University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Leaping over the stone wall, which separated
him from the field wherein she stood, he approached,
and accosted her by name. Adelaide started,
and turned upon him a face, from which the traces
of tears had not yet disappeared. Cossack, the
wounded dog, whose history we have already
given, returned from barking after the departing
female troop, of whose unkindness towards his
mistress he seemed to be aware, and, with a suppressed
growl placed himself by her side and looked
threateningly at the stranger.

“When I left my inn,” said Fleetwood, “it was
with the intention of bidding you farewell, Miss
Adelaide, and quitting this place for the city this
afternoon.”

“And have you changed your intention?” inquired
Adelaide, endeavoring to force a smile, and to
make firm the tremulous tones of her voice.

“Yes; a spectacle I have just witnessed has induced
me to change my plans.”

“Indeed! To what do you allude?”

“To the conduct of those of your own sex, who
abandoned this spot as you approached.”

“And how can it be that you are affected by
conduct of theirs?”

“I have been too hasty—I have offended you?”

“Proceed.”

“Ah, Adelaide! Why should I disguise feelings,

which I know to be honorable and pure? I saw
that you were shunned—shunned by those who
were unworthy to be your handmaidens—and I
knew the cause.”

“Well, then, my unhappy story is known to you.
So be it. I would be known to none, to whom it
is not known.”

“And what has been the effect of that knowledge
of your situation upon me, Adelaide? It has
impelled me to offer you, as I do now, that protection,
which you so much require—the protection
of a husband?”

With a glance of utter amazement, Adelaide regarded
the speaker for some moments in silence.
It seemed so like a dream—or the miraculous fulfilment
of one—that, which she had heard fall from
his lips!

“Yes, Adelaide,” continued Fleetwood; “I have
weighed this matter deliberately”—

He paused, while a series of cross questions
were put to him interiorly, by some impertinent
sprite, who happened to be passing, `though invisible
to the material sight' at the time. “That
sounds to me very much like a lie,” said the sprite.
“Is it?” asked Fleetwood, who was scrupulous in
his regard for the truth. “To be sure it is,” said
the sprite emphatically; “you know very well,
that not five minutes have elapsed since the intention,
which you now call deliberate, entered your
head. Be more careful, sir, in your assertions, or
I and other clever fellows, who now do you good
turns when you least think of it, will cut your acquaintance.”
“I believe you are right, sir,” returned
Fleetwood with humility. “Must I retract?”
“To be sure you must.” “It will be awkward.”
“I don't care for that.” “Then here goes!”

“Pardon me,” resumed Fleetwood, and Adelaide's
bosom heaved while he spoke—“deliberately was

not the word I should have used. I cannot have
weighed this matter deliberately, for it is but within
a few minutes that I have formed the resolution,
which my words have conveyed—but I have
weighed it in the scales of unerring instinct, of
conscience, of earnest and well-grounded affection.
I love you, Adelaide—I never knew how well till
I saw you subjected to an indignity from those,
whom no outward circumstance can ever make
your equals.”

Adelaide had apparently made an effort to speak
during the brief pauses in these remarks, but though
her lips moved, agitation prevented their utterance
from being heard. At length, with a negative motion
of the head, she said: “This is language, to
which I should not listen and which you should not
utter.”

“And why not?”

“Ah, Sir, truth speaks in your tones and beams
in your looks. I feel that you are sincere, and I
thank you for—may I call it?—the romantic generosity
of your offer. But you are young. We are
both young. Yet I realize, perhaps, more justly
than you, the evils and mischiefs of my position.
Heaven forbid that I should make you a partaker
in them—that I should drag you down to the ignominious
level, socially speaking, where I must ever
rest as contentedly as I may! Your prospects in
life would be blighted by an association with me
—the child of shame—whose parentage is unknown,
and may be both guilty and base.”

“Ah, Adelaide, you are as God made you, and I
am contented with his marvellous handiwork. I
care not for the sins of your progenitors. Were
they greater than the heart of man can conceive,
still they would be expiated in the virtues of their
offspring.”

“You speak with enthusiasm, and that makes me

distrust your judgment. Think of the grief and
misery you would bring upon your parents and
friends by such an alliance. Indeed, Sir—do not
distress me by further importunities.”

“Hear me, Adelaide. I know not the being, in
whose veins runs blood kindred to my own. I have
neither father, mother, brother nor sister. I have
not a single relative, to my knowledge, on the face
of the earth.”

Adelaide started and trembled, and her breath
came quick and heavy. A mountain of objections
was removed by this avowal.

