 | CHAPTER XIII. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Remain a pinch'd thing; yea, a very trick
“For them to play at will.”
Winter's Tale.
The purveyors of the amusements of our city took
advantage of the interval between the extinction of
an old law, and the framing of a new one, to get up
masquerades in all the places of public resort. Laudable
pains were taken by the manager of the Park
Theatre to conciliate that portion of society which,
suspicious of every doubtful form of pleasure, was
expected to frown on that, which had been already
condemned by the public censors on the ground of
its affording facilities to the vicious. Gentlemen of
the first respectability and fashion were selected as
managers, and the maskers were not permitted to
enter the assembly without first unmasking to one
of these gentlemen. The boxes were to be filled
by the more sedate, or fastidious, or timid, who
chose to be stationary spectators of the gaieties of
the evening. The presence of a multitude of well
known observers, was expected to operate as an
effective check to all tendencies to extravagance in
the maskers.
Mrs. Layton had arranged a party for the masquerade.
Her spirits were excited by the approach
of a form of pleasure unknown in this country, save
and thorough mutual acquaintance had precluded
the genius and artifices of invention. Her imagination
was filled with the romantic incidents that
novelists and dramatists have conjured up on this
propitious arena, and she selected her character and
meditated her part with the fresh interest of a girl
of seventeen. She was to personate the Sybil.
The character suited her genius and her figure,
and she said, that `inspiration, like herself, was of no
particular age.' Her dress was a black velvet, so
happily designed by her own exquisite taste, and
executed by the felicitous art of a French dress-maker,
as to avoid the grandmother and dowager
aspect of velvet; to retain the grace without the
form of the reigning fashion, and, in short, to appear
sufficiently classic and imaginative for the
Sybil of poetry. A few laurel leaves were arranged
with a wild fantastic grace in the folds of her
black hair; and over her face, instead of a mask, she
wore a richly wrought white lace veil, which obscured
without concealing her fine features, and
falling over her right shoulder, formed a profuse
and beautiful drapery. She was writing the last
sentences of Fate on embossed cards, which she
purposed to place between ivory tablets and distribute
as sybilline leaves, when Gertrude entered her
apartment, and, after an involuntary tribute to the
beautiful personification before her, asked leave,
to Mrs. Layton's utter amazement, to accompany
her to the masquerade.
“My leave!” exclaimed Mrs. Layton, “your
going will gratify me beyond expression. My dear
forgive me, but I am so charmed to see you waking
from the rustic reveries of Clarenceville; if you
stay with me three months longer, you will become
quite imperfect and—interesting. But tell me,
seriously, what has so suddenly reversed your decision
against the masquerade?”
“Stronger motives for going than I had for declining
to go.”
“But, my immaculate friend, I thought your
principles were against it.”
“I did not say so.”
“Oh, no, Gertrude, you are not so green, thank
Heaven, as to make a formal profession of principles
on trifling occasions; you only compel us to
infer them from your actions.”
“Thank you, but I am afraid this moral pantomime,
this expression of principles by actions, like
other pantomimes, owes half its significance to the
observer; however, I am content it should do so, if
your interpretation be but as favorable to-morrow
as to-day.” There was something in the intonation
of Miss Clarence's voice, and in the expression
of her half averted eye, that indicated more meaning
than met the ear.
Mrs. Layton cast a penetrating glance at her,
“You talk riddles, Gertrude, but I have no time to
read them now. I presume Emilie has not changed
her mind too? She prefers a tête-à-tête with Marion?”
“Certainly, to all other pleasures.”
“She is right—happy child! these are the rosetinted
hours of love to her; the sands of time are
like her poor mother, it is near `twice ten tedious
years since married she has been?'—heigho!”
“What will they be! diamond sparks still, I
trust. Emilie has done all that mortal can do to
make them run brightly to the last—well placed a
true love.”
“Bless me, Gertrude, you speak con amore. I
am a believer in love too, but not in love matches;
however, though I have not been consulted in the
affair, I have no objection to the transfer of her engagement.
I confess I do not comprehend it. It
is all Layton's affair. I assume no responsibility
about my children, and Layton has made no communication
to me but of the bare unexplained fact.
Indeed I have not seen him since; he has come
home late at night, and gone to his own room.
How he has contrived to satisfy Pedrillo I cannot
conceive, but I am told he was to sail to-day; he
certainly was distractedly fond of Emilie—and so
determined—it is a mysterious business; however I
shall rest satisfied without making any inquiries.
The rule of my philosophy is short and unerring,
`Whatever is, is best.”'
“Provided, Mrs. Layton, we cannot by our
efforts make it better; but, pardon me, I forgot that
my moralizing was limited to action—a difficult
sort of lay-preaching. Promise me,” concluded
Gertrude, kissing Mrs. Layton, with an affectionateness
of manner that brought to that lady's mind
the first days of their intercourse, “promise me that
you will remember your motto to-morrow, `Whatever
is, is best.”'
“Certainly, my dear girl, to-morrow and for
ever.”
`What can she mean?' thought she, as Gertrude
left her, `by these dark intimations?—nothing,
after all, I'll answer for it—poor thing, her imagination
is so excited by this masquerade—for a woman
of her education she is surprisingly raw in
some things—she thinks, no doubt, she is about to
commit a monstrous sin: what cowards women are
made by such preciseness!'
Timidity of conscience is a defence that Providence
has set about human virtue, and those who
are willing to part with one of its securities, have
not felt sufficiently either its worth or its frailty.
Miss Clarence selected a black domino, the dress
that would be most common, and therefore least
conspicuous, and a mask similar to those generally
worn, of pasteboard and crape—an effectual skreen.
A floor had been extended from the stage over the
pit; and on first entering on this immense area,
thronged with representatives of all ages of the
world, and of every condition of society, she was
nearly overwhelmed with the timidity which a delicate
woman, herself disguised, would naturally feel in a
scene of such fantastic novelty. But she was sustained
by the consciousness of a secret purpose that
was worth effort and sacrifice, and she was soon
tranquillized by the order that prevailed amidst confusion.
There was a general and obvious consciousness
of a new and awkward position; and
with the exception of practised foreigners, and a few
native geniuses, like Mrs. Layton, there was a prevailing
masquerading was as little adapted to our society
as tropical plants to our cold soil.
“Let us step aside from the crowd,” said our
Sybil to her most incongruous attendant, Major
Daisy, in the character of a French Count of the old
school. “I see some persons here who have promised
to join me as soon as they find me out. Gertrude,
do you really expect to remain incognitia?”
“Certainly—you surely have not misunderstood
me?” she replied earnestly, for at that moment she
saw that Roscoe, in his ordinary costume, and without
a mask, was approaching them.
“Then, mon cher Comte, you have only to forget
that our friend bears the name of Clarence; a
burden,” she added, accommodating her voice to
the Major's ear alone, “from which you, as well as
some others, would gladly relieve her.”
“Oh, madame!” responded the delighted Count,
“vous avez vraiment l'esprit de la divination!”
“And, Gertrude, you are the unknown, l'inconnue
mysterieuse, Count.”
“A relation of the mighty unknown,” exclaimed
the Major, forgetting his Countship, and speaking
in character—“a genteel family!”
“Pardon me, Count; if I am to be ingrafted on
that stock, I shall disdain the distinctions of your
citizens' drawing-room—genteel! the mighty unknown
takes precedence of all gentility, of nobility,
of royalty, in all loyal hearts.”
“And in my sybilline office I predict,” said Mrs.
Layton, “that he will be remembered when kings
forgotten.”
“And has the Sybil no kind prediction for one
who has always done homage to her inspiration?”
asked Roscoe, who now joined them, and as he
spoke, reverently raised the folds of Mrs. Layton's
veil to his lips.
“The Sybil is, even to her favorites, but the
minister of Fate. Take what she decrees,” replied
Mrs. Layton, holding high her ivory tablets, and
dropping a card from between them. It fell within
the ample folds of the sleeve of Miss Clarence's domino.
She extricated it, and gave it to Roscoe,
saying as she did so, “This from the oracle, and
may its spiritual counsel or stop, or spur you.”
Roscoe started, electrified by the unexpected
voice, but recovering instantly his self-possession,
he replied, in a low tone, “The only oracle that
can `or stop, or spur me,' is veiled in more than
sybilline mystery.”
“Lisez votre destinée, Monsieur,” cried the Major,
whose feeble attempts to support his character were
limited to the painful effort of constructing a few
French sentences.
“No, it shall be read by our priestess,” said the
Sybil, taking the card from Roscoe's hand, and
placing it in Gertrude's; “why does our votary thus
gaze at us?” she continued, interpreting the confused
and inquiring glance that Roscoe cast, first on
Gertrude, then on herself; “is he offended by finding
the Sybil attended by a priestness not found on
classic records—proceed, my priestess, there are
Gertrude glanced her eye over the card, and
read the sentence aloud, feeling as if her burning
cheek might, even through her mask, betray her
private interpretation.
Your prize is almost won,
And the treasure of your bridal day,
Will prove the treasure once cast away.
“Dark enough for Delphos!” exclaimed Roscoe
—“treasure once cast away! Heaven knows that
the good woman commended in scripture did not
more earnestly seek her lost penny than I have
sought the only treasure that ever shall be `the
treasure of my bridal day'—he would have said,
but it was a truth too seriously felt to be lightly
uttered—he faltered, and then laughingly added,
“Oh, it is a lying oracle!”
“Our favors contemned!” exclaimed the Sybil,
“the destinies have misdirected them,” and snatching
the card from Gertrude, she shuffled it in with
the rest, and again elevating the tablets, she dispersed
the leaves among the crowd, that, attracted by
her conspicuous figure, and lofty pretensions, had
gathered about her. “There they go,” she said,
“full of pretty answers!—such as might indeed
`have been got from an acquaintance with Goldsmith's
wives.”'
Roscoe held up the tablet, before Gertrude's eyes,
which he had caught in the general scramble—“It
is the same!” he exclaimed, “there is a fate in this
the deferential air of a devotee, he placed it in his
bosom. Gertrude's heart was throbbing with the
sweetest emotions, when a touch from Mrs. Layton,
directed her attention to an object of sufficient interest
to command her thoughts, even at that moment.
“Is not that Pedrillo?” she whispered, “that
Spanish Knight, with three white ostrich feathers in
his cap.”
“He certainly looks like Pedrillo,” replied Gertrude
in a tremulous voice—“but can he be here?
the ship sailed to-day—Emilie read the advertisement
in the evening paper.”
“That may be—cleared perhaps—but this is certainly
Pedrillo. Observe—no one else would
have so well arranged a Spanish costume. I always
told you his taste was exquisite—it is he, beyond
a doubt—that brilliant cross identifies him, he
once showed it to me—there is not another such in
the country. How he hovers about us—he has one
of my leaves—poor fellow!—I should like to know
his luck. Sir Knight, “she added, raising her
voice “if the destinies are but obedient to the Sybil's
will, thy fate has been fortunate.”
The Knight bowed, haughtily enough for a Castilian,
but vouchsafed no other reply. “There are
horribly portentous predictions among them,” continued
Mrs. Layton. “I would not outrage his
feelings. On what pretext shall we ask to see it?—
not to translate it into Spanish, for I see that African
princes, Indian chiefs, blind girls, deaf and
dumb, all have a gift to read my prophetic words—
do aid me, Gertrude.”
“My mistress commands me, Sir Knight,” said
Gertrude, “to read aloud your fate.” He gave
her his card, first passing his finger emphatically
across the last line, and she read as follows—`Dangers
beset thee—vengeance pursues thee—blood is in
thy path,
The blood's another's—the victory is thine!
really alarmed at the possible interpretation of her
random prediction. “Indeed, Sir Knight, I designed
that for my friend, the Count here, or some
other carpet hero, who never encounters a worse
danger than an east wind, nor a more fearful vengeance
than a lady's frown.”
“Pardonnez ma Sybille,” exclaimed the Count,
“J'ai mon sort et j'en suis tres content,—ecoutez.”
