University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Roscoe was right in his conjecture that Pedrillo
had ascertained who had intercepted his success.
When he rose from the prostrate position in the middle
of the street where Roscoe had thrown him, he
stumbled over a hat. He perceived that the noise
at Abéille's door had attracted the observation of
one of the guardians of the night, and he thought
proper to retreat. He took the hat with him, and

when he exposed it to the light, he found within it
the name that of all others was most likely to give a
keen edge to his resentment. He had met Roscoe
often at Mrs. Layton's, and had had some corroding
suspicions that Emilie's indifference to his addresses
proceeded from preference to Roscoe. He
tore off the name, and threw the hat into the street,
saying as he did so, “I have found out the object,
and I will make the opportunity of revenge.”

It must be confessed there is a charm to our republican
society, in a foreign name and aristocratic
pretensions, like the fascinations of a fairy tale to
children. Our tastes are yet governed by ancient
préstiges—cast in the old mould. We profess the
generous principle that each individual has a right
to his own eminence, whether his sires commanded
the heights, or drudged obscurely in the humblest
vale of life; but artificial distinctions still influence
our imaginations, and the spell has not been dissolved
by the repeated detection of the pretensions
of impostors with foreign manners, and high-sounding
titles who have obtained the entrée of our
fashionable circles.

Henriques Pedrillo had far more plausible claims
to favor than certain other vagrant foreigners who
have played among us too absurd and notorious a
part to be yet forgotten. He had in the first place
`nature's aristocracy,' a person and face of uncommon
symmetry and elegance, and these advantages
he cherished and set off with consummate art, steering
a middle course between coxcombry and negligence,
the Scylla and Charybdis of the gentleman's
toilette. His conversation did not indicate any more

erudition than he might have imbibed at the playhouse,
and by a moderate intercourse with cultivated
society. He spoke English, French, and
Spanish equally well; and so well as to leave his
hearer in doubt which was his vernacular; and he
had the insinuating address—the devotion of look
and manner, in his intercourse with ladies, that
marks the exotic in America. In common with
most Spaniards who come among us, he cast his nativity
in old Castile, though he confessed he had
been driven to the new world to repair the abated
fortunes of his ancient family. He was not precise
in communicating the particulars of his career; but
the grand circumstance of success, if it did not extinguish
curiosity, at least repressed its expression.
He had been recently known to some of our first
merchants, as the principal in a rich house in the
Havana. This was enough to satisfy the slight
scrupulosity Jasper Layton might have felt in introducing
him to his wife and daughter. Mrs. Layton
at first courted Pedrillo merely as a brilliant
acquisition to her coterie. She confessed she had
no affinities for American character—tame, unexcitable,
and unadorned as she deemed it. She
spoke French and Spanish remarkably well, and
the desire to demonstrate these accomplishments did
not betray a very culpable vanity. She first sedulously
cultivated Pedrillo's acquaintance; `Eve did
first eat;' but Mrs. Layton, no more than our first
mother, foresaw the fatal consequences of what appeared
a trivial act. Their relations soon became
interesting and complicated. Pedrillo was captivated
by Emilie's pre-eminent beauty. Her innocence
and sweetness touched all that remained of
unextinguished goodness in his nature. The evil
spirits look back with lingering affection to the
heaven they have forfeited.

Layton, a man of lavish expense, found Pedrillo
a most convenient friend. Pedrillo was profuse,
but not careless. He had the acute habits of a man
of business, and even in his pleasures he nicely balanced
the amount he gave against the consideration
he expected to receive. When, therefore, he
from time to time, lent Jasper Layton large sums of
money, he gloried in the secret consciousness of the
power he was accumulating. Their intimacy grew
till Layton gave him the last proof of his confidence
and good fellowship, by introducing him to a club
of gentlemen who met privately every night at a
gambling-house, and indulged there to great excess
this keen and destructive passion.

Pedrillo had acquired in scenes of stirring excitement
and imminent peril, such command over his
turbulent passions, that to the eye of an observer the
fire that was merely covered, seemed extinguished.
So at least it appeared to Layton, when after a night
of various fortune and feverish excitement, they
emerged from their club-room, just as the city
lamps were dimmed by the approaching day.
“Pedrillo, my dear fellow,” said Layton, “you
are a philosopher: you win and lose with equal
nonchalance—I—I confess it—I am giddy with my
enexpected luck.”

“Unexpected?” replied Pedrillo.

“Yes, unhoped for; Pedrillo, I will tell you a

secret. When I entered that room to-night I was
utterly ruined.”

“A secret!—ha! ha!”

“A secret—yes, you might have guessed it, for
God knows you were deeply concerned in it—but
all scores are wiped out now, hey, Pedrillo? That
last bragger cleared off the last five thousand—and
my loss to that devilish fellow Martin, that is balanced
too; thank Heaven I am my own man again;
a timely whirl of the wheel it was. Fortune, blind
goddess as thou art, I still will worship thee!”

“Do we visit her temple to-morrow night?”

“Certainly.”

“Au revoir, then.” They parted; Layton went
one way, intoxicated with success, humming glees
and catches, now twisting his cane around his fingers,
now striking it on the pavement, and even attracting
the eye of the drowsy watchmen by his irregular
movements. His spirits would have fled if he
had penetrated Pedrillo's bosom, and seen the keen,
vigilant suspicion he had awakened there.

The next night they met again at the gaming-table.
Fortune maintained her perch on Layton's
cards; Pedrillo lost large sums. Again they left the
house together. Pedrillo appeared even more unmoved
than he had on the preceding night. He
congratulated Layton with as much seeming unconcern
as if the subject in question were a mercantile
speculation in which he had no personal concern.
Layton was in ecstacies—“You may defy the world,
Pedrillo!” he said in a tone of the highest good
humor, “and all its turns, tricks, and shufflings.
Those poor devils we have left behind us are ready

to cut their own throats, or mine. Zounds! my dear
fellow, you are high-souled and whole-souled—”

“Have you heard from Miss Emilie, to-day?”
asked Pedrillo, rather abruptly interrupting his
companion's strain of lavish compliment.

“Yes.”

“Does she permit me to follow her?”

Layton's elated tone was changed to one more
conciliatory, as he replied, “Why, to tell you the
truth, Pedrillo, she seems disinclined; and on the
whole we may as well consider the affair as ended.”

“When did you come to that conclusion, sir?”

“When? what difference does that make, if it be
a wise conclusion?”

“Do we meet to-morrow night?”

“As you please; after my run of luck it does not
become me to propose it.”

“We meet then; and after we will speak of Miss
Emilie.”

“Eh bien; but of course Pedrillo, you understand
that I shall never consent to put any force on
her inclinations.”

“You shall do as you choose”—and he added
mentally, “you shall choose it, Jasper Layton, as
surely as a man chooses life rather than death.”

The next evening found them at their accustomed
haunt. After Pedrillo and Layton had played one
game, Pedrillo threw up the cards, alleging a pain
and dizziness in his head. Another took his place.
He continued to stride up and down the room, sometimes
pausing beside Layton, and always keeping
his eye fixed on him. Layton had a dim consciousness,
as some sensitive persons have in their sleep, of

a steady gaze, and once or twice he looked up, startled
and inquiring, but instantly his attention reverted
to the portentous interests of the game.
From time to time angry and half-smothered exclamations
broke from his companions, at his obstinate
luck; still they continued with fatal desperation to
wager and lose, and when the play was finished,
they had lost, and Layton had won all. Accustomed
as they were to sudden and violent fluctuations
of fortune, their continued losses on the present occasion
had exhausted their patience, and deprived
them of the power of quelling the expression of
their excited passions. Despair, madness, and
worse than all, suspicion, burst forth in loud imprecations,
or in half audible murmurs. Layton's
cheek burnt, and his hand trembled, with triumph,
or resentment, or consciousness, but he uttered not
one word; and when, as they left the apartment, he,
as usual, thrust his arm into Pedrillo's, Pedrillo
withdrew from him, and fixed on him a cold penetrating
glance that thrilled through his soul. He
involuntarily shivered—they emerged from the long
dark passage, that led from their secret haunt to the
street, into a damp, hot, steaming atmosphere. “A
singular morning for agues!” said Pedrillo, looking
contemptuously at Layton, while he took off his
own hat and fanned himself, as if to stir some living
principle in the suffocating air. Layton turned
his eye timidly to Pedrillo; their glances met—a
keen intelligence, a malignant triumph, and pitiless
contempt, spoke in Pedrillo's; the shame, and
fear, and misery of detected villany, in Layton's.
They walked on in silence to the head of the street,
where, instead of parting as usual, Pedrillo drew
nearer to Layton, took his arm, and went on with
him. “A word to the wise,” he said, in a low thrilling
voice, “a word to the wise, for wise I think
you will be after this folly—the ass should not attempt
a cheat in the presence of the fox, Layton.
I suspected your trick the first night—the second my
suspicions were confirmed—to-night I have detected
you. Let this pass. You have been rash—
imprudent in your practice, my good friend; you
should have calculated more nicely the chances of
detection. Other suspicions than mine are awakened,
but there is an immeasurable distance between
suspicion and certainty, and we may continue to widen
that distance; that is, if,” and as he finished his
sentence, every word seemed measured and weighed,
and sunk like lead into Layton's heart,—“if in
future we are friends?”

