NIGHT AND MORNING.
We think to conquer circumstance, and sometimes win
A hold upon events that seemeth power.
But nothing stable waiteth upon sin;
God holds the cords of life, and in an hour
The strongest fabric built by human mind
Falls with a crash, and leaves a wreck behind.
Splendid beyond anything hitherto known in American life, was the ball,
of which our readers have obtained but partial glimpses. At least a
dozen rooms, some of them palatial in dimensions, others bijoux of
elegance, were thrown open to the brilliant throng that had begun to
assemble when the flower-girl left the mansion. The conservatory was
filled with blossoming plants, and lighted entirely by lamps, placed in
alabaster vases, or swinging-like moons, from the waves of crystal that
formed the roof. Masses of South American plants sheeted the sides with
blossoms. Passion flowers crept up the crystal roof, and drooped their
starry blossoms among the lamps. Trees, rich with the light feathery
foliage peculiar to the tropics, bent over and sheltered the blossoming
plants. An aquatic lily floated in the marble basin of a tiny fountain,
spreading its broad green leaves on the water, and sheltering a host of
arrowy, little gold-fish, that flashed in and out from their shadows.
The air was redolent with heliotrope, daphnes, and cape-jessamines. Soft
mosses crept around the marble basin, and dropped downward to the
tesselated floor. It was like entering fairy land, as you came into this
star-lit wilderness of flowers, from a noble picture-gallery, which
divided it from the reception room. It was one of Dunlap's
master-pieces. No artist ever arranged a more noble picture--no peri
ever found a lovelier paradise. The silken curtains that divided the
picture-gallery from the reception rooms were drawn back; thus a vista
was formed down which the eye wandered till the perspective lost itself
in the star-lighted masses of foliage; and on entering the first
drawing-room, which was flooded with gas-light, a scene was presented
that no European palace could rival, save in extent. Each of the tall,
stained windows, had a corresponding recess, filled with mirrors that
multiplied and reflected back every beautiful object within its range.
Fresco paintings gleamed from the ceilings, but so delicately managed
and enwrought in the light golden scrolls, that all over-gorgeousness
was avoided. Each room possessed distinct colors, and had its own style
of ornament; but natural contrasts were so strictly maintained, and
harmonies so managed, that the rooms, when all thrown open, presented
one brilliant whole, that might have been studied like the work of a
great artist, and always found to present new beauties.
The rooms filled rapidly. The fancy dresses gave new éclat to the rooms.
No royal court day ever presented a scene of greater magnificence. The
flash of jewels--the wave of feathers--the glitter of brocades, had
something regal in it, quite at variance with the simple republican
habits with which our young country began its career among the nations
of the earth. But in all this dazzling throng, our story deals more
particularly with the four persons toward whom destiny was making rapid
strides through all this glitter and gaiety.
William Leicester entered among the latest guests. The evening had been
so full of events, that even his iron nerves were shaken, and he entered
the mansion with pale cheeks and glittering eyes, as if conscious that
he was rushing forward to his fate.
What was it that prompted the tantalizing wish to follow that young girl
home, till she led him into the presence of that old couple, cowering
over the fire in that dark basement? What evil spirit was crowding
events so closely around him? He began to feel a sort of self-distrust;
something like superstition crept over him, and he panted to place the
Atlantic between himself and all these haunting perplexities.
A few distinguished persons had been allowed to attend the ball in
citizens' dress, and among these, was Leicester, who appeared in the
elegant but unostentatious suit worn at his wedding ceremony.
"Why, Leicester, you are pale! Has anything happened; or is it only the
effect of that white vest?" said a young Turk, who stood near the
entrance, removing his admiring eyes from the point of his own
embroidered slipper, to regard his friend.
"Pale! No, I am only tired, making preparations for Europe, you know."
"A great bore, isn't it?" answered the young man, adjusting his cashmere
scarf. "Isn't Mrs. Gordon beautiful to-night; the handsomest woman in
the room, not to speak of uncounted pyramids! She'd be a catch--even for
you, Leicester."
"She must have demolished some of her pyramids, before this paradise was
created, I fancy," answered Leicester, looking down the vista of open
rooms, now crowded with life and beauty.
"Yes, three at least," replied the juvenile Turk, planting one foot
forward on the carpet, that he might admire the flow of his ample
trousers; "one hundred and fifty thousand never paid for a place like
this."
"So you, young gentleman, set fifty thousand down as a pyramid. Now,
what if a lady chances to have only the half of that sum; how do you
estimate her?"
"Twenty-five thousand!" repeated the exquisite; "a woman with no more
than that isn't worth estimating; at any rate, till after a fellow gets
to be an old fogy of two or three and twenty."
A quiet, mocking smile curved Leicester's lip. Though rather sensitive
regarding his own age, he was really amused by this specimen of Young
America.
"So, this widow, with so many pyramids--you think she would be a match
worth looking after. What if I make the effort?"
"If you were twenty or twenty-five years younger, it might do."
Leicester laughed outright.
"Well, as I am too old for a rival, perhaps you will show me where the
lady is; I have never seen her yet."
"What--never seen Mrs. Gordon, the beautiful Mrs. Gordon! I thought you
old chaps were keener on the scent. I know half a hundred young
gentlemen dead in for it."
"Then there is certainly no chance for me."
"I should rather think not," replied the youth, smiling complacently at
his own reflection in an opposite mirror; "especially without costume. A
dress like this, now, is a sort of thing that takes with women."
Leicester was getting weary of the youth.
"Well," he said, "if you will not aid me, I must find the lady myself."
"Oh, wait till the crowd leaves us an opening. There, the music strikes
up--they are off for the waltz; now you have a good view; isn't she
superb?"
For one moment a cloud came over Leicester's eyes. He swept his gloved
hand over them, and now he saw clearly.
"Which--which is Mrs. Gordon?" he said in a sharp voice, that almost
startled the young exquisite out of his oriental propriety.
"Why, how dull you are--as if there ever existed another woman on earth
to be mistaken for her."
"Is that the woman?" questioned Leicester, almost extending his arm
toward a lady dressed as Ceres, who stood near the door of an adjoining
room.
"Of course it is. Come, let me present you, while there is a chance,
though how the deuce you got here without a previous introduction, I
cannot tell. Come, she is looking this way."
"Not yet," answered Leicester, drawing aside, where he was less liable
to observation.
"Why, how strangely you look all at once. Caught with the first glance,
ha?" persisted his tormentor.
Leicester attempted to smile, but his lips refused to move. He would
have spoken, but for once speech left him.
"Come, come, I am engaged for the next polka."
"Excuse me," answered Leicester, drawing his proud figure to its full
height; "I was only jesting; Mrs. Gordon and I are old acquaintances."
"Then I will go find my partner," cried the Turk, half terrified by the
flash of those fierce eyes.
"Do," said Leicester, leaning upon the slab of a music table that stood
near.
And now, with a fiend at his heart and fire in his eye, William
Leicester stood regarding his wife.
Ada had given this ball for a purpose. It was here, surrounded by all
the pomp and state secured by position and immense wealth, that she
intended once more to meet her husband. What hidden motive lay in the
depths of her mind, I do not know. Perhaps--for love like hers will
descend to strange humiliations--she expected to win back a gleam of his
old tenderness, by the magnificence which she knew he loved so well.
Perhaps she really intended to startle him by her queenly presence, load
him with scornful reproaches, and so separate forever. This, probably,
was the reason she gave to her own heart; but I still think a dream of
reconciliation slept at the bottom of it all.
At another time Ada would have been dressed with less magnificence under
her own roof: for her taste was perfect, and the elegant simplicity of
her style was at all times remarkable. But now she had an object to
accomplish--a proud soul to humble to the dust; and she loaded herself
with pomp, as a warrior encases himself in armor just before a battle.
The character of Ceres, in which she appeared, was peculiarly adapted to
the perfection of her beauty and the natural grace of her person. In
order to increase the magnificence of this costume, she had ordered all
her jewels to be reset at Ball & Black's, in wreaths, bouquets, and
clusters, adapted to the character; and as Leicester gazed upon her from
the distance, his eyes were absolutely dazzled with flashes of rainbow
light that followed every movement of her person.
Her over-skirt of fine Brussels point was gathered up in soft clouds
from the amber satin dress, by clusters of fruit, grass, and leaves, all
of precious stones. Cherries, the size of life, cut from glowing
carbuncles; grapes in amethyst clusters, or amber hued, from the
Oriental topaz; stems of ruby currants; crab-apples, cut from the red
coral of Naples; with wheat ears, barbed with gold, and set thick with
diamond grain; all mingled with leaves and bending grass, lighted with
emeralds, were grouped among the gossamer lace, whence the light came
darting forth with a thousand sunset glories.
Her fair, round arms were exposed almost to the shoulder, where a
quantity of soft lace, that fell like a mist across her bosom, was
gathered up with clusters of fruit-like jewels. Her hair, arranged after
the fashion of a Greek statue, flowed back from the head in waves and
ringlets, and was crowned by a garland of jewels that shot rays of
tinted light through all her golden tresses. The choicest jewels she
possessed had been reserved for this garland, wreathed in both fruit and
flowers. Here diamond fuschias, veined with rubies, and forget me-nots
of torquoise, each with a yellow pearl at the heart, were grouped with
diamond wheat ears and stems of currants, some heavy with ruby fruit,
others beset with yellow diamonds. The grape leaves that fell around her
temples were green with emeralds, and a single cluster of cherries,
formed from carbuncles, that seemed to have a drop of wine floating at
the heart, drooped over her white forehead. Great diamond drops were
scattered like dew over these dazzling clusters, and fell away down the
ringlets of her hair.
Ada stood beneath the blaze of a chandelier, that poured its light over
the singular wreath, and struck the jewels of her girdle, till they sent
it back in broken flashes. Waves of lace were gathered beneath this
girdle, as we find the drapery around those antique statues of Ceres,
still existing in fragments at Athens.
Leicester stood motionless, gazing upon his wife. Every gem about her
person seemed to fix its value upon his mind. This surprise had
overpowered him for a moment, but no event had the power to disturb him,
even for the brief time he had been regarding her.
His resolution was taken. Self-possessed, and, but for a wild brilliancy
of the eyes and a slight paleness about the mouth, tranquil as if they
had parted but yesterday, he moved down the room.
The crowd was drawn off toward the dancing saloon, and at that moment
the reception room, in which Ada stood, was somewhat relieved of the
glittering crowd that had pressed around her but a moment before.
Still several persons were grouped near her, glad to seize upon every
disengaged moment of the hostess; for never in her brightest mood had
she been half so brilliant as now. Her lips grew red with the flashes
of wit that passed through them. Her eyes flashed with animation, and a
warm scarlet flush lay upon her cheek, burning there like flame, but
growing more and more brilliant as the evening wore on. Sometimes she
would pause in the midst of a sentence, and look searchingly in the
crowd. Then a frown would contract her forehead, as if the jewelled
garland were beset with hidden thorns that pierced her temples; but when
reminded of this her smile grew brilliant again, and some flash of wit
displaced the impression her countenance had made the moment before.
She had just made some laughing reply to a gentleman who stood near her,
and turning away, cast another of those anxious looks over the room. She
gave a faint start; her eye flashed, and drawing her form up to its full
height, she stood with curved lips and burning cheeks, ready to receive
her husband. He came down the room, slowly moving forward with his usual
noiseless grace. He paused now and then as the crowd pressed on him, and
it was a full minute after she first saw him, before he approached her
near enough to speak.
"My dear lady, I shall never forgive myself for coming so late," he
said, reaching forth his hand. "Why did not your invitations say at once
that we were invited to paradise?"
For one moment Ada turned pale and lost her self-possession. The
audacious coolness of the man astonished her. She had expected to take
him by surprise, and promised herself the enjoyment of his confusion;
but before his speech was finished the blood rushed to her cheek, her
lips grew red again, and her eyes seemed showering fire into his. He had
taken her hand, while speaking, and pressed it gently, but with a
meaning that aroused all the pride of her nature.
Did he hope to practice his old arts upon her? Was she a school girl to
be won back by a pressure of the hand and frothy compliments to her
dwelling? The crafty man had mistaken her for once. She withdrew her
hand with a laugh.
"So you were ignorant that the goddess of plenty reigned here."
There was meaning in the light words, and for an instant Leicester's
audacious eyes fell beneath the glance of hers; but he recovered himself
with a breath.
"The character is badly chosen. I could have selected better."
"What, pray--what would you have selected?" she asked, with breathless
haste.
He stooped forward, and with a smile upon his lips, as if he had been
uttering a compliment, whispered "A Niobe."
The tone in which this was uttered, more than the words, stung her.
She drew back with a suddenness that scattered the light like sunbeams
from her jewelled garland.
"Everything that Niobe loved turned to stone. In that we are alike," she
said, in a suppressed voice that trembled with feeling.
He bent his head and was about to answer in the same undertone, but she
drew back with a low defiant laugh.
"No--no. It is a sad character, and I have long since done with tears,"
she answered, turning to a gay group that had gathered around her, "What
say you, gentlemen, our friend here prefers a mournful character; do I
look like a woman who ever weeps?"
"Not unless the angels weep," answered one of the group.
"Angels do weep when they leave the homes assigned to them," whispered
Leicester, again bending towards her, "and it is fitting that they
should."
She did not recoil that time. His words rather stung her into strength,
and strange to say, Leicester seemed less hateful to her while uttering
these covert reproaches, than his first adroit compliment had rendered
him. A retort was on her lip, but that instant a group came in from the
dancing saloon, laughing and full of excitement.
"Oh, Mrs. Gordon, such a droll character!" cried a flower girl, pressing
her way to the hostess; "a postman with bundles of letters, real
letters; you never saw anything like it. I'm sure Mr. Willis and some
other poets here, that I could point out, have had a hand in getting up
this mail, for some of the letters are full of delightful poetry. Only
look here, isn't this sweet?"
The girl held up an open paper, in which half a dozen lines of poetry
were visible.
"Read it aloud--read it aloud," cried several voices at once. "No one
has secrets here!"
"Oh, I wouldn't for anything," answered the young lady, tossing the
flowers about in her basket, with a simper; "Mrs. Gordon won't insist, I
am sure."
Ada saw what was expected of her, and held the letter aloof, when the
young lady made feints at snatching it away.
"But what if Mrs. Gordon does insist?" she said. "The postman has no
business to bring letters here that are not for the public amusement."
"Well, now, isn't it too bad," cried the flower girl, striving to
conceal her satisfaction with a pout. "I am sure it's not my fault."
"Read, read," cried voices from the crowd.
"No," said Ada, weary with the scene, and mischievously inclined to
punish the girl for her affectation; "all amusement must be voluntary
here."
The young lady took her note with a pout that was genuine, this time,
and hid it in her basket.
During this brief scene, Leicester had glided from the room unobserved,
and two strange characters took his place. This would hardly have been
remarked in so large an assembly, but the costumes in which these
persons appeared, were so arranged that they amounted to a disguise. One
was robed as Night, the other as Morning; but the cloud-like drapery
that fell around them, was of glossy, Florence silk, which allowed them
to see what was passing, while their own features were entirely
concealed. Neither of them spoke, and their presence cast a restraint
upon the crowd close around the hostess. They seemed conscious of this,
and gradually drew back, stationing themselves at last close by a
pillar, that separated two rooms directly behind Ada and the group that
surrounded her.
Leicester had only been to the gentleman's dressing-room, which was at
that hour quite empty. He seemed hurried and somewhat agitated on
entering. Going up to a light he took a letter-case from his bosom, and
hastily shuffling over some papers it contained, selected one from the
parcel. He opened this hurriedly, glanced at the first lines, and then
looked around the room, as if in search of something.
Evidently the letters and poems from which the mock postman was
supplied, had been arranged there, for a writing table stood in one
corner littered with pens, fancy note-paper and envelopes.
"How fortunate," broke from Leicester, as he saw these accommodations;
and he began to search among the envelopes for one of the size he
wanted. Having accomplished this, he placed the paper taken from his
letter-case open upon the table; and the light of a wax taper, that
stood ready for use, revealed a tress of hair that lay curled within it.
Leicester pushed the curl aside with his finger, while he directed the
envelope, refering to the paper every other letter, as if to compare his
work with the writing it contained.
When this was accomplished and his hand removed, the light fell upon his
own name written in a feminine running hand. He smiled as if satisfied
with the address, replaced the lock of hair in the paper, and folded
both in the envelope, which he carefully sealed. He left the room with a
crafty smile on his lip, and beckoned to an attendant.
"Take this and give it to the postman you will find somewhere in the
second drawing-room. Tell him Mrs. Gordon wishes him to deliver it when
she is present; you understand."
"Oh, yes," said the French servant, charmed with a mission so congenial
to his taste, "I've had a good many to carry down before to-night."
"Do this quietly--you understand--and here is something for the
postage."
"Monsieur is magnificent," said the man, taking the piece of gold with
a profound bow. "He shall see how invisible I shall become."
Leicester stole back to the reception rooms again, and glided into the
group that still surrounded the hostess, unobserved as he thought; but
those who watched Ada closely, would have seen the apathy, that had
crept over her during his absence, suddenly flung off, while her manner
and look became wildly brilliant once more. At this moment Night and
Morning drew closer to the pillar, and sheltered themselves behind it.
"Here he comes--here comes the postman," cried half a dozen young ladies
at once; "who will get a letter now? Mrs. Gordon, of course!"
One of the first lawyers of the State entered the room, acting the
postman with great diligence and exactitude. He carried a bundle of
letters on his arm, and held some loose in his hands. There was a great
commotion among the young ladies when he presented himself, a flirting
of fans and waving of curls that might have tempted any man from his
course. He turned neither to the right nor left, but marching directly
up to Leicester, presented a letter with "Two cents, sir, if you
please."
Leicester as gravely took the letter, drew a five-cent piece from his
pocket, and placed it in the outstretched hand of the postman, with,
"The change, if you please."
A burst of laughter followed this scene; but the postman, no way
disconcerted, placed the five-cent piece between his teeth, while he
searched his pocket for the change. Drawing forth three cents, he
counted them into Leicester's palm, and strode on again, as if every
mail in the United States depended on his diligence. Leicester stood a
moment with the letter in his hand, smiling and seemingly a little
embarrassed about opening it!
Ada glanced sharply from the letter to his face. Even then she was
struck with a jealous pang that made her recoil with self-contempt.
"No! no--that will never do," called out voices all around, as
Leicester seemed about to place the note in his pocket--"All letters are
public property here--break the seal--break the seal!"
With a derisive smile on his lip, as if coerced into doing a silly
thing, he broke the seal and unfolded the missive. A tress of golden
hair dropped to his feet, which he snatched up hurriedly, and grasped in
his hand. A burst of gay laughter followed the act.
"Read--read--it is poetry--we can see that--give us the poetry!" broke
merrily around him.
"Spare me," said Leicester, apparently annoyed; "but if the fair lady
chooses to enlighten you, she has my consent."
Ada reached forth her hand for the paper. A strange sensation crept over
her, with the first sight of it in the mock postman's hand, and it was
with an effort that she conquered this feeling sufficiently to open the
paper, with her usual careless ease.
She glanced at the first line. Her lips moved as if she were trying to
speak; but they uttered no sound, and by slow degrees the red died out
from them.
Leicester watched her closely with his half averted eyes, and those
around him looked on in gay expectation; for no one else observed the
change in her countenance. To the crowd, she seemed only gathering up
the spirit of the lines, before she commenced reading them aloud. The
paper contained a wild, impulsive appeal to him, after the first jealous
outbreak that had disturbed their married life. As usual, when a warm
heart has either done or suffered wrong, it matters little which, she
had been the first to make concessions, and lavish in self-blame, poured
forth her passionate regret, as if all the fault had been hers. In her
first jealous indignation, she had demanded a tress of hair, for which
he had importuned her one night at the old homestead.
He rendered it coldly back without a word. Wild with affright, lest this
was the seal of eternal separation, she had sent back the tress of hair
now grasped in Leicester's hand, with the lines which, with the plotting
genius of a fiend, he had placed in her hand.
Poor Ada, she was unconscious of the crowd. The days of her youth came
back--the old homestead--the pangs and joys of her first married life.
While she seemed to read, a life-time of memories swept through her
brain, which ached with the sudden rush of thought.
Leicester stood regarding her with apparent unconcern; but it was as the
spider watches the fly in his net.
"She cannot read it aloud--I thought so," he said inly, "let her
struggle--while her lips pale in that fashion she is mine; I knew it
would smite her to the heart. Let the fools clamor, she is struck dumb
with old memories."
Unconsciously a cold smile of triumph crept over his lips, as these
thoughts gained strength from Ada's continued silence. With her eyes on
the paper, she still seemed to read.
At length her guests became politely impatient.
"We are all attention," cried a voice.
She did not hear it; but others set in with laughing clamor; and at
length she looked up, as if wondering what all the noise was about. Her
eyes fell upon Leicester. She saw the smile of which he was probably
unconscious, and the present flashed back to her brain.
"He hopes to crush me with these memories," she thought with lightning
intuition.
The life came back to her eyes, the strength to her limbs, and without
hesitation or pause, her voice broke forth. As she went on, the fire of
a wounded nature flashed over her face. Her voice swelled out rich and
passionately. Her woman's heart seemed beating in every word.
Take back the tress! the broken chain,
Its fragile folds have linked around us,
May never re-unite again!
And every gentle tie that bound us,
The madness of a single hour--
The madness of a word--has parted,
Leaving the marble in thy power:
And me, ah more than broken hearted.
Take back the tress! I cannot bear
To hold the link my hand has scattered;
It mocks me, in my dark despair,
With scenes and hopes forever shatter'd;
It haunts me with a thousand things--
A thousand words, half felt, half spoken--
When thy proud soul with eagle wings
Stoop'd to the heart now almost broken.
It haunts me with the deep, low tones,
That stir'd my soul to more than gladness
When we seemed in the world, alone,
And joy grew deep almost to sadness.
Is there no charm to win thee back,
To wake the love thy pride is crushing?
Has mem'ry left no golden track--
No music which thy heart is hushing?
Is there within this little tress
No thought but that which wakes thy scorning?
Oh say, was there no happiness
Within thy breast that summer morning,
When from my brow the curl was shred
With hand that shook in joy, and terror;
And love, half hush'd in trembling dread,
Shrunk back, as if to feel were error?
My soul is filled with deep regret,
That I who loved thee so, could doubt thee!
Sweep back thy pride, forgive, forget!
Life is so desolate without thee.
I will not keep this tress of hair:
As ravens from their gloomy wings
Cast shadows, it but leaves despair
Upon the weary heart it wrings.
Where hope, and life, and faith are given,
I send it back, perchance too late;
Go cast it to the winds of heaven,
If it but rouse more bitter hate.
_I_ will not rend a single thread
That binds my willing soul to thine:
Take then the task; if love has fled,
Despoil love's desolated shrine.
Her voice ceased to vibrate over the throng full half a minute, before
the listeners breathed freely. The mesmeric influence of her hidden
grief spread from heart to heart, till in its earnestness, the crowd
forgot to applaud. Thus it happened that for some moments after she had
done, there was silence all around her. The paper began to tremble in
her hand--she tossed it carelessly toward Leicester.
"The lady is too much in earnest--she quite takes away my breath," she
said, with an air of gay mockery; "a grand passion like that must be
very fatiguing."
A flash rose to Leicester's brow. He took the paper, and refolding the
curl of hair in it, placed both in his bosom. His manner was
grave--almost humble. She had baffled him for once. But the game was not
played out yet.
The crowd that observed nothing but the surface of this scene, was still
somewhat subdued by it; but the ringing notes of a waltz that swept in
from the dancing saloon, set the gay current in motion again.
"Who was it that engaged me for this waltz?" cried the hostess, glancing
around the throng of distinguished men that surrounded her.
Half a dozen voices gaily answered the challenge; but still, with a
purpose at heart, she selected the most distinguished of the group, and
was followed to the dancing saloon.
Leicester remained behind. Even his strong nerves were ready to break
down under the excitement crowded upon him that evening. Never had he
been placed in a position of such difficulty. With two important crimes,
perpetrated almost the same hour, urging immediate flight to Europe, he
found himself constrained to remain and secure the still richer prize,
the discovery of that evening seemed to place within his grasp. He
leaned against the pillar near which Ada had been stationed to receive
her guests, and made a prompt review of his position.
"I must go," he thought, locking his teeth hard, as the necessity was
forced upon him; "they must have time to put the boy up in Sing-Sing.
The girl, too--fool that I was--she is the most troublesome part of the
business. I will get her over sea, at once--the witnesses are
nothing--she can't live over a few months--if she does----"
A fiendish expression crept over his face, and after a moment, he
muttered, so audibly, that the two shrouded females close by the pillar
heard him; "But women's hearts never do break; if they did, Wilcox's
daughter would have been in her grave long ago."
A faint sob close by him, drove these evil thoughts inward again. There
was a slight rustling near the pillar, and raising his eyes, he saw the
two characters, Night and Morning, gliding away toward the dancers. He
did not give the circumstance a second thought; but moved down the rooms
toward the conservatory, where he could plot and think alone.
"Yes, I _must_ go off and find a safe place for Florence. Thanks to my
icy-hearted mother, who never had a visitor, there is no chance for
gossip. Robert will be snugly-housed when I come back, and my man shall
go with me."
But a new obstacle arose in his mind--the flower-girl, his other
witness. The old people, whose faces he had so dimly seen--what if Ada
should learn all from them? The thought was formidable; but at last he
thrust it aside, as undeserving of anxiety.
"They will not meet; she has been years searching for them, and in vain;
besides, I shall be back in a month or two. If that girl is obstinate
and won't die, let her stay behind--that will settle it probably--the
hectic is on her cheek now. But I must see this proud witch to-night.
Poor Ada, how much trouble she takes to prove her love--I see it all;
this grand display was for me--I was to be astonished, braved, taunted
awhile, and after a tragic scene or two, my lady is meek as a lamb once
more. The handsome wretch--she did outwit me with those lines; I thought
they would have touched her to the heart. It was our first love quarrel.
How the creature did go on then! Now I shall find her more difficult to
bring under; but the same heart is at the bottom. I didn't think she
could have read those lines aloud--so dauntlessly too. Jove! I almost
loved her as she did it. Fool that I was, to make this trip across the
ocean necessary. But for that, I might take possession now. Ada
Wilcox--my pretty rustic Ada, reigning here like a queen! Mrs.
Gordon--Mrs. Gordon! Faith, it's a capital joke. She's managed it
splendidly--out-generaled Mrs. Nash and Mrs. Sykes both. More than that,
she has half out-generaled Leicester too."