 | CHAPTER XV. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
“Do not hurry your finishing! Allow us some glimpses of that
terra incognita—a heroine's establishment.”
A Young Lady's Unpublished Letters.
We were glad to drop the curtain over a scene,
that we would fain spare friends and foes—the deathbed
of the wicked—the saddest spectacle of human
life.
Little remains to be told to those who may have
graced us with their company thus far in our narrative,
or to those who disdaining our chase of humble
game, have just opened our book to be in at the
death.
Roscoe, it may be remembered, was at Mrs.
Layton's, and heard Pedrillo's declaration that he
would follow the fugitive. He resolved to follow
likewise. If Pedrillo really carried his mad threat
into execution, he should be near to afford assistance.
In any event he should be near to—Gertrude
Clarence. He first went to Flint's lodgings.
Flint, as he knew, would be a willing auxiliary, and
in case of need a fearless and efficient one. He
found our good-natured friend for once in ill-humor.
He had relinquished the masquerade, a spectacle
that his curiosity burned to witness, for the
superior pleasure of passing the evening tête-à-tête
with Miss Clarence. Even Flint, under the influence
of the `tricksy spirit,' grew a little sentimental
made his toilet with unusual elaborateness, he
went to Mrs. Layton's, he was told Miss Clarence was
not at home. `The course of true love never did
run smooth,' thought Flint, as he retraced his way
sulkily to his lodging, and there he sat down to listen,
with an indifference quite foreign to his lively spirit,
to his father's tales of elder times. These were suddenly
broken off by Roscoe's entrance.
Roscoe briefly explained his errand. Flint was
all alive to the enterprise. “How fortunate you
came for me,” he whispered to Roscoe; “don't
mention it—it is not proper to be told yet—I am as
good as engaged to Miss Clarence.”
Roscoe started; the shock was momentary, he
smiled at his own credulity, and said mentally, `My
self-complacent, sanguine friend; as good as engaged—far
better, not engaged.'
As they were departing Roscoe perceived that
the elder Flint had armed himself with a bludgeon,
and intended joining them. Roscoe remonstrated.
The old man took him aside, and communicated his
secret reasons. Roscoe feared they might be retarded
by this addition to their party, but he could
not refuse his assent. His fears however were
groundless. The old man's energetic habits and
excited feeling enabled him, though not so well
mounted, to keep up with his companions; and such
was the rapidity of their pursuit, that when Pedrillo
dismounted, they were not a mile behind him.
Roscoe, as may be imagined, had not remained
idly gazing on the dying man, while Gertrude needed
his assistance. She and Emilie were conveyed
them with such restoratives as the house afforded,
but these were not probably so efficient as the
assurance—for Emilie had recovered her consciousness—that
their lovers were near them and in
safety.
Marion's wounds, though they witnessed that he
had proved himself a true knight in the contest,
were not alarming; and measures were immediately
taken for the return of all parties to town, and for
avoiding, as far as possible, publicity of the painful
circumstances of the past night.
A coroner's inquest was summoned to sit on the
body of Pedrillo. Previous to presenting the facts
of the case, Roscoe inquired of the elder Flint if
he meant to persevere in the resolution he had declared
to his dying son. He replied that he did.
“Had you not better,” suggested Roscoe, “defer
your ultimate decision; it will be perfectly easy to
establish your claim to the property—after more deliberation
your feelings may change?”
“For that very reason, my young friend, I choose
to make my decision now. I have made it a rule,
and it has carried me safe so far, to obey the first
decision of conscience; you may reason and tamper
with it, and soften it down; but take it at its
word, its first bold honest word. It makes me shudder
to think even of handling the poor creature's
money; and I do not want it”—the old man shook
his head emphatically, “I do not want it, Mr. Roscoe;
my children are all good livers, and they are
not brought up, excepting Duty, to be gentlemen,
and the money would spoil them for any thing else.
may be make me uneasy. My journey of life is
almost ended—I have more than enough to pay my
expenses by the way; and would a store of wealth
render me any more welcome at my Father's mansion?
though it might make me far less willing to
get there. My mind is fixed, Mr. Roscoe.”