`Hope flatters—fortune smiles—success awaits
thee.
The fair adored will not thy love oppose.”
The prophecy elevated him far above his native
region of prudence; and availing himself of an
opportunity, which was afforded by the company
falling into ranks and promenading to the music, he
actually committed himself, and in unambiguous
words made an offer, in the full meaning of that
technical term. He had thrown the die that had
remained in his tremulous hand for the twenty years
of the minute; the belles and heiresses, who had
fallen into the oblivion of wives and mothers, without
the boast of an offer from the wary Major.
Not Camillus, when he cast his sword into the scale—
not Cæsar, when he passed the Rubicon—not all
the signers, when they penned their immortal autographs,
felt their souls dilate with snch a mighty
swell, as Major Daisy, when he thus boldly encountered
the possibility of a refusal. What then was
his surprise, to find that Miss Clarence did not, in
the slightest degree, partake his agitation—that
she listened to him, much as one listens to a teller
of dreams! That her feelings were evidently deeply
absorbed in some other subjeet; and that when
obliged to reply to him, she treated his declaration
en badinage as a dramatic part of the masquerade;
and finally, when compelled to answer his reiterated
protestations seriously, she dismissed them as the
tame and wearisome tale of every hour.
“The poor Major! caught in the very net he
had so long, so well escaped; and treated, after all,
as game not worth catching! His heart burned
within him, his head swam, and he stepped short and
high, when he was relieved by Roscoe's approach—
and stammerring out, `my dear sir, I have an engagement—be
good enough to take my place.' He resigned
his position to one who produced as sudden
a change in Gertrude, as if she had been transported
from the north pole to the equator.
Roscoe had lingered near Mrs. Layton, to avail
himself of the permission, accorded by Gertrude in
their last interview, and at the first instant he could
I entreat you, the name of the lady who personates
your priestess.”
Mrs. Layton, determined to maintain her character,
and sport with the eager curiosity betrayed in
Roscoe's tremulous voice, (she did not suspect how
much deeper was the feeling than curiosity,) replied,
“Do you, presumptuous mortal, inquire my priestess'
name, when you have so long disdained to join the
troop of pilgrims to her shrine—neglected to lay a
single offering on her altar!”
Roscoe assured her—and she could not doubt it—
that he was serious; but the Sybil was obstinate,
and he, impatient of the spell, which he began to despair
of ever breaking, left her and joined Gertrude.
Roscoe certainly did not, like the major, `make
an offer,' nor did he talk of love in any of the prescribed
or accepted terms. But there is a freemasonry
in love—it has its hidden meaning; and we
should despair—if we were bold enough to repeat
the short and low sentences exchanged by our lovers
—we should despair of making them intelligible to
the uninitiated. They would, in all simpleness,
wonder what there was to cast so potent a spell
over the scene, that it vanished from their senses—
what to make Gertrude's cheeks burn, and her hands
cold—to make Roscoe's heart throb in his manly
bosom, and suffuse that eye whose lofty glance could
thrill an assembly of his peers with tears as soft as
ever trembled in a woman's eye. There was no declaration—no
confession—but the dawning consciousness
of being beloved—the first blissful moment
of assurance—a moment for which there is not in all
The happy do not need observers, and we leave
them, for those who demand our interest, and certainly
deserve our sympathy.
Emilie Layton was sitting at home alone in the
parlor, apparently quite absorbed in a book that lay
before her, when the opening of the door quickened
her pulses. She did not look up; the door was
closed, and a moment of deep silence followed. It
was her father who had entered, and for one moment
he stood, heart-stricken, gazing on his destined
victim. She was bending over her book, her
brow resting on her hand, a hand that had the fresh
dimpled beauty of childhood. The light of the
astral lamp fell, as if it had been adjusted by a
painter's art, on her golden hair, glowing cheek,
and ivory throat; her beauty would have arrested
the dullest eye, but it was more than her beauty that
at that moment thrilled her father's soul. The
gentle obedience of her life, her danger, her defencelessness—and
he, her natural shield, made the
instrument of her destruction. But it was too late
to recede or to hesitate; any thing, he thought,
would be more tolerable than the pang of the present
moment, and, making a desperate effort, he
said, in a loud voice, that broken and unnatural as
it was, was evidently meant to be gay, “Emilie, my
darling, I have a favor to ask of you—a frolic on
foot—I want you to go to the masquerade with me.
