 Chapter 9 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York society. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly S. Taylor. The love that is o'er an expiring gives birth to a new one as warm as unequaled in bliss. More. Put down that book, dear Esther, leave the children of the Abbey, for I have something to converse with you about. Esther was lying on her bed, although it was hardly midday, wholly absorbed in the sorrows of Amanda, and in comparing that unfortunate young lady's situation to her own. What do you want, Rachel? You are always interrupting me in the most interesting part, but you never read. You cannot live in the ideal world in which I dwell, which I people with familiar spirits, with you all is cold reality. All is reality, sister, but there is no coldness mingled with it, at least not towards you. How I wish I could convince you that you are injuring and destroying your mind by the species of dissipation in which you daily indulge. May it not be justly cold dissipation? Does it not bear a fearful resemblance to the worst kind of inebriation? You have taught yourself to need this stimulus of your imagination as much as the inebriate needs his dram. You are miserable without it, and more miserable with it. Your body is innervated by a want of helpful exercise, and your mind enfeeble by perpetual excitement. You look upon all events of life through a false and distorted medium, and you are continually led into errors, some of which may entail lasting unhappiness upon you. Have you done, Rachel? said Esther with dignity. Me thinks there is less poetry than fiction and grossness in your similes, but they pass by me like the idle wind which I respect not. I feared as much, yet I hope for this once you will not turn a deaf ear to my counsel. Sister you are under some strange delusion concerning young Chadwick, and I fear the consequence. To my certain knowledge Edgar is the suitor of Aria Walton and not yours. Tis ever thus that I am persecuted, the envy of others, and their dread that I shall return the affection lavished upon me in bitter my life. What envy can there be in this case, Esther, I tell you the simple truth, and my only motive is to save you from committing yourself through misinterpretation of the intentions of Mr. Chadwick. Who shall judge our mortals? ejaculated Esther, showing a considerable portion of the white part of her eyes as she looked supplicatingly upward. Then you will not believe me. I believe nothing but what my own heart tells me. Not the guardian spirits hovering about me whisper in my ears, that, I believe, and that only. Rachel was at a loss of what further to say. It was impossible to convince her sister of her error, yet the delusion under which she was laboring might entail the most disagreeable consequences. Esther resumed she. Mr. Chadwick is coming here this afternoon. Using the sketch I desired he would procure me. I beg you will see him and endeavor to discover whether or not I have spoken falsely to you. Will you do this? I will see him, will listen to him, but the words which he will breathe are already engraven on my heart. But I love him, in the face of the world I avow him, and only him, that he has long secretly loved me, and that I have known it I can never deny. If he has loved you, why should he love secretly? Why has he not offered himself? His noble nature forbade it. Fate, ever blind in bestowing her gifts, has denied him wealth, while she has made me rich as a fairy's wand could have commanded. He feared to ask my hand, least the tongue of Calmonie should whisper, that he sighed not for it alone. I have long seen his heart, and his generosity shall be rewarded. Beware what you do, Esther. I am aware. Love is often unwary, but my love is under the guidance of Winston. Interrupt me no longer, sister. You have called me back from the world of fiction, to a world that is unblessed by rainbow hues. I sicken of your false counsels, therefore do not disturb me again. Esther resumed her book, and tears which never coursed from her cheeks for the real sorrows of many a poor rich whom her bounty might have suckered were soon streaming from her eyes for the ideal griefs of ideal beings. Rachel knew that it was useless to argue with her, and left the room to assist in her mother's household occupations. That mother, from whom her exertion seldom met an approving word, in whose ear she longed but dared not to breathe how tenderly she loved her. Last during that morning Edgar Chadwick had called at Mrs. Lemmings. It was the day succeeding the one which had brought Arya so many trials. On neither occasion could he gain admittance. The answer he received was that the ladies were particularly engaged. He requested to see Miss Walton, but it was Mrs. Lemmings' order that the same reply should be made to his demand. Once invixed he determined to call upon the Clintons this afternoon. With the sketch he had procured for Rachel, for he hoped to receive some explanation of Arya's conduct from them, or at least to send her a message through Rachel. He found Esther in the parlor alone, finishing the last thrilling page of The Children of the Abbey. Rachel was not at home. Esther started up, joyfully extending her hand, and then hung down her head, as though she hoped her loosely flowing hair would conceal her glowing cheeks. Mr. Chadwick was so much accustomed to her manner that it did not in the least surprise him. He seated himself beside her, wholly unconscious of the tender glances, which ever an anon assailed him. Your looks are serious, said Esther. Have you any cause of grief? Am I serious, rejoined Edgar, with a livelier air? Well, I suppose my tell-tale looks are only proclaiming my thoughts. I was thinking it was a very pleasant thing to get married, but a very vexatious one to have to wait half one's life. Esther looked as though she thought this a proper occasion to blush, and perhaps her color did vary slightly, as she replied. That vexation should never be yours, and Hyman should come to you crowned with roses of joy. But Hyman is determined to approach me only on crutches, and I, being of a rather impatient disposition, am somewhat annoyed at the slowness of his pace. Would it not be a happiness to you to know that your love was returned more than returned? I should not be a stoic, if it were not. Then be happy, murmured Esther, scanning the pattern of the carpet. And so I am, but it does not prevent my regretting that circumstances so often forbid my beholding the lady of my love. She ever desires to see you, replied Esther, tenderly. Does she? I thank her for that, as hardly as I wish that all her desires could be accomplished. You are very good, Miss Esther, to take such interest in this affair of mine, and I have a request to make, which your kindness leads me to think you will not refuse. Refuse? I can refuse you nothing. Make not your request, she continued, with unwanted energy. I have divided already, already granted it, Edgar. Your noble, generous heart has long made you fearful of breathing your wishes, but now feeling will give its way, and you can no longer be silent, all that you would ask is granted unasked. My heart has long been yours, my hand henceforth shall be. Esther hid her face with one hand, and laid the other on the open palm of Mr. Chadwick. Understruck, perplexed, and alarmed, he knew not how to reply and was withdrawing his hand, but her warm grass prevented him. The momentary silence was interrupted by Esther. Have I overstepped the bounds of maidenly modesty by this confession? said she. No! I feel I have not done so. You fear to demand my hand because that hand belonged to an heiress, and I am blessed by faith that permitted me to bestow wealth upon you by offering it. How the plague shall I get out of this dilemma, thought Chadwick? The girl is certainly possessed. Who could have foreseen such a denouement? Your feelings overcome you, and you are silent, said Esther half reproachfully. Miss Clinton, I am very sorry. You have placed me in a very difficult situation. I have always had a greatest esteem for you, but you are afraid of being misconstrued by the world, the harsh, judging, sincerest world, preventing your confessing it. Not so. I earnestly desire not to wound your feelings, but I must undeceive you. The heart we love, and that loves us, is easiest wounded, but your words, Edgar, are all too dear to me for them to give pain. Speak freely, as though you are but whispering your thoughts to yourself. What am I but your other self? This is a species of insanity, thought Edgar. And I must deal with her, even though as I would deal with an insane person. The lesson she must now receive may cure her for ever. This is my first case, to be sure, and I am practicing without a diploma, but there is no mistaking the medicine. He turned to Esther and said, with less consideration than before, Miss Clinton, you have deceived yourself. That neither my words nor actions could have deceived you, I feel certain. I had no intention of requesting your hand or winning your affections. My own affections have long been engaged to Miss Walton, and I presumed you were aware of the fact. Aria! Aria! Almost shrieked Esther. Have you brought this misery upon me? What sorcery has she used? Tell me, when was it that she robbed me of your heart? The heart that was mine by Miss Walton has possessed my affections since I first became acquainted with her. And you dare tell me so? You dare try up over me, sir, after having so fear for— exclaimed Esther with irrepressible excitement. Man! Man! Know you not that woman's love may turn to the deadliest hate? Then know it now, as I loved you once, so now I hate you, leave my presence, never again defend my sight. Go hence, of the heart you have broken, follow you, and truth. I will leave you as soon as you desire, Miss Clinton. Believe me, I sincerely regret the occurrence of this afternoon. You have the promise of a man of honour that not a word that has passed between us shall ever be repeated. When we meet again, I hope that all will be forgotten and that you will extend to me the hand of friendship. Good afternoon. He is gone, ejaculated Esther, as the doors closed upon him. Cruel! He has left the victim of his arts to weep over his deception. She threw herself upon the couch, and shed tears of mortified vanity. Her feelings had received a great shock, but the spell was not yet broken. She had fed her mind with romance until she considered herself a heroine, and on that subject was, in reality, a monomaniac. Could she have reflected rationally on her own conduct, Mr. Chadwick's rebuke would have had a beneficial influence. But she saw his actions in the false light of her imagination, and looked upon herself as the most injured of beings. Esther was still bemoaning her fate, and canvassing the propriety of avenging herself upon her imaginary lover, when the street bell rang, and in answer to its summons Mr. Brainerd was admitted. Brainerd had twice that morning escaped a ray cononder with Mr. Badger, once by shutting himself in his own closed press, and a second time by jumping into an omnibus as he perceived his inconvenient acquaintance approaching him. These narrow escapes had quite driven Arya out of his head, although not from his heart, and he was determined to hear his fate from the lips of Miss Esther that very night. A more opportune moment for forwarding his suit could hardly have presented himself. The wound in Esther's heart, created by the loss of a false lover, could only be healed by the balm applied by a true one. Esther received Mr. Brainerd with unusual demonstrations of pleasure. He quickly entered upon the subject nearest not to his heart but to his pocket, and, in a few moments more, might have been an accepted lover had not the entrance of Rachel and Mrs. Clinton prevented Esther's rendering him happy by her answer. Tea was served, and Mr. Brainerd took a seat by Esther's side, but he found no opportunity of resuming the subject for a second time, so unfortunately broken off. Rachel was just pouring out a third cup for Mr. Brainerd when a servant informed him that a gentleman at the door, a friend of Mr. Brainerd's, he called himself, desired to see him immediately. Poor Brainerd's complexion varied perceptibly at this intelligence. The only friend he dreaded seeing it surely be he. "'Won't you invite him in?' said the hospitable Miss Clinton. "'If his visit is one of business, the back parlor is at your service.' "'Oh, no, no, no, I thank you, no,' said Brainerd, rising hastily. "'It is not anybody at all, nobody of consequence. "'I cannot imagine who it can be.' But Brainerd had imagined, and when he reached the street door, he found that he had imagined correctly. "'How do you do, my dear fellow-deedle, I did to see you, been looking for you all over town,' exclaimed Mr. Badger, at the highest pitch of his stentorian voice. "'Thought I'd find you here, pretty girl, I saw you within Broadway, eh? Fine eyes, fine woman, affairs getting on well, courtship's slow work, must make haste, women like you, all the better going ahead with dispatch, eh?' "'My dear Mr. Badger,' said Brainerd in the most conciliatory tone, "'I heard that you called my rooms this morning. I was really very sorry to miss you. You have taken a great deal of trouble to come this distance, but really, you must excuse me at present. "'No trouble at all, my dear fellow. Business never troubles me. Prefer calling in a house where there's a pretty girl, how is she, eh? Mr. Badger, if you do not wish to ruin me, will you not invite your friend to walk in, Mr. Brainerd?' said Mrs. Clinton, whose old-fashioned ideas of civility made it incumbent upon her to entertain all the visitors of her own visitors. "'Walk in, sir, will you not?' "'Much obliged to you. Very happy,' your lady-ships said Badger, before Brainerd could prevent him. "'Very happy to make your acquaintance. How's your lady-ship's daughter beautiful, girl, charming girl, fine eyes! Had the pleasure of being introduced to you by my friend Brainerd, particular friend of mine!' Mrs. Clinton looked astonished at the extraordinary ease and self-possession of Mr. Badger, and Brainerd, almost beside himself, drew the lady's arm within his, reconducted her, without her own consent, into the parlor, and whispered, Pray, do not be alarmed. There is something wrong with this individual here, he touched his forehead, but he is quite harmless, do not be alarmed. He turned hastily to rejoin Mr. Badger and found him already at the parlor door. "'Come with me into the entry. I have a few words to say to you in private,' said Mr. Brainer, mothering with difficulty his rising wrath. "'But, my dear fellow, it would be a very rude for me to refuse this lady's invitation, never refuse invitations from a lady!' Mr. Badger winked his eyes significantly. "'Twon't do always offend them. Make it a rule, never to offend a lady. I will answer for it that Mrs. Clinton shall not be offended, and I must speak with you.' Brainerd forced his friends nearer to the street door, and then continued, "'If nothing goes wrong, I shall be married in the course of a month. All your claims will be cancelled. Will that not content you?' "'Me, certainly, most easily contented man in the country, great country, great country. But Delmonico, my dear fellow, Delmonico won't wait, never waits. Must have his money. Like the old Jew in the play, must have his money. Ever seen Shylock in Portia, sublime, sublime. Must go see McCready. Fine play, fine fellow, great fellow, sublime. Leave me now, Badger.' I thought it struck me. I think I may see away in you speedily. You spoke of Jews. If it is possible for me to borrow any money, and there are Jews in the city who lend, you shall be paid without further delay. Must make it possible, my dear fellow. Faith makes everything possible. Great thing. Must have faith. Nothing like it. I have. I have. Good evening. Call at my rooms.' Brainerd had, by this time, dexterously managed to get his friend upon the stoop, and, breaking away from him, suddenly closed the street door in his face. He waited a few moments in the entry, fearing that Badger's pernacity of character might induce him to ring the bell, for the sake of making some further inquiry. A low chuckle and the noise of unequal footsteps descending from the porch were the only sounds that met his ear. And once more he re-entered the parlor. The excitement produced by Mr. Badger's visit rendered him desperate. Without even attempting to escape observation, he drew Miss Esther to the window, and declared himself to be her adorer, and treated that she would immediately put it into his suspense. He did not add that he requested an instant reply, because he had somebody else in view. But as the thought often crossed his mind, and he was so much bewildered that he hardly knew what he was saying, he ran some risk of making a similar confession. Esther's answer was all that he could have desired in something more. She promised to be his, eternally his, to love him alone, and to remain ever by his side, and to find her whole happiness in his presence. Reynard returned home singing that night, and never once changed the notes to a whistle, until he thought of Aria Walton. CHAPTER X of THE FORTUNHUNNER A novel of New York society by Anna Cora Mawet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. KELLEY TAYLOR Unheedful vows may be heedfully broken, Shakespeare. The unpleasantness of Edgar Chadwick's visit to the Clintons only made him more anxious to behold Aria. A word from her sweet lips could cancel all the disagreeable impressions, remove all the uneasiness, and by magical influence speedily restore his cheerfulness. He determined to talk again upon the lemmings. And insist upon seeing Miss Walton, short, because it was made with the hasty steps of expectation, brought him to Mr. Lemmings' door. An Irish woman, a simple-hearted creature, answered the summons of the bell. As soon as she saw who desired admittance she saluted him with, Look, Mr. Chadwick, is it yourself? It's right, glad I am to see you, and it's been watching for you all the afternoon I was. The Mrs. left word that she was too busy to see you in case you called. But there's Miss Aria, Lord, love her, and bless her beautiful face. Sure the like of it never smiled upon a poor body before, at all, at all. Miss Aria, she kind of knew you'd come. And Biddy, she says to me, Good Biddy, it's always good, Biddy, with the sweet soul. Is Mr. Chadwick comes tonight? Do you just manage to open the door for him and contrive to slip this here little letter into his hand, for my sake, and never list the word of it about the house, Biddy, for it's you I can trust and nobody else called lesser. Those were just the words she spoke. And so I will miss, says I, for there's nobody but the letter. Give me the letter, good woman, no matter for your answer. Where's the letter? Why, sure, here it is, if I haven't lost it. I puts it in my pocket and goes downstairs and never thought to see if it was safe till this blessed minute. But it is safe, is it not? What on earth makes you wear such a sack of a pocket, said Chadwick, impatiently, as Bridget's arm, up to the very elbow, disappeared in her capacious pocket, from which she had not yet extracted the precious document? Oh, it's because I have a power of things to keep in it, be sure. Vaid then trough, then the letter's gone. No, here it is. No it aren't neither, it's the Mrs. Paper of Camomile Flowers. Ah, now here it is safe enough, I knew it by the little blue seal. Edgar snatched the letter, hurriedly thanked the woman, and was turning away when he remembered that there might be something even more acceptable to her than thanks, and slipped half a dollar into her hand. Thank ye, sir, thank ye, that's a rare gentleman Miss Arias got for her spark at all events. The Lord prosper ye both. I shan't forget to tell Miss Arias that it's just Edgar did not hear the conclusion of her sentence, for he was already rapidly pursuing his way towards home. The letter was in his hand, and he found it impossible to walk the whole distance to Waverly Place without at least taking a glimpse at its contents. He stepped beneath the street-lamp, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. It contained several pages closely written in a delicate but here and there irregular, almost illegible hand as though the feelings of the rider had varied as she wrote. He hastily refolded the sheets, more impatient than ever for the seclusion of his own chamber. That chamber he entered in ten minutes more. The door was locked, a candle lighted, and the letter in his hand he opened it again and again, touched the impress of that dear hand to his lips, and with a light and a hopeful heart, seated himself and read as follows. How shall I begin to write you, beloved Edgar? How shall I ever find the words to communicate to you tidings which have weighed so heavily on my own heart that I dread no future trial so much as transferring a portion of their weight to yours? Nerve yourself and be strong. With what fortitude were it needful would you not endure the most excruciating physical operation? Prepare yourself with equal courage to bear this unavoidable mental affliction. A few days ago, only a few days ago, I promised you to become your wife. And oh, how much more than wife I promised myself to be to you! But I dare not dwell over the blissful past. The past it is indeed, for the happiness of those hours can never return. The tender title of wife can never be mine. Thank God I have written the worst. You know all. Yes, I who but yesterday so fondly pictured the sunny future to your enchanted eyes, I whose thoughts were so pregnant with bright prospects and brighter hopes, whose lips were so full of tenderness, whose heart so replete with the first passionate devotion with which it had ever inspired, I whose hand but last night returned the pressure of yours with all the warmth of happy love. With that very hand I today trace the unalterable words, I can never be yours. The barrier to our union can never be surmounted. Or whence the knowledge of it came I can never even reveal to you. Your most urgent entreaties could not force me to do so, for there is a vow against it already registered in heaven. Therewith firmness, the misfortunes, that are not only allotted to you for a wise end, I should be more resigned if I could but know that you were firm. All hope is not taken from us. One last lingering ray yet throws its light over the far distant future, though the darkness of despair lies between. How short is this life? How long eternity? How short a space, then, can our spirits be separated? For how long, O one, may they be reunited in the world to which we are journeying? Alas, in the existence of that world you hardly believe, and you deny yourself, how great a consolation, Edgar, beloved Edgar, there is one grief greater to me than the certainty that I must resign you for ever, far greater than the knowledge that all my earthly dreams of happiness are dispelled, and then even greater than the anguish of knowing that I have made you miserable. It is the grief which overwhelms me, when I remember that I shall not be permitted to converse with you daily, to present holy truths to your mind, to lead your thoughts to the contemplation of your Creator, to hear you at length, acknowledge his existence, his perfect goodness, and his boundless mercy, and yield him the homage of an adoring spirit. Something of this is grief you can spare me. It is my last request, Edgar, for my sake, if not for your own. You cannot refuse it. The universal end, the end of all things in creation, is that there may be an eternal conjunction of the Creator with His creatures. In order that this conjunction may take place, we must elevate our minds to Him and purify our spirits, that they may become recipients of His goodness and wisdom. Our minds we cannot thus elevate to God, unless we seek and find Him. You, Edgar, have not found Him, because you have not sought. My only petition to you is that you will seek Him now, that you will look for the proofs of His existence, not in this external world alone, nor in the starry worlds, whose wonderful periodical motions He orders and controls. Look for Him in the yet more wonderful workings of the immortal soul, and you will find Him there, perfectly manifested as everywhere. Can the philosopher ask a nobler study? No religion must be based on philosophy, or its foundation is in the sand. You will perhaps answer me, but how am I to believe that there is such a thing as that soul of which you speak? I have never yet seen the evidence of such existence. I only see that our perceptions are derived through our senses, which are material, and that the will which guides our action proceeds from the workings of the brain, animated by a vital principle which, being extinguished, causes us to expire. I reply that of the existence of the soul you may readily convince yourself. In cases of natural or induced somnambulism, of which thousands of instances are daily occurring around us, the body is deprived of all sensation, and the material senses are completely closed. Yet the soul feels, thinks, wills, and internally acts. It perceives by millions of spiritual senses, and in some states has intercourse with spirits. Distances are annihilated, and the spiritual vision perceives objects too far removed to be visible to the keenest natural side. These facts have long and too well been authenticated, for the determined skepticism reasonably to deny them. If you admit them, you must admit that the workings of the brain are caused by the spirit or soul, and that the vital principle of which you speak is that spirit or soul, and cannot be extinguished, although it may be separated from its fleshly covering, the body, when that covering becomes disorganized and useless. All that I ask is that you will thoroughly investigate these subjects, rejecting nothing that appears marvelous and incomprehensible, until you have satisfied yourself that it is a delusion, and that the learned and wise men who received it as true were deluded. Will you pardon me if I say a word on the subject of faith? The other evening I heard you say it may be very unfortunate that I am not blessed with faith. If you are not, it is indeed unfortunate. A celebrated theologian gives the following definition of faith. Faith is an affectation for truth, arising from the love of truth, for truth's sake. Are you indeed without this affection, anger? I think not. One more word, and I have finished. The Bible. Read it. I entreat you. If it only be a study, yet read it. From the natural or literal sense of its contents, which first reaches the understanding, you will learn much, and gradually, as your mind becomes enlightened, through reverence and affection for those contents, its spiritual meaning will become apparent to you. You will feel that its writers were inspired, and that it is indeed the word of God, by the means of which men have communicated with heaven. You may perhaps think it strange that I should choose such a painful moment to write on subjects of this nature, but reflect, dearest Edgar, of how much importance I esteem these subjects. Remember that these lines may be the last that I shall ever address to you, and you will pardon me. I look upon this world as the vestibule, where we must fit ourselves for heaven. What wonder, then, that I should earnestly desire that your soul should be so molded, that the sphere which I humbly hope would be heaven to me, should not be less so to you. I have finished, and as I call to mind your superiority of intellect, your strength of character, and the talents for which you are distinguished, I am surprised at myself for daring to usurp the place of counselor. Ah, Edgar, that place I shall never again hold. Let me not have forced myself into this once in vain, and now I must write that most dreaded and doubly sad word, farewell. I may not add, think of me, but rather forget me, and forget that you ever loved me. To hear that you are happy will be some alleviation of my sorrow, when time has healed the wound now so fresh in your heart. You will marry, at least I hope you will, and then I may sometimes venture to be near you, and rejoice in your well-being. As for myself, I will never be a wife, shall never love another. Although, henceforth, I must force myself to love you as a sister. Farewell. My pen pauses at the word. There is so much more I would say. But no, it would only add to your sorrow. Farewell. May heaven soon grant you the love of another and worthier being, whose devotion may equal, and if possible, surpass that of your aria. Good God, faltered Chadwick, as he finished the last line. Do I not dream? Aria rejects me, gives me no reason, refuses to state the obstacle. What am I to think? And yet, what pure and perfect love she invents, how she restrains her own feelings for fear of painting me, how generous, self-sacrificing, how full of wise goodness is every line. Chadwick re-perused a portion of the letter, and his eyes filled overflowing. In a moment he hastily brushed away the moisture. What weaknesses did? I will see her. She must see me. She must explain. And there is no obstacle which I will not surmount. She shall be yet mine. The jewel is too priceless for me to relinquish it. She cannot resist my entreaties. No, no. Only perfect, too angelic aria. I can learn your beautiful faith from no lips as well as from by-pure ones, and they must not refuse to teach me. End of Chapter 10, Chapter 11 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York Society by Anna Cora-Mawet. This LibriVox recording is the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. They name thee before me, and nail to mine ear Byron. The wisest and best men, says a German author, whose schemes are the grandest and whose hopes, the highest, are most liable to disappointment. It was probably upon the truth of this sentiment that Mr. Badger was reflecting, as he sat in his dark and dusty little office near the exchange, making out a list of friends who, in spite of his vigilance exertions, had managed to absent themselves during his memory-refreshing visits. Conspicuously upon his list stood forth the name of Mr. Eustace Mordant. Mr. Badger pointed with his long, bony forefinger at that name, and gravely soliloquized. This won't do, and do injustice to the public. Call there twice this week, old woman, said, Death never hears my knock. Promise to fork out the shiners two days ago. No escape. Having thus expressed himself, he took up his hat, with an air of a man determined to do his duty, and sallied forth, his countenance exhibiting that self-satisfied cheerfulness that usually characterized it, but engaged in pursuing his agitation. Mr. Mordant sometime had business in Wall Street, so had Mr. Badger always. The latter gentleman was so intimately acquainted with all the dark nooks and corners of this busy thoroughfare that, like Byron, he was often alone amid the crowd, and unobserved in contemplative observer of the actions and passions of his fellow men. Whether or not he had the faculty of rendering himself invisible we cannot say, but it is quite certain that about an hour after he left his office, Mr. Mordant, who happened to be thoughtfully walking down Wall Street at this time, was suddenly startled by a hand cordially stretched out to grasp his, and the apparition of a Jocco's face unexpectedly smiling in front of him, as only those who have accomplished some darling purpose can smile. Ah, Mordant, my dear fat even Mr. Badger, with all his fluency of tongue, could hardly finish that familiar word addressed to the cold and stately individual who stood frowning before him. Dearly delighted to meet you, called twice at your house. Oh, lady so deaf she can't hear my knock. Better get rid of her. How's the other one, eh? I mean the black-eyed one that won't wear a bit of comb in all that sublime hair of hers. Fine woman, fine woman, only two pale. A change, almost appalling, passed over the features of Mr. Mordant. As Badger spoke these last words, his usually colorless cheeks and white lips grew livid, his eyes became distended, and the orbs rolled wildly in their sockets. Quick and gasping came his thickened breath, and every limb whose position had before been so full of majestic hardiness quivered and shook as with an ague Mr. Badger was more awed by the horror depicted in the liniments before him than he had ever been when rage and defiance usurped its place. Hush! whispered Mordant, and the sound seemed strangely prolonged, for it was the only one he could utter. Certainly, certainly rejoined Badger, resuming his former lively and easy deportment. Never lisp a word about the lady in the garret. Oh, you sober-faced ol' sinner, added he in a bantering tone. Who'd suspect how you amused yourself at home, eh? Don't forget to present my compliments. Sorry you didn't introduce me. Have I not warned you at your peril never again to mention the subject? Never, while you live, mention it even to yourself, unless you would have evil before you. Say no more. Some folks don't mind talking about their little harem-scarrem scrapes, and some folks always keep them close. Mr. Mordant did not reply, and his friend continued jocosely, But I didn't think it of you. I didn't never suspect it. I hear a jolly fellow as cunning about shutting the girls up and the garret is any deluder of them all. By heaven, this is too much, Mr. Badger. If you have any consideration up for yourself, if you do not wish to incense me beyond all endurance to set me mad, both seriferated Mordant, losing all self-position, you will never allude to that unfortunate being again. You have once given me your promise, and I thought, I believed. Say no more. Nuff said. Never mention her name. That's to say, after I know it. Your business with me, Mr. Badger, was concerning that little bill in your hand. Exactly, exactly. Hit the nail on the head that time. Never trouble any friends about business until they are quite ready. Always study their convenience. Make it a roll, my dear fellow. Make it a roll. Before Badger finished speaking, Mr. Mordant had taken out a well-worn, but slenderly filled pocket-book, and placed its contents in Mr. Badger's hand. It will not make up the whole account, but it is every dollar I have. It must content you. In a few days I have the prospect of receiving a sum of money, which has been some time due for lawyers' fees. You shall then be satisfied. Difficulty about getting in the shiners, eh? Don't let that distress you. Put the bills in my hands. I'll collect it. No fear. They'll pay me. Everybody pays me. I'll do the business for you. That is impossible, for I should then lose the chance of being again employed. And now, Mr. Badger, I wish you a very morning. I believe our roads lie in different directions. Mr. Mordant passed on, and Mr. Badger stood looking after him, shaking his head demurely and muttering to himself, who'd have thought it of the old chap? Who'd have thought it? Never suspected him. Last man in the world. All alike, all alike, sober chaps, no better than the rattle-pates. The women play the devil with them all. Convinced of this fact, Mr. Badger proceeded to make a few calls upon the wives and daughters of the gentleman whose name he kept in his memorandum book. He invariably found it a good policy to have an interview with the female portion of the family, and engage their services in influencing the male to reward his assiduity. Perhaps there was sometimes no small portion of selfishness on the part of the ladies who undertook to promote his views, for the visits of Mr. Badger were by no means short or few. And he had a method of his own of gaining admittance exactly at the very moment when his presence created the greatest sensation not to say disturbance. A novel of New York Society by Anna Cora-Mowat. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Eger Chadwick was possessed of a disposition which could not be depressed by opposition to his wishes, so long as there was a remote possibility of surmounting that opposition by his own exertions. He was naturally frank, straightforward and incapable of disguising either his feelings or his intentions. When he found he could not obtain an interview with Aria by calling at her residence, he instantly took his way to that part of the city in which there was most likelihood of his meeting Mr. Lemming. When he found him, he explained his situation, read him a few passages from Aria's letter, and requested that he procure him an interview with her. Mr. Lemming did not seem to be surprised at his young friend's communications until he stated that he had several times been denied admittance by the order of Mrs. Lemming. The cheek of the kind old man flushed, and his eyes sparkled, but he only replied, It was without my knowledge, I assure you it was without my knowledge. I felt convinced that was so, sir, return, Chadwick, and therefore I take the liberty of begging you, if you are so disengaged to accompany me to the house that I may thus gain admission, for I must see Aria this very day. I fear she is immovable, replied Mr. Lemming, but I will do as you desire, and at least you shall see her. That is all I ask, although if you could inform me of the cause of which induced her to take the sudden resolution, I should be greatly indebted to you. You must not question me, my dear young friend. I am only partially acquainted with Aria's motive, but you may feel assured that she is not a woman who would take such a decisive step from impulse, and that she has decided, in this case, after mature deliberation. I hope to prove that her decision is not unalterable, replied Eger. The two gentlemen exchanged but few remarks until they reached the house. Mr. Lemming opened the door with a night key, ushered his companion into the parlor, and went to see Aria. Eger, in spite of himself, was every instant becoming more agitated, but not many minutes were allowed for him to calm himself before Mr. Lemming had scarcely disappeared before Aria entered. She came forward with unfaltering steps and extended her hand with her wanted cordiality, and yet without her unwanted warmth and tenderness. The smile, too, that welcomed him, had all its form of sweetness, but none of its form of gaiety. Her cheek was paler than Eger had ever beheld it, and betokened inward suffering. Her eyes, those soft, dark orbs, that, until now, had ever sparkled so brightly at his coming, were heavy and downcast, as though their lids were charged with unshed tears. Yet her whole countenance was serene, and her manners were perfectly calm. Aria, my own Aria, exclaimed Eger, the instant he beheld her, I have come to tell you that no obstacle shall separate us, that I cannot, will not, release you from your promise, and that I shall pardon you the wretched night you occasioned to speak me, when you bid me forget you ever dealt so lightly with my happiness as to write that cruel letter. Eger, Mr. Chadwick, faltered Aria, I had hoped that you would spare me, spare yourself, this meeting. I can only repeat what I have already said, and that it is quite as painful for me to speak as you to hear. But you will not hold your resolution, dearest Aria, if you ever loved me, as you once made me too happy by saying you did, you will not trifle with me, thus you will not sacrifice my peace, my hopes, my I am weak, Eger, do not try me, interrupted Aria, you can add to my grief, but you cannot shake my resolution. Your wife I can never be, never will be, I have said it, nothing in this world can alter my determination. As she spoke these last words, there was so much firmness, even severity, in her tone, so much determination in her air that Eger's heart sank within him. At least you cannot refuse me an explanation. What obstacle can there be which I can find insurmountable? Do you doubt my words or easily forget them, Eger, as to question? Have I not told you that the obstacle was one which I could never reveal? Forgive me, my best beloved, I had not forgotten it. Nay, do not withdraw your hand. There is a time when it lay in mind untrumbling. Tell me, Aria, how many days is it since the night you promised that thus, hand in hand, we would brave all life's ills together? Aria's feelings were too much harrowed by the question for her to reply. Her lover saw the advantage he had hoped to gain, and felt that this was the propitious moment. With the fever of hope he seized the hand she had withdrawn, and said, I must know, dearest, I must, better for you to break the vow you have made, than for you to insure my wretchedness by keeping it. Tell me this obstacle to our union. That were impossible, Eger, is it kind of you to thus test my firmness of purpose? The vow I have made can never be broken. You were not so scrupulous in breaking the vow which was previously made to me, returned Eger hastily. Tears sprang into Aria's eyes when she heard the cruel approach, but she forced them back before they were observed by Eger. Of a sudden it occurred to him that the objection which his father had offered to the union, Aria's probable illegitimacy, might have been communicated to her, and induced her to make her present resolve. It was a delicate subject on which to speak, and, if she was ignorant of the world's suspicions, he ran the great risk of wounding her, yet it was necessary for him to unravel this mystery, and the chance of painting her was only equal to that of permanently alleviating her sufferings. Dearest, he said, in a low and tender tone, can you not conceive that I may be acquainted with this impediment? Does it chew through your parents? Aria could scarcely repress the shriek that was ready to burst from her lips, the agitation she evinced alarmed Eger, while it convinced him that he was right in his surmise. He attempted to support her, but she extricated herself from his grasp and said, I could have borne to hear others say it, I have borne it more calmly, but from you, from you, Eger, the blow comes with double violence. It is no blow. Look up, my Aria. I esteem it no obstacle. The misfortune of others shall not be a barrier to our felicity. Say that it shall not, and, since I declare that there is no obstacle to my making a pure and spotless being, such as you are my wife, only tell me that you consent to renew your promise. Whisper that one word, and all will be well. I do not consent. I can never consent, replied Aria, all the emotion that she had here to foreinvents suddenly evanishing. That I am a child of shame, you know, and yet you do not know all. But that is sufficient. The woman who you call wife must be one that you can present to the world without a blush, who can mingle among your friends, who can be received into the bosom of your family. If she were other, she must interfere with your prospects in life, and the brilliancy of your career would be checked by the very hand that should promote it. My resolution, I once more repeat, is unalterable. Every effort you make to shake it inflicts a new wound, but one which I should bear unmoved. This must be the last time that you make any attempt to influence me. If I have cause to think that it will not be, I must shun your presence, and thus secure myself. My strength is failing me, and I must leave you. Edgar, do not make yourself miserable by unafailing regrets. Be composed, be resigned. I have bowed my head to the affliction. Do you bend yours? God give you comfort. I have none to offer you. Adieu! Edgar was alone, alone and baffled, heart-stricken, almost unmanned. It was not his nature to despair, yet what hope could he clean? I cannot give her up, he said to himself as he left the house. That is impossible. Yet what can I do? Sages are right, and our hopes are but bubbles and thistle down. They sink softly into the heart, yet are blown away by passing breath. It may be, never, through our utmost exertions, to be recalled. END OF CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII OF THE FORTUNE HUNNER A novel of New York society by Anna Koromovit. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. A kind and tender heart, for others wants to feel. A soul secure from Fortune's dart and bosom armed with steel to bear divine chest-tiesment's rod and mingling in my plan submission to the will of God with charity to man. J. Q. Adams A month passed on. Esther Clinton considered herself to use her own language betrothed to Augustus Brainard. Yet she did not choose that her engagement should be made known even to her own family, or that her father's consent should be asked. She could find no pleasure except in stolen interviews, and often doubted that theirs could be true love, because its course ran so smooth. She longed for more excitement, and not infrequently determined to dismiss her lover, because she was weary of loving and being loved again, exactly like the rest of the world. She began to suspect that Brainard was not the being destined by uncontrollable fate to woo and win her, in spite of the most insurmountable difficulties and to sacrifice wealth and fame and honor and happiness for the sake of sighing at her feet. Her only mode of varying the monotony of her existence was to quarrel with Aria. She insisted that she had been grossly injured, in what manner she did not choose to explain by Miss Walton, and refused to hold any intercourse with her. When they met she greeted Aria coldly, bestowing upon her the most reproachful glance, and turned away with a good deal of scornful looking beautiful on her lips. In vain Aria besought her to explain how she had offended her. In vain she reiterated that the coolness of her former friend was a source of grief, and in vain her pale countenance and sunken eyes had pleaded for her, and told that her heart was sufficiently full of sorrow without the addition of a pang from the hand that once caressed. Esther maintained a perverse and tragically dignified silence and repelled the warmest advances of the gentle sufferer. Mr. Chadwick Esther seldom saw, for he found that he could not visit the Clintons without raising hopes in his parents, which he never intended to gratify. With Rachel he still kept up an intimacy, both because there was something pleasingly soothing in her society and conversation, and because he could talk of Aria to her, and listen to accounts of their unfortunate friend. In the last month his character had undergone a remarkable change. He ever retained the hope that in some future period Aria would relent, for he could not relinquish it without relinquishing all ambition and all energy, yet he grew thoughtful and even serious. It had been Aria's request, her earnest, her last and only request, that he would study the subject of religion, and for her sake he devoted many an hour to the examination of the most celebrated theological writings and especially to the works of the most spiritual authors. At first he turned their pages from mere curiosity and because it had been Aria's desire, but soon he found himself deeply interested. He took a new view of the subject of religion and wondered his own blindness and ignorance, in never before beholding the great truths of nature in this clear light, and though he yielded not at once his preconceived ideas, the foundation of skepticism was shaken, and the fabric tottered. Everything that was liberal, that was philosophical, that was high-minded, and free from the taint of bigotry and prejudice, accorded with his elevated character. In some authors he met with much that he could not comprehend and much more that he could not credit, yet he learned enough to fully repay him for his researches. If Aria were only by my side to tell me whether her views accorded with those conveyed in this passage he would sigh sometimes, I almost think she would make me a Christian. But Aria, since their last interview he had seen but rarely, only once at the residence of Miss Clinton where he could converse with her, and then, although the expression of her face was resigned, even cheerful, although there was nothing in her mean which betokened sadness and repining, although she greeted him with kindness, the hand which she permitted him to momentarily clasp did not tremble, though her voice was clear and firm, and though she conversed with graceful ease ever-natural to her, yet Egger was so much affected by her presence that he soon was forced to retire. Where was the restless buoyancy that used to make that countenance continually sparkle all over? Where were the rosy gifts of health that once bloomed on her delicate cheek? What spell had hushed the ringing, joyous laugh that ever echoed by those who heard it? The playful sallies that inspired all others by her own mirth want to become of them. But besides this, Aria's health was visibly declining, the roundness of her form had departed, her chest looked sunken, her shoulders contracted, and a low hollow cough often broke like a nail on the ears of those who loved her. Her spirit's sudden strife had left its ravages on her person. True, the spirit was victorious over itself, but the frame was conquered also. She had seen her uncle several times since their last distressing meeting, and he was the same cold, reserved, and gloomy being that he had ever been. Perhaps not colder than before, but certainly not more tender. Aria seldom left the house, but every Sunday, as she walked to church, she was sure of meeting Edgar. Mrs. Liming was by Aria's side, and therefore he did not join them. Yet they entered the same church door, and Edgar always took his seat in a pew in front of theirs. But to the prayers that were offered up, he seldom responded. When others prayed, he was ever watching what more than earthly beauty devotion lent to the heavenly features of Aria. When they sang, he was listening to catch her seraphic tones as they ascended to heaven, and during the sermon he heard not, beheld not the preacher. He only saw the varying of Aria's countenance, and thus geudged the beauty or imperfections of his doctrine. During the last month Rachel Clinton's affection for Aria had greatly increased. Many a long morning she filed away in her society, and they plied their needles faster than ever. Aria never dared to be idle. Employment was her great refuge from her afflicting thoughts. She seldom spoke of her griefs to Rachel, and when she did she would sometimes say, What can equal Shakespeare's knowledge of human nature? Every day I realize the truth of his sentiment. Do you not remember, dearest Rachel, that he says, I can teach twenty men what were good to be done than one of the twenty to follow my own teaching? Look what a good teacher and good preacher you used to find in me, how I used to hold forth upon the best mode of being happy in spite of affliction, and see now how badly I follow my own teaching. But if Aria had not profited by her own doctrines, Rachel had. She had made up her mind never to repine, to extend her sphere of use, to find enjoyment in all the little occupations in life, and to pit herself to be of service to everybody with whom she was thrown into contact. Her want of beauty now never disturbed her, self no longer entered into her calculations. Her affectionate disposition made her long to be loved, especially by her parents and sister, and though she sometimes disbared of winning their affection, she became only more fixed on her determination to deserve it. One feeling in vain she endeavored to suppress. It was her growing interest in Mr. Allen. He visited their home frequently, and it was almost impossible to be insensible to the charm of his polished manners, his agreeable conversation, and his highly cultivated mind. Who can he come to see, mused Rachel? He does not seem to devote himself to Esther, and yet it must be she. I should be a fool indeed if I flattered myself that my society was of any consequence to him. No, he certainly cannot come to see me, and I must try to think less of him, or think of him only as a brother-in-law. Would I then, much as I esteem him, desire to see him as a husband of Esther? Why not? But would she make him happy? If he loves her, he can mold her to his will, and it must be my task to assist him. Mr. Allen had requested Miss Clinton's permission to present her to a special friend of his, a foreigner. The gentleman, he informed her, was a German, and a confirmed invalid, travelling in search of health. He had visited this country for a short time some fifteen or twenty years ago, but was quite a stranger in the city, and Mr. Allen thought he would take some great pleasure in the society of Miss Clinton. He was a man of wealth, yet seemed to have lived a secluded life, and to take little interest in the affairs of the gay world. I think him, concluded Mr. Allen, of a rather desponding turn of mind. He appears the victim of a settled melancholy, notwithstanding which he has so much interested me during his voyage, for we cross the Atlantic together, that I have a great desire you should make his acquaintance and exert your powers in enlivening him. Rachel instantly gave her consent to the introduction, and the next evening Mr. Allen presented to her his friend Mr. Erinstein. Rachel found that Mr. Allen's description had been faithful, and in spite of Mr. Erinstein's seriousness he was very conversable. He could not have reached his fortieth year, yet he looked prematurely old. His hair was almost white, and his fine brow was thickly furrowed with lines of thought and grief. There was an urbanity, a warmth about his demeanor, which, mingling with his habitual sadness, awakened a deep and irresistible interest. He spoke with enthusiasm of his native country, yet seemed to have an affection for America. And that affection, he said, was the offspring of old associations. All together Rachel was much gratified by his visit, and cordially expressed her desire to see him frequently. A few days after Mr. Erinstein's visit, she said to Arya one afternoon, Come Arya, you must put on your bonnet, for I am determined you shall spend this evening with me. Come, I will take no excuse, so get ready. I hope our interesting German will be here tonight, for I want you to see him. Arya begged that Rachel would excuse her, as she found, of late, that any exposure to the night air increased her cough. But this evening the air is quite balmy, returned Rachel, so you must come. Here is a blanket shawl. Wrap it well around you, and I will ensure you are not catching cold. Arya was too low to deprive her friend of the pleasure to refuse any longer and accompany her home. They found Brainerd in the parlor with Esther, but Arya kept so closely to Rachel's side, that in spite of his evident desire he had no opportunity of addressing a word to her which should reach her ear alone. It was painful for Arya to remain in the room with Esther, whose coldness seemed only to have increased, and equally distressing to be obliged to parry Mr. Brainerd's attempt to converse with her in an undertone. She therefore withdrew Rachel to the back parlor, under the plea that the little dresses they were cutting out for Rachel's charity children could be better managed on an empty table which stood there than any other. They had hardly seated themselves at their work when, to Rachel's great delight, Mr. Allen and his friend were ushered into the front parlor. Rachel hastened into the room, beating Arya to follow her. She, however, remained behind to finish a few important stitches, then carefully folding the dresses, entered the parlor. Rachel rose, and, as Arya came forward, presented her to Mr. Ehrenstein. That gentleman also left his seat, and, as the bright light of the chandelier fell full upon Arya's countenance, he started back, as though an apparition stood before him. His hand grasped the table near him for support. Every limb grew stiff as though petrified. The hue of life fled rapidly from his cheeks and lips. His jaw fell, the dilated eyes that were fixed as though spellbound upon Arya's face slowly closed, and he fell back insensible. Mr. Allen sprung forward in time to break his fall, and the whole company gathered round to offer their existence. Arya had the presence of mind to seek a picture of water, which she dashed unhesitatingly into his face. But it was some time before he recovered. When, at length, his eyes unclosed, he stared wildly about him, and the first words he spoke to her. Of whom do you speak, inquired Rachel, in a kind tone, as she leaned over him, wiped the moisture from his forehead. Of Edis! My Edis! Where is she? He is not quite recovered, said Rachel. We must give him more air. Everybody moved back at her request. And, at that moment, Mr. Ehrenstein again caught the sight of Arya. He lifted himself on his elbow, gazed at her intently, and the name Edis again rose to his lips. Arya, from a natural impulse of kindness, bent toward him to inquire if he was better. He stretched out his hand, touched her forehead, as though to discover whether she was indeed a living being, and, withdrawing it, exclaimed, Who are you? My friend, to whom I just introduced you, replied Rachel, Miss Arya Walton. Walton, Walton murmured the stranger to himself. I'm so like Walton. I have never heard that name before. Have I never seen you, then? Not until tonight, replied Arya mildly. But you are ill. Had you not better approached the window? Mr. Ehrenstein took no notice. Again and again he repeated, Mein Gott! Mein Gott! surveying the fair girl between every ejaculation, as though she recalls some painful memory, which he would have gladly forgotten. Little by little he regained his composure. But the only excuse which he made for his emotion was expressed in the words, Forgive me, I am a dlamer. To break the unpleasant pause which ensued, Rachel ordered tea. It was quickly served, and Mr. Ehrenstein, who had hardly moved his eyes from Arya's face, was so much restored by a cup of the refreshing beverage that he was strong enough to take a seat beside her and enter into conversation. You must think my conduct very strange, said he, but you are so strongly resemble a dear friend I once had, a friend who has long since dead. Vivo, not talk of it. I have not raised her name for years. It is a pleasure for me to sit beside you. Arya thanked him, and they soon invents such natural enjoyment in each other's society that when Arya left the house that night, she thought to herself that it was the happiest evening she had passed since the memorable one on which Egger had escorted her home. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Fortune Hunter A novel of New York society by Anna Cora Mallet This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Kelly Taylor Matchless nave What, not one blush of conscience on thy cheek? Coleridge I cannot give her up. No human being ever before exerted such an influence over me. The very sight of her last night roused my every dormant feeling, and her image has ever been before my eyes ever since. And what risk do I run? Even should Esther discover that I visited her quantum friend, she thinks herself too certain of my adoration. She has not sufficient humility and mistrust of her own charms to become jealous. The deuce take her. I wish you bring matters to a close, when once the knot is tied I shall be easy. However, there is no present need of my making myself miserable. The money I borrowed from those urserous Jews has temporarily settled Mr. Badger's claims. My only fear is that, with his usual prying ingenuity, he will manage to discover what other debts there are against me. And it will be quite in character if he had the impudence to solicit their being placed in his hands. And, as sure as into his hands they do get, he gets me into their clutches. But what is that to do with Aria? The beautiful, gentle, peerless Aria. See her I will. Win her I must. And for the rest, trust a look. If fate befriends me, I, exactly, I shall be the most fortunate dog that walks the streets. Thus mused Mr. Brainard, after he had finished pouring over the newspaper an hour after breakfast. Before another hour had quite elapsed, he found himself at Mr. Limbing's door. When it opened to him he had too much tack to inquire if Miss Walton was at home. But, slipping a propitiary piece of silver into the hand of a domestic, he bade her tell Miss Walton that a gentleman who had something particular to communicate desired to see her. When Aria received this message she hastened to the pallor in some alarm and great was her surprise on finding herself rapturously greeted by Mr. Brainard. You do not bring me bad news, I hope, inquired Aria, not entirely recovered from her emotion. I bring you nothing worse than myself. Do not make me miserable by esteeming at evil tidings to hear of my presence, was the tender answer. I have no doubt that Mrs. Limbing will be happy to see you, Mr. Brainard, but she is at present not at home. And if you will permit me to speak freely, she prefers it that I should not receive visitors at all in the morning, nor at any time in her absence. But, Miss Walton, Aria, permit me to call you by that sweet name. Beautiful Aria. Me you will receive, and more than receive, for you will listen to me. Have I not told you that I love you? My only hope in life is to win your love in return. Mr. Brainard, you have once before distressed me by speaking in this manner, and I flattered myself that my answer would have prevented your ever alluding to the subject again. But I know that you would relent when you saw my utter wretchedness. You knew little of me if you supposed that the feelings and intentions which I so clearly avowed to you a few weeks ago could have undergone such a total change, replied Aria. But you have not yet heard what I have to say, nor can I hear anything further, was Aria's determined answer. You will now excuse me, Mr. Brainard, but I have engagements which render it necessary that I should shorten this interview. Good morning. Aria was advancing towards the door. But Mr. Brainard sprang impetuously forward and prevented her escape. Before she could turn, his arm encircled her waist, and she felt his hot breath upon her cheek. At the same moment the door opened, and Mrs. Limming, in bonnet and shawl, stood before the embarrassed pair. Mr. Brainard instantly relinquished his grasp and stooped to pick up Aria's pocket handkerchief, that there might be some excuse for the crimson hue that died his face. Aria appeared overwhelmed with confusion, and her color varied from scarlet to white and from white to scarlet. Almost with every pulsation of her heart, her very innocence made her look a criminal. Mrs. Limming advanced into the room and, throwing off her hat, seated herself upon the sofa with the air of a judge prepared to pass the harshest sentence which the law would permit upon the two delinquents before her. As soon as Aria's tongue obeyed her will, she presented Mr. Brainard to Mrs. Limming as a friend of the Miss Clinton's. Mrs. Limming bowed coldly, and Mr. Brainard was too much a bash to do more than return the bow, and stemmer out something about his being just on the point of bidding Miss Walton good morning, as he had a pressing engagement at that hour, adding that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Limming again. The lady replied by another formal bow, and Mr. Brainard took his leave. And so, Miss Aria, this pet, the favorite, the modest young lady who Mr. Limming thinks can be trusted everywhere, this young lady I find coquettting with a strange gentleman in my parlor with his arm around her waist and her cheek not an inch from his lips. If I had not inopportunely interrupted you, I suppose they would have soon have been somewhere nearer. Oh, you artful little hussy, you succeeded in deceiving everybody else with your pretended amiability and gentleness and affiction, but I saw from the beginning that there was too much of it to be natural. I always knew what you were at bottom, and now I hope I shall be believed. Indeed, my dear Mrs. Limming pleaded Aria tearfully. You did not comprehend the situation in which I was placed. Don't say a word, Miss, I comprehended it only too well, and your uncle shall comprehend it also, as for Mr. Limming will see what he has to say about his favorite now. Mrs. Limming's voice was raised to so hive a pitch of indignation that it disturbed her husband, whose study was in the adjoining room. The sound of his beloved Aria's voice in reply made him close his book and enter the apartment from whence the voices proceeded. Oh, there you are, Mr. Limming. You have come just in time. I hope that you will believe me in future and think that I have some discernment. Here I found Miss Aria standing with a gentleman's arm around her and her lips and his in the very act of making themselves better acquainted. There's modesty for you. The air is innocent. Isn't it exactly as I always told you? Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Limming in intentionally mispresented. Do you dare deny it before my face, Miss? Aria would have replied, but Mr. Limming turned to her and said calmly, Aria child, retire to your chamber. There was not the slightest expression of mistrust on his countenance nor rebuke in his voice, for he was too thoroughly acquainted with Aria's character to doubt her. Aria joyfully obeyed his command. I tell you what, Mr. Limming, said the lady to her husband when they were alone. You must get rid of that girl as quick as you can. I don't want her in my house any longer. Her ladyship is a perfect mistress here. Instead of people coming to see me, it's always Miss Aria they ask for, and Miss Aria they must find somewhere else in the future. I am very sorry that you are so prejudiced against her, my dear, for, as her uncle has placed her under my protection, I intend that she shall remain here. And how does her uncle compensate you, pray? He hasn't paid you a cent for these three months, and I daresay Miss Aria, with all her dignity, is quite content to eat the bread of idleness and charity. Though her uncle should never pay me a farthing, she would not be eating the bread of charity, for she is continually employed for you. Be that as it may, it is my desire that she shall not be molested. Mr. Limming left his spouse to plan ways and means by which she might rid herself of her offensive innate. Aria's crime was unpardonable in Mrs. Limming's eyes. She, a penniless, obscure girl, to receive more attention, more invitations, and a great number of visits than the person by whose bounty she was supported. It was unendurable, and Mrs. Limming made up her mind not to endure it. Recording by Kelly Taylor The worm in the bud prays on her damask cheek. Shakespeare I am sure she is dying, said Rachel Clinton to Mr. Limming a few days after the occurrence, related in the preceding chapter, took place. Look how rapidly she has faded during the last week. I at first thought that grief preyed upon her mind, but she does not seem to grieve and never complains. Yet how feeble she has grown. She coughs incessantly, and the hectic flush on her cheek is a bad sign. My dear Miss Clinton, you alarm me. Do you really suppose that my poor Aria is in any danger? I will go for Dr. Chadwick immediately. Have you much confidence in him as a physician? I cannot say I have ever tested his skill, but he is very celebrated, and he has attended Aria before. Pray do not lose time, then. He ought to see her today. Mr. Limming was too much attached to his young pupil to need this warning. He bent his steps immediately to Dr. Chadwick's residence. Dr. Chadwick was from home, and Mr. Limming wrote the name of Miss Walton upon his slate, with the request that he would call at his earliest convenience. Shortly after Mr. Limming's visit, Edgar Chadwick, who was prosecuting his studies, came to seek a medical work in his father's office. Accidentally his eyes fell on the slate, and he read the name of Aria. She was ill. Perhaps in danger she might die. Without pausing for a moment's reflection he left the house, and never slackened his pace until he stood beneath Aria's window. His furious ring was quickly answered, and he recognized the faithful Irish girl, who had delivered him Aria's letter. Biddy, is it you? Tell me quickly. How is Miss Walton? Sure it is me, sir, but the young lady's poorly, quite poorly. There's not a servant in the house but feels downhearted about her. You must contrive to let me see her, Biddy. Is Mrs. Limming at home? Yes, sir, but she hasn't given any orders about her leg. She's busy with the pastry in the kitchen, and if you'll just walk quiet like into the parlor, I'll never let on to her that you were here at all. But get Miss Aria down to see you before you can snap your finger. Away ran the girl, and she was as good as her word, for Aria followed her as she descended the stairs. This is kind, dearest Aria. How shall I thank you? If it is kind, Edgar, Mr. Chadwick, thank me by saying nothing which I would not desire to hear. I will endeavor to do so. You are ill, my beloved Aria. You are suffering, and I am not permitted to be by you and to soothe you. Rachel is very kind to me, and so is everybody, and I am not in much pain. A very stylish gig at that moment drew up before the door, and Dr. Chadwick alighted. Edgar was too much absorbed by the fair and fading being before him to remember that his presence might awaken his father's displeasure. But Aria, who seemed ever to have a perception of others' feelings, was immediately troubled by the thought that Dr. Chadwick might be annoyed, that he might doubt the course that she had pursued, and become incensed with his son equally with herself. She rose from her seat, looked out of the window, then toward the door, and then at Edgar, made a few uncertain steps forward, and finally sat down again. The possibility of her having become acquainted with his father's opposition to their union now for the first time crossed the mind of Edgar. But before he could question Aria on the subject, Dr. Chadwick entered the room. The doctor's face was the worst possible index to his thoughts, and his feelings were never telegraphed by his manners. This equamity was seldom disturbed except in his family circle. The same easy suavity of address, the same imperpettability of deportment always characterized him. The certain queries, expressions of condolence, of approbation seemed stereotyped upon his lips. Not a muscle of his face denoted either surprise or displeasure when he found his son seated by Aria's side. He saluted them both with grave condescension, and very businesslike indeed was his heir, as he placed himself in an arm chair directly in front of Aria. I am very sorry to hear that you are indisposed, my dear young lady. We must get you well again. Nothing serious, I imagine. That is, nothing alarming. We'll soon put all the wheels in order. Dr. Chadwick paused, and, with the head of his cane, at its familiar point of consultation, his lips, looked Aria steadily in the face. When he had finished his survey he turned to Edgar and said, My son, I have some professional questions to ask Miss Walton, and you must excuse her at present. It was with very marked unwillingness that Edgar rose, and quite regardless of his father's presence he addressed Aria. You must permit me to see you again, dear Aria, that I may have the happiness of witnessing your rapid recovery. A faint smile stole over Aria's face, but she bade him adieu without answering his question. When his son had gone, Dr. Chadwick drew near Aria, and, taking her almost transparent hand in his, pressed his finger upon her pulse. Apparently its beating was too faint to be immediately discoverable, for he remained some minutes in the same position, maintaining the most solemn silence. When he withdrew his finger it was to say, inquiringly, My son, my dear young lady, do not suppose that I ever doubted your word, but have you kept your promise to me, that is, kept it strictly? Yes, replied Aria in a low tone, I have kept it. Right, quite right. I am glad to see you bearing it so bravely, these little trials, my dear, of what we must all expect to meet in the world, and the sooner we make up our minds to take them easy, the better. Did you say that you saw Edgar often? Very seldom. I have seen him but twice in this house since—since I understand, since the advice I gave you, quite right. There is no use of reviving old feelings. Edgar is a headstrong fellow, and without the proper management would give his mother and myself a great deal of trouble. You must not encourage his visits, my dear young woman. It will be better for both of you, if you see but little of each other. I agree with you. It was not my intention to encourage them. Just so. That's exactly how it should be. And now we must see what is the matter with you. We shall have you well in a day or two. After a few inquiries, Dr. Chadwick wrote a prescription for his patient, and requested her to tell Mrs. Liming that he had a few words to say to her. Aria's failing strength made it a relief when her interview with Dr. Chadwick was at an end, and she hastened to communicate his desire to Mrs. Liming. Your young friend is quite indisposed, my dear Mrs. Liming, said Dr., when the lady presented herself quite indisposed, and I particularly request that she be kept quiet, that is to say, she must not receive too many visits. I found my son with her this morning, and after what has passed it would be wise, my dear lady, if you gave orders to your domestics to let him understand that Mrs. Walton is not well enough to receive company. Mrs. Liming violently disclaimed all knowledge of young Chadwick's visit, declared Ms. Aria to be the most artful person whom it had ever been her ill fortune to meet, and gave Dr. Chadwick a very forcible, highly colored account of the situation in which she had found Mr. Brainerd and this very modest young lady. The doctor noted every word, and on his return home, of course, as a mere matter of conversation, repeated the whole affair to his wife. Mr. Brainerd, did you say, inquired Mrs. Chadwick, why that is the very young man who was supposed to be engaged to Esther Clinton, the very young man who interferes with our plans. That very afternoon Mrs. Chadwick ordered her coach at an early hour before she declared it had just occurred to her that she had several visits, which it was incumbent upon her to pay immediately. The first one was to her very dear and inestimable friend, Mrs. Clinton. In the course of the conversation she inquired of that lady if there was any truth in the report that her beautiful daughter Esther was engaged to a Mr. Brainerd. Oh no, no engagement has taken place, replied Mrs. Clinton. The gentleman is desperately in love with my sweet daughter, but then who is not? My mind is quite relieved rejoined Mrs. Chadwick by learning that they are not engaged for entre new. I have no very great opinion of the gentleman. I fear also that he was playing false to your charming daughter. Do you know I have heard, but this is a secret, it must go no further. Oh certainly not, you may rely on me. I have heard, continued Mrs. Chadwick, lowering her voice to a whisper, that the other day he was found in the most disgraceful position towards Ms. Ariel Walton, in one for which there could be no excuse unless he was decidedly her lover. You don't say so, Ms. Aria, is it possible? Well, who would have supposed such a demure little girl would have permitted any improper liberty? You see there's no trusting appearances, my dear Mrs. Clinton. I am convinced this brainard is a very dangerous man. He is totally incapable of appreciating your charming Estelle, and if he has addressed her, it was for the sake of her fortune. Indeed, I have great reason to believe so, for he has not a farthing in the world. This was quite gratuitous information on the part of Mrs. Chadwick, for she was not in the least degree aware of that, she was speaking, the precise truth. Why, you quite alarm me, replied Mrs. Clinton. Now that I reflect upon it, I dare say you are right. Do you know the other evening the most strange-looking and impertinent individual called here, upon this very brainard? It occurred to me afterward that he looked very much like a collector, and brainard was dreadfully agitated while he talked to him, but brainard told us he was only a madman. A likely story. No doubt he was a collector. I advise you, my dear Mrs. Clinton, to warn Mrs. Estelle immediately. She is young and unsuspicious. It is your duty to place her upon her guard. For once the advice was not lost. The instant Mrs. Chadwick concluded her visit, Mrs. Clinton summoned Estelle and communicated to her all the information she had received, finishing her discourse by the declaration that she could not endure brainard and wished it was possible to put an end to his visits. To her mother's astonishment, Esther, when she heard this, heroically declared herself engaged to brainard, said that she adored him, that she would sooner part with life than be separated from him, that she had ever looked forward to these persecutions, and that now she was prepared to bear them, for that no earthly power should sever her heart from the heart to which it was united. This was just the excitement, the persecution she termed it, for which Esther had so long pined. An hour before she was ready to discard her lover, because the current of their love ran too smoothly, and now that objections were offered to their union, now that she had good reasons for really discarding him, she was determined to cling to him through life and death. All her mother's representations and persuasions only served to render her firmer. She said she knew that love was a faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. And to become martyr, although she did not add that, was the reigning desire of her soul. Mrs. Clinton had seldom courage to thwart her favorite's wishes. But in this instance she determined to consult her husband, and through his aid, to discover some method of convincing Esther of Brainerd's true character. Meantime Esther fed and prolonged the incitement she so much loved by writing the most extravagant letter to Brainerd, and telling to him the persecutions to which they were subjected, concluding with the most pathetic assurances that they would live, suffer, and die together, and that the powers of the united universe should never separate them. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Fortune Hunter, a novel of New York Society by Anna Cora-Mawet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. A partner suited to my mind, solitary, pleased, and kind, who partially, may something see, preferred to all the world in me, sliding by my humble side, fame and splendor, wealth and pride, countess of winch sleep. Rachel Clinton was not immediately aware of the communication which her mother was making to Esther, for at that period of Mrs. Chadwick's visit she was sitting in her own little boudoir, but not as usual sitting in solitude. Mr. Allen, who was paying her a visit, had requested to see some of her drawings, and for the first time she had admitted him into her sanctum, partly because she was too modest to display her own skill, or lack of skill, in the parlor where casual visitors were continually entering, and partly because Mr. Allen followed her, uninvited, when she went to seek her portfolio. Furthermore he seemed to think the little car sofa in Rachel's boudoir far more comfortable than any lounge, which the drawing room contained, and, once seated, expressed great unwillingness to change his position. Both parties seemed less at ease than usual, and many long, awful pauses occurred in their conversation, which Rachel tried to relieve by displaying the contents of her portfolio, a proceeding which plainly showed that her thoughts were wandering, for, in general, her mauvaise haunt made her almost painfully reluctant to display her own performances. It has been almost a month since I have seen your friend, Mr. Aaron Steen, said Rachel, by a way of suggesting some new topic. Yes, I think I told you that he was ill ever since the evening he passed here, his mind seemed to have received some severe shock, in what manner I cannot understand, but he has not left his room for a month, and his melancholy has greatly increased. He was affected, I believe, by the strong likeness which he traced in Miss Walton to some deceased friend. Yes, thus much he told me, but the subject appeared to be so painful one that I did not induce him to dwell upon it, being a number of questions concerning Miss Walton, which I answered to the best of my ability. She is an orphan, and the niece of Mr. Lemming, is she not? Oh no, her uncle's name is Mordant. Mr. Lemming was formerly her teacher, he is now her protector. Then I made a gross mistake, but I presume it is hardly worth, while correcting, as, in the present state of my friend's nervous system, the mere mention of her name affects him. Did I not hear Miss Walton herself was ill? Yes. Poor Arya! Nobody will feel her loss more than I shall, yet I have a pre-sentiment that she is rapidly passing to a brighter sphere. I am convinced that she is a victim to consumption. She is so quiet and uncomplaining that not of her friends yet realize it, but I have passed the night and day with her, and am too familiar with the cares of this kind to be deceived. I said that nobody realized her situation, but I mistake her uncle appears to me to be aware of it. He is a cold, harsh man, but once or twice lately I have seen him regard her with the tenderest pity. It was only last night that, for the first time in his life, he returned her affectionate kiss, and then passed his hands hastily over his eyes, as though he feared they were moistened. Is she much changed? Yes, very visibly. She has not lost her wondrous beauty. Some of her beauty, I think she has lost, for it consisted in the varying, beaming brightness of her face, in the buoyant sense of being which seemed to animate her whole frame, and these have entirely vanished. But her loveliness, as only increased, she is calm and very still. Though never sad, sometimes she moves like one in a dream, as though her thoughts were contemplating a state of holier happiness than is permitted to us on earth, and yet she has not lost her interest in the affairs of everyday life. She pursues her usual occupations with the same energy, and is always ready to discuss any new project we have on foot, and to lint her aid. Her character has become perfected as of late, and when I remember that, whom the gods love die young, I cannot think that she will live. She is a strangely interesting being. She is, indeed. Again there was a pause. Rachel scattered about the loose sheets in her portfolio, and Mr. Allen employed himself by twisting the leaves of a pamphlet that lay beside him into dog's ears. When he had sufficiently disfigured the book to become aware of what he was doing, he threw it by and said, Rachel—Rachel colored deeply for it was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name—I wish, Rachel, that you could divine all that I would say. Rachel stammeringly expressed her inability to do so. Tell me, at least, that I do not offend you when I call you by the familiar name of Rachel. You are quite welcome to call me so, but that name does not happen to be a very beautiful one. It acquires its beauty from the spirit of its possessor. Will you believe that, to me, it is the dearest name on earth? Rachel could hardly credit her ears. She had long striven to check the affection which was bringing up in her own heart. She was convinced that it could never be returned, and when she found that her thoughts continually dwelt upon Mr. Allen and his estimable qualities, she persuaded herself that she only entertained a high esteem for him, and called her warmest emotions by the convenient name of friendship. She now set trembling before him, not daring to meet his eye, lest he should read in her heart what she was not aware until this moment that an invisible finger had written there. She strove to reply, but the unmeaning word she attempted to frame died away upon her lips. You do not answer me, dear Rachel. You do not tell me whether I may hope to win a wife who wears the name which I have learned to love, yet I look to you only for an answer. To me? What attraction could you have ever found? How could I have ever endeared the name to you? No, no, I have grossly misunderstood your meaning, said Rachel, involuntarily, and with uncontrollable agitation. Not so, my own Rachel. I may call you mine. May I not? And to prove to you that you have not misunderstood me, I will answer you your questions. If the answer proves a long one, you must be patient. For several years past I have been called a woman-hater, because I mistrusted your sex too much to take pleasure in their society. But you have not found me one, have you? I entered life with brilliant prospects and without experience. My temperament was warm, and soon I became deeply enamoured of a beautiful girl who had hardly attained her eighteenth year. I offered myself and was instantly accepted. Fortunately I was not totally blinded by my passion, and I endeavored to study the character of my future wife. I found her full of envy and the slave of her own passions. She entertained the bitterest feelings of animosity towards those of her own sex, whose beauty vied with hers. To hear them admired made her miserable. She lived in the very breath of adulation, yet, in spite of this, she fascinated me, and I loved her and persuaded myself that I could correct these errors of her character and education. But I did not know then how thoroughly selfish was her nature. The dreadful suspicion soon entered my mind that she was incapable of returning my affection and had merely accepted my hand because it was reported that I was a man of wealth. To test her love I one day hinted that I found my affairs much involved and that I had many fears for the future. We were passing a fortnight at Saratoga. She did not reply at the time to what I said, but before we left the springs she was engaged to a gaudy old millionaire, and coolly informed me that she did not think we were suited to each other. I loved her well enough to make a fool of myself for a while, and when I recovered my senses I very illiberally concluded that artfulness, calculation, and selfishness were the characteristics of the whole sex. I suppose you will dispute that I had come to my senses, but I thought I had. For several years I mingled but seldom in society and resentfully eschewed all intercourse with your sex. By the persuasion of a friend I was induced to accompany him to Miss Edaire's ball. I considered myself a spectator and not a participator in the festivities, and found my principal amusement in watching the maneuvers of the company, every individual of whom appeared, bent upon accomplishing some particular purpose. It was then that my eye fell upon you. You were following your beautiful sister about performing a thousand kind offices for her, and evidently gratified by the admiration which she elicited. When she danced, you seated yourself without the slightest appearance of mortification at being neglected, and I observed that you made yourself agreeable to the ladies beside you and seemed to enjoy the gay scene as much as anybody present. I asked your name of Mr. Ellery, whom I saw speaking to you a few moments previous, and from him I learned some particulars of your history. You were an heiress, and your hand had often been sought in marriage, and yet you had too little vanity to suppose that you had inspired a tender affection and determined to renounce the advantages of wealth that you might find sincerity. You were neglected by your former lovers, and yet entertained no peak towards them or the world in general, and could find happiness in performing kind offices for others. This is really a noble woman, I thought to myself. Here is one breast in which the monster self has never been enthroned. I requested an introduction to you. The better I knew you, the more I esteemed, nay, loved you. Answer me one word. Have I wasted my affection, or have I laid it out at usury to find it brings back twice its value? Rachel answered. But that in articulate disjointed answer it would be impossible to repeat, for Rachel herself hardly knew what she was saying. Yet her reply was all that her lover could have desired, and as he looked upon her glowing cheeks and pressed her to his heart he inwardly exclaimed, Who that saw her now could say she was not lovely.