University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The romantic heart of Norman Leslie could but
inadequately bid Flora an adieu that might be
eternal before a crowd of gazing spectators. He
had, therefore, in the fulness of his triumph and his
anguish, veiled all agitation, and bowed at a distance,
and with scarcely a look.

“She will remember me,” he thought; “she
will understand me—to-morrow.”

When he found himself alone, for the first time
in his life, with the idol of his secret thoughts and
dreams—who swayed his feelings as the moon
swells the tides, and leaves them again to their retiring
ebbs—now that he had half expressed his
love, and half believed the expression returned, he
knew not what to say. Had he known, it is doubtful
whether he could have said it, his heart beat so
violently in his bosom. Women have naturally
more presence of mind than men in such matters:

those little emergencies which silently checker the
existence of the quiet student in peaceful modern
times—to him all as striking and memorable as
breaking a lance or storming a town to a knight of
other days. Flora broke the silence; but, even
through her graceful and becoming self-possession,
a certain agitation and embarrassment exhibited
themselves, enchanting to the young lover beyond
expression.

“I have to thank you, Mr. Leslie, for the song.”

He blushed. He could not well speak. Love
is a great taker away of the voice. He found,
however, sufficient self-possession to reach forth
his hand, and gently to enclose in it that of Flora.
She cast down her eyes. Norman's very heart
trembled; but at this moment he remembered
Morton, and contented himself with pressing the
hand he held, as if he had taken it in the ordinary
kindness of a farewell. He could not, however,
wholly command his manner, as he said,—

“Dear Miss Temple, it may be very long before
I see you again.”

“Are you leaving town, Mr. Leslie?”

“No, not immediately,” he replied, and with
less embarrassment; “but a painful duty may exclude
me, perhaps, from the pleasures of society.”

“Mr. Leslie!”—her eyes rested full on him.

“And from yours,” he added.

“And that beautiful song,” she said, as if conscious
that propriety would permit her to press him
no further, “is it a present for me?”

“If you deem it worthy—”

“I shall value it,” she answered, “as your gift.”

For all his manhood, a moisture gathered in his
eye. She looked up again. He forgot every
thing but that look. He once more seized her
hand. She turned away her face. “Dear, dear

Flora! how I love you!” had nearly escaped his
lips, when the front door suddenly opened, and
Morton burst furiously in. Flora vanished in an
instant.

“Well, I do declare,” exclaimed Morton, coming
suddenly to a stop at the demure group which he
had broken up in the hall—“who was that? Oh
ho! Master Gravity—mum's the word—spoiled
sport, eh? Well, I never—my dear, dear Norman
—if I had only known; if I had only suspected—”

“Nonsense,” cried Norman, blushing; for he
was one of those men who inherit that woman's
virtue.

“That's it, my fine fellow,” cried Morton, his
finger on his nose—“I am up to all that sort of
thing. What, three—one too many, hey? Well,
I declare—”

“I tell you—” cried Norman, quickly and sternly;
for he loved not jesting on such points.

“Oh,” interrupted Morton, “you need not tell
me. There's no necessity for it at all. Fy! you
cunning dog—you—but, mon Dieu!—I forget. Is
not Miss Temple here?” and in he went with little
ceremony.

Norman waited a moment anxiously in hope
that Flora might return. He was at once the
happiest and most miserable of human beings. He
was on the eve of the wildest bliss he ever knew;
and he was also rushing madly into the grave. He
loved Flora Temple now more devotedly than ever.
He owned it. He felt it. That which had before
dwelt in his heart a half-buried spark, was now
fanned into a blaze. What singular fatality connected
him with the silly and good-humoured Morton,
that by his agency he should be frustrated in
the happiest moment of his existence, and his existence
itself be brought to a fearful termination.

Now, too, the conviction rushed on his soul, that
Flora Temple loved him. He believed and hailed
it in the face of reason, of probability, and of the
express authority of Miss Romain. But what is
reason, probability, or authority to a lover, against
the plain and sweet eloquence of the eyes, which
should know best of all? What was he now to
do? Wait? see Flora once more, reveal his love
frankly, and bid her farewell for ever? or should
he—thus in doubt whether his passion was requited
—fly at once from her dear and dangerous presence,
and, yielding his throat to the slaughter of a fierce,
bloody, and certain hand, die just at the gates of
paradise? “Oh! were I escaped from this fatal
duel,” he thought, “I would ask no more of fortune.
May Providence interfere now, and rescue
me from this awful dilemma, and my cup of bliss
will be full to overflowing. Never again will I
complain of destiny!”

As he lingered one moment, at a loss what to do,
he was startled by the sudden appearance of a
female figure.

