That same evening there was a clear light gleaming from the window in
Andrew Gordon’s mansion, usually occupied by himself. He—its owner—sat
there alone, with his folded hands lying upon the table, and his head
resting upon them. At length, he arose, and an observer might have seen
that there was a bright, red spot upon either cheek, while his brow was
knit, and there was an unusual, almost an angry gleam in his eye.
Stepping to the window, and shading his eyes with his hands, he looked
out for a moment, and then raising the sash, he called to a man who
stood in the yard:
“John, tell my son to come hither.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, and Mr. Gordon returned to his seat by the
table.
A few moments had elapsed when Frederick entered. His father did not
appear to notice his entrance, and, after pausing awhile, the young man
asked—
“Did you send for me, sir?”
“Yes,” was his father’s answer, as he pushed a chair toward him with his
foot, and motioned him to be seated. “I have a few things to say to you,
sir: I happened to be an eye-witness of the love-scene that took place
in the woods, down yonder, this evening. No, I was no spy or
eaves-dropper,” he continued, as the color flashed to Frederick’s face,
and he half-rose from his chair: “You may as well keep cool, young man.
I was passing near there, just as the girl was coming to her senses, and
I could not well avoid seeing and hearing what passed. You were so taken
up with her, that you had no ears for any one besides, else you must
have heard me. Permit me to congratulate you,” he added, with a mocking
smile, “upon enacting the lover most admirably. May I be allowed to
inquire who was the fair damsel who played Juliet to your Romeo?”
“Lily Grey, sir,” was the laconic reply.
“Lily Grey! And who, pray, is _she_?”
“She is a young lady from Massachusetts, I believe, who has been
spending the last three months with Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I presume she is
a niece of theirs, as she calls them uncle and aunt.”
“Poor as a church mouse then, of course,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly.
“Frederick, do you love this girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have been foolish enough to tell her so, I conclude, as I had the
pleasure of hearing the declaration a little while ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, sir, let me tell you, once for all, that this foolery must have
an end. I can never receive Miss Lily Grey as my daughter-in-law.”
“I have inherited so much of my father’s meek and docile disposition,”
said the young man proudly, with an ironical smile curling his lip,
“that I shall doubtless be lead as a lamb in this matter. Allow me to
say, that in matrimonial affairs I intend to do as I choose.”
Mr. Gordon must change his tactics. Frederick said rightly—he is too
much like his father to be driven.
There was silence between the two for many minutes, but they sat looking
in each other’s eyes as if reading the soul there. Then Andrew Gordon
rose, drew his chair nearer to his son’s, and taking his hand kindly in
his own, said—
“I wish you to do as you choose, Frederick—all I hope is that I may
induce you to choose wisely. Listen to me for awhile, and see if I do
not present this matter before you in a different aspect. I came here as
you know, my son, when this valley was an unbroken wilderness, a poor
man, poor through the fraud and injustice of others; and I at once
resolved, more for your sake than my own, to be rich. I toiled early and
late; I struggled, in the early part of my career, with hardships and
difficulties. But at length I was successful. My resources are ample;
_yours_ I should have said, but I cannot consent that the wealth, to the
accumulation of which I have devoted all the best years of my life,
should go to enrich a beggar. With your talents, your fine person, your
graceful and winning address, together with the fortune which I had
intended to place in your hands upon your next birth-day, (to say
nothing of your expectations at my decease,) with all these advantages,
I say, you might select a wife from the highest and wealthiest family in
the land. There is a young girl, the orphan daughter of one whom I knew
in my boyhood, whom I selected years ago as my future daughter-in-law.
Her fortune must be immense, and every advantage that wealth can give
will be lavished upon her. She is—let me see—she is about fifteen now,
and is said to be very beautiful. There is a clause in her father’s
will, I am told, that will prevent her marrying before she is
twenty-one. You have been long wishing to make the tour of Europe, and I
was thinking, just previous to my unfortunate discovery this afternoon,
that it would be well for you to start immediately, spend the next four
years in traveling, and still have a year or two at your disposal, after
your return, to secure you success with her. But of course it is useless
to say any thing about it now, as you have made your own choice.”
Mr. Gordon ceased, and for a long time Frederick sat silently revolving
his father’s words in his mind. He was not naturally the callous,
cold-hearted being which the reader might judge him to be from the
soliloquy we overheard in the woods. His noble and generous impulses had
for many years given his father a deal of trouble, and even yet, as we
have seen from his conduct this day, he occasionally acted without any
regard to the “almighty dollar.” But these instances had, of late, been
rare. Andrew Gordon was gradually moulding him to his will, and even
before receiving the summons to his presence this evening, the effect of
the lessons that he had been taking through his whole life was resuming
its sway, and Ambition or Avarice—call it by which ever name best
pleases you, was beginning to struggle with Love.
“What is the name of the young lady of whom you were speaking, sir?” he
finally asked.
“Elizabeth Munro,” was the reply, and again there was a long pause.
“Let me retire now, if you please,” said Frederick, rising; “I would
fain think over this matter in my own room.”
“Thank you—thank you, Frederick. That is spoken like my own son,” was
Mr. Gordon’s answer, as he cordially shook his hand. “I have no fears
that you will not gratify me, if you will but yield to the suggestions
of your own good sense.”
Frederick Gordon slept not that night. We will not attempt to follow the
workings of his mind. Suffice it to say, that the next morning, with a
pale cheek, but with a voice that did not falter, he signified to his
father his readiness to adopt the plan proposed by him the previous
evening.
“Then you must go at once, this very day,” said Mr. Gordon; “there must
be no time for foolish regrets and sentimental nonsense. The ‘Virginia’
sails for Europe upon the 20th of next month, and this—yes, this is the
17th. You have no time to lose—you must start for New York this
evening, and you will then hardly have time to make the necessary
preparations there.” And he hurried away to expedite his son’s
departure.