University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The Friday following the events we have just
recounted, Fleetwood having completed his business
with Mr. Dryman, sat down to address notes
to the two friends, whom he had selected to accompany
him with their wives to Soundside, to witness
the ceremony of his marriage the next day.
He had already spoken to them in regard to his
wishes, and they had readily accepted his invitation.
His present object was to apprise them of
the hour fixed for the departure of the steamboat.
The weather was bright and warm. The fountain
in the Park was leaping and flashing in the sunlight,
and the foliage of the adjacent trees waved
cheerily in the fresh, clear atmosphere.

Fleetwood had hardly set pen to paper, when he
was disturbed by the entrance of a servant, who
brought in Mr. Glenham's card with the announcement
that the gentleman was waiting in the corridor.

“Show him in!” said Fleetwood eagerly; for
he thought his visitor might bring news of Adelaide.

The acquaintance between these two young men
had begun at college; and though it had never
ripened to anything like intimacy, it was yet of
that character, which is apt to make associates of
persons, whenever accident or convenience brings
them together, where they are almost necessarily
thrown into each other's society. Fleetwood had
always regarded Glenham as a good-natured sort
of person, rather selfish, perhaps, but harmless—
one of those characters—

He little supposed that under a sluggish exterior,
were concealed impulses of the most reckless and
ungovernable nature. His first disgust at Glenham
was in his last interview with him, when the latter
spoke disparagingly of Adelaide. But Fleetwood
was one who wrote the injuries he received on
sand—the benefits, on brass; and as Glenham now
entered he rose and extended his hand with an air
of cordial welcome.

“You are welcome from Soundside, Glenham.
What news do you bring?” said he, drawing him
into the room and placing a chair for his accommodation.

The expression of Glenham's face was gloomy,
and even stern; and he returned Fleetwood's salute
simply by a pressure of the hand.

“Why, what is the matter, man? You look as
serious as an undertaker. What has happened?
Is Adelaide unwell?” Fleetwood spoke earnestly;
and his looks betrayed that he felt even more concern
than his words expressed.

Glenham leaned forward; and, taking Fleetwood's
hand in both of his, he pressed it, and heaved
a deep sigh.

“Well—out with it, Glenham—in Heaven's name

what has happened?” asked Fleetwood, striving to
curb his emotion.

“Ah, Fleetwood, summon all your philosophy to
your aid; for you will need it,” said Glenham at
length accompanying the remark with another long-drawn
sigh.

“Good heavens! I understand—I see—Adelaide
is dead!” exclaimed Fleetwood, while the color
forsook his cheeks, and his knees smote each other.

“No, no, it is not death, Fleetwood—it is something
worse—something worse.”

“In mercy's name, what do you mean? Do not
keep me in this state of suspense. You will drive
me to frenzy. What have you to communicate?”

“I have learned, my dear friend, that the mother
of the unfortunate girl, in whom we have both become
so much interested, is an infamous person
—that her very name is a by-word among the dissolute—and
that it is enough to disgrace either man
or woman to be seen entering her house.”

“Can it be? Alas! alas!”

Fleetwood covered his face with his hands, and
groaned inwardly.

Glenham walked to the window and looked out
upon the fountain, on the principle of letting one
arrow take full effect before he sent another, which
should go straight to the heart.

“Shame and infamy! Can I—can I wed this
girl,” thought Fleetwood, “under these dreadful
circumstances? The stain of illegitimacy was
nothing compared to this! My love—my single,
ardent and still increasing love—easily cleared that
barrier. But this—gracious powers! can I consent
to become the son-in-law of a—pah! the word
sticks in my throat—I cannot breathe it even to
my own soul! What would my father, with his
lofty and chivalrous notions of what a woman
should be—what would my high-born mother, who

alone of all women, exemplified those notions in
her character—what would they have said, seeing
me in this conjuncture? Stay! It is not what
they might have said, blinded by the mists of earth-born
prejudice, which should guide me—but what
they would say now—illuminated spirits—receiving
from God himself an influx of wisdom and love
—of light and life. Would they say, desert this
poor girl, now that you find her parentage infamous
—desert her, though she be an angel—though she
be the elected one of thy heart, for whom its first,
best tribute of affection has been poured out—desert
her, not for any misdeeds of her own, but because
from her very birth she is the child of misfortune—would
their advice be of this complexion?
Would they not rather say—take her, and save
her from the pernicious influence and example of
an unworthy parent—save her from the jeers of
the world and the insults of brutal men—save her
while she is yet innocent and young!—if her moral
nature be tainted with hereditary evils, thy love,
thy care, thy generous devotion shall eradicate
them—but good angels seem to have already spared
thee that task—for, as you have eyes to see,
and a mind to apprehend, is she not good and fair?
Such would be the language of those parents now
—yes; I could almost believe that they had, by
some spiritual telegraph, hardly more wonderful
and incomprehensible than that which we call magnetic,
communicated their will to my soul. I obey
—and cheerfully! Dear Adelaide, your cause has
triumphed—invisible advocates have pleaded for
you—and yet not more eloquently than my own
heart!”

Fleetwood rose suddenly, and paced the room
with firm and regular strides. The generous resolution,
at which he had arrived, had lit up his
whole face with an expression of radiant benignity

and intrepid self-reliance. He looked every inch
the hero—the hero in that moment of greatest conquest—the
conquest over the suggestions of selfishness
and fear of the world's displeasure.

Glenham could not conceal his surprise, as he
turned and regarded his companion after the interval
of silence which both had observed.

“An agreeable family to marry into—is it not?”
said he, supposing, as a matter of course, that Fleetwood
had arrived at a conclusion favorable to his
wishes.

“My purpose remains unaltered,” said Fleetwood.
“What you have told me in regard to
Adelaide's parentage is painful enough, as you may
suppose, but it does not affect my confidence in her
own purity and worth. I am fixed in my resolution
to marry her to-morrow.”

“But Fleetwood—ahem! Are you not a little
too precipitate in this affair? Would it not be well
for you to examine a little more closely into the
history and character of this young person?”

“I am willing to stake my life—or what is more,
the happiness of my life—on her truth.”

“But think of the world's sarcasms.”

“It would be cowardly in me to regard them so
far as to break my plighted faith to one whom I
believed worthy to be my wife.”

“Well—as a married man it won't do for you to
visit your mother-in-law yourself—but you must
not be surprised if some of your bachelor friends
should ask you for letters of introduction.”

“You grow impertinent, sir. I can dispense
with your farther presence.”

Glenham saw that he had gone too far.

“I ask your pardon, Fleetwood,” said he, with
apparent earnestness; “but if I have seemed to
taunt you, it was to induce you to break off this
match without communicating to you all the reasons

which render it impossible for you to consummate
it. But I see that I must tell you all—in doing so
I cannot fail to agitate—to distress you—but you
will forgive me when you become satisfied of the
truth.”

“Against whom are your intimations levelled?”

“Against Adelaide.”

“Then I refuse to hear them. Leave me! O,
this is a worthy office for a man—to attempt to
blast the prospects of an unprotected and unfortunate
girl!”

“My friendship shall steel me against your rebukes.
It is my duty to proclaim to you the truth.
The girl is unworthy of you—she has not only inherited
dishonor, but won it for herself—she is—”

“Insolent liar!” shouted Fleetwood; and with
one bound he sprang upon Glenham, and seizing
him by the neck forced him upon his knees. “Unsay,”
he continued, gaspingly—“unsay that dastardly
slander, or, on the spot, I will tear out your filthy
tongue by the roots!” And as he spoke he nearly
choked Glenham in his ungovernable wrath.

“You will repent this—indeed you will,” ejaculated
the latter, struggling in his iron grasp.

“Leave me, coward!” exclaimed Fleetwood,
dashing him from him so that he fell upon the
floor.

Glenham rose and re-arranged his dress, which
had been somewhat ruffled under the severe treatment
to which he had been subjected. His face
was of an ashy pallor, and his lips quivered with
the fury he was tasking all his powers to suppress.
He paced the room three or four times, and then
approaching Fleetwood, who stood with folded
arms regarding his movements, he said:

“I shall expect reparation for these indignities
in due time. You deserve no farther mercy at my
hands, and did I desire the most consummate vengeance,

I need do no more than urge on this disgraceful
alliance, upon which you seem bent. But
even under the smart of most unwarrantable injury
I will not withhold intelligence which I should feel
bound to communicate were you my deadliest foe.
Your visit to Soundside will be wholly unnecessary.
Adelaide Winfield is not there. She is now in this
city—in her mother's house—and if you wish to
convince yourself of her unworthiness, I can give
you an opportunity of doing so beyond the shadow
of a doubt. By the testimony of your own eyes,
your own ears, you shall satisfy yourself that she
is—”

“Beware!” shouted Fleetwood, his fingers working
as if he were half inclined to try their sinews
again upon the speaker's throat—and then, as the
possibility of the truth of the revelation flashed
across his mind, he sank with relaxed limbs into a
chair, and fixed a searching gaze upon Glenham.

“You say you can give me visible proof of the
truth of what you aver,” he began—“how can you
do it, and when?”

“How I can do it, I will not describe. It is
enough for me to assure you that I will do it to
your perfect satisfaction. As for the when I can
do it—it shall be this evening, at eight o'clock.”

“Fool! I see it all—you would detain me here
till it is too late for me to leave for Soundside so
as to be punctual to my appointment. It is all a
wretched conspiracy!”

“At what time are you obliged to leave in the
steamboat this afternoon?”

“At three o'clock.”

“It is now half past twelve. Meet me here at
half past one, and, before two, you shall see what
shall convince you of my truth—my zeal in your
behalf—and your own ungrateful rashness.”

“Could you do that, you would make me the

most abject as well as the most miserable of men,
so that you would be sure of ample reparation for
the outrages you have encountered. If you are
lying—as I believe you are—the sooner you fly
from my path the better for your safety. I will be
here at the hour you have named. Be prompt to
a moment—to the fraction of a second—or I shall
spurn your proposition to accompany you. Now
leave me—for you have made me inconceivably
wretched.”

“This is but a joke to the dose that is to come,”
muttered Glenham. “Oh, my dear friend, but you
shall pay dearly for this day's frolic!” And then
speaking aloud, he said: “In less than an hour I
will return—you will be here—I will take such
steps that you shall be under no doubt either as to
my motives or the truth of my communication.”

“Once more, sir, I say I will a wait your coming,”
returned Fleetwood, impatiently.

Without more words, Glenham took his departure,
and Fleetwood, his eyes fixed upon his unfinished
letters, reflected upon the scene which had
just transpired, and the startling communications
which had been made.

“Nothing but ocular proof of the most unequivocal
character shall make me doubt her,” he soliloquised.
“Mere circumstantial evidence shall not
be enough. It must be open as day—audible and
visible! But should she be innocent, as she undoubtedly
is, with what face can I meet her after
listening for a moment to Glenham's monstrous
insinuations! But he says she is here—in the city;
and he offers to prove it to my satisfaction this very
hour. Surely he would not hazard such an assertion
except upon sufficient grounds. No, no! He
has met some one in the street who resembles her
—Emily Gordon, perhaps—and his busy imagination
has built up this story of shame and guilt.

May heaven in its mercy strike me lifeless should
it prove true!”