“I honor your decision, sir, and the reasons for
it; but why not, as the unhappy man suggested,
apply his property to charitable uses?”
“No, no, Mr. Roscoe, no; I have thought of
that, but I should be ashamed to offer to the Lord
what I won't soil my own hands with. What, think
you, is the spiritual meaning of the command, that
the sacrifice should be `without spot or blemish, or
any such thing.' Can the fruits of such misdoings,
as caused that poor fellow's last agony, be an acceptable
gift for the altar of God?”
“We condemn the Romanists, because some
among them fancy their sins may be redeemed—
their souls bought out of purgatory by gifts to the
church and the poor. But how much better are
we, who encourage the living sinner by sanctifying
the dead? There is a deep mischief in this, Mr.
Roscoe, and often have I pondered on it. The
rich man who fares sumptuously every day, and
shuts his eye upon his starving brother; the miser
that hoards his treasure even from himself; the
Heaven-forsaken wretch who murders and spoils;
all have their hours of misgiving, their lonely nightwatches,
when thoughts of death and the judgment
to come harrow their souls. And how do they still
the clamors of conscience? Is it not by the promise
come to die, they will give all to their Maker. But
let their gift perish with them, and let the offering
to the Lord be the fruits of an honest and obedient
life. These he requires, and these are a sweet
incense to Him.”
Roscoe heartily expressed his admiration of the
old man's sentiments. A blush that would have
graced sixteen tinged his cheek as he replied, “you
speak from your heart, Mr. Roscoe, I believe, but
I am not clear that I deserve all you say. I, like
other men, act from my feelings, and afterwards
think of the reasons to bear me out. I have my
own pride, and it would break my heart to own that
self-murderer was my son. He was a boy when he
left my roof, and he is forgotten. I am proud of my
name. He was the only dishonest man, as far as I
can learn, that ever answered to it.”
“One more suggestion, sir,” said Roscoe, “and
I have done. Do your son's sentiments accord with
yours?”
“Duty's? Perfectly—perfectly. An honest, independent,
manly boy, is Duty. As is his name, so
is he.”
Their sturdy integrity, their good sense, and nice
perception of true honor, secured to both father and
son Roscoe's friendship for life.
So many of the facts as were essential to their
verdict, were disclosed to the jury of inquest, and
no more. Pedrillo's last request was respected.
Triton was buried at his feet. The elder Flint
remained with the body till the funeral rites were performed.
Not one of the few assistants who officiated
bent over the grave that enclosed his first-born.
In consequence of Marion's wounds, the party
was compelled to return to town by slow stages, and
did not arrive till the third day after they had left it.
They found Mrs. Layton's house in the greatest
confusion. Layton had been brought home in a state
of insensibility. When he recovered his consciousness,
he dismissed his attendants, and locked his
door. The servants had made repeated applications
for admission, but no answer had been returned, and
not a sound had proceeded from the apartment.
Mrs. Layton had shut herself in her own room,
had denied access to all but her own maid, and had
forbidden the servants to apply to her for orders on
any subject.
In this state of affairs, our fugitives were received.
Roscoe had at once a foreboding of the
real condition of Layton, which he intimated to
Gertrude in a whisper, and then ordered one of the
servants to attend him to his master's apartment.
After knocking and calling in vain, they forced
open the door. Layton's body was lying on the
floor; his spirit had gone to render up its dread account.
An empty phial lay beside him, and a pencil
and piece of paper, on which he had scrawled,
`Forgive me, my children—God have mercy on my
soul!'
On examination, his affairs were found in the most
disarranged condition. About half the certificates of
stock, which Miss Clarence had transferred to him,
were in his pocket-book, within an envelope, on
which was written, `The enclosed to be delivered to
they really belong.' Miss Clarence, on being applied
to, declined to assume any farther control
of the property than to vest it in the hands of
trustees, for Mr. Layton's children, with a stipulation
that a portion of the income should be at the
disposition of his widow.
The grave interposed its shield at a fortunate
moment for poor Layton. His gaming associates
were not without a certain sense of honor which
bound them to preserve inviolate the secrets of their
club; and Pedrillo's disclosure was never made public.
