University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Notwithstanding the undisguised impatience of
Mr. Gordon at the repeated delays of the consummation
by marriage of the match between his
daughter and Fleetwood, this event, to which he
looked forward so anxiously, was, upon various
pretences, deferred till late in the autumn. But at
length a day, which had been definitely fixed for
the ceremony some time before, had arrived; and
nothing had occurred to induce either party to ask
for a reprieve. In order to render it the more
awkward for them to do so, Mr. Gordon had taken
good care to send out invitations to a large circle
of friends.

The ceremony was to take place at twelve
o'clock. It wanted some forty minutes of that
hour. Fleetwood, who always dressed with consummate
taste, had not thought it worth while to
make any other change in his attire than to put on
a plain white vest in the place of that which he
usually wore. In a mood half reckless and half
indifferent he entered the parlor and flung himself
at full length upon the sofa.

Some young men, friends of the family, began to
drop in.

“Shall I introduce these people to you?” asked
Rodney, the master of the ceremonies.

“Wait a while, my dear fellow,” said Fleetwood;
“it will be time enough by and by. Let me rest
in quiet.”

Rodney walked away; and Fleetwood, covering

his eyes with his hand, seemed to solicit repose. In
a few minutes, two young men, engaged in conversation,
passed him and took seats not far distant.
One of these interlocutors was Glenham; the other
a Mr. Bettencourt.

“By the way, Glenham, have you heard of the
new debutante?” asked Bettencourt.

“I haven't been to the theatre since the spring,”
replied Glenham, who was evidently bored by the
assiduities of his companion.

“Then let me tell you that you have missed a
great deal,” said Bettencourt. “The prettiest girl
I have seen this many a day appeared for the first
time in opera the other night. Miserably slim
house—nobody there—but she astonished the judicious
few—that's a fact.”

“Very likely. By the way, who makes your
boots?”

“Kimball and Rogers. But let me tell you of
the debutante. She played Amina in La Somnambula
Anglicised—and devilish well she did it—
that's a fact! Such a scene as she made of that at
the end of the second act, where she sings `I'm not
guilty!' By George! the chorus and all the other
actors on the stage seemed so stupified with wonder,
that they forgot their cues. An old fellow,
who sat in the box with me, and who has heard all
the best singing of the last half century, applauded
like a mad person, and, as the curtain fell, swore
that Malibran had never equalled that scene.”

“Very likely. Why the deuce don't the women
come?”

“By the way, do you know this girl looks like
Emily Gordon? A confounded sight prettier
though, between ourselves! You must go to hear
her, Glenham, if she plays again.”

“Thank you—I care very little for music.”

“She hasn't appeared on the boards since the

article in the last week's Scorpion. Do you read
the Scorpion? Capital paper! Full of fun! Has
hits at every body—touches people on the raw in
fine style—that's a fact. Well; if the Scorpion's
story is true, this girl is under the protection of the
fellow, who played the lover, Elvino, in the opera—
what the deuce is his name? I forget. No matter!
You would have said the same thing yourself,
if you heard the way in which she sang `Yes,
I am thine, love!' It was perfect nature, and so
earnest, that I am sure there could have been no
sham about it. She meant every word she said.
It wasn't acting—that's a fact!”

“Well, Bettencourt, since you have nothing better
to do, why don't you cut out this Mr. Elvino,
and carry off this Miss—what did you say her
name was?”

“She was announced on the bills simply as a
young American lady; but the Scorpion says, her
name is Adelaide Winfield, and that she is the
daughter of—. Why, what the deuce is the matter
with you, my dear fellow?”

Glenham started up, and crossed the room rapidly
as if to seek a friend in the adjoining apartment;
but in reality he was trying to hide his emotion.

Fleetwood raised himself from his recumbent
posture, for he could not well avoid over-hearing
Bettencourt's remarks, inasmuch as that gentleman
always spoke in a remarkably loud and ambitious
tone. But at that juncture, Mr. Gordon entered
with a party of ladies, and Fleetwood, with a heavy
heart, rose to his feet and bowed.

“Well, Fleetwood, my boy, enjoy your single
blessedness while you may,” said Mr. Gordon.
“You have but ten minutes longer to lead the life
of a bachelor. Had you not better join Emily in
the room overhead?”

“I presume she will send for me when my presence

shall be acceptable,” replied Fleetwood, walking
away and seating himself in one of the luxurious
arm-chairs in the saloon.

Mr. Bettencourt followed, and with the amiable
intention of diverting him, drew a paper from his
pocket, and said: “Have you seen last week's
Scorpion, sir? Capital paper! The only paper
in the city worth taking—that's a fact!”

“It will be time enough for the Scorpion, sir,
after I am married,” replied Fleetwood, removing
to another seat.

“Very good—very good indeed!” exclaimed
Bettencourt, after a pause, during which he seemed
endeavoring to discover the drift of the remark.
“Devilish odd fellow, that Fleetwood! One would
imagine he thought it a confounded bore to get
married.”