He threw a bundle on the table, “there is a domino
and mask for you.”
“But, papa!”
“No expostulation, if you please, the carriage is
at the door; no one knows that we are going—we
shall see without being seen, we will come away
whenever you choose—in ten minutes, if you like—
indeed I cannot stay longer. Do you hesitate?
Emilie! it is extraordinary that you will refuse me
this small request!”
“I do not refuse, papa,” she replied, hastily
throwing on the domino, while her voice, her whole
person trembled, almost shivered with emotion. Layton
hurried on his domino. Every motion was like
that of an insane man. He opened the door, “Are
you ready!—are you ready, Emilie?”
“Yes, quite ready.”
Again he shut the door, turned to Emilie, and
throwing his arms around her, he burst into tears,
“Oh, my child, my child—promise me that you will
never curse your father!”
“Curse you, papa!—Every day on my bended
knees do I implore a blessing on you—and I will
while I live—so help me, God—wherever I am,
wherever you are”—
“Wherever I am!” echoed Layton, recoiling
from her and striking his hands together, “I shall
be—O Emilie, Emilie, pity me!”
“Pity you, papa! I do pity you from the bottom
of my heart—you are not well—let me send
away the carriage—we will not go to the masquerade,
will we?”
“We must, Emilie,” he replied, summoning his
resolution. He feared he had already betrayed
himself, and he added, pressing his hand to his
forehead, “my head has been in a whirl—its going
and my nerves are shattered of late. Throw
on your shawl, my child, and let's be gone.”
Emilie took a shawl that hung over her chair,
her father snatched it from her and threw it across
the room; “That's your mother's!” he exclaimed,
“wear no memorial of your parents, Emilie. Oh,
had your mother possessed one thousandth part of
your goodness, I should never have been the wretch
I am.”
Emilie was impatient to end the frightful scene—
“Here is a shawl of Gertrude, papa,” she said;
“I am ready now.”
“Gertrude Clarence! she is an angel—but angels
have not power to save, why should devils to destroy?”
Emilie made no further reply. She perceived
that every word she uttered served but to increase
the agitation it was meant to allay, and she quietly
preceded her father to the carriage. Not another
syllable was interchanged. The silence was unbroken,
save by a sigh or groan from the miserable
father, such as might have proceeded from a criminal
going to execution, and as with him, `time gallops
withal,' so it seemed to Layton, to impel him
with inexorable speed into that scene where he was
to seal his child's fate. The first and the only object
he saw, when they entered the brilliant assembly,
was the Spanish knight. He too, instantly caught
a glimpse of the two persons he had awaited, with a
restlessness and trepidation that he feared were betraying
his secret purposes, even through his disguise,
and making his way through the crowd, his
them, and touching his hat to Layton, he
placed himself at Emilie's side, and in a whisper
told her that he had at the first glance recognised
her. She made no reply, and they proceeded, with
the tide that set that way, towards the stage. They
passed a Mary of Scotland complaining to Queen
Elizabeth, not of violated faith, but of a smoking
kitchen-chimney; a Sappho bewailing, not the
treachery of her lover, but the loss of a cook;
Sweet Anne Page dancing with an Indian chief, both
in Charraud's best style; and Sir Roger de Coverly
mated with a sultana. But these and all other incongruities
were unnoticed by the trio. Emilie felt
her father's step becoming more and more faltering,
and as her arm, that was locked in his, pressed
against his side, it seemed to her that his throbbing
heart would leap from his bosom. He stopped
as they approached that part of the stage where
her mother retained her station, still the ruling
spirit of the scene. Her spirits were wrought to
the highest pitch by the success of her character—
she kindled in the light of her own genius. Her
sallies were caught and repeated by those who could
comprehend them, and those who would fain appear
to comprehend them—her brilliancy cast a ray of
light even on the dullest and dimmest. Layton felt
that there was something insulting in her careless
gaiety and exultation at a moment when he was
steeped to the very lips in misery. His mind was
in that excited and bewildered state when demons
seem to be its ministering spirits, when every wild
unbidden thought presses with a supernatural force.