Thus Emilie was sheltered from a knowledge
of her father's disgrace; and though she sorrowed
long and bitterly, she had every solace that love and
friendship could supply.
Our friend Duty was gradually awakened to the
real state of his matrimonial prospects. He had a
genuine admiration for Miss Clarence, and the extinction
of his o'er-grasping hopes was a serious shock
to him. For the first time in his life, his sparkling eyes
were dimmed with sentimental tears; but he was not
of a temper to break his heart in a love affair, and
gradually such little consolations insinuated themselves
into his mind, as that `Miss Clarence was
probably in love with Gerald Roscoe before she
ever saw him'—`That as Fate had so ordered it,
that he could not himself obtain her, he would rather
see her the wife of Roscoe, than of any other man
on earth'—`That next in value to her love was her
cordial friendship'—and finally, `That if, as he verily
believed, Gertrude Clarence had no equal, why
best?'
We do not know that we can conclude more satisfactorily,
than by two authentic letters from the
principla personages of our narrative, the one written
during the summer following the last events we
have recorded, and the other some months later,
when time had matured and somewhat mellowed the
feelings we have described. Both were addressed
to Miss Marion—the first from Emilie.
“Clarenceville, June, 18—.
“My dear sister—Last Tuesday evening invest
“ed me with the right to address you by this en
“dearing name; but no rights can add to the gra
“titude and affection your Emilie has long borne
“to you.
“We were to have had a private wedding—Ger
“trude desired it, and I, particularly on account of
“my mourning; but Mr. Clarence said there should
“be no sign of sadness on so joyful an occasion as the
“union of four loving and true hearts, and that the
“pleasure of a wedding festival to Gertrude's country
“friends, was worth some sacrifice on our parts;
“and so we consented—could we help it?—to his
“wishes. The doors were thrown open, and all
“Clarenceville was present, old and young, rich
“and poor, to see their friend, benefactress, and
“queen, united to a man whom they confess to be
“worthy of her.
“Before we went into the drawing-room, we were
“all, (by all I mean Gertrude, and Mr. Roscoe,
“and his mother—a celestial woman, Augusta—
“and Randolph, and myself,) we were all in the li
“brary. Mr. Clarence came in with his hands full
“of papers. `You must forgive me, my young
“friends,' he said, `for remembering, at this inter
“esting moment, your worldly concerns—you, I pre
“sume, have entirely forgotten them. You and I,
“my dear Gerald, in pecuniary affairs, are hence
“forth equal partners.' He put into Mr. Roscoe's
“hands papers which transferred to him the half of
“his fortune. Roscoe looked a little disconcerted;
“but he soon recovered himself, and replied, in
“his own frank and pleasant manner, `This gift,
“sir,' and he kissed Gertrude's hand, `has exhaust
“ed my gratitude; I cannot even make a return of
“words for an inferior proof of your generosity.'
“`Generosity! my dear fellow,' said Mr. Cla
“rence, `you know not with what joy I devolve half
“the burden and responsibility of my wealth upon
“you—with what gratitude I regard the benign
“Providence that has granted the dearest wish of
“my heart, in giving me a friend on whom I may
“repose this trust.'
“`As a trust then, sir,' replied Roscoe, `I re
“ceive it, and, by the grace of God, I will never
“dishonor your confidence.'
“Randolph afterwards said, that this was a man
“ner of giving and receiving, becoming rational
“and elevated beings, and he could not but
“contrast it with the usual quarrels about settle
“ments—with the jealousy and parsimony towards
“anxious reckoning of the father's wealth, and cal
“culation of the chances of his life. For my part,
“dear Augusta, I did not think, I only felt, and had
“I not reason? for at the next moment Mr. Cla
“rence turned to me—`And you, my little Emilie,
“my other child,' he said, `I am to give you away
“too—it would be a shame to give you empty“handed,
though Marion looks as if he felt now,
“and would for ever,
`Has lustre outshining the diamond to me.'
“but not my love, for,' he added, `giving me a
“check for twenty thousand dollars, `you, Emilie,
“like the youngest daughters in fairy tales, have
“the best portion, for such in my opinion is a mere
“competence.”
“I did not say one word. I threw my arms
“around his neck, and he kissed off my tears. I
“thought of my poor father—God forgive me for
“comparing him with Mr. Clarence at that mo
“ment.
“My letter would exceed all bounds, if I were to
“give you half the particulars of the evening. The
“drawing-rooms were hung with wreaths of flow
“ers. The gardener had not spared his finest
“plants; the lawn was illuminated with colored
“lamps, and a band of music was placed on the pi
“azza. The children were merry and noisy, but
“the rest of the company were thoughtful—they felt
“that the wedding was a prelude to parting with
“here! `Not a creature ever crossed your path,'
“said one of her old friends to her, `but was the
“better or the happier for it.' Do you not believe,
“my dear sister, that the duties she has so well per
“formed have risen as incense to Heaven, to de
“scend again in blessings on her new home?
“Randolph, saucy fellow! has just bent over my
“shoulder, and read my letter. `Not one word of
“your husband!' he says. Oh Augusta, men do
“not seem to know that we are not forward to ex
“press what we feel most deeply. I am no great
“writer, to be sure; but if I were equal to you, or
“Gertrude, I could not find language to express
“what I feel for my husband. `There, Mr. Ran
“dolph, read that, if you like.'
“You do not yet know how much Gertrude has
“done for us. Poor mama was too much depressed to
“make any exertion. Gertrude wished her to take
“a small house, and devote herself to the education
“of my sisters. You know mama is very accom
“plished, but she said she had a natural antipathy
“to instruction—her mind would prey upon itself,
“&c. &c. So it was decided that my brothers
“should be sent to a boarding-school in Massachu
“setts, and my sisters should live with me. Ran
“dolph and I both begged mama to make our
“house hers, but she preferred a boarding-house,
“and she has a room at Madame Pignot's, beauti
“fully arranged. I was glad to see she could in
“terest herself in this.
“My tenderest love to your and my mother. Tell
“her, that but for some sad, sad recollections, I
“ing fearfully clouded? God grant that my future
“life may prove that the gracious influences of Hea
“ven were distilled from that dark cloud, and then,
“my dear sister, I shall not be unworthy of my
“happy destiny, and of that illustrious name, which
“I now for the first time sign.
“New York, Feb. 18—.
“My dear friend—You conclude your last letter
“with a request that I will write you a `womanish
“epistle, full of feminine details; such as, what
“house I live in, how it is furnished and garnished,
“whom I visit, &c. &c.' I have quoted the pas
“sage, that if I answer it à la lettre, you may re
“member that you called forth my egotism. Mr.
“Roscoe was so fortunate as to be able to repur
“chase his father's house, a fine old family mansion,
“not far from our beautiful battery, and command
“ing a view of our animated bay, which, if equalled,
“we the untravelled believe is not surpassed, by the
“happiest combinations of land and water on this
“fair earth. The house is somewhat old-fashioned,
“but we have given it the most modern and conve
“nient arrangement of which it was susceptible,
“without an entire and therefore, as we think, sacri
“legious alteration.
“Is it altogether our misfortune, or in some de
“gree our fault, that we have so few transmitted
“homes? As far as this is the result of the equal
“particularly, of the influx of population and the
“fluctuation of fortune, we cannot help it; but, cer
“tainly as far as it is our own fault, we should
“lament and correct it. Have we not a passion
“for change and novelty? Whence comes, in this
“city, our most pernicious and prevailing custom
“of an annual remove? the terrors of `May day,'
“when the household gods seem changed into de
“mons, and `domestic happiness' to be no longer,
“as the poet makes it, exempt from the general
“wreck of Adam's fall. You are a phrenologist,
“my dear Augusta—is the bump of locality found
“on the American skull?
“I have known a father's house abandoned, be
“cause the apartments could not be made to com
“municate by folding-doors! or perhaps the ceil
“ings were a foot too low! those ceilings that have
“echoed the merry shout of childhood, the glad
“welcome, the farewell blessing, and the loud,
“home, heartfelt laugh. Our home should be loved
“as the ancient Jew loved Jerusalem—as he loved
“his temple—the `holy and the beautiful house' he so
“tenderly lamented. It is the temple of the domes
“tic affections; the altar on which the freest and
“most beautiful gifts are laid; the spot that, with
“all its accumulating associations, its holy spell of
“sacred recollections and sweet hopes, has no paral
“lel on earth. My dear Augusta, I forbear—I
“perceive I am running into sentiment on this sub
“ject, and I have already said quite enough to con
“vince you that I am satisfied with my location.
“Our furniture is the next topic on your list. I
“ceeded; this is not quite so womanish as details,
“but those I defer for your own observation. We
“have not emulated the glittering and sumptuous
“drawing-rooms of our wealthy citizens, and we
“have carefully avoided (I have often seen this dis
“parity) a bare and sordid aspect in the upper
“apartments. All our sacrifices have been to the
“household worthies who preside over hospitality;
“our lodging-rooms have their contiguous dressing“rooms,
are warmed by heated air, and each story
“has its bathing-room.
“Our library is a fine apartment on the second
“floor. The rebuking genius of economy has not
“presumed to pass its threshold. It is richly fur
“nished with the classics in English, French, Ger
“man, Italian, and Spanish, and all of the best edi
“tions. No diamond type to wear out young eyes,
“and vex old ones. The books are accompanied
“by their appropriate auxiliaries, globes, maps,
“atlases, prints, &c. The room is decorated with
“a few busts of those who are regarded in all en
“lightened countries as the noblest personifications
“of genius, Dante, Cervantes, Fenelon, Shakspeare,
“and Bacon. One fine portrait is placed in the
“most conspicuous position over the fire-place—
“the hearth-stone—as emblematic of the right of
“the original to preside over the charities and feli
“cities of home, as well as to be the ruling spirit of
“an apartment consecrated to the Muses. Whose
“is it? do you ask, Augusta? Whose should it
“be but his, who is par excellence the genius of the
“age, the benefactor of our homes?—who by his en
“profitable pleasure than any writer of any age;—
“who has lighted up the dim eye of sickness—who
“has rejuvenated the old, awakened in them, the
“sleeping sympathies and affections of their youth,
“and filled
`Each blank in faithless memory's void;'
“to the boy, and made his pulse throb with gene
“rous purpose and high aspiration—who has kin
“dled in all our hearts a loyal, a more than loyal,
“a filial love; so that we all
`Do stand on tiptoe when his name is named.'
“it tower above his fellows, and at last, when reve
“rently laid beside the dust of his fathers, be honor
“ed and wept.
“How shall I descend, dear Augusta, from such
“a theme to the appointed topics of my letter—cur
“tains and carpets, plate and china? I cannot—take
“it for granted, that the whole concern is in tolera
“ble taste—that we, in our embellishments have se
“lected those that develope and elevate the taste, and
“are its enduring gratifications—that we have par
“exêmple some fine statuary, and beautifully sculp
“tured Italian vases. Gerald has applied to Leslie
“for a pair of his exquisite cabinet pictures. I trust
“the suspicion that he is reluctant to send his pro
“ductions to this country, is unfounded; for though
“we are not yet rich enough to afford patronage to
“the fine arts, we are not without the capacity to ad
“that an artist should be proud to lay the fruits of
“his genius on the altar of that country, where it
“was first developed, even though the sacrifice should
“be unappreciated.
“Poor Seton! his Trenton-picture hangs in my
“own room, an affecting memorial of his genius and
“misfortunes—an altar-piece, that calls forth sacred
“recollections and hopes. To Seton, I owe all the
“taste I may have in the fine arts, and probably
“much of the lively interest I feel in our native art
“ists—an interest of which I have not been sparing
“in my demonstrations, for I have family portraits
“by our masters in that department, Copley, Stuart,
“Sully, &c., a variety of illustrations of our own
“scenery by our rising artists, and a beautiful pic
“ture of our sweet Emilie by Ingham, an American
“by adoption—the painter has grouped her young
“er sisters gracefully about her, and with his usual
“eminent success, has transfused the soft and living
“tints of youth and beauty to the canvass, has shown
“his unequalled skill in drapery, and imparted such
“sparkling and living lustre to the eyes, that you
“could almost believe he had stolen Prometheus'
“fire, and that the spirit beamed from its `throne of
“light.'
“Dear Emilie! she deserves to personify the vir
“tues of an elder sister. With beauty that is never
“seen without being admired, she avoids observa
“tion, and seems to have no ambition beyond that of
“performing well and quietly her domestic duties—
“a woman's gentle and best ambition, is it not? Your
“brother certainly thinks so, for he still regards her
“votion of one, who, through much tribulation, has
“obtained an unparalleled treasure.
“Poor Mrs. Layton is a prey to ennui. The
“death of her husband, and its frightful circumstan
“ces, for a while appalled her. She went regularly
“to church, and frequented evening lectures, and
“seemed to be undergoing a transformation, not un
“common, from a woman of the world to a devotee;
“but it proved a fever heat, not the gentle salutary
“warmth of religion, and it has passed away. Our
“highest moralists tell us never to despair of hu
“manity, and we should not; but when were all-en
“grossing selfishness, frivolous habits, and a thirst for
“admiration and coquetry, indulged for thirty years;
“when were they cured but by the hard necessities of
“age? Thank Heaven, our country is not a theatre
“for such women as Mrs. Layton. She is isolated
“and fettered by our tame domestic habits—as much
“out of place as a jewel on a yeoman's finger, or a
“syllabub on his table. She might have run a more
“brilliant career in the more polished, and more cor
“rupt circles of Europe, but to be suspected, is as
“fatal to an American woman, as it could have been
“to Cæsar's wife.
“I am eagerly listening for the voice of spring,
“for you know, at the first gushing of the waters, at
“the very first passage of the steam-boats, you are
“to be with us. I expect to surprise you, who have
“received your impressions of New York society,
“from my distorted views of it while I was at Mrs.
“Layton's, with the delightful circles we assemble at
“our own house. In a city of the multifarious cha
“our society, a most critical navigation to steer
“clear of offending acquaintance you do not want,
“and to secure without forwardness, those you covet.
“However, the good to be obtained, fine society, the
“very first of social, intellectual luxuries, is worth
“effort. Fortunately for us, our position gives us
“the privilege of selection, and we make it without
“reference to any thing but the character of our
“guests. Those meet under our roof, who never
“meet elsewhere—persons of the first fashion, pro
“fessional laborious toilers, and the secluded men
“of genius.
“Julia Mayo is our prima donna; but among all
“my female friends, and there are several talented
“in divers ways, not one is more fascinating to me,
“than Angelique Abeille, a little French girl, whose
“history I will some day tell you. She plays and
“sings exquisitely, and is the charm of our musical
“parties.
“Do not imagine, my dear friend, that I have be
“come a devotee to society, even though it be of
“the most elevated and attractive character. No,
“I am too rich in my own private blessings—in the
“character and affections of my husband—in the
“society of Gerald's admirable mother, and that of
“my dear father, to be in any danger of forgetting
“that the family circle is the inner temple, where
“our highest gifts and best affections must be conse
“crated, and will be rewarded. And in all my
“prosperity, it is my earnest desire and purpose, to
“preserve my mind from undue elation—to perform
“woman—to walk humbly with my God.
“My letter has ended seriously, my dear Augus
“ta; but how could I cast my eye over the whole
“of my prosperous condition, without serious
“thoughts of the responsibilities, the uncertainties;
“and the brevity of life?—without an emotion of
“deep gratitude to Him, who has given me wealth,
“and saved me from its perils, and who has enrich
“ed me with that, far better, and best of all earthly
“blessings, the affections of one, on whose truth
“and virtue I may repose without fear of any
“change—because I know they will not change.
“Am I boasting to my single friend? no—who
“shall dare to boast to one, who gives such grace
“and loveliness to singleness?—whose virtues do
“not need the highest stimulants and rewards; for
“that the highest belongs to married life, you must
“forgive me for believing, since I am (and always
“affectionately your friend,)
| CHAPTER XV. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |