Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth a novel of American life |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. | CHAPTER XVII. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
 | CHAPTER XVII. Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below.
The third morning after his removal to the house
of Mr. Gordon, Fleetwood had so far recovered his
strength, that permission was given him by his
physician to quit the chamber, where he had been
confined, and walk in the rooms below. Leaning
on the arm of his host he proceeded down stairs,
and entered the parlor, where he had first encountered
Emily.
“Where are you, Emily? Not here to welcome
our invalid guest!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon.
Emily was sauntering in the conservatory, sewing
upon some light muslin work. She threw
it down on hearing her father's voice; and as she
issued through the open window with its background
of leaves and flowers, she looked the embodiment
of grace and beauty. Hastening through the intermediate
parlor and saloon, she approached Fleetwood,
holding out both her hands, while an expression
of animation and delight gave a new charm to
her features.
“I am glad to see you after your accident, Mr.
Fleetwood,” she said in a grateful and musical, because
a sincere tone of voice.
“You are very kind,” replied Fleetwood, smiling
faintly, while he gave her his disengaged hand.
“Pray, my dear,” said Mr. Gordon, looking at
his watch, and addressing his daughter, “pray take
my place as a walking stick for our friend. I have
an engagement at this hour. I rely upon you,
I assure you, Fleetwood. Good bye!”
And without giving his guest time to reply, Mr.
Gordon substituted his daughter's arm for his own
as a support, and withdrew from the apartment.
Fleetwood unconsciously frowned. Although physically
convalescent he still felt sick at heart, and in
no mood for female society, especially Emily's.
He had been stunned by the terrible blow which
had fallen upon him, and had but partially recovered
from its depressing effects. He craved repose—he
implored peace. His solitude had been almost uninterrupted
from the moment of his accident up to
the present time. He had not seen Emily at all,
and her father but once or twice. He appreciated
the disposition thus shown to humor him; and in
gratitude for what had been done he resolved not
to exhibit if possible his discontent.
In justification of Emily it should be made known,
that she was as yet wholly unacquainted with the
circumstances of Fleetwood's illness; although of
this fact he was unaware. All that she had been
told was, that he had slipped down and burst a
blood vessel; and her natural inference was, that
the accident was occasioned by too violent an effort
on his part to save himself, while in the act of falling.
“I rejoice at our good fortune in having you
again for our guest,” said Emily; “at the same
time I cannot but regret the cause.”
“The cause? Ay, Miss Emily, the cause was
not an agreeable one,” replied Fleetwood, coldly,
wounded at her incautious allusion to so delicate a
subject.
“But you are quite over it, I trust? The effects
are not serious, apart from a temporary weakness?”
“Oh, of course not!” said Fleetwood, bitterly.
“It is foolish to feel any emotion of regret at such
of being wounded by treachery and falsehood
where it looked for fidelity and love. Bah! Do
not laugh at me for my simplicity.”
“Laugh at you!”
And Emily looked wonderingly in the face of her
guest, half afraid that his wits were in an unsettled
state.
“I do not understand you quite,” she said, after a
pause.
“Can you ask me,” said Fleetwood impatiently,
“if the effects of such a disclosure, as that which
prostrated me body and soul, are likely to be serious?
Do you imagine I have no feeling? I know
not how you may be constituted, but for myself, I
can say that such an occurrence brings with it a
life-long gloom, which no subsequent events can
wholly dispel. But we will not allude to this subject
again; for I see it is one where our sympathies
must be diverse.”
“Excuse me,” replied Emily; “but I fear there
has been some misapprehension on my part. All
that I have heard of your accident has been, that it
was purely physical. I knew not that there were
any painful associations connected with it: had I
done so, believe me I would never have revived
the topic. If I have erred, it has been through ignorance.
Let me show you the blossoms on my new
orange tree.”
“And is it then possible,” asked Fleetwood, “that
you are uninformed of the disclosure, which—
which has made me wretched? Do you not know
that she—she, to whom—whom, in short, I had
promised to make my wife—”
“Rest yourself on this sofa,” said Emily. “You
are agitated. You shall select another opportunity
for this communication.”
