CHAPTER V.
A being of beauty she fell to her dreaming—Thought flitted in gleamings of light through her brain,In the depths of her eye it was constantly gleaming,Still lighting her soul with soft visions again.
A being of beauty she fell to her dreaming—Thought flitted in gleamings of light through her brain,In the depths of her eye it was constantly gleaming,Still lighting her soul with soft visions again.
A being of beauty she fell to her dreaming—Thought flitted in gleamings of light through her brain,In the depths of her eye it was constantly gleaming,Still lighting her soul with soft visions again.
A being of beauty she fell to her dreaming—
Thought flitted in gleamings of light through her brain,
In the depths of her eye it was constantly gleaming,
Still lighting her soul with soft visions again.
The will of Daniel Clark was never found, and the vast inheritance that should have been his child’s, became the spoil of those who had crept like vipers along his life-path, poisoning every pure blossom that sprang up to bless him on his way to the grave. His wife was bereft of every thing but her sorrowful memories. His child had not even these. To her, father, mother, all was a dream—an idea that had floated through her infant memory and was gone.
Years went by—many years—and then in one of the most splendid mansions of Philadelphia, lay a fair young girl, half arrayed in her morning costume, and but partially aroused from one of those sweet dreams that of late had made her sleep a vision of love. While lifting the wealth of her brown hair between both her small hands in dressing before her mirror that morning, she had been taken with one of those rich gleams of thought that are the poetry of youth, and allowing the tresses to fall over her slight person again, where, in their wonderful and bright abundance, they fell almost to her feet, she had stolen thoughtfully to a couch in her boudoir and cast herself upon the crimson cushions. There, with some loose drapery gathered around her, one fair cheek resting in the palm of her hand, and the white arm half vailed by those loosened tresses, pressed deep in the silken cushions, the young girl fell into a reverie. Perhaps the dream from which she had just been aroused still haunted her mind, but it would have been difficult for Myra herself to have said what were the strange and sweet fancies that floated through her mind at that moment; for her own thoughts were a mystery, her feelings vague as they were pure. These sort of day-dreams, when they cometo our first youth, have much of heaven in them; if they could only endure through life always bright, always enveloped in the same rosy mist,
“Man might forget to dream of heaven,And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.”
“Man might forget to dream of heaven,And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.”
“Man might forget to dream of heaven,And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.”
“Man might forget to dream of heaven,
And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.”
Myra was aroused from her day-dream, not rudely as some of our sweetest fancies are broken, but by a light footfall, and a soft voice that called her name from the inner room. The young girl started up—
“Mother—mother, is it you—am I very late this morning?”
“Oh, you are here, daughter,” said a middle-aged and gentle lady as she entered the boudoir. “No, not very late, but do you know that your father has just arrived and is inquiring for you?”
“My father here, and I not half ready to go down!” cried Myra, eagerly gathering up her hair, while, with the wonderful mobility natural to her features, the whole tone of her face changed. The dreamy, almost languid expression vanished in an instant. The warm glow of her affectionate nature broke through every feature like flame hidden in the heart of a pearl. Her cheek, her mouth, her white forehead were full of animation; her brown eyes sparkled with delight. With her whole being she loved the man whom she believed to be her father, and for the gentle woman who stood gazing upon her with so much affection as her toilet was completed, Myra’s devotion was almost more than the natural love of a child for its mother. Scarcely a minute elapsed before the young girl was ready to go down. Another minute and she was in the arms of a fine and noble-looking man who stood by the breakfast-room door eagerly watching for her. During many weeks he had been absent from his home, and he could not feel thoroughly welcomed back again while Myra was not by to greet him.
It was a joyous family party that gathered around the breakfast-table that morning. The eyes of that gentle wife wandered, with a look of grateful affection, from the noble face of her husband to meet the sparkling glance of her child; for Myra was more than a child to her. Rejoiced to be once more in the bosom of his family, Mr. D. was more than usually animated and agreeable. There was not a hidden thought or a disunited feeling in the little family group.
“And whom have you had to visit you since I went away, Myra? What new conquest have you made? Tell me all about it, child,” said Mr. D., smiling, as he received the coffee-cup of Sevres china from the hands of his wife.
Myra laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, that had more of hearty glee in it than any thing you ever heard.
“Oh, we have had crowds of visitors, gallants without number. Ladies like a swarm of humming-birds, and—and—oh, yes; we had one very singular and romantic person, a namesake and intimate friend of yours, papa. I wrote you about him, but you never mentioned him at all in your reply.”
“Oh, yes; I remember,” said Mr. D.; “a grave, gentlemanly old man, with just gray hairs enough to make him interesting, and the most winning manners. He carried a little Bible with a gold clasp in his bosom—I remember the description well. What of him, Myra? You lost your heart, of that the letter told me;—but who was this mysterious person? Pray, enlighten me.”
Myra and her mother exchanged glances. A faint crimson broke over the elder lady’s face, and the young girl looked a little puzzled.
“Why, papa, how strangely you talk. This gentleman knows you well; he is a member of the legislature, and his seat is close by yours in the house,” said Myra.
“Nonsense, child; there is but one man of my name in the house, and he has not been absent from Harrisburg a day during the session; besides, he has not a white hair in his head, and never carries small Bibles with gold clasps to exhibit to young ladies. You have had some impostor here. What did the interesting gentleman want?”
“He had lost a portmanteau that contained his money and clothes,” faltered Myra.
“All but the little Bible!” cried her father with a laugh.
“And so,” continued the young girl, blushing, “as he was a friend of yours and out of money, he only desired mamma to advance him a small sum.”
“And she did it—I’ll be sworn she did it!” cried Mr. D., enjoying the blushes of his wife. “The scoundrel carried off my wife’s purse and my daughter’s heart at one fell swoop.”
“It was not much, only twenty-four dollars,” said the lady struggling to bear up against her husband’s raillery.
“But I—I told him he could have fifty just as well,” said Myra, joining in her father’s laugh; “who could suspect him with his gentle manners—”
“And little Bible?” interrupted Mr. D.
“And gray hairs? Indeed, papa, it was worth the money to be cheated so gracefully. You have no idea with what an air the man took his leave—the tears absolutely stood in his eyes.”
“The fellow was a fool not to take your fifty dollars, Myra, that is all I have to say about him—so now on with your list. What other interesting stranger have you entertained in my absence?”
Myra hesitated, her eyes drooped for an instant, and the damask of her cheek deepened to crimson. For the first time in her life she felt embarrassed in the presence of her father. What if papa should pronouncehiman impostor also? she thought; and her heart was in a glow at the very idea. She felt that the eyes of her father were fixed on her inquiringly, and this deepened her confusion.
“We have received one other stranger here,” she said at length, making an effort to look up; “a very talented and agreeable gentleman, whom I met by accident when out on an excursion.”
“Indeed; and who is he?” inquired Mr. D. in a grave tone, and casting a glance at his wife that had a shade of displeasure in it.
“He seems a most estimable young man, full of talent and generous feeling,” said Mrs. D., anxious to save her child from the embarrassment of an answer.
“Heseems—who is he?” demanded the husband; his voice was stern and his look suspicious. “Myra, who is this man?”
“His name is Whitney,” replied the young girl, resuming something of her natural courage. “I have made no further inquiries; but he is no impostor, papa, I am very sure of that.”
Mr. D. arose from the table, evidently much annoyed. Myra’s heart beat quick. Why should she tremble, why should every nerve in her slight frame thrill so, if the stranger were no more to her than a hundred others had been? Why was it that the laugh died on her lip, and all her courage fled, when she saw the displeasure so strongly marked in herfather’s face? Was the young girl awaking from her dream? did she begin to feel how truly, how ardently she loved? or was the rosy vail but half lifted from her heart? She cast a supplicating glance at her mother, and her look was answered by one of sweet and undisturbed affection. That feminine and lovely woman could sympathize far better with the sweet, wild feelings that broke so eloquently, that moment, through the troubled eyes of her child, than with the stern displeasure of her husband. She arose from the breakfast-table and glided from the room, making a sign for her daughter to follow.
“Stay,” said the master of the house, addressing Myra, as she was turning toward her own room. “I would ask a single question, and then let us have done with this impostor, for, doubtless, he is such.”
“No, father, no; I would pledge my life for his honor; he is no impostor,” exclaimed Myra, as her father led the way to a little study that opened from the breakfast-room.
“As you would have done for the gentlemanly old man with the Bible, I dare say,” was the half-humorous, half-ironical rejoinder. “But answer my question, Myra: has this young man ever presumed to lift his eyes to you as an equal? has he ever uttered a word that might lead you to suppose that he thinks of you save as a stranger?”
“Indeed, papa, he never has—far, far from it. When other young men have overwhelmed me with flatteries; when, as your heiress, homage of every kind has been lavished upon me, he alone has been silent. Always respectful, always kind, he has never, for one moment, taken the attitude often assumed by other young men who could not boast a tithe of his merit. He has seldom spoken to me of himself—never has the word love passed between us.”
“You are eloquent, Myra, alike in the praise and in the defence of this stranger.”
“I speak but the truth, papa”
“Well, I am glad of it. The whole affair can be more readily dismissed than I supposed. Now go to your chamber and think no more about it.”
“Think no more about it;” truly it was a request easily made, but how impossible to obey. Why, the very thought of that stranger youth had henceforth the power of an angelspirit which might steal down and trouble the still waters of her heart forever. Myra knew not even yet that this spirit took the form of love. She entered her boudoir again and flung herself upon the couch, but how changed were her feelings—the sweet dream, so tranquil, so full of rosy content, was swept away like a cloud. Her heart was in a tumult, her cheek burned, her eyes filled with tears. She felt indignant that her father should, for one moment, hold a doubt of the being in whom she put such perfect trust.
Thus musing with herself, the young girl spent an hour of disquiet, when her reverie was disturbed by a servant, who informed her that Mr. Whitney was in the drawing-room. Her first sensation was a thrill of joy, such as had long, unconsciously, followed his approach. The next was a feeling of reserve, a shy, half distrustful sensation, such as had never possessed her warm, frank nature before. She went down, not, as had been her wont, with the step of a gazelle, and with a glad smile sparkling in her eyes and on her lip, but with a lingering tread and eyes vailed by their snowy lids and dark lashes. She entered the drawing-room so gently that its occupant did not at first observe her. He stood by a marble table, near the window, turning over some books that lay upon it. The light which fell over him was subdued by many a glowing fold of damask that swept over the windows, thus giving the dim look of marble to features so perfectly classical in their outline, that but for the thick waving hair, and the glow of life that pervaded them, the head might have been taken for that of some antique statue. To these manly attractions were added a figure, tall beyond the ordinary standard, sinewy, athletic, and yet full of subtle grace.
While he thought himself alone a look of tranquil repose lay upon young Whitney’s features, but the moment he lifted his head and saw the fair girl who stood hesitating by the door, the whole character of his face changed; a glow of animation lighted up his face, and he came forward with all the eager cordiality that her previous frank bearing had always warranted.
Myra hesitated before she reached forth her hand, and when she did place it in his, it quivered like an aspen. The young man looked earnestly in her changing face, and then led herto a seat, himself a prey to all the quick apprehension that her unusual restraint was calculated to inspire. A few commonplace words were spoken, then both became silent and preoccupied. At length Myra observed that her father had returned home that morning, but she blushed while saying it, as if the young man could have guessed at the conversation that had given so much pain to herself.
A vague idea of the truth did evidently flash across the young man’s mind, for he turned another long and earnest look upon her face, which was now glowing crimson to her temples, and when he turned his eyes away, the faintest possible smile stole over his lips.
“It is,” he said, with a faint sigh—“it is now more than two months since I arrived in Philadelphia. All that time your kind mamma has received me as a guest. Perhaps I should not have accepted this hospitality without first convincing her that I was not unworthy of it; but I found it so sweet to be taken on trust, so flattering to be valued for myself alone, that I had almost forgotten the reasonable demands of society. I ought long since to have convinced her that it was no impostor to whom her kindness had been extended.”
“Impostor!” exclaimed Myra, with a smile that told how impossible she thought it that even suspicion should be attached to him.
“What if I were to be suspected as such?” added Whitney with an answering smile.
“I would not believe it—I would believe no wrong of you, though your own lips asserted it!” was the generous reply.
The color swept over young Whitney’s face, and there was something in his eyes that deepened the crimson on Myra’s cheek; but he only answered in a low and earnest voice:
“I thank you; with my whole heart I thank you for this confidence.”
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he took from his pocket several letters which, with a hand that trembled somewhat, he presented to the young girl. She took them to the window, and, half shaded by the curtains, began to read, rejoicing in the obscurity, for she felt a terror that the quick beating of her heart might become visible.
The letters were from several of the first men in America-menwhose autographs had become familiar to Myra upon the public records of the land. Nothing could have been more ample than the testimonials that these men gave of the high worth, talent, and position sustained by young Whitney.
Myra read these letters with a feeling of proud triumph. Her trust in him was sustained; she had never distrusted his worth, and in her hand she held the proud power of crushing every doubt that her father might have had. Merit to which the highest and purest in the land bore such testimony could never again become subject of dispute. She returned to Mr. Whitney. The generous enthusiasm that wholly possessed her beamed in every lineament of a face lovely in itself, but most remarkable for a quick and brilliant expression seldom equaled in the human countenance.
“Mr. Whitney, may I retain these only a short time? My father—he will be pleased to see them.”
Myra was petite and slight in her person, almost as a fairy. As she stood clasping the letters between her hands, and with her eyes uplifted toward him, those eyes, so brilliant with every feeling of the heart, a prettier contrast with his tall and stately form could not well be imagined.
“Certainly; do with them as you please,” he said; “but you must not allow your father to suppose that I exhibit them from ostentation.”
“Oh, he will not think that!” cried Myra, extending her hand, for her guest was about to take his leave. “He will never think any thing that is not noble and good of you, I am sure.”
“To-morrow, then—to-morrow I will call for the letters.”
“Yes, to-morrow,” replied Myra; and while a servant opened the door for her guest, she entered her father’s study.
Mr. D. was seated by his escritoir, reading some papers. He looked up as Myra entered, and smiled kindly upon her.
“What visitor have you had?” he inquired, folding up the paper in his hand. “Did I not hear some one go out a moment since?”
“Yes, sir; it was Mr. Whitney.”
Mr. D. tossed the paper he held upon the escritoir, and his brow contracted.
“Mr. Whitney again! Have I not told you, Myra, thatno man of whose character I am not well informed, shall visit my house? How can you thus receive a person of whom you know nothing?”
“But, papa, I do know all about him, now, and so may you; only read these letters, and you will find that his family is as good as ours; his character irreproachable; his position every thing that can warrant the acquaintance he has sought.”
Mr. D. took the letters very coldly, and without another word proceeded to read them. Myra watched his countenance with a palpitating heart. The frown remained immovable on his forehead, and his mouth relaxed nothing of its stern expression. Coldly and deliberately he read the letters through; laid them down one by one, and then placing his hand upon the parcel, turned to his daughter.
“What proof have we that these are not forgeries?” he said.
Myra’s heart swelled indignantly. She could hardly force herself to answer. It seemed as if her father had determined to receive no evidence in favor of the man, against whom he had taken a prejudice that, to her warm nature, seemed most unjust and causeless.
“The handwriting, the autographs, are they not genuine? are they not sufficient?”
Mr. D. took up one of the letters and examined it closely. “The letters may be genuine; but what proof have we that this young man came by them honorably—in short, that his name is Whitney, or that he is at all the person for whom he represents himself?”
“Oh, papa, this is too much! Only see this young gentleman yourself, and then judge if he can be suspected of obtaining those letters by dishonorable means!”
Myra grew pale, and tears started to her eyes as she spoke. Mr. D. regarded her for a moment, then placing the letters in his escritoir, he turned the key. Myra waited for some answer to her appeal, but he coldly took up the paper that he had been reading as she came in, and seemed to cast the subject of conversation from his mind. Myra went to her chamber with a heavy heart; she felt chilled and hurt by her father’s coldness: perhaps, too, there was in her heart a feeling of disappointment regarding Whitney also. In the slight mysterythat had, up to that day, enveloped him, her ardent fancy had found something for the imagination to dwell upon. In the generosity of her youth she had rather hoped that he might prove one of those rare geniuses that struggle from an obscure origin and through poverty, to the intellectual and moral eminence which alone she prized, and which she was certain he had attained. Perhaps some vague fancy of relieving his poverty by the wealth which, as her father’s heiress, she must one day possess, had formed part of the day-dreams which of late had haunted her. Certain it is that a sensation of regret mingled with the sadness that her father’s settled disapprobation had cast upon her spirits. She felt almost grieved by the proof that, even as a friend—for she had not allowed her thoughts to range beyond that gentle character—Whitney, from his worldly position, would never require a sacrifice from her.
The next day Whitney called again—called to take leave. He was about returning to his native State, and had only a moment in which to utter thanks and farewell to the friends whose kindness he should never cease to remember with gratitude. In a few months—it might be weeks—he would again visit Philadelphia, and to renew the acquaintance he had made would be one of his sweetest hopes till then.
Myra heard all this with that quiet and gentle dignity which no surprise could wholly conquer. She saw that her guest was agitated, that he was not taking leave of her with the indifference of a common acquaintance; and with that deep trust which true affection gives to the heart, her thoughts turned to the future. A few broken sentences passed between them, and then Myra went to her father for the letters that he had locked in his escritoir the day before.
“I will bring the letters myself,” was the cold reply which was given to her request, and Myra returned to the drawing-room pale and agitated, for there was something in her father’s manner that filled her with vague apprehension.
A few moments elapsed, and then measured footsteps in the hall made the young girl’s heart beat quick as she listened. They approached the drawing-room door; it was opened, and with a cold and stately politeness Mr. D. entered, holding the letters in his hand. He approached Mr. Whitney, who hadrisen to receive him, and now resumed his seat. “Sir,” he said, gravely drawing a chair and seating himself opposite to the young man, “there are the letters with which you have honored me; they are perfectly satisfactory.”
There was something so chill and cutting in the measured tones and unbending courtesy with which this was said, that it had all the effect of an insult without yielding an excuse for resentment.
Whitney took the letters, and the color mounted to his temples. “I trust,” he said, “that there was nothing in the letters, or in the manner of presenting them, that could give offence?”
Before answering, Mr. D. turned his eyes upon Myra, who sat pale and dismayed in a corner of the sofa, and made a motion of the head that she should leave the room.
The young girl arose trembling in every limb, and left the room; but while she stood upon the threshold struggling for strength to move on, her father spoke. “May I ask you, sir, why those letters were presented to my daughter?”
Whitney’s voice was low but firm, as he answered:
“I have received much kindness from your family, sir, within the last two months, and could not leave the city, as I am about to do, without giving Mrs. D. and your daughter all the proof in my power that their hospitality had not been unworthily bestowed.”
“And was this your only motive, sir?”
“It was my only motive.”
“And have you not presumed to place yourself on an equality with my daughter? Have you not taken advantage of her youth and my absence to ingratiate yourself in her favor? In short, sir, have you not presumed upon the hospitality awarded by my wife, and offered address to my child, every way distasteful to her family?”
“No, sir, no, I have not thus presumed.”
Myra heard no more—a sharp sense of humiliation, a thousand confused thoughts flashed through her brain, and with a pang at her heart such as she had never dreamed of before, she darted up the stairs. White and gasping for breath, she paused at the top, made a grasp at the baluster for support, and, for the first time in her life, fainted upon the floor.
Humiliating and bitter, indeed, were the thoughts that flowed through the young girl’s mind, when she awoke from her swoon and found the sweet face of her mother bending over her; proud and keenly sensitive, she felt as if the dignity of her self-respect had been irretrievably outraged. Never in his life had young Whitney spoken to her of love, and in all her thoughts of him, the idea of passion had never once mingled. But now she felt in her innermost heart that something stronger and more powerful than mere friendship had driven the blood from her heart when she heard him so cruelly arraigned for feelings and hopes that he had never breathed, perhaps had never felt. This knowledge of her own heart, thrust so rudely on the young girl, was but another pang added to her outraged pride, and for days not even the sweet and soothing care of her mother had power to console her.
In this state of feeling, Mr. D. left his child and returned to his legislative duties. The very day after his departure from home, there came a letter for Myra—a letter from the man who now occupied her every thought. She broke the seal in the presence of her mother, and read such words as made her heart thrill and her pale cheek glow again.
“Nothing but the harsh words of your father would have given me confidence to address you so,” the letter said; “but there was something in those words, cruel and cold as they were, that gave me the first gleam of hope I have dared to entertain—hope that the great love I feel for you might be returned. Say only that this hope—it is faint and humble—will not be thought presumptuous, and surely some means can be found by which the prejudice which your father exhibits against me will be removed.”
She loved, she was beloved. The weight that had bowed down her pride was swept away by that letter, like mists before a glowing sun. A hopeful and joyous creature was Myra, and her light heart shook off the trouble that had oppressed it as a wild blossom casts the dew from its petals. She answered the letter. Modestly and with sensitive reserve, she vailed the affection that thrilled at her heart as she wrote to him for the first time, but still Myra answered her lover’s first letter, and in all this her confident was that loving and gentle mother.
“Let us hope for the best, my child,” the fond womanwould say. “When your father knows his worth as we do, and is satisfied that you love him truly, then he will relent. We have but to wait.”
They did wait, and in the mean time letter after letter came and went, thus linking those two young hearts more and more firmly together.
Mr. D. came home at length, and now the true reason of his dislike to Whitney became manifest. Myra was intended for another. Wealth and station, every thing that could win the sanction of a proud man, was in favor of her father’s choice, and on the very day of his return he explained his intentions and his wishes to the young girl.
“You shall have a noble fortune, my child,” he said. “Few ladies in America shall give so fine a property to a husband.”
“Father!” answered Myra, and it was wonderful how mild and firm the young girl remained, knowing, as she did, how powerful were the interests she opposed, with her fragile strength—“Father, I can not marry this man. I do not love him, and will never commit the sin of wedding without affection.”
The young girl was very pale, but there was a mild firmness in her eye that revealed all the pure strength that sustained her. She paused, drew a deep breath, and while her father stood gazing upon her, dumb with astonishment, she added:
“I will never marry any man but Mr. Whitney, for while he lives I can never love another.”
And now that it was over, Myra began to tremble; for there was something terrible in the fierce and pallid rage that held her father for a time mute and motionless before her. At length his lips parted, and his eyes flashed.
“Whitney! the ingrate, the impostor, you love!—you would marry him against my consent?”
“No, I will never marry any man against your consent, papa,” replied Myra, bursting into tears; for her strength had been taxed to the utmost, and she was not one to brave a parent’s wrath unmoved. “I can remain single, and will, if you desire it; but with the feelings that I have for Mr. Whitney, it would be a sin should I give one thought to another.”
Mr. D. gazed on the pale, earnest face of his child as shespoke, but there was no relenting in his face. Anger, scorn, a thousand wrathful passions broke through its pallor, and he answered in a voice of cutting scorn:
“And this man, you told me, had never breathed a word of love to you in his life.”
Myra was about to acknowledge the letters that had passed between Whitney and herself, for there was a seeming justice in the proud man’s taunt that cut her to the heart; but she thought of her mother, of the self-sacrificing mother who had so generously risked the displeasure of her husband in sanctioning the letters her child had received, and she only answered, “I can never love another, papa.”
Mr. D. turned away, and began to pace the room. His lips were pressed forcibly together, and uncontrollable passion seemed burning in every vein of his body.
“Thank God!” he muttered, turning furiously upon the terrified girl—“Thank God, no drop ofmyblood runs in your veins.”
“Papa! O papa! this is terrible. Why, in your anger against me, say things that are as cruel as they are without foundation?” cried Myra, starting to her feet, and approaching her father.
“Without foundation! It is true, girl, I say it is true. You are not my child!”
She did not believe him. How could she, poor girl; with the household links of many a happy year clinging about her heart? One word could not tear them away so readily, but the very thought made her pale as a corpse, and every nerve of her delicate frame trembled. A reproachful smile quivered over her lips, and she laid her hand upon the stern man’s arm.
“O father! I know that you are only angry; but this is too much. It would kill me to hear you say that again.”
Mr. D. turned. Anger was fierce within him still, and he took no pity on that pale and tortured girl.
“As there is a heaven above, you are not my child! I can prove it—have papers in the house that you shall see.”
A faint cry burst from Myra’s lips. She staggered back and fell upon a chair, her eyes distended, and fixed wildly upon the stern man, as if she searched in those angry featuresfor a contradiction of the words he had spoken. She saw nothing there to relieve the doubt that ached at her heart.
“Not my father? mamma not my mother?” she murmured, and the tears began to rain over her white cheeks. She suddenly clasped her hands and stood up.
“Then whose child am I?”
Mr. D. sat down; the angry fire was fast going out from his heart, and it could sustain him no longer. Regret, keen and self-accusing, took possession of him then. Love, pity, every tender feeling that had so long enlinked that young girl to his heart, all came back like birds to a ravaged nest. He would have given worlds for the power to annihilate those ten minutes of his life, when one fierce gleam of anger had unlocked the hoarded secret of years. He turned his eyes almost imploringly on the trembling girl. His proud lip quivered, his hand shook as he rested it on his knee. Myra crept toward him, heart-broken and wretched, beyond all her previous ideas of wretchedness. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent her face to his as she had done many a time in her childhood, when some small trouble oppressed her. But oh, how unlike her sweet childhood were those agonized features!
“Father—father!” she said, and her voice bespoke in its low and thrilling tones all the anguish he had inflicted—“Father, tell me, whose child am I?”
“To-morrow, to-morrow!” said Mr. D.; “I can go through no more to-day.”
“But is it true that I am not your child?” said Myra, still hoping against hope.
“It is true!” he answered; and rising from his seat with an unsteady step he entered his study.
A moment after, Mrs. D. met Myra on the stairs. One glance in her face was enough. “Myra, daughter!” she exclaimed; “what is this? You are white as death—you tremble.”
“Mother—mother!” burst from the lips of the young girl, almost with a shriek; “they tell me that I am not your child!”
Mrs. D. was struck motionless. Marble could not have been more coldly white than her face and hands.
“And who—who has told you this?” she faltered.
“He told me himself—papa—he has the proofs. Mother, mother, say in mercy that he is only angry—that it is not so!”
With a wild gesture, and a burst of passionate tears, the unhappy girl cast herself into her mother’s arms. The poor lady trembled beneath the weight of that fragile form. She wove her arms around it; she pressed kiss after kiss upon that forehead with her cold and quivering lips. She strove, by the warmth and passion of her maternal love, to charm away the pain and the truth from her daughter’s heart, but she said not in words, “Myra, you are my child,” and the young girl arose from her bosom utterly desolate.
The morrow came, and Myra stood by her father in his study, for he was still a father to her. The escritoir was open before them, and a large pocket-book, with the seal wrenched apart, lay upon the lid. Mr. D. sat with his head bent and shading his troubled forehead with one hand. Myra held a letter in her shaking grasp—a letter addressed to the man whom she had always deemed her parent, and signed by Daniel Clark. She could not read; the words swam before her eyes, but she laid her finger on the signature and said in a low and husky voice, “This name—Daniel Clark—he was my godfather.”
“He was your father!” replied Mr. D. “Read, read for yourself.”
Myra forced her nerves to be still. With desperate resolution she kept her eyes upon the writing. Every word of that letter contained proof that went to her heart. She was the daughter of Daniel Clark.