"You are acquainted with Mr. Worth, I presume, Captain Burghe?" she inquired.

"I have not that honor," said Alfred Burghe arrogantly.

"Then I will confer it upon you!" said Claudia very gravely. "Mr. Worth, I hope you will permit me to present to you Captain Burghe. Captain Burghe, Mr. Worth, of the Washington bar."

Ishmael bowed with courtesy; but Alfred Burghe grew violently red in the face, and with a short nod turned away.

"Captain Burghe has a bad memory, my lord!" said Claudia, turning to the viscount. "The gentleman to whom I have just presented him once saved his life at the imminent risk of his own. It is true the affair happened long ago, when they were both boys; but it seems to me that if anyone had exposed himself to a death by fire to rescue me from a burning building, I should remember it to the latest day of my life."

"Pardon me, Miss Merlin. The circumstance to which you allude was beyond my control, and Mr.—a—Word's share in it without my consent; his service was, I believe, well repaid by my father; and the trouble with me is not that my memory is defective, but rather that it is too retentive. I remember the origin of—"

"Our acquaintance with Mr. Worth!" interrupted Claudia, turning deadly pale and speaking in the low tones of suppressed passion. "Yes, I know! there was a stopped carriage, rifled hampers, and detected thieves. There was a young gentleman who dishonored his rank, and a noble working boy who distinguished himself in that affair. I remember perfectly well the circumstances to which you refer."

"You mistake, Miss Merlin," retorted Burghe, with a hot flush upon his brow, "I do not refer to that boyish frolic, for it was no more! I refer to—"

"Mr. Burghe, excuse me. Mr. Worth, will you do me the favor to tell the band to strike up a quadrille? Lord Vincent, I presume they expect us to open the ball. Bee, my dear, you are engaged to Mr. Worth for this set. Be sure when he returns to come to the same set with us and be our vis-a-vis," said Claudia, speaking rapidly.

Before she had finished Ishmael had gone upon her errand, and the band struck up a lively quadrille. Claudia gave her hand to Lord Vincent, who led her to the head of the first set. When Ishmael returned, Bee gave him her hand and told him Claudia's wish, which, of course, had all the force of a command for him, and he immediately led Bee to the place opposite Lord Vincent and Hiss Merlin.

And Captain Burghe was left to bite his nails in foiled malignity.

But later in the evening he took his revenge and received his punishment.

It happened in this manner: New quadrilles were being formed. Claudia was again dancing with Lord Vincent, and they had taken their places at the head of one of the sets. Ishmael was dancing with one of the poor neglected "wallflowers" to whom Bee had kindly introduced him, and he led his partner to a vacant place at the foot of one of the sets; he was so much engaged in trying to entertain the shy and awkward girl that he did not observe who was their vis-a-vis, or overhear the remarks that were made.

But Claudia, who, with the viscount, was standing very near, heard and saw all. She saw Ishmael lead his shy young partner up to a place in the set, exactly opposite to where Alfred Burghe with his partner, Miss Tourneysee, stood. And she heard Mr. Burghe whisper to Miss Tourneysee:

"Excuse me; and permit me to lead you to a seat. The person who has just taken the place opposite to us is not a proper associate even for me, still less for you."

And she saw Miss Tourneysee's look of surprise and heard her low-toned exclamation:

"Why, it is Mr. Worth! I have danced with him often!"

"I am sorry to hear it. I hope you will take the word of an officer and a gentleman that he is not a respectable person, and by no means a proper acquaintance for any lady."

"But why not?"

"Pardon me. I cannot tell you why not. It is not a story fit for your ears. But I will tell your father. For I think the real position of the fellow ought to be known. In the meantime, will you take my word for the truth of what I have said, and permit me to lead you to a seat?"

"Certainly," said the young lady, trembling with distress.

"I regret exceedingly to deprive you of your dance; but you perceive that there is no other vacant place."

"Oh, don't mention it! Find me a seat."

This low-toned conversation, every word of which had been overheard by Claudia who, though in another set, stood nearly back to back with the speaker, was entirely lost to Ishmael, who stood at the foot of the same set with him, but was at a greater distance, and was besides quite absorbed in the task of reassuring his timid schoolgirl companion.

Just as Burghe turned to lead his partner away, and Ishmael, attracted by the movement, lifted his eyes to see the cause, Claudia gently drew Lord Vincent after her, and going up to the retiring couple said:

"Miss Tourneysee, I beg your pardon; but will you and your partner do myself and Lord Vincent the favor to exchange places with us? We particularly desire to form a part of this set."

"Oh, certainly!" said the young lady, wondering, but rejoiced to find that she should not be obliged to miss the dance.

They exchanged places accordingly; but as they still stood very near together, Claudia heard him whisper to his partner:

"This evening I think I will speak to your father and some other gentlemen and enlighten them as to who this fellow really is!"

Claudia heard all this; but commanded herself. Her face was pale as marble; her lips were bloodless; but her dark eyes had the terrible gleam of suppressed but determined hatred! In such moods as hers, people have sometimes planned murder.

However, she went through all the four dances very composedly. And when they were over and Lord Vincent had led her to a seat, she sent him to fetch her a glass of water, while she kept her eye on the movements of Captain Burghe, until she saw him deposit his partner on a sofa and leave her to fetch a cream, or some such refreshment.

And then Claudia arose, drank the ice-water brought her by the viscount, set the empty glass on a stand and requested Lord Vincent to give her his arm down the room, as she wished to speak to Captain Burghe.

The viscount glanced at her in surprise, saw that her face was bloodless; but ascribed her pallor to fatigue.

Leaning on Lord Vincent's arm, she went down the whole length of the room until she paused before the sofa on which sat Miss Tourneysee and several other ladies, attended by General Tourneysee, Captain Burghe and other gentlemen.

Burghe stood in front of the sofa, facing the ladies and with his back towards Claudia, of whose approach he was entirely ignorant, as he discoursed as follows:

"Quite unfit to be received in respectable society, I assure you, General! Came of a wretchedly degraded set, the lowest of the low, upon my honor. This fellow—"

Claudia touched his shoulder with the end of her fan.

Alfred Burghe turned sharply around and confronted Miss Merlin, and on meeting her eyes grew as pale as she was herself.

"Captain Burghe," she said, modulating her voice to low and courteous tones, "you have had the misfortune to malign one of our most esteemed friends, at present a member of our household. I regret this accident exceedingly, as it puts me under the painful necessity of requesting you to leave the house with as little delay as possible!"

"Miss Merlin—ma'am!" began the captain, crimsoning with shame and rage.

"You have heard my request, sir! I have no more to say but to wish you a very good evening," said Claudia, as with a low and sweeping courtesy she turned away.

Passing near the hall where the footmen waited, she spoke to one of them, saying:

"Powers, attend that gentleman to the front door."

All this was done so quietly that Alfred Burghe was able to slink from the room, unobserved by anyone except the little group around the sofa, whom he had been entertaining with his calumnies. To them he had muttered that he would have satisfaction; that he would call Miss Merlin's father to a severe account for the impertinence of his daughter, etc.

But the consternation produced by these threats was soon dissipated. The band struck up an alluring waltz, and Lord Vincent claimed the hand of Beatrice, and Ishmael, smiling, radiant and unsuspicious, came in search of Miss Tourneysee, who accepted his hand for the dance without an instant's hesitation.

"Do you know"—inquired Miss Tourneysee, with a little curiosity to ascertain whether there was any mutual enmity between Burghe and Ishmael—"do you know who that Captain Burghe is that danced the last quadrille with me?"

"Yes; he is the son of the late Commodore Burghe, who was a gallant officer, a veteran of 1812, and did good service during the last War of Independence," said Ishmael generously, uttering not one word against his implacable foe.

Miss Tourneysee looked at him wistfully and inquired: "Is the son as good a man as the father?"

"I have not known Captain Burghe since we were at school together."

"I do not like him. I do not think he is a gentleman," said Miss Tourneysee.

Ishmael did not reply. It was not his way to speak even deserved evil of the absent.

But Miss Tourneysee drew a mental comparison between the meanness of Alfred's conduct and the nobility of Ishmael's. And the dance succeeded the conversation.

Claudia remained sitting on the sofa beside Mrs. Middleton, until at the close of the dance, when she was rejoined by the viscount, who did not leave her again during the evening.

The early summer nights were short, and so it was near the dawn when the company separated.

The party as a whole had been the most splendid success of the season.



CHAPTER LXII.

FOILED MALICE.

Through good report and ill report, The true man goes his way, Nor condescends to pay his court To what the vile may say: Aye, be the scandal what they will, And whisper what they please, They do but fan his glory still By whistling up a breeze.

—M.F. Tupper.

The family slept late next day, and the breakfast was put back to the luncheon hour, when at length they all, with one exception, assembled around the table.

"Where is Mr. Worth?" inquired the judge.

"He took a cup of coffee and went to the courthouse at the usual hour, sir," returned Powers, who was setting the coffee on the table.

"Humph! that hotly contested case of Cobham versus Hanley still in progress, I suppose," said the judge.

At this moment Sam entered the breakfast room and laid a card on the table before his master.

"Eh? 'Lieutenant Springald, U.S.A.' Who the mischief is he?" said the judge, reading the name on the card.

"The gentleman, sir, says he has called to see you on particular business," replied Sam.

"This is a pretty time to come on business! Show him up into my office, Sam."

The servant withdrew to obey.

The judge addressed himself to his breakfast, and the conversation turned upon the party of the preceding evening.

"I wonder what became of Burghe? He disappeared very early in the evening," said Judge Merlin.

"I turned him out of doors," answered Claudia coolly.

The judge set down his coffee cup and stared at his daughter.

"He deserved it, papa! And nothing on earth but my sex prevented me from giving him a thrashing as well as a discharge," said Claudia.

"What has he done?" inquired her father.

Claudia told him the whole.

"Well, my dear, you did right, though I am sorry that there should have been any necessity for dismissing him. Degenerate son of a noble father, will nothing reform him!" was the comment of the judge.

Mr. Brudenell, who was present, and had heard Claudia's account, was reflecting bitterly upon the consequences of his own youthful fault of haste, visited so heavily in unjust reproach upon the head of his faultless son.

"Well!" said the judge, rising from the table, "now I will go and see what the deuce is wanted of me by Lieutenant—Spring—Spring—Spring chicken! or whatever his name is!"

He went upstairs and found seated in his office a beardless youth in uniform, who arose and saluted him, saying, as he handed a folded note:

"I have the honor to be the bearer of a challenge, sir, from my friend and superior officer, Captain Burghe."

"A—what?" demanded the judge, with a frown as black as a thunder-cloud and a voice sharp as its clap, which made the little officer jump from his feet.

"A challenge, sir!" repeated the latter, as soon as he had composed himself.

"Why what the deuce do you mean by bringing a challenge to me—breaking the law under the very nose of an officer of the law?" said the judge, snatching the note and tearing it open. When he had read it, he looked sternly at the messenger and said:

"Why don't you know it is my solemn duty to have you arrested and sent to prison, for bringing me this, eh?"

"Sir," began the little fellow, drawing his figure up, "men of honor never resort to such subterfuges to evade the consequences of their own acts."

"Hold your tongue, child! You know nothing about what you are talking of. Men of honor are not duelists, but peaceable, law-abiding citizens. Don't be frightened, my brave little bantam! I won't have you arrested this time; but I will answer your heroic principal instead. Let us see again—what it is he says?"

And the judge sat down at his writing table and once more read over the challenge.

It ran thus:

Mansion House, Friday.

Judge Merlin—Sir: I have been treated with the grossest contumely by your daughter, Miss Claudia Merlin. I demand an ample apology from the young lady, or in default of that, the satisfaction of a gentleman from yourself. In the event of the first alternative offered being chosen, my friend, Lieutenant Springald, the bearer of this, is authorized to accept in my behalf all proper apologies that may be tendered. Or in the event of the second alternative offered being chosen, I must request that you will refer my friend to any friend of yours, that they may arrange together the terms of our hostile meeting.

I have the honor to be, etc.,

Alfred Burghe.

Judge Merlin smiled grimly as he laid this precious communication aside and took up his pen to reply to it.

His answer ran as follows:

Washington House, Friday.

Captain Alfred Burghe: My daughter, Miss Merlin, did perfectly right, and I fully endorse her act. Therefore, the first alternative offered—of making you the apology you demand—is totally inadmissible; but I accept the second one of giving you the satisfaction you require. The friend to whom I refer your friend is Deputy Marshal Browning, who will be prepared to take you both in custody. And the weapons with which I will meet you will be the challenge that you have sent me and a warrant for your arrest. Hoping that this course may give perfect satisfaction,

I have the honor to be, etc.,

Randolph Merlin.

Judge Merlin carefully folded and directed this note, and put it into the hands of the little lieutenant, saying pleasantly:

"There, my child! There you are! Take that to your principal."

The little fellow hesitated.

"I hope, sir, that this contains a perfectly satisfactory apology?" he said, turning it around in his fingers.

"Oh, perfectly! amply! We shall hear no more of the challenge."

"I am very glad, sir," said the little lieutenant, rising.

"Won't you have something before you go?"

The lieutenant hesitated.

"Shall I ring for the maid to bring you a slice of bread and butter and a cup of milk?"

"No, thank you, sir!" said Springald, with a look of offended dignity.

"Very well, then; you must give my respects to your papa and mamma, and ask them to let you come and play with little Bobby and Tommy Middleton! They are nice little boys!" said the judge, so very kindly that the little lieutenant, though hugely affronted, scarcely knew in what manner to resent the affront.

"Good-day, sir!" he said, with a vast assumption of dignity, as he strutted towards the door.

"Good-day, my little friend. You seem an innocent little fellow enough. Therefore I hope that you will never again be led into the sinful folly of carrying a challenge to fight a duel, especially to a gray-headed chief justice."

And so saying, Judge Merlin bowed his visitor out.

And it is scarcely necessary to say that Judge Merlin heard no more of "the satisfaction of a gentleman."

The story, however, got out, and Captain Burghe and his second were so mercilessly laughed at, that they voluntarily shortened their own furlough and speedily left Washington.

The remainder of that week the house was again closed to company, during the process of dismantling the reception rooms of their festive decorations and restoring them to their ordinarily sober aspect.

By Saturday afternoon this transformation was effected, and the household felt themselves at home again.

Early that evening Ishmael joined the family circle perfectly radiant with good news.

"What is it, Ishmael?" inquired the judge.

"Well, sir, the hard-fought battle is over at length, and we have the victory. The case of Cobham versus Hanley is decided. The jury came into court this afternoon with a verdict for the plaintiff."

"Good!" said the judge.

"And the widow and children get their money. I am so glad!" said Bee, who had kept herself posted up in the progress of the great suit by reading the reports in the daily papers.

"Yes, but how much money will you get, Ishmael?" inquired the judge.

"None, sir, on this case. A conditional fee that I was to make out of my case was offered me by the plaintiff in the first instance, but of course I could not speculate in justice."

"Humph! well, it is of no use to argue with you, Ishmael. Now, there are two great cases which you have gained, and which ought to have brought you at least a thousand dollars, and which have brought you nothing."

"Not exactly nothing, uncle; they have brought him fame," said Bee.

"Fame is all very well, but money is better," said the judge.

"The money will come also in good time, uncle; never you fear. Ishmael has placed his capital out at good interest, and with the best security."

"What do you mean, Bee?"

"'Whoso giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.' Ishmael's services, given to the poor, are lent to the Lord," said Bee reverently.

"Humph! humph! humph!" muttered the judge, who never ventured to carry on an argument when the Scripture was quoted against him. "Well! I suppose it is all right. And now I hear that you are counsel for that poor devil Toomey, who fell through the grating of Sarsfield's cellar, and crippled himself for life."

"Yes," said Ishmael. "I think he is entitled to heavy damages. It was criminal carelessness in Sarsfield & Company to leave their cellar grating in that unsafe condition for weeks, to the great peril of the passers-by. It was a regular trap for lives and limbs. And this poor laborer, passing over it, has fallen and lamed himself for life! And he has a large family depending upon him for support. I have laid the damages at five thousand dollars."

"Yes; but how much do you get?"

"Nothing. As in the other two cases, my client is not able to pay me a retaining fee, and it is against my principles to accept a contingent one."

"Humph! that makes three 'free, gratis, for nothing' labors! I wonder how long it will be before the money cases begin to come on?" inquired the judge, a little sarcastically.

"Oh, not very long," smiled Ishmael. "I have already received several retaining fees from clients who are able to pay, but whose cases may not come on until the next term."

"But when does poor Toomey's case come on?"

"Monday."

At that moment the door opened, and Powers announced:

"Lord Vincent!"

The viscount entered the drawing room; and Ishmael's pleasure was over for that evening.

On Monday Ishmael's third case, Toomey versus Sarsfield, came on. It lasted several days, and then was decided in favor of the plaintiff—Toomey receiving every dollar of the damages claimed for him by his attorney. In his gratitude the poor man would have pressed a large sum of money, even to one-fifth of his gains, upon his young counsel; but Ishmael, true to his principle of never gambling in justice, refused to take a dollar.

That week the court adjourned; and the young barrister had leisure to study and get up his cases for the next term. The extra session of Congress was also over. The Washington season was in fact at an end. And everybody was preparing to leave town.

Judge Merlin issued a proclamation that his servants should pack up all his effects, preparatory to a migration to Tanglewood; for that chains should not bind him to Washington any longer, nor wild horses draw him to Saratoga, or any other place of public resort; because his very soul was sick of crowds and longed for the wilderness.

But the son of Powhatan was destined to find that circumstances are often stronger than those forces that he defied.

And so his departure from Washington was delayed for weeks by this event.

One morning the Viscount Vincent called as usual, and, after a prolonged private interview with Miss Merlin, he sent a message to Judge Merlin requesting to see him alone for a few minutes.

Ishmael was seated with Judge Merlin in the study at the moment Powers brought this message.

"Ah! Lord Vincent requests the honor of a private interview with me, does he? Well, it is what I have been expecting for some days! Wonder if he doesn't think he is conferring an honor instead of receiving one? Ask him to be so good as to walk up, Powers. Ishmael, my dear boy, excuse me for dismissing you for a few minutes; but pray return to me as soon as this Lord—'Foppington'—leaves me. May Satan fly away with him, for I know he is coming to ask me for my girl!"

It was well that Ishmael happened to be sitting with his back to the window. It was well also that Judge Merlin did not look up as his young partner passed out, else would the judge have seen the haggard countenance which would have told him more eloquently than words could of the force of the blow that had fallen on Ishmael's heart.

He went up into his own little room, and sat down at his desk, and leaning his brow upon his hand struggled with the anguish that wrung his heart.

It had fallen, then! It had fallen—the crushing blow! Claudia was betrothed to the viscount. He might have been, as everyone else was, prepared for this. But he was not. For he knew that Claudia was perfectly conscious of his own passionate love for her, and he knew that she loved him with almost equal fervor. It is true his heart had been often wrung with jealousy when seeing her with Lord Vincent; yet even then he had thought that her vanity only was interested in receiving the attentions of the viscount; and he had trusted in her honor that he believed would never permit her, while loving himself, to marry another, or even give that other serious encouragement. It is true also that he had never breathed his love to Claudia, for he knew that to do so would be an unpardonable abuse of his position in Judge Merlin's family, a flagrant breach of confidence, and a fatal piece of presumption that would insure his final banishment from Claudia's society. So he had struggled to control his passion, seeing also that Claudia strove to conquer hers. And though no words passed between them, each knew by secret sympathy the state of the other's mind.

But lately, since his brilliant success at the bar and the glorious prospect that opened before him, he had begun to hope that Claudia, conscious of their mutual love, would wait for him only a few short years, at the end of which he would be able to offer her a position not unworthy even of Judge Merlin's daughter.

Such had been his splendid "castle in the air." But now the thunderbolt had fallen and his castle was in ruins.

Claudia, whom he had believed to be, if not perfectly faultless, yet the purest, noblest, and proudest among women; Claudia, his queen, had been capable of selling herself to be the wife of an unloved man, for the price of a title and a coronet—a breath and a bauble!

Claudia had struck a fatal blow, not only to his love for her, but to his honor of her; and both love and honor were in their death-throes!

Anguish is no computer of time. He might have sat there half an hour or half a day, he could not have told which, when he heard the voice of his kind friend calling him.

"Ishmael, Ishmael, my lad, where are you, boy? Come to me!"

"Yes, yes, sir, I am coming," he answered mechanically.

And like one who has fainted from torture, and recovered in bewilderment, he arose and walked down to the study.

Some blind instinct led him straight to the chair that was sitting with its back to the window; into this he sank, with his face in the deep shadow.

Judge Merlin was walking up and down the floor, with signs of disturbance in his looks and manners.

A waiter with decanters of brandy and wine, and some glasses, stood upon the table. This was a very unusual thing.

"Well, Ishmael, it is done! my girl is to be a viscountess; but I do not like it; no, I do not like it!"

Ishmael was incapable of reply; but the judge continued:

"It is not only that I shall lose her; utterly lose her, for her home will be in another hemisphere, and the ocean will roll between me and my sole child,—it is not altogether that,—but, Ishmael, I don't like the fellow; and I never did, and never can!"

Here the judge paused, poured out a glass if wine, drank it, and resumed:

"And I do not know why I don't like him! that is the worst of it! His rank is, of course, unexceptionable, and indeed much higher than a plain republican like myself has a right to expect in a son-in-law! And his character appears to be unquestionable! He is good-looking, well-behaved, intelligent and well educated young fellow enough, and so I do not know why it is that I don't like him! But I don't like him, and that is all about it!"

The judge sighed, ran his hands through his gray hair, and continued:

"If I had any reason for this dislike; if I could find any just cause of offense in him; if I could put my hand down on any fault of his character, I could then say to my daughter: 'I object to this man for your husband upon this account,' and then I know she would not marry him in direct opposition to my wishes. But, you see, I cannot do anything like this, and my objection to the marriage, if I should express it, would appear to be caprice, prejudice, injustice—"

He sighed again, walked several times up and down the floor in silence, and then once more resumed his monologue:

"People will soon be congratulating me on my daughter's very splendid marriage. Congratulating me! Good Heaven, what a mockery! Congratulating me on the loss of my only child, to a foreigner, whom I half dislike and more than half suspect—though without being able to justify either feeling. What do you think, Ishmael? Is that a subject for congratulation. But, good Heaven, boy! what is the matter with you? Are you ill?" he suddenly exclaimed, pausing before the young man and noticing for the first time the awful pallor of his face and the deadly collapse of his form.

"Are you ill, my dear boy? Speak!"

"Yes, yes, I am ill!" groaned Ishmael.

"Where? where?"

"Everywhere!"

The judge rushed to the table and poured out a glass of brandy and brought it to him.

But the young man, who was habitually and totally abstinent, shook his head.

"Drink it! drink it!" said the judge, offering the glass.

But Ishmael silently waved it off.

"As a medicine, you foolish fellow—as a medicine! You are sinking, don't you know!" persisted the judge, forcing the glass into Ishmael's hand.

Ishmael then placed it to his lips and swallowed its contents.

The effect of this draught upon him, unaccustomed as he was to alcoholic stimulants, was instantaneous. The brandy diffused itself through his chilled, sinking, and dying frame, warming, elevating, and restoring its powers.

"This is the fabled 'elixir of life.' I did not believe there was such a restorative in the world!" said Ishmael, sitting up and breathing freely under the transient exhilaration.

"To be sure it is, my boy!" said the judge heartily, as he took the empty glass from Ishmael's hand and replaced it on the waiter. "But what have you been doing to reduce yourself to this state? Sitting up all night over some perplexing case, as likely as not."

"No."

"But I am sure you overwork yourself. You should not do it, Ishmael! It is absurd to kill yourself for a living, you know."

"I think, Judge Merlin, that, as you are so soon about to leave Washington, and as there is so little to do in your office, I should be grateful if you would at once release me from our engagement and permit me to leave your employment," said Ishmael, who felt that it would be to him the most dreadful trial to remain in the house and meet Claudia and Vincent as betrothed lovers every day, and at last witness their marriage.

The judge looked annoyed and then asked:

"Now, Ishmael, why do you wish to leave me before the expiration of the term for which you were engaged?"

And before Ishmael could answer that question, he continued:

"You are in error as to the reasons you assign. In the first place, I am not to leave Washington so soon as I expected; as it is arranged that we shall remain here for the solemnization of the marriage, which will not take place until the first of July. And in the second place, instead of there being but little to do in the office, there will be a great deal to do—all Claudia's estate to be arranged, the viscount's affairs to be examined, marriage settlements to be executed,—I wish it was the bridegroom that was to be executed instead,—letters to be written, and what not. So that you see I shall need your services very much. And besides, Ishmael, my boy, I do not wish to part with you just now, in this great trial of my life; for it is a great trial to me, Ishmael, to part with my only child, to a foreigner whom I dislike and who will take her across the sea to another world. I have loved you as a son, Ishmael. And now I ask you to stand by me in this crisis—for I do not know how I shall bear it. It will be to me like giving her up to death."

Ishmael arose and placed his hand in that of his old friend. His stately young form was shaken by agitation, as an oak tree is by a storm, as he said:

"I will remain with you, Judge Merlin. I will remain with you through this trial. But oh, you do not know—you cannot know how terrible the ordeal will be to me!"

A sudden light of revelation burst upon Judge Merlin's mind! He looked into that agonized young face, clasped that true hand and said:

"Is it so, my boy? Oh, my poor boy, is it indeed so?"

"Make some excuse for me to the family below; say that I am not well, for that indeed is true; I cannot come into the drawing room this evening!" said Ishmael.

And he hastily wrung his friend's hand and hurried from the room, for after that one touch of sympathy from Claudia's father he felt that if he had stayed another moment he should have shamed his manhood and wept.

He hurried up into his little room to strive, in solitude and prayer, with his great sorrow.

Meanwhile the judge took up his hat for a walk in the open air. He had not seen his daughter since he had given his consent to her betrothal. And he felt that as yet he would not see her. He wished to subdue his own feelings of pain and regret before meeting her with the congratulations which he wished to offer.

"After all," he said to himself, as he descended the stairs "after all, I suppose, I should dislike any man in the world who should come to marry Claudia, so it is not the viscount who is in fault; but I who am unreasonable. But Ishmael! Ah, poor boy! poor boy! Heaven forgive Claudia if she has had anything to do with this! And may Heaven comfort him, for be deserves to be happy!"



CHAPTER LXIII.

THE BRIDE-ELECT.

She stands up her full height, With her rich dress flowing round her, And her eyes as fixed and bright As the diamond stars that crown her,— An awful, beautiful sight.

Beautiful? Yes, with her hair So wild and her cheeks so flushed! Awful? Yes, for there In her beauty she stands hushed By the pomp of her own despair.

—Meredith.

Judge Merlin walked about, reasoning with himself all day; but he could not walk off his depression of spirits, or reason away his misgivings.

He returned home in time to dress for dinner. He crept up to his chamber with a wearied and stealthy air, for he was still dispirited and desirous of avoiding a meeting with his daughter.

He made his toilet and then sat down, resolved not to leave his chamber until the dinner-bell rang, so that he should run no risk of seeing her until he met her at dinner, where of course no allusion would be made to the event of the morning.

He took up the evening paper, that lay upon the dressing-table by some chance, and tried to read. But the words conveyed no meaning to his mind.

"She is all I have in this world!" he sighed as he laid the paper down.

"Papa!"

He looked up.

There she stood within his chamber door! It was an unprecedented intrusion. There she stood in her rich evening dress of purple moire-antique, with the bandeau of diamonds encircling her night-black hair. Two crimson spots like the flush of hectic fever burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were unnaturally bright and wild, almost like those of insanity.

"Papa, may I come to you? Oh, papa, I have been waiting to speak to you all day; and it seems to me as if you had purposely kept out of my way. Are you displeased, papa? May I come to you now?"

He opened his arms, and she came and threw herself upon his bosom, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"What is the matter, my darling?"

"Are you displeased, papa?"

"No, no, my darling! Why should I be? How could I be so unreasonable? But—do you love him, Claudia?"

"He will be an earl, papa."

"Are you happy, Claudia?"

"I shall be a countess, papa!"

"But—are you happy, my dear, I ask you."

"Happy? Who is? Who ever was?"

"Your mother and myself were happy, very happy during the ten blessed years of our union. But then we loved each other, Claudia. Do you love this man whom you are about to make your husband?"

"Papa, I have consented to be his wife. Should not that satisfy you?"

"Certainly, certainly, my child! Besides, it is not for my rough, masculine hand to probe your heart. Your mother might do it if she were living, but not myself."

"Papa, bless me! it was for that I came to you. Oh, give me your blessing before I go downstairs to—him, whom I must henceforth meet as my promised husband."

"May the Lord bless and save you, my poor, motherless girl!" he said, laying his hand on her bowed head.

And she arose, and without another word went below stairs.

When she entered the drawing room she found the viscount there alone. He hastened to meet her with gallant alacrity and pressed his lips to hers, but at their touch the color fled from her face and did not return. With attentive courtesy Lord Vincent handed her to a seat and remained standing near, seeking to interest and amuse her with his conversation. But just as the tete-a-tete was growing unsupportable to Claudia, the door opened and Beatrice entered. Too many times had Bee come in upon just such a tete-a-tete to suspect that there was anything more in this one than there had been in any other for the last six months. So, unconscious of the recent betrothal of this pair, she, smiling, accepted the chair the viscount placed for her, and readily followed Claudia's lead, by allowing herself to be drawn into conversation. Several times she looked up at Claudia's face, noticing its marble whiteness; but at length concluded that it must be only the effect of late hours, and so dropped the subject from her mind.

Presently the other members of the family dropped in and the dinner was served.

One vacant chair at the table attracted general attention. But, ah! to one there that seat was not vacant; it was filled with the specter of her murdered truth.

"Where is Mr. Worth?" inquired Mrs. Middleton, from the head of the table.

"Oh! worked himself into a nervous headache over Allenby's complicated brief! I told him how it would be if he applied himself so unintermittingly to business; but he would take no warning. Well, these young enthusiasts must learn by painful experience to modify their zeal," said the judge, in explanation.

Everyone expressed regret except Claudia, who understood and felt how much worse than any headache was the heart-sickness that had for the time mastered even Ishmael's great strength; but she durst utter no word of sympathy. And the dinner proceeded to its conclusion. And directly after the coffee was served the viscount departed.

Meanwhile Ishmael lay extended upon his bed, clasping his temples and waging a silent war with his emotions.

A rap disturbed him.

"Come in."

Powers entered with a tea tray in his hands, upon which was neatly arranged a little silver tea-service, with a transparent white cup, saucer, and plate. The wax candle in its little silver candlestick that sat upon the tray was the only light, and scarcely served to show the room.

Ishmael raised himself up just as Powers sat the tray upon the stand beside the bed.

"Who has had leisure to think of me this evening?" thought Ishmael, as he contemplated this unexpected attention. Then, speaking aloud, he inquired:

"Who sent me these, Powers?"

"Miss Middleton, sir; and she bade me to say to you that you must try to eat; and that it is a great mistake to fast when one has a nervous headache, brought on by fatigue and excitement; and that the next best thing to rest is food, and both together are a cure," replied the man, carefully arranging the service on the stand.

"I might have known it," thought Ishmael, with an undefined feeling of self-reproach. "I might have known that she would not forget me, even though I forgot myself. What would my life be at home without this dear little sister? Sweet sister! dear sister! Yes, I will follow her advice; I will eat and drink for her sake, because I know she will question Powers and be disappointed if she finds that I have not done justice to this repast."

"Will you have more light, sir?" asked the footman.

"No, no, thank you," replied Ishmael, rising and seating himself in a chair beside the stand.

The tea was strong and fragrant, the cream rich, the sugar crystalline, and a single cup of the beverage refreshed him. The toast was crisp and yellow, the butter fresh, and the shavings of chipped beef crimson and tender. And so, despite his heartache and headache, Ishmael found his healthy and youthful appetite stimulated by all this. And the meal that was begun for Bee's sake was finished for his own.

"Tour head is better now, I hope, sir?" respectfully inquired Powers, as he prepared to remove the service.

"Much, thank you. Tell Miss Middleton so, with my respects, and say how grateful I feel to her for this kind attention."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Powers, you may bring me lights now."

And a few minutes later, when Powers had returned with two lighted candles and placed them on the table, Ishmael, who knew that not an over tasked brain, but an undisciplined heart, was the secret of his malady, set himself to work as to a severe discipline, and worked away for three or four hours with great advantage; for, when at twelve o'clock he retired to bed, he fell asleep and slept soundly until morning.

That is what work did for Ishmael. And work will do as much for anyone who will try it.

It is true in the morning he awoke to a new sense of woe; but the day had also its work to discipline him. He breakfasted with Bee and her father and the judge, who were the only members of the family present at the table; and then he went to the City Hall, where he had an appointment with the District Attorney.

That morning the engagement between Lord Vincent and Claudia was formally announced to the family circle. And Bee understood the secret of Ishmael's sudden illness. The marriage was appointed to take place on the first of the ensuing month, and so the preparations for the event were at once commenced.

Mrs. Middleton and Claudia went to New York to order the wedding outfit. They were gone a week, and when they returned Claudia, though much thinner in flesh, seemed to have recovered the gloom that had been frightened away by the viscount's first kiss.

The great responsibility of the home preparations fell upon Bee. The house had to be prepared for visitors; not only for the wedding guests; but also for friends and relatives of the family, who were coming from a distance and would remain for several days. For the last mentioned, new rooms had to be made ready. And all this was to be done under the immediate supervision of Beatrice.

As on two former occasions, Miss Merlin called in the aid of her three favorite ministers—Vourienne, Devizae, and Dureezie.

On the morning of the last day of June Vourienne and his assistants decorated the dining room. On the evening of the same day Devizae and his waiters laid the table for the wedding breakfast. And then the room was closed up until the next day. While the family took their meals in their small breakfast room.

During the evening relatives from a distance arrived and were received by Bee, who conducted them to their rooms.

By this inroad of visitors Bee herself, with the little sister who shared her bed, were driven up into the attic to the plain spare room next to Ishmael's own. Here, early in the evening, as he sat at his work, he could hear Bee, who would not neglect little Lu for anything else in the world, rocking and singing her to sleep. And Ishmael, too, who had just laid down his pen because the waning light no longer enabled him to write, felt his great trouble soothed by Bee's song.



CHAPTER LXIV.

CLAUDIA'S WOE

Ay, lady, here alone You may think till your heart is broken, Of the love that is dead and done, Of the days that with no token, For evermore are gone.

Weep, if you can, beseech you! There's no one by to curb you: His heart cry cannot reach you: His love will not disturb you: Weep?—what can weeping teach you?

—Meredith.

Sifting within the recess of the dormer window, soothed by the gathering darkness of the quiet, starlight night, and by the gentle cadences of Bee's low, melodious voice, as she sung her baby sister to sleep, Ishmael remained some little time longer, when suddenly Bee's song ceased, and he heard her exclamation of surprise:

"Claudia, you up here! and already dressed for dinner! How well you look! How rich that maize-colored brocade is! And how elegant that spray of diamonds in your hair! I never saw you wear it before! Is it a new purchase?"

"It is the viscount's present. I wear it this evening in his honor."

"How handsome you are, Lady Vincent! You know I do not often flatter, but really, Claudia, all the artist in me delights to contemplate you. I never saw you with such brilliant eyes, or such a beautiful color."

"Brilliant eyes! beautiful color! Ha! ha! ha! the first frenzy, I think! The last—well, it ought to be beautiful. I paid ten dollars a scruple for it at a wicked French shop in Broadway! And I have used the scruple unscrupulously!" she cried, with a bitter laugh as of self-scorn.

"Oh, Claudia—rouged!" said Bee, in a tone of surprise and pain.

"Yes, rouged and powdered! why not? Why should the face be true when the life is false! Oh, Bee," she suddenly broke forth in a wail of anguish; "lay that child down and listen to me! I must tell someone, or my heart will break!"

There was a movement, a low, muffling, hushing sound, that told the unwilling listener that Bee was putting her baby sister in the bed. Ishmael arose with the intention of leaving his room, and slipping out of hearing of the conversation that was not intended for his ears; but utterly overcome by the crowding emotions of his heart, he sank back in his chair.

He heard Bee return to her place. He heard Claudia throw herself down on the floor by Bee's side, and say:

"Oh, let me lay my head down upon your lap, Bee!"

"Claudia, dear Claudia, what is the matter with you? What can I do for you?"

"Receive my confidence, that is all. Hear my confession. I must tell somebody or die. I wish I was a Catholic, and had a father confessor who would hear me and comfort me, and absolve my sins, and keep my secrets!"

"Can any man stand in that relation to a woman except her father, if she is single, or her husband, if she is married?" asked Bee.

"I don't know—and I don't care! Only when I passed by St. Patrick's Church, with this load of trouble on my soul, I felt as if it would have done me good to steal into one of those veiled recesses and tell the good old father there!"

"You could have told your heavenly Father anywhere."

"He knows it already; but I durst not pray to him! I am not so impious as that either. I have not presumed to pray for a month—not since my betrothal."

"You have not presumed to pray. Oh, Claudia!"

"How should I dare to pray, after I had deliberately sold myself to the demon—after I had deliberately determined to sin and take the wages of sin?"

"Claudia! Oh, Heaven! You are certainly mad!"

"I know it; but the knowledge does not help me to the cure. I have been mad a month!" Then breaking forth into a wail of woe, she cried: "Oh, Bee! I do not love that man! I do not love him! and the idea of marrying him appalls my very soul!"

"Good Heaven, Claudia, then why—" begun Bee, but Claudia fiercely continued:

"I loathe him! I sicken at him! His first kiss! Oh, Bee! the cold, clammy touch of those lips struck all the color from my face forever, I think! I loathe him!"

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, why, in the name of all that is wise and good, do you do yourself, and him, too, such a terrible wrong as to marry him?" inquired the deeply-shocked maiden.

"Because I must! Because I will! I have deliberately determined to be a peeress of England, and I will be one, whatever the cost."

"But oh! have you thought of the deadly sin—the treachery, the perjury, the sacrilege; oh! and the dreadful degradation of such a loveless marriage?"

"Have I thought of these things—these horrors? Yes; witness this tortured heart and racked brain of mine!"

"Then why, oh, why, Claudia, do you persevere?"

"I am in the vortex of the whirlpool, and cannot stop myself!"

"Then let me stop you. My weak hand is strong enough for that. Remain here, dear Claudia. Let me go downstairs and report that you are ill, as indeed and in truth you are. The marriage can be delayed, and then you can have an explanation with the viscount, and break it off altogether."

"And break my plighted faith! Is that your advice, young moralist?"

"There was no faith in your plighted word, Claudia. It was very wrong to promise to marry a man you could not love; but it would be criminal to keep such a promise. Speak candidly to his lordship, Claudia, and ask him to release you from your engagement. My word on it he will do it."

"Of course, and make me the town talk for the delight of all who envy me."

"Better be that than an unloving wife."

"No, Bee! I must fulfill my destiny. And, besides, I never thought of turning from it. I am in the power of the whirlpool or the demon."

"It is the demon—the demon that is carrying you down into this whirlpool. And the name of the demon is Ambition, Claudia; and the name of the whirlpool is Ruin."

"Yes! it is ambition that possesses my soul. None other but the sins by which angels fell would have power to draw my soul down from heaven—for heaven was possible to me, once!" And with these last words she melted into tears and wept as if the fountains of her heart were broken up and gushing through her eyes.

"Yes," she repeated in the pauses of her weeping. "Heaven was possible for me once! Never more, oh, never, never more! Filled with the ambition of Lucifer I have cast myself out of that heaven. But alas! alas! I have Lucifer's ambition without his strength to suffer."

"Claudia, dear Claudia!"

"Do not speak to me. Let me speak, for I must speak, or die! It is not only that I do not love this viscount, but, oh, Bee!" she wailed in the prolonged tones of unutterable woe, "I love another! I love Ishmael!"

There was a sudden movement and a fall.

"You push me from you! Oh, cruel friend! Let me lay my head upon your lap again, Bee, and sob out all this anguish here. I must, or my heart will burst. I love Ishmael! His love is the heaven of heavens from which Ambition has cast me down. I love Ishmael! Oh, how much, my reason, utterly overthrown, may some time betray to the world! This love fills my soul. Oh, more than that, it is greater than my soul; it goes beyond it, into infinitude! There is light, warmth, and life where Ishmael is; darkness, coldness, and death where he is not! To meet his eyes,—those beautiful, dark, luminous eyes, that seem like inlets to some perfect inner world of wisdom, love, and pure joy; or to lay my hand in his, and feel that soft, strong, elastic hand close upon mine,—gives me a moment of such measureless content, such perfect assurance of peace, that for the time I forget all the sin and horror that envelopes and curses my life. But to be his beloved wife—oh, Bee! I cannot imagine in the life of heaven a diviner happiness!"

A low, half-suppressed cry from Bee. And Claudia continued:

"It is a love that all which is best in my nature approves. For oh, who is like Ishmael? Who so wise, so good, so useful? Morally, intellectually, and physically beautiful! an Apollo! more than that, a Christian gentleman! He is human, and yet he appears to me to be perfectly faultless."

There was a pause and a low sound of weeping, broken at last by Claudia, who rustled up to her feet, saying:

"There, it is past!"

"Claudia," said Bee solemnly, "you must not let this marriage go on; to do so would be to commit the deadliest sin!"

"I have determined to commit it, then, Bee."

"Claudia, if I saw you on the brink of endless woe, would I not be justified in trying to pluck you back? Oh, Claudia, dear cousin, pause, reflect—"

"Bee, hush! I have reflected until my brain has nearly burst. I must fulfill my destiny. I must be a peeress of England, cost what it may in sin against others, or in suffering to myself."

"Oh, what an awful resolution! and what an awful defiance! Ah, what have you invoked upon your head!"

"I know not—the curse of Heaven, perhaps!"

"Claudia!"

"Be silent, Bee!"

"I must not, cannot, will not, be silent! My hand is weak, but it shall grasp your arm to hold you back; my voice is low, but it shall be raised in remonstrance with you. You may break from my hold; you may deafen yourself to my words; you may escape me so; but it will be to cast yourself into—"

"Lawyer Vivian's 'gulf of perdition'! Is that what you mean? Nonsense, Bee. My hysterics are over now; my hour of weakness is past; I am myself again. And I feel that I shall be Lady Vincent—the envy of Washington, the admiration of London, the only titled lady of the republican court, and the only beauty at St. James!" said Claudia, rustling a deep courtesy.

"Claudia—"

"And in time I shall be Countess of Hurstmonceux, and perhaps after a while Marchioness of Banff; for Vincent thinks if the Conservatives come in his father will be raised a step in the peerage."

"And is it for that you sell yourself? Oh, Claudia, how Satan fools you! Be rational; consider: what is it to be a countess, or even a marchioness? It is 'distance lends enchantment to the view.' Here in this country, where, thank the Lord, there is no hereditary rank,—no titles and no coronets,—these things, from their remoteness, impress your imagination, and disturb your judgment. You will not feel so in England; there, where there are hundreds and thousands of titled personages, your coveted title will sink to its proper level, and you will find yourself of much less importance in London as Lady Vincent, than you are in Washington as Miss Merlin. There you will find how little you have really gained by the sacrifice of truth, honor, and purity; all that is best in your woman's nature—all that is best in your earthly, yes, and your eternal life."

"Bee, have you done?"

"No. You have given me two reasons why I think you ought not to marry the viscount: first, because you do not love him, and secondly, because you do love—someone else. And now I will give you two more reasons why you should not marry him—viz., first, because he is not a good man, and, secondly, because he does not love you. There!" said Beatrice firmly.

"Bee, how dare you say that! What should you know of his character? And why should you think he does not love me?"

"I feel that he is not a good man; so do you, I will venture to say, Claudia. And I know that he marries you for some selfish or mercenary motive—your money, possibly. And so also do you know it, Claudia, I dare to affirm."

"Have you anything more to say?"

"Only this: to beg, to pray, to urge you not to sin—not to debase yourself! Oh, Claudia, if loving Ishmael as you profess to do, and loathing the viscount as you confess you do, and knowing that he cares nothing for you, you still marry him for his title and his rank, as you admit you will—Claudia! Claudia! in the pure sight of angels you will be more guilty, and less pardonable than the poor lost creatures of the pavement, whose shadow you would scarcely allow to fall across your path!"

"Bee, you insult, you offend, you madden me! If this be so—if you speak the truth—I cannot help it, and I do not care. I am ambitious. If I immolate all my womanly feelings to become a peeress, it is as I would certainly and ruthlessly destroy everything that stood in my way to become a queen, if that were possible."

"Good heavens, Claudia! are you then really a fiend in female form?" exclaimed the dismayed girl.

"I do not know. I may be so. I think Satan has taken possession of me since my betrothal. At least I feel that I could be capable of great crimes to secure great ends," said Claudia recklessly.

"And, oh, Heaven! the opportunity will be surely afforded you, if you do not repent. Satan takes good care to give his servants the fullest freedom to develop their evil. Oh, Claudia, for the love of Heaven, stop where you are! go no further. Your next step on this sinful road may make retreat impossible. Break off this marriage at once. Better the broken troth—better the nine days' wonder—than the perjured bride, and the loveless, sinful nuptials! You said you were ambitious. Claudia!" here Bee's voice grew almost inaudible from intense passion—"Claudia! you do not know—you cannot know what it costs me to say what I am about to say to you now; but—I will say it: You love Ishmael. Well, he loves you—ah! far better than you love him, or than you are capable of loving anyone. For you all his toils have been endured, all his laurels won. Claudia! be proud of this great love; it is a hero's love—a poet's love. Claudia! you have received much adulation in your life, and you will receive much more; but you never have received, and you never will, so high an honor as you have in Ishmael's love. It is a crown of glory to your life. You are ambitious! Well, wait for him; give him a few short years and he will attain honors, not hereditary, but all his own. He will reach a position that the proudest woman may be proud to share; and his wife shall take a higher rank among American matrons than the wife of a mere nobleman can reach in England. And his untitled name, like that of Caesar, shall be a title in itself."

"Bee! Bee! you wring my heart in two. You drive me mad. It cannot be, I tell you! It can never be. He may rise—there is no doubt but that he will! But let him rise ever so high, I cannot be his wife—his wife! Horrible! I came of a race of which all the men were brave, and all the women pure! And he—"

"Is braver than the bravest man of your race! purer than the purest woman!" interrupted Bee fervently.

"He is the child of shame, and his heritage is dishonor! He bears his mother's maiden name, and she was—the scorn of his sex and the reproach of ours! And this is the man you advise me, Claudia Merlin, whose hand is sought in marriage by the heir of one of the oldest earldoms in England, to marry! Bee, the insult is unpardonable! You might as well advise me to marry my father's footman! and better, for Powers came at least of honest parents!" said Claudia, speaking in the mad, reckless, defiant way in which those conscious of a bad argument passionately defend their point.

For a few moments Bee seemed speechless with indignation. Then she burst forth vehemently:

"It is false! as false as the Father of Falsehood himself! When thorns produce figs, or the deadly nightshade nectarines; when eaglets are hatched in owls' nests and young lions spring from rat holes, then I may believe these foul slanders of Ishmael and his parents. Shame on you, Claudia Merlin, for repeating them! You have shown me much evil in your heart to-night; but nothing so bad as that! Ishmael is nature's gentleman! His mother must have been pure and lovely and loving! his father good and wise and brave! else how could they have given this son to the world! And did you forget, Claudia, when you spoke those cruel words of him, did you forget that only a little while ago you admitted that you loved him, and that all which was best in your nature approved that love?"

"No, I did not and do not forget it! It was and it is true! But what of that? I may not be able to help adoring him for his personal excellence! But to be his wife—the wife of a—Horrible!"

"Have you forgotten, Claudia, that only a few minutes ago you said that you could not conceive of a diviner happiness than to be the beloved wife of Ishmael?"

"No, I have not forgotten it! And I spoke the truth! but that joy which I could so keenly appreciate can never, never be mine! And that is the secret of my madness—for I am mad, Bee! And, oh, I came here to-night with my torn and bleeding heart—torn and bleeding from the dreadful battle between love and pride—came here with my suffering heart; my sinful heart if you will; and laid it on your bosom to be soothed; and you have taken it and flung it back in my face! You have broken the bruised reed; quenched the smoking flax; humbled the humble; smitten the fallen! Oh, Bee, you have been more cruel than you know! Good-by! Good-by!" And she turned and flung herself out of the room.

"Claudia, dear Claudia, oh, forgive me! I did not mean to wound you; if I spoke harshly it was because I felt for both! Claudia, come back, love!" cried Bee, hurrying after her; but Claudia was gone. Bee would have followed her; but little Lu's voice was heard in plaintive notes. Bee returned to the room to find her little sister lying awake with wide-open, frightened eyes.

"Oh, Bee! don't do! and don't let she tome bat. She stares Lu!"

"Shall Bee take Lu up and rock her to sleep?"

"'Es."

Bee gently lifted the little one and sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock slowly and sing softly. But presently she stopped and whispered:

"Baby!"

"'Es, Bee."

"Do you love cousin Claudia?"

"'Es, but she wates me up and stares me; don't let she tome adain, Bee."

"No, I will not; but poor Claudia is not happy; won't you ask the Lord to bless poor Claudia? He hears little children like you!"

"'Es; tell me what to say, Bee." And without another word the little one slid down upon her knees and folded her hands, while Bee taught the sinless child to pray for the sinful woman.

And then she took the babe again upon her lap, and rocked slowly and sung softly until she soothed her to sleep.

Then Bee arose and rustled softly about the room, making her simple toilet before going to the saloon to join the guests.



CHAPTER LXV.

ISHMAEL'S WOE.

And with another's crime, my birth She taunted me as little worth, Because, forsooth, I could not claim The lawful heirship of my name; Yet were a few short summers mine, My name should more than ever shine, With honors all my own!

—Byron.

Ishmael sat in the shadows of his room overwhelmed with shame and sorrow and despair. He had heard every cruel word; they had entered his ears and pierced his heart. And not only for himself he bowed his head and sorrowed and despaired, but for her; for her, proud, selfish, sinful, but loving, and oh, how fatally beloved!

It was not only that he worshiped her with a blind idolatry, and knew that she returned his passion with equal strength and fervor, and that she would have waited for him long years, and married him at last but for the cloud upon his birth. It was not this—not his own misery that crushed him, nor even her present wretchedness that prostrated him—no! but it was the awful, shapeless shadow of some infinite unutterable woe is Claudia's future, and into which she was blindly rushing, that overwhelmed him. Oh, to have saved her from this woe, he would gladly have laid down his life!

The door opened and Jim, his especial waiter, entered with two lighted candles on a tray. He sat them on the table and was leaving the room, when Ishmael recalled him. What I am about to relate is a trifle perhaps, but it will serve to show the perfect beauty of that nature which, in the midst of its own great sorrow, could think of the small wants of another.

"Jim, you asked me this morning to write a letter for you, to your mother, I think."

"Yes, Master Ishmael, I thank you, sir; whenever you is at leisure, sir, with nothing to do; which I wouldn't presume to be in a hurry, sir, nor likewise inconvenience you the least in the world."

"It will not inconvenience me, Jim; it will give me pleasure, whenever you can spare me half an hour," replied Ishmael, speaking with as much courtesy to the poor dependent as he would have used in addressing his wealthiest patron.

"Well, Master Ishmael, which I ought to say Mr. Worth, and I beg your pardon, sir, only it is the old love as makes me forget myself, and call you what I used to in the old days, because Mr. Worth do seem to leave me so far away—"

"Call me what you please, Jim, we are old friends, and I love my old friends better than any new distinctions that could come between us, but which I will never allow to separate us. What were you about to say, Jim?"

"Well, Master Ishmael, and I thank you sincere, sir, for letting of me call you so, I was going for to say, as I could be at your orders any time, even now, if it would suit you, sir; because I have lighted up all my rooms and set my table for dinner, which it is put back an hour because of Master Walter, who is expected by the six o'clock train this evening; and Sam is waiting in the hall, and I aint got anything very partic'lar to do for the next hour or so."

"Very well, Jim; sit down in that chair and tell me what you want me to write," said Ishmael, seating himself before his desk and dipping his pen in ink.

Yes, it was a small matter in itself; but it was characteristic of the man, thus to put aside his own poignant anguish to interest himself in the welfare of the humblest creature who invoked his aid.

"Now then, Jim."

"Well, Master Ishmael," said the poor fellow. "You know what to say a heap better'n I do. Write it beautiful, please."

"Tell me what is in your heart, Jim, and then I will do the best I can," said Ishmael, who possessed the rare gift of drawing out from others the best that was in their thoughts.

"Well, sir, I think a heap o' my ole mother, I does; 'membering how she did foh me when I was a boy and wondering if anybody does for her now, and if she is comfortable down there at Tanglewood. And I wants her to know it; and not to be a-thinking as I forgets her."

Ishmael wrote rapidly for a few moments and then looked up.

"What else, Jim?"

"Well, sir, tell her as I have saved a heap of money for her out'n the presents the gemmen made me o' Christmas, and I'll bring it to her when I come down—which the ole 'oman do love money, sir, better than she do anything in this world, 'cept it is me and old marster and Miss Claudia. And likewise what she wants me to bring her from town, and whether she would like a red gownd or a yallow one."

Ishmael set down this and looked up.

"Well, Jim?"

"Well, sir, tell her how she aint got no call to be anxious nor likewise stressed in her mind, nor lay 'wake o' nights thinking 'bout me, fear I should heave myself 'way, marrying of these yer trifling city gals as don't know a spinning wheel from a harrow. And how I aint seen nobody yet as I like better'n my ole mother and the young lady of color as she knows 'bout and 'proves of; which, sir, it aint nobody else but your own respected aunt, Miss Hannah's Miss Sally, as lives at Woodside."

"I have put all that down, Jim."

"Well, sir, and about the grand wedding as is to be to-morrow, sir; and how the Bishop of Maryland is going to 'form the ceremony; and how the happy pair be going to go on a grand tower, and then going to visit Tanglewood afore they parts for the old country; and how she will see a rale, livin' lord as she'll be 'stonished to see look so like any other man; and last ways how Miss Claudia do talk about taking me and Miss Sally along of her to foreign parts, because she prefers to be waited on by colored ladies and gentlemen 'fore white ones; and likewise how I would wish to go and see the world, only I won't go, nor likewise would Miss Claudia wish to take me, if the ole 'oman wishes otherwise."

Ishmael wrote and then looked up. Poor Jim, absorbed in his own affairs, did not notice how pale the writer's face had grown, or suspect how often during the last few minutes he had stabbed him to the heart.

"Well, sir, that is about all I think, Master Ishmael. Only, please, sir, put it all down in your beautiful language as makes the ladies cry when you gets up and speaks afore the great judges theirselves."

"I will do my best, Jim."

"Thank you, sir. And please sign my name to it, not yourn—my name—James Madison Monroe Mortimer."

"Yes, Jim."

"And please direct it to Mistress Catherine Maria Mortimer, most in general called by friends, Aunt Katie, as is housekeeper at Tanglewood."

Ishmael complied with his requests as far as discretion permitted.

"And now, sir, please read it all out aloud to me, so I can hear how it sound."

Ishmael complied with this request also, and read the letter aloud, to the immense delight of Jim, who earnestly expressed his approbation in the emphatic words:

"Now—that—is—beautiful! Thank y', sir! That is ekal to anything as ever I heard out'n the pulpit—and sides which, sir, it is all true, true as gospel, sir. It is just exactly what I thinks and how I feels and what I wants to say, only I aint got the words. Won't mother be proud o' that letter nyther? Why, laws, sir, the ole 'oman 'll get the minister to read that letter. And then she'll make everybody as comes to the house as can read, read it over and over again for the pride she takes in it, till she'll fairly know it all by heart," etc., etc., etc.

For Jim went on talking and smiling and covering the writer all over with gratitude and affection, until he was interrupted by the stopping of a carriage, the ringing of a door bell, and the sound of a sudden arrival.

"There's Master Walter Middleton now, as sure as the world! I must run! Dinner'll be put on the table soon's ever he's changed his dress. I'm a thousand times obleeged to you, sir. I am, indeed, everlasting obleeged! I wish I could prove it some way. Mother'll be so pleased." And talking all the way downstairs, Jim took himself and his delight away.

Ishmael sighed, and arose to dress for dinner. His kindness had not been without its reward. The little divertisement of Jim's letter had done him good. Blessed little offices of loving-kindness—what ministering angels are they to the donor as well as the receiver! With some degree of self-possession Ishmael completed his toilet and turned to leave the room, when the sound of someone rushing up the stairs like a storm arrested his steps.

Then a voice sounded outside:

"Which is Ishmael's room? Bother! Oh, here it is!" and Bee's door was opened. "No! calico! Ah! now I'm right."

And the next instant Walter Middleton burst open the door and rushed in, exclaiming joyfully, as he seized and shook the hands of his friend:

"Ah, here you are, old fellow! God bless you! How glad I am to see you! You are still the first love of my heart, Ishmael. Damon, your Pythias has not even a sweetheart to dispute your empire over him. How are you? I have heard of your success. Wasn't is glorious! You're a splendid fellow, Ishmael, and I'm proud of you. You may have Bee, if you want her. I always thought there was a bashful kindness between you two. And there isn't a reason in the world why you shouldn't have her. And so her Royal Highness, the Princess Claudia, has caught a Lord, has she? Well, you know she always said she would, and she has kept her word. But, I say, how are you? How do you wear your honors? How do the toga and the bays become you? Turn around and let us have a look at you." And so the affectionate fellow rattled on, shaking both Ishmael's hands every other second, until he had talked himself fairly out of breath.

"And how are you, dear Walter? But I need not ask; you look so well and happy," said Ishmael, as soon as he could get in a word.

"Me? Oh, I'm well enough. Nought's never in danger. I've just graduated, you know; with the highest honors, they say. My thesis won the great prize; that was because you were not in the same class, you know. I have my diploma in my pocket; I'm an M.D.; I can write myself doctor, and poison people, without danger of being tried for murder! isn't that a privilege? Now let my enemies take care of themselves! Why don't you congratulate me, you—"

"I do, with all my heart and soul, Walter!"

"That's right! only I had to drag it from you. Well, so I'm to be 'best man' to this noble bridegroom. Too much honor. I am not prepared for it. One cannot get ready for graduating and marrying at the same time. I don't think I have got a thing fit to wear. I wrote to Bee to buy me some fine shirts, and some studs, and gloves, and handkerchiefs, and hair oil, and things proper for the occasion. I wonder if she did?"

"I don't know. I know that she has been overwhelmed with care for the last month, too much care for a girl, so it is just possible that she has had no opportunity. Indeed, she has a great deal to think of and to do."

"Oh, it won't hurt her; especially if it consists of preparations for the wedding."

A bell rang.

"There now, Ishmael, there is that diabolical dinner-bell! You may look, but it is true: a dinner-bell that peals out at seven o'clock in the evening is a diabolical dinner-bell. At college we dine at twelve meridian, sharp, and sup at six. It is dreadful to sit at table a whole hour, and be bored by seeing other people eat, and pretending to eat yourself, when you are not hungry. Well, there's no help for it. Come down and be bored, Ishmael."

They went down into the drawing room, where quite a large circle of near family connections were assembled.

Walter Middleton was presented to the Viscount Vincent, who was the only stranger, to him, present.

Claudia was there, looking as calm, as self-possessed and queenly, as if she had not passed through a storm of passion two hours before.

Ishmael glanced at her and saw the change with amazement, but he dared not trust himself to look again.

The dinner party, with all this trouble under the surface, passed off in superficial gayety. The guests separated early, because the following morning would usher in the wedding day.



CHAPTER LXVI.

THE MARRIAGE MORNING.

I trust that never more in this world's shade Thine eyes will be upon me: never more Thy face come back to me. For thou hast made My whole life sore. Fare hence, and be forgotten.... Sing thy song, And braid thy brow, And be beloved and beautiful—and be In beauty baleful still ... a Serpent Queen To others not yet curst in loving thee As I have been!

—Meredith.

Ishmael awoke. After a restless night, followed by an hour't complete forgetfulness, that more nearly resembled the swoon of exhaustion than the sleep of health, Ishmael awoke to a new sense of wretchedness.

You who have suffered know what such awakenings are. You have seen someone dearer than life die; but hours, days, or weeks of expectation have gradually prepared you for the last scene; and though you have seen the dear one die, and though you have wept yourself half blind and half dead, you have slept the sleep of utter oblivion, which is like death; but you have at last awakened and returned to consciousness to meet the shock of memory and the sense of sorrow a thousand times more overwhelming than the first blow of bereavement had been.

Or you have been for weeks looking forward to the parting of one whose presence is the very light of your days. And in making preparations for that event the thought of coming separation has been somewhat dulled; but at last all is ready; the last night has come; you all separate and go to bed, with the mutual injunction to be up early in the morning for the sake of seeing "him"—it may be some brave volunteer going to war—off; after laying awake nearly all night you suddenly drop into utter forgetfulness of impending grief, and into some sweet dream of pleasantness and peace. You awake with a start; the hour has come; the hour of parting; the hour of doom.

Yes, whatever the grief may be, it is in the hour of such awakenings we feel it most poignantly.

Thus it was with Ishmael. The instant he awoke the spear of memory transfixed his soul. He could have cried out in his agony. It took all his manhood to control his pain. He arose and dressed himself and offered up his morning worship and went to the breakfast room, resolved to pass through the day's fiery ordeal, cost what it might.

Claudia was not at breakfast. In fact, she seldom or never appeared at the breakfast table; and this morning of all mornings it was quite natural she should be absent. But Mrs. Middleton and Bee, Judge Merlin, Mr. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell, Walter, and Ishmael were present. It was in order that people should be merry on a marriage morning; but somehow or other that order was not followed. Judge Merlin, Mrs. Middleton, and Bee were unusually grave and silent; Mr. Brudenell was always sad; Ishmael was no conventional talker, and therefore could not seem other than he was—very serious. It was quite in vain that Mr. Middleton and Walter tried to get up a little jesting and badinage. And when the constraint of the breakfast table was over everyone felt relieved.

"Remember," said Mrs. Middleton, with her hand upon the back of her chair, "that the carriages will be at the door at half-past ten; it is now half-past nine."

"And that means that we have but an hour to get on our wedding garments," said Walter. "Bee, have you got my finery ready?"

"You will find everything you require laid out on your bed, Walter."

"You are the best little sister that ever was born. I doubt whether I shall let Ishmael, or anyone else, hate you until I get a wife of my own; and even then I don't know but what I shall want you home to look after her and the children!" rattled Walter, careless or unobservant of the deep blush that mantled the maiden's face.

"Ishmael," said the judge, "I wish you to take the fourth seat in the carriage with myself and daughter and Beatrice. Will you do so?"

Ishmael's emotions nearly choked him, but he answered:

"Certainly, if you wish."

"The four bridesmaids will fill the second carriage, and Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell and Walter the third, I do not know the arrangements made for our other friends; but I dare say it is all right. Oh, Ishmael, I feel as though we were arranging a procession to the grave instead of the altar," he added, with a heavy sigh. Then correcting himself, he said: "But this is all very morbid. So no more of it."

And the judge wrung Ishmael's hand; and each went his separate way to dress for the wedding.

Meanwhile the bride-elect sat alone in her luxurious dressing room.

Around her, scattered over tables, chairs, and stands, lay the splendid paraphernalia of her bridal array—rich dresses, mantles, bonnets, veils, magnificent shawls, sparkling jewels, blooming flowers, intoxicating perfumes.

On the superb malachite stand beside her stood a silver tray, on which was arranged an elegant breakfast service of Bohemian china. But the breakfast was untasted and forgotten.

There was no one to watch her; she had sent her maid away with orders not to return until summoned by her bell.

And now, while her coffee unheeded grew cold, she sat, leaning forward in her easy-chair, with her hands tightly clasped together over her knees, her tumbled black ringlets fallen down upon her dressing gown, and her eyes flared open and fixed in a dreadful stare upon the far distance as if spellbound by some horror there.

To have seen her thus, knowing that she was a bride-elect, you might have judged that she was about to be forced into some loathed marriage, from which her whole tortured nature revolted.

And you would have judged truly. She was being thus forced into such a marriage, not by any tyrannical parent or guardian, for flesh and blood could not have forced Claudia Merlin into any measure she had set her will against. She was forced by the demon Pride, who had taken possession of her soul.

And now she sat alone with her sin, dispossessed of all her better self, face to face with her lost soul.

She was aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Middleton—Mrs. Middleton in full carriage-dress—robe and mantle of mauve-colored moire-antique, a white lace bonnet with mauve-colored flowers, and white kid gloves finished at the wrists with mauve ribbon quillings.

"Why, Claudia, is it possible? Not commenced dressing yet, and everybody else ready, and the clock on the stroke of ten! What have you been thinking of, child?"

Claudia started like one suddenly aroused from sleep, threw her hands to her face as if to clear away a mist, and looked around.

But Mrs. Middleton had hurried to the door and was calling:

"Here, Alice! Laura! 'Gena! Lotty! Where are you?"

Receiving no answer, she flew to the bell and rang it and brought Claudia's maid to the room.

"Ruth, hurry to the young ladies' room and give my compliments, and ask them to come here as soon as possible! Miss Merlin is not yet dressed."

The girl went on her errand and Mrs. Middleton turned again to Claudia:

"Not even eaten your breakfast yet. Oh, Claudia!" and she poured out a cup of coffee and handed it to her niece.

And Claudia drank it, because it was easier to do so than to expostulate.

At the moment that Claudia returned the cup the door opened and the four bridesmaids entered—all dressed in floating, cloud-like, misty white tulle, and crowned with wreaths of white roses and holding bouquets of the same.

They laid down their bouquets, drew on their white gloves and fluttered around the bride and with their busy fingers quickly dressed her luxuriant black hair, and arrayed her stately form in her superb bridal dress.

This dress was composed of an under-skirt of the richest white satin and an upper robe of the finest Valenciennes lace looped up with bunches of orange flowers. A bertha of lace fell over the satin bodice. And a long veil of lace flowed from the queenly head down to the tiny foot. A wreath of orange flowers, sprinkled over with the icy dew of small diamonds, crowned her black ringlets. And diamonds adorned her neck, bosom, arms, and stomacher. Her bouquet holder was studded with diamonds, and her initials on the white velvet cover of her prayer-book were formed of tiny seed-like diamonds.

No sovereign queen on her bridal morn was ever more richly arrayed. But, oh, how deadly pale and cold she was!

"There!" they said triumphantly, when they had finished dressing her, even to the arranging of the bouquet of orange flowers in its costly holder and putting it in her hand. "There!" And they wheeled the tall Psyche mirror up before her, that she might view and admire herself.

She looked thoughtfully at the image reflected there. She looked so long that Mrs. Middleton, growing impatient, said:

"My love, it is time to go."

"Leave me alone for a few minutes, all of you! I will not keep you waiting long," said Claudia.

"She wishes to be alone to offer up a short prayer before going to be married," was the thought in the heart of each one of the party, as they filed out of the room.

Did Claudia wish to pray? Did she intend to ask God's protection against evil? Did she dare to ask his blessing on the act she contemplated?

We shall see.

She went after the last retreating figure and closed and bolted the door. Then she returned to her dressing bureau, opened a little secret drawer and took from it a tiny jar of rouge, and with a piece of cotton-wool applied it to her deathly-white cheeks until she had produced there an artificial bloom, more brilliant than that of her happiest days, only because it was more brilliant than that of nature. Then to soften its fire she powdered her face with pearl white, and finally with a fine handkerchief carefully dusted off the superfluous particles.

Having done this, she put away her cosmetics and took from the same receptacle a vial of the spirits of lavender and mixed a spoonful of it with water and drank it off.

Then she returned the vial to its place and locked up the secret drawer where she kept her deceptions.

She gave one last look at the mirror, saw that between the artificial bloom and the artificial stimulant her face presented a passable counterfeit of its long-lost radiance; she drew her bridal veil around so as to shade it a little, lowered her head and raised her bouquet, that her friends might not see the suspicious suddenness of the transformation from deadly pallor to living bloom—for though Claudia, in an hour of hysterical passion, had discovered this secret of her toilet to Beatrice, yet she was really ashamed of it, and wished to conceal it from all others.

She opened the door, went out, and joined her friends in the hall, saying with a cheerfulness that she had found in the lavender vial:

"I am quite ready for the show now!"

But she kept her head lowered and averted, for a little while, though in fact her party were too much excited to scrutinize her appearance, especially as they had had a good view of her while making her toilet.

They went down into the drawing room, where the family and their nearest relations were assembled and waiting for them.

Bee was there, looking lovely as usual. Bee, who almost always wore white when in full dress, now varied from her custom by wearing a glace silk of delicate pale blue, with a white lace mantle and a white lace bonnet and veil. Bee did this because she did not mean to be mustered into the bride's service, or even mistaken by any person for one of the bridesmaids. Beyond her obligatory presence in the church as one of the bride's family, Bee was resolved to have nothing to do with the sacrilegious marriage.

"Come, my dear! Are you ready? How beautiful you are, my Claudia! I never paid you a compliment before, my child; but surely I may be excused for doing so now that you are about to leave me! 'How blessings brighten as they take their flight,'" whispered the judge, as he met and kissed his daughter.

And certainly Claudia's beauty seemed perfectly dazzling this morning. She smiled a greeting to all her friends assembled there, and then gave her hand to her father, who drew it within his arm and led her to the carriage.

Ishmael, like one in a splendid, terrible dream, from which he could not wake, in which he was obliged to act, went up to Bee and drew her little white-gloved hand under his arm, and led her after the father and daughter.

The other members of the marriage party followed in order.

Besides Judge Merlin's brougham and Mr. Middleton's barouche, there were several other carriages drawn up before the house.

Bee surveyed this retinue and murmured:

"Indeed, except that we all wear light colors instead of black, and the coachmen have no hat-scarfs, this looks quite as much like a funeral as a wedding."

Ishmael did not reply; he could not wake from the dazzling, horrible dream.

When they were seated in the carriage, Claudia and Beatrice occupied the back seat; the judge and Ishmael the front one; the judge sat opposite Bee, and Ishmael opposite Claudia.

The rich drifts of shining white satin and misty white lace that formed her bridal dress floated around him; her foot inadvertently touched his, and her warm, balmy breath passed him. Never had he been so close to Claudia before; that carriage was so confined and crowded—dread proximity! The dream deepened; it became a trance—that strange trance that sometimes falls upon the victim in the midst of his sufferings held Ishmael's faculties in abeyance and deadened his sense of pain.

And indeed the same spell, though with less force, acted upon all the party in that carriage. Its mood was expectant, excited, yet dream-like. There was scarcely any conversation. There seldom is under such circumstances. Once the judge inquired:

"Bee, my dear, how is it that you are not one of Claudia's bridesmaids?"

"I did not wish to be, and Claudia was so kind as to excuse me," Beatrice replied.

"But why not, my love? I thought young ladies always liked to fill such positions."

Bee blushed and lowered her head, but did not reply.

Claudia answered for her:

"Beatrice does not like Lord Vincent; and does not approve of the marriage," she said defiantly.

"Humph!" exclaimed the judge, and not another word was spoken during the drive.

It was a rather long one. The church selected for the performance of the marriage rites being St. John's, at the west end of the town, where the bridegroom and his friends were to meet the bride and her attendants.

They reached the church at last; the other carriages arrived a few seconds after them, and the whole party alighted and went in.

The bridegroom and his friends were already there. And the bridal procession formed and went up the middle aisle to the altar, where the bishop in his sacerdotal robes stood ready to perform the ceremony.