Months passed away—months of dreary, monotonous despondency, through which ran a vein of anxiety that banished peace. During all this time matters went on pretty much as they had done before, with one exception, I held no further intercourse with Mr. Basil Bainrothe. Claude was absent most of this time on business, for a firm with which he had lately connected himself, and on the few occasions of his presence at Monfort Hall treated me with marked formality.
Evelyn had affected to make light of Mr. Bainrothe's outrage toward me, though far from defending him. "Men of his years do these things sometimes," she said, "under the mask of playfulness and fatherly feeling, and, however unpleasant it may be to bear them, one has to pass them over. You are right, of course, to be reserved with him henceforth, Miriam. By-the-by, dear child, your prudery is excessive, I fear, and it makes a young girl, especially if she is not beautiful, so ridiculous! But, of course, that even is far better than the opposite extreme. Now, I flatter myself, I know how to steer thejuste milieu, always so desirable."
"But, Evelyn," I had rejoined, "his manner was atrocious! I could not—I would not if I could—give you any idea of itsanimality; yes, that is the very word! it makes my blood creep to think of it, even!"
And I hid my face in my hands, crimson as it was from the retrospection.
"Then don't think of it at all. That will be the best way, decidedly," she had said, tapping me playfully with her fan, then whispering: "This lover of yours may be useful to us, you know; let us not goad him to rebellion. You can be as cool as you please, Miriam, but be civil all the same."
I surveyed her with flashing eyes. "Such advice," I retorted, "falls but poorly from your lips, Evelyn Erle, whom my mistaken father dubbed 'propriety personified.' One woman should feel for another's wounded delicacy, even if a stranger; but, when it comes to sisters, O Evelyn!"
"And such insolence falls very absurdly from you, Miriam Monfort, under the circumstances. Sisters, indeed!" she sneered. "It was a claim you repudiated once!" and, with a sweeping bow, she left me, to repeat "sisters, indeed!" in my bitter solitude.
What were these circumstances to which she so haughtily referred? With my heavy head resting on my weary hands, I sat and contemplated them—ay, looked them fully in the face! Outwardly, matters stood just as they had ever done.
The same circle of servants—of acquaintances—revolved around us. The house was unchanged, the living identically the same, even to the one bottle of fine wine per day, carefully withdrawn from the cobwebbed cellar by Morton, and as carefully decanted for our table.
But this alone, of all the viands set before us, was furnished at my expense. My own small hoard of silverpieces had, it is true, from the time of our ruin, more than sufficed for my absolute wants and Mabel's, confined, as they were, to mere externals of necessary dress; but all other outlay, even to the payment of Mabel's masters (I taught her chiefly myself, however), was met by Evelyn.
We, the children of a proud man, were dependent on strangers. Look upon it as I would, the revolting fact stared me out of countenance. Charity, the chambermaid, had more right to lift an opposing front to Evelyn than I had; for she earned the bread she ate, while I—there was no use concealing the mortifying truth any longer—served the apprenticeship of pauperdom!
True, the house was legally mine—the furniture I used, the plate I was served from, the carriage I occasionally drove out in, were all my own possessions—though, with a slow and moth-like process, I was gradually consuming these. For, at my majority, it was my determination to pay for my support in the intervening years, even if I sacrificed every thing in order to wipe out obligations. Ay, the very corn my horses were eating (what mockery to keep them at all!) was now furnished by another, and must eventually be paid for, with interest.
Then, how would it fare with me, beggared indeed? I would take time by the forelock; I would begin at once.
"Evelyn," I had said, not long after the conversation reverted to, "is there no way in which my property may be fixed, so as to leave the principal untouched, and still yield an income sufficient for my support, and that of Mabel? The bread of dependence is very bitter to me."
"I ate it long," she said, "and found it passing sweet. You are only receiving back the payment for an old debt, Miriam. Your father's lavish generosity can never be repaid, even to his children, by me, who was so long its happy recipient."
The words seemed unanswerable at the time, inconsistent as they were with her past reproaches. Again she said—when the same murmur left my lips upon a later occasion—looking at me sorrowfully as she spoke, and with something incomprehensible to me in her expression that affected me strangely: "Wait until you are of age, Miriam: all can be arranged definitely then; but now, the waves might as well chafe against the rocks that bind them in their bed, as you against your condition;" adding with a tragic look and tone, half playful, of course, "Votre sort, c'est moi. You remember what Louis XIV. said, 'L'État, c'est moi;' now be pacified, I implore you—all will still be well," and she patted my shoulder kindly, and kissed my forehead.
Her forbearance touched me; but the time came when all this was thrown aside. It was the old fable again of the bee and the bee-moth. Having failed in her first efforts, she was now very gradually gluing me against the hive.
Evelyn, as I have said, had always been at the head of my father's house and mine, and, by his will, was still to remain so until my marriage, or majority—one, usually, in the eyes of the law, in most respects. So it pained me infinitely less than it must have done had a different order of things ever existed, to see her supreme at Monfort Hall, and to feel that every thing emanated from her hand.
Of all the servants, old Morton alone seemed to feel the difference. Mrs. Austin had always openly preferred Evelyn to me, and Mabel to either—so that matters worked very well between those three. For, though I do not think Evelyn loved Mabel, nor Mabel Evelyn, yet, with this link between them of servile affection, they managed very well, without much feeling on either side.
Mrs. Austin certainly spoiled Mabel, yet she only rendered her self-indulged, not selfish—for this difference arises out of temperament and disposition—and no mother could have been more tender or vigilant of her comfort or welfare, than was this ancient and attached nurse and servitor. I mention this here, for it reconciled me later, somewhat, to an inevitable separation, that must have been else thrice bitter. But the culmination approaches!
I was lying, one evening, on a deep velvet couch in the library, now rarely used except for business purposes—for, again, fires and lights sparkled, in their respective seasons, in the several receiving-rooms of Monfort Hall, maintained by Evelyn's bounty—when, overpowered by the influence of the hour, and the weariness of my own unprofitable thoughts, and perhaps the dreary play of Racine's that I was reading, I dropped asleep.
The sofa was placed in a deep embrasure, surrounded with sweeping curtains, for the convenience of reading in a reclining posture, by the light of the window, and quite shut away, by such means, from the remainder of the room.
To-night, a chilly one in August, very unusual for that season, the window was down, and the drawn curtains kept off the light of the dim lamp that swung from the centre of the apartment immediately above the octagon centre-table.
I was roused to full consciousness by the sound of voices, which I had heard indistinctly mingling with my dreams for some time before.
Mr. Bainrothe and Evelyn were conversing or discussing some subject, somewhat angrily.
"You had the lion's share," I heard him say; "you have no reason to complain. The rest came in afterward, and was all merged in that sinking ship, and went down with it into the deep waters. It would not have been as much as you received, had it been saved, which it was not."
"That is not my concern," she rejoined, dryly; "but for my communication, Miriam would have secured all next morning. She was bent upon it. You ought never to forget this."
"Nor do I; but, after all, you are the chief beneficiary, Evelyn."
"And your son—do you count his welfare as nothing? Will he not share with me? Nay, was it not for his sake, chiefly, I warned you, knowing how implacable else you might be toward us both, and how 'gold would gild every thing' in your estimation."
"True, true; but still something is due to me. Undertake this office—succeed—and command me, eternally. I love that girl, as you know, as Claude could never love any one, and it will go hard with me if I do not still inspire her with somewhat of the same sentiment—that is, with your coincidence."
"Never, never!" she exclaimed with asperity; "her hatred is too implacable—the Judaic principle is too firmly grafted in her life. Truly, she is one of a stiff-necked generation. Her heart is especially hard toward you, Basil Bainrothe—and, I confess, you were precipitate."
"I know, I know—but that error can be repaired. I did not think of marriagethen, I confess; after her bankruptcy and scorn to me, things had not gone so far; her own severity has made me consider the subject seriously. She is not one to be treated lightly, Evelyn!"
"Your son found that out to his cost!" was the bitter rejoinder, and I heard her draw in her breath hard between her closed teeth, with the hissing sound so familiar to me, and peculiar to her when she labored under excitement—a sound like that of a roused serpent.
"Yes, to his cost; but there is no question of that now. Though, I must say, I think he erred. He, like the base Judean, cast away a pearl richer than all his tribe!"
"Thank you!" was Evelyn's curt, ungracious reply.
I rose from the couch, my hand was on the curtain; painful as it was to me, I would go forth and confront them both with the acknowledgment of their conspiracy, their fraud. I would not again listen to bitter truths as I had done before, involuntarily, when bound hand and foot by the weakness of my condition. I was strong and courageous now. I had no excuse for hearing another syllable—I would defy them, utterly!
All this passed like a flash through my mind.
On what slight pivots our fate turns sometimes! How small are the guiding-points of destiny! A momentary entanglement of my bracelet, with one of the tassels of the curtain, delayed me an instant, inevitably, in my impulsive endeavor to extricate myself from its meshes, and what I then heard, determined me to remain where I was, at any cost to my own sense of pride and honor.
Fear, abject fear, obtained complete ascendency over every sense, and personal safety became my sole consideration. I, who had boasted so lately of my courage, felt the cold dew of cowardice bathe my brow, its tremor shake my frame.
They were plotting—deliberately plotting, as the price of secrecy on one part—to shut me up in a lunatic asylum until my consent could be obtained to that ill-starred marriage!
"Every thing is favorable to this undertaking," I heard Mr. Bainrothe say; "her own moody and excitable condition of late—the absence of her physician (meddlesome people, those conscientious medical men sometimes prove, even when not asked for an opinion!)—Mrs. Austin's testimony as to those lethargies, which would be conclusive of itself—our own disinterestedness, so fully proved by our devotion to her and Mabel, under difficulties—her mother's mysterious malady—all these things will make it easy to carry out this plan in which your cheerful coincidence, and perhaps Claude's even, will be essential."
"I doubt whether you succeed in gaining him over," she remarked, coldly; "and, as to me, I shall act as you desire, perhaps, but any thing but 'cheerfully,' I assure you. I consider it a mighty price to pay for—" she hesitated.
"A fortune and a husband?" he queried. "Claude has his suspicions, I well know, but they rest on me alone so far. Could he be convinced of your part in distracting Miriam's gold from its legitimate channel, believe me, he would turn his back on you forever! I know the man."
"Yet he saw me—he must have seen me—alter that word in the codocil to my aunt's legacy—asking no explanation at the time, receiving none thereafter."
"That was different; he thought it a piece of vainglory on your part alone, amounting to nothing, if, indeed, he observed it at all. No, no, Evelyn Erle! if you expect to carry out your views, you must aid me in executing mine. I shall keep your secret from my son on no other conditions. We are confederates or nothing in this matter, you see."
"And suppose, in return, I publish yours to the world," she suggested, coolly; "brand you with baseness? What then, Basil Bainrothe—what then?"
"You dare not!" was the prompt reply. "I hold written propositions of yours on the subject—you have not a scratch of a pen of mine to show. I should declare simply that you were a frustrated rogue, that is all. Who could prove otherwise?" He laughed in his derisive way. There was a bitter pause.
"What is it you want me to do?" she asked, hoarsely, at its expiration. "State definitely what you exact from me in return for your forbearance—yourhonorablesecrecy?" There was exquisite irony in her tone.
"Simply this," he said, calmly, taking no notice of her emphasis—"you are to accompany Miriam to the asylum and act as her nurse and guardian until my point is gained. You shall be present at every interview, and you shall both be made perfectly comfortable—treated like ladies; in short, every propriety shall be sacredly observed, and, on the day on which her marriage with me is solemnized, you may both return to Monfort Hall—you as its head, and Claude as its master; Miriam will go home with me, her husband, of course, and all will be settled. Now, I give you twenty-four hours wherein to consider this proposition. At the end of that time, if you still hesitate, Claude shall know every thing. You can then take your chances with him—he may be ready to take a felon for a wife, for aught I know, after all!"
"Come, then, to-morrow evening," she acceded, after a second pause, and in low, angry accents, "and I will acquaint you with my determination—my necessity rather." They parted thus and there.
Nearly dead with terror and indignation, I crept stealthily to my own chamber, in which I locked myself up securely, resisting all friendly overtures of the enemy, except one cup of tea, received from the hand of a servant through the half-opened door (which was instantly relocked) of my citadel.
My resolution was formed that night. I would leave Monfort Hall, and even forsake Mabel, until I could return and legally claim both. At my majority, Mabel would be of age to select between her guardians, by that time, according to law, and—we should see! As for poor Morton, I would write to him and claim his prayers alone. Age like his is so irresponsible. I dared not trust him farther!
It was all very brief and bitter!
As yet I had digested no plan of action. I would go westward, I thought, but just as far away as my money would carry me from these fiends, trusting to God for the rest, just as a boat puts off from a blazing ship.
Of course, I must adopt another name—what should it be? I should need clothing; andhowsecure and convey away my trunk unseen by Evelyn? My diamonds must be secreted or disposed of—how should this be done? Could I trust Mrs. Austin—Mabel?
No, the suggestion was discarded at once as unworthy of consideration.
One was too old, too self-indulged, too selfish; and in age people usually worship expediency alone. The other far too young not to be necessarily indiscreet and impulsive. To have been otherwise at her tender age would have been simply monstrous!
No, I must forego even the sweet satisfaction of saying farewell to Mabel; we must part perhaps forever, as we might meet again within an hour, and all her distress and anxiety must pass unshared and unheeded.
There was no one else I cared very much about leaving, but the love of locality was a strong feature in my disposition, and every room in my father's house was dear to me, as was every book in his study, and every plant in our deep-green, shadowed garden.
The very streets were sacred in my sight, that I had trodden from childhood, but my liberty was more precious to my heart than scenes of old associations, and to gain one the other must be sacrificed. There was no hesitating now: I was on the tread-mill of fate, and must proceed, or fall and be crushed beneath.
And here again I repeat, what I have said so recently: "On what slight pivots our destiny often turns!—through what small channels Providence works its wondrous ways!"
A pair of shoes had been sent home for me that day, which still lay on the table, wrapped and corded. In truth, they came very opportunely; "I shall want these soon," I thought, as I examined the strong and elastic bootees, which had been made for me in view of my morning walks, a part of dear Dr. Pemberton's regimen, which I strenuously and advantageously carried out.
As I spoke, the paper in which they had been enveloped rustled down on the floor by my side. I stooped, languidly, to pick it up, merely from a sense of order, and my eye fell on a long column, headed "Wanted," and, almost for lack of resolution to withdraw it, wandered down its paragraphs, step by step.
It was a Democratic paper, such as was never patronized by Evelyn—herself a zealous conservative in politics, as our father had been before us—and, as I cared little for newspaper-reading, I had never suggested a subscription to any sheet that she did not fancy, although I inclined to democracy.
I was somewhat amused by the quaintness of some of the advertisements of this sheet for the people, that style of literature being new to me; and found myself smiling over the perfections set forth as necessary, by the paragons of the earth, in both wife and servant, when I came to a dead stand. Here was the very thing I should have selected, could I have chosen my own destination instead of depending onchance(as if, indeed, there were such a thingpossiblewith God—the predestinator of the universe), or necessity (is the name a much better one as applied to the all-seeing Deity?), or fate (a more comprehensive but little less-abused term, perhaps), to do this for me!
The advertisement ran thus, and quite fascinated me with its eccentricity, as well as congeniality to my condition:
"A gentleman and lady, now sojourning for a short time at the Mansion House, wish to employ, immediately, for the benefit of their children, an instructress, who must be,imprimis, a lady—and young; secondly, soundly constituted and well educated; thirdly, a good reader, and able to teach elocution, and entertain a circle; fourthly, willing to reside with cheerfulness on a Southern plantation; fifthly, content with a moderatemodicumas salary. None other need apply—no references given or asked. Inquire forSomnus."
I laid down the paper, and drew a long, free breath; then rang a peal of merriment, startling under the circumstances. It was the first hearty laugh that had left my lips for many days. "What an oddity, one or the other of these people must be!" I thought, "the man most probably—yes, I am sure it is he—no woman ever was so independent of references, or made youth asine qua non, nor elocution either. But am I soundly constituted? ay, there's the rub! suppose my terrible foe sees fit to interfere, 'Epilepsy,' as Evelyn called it, and perhaps with reason—God alone knows!—what then? Well, I will hazard it—that is all—I will charge nothing for lost days, and try to be zealous in the interval; besides, it is a long time since one of these obliteration spells occurred; for I shall ever believe Evelyn dosed me for her own purposes on that last occasion! Fiend!—fiend!—and yet my little sistermustremain in such hands for a season, protected by her guardian angel only."
I passed a feverish night, employing the first part of it in quilting my diamonds into a belt which I placed about my waist; and the remainder in putting together as many useful, as well as a few handsome clothes, as my travelling-trunk would contain; bonnets, evening-dresses, which require room to dispose of, and the like vanities, I abandoned to Evelyn's tender mercies. I rose early and, as usual whenever the weather permitted, sallied forth before breakfast, but this time unaccompanied by my usual attendant, Charity.
The "Mansion House" was at no great distance from our own residence. The beautiful home of the Bingham family, then converted into an hotel, destroyed by fire at a later period, like our own house, was situated in the ancient part of the city, from which fashion had gradually emerged, and shrank away to found new streets and dwellings.
I rang at the private door, and asked the porter for "Somnus;" at the same time sending up a card, on which was written:
"'Miriam Harz,' applicant for the post of teacher."
A few moments later a grave, copper-colored servant, respectably clad, and with an air of responsibility about him that was almost oppressive, invited me solemnly to follow him up the winding marble stair—so often trodden by the feet of Washington and his court, when a gracious assemblage filled the halls above—and ushered me into a small but lofty parlor at its head, in which a gentleman sat reading the morning journal.
Very wide awake, indeed, seemed he who affected the title of the god of sleep, as he arose courteously from his chair, still holding his paper in one hand, and waved me to a seat on the worn horse-hair sofa between the windows.
He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular homeliness.
"Miss Harz?" he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the mantel-shelf—near which he had been sitting—above an unseasonable, smouldering coal-fire.
I bowed affirmatively for all reply. "And I," he continued, "am Prosper La Vigne, of the 'Less durneer' settlement" (for thus he pronounced this anglicized French name) "Maurice County, Georgia," with an air that seemed to say, "You have heard of me, of course!" and again I bowed, as my only alternative.
"Lay off your bonnet, if you please," he said, coolly; "I would like to see the shape of your head before proceeding further. Mine, you see, is an ill-balanced affair," smiling quizzically in his effort to be condescending, perhaps. "This is a mere business transaction, you know," seeing that I hesitated to comply, "and your phrenological developments must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once—but do as you like. Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the brow is a good one. That will suffice, I suppose. I will take the moral qualities on trial for the nonce. My wife is wholly occupied with her domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home, and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is dubious. That reminds me! I have not heard the sound of your voice yet; I am much governed by intonation in my estimates of people, and usually form a perfect opinion at first sight. Be good enough to read this item," and he handed me the morning paper, formally indicating it with his long, lithe forefinger. It was from one of Mr. Clay's speeches. I did as he requested, without hesitation.
"People trot out horses and negroes when they wish to purchase; why not governesses?" I questioned, dumbly. "He did well to ask no references; his examination is thorough, I perceive," and I laid the paper down, half amused, half provoked, when I had finished. He was gazing at me open-mouthed—no unusual thing with him, I found later—and was silent for a few moments.
"Splendid! admirable!" he exclaimed, suddenly; "both, voice and elocution perfect—you possess the greatest of all accomplishments, madam, next to conversational excellence," rising to his feet, and bowing low and seating himself again, in a formal way of his own. "Music is a mockery compared to such reading! as well set a jew's-harp against the winds of heaven! You understand my meaning, of course; it is not precisely that, however. Now let us converse a little."
"The advertisement did not refer to that, I believe, as a condition," I said, somewhat indignantly, and flushing hotly as I spoke. "I really cannot converse to order. I am a person of moods, and do not feel always like talking at all," and I rose and prepared to draw down my veil, take up my parasol, and depart.
"I like you none the worse for a proper exhibition of spirit," he said, nodding kindly, and settling himself once more to his paper composedly. "Sit still, miss, and compose yourself by the time Madame La Vigne comes in, or shemaythink you high-tempered, and I am sure you are nothing of the kind—only very properly proud. There, now, that is right! You seem to be a very sensible, well-conditioned young person indeed, and I think you will suit. You are the tenth since yesterday morning," smiling and bowing blandly, "and the only one that could read intelligibly. Elocution, you see, is my hobby. I forgot to say," looking up from his paper, after a pause, "the salary is six hundred dollars—not enough, perhaps, for a lady of your merit—but quite as much as we can afford to give. This I call amodicum."
"It is not very important," I remarked, "what I receive in the shape of money, so that I am at no expense beyond my clothing, and other personal matters, and that I find myself well situated. My engagement will, in no case, extend beyond a year. You have your peculiarities, I see, and I have mine. The question is, might they not jar occasionally?"
"Oh, never, never! 'noblesse oblige,' you know," with a wave of the hand, soft and urbane. "I hope I shall know how to treat a lady and a teacher, both in one, and a member of my household. Besides that, I shall have very little to do with you, indeed. Just now it is different—we are coming to terms; we have not made them yet, however. I always save my wife this trouble, if possible.—Ah! there she comes, at last," as a mild, lady-like looking woman emerged from an adjoining chamber, somewhat elaborately dressed for that early hour, and followed by a stream of pale, pretty little girls. "Madame La Vigne," he said, rising ceremoniously, "permit me to introduce to you Miss Miriam Harz," reading the name slowly from the card again, which he took from the wall, "'a candidate for the position of instructress at Beauseincourt.'—Say, how do you like her looks?"
I had come to the conclusion by this time that Mr. La Vigne was decidedly as eccentric as his advertisement, and that his vagaries and personalities were not worth minding or estimating in the consideration in question.
So, when Madame La Vigne replied to his abrupt query, "Oh, very,verymuch, indeed!" and held out her kind hand to me, I took it without misgiving, and the first glance we interchanged contained freemasonry. From that time Colonel Prosper La Vigne fell gracefully back into his proper position, and I talked away fluently enough with his lady, as he pompously called his wife. In short, at the end of an hour it was settled that I was to join them the same evening, at their hotel, and proceed with them thence to New York, there to take the packet for Savannah (their first destination) on the same night. The plantation on which they lived, they informed me, was nearly a day's journey, by carriage-conveyance, beyond that city, but eligibly situated for health (though not for productiveness), among a low range of hills known as the "Les Dernier" Mountains, the name being anglicized into "Less derneer," with the accent on the last syllable, so as to metamorphose it completely to the ear, instead of translating it.
"It is a very lonely place though, Miss Harz, in the winter-time—mamma ought to tell you that," whispered Marion, the eldest daughter, as she nestled so closely to me, and looked so kindly in my face, that the intruding thought of her unwillingness for my society was instantly banished. "In the summer it is pleasant enough, so many people come to their cottages in the hills; but, during eight months of the year, we have but one near neighbor, and not a very social one either."
"From circumstances alone unsocial, Marion," said Madame La Vigne, flushing slightly (her usual complexion was of a fair sallowness, common to Southern ladies). "Cousin Celia is certainly devoted at heart to every one of us, but she cannot, you know, leave home often."
"Oh, I know, mamma! I only meant to keep Miss Harz from being disappointed."
"Miss Harz has internal resources, I have no doubt," rejoined Madame La Vigne; "and, even if she had not, I fear her duties would preclude much longing for excitement.—It is a very onerous task you are undertaking, my dear young lady, certainly," turning kindly to me. "Five ignorant little Southern girls, well disposed but imperfectly trained, will fill your hands to positive overflowing, I fear. You will find me exacting, too, sometimes. I am sure I shall enjoy your society whenever you choose to bestow it on me, and Colonel La Vigne as well."
To which declaration on the part of his wife, that gentleman responded by laying his hand on his breast, complacently, and bowing profoundly from his chair, ending the ceremony by a flourish of his delicate cambric handkerchief, and the exhibition at the same time of a slender, sickly, and peculiarly-shaped hand, decorated with an onyx seal-ring. He looked the gentleman, however, unmistakably plain and peculiar as his appearance was, and pompous and pretentious as was his manner.
If words could do the work of the photographer, I should like to show him to my readers, as he appeared to me on that first interview; though later his whole aspect underwent a change in my sight, reflected from the cavernous depths within, so that, what seemed somewhat ludicrous in the beginning, came to be solemnly serious and even sophistically tragical and awful on later acquaintance.
We have all more or less witnessed this phenomenon of transformation in some familiar aspect, either through love or hatred, respect or contempt, fear or admiration, until we find ourselves marveling at past impressions, received, in ignorance of the truth, in the commencement of our observations.
I remember that Mr. La Vigne struck me on that occasion as a superficial man in every way, but kindly, courteous, and vivacious, though certainly eccentric and somewhat absurd. One would have supposed him even a flippant, whimsical person, seen casually; but, on later examination, the droop of his eyelids and under lip, and the depressed corners of his mouth, gave to the close observer a surer indication of his character.
The shape of his narrow, conical, and somewhat elegantly-placed head, denoted an inclination to fanaticism, which had been skillfully combated by a perfectly skeptical education, so as to turn this stream of character into strange channels.
Hobbyism was his infirmity, perhaps, and he was essentially a man of one idea at a time. The word "odd" applied to him peculiarly, which is in itself a sort of social ostracism when attached to any one, and raises a barrier at once between a man and his fellow-bipeds that not even superiority could surmount.
He was emphatically a tawny man as to coloring—hair, skin, and eyes, being all pretty much of the same hue of "the ribbed sea-sands." Yet there were vestiges about him of an originally fair complexion. His wrists and temples were white as those of a woman. His face was long, lank, and cadaverous; his eyes shone with a clear, amber, and steady light, and had an abstracted expression usually, accompanied with a not unfrequent and most peculiar warp of the pupils.
His hair was singularly shaggy and picturesque in its tawny grayness, and wavy, wiry length. Above his eyes his heavy brows of the same texture and color seemed to make a pent-house, from which the high, pale brow receded gradually; his profile was aquiline to absolute grotesqueness. The idea of "Punchinello" presented itself irresistibly at the sight of his parrot-like nose and suddenly-upturned chin.
His gait was as peculiar as his countenance and manner; he glided, in walking, carrying himself erectly, with his arms closely pinioned to his sides. He was altogether so extraordinary looking that I felt myself staring almost rudely at him on our first interview; yet his dress was in no way remarkable except for an air of old-fashioned and speckless neatness.
Madame La Vigne was a pretty and well-preserved woman, of about thirty-five, a fair brunette, originally, to whom most of her daughters bore a close resemblance. One alone, the plainest of the band, presenting a resemblance, most unfortunately for her, of "Colonel La Vigne," as his wife called him, with scrupulous punctilio.
One son, the eldest of their family, they spoke of as the pride of their hearts even on that first interview. He was in the navy, and, consequently, much from home. They regretted this for many reasons, they said, and, among others, on my account. He was so genial, so companionable—their own dear Walter—"such a delightful fellow," as his sister Madge declared exultingly—the second of this band of sisters—and, as far as I could observe, on first acquaintance, the brightest. Marion, the elder, was extremely pretty and gentle; and Bertie, the third, taciturn and unprepossessing, yet evidently sensible. She it was who alone resembled her father.
Fortunately, for the uninterrupted success of my scheme, Evelyn had one of her sick turns that day, and remained closely shut up in her room. At one o'clock, I summoned Franklin to my chamber.
"There is a trunk," I said, "that I wish you would take to the Mansion House—to the care of a Mr. Somnus lodging there—here is the card attached, with his name; place it with his baggage. It is to go to New York, for a Miss Harz, a relation of mine—a teacher, I believe, who has applied to me for assistance; but he understands all that, so you need not be at, any trouble to explain. Be quiet, Franklin, in removing it, as Evelyn is very nervous to-day, and dislikes noise; and go with the drayman yourself to insure its safe delivery."
So passed my first lesson in deception, but I schooled lip and eye to obedience, so that Franklin suspected nothing, and, being a discreet servant, who never let his right hand know what his left was doing, especially when gold crossed the palm, I was sure of silence on the subject, at least until after my own departure.
Mabel and I dinedtête-à-têteat two; I had caused dinner to be served earlier than usual for my own convenience, though indeed I found it a mere form—for how could I swallow a morsel, choked as I was with grief, while the fair child I worshipped, yet was forsaking, sat so calmly and unconsciously in my sight!
After dinner I sought Mrs. Austin, leading Mabel by the hand. I had been kissing her, almost wildly, every foot of the way up-stairs, and she gazed on me, I could not help perceiving, with a sort of fond surprise, for it was not my habit to lavish such passionate caresses, even on her, without occasion.
"I am obliged to go out now," I said, in a broken voice, which I vainly tried to command. "Take our darling, Mrs. Austin, and keep her very safely until I come again. Promise me this!" I added, eagerly seizing her hand.
"La! Miss Miriam, what's the use of promising for one afternoon, when I have taken the best of care of her all her life? You act so singularly to-day!" she added, pettishly, and she began to smooth Mabel's hair, grumblingly. I turned away without another word, murmuring blessings in my heart on that dear head.
There was no time to be lost now! The carriage was already at the door of the Mansion House to convey us to the steamboat when I reached it, and Colonel La Vigne standing, rather anxiously, on the pavement, looking up and down.
"I was afraid you had rued your promise and were not coming," said Marion, springing forth from the door-way eagerly, to greet me.
"And we had forgotten to ask your address," added Madame La Vigne, "or we might have called for you, and saved you a long walk, perhaps."
"We should not have carried off your trunk, even had you not appeared, Miss Harz," said Colonel La Vigne, blandly. "There it is you see, distinctly labeled, on the baggage-wagon in front, directed to the care of 'Mr. Somnus!'—a good deal of waggery about you, I perceive, or had you forgotten my name?"
"No, no! I had reasons—but, you remember, no questions were to be asked; you must wait for voluntary communications."
"I am so glad—so glad you are going with us!" said little Louey La Vigne, pressing my hand, as she sat before me in the carriage by Aunt Felicité, her nurse—Colonel La Vigne and three of his daughters having been consigned to another hack—Louey and her sable attendant, stately with her large gold ear-hoops, and brilliant cotton handkerchief, being inseparable accompaniments of his wife.
"I have banished Mr. La Vigne, I fear," I said, in a broken voice; "it would have been best for me, perhaps, to have gone with the young ladies. Let me begin at once."
"No, it is much best as it is," she answered, affectionately; "think of yourself just now, and take no charge until we all get home. You are our guest until then, remember. I know it is a sad trial to go with strangers, but you will find us friends, I hope;" and she clasped my hand in hers, and so held it until we reached the wharf.
Tears rained down my face, beneath the friendly shelter of my veil, but Madame La Vigne, with the tact of good-breeding, affected not to remark them. Once little Louey, a child of eight years old, the youngest and prettiest of all, leaned forward, as if to soothe or question me, but she was plucked quickly back into her place by the decorous Aunt Felicité, who had not lived so long with quality without acquiring some delicacy of behavior, at least, even if it struck no deeper root.
I had commanded myself, before the carriage stopped beside the panting steamboat, and soon we were gliding along the placid river toward the point whence the railroad was to carry us on to our goal. At New York, we found ourselves hurried for time to reach the packet Magnolia, and went directly from the depot to the quay, for embarkation.
By the pilot, who left us at the Narrows, I sent back a few lines to Mabel, also enjoining him, with the gift of a piece of gold, to mail my letters on the following day, and receiving his promise to do so.
In this brief communication, I promised my dear child that we should meet at my majority, and enjoined her to patience. "You will hear from me again before long," I said, in conclusion; "and I will try and arrange some plan of correspondence. Bad people have obliged me to this step. Do not forget me, my darling, nor my lessons and counsel, and believe ever in the honor and devotion of your sister.Pray for me, Mabel! MIRIAM."
My letter to Evelyn Erie, without date, written on the ship, and sent back by the pilot to be mailed also at New York, revealed my acquaintance with a portion of her duplicity, and Mr. Bainrothe's dark design.
I promised her my forgiveness on two conditions alone: one was, that she should not seek to trace me, since all effort to regain me would be fruitless; another, that she would be kind to Mabel, and my father's ancient servants until my return, and, of these last, especially Morton.
I uttered no threats nor reproaches—asked no favors, beyond those which I had a right to demand at her hands as my father's ward—long supported by him, and even cherished with paternal tenderness—and the guardian of his child. I knew that the use of my house and furniture would amply compensate her for all Mabel's expenses, among the principal of which would be that liberal education which I demanded for her, as her right.
I was very nearly twenty, now; Mabel, ten. There was still time to redeem the past, and carry out all my frustrated intentions, after the expiration of one year of abeyance and exile. Yes! I would "stand and wait," trusting so "to serve."
"Break the dance and scatter the song,Some depart, and some remain;Thesebeyond heaven are borne along,Others the bonds of earth retain."
"Break the dance and scatter the song,Some depart, and some remain;Thesebeyond heaven are borne along,Others the bonds of earth retain."
SHELLEY.
I purpose here to give only a brief sketch of my sojourn under the roof of the La Vignes. In another book, and at another time, when some that now live shall have passed away, or years shall have made dim the memory of results rather than events (for untilthenthe last must continue, with their causes, to bemysteries), I may unfold the tissues of a dire tragedy enacted, by some strange providence, under my peculiar view alone, and thus inexplicable to others.
Of this no more, not even a hint, at present; lest, dropping the substance for the shadow, the reader should cease to find interest where I most wish to concentrate it for a season. The heroine so far of my own story, I cannot yet voluntarily relinquish the privilege of sympathy, so dear to the narrator of adventure, though I did, indeed, for a time forget my own identity in the dark shadow, the mysterious crimes, the unprecedented and speedy retributions that followed quickly on the heels of guilt at Beauseincourt.
The picturesque old place, with its quaint French name and architecture and antique furniture, did truly at first enchant my fancy (which learned to shudder at its aspect later), as did, in the beginning, the contiguous estates of "Bellevue" with its exquisite grounds, fountains, and white-stuccoed mansion closely simulating the finest Italian marble. Later, in accordance with the law of associations, this, too, became as sorrowful in my sight as was the Hall of Vathek to those who mingled in its mournful yet magnificent pageantry.
The denizens of this lonely abode were a most interesting couple. Still young comparatively, virtually childless, and bearing the name (also a Huguenot appellation) of "Favraud" the husband was bright, intelligent, frivolous—the wife, an invalid of rare loveliness and sweetness of character, who seldom emerged from her solitude. Both were perfectly well bred.
These were relatives of Colonel La Vigne, whose son Walter was the residuary legatee of Bellevue, with but one imbecile life, after that of Madame Favraud, between him and enormous wealth. Great intimacy existed between the families, although from circumstances—nameless here—the ladies seldom met, and never at Bellevue.
Major Favraud was a constant visitor at Beauseincourt, when on his estates. He was, however, of a roving disposition, and, though tenderly attached to his wife, was often absent, negligent, and careless of her feelings. He was a renowned duelist, and deemed a challenge the essential element and result of every unsettled discussion. A typical Southerner of his day, I felt keen interest in the scrutiny of his character, until events developed those venomous tendencies which came very near destroying my peace of mind forever, with the life of the noble man whom, after a brief acquaintance, I had learned to love against my own desires.
The occasion of this belligerent demonstration was afforded at the Christmas festival, held yearly at Beauseincourt, by Colonel and Mrs. La Vigne—in the great, many-windowed drawing-room with its waxed parquet—its ebony-framed mirrors, its pier consoles, and faded damask furniture.
There were assembled around the bright pine-fire, on the occasion of this universal anniversary, neighbors, and guests from a distance, invited specially for a certain number of days, among whom the unexpected advent of a troop of engineers, of Northern extraction, made a desirable variety.
One of these gentlemen only, the chief-engineer, who came to make new roads for Lesdernier,[1]by order of government, had already been a visitor of some weeks, and a strong attachment, vital from the first, had sprung up between us; so far, unacknowledged by either.
During the dessert which succeeded the sumptuous Christmas-dinner, where old and young took part, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell," the health of John C. Calhoun, then heading the nullification party, was formally proposed by Colonel La Vigne, as "first of men, and greatest of statesmen."
This toast Captain Wentworth (the chief of the corps of engineers) tacitly refused to drink, and was seconded in this resolve by all of his party. There was, however, no active demonstration of unwillingness.
The representatives of government contented themselves with pressing their hands above their glasses, and so refusing to fill them with the wine that flowed freely to the welcome pledge, standing rigidly and silently while it was drunk with enthusiasm by the remaining guests—all Southern and sectional.
This defalcation to the common cause was apparently unnoticed at the time, but was made the subject of remark, and subsequently of a challenge by the Mars of the family, as Gregory denominated Major Favraud—a challenge which circumstances compelled Captain Wentworth reluctantly to accept.
No fire-eater, yet truly brave, he weighed the matter well, and decided on his course; the one most expedient, if not absolutely necessary for a stranger whose character for courage had still to be proved. In the interval of the pending duel, of which all the inmates of Beauseincourt were unconscious, save its master, who considered it as a mere matter of course, Gregory (to whom I have alluded, the evil genius of the house henceforth) arrived to reënforce the engineering corps.
Subtle, accomplished, versatile, graceful even in his singular homeliness, and peculiar insolent style of address, he yet made himself so acceptable to the family as to dare to seek the hand of the second daughter of Colonel La Vigne, and, though at first tolerated by her parents only, at last came to be well received.
At the very time that he was enlisting the innocent heart of Madge, he was making to me, the governess, whenever he could find the slightest opportunity, avowals of a desperate and audacious passion, which waxed the stronger for the absolute loathing vouchsafed in return. In this place it may be as well to reveal the end of this ill-fated and unsuitable courtship, which never had my sanction, nor even toleration. When the cloud gathered over Beauseincourt, so soon to burst in fury and destruction, when ruin was imminent, Gregory withdrew on frivolous pretexts, and turned his back on Lesdernier, and her who had so loved him, forever!
While pretending to be the devoted friend and even abject servant of Captain Wentworth, he was seeking, in every way, and on every hand, secretly to undermine him. This effort produced in my mind only mistrust and disdain; but with others it was, unfortunately, more successful.
Soon after my arrival at Lesdernier, I found, in one of the papers that I had ordered to be sent there from my native city to the address of "Miss Harz," an atrocious advertisement, describing me personally as an escaped lunatic, and offering a reward for my apprehension. Fortunately, these papers were not objects of interest to the family in which I found myself, where periodicals of all sorts were rife, as well as books, ancient and modern, and newspapers were thick as leaves in Vallambrosa.
In the silence of my chamber I read and destroyed, or concealed this evidence of enmity, malice, and all uncharitableness. I would trust no one with my identity—none save God—until the hour should come of my majority and emancipation; then, armed with Judaic vengeance, I would return to claim my sister, my fortune, and my rights.
Soon afterward I read in the same sheet, sent weekly to Lesdernier, the notice of the marriage of Claude Bainrothe and Evelyn Erle. This was the test of truth! I bore it bravely. Not a heart-beat gave tribute to the love of other days. The fire was dead, and ashes alone remained on the deserted hearth-stone. Lower down in the columns of the same paper, however, was something that smote my soul. The Parthian dart was there, and it quivered in its target! I saw that the wedding-party had sailed for Europe on the same day of the nuptials, to be absent a year, and had taken with them my dear one!
So far away! Seas rolling between us! Foreign lands, foreign laws intervening, which might, for all I knew, deprive me of her presence forever, who was my hope, my life!
"O little sister," I groaned, "was I right, after all, in forsaking you for a season? Should I not have dared every thing, rather than have so openly yielded my authority?"
In the mean while, the sanguinary preparations went silently on. In the gray of a foggy February morning the duel was fought, and Captain Wentworth fell, as it was at first thought, mortally wounded.
At the request of his excellent physician, Dr. Durand, when the watchers were exhausted, and vigilance was all-essential in his case, I accepted, rather than proposed to take, the post of watcher for one night, in company with his devoted friend and coadjutor Edward Vernon, and discovered, in my anguish, and in my power over his distracted senses, my so-far-hidden gift of magnetism.
Insomnolency was destroying him; opiates had been tried in vain to compose him, and now, under my waving fingers and strained will, he slept the sweet, refreshing magnetic slumber. He lived, some were pleased to say, and among others, his physician, through my agency—my admirable nursing—for none save Vernon ever knew the secret of my sway. We became engaged during his convalescence, simply, quietly, unostentatiously.
In due time we made our troth-plight known to the household of Beauseincourt, all of whom, from its formal master to my best-beloved, brightest, and ever-tantalizing pupil, Bertie, accorded me their heart-felt congratulations. Gregory alone—the evil genius of the place—cast his poisonous sneers and doubts above our happiness—a structure too firmly based, too far removed from him, however, for his arrows to reach or destroy. Circumstances seemed later to favor his malicious designs, as shall be shown in the conclusion of this work; but, together, and in the full flush of our happiness, we were invincible.
A sudden summons from the seat of government compelled Captain Wentworth to leave Lesdernier a few hours after its reception—hours of which he passed, through the necessity of speedy preparation, but one with me. So far I had delayed the revelation of my true history and name, preferring to postpone this to my majority and our marriage-day; but, after his departure, I rued my resolution, and concluded to write to him a hasty summary of my life and motives of action. This letter was, as a matter of necessity, confided to the care of Luke Gregory (never a chosen depositary of mine in any way), who followed him to Savannah to receive some parting instructions for the conduct of their work, and who was to return to Lesdernier after the interval of a week.
In the ardor of my impulse, I could not slight an opportunity of so soon receiving a reply to my somewhat startling and, I felt now, too-long-delayed communication, and thus testing my lover's trust and confidence in me. When Gregory returned to Beauseincourt, he assured me he had delivered my letter punctually (I never doubted this, for he knew the man he had to deal with), adding, carelessly, that it was well Wentworth had said he would write soon, as he had been unfortunate enough to lose the hastily-pencilled reply, with his own pocket-book, at the Lenoir Landing, where both were food for fishes.
My disappointment was extreme, and many weeks of constrained silence passed before I received the promised letter from Captain Wentworth—so gloomy, so incomprehensible, so portentous, that it filled me with despair. In this letter he spoke of obstacles between us—in which blood bore part—of the wreck of all earthly happiness for him—perchance for me. Yet he conjured me to be calm and patient, as he could not be, and alluded to my silence as conclusive of his misery. He referred frequently to the letter he had intrusted to the care of Gregory as explanatory of all that might otherwise seem inexplicable—that letter at rest beneath the dark waters of the Bayou Noir—if—if, indeed! But no! not even of Gregory could I harbor on slight grounds such suspicions. "Let the devil himself have the full benefit of—doubt!" says Rabelais. I wrote to Wentworth that I would come and make all plain, as he desired, in June.
Suffering severely myself, I saw clouds gathering and rising around a happy household that for a time drew me from the depths of my own affliction in the vain effort to solace their woes.
Father and son and infant in one house, wife and imbecile daughter in another, at last fell at one dread swoop. To dishonor was added the crime of suicide, and poverty and breaking hearts were there, for the heritage of Beauseincourt was, by reason of debt and mismanagement, to pass, after the death of its master, into strange hands—the cruel hands of creditors!
Walter La Vigne was dead, and the succession of Bellevue passed over the daughters of the house, to vest in a distant kinsman. He came, toward the last of my stay, to take his own; and, unexpectedly, George Gaston, the playmate of my childhood, the lover of my first youth, stood before me in the residuary legatee of Armand La Vigne!
His advent was a revelation of my secret, through the necessity of surprise; and as, when the banquet is announced and the ball draws near its close, the maskers, so far unknown to each other, lay by their disguises, glad to be so relieved, draw breath and clasp hands once more in the freedom of social reality, so I, who had played too long a weary part, felt a new life infused into my veins when my mask was suddenly laid aside, and the necessity of disguise was over.
The time was so near at hand now, I felt, when I could claim my own from Bainrothe, and cast off all shackles of guardianship and minority, that I no longer feared the consequences of this revelation. In September we should meet on new ground. I, no more a minor, would be beyond the reach of his subtle mastery; and, until then—the time assigned for the expiration of his year of trust—he would remain in Europe, with the wide sea between us, and little probability of information through the medium of public rumor.
I would be secret, cautious, abide in the shadow, until the hour arrived to emerge therefrom, and, with the aid of God and Wardour Wentworth, defeat his schemes and vindicate the truth!
Alas for human foresight! Alas for Fate!
FOOTNOTES: