University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

We now change the scene of our story to
another part of the city, in a street lined with
stately edifices, the abodes of taste and wealth
and fashion. One of these dwellings is conspicuous
amid the rest for the architectural
elegance of its facade, and a noble portico of
white marble. The windows are of lofty
height and open upon an iron balcony. Before
it is a yard of shrubbery, the foliage of
which nearly conceals, like a green bower,

one of the windows with its balcony. The
casement is open, and a glimpse of crimson
curtains of the richest satin intertwined with
muslin drapery, of pictures upon the walls,
and a superb chandelier suspended from the
exquisitely stuccoed ceiling, show the wealth
and luxury of the proprietor.

This mansion is the abode of Gordon
Hays. All at once there is a movement of
the drapery of the windows, and a young girl
appeared on the balcony. She was a noble
looking creature, with a superb figure, and a
splendidly black eye. The carriage of her
head was proud, yet her face expressed a
kind and generous temper. She was very
handsome, and dressed with great elegance
and taste. A mocking bird's cage hung over
the balcony, and amid the foliage pressed the
gilt wires of a canary's prison. She held in
her hand a cup of seeds with which she proceeded
to feed her favorites, all the while answering
their chirps of gratitude with some
pretty playfulness of speech. There was,
with all her liveliness, an expression of sadness
upon her features, as if she had some
secret source of sorrow. As she fed the
mocking bird it picked once or twice angrily
at her fingers.

`Ah, nestor, you naughty bird. You forget
yourself. You are very fractious of late.'

`Perhaps, Bella,' said Gordon Hays, stepping
upon the balcony, `perhaps he remembers
his former master who presented him to
you, and is trying to show you his displeasure
at your treatment of the noble Hugh.'

Gordon spoke not without a slight tone of
reproach, though he shaped his words playfully.

`Perhaps it is so, brother,' answered Bella
Hays, with a slight tremor of her upper lip.
`I shall have to send him to Mr. Ogilvie
again.'

`And so complete your work, by breaking
the most loving heart that ever was devoted
to woman. Why is it that you are so
cruel?'

`You know my opinion, Gordon, and all
that you say cannot move me,' she said firmly
though she was very pale.

`You never loved him, to change so soon.'

`I loved him dearer than life, Gordon.
But I could not unite myself to a man whose
father is —. But I will not allude to
such a painful subject. I pity Hugh with all
my heart. I have wept for him, as well as
for myself. Do not embitter my life, brother,
by adding to the poignancy of the sacrifice
I have made, bitter words of censure. If my
life could have been accepted in the place of
his father's, cheerfully would I have laid it
down. But when that father must die ignominously
on the scaffold, die branded as a
murderer and a robber, can I unite my fate
with the son? Could Hugh expect it?' she
said warmly and feelingly.

`Love, methinks, would have little considered
this. It is generally single-eyed and exclusive,
and when it clings like the ivy, it withstands
all storms, and though it be but a ruin
which it holds to, it wreathes itself about it,
and even lends a glory to it You did not
love Hugh thus.'

`Gordon,' said the maiden with a blushing
brow, while she dropped her eyes as she
spoke in a tone low but firm, `I loved him
too well to see him degraded hereafter in his
children. I refused his hand that hereafter
in coming years his heart might not be made
to bleed by having his sons insulted with the
jeer that their grandfather was hanged. I
I could not entail upon innocent offspring
ignominy and shame. I would never a son
or daughter of mine (you are my brother, I
should not speak so openly as I am called
upon to do) blush for father or mother. Love
Hugh! Look at my heart, Gordon, if thou hast
the skill to read it, and you will find it written
over with the name of him you say I hate.
Henceforward let this subject be dropped.'

`But one question more, dearest Isabel,'
he said earnestly, as he followed her into the
drawing-room.

`I will hear it if it does not allude to this
distressing theme.'

`If Colonel Ogilvie should escape from
prison, and thus avoid his fate, would you
then smile upon Hugh?'

`But escape is impossible. The day after
to-morrow, is the day set for his execution.'

`But if he should escape? If he should
reach a foreign land in safety, would you`
knowing as you do all the mitigating circumstances,
under which Colonel Oglivie committed
the act, for which he is in prison
would you then bid Hugh to hope?'

`Is there any prospect of his escape, brother?'
she cried with surprise, and keenly looking
at him.

`It is possible.'

`Do not engage in anything of that kind
my dear brother!' she cried with surprise
and alarm.

`I shall not put myself in any peril. Colonel
Ogilvie will not be executed so long as-Hugh
lives to make an effort for his release.

`And has he made such—is he making
such?' she asked earnestly, with a pale,
earnest look, while she firmly and nervously
grasped her brother by the arm. `Where is
Hugh? where did you see him?'

`I am glad to see you take an interest in
him. I told you some days ago he had returned
from sea, and would like to visit you;
but you forbade his presence, and in such a
manner, as has deeply wounded his feelings.'

`I am sorry, if I have injured his feelings,
brother. I mean't not to do that. But tell
me if he is so rash as to propose taking any
steps towards his father's release?'

`I have told you that Hugh will not sleep
till he sees his father in safety.'

`Then there will be another victim. He
will fail, and be arrested,' she cried with alarm
and emotion, that betrayed the liveliest interest
in the safety of the lover she had discarded.

`Hugh has weighed all the risks. But he
cannot be moved from his purpose. Aside
from filial duty to his father, he is inspired
with the secret hope that if he can rescue his
father from the ignominy of the gallows, you
Isabel may reconsider your decision, and
once more bid him hope. It is for your sake
he will incur this danger. If he falls into
peril it will be for love of one who has—'

`No bitter words brother. I tremble for
the safety of Hugh. If one word from me
would check him. But one word would be
everything, and then if I cause him to desist
from this wild project of saving his father, he
will surely perish according to the sentence;
while it is possible he may save him.'

`I hardly know what to do or says.'

`Say, that if his father's rescue is effected
you will be his.'

`The objections I have to uniting my fate
with Hugh, will then be partially removed.
It will not be so forcible, and—'

`You mean to say that you will once more
smile upon Hugh.'

`That I will not promise; for it will be
like a reward offered for him to save his father;
and I shall feel myself to blame for any
danger that he might fall into in this hazardous
enterprise. I have nothing to say, Gordon.
I leave Hugh to himself, and his own
impulses. But if he is engaged in a plan to
rescue his father, I fear he will be lost with
him. Yet I cannot bid him withhold, lest I
be guilty of Colonel Ogilvie's blood. But,
Gordon, enter not into the plan for my sake.'

`I shall take no part that will at all implicate
me, Isabel.'

`I fear that your friendship for Hugh may
lead you to incur both the loss of liberty and
honor.'

`I shall do nothing unadvisedly, Isabel,'
answered Gordon, as he prepared to go out;
for it was now nearly four o'clock of the afternoon
of the day on which he had left
Jennette. Throwing on an over-coat, a
small viol of beautiful shape and of an amber
color fell to the floor.

`What is this? a smelling bottle!' cried his
sister, catching it up, and about to put it to
her nostrils. `Where did you begin to use
such womanly trifles as these, brother?' she
said laughingly. `Or perhaps it is a present
to that beautiful girl, the invalid captain's

daughter, you have been talking so much to
me about, to-day.'

Gordon hurriedly took the bottle from her
hand ere she applied it to her nose, and placing
it in his pocket said:

`It is only for my own use. I have been
trying some experiments,' he answered with
an embarrassed air. `But suppose it were a
present to the lovely girl I have spoken to
you so much about?'

`Well, I should say that unless you seriously
intended to offer your hand to her, it is
very wrong in you to make her presents, or
indeed flatter her with attention. You will
awaken hopes in her bosom never to be realized;
and you will render her life unhappy.'

`Your advice is sensible like yourself,
dear Bel; but suppose I really intended to offer
her my hand.'

`Offer marriage to a poor sewing-girl, for
though her father has been a packet captain,
you confessed to me that she supported herself
by her needle.'

`True, and this is the more creditable to
her. Suppose, by some unforseen calamity,
Bel, we should be cast destitute upon the
world, and I an invalid. Do you think you
would be loved any less by Hugh Ogilvie if
he found you supporting yourself and me by
your needle?'

`But, this person is of very different condition.'

`Scarcely. She is, as I have said, perfectly
beautiful, though something pale, accomplished
by native grace of manner, her mind
cultivated, and her heart sound and true.
She is amiable, filial, intelligent and sensible,
and indeed possesses every quality to
make a man happy, and proud of her.'

`Certainly, Gordon, you are in love with
her. Have a care of your heart and her
peace.'

`Bel,' he said, all at once speaking very
quickly and suddenly, as if changing the
subject, `I have at last discovered my Fair
Unknown.'

`The lovely girl we met in Washington
street, and for whom you have shown such a
romantic attachment?'

`Yes, and as you have always interested
yourself so kindly in my interest in her. I
know you will rejoice to find out that I have
discovered all about her. But she is—I am
sorry to say—not rich.'

`That is no positive objection, if she is respectable.'

`Well that may be as folks decide. I
think she is.'

`Who is she?' You have so long been in
chase of this Phantom, with such rare meetings,
that I am almost as much interested to
know who she is as you can be.'

`Well, in a word, she and Jennette Alison
are one and the same,' he said with an air of
triumph.

`Is it possible? Then I am curious to see
her. How very singular.'

`Wonderfully so.'

`And is she so very beautiful, and refined?'

`You shall see her for yourself.'

`When?'

`To-night. I intend to bring her and her
father here in a carriage; for to tell you the
truth, I cannot bear that they shall longer
remain in the miserable tenement which I described
to you.'

`Bring her here, Gordon? are you crazy?'

`By no means. Her father will be with
her, and—'

`But do you mean to make her an inmate
of the house?' asked Isabel with surprise.

`Only till to-morrow, when I trust she
will be entitled to be mistress of it.'

`Do I hear aright? Are you serious?
Do you intend to unite yourself in marriage
with this sewing-girl, however so romantic
may have been your love for her?'

`Don't look so proudly, Bel. The maiden
is already my affianced wife. I love her and
she loves me.'

`Of course—you are rich and she a beggar.'

`Nay, she loved me ere she knew anything

about me. She has loved me ever since we
first met opposite the house.'

`Yes, a monkey scrape you have got yourself
into indeed.' She answered with a
scornful smile. `The idea that Gordon
Hays, a rich young gentleman and an officer
in the Navy of the United States, one who
might command the hand of the proudest
lady in the land, the idea of his falling in love
with, and marrying a sewing-girl, is absurd
enough to excite laughter, were not pity and
anger paramount.'

`I see that you are displeased, Bel. But
you will alter your mind when you come to
see Jennette Her father is a very respectable
man, and she has never been a hired
sewer in the shops.' She is as modest and
retiring a maiden as any in Boston; and she
has no superior in goodness of heart, and
personal beauty.'

`Well,' answered Isabel, laughing goodnaturedly,
though she still looked a little
vexed; since your lady-love is such a prodigy,
I should like to see her. For that you are irrevocably
in love is certain; and as I can say
nothing to turn you from your course, I must
try and make the best of it. If you bring
her to the house I will receive her graciously
for your sake.'

`Thanks, dearest sister, and when you see
her and have learned to love her, you will detain
her and give her a place in your heart
for her own sake,' answered Gordon, as he
affectionately pressed his lips to his sister's
hand.