“But you have friends, who love, who esteem
you,” she replied, after a pause. “You have your
way to make in the world—honors to win—a position
to attain. Alas! You would find me a continual
impediment to your advancement. I have
been sinful in arguing with you thus—in admitting
the possibility of an event, to which in the generous
enthusiasm of the moment you look forward, but
which in your calmer moments, you will regard as
I do, impracticable and wrong. Now, leave me.
It is unmaidenly in me to admit you to farther discourse
on a subject like this.”

“Nay, we part not thus. Think you, Adelaide,
that in any of my moments, however calm, I could
be such a sordid calculator as to weigh the pitiful
prospect of getting on in the world (that is the
phrase, I believe) against the fulfilment of an honorable
and well-founded attachment? But your
concern for my interests is superfluous. I am independent
of the world and its opinions. I prize
the smile of my own conscience more than all its
honors, all its gifts. It can neither bestow nor take
away aught for which I care—unless you are so
needlessly a coward, either on my account or your
own, as to fear its frown. Stay yet a moment;
and do not call my zeal imprudence. Ah, the heart

is as likely to be right as the head, in deciding upon
critical steps in a man's life. I am placed by a
large and secure income, far above the caprices of
fortune and the world's favor; and were I not—had
I nothing but my hands and my head, with which
to procure a support—I know not that my course
would be different. I am willing to confide our
case to the pastor of this little parish, Mr. Lilburne,
to whom I have letters from my lawyer, and who,
I am convinced, from the sentiments I have heard
fall from his lips, will approve of our union.”

Adelaide started at this last word. She was
sorely tried. The color came to her face, and fled
as quickly. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground.
Her heart beat with violence. She could not speak.
Fleetwood took her hand. It lingered in his for a
moment, and was then gradually withdrawn.

“And why should we not go hand in hand for
the remainder of our pilgrimage?” he asked. “Why
should we not supply to each other the place of
kindred and friends—destitute as we both are of
those ties of consanguinity, for which the isolated
heart so yearns? Ah, Adelaide! How often have
I wished, that I had but a sister—a sister a few
years younger than myself—about your age. What
delight, I have thought, to receive her little confidences—to
execute her little commissions—to provide
instructors for her, and have her perfected in
every ennobling accomplishment—to instil none but
high and generous thoughts and opinions—to watch
over her health, physical and moral—and to see in
the hearts of both, the growth of an affection immortal
as the soul! Will you not be to me something
even more than I ever expected in a sister?”

And still no reply came from Adelaide's lips.

“Indeed I cannot take a refusal,” continued Fleetwood.
“For my sake, for your own, I must insist
upon pressing my suit. Why should we not at

once unite our fates? Pardon me if I have not
grounds for saying that your present situation is
irksome and distressing. Isolated as I am in this
world, my own is hardly less enviable. The love
that might have been dissipated among kindred, is
concentrated all upon you. You shall supply the
place of parents, sisters, brothers. Nay, droop not
thus, my Adelaide. Look up; and say that you
will be my wife. What should oppose or delay
our marriage? Are you fond of travelling? We
will pass the autumn in a trip to Niagara and the
lakes, and next November shall find us in the South
of Europe. My delights, my studies, my tastes,
my charities shall be yours, and yours shall be
mine. What treasures will we store up for memory
to ponder over in our maturer years! Our first
impressions of all that is grand in nature and art,
shall be simultaneous. Hand in hand we will meet
dangers and adventures; and if we ever have opportunities
of playing the good Samaritan on the
highway of life, it shall be with one impulse of
beneficence and ministering love. Speak, Adelaide;
shall it not be thus?”

He took her hand. It was not now withdrawn.
He gazed in her face. It was pale; but what a
glance of earnest, heart-surrendering affection, of
triumphant and resistless love, told him that his
victory was secure! She remained speechless
with emotion; but at length her full heart found
relief in tears. Gradually she became strong again,
and taking her lover's arm, they strolled towards
the sombre aisles of an adjoining forest of pines,
and there confided to each other their hopes and
fears.

“And have you no recollection of any one, who
claims the authority of a parent over you?” asked
Fleetwood.

“It must now be upwards of twelve years,” replied

Adelaide, “since any one, who I had reason
to suppose was interested in my lot, came personally
to see and question me. I remember, when
quite a child, dwelling in a quiet little cottage by
the river-side; and I can recall the face of a woman,
who used to come occasionally in her carriage
and ask me if I was well treated, and if I was
contented with my home.

“And have you reason to suppose that this
woman was your mother?”

“I have often asked myself the question; but
have never been able to arrive at any satisfactory
conclusion.”

“Do you not remember some tokens of tenderness
and affection, which none but a mother would
have been likely to display?”

“She always treated me kindly, and yet I do not
remember looking for her arrival with much eagerness
of expectation; nor, when she discontinued
her visits altogether, did I repine. And yet who
but a mother could have shown so much interest?
Perhaps she scrupulously avoided, for both our
sakes, awakening any deep affection on either
side.”

“My own Adelaide, under the peculiar circumstances
of your situation, you are surely justified in
acting as if you were perfectly independent of
parental consultations. Your own principles, impulses
and affections must be your guide. Trust
yourself to them, and I am sure you cannot go
wrong. Now listen to my plans. This is Saturday.
Precisely one week from to-day I will return,
and we will be married. Nay, do not tremble.
It is well that it should be thus. There shall be
no concealment, no delay. You shall on that day,
but not till then, announce to Miss Holyoke our
intentions. I will be accompanied by two female
friends and their husbands, who will lend respectability

and authority to our union. They are women
of generous impulses and strong good sense,
who, I am sure, will approve my choice. It may
be that the persons having authority over you will
be angry at the step, and cut off the support which
they have hitherto supplied. But you cannot regard
that as any objection. If they have your
interests truly at heart, they will be gratified when
they learn the true state of the case. Now, say,
Adelaide, that you consent; say that it shall be as
I propose; and that next Saturday shall find you
my wife?”

Adelaide looked frankly up in his face, and gave
him her hand. She was resolved not to be outdone
in generosity.

“Be it as you will,” she said. “I am yours
henceforth—forever.”

“Bless you, Adelaide, for those words. And
now, farewell! I see, through the leaves, your
companions returning to the play-ground. I will
take leave of you here. Farewell!”

He held both her hands in his while he spoke,
and they stood face to face. They entrusted to
their eyes the language of endearment their lips
could not utter. Then lifting her hands, Fleetwood
allowed them to drop upon his shoulders,
while he clasped her in a first, hurried embrace,
and sealed upon her lips a pure and sacred token
of his affection. Adelaide's face and neck became
crimson, but she did not speak; and Fleetwood,
after one more deep and earnest farewell, leaped
over an adjoining wall, and was soon in the dusty
road.

Adelaide watched his departing figure till it was
lost to sight. Her tears fell profusely, but they
were tears of exultation and joy. Slowly and
thoughtfully she strolled by a circuitous route homeward.
Leaving Cossack to bask in the sunshine

on the front door-step, she sought the little apartment,
with which so many associations, sorrowful
and bright, were connected. She recalled the
night of the serenade, the melody to which she had
delightedly listened, and the desperate energy with
which she had shunned those dreams, the realization
of which now seemed near at hand. How
different was her present mental mood, while

Reclining on the sofa, with the fingers of one hand
twined carelessly through the rich locks about her
temple, which rested on the palm, she listlessly
watched the shadows of the leaves of a neighboring
tree dancing across her curtain, and gave herself
up the while to joyous contemplations. What
a change had one little hour wrought in her
destiny! She was no longer isolated in the world,
shunned, sneered at, and subjected to indignities
even from the lips of menials. She was beloved—
and by one to whom she could render up in return
the whole exhaustless wealth of affection, of which
her nature was capable. What were the scoffs of
the world henceforth to her? “Oh, let them come,”
thought she, “that I may show him how little I regard
them while blessed with his smiles! With
what ever vigilant fondness will I watch over his
happiness! How will I lend fleetness to the wings
of every moment, that he may sigh only when deprived
of my ministrations! How will I study to
repay his generosity, his liberal and unquestioning
love! Indeed the happiness in store for me as his
wife seems too great, too bewildering for realization.
And yet there is no cloud upon the horizon;
for who that cared for my welfare could oppose
this alliance? Yes; I am now to be repaid for my
years of solitude, unloving and unloved; for the

absence of kindred and friends. And who would
not endure all that I have endured, and more, for
such a requital? Oh, goal of my hopes! Oh,
object of my unchanging and undying love! To
thy welfare I henceforth devote myself! Thou
hast been generous beyond what I believed man
could be, and thou shalt find me faithful, constant,
affectionate and zealous to please beyond what
woman has ever been!”

Adelaide looked up, as if to invoke surrounding
spirits to bear witness to the internal vow; but at
that moment a sound in the court-yard made her
start. It was merely the noise of carriage wheels
grating over a newly gravelled walk that led to the
house; but she thought she had never heard aught
so harsh and dissonant. As they rolled on, they
seemed to crush the newly-sprung flowers of hope
in her heart. Who could the new comer be?

She looked from the window. She saw a woman,
who was a stranger to her, descend from the
vehicle. Her face seemed to Adelaide like a face
she had seen in some unhappy and dimly remembered
dream. She shuddered while she gazed—
and then awaited the result with a sort of vague
conviction that a crisis in her destiny was approaching.