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Title: Miriam Monfort
       A Novel

Author: Catherine A. Warfield

Release Date: May 27, 2004 [EBook #12453]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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[Transcriber's note: Part III contains two chapters labeled Chapter VI.]

MIRIAM MONFORT:

_A NOVEL_.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE."

    "Fancy, _with_ fact, is just one fact the more."

    "Let this old woe step on the stage again,
    Act itself o'er anew for men to judge;
    Not by the very sense and sight indeed,
    Which take at best imperfect cognizance.
    Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand,
    What mortal ever in entirety saw?
    Yet helping us to all we seem to hear,
    For, how else know we save by worth of word?"

BROWNING, "_The Ring and the Book_"

NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 & 551 BROADWAY.
1873.

DEDICATION

_This book is dedicated to the memory of one most dear, who saw it grow
to completion with pleasure and approbation, during the last happy
summer of a life since darkened by misfortune. Peace be his!_

_MONFORT HALL._

    "Not one friend have we here, not one true heart;
    We've nothing but ourselves."

    "There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
    And swiftly will the destiny close on us.
    It drove me hither from my calm asylum;
    It lures me forward--in a seraph's shape
    I see it near, I see it nearer floating--
    It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power,
    And, lo, the abyss! and thither am I moving;
    I have no power within me--but to move."

    "He is the only one we have to fear, he and his father."

COLERIDGE'S _Translation of Schiller's "Wallenstein"_

MIRIAM MONFORT


       *       *       *       *       *




PART I.

_MONFORT HALL_.

CHAPTER I.


My father, Reginald Monfort, was an English gentleman of good family,
who, on his marriage with a Jewish lady of wealth and refinement,
emigrated to America, rather than subject her and himself to the
commentaries of his own fastidious relatives, and the incivilities of a
clique to which by allegiance of birth and breeding he unfortunately
belonged.

Her own family had not been less averse to this union than the
aristocratic house of Monfort, and, had she not been the mistress of her
own acts and fortune, would, no doubt, have absolutely prevented it. As
it was, a wild wail went up from the synagogue at the loss of one of its
brightest ornaments, and the name of "Miriam Harz" was consigned to
silence forever.

Orphaned and independent, this obloquy and oblivion made little
difference to its object, especially when the broad Atlantic was placed,
as it soon was, between her and her people, and new ties and duties
arose in a strange land to bind and interest her feelings.

During her six years of married life, I have every reason to believe
that she was, as it is termed, "perfectly happy," although a mysterious
disease of the nervous centres, that baffled medical skill either to
cure or to name, early laid its grasp upon her, and brought her by slow
degrees to the grave, when her only child had just completed her fifth
year.

My father, the younger son of a nobleman who traced his lineage from
Simon de Montfort, had been married in his own estate and among his
peers before he met my mother. Poor himself (his commission in the army
constituting his sole livelihood), he had espoused the young and
beautiful widow of a brother officer, who, in dying, had committed his
wife and her orphan child to his care and good offices, on a
battle-field in Spain, and with her hand he had received but little of
this world's lucre. The very pension, to which she would have been
entitled living singly, was cut off by her second marriage, and with
habits of luxury and indolence, such as too often appertain to the
high-born, and cling fatally to the physically delicate, the burden of
her expenses was more than her husband could well sustain.

Her parents and his own were dead, and there were no relatives on either
side who could be called upon for aid, without a sacrifice of pride,
which my father would have died rather than have made. He was nearly
reduced to desperation by the circumstances of the case, when,
fortunately perhaps for both, she suddenly sickened, drooped, and died,
in his absence, during her brief sojourn at a watering-place, and all
considerations were lost sight of at the time, in view of this
unexpected and stunning blow--for Reginald Monfort was devoted, in his
chivalric way, to his beautiful and fragile wife, as it was, indeed, his
nature to be to every thing that was his own. Her very dependence had
endeared her to him, nor had she known probably to what straits her
exactions had driven him, nor what were his exigencies. Perhaps (let me
strive to do her this justice, at least), had he been more open on these
subjects, matters might have gone better. Yet he found consolation in
the reflection that she had been happy in her ignorance of his affairs,
and had experienced no strict privation during their short union,
inevitably as this must later have been her portion, and certainly as,
in her case, misery must have accompanied it.

Her child, in the absence of all near relatives, became his charge, and
the little three-year-old girl, her mother's image, grew into his
closest affections by reason of this likeness and her very helplessness.
Two years after the death of his wife, he espoused my mother, a bright
and beautiful woman of his own age, with whom he met casually at a
banker's dinner in London, and who, fascinated by his Christian graces,
reached her fair Judaic hand over all lines of Purim prejudice, and
placed it confidingly in his own for life, thereby, as I have said,
relinquishing home and kindred forever.

A hundred thousand pounds was a great fortune in those days and in our
then modest republic, and this was the sum my parents brought with them
from England--a heritage sufficiently large to have enriched a numerous
family in America, but which was chiefly centred on one alone, as will
be shown.

My father, a proud, shy, fastidious man, had always been galled by the
consciousness of my mother's Israelitish descent, which she never
attempted to conceal or deny, although, to please his sensitive
requisitions, she dispensed with most of its open observances. That she
clung to it with unfailing tenacity to the last I cannot doubt, however,
from memorials written in her own hand--a very characteristic one--and
from the testimony of Mrs. Austin, her faithful friend and
attendant--the nurse, let me mention here, of my father's little
step-daughter during her mother's lifetime, and her brief orphanage, as
well as of his succeeding children.

Stanch in his love of church and country, we, his daughters, were all
three christened, and "brought up," as it is termed, in the Episcopal
Church, and early taught devotion to its rites and ceremonies. Yet, had
we chosen for ourselves, perhaps our different temperaments might, even
in this thing, have asserted themselves, and we might have embraced
sects as diverse as our tastes were several. I shall come to this third
sister presently, of whom I make but passing mention here. She was our
flower, our pearl, our little ewe-lamb--the loveliest and the last--and
I must not trust myself to linger with her memory now, or I shall lose
the thread of my story, and tangle it with digression.

With my Oriental blood there came strange, passionate affection for all
things sharing it, unknown to colder organizations--an affection in
whose very vitality were the seeds of suffering, in whose very strength
was weakness, perhaps in whose very enjoyment, sorrow. I have said my
mother died of an insidious and inscrutable malady, which baffled friend
and physician, when I was five years old. She had been so long ill, so
often alienated from her household for days together, that her death was
a less terrible evil, less suddenly so, at least, than if each morning
had found her at her board, each evening at the family hearth, and
every hour, as would have been the case in health, occupied with her
children.

My father's grief was stern, quiet, solitary; ours, unreasonable and
noisy, but soon over as to manifestation. Yet I must have suffered more
than I knew of, I think, for then occurred the first of those strange
lethargies or seizures that afterward returned at very unequal intervals
during my childhood and early youth, and which roused my father's fears
about my life and intellect itself, and gave me into the hands of a
physician for many years thereof, vigorous, and healthy, and intelligent
otherwise as I felt, and seemed, and _was_.

It was soon after the first settling down of tribulation in our
household to that flat and almost unendurable calm or level that
succeeds affliction, when a void is felt rather than expressed, and when
all outward observances return to their olden habit, as a car backs
slowly from a switch to its accustomed grooves, that a new face appeared
among us, destined to influence, in no slight degree, the happiness of
all who composed the family of Reginald Monfort.

It was summer. The house in which we lived was partly finished in the
rear by wide and extensive galleries above and below, shaded by movable
_jalousies;_ and, on the upper one of these, that on which our
apartments opened, my father had caused a hammock to be swung, for the
comfort and pleasure of his children. With one foot listlessly dragging
on the floor of the portico so as to propel the hammock, and lying
partly on my face while I soothed my wide-eyed doll to sleep, I lay
swaying in childish fashion when I heard Evelyn's soft step beside me,
accompanied by another, firmer, slower, but as gentle if not as light. I
looked up: a sweet face was bending over me, framed in a simple cottage
bonnet of white straw, and braids of shining brown hair.

The eyes, large, lustrous, tender, of deepest blue, with their black
dilated pupils, I shall never forget as they first met my own, nor the
slow, sad smile that seemed to entreat my affectionate acquaintance. The
effect was immediate and electric. I sat up in the hammock, I stretched
out my hands to receive the proffered greeting, and then remained
silently, child-fashion, surveying the new-comer.

"Kiss me," she said, "little Miriam. Have they not told you of me? I am
Constance Glen--soon to be your teacher."

"Then I think I shall learn," I made grave reply, putting away the thick
curls from my eyes and fixing them once more steadily on the face of the
new-comer. "Yes, I _will_ kiss you, for you look good and pretty. Did my
mother send you here?"

"She is a strange child, Miss Glen," I heard Evelyn whisper. "Don't mind
her--she often asks such questions."

"Very natural and affecting ones," Miss Glen observed, quietly, and the
tears sprang to her violet eyes, at which I wondered. Yet, understanding
not her words, I remembered them for later comprehension; a habit of
childhood too little appreciated or considered, I think, by older
people.

She had not replied to my question, so I repeated it eagerly. "Did my
dear mother send you to me?" I said. "And where is she now?"

"No, tender child! I have not seen your mother. She is in heaven, I
trust; where I hope we shall all be some day--with God. _He_ sent me to
you, probably--I fancy so, at least."

"Then God has got good again. He was very bad last week--very wicked;
he killed our mother," whispering mysteriously.

"He is never bad, Miriam, never wicked; you must not say such things--no
Christian would."

"But I am _not_ a Christian, Mrs. Austin says; only a Jew. Did you ever
hear of the Jews?"

Evelyn laughed, Mrs. Austin frowned, but Miss Glen was intensely grave,
as she rejoined:

"A Jew may be very good and love God. That is all a little child can
know of religion. Yet we must all believe God and His Son were one." The
last words were murmured rather than spoken--almost self-directed.

"Is His Son a little boy, and will he be fond of my mother?" I asked.
"Will she love him too? Oh, she loved me so much, so much!" and, in an
agony of grief, I caught Miss Glen around the neck, and sobbed
convulsively on her sympathetic breast. Again Evelyn smiled, I suppose,
for I heard Miss Glen say, rebukingly:

"My dear Miss Erle, you must not make light of your little sister's
sufferings. They are very severe, I doubt not, young as she is. All the
more so that she does not know how to express them."

Revolving these words, I came later to know their import. They seemed
unmeaning to me at the time, but the kind and deprecating tone of voice
in which they were conveyed was unmistakable, and that sufficed to
reassure me.

"And now, Miriam, let me go to my room and take off my bonnet and shawl,
for I am going to stay with you. Perhaps you will show me the way
yourself," she said, pausing. "Bring Dolly, too;" and we walked off
hand-in-hand together to the large, commodious chamber Mrs. Austin
pointed out as that prepared for our governess. I recognized my affinity
from that hour.

There, sitting on her knee, with her gentle hand on my hair, and her
sweet eyes fixed on mine, I learned at once to love Miss Glen, or
"Constance," as she made us call her, because her surname seemed
over-formal. She wished us to regard her as an elder sister, she said,
rather than mere instructress, deeming rightly that the law of love
would prove the stronger and better guidance in our case, and
understanding well, and by some line magnetic sympathy as it appeared,
my own peculiar nature, to which affection was a necessity.

Ours was a peaceful and happy childhood under her gentle and fostering
rule; and, when it ceased, all the wires of life seemed jangled and
discordant again.

She lived with us three years as friend and teacher. At the end of that
time her vocation and sphere of action were enlarged, not changed, for
she married my father, and thus our future welfare seemed secured.

Alas for human foresight! Alas for affection powerless to save! Alas for
the vanity of mortal effort to contend with Fate!

Our home was in one of the chief Northern cities of that great republic
which has for so many years commanded the admiration, respect, and
wonder, of the whole world. The house we occupied was situated in the
old and fashion-forsaken portion of the city. From its upper windows a
view of the majestic Delaware and its opposite shores was afforded to
the spectator; and the grounds surrounding the mansion were spacious for
those of a city-house, and deeply shaded by elms that had been lofty
trees in the time of General Washington.

Four squares farther on, the roar of commerce swelled and surged, in
storehouse and counting-room, on mart and shipboard and quay; but here
all was quiet, calm, secluded, as in the country, miles beyond.

Two houses besides our own shared the whole square between them, though
ours, the central one, possessed the largest inclosure, and was the
finest residence of the three, architecturally speaking; and the inmates
of these dwellings, with very few exceptions, constituted for years our
whole circle of friends and visitors.

So it will be seen how secluded was the life we led, how narrow the
sphere we moved in, despite our acknowledged wealth, which, with some
other attributes we possessed, had not failed, if desired, to confer on
us both power and position in the society we shunned rather than shared.

To my father's nature, however, retirement was as essential as routine.
He was one of those outwardly calm and inwardly excitable and nervous
people we sometimes encounter without detecting the fire beneath the
marble, the ever-burning lamp in the sarcophagus, unless we lift the lid
of rock to find it--an effort scarcely worth the making in any case, for
at best it lights only a tomb.

Extremely mild and self-contained in manner, and chary of opinion and
expression, he was at the same time a man of strong and implacable
prejudices and even bitter animosities when once engendered. I do not
think his affections kept pace with these. He loved what belonged to
him, it is true, in a quiet, consistent way, and his good breeding and
practised equanimity were alone sufficient to secure the peace, and even
happiness, of a household; but of much effort or self-sacrifice I judge
him to have been incapable.

He was a handsome man in his stiff and military way--well made, tall,
commanding in figure and in demeanor, stately in movement. His features
were regular, his teeth and hair well preserved, especially the first,
his hands and feet aristocratically small and shapely, his manner
vaguely courteous. He was a shy rather than reserved person, for, when
once the ice was broken, his nature bubbled over very boyishly at times,
and his confidence, once bestowed, was irrevocable. Like most men of his
temperament, he was keenly susceptible to deferential flattery, and
impatient of the slightest infraction of his dignity, which he guarded
punctiliously at all points. It was more this disposition always to wait
for overtures from others, and to slightly repel their first
manifestations, from his inveterate shyness, than any settled
determination on his part, that made him such an alien from general
association. Nervous, fastidious, exacting--what had he in common with
the texture of the new society in which he found himself, and what right
had he to fancy himself neglected where the "go-ahead" principle alone
was recognized, and time was esteemed too precious to waste in ceremony?

Yet this injured feeling pursued him through life and made one of his
peculiarities, so that he drew more and more closely, as years passed
on, into his own shell, which may be said to have comprised his
household, his comforts, his hobbies, and his narrow neighborhood, in
which he was idolized, and the sympathy of which was very soothing to
his fastidious pride.

Nothing so fosters haughtiness and egotism as a sphere like this, and it
may be doubted whether the crowned heads of the world receive more
adulation from their households than men so situated.

From the moment he set his foot on the threshold of his own house, nay,
on the broad, quiet pavement of his own street, with its stately row of
ancient Lombardy poplars on one side, and blank, high-walled lumber-yard
on the other, he felt himself a sovereign--king of a principality! king
of a neighborhood;--what great difference is there, after all?

It was only the hypochondriacal character of his mind that shielded him
from that chief human absurdity, pomposity. He needed all the praise and
consolation his friends could bestow simply to sustain him--no danger of
inflation in his case! He was shut away from self-complacency (the only
vice to which virtue is subjected) by the melancholy that permeated his
being, and which was probably in his case an inheritance--constitutional,
as it is said to be with things.

Perhaps it will be well to give, in this place, some more vivid idea of
our home, which, after all, like the shell of the sea-fish, most
frequently shapes itself to fit the necessities and habits of its
occupants.

Our house had been built in early times, and was essentially
old-fashioned, like the part of the city in which it was situated.. My
father, soon after his arrival in America, had fancied and purchased
this gloomy-looking gray stone edifice, with its massive granite steps
(imported at great cost, before the beautiful white-marble quarries had
been developed which abound in the vicinity of, and characterize the
dwellings of, that rare and perfect city), and remodelled its interior,
leaving the outside front of the building, with its screens of ancient
ivy, untouched and venerable, and changing only the exterior aspect of
the back of the mansion. Very striking was the contrast between the rear
and front and exterior and interior of "Monfort Hall," as it was
universally called.

The dark panel-work within had all been rent away, to give place to
plaster glossy as marble, or fine French papers, gilded and painted, or
fresco-paintings done with great cost and labor, and indifferent
success. The lofty ceilings and massive walls formed outlines of
strength and beauty to the large and well-ventilated apartments, which
made it easy to render them almost palatial by the means of such
accessories and appliances as wealth commands, and which were lavished
in this instance.

The back of the house was, however, truly picturesque. Here a bay window
was judiciously thrown out; there a portico appended or hanging balcony
added to break the gray expanse of wall or sullen glare of windows; and
a small gray tower or belfry, containing a clock that chimed the hours,
and a fine telescope, rose from the octagon library which my father had
built for his own peculiar sanctum after my mother's death, and which
formed an ell to the building. The green, grassy, deeply-shadowed lawn
lay behind the mansion, sloping down into a dark, deep dell, across
which brawled a tiny brook long since absorbed by the thirsty earth
thrown out from many foundations of stores and tenements and great
warehouses hard by; a dell where once roses, lilacs, guelder-globes, and
calacanthus-bushes, grew with a vigor that I have nowhere seen
surpassed.

It was not much the fashion then to have rare garden-flowers. Our
conservatory contained a fair array of these, but we had beds of tulips,
hyacinths, and crocuses, basking in the sunshine, and violets and lilies
lying in the shadow such as I see rarely now, and which cost us as
little thought or trouble in their perennial permanence, whereas the
conservatory was an endless grief and care, although superintended by a
thoroughly-taught English gardener, and kept up at unlimited expense.

My sister--for so I was taught to call Evelyn Erle--revelled in this
floral exclusiveness, but to me the dear old garden was far more
delightful and life-giving. I loved our sweet home-flowers better than
those foreign blossoms which lived in an artificial climate, and
answered no thrilling voice of Nature, no internal impulse in their
hot-house growth and development. What stirred me so deeply in April,
stirred also the hyacinth-bulb and the lily of the valley deep in the
earth--warmth, moisture, sunshine and shadow, and sweet spring rain--and
the same fullness of life that throbbed in my veins in June called forth
the rose. There was vivid sympathy here, and I gave my heart to the
garden-flowers as I never could do to the frailer children of the
hot-house, beautiful as they undeniably are.

"Miriam has really a _vulgar_ taste for Nature, as Miss Glen calls it,"
Evelyn said one day, with a curl of her slight, exquisite lip as she
shook away from her painted muslin robe, the butter-cups, heavy with
moisture and radiant with sunshine, which I had laid upon her knee. "She
ought to have been an Irish child and born, in a hovel, don't you think
so, papa?" and she put me aside superciliously. Dirt and Nature were
synonymous terms with her.

My father smiled and laid down his newspaper, then looked at me a little
gravely as I stood downcast by Evelyn.

"You _are_ getting very much sunburnt, Miriam, there is no doubt of
that. A complexion like yours needs greater care for its preservation
than if ten shades fairer. Little daughter, you must wear your bonnet,
or give up running in the garden in the heat of the day."

"I try to impress this on Miriam all the time," said Mrs. Austin,
coming as usual to aid in the assault, "but she is so hard-headed, it is
next to impossible to make her mindful of what I tell her. Miss Glen is
the only one that seems to have any influence over her nowadays." She
said this with a slight, impatient toss of the head, as she paused in
her progress through the room with a huge jar of currant-jelly, she had
been sunning in the dining-room window, poised on the palm of either
hand, jelly that looked like melted rubies, now to be consigned to the
store-room.

"Well, well, we must have patience," was the rejoinder. "She is
young--impulsive (I wish she were more like you, Evelyn, my dear!), her
mother over again in temperament, without the saving clauses of beauty
and refinement; these she will never attain, I fear, and with much of
the characteristic persistence of that singular race, which in my wife,
however, I never detected, though so much nearer the fountain-head!"
This was said half in soliloquy, but Evelyn replied to it as if it had
been addressed to her--replied, as she often did, by an interrogatory.

"What tribe did her mother belong to, papa?"

"The tribe of Judah, I believe, my love, was that her family traced
their lineage from; but you question as if it were Pocahontas there was
reference to instead of a high-bred Jewish lady!" speaking with
asperity.

"I meant no offence, papa, I assure you," said Evelyn, quietly; "I only
asked for information. Certainly there _is_ something very grand in
being related to King David."

"There is, indeed," said a gentle voice close at hand. Miss Glen had
entered silently as they were speaking. "There was genius in that
strain of blood, Evelyn, nay, more, divinity. Christ claimed such
descent. Let us never forget that! He, the universal brother." She spoke
with feeling and dignity, and led me away, lecturing me greatly as she
did so for not obeying Mrs. Austin as to the sun-bonnet bondage, which
she promised; to make as light as possible by purchasing for me a new
French contrivance called a _caleche_, light and airy and sheltering all
at once.

I was seven years old then, and the understanding was complete between
us that endured to the end, but as yet there was no foreshadowing of her
marriage with my father.

She had been engaged, when she came to us, to a gentleman, who must have
perished at sea soon afterward--a young naval officer who had gone out
on board of the United States sloop-of-war Hornet, the fate of which
vessel is still wrapped in mystery, though that it foundered suddenly
seemed then, as now, the universal opinion. Miss Glen some time before
had made up her mind to this, and was stemming a tide of grief with
great fortitude and resolution, while she was laying the foundations of
character and education in her two very opposite pupils, both of whom
she guided with equal ability.

My father was not unaware of her sufferings, I think, indeed, this
community of sorrow first attracted him toward her, and later he was
confirmed in his admiration of her womanly self-control and beauty of
character, by the development he saw in his children, the work of her
hand. That he was ever profoundly in love with her I do not believe, nor
did she pretend to any passionate regard for him. Respect, friendship,
confidence, mutual esteem, were the foundations of their union, which
certainly promised enduring happiness to all concerned, and which was
looked on with favor by the whole household, not excepting Mrs. Austin
herself.

"If any successor of your dear mother _must_ come, Evelyn," I heard her
say one day to my sister, "we had better have her we know, to be sure,
than a mere stranger, but I _must_ say I can't see why your papa does
not content himself as he is. I am sure he seems very happy in his
library and his greenhouse, and driving out in his Tilbury, or with you
two young ladies in the coach of afternoons, and chatting and smoking of
evenings with Mr. Bainrothe or old Mr. Stanbury. I should think he might
have had enough of marrying by this time, and funerals and all that.
Your own precious mamma first, an earl's own daughter (Evelyn Erle,
never forget that, if your father _was_ a poor soldier! you have grand
relations in England, child, if you are not as rich as some others I
could name), and then your mother and Miriam's, Miss Harz that was, such
an excellent woman for all her persuasion, to be sure; better than some
Christians, I must say; and she just three years and a half laid in her
grave!" A doleful sigh gave emphasis to this remark. "I was never more
surprised, I must confess, than when he sent for me last night to tell
me he was to marry Miss Glen next week! Who is she, I wonder, Evelyn;
did you ever hear her speak of her kinfolks? Not a soul except two or
three of her church-people has been near her since she has been here,
and Franklin says she very seldom gets letters." A pinch of snuff
emphasized this remark.

"I heard her say she had only one brother, Mrs. Austin, and that he was
in some distant part of the world, in India, or New Orleans, or some
such place, she does not know herself exactly where. He is a young lad,
and she grieves about him; his picture is most beautiful, I think. He
ran off and went to sea, and it almost killed her. That was some years
ago, and since then she has been teaching in a great school until she
came to us, and was never so peaceful before, she says, as she is now. I
think she will make papa happy too, and keep him in his own family,
since she has none of her own. I was so afraid it was Mrs. Stanbury at
one time."

"I never thought of that," said Mrs. Austin, starting. "What put it into
your head, Evelyn, and what made you so close-mouthed about it? Child,
you have an old head on young shoulders--I always said so; as like your
own precious mother as two peas. Yes, that would have been a nice
connection truly! The two young Stanburys forsooth, to divide every
thing with you and Miriam, and her rigid economy the rule in the house,
and Norman riding over every one on a high horse, and that lame brat to
be nursed and waited on! Any thing better than that, Evelyn. You are
right, my dear." And she tapped her suggestive snuffbox.

My elder sister was about thirteen years old when she uttered those
oracular sentences which elicited Mrs. Austin's commendations, and her
own clear-sighted _prevoyance;_ and I, at eight, whose mind was turned
to any subject save that of marrying and giving in marriage, stood
confounded by her superior wisdom and discretion. I gazed upon her
open-mouthed and wide-eyed as she spoke, drinking in every word, yet
very little enlightened, after all, by her remarks. She turned suddenly
upon me, and tapped my cheek slightly with her fan. It was a way she had
of manifesting contempt.

"Now run and tell Mrs. Stanbury every word I have spoken, just as soon
as you can, Miriam, do you hear? Don't forget one syllable, that's a
darling. Come, rehearse!"

"Won't it do after dinner, sister Evelyn?" I asked, gravely and
literally. "I want to go and see about my mole, now--my poor mole that
Hodges wounded with his spade this morning. It suffers so
dreadfully!"--clasping my hands in a tragic manner, not unusual with me
when excited.

"There! what did I tell you, Mrs. Austin? You will believe my report of
Miriam another time--little blab! There is nothing safe where she is,
and as to keeping a secret, she could not do it if her own life were at
stake, I verily believe."

"I _can_ keep a secret," I said, fiercely, "you know I can! You burnt my
finger in the candle to make me tell you where the squirrel was, and I
would not do it; Now, miss, remember that, and tell the truth next
time!"

"What a little spit-fire," said Evelyn, derisively. "You see for
yourself, Mrs. Austin."

"O Evelyn, Evelyn, did you, do that?" moaned the good woman. "Your
little sister's hand! To burn it so cruelly, and in cold blood. I would
not have believed it of you, my Evelyn--that was not like your mamma at
all," and she shook her head dolefully. "Miriam is a brave child, after
all." A wonderful admission for her to make.

"If you believe every thing that limb of the synagogue tells you, Mrs.
Austin, you will have a great deal to swallow, that is all I shall say
on the subject," and she turned away derisively.

"Do you mean to deny it, then, Evelyn Erle?" asked Mrs. Austin,
earnestly, laying her hand on her arm, and shaking her slightly as she
was about to leave the room. "Come back and answer me. I hope Miriam is
only angry--I hope you did _not_ do this thing."

"I will not be forcibly detained by any old woman in America," said
Evelyn, struggling stoutly, "nor questioned either about a pack of fibs.
Miriam knows better than to tell such stories--or ought to be taught
better."

"It was no story," I said, solemnly. "It was true. You did burn my
finger, and begged me not to tell Constance or papa afterward, and I
never told them, because I never break my word if I can help it, and I
wouldn't have told Mrs. Austin (but I didn't _promise_ about her, you
know), only you twitted me so meanly, and made me so mad--and it all
came out. For I can keep a secret! I know where that squirrel is now,
Evelyn Erle, but I will never tell any one--never--not even Constance
Glen. I promised myself that, and crossed my heart about it when you
tried to cut off its tail--its pretty, bushy tail that God gave it to
keep the flies off with."

Mrs. Austin was shedding tears by this time; Evelyn's insolence and
duplicity had stung her to the quick, and she saw, with real concern,
that I had justice on my side. She had relinquished her hold on Evelyn,
who stood now sullenly glaring at me, pale as a sheet, her eyes white
with rage, looking like heated steel, her lips trembling with passion.

"You _shall_ tell me where that squirrel is, or I will appeal to papa,"
she said, sharply. "It was mine. Norman Stanbury said so when he brought
it here and gave it to me. You heard him, little cheat!"

"He told me to feed it, and take care of it, and not let it get hurt, if
he did give it to you," I replied, doggedly, "and I did what he told me.
You are a born tyrant, Evelyn. Constance told you so a month ago, when
you twisted Laura Stanbury's arm for not teaching you that puzzle; and
there is a wicked word I know that suits you to-day, only I am afraid to
say it--Constance would be angry--but it begins with an L and ends with
an R, and has only four letters in it. There, now!"

I well deserved the slap, no doubt, that rang down with such lightning
speed and force on my cheek, and, fortunately, Mrs. Austin arrested my
panther-like spring toward Evelyn, or the nails I held in rest might
have brought blood from her waxen face, and marred its symmetry for a
season. As it was, I screamed wildly, until Miss Glen came in, attracted
by my cries, and, receiving no satisfactory explanation as to their
cause, led me to her own apartment to compose, question, and rebuke me
in that firm but gentle manner that ever calmed my spirit like oil
poured upon troubled waters. The end of the matter was that, when I met
Evelyn again, I went up to her in a spirit of conciliation, and mutely
kissed her as a sign of peace and penitence.

It was a matter of indifference to me that this advance was carelessly
received, since it satisfied my conscience and her who stirred its
depths--nor did my cheek flush at the derisive taunt that followed me
from the room after this obligation to self was discharged--"Now tattle
again, little prophetess," for thus she often alluded to my Hebrew name
and its signification, "and produce my squirrel, or look well to your
wounded mole!"

This threat was not without its effect. In a deep, leafy covert I
concealed my poor dying patient, "earthy, and of the earth"--literally,
in every sense--but the squirrel still enjoyed its sequestered home on
the topmost branch of an English walnut-tree, from which it cheerfully,
but cautiously, descended at my call when I went out to carry it
almonds or filberts from the dessert (invariably served with wine to my
father, who, in observance of his English custom, sat alone some moments
after the ladies of his household had withdrawn from table), nor did
Evelyn have the despotic pleasure of abbreviating his right of tail.




CHAPTER II.


My father's marriage was solemnized very quietly in that old gray church
with its fairy chime of bells, all alive on that occasion, which stood
in the busy street not far from our quiet house. An aged and reverend
bishop, who had administered the sacred communion to Washington and his
wife when the city we dwelt in had been the temporary residence of that
chief, performed the ceremony, which, with the exception of my father's
immediate household and neighbors, none were invited to witness. When
the solemn rite was ended, I made my way to Constance, so fair that day
in her pearl-gray robes and simple white bonnet, and clasped her hand.
She stooped down and kissed me many times, to conceal her tears,
probably.

"Call me mamma now, dearest," she said, at last; "and let the name be as
a new compact between us. Now let Evelyn come to me, my love, she, too,
is my daughter; and go with Mrs. Austin."

I did as she directed, grasping Mrs. Austin's hand tightly as we walked
home, and proceeding at so brisk a pace that she was often obliged to
check me.

"Poor child, why should you rejoice so?" she said, mournfully. "Don't
you know you have lost your father from this hour? Do you suppose he
will ever love you as well again--you or Evelyn? Poor, ignorant,
sacrificed babes in the woods!"

"I don't care," I said. "I have got my new mamma to love me, even if he
does not. 'Mamma--mamma Constance!' how pretty that sounds. Oh, that is
what I shall always call her from this time--'Constance,' as usual, you
know, with 'mamma' before it." And I kept repeating "mamma Constance,"
childishly.

"Foolish thing," she rejoined. "I wish you had your sister Evelyn's
consideration; but at any rate," she murmured, "the money will be all
yours. He cannot alienate that; yours by marriage contract, not even to
divide with Evelyn, and" (elevating her voice) "that you will surely do
hereafter, will you not, Miriam?"

"I don't know," I replied; "not unless she is good to me and stops
calling me 'little Jew,' and other mean, disagreeable names. But I
always thought Evelyn was the rich one until now. She has so many fine
clothes, and such great relations, you say, in England."

"True, true, gentle blood is a fine heritage; but your mother had great
store of gold, and, when your papa dies, all this will belong to you (it
is time you should know this, Miriam), and you will have us all to take
care of and support; so you must be very good, indeed."

"I am so sorry," I said, with a deep sigh and a feeling that a heavy
burden had been thrown suddenly on my shoulders; "but I tell you what I
will do" (brightening up), "I will give it every bit to mamma, and she
will support us all. She will live much longer than papa, because she is
so much younger--twenty years, I believe. Isn't that a great
difference?"

"Your father will outlive me, child, I trust, should such a state of
things ever come to pass; but I am old, and shall not cumber the earth
long," and a groan burst from her lips.

"How old _are_ you, Mrs. Austin?" I asked, with a feeling of awe
creeping over me, as though I had been talking to the widow of
Methuselah, and I looked up into her face, pityingly.

"Fifty-five years old, child, come next Michaelmas, and a miserable
sinner still, in the eyes of my Lord! I was a widow when I went to hire
with Mrs. Erle, Evelyn's lady mother--that was soon after she married
the captain, who had only his sword--and I have lived with her and hers
ever since, and served them faithfully, I trust, and I hope I do not
deserve to be cast on strangers and upstarts in my old age, even if one
of them happens to marry your father. Constance Glen, forsooth!" and she
drew up her stiff figure.

"To be wicked and old must be _so_ dreadful," I said, thoughtfully
shaking my head and casting my eyes to heaven.

"What are you thinking about, child?" she asked, jerking my hand
sharply. "Who is it that you call such hard names--'wicked and old'
forsooth? Answer me directly!"

"It was what you said a while ago about yourself I was thinking of, Mrs.
Austin," I replied. "To be more than half a hundred years old! It is so
many years to live; and then to be such a sinner, too--how hard it must
be! I always thought you were very good before; and I am sure you are
not gray and wrinkled and blear-eyed, like Granny Simpson!"

"Granny Simpson, indeed! You must be crazy, Miriam Monfort! Why, she is
eighty if she is an hour, and hobbles on a cane! I flatter myself I am
not infirm yet; and, if you call a well-preserved, middle-aged, English
woman, like me, _old_, your brains must be addled. Look at my hair, my
teeth, my complexion"--pausing suddenly before me and confronting me
fiercely. "See my step, my figure, and have more sense, if you _are_ a
little foreign Jewish child. As to sinfulness, we are all _sinful_
beings, more or less. To be _wicked_ is a very different thing from
sinful. I never told you I was wicked, child. What put that into your
head?"

"Oh, I thought they were the same thing. Which is the worst, Mrs.
Austin?" I asked, with unfeigned simplicity.

"There, Miriam, step on before! you walk too fast anyhow for me to-day.
Besides, your tongue wags too limberly by half. You always did ask queer
questions, and will to your dying day. No help for it, I suppose, but
patience; but it is all of that Gipsy blood! Now, Evelyn's line of
people was altogether different. She has what they used to call in
England 'blue blood in her veins;' do you understand, Miriam? Blue
blood! Catch her asking indiscreet questions! Take pattern by your elder
sister, Miss Miriam Monfort, and you will do well."

Not knowing what evil I had done, or how I had offended, or how blood
could be _blue_, yet sorry for having erred, I made my way as I was told
to do, speedily and silently homeward, and was glad to find shelter from
all misunderstanding and persecution in the arms and shadow of my "mamma
Constance," as I called her from that hour.

But, to Evelyn she was "Mistress Monfort," from the time she espoused my
father; and the coldness between them (they were never very congenial)
was apparent from that time, in spite of every effort on the part of my
sweet mamma to surmount and throw it aside.

It is time I should speak of those few neighbors who composed our
society at this period, and to whom some allusion has already been
made--the occupants of those two houses which, as I have said, divided
with ours the square we lived in, with their grounds. These green-shaded
yards were divided one from the other by slender iron railings, which
formed a line of boundary, no more, and presented no obstacle to the
exploring eye. Graceful gates of the same material opened from the
pavement, common to all, and presented a symmetrical and uniform
appearance to the passer-by. Stone lions guarded ours, but Etruscan
vases crowned the portals of Mrs. Stanbury and Mr. Bainrothe, filled
with blooming plants in the summer season, but bare and desolate and
gray enough in winter.

Mrs. Stanbury, our right-hand neighbor (ay, in every way right-handed),
was a widow lady of about thirty-five years of age. Her husband had been
a sea-captain, and, being cut off suddenly, had, with the exception of
the house she lived in, left her no estate. She owed her maintenance
chiefly to the liberality of his uncle, a gruff old bachelor of sixty or
more, who lived with and took care of her and her children in a way that
was both kindly and disagreeable. He was a bald-headed man (who
flourished a stout, gold-headed cane, I remember), with a florid,
healthy, and honest face and burly figure, engaged in some lucrative
city business, and entirely devoted to his nephew and niece, Mrs.
Stanbury's only children, the one fifteen and the other about twelve
years old at the time of my father's marriage.

Strangely enough, her own deepest interest, if not affection, seemed
centred at this period in her little orphan ward and nephew, George
Gaston, a child of nine years old, who had recently come into her hands;
singularly gifted and beautiful, but lamed for life, it was feared, and
a great sufferer physically from the effects of the fatal hip-disease
that had destroyed the strength and usefulness of one limb, and impaired
his constitution.

Mrs. Stanbury herself was a lady-like and pretty woman, fair and
graceful, and her daughter Laura closely resembled her; both sweet
specimens of unpretending womanhood; both devoted to the discharge of
their simple duties and to one another; both entirely estimable.

Norman Stanbury was of a different type. He had probably inherited from
his father his manly and robust person, his open, dauntless, dark, and
handsome face, in which there was so much character that you hardly
looked for intellect, or perhaps at a brief glance confounded one with
the other. He was the avowed and devoted swain of my sister Evelyn, from
the time when they first chased fireflies together, up to their
dancing-school adolescence, and for me maintained a disinterested,
brotherly regard that was never slow to manifest itself in any time of
need, or even in the furtherance of my childish whims. Our relations
with this family were most friendly and agreeable. There never was any
undue familiarity; my father's reserve, and their own dignity, would of
themselves have precluded that certain precursor to the decline of
superficial friendship; but a consistent and somewhat ceremonious
intercourse was preserved from first to last, that could scarcely be
called intimacy.

Between George Gaston and myself alone existed that perfect freedom of
speech and intuitive understanding that lie at the root of all true and
deep affection. His delicacy of appearance, his stunted stature, his
invalid requisitions, nay, his very deformity, for his twisted limb
amounted to this, put aside all thought of infantile flirtation (for we
know that, strange as it may seem, such a thing does exist) from the
first hour of our acquaintance. He always seemed to me much younger than
he was, or than I was--as boys, even under ordinary circumstances, are
apt to appear to girls of their own age, from their slower development
of mind and manner, if not of body.

But this lovely waxen boy, so frail and spiritual as to look almost
angelic, and certainly very far my superior intellectually, seemed from
his helplessness peculiarly infantile in comparison with my robust
energy, and became consequently, in my eyes, an object of tenderest
commiseration. From the first he clung to me with strange tenacity, for
our tastes were congenial. He brought with him from his Southern home
stores of books and shells and curious playthings and mechanical toys,
such as I had never seen before, and to spread these out and explain
them for my amusement was his chief delight.

My memory in turn was richly stored with poetry, some of it far above my
own comprehension, but clinging irresistibly to my mind through the
music of the metre. I had revelled in old ballads until I could recite
nearly all of these precious relics of heroic times, or rather chant
them forth monotonously enough in all probability, yet in a way that
riveted his attention forcibly, and roused his high-strung poetic
temperament to enthusiasm.

When ill or suffering, if asked what he needed for relief, he would say
"Miriam," as naturally as a thirsty man would call for a glass of clear
cold water. For his amusement I converted myself into a mime, a
mountebank. When I went to the theatre, the performance must be repeated
for his benefit, and many characters centred in one.

For him I danced the "Gavotte," the "shawl-dance," as taught to do by
Monsieur Mallet, at the great dancing-school on Chestnut Street, or
jumped Jim Crow to his infinite amusement and the unmitigated disgust of
Evelyn, to whom his physical infirmity made him any thing but
attractive. Such personal perfection as she possessed is, I am afraid,
apt to make us cold-hearted and exacting as to externals in others.
Evelyn could endure commonplace, but could not forgive a blemish. Once
Norman Stanbury came very near, losing her favor for having a wart on
his finger; another time, she banished him from her presence for weeks,
for having stained his hands, beyond the power of soap-and-water or
vinegar to efface, in gathering walnuts. Certainly no despot ever
governed more entirely through the medium of fear than did she through
the tyranny of a fastidious caprice united to a form and face of
surpassing beauty and high-bred grace.

Even my father fell under this requisitive influence of hers. Propriety,
the quality he worshipped, stood forth enshrined in her, and, from the
lifting of her fan to the laying down of her knife and fork, all was
faultless. The prestige, too, of birth, his special weakness, lingered
about her, and elevated her to a pedestal above any other inmate of his
household.

Her mother, who married him for convenience, and whose selfish
requisitions had almost driven him mad, was the honorable Mrs. Erle, and
an earl's daughter. He had loved my mother twice as well, found her ten
times more attractive and interesting, devoted and congenial; admired
her grace, recognized all her worth, not only in deed but in word, and
with a fidelity of heart that never wavered even when he married again.
Yet the prestige of descent was wanting in her and hers, or rather,
such as it was, brought with it ignoble and repulsive associations
_only_. He was not the man to reach a hand across Shylock and the
old-clothes man, to grasp that of the poet-king of Israel; or Esther,
the avenging queen of a downtrodden nation; or Joab, strong in valor and
fidelity; or Deborah, inspired to rule a people from beneath the shelter
of her palm-tree in the wilderness.

The grandeur of the past, in his estimation, was eclipsed by the
ignominy of the present; but with me it was otherwise, and, as I grew
old enough to recognize the peculiar traits of that ancient people from
which I sprung, it pleased me to imagine that whatever there was about
me of fiery persistency, of fearless faith, of unshrinking devotion,
nay, of bitter remembrance of injuries, and power to avenge or forgive
them, as the case might be, sprang from that remarkable race who called
themselves at one time, with His permission, the chosen children of God.

I think these very characteristics of mine repelled my father and jarred
on his nervous temperament, endangering that outward calm which it was
his pride and care to preserve as necessary to high-bred demeanor, and
thus intrenching on his ideas of personal dignity. Yet, with strange
inconsistency, it was her very indulgence of these peculiarities that
inclined him most strongly to Constance Glen, and finally, I am well
convinced, determined him on making her his wife, as one well suited to
secure the welfare of his turbulent and incomprehensible child, his
"rebellious Miriam," as he sometimes called me when milder words availed
not.

He had, as I have said, an "English" horror of scenes and excitement of
any kind. He was conservative in every way. He believed in the British
classics, and would not admit that any thing could ever equal, far less
surpass them (dreary bores that many of them are to me!). Walter Scott's
novels were the only ones of later days he ever allowed himself to read
approvingly; for, once being beguiled, against his will almost, into
sitting up late at night to finish a new work called "Pelham," he
frowned down all allusion to the book or its author ever afterward, as
derogatory to his dignity.

"Bulwer and Disraeli are literary coxcombs," he said, "who ought not to
be encouraged, and who are trying to undermine wholesome English
literature."

"O father," I ventured to observe on one occasion, "'Vivian Grey' is
splendid. It is a delightful dream, more vivid than life itself; it is
like drinking champagne, smelling tuberoses, inhaling laughing-gas,
going to the opera, all at one time, and, if you once take it in your
hand, nothing short of a stroke of lightning could rend it away, I am
convinced. Do read it, sir, to please me, and retract your
denunciation."

"Never," he said firmly, solemnly even, "and I counsel you, Miriam, in
turn, to seek your draughts of soul from our pure 'wells of English
undefiled,' rather than such high-flown fancies and maudlin streams as
flow from the pen of this accomplished Hebrew. There is a little too
much of the Jeremiah and Isaiah style about such extracts as I have
seen, to suit my taste."

"The idea of a Jew writing novels!" said Evelyn, derisively as she
sipped her wine.

"Or the grandest poem in the world!" added Mr. Bainrothe, who was dining
with us that day, coming to the rescue quite magnanimously as it seemed,
and for once receiving as his recompense a grateful look from the stray
lamb of the tribe of Judah, reposing quietly in a Christian fold.

"What poem do you allude to?" said Evelyn, superciliously. "'Paradise
Lost?'--Oh, I thought Milton was a Unitarian, not quite a Jew; almost as
bad though!"

"No, the book of Job," replied Mr. Bainrothe. "It was that I alluded
to."

"And the Psalms," I added, breathlessly.

"Dear me," said Evelyn, "what an array of learning we have all at once!
Why, every Sunday-school child knows about the Psalms. David and Solomon
did nothing else but sing and dance, I believe."

"Irreverent, very, Evelyn," said my father, looking at her a little
severely, in spite of his own "Jeremiah" and "Isaiah" allusions. I had
never heard him check her so openly before, and enjoyed it thoroughly.
My smile of approbation provoked her, I suppose, for she pursued:

"I am so tired of having the Bible thrown at my head; you must excuse
me, papa. For my part, I find the New Testament all-sufficient. I weary
of the horrors of those Jews; worse than our Choctaw Indians, I verily
believe."

"So they were, so they were, my dear," said my father, complacently,
"but for some reasons we must always treat their memory with a certain
respect. They were God's people, remember, in the absence of a better,
and their history is written in this book, which we must all revere."

"A very great people, surely," said Mr. Bainrothe, "and destined to be
so again. Don't you think so, Miriam?"

"I don't know," I said; "I have never thought of such a possibility
before, I acknowledge, yet it is natural I should incline to my
mother's people, and I can say heartily, _I hope so_, Mr. Bainrothe."

"Then you want to see the Christian religion trampled under foot," said
Evelyn, spitefully, fixing her eyes on mine.

The blood rose hotly to my temples. "No, no, indeed! You know I do not,
Evelyn, for it is mine; but Christ died for all, Jew as well as Gentile.
Through him let us hope for change and mercy and peace on earth. When
infinite harmony prevails, the Hebrew race will find its appointed place
and level again, through one great principle."

"My idea is, that it has found its appointed place and level, and will
abide there.--But to digress, when do you expect your son, Mr.
Bainrothe?"

I have anticipated by many years in giving this snatch of conversation
here. Let us go back to the time of my father's marriage, and to affairs
as they stood then, for precious are the unities.

I need not drop Mr. Bainrothe, however, and it was of him, our left-hand
neighbor, so intimately connected with our destiny, one and all, that I
was about to speak when the digression occurred which led me from the
high-road of my story.

Our "sinister neighbor," as my father laughingly called him sometimes
with unconscious truth, in reference to his _left-hand_ adjacency, was a
handsome and gentlemanly-looking man of no very particular age, or
rather in his appearance there was no criterion for decision on this
subject. His form was as slender and elastic, his step as light, his
teeth, hair, and complexion, as unexceptionable as though he had been
twenty-five; nor were there any of those signs and symptoms about him by
which the weather-wise usually measure experience and length of days.

If care had come nigh him at all, it had swept as lightly past him as
time itself. His address was invariably urbane, self-possessed,
well-bred; his voice was pleasant, his smile rather brilliant, though it
never reached his eyes, except when he sneered, which was rarely and
terribly.

They glittered then with a strange cold light, those variegated orbs,
but their ordinary expression was earnest and investigatory. They were
well-cut eyes, moreover, of a yellowish-brown color, and I used to
remark as a little child--for children observe the minutiae of personal
peculiarities much more closely than their elders--that the iris of both
orbs was speckled with green and golden spots, which seemed to mix and
dilate occasionally, and gave them a decidedly kaleidoscopic effect.

His skin was clear and even florid, and his lips had the peculiarity of
turning suddenly white, or rather livid, without any evident cause. This
my father thought betokened disease of the heart, but I learned later to
know it was the only manifestation of suppressed feeling which the habit
of his life could not overcome, and that proved him still mortal and
fallible.

He had bought and moved into the house he occupied, in his single
estate, with a few efficient servants, soon after my father had taken
possession of his own larger mansion, and it was not long before the
best understanding existed between these two. My father's _hauteur_ was
no safeguard against the steady and self-poised approaches--his shyness
found relief in the calm self-reliance of his "left-hand" neighbor; and,
as they were both lovers of books, rather than students thereof, a
congeniality of tastes on literary subjects drew them together in those
hours of leisure which Mr. Bainrothe usually passed in his own or my
father's library, in the cultivation of the _dolce far niente_--I beg
pardon--his mind.

What his occupation was, if indeed he had any worthy of a definite name,
I never knew. That he was a kind of intermediate agent or broker I have
since suspected. His leisure seemed infinite. He came and went to and
from the business part of the city several times a day, and often in the
elegant barouche he kept, with its span of highly-groomed horses and
respectable-looking negro driver in simple livery--an old retainer of
his house, as he informed my father, faithful still, though freed in the
time of universal emancipation.

His association was undoubtedly, to some extent, with the best men of
the town--bankers and merchants chiefly; and once, when my father had
called in a considerable sum of money which he had loaned out at
interest on good mortgages, for a term of years, he was so obliging as
to interest the most notable bankers of the city in its safe and prompt
reinvestment.

This gentleman dined with us on one occasion at this period, when his
conference with my father intrenched on our late dinner-hour, and I
shall never forget the singular beauty of his face and expression, nor
the charm of his manner, as he sat at our board discoursing, with an
_abandon_ and witchery I have observed in no one else, on subjects of
art and letters, on men and manners, of nations past and present, until
hours fled like moments, and time seemed utterly forgotten in the
presence of geniality and genius. Then, starting gayly and suddenly to
his feet, he remembered an engagement, and sped away so abruptly that
his visit seemed to me but a vision breaking in on the monotony of our
lives, too bright to have been lasting.

Afterward, invitations came repeatedly to my father, for his grand
dinners and _levees_, from this potentate, for he _was_ a prince and a
leader in those days of a society that, more than any other I have
known, requires such leadership to make its conventionalities available;
but these were not accepted, though appreciated and gratefully
acknowledged. Nor could Mr. Bainrothe, with all his influence over him
(that rare influence that a worldly and efficient man wields over a shy
and retiring one unacquainted with the detail of affairs, and dependent
upon active assistance in their management), prevail upon him to break
through the monotonous routine of his life so far as to accept any one
of them. His church, the theatre, when a British star appeared, his
hearth and home--these were my father's hobbies and resources. Travel
and society abroad he equally shrank from and abjured, or the presence
of strange guests in his household circle.

"I will change all this, when I grow up, Mrs. Austin," I heard Evelyn
say, one day. "We shall have parties and pleasures then, like other
people, and, instead of masters and tedious old church humdrums, Mr.
Lodore and the like, you shall see beaux and belles dashing up to this
out-of-the-way place; and I will make papa build a ballroom, and we
shall have a band and supper once a month. You know he can afford any
thing he likes of that sort, and as for me--"

"Child, it will never be," she interrupted, shaking her head gravely.
"Mr. and Mrs. Monfort" (my father was again married then) "are too much
wedded to their own ways for that, and, besides, you and Miriam will not
be ready to go out together, and the money is all hers--don't forget
that, my dear Evelyn, and _you_ must go back to England to your own, and
I--"

"That I will never do," she in turn interrupted haughtily. "Play second
fiddle, indeed, to mamma's grand relations, mean, and proud, and
presumptuous, I dare say, and full of scorn for me (a poor
army-captain's daughter), as they were for my father? No, I shall stay
here and shine to the best of my ability. The money is all papa's while
he lives, and he is still a young man, you know, and Miriam's turn will
come when mine is over. One at a time, you see. Good gracious! it would
seem like throwing away money, though, to dress up that little dingy
thing in pearls and laces. Ten to one but what she will marry that lame
imp next door as soon as she is grown, and endow him with the whole of
it--that 'little devil on two sticks,' and I must have my run before
then, of course." She laughed merrily at the conceit.

"I hear you, Evelyn Erie," I exclaimed tragically from the balcony on
which I sat, engaged, on this occasion, in illuminating, with the most
brilliant colors my paint-box afforded, a book of engravings for the
especial benefit of George Gaston. It was his private opinion that
Titian himself never painted with more skill, or gorgeous effect, than
the youthful artist in his particular employ. "I hear you, miss, and you
ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk so behind his back, of a poor,
afflicted boy like George, too good, a thousand times too good, to marry
any one, even Cinderella herself. 'The devil on two sticks,' indeed!"

"Don't preach, I pray, Miriam. You have quite a dispensation in that way
lately, I perceive. If you _must_ eavesdrop, keep quiet about it now and
hereafter, I beg."

"I was not eavesdropping," I screamed. "I have been painting out here
all the afternoon, and Mrs. Austin knows it, and so might you. You are
always accusing me of doing wrong and mean things that I would cut off
my"--hesitating for a comparison--"my curls rather than do. Let me
alone!"

"Your curls, indeed!" and she came out of the window and stood on the
balcony beside me. "Do you call those tufts your curls?" taking one of
them disdainfully with the tips of her dainty fingers, then pulling it
sharply. "They make you look like a little water-dog, that's what they
do, and I am going to cut them off at once.--Bring me the scissors, Mrs.
Austin, and let me begin."

In the struggle that ensued my paints were upset, my pallet broken, and
my book drenched with the water from the glass in which I dipped my
brushes, but, as usual, Evelyn gained the victory which her superior
strength insured from the beginning, and fled from my wrath, after
holding my hands awhile, laughingly entreating mercy.

"I will kill her some day, Mrs. Austin, if she persecutes me so," I
cried, as I lay sobbing on the bed after the conflict was over. "I am
afraid of myself sometimes when she tantalizes me so dreadfully. I am
glad you held me when I got hold of the scissors; I am glad she held me
afterward. I might--I might"--I hesitated--"have stabbed her to the
heart," was in my mind, but the tragic threat faltered upon my lips.

"Pray to God, Miriam Monfort, to subdue your temper," said the
well-meaning but injudicious nurse, solemnly. "Your sister is old enough
to make sport with you whenever she likes, without such returns."

"I wish mamma was at home," I said, still sobbing. "She would not allow
me to be so treated; but it is always the way--as soon as she turns her
back, Evelyn besets me, and you look on and encourage her."

"I do no such thing," said Mrs. Austin, sharply. "You have no business
to take up cudgels for every outsider that your sister mentions, as you
do. She is afraid to speak her mind before you, for fear of a fuss."

"I hate deceit," I said, wiping my eyes; "and deceitful people, too. I
love my friends behind their backs the same as to their faces--just the
same."

"What makes you mock Mr. Bainrothe then, and show how he minces at
table, and uses his rattan?" she asked.

