University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

In a state of gloomy and bewildered expectation,
Fleetwood sat regarding the hands of his watch, resolved,
that if Glenham failed in his appointment by
the fraction of a minute, he would refuse to accompany
him. How earnestly did he hope that such
might be the result! The five minutes preceding
the hour fixed, seemed to him like days of torture.
Every sound of a footstep in the corridor made his
heart beat, and his breath come thick and heavy.
He felt like a culprit, who has sold his soul to the
arch fiend, and who is awaiting the moment when
the purchaser is to come to claim his own.

But two minutes remained of the allotted time.

“He will not come—the coward will not come!”
exclaimed Fleetwood, starting from his seat, and
pressing his forehead with the palms of his clasped
hands. “Oh, what a fool I have been to attach the
least importance to his wretched calumny! He
would have been here long before this if he means
to return at all. He has done all that he could do
to make me miserable—and he has succeeded for
a time—but his act of childish vengeance is now
ended. He has done his worst. Vengeance! May
he not have been really deceived? May he not
have been laboring under a gross but sincere mistake—and
may he not have been actuated by pure
and honest motives in apprising me of what he believed
to be true? Poor Glenham! I should not

wonder if such turned out to be the real state of the
case. And now having become assured of his error
he stays away, fearing, after my recent violence,
that we may have a more serious quarrel in consequence
of his blundering officiousness. I have done
him injustice. Poor fellow! I should not have been
so rude. I will ask his pardon. I will make ample
reparation for my ruffianly conduct towards him.
It was too bad! It was”—

Fleetwood glanced again anxiously at his watch.

“But ten seconds remain,” he muttered, almost
gasping for breath, such was the emotion of solicitude
under which he labored. “Eight seconds—
six—he has broken his appointment, and his story
must be false as hell!”

At that instant he heard steps approaching. A
solitary knock—and then, without pausing for an
invitation, Glenham threw open the door, and entered.

“I believe I am punctual to my appointment,” he
said, coolly placing his hat upon the table, and
throwing his gloves into it.

“Ay, you are punctual,” groaned Fleetwood,
standing motionless as if petrified by the unwelcome
appearance.

Glenham took a seat, and carelessly tapped his
boot with his cane.

After a pause, full of anguish to one at least,
Fleetwood stamped his foot, and exclaimed: “Come,
Sir, I am ready for you. Lead on. I await your
damnable proofs.”

“You are in a hurry, then, to be satisfied? All
in good time. I have a carriage in waiting at the
door. The drive will not be a long one.”

They proceeded together down stairs, and out of
the hotel to the sidewalk. A coachman stood holding
open the door of his carriage. He immediately
let down the steps as he caught sight of Glenham.

“Will you enter first?” said Glenham, politely
touching his hat

His brain on fire, Fleetwood precipitated himself
carelessly into the vehicle. Glenham gave some
minute directions to the coachman, and followed.
The steps were folded up—the door closed—and,
the next minute, they were rattling up Broadway.

“I would exact a promise from you,” said Glenham,
after they had driven nearly a quarter of a
mile in silence.

“Name it.”

“Promise me, that should you see Adelaide you
will keep silence, and not attempt to discover yourself
for at least five minutes.”

“Why do you wish me to do that?”

“Because if you make yourself known prematurely,
you will defeat the very object we have in
view. You must wait as patiently as you can until
the worst is revealed.”

“There is reason in what you say. I will fairly
test your charges. O, wo to you, if I find this is a
plot of yours to wrong her!”

“A plot! Well: perhaps it was foolish in me to
enlighten your blissful ignorance. I begin to wish
that I had not interfered. What do I propose?
Simply that you shall see and judge for yourself.
I do not deal in vague suspicions, or circumstantial
trifles. I say, come and satisfy yourself with your
own eyes and your own ears whether or no I have
spoken truly.”

Fleetwood shuddered at the air and tone of conviction,
with which these words were uttered. “O,
strike me to the earth if there is any truth in what
you have asserted!” he exclaimed. “Buffet me—
trample on me—crush me—you will find I shall not
resist. Heap indignity on indignity—it could not
rouse me from the horrid stupor into which I should
be thrown.”

“My objects are friendly,” returned Glenham. “I
would save you from a rash, disgraceful marriage.
The discovery will be painful to you, I am aware.
But surely, it had better come before marriage than
after.”

“I will not credit the testimony of my own
senses!” exclaimed Fleetwood.

“In that case we had better turn back,” said
Glenham coolly—“for I acknowledge I have no
better witnesses than your own eyes and ears.”

“Oh, go on—go on!” groaned Fleetwood, “and
bring this infernal errand to a conclusion as soon as
possible.”

“We are at the house,” said Glenham, as the
driver suddenly drew up his horses.

“We are not there yet! I hope we are not there
yet!” ejaculated Fleetwood, who felt sick at heart
as he witnessed his companion's confident manner.

The young men entered the house. Fleetwood,
pale and trembling, could hardly drag himself along.
He felt for the first time in his life like a coward.
Was it strange that he should have entertained a
certain mistrust—a dread of what might be—under
the circumstances? He had undoubtedly been impulsive
and precipitate in thus surrendering into
Adelaide's keeping his heart's best hopes, before he
had weighed all the circumstances of her position
—before he had satisfied himself fully of the truth
of her story. A consciousness of his error could
not but come to him now, although he tried to evade
it. He was appalled when he found how suddenly
the passion, which had been fed by hope, had
sprung up “consummate at its birth”—when he
saw the abyss of disappointment and wretchedness
into which he would be plunged, should the horrible
charges against Adelaide be confirmed. He
did not know that his nature was capable of emotions
so intense as those he now experienced. He

did not dream that he had so staked his happiness
on a chance.

Glenham led his companion into a room, from
which the light was almost wholly excluded.

“What is the meaning of all this?” asked Fleetwood,
choking with agitation.

“Be patient, and you will see,” was the reply;
“and remember your promise not to utter a word
until the test is ended.”

“Proceed!” said Fleetwood, who felt as if the
hazard of a die was about to decide whether the gates
of Paradise were to be closed upon him forever.

Glenham stepped softly towards the leaves of a
sliding door, which opened upon a room where the
light came unobstructed through windows that looked
out upon the street. The aperture though slight
was sufficiently large for a person to stand unobserved
in the darkened apartment and distinguish
objects clearly and easily in the other.

Drawing his companion towards this aperture,
Glenham asked in a whisper, “Do you recognize
that man?”

“I do—he is Count La Salle—but he is alone,”
replied Fleetwood.

“He will not be alone long—wait awhile,” said
Glenham.

There was a pause—unbroken save by the sound
of footsteps, which came from the room, where La
Salle was pacing the floor. Glenham had always
regarded this man as one of the handsomest he had
over seen. His figure was perfect in all its proportions.
His head and shoulders might have served
a sculptor as a model for an Antinous; and his
countenance when in repose was full of all masculine
grace. But now Glenham thought it hideous.
An expression of fiendish exultation seemed to distort
its lines and curves, and to convert what was
beauty into downright ugliness.

“This is hell,” muttered Fleetwood, seizing Glenham
by the arm—“Torturer! how long—”

“Hush! La Salle seems disposed to soliloquise,”
said Glenham—“What he has to say concerns you,
I will swear.”

“I did not come here to be an eaves-dropper,”
returned Fleetwood, flinging from him the arm he
had grasped.

“You promised to be silent,” said Glenham reproachfully.
“Listen, and observe. If I told you
a man was plotting against your life would you refuse
to satisfy your doubts by watching and over-hearing
him? Is not your honor dearer than your
life?”

Glenham had closed the sliding doors while he
uttered these remarks. He now re-opened them.
At the same moment, La Salle was heard speaking
as if to himself. Looking at his watch, he exclaimed:
“Two o'clock! How long does the little witch
mean to keep me waiting? Beautifying herself, I
suppose! That is needless. Poor Fleetwood! He
little dreams of the compensation I am taking for
the caresses he lavished on Emily Gordon. Tit for
tat is fair play. Ha, ha! Who was it said, revenge
is sweet? He had reason. But I fancy I am the
gainer by this exchange. Emily will do; but Adelaide—Adelaide—”

At this moment the door-handle was turned.
Fleetwood drew in his breath, and the moment of
suspense seemed an eternity of torture.

Yes; it was Adelaide, who entered! Never had
she looked so beautiful. A smile almost as joyous
as that which made her face radiant when she first
placed her hand in Fleetwood's as the pledge of her
fidelity, was on her lips. With a step of triumph
and delight, she entered the room with both arms
extended, as if inviting an embrace. La Salle

caught her to his bosom, and stopped her mouth
with kisses.

“Hush!” whispered Glenham, as he saw Fleetwood
gasp under the pressure of the acutest agony
that can wring the human soul. “Remember your
promise to be silent.”

But a mist came over Fleetwood's eyes—his
heart seemed as if thrown from its centre by a convulsion—he
threw out his hands for support, but
they touched nothing but the smooth surface of the
wall—and then, with a suppressed groan, he fell to
the floor.

“I thought so,” said Glenham, quietly closing the
leaves of the sliding door. He threw open the
shutters. A flood of light poured into the room.
He approached Fleetwood, and lifted him to a sitting
posture. As he did so the blood poured from
his victim's mouth, and stained the delicate linen of
his shirt.

“He has burst a blood-vessel!” said Glenham,
alarmed at the serious effects of that internal struggle,
which he had imposed on Fleetwood. Placing
him on a sofa, he rang the bell.

“Tell your mistress to come here at once,” he
said, addressing the black waiting-woman of the
house.

Mrs. Winfield was soon on the spot. At first
she imagined that Fleetwood had been stabbed.
On learning the truth, a momentary pang of compunction
seemed to visit her seared and indurated
heart.

“Poor fellow! poor fellow!” she exclaimed. “And
so good looking as he is! Had I imagined it would
have hit him so hard I never would have engaged
in this ugly business. Irene, run this instant for
Doctor Mott. There! Raise him gently. We
must carry him up stairs, and lay him on a bed.
Poor, dear young man! And this beautiful white

vest—how stained it is with blood! Come! he
shall have good care taken of him any how. I
didn't look for anything as serious as this. If I had,
I would sooner have been burnt at the stake than
suffered such goings-on in my house. This way,
Mr. Glenham!”

Still insensible, Fleetwood was carried to an adjacent
room, and placed upon a bed. The best surgical
attendance was speedily procured, and before
the lapse of half-an-hour, animation was restored.
Two days afterwards he was pronounced sufficiently
out of danger to be removed to the house of
Mr. Gordon, where the apartment he had occupied
a few days before was assigned to him. Passively
and tacitly he assented to all the propositions for
his own personal accommodation made by those by
whom he found himself surrounded. He put no
inquiries and uttered no complaints, but seemed like
a person, whose mind is brooding in silent apathy
over one haunting thought. The only emotion he
manifested, was when on entering his room at Mr.
Gordon's, he glanced anxiously at the wall. But
the painting which had formerly excited his attention,
had been judiciously removed; and, with a
sigh, he turned away.

When he was sufficiently recovered to reflect
with comparative calmness on the occurrence to
which he owed his present state of prostration, he
discovered nothing in the cause and its effect to suggest
a doubt as to the truth of all Glenham's representations.
Had he seen Adelaide fly to the embrace
of any man but Count La Salle, perhaps a
misgiving as to the deceitfulness of appearances
might have arisen—perhaps the thought might have
occurred, “may not this be the result of management,
and may not Adelaide be under a delusion?”

But the plot was contrived with diabolical ingenuity
to crush the suspicions which might have

suggested themselves under different circumstances.
The very man was selected, who alone of all others
could, by his apt introduction, confound reflection
at a blow, and carry conviction home with terrible
power. La Salle was a foreigner; and therefore
it was unlikely that he could in any way be related
to Adelaide by the ties of consanguinity. He had
threatened Fleetwood with vengeance, to which he
was impelled by one of the most active and malignant
of the heart's passions, jealousy. Unfounded
as that jealousy might be, he still believed that he
had cause for it. And then the soliloquy he uttered
while pacing the room, was but too effectual in
preparing Fleetwood for the meeting, which followed.
Were not the proofs all-powerful under the
circumstances? Eagerly would Fleetwood have
grasped at the slightest apology for a doubt, but he
could find none. The last ray of hope had been
shut out from his heart. It was not because he had
been robbed of a beautiful prize—because he had
lost her, to whom he had surrendered all the hoarded
affections of his soul—that he felt so keenly his
betrayal.

Had she died—died young and innocent—he
knew that, after the first burst of grief was over,
he might have recovered his happiness and even
his cheerfulness, in the anticipation that their parting
was but for a season. But what he lamented
in bitterness of spirit, was the loss of those dreams
of feminine goodness and honor, which he had
cherished, and which—dreams though they might
have been—were still the sunshine of his waking
hours—that chivalric sentiment of respect for the
sex—that faith in human dignity and worth—those
convictions of the existence of a love surmounting
time and death—the loss of these was one, which
the world could never more supply.