University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The guilty see “in every bush an officer;” and
Mr. Gordon had a vague fear that the note, placed
in Fleetwood's hand, had reference to the disclosure
which he had been so anxiously guarding
against for some weeks past. But still he might be
mistaken in his surmises; and so returning to the
parlor, he asked the clergyman's pardon for the interruption—said
that the bridegroom would return
in a moment—and mingled among his guests, trying
in a sort of desperation to escape from his fears.
The bride and her companions took seats; and an
attempt was made to get up a little conversation to
relieve the awkwardness of the scene. The
bridesmaids looked at one another, as much as to
say, “Did you ever know such a dismal wedding?”—and
the groomsmen pulled off their kid
gloves, indulged in sidelong glances at the mirror,
and then with a grave, self-satisfied air bent over
to whisper to the ladies. Mr. Bettencourt, after
some modest misgivings, approached the Rev. Mr.
Trope, with the view of delicately broaching the
subject of last week's Scorpion. Glenham stood
alone and apart in a corner of the room, quivering
with agitation, and anxiously regarding the countenance
of the host.

At length the door was thrown open by a servant
as if for the entrance of an important person
in the little drama. All eyes were immediately
turned towards the spot; and the bridesmaids rose,
expecting to see the groom. But it was not he,

who entered. It was Count La Salle. He was
pale, and the perpendicular furrows between his
eyes were deepened so as to give a frowning expression
to his face; but he advanced with an air
of serene good-breeding into the room, and bowing,
while he held his hat in his hand, said: “Ladies
and gentlemen! I am requested by Mr. Fleetwood
to inform you, that unhappy circumstances, throwing
no blame, however, upon the lady, have been
brought to light, which must prevent his marriage
with Miss Gordon.”

“It is a lie—a trick!” shouted the wretched father,
finding that the steps he thought he had
ascended to the summit were slipping from under
him.

“Oh, sir, here you are!” said the Count, sarcastically,
while he approached Mr. Gordon. “If I
mistake not, I have some little favors to thank you
for. I was knocked down by bullies a month or
two since while loitering in the neighborhood of
your house to meet Mr. Fleetwood, your servants
having denied me admission. I was confined to
my bed for weeks in consequence of the injuries I
then received. But this is not all. I addressed
certain letters to Mr. Fleetwood. Perhaps you can
tell who opened, read and destroyed them, without
delivering them to the owner. I was on Tuesday
lured on board one of the Liverpool packets at the
Hook, in the expectation of meeting a friend—the
steamboat which brought me, made off while I was
in the cabin of the ship, and I found myself on the
way to England. Fortunately a pilot-boat came
along, and I was released. Perhaps, you can explain
this little accident. For these and other
agreeable favors, account me your debtor.”

“This is an impostor, ladies and gentlemen!”
exclaimed Gordon, absolutely foaming with rage.
“I can prove that he made an attempt not long

since to pass himself off as a different person from
what he now pretends to be. He is an impostor;
and I call upon you, gentlemen, to assist me in arresting
him. Where is Glenham? He can testify
to the truth of what I assert. Glenham, come forward!”

Ever since the Count's entrance into the room,
Mr. Glenham had been moving stealthily towards
the door, with the view of making a precipitate exit
unobserved. Much to his consternation, however,
La Salle had suddenly caught sight of him, and
thenceforth divided his glances between him and
his senior accomplice.

“Ay, I would like to hear what Mr. Glenham
has to say,” exclaimed the Count in reply to the
frantic menaces of the master of the house.

“Mr. Gordon must be under a mistake,” said
Glenham, who dreaded the Count far more than he
did any one else in the room. “I can testify to
nothing prejudicial to this gentleman. There must
be some mistake.”

“Why, thou double traitor!” exclaimed La
Salle, pointing at him scornfully with his fore-finger
protruded. “You know that there is no mistake—that
what he says is true.”

“You hear, ladies and gentlemen—he himself
confesses!” exclaimed Mr. Gordon, stunned by
Glenham's defection, and hardly knowing what he
said.

“But he has not confessed all, sir? There is a
sequel, which concerns yourself and this—shall I
call him gentleman?—no—craven!”

La Salle paused, and drawing himself up with
dignity, looked about, scanning the faces of the
company, till his eyes fell on Emily. She was sitting
in a high-backed chair, supported on either side
by her bridesmaids, her face of a deadly paleness,
and her bosom heaving violently with the anguish,

to which she was evidently a prey. This spectacle
seemed to produce a sudden change in his feelings
and intentions. An expression of tenderness
played about his mouth. He turned to Gordon,
and said: “These are matters, which had better
be discussed in private. I will select a fitter opportunity
for what I have to say. I need not inform
you of my address. You have had occasion
to acquaint yourself with it already.”

And then, turning to the company, he added:
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is due to you that I
should express my regret—and I do so most sincerely—that
I have been obliged to disturb this festive
meeting by making disclosures to Mr. Fleetwood
of a nature the most painful. These disclosures, I
repeat it, do not in any manner reflect upon Miss
Gordon. What they are, you perhaps may never
know—but I beg you to take my assurance, that
they are of such a character, that neither could I in
honor refrain from imparting them, nor Mr. Fleetwood
from acting as he has acted on receiving
them. With this explanation I respectfully take my
leave.”

There was a long pause as La Salle quitted the
room, unbroken save by the difficult panting of
Emily, who was struggling against a fainting fit.
Suddenly Mr. Gordon who had been looking at
Glenham till that young gentleman seemed to think
it would be a pleasant relief to be rolling down hill
in a cask of spikes like Regulus, started, and turning
to his guests, exclaimed:

“Come, since we are not going to have a wedding,
let us have a feast at any rate. Let us adjourn
to the dining-room. Mr. Glenham, hand in one of the
ladies. Mr. Bettencourt, I am sure a little champagne
can do you no harm. Suppose you persuade
Miss Titter to accompany you. Mr. Rodney, let
me see you lead the way with my fair cousin on

your left; and Mr. Trope, you and I will bring up
the rear. Emily, my dear, I am glad to see you
are recovering. We will give you five minutes
longer to get over this little agitation, which, under
the circumstances, is quite natural.”

Emily made a gesture of acquiescence, and the
company left the apartment.

“I say—what would the editors of the Scorpion
give to get an inkling of this business?” whispered
Mr. Bettencourt in the ear of his fair companion,
as they passed out with the rest of the bridal party.

Emily remained alone, lost in conjecture as to
the nature of those dreaded disclosures, to which
La Salle had alluded so mysteriously, and which
had sent Fleetwood forth at such a moment so
abruptly, removing forever the prospect of their
union.