University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Miss Clarence was up at gray dawn, awaiting
intelligence from Seton. She had directed his nurse,
to inform her how he passed the night; and, though
conscious she was better informed than any one else,
she was anxious to learn the effect of his wild sally.
John soon appeared. “Mr. Seton,” he said, “lay in
a dead sleep, but was nothing worse. I have not
closed my eyes” continued John, “the whole blessed
night, but one bare minute, and then while I dosed,
as it were, Mr. Louis took the advantage to slip
down stairs, and pump some water on his head, that
was fiery hot, and the poor young gentleman came
back, as wet as a drowned kitten; I was scared half
out of my wits; but I put on him dry clothes, and
got him quite comfortable, and I hope Miss Gertrude,
nor Mr. Clarence, won't take it amiss that
I was overcome with that wink of sleep.”

But Miss Gertrude, though the gentlest of kind
mistresses, did take it very much amiss; and reproved
John, with the utmost severity, that the offence,
according to his statement of it, (which she
was compelled to receive,) admitted. Those are to
be deeply compassionated, who are obliged to trust

to menials and strangers, for offices, in which affection
alone can overcome the weariness of mind and
body! Gertrude felt too late that she had rashly undertaken
a task she could not execute. `Oh, were I his
sisterindeed!' she thought `I would never leave
him!' She blamed herself for urging his coming to
Trenton, and wished nothing more than to get back
to Clarenceville, where secluded from observation,
she might share the personal care of him with her
women; but the physician, at his morning visit, declared
a return impossible—he would not even
sanction a removal to a private house, but ordered
the patient's room to be made perfectly dark, and
prescribed the usual remedies for a brain fever.

Miss Clarence was not exempt from the reserve,
fastidiousness it may be, so sedulously cherished in
the education of our country-women. But every
thing was well proportioned, and well balanced in
her mind; she never sacrificed the greater to the
less. The moment she ascertained that Seton's
reason was so far alienated, that he would probably
be quite unconscious of her presence—and that it
could certainly be of no disservice to him, she went to
his room, sat at his bed-side, and watched him, as if he
were in truth her brother. He was alternately torpid
and silent, or violent and raving. The only indication
that a spark of reason remained, was in the
passiveness with which he received from Gertrude,
what he rejected from every other hand.

In the evening there was a slight remission
of his fever, and Gertrude went to her own apartment,
where Emilie Layton, who had sent her repeated
messages during the day, was awaiting her.

The affectionate girl threw herself into Gertrude's
arms—expressed her delight at meeting her in the unqualified
terms of youthful ecstasy, and her extreme
pity for `poor Mr. Seton.' After informing her
that her mother was longing to see her, but that she
had been in bed all day, with a violent head-ache,
she was silent, evidently embarrassed, and perplexed.
She unclasped and clasped her bracelet twenty
times, twisted every feather of her fan awry, and
at last, throwing her handkerchief over her face,
she said, “dear Gertrude, I am engaged to be married
to Mr. Pedrillo.”

“Emilie!” exclaimed Gertrude.

Nothing could be more simple and bare, than
the exclamation; but it was a key-note to Emilie's
car. “I knew you would think so, Gertrude,” she
said, as if replying to a long remonstrance—“I told
mama you would—but it is not so very—very
bad;” and she laid her head on Gertrude's shoulder,
and sobbed aloud.

“But my dear, sweet Emilie, if it be bad at all?”

“Well, I don't know that I can say it is bad at
all—at least, it would not be, if—”

“If what? speak out, Emilie.”

“Oh! I had rather speak out to you, than not; I
am sure my heart will feel the lighter for it. You are
so reasonable, and so judicious, and all that, Gertrude,
that I suppose you have not felt so; but I expected
to be in love when I married. Ever since I first
thought of it at all, though I can't remember when
that was, I have expected to love, and adore my
husband—I have always said, I would never marry
any man, that I was not willing to die for.”

“And `judicious and reasonable' as you think
me, neither would I, Emilie.”

“Would not you, Gertrude? would not you?—
then, it is right—I am sure it is right;” and her
beautiful face brightened all over; but, instantly, a
shadow crossed it—as much of a shadow, as can
appear on a freshly blown rose, and sighing heavily,
she added, “but it is no use now—it is all settled.”

“Irrevocably?”

“Irrevocably; mother says, to recede would be
ruinous to us all; she has not explained to me how,
because she cannot bear to make me as miserable
as she is. If I can make them all happy,I ought—
ought I not, Gortrude?”

“If you can, without too great a sacrifice, Emilie.”

“It seems to me a great sacrifice; I do not, and
never can love Mr. Pedrillo, and you know, I must
never love any body else; so it is a total sacrifice of
my affections; but that is all. I like Mr. Pedrillo—
at least, I should, if he did not want me to love him.
Mother says, she is certain, that after I have been
married a year, I shall like him better than nine women
out of ten like their husbands. He is very kind,
and generous to me; he gave me these splendid bracelets;
but Gertrude, when I put them on I could
not help thinking of the natives of Cuba, you know,
who thought, poor simpletons, that the Spaniards
were only decorating them with beautiful ornaments,
when they were fastening manacles on their wrists.
I always hated Spaniards—I am sorry Mr. Pedrillo
is a Spaniard—I cannot forget it, though he does not
look at all Spanish. Mama says, he is probably

descended from one of the Irish Catholic families
that emigrated to Spain. He is called very handsome,
Gertrude,” she continued in as plaintive a
voice as if she were counting her griefs; “he is
very gay when he is pleased; he has seen a great
deal of the world though he is not very old—not
more than forty.”

“Forty! Emilie; and you seventeen!”

“So it seemed to me, Gertrude. I told mama
forty seemed to me as old as the hills, but she quite
laughed at me and quoted something from Molière,
about his being the better fitted to guide my
youth.”

“I presume he is a man of fortune, Emilie?”

“Oh yes, indeed; that is the worst of it; if it
were not for that, I could do as I please.”

Gertrude's heart was full of sympathy, tenderness,
and compassion for the unresisting victim, but
she hesitated to express her feelings. `Why should
she increase the reluctance that must be unavailing?
Were it not better to employ her influence over
Emilie to reconcile her to the now inevitable event.'
She tried to look at the affair in the most favorable
point of view, and as there are few substances so
black that they will not reflect some light, so there
are few circumstances in life but that have, as the prosers
say, `their advantages as well as disadvantages.'
“I should certainly have carved out for you a different
fate, dear Emilie,” she said—“to love, as
well as to be beloved, is always our young dream.”

“Yes, indeed! and is it not hard to awake so
very soon from it?”

“Yes; but it might prove an illusion, and you

awake to some blessed realities. You might cease
to love, but you can never lose the happiness that
springs from a difficult sacrifice to filial sentiment.”

“That is true, Gertrude, and I will make the
most of it. Mama would have been so wretched—
she has so much feeling.”

Gertrude recollected the Utica scrawl, and the
impassioned intereiew that she had witnessed between
Mrs. Layton and Roscoe, and some painful distrusts
of that lady crossed her mind. The feeling
that required all the sacrifice to come from others,
appeared to her very questionable. “Do not look
so troubled about me, dear Gertrude,” continued
Emilie, rightly interpreting Gertrude's expression.
“I never take any thing very hard. Aunt Mary
used to say I was born under a mid-day sun—there
were no shadows in my path. If she had but
lived!—but there is no use in wishing.” Emilie
was interrupted by a summons to Gertrude from Seton's
physician.

“Stop one moment,” said Emilie; “I have not
yet told you that Mr. Pedrillo is to be here in a few
days, and that mama hopes to be able to see you
to-morrow; but she begs you will not speak of
this affair to her; `her nerves,' she says, `are so
torn to pieces,' and—oh! I forgot to mention that
I want you to come down stairs to-morrow, there is
a Miss Marion here who wishes excessively to see
you; and her brother—and indeed, Gertrude, you
should come down, for in spite of all I say, every
body believes that you must be engaged to Mr. Seton.”
Gertrude was solicitous to avoid such an interpretation
of her devotion to Seton, and she promised

Emilie she would make her appearance on
the following day. But the following day found
her occupied, weary, and heart-sick, and she declined
joining the society below stairs.

Day after day passed, and there was no abatement
of Seton's malady. The scene was sad and monotonous
to Gertrude, but there were various incidents
occurring that were destined to affect the fortunes of
those in whom she was interested.

Nothing is more characteristic of our country
than the business-like way in which pleasure is pursued.
The very few genuine idlers have not yet
learned grace or ease in their `idlesse.' A genuine
idler—a man of entire leisure, is a rara avis. The
Duke of Saxe-Weimar was asked by an honest Yankee,
`what business he followed for a living?' The
host of travellers who run away from their offices,
counters, and farms, for a few hot weeks in mid-summer,
hurry from post to post, as if they were in truth
`following the business of travelling for a living.'
Trenton is one of the picturesque stations that must
be visited, but being situated between Niagara and
Saratoga, the chief points of attraction, Trenton is
the game shot on the wing. Most travellers leave
Utica in the morning coach—arrive at Trenton at
mid-day—hurry to `the steps,' and the brink of the
`great fall'—eat their dinner, and proceed on their
route, in the full complacency of having seen Trenton!
Two or three parties remaining there for several
days, was a rare phenomenon. The Marions
alluded to by Emilie, were Virginians. The mother,
son, and daughter, comprised all that remained of their
family—a family that, from its earliest existence, had

been among the most distinguished of the `ancient
dominion.' The blood of English nobles ran in their
veins, and was not, in their estimation, less honorable
for having, in its transmission to them, warmed the
hearts of pure republican patriots. They were the
very reverse of the character which (we are ashamed to
confess) is often ascribed by northern prejudice and
bigotry to our southern brethren. Active in body
and mind, spirited, gifted, cultivated, kind-hearted,
and indulgent to all human kind—even to their
slaves—to such a degree, that never was a family
better loved or better served by its dependents; and
so far from possessing riches, (which some among
us fancy lose their wings when they perch on a
southern plantation,) they had an hereditary carelessness
of pecuniary matters, which, combining with the
general deterioration of southern property, menaced
them with alarming embarrassments.

Augusta Marion had endured severe afflictions,
but she did not increase their force by resistance.
She had not the usual sweetness and gentleness of
deportment that characterizes the manners of the ladies
of the south. On the contrary, she had a startling
abruptness; but as it was the natural expression
of an impulsive character, of a quick succession and
rapid combination of ideas, and as she had a tender
heart and good temper, (in spite of now and then a
momentary heat and flash,) her manner became rather
agreeable, as suited to the individual, and characteristic
of her. She was sagacious, and her enemies
said sarcastic; but if so, her arrows were never
poisoned, and never aimed at a reptile that was not
noxious.

Randolph Marion, the brother, was the hope,
pride, and delight of mother and sister—a man
that every body might love and admire, and own
they did so without being asked for a reason, for the
reason was apparent. He had nothing in excess,
but all gentlemanly points and qualities in full measure.
He was not a genius, but talented—not
learned, but well informed—not `too handsome for
any thing,' but well-looking enough for any body.
He was not a wit, nor the mirror of fashion, nor
pink of courtesy; but good-humored and well-bred.
In short, he had just that standard of character
that attracts the regard of others, without alarming
their self-love.

The Marions, or rather we should say Augusta
Marion, was Emilie's constant theme during her
interviews with Gertrude. `She was certainly,' she
said, `except her dear Gertrude, the most charming
woman in the world, so agreeable and so witty!'
Once or twice the name of Randolph Marion escaped
her, but without note or comment. `She had
known them both two years before in Philadelphia,
and she had always thought Miss Marion most entirely
captivating, and so did her aunt Mary.'

Gertrude was delighted to see that Emilie could
crop the flowers in her path. Neither of them
perceived they grew on the brink of a precipice.
Emilie seldom adverted to her engagement. Like
death, it was future and inevitable, but its period
was not fixed, to her knowledge, and she felt in regard
to it, all the relief of uncertainty. Little did she
suspect that her mother had promised that the marriage

should take place as soon after Pedrillo's appearance
at Trenton as he should request.

Mrs. Layton was still secluded in her own apartment,
and beguiled Gertrude and Emilie—and
herself too—with exaggerated expressions of sensibility
and suffering! `She could not see Gertrude,'
so said the little twisted pencil-scrawled notes which
she sent her twice and thrice a day, `an indifferent
person she could meet without emotion; but her
nerves and affections were so interwoven that one
could not be touched without the other vibrating. She
was sustained by the consciousness of performing a
necessary duty, but she had nothing of the martyr
in her composition, and she shrunk from the fagot
and the pile. She thanked heaven, poor Em' had
not the sad inheritance of her sensibility. In a few
days she hoped to see Gertrude—but now her
nerves required solitude and a dark room.'

Of all the mysteries and obliquities of the human
mind, the arts of self-delusion are the most curious.
No doubt Mrs. Layton's imagination figured the
fagot and the pile, but was it the martyr or the culprit
that suffered?

“Dear Gertrude,” said Emilie, bursting into
her apartment, and looking as bright and fresh as
a sunny morning in June, “we are all going to the
falls this afternoon—do promise you will go with
us.” Mr. Clarence, who chanced to enter the room
at the same moment, enforced Emilie's entreaties,
and Gertrude promised to join her in the parlor in
the course of half an hour. Accordingly she went
to the parlor at the appointed time; but finding no

one there, she passed into a small adjoining apartment,
and while she was awaiting Emilie she examined
a collection of minerals belonging to mine
host of the `rural resort,' a versatile genius, who is
well known to have diversified the labors of his calling
with occasional lectures on the popular sciences.
Directly, two other persons entered the parlor, but
as their voices were unknown to her, she remained
where she was, secluded from observation.

After some common-place remarks about the
weather, the lady said abruptly, “Have you made
up your mind, Randolph?”

“About what, Augusta?”

“Pshaw! don't blush so—upon my honor, I did
not allude to Emilie Layton.”

“I did not imagine you did, Augusta.”

“Oh, not at all; and you were not thinking of
her—were you?”

“And if I were?”

“If, indeed! No, no, Randolph, you must not
enact the lover there—a beautiful gem she is—but
not for your cabinet. Did you ever see such rich
hazle eyes, and dark eye-lashes, with such fair hair,
and exquisite skin?—did you ever, Randolph?”

“Why do you ask me, Augusta?—you know I
never did.”

“And such dimples and lips—and her fairy
Fanella figure—and her exquisite little feet. I do
not believe Pauline Borghese's were as pretty,
though it was her custom to denude them to the admiring
eyes of her visiters—do you, Randolph?
Well may you look grave, It was a cross accident
that cast her in your way just now, when such

an opportunity of falling eligibly in love is at hand
—when, for once, love and reason might meet
together in good fellowship.”

“As they never did meet, Augusta.”

“Ah, that is the cant of one and twenty. But
matters are differently arranged with such veterans
as mama and I. You should hear some of our
colloquies. Dear mama! nothing is more amusing
than the struggles of her natural tastes against the
vulgar necessities of this `bank-note world.' In
your selection of a wife—and mama has no doubt
you can select from the whole sex—she would not
allow the lady's fortune to be even a make-weight
in the scale of your favor; but the trifling accessory—the
little accident of fortune `removes the
only objection to Randolph's marriage,' so says
mama. `Removes the objection!' was ever a pecuniary
motive more ingeniously stated, and in singleness
of heart too. And truly, Randolph, if this
Miss Clarence is the paragon of excellence that
Emilie represents her, the one objection is removed.”

“But, Augusta, what if there be in my heart a
thousand and one objections?”

“To Miss Clarence?”

“Pshaw! no. What am I to Hecuba, or what
is Hecuba to me?”

“I understand you—the objections are to marrying
any woman, save one?”

Marion shut the outer door, and then replied,
“Yes, Augusta, save one. From you, my dear
sister, I have no concealments.”

Miss Marion made no reply for some moments—
when she did, her voice was changed from raillery to

tender seriousness, “I am sorry, Randolph—heartily
sorry—but cannot blame you. All the loves and graces
have combined in that pretty creature against your
prudence; and then her beauty is so true an index of
her sweet, innocent spirit. Well, it can't be helped,
and so there's an end of it. No, I do not blame you.
On the very verge of the frigid zone of old maidism
as I am, there is nothing I so truly sympathize
with as a youthful, reckless, true love—a love that
hopes, expects, and believes all things—and fears
nothing. Randolph, from the time we knew Emilie
in Philadelphia, and you used to carry her music-book
to school for her, I have had a presentiment
of this, and when we met here, I was sure you
had turned the critical page in the book of fate.”

“And you permitted me to read it without advice
or warning. God bless you, my dear Augusta.”

Nothing makes a young heart overflow with gratitude
like meeting (especially if unexpected) with
hearty sympathy in a love affair. Randolph Marion
was a pattern of fraternal affection, but never
had he felt more tenderly towards his sister than at
this moment; and when she proceeded to give him
more unequivocal proofs of her sympathy, his feelings
were raised to a higher pitch than tenderness.

“Randolph,” she said, “I am frank and direct,
and must to the point. I like to remove all moveable
obstacles. I do not mean to be pathetic; but
you know `there are but two of us,' and between
us two but one heart. I have some fortune, thanks
to aunt Molly—there are sad rents in our patrimonial
estate—take what I have and repair them, and
in return, my dear brother, give me in fee simple a

rocking-chair at your fire-side, and that, with a life
estate in your heart, is all I ask.”

Marion threw his arms around his sister's neck,
and expressed in a few broken sentences his admiration
of her generosity, and his determination not
to accept it.

“It is no sudden impulse of generosity, Randolph,
but that which I have long expected and determined
to do. Since the event that fatally and for
ever extinguished my hopes, nothing remains for
me but to make others happy; and that, I suspect,
after all, is the surest way of making myself so.”
At this moment the door opened, and Emilie appeared.
She perceived the brother and sister were
deeply engaged, and was retreating, but they both
begged her to come in, and she then asked `if Miss
Clarence were not there?'

“Heaven forefend!” exclaimed Miss Marion,
resuming her natural tone of gaiety.

“She must have come in here,” continued Emilie,
“her father told me she was here, and the servant
says he saw her come in here.”

Poor Gertrude had been on the rack for the last
ten minutes. There had been no point in the conversation
from its start, when she could, without extreme
embarrassment, make her appearance. As it
had proceeded, she had become as anxious to avoid
observation, as ever a hidden criminal was to escape
detection. She would have jumped out of the window
if there had been an open window; but there
was none—no possible escape—and she had stood,
like a statue, hoping that some kind chance would

call the parties away before she was compelled to
make her egress. Emilie approached the door of
the inner room, and nothing could in any degree
relieve her but an adroit movement. She advanced
from her seclusion.

“Gertrude,” exclaimed Emilie, “you are here
after all!”

The Marions looked thunderstruck. There was
tinge enough on Gertrude's cheek to manifest her
full consciousness of the awkward position in which
she stood. Emilie began the usual form of an introduction.

Gertrude interrupted her, then recovering her
self-possession, she said, “An introduction is superfluous,
Emilie, you would hand me across the
vestibule—I am already in the inner temple—and
your friends must believe,” she continued, turning
to them, her fine countenance animated with the
feelings they had inspired, “your friends must believe
that I feel its beauty too much, ever to violate
its sanctity.”

Miss Marion obeyed the impulse of her warm
heart and took Gertrude's hand. “We are friends
for ever,” she said, “and Randolph is in love, literally
at first sight.” He certainly looked all admiration.
“Do not, my dear Emilie,” she continued,
“stare as if we had all of a sudden fallen to talking
Greek—don't ask, even with your eyes, for an explanation.
Here is Mr. Clarence looking as if it
were time for us to proceed on our walk.” They
did so—and when they came to the steps, Mr.
Clarence turned off, saying that he had arrived at
an age when a man must be excused for preferring

to look down upon a water-fall to the inconvenience
of descending to look up. The ladies accepted his
excuse and promised to join him at the shantee on
the brink of the great fall. Emilie took Marion's
offered arm, without dreaming of the projects that
were agitating his bosom, or the hopes that were
hovering on his lips for expression. She was at
the happy age when the feelings are enjoyed, without
being analyzed. She lived in the present bright
hour, careless of the future, for whatever was future
seemed to her, as to a child, distant. When they
reached the flat rocks at the bottom of the steps,
Gertrude was affected by the recollection of the
scene she had witmessed when last there. Miss
Marion observed her unnatural paleness, and imputing
it to the debility consequent on her fatigue
and anxiety, she insisted on sitting down with her,
and permitting Randolph and Emilie to precede
them. Randolph was nothing loath to this arrangement,
and he soon disappeared with his fair companion.
The circumstances of Gertrude's introduction
to Miss Marion, enabled them to dispense
with the usual preliminaries to acquaintance.
They understood one another, and feeling that they
did so, they interchanged thoughts on various subjects
with the familiarity of friends. Miss Marion
did not speak of Emilie, and Gertrude dared not intimate
that her destiny was already fixed. They
talked of Mrs. Layton, about whom Miss Marion
was quite curious. She had never seen her, and
had no very favorable impression of her. “I would
fain believe, Miss Clarence,” she said, “that she
deserves the admiration you express of her, but I
am certain I should not like her. The happy age
of delusion—the luxury of believing all things are
what they seem, is past to me. Experience has been
to me like the magical unguent with which poor
Lelia anointed her eyes, that enabled her mortal
vision to penetrate through all disguises into the
sins and miseries of fairy land. Mrs. Layton is a
woman of fashion—a belle at forty! No, I am
sure I shall not like her. Thank Heaven, Emilie
has not been long enough in her atmosphere—a
malaria it is—to be infected by her.” Gertrude
interrupted Miss Marion to ask if she knew the
gentleman who had just descended the steps, and
who after a keen glance at them, eagerly surveyed
the only traversable path. “I think I have seen
him before,” she said, after a moment's consideration.
“Oh, yes, that dog I recollect perfectly.”
She pointed to a beautiful liver-colored little
spaniel, with white tips to his feet and ears, and
his sides fleckered with spots so white and distinct,
that they appeared like wreaths of snow
just lightly thrown there. “I remember now, it
was on board the steam-boat I met them—the
dog is a perfect beauty.” The dog, as if conscious
of the admiring gaze of the ladies, and
like a flattered belle, anxious to show off his
commended graces, plunged into the water. The
current was stronger than he anticipated, and he
seemed in imminent danger of being swept away;
but he courageously buffetted the waves, whimpering
and keeping his eye fixed on his master, who
sprang to the brink of the water, crying, “Bravo!
bravo! Triton, my good fellow! bravo!—courage
mon petit!” He looked as if he would plunge in for
his favorite, if it were necessary. But it was not—
Triton came safe to land, and while he was shaking
a shower from his pretty sides, and receiving his
master's caresses, Gertrude anxiously demanded of
Miss Marion if she knew the gentleman's name.
“I do not—I meant to have inquired—it is such a
burden off your mind when you find out a stranger's
name—he is evidently a foreigner.”

“A foreigner!” echoed Miss Clarence.

“You start, as if a foreigner were of course a
pirate, or a great bandit.”

The only foreigner Gertrude thought of, at that
moment, certainly seemed to her to belong to the class
of spoilers. Though Emilie had told her, Pedrillo
did not look like a Spaniard, yet Gertrude's imagination
had pictured him with dark eyes; with a face
of more shade than light, and in every shadow lurking
some deep mystery or bad design. The gentleman
had large and very light blue eyes, and
a fair, clear complexion, though rather deepening to
the hue of the bon vivant, and Gertrude thought at
first sight, (for we would put in a saving clause for
her sagacity,) had rather an open, agreeable expression.

“What does your practised eye,” she asked Miss
Marion, “see of the foreigner in that gentleman?”

“What! why, in the first place, observe his air—
the tout-ensemble—he has nothing of the don't care,
negligent demeanour of our countrymen who, from
living always among their equals, from having no
superiors to obey, nor inferiors to command, get
this easy, indifferent, and careless manner. Our

quiet, plodding, uneventful, comfortable lives, are
stamped on our faces. They are as different from
the Europeans, as the appearance of a tame animal,
from a wild one. After the smooth surface of
youth is broken up, the face bears the record of individual
experience. I was struck with this, in looking
at David's picture of the coronation. The remarkable
men there clustered around their master,
the miracle of the age, looked as if they had lived in
an atmosphere of pure oxygen. I remember turning
my eyes from the picture to the sober citizens
who were gazing at it, and thinking that their faces
were as spiritless as shaking Quakers.”

“But these are indications to the gifted eye,”
said Gertrude.

“There are others then, more obvious. Just
cast your eye on this gentleman, now his hat is off;
you may, for he does not seem conscious of our existence—that
profusion of hair, would be a curiosity
on an American head, over five and twenty; and this
gentleman has some dozen years more than that—and
observe, as he passes his hand over his face, those large,
richly set rings. I never saw an American (I mean, of
course a man past boyishness and dandyism) with
more than one, and that, some simple token or memorial;
and finally, see the string of little silver
bells on his dog's collar—an American would not
venture an appendage so pretty and fantastical.
But see, he is coming towards us, and means to
speak—of course he is not an Englishman.”

The stranger bowed courteously, and made some
common-place remarks on the scenery. Whether
his accent were foreign, or merely peculiar to the individual,

it was difficult to determine. He compared
the falls to those on the Caatskill—the Cohoes,
the falls of the Genesee, Niagara, la Chaudiére, and
Montmorenci. This was all American, and Gertrude
began to think her companion's sagacity was at
fault; but in the next breath, he spoke of the falls of
the Clyde, of Tivoli, and Schuff hausen, as if equally
familiar with them. He affected nothing of the
amateur of nature, but appeared the citizen of the
world, who, habitually adapts himself to the taste
of the company in which he happens to fall. The
ladies rose to pursue their walk, and he bowed, and
preceded them at so quick a pace that he was soon
out of sight. Brief as their interview had been,
Gertrude was satisfied that Miss Marion was right
in her conjectures, and instinctively as she shrunk
from it, she believed that she ought to rejoice in Pedrillo's
arrival. The sooner poor Marion was awakened
from his dream, the better; and certainly too,
the sooner Emilie was recalled from the labyrinth,
into which she was blindly plunging. But even her
deep interest in her friend was driven from Gertrude's
mind, at repassing the rocks on which she
had suffered with Seton the agonies of deadly fear
and despair—some gentler remembrances beamed
athwart her mind.

An abrupt turn in their walk, now again brought
the ladies in view of, and near to the stranger. He
stood partly concealed by a cluster of dwarfbeeches,
his face half averted from them, but still
they could see that his brow was contracted, his lips
compressed, and his eye eagerly fixed on some object;
and instantly Gertrude perceived that object

was Emilie, and she felt assured the stranger was Pedrillo.
Emilie stood beyond, and far above them,
on the flat surface of a projecting rock. Her Leghorn
cottage-hat, tied with pink ribbons, had fallen
back, and Randolph was interweaving her beautiful
tresses with wild flowers. She appeared as lovely,
and both were as happy as spirits of paradise; and
Pedrillo seemed to regard them with that oblique and
evil eye, that Satan bent on our first parents in their
blest abode—that eye of mingled and contending
passions, that expresses the ruined soul. Both the
ladies stopped, and stood motionless.

All parties were near the great fall. Mr. Clarence
was in the porch of the little shantee that over-looks
the cascade. Randolph and Emilie had ascended
some distance above the basin of the torrent,
by the foot-path, that winding around the perpendicular
rocks, and mounting the bare sides of
those that are less precipitous, affords a safe, and
not very difficult ascent to the cautious and agile
passenger. As we have said, Emilie and Marion
were standing on the platform of a projecting rock,
when Pedrillo first discerned them—there they
stood, the world forgetting. It was one of those
few blissful moments of life, that borrows nothing
from memory, and asks nothing from hope. Such
moments are too often a prelude to weary hours of
sorrow; they were fleeting to Emilie, for recalled
to actual existence by a strong and unequivocal expression
of Randolph's tenderness, her engagement
darted into her mind; she started as if a dagger
had pierced her heart, and turned from her lover.
As she did so, she saw Pedrillo; she encountered

his glance, and she felt to her inmost soul all it
conveyed. She uttered a faint exclamation and
turned from the rock to ascend the cliff. She left
his side, or rather sprang from him so abruptly, that
Marion was not aware of her intention till she was
some feet in advance of him. “Be careful, Emilie!”
he cried, “Stop! for Heaven's sake, stop—let me
precede you. Emilie! Emilie! stop!” he continued,
as she, without hearing or heeding him, pressed
on. “Just ahead of you, is a most perilous place—
for God's sake, stop! Emilie! Emilie! you are
below the path!”

Still she heeded not, but pressed on with that fearlessness
that sometimes secures from accident. But
here there was but one security—but one safe path,
and from that she had unconsciously deviated. Mr.
Clarence saw from above her imminent peril, and
screamed to her to stop. Gertrude and Miss Marion
perceived, that one more step, and her fate was inevitable;
and in the same breath, they uttered a shriek of
terror. Pedrillo, too, in a voice that resounded from
shore to shore, shouted `Beware!' Randolph, only,
was silent; almost petrified by the immediate presence
of the danger of which he saw the full extent
without a hope to rescue her. The panic was now
fully communicated to Emilie. The shouts above and
below confounded her, without conveying any distinct
intimation to her mind. Already her foot was on
some loose stones that projected over the edge of the
precipice, and only half sustained by the earth in
which they were embedded, must be dislodged by the
slightest force. She felt them sliding from beneath
her feet, and made one more leap forward, but there

the support was still more treacherous—the stones
gave way at the first touch of her foot, and she felt
herself sinking with them. Instinctively she stretched
out her arms, and grasped a bough of hanging
cedar that depended over the cliff. Her hold was
too weak to sustain the weight of her body, and yet
tenacious enough to check her descent. Many feet,
sheer down the precipice she went, her hands slipping
near to the extremity of the limb where though
scarcely as thick as a common sized rope, it yet supported
her.

So powerful is the instinct of self-preservation,
that the most weak, and timid, and inexperienced,
left alone, without any possibility of help but in the
energy of their own efforts, have manifested an
amazing power in perceiving and grasping at any
means of salvation from destruction. Her friends
were gazing in despair. They saw the limb swing
back from her released grasp, and believed that
all was over. Not Randolph, for he had already
descended the precipice with desperate velocity,
and from below he saw Emilie, with the heaven
inspired instinct that would have guided a kid over
a mountain crag, gently release one hand from
the bough and grasp some fibrous twigs, that
shot out from a fissure in the rock—and just where
she needed the support, and where alone it would
avail her, there was a cleft in which she placed
her feet. One giddy glance she gave to the precipice
below, and the foaming abyss that lashed
its side, then turned her face, pressed her brow to
the rock, and resolutely closed her eyes to shut out
the appalling scene. Pedrillo and Marion now explored

the precipice with intense and almost equal
anxiety, to find some mode of rescuing her from the
frightful position, that it was evident she could not
long maintain. At the same moment they perceived
a fissure in, or rather a ledge, of the rock, just wide
enough for a possible, though most perilous passage,
from the platform from which Emilie had started to
a place a few feet below, and parallel to that where
she now was. Both at the same instant sprang towards
the platform. Pedrillo was nearest and first
attained it, and thus secured himself the precedence
on the narrow ledge. Marion's satisfaction at seeing
him rapidly approach Emilie to give her the aid,
which, if it came not soon would come too late, was
strangely mingled with disappointment at thus being
rendered, by the interposition of a stranger, useless
to her for whose safety he would freely have given
his life. But he soon lost every other feeling in the
apprehension that some misstep—some miscalculated
aid, might farther endanger the life, that was
now suspended by a single thread. Once or twice
Emilie half turned her face towards him. It was
as pale as marble; and even at that distance, it was
evident from a certain relaxation of attitude, that
her strength and courage were sinking away. What,
then, was his astonishment at seeing Pedrillo, after
reaching the extremity of the ledge—the point
where, if at all assistance was to be given, stand for
a moment, survey the abyss, and then return towards
the platform. In an instant he reached it.
“Some other mode must be tried,” he said, “the
ledge at its extremity is inconceivably narrow—there
is not breadth enough for a bird's claw—my head
became giddy—at the least attempt to aid Miss Layton
I must have lost my balance, and we should have
been precipitated into the abyss. Follow me, sir,”
he continued, with the air of one who has a right to
command; “there are persons at the shantee who
can help us—ropes must be let down—there is no
time to be lost.”

“Not an instant,” said Marion, “and but one
way to save her;” and he passed on to the ledge,
with the evident determination `to do, or die.'

“Oh stop!—my brother—Randolph, stop!”
cried Augusta Marion, who, with Gertrude, had
attained the platform, and was standing there, both
most agitated witnesses of the whole scene.

But Randolph would not heed her; and Gertrude,
with a firmness that was a guardian angel in all exigencies,
followed Marion saying, “I am sure I can
give your brother assistance—I am used to these
rocks—be calm, Miss Marion, and do not look
at us.”

“Noble creature! God help them!” ejaculated
the terrified sister, and clasping her hands she sunk
on her knees; but her lips did not move—her heart
scarcely beat—her whole soul was fixed in one
intent breathless interest.

But what was her suffering to that of the father,
who stood on the verge of the cliff and saw Gertrude,
she in whom all his affections and every hope were
concentrated, voluntarily place her life in peril; and
that peril, to his view, aggravated by the distance
and depth below him.!

In the mean time, Pedrillo mounted the rocks,
intent on his own project of rescuing Emilie. He

had not proceeded far, when his little dog, Triton,
who seemed to have become aware that danger pervaded
the place, sprang yelping after him and before
him, as if to arrest his progress. Pedrillo, in
his eagerness, stumbled over him and fell; and in
his fall he sprained his ankle so as to be utterly disabled,
and was obliged to crawl back to the platform,
and there endure an irritation of mind that far
surpassed the anguish inflicted by his hurt, though
that was by no means trifling. His love for Emilie
was the strongest and tenderest sentiment of which
he was capable, and he was now condemned to remain
in utter inaction, and see her beautiful form
mutilated, crushed, destroyed; or, an idea scarcely
more tolerable, see her saved from this perdition by
the superior devotion and skill of this young stranger
rival.

Has Dante described a penal suffering more acute
than Pedrillo's?

Marion, closely followed by Gertrude, soon
reached the extremity of the ledge. He seemed not
even to perceive the danger from which Pedrillo had
retreated. Emilie was not conscious of his approach
till he pronounced her name. She then
looked towards him with speechless agony. Her
deathly paleness, the nervous convulsion of her features,
and the tremulous motion of her whole body
struck a panic to his heart. His eye turned to
Gertrude. “Oh God!” he murmured. His voice
and look expressed his utter despair.

“Be calm,” she replied, “we can save her—I am
sure of it—only be firm. Emilie—Emilie,” she
added, in an almost cheerful voice, “be resolute for

one minute more, and you will be safe.” Again
Emilie turned her head, and still she looked like a
dying victim on the rack. Gertrude did not venture
to raise her eye to her. With the inspiration of heroic
courage and devotion, she bent her whole mind to the
action. Not a thought was spared to fear or danger.
“You see,” she said to Marion, taking her
hands from the rock and standing upright with a
careless freedom of attitude, “you see I have ample
space for my feet. I stand with as perfect security
here, as on a parlor-floor. Here too, are some
twigs above me, by which I can hold. My position
is firm and safe. “You”—she continued, depressing
her voice to the lowest audible tone—
“you have a narrow, precarious foot-hold; but by
grasping my hand you may secure your balance.
Now consider how you can get Emilie where we
are.”

Gertrude's self-possession and intrepidity inspirited
Marion. “We can save her,” he exclaimed, if she
will let us. Do you speak to her—I cannot.”

“My dear Emilie,” she said, “the danger is
already past, if you will think so. Fix your
eye on us, and mind Mr. Marion's directions.”
The poor girl felt already the inspiration of hope.
She did as she was directed, and as she turned her
face towards them, they perceived she was much
less frightfully pale and agitated. Marion gave one
hand to Gertrude, and extending the other, “place
your feet,” he said, “Emilie in my hand. It is as
firm as if it were braced with irons—keep your
hands upon the rocks—they will support and balance
you. One single yard from this spot, and

you will be in perfect safety.” Once Emilie advanced
her foot, and withdrew it. “Do not draw
back, Emilie,” cried Gertrude and Marion in one
breath—“do not draw back—fear nothing—keep
hold of the twigs till your feet are firmly placed.” She
did so—they retreated one step. Marion's hand was
firm and unbending as adamant—another step—and
another, and Marion slowly depressed his hand, and
Emilie's feet were on the rock, on the same level
with his. Not one word was spoken. He placed
his arm around her, and thus sustained her, trembling
like an aspen leaf, to the platform, and there
she sank on his bosom, and both lost all thought
and feeling, save an obscure but most delicious
consciousness of safety and love. How long they
remained thus they knew not. What mortal art
can measure or define such moments? They seem
to partake of the immortal essence of the high feeling
infused into them—to belong to eternity.

Gertrude had passed the platform, and gone to
meet her father, whom she saw approaching. In
his arms she was now folded, receiving all the expression
he could give to his joy, and pride, and
gratitude, and love.

Pedrillo had withdrawn a little from the platform,
and though he still stood near Emilie and
Marion, they were unconscious of his proximity.
With a feeling that she was now all his own, Marion
imprinted a kiss on her brow. Pedrillo started
forward, “Miss Layton,” he exclaimed, in a voice
of passion, “have you forgotten?”—He paused.
If the rocks had yawned to engulf her, Emilie would

not have been more shocked. She became as agitated
as when she hung over the abyss. A more
dreadful abyss, was present to her imagination.
She shrunk away from Marion, and covered her
face with her hands.

“What is the meaning of this impertinent intrusion?”
demanded Marion.

“Impertinent!” retorted Pedrillo, “and what
name do you give, sir, to the advantage you have
taken of the accidental service rendered to my
affianced wife?”

There was an assurance in Pedrillo's voice and
manner that left little to be hoped. Marion turned
a look on Emilie that said every thing—he spoke
but one word, “Emilie?”

“It is all true,” she replied.

“Would to God then we had perished together!”

A check was now put upon the expression of the
excited feeling of all parties. Mr. Clarence approached.
Emilie's face was covered and leaning on
Miss Marion's shoulder, who, half comprehending,
and fully pitying her, sustained her in her arms.
“My poor little Emilie,” said Mr. Clarence,
tenderly embracing her, “I do not wonder you
cannot get over this dreadful fright. We must get
you home to your mother. Where's Marion? Ah,
there he goes, running away from our compliments.
It was a knightly feat, but he should not withdraw
till the `fair ladye' is in her bower again.”

And how to get the ladies to their bower again
was the next consideration; but as this was achieved
by ordinary means, we shall not detain our readers
with the details.

The ladies were all, of course, compelled by Mr.
Clarence' tender watchfulness over their health to retire
for repose. Gertrude was relieved from a vain
attempt to compose her spirits, by an urgent request
from Mrs. Layton that she would come to her room.
She received her with extravagant demonstrations of
joy and tenderness. Flattering as they were, they
awakened a passing query in Gertrude's mind why
the pleasure that was so fervent had been so long
deferred. “My precious Gertrude,” began Mrs.
Layton, after the first greetings were over, “you
may have some faint idea how much I have suffered
for the last ten days, from the fact of my not being
able to see you. It is hard for one who has
Heaven's chartered freedom of mind, to be bound by
the stern fatalism of circumstances. I can only
allude to certain affairs. If I were at liberty I
should open my heart to you, Gertrude, of all persons
in the world; but you already know enough
from my poor Em' to imagine my relief from having
the evil day put off.”

“Thank Heaven,” exclaimed Gertrude, “it is
then put off.”

“Of course—Pedrillo is unable to move—
what a frightful predicament poor Em' was in, on
those rocks; and she tells me, you behaved so sweetly,
Gertrude. By the way, dearest, do tell me something
of this young Marion who enacted the
hero to-day—rather officiously, I think—I am
provoked that he should thrust himself forward,
and deprive Pedrillo of such an opportunity of
rendering Emilie a romantic service.” Gertrude inferred

from the light tone, in which Mrs. Layton
spoke of the affair, that she was not at all aware of
Emilie's hair-breadth escape, and she described the
frightfulness of her danger, Pedrillo's attention to
his own safety, and Marion's devotion to the single
object of Emilie's preservation. Mrs. Layton listened
with great apparent interest, expressed her surprise
that Emilie had been so incommunicative,
and concluded by saying, she supposed “the poor
child had been scared out of her wits. She scarcely
spoke to me after her return; and said, she should
lie down in her own room, and begged not to be
disturbed—she is taking an honest nap I have no
doubt—she is just like her father—I should not
have slept for a month, after such an affair. Well, it
is fortunate for her, that she has so little imagination.
It will make small difference to her, who enacts the
hero—she is not like you and me, Gertrude; she
never will suffer the sad, sad experience of a heart
of sensibility, its cravings, its yearnings, its unbounded
desires, its vain regrets—No, no, Emilie's
life will flow on, as the scripture has it, like still waters
in green pastures.”

“Oh, Mrs. Layton, I am afraid your expectations
are too sanguine. Her childhood has been
serene, but to pursue your figure, the stream that is
destined to frightful precipices, may hold its infant
course through flowery and still pastures.”

“It may; but we are misled, by talking figuratively.
The fact is, I see, (for I am not blinded by
maternal affection,) I see that Emilie is a mediocre
character; if she were not, would not her own beauty
excite her more? She will just live even on, content

with what would be to you and me, perfect
stagnation, ordinary connubial life—it is a safe, but
certainly, not a very alluring destiny. Believe me,
dearest, married life rarely affords much excitement
to the sensibilities, or scope to the imagination.”

Gertrude shrunk from expressing her maiden
meditations, on this subject. They were high and
romantic, or, might be called so, by those who are
fond of affixing that doubtful epithet, to the aspirations
of those, who modify their hopes by the capabilities
of our race, rather than graduate them by its history.
Mrs. Layton guessed her thoughts; “My sweet
friend,” she said, “I see your mental revoltings from
my views of life. Mine are the result of my peculiar
position; I am not a philosopher, and my opinions
are deduced from individual experience; so, do not
let me cast the shadows of my past, over the
bright field of your future. We will not talk of
shadows; I feel particularly light-hearted. As I
said before, the evil day, which God knows I have
done all I could to avert, is at any rate deferred.
Pedrillo has too much respect for the graces, to go
hobbling to the hymeneal altar. I shall have time
to recruit my spirits; and poor Em', to cultivate a
more tender sentiment for her suitor. Indeed, I
think he ought to excite it; he is uncommonly elegant,
and a foreigner; and that is, after all, an advantage
dans les petites affaires du cœur. The
men of our country, particularly our northern country,
are so deficient in all the embellishments—the
mysterious, indescribable little arts, that excite the imagination;
they are upright and downright—and
have such a smack of home about them. If they

reach the heart, it is by the turnpike-road of common
sense, not by the obscure, devious, mysterious,
but delicious avenue of the imagination. You agree
with me, at least you feel with me, Gertrude?”

“I am listening to you, but I really have no opinion
on the subject; I have seen so little of society,
that I have made few comparisons. My predilection,
I confess, is in favour of my own countrymen;
they may have a less polished exterior, but they
seem to me, to have more independence of manner,
more naturalness, and simplicity.”

“Certainly, they have—but less of these prime
qualities than savages—you smile, but you will think
with me, when you have passed a winter in town—
the thing I have set my heart on. By the way,
poor Louis Seton! Gertrude, a sentiment is so necessary
to us; so much is it, as has been said, the `history
of a woman's life,' that, shut up, as you have
been, at Clarenceville, with this `man of feeling,'
I am amazed you have escaped something more
serious than a passing tendresse. Now, no protestations—susceptibility
is absolutely essential to an
attractive woman. But come, dearest, one of my
reasons, though the least urgent, for sending for you,
was, to beg you to present me to these Marions. It
is incumbent on me, to make my acknowledgments
to our knight of the rocks.”

The ladies proceeded together to the parlor, and
there learned, to Gertrude's mortification, and Mrs.
Layton's well concealed satisfaction, that the Marions
had taken their final departure from the `rural
resort,' half an hour before. A servant gave Miss

Clarence a note from Miss Marion; it ran as follows:

Pedrillo was on a sofa in the parlor, when the
ladies entered; and while Gertrude was reading her
note, he and Mrs. Layton were carrying on a subdued,
but impassioned conference; the result of

which was a request from Mrs. Layton, that Miss
Clarence would do her the favour to request Emilie,
provided she found her awake and sufficiently
recovered, to make her appearance in the parlor.

Gertrude found her friend, neither sleeping, nor
recovered; but sitting in a most disconsolate attitude,
bending over an open letter, which she had drenched
with her tears. “Oh, Gertrude! she said, “look
at this—is it not cruel?” It was from Marion, and
began with the text of all disappointed lovers.
“Frailty, thy name is woman! Must I apply this
“condemnation to Emilie Layton? Why have I
“lived to find that she, whom my devoted love
“invested with perfection, is capable of delibe
“rate coquetry. Am I in my senses? Could Emilie
“Layton, she, who appeared full of all kind and
“gentle thoughts, could she, on the eve of mar
“riage with another, trifle with a heart she knew
“was all her own? She has done so—your own
“lips Emilie, have confessed the truth—your vows
“are plighted to another—it is not slander—it is
“not a dream—again and again I repeat the first
“prayer of my pierced soul, `would that we had
“perished together.' But, my sister waits for me:
“she talks of recovered tranquillity—but what tran
“quillity can be in reversion for him, who bears in
“his bosom, a poisoned shaft? the bitter remem
“brance of her unworthiness, to whom he would
“have devoted his existence; for whom he would
“have encountered death itself, without a pang.

“Farewell, Emilie—farewell for ever,
“R. Marion.”

Gertrude quite forgot the errand on which she
had come to Emilie, in her efforts to console her.
“I should care for nothing else in the wide world,”
said the poor girl, “if Randolph only knew how
innocent I have been.”

“That he may know in future, Emilie, but at
present —”

“Oh I know I must not vindicate myself—I must
suffer, and suffer in silence, and if my heart breaks
I must not tell him that I loved him—loved him
with far truer love than his; for I never would have
believed any evil of him. I did not know till now—
indeed, Gertrude, I did not, that I loved Randolph.
I knew that I was always thinking of him, but I did
not know that was love. I knew that I felt restless
away from him, even with you, and happy if I were
but near him without speaking, and without hearing
his voice; but I did not know that was love. Even
on that dreadful rock, Gertrude, I felt that I had
rather be swallowed up in the abyss than be saved
by Pedrillo, when Randolph was so near to me,
and yet I did not know that was love. But when
Mr. Pedrillo claimed me, and Randolph pronounced
my name, then the whole truth flashed on me; and
yet I had better die than speak the one true word to
Randolph. And with this on my heart I must go
to the altar with Mr. Pedrillo—and very soon too
—mama hinted that to-day.”

“Not soon, Emilie—perhaps never. Mr. Pedrillo
was maimed on the rocks, and he has himself
deferred the marriage.”

“Thank heaven! but what reason is there,

Gertrude, to hope this detested marriage may never
take place?”

“Every thing future, Emilie, is uncertain—every
thing—but that if you disclose to your mother the
actual state of your feelings, she will herself break
off this engagement.”

“Never—never, Gertrude. Mama has reasons
that she does not tell me. She never would have
made me write that solemn promise to papa, if it
were not necessary to perform it. I do not know
how I could do it, only that I always have to do
every thing mama wishes. Mama was so sure I
should like Mr. Pedrillo, and I thought she knew
best. I did not hate him then—but now the very
thought of him makes me shiver.”

Gertrude was well aware that Mrs. Layton would
not wish Emilie to show herself to Pedrillo in her
present state of mind, and after ministering all possible
consolations to her, she undertook to make her
apology to her mother. She received it with the
best grace possible. Not so Pedrillo. His cup of
irritations was full, and one added drop made it
overflow. He wrought himself first into a passion,
and then into a fever, which produced so violent
an inflammation in his wounded limb, that on the
following morning the physician gave his professional
opinion that the gentleman might be detained
at Trenton several weeks. In this state of affairs
Mrs. Laytou felt her position to be rather awkward,
and she and Emilie, after a tender parting with
Gertrude, took their departure for New York.

Mr. Clarence and Gertrude were still detained at
Trenton for some weeks. Seton's convalescence

was slow and imperfect, and his melancholy continued,
like an incubus, in spite of all their efforts
to alleviate it. When his health was sufficiently
restored to bear a removal, Mr. Clarence proposed,
that instead of returning to Clarenceville, he should
proceed to New York, and there embark for Italy,
where in a genial climate, and in the pursuit of his
art, he might regain his health and happiness. Mr.
Clarence, who seemed always to regard his fortune
as a trust for others, assured him that he should place
at his disposal a sum that would render his residence
abroad, easy and respectable. Seton heard him
without reply, but with evident emotion.

On the following morning they were to leave
Trenton. Seton did not appear at breakfast. Mr.
Clarence went to his room, and found that he had
gone, and had left a note addressed to him. It
was full of expressions of gratitude and tenderness
to Mr. Clarence and Gertrude; but it was most
afflicting to see that those sentiments, whose essence
seems to be happiness, were so transmuted in his
distempered mind, that sweet fountains distilled
bitter waters.

“Why,” he said, “seek to prolong a burdensome
existence? He was a weed driven on the
tempestuous waves—the idle sand blown over the
desert of life. He cast a blight on every thing
about him.” The note was written in the deepest
despondency, and concluded with a request that no
inquiry might be made after him, and a most affecting
and eternal farewell.

This request was so far from being complied with,
that Mr. Clarence instituted the most assiduous inquiries.

He traced him to Utica, but no farther.
His family connections knew nothing of him, and
Mr. Clarence and Gertrude were driven to the horrible
conclusion that he had committed the last act
of despair.