In the mean while Mr. Gordon could not disguise
his nervous, fretful and impatient mood, so different
from that which was habitual with him. He
looked at his watch repeatedly—wondered why
the clergyman didn't come—put his head out of the
window, and anxiously peered up and down the
street—and then paced the room, as if dreading he
knew not what. There was a violent ring at the
door-bell. He shuddered as if it was some fearful
summons; but was inexpressibly relieved when he
saw the Rev. Mr. Trope enter in all the amplitude
of his clerical attire. Mr. Gordon rushed forward
and took him by the hand—then looked once more
at his watch—saw that it was twelve o'clock—and
hurried up stairs to protest against the least delay
on the part of the bride and the bridesmaids. The
next moment a servant entered, and whispered in
Fleetwood's ear, that Miss Emily was expecting
him.

“So soon? Well! I come,” said he, rising and
moving with an air, significant of anything but a
joyful alacrity, towards the door.

An assemblage of some thirty ladies and about
that number of gentlemen had now gathered in the
large parlor adjoining the conservatory. They
were distributed in numerous groups about the
room, and the buzz of commingled voices was heard
on all sides.

At length Mr. Gordon was seen to enter rubbing
his hands with a sort of fidgetty satisfaction, and,
approaching the clergyman, to whisper in his ear.
The Rev. Mr. Trope immediately took his place
near the lofty mirror between the two windows
that led into the conservatory. Under the skilful
marshalling of Mr. Rodney, the company then
formed themselves in a semi-circle fronting the mirror,
leaving an opening in the middle of the arc for
the admission of the bridal party. They entered—
Fleetwood and Miss Gordon first, arm in arm, followed
by three groomsmen with as many bridesmaids,
all of whom had been, with admirable fore-sight,
provided for the occasion by the father of the
bride.

Who was ever so churlish as to refuse to admit
that a bride looked interesting?

“But how very pale she is!” said Miss Titter,
in reply to a remark made by Mr. Bettencourt.
“Doesn't that wreath of orange blossoms become
her vastly?”

“Brides always look pale, and wreaths always
become them,” said Mr. Bettencourt. “By the
way, Miss Titter, do you ever read the Scorpion?
Capital paper that! Funny dogs, the editors must
be! There's a first-rate hit at Parson Trope in
the last number—wonder if he has seen it?—have
a great mind to ask him—how it will make him
fume!”

“Well, for a bridegroom, I never saw a man
show so much nonchalance as Fleetwood,” said
Miss Titter, who had been looking through her

eye-glass without attending to a word that her
companion had uttered. “Look, Mr. Bettencourt!
What is all that?” she continued, as she observed a
movement, which seemed to excite considerable
curiosity among the feminine spectators.

It was this. The parties to the ceremony were
about taking their places, and the clergyman had
drawn forth his book to read the marriage service,
when a colored servant, one of those employed by
the caterer, who had been engaged to furnish the
dejeuner a la fourchette, glided from the conservatory,
making his way between two of the bridesmaids,
and placed a note in the hands of Fleetwood,
saying, at the same time, in a whisper—
“read it before the ceremony.” The movement
was so rapid and so stealthy, that it was finished
before Mr. Gordon could well distinguish its nature.

But when the recognition came, the expression
of his face was terrible. He darted forward, and
snatched at the note, but failed in the attempt to
get it into his possession.

Fleetwood looked up amazed, and Gordon, with
a convulsive laugh, said: “Wait awhile, my dear
boy. This is no time to read notes. It is disrespectful
to the company.”

“Then the company must grant me their indulgence,
sir,” said Fleetwood; and leaving his position
by the bride, he moved towards the nearest
embrasure, and read the following words, written
in large and legible letters, though apparently in
furious haste: “Come to your own room, at once—
before the ceremony—unless you covet a life-time
of the keenest remorse that ever wrung a human
soul. It is of Adelaide I would speak. Dare you
hear the truth? Delay not a moment!”

Staggered by this sudden communication, Fleetwood
pressed his hand to his forehead as if to collect

his thoughts; and then, crumpling the note in
his hand, he passed rapidly out of the room without
saying a word. The perspiration stood in big
drops upon Mr. Gordon's forehead, while he
watched his movements. He followed close upon
his heels, and, as the bridegroom started to ascend
the stairs, caught him by the arm.

“What is it, Fleetwood? What is it, my dear
boy?” he said, with an unsuccessful effort to appear
unconcerned.

“It matters not—I will use such dispatch as I
may,” replied Fleetwood, disengaging himself and
darting up the stairs.

“Beware, sir!” exclaimed Gordon, hardly knowing
in his frenzy what he said. “Beware, young
man! I have been trifled with long enough. If
this marriage is deferred again—”

Fleetwood checked himself, and folding his arms,
descended, step by step, till he confronted Gordon.

“Well sir, and what then?” he demanded with
a freezing hauteur.

“Beware, sir! I only say, beware!”

“A parrot can say as much, sir. I see nothing
so wonderful in that. Look you, Mr. Gordon! If
all hell were to cry beware, it could not withhold
me, when honor cried go on!”

And without more words, Fleetwood ascended
the stairs to his own room.