CHAPTER XMYSTERIOUS DANGER
Something of a cold mistrust,Wonderful, and most unjust,Something of a surly fearFills my soul when he is near.Caroline Norton.
Something of a cold mistrust,Wonderful, and most unjust,Something of a surly fearFills my soul when he is near.Caroline Norton.
Something of a cold mistrust,Wonderful, and most unjust,Something of a surly fearFills my soul when he is near.Caroline Norton.
Something of a cold mistrust,
Wonderful, and most unjust,
Something of a surly fear
Fills my soul when he is near.
Caroline Norton.
Gloria did not carry out her intention of going to Sandy Isle on the next day to see her old friend, Granny Lindsay.
The weather had changed in the night, and a week of steady rain set in.
The small family were confined to the house, and had to find what amusement they could within doors.
Colonel de Crespigney found occupation and entertainment enough in unpacking his books from the boxes in which they had been carefully put away to keep them safe from the workmen who were in the house, engaged in the work of restoration, during his absence in Europe with his ward.
Gloria found interesting employment in turning over and inspecting the beautiful wardrobe she had brought over from London and Paris; and afterwards in rambling through all the rooms of the rejuvenated old house, to which she could scarcely become reconciled.
“Oh, it is all very fine, I dare say, and it was very good of the colonel, and I ought to admire it very much, but it reminds me of the melancholy old ladies I have seen at public places, all painted up with rouge and pearl powder. The old house was more respectable and even more beautiful and artistic in its old aspect.”
Miss de Crespigney engaged herself in preparations for her departure, for she was going South to spend the winter with her brother and sister-in-law, and had delayed her departure only to receive Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria on their return to Promontory Hall.
By the time that the rainy season came to an end and the sun of the Indian summer shone out again, Colonel de Crespigney’s books were all unpacked, catalogued, and restored to their niches in the newly furnished library; Miss de la Vera’s personal effectswere inspected and arranged, and Miss de Crespigney’s preparations for her departure were complete.
“I have reconstructed your household government, and trained your servants so well in the seven years that I have passed in this house, Marcel, that now I think affairs will run quite smoothly in the present groove with only the nominal mistress of the house that the little countess will make. I think, however, that you should take your niece to Washington in December, and spend the fashionable season there with her, where she may have some opportunity of marriage, suitable to her rank and wealth,” said Miss de Crespigney to the colonel in atête-à-têteshe held with him on the day before she was to leave the promontory.
“Gloria is but sixteen. There is time enough five years hence to think of marrying her off,” replied Colonel de Crespigney, wincing, for he was less inclined than ever to display his treasure to the world; more disposed than before to keep her all to himself.
Late in the day, Miss de Crespigney said to the young lady:
“You must make your uncle take you to Washington for the season, my dear. It is not right that you should be buried in your youth in this remote and solitary home. You are the Countess de la Vera, and should be brought in society suited to your rank. My sister-in-law, Madame de Crespigney, will be in Washington this winter. She has no unmarried daughters of her own, and I am sure she would feel honored to chaperone the Countess Gloria. Make your uncle take you to Washington this winter, my dear.”
“Oh, Aunt Agrippina, I thank you for your kindness in thinking about me so much, and I assure you that Marcel would do anything to please me without being made to do it; but really I do want to stay home and be quiet this winter. Ever since I left school—the first of July—I have been going to places all the time. I am so tired of going to so many places and seeing so many things. I don’t want to go away again for ever so long. I want to stay here and see all my dee-ar old friends and live the dee-ar old times over again,” pleaded Gloria.
“My child, you can never live the old times over again any more than you can go back to your baby-hood and live that over again. And as for old friends, Gloria, you have none.”
“Oh, yes! there is dee-ar Granny Lindsay and David Lindsay!”
“Not the right sort of friends for the Countess de la Vera. But there is all the more reason why you should go to Washington. I will speak to my nephew again on the subject,” said Miss de Crespigney.
And she did speak to the colonel that same afternoon, but without effect.
No doubt if she had stayed longer she might have gained her point,
“For if a man talk a very long time,” &c.
“For if a man talk a very long time,” &c.
“For if a man talk a very long time,” &c.
I have quoted that piece of wisdom already. Miss de Crespigney had not “a very long time” to “talk.” She was to leave Promontory Hall the next morning.
Her last “official” act that night was to call the three servants into the dining-room and give thema final lecture on their duties to themselves, to each other, and to their master and mistress.
“And let me impress this fact upon you,” she said, gravely; “the young lady of this house is not a Marylander. She is not even an American. She is a Portuguese West Indian, and a countess by birth and inheritance. You are not to address her, or speak of her, as Miss Glo’. I won’t have it! You are to speak of her as the Countess Gloria. Remember that!”
Then, after some other instructive discourses, the old lady distributed some presents among them and dismissed the party.
The next morning Miss de Crespigney left Promontory Hall in the old family traveling carriage, driven by Laban as far as St. Inigoes, where she was to meet the stage-coach that was to take her to Baltimore.
Her directions to the servants in regard to Miss de la Vera’s Portuguese birth and rank were remembered with simple indignation by the two women, ’Phia and Lamia, who did not know a Portuguese from a portemonnaie, or a countess from a counterpane.
“Call our Miss Glo’ countess, indeed! Sha’n’t do no sich fing! ’Deed, I fink it would be downright undespectful to call our young lady countess, as nebber had the trouble ob countin’ de chickens, or de ducks, or anyfing on de place, all her blessed life,” exclaimed ’Phia, wrathfully beating out her excitement on the feather pillow of the bed she was helping her daughter to make up.
“What Miss Aggravater means by it, anyways?” scornfully inquired Lamia.
“Contrariness, nuffin’ else!” replied ’Phia, giving the pillow a portentous whack with her fists.
And from that time they continued to call the golden-haired girl Miss Glo’, and nothing else.
Meanwhile Gloria and her uncle lived together day after day, and week after week, and never seemed to tire of each other, or to desire any other society.
She had none of the cares that might have fallen on her as the young mistress of the house.
’Phia had been trained by Miss “Aggravater” into a model manager, and was quite capable of assuming all the responsibility and discharging all the duties of a good housekeeper.
Thus the young lady, while holding all the authority of the mistress, enjoyed all the freedom of a guest.
Every morning after breakfast she brought her little fancy work-basket down into the library, and sat in a low chair by the table where her uncle was reading or writing.
She sat very quietly working, as she used in her childhood to sit playing. She never disturbed him by a word or a movement, being contented only to remain near him.
Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading or of writing, he was sure to share it with her. It was in this way: If he happened to be engaged with a book, he would read choice selections from his author, and then draw her thoughts forth in praise or censure of the subject, or its treatment. If he were engaged with his pen, he would read to her what he had written, and invite her to suggest any alteration or improvement that might occur to her mind.
And he was often amused and sometimes startled by the brightness and originality of her thoughts and criticisms.
Sometimes he would pause in his employment and sit and silently watch her at her pretty work of silk embroidery. At such times, she worked more diligently than at others, keeping her eyes fixed upon her needle, and never daring to raise them to his face.
If you had asked her—why was this? she could not have told you. She did not know herself. She only knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to meet Marcel’s eyes made her own eyes sink to the floor, and her cheeks to burn with confusion, indignation and misery.
She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which she could neither comprehend nor conquer.
“Why,” she asked of her heart in vain—“why should I feel so wounded, insulted and offended at the steady gaze of dee-ar Marcel, who loves me so truly, and whom I love and honor more than any other one in the whole world?”
She could not answer her own question. She only felt that she hated herself for entertaining such feelings, and sometimes even hated her dee-ar Marcel for inspiring them.
From some strange intuition she had ceased to call him “Marcel, dee-ar,” with tender slowness drawing out the word into two syllables, and dwelling with pathetic fondness on the first. She called him “uncle, dear,” with respectful brevity, and nothing more.
On one occasion, while she was sitting at his feet in the library, engaged with her flower embroidery in colored silks, and not daring to raise her eyes,because her burning cheeks and shrinking heart assured her that he had ceased reading and was gazing steadily upon her, he said, with a touching sadness:
“I fear that you are often dull in this lonely house, dear child.”
“Oh, no, uncle, never dull,” she answered, without raising her eyes.
“And never weary of a tiresome bookworm like me?”
“Never, uncle, dear,” she answered, kindly, touched by the pathos of his tone, but half afraid of the pity that she felt for him, lest it should lead her into some vague, ill-understood wrong or woe.
“Gloria,” he said, in a strangely earnest tone.
“Well, uncle?” she breathed, in fear of—she knew not what.
“Look at me, my darling.”
She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met his glance she dropped them immediately.
“Gloria!”
“What is it, uncle, dear?”
“I wish you would not call me ‘uncle.’ I am not your uncle, child. Do you not know it?”
She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere oppressed her so that she could scarcely breathe.
“Do you not know that I am not your uncle, Gloria? Do you not know that I am not the least kin to you? Answer me, my darling.”
“Yes, I know it,” said the perplexed girl, scarcely above her breath.
“Then you do not love me the less for not being your own uncle?”
“Oh, no,” breathed the girl.
“While I——Ah! my child, I thank Heaven every day of my life that I am no blood relation of yours,” he added earnestly.
She heard him with a shudder, but made no reply.
“You must not call me uncle any longer, my darling. You must call me ‘Marcel,’ as you used to do. Do you hear me, Gloria? Will you call me ‘Marcel,’ as of old?”
She felt herself almost suffocating under the passion of his gaze, but she forced herself to answer, though in the lowest tone:
“I cannot do so now.”
“But why? You used to do so, my dearest. You used to call me nothing but Marcel.”
“That was—when I was a baby—or a child. I called you—what I heard others call you—as children will. I knew no better then. I know better now,” she answered, with a fruitless attempt to speak firmly; for her voice sank and almost expired, as she wished herself a thousand miles from her present seat, yet felt that she had no power to flee.
“But, my dear, you cannot go on calling me uncle, for I am not your uncle,” he answered, really pleased and flattered by the distress that he fatally misunderstood, because, in fact, it resembled the sweet confusion of the girls who had been “in love” with him in his earlier youth. “No, Gloria, you must not call me uncle,” he repeated.
“Then I must call you Colonel de Crespigney,” she replied, without raising her oppressed eyes.
“Never! that would be almost as bad as the other. No, you must call me Marcel, as you used to do.How sweetly the syllables fell, bird-like, bell-like, flute-like, from your lips, my darling.”
She made no answer, but wished she had the power to rise and go away.
“Gloria,” he said, dropping his voice to the lowest tone—“Gloria, I told you just now that I thanked Heaven there was no blood relationship between you and me! Can you divine, my love, why I do so thank Heaven that we are of no kin?”
She trembled, but could not speak or move.
“Can you not, my child? Ah! you do! you do!” he sighed, seizing both her hands and trying to draw her towards him.
The touch gave her the power she needed.
“No! I don’t! I don’t know what you mean!” she suddenly cried, snatching her hands from his, starting up and rushing out of the room. Nor did she stop until she had gained the solitude of her own chamber, where she banged to and locked the door, and then sank half dead upon her sofa.
She really did not know, and did not want to know, what her guardian meant by his strange speech any more than by his strange manner. “She understood a horror in his words, but not his words.” She felt a sudden abhorrence of his person that sent her flying from his presence.
And now, in the seclusion of her own room, her overwrought feelings broke forth in a flood of tears.
These relieved her, and then she began to ask herself the cause of all this excessive emotion. She could discover no reasonable cause. Her guardian had been as kind, or even kinder, than usual. He had only looked at her very intently, and asked her if she knew why he thanked Heaven that there wasno blood relationship between them; and he had taken her hand in his to draw her nearer to him.
Now, what was there in all this to turn her sick even to faintness? To fill her with terror and disgust? To make her fling his hands off and rush from the room?
She could not tell. She said to herself that she had behaved very rudely, harshly, unkindly! Whatever her guardian had meant by his strange behavior, he had meant no evil. How could he mean evil? No, he had meant none; of that she felt quite sure all the time. And yet she had rushed rudely away from him, and hurt him who had never meant anything other than good to her, and she felt very sorry for her own conduct.
“I am too impulsive. Uncle always told me I was too impulsive. Even the mother-superior of the Sacred Heart Convent school used to tell me that unless I watched and prayed I would some day commit some fatal error on an impulse that might ruin my life. Yes, I am too impulsive. I must learn self-control, and not worry others because I cannot understand them. I have hurt my good uncle, who means me nothing but good, and I must try to make amends to him,” she said to herself.
But—she called him her “good uncle,” and not her “dee-ar Marcel,” and even in her tender compunction she felt a latent misgiving, a vague fear of some wrong or woe into which this sweet penitence might lead her.
“If I only had a mother,” she sighed.
Meanwhile, in the library, Marcel de Crespigney held an interview with himself full of bitter self-reproach and lamentations.
“I have alarmed and repelled her by too sudden an approach. And yet I thought that six months of the close companionship and easy intercourse of travel, together with the affection and confidence she has always shown to me, had prepared the way to a nearer and dearer union! But I have been too impatient, too hasty, too importunate. I should have approached her gradually, gently. I should have remembered that she is not quite like other girls. She is very delicate, dainty, refined, sensitive—yea, a very mimosa, that shrinks and trembles at a rude breath or touch. I must be patient, very patient for weeks, for months, if I hope to win her hand.”