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