moment.
`He certainly knows me'—thought she—`it is
just as I expected—what an utter change!' But
Roscoe had not seen her at Mrs. Layton's—had not
yet identified the lady of his thoughts, with the
shunned heiress—the elect of his heart, nameless and
unknown, with the daughter of his benefactor and
his customary, frank, and easy tone.
“To whom shall I make out the bill, Miss?” asked
the shop-boy, who, since Roscoe had withdrawn
his customer's attention, had lost all hope of swelling
its amount. Gertrude was at the moment, listening
to a criticism of Roscoe, on a fine engraving
of Guido's Sybil, and looking him full in the face.
He smiled at the interrogatory, and so archly, that
in spite of her tremulous fears, she smiled in return.
“Poor, simple youth!” said Roscoe in a low voice,
“if he gets a satisfactory answer to that question,
we will set him to find out the man in the iron mask,
or the author of Junius' Letters.”
“I did not hear the name, Miss,” said the clerk,
confounded by the murmur of Roscoe's voice, and
uncertain whether the lady had replied.
“You need not trouble yourself to make out a
bill,” replied Gertrude; “just give me the amount.”
“Admirable!” exclaimed Roscoe; “so natural,
and easy, and successful a reply!”
“At this stage of our acquaintance,” replied Gertrude,
in the same tone of raillery in which he had
spoken, “I am too much pleased with the success of
my riddle, voluntarily to tell it; and I assure you
I shall tax my ingenuity to co-operate with kind
chance. I confess I am a little surprised that your
sagacity has not sooner outwitted both.”
“My sagacity! The solution would truly have
been the achievement of pure sagacity, since chance
is as obedient to your wishes as the `dainty spirits'
of Prospero to his; and you know it is `in the bond'
that I ask no questions.”
Gertrude hesitated for a moment in her reply.
She began to be herself impatient of the mystery—
to feel it to be onerous, and to fear that it was silly.
“I withdraw that condition,” she said; “if we meet
again, I permit you to ask what questions you please
—but not now,” she added, shrinking from the awkward
moment of disclosure.
Roscoe bowed, and expressed his thanks, with a
little faltering, and a great deal of animation, and
concluded by saying, “if the fortunate moment ever
comes, of a satisfactory reply to my questions, do
not be offended if I am as extravagant in my demonstrations
of joy, as Archimedes was when he rushed
from the bath, exclaiming, “I've found it—I've
found it.”
Gertrude received certain intimations from her
throbbing heart, that they were dwelling too long
on a too interesting topic, and she rather abruptly
turned the conversation to some new prints lying on
the counter. The attentive clerk was induced, by
the expression of her admiration, to display the
treasures of his shop. He produced a collection of
rare coins and medals, imported for one of the few
antiquaries of our country, and a fine set of impressions
of Canova's chef d'œuvres. Here were fertile
themes of conversation, and Roscoe, for the first
time, had an opportunity of eliciting the various
knowledge with which Gertrude's mind was enriched.
In examining the medals, references to history
were unavoidable. Without haranguing like a magnificent
Corinne, she gracefully recurred to traits of
character, and such circumstances illustrative of
those traits, as were impressed on her clear and accurate
susceptible imagination, alive to all the forms and
combinations of beauty, her cultivated taste and nice
observation were manifested spontaneously, without
effort, and without constraint; and Roscoe enjoyed
the rare pleasure that results from congeniality of
taste, and similarity of culture. His own mind was
enriched with those elegant acquisitions, that are regarded
for a professional man in our `working-day
world,' rather embellishments than necessaries. But
are they so? And when the `working-day' is past,
and affluence and leisure attained, are there not
many who ruefully exclaim; with Sir Andrew Aguecheek,
`Oh that I had followed the arts!'
Never were tête-à-têtes less likely to be voluntarily
broken off, than those of the parties in the book-seller's
shop. Gertrude was however aware of the
propriety of withdrawing, and she looked anxiously
at Emilie, who was still bending over the music with
Marion, as if they were conning a lesson together.
Roscoe's eyes followed the direction of Miss Clarence'.
“Are those persons known to you?” he
asked.
“Yes, the lady is my companion,” replied Gertrude,
secretly rejoicing that Emilie was so concealed
by the large cloak and hood in which she was
muffled, that Roscoe had not recognised her; “I
must remind her that it is quite time for us to go.”
“Oh no—do not; the common instincts of humanity
should protect a conversation so interesting
as that from interruption; and besides,” he added,
his ready ingenuity hitting on this device to prolong
to ask you to accompany me to the Methodist
chapel in John-street. I do not wonder that you
smile at the singular proposition—you perhaps have
not heard Mr. Summerfield?”