The tone was interrogative, and Layton replied
gaspingly, “certainly, certainly.”

“Well, very well; we understand each other, do
we not?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly.”

“Then let that pass—`Il ne faut pas être plus
sage qu'il ne faut'—details are disagreeable and you
are sure, quite sure there is a clear mutual comprehension?”

Layton felt at every word as if a new manacle were
rivetted on him. Still, safety on any terms, were
better than destruction, and while he writhed under
the power, he dared not resist; “Proceed,” he
cried, “for God's sake—you know I understand
you.”

“Then, Layton,” he resumed in a familiar, every-day
tone of voice, “my lips are sealed—as to the
few thousands you have won from me, retain them,
as a consideration in part for the treasure you ensure
me—ensure me, mark my words; and, Layton,
if in future you get becalmed, do not attempt
to raise the wind by such desperate expedients.
There are a few situations in life where honesty is
the best policy, and the gaming table is one of them.
But before we part, let us settle our plan of action.
Suspicion is awake, go again to-morrow night, and
lose your winnings liberally! this will baffle their
sagacity, and what is more, appease their resentment.
Do you like my counsel?”

“I will take it.”

“Good night then, or rather good morning, for
I think the sun is glimmering through the scalding
fog.” They parted, and Layton sprang on his own
door-step, as a newly captured slave would dart
from the presence of his master. “One word,”
said Pedrillo, turning back, “you write to Miss
Emilie to-morrow?”

“Yes, yes, I will communicate my determination
to her.”

“Oh! `of course,”' replied Pedrillo, with a
`laughing devil in his eye,' and quoting Layton's
last words of the preceding evening, “`of course
you will put no force on her inclinations.”' An
oath rose to Layton's lips, but he suppressed all expression
till secure from observation in his own
room, he gave vent to a burst of passion; but resentment,
remorse, and parental tenderness, were
now alike unavailing. He was inextricably involved

with Pedrillo, and his own safety could only
be secured by the sacrifice of his beautiful child.

Jasper Layton was the only son of a man of talent,
virtue, and fortune, and he never quite lost the
sense of the responsibility such an inheritance involved;
and to the last, the fear of publicly disgracing
his honorable name, was a source of the keenest
suffering to him. Unfortunately he came into possession,
by his father's death, of a large fortune,
before he had sufficient strength of principle, or
habit, to encounter its temptations. He was not
destitute of kind, or even tender affections; but
what good thing thrives without culture? and frivolous
pursuits and selfish indulgences had rendered
his callous. Still, they had not perished, and it was
after many heart-writhings, and after a long interview
with Pedrillo on the subsequent morning,
that he wrote the following letter to his wife—to a
wife who, if she had rightly employed her superior
powers, might have saved him from the wreck of
virtue and happiness.

While the episode in Pedrillo's life related in
Roscoe's letter, and the transactions of the gaming-house
were passing in New York, Gertrude Clarence
was enjoying an almost daily interchange of
visits with her new friends, and an acquaintance
that promised nothing but happiness was ripening
into intimacy. Mrs. Layton found herself compelled
by the receipt of her husband's letter, suddenly
to suspend this intercourse, and she despatched
the following note to Gertrude, in which, as will
be seen, she did not hint at the place of her destination
after she left Upton's-purchase. She had her
reasons for this reserve. She feared that Mrs. Upton
would propose to accompany her, as a ride to
Trenton from her residence was a convenient and
tempting jaunt of pleasure; and she meant that her
going there should appear to have been the consequence
of a subsequent arrangement.

Gertrude wondered that Mrs. Layton should be
so reserved about Emilie's affairs, when she manifested
such singular confidence, and unbounded tenderness;
for measuring her new friend by her own
purity and truth, she gave full credit to all her expressions.
Contrasted with the simple regard and
unexaggerated language of Gertrude's common acquaintance,
they were like the luscious fruits of the
tropics, compared with our cold northern productions.

But she had now no time to analyze her fascinating
friend. The jaunt to Trenton, to which her
father had at once consented, on Seton's account
had been delayed from day to day, for two weeks,
from the daily occurrence of the rural affairs of
midsummer, that seem to country gentlemen, of the
first importance. In the mean while, Seton was
becoming worse. The family physician, announced
the approach of a nervous fever, that could only be
averted by change of air; and Mr. Clarence put
aside every other concern; and, on the very day of
Mrs. Layton's departure, he set off with Gertrude
and Seton, and servants competent to the care of
the invalid, in case he failed to derive the benefit

they hoped, from the journey. Mr. Clarence was
usually particularly annoyed by the discomforts of
travelling; his philosophy completely subdued by
bad roads, bad coffee, bad bread, and worst and
chiefest of all plagues, by the piratical `red rovers'
that `murder sleep;' but his benevolence now got
the better of the habits generated by ill health
and indulgence—he thought, and cared only for
Seton.

If the unhappy patient's malady had been within
the reach of art, it must have been subdued by Gertrude's
ministrations; for with that exquisite sensisibility,
which vibrates to every motion of another's
spirit, she watched all the variations of his mind,
and imparted or withheld the sunshine of her own,
as best suited his humor; but, in spite of skill
and patience, and sisterly vigilance, the nervous
fever predicted by the physician made hourly encroachments;
and the necessity of a few hours'
delay at one of the noisiest inns of that noisiest
of all growing towns, thronged busy Utica,
exasperated the disease to an alarming degree.

As may be supposed, Mr. Clarence had not come
to the most public hotel of a town, abounding in
every species and grade of receptacle for travellers,
till he had unsuccessfully applied for admittance
to the other more private, but now overflowing
houses.

The travellers, on alighting, were shown into the
common receiving parlor, a large apartment opening
into the public hall, and near the general entrance
door. Mr. Clarence, after vainly attempting
to obtain audience of the official departments of

the house, and after a fruitless quest for some private
and unoccupied apartment, was compelled to
content himself with securing the exclusive possession
of a settee, which had the advantage of a position
removed as far as the dimensions of the apartment
admitted, from either of the general passage
doors, through which the full tide of human existtence
ebbed and flowed. Here, he, Gertrude, and
Seton, seated themselves; and here they might for a
little time, but for poor Seton, have been well
enough amused with the contrast to the seclusion,
quiet, and elegance of their home.

The front windows of the apartment looked into
the most public, and par excellence the busiest street
of the town, the avenue to the great northern turnpike.
Stage-coaches were waiting, arriving, departing,
driving to and fro, as if all the world were
a stage-coach, and all the men and women merely
travellers.

The `window privilege' (as our New-England
friends would say) at the side of the room, was no
way inferior to that in front. This afforded a view
of the canal, and of the general debouching place
of its packet-boats—all elements are here tributary
to the forwarding system.

There were servants and porters hustling baggage
off and on the boats—stage-coach proprietors persecuting
the jaded passengers with rival claims to patronage—agents
clothed in official importance—
idlers, for even here are idlers, and all `as their
tempers were,' muttering, sneering, scolding, joking,
laughing, or silently submitting to their fate.
The way-worn, weary travellers, as they poured

into the hotel, seemed the victims, instead of the
authors, of this hurly-burly.

