University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

The sunshine of a clear autumnal afternoon was
streaming in at the western windows of the apartment
where we left Adelaide in conversation with
Mrs. Rugby. There had been little apparent
change in the arrangements of this room, save that
a bountiful supply of fresh flowers in vases adorned
the tables and the mantel-piece. A cage containing
a mocking-bird hung over the window-sill, and,
though the door was open, the little prisoner seemed
to prefer remaining where he was. His loud, varying
notes, caught from the melodies of a southern
forest—the sunshine turning to amber the white
curtains that shook in the soft, elastic breeze—the
sight and odor of flowers—and the green branches
in the fire-place, all gave an aspect and a tone of
cheerfulness to the place, which made one forget
he was in the midst of a dusty, populous metropolis,
where there were almost as many breaking hearts
and aching heads as green leaves.

And yet, on the unopened coverlid of the bed,
Adelaide lay an invalid, lost at the moment in a
tranquil sleep. She wore a white morning robe,
and was supported, in a half-sitting, half-supine
posture, by pillows. By her side stood Florinda,
with a fan to keep off the flies. Words cannot
paint the look of adoring affection and tenderness
with which this child regarded the sleeper. There
was but one person more in the room—the grandmother;

who sat quietly sewing by the window,
occasionally turning to look at the face of the invalid,
and then, with a suppressed sigh, resuming
her work.

Suddenly Adelaide opened her eyes, and smiled
on seeing Florinda. Then lowering her glance, as
if in the act of concentrating her thoughts, she
asked:

“Is it not almost time that he should be here?”

“Not yet, my dear—you have hardly slept half
an hour,” said Mrs. Rugby, pausing a moment, and
then plying her needle with renewed activity.

“What, Florinda! Tears again! Naughty
one!” exclaimed Adelaide, stooping forward, and
wiping from the child's face the fluid signs of grief.
“Why do you weep?”

“Sweet lady, dear lady, do not ask me.”

“But I insist on knowing why you weep. Tell
me, my own little Florinda, tell me!”

“It is because I so dread the thought of your
leaving us.”

“Is that all, little Bayadere? Why, you ought,
then, to be all the more delighted while I stay.
Come, not another tear! I shall get in a passion
by and by.”

And with a playful imperativeness of manner,
Adelaide kissed away her tears till the child laughed
under her influence.

Suddenly Adelaide checked herself, put her fore-finger
to her lips, as if to enjoin silence, and changed
the position of her small and delicately-slippered
feet, till they almost touched the floor. Then starting
from the bed, she exclaimed:

“It is he! I know his footstep!” She glided
swiftly towards the door, opened it, and was clasped
in Fleetwood's embrace.

They entered the room, with arms locked about
each other as they walked, and eyes gazing intently

in each other's face. Each saw the change—the
sad, yet endearing change—in the other, and tears
came gratefully to the relief of each.

“Miserable dupe that I have been!” groaned
Fleetwood, kissing the pallid forehead, which seemed
to invite his lips. “How wretchedly have I
been deluded! Can you—can you forgive me—
angel of goodness and of love?”

“All is understood,” replied Adelaide. “All
that was unpleasant, forgotten—all that was sweet,
remembered.”

“Oh, maledictions on the wretches, who—”

The grief that overpowered Fleetwood choked
his utterance. He sank into a chair—covered his
face with his hands—and gave way to a burst of
grief, which shook his frame as if with a convulsion.
He wept like a child.

Adelaide rested herself lightly on his knee, gently
struggled to remove his hands, then soothingly
thrust her fingers through the locks that fell over
his temples, and besought him to be calm.

“Think not of those who have wronged us,” she
said; “they deserve our pity, and of course our
forgiveness. Do you remember the reply of the
poet to his critic?

We should all regard our enemies in this spirit.
In that they are our enemies, or the enemies of any
human being, they deserve our commiseration, not
our vengeance.”

“Dear Adelaide, you are weak—you are pale—
I fear that you have suffered—that you still suffer
—much. But you will recover—O, say that you
will recover—give me that blessed assurance—give
me at least a hope!”

“There is nothing in death that awes me but the

thought of leaving you, dear—husband,” said Adelaide,
with a slight pause in her voice before she
uttered the last word. Fleetwood lifted her hand
to his lips, and pressed it silently. “Nay, I am
wrong,” resumed Adelaide, turning to Florinda and
her grandmother; “here are two who will miss
me, and to part with whom will cause a pang.
But, dear friends, be cheerful! It is thus that I
would welcome death—with flowers, and sunshine,
and music—with green leaves and floral odors—
with happy voices and with smiles. They do
wrong, who dress his altar with weeds of wo—and
who salute him, on his approach, with lamentations;
for does he not conduct us to a nobler and
a happier life? Therefore may the dead be rather
called the living than we who linger on this shore
of time, fettered by material obstructions—by disease
and pain. O, in our happiest estate, death
should ever be welcome!”

“You will rive my heart with these words,” said
Fleetwood despairingly. “O, live, live, at least
long enough for me to make amends for my dreadful
injustice!”

“You shall not accuse yourself,” said Adelaide.
“As you loved me, how could you have acted differently?
Ah, my husband, it was a sweet dream,
though passing brief! Do you remember that
rocky ledge on the sea-shore, where we first met,
while the big waves rolled up their smooth, flashing
undulations to my horse's feet? Should you ever
revisit the place, you will love it for my sake.”

“Ah, why will you thus try to shut out all hope
from my heart?” exclaimed Fleetwood.

“Could any hope be so sweet as that of our reunion
hereafter?” asked Adelaide. “With me the
conviction that we shall meet again—meet happily
—is interwoven with my spiritual being. Do you
wonder then, that I am content? But I have some

commissions for you, dear husband; and you must
expect a rebuke from me if you do not fulfil them.
This child, Florinda, whom you see”—and here
Adelaide sank her voice to a whisper—“will soon
be left an orphan. It was my intention to provide
for her liberally—to protect her as if she were my
own sister. Alas! I know what it is to be an orphan!
I leave her, my husband, to your care.
She has a brother. You will look after him also.”

“O, indulge no more in these melancholy anticipations,”
sighed Fleetwood. “You shall live, Adelaide,
to scatter blessings with your own hand.”

“Approach, Florinda,” said Adelaide, feebly
casting her eyes over her shoulders, as she lay in
Fleetwood's arms.

The child drew near, and Adelaide, taking her
little hand, placed it in that of Fleetwood, and said:
“For my sake, you must love each other.”

Fleetwood returned the pressure of the child's
hand in silent anguish.

“Do you remember Cossack—my old dog, Cossack?”
asked Adelaide abruptly, as if to divert the
sadness of both. “Well, you must give him to
Charley Romaine—that's Florinda's brother—to
take care of.”

“Ah, it will be time enough years hence for bequests
like these,” said Fleetwood.

“Bear with me if I am over-provident,” replied
Adelaide. “There is poor La Salle—I have been
much concerned on his account. Pray assure him
of my entire forgiveness, and tell him you heard
me say that I wished he were indeed my brother—
and give him, in token of my good will, a gold
mounted riding-whip, inscribed with my name,
which you will find in one of my trunks—Mr. Dryman
will tell you where.”

“You are exhausted—you need repose!” said

Fleetwood, pressing her as if she were an infant in
his arms.

“The Gordons, Fleetwood—I would say something
of them,” continued Adelaide. “Do what is
best to rescue the father from those pecuniary difficulties
that have driven him to deeds, which, in
his better moments, he must bitterly deplore. And
as for Emily—cousin Emily, I must call her now—
Mr. Dryman will tell you how I have remembered
her. What others are there, of whom we should
be thoughtful? I have already, through Mr. Dryman,
sent such messages to Mrs. Winfield as I
think must give her consolation; and I have provided
a modest competence for some of my protegés,
a German family among the rest. All that I
ask of you in regard to Glenham is, that should you
ever have an opportunity of doing him a benefit,
you will not neglect it. I do not require a promise.
I but make the request.”

“I pray you now take a little repose, Adelaide,”
said Fleetwood, with a trembling voice. “You
have fatigued yourself with talking.”

“In one moment you shall be obeyed, my husband,”
said Adelaide; and then turning to the child,
who sat weeping at her feet, she feebly murmured:
“Come here, little Fanny Elssler the Younger: I
have something to say to you in private. Bring
your ear nearer my lips. It is bad manners to
whisper in company, but I must be indulged this
once.”

And for nearly five minutes, Adelaide addressed
the child in a whisper audible to her alone. Florinda
listened with an air of rapt attention, glancing
occasionally at Fleetwood, and then looking down
as if in thought. Adelaide, in concluding, kissed
her affectionately, and calling Mrs. Rugby, said:
“You, who have been all to me that a mother could

be, and who, in your humble and contemned sphere,
have shown a heart so rich in all the good affections—take
a chair near me now, and we will have
music. Why is our mocking-bird so quiet all at
once? Go, Florinda, and tell Minnie to come with
the harp, and let her bring her sister and the dear
children. I love to see their bright, contented
faces. And now, my husband, you shall not have
to urge me longer to take repose. One kiss more!
Raise the curtain, Mrs. Rugby! While we are
sitting before the window, we may as well enjoy
the beautiful sunset. There! Is it not lovely beyond
a painter's conception, dear Fleetwood? And
the river—how the fresh breeze plays with its
crimsoned waters, as it sweeps on—on in its perpetual
flow to the great ocean! I always loved to
look on flowing water—I know not why. But
here come Minnie and the rest with the harp.
Now, my husband, fix me comfortably in your lap,
and let your arms clasp me about as if I were a
child; for truly I feel like one, lying thus, my head
against your breast. Another kiss! There!
Good evening, Minnie! Good evening, Estelle!
And good evening, children all! Now, Minnie,
the old tunes—you know what I mean.”

The children stood hand in hand, quiet and grave
spectators of the scene; and Minnie played the
tunes which she knew Adelaide loved to hear as
associated with the memories of her early days.
At the close of the music, Adelaide raised her head,
and said, in German: “And now, Minnie, play the
tune I taught you.” And then, after claiming another
kiss from Fleetwood, she again closed her
eyes and nestled her head against his breast.

Fleetwood started. That tune—where had he
heard it before? Yes, it was the same he had set
to the little song in honor of Adelaide. which he
had sung on the night of the serenade. With

pleased surprise he followed the air to its close.
As it ended, the deepest silence prevailed in the
room. Suddenly the mocking-bird poured forth a
rich, exulting melody, so shrill and loud that all
were startled and looked up to the cage; and then,
as if he had but wished to call attention to the fact
of his emancipation, the winged chorister flew out
of the window, and up, up into the sky, till he was
lost from view.

Turning to the sweet burthen he held in his arms,
Fleetwood saw a smile of the serenest beauty upon
the lips of Adelaide Challoner. He bowed his head
to feel her breath against his cheeks. Alas, no
breath came! Her gentle spirit had fled.