The school to which I was sent was half a day's journey from the city of
our residence, situated in a small but ancient town of Revolutionary
notoriety. The river, very wide at that point, was shaded by
willow-trees to some extent along its banks, immediately in front of the
Academy of St. Mark's, and beyond it to a considerable distance on
either hand. The town itself was an old-fashioned, primitive village
rather than burgh, quaintly built, and little adorned by modern taste or
improvement; but the air was fine and elastic, the water
unexceptionable, and bathing and boating were among our privileged
amusements. Among other less useful accomplishments, I there acquired
that of swimming expertly; and, as a place of exile, this quaint town
answered as well as any other for the intended purpose.
For, notwithstanding my father's assurances that Dr. Pemberton had
recommended change of air--to some degree true, of course--and that he
himself believed a public course of study would exhaust me less than my
solitary lessons, to which I gave such undivided attention, and
notwithstanding Evelyn's professions of regret at the necessity of
parting with me, and Mrs. Austin's belief that the "baby was killing me
by inches," since she took it into her head to sleep with no one else,
and to play half the night, and to stay with me all day besides, I felt
myself "ostracized."
The whole matter was so sudden that I scarcely knew what to make of it.
Mr. Bainrothe alone let in a little light upon the subject by one
remark, unintentionally, no doubt:
"The fact is, Miriam, you are getting too much wound up with that
Stanbury family, and you would be perfectly entangled there in another
year. The idea of putting the whole hardship of George Gaston's
education on your shoulders was worthy of diplomatic brains, and
something I should scarcely have suspected that calm, quiet little woman
to have been capable of conceiving. There is an old, worn-out plantation
in the Gaston family, that your money would set going again, no doubt,
with accelerated velocity. Did you never suspect anything of that sort?"
he asked, carelessly.
"Never; nor did I suppose any one else was stupid or wicked enough to
entertain such an idea. I, being tolerably acute, _knew_ better,
fortunately."
"My dear little girl, you are entirely too chivalrous and confiding
where your feelings are engaged. What if I were to assure that this plan
had been agitated?"
"I should think you had been deceived, or that you were deceiving me,
one or the other. I should not _believe_ you, that would be all. You
understand me now, Mr. Bainrothe; there are no purer people than the
Stanburys--I wish every one was half as good and true."
"Old Gerald at the head of them, I suppose?" with a sneer and a
kaleidoscopic glance.
"Mr. Gerald Stanbury at the head of them," I reiterated firmly, adding:
"These are friends of mine, Mr. Bainrothe; it hurts and offends me to
hear them lightly discussed. If I am sent away from home to break off my
affection for them, the measure is a vain one, for I shall returned
unchanged."
"Yes, but with enlarged views, I trust, Miriam," he rejoined,
pertinaciously. "See how Evelyn was improved by her two years at school;
besides, how would you ever increase your circle of acquaintances here,
studying alone, or even with your shy disposition, at a day-school?"
"I am sent from home, then, to make acquaintances it seems, and to
prepare for my _début_ into society? Very well, I shall not forget that;
but pray, what particular advantage in this respect does a
country-school present?"
"Oh, the very first people send their daughters to St. Mark's. If I were
training a wife for my son, I should educate her there. What higher
eulogium could I bestow, or"--dropping his voice--"what higher
compliment pay you, Miriam?"
"If he were a king's son, you could not speak more confidently," I
rejoined, with inexcusable rudeness. "Remember, too, you are _not_
training a wife for your prince in disguise." But I was annoyed and
irritated by his patronizing manner, and the suspicion that took
possession of me from that time, that he had aided Evelyn in this
conspiracy against my peace for selfish views.
He laughed carelessly and turned away, but I saw triumph in his
variegated eye; yet was I powerless to resent it.
"I am leaving my poor papa bound hand and foot," I thought, "in
designing hands, but I cannot help it. He has chosen for himself, I will
not entreat his affection, his confidence, misplaced as they surely are.
I _cannot_ do this if I would; something stronger than myself binds me
to silence. But O papa, papa! if you only knew how I loved you, you
would not suffer these strangers to take my place, or banish your poor
Miriam so cruelly!"
"Don't let Mabel forget me," were the last words I spoke to Mrs. Austin,
as with a bursting heart I turned from the lovely child I had made
perhaps too much an idol; "and George, let her see George Gaston every
day; it will be a comfort to both." So, choking, I went my way.
I bade Evelyn "good-by" gayly, Mr. Bainrothe superciliously, my father
bitterly, for I felt his ingratitude to my heart's core; and, under dear
old Mr. Stanbury's escort, went to the steamboat, there to find one of
the lady principals of the academy ready to take charge of me on our
brief voyage. It was not in my nature to cherish depression or to make
complaints and sudden confidences, and we chatted very cheerfully all
the way up the river on indifferent subjects chiefly; sharing fruit and
flowers, and general observations and opinions, so that I felt quite
inspirited on my arrival, and made, I have reason to believe, no
unfavorable impression.
My school-girl experiences I shall not record here. They were pleasant
and profitable on the whole, and I earned the esteem of my teachers, by
my zeal and diligence in my studies, and made some few valued friends
more or less permanent, but none so dear as those I left behind.
Laura Stanbury, quiet and uninteresting as she seemed to many, had a
hold on my heart that no newer acquaintance could boast, and for dear
George Gaston, where was there another like him? I have known no one so
gifted, so spiritual, so simply affectionate, as this child of genius
and physical misfortune, whose short but brilliant career is engraven on
the annals of his country, I well believe, indelibly.
When I was fifteen years old, I was recalled suddenly and in the middle
of a busy session to my home, by the severe and almost fatal illness of
my father. He rallied, however, soon after my return, and I had the
inexpressible satisfaction of hearing Dr. Pemberton, our good and
skillful family physician, pronounce him out of danger a week later, but
he would suffer me to go from him no more. The voice of Nature asserted
her claim at last, and, feeling within himself that indescribable
failure of vitality in which no one is ever deceived, and which can
never be explained to or wholly understood by another, he desired me to
remain with him through the remainder of a life which he foresaw would
not be long.
It was in vain that Dr. Pemberton tried to rally him on the score of his
old hypochondriacal tendencies, or that Evelyn quietly remarked: "I am
sure, papa, I never saw you looking better! It is a pity to interrupt
dear Miriam now in the full tide of her studies. I am sure that _I_ am
willing to devote every moment of my time to you if needful;" or that
Mrs. Austin added: "Miriam is so well, and growing so fast, that I am
afraid to see her take on care again, for fear of a check; and now that
Mabel is partly weaned from her they are both happy to be separated;" or
that Mr. Bainrothe carelessly interpolated: "Let the child go back, my
dear Monfort, or you will spoil her again among you. She is developing
splendidly at St. Mark's, and you have twenty good years before you yet,
with your unbroken English constitution."
Not even the joy manifested by George Gaston and Mrs. and Miss
Stanbury, or bluff old Mr. Gerald, at the good news of my return, could
shake his resolution.
"Miriam shall leave me no more while life is mine," he said, "be it long
or short. When she marries, I will surrender every thing I possess, save
a stipend, into her hands, and Evelyn and Mabel and I to some extent
will be her pensioners thereafter. Until that time, matters will stand
as they do now."
"Folly, folly, Colonel Monfort! You talk like a dotard of eighty; you, a
superb-looking man yet, younger than I am, no doubt; young enough to
marry again, if the fancy took you, and head a second family."
"Why not say a third?" asked my father, sadly. "Don't you know,
Bainrothe, I am a fatal upas-tree to the wives of my bosom? See how it
has been already."
"Better luck next time. Now, there is the Widow Stanbury, willing and
waiting, you know, and a dozen others."
I turned a flashing eye upon him that silenced him.
"You know better than that," I said, in suppressed tones, hoarse with
anger. "Better let that subject rest hereafter, unless, indeed, your
object is feud with me. You shall not slander my friends with impunity,
nor must you come any longer between me and them and my father."
I spoke, for his ear alone, and waited for no reply. I understood his
game by this time, as he did mine.
"His son, indeed!" I murmured, with a scornful lip, as I found myself
alone. "I would cut off my right hand before I would give it to a
Bainrothe," and I scoffed at him bitterly in the depths of my resentful
Judaic heart.
About this time I passed through a painful trial. It was autumn, and
early fires of wood had been kindled in the chambers; more, so far, for
the sake of cheerfulness than warmth. Mabel was playing on the hearth of
her nursery preparatory to going to bed, and I was in the adjoining
room, my own chamber, making an evening toilet, for Evelyn expected a
party of young visitors that night, and my presence had been requested.
Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had left the room for one moment, when a cry
from Mabel brought me to her side. She had fanned the fire with her
little cambric night-dress, and was already in a blaze. I caught Mrs.
Austin's heavy shawl from the bed, and promptly extinguished the flames,
but not without receiving serious injury myself. The child, with the
exception of a slight but painful burn on her ankle, was unhurt, but my
left arm and shoulder and bosom were fearfully burned, and for some days
my life hung on a thread.
Months passed before I was able to leave my own chamber, and the blow to
my health was so severe as to induce a return of those lethargic attacks
from which I had been entirely free for the last two years. It is true
they were brief in duration compared to those of old, but that they
should exist at all was a cause of anxiety and disquietude both to my
father and physician.
By the first of March, however, I was again in glowing health, and no
trace remained, except those carefully-concealed scars on my shoulder,
of my fearful injury.
Soon after this accident had occurred, two circumstances of interest had
taken place in our household and vicinity. One of these was the return
of Claude Bainrothe from abroad, and the other the rather mysterious
visit of a gentleman, young and handsome, but poorly clad, who had
inquired for my step-mother, Mrs. Constance Monfort, and on hearing, to
his surprise and grief, apparently, that she was dead, had gone away
again without requesting an interview with any other member of the
family.
He had met Evelyn at the door just as she was about to step into the
carriage, dressed for visiting, and had said to her, merely (as she
asserted), as he turned away, evidently in sorrow:
"I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen--now, as you tell
me, no more. What children did she leave?"
"One only--a daughter," was Evelyn's reply. "Not visible to-day,
however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still
confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though."
"I passed on then, as quickly as I could," said Evelyn, "for I saw no
end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep. I said, however,
civilly, 'Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged. To-day
he could not possibly receive you,' pausing on the steps for a reply.
This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his
hat with a cool 'Thank you, Miss Monfort,' and went his way silently. He
evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him. My
greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name
was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form."
"The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part,
Evelyn," I remarked, as mildly as I could. "Mamma's brother! Oh, what
would I not have given to have seen him! Did he never return, and where
is he now?"
"No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared. He walked by here a
few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with
papa's tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor
spoke. You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate,
Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa
annoyed so soon after his severe attack. Besides, I want no such claims
established over Mabel. She is ours, and need desire no other relations.
The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and
lodging, or some such thing, no doubt."
"How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?" I asked, conquering a qualm of
feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.
"I'm sure I can't tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the
usual age of all such bores. You know mamma was seven or eight and
twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you
may remember."
"Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly. Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn? Was he
tall or short, fair or dark? Had he her lovely eyes? Do tell me about
him."
"None of these things. A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma,
however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I
remember; with fine eyes, however. Not as good-looking as Claude
Bainrothe, by any means. Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat.
By-the-way, Miriam, _he_ will be back next week, I believe, and then you
will see this phenomenon. You know Mr. Bainrothe and papa design you for
one another."
"Papa, indeed! I suppose you mean Claude Bainrothe," and I laughed
disdainfully, I fear. "Nay, it is you rather, Evelyn, who have
captivated this piece of perfection, as far as I can learn. At least,
this is the report that--" I hesitated--colored.
"Finish your sentence, Miriam. The report that your faithful spies,
Laura Stanbury and George Gaston, have brought to you in your solitude.
They are very observing, truly," she pursued. "Creatures that never
penetrate beneath the surface, though. Self-deluders, I fancy, however,
rather than story-tellers."
"Do you pretend to deny it, Evelyn? Now, look me in the eyes and say
'No' if you dare," and I grasped her slender wrists playfully. She
opened her large, blue eyes and fixed them full on mine, responsively.
"_No_! Now you have the unmitigated truth. Ah, Miriam, I have no wish to
interfere with you," and she leaned forward and kissed my cheek
tenderly, disengaging her hands as she did so. Her manner had so changed
to me of late that she was growing rapidly into my affections, and I
returned her embrace cordially.
In the next moment we were laughing merrily together over the ridiculous
schemes of the elder Bainrothe, so transparent that every one understood
them perfectly, motive and all, and which my father winked at evidently,
rather than favored or encouraged, as our charlatan thought he
did--"Cagliostro," as we habitually called him.
"The fact is, prophetess, the person in question would not suit you at
all, with your grand ways and notions and prospects. I have fathomed his
depth pretty successfully, and I find him full of shoals and shallows.
Pretty well for a flirtation, though, and to keep one's hand in, but
unavailable any further."
"Having brought him to his knees, you are perfectly willing to pass him
over to me as a bond-slave. Is that the idea, Evelyn?"
"Exactly, Miriam; you are always so penetrating! But don't tell, for the
world. Old Bainrothe would never forgive me; and, as I once before told
you in one of my savage moods, his enmity is dire--satanic!"
"I am not afraid of Cagliostro, or his animosity," I answered; "never
was, Evelyn, as you know. The best way to disarm him is to confront him
boldly. He is like a lion in that alone. I wish, though, he would give
me a little of his elixir of life, for dear papa; he has never looked
himself since that attack, though better, certainly,--oh, decidedly
better, of course, than I dared to hope at one time ever to see him
again. Yet I am very anxious."
"Papa is well enough, Miriam; you only imagine these things. At fifty,
you know, most men begin to break a little; then they rally again and
look almost as well as ever in a few years, up to sixty or seventy. Look
at Mr. Lodore! He looked older when we first knew him than he does now;
and so did Dr. Pemberton."
"That is because they have both filled out and grown more florid and
healthy; but papa is withering away, Evelyn; shrinking day by day--his
very step has changed recently. Oh, I hope, I hope I may be deceived!"
And I covered my face with my hands, praying aloud, as I did sometimes
irresistibly when greatly excited. "God grant, God grant us his precious
life!" I murmured. "Spare him to his children!"
"Amen!" said Evelyn Erle, solemnly.
A few evenings after this conversation I went to see and hear the opera
of "Masaniello," then all the rage, and at the zenith of its popularity,
with Mrs. Stanbury, Laura, and George Gaston--Norman had been recently
placed in the navy and he was absent now, and Mr. Gerald Stanbury
obstinately refused to accompany us to that "monkey-and-parrot show," as
he deliberately dubbed the Italian opera.
"When men and women who are in love or grief, or who are telling each
other the news, or secrets, stop to set their words to music, and roar
and howl in each other's ears, the world will be mad, and the opera
natural," he said. "I will not lend my countenance before them to such a
villainous travesty."
As "Masaniello" had nearly had its run, and Evelyn was disinclined to
see it again, having attended during the winter about twenty
representations of this great musical spectacle, I was fain to go with
our neighbors and their very youthful escort, or forego my opera.
As we entered the crowded lobby, Laura and I walked together behind
George Gaston and Mrs. Stanbury, dropping later into Indian file as the
crowd increased, in which order I was the last. I wore a rich India
shawl, that had been my mother's, caught by a cameo clasp across the
bosom. Suddenly I felt the pin wrenched away and the shawl torn from my
shoulders. In another moment there was a cry--a scuffle--a fall--and a
prostrate form was borne away between two policemen, while a gentleman,
with his cravat hanging loose and his hair in wild confusion, came
toward me eagerly, extending the shawl and clasp.
"These are yours, I believe, young lady," he remarked, breathlessly,
throwing the shawl about my shoulders as he spoke, and laying the broken
clasp in my hand. "I am happy to restore them to you."
The whole transaction had been so sudden and so public, that there had
been neither time nor room for trepidation on my part. My own party,
pressing steadily on, had not yet missed me, so that, even in that
moment of excitement, I surveyed my champion with an eye capable of
future recognition.
"Thank you," I said. "I hope you are not hurt in my service?"
"No, no; not at all--that is, very slightly, indeed. Pass on, I will
attend you safely to your seat," and, obeying the wave of his hand, I
followed the direction of Mrs. Stanbury's white plume as observingly as
did the followers of Henry of Navarre, without turning again until I
reached the box she had entered. I was shocked then, as I bowed my
thanks, at the ghastly whiteness and expression of my escort's face, but
he vanished too quickly to permit of inquiry or remark at that season.
I had still time before the curtain rose to relate my adventure, which
brought the blood hotly to George Gaston's brow as he listened to it.
"There it is!" he muttered. "It is all very well with me in peaceful
times, but, when it comes to battle, a poor, lame wretch is of little
account. I might as well be a woman;" and the tears flowed down his
quivering cheeks. "It was shameful, disgraceful, that any other man
should have defended you, Miriam," he added, in a broken voice,
clinching his hands, "than I, your escort."
"You did not even see the affair, George," I remonstrated. "Had you been
as strong as Samson, and I know you are just as brave, you could not
have helped me, for there I was lagging away behind, through my own
fault, and how could you, in front, between your aunt and Laura,
possibly know what danger was in store for me? Now, I shall feel
provoked if you show so much morbid feeling; besides, reflect, you are
but a boy, dear. George. No youth of your age is ever very strong."
"A boy! and what are you, Miriam Monfort, that you taunt me with youth!
a woman, I suppose--a heroine!" with bitter sarcasm in his voice and
eye, for the first time in his life so directed to me. I gazed at him
in mute surprise.
"My dear George, you are very unreasonable, indeed," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"What has Miriam done to deserve such a taunt? I never knew you to
behave in such an uncourteous way before."
"You must be crazy, George Gaston," added Laura Stanbury, sharply.
"Don't you know you are attracting attention toward our box. Be still
directly!"
"Oh no, it is only the magnificent Miss Monfort that every one is
staring at," he sneered. "The grown-up lady, the heroine, the heiress,
who lingers behind in the lobby, in order to get up little melodramas of
her own at the opera where such things are admissible, at the expense of
her lame escort!"
I turned to him calmly; I had not spoken before. "George," I said, "if
you say another word I shall go home alone, or burst into tears on the
spot, and disgrace myself and you, one or the other. I cannot bear
another word like this. I warn you, George Gaston!"
"Dear Miriam, forgive me; I am a fool I know," he said, as soon as he
could recover himself. "Lend me your handkerchief, Laura, mine has
mysteriously disappeared. There--Richard's himself again! (Sorra to
him!) He ought to have a bullet through his head for his pains" (_sotto
voce_).
This stroke of bathos brought about good-humor again, and soon our whole
attention was absorbed in that magical music which to this hour
electrifies me more than that of any other opera excepting "Norma." "Bad
taste this," connoisseurs will say; but the perfection of human
enjoyment is to pursue one's own tastes independently of Mrs. Grundy,
whether musical, or literary, or artistic, according to my mode of
thinking. In all the pauses of the opera, however, I saw that handsome
and agitated face, that had last caught my eye at the box-door, rise
before me like a spell; and anxiety for the safety of my strange
champion--some curiosity too, mingled therewith, I do not deny, to know
his name and lineage--beset me during the whole of a sleepless night and
the dreaming day that succeeded it.
We were sitting around a cheerful spring fire in the front parlor, our
ordinary sitting-room, opening as this did into the dining-room beyond
on one hand, and the wide intersecting hall of entrance on the other, on
the opposite side of which lay the long, double-chimneyed drawing-room,
less cheerful than our smaller assembly-room by half, and therefore less
often used (there, you have our whole first-floor arrangement now, my
reader, I believe, and I must begin over again, to catch the clew of my
long sentence). We were sitting, then, around the cheerful fire in the
parlor in question, when Morton, my father's "own man," announced "Mr.
Bainrothe and son," and a moment afterward the two gentlemen so heralded
entered the room together. With one you are already somewhat familiar,
reader mine, as a gentlemanly, handsome man, with deliberate movements
and confident address. You have seen such men in cities frequently; but
the word _distingué_, so often too hastily bestowed, was the chief
characteristic of the appearance of his younger companion.
Tall, slender, graceful, strong--for strength alone bestows such easy
perfection of movement, such equipoise of step as belonged to him--with
a fine, clear-cut face and well-shaped head, nobly placed on his
straight, square shoulders--wide for a man so slight--dark eyed, dark
haired, with a mouth somewhat concealed by a long silken mustache, then
an unusual coxcombry in our republic, yet revealing in glimpses superb
teeth and the curve of accurately-cut lips, Claude Bainrothe stood
before me, a young Apollo.
"I have brought my son here to-night, expressly to introduce him to you,
Miriam, of whom he has heard so much."
He bowed low and silently, then tossed his curled head suddenly back
again.
"We have met before, I believe, Mr. Bainrothe," I observed, when his eye
rose to meet mine. "You were good enough to restore me my shawl and
clasp last night at the opera, if I am not strangely mistaken."
"Ah! were you that lady?" he asked, with a slight yet somewhat
embarrassed laugh. "Forgive me, if in the confusion of the moment I
failed to remark your appearance. I only knew an outrage had been
committed, and naturally sought to repair it."
"Now, that was really romantic," said Evelyn, who had caught the idea.
"Miriam related her adventure, but was sorely puzzled to know to whom
she was indebted for such chivalrous aid."
"I am glad to have been of service to Miss Monfort," he rejoined,
deferentially, "but I merely obeyed an impulse strong with me. I should
have been wanting to myself to have done otherwise than defend a
helpless woman."
"There could not have been a more favorable opening to your
acquaintance, certainly," observed Evelyn significantly; then, turning
away and crossing the apartment, she applied herself to the
entertainment of the elder Mr. Bainrothe, "Mr. Basil," as we called him
after his son came, by way of distinction between the two, since the
word "old" seemed invidious in his case, and we characterized them as we
would have done two brothers.
Indeed, in manner, in bearing, in something of quiet repose entirely
wanting in the father, and which usually seems the accompaniment of age
or experience, the son seemed the elder man of the two. I had yet to
learn that there is an experience so perfect and subtle that it assumes
the air of ignorance, and triumphs in its simplicity over inferior craft
itself.
When the mind has worked out the problems of life to its own
satisfaction, like the school-boy who has proved his sums, it wipes the
slate clean again and sets down the bare result--the laborious process
it effaces. All is simplified.
"I was fearful that you had been hurt last night, Mr. Bainrothe," I
hazarded, "from the expression of your face as I caught it at the
box-door. I am glad to see you well this evening."
"I _was_ hurt," he said, "to be frank with you. The scoundrel gave me a
severe blow on the chest, which brought a little blood to my lips, and
for the time I suffered. Had it not been for the faintness under which I
was laboring I could not have failed to identify you. But you are
generous enough to forgive this oversight I am convinced."
"Oh, surely! it was most natural under the circumstances. I have a habit
of fixing faces at a glance that is rather uncommon, I believe. I never
forget any one I have seen even for a moment, or where I have seen them,
or even a name I have heard."
"A royal gift truly, one of the secrets of popularity, I believe. It is
not so with me usually, though when my eye once drinks in a face" (and
he looked steadily at mine while he spoke those words slowly, as if
wrapped in contemplation), "it never departs again. 'A thing of beauty
is a joy forever,' you know, Miss Monfort." He sighed slightly.
"Yes, that line has passed into an axiom, the only sensible one, I
believe, by-the-by, that Keats ever wrote," I laughed.
"Oh, you do Keats injustice. Have you studied him, Miss Monfort?"
"Studied poetry? What an idea! No, but I have tried to read him, and
failed. I think he had a very crude, chaotic mind indeed; I like more
clearness."
"Clearness and shallowness most often go together," he observed. "When
you see the pebbles at the bottom of a stream, most likely its waters
are not deep."
"Yet, you can stir up mud with a long pole in the pool more readily than
in the river. Keats wanted a current, it seems to me, to give him
vitality and carry off his own mental impurities. His was a stagnant
being."
"What a queer comparison," and he shook his head laughingly, "ingenious,
but at fault; you are begging the question now. Well, what do you say to
Shelley?"
"I have nothing to say to him; he has every thing to say to me. He is my
master."
"An eccentric taste for so young a girl; and Byron? and Moore? and Mrs.
Hemans? and Leigh Hunt? and Barry Cornwall?"
"Oh, every one likes _them_, but one gets tired of hearing lions roar,
and harps play, and angels sing; and then one goes to Shelley for
refreshment. He is never monotonous; he was a perennial fountain,
singing at its source, and nearly all was fragmentary that he wrote, of
course, wanting an outlet. The mind finishes out so much for itself,
and the thought comes to one always, that he was completed in heaven. No
other verse stirs me like his. You know he wrote it because he had to
write or die. He was a poet, or nothing."
"You ought to write criticisms for _Blackwood_, really, Miss Monfort,
and give a woman's reason for every opinion," with ill-concealed
derision.
"You are laughing at me now, of course, but I don't regard good-natured
raillery. I am sure I should not enjoy poetry as I do were I a better
critic. I love flowers far more than many who understand botany as a
science, and pull them to pieces scientifically and analytically."
"And paintings; do you love them?"
"Oh, passionately!"
"I confess I am _blase_ with art," he said, quietly; "I have seen so
much of it, I like nature far better;" adding, after a pause, "now, that
is your chief charm. Miss Monfort."
"What, being natural?"
"How well you divine my meaning!" with a little irony in the voice and
eye. The tendency of his mind was evidently sarcastic.
"Ah! true. Papa thinks me _too_ natural; he often checks my impulses.
Your father, too, coincides with him, I believe, in this opinion; but
don't talk about me. Tell me of your sojourn in Germany. How delightful
it must have been to have lived in Heidelberg, and felt the very
atmosphere you breathed filled with wisdom! Did you ever go to
Frankfort? Did you see the statue of Goethe there? Can you read 'Faust'
in the original? Oh, I should like to so much, but I know nothing of
German. I never could learn the character, I am convinced. French and
Italian only. There was such a beautiful picture of 'Margaret' in the
Academy of Fine Arts last year, I wanted papa to purchase it, but Evelyn
and he did not fancy it as much as I did. They prefer copies from the
old masters. I don't care a cent for Magdalenes and Madonnas and little
fat cherubs. I prefer illustrations of poetry or fiction; don't you, Mr.
Bainrothe?"
"Very frankly, Miss Monfort, I don't care for pictures at all, unless
for good landscapes. I am cloyed with them. And as to German books, I
never want to see another. The old 'Deer-Stealer' was worth all they
have ever written put together, in my opinion. I love the vernacular."
"Oh, of course, Shakespeare and the Bible; there is nothing like them
for truth and power. But to leave poetry for its sister art, you must
have enjoyed the music in Germany. Do you love music, Mr. Bainrothe?"
"Not very much, except in opera; then the scenery and lights and people
are half the charm. I don't care for science. Such an adventure as I had
last night," he murmured low, "was worth a dozen operas to me;" and
again I met his admiring, steady gaze, almost embarrassing, fixed upon
me.
"What are you two talking about?" asked Evelyn, coming suddenly behind
us. "Papa and Mr. Bainrothe are carrying on a little quiet flirtation,
as usual, and have quite turned their backs on me, so I came hither,
asking charity. I declare, Miriam's face is scarlet! What mischief are
you two hatching?"
"I have been running on at a most unconscionable rate," I replied,
"covering up my ignorance with many questions that have bored, rather
than proved, Mr. Bainrothe, I fear. Take up the dialogue, dear Evelyn,
for a few moments, while I go to superintend that elderly flirtation
you speak of, and keep papa in order," and I left them abruptly.
"It will all be paid in before then," I heard Mr. Bainrothe say, as I
approached them, "and you could not have a safer investment. It is as
sound as the Federal Government itself. Indestructible as the solar
system."
"I will bring the papers," papa said, rising. "Excuse me for ten
minutes," and I dropped into his empty seat by Mr. Bainrothe.
"I hope I shall not interrupt your business meditations while papa is
gone," I observed, breaking the silence first.
"Business is my pastime, and no food for meditation, my dear girl; for,
like the Pontic monarch of old days, 'I live on poisons, and they have
no power, but are a kind of nutriment.' Now, talking to a pretty young
girl is far harder and more unusual work to me than transacting
mercantile or financial affairs."
"Then I will not oppress you with my society," I said, with a feint to
rise.
"Sit still, Miriam, and don't be foolish. You know what I mean, very
well. Now, how do you like my son?"
"Oh, very much indeed; he is a little satirical, though, now and then;
intolerant of youthful greenness, I perceive, and enthusiasm."
"All affectation, I assure you. He is as verdant himself as the Emerald
Isle. Just from college, and very young; what can he know of life? As to
enthusiasm, he is full of it."
"True, what _can_ he know of life," I mused, and I glanced at him, as I
questioned, sitting in front of Evelyn in a sort of humble, devoted
way, very different from his easy, knightly air with me. She wore a
cold, imperious expression of face not unbecoming to her haughty style
of beauty, and fanned herself gently as she listened carelessly to his
evidently earnest words, bowing superciliously in answer from time to
time.
"The desire of the moth for the star," burst from my lips involuntarily.
"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bainrothe, quietly. "If Evelyn Erie were
the last of her sex, _he_ never could fancy _her_. She is much too old
for my son, much too artificial; and, beautiful as she is, she wants
some nameless charm, without which no woman ever secures the abiding
love of man;" adding, abruptly, after a little pause, "_That charm is
yours, Miriam_."
"How strangely you talk, Mr. Bainrothe!" I replied, with evident
embarrassment, which he pretended not to perceive.
"Had you remained one year longer at school, there would have been no
grace, no perfection wanting. I am sorry to see you thrown so young, so
unprotected, on the waves of society, as you must be soon."
"Oh, not necessarily. I rarely come into the parlor when Evelyn
receives, rarely go to parties, and my studies are as dear to me as they
ever were. Besides, Mabel absorbs much of my time, and I am quite
infatuated with my new accomplishment."
"What is that, Miriam?"
"I am studying elocution, learning to read with Mr. Mortimer--you have
heard of him--and he is pleased, so far, with my success. It is a very
delightful resource."
"Yes, you have a good voice, an impassioned face and manner--all very
suitable, no doubt; but what will it amount to, after all? You will
never have to earn your bread in that way, and for a home circle you
have always read well enough. It is time wasted, I imagine."
"But the reading is not _all_. I learn to know and comprehend so much
that was sealed from me before; in this way, Shakespeare, Milton, Scott,
all acquire new beauties. By-the-by, this is what your son meant by
studying poetry, perhaps."
"The puppy! Has he been lecturing you, too? Really, there is no end to
his presumption;" and he smiled, benignly, upon him.
"I must defend him from such a charge," I said, earnestly. "I find him
very deferential--he has the courteous European manner, which, when
high-bred, is so polite. Americans never learn to bow like foreign
gentlemen. It is a great charm."
"Do you hear that, Claude? Miss Monfort approves of your bow. This is
all I can extort from her; but she is very hard to please, very
censorious by nature, so don't be entirely discouraged."
A bow of the approved sort, and wave of the hand across the room, in
addition, were the only rejoinder elicited by this sally, and again the
downcast head, the clasped hands, the low, entreating voice denoted the
character of his conference with Evelyn. He was pleading a desperate
cause, it seemed to me.
Mr. Bainrothe became unreasonably nervous, I thought. He fidgeted with
his hat, and gloves, and cane, which he took from the table near him,
dropping the last as he did so; he glanced impatiently at the door
through which my father was to enter, and, when finally his friend came,
after a brief conference in a corner with regard to the papers he had
gone out to seek, probably, summoned his son abruptly and darted off in
true Continental style, followed by his more stately junior.
"Mr. Bainrothe amuses me," observed Evelyn after we were alone again.
"He is so transparent, dear old butterfly! He need not be alarmed! I
have put a quietus on all presumptuous hopes in that quarter forever,
and now, Miriam, I hand him over to you signed and sealed 'Claude
Bainrothe rejected and emancipated by Evelyn Erie, and ready for fresh
servitude--apprenticed, in short.'"
"Thank you," I rejoined, dryly, speaking with a tightness at my throat.
"He thinks you quite good-looking, Miriam, I assure you; he was
agreeably disappointed, even after what he had heard of your
appearance--from the Stanburys, I suppose--and observed that there were
fine elements in your character, too, if properly shaped and combined--a
great deal of '_come out_.'"
"He is truly gracious and condescending," I replied, "I thank him
humbly."
"It was very plain that you admired him, Miriam. Any one could see that.
I noticed his internal amusement at your fluttered manner."
"Did he tell you what his thoughts were, Evelyn, or do you merely
interpret them after your own fashion?" I asked, sternly.
"Oh, of course he said nothing of the kind; I would not have permitted
it, had he wished to. Poor fellow! I hope you will be kinder to him than
I have been," and she sighed heavily. "He is yours now to have and to
hold, you know."
"You have not shown your usual good taste, Evelyn," I remarked, coolly,
"in rejecting so handsome and fascinating a man, and making him over to
another, unsolicited. Claude Bainrothe would suit you exactly, I think;
and, as to money, he will have enough, no doubt, for both. If not"--I
hesitated--colored--sighed.
"If not, what, Miriam?" she urged, stamping her little foot impatiently
as my answer was delayed. "If not, what then, Miriam? Speak out!"
"If not, dear sister, _I_ will try to make up the _deficiency_," I said,
embracing her. "Now you understand my intentions."
I was learning to love my sister, and happy in the power to please her,
unconscious that an invisible barrier was rising from that hour, never
to be put aside.