Miriam Monfort by Catherine A. Warfield (page 2)

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