A female, with a highly decorated pongee riding-dress,
gaudy ear-rings, a watch at her side, with half
a dozen seals, and a gold safety chain, as big as a
cable around her neck—in short, with the aspect of
a half gentlewoman, seated herself beside Miss Clarence,
and very unceremoniously began a conversation
with her. “Are you going on in the pioneer
line, Ma'am?” “No.” “Oh, in the telegraph—so
are we, it is much more select; but I tell my husband,
that all the stages are too levelling to suit
me”—a pause ensued, and soon after the lady
beckoned to her husband. “My dear, who is that
foreign looking gentleman, that says he is going
on in the pioneer-line?” “The Duke of MonteBello!”
The lady looked all aghast at the untimely
discovery, that levels might be raised as well
as lowered in a stage-coach.

The only apparently perfectly cool member of
this bustling community, was a ruddy-faced, tight-built,
active, little man, not far declined from his meridian,
who was walking in and out, and up and
down the room, addressing the individuals of this
motley crowd, with the easy air of a citizen of the
world. He approached Mr. Clarence, and by way
of an introductory salutation observed, that it was a
`warmish day.' The mercury stood at ninety, and
Mr. Clarence' blood at fever heat.

“Intensely hot,” he replied, without turning his
head or moving his eye from the ark-like boats,
which were gliding under the bridge that crossed
the canal.

“A pretty sight that!” continued the good-natured
man, “especially, to one, who, like myself, has
travelled through this town many and many a day,
in fair weather and foul, with the mail on my back.”

“You, my friend, you do not look older than myself!”

I think I have some dozen years the advantage of
you, sir; but I have led a stirring kind of a life, and
kept my blood warm, and courage up. Yes, sir,
just where the grand canaul goes, I used to whistle
along a foot-path; and here, where the folks are
now as thick as blades of grass in June, stood my
log-house; and my wife, and four flax-headed little
boys, were all the inhabitants. I love to look back
upon those times, though I have now seventy drivers
in my employ; but we grow with the country,
and get to be gentlemen before we know it; excuse
me, sir, my coaches are getting under way.”

A fresh bustle now broke out; Babel was nothing
to it; for no post-coaches stood at its devoted
doors. “Hurra for the western passengers!” Gentlemen
and ladies for Sacket's harbor—all ready!”
“Hurra for Trenton!” “Pioneer line—ready!”
“Gentlemen and ladies for the Telegraph!” “The
bell is ringing for the Adams boat—going out!”
“Horn blowing for the Jackson—coming in.”

Where was poor Seton, and his nerves, in this
mélée. “It will certainly kill him,” thought Gertrude,
and calling to a black fellow, who was hurrying
hither and thither, as if he were the ruling
spirit of the scene; “my good friend,” she said,
imploringly, “cannot you get a private room, for
that sick gentleman?”

Blackey grinned from ear to ear; “Missess can't
suspect a private room in a public-house.”

Happily, his reply, half impudent, and half simple,
caught the ear of our friend, the some-time
mail-bearer; who ordered the servant, instantly, to find
private apartments, and accompanied his command
with such demonstrations of his having `come to be
a gentleman,' as none may give, in our country, but
those who have worked their passage to that elevation;
and none will receive, but those, whose color
stamps their subordination. When blackey had recovered
from the impetus, that had hurled him from
one extremity of the room to the other, his chastiser
ordered him to show the lady to the square-room;
and said, he would himself conduct the gentlemen
to the best apartments the house afforded. Most
gratefully did they all follow, blessing the timely
interposition of the bustling little man in authority.

Miss Clarence took possession of her apartment,
opened the sashes, closed the blinds, and was just
throwing herself upon the bed, when, a horribly
scrawled half-sheet of paper, caught her eye. She
picked it up, and taking it for granted, that it was
some discarded scrawl, and without once doubting,
whether it were proper to read it, and having
nothing else to do, she began it; and once begun,
it was read, and re-read. There was no address,
no signature; it was not folded, or finished. It
ran thus:

“You will be surprised at this addenda to the
“folio I have just despatched; if, indeed, you can
“decipher it, written, as it must be, with a bar-room
“pen, and diluted ink. Since I put that in the P.

“Office, I have had positive information—there is
“no longer any doubt remaining. The poor girl is
“passive, and P. is to follow them to Trenton.
“What horrible infatuation! You may think me as
“infatuated to hope to prevent it; but I cannot look
“on, and see a creature so young, so innocent, and
“so lovely, on the brink of a precipice, and not
“stretch out my arm to rescue her from destruction.
“I will communicate the terrible suspicions that are
“abroad; if my efforts are abortive, why, I shall have
“made them, and that will be some consolation. I
“think if I see —, I can dissipate her delusion; if,
“indeed, it be delusion; but if, as I rather think, it is
“a timid submission to tyranny, I shall try to rouse
“her courage to rebellion. This crusade, of course,
“prevents my paying my respects at Clarenceville;
“I understand there are troops of pilgrims to that
“shrine. Let them bow before the golden idol—I
“reserve my worship, for the image to be set up in
“my heart. Report says that Miss C—”

Here the letter had been interrupted, and as Gertrude
hoped, unintentionally left, for she could not
believe that a person who could indite a decent
epistle would expose such allusions to public inspection.
`Who could have written it?' She ran
over the whole catalogue of her own, and her father's
acquaintance. Not one appeared as the probable
writer. She thought of Gerald Roscoe, but
she was familiar with his autograph, and, `thank
heaven, it was not he,' she ejaculated audibly,
and smiled involuntarily at the sensation of escape
she derived from this assurance. `Why was it
she had rather it had been any other man living

than Gerald Roscoe?' Before she had given this
self-interogation fair hearing, and while she was
folding the manuscript with the intention of showing
it to her father, she heard a tap at the door,
and the voice of the negro-servant, saying, `Won't
missess please to hand me a written letter, lying on
the table under a handkerchief, and won't missess
please to keep the handkerchief tight over it, case
the gentleman's very pa'tic'lar not to have me, nor
nobody read it.”

She looked around the room, saw a cambric
handkerchief, not far from the place where she had
found the letter, and scrupulously covered it; but
she did not transfer it to the servant till (as every
woman will believe) she had vainly investigated every
corner for a mark. She was gratified with this indirect
assurance that the exposure of the letter had
been accidental and limited to herself, and probably
owing to the draft of wind occasioned by her throwing
open the window when she entered the apartment.

But what could console the high-minded Gertrude
Clarence for the conviction that continually pressed
on her from every quarter, and in every form, that
the accident of fortune, a distinction that she had
never sought, and never valued, exposed her to
slights and ridicule; to be dreaded and avoided by
one class, courted and flattered by another. She
thought of Seton, and it cannot be questioned that
she felt a glow of satisfaction that she had excited
one pure, disinterested sentiment; and a secret regret
that affection was in its nature so independent
and inflexible, that, though she would, she could not

love him who so well deserved her love. Then
came the bitterest reflection of all; her fortune had
envenomed the shaft that wounded Seton's peace.

What would become of envy and covetousness,
and all their train of discontent, evil, and sin, if the
external veil were lifted, and the eye could penetrate
the secrets of the heart?

Miss Clarence was roused from a long reverie to
which we have merely given the clue, by a notice
that Mr. Seton was so much refreshed as to be able
to proceed on his journey.

Nothing can be more beautiful, more soothing
and refreshing, than the coming on of evening after
the fierce heat of one of our midsummer days. It
is a compensation for the languor and exhaustion
of mid-day—or rather it is the best preparation
for the full and exquisite enjoyment of the
delicious coolness, the deepening shadows, and the
fragrance that exhales from woods, flowers, and
and fields. A summer's evening in the country is
a paradise regained; but, alas! evil spirits could
leap the bounds of paradise; and melancholy interposed
her black pall between poor Seton and the
outward world. In vain did Gertrude point out
the rich hills and valleys of Oneida—the almost
boundless view of a country so recently redeemed
from savages and savage wildness, and now rich,
populous, and cultivated. He scarcely raised his
heavy eye-lids; and his faint and irrelevant replies
indicated that his brain was already touched by his
disease.

All other interest was now lost in anxiety to reach
Trenton; and after as rapid a drive, as roads, at their

best indifferent, would permit, they arrived at the
`rural resort,' the neat inn in the vicinity of the falls.
Fortunately there were no visiters there at the moment
of our travellers' arrival, and they had an opportunity
of selecting their apartments, and for
Seton, the most retired and commodious one the
house afforded, to which he was borne in the arms
of his attendants.

The consciousness of sacrificing one's private inclinations
and comforts for the good of another is
always pleasant to a benevolent mind; and Mr.
Clarence, whom nothing but an errand of kindness
would have tempted from his home to a gathering-place,
was in unexpected good spirits. He already
`felt quite renewed by his journey.' `Gertrude
looked better than he had seen her for six months.'
`He was sure Louis wanted nothing but a little rest.'
He was delighted with the deep retirement and ruralities
of the situation, and `charmed with the
neatness, civility, and quiet of the house.' The
last quality was not of long duration. One or two
stage-coaches arrived, and the consequent and inevitable
bustle ensued. The guests were judiciously
disposed in a part of the house as remote as possible
from that occupied by Mr. Clarence; and
Gertrude passed the evening in her father's apartment,
reading aloud to him, according to her
usual custom. The lecture was of course interrupted
by Mr. Clarence' frequent visits to Seton's
room. His mind was still wandering, and his fever
increasing; but after a while, a powerful opiate took
effect, and he sunk into an unquiet, artificial sleep.
His attendant, however, reported that he was doing

well, and Gertrude, after giving her last minute
directions, bade her father `good night.'

As she shut the door of his apartment, her book
in one hand, and lamp in the other, her foot was
entangled in the cloak of a gentleman who was
standing muffled in the little gallery. In extricating
herself from the awkward embarrassment, her
lamp fell. The gentleman recovered it, and gracefully
apologizing for the accident, he relighted the
lamp by the lantern suspended in the gallery. This
was an operose business. The cloak encumbered
him, he threw it aside, and Gertrude could not but
notice, with a curiosity stimulated by the concealment
for which the cloak had obviously been
worn—for nothing could be more agreeably tempered
than the atmosphere—the fine figure and
classic head thus accidentally and unintentionally
disclosed. Every one knows how slow and almost
impossible the process of ignition appears when
waited for. The gentleman made some common-place,
but, as Gertrude thought, pleasant remark
about it, which was suddenly cut off by a servant,
who came up the stairs and whispered to him. He
returned the lamp to Miss Clarence, bowed, and
hurried away. She turned to inquire the stranger's
name of the servant, but half ashamed of her curiosity,
she hesitated, and while she hesitated, he disappeared.

Gertrude then went to her own apartment.
After remaining there a while, she missed her
keys, and recollecting she had left the bag that
contained them in the parlor, she went down stairs
in quest of them. As she approached the parlor-door

which stood a-jar, she heard voices in low and
earnest conversation. She listened; one was Mrs.
Layton, her heart beat, and she sprang forward,
and again stopped, for she perceived that her
friend was deeply absorbed in a tête à tête, evidently
private, with the stranger whom she had
met in the gallery. They had been quite too much
interested in their own affairs to hear Miss Clarence'
light tread, and there being no light in the passage,
she stood for a moment without the fear of observation.
Mrs. Layton leant against the window, her
handkerchief at her eyes, and her back to the light,
which fell strongly on the stranger's face. His fine
features were kindled with a glow of earnest feeling,
he spoke in a tone of mingled supplication and remonstrance.
`Such a man could scarcely speak
in vain,' thought Gertrude, as she turned away, and
stole back to her own apartment. There she revolved
in her own mind the probable meaning of
Mrs. Layton's unexpected appearance at Trenton—
the obscure intimations in relation to Emilie in her
farewell note—this private interview with the elegant
stranger—the Utica scrawl; and she would probably
have arrived at the right exposition, if that
had not involved Mrs. Layton in deep reproach.
Of course, that was rejected; and after going round,
in the same circle, she gave up the subject as
inexplicable, and resigned her mind to the sweet
fancies awakened by a dewy moonlight evening.

Gertrude Clarence, in daylight, and amidst the
real affairs of life, was truly what Mrs. Layton had
called her, a fit heroine for the nineteenth century;
practical, efficient, direct, and decided—a rational

woman—that beau-ideal of all devotees to the ruling
spirit of the age—utility. But it must be confessed
she had certain infirmities of olden and romantic
times clinging to her; that she loved in moonlight
and retirement, to abandon herself to the visions of
her imagination; that she sought and loved the
beauty and mystery of nature; that she gave her
faith to the poetry of life—the sublime virtue that is
sometimes manifested in actual human existence,—
and that always visits the dreams of the enthusiast,
as the fair forms of their divinities were presented to
the inspired vision of the Grecian sculptors.