“Flora?” he said.

It was not Flora. The tall form of Mrs. Temple
rose before him with a step more than usually
stately, and an expression in her face severe and
repelling.

“Bless me,” she said, “Mr. Leslie!”

If the youth had blushed before, he now crimsoned
with tenfold embarrassment.

“Well met, Mr. Leslie,” resumed Mrs. Temple,
in a tone of sarcasm; “I have been about to request
the honour of a personal interview, and now
fate favours me beyond my deserts, though you,
perhaps, will not share in the pleasure of my surprise.”

“Madam,” replied Norman, bowing, “why

should I feel other than pleasure at the sight of
Mrs. Temple?”

“Because, by the name on your lips, I presume
your thoughts were upon a different and more welcome
person. I understand you; but I regret the
painful necessity of putting you right. A dangerous
disorder, Mr. Leslie, must be cured, although,
in the operation, the patient shrink, and the surgeon
hold the knife with reluctance. You are not at a
loss for my meaning.”

“Indeed, madam, but I am, most profoundly,”
replied Norman; feeling, however, that her proud
and haughty character was bearing her beyond the
pale of delicacy and good-breeding.

“In plain terms, then, Mr. Leslie, Mr. Temple
has requested me to express our high appreciation
of your character; but to say that we have observed
with regret your marked attentions to Flora.
We appeal to your generosity, Mr. Leslie” (Leslie
bowed); “we confide in your honour. Flora's
hand is already pledged to another. To save yourself
future pain, and her unnecessary embarrassment,
I seize the earliest opportunity to explain this
to you frankly. Flora will, I am certain, always be
most happy to see Mr. Leslie as a friend. Good-morning,
sir.”

Again Norman bowed low, nor lifted his face till
he was alone. To him this appeared an insult.
The supercilious condescension, the haughty dismissal
of Mrs. Temple, showed her impetuous
character in its least favourable light. Flora was,
then, in truth, the affianced bride of another. Her
softness towards him was either imaginary, or assumed
out of pity or sport. Stung by the thought,
he was in the act of flying for ever from the inauspicious
mansion, when a slight shriek arrested
his step. Was it fancy? or was it the voice of

Flora? He re-entered the apartment, alarmed and
surprised by the confusion which prevailed. The
ladies were standing, and apparently agitated with
the most sudden and lively apprehension. The
count appeared erect, proudly listening to entreaties
directed to him with the utmost fervour by all present;
and, as if a sight of death or pestilence had
blasted his eyes, Norman beheld Flora, pale and
frightened, foremost in her earnest solicitations,
with her hand on the count's arm, in the ardour of
her exclamations.

“Oh, Mr. Leslie!” cried Mrs. Temple, “could
we have expected this from you!”

“A pretty fright, indeed,” said Miss Romain.
“Oh, Norman, dear Norman! abandon this horrid
affair.”

“For me, count, for me,” cried Flora, “spare his
blood!”

“I perceive,” said Norman, who always rose in
energy and ease in proportion to the emergency,
and whose present manner was cold and freezing—
“I perceive, by some mischance, that which should
have been concealed is betrayed; but let me entreat
Miss Temple, when she solicits my lord count
there, to place her request on any other ground
than my safety.”

A reproachful and surprised look from Flora,
shot at his heart, broke harmless as an arrow
against a steel corslet. He felt his soul fully armed
against her fascinations.

“Oh, Mr. Leslie!” said Mrs. Temple, “for our
sake, forbear from this fatal, this dreadful meeting!”

“You must allow me to assure you,” rejoined
Norman, “that no other power rests in my hand
than that of obstinate acquiescence in the Count
Clairmont's invitation. In this affair he has been

quite the aggressor, and I can request nothing at
his hands.”

“Mr. Leslie,” said Flora, “you will surely listen
to our request.”

“Much as it would flatter me to have an opportunity
of obliging Miss Temple, I have neither the
power nor the wish to do so here.”

“But for me, dear Norman,” cried Miss Romain,
sobbing aloud, and approaching him with a familiarity
which might be excused by the general agitation.

“For you, Miss Romain,” said he, still burning
with resentment against Flora, “I wish to do
much; but you address yourself to one who has no
more power than yourself over the circumstances.”

Mr. Romain, who had stood a silent spectator of
this scene, at length said, in his blunt way,—

“Come, come, young gentlemen—this matter
must be settled, or we shall be compelled to seek
aid from the authorities.”

“Mr. Leslie,” said the count, “you have done
me wrong. You think me unforgiving; I am not
so. As a proof—partly at the command of these
ladies, whom I am bound to obey, and partly because
I am convinced that I might myself last
night have furnished more cause of offence than I
intended—I waive all other considerations, and
withdraw my invitation. My warmth last evening
was premature. I apologize for the hasty expression.
I shall receive your acknowledgments in return
as an ample seal of reconciliation. Come,
Leslie, let us think of this idle matter no more.”

He extended his hand with ease and frankness.
Leslie stepped forward, and exchanged the proffered
salutation. “I should hold myself,” he said,
“greatly your inferior, Count Clairmont, both in

good sense and candour, if I did not cheerfully improve
such an opportunity to avoid bloodshed.”

“You will find,” said the count, in a more confidential
voice, “that I had already thought better of
it, and had communicated such instructions to my
friend Captain Forbes as would probably have effected
this same event, and prevented a deed so fatal,”
in a still lower tone, “as you, Mr. Leslie, intended
to perpetrate.”

The magnanimity of the count was applauded in
the liveliest terms. Flora cast on him a look, in
the opinion of Norman, full of speechless tenderness;
and the young nobleman appeared to the
most graceful advantage, even in the eyes of Leslie
himself.

“He is too deep for me,” he thought, “or I
have wronged him most shamefully.”

He remained a few minutes a moody spectator
of the close of a scene in which he had not borne
the most becoming part. Withdrawing a last gaze
from Flora's beautiful face, he accidentally detected
the count, in a distant part of the room, watching
him, as he thought, unobserved. He was struck
with a glance of malignant meaning, which, like
the rattle of the dreadful snake, bade him beware.

At length, after an awkward adieu to the ladies,
whose salutations in return, particularly Flora's, he
thought cold and stiff, with a mountain-load from
his mind, yet a coal of fire at his heart, he withdrew,
and sought his own home.

“Strange world!” he thought: “brief and wild
vicissitudes! What a sport—what an idle chance
—what a reckless, valueless, wanton confusion is
the destiny of mortals! Yesterday I was well, safe,
tranquil, and happy. This morning I was suddenly
transformed into a beast, bound and dragged to the
altar for sacrifice. A few moments ago I prayed to

be released and set free, as the highest boon Heaven
could bestow. Lo! I am loose; the chain is broken;
the knife sheathed; the fire extinguished;
and yet, while the bright blade glittered before my
eyes, one thought made me happier in danger than
I am now in freedom. That look of the count's
too—will he play me false?—a malignant devil
lurks in his glances. As for Flora,” a tear stood
on his eyelash, he dashed it away—“pshaw! boy
that I am! let me tear her sweet image for ever
from my heart.”

At eleven Kreutzner entered by appointment.

“There are to be two more breathing folks in
the world, Leslie, than you intended. The noble
count and the noble captain put their noses together
at your close terms, and request another interview.”

“It will be useless,” said Norman, and related
the occurrence of the morning.

“Now, is that magnanimity,” said Kreutzner,
when he had done speaking, “or love for the fair
girl, or sheer cowardice?”

“Alas for poor human nature!” answered Leslie.
“The world may well be topsy-turvy, when, even
by such observers as you, Kreutzner, the purest
virtues and the meanest vices cannot be distinguished
from each other: but come, a truce to
moralizing. I propose we shall sup together.”

“And the prospect,” said Kreutzner, “of a comfortable
breakfast in the morning instead of a bullet,
will not lessen your appetite, I assure you.”

The two friends linked arms, and calling for
Morton, who, with all his folly, had the pleasing
faculty of rendering himself more agreeable in
most companies than he had managed to do in that
of Miss Temple, they adjourned to one of the numerous
saloons which in New-York tolerably supply
the place of the Parisian café.

“What! made up,” said Morton, “at Temple's!
fal, dal, diddle, diddle, fal, dal, dal. Now, that's
all my doings. I let out the whole affair, though I
durst not stay to see the consequences. Faith, I
felt like a fellow who lights a train of gunpowder,
and runs, without stopping to make observations
upon the explosion.”

“Morton!” said Norman, “you did not dare to
commit such a piece of stupidity.”

“Yes, but I did, though. I had no notion of seeing
a fellow like you, Leslie, shot down like a wild
pigeon in my quarrel.”

“Then you are, Morton, I must say, a greater
fool than I took you for!”

“Well, now, Leslie—now—my dear fellow—
really—that's a poor return for saving you from a
dead shot—a fellow who can put a bullet, you
know, out of the muzzle of one pistol into that of
another! You would have been snuffed out! you
know you would! What chance would such a
strapping surface as yours present against a power
of aim that always touches a silver sixpence. Remember
the Veronese lady! And now—this is my
thanks!—Well, I declare—I never—”