“No, but I have heard much of him as a most
eloquent preacher.”
“And wish to hear him, do you not? All ladies
follow after eloquent preachers; even my mother,
the most regular church-going woman in the bishop's
diocess—the most rational of women, has gone with
the crowd to-day, and it will not lessen my unbounded
respect for one other of the sex, if she too joins
the multitude. You can return in a short time, and
it may be, strange as it may seem, that your friend
will not miss you.”
Gertrude was really anxious to hear the celebrated
preacher in quession, and was probably more influenced
than she was herself aware of, by the desire to
remain near to Roscoe; and going up to Emilie,
she whispered, cautioned her not to prolong her
stay imprudently, said she had a little farther to go,
and that she would leave the carriage for her, and
walk home herself. Emilie readily assented to any
arrangement to protract a pleasure that might never
be repeated, and Gertrude and Roscoe proceeded to
the chapel, which they found filled to overflowing.
Pews, aisles, windows, the porch-steps, were crowded;
and even the outer persons of this immense
concourse were in that hushed and listening attitude,
that shows what a potent spell one mind can
cast over thousands.
There is a certain deference, of boasted equality,
and on the level arena of a church, even in our
country, paid to the superiority of personal appearance.
One and another gave way a little, a very
little, at Roscoe's approach; so that after a few
moments of patient perseverance, Gertrude found
herself at the entrance of the middle-aisle. The
first face she recognised, the first eye she encountered,
were those of our ubiquitous friend Flint. He nodded
familiarly to her. Being himself ensconced at the
upper end of a pew, and hemmed in by a file of ladies,
he could not offer his seat, he however, contrived
to signify to one of the volunteer masters of
ceremonies, that there was a vacant seat in a distant
pew, to which the lady, to whom he directed
his attention, might be conducted. The man offered
his services, and Gertrude accepted, simply from the
consciousness, that the precise place she occupied,
was just at that moment, the most attractive in the
world; and Roscoe saw her conducted away from
him, with the same sort of vexed disappointment,
with which a lover awakes from his dreams, at the
moment, when after infinite pains, he has secured
proximity to his mistress.
The preacher was young, handsome, and graceful,
with a delicious voice, skillfully modulated, and
expressive of the tenderness of a seraphic spirit.
He presented the most appalling truths to his hearers,
and enforced them by an address to their strongest
passions—love, and fear. His youth might have
seemed to want authority to set forth the terrors of
the law, had not his emaciated figure, and hectic
cheek indicated that his spirit was on the verge of
and a last duty.
It was not because Gertrude's religious sentiments
did not precisely accord with the preacher's, that he
failed to interest her. She was not one of those
cold and conceited listeners, who criticise when they
should feel. Her affections could warm at another's
altar, though the fire there was not kindled
by the same process that had lighted the sacred
flame on her own; and finally, if she was not
moved by the popular preacher, it was not from the
remotest similarity to the old woman who could
only cry in her own parish. If, as Dr. Franklin
relates, a poor octogenarian who had been immured
for years in her own apartment, employed a
confessor to shrive her “vain thoughts,” our heroine,
just in the uncertain budding time of her sweet
hopes, must be forgiven for her truant fancies.
But if she was unmoved, there was a lady at her
side almost convulsed by the picture of the final
retribution which the preacher presented. She
was cloaked, and veiled, and kept her head reclining
on the front of the pew. Her tears fell like raindrops
into her lap. Gertrude suspected she knew
her. `Can it be!' she thought—she kept her eye
steadfastly fixed on her. Her curiosity, and a better
feeling than curiosity was awakened. The lady
drew off her glove. If Gertrude had been at a
loss to recognise the beautiful hand thus exposed,
she could not mistake the rich and rare rings, that
identified Mrs. Layton's.
Gertrude's first impulse was to press that hand in
hers, in token of her sympathy with the gracious
studious concealment of Mrs. Layton's attitude, and
by the fear, that the consciousness of her observation
might check the tide of religious thought,
which she hoped, like a swollen torrent, would
sweep away accumulated rubbish, and leave a fertilized
and productive soil. But Gertrude's benevolent
hope had a frail foundation.
The agitation of Mrs. Layton's mind, was not
the healthful strife of the elements, that leaves a
purified atmosphere, but the storm of a tropical region,
that marks its track by waste and desolation.