“No, no—I am very childish,” murmured Fleetwood;
he added: “She has proved herself unworthy
of the addresses of an honorable man, Miss Emily.
The last time I saw her she was in the embrace of
your friend, La Salle.”
“Are you certain? Was there no deception?
Were you not duped—cheated by false appearances?
Beware! beware! It may be that both of
you have been the victims of a cunningly devised
plot.”
“My own eyes and ears could not have deceived
me. I first saw the Count, and fully satisfied myself
that there could be no mistake as to the identity.
He was alone, or thought himself alone, pacing the
room in the expectation of her coming. Some
ejaculations which fell from him, in the way of a
soliloquy, showed that the idea uppermost in his
mind was that of revenging himself on me for robbing
him, so he imagined, of you.”
“Ah! I see—I see,” interrupted Emily. “It is
not then, as I suspected, a plot—but La Salle, in the
recklessness of his resentment, has—and I—I have
been the cause of all this ruin and distress! But,
go on, sir.”
“You may imagine what were my sensations
while waiting for the appearance of the female,
whom he was expecting. I would not endure
another such moment for a world's wealth. She
came—how could I mistake her? That fatal
beauty, which seemed so hallowed by the very
soul of innocence beaming from every lineament,
was now not less beautiful, not less dazzling, than
when I first yielded all too willingly to its spell.
She bounded forward into his arms, and allowed
him to cover her cheek with his licentious kisses.
You may well start. My heart stood still at the
sight, and refused to fultill its functions. Crushed
my story.”
“She flew to his arms!” exclaimed Emily, in a
hoarse but audible whisper.
“Ay, and in the very moment of her treachery,
a smile of such angelic purity was on her lips, that
it will haunt me to my dying day. I never could
have believed that guilt could so have disguised itself.”
“The caitiff!” muttered Emily, pacing the floor
with rapid steps, while Fleetwood sank into an arm-chair.
“The vindictive traitor! I thought he
might seek a manly, honorable revenge, but little
dreamed he would accomplish the ruin of one who
had not injured him, for the gratification of a paltry
spite against Fleetwood. Oh, that I were a man,
that I might punish such heartless villany!”
“You are indignant; and with reason,” said
Fleetwood. “Not even so black a passion as
jealousy should have driven him to so base an
act.”
“Fleetwood, I will be frank with you,” said
Emily, suddenly changing her manner, and standing
with folded arms before her guest. “Pardon
me; but I have been playing a part.”
“What is your meaning, Miss Gordon?” asked
Fleetwood, much surprised.
Emily looked cautiously around, as if fearful lest
there might be a listener near. She walked towards
the conservatory, and having satisfied herself
that her apprehensions were groundless, she
re-crossed the room rapidly to where Fleetwood
sat regarding her movements.
“Yes, I have been playing a part,” she said, in
a low, earnest and hurried tone. “The confession
is an humbling one, but it shall be made. At the time
I first met you, that man, La Salle, and I were
secretly affianced. He was, or rather seemed to
ostentatiously, were not less deeply interested in
him. I dreaded to communicate the fact of our
engagement to my father, because I knew he had
set his heart on my marrying a man of wealth;
and it could not be denied that La Salle was poor.
The night you met me at Mrs. Dryman's, my father
had insisted on my going there simply for the purpose
of cultivating the acquaintance of a family at
whose house there was a chance of my encountering
you. We met. My father called on you shortly
afterwards, and you became our guest. In an interview
we had that same day, he accused me of
entertaining a partiality for La Salle, and indignantly
forbade my extending to him the slightest
encouragement. It was you whom he wished for
a son-in-law; and he threatened me with his heaviest
displeasure if I did not instantly exert all my
powers to win your affections. You remember
our walk in the conservatory. Distrusting my own
firmness in resisting these parental importunities, I
begged you to fly at once, and marry the woman
of your choice. My father's approach prevented
my saying all that I wished. You neglected or
misconstrued my warnings. A subsequent interview
with my father—and my scruples were overcome—but
by arguments the most touching and
irresistible that could be addressed to the heart of
a daughter. I will leave it to you to imagine what
they were. I was weak enough to consent to play
the hypocrite—to pretend to be in love with you,
in order to awaken that pity which is said to be
akin to love. Foolish that I was, I did not reflect
that the heart of a man was rather to be won by
apparent indifference than by obvious partiality.
