University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

“Ungrateful that I have been!” thought Adelaide
as she ascended the stairs to the room, which she
had recently occupied. “This poor, uneducated
peasant girl sets me an example of fortitude and patience!
I will follow it. I will no longer waste
my days in idle repining. I will go forth into the
world. I will exert the talents which God has given
me. I will make myself useful to my fellow-creatures.”

While entertaining reflections like these, a servant
brought in Mr. Glenham's card, remarking
that the gentleman was below. Adelaide had declined
seeing Mr. Glenham on all the occasions—
and they were many—that he had called, since the
day of her visit to the house of Mr. Gordon. But
now, as the first step towards keeping her new resolutions,
she determined to give him an audience.

Glenham could not disguise the admiration, with
which he regarded Adelaide, as she now entered the
room where he was sitting. Distress of mind had
robbed her features of none of their charms. They
had lost a certain archness and piquancy of expression,
which they used occasionally to wear; but
in its place there was a composure, a serenity, such
as limners give to their angels.

After interchanging greetings with him, Adelaide
asked: “Do you hear anything of my brother, Mr.
Glenham?”

Glenham turned away his head, and appeared
confused.

“You hesitate! Has anything happened to him?”
continued Adelaide in a tone of alarm.

“Ah, Miss Adelaide,” said Glenham, “why is it
my lot ever to come to you as the messenger of
unhappy tidings? I hardly dare tell you all that
has come to my knowledge in regard to circumstances,
in which you have been recently involved—
but I owe it to you—to myself—to disburthen my
mind. You have been the victim of a conspiracy.
He whom you believed to be your brother was an
impostor. He is no kinsman of yours.”

“Ernest not my brother! Impossible! I could
not have been deceived. There was all the brother
in his look, when we parted,” said Adelaide.

“O, I doubt not that he played his part quite
adroitly,” said Glenham; “but he was nevertheless
an actor in a plot—an infamous plot!”

“How could my mother have been imposed upon!”
exclaimed Adelaide.

“Ah, there is the most afflicting part of what I
have to communicate!” replied Glenham.

“Speak out, Mr. Glenham—there are few things,
which I cannot now bear to hear with calmness,”
said Adelaide.

“And yet what I have to say must inevitably
strike you with consternation and grief,” resumed
Glenham; “and I fear that I shall again have to
make you distrust my veracity.”

“No,” said Adelaide, with a mournful movement
of her head: “after what has passed there is little
fear that I shall be again incredulous.”

“Your mother, Miss Adelaide—”

“Ah, what of her?” exclaimed Adelaide, with
an involuntary shudder.

“Hush!” said Glenham, sinking his voice to a

whisper, and looking cautiously around the room.
“Are we in no danger of being overheard?”

“And what, sir, if we are?” replied Adelaide.
“There can be no secret between us in any event.”

“Alas! I know not that,” said Glenham mysteriously.
“Your mother, Miss Adelaide, was a party
to the plot laid for your ruin.”

“How, for my ruin?” asked Adelaide, in a tone
of amazement.

“Must I speak plainly?” said Glenham. “Know
then, that your mother—that this house—pardon
my agitation. In a word, Miss Adelaide, you cannot
be seen entering this house or issuing from it,
without being considered infamous in the eyes of
the world. Your mother is unworthy of such a
child as you. She is a degraded woman; and,
what is worse, she does not hide her degradation.”

In spite of her predetermination to be calm, Adelaide
could not but feel the crushing effect of this
last blow. She seemed to writhe like the tortured
Laocoon in the folds of the pestiferous serpent; and
she pressed against her eyes with her closed fists
as if to shut out the hideous thoughts which Glenham's
words had suggested. Unconsciously she
sighed several times like one in the extreme of pain;
and for a minute the internal struggle that was going
on threatened to rend her delicate frame. At
length, with a sudden effort, she recovered her presence
of mind, and sat erect with the mien of one
nerved to a heroic calmness.

“Why was I made to believe,” she asked, “that
I had a brother?”

“Can you not imagine?” returned Glenham.
“The young man came here for the most detestable
purposes. He had the consent of your mother
to reduce you—if he could so far undermine your
principles of virtue—to her own infamous level.
But you are faint?”