"Mr. Bainrothe is not my friend; besides, I said no harm of him. I don't
love him, and never will, and he knows it."

"Were you rude enough to tell him so, Miriam?"

"No, but he understands very well. I never mimic any one I love."

"Yet you love that rough, old Mr. Gerald Stanbury, as cross as a cur.
What taste!"

"Yes, from my heart I love him. He is good, he is true, he is noble;
that is what he is. He has no specks in his eyes. He does not say, 'Just
so,' whenever papa opens his lips."

"O Miriam! not to like him for that!"

"No; that is just why I _don't_ like him. He has no mind of his own--or
maybe he has two minds. Mamma thinks so, I know."

"She has told you so, I suppose?"

"If she had, I would not talk about it. No, she never told me so. I
found it out myself. I know what she thinks, though, of every one, just
by looking at her."

"Then what does she think of me?" asked Mrs. Austin, sharply.

"That you are a good, dear old nurse," I said, with a sudden revulsion
of feeling, jumping up and throwing my arms about her; "only a little,
very little, bit fonder of Evelyn than me. But that is natural. She is
so much prettier and older than I am, and takes better care of her
clothes. Besides, I am cross about dressing, I know I am; and afterward
I am always so sorry."

"My Miriam always had a good heart," said Mrs. Austin, quite subdued,
and returning my embraces. "And now let me call Charity to wash and comb
and dress you before your mamma comes home. You know she always likes to
see you looking nicely. But soon you must learn to do this for yourself;
Charity will be wanted for other uses."

"I know, I know," I cried, jumping up and down; "Evelyn told me all
about it yesterday," and the flush of joy mounted to my brow. "Won't we
be too happy, Mrs. Austin, when our own dear little brother or sister
comes?" And I clasped my hands across my bare neck, hugging myself in
ecstasy.

"I don't know, child; there's no telling. What fingers" (holding them up
wofully to the light); "every color of the rainbow! That green stain
will be very hard to get out of your nails. How careless you are,
Miriam! But, as I was saying, there's no telling what to expect from an
unborn infant. It's wrong to speculate on such uncertainties; it's
tempting Providence, Miriam. In the first place, it may be deformed, I
shouldn't wonder--that lame boy about so much--short of one leg, at
least."

"Deformed! O Mrs. Austin! how dreadful! I never thought of that." And I
began to shiver before her mysterious suggestions.

"Or it may be a poor, senseless idiot like Johnny Gibson. _He_ comes
here for broken victuals constantly, you know, and your mamma sees him."

"Mrs. Austin, don't talk so, for pity's sake," catching at her gown
wildly; "don't! you frighten me to death."

"Or it may be (stand still directly, Miriam, and let met get this paint
off your ear)--or it may be, for aught we know or can help, born with a
hard, proud, wicked heart, that may show itself in bad actions--cruelty,
deceit, or even--" she hesitated, drearily.

"Mrs. Austin, _sha'n't_ say such things about that poor, innocent little
thing," I cried out, stamping my foot impatiently, "that isn't even
born."

"Well, well; there's no use rejoicing too soon, that's all I mean to
say. And why _you_ should be glad, child, to have your own nose broken,
is more than I can see," with a deep and awful groan.

"For pity's sake, stop! I _am_ glad, I _will_ be glad, there now! as
glad as I please, just because I know mamma will be glad, and papa will
be glad, and George Gaston will be glad, and because I do so adore
babies, sin or no sin; I can't help what you think; I say it again, I
_do_ adore them. No, I ain't afraid of 'God's eternal anger' at all for
saying so; not a bit afraid. What does He make them so sweet for if He
does not expect us to love them dearly--His little angels on earth?
Whenever a baby passes here with its nurse, I run after it and stop it
and play with it as long as I can; and oh, I wish so often we had one of
our own here at home!" embracing myself again with enthusiasm.

"Evelyn is right; you are a very absurd child, Miriam," she said,
smiling, in spite of her efforts to keep grave; "very silly, even."

"And you are a very foolish, dear old nurse, and you _will_ love our
baby, too, won't you now?" clasping her also, zealously.

"Be still, child--here comes Charity. She will think you crazy to be
rumpling my cap in that way, and talking about such matters. You are
getting to be a perfect tomboy, Miriam! What would your papa say if he
could see you now, so dirty and disorderly--your papa, as neat as a pink
always?--Charity, what kept you so long to-day? Be quick and get Miss
Miriam's new cambric dress, and her blue sash, and her new, long, gray
kid gloves, and her leghorn hat, and white zephyr scarf. She is going to
drive out presently with her mamma and papa, and must look decent for
once in a while." After a pause she continued: "Miss Evelyn was dressed
an hour ago, and is ready at the gate now, with her leghorn flat on and
her parasol in her hand, I'll be bound," looking from the window. "There
comes Norman Stanbury home from school. That's the idea, is it?" and the
good nurse looked grave. "It will never do, it will never do in the
world," she said, as she glanced at them, then turned away, shaking her
head dolefully. "My child, my pretty piece of wax-work, must do better
than that comes to. Her blood must never mix with such as runs in the
veins of the Stanbury clan."

About a month later the feeble wail of my little sister greeted my ear
as I entered my mamma's room one morning, in obedience to her summons,
and my heart was filled with a rapture almost as great as hers who owned
this priceless treasure.

Three weeks later, very suddenly and most unexpectedly, my dear mamma
was stricken mortally as she sat, apparently quite convalescent, in her
deep chair by the cradle, smiling at and caressing her infant. Mrs.
Austin and I were alone in the room with her; papa and Evelyn had gone
out for a walk. I had just been thinking how very pretty she looked that
day in her white wrapper, with a pink ribbon at the throat, and her
little, closely-fitting lace cap, through which her rich brown hair was
distinctly visible. She had a fine oval face, clear, pallid skin, and
regular though not perfect features, and never appeared so interesting
or beautiful as now, in the joy and pride of her new maternity. Suddenly
she grew strikingly pale, gasped, stretched out her hands, fixed her
imploring eyes on me, and fell back, half fainting, in her chair.

By the time we had placed her on her bed she was insensible, breathing
hard, though with a low fluttering pulse, that kept hope alive until the
doctor came. The moment he beheld her he knew that all was over;
remedies were tried in vain. She never spoke again, and, when my father
returned an hour later, a senseless mass of snow replaced the young wife
he had left, happy and hopeful.

I was spared the first manifestations of his agony, in which
disappointment and the idea of being pursued by a relentless fate bore
so great a part, by my own condition, which rendered me insensible for
nearly thirty hours, to all that passed around me. It was afternoon when
I awoke, as if from a deep sleep, to find myself alone with Mrs. Austin
in my chamber.

Except from a sense of lassitude I experienced no unpleasant sensations,
and I found myself marveling at the causes that could have consigned me
in health to my bed and bed-gown, to my shadowed chamber and the
supervision of my faithful nurse, when the sound of suppressed yet
numerous footsteps in the hall below met my ear, and the consciousness
that something unusual was going on took possession of and quickened my
still lethargic faculties.

"What does all this mean, Mrs. Austin?" I asked at last, in a voice
feeble as an infant's, "and what are those steps below? Why am I so
weak, and what are you doing here? Answer me, I beseech you," and I
clasped my hands piteously.

"Eat your panada, Miriam, and ask no questions," she said, lifting a
bowl from above a spirit-lamp on the chimney-piece, and bearing it
toward me. "Here it is, nice and hot. The doctor said you were to take
it as soon as you awoke."

I received eagerly the nourishment of which I stood so greatly in need,
spiced and seasoned as it was with nutmegs and Madeira wine, and, as I
felt new strength return to me with the warmth that coursed through my
veins, the memory of all that had passed surged rapidly back, as a
suspended wave breaks on the strand, and with the shock I was restored
to perfect consciousness.

"I know what it all means now," I cried. "Mamma! mamma! Let me go to my
poor mamma!" and before she could arrest my steps I flew to the head of
the stairway, dressed as I was in my white bed-gown, and was about to
descend, when Dr. Pemberton stopped my progress.

"Go back, Miriam; I must see you a moment before you can go
down-stairs," he said, calmly, and with authority in his voice. "Nay,
believe me, I will not restrain you a moment longer than necessary, if
you are obedient now."

"Do you promise this?" I cried, sobbing bitterly.

"I do," and he led me gently back to Mrs. Austin, then examined my
pulse, my countenance carefully, inquired if I had taken nourishment,
gave me a few drops from a vial he afterward left on the table for use,
and, signifying his will to Mrs. Austin, went calmly but sorrowfully
from the room.

My simple toilet was speedily made. My dress consisted of a
white-cambric gown, I remember, over which Mrs. Austin bound, with some
fantastic notion of impromptu mourning, a little scarf of black _crepe_,
passing over one shoulder and below the other, like those worn by the
pall-bearers; and, so attired, she took me by the hand and led me, dumb
with amazement and grief, through the crowd that surged up the stairs
and in the hall and parlors below, into the drawing-room, where, on its
tressels, the velvet-covered coffin stood alone and still open, its
occupant waiting in marble peace and dumb patience for the last rites of
religion and affection to sanctify her repose, ere darkness and solitude
should close around her forever.

The spell that had controlled me was rent away, when I saw that sweet
and well-beloved aspect once again fixed in a stillness and composure
that I knew must be eternal, the tender eyes sealed away from mine
forever, the fine sensitive ear dull, expression obliterated! I flung
myself in a passion of grief across the coffin. I kissed the waxen face
and hands a thousand times and bathed them with scalding tears, then
stooping down to the dulled ear I whispered:

"Mamma! mamma! hear me, if your soul is still in your breast, as I
believe it is; I want to say something that will comfort you: I want to
promise you to take care of your little baby all my days and hers, to
divide all I have with her--to live for her, to die for her if such
need comes--never to leave her if I can help it, or to let any one
oppress her. Do you hear me, Mamma Constance?"

"What are you whispering about, Miriam?" said Mrs. Austin, drawing me
away grimly.

"There, did you see her smile?" I asked, as in my childish imagination
that sweet expression, that comes with the relaxation of the muscles to
some dead faces toward the last of earth, seemed to transfigure hers as
with an angel grace. "Her soul has not gone away yet," I murmured, "she
heard me, _she believed me_," and I clasped my hands tightly and sank on
my knees beside the coffin, devoutly thanking God for this great
consolation.

"Child, child, you are mad," she said, drawing me suddenly to my feet.
"Come away, Miriam, this is no place for you; I wonder at Dr. Pemberton!
That coffin ought to be closed at once, for decay has set in; and there
is no sense in supposing the spirit in the poor, crumbling body, when
such signs as these exist," and she pointed to two blue spots on the
throat and chin.

I did not understand her then--I thought they were bruises received in
life--and wondered what she meant as well as I could conjecture at such
a time of bewilderment; but still I resolutely refused to leave my dear
one's side, sobbing passionately when Mr. Lodore came in to take me away
at last, in obedience to Dr. Pemberton's orders.

"Come, Miriam, this will never do," he said. "Grief must have its way,
but reason must be listened to as well. You have been ill yourself, and
your friends are anxious about you; if your mamma could speak to you,
she would ask you to go to your chamber and seek repose. Nay, more, she
would tell you that, for all the thrones of the earth, she would not
come back if she could, and forsake her angel estate."

"Not even to see her baby?" I asked, through my blinding tears. "O Mr.
Lodore, you must be mistaken about that; you are wrong, if you are a
preacher, for she told me lately she valued her life chiefly for its
sake; and I heard her praying one night to be spared to raise it up to
womanhood.--Mamma! mamma! you would come back to us I know, if God would
let you, but you cannot, you cannot; He is so strong, so cruel! and He
holds you fast." And I sobbed afresh, covering up my face.

"Miriam, what words are these?--Mr. Monfort, I am pleased that you have
come. It is best for your little daughter to retire; she is greatly
moved and excited;" and, yielding to my father's guidance and
persuasion, I went passively from the presence of the dead, into which
came, a moment later, the hushed crowd of her church-people and our few
private friends, assembled to witness her obsequies.

Evelyn Erie accompanied my father to the grave as one of the chief
mourners, and at my entreaty Mrs. Austin laid my little sister on the
bed by my side, and I was soothed and strengthened by the sight of her
baby loveliness as nothing else could have soothed and strengthened me.

Then, solemnly and in my own heart, I renewed the promise I had made the
dead, and as far as in me lay have I kept it, Mabel, through thy life
and mine!

I roused from an uneasy sleep an hour later, to find George Gaston at my
side.

"I have brought you this, Miriam," he said, "because I thought it might
help you to bear up. It is a little book my mother loved; perhaps you
can read it and understand it when you are older even if you cannot now.
See, there is a cross on the back, and such a pretty picture of Jesus in
the front. It is for you to _keep_ forever, Miriam. It is called Keble's
'Christian Year.'"

"Thank you, George," and I kissed him, murmuring, "But I do not think I
shall ever read any more," tearfully.

He, too, begged to see the baby for all recompense--his darling as well
as mine thenceforth; and I recall to this hour the lovely face of the
boy, with all his clustering, nut-brown curls damp with the clammy
perspiration incident to his debility, bending above the tiny infant as
it lay in sweet repose, with words of pity and tenderness, and tearful,
steadfast eyes that seemed filled with almost angelic solicitude and
solemn blessing.

Two guardians of ten years old then clasped hands above its downy head,
and in childish earnestness vowed to one another to protect, to cherish,
to defend it as long as life was spared to either. Hannibal was not
older than we were when he swore his famous oath at Carthage, kneeling
at the feet of Hamilcar before the altar, to hate the Romans. How was
our oath of love less solemn or impressive than his of hatred?--pledged
as it was, too, in the presence of an angel too lately freed from
earth's bondage not to hover still around her prison-house and above the
sleeping cherub she left so lately!

Such resolutions, however carried out, react on the character that
conceives them. I felt from that time strengthened, uplifted, calmed, as
I had never felt before. I learned the precious secret of patience in
watching over that baby head, and for its sake grew forbearing to all
around; toward Evelyn, even, whose taunts were so hard to bear, so
unendurable on occasions.

"There is a great change in Miriam," she said one day to Norman
Stanbury. "I believe she is getting religion, or perhaps she and George
Gaston are training themselves to go forth as married missionaries,
after a while, to the heathen. They are studying parental responsibility
already, one at the head and the other at the foot of the baby's
cradle-carriage, but I am afraid it will be but a _lame_ concern, after
all."

We both heard this cruel speech and the laugh that succeeded it, in
passing by, as it was intended we should do, probably--heard it in
silence, and perhaps it may be said in dignity, not even a remark being
interchanged between us concerning it; but I saw George Gaston flush to
the roots of his hair.

A few minutes later we were ourselves laughing merrily over the baby's
ineffectual efforts to catch a bunch of scarlet roses which George
dangled above her head, and, altogether forgetful of Evelyn's sneer,
bumped our heads together in trying to kiss her.

In truth, my superb sense of womanhood lifted me quite above all
frivolous suggestions; thenceforth George seemed to me physically almost
as much of a baby as Mabel, and was nearly as dependent on my aid. In
his sudden fits of exhaustion and agony of such uncertain recurrence as
to render it dangerous for him to venture forth alone, he always turned
with confidence to my supporting and guiding hand.

I taught him his lessons in the intervals of my own studies, which he
recited when he could to a private teacher, the same who gave me
lessons.

Evelyn preferred a public school, and was sent, at her own request, to
a fashionable establishment in the city attended by the _elite_ alone,
as the enormous prices charged for tuition indicated, as a day-boarder.
There she became proficient in mere mechanical music--her ear being a
poor one naturally--and learned to speak two languages, dance to
perfection, and conduct herself like a high-bred woman of fashion on all
occasions and in all emergencies--each and all necessities for a belle,
which, it may be remembered, she had aspired to be, and announced her
intention of becoming.

The fame of my father's wealth, her own beauty, tact, and grace, and
elegant attire, rendered her conspicuous among her school-mates, and
from among these she selected as friends such as appeared to her most
desirable as bearing on her future plans of life. So that already Evelyn
had made for herself a sphere outside and beyond any thing known in
"Monfort Hall" or its vicinity.

My father, who, like all shy persons, admired cool self-possession and
the leading hand in others, looked on with quiet approbation and some
diversion at these proceedings. He gave her the use of his equipage, his
house, his grounds, reserving to himself only intact the refuge of his
library, from which ark of safety he surveyed at leisure, with quiet,
curious, and amused scrutiny, the gay young forms that on holiday
occasions glided through his garden and conservatory, and filled his
drawing-room and halls with laughter and revelry.

On such occasions I was permitted, on certain conditions, to appear as a
spectator. One of the most imperative of these was, that I was never to
reveal to any one that Evelyn was not my own half-sister.

"You are not called upon to tell a story, Miriam, only to give them no
satisfaction. You see they might as well think part of all this wealth,
which came from your mother, is mine. It will in no way affect the
reality--only their demeanor--for they every one worship money."

"I would not care for such girls, sister Evelyn, nor what they thought,"
I rejoined. "Besides, are you not an earl's granddaughter; why not boast
of that instead, which would be the truth?"

"An earl's fiddlestick! What do you suppose American girls would care
for that? Nor would they believe it, even, unless I had diamonds and
coronet and every thing to match. Your mother had diamonds, I know, but
mine had not. By-the-by, where are they, Miriam? I have never seen
them."

"I do not know, Evelyn," I replied, gravely. "I have never thought about
them until now, I am so sorry your heart is set upon such things. You
know what Mamma Constance used to tell us."

"Oh, yes, I remember she croaked continually, as all delicate, doomed
people do, I believe. It was well enough in her case, as she _had_ to
die; but, as for me--look at me, Miriam Monfort! Do I look like death?
No; victory, rather!" and she straightened her elastic form exultingly.
"And you, too, little one, are growing up strong and tall and
better-looking than you used to be," she continued, patting my cheek
carelessly. "The Jewish gaberdine is gradually dropping off; I mean the
dinginess of your early complexion. By the time I have had my successful
career, and am settled in life, yours will begin. Help me now, and I
will help you then."

"You are only a school-girl," I said, sententiously. "You had better be
thinking of your lessons, and let beaux and diamonds alone. I would be
ashamed to keep a key to my exercises and sums, as you do. I would
blush in the dark to do such a thing."

"I am not preparing myself for a governess, that I should make a point
of honor of such things, little pragmatical prig that you are; nor are
you, that I know of. You will always have plenty of money. 'Rich as a
Jew' is a proverb, you know, all the world over."

The taunt had long since lost its sting; so I replied, meekly:

"We none of us know what may happen. I should like to be able to support
myself and Mabel, if the worst came. Old Mr. Stanbury says all property
is uncertain nowadays, especially in this country."

"Oh, don't repeat what that old croaking vulgarian and general leveller
and democrat says, to me! A democrat is my aversion, anyhow. I wonder
papa, can tolerate that coarse old Jackson man in his sight. 'Adams and
the Federal cause forever,' say I; and all aristocratic people are on
that side. I never enjoyed any thing so much as our illumination when
Mr. Clay gave his casting vote, and carried Congress. The Stanbury house
was as dark as a grave that night; but Norman was in our interest, and I
made him halloo 'Hurrah for Adams!' That was a triumph, at all events.
It nearly killed the old gentleman, though."

"If I were a man, _I_, too, would vote for General Jackson," I
said defiantly. "He was such a brave soldier; he could defend our
country if it was attacked again. Besides, I like his face better than
old moon-faced Adams; and I despise Norman for his time-serving."

"Miriam, I shall tell papa if you utter such sentiments again; you know
how devoted he is to the Federal party, and you ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"That is just because Mr. Bainrothe over-persuaded him. He used to
admire General Jackson. I heard him say once, myself, he would be the
people's choice, next time."

"I thought you accused Mr. Bainrothe of toadying papa. Where, now, is
your boasted consistency?"

"Evelyn, you know very well that is the way to rule and toady papa.
Yield to him apparently, and he will let you lead him and have your own
way pretty much. You have found that out long ago, Evelyn." And I looked
at her sharply, I confess. She colored, but did not reply. "There is
more," I said. "A girl who would be ashamed of her own mother, and
afraid to acknowledge her poverty, would not scruple to do this. I
believe you are almost as great a humbug at heart as Mr. Bainrothe
himself," and I smiled scornfully. "That is what _some_ people call
him."

She turned on me with cold, white eyes and quivering lips; she shook me
by the shoulder until my teeth chattered and my hair tossed up and down
like a pony's mane blown by the winds, with her long, nervous fingers.

"Inform on me if you dare," she said, "or utter such an opinion to papa,
and I will make you and your baby both suffer for it, and that lame
hop-toad too, who follows you everywhere like your shadow! Moreover, if
you do breathe a syllable of this slander, I shall tell Mr. Bainrothe
your opinion of him, and make _him_ your enemy. And mark me, Miriam
Monfort, precious Hebrew imp that you are, you could not have a direr
one, not even if you searched your old Jewish Bible through and through
for a parallel, or called up Satan himself. I shall tell papa, too, that
you are a story-teller, so that he will never again believe one word
that you say, miss!"

"You could not convince him of that," I said, disengaging myself from
her grasp, "if you were to try, for I have honest eyes in my head, not
speckled like a toad's back, nor turning white with rage like a
tree-frog laid on a window-sill; but, if you ever dare to lay your hand
on me again, Evelyn Erle, I will tell papa _every thing_--there, now!
This is the last time, remember."

"I did not hurt you, and you know it, Miriam; I only shook you to settle
your brains," and she laughed a ghastly laugh, "and to make you a little
bit afraid of me."

"I am not afraid of you," I said, "that is one comfort; and you can
never make me so again; and I am not a mischief-maker, that is another;
so rest in peace. _Pass_ for my sister if you choose, and are proud of
the title; I shall not say yes or no, but of this be certain, you are no
sister of mine, though I call you such, either in heart or blood. I do
not love you, Evelyn Erle; and, if I were not afraid of the anger of God
and my own heart, I would _let_ myself hate you, and strike you. But I
always try and remember what mamma said, and what Mr. Lodore tells us
every Sunday. Yet I find it hard."

"Little hypocrite! little Jew!" burst from her angry lips, and she left
the room in a whirl of rage, not forgetting, however, to write me a very
smooth note before she went to school next morning, which was, with her
usual tact, slipped under my pillow before I awoke; and, after that, all
was outward peace between us for a season.

Evelyn was about sixteen when this occurred, I nearly twelve. The next
year she left school and made her _debut_ in society, and, through her
machinations, no doubt, I was sent away to a distant boarding-school for
two years, coming home only at holiday intervals thereafter to my
dearest baby, my home, my parent, and narrow circle of friends, and
finding Miss Erle more and more in possession of my father's confidence,
even to the arrangement of his papers and participation in the knowledge
of his business transactions, and entirely installed as the head of the
house, which post she maintained ever afterward indomitably.

Singularly enough, however, Mr. Bainrothe seemed secretly to prefer me
at this period, however much he openly inclined to her, and he lost no
occasion of privately speaking to me in rapturous terms (such as I never
heard him employ in the presence of Evelyn and my father) of his only
son, then absent in Germany engaged in the prosecution of his studies,
but to return home, he told me, to remain, as soon as he had completed
his majority.

It was only through our knowledge of his son's age, and his admissions
as to the time of his own early marriage, that we arrived at any
estimate of Mr. Bainrothe's years; for, as I have said, Time, in his
case, had omitted what he so rarely forgets to imprint--his sign manual
on his exterior.




CHAPTER III.


The school to which I was sent was half a day's journey from the city of
our residence, situated in a small but ancient town of Revolutionary
notoriety. The river, very wide at that point, was shaded by
willow-trees to some extent along its banks, immediately in front of the
Academy of St. Mark's, and beyond it to a considerable distance on
either hand. The town itself was an old-fashioned, primitive village
rather than burgh, quaintly built, and little adorned by modern taste or
improvement; but the air was fine and elastic, the water
unexceptionable, and bathing and boating were among our privileged
amusements. Among other less useful accomplishments, I there acquired
that of swimming expertly; and, as a place of exile, this quaint town
answered as well as any other for the intended purpose.

For, notwithstanding my father's assurances that Dr. Pemberton had
recommended change of air--to some degree true, of course--and that he
himself believed a public course of study would exhaust me less than my
solitary lessons, to which I gave such undivided attention, and
notwithstanding Evelyn's professions of regret at the necessity of
parting with me, and Mrs. Austin's belief that the "baby was killing me
by inches," since she took it into her head to sleep with no one else,
and to play half the night, and to stay with me all day besides, I felt
myself "ostracized."

The whole matter was so sudden that I scarcely knew what to make of it.
Mr. Bainrothe alone let in a little light upon the subject by one
remark, unintentionally, no doubt:

"The fact is, Miriam, you are getting too much wound up with that
Stanbury family, and you would be perfectly entangled there in another
year. The idea of putting the whole hardship of George Gaston's
education on your shoulders was worthy of diplomatic brains, and
something I should scarcely have suspected that calm, quiet little woman
to have been capable of conceiving. There is an old, worn-out plantation
in the Gaston family, that your money would set going again, no doubt,
with accelerated velocity. Did you never suspect anything of that sort?"
he asked, carelessly.

"Never; nor did I suppose any one else was stupid or wicked enough to
entertain such an idea. I, being tolerably acute, _knew_ better,
fortunately."

"My dear little girl, you are entirely too chivalrous and confiding
where your feelings are engaged. What if I were to assure that this plan
had been agitated?"

"I should think you had been deceived, or that you were deceiving me,
one or the other. I should not _believe_ you, that would be all. You
understand me now, Mr. Bainrothe; there are no purer people than the
Stanburys--I wish every one was half as good and true."

"Old Gerald at the head of them, I suppose?" with a sneer and a
kaleidoscopic glance.

"Mr. Gerald Stanbury at the head of them," I reiterated firmly, adding:
"These are friends of mine, Mr. Bainrothe; it hurts and offends me to
hear them lightly discussed. If I am sent away from home to break off my
affection for them, the measure is a vain one, for I shall returned
unchanged."

"Yes, but with enlarged views, I trust, Miriam," he rejoined,
pertinaciously. "See how Evelyn was improved by her two years at school;
besides, how would you ever increase your circle of acquaintances here,
studying alone, or even with your shy disposition, at a day-school?"

"I am sent from home, then, to make acquaintances it seems, and to
prepare for my _debut_ into society? Very well, I shall not forget that;
but pray, what particular advantage in this respect does a
country-school present?"

"Oh, the very first people send their daughters to St. Mark's. If I were
training a wife for my son, I should educate her there. What higher
eulogium could I bestow, or"--dropping his voice--"what higher
compliment pay you, Miriam?"

"If he were a king's son, you could not speak more confidently," I
rejoined, with inexcusable rudeness. "Remember, too, you are _not_
training a wife for your prince in disguise." But I was annoyed and
irritated by his patronizing manner, and the suspicion that took
possession of me from that time, that he had aided Evelyn in this
conspiracy against my peace for selfish views.

He laughed carelessly and turned away, but I saw triumph in his
variegated eye; yet was I powerless to resent it.

"I am leaving my poor papa bound hand and foot," I thought, "in
designing hands, but I cannot help it. He has chosen for himself, I will
not entreat his affection, his confidence, misplaced as they surely are.
I _cannot_ do this if I would; something stronger than myself binds me
to silence. But O papa, papa! if you only knew how I loved you, you
would not suffer these strangers to take my place, or banish your poor
Miriam so cruelly!"

"Don't let Mabel forget me," were the last words I spoke to Mrs. Austin,
as with a bursting heart I turned from the lovely child I had made
perhaps too much an idol; "and George, let her see George Gaston every
day; it will be a comfort to both." So, choking, I went my way.

I bade Evelyn "good-by" gayly, Mr. Bainrothe superciliously, my father
bitterly, for I felt his ingratitude to my heart's core; and, under dear
old Mr. Stanbury's escort, went to the steamboat, there to find one of
the lady principals of the academy ready to take charge of me on our
brief voyage. It was not in my nature to cherish depression or to make
complaints and sudden confidences, and we chatted very cheerfully all
the way up the river on indifferent subjects chiefly; sharing fruit and
flowers, and general observations and opinions, so that I felt quite
inspirited on my arrival, and made, I have reason to believe, no
unfavorable impression.

My school-girl experiences I shall not record here. They were pleasant
and profitable on the whole, and I earned the esteem of my teachers, by
my zeal and diligence in my studies, and made some few valued friends
more or less permanent, but none so dear as those I left behind.

Laura Stanbury, quiet and uninteresting as she seemed to many, had a
hold on my heart that no newer acquaintance could boast, and for dear
George Gaston, where was there another like him? I have known no one so
gifted, so spiritual, so simply affectionate, as this child of genius
and physical misfortune, whose short but brilliant career is engraven on
the annals of his country, I well believe, indelibly.

When I was fifteen years old, I was recalled suddenly and in the middle
of a busy session to my home, by the severe and almost fatal illness of
my father. He rallied, however, soon after my return, and I had the
inexpressible satisfaction of hearing Dr. Pemberton, our good and
skillful family physician, pronounce him out of danger a week later, but
he would suffer me to go from him no more. The voice of Nature asserted
her claim at last, and, feeling within himself that indescribable
failure of vitality in which no one is ever deceived, and which can
never be explained to or wholly understood by another, he desired me to
remain with him through the remainder of a life which he foresaw would
not be long.

It was in vain that Dr. Pemberton tried to rally him on the score of his
old hypochondriacal tendencies, or that Evelyn quietly remarked: "I am
sure, papa, I never saw you looking better! It is a pity to interrupt
dear Miriam now in the full tide of her studies. I am sure that _I_ am
willing to devote every moment of my time to you if needful;" or that
Mrs. Austin added: "Miriam is so well, and growing so fast, that I am
afraid to see her take on care again, for fear of a check; and now that
Mabel is partly weaned from her they are both happy to be separated;" or
that Mr. Bainrothe carelessly interpolated: "Let the child go back, my
dear Monfort, or you will spoil her again among you. She is developing
splendidly at St. Mark's, and you have twenty good years before you yet,
with your unbroken English constitution."

Not even the joy manifested by George Gaston and Mrs. and Miss
Stanbury, or bluff old Mr. Gerald, at the good news of my return, could
shake his resolution.

"Miriam shall leave me no more while life is mine," he said, "be it long
or short. When she marries, I will surrender every thing I possess, save
a stipend, into her hands, and Evelyn and Mabel and I to some extent
will be her pensioners thereafter. Until that time, matters will stand
as they do now."

"Folly, folly, Colonel Monfort! You talk like a dotard of eighty; you, a
superb-looking man yet, younger than I am, no doubt; young enough to
marry again, if the fancy took you, and head a second family."

"Why not say a third?" asked my father, sadly. "Don't you know,
Bainrothe, I am a fatal upas-tree to the wives of my bosom? See how it
has been already."

"Better luck next time. Now, there is the Widow Stanbury, willing and
waiting, you know, and a dozen others."

I turned a flashing eye upon him that silenced him.

"You know better than that," I said, in suppressed tones, hoarse with
anger. "Better let that subject rest hereafter, unless, indeed, your
object is feud with me. You shall not slander my friends with impunity,
nor must you come any longer between me and them and my father."

I spoke, for his ear alone, and waited for no reply. I understood his
game by this time, as he did mine.

"His son, indeed!" I murmured, with a scornful lip, as I found myself
alone. "I would cut off my right hand before I would give it to a
Bainrothe," and I scoffed at him bitterly in the depths of my resentful
Judaic heart.

About this time I passed through a painful trial. It was autumn, and
early fires of wood had been kindled in the chambers; more, so far, for
the sake of cheerfulness than warmth. Mabel was playing on the hearth of
her nursery preparatory to going to bed, and I was in the adjoining
room, my own chamber, making an evening toilet, for Evelyn expected a
party of young visitors that night, and my presence had been requested.

Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had left the room for one moment, when a cry
from Mabel brought me to her side. She had fanned the fire with her
little cambric night-dress, and was already in a blaze. I caught Mrs.
Austin's heavy shawl from the bed, and promptly extinguished the flames,
but not without receiving serious injury myself. The child, with the
exception of a slight but painful burn on her ankle, was unhurt, but my
left arm and shoulder and bosom were fearfully burned, and for some days
my life hung on a thread.

Months passed before I was able to leave my own chamber, and the blow to
my health was so severe as to induce a return of those lethargic attacks
from which I had been entirely free for the last two years. It is true
they were brief in duration compared to those of old, but that they
should exist at all was a cause of anxiety and disquietude both to my
father and physician.

By the first of March, however, I was again in glowing health, and no
trace remained, except those carefully-concealed scars on my shoulder,
of my fearful injury.

Soon after this accident had occurred, two circumstances of interest had
taken place in our household and vicinity. One of these was the return
of Claude Bainrothe from abroad, and the other the rather mysterious
visit of a gentleman, young and handsome, but poorly clad, who had
inquired for my step-mother, Mrs. Constance Monfort, and on hearing, to
his surprise and grief, apparently, that she was dead, had gone away
again without requesting an interview with any other member of the
family.

He had met Evelyn at the door just as she was about to step into the
carriage, dressed for visiting, and had said to her, merely (as she
asserted), as he turned away, evidently in sorrow:

"I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen--now, as you tell
me, no more. What children did she leave?"

"One only--a daughter," was Evelyn's reply. "Not visible to-day,
however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still
confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though."

"I passed on then, as quickly as I could," said Evelyn, "for I saw no
end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep. I said, however,
civilly, 'Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged. To-day
he could not possibly receive you,' pausing on the steps for a reply.
This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his
hat with a cool 'Thank you, Miss Monfort,' and went his way silently. He
evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him. My
greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name
was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form."

"The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part,
Evelyn," I remarked, as mildly as I could. "Mamma's brother! Oh, what
would I not have given to have seen him! Did he never return, and where
is he now?"

"No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared. He walked by here a
few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with
papa's tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor
spoke. You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate,
Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa
annoyed so soon after his severe attack. Besides, I want no such claims
established over Mabel. She is ours, and need desire no other relations.
The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and
lodging, or some such thing, no doubt."

"How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?" I asked, conquering a qualm of
feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.

"I'm sure I can't tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the
usual age of all such bores. You know mamma was seven or eight and
twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you
may remember."

"Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly. Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn? Was he
tall or short, fair or dark? Had he her lovely eyes? Do tell me about
him."

"None of these things. A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma,
however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I
remember; with fine eyes, however. Not as good-looking as Claude
Bainrothe, by any means. Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat.
By-the-way, Miriam, _he_ will be back next week, I believe, and then you
will see this phenomenon. You know Mr. Bainrothe and papa design you for
one another."

"Papa, indeed! I suppose you mean Claude Bainrothe," and I laughed
disdainfully, I fear. "Nay, it is you rather, Evelyn, who have
captivated this piece of perfection, as far as I can learn. At least,
this is the report that--" I hesitated--colored.

"Finish your sentence, Miriam. The report that your faithful spies,
Laura Stanbury and George Gaston, have brought to you in your solitude.
They are very observing, truly," she pursued. "Creatures that never
penetrate beneath the surface, though. Self-deluders, I fancy, however,
rather than story-tellers."

"Do you pretend to deny it, Evelyn? Now, look me in the eyes and say
'No' if you dare," and I grasped her slender wrists playfully. She
opened her large, blue eyes and fixed them full on mine, responsively.

"_No_! Now you have the unmitigated truth. Ah, Miriam, I have no wish to
interfere with you," and she leaned forward and kissed my cheek
tenderly, disengaging her hands as she did so. Her manner had so changed
to me of late that she was growing rapidly into my affections, and I
returned her embrace cordially.

In the next moment we were laughing merrily together over the ridiculous
schemes of the elder Bainrothe, so transparent that every one understood
them perfectly, motive and all, and which my father winked at evidently,
rather than favored or encouraged, as our charlatan thought he
did--"Cagliostro," as we habitually called him.

"The fact is, prophetess, the person in question would not suit you at
all, with your grand ways and notions and prospects. I have fathomed his
depth pretty successfully, and I find him full of shoals and shallows.
Pretty well for a flirtation, though, and to keep one's hand in, but
unavailable any further."

"Having brought him to his knees, you are perfectly willing to pass him
over to me as a bond-slave. Is that the idea, Evelyn?"

"Exactly, Miriam; you are always so penetrating! But don't tell, for the
world. Old Bainrothe would never forgive me; and, as I once before told
you in one of my savage moods, his enmity is dire--satanic!"

"I am not afraid of Cagliostro, or his animosity," I answered; "never
was, Evelyn, as you know. The best way to disarm him is to confront him
boldly. He is like a lion in that alone. I wish, though, he would give
me a little of his elixir of life, for dear papa; he has never looked
himself since that attack, though better, certainly,--oh, decidedly
better, of course, than I dared to hope at one time ever to see him
again. Yet I am very anxious."

"Papa is well enough, Miriam; you only imagine these things. At fifty,
you know, most men begin to break a little; then they rally again and
look almost as well as ever in a few years, up to sixty or seventy. Look
at Mr. Lodore! He looked older when we first knew him than he does now;
and so did Dr. Pemberton."

"That is because they have both filled out and grown more florid and
healthy; but papa is withering away, Evelyn; shrinking day by day--his
very step has changed recently. Oh, I hope, I hope I may be deceived!"
And I covered my face with my hands, praying aloud, as I did sometimes
irresistibly when greatly excited. "God grant, God grant us his precious
life!" I murmured. "Spare him to his children!"

"Amen!" said Evelyn Erle, solemnly.

A few evenings after this conversation I went to see and hear the opera
of "Masaniello," then all the rage, and at the zenith of its popularity,
with Mrs. Stanbury, Laura, and George Gaston--Norman had been recently
placed in the navy and he was absent now, and Mr. Gerald Stanbury
obstinately refused to accompany us to that "monkey-and-parrot show," as
he deliberately dubbed the Italian opera.

"When men and women who are in love or grief, or who are telling each
other the news, or secrets, stop to set their words to music, and roar
and howl in each other's ears, the world will be mad, and the opera
natural," he said. "I will not lend my countenance before them to such a
villainous travesty."

As "Masaniello" had nearly had its run, and Evelyn was disinclined to
see it again, having attended during the winter about twenty
representations of this great musical spectacle, I was fain to go with
our neighbors and their very youthful escort, or forego my opera.

As we entered the crowded lobby, Laura and I walked together behind
George Gaston and Mrs. Stanbury, dropping later into Indian file as the
crowd increased, in which order I was the last. I wore a rich India
shawl, that had been my mother's, caught by a cameo clasp across the
bosom. Suddenly I felt the pin wrenched away and the shawl torn from my
shoulders. In another moment there was a cry--a scuffle--a fall--and a
prostrate form was borne away between two policemen, while a gentleman,
with his cravat hanging loose and his hair in wild confusion, came
toward me eagerly, extending the shawl and clasp.

"These are yours, I believe, young lady," he remarked, breathlessly,
throwing the shawl about my shoulders as he spoke, and laying the broken
clasp in my hand. "I am happy to restore them to you."

The whole transaction had been so sudden and so public, that there had
been neither time nor room for trepidation on my part. My own party,
pressing steadily on, had not yet missed me, so that, even in that
moment of excitement, I surveyed my champion with an eye capable of
future recognition.

"Thank you," I said. "I hope you are not hurt in my service?"

"No, no; not at all--that is, very slightly, indeed. Pass on, I will
attend you safely to your seat," and, obeying the wave of his hand, I
followed the direction of Mrs. Stanbury's white plume as observingly as
did the followers of Henry of Navarre, without turning again until I
reached the box she had entered. I was shocked then, as I bowed my
thanks, at the ghastly whiteness and expression of my escort's face, but
he vanished too quickly to permit of inquiry or remark at that season.

I had still time before the curtain rose to relate my adventure, which
brought the blood hotly to George Gaston's brow as he listened to it.

"There it is!" he muttered. "It is all very well with me in peaceful
times, but, when it comes to battle, a poor, lame wretch is of little
account. I might as well be a woman;" and the tears flowed down his
quivering cheeks. "It was shameful, disgraceful, that any other man
should have defended you, Miriam," he added, in a broken voice,
clinching his hands, "than I, your escort."

"You did not even see the affair, George," I remonstrated. "Had you been
as strong as Samson, and I know you are just as brave, you could not
have helped me, for there I was lagging away behind, through my own
fault, and how could you, in front, between your aunt and Laura,
possibly know what danger was in store for me? Now, I shall feel
provoked if you show so much morbid feeling; besides, reflect, you are
but a boy, dear. George. No youth of your age is ever very strong."

"A boy! and what are you, Miriam Monfort, that you taunt me with youth!
a woman, I suppose--a heroine!" with bitter sarcasm in his voice and
eye, for the first time in his life so directed to me. I gazed at him
in mute surprise.

"My dear George, you are very unreasonable, indeed," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"What has Miriam done to deserve such a taunt? I never knew you to
behave in such an uncourteous way before."

"You must be crazy, George Gaston," added Laura Stanbury, sharply.
"Don't you know you are attracting attention toward our box. Be still
directly!"

"Oh no, it is only the magnificent Miss Monfort that every one is
staring at," he sneered. "The grown-up lady, the heroine, the heiress,
who lingers behind in the lobby, in order to get up little melodramas of
her own at the opera where such things are admissible, at the expense of
her lame escort!"

I turned to him calmly; I had not spoken before. "George," I said, "if
you say another word I shall go home alone, or burst into tears on the
spot, and disgrace myself and you, one or the other. I cannot bear
another word like this. I warn you, George Gaston!"

"Dear Miriam, forgive me; I am a fool I know," he said, as soon as he
could recover himself. "Lend me your handkerchief, Laura, mine has
mysteriously disappeared. There--Richard's himself again! (Sorra to
him!) He ought to have a bullet through his head for his pains" (_sotto
voce_).

This stroke of bathos brought about good-humor again, and soon our whole
attention was absorbed in that magical music which to this hour
electrifies me more than that of any other opera excepting "Norma." "Bad
taste this," connoisseurs will say; but the perfection of human
enjoyment is to pursue one's own tastes independently of Mrs. Grundy,
whether musical, or literary, or artistic, according to my mode of
thinking. In all the pauses of the opera, however, I saw that handsome
and agitated face, that had last caught my eye at the box-door, rise
before me like a spell; and anxiety for the safety of my strange
champion--some curiosity too, mingled therewith, I do not deny, to know
his name and lineage--beset me during the whole of a sleepless night and
the dreaming day that succeeded it.

We were sitting around a cheerful spring fire in the front parlor, our
ordinary sitting-room, opening as this did into the dining-room beyond
on one hand, and the wide intersecting hall of entrance on the other, on
the opposite side of which lay the long, double-chimneyed drawing-room,
less cheerful than our smaller assembly-room by half, and therefore less
often used (there, you have our whole first-floor arrangement now, my
reader, I believe, and I must begin over again, to catch the clew of my
long sentence). We were sitting, then, around the cheerful fire in the
parlor in question, when Morton, my father's "own man," announced "Mr.
Bainrothe and son," and a moment afterward the two gentlemen so heralded
entered the room together. With one you are already somewhat familiar,
reader mine, as a gentlemanly, handsome man, with deliberate movements
and confident address. You have seen such men in cities frequently; but
the word _distingue_, so often too hastily bestowed, was the chief
characteristic of the appearance of his younger companion.

Tall, slender, graceful, strong--for strength alone bestows such easy
perfection of movement, such equipoise of step as belonged to him--with
a fine, clear-cut face and well-shaped head, nobly placed on his
straight, square shoulders--wide for a man so slight--dark eyed, dark
haired, with a mouth somewhat concealed by a long silken mustache, then
an unusual coxcombry in our republic, yet revealing in glimpses superb
teeth and the curve of accurately-cut lips, Claude Bainrothe stood
before me, a young Apollo.

"I have brought my son here to-night, expressly to introduce him to you,
Miriam, of whom he has heard so much."

He bowed low and silently, then tossed his curled head suddenly back
again.

"We have met before, I believe, Mr. Bainrothe," I observed, when his eye
rose to meet mine. "You were good enough to restore me my shawl and
clasp last night at the opera, if I am not strangely mistaken."

"Ah! were you that lady?" he asked, with a slight yet somewhat
embarrassed laugh. "Forgive me, if in the confusion of the moment I
failed to remark your appearance. I only knew an outrage had been
committed, and naturally sought to repair it."

"Now, that was really romantic," said Evelyn, who had caught the idea.
"Miriam related her adventure, but was sorely puzzled to know to whom
she was indebted for such chivalrous aid."

"I am glad to have been of service to Miss Monfort," he rejoined,
deferentially, "but I merely obeyed an impulse strong with me. I should
have been wanting to myself to have done otherwise than defend a
helpless woman."

"There could not have been a more favorable opening to your
acquaintance, certainly," observed Evelyn significantly; then, turning
away and crossing the apartment, she applied herself to the
entertainment of the elder Mr. Bainrothe, "Mr. Basil," as we called him
after his son came, by way of distinction between the two, since the
word "old" seemed invidious in his case, and we characterized them as we
would have done two brothers.

Indeed, in manner, in bearing, in something of quiet repose entirely
wanting in the father, and which usually seems the accompaniment of age
or experience, the son seemed the elder man of the two. I had yet to
learn that there is an experience so perfect and subtle that it assumes
the air of ignorance, and triumphs in its simplicity over inferior craft
itself.

When the mind has worked out the problems of life to its own
satisfaction, like the school-boy who has proved his sums, it wipes the
slate clean again and sets down the bare result--the laborious process
it effaces. All is simplified.

"I was fearful that you had been hurt last night, Mr. Bainrothe," I
hazarded, "from the expression of your face as I caught it at the
box-door. I am glad to see you well this evening."

"I _was_ hurt," he said, "to be frank with you. The scoundrel gave me a
severe blow on the chest, which brought a little blood to my lips, and
for the time I suffered. Had it not been for the faintness under which I
was laboring I could not have failed to identify you. But you are
generous enough to forgive this oversight I am convinced."

"Oh, surely! it was most natural under the circumstances. I have a habit
of fixing faces at a glance that is rather uncommon, I believe. I never
forget any one I have seen even for a moment, or where I have seen them,
or even a name I have heard."

"A royal gift truly, one of the secrets of popularity, I believe. It is
not so with me usually, though when my eye once drinks in a face" (and
he looked steadily at mine while he spoke those words slowly, as if
wrapped in contemplation), "it never departs again. 'A thing of beauty
is a joy forever,' you know, Miss Monfort." He sighed slightly.

"Yes, that line has passed into an axiom, the only sensible one, I
believe, by-the-by, that Keats ever wrote," I laughed.

"Oh, you do Keats injustice. Have you studied him, Miss Monfort?"

"Studied poetry? What an idea! No, but I have tried to read him, and
failed. I think he had a very crude, chaotic mind indeed; I like more
clearness."

"Clearness and shallowness most often go together," he observed. "When
you see the pebbles at the bottom of a stream, most likely its waters
are not deep."

"Yet, you can stir up mud with a long pole in the pool more readily than
in the river. Keats wanted a current, it seems to me, to give him
vitality and carry off his own mental impurities. His was a stagnant
being."

"What a queer comparison," and he shook his head laughingly, "ingenious,
but at fault; you are begging the question now. Well, what do you say to
Shelley?"

"I have nothing to say to him; he has every thing to say to me. He is my
master."

"An eccentric taste for so young a girl; and Byron? and Moore? and Mrs.
Hemans? and Leigh Hunt? and Barry Cornwall?"

"Oh, every one likes _them_, but one gets tired of hearing lions roar,
and harps play, and angels sing; and then one goes to Shelley for
refreshment. He is never monotonous; he was a perennial fountain,
singing at its source, and nearly all was fragmentary that he wrote, of
course, wanting an outlet. The mind finishes out so much for itself,
and the thought comes to one always, that he was completed in heaven. No
other verse stirs me like his. You know he wrote it because he had to
write or die. He was a poet, or nothing."

"You ought to write criticisms for _Blackwood_, really, Miss Monfort,
and give a woman's reason for every opinion," with ill-concealed
derision.

"You are laughing at me now, of course, but I don't regard good-natured
raillery. I am sure I should not enjoy poetry as I do were I a better
critic. I love flowers far more than many who understand botany as a
science, and pull them to pieces scientifically and analytically."

"And paintings; do you love them?"

"Oh, passionately!"

"I confess I am _blase_ with art," he said, quietly; "I have seen so
much of it, I like nature far better;" adding, after a pause, "now, that
is your chief charm. Miss Monfort."

"What, being natural?"

"How well you divine my meaning!" with a little irony in the voice and
eye. The tendency of his mind was evidently sarcastic.

"Ah! true. Papa thinks me _too_ natural; he often checks my impulses.
Your father, too, coincides with him, I believe, in this opinion; but
don't talk about me. Tell me of your sojourn in Germany. How delightful
it must have been to have lived in Heidelberg, and felt the very
atmosphere you breathed filled with wisdom! Did you ever go to
Frankfort? Did you see the statue of Goethe there? Can you read 'Faust'
in the original? Oh, I should like to so much, but I know nothing of
German. I never could learn the character, I am convinced. French and
Italian only. There was such a beautiful picture of 'Margaret' in the
Academy of Fine Arts last year, I wanted papa to purchase it, but Evelyn
and he did not fancy it as much as I did. They prefer copies from the
old masters. I don't care a cent for Magdalenes and Madonnas and little
fat cherubs. I prefer illustrations of poetry or fiction; don't you, Mr.
Bainrothe?"

"Very frankly, Miss Monfort, I don't care for pictures at all, unless
for good landscapes. I am cloyed with them. And as to German books, I
never want to see another. The old 'Deer-Stealer' was worth all they
have ever written put together, in my opinion. I love the vernacular."

"Oh, of course, Shakespeare and the Bible; there is nothing like them
for truth and power. But to leave poetry for its sister art, you must
have enjoyed the music in Germany. Do you love music, Mr. Bainrothe?"

"Not very much, except in opera; then the scenery and lights and people
are half the charm. I don't care for science. Such an adventure as I had
last night," he murmured low, "was worth a dozen operas to me;" and
again I met his admiring, steady gaze, almost embarrassing, fixed upon
me.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Evelyn, coming suddenly behind
us. "Papa and Mr. Bainrothe are carrying on a little quiet flirtation,
as usual, and have quite turned their backs on me, so I came hither,
asking charity. I declare, Miriam's face is scarlet! What mischief are
you two hatching?"

"I have been running on at a most unconscionable rate," I replied,
"covering up my ignorance with many questions that have bored, rather
than proved, Mr. Bainrothe, I fear. Take up the dialogue, dear Evelyn,
for a few moments, while I go to superintend that elderly flirtation
you speak of, and keep papa in order," and I left them abruptly.

"It will all be paid in before then," I heard Mr. Bainrothe say, as I
approached them, "and you could not have a safer investment. It is as
sound as the Federal Government itself. Indestructible as the solar
system."

"I will bring the papers," papa said, rising. "Excuse me for ten
minutes," and I dropped into his empty seat by Mr. Bainrothe.

"I hope I shall not interrupt your business meditations while papa is
gone," I observed, breaking the silence first.

"Business is my pastime, and no food for meditation, my dear girl; for,
like the Pontic monarch of old days, 'I live on poisons, and they have
no power, but are a kind of nutriment.' Now, talking to a pretty young
girl is far harder and more unusual work to me than transacting
mercantile or financial affairs."

"Then I will not oppress you with my society," I said, with a feint to
rise.

"Sit still, Miriam, and don't be foolish. You know what I mean, very
well. Now, how do you like my son?"

"Oh, very much indeed; he is a little satirical, though, now and then;
intolerant of youthful greenness, I perceive, and enthusiasm."

"All affectation, I assure you. He is as verdant himself as the Emerald
Isle. Just from college, and very young; what can he know of life? As to
enthusiasm, he is full of it."

"True, what _can_ he know of life," I mused, and I glanced at him, as I
questioned, sitting in front of Evelyn in a sort of humble, devoted
way, very different from his easy, knightly air with me. She wore a
cold, imperious expression of face not unbecoming to her haughty style
of beauty, and fanned herself gently as she listened carelessly to his
evidently earnest words, bowing superciliously in answer from time to
time.

"The desire of the moth for the star," burst from my lips involuntarily.

"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bainrothe, quietly. "If Evelyn Erie were
the last of her sex, _he_ never could fancy _her_. She is much too old
for my son, much too artificial; and, beautiful as she is, she wants
some nameless charm, without which no woman ever secures the abiding
love of man;" adding, abruptly, after a little pause, "_That charm is
yours, Miriam_."

"How strangely you talk, Mr. Bainrothe!" I replied, with evident
embarrassment, which he pretended not to perceive.

"Had you remained one year longer at school, there would have been no
grace, no perfection wanting. I am sorry to see you thrown so young, so
unprotected, on the waves of society, as you must be soon."

"Oh, not necessarily. I rarely come into the parlor when Evelyn
receives, rarely go to parties, and my studies are as dear to me as they
ever were. Besides, Mabel absorbs much of my time, and I am quite
infatuated with my new accomplishment."

"What is that, Miriam?"

"I am studying elocution, learning to read with Mr. Mortimer--you have
heard of him--and he is pleased, so far, with my success. It is a very
delightful resource."

"Yes, you have a good voice, an impassioned face and manner--all very
suitable, no doubt; but what will it amount to, after all? You will
never have to earn your bread in that way, and for a home circle you
have always read well enough. It is time wasted, I imagine."

"But the reading is not _all_. I learn to know and comprehend so much
that was sealed from me before; in this way, Shakespeare, Milton, Scott,
all acquire new beauties. By-the-by, this is what your son meant by
studying poetry, perhaps."

"The puppy! Has he been lecturing you, too? Really, there is no end to
his presumption;" and he smiled, benignly, upon him.

"I must defend him from such a charge," I said, earnestly. "I find him
very deferential--he has the courteous European manner, which, when
high-bred, is so polite. Americans never learn to bow like foreign
gentlemen. It is a great charm."

"Do you hear that, Claude? Miss Monfort approves of your bow. This is
all I can extort from her; but she is very hard to please, very
censorious by nature, so don't be entirely discouraged."

A bow of the approved sort, and wave of the hand across the room, in
addition, were the only rejoinder elicited by this sally, and again the
downcast head, the clasped hands, the low, entreating voice denoted the
character of his conference with Evelyn. He was pleading a desperate
cause, it seemed to me.

Mr. Bainrothe became unreasonably nervous, I thought. He fidgeted with
his hat, and gloves, and cane, which he took from the table near him,
dropping the last as he did so; he glanced impatiently at the door
through which my father was to enter, and, when finally his friend came,
after a brief conference in a corner with regard to the papers he had
gone out to seek, probably, summoned his son abruptly and darted off in
true Continental style, followed by his more stately junior.

"Mr. Bainrothe amuses me," observed Evelyn after we were alone again.
"He is so transparent, dear old butterfly! He need not be alarmed! I
have put a quietus on all presumptuous hopes in that quarter forever,
and now, Miriam, I hand him over to you signed and sealed 'Claude
Bainrothe rejected and emancipated by Evelyn Erie, and ready for fresh
servitude--apprenticed, in short.'"

"Thank you," I rejoined, dryly, speaking with a tightness at my throat.

"He thinks you quite good-looking, Miriam, I assure you; he was
agreeably disappointed, even after what he had heard of your
appearance--from the Stanburys, I suppose--and observed that there were
fine elements in your character, too, if properly shaped and combined--a
great deal of '_come out_.'"

"He is truly gracious and condescending," I replied, "I thank him
humbly."

"It was very plain that you admired him, Miriam. Any one could see that.
I noticed his internal amusement at your fluttered manner."

"Did he tell you what his thoughts were, Evelyn, or do you merely
interpret them after your own fashion?" I asked, sternly.

"Oh, of course he said nothing of the kind; I would not have permitted
it, had he wished to. Poor fellow! I hope you will be kinder to him than
I have been," and she sighed heavily. "He is yours now to have and to
hold, you know."

"You have not shown your usual good taste, Evelyn," I remarked, coolly,
"in rejecting so handsome and fascinating a man, and making him over to
another, unsolicited. Claude Bainrothe would suit you exactly, I think;
and, as to money, he will have enough, no doubt, for both. If not"--I
hesitated--colored--sighed.

"If not, what, Miriam?" she urged, stamping her little foot impatiently
as my answer was delayed. "If not, what then, Miriam? Speak out!"

"If not, dear sister, _I_ will try to make up the _deficiency_," I said,
embracing her. "Now you understand my intentions."

I was learning to love my sister, and happy in the power to please her,
unconscious that an invisible barrier was rising from that hour, never
to be put aside.




CHAPTER IV.


For a discarded lover heartlessly played with, as she herself confessed
he had been, Claude Bainrothe bore himself very proudly and calmly in
Evelyn Erle's presence, I thought. At first, there was a shade of
coolness, of pique even in my own manner toward him as the memory of
Evelyn's insinuations rose between us; but after the lapse of a few
weeks all thought of this kind was put away, and he was received with a
pleasure as undisguised, as it was innocent and undesigning on my part.

The repugnant idea of succeeding to Evelyn in his affections had stifled
the very germs of coquetry, and my manner to him was unmistakable; nor
was it without evident dissatisfaction that Mr. Basil Bainrothe surveyed
the ruin of his hopes.

A sudden and painful change took place about midsummer in Claude's
manner toward me (with Evelyn it was uniform). He became cold,
restrained, embarrassed in his intercourse with me, hitherto so frank
and brotherly. He made his visits shorter and at last at greater
intervals; yet I knew, through others, that he remained strictly at
home, eschewing all places of amusement, all society--"all occupation
even," as Mr. Basil Bainrothe himself complained.

"I can't think what has got into Claude lately," he said to my father
one day at our dinner-table. "The boy mopes. He is in love, I believe,
but with whom I can't conjecture," and he glanced askance at Evelyn and
me.--"Can you assist me, ladies?"

"Not with me, I assure you," said Evelyn, proudly. "That measure has
been trodden, and the dance is over."

"Nor with me," I faltered, for the careless words had struck to my
heart. "That fancy dance has yet to be solicited. We both plead
innocent, you see, Mr. Bainrothe," and I tried to laugh, but the
glittering, kaleidoscopic eye was fixed upon me, and my face was
crimson.

"Never _blush_, Miriam," whispered Evelyn, maliciously, "it makes you
look the color of a new mahogany bedstead. You are best pale, child.
Always remember that."

"It must be with Miss Stanbury, then," said Mr. Bainrothe, evasively.
"She is a very pretty girl, and I don't wonder at Claude's infatuation.
The old man is rich, too; it will answer very well, I think. What do you
say, Mr. Monfort."

"Well, really, I think Claude could scarcely do better," rejoined my
ever literal father. "She is an admirable young person, pious, and
discreetly brought up--and--yes, quite pretty, certainly. Let us drink
to his success in that quarter.--Ladies!--Mr. Bainrothe!--fill your
glasses.--Franklin, the sherry.--Morton, the port. Which will you have,
Bainrothe? or do you prefer Rhine wines?"

"A glass of Hockheimer, if you have it convenient, Franklin. Those heavy
wines are too heating for our summers, I think, Mr. Monfort. You
yourself would do well to follow my example."

"Thank you," said my father, loftily. "When you feed lions on
pound-cake you may expect to see Englishmen drink German acidulations
instead of the generous juice of the grape--fostered on southern soil,
above volcanoes even--to which they have been used since the time of the
last Henrys. Beer were a better alternative. Give me claret or madeira."

Mr. Bainrothe had his limits, and usually took care not to exceed them.
My father's easy good-nature was converted into frozen _hauteur_ at any
open effort to transcend the boundaries of his independence. He gloried
in "_Magna Charta_," and never knowingly sacrificed his baronial
privileges, yet he was wax in the hands of a skillful wheedler, and his
"adamantine will" was readily fused in the fires of flattery.

We drank the proposed toast, much to Mr. Bainrothe's discomfiture. He
had made the remark as a skillful feeler, and was mortified at my
father's ready acquiescence in his plans. Of course, Evelyn and I both
saw through the unskillful _ruse_, and pledged him with hearty malice;
but he had yet another shot in reserve, which told with fatal effect.

"Mr. Biddle has offered me a cashiership for Claude," he remarked,
carelessly, "in a thriving town in Georgia, and I shall accept for him
forthwith. Then, if Miss Stanbury chooses to accompany him into exile,
it will be all for the best; but, were he about to remain here, I would
not suffer him to think of matrimony for years to come. 'A young man
married is a young man marred,' as Shakespeare says somewhere, I
believe; and I agree with him. A youth of twenty-one ought to be free
for a season until he can shape his life."

I felt myself tremble from head to foot. I had never contemplated the
possibility of his absence, and the conviction of my deep interest in
him flashed across me for the first time with lightning force and
vividness. Evelyn did not reproach me for blushing this time; I was pale
enough to satisfy even her spleen. Indeed, some better feeling than she
had before manifested seemed to inspire her now, for she filled another
glass of wine and motioned me to drink it. I had merely sipped from mine
when papa proposed his toast, and Franklin had borne it away with the
others in making ready for the dessert.

"Don't let that man read you," she said, in a low, eager voice, not lost
on me. I drank the wine, and met his glance steadily this time, and gave
him look for look. My secret had nerved me well.

That evening Claude Bainrothe came.

"When do you enter the sacred bands of matrimony with Miss Stanbury, Mr.
Bainrothe?" asked Evelyn, in her usual, cool, provoking way, sipping a
glass of iced lemonade as she spoke, which Claude had brought her from
the refreshment-slab and humbly offered.

"And when do you assume your office in Georgia?" I asked in the next
breath, encouraged by her example, and perhaps, alas! eager to know the
truth, scarcely lifting my eyes to his as I spoke.

He glanced from one to the other with a bewildered air, quite foreign
from his usual self-possession.

"I protest, ladies, I do not understand your allusions," he replied at
last, with such an air of truth that, taking pity on him, we explained
the matter laughingly.

"My poor father is falling into that sear and yellow leaf, his dotage,"
he said, "that is evident; what could possess him to maunder so? I
really believe he is in love with Miss Stanbury himself, and is
wire-working merely to gain my consent. As to going to Georgia, I would
as soon bury myself up to my neck in the sea-sand and bear the vertical
sun for twenty sequent noons, as to dream of such a step. The old
gentleman is a lunatic, and should be cared for without delay. I will
get Dr. Parrish to see after him to-morrow."

"But I _did_ hear you say you were going to Copenhagen with our
minister," said George Gaston, who had swung himself softly up to our
party on his crutches, unobserved by any one, while Claude was speaking,
and now stood glaring upon him.

"Ah, that is a different matter. I _may_ go there, George. I am told it
is a very gay court; besides, I am curious about Denmark, naturally.
Every one is who loves Shakespeare and the 'royal Dane,' you know."

Again that fatal pallor of mine swept from my heart to brow, and this
time the large, dark gray eye of the boy was fixed on me with agony
unspeakable. He dropped it suddenly, wheeled on his supporting-sticks,
and turned away, ghastly pale himself, to seek the shelter of the
portico, where I joined him a few minutes later.

"Are you ill, George?" I asked. "I felt anxious about you when I saw you
leave the parlor so suddenly. Have you had one of your spells?"

"A very severe spell, Miriam; but not of the usual kind." I understood
him now. There was a dry anguish in the very tone of his voice that
smote heavily on my ear, yet I felt impatient with him, provoked beyond
endurance.

"George, you should be more of a man," I said, with asperity, "than to
yield in this way to every impulse that besets you. Your whims are hard
to bear with lately, and scarcely worth understanding, I am convinced."

"Would I were more or less of a man!" he answered, meekly. "I should
suffer less, probably."

"Tell me what _does ail_ you, George Gaston," I added, with a sudden
revulsion of feeling, caused by his patient, deprecating manner. "You
know you always have my warmest sympathy, and affection--sisterly
interest."

"Ah, Miriam, it is that! You love that man; yes, you love him a
thousand-fold more than you have ever loved me. I suspected it before--I
know it now; and I would rather see you floating a corpse on the river,
with your dead face turned up to heaven, than married to that man, I
hate him so!"

The last words were ground between his set teeth, and he trembled with
passion.

"George," I said, "you are still a child in years, in strength, in
stature! I, but a few months older, am already a woman in age,
experience, feeling, character. It is always thus with persons of our
sexes who contract childish friendships--one outgrows the other. Then
there are bitterness, reproach, suffering, resentment, on one part or
the other. But is this just? Remember Byron and Miss Chaworth--how was
it with them? He grasped too much, and lost every thing; he embittered
his whole nature, his whole life, for the want of common-sense to guide
him; but, with almost as much genius--more, in some things, than he
possessed--you HAVE this governing principle. I know my dearest George
will do me justice. I shall be an old, faded woman when you are of an
age to marry--unlovely in your eyes, George,"--I hesitated. "I have
always hoped you would be our Mabel's husband. You know you have
promised me." I smiled tearfully this time.

He bounded off the bench, interrupting me with a low cry. "Do not mock
me, Miriam Monfort," he exclaimed, "if you can do no better. My God! a
baby of five years old suggested as a wife by you, my idol! Oh, yes,
wildly-beloved Miriam, the noblest, truest, as I have ever thought
you--the most beautiful, too, surely, of all God's created beings!" and
he caught my hand wildly.

"George, you are dreaming," I said; "your vivid fancy misleads you
utterly. I am not beautiful--you cannot think so; no one has ever
thought me so; you must not say such an absurd thing of me. It only
humiliates me. But I do believe I still deserve your esteem. Let us
separate now, and to-morrow come to me in a better mood."

"If I _must_ give you up," he murmured, in a low, grieved voice, "let it
be to a husband who loves and appreciates you--is worthy of you. I
cannot tell you all I know--_have heard;_ but of this I am certain:
Claude Bainrothe loves you not! It is Evelyn he worships, and you are
blind not to see it; Evelyn who has goaded him almost to madness already
for her own purposes. I heard--but no, I cannot tell you this; I ought
not--honor forbids;" and he laid his hand on his boyish breast, in a
tragic, lofty manner, all his own, that almost made me smile.

"I know, I know all this, dear George," I said. "Claude Bainrothe
addressed Evelyn before he knew me, and she refused him. Nor have I
craved the honor, this is all that can be said as yet, of being her
successor." I faltered here. "Let this satisfy you for the present. He
has not spoken to me."

"But you love him--love him, Miriam!" he groaned. "Oh, I saw it plainly
to-night, and, what is far more terrible and hard to bear, he saw it
too! He was watching you from the corner of his furtive, downcast eye
when he was speaking of going to Copenhagen, and a smile trembled
around his mouth when you turned so pale--white as a poplar-leaf,
Miriam, when the wind blows it over! If I were a woman I would cut out
my heart rather than open it thus to the gaze of any man, far less one
like that, shallow, selfish, superficial. O Miriam! not worthy of you at
all--not fit to tie your shoe-latchet!"

"George, you overrate me, you always did, and--and--you undervalue Mr.
Bainrothe, believe me; nay, I am sure you do. Let us part now, George.
My father is calling me, you hear. Go home, my own dear boy, and rest
and pray. Oh, be convinced that I love you better than all the world,
except those I _ought_ to love more.--Yes, yes, papa! I am
coming.--Good-night, dear George."

And I kissed his clammy brow, hastening in the next moment to my
father's side, who, missing me, could not rest in this new phase of his
until I was forthcoming. Certainly, whatever tenderness I had missed in
former years was amply lavished on me now. Evelyn, Mabel--all former
idols sank out of sight in my presence, and the very touch of my hand,
the sound of my voice, seemed to inspire him with happiness and a new
sense of security. Sometime I flattered myself that I had earned this
affection, since it had not seemed my birthright, nor come to me
earlier; but no, it was the grace of God, I must believe, touching his
heart at last, as the rod of Moses brought forth waters from the rock.
Yet the simile is at fault here: my father's heart was never a stone,
but tender and true and constant ever, even if locked away.

It may seem strange, but from the very evidences of his carelessness, as
they seemed to others, I gathered, after a time, the blissful conviction
that Claude Bainrothe was not indifferent to me. His reserve, his
moroseness almost, the despairing way in which he spoke sometimes of his
future life, his want of purpose, of interest in what was passing around
him, his entire self-possession with Evelyn, so different from his
embarrassment with me; his manner of pursuing me with his eyes, and
holding me fast, and the long sidelong glances he often dropped at my
feet like offerings, as I detected his vigilance--all persuaded me that
what I most wished to believe was true, and that I had awakened interest
if not passion in his heart, for--at last, I loved him!

The time came when his own lips confirmed my suspicions, my hopes--when
faintly, and in broken accents, he related to me the story of his love;
mine, as he declared, since the evening of our first meeting; and asked
my troth in turn. I was so inexperienced in matters of this sort, I
scarcely knew how to behave, I suppose; besides, I never thought of
giving any other reply than the one he craved, for I too had inclined to
him from the first. I recognized this now, and did not deny it when he
urged me for the truth, holding my hands in his, and looking into my
eyes in a deep and tender and devoted way peculiar to himself, that
thrilled to my very life--an adoring expression that I have seen in no
other gaze than his own, and which cast a glamour about him, I well
believe, irresistible wherever it was exercised.

It was in September that we became engaged, with the joyful coincidence
of Mr. Bainrothe, the somewhat reluctant consent of my father, the
half-derisive approbation of Evelyn, the entire disapproval, expressed
in eloquent silence, of the whole Stanbury family. For a time, this
grave coldness on their part alienated me greatly from them all, George
Gaston especially; and had it not been for Mabel, and the bond she
proved between us, we might have been divided for life thereafter.

My father's declining health alone threw a bleakness over that rosy time
of joy, and held in check the exuberance of my happy spirit, brimming
like sparkling wine above the vase that contained it. Sometimes, when I
met Evelyn's cold and gloomy eye, I felt myself rebuked for the
indulgence of my perfect happiness. "She knows that my father is more
ill than he seems!" I would conjecture--"Dr. Pemberton has told her what
he conceals from me. I am making festal garlands in readiness for my
father's grave, perhaps." Then with tears and entreaties I would
question her: "I _cannot_ be mistaken," I would say; "something is wrong
with you. Is it about my father? If not of him, what is it, Evelyn, that
makes your face like a stone mask of late--once all life and joy?"
"Miriam, I am not quite well," she would reply evasively, or say, "I am
meditating a step that will cost me dear. My uncle, the Earl of Pomfret,
the head of our house since my grandfather's death, you know, writes me
to visit him. It is this fatal necessity--for such for some reasons I
feel it--that oppresses me so heavily."

"Why a necessity, dear Evelyn, why go at all? You certainly can never
feel to any relative as you do to _my_ father and _yours_."

"Your father does not find me as important to his happiness as he once
did, Miriam. You have absorbed his whole affection of late; even Mabel,
once his darling and plaything, is put aside."

"He surrendered her to me again, Evelyn, when I returned; this is all,
believe me. He loves, he esteems you as much as ever; he consults you in
all his arrangements. He has made you the mistress of his house; your
judgment, your advice, are paramount with, him as to all matters of
outlay; and, Evelyn, suffer me to speak to you on one subject of great
delicacy--sister! I must. Whenever you marry from this house, understand
well that you shall not go empty-handed."

"Fortune is not _his_ to bestow," she responded, "and large charities
have absorbed, I know, much of his yearly income, princely as that is.
Besides, he reinvests all that remains from that source for Mabel, as I
know. I feel assured he will provide for me, but it must be in a very
small way, and I must go to England and make my establishment there."

"Would you marry for money, Evelyn?" I asked gravely. "O sister, can you
conceive of no higher happiness than this?"

"I can," she said with emotion, while her lips blanched to the hue of
ashes. "I have dreamed such a dream in days past, but now the dark
reality alone remains and sweeps all before it. I shall embrace my first
eligible offer regardless of feeling, and I prefer to cast my destiny
with my own people, however estranged they may be. Certainly, this
letter is not very affectionate, nor even a courteous one from so near a
relative," and she placed in my hand the cold and supercilious note of
the Earl of Pomfret, containing a permission to visit his castle, rather
than invitation.

"Yet you will go, Evelyn?"

"Miriam, I _must_ go. I should go mad were I to stay here, or die in the
struggle."

"Sister, what can this be? Evelyn, hear me: I swear to you, on the day
of my majority, to endow you richly in your own right. It is
independence you want--you shall have it. My father will consent to
this I know, and consider it no more than your due."

"You are kind," she said; "generous, very. You are not like your
mother's people in that respect, such as they are in these degenerate
days, at least. She herself was unlike them, I have heard, for her hand
was princely. But, Miriam, I could not receive such obligations from
you--ought not. Besides--your husband!"

"Ah, Evelyn, there is nothing he would refuse me--nothing."

A gloomy mockery transfused itself into her eyes, her lips were fixed in
a suppressed and sneering smile. Incredulity was written on her aspect.
Her face at that moment was very repulsive to contemplate.

"You do not believe in men," I said, coldly. "I have always remarked it;
yet there are _some_ worthy of confidence, believe me."

"Very few, Miriam, and Claude Bainrothe is not unlike the majority of
his fellows. Men count it no wrong to deceive women."

"O Evelyn, you are too severe, I think. Why seek to shake my confidence
in the man I love? He did not happen to suit your fancy, and you
rejected him. I took what you cast aside, humbly, thankfully, dear
Evelyn. Why resent this, and scorn me for my humility? Let not your
pride for me make you unjust toward him. You, of all women, can best
afford to be generous to Claude Bainrothe."

But still the cold shadow veiled her face, and still she looked
inauspiciously on our betrothal, which, owing to our youth, it was
understood, should continue a year. In the interval I was to travel with
my father to the different large cities of the Union which I had never
seen, and abide awhile in Washington.

His health, Dr. Pemberton thought, required this change, but a darker
one was in store for him.

On Christmas-day, of that year, he was smitten with paralysis, and his
decline was sure and rapid from that hour. Let me pass over the agony of
that period of six weeks, lengthened into years by the dread tension of
anxiety, most relentless of the furies. But for the confidence I felt in
Claude's affection, and the vista of hope it opened for me, I think I
should have succumbed under the unequal struggle.

During this period, his attentions to me and to my helpless father were
most kind and assiduous. Mr. Bainrothe and Evelyn, too, between whom
some unexplained alienation had existed for some time, met in apparent
harmony above his bed of death.

In addition to the services of our own dear and valued physician, we had
others of eminence coming and going daily, with the knowledge in their
own breasts that all was vain.

Still I never ceased entirely to hope until the very last. "He is not
old, he is still vigorous," I would say to myself. "There may be--there
_must_ be--reaction. I have so often heard him boast of his English
constitution, I cannot, oh, I cannot think that the end is yet!"

I wondered then at the inattention of the Stanburys, in whose
disinterested friendship I had reposed so much confidence, even though a
shadow of late had been thrown over our intercourse by my engagement
with Claude Bainrothe, a shadow of which I thought I saw the substance
in the bitter jealousy and rancorous, unreasonable love and hatred of
the morbid George Gaston.

Later I found by the merest accident, through one note of his that had
been left in a drawer of a desk long disused, that Mr. Gerald Stanbury
and Evelyn had maintained a rather fierce correspondence on the subject
of her refusal to accept his services at my father's pillow; founded, as
she alleged, on the recent unexplained but deep-rooted aversion Mr.
Monfort seemed to have imbibed for his neighbor and friend, and which
his physicians said must be regarded.

Allusion was made, not unmixed with bitterness, in Mr. Stanbury's note,
to this assertion of hers, which he pronounced, if true, to rest on the
misrepresentations of villains who had interposed between the too
confiding Mr. Monfort and himself for no good purpose. No names were
given, but it was easy to see to whom his reference was made, and I had
every reason to suppose that Evelyn had communicated these opinions to
those most interested in knowing them long before this record
accidentally fell into my hands.

On the day of the funeral, however, Mr. and Mrs. Stanbury were present,
with Laura and George. All seemed deeply affected, and one by one came
to me in my shadowed chamber with a few words of tender sympathy or
kindly condolence, for I could not bear to go down into that crowded
parlor and see _him_ dead amid all that tide of life, who had so lately
stood there powerful and beloved--Monfort the master!

It was a superb day, they told me, such as we often have at that season
in our changeful clime, and the distant peal of military music, the
chiming of bells, the firing of cannon, the roar of the awakened
multitude, reached my ear even in that secluded street, that quiet room.

The people were celebrating an anniversary that in all times has brought
joy and pride to millions of united hearts. It was the birthday of
Washington.

Laura Stanbury remained with me while all the rest went to the stately
funeral, Evelyn leading Mabel down-stairs, they told me, attired in her
little black dress, in sad contrast with her ivory skin, her yellow
hair, her childish years, and her unconsciousness of the grave loss she
had sustained; Mrs. Austin following these, her darlings, to go with
them in the principal mourning-coach, in which Mr. Bainrothe also found
himself ensconced, by some diplomacy of his own, no doubt, all clad in
sables, and with his polished aspect fixed in woe!

After the funeral, Dr. Pemberton came up for a few minutes to my
chamber. He found me reasonably calm and composed, and expressed his
gratification at my condition.

"Now, do be very careful of yourself, my dear Miriam, or you may have
one of your sleepy attacks, and they are exhausting to Nature, trying to
both body and soul. We must guard against any thing of this sort at this
time. You know how apt they are to supervene on excitement of any kind
with you." He said this in his own kind, encouraging manner.

"Then they are strictly nervous?" I inquired.

"I don't know; can't say, indeed.--Here, Mrs. Austin, give Miriam one of
these powders," and he drew them from his pocket-book, "every six hours
until I come again, and keep her as quiet as possible. Some light
nourishment she must take, but let there be no preaching and praying
about her this evening, and advise Mr. Bainrothe to go quietly home for
the present. She must not be excited, only soothed. Let Mabel come, of
course."

He came again on the next day and the next, and so on until he was
satisfied that all was going on very well, he said, but he would not
suffer my father's will to be opened for a week, knowing that my
presence would be necessary at the reading, and he permitted no
disturbance of any kind to approach me during that interval of
probation.

"Do you think you could get through with a few business details
to-morrow?" he asked me on the last day of his visit. "They all seem
very impatient, though I cannot see why."

"I think so, Dr. Pemberton."

"Well, then, notify Mr. Bainrothe to make ready for you in the library
at any hour you may fix upon. He was your father's attorney, it seems,
and had the will in his keeping. Of course it will be a very simple
matter to carry out its provisions, since all was fixed before, as every
one knows, but there may be some little agitation. Now, don't give way,
I charge you."

"How can I help it. Dr. Pemberton?"

"Oh, with a will like yours, one can do a great deal. I had an obstinate
patient once determined not to die, and she did not die, though death
was due. Resistance is natural to some temperaments. Yours is one of
them. Fight off those attacks, Miriam, in future."

"I will try," I said, half amused at his suggestion, "but, if all
physicians gave such prescriptions, medicine would be at a discount."

"Not at all. Medicine is a great aid in any case--I have never thought
it more. A doctor is only a pilot; he steers a ship sometimes past
dangerous places on which it would founder otherwise, but he never
pretends, unless he is a charlatan, to upheave shoals and rocks, or to
control tempests. He can only mind his rudder and shift his sails; the
rest is with Providence. Now, suppose the captain of this ship is calm
and firm, and coincides with the pilot's efforts, instead of
counteracting and embarrassing them. Don't you see the advantage to the
ship?"

"Oh, certainly, and I admire the ingenuity of your allegory. You must
have been studying Bunyan, lately."

"No, Miriam, I have little time for books, save those necessary to my
profession. I study a mightier volume daily than scholar ever wrote--the
wondrous mind and body of man, the one illustrated by the other, and
both so mutually dependent that short-sighted people have occasionally
confounded them, yet distinct after all as God and the universe."

"I am glad to hear you say this; doctors are so often accused of being
materialists."

"No men living have less excuse for being so. The phenomenon of death
alone ought to set that matter at rest in any reasoning mind. The
impalpable is gone, and the material perishes. It is so plain that he
that runs might read, one would think. That sudden change from volition
to inertia is, in itself, conviction to every right-seeing mind."

"Yet I wish we knew more," I mused, aloud. "We ought to know more, it
seems to me. God has not told us half enough for our satisfaction. It is
so cruel to leave us in the dark, lit only by partial flashes of
lightning. If we were certain of the future, we could bear separation
better from those we love. It would not seem so hopeless."

"If we were certain of the future, we would not bear it all," he
remarked, "but grow impatient and exacting like children who rise in the
night to examine the Christmas stocking, rather than wait until morning.
Most often we should join those we loved rather than bide our time if
we were certain. Moreover, what merit would there be in faith or
fortitude? No, Miriam, it is best as it is, believe me. Every thing is
for the best that God has done; we must not dare to question the ways
any more than the will of the Eternal."

"You ought to have been a preacher, Dr. Pemberton," I said, smiling
sadly, "instead of a physician."

"No, my dear little girl, I ought to have been just what I am, since it
was God's will. And now be calm and self-sustaining until I come again,
which will be before long, I think."

I tried as far as in me lay to regard the instructions of my kind friend
and physician (and happy are those who unite both in one person), but,
prepare as we may to receive the waves of the sea when we bathe in its
margin, and skillful as we may believe ourselves in buffeting or
avoiding them, there comes one now and then with a strength and
suddenness that sweeps us from our feet, overthrows us, and lays us
prostrate at the sandy bottom of the ocean, to emerge therefrom half
stifled with the bitter brine.

Such experience was destined to be mine before many hours.




CHAPTER V.


Mr. Gerald Stanbury had been especially invited to attend the reading of
my father's will, by a polite note from Mr. Bainrothe, in which the
interest that both bore in this testament was plainly set forth. With
the exception of our excellent old neighbor and the two Mr. Bainrothes,
the circle assembled for the solemn occasion was composed entirely of
Mr. Monfort's household and was truly a funereal one. I wore my
deep-mourning dress for the first time that day, and Mabel, similarly
attired, sat beside me. Claude Bainrothe was alone on a distant sofa.

Evelyn assumed my father's chair, and wore, with the weeds customary to
widows, a demeanor of great dignity and reserve suitable to the head of
the family. Mr. Gerald Stanbury had a seat near mine, on which he sat
uneasily, and Mrs. Austin, Franklin, and Morton, were ranged together
stiffly in chairs placed against the wall, likewise attired in deep
mourning. Mr. Bainrothe was seated near the study-table, looking
unusually pale and subdued, from one of the drawers of which he had
drawn forth the will, unlocking and locking it again with a key
suspended to his guard-chain.

"This key was placed in my hand," he said, "during my friend's last
illness, and, although he could not speak to me at the time, his
expressive eye indicated its importance and to what drawer it belonged.
This was before he was removed from the study in which he was stricken,
dear friends, as you may all remember, on Christmas-morning, and which
he never again reentered. From that day to this the key which I wear has
not left my charge, nor been placed in the lock to which it belongs, and
to the guardianship of which this will, as soon as made and legally
attested, was probably committed. We will now, with your permission,
break the seal that I see has been placed upon this document since I
beheld it, the contents of which are already familiar to me." He then
opened and read in a clear, monotonous voice my father's will and its
provisions.

The property, as I knew already, was all mine by marriage contract,
except such sums as my father had accumulated and set aside from his
yearly income for his own purposes. With these he richly endowed Evelyn
Erle, and comfortably the three servants or attendants, as he preferred
to call them, who had followed him from England, and by their lives of
fidelity and duty shown themselves worthy of his regard. Half of my
estate was already in stocks of the United States Bank, and half loaned
at interest on sound mortgages. This last was to be called in as
speedily as possible and invested also in stocks of the above-mentioned
bank, in that peculiar institution known as the Pennsylvania Bank, and
still supposed to be under Mr. Biddle's superintendence. This was done,
the testator said, to simplify his daughter's property, and render it
more manageable to her hand, should she by her own will remain single,
or by that of Providence be widowed, and he hoped in any case she would
suffer it to remain in this shape as long as Mr. Biddle or Mr. Bainrothe
lived.

All this I heard with satisfaction and even indifference, but the part
that stung me almost to exasperation was reserved for the last. Mr.
Bainrothe and Mr. Stanbury were named as executors conjointly with
Evelyn Erie, in the last mentioned of whom all power over my actions was
to vest until I should be of age, and in whose hands, as guardian, Mabel
and her property were exclusively intrusted until that time should
arrive; after that period her sisters were to act jointly, unless my
marriage were made without consent of Evelyn, in which case Mabel was to
be her charge alone.

No security was to be required of either executor, but, across Mr.
Gerald Stanbury's name two lines in ink had been drawn with a wavering
hand, as if for erasure.

I heard this last clause of the will with a beating, bounding, indignant
heart. Evelyn, who so hated Claude Bainrothe, had us both completely in
her power for the present, and might defer our marriage for years if it
so pleased her. And Mabel, toward whom she did not disguise her
indifference, was to be hers on this ground perhaps forever! Slavery for
four of the best years of my life was entailed on me, and bondage
forever on her, perhaps--my idol--my darling--mine--all mine by every
right of man or God!

The injustice was too palpable. It was almost incomprehensible to me how
he had been wrought upon to do these things--he, "a just man made
perfect." All this flashed stunningly across my brain. Suddenly I threw
my hand wildly to my head--the whirl of waters was in my ears; yet I
struggled against the surging tide, and Claude Bainrothe's grasp upon my
hand strengthened and revived me. I was roused from my apathy by hearing
Mr. Gerald Stanbury's loud, sonorous voice speaking out clearly: "I
decline to serve, Mr. Bainrothe, after that erasure. You understand
that, of course. It was a farce to send for me to-day, tinder these
circumstances."

"How could I know, my dear sir, that this erasure had been made?" was
the soft and specious rejoinder. "It must have been done in the last few
months. This will was drawn up in August last. I was ignorant of the
whole subsequent proceeding, and at that time Mr. Monfort laid peculiar
stress on your coincidence as executor. Has any thing occurred since
that time to mar your good understanding?"

"Nothing of any consequence," said Mr. Stanbury, coldly--"nothing
bearing on the esteem of man for man. Nevertheless, Mr. Monfort, as we
all know, was a man easy to offend and difficult to appease, and I
suppose" (he swallowed hard as he spoke) "he weighed old friendship and
some good offices as nothing against his wounded self-love, and against
the flatterers who beset him with their snares."

"Sir, you intend to be insulting, no doubt," Mr. Bainrothe observed,
with a semblance of calm dignity; "but it is not on such an occasion as
this, and in the disinterested discharge of my duty, that I will suffer
myself to be ruffled by the bitter injustice of an irritable and
disappointed old man."

"Be guarded, Mr. Bainrothe," Mr. Stanbury rejoined, "in your expressions
to me, or I will look into that illegal erasure and still stand to my
oar in this golden galley of yours, in which you expect to float with
the stream, and so soon to have every thing your own way. I like plain
sailing, sir; am a plain, straightforward man myself, to whom truth is
second nature; and, were it not for the violence it might do the
feelings of the person chiefly concerned in this testament, so soon to
be allied to you and yours, if I understand things properly and report
speaks truly, I would defy you, Mr. Basil Bainrothe, in the public
courts, and claim my executorship under the wing of the law."

Mr. Bainrothe had turned ashy pale during the deliverance of this fiery
rebuke. But he controlled himself admirably, merely contenting himself
with saying, in a low voice: "No threats, if you please, Mr. Stanbury;
act out your intentions when and where you choose, but have
consideration just now for the feelings of others." And he waved his
hand, trembling with rage, toward me, including in his gesture Evelyn,
who by this time was beside me with her salts, chafing my hands. "I am
sure we are all willing to yield our executorships if Miriam desires
it," she said. "I, for one, should be glad to lift such a yoke from my
shoulders, unaccustomed to such a burden. Mr. Stanbury, desirable as you
seem to think it, this post of mine is no sinecure. But spare Miriam
this scene, I beg of you; she is much overcome--much exhausted;
excitement in her case is very injurious, Dr. Pemberton says. Let me beg
you, my dear sir, to retire. All shall be done properly and in order.
Her interest is our chief concern, of course."

"Evelyn Erle, I have nothing to say to you," I heard Mr. Stanbury
exclaim, in a loud, excited tone. "It is not with women I wish to wage
war, and so understand me! But there is One above to whom you will have
to account rigidly some day for your stewardship and guardianship of
these friendless girls, and be prepared, I counsel you, with your
accounts, to meet Him when the day of reckoning comes! And it may come
sooner than you suspect. I, for one, shall keep an unslumbering eye upon
you and your devices while I live, even though at a distance.--Miriam, I
am always ready to assist you, my dear, in any way possible to me--call
on me freely. Remember, I am your friend." He came to me, he took me to
his breast, he kissed my brow, his tears were on my cheek. I cast my
arms about his dear, old, noble neck; I leaned my quivering face against
his bosom. "I always loved you," I said. "I am so sorry, so sorry, Mr.
Stanbury!" I knew no more--the words forsook my lips. Again that wild
whirl of waters surged upon my ears; I seemed to be falling, falling
down a black, steep, bottomless shaft, beneath which the sea was
roaring--falling head-foremost--hurled as if with a strong impulse down
the abyss to certain destruction.

Then all was still. The jaws of my dark malady had opened to receive me.

I woke as from a long, deep, and unrefreshing slumber. I was lying in my
bed, with the curtains, drawn closely around it--the heavy crimson
curtains, with their white inside draperies and snowy tufted fringes. I
had a vague consciousness that some hand had recently parted them, and
the tassels on the valance were quivering still with the impulse they
had thus received. Then I heard voices.

"How much longer will it endure, Evelyn?"

"Five or six hours, I suppose. What time is it now?" The clock in the
hall struck ten before the question could be answered.

"Ten! It was about three when she was seized," rejoined the voice of
Evelyn; "you can calculate for yourself--the turns are invariably twelve
and twenty-four hours in duration; if one period is transcended the
other is accomplished. Dr. Pemberton himself told me this."

"Might not the term in some way be shortened? I was very sure I heard
her stirring just now, and my heart was in my mouth." After which a
pause.

"I knew you were mistaken, but I examined to satisfy your mind. No, she
still lies in a lethargy, and will lie in that comatose condition until
after noon. Then Dr. Pemberton will be here, and she will revive."

"That seizure was very dreadful, but I saw no foam on her lips like most
epileptics, and I watched narrowly."

"There are modifications of the disease, Claude; hers is of a passive
kind, with very few or no convulsive struggles--more like syncope. Had
you not better retire now?"

"Still, it _is_ epilepsy? No, do not banish me yet."

"That is what the doctors call it, I believe, Claude. Dr. Pemberton is
too guarded or politic, one or the other--all Quakers are, you know--to
give it a name, however. Dr. Physick told papa what it was very plainly,
years ago."

"Ah I he was good authority, certainly a great physician and a
philosopher as well; but, Evelyn, it is very awful," with a groan, and
perhaps a shudder. "Very hard to get over or to bear."

"Yes, and the worst of it is it will increase with age, and the end is
so deplorable--idiocy or madness, you know, invariably. Early death is
desirable for Miriam. Her best friends should not wish to see her life
prolonged. It is an inheritance, probably. Her mother died of some
inscrutable incurable disease, I suppose like this."

"O God! O God! it is almost more than I can stand."

I heard him pacing the room slowly up and down, and my impulse was to
part the curtains, to call him to me and comfort him, but I could not;
I was too weak even to speak as yet, and bound as with a spell, a
nightmare.

A whirl of vivid joy passed through me like an electric flash, however,
as I recognized in his disquietude the strength of his affection.
Evelyn's malignant cruelty and falsehood were lost sight of in the bliss
of this conviction; yet my triumph was but brief.

"Evelyn," he said, speaking low, and pausing in his slow, continued
pace.--"Evelyn, just as she lies there sleeping, I would she could lie
forever! Then happiness could dawn for us again."

"Never, Claude Bainrothe!"

"You are unforgiving, my Evelyn! you have no mercy on me nor my
sufferings. You make no allowance for necessity, or the desperation of
my condition. In debt myself, and so long a cause of expense and anxiety
to my father, whose sacrifices for me have been manifold, and before
whom ruin is grimly yawning even now, how could I act otherwise,
consistently with the duty of a son? Nay, what manhood would there have
been in consigning you to such a fate as awaited penniless wife of mine?

"I did not think of these things, did not know them even, when we first
met, and when I told you of my sudden passion I was sincere, Evelyn,
then, as I am now, for it is unchanged, and you know that it is so.

"When the dark necessity was laid bare to me, and I felt it my duty to
cancel our engagement, you bore it bravely, you kept my counsel, you
assisted me in my projects; you proved yourself all that was noble and
magnanimous in woman. What marvel, then, that I more than ever loved
you, and wished the obstacle removed that divides us, and yearn for my
lost happiness now dearer to me than before, only to be renewed through
you, Evelyn! that I still adore!--woman most beautiful, most beloved!"

"Claude, this is mockery; release my hand; arise, this position becomes
you not, nor yet me. Go! I am lost to you forever! your own cowardice,
your own weak worship of expediency, have been your real obstacles. For
your sake I was willing to brave poverty, debt, expatriation. It was you
who preferred the dross of gold, and the indulgence of your own luxury
and that of the sybarite, your father, to the passionate affection I
bore you. It is too late now for regret or recrimination. Go, I command
you! accomplish your destiny; continue to beguile Miriam with the tale
of your affection, and in return reap your harvest of deluded affection
and golden store from her! and from me receive your guerdon of scorn.
For I, Claude Bainrothe, know you as you are, and despise you utterly!"
Her voice trembled with anger, I knew of old its violent ring of rage.

"No, Evelyn, you only know me as I _seem_"--he spoke mildly,
humbly--"not as I _am_. I am not a very bad man, Evelyn, nor even a very
weak one; in all respects, vile as I appear to you, only a very unhappy
wretch, and as such entitled to your respectful compassion at least--all
I dare ask for now. I will not receive your scorn as my fit guerdon. Is
there no strength in overcoming inclination as I have done, in
compelling words of affection to flow from loathing lips?--for those
scars alone, Evelyn, in contrast to your speckless beauty, would of
themselves be enough to shock a fastidious man like me, those hideous
livid scars which I have yet to behold, and shudder over, marking one
whole side as you assure me of neck, shoulder, and arm, things that in
woman are of such inestimable value, of almost more importance than the
divine face itself."

"Yes, but the other side is statuesque enough to satisfy the
requisitions of a sensuous sculptor," she rejoined, coldly; "you are
wrong, Claude, let us be just! Miriam is very well formed, to say no
more, and her skin is like a magnolia-leaf, where sun and wind have not
touched or tanned it; then those scars will turn white after a while
like the rest, and perhaps scarcely be visible."

"O Heavens! hideous white seams!" he exclaimed, passionately. "I have
seen such, like small-pox marks, only ten times more frightful and
indelible." In his impotent weakness he moaned aloud.

"Worse and worse! I will tell you frankly, had I known of _them_, the
engagement never would have been contracted--no, not though the
_inferno_ had opened beneath me as my only alternative--but honor binds
me now."

"You are fastidious truly, and your sense of honor supreme," she
sneered.

"Beauty there was not," he continued, without regarding her rejoinder,
"in any remarkable degree. I could have borne its absence with common
patience, but absolute disfigurement, deformity, such as you assure me
those burns have left behind them, is too dreadful! Had not Dr.
Pemberton bared her arm in bleeding, as he did, I should never have
known of it at all probably until too late. That one mark was
suggestive."

"You attach too much consequence to mere externals, Claude," said
Evelyn, coldly. "I trust such fastidious notions may be laid at rest
before your marriage, or poor Miriam, with her warm, affectionate, and
unsuspicious nature will be the sufferer. I pity her fate, sincerely."

"No, Evelyn, you wrong me there; I respect and esteem her far too much
ever to wound her feelings. Against this I shall carefully guard. My
bargain would be broken, otherwise. It is a clear case of barter and
sale, you see. One's honor is concerned in keeping such an obligation. I
shall never be ungrateful."

"You have European ideas, you tell me," she said, bitterly; "is this one
of them?"

"It is, and the least among them, perhaps; yet it is, nevertheless, hard
to overcome positive repulsion."

There was a pause now, during which I could count every throb of my
heart, and throat, and temples--my whole frame was transfigured into an
anvil, on which a thousand tiny hammers seemed to ring. Yet I could not
move, nor speak, nor weep--no wretchedness was ever more supreme than
this cataleptic seizure. Evelyn was the first to break the transient
silence.

"Your path is a plain one, Claude Bainrothe; fulfill your contract,
sealed with gold, and bear patiently your selected lot."

"Evelyn, one word--let it be sincere: do you hate and scorn me? Answer
me as you would speak to your own soul."

"No, Claude, no, yet the blow was hard to bear--struck, too, as you must
reflect, so suddenly! Only the day before abandonment, remember, you had
made protestations of such undying constancy. Your conduct was surely
inconstant, at least."

"I make them still, those professions you scorn so deeply."

"Away, false man, lest the sleeper awaken!"

"You say there is no danger of that, and that in their coffins the dead
are not more insensible."

"To see you kneeling at my feet might bring the dead even to life," she
laughed, contemptuously. "I am sick of this drama; be natural for once.
We can both afford to be so now."

"Do not spurn me, Evelyn! Never was my love for you so wild as now." I
heard him kissing her hands passionately, and his voice, as he spoke
these words, was choked with grief.

"O Claude, let my hand go; at least consider appearances. Mrs. Austin
will be here in a moment now; what will she think of you? What am I to
think of such caprice?"

"One word, then, Evelyn--tell me that you forgive me--on such conditions
I will release your hands."

"When I forgive you, Claude, I shall be wholly indifferent to you," she
said, gently. "Do you still claim forgiveness? I am not angry, though,
take that assurance for all comfort. Then, if you will have it" (and I
heard a kiss exchanged), "this confirmation."

"Then you are not wholly indifferent to me, Evelyn?" he said, in eager
tones, "you care for me still--a little?"

"A very little, Claude"--hesitatingly.

"Say that you love me, Evelyn, just once more--I can then die happy."

"Claude Bainrothe, arise--unhand me--this is child's play--let me
breathe freely again. Well do you know I love you. O God! why do you
return to a theme so bitter and profitless to both? Come, let us look
together on Miriam sleeping, and gather strength and courage from such
contemplation. Come, my friend!"

The curtains were lifted--still I lay rigidly and with closed eyelids
before them--not from any notion of my own, but from the helplessness of
my agony and the condition into which I was fast drifting. Once or
twice during the progress of this conversation I had tried to lift my
voice, my hand--both were alike powerless. I lay bound, for a while, in
a cataleptic reverie, and then I passed away once more into darkness and
syncope.

It was evening when I revived--Dr. Pemberton was sitting beside me,
holding my pulse--Mrs. Austin and Mabel were at the bedside. This was,
at last, the end I craved; of all, I hoped.

"The wine, Mrs. Austin," the doctor said, in low accents.

"Quick! one spoonful instantly. You know how it was before--you were too
slow; she fell back before she could swallow it.--Now another, Miriam.
Say, are you better?"

Most anxiously as my eyes opened and were fixed upon his face, were
these words spoken:

"No, dying, I believe--at least, I hope so!"

The shrieks of the child aroused me to a sense of what I owed myself and
her. "You shall not die, sister Miriam," she cried. "Papa does not want
you--I want you--I will not stay with Evelyn and Claude--I will go down
in the ground too, if you die. My sister, you shall not go to God! I
will hold you tight, if He comes for you. He shall not have my
Miriam--nor His angels either."

Her cries did for me what medicine had failed to do. They tried in vain
to silence her. My pulse returned under the stimulus of emotion. I put
out my hand blindly to Mabel.

"Hush, darling," I said, "I will live for you if I can--ask Dr.
Pemberton to save me."

"You are better, already, Miriam," he whispered. "Mrs. Austin, take
Mabel away until she can be quiet and behave like a lady; her sister is
getting well--tell her I say so. Call Miss Evelyn here, instantly."

"No, no!" with an impatient movement of the hand. "Not Evelyn;" again my
arm fell nervelessly.

"Well, then, don't call her, of course. I will stay a while myself; we
don't want anybody at all, Miriam and I, only each other. Go you and
make that panada ready, and sent it when I ring. Let Charity bring it,
she will do. Keep every one else away."

His word was law in our household in times of illness, and Mabel's cries
were hushed at once by his assurances, and she was led passively away.
She was capable of great self-control on emergencies, like her own dear
sainted mamma, who always thought _first_ what was best for others, and
_afterward_ for herself, if there was room at all for such latter
consideration.

"You must have revived hours ago," said Dr. Pemberton, after I had
rallied sufficiently to prove to him that my crisis was over, and the
usual symptoms of returning convalescence had been manifested. "I have
marked your seizures narrowly, the periods are perfect--have limited
them to eighteen hours latterly--nay, sometimes to twelve; they used to
be four-and-twenty. You were due back again in port, little craft, at
nine or ten o'clock this morning."

"Back again from where, Dr. Pemberton?"

"How should I know, my dear? Some unknown shore--Hades, perhaps. Who
knows what becomes of the soul when the body is wrapped in stupor or
sleep, any more than when it is dead? You came partially to yourself at
five this afternoon. I had just come in then, having been unavoidably
detained. We administered, or tried to administer, wine--but too
slowly; you fell back again into unconsciousness--drifted off to sea
once more; but this last effort of Nature was successful. It is all very
mysterious to me. Have you no memory of having revived before?"

"Yes, I was conscious for some time this morning--for nearly an hour, I
think."

"At what hour? Who was with you?"

"At ten o'clock. I heard the hall clock strike that hour soon after I
opened my eyes. I counted every stroke. There were persons in the room
at the time, but no one knew of my recovery of consciousness. I lay as
if spellbound. I heard conversation and understood it; I remember every
word of it yet--I shall ever remember it. But, when they came to me, I
was unable to speak or make a sign."

"Unable, or unwilling? I have said before, Miriam, the will has much to
do with all this. It is a sort of magnetic seizure, I sometimes think."

"Both, perhaps, involuntary; but I certainly did not wish to grow
unconscious again."

"Yet you wanted to die a while ago--child, child, there is something
wrong here! What is it? Tell me frankly. I heard of the scene with Mr.
Stanbury--the passionate old man was very unwise to excite you so; he
meant well, though, no doubt--he always does. What more has occurred?
Now, tell me candidly--much depends on the truth--has any one been
unkind?"

"Whatever I say to you, Dr. Pemberton, must be under the pledge of
confidence," I replied; "otherwise I shall keep my own counsel."

"Surely, Miriam."

"Well, then, I overheard some one saying, when I revived this morning,
that I was epileptic, and it troubled me. Now, I call upon you solemnly
to answer me truthfully on this point. Of what character is my
disease?--speak earnestly."

"I do not know--not epilepsy, certainly; partially nervous, I think--one
of Nature's strange safety-valves, I suppose."

"You would not deceive me?"

"Not under present circumstances, surely; not at any time after such an
appeal as yours."

"Did Dr. Physick ever pronounce my disease epilepsy? You consulted
together about it once, I believe. Do tell me the truth about this
matter," laying my hand on his arm.

"Never, so help me God!" he said, earnestly.

"You have relieved me greatly," I said, pressing my lips on that dear
and revered hand which had so often ministered to me and mine in sorest
agony--a hand spotless as the heart within--yet, brown and withered as
the leaves of autumn.

"Now you, in turn, must relieve me," he said, gravely. "Who was it that
alleged these things? They were slanders, and deserve to be nailed to
the wall, and shall be if power be mine to do so."

"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me. It was not asserted that you
pronounced my disease epilepsy, but insinuated that you thought so. Dr.
Physick's opinion was given to confirm this impression."

"Have you traitors in your own household, Miriam?" he asked, sternly.

I was silent--shedding quiet tears, however.

"I have thought so before," he said, low, between his set teeth. "But,
thank God, you can put your foot on them all before very long!--This
seems a nice young man you are going to marry, but I never liked his
father. I say this frankly to you, child; but, in truth, I have had no
sufficient reason for this distaste or prejudice--it is no more, I
confess. You are very much in their hands for the present, I fear; but I
hope they will do you justice."

"I shall not marry Claude Bainrothe," I rejoined at last, firmly. "Let
this be perfectly understood between us two, Dr. Pemberton. That
marriage will never take place!"

"Why, your own father told me you were engaged in October last!"

"I have changed my mind since then. Understand me, I admire Mr.
Bainrothe for many qualities--I am attached to him even; and he is
infinitely to be pitied for some reasons, certainly; but marry him I
never will!"

"And this is your resolution?"

"It is. But, on second thoughts, I will ask you to keep your knowledge
of it strictly to yourself. I cannot tell you my motives of action now,
but they are good."

"Miriam, you must not ask me to be your confederate in any scheme of
coquetry or caprice such as this concealment points to. You must deal
with this young man openly--no double dealings, my child, or I shall
come to the rescue."

"Have you ever known me to play fast and loose, Dr. Pemberton? Is that
my characteristic? Ask Mr. Gerald Stanbury--ask all who know me--if I
have ever been guilty of deceit, or time-serving, or caprice, or
perfidy. No, Dr. Pemberton, it is on his own account solely that I wish
to keep this matter quiet for the present. Should _he_ wish to proclaim
it, I surely shall not object. But I seek only to shield him from
mortification, from reproach, in the line of conduct that I am
adopting--best for both."

"And to give yourself margin for a change of mind again--little fox! Ah,
Miriam, it is the old story--a lovers' quarrel! I understand it all
perfectly now. Don't be too hard on the young fellow; he seemed very
much in love. Relent in time; he will value your mercy more than your
justice, perhaps."

"Have you ever seen us together, that you pronounce him very much in
love?" I asked, in a hard, cold, subdued voice that startled my own ear,
and made him serious at once.

"Never. But he wears the absent, dreamy air of a lover; even when alone
it is noticeable, Miriam. I can always tell when a man is preoccupied in
that way."

"If you could go a little further, and divine the object of such
preoccupation, you would be better prepared to counsel me, dear friend.
He is no lover of mine, I assure you!"

"Ah, the old story again, Miriam! Have patience, my dear child." And,
strong in his belief that my change of resolution arose only from pique
and jealousy, that would soon be over, the good doctor went his way, all
the more ready to keep my secret for such conviction.

I passed a miserable night. The great bed seemed to inclose me like a
sepulchre, which yet I was too feeble, too irresolute, to leave. The
conversation I had heard seemed stereotyped on plates of brass, that
rang like cymbals in my ears. Toward morning I slept. I dreamed that
mamma came to me, and said, in tones so natural that they seemed to
sound in my ears after I had awakened:

"Miriam, your mother and father have sent me to say to you that they
are united and happy. I, too, have found my mate at last. It was for
this I was called. The sea has given up its dead, and I am blessed. Now,
dearest, Mabel is all yours;" and then she kissed me.

I woke with that kiss upon my cheek.

The brief and distinct vision made a deep impression on me. I awoke
refreshed and strengthened, as from a magnetic slumber.

At first, a sense of joy alone possessed me, but soon the great bitter
burden came rolling back upon my soul, like the stone of Sisyphus, which
my sleeping soul had heaved away.

It is a beautiful law of our being, that we rarely dream of that which
occupies and troubles us most in the daytime. Compensation is carried
out in this way, as in many others, insensibly, and the balance of
thought kept equal. I have heard persons complain frequently that they
could not dream of their dead, with whom their waking thoughts were ever
filled. But madness must have been the consequence, had there been no
repose for the mind from one engrossing image.

Relaxation comes to us in dreams at times when the brain needs it most,
and to lose the consciousness of a sorrow is to cast off its burden for
a time, and gain new strength to bear it.

I thought, when I first arose from my bed, that I would write to Claude
Bainrothe, and thus save myself the trial of an interview. But the
necessity of secrecy, in the commencement at least of the rupture, on
his own account, presented itself too forcibly to my mind to permit me
such self-indulgence. I felt assured in the first bitterness of feeling,
that he would lay my letters before Evelyn, from whom I especially
wished, for household peace, to preserve the knowledge of what had
passed in my chamber between herself and him.

I had no wish either to mortify or wound the man I had loved so
tenderly, but from whom I felt now wholly severed, as though the shadow
of a grave had intervened between us.

Never again, never, could he be more to me than a memory, a regret.

Glaring faults, impulsive offenses, _crime_ even it may be, I could have
forgiven, so long as his allegiance had been mine, and his affection
proof against change, but coldness, perfidy, loathing, such as he had
avowed, these could never be redeemed in any way, nor considered other
than they were, insuperable objections to our honorable union.

My heart recoiled from him so utterly, that I could conceive of no fate
more bitter than to be compelled again to receive his profession of
affection, his lover-like caresses; yet, in recoiling, it had been
bruised against its prison-bars, bruised and crushed like a bird that
seeks refuge in the farthest limits of its cage from an approaching foe,
and suffers almost as severely as if given to its fangs.

I determined, after mature consideration, to see him once again,
privately, and beyond the range of all foreign observation and hearing.
In order to do this, I might have to wait, and in the mean time how
should I deport myself, how conceal my change of feeling from his
observant eyes?

I was relieved by an unlooked-for contingency. Evelyn announced her
intention of going, as soon as I should be able to spare her, with a
party of young friends, to hear a celebrated singer perform in an
oratorio in the cathedral of an adjacent city, her specialty being
vocal music, and her mourning permitting only sacred concerts. Her own
highly-cultivated voice, it is true, had ill repaid the care that had
been lavished on it, sharp and thin as it was by nature. I urged her to
set forth at once, declaring myself convalescent, but I did not leave my
room, nor see Claude Bainrothe, save for five minutes in her presence,
until after she had gone. Then I was at liberty to work my will.

I wrote on the very evening of her departure, requesting him to defer
his accustomed visit, until the next morning, when I hoped to have an
hour's private conversation with him in the library, a room most dear to
me, once as the chosen haunt of my father, but shunned of late as
vault-like and melancholy, now that his ever-welcome and dear presence
was removed from it forever.

Punctual as the hand to the hour or the dial to the sun, Claude
Bainrothe came at the time I had appointed, and I was there to meet him,
nerved and calm as a spirit of the past, in that great quiet sarcophagus
of books--at least, I so deceived myself to believe. I had made up my
mind, during the time I had been sitting alone in that sombre room, as
to what I would say to him, and how clearly and concisely I would array
my wrongs in words, and pronounce his sentence. But, when he came, all
this was forgotten. A tumult of wild feeling surged through my brain. My
very tongue grew icy, and trembled in my mouth. My eyes were dimmed, and
my forehead was cold and rigid. I was silent from emotion. I felt like a
dying wretch.

"You are very pale, Miriam," he said, as he advanced to me with
outstretched hands, and wearing that beaming, candid, devoted look he
knew so well how to assume; "are you sure you are not going to be ill
again, my love? You must be careful of yourself, my own darling; you
must indeed, for my sake, if not your own."

I was strengthened now to speak, by the indignation that possessed me,
at his perfidious words, his wholly artificial manner, which broke on me
as suddenly and as glaringly on the eye as rouge will do on a woman's
cheek in sunshine, which we have thought real bloom in shadow. I
wondered then, how I ever could have been deceived. I wonder less now.

"Sit down, Mr. Bainrothe," I said, coldly, withdrawing my hands quietly
from his grasp, and recovering with my composure my strength. "Do not
concern yourself about my health, I beg. It is quite good just now, and
will probably remain so for some time. My spells occur at distant
intervals."

"I know how that is, or has been; but we must try to break them up
altogether. We will go to Paris next year, and have the best advice; in
the mean time Dr. Pemberton must try some new remedy for you, or call in
counsel. On this point I am quite determined."

"I am satisfied that Dr. Pemberton, who understands my constitution
thoroughly, is my best adviser. I shall decline all other medical aid,"
I replied. "Nature is on my side--I am young, vigorous, growing still,
probably, in strength, and shall fling off my malady eventually, as a
strong man casts a serpent from his thigh. I have little fear on that
score. Nor do I think, with some others, that my disease is epilepsy;
though, if it were, God knows I should have little need for shame."

"Miriam, what an idea! Epilepsy, indeed!" He was very nervous now, I
saw. "Epilepsy, indeed!"--he faltered again.

"As to those scars, Claude," I said, fixing my eyes upon him, "they
were honorably earned in my sister's service. Your father knows the
details, which I spare your fastidious ear. I cannot wonder, however,
that they shocked you, with your previous feelings to me. I do not like
to look upon them myself, yet I have never felt them a humiliation until
now." I knew that my forehead flushed hotly as I proceeded, and my lips
trembled. The reaction was complete.

"Miriam, what does all this mean?" he asked, rising suddenly from his
seat as pale as ashes, and clinging to the mantel-shelf for support as
he did so.

"It means, Claude Bainrothe," I said, firmly, "it means simply this:
that our engagement is at an end; that you are free from all claims of
mine from this moment, and that henceforth we can only meet as friends
or strangers--as the first, I trust!" I stretched forth my hand toward
him kindly, irresistibly. He did not seem to notice it.

"Who has done this?" he asked, huskily. "Evelyn? This is her work, I
feel; a piece of her bitter vengeance! Tell me the truth,
Miriam--who has done this devil's mischief?"

He suffered greatly, I saw--was terribly excited.

"So far from your surmise being just, Claude, I enjoin upon you, as a
man of honor, never to let her know the subject of this conference, in
which she has had no voluntary part. Placed as I am by my father's will,
which I never will gainsay, however bitter it may be to me; bound hand
and foot; indeed, in her power by its decisions for a term of years, her
knowledge of the fact that I had overheard her conversation with you in
my chamber when I lay stricken, helpless, if not unconscious (an
unwilling listener, I assure you, Claude, to every word you uttered),
would be a cause of endless misery to me and her. No, Evelyn has told me
nothing, believe me."

He staggered back from the mantel to his chair, sat down again
helplessly, and covered his face with his hands. The blush of shame
mounted above his fingers and crimsoned the very roots of his silken
hair. He trembled visibly.

O God! how I pitied him then! Self sank out of sight at that moment, and
I thought only of his confusion. Had I obeyed my impulse, I would have
cast my arms about his neck as about a brother's, and whispered, to that
stormy nature, "Peace, be still!" But I refrained from a manifestation
that might have deceived him utterly as to its source. I only said:

"I am very sorry, Claude, for all this; but bear it like a man. Believe
me, no one shall ever know the occasion of this rupture--the management
of which I leave entirely in your hands. Of what I overheard I shall
never speak, I promise you, even though sorely pressed for my reasons
for our separation. My own pride would prevent such a revelation, you
know, putting principle aside." And again I extended my hand to him
frankly, with the words, "Let us be friends."

He had glanced up a moment while I was speaking, evidently relieved by
my voluntary promise. He took my hand humbly now, and reverently kissed
it, bowing his head above it long and mutely.

"My poor, outraged, offended, noble Miriam!" I heard him murmur at last.
The words affected me.

"I am all these, Claude," I said, withdrawing my hand gently but firmly,
"but none the less your friend, if you will have it so. And now let us
think what will be best for you to do. I wish to spare your feelings as
much as possible, and I will say all I can with truth to exonerate you
in your father's eyes. Go to Copenhagen, as you proposed at one time to
do, and leave the rest to me. That will be best, I think."

"To Copenhagen!" he exclaimed. "You issue thus coldly your edict of
banishment! Are you implacable then, Miriam?" and the cold dew stood in
beads on his now pallid brow as he rose before me. He had not fully
realized his situation until now.

"'Implacable' is scarcely the word for this occasion, Claude. It implies
anger or hatred, it seems to me. Now, I feel neither of these--only the
truest sympathy."

"Your anger, your hatred, were far more welcome, Miriam--more natural
under the circumstances. This cool philosophy in one so young is
monstrous! Mock me no longer with your calm compassion--it maddens
me--it sinks me below contempt!"

He spoke gloomily, angrily, pushing away the clustering hair from his
brow in the way peculiar to him when excited, as he proceeded, stamping
slightly with his foot on the marble hearthstone in his impotent way. I
could but smile!

"I will not offend you further, Claude," I said, mildly. "Receive your
ring;" and I gave him back the diamond cross on a black enamel ground
set on its circle of gold that he had placed upon my finger as a pledge
of our betrothal; an ominous one, surely--for another cross was now to
be borne.

"Understand me distinctly, Claude, all is finally at an end between us
from this forever more! And now, farewell!"

"Go, Miriam, go!" he murmured. "Leave me to my fate--I have deserved it
all, and more. I have been weak and wicked--you shall not find me
ungrateful. Go, queenly spirit! go, soul of tenderness, pity, and most
unselfish faith, that ever folded its wings in human breast! go, and
find a fitter mate! For me, the world is wide, I shall offend your gaze
no more."

Without another word I left him. I could not trust myself to speak. Too
much of the past returned to render any further intercourse between us
wise, or other than torture at that season. Besides, my confidence in
him was gone forever, and with it had vanished respect, esteem,
affection!




CHAPTER VI.


"What is this Claude is talking of, Miriam?" asked Mr. Bainrothe a day
or two after the interview I have described in my last pages.
"Copenhagen again--and he seems quite dispirited. He says you have sent
him into banishment for a year, Miriam--a long probation truly!"

"Our engagement was to have been for that length of time from the
first," I said, evasively; "my father was not willing for me to marry
before I had attained my seventeenth year, you remember, and it still
wants some months of that period."

"Oh, yes! but all that is changed now by the force of circumstances. You
are so well grown, so very womanly for your age, that I cannot see why
it would not be just as well to shorten rather than lengthen the period
of your engagement, especially as it seems Claude must go into exile
until then, by some caprice of yours. You will be at the head of your
own house too, after that ceremony takes place, which Claude is so
impatient to have over. Evelyn would go to England for a time under such
circumstances, for she will not oppose your views--your father's will
was made before your betrothal to my son, or he would scarcely have made
her your absolute guardian" (apologetically spoken). "For the matter of
that," he pursued, "I cannot doubt that, were you settled in life, she
would gladly transfer Mabel to your care. Indeed, I have heard her say
as much."

"A great temptation, truly!" I said, grimly.

"Your manner is peculiar to-day, Miriam. I cannot understand it, I
confess."

"For all explanation, Mr. Bainrothe, I refer you to your son. I prefer
not to discuss the matter."

"Ah! it is just as I expected, from his behavior as well as your own.
Some childish misunderstanding has taken place between you, which, he
was loath to acknowledge or explain, but which in your womanly candor
you will reveal at once, and tell me all about it. I am the very best
mediator you ever saw on such occasions," with a bland and confident
air, taking my hand, smiling.

"Mr. Bainrothe, your mediation could effect nothing between me and
Claude; we understand one another perfectly, I assure you."

He was very much excited now, evidently; he relinquished my unwilling
hand coldly--on which he had, doubtless, missed the conspicuous ring,
significant of my engagement. His chameleon eyes seemed to emit sparks
of phosphorescent fire, as if every one of the dull-yellow sparks
therein had become suddenly ignited. I saw then, for the first time,
what his ire could be, and what reason I had to dread it.

"Have I been deceived in believing that you were attached to my son,
Miriam Monfort, and that you meant to keep faith with him?" he asked,
stiffly.

"You have not been deceived, Mr. Bainrothe, nor is it my wish to deceive
you now. Again I beg to refer you to him for all explanation; whatever
he alleges will be highly satisfactory to me."

"I will bet my life," he said, passionately, "that Evelyn Erle is at the
root of all this! That girl," he soliloquized, "who knew so well, from
the first, what our intentions were; to throw herself at his head in the
shameless way she did! A woman, without a woman's modesty."

"Beware, Mr. Bainrothe," I interrupted; "it is of my sister you speak. I
will not hear her slandered. Certainly, if propriety ever assumed female
form, it is in that of Evelyn Erie. This was my father's opinion--it is
mine."

"Propriety! The pale ghost of it rather," he sneered; "I thought you
hated hypocrisy; you do not love that woman--have little right to; yet
you praise and defend her. How is this! Are you sincere in such a
course? Ask your own heart."

"Mr. Bainrothe, let us not discuss Evelyn, I beg, either now or
hereafter; for some reason she is very sacred to me. I cannot say one
word more on the subject of your son than I have said, without his own
consent. As to our marriage, let me tell you frankly--" I hesitated--the
stricture of my throat, for a moment, interrupted me, and I was ashamed
of my weakness.

"That it is indefinitely postponed, I suppose you would like to say,
Miriam," he added, ironically. "Well, I honor your emotion; don't be
ashamed of it. Claude is to blame, no doubt; but the poor fellow suffers
enough already, without prolonged punishment. Suppose I send him up to
you; he will fall at your feet."

I shook my head silently.

"Now, don't be hard-hearted; I have never seen any man more devoted
than he is to you. A woman must forgive a few shortcomings, now and
then, in one of our faulty sex. You lived so long with a man who was
almost perfect, that you cannot make allowances for impulsive and
indiscreet young manhood. What has poor Claude been guilty of?"

"I will tell you," I said, recovering myself by the time this speech was
ended, by a mighty effort. "I will tell you: Guilty only of doing
violence to his own inclinations, from a mistaken sense of duty to his
father; that is all. I never felt more kindly--more affectionately to
Claude Bainrothe than at this moment. If I can serve him in any way, but
one, he may always command me. Let him go for the present to Copenhagen,
I implore you; it will be best for him--for all of us. He will know his
own mind better then, than he can now. When he returns, I would like to
see him happy. I doubt if he will be so, if he remains here," I
faltered; "I should dislike, very much, to see him make shipwreck of his
happiness." I hesitated, choked again. "I acknowledge--"

"You have cut him off, Miriam, that is plain, for the present, at
least," he interrupted. "Yet you speak in enigmas; but, if he be the man
I think he is, he will make all clear to you at last, for I am sure he
is incapable of any act radically wrong, and is the soul of chivalrous
honor; always ready to repair a folly, and avoid it in future. The very
best fellow living."

I had never seen Mr. Bainrothe so moved before as he now certainly was.
The glitter of a tear was in his mottled eye, and it stirred me
strangely. It was as if a snake should weep, and what in Nature could be
more affecting than such a spectacle? Or, rather, what _out_ of Nature?

There must have been, despite this tender showing, an outbreak of some
sort between father and son from the time of this call and the next
visit of Mr. Bainrothe, which occurred some days later.

The expression of concentrated rage on his face was unmistakable on this
occasion. Its usually placid, polished expression was laid aside, for
one of unqualified displeasure. He was pale as marble too, which was a
sign of excitement with him, with his complexion, usually clear and
florid.

"Again I come to you, Miriam," he said, "and this time with his
permission to mediate between you and my unhappy son. Believe me, you
attach too much consequence to hasty and half-comprehended expressions,
uttered, as he avers, to appease the offended vanity of an angry and
implacable--ay, and dangerous woman. There are few things a man will not
say for such a purpose. He went too far in his anxiety to conciliate
malice, and allay an evil temper. This is all that can be imputed to
him. Be reasonable, my dear girl! you are alone in the world; we are
your truest friends. It shall be our study--mine, as well as his--to
guard your life from every care, every anxiety even--precaution so
necessary in your case, and with your peculiar constitution. You love my
son, or have loved him--in this I could not be mistaken--and his
affection for you is sincere and unaffected, despite the concessions a
designing woman, who conceives herself slighted, has wrung from his
unwary lips, on purpose to mar his prospects, and blight your happiness,
I well believe."

"No, no, there was no design of this kind on her part, of that I am
sure. She could not--did not know that I overheard them. You must do her
justice there--I trust she may never know it. Claude promised me--"

"I know, I know--it was with this understanding," he interrupted, "that
he confided to me the extent of his indiscretion, for which I have rated
him soundly, I assure you. Evelyn is not to know that you overheard
them. This is the compact--a very sensible and politic one on your part,
under the circumstances, for Evelyn, we all know, is, excuse me my dear,
the devil, when fairly aroused. Now, as to this overhearing of
yours--might not your mind, laboring under recent coma, and a sort of
mental mirage as it were, have had a tendency to magnify and only
partially comprehend the conversation thus suddenly forced upon your
attention? For I understand you were unable to make yourself heard at
all, or even to give signs of life when the curtains of your bed were
lifted by the interlocutors."

"This last is true--but that I could not have been mistaken, Claude's
own admissions confirm. He denied nothing that I suggested--much was
left by me unquestioned."

"Yes," catching wildly at this straw, "he finds himself quite in the
dark still, I perceive--as to the accusations brought against him;
suppose you make your charges one by one, as it were in the shape of
specifications?"

"There are no charges, no accusations brought--nothing of that sort," I
said, proudly; "and I must entreat that from this hour, Mr. Bainrothe,
this subject be dropped between us utterly. It is wholly unprofitable,
believe me."

"You are a person of extraordinary obduracy," he said, "for one of your
years. I should like to know how much the Stanbury influence has had to
do with strengthening your unwise, unamiable, and stiff-necked
resolution! If I were Claude Bainrothe, I should lay heavy damages
against you in the courts of law, for your unjustifiable evasion of a
formal contract--one your father sanctioned, one of which all your
friends are and were cognizant and proud, and which has subjected him,
in its rupture, to so much distress and mortification; nay, even as I
can prove, pecuniary loss."

"If _money_ can repay your son Claude, for any wrong I have done him, he
is welcome to a portion of mine," I said, deeply disgusted, "without
intervention of law--painful exposure of any kind. I cherish for him,
however, even yet, too much regard and respect to believe him capable of
such proceedings. The idea is worthy of the mind it springs from--worthy
of the author of all this sorrow and confusion--worthy of Mr. Basil
Bainrothe, the arch-conspirator himself."

He turned upon me with clinched hands and blazing eyes. "You shall
answer for these words, girl! if not now, years hence," he said; "the
seed of your insult has been thrown on fertile soil, I promise you!" and
he laughed bitterly.

"I do not fear you," I replied; all disguise was thrown off--it was war
to the knife between us now; "never have--never can, in spite of your
unmanly threats. Evelyn must protect me henceforth from any further
contact with you, however, until I am of age to take in hand my own
affairs; Evelyn Erie, my guardian, and your fellow-executor, owes me
this safeguard. I trust, Mr. Bainrothe, we shall meet no more."

I left the room--left him in possession of the library, in which he
paced up and down for an hour or more, like a caged panther. There was a
sealed note for me in his handwriting, under the massive paper-weight on
the table, when I entered it again, which he had written and left there
before his departure. It ran thus--for I read it derisively, and
remember its contents still:

"We have both been wrong, dear Miriam. I, as the elder and more
experienced offender--therefore, the more responsible one--claim it as
my privilege to be the first to atone. I cannot think, from what I know
of you, that you will be long in following my example. Let us forgive
one another. Fate has thrown us together, and we must not afford a
malicious world the spectacle of our inconsistency, or the satisfaction
of seeing us quarrel, after so many years of harmony.

"As to Claude, you and he must settle your own matters. I wash my hands
of the whole transaction from this hour, supposing that common-sense
will triumph at last, and reconcile your differences.

"Yours as ever, truly and devotedly,

"BASIL BAINROTHE."

I did not answer this note--I could not discreetly, although I tried to
do so several times. I could not conquer sufficiently my deep disgust of
his insupportable behavior to respond kindly, at that time, to any
overture of Mr. Bainrothe's, nor did I wish to write one rude word to
him in connection with so delicate a subject as that of our late
discussion.

He came no more until after Evelyn's return, and then only on necessary
business; inquiring for her alone, and holding on such occasions secret
conclaves with her invariably in the library. Whenever we met casually,
however, whether in the street or my own house, he was polite and easy
in his deportment, even gracious.

With Claude it was otherwise; he avoided me sedulously, and, although I
have reason to think he met and joined Evelyn frequently, and even by
appointment in her long walks, he never called to see her or paid her
open attentions. Yet I found that he had followed my counsels.

A day or two before he sailed for Copenhagen to join the legation in
Denmark, an exception to this rule of avoidance was made by both father
and son, who came in as had been usual with them in other days,
informally, in the evening.

This was Claude's farewell visit--a very unpleasant necessity evidently
on his part. I was unconstrained in the cordiality with which I received
both his father and himself--for it was heart-felt on this occasion. Old
feelings came back to me so vividly that night, and my own dear father
seemed so visibly recalled by the presence once more of our unbroken
circle, that I lost sight, for a season, of my wrongs and sufferings in
the memory of the past, and broke temporarily through the cloud that
oppressed me and dimmed my existence.

I saw Mr. Bainrothe gazing at me several times, in the course of his
visit, with an expression of interest and surprise.

He had expected very different manifestations, no doubt, and he told
Evelyn afterward that "no woman of thirty could have carried off matters
with a higher hand than did that chit of sixteen, Miriam Monfort."

"All that talk of yours, Miriam, about 'Hamlet,' 'Elsinore,'
'Wittenberg,' and the 'fiery Dane,' probably imposed on those two
unsophisticated men; but I saw through the whole proceeding; you were
afraid of yourself, my dear, that was evident, and ashamed, as you ought
to have been, of your capricious conduct to poor Claude, who shows,
however, as uncompromising a spirit as your own, I perceive. What _was_
the matter, Miriam? I can get nothing out of him, and I have waited,
until my patience is exhausted, for a voluntary communication from you."

"Why have you not asked me before, Evelyn?" I questioned, calmly, in
reply. "You have shown more than your usual forbearance, on this
occasion."

"My dear child, 'Least said is soonest mended,' is proverbial in
quarrels of all kinds. I have no wish to pry or play mischief-maker,
and, if Mr. Basil Bainrothe with his diplomatic talents could do nothing
to mend the difficulty, I had no right to suppose that I could succeed
better, with my very direct, straightforward disposition."

"You were right, Evelyn, certainly, in your conclusion, and, if you
please, will never ask for any explanation of the breach between Claude
and myself. It is irrevocable; but I am sorry to see him so resentful.
He cannot conceal his displeasure against me, and yet I have never
offended him willingly, I am sure."

"Caprice and coquetry are not so lightly estimated by every one, as you
hold them, nor yet counted causes for gratitude by most men, let me
assure you, Miriam."

"Who has accused me of these?" I questioned, with a flashing eye, a
flushing cheek.

"Does your own heart acquit you?" she asked, evasively.

"It does," I answered, solemnly, "as does the God who reads all hearts,
and to whom I am now alone answerable for any motives of mine."

"Since when have you grown so independent, Miriam?" she asked,
ironically.

"Since the death of my father," I replied.

"Ah! you do not accredit delegated allegiance it seems," turning her
face aside.

"Not as far as my own feelings and their sources are concerned. As to my
acts, I hope never to commit one of which all just men might not
approve."

"We shall see. However, a year more or less makes little difference.
Claude Bainrothe, improved, will return within a year, probably, and all
may still be well. Matters will then, I fancy, be in his own hands,
pretty much.

"All _is_ well, Evelyn, if you could only think so, and now, once for
all, make up your mind, definitely, to let _well_ alone, for I must not
be approached again on this subject, I warn you!"

I spoke with a decision which, at times, had its effect even on the
"indomitable Evelyn," as my father often had called her, playfully, and
again the broken engagement was consigned to silence.

Yet on my mind, my feelings, the effect of this severe and sudden trial
was far more bitter and profound than met the outward eye.

I had been sustained at first by a sense of pride, self-respect, and
womanly indignation, that prevented me from feeling the whole extent of
the wound I had received; but with reaction came that dull, dumb, aching
of the heart, which all who have felt it may recognize as more wearing
than keener pain, or more declared suffering.

I suppose the Spartan who felt the gnawing of the hidden fox was a mere
type of this species of anguish, which reproduces itself wherever
wounded pride underlies concealment, or wherever injustice and
ingratitude render us uncomplaining through a sense of moral dignity.

The first six months succeeding my rupture with Claude Bainrothe went
by like a leaden dream. My heart lay like a stone in my bosom, and the
gloss had dropped from life, and the glory from the face of Nature for
me, in that dreary interval, as though I had grown suddenly old.

In routine, in occupation alone, I found relief and companionship. I
compelled myself to teach Mabel, and pursue my own studies, lest my mind
should fall back on my body, and destroy both.

A nervous peculiarity manifested itself about this time, that was
singularly distressing to me, and which I confided to no one, not even
that excellent physician who kept a quiet and observant eye fixed upon
me during all this period of my probation.

I became nervously but not mentally convinced of the want of substance
in every thing around me, and have repeatedly risen and crossed the
room, and touched an article on the opposite side, to compel my better
judgment to the conviction that it was indeed tangible and substantial,
and not the merest shadow of a shade.

I was sustained in my resolution to conquer this besetting weakness,
from a vague horror and fear that, should I suffer it to gain further
ascendency, I might fall back into habitual lethargies, and, remembering
what Dr. Pemberton had said, I was determined, if possible, to throw off
that incubus of my being, by the strength of my own will, aided by God's
mercy.

There were no uttered prayers to this effect, that I remember, but an
unceasing cry for strength, for light, went up from my heart, as
continuously as the waters of a fountain, to the ear of my Creator. I
have thought sometimes that, in this persistent wrestle of mind with
matter, enduring so many weeks and months, so many weary, woful days
and sleepless nights, the physical demon was exorcised at last, that had
ruled my life so long, or was reduced to feeble efforts thereafter.

Once when Dr. Pemberton's attendance had been necessary to me, during a
severe spell of pleurisy, he said when I was recovering: "There is some
favorable change at work in your constitution, Miriam, it seems to me.
We hear no more of the 'obliteration spells,'" for thus he called my
seizures.

"Your drops have banished them, dear doctor, I suppose," I rejoined,
with a faint smile.

"They may have aided to do so," he said, gravely, "but I think I have
observed, Miriam, that you were doing good work lately for yourself. You
have been struggling manfully, my little girl. Now, I am going for
recreation to Magara, and the Northern cities, for a few weeks, next
month, and I want you to go with me, in aid of this effort of yours.
Quite alone, with Charity as sole attendant. My niece will be with me--a
good, quiet girl, you know, some years older than yourself, and also in
feeble health; and I will see that you are both well taken care of,
medically at least, while you are absent. How would you like this,
Miriam," patting my shoulder, "just for a change?"

"Oh, very much!" I said, eagerly. "Yes, I will go gladly, in this quiet
way, for I do not wish to visit gay places, or to make strange
acquaintance, under the circumstances. My deep mourning must be
respected, you know, and--" I hesitated; looked in his kind,
sympathizing face; then hid mine on his shoulder--weeping. The first
tears of relief I had shed for months.

He did not check me, for he knew full well the value of this outlet of
feeling, to one situated as I was, physically as well as mentally.

"I would offer to take Mabel," he added, after a time, "were I not
solemnly convinced that it would be better for you both that she should
stay here. Mrs. Austin seems necessary to her very existence; and that
old woman is your vampire, I verily believe."

"No, no, she is very good, indeed. You are mistaken."

"No, I am not mistaken. There are persons who do sack away,
unconsciously, the very life of others, from some peculiarity of
organization in both. I have strong faith in this theory. I have been
obliged sometimes to decree the separation of wife and husband for a
time, to save the life of one or the other; of mother and child even.
Every time you fall ill, I believe Mrs. Austin gains strength and energy
at your expense. She absorbs your nervous fluid. It was from this
conviction that I requested you two years ago to change your room,
which, until then, she had shared on the pretence of your necessities,
and to substitute a younger and less sponge-like attendant. You remember
the stress I laid on this?"

"Yes, yes, one of your crotchets, dear doctor, nothing else. You are
full of such vagaries--always were--but there is not another such dear
old willful physician in Christendom for all that."

"Little flatterer! But here is a piece of cassava bread, I brought you,
as you thought you would like to taste it. My old West Indian patient
keeps me well supplied. I fancy to nibble it as I drive about in my
cabriolet, or whatever they call this French affair of mine."

"For a wonder, you have the word right;" and I laughed in his honest
face.

"I am going to France, next spring, when the Stanburys go over, just to
see what strides medicine is making across the waters, and to rest
myself a little, improve my Gallic pronunciation, and get the fashions,
and I will take you as my interpreter, if you promise to be very good
and obedient in the interval."

"Oh, thank you; I would like it of all things. But what takes the
Stanburys abroad? I have heard nothing of this plan of theirs before."

"Pleasure and business combined, I believe. They will remain abroad some
years, for the education of George Gaston. What an idol Mrs. Stanbury is
making of that boy, to be sure, and Laura is just as foolish about him
as her mother! By-the-by, she is to be married, they say, to that young
Prussian nobleman, who was there so much last winter. I forget his
unpronounceable name. They will reside in Berlin, I understand, should
the marriage be '_unfait accompli_,' as the French have it. Is not that
right, Miriam?"

"Oh, admirably pronounced! You are becoming quite a Gaul in your old
age."

"I hope I shall never become gall and wormwood, in any event, like some
old folks. Now, is not that being literal, Miriam?"

"And witty, as well! You must have been associating with Dr. C----n,
lately."

"So you can't give me credit for a little originality, because my
facetious vein is new to you. Now, do your old friend justice, and
believe even in his puns; if not pungent, he is self-sustaining and
independent; but, remember, I count on you absolutely, next week. One
trunk apiece and no bandboxes or baskets. A green-silk travelling-bonnet
and pongee habit. This is my uniform, for my female guard. Carry Grey
knows my whims, and will observe them. By-the-by, you will like my
niece."

We made a delightful tour, which occupied the whole month of August, and
I came back refreshed, soul and body; as for Carry Grey, she revived,
like a plant that had been newly tended and watered after long neglect.
For the poor girl had been making a slave of herself for two years in
her widowed brother's household, consisting of many little children, and
needed repose from her multifarious duties.

He was going to marry again soon, she told me, and then she hoped to
feel at liberty to fulfill her own engagement of five years' standing.
Carry Grey was quite this many years over twenty-one, and was going to
emigrate with her husband to Missouri, and to settle in the thriving
young town of St. Louis, fast growing up then into a city. He was to
have a church there, and they might be so happy, she thought, if God
only smiled upon them! But all depended upon that.

It was a wholesome lesson to my morbid discontent and pride to hear what
trials she had surmounted already, and how many more she was ready to
encounter.

She had once been engaged to a very brilliant young man, she told me,
but he was dissipated and careless of her feelings, and she let him go;
since that he had drifted fast to destruction, and sometimes she
reproached herself for not having held to him through thick and thin. It
was just possible she might have saved him, she thought, but her friends
had persuaded her that he would only drag her down, and so she broke
with him forever.

"Did he love you?" I asked, eagerly. "Were you sure that he was not
perfidious?"

"Oh, I believe he was true to me--however false to himself."

"Then you were wrong," I said. "Wrong, believe me. Carry Grey! A woman
should bear every thing but infidelity of heart for the man she
loves--every thing!"

"I am sorry to hear you say so," she replied, somewhat coldly. "There is
a great deal more than blind affection needful for a woman's happiness,
Miss Monfort--so experience tells us. What I mean is, perhaps he _might_
have reformed had I not broken with him; but it was the _merest_
chance--one too feeble to depend on; and I did wisely to discard him, I
am convinced."

"Forgive me! I did not mean to censure you," I said; "I was only
speaking generally--too generally, perhaps, for individual courtesy.
This is a theory of mine which as yet I have had no opportunity to put
in practice, for I have never been attached to a dissipated man." I
smiled. "I dare say I too should drop such a man like a pestilence."

"I hope so. But the best way is to avoid all intimacy with such men from
the first. You are very young. Let me give you my advice on this subject
before you form any attachment: keep your affections for a worthy
object, if you keep them locked up forever. Better be alone than
mismated."

"This is to shut the cage after the bird has flown," I thought, sadly;
but I thanked her, and promised to profit by her good counsel.

We were fast friends ever after, and, when she went away to her distant
Western home, Carry Ormsby bore some memorials of her summer friend away
with her, in the shape of books, plate, and jewels, such as her simple
means could have ill afforded. I felt that I could not have devised any
means more sure to gratify her worthy uncle, to whom such gifts had been
dross. He was a widower--the father of sons--indifferent to show, and,
besides that, unwilling to incur obligations from any one, such as gifts
entail on some minds.

There are persons made to give and others to receive, and neither can do
the work of the other gracefully. He and I were both of the same order,
so we accorded perfectly.

The autumn and winter passed very quietly. In Mrs. Stanbury and Laura I
again found my chief consolation. George Gaston was in the South, for
his health, on his own decayed plantation, with his uncle, who took
charge of it. But, in the spring, as Dr. Pemberton had stated, they were
all to go to Europe for some years. Laura would be married in Paris, if
at all. Every thing depended on some investigations Mr. Gerald Stanbury
was to make in person as to the character and position of her betrothed.
"For a Prussian nobleman may be a Prussian boot-black for aught I know,"
he observed, "and without derogation to his dignity, no doubt, in that
land of pipes and fiddlers. But an American sovereign requires something
better than that when he gives away the hand of the princess, his
relative, and endows her with a goodly dowry. Every man, we feel, is a
king in America."

Our circle of society was much enlarged by Evelyn after our first year
of mourning had expired. She insisted on taking me with her in turn to
Washington, Boston, and Saratoga Springs, then at their acme of fashion.
Mr. Bainrothe, who had by this time glided back into his old grooves of
apparent sociability in our household, accompanied us, and did all in
his power, it seemed, to promote our enjoyment and success.

Yet it was astonishing what an icy barrier still remained between us
two, and how perfectly I managed, without a conscious effort, to set a
limit to his approaches, even while treating him with apparent courtesy
and confidence.

Something in his eye, his manner, had become extremely unpleasant to me
since our social relations had been resumed. There was a controlled
ardor in his expression of face and even in his demeanor that I could
not reconcile with his position toward me nor understand, and yet which
froze my blood in spite of my best endeavors to repel the thoughts
suggested.

"I am very morbid and fanciful, certainly," I said to myself, "even to
think such a thing possible. At his age, and knowing full well my
opinion of him, my sentiments toward him--he surely would not dare--!" I
could not even in my own heart finish out a conjecture that dyed my face
and throat crimson, or mahogany-color, as Evelyn would have averred
contemptuously could she have witnessed my solitary confusion.

"I have clung to him too much," I thought; "it is my own fault if he
throws too much of the tone of tenderness in his manner, when,
distasteful as he is to me, his arm, his protection, have seemed to me
preferable to those of a stranger, and I have accepted them merely to
avoid the advances of others.

"I am not in the mood to be sentimental, or susceptible either, after my
bitter experience, and the idea he so carefully instills is ever present
to me--strive as I will to repel it--the thought that I am sought
alone for my fortune!

"Yet I am not wholly unattractive, probably, though less beautiful than
Evelyn. But what, after all, is beauty? Plainer women than I are loved
and sought in marriage, who possess no gift of fortune or
accomplishment.

"Why should I suffer him to fill my mind with suspicions that embitter
it against all approaches? Why should I seal my soul away in endless
gloom, because one man, out of all Adam's race, was faithless and
falsehearted?"

Thus reasoning, I gained strength and self-reliance to receive other
attentions and mingle with the multitude. Nor should I have known to
what extent Mr. Bainrothe had carried his injustice and perfidy toward
me, but for the loquacity of Lieutenant Raymond, a young adorer of mine,
who revealed to me, the very evening before I left Saratoga, along with
his passion--a hopeless one of course, which, but for this connection,
would not be noted here--the strategic course of my guardian.

"I ought to have been warned, by what I saw and heard, that my suit was
a hopeless one," he said; "I had been told of your engagement, but could
not believe it possible, although confirmed by Mr. Bainrothe's manner. A
rival of his age and experience, possessed too of such physical
attractions, and such charm of manner, seldom fails to carry the day
over a raw, impulsive youth--who can only adore--bow down and worship
his idol, and who possesses no arts of conquest."

"Pause there, Lieutenant Raymond; of what are you speaking?" I asked,
coldly; "you have probably confounded matters, names, and--"

"No, no, it is all too evident now to admit of a doubt I You are
affianced to Mr. Bainrothe--your own timid and dependent manner might
have enlightened me long ago, as well as his devoted one--but a man in
love is blinder than the blindest bat even! He is the maddest fool
certainly! Forgive me for my presumption, and forget it if you can;"
and he turned away, smiting his brow impatiently.

I laid my hand on his arm--I drew it down from his face again, which he
turned upon me with an expression of surprise. I felt that I was pale
with rage and scorn as he looked at me. He misunderstood my feelings
evidently, for he said, earnestly: "I am sorry to have caused you so
much pain, Miss Monfort! I was premature, I have been indiscreet in my
remarks. Your engagement is surely no concern of mine. I should have
confined myself to my own disappointment exclusively, and respected your
reserve;" adding, "I beg that you will pardon and look less angrily upon
me, in this our parting."

"I am not offended with you, Mr. Raymond." (His boyish passion had,
indeed, swept over me as lightly as the wing of a butterfly across a
rose. I felt that it amounted to nothing but pastime on either hand--a
careless throw of the dice on his part, that might, or might not, have
resulted to his advantage. He probably staked but little feeling in the
enterprise--I certainly none at all.)--"I am not angry with you,
Lieutenant Raymond, nay, grateful rather for your impulsive homage,
which I regret not to be able to reward as you deserve; but this you
must tell me, as a true, as an honorable man, if you care one iota for
my regard, or the cause of truth and justice: what has that man been
saying about me?" And I laid my hand upon his arm and shook it slightly.

"What man, Miss Monfort? I--I, scarcely understand you! You surely do
not mean Mr. Bainrothe--your--"

"Guardian, nothing more, scarcely that," I interrupted, almost fiercely;
thus finishing out his sentence as he probably might not have done.
"Answer me truthfully, honorably, as you are a gentleman, has he
propagated this vile slander, for as such I feel it, and as such shall
resent it?"

"I do, do--not know positively--but I have reason to think that, either
directly or indirectly, the rumor comes from him. You know some men have
a way of insinuating things. I--I--cannot recall any thing positive or
definite. I cannot, indeed. He never spoke to me on the subject at all.
There was only an expression at times, as he bore you off, that seemed
to tell me that all my efforts to win you were vain. I can't see why you
lay such stress on the matter at all, Miss Monfort."

He had evidently the gentleman's true reluctance to make mischief.

"Lieutenant Raymond, I simply dislike to be placed in a false position,
or grossly misinterpreted or misrepresented. Do you see that unfortunate
person there?" I asked suddenly, "with his head drawn completely to one
side, and his arms and legs swathed in flannel bandages, hobbling feebly
along, followed by a youth (a relation, probably, bearing a camp-stool)
and a dingy little terrier-dog, on his way to the pool of Bethesda?" As
if he knew that he was the object of our attention, the man alluded to
stopped, and turned just then a face grotesquely hideous in our
direction, and, seeing me, smiled, and nodded feebly--disclosing, as he
did so, long, fang-like teeth, yellow, as if cut from lemon-rind, and
fantastically irregular.

"You have the oddest acquaintance, Miss Monfort, for a young lady of
fashion, certainly! This old man keeps a little one-horse book-store
somewhere, I am told, and makes it his constant theme of conversation."

"Yes, he has his hobby, like more distinguished men. I have known him
from my childhood, however, and esteem him truly. He kept the choicest
collection of children's books I ever saw in former days, and was a
child at heart himself, and an especial crony of mine. But I have other
reasons for asking you to remark him now. He is old, diseased, and poor;
yet, just as good and honorable as he is, I would rather put my hand in
his as betrothed or married a thousand-fold, than become the wife of
Basil Bainrothe. Repeat this, if you please, whenever you hear this very
unpleasant and absurd report and subject agitated. It will be a simple
act of justice to me, and a tribute to truth, such as I am sure you will
be pleased to render and illustrate."

"I will do so," he said, quietly; "but I confess, you surprise me. I
have always refused to give credit to the matter myself, blinded, I was
assured, by my own impetuosity, but I acknowledge this engagement is
very generally canvassed and believed at Saratoga; nor has Miss Erie in
any instance refuted the impression. Of this I am quite certain, and
deem it my duty now to tell you so."

"Is it possible," I thought, "that this can be one of Evelyn's subtle
schemes, reacting on Mr. Bainrothe? The father for me, the son for
herself! My God! the grave would be preferable to me, to marriage with
either one or the other, the loathed or the loathing! O papa, papa! why
was I ever placed in hands like these? It must be so sweet, so
delightful, to trust and love one's associates, whether natural or
accidental! I feel as if Fate had raised up for me this band of mocking
fiends, to guard me from my kind, and mar my happiness. Day by day I
hate and distrust them more and more--nay, learn to tremble through them
at myself."

"You are silent. Miss Monfort," he said; "will you not bid me a kind, a
pardoning farewell?"

"Oh, surely, Mr. Raymond; and let me beg that, when you are near me, you
will come freely to my house. I shall be most happy to entertain you."
And I gave him my hand, frankly.

"One word more, Miss Monfort. Are you engaged to any other and more
fortunate man than Mr. Bainrothe and myself? Is it for another's sake
you have felt so very indignant? Forgive a sailor's frankness, and a
sailor's interest, even if bestowed in vain. I fear you will add to
these, a sailor's undue curiosity."

"No, Mr. Raymond, neither engaged nor likely to be. But hinge no hope on
this declaration of mine. I am probably destined to walk through life
alone, and, like many better women, to live for the good of others, in
self-defense, if for good at all. I shall never marry, Lieutenant
Raymond."

The hand that held mine, trembled slightly, relaxed, relinquished its
eager hold, and fell listlessly to his side. He believed me, evidently,
as I believed myself.

"I have loved you," he said, hoarsely, "far more than you will ever
understand. Do not forget me!"

"That is scarcely probable," I murmured; "but we shall meet again," and
I spoke cheerfully and aloud, "and under happier auspices, I trust. The
world is fair before you, Mr. Raymond; this much let me counsel, and the
counsel is drawn from experience: do not surrender your freedom too
lightly--it is a precious gift to man or woman, and those who drag
broken fetters wear woful hearts. Farewell!"

We left Saratoga on the following day. It was autumn when we reached our
home again--sad and strange September--my birth-month, and the grave of
many hopes. Mabel was well, and finely grown for a child of her years;
and the joy of seeing her, and holding her to my heart again, made me
oblivious of all else for a season. After our brief separation even, her
loveliness struck me afresh. How beautiful she was! not with the white
radiance of Evelyn, but lovely as a young May rose, blushing among its
leaves and peerless in grace, sweetness, and expression. She had her
sainted mother's great blue, soulful eyes, with finer features and more
brilliant coloring, and her father's gleaming teeth and clustering hair,
"brown in the shadow, gold in the sun," falling, like his, over a brow
of sculptured ivory. I was not alone in my appreciation of her
loveliness. It was a theme of universal remark. Even Mr. Bainrothe, who
could never forgive my father for having married his children's
governess, confessed that she had the "air noble," which he valued far
above beauty. "And where she got it from, Miriam, is sufficiently
plain," he said, one day, glancing at me with undisguised admiration as
he spoke. "Her mother was simple and unpretending enough, Heaven above
knows, but you Monforts, and you, especially, Miriam, are truly
_distingue_, which is a word that cannot often be justly applied in any
land to man or woman either."

"By-the-by, Miriam," he continued, "you are growing into a very
beautiful woman, after a somewhat unpromising childhood. You surpass
Evelyn as rubies do garnets, or diamonds _aqua marine_, or sapphires the
opaque turquoise. You do, indeed, my dear," and he attempted to take my
hand in the old fashion. I murmured something indicative of my
disapprobation.

"It is an exquisite hand!" he remarked, as I coldly drew it away; "I
have an artist's eye, and can admire beauty in the abstract, even though
I am an old man, you know."

"Admire it also at a distance, I beg, hereafter," I said, bowing coldly,
smiling very bitterly, I fear, with lips white with anger and disgust.

"Those scars, Miriam!" he went on, as if unobservant of my manner, yet
with the old sarcastic gleam in his eyes, in the most audacious way,
"have nearly disappeared, have they not? I think I understood so from
Dr. Pemberton. Let me see that on your arm, my dear," and he extended
his hand to grasp it.

"They are indelible, Mr. Bainrothe," I replied, folding my arms tightly
above my heart, "as are some other impressions; never allude to them
again, I request you. It offends me." And I left him, coldly and
abruptly.

I give this little scene only as a specimen of his occasional behavior
at this period, and of the humiliation to which his presence so often
subjected me. But matters had not yet culminated.




CHAPTER VII.


Evelyn's fortune and Mabel's were, like much of my own, invested in the
Bank of Pennsylvania, and deemed secure in that gigantic bubble. At
twenty-three Evelyn, of course, consulted no one as to the disposition
of her income, which she spent freely and magnificently on herself
alone. Her jewels, silks, laces, were of the finest quality and fabric;
she drove a peerless little equipage, had her own ponies and tiger and
maid; travelled frequently, entertained splendidly, though this last, it
must be confessed, was not at her expense, if redounding to her credit.

To her my father had decreed the first position in his household until
my marriage (with her sanction) or majority should occur, and she kept
it bravely. She possessed a leading spirit, and loved to rule whether by
right or sufferance. Lovers she had in plenty; suitors, such as they
were, manifold; yet she preferred so far her single estate to aught that
could be or had been offered. I began to think that her constancy
deserved to be rewarded, and to withdraw on such score the objection I
had felt so strong in the outset against her union with Claude
Bainrothe.

He had been already more than a year in Copenhagen when I discovered how
it was between them, or rather thought I had done so, from seeing one
night when she came into my room in her night-dress, which was
accidentally parted at the bosom, the betrothal-ring, so peculiar as not
readily to be mistaken, which Claude Bainrothe had once given to me,
suspended from the button of her chemisette by a small gold chain, so as
to lie constantly against her heart. How her pride had ever stooped to
receive and wear the pledge originally given to another it was difficult
for me to conceive, and little less bitter, I confess, at first to know.
I thought all care was over as to Claude Bainrothe and his affairs, but
a qualm of anguish surged through my whole being, the dying throe, I
well believe, of trust and affection, when I beheld this
carefully-guarded token.

As Evelyn raised her hand to fasten her night-robe, through the
accidental opening of which I had caught sight of my repudiated
treasure, I noticed on one of her slender fingers, from which all other
incumbrances in the way of rings had been removed for the night, a
circlet of plain gold such as is generally used for the symbol of the
marriage-rite, an engagement-ring, I then supposed it.

"Let me see your wedding-ring, Evelyn," I said, laughingly, to conceal
my embarrassment. She colored slightly.

"What, that little affair of a philopoena?" she rejoined. "Oh, I
promised not to take it off until certain things were accomplished, nor
to tell the name of the giver either, so don't question about it, 'an
you love me, Hal!'"

"Was it sent from beyond the seas?" I questioned, seriously, "I shall
ask nothing more."

"What an idea! No, on my honor, it was not. There! I will not tell you
another word about it, so don't bore me, Miriam. I thought you,
yourself, despised a catechist, and undue curiosity. What I came here,
to-night, for, was not to be catechised, or 'put to the question,' but
to ask a favor which you must grant, dear prophetess, whether you will
or no. Now, don't refuse your Eva," and she kissed me affectionately; "I
am going to give a grand fancy ball, or rather, _we_ are, the same thing
of course, and I want you to lay off your deep mourning for a time"
(hers had been already entirely put aside), "and appear as night. You
can still wear black, you know; I shall be Morning, and Mabel, Hesper.
Now, won't it be a lovely idea? Hesper, you know, is both morning and
evening star, and can hover between us, bearing a torch, and dressed _a
la Grecque_. Is not that appropriate--our little link of sisterhood? It
cannot fail to make an impression. I consider it, myself, a capital
idea. You can wear your mother's diamonds at last, which Mr. Bainrothe
means to hand over to you to-morrow as your birthday gift--not that,
exactly, either," seeing my rising scorn, "but as a token of respect
suitable for the occasion. He might hold on to them two years longer you
know, legally," she added, carelessly.

"He is very magnanimous," I remarked, coldly; "I shall be glad to have
my diamonds though, in my own possession, I acknowledge, but why does he
make any parade about it at all? They are mine all the same, whether in
his hands or my own. Every thing that man does seems theatrical and
affected to me!"

"I thought you were beginning to incline very favorably to Cagliostro! I
am sure this was the opinion of all who saw you together at Saratoga,
and I believe, between ourselves, it is his own."

"Evelyn Erie, you know better than this! People, of themselves, would
never have dreamed of such a thing, and he, too, knows my sentiments
thoroughly. He only feigns ignorance."

"My dear, dear girl! worse things than this have been said frequently,
and stranger ones have come to pass. Mr. Bainrothe is certainly a
splendid financier, that was your own father's opinion. You will never
marry any man who will take better care of your money, and that is a
consideration with you, or ought to be, Miriam. Your estate is your
chief distinction, child, if you only knew it; besides, with a knowledge
of your constitutional malady, you should be very careful what hands you
fall into. No woman that I know of demands such peculiar care and
tenderness from a husband, nor such choice in her surroundings. After
all, Mr. Bainrothe is still a very handsome man, and admirably well
preserved if not exactly young; he does not look forty, he has not a
gray hair, a false tooth, nor a wrinkle."

"Have you done, Evelyn Erie?" I asked, almost ferociously. "Have you
completed your catalogue of insult? Then listen, in turn, to my counsel.
Marry him yourself by all means; he would suit you, body and soul, far
better than me. Indeed, I have never seen any one else who seemed so
thoroughly your counterpart, match and mate, as Cagliostro!"

"Thank you," she said, furiously; "if I thought you were in
earnest"--here she hesitated, clinching her hand, and biting her white
lips.

"I am in earnest," I rejoined, quietly; "what then?" and I looked
coldly, resolutely in her face.

"Why I would perhaps marry the son, just to correct your fallacious idea
about the father, that is all! This course is shut out from you,
however, entirely, by your own folly, so _you_ must take what you can
get now, for Claude Bainrothe, let me assure you, is lost to you
forever." And she went out, smiling triumphantly.

I suspected from that hour what I knew later, and I had suffered the
last pang to agonize my heart that my broken troth should ever cost me.
The corpse of my dead love had bled at the touch of its murderer, in
accordance with ancient superstition. Now, calm and quiet oblivion and
the sepulchre should surround and enshroud it forever more.

I think I kept my determination bravely from that hour, but others must
judge of this for me. We are not gods, to say to the tide of feeling,
"Thus far, and no farther shalt thou come." We are only mortal Canutes
at best, to lift back our chairs as the tide advances, and seat
ourselves securely thereon beyond the surf. We all remember how it fared
with the quaint old monarch and moralist when he tried the plan of the
immortals, and commanded the sea to obey him--we perish if we arrogate
too much when the surges sweep around us; but we can, we must avoid them
if we hope to escape their force, and plant ourselves beyond them firmly
on the shore.

Evelyn's fancy ball was a magnificent affair, and a complete success, as
the word goes. She chose to call it my _debut_ party, but I never felt
that it was so, or that I was more than any other guest. I would not
have chosen a fancy dress for my first appearance, and she certainly was
the queen of the occasion.

She was dressed as Aurora, in exquisite, fleecy gauze draperies of
white, azure, and rose color, so artistically arranged as irresistibly
to remind the observer of those delicate, transparent tints of morning
that greet the rising sun. On her brow was a diadem of opals and
diamonds arranged in a crescent form, from beneath which, her fleecy
white veil flowed backward to the hem of her garments like a mist of the
early day-spring; a rosy exhalation of the dawn enveloping but not
obscuring the radiance of her raiment, over which dew-drops seemed to
have been shed by the lavish hand of wakening Nature.

Her face, so fair as to gain from this marble-like radiance its chief
characteristic, was delicately tinted to-night on either cheek so as to
emulate the early blushes of Aurora. Her colorless hair, of a tint so
neutral as to defy description, curling in light spiral ringlets so as
to drop profusely on her bosom, had been richly powdered with gold-dust
for this occasion, and glistened like the sunlight, or, to fall in my
comparison, the tresses of Lucretia Borgia, as her historians portray
them.

Nothing could be more refined, more refulgent, more ethereal, than her
whole appearance, nor had I ever seen the light-blue eyes so clear and
brilliant, the thin, writhing lips so scarlet and smiling, the pearly
teeth so glistening by contrast with the first, as on this occasion.

Her arms and neck, which wanted contour, and yet were of snowy
whiteness, were skillfully draped in her many-colored robe so as to
cover all defects; and a chaplet of pearls, mingled with diamonds,
concealed the slight prominence of the collar-bones, and descended low
on the white and well-veiled bosom. Every eye was turned on her with
admiration, and the low murmur that followed her through the halls she
trod so proudly, proclaimed her triumph far more loudly than more open
flattery could have done.

"You, too, look well to-night, in your black-velvet robe and diamonds,
Miriam, better than I have ever seen you!" said a low voice in my ear,
as I echoed the passing praises lavished on Evelyn's beauty by one of
her admirers. "It is scarcely a fancy costume though, after all."

"Thank you, Mr. Bainrothe," I replied coldly. "For reasons of my own, I
have preferred to make my costume as subdued as possible."

"By Jove! I wish our young exile could see you this evening," he went
on, disregardful of my brief explanation. "He would strew his hair with
ashes, and wear sackcloth in penance for the past, I doubt not; for I
tell you frankly, Miriam, you have improved wonderfully of late, and you
bear inspection far better than Evelyn with all her beauty; your figure
is absolutely faultless; your face the most attractive woman ever wore,
if not the most absolutely regular. I tell you simple truths. I am a
disinterested critic, you see, and stand apart gazing upon women simply
as specimens. Your hands and feet are models, your smile enchanting,
your voice musical, your manner witchery itself, when you choose to let
out your nature; what more could heart desire?" and he gazed steadily in
my face, insolently I felt it!

I had been listening indignantly to this cool summary of my attractions,
and the arrogant idea manifestly uppermost, that Sultan Claude Bainrothe
had only to appear on the scene, and throw his handkerchief, for me to
succumb, and I had been so confounded by this tirade of compliment and
commonplace that I scarcely knew how to stay its tide without absolute
rudeness, such as no lady should ever be guilty of--when he coolly
continued his remarks as if wholly unobservant of my displeasure.

"Evelyn, with all her arts, is a little faded already; don't you see it,
Miriam? There is no corrosive poison equal to envy, and that, by-the-by,
is her specialty. She is bitterly envious by nature. Most of those
thin-lipped, sharp-elbowed, sharp-nosed women are, if you observe.
Faded at twenty-three! Sad, but true of half our American morning-glory
beauties. For my part, I love the statuesque in women, the enduring!
those exquisitely-moulded proportions on which the gaze reposes with
such delight, and that set a man to dreaming, whether he will or not."
And his eye dwelt on me from throat to waist in a manner that made my
flesh crawl as if the worms that tortured Herod were passing over it. At
this point I rebelled--I ground my teeth resolutely--my face flushed to
the temples--I could willingly have stricken that audacious scrutinizer
in the face with my clinched hand, and he knew it! How coarse coarseness
makes us, even when most disinclined to it naturally! His sensuous
brutality made me almost fiercely brutal in turn. As it was, I could
only put him away with a gesture of contempt I sought not to command,
and with which I swept past him into the thickest of the crowd, cursing
at heart the bitter fate that had cast me bound and helpless, for a
season, into such unscrupulous hands.

There was no one to turn to now. I knew Mr. Lodore thought Evelyn
perfect, and me a sinner, because in the matter of church duties she was
the more observant. Besides, my Jewish pedigree had always been a
barrier between us. Dr. Pemberton, Mr. Stanbury, Laura, George Gaston,
all that truly loved and believed in me, were gone for an indefinite
time to Europe. I had not been suffered to accompany them, on many pleas
and pretences, as I had wished to do, and this was the end of it all.
Licentious persecution!

Evelyn, too! a blinded confederate in such schemes as should have nerved
her woman's heart to indignation rather! Marry that man! I would have
cut off my own right hand, or burnt it to a cinder like Scaevola;
sooner gone out to service--played chambermaid on the boards, or the
tragedy-queen of the commonest melodrama, far rather! It was all insult,
injury, degradation, in whatever light I could view it, and every
feeling in my nature was stung to exasperation.

It was well understood that I was an heiress, and I did not want for
adulation. I was surrounded by fashion and beauty, and wreathed with
approbation from the noblest and most exalted, on that night of festal
splendor; and again that beautiful face that had cast its spell above me
in my inexperienced childhood, and that age never seemed to change nor
chill, bent above me with its gracious and genial sweetness, and the
princely banker on this occasion condescended to manifest his kindly and
approving interest in the daughter of his dead friend. At any other
time, such tribute would have been most grateful and acceptable to me,
for this man was almost my _beau ideal_ at this period, but now the
bitterness with which my heart was filled, permeated my whole being, and
dashed every draught of enjoyment untasted from my lips.

Yet the memory of that time--that face--returned to me later with
emotions irresistible, when the being who was then the idol of society,
became its ostracized outcast, and, among all who bowed before him in
his pride of place and power, were found, before two years had elapsed
from this period,

        "None so poor
    To do him reverence."

Already is the injustice of that decision forced on the convictions of
his fellow-men. Our scales are not wisely balanced in this world--we
cannot weigh motives against acts, thought against deeds, with atom-like
precision, nor measure the tempted with the temptation grain by grain,
hair by hair. Ambition was the fault of the seraphim in the
commencement--be well assured that some of the old angelic leaven
lingers still about all of its votaries and victims.

Ay--victims!--for he who was said to have made so many, was himself the
victim of the society that spoiled and flattered him, and fostered his
foibles, in the beginning, with its false and fawning breath, and,
later, blew on him a blast of ice from its remorseless, pestilent jaws,
that froze him out of his humanity.

He could not live--moulded, as he was, of all sweet elements--apart from
social influences, from the regard, the affection, the approbation of
his kind--and he died of heart-starvation; fortunate, indeed, in that he
was mercifully permitted so to die, rather than have lived, as less
fervent natures might have done, in cold and cheerless apathy.

I do not defend his errors; I only seek to extenuate them. Pity and
justice are not the same; but one may still so temper the other that
Mercy, the appointed angel of this earth, may be the result.

Let us, who are mortal and fallible, be wary how we condemn one whose
head was rendered giddy by his very pinnacle of power! Peace be his!

I have diverged so widely from my subject--a most bitter and revolting
one to me, eventually--that I will not return to it just now; nor,
indeed, do I even in thought revert to it with any thing like patience
or pardon. There are some things, paradoxical as this may seem, we must
forget, in order to forgive.

I am lingering too long on this period of my story, uneventful as it is
just yet, and circumscribed as I am in space; but, as the boldest rider
draws rein with a beating heart beside the dark abyss over which he must
fling his horse, or perish, so I pause here, on the threshold of
despair, and take breath for a flying leap--for I shall clear it,
reader, believe me!

It will be remembered that, at my father's death, half of my means were
invested in the stocks of the Bank of Pennsylvania; and that his
directions were that, as the different loans he had made became due,
they should, one after the other, be drawn in and invested in like
manner by Mr. Bainrothe.

No details of my business had ever been discussed before me, nor had I
any insight into the periods at which these loans were due, or how the
money was cared for when paid in by my father's executors, of whom, to
my regret, Mr. Gerald Stanbury had refused to be one.

One thing alone I had heard them say, and it was said, I doubt not,
expressly for my hearing. All debts should be paid in gold, as,
according to law, this was the only legal tender. Paper, however
excellent, should never be received in discharge of any liability of my
estate, since it might render the executors responsible to me, to depart
a hair's-breadth from the very letter of the law, which enjoined specie
payment.

"But why not receive bank stocks instead?" I had ventured to suggest, a
little indignantly, "seeing all moneys are to be immediately reinvested
in that form. Pennsylvania Bank stocks, I mean."

"You know nothing about the matter, Miriam," Evelyn had remarked, with
some asperity. "Had your father deemed you capable of conducting your
own affairs, he would not have appointed _us_ to manage and direct them
during your minority. No sinecure, I assure you!"

But Mr. Bainrothe had only laughed, and turned away tapping his boot
with his rattan cane, amused, it appeared to me, by my sister's
assumption of importance, and, probably, as well by her entire ignorance
of his true motive in exacting gold, of which secret spring of action
she, knowing nothing, still tried to make so profound a mystery.

Yet he flattered Evelyn very much, I saw, on her business
qualifications, and her insight into financial matters, of which
abilities, indeed, she was more proud than of her accomplishments, or
even beauty.

The last she took as a matter of course; but it was something new and
unexpected to her to be considered sagacious and strong-minded, and very
gratifying to her arrogant and exacting spirit--ever alive to the
delight of controlling the affairs of others, as well as her own--to
have the reins of government given apparently into her hands.

My father had placed an iron chest in a secure niche in the dining-room,
behind the great central mirror, made for the purpose of concealing it,
and to which he alone had access. Here he had kept a store of plate,
money, jewels, and papers, so as to defy all burglarious interference or
foreign scrutiny, and, in dying, had bequeathed the secret of the patent
lock to Mr. Bainrothe alone. Old Morton even was ignorant of the
contrivance.

I knew of the niche and the iron chest by the merest accident, and had
been requested, nay, commanded, by my father, not to speak of either;
so, in silence the mystery had almost died out of my recollection, when
it was rather singularly revived again in this wise:

During one of the hottest nights early in September, after our return
from Saratoga, I descended, parched with thirst, to the dining-room,
about four o'clock in the morning, to seek a glass of iced-water,
always to be found there, I knew, by night or day, on the sideboard, in
a small silver cistern.

The dawn was dimly breaking through the great window in the hall as I
passed down the broad stairway, still in my night-dress and unslippered
feet; but, on approaching the dining-room, I was surprised to see the
gleam of a candle falling athwart the mirror, which had been swung from
its place (as I had seen it once before swung by my father), so as to
screen my advancing form from the person evidently at work behind it.
The massive shutters of the room were closed and securely barred, as was
the habit of the house, and the room was, consequently, still in
darkness, or deep shadow.

As I stood half hidden now, by the arch of the hall, behind which I
shrank instinctively, and uncertain how to proceed, I saw Mr. Bainrothe
suddenly emerge from behind the mirror, and take from the table near it
a canvas bag, small but evidently weighty, from the manner in which he
carried it to its place of concealment.

Then I heard the slow, heavy fall of a shower of gold coins, dropping on
others, the same sound that had greeted my ear on the day when I first
detected this treasure-cave of my father, and as different from the
sound of falling silver as is the gurgling of rich old wine from the
dash of crystal water.

"The wretch is faithful to his trust, after all. So this is where he
keeps my gold," I thought; "but how did he find ingress into our castle,
supposed at least to be inaccessible by night? Has he a false key I
wonder, and are we above-stairs, with unlocked doors, subject to his
visitations, should it occur to him to make them?"

I shuddered at the suggestions of my own fancy. Women only, who have
been similarly situated, can know how dark these may become, even in an
innocent mind, from circumstances like those that surrounded me, and
what a nameless horror there is about the insidious and licentious
approaches of the man we would fain dash away from us, and trample under
foot like a serpent, did we dare openly to do so.

Yet I lingered under the archway, determined to observe to the last Mr.
Bainrothe's proceedings. When he had locked the chest and replaced the
mirror, which swung out from its place, as I have said, like a door on
invisible hinges and fastened with a spring, he passed hastily out of
the dining-room into the pantry beyond, opening for convenience on a
covered paved court, which divided the kitchen from the house and which
led directly into the yard beyond. After that, all was silent.

Yet, the next day, Franklin assured me that he had carried the key of
the pantry away with him, when he went home at night (he was a married
man, and slept at his own house usually), and that he found it locked in
the morning just as he had left it.

This was in answer to a question which I tried to make as careless as
possible, with regard to some burglaries that had lately been committed
in a neighboring street, adding, by way of caution: "Don't forget to
lock us up carefully at night, Franklin; remember we are all women in
the house, except Morton, and he is old and sleeps like a top, no doubt
having a good conscience for his pillow."

"If you would have an _inside_ bolt put upon the pantry-door, it would
be best, Miss Miriam," he remarked; "that is, if your mind is really
troubled about robbers. Then you could draw it yourself in my absence at
night."

"And who would let you in, in the morning, Franklin, if I did this? Our
household would sleep until noon, were it not for your early summons, I
verily believe."

"I will throw a pebble at the cook's window, miss, if she is not on foot
by that time. But she usually is; cooks has to stir earlier than the
rest, you know, by reason of the light rolls and muffins."

"Oh, yes! true, I had forgotten this. Go at once, then, Franklin, for a
smith, and let him put a massive bolt on the pantry-door, and I will be
jailer of Monfort Hall in future, in your absence, for I am quite sure
some one was trying that lock last night. I came to the dining-room for
water just before daylight, and heard it distinctly."

"One of your lady-like notions," said Franklin, shaking his head, with
an incredulous smile; "young ladies is always nervous like, and fearful
about robbers, all but Miss Evelyn Erle--I never seen the like of her,
for true grit! All was safe when I came, Miss Miriam, any way, and, if
robbers had been about, it stands to reason the silver chest, setting
out in the pantry, would have stood a poor chance."

Again he smiled provokingly. "There are all sorts of robbers in this
world," I said, a little sternly; "some come for one purpose, some for
another. Attend to the bolt, Franklin, at once; I am very sure of what I
have said." And so the parley ended.

I am certain that Mr. Bainrothe came no more by night to his
treasure-cave, but there was a mocking smile on his lip--when Evelyn
told him, before me, some time later, that I had caused a bolt to be
placed on the pantry-door, for fear of burglars--that was significant to
my mind.

"What is the use of this mystery with me," I thought, "when I alone am
concerned? Why not reveal to me at once the secret of the spring and the
lock, as I only am to be the beneficiary of all this gold? The man's
cunning is short-sighted. Suppose he were to die suddenly, how does he
know that I would ever be the wiser or the better of these deposits?
Years hence, when the house was crumbling to decay, some stranger might
be enriched by this concealed gold, for aught he knows, which is
legitimately mine. Evelyn, too, is in complete ignorance of this hidden
chest, I am convinced, and, as far as I am concerned, will probably
remain so. After all, does Bainrothe mistrust her honesty or mine? Good
Heavens! what a mole the man is by nature, how darkly, deeply underhand,
even in his responsibility! And there are two long years yet, nay more
to wait, before I can openly defy him and put him away forever. Loathing
him as I do, patience, patience! Rome was not built in a day. I shall
still prevail."

Months after this occurrence, months that passed swiftly because
monotonously to me, for by events alone we are told we measure time, I
was roused one night from my early slumber by the sound of bitter
weeping in Evelyn's chamber. I had left her engaged over accounts with
Mr. Bainrothe, having withdrawn rather than spend a long, lonely evening
in the parlor, somewhat indisposed as I felt.

I rose from my bed and went to her precipitately. I found her indulging
in a passionate burst of grief, almost choking with sobs of hysterical
indignation.

"All gone--all gone!" she exclaimed, wildly, as I entered the room.
"Your estate--mine--Mabel's--all swept away with one fell swoop, Miriam!
The Bank of Pennsylvania has failed; it is discovered that Mr. Biddle
has proved defaulter, and we are ruined!"

"I will never believe it, Evelyn!" I exclaimed, vehemently, "until he
tells me so with his own lips. This is one of Mr. Bainrothe's fictions;
he is trying to wake us up a little, that is all. Mr. Biddle is the
Bayard of bankers--'_sans peur et sans reproche_.' As to that bank, did
not my father believe it to be as indestructible as the United States,
the government itself? Nay, did not Bainrothe himself do all he could to
convince him of it, and induce him to invest in its stocks? The wily fox
had his motive, no doubt, but it surely could not have been our ruin!
Our own fortunes are too intimately involved in his prosperity for this.
Besides, why have not the newspapers told us of this?"

All this time Evelyn was sobbing convulsively, and what I have told
continuously here was said by me in a far more fragmentary way between
her bursts of grief. She ceased now, and looked up, with some effort at
calmness.

"The newspapers _have_ been discussing it for months past, all but Mr.
Biddle's organ, and that alone was permitted to enter our doors. Mr.
Bainrothe acknowledges this now. Have you not noticed the irregularity
of our Washington papers?"

"No; I so rarely read them, you know."

"Mr. Bainrothe, with mistaken charity," she resumed, "I fear, sought to
shield us as long as possible from the blow, which was inevitable sooner
or later; or perhaps he hoped still for an adjustment of affairs, that
might have left us a competence at least. But he was deceived, Miriam;
we are worth nothing--a round naught--" and she suited the action to the
word by the union of the tips of her thumb and finger--"is the figure
whereby to describe our fortunes now; and the heiress and her once
dependent friend and sister are alike--beggars! All brought to one level
at last--there is comfort in that thought, at least! Ha! ha! ha!" and
she laughed wildly, horribly. I never before heard such laughter.

"Beggary is a word I repudiate, Evelyn, in any case," I said, firmly;
"and we, it seems, if this frightful thing be true, are not alone in
ruin. Be calm, dear Evelyn! Learn to bear with dignity our fate. We must
sustain each other now--be all in all to one another, as we have never
been before. Thank God! let us both thank God, Evelyn, from our inmost
hearts, that we still have this shelter--and--yes--I have reason to
believe, much more."

And, kneeling beside her bed, I told her impulsively of our concealed
treasure behind the mirror (though I had once determined never to reveal
this to her or any one)--treasure guarded so long by me with bolt by
night and vigilance by day!

Oh, fatal error, never to be repaired or sufficiently repented of! Oh,
utter misplacement of confidence, not warranted, surely, by any thing
that had gone before, and the results of which I had subsequently such
bitter cause to deplore!

She listened to me with an interest and zeal that were unmistakable. She
sat up in her bed, with her large, blue, distended eyes fixed on mine,
turning paler and paler, brighter and brighter, as she gazed, until
their lustre seemed opaline rather than spiritual, and with her slender
white hands wreathed together like the interlacing marble snakes in the
grasp of the Laocoon, so long, and lithe, and sinuous, seemed the
polished, flexile fingers. Her lips were livid, but on her cheek burned
two flame-like spots, indicative ever with her of intense excitement.
Surely the god Mammon has rarely possessed so sincere a worshiper! Let
us do her this justice, at least. So far she was consistent; so far she
was devout!'

"You are sure of the truth of what you utter, Miriam?" she questioned,
eagerly.

"Sure as that I live," I replied.

"It is wonderful! Why did he not mention this to me? I cannot conjecture
his motive. But perhaps he has already removed and invested this gold,
Miriam, of which you say there was such a quantity as to have
represented a large portion of your landed estate, I think!"

"No, no; that is simply impossible. By night he has never done this, I
know. By day he could not effect this unseen or unsuspected. That
dining-room is so public, you know, that Morton sees every thing;
besides, I gave him directions which he blindly obeyed, I am certain
(you know his almost canine obedience to me, Evelyn), to remain, when
engaged with the plate, in the adjoining pantry, with the door ajar
between, and to be always on guard. Papa always allowed him the
privilege of that room, and I love to continue it, you know, since we
never use it except for meals. You remember I said this when you
objected to his sitting there, Evelyn, and remarked that he might as
well sit with the other servants, to whom he is so superior. But of
late, I confess, I have had a motive, and Morton knew this"--I
hesitated--"must have known it."

"Do you mean to say you confided the secret of the mirror to Morton, and
kept it from me? Thank you, Miriam!" loftily. "I might have expected
this, however."

"Not wholly this," I replied, with embarrassment, for I saw how the
matter looked externally. "Morton simply knew that I wanted, for
purposes of my own, to exclude every one except himself from solitary
possession of the dining-room as much as possible, Mr. Bainrothe
especially. Yes, I told him this, but I kept papa's secret. Believe me,
Evelyn, I did this, and you know well enough what Morton's devotion is
to me not to believe that he religiously fulfilled my request without
asking for an explanation."

"Yes," she mused, "I saw him perched up there tonight, as usual, with
his old English newspapers, and I have observed that he never leaves his
post there, while Mr. Bainrothe remains. You could not have procured a
better watchman, surely; but why have you watched at all?"

"Because," I said, "I felt sure that mystery lurked behind those
nocturnal visits. You cannot doubt this yourself, Evelyn, and, with your
opinion of Mr. Bainrothe, must see that I felt I had good reason for
mistrust. I was determined to be present when that chest should next be
opened by him."

A smile quivered across her face. "I had not suspected you of so much
diplomacy," she observed, dryly; "but, after all, Miriam, how does this
change the posture of affairs to me? I shall be all the same, poor and
dependent."

"No, Evelyn, no indeed! I promise you faithfully.--But what is this?" I
exclaimed, rising hastily from my knees, "I am faint--blind! Quick, the
drops Dr. Pemberton left for me, Evelyn, or I am lost again."

I threw myself across the foot of her bed, sick and bewildered, yet
feeling myself gradually--after a few moments of oppression--growing
better, in spite of the dark effort of my evil genius to gain his fatal
ascendency.

When she came with the drops, after some delay, I was, to her surprise,
able to sit up and look around me. The spell was over.

"I believe I have troubled you uselessly," I said; "I will go to bed
without medicine to-night, I think, and strive to be calm, as Dr.
Pemberton enjoined me to do, and there was good sense in his advice,
certainly. We have so much to do to-morrow, Evelyn--we two must remove
these deposits ourselves. But not a word to Bainrothe!"

"Miriam," she said, eagerly, "can you doubt my discretion when you know,
too, what your own promises have been now and long ago--to divide with
me, ay, to the last cent, like a sister? Now, I insist on the drops! You
are pale again, Miriam--collapsing visibly in my sight. Do take your
remedy--so efficacious of late in warding off these distressing attacks.
I have taken the trouble, too, to go after them. I was at some pains in
hunting them up; they were not in the usual place. Come, now, as a
punishment for your carelessness, I proclaim myself dictator, and
command you to swallow them at once," and she poured the medicine into a
spoon.

"No, Evelyn," I averred, putting the spoon aside, "I am better without
the drops. I wish to see what my unaided _will_ and constitution can do,
this time."

"There is too much at stake to depend on these, Miriam. We must unearth
this treasure-trove to-morrow at daylight, and defeat Bainrothe on his
own grounds, or he may be beforehand with us. Take your drops, dear, and
have a good night's rest, and be ready for the contest. There, now, that
is a good sister," embracing me tenderly.

Persuasion and reason accomplished with me what _commands_ could not
have done. I took the drops, went quietly to bed, and was soon lost to a
sense of misfortunes, hopes, and the world itself.

I slept profoundly and long. When I awoke, the slant rays of the evening
sun were pouring through the blinds of my window, in lines of moted
light. Mrs. Austin was sitting close to the sash, with her invariable
knitting-work, her aquiline profile and frilled cap strongly relieved
against the jalousied shutters.

On the mantel-piece were the inevitable spirit-lamp and bowl of panada,
recognized at once as part and parcel of my malady. In the chamber the
usual smell of ether, the remedy so often ineffectually administered
during the period of my lethargic attacks.

I understood everything now--I had experienced another seizure, and I
had lost a day.

Whether it was this conviction that cleared my brain at once of those
mephitic fogs that usually clung around it after a spell of lethargy,
long after my consciousness returned, I never knew, but certain it is, I
sat up in my bed like one refreshed by sleep, instead of feeling
exhausted, and, greatly to her surprise, accosted Mrs. Austin in clear,
strong accents.

"How long have I slept? And where is Evelyn?" I asked.

"You have not opened your eyes to-day, dear child, until just this
moment; and Miss Evelyn has not been able to sit up in her bed since she
went to it last night, that shock yesterday overcame her so completely."
By this time she was standing by my pillow, after laying aside her
knitting, in a leisurely manner peculiar to her at all seasons. "But
Mabel is in the next room; let me call her to you."

"Let her stay there," I interrupted, in a manner so unusual with me,
whose first inquiry on reviving from illness had always been for Mabel,
instead of Evelyn, that Mrs. Austin looked surprised and startled.

"What ails you, Miss Miriam? I thought Mabel was always your first
thought; the little angel! She has been hanging over you tearfully all
day; never going near Miss Evelyn at all. It is so strange she shows
such partiality!"

Strange that one being on earth, and that one my sister, should love me
better than Evelyn, in the eyes of her partial affection; and yet Evelyn
treated her with positive disrespect every day of her life, as I never
did; and often with severity as well. It was incomprehensible!

"Give me the panada," I said, grimly; "I am half starved, and must grow
strong again to do my work. I am not nearly so weak as I usually am,
though, after one of my seizures."

"You see you are outgrowing them, as Dr. Pemberton predicted you would.
I declare, you _are_ hungry, poor child; you have not left a
drop--pint-bowl too--with a gill of wine in it. Not going to get up,
Miss Miriam? Oh, no; you must not venture to do that yet."

And she tried gently to restrain me.

"Yes, I must get about again; I have much to do, and Evelyn must aid me,
if able. Is she ill or only nervous?"

"Very ill, I think; she wrote a note to Dr. Craig and sent it last
night, after you went to sleep; but he did not come."

"Quite naturally, since he had been absent some weeks. I could have told
her," I said, sententiously; "indeed, I thought she knew it. Who carried
her note?"

"Morton."

"Poor old man! The idea of sending him on such a wild-goose chase, after
night. Papa would turn in his grave could he know he had been forced out
in the rain at such an hour, for a woman's whim. I would have suffered
tortures till morning first. Where was Franklin?"

"Franklin had gone home earlier than usual, and did not return to-day.
He is sick with a chill, we hear, and his wife is again ill."

"Who did the marketing?"

"Morton."

"Morton again! Why, the old man seems to be becoming a _factotum_ in his
declining years--he whose duties have always been so few, so simple! I
am provoked, for some reasons, that he should have been sent away
to-day. Fortunately, I bolted the pantry-door myself, before I came to
bed last night," I murmured, "and the front door is self-fastening. The
house was well secured, at least, by night."

"How long did Morton remain absent?" I asked, recommencing my system of
cross-questions, very abruptly.

"About an hour, I believe; but what makes you so particular, all at
once, Miss Miriam?"

"Some day you shall know, perhaps. In the mean while tell me, has Mr.
Bainrothe been here to-day?"

"He called about one o'clock, but, as all were poorly, went away again
without entering the house at all. I saw him go down-street, after
dinner, in his phaeton, with another gentleman, and have not heard
wheels since."

"You are sure he was not here, this morning--while--while Morton was
absent?"

"Quite sure; he breakfasted later than usual, I think, for I saw him
throw open his side bedroom window at nine o'clock, and he was in his
shirt-sleeves then. He sleeps in a large room in the ell, you know. I
was standing at the pantry-door, and saw him distinctly, and he nodded
to me, and called something, but I could not hear what it was at that
distance."

"Where was Charity at that time, Mrs. Austin?"

"Cleaning the house, Miss Miriam--hard at work in the parlors, washing
windows--this is her cleaning-day, you know."

"And cook, what was she about?"

"She got breakfast early, for us people, and went to mass, but was back
by ten. Miss Evelyn had her breakfast after she returned, with Miss
Mabel, and there was no one to eat dinner down-stairs so she thought--"

"Never mind what she thought," I interrupted, "or who went and came, so
that all be well."

"You do ask such strange questions, this morning, Miss Miriam, and your
eyes are so big! Do you feel light-headed at all after your turn--maybe
you have fever?"

"Not at all--hard-headed, rather, Mrs. Austin--not even
heavy-headed--though leaden-hearted enough, God knows! We are ruined,
you know--or at least Evelyn tells me so. The rest I have still to
learn--I must see Mr. Bainrothe this evening. There is a positive
necessity for me to exert myself now, but first I have some examinations
to make. Give me a shawl and wrapper, good nurse, and my slippers. Don't
disturb Evelyn, or call Mabel till my return; and stay where you are
until then, if you wish to serve me."

I sped rapidly down-stairs, and entered the dining-room so noiselessly
that old Morton, who was a "little thick of hearing," did not hear my
steps nor move from his position by the fire, where he sat apparently
absorbed by his newspapers. "Morton," I said, and laid my quivering hand
upon his arm, "the time has come to act. Come help me to secure my
treasure." He rose silently to obey me.

I touched the spring of the mirror; it swung silently open, and revealed
to the astonished old man a square niche built in the wall--unsuspected
before by him--in which fitted an iron chest, the existence of which he
had never dreamed of until now. But the contents were gone--gone since
yesterday! The chest was empty, with its lid propped open. There was not
even a paper within.

With a bitter groan I tottered back against the wall, while the cold dew
stood on my brow, and my limbs trembled under me. This was indeed
despair!

"What ails you, Miss Miriam?" he asked, with an expression of anguish
upon his kind, old, quivering face. "Do you miss any thing--what have
you lost, Miss Miriam?"

"You left your post, Morton," I said, at last, "and this is the
consequence--I have lost every thing! Old man! old friend! did you
think I charged you to watch every one who came, so earnestly, to stay
here so constantly, without a good and sufficient reason? Some one has
been here before us--my gold is gone! we are ruined, Morton!"




CHAPTER VIII.


Whatever my flash of conviction might have been, all suspicions against
Evelyn must have been allayed by the manner in which she received the
information of the loss of the deposits behind the mirror.

Her shrieks filled the house; another physician was hastily summoned in
Dr. Craig's absence, who gave her disease or seizure a Latin name--wrote
a Greek or Hebrew prescription--or something equally unintelligible, and
vanished ghost-like, in the manner most approved of by modern
practitioners.

There was no hard epithet that Evelyn did not apply to Mr. Basil
Bainrothe during her hysterical mania, and before the doctor's arrival;
but, on her recovery, she begged me to repeat nothing of the sort, if
she had been indiscreet enough to let out her true opinion of him and
his measures, in a moment of irrepressible emotion. "For," she pursued,
"it is expedient for us to keep on terms with the man, at least for the
present, and in no way harass or exasperate him--we are completely in
his hands now, Miriam--we must watch our opportunity--"

"I do not see that," I interrupted; "less now than ever, it seems to me.
What more can he do for or against us now? Our property is all
gone--except this house, plate, and furniture, and my mother's
diamonds--all of winch are tangible and visible, and in our own
possession. We have no debts--you pay house-bills monthly, and I,
fortunately, have just settled off every account I have in the world,
and have five hundred Spanish dollars to start anew with--my savings
during papa's lifetime. I hoarded it, fortunately, in this form for a
missionary purpose you remember, Evelyn, but afterward changed my mind."

"Yes, I remember; merely because the person it was intended for prayed
that the Jews might finally be exterminated."

"Was not that enough, Evelyn? The man who could utter such a prayer was
no Christian, and unfit for religious teaching. Since then I have come
to the conclusion that there is a great deal of undue and very
impertinent meddling with the heathen; who are entitled to their own
mode of worship as well as of government, and who I think are not yet
ripe for Christianity."

"You have strange notions, Miriam; you talk like an old French
philosopher."

"I never knew there was such a thing--a French sophist I am afraid you
mean. No, I am not a sophist, Evelyn; any thing else than that! I wish
sometimes I did not see so clearly. I love, I idolize the truth alone!"

She colored--sighed. God knows I was not thinking of her at that moment,
or speaking with that reference, however I may have had reason to do so.

Is it not strange that our dreams often present to us, in our own
despite, the vivid, photographic pictures struck by sleep from the dim,
unconscious negative of our waking judgment, which we refuse to
recognize as verities in the light of our open-eyed, daytime
responsibility? I, who had declared myself no sophist, knew later that I
had deceived my own heart, which spoke out so truthfully in dreams of
sleep, and refused to be silenced in the dead hour of night, however I
might stifle its suggestions by day.

In one of these suggestive, or rather reflected, visions, I saw Evelyn
groping through darkness to the side-gate which gave into the grounds of
Mr. Bainrothe from our own, made years before by my father's permission
for the convenience of his friend; the night was a dark and stormy one,
yet she went forth alone, or seemed to, in my vision, to seek a man she
detested, and with him connive the destruction of the fortunes of the
child of her benefactress, whose confidence she abused.

Then I saw them returning together, through that pantry-door which she
had left unbolted, though locked when she went out by another egress,
and which the man, who returned with her, readily unlocked with the
duplicate key he carried, _not_ by my father's permission. This last I
knew.

Now the scene was changed to the dining-room. Again I saw the mirror
swing back on its invisible and noiseless hinges, and now the glare of a
shaded lamp fell in bands of light across its surface. But I was inside
this time, by the glamour of my dream, and I saw them emptying the open
chest painfully, laboriously, stealthily; stopping now and then to
listen, to breathe, again working silently, industriously, at their
vocation of theft and crime!

At last all seemed accomplished. A large, covered basket was partially
loaded with the contents--heavy as lead--and, between them, they bore it
out into the storm and darkness again, and I heard the sound of the
spade and mattock at work on the graveled road.

Presently Evelyn came in again. Her air was wild and frightened; her
trembling hands were stained with mud, seen by the light of the lantern
she bore, and which she again hung in its accustomed place, stealing
quietly away into the darkened hall, to grope her way up-stairs. All
this while the farce of sending for Dr. Craig was being enacted, and
Morton was out on his fruitless mission in the rain!

Again it was morning, and I saw them together in the library, while I
still slept, consulting, planning, plotting, writing, erasing,
whispering; soon to separate, however, this time. Their arrangements
being completed without restraint, for again the old man was absent,
doing the duties of another, who, knowing not the motive of such request
or bribe, was content to work the will of a conspirator, and pass the
day in idleness at home, for the sake of a purse of gold. Here ended my
clairvoyance, if such it was.

All this may have been imaginary--part of it probably was--but the sense
of the dream was no doubt what my untrammeled judgment would have
suggested as truth, and what later--but let me not digress or anticipate
here, in the thickest of my troubles, the jungle-pass of my story as it
were, but strike on through a self-made path, it may be, to the light
that shines beyond the forest, even if it lead into the desert!

Something in Evelyn's suggestion had struck me as the best to pursue
under the circumstances, although at first I so boldly repudiated the
idea of Mr. Bainrothe's power. Unless I could prove that he had removed
the treasure for unworthy uses--why speak of it at all? I should only
irritate and set him on his guard by such allusions; whereas, by a
course of reticence, I still might learn, as she had suggested, the
truth when he least suspected my purpose.

It would be so easy for him to deny all knowledge of the concealed
chest--so easy to lay the robbery on Morton, even if the first were
proved--or even on Evelyn!

I had sent impulsively for Mr. Bainrothe to come to me on the evening
of my discovery, but his visit was delayed by a necessity that kept him
from home all night, so that I had time to revolve and resolve on my
course of action before I saw him, which was not until the following
afternoon, and by this time my mind had undergone a change. He came, but
not alone--his son accompanied him.

I have reason since then to think that Evelyn and Claude Bainrothe had
met before their cold and measured interview in my presence. It was to
me a painful and embarrassing one, and this time the graceful ease was
all on the other side--I was preoccupied and agitated, Claude courteous
and self-possessed, Evelyn lofty and confident, as though she had lived
or trodden down her emotions, and, to my surprise, Mr. Basil Bainrothe
wore his accustomed deliberate and self-poised demeanor, making no
reference, not even by his expression of face or a glance of his
kaleidoscopic eyes, to the sad catastrophe with which by this time I was
but too well acquainted.

I had been reading newspapers eagerly all day, when he came, and, from a
contradictory mass of evidence, had gleaned some grains of truth. One
fact was beyond contradiction--a second Samson had drawn down the ruins
of a temple, not on the heads of his foes alone, but his friends as
well, blinded, as he of old, by the treachery of that basest of all
Delilahs, a fawning public!

Yes, we were ruined; the only hope now was in the honesty of Mr. Basil
Bainrothe. Should the gold I saw him hiding away not have been
appropriated to the purchase of bank-stocks--should it have been saved
for me--we might still rejoice in wealth beyond our deserts, and equal
to our desires.

We still might keep the old, beloved roof above our heads, preserve one
unbroken circle of family domestics--live without labor, or terror of
the future. But would this be? I waited, as I still think I should have
done, for Mr. Bainrothe to take the initiative in this proceeding.

Impatient and sick-hearted, I saw day after day glide past, without an
effort on his part to explain or ameliorate my condition--one now of
excessive and wearing anxiety.

At last he came. For the first time in his life when a matter of
business was in question, he asked for me. I went to him alone at my own
instance, and somewhat to Evelyn's chagrin, I thought.

I found him in the library, of late our sole receiving-room; the rest
were closed and fireless. For, since the certainty of our misfortune, we
had received no society, and would not long be obliged to _decline_ it,
Evelyn thought. Her opinion of the world little justified the pains she
had taken to conciliate it.

I found Mr. Bainrothe buried in the deep reading-chair, always in his
lifetime occupied by my father, his hand supporting his head, his hat
and delicate ivory-headed cane thrown carelessly on the floor beside
him--his whole attitude one of deep dejection.

He started a little when I addressed him by name, as if reviving from
deep reverie--then arose and extended his hand to me, grasping mine
firmly when I gave it to him, which I did unwillingly I confess.

"Miriam," he said, "this is all very dreadful!" subsiding into his seat
again with a groan, and looking steadily and silently into the fire for
some minutes afterward. "Very dreadful!" he repeated, shaking his head
dismally; "wholly unforeseen!"

He glanced at me furtively once or twice to observe the effect of his
words--his manner. Disappointed probably by my silence and coolness, he
again affected to be absorbed in contemplation.

"Have we any thing left?" I asked quietly, at last--weary as I was of
this histrionic performance of his, and anxious for the truth.

"Nothing," was the gloomy reply that fell on my ear--on my heart like
molten lead; "nothing but what you know of. This house, this furniture,
well preserved it is true, but old and out of style. Your carriage and
horses--diamonds--in short, what you have in hand. That is all you have
left of the great estate of your mother."

"It is enough to keep the wolf from the door, at all events," I remarked
quietly, "and I am thankful for a bare competence; but why, under
existing circumstances, were you in such haste to remove the contents of
the iron chest behind the mirror, a portion of which you added to in
September?"

He rose with dignity and advanced to the corner of the mantel-shelf, on
which he leaned in a perfectly self-possessed position, one foot crossed
lightly over the other, I remember, and one hand at his side--a favorite
attitude of his. He interrupted my interrogatory with another, ever an
effectual aid in browbeating.

"How did you become possessed of the knowledge that I kept gold there?"
he asked, coolly; "I had meant to have preserved the secret of that
spring until your majority, but you women penetrate every thing. No, my
dear Miriam," he continued, without waiting for an answer,
"unfortunately, the gold you refer to was exchanged for worthless
bank-stocks in September last, according to the requisitions of your
father's will; and, as that was the latest paid in of the loans he had
made, and as all other means had been invested in like manner (and with
a promptness characteristic of me, I believe I may say without vanity),
as they fell into my hands. You will perceive, very clearly, that every
thing, beyond the property I have here pointed out to you, is swept
away."

I sat confounded by his consummate mendacity. His manner was entirely
changed now--from one of gloomy depression, and absence of mind, to
jaunty self-complacency, and even a degree of defiance was blended with
his habitual coolness. It was only from his lurid and kaleidoscopic
eyes, on which the light from an opposite window fell sharply, as he was
speaking, that a glimpse of the inner man could be obtained. There was
something confused and excited in their expression that did not escape
me, but I kept my counsel, bewildered as I was.

"She has betrayed me!" was my involuntary reflection; "he was on his
guard for my question or accusation; unconscious of my daily
examination, he has borne away my gold, and it is lost to me forever!"
And I clasped my hands more closely.

All that I have stated in the last two paragraphs, of my observation and
reflections, passed through my mind like a flash--so that there seemed
scarce a momentary interruption between his last remarks and those which
followed--although so much had been recognized in the interval.

"It is unfortunate--" I said, merely eying him calmly.

For the first time during our interview, his eyes
quivered--drooped--fell before mine; but, recovering instantly, he gave
me a clear, cool stare in return for the quiet look of scorn he
encountered. I saw at once the hopeless nature of the case.

"You will show me your accounts, Mr. Bainrothe," I observed, haughtily;
"I require this at least!"

"When you have attained your majority, certainly, Miriam, not before. At
present, I have only Evelyn Erle to satisfy on that score, and the law;
I refer you to your guardian."

"Or whomsoever I choose to substitute as my guardian," I said; "I
believe that privilege vests in me, being over eighteen."

"There are outside provisions in your father's will that debar you,
unfortunately, from that usual privilege of minors of your age," he
rejoined, quietly. "I regret this for many reasons: I should be glad to
quiet any doubts you may entertain at once, but it is impossible that,
compatibly with self-respect, I can do this, after what you have
insinuated this morning; so you must wait, with what patience you can
command, for the coming of your majority."

"Nearly two years to wait!" I cried; "I should die before then, if only
of impatience. No, I will know at once. I will write to Mr. Gerald
Stanbury--I will go to the president of the bank--nay, to Mr. Biddle
himself. I will resolve this matter."

"You will do no such thing, my very dear young friend," said Mr.
Bainrothe, advancing and laying his hand lightly on my arm--I shook it
off, as if it had been a cold, crawling serpent. He retreated quietly
but quickly. "You will do no such thing, Miriam," he repeated, resuming
his post by the mantel-shelf, without evincing the least discomposure at
my behavior to him; "your own good sense, your own good feeling will
come to your assistance when you look this matter fully in the face, and
dispassionately, which I must say you are not doing now. I have not
earned at your hands mistrust and obloquy like this, Miriam; but, for
the sake of the past, I shall strive and bear with the present. Who has
inspired you with such opinions of me?"

Accomplished hypocrite! He tried to assume a much-injured air, to mingle
forbearance with his reproachful words; but my heart was as hard toward
him as a nether millstone, and his words made no impression on my flinty
feelings, not even enough to strike fire therefrom, or sparks.

"No one," I replied, "no one; I judge for myself in all instances. Why
did you secrete gold in the dead hour of the night, which, unless you
bore it away in the same mysterious, or even more subtle manner, ought
still to be in its hiding-place? Why did you preserve, even from Evelyn,
your knowledge of that retreat, and the payment of the loan, which she
asserts you have never communicated to her, from first to last? Why make
mysteries of business transactions which, by the tenor of my father's
will, she had a right to participate in, and be consulted about. Why?"

"I will tell you," he interrupted, gravely, and not without emotion.
"Pause, and I will explain my reasons, painful as it is to me to do
this, and greatly as I compromise myself by so doing, for, should you
choose to be indiscreet, I shall have gained a dangerous enemy. I have
no confidence in Evelyn Erie, in her truth, her sincerity, her honesty,
even. I would not place temptation in her way. There, that is why I
concealed the secrets of the spring-lock and recess in the wall from
her, to secure them for you. As to the depositing of gold in that iron
chest, I did it simply because I knew of no other place so safe and
secret. In my own house none such exists, and, as I never kept gold for
more than a few days after it was received, I thought it scarcely worth
while to place it in the vaults of the bank. As I tell you, it was
removed in September."

Surely no art was ever greater of its kind than that he manifested on
this trying occasion, yet it fell to the earth, like the shedding scales
of a serpent, before my simple discernment. Yet his words, his manner,
did in some strange and unexplained way greatly exonerate Evelyn in my
estimation, at least for a time, of complicity.

How could I consistently believe that two persons, entertaining of each
other such similar and degrading opinions, could trust one another
sufficiently to become confederates? Alas! I did not reflect that it is
of such conflicting elements conspirators and conspiracies themselves
are usually made, and that union of guilt creates eternal enmity.

I could not penetrate such depths of guile! I surrendered myself
readily, I confess, to these fresh convictions. Evelyn was narrow,
selfish, scheming, but, at all events, was not in league with this
vampire. That was much. We might still make common cause against
him--she with her injuries to avenge, I with mine--and preserve intact,
and without his hated interference, that which was left to us at least.

There was comfort in the thought.

While these considerations were photographing themselves on my brain,
with that indescribable rapidity of process whereby the action of the
mind excels even that of light, Mr. Bainrothe was again settling himself
down in my father's deep chair, and now once more addressed me in a sad
and broken voice, perfectly well suited to the occasion.

"Miriam," he said, "I too have been an extensive loser through the
failure of the Bank of Pennsylvania. Like yourself, with the exception
of the house I now reside in, and some few small tenements I hold for
rent, I find every thing swept away from me. Claude, it is true, is
comfortable, and on his slender estate we must both now manage to
support ourselves. You see marriage on his part is now simply out of the
question. He has his father to take care of."

He said this last in so significant a tone, and apologetic a manner,
that its intent was unmistakable, little dreaming how transparent my
conviction of his crime had made his motives.

"As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago," I responded,
and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow. "Yet I hope," I added,
after a moment's hesitation, "that Claude may still marry and be happy."

"You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that. Oh, you
are wrong, there! It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to
weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense! He could not see
you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those
who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons. Had he looked
through my eyes, Miriam--" (he was standing before me now, his arms
extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), "he
would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world." He
seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed
wildly away. A moment later, he returned, silently. I was standing
before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief
an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress,
when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot,
polluting kisses on my face.

"I love--I love you!" he hissed in my ear, "and sooner or later I will
possess you!"

Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my
hands--the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust--he was gone
again. I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like
those of some strange lunatic. I was for a time frantic with rage and
shame. But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton. He crept
feebly from the pantry, and found me sobbing in my father's chair. As he
stood meekly before me, leaning on his staff, and looking in my face, my
only friend, so powerless to aid, the whole desolateness of my position
burst upon me, like an overpowering avalanche, I bowed my head and wept.

"Bear up, bear up, my lamb," he said, in his weak, tremulous voice; "we
have the promise of the Lord to rely on. Has he not said the seed of the
just man should never know want or beg bread? We must believe in the
Gospel, and be strengthened, Miss Miriam."

And he laid his quivering hand lightly on my head. I took it between
both of my own, and kissed it fervently, bathing it with my tears.
"Morton," I said, "dear old Morton, I have had such a terrible blow to
bear--shame!" and again I was choked with sobs.

"Shame! Oh, no, my dear young mistress! my birdie child; ruin is not
shame! This could never come near a Monfort, poor or rich! See! such as
these old hands are, they shall work for you to the bone, and, if I
understand matters aright, we still have the good roof left over our
heads, and some little means for all immediate wants. God will put some
good thought in your mind before long. Consult with Miss Evelyn; she is
wise. You are not the first high-born young ladies who have had to teach
a school."

"Oh, bless you, bless you, Morton, for the thought!"

All idea of telling him (helpless, as he was, to avenge it) of the
degrading treatment I had received was now laid at rest, and the
practical good sense of a suggestion, that, if successfully carried out,
would take us so completely out of the hands of Mr. Bainrothe, and
insure such complete independence, was felt at once.

At a glance I saw the expediency as well as the feasibility of the
scheme.

Our large and secluded establishment was well fitted for a
boarding-school. Our father's spotless name, and our undeserved
misfortunes, were calculated to enlist popular respect and sympathy.

Evelyn's decided manners and liberal accomplishments, my better
principles and more solid attainments (I viewed things with the naked
eye of truth that day, and thus the balance was struck in its rapid
survey), might all be brought to bear on our new vocation.

"This is the very thing for us to do, Morton," I said, after a pause,
wiping my eyes, and smiling up into his dear, old, withered face, "I
will acquaint Evelyn with it before I sleep. Ay, and with other matters
as well," I added, mentally. "God help me now!--upon her verdict every
thing depends."

I met Mabel on the stairway as I ascended to my chamber. She hung about
my neck, in a childish way she had, and kissed me fondly. Perhaps she
had observed my agitated face, in which many emotions contended,
probably (as in my heart), but I only said, "Let me pass now,
darling!--One thing will," I thought, "be secure, under the
contemplated circumstances--your welfare and education, whatever else
betide--beautiful, and good as an angel, you shall be wise as well."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you, sister Miriam," she cried, running up-stairs,
after we had parted, "Evelyn has gone out, and left this note for you;"
and she placed one in my hand, adding:

"Mr. Claude Bainrothe was here, while you were in the library with his
father, and they went away together."

"Where did she receive him, Mabel?--the parlors are closed, you know."

"Yes, but she was all ready when he came. It was an appointment, I think
he said, to take a walk, and he stood at the front-door, until she went
down, only five minutes, sister Miriam. He did not mind it at all. He
sent her up the letter he had brought from the office, and she read it
out loud to Mrs. Austin. I was there--it was very short."

"What letter, Mabel?"

"Oh, about her aunt! This note tells you, I suppose. Evelyn is rich now;
but she had to go to New York to see the lawyer, so Mr. Claude Bainrothe
said, before she could claim the fortune."

More and more bewildered, I made haste to tear open the sealed note
which Mabel had given me. Its contents were scanty, and not fully
satisfactory.

"MY DEAR MIRIAM: The ways of Providence are truly strange and
inscrutable, and its balance ever shifting. This morning I rose in
despair, to-night I shall lie down rejoicing; for a way is again opened
to us that will put it beyond _his_ power to annoy or oppress us
further. God knows we have both suffered enough, already, at his hands!
My maiden aunt, Lady Frances Pomfret, is dead, and makes me her heir. I
will show you the lawyer's letter when I return. The legacy is spoken of
in the letter as small, because English people compute property so
differently from ourselves. The attorney lives in New York, who is
empowered by my aunt's English executor to transact this business, and
it seems I; must go to him, Mohammed-like, as this mountain cannot come
to me.

"Claude Bainrothe is polite enough to offer to escort me to the boat,
which I shall barely reach in time; so, farewell for the present, dear
Miriam. I shall stay with Emma Gilroy, and return in a very few days.
Write to me, however, if I should be detained, to her father's care, and
keep a good heart, until the return of your fortunate

"EVELYN.

"P.S.--You know it is little matter, between sisters, which possesses
the property, so all share it. E."

Claude Bainrothe called that afternoon, and placed in my hand the copy
of the codicil that had been sent to Evelyn, together with the lawyer's
letter to which she had alluded, and which, on consulting with him, she
found it unnecessary to take with her to New York, her identity being
already established, beyond a doubt, with that of the legatee, in the
eyes of the American agent in possession of all the facts of the case
from the London attorney. I examined the codicil closely, and could find
no flaw! It purported to be the last will of the Lady Frances Pomfret,
who revoked all other bequests, in order to bestow her whole property on
her niece, Evelyn Erle.

I confess I had felt some doubts as to the existence at all of such a
person, of whom I had never before heard mention made, until I read her
last bequest, and saw with my own eyes the business-like letter,
confirming the whole transaction of Mr. James Mainwaring, the London
attorney, with its foreign post-mark, and huge office seal. This was
accompanied by one from a legal gentleman of New York, whose name was
familiar to me, as my father's agent, and which confirmed the truth of
the matter in the most effectual way; for, in his letter, Evelyn was
advised to come to New York and receive her legacy.

There was nothing more to be said, certainly; still I had strange
misgivings even then, which I felt to be both unjust and ungenerous, yet
could not wholly banish, and again I examined the codicil.

Claude Bainrothe smiled; it was the first time, let me state _en
passant_, that we had found ourselves alone together since his return.
"You scrutinize that will as if you were a legal flaw-finder, Miss
Monfort, instead of a very confiding young lady of poetical
proclivities."

"It is very short!" I said, sententiously, comparing at the same time
the handwriting with that of Mr. Mainwaring, who had in his letter
declared himself the copyist, the original codicil remaining in his
hands, together with the will it had annulled, and finding them the same
unmistakably.

"Short, but sweet," he remarked curtly, yet smiling again, and extending
his hand for it. "I suppose one of Earl Pomfret's children had trodden
on the tail of the old maid's poodle--she lived with him it seems--and
offended her beyond repair, or something similar had occurred, to make
her change her intentions, which were at first all in his favor, and
revoke her first bequest."

"Mr. Mainwaring does not say so," I remarked, again glancing over his
letter. "He merely observes that it is only important to send a copy of
the codicil, since it revokes all previous bequests. How did you know
her first intentions--have there been other letters?"

"I suppose so," he replied, coloring slightly, "but what a lawyer you
are! I scarcely know how I got the idea, to be frank with you; it may be
incorrect after all, but Evelyn will tell you every thing, of course,
when she comes."

"Let me see the codicil again, Mr. Bainrothe," and I examined it once
more closely, as if by some fascination I could not resist. I remarked
only one peculiarity in the document. One word was written in a cramped
manner, as though space had been wanting--yet much of the sheet of paper
on which it appeared was unoccupied--this was the word "thirty," at the
beginning of the enumeration of moneys, for thirty thousand pounds
(repeated below in figures) was the sum set forth in the codicil as the
bequest of the Lady Frances Pomfret to her niece Evelyn Erle! The five
numerals that represented the same idea as the written words occupied
half of the last portion of the last line, and seemed to my invidious
eyes to make an ostentatious display of the power that may lie in a
cipher, or an array thereof.

I gloated over the record, with something perhaps of that spirit which
may have lurked in my blood, from the time of Jacob, and which, so far,
had not evinced itself, except perhaps on that occasion when my ear
thrilled to the music of falling gold.

As I gazed, I mused on the strange fate that took from one sister to
enrich the other so providentially, as it might have seemed.

The paper had fallen from my nerveless hand before I knew it, and I was
aroused from reverie by Claude's action in stooping for it, and his
voice saying:

"I will fold up this record, Miriam; it seems to render you gloomy."

"Thoughtful, certainly," I said, recovering myself, with that impulse of
self-command that belonged to me by nature; "no more--not envious,
Claude, I assure you, however appearances may be against me."

"Of such a feeling no one could suspect Miriam Monfort," he said,
gallantly; whispering low in the next moment, "one year has made strange
improvement in your beauty, Miriam--you are hardly the same little dark,
quick, yet quiet girl, I parted with when I went to Copenhagen. There is
so much more pose and majesty--more sweetness about you now--and Evelyn
too is changed--oh! sadly--sadly!"

"I have sometimes feared," I said, keeping down, as best I might; the
emotions conflicting in my bosom--"feared that she might be delicate,
and that her energies consumed her; you must control these, Claude!"

"I!--why, what on earth can I have to do with Miss Erle and her
energies? you speak in enigmas, Miriam!"

He was evidently embarrassed by the cool, incredulous look I dropped
upon him. "I had supposed every thing was settled some time ago," I
observed, quietly; "however, I will not bore you with conjectures or
questions, I shall hear every thing, of course, when the proper time
comes; until then, I shall hope to act out Milton's noble line, and
'stand and wait.' And now, if you have a few minutes to spare, do give
me the _resume_ of your experience at Copenhagen. What of the
climate--what of the people--what of the court? Are the women pretty or
plain, as a general thing--and had Hamlet light or dark hair, think you,
from present indications in the royal family? Or is it the same blood?
For you know that I have an enthusiasm about Denmark! It is such a
little, valiant, fiery, dominant state, and their _sagas_ of the
sea-kings set my blood on flame. This always was a weakness of mine, you
remember."

"Yes, I recollect perfectly how you used to run on about Elsinore. Well,
I went there frequently, Miriam, and can tell you all about the dreary,
decayed old town, to your utmost satisfaction. Even your romance would
fail, could you behold it now."

And Claude evinced considerable power, as a word-painter, in the hour
that followed, during the early part of which Mabel appeared at the
door, was silently beckoned in by me, to remain a quiet and delighted
listener, almost to the end of the interview, when Mrs. Austin suddenly
summoned her away; and again Claude Bainrothe and I were left for a few
minutes _tete-a-tete_. When my visitor departed, or rose to do so, we
shook hands frankly; and I thought, on the whole, he seemed grateful for
my mode of treatment, and the interest I had shown in his narrative--so
entire a proof of the disinterested nature of my feelings, could he only
have thought so! It had probably been his intention to test and probe
them in the beginning, and he had succeeded.

He lingered a moment, however, on the threshold, gazing at me earnestly.

"Miriam," he said, reentering and closing the door, "Miriam, I wish I
could be certain of your friendship. I may put it to fiery proof before
long. Can I rely on you to support me then?"

"Claude," I rejoined, gravely, "if I can assist you in any useful or
honorable way, I shall be glad to do so, on general principles alone.
You did not respond fairly to my friendly manifestations in times past,
after--after a certain explanation, and the impulse has died away since
then, I confess. Our future lives can have very little in common, I
imagine."

"Would you not help me to break a loathed chain?" he asked, almost
fiercely. "Bonds are often forced upon a man," he continued, "by the
very reason of his superior strength. It is so hard to resist a pleading
woman! O Miriam! more than any one living, I respect--revere--love--yes,
love you. Pity me! You can assign no secondary reasons now to
professions like these. You are no longer rich--no longer--"

"Miss Kilmansegg, with the golden leg," I interrupted, derisively.
"Truly you surprise me."