But in deceiving others we are often apt to deceive
ourselves.”
“And you did this, knowing all the while that I
undisguised disdain.
“But you must remember, I was assured that the
person you were about to marry was unworthy of
you—that the match was one which would be a
life-long source of misery to you—that in short, it
would be a deed of mercy to detach you from the
pursuit, by inducing you to transfer your affections,
even if I did not mean to requite them by the return
of my own.”
“Too true! too true!” sighed Fleetwood. “The
event has proved, alas! that it would have been a
deed of mercy. This consideration was perhaps
some excuse for your conduct, so far as I was
concerned. But how could you so deceive La
Salle?”
“That part of my conduct I shall not venture to
extenuate. You must consider, however, that in
the first place I was under the influence of my
father, who threatened me with his lasting displeasure
should I prove contumacious and resist his
authority. But I suspect that even that influence
would not have availed to induce me to discard La
Salle, but for the peculiar circumstances under
which he found us on the evening of the thunderstorm.
His insulting manner at once roused my
woman's pride. He chose to put a prejudicial
construction upon what he saw. Without stopping
to learn the truth, he indulged in a malicious and
offensive sarcasm. How could I condescend to
undeceive him after that?”
“I must admit that you did not lack provocation.”
“But how can I forgive myself, Fleetwood, for
attempting to mislead you? No sooner had La
Salle quitted the house, than I tried to persuade
you that I had never encouraged him to hope for a
return of his attachment. There, I blush to say, I
vaunting of past favors stung me to the quick. I
was angry and indignant; and felt as if I could
have accepted the first man who proposed for my
hand, if it were only to exasperate and punish La
Salle. Little did I dream that he would have taken
such a dastardly revenge. Oh, Fleetwood, it is I,
after all, who have brought this misery upon you!”
“Do not say that, Miss Gordon. Is it not rather
you who have saved me from a much worse infliction,
that might have come at some future day?
Think you, I should have been happy with the woman
who, with so much facility, could be shaken
in her loyalty? I feel no resentment towards La
Salle. I rather thank him for subjecting her to the
test. That she was found wanting was my misfortune,
and not his fault. The world will expect
me to fight him, perhaps, when I recover—but I
shall consult my own tastes and my own convenience
exclusively about that.”
“You take a strange view of the matter,” said
Emily. “He has wounded me far less grievously
than he has you, and yet I feel as if I could take
the field against him with a hearty good will; for
I now detest him as heartily as I once loved him.”
“You have dealt candidly with me, Miss Gordon,”
said Fleetwood, rising, and once more accepting
the proffered support of her arm—“you have
dealt candidly with me, and I thank you. I can
find a thousand excuses for the little imposture you
practised; and your frank confession takes away
the ungraciousness which it might otherwise wear.
I acknowledge that I was duped—that I was conceited
enough to believe you were enamoured of
so humble a person as myself—but I hope you will
not think the worse of me when I say that the belief
gave me far more pain than pleasure. Why
should we not confide in each other? My mind
by this mutual explanation; and now knowing each
other's heart, we need not hesitate to communicate
our thoughts freely and unreservedly.”
“To me,” replied Emily, “such an interchange
will not fail to be some compensation for what I
have suffered and must continue to suffer. Notwithstanding
La Salle's conduct at our last interview,
I must confess I entertained hopes that time
and circumstance would bring us once more together;
but since he has proved unworthy, those
hopes are annihilated. Let us trust to time, the
great physician, my friend, to teach us endurance,
if not cheerfulness, under our mutual wrongs.”
They paced the room for a moment or two in
silence.
“I could not have believed,” said Fleetwood,
“that my heart could so have misled me as it did
in regard to that child—for child she seems to be,
with that face of child-like innocence and beauty.”
“But so young—so inexperienced as she is—
what resistance could she offer,” said Emily, “to
the arts of so consummate a man of the world as
La Salle?”
“Do you then find excuses for her?”