“Go on, sir. You see—you see I am quite composed.”

“The young man,” said Glenham, “was struck
with contrition on finding you so young, so innocent;
and he left you—to expostulate with your
mother, who then ordered him out of the house.”

Adelaide rose and laid her hand upon the bell-rope.

“What would you do?” exclaimed Glenham,
alarmed.

“I would see my mother, and hear what she has
to say to your charges,” replied Adelaide.

“Stay but a moment,” said Glenham, imploringly,
arresting her in the act of ringing.

Adelaide withdrew her hand.

“Ah me! What's to be done, should this prove
true?” she exclaimed, as if addressing the question
to her own heart. “With such a mother I am
more bereaved than an orphan—without a brother
—without a friend—what shall I do?”

“Do not say you are friendless, while I am here,
Adelaide,” said Glenham, with a sad attempt to
look irresistible.

Adelaide recoiled from him at this familiar use of
her name. With what joy she had heard it, when
Fleetwood first addressed her with the same absence
of form!

“Hear me, Adelaide,” continued Glenham, without
perceiving her aversion. “Accept the honorable
refuge, which I offer you, from all your dangers
and griefs. I tendered you my hand when I
thought your position as unexceptionable as my
own—when I believed you to be wealthy, courted
and caressed—and now, when these illusions are
gone—when I see you discarded, exposed to insult
and degradation, and subjected to social exclusions
by the stain of birth, I renew my offer, and beseech
you to listen to my suit. Surely the generosity,

the disinterestedness of my attachment are now
placed beyond a doubt.”

“You must have strange ideas of generosity,
sir,” said Adelaide, approaching the bell, and ringing
it, “to select an opportunity like this for addressing
to me a renewal of your offensive proposal.”

It may be well to say in this place, that Glenham's
pretended disclosures contained some truth,
mixed up with a considerable quantity of falsehood.
Whatever may have been Mrs. Winfield's delinquencies
in past years, she was now, and had been
from the time of Adelaide's birth, so far as outward
appearances were concerned, perfectly respectable.
She lived secluded, and, although she kept a carriage,
and was evidently in the enjoyment of abundant
means, yet there was no disposition evinced
on her part to attract public attention, or to make a
show. She belonged, ostensibly at least, to one of the
most rigorous religious sects; and, as she gave largely
to the church of which she was a member, she was
regarded even by those who were aware of her
history, as a reclaimed sinner, who deserved to be
countenanced and upheld. She was visited by
none but persons of character and respectability,
and Adelaide had never detected aught that could
be recalled to substantiate Glenham's assertions.
And yet when she recollected an occasional coarseness
of expression or a trait of vulgarity, she dreaded
lest they might all be true.

For reasons, which we must leave it to the sequel
to explain, Mrs. Winfield was now exceedingly
anxious that Glenham and Adelaide should be united;
and she had recently had several anxious conferences
with the gentleman for the purpose of arranging
some new plot for the achievement of their
purposes. The notable one which he finally hit
upon, was that, which may be inferred from his interview

with Adelaide. He thought it would be an
easy matter to persuade her, that her only chance
of receiving honorable protection was in uniting
herself to him, and that it was a moral duty as well
as a matter of advantage for her to accede to his
proposal. The necessity of speedy action on his
part was evident from the recent visit which she had
made to Emily Gordon. Had he not, by the merest
accident, met Mrs. Winfield in her carriage, and
put her upon her guard, a developement fatal to
their plans would inevitably have been the result.
He had, after some persuasion, induced this woman
to agree to his present scheme, and to uphold, should
it be necessary to do so, in order to influence Adelaide,
all the falsehoods he had told her in regard
to the reputation of her mother's house.

Having received Adelaide's summons, Mrs. Winfield
now entered the room. Her demeanor was not,
as it was habitually, imperious and bustling; but
she had the air of a culprit, who shrinks from the
interrogations to which he is about to be subjected.

“Is it true—what this man tells me?” exclaimed
Adelaide, advancing and looking her firmly in the
face. “O, tell me, is it true? Have I been indeed
deceived? Was he not my brother, who met me
here as such, and who received me with what I
supposed a brother's embrace? You are silent—
you hesitate! “Can it be true? And are you then
my mother?”

“Forgive me, Adelaide; but—”

“Forgive you! And do you then admit that I
have anything to forgive? O, you cannot be my
mother, if what he tells me is true! The same
blood flows not in our veins—the same instincts
plead not in our hearts—the same fire kindles not
our souls! O, are you indeed my mother?”

“And how dare you, sir,” said Mrs. Winfield,

turning to Glenham with well-feigned resentment,
“how dare you slander me to my own child?”

“You cannot deny, madam, the truth of what I
have told her,” replied Glenham. “You cannot
deny that the person you introduced as her brother
was an impostor. Be careful, or I shall bring witnesses
to prove all that I have said.”

Mrs. Winfield looked abashed and turned away
without replying.

“You do not speak, madam—you do not indignantly
repel his charges!” exclaimed Adelaide.
“O, tell me, have I a brother, or did you deceive
me in telling me that I had one?”

“Pray don't take on so, child,” said Mrs. Winfield,
apparently not knowing what to say. “Where
was the harm, if, for the sake of a joke, I made you
think the young man was your brother?”

“A joke! Alas! mothers do not joke in that
manner,” replied Adelaide. “I have been betrayed!
Is there no one on whom I can rely?
Am I alone—all, all alone in the wide world?”

“Ah, Miss Adelaide, let me guide you in safety
from this house,” said Glenham. “I will protect—
will succor you. If you will not suffer me to be a
husband, you will at least grant me the privileges of
a friend.”

“And you, madam, are you willing that I should
place myself under his protection?” asked Adelaide,
turning a look of piercing inquiry upon Mrs. Winfield.

“Yes, child, go!” said Mrs. Winfield, “since he
has persuaded you that you are not sufficiently
protected in my house.”

Adelaide paused, and seemed to be in deep
thought for a moment. And then, glancing at
Glenham, she said, “Wait till you hear from me,”
and quitted the room.

“Poor thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Winfield, as the

door closed. “Do you know, Glenham, that I was
several times on the point of coming out with the
whole truth?”

“And, if you had, I should certainly have strangled
you,” said Glenham. “Do you not see she is
wavering, and that before another day she will
consent to an immediate marriage? Once let her
place herself under my protection, and it will be
easy to persuade her that her reputation is gone
forever unless she becomes my wife.”

“I don't know what to make of her sometimes,”
said Mrs. Winfield. “Gentle and soft as she seems
to be, I felt while she was talking just as if I should
have gone down on my knees, and confessed everything
if she had but said the word. I wish that
you and Gordon had been further before you led
me into this business.”

“Nonsense! I shall make her a pattern of a
husband,” said Glenham; “and she will be much
happier with me than she would have been with
that purse-proud Fleetwood.”

“I would not harm the poor child for the world,”
rejoined Mrs. Winfield; “and if I thought you
would ever ill-treat her, Glenham, I would not give
her to you for twice the amount of her dowry.”

The conversation between these partners in
iniquity was continued nearly an hour longer;
when Glenham becoming impatient at Adelaide's
prolonged absence, requested Mrs. Winfield to go
in search of her.

“She is not in her room,” exclaimed this woman,
returning from her search; “but on her dressing-table,
I found this note.”

Glenham seized it—saw that it bore his name as
the direction, and, tearing off the envelope, read
these words: “With the blessing of Heaven, I can
protect myself. Farewell. Adelaide.”

“Fools, idiots that we have been! The girl has

escaped!” exclaimed Glenham, stamping his foot
with rage. “She has foiled us after all! After all
our plotting—all our manœuvring, she has foiled
us!”

“Gone! Has the child really gone?” said Mrs.
Winfield, in tones of alarm.

“To be sure she has, old woman!”

“Old woman indeed! Don't old woman me, sir,”
said Mrs. Winfield bristling with choler.

“Forgive me, I did not know what I was saying,”
returned Glenham. “I will start instantly
in pursuit. Perhaps I may track her yet. We are
friends again, Augusta?”

“I don't know that. But go! find out if you
can, where the child has gone to, and bring me
word immediately. It would be ruinous were we
to lose her at this time.”