Her religion, (if it be not sacrilege, so to apply
that sacred name,) was a transient emotion—a passing
fervor—a gush of passion, that if it did not lull
the cravings of her immortal nature, or still the reproaches
of conscience, for a time, at least, overwhelmed
them.
Gertrude, in the simplicity of her heart, believed
a moral renovation was begun, and already with
the sanguine expectation of youth, was counting on
its natural fruits, in the mother's zealous co-operation
in her daughter's cause, when she was awakened
from her reverie, by the close of the service.
She eagerly hastened forward to escape Mrs. Layton's
notice, and was soon lost in the crowd, from
which she disengaged herself and reached home,
without again encountering Roscoe, who was lingering
and looking for her.
She found Emilie at home, impatiently awaiting
her; her cheek was flushed, and her face was radiant.
Her air, her step, her voice, her whole being,
seemed changed. The inevitable duties of the toilet
the time of grace was short; but short as it was,
Emilie found opportunity to communicate the substance
of her interview with Marion. He still loved
her, truly, devotedly. “And it was from a letter
of yours to his sister, Gertrude, which he says, she
had not the heart to keep from him, that he learned
the true state of the case, that I had never trifled
with his feelings, that I was forced into this odious
engagement, and that you believed I loved him—
you should not have told that, Gertrude; however,
it is past, and can't be helped now—and that I should
be miserable with Pedrillo—that, I'm sure you
might say to any body. Randolph came post to
New York, and had not been a half hour in the
city, when he accidentally heard we were all at the
Athenæum, thither he went to meet us. He has
since repeatedly called, and never been admitted—
he has written to me, and his letters have been enclosed
to him, un-opened.”
“I have conjectured all this before, Emilie; but
what is to come of this interview?”
“Oh! Heaven knows—dear Gertrude; bless
you—bless you for writing that letter.”
What was to come of it, in Emilie's hope, was
plain enough from her benediction. Gertrude
shook her head, and said, with a gravity half-real,
half-affected, “I was afraid I was at the bottom
of this mischief, but I have done what I could to
repair it.”
“Oh Gertrude!” exclaimed Emilie, mistaking her
friend's meaning, “then you told mama?—you advised
her to return the letters?”
“Emilie!”
“Emilie did not quite comprehend the tone of
Gertrude's exclamation. “I am not offended,” she
said—“I cannot be offended with you. I dare say
you thought it was right, or you would not have
done it; and as you never was in love, dear Gertrude,
you know, you cannot possibly tell what a trial
it is.”
Gertrude, not thinking an éclaircissement at this
moment, very important, proceeded to ask Emilie
`if Marion had proposed any thing?'
“Yes, he has, he intreats me—but perhaps,
Gertrude, you will think it your duty to tell mama?”
“Nothing you trust me with, Emilie.”
“Oh, do not think I doubt you. It is only when
I am not quite sure we think exactly alike about
what is right, and I judge from my feelings, you
know, and therefore, I am very liable to go
wrong.”
“Never—never Emilie, while they remain so
pure and unperverted—but tell me, what did Marion
propose?—an elopement, a clandestine marriage?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of it.”
“Emilie threw her arms around Gertrude's neck,
“are you, Gertrude?—do you think it is right?—
do you think I may consent?”
Gertrude looked in her eager face with a smile,
and replied playfully in the words of the Scotch
song:
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly”—
lips, as it springs from my heart at this moment.
But a clandestine marriage must be the last resort.
We must first see whether your father will not release
you from the engagement he has made with
Pedrillo.”
“He never will—never, Gertrude.”
“We will see—and if he will not, why then
—but here is Justine, to tell us the carriage
is waiting. Keep up your spirits, Emilie, and according
to the good old fashioned rule, `hope for
the best, and be prepared for the worst'—the worst
shall not come to you, if human effort can avert it.”
Mrs. Layton and Pedrillo were awaiting the
young ladies in the parlor. Mrs. Layton showed
no traces of the morning's emotions excepting an
unusual languor, and a deeper tinge of rouge than
usual. Emilie never had appeared more dazzlingly
beautiful. Pedrillo siezed her hand with rapture;
“God bless me, Miss Emilie,” he said, “your ride
has wrought miracles. No rose was ever brighter
and fresher than the color on your cheek. Miss
Layton,” he added in a lower tone, “this week is to
fulfil my hopes.”
“This week!” she echoed, and her boasted color
faded to the faintest hue. Nothing farther passed.
He handed her to the carriage, und she was compelled
to endure, with an aching, and anxious heart,
for the remainder of the evening, the stately ceremonies
of a formal dinner-party.
| CHAPTER X. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |