Mr. Gerald Stanbury had been especially invited to attend the reading of
my father's will, by a polite note from Mr. Bainrothe, in which the
interest that both bore in this testament was plainly set forth. With
the exception of our excellent old neighbor and the two Mr. Bainrothes,
the circle assembled for the solemn occasion was composed entirely of
Mr. Monfort's household and was truly a funereal one. I wore my
deep-mourning dress for the first time that day, and Mabel, similarly
attired, sat beside me. Claude Bainrothe was alone on a distant sofa.
Evelyn assumed my father's chair, and wore, with the weeds customary to
widows, a demeanor of great dignity and reserve suitable to the head of
the family. Mr. Gerald Stanbury had a seat near mine, on which he sat
uneasily, and Mrs. Austin, Franklin, and Morton, were ranged together
stiffly in chairs placed against the wall, likewise attired in deep
mourning. Mr. Bainrothe was seated near the study-table, looking
unusually pale and subdued, from one of the drawers of which he had
drawn forth the will, unlocking and locking it again with a key
suspended to his guard-chain.
"This key was placed in my hand," he said, "during my friend's last
illness, and, although he could not speak to me at the time, his
expressive eye indicated its importance and to what drawer it belonged.
This was before he was removed from the study in which he was stricken,
dear friends, as you may all remember, on Christmas-morning, and which
he never again reentered. From that day to this the key which I wear has
not left my charge, nor been placed in the lock to which it belongs, and
to the guardianship of which this will, as soon as made and legally
attested, was probably committed. We will now, with your permission,
break the seal that I see has been placed upon this document since I
beheld it, the contents of which are already familiar to me." He then
opened and read in a clear, monotonous voice my father's will and its
provisions.
The property, as I knew already, was all mine by marriage contract,
except such sums as my father had accumulated and set aside from his
yearly income for his own purposes. With these he richly endowed Evelyn
Erle, and comfortably the three servants or attendants, as he preferred
to call them, who had followed him from England, and by their lives of
fidelity and duty shown themselves worthy of his regard. Half of my
estate was already in stocks of the United States Bank, and half loaned
at interest on sound mortgages. This last was to be called in as
speedily as possible and invested also in stocks of the above-mentioned
bank, in that peculiar institution known as the Pennsylvania Bank, and
still supposed to be under Mr. Biddle's superintendence. This was done,
the testator said, to simplify his daughter's property, and render it
more manageable to her hand, should she by her own will remain single,
or by that of Providence be widowed, and he hoped in any case she would
suffer it to remain in this shape as long as Mr. Biddle or Mr. Bainrothe
lived.
All this I heard with satisfaction and even indifference, but the part
that stung me almost to exasperation was reserved for the last. Mr.
Bainrothe and Mr. Stanbury were named as executors conjointly with
Evelyn Erie, in the last mentioned of whom all power over my actions was
to vest until I should be of age, and in whose hands, as guardian, Mabel
and her property were exclusively intrusted until that time should
arrive; after that period her sisters were to act jointly, unless my
marriage were made without consent of Evelyn, in which case Mabel was to
be her charge alone.
No security was to be required of either executor, but, across Mr.
Gerald Stanbury's name two lines in ink had been drawn with a wavering
hand, as if for erasure.
I heard this last clause of the will with a beating, bounding, indignant
heart. Evelyn, who so hated Claude Bainrothe, had us both completely in
her power for the present, and might defer our marriage for years if it
so pleased her. And Mabel, toward whom she did not disguise her
indifference, was to be hers on this ground perhaps forever! Slavery for
four of the best years of my life was entailed on me, and bondage
forever on her, perhaps--my idol--my darling--mine--all mine by every
right of man or God!
The injustice was too palpable. It was almost incomprehensible to me how
he had been wrought upon to do these things--he, "a just man made
perfect." All this flashed stunningly across my brain. Suddenly I threw
my hand wildly to my head--the whirl of waters was in my ears; yet I
struggled against the surging tide, and Claude Bainrothe's grasp upon my
hand strengthened and revived me. I was roused from my apathy by hearing
Mr. Gerald Stanbury's loud, sonorous voice speaking out clearly: "I
decline to serve, Mr. Bainrothe, after that erasure. You understand
that, of course. It was a farce to send for me to-day, tinder these
circumstances."
"How could I know, my dear sir, that this erasure had been made?" was
the soft and specious rejoinder. "It must have been done in the last few
months. This will was drawn up in August last. I was ignorant of the
whole subsequent proceeding, and at that time Mr. Monfort laid peculiar
stress on your coincidence as executor. Has any thing occurred since
that time to mar your good understanding?"
"Nothing of any consequence," said Mr. Stanbury, coldly--"nothing
bearing on the esteem of man for man. Nevertheless, Mr. Monfort, as we
all know, was a man easy to offend and difficult to appease, and I
suppose" (he swallowed hard as he spoke) "he weighed old friendship and
some good offices as nothing against his wounded self-love, and against
the flatterers who beset him with their snares."
"Sir, you intend to be insulting, no doubt," Mr. Bainrothe observed,
with a semblance of calm dignity; "but it is not on such an occasion as
this, and in the disinterested discharge of my duty, that I will suffer
myself to be ruffled by the bitter injustice of an irritable and
disappointed old man."
"Be guarded, Mr. Bainrothe," Mr. Stanbury rejoined, "in your expressions
to me, or I will look into that illegal erasure and still stand to my
oar in this golden galley of yours, in which you expect to float with
the stream, and so soon to have every thing your own way. I like plain
sailing, sir; am a plain, straightforward man myself, to whom truth is
second nature; and, were it not for the violence it might do the
feelings of the person chiefly concerned in this testament, so soon to
be allied to you and yours, if I understand things properly and report
speaks truly, I would defy you, Mr. Basil Bainrothe, in the public
courts, and claim my executorship under the wing of the law."
Mr. Bainrothe had turned ashy pale during the deliverance of this fiery
rebuke. But he controlled himself admirably, merely contenting himself
with saying, in a low voice: "No threats, if you please, Mr. Stanbury;
act out your intentions when and where you choose, but have
consideration just now for the feelings of others." And he waved his
hand, trembling with rage, toward me, including in his gesture Evelyn,
who by this time was beside me with her salts, chafing my hands. "I am
sure we are all willing to yield our executorships if Miriam desires
it," she said. "I, for one, should be glad to lift such a yoke from my
shoulders, unaccustomed to such a burden. Mr. Stanbury, desirable as you
seem to think it, this post of mine is no sinecure. But spare Miriam
this scene, I beg of you; she is much overcome--much exhausted;
excitement in her case is very injurious, Dr. Pemberton says. Let me beg
you, my dear sir, to retire. All shall be done properly and in order.
Her interest is our chief concern, of course."
"Evelyn Erle, I have nothing to say to you," I heard Mr. Stanbury
exclaim, in a loud, excited tone. "It is not with women I wish to wage
war, and so understand me! But there is One above to whom you will have
to account rigidly some day for your stewardship and guardianship of
these friendless girls, and be prepared, I counsel you, with your
accounts, to meet Him when the day of reckoning comes! And it may come
sooner than you suspect. I, for one, shall keep an unslumbering eye upon
you and your devices while I live, even though at a distance.--Miriam, I
am always ready to assist you, my dear, in any way possible to me--call
on me freely. Remember, I am your friend." He came to me, he took me to
his breast, he kissed my brow, his tears were on my cheek. I cast my
arms about his dear, old, noble neck; I leaned my quivering face against
his bosom. "I always loved you," I said. "I am so sorry, so sorry, Mr.
Stanbury!" I knew no more--the words forsook my lips. Again that wild
whirl of waters surged upon my ears; I seemed to be falling, falling
down a black, steep, bottomless shaft, beneath which the sea was
roaring--falling head-foremost--hurled as if with a strong impulse down
the abyss to certain destruction.
Then all was still. The jaws of my dark malady had opened to receive me.
I woke as from a long, deep, and unrefreshing slumber. I was lying in my
bed, with the curtains, drawn closely around it--the heavy crimson
curtains, with their white inside draperies and snowy tufted fringes. I
had a vague consciousness that some hand had recently parted them, and
the tassels on the valance were quivering still with the impulse they
had thus received. Then I heard voices.
"How much longer will it endure, Evelyn?"
"Five or six hours, I suppose. What time is it now?" The clock in the
hall struck ten before the question could be answered.
"Ten! It was about three when she was seized," rejoined the voice of
Evelyn; "you can calculate for yourself--the turns are invariably twelve
and twenty-four hours in duration; if one period is transcended the
other is accomplished. Dr. Pemberton himself told me this."
"Might not the term in some way be shortened? I was very sure I heard
her stirring just now, and my heart was in my mouth." After which a
pause.
"I knew you were mistaken, but I examined to satisfy your mind. No, she
still lies in a lethargy, and will lie in that comatose condition until
after noon. Then Dr. Pemberton will be here, and she will revive."
"That seizure was very dreadful, but I saw no foam on her lips like most
epileptics, and I watched narrowly."
"There are modifications of the disease, Claude; hers is of a passive
kind, with very few or no convulsive struggles--more like syncope. Had
you not better retire now?"
"Still, it _is_ epilepsy? No, do not banish me yet."
"That is what the doctors call it, I believe, Claude. Dr. Pemberton is
too guarded or politic, one or the other--all Quakers are, you know--to
give it a name, however. Dr. Physick told papa what it was very plainly,
years ago."
"Ah I he was good authority, certainly a great physician and a
philosopher as well; but, Evelyn, it is very awful," with a groan, and
perhaps a shudder. "Very hard to get over or to bear."
"Yes, and the worst of it is it will increase with age, and the end is
so deplorable--idiocy or madness, you know, invariably. Early death is
desirable for Miriam. Her best friends should not wish to see her life
prolonged. It is an inheritance, probably. Her mother died of some
inscrutable incurable disease, I suppose like this."
"O God! O God! it is almost more than I can stand."
I heard him pacing the room slowly up and down, and my impulse was to
part the curtains, to call him to me and comfort him, but I could not;
I was too weak even to speak as yet, and bound as with a spell, a
nightmare.
A whirl of vivid joy passed through me like an electric flash, however,
as I recognized in his disquietude the strength of his affection.
Evelyn's malignant cruelty and falsehood were lost sight of in the bliss
of this conviction; yet my triumph was but brief.
"Evelyn," he said, speaking low, and pausing in his slow, continued
pace.--"Evelyn, just as she lies there sleeping, I would she could lie
forever! Then happiness could dawn for us again."
"Never, Claude Bainrothe!"
"You are unforgiving, my Evelyn! you have no mercy on me nor my
sufferings. You make no allowance for necessity, or the desperation of
my condition. In debt myself, and so long a cause of expense and anxiety
to my father, whose sacrifices for me have been manifold, and before
whom ruin is grimly yawning even now, how could I act otherwise,
consistently with the duty of a son? Nay, what manhood would there have
been in consigning you to such a fate as awaited penniless wife of mine?
"I did not think of these things, did not know them even, when we first
met, and when I told you of my sudden passion I was sincere, Evelyn,
then, as I am now, for it is unchanged, and you know that it is so.
"When the dark necessity was laid bare to me, and I felt it my duty to
cancel our engagement, you bore it bravely, you kept my counsel, you
assisted me in my projects; you proved yourself all that was noble and
magnanimous in woman. What marvel, then, that I more than ever loved
you, and wished the obstacle removed that divides us, and yearn for my
lost happiness now dearer to me than before, only to be renewed through
you, Evelyn! that I still adore!--woman most beautiful, most beloved!"
"Claude, this is mockery; release my hand; arise, this position becomes
you not, nor yet me. Go! I am lost to you forever! your own cowardice,
your own weak worship of expediency, have been your real obstacles. For
your sake I was willing to brave poverty, debt, expatriation. It was you
who preferred the dross of gold, and the indulgence of your own luxury
and that of the sybarite, your father, to the passionate affection I
bore you. It is too late now for regret or recrimination. Go, I command
you! accomplish your destiny; continue to beguile Miriam with the tale
of your affection, and in return reap your harvest of deluded affection
and golden store from her! and from me receive your guerdon of scorn.
For I, Claude Bainrothe, know you as you are, and despise you utterly!"
Her voice trembled with anger, I knew of old its violent ring of rage.
"No, Evelyn, you only know me as I _seem_"--he spoke mildly,
humbly--"not as I _am_. I am not a very bad man, Evelyn, nor even a very
weak one; in all respects, vile as I appear to you, only a very unhappy
wretch, and as such entitled to your respectful compassion at least--all
I dare ask for now. I will not receive your scorn as my fit guerdon. Is
there no strength in overcoming inclination as I have done, in
compelling words of affection to flow from loathing lips?--for those
scars alone, Evelyn, in contrast to your speckless beauty, would of
themselves be enough to shock a fastidious man like me, those hideous
livid scars which I have yet to behold, and shudder over, marking one
whole side as you assure me of neck, shoulder, and arm, things that in
woman are of such inestimable value, of almost more importance than the
divine face itself."
"Yes, but the other side is statuesque enough to satisfy the
requisitions of a sensuous sculptor," she rejoined, coldly; "you are
wrong, Claude, let us be just! Miriam is very well formed, to say no
more, and her skin is like a magnolia-leaf, where sun and wind have not
touched or tanned it; then those scars will turn white after a while
like the rest, and perhaps scarcely be visible."
"O Heavens! hideous white seams!" he exclaimed, passionately. "I have
seen such, like small-pox marks, only ten times more frightful and
indelible." In his impotent weakness he moaned aloud.
"Worse and worse! I will tell you frankly, had I known of _them_, the
engagement never would have been contracted--no, not though the
_inferno_ had opened beneath me as my only alternative--but honor binds
me now."
"You are fastidious truly, and your sense of honor supreme," she
sneered.
"Beauty there was not," he continued, without regarding her rejoinder,
"in any remarkable degree. I could have borne its absence with common
patience, but absolute disfigurement, deformity, such as you assure me
those burns have left behind them, is too dreadful! Had not Dr.
Pemberton bared her arm in bleeding, as he did, I should never have
known of it at all probably until too late. That one mark was
suggestive."
"You attach too much consequence to mere externals, Claude," said
Evelyn, coldly. "I trust such fastidious notions may be laid at rest
before your marriage, or poor Miriam, with her warm, affectionate, and
unsuspicious nature will be the sufferer. I pity her fate, sincerely."
"No, Evelyn, you wrong me there; I respect and esteem her far too much
ever to wound her feelings. Against this I shall carefully guard. My
bargain would be broken, otherwise. It is a clear case of barter and
sale, you see. One's honor is concerned in keeping such an obligation. I
shall never be ungrateful."
"You have European ideas, you tell me," she said, bitterly; "is this one
of them?"
"It is, and the least among them, perhaps; yet it is, nevertheless, hard
to overcome positive repulsion."
There was a pause now, during which I could count every throb of my
heart, and throat, and temples--my whole frame was transfigured into an
anvil, on which a thousand tiny hammers seemed to ring. Yet I could not
move, nor speak, nor weep--no wretchedness was ever more supreme than
this cataleptic seizure. Evelyn was the first to break the transient
silence.
"Your path is a plain one, Claude Bainrothe; fulfill your contract,
sealed with gold, and bear patiently your selected lot."
"Evelyn, one word--let it be sincere: do you hate and scorn me? Answer
me as you would speak to your own soul."
"No, Claude, no, yet the blow was hard to bear--struck, too, as you must
reflect, so suddenly! Only the day before abandonment, remember, you had
made protestations of such undying constancy. Your conduct was surely
inconstant, at least."
"I make them still, those professions you scorn so deeply."
"Away, false man, lest the sleeper awaken!"
"You say there is no danger of that, and that in their coffins the dead
are not more insensible."
"To see you kneeling at my feet might bring the dead even to life," she
laughed, contemptuously. "I am sick of this drama; be natural for once.
We can both afford to be so now."
"Do not spurn me, Evelyn! Never was my love for you so wild as now." I
heard him kissing her hands passionately, and his voice, as he spoke
these words, was choked with grief.
"O Claude, let my hand go; at least consider appearances. Mrs. Austin
will be here in a moment now; what will she think of you? What am I to
think of such caprice?"
"One word, then, Evelyn--tell me that you forgive me--on such conditions
I will release your hands."
"When I forgive you, Claude, I shall be wholly indifferent to you," she
said, gently. "Do you still claim forgiveness? I am not angry, though,
take that assurance for all comfort. Then, if you will have it" (and I
heard a kiss exchanged), "this confirmation."
"Then you are not wholly indifferent to me, Evelyn?" he said, in eager
tones, "you care for me still--a little?"
"A very little, Claude"--hesitatingly.
"Say that you love me, Evelyn, just once more--I can then die happy."
"Claude Bainrothe, arise--unhand me--this is child's play--let me
breathe freely again. Well do you know I love you. O God! why do you
return to a theme so bitter and profitless to both? Come, let us look
together on Miriam sleeping, and gather strength and courage from such
contemplation. Come, my friend!"
The curtains were lifted--still I lay rigidly and with closed eyelids
before them--not from any notion of my own, but from the helplessness of
my agony and the condition into which I was fast drifting. Once or
twice during the progress of this conversation I had tried to lift my
voice, my hand--both were alike powerless. I lay bound, for a while, in
a cataleptic reverie, and then I passed away once more into darkness and
syncope.
It was evening when I revived--Dr. Pemberton was sitting beside me,
holding my pulse--Mrs. Austin and Mabel were at the bedside. This was,
at last, the end I craved; of all, I hoped.
"The wine, Mrs. Austin," the doctor said, in low accents.
"Quick! one spoonful instantly. You know how it was before--you were too
slow; she fell back before she could swallow it.--Now another, Miriam.
Say, are you better?"
Most anxiously as my eyes opened and were fixed upon his face, were
these words spoken:
"No, dying, I believe--at least, I hope so!"
The shrieks of the child aroused me to a sense of what I owed myself and
her. "You shall not die, sister Miriam," she cried. "Papa does not want
you--I want you--I will not stay with Evelyn and Claude--I will go down
in the ground too, if you die. My sister, you shall not go to God! I
will hold you tight, if He comes for you. He shall not have my
Miriam--nor His angels either."
Her cries did for me what medicine had failed to do. They tried in vain
to silence her. My pulse returned under the stimulus of emotion. I put
out my hand blindly to Mabel.
"Hush, darling," I said, "I will live for you if I can--ask Dr.
Pemberton to save me."
"You are better, already, Miriam," he whispered. "Mrs. Austin, take
Mabel away until she can be quiet and behave like a lady; her sister is
getting well--tell her I say so. Call Miss Evelyn here, instantly."
"No, no!" with an impatient movement of the hand. "Not Evelyn;" again my
arm fell nervelessly.
"Well, then, don't call her, of course. I will stay a while myself; we
don't want anybody at all, Miriam and I, only each other. Go you and
make that panada ready, and sent it when I ring. Let Charity bring it,
she will do. Keep every one else away."
His word was law in our household in times of illness, and Mabel's cries
were hushed at once by his assurances, and she was led passively away.
She was capable of great self-control on emergencies, like her own dear
sainted mamma, who always thought _first_ what was best for others, and
_afterward_ for herself, if there was room at all for such latter
consideration.
"You must have revived hours ago," said Dr. Pemberton, after I had
rallied sufficiently to prove to him that my crisis was over, and the
usual symptoms of returning convalescence had been manifested. "I have
marked your seizures narrowly, the periods are perfect--have limited
them to eighteen hours latterly--nay, sometimes to twelve; they used to
be four-and-twenty. You were due back again in port, little craft, at
nine or ten o'clock this morning."
"Back again from where, Dr. Pemberton?"
"How should I know, my dear? Some unknown shore--Hades, perhaps. Who
knows what becomes of the soul when the body is wrapped in stupor or
sleep, any more than when it is dead? You came partially to yourself at
five this afternoon. I had just come in then, having been unavoidably
detained. We administered, or tried to administer, wine--but too
slowly; you fell back again into unconsciousness--drifted off to sea
once more; but this last effort of Nature was successful. It is all very
mysterious to me. Have you no memory of having revived before?"
"Yes, I was conscious for some time this morning--for nearly an hour, I
think."
"At what hour? Who was with you?"
"At ten o'clock. I heard the hall clock strike that hour soon after I
opened my eyes. I counted every stroke. There were persons in the room
at the time, but no one knew of my recovery of consciousness. I lay as
if spellbound. I heard conversation and understood it; I remember every
word of it yet--I shall ever remember it. But, when they came to me, I
was unable to speak or make a sign."
"Unable, or unwilling? I have said before, Miriam, the will has much to
do with all this. It is a sort of magnetic seizure, I sometimes think."
"Both, perhaps, involuntary; but I certainly did not wish to grow
unconscious again."
"Yet you wanted to die a while ago--child, child, there is something
wrong here! What is it? Tell me frankly. I heard of the scene with Mr.
Stanbury--the passionate old man was very unwise to excite you so; he
meant well, though, no doubt--he always does. What more has occurred?
Now, tell me candidly--much depends on the truth--has any one been
unkind?"
"Whatever I say to you, Dr. Pemberton, must be under the pledge of
confidence," I replied; "otherwise I shall keep my own counsel."
"Surely, Miriam."
"Well, then, I overheard some one saying, when I revived this morning,
that I was epileptic, and it troubled me. Now, I call upon you solemnly
to answer me truthfully on this point. Of what character is my
disease?--speak earnestly."
"I do not know--not epilepsy, certainly; partially nervous, I think--one
of Nature's strange safety-valves, I suppose."
"You would not deceive me?"
"Not under present circumstances, surely; not at any time after such an
appeal as yours."
"Did Dr. Physick ever pronounce my disease epilepsy? You consulted
together about it once, I believe. Do tell me the truth about this
matter," laying my hand on his arm.
"Never, so help me God!" he said, earnestly.
"You have relieved me greatly," I said, pressing my lips on that dear
and revered hand which had so often ministered to me and mine in sorest
agony--a hand spotless as the heart within--yet, brown and withered as
the leaves of autumn.
"Now you, in turn, must relieve me," he said, gravely. "Who was it that
alleged these things? They were slanders, and deserve to be nailed to
the wall, and shall be if power be mine to do so."
"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me. It was not asserted that you
pronounced my disease epilepsy, but insinuated that you thought so. Dr.
Physick's opinion was given to confirm this impression."
"Have you traitors in your own household, Miriam?" he asked, sternly.
I was silent--shedding quiet tears, however.
"I have thought so before," he said, low, between his set teeth. "But,
thank God, you can put your foot on them all before very long!--This
seems a nice young man you are going to marry, but I never liked his
father. I say this frankly to you, child; but, in truth, I have had no
sufficient reason for this distaste or prejudice--it is no more, I
confess. You are very much in their hands for the present, I fear; but I
hope they will do you justice."
"I shall not marry Claude Bainrothe," I rejoined at last, firmly. "Let
this be perfectly understood between us two, Dr. Pemberton. That
marriage will never take place!"
"Why, your own father told me you were engaged in October last!"
"I have changed my mind since then. Understand me, I admire Mr.
Bainrothe for many qualities--I am attached to him even; and he is
infinitely to be pitied for some reasons, certainly; but marry him I
never will!"
"And this is your resolution?"
"It is. But, on second thoughts, I will ask you to keep your knowledge
of it strictly to yourself. I cannot tell you my motives of action now,
but they are good."
"Miriam, you must not ask me to be your confederate in any scheme of
coquetry or caprice such as this concealment points to. You must deal
with this young man openly--no double dealings, my child, or I shall
come to the rescue."
"Have you ever known me to play fast and loose, Dr. Pemberton? Is that
my characteristic? Ask Mr. Gerald Stanbury--ask all who know me--if I
have ever been guilty of deceit, or time-serving, or caprice, or
perfidy. No, Dr. Pemberton, it is on his own account solely that I wish
to keep this matter quiet for the present. Should _he_ wish to proclaim
it, I surely shall not object. But I seek only to shield him from
mortification, from reproach, in the line of conduct that I am
adopting--best for both."
"And to give yourself margin for a change of mind again--little fox! Ah,
Miriam, it is the old story--a lovers' quarrel! I understand it all
perfectly now. Don't be too hard on the young fellow; he seemed very
much in love. Relent in time; he will value your mercy more than your
justice, perhaps."
"Have you ever seen us together, that you pronounce him very much in
love?" I asked, in a hard, cold, subdued voice that startled my own ear,
and made him serious at once.
"Never. But he wears the absent, dreamy air of a lover; even when alone
it is noticeable, Miriam. I can always tell when a man is preoccupied in
that way."
"If you could go a little further, and divine the object of such
preoccupation, you would be better prepared to counsel me, dear friend.
He is no lover of mine, I assure you!"
"Ah, the old story again, Miriam! Have patience, my dear child." And,
strong in his belief that my change of resolution arose only from pique
and jealousy, that would soon be over, the good doctor went his way, all
the more ready to keep my secret for such conviction.
I passed a miserable night. The great bed seemed to inclose me like a
sepulchre, which yet I was too feeble, too irresolute, to leave. The
conversation I had heard seemed stereotyped on plates of brass, that
rang like cymbals in my ears. Toward morning I slept. I dreamed that
mamma came to me, and said, in tones so natural that they seemed to
sound in my ears after I had awakened:
"Miriam, your mother and father have sent me to say to you that they
are united and happy. I, too, have found my mate at last. It was for
this I was called. The sea has given up its dead, and I am blessed. Now,
dearest, Mabel is all yours;" and then she kissed me.
I woke with that kiss upon my cheek.
The brief and distinct vision made a deep impression on me. I awoke
refreshed and strengthened, as from a magnetic slumber.
At first, a sense of joy alone possessed me, but soon the great bitter
burden came rolling back upon my soul, like the stone of Sisyphus, which
my sleeping soul had heaved away.
It is a beautiful law of our being, that we rarely dream of that which
occupies and troubles us most in the daytime. Compensation is carried
out in this way, as in many others, insensibly, and the balance of
thought kept equal. I have heard persons complain frequently that they
could not dream of their dead, with whom their waking thoughts were ever
filled. But madness must have been the consequence, had there been no
repose for the mind from one engrossing image.
Relaxation comes to us in dreams at times when the brain needs it most,
and to lose the consciousness of a sorrow is to cast off its burden for
a time, and gain new strength to bear it.
I thought, when I first arose from my bed, that I would write to Claude
Bainrothe, and thus save myself the trial of an interview. But the
necessity of secrecy, in the commencement at least of the rupture, on
his own account, presented itself too forcibly to my mind to permit me
such self-indulgence. I felt assured in the first bitterness of feeling,
that he would lay my letters before Evelyn, from whom I especially
wished, for household peace, to preserve the knowledge of what had
passed in my chamber between herself and him.
I had no wish either to mortify or wound the man I had loved so
tenderly, but from whom I felt now wholly severed, as though the shadow
of a grave had intervened between us.
Never again, never, could he be more to me than a memory, a regret.
Glaring faults, impulsive offenses, _crime_ even it may be, I could have
forgiven, so long as his allegiance had been mine, and his affection
proof against change, but coldness, perfidy, loathing, such as he had
avowed, these could never be redeemed in any way, nor considered other
than they were, insuperable objections to our honorable union.
My heart recoiled from him so utterly, that I could conceive of no fate
more bitter than to be compelled again to receive his profession of
affection, his lover-like caresses; yet, in recoiling, it had been
bruised against its prison-bars, bruised and crushed like a bird that
seeks refuge in the farthest limits of its cage from an approaching foe,
and suffers almost as severely as if given to its fangs.
I determined, after mature consideration, to see him once again,
privately, and beyond the range of all foreign observation and hearing.
In order to do this, I might have to wait, and in the mean time how
should I deport myself, how conceal my change of feeling from his
observant eyes?
I was relieved by an unlooked-for contingency. Evelyn announced her
intention of going, as soon as I should be able to spare her, with a
party of young friends, to hear a celebrated singer perform in an
oratorio in the cathedral of an adjacent city, her specialty being
vocal music, and her mourning permitting only sacred concerts. Her own
highly-cultivated voice, it is true, had ill repaid the care that had
been lavished on it, sharp and thin as it was by nature. I urged her to
set forth at once, declaring myself convalescent, but I did not leave my
room, nor see Claude Bainrothe, save for five minutes in her presence,
until after she had gone. Then I was at liberty to work my will.
I wrote on the very evening of her departure, requesting him to defer
his accustomed visit, until the next morning, when I hoped to have an
hour's private conversation with him in the library, a room most dear to
me, once as the chosen haunt of my father, but shunned of late as
vault-like and melancholy, now that his ever-welcome and dear presence
was removed from it forever.
Punctual as the hand to the hour or the dial to the sun, Claude
Bainrothe came at the time I had appointed, and I was there to meet him,
nerved and calm as a spirit of the past, in that great quiet sarcophagus
of books--at least, I so deceived myself to believe. I had made up my
mind, during the time I had been sitting alone in that sombre room, as
to what I would say to him, and how clearly and concisely I would array
my wrongs in words, and pronounce his sentence. But, when he came, all
this was forgotten. A tumult of wild feeling surged through my brain. My
very tongue grew icy, and trembled in my mouth. My eyes were dimmed, and
my forehead was cold and rigid. I was silent from emotion. I felt like a
dying wretch.
"You are very pale, Miriam," he said, as he advanced to me with
outstretched hands, and wearing that beaming, candid, devoted look he
knew so well how to assume; "are you sure you are not going to be ill
again, my love? You must be careful of yourself, my own darling; you
must indeed, for my sake, if not your own."
I was strengthened now to speak, by the indignation that possessed me,
at his perfidious words, his wholly artificial manner, which broke on me
as suddenly and as glaringly on the eye as rouge will do on a woman's
cheek in sunshine, which we have thought real bloom in shadow. I
wondered then, how I ever could have been deceived. I wonder less now.
"Sit down, Mr. Bainrothe," I said, coldly, withdrawing my hands quietly
from his grasp, and recovering with my composure my strength. "Do not
concern yourself about my health, I beg. It is quite good just now, and
will probably remain so for some time. My spells occur at distant
intervals."
"I know how that is, or has been; but we must try to break them up
altogether. We will go to Paris next year, and have the best advice; in
the mean time Dr. Pemberton must try some new remedy for you, or call in
counsel. On this point I am quite determined."
"I am satisfied that Dr. Pemberton, who understands my constitution
thoroughly, is my best adviser. I shall decline all other medical aid,"
I replied. "Nature is on my side--I am young, vigorous, growing still,
probably, in strength, and shall fling off my malady eventually, as a
strong man casts a serpent from his thigh. I have little fear on that
score. Nor do I think, with some others, that my disease is epilepsy;
though, if it were, God knows I should have little need for shame."
"Miriam, what an idea! Epilepsy, indeed!" He was very nervous now, I
saw. "Epilepsy, indeed!"--he faltered again.
"As to those scars, Claude," I said, fixing my eyes upon him, "they
were honorably earned in my sister's service. Your father knows the
details, which I spare your fastidious ear. I cannot wonder, however,
that they shocked you, with your previous feelings to me. I do not like
to look upon them myself, yet I have never felt them a humiliation until
now." I knew that my forehead flushed hotly as I proceeded, and my lips
trembled. The reaction was complete.
"Miriam, what does all this mean?" he asked, rising suddenly from his
seat as pale as ashes, and clinging to the mantel-shelf for support as
he did so.
"It means, Claude Bainrothe," I said, firmly, "it means simply this:
that our engagement is at an end; that you are free from all claims of
mine from this moment, and that henceforth we can only meet as friends
or strangers--as the first, I trust!" I stretched forth my hand toward
him kindly, irresistibly. He did not seem to notice it.
"Who has done this?" he asked, huskily. "Evelyn? This is her work, I
feel; a piece of her bitter vengeance! Tell me the truth,
Miriam--who has done this devil's mischief?"
He suffered greatly, I saw--was terribly excited.
"So far from your surmise being just, Claude, I enjoin upon you, as a
man of honor, never to let her know the subject of this conference, in
which she has had no voluntary part. Placed as I am by my father's will,
which I never will gainsay, however bitter it may be to me; bound hand
and foot; indeed, in her power by its decisions for a term of years, her
knowledge of the fact that I had overheard her conversation with you in
my chamber when I lay stricken, helpless, if not unconscious (an
unwilling listener, I assure you, Claude, to every word you uttered),
would be a cause of endless misery to me and her. No, Evelyn has told me
nothing, believe me."
He staggered back from the mantel to his chair, sat down again
helplessly, and covered his face with his hands. The blush of shame
mounted above his fingers and crimsoned the very roots of his silken
hair. He trembled visibly.
O God! how I pitied him then! Self sank out of sight at that moment, and
I thought only of his confusion. Had I obeyed my impulse, I would have
cast my arms about his neck as about a brother's, and whispered, to that
stormy nature, "Peace, be still!" But I refrained from a manifestation
that might have deceived him utterly as to its source. I only said:
"I am very sorry, Claude, for all this; but bear it like a man. Believe
me, no one shall ever know the occasion of this rupture--the management
of which I leave entirely in your hands. Of what I overheard I shall
never speak, I promise you, even though sorely pressed for my reasons
for our separation. My own pride would prevent such a revelation, you
know, putting principle aside." And again I extended my hand to him
frankly, with the words, "Let us be friends."
He had glanced up a moment while I was speaking, evidently relieved by
my voluntary promise. He took my hand humbly now, and reverently kissed
it, bowing his head above it long and mutely.
"My poor, outraged, offended, noble Miriam!" I heard him murmur at last.
The words affected me.
"I am all these, Claude," I said, withdrawing my hand gently but firmly,
"but none the less your friend, if you will have it so. And now let us
think what will be best for you to do. I wish to spare your feelings as
much as possible, and I will say all I can with truth to exonerate you
in your father's eyes. Go to Copenhagen, as you proposed at one time to
do, and leave the rest to me. That will be best, I think."
"To Copenhagen!" he exclaimed. "You issue thus coldly your edict of
banishment! Are you implacable then, Miriam?" and the cold dew stood in
beads on his now pallid brow as he rose before me. He had not fully
realized his situation until now.
"'Implacable' is scarcely the word for this occasion, Claude. It implies
anger or hatred, it seems to me. Now, I feel neither of these--only the
truest sympathy."
"Your anger, your hatred, were far more welcome, Miriam--more natural
under the circumstances. This cool philosophy in one so young is
monstrous! Mock me no longer with your calm compassion--it maddens
me--it sinks me below contempt!"
He spoke gloomily, angrily, pushing away the clustering hair from his
brow in the way peculiar to him when excited, as he proceeded, stamping
slightly with his foot on the marble hearthstone in his impotent way. I
could but smile!
"I will not offend you further, Claude," I said, mildly. "Receive your
ring;" and I gave him back the diamond cross on a black enamel ground
set on its circle of gold that he had placed upon my finger as a pledge
of our betrothal; an ominous one, surely--for another cross was now to
be borne.
"Understand me distinctly, Claude, all is finally at an end between us
from this forever more! And now, farewell!"
"Go, Miriam, go!" he murmured. "Leave me to my fate--I have deserved it
all, and more. I have been weak and wicked--you shall not find me
ungrateful. Go, queenly spirit! go, soul of tenderness, pity, and most
unselfish faith, that ever folded its wings in human breast! go, and
find a fitter mate! For me, the world is wide, I shall offend your gaze
no more."
Without another word I left him. I could not trust myself to speak. Too
much of the past returned to render any further intercourse between us
wise, or other than torture at that season. Besides, my confidence in
him was gone forever, and with it had vanished respect, esteem,
affection!