University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The closing of the folding-doors was the signal
to La Salle, that the object of the plot had been
accomplished. His manner towards Adelaide instantly
changed.

“Why, brother, you have almost taken away my
breath,” said she. “Is it the fashion abroad to
salute one's sister so rudely?”

“But then consider,” said he, “how long it is
since I saw you. You must recollect—twelve
years ago—when we parted—no—I forgot—you
were at school. School changes a girl sadly—you
don't remember me, then?”

La Salle spoke like a man who is thinking of
something else than the topic on which he is trying
to talk. He looked in Adelaide's face, but she
could see that his attention was not fixed on her,
however his glance might be. He was listening to
what was going on in the adjoining room, and pondering
on the circumstances of the little drama, in
which he had become an actor.

“Why, what are you thinking of, brother Ernest?
Does any thing disturb you?” asked Adelaide.

“Disturb me? Oh, yes—I—I was thinking of an
oversight of mine, by which I shall lose a considerable
amount of money. But what of that, so
long as I have found a sister?”

“Oh, leave me instantly if your interests require

it,” said Adelaide—“do not stay a moment on my
account—though I shall be sorry enough to lose
you so soon.”

“But I will return speedily, Adelia, and then—”

“Adelia! That is a pretty joke! You have
forgotten your own sister's name. Call me Adelaide,
if you please, Sir;” and playfully putting her
arm through his, she clasped her hands, and looked
up in his face. “By the way, brother Ernest,” she
continued, “how lucky it is that you have arrived
just in time to he present at my wedding. Perhaps
you do not know that I am—to be married to-morrow.”

La Salle started, and regarded her with a glance
full of compassion. He was sufficiently well versed
in human nature to recognize the perfect purity
and innocence of her character. This young man
was not a libertine. Jealousy had taken full possession
of his soul, but it had some noble traits still,
which even the clouds of passion could not wholly
obscure.

“And are you well assured,” he asked, “of the
loyalty of him, who has promised to marry you?”

“Ah, if you had only known him you would not
ask that question,” she replied.

“And are you quite sure he will be here to-morrow
to fulfill his promise?”

“Not altogether—a steamboat may blow up, or
get detained—a carriage may break down—there
are hundreds of contingencies that may prevent
the punctual and literal fulfilment of his promise.
He will be here if he can be, without detriment to
the interests of others. Of that I am quite certain.”

“Poor thing! Poor thing!” thought La Salle;
“what a blast must soon fall on her young hopes!”

There were two or three trifling incidents which
puzzled him exceedingly, although he had been fully
prepared for much that had happened, by those who

had enlisted him in the conspiracy. The faint exclamation
which had proceeded from Fleetwood's
lips on his witnessing from his place of supposed
concealment, the meeting between Adelaide and La
Salle, had not passed unnoticed by the latter. Although
hardly audible, yet so expressive was it of
intense, heart-felt anguish, that La Salle, who had
set down Fleetwood as a mere flutterer, was amazed
at seeing him evince some token of feeling. He
had inferred, moreover, from the language of those
who had led him to be an actor in the scene which
had just passed, that Adelaide occupied a relation
towards her lover different from that which he was
now convinced she filled. The suspicion flashed
across his mind that he might have been deceived
—that her own story was the true one—that Fleetwood—

“Can he be such a double traitor,” thought La
Salle, “as to seriously make love to another after
he has solemnly pledged his faith to this poor girl?
But did I not see his arm about Emily's waist—her
head resting upon his bosom? Either she must be
very liberal of her blandishments, or he must be
false to Adelaide. Time alone can unravel these
perplexities. I will wait patiently its developments.”

La Salle's attachment towards Miss Gordon was
sincere and disinterested; and the moment when
he saw her in Fleetwood's arms, had been the bitterest
of his whole life. In his jealousy there was
hardly any act so base that he would not have
stooped to it to be revenged on the man, who he believed
had supplanted him in the affections of the
woman of his choice. Glenham, who was but a
tool in the hands of Mr. Gordon, had found La
Salle an equally pliable instrument in his own hands;
and, for the paltry triumph of robbing his enemy
under his very eyes of an imagined mistress, the

Count lent himself to the petty scheme, by which
Glenham hoped to bring about a lasting separation
between Fleetwood and Adelaide. But no sooner
had the plot been carried out under the circumstances
which we have related, than La Salle felt
truly ashamed of himself for what he had done.
He began to conjecture whether he had not been
too precipitate, and to raise questions in his own
mind as to Glenham's motives in urging on the affair.
Blinded by jealousy, he had hitherto abstained
from inquiring into the object of the plot in which
he was involved; but now he determined to be satisfied.
The mischief that had been done might be
undone. Should it be really true that Fleetwood
had intended making Adelaide his wife, such an explanation
should be given as would satisfy him that
they had all been the victims of Glenham's duplicity.

“I must leave you now,” said La Salle in a tone
of kindness, taking Adelaide's hand.

“I will not detain you, brother Ernest,” said she;
“for you seem pre-occupied, and I am sure you
have left undone something, which you ought to
do.”

“Or done something, which I ought to have left
undone,” said he with a melancholy smile.

“Ah! if you think so, you must be over-scrupulous,”
said Adelaide with charming eagerness in defence.
“For I am sure you would do nothing seriously
wrong, brother Ernest. One has merely to
look in your face to be sure of that.”

“Good bye, Adelaide! I shall return soon. There
is one thing, of which I am resolved my conscience
shall not accuse me; and that is, neglect of your
interests. You shall not lack a brother's protection.
Farewell!”

He hurried from the room. In the street he encountered

Glenham, who had just quitted his victim's
bed-side.

“Well, Sir, what was the result of your chivalric
plot?” asked the Count. “I thought I heard
Fleetwood utter a cry of pain, and then fall to the
floor. What has become of him? Where is he
now?”

“Oh, you are quite mistaken,” replied Glenham,
with ready volubility. “It was I, who uttered the
cry of pain. Fleetwood—confound him!—trod
upon my little toe, the one with the corn—and I
pushed him so that he fell. We had to close the
doors to prevent our laughing being heard.”

“But was he not startled at seeing the girl rush
to my embrace?”

“If he was, he took devilish good care to conceal
his emotion. `Umph!' said he—so the girl
fancies him—I am glad of it—there is one expensive
incumbrance taken off my hands—just in time,
too; for Emily would make a row about it, should
she find it out.' Such was the purport of what he
said.”

“The heartless villain!” exclaimed La Salle.
“He has persuaded that innocent girl that he intends
marrying her to-morrow.”

“I suspect he has persuaded a good many innocent
girls of the same thing,” replied Glenham.
“But of course he will not dare to break his word
with Emily Gordon.”

“Is he then really engaged to her?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. The marriage day is fixed.”

“Then I will call and congratulate the lady,” said
La Salle, with compressed lips. “As for the gentleman,
I will seize the first opportunity of letting
him know that I consider him a villain of the deepest
die.”

“And why so?”

“The treachery he has practised towards Adelaide

is enough to prove it. I will lay my life on it,
that she is pure and unsullied. He is an insolent
boaster if he says otherwise. I have not studied
women all my life to be deceived now. You may
look as incredulous as you please; but I am right
in my convictions. That he has won her affections,
I do not deny. In the full expectation of being
honorably united to him, she has yielded up the
first, passionate devotion of her young heart. He
will be her murderer if he plays her false. You
may laugh; but I have seen such instances before
now, and I am a judge of temperaments. I will
confront this man, and tell him what I think of his
conduct. His death would be a far less serious
blow to the woman he has deceived than his infidelity.
I will fight him. To save her feelings, I
will shoot him. Where is he to be found?”

Glenham was perplexed and taken aback by the
earnestness with which the Count spoke, as well as
by the extraordinary determination expressed in
his concluding words.

“Ahem! Fleetwood has gone—that is, he was
to leave the city immediately for his country-seat,”
said Glenham hesitatingly. “You will not be able
to see him to-day.”

“Then it shall be to-morrow, or the next day, or
as soon as he returns,” said the Count. “He shall
find that the poor girl, towards whom he has acted
so unfeelingly, is not without an avenger.”

“Do you mean to take her under your protection?
That is just what Fleetwood would like,”
said Glenham, who began to tremble for the success
of some of his own ulterior plans.

“She shall be spared the sort of protection you
allude to,” replied La Salle. “But here we are in
Broadway. My rooms are at the Globe. Do you
walk up or down?”

“I will take leave of you here,” said Glenham.
They parted. Glenham watched the Count till his
figure was lost in the crowd, and then retracing his
steps, he re-entered the house, from which he had
issued but a few minutes before, and found his way
to a room, where Mr. Gordon sat in solitary meditation.

“How is the patient?” asked Glenham.

“Out of all danger,” was the reply. “He will
be well enough to be removed to-morrow or the
next day.”

“Do you think so? Well; what I have come
back to tell you is, that there are new and unexpected
dangers ahead. La Salle, whom we have
believed we could manage so easily, is disposed to
give us trouble. He begins to suspect that there has
been foul play, and is resolved to satisfy his misgivings
before lending himself further to our plot.
It will be hazardous to suffer him to have another
interview with Adelaide.”

“To be sure it will. That must be guarded
against. How shall it be done?”

“It will be equally dangerous to suffer him to
communicate with Fleetwood.”

“I can easily provide against that contingency.
Fleetwood will be obliged to keep his room for
some weeks yet, and as I intend having him transferred
to my house, it will be an easy matter to keep
the Count out of the way, and at the same time, exercise
a wholesome surveillance over my patient's
correspondence. And now the question is, how to
dispose of Adelaide?”