“Yes, many for her, but none for him. I cannot
speak my detestation of his baseness.”
“But the circumstances under which I proffered
her the protection of a husband—the relations in
which we stood to each other, and to the world,
were of such a character that—alas! it is folly to
deplore the past. Let me hear music, Emily—
music that shall bring a new and more welcome
train of thoughts.”
A smile of pleased surprise passed over her lips.
It was the first time he had addressed her by the
familiar name of Emily.
Fleetwood experienced a relapse in his malady
keep his bed for a considerable time. Mr. Gordon
contrived that Emily should be his nurse and constant
attendant. She beguiled the tedious hours of
his illness by reading, conversation and music.
Her harp was transported to his room, and, at his
request, she brought her embroidery work and
sewing, with which to occupy herself when wearied
with other employments, or when the invalid had
sunk into a momentary slumber. With her own
hands she poured out the fever draughts which the
physician had prescribed to be given to him at
regular intervals. With her own hands she administered
food, and supplied fresh pillows for his
heated head.
The scheme was prospering beyond Gordon's
most sanguine hopes. A few hints to the physician,
who was, by the way, a very accommodating person,
and it seemed as if a successful termination
might be speedily brought about.
“I should recommend your making a visit to
Europe, my young friend,” said Dr. Brisk, one
morning, when he found himself alone with his
patient.
“I have been thinking of the same thing, Doctor,”
replied Fleetwood. “When can you let me go?
I will leave in the very next steamer.”
“That will depart in a week; and I see no reason
why you should not be well enough to embark
in her,” said the doctor.
“See that I have a good birth secured at once,
my dear doctor,” returned Fleetwood. “I can
speedily make my arrangements to quit this country.
I have no longer any ties to detain me here.”
“No ties?”
“None whatever! Should I die, `who will
there be to mourn for Logan? Not one!”'
“Do not be too sure of that. Either my observations
there is one at least, who will lament your absence
and sigh for your return.”
“You must be under a mistake, doctor. To
whom do you refer?”
“To Emily Gordon.”
“Confess now, doctor,” said Fleetwood, “that
you are less sagacious than you believed yourself
to be. Emily's attachment is not a serious one.
She has told me as much with her own lips. She
was in love with La Salle, until he proved himself
recreant.”
“But in finding a worthier object, may not her
affections have been transferred with redoubled
strength?”
“Ah, my dear doctor, affections are like season
tickets to a theatre, not transferable.”
“My own experience contradicts that remark,”
said the doctor. “How long is it since Emily
gave you to understand that you were an object of
indifference to her?”
“It was on the day I first went down in the parlor
after my removal to this house.”
“Exactly; but there may have been a change
since that time in her views. You make no allowance
for the effect upon a woman's heart of tending
upon a young man in the capacity of a nurse.
Pity melts the soul to love; and in this case I am
sure that another element than friendship enters
into the watchfulness, with which I have seen her sit
by you while you slept, and start to anticipate your
wants when you awaked. Why, man, she has actually
become pale and thin, though you may not
have remarked it, with the confinement of this sick
room and the care she has bestowed upon you.”
“She has indeed been an attentive nurse,” remarked
Fleetwood. “It was selfish in me not to
unwearied attendance on her invalid guest.”
“Could you but have seen what I witnessed the
other day,” said Dr. Brisk, “you would not entertain
much doubt as to the truth of my surmises in
regard to the state of her affections.”
“And what did you see?”
“It happened the night before last,” said the
doctor. “I had told Emily, that I should call during
the evening to give you a composing draught.
Accident detained me till past midnight. Fortunately
Mr. Gordon had given me a pass-key, so that
I entered the street-door without wakening the family.
Ascending the stairs on tip-toe, I opened the
door of your room so noiselessly that my entrance
hardly created the slightest sound or motion. Emily
stood by your bed-side.”
“And had she sat up so late to watch by me?”
exclaimed Fleetwood.
“She seemed like one who had neither slept nor
coveted sleep for many hours,” resumed the Doctor.
“She held a lamp in her hand, the light of
which she shaded from your face, while she regarded
you with a smile, which spoke nothing if not the
tenderest affection. She placed the lamp upon a
chair, and bending over you, listened intently to
your breathing as if to satisfy herself that you were
in a grateful slumber. And at length, removing
the hair gently from your pale forehead, she stooped
and pressed her lips to it, and then, as if frightened
at her temerity, turned suddenly and screamed
on beholding me.”
“Indeed! I never should have suspected that
she felt thus tenderly towards me,” said Fleetwood.
“Because pride makes her disguise her feelings,”
replied the doctor. “On seeing that I had inadvertently
remarked, `Doctor, I rely upon your discretion,
your honor,' and quitted the apartment.”
“And do you really think, doctor, that I would
do wisely to make her my wife?”
“It seems to me, that under existing circumstances,
you could not take a more judicious step,”
said Dr. Brisk. “Your health is likely to be delicate,
your spirits variable, for some months, perhaps
years, to come. In your travels you will feel the
want of an intelligent companion, and one, who,
like Emily, has showed herself no unskilful or inattentive
nurse. So much for the selfish view of
the subject; there is another, that I am sure will
appeal with no less force to your heart. A visit to
Europe is quite as important at this time to Emily's
health as to your own. Indeed I should have serious
fears for her life, should you leave her behind,
hopeless and desolate. Recent circumstances have
affected both of you in such a manner as should
waken the keenest sympathies of each. Why
not study to make amends, each to the other, for
the wrongs you have experienced?”
“Doctor!” exclaimed Fleetwood angrily; “when
I have a physical wound, I will ask your advice.
Those of the heart do not need your tending.”
And then, remarking the bland and innocent expression
upon the physician's face, he added—“Pardon
me if I was hasty—but you touched me nearly. I
will give due consideration to what you have said.
I will reflect calmly and dispassionately upon the
course, which it is incumbent upon me to pursue.
In short, I will take Shakspere's advice, and negotiate
for myself in these affairs. I thank you for
your counsel, believing it to be dictated by a sincere
regard for my welfare.”
“I fear I have been too obstrusive, too meddlesome,”
encouraged me by asking my advice.”
“So I did,” returned Fleetwood; “and I beg
your forgiveness for having received it as I sometimes
do your medicine, with wry faces.”
The doctor took his leave, and Fleetwood paced
the room in an anxious and perturbed mood. That
same day he was informed by Mr. Gordon, that
La Salle had left the city with a young woman,
who, from the description, was evidently Adelaide.
The news created no surprise in Fleetwood's mind,
for, after what he had himself witnessed, no additional
proof of her infidelity could strengthen his
convictions. Being left to himself he pondered intently
on all that Dr. Brisk had said, and on the
circumstances in which he found himself involved.
“Can it be,” he asked, “that Emily will be content
with such a dull, dead heart as I should bring
her? What is it like but the wasted and blackened
frame-work, which is all that remains of some brilliant
fireworks, that flashed gloriously for a moment
upon the night, and then went out in utter darkness?
But I will judge for myself whether the
Doctor is right in his surmises. I will test for myself
the state of her feelings towards me; and if it
should appear that her happiness is really dependant
in any measure on my movements, why, then—
then I will leave it to the impulse of the moment
to do what is most becoming—to guide me aright.”
Fleetwood rose the next morning, feeling far
better in health and spirits than he had done since
the day of his prostration. It was one of those
delicious mornings in June, when the very sense of
existence is a joy, so graciously smile the heavens
—so invitingly blooms the earth—such luxury is it
to breathe the fresh, fragrant and elastic air! He
attired himself with more than ordinary elegance,
as if nature had set him an example, which he was
apartments below, he paced them with a tread
more buoyant than he had been accustomed to
practice. The windows that led into the conservatory
were open, and the eastern sunshine streamed
in among the verdure, while the soft summer breeze
sent a flood of odors stolen from the flowers through
the apartments. The canary birds in their gilt
cages were singing as if ready to split their little
throats in greeting with honors due the beautiful
day; and the very fountain, as it sprang glistening
from its marble basin, seemed to send up from its
falling waters a sort of bell-ringing music, expressive
of delight.
