The Fatal Discovery.
There is great bustle and confusion in the house of Mr. Bates.
Mantua-makers and milliners are coming in at unearthly hours, and
consultations of deep importance are being duly held with maiden aunts and
the young ladies who are to officiate as bridesmaids at the approaching
ceremony. There are daily excursions to drapers' establishments, and
jewellers, and, in fact, so much to be done and thought of, that little
Birdie is in constant confusion, and her dear little curly head is almost
turned topsy-turvy. Twenty times in each day is she called upstairs to
where the sempstresses are at work, to have something tried on or fitted.
Poor little Birdie! she declares she never can stand it: she did not dream
that to be married she would have been subjected to such a world of
trouble, or she would never have consented,--_never_!
And then Clarence, too, comes in every morning, and remains half the day,
teasing her to play, to talk, or sing. Inconsiderate Clarence! when she has
so much on her mind; and when at last he goes, and she begins to felicitate
herself that she is rid of him, back he comes again in the evening, and
repeats the same annoyance. O, naughty, tiresome, Clarence! how can you
plague little Birdie so? Perhaps you think she doesn't dislike it; you may
be right, very likely she doesn't.
She sometimes wonders why he grows paler and thinner each day, and his
nervous and sometimes distracted manner teases her dreadfully; but she
supposes all lovers act thus, and expects they cannot help it--and then
little Birdie takes a sly peep in the glass, and does not so much wonder
after all.
Yet if she sometimes deems his manner startling and odd, what would she say
if she knew that, night after night, when he left her side, he wandered for
long hours through the cold and dreary streets, and then went to his hotel,
where he paced his room until almost day?
Ah, little Birdie, a smile will visit his pale face when you chirp tenderly
to him, and a faint tinge comes upon his cheek when you lay your soft tiny
hand upon it; yet all the while there is that desperate secret lying next
his heart, and, like a vampire, sucking away, drop by drop, happiness and
peace.
Not so with little Birdie; she is happy--oh, _so_ happy: she rises with a
song upon her lips, and is chirping in the sunshine she herself creates,
the live-long day. Flowers of innocence bloom and flourish in her peaceful
lithesome heart. Poor, poor, little Birdie! those flowers are destined to
wither soon, and the sunlight fade from thy happy face for ever.
One morning, Clarence, little Birdie, and her intended bridesmaid, Miss
Ellstowe, were chatting together, when a card was handed to the latter,
who, on looking at it, exclaimed, "Oh, dear me! an old beau of mine; show
him up," and scampering off to the mirror, she gave a hasty glance, to see
that every curl was in its effective position.
"Who is it?" asked little Birdie, all alive with curiosity; "do say who it
is."
"Hush!" whispered Miss Ellstowe, "here he comes, my dear; he is very
rich--a great catch; are my curls all right?"
Scarcely had she asked the question, and before an answer could be
returned, the servant announced Mr. George Stevens, and the gentleman
walked into the room.
Start not, reader, it is not the old man we left bent over the prostrate
form of his unconscious daughter, but George Stevens, junior, the son and
heir of the old man aforesaid. The heart of Clarence almost ceased to beat
at the sound of that well-known name, and had not both the ladies been so
engrossed in observing the new-comer, they must have noticed the deep flush
that suffused his face, and the deathly pallor that succeeded it.
Mr. Stevens was presented to Miss Bates, and Miss Ellstowe turned to
present him to Clarence. "Mr. Garie--Mr. Stevens," said she. Clarence
bowed.
"Pardon me, I did not catch the name," said the former, politely.
"Mr. Clarence Garie," she repeated, more distinctly.
George Stevens bowed, and then sitting down opposite Clarence, eyed him for
a few moments intently. "I think we have met before," said he at last, in a
cold, contemptuous tone, not unmingled with surprise, "have we not?"
Clarence endeavoured to answer, but could not; he was, for a moment,
incapable of speech; a slight gurgling noise was heard in his throat, as he
bowed affirmatively.
"We were neighbours at one time, I think," added George Stevens.
"We were," faintly ejaculated Clarence.
"It is a great surprise to me to meet _you_ here," pursued George Stevens.
"The surprise is mutual, I assure you, sir," rejoined Clarence, coldly, and
with slightly agitated manner.
Hereupon ensued an embarrassing pause in the conversation, during which the
ladies could not avoid observing the livid hue of Clarence's face. There
was a perfect tumult raging in his breast; he knew that now his
long-treasured secret would be brought out; this was to be the end of his
struggle to preserve it--to be exposed at last, when on the brink of
consummating his happiness. As he sat there, looking at George Stevens, he
became a murderer in his heart; and if an invisible dagger could have been
placed in his hands, he would have driven it to the hilt in his breast, and
stilled for ever the tongue that was destined to betray him.
But it was too late; one glance at the contemptuous, malignant face of the
son of his father's murderer, told him his fate was sealed--that it was
now too late to avert exposure. He grew faint, dizzy, ill,--and rising,
declared hurriedly he must go, staggered towards the door, and fell upon
the carpet, with a slight stream of blood spirting from his mouth.
Little Birdie screamed, and ran to raise him; George Stevens and Miss
Ellstowe gave their assistance, and by their united efforts he was placed
upon the sofa. Little Birdie wiped the bloody foam from his mouth with her
tiny lace handkerchief, bathed his head, and held cold water to his lips;
but consciousness was long returning, and they thought he was dying.
Poor torn heart! pity it was thy beatings were not stilled then for ever.
It was not thy fate; long, long months of grief and despair were yet to
come before the end approached and day again broke upon thee.
Just at this crisis Mr. Bates came in, and was greatly shocked and alarmed
by Clarence's deathly appearance. As he returned to consciousness he looked
wildly about him, and clasping little Birdie's hand in his, gazed at her
with a tender imploring countenance: yet it was a despairing look--such a
one as a shipwrecked seaman gives when, in sight of land, he slowly relaxes
his hold upon the sustaining spar that he has no longer the strength to
clutch, and sinks for ever beneath the waters.
A physician was brought in, who declared he had ruptured a minor
blood-vessel, and would not let him utter a whisper, and, assisted by Mr.
Bates, placed him in his carriage, and the three were driven as swiftly as
possible to the hotel where Clarence was staying. Little Birdie retired to
her room in great affliction, followed by Miss Ellstowe, and George Stevens
was left in the room alone.
"What can the fellow have been doing here?" he soliloquised; "on intimate
terms too, apparently; it is very singular; I will wait Miss Ellstowe's
return, and ask an explanation."
When Miss Ellstowe re-entered the room, he immediately inquired, "What was
that Mr. Garie doing here? He seems on an exceedingly intimate footing,
and your friend apparently takes a wonderful interest in him."
"Of course she does; that is her _fiance_."
"_Impossible_!" rejoined he, with an air of astonishment.
"Impossible!--why so? I assure you he is. They are to be married in a few
weeks. I am here to officiate as bridesmaid."
"Phew!" whistled George Stevens; and then, after pausing a moment, he
asked, "Do you know anything about this Mr. Garie--anything, I mean,
respecting his family?"
"Why, no--that is, nothing very definite, more than that he is an orphan,
and a gentleman of education and independent means."
"Humph!" ejaculated George Stevens, significantly.
"Humph!" repeated Miss Ellstowe, "what do you mean? Do you know anything
beyond that? One might suppose you did, from your significant looks and
gestures."
"Yes, I _do_ know something about this Mr. Garie," he replied, after a
short silence. "But tell me what kind of people are these you are
visiting--Abolitionists, or anything of that sort?"
"How absurd, Mr. Stevens, to ask such a question; of course they are not,"
said she, indignantly; "do you suppose I should be here if they were? But
why do you ask--is this Mr. Garie one?"
"No, my friend," answered her visitor; "_I wish that was all_."
"That was all!--how strangely you talk--you alarm me," continued she, with
considerable agitation. "If you know anything that will injure the
happiness of my friend--anything respecting Mr. Garie that she or her
father should know--make no secret of it, but disclose it to me at once.
Anne is my dearest friend, and I, of course, must be interested in anything
that concerns her happiness. Tell me, what is it you know?"
"It is nothing, I assure you, that it will give me any pleasure to tell,"
answered he. "Do speak out, Mr. Stevens. Is there any stain on his
character, or that of his family? Did he ever do anything dishonourable?"
"_I wish that was all_," coolly repeated George Stevens. "I am afraid he is
a villain, and has been imposing himself upon this family for what he is
not."
"Good Heavens! Mr. Stevens, how is he a villain or impostor?"
"You all suppose him to be a white man, do you not?" he asked.
"Of course we do," she promptly answered.
"Then you are all grievously mistaken, for he is not. Did you not notice
how he changed colour, how agitated he became, when I was presented? It was
because he knew that his exposure was at hand. I know him well--in fact, he
is the illegitimate son of a deceased relative of mine, by a mulatto
slave."
"It cannot be possible," exclaimed Miss Ellstowe, with a wild stare of
astonishment. "Are you sure of it?"
"Sure of it! of course I am. I should indeed be a rash man to make such a
terrible charge unless perfectly able to substantiate it. I have played
with him frequently when a child, and my father made a very liberal
provision for this young man and his sister, after the death of their
father, who lost his life through imprudently living with this woman in
Philadelphia, and consequently getting himself mixed up with these
detestable Abolitionists."
"Can this be true?" asked Miss Ellstowe, incredulously.
"I assure you it is. We had quite lost sight of them for a few years back,
and I little supposed we should meet under such circumstances. I fear I
shall be the cause of great discomfort, but I am sure in the end I shall be
thanked. I could not, with any sense of honour or propriety, permit such a
thing as this marriage to be consummated, without at least warning your
friends of the real position of this fellow. I trust, Miss Ellstowe, you
will inform them of what I have told you." "How can I? Oh, Mr. Stevens!"
said she, in a tone of deep distress, "this will be a terrible blow--it
will almost kill Anne. No, no; the task must not devolve on me--I cannot
tell them. Poor little thing! it will break her heart, I am afraid."
"Oh, but you must, Miss Ellstowe; it would seem very impertinent in me--a
stranger--to meddle in such a matter; and, besides, they may be aware of
it, and not thank me for my interference."
"No, I assure you they are not; I am confident they have not the most
distant idea of such a thing--they would undoubtedly regard it as an act of
kindness on your part. I shall insist upon your remaining until the return
of Mr. Bates, when I shall beg you to repeat to him what you have already
revealed to me."
"As you insist upon it, I suppose I must," repeated he, after some
reflection; "but I must say I do not like the office of informer,"
concluded he, with assumed reluctance.
"I am sorry to impose it upon you; yet, rest assured, they will thank you.
Excuse me for a few moments--I will go and see how Anne is."
Miss Ellstowe returned, after a short interval, with the information that
little Birdie was much more composed, and would, no doubt, soon recover
from her fright.
"To receive a worse blow," observed George Stevens. "I pity the poor little
thing--only to think of the disgrace of being engaged to a nigger. It is
fortunate for them that they will make the discovery ere it be too late.
Heavens! only think what the consequences might have been had she married
this fellow, and his peculiar position became known to them afterwards! She
would have been completely 'done for.'"
Thus conversing respecting Clarence, they awaited the return of Mr. Bates.
After the lapse of a couple of hours he entered the drawing-room. Mr.
Stevens was presented to him by Miss Ellstowe, as a particular friend of
herself and family. "I believe you were here when I came in before; I
regret I was obliged to leave so abruptly," courteously spoke Mr. Bates,
whilst bowing to his new acquaintance; "the sudden and alarming illness of
my young friend will, I trust, be a sufficient apology."
"How is he now?" asked Miss Ellstowe.
"Better--much better," answered he, cheerfully; "but very wild and
distracted in his manner--alarmingly so, in fact. He clung to my hand, and
wrung it when we parted, and bid me good bye again and again, as if it was
for the last time. Poor fellow! he is frightened at that hemorrhage, and is
afraid it will be fatal; but there is not any danger, he only requires to
be kept quiet--he will soon come round again, no doubt. I shall have to ask
you to excuse me again," said he, in conclusion; "I must go and see my
daughter."
Mr. Bates was rising to depart, when George Stevens gave Miss Ellstowe a
significant look, who said, in a hesitating tone, "Mr. Bates, one moment
before you go. My friend, Mr. Stevens, has a communication to make to you
respecting Mr. Garie, which will, I fear, cause you, as it already has me,
deep distress."
"Indeed!" rejoined Mr. Bates, in a tone of surprise; "What is it? Nothing
that reflects upon his character, I hope."
"I do not know how my information will influence your conduct towards him,
for I do not know what your sentiments may be respecting such persons. I
know society in general do not receive them, and my surprise was very great
to find him here."
"I do not understand you; what do you mean?" demanded Mr. Bates, in a tone
of perplexity; "has he ever committed any crime?"
"HE IS A COLOURED MAN," answered George Stevens, briefly. Mr. Bates became
almost purple, and gasped for breath; then, after staring at his informant
for a few seconds incredulously, repeated the words "Coloured man," in a
dreamy manner, as if in doubt whether he had really heard them.
"Yes, coloured man," said George Stevens, confidently; "it grieves me to
be the medium of such disagreeable intelligence; and I assure you I only
undertook the office upon the representation of Miss Ellstowe, that you
were not aware of the fact, and would regard my communication as an act of
kindness."
"It--it _can't_ be," exclaimed Mr. Bates, with the air of a man determined
not to be convinced of a disagreeable truth; "it cannot be possible."
Hereupon George Stevens related to him what he had recently told Miss
Ellstowe respecting the parentage and position of Clarence. During the
narration, the old man became almost frantic with rage and sorrow, bursting
forth once or twice with the most violent exclamations; and when George
Stevens concluded, he rose and said, in a husky voice--
"I'll kill him, the infernal hypocrite! Oh! the impostor to come to my
house in this nefarious manner, and steal the affections of my
daughter--the devilish villain! a bastard! a contemptible black-hearted
nigger. Oh, my child--my child! it will break your heart when you know what
deep disgrace has come upon you. I'll go to him," added he, his face
flushed, and his white hair almost erect with rage; "I'll murder
him--there's not a man in the city will blame me for it," and he grasped
his cane as though he would go at once, and inflict summary vengeance upon
the offender.
"Stop, sir, don't be rash," exclaimed George Stevens; "I would not screen
this fellow from the effects of your just and very natural indignation--he
is abundantly worthy of the severest punishment you can bestow; but if you
go in your present excited state, you might be tempted to do something
which would make this whole affair public, and injure, thereby, your
daughter's future. You'll pardon me, I trust, and not think me presuming
upon my short acquaintance in making the suggestion."
Mr. Bates looked about him bewilderedly for a short time, and then replied,
"No, no, you need not apologize, you are right--I thank you; I myself
should have known better. But my poor child! what will become of her?" and
in an agony of sorrow he resumed his seat, and buried his face in his
hands.
George Stevens prepared to take his departure, but Mr. Bates pressed him to
remain. "In a little while," said he, "I shall be more composed, and then I
wish you to go with me to this worthless scoundrel. I must see him at once,
and warn him what the consequences will be should he dare approach my child
again. Don't fear me," he added, as he saw George Stevens hesitated to
remain; "that whirlwind of passion is over now. I promise you I shall do
nothing unworthy of myself or my child."
It was not long before they departed together for the hotel at which
Clarence was staying. When they entered his room, they found him in his
bed, with the miniature of little Birdie in his hands. When he observed the
dark scowl on the face of Mr. Bates, and saw by whom he was accompanied, he
knew his secret was discovered; he saw it written on their faces. He
trembled like a leaf, and his heart seemed like a lump of ice in his bosom.
Mr. Bates was about to speak, when Clarence held up his hand in the
attitude of one endeavouring to ward off a blow, and whispered hoarsely--
"Don't tell me--not yet--a little longer! I see you know all. I see my
sentence written on your face! Let me dream a little longer ere you speak
the words that must for ever part me and little Birdie. I know you have
come to separate us--but don't tell me yet; for when you do," said he, in
an agonized tone, "it will kill me!"
"I wish to God it would!" rejoined Mr. Bates. "I wish you had died long
ago; then you would have never come beneath my roof to destroy its peace
for ever. You have acted basely, palming yourself upon us--counterfeit as
you were! and taking in exchange her true love and my honest, honourable
regard."
Clarence attempted to speak, but Mr. Bates glared at him, and
continued--"There are laws to punish thieves and counterfeits--but such as
you may go unchastised, except by the abhorrence of all honourable men. Had
you been unaware of your origin, and had the revelation of this gentleman
been as new to you as to me, you would have deserved sympathy; but you have
been acting a lie, claiming a position in society to which you knew you had
no right, and deserve execration and contempt. Did I treat you as my
feelings dictated, you would understand what is meant by the weight of a
father's anger; but I do not wish the world to know that my daughter has
been wasting her affections upon a worthless nigger; that is all that
protects you! Now, hear me," he added, fiercely,--"if ever you presume to
darken my door again, or attempt to approach my daughter, I will shoot you,
as sure as you sit there before me!"
"And serve you perfectly right!" observed George Stevens.
"Silence, sir!" rejoined Clarence, sternly. "How dare you interfere? He may
say what he likes--reproach me as he pleases--_he_ is _her_ father--I have
no other reply; but if you dare again to utter a word, I'll--" and Clarence
paused and looked about him as if in search of something with which to
enforce silence.
Feeble-looking as he was, there was an air of determination about him which
commanded acquiescence, and George Stevens did not venture upon another
observation during the interview.
"I want my daughter's letters--every line she ever wrote to you; get them
at once--I want them now," said Mr. Bates, imperatively.
"I cannot give them to you immediately, they are not accessible at present.
Does she want them?" he asked, feebly--"has she desired to have them back?"
"Never mind that!" said the old man, sternly; "no evasions. Give me the
letters!"
"To-morrow I will send them," said Clarence. "I will read them all over
once again," thought he.
"I cannot believe you," said Mr. Bates.
"I promise you upon my honour I will send them tomorrow!"
"_A nigger's honour!_" rejoined Mr. Bates, with a contemptuous sneer.
"Yes, sir--a nigger's honour!" repeated Clarence, the colour mounting to
his pale cheeks. "A few drops of negro blood in a man's reins do not
entirely deprive him of noble sentiments. 'Tis true my past concealment
does not argue in my favour.--I concealed that which was no fault of my
own, but what the injustice of society has made a crime."
"I am not here for discussion; and I suppose I must trust to your
_honour_," interrupted Mr. Bates, with a sneer. "But remember, if the
letters are not forthcoming to-morrow I shall be here again, and then,"
concluded he in a threatening tone, "my visit will not be as harmless as
this has been!"
After they had gone, Clarence rose and walked feebly to his desk, which,
with great effort and risk, he removed to the bed-side; then taking from it
little Birdie's letters, he began their perusal.
Ay! read them again--and yet again; pore over their contents--dwell on
those passages replete with tenderness, until every word is stamped upon
thy breaking heart--linger by them as the weary traveller amid Sahara's
sand pauses by some sparkling fountain in a shady oasis, tasting of its
pure waters ere he launches forth again upon the arid waste beyond. This is
the last green spot upon thy way to death; beyond whose grim portals, let
us believe, thou and thy "little Birdie" may meet again.