University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE RUPTURE.

When Ned and Persever returned to the office of the
latter (his family being kept profoundly ignorant of the
“cause” in which he was then engaged) it was yet several
hours before the time appointed for repairing to the field
of honour; and the former, after some manifestations of
restlessness, could not avoid owning that he felt an irresistible
inclination to spend a portion of his leisure time
in the company of Alice.

“Gratify it, by all means,” said Persever. “I, too,
feel as if I had useless hours on my hands. In ordinary
cases of this nature most principals, and particularly if
lawyers, would find enough to do; but I am so confident
of returning unscathed, that I cannot commence writing a
single document in view of a certain contingency.”

“All I can say,” replied Ned, “is that I will be quite
prepared, and very eager to stand up in your place, whenever
your objection to it shall be removed.”

“My body must be first removed!” said Persever, firmly.
“But, Ned, you must not be quite sure of having a gratifying
interview with Alice—”

“I am not sure of it. If I were, I would not seek the
interview. I saw her in Chestnut street, and was recognized
by her. There seemed to be a change—”

“Oh yes! The truth and simplicity of the ingenuous
girl must, it seems, be succeeded by the vanities of the
fine, fashionable, proud, heartless lady!”

“Can it be possible for her to be so transformed?”

“I fear so. Our good friend Tim called here yesterday
to ask if I knew what was the matter. I went there to
see if it was as he described. I found the house a perfect
rendezvous of the distinguished belles and mustachioed
beaux of the four cities, Boston, New York, Baltimore,
and Philadelphia. They were coming and going continually.
Perfumed notes and fancy cards were brought to
Alice and her mother on silver salvers by richly liveried
servants. Alice really seems to enjoy such things in your
absence.”

“Yet I will see her,” said Ned.

“Perhaps!” rejoined Persever. “Fashion has its caprices.
She may be engaged with her Italian music master,
or her dress maker, or—”

“Then my call would not be in vain—so that I might
know the reason of her refusal to see me. I have not
obtruded often—”

“No. Perhaps too seldom. But you may rely upon it
that both Lonsdale and his wife, with all the confederates
they could enlist, have omitted nothing to wean Alice from
her childish attachment. It is your poverty, Ned. It was
different when they supposed you would inherit Daniel L.
Parke's fortune. The tale of your illegitimacy, and all
that, is a mere pretext. By the way, Bainton has deposited
in bank a hundred thousand dollars to the credit of the
estate of your deceased uncle, with documentary evidence
that the sum so placed is in full settlement of his share of
the capital and profits of the western adventure. You

muse. Rely upon it, this step was not taken without a
full reconciliation between the bankers, and a firm determination
to oppose your claims as the lawful heir. It was
indeed the result of my journey to New Mexico. They
knew I was prepared to prove their indebtedness to the
elder Parke.”

“And now, if Mallex should silence or close your lips
forever—”

“He will not do it. I know he wont injure a hair of
my head. But no more. Time is flying. If it is your
determination to call at Lonsdale's before we go over the
river, hasten away. Tim may come and carry you off to
Summerton by force. I will stay here, and meet him if
he comes, and prevent him from alarming my family. I
will assure him, on my honour, that you do not intend
to fight.”

Ned departed with a serious visage, and a determination
to know, if possible, the sentiments of Alice, in regard to
him, independently of the influences that surrounded her.
He had plighted his faith in all honesty of purpose, and
believed that he could never love another as he had done
the companion of his childhood. But he was still quite
young; and he was one of those enthusiasts who did
everything heartily, and with all his might; one who advanced
or receded with equal momentum. If the once
dearest object of his heart smiled upon him, no obstacle,
no danger could prevent his approach; if she frowned,
none could be more resolute in his estrangement.

Unfortunately for his prospects, the letter he had written
the preceding day had produced an effect upon the mind
of Lonsdale quite the reverse of what he expected. That
gentleman, thus relieved of the apprehension of personal
peril, experienced, perhaps, a not unnatural revulsion of
sentiment in regard to Ned. While he feared him, he respected
him. When the fear was removed, the respect
likewise vanished, and in its place was a feeling of aversion
and resentment. And in consequence he lost no time in
adopting such measures as would be likely to result in a
complete termination of our hero's acquaintance with any
of the members of his family. He resolved, inasmuch as
there was an intimation in Ned's letter that he might call

in person to express more fully his regrets for the silly
message he had sent him, that an early day should be fixed
for making a long-promised visit to some of the fashionable
and aristocratic friends of his family in New York. And
when the malicious article in the paper was read by him,
he openly rallied his forces against Ned, and had the satisfaction
of seeing Alice remain quite unmoved under the
storm of depreciation and obloquy aimed at her friend and
lover. Not one word did she offer in his defence. On the
contrary, she seemed to smile with the rest at the smart
things uttered by the fine beaux. Then, and never till
then, did Lonsdale inform her of the hostile note which
Ned had sent him by the hands of Persever. Alice was of
course much shocked at it. And such were the grounds
of her conduct as described by Tim, and as witnessed by
Ned in the morning.

Nothing daunted, however, our hero ascended the steps
of the mansion and rang the bell. Having no cards with
him, he sent up his name by the fine servant who bowed
him in, requesting to see Mr. Lonsdale, and afterwards
Miss Dimple. He was shown into a large and elegantly
furnished parlour, where there were several spotlessly
gloved young gentlemen awaiting an audience, and who
seemed to cast curious, if not impertinent glances at him,
for he happened to be not quite fashionably costumed.
Ned had often met them in Chestnut street, and had, perhaps,
been introduced to one or two of them; but he paid
no sort of attention to them now, as they did not seem inclined
to exchange salutations.

Mr. Lonsdale came in and bowed distantly and coldly to
our hero, as if he had been merely a master workman, or
an assessor of taxes. At the same moment the fashionable
young gentlemen were bowed to by a polite negro servant,
who conducted them to the saloon of the ladies.”

“Mr. Lonsdale,” said Ned, when they were alone, “I
desired to see you, merely to reiterate my regret—”

“Oh, don't refer to that subject at all. Don't think of
it. I never do. It is as a matter that never occurred,
since no result followed.”

“Then, sir, I may presume, I hope, that my impudence
or indiscretion has left no trace of displeasure in
your—”

“None. How could it? We were, as I may say,
strangers. You had some slight acquaintance with my
ward—Mrs. Lonsdale's daughter. There was no intimacy.
There was nothing to cause either party to be particularly
interested in the affairs of the other. When Alice was a
mere girl, like other very young girls, she felt, or fancied
she felt, some sort of an attachment for you, and you for
her. She is now a woman, and you a man, and all such
nonsense is to be forgotten by both of you. Your walks
in life will now probably be in different directions, or at
least not by the same paths, and hence all those things
which passed between you will be as if they never existed.
No resentment can be felt for errors never to be
thought of again, since no renewal of intercourse can be
possible from the difference of position and diversity of
circumstances.”

“True, sir, with regard to you and myself. And it may
be the same with the rest. I hope, however, as I have
sent to desire an interview with Miss Dimple, there will
be no obstacle thrown in the way—”

“By no means! Of course you will have that honour,
if she sees proper to grant it. She is the mistress of her
own will in all such matters. I believe, however, she and
her mother are at present temporarily engaged with some
musical company in one of the saloons. I will go to them
and relieve Alice, if she desires to see you.” So saying,
Mr. Lonsdale withdrew, leaving our hero alone, the victim
of a tornado of unpleasant emotions.

Soon after a rustling of silk was heard in the hall, and
Mr. Lonsdale's voice, although in whispers, could be distinguished.
He said: “Refer to the challenge, show him
this paper, and tell him plainly that the intercourse must
cease. One bold effort, and the annoyance will be over.
You will never regret it.”

Then Alice entered, most extravagantly dressed, but
slightly pale. She held a newspaper in her hand, and
seemed undecided what to do with it. As she came slowly
through the long parlour towards Ned, who had risen, and
whose heart palpitated audibly, she made a motion as if
about to throw the paper on one of the tables, but seemed
to change her mind, or rather she did not seem to have the

will to acomplish her half-formed purpose. When she
had advanced nearly to where Ned was standing, she
paused, and nodded a recognition so coldly, that he, in
stead of tendering his hand, merely made a formal bow.

“Alice—I beg pardon—Miss Dimple, I trust you will
forgive me. I desired to see you—”

“Well, well!” said she, seeing he hesitated.

“I was not prepared for such a reception as this—and
am at a loss for words to express what I feel. Perhaps
the feeling I now experience had better not be expressed.
Such emotions were never before excited in your presence,
and my expressions have always been of a different nature
from those which now strive to find utterance.”

“You may utter them,” said she.

“No. Silence were best. Yet, may I not ask, why
this change? Have I done aught to merit such coldness?
Or have you, too, at last, and after all your protestations,
joined my enemies, merely because I have not yet succeeded
in recovering the fortune which cruel wrong and
criminal injustice alone have withheld from me?”

“No. Not because misfortune has made you poor, or
because your enemies have triumphed over you. I am
endeavouring to perform my duty, and act in accordance
with the advice of my mother; of him who stands in the
position of a father; and of the rector of our church; to
each and all of whom I have applied for advice—there
were no others to whom I could apply—and they with one
accord counsel me to discontinue the intimacy which has
hitherto subsisted between us.”

“And if other counsellors had been wanting,” said Ned,
sarcastically, “no doubt there would have been an abundance
found in the rich and fashionable circles into which
you have been conducted. It is true, I am poor, and may
never be rich. The incompatibility of the thing would of
course exclude me from their society. That alone should
decide my fate. I do not murmur. Yet I would fain
know what was the response of one other counsellor hitherto
not named—”

“Who?” asked Alice.

“Your own heart!”

“Ned—Mr. Lorn! I will confess to you that the step

which I have been induced take was repugnant to my feelings,
though exactly consistent with my sense of duty. It
might have been different if I had seen you sooner after
our last meeting—and I may not be so happy in the society
of others as I have been—and the memory of our early
friendship can never be forgotten—but I have seen it publicly
asserted that your claims as the son and heir—”

“Cease, Alice! I am what you see me, and have seen
me. You know what I am. Neither parentage nor fortune
could make me better or worse. The question of my
legitimacy, or of my rights, I have never pleaded before
you.”

“True. And they did not constitute a condition in our
—attachment. But the world—yes, the world has its requirements,
which none may disregard. If it be true that
your claims are not well-founded—if the fact that a fraud
has been attempted should be manifest—although you may
be, (and I am sure you are,) quite innocent of any criminal
participation in it, however devoted, however true you
might be to me, there could be but one result—unmitigated
misery!”

“I would never have subjected you to the hazard.
Everything should have been clearly proved, and firmly
established, before the consummation. Oh, Alice, all I
desired was a suspension of judgment until the trial were
decided. But be it as you decree. We part now, perhaps
forever. I will not be the first to seek a renewal of
the intimacy. All I ask is, that you will do me the justice
to admit—not to me, but within your own breast—that I
have committed no act deserving your censure.”

“I am pained to say it is not quite in my power to make
such an admission.”

“Ha!”

“You challenged my father. I learned it but to-day.”

“But to-day! And did he not mention my retraction
of the challenge, and apology for having written it?”

“No, alas no! He did not! He did not!”

“Such, then, is one of your counsellors! From your
own lips I learned that he had constrained your mother to
yield a reluctant acquiescence in all his plans, and hence
the apparent accordance of her opinion with his. As for

the priest, I suppose it may not be inconsistent with his
character to counsel one of his flock to conform to the
requirements of the world. Alice, you do not possess the
strength of mind, I fear, nor the constancy of heart, I once
gave gave you credit for! Farewell!”

Ned turned proudly on his heel, and hastily withdrew,
without casting a look behind. Alice sank down on a sofa,
pressed her hands to her face, and wept bitterly.

Mr. Lonsdale stood before her when she lifted up her
head.

“It is over, sir,” said she. “I have followed your advice.
He is gone, I think, forever. He will never trouble
you more. Would that I could say the same for myself!
I pray heaven that the act which I have this day committed,
incited thereto by those who ought to desire my happiness,
may never be bitterly repented!”

“It will not be, Alice. It cannot be. You will soon
forget—”

“I doubt it! The memories of our early, our guileless,
our happy childhood, remain with us they say forever.
And even when other objects and other pleasures make us
cease to remember them by day, we will dream of them by
night. I hope, sir, no one may have cause to reproach
himself for promoting and abetting the procedure which
has been so deliberately accomplished. If left to my own
choice, it should not have been done. He has a brave and
noble heart, a capacious mind, and may some day soar an
eagle's flight above—”

“Nonsense, Alice! Why these regrets and reproaches?
Why should any young lady desire to be upon terms of
intimacy with one without fortune and character? That
such is his condition you will not, you cannot deny. He
is not a fitting associate, much less an eligible candidate
for the hand of my ward. Every one will tell you the
same thing. I am perfectly disinterested in my views, and,
as you know, have forbidden my nephew—”

“Enough, sir—it was not necessary. You have succeeded
in rupturing an old attachment; but all your power
can never avail in any attempt to constrain me to form a
new one. But enough. I'll be gay. Let us rejoin the
company. I shall be merry now, and strive to forget—to

forget!” Such were the words she uttered as she went
tripping back to her mother.