"O Miriam! how can you treat me with such heartless levity?" and he
wrung his hands bitterly. "I am pushed to desperation already. I never
knew, until I lost you, what you were to me; how superior to all other
women, how pure, how unworldly, how strong, how rich in all mental and
womanly endowments! Hear me, Miriam," and he attempted to take my hand,
an error of which he was soon made conscious.

"Claude Bainrothe," I said, sternly, "I can tolerate you on one
condition alone--that you respect me. You cease to do this, you, the
betrothed husband of another woman! the moment you sully my ear with
your addresses, your effusions of sentiment. They are no more, I know;
but even these I will not endure from you, nor yet from--" I hesitated;
a hated name had risen to my lips, but I repressed it. He, the son,
surely was not the father's keeper.

"You do me injustice; before Heaven, you do!" he exclaimed, flinging
back his long curling locks impetuously, by a toss of his superb head,
and bending his blazing eyes upon me. "Hear me, Miriam, I hold the clew
to a secret by means of which I can compel wealth to flow back to your
feet, in the old channels, if you will be mine. You would not have
thought this condition hard a year ago. What has occurred to change you?
You loved me then--by Heaven you love me still! Oh, say so, Miriam, and
make me doubly blessed! Am I deceived in the expression of that beaming
eye? You will pardon, bless me;" and he knelt humbly at my feet, and
clasped my hand.

"Rise, Claude," I said, "and forgive me if a momentary feeling of
triumph, that may have lit my eye, was mingled with the feeling of
entire emancipation from all past weakness, which this hour so surely
proves, and so satisfactorily, to my own spirit. You are to me like any
other stranger."

He was standing sullenly before me now, his head dropping on his breast,
his hands loosely clasped before him.

"You are deceived," I pursued, calmly, "if you imagine from any
expression of mine that one ray of love survives the ruin of other days.
I told you the truth when I said all was over between us forever. Did
you suppose me a woman to sit down in the ashes because one man--one
woman of all God's manifold creation--had proved false, or treacherous,
or ungrateful? I should have wronged my youth, my soul, my descent, my
God, had I so yielded. Go and fulfill your contract faithfully this
time; a second rupture might not go so well with you as the first. There
are persons who are singularly tenacious of their possessions, and who
number their bondsmen as a principal portion of their property. Beware
how you anger such! Your father too. He would be conciliated now, by
what would once have incensed him. Evelyn Erie is rich, Miriam Monfort
is poor; why need I add another word? The suggestion is perfect."

Coldly, silently, angrily, he left the room. I heard him stamp
impatiently at the hall-door, at some delay apparently in undoing its
fastenings--his childish habit when provoked--such was his haste to be
gone.

Yet I could scarcely judge, from what had just occurred, taking this,
too, in connection with what had passed long before, when I alone was
the injured and forgiving one, that I had drawn down upon my head his
eternal enmity.

But thus it proved.




CHAPTER IX.


Months passed away--months of dreary, monotonous despondency, through
which ran a vein of anxiety that banished peace. During all this time
matters went on pretty much as they had done before, with one exception,
I held no further intercourse with Mr. Basil Bainrothe. Claude was
absent most of this time on business, for a firm with which he had
lately connected himself, and on the few occasions of his presence at
Monfort Hall treated me with marked formality.

Evelyn had affected to make light of Mr. Bainrothe's outrage toward me,
though far from defending him. "Men of his years do these things
sometimes," she said, "under the mask of playfulness and fatherly
feeling, and, however unpleasant it may be to bear them, one has to pass
them over. You are right, of course, to be reserved with him henceforth,
Miriam. By-the-by, dear child, your prudery is excessive, I fear, and it
makes a young girl, especially if she is not beautiful, so ridiculous!
But, of course, that even is far better than the opposite extreme. Now,
I flatter myself, I know how to steer the _juste milieu_, always so
desirable."

"But, Evelyn," I had rejoined, "his manner was atrocious! I could not--I
would not if I could--give you any idea of its _animality_; yes, that is
the very word! it makes my blood creep to think of it, even!"

And I hid my face in my hands, crimson as it was from the
retrospection.

"Then don't think of it at all. That will be the best way, decidedly,"
she had said, tapping me playfully with her fan, then whispering: "This
lover of yours may be useful to us, you know; let us not goad him to
rebellion. You can be as cool as you please, Miriam, but be civil all
the same."

I surveyed her with flashing eyes. "Such advice," I retorted, "falls but
poorly from your lips, Evelyn Erle, whom my mistaken father dubbed
'propriety personified.' One woman should feel for another's wounded
delicacy, even if a stranger; but, when it comes to sisters, O Evelyn!"

"And such insolence falls very absurdly from you, Miriam Monfort, under
the circumstances. Sisters, indeed!" she sneered. "It was a claim you
repudiated once!" and, with a sweeping bow, she left me, to repeat
"sisters, indeed!" in my bitter solitude.

What were these circumstances to which she so haughtily referred? With
my heavy head resting on my weary hands, I sat and contemplated
them--ay, looked them fully in the face! Outwardly, matters stood just
as they had ever done.

The same circle of servants--of acquaintances--revolved around us. The
house was unchanged, the living identically the same, even to the one
bottle of fine wine per day, carefully withdrawn from the cobwebbed
cellar by Morton, and as carefully decanted for our table.

But this alone, of all the viands set before us, was furnished at my
expense. My own small hoard of silverpieces had, it is true, from the
time of our ruin, more than sufficed for my absolute wants and Mabel's,
confined, as they were, to mere externals of necessary dress; but all
other outlay, even to the payment of Mabel's masters (I taught her
chiefly myself, however), was met by Evelyn.

We, the children of a proud man, were dependent on strangers. Look upon
it as I would, the revolting fact stared me out of countenance. Charity,
the chambermaid, had more right to lift an opposing front to Evelyn than
I had; for she earned the bread she ate, while I--there was no use
concealing the mortifying truth any longer--served the apprenticeship of
pauperdom!

True, the house was legally mine--the furniture I used, the plate I was
served from, the carriage I occasionally drove out in, were all my own
possessions--though, with a slow and moth-like process, I was gradually
consuming these. For, at my majority, it was my determination to pay for
my support in the intervening years, even if I sacrificed every thing in
order to wipe out obligations. Ay, the very corn my horses were eating
(what mockery to keep them at all!) was now furnished by another, and
must eventually be paid for, with interest.

Then, how would it fare with me, beggared indeed? I would take time by
the forelock; I would begin at once.

"Evelyn," I had said, not long after the conversation reverted to, "is
there no way in which my property may be fixed, so as to leave the
principal untouched, and still yield an income sufficient for my
support, and that of Mabel? The bread of dependence is very bitter to
me."

"I ate it long," she said, "and found it passing sweet. You are only
receiving back the payment for an old debt, Miriam. Your father's lavish
generosity can never be repaid, even to his children, by me, who was so
long its happy recipient."

The words seemed unanswerable at the time, inconsistent as they were
with her past reproaches. Again she said--when the same murmur left my
lips upon a later occasion--looking at me sorrowfully as she spoke, and
with something incomprehensible to me in her expression that affected me
strangely: "Wait until you are of age, Miriam: all can be arranged
definitely then; but now, the waves might as well chafe against the
rocks that bind them in their bed, as you against your condition;"
adding with a tragic look and tone, half playful, of course, "Votre
sort, c'est moi. You remember what Louis XIV. said, 'L'Etat, c'est moi;'
now be pacified, I implore you--all will still be well," and she patted
my shoulder kindly, and kissed my forehead.

Her forbearance touched me; but the time came when all this was thrown
aside. It was the old fable again of the bee and the bee-moth. Having
failed in her first efforts, she was now very gradually gluing me
against the hive.

Evelyn, as I have said, had always been at the head of my father's house
and mine, and, by his will, was still to remain so until my marriage, or
majority--one, usually, in the eyes of the law, in most respects. So it
pained me infinitely less than it must have done had a different order
of things ever existed, to see her supreme at Monfort Hall, and to feel
that every thing emanated from her hand.

Of all the servants, old Morton alone seemed to feel the difference.
Mrs. Austin had always openly preferred Evelyn to me, and Mabel to
either--so that matters worked very well between those three. For,
though I do not think Evelyn loved Mabel, nor Mabel Evelyn, yet, with
this link between them of servile affection, they managed very well,
without much feeling on either side.

Mrs. Austin certainly spoiled Mabel, yet she only rendered her
self-indulged, not selfish--for this difference arises out of
temperament and disposition--and no mother could have been more tender
or vigilant of her comfort or welfare, than was this ancient and
attached nurse and servitor. I mention this here, for it reconciled me
later, somewhat, to an inevitable separation, that must have been else
thrice bitter. But the culmination approaches!

I was lying, one evening, on a deep velvet couch in the library, now
rarely used except for business purposes--for, again, fires and lights
sparkled, in their respective seasons, in the several receiving-rooms of
Monfort Hall, maintained by Evelyn's bounty--when, overpowered by the
influence of the hour, and the weariness of my own unprofitable
thoughts, and perhaps the dreary play of Racine's that I was reading, I
dropped asleep.

The sofa was placed in a deep embrasure, surrounded with sweeping
curtains, for the convenience of reading in a reclining posture, by the
light of the window, and quite shut away, by such means, from the
remainder of the room.

To-night, a chilly one in August, very unusual for that season, the
window was down, and the drawn curtains kept off the light of the dim
lamp that swung from the centre of the apartment immediately above the
octagon centre-table.

I was roused to full consciousness by the sound of voices, which I had
heard indistinctly mingling with my dreams for some time before.

Mr. Bainrothe and Evelyn were conversing or discussing some subject,
somewhat angrily.

"You had the lion's share," I heard him say; "you have no reason to
complain. The rest came in afterward, and was all merged in that
sinking ship, and went down with it into the deep waters. It would not
have been as much as you received, had it been saved, which it was not."

"That is not my concern," she rejoined, dryly; "but for my
communication, Miriam would have secured all next morning. She was bent
upon it. You ought never to forget this."

"Nor do I; but, after all, you are the chief beneficiary, Evelyn."

"And your son--do you count his welfare as nothing? Will he not share
with me? Nay, was it not for his sake, chiefly, I warned you, knowing
how implacable else you might be toward us both, and how 'gold would
gild every thing' in your estimation."

"True, true; but still something is due to me. Undertake this
office--succeed--and command me, eternally. I love that girl, as you
know, as Claude could never love any one, and it will go hard with me if
I do not still inspire her with somewhat of the same sentiment--that is,
with your coincidence."

"Never, never!" she exclaimed with asperity; "her hatred is too
implacable--the Judaic principle is too firmly grafted in her life.
Truly, she is one of a stiff-necked generation. Her heart is especially
hard toward you, Basil Bainrothe--and, I confess, you were precipitate."

"I know, I know--but that error can be repaired. I did not think of
marriage _then_, I confess; after her bankruptcy and scorn to me, things
had not gone so far; her own severity has made me consider the subject
seriously. She is not one to be treated lightly, Evelyn!"

"Your son found that out to his cost!" was the bitter rejoinder, and I
heard her draw in her breath hard between her closed teeth, with the
hissing sound so familiar to me, and peculiar to her when she labored
under excitement--a sound like that of a roused serpent.

"Yes, to his cost; but there is no question of that now. Though, I must
say, I think he erred. He, like the base Judean, cast away a pearl
richer than all his tribe!"

"Thank you!" was Evelyn's curt, ungracious reply.

I rose from the couch, my hand was on the curtain; painful as it was to
me, I would go forth and confront them both with the acknowledgment of
their conspiracy, their fraud. I would not again listen to bitter truths
as I had done before, involuntarily, when bound hand and foot by the
weakness of my condition. I was strong and courageous now. I had no
excuse for hearing another syllable--I would defy them, utterly!

All this passed like a flash through my mind.

On what slight pivots our fate turns sometimes! How small are the
guiding-points of destiny! A momentary entanglement of my bracelet, with
one of the tassels of the curtain, delayed me an instant, inevitably, in
my impulsive endeavor to extricate myself from its meshes, and what I
then heard, determined me to remain where I was, at any cost to my own
sense of pride and honor.

Fear, abject fear, obtained complete ascendency over every sense, and
personal safety became my sole consideration. I, who had boasted so
lately of my courage, felt the cold dew of cowardice bathe my brow, its
tremor shake my frame.

They were plotting--deliberately plotting, as the price of secrecy on
one part--to shut me up in a lunatic asylum until my consent could be
obtained to that ill-starred marriage!

"Every thing is favorable to this undertaking," I heard Mr. Bainrothe
say; "her own moody and excitable condition of late--the absence of her
physician (meddlesome people, those conscientious medical men sometimes
prove, even when not asked for an opinion!)--Mrs. Austin's testimony as
to those lethargies, which would be conclusive of itself--our own
disinterestedness, so fully proved by our devotion to her and Mabel,
under difficulties--her mother's mysterious malady--all these things
will make it easy to carry out this plan in which your cheerful
coincidence, and perhaps Claude's even, will be essential."

"I doubt whether you succeed in gaining him over," she remarked, coldly;
"and, as to me, I shall act as you desire, perhaps, but any thing but
'cheerfully,' I assure you. I consider it a mighty price to pay for--"
she hesitated.

"A fortune and a husband?" he queried. "Claude has his suspicions, I
well know, but they rest on me alone so far. Could he be convinced of
your part in distracting Miriam's gold from its legitimate channel,
believe me, he would turn his back on you forever! I know the man."

"Yet he saw me--he must have seen me--alter that word in the codocil to
my aunt's legacy--asking no explanation at the time, receiving none
thereafter."

"That was different; he thought it a piece of vainglory on your part
alone, amounting to nothing, if, indeed, he observed it at all. No, no,
Evelyn Erle! if you expect to carry out your views, you must aid me in
executing mine. I shall keep your secret from my son on no other
conditions. We are confederates or nothing in this matter, you see."

"And suppose, in return, I publish yours to the world," she suggested,
coolly; "brand you with baseness? What then, Basil Bainrothe--what
then?"

"You dare not!" was the prompt reply. "I hold written propositions of
yours on the subject--you have not a scratch of a pen of mine to show. I
should declare simply that you were a frustrated rogue, that is all. Who
could prove otherwise?" He laughed in his derisive way. There was a
bitter pause.

"What is it you want me to do?" she asked, hoarsely, at its expiration.
"State definitely what you exact from me in return for your
forbearance--your _honorable_ secrecy?" There was exquisite irony in her
tone.

"Simply this," he said, calmly, taking no notice of her emphasis--"you
are to accompany Miriam to the asylum and act as her nurse and guardian
until my point is gained. You shall be present at every interview, and
you shall both be made perfectly comfortable--treated like ladies; in
short, every propriety shall be sacredly observed, and, on the day on
which her marriage with me is solemnized, you may both return to Monfort
Hall--you as its head, and Claude as its master; Miriam will go home
with me, her husband, of course, and all will be settled. Now, I give
you twenty-four hours wherein to consider this proposition. At the end
of that time, if you still hesitate, Claude shall know every thing. You
can then take your chances with him--he may be ready to take a felon for
a wife, for aught I know, after all!"

"Come, then, to-morrow evening," she acceded, after a second pause, and
in low, angry accents, "and I will acquaint you with my
determination--my necessity rather." They parted thus and there.




CHAPTER X.


Nearly dead with terror and indignation, I crept stealthily to my own
chamber, in which I locked myself up securely, resisting all friendly
overtures of the enemy, except one cup of tea, received from the hand of
a servant through the half-opened door (which was instantly relocked) of
my citadel.

My resolution was formed that night. I would leave Monfort Hall, and
even forsake Mabel, until I could return and legally claim both. At my
majority, Mabel would be of age to select between her guardians, by that
time, according to law, and--we should see! As for poor Morton, I would
write to him and claim his prayers alone. Age like his is so
irresponsible. I dared not trust him farther!

It was all very brief and bitter!

As yet I had digested no plan of action. I would go westward, I thought,
but just as far away as my money would carry me from these fiends,
trusting to God for the rest, just as a boat puts off from a blazing
ship.

Of course, I must adopt another name--what should it be? I should need
clothing; and _how_ secure and convey away my trunk unseen by Evelyn? My
diamonds must be secreted or disposed of--how should this be done? Could
I trust Mrs. Austin--Mabel?

No, the suggestion was discarded at once as unworthy of consideration.

One was too old, too self-indulged, too selfish; and in age people
usually worship expediency alone. The other far too young not to be
necessarily indiscreet and impulsive. To have been otherwise at her
tender age would have been simply monstrous!

No, I must forego even the sweet satisfaction of saying farewell to
Mabel; we must part perhaps forever, as we might meet again within an
hour, and all her distress and anxiety must pass unshared and unheeded.

There was no one else I cared very much about leaving, but the love of
locality was a strong feature in my disposition, and every room in my
father's house was dear to me, as was every book in his study, and every
plant in our deep-green, shadowed garden.

The very streets were sacred in my sight, that I had trodden from
childhood, but my liberty was more precious to my heart than scenes of
old associations, and to gain one the other must be sacrificed. There
was no hesitating now: I was on the tread-mill of fate, and must
proceed, or fall and be crushed beneath.

And here again I repeat, what I have said so recently: "On what slight
pivots our destiny often turns!--through what small channels Providence
works its wondrous ways!"

A pair of shoes had been sent home for me that day, which still lay on
the table, wrapped and corded. In truth, they came very opportunely; "I
shall want these soon," I thought, as I examined the strong and elastic
bootees, which had been made for me in view of my morning walks, a part
of dear Dr. Pemberton's regimen, which I strenuously and advantageously
carried out.

As I spoke, the paper in which they had been enveloped rustled down on
the floor by my side. I stooped, languidly, to pick it up, merely from a
sense of order, and my eye fell on a long column, headed "Wanted," and,
almost for lack of resolution to withdraw it, wandered down its
paragraphs, step by step.

It was a Democratic paper, such as was never patronized by
Evelyn--herself a zealous conservative in politics, as our father had
been before us--and, as I cared little for newspaper-reading, I had
never suggested a subscription to any sheet that she did not fancy,
although I inclined to democracy.

I was somewhat amused by the quaintness of some of the advertisements of
this sheet for the people, that style of literature being new to me; and
found myself smiling over the perfections set forth as necessary, by the
paragons of the earth, in both wife and servant, when I came to a dead
stand. Here was the very thing I should have selected, could I have
chosen my own destination instead of depending on _chance_ (as if,
indeed, there were such a thing _possible_ with God--the predestinator
of the universe), or necessity (is the name a much better one as applied
to the all-seeing Deity?), or fate (a more comprehensive but little
less-abused term, perhaps), to do this for me!

The advertisement ran thus, and quite fascinated me with its
eccentricity, as well as congeniality to my condition:

"A gentleman and lady, now sojourning for a short time at the Mansion
House, wish to employ, immediately, for the benefit of their children,
an instructress, who must be, _imprimis_, a lady--and young; secondly,
soundly constituted and well educated; thirdly, a good reader, and able
to teach elocution, and entertain a circle; fourthly, willing to reside
with cheerfulness on a Southern plantation; fifthly, content with a
moderate _modicum_ as salary. None other need apply--no references given
or asked. Inquire for _Somnus_."

I laid down the paper, and drew a long, free breath; then rang a peal of
merriment, startling under the circumstances. It was the first hearty
laugh that had left my lips for many days. "What an oddity, one or the
other of these people must be!" I thought, "the man most probably--yes,
I am sure it is he--no woman ever was so independent of references, or
made youth a _sine qua non_, nor elocution either. But am I soundly
constituted? ay, there's the rub! suppose my terrible foe sees fit to
interfere, 'Epilepsy,' as Evelyn called it, and perhaps with reason--God
alone knows!--what then? Well, I will hazard it--that is all--I will
charge nothing for lost days, and try to be zealous in the interval;
besides, it is a long time since one of these obliteration spells
occurred; for I shall ever believe Evelyn dosed me for her own purposes
on that last occasion! Fiend!--fiend!--and yet my little sister _must_
remain in such hands for a season, protected by her guardian angel
only."

I passed a feverish night, employing the first part of it in quilting my
diamonds into a belt which I placed about my waist; and the remainder in
putting together as many useful, as well as a few handsome clothes, as
my travelling-trunk would contain; bonnets, evening-dresses, which
require room to dispose of, and the like vanities, I abandoned to
Evelyn's tender mercies. I rose early and, as usual whenever the weather
permitted, sallied forth before breakfast, but this time unaccompanied
by my usual attendant, Charity.

The "Mansion House" was at no great distance from our own residence.
The beautiful home of the Bingham family, then converted into an hotel,
destroyed by fire at a later period, like our own house, was situated in
the ancient part of the city, from which fashion had gradually emerged,
and shrank away to found new streets and dwellings.

I rang at the private door, and asked the porter for "_Somnus_;" at the
same time sending up a card, on which was written:

"'Miriam Harz,' applicant for the post of teacher."

A few moments later a grave, copper-colored servant, respectably clad,
and with an air of responsibility about him that was almost oppressive,
invited me solemnly to follow him up the winding marble stair--so often
trodden by the feet of Washington and his court, when a gracious
assemblage filled the halls above--and ushered me into a small but lofty
parlor at its head, in which a gentleman sat reading the morning
journal.

Very wide awake, indeed, seemed he who affected the title of the god of
sleep, as he arose courteously from his chair, still holding his paper
in one hand, and waved me to a seat on the worn horse-hair sofa between
the windows.

He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with
a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular
homeliness.

"Miss Harz?" he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the
mantel-shelf--near which he had been sitting--above an unseasonable,
smouldering coal-fire.

I bowed affirmatively for all reply. "And I," he continued, "am Prosper
La Vigne, of the '_Less durneer_' settlement" (for thus he pronounced
this anglicized French name) "Maurice County, Georgia," with an air
that seemed to say, "You have heard of me, of course!" and again I
bowed, as my only alternative.

"Lay off your bonnet, if you please," he said, coolly; "I would like to
see the shape of your head before proceeding further. Mine, you see, is
an ill-balanced affair," smiling quizzically in his effort to be
condescending, perhaps. "This is a mere business transaction, you know,"
seeing that I hesitated to comply, "and your phrenological developments
must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once--but do as
you like. Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the
brow is a good one. That will suffice, I suppose. I will take the moral
qualities on trial for the nonce. My wife is wholly occupied with her
domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home,
and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is
dubious. That reminds me! I have not heard the sound of your voice yet;
I am much governed by intonation in my estimates of people, and usually
form a perfect opinion at first sight. Be good enough to read this
item," and he handed me the morning paper, formally indicating it with
his long, lithe forefinger. It was from one of Mr. Clay's speeches. I
did as he requested, without hesitation.

"People trot out horses and negroes when they wish to purchase; why not
governesses?" I questioned, dumbly. "He did well to ask no references;
his examination is thorough, I perceive," and I laid the paper down,
half amused, half provoked, when I had finished. He was gazing at me
open-mouthed--no unusual thing with him, I found later--and was silent
for a few moments.

"Splendid! admirable!" he exclaimed, suddenly; "both, voice and
elocution perfect--you possess the greatest of all accomplishments,
madam, next to conversational excellence," rising to his feet, and
bowing low and seating himself again, in a formal way of his own. "Music
is a mockery compared to such reading! as well set a jew's-harp against
the winds of heaven! You understand my meaning, of course; it is not
precisely that, however. Now let us converse a little."

"The advertisement did not refer to that, I believe, as a condition," I
said, somewhat indignantly, and flushing hotly as I spoke. "I really
cannot converse to order. I am a person of moods, and do not feel always
like talking at all," and I rose and prepared to draw down my veil, take
up my parasol, and depart.

"I like you none the worse for a proper exhibition of spirit," he said,
nodding kindly, and settling himself once more to his paper composedly.
"Sit still, miss, and compose yourself by the time Madame La Vigne comes
in, or she _may_ think you high-tempered, and I am sure you are nothing
of the kind--only very properly proud. There, now, that is right! You
seem to be a very sensible, well-conditioned young person indeed, and I
think you will suit. You are the tenth since yesterday morning," smiling
and bowing blandly, "and the only one that could read intelligibly.
Elocution, you see, is my hobby. I forgot to say," looking up from his
paper, after a pause, "the salary is six hundred dollars--not enough,
perhaps, for a lady of your merit--but quite as much as we can afford to
give. This I call a _modicum_."

"It is not very important," I remarked, "what I receive in the shape of
money, so that I am at no expense beyond my clothing, and other personal
matters, and that I find myself well situated. My engagement will, in
no case, extend beyond a year. You have your peculiarities, I see, and
I have mine. The question is, might they not jar occasionally?"

"Oh, never, never! '_noblesse oblige_,' you know," with a wave of the
hand, soft and urbane. "I hope I shall know how to treat a lady and a
teacher, both in one, and a member of my household. Besides that, I
shall have very little to do with you, indeed. Just now it is
different--we are coming to terms; we have not made them yet, however. I
always save my wife this trouble, if possible.--Ah! there she comes, at
last," as a mild, lady-like looking woman emerged from an adjoining
chamber, somewhat elaborately dressed for that early hour, and followed
by a stream of pale, pretty little girls. "Madame La Vigne," he said,
rising ceremoniously, "permit me to introduce to you Miss Miriam Harz,"
reading the name slowly from the card again, which he took from the
wall, "'a candidate for the position of instructress at
Beauseincourt.'--Say, how do you like her looks?"

I had come to the conclusion by this time that Mr. La Vigne was
decidedly as eccentric as his advertisement, and that his vagaries and
personalities were not worth minding or estimating in the consideration
in question.

So, when Madame La Vigne replied to his abrupt query, "Oh, very, _very_
much, indeed!" and held out her kind hand to me, I took it without
misgiving, and the first glance we interchanged contained freemasonry.
From that time Colonel Prosper La Vigne fell gracefully back into his
proper position, and I talked away fluently enough with his lady, as he
pompously called his wife. In short, at the end of an hour it was
settled that I was to join them the same evening, at their hotel, and
proceed with them thence to New York, there to take the packet for
Savannah (their first destination) on the same night. The plantation on
which they lived, they informed me, was nearly a day's journey, by
carriage-conveyance, beyond that city, but eligibly situated for health
(though not for productiveness), among a low range of hills known as the
"Les Dernier" Mountains, the name being anglicized into "Less derneer,"
with the accent on the last syllable, so as to metamorphose it
completely to the ear, instead of translating it.

"It is a very lonely place though, Miss Harz, in the winter-time--mamma
ought to tell you that," whispered Marion, the eldest daughter, as she
nestled so closely to me, and looked so kindly in my face, that the
intruding thought of her unwillingness for my society was instantly
banished. "In the summer it is pleasant enough, so many people come to
their cottages in the hills; but, during eight months of the year, we
have but one near neighbor, and not a very social one either."

"From circumstances alone unsocial, Marion," said Madame La Vigne,
flushing slightly (her usual complexion was of a fair sallowness, common
to Southern ladies). "Cousin Celia is certainly devoted at heart to
every one of us, but she cannot, you know, leave home often."

"Oh, I know, mamma! I only meant to keep Miss Harz from being
disappointed."

"Miss Harz has internal resources, I have no doubt," rejoined Madame La
Vigne; "and, even if she had not, I fear her duties would preclude much
longing for excitement.--It is a very onerous task you are undertaking,
my dear young lady, certainly," turning kindly to me. "Five ignorant
little Southern girls, well disposed but imperfectly trained, will fill
your hands to positive overflowing, I fear. You will find me exacting,
too, sometimes. I am sure I shall enjoy your society whenever you
choose to bestow it on me, and Colonel La Vigne as well."

To which declaration on the part of his wife, that gentleman responded
by laying his hand on his breast, complacently, and bowing profoundly
from his chair, ending the ceremony by a flourish of his delicate
cambric handkerchief, and the exhibition at the same time of a slender,
sickly, and peculiarly-shaped hand, decorated with an onyx seal-ring. He
looked the gentleman, however, unmistakably plain and peculiar as his
appearance was, and pompous and pretentious as was his manner.

If words could do the work of the photographer, I should like to show
him to my readers, as he appeared to me on that first interview; though
later his whole aspect underwent a change in my sight, reflected from
the cavernous depths within, so that, what seemed somewhat ludicrous in
the beginning, came to be solemnly serious and even sophistically
tragical and awful on later acquaintance.

We have all more or less witnessed this phenomenon of transformation in
some familiar aspect, either through love or hatred, respect or
contempt, fear or admiration, until we find ourselves marveling at past
impressions, received, in ignorance of the truth, in the commencement of
our observations.

I remember that Mr. La Vigne struck me on that occasion as a superficial
man in every way, but kindly, courteous, and vivacious, though certainly
eccentric and somewhat absurd. One would have supposed him even a
flippant, whimsical person, seen casually; but, on later examination,
the droop of his eyelids and under lip, and the depressed corners of his
mouth, gave to the close observer a surer indication of his character.

The shape of his narrow, conical, and somewhat elegantly-placed head,
denoted an inclination to fanaticism, which had been skillfully combated
by a perfectly skeptical education, so as to turn this stream of
character into strange channels.

Hobbyism was his infirmity, perhaps, and he was essentially a man of one
idea at a time. The word "odd" applied to him peculiarly, which is in
itself a sort of social ostracism when attached to any one, and raises a
barrier at once between a man and his fellow-bipeds that not even
superiority could surmount.

He was emphatically a tawny man as to coloring--hair, skin, and eyes,
being all pretty much of the same hue of "the ribbed sea-sands." Yet
there were vestiges about him of an originally fair complexion. His
wrists and temples were white as those of a woman. His face was long,
lank, and cadaverous; his eyes shone with a clear, amber, and steady
light, and had an abstracted expression usually, accompanied with a not
unfrequent and most peculiar warp of the pupils.

His hair was singularly shaggy and picturesque in its tawny grayness,
and wavy, wiry length. Above his eyes his heavy brows of the same
texture and color seemed to make a pent-house, from which the high, pale
brow receded gradually; his profile was aquiline to absolute
grotesqueness. The idea of "Punchinello" presented itself irresistibly
at the sight of his parrot-like nose and suddenly-upturned chin.

His gait was as peculiar as his countenance and manner; he glided, in
walking, carrying himself erectly, with his arms closely pinioned to his
sides. He was altogether so extraordinary looking that I felt myself
staring almost rudely at him on our first interview; yet his dress was
in no way remarkable except for an air of old-fashioned and speckless
neatness.

Madame La Vigne was a pretty and well-preserved woman, of about
thirty-five, a fair brunette, originally, to whom most of her daughters
bore a close resemblance. One alone, the plainest of the band,
presenting a resemblance, most unfortunately for her, of "Colonel La
Vigne," as his wife called him, with scrupulous punctilio.

One son, the eldest of their family, they spoke of as the pride of their
hearts even on that first interview. He was in the navy, and,
consequently, much from home. They regretted this for many reasons, they
said, and, among others, on my account. He was so genial, so
companionable--their own dear Walter--"such a delightful fellow," as his
sister Madge declared exultingly--the second of this band of
sisters--and, as far as I could observe, on first acquaintance, the
brightest. Marion, the elder, was extremely pretty and gentle; and
Bertie, the third, taciturn and unprepossessing, yet evidently sensible.
She it was who alone resembled her father.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fortunately, for the uninterrupted success of my scheme, Evelyn had one
of her sick turns that day, and remained closely shut up in her room. At
one o'clock, I summoned Franklin to my chamber.

"There is a trunk," I said, "that I wish you would take to the Mansion
House--to the care of a Mr. Somnus lodging there--here is the card
attached, with his name; place it with his baggage. It is to go to New
York, for a Miss Harz, a relation of mine--a teacher, I believe, who has
applied to me for assistance; but he understands all that, so you need
not be at, any trouble to explain. Be quiet, Franklin, in removing it,
as Evelyn is very nervous to-day, and dislikes noise; and go with the
drayman yourself to insure its safe delivery."

So passed my first lesson in deception, but I schooled lip and eye to
obedience, so that Franklin suspected nothing, and, being a discreet
servant, who never let his right hand know what his left was doing,
especially when gold crossed the palm, I was sure of silence on the
subject, at least until after my own departure.

Mabel and I dined _tete-a-tete_ at two; I had caused dinner to be served
earlier than usual for my own convenience, though indeed I found it a
mere form--for how could I swallow a morsel, choked as I was with grief,
while the fair child I worshipped, yet was forsaking, sat so calmly and
unconsciously in my sight!

After dinner I sought Mrs. Austin, leading Mabel by the hand. I had been
kissing her, almost wildly, every foot of the way up-stairs, and she
gazed on me, I could not help perceiving, with a sort of fond surprise,
for it was not my habit to lavish such passionate caresses, even on her,
without occasion.

"I am obliged to go out now," I said, in a broken voice, which I vainly
tried to command. "Take our darling, Mrs. Austin, and keep her very
safely until I come again. Promise me this!" I added, eagerly seizing
her hand.

"La! Miss Miriam, what's the use of promising for one afternoon, when I
have taken the best of care of her all her life? You act so singularly
to-day!" she added, pettishly, and she began to smooth Mabel's hair,
grumblingly. I turned away without another word, murmuring blessings in
my heart on that dear head.

There was no time to be lost now! The carriage was already at the door
of the Mansion House to convey us to the steamboat when I reached it,
and Colonel La Vigne standing, rather anxiously, on the pavement,
looking up and down.

"I was afraid you had rued your promise and were not coming," said
Marion, springing forth from the door-way eagerly, to greet me.

"And we had forgotten to ask your address," added Madame La Vigne, "or
we might have called for you, and saved you a long walk, perhaps."

"We should not have carried off your trunk, even had you not appeared,
Miss Harz," said Colonel La Vigne, blandly. "There it is you see,
distinctly labeled, on the baggage-wagon in front, directed to the care
of 'Mr. Somnus!'--a good deal of waggery about you, I perceive, or had
you forgotten my name?"

"No, no! I had reasons--but, you remember, no questions were to be
asked; you must wait for voluntary communications."

"I am so glad--so glad you are going with us!" said little Louey La
Vigne, pressing my hand, as she sat before me in the carriage by Aunt
Felicite, her nurse--Colonel La Vigne and three of his daughters having
been consigned to another hack--Louey and her sable attendant, stately
with her large gold ear-hoops, and brilliant cotton handkerchief, being
inseparable accompaniments of his wife.

"I have banished Mr. La Vigne, I fear," I said, in a broken voice; "it
would have been best for me, perhaps, to have gone with the young
ladies. Let me begin at once."

"No, it is much best as it is," she answered, affectionately; "think of
yourself just now, and take no charge until we all get home. You are
our guest until then, remember. I know it is a sad trial to go with
strangers, but you will find us friends, I hope;" and she clasped my
hand in hers, and so held it until we reached the wharf.

Tears rained down my face, beneath the friendly shelter of my veil, but
Madame La Vigne, with the tact of good-breeding, affected not to remark
them. Once little Louey, a child of eight years old, the youngest and
prettiest of all, leaned forward, as if to soothe or question me, but
she was plucked quickly back into her place by the decorous Aunt
Felicite, who had not lived so long with quality without acquiring some
delicacy of behavior, at least, even if it struck no deeper root.

I had commanded myself, before the carriage stopped beside the panting
steamboat, and soon we were gliding along the placid river toward the
point whence the railroad was to carry us on to our goal. At New York,
we found ourselves hurried for time to reach the packet Magnolia, and
went directly from the depot to the quay, for embarkation.

By the pilot, who left us at the Narrows, I sent back a few lines to
Mabel, also enjoining him, with the gift of a piece of gold, to mail my
letters on the following day, and receiving his promise to do so.

In this brief communication, I promised my dear child that we should
meet at my majority, and enjoined her to patience. "You will hear from
me again before long," I said, in conclusion; "and I will try and
arrange some plan of correspondence. Bad people have obliged me to this
step. Do not forget me, my darling, nor my lessons and counsel, and
believe ever in the honor and devotion of your sister. _Pray for me,
Mabel_! MIRIAM."

My letter to Evelyn Erie, without date, written on the ship, and sent
back by the pilot to be mailed also at New York, revealed my
acquaintance with a portion of her duplicity, and Mr. Bainrothe's dark
design.

I promised her my forgiveness on two conditions alone: one was, that she
should not seek to trace me, since all effort to regain me would be
fruitless; another, that she would be kind to Mabel, and my father's
ancient servants until my return, and, of these last, especially Morton.

I uttered no threats nor reproaches--asked no favors, beyond those which
I had a right to demand at her hands as my father's ward--long supported
by him, and even cherished with paternal tenderness--and the guardian of
his child. I knew that the use of my house and furniture would amply
compensate her for all Mabel's expenses, among the principal of which
would be that liberal education which I demanded for her, as her right.

I was very nearly twenty, now; Mabel, ten. There was still time to
redeem the past, and carry out all my frustrated intentions, after the
expiration of one year of abeyance and exile. Yes! I would "stand and
wait," trusting so "to serve."




_LIFE AT "LESDERNIER."_

    "Break the dance and scatter the song,
        Some depart, and some remain;
    _These_ beyond heaven are borne along,
        Others the bonds of earth retain."

SHELLEY.




PART II.

_LIFE AT "LESDERNIER."_

AN INTERLUDE.


I purpose here to give only a brief sketch of my sojourn under the roof
of the La Vignes. In another book, and at another time, when some that
now live shall have passed away, or years shall have made dim the memory
of results rather than events (for until _then_ the last must continue,
with their causes, to be _mysteries_), I may unfold the tissues of a
dire tragedy enacted, by some strange providence, under my peculiar view
alone, and thus inexplicable to others.

Of this no more, not even a hint, at present; lest, dropping the
substance for the shadow, the reader should cease to find interest where
I most wish to concentrate it for a season. The heroine so far of my own
story, I cannot yet voluntarily relinquish the privilege of sympathy, so
dear to the narrator of adventure, though I did, indeed, for a time
forget my own identity in the dark shadow, the mysterious crimes, the
unprecedented and speedy retributions that followed quickly on the heels
of guilt at Beauseincourt.

The picturesque old place, with its quaint French name and architecture
and antique furniture, did truly at first enchant my fancy (which
learned to shudder at its aspect later), as did, in the beginning, the
contiguous estates of "Bellevue" with its exquisite grounds, fountains,
and white-stuccoed mansion closely simulating the finest Italian marble.
Later, in accordance with the law of associations, this, too, became as
sorrowful in my sight as was the Hall of Vathek to those who mingled in
its mournful yet magnificent pageantry.

The denizens of this lonely abode were a most interesting couple. Still
young comparatively, virtually childless, and bearing the name (also a
Huguenot appellation) of "_Favraud_" the husband was bright,
intelligent, frivolous--the wife, an invalid of rare loveliness and
sweetness of character, who seldom emerged from her solitude. Both were
perfectly well bred.

These were relatives of Colonel La Vigne, whose son Walter was the
residuary legatee of Bellevue, with but one imbecile life, after that of
Madame Favraud, between him and enormous wealth. Great intimacy existed
between the families, although from circumstances--nameless here--the
ladies seldom met, and never at Bellevue.

Major Favraud was a constant visitor at Beauseincourt, when on his
estates. He was, however, of a roving disposition, and, though tenderly
attached to his wife, was often absent, negligent, and careless of her
feelings. He was a renowned duelist, and deemed a challenge the
essential element and result of every unsettled discussion. A typical
Southerner of his day, I felt keen interest in the scrutiny of his
character, until events developed those venomous tendencies which came
very near destroying my peace of mind forever, with the life of the
noble man whom, after a brief acquaintance, I had learned to love
against my own desires.

The occasion of this belligerent demonstration was afforded at the
Christmas festival, held yearly at Beauseincourt, by Colonel and Mrs. La
Vigne--in the great, many-windowed drawing-room with its waxed
parquet--its ebony-framed mirrors, its pier consoles, and faded damask
furniture.

There were assembled around the bright pine-fire, on the occasion of
this universal anniversary, neighbors, and guests from a distance,
invited specially for a certain number of days, among whom the
unexpected advent of a troop of engineers, of Northern extraction, made
a desirable variety.

One of these gentlemen only, the chief-engineer, who came to make new
roads for Lesdernier,[1] by order of government, had already been a
visitor of some weeks, and a strong attachment, vital from the first,
had sprung up between us; so far, unacknowledged by either.

During the dessert which succeeded the sumptuous Christmas-dinner, where
old and young took part, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell," the
health of John C. Calhoun, then heading the nullification party, was
formally proposed by Colonel La Vigne, as "first of men, and greatest of
statesmen."

This toast Captain Wentworth (the chief of the corps of engineers)
tacitly refused to drink, and was seconded in this resolve by all of his
party. There was, however, no active demonstration of unwillingness.

The representatives of government contented themselves with pressing
their hands above their glasses, and so refusing to fill them with the
wine that flowed freely to the welcome pledge, standing rigidly and
silently while it was drunk with enthusiasm by the remaining guests--all
Southern and sectional.

This defalcation to the common cause was apparently unnoticed at the
time, but was made the subject of remark, and subsequently of a
challenge by the Mars of the family, as Gregory denominated Major
Favraud--a challenge which circumstances compelled Captain Wentworth
reluctantly to accept.

No fire-eater, yet truly brave, he weighed the matter well, and decided
on his course; the one most expedient, if not absolutely necessary for a
stranger whose character for courage had still to be proved. In the
interval of the pending duel, of which all the inmates of Beauseincourt
were unconscious, save its master, who considered it as a mere matter of
course, Gregory (to whom I have alluded, the evil genius of the house
henceforth) arrived to reenforce the engineering corps.

Subtle, accomplished, versatile, graceful even in his singular
homeliness, and peculiar insolent style of address, he yet made himself
so acceptable to the family as to dare to seek the hand of the second
daughter of Colonel La Vigne, and, though at first tolerated by her
parents only, at last came to be well received.

At the very time that he was enlisting the innocent heart of Madge, he
was making to me, the governess, whenever he could find the slightest
opportunity, avowals of a desperate and audacious passion, which waxed
the stronger for the absolute loathing vouchsafed in return. In this
place it may be as well to reveal the end of this ill-fated and
unsuitable courtship, which never had my sanction, nor even toleration.
When the cloud gathered over Beauseincourt, so soon to burst in fury and
destruction, when ruin was imminent, Gregory withdrew on frivolous
pretexts, and turned his back on Lesdernier, and her who had so loved
him, forever!

While pretending to be the devoted friend and even abject servant of
Captain Wentworth, he was seeking, in every way, and on every hand,
secretly to undermine him. This effort produced in my mind only mistrust
and disdain; but with others it was, unfortunately, more successful.

Soon after my arrival at Lesdernier, I found, in one of the papers that
I had ordered to be sent there from my native city to the address of
"Miss Harz," an atrocious advertisement, describing me personally as an
escaped lunatic, and offering a reward for my apprehension. Fortunately,
these papers were not objects of interest to the family in which I found
myself, where periodicals of all sorts were rife, as well as books,
ancient and modern, and newspapers were thick as leaves in Vallambrosa.

In the silence of my chamber I read and destroyed, or concealed this
evidence of enmity, malice, and all uncharitableness. I would trust no
one with my identity--none save God--until the hour should come of my
majority and emancipation; then, armed with Judaic vengeance, I would
return to claim my sister, my fortune, and my rights.

Soon afterward I read in the same sheet, sent weekly to Lesdernier, the
notice of the marriage of Claude Bainrothe and Evelyn Erle. This was the
test of truth! I bore it bravely. Not a heart-beat gave tribute to the
love of other days. The fire was dead, and ashes alone remained on the
deserted hearth-stone. Lower down in the columns of the same paper,
however, was something that smote my soul. The Parthian dart was there,
and it quivered in its target! I saw that the wedding-party had sailed
for Europe on the same day of the nuptials, to be absent a year, and had
taken with them my dear one!

So far away! Seas rolling between us! Foreign lands, foreign laws
intervening, which might, for all I knew, deprive me of her presence
forever, who was my hope, my life!

"O little sister," I groaned, "was I right, after all, in forsaking you
for a season? Should I not have dared every thing, rather than have so
openly yielded my authority?"

       *       *       *       *       *

In the mean while, the sanguinary preparations went silently on. In the
gray of a foggy February morning the duel was fought, and Captain
Wentworth fell, as it was at first thought, mortally wounded.

At the request of his excellent physician, Dr. Durand, when the watchers
were exhausted, and vigilance was all-essential in his case, I accepted,
rather than proposed to take, the post of watcher for one night, in
company with his devoted friend and coadjutor Edward Vernon, and
discovered, in my anguish, and in my power over his distracted senses,
my so-far-hidden gift of magnetism.

Insomnolency was destroying him; opiates had been tried in vain to
compose him, and now, under my waving fingers and strained will, he
slept the sweet, refreshing magnetic slumber. He lived, some were
pleased to say, and among others, his physician, through my agency--my
admirable nursing--for none save Vernon ever knew the secret of my sway.
We became engaged during his convalescence, simply, quietly,
unostentatiously.

In due time we made our troth-plight known to the household of
Beauseincourt, all of whom, from its formal master to my best-beloved,
brightest, and ever-tantalizing pupil, Bertie, accorded me their
heart-felt congratulations. Gregory alone--the evil genius of the
place--cast his poisonous sneers and doubts above our happiness--a
structure too firmly based, too far removed from him, however, for his
arrows to reach or destroy. Circumstances seemed later to favor his
malicious designs, as shall be shown in the conclusion of this work;
but, together, and in the full flush of our happiness, we were
invincible.

A sudden summons from the seat of government compelled Captain Wentworth
to leave Lesdernier a few hours after its reception--hours of which he
passed, through the necessity of speedy preparation, but one with me. So
far I had delayed the revelation of my true history and name, preferring
to postpone this to my majority and our marriage-day; but, after his
departure, I rued my resolution, and concluded to write to him a hasty
summary of my life and motives of action. This letter was, as a matter
of necessity, confided to the care of Luke Gregory (never a chosen
depositary of mine in any way), who followed him to Savannah to receive
some parting instructions for the conduct of their work, and who was to
return to Lesdernier after the interval of a week.

In the ardor of my impulse, I could not slight an opportunity of so soon
receiving a reply to my somewhat startling and, I felt now,
too-long-delayed communication, and thus testing my lover's trust and
confidence in me. When Gregory returned to Beauseincourt, he assured me
he had delivered my letter punctually (I never doubted this, for he knew
the man he had to deal with), adding, carelessly, that it was well
Wentworth had said he would write soon, as he had been unfortunate
enough to lose the hastily-pencilled reply, with his own pocket-book, at
the Lenoir Landing, where both were food for fishes.

My disappointment was extreme, and many weeks of constrained silence
passed before I received the promised letter from Captain Wentworth--so
gloomy, so incomprehensible, so portentous, that it filled me with
despair. In this letter he spoke of obstacles between us--in which blood
bore part--of the wreck of all earthly happiness for him--perchance for
me. Yet he conjured me to be calm and patient, as he could not be, and
alluded to my silence as conclusive of his misery. He referred
frequently to the letter he had intrusted to the care of Gregory as
explanatory of all that might otherwise seem inexplicable--that letter
at rest beneath the dark waters of the Bayou Noir--if--if, indeed! But
no! not even of Gregory could I harbor on slight grounds such
suspicions. "Let the devil himself have the full benefit of--doubt!"
says Rabelais. I wrote to Wentworth that I would come and make all
plain, as he desired, in June.

Suffering severely myself, I saw clouds gathering and rising around a
happy household that for a time drew me from the depths of my own
affliction in the vain effort to solace their woes.

Father and son and infant in one house, wife and imbecile daughter in
another, at last fell at one dread swoop. To dishonor was added the
crime of suicide, and poverty and breaking hearts were there, for the
heritage of Beauseincourt was, by reason of debt and mismanagement, to
pass, after the death of its master, into strange hands--the cruel hands
of creditors!

Walter La Vigne was dead, and the succession of Bellevue passed over the
daughters of the house, to vest in a distant kinsman. He came, toward
the last of my stay, to take his own; and, unexpectedly, George Gaston,
the playmate of my childhood, the lover of my first youth, stood before
me in the residuary legatee of Armand La Vigne!

His advent was a revelation of my secret, through the necessity of
surprise; and as, when the banquet is announced and the ball draws near
its close, the maskers, so far unknown to each other, lay by their
disguises, glad to be so relieved, draw breath and clasp hands once more
in the freedom of social reality, so I, who had played too long a weary
part, felt a new life infused into my veins when my mask was suddenly
laid aside, and the necessity of disguise was over.

The time was so near at hand now, I felt, when I could claim my own from
Bainrothe, and cast off all shackles of guardianship and minority, that
I no longer feared the consequences of this revelation. In September we
should meet on new ground. I, no more a minor, would be beyond the reach
of his subtle mastery; and, until then--the time assigned for the
expiration of his year of trust--he would remain in Europe, with the
wide sea between us, and little probability of information through the
medium of public rumor.

I would be secret, cautious, abide in the shadow, until the hour arrived
to emerge therefrom, and, with the aid of God and Wardour Wentworth,
defeat his schemes and vindicate the truth!

Alas for human foresight! Alas for Fate!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Pronounced popularly "_Less der-neer_."]




_SEA AND SHORE_

    "No fears hath she! Her giant form
        Majestically calm would go
    O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
        'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow!
    So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
        The main she will traverse forever and aye!
    Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast--
        Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!"

WILSON, "_Isle of Palms_."

       *       *       *       *       *

        "Then hold her
    Strictly confined in sombre banishment,
    And doubt not but she will ere long, full gladly,
    Her freedom purchase at the price you name."

       *       *       *       *       *

        "No, subtle snake!
    It is the baseness of thy selfish mind,
    Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit,
    That severs us so far, and shall do _ever_."

       *       *       *       *       *

        "Despair shall give me strength--where is the door?
        Mine eyes are dark! I cannot find it now.
        O God! protect me in this awful pass!"

    JOANNA BAILLIE, _Tragedy of "Orra."_




PART III.

_SEA AND SHORE_.

CHAPTER I.


It was a calm and hazy morning of Southern summer that on which I turned
my face seaward from the "keep" of Beauseincourt, never, I knew, to see
its time-stained walls again, save through the mirage of memory. There
is an awe almost as solemn to me in a consciousness like this as that
which attends the death-bed parting, and my straining eye takes in its
last look of a familiar scene as it might do the ever-to-be-averted face
of friendship.

The refrain of Poe's even then celebrated poem was ringing through my
brain on that sultry August day, I remember, like a tolling bell, as I
looked my last on the gloomy abode of the La Vignes; but I only said
aloud, in answer to the sympathizing glances of one who sat before
me--the gentle and quiet Marion--who had suddenly determined to
accompany me to Savannah, nerved with unwonted impulse:

"Madame de Stael was right when she said that 'nevermore' was the
saddest and most expressive word in the English tongue" (so harsh to her
ears, usually). "I think she called it the sweetest, too, in sound; but
to me it is simply the most sorrowful, a knell of doom, and it fills my
soul to-day to overflowing, for 'never, never more' shall I look on
Beauseincourt!"

"You cannot tell, Miss Harz, what _time_ may do; you may still return to
visit us in our retirement, you and Captain Wentworth," urged Marion,
gently, leaning forward, as she spoke, to take my hand in hers.

"'Time the tomb-builder'" fell from my lips ere they were aware. "That
is a grand thought--one that I saw lately in a Western poem, the
New-Year's address of a young editor of Kentucky called Prentice. Is it
not splendid, Marion?"

"Very awful, rather," she responded, with a faint shudder. "Time the
'comforter,' let us say, instead, Miss Miriam--Time the
'veil-spreader.'"

"Why, Marion, you are quite poetic to-day, quite Greek! That is a sweet
and tender saying of yours, and I shall garner it. I stand reproved, my
child. All honor to Time, the _merciful_, whether he builds palaces or
tombs! but none the less do I reverence my young poet for that
stupendous utterance of his soul. I shall watch the flight of that
eaglet of the West with interest from this hour! May he aspire!"

"Not if he is a Jackson Democrat?" broke in the usually gentle Alice
Durand, fired with a ready defiance of all heterodox policy, common, if
not peculiar, to that region.

"Oh, but he is not; he is a good Whig instead--a Clay man, as we call
such."

"Not a Calhoun man, though, I suppose, so I would not give a snap of my
fingers for him or his poetry! It is very natural, for you, Miss Harz,"
in a somewhat deprecating tone, "to praise your partisans. I would not
have you neutral if I could, it is so contemptible."

A little of the good doctor's spirit there, under all that exterior of
meekness and modesty, I saw at a glance, and liked her none the less for
it, if truth were told. And now we were nearing the gate, with its
gray-stone pillars, on one of which, that from which the marble ball had
rolled, to hide in the grass beneath, perchance, until the end of all, I
had seen the joyous figure of Walter La Vigne so lightly poised on the
occasion of my last exodus from Beauseincourt. A moment's pause, and the
difficult, disused bolts that had once exasperated the patience of
Colonel La Vigne were drawn asunder, and the clanking gates clashed
behind us as we emerged from the shadowed domain into the glare and dust
of the high-road.

Here Major Favraud, accompanied by Duganne, awaited us, seated in state
in his lofty, stylish swung gig (with his tiny tiger behind), drawn
tandem-wise by his high-stepping and peerless blooded bays, Castor and
Pollux. Brothers, like the twins of Leda, they had been bred in the
blue-grass region of Kentucky and the vicinity of Ashland, and were
worthy of their ancient pedigree, their perfect training and classic
names, the last bestowed when he first became their owner, by Major
Favraud, who, with a touch of the whip or a turn of the hand, controlled
them to subjection, fiery coursers although they were!

Dr. Durand, too, with his spacious and flame-lined gig, accompanied by
his son, a lad of sixteen, awaited our arrival, and served to swell the
cavalcade that wound slowly down the dusty road, with its sandy surface
and red-clay substratum. A few young gentlemen on horseback completed
our _cortege_.

Major Favraud sat holding his ribbons gracefully in one gauntleted
hand, while he uncovered his head with the other, bowing suavely in his
knightly fashion, as he said:

"Come drive with me, Miss Harz, for a while, and let the young folks
take it together."

"Oh, no, Major Favraud; you must excuse me, indeed! I feel a little
languid this morning, and I should be poor company. Besides, I cannot
surrender my position as one of the young folks yet."

"Nay, I have something to say to you--something very earnest. You shall
be at no trouble to entertain me; but you must not refuse a poor, sad
fellow a word of counsel and cheer. I shall think hard of you if you
decline to let me drive you a little way. Besides, the freshness of the
morning is all lost on you there. Now, set Marion a good example, and
she will, in turn, enliven me later."

So adjured, I consented to drive to the Fifteen-mile House with Major
Favraud, and Duganne glided into the coach in my stead, to take my place
and play _vis-a-vis_ to Sylphy, who, as usual, was selected as
traveling-companion on this occasion, "to take kear of de young ladies."

"I am so glad I have you all to myself once more, Miss Harz! I feel now
that we are fast friends again. And I wanted to tell you, while I could
speak of her, how much my poor wife liked you. (The time will come when
I must not, _dare_ not, you know.) But for circumstances, she would have
urged you to become our guest, or even in-dweller; but you know how it
all was! I need not feign any longer, nor apologize either."

"It must have been that she saw how lovely and _spirituelle_ I found
_her_," I said, "and could not bear to be outdone in consideration, nor
to owe a debt of social gratitude. She knew so little of me. But these
affinities are electric sometimes, I must believe."

"Yes, there is more of that sort of thing on earth, perhaps, 'than is
dreamed of in our philosophy'--antagonism and attraction are always
going on among us unconsciously."

"I am inclined to believe so from my own experience," I replied,
vaguely, thinking, Heaven knows, of any thing at the moment rather than
of him who sat beside me.

"Your mind is on Wentworth, I perceive," he said, softly; after a short
pause, "now give up your dream for a little while and listen to this
sober reality--sober to-day, at least," he added, with a light laugh.
"By-the-way, talking of magnetism, do you know, Miss Harz, I think you
are the most universally magnetic woman I ever saw? All the men fall in
love with you, and the women don't hate you for it, either."

"How perfectly the last assertion disproves the first!" I replied; "but
I retract, I will not, even for the sake of a syllogism, abuse my own
sex; women are never envious except when men make them so, by casting
down among them the golden apple of admiration."

"I know one man, at least, who never foments discord in this way!
Wentworth, from the beginning, had eyes and ears for no one but
yourself, yet I never dreamed the drama would be enacted so speedily; I
own I was as much in the dark as anybody."

I could not reply to this _badinage_, as in happier moments I might have
done, but said, digressively:

"By-the-by, while I think of it, I must put down on my tablet the order
of Mr. Vernon. He wants 'Longfellow's Poems,' if for sale in Savannah.
He has been permeating his brain with the 'Psalms of Life,' that have
come out singly in the _Knickerbocker Magazine,_ until he craves every
thing that pure and noble mind has thrown forth in the shape of a song."

And I scribbled in my memorandum-book, for a moment, while Major Favraud
mused.

"Longfellow!" he said, at last, "Phoebus, what a name!" adding
affectedly, "yet it seems to me, on reflection, I _have_ heard it
before. He is a Yankee, of course! Now, do you earnestly believe a
native of New England, by descent a legitimate witch-burner, you know,
_can_ be any thing better than a poll-parrot in the poetical line?"

"Have we not proof to the contrary, Major Favraud?"

"What proof? Metre and rhyme, I grant you--long and short--but show me
the afflatus! They make verse with a penknife, like their wooden
nutmegs. They are perfect Chinese for ingenuity and imitation, and the
resemblance to the real Simon-pure is very perfect--externally. But when
it comes to grating the nut for negus, we miss the aroma!"

"Do you pretend that Bryant is not a poet in the grain, and that the
wondrous boy, Willis, was not also 'to the manner born?' Read
'Thanatopsis,' or are you acquainted with it already? I hardly think you
can be. Read those scriptural poems."

"A very smooth school-exercise the first, no more. There is not a
heart-beat in the whole grind. As to Willis--he failed egregiously, when
he attempted to 'gild refined gold and paint the lily,' as he did in his
so-called 'Sacred Poems.' He can spin a yarn pretty well, and coin a new
word for a make-shift, amusingly, but save me from the foil-glitter of
his poetry." [2]

"This is surprising! You upset all precedent. I really wish you had not
said these things. I now begin to see the truth of what my copy-book
told me long ago, that 'evil association corrupts good manners,' or I
will vary it and substitute 'opinions.' I must eschew your society, in a
literary way, I must indeed, Major Favraud."

"Now comes along this strolling Longfellow minstrel," he continued,
ignoring or not hearing my remark, "with _his_ dreary hurdy-gurdy to cap
the climax. Heavens! what a nasal twang the whole thing has to me. Not
an original or cheerful note! 'Old Hundred' is joyful in comparison!"

"You shall not say that," I interrupted; "you shall not dare to say that
in my presence. It is sheer slander, that you have caught up from some
malignant British review, and, like all other serpents, you are venomous
in proportion to your blindness! I am vexed with you, that you will not
see with the clear, discerning eyes God gave you originally."

"But I do see with them, and very discerningly, notwithstanding your
comparison. Now there is that 'Skeleton in Armor,' his last effusion, I
believe, that you are all making such a work over--fine-sounding thing
enough, I grant you, ingenious rhyme, and all that. But I know where the
framework came from! Old Drayton furnished that in his 'Battle of
Agincourt.'" Then in a clear, sonorous voice, he gave some specimens of
each, so as to point the resemblance, real or imaginary.

"You are content with mere externs in finding your similitudes, Major
Favraud! In power of thought, beauty of expression, what comparison is
there? Drayton's verse is poor and vapid, even mean, beside
Longfellow's."

"I grant you that. I have never for one moment disputed the ability of
those Yankees. Their manufacturing talents are above all praise, but
when it comes to the 'God-fire,' as an old German teacher of mine used
to say, our simple Southern poets leave them all behind--'Beat them all
hollow,' would be their own expression. You see, Miss Harz, that
Cavalier blood of ours, that inspired the old English bards, _will_
tell, in spite of circumstances."

"But genius is of no rank--no blood--no clime! What court poet of his
day, Major Favraud, compared with Robert Burns for feeling, fire, and
pathos? Who ever sung such siren strains as Moore, a simple Irishman of
low degree? No Cavalier blood there, I fancy! What power, what beauty in
the poems of Walter Scott! Byron was a poet in spite of his condition,
not because of it. Hear Barry Cornwall--how he stirs the blood! What
trumpet like to Campbell! What mortal voice like to Shelley's? the
hybrid angel! What full orchestra surpassed Coleridge for harmony and
brilliancy of effect? Who paints panoramas like Southey? Who charms like
Wordsworth? Yet these were men of medium condition, all--I hate the
conceits of Cowley, Waller, Sir John Suckling, Carew, and the like. All
of your Cavalier type, I believe, a set of hollow pretenders mostly."

"All this is overwhelming, I grant," bowing deferentially. "But I return
to my first idea, that Puritan blood was not exactly fit to engender
genius; and that in the rich, careless Southern nature there lurks a
vein of undeveloped song that shall yet exonerate America from the
charge of poverty of genius, brought by the haughty Briton! Yes, we will
sing yet a mightier strain than has ever been poured since the time of
Shakespeare! and in that good time coming weave a grander heroic poem
than any since the days of Homer! Then men's souls shall have been
tried in the furnace of affliction, and Greek meets not Greek, but
Yankee. For we Southerners _only bide our time_!"

And he cut his spirited lead-horse, until it leaped forward suddenly, as
though to vent his excitement, and, setting his small white teeth
sternly, with an eye like a burning coal, looked forward into space, his
whole face contracting.

"The Southern lyre has been but lightly swept so far, Miss Harz," he
continued, a moment later, "and only by the fingers of love; we need
Bellona to give tone to our orchestra."

I could not forbear reciting somewhat derisively the old couplet--

    "'Sound the trumpet, beat the drum,
    Tremble France, we come, we come!'

"Is that the style Major Favraud?" I asked. "I remember the time when I
thought these two lines the most soul-stirring in the language--they
seem very bombastic now, in my maturity."

He smiled, and said: "The time is not come for our war-poem, and, as for
love, let me give you one strain of Pinckney's to begin with;" and,
without waiting for permission, he recited the beautiful "Pledge," with
which all readers are now familiar, little known then, however, beyond
the limits of the South, and entirely new to me, beginning with--

    "I fill this cup to one made up
        Of loveliness alone,
    A woman of her gentle sex
        The seeming paragon"--

continuing to the end with eloquence and spirit.

"Now, that is poetry, Miss Harz! the real afflatus is there; the bead on
the wine; the dew on the rose; the bloom on the grape! Nothing wanting
that constitutes the indefinable divine thing called genius! You
understand my idea, of course; explanations are superfluous."

I assented mutely, scarce knowing why I did so.

"Now, hear another." And the woods rang with his clear, sonorous accents
as he declaimed, a little too scanningly, perhaps--too much like an
enthusiastic boy:

    "Love lurks upon my lady's lip,
        His bow is figured there;
    Within her eyes his arrows sleep;
        His fetters are--her hair!"

"I call that nothing but a bundle of conceits, Major Favraud, mostly of
the days of Charles II., of Rochester himself--" interrupting him as I
in turn was interrupted.

"But hear further," and he proceeded to the end of that marvelous
ebullition of foam and fervor, such as celebrated the birth of Aphrodite
herself perchance in the old Greek time; and which, despite my perverse
intentions, stirred me as if I had quaffed a draught of pink champagne.
Is it not, indeed, all _couleur de rose?_ Hear this bit of melody, my
reader, sitting in supreme judgment, and perhaps contempt, on your
throne apart:

    "'Upon her cheek the crimson ray
        By changes comes and goes,
    As rosy-hued Aurora's play
        Along the polar snows;
    Gay as the insect-bird that sips
        From scented flowers the dew--
    Pure as the snowy swan that dips
        Its wings in waters blue;
    Sweet thoughts are mirrored on her face,
        Like clouds on the calm sea,
    And every motion is a grace,
        Each word a melody!'"

"Yes, that is true poetry, I acknowledge, Major Favraud," I exclaimed,
not at all humbled by conviction, though a little annoyed at the pointed
manner in which he gave (looking in my face as he did so) these
concluding lines:

    "Say from what fair and sunny shore,
        Fair wanderer, dost thou rove,
    Lest what I only should adore
        I heedless think to love?"

"The character of Pinckney's genius," I rejoined, "is, I think,
essentially like that of Praed, the last literary phase with me--for I
am geological in my poetry, and take it in strata. But I am more
generous to your Southern bard than you are to our glorious Longfellow!
I don't call that imitation, but coincidence, the oneness of genius! I
do not even insinuate plagiarism." My manner, cool and careless,
steadied his own.

"You are right: our 'Shortfellow' _was_ incapable of any thing of the
sort. Peace be to his ashes! With all his nerve and _vim_, he died of
melancholy, I believe. As good an end as any, however, and certainly
highly respectable. But you know what Wordsworth says in his
'School-master'--

    "'If there is one that may bemoan
        His kindred laid in earth,
    The household hearts that were his own,
        It is the man of mirth.'"

He sighed as he concluded his quotation--sighed, and slackened the pace
of his flying steeds. "But give me something of Praed's in return," he
said, rallying suddenly; "is there not a pretty little thing called 'How
shall I woo her?'" glancing archly and somewhat impertinently at me, I
thought--or, perhaps, what would simply have amused me in another man
and mood shocked me in him, the recent widower--widowed, too, under such
peculiar and awful circumstances! I did not reflect sufficiently,
perhaps, on his ignorance of many of these last.

How I deplored his levity, which nothing could overcome or restrain; and
yet beneath which I even then believed lay depths of anguish! How I
wished that influence of mine could prevail to induce him to divide his
dual nature, "To throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer
with the better half!" But I could only show disapprobation by the
gravity of my silence.

"So you will not give me 'How shall I woo her?' Miss Harz?" a little
embarrassed, I perceived, by my manner. "I have a fancy for the title,
nevertheless, not having heard any more, and should be glad to hear the
whole poem. But you are prudish to-day, I fancy."

"No, there is nothing in that poem, certainly, that angels might not
hear approvingly; but it would sadden you, Major Favraud."

"I will take the chance of that," laughing. "Come, the poem, if you care
to please your driver, and reward his care. See how skillfully I avoided
that fallen branch--suppose I were to be spiteful, and upset you against
this stump?"

Any thing was preferable to his levity; and, as I had warned him of the
possible effect of the poem he solicited, I could not be accused of want
of consideration in reciting it. Besides, he deserved the lesson, the
stern lesson that it taught.

As this could in no way be understood by such of my readers as are
unacquainted with this little gem, I venture to give it here--exquisite,
passionate utterance that it is, though little known to fame, at least
at this, writing:

    "'How shall I woo her? I will stand
        Beside her when she sings,
    And watch her fine and fairy hand
        Flit o'er the quivering strings!
    But shall I tell her I have heard,
        Though sweet her song may be,
    A voice where every whispered word
        _Was more than song to me_?

    "'How shall I woo her? I will gaze,
        In sad and silent trance,
    On those blue eyes whose liquid rays
        Look love in every glance.
    But shall I tell her eyes more bright,
        Though bright her own may beam,
    Will fling a deeper spell to-night
        _Upon me in my dream_?'"

I hesitated. "Let me stop here, Major Favraud, I counsel you," I
interpolated, earnestly; but he only rejoined:

"No, no! proceed, I entreat you! it is very beautiful--very touching,
too!" Speaking calmly, and slacking rein, so that the grating of the
wheels among the stems of the scarlet _lychnis_, that grew in immense
patches on our road, might not disturb his sense of hearing, which,
by-the-way, was exquisitely nice and fastidious.

"As you please, then;" and I continued the recitation.

    "'How shall I woo her? I will try
        The charms of olden time,
    And swear by earth, and sea, and sky,
        And rave in prose and rhyme--
    And I will tell her, when I bent
        My knee in other years,
    I was not half so _eloquent_;
        I could not speak--_for tears_!'"

I watched him narrowly; the spell was working now; the poet's hand was
sweeping, with a gust of power, that harp of a thousand strings, the
wondrous human heart! And I again pursued, in suppressed tones of
heart-felt emotion, the pathetic strain that he had evoked with an idea
of its frivolity alone:

    "'How shall I woo her? I will bow
        Before the holy shrine,
    And pray the prayer, and vow the vow,
        And press her lips to mine--And
    I will tell her, when she starts
        From passion's thrilling kiss,
    That _memory_ to many hearts
        Is dearer far than bliss!'"

It was reserved for the concluding verse to unnerve him completely; a
verse which I rendered with all the pathos of which I was capable, with
a view to its final effect, I confess:

    "'Away! away! the chords are mute,
        The bond is rent in twain;
    You _cannot_ wake the silent lute,
        Or clasp its links again.
    Love's toil, I know, is little cost;
        Love's perjury is light sin;
    But souls that lose what I have lost,
        What have they left to win?'"

"What, indeed?" he exclaimed, impetuously--tears now streaming over his
olive cheeks. He flung the reins to me with a quick, convulsive motion,
and covered his face with his hands. Groans burst from his murmuring
lips, and the great deeps of sorrow gave up their secrets. I was sorry
to have so stirred him to the depths by any act or words of mine, and
yet I enjoyed the certainty of his anguish.

I checked the horses beneath a magnolia-tree, and sat quietly waiting
for the flood of emotion to subside as for him to take the initiative. I
had no word to say, no consolation to offer. Nay, after consideration,
rather did I glory in his grief, which redeemed his nature in my
estimation, though grieved in turn to have afflicted him. For, in spite
of all his faults, and my earlier prejudices, I loved this impulsive
Southron man, as Scott has it, "right brotherly."

At last, looking up grave, tearless, and pale, and resuming his reins
without apology for having surrendered them, he said, abruptly:

"All is so vain! Such mockery now to me! She was the sole reality of
this universe to my heart! I grapple with shadows unceasingly. There is
not on the face of this globe a more desolate wretch. You understand
this! You feel for me, you do not deride me! You know how perfect, how
spiritual she was! You loved her well--I saw it in your eyes, your
manner--and for that, if nothing else, you have my heart-felt gratitude.
So few appreciated her unearthly purity. Yet, was it not strange she
should have loved a man so gross, so steeped in sensuous, thoughtless
enjoyment--so remote from God as I am--have ever been? But the song
speaks for me"--waving his gauntleted hand--"better than I can speak:

    "'Away! away! the chords are mute,
        the bond is rent in twain.'"

"I shall never marry again--never! Miss Miriam, I know now, and shall
know evermore, in all its fullness, and weariness, and bitterness, the
meaning of that terrible word--alone! Eternal solitude. The Robinson
Crusoe of society. A sort of social Daniel Boone. 'Thus you must ever
consider me. And yet, just think of it. Miss Harz!"

"Oh, but you will not always feel so; there may come a time of
reaction." I hesitated. It was not my purpose to encourage change.

"No, never! never!" he interrupted, passionately; "don't even suggest
it--don't! and check me sternly if ever I forget my grief again in
frivolity of any sort in your presence. You are a noble, sweet woman,
with breadth enough of character to make allowances for the shortcomings
of a poor, miserable man like me--trying to cheat himself back into
gayety and the interests of life. I have sisters, but they are not like
you. I wish to Heaven they were! There is not a woman in the world on
whom I have any claims--on whose shoulder I can lean my head and take a
hearty cry. And what are men at such a season? Mocking fiends, usually,
the best of them! I shall go abroad, Miss Harz. I am no anchorite. You
will hear of me as a gay man of the world, perhaps; but, as to being
happy, that can never be again! The bubble of life has burst, and my
existence falls flat to the earth. Victor Favraud, that airy nothing, is
scarcely a 'local habitation and a name' now!"

"Let him make a name, then," I urged. "With military talents like yours,
Major Favraud, the road to distinction will soon be open to you. Our
approaching difficulties with France--"

"Oh, that will all be patched up, or has been, by this time. Van Buren
is a crafty but peace-loving fox! Something of an epicurean, too, in his
high estate. What grim old Jackson left half healed, he will complete
the cure of. Ah, Miss Harz, I had hoped to flesh my sword in a nobler
cause!"

I knew what he meant. That dream of nullification was still uppermost
in his soul--dispersed, as it was, in the eyes of all reasonable men. I
shook my head. "Thank God! all that is over," I said, gravely,
fervently; "and my prayer to Him is that he may vouchsafe to preserve us
for evermore an unbroken people!"

"May He help Israel when the time comes," he murmured low, "for come it
will, Miss Harz, as surely as there is a sun in the heavens! 'and may I
be there to see!' as John Gilpin said, or some one of him--which was
it?"

And, whipping up his lagging steeds as we gained the open road, we
emerged swiftly from the shadows of the forest--between nodding
cornfields, already helmed and plumed for the harvest, and plantations
green with thrifty cotton-plants, with their half-formed bolls,
promising such bounteous yield, and meadows covered with the tufted
Bermuda grass, with its golden-green verdure, we sped our way toward
Lenoir's Landing.

This peninsula was formed by the junction of two rivers, between which
intervened a narrow point of land, with a background of steep hills,
covered with a growth of black-jack and yellow-pine to the summit. Here
was a ferry with its Charon-like boat, of the primitive sort--flat
barge, poled over by negroes, and capable of containing at one time many
bales of cotton, a stagecoach or wagon with four horses, besides
passengers _ad libitum._

This ferry constituted the chief source of revenue of Madame Grambeau,
an old French lady, remarkable in many ways. She kept the stage-house
hard by, with its neat picketed inclosure, its overhanging live-oak
trees and small trim parterre, gay at this season with various annual
flowers, scarce worth the cultivation, one would think, in that land of
gorgeous perennial bloom. But Queen Margarets, ragged robins, variegated
balsams, and tawny marigolds, have their associations, doubtless, to
make them dear and valuable to the foreign heart, to which they seem
essential, wherever a plot of ground be in possession.

Mignonette, I have observed, is a special passion with the French exile,
recalling, doubtless, the narrow boxes, fitted to the stone window-sill
of certain former lofty lodgings across the sea, perhaps, situated in
the heart of some great city, and overlooking roofs and court-yards--the
street being quite out of the question in such a view, distant, as it
seems, from them, as the sky itself, though in an opposite direction.

I have used the word "exile" advisedly with regard to Madame Grambeau,
and not figuratively at all. She was, I had been told, a _bourgeoise_,
of good class, who had taken part in the early revolution, but who, when
the _canaille_ triumphed and drenched the land in blood, in the second
phase of that fearful outburst of volcanic feeling, had fled before the
whirlwind with her child and husband to embark for America. At the point
of embarcation--like Evangeline--the husband and wife had been separated
accidentally, and on her arrival in a strange land she found herself
alone and penniless with her son, scarce six years old. Her husband had
been carried to a Southern port, she learned by the merest chance, and,
disguising herself in man's attire, and leading her little son by the
hand, she set forth in quest of him, carrying with her a violin, which,
together with the clothes she wore, had been found in the trunk of
Monsieur Grambeau, brought on the vessel in which she came, but which
depository she had been obliged to abandon, when setting forth on her
pilgrimage.

She was no unskillful performer on this instrument, and solely by such
aid she gained her food and lodging to the interior of Georgia. Reaching
her destination after a long and painful journey and delays of many
kinds, she found her husband living in a log-hut, on the border of
Talupa River, a hut which he had built himself, and earning his bread by
ferrying travellers across that stream.

Yet here, with the characteristic contentment of her people under all
circumstances, she settled down quietly to aid him and make his home
happy; bore him many children (most of whom were dead at the time I saw
her, as those living were separated from her at that period), reared and
educated them herself, toiled for and with them, late and early,
strained every nerve in the arduous cause of duty, and found herself, in
extreme old age, widowed and alone, having amassed but little of the
world's lucre, yet cheerful and energetic even if dependent still on her
own exertions.

All this and much more I had heard before I saw Madame Grambeau or her
abode--a picturesque affair in itself, however humble--consisting
originally of a log-house, to which more recently white frame wings had
been attached, projecting a few feet in front of the primitive building,
and connected thereto by a shed-roofed gallery, which embraced the whole
front of the log-cottage, along which ran puncheon-steps the entire
length of the grand original tree-trunk, as of the porch itself. It was
a triumph of rural art.

Over this portico, so low in front as barely to admit the passage of a
tall man beneath its eaves, without stooping, a wild multiflora rose,
then in full flower, was artistically trained so as to present a series
of arches to the eye as the wayfarer approached the dwelling; no
tapestry was ever half so lovely.

The path which led from the little white gate, with its swinging chain
and ball, was covered with river-pebbles and shells, and bordered by
box, trimly clipped and kept low, and the two broad steps, that led to
the porch, bore evidence of recent scouring, though rough and unpainted.

Framed in one of those pointed natural cathedral-windows of vivid green,
gemmed with red roses, of which the division-posts of the porch formed
the white outlines, stood the most remarkable-looking aged woman I have
ever seen. At a first glance, indeed, the question of sex would have
arisen, and been found difficult to decide. Her attire seemed that of a
friar, even to the small scalloped cape that scantily covered her
shoulders, and the coarse black serge, of which her strait gown was
composed, leaving exposed her neatly though coarsely clad feet, with
their snow-white home-knit stockings, and low-quartered, well-polished
calf-skin shoes, confined with steel buckles, and elevated on heels,
then worn by men alone.

She wore a white habit shirt, the collar, bosom, and wristbands of which
were visible; but no cap covered her silver hair, which was cropped in
the neck, and divided at one side in true manly fashion. It was brushed
well back from her expansive, fair, and unwrinkled forehead, beneath
which large blue eyes looked out with that strange solemnity we see
alone in the orbs of young, thoughtful children, or the very old.

Scott's description of the "Monk of Melrose Abbey" occurred to me, as I
gazed on this calm and striking figure:

    "And strangely on the knight looked he,
    And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide."

She stood watching our approach, leaning with both hands on her ebony,
silver-headed cane, above which she stooped slightly, her aged and
somewhat severe, but serene face fully turned toward us, in the clear
light of morning, with a grave majesty of aspect.

Above her head in its wicker cage swung the gray and crimson parrot, of
which Sylphy had spoken, and to which, it may be remembered, she had so
irreverently likened her master on one occasion; bursting forth, as it
saw us coming, into a shrill, stereotyped phrase of welcome--"_Bien
venu, compatriote_," that was irresistibly ludicrous and irrelevant.

"Tremble, France! we come--we come," said Major Favraud; "there's your
quotation well applied this time, Miss Harz! It is impressive, after
all."

"Hush! she will hear you," I remonstrated, quite awed in that still,
majestic presence, for now we stood before our aged hostess, who, with a
cold but stately politeness after Major Favraud's salutation and
introduction, waved us in and across her threshold. As for Major
Favraud, he had turned to leave us on the door-sill, to see to the
comfort and safety of his horses; not liking, perhaps, the appearance of
the superannuated ostler, who lounged near the stable of the inn, if
such might be called this rustic retreat without sign, lodging, or
bar-rooms.

"Are we in the mansion of a decayed queen, or the log-hut of a wayside
innkeeper?" I questioned low of Marion.

"Both in one, it seems to me," was the reply. "But Madame Grambeau is no
curiosity, no novelty to me, I have stopped here so frequently. I ought
to have told you, before we came, not to be surprised."

Pausing at the door of a large, square room, from which voices
proceeded, she invited us with a singularly graceful though formal
courtesy to enter, smiling and pointing forward silently as she did so,
and then, like Major Favraud, she turned and abandoned us at the
door-sill, on which we stood riveted for a moment by the sound of a
vibrant and eager voice speaking some never-to-be-forgotten words.

"For the slave is the coral-insect of the South," said the voice within;
"insignificant in himself, he rears a giant structure--which will yet
cause the wreck of the ship of state, should its keel grate too closely
on that adamantine wall. '_L'etat c'est moi_,' said Louis XIV., and that
'slavery is the South' is as true an utterance. Our staple--our
patriarchal institution--our prosperity--are one and indissoluble, and
the sooner the issue comes the better for the nation!"

Standing with his hand on the back of a chair near the casement-window
of the large, low apartment, in close conversation with two other
gentlemen, was the speaker of these remarkable words, which embraced the
whole genius and policy of the South as it then existed, and which were
delivered in those clear and perfectly modulated tones that bespeak the
practised orator and the man of dominant energies.

I felt instinctively that I stood in the presence of one of the anointed
princes of the earth--felt it, and was thrilled.

"Do you know that gentleman, Marion?" I whispered, as we seated
ourselves on the old-fashioned settle, or rather sofa, in one corner of
the room, gazing admiringly, as I spoke, on the tall, slight figure,
with its air of power and poise, that stood at some distance, with
averted face.

"No, I have no idea who it is, or who are his companions either," she
replied; "unless"--hesitating with scrutiny in her eyes--

"His companions, I do not care to question of them!--but that man
himself--the speaker--has a sovereign presence! Can it be possible--"

The entrance of Major Favraud interrupted further conjecture, for at the
sound of those emphatic boots the stranger turned, and for one moment
the splendor of his large dark eyes, in their iron framing, met my own,
then passed recognizingly on to rest on the face of Major Favraud, and
advancing with extended hands, made more cordial by his voice and smile,
he greeted him familiarly as "Victor."

Major Favraud stood for a moment spell-bound--then suddenly rushing
forward, flung his hat to the floor, caught the hand of the stranger
between his own and pressed it to his heart. (To his lips, I think, he
would fain have lifted it, falling on one knee, perchance, at the same
time, in a knightly fashion of hero-worship that modern reticence
forbids.) But he contented himself with exclaiming:

"Mr. Calhoun! best of friends, welcome back to Georgia!" And tears
started to his eyes and choked his utterance. Thus was my conjecture
confirmed. I never felt so thrilled, so elated, by any presence.

There was a momentary pause after this fervent greeting, emotional on
one part only.

"But why did you not meet me at Milledgeville?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "Most
of my friends in this vicinity sustained me there. I have been
discussing the great question[3] again, Favraud, and I should have been
glad of your countenance."

"I have been detained at home of late by a cruel necessity," was the
faltering reply, "or I should never have played recreant to my old
master."

"Good fortune spoiled me a fine lawyer in your case, Victor! But
introduce me to your wife. Remember, I have never had the pleasure of
meeting Madame Favraud," advancing, as he spoke, toward me, with his
hand on Major Favraud's shoulder (above whom he towered by a head),
courteously and impulsively.

"Miss Harz, Miss La Vigne, Miss Durand--Mr. Calhoun," said Major
Favraud, pale as death now, and trembling as he spoke. "These ladies are
friends of mine--one, a distant relative"--he hesitated--"within the
last six weeks I have had the misfortune to lose my wife, Mr. Calhoun.
You understand matters better now."

All conversation was cut short by this sudden announcement. Deeply
shocked, Mr. Calhoun led Major Favraud aside, with a brief apology to me
for his misapprehension, and they stood together, talking low, at the
extreme end of the apartment, affording me thus an admirable opportunity
for observing the _personnel_ of the great Southern leader, during the
brief space of time accorded by the change of stage-horses. For, with
his friends, he was then _en route_ for another appointment. He was
canvassing the State, with a view to a final rally of its resources,
preparatory to his last great effort--to scotch the serpent of the
North, which finally, however, wound its insidious folds around the
heart of brotherly affection, stifling it, as the snakes of fable were
sent to do the baby Hercules.

No picture of Mr. Calhoun has ever done him justice[4], although his
was a physiognomy that an artist could scarcely fail to make an extern
likeness of, from its remarkable characteristics. It was truly an
iron-bound face, condensed, powerful in every nerve, muscle, and
lineament, and fraught, beyond almost all others, with intellect and
resolution. But the glory and power of that glance and smile no painter
could convey--those attributes of man which more fully than aught else
betray the immortal soul!

Just as I beheld him that day, bending above Major Favraud in his
tender, half-paternal dignity and solicitude combined, soothing and
condoling with him (I could not doubt, from the expression of his
speaking countenance), I see him still in mental vision; nor can I
wonder more at the depth and strength of enthusiasm he awakened in the
hearts of his friends.

It belongs not to every great man to excite this devotion, yet, where it
blends with greatness, it is irresistible. Mohammed, Cyrus, Alexander,
Darius, Pericles, Napoleon, were thus magnetically gifted. I recall few
instances of others so distinguished in station who possessed this
power, which has its root, perhaps, after all, in the great
master-passion of mortality, the yearning for exalted sympathy, so
seldom accorded.

This observation of mine was but a glimpse at best, for the winding of
the stage-horn was the signal for Mr. Calhoun's departure, and I never
saw him more. But that glimpse alone opened to my eyes a mighty volume!

A few days before I should have rejected as wearisome the details to
which I listened with eagerness now, and which I even sought to elicit
as to Mr. Calhoun--his mode of life, his mountain-home, and his passion
for those heights he inhabited, and which, no doubt, contributed to
train his character to energy and strengthen his _physique_ to endure
its brain-burden. I heard with pleasure the account of one who had
passed much of his youth beneath his roof, and who, however
enthusiastic, was, in the very framing of his nature, strictly truthful
with regard to the mutual devotion of the master and slaves, the
invariable courtesy and sweetness of his deportment to his own family,
his justice and regard for the feelings of his lowest dependant, his
simplicity, his cheerfulness.

"A grave and even gloomy man in public life, he is all life and interest
in the social circle," said Major Favraud. "His range of thought is the
grandest and most unlimited, his powers of conversation are the rarest I
have ever met with. Yet he never refused, on any occasion, to answer
with minuteness the inquiries of the smallest child or most
insignificant dependant. 'Had he not been Alexander, he must have been
Parmenio.' Had fortune not struck out for him the path of a statesman,
he would have made the most impressive and perfect of teachers. As it
was, without the slightest approach to pedagogism, he involuntarily
instructed all who came near him, without effort or weariness on either
side."

"Does he love music--poetry?" I asked.

"Oh, yes; Scottish songs and classic verse, especially, are his
delights. He has no affectation. His tastes are all his own--his
opinions all genuine. He is, indeed, a man of very varied attainment, as
well as great grasp of intellect. Yet, as you see, he likes his
opposites sometimes. Miss Harz," and he laid his hand proudly on his
own manly breast.

Talking thus in that large, low, scantily-furnished parlor, with its
split-bottomed chairs, in primitive frames (and in somewhat strange
contrast to its well-polished mahogany tables, dark with time, and walls
adorned with good engravings), with its floor freshly scoured and
sanded, while a simple deal stand in the centre bore a vase filled with
the rarest and most exquisite wild-flowers I had ever seen (from the
gorgeous amaryllis and hibiscus of these regions, down to wax-like
blossoms of fragile delicacy and beauty, whose very names I knew not),
and its many small diamond-paned casement-windows, all neatly curtained
with coarse white muslin bordered with blue, time passed unconsciously
until the noonday meal was announced.

We followed the Mercury of the establishment, a grave-looking little
yellow boy, who seemed to have grown prematurely old, from his constant
companionship, probably, with his preceptor and mistress, into a long,
low apartment in the rear of the dwelling, where a table was spread for
our party, with a damask cloth and napkins, decorated china and
cut-glass, that proved Madame Grambeau's personal superintendence; and
which elicited from Major Favraud, as he entered, a long, low whistle of
approval and surprise, and the exclamation "Heh! madame! you are
overwhelming us to-day with your magnificence."

I was amused with the response. "Sit down, Victor Favraud, and eat your
dinner Christian-like, without remarks! You have never got over the
spoiling you received when you lay wounded under this roof. I shall
indulge you no longer." Shaking her long forefinger at him. "Your
familiarity needs to be checked." Her manner of grave and kindly irony
removed all impression of rebuke from this speech, which Major Favraud
received very coolly, spoiled child that he really was, rubbing his
hands as he took the foot of the table. At the sight of the _bouilli_
before him, from which a savory steam ascended to his epicurean
nostrils, he said, notwithstanding: "Soup and _bouilli_ too! Ah, madame,
I see why you absented yourself so cruelly this morning. You have been
engaged in good works!"

"Only the sauces, Favraud!--_seulement les sauces_" "The sauces--it's
just that!--Tide is a mere charlatan in comparison," turning to me.
"Miss Harz, you never tasted any thing before like madame's soup and
sauces. I wish she would take me in partnership for a while, if only to
teach me the recipes that will otherwise die with her. What a restaurant
we two could keep together!"

"You are too unsteady, Favraud, for my _maitre d'hotel._ Your mind is
too much engrossed by the bubbles of politics, you would spoil all my
materials, and realize the old proverb that 'the devil sends cooks.' But
go to work like a good fellow, and carve the dish before you; by that
time the soup will be removed. I have a fine fish, however, in reserve
(let me announce this at once), for my end of the table."

"Here are croquets too, as I live," said Duganne, lifting a cover before
him and peeping in, then returning it quietly to its place. "Are you a
fairy, madame?"

"Much more like a witch," she said, with gayety. "You young men, at
least, think every old, toothless gray-haired crone like me ready for
the stake, you know."

"Not when they make such steaks," said Dr. Durand, attacking the dish,
with its savory surroundings, before him.

"Ah! you make calembourgs, my good doctor.--What do you call them,
Favraud? It is one of the few English words I do not know--or forget. I
believe, to make them, however, is a medical peculiarity."

"Puns, madame, puns, not pills. Don't forget it now. It is time you were
beginning to master our language. You know you are almost grown up!" and
Favraud looked at her saucily.

"A language which madame speaks more perfectly than any foreigner I have
ever known," I remarked. She bowed in answer, well pleased.

In truth, the accent of Madame Grambeau was barely detectable, and her
phraseology was that of a well-translated book--correct, but not
idiomatic, and bearing about it the idiosyncrasy of the language from
which it was derived. She was evidently a person of culture and native
power of intellect combined, and her finely-moulded face, as well as
every gesture and tone, indicated superiority and character.

In that lonely wild, and beneath that lowly roof, there abode a spirit
able and worthy to lead the _coteries_ of the great, and to preside over
the councils of statesmen, and (to rise in climax) the drawing-room of
the _grande monde._ But it was her whim rather than her necessity to
tarry where she could alone be strictly independent, a _sine qua non_ of
her being.

The son she had led by the hand from New York to Georgia, and who,
standing by her side, distinctly remembered to have seen the head of the
Princess Lamballe borne on a pole through the streets of Paris, was now
a prominent member of the Legislature, and, through his rich wife, the
incumbent of a great plantation.

But the teachings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, that philosophic sign-post,
still influenced his mother, in her refusal to live under his splendid
roof, and partake of his bounty, however liberally offered.

"I have a home of my own," she said, "a few faithful servants, brains,
and energy still, besides a small account with General Curzon, in his
bank at Savannah, wherewith to meet emergencies; while these things
last, I will owe to no man or woman for bread or shelter. And, when
these depart, may the grave cover my bones, and the good God receive my
soul!"

Books alone she accepted as gifts from her son, and of these, in a
little three-cornered library, she had a goodly store in the two
languages which she read with equal facility, if not delight.

She showed us this nook before we left, and I saw, lying face downward,
as she had recently left it, the volume she was then perusing at
intervals--one of Madame Sand's novels, "Les Mauprats," I remember, a
singular and powerful romance, then recently issued, whose root I have
always thought might be found in Walter Scott's "Rob Roy," and more
particularly in the Osbaldistone family commemorated in that work.

On suggesting this to Madame Grambeau, she too saw the resemblance I
spoke of, and she agreed, with me, that the coincidence of genius
furnished many such parallels, where no charge of plagiarism could be
attached to either side.

A few bottles of "wild-berry wine," as Elizabeth Barrett called such
fluids, were added to the dinner toward its close, and Marion begged
permission to have her basket of cakes and fruits brought in for
dessert, which else had been wanting to our repast; to which request
Madame Grambeau graciously acceded.

"I make no confections," she said, "but I have lived on the juices of
good meats, well prepared, with such vegetables as the Lord lets grow in
this poor region, many years, and behold I am old and still able to do
his service!"

"And a little good wine, too, occasionally--eh, madame?" added Major
Favraud, impertinently.

"When attainable, Favraud. You drank good wine yourself, when you were
here, and I partook with you moderately. But I buy none such. I drown
not, Clarence-like, even in butts of malmsey, my hard-earned gold; and I
own I am not fond of the juices of the muscadine of your hills;" and she
tapped her snuffbox.

"You are going to hear her talk now," whispered Favraud; "that is a
sign--equal to General Finistere's--the snuffbox tapping, I mean. The
oracle is beginning to arouse! Come! let me stir her further!" and he
inclined his head before her.

"I'll tell you what, madame, you must take a little cognac to keep off
the chills of age. I have some of the best, and will send you down a
demijohn, if you say the word; and in return you shall pray for me. I am
a great sinner, Miss Harz thinks."

"Miss Harz is correct; and we will both promise you our prayers. She,
too, is Catholic, I hope. No? I regret so, for her own sake; but your
brandy I reject, Victor; remember that, and offend me not by sending it.
You must not forget the fate of your malvoisie."

"Ah, madame, that was cruel! but I have forgiven you long since. I
think, however, that the grape-vines bore better that year than ever
before--thus watered, or wined, I mean.--Just think of it, Miss Harz! To
pour good wine round the roots of a Fontainebleau grape, rather than
replenish the springs of life with it! Was there ever waste like that
since Cleopatra dissolved her pearl in vinegar?"

"Miss Harz will agree with me that a principle that could not resist the
gift of a dozen bottles of choice wine was little worth. Of such stuff
was made not the fathers of your Revolution. But stay, there is an
explanation due to me, yet unrendered," she pursued. "I am a puzzled
_bourgeoise_, I confess," she said, shaking her head. "Come, Favraud,
explain. Who is this young lady?"

"A _bourgeoise_ also," I replied for him, anxious to turn the tide of
conversation into another channel for some reasons. "I had thought you
an expatriated marquise, at least, madame!" I continued. "As for me, I
am simply a governess."

"It is my glory, mademoiselle, to have been of that class to which
belonged Madame Roland herself, and which represented that _juste
milieu_ which maintained the balance of society in France. When the
dregs of the _bas peuple_ rose to the surface of the revolution,
commenced by the sound middle classes, we regarded the scum of
aristocracy as the smaller of the two evils. As soon as the true element
had ceased to assert itself in France, I fled forever from a land of
bloodshed and misrule, and took shelter under the broad wing of your
boasted American eagle."

"Which still continues to flap over you shelteringly, madame," I
rejoined, somewhat flippantly, I fear, "and will to the end, no doubt;
for, in its very organization, our country can never be subjected to the
fluctuations of other lands--revolt and revolution."

"I am not so certain of this," she observed, shaking her white head
slowly as she spoke, and, lifting a pinch of snuff from her
tortoise-shell box (the companion of her whole married life, as she
acquainted us), she inhaled it with an air of meditative
self-complacency, then offered it quietly to the gentlemen, who were
still sitting over their wine and peaches; passing by Marion, Alice
Durand, and myself, completely, in this ovation.

"Good snuff is not to be sneezed at," said Major Favraud. "None offered
to young ladies, it seems," taking a huge pinch, and thrusting it
bravely up his nostrils, as one takes a spoonful of unpleasant medicine.
Then contradicting his own assertion immediately afterward, he succeeded
in expelling most of it in a series of violent sternutatory spasms,
which left him breathless, red-faced, and watery-eyed, with a
handkerchief much begrimed.

But Madame Grambeau seemed not to have noticed this ridiculous
proceeding, which, of course, created momentary mirth at the expense of
the penitent Favraud, to whom Dr. Durand repeated the tantalizing
saying, that "it is a royal privilege to take snuff gracefully"--giving
the example as he spoke, in a mock-heroic manner, quite as absurd and
irrelevant as Favraud's own.

Lost in deep thought, and gently tapping her snuffbox as she mused--the
tripod of her inspiration, as it seemed--Madame Grambeau sat silently,
with what memories of the past and what insight into the future none can
know save those like herself grown hoary with wisdom and experience.

At last she spoke, addressing her remarks to me, as though the careless
words I had hazarded had just been spoken, and the attention of her
hearers undiverted by divers absurdities--among others the affected
gambols of Duganne--anxious to place himself in an agreeable aspect
before both of his _inamoratas_, past and present.

"I do not agree with you, mademoiselle. I am one of those who think
that in the very framing of this Constitution of ours the dragon's teeth
were sown, whose harvest is not yet produced. Mr. Calhoun, with his
prophetic eye, foresees that this crop of armed men is inevitable from
such germs, as does Mr. Clay, were he only frank, which he is not,
because he deludes himself--the most incurable and inexcusable of all
deceptions."

And she applied herself again assiduously to her snuffbox, tapping it
peremptorily before opening it, and, with a gloomy eye fixed on space,
she continued:

"In all lands, from the time of Cassandra and Jeremiah up, there have
been prophets. Prophets for good and prophets for ill--of which some few
have been God-appointed, and the sayings of such alone have been
preserved. The rest vanish away into oblivion like chaff before the
wind--never mind what their achievement, what their boast.

"In this nation we have only two true prophets, Calhoun and Clay--both
men of equal might, and resolution, and intellect--gifted as beseems
their vocation, masterful and heroic; and to these all other men are
subordinate in the great designs of Providence."

"Where do you leave Mr. Webster, John Quincy Adams, General Jackson
himself, in such a category, madame?" I asked, eagerly.

"They are doing, or have done, the work God has appointed for them to
do, I suppose, mademoiselle; but they are accessories merely of the
times, and will pass away with the necessities of the moment."

"'The earth has bubbles as the water hath, and these are of them,'" said
Major Favraud aside, between his short, set teeth, nodding to me as he
spoke, and lending the next moment implicit attention to what Madame
Grambeau was saying; for the brief pause she had made for another pinch
of snuff was ended, and she continued impetuously, as if no interval had
occurred:

"Clay is, unconsciously, I trust, for the honor of mankind, fulfilling
his destiny--this great prophet who still refuses to prophesy. He is
entering the wedge for what he declines to admit the possibility of--yet
there must be moments when that eye of power pierces the clouds of
prejudice and party, wherewith it seeks to blind its kingly vision, and
descries the horrors beyond as the result of the acts he is now
committing; and when such moments of clear conviction come to him, the
ambitious tool of a party, I envy not his sensations," and she shook her
head mournfully. "Not Napoleon at St. Helena, not Prometheus on his
rock, were more to be pitied than he! the man whose ambition shall never
know fruition, whose measures shall pass and leave no trace in less than
fifty years after he has ceased to exist--the splendid failure of our
century!"

She ceased for a moment, with her eye fixed on space, her hands clasped,
her whole face and manner uplifted, as if, indeed, on her likewise the
prophet's mantle had dropped from a chariot of fire.

"As to Calhoun--he is God-fearing," she continued, fervently. "In the
solitudes of a spiritual Mount Sinai, he has received the tablets of the
Lord, and bends every energy to their fulfillment. He, too,
foresees--not with an eye like Clay's, clear only at intervals--and
clouded by vanity, ambition, and sophistry, at other seasons--he, too,
foresees the coming of our doom! His clear vision embraces anarchy,
dissension, civil war, with all its attendant horrors, as the
consequence of man's injustice; and, like Moses, he beholds the promised
land into which he can never enter! Would that it were given to him to
appoint his Joshua, or even to see him face to face, recognizingly! But
this is not God's will. He lurks among the shadows yet--this Joshua of
the South, but God shall yet search him out and bring him visibly before
the people! Not while I live," she added, solemnly, "but within the
natural lives of all others who sit this day around my table!"

"She is equal to Madame Le Normand!" said Major Favraud, aside, nodding
approvingly at me.

"If one waits long enough, most prophecies may be fulfilled," I
ventured; "but, madame, your words point to results too terrible--too
unnatural, it seems to me, ever to be realized in these enlightened
times or in this land of moderation."

"Child," she responded, "blood asserts itself to the end of races. There
are two separate civilizations in this land, destined some day to come
in fearful conflict; and the wars of Scylla, of the Jews themselves,
shall be outdone in the horror and persistence of that strife of
partners--I will not say brothers--for there is no brotherhood of blood
between South and North, of which Clay and Calhoun stand forth to my
mind as distinct types. No union of the red and white roses possible."

"But you forget, madame, that Mr. Clay is a Western man, a Virginian, a
Kentuckian, and the representative of slave-holders," I remonstrated.
"His interests are coincident with those of the South. His hope of the
presidency itself vests in his constituents, and the wand would be
broken in his hand were he to lend himself to partiality of any kind.
Mr. Clay is a great patriot, I believe, Jacksonite though I am--he knows
no South nor North, nor East nor West, but the Union alone, solid and
undivided."

"All this is true," she answered, "in one sense. It is thus he speaks,
and, like all partial parents, even thinks he feels toward his
offspring; but observe his acts narrowly from first to last. He has a
manufacturer's heart, with all his genius. He loves machinery--the sound
of the mill, the anvil, the spinning-jenny, the sight of the ship upon
the high-seas, or steamboat on the river, the roar of commerce, far more
than the work of the husbandman. We are an agricultural people, we of
the South and West--and especially we Southerners, with our poverty of
invention, our one staple, our otherwise helpless habits, incident to
the institution which, however it may be our curse, is still our wealth,
and to which, for the present time, we are bound, Ixion-like, by every
law of necessity. What does this tariff promise? Where will the profit
rest? Where will the loss fall crushingly? The slow torture of which we
read in histories of early times was like to this. Each day a weight was
added to that already lying on the breast of a strong man, bound on his
back by the cords of his oppressors, until relief and destruction came
together, and the man was crushed; such was the _peine forte et dure_."

"Calhoun is patriarchal,[5] and is now placing all his individual
strength to the task of heaving off this incubus from the breast of our
body politic, but with small avail, for he has no lever to assist
him--no fulcrum whereon to rest it; otherwise he might say with
Archimedes, 'With these I could move a world.' He is unaided, this
eagled-eyed prophet of ours, looking sorrowfully, sagaciously down into
the ages! South Carolina is the Joseph, that his cruel brothers, the
remaining Southern States, have sold to the Egyptians, as a bond-slave.
But they shall yet come to drink of his cup, and eat of his bread of
opinion, in the famine of their Canaan. Nullification shall leave a
fitting successor, as Philip of Macedon left Alexander to carry out his
plans. The abolitionist and the slave-holder are as distinct as were
Charles I. and Cromwell, or Catharine de Medicis and Henry of Navarre.
The germ that Calhoun has planted shall lie long in the earth, perhaps,
but when it breaks the surface, it shall grow in one night to maturity,
like that in your so famous 'Mother Goose' story of 'Jack and his
Bean-stalk,' forming a ladder wherewith to scale the abode of giants and
slay them in their drunken sleep of security. But he who does this deed,
this Joshua of the Lord's, this fierce successor of our gentle Moses,
shall wade through his oceans of blood to gain the stone. God
knoweth--He only--how all this shall end, whether in success or
overthrow. It is so far wrapped in mystery."

As if she saw from some spiritual height the reign of terror she
predicted, she dropped her head upon her hands and closed her eyes, and
I felt my blood creep slowly through my veins as I followed her in
thought across the waste of woe and desolation. For there was something
in her manner, her voice (august and solemn with age and wisdom as these
were), that impressed all who heard, with or in spite of their own
consent, and for a time profound silence succeeded this harangue.

Dr. Durand was the first to recover himself. "I trust, my dear madame,"
he remarked, "that the substantial horrors realized in your youth still
cast their dark shadows over the coming years, and so deceive you into
prophecies that it is sad to hear from lips so reverent, and which, let
us all pray, may never be realized. You yourself will say amen to that,
I am convinced."

"Amen!" she murmured.

"Nonsense, Durand! don't play at hypocrite in your old age, after having
been a true man all your life," broke in Major Favraud. "What is a
conservative, after all, but a social parrot, who repeats 'wise saws and
modern instances,' until he believes himself possessed of the wisdom of
all the ages, and is incapable of conceiving of the existence even of an
original idea?"

"By-the-by," digressed Duganne, weary of discussion, "hear that old
fellow outside, how he is going on, Favraud, _a propos_ of poll parrots,
you know, as if all else, but the name of the bird, had been lost on his
ear. Just listen!"

"Yes, hear him, and be edified," was the sarcastic response of Favraud
to Duganne, who took no other notice, even if he understood the point,
than to lead the way to the portico, where swung the cage of the jolly
bird in question; and, headed by Madame Grambeau leaning on her cane, we
followed simultaneously, with the exception of Major Favraud, who
continued at the table with his cigar and cognac-flask, in sullen and
solitary state.

"Nutmegs and nullification!" shrieked the parrot, as we stood before
him. "Ha, ha, ha!"

"That is condensing the matter, certainly," I observed.

"_Bienvenu, compatriote!_" he repeated many times, laughing loudly, the
next moment, as if in mockery.

"What a fiend it is!" said Marion, timidly; "only look at its black
tongue, Miss Harz! Then what a laugh!"

"Danton! Danton! have you nothing to say to this strange lady?" said
Madame Grambeau, addressing her bird by name; "you must not neglect my
friends, Danton Pardi!"

"Bird of freedom, moulting--moulting!" was the whimsical rejoinder.
"Jackson! give us your paw, Old Hick--Hick--Hickory!"

"This is the stuff Major Favraud taught him," she apologized, "when he
used to lie on his porch day after day, after his hostile meeting with
Juarez, which took place on that hill," signifying the site of the duel
with her slender cane. "It was there they fought their duel, _a
l'outrance_, and I knew it not until too late! His wife was too ill to
come to him at that time, and the task of nursing him devolved on me,
since when, on maternal principles, the lad has grown into my
affections."

"The lad of forty-odd!" sneered Duganne, unnoticed, apparently, by the
aged lady, however, at the moment, but not without amusing other hearers
by this sally. Dr. Durand was especially delighted.

"For he is a boy at heart," she said later, "this same Victor Favraud of
ours," gazing reprovingly around. "Indeed, he is the only American I
have ever seen who possessed real _gaiete de coeur_, and for that, I
imagine, he must thank his French extraction."

"Calhoun and cotton!" "Coal and codfish!" shouted the parrot at the top
of his voice. "Catfish and coffee!"--"Rice cakes for breakfast"--"All in
my eye, Betty Martin"--"Yarns and Yankees"--"Shad and shin-plasters"--"Yams
and yaller boys," and so on, in a string of the most irrelevant
alliteration and folly, that, like much other nonsense, evoked peals
of laughter, by its unexpected utterance, and which at last mollified
and brought out Major Favraud himself, from his dignified retirement.

"You have ruined the morals of my bird," said Madame Grambeau,
reproachfully. "Approach, Favraud, and justify yourself. In former times
his discourse was discreet. He knew many wise proverbs and polite
salutations in French and English both, most of which he has discarded
in favor of your profane and foolish teachings. He is as bad as the
'Vert-vert' of Voltaire. I shall have to expel him soon, I fear."

"Danton, how can you so grieve your mistress?" remonstrated Major
Favraud, lifting at the same time an admonitory finger, at which
recognized signal, a part of past instructions probably, the parrot
burst forth at once in a series of the most grotesque and _outre_ oaths
ear ever heard, ending (by the aid of some prompting from his teacher)
by dismally croaking the fragment of a popular song thus travestied:

    "My ole mistis dead and gone,
    She lef to me her ole jawbone.
    Says she, 'Charge up in dem yaller pines,
    And slay dem Yankee Philistines!'"--

ending with the invariable _"Bon jour_," or "_Bienvenu, compatriote"_
and demoniac "Ha! ha! ha!"

"The memory of the creature is perfectly wonderful," I said. "Many
parrots have I seen, but never one like this before. It must have sprung
out of the Arabian Nights."

"I can teach any thing to every thing," digressed Major Favraud, "and
without severity; it is my specialty. I was meant for a trainer of
beasts, probably. I will get up an entertainment, I believe, in
opposition to the industrious fleas, called the 'Desperate Doves,' and
teach pigeons to muster, drill, and go through all the military motions.
I could do it easily, and so repair my broken fortunes. I have one
already at home that feigns death at the word of command. I have amused
myself for hours at a time with this bird.--Don't say a word, Miss
Harz," speaking low, "I see what you think of it all, but I have had to
cheat misery some way or other. It was a wretched device and waste of
existence, though. And when I see that great, distinguished man, who had
such hopes of me as a boy, I feel that I could creep into an auger-hole
for sheer shame of my extinguished promise."

"Not extinguished!" I murmured, "only under a cloud, still destined to
be fulfilled."

"Only in the grave," he said, sadly, "with the promise common to all
mankind;" and thus by gloomy glimpses I caught the truth.

We staid that night at the house of an aunt of Madame La Vigne's, who
received us cordially, entertained us sumptuously, and dismissed us
graciously.

The next morning at sunrise we again set out for Savannah, into which
city we entered before the noonday heat, finding cool shelter and warm
welcome at once under the roof of General Curzon, the South's most
polished gentleman and finished man of letters, of whom it may be truly
said that, "Take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like
again."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: It need not for one moment be supposed that the opinions of
the author are represented through the extremist Favraud. To her Mr.
Bryant stands forth as the high-priest of American poetry.]

[Footnote 3: The tariff.]

[Footnote 4: Since writing the above, the admirable picture of Mr.
Healey has filled this void; and those who have seen good copies of this
work, executed for and by the order of Louis Philippe, may have a clear
idea of that glorious countenance, the like of which we shall not see
again.

Perhaps it was from this very personal magnetism of which I have spoken
that Healey succeeded better with the portrait of Mr. Calhoun than any
of the others he was sent to this country to paint.]

[Footnote 5: It was about this time that Mr. Calhoun made his famous
anti-tariff crusade throughout the land, it may be remembered by some of
my readers.]




CHAPTER II.


Before leaving the hospitable roof of General Curzon--beneath which I
tarried for several days--awaiting the tardy sailing of the
packet-steamer Kosciusko, bound for New York, circumstances determined
me to leave in the hands of my host a desk which I had intended to carry
with me, and which contained most of my treasures. First among these,
indisputably, in intrinsic value were my diamonds--"sole remnant of a
past magnificence;" but the miniatures of my father and mother, and
Mabel, in the cases of which locks of twisted hair--brown, and black,
and golden, and gray--were contained and combined (dear, imperishable
memorials of vitality in most instances when all the rest was dust and
ashes), and the early letters of my parents, together with the
carefully-kept diary I had written at Beauseincourt, ranked beyond these
even in my estimation.

The cause of this deposit of valuables was simply owing to the unstable
lock of my trunk, the condition of which was detected too late to have
it repaired before sailing. Madame Curzon had suggested to me the unsafe
nature of such custody for objects of price, if, indeed, I possessed
such at all. I told her then of my diamonds, and it was agreed between
us that these, at least, had better be deposited in the bank of her
husband, who would bring them to me himself a few months later--and on
reflection I concluded to add my desk, pictures, and papers, to my more
substantial treasures. These, at least, I felt assured no accident
should throw into the hands of Bainrothe.

On my way to the ship I left the carriage for a moment, in pursuance
with this idea, and, followed by King, the bearer of my large and
weighty desk, entered the banking-house of my host, and was shown at
once, by attentive clerks, to his peculiar sanctum. I told him my errand
in a few words.

"Keep it until called for, unless you hear from me in the interval," I
had said in allusion to my deposit, for he acknowledged the chances were
slight of his leaving home until the following year, notwithstanding
Madame Curzon's convictions.

"Called for by whom?" he asked, calmly.

"By Miriam Monfort in person or her order," I replied, laughingly, "This
is a mystery that, by-and-by, shall be explained to you."

"I understand something of that already," he rejoined. "Marion has been
whispering to the reeds, you know, or Madame Curzon, the same thing
nearly; but let us be earnest, as your time is short, and mine precious
to-day. Life is uncertain, and, young and strong as you are, or seem to
be, you cannot foresee one hour even of the future, or of your own
existence. Suppose Miriam Monfort neither comes in person nor sends her
order for its restoration--what, then, is to become of this
treasure-chest of hers?"

"You shall keep it then," I replied, unhesitatingly, "until my little
sister reaches her majority, and cause it to be placed in her own hands,
none other--or, stay, let her have it on the day before her marriage,
should this occur earlier than the time mentioned, or when she reaches
her eighteenth year in any case; but, above all things, be careful."

"So many conflicting directions confuse and mystify me, I confess. Come,
let me write down your wishes, and the matter can be arranged formally,
which is always best in any case. There, I think I have the gist of your
idea," he said a few moments later, as he pushed over to me a slip of
paper to read and sign, which done, I shook hands with him cordially,
preparing to go. "But your receipt--you have forgotten to take it up!"

"O General Curzon! the whole proceeding seems so ominous," I said,
turning back at the door to receive the proffered scrap, which, in
another moment, dropped from my nerveless fingers, while these, clasped
over my streaming eyes, forgot their office.

"My dear young lady," he remonstrated, "I am shocked. What can have
occurred to impress you thus? Not this mere routine of affairs,
surely?--Duncan, a glass of water here for Miss Monfort."

"I do not know, I am sure, why I should be so weak for such a trifle," I
said, after a few swallows of ice-water had somewhat restored my
equilibrium; "but I do feel very dismally about this voyage--have done
so ever since I left Beauseincourt. This is the last straw on the
camel's back, believe me, General Curzon. You must not reproach yourself
in the least--nor me; and now let me bid you farewell once more, perhaps
eternally!"

These words of mine were remembered later in a very different spirit
from that in which they were then received (one of incredulous
compassion)--remembered as are ever the last utterances of the doomed,
whether innocent or guilty, in solemn awe and reverential tenderness,
not unmingled with a superstitious faith in presentiment.

"Why, you look bluer than your very obvious veil, bluer than your
invisible school-marmish stockings, bluer than the skies, or a blue bag,
or Madame de Stael's 'Corinne,' or Byron's 'dark-blue ocean,'" said
Major Favraud, as he assisted me again into the carriage, where Dr.
Durand and Marion awaited me, for, as I have said, we were now on our
way to the vessel which was to bear me and my destinies forever from
that lovely Southern land in which I had seen and suffered so much.

Dr. Durand looked serious at the sight of my woful aspect, and Marion
mutely proffered her _vinaigrette_, gratefully accepted, as was the good
doctor's compassionate silence; but, as usual, Favraud, after having
once gotten fairly under weigh, ran on. "What is the use of bewailing
the inevitable?" he pursued. "We have all seen your _penchant_ for
Curzon, and his for you, for three days past; but Octavia is as tough as
_lignum-vitae,_ I regret to assure you, my dear Miss Harz, and your
chance is _as blue_ as your spirits, or the flames of snap-dragon, or
Marion's eyes. You will have to just put up with the captain, I fear,
for even the doctor there is in harness for life. Southern women, you
know, proverbially survive their husbands; and, as the suttee is out of
fashion, they sometimes have to marry Yankees as a _dernier ressort_ of
desperation! Of course, there are occasional sad exceptions"--looking
grave for a moment, and glancing at the black hat-band on the Panama hat
he was nursing on his knees, so as to let the breeze blow through his
silky, silver-streaked black hair--"but--but--in short, why will you all
look so doleful? Isn't it bad enough to feel so?"

"The loveliest fade earliest, we all know," and the tears were in his
honest, frivolous eyes, dashed away in the next moment as he exclaimed,
eagerly, "Why, there goes the Lamarque equipage, as I live! I had
forgotten all about it. The pleasantest woman in Savannah, young or old,
is to be your _compagnon de voyage_, Miss Harz, and the most determined
widower on record her escort; a perfect John Rogers of a man, with nine
little motherless children, her brother Raguet ('Rag,' as we called him
at school, on account of his prim stiffness, so that 'limber as a rag'
seemed a most preposterous saying in his vicinity). He is handsome,
however, and intelligent, a perfect gentleman, but on the mourners'
bench just now, like some others you know of"--heaving a deep sigh. "His
wife, poor thing, died last autumn--a pretty girl in her day was
Cornelia Huger! I was a little weak in that direction once
myself--before--that is, before--O doctor! what a trouble it is to
remember!"

And again the small, fleet hand was dashed across the twinkling, tearful
eyes of this April day of a middle-aged man of the world--this modern
Mercutio--merry and mournful at once, as if there were two sides to his
every mood, like the famous shield of story. When we reached the quay
the Kosciusko was already getting up her steam, and, in less than an
hour afterward, the friends I loved were gone like dreams, the bustle of
departure was over, and, with lifted canvas and a puffing engine, we
were grandly steaming past the noble forts (poor Bertie's broach and
buckle, be it remembered) on our path of pride and power toward the
broad Atlantic.

The weather was oppressively hot, and, for the first thirty-six hours,
scarcely a breath of wind lifted us on our way, so that the engine,
wholly incompetent to the work of both sails and machinery, bore us very
slowly on our northward ocean-flight. Indeed, the failure of this
engine to do its duty, at first, had sorely disheartened both captain
and crew as we found later, for upon its execution and energies, in the
beginning, had rested our entire dependence.

On the evening of the second day's voyage, a sudden and violent
thunder-storm occurred, not unusual in those latitudes; during the
raging of which our mainmast was struck by lightning, and wholly
disabled.

The fire was extinguished in the only possible manner, by cutting it
away from the decks, letting it gently down upon them, deluging it, so
that our mast lay charred and blackened after its bath of sea-water,
like a mighty serpent stretched along the ship, from stem to stern, and
wrapped loosely in its shrouds. It did us good service later, though not
by defying the winds of heaven, nor spreading forth its snowy sails to
catch the tropic breezes.

Before many hours, it was destined to ride the waves in a shape that was
certainly never intended by those who chose it among many others--taper
and stately in its group of firs--to be the chief adornment of a gallant
ship, and lift a pointing finger to the stars themselves, as an index of
its might, and, with this exception, the hope of those it served--that
of a charred and blackened life raft.

The renewed freshness of the atmosphere, and the joyful upspringing of
the breezes, alone remained, at midnight, to tell the story of the
recent hurricane.

These tropic breezes came like benevolent fairies, to aid our groaning
Titan in his labors.

I can never rid myself for one moment of the idea that an engine really
works, with weary, reluctant strength like a genii slave, waiting
vengefully for the time of retaliation, which sooner or later is sure to
come; or of the visionary notion that a graceful, gliding ship, with
all sails set, receives the same pleasure from its own motion and beauty
that a snow-white swan must do "as down she bears before the gale," with
her white plumage and stately crest.

I think, if ever I am called to give a toast, it shall be "Sail-ships;
may their shadows never be less!" They are, indeed, a part of the
romance of ocean.

The moon was full, in the balmy summer night that succeeded the tempest,
and the ship's quarter-deck was crowded with the passengers of the
Kosciusko, enjoying to the utmost, as it seemed, the delicious,
newly-washed atmosphere, the moonlit heavens and sea, the
exquisitely-caressing softness of the tardily-awakened breezes that
filled the white sails of the vessel, and fluttered the silken scarf of
the maiden, with the same wooing breath of persuasive, subtle strength.

Around Miss Lamarque, the lady of whom Major Favraud had spoken so
admiringly, and to whose kindness he had committed me, a group had
gathered, chiefly of the young, not to be surpassed in any land for
manly bearing, graceful feminine beauty, gayety, wit, and refinement.

There was Helen Oscanyan, fair as a dream of Greece, in her serene,
marble perfectness of form and feature; and the lovely Mollie Cairns,
her cousin, small, dark, and sparkling--both under the care of that
stately gentleman, their uncle, Julius Severe, of Savannah; and there
were the sisters Percy, twins in age and appearance, with voices like
brook-ripples, and eyes like wood-violets, and feet of Chinese
minuteness and French perfection--the darlings and only joys of a mother
still beautiful, though sad in her widowhood, and gentle as the dove
that mourns its mate.

There was the brilliant Ralph Maxwell, whose jests, stinging and
slight, just glanced over the surface of society without inflicting a
wound, even as the skater's heel glides over ice, leaving its mark as it
goes, yet breaking no crust of frost; and there was the poetic dreamer
Dartmore, with his large, dark eyes, and moonlight face, and manner of
suffering serenity, on his way to put forth for fame, as he fondly
believed, his manuscript epic on the "Sorrows of the South."

All these, and more, were there gathering about the leader of their
home-society, on that alien deck, as securely as though they were
sitting in her own drawing-room at "Berthold," on one of her brilliant
reception-evenings.

How could they know--how could they dream the truth--or descry the
hidden skeleton at the festival, wreathed in flowers and veiled with
glittering, filmy draperies, which yet put forth its bony fingers to
beckon on and clutch them?

I too was joyous and unconscious as the rest, and for the first time for
many days felt the burden literally heaved rather than lifted away that
had oppressed me.

Was I not on my way to him in whose presence alone I lived my true life?
and what feeling of his morbid fancy was there that my hand could not
smooth away, when once entwined in his? Beauseincourt, and all its
shadows, had I not put behind me? The sunshine lay before, and in its
light and warmth I should still rejoice, as it was my birthright to do.

I was "fey" that night, as the Scotch say, when an unaccountable
lightness of mood precedes a heavy sorrow, which it so often does, as
well as the more usual mood, the presage of gloom. I felt that I had the
power to put aside all ills--to grapple with my fate, and compel back
my lost happiness. Truly my bosom's lord sat lightly on her throne, as
of late it had not been her wont to do.

Against my inclination had I been drawn into the current of that
youthful gayety, and now my bark floated without an effort on the
stream. I was in my own element again, and my powers were all
responsive.

The small hours came--the happy group dispersed--not without many
interchanges of social compliment, much _badinage_, and merry plans for
the morrow. The monster Sea-sickness had been defied on the balmy
voyage, save in the brief interval of tempest, and his victors mocked
him, baffled as he was, with their purpose of amusement.

"We shall get up the band to-morrow evening," said Major Ravenel, "and
have a dance; the gallop would go grandly here. See what reach of
quarter-deck we have! There are Germans on board who play in concert
violins and wind-instruments."

"Suppose we dress as sea-nymphs," said Honoria Pyne; "enact a masque for
old Neptune's benefit? It would be so complimentary, you know; bring
down the house, no doubt. I have a sea-green tarlatan lying so
conveniently. Colonel Latrobe looks exactly like a Triton, with that
wondrous beard. A little alum sprinkled over its red-gold ground would
do wonders in the way of effect--would be gorgeous--wouldn't it, now,
Miss Harz?"

"But all that could be done on shore as well, Miss Pyne," I replied, in
the way of reminiscence. "It is a pity to waste our opportunities of
observation now, in getting up costumes; and, for my part, I confess
that I have a wholesome dread of these sea-deities, and fear to
exasperate their finny feelings by reducing them to effigies. Thetis is
very spiteful, sometimes; and jealous, too, you remember."

Miss Pyne did not remember, but did not mean to be baffled either, she
would let Miss Harz know, even if that lady _did_ know more about
mythology than herself; and, if no one else would join her, meant to
play her _role_, of sea-nymph all alone, with Major Latrobe for her
Triton in waiting, tooting upon a conch-shell, and looking lovely! At
which compliment, open and above-board, poor Major Latrobe, who was over
head and ears in love with her, and a very ugly man, only bowed and
looked more silly than before, which seemed a work of supererogation.

After the rest were gone, Miss Lamarque and I concluded to promenade on
the nearly-deserted deck, in the moonlight, and let the excitement of
the evening die away through the medium of more serious conversation.
She was a woman of forty-five, still graceful and fine-looking, but
bearing few traces of earlier beauty, probably better to behold, in her
overripe maturity, than in the unfolding of her less attractive time of
bud and blossom. Self had been laid aside now (which it never can be
until the effervescence of youth and hope are over). She had accepted
her position of old maid and universal benefactress; and sustained it
nobly, gracefully. She was thoroughly well-bred and agreeable, very
vivacious, astute, and intelligent, rather than intellectual, yet she
had the capacity (had her training been different) to have been both of
these.

I remember how it chanced that, after a long promenade, during which we
had discussed men, manners, books, customs, costumes, and politics, even
(that once tabooed subject for women, now free, to all), with infinite
zest and responsiveness that charmed us mutually, so that we swore
allegiance on the strength of this one day's rencontre, like two
school-girls or knights of old--remember how the dropping of her comb at
his feet caused Miss Lamarque to pause, compelling me to follow her
example, by reason of our intertwined arms, in front of the man at the
wheel, as he stooped to raise it and hand it to her with a seaman's bow.
His ready politeness, unusual for one in his station, determined us to
cultivate his maritime acquaintance, and in a short time we had drawn
forth the outlines of his story, simple and bare as this was of
incident.

His picturesque appearance had impressed us equally during the day, but
until now we had not met in concert about Christian Garth, for such we
soon found was the name of our polite pilot.

He was a Jerseyman, he told us, of German descent, married to the girl
of his heart, and living on the coast of that adventurous little State,
famous alike for its peaches and wrecks.

"Sall had a stocking full of money," he informed us, "silver, and
copper, and gold, when he married her, for her mother had been a famous
huckster--and never missed her post in the Philadelphia market for
thirty years, and this was her child's inheritance, and with this money
he had fixed up his old hut, till it looked 'e'en a'most inside like a
ship-captain's cabin.'"

And now Sall wanted him to stay at home, he informed us, with her and
the children, but somehow or other he could never tarry long at the
hearth, for the sea pulled him like it was his mother, and the spell of
the tides was on him, and he must foller even if he went to his own
destruction, like them men that liquor lures to loss, or the love of
mermaids.

"All land service is dead when likened to the sea," he said, shaking his
great water-dog head, and looking out lovingly upon his idol. "But ships
a'n't like they oncst was, ladies," he added, "before men put these here
heavy iron ingines to work in 'em--it's like cropping a bird's wing to
make a river-boat of a ship, and a dead, dead shame to shorten sails
till it looks like a young gal dressed in breeches or any other
onnatural thing--for a sailing-ship and a full-flowing petticoat always
rise up in a true man's mind together--God bless them both, I say."

"To which we cordially say amen, of course," said Miss Lamarque,
laughing. "We should have been at a loss, however, Mr. Garth, but for
our engine during the dead calm preceding the storm, when our ship's
sails flapped so lazily about her masts, and she rocked like a baby's
cradle without making progress. It is well the engineer manoeuvred so
successfully while we lay fireless on the low rolling waves; but we are
speeding along merrily enough now, to make up for it all--I take comfort
in that--"

"But not exactly in the right direction, though, to suit my stripe," he
said, turning his quid in his mouth as he looked out to leeward,
revealing, as he did so, a fine yet rugged profile relieved against the
silvery purple sheen of the moonlit sky.

"Do you see that dark object lying beyond" (our eyes mechanically
followed his), "so still on the water?" and he indicated it with the
pipe he held in one sinewy hand--for the native courtesy of the man had
involuntarily proffered us the homage of removing it from his lips, when
we addressed him.

"Yes--what is it? a wreck? a whale? a small volcanic island? Do
explain, Mr. Garth," said Miss Lamarque.

"Nothing but an iceberg, and we are bearing down upon it rather too
rapidly, it seems to me."

And so speaking, he turned his wheel in silence warily.

"But you have the command of the helm, and have nothing to do but--"

"Obey orders," he interrupted, grimly. "Ef the captain was to tell me to
run the ship to purgatory, I'd have to do it, you know."

"But surely the captain would not jeopardize the lives of a ship's
company, even if he likes warm latitudes, by ordering you to run foul of
an iceberg; and, if he did, you certainly would not dare to obey him
with the fear of God before your eyes?" remonstrated Miss Lamarque,
indignantly. "For my part I shall go to him immediately and desire him
to change his course--but after all I don't believe that dingy black
thing is an iceberg at all--an old hencoop rather, thrown over from some
merchant-ship, or a vast lump of charred wood. You are only trying to
alarm us."

"Ef you was to see it close enough, you would find it to shine equal to
the diamond on your hand; but I hope you never will, that's all--I hope
you never will, lady! I sot on a peak of that sort oncst myself for
three days in higher latitudes than this here--me and five others, all
that was spared from the wreck of the schooner Delta, and we felt our
convoy melting away beneath us, and courtesying e'en a'most even with
the sea, before the merchant-ship Osprey took us off, half starved, and
half frozen, and half roasted all at oncst! Them is onpleasant
rickollections, ladies, and it makes my blood creep to this day to see
an iceberg in konsikence; but a man must do his dooty, whatsomever do
betide. It was in the dead of night, and Hans Schuyler had the wheel, I
remember, when we went to pieces on that iceberg, all for disregarding
the captain's orders; you see, he meant to graze it like!"

"Graze it!" almost shrieked Miss Lamarque. "Did he think he was driving
a curricle? Graze it--Heaven, what rashness!"

"Don't--don't! Mr. Garth," I petitioned; "I shall never sleep a wink on
this ship if you continue your narrative."

"Do--do! Mr. Garth," entreated Miss Lamarque, whose penetration showed
her by this time that the pilot was only playing on our fears, for want
of a better instrument for his skill. "I quite enjoy the idea that you
have actually been astride a fragment of the arctic glacier, and that we
may perhaps make the acquaintance of a white bear ourselves when we get
near our iceberg, or a gentle seal. Wouldn't you like one for a pet,
Miss Harz?"

"It is very cold," I said, digressively. "I feel the chill of that
fragment of Greenland freeze my marrow. I must go fetch my shawl; but
first reassure us, Mr. Garth, if possible."

He laughed. "I have paid you now for making fun of me to-day," he said,
saucily. "I saw your drawing of me in your books, and heerd the ladies
laughing. I peeped as I passed when Myers took the helm, and I wanted to
see what all the fun was about; then I said to myself, 'I will give her
a skeer for that if I have a chance'--but, all the same, the chill you
feel is a real one, for as sure as death that lump of darkness is an
iceberg. I have told you no yarn, as you will find out to-morrow when
you ask the captain. I'll steer you clear of the iceberg though, ladies,
never fear. Hans Schuyler has not got the wheel to-night--you see he was
three sheets in the wind anyhow, and the captain, says, 'Hans,' says he,
'don't tech another drop this night, or we'll never see another mornin'
till we are resurrected,' and so he turned into his hammock and swung
himself to sleep--a way he had, for he didn't keer for nothin' where his
comfort was concerned, having been raised up in the Injies."

"Come, Miss Lamarque," I interrupted. "I must not hear another word.
'Macbeth doth murder, sleep,' and I shall be nervous for a month after,
this. So, good-night, Mr. Garth, and be sure you merit your first name
by taking good care of us while we imitate the example of your worthy
captain and 'swing ourselves to sleep,' or rather let the waves perform
that office for us. I shall make it my care to-morrow morning early, if
you still hold the helm, to show you my sketch, and convince you that it
was never made for fun at all, but that it is a real portrait of a very
fine-looking seaman, a real viking in appearance, and somewhat better
than one at heart, I trust. I shall hope to earn your good opinion
instead of ill-will, when you have only seen my sketch."

"You have it already, you have it already, young gal--young miss, I
mean," he said, with a wave of the hand, which meant to be courteous, no
doubt, but seemed only defiant. "An' this much I kin say without injury
to Sall--that I'd rather hear you talk and see you smile, as I has been
watchin' of you constant do to-day, than go to the circus in New York,
or even to a Spanish bull-fight, or hear a Fourth-of-July oration,
or'tend camp-meetin'--and that's saying no little--an' no iceberg shall
come near you while Christian Garth lays a hand upon this helm. But
don't be skeered, ladies; no harm will come to the good ship Kosciusko."

"I declare our pilot is quite chivalrous, as far as you are concerned,
for I marked his glance, Miss Harz," said Miss Lamarque, archly, as we
turned our faces cabin-ward, under the protection of our helmsman's
promised vigilance. "See what it is to be young and pretty, and remark
the truth of the old proverb, as exemplified in his case, that 'extremes
meet.' Victoria herself is not more independent of me or my
position--established facts as both are in the eyes of some--than is
Christian Garth. To him, this outsider of the world of fashion, I am
only a homely old woman; no prestige comes in to garnish the unvarnished
fact--a plain old maid, my dear--with not even the remembrance of beauty
as a consolation, nor its remnant as a sign of past triumphs, 'only this
and nothing more,' as that wonderful man Poe makes his raven say. We
never find our level until we go among people who know and care nothing
about us, who have never 'heard of us'--that exordium of most greetings
from folks of our own class. It is absolutely refreshing to be so
unaffectedly despised and slighted--it does one a world of good, there
is no doubt of that, especially when one's grandfather was a
Revolutionary notability, and other antecedents of a piece--but men are
all alike at heart, only the worldly ones wear flimsy masks, you know,
and pretend to adore intellect and ugliness, when beauty is the only
thing they care for--all a sham, my dear, in any case."

"Yes, all alike," I repeated, making, as I spoke, one mental entire
reservation. "All _vain_ alike, I mean; flatter their vanity ever so
little and they are at your very feet, asking 'for more,' like Oliver
Twist; more bread for _amour propre_, the insatiable! It was that sketch
of mine that wrought the spell, though unintentionally, of course, and
the sly fellow knew very well that it was no caricature--that is, if he
peeped, as he pretends--but a tolerably correct likeness that might have
satisfied Sall herself. By-the-by, I have a great mind to bestow it upon
him as a 'sop for Cerberus,' should her jealousy ever be aroused by your
reports of his devotion to me, or admiration rather, most unequivocally
avowed, it must be acknowledged. I really had no intention of injuring
Sally, and, if you think it best, will make the _amende honorable_ by
being as cross as possible to him to-morrow."

"No, no, carry out your first intention and conciliate him; for,
remember, he has us in the hollow of his hand. Bestow the picture, by
all means, and just as many smiles and compliments as he can stand, or
you can afford to squander; for you are worse than a mermaid, Miss Harz,
for fascination, all the gentlemen say so; and, as to Captain
Falconer--"

"They are malignants," I rejoined, ignoring purposely the last clause of
the sentence which I had interrupted; "and you are perfidious to hear
them slander me so. I hate fascinating people; they always make my flesh
crawl like serpents. The few I have known have been so very base." "Good
specimens of '_thorough_ bass,'" she interpolated, laughing.--"I am sure
I am glad I have no attributes of fascination, if a strange old work I
met with at Beauseincourt may be considered responsible. Did you ever
see it, Miss Lamarque, you who see every thing? Hieronymus Frascatorius
tells of certain families in Crete who fascinated by praising, and to
avert this evil influence some charm was used consisting of a magic
word (I suppose this was typical of humility, though related as
literal). This _naivete_ on the part of the old chronicler was simply
_impayable_, as Major Favraud would say, with his characteristic shrug.
One _Varius_ related (you see my theme has full possession of me, and
the book is, a collation of facts on the subject of fascination of all
kinds, even down to that of the serpent) that a friend of his saw a
fascinator with a look break in two a precious gem in the hands of a
lapidary--typical this, I suppose, of some fond, foolish, female heart.
Fire, according to this author, represents the quality of fascination;
and toads and moths are subject to its influence, as well as some higher
animals--deer, for instance, who are hunted successfully with torches;
and he relates, further, that in Abyssinia artificers of pottery and
iron are thus fearfully endowed, and are consequently forbidden to join
in the sacred rites of religion, as fire is their chief agent. Isn't
this a strange, quaint volume, to set before a king? and how do you like
my lecture delivered _extempore?_".

"Oh, vastly! but I did not know that was your style before. Don't
cultivate it, dear, if you hope to win manly hearts. Men like to do all
the lecturing themselves, and I find it diplomatic to feign profound
ignorance on all subjects, outside of a bandbox; it delights them so to
enlighten us. No wonder they fancy us fools when we feign foolishness so
admirably--lapwings that we are!"

"But I never do, in such society. My experience is different from yours.
I always pretend to know twice as much as I do, when they are about; it
bluffs them off, and they are credulous sometimes as well as ignorant,
notwithstanding their boasted acumen."

"Your lamp of experience needs trimming, my pretty Miriam," she said,
shaking her head, "if you really believe this. They never forgive
superiority, assumed or real; none but the noble ones, I mean; who, of
course, are in the minority. Give a pair of tongs pantaloons, and it
asserts itself. Trousers, my dear, are at the root of manly presumption.
I discovered that long ago. A man in petticoats would be as humble as a
woman. This is my theory, at least; take it for what it is worth. And
now to sleep, with what heart we may, an iceberg being in our vicinity;"
and, taking my face in her hand, she kissed me cordially. "It is very
early in our acquaintance for such manifestations to be allowable," she
said, kindly, "but I am a sort of spoiled child of society, and dare to
be natural. I consider that the best privilege that attaches to my
condition, that of the 'bell-wether' of Savannah _ton_--the
universally-accepted bore! You know--Favraud has told you, of course; he
always characterizes as he goes."

"He has called you the most agreeable woman in Savannah, I remember,
young or old, and was truly glad, on my account, to know that you were
on board. Of your brother he spoke very kindly also, even admiringly."

"Oh, yes, I know; but of Raguet there is little question now. His wife's
death has crushed him. I never saw so changed a man; he is half idiotic,
I believe; and I am with him now just to keep those children from
completing the work of destruction. Six little motherless ones--only
think--and as bad as they can possibly be; for poor Lucilla was no
manager. Isn't it strange, the influence those little cottony women get
over their husbands? You and I might try forever to establish such
absolute despotism, all in vain. It is your whimpering sort that rule
with the waving of a pocket-handkerchief; but poor, dear little woman,
she is powerless now; and I suppose the next will be like unto her.
Raguet would never look at any thing feminine that hadn't white eyes and
pink hair (yellow, I mean, of course)--his style, you know, being dark
and stern, he likes the downy, waxy kind. All this is shockingly
egotistical; but the question is, who that has a spark of individuality
is otherwise? Good-night, again, and may all sweet dreams attend you;
for my part, I never dream, being past the dreaming age, and realities
fortunately disappear with daylight; even cross children are wheedled
into quietness, and servants forget to fidget and giggle; and, for
mosquitoes, there are bars. Adieu."

And thus we parted, never to meet again in mutual mood like this!

Yet, had the free agency of which some men boast been ours, we had
scarcely chosen to face the awful change--to look into each other's eyes
through gathering death-doom!




CHAPTER III.


Before my dreaming eyes was the terror of a hungry, crunching tooth,
fixed in the vessel's side, that of the iceberg, lying black in the
moonlight like a great coal crystal, grimly awaiting our approach, but
the reality, as well as the figment, had disappeared when I emerged at
sunrise from the suffocating cabin, to the atmosphere of the cool and
quiet quarter-deck, which had just undergone its matutinal.

Armed with an orange and a biscuit for physical refreshment, I depended
on sea and sky for my mental entertainment; and in my hand I bore a
slender scroll, destined as a propitiatory offering to our offended
helmsman.

I was glad to find again at the wheel our pilot of yesterday.

"Your iceberg has disappeared, Mr. Garth," I said, as I extended to him
the sketch I had made of his noble _physique_ the day before, "and here
is a picture for your wife, which she will see was not drawn for fun.
Women are sharper than men about such matters. There, I bestow it not
without regret." He received my offering with a smile, and nod of his
great curly head, opened it, gazed long and seriously upon it, and, with
the single word "Good," rolled it up again, and consigned it to some
bosom pocket in his flannel shirt, into which it seemed to glide as a
telescope into its case, revealing, as he did so, glimpses of a hairy
breast, and vigorous chest, more admirable for strength than beauty,
certainly.

"I will keep it there," he said, "young miss," pressing it closely
against his side with his colossal hand, "until I get safe home to the
Jarseys, and to Sall, or go to Davy's locker, one or other, but which it
will be, young gal--young miss, I should be saying--is not for me to
know."

"Nor for any one," I rejoined, solemnly; "all rests with God."

"With God and our engineer," he resumed, tersely; "them sails is of
little account, now the mainmast is struck away; them floppen
petticoats, wat the wind loves to play in and out, layin' along like a
lazy lubber that it is, and leaving its work for others to do. It was a
noble mast, though, while it stood--and you could smell the turpentine
blood in its heart to the very last. It was as limber as a sapling, and
never growed brittle, like some wood, with age and dryness. No storm
could splinter it, and it would fling itself over into the high waves
sometimes, rayther than snap and lash them like a whip. But there it
lies, burned with the fire of heaven's wrath, at last, and leaving its
fires of hell behind, in the heart of the Kosciusko."

"You have changed your mind on the subject of engines, Mr. Garth, I am
glad to see. Truly, ours seems to be doing giant's work; now we are
flying, to be sure."

"Rushing, not flying, young lady--that's the word; our wings are little
use to-day, you see, such as are left to us. Runnin' for dear life, we'd
better say, for that's the truth of the matter, and may the merciful
Lord speed us, and have in his care all helpless ones this day!"

The lifted hand, the bared head, the earnest accents, with which these
words were spoken, gave to this simple utterance of good-will all the
solemnity of a benediction or prayer.

I noticed that, after replacing his tarpaulin, the lips of Garth
continued to move silently, then were compressed gravely for a time,
while his eye, large, clear, and expressive, was fixed on space.

"Do you still see an iceberg, Mr. Garth? Do you really apprehend danger
for us now?" I asked, after studying his countenance for a moment; "or,
are you again desirous to try the nerves of your female passengers? I
think I must apply to the captain this time for information."

"Yes, danger," he replied, in low, sad tones, ignoring my last remark,
or perhaps not hearing it at all--"danger, compared with which an
iceberg might be considered in the light of a heavenly marcy. There is a
chance of grazing one of them snow-bowlders, or of its drifting away
from a ship, when the ripples reach it, or, if the wust comes, a body
can scramble overboard, and manage to live on the top of one of them
peaks, or in one of their ice-caves, with a few blankets, and a little
bread and junk and water, fur a space, so as to get a chance of meetin'
a ship, or a schooner; but, when there is something wrong in a ship's
heart, there ain't much hope for rescue, onless it comes from above."

He hesitated, smiling grimly, rolled his quid, crammed his hat down over
his eyes, and again addressed himself to his wheel, and, for a few
moments, I stood beside him silently.

"The ship is leaking, I suppose," I said at last, "so that you apprehend
her loss, perhaps," and my heart sank coldly within me, as I spoke;
"but, if this be true, why does not the captain apprise us? No, you are
quizzing me again, and very cruelly this time, very unwarrantably."

Yet I did not think exactly as I spoke, strive as I might to believe the
man in jest. Too much solemnity and sorrow both were discernible in his
worn and rugged features, hewn grandly as if from granite, to admit of a
hope like this. His words were earnest, and some great calamity was in
store, I could not doubt, or at least he apprehended such. For some time
he replied not, then, slowing pointing to the base of the stricken
mainmast, which still showed an elevation of some inches above the deck,
he revealed to me the truth without a word.

As my eyes followed his guiding finger, I saw, with terror unspeakable,
a thin blue wavering smoke-wreath, float upward from the floor, and,
after curling feebly about the truncated mast, disappear in the clear
sunlit atmosphere, again to arise from the same point, that of the
juncture of the mast and deck, creeping through some invisible crevice,
as it seemed to form itself eternally in filmy folds, and successively
elude the eye as soon as it shaped to sight. I understood him then.
There was fire in the heart of the ship, and I knew the hold was filled
with cotton; it was smouldering slowly, and our safety was a question of
time alone!

Pale, transfixed, frozen, I lifted my eyes to the man, who seemed to
represent my fate for the moment. "Was it the lightning?" I asked, after
a pause, during which his pitying eye rested on me drearily. "Did the
fire occur in that way?"

"Yes, the lightning it was; and God's hand, which sent the shaft direct,
alone can deliver us."

I seemed to hear the voice of Bertie speak these words. Things grew
confused; I wavered as I stood, lifted my hand to my head; the face of
Christian Garth grew large and dim, then, faded utterly. I knew no more
until I found myself seated on a coil of rope, leaning against the
bulwark, while a young girl stood beside me, fanning and bathing my
face, and offering me a glass of water.

"You are better now," she said, kindly; "the man at the wheel called me
as I was passing, and pointed out your condition, and I led you here,
and ran for water. Being up so early is apt to disagree with some
people."

"What are these people crawling about the deck for? Is all hope over, or
was it only a dream?" I asked.

"Oh, you are quite wild yet from your swoon; it is only the calkers
stopping up the seams, one of the captain's queer whims they say; but
how they are to dance to-night, those _magnificos_ I mean, without
ruining their slippers with this pitch, I cannot see! Thank Goodness! I
belong to a church, and am not of this party, and don't care on my own
account, nor does the captain, I believe. I was placed under his care at
Savannah, and I suppose it is only to stop the ball that--"

She was interrupted by the approach of the officer under discussion, but
he passed us gloomily and went on to inspect the workmen so unseasonably
employed, as it seemed, in a labor that, save in a case of long voyages,
is always performed in port.

His melancholy air, and the preoccupation of his manner, confirmed my
worst fears.

Again I sought the Ixion of the vessel, who calmly and stolidly
performed his duty as if, indeed, Fate directed, without a change of
feature now, or expression.

"Has the captain no hope of rescue, Mr. Garth?"

"Oh yes; he thinks we shall meet a ship or two between now and noon--we
'most always do, you know"--rolling his quid slowly, and hesitating for
a while; "keep heart, keep heart! I had thought from your face you were
stronger; besides, the pumps are doing good work in the hold: who knows
what may come of it, who knows?"

Alas! alas! I could not rise to the level of this dim hope. "Think of
the burning crowd, the sheet of flame, the terrible destruction!" I
murmured; "I must go now and apprise those poor wretches below that
their time is short; they have a right to know."

His vice-like hand was on my arm. "You do not go a step on such an
errand," he muttered. "It is the captain's business; he will 'tend to it
when the time comes, for he is a true man, and, the bravest sailor on
the line. He means to do what's right, never fear. It is my dooty to
hold you here until he comes, onless you promise me to be discreet."

"I shall be discreet, never fear--" and his grasp relaxed. I sped me
back to the coil of rope on which I had left my young companion,
intending to partake with her there my biscuit and orange, so needed now
for strength.

I found in her stead (for she had departed in the interval) a
delicate-looking young woman, plain and poor, a widow evidently from the
style of her shabby mourning and sad expression of face, bearing in her
arms a weird and sickly-looking child, evidently a sufferer from spinal
disease--an infant as to size, but preternaturally old in countenance.

The steady gaze of its large and serious eyes affected me
magnetically--eyes that seemed ever seeking something that still eluded
them, and which now appeared to inquire into my very soul.

"Is your little boy ill, madam?" I asked at last; and at the sound of my
voice a smile broke over his small, sallow features, lending them
strange beauty, but dying away instantly again into an expression of
startled suspicion.

"Yes, very ill," she answered, clasping him tenderly as he clung to her
suddenly. "He has some settled trouble that no medicine reaches, and you
see how small and light he is. Many a twelve months' babe is heavier
than he, yet he is three years old come Monday next, and he is 'cute
beyond his years, it seems to me."

"You seem very weak and weary," I rejoined. "I noticed you yesterday
with interest, sitting all the time with your boy on your knee. You must
need exercise and rest. Go and walk now a little, while you can;" and I
stretched my arms for her baby.

To her surprise, evidently, he came to me willingly--attracted, no
doubt, by the gleam of the watch-chain about my neck, and still further
propitiated by a portion of my orange, which he greedily devoured.

In the mean time the poor, pale mother took a few turns on the
quarter-deck, and, disappearing therefrom a moment, returned with a
small supply of cakes and biscuits which she had sought in the steward's
room.

An inspiration of Providence, no doubt, she thought this proceeding
later, which at the moment was only intended to anticipate the delay
attendant on all second-class meals.

These cakes, with a pains-taking diligence, if not
fore-thought--peculiar to all feeble animals, squirrels, sick children,
and the like--did he one by one cram, and compel into my pocket,
unconscious as I was at the moment of his miser-like proceeding
(instinctive, probably), which later I detected, to his infinite
rejoicing. In company with my slender purse, and bunch of useless keys,
a pencil, and a small memorandum-book, they remained _perdu_ until that
moment of accidental discovery arrived which was to test their value and
place it "far above that of rubies."

Light as a pithless nut seemed this little creature in my strong,
energetic arms, and yet his mother staggered beneath his weight.

She insisted, however, after a time, on resuming her charge of him, as
it was proper she should do, and then sat beside me, delivering herself
of a long string of complaints and grievances, after the fashion of all
second-rate, solitary people when secure of sympathy.

She overrated my benevolence on this occasion, however. I was lost in
painful reverie, and scarcely understood a word of her communication,
which I was obliged at last to cut short, for I had resolved, now that
my strength was recruited, on the only visible course remaining to me--I
would seek Miss Lamarque, confide to her the statement of Christian
Garth, relate to her what my eyes had seen, and be guided by her
determination and judgment, with those of her brother, a man of sense, I
saw, and whose instincts, no doubt, would all be sharpened by the
jeopardy of his children.

She was sitting up in her state-room when I knocked at the door, still
in her berth, the lower one--from which the upper shelf had been lifted
so as to afford her room and air--looking very Oriental and handsomer
than I ever had seen her, in her bright Madras night-turban and fine
white cambric wrapper richly trimmed.

Her face broke into smiles as soon as she beheld me; and she invited
me, in a way not to be resisted, so resolute and yet so kindly was it,
to partake with her of the hot coffee her maid was just handing her in
bed, in a small gilded cup, a portion of the service on the stand beside
her.

"It is our Southern custom, you know, Miss Harz--always our _cafe noir_
before breakfast, as a safeguard against malaria. To be sure, there is
nothing of that sort to be apprehended at sea, but still habits are
inveterate; second nature, as the moralists and copy-books say, as if
there ever could be more than one. What nonsense these wiseacres talk,
to be sure! But there is cream, you see, for those who like it--boiled
down and bottled for the use of the children before leaving home--one of
Dominica's notions;" and here the smiling maid, with her little,
respectful courtesy, tendered me a reviving cup of Miss Lamarque's
morning beverage, Mocha, made to the last point of perfection, dripped
and filtered over a spirit-lamp by Dominica, the skillful and
neat-handed.

"But you are very pale to-day, my child--what on earth can be the
matter?--There, Dominica, I thought I heard Florry cry! Go and help
Caliste get the children ready for a trot upon deck before breakfast,
and don't forget to give each one a gill of cream and a biscuit--or,
stay, twice as much for the two elder before they go up. It may be some
time before they get their regular morning meal.--They have to wait, you
know, Miss Harz, which is such rank injustice where children are
concerned. Patience never belongs to unreasoning creatures, unless an
instinct, as with animals; men have to learn its lessons through the
teachings of experience--that strictest of school-masters. Now, you see,
I have my lecturing-cap on, and am almost equal to you or Dr. Lardner
in my way. But it takes you to define fascination! I suppose Mrs.
Heavyside, however, could help you there--for nothing short of
witchcraft could account to me for her elopement with that dreary man!
To leave her sweet children, too, as if all the men on earth could be
worth to a true mother her teething baby's little toe or finger!"

"Would she never stop--never give one loop-hole for doubt to enter?" I
thought.

"But what in the world ails you--has Dunmore, the disconsolate, been
making love again? Has Captain Falconer declared himself too soon? and
do you hesitate, on account of Miss Moore? Don't let that consideration
influence you, I beg, for she is the greatest flirt in Savannah, the
truest to the vocation, and I like her for that, anyhow. Whatever a man
or woman has to do, let him or her do earnestly. That isn't exactly
Scripture, but near enough, don't you think so?" and she laughed
merrily.

"I have been on deck this morning," I commenced, "Miss Lamarque, and saw
Christian Garth, and--"

"He has been terrifying and electrifying you again with his tale of
horrors--there, it is all out. Why, he is as sensational as 'Jane Eyre,'
this new English novel I am just reading," drawing it from under her
pillow and holding it aloft as she spoke. "Currer Bell is not more
mysteriously awful, but Garth is not artistic. I detected his intention
by the inconsistency of his expression of face, which bore no part in
his narrative, and at once exposed him, you must remember--"

"Oh, yes--but this time--"

"Nonsense, Miriam Harz! the iceberg is gone, I know. Why, what a nervous
coward you are, to be sure, with all that assumed bravery! I am twice
as courageous, I do believe, despite appearances; I really begin to be
of opinion that it is safer to be at sea than on land--now what do you
think of that for a heterodoxy?--A second cup? why, of course, and a
third, if you want it; I am delighted you like it. These little Sevres
toys are but thimbles, but I always carry them about with me by sea and
land, and have for years; I feel as if there were luck in them, not one
of the original three has been broken--there--there!--just as I was
boasting, too!--never mind, such accidents _will_ occur; but your pretty
pongee dress is sadly stained with the coffee; besides, as _you_ dropped
the cup, it is _your_ luck, not mine; and I want an odd saucer, anyhow,
to feed Desiree out of; she sleeps in that willow basket you see in the
corner of the state-room, Miss Harz, and is lazy, like her mistress, of
mornings.--Desiree! Desiree! peep out, can't you, now you have your
long-desired Sevres saucer to lap milk from?--She won't touch delft,
Miss Harz. She is the most fastidious little creature!"

"Alas! alas!" and I groaned aloud.

"Not taking on about that silly cup, I hope--no; what can it be then, a
megrim? No. Well, I can't imagine any thing worse, to save my life.
Here, let me read you this, it is fine--it is where Jane Eyre feels
herself deserted, and this comparison about 'the dried-up channel of a
river' thrills one. Just hear it;" and she was about commencing--

"Not now--not now, Miss Lamarque; stern realities demand our attention.
Lay your book aside, be calm, be firm, but listen to me seriously.
Christian Garth informs me, nor he alone--my own eyes have done the
rest--that the cotton in the hold has taken fire from the lightning
yesterday; has been slowly smouldering ever since the mast was
struck--and that the ship's hours are numbered!"

"O God! O God!" and she bowed her head upon her clasped and quivering
hands. "But, Captain Ambrose--he did not tell you so?" looking up
suddenly. "Christian Garth, indeed! his impudence is surprising--another
hoax, I suppose," and she tried to smile; "such a coarse creature, too!"

"We shall see, but for the present say nothing; only get up and dress as
quickly as you can, but it is important to be very quiet, for fear of
causing confusion. I have promised discretion."

"Call Dominica, then, for me, Miss Harz," gasping and stretching forth
her arms. "I can do nothing for myself--nothing--I am so weak, so
helpless. Yet I must believe he is--you are mistaken!"

"I trust it may prove so. But let me assist you; Dominica is best
employed making ready the little ones and giving them food--strengthening
them for the struggle. She will be nerveless if she knows the truth, and
you are not in a condition to conceal it."

"Just as you will, then. My trunk--will you be so kind as to unlock it
and give me out the tray--that picture? After that I can get along
alone."

I silently did as she desired, and saw her place a covered miniature
about her neck before she arose. Very few minutes sufficed this morning
for her toilet--usually a tedious and fastidious one--her dress, her
bonnet, her shawl, were hastily thrown on, her watch secured with the
few jewels lying upon the night-table; the rest of her valuables were
with other boxes in the hold, the repository of all unneeded baggage,
and these, of course, she could scarcely hope to save in case of fire,
even if lives were rescued.

Then, together, we went out, just in time to join the little troop of
young children and nurses on their way to the deck. Miss Lamarque did
not reply to their tumultuous greeting, but, silently taking the baby
Florry, her namesake, in her arms, kissed her many times. I had told her
while, she was dressing, of the smoke-wreaths about the base of the
broken mast, and she believed in the testimony my eyes had afforded me
far more than in the reports of Christian Garth. We did not encounter
Mr. Lamarque when we first went on deck; he had gone forward to smoke,
some one said; but Captain Ambrose was standing alone, telescope in
hand, and to him we addressed ourselves, quietly.

He seemed startled when I disclosed the result of my observation--for I
did not choose to commit the pilot--but he did not attempt to deny the
truth of the condition of things, and conjured us both to entire quiet
and composure, and, if possible, to absolute silence. The safety of five
hundred people, he said, depended on our discretion; the ship might not
ignite for days, if at all, he thought, so carefully had the air been
excluded from the cotton by the process of tight calking, so as to seal
it almost hermetically; indeed, the fire might be wholly extinguished by
the pumps, which were constantly at work, pouring streams of water
around and through the hold; and a panic would be equal to a fire in any
case. Such were his calmness and apparent faith in his own words, that
they did much to allay Miss Lamarque's fears. My own were little
soothed--I never doubted from the beginning what the end would be.

Mr. Lamarque approached us while the conference with the captain was
going on, and, under the seal of secrecy, the condition of affairs was
communicated to that gentleman.

I never saw a man so crushed and calm at the same time. His handsome
face seemed turned to stone--he scarcely spoke at all, and made no
inquiries. I think his mind, like mine, was made up to the worst. Yet he
commanded himself so far as to go to the breakfast-table and superintend
the meal of his little children, about whom he hung, like a mother-bird
who sees the shadow of a hawk above her brood, from that moment until
the _denoument_ of the drama separated us two forever.

Miss Lamarque and I sat down together on a bench, while the host of
hungry passengers crowded down to the cabin at the welcome summons of
the bell, and I was aware again of the pale widow and her patient child
standing near me.

A sudden thought occurred to me. This woman, more than any one among us,
needed the strengthening stimulus of good food, and this meal might be
her last on shipboard--on earth, perhaps--for a dull, low, ominous sound
began to make itself heard to my ear as soon as the murmur of the crowd
subsided.

"Trust me with your child again while you go down and eat your breakfast
in my place to-day. It is a whim of mine. I have had coffee with this
lady in her state-room, and shall not appear at the table. You may bring
me a slice of bread, if you choose, when you come back, and one for
baby. Do not refuse me this favor."

Much pleased at my attention, as I could see, she went to the grand
first table, with its high-heaped salvers of snowy rolls and biscuit,
its delicate birds and fowls, its fragrant coffee and tea, so different
from the dregs of the humble board at which her second-class ticket
alone entitled her to appear; and, to save her from possible
humiliation, I wrote a line to the steward; so she feasted, no doubt, in
state.

Again I enacted the _role_ of self-appointed nurse to a creature that
looked more like a fairy changeling than a flesh-and-blood creation.

"You are a strange woman, Miriam Harz! At such an hour as this, what
matters the quality of food?" said Miss Lamarque, sententiously. "After
all, what can that invalid and her child be to you in any case? They are
essentially common and mean. You never saw them before, and may never
see them again."

"In view of such a catastrophe as that before us, all distinctions fade,
Miss Lamarque. This is the last meal any one will take on the ship
Kosciusko--she is doomed! The woman might as well get strength for the
chance of saving herself and child. I doubt whether any second table
will be spread to-day!" I spoke with anguish.

"You cannot believe this! Why, after what the captain said, days may go
by before any real danger manifests itself! Ships must pass in the
interval--many ships may pass to-day, within a few hours, ready for our
relief, if needed; and see, the smoke has ceased to curl about your
broken main-mast! That shows convincingly that the fire is being gotten
under--extinguished, probably."

"Oh, no! no! no! not with that low, terrible roaring in the hold. The
fire is gaining strength, and our agony will soon be over."

I sat with clasped hands and bowed head before her, insensible to her
words. I suppose she strove to strengthen me. I think she tried to
soothe. Failing in both, she rose and went away, and in her place came
Christian Garth, relieved from the helm, and stood a moment beside me.

"Don't be down-hearted, young gal, an' wait for me. Ef the Lord lets me,
I will save you, and the old lady, too; that is, ef she is your aunt or
mother or near of kin."

I shook my head drearily.

"You have no hope, then, Mr. Garth?"

"Hope? yes; the best of hope--the Christian's hope. God can do any thing
He pleases, we all know, and He may stretch forth his hand when all
seems dark; but Captain Ambrose is not one to run a risk of that sort,
so he has sent me to work upon a raft--one of two he is making for the
seamen if the wust comes to the wust. But you see, I have been on lost
ships afore now, an' I know there is no larboard nor starboard rules
when men are skeered. So I shall make my raft to hold the womenfolk, for
the boats will be for the sailors--mark my word--and them that's wise
will wait till the press is over and take the rafts."

"There are little children," I said; "six of them belonging to that lady
and Mr. Lamarque. Don't forget them, Mr. Garth, and the poor little
widow coming now to claim her baby; this miserable little creature I am
holding until she breakfasts. Don't lose sight of these, either, in the
crowd, if, indeed, we are obliged to have recourse to your raft."

"Pray rayther that it may float us all to safety," he said, sternly,
"for your best chance of being saved will be on that raft, if matters go
as I think they will. Trust me, for I will come;" and he passed away
just before the little widow came to my side again.

"I came up as soon as I could, to relieve you. I know how cross baby is
when he gets restless, and I was afraid you might tire of him. See! I
have brought his bread, and this waiter of tea and toast for you; now
you must take a mouthful."

She knew nothing of our danger, it was plain. "Did you leave the other
passengers at table?" I asked; "the captain, was he there?"

The question was never answered, for the attention of my interlocutor
was riveted now, as was my own, on the companion-way, from which a wild
and frightened-looking crowd was densely emerging, with a confused hum
of voices that announced their recognition of their impending danger.
The change of age, of pain, of woe, seemed sealed upon each aspect, as
one by one, and phantom-like, in rapid succession, those who had so
lately gone down to feast returned to the upper day, like grim ghosts
coming from a church-yard carnival.

It was a sight to stir the stoutest spirit.

At the close of the repast, the captain had announced the truth to his
passengers, and followed them now to enjoin them to firmness and
efficiency, both so greatly needed at this crisis.

Mounted on the capstan, he addressed them briefly, and not without
influence. Such was the power of his simple and manly bearing over these
distracted souls, that even the wildest listened with decorum.

This was no immigrant-ship, loaded with stolid or desperate men,
insensible of high teachings, and alone desirous of personal safety. Yet
the universal instinct asserted itself, and for the time courtesies were
set aside, and family affections were all that were regarded.

Miss Lamarque, pale, yet collected, now stood surrounded by the children
of her brother, leaning upon his arm while the captain spoke. Husbands
and wives were together, sisters and brothers, servants and their
masters--each group revealed its several household affinities. We only
were alone--the dreary little widow, whose name I never knew, and Miriam
Monfort; and on natural principles we clung together.