"She has told you so, I suppose?"
"If she had, I would not talk about it. No, she never told me so. I found it out myself. I know what she thinks, though, of every one, just by looking at her."
"Then what does she think of me?" asked Mrs. Austin, sharply.
"That you are a good, dear old nurse," I said, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, jumping up and throwing my arms about her; "only a little, very little, bit fonder of Evelyn than me. But that is natural. She is so much prettier and older than I am, and takes better care of her clothes. Besides, I am cross about dressing, I know I am; and afterward I am always so sorry."
"My Miriam always had a good heart," said Mrs. Austin, quite subdued, and returning my embraces. "And now let me call Charity to wash and comb and dress you before your mamma comes home. You know she always likes to see you looking nicely. But soon you must learn to do this for yourself; Charity will be wanted for other uses."
"I know, I know," I cried, jumping up and down; "Evelyn told me all about it yesterday," and the flush of joy mounted to my brow. "Won't we be too happy, Mrs. Austin, when our own dear little brother or sister comes?" And I clasped my hands across my bare neck, hugging myself in ecstasy.
"I don't know, child; there's no telling. What fingers" (holding them up wofully to the light); "every color of the rainbow! That green stain will be very hard to get out of your nails. How careless you are, Miriam! But, as I was saying, there's no telling what to expect from an unborn infant. It's wrong to speculate on such uncertainties; it's tempting Providence, Miriam. In the first place, it may be deformed, I shouldn't wonder—that lame boy about so much—short of one leg, at least."
"Deformed! O Mrs. Austin! how dreadful! I never thought of that." And I began to shiver before her mysterious suggestions.
"Or it may be a poor, senseless idiot like Johnny Gibson.Hecomes here for broken victuals constantly, you know, and your mamma sees him."
"Mrs. Austin, don't talk so, for pity's sake," catching at her gown wildly; "don't! you frighten me to death."
"Or it may be (stand still directly, Miriam, and let met get this paint off your ear)—or it may be, for aught we know or can help, born with a hard, proud, wicked heart, that may show itself in bad actions—cruelty, deceit, or even—" she hesitated, drearily.
"Mrs. Austin,sha'n'tsay such things about that poor, innocent little thing," I cried out, stamping my foot impatiently, "that isn't even born."
"Well, well; there's no use rejoicing too soon, that's all I mean to say. And whyyoushould be glad, child, to have your own nose broken, is more than I can see," with a deep and awful groan.
"For pity's sake, stop! Iamglad, Iwillbe glad, there now! as glad as I please, just because I know mamma will be glad, and papa will be glad, and George Gaston will be glad, and because I do so adore babies, sin or no sin; I can't help what you think; I say it again, Idoadore them. No, I ain't afraid of 'God's eternal anger' at all for saying so; not a bit afraid. What does He make them so sweet for if He does not expect us to love them dearly—His little angels on earth? Whenever a baby passes here with its nurse, I run after it and stop it and play with it as long as I can; and oh, I wish so often we had one of our own here at home!" embracing myself again with enthusiasm.
"Evelyn is right; you are a very absurd child, Miriam," she said, smiling, in spite of her efforts to keep grave; "very silly, even."
"And you are a very foolish, dear old nurse, and youwilllove our baby, too, won't you now?" clasping her also, zealously.
"Be still, child—here comes Charity. She will think you crazy to be rumpling my cap in that way, and talking about such matters. You are getting to be a perfect tomboy, Miriam! What would your papa say if he could see you now, so dirty and disorderly—your papa, as neat as a pink always?—Charity, what kept you so long to-day? Be quick and get Miss Miriam's new cambric dress, and her blue sash, and her new, long, gray kid gloves, and her leghorn hat, and white zephyr scarf. She is going to drive out presently with her mamma and papa, and must look decent for once in a while." After a pause she continued: "Miss Evelyn was dressed an hour ago, and is ready at the gate now, with her leghorn flat on and her parasol in her hand, I'll be bound," looking from the window. "There comes Norman Stanbury home from school. That's the idea, is it?" and the good nurse looked grave. "It will never do, it will never do in the world," she said, as she glanced at them, then turned away, shaking her head dolefully. "My child, my pretty piece of wax-work, must do better than that comes to. Her blood must never mix with such as runs in the veins of the Stanbury clan."
About a month later the feeble wail of my little sister greeted my ear as I entered my mamma's room one morning, in obedience to her summons, and my heart was filled with a rapture almost as great as hers who owned this priceless treasure.
Three weeks later, very suddenly and most unexpectedly, my dear mamma was stricken mortally as she sat, apparently quite convalescent, in her deep chair by the cradle, smiling at and caressing her infant. Mrs. Austin and I were alone in the room with her; papa and Evelyn had gone out for a walk. I had just been thinking how very pretty she looked that day in her white wrapper, with a pink ribbon at the throat, and her little, closely-fitting lace cap, through which her rich brown hair was distinctly visible. She had a fine oval face, clear, pallid skin, and regular though not perfect features, and never appeared so interesting or beautiful as now, in the joy and pride of her new maternity. Suddenly she grew strikingly pale, gasped, stretched out her hands, fixed her imploring eyes on me, and fell back, half fainting, in her chair.
By the time we had placed her on her bed she was insensible, breathing hard, though with a low fluttering pulse, that kept hope alive until the doctor came. The moment he beheld her he knew that all was over; remedies were tried in vain. She never spoke again, and, when my father returned an hour later, a senseless mass of snow replaced the young wife he had left, happy and hopeful.
I was spared the first manifestations of his agony, in which disappointment and the idea of being pursued by a relentless fate bore so great a part, by my own condition, which rendered me insensible for nearly thirty hours, to all that passed around me. It was afternoon when I awoke, as if from a deep sleep, to find myself alone with Mrs. Austin in my chamber.
Except from a sense of lassitude I experienced no unpleasant sensations, and I found myself marveling at the causes that could have consigned me in health to my bed and bed-gown, to my shadowed chamber and the supervision of my faithful nurse, when the sound of suppressed yet numerous footsteps in the hall below met my ear, and the consciousness that something unusual was going on took possession of and quickened my still lethargic faculties.
"What does all this mean, Mrs. Austin?" I asked at last, in a voice feeble as an infant's, "and what are those steps below? Why am I so weak, and what are you doing here? Answer me, I beseech you," and I clasped my hands piteously.
"Eat your panada, Miriam, and ask no questions," she said, lifting a bowl from above a spirit-lamp on the chimney-piece, and bearing it toward me. "Here it is, nice and hot. The doctor said you were to take it as soon as you awoke."
I received eagerly the nourishment of which I stood so greatly in need, spiced and seasoned as it was with nutmegs and Madeira wine, and, as I felt new strength return to me with the warmth that coursed through my veins, the memory of all that had passed surged rapidly back, as a suspended wave breaks on the strand, and with the shock I was restored to perfect consciousness.
"I know what it all means now," I cried. "Mamma! mamma! Let me go to my poor mamma!" and before she could arrest my steps I flew to the head of the stairway, dressed as I was in my white bed-gown, and was about to descend, when Dr. Pemberton stopped my progress.
"Go back, Miriam; I must see you a moment before you can go down-stairs," he said, calmly, and with authority in his voice. "Nay, believe me, I will not restrain you a moment longer than necessary, if you are obedient now."
"Do you promise this?" I cried, sobbing bitterly.
"I do," and he led me gently back to Mrs. Austin, then examined my pulse, my countenance carefully, inquired if I had taken nourishment, gave me a few drops from a vial he afterward left on the table for use, and, signifying his will to Mrs. Austin, went calmly but sorrowfully from the room.
My simple toilet was speedily made. My dress consisted of a white-cambric gown, I remember, over which Mrs. Austin bound, with some fantastic notion of impromptu mourning, a little scarf of blackcrepe, passing over one shoulder and below the other, like those worn by the pall-bearers; and, so attired, she took me by the hand and led me, dumb with amazement and grief, through the crowd that surged up the stairs and in the hall and parlors below, into the drawing-room, where, on its tressels, the velvet-covered coffin stood alone and still open, its occupant waiting in marble peace and dumb patience for the last rites of religion and affection to sanctify her repose, ere darkness and solitude should close around her forever.
The spell that had controlled me was rent away, when I saw that sweet and well-beloved aspect once again fixed in a stillness and composure that I knew must be eternal, the tender eyes sealed away from mine forever, the fine sensitive ear dull, expression obliterated! I flung myself in a passion of grief across the coffin. I kissed the waxen face and hands a thousand times and bathed them with scalding tears, then stooping down to the dulled ear I whispered:
"Mamma! mamma! hear me, if your soul is still in your breast, as I believe it is; I want to say something that will comfort you: I want to promise you to take care of your little baby all my days and hers, to divide all I have with her—to live for her, to die for her if such need comes—never to leave her if I can help it, or to let any one oppress her. Do you hear me, Mamma Constance?"
"What are you whispering about, Miriam?" said Mrs. Austin, drawing me away grimly.
"There, did you see her smile?" I asked, as in my childish imagination that sweet expression, that comes with the relaxation of the muscles to some dead faces toward the last of earth, seemed to transfigure hers as with an angel grace. "Her soul has not gone away yet," I murmured, "she heard me,she believed me," and I clasped my hands tightly and sank on my knees beside the coffin, devoutly thanking God for this great consolation.
"Child, child, you are mad," she said, drawing me suddenly to my feet. "Come away, Miriam, this is no place for you; I wonder at Dr. Pemberton! That coffin ought to be closed at once, for decay has set in; and there is no sense in supposing the spirit in the poor, crumbling body, when such signs as these exist," and she pointed to two blue spots on the throat and chin.
I did not understand her then—I thought they were bruises received in life—and wondered what she meant as well as I could conjecture at such a time of bewilderment; but still I resolutely refused to leave my dear one's side, sobbing passionately when Mr. Lodore came in to take me away at last, in obedience to Dr. Pemberton's orders.
"Come, Miriam, this will never do," he said. "Grief must have its way, but reason must be listened to as well. You have been ill yourself, and your friends are anxious about you; if your mamma could speak to you, she would ask you to go to your chamber and seek repose. Nay, more, she would tell you that, for all the thrones of the earth, she would not come back if she could, and forsake her angel estate."
"Not even to see her baby?" I asked, through my blinding tears. "O Mr. Lodore, you must be mistaken about that; you are wrong, if you are a preacher, for she told me lately she valued her life chiefly for its sake; and I heard her praying one night to be spared to raise it up to womanhood.—Mamma! mamma! you would come back to us I know, if God would let you, but you cannot, you cannot; He is so strong, so cruel! and He holds you fast." And I sobbed afresh, covering up my face.
"Miriam, what words are these?—Mr. Monfort, I am pleased that you have come. It is best for your little daughter to retire; she is greatly moved and excited;" and, yielding to my father's guidance and persuasion, I went passively from the presence of the dead, into which came, a moment later, the hushed crowd of her church-people and our few private friends, assembled to witness her obsequies.
Evelyn Erie accompanied my father to the grave as one of the chief mourners, and at my entreaty Mrs. Austin laid my little sister on the bed by my side, and I was soothed and strengthened by the sight of her baby loveliness as nothing else could have soothed and strengthened me.
Then, solemnly and in my own heart, I renewed the promise I had made the dead, and as far as in me lay have I kept it, Mabel, through thy life and mine!
I roused from an uneasy sleep an hour later, to find George Gaston at my side.
"I have brought you this, Miriam," he said, "because I thought it might help you to bear up. It is a little book my mother loved; perhaps you can read it and understand it when you are older even if you cannot now. See, there is a cross on the back, and such a pretty picture of Jesus in the front. It is for you tokeepforever, Miriam. It is called Keble's 'Christian Year.'"
"Thank you, George," and I kissed him, murmuring, "But I do not think I shall ever read any more," tearfully.
He, too, begged to see the baby for all recompense—his darling as well as mine thenceforth; and I recall to this hour the lovely face of the boy, with all his clustering, nut-brown curls damp with the clammy perspiration incident to his debility, bending above the tiny infant as it lay in sweet repose, with words of pity and tenderness, and tearful, steadfast eyes that seemed filled with almost angelic solicitude and solemn blessing.
Two guardians of ten years old then clasped hands above its downy head, and in childish earnestness vowed to one another to protect, to cherish, to defend it as long as life was spared to either. Hannibal was not older than we were when he swore his famous oath at Carthage, kneeling at the feet of Hamilcar before the altar, to hate the Romans. How was our oath of love less solemn or impressive than his of hatred?—pledged as it was, too, in the presence of an angel too lately freed from earth's bondage not to hover still around her prison-house and above the sleeping cherub she left so lately!
Such resolutions, however carried out, react on the character that conceives them. I felt from that time strengthened, uplifted, calmed, as I had never felt before. I learned the precious secret of patience in watching over that baby head, and for its sake grew forbearing to all around; toward Evelyn, even, whose taunts were so hard to bear, so unendurable on occasions.
"There is a great change in Miriam," she said one day to Norman Stanbury. "I believe she is getting religion, or perhaps she and George Gaston are training themselves to go forth as married missionaries, after a while, to the heathen. They are studying parental responsibility already, one at the head and the other at the foot of the baby's cradle-carriage, but I am afraid it will be but alameconcern, after all."
We both heard this cruel speech and the laugh that succeeded it, in passing by, as it was intended we should do, probably—heard it in silence, and perhaps it may be said in dignity, not even a remark being interchanged between us concerning it; but I saw George Gaston flush to the roots of his hair.
A few minutes later we were ourselves laughing merrily over the baby's ineffectual efforts to catch a bunch of scarlet roses which George dangled above her head, and, altogether forgetful of Evelyn's sneer, bumped our heads together in trying to kiss her.
In truth, my superb sense of womanhood lifted me quite above all frivolous suggestions; thenceforth George seemed to me physically almost as much of a baby as Mabel, and was nearly as dependent on my aid. In his sudden fits of exhaustion and agony of such uncertain recurrence as to render it dangerous for him to venture forth alone, he always turned with confidence to my supporting and guiding hand.
I taught him his lessons in the intervals of my own studies, which he recited when he could to a private teacher, the same who gave me lessons.
Evelyn preferred a public school, and was sent, at her own request, to a fashionable establishment in the city attended by theélitealone, as the enormous prices charged for tuition indicated, as a day-boarder. There she became proficient in mere mechanical music—her ear being a poor one naturally—and learned to speak two languages, dance to perfection, and conduct herself like a high-bred woman of fashion on all occasions and in all emergencies—each and all necessities for a belle, which, it may be remembered, she had aspired to be, and announced her intention of becoming.
The fame of my father's wealth, her own beauty, tact, and grace, and elegant attire, rendered her conspicuous among her school-mates, and from among these she selected as friends such as appeared to her most desirable as bearing on her future plans of life. So that already Evelyn had made for herself a sphere outside and beyond any thing known in "Monfort Hall" or its vicinity.
My father, who, like all shy persons, admired cool self-possession and the leading hand in others, looked on with quiet approbation and some diversion at these proceedings. He gave her the use of his equipage, his house, his grounds, reserving to himself only intact the refuge of his library, from which ark of safety he surveyed at leisure, with quiet, curious, and amused scrutiny, the gay young forms that on holiday occasions glided through his garden and conservatory, and filled his drawing-room and halls with laughter and revelry.
On such occasions I was permitted, on certain conditions, to appear as a spectator. One of the most imperative of these was, that I was never to reveal to any one that Evelyn was not my own half-sister.
"You are not called upon to tell a story, Miriam, only to give them no satisfaction. You see they might as well think part of all this wealth, which came from your mother, is mine. It will in no way affect the reality—only their demeanor—for they every one worship money."
"I would not care for such girls, sister Evelyn, nor what they thought," I rejoined. "Besides, are you not an earl's granddaughter; why not boast of that instead, which would be the truth?"
"An earl's fiddlestick! What do you suppose American girls would care for that? Nor would they believe it, even, unless I had diamonds and coronet and every thing to match. Your mother had diamonds, I know, but mine had not. By-the-by, where are they, Miriam? I have never seen them."
"I do not know, Evelyn," I replied, gravely. "I have never thought about them until now, I am so sorry your heart is set upon such things. You know what Mamma Constance used to tell us."
"Oh, yes, I remember she croaked continually, as all delicate, doomed people do, I believe. It was well enough in her case, as shehadto die; but, as for me—look at me, Miriam Monfort! Do I look like death? No; victory, rather!" and she straightened her elastic form exultingly. "And you, too, little one, are growing up strong and tall and better-looking than you used to be," she continued, patting my cheek carelessly. "The Jewish gaberdine is gradually dropping off; I mean the dinginess of your early complexion. By the time I have had my successful career, and am settled in life, yours will begin. Help me now, and I will help you then."
"You are only a school-girl," I said, sententiously. "You had better be thinking of your lessons, and let beaux and diamonds alone. I would be ashamed to keep a key to my exercises and sums, as you do. I would blush in the dark to do such a thing."
"I am not preparing myself for a governess, that I should make a point of honor of such things, little pragmatical prig that you are; nor are you, that I know of. You will always have plenty of money. 'Rich as a Jew' is a proverb, you know, all the world over."
The taunt had long since lost its sting; so I replied, meekly:
"We none of us know what may happen. I should like to be able to support myself and Mabel, if the worst came. Old Mr. Stanbury says all property is uncertain nowadays, especially in this country."
"Oh, don't repeat what that old croaking vulgarian and general leveller and democrat says, to me! A democrat is my aversion, anyhow. I wonder papa, can tolerate that coarse old Jackson man in his sight. 'Adams and the Federal cause forever,' say I; and all aristocratic people are on that side. I never enjoyed any thing so much as our illumination when Mr. Clay gave his casting vote, and carried Congress. The Stanbury house was as dark as a grave that night; but Norman was in our interest, and I made him halloo 'Hurrah for Adams!' That was a triumph, at all events. It nearly killed the old gentleman, though."
"If I were a man,I, too, would vote for General Jackson," I said defiantly. "He was such a brave soldier; he could defend our country if it was attacked again. Besides, I like his face better than old moon-faced Adams; and I despise Norman for his time-serving."
"Miriam, I shall tell papa if you utter such sentiments again; you know how devoted he is to the Federal party, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"That is just because Mr. Bainrothe over-persuaded him. He used to admire General Jackson. I heard him say once, myself, he would be the people's choice, next time."
"I thought you accused Mr. Bainrothe of toadying papa. Where, now, is your boasted consistency?"
"Evelyn, you know very well that is the way to rule and toady papa. Yield to him apparently, and he will let you lead him and have your own way pretty much. You have found that out long ago, Evelyn." And I looked at her sharply, I confess. She colored, but did not reply. "There is more," I said. "A girl who would be ashamed of her own mother, and afraid to acknowledge her poverty, would not scruple to do this. I believe you are almost as great a humbug at heart as Mr. Bainrothe himself," and I smiled scornfully. "That is whatsomepeople call him."
She turned on me with cold, white eyes and quivering lips; she shook me by the shoulder until my teeth chattered and my hair tossed up and down like a pony's mane blown by the winds, with her long, nervous fingers.
"Inform on me if you dare," she said, "or utter such an opinion to papa, and I will make you and your baby both suffer for it, and that lame hop-toad too, who follows you everywhere like your shadow! Moreover, if you do breathe a syllable of this slander, I shall tell Mr. Bainrothe your opinion of him, and makehimyour enemy. And mark me, Miriam Monfort, precious Hebrew imp that you are, you could not have a direr one, not even if you searched your old Jewish Bible through and through for a parallel, or called up Satan himself. I shall tell papa, too, that you are a story-teller, so that he will never again believe one word that you say, miss!"
"You could not convince him of that," I said, disengaging myself from her grasp, "if you were to try, for I have honest eyes in my head, not speckled like a toad's back, nor turning white with rage like a tree-frog laid on a window-sill; but, if you ever dare to lay your hand on me again, Evelyn Erle, I will tell papaevery thing—there, now! This is the last time, remember."
"I did not hurt you, and you know it, Miriam; I only shook you to settle your brains," and she laughed a ghastly laugh, "and to make you a little bit afraid of me."
"I am not afraid of you," I said, "that is one comfort; and you can never make me so again; and I am not a mischief-maker, that is another; so rest in peace.Passfor my sister if you choose, and are proud of the title; I shall not say yes or no, but of this be certain, you are no sister of mine, though I call you such, either in heart or blood. I do not love you, Evelyn Erle; and, if I were not afraid of the anger of God and my own heart, I wouldletmyself hate you, and strike you. But I always try and remember what mamma said, and what Mr. Lodore tells us every Sunday. Yet I find it hard."
"Little hypocrite! little Jew!" burst from her angry lips, and she left the room in a whirl of rage, not forgetting, however, to write me a very smooth note before she went to school next morning, which was, with her usual tact, slipped under my pillow before I awoke; and, after that, all was outward peace between us for a season.
Evelyn was about sixteen when this occurred, I nearly twelve. The next year she left school and made herdébutin society, and, through her machinations, no doubt, I was sent away to a distant boarding-school for two years, coming home only at holiday intervals thereafter to my dearest baby, my home, my parent, and narrow circle of friends, and finding Miss Erle more and more in possession of my father's confidence, even to the arrangement of his papers and participation in the knowledge of his business transactions, and entirely installed as the head of the house, which post she maintained ever afterward indomitably.
Singularly enough, however, Mr. Bainrothe seemed secretly to prefer me at this period, however much he openly inclined to her, and he lost no occasion of privately speaking to me in rapturous terms (such as I never heard him employ in the presence of Evelyn and my father) of his only son, then absent in Germany engaged in the prosecution of his studies, but to return home, he told me, to remain, as soon as he had completed his majority.
It was only through our knowledge of his son's age, and his admissions as to the time of his own early marriage, that we arrived at any estimate of Mr. Bainrothe's years; for, as I have said, Time, in his case, had omitted what he so rarely forgets to imprint—his sign manual on his exterior.
The school to which I was sent was half a day's journey from the city of our residence, situated in a small but ancient town of Revolutionary notoriety. The river, very wide at that point, was shaded by willow-trees to some extent along its banks, immediately in front of the Academy of St. Mark's, and beyond it to a considerable distance on either hand. The town itself was an old-fashioned, primitive village rather than burgh, quaintly built, and little adorned by modern taste or improvement; but the air was fine and elastic, the water unexceptionable, and bathing and boating were among our privileged amusements. Among other less useful accomplishments, I there acquired that of swimming expertly; and, as a place of exile, this quaint town answered as well as any other for the intended purpose.
For, notwithstanding my father's assurances that Dr. Pemberton had recommended change of air—to some degree true, of course—and that he himself believed a public course of study would exhaust me less than my solitary lessons, to which I gave such undivided attention, and notwithstanding Evelyn's professions of regret at the necessity of parting with me, and Mrs. Austin's belief that the "baby was killing me by inches," since she took it into her head to sleep with no one else, and to play half the night, and to stay with me all day besides, I felt myself "ostracized."
The whole matter was so sudden that I scarcely knew what to make of it. Mr. Bainrothe alone let in a little light upon the subject by one remark, unintentionally, no doubt:
"The fact is, Miriam, you are getting too much wound up with that Stanbury family, and you would be perfectly entangled there in another year. The idea of putting the whole hardship of George Gaston's education on your shoulders was worthy of diplomatic brains, and something I should scarcely have suspected that calm, quiet little woman to have been capable of conceiving. There is an old, worn-out plantation in the Gaston family, that your money would set going again, no doubt, with accelerated velocity. Did you never suspect anything of that sort?" he asked, carelessly.
"Never; nor did I suppose any one else was stupid or wicked enough to entertain such an idea. I, being tolerably acute,knewbetter, fortunately."
"My dear little girl, you are entirely too chivalrous and confiding where your feelings are engaged. What if I were to assure that this plan had been agitated?"
"I should think you had been deceived, or that you were deceiving me, one or the other. I should notbelieveyou, that would be all. You understand me now, Mr. Bainrothe; there are no purer people than the Stanburys—I wish every one was half as good and true."
"Old Gerald at the head of them, I suppose?" with a sneer and a kaleidoscopic glance.
"Mr. Gerald Stanbury at the head of them," I reiterated firmly, adding: "These are friends of mine, Mr. Bainrothe; it hurts and offends me to hear them lightly discussed. If I am sent away from home to break off my affection for them, the measure is a vain one, for I shall returned unchanged."
"Yes, but with enlarged views, I trust, Miriam," he rejoined, pertinaciously. "See how Evelyn was improved by her two years at school; besides, how would you ever increase your circle of acquaintances here, studying alone, or even with your shy disposition, at a day-school?"
"I am sent from home, then, to make acquaintances it seems, and to prepare for mydébutinto society? Very well, I shall not forget that; but pray, what particular advantage in this respect does a country-school present?"
"Oh, the very first people send their daughters to St. Mark's. If I were training a wife for my son, I should educate her there. What higher eulogium could I bestow, or"—dropping his voice—"what higher compliment pay you, Miriam?"
"If he were a king's son, you could not speak more confidently," I rejoined, with inexcusable rudeness. "Remember, too, you arenottraining a wife for your prince in disguise." But I was annoyed and irritated by his patronizing manner, and the suspicion that took possession of me from that time, that he had aided Evelyn in this conspiracy against my peace for selfish views.
He laughed carelessly and turned away, but I saw triumph in his variegated eye; yet was I powerless to resent it.
"I am leaving my poor papa bound hand and foot," I thought, "in designing hands, but I cannot help it. He has chosen for himself, I will not entreat his affection, his confidence, misplaced as they surely are. Icannotdo this if I would; something stronger than myself binds me to silence. But O papa, papa! if you only knew how I loved you, you would not suffer these strangers to take my place, or banish your poor Miriam so cruelly!"
"Don't let Mabel forget me," were the last words I spoke to Mrs. Austin, as with a bursting heart I turned from the lovely child I had made perhaps too much an idol; "and George, let her see George Gaston every day; it will be a comfort to both." So, choking, I went my way.
I bade Evelyn "good-by" gayly, Mr. Bainrothe superciliously, my father bitterly, for I felt his ingratitude to my heart's core; and, under dear old Mr. Stanbury's escort, went to the steamboat, there to find one of the lady principals of the academy ready to take charge of me on our brief voyage. It was not in my nature to cherish depression or to make complaints and sudden confidences, and we chatted very cheerfully all the way up the river on indifferent subjects chiefly; sharing fruit and flowers, and general observations and opinions, so that I felt quite inspirited on my arrival, and made, I have reason to believe, no unfavorable impression.
My school-girl experiences I shall not record here. They were pleasant and profitable on the whole, and I earned the esteem of my teachers, by my zeal and diligence in my studies, and made some few valued friends more or less permanent, but none so dear as those I left behind.
Laura Stanbury, quiet and uninteresting as she seemed to many, had a hold on my heart that no newer acquaintance could boast, and for dear George Gaston, where was there another like him? I have known no one so gifted, so spiritual, so simply affectionate, as this child of genius and physical misfortune, whose short but brilliant career is engraven on the annals of his country, I well believe, indelibly.
When I was fifteen years old, I was recalled suddenly and in the middle of a busy session to my home, by the severe and almost fatal illness of my father. He rallied, however, soon after my return, and I had the inexpressible satisfaction of hearing Dr. Pemberton, our good and skillful family physician, pronounce him out of danger a week later, but he would suffer me to go from him no more. The voice of Nature asserted her claim at last, and, feeling within himself that indescribable failure of vitality in which no one is ever deceived, and which can never be explained to or wholly understood by another, he desired me to remain with him through the remainder of a life which he foresaw would not be long.
It was in vain that Dr. Pemberton tried to rally him on the score of his old hypochondriacal tendencies, or that Evelyn quietly remarked: "I am sure, papa, I never saw you looking better! It is a pity to interrupt dear Miriam now in the full tide of her studies. I am sure thatIam willing to devote every moment of my time to you if needful;" or that Mrs. Austin added: "Miriam is so well, and growing so fast, that I am afraid to see her take on care again, for fear of a check; and now that Mabel is partly weaned from her they are both happy to be separated;" or that Mr. Bainrothe carelessly interpolated: "Let the child go back, my dear Monfort, or you will spoil her again among you. She is developing splendidly at St. Mark's, and you have twenty good years before you yet, with your unbroken English constitution."
Not even the joy manifested by George Gaston and Mrs. and Miss Stanbury, or bluff old Mr. Gerald, at the good news of my return, could shake his resolution.
"Miriam shall leave me no more while life is mine," he said, "be it long or short. When she marries, I will surrender every thing I possess, save a stipend, into her hands, and Evelyn and Mabel and I to some extent will be her pensioners thereafter. Until that time, matters will stand as they do now."
"Folly, folly, Colonel Monfort! You talk like a dotard of eighty; you, a superb-looking man yet, younger than I am, no doubt; young enough to marry again, if the fancy took you, and head a second family."
"Why not say a third?" asked my father, sadly. "Don't you know, Bainrothe, I am a fatal upas-tree to the wives of my bosom? See how it has been already."
"Better luck next time. Now, there is the Widow Stanbury, willing and waiting, you know, and a dozen others."
I turned a flashing eye upon him that silenced him.
"You know better than that," I said, in suppressed tones, hoarse with anger. "Better let that subject rest hereafter, unless, indeed, your object is feud with me. You shall not slander my friends with impunity, nor must you come any longer between me and them and my father."
I spoke, for his ear alone, and waited for no reply. I understood his game by this time, as he did mine.
"His son, indeed!" I murmured, with a scornful lip, as I found myself alone. "I would cut off my right hand before I would give it to a Bainrothe," and I scoffed at him bitterly in the depths of my resentful Judaic heart.
About this time I passed through a painful trial. It was autumn, and early fires of wood had been kindled in the chambers; more, so far, for the sake of cheerfulness than warmth. Mabel was playing on the hearth of her nursery preparatory to going to bed, and I was in the adjoining room, my own chamber, making an evening toilet, for Evelyn expected a party of young visitors that night, and my presence had been requested.
Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had left the room for one moment, when a cry from Mabel brought me to her side. She had fanned the fire with her little cambric night-dress, and was already in a blaze. I caught Mrs. Austin's heavy shawl from the bed, and promptly extinguished the flames, but not without receiving serious injury myself. The child, with the exception of a slight but painful burn on her ankle, was unhurt, but my left arm and shoulder and bosom were fearfully burned, and for some days my life hung on a thread.
Months passed before I was able to leave my own chamber, and the blow to my health was so severe as to induce a return of those lethargic attacks from which I had been entirely free for the last two years. It is true they were brief in duration compared to those of old, but that they should exist at all was a cause of anxiety and disquietude both to my father and physician.
By the first of March, however, I was again in glowing health, and no trace remained, except those carefully-concealed scars on my shoulder, of my fearful injury.
Soon after this accident had occurred, two circumstances of interest had taken place in our household and vicinity. One of these was the return of Claude Bainrothe from abroad, and the other the rather mysterious visit of a gentleman, young and handsome, but poorly clad, who had inquired for my step-mother, Mrs. Constance Monfort, and on hearing, to his surprise and grief, apparently, that she was dead, had gone away again without requesting an interview with any other member of the family.
He had met Evelyn at the door just as she was about to step into the carriage, dressed for visiting, and had said to her, merely (as she asserted), as he turned away, evidently in sorrow:
"I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen—now, as you tell me, no more. What children did she leave?"
"One only—a daughter," was Evelyn's reply. "Not visible to-day, however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though."
"I passed on then, as quickly as I could," said Evelyn, "for I saw no end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep. I said, however, civilly, 'Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged. To-day he could not possibly receive you,' pausing on the steps for a reply. This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his hat with a cool 'Thank you, Miss Monfort,' and went his way silently. He evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him. My greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form."
"The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part, Evelyn," I remarked, as mildly as I could. "Mamma's brother! Oh, what would I not have given to have seen him! Did he never return, and where is he now?"
"No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared. He walked by here a few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with papa's tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor spoke. You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate, Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa annoyed so soon after his severe attack. Besides, I want no such claims established over Mabel. She is ours, and need desire no other relations. The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and lodging, or some such thing, no doubt."
"How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?" I asked, conquering a qualm of feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.
"I'm sure I can't tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the usual age of all such bores. You know mamma was seven or eight and twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you may remember."
"Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly. Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn? Was he tall or short, fair or dark? Had he her lovely eyes? Do tell me about him."
"None of these things. A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma, however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I remember; with fine eyes, however. Not as good-looking as Claude Bainrothe, by any means. Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat. By-the-way, Miriam,hewill 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 worddistingué, 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."
"Iwashurt," 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 likesthem, 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 forBlackwood, 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 amblasewith 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 metoonatural; 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, whatcanhe 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,henever could fancyher. 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 notall. 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,Iwill try to make up thedeficiency," 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.