[Transcriber's note: Part III contains two chapters labeled Chapter VI.]
MIRIAM MONFORT:
_A NOVEL_.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE."
"Fancy, _with_ fact, is just one fact the more."
"Let this old woe step on the stage again,
Act itself o'er anew for men to judge;
Not by the very sense and sight indeed,
Which take at best imperfect cognizance.
Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand,
What mortal ever in entirety saw?
Yet helping us to all we seem to hear,
For, how else know we save by worth of word?"
BROWNING, "_The Ring and the Book_"
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 & 551 BROADWAY.
1873.
DEDICATION
_This book is dedicated to the memory of one most dear, who saw it grow
to completion with pleasure and approbation, during the last happy
summer of a life since darkened by misfortune. Peace be his!_
_MONFORT HALL._
"Not one friend have we here, not one true heart;
We've nothing but ourselves."
"There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
And swiftly will the destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum;
It lures me forward--in a seraph's shape
I see it near, I see it nearer floating--
It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power,
And, lo, the abyss! and thither am I moving;
I have no power within me--but to move."
"He is the only one we have to fear, he and his father."
COLERIDGE'S _Translation of Schiller's "Wallenstein"_
MIRIAM MONFORT
* * * * *
PART I.
_MONFORT HALL_.
CHAPTER I.
My father, Reginald Monfort, was an English gentleman of good family,
who, on his marriage with a Jewish lady of wealth and refinement,
emigrated to America, rather than subject her and himself to the
commentaries of his own fastidious relatives, and the incivilities of a
clique to which by allegiance of birth and breeding he unfortunately
belonged.
Her own family had not been less averse to this union than the
aristocratic house of Monfort, and, had she not been the mistress of her
own acts and fortune, would, no doubt, have absolutely prevented it. As
it was, a wild wail went up from the synagogue at the loss of one of its
brightest ornaments, and the name of "Miriam Harz" was consigned to
silence forever.
Orphaned and independent, this obloquy and oblivion made little
difference to its object, especially when the broad Atlantic was placed,
as it soon was, between her and her people, and new ties and duties
arose in a strange land to bind and interest her feelings.
During her six years of married life, I have every reason to believe
that she was, as it is termed, "perfectly happy," although a mysterious
disease of the nervous centres, that baffled medical skill either to
cure or to name, early laid its grasp upon her, and brought her by slow
degrees to the grave, when her only child had just completed her fifth
year.
My father, the younger son of a nobleman who traced his lineage from
Simon de Montfort, had been married in his own estate and among his
peers before he met my mother. Poor himself (his commission in the army
constituting his sole livelihood), he had espoused the young and
beautiful widow of a brother officer, who, in dying, had committed his
wife and her orphan child to his care and good offices, on a
battle-field in Spain, and with her hand he had received but little of
this world's lucre. The very pension, to which she would have been
entitled living singly, was cut off by her second marriage, and with
habits of luxury and indolence, such as too often appertain to the
high-born, and cling fatally to the physically delicate, the burden of
her expenses was more than her husband could well sustain.
Her parents and his own were dead, and there were no relatives on either
side who could be called upon for aid, without a sacrifice of pride,
which my father would have died rather than have made. He was nearly
reduced to desperation by the circumstances of the case, when,
fortunately perhaps for both, she suddenly sickened, drooped, and died,
in his absence, during her brief sojourn at a watering-place, and all
considerations were lost sight of at the time, in view of this
unexpected and stunning blow--for Reginald Monfort was devoted, in his
chivalric way, to his beautiful and fragile wife, as it was, indeed, his
nature to be to every thing that was his own. Her very dependence had
endeared her to him, nor had she known probably to what straits her
exactions had driven him, nor what were his exigencies. Perhaps (let me
strive to do her this justice, at least), had he been more open on these
subjects, matters might have gone better. Yet he found consolation in
the reflection that she had been happy in her ignorance of his affairs,
and had experienced no strict privation during their short union,
inevitably as this must later have been her portion, and certainly as,
in her case, misery must have accompanied it.
Her child, in the absence of all near relatives, became his charge, and
the little three-year-old girl, her mother's image, grew into his
closest affections by reason of this likeness and her very helplessness.
Two years after the death of his wife, he espoused my mother, a bright
and beautiful woman of his own age, with whom he met casually at a
banker's dinner in London, and who, fascinated by his Christian graces,
reached her fair Judaic hand over all lines of Purim prejudice, and
placed it confidingly in his own for life, thereby, as I have said,
relinquishing home and kindred forever.
A hundred thousand pounds was a great fortune in those days and in our
then modest republic, and this was the sum my parents brought with them
from England--a heritage sufficiently large to have enriched a numerous
family in America, but which was chiefly centred on one alone, as will
be shown.
My father, a proud, shy, fastidious man, had always been galled by the
consciousness of my mother's Israelitish descent, which she never
attempted to conceal or deny, although, to please his sensitive
requisitions, she dispensed with most of its open observances. That she
clung to it with unfailing tenacity to the last I cannot doubt, however,
from memorials written in her own hand--a very characteristic one--and
from the testimony of Mrs. Austin, her faithful friend and
attendant--the nurse, let me mention here, of my father's little
step-daughter during her mother's lifetime, and her brief orphanage, as
well as of his succeeding children.
Stanch in his love of church and country, we, his daughters, were all
three christened, and "brought up," as it is termed, in the Episcopal
Church, and early taught devotion to its rites and ceremonies. Yet, had
we chosen for ourselves, perhaps our different temperaments might, even
in this thing, have asserted themselves, and we might have embraced
sects as diverse as our tastes were several. I shall come to this third
sister presently, of whom I make but passing mention here. She was our
flower, our pearl, our little ewe-lamb--the loveliest and the last--and
I must not trust myself to linger with her memory now, or I shall lose
the thread of my story, and tangle it with digression.
With my Oriental blood there came strange, passionate affection for all
things sharing it, unknown to colder organizations--an affection in
whose very vitality were the seeds of suffering, in whose very strength
was weakness, perhaps in whose very enjoyment, sorrow. I have said my
mother died of an insidious and inscrutable malady, which baffled friend
and physician, when I was five years old. She had been so long ill, so
often alienated from her household for days together, that her death was
a less terrible evil, less suddenly so, at least, than if each morning
had found her at her board, each evening at the family hearth, and
every hour, as would have been the case in health, occupied with her
children.
My father's grief was stern, quiet, solitary; ours, unreasonable and
noisy, but soon over as to manifestation. Yet I must have suffered more
than I knew of, I think, for then occurred the first of those strange
lethargies or seizures that afterward returned at very unequal intervals
during my childhood and early youth, and which roused my father's fears
about my life and intellect itself, and gave me into the hands of a
physician for many years thereof, vigorous, and healthy, and intelligent
otherwise as I felt, and seemed, and _was_.
It was soon after the first settling down of tribulation in our
household to that flat and almost unendurable calm or level that
succeeds affliction, when a void is felt rather than expressed, and when
all outward observances return to their olden habit, as a car backs
slowly from a switch to its accustomed grooves, that a new face appeared
among us, destined to influence, in no slight degree, the happiness of
all who composed the family of Reginald Monfort.
It was summer. The house in which we lived was partly finished in the
rear by wide and extensive galleries above and below, shaded by movable
_jalousies;_ and, on the upper one of these, that on which our
apartments opened, my father had caused a hammock to be swung, for the
comfort and pleasure of his children. With one foot listlessly dragging
on the floor of the portico so as to propel the hammock, and lying
partly on my face while I soothed my wide-eyed doll to sleep, I lay
swaying in childish fashion when I heard Evelyn's soft step beside me,
accompanied by another, firmer, slower, but as gentle if not as light. I
looked up: a sweet face was bending over me, framed in a simple cottage
bonnet of white straw, and braids of shining brown hair.
The eyes, large, lustrous, tender, of deepest blue, with their black
dilated pupils, I shall never forget as they first met my own, nor the
slow, sad smile that seemed to entreat my affectionate acquaintance. The
effect was immediate and electric. I sat up in the hammock, I stretched
out my hands to receive the proffered greeting, and then remained
silently, child-fashion, surveying the new-comer.
"Kiss me," she said, "little Miriam. Have they not told you of me? I am
Constance Glen--soon to be your teacher."
"Then I think I shall learn," I made grave reply, putting away the thick
curls from my eyes and fixing them once more steadily on the face of the
new-comer. "Yes, I _will_ kiss you, for you look good and pretty. Did my
mother send you here?"
"She is a strange child, Miss Glen," I heard Evelyn whisper. "Don't mind
her--she often asks such questions."
"Very natural and affecting ones," Miss Glen observed, quietly, and the
tears sprang to her violet eyes, at which I wondered. Yet, understanding
not her words, I remembered them for later comprehension; a habit of
childhood too little appreciated or considered, I think, by older
people.
She had not replied to my question, so I repeated it eagerly. "Did my
dear mother send you to me?" I said. "And where is she now?"
"No, tender child! I have not seen your mother. She is in heaven, I
trust; where I hope we shall all be some day--with God. _He_ sent me to
you, probably--I fancy so, at least."
"Then God has got good again. He was very bad last week--very wicked;
he killed our mother," whispering mysteriously.
"He is never bad, Miriam, never wicked; you must not say such things--no
Christian would."
"But I am _not_ a Christian, Mrs. Austin says; only a Jew. Did you ever
hear of the Jews?"
Evelyn laughed, Mrs. Austin frowned, but Miss Glen was intensely grave,
as she rejoined:
"A Jew may be very good and love God. That is all a little child can
know of religion. Yet we must all believe God and His Son were one." The
last words were murmured rather than spoken--almost self-directed.
"Is His Son a little boy, and will he be fond of my mother?" I asked.
"Will she love him too? Oh, she loved me so much, so much!" and, in an
agony of grief, I caught Miss Glen around the neck, and sobbed
convulsively on her sympathetic breast. Again Evelyn smiled, I suppose,
for I heard Miss Glen say, rebukingly:
"My dear Miss Erle, you must not make light of your little sister's
sufferings. They are very severe, I doubt not, young as she is. All the
more so that she does not know how to express them."
Revolving these words, I came later to know their import. They seemed
unmeaning to me at the time, but the kind and deprecating tone of voice
in which they were conveyed was unmistakable, and that sufficed to
reassure me.
"And now, Miriam, let me go to my room and take off my bonnet and shawl,
for I am going to stay with you. Perhaps you will show me the way
yourself," she said, pausing. "Bring Dolly, too;" and we walked off
hand-in-hand together to the large, commodious chamber Mrs. Austin
pointed out as that prepared for our governess. I recognized my affinity
from that hour.
There, sitting on her knee, with her gentle hand on my hair, and her
sweet eyes fixed on mine, I learned at once to love Miss Glen, or
"Constance," as she made us call her, because her surname seemed
over-formal. She wished us to regard her as an elder sister, she said,
rather than mere instructress, deeming rightly that the law of love
would prove the stronger and better guidance in our case, and
understanding well, and by some line magnetic sympathy as it appeared,
my own peculiar nature, to which affection was a necessity.
Ours was a peaceful and happy childhood under her gentle and fostering
rule; and, when it ceased, all the wires of life seemed jangled and
discordant again.
She lived with us three years as friend and teacher. At the end of that
time her vocation and sphere of action were enlarged, not changed, for
she married my father, and thus our future welfare seemed secured.
Alas for human foresight! Alas for affection powerless to save! Alas for
the vanity of mortal effort to contend with Fate!
Our home was in one of the chief Northern cities of that great republic
which has for so many years commanded the admiration, respect, and
wonder, of the whole world. The house we occupied was situated in the
old and fashion-forsaken portion of the city. From its upper windows a
view of the majestic Delaware and its opposite shores was afforded to
the spectator; and the grounds surrounding the mansion were spacious for
those of a city-house, and deeply shaded by elms that had been lofty
trees in the time of General Washington.
Four squares farther on, the roar of commerce swelled and surged, in
storehouse and counting-room, on mart and shipboard and quay; but here
all was quiet, calm, secluded, as in the country, miles beyond.
Two houses besides our own shared the whole square between them, though
ours, the central one, possessed the largest inclosure, and was the
finest residence of the three, architecturally speaking; and the inmates
of these dwellings, with very few exceptions, constituted for years our
whole circle of friends and visitors.
So it will be seen how secluded was the life we led, how narrow the
sphere we moved in, despite our acknowledged wealth, which, with some
other attributes we possessed, had not failed, if desired, to confer on
us both power and position in the society we shunned rather than shared.
To my father's nature, however, retirement was as essential as routine.
He was one of those outwardly calm and inwardly excitable and nervous
people we sometimes encounter without detecting the fire beneath the
marble, the ever-burning lamp in the sarcophagus, unless we lift the lid
of rock to find it--an effort scarcely worth the making in any case, for
at best it lights only a tomb.
Extremely mild and self-contained in manner, and chary of opinion and
expression, he was at the same time a man of strong and implacable
prejudices and even bitter animosities when once engendered. I do not
think his affections kept pace with these. He loved what belonged to
him, it is true, in a quiet, consistent way, and his good breeding and
practised equanimity were alone sufficient to secure the peace, and even
happiness, of a household; but of much effort or self-sacrifice I judge
him to have been incapable.
He was a handsome man in his stiff and military way--well made, tall,
commanding in figure and in demeanor, stately in movement. His features
were regular, his teeth and hair well preserved, especially the first,
his hands and feet aristocratically small and shapely, his manner
vaguely courteous. He was a shy rather than reserved person, for, when
once the ice was broken, his nature bubbled over very boyishly at times,
and his confidence, once bestowed, was irrevocable. Like most men of his
temperament, he was keenly susceptible to deferential flattery, and
impatient of the slightest infraction of his dignity, which he guarded
punctiliously at all points. It was more this disposition always to wait
for overtures from others, and to slightly repel their first
manifestations, from his inveterate shyness, than any settled
determination on his part, that made him such an alien from general
association. Nervous, fastidious, exacting--what had he in common with
the texture of the new society in which he found himself, and what right
had he to fancy himself neglected where the "go-ahead" principle alone
was recognized, and time was esteemed too precious to waste in ceremony?
Yet this injured feeling pursued him through life and made one of his
peculiarities, so that he drew more and more closely, as years passed
on, into his own shell, which may be said to have comprised his
household, his comforts, his hobbies, and his narrow neighborhood, in
which he was idolized, and the sympathy of which was very soothing to
his fastidious pride.
Nothing so fosters haughtiness and egotism as a sphere like this, and it
may be doubted whether the crowned heads of the world receive more
adulation from their households than men so situated.
From the moment he set his foot on the threshold of his own house, nay,
on the broad, quiet pavement of his own street, with its stately row of
ancient Lombardy poplars on one side, and blank, high-walled lumber-yard
on the other, he felt himself a sovereign--king of a principality! king
of a neighborhood;--what great difference is there, after all?
It was only the hypochondriacal character of his mind that shielded him
from that chief human absurdity, pomposity. He needed all the praise and
consolation his friends could bestow simply to sustain him--no danger of
inflation in his case! He was shut away from self-complacency (the only
vice to which virtue is subjected) by the melancholy that permeated his
being, and which was probably in his case an inheritance--constitutional,
as it is said to be with things.
Perhaps it will be well to give, in this place, some more vivid idea of
our home, which, after all, like the shell of the sea-fish, most
frequently shapes itself to fit the necessities and habits of its
occupants.
Our house had been built in early times, and was essentially
old-fashioned, like the part of the city in which it was situated.. My
father, soon after his arrival in America, had fancied and purchased
this gloomy-looking gray stone edifice, with its massive granite steps
(imported at great cost, before the beautiful white-marble quarries had
been developed which abound in the vicinity of, and characterize the
dwellings of, that rare and perfect city), and remodelled its interior,
leaving the outside front of the building, with its screens of ancient
ivy, untouched and venerable, and changing only the exterior aspect of
the back of the mansion. Very striking was the contrast between the rear
and front and exterior and interior of "Monfort Hall," as it was
universally called.
The dark panel-work within had all been rent away, to give place to
plaster glossy as marble, or fine French papers, gilded and painted, or
fresco-paintings done with great cost and labor, and indifferent
success. The lofty ceilings and massive walls formed outlines of
strength and beauty to the large and well-ventilated apartments, which
made it easy to render them almost palatial by the means of such
accessories and appliances as wealth commands, and which were lavished
in this instance.
The back of the house was, however, truly picturesque. Here a bay window
was judiciously thrown out; there a portico appended or hanging balcony
added to break the gray expanse of wall or sullen glare of windows; and
a small gray tower or belfry, containing a clock that chimed the hours,
and a fine telescope, rose from the octagon library which my father had
built for his own peculiar sanctum after my mother's death, and which
formed an ell to the building. The green, grassy, deeply-shadowed lawn
lay behind the mansion, sloping down into a dark, deep dell, across
which brawled a tiny brook long since absorbed by the thirsty earth
thrown out from many foundations of stores and tenements and great
warehouses hard by; a dell where once roses, lilacs, guelder-globes, and
calacanthus-bushes, grew with a vigor that I have nowhere seen
surpassed.
It was not much the fashion then to have rare garden-flowers. Our
conservatory contained a fair array of these, but we had beds of tulips,
hyacinths, and crocuses, basking in the sunshine, and violets and lilies
lying in the shadow such as I see rarely now, and which cost us as
little thought or trouble in their perennial permanence, whereas the
conservatory was an endless grief and care, although superintended by a
thoroughly-taught English gardener, and kept up at unlimited expense.
My sister--for so I was taught to call Evelyn Erle--revelled in this
floral exclusiveness, but to me the dear old garden was far more
delightful and life-giving. I loved our sweet home-flowers better than
those foreign blossoms which lived in an artificial climate, and
answered no thrilling voice of Nature, no internal impulse in their
hot-house growth and development. What stirred me so deeply in April,
stirred also the hyacinth-bulb and the lily of the valley deep in the
earth--warmth, moisture, sunshine and shadow, and sweet spring rain--and
the same fullness of life that throbbed in my veins in June called forth
the rose. There was vivid sympathy here, and I gave my heart to the
garden-flowers as I never could do to the frailer children of the
hot-house, beautiful as they undeniably are.
"Miriam has really a _vulgar_ taste for Nature, as Miss Glen calls it,"
Evelyn said one day, with a curl of her slight, exquisite lip as she
shook away from her painted muslin robe, the butter-cups, heavy with
moisture and radiant with sunshine, which I had laid upon her knee. "She
ought to have been an Irish child and born, in a hovel, don't you think
so, papa?" and she put me aside superciliously. Dirt and Nature were
synonymous terms with her.
My father smiled and laid down his newspaper, then looked at me a little
gravely as I stood downcast by Evelyn.
"You _are_ getting very much sunburnt, Miriam, there is no doubt of
that. A complexion like yours needs greater care for its preservation
than if ten shades fairer. Little daughter, you must wear your bonnet,
or give up running in the garden in the heat of the day."
"I try to impress this on Miriam all the time," said Mrs. Austin,
coming as usual to aid in the assault, "but she is so hard-headed, it is
next to impossible to make her mindful of what I tell her. Miss Glen is
the only one that seems to have any influence over her nowadays." She
said this with a slight, impatient toss of the head, as she paused in
her progress through the room with a huge jar of currant-jelly, she had
been sunning in the dining-room window, poised on the palm of either
hand, jelly that looked like melted rubies, now to be consigned to the
store-room.
"Well, well, we must have patience," was the rejoinder. "She is
young--impulsive (I wish she were more like you, Evelyn, my dear!), her
mother over again in temperament, without the saving clauses of beauty
and refinement; these she will never attain, I fear, and with much of
the characteristic persistence of that singular race, which in my wife,
however, I never detected, though so much nearer the fountain-head!"
This was said half in soliloquy, but Evelyn replied to it as if it had
been addressed to her--replied, as she often did, by an interrogatory.
"What tribe did her mother belong to, papa?"
"The tribe of Judah, I believe, my love, was that her family traced
their lineage from; but you question as if it were Pocahontas there was
reference to instead of a high-bred Jewish lady!" speaking with
asperity.
"I meant no offence, papa, I assure you," said Evelyn, quietly; "I only
asked for information. Certainly there _is_ something very grand in
being related to King David."
"There is, indeed," said a gentle voice close at hand. Miss Glen had
entered silently as they were speaking. "There was genius in that
strain of blood, Evelyn, nay, more, divinity. Christ claimed such
descent. Let us never forget that! He, the universal brother." She spoke
with feeling and dignity, and led me away, lecturing me greatly as she
did so for not obeying Mrs. Austin as to the sun-bonnet bondage, which
she promised; to make as light as possible by purchasing for me a new
French contrivance called a _calêche_, light and airy and sheltering all
at once.
I was seven years old then, and the understanding was complete between
us that endured to the end, but as yet there was no foreshadowing of her
marriage with my father.
She had been engaged, when she came to us, to a gentleman, who must have
perished at sea soon afterward--a young naval officer who had gone out
on board of the United States sloop-of-war Hornet, the fate of which
vessel is still wrapped in mystery, though that it foundered suddenly
seemed then, as now, the universal opinion. Miss Glen some time before
had made up her mind to this, and was stemming a tide of grief with
great fortitude and resolution, while she was laying the foundations of
character and education in her two very opposite pupils, both of whom
she guided with equal ability.
My father was not unaware of her sufferings, I think, indeed, this
community of sorrow first attracted him toward her, and later he was
confirmed in his admiration of her womanly self-control and beauty of
character, by the development he saw in his children, the work of her
hand. That he was ever profoundly in love with her I do not believe, nor
did she pretend to any passionate regard for him. Respect, friendship,
confidence, mutual esteem, were the foundations of their union, which
certainly promised enduring happiness to all concerned, and which was
looked on with favor by the whole household, not excepting Mrs. Austin
herself.
"If any successor of your dear mother _must_ come, Evelyn," I heard her
say one day to my sister, "we had better have her we know, to be sure,
than a mere stranger, but I _must_ say I can't see why your papa does
not content himself as he is. I am sure he seems very happy in his
library and his greenhouse, and driving out in his Tilbury, or with you
two young ladies in the coach of afternoons, and chatting and smoking of
evenings with Mr. Bainrothe or old Mr. Stanbury. I should think he might
have had enough of marrying by this time, and funerals and all that.
Your own precious mamma first, an earl's own daughter (Evelyn Erle,
never forget that, if your father _was_ a poor soldier! you have grand
relations in England, child, if you are not as rich as some others I
could name), and then your mother and Miriam's, Miss Harz that was, such
an excellent woman for all her persuasion, to be sure; better than some
Christians, I must say; and she just three years and a half laid in her
grave!" A doleful sigh gave emphasis to this remark. "I was never more
surprised, I must confess, than when he sent for me last night to tell
me he was to marry Miss Glen next week! Who is she, I wonder, Evelyn;
did you ever hear her speak of her kinfolks? Not a soul except two or
three of her church-people has been near her since she has been here,
and Franklin says she very seldom gets letters." A pinch of snuff
emphasized this remark.
"I heard her say she had only one brother, Mrs. Austin, and that he was
in some distant part of the world, in India, or New Orleans, or some
such place, she does not know herself exactly where. He is a young lad,
and she grieves about him; his picture is most beautiful, I think. He
ran off and went to sea, and it almost killed her. That was some years
ago, and since then she has been teaching in a great school until she
came to us, and was never so peaceful before, she says, as she is now. I
think she will make papa happy too, and keep him in his own family,
since she has none of her own. I was so afraid it was Mrs. Stanbury at
one time."
"I never thought of that," said Mrs. Austin, starting. "What put it into
your head, Evelyn, and what made you so close-mouthed about it? Child,
you have an old head on young shoulders--I always said so; as like your
own precious mother as two peas. Yes, that would have been a nice
connection truly! The two young Stanburys forsooth, to divide every
thing with you and Miriam, and her rigid economy the rule in the house,
and Norman riding over every one on a high horse, and that lame brat to
be nursed and waited on! Any thing better than that, Evelyn. You are
right, my dear." And she tapped her suggestive snuffbox.
My elder sister was about thirteen years old when she uttered those
oracular sentences which elicited Mrs. Austin's commendations, and her
own clear-sighted _prévoyance;_ and I, at eight, whose mind was turned
to any subject save that of marrying and giving in marriage, stood
confounded by her superior wisdom and discretion. I gazed upon her
open-mouthed and wide-eyed as she spoke, drinking in every word, yet
very little enlightened, after all, by her remarks. She turned suddenly
upon me, and tapped my cheek slightly with her fan. It was a way she had
of manifesting contempt.
"Now run and tell Mrs. Stanbury every word I have spoken, just as soon
as you can, Miriam, do you hear? Don't forget one syllable, that's a
darling. Come, rehearse!"
"Won't it do after dinner, sister Evelyn?" I asked, gravely and
literally. "I want to go and see about my mole, now--my poor mole that
Hodges wounded with his spade this morning. It suffers so
dreadfully!"--clasping my hands in a tragic manner, not unusual with me
when excited.
"There! what did I tell you, Mrs. Austin? You will believe my report of
Miriam another time--little blab! There is nothing safe where she is,
and as to keeping a secret, she could not do it if her own life were at
stake, I verily believe."
"I _can_ keep a secret," I said, fiercely, "you know I can! You burnt my
finger in the candle to make me tell you where the squirrel was, and I
would not do it; Now, miss, remember that, and tell the truth next
time!"
"What a little spit-fire," said Evelyn, derisively. "You see for
yourself, Mrs. Austin."
"O Evelyn, Evelyn, did you, do that?" moaned the good woman. "Your
little sister's hand! To burn it so cruelly, and in cold blood. I would
not have believed it of you, my Evelyn--that was not like your mamma at
all," and she shook her head dolefully. "Miriam is a brave child, after
all." A wonderful admission for her to make.
"If you believe every thing that limb of the synagogue tells you, Mrs.
Austin, you will have a great deal to swallow, that is all I shall say
on the subject," and she turned away derisively.
"Do you mean to deny it, then, Evelyn Erle?" asked Mrs. Austin,
earnestly, laying her hand on her arm, and shaking her slightly as she
was about to leave the room. "Come back and answer me. I hope Miriam is
only angry--I hope you did _not_ do this thing."
"I will not be forcibly detained by any old woman in America," said
Evelyn, struggling stoutly, "nor questioned either about a pack of fibs.
Miriam knows better than to tell such stories--or ought to be taught
better."
"It was no story," I said, solemnly. "It was true. You did burn my
finger, and begged me not to tell Constance or papa afterward, and I
never told them, because I never break my word if I can help it, and I
wouldn't have told Mrs. Austin (but I didn't _promise_ about her, you
know), only you twitted me so meanly, and made me so mad--and it all
came out. For I can keep a secret! I know where that squirrel is now,
Evelyn Erle, but I will never tell any one--never--not even Constance
Glen. I promised myself that, and crossed my heart about it when you
tried to cut off its tail--its pretty, bushy tail that God gave it to
keep the flies off with."
Mrs. Austin was shedding tears by this time; Evelyn's insolence and
duplicity had stung her to the quick, and she saw, with real concern,
that I had justice on my side. She had relinquished her hold on Evelyn,
who stood now sullenly glaring at me, pale as a sheet, her eyes white
with rage, looking like heated steel, her lips trembling with passion.
"You _shall_ tell me where that squirrel is, or I will appeal to papa,"
she said, sharply. "It was mine. Norman Stanbury said so when he brought
it here and gave it to me. You heard him, little cheat!"
"He told me to feed it, and take care of it, and not let it get hurt, if
he did give it to you," I replied, doggedly, "and I did what he told me.
You are a born tyrant, Evelyn. Constance told you so a month ago, when
you twisted Laura Stanbury's arm for not teaching you that puzzle; and
there is a wicked word I know that suits you to-day, only I am afraid to
say it--Constance would be angry--but it begins with an L and ends with
an R, and has only four letters in it. There, now!"
I well deserved the slap, no doubt, that rang down with such lightning
speed and force on my cheek, and, fortunately, Mrs. Austin arrested my
panther-like spring toward Evelyn, or the nails I held in rest might
have brought blood from her waxen face, and marred its symmetry for a
season. As it was, I screamed wildly, until Miss Glen came in, attracted
by my cries, and, receiving no satisfactory explanation as to their
cause, led me to her own apartment to compose, question, and rebuke me
in that firm but gentle manner that ever calmed my spirit like oil
poured upon troubled waters. The end of the matter was that, when I met
Evelyn again, I went up to her in a spirit of conciliation, and mutely
kissed her as a sign of peace and penitence.
It was a matter of indifference to me that this advance was carelessly
received, since it satisfied my conscience and her who stirred its
depths--nor did my cheek flush at the derisive taunt that followed me
from the room after this obligation to self was discharged--"Now tattle
again, little prophetess," for thus she often alluded to my Hebrew name
and its signification, "and produce my squirrel, or look well to your
wounded mole!"
This threat was not without its effect. In a deep, leafy covert I
concealed my poor dying patient, "earthy, and of the earth"--literally,
in every sense--but the squirrel still enjoyed its sequestered home on
the topmost branch of an English walnut-tree, from which it cheerfully,
but cautiously, descended at my call when I went out to carry it
almonds or filberts from the dessert (invariably served with wine to my
father, who, in observance of his English custom, sat alone some moments
after the ladies of his household had withdrawn from table), nor did
Evelyn have the despotic pleasure of abbreviating his right of tail.