University of Virginia Library

1. FLEETWOOD,
OR
THE STAIN OF BIRTH.
A NOVEL OF AMERICAN LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR
OF “PHILIP IN SEARCH OF A WIFE,” &C. &C.

1. CHAPTER I.

Midnight brought with it no abatement of the
violence of the gale. During the day it had swept
in eddying gusts through the broad avenues and
narrow cross-streets of the city, carrying desolation
and dismay—prostrating chimneys—scattering
the slates from the roofs—and making sad havoc
with the wooden signs, which adorned the districts
devoted to traffic. One man, as he was passing up
Broadway, had been knocked on the head by the
shaft of a canvass awning, and instantly killed.
Others had been severely bruised by the flying
fragments, strewn at random by the blast.

The dwellers on the North River had been appalled
by the lurid aspect and the rapid swelling
of that majestic stream. Its tortured waters would
writhe and convolve into huge ridges of foam, as
if a new ocean were struggling for birth beneath
the laboring surface. The adjoining piers and
abutments were soon overwhelmed by the rushing
tide. Boats and sloops and schooners of a considerable
size were wrenched from their moorings

and driven by the unsparing gale high into the
street, side by side with the habitations of landsmen.
Most of the cellars near the river were completely
inundated, and the destitute and despairing
inmates driven forth houseless.

It was indeed a night of storm and desolation—
a night when those, who were comfortably sheltered
from the loosened elements, could not omit
thanking God that they were not at that moment
sharers in the lot of the hapless child of penury on
the bare ground, or of the struggling seaman, whose
bark lay off the too adjacent coast.

The streets of the city had been deserted at an
early hour that evening by all, whom necessity did
not compel to run the risk of being made subjects
for the coroner and the penny reporters. The air
grew chiller as the night advanced, and the snow
fell in smothering profusion. The city lamps were
unlit, but, with your eyes turned from the teeth of
the blast, the snow-light, as it is beautifully termed
by the Germans, would disclose objects with tolerable
distinctness.

While the gale was at its height, the door of a
house in what was then one of the most fashionable
streets of the city might have been seen to open,
and a young man to issue forth unattended. But
some one, who was holding the door ajar, called
him back before he had reached the side-walk, and
a hurried interchange of words took place.

“You had better stay, Challoner. It is a dreadful
night. Come back.”

“No, I thank you, Winton. I shall get along
very well. Good night!”

“Good night then, since you insist upon going.”

Winton closed the door, and returned to a parlor
elegantly furnished and comfortably warmed, where
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, a board
liberally spread with all the delicacies of the season,

including canvass-backs and the choicest wines,
stood in the middle of the room. Folding-doors
communicated with another apartment brilliantly
lighted, where a table covered with cards and red
and white counters indicated that the party had
been engaged at faro. Four gentlemen besides
Winton, the host, sat down to the hot supper, which
now claimed their attention.

“Why the deuce didn't Challoner stay?” asked a
pursy, red-faced little man, who had evidently been
in luck that night.

“I couldn't persuade him, although I offered him
a bed,” replied Winton.

“How much did he lose to-night?” inquired a
young man named Brockden, who seemed to have
little appetite for the delicacies before him.

“Some two thousand at least,” replied Winton.
“I never knew such a run of ill luck, as he has been
the victim of, the last month or two.”

“And yet no one would suspect from his manner
that he was a loser rather than a winner,” said the
red-faced individual.

“True; I never knew a man so keep his temper
and equanimity under losses. If I am not much
mistaken, he has staked his last dollar to-night and
lost it.”

“Indeed!” said the red-faced man. “Try these
ducks, Brockden. You will find them superb. His
last dollar, did you say?”

As our business does not lie with the exemplary
company, to whom we have thus suddenly introduced
our readers, we will quit them and follow
him, who was the subject of their discourse. No
sooner had the door closed upon him than he threw
his cloak over his arm, took off his hat, tore open
his vest, and stood with his face to the blast as if
its snow-laden currents were hardly strong and
chilly enough to cool the fever of his brain. His

person thus bared to the storm, he walked on
slowly like one immersed in thought.

“It is all—all gone!” murmured he. “I did not
leave myself enough even to buy a loaf of bread.
What a wretch—what an insane wretch I have
been! And how can I now meet Emily, beggar
that I am? God of mercy! I do not know the
man in this populous city, to whom I can go to-morrow
to borrow a five dollar bill. And then my
credit—Credit! I have none. Ay, lash me, ye
keen winds! Oh! that ye might bear me like a
leaf away from these human habitations and sink
me in the wide ocean!”

Challoner leaned against a lamp-post and groaned
in spirit. He suddenly started, and looked around
as if to assure himself in regard to the locality
where he found himself.

“It is the very house!” said he. “I cannot be
mistaken. Can it be that she lives there still? And
if she does—what then? What then, Challoner?
Art thou indeed so degraded that thou wouldst
ask alms of her—of her, the daughter of shame,
who first lured thee aside from the paths of pleasantness
and peace? Nay; say rather it was thy
own folly and wickedness, that led thee astray.
And yet in spite of her degradation, I believe she
truly loved me once—as much surely as her fallen
nature was capable of loving anything. I have
lavished hundreds upon her. She must be rich;
for unlike her frail sisterhood, she was not a spendthrift.
Truly I know of no one rather than her to
whom I would apply for aid. At any rate, Augusta,
I will test your generosity!”

And thus determining, this weak-minded man
proceeded to put his project into execution, and
knocked at the door. But Challoner was not so
thoroughly bad a person as his conduct would
seem to declare. He had been left, when quite a

child, an orphan; and his guardian, who was an
old bachelor named Hardinge, had brought him up
in the most lax and indulgent manner. The boy
always found his pockets well filled with money,
and was early accustomed to expensive tastes and
habits, notwithstanding the property left by his
parents did not exceed ten thousand dollars. Hardinge
himself had introduced him when hardly
eighteen years of age to a female some five years
his elder, whom we have heard him apostrophise
by the name of Augusta; and perhaps he was
often indebted to the influence she exercised over
him, that he was saved from still more destructive
pursuits.

Challoner had just entered upon his twenty-first
year, when his guardian died, and left him the
uncontrolled possessor of his patrimony, which had
been reduced about one half during his minority.
A still more important event soon afterward occurred.
Challoner fell in love. He dropped the
unworthy connexion, to which we have alluded,
and began to regard life more seriously. The
father of Emily Gordon was arrogant both on account
of his wealth and his family; and he frowned
upon Challoner's pretensions. But a smile from
the maiden herself was sufficient to inspire Challoner
with hope and resolution. He applied himself
to the study of the law, and built grand castles
in the broad domain of the future. Three years
flew by. Mr. Gordon not only still forbade his
daughter to receive Challoner as a suitor, but expressed
his determination that she should marry
the booby son of his old friend Norwood. The
propriety of an elopement now began to be discussed
by the lovers at their clandestine interviews;
and Challoner, in an evil hour, entered into
some stock speculations with a view to making a
fortune by rapid steps. Before the result could be

known, some new act of tyranny on the part of old
Gordon rendered it easy for Emily to be persuaded
to run away with her lover, and get married.
They could not have done a more indiscreet thing.
The whole of Challoner's little fortune, with the
exception of a few hundred dollars, had melted
away. His wife's family refused to be reconciled;
and the father and brothers denounced him as an
adventurer and a pauper. His pride and indignation
were fully roused.

“Oh, that I might retaliate by riding by them
with my wife in my own coach!” was his foolish
and vindictive wish. He took apartments for himself
and wife at an expensive hotel; but his sojourn
there was not long, for his means were quite exhausted
a few months after his marriage. He
removed to obscure lodgings; but the insane hope
still possessed him to elevate himself in his external
circumstances by some extraordinary run of good
luck, far above the contempt of his wife's relatives.

Alas! how true it is that none but the contemptible
are apprehensive of contempt. Had he been
possessed by a true, honest pride, he would have
looked down, even in his extreme poverty, upon
those who professed to despise him. He would
have shown his superiority by his calm indifference
to their slights. But a false and paltry ambition
made him constantly uneasy and discontented
so long as he could not live in a splendid house,
and drive as neat a span of greys as old Gordon
himself. In his impatience to rise above want, he
resorted to the gaming table. At first his success
was extraordinary. In two months he found himself
once more the possessor of ten thousand dollars.
But ten times ten thousand would not have
satisfied his ambition. He did not think it worth
while even to change his lodgings in consequence
of his good luck. He applied himself more devotedly

than ever to gaming; but fortune was no
longer propitious. The cards were against him;
and they continued so until the evening we have
described, when he found himself stripped of his
last dollar, and stooped to solicit aid from one,
who lived on the wages of infamy and guilt.

Such was the noise of the gale, that it was nearly
an hour before he could make himself heard by the
inmates of the house. With much difficulty he
persuaded a black maid-servant, whose voice he
distinguished from an upper window, to open the
door for his admission, and then bade her carry
his name to her mistress. He walked into a parlor
fronting on the street, where the remains of a
coal fire still shed a flickering light on the walls;
and, in a few moments, a female bearing a candle,
and clad in a wrapper of plaided silk, entered the
room. She appeared to be about thirty years old,
and in spite of the inevitable impress, which sin
ever leaves upon the female countenance, there
were abundant traces of beauty in her face and
figure. Placing the candle upon the centre-table,
she advanced towards her midnight visitor with
both hands extended to greet him, and exclaimed:
“Edward! can it be you?”

“Yes, Augusta,” he replied in a sorrowful tone.
“We meet once more. I did not think ever again
to enter this house.”

“And why not? It is six years since we have
met. But I forget, you are married. At least so
I read in the newspapers. But bless me, Edward!
how pale you look! Your hair is covered with
snow. Are you ill? Can I do anything for
you?”

“Yes; sit down, and listen to my story. But
first tell me, Augusta, how has the world treated
you?”

“Prosperously enough. This house and furniture

are mine; and I have an account at the bank.
My daughter will be an heiress, Edward, and I
mean she shall grace her wealth.”

“Indeed! I had forgotten all about little Adelaide.
She must be quite a young lady by this
time. Surely—that is to say—I hope you are
bringing her up virtuously.”

“Do not doubt it. She has not been in this
house since she was four years old. I have placed
her at an excellent boarding-school, and I mean
that all her mother lacks both in accomplishments
and morals, shall be hers. But I would hear something
in regard to your own affairs. What has
happened, Edward; and why are you here?”

“I blush while I say it, Augusta—my purpose is
to ask for a small loan.”

The female started as if surprised; but whatever
her secret motives may have been, she replied:
“If it were only for the sake of auld lang
syne, Edward, you shall have what you want.
But pray tell me what has happened? You have
more than once profited by my advice; and perhaps
I may help you by words as well as by
deeds.”

“My story is soon told,” replied Challoner.
“Did you ever see my wife?”

“About a year since she was pointed out to me
in Broadway,” replied Augusta. “She seemed a
mild, beautiful creature, and disposed as I was to
hate her for having robbed me of you, I could not
help feeling pity as I looked in her pale face, and
marked its patient, melancholy expression.”

“Ah, Augusta, she is too good for a reprobate
like me. When I think of her uncomplaining temper,
her attentive kindness, and her confiding devotion
to myself, I often bitterly feel a consciousness
of my unworthiness. I married at a time when I
was little able to support a wife, and in the face

of the opposition of her whole family. The stinging
contempt which they expressed for me roused
my whole soul. `I will show them that I can
support Emily in the position to which she has
been born,' thought I. For her sake, Augusta,
although the fact is still unknown to her, poor
thing, I became a gambler. There, you have the
whole secret of my past miseries, and my present
wants. This very evening I have lost at faro upwards
of two thousand dollars—all the money I
possessed in the world!”

“Two thousand dollars! Why, Edward, you
could have lived comfortably on that for at least a
year.”

“Yes, wretch that I am!” exclaimed he. “And
when I had money in abundance, instead of securing
for her comfortable apartments, and paying for
them, I had the baseness to remove to mean and
contracted lodgings, that I might have ample funds
with which to speculate at the gaming-table. And
Emily will soon be—a mother!”

“Where do you reside?” inquired the female.

“Truly, I forget the name of the place,” said he,
“but I have it written down. Here it is.”

He handed her a slip of paper, which she retained.

“And how much money,” she added, “will serve
your purposes for to-night?”

“A hundred dollars will be sufficient,” said he.
“I will give you my promissory note for the repayment.”

“It will answer,” she replied; and unlocking a
small desk, she drew a check, while Challoner
drew up the note as he had suggested.

“Here, Edward,” said she, handing him the
check, “you have the amount you desire. Take
my advice, and provide first of all for your wife's
comfort.”

“I will do so,” exclaimed he. “Dear Augusta,
if I live, you shall not repent this act of generosity.”

The tears stood in his eyes. Your profligates
are often marvellously tender-hearted.

“And now,” said the female, “hasten home to
your wife. Poor creature! What must have
been her anxiety on your account this dreadful
night! Hark! The City Hall clock strikes one.”

Challoner pressed her hand, bade her good night,
and quitted the house.

And how are we to explain conduct so inconsistent
on the part of an abandoned woman? If
love were the ruling motive, why should she have
shown so much consideration for her lover's wife?
Was it pride—the pride of assisting an elegant
young man about town? Perhaps so. But then
why should not that pride have induced her to
attach him once more to herself? Why send him
home to his wife, and bid him look to her welfare?
Perhaps, after all, we do the woman injustice in
imputing to her merely interested motives. Who
shall say that it was not a pure impulse of goodness
which prompted her? A momentary triumph
of her good angel? A transient flicker of that
“original brightness,” which had not yet wholly
gone out in her derogate soul?

Despising himself—his heart torn by contending
emotions—Challoner hurried along the street in
the direction of his lodgings. The gale roared and
rattled over his head, and the fine, icy snow whirled,
like a shower of needles, into his face.

“Poor Emily!” muttered he. “What a dreary
time she must have had of it, alone in those old,
ricketty apartments! But I will live to repay her
for all the privations she has endured on my account.
Yes; I will yet be rich—honored—
envied—”

Challoner never completed the sentence with his
lips. At that moment, as he was turning the
corner of a well-known street, a chimney was
hurled into fragments by the blast. The scattered
debris struck him violently on the head, and felled
him to the earth. “God forgive me!” he groaned
forth. “My poor wife! my unborn child! Help!
I cannot die! I am not fit to die! God knows I
meant to change my—What, ho! Will no one
hear?” He strove to rise; but, as he moved, the
blood poured profusely from his wounds upon the
drifted snow. With a mighty effort, he staggered
to his feet, uttered a last cry for help, fell and
expired. The storm howled on, and spread its
flaky winding-sheet over his body; and there he
was found, under the incarnadined snow, a ghastly
spectacle, by the early morning light.