his wife. She was in happy unconsciousness of his
gaze. `I could speak daggers to her,' he thought
—`and I will,' and letting fall Emilie's arm, he
penetrated through the ranks that inclosed his wife,
and said, in a voice she well knew, low and husky
as it was, “One word of true prophecy for all thy
lying inventions, Sybil. `Walk in the light of your
fires, and in the sparks ye have kindled, but this
shall ye have—ye shall lie down in sorrow!' ”
This sudden apparition, and these startling words
so blenched Mrs. Layton's cheek, as to define precisely
the limits of her rouge. She looked after the
speaker, but he had rejoined his companions, and
was lost in the general stream.
Emilie perceived, as her father resumed her arm,
that he seemed lost and uncertain which way to turn
his steps. “You are not well, papa,” she whispered;
“do let us leave this place as soon as possible.”
“We shall leave it soon enough, my child.”
The knight gave him a card; `delay not' was
scrawled upon it. The words seemed to scorch
him as he read them. He obeyed the mandate, and
they retraced their steps towards the lobby. Suddenly
Emilie slackened her pace, and then stopped.
She dropped her pocket handkerchief. A lady who
passed near picked it up, and without appearing
even to look for its right possessor, tied it around
her throat, and Emilie proceeded, unconscious of,
or passively submitting to, the loss.
When they reached the lobby, “Surely, papa,”
said Emilie, faltering, “there is no occasion for
attention.”
“He must go home with you, Emilie,” replied
her father; “I am too ill to attend you—I must
stop at a physician's, and have blood let—Pedrillo,
look for a carriage.” He uttered the premeditated
words mechanically. They were scarcely audible;
but Emilie, whatever might have been her reluctance,
proceeded without any farther remonstrance. It
would have been impossible to say which was most
trembling, most agitated—father, or daughter. As
he assisted her into the carriage, he retained her
hand for a moment, and pressed it fervently to his
lips. Emilie felt his tears gush over it, and springing
forward, she kissed his hand tenderly, and mingled
her tears with his. He groaned aloud. The
knight's impatient foot was already on the step. The
wretched father grasped his arm: “Pedrillo,” he
said, “God have mercy on your soul, as you are
true to my poor child!”
“Amen!” was the only response, but never was
a saint's prayer uttered with a deeper, more fervent,
or more sincere emphasis. The carriage door was
closed, the horses driven swiftly away, and Emilie
sank on the bosom of her companion, exclaiming,
“Oh, Marion, Heaven will forgive my poor father!”
Marion, (for it was in truth Emilie's true love
that personated the Spanish knight,) Marion soothed
her with every suggestion that tenderness could
supply. While they are disencumbering themselves
of every trace of the masquerade, and putting on
their travelling cloaks, hats, &c., previously provided—while
the carriage halts in one of the crossstreets
good steeds are being attached to it, we must
return once more to the masquerade, and to Gertrude
who, in obedience to the preconcerted signal
of the dropped handkerchief, was hastening to
follow her friend. Roscoe was still at Gertrude's
side. We have been compelled to repeated recession,
and long as it may appear since we left him
at that enviable station, the time seemed to him
short as a blissful dream, when Gertrude said, “Mr.
Roscoe, I must put your generous faith to one more
proof—I promise it shall be the last. Will you attend
me to my place of destination?”
Roscoe's faith was for a moment disturbed, and he
frankly expressed his distrust. “You did not surely
come here alone?”
“No, I certainly did not; but I do not see the
person on whom I relied to attend me, and I must
go alone if you hesitate—my engagements will not
permit me one moment's delay.”
“Pardon me,” he said, offering his arm.
“I do pardon you,” she replied, taking it,
“though I perceive you are but half assured.” He
answered nothing till they had left the house, and
made their way through the rabble of hackmen, and
idlers that surrounded the door. “Is this haste necessary?”
he then asked, checking their hurried
pace; “has it any object but to end this brief interview,
and to leave me in the ignorance which I can
no longer endure, and which, permit me to say, after
your promise at our last interview, you ought no
longer to protract?”
“My haste is essential, Mr. Roscoe, and believe
me, it has no reference to you.”
Roscoe's pride was wounded. “Forgive my presumption.
I certainly ought not to have imagined
that you, who have shown such utter indifference to
my wishes—such an entire want of confidence in
me, should have any farther reference to me, than
as the instrument of your convenience.”
“Mr. Roscoe!”—there was a treacherous tremulousness
in Gertrude's voice. After pausing for
an instant, she proceeded, “You are unkind and
unjust to me—you have not claimed the performance
of my promise. I am at this moment giving
you the strongest proof of my confidence—making
you privy and accessory to a hazardous elopement.”
“An elopement!” exclaimed Roscoe, aghast.
“Yes,” replied Gertrude, smiling; “an elopement—of
which I am a zealous aider and abettor,
and an humble attendant of my principals to Virginia,
our ultimate destination.”
“To Virginia! Then I now claim the fulfilment
of your promise. Roscoe paused, and Gertrude
was as anxious to pronounce the word that would
dispel the mystery, as Roscoe could be to hear it;
but it seemed to her like the word of doom, and
while it hovered unspoken on her trembling lips,
Roscoe continued, I beseech you to end this tormenting
suspense, which I flattered myself the
chances of every day would terminate. Have I not
endured it long enough—patiently enough? For
Heaven's sake, do not walk at this furious rate—if
you knew what efforts my deference to your wishes
has cost me, you would not hesitate. I care not
of all circumstances and persons other
than yourself—I was proud—fastidious, it may
be. There was a time when I should have shrunk
from the disclosure of a vulgar or obscure name—or
a name allied however remotely to dishonor; but
now, truly I care not for any of these things—my
faith, my hope, my love, centres in you alone.”
Notwithstanding the intense interest with which
Gertrude listened, and notwithstanding Roscoe's
earnest remonstrance, she had not slackened her
speed; and she now saw a carriage awaiting her at
a few paces from her, and Marion, who had descried
her, advancing hastily. She had just time to falter
out a hasty reply to his last words—“Then
is there an end of all motive to further concealment,”
when Marion exclaimed, “For mercy's sake,
make haste, my dear Miss Clarence!”
“Miss Clarence!” exclaimed Roscoe—“Gertrude
Clarence?”
“Yes, Gertrude Clarence—but not a `prize
lady.' ”
Roscoe was dumb for an instant, (seconds were
now precious,) overpowered with thick-coming
thoughts—surprise at this solution of the mystery,
and amazement at his own stupidity—such as is felt
in all inferior riddles—that he had not before discovered
the solution—recollections, anticipations, fears,
and hopes were thronging, and all concentrated in
that one moment.
They were already at the carriage-door—Emilie
had exclaimed joyfully, “Oh Gertrude, you've
come!” and Roscoe had recovered his self-possession
you please—I have one word to say to—Miss Clarence.”
“But a single word, I entreat,” replied Marion;
“there is no time to lose.”
“In one word then,” whispered Roscoe; “may
I follow you?”
Gertrude uttered that precious monosyllable, worth
in some cases the whole English language besides,
and sprang into the carriage, but not till Roscoe had
pressed her hand to his lips, and breathed out a
“God bless you”—the shortest and best of all benedictions.
Marion was drawing up the blind, when Emilie
stopped him, while she entreated Roscoe, who stood
as if he were transfixed beside the carriage, to return
to the masquerade, and attend her mother home,
but on no account to betray his knowledge of their
departure.
Roscoe promised. The blind was again drawn
up, and the carriage hastily driven to a boat in waiting,
which conveyed them without any delay to
Powles Hook, whence they proceeded on their
southern route.
| CHAPTER XIII. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |