Floy leaned forward and clutched Alva’s arm with icy fingers.
“Oh, for God’s sake, tell me what you mean!” she faltered, imploringly.
“Why, what is it to you, child?” exclaimed Alva, startled out of
herself by Floy’s emotion.
“Oh, nothing, nothing; pardon me, Miss Beresford. But I was so sorry
for you and for _him_, for--for you spoke of a broken heart,” sobbed
Floy, drawing back in dismay.
Miss Beresford was silent one moment, then she reached out and caressed
Floy’s golden head with one jeweled hand, while she answered:
“I am not offended, Floy. You startled me from a painful retrospect,
that was all. I did not mean to answer you rudely, dear.”
And loving the girl like a younger sister, perhaps craving her sympathy
in this sad hour, she threw reserve to the winds and poured out her
brother’s story.
Nothing was kept back; his letter telling of his love, his mother’s
anger, her cruel reply, then the brief renunciation of the outraged son.
“Was he not brave?” cried Alva, with kindling eyes. “He threw away
everything for Love’s sake. Would that I, his sister, had been so true
to self.”
“You! you!” cried Floy, in tears and wonder.
“Hush! hush! I did not mean to refer to myself!” cried Alva; and sure
as she was of the girl’s sympathy, she repented of her momentary
self-betrayal, and wrapped herself in a mantle of reserve.
“A grief may ease itself with tears to start,
Or vehement outcries in passion’s breath.
But the calm stillness of a broken heart
Is sadder far than death.
“Life may flow patiently in tearless wave,
Its palmless martyrdom concealed, secure;
Only the soul itself the grief may know,
And silently endure.
“The strength of all regret is lost in sighs,
In murmuring sorrow’s fiercest flame expires;
But silence is the close where memories
Burn with undying fires.”
There was silence for a little while. Floy was fighting down the ache
in her heart so that her voice would not betray her when she spoke.
Then she breathed, timidly:
“This illness of--your brother’s--its cause?”
“His trouble, of course. He was in love with a beautiful girl, but he
loved his parents well also; and he was his mother’s pride and idol.
She would have thought a princess unworthy of him.”
“Oh, Heaven!” thought Floy, despairingly.
“This very journey my brother took to Europe,” continued Alva, “was
planned by mamma to break him from a fancy he seemed to have for the
beautiful Miss Maury of Mount Vernon. We did not admire the girl,
and mamma was wild at the thought of having her for a daughter. But
Maybelle was angling for him so skillfully that mamma had papa to
telegraph him to come home, to go across the sea at a minute’s notice.”
She sighed, and added: “You can see from this one incident how resolute
mamma can be when roused to action. And as for papa, he always takes
sides with her in everything.”
“Perhaps--perhaps they will persuade your brother to desert his love,”
breathed Floy, tremulously.
“Perhaps so; or perhaps he will cling to her in spite of all; and
in either case he will be unhappy,” returned Alva, not dreaming how
cruelly her words stabbed Floy’s loving heart. She continued, sadly
enough: “You see, if St. George marries the girl, they will disinherit
him, and he will have so little money, poor fellow--having been used to
luxury all his life--that he will not know how to live. Poverty will
crush him, and perhaps he will regret that he ever saw the girl. Ah,
me! Will you ring for lights, please, dear Floy?”