Norman Leslie a tale of the present times |
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| 12. | CHAPTER XII |
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 | CHAPTER XII Norman Leslie |  |
12. CHAPTER XII
A disagreeable way of spending the Evening, and a change
from bad to worse.
“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
“That Norman Leslie is a strange being,” said
Mrs. Temple one evening, as he left their circle,
after a visit of a half hour, during which he had
appeared peculiarly reserved.
“He is dying of love for Miss Romain,” said
the count; “he is very eccentric also, and exceedingly
flippant.”
“Flippant!” exclaimed Flora, in unfeigned surprise,
“Mr. Leslie flippant?”
“I fear he is much worse, my love,” said Mrs.
Temple; “he is deceitful and treacherous.”
“Deceitful and treacherous?” echoed Flora
again; “Mr. Leslie?”
“Yes, my dear, Mr. Leslie,” rejoined Mrs. Temple;
“we cannot judge of men's characters by
seeing them in the drawing-room. Mr. Leslie in
company is very demure; but I am credibly informed
among men he is altogether a different person;
and it is among men that a man's character is
most correctly estimated. What was it, count,
that story about him?”
“No,” said the count, “my dear madam, excuse
me. Scandal is my abhorrence, and I am not prepared
I scarcely believe it at all. Besides, after what
took place between Mr. Leslie and myself some
weeks since, my motive for repeating it might be
misconstrued.”
Flora looked up, but said nothing.
“Respecting Mr. Leslie's integrity,” continued
Clairmont, with marked emphasis, “I shall not
therefore speak; but of his flippancy I can easily
cite an example. He is in the habit of boasting
that he is obliged to decline the affections, nay, advances
is his word, of more than one among the
fairest of the New-York ladies.”
“The wretch!” cried Mrs. Temple. “Flora,
my love, you will certainly break that folder.”
“Do you know, Miss Temple, that I have heard
your name on his lips so familiarly, that one would
deem him a much more intimate friend than I perceive
he is, by his very different manner to you
when in your presence.”
Flora turned a little pale; it was barely perceptible,
but Clairmont's keen eye detected it.
“I should regret,” said she, “to hear any thing
serious against Mr. Leslie's reputation. His sister
Julia and his father are almost faultless, and they
are perfectly bound up in him. I think I never
knew a family in the domestic circle so really and
unostentatiously affectionate and happy.”
“He will certainly marry Miss Romain; and I
think she will tame him,” said Mrs. Temple, with
a cool smile.
“It is said that she has already more than once
refused him,” rejoined Clairmont.
“How singular!” exclaimed Flora, but blushed
as she finished the sentence.
“And pray why, my love?” said Mrs. Temple,
“No.”
“Because he is so gay and lively?” interrupted
the count, with a sneer.
“Miss Romain makes no secret,” said Flora,
“of her intention to marry him, and yet I have
heard her boast openly of having rejected him!”
“And do you think,” said the count, with something
of marked meaning in his manner, “that a
lover should never strive against the first harsh
sentence?”
“I do,” said Flora, gravely; and, changing the
conversation, she continued—“Mamma, did you
hear of the accident which—”
But mamma had disappeared, and Flora found
herself alone with the count. She half started, as
if with an impulse to fly; but recollecting herself,
remained with a most graceful air of forced composure,
not less becoming from the fact that
through it any one might detect no ordinary degree
of agitation. She dropped her eyes upon the volume,
whose damp leaves she had been carefully
separating with a pearl folder. A glow of hope
and triumph gleamed over the face of her companion
as he approached, and, with the most guarded
gentleness and delicacy, laying his fingers upon the
book, slowly lowered it from her gaze.
“Flora!”
There was a moment's silence.
“Dear Flora!” He took her hand. She attempted
to withdraw it; but, alas for his suit, nei
ther turned away, nor blushed, nor trembled. Her
face was slightly pale; but on her sunny brow
there was a shadow; and the smile which usually
played about her beautiful mouth was gone utterly.
“You forget, Count Clairmont,” she said, “I
not hear.”
“My beloved Flora!” he cried, apparently much
affected, and dropping on his knee, “once more—
once more let me—”
She rose. Never had she seemed so tall.
“You misjudge me, Count Clairmont,” she said,
“most strangely. I am no silly girl, withdrawing
to be wooed, and speaking to be contradicted.
Your language is displeasing and painful. Having
already expressed my sentiments decidedly, I
trusted the subject was at rest. I beg you to rise.
I will ring for my mother.”
There was a firmness in her voice and manner
that would have rung the death-knell to hope in
any bosom but that of Count Clairmont.
“No, no, angelic girl,” and he retained her hand,
while a flush of emotion crossed his handsome face,
“you must not, you shall not stir, till I have again
poured into your ear all that I feel and suffer.
Flora, I love you!”
“Count Clairmont—”
“I have loved you always. From the first your
mother knew and approved my addresses. I threw
myself at your feet. You, enchanting girl, turned
coldly, cruelly away. Never shall I forget the anguish,
the agony of that moment. I would have
fled the country, nay, I would have buried myself
for ever from the world, but your generous mother
soothed my distress, checked my despair, and gradually
reawakened my hope. It is now by her
permission, and that of your honourable father, that
I enjoy this interview, which I have been so anxious
to procure.”
“And I to avoid,” said Flora.
“Miss Temple,” added the count, rising, and
have offended you?”
“Detention by physical force, sir,” said Flora,
coldly, “is the least plausible method either to
awaken affection or to preserve esteem.”
He released her hand. She walked to the bell,
and was about to ring.
“Flora,” he said, earnestly, “as a friend, I entreat
you to hear me.”
She paused, and he continued:—
“Miss Temple, if I am so unfortunate as to have
yet made no progress in your esteem, I cannot
abandon the hope of being more favoured hereafter.
So deeply am I interested in the success of this
suit, that my happiness, my very reason, are utterly
at stake. Your parents have assured me that your
affections are disengaged; let me add, that their
strongest wishes are enlisted in my behalf. My
present almost unlimited fortune, my immense expectations
in Europe, the advantages which my title
affords me of showing you the most exclusive
circles of foreign society, in their most favourable
aspect—”
He paused before a look so calmly cold as to
embarrass even him.
“Count Clairmont,” she said, “has but poorly
improved his intercourse with our sex, if he suspects
a woman's heart to be influenced by such
considerations. I am not ambitious either of
wealth or title. Upon this subject I have already
spoken decisively: let me repeat my sentiments
now. They are confirmed by reflection. I have
feared this interview, and done every thing in my
power to prevent it. Your first suggestions of partiality
I was contented simply to decline. I meet
your present solicitations with a firmness not unmingled
with both surprise and displeasure. Permit
received either as ridicule or insult.”
“Must I then despair,” said the count, deeply
mortified, “of permission to prosecute my addresses
with the aid of time?”
“My sentiments,” rejoined Flora, “nothing on
earth can alter. I have never felt, I never can feel
for you the slightest love. I would not now permit
this painful interview to be so prolonged, but in order
to satisfy you that a repetition must be utterly
impossible.”
“One more prayer,” said he, again kneeling, in
a voice husky with emotion; “I cannot, I will not
abandon all hope, till I know whether I yield only
to your abstract preference for a single life, or to
the happier star of some favoured rival.”
“Count Clairmont!” said Flora, a flush of indignation
rising to her cheek.
“Nay, cold and cruel girl—”
Before he had finished the sentence, he was
alone.
Stung with disappointment and rage, he withdrew
and left the house. He had not walked many
minutes when he felt a hand upon his shoulder,
and a woman in a thick veil stood before him. Bewildered
and off his guard, his first thought was of
Flora; but the veil, slowly drawn aside, revealed
the large black eyes of the young female who has
slightly and somewhat mysteriously appeared on
the stage of our drama in the second chapter. She
now stood confronting him most haughtily. For a
moment they regarded each other in silence, the
light of a lamp falling strongly on their features.
“Clairmont,” at length cried the intruder, “your
time has expired. I have yielded to your request.
I will yield no longer.”
“Louise!” he answered; “not here—not here!”
“Yes, here!” echoed she, vehemently; “here or
anywhere, wherever you may be. I claim my
promise. Your time has expired.”
“By the holy mother! girl, but—damnation!”
The last exclamation was called forth by the appearance
of Morton, who, accidentally passing at
the time, distinctly recognised both individuals, and
paused in surprise to gaze on their faces. Louise
drew down her veil. Clairmont stepped up sternly,
and addressed to him some casual but angry remark.
The young gentleman replied awkwardly,
bowing and shuffling back, and declaring that he
was not aware of being an intruder.
“See, girl,” said Clairmont, “see what you have
done! Would you betray, would you ruin me?”
“Yes,” she replied; “if it brought your head to
the block—your neck to the gibbet—your flesh to
the worms! I would betray—I would ruin you—
unless—”
A livid paleness overspread his features, which
were transformed by the convulsions of hideous
passion. He spoke in an under voice and close to
her ear,—
“Silence, woman—if you would live—silence!”
“Live!” echoed she, scornfully; “hark in your
ear.” She whispered. He started, and stamped
his foot.
“No,” he replied, “it is impossible yet. But
this is no place. Meet me at the hotel again.”
“I understand you,” said the female; “I will.
But—”
She bent her keen bright eyes full on his, with a
power which almost made him quail.
“If you deceive—”
“No, no, no, no,” returned he, “I will not—I
will not. To-morrow—to-morrow!”
The voice of a passing pedestrian, chanting a
new intruder. The speakers broke off, and separated
abruptly.
| CHAPTER XII Norman Leslie | |