“How sweet, how animating are these influences!”
thought Fleetwood. “God never takes
away from us so much, that he does not leave us
enough to awaken our continual wonder and gratitude—enough
to fill our hearts and occupy our
thoughts! In this conservatory alone, there are
materials for a life-time of absorbing study and
observation. There is not a leaf, which does not
preach of omnipotence and infinity, had we but the
ears to listen.”
At that instant he heard a door open and close,
and, as he issued from the conservatory into the
parlor, he encountered Emily. Her eyes seemed
heavy, as if “with unshed tears,” and her cheeks
were unusually pale. Poor girl! She had just
come from an interview with her father, and the
task that he had imposed upon her was a severe
one.
Fleetwood did not fail to notice the change in
her aspect, and called to mind the observations
which Dr. Brisk had made the day before.
After congratulating her on the beauty of the
morning, he offered his arm for a promenade.
Each seemed absorbed in thought for some moments,
Fleetwood was the first to speak.
“Thanks to your kind watching, Emily,” he said,
“I am again on the road to recovery. But my
physician recommends that I should visit Europe—
what think you of the idea?”
Emily remained silent. There was a terrible
sense of oppression at her heart. She had been
commanded by her father to play the hypocrite—to
pretend to be the victim of a passion which she did
not feel—and a reluctant consent had been wrung
from her. The consciousness that her very agitation
would now be construed falsely by Fleetwood
added to her anguish, and yet she dared not undeceive
him, such had been the terrible imperiousness
of her father.
“Emily, we promised each other that we would
speak frankly,” said Fleetwood; “you first set me
the example, and I am sure you will not think the
worse of me for following it. So recent is this
affliction that has bowed me to the earth, that you
cannot suppose me capable of replacing at once, by
a new tie, that which has been so fatally severed.
Ah, I cannot tell you what I have lost in her! If
you knew how I had stored my future with all
bright things because of her, and how it now seems
all weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, you would
not wonder at the crushing effect which the discovery
of her unworthiness has had upon me. My
heart seems closed to any new affection—arid,
dark and desolate, love and joy must ever find there
but an inhospitable reception. But the blow which
felled me to the earth, has fallen lightly upon you;
and I have been told—remember, we have promised
to be ingenuous—I have been told that my departure
would take from your own lot some of its
brightness—that—”
A suppressed sob from Emily interrupted him in
covered her face with her hands.
“Hear me to the end, Emily,” he continued. “I
frankly tell you how bankrupt is the heart I have to
offer you. In love with you I am not, and never
can be, in the romantic acceptation of the phrase.
But you have won my esteem, my admiration, as
you must that of all who can appreciate the beautiful
and the good. I should make you a true and
indulgent, if not an affectionate husband;—and if I
can contribute to your happiness by assuming that
relation towards you, I pray you let us join our
fates. I offer you my hand—will you accept it?”
With a despairing gesture, Emily sank upon the
sofa, and bowed her head upon the pillow. Then
suddenly rising, she said, with sudden energy:
“I will repay your noble candor—I cannot see
you deceived by my own acts into supposing
that—”
At this moment she looked round the room distrustingly,
as if hearing a sound which bade her
pause, and then, with a shudder, she placed her hand
in Fleetwood's, and exclaimed:—
“Fleetwood, I am yours!”
Mr. Gordon immediately made his appearance,
and, seeing Fleetwood's arm about his daughter's
waist, gave utterance to a significant cough.
Fleetwood turned, and telling Emily, who seemed
violently agitated, to be calm, said to Mr. Gordon:—
“Congratulate me, sir, on my good fortune.
Your daughter has promised to be my wife.”
“Most heartily do I rejoice at it, my dear Fleetwood,”
replied Mr. Gordon, taking him by the
hand. “You have made this the happiest day of
my life.”
“When shall we be married, Emily?” asked
not how soon I leave this country for Europe.”
“Do you not hear, Emily?” said her father.
“Frederick asks you to fix the happy day.”
“Let it be when you will—when you will,” replied
Emily—and, with a sigh, she fainted in the
arms that were supporting her.
“Poor child! She faints from very excess of
happiness,” said Mr. Gordon, ringing the bell, and
calling for a tumbler of cold water.
| CHAPTER XVII. Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth | |