"None so poorTo do him reverence."
"None so poorTo do him reverence."
Already is the injustice of that decision forced on the convictions of his fellow-men. Our scales are not wisely balanced in this world—we cannot weigh motives against acts, thought against deeds, with atom-like precision, nor measure the tempted with the temptation grain by grain, hair by hair. Ambition was the fault of the seraphim in the commencement—be well assured that some of the old angelic leaven lingers still about all of its votaries and victims.
Ay—victims!—for he who was said to have made so many, was himself the victim of the society that spoiled and flattered him, and fostered his foibles, in the beginning, with its false and fawning breath, and, later, blew on him a blast of ice from its remorseless, pestilent jaws, that froze him out of his humanity.
He could not live—moulded, as he was, of all sweet elements—apart from social influences, from the regard, the affection, the approbation of his kind—and he died of heart-starvation; fortunate, indeed, in that he was mercifully permitted so to die, rather than have lived, as less fervent natures might have done, in cold and cheerless apathy.
I do not defend his errors; I only seek to extenuate them. Pity and justice are not the same; but one may still so temper the other that Mercy, the appointed angel of this earth, may be the result.
Let us, who are mortal and fallible, be wary how we condemn one whose head was rendered giddy by his very pinnacle of power! Peace be his!
I have diverged so widely from my subject—a most bitter and revolting one to me, eventually—that I will not return to it just now; nor, indeed, do I even in thought revert to it with any thing like patience or pardon. There are some things, paradoxical as this may seem, we must forget, in order to forgive.
I am lingering too long on this period of my story, uneventful as it is just yet, and circumscribed as I am in space; but, as the boldest rider draws rein with a beating heart beside the dark abyss over which he must fling his horse, or perish, so I pause here, on the threshold of despair, and take breath for a flying leap—for I shall clear it, reader, believe me!
It will be remembered that, at my father's death, half of my means were invested in the stocks of the Bank of Pennsylvania; and that his directions were that, as the different loans he had made became due, they should, one after the other, be drawn in and invested in like manner by Mr. Bainrothe.
No details of my business had ever been discussed before me, nor had I any insight into the periods at which these loans were due, or how the money was cared for when paid in by my father's executors, of whom, to my regret, Mr. Gerald Stanbury had refused to be one.
One thing alone I had heard them say, and it was said, I doubt not, expressly for my hearing. All debts should be paid in gold, as, according to law, this was the only legal tender. Paper, however excellent, should never be received in discharge of any liability of my estate, since it might render the executors responsible to me, to depart a hair's-breadth from the very letter of the law, which enjoined specie payment.
"But why not receive bank stocks instead?" I had ventured to suggest, a little indignantly, "seeing all moneys are to be immediately reinvested in that form. Pennsylvania Bank stocks, I mean."
"You know nothing about the matter, Miriam," Evelyn had remarked, with some asperity. "Had your father deemed you capable of conducting your own affairs, he would not have appointedusto manage and direct them during your minority. No sinecure, I assure you!"
But Mr. Bainrothe had only laughed, and turned away tapping his boot with his rattan cane, amused, it appeared to me, by my sister's assumption of importance, and, probably, as well by her entire ignorance of his true motive in exacting gold, of which secret spring of action she, knowing nothing, still tried to make so profound a mystery.
Yet he flattered Evelyn very much, I saw, on her business qualifications, and her insight into financial matters, of which abilities, indeed, she was more proud than of her accomplishments, or even beauty.
The last she took as a matter of course; but it was something new and unexpected to her to be considered sagacious and strong-minded, and very gratifying to her arrogant and exacting spirit—ever alive to the delight of controlling the affairs of others, as well as her own—to have the reins of government given apparently into her hands.
My father had placed an iron chest in a secure niche in the dining-room, behind the great central mirror, made for the purpose of concealing it, and to which he alone had access. Here he had kept a store of plate, money, jewels, and papers, so as to defy all burglarious interference or foreign scrutiny, and, in dying, had bequeathed the secret of the patent lock to Mr. Bainrothe alone. Old Morton even was ignorant of the contrivance.
I knew of the niche and the iron chest by the merest accident, and had been requested, nay, commanded, by my father, not to speak of either; so, in silence the mystery had almost died out of my recollection, when it was rather singularly revived again in this wise:
During one of the hottest nights early in September, after our return from Saratoga, I descended, parched with thirst, to the dining-room, about four o'clock in the morning, to seek a glass of iced-water, always to be found there, I knew, by night or day, on the sideboard, in a small silver cistern.
The dawn was dimly breaking through the great window in the hall as I passed down the broad stairway, still in my night-dress and unslippered feet; but, on approaching the dining-room, I was surprised to see the gleam of a candle falling athwart the mirror, which had been swung from its place (as I had seen it once before swung by my father), so as to screen my advancing form from the person evidently at work behind it. The massive shutters of the room were closed and securely barred, as was the habit of the house, and the room was, consequently, still in darkness, or deep shadow.
As I stood half hidden now, by the arch of the hall, behind which I shrank instinctively, and uncertain how to proceed, I saw Mr. Bainrothe suddenly emerge from behind the mirror, and take from the table near it a canvas bag, small but evidently weighty, from the manner in which he carried it to its place of concealment.
Then I heard the slow, heavy fall of a shower of gold coins, dropping on others, the same sound that had greeted my ear on the day when I first detected this treasure-cave of my father, and as different from the sound of falling silver as is the gurgling of rich old wine from the dash of crystal water.
"The wretch is faithful to his trust, after all. So this is where he keeps my gold," I thought; "but how did he find ingress into our castle, supposed at least to be inaccessible by night? Has he a false key I wonder, and are we above-stairs, with unlocked doors, subject to his visitations, should it occur to him to make them?"
I shuddered at the suggestions of my own fancy. Women only, who have been similarly situated, can know how dark these may become, even in an innocent mind, from circumstances like those that surrounded me, and what a nameless horror there is about the insidious and licentious approaches of the man we would fain dash away from us, and trample under foot like a serpent, did we dare openly to do so.
Yet I lingered under the archway, determined to observe to the last Mr. Bainrothe's proceedings. When he had locked the chest and replaced the mirror, which swung out from its place, as I have said, like a door on invisible hinges and fastened with a spring, he passed hastily out of the dining-room into the pantry beyond, opening for convenience on a covered paved court, which divided the kitchen from the house and which led directly into the yard beyond. After that, all was silent.
Yet, the next day, Franklin assured me that he had carried the key of the pantry away with him, when he went home at night (he was a married man, and slept at his own house usually), and that he found it locked in the morning just as he had left it.
This was in answer to a question which I tried to make as careless as possible, with regard to some burglaries that had lately been committed in a neighboring street, adding, by way of caution: "Don't forget to lock us up carefully at night, Franklin; remember we are all women in the house, except Morton, and he is old and sleeps like a top, no doubt having a good conscience for his pillow."
"If you would have aninsidebolt put upon the pantry-door, it would be best, Miss Miriam," he remarked; "that is, if your mind is really troubled about robbers. Then you could draw it yourself in my absence at night."
"And who would let you in, in the morning, Franklin, if I did this? Our household would sleep until noon, were it not for your early summons, I verily believe."
"I will throw a pebble at the cook's window, miss, if she is not on foot by that time. But she usually is; cooks has to stir earlier than the rest, you know, by reason of the light rolls and muffins."
"Oh, yes! true, I had forgotten this. Go at once, then, Franklin, for a smith, and let him put a massive bolt on the pantry-door, and I will be jailer of Monfort Hall in future, in your absence, for I am quite sure some one was trying that lock last night. I came to the dining-room for water just before daylight, and heard it distinctly."
"One of your lady-like notions," said Franklin, shaking his head, with an incredulous smile; "young ladies is always nervous like, and fearful about robbers, all but Miss Evelyn Erle—I never seen the like of her, for true grit! All was safe when I came, Miss Miriam, any way, and, if robbers had been about, it stands to reason the silver chest, setting out in the pantry, would have stood a poor chance."
Again he smiled provokingly. "There are all sorts of robbers in this world," I said, a little sternly; "some come for one purpose, some for another. Attend to the bolt, Franklin, at once; I am very sure of what I have said." And so the parley ended.
I am certain that Mr. Bainrothe came no more by night to his treasure-cave, but there was a mocking smile on his lip—when Evelyn told him, before me, some time later, that I had caused a bolt to be placed on the pantry-door, for fear of burglars—that was significant to my mind.
"What is the use of this mystery with me," I thought, "when I alone am concerned? Why not reveal to me at once the secret of the spring and the lock, as I only am to be the beneficiary of all this gold? The man's cunning is short-sighted. Suppose he were to die suddenly, how does he know that I would ever be the wiser or the better of these deposits? Years hence, when the house was crumbling to decay, some stranger might be enriched by this concealed gold, for aught he knows, which is legitimately mine. Evelyn, too, is in complete ignorance of this hidden chest, I am convinced, and, as far as I am concerned, will probably remain so. After all, does Bainrothe mistrust her honesty or mine? Good Heavens! what a mole the man is by nature, how darkly, deeply underhand, even in his responsibility! And there are two long years yet, nay more to wait, before I can openly defy him and put him away forever. Loathing him as I do, patience, patience! Rome was not built in a day. I shall still prevail."
Months after this occurrence, months that passed swiftly because monotonously to me, for by events alone we are told we measure time, I was roused one night from my early slumber by the sound of bitter weeping in Evelyn's chamber. I had left her engaged over accounts with Mr. Bainrothe, having withdrawn rather than spend a long, lonely evening in the parlor, somewhat indisposed as I felt.
I rose from my bed and went to her precipitately. I found her indulging in a passionate burst of grief, almost choking with sobs of hysterical indignation.
"All gone—all gone!" she exclaimed, wildly, as I entered the room. "Your estate—mine—Mabel's—all swept away with one fell swoop, Miriam! The Bank of Pennsylvania has failed; it is discovered that Mr. Biddle has proved defaulter, and we are ruined!"
"I will never believe it, Evelyn!" I exclaimed, vehemently, "until he tells me so with his own lips. This is one of Mr. Bainrothe's fictions; he is trying to wake us up a little, that is all. Mr. Biddle is the Bayard of bankers—'sans peur et sans reproche.' As to that bank, did not my father believe it to be as indestructible as the United States, the government itself? Nay, did not Bainrothe himself do all he could to convince him of it, and induce him to invest in its stocks? The wily fox had his motive, no doubt, but it surely could not have been our ruin! Our own fortunes are too intimately involved in his prosperity for this. Besides, why have not the newspapers told us of this?"
All this time Evelyn was sobbing convulsively, and what I have told continuously here was said by me in a far more fragmentary way between her bursts of grief. She ceased now, and looked up, with some effort at calmness.
"The newspapershavebeen discussing it for months past, all but Mr. Biddle's organ, and that alone was permitted to enter our doors. Mr. Bainrothe acknowledges this now. Have you not noticed the irregularity of our Washington papers?"
"No; I so rarely read them, you know."
"Mr. Bainrothe, with mistaken charity," she resumed, "I fear, sought to shield us as long as possible from the blow, which was inevitable sooner or later; or perhaps he hoped still for an adjustment of affairs, that might have left us a competence at least. But he was deceived, Miriam; we are worth nothing—a round naught—" and she suited the action to the word by the union of the tips of her thumb and finger—"is the figure whereby to describe our fortunes now; and the heiress and her once dependent friend and sister are alike—beggars! All brought to one level at last—there is comfort in that thought, at least! Ha! ha! ha!" and she laughed wildly, horribly. I never before heard such laughter.
"Beggary is a word I repudiate, Evelyn, in any case," I said, firmly; "and we, it seems, if this frightful thing be true, are not alone in ruin. Be calm, dear Evelyn! Learn to bear with dignity our fate. We must sustain each other now—be all in all to one another, as we have never been before. Thank God! let us both thank God, Evelyn, from our inmost hearts, that we still have this shelter—and—yes—I have reason to believe, much more."
And, kneeling beside her bed, I told her impulsively of our concealed treasure behind the mirror (though I had once determined never to reveal this to her or any one)—treasure guarded so long by me with bolt by night and vigilance by day!
Oh, fatal error, never to be repaired or sufficiently repented of! Oh, utter misplacement of confidence, not warranted, surely, by any thing that had gone before, and the results of which I had subsequently such bitter cause to deplore!
She listened to me with an interest and zeal that were unmistakable. She sat up in her bed, with her large, blue, distended eyes fixed on mine, turning paler and paler, brighter and brighter, as she gazed, until their lustre seemed opaline rather than spiritual, and with her slender white hands wreathed together like the interlacing marble snakes in the grasp of the Laocoon, so long, and lithe, and sinuous, seemed the polished, flexile fingers. Her lips were livid, but on her cheek burned two flame-like spots, indicative ever with her of intense excitement. Surely the god Mammon has rarely possessed so sincere a worshiper! Let us do her this justice, at least. So far she was consistent; so far she was devout!'
"You are sure of the truth of what you utter, Miriam?" she questioned, eagerly.
"Sure as that I live," I replied.
"It is wonderful! Why did he not mention this to me? I cannot conjecture his motive. But perhaps he has already removed and invested this gold, Miriam, of which you say there was such a quantity as to have represented a large portion of your landed estate, I think!"
"No, no; that is simply impossible. By night he has never done this, I know. By day he could not effect this unseen or unsuspected. That dining-room is so public, you know, that Morton sees every thing; besides, I gave him directions which he blindly obeyed, I am certain (you know his almost canine obedience to me, Evelyn), to remain, when engaged with the plate, in the adjoining pantry, with the door ajar between, and to be always on guard. Papa always allowed him the privilege of that room, and I love to continue it, you know, since we never use it except for meals. You remember I said this when you objected to his sitting there, Evelyn, and remarked that he might as well sit with the other servants, to whom he is so superior. But of late, I confess, I have had a motive, and Morton knew this"—I hesitated—"must have known it."
"Do you mean to say you confided the secret of the mirror to Morton, and kept it from me? Thank you, Miriam!" loftily. "I might have expected this, however."
"Not wholly this," I replied, with embarrassment, for I saw how the matter looked externally. "Morton simply knew that I wanted, for purposes of my own, to exclude every one except himself from solitary possession of the dining-room as much as possible, Mr. Bainrothe especially. Yes, I told him this, but I kept papa's secret. Believe me, Evelyn, I did this, and you know well enough what Morton's devotion is to me not to believe that he religiously fulfilled my request without asking for an explanation."
"Yes," she mused, "I saw him perched up there tonight, as usual, with his old English newspapers, and I have observed that he never leaves his post there, while Mr. Bainrothe remains. You could not have procured a better watchman, surely; but why have you watched at all?"
"Because," I said, "I felt sure that mystery lurked behind those nocturnal visits. You cannot doubt this yourself, Evelyn, and, with your opinion of Mr. Bainrothe, must see that I felt I had good reason for mistrust. I was determined to be present when that chest should next be opened by him."
A smile quivered across her face. "I had not suspected you of so much diplomacy," she observed, dryly; "but, after all, Miriam, how does this change the posture of affairs to me? I shall be all the same, poor and dependent."
"No, Evelyn, no indeed! I promise you faithfully.—But what is this?" I exclaimed, rising hastily from my knees, "I am faint—blind! Quick, the drops Dr. Pemberton left for me, Evelyn, or I am lost again."
I threw myself across the foot of her bed, sick and bewildered, yet feeling myself gradually—after a few moments of oppression—growing better, in spite of the dark effort of my evil genius to gain his fatal ascendency.
When she came with the drops, after some delay, I was, to her surprise, able to sit up and look around me. The spell was over.
"I believe I have troubled you uselessly," I said; "I will go to bed without medicine to-night, I think, and strive to be calm, as Dr. Pemberton enjoined me to do, and there was good sense in his advice, certainly. We have so much to do to-morrow, Evelyn—we two must remove these deposits ourselves. But not a word to Bainrothe!"
"Miriam," she said, eagerly, "can you doubt my discretion when you know, too, what your own promises have been now and long ago—to divide with me, ay, to the last cent, like a sister? Now, I insist on the drops! You are pale again, Miriam—collapsing visibly in my sight. Do take your remedy—so efficacious of late in warding off these distressing attacks. I have taken the trouble, too, to go after them. I was at some pains in hunting them up; they were not in the usual place. Come, now, as a punishment for your carelessness, I proclaim myself dictator, and command you to swallow them at once," and she poured the medicine into a spoon.
"No, Evelyn," I averred, putting the spoon aside, "I am better without the drops. I wish to see what my unaidedwilland constitution can do, this time."
"There is too much at stake to depend on these, Miriam. We must unearth this treasure-trove to-morrow at daylight, and defeat Bainrothe on his own grounds, or he may be beforehand with us. Take your drops, dear, and have a good night's rest, and be ready for the contest. There, now, that is a good sister," embracing me tenderly.
Persuasion and reason accomplished with me whatcommandscould not have done. I took the drops, went quietly to bed, and was soon lost to a sense of misfortunes, hopes, and the world itself.
I slept profoundly and long. When I awoke, the slant rays of the evening sun were pouring through the blinds of my window, in lines of moted light. Mrs. Austin was sitting close to the sash, with her invariable knitting-work, her aquiline profile and frilled cap strongly relieved against the jalousied shutters.
On the mantel-piece were the inevitable spirit-lamp and bowl of panada, recognized at once as part and parcel of my malady. In the chamber the usual smell of ether, the remedy so often ineffectually administered during the period of my lethargic attacks.
I understood everything now—I had experienced another seizure, and I had lost a day.
Whether it was this conviction that cleared my brain at once of those mephitic fogs that usually clung around it after a spell of lethargy, long after my consciousness returned, I never knew, but certain it is, I sat up in my bed like one refreshed by sleep, instead of feeling exhausted, and, greatly to her surprise, accosted Mrs. Austin in clear, strong accents.
"How long have I slept? And where is Evelyn?" I asked.
"You have not opened your eyes to-day, dear child, until just this moment; and Miss Evelyn has not been able to sit up in her bed since she went to it last night, that shock yesterday overcame her so completely." By this time she was standing by my pillow, after laying aside her knitting, in a leisurely manner peculiar to her at all seasons. "But Mabel is in the next room; let me call her to you."
"Let her stay there," I interrupted, in a manner so unusual with me, whose first inquiry on reviving from illness had always been for Mabel, instead of Evelyn, that Mrs. Austin looked surprised and startled.
"What ails you, Miss Miriam? I thought Mabel was always your first thought; the little angel! She has been hanging over you tearfully all day; never going near Miss Evelyn at all. It is so strange she shows such partiality!"
Strange that one being on earth, and that one my sister, should love me better than Evelyn, in the eyes of her partial affection; and yet Evelyn treated her with positive disrespect every day of her life, as I never did; and often with severity as well. It was incomprehensible!
"Give me the panada," I said, grimly; "I am half starved, and must grow strong again to do my work. I am not nearly so weak as I usually am, though, after one of my seizures."
"You see you are outgrowing them, as Dr. Pemberton predicted you would. I declare, youarehungry, poor child; you have not left a drop—pint-bowl too—with a gill of wine in it. Not going to get up, Miss Miriam? Oh, no; you must not venture to do that yet."
And she tried gently to restrain me.
"Yes, I must get about again; I have much to do, and Evelyn must aid me, if able. Is she ill or only nervous?"
"Very ill, I think; she wrote a note to Dr. Craig and sent it last night, after you went to sleep; but he did not come."
"Quite naturally, since he had been absent some weeks. I could have told her," I said, sententiously; "indeed, I thought she knew it. Who carried her note?"
"Morton."
"Poor old man! The idea of sending him on such a wild-goose chase, after night. Papa would turn in his grave could he know he had been forced out in the rain at such an hour, for a woman's whim. I would have suffered tortures till morning first. Where was Franklin?"
"Franklin had gone home earlier than usual, and did not return to-day. He is sick with a chill, we hear, and his wife is again ill."
"Who did the marketing?"
"Morton."
"Morton again! Why, the old man seems to be becoming afactotumin his declining years—he whose duties have always been so few, so simple! I am provoked, for some reasons, that he should have been sent away to-day. Fortunately, I bolted the pantry-door myself, before I came to bed last night," I murmured, "and the front door is self-fastening. The house was well secured, at least, by night."
"How long did Morton remain absent?" I asked, recommencing my system of cross-questions, very abruptly.
"About an hour, I believe; but what makes you so particular, all at once, Miss Miriam?"
"Some day you shall know, perhaps. In the mean while tell me, has Mr. Bainrothe been here to-day?"
"He called about one o'clock, but, as all were poorly, went away again without entering the house at all. I saw him go down-street, after dinner, in his phaeton, with another gentleman, and have not heard wheels since."
"You are sure he was not here, this morning—while—while Morton was absent?"
"Quite sure; he breakfasted later than usual, I think, for I saw him throw open his side bedroom window at nine o'clock, and he was in his shirt-sleeves then. He sleeps in a large room in the ell, you know. I was standing at the pantry-door, and saw him distinctly, and he nodded to me, and called something, but I could not hear what it was at that distance."
"Where was Charity at that time, Mrs. Austin?"
"Cleaning the house, Miss Miriam—hard at work in the parlors, washing windows—this is her cleaning-day, you know."
"And cook, what was she about?"
"She got breakfast early, for us people, and went to mass, but was back by ten. Miss Evelyn had her breakfast after she returned, with Miss Mabel, and there was no one to eat dinner down-stairs so she thought—"
"Never mind what she thought," I interrupted, "or who went and came, so that all be well."
"You do ask such strange questions, this morning, Miss Miriam, and your eyes are so big! Do you feel light-headed at all after your turn—maybe you have fever?"
"Not at all—hard-headed, rather, Mrs. Austin—not even heavy-headed—though leaden-hearted enough, God knows! We are ruined, you know—or at least Evelyn tells me so. The rest I have still to learn—I must see Mr. Bainrothe this evening. There is a positive necessity for me to exert myself now, but first I have some examinations to make. Give me a shawl and wrapper, good nurse, and my slippers. Don't disturb Evelyn, or call Mabel till my return; and stay where you are until then, if you wish to serve me."
I sped rapidly down-stairs, and entered the dining-room so noiselessly that old Morton, who was a "little thick of hearing," did not hear my steps nor move from his position by the fire, where he sat apparently absorbed by his newspapers. "Morton," I said, and laid my quivering hand upon his arm, "the time has come to act. Come help me to secure my treasure." He rose silently to obey me.
I touched the spring of the mirror; it swung silently open, and revealed to the astonished old man a square niche built in the wall—unsuspected before by him—in which fitted an iron chest, the existence of which he had never dreamed of until now. But the contents were gone—gone since yesterday! The chest was empty, with its lid propped open. There was not even a paper within.
With a bitter groan I tottered back against the wall, while the cold dew stood on my brow, and my limbs trembled under me. This was indeed despair!
"What ails you, Miss Miriam?" he asked, with an expression of anguish upon his kind, old, quivering face. "Do you miss any thing—what have you lost, Miss Miriam?"
"You left your post, Morton," I said, at last, "and this is the consequence—I have lost every thing! Old man! old friend! did you think I charged you to watch every one who came, so earnestly, to stay here so constantly, without a good and sufficient reason? Some one has been here before us—my gold is gone! we are ruined, Morton!"
Whatever my flash of conviction might have been, all suspicions against Evelyn must have been allayed by the manner in which she received the information of the loss of the deposits behind the mirror.
Her shrieks filled the house; another physician was hastily summoned in Dr. Craig's absence, who gave her disease or seizure a Latin name—wrote a Greek or Hebrew prescription—or something equally unintelligible, and vanished ghost-like, in the manner most approved of by modern practitioners.
There was no hard epithet that Evelyn did not apply to Mr. Basil Bainrothe during her hysterical mania, and before the doctor's arrival; but, on her recovery, she begged me to repeat nothing of the sort, if she had been indiscreet enough to let out her true opinion of him and his measures, in a moment of irrepressible emotion. "For," she pursued, "it is expedient for us to keep on terms with the man, at least for the present, and in no way harass or exasperate him—we are completely in his hands now, Miriam—we must watch our opportunity—"
"I do not see that," I interrupted; "less now than ever, it seems to me. What more can he do for or against us now? Our property is all gone—except this house, plate, and furniture, and my mother's diamonds—all of winch are tangible and visible, and in our own possession. We have no debts—you pay house-bills monthly, and I, fortunately, have just settled off every account I have in the world, and have five hundred Spanish dollars to start anew with—my savings during papa's lifetime. I hoarded it, fortunately, in this form for a missionary purpose you remember, Evelyn, but afterward changed my mind."
"Yes, I remember; merely because the person it was intended for prayed that the Jews might finally be exterminated."
"Was not that enough, Evelyn? The man who could utter such a prayer was no Christian, and unfit for religious teaching. Since then I have come to the conclusion that there is a great deal of undue and very impertinent meddling with the heathen; who are entitled to their own mode of worship as well as of government, and who I think are not yet ripe for Christianity."
"You have strange notions, Miriam; you talk like an old French philosopher."
"I never knew there was such a thing—a French sophist I am afraid you mean. No, I am not a sophist, Evelyn; any thing else than that! I wish sometimes I did not see so clearly. I love, I idolize the truth alone!"
She colored—sighed. God knows I was not thinking of her at that moment, or speaking with that reference, however I may have had reason to do so.
Is it not strange that our dreams often present to us, in our own despite, the vivid, photographic pictures struck by sleep from the dim, unconscious negative of our waking judgment, which we refuse to recognize as verities in the light of our open-eyed, daytime responsibility? I, who had declared myself no sophist, knew later that I had deceived my own heart, which spoke out so truthfully in dreams of sleep, and refused to be silenced in the dead hour of night, however I might stifle its suggestions by day.
In one of these suggestive, or rather reflected, visions, I saw Evelyn groping through darkness to the side-gate which gave into the grounds of Mr. Bainrothe from our own, made years before by my father's permission for the convenience of his friend; the night was a dark and stormy one, yet she went forth alone, or seemed to, in my vision, to seek a man she detested, and with him connive the destruction of the fortunes of the child of her benefactress, whose confidence she abused.
Then I saw them returning together, through that pantry-door which she had left unbolted, though locked when she went out by another egress, and which the man, who returned with her, readily unlocked with the duplicate key he carried,notby my father's permission. This last I knew.
Now the scene was changed to the dining-room. Again I saw the mirror swing back on its invisible and noiseless hinges, and now the glare of a shaded lamp fell in bands of light across its surface. But I was inside this time, by the glamour of my dream, and I saw them emptying the open chest painfully, laboriously, stealthily; stopping now and then to listen, to breathe, again working silently, industriously, at their vocation of theft and crime!
At last all seemed accomplished. A large, covered basket was partially loaded with the contents—heavy as lead—and, between them, they bore it out into the storm and darkness again, and I heard the sound of the spade and mattock at work on the graveled road.
Presently Evelyn came in again. Her air was wild and frightened; her trembling hands were stained with mud, seen by the light of the lantern she bore, and which she again hung in its accustomed place, stealing quietly away into the darkened hall, to grope her way up-stairs. All this while the farce of sending for Dr. Craig was being enacted, and Morton was out on his fruitless mission in the rain!
Again it was morning, and I saw them together in the library, while I still slept, consulting, planning, plotting, writing, erasing, whispering; soon to separate, however, this time. Their arrangements being completed without restraint, for again the old man was absent, doing the duties of another, who, knowing not the motive of such request or bribe, was content to work the will of a conspirator, and pass the day in idleness at home, for the sake of a purse of gold. Here ended my clairvoyance, if such it was.
All this may have been imaginary—part of it probably was—but the sense of the dream was no doubt what my untrammeled judgment would have suggested as truth, and what later—but let me not digress or anticipate here, in the thickest of my troubles, the jungle-pass of my story as it were, but strike on through a self-made path, it may be, to the light that shines beyond the forest, even if it lead into the desert!
Something in Evelyn's suggestion had struck me as the best to pursue under the circumstances, although at first I so boldly repudiated the idea of Mr. Bainrothe's power. Unless I could prove that he had removed the treasure for unworthy uses—why speak of it at all? I should only irritate and set him on his guard by such allusions; whereas, by a course of reticence, I still might learn, as she had suggested, the truth when he least suspected my purpose.
It would be so easy for him to deny all knowledge of the concealed chest—so easy to lay the robbery on Morton, even if the first were proved—or even on Evelyn!
I had sent impulsively for Mr. Bainrothe to come to me on the evening of my discovery, but his visit was delayed by a necessity that kept him from home all night, so that I had time to revolve and resolve on my course of action before I saw him, which was not until the following afternoon, and by this time my mind had undergone a change. He came, but not alone—his son accompanied him.
I have reason since then to think that Evelyn and Claude Bainrothe had met before their cold and measured interview in my presence. It was to me a painful and embarrassing one, and this time the graceful ease was all on the other side—I was preoccupied and agitated, Claude courteous and self-possessed, Evelyn lofty and confident, as though she had lived or trodden down her emotions, and, to my surprise, Mr. Basil Bainrothe wore his accustomed deliberate and self-poised demeanor, making no reference, not even by his expression of face or a glance of his kaleidoscopic eyes, to the sad catastrophe with which by this time I was but too well acquainted.
I had been reading newspapers eagerly all day, when he came, and, from a contradictory mass of evidence, had gleaned some grains of truth. One fact was beyond contradiction—a second Samson had drawn down the ruins of a temple, not on the heads of his foes alone, but his friends as well, blinded, as he of old, by the treachery of that basest of all Delilahs, a fawning public!
Yes, we were ruined; the only hope now was in the honesty of Mr. Basil Bainrothe. Should the gold I saw him hiding away not have been appropriated to the purchase of bank-stocks—should it have been saved for me—we might still rejoice in wealth beyond our deserts, and equal to our desires.
We still might keep the old, beloved roof above our heads, preserve one unbroken circle of family domestics—live without labor, or terror of the future. But would this be? I waited, as I still think I should have done, for Mr. Bainrothe to take the initiative in this proceeding.
Impatient and sick-hearted, I saw day after day glide past, without an effort on his part to explain or ameliorate my condition—one now of excessive and wearing anxiety.
At last he came. For the first time in his life when a matter of business was in question, he asked for me. I went to him alone at my own instance, and somewhat to Evelyn's chagrin, I thought.
I found him in the library, of late our sole receiving-room; the rest were closed and fireless. For, since the certainty of our misfortune, we had received no society, and would not long be obliged todeclineit, Evelyn thought. Her opinion of the world little justified the pains she had taken to conciliate it.
I found Mr. Bainrothe buried in the deep reading-chair, always in his lifetime occupied by my father, his hand supporting his head, his hat and delicate ivory-headed cane thrown carelessly on the floor beside him—his whole attitude one of deep dejection.
He started a little when I addressed him by name, as if reviving from deep reverie—then arose and extended his hand to me, grasping mine firmly when I gave it to him, which I did unwillingly I confess.
"Miriam," he said, "this is all very dreadful!" subsiding into his seat again with a groan, and looking steadily and silently into the fire for some minutes afterward. "Very dreadful!" he repeated, shaking his head dismally; "wholly unforeseen!"
He glanced at me furtively once or twice to observe the effect of his words—his manner. Disappointed probably by my silence and coolness, he again affected to be absorbed in contemplation.
"Have we any thing left?" I asked quietly, at last—weary as I was of this histrionic performance of his, and anxious for the truth.
"Nothing," was the gloomy reply that fell on my ear—on my heart like molten lead; "nothing but what you know of. This house, this furniture, well preserved it is true, but old and out of style. Your carriage and horses—diamonds—in short, what you have in hand. That is all you have left of the great estate of your mother."
"It is enough to keep the wolf from the door, at all events," I remarked quietly, "and I am thankful for a bare competence; but why, under existing circumstances, were you in such haste to remove the contents of the iron chest behind the mirror, a portion of which you added to in September?"
He rose with dignity and advanced to the corner of the mantel-shelf, on which he leaned in a perfectly self-possessed position, one foot crossed lightly over the other, I remember, and one hand at his side—a favorite attitude of his. He interrupted my interrogatory with another, ever an effectual aid in browbeating.
"How did you become possessed of the knowledge that I kept gold there?" he asked, coolly; "I had meant to have preserved the secret of that spring until your majority, but you women penetrate every thing. No, my dear Miriam," he continued, without waiting for an answer, "unfortunately, the gold you refer to was exchanged for worthless bank-stocks in September last, according to the requisitions of your father's will; and, as that was the latest paid in of the loans he had made, and as all other means had been invested in like manner (and with a promptness characteristic of me, I believe I may say without vanity), as they fell into my hands. You will perceive, very clearly, that every thing, beyond the property I have here pointed out to you, is swept away."
I sat confounded by his consummate mendacity. His manner was entirely changed now—from one of gloomy depression, and absence of mind, to jaunty self-complacency, and even a degree of defiance was blended with his habitual coolness. It was only from his lurid and kaleidoscopic eyes, on which the light from an opposite window fell sharply, as he was speaking, that a glimpse of the inner man could be obtained. There was something confused and excited in their expression that did not escape me, but I kept my counsel, bewildered as I was.
"She has betrayed me!" was my involuntary reflection; "he was on his guard for my question or accusation; unconscious of my daily examination, he has borne away my gold, and it is lost to me forever!" And I clasped my hands more closely.
All that I have stated in the last two paragraphs, of my observation and reflections, passed through my mind like a flash—so that there seemed scarce a momentary interruption between his last remarks and those which followed—although so much had been recognized in the interval.
"It is unfortunate—" I said, merely eying him calmly.
For the first time during our interview, his eyes quivered—drooped—fell before mine; but, recovering instantly, he gave me a clear, cool stare in return for the quiet look of scorn he encountered. I saw at once the hopeless nature of the case.
"You will show me your accounts, Mr. Bainrothe," I observed, haughtily; "I require this at least!"
"When you have attained your majority, certainly, Miriam, not before. At present, I have only Evelyn Erle to satisfy on that score, and the law; I refer you to your guardian."
"Or whomsoever I choose to substitute as my guardian," I said; "I believe that privilege vests in me, being over eighteen."
"There are outside provisions in your father's will that debar you, unfortunately, from that usual privilege of minors of your age," he rejoined, quietly. "I regret this for many reasons: I should be glad to quiet any doubts you may entertain at once, but it is impossible that, compatibly with self-respect, I can do this, after what you have insinuated this morning; so you must wait, with what patience you can command, for the coming of your majority."
"Nearly two years to wait!" I cried; "I should die before then, if only of impatience. No, I will know at once. I will write to Mr. Gerald Stanbury—I will go to the president of the bank—nay, to Mr. Biddle himself. I will resolve this matter."
"You will do no such thing, my very dear young friend," said Mr. Bainrothe, advancing and laying his hand lightly on my arm—I shook it off, as if it had been a cold, crawling serpent. He retreated quietly but quickly. "You will do no such thing, Miriam," he repeated, resuming his post by the mantel-shelf, without evincing the least discomposure at my behavior to him; "your own good sense, your own good feeling will come to your assistance when you look this matter fully in the face, and dispassionately, which I must say you are not doing now. I have not earned at your hands mistrust and obloquy like this, Miriam; but, for the sake of the past, I shall strive and bear with the present. Who has inspired you with such opinions of me?"
Accomplished hypocrite! He tried to assume a much-injured air, to mingle forbearance with his reproachful words; but my heart was as hard toward him as a nether millstone, and his words made no impression on my flinty feelings, not even enough to strike fire therefrom, or sparks.
"No one," I replied, "no one; I judge for myself in all instances. Why did you secrete gold in the dead hour of the night, which, unless you bore it away in the same mysterious, or even more subtle manner, ought still to be in its hiding-place? Why did you preserve, even from Evelyn, your knowledge of that retreat, and the payment of the loan, which she asserts you have never communicated to her, from first to last? Why make mysteries of business transactions which, by the tenor of my father's will, she had a right to participate in, and be consulted about. Why?"
"I will tell you," he interrupted, gravely, and not without emotion. "Pause, and I will explain my reasons, painful as it is to me to do this, and greatly as I compromise myself by so doing, for, should you choose to be indiscreet, I shall have gained a dangerous enemy. I have no confidence in Evelyn Erie, in her truth, her sincerity, her honesty, even. I would not place temptation in her way. There, that is why I concealed the secrets of the spring-lock and recess in the wall from her, to secure them for you. As to the depositing of gold in that iron chest, I did it simply because I knew of no other place so safe and secret. In my own house none such exists, and, as I never kept gold for more than a few days after it was received, I thought it scarcely worth while to place it in the vaults of the bank. As I tell you, it was removed in September."
Surely no art was ever greater of its kind than that he manifested on this trying occasion, yet it fell to the earth, like the shedding scales of a serpent, before my simple discernment. Yet his words, his manner, did in some strange and unexplained way greatly exonerate Evelyn in my estimation, at least for a time, of complicity.
How could I consistently believe that two persons, entertaining of each other such similar and degrading opinions, could trust one another sufficiently to become confederates? Alas! I did not reflect that it is of such conflicting elements conspirators and conspiracies themselves are usually made, and that union of guilt creates eternal enmity.
I could not penetrate such depths of guile! I surrendered myself readily, I confess, to these fresh convictions. Evelyn was narrow, selfish, scheming, but, at all events, was not in league with this vampire. That was much. We might still make common cause against him—she with her injuries to avenge, I with mine—and preserve intact, and without his hated interference, that which was left to us at least.
There was comfort in the thought.
While these considerations were photographing themselves on my brain, with that indescribable rapidity of process whereby the action of the mind excels even that of light, Mr. Bainrothe was again settling himself down in my father's deep chair, and now once more addressed me in a sad and broken voice, perfectly well suited to the occasion.
"Miriam," he said, "I too have been an extensive loser through the failure of the Bank of Pennsylvania. Like yourself, with the exception of the house I now reside in, and some few small tenements I hold for rent, I find every thing swept away from me. Claude, it is true, is comfortable, and on his slender estate we must both now manage to support ourselves. You see marriage on his part is now simply out of the question. He has his father to take care of."
He said this last in so significant a tone, and apologetic a manner, that its intent was unmistakable, little dreaming how transparent my conviction of his crime had made his motives.
"As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago," I responded, and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow. "Yet I hope," I added, after a moment's hesitation, "that Claude may still marry and be happy."
"You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that. Oh, you are wrong, there! It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense! He could not see you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons. Had he looked through my eyes, Miriam—" (he was standing before me now, his arms extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), "he would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world." He seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed wildly away. A moment later, he returned, silently. I was standing before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress, when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot, polluting kisses on my face.
"I love—I love you!" he hissed in my ear, "and sooner or later I will possess you!"
Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my hands—the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust—he was gone again. I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like those of some strange lunatic. I was for a time frantic with rage and shame. But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton. He crept feebly from the pantry, and found me sobbing in my father's chair. As he stood meekly before me, leaning on his staff, and looking in my face, my only friend, so powerless to aid, the whole desolateness of my position burst upon me, like an overpowering avalanche, I bowed my head and wept.
"Bear up, bear up, my lamb," he said, in his weak, tremulous voice; "we have the promise of the Lord to rely on. Has he not said the seed of the just man should never know want or beg bread? We must believe in the Gospel, and be strengthened, Miss Miriam."
And he laid his quivering hand lightly on my head. I took it between both of my own, and kissed it fervently, bathing it with my tears. "Morton," I said, "dear old Morton, I have had such a terrible blow to bear—shame!" and again I was choked with sobs.
"Shame! Oh, no, my dear young mistress! my birdie child; ruin is not shame! This could never come near a Monfort, poor or rich! See! such as these old hands are, they shall work for you to the bone, and, if I understand matters aright, we still have the good roof left over our heads, and some little means for all immediate wants. God will put some good thought in your mind before long. Consult with Miss Evelyn; she is wise. You are not the first high-born young ladies who have had to teach a school."
"Oh, bless you, bless you, Morton, for the thought!"
All idea of telling him (helpless, as he was, to avenge it) of the degrading treatment I had received was now laid at rest, and the practical good sense of a suggestion, that, if successfully carried out, would take us so completely out of the hands of Mr. Bainrothe, and insure such complete independence, was felt at once.
At a glance I saw the expediency as well as the feasibility of the scheme.
Our large and secluded establishment was well fitted for a boarding-school. Our father's spotless name, and our undeserved misfortunes, were calculated to enlist popular respect and sympathy.
Evelyn's decided manners and liberal accomplishments, my better principles and more solid attainments (I viewed things with the naked eye of truth that day, and thus the balance was struck in its rapid survey), might all be brought to bear on our new vocation.
"This is the very thing for us to do, Morton," I said, after a pause, wiping my eyes, and smiling up into his dear, old, withered face, "I will acquaint Evelyn with it before I sleep. Ay, and with other matters as well," I added, mentally. "God help me now!—upon her verdict every thing depends."
I met Mabel on the stairway as I ascended to my chamber. She hung about my neck, in a childish way she had, and kissed me fondly. Perhaps she had observed my agitated face, in which many emotions contended, probably (as in my heart), but I only said, "Let me pass now, darling!—One thing will," I thought, "be secure, under the contemplated circumstances—your welfare and education, whatever else betide—beautiful, and good as an angel, you shall be wise as well."
"Oh! I forgot to tell you, sister Miriam," she cried, running up-stairs, after we had parted, "Evelyn has gone out, and left this note for you;" and she placed one in my hand, adding:
"Mr. Claude Bainrothe was here, while you were in the library with his father, and they went away together."
"Where did she receive him, Mabel?—the parlors are closed, you know."
"Yes, but she was all ready when he came. It was an appointment, I think he said, to take a walk, and he stood at the front-door, until she went down, only five minutes, sister Miriam. He did not mind it at all. He sent her up the letter he had brought from the office, and she read it out loud to Mrs. Austin. I was there—it was very short."
"What letter, Mabel?"
"Oh, about her aunt! This note tells you, I suppose. Evelyn is rich now; but she had to go to New York to see the lawyer, so Mr. Claude Bainrothe said, before she could claim the fortune."
More and more bewildered, I made haste to tear open the sealed note which Mabel had given me. Its contents were scanty, and not fully satisfactory.
"MY DEAR MIRIAM: The ways of Providence are truly strange and inscrutable, and its balance ever shifting. This morning I rose in despair, to-night I shall lie down rejoicing; for a way is again opened to us that will put it beyondhispower to annoy or oppress us further. God knows we have both suffered enough, already, at his hands! My maiden aunt, Lady Frances Pomfret, is dead, and makes me her heir. I will show you the lawyer's letter when I return. The legacy is spoken of in the letter as small, because English people compute property so differently from ourselves. The attorney lives in New York, who is empowered by my aunt's English executor to transact this business, and it seems I; must go to him, Mohammed-like, as this mountain cannot come to me.
"Claude Bainrothe is polite enough to offer to escort me to the boat, which I shall barely reach in time; so, farewell for the present, dear Miriam. I shall stay with Emma Gilroy, and return in a very few days. Write to me, however, if I should be detained, to her father's care, and keep a good heart, until the return of your fortunate
"EVELYN.
"P. S.—You know it is little matter, between sisters, which possesses the property, so all share it. E."
Claude Bainrothe called that afternoon, and placed in my hand the copy of the codicil that had been sent to Evelyn, together with the lawyer's letter to which she had alluded, and which, on consulting with him, she found it unnecessary to take with her to New York, her identity being already established, beyond a doubt, with that of the legatee, in the eyes of the American agent in possession of all the facts of the case from the London attorney. I examined the codicil closely, and could find no flaw! It purported to be the last will of the Lady Frances Pomfret, who revoked all other bequests, in order to bestow her whole property on her niece, Evelyn Erle.
I confess I had felt some doubts as to the existence at all of such a person, of whom I had never before heard mention made, until I read her last bequest, and saw with my own eyes the business-like letter, confirming the whole transaction of Mr. James Mainwaring, the London attorney, with its foreign post-mark, and huge office seal. This was accompanied by one from a legal gentleman of New York, whose name was familiar to me, as my father's agent, and which confirmed the truth of the matter in the most effectual way; for, in his letter, Evelyn was advised to come to New York and receive her legacy.
There was nothing more to be said, certainly; still I had strange misgivings even then, which I felt to be both unjust and ungenerous, yet could not wholly banish, and again I examined the codicil.
Claude Bainrothe smiled; it was the first time, let me stateen passant, that we had found ourselves alone together since his return. "You scrutinize that will as if you were a legal flaw-finder, Miss Monfort, instead of a very confiding young lady of poetical proclivities."
"It is very short!" I said, sententiously, comparing at the same time the handwriting with that of Mr. Mainwaring, who had in his letter declared himself the copyist, the original codicil remaining in his hands, together with the will it had annulled, and finding them the same unmistakably.
"Short, but sweet," he remarked curtly, yet smiling again, and extending his hand for it. "I suppose one of Earl Pomfret's children had trodden on the tail of the old maid's poodle—she lived with him it seems—and offended her beyond repair, or something similar had occurred, to make her change her intentions, which were at first all in his favor, and revoke her first bequest."
"Mr. Mainwaring does not say so," I remarked, again glancing over his letter. "He merely observes that it is only important to send a copy of the codicil, since it revokes all previous bequests. How did you know her first intentions—have there been other letters?"
"I suppose so," he replied, coloring slightly, "but what a lawyer you are! I scarcely know how I got the idea, to be frank with you; it may be incorrect after all, but Evelyn will tell you every thing, of course, when she comes."
"Let me see the codicil again, Mr. Bainrothe," and I examined it once more closely, as if by some fascination I could not resist. I remarked only one peculiarity in the document. One word was written in a cramped manner, as though space had been wanting—yet much of the sheet of paper on which it appeared was unoccupied—this was the word "thirty," at the beginning of the enumeration of moneys, for thirty thousand pounds (repeated below in figures) was the sum set forth in the codicil as the bequest of the Lady Frances Pomfret to her niece Evelyn Erle! The five numerals that represented the same idea as the written words occupied half of the last portion of the last line, and seemed to my invidious eyes to make an ostentatious display of the power that may lie in a cipher, or an array thereof.
I gloated over the record, with something perhaps of that spirit which may have lurked in my blood, from the time of Jacob, and which, so far, had not evinced itself, except perhaps on that occasion when my ear thrilled to the music of falling gold.
As I gazed, I mused on the strange fate that took from one sister to enrich the other so providentially, as it might have seemed.
The paper had fallen from my nerveless hand before I knew it, and I was aroused from reverie by Claude's action in stooping for it, and his voice saying:
"I will fold up this record, Miriam; it seems to render you gloomy."
"Thoughtful, certainly," I said, recovering myself, with that impulse of self-command that belonged to me by nature; "no more—not envious, Claude, I assure you, however appearances may be against me."
"Of such a feeling no one could suspect Miriam Monfort," he said, gallantly; whispering low in the next moment, "one year has made strange improvement in your beauty, Miriam—you are hardly the same little dark, quick, yet quiet girl, I parted with when I went to Copenhagen. There is so much more pose and majesty—more sweetness about you now—and Evelyn too is changed—oh! sadly—sadly!"
"I have sometimes feared," I said, keeping down, as best I might; the emotions conflicting in my bosom—"feared that she might be delicate, and that her energies consumed her; you must control these, Claude!"
"I!—why, what on earth can I have to do with Miss Erle and her energies? you speak in enigmas, Miriam!"
He was evidently embarrassed by the cool, incredulous look I dropped upon him. "I had supposed every thing was settled some time ago," I observed, quietly; "however, I will not bore you with conjectures or questions, I shall hear every thing, of course, when the proper time comes; until then, I shall hope to act out Milton's noble line, and 'stand and wait.' And now, if you have a few minutes to spare, do give me therésuméof your experience at Copenhagen. What of the climate—what of the people—what of the court? Are the women pretty or plain, as a general thing—and had Hamlet light or dark hair, think you, from present indications in the royal family? Or is it the same blood? For you know that I have an enthusiasm about Denmark! It is such a little, valiant, fiery, dominant state, and theirsagasof the sea-kings set my blood on flame. This always was a weakness of mine, you remember."
"Yes, I recollect perfectly how you used to run on about Elsinore. Well, I went there frequently, Miriam, and can tell you all about the dreary, decayed old town, to your utmost satisfaction. Even your romance would fail, could you behold it now."
And Claude evinced considerable power, as a word-painter, in the hour that followed, during the early part of which Mabel appeared at the door, was silently beckoned in by me, to remain a quiet and delighted listener, almost to the end of the interview, when Mrs. Austin suddenly summoned her away; and again Claude Bainrothe and I were left for a few minutestête-à-tête. When my visitor departed, or rose to do so, we shook hands frankly; and I thought, on the whole, he seemed grateful for my mode of treatment, and the interest I had shown in his narrative—so entire a proof of the disinterested nature of my feelings, could he only have thought so! It had probably been his intention to test and probe them in the beginning, and he had succeeded.
He lingered a moment, however, on the threshold, gazing at me earnestly.
"Miriam," he said, reëntering and closing the door, "Miriam, I wish I could be certain of your friendship. I may put it to fiery proof before long. Can I rely on you to support me then?"
"Claude," I rejoined, gravely, "if I can assist you in any useful or honorable way, I shall be glad to do so, on general principles alone. You did not respond fairly to my friendly manifestations in times past, after—after a certain explanation, and the impulse has died away since then, I confess. Our future lives can have very little in common, I imagine."
"Would you not help me to break a loathed chain?" he asked, almost fiercely. "Bonds are often forced upon a man," he continued, "by the very reason of his superior strength. It is so hard to resist a pleading woman! O Miriam! more than any one living, I respect—revere—love—yes, love you. Pity me! You can assign no secondary reasons now to professions like these. You are no longer rich—no longer—"
"Miss Kilmansegg, with the golden leg," I interrupted, derisively. "Truly you surprise me."
"O Miriam! how can you treat me with such heartless levity?" and he wrung his hands bitterly. "I am pushed to desperation already. I never knew, until I lost you, what you were to me; how superior to all other women, how pure, how unworldly, how strong, how rich in all mental and womanly endowments! Hear me, Miriam," and he attempted to take my hand, an error of which he was soon made conscious.
"Claude Bainrothe," I said, sternly, "I can tolerate you on one condition alone—that you respect me. You cease to do this, you, the betrothed husband of another woman! the moment you sully my ear with your addresses, your effusions of sentiment. They are no more, I know; but even these I will not endure from you, nor yet from—" I hesitated; a hated name had risen to my lips, but I repressed it. He, the son, surely was not the father's keeper.
"You do me injustice; before Heaven, you do!" he exclaimed, flinging back his long curling locks impetuously, by a toss of his superb head, and bending his blazing eyes upon me. "Hear me, Miriam, I hold the clew to a secret by means of which I can compel wealth to flow back to your feet, in the old channels, if you will be mine. You would not have thought this condition hard a year ago. What has occurred to change you? You loved me then—by Heaven you love me still! Oh, say so, Miriam, and make me doubly blessed! Am I deceived in the expression of that beaming eye? You will pardon, bless me;" and he knelt humbly at my feet, and clasped my hand.
"Rise, Claude," I said, "and forgive me if a momentary feeling of triumph, that may have lit my eye, was mingled with the feeling of entire emancipation from all past weakness, which this hour so surely proves, and so satisfactorily, to my own spirit. You are to me like any other stranger."
He was standing sullenly before me now, his head dropping on his breast, his hands loosely clasped before him.
"You are deceived," I pursued, calmly, "if you imagine from any expression of mine that one ray of love survives the ruin of other days. I told you the truth when I said all was over between us forever. Did you suppose me a woman to sit down in the ashes because one man—one woman of all God's manifold creation—had proved false, or treacherous, or ungrateful? I should have wronged my youth, my soul, my descent, my God, had I so yielded. Go and fulfill your contract faithfully this time; a second rupture might not go so well with you as the first. There are persons who are singularly tenacious of their possessions, and who number their bondsmen as a principal portion of their property. Beware how you anger such! Your father too. He would be conciliated now, by what would once have incensed him. Evelyn Erie is rich, Miriam Monfort is poor; why need I add another word? The suggestion is perfect."
Coldly, silently, angrily, he left the room. I heard him stamp impatiently at the hall-door, at some delay apparently in undoing its fastenings—his childish habit when provoked—such was his haste to be gone.
Yet I could scarcely judge, from what had just occurred, taking this, too, in connection with what had passed long before, when I alone was the injured and forgiving one, that I had drawn down upon my head his eternal enmity.
But thus it proved.