Yet, the next day, Franklin assured me that he had carried the key of the pantry away with him, when he went home at night (he was a married man, and slept at his own house usually), and that he found it locked in the morning just as he had left it.

This was in answer to a question which I tried to make as careless as possible, with regard to some burglaries that had lately been committed in a neighboring street, adding, by way of caution: "Don't forget to lock us up carefully at night, Franklin; remember we are all women in the house, except Morton, and he is old and sleeps like a top, no doubt having a good conscience for his pillow."

"If you would have an inside bolt put upon the pantry-door, it would be best, Miss Miriam," he remarked; "that is, if your mind is really troubled about robbers. Then you could draw it yourself in my absence at night."

"And who would let you in, in the morning, Franklin, if I did this? Our household would sleep until noon, were it not for your early summons, I verily believe."

"I will throw a pebble at the cook's window, miss, if she is not on foot by that time. But she usually is; cooks has to stir earlier than the rest, you know, by reason of the light rolls and muffins."

"Oh, yes! true, I had forgotten this. Go at once, then, Franklin, for a smith, and let him put a massive bolt on the pantry-door, and I will be jailer of Monfort Hall in future, in your absence, for I am quite sure some one was trying that lock last night. I came to the dining-room for water just before daylight, and heard it distinctly."

"One of your lady-like notions," said Franklin, shaking his head, with an incredulous smile; "young ladies is always nervous like, and fearful about robbers, all but Miss Evelyn Erle—I never seen the like of her, for true grit! All was safe when I came, Miss Miriam, any way, and, if robbers had been about, it stands to reason the silver chest, setting out in the pantry, would have stood a poor chance."

Again he smiled provokingly. "There are all sorts of robbers in this world," I said, a little sternly; "some come for one purpose, some for another. Attend to the bolt, Franklin, at once; I am very sure of what I have said." And so the parley ended.

I am certain that Mr. Bainrothe came no more by night to his treasure-cave, but there was a mocking smile on his lip—when Evelyn told him, before me, some time later, that I had caused a bolt to be placed on the pantry-door, for fear of burglars—that was significant to my mind.

"What is the use of this mystery with me," I thought, "when I alone am concerned? Why not reveal to me at once the secret of the spring and the lock, as I only am to be the beneficiary of all this gold? The man's cunning is short-sighted. Suppose he were to die suddenly, how does he know that I would ever be the wiser or the better of these deposits? Years hence, when the house was crumbling to decay, some stranger might be enriched by this concealed gold, for aught he knows, which is legitimately mine. Evelyn, too, is in complete ignorance of this hidden chest, I am convinced, and, as far as I am concerned, will probably remain so. After all, does Bainrothe mistrust her honesty or mine? Good Heavens! what a mole the man is by nature, how darkly, deeply underhand, even in his responsibility! And there are two long years yet, nay more to wait, before I can openly defy him and put him away forever. Loathing him as I do, patience, patience! Rome was not built in a day. I shall still prevail."

Months after this occurrence, months that passed swiftly because monotonously to me, for by events alone we are told we measure time, I was roused one night from my early slumber by the sound of bitter weeping in Evelyn's chamber. I had left her engaged over accounts with Mr. Bainrothe, having withdrawn rather than spend a long, lonely evening in the parlor, somewhat indisposed as I felt.

I rose from my bed and went to her precipitately. I found her indulging in a passionate burst of grief, almost choking with sobs of hysterical indignation.

"All gone—all gone!" she exclaimed, wildly, as I entered the room. "Your estate—mine—Mabel's—all swept away with one fell swoop, Miriam! The Bank of Pennsylvania has failed; it is discovered that Mr. Biddle has proved defaulter, and we are ruined!"

"I will never believe it, Evelyn!" I exclaimed, vehemently, "until he tells me so with his own lips. This is one of Mr. Bainrothe's fictions; he is trying to wake us up a little, that is all. Mr. Biddle is the Bayard of bankers—'sans peur et sans reproche.' As to that bank, did not my father believe it to be as indestructible as the United States, the government itself? Nay, did not Bainrothe himself do all he could to convince him of it, and induce him to invest in its stocks? The wily fox had his motive, no doubt, but it surely could not have been our ruin! Our own fortunes are too intimately involved in his prosperity for this. Besides, why have not the newspapers told us of this?"

All this time Evelyn was sobbing convulsively, and what I have told continuously here was said by me in a far more fragmentary way between her bursts of grief. She ceased now, and looked up, with some effort at calmness.

"The newspapers have been discussing it for months past, all but Mr. Biddle's organ, and that alone was permitted to enter our doors. Mr. Bainrothe acknowledges this now. Have you not noticed the irregularity of our Washington papers?"

"No; I so rarely read them, you know."

"Mr. Bainrothe, with mistaken charity," she resumed, "I fear, sought to shield us as long as possible from the blow, which was inevitable sooner or later; or perhaps he hoped still for an adjustment of affairs, that might have left us a competence at least. But he was deceived, Miriam; we are worth nothing—a round naught—" and she suited the action to the word by the union of the tips of her thumb and finger—"is the figure whereby to describe our fortunes now; and the heiress and her once dependent friend and sister are alike—beggars! All brought to one level at last—there is comfort in that thought, at least! Ha! ha! ha!" and she laughed wildly, horribly. I never before heard such laughter.

"Beggary is a word I repudiate, Evelyn, in any case," I said, firmly; "and we, it seems, if this frightful thing be true, are not alone in ruin. Be calm, dear Evelyn! Learn to bear with dignity our fate. We must sustain each other now—be all in all to one another, as we have never been before. Thank God! let us both thank God, Evelyn, from our inmost hearts, that we still have this shelter—and—yes—I have reason to believe, much more."

And, kneeling beside her bed, I told her impulsively of our concealed treasure behind the mirror (though I had once determined never to reveal this to her or any one)—treasure guarded so long by me with bolt by night and vigilance by day!

Oh, fatal error, never to be repaired or sufficiently repented of! Oh, utter misplacement of confidence, not warranted, surely, by any thing that had gone before, and the results of which I had subsequently such bitter cause to deplore!

She listened to me with an interest and zeal that were unmistakable. She sat up in her bed, with her large, blue, distended eyes fixed on mine, turning paler and paler, brighter and brighter, as she gazed, until their lustre seemed opaline rather than spiritual, and with her slender white hands wreathed together like the interlacing marble snakes in the grasp of the Laocoon, so long, and lithe, and sinuous, seemed the polished, flexile fingers. Her lips were livid, but on her cheek burned two flame-like spots, indicative ever with her of intense excitement. Surely the god Mammon has rarely possessed so sincere a worshiper! Let us do her this justice, at least. So far she was consistent; so far she was devout!'

"You are sure of the truth of what you utter, Miriam?" she questioned, eagerly.

"Sure as that I live," I replied.

"It is wonderful! Why did he not mention this to me? I cannot conjecture his motive. But perhaps he has already removed and invested this gold, Miriam, of which you say there was such a quantity as to have represented a large portion of your landed estate, I think!"

"No, no; that is simply impossible. By night he has never done this, I know. By day he could not effect this unseen or unsuspected. That dining-room is so public, you know, that Morton sees every thing; besides, I gave him directions which he blindly obeyed, I am certain (you know his almost canine obedience to me, Evelyn), to remain, when engaged with the plate, in the adjoining pantry, with the door ajar between, and to be always on guard. Papa always allowed him the privilege of that room, and I love to continue it, you know, since we never use it except for meals. You remember I said this when you objected to his sitting there, Evelyn, and remarked that he might as well sit with the other servants, to whom he is so superior. But of late, I confess, I have had a motive, and Morton knew this"—I hesitated—"must have known it."

"Do you mean to say you confided the secret of the mirror to Morton, and kept it from me? Thank you, Miriam!" loftily. "I might have expected this, however."

"Not wholly this," I replied, with embarrassment, for I saw how the matter looked externally. "Morton simply knew that I wanted, for purposes of my own, to exclude every one except himself from solitary possession of the dining-room as much as possible, Mr. Bainrothe especially. Yes, I told him this, but I kept papa's secret. Believe me, Evelyn, I did this, and you know well enough what Morton's devotion is to me not to believe that he religiously fulfilled my request without asking for an explanation."

"Yes," she mused, "I saw him perched up there tonight, as usual, with his old English newspapers, and I have observed that he never leaves his post there, while Mr. Bainrothe remains. You could not have procured a better watchman, surely; but why have you watched at all?"

"Because," I said, "I felt sure that mystery lurked behind those nocturnal visits. You cannot doubt this yourself, Evelyn, and, with your opinion of Mr. Bainrothe, must see that I felt I had good reason for mistrust. I was determined to be present when that chest should next be opened by him."

A smile quivered across her face. "I had not suspected you of so much diplomacy," she observed, dryly; "but, after all, Miriam, how does this change the posture of affairs to me? I shall be all the same, poor and dependent."

"No, Evelyn, no indeed! I promise you faithfully.—But what is this?" I exclaimed, rising hastily from my knees, "I am faint—blind! Quick, the drops Dr. Pemberton left for me, Evelyn, or I am lost again."

I threw myself across the foot of her bed, sick and bewildered, yet feeling myself gradually—after a few moments of oppression—growing better, in spite of the dark effort of my evil genius to gain his fatal ascendency.

When she came with the drops, after some delay, I was, to her surprise, able to sit up and look around me. The spell was over.

"I believe I have troubled you uselessly," I said; "I will go to bed without medicine to-night, I think, and strive to be calm, as Dr. Pemberton enjoined me to do, and there was good sense in his advice, certainly. We have so much to do to-morrow, Evelyn—we two must remove these deposits ourselves. But not a word to Bainrothe!"

"Miriam," she said, eagerly, "can you doubt my discretion when you know, too, what your own promises have been now and long ago—to divide with me, ay, to the last cent, like a sister? Now, I insist on the drops! You are pale again, Miriam—collapsing visibly in my sight. Do take your remedy—so efficacious of late in warding off these distressing attacks. I have taken the trouble, too, to go after them. I was at some pains in hunting them up; they were not in the usual place. Come, now, as a punishment for your carelessness, I proclaim myself dictator, and command you to swallow them at once," and she poured the medicine into a spoon.

"No, Evelyn," I averred, putting the spoon aside, "I am better without the drops. I wish to see what my unaided will and constitution can do, this time."

"There is too much at stake to depend on these, Miriam. We must unearth this treasure-trove to-morrow at daylight, and defeat Bainrothe on his own grounds, or he may be beforehand with us. Take your drops, dear, and have a good night's rest, and be ready for the contest. There, now, that is a good sister," embracing me tenderly.

Persuasion and reason accomplished with me what commands could not have done. I took the drops, went quietly to bed, and was soon lost to a sense of misfortunes, hopes, and the world itself.

I slept profoundly and long. When I awoke, the slant rays of the evening sun were pouring through the blinds of my window, in lines of moted light. Mrs. Austin was sitting close to the sash, with her invariable knitting-work, her aquiline profile and frilled cap strongly relieved against the jalousied shutters.

On the mantel-piece were the inevitable spirit-lamp and bowl of panada, recognized at once as part and parcel of my malady. In the chamber the usual smell of ether, the remedy so often ineffectually administered during the period of my lethargic attacks.

I understood everything now—I had experienced another seizure, and I had lost a day.

Whether it was this conviction that cleared my brain at once of those mephitic fogs that usually clung around it after a spell of lethargy, long after my consciousness returned, I never knew, but certain it is, I sat up in my bed like one refreshed by sleep, instead of feeling exhausted, and, greatly to her surprise, accosted Mrs. Austin in clear, strong accents.

"How long have I slept? And where is Evelyn?" I asked.

"You have not opened your eyes to-day, dear child, until just this moment; and Miss Evelyn has not been able to sit up in her bed since she went to it last night, that shock yesterday overcame her so completely." By this time she was standing by my pillow, after laying aside her knitting, in a leisurely manner peculiar to her at all seasons. "But Mabel is in the next room; let me call her to you."

"Let her stay there," I interrupted, in a manner so unusual with me, whose first inquiry on reviving from illness had always been for Mabel, instead of Evelyn, that Mrs. Austin looked surprised and startled.

"What ails you, Miss Miriam? I thought Mabel was always your first thought; the little angel! She has been hanging over you tearfully all day; never going near Miss Evelyn at all. It is so strange she shows such partiality!"

Strange that one being on earth, and that one my sister, should love me better than Evelyn, in the eyes of her partial affection; and yet Evelyn treated her with positive disrespect every day of her life, as I never did; and often with severity as well. It was incomprehensible!

"Give me the panada," I said, grimly; "I am half starved, and must grow strong again to do my work. I am not nearly so weak as I usually am, though, after one of my seizures."

"You see you are outgrowing them, as Dr. Pemberton predicted you would. I declare, you are hungry, poor child; you have not left a drop—pint-bowl too—with a gill of wine in it. Not going to get up, Miss Miriam? Oh, no; you must not venture to do that yet."

And she tried gently to restrain me.

"Yes, I must get about again; I have much to do, and Evelyn must aid me, if able. Is she ill or only nervous?"

"Very ill, I think; she wrote a note to Dr. Craig and sent it last night, after you went to sleep; but he did not come."

"Quite naturally, since he had been absent some weeks. I could have told her," I said, sententiously; "indeed, I thought she knew it. Who carried her note?"

"Morton."

"Poor old man! The idea of sending him on such a wild-goose chase, after night. Papa would turn in his grave could he know he had been forced out in the rain at such an hour, for a woman's whim. I would have suffered tortures till morning first. Where was Franklin?"

"Franklin had gone home earlier than usual, and did not return to-day. He is sick with a chill, we hear, and his wife is again ill."

"Who did the marketing?"

"Morton."

"Morton again! Why, the old man seems to be becoming a factotum in his declining years—he whose duties have always been so few, so simple! I am provoked, for some reasons, that he should have been sent away to-day. Fortunately, I bolted the pantry-door myself, before I came to bed last night," I murmured, "and the front door is self-fastening. The house was well secured, at least, by night."

"How long did Morton remain absent?" I asked, recommencing my system of cross-questions, very abruptly.

"About an hour, I believe; but what makes you so particular, all at once, Miss Miriam?"

"Some day you shall know, perhaps. In the mean while tell me, has Mr. Bainrothe been here to-day?"

"He called about one o'clock, but, as all were poorly, went away again without entering the house at all. I saw him go down-street, after dinner, in his phaeton, with another gentleman, and have not heard wheels since."

"You are sure he was not here, this morning—while—while Morton was absent?"

"Quite sure; he breakfasted later than usual, I think, for I saw him throw open his side bedroom window at nine o'clock, and he was in his shirt-sleeves then. He sleeps in a large room in the ell, you know. I was standing at the pantry-door, and saw him distinctly, and he nodded to me, and called something, but I could not hear what it was at that distance."

"Where was Charity at that time, Mrs. Austin?"

"Cleaning the house, Miss Miriam—hard at work in the parlors, washing windows—this is her cleaning-day, you know."

"And cook, what was she about?"

"She got breakfast early, for us people, and went to mass, but was back by ten. Miss Evelyn had her breakfast after she returned, with Miss Mabel, and there was no one to eat dinner down-stairs so she thought—"

"Never mind what she thought," I interrupted, "or who went and came, so that all be well."

"You do ask such strange questions, this morning, Miss Miriam, and your eyes are so big! Do you feel light-headed at all after your turn—maybe you have fever?"

"Not at all—hard-headed, rather, Mrs. Austin—not even heavy-headed—though leaden-hearted enough, God knows! We are ruined, you know—or at least Evelyn tells me so. The rest I have still to learn—I must see Mr. Bainrothe this evening. There is a positive necessity for me to exert myself now, but first I have some examinations to make. Give me a shawl and wrapper, good nurse, and my slippers. Don't disturb Evelyn, or call Mabel till my return; and stay where you are until then, if you wish to serve me."

I sped rapidly down-stairs, and entered the dining-room so noiselessly that old Morton, who was a "little thick of hearing," did not hear my steps nor move from his position by the fire, where he sat apparently absorbed by his newspapers. "Morton," I said, and laid my quivering hand upon his arm, "the time has come to act. Come help me to secure my treasure." He rose silently to obey me.

I touched the spring of the mirror; it swung silently open, and revealed to the astonished old man a square niche built in the wall—unsuspected before by him—in which fitted an iron chest, the existence of which he had never dreamed of until now. But the contents were gone—gone since yesterday! The chest was empty, with its lid propped open. There was not even a paper within.

With a bitter groan I tottered back against the wall, while the cold dew stood on my brow, and my limbs trembled under me. This was indeed despair!

"What ails you, Miss Miriam?" he asked, with an expression of anguish upon his kind, old, quivering face. "Do you miss any thing—what have you lost, Miss Miriam?"

"You left your post, Morton," I said, at last, "and this is the consequence—I have lost every thing! Old man! old friend! did you think I charged you to watch every one who came, so earnestly, to stay here so constantly, without a good and sufficient reason? Some one has been here before us—my gold is gone! we are ruined, Morton!"



CHAPTER VIII.

Whatever my flash of conviction might have been, all suspicions against Evelyn must have been allayed by the manner in which she received the information of the loss of the deposits behind the mirror.

Her shrieks filled the house; another physician was hastily summoned in Dr. Craig's absence, who gave her disease or seizure a Latin name—wrote a Greek or Hebrew prescription—or something equally unintelligible, and vanished ghost-like, in the manner most approved of by modern practitioners.

There was no hard epithet that Evelyn did not apply to Mr. Basil Bainrothe during her hysterical mania, and before the doctor's arrival; but, on her recovery, she begged me to repeat nothing of the sort, if she had been indiscreet enough to let out her true opinion of him and his measures, in a moment of irrepressible emotion. "For," she pursued, "it is expedient for us to keep on terms with the man, at least for the present, and in no way harass or exasperate him—we are completely in his hands now, Miriam—we must watch our opportunity—"

"I do not see that," I interrupted; "less now than ever, it seems to me. What more can he do for or against us now? Our property is all gone—except this house, plate, and furniture, and my mother's diamonds—all of winch are tangible and visible, and in our own possession. We have no debts—you pay house-bills monthly, and I, fortunately, have just settled off every account I have in the world, and have five hundred Spanish dollars to start anew with—my savings during papa's lifetime. I hoarded it, fortunately, in this form for a missionary purpose you remember, Evelyn, but afterward changed my mind."

"Yes, I remember; merely because the person it was intended for prayed that the Jews might finally be exterminated."

"Was not that enough, Evelyn? The man who could utter such a prayer was no Christian, and unfit for religious teaching. Since then I have come to the conclusion that there is a great deal of undue and very impertinent meddling with the heathen; who are entitled to their own mode of worship as well as of government, and who I think are not yet ripe for Christianity."

"You have strange notions, Miriam; you talk like an old French philosopher."

"I never knew there was such a thing—a French sophist I am afraid you mean. No, I am not a sophist, Evelyn; any thing else than that! I wish sometimes I did not see so clearly. I love, I idolize the truth alone!"

She colored—sighed. God knows I was not thinking of her at that moment, or speaking with that reference, however I may have had reason to do so.

Is it not strange that our dreams often present to us, in our own despite, the vivid, photographic pictures struck by sleep from the dim, unconscious negative of our waking judgment, which we refuse to recognize as verities in the light of our open-eyed, daytime responsibility? I, who had declared myself no sophist, knew later that I had deceived my own heart, which spoke out so truthfully in dreams of sleep, and refused to be silenced in the dead hour of night, however I might stifle its suggestions by day.

In one of these suggestive, or rather reflected, visions, I saw Evelyn groping through darkness to the side-gate which gave into the grounds of Mr. Bainrothe from our own, made years before by my father's permission for the convenience of his friend; the night was a dark and stormy one, yet she went forth alone, or seemed to, in my vision, to seek a man she detested, and with him connive the destruction of the fortunes of the child of her benefactress, whose confidence she abused.

Then I saw them returning together, through that pantry-door which she had left unbolted, though locked when she went out by another egress, and which the man, who returned with her, readily unlocked with the duplicate key he carried, not by my father's permission. This last I knew.

Now the scene was changed to the dining-room. Again I saw the mirror swing back on its invisible and noiseless hinges, and now the glare of a shaded lamp fell in bands of light across its surface. But I was inside this time, by the glamour of my dream, and I saw them emptying the open chest painfully, laboriously, stealthily; stopping now and then to listen, to breathe, again working silently, industriously, at their vocation of theft and crime!

At last all seemed accomplished. A large, covered basket was partially loaded with the contents—heavy as lead—and, between them, they bore it out into the storm and darkness again, and I heard the sound of the spade and mattock at work on the graveled road.

Presently Evelyn came in again. Her air was wild and frightened; her trembling hands were stained with mud, seen by the light of the lantern she bore, and which she again hung in its accustomed place, stealing quietly away into the darkened hall, to grope her way up-stairs. All this while the farce of sending for Dr. Craig was being enacted, and Morton was out on his fruitless mission in the rain!

Again it was morning, and I saw them together in the library, while I still slept, consulting, planning, plotting, writing, erasing, whispering; soon to separate, however, this time. Their arrangements being completed without restraint, for again the old man was absent, doing the duties of another, who, knowing not the motive of such request or bribe, was content to work the will of a conspirator, and pass the day in idleness at home, for the sake of a purse of gold. Here ended my clairvoyance, if such it was.

All this may have been imaginary—part of it probably was—but the sense of the dream was no doubt what my untrammeled judgment would have suggested as truth, and what later—but let me not digress or anticipate here, in the thickest of my troubles, the jungle-pass of my story as it were, but strike on through a self-made path, it may be, to the light that shines beyond the forest, even if it lead into the desert!

Something in Evelyn's suggestion had struck me as the best to pursue under the circumstances, although at first I so boldly repudiated the idea of Mr. Bainrothe's power. Unless I could prove that he had removed the treasure for unworthy uses—why speak of it at all? I should only irritate and set him on his guard by such allusions; whereas, by a course of reticence, I still might learn, as she had suggested, the truth when he least suspected my purpose.

It would be so easy for him to deny all knowledge of the concealed chest—so easy to lay the robbery on Morton, even if the first were proved—or even on Evelyn!

I had sent impulsively for Mr. Bainrothe to come to me on the evening of my discovery, but his visit was delayed by a necessity that kept him from home all night, so that I had time to revolve and resolve on my course of action before I saw him, which was not until the following afternoon, and by this time my mind had undergone a change. He came, but not alone—his son accompanied him.

I have reason since then to think that Evelyn and Claude Bainrothe had met before their cold and measured interview in my presence. It was to me a painful and embarrassing one, and this time the graceful ease was all on the other side—I was preoccupied and agitated, Claude courteous and self-possessed, Evelyn lofty and confident, as though she had lived or trodden down her emotions, and, to my surprise, Mr. Basil Bainrothe wore his accustomed deliberate and self-poised demeanor, making no reference, not even by his expression of face or a glance of his kaleidoscopic eyes, to the sad catastrophe with which by this time I was but too well acquainted.

I had been reading newspapers eagerly all day, when he came, and, from a contradictory mass of evidence, had gleaned some grains of truth. One fact was beyond contradiction—a second Samson had drawn down the ruins of a temple, not on the heads of his foes alone, but his friends as well, blinded, as he of old, by the treachery of that basest of all Delilahs, a fawning public!

Yes, we were ruined; the only hope now was in the honesty of Mr. Basil Bainrothe. Should the gold I saw him hiding away not have been appropriated to the purchase of bank-stocks—should it have been saved for me—we might still rejoice in wealth beyond our deserts, and equal to our desires.

We still might keep the old, beloved roof above our heads, preserve one unbroken circle of family domestics—live without labor, or terror of the future. But would this be? I waited, as I still think I should have done, for Mr. Bainrothe to take the initiative in this proceeding.

Impatient and sick-hearted, I saw day after day glide past, without an effort on his part to explain or ameliorate my condition—one now of excessive and wearing anxiety.

At last he came. For the first time in his life when a matter of business was in question, he asked for me. I went to him alone at my own instance, and somewhat to Evelyn's chagrin, I thought.

I found him in the library, of late our sole receiving-room; the rest were closed and fireless. For, since the certainty of our misfortune, we had received no society, and would not long be obliged to decline it, Evelyn thought. Her opinion of the world little justified the pains she had taken to conciliate it.

I found Mr. Bainrothe buried in the deep reading-chair, always in his lifetime occupied by my father, his hand supporting his head, his hat and delicate ivory-headed cane thrown carelessly on the floor beside him—his whole attitude one of deep dejection.

He started a little when I addressed him by name, as if reviving from deep reverie—then arose and extended his hand to me, grasping mine firmly when I gave it to him, which I did unwillingly I confess.

"Miriam," he said, "this is all very dreadful!" subsiding into his seat again with a groan, and looking steadily and silently into the fire for some minutes afterward. "Very dreadful!" he repeated, shaking his head dismally; "wholly unforeseen!"

He glanced at me furtively once or twice to observe the effect of his words—his manner. Disappointed probably by my silence and coolness, he again affected to be absorbed in contemplation.

"Have we any thing left?" I asked quietly, at last—weary as I was of this histrionic performance of his, and anxious for the truth.

"Nothing," was the gloomy reply that fell on my ear—on my heart like molten lead; "nothing but what you know of. This house, this furniture, well preserved it is true, but old and out of style. Your carriage and horses—diamonds—in short, what you have in hand. That is all you have left of the great estate of your mother."

"It is enough to keep the wolf from the door, at all events," I remarked quietly, "and I am thankful for a bare competence; but why, under existing circumstances, were you in such haste to remove the contents of the iron chest behind the mirror, a portion of which you added to in September?"

He rose with dignity and advanced to the corner of the mantel-shelf, on which he leaned in a perfectly self-possessed position, one foot crossed lightly over the other, I remember, and one hand at his side—a favorite attitude of his. He interrupted my interrogatory with another, ever an effectual aid in browbeating.

"How did you become possessed of the knowledge that I kept gold there?" he asked, coolly; "I had meant to have preserved the secret of that spring until your majority, but you women penetrate every thing. No, my dear Miriam," he continued, without waiting for an answer, "unfortunately, the gold you refer to was exchanged for worthless bank-stocks in September last, according to the requisitions of your father's will; and, as that was the latest paid in of the loans he had made, and as all other means had been invested in like manner (and with a promptness characteristic of me, I believe I may say without vanity), as they fell into my hands. You will perceive, very clearly, that every thing, beyond the property I have here pointed out to you, is swept away."

I sat confounded by his consummate mendacity. His manner was entirely changed now—from one of gloomy depression, and absence of mind, to jaunty self-complacency, and even a degree of defiance was blended with his habitual coolness. It was only from his lurid and kaleidoscopic eyes, on which the light from an opposite window fell sharply, as he was speaking, that a glimpse of the inner man could be obtained. There was something confused and excited in their expression that did not escape me, but I kept my counsel, bewildered as I was.

"She has betrayed me!" was my involuntary reflection; "he was on his guard for my question or accusation; unconscious of my daily examination, he has borne away my gold, and it is lost to me forever!" And I clasped my hands more closely.

All that I have stated in the last two paragraphs, of my observation and reflections, passed through my mind like a flash—so that there seemed scarce a momentary interruption between his last remarks and those which followed—although so much had been recognized in the interval.

"It is unfortunate—" I said, merely eying him calmly.

For the first time during our interview, his eyes quivered—drooped—fell before mine; but, recovering instantly, he gave me a clear, cool stare in return for the quiet look of scorn he encountered. I saw at once the hopeless nature of the case.

"You will show me your accounts, Mr. Bainrothe," I observed, haughtily; "I require this at least!"

"When you have attained your majority, certainly, Miriam, not before. At present, I have only Evelyn Erle to satisfy on that score, and the law; I refer you to your guardian."

"Or whomsoever I choose to substitute as my guardian," I said; "I believe that privilege vests in me, being over eighteen."

"There are outside provisions in your father's will that debar you, unfortunately, from that usual privilege of minors of your age," he rejoined, quietly. "I regret this for many reasons: I should be glad to quiet any doubts you may entertain at once, but it is impossible that, compatibly with self-respect, I can do this, after what you have insinuated this morning; so you must wait, with what patience you can command, for the coming of your majority."

"Nearly two years to wait!" I cried; "I should die before then, if only of impatience. No, I will know at once. I will write to Mr. Gerald Stanbury—I will go to the president of the bank—nay, to Mr. Biddle himself. I will resolve this matter."

"You will do no such thing, my very dear young friend," said Mr. Bainrothe, advancing and laying his hand lightly on my arm—I shook it off, as if it had been a cold, crawling serpent. He retreated quietly but quickly. "You will do no such thing, Miriam," he repeated, resuming his post by the mantel-shelf, without evincing the least discomposure at my behavior to him; "your own good sense, your own good feeling will come to your assistance when you look this matter fully in the face, and dispassionately, which I must say you are not doing now. I have not earned at your hands mistrust and obloquy like this, Miriam; but, for the sake of the past, I shall strive and bear with the present. Who has inspired you with such opinions of me?"

Accomplished hypocrite! He tried to assume a much-injured air, to mingle forbearance with his reproachful words; but my heart was as hard toward him as a nether millstone, and his words made no impression on my flinty feelings, not even enough to strike fire therefrom, or sparks.

"No one," I replied, "no one; I judge for myself in all instances. Why did you secrete gold in the dead hour of the night, which, unless you bore it away in the same mysterious, or even more subtle manner, ought still to be in its hiding-place? Why did you preserve, even from Evelyn, your knowledge of that retreat, and the payment of the loan, which she asserts you have never communicated to her, from first to last? Why make mysteries of business transactions which, by the tenor of my father's will, she had a right to participate in, and be consulted about. Why?"

"I will tell you," he interrupted, gravely, and not without emotion. "Pause, and I will explain my reasons, painful as it is to me to do this, and greatly as I compromise myself by so doing, for, should you choose to be indiscreet, I shall have gained a dangerous enemy. I have no confidence in Evelyn Erie, in her truth, her sincerity, her honesty, even. I would not place temptation in her way. There, that is why I concealed the secrets of the spring-lock and recess in the wall from her, to secure them for you. As to the depositing of gold in that iron chest, I did it simply because I knew of no other place so safe and secret. In my own house none such exists, and, as I never kept gold for more than a few days after it was received, I thought it scarcely worth while to place it in the vaults of the bank. As I tell you, it was removed in September."

Surely no art was ever greater of its kind than that he manifested on this trying occasion, yet it fell to the earth, like the shedding scales of a serpent, before my simple discernment. Yet his words, his manner, did in some strange and unexplained way greatly exonerate Evelyn in my estimation, at least for a time, of complicity.

How could I consistently believe that two persons, entertaining of each other such similar and degrading opinions, could trust one another sufficiently to become confederates? Alas! I did not reflect that it is of such conflicting elements conspirators and conspiracies themselves are usually made, and that union of guilt creates eternal enmity.

I could not penetrate such depths of guile! I surrendered myself readily, I confess, to these fresh convictions. Evelyn was narrow, selfish, scheming, but, at all events, was not in league with this vampire. That was much. We might still make common cause against him—she with her injuries to avenge, I with mine—and preserve intact, and without his hated interference, that which was left to us at least.

There was comfort in the thought.

While these considerations were photographing themselves on my brain, with that indescribable rapidity of process whereby the action of the mind excels even that of light, Mr. Bainrothe was again settling himself down in my father's deep chair, and now once more addressed me in a sad and broken voice, perfectly well suited to the occasion.

"Miriam," he said, "I too have been an extensive loser through the failure of the Bank of Pennsylvania. Like yourself, with the exception of the house I now reside in, and some few small tenements I hold for rent, I find every thing swept away from me. Claude, it is true, is comfortable, and on his slender estate we must both now manage to support ourselves. You see marriage on his part is now simply out of the question. He has his father to take care of."

He said this last in so significant a tone, and apologetic a manner, that its intent was unmistakable, little dreaming how transparent my conviction of his crime had made his motives.

"As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago," I responded, and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow. "Yet I hope," I added, after a moment's hesitation, "that Claude may still marry and be happy."

"You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that. Oh, you are wrong, there! It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense! He could not see you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons. Had he looked through my eyes, Miriam—" (he was standing before me now, his arms extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), "he would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world." He seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed wildly away. A moment later, he returned, silently. I was standing before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress, when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot, polluting kisses on my face.

"I love—I love you!" he hissed in my ear, "and sooner or later I will possess you!"

Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my hands—the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust—he was gone again. I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like those of some strange lunatic. I was for a time frantic with rage and shame. But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton. He crept feebly from the pantry, and found me sobbing in my father's chair. As he stood meekly before me, leaning on his staff, and looking in my face, my only friend, so powerless to aid, the whole desolateness of my position burst upon me, like an overpowering avalanche, I bowed my head and wept.

"Bear up, bear up, my lamb," he said, in his weak, tremulous voice; "we have the promise of the Lord to rely on. Has he not said the seed of the just man should never know want or beg bread? We must believe in the Gospel, and be strengthened, Miss Miriam."

And he laid his quivering hand lightly on my head. I took it between both of my own, and kissed it fervently, bathing it with my tears. "Morton," I said, "dear old Morton, I have had such a terrible blow to bear—shame!" and again I was choked with sobs.

"Shame! Oh, no, my dear young mistress! my birdie child; ruin is not shame! This could never come near a Monfort, poor or rich! See! such as these old hands are, they shall work for you to the bone, and, if I understand matters aright, we still have the good roof left over our heads, and some little means for all immediate wants. God will put some good thought in your mind before long. Consult with Miss Evelyn; she is wise. You are not the first high-born young ladies who have had to teach a school."

"Oh, bless you, bless you, Morton, for the thought!"

All idea of telling him (helpless, as he was, to avenge it) of the degrading treatment I had received was now laid at rest, and the practical good sense of a suggestion, that, if successfully carried out, would take us so completely out of the hands of Mr. Bainrothe, and insure such complete independence, was felt at once.

At a glance I saw the expediency as well as the feasibility of the scheme.

Our large and secluded establishment was well fitted for a boarding-school. Our father's spotless name, and our undeserved misfortunes, were calculated to enlist popular respect and sympathy.

Evelyn's decided manners and liberal accomplishments, my better principles and more solid attainments (I viewed things with the naked eye of truth that day, and thus the balance was struck in its rapid survey), might all be brought to bear on our new vocation.

"This is the very thing for us to do, Morton," I said, after a pause, wiping my eyes, and smiling up into his dear, old, withered face, "I will acquaint Evelyn with it before I sleep. Ay, and with other matters as well," I added, mentally. "God help me now!—upon her verdict every thing depends."

I met Mabel on the stairway as I ascended to my chamber. She hung about my neck, in a childish way she had, and kissed me fondly. Perhaps she had observed my agitated face, in which many emotions contended, probably (as in my heart), but I only said, "Let me pass now, darling!—One thing will," I thought, "be secure, under the contemplated circumstances—your welfare and education, whatever else betide—beautiful, and good as an angel, you shall be wise as well."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you, sister Miriam," she cried, running up-stairs, after we had parted, "Evelyn has gone out, and left this note for you;" and she placed one in my hand, adding:

"Mr. Claude Bainrothe was here, while you were in the library with his father, and they went away together."

"Where did she receive him, Mabel?—the parlors are closed, you know."

"Yes, but she was all ready when he came. It was an appointment, I think he said, to take a walk, and he stood at the front-door, until she went down, only five minutes, sister Miriam. He did not mind it at all. He sent her up the letter he had brought from the office, and she read it out loud to Mrs. Austin. I was there—it was very short."

"What letter, Mabel?"

"Oh, about her aunt! This note tells you, I suppose. Evelyn is rich now; but she had to go to New York to see the lawyer, so Mr. Claude Bainrothe said, before she could claim the fortune."

More and more bewildered, I made haste to tear open the sealed note which Mabel had given me. Its contents were scanty, and not fully satisfactory.

"MY DEAR MIRIAM: The ways of Providence are truly strange and inscrutable, and its balance ever shifting. This morning I rose in despair, to-night I shall lie down rejoicing; for a way is again opened to us that will put it beyond his power to annoy or oppress us further. God knows we have both suffered enough, already, at his hands! My maiden aunt, Lady Frances Pomfret, is dead, and makes me her heir. I will show you the lawyer's letter when I return. The legacy is spoken of in the letter as small, because English people compute property so differently from ourselves. The attorney lives in New York, who is empowered by my aunt's English executor to transact this business, and it seems I; must go to him, Mohammed-like, as this mountain cannot come to me.

"Claude Bainrothe is polite enough to offer to escort me to the boat, which I shall barely reach in time; so, farewell for the present, dear Miriam. I shall stay with Emma Gilroy, and return in a very few days. Write to me, however, if I should be detained, to her father's care, and keep a good heart, until the return of your fortunate

"EVELYN.

"P.S.—You know it is little matter, between sisters, which possesses the property, so all share it. E."

Claude Bainrothe called that afternoon, and placed in my hand the copy of the codicil that had been sent to Evelyn, together with the lawyer's letter to which she had alluded, and which, on consulting with him, she found it unnecessary to take with her to New York, her identity being already established, beyond a doubt, with that of the legatee, in the eyes of the American agent in possession of all the facts of the case from the London attorney. I examined the codicil closely, and could find no flaw! It purported to be the last will of the Lady Frances Pomfret, who revoked all other bequests, in order to bestow her whole property on her niece, Evelyn Erle.

I confess I had felt some doubts as to the existence at all of such a person, of whom I had never before heard mention made, until I read her last bequest, and saw with my own eyes the business-like letter, confirming the whole transaction of Mr. James Mainwaring, the London attorney, with its foreign post-mark, and huge office seal. This was accompanied by one from a legal gentleman of New York, whose name was familiar to me, as my father's agent, and which confirmed the truth of the matter in the most effectual way; for, in his letter, Evelyn was advised to come to New York and receive her legacy.

There was nothing more to be said, certainly; still I had strange misgivings even then, which I felt to be both unjust and ungenerous, yet could not wholly banish, and again I examined the codicil.

Claude Bainrothe smiled; it was the first time, let me state en passant, that we had found ourselves alone together since his return. "You scrutinize that will as if you were a legal flaw-finder, Miss Monfort, instead of a very confiding young lady of poetical proclivities."

"It is very short!" I said, sententiously, comparing at the same time the handwriting with that of Mr. Mainwaring, who had in his letter declared himself the copyist, the original codicil remaining in his hands, together with the will it had annulled, and finding them the same unmistakably.

"Short, but sweet," he remarked curtly, yet smiling again, and extending his hand for it. "I suppose one of Earl Pomfret's children had trodden on the tail of the old maid's poodle—she lived with him it seems—and offended her beyond repair, or something similar had occurred, to make her change her intentions, which were at first all in his favor, and revoke her first bequest."

"Mr. Mainwaring does not say so," I remarked, again glancing over his letter. "He merely observes that it is only important to send a copy of the codicil, since it revokes all previous bequests. How did you know her first intentions—have there been other letters?"

"I suppose so," he replied, coloring slightly, "but what a lawyer you are! I scarcely know how I got the idea, to be frank with you; it may be incorrect after all, but Evelyn will tell you every thing, of course, when she comes."

"Let me see the codicil again, Mr. Bainrothe," and I examined it once more closely, as if by some fascination I could not resist. I remarked only one peculiarity in the document. One word was written in a cramped manner, as though space had been wanting—yet much of the sheet of paper on which it appeared was unoccupied—this was the word "thirty," at the beginning of the enumeration of moneys, for thirty thousand pounds (repeated below in figures) was the sum set forth in the codicil as the bequest of the Lady Frances Pomfret to her niece Evelyn Erle! The five numerals that represented the same idea as the written words occupied half of the last portion of the last line, and seemed to my invidious eyes to make an ostentatious display of the power that may lie in a cipher, or an array thereof.

I gloated over the record, with something perhaps of that spirit which may have lurked in my blood, from the time of Jacob, and which, so far, had not evinced itself, except perhaps on that occasion when my ear thrilled to the music of falling gold.

As I gazed, I mused on the strange fate that took from one sister to enrich the other so providentially, as it might have seemed.

The paper had fallen from my nerveless hand before I knew it, and I was aroused from reverie by Claude's action in stooping for it, and his voice saying:

"I will fold up this record, Miriam; it seems to render you gloomy."

"Thoughtful, certainly," I said, recovering myself, with that impulse of self-command that belonged to me by nature; "no more—not envious, Claude, I assure you, however appearances may be against me."

"Of such a feeling no one could suspect Miriam Monfort," he said, gallantly; whispering low in the next moment, "one year has made strange improvement in your beauty, Miriam—you are hardly the same little dark, quick, yet quiet girl, I parted with when I went to Copenhagen. There is so much more pose and majesty—more sweetness about you now—and Evelyn too is changed—oh! sadly—sadly!"

"I have sometimes feared," I said, keeping down, as best I might; the emotions conflicting in my bosom—"feared that she might be delicate, and that her energies consumed her; you must control these, Claude!"

"I!—why, what on earth can I have to do with Miss Erle and her energies? you speak in enigmas, Miriam!"

He was evidently embarrassed by the cool, incredulous look I dropped upon him. "I had supposed every thing was settled some time ago," I observed, quietly; "however, I will not bore you with conjectures or questions, I shall hear every thing, of course, when the proper time comes; until then, I shall hope to act out Milton's noble line, and 'stand and wait.' And now, if you have a few minutes to spare, do give me the resume of your experience at Copenhagen. What of the climate—what of the people—what of the court? Are the women pretty or plain, as a general thing—and had Hamlet light or dark hair, think you, from present indications in the royal family? Or is it the same blood? For you know that I have an enthusiasm about Denmark! It is such a little, valiant, fiery, dominant state, and their sagas of the sea-kings set my blood on flame. This always was a weakness of mine, you remember."

"Yes, I recollect perfectly how you used to run on about Elsinore. Well, I went there frequently, Miriam, and can tell you all about the dreary, decayed old town, to your utmost satisfaction. Even your romance would fail, could you behold it now."

And Claude evinced considerable power, as a word-painter, in the hour that followed, during the early part of which Mabel appeared at the door, was silently beckoned in by me, to remain a quiet and delighted listener, almost to the end of the interview, when Mrs. Austin suddenly summoned her away; and again Claude Bainrothe and I were left for a few minutes tete-a-tete. When my visitor departed, or rose to do so, we shook hands frankly; and I thought, on the whole, he seemed grateful for my mode of treatment, and the interest I had shown in his narrative—so entire a proof of the disinterested nature of my feelings, could he only have thought so! It had probably been his intention to test and probe them in the beginning, and he had succeeded.

He lingered a moment, however, on the threshold, gazing at me earnestly.

"Miriam," he said, reentering and closing the door, "Miriam, I wish I could be certain of your friendship. I may put it to fiery proof before long. Can I rely on you to support me then?"

"Claude," I rejoined, gravely, "if I can assist you in any useful or honorable way, I shall be glad to do so, on general principles alone. You did not respond fairly to my friendly manifestations in times past, after—after a certain explanation, and the impulse has died away since then, I confess. Our future lives can have very little in common, I imagine."

"Would you not help me to break a loathed chain?" he asked, almost fiercely. "Bonds are often forced upon a man," he continued, "by the very reason of his superior strength. It is so hard to resist a pleading woman! O Miriam! more than any one living, I respect—revere—love—yes, love you. Pity me! You can assign no secondary reasons now to professions like these. You are no longer rich—no longer—"

"Miss Kilmansegg, with the golden leg," I interrupted, derisively. "Truly you surprise me."

"O Miriam! how can you treat me with such heartless levity?" and he wrung his hands bitterly. "I am pushed to desperation already. I never knew, until I lost you, what you were to me; how superior to all other women, how pure, how unworldly, how strong, how rich in all mental and womanly endowments! Hear me, Miriam," and he attempted to take my hand, an error of which he was soon made conscious.

"Claude Bainrothe," I said, sternly, "I can tolerate you on one condition alone—that you respect me. You cease to do this, you, the betrothed husband of another woman! the moment you sully my ear with your addresses, your effusions of sentiment. They are no more, I know; but even these I will not endure from you, nor yet from—" I hesitated; a hated name had risen to my lips, but I repressed it. He, the son, surely was not the father's keeper.

"You do me injustice; before Heaven, you do!" he exclaimed, flinging back his long curling locks impetuously, by a toss of his superb head, and bending his blazing eyes upon me. "Hear me, Miriam, I hold the clew to a secret by means of which I can compel wealth to flow back to your feet, in the old channels, if you will be mine. You would not have thought this condition hard a year ago. What has occurred to change you? You loved me then—by Heaven you love me still! Oh, say so, Miriam, and make me doubly blessed! Am I deceived in the expression of that beaming eye? You will pardon, bless me;" and he knelt humbly at my feet, and clasped my hand.

"Rise, Claude," I said, "and forgive me if a momentary feeling of triumph, that may have lit my eye, was mingled with the feeling of entire emancipation from all past weakness, which this hour so surely proves, and so satisfactorily, to my own spirit. You are to me like any other stranger."

He was standing sullenly before me now, his head dropping on his breast, his hands loosely clasped before him.

"You are deceived," I pursued, calmly, "if you imagine from any expression of mine that one ray of love survives the ruin of other days. I told you the truth when I said all was over between us forever. Did you suppose me a woman to sit down in the ashes because one man—one woman of all God's manifold creation—had proved false, or treacherous, or ungrateful? I should have wronged my youth, my soul, my descent, my God, had I so yielded. Go and fulfill your contract faithfully this time; a second rupture might not go so well with you as the first. There are persons who are singularly tenacious of their possessions, and who number their bondsmen as a principal portion of their property. Beware how you anger such! Your father too. He would be conciliated now, by what would once have incensed him. Evelyn Erie is rich, Miriam Monfort is poor; why need I add another word? The suggestion is perfect."

Coldly, silently, angrily, he left the room. I heard him stamp impatiently at the hall-door, at some delay apparently in undoing its fastenings—his childish habit when provoked—such was his haste to be gone.

Yet I could scarcely judge, from what had just occurred, taking this, too, in connection with what had passed long before, when I alone was the injured and forgiving one, that I had drawn down upon my head his eternal enmity.

But thus it proved.



CHAPTER IX.

Months passed away—months of dreary, monotonous despondency, through which ran a vein of anxiety that banished peace. During all this time matters went on pretty much as they had done before, with one exception, I held no further intercourse with Mr. Basil Bainrothe. Claude was absent most of this time on business, for a firm with which he had lately connected himself, and on the few occasions of his presence at Monfort Hall treated me with marked formality.

Evelyn had affected to make light of Mr. Bainrothe's outrage toward me, though far from defending him. "Men of his years do these things sometimes," she said, "under the mask of playfulness and fatherly feeling, and, however unpleasant it may be to bear them, one has to pass them over. You are right, of course, to be reserved with him henceforth, Miriam. By-the-by, dear child, your prudery is excessive, I fear, and it makes a young girl, especially if she is not beautiful, so ridiculous! But, of course, that even is far better than the opposite extreme. Now, I flatter myself, I know how to steer the juste milieu, always so desirable."

"But, Evelyn," I had rejoined, "his manner was atrocious! I could not—I would not if I could—give you any idea of its animality; yes, that is the very word! it makes my blood creep to think of it, even!"

And I hid my face in my hands, crimson as it was from the retrospection.

"Then don't think of it at all. That will be the best way, decidedly," she had said, tapping me playfully with her fan, then whispering: "This lover of yours may be useful to us, you know; let us not goad him to rebellion. You can be as cool as you please, Miriam, but be civil all the same."

I surveyed her with flashing eyes. "Such advice," I retorted, "falls but poorly from your lips, Evelyn Erle, whom my mistaken father dubbed 'propriety personified.' One woman should feel for another's wounded delicacy, even if a stranger; but, when it comes to sisters, O Evelyn!"

"And such insolence falls very absurdly from you, Miriam Monfort, under the circumstances. Sisters, indeed!" she sneered. "It was a claim you repudiated once!" and, with a sweeping bow, she left me, to repeat "sisters, indeed!" in my bitter solitude.

What were these circumstances to which she so haughtily referred? With my heavy head resting on my weary hands, I sat and contemplated them—ay, looked them fully in the face! Outwardly, matters stood just as they had ever done.

The same circle of servants—of acquaintances—revolved around us. The house was unchanged, the living identically the same, even to the one bottle of fine wine per day, carefully withdrawn from the cobwebbed cellar by Morton, and as carefully decanted for our table.

But this alone, of all the viands set before us, was furnished at my expense. My own small hoard of silverpieces had, it is true, from the time of our ruin, more than sufficed for my absolute wants and Mabel's, confined, as they were, to mere externals of necessary dress; but all other outlay, even to the payment of Mabel's masters (I taught her chiefly myself, however), was met by Evelyn.

We, the children of a proud man, were dependent on strangers. Look upon it as I would, the revolting fact stared me out of countenance. Charity, the chambermaid, had more right to lift an opposing front to Evelyn than I had; for she earned the bread she ate, while I—there was no use concealing the mortifying truth any longer—served the apprenticeship of pauperdom!

True, the house was legally mine—the furniture I used, the plate I was served from, the carriage I occasionally drove out in, were all my own possessions—though, with a slow and moth-like process, I was gradually consuming these. For, at my majority, it was my determination to pay for my support in the intervening years, even if I sacrificed every thing in order to wipe out obligations. Ay, the very corn my horses were eating (what mockery to keep them at all!) was now furnished by another, and must eventually be paid for, with interest.

Then, how would it fare with me, beggared indeed? I would take time by the forelock; I would begin at once.

"Evelyn," I had said, not long after the conversation reverted to, "is there no way in which my property may be fixed, so as to leave the principal untouched, and still yield an income sufficient for my support, and that of Mabel? The bread of dependence is very bitter to me."

"I ate it long," she said, "and found it passing sweet. You are only receiving back the payment for an old debt, Miriam. Your father's lavish generosity can never be repaid, even to his children, by me, who was so long its happy recipient."

The words seemed unanswerable at the time, inconsistent as they were with her past reproaches. Again she said—when the same murmur left my lips upon a later occasion—looking at me sorrowfully as she spoke, and with something incomprehensible to me in her expression that affected me strangely: "Wait until you are of age, Miriam: all can be arranged definitely then; but now, the waves might as well chafe against the rocks that bind them in their bed, as you against your condition;" adding with a tragic look and tone, half playful, of course, "Votre sort, c'est moi. You remember what Louis XIV. said, 'L'Etat, c'est moi;' now be pacified, I implore you—all will still be well," and she patted my shoulder kindly, and kissed my forehead.

Her forbearance touched me; but the time came when all this was thrown aside. It was the old fable again of the bee and the bee-moth. Having failed in her first efforts, she was now very gradually gluing me against the hive.

Evelyn, as I have said, had always been at the head of my father's house and mine, and, by his will, was still to remain so until my marriage, or majority—one, usually, in the eyes of the law, in most respects. So it pained me infinitely less than it must have done had a different order of things ever existed, to see her supreme at Monfort Hall, and to feel that every thing emanated from her hand.

Of all the servants, old Morton alone seemed to feel the difference. Mrs. Austin had always openly preferred Evelyn to me, and Mabel to either—so that matters worked very well between those three. For, though I do not think Evelyn loved Mabel, nor Mabel Evelyn, yet, with this link between them of servile affection, they managed very well, without much feeling on either side.

Mrs. Austin certainly spoiled Mabel, yet she only rendered her self-indulged, not selfish—for this difference arises out of temperament and disposition—and no mother could have been more tender or vigilant of her comfort or welfare, than was this ancient and attached nurse and servitor. I mention this here, for it reconciled me later, somewhat, to an inevitable separation, that must have been else thrice bitter. But the culmination approaches!

I was lying, one evening, on a deep velvet couch in the library, now rarely used except for business purposes—for, again, fires and lights sparkled, in their respective seasons, in the several receiving-rooms of Monfort Hall, maintained by Evelyn's bounty—when, overpowered by the influence of the hour, and the weariness of my own unprofitable thoughts, and perhaps the dreary play of Racine's that I was reading, I dropped asleep.

The sofa was placed in a deep embrasure, surrounded with sweeping curtains, for the convenience of reading in a reclining posture, by the light of the window, and quite shut away, by such means, from the remainder of the room.

To-night, a chilly one in August, very unusual for that season, the window was down, and the drawn curtains kept off the light of the dim lamp that swung from the centre of the apartment immediately above the octagon centre-table.

I was roused to full consciousness by the sound of voices, which I had heard indistinctly mingling with my dreams for some time before.

Mr. Bainrothe and Evelyn were conversing or discussing some subject, somewhat angrily.

"You had the lion's share," I heard him say; "you have no reason to complain. The rest came in afterward, and was all merged in that sinking ship, and went down with it into the deep waters. It would not have been as much as you received, had it been saved, which it was not."

"That is not my concern," she rejoined, dryly; "but for my communication, Miriam would have secured all next morning. She was bent upon it. You ought never to forget this."

"Nor do I; but, after all, you are the chief beneficiary, Evelyn."

"And your son—do you count his welfare as nothing? Will he not share with me? Nay, was it not for his sake, chiefly, I warned you, knowing how implacable else you might be toward us both, and how 'gold would gild every thing' in your estimation."

"True, true; but still something is due to me. Undertake this office—succeed—and command me, eternally. I love that girl, as you know, as Claude could never love any one, and it will go hard with me if I do not still inspire her with somewhat of the same sentiment—that is, with your coincidence."

"Never, never!" she exclaimed with asperity; "her hatred is too implacable—the Judaic principle is too firmly grafted in her life. Truly, she is one of a stiff-necked generation. Her heart is especially hard toward you, Basil Bainrothe—and, I confess, you were precipitate."

"I know, I know—but that error can be repaired. I did not think of marriage then, I confess; after her bankruptcy and scorn to me, things had not gone so far; her own severity has made me consider the subject seriously. She is not one to be treated lightly, Evelyn!"

"Your son found that out to his cost!" was the bitter rejoinder, and I heard her draw in her breath hard between her closed teeth, with the hissing sound so familiar to me, and peculiar to her when she labored under excitement—a sound like that of a roused serpent.

"Yes, to his cost; but there is no question of that now. Though, I must say, I think he erred. He, like the base Judean, cast away a pearl richer than all his tribe!"

"Thank you!" was Evelyn's curt, ungracious reply.

I rose from the couch, my hand was on the curtain; painful as it was to me, I would go forth and confront them both with the acknowledgment of their conspiracy, their fraud. I would not again listen to bitter truths as I had done before, involuntarily, when bound hand and foot by the weakness of my condition. I was strong and courageous now. I had no excuse for hearing another syllable—I would defy them, utterly!

All this passed like a flash through my mind.

On what slight pivots our fate turns sometimes! How small are the guiding-points of destiny! A momentary entanglement of my bracelet, with one of the tassels of the curtain, delayed me an instant, inevitably, in my impulsive endeavor to extricate myself from its meshes, and what I then heard, determined me to remain where I was, at any cost to my own sense of pride and honor.

Fear, abject fear, obtained complete ascendency over every sense, and personal safety became my sole consideration. I, who had boasted so lately of my courage, felt the cold dew of cowardice bathe my brow, its tremor shake my frame.

They were plotting—deliberately plotting, as the price of secrecy on one part—to shut me up in a lunatic asylum until my consent could be obtained to that ill-starred marriage!

"Every thing is favorable to this undertaking," I heard Mr. Bainrothe say; "her own moody and excitable condition of late—the absence of her physician (meddlesome people, those conscientious medical men sometimes prove, even when not asked for an opinion!)—Mrs. Austin's testimony as to those lethargies, which would be conclusive of itself—our own disinterestedness, so fully proved by our devotion to her and Mabel, under difficulties—her mother's mysterious malady—all these things will make it easy to carry out this plan in which your cheerful coincidence, and perhaps Claude's even, will be essential."

"I doubt whether you succeed in gaining him over," she remarked, coldly; "and, as to me, I shall act as you desire, perhaps, but any thing but 'cheerfully,' I assure you. I consider it a mighty price to pay for—" she hesitated.

"A fortune and a husband?" he queried. "Claude has his suspicions, I well know, but they rest on me alone so far. Could he be convinced of your part in distracting Miriam's gold from its legitimate channel, believe me, he would turn his back on you forever! I know the man."

"Yet he saw me—he must have seen me—alter that word in the codocil to my aunt's legacy—asking no explanation at the time, receiving none thereafter."

"That was different; he thought it a piece of vainglory on your part alone, amounting to nothing, if, indeed, he observed it at all. No, no, Evelyn Erle! if you expect to carry out your views, you must aid me in executing mine. I shall keep your secret from my son on no other conditions. We are confederates or nothing in this matter, you see."

"And suppose, in return, I publish yours to the world," she suggested, coolly; "brand you with baseness? What then, Basil Bainrothe—what then?"

"You dare not!" was the prompt reply. "I hold written propositions of yours on the subject—you have not a scratch of a pen of mine to show. I should declare simply that you were a frustrated rogue, that is all. Who could prove otherwise?" He laughed in his derisive way. There was a bitter pause.

"What is it you want me to do?" she asked, hoarsely, at its expiration. "State definitely what you exact from me in return for your forbearance—your honorable secrecy?" There was exquisite irony in her tone.

"Simply this," he said, calmly, taking no notice of her emphasis—"you are to accompany Miriam to the asylum and act as her nurse and guardian until my point is gained. You shall be present at every interview, and you shall both be made perfectly comfortable—treated like ladies; in short, every propriety shall be sacredly observed, and, on the day on which her marriage with me is solemnized, you may both return to Monfort Hall—you as its head, and Claude as its master; Miriam will go home with me, her husband, of course, and all will be settled. Now, I give you twenty-four hours wherein to consider this proposition. At the end of that time, if you still hesitate, Claude shall know every thing. You can then take your chances with him—he may be ready to take a felon for a wife, for aught I know, after all!"

"Come, then, to-morrow evening," she acceded, after a second pause, and in low, angry accents, "and I will acquaint you with my determination—my necessity rather." They parted thus and there.



CHAPTER X.

Nearly dead with terror and indignation, I crept stealthily to my own chamber, in which I locked myself up securely, resisting all friendly overtures of the enemy, except one cup of tea, received from the hand of a servant through the half-opened door (which was instantly relocked) of my citadel.

My resolution was formed that night. I would leave Monfort Hall, and even forsake Mabel, until I could return and legally claim both. At my majority, Mabel would be of age to select between her guardians, by that time, according to law, and—we should see! As for poor Morton, I would write to him and claim his prayers alone. Age like his is so irresponsible. I dared not trust him farther!

It was all very brief and bitter!

As yet I had digested no plan of action. I would go westward, I thought, but just as far away as my money would carry me from these fiends, trusting to God for the rest, just as a boat puts off from a blazing ship.

Of course, I must adopt another name—what should it be? I should need clothing; and how secure and convey away my trunk unseen by Evelyn? My diamonds must be secreted or disposed of—how should this be done? Could I trust Mrs. Austin—Mabel?

No, the suggestion was discarded at once as unworthy of consideration.

One was too old, too self-indulged, too selfish; and in age people usually worship expediency alone. The other far too young not to be necessarily indiscreet and impulsive. To have been otherwise at her tender age would have been simply monstrous!

No, I must forego even the sweet satisfaction of saying farewell to Mabel; we must part perhaps forever, as we might meet again within an hour, and all her distress and anxiety must pass unshared and unheeded.

There was no one else I cared very much about leaving, but the love of locality was a strong feature in my disposition, and every room in my father's house was dear to me, as was every book in his study, and every plant in our deep-green, shadowed garden.

The very streets were sacred in my sight, that I had trodden from childhood, but my liberty was more precious to my heart than scenes of old associations, and to gain one the other must be sacrificed. There was no hesitating now: I was on the tread-mill of fate, and must proceed, or fall and be crushed beneath.

And here again I repeat, what I have said so recently: "On what slight pivots our destiny often turns!—through what small channels Providence works its wondrous ways!"

A pair of shoes had been sent home for me that day, which still lay on the table, wrapped and corded. In truth, they came very opportunely; "I shall want these soon," I thought, as I examined the strong and elastic bootees, which had been made for me in view of my morning walks, a part of dear Dr. Pemberton's regimen, which I strenuously and advantageously carried out.

As I spoke, the paper in which they had been enveloped rustled down on the floor by my side. I stooped, languidly, to pick it up, merely from a sense of order, and my eye fell on a long column, headed "Wanted," and, almost for lack of resolution to withdraw it, wandered down its paragraphs, step by step.

It was a Democratic paper, such as was never patronized by Evelyn—herself a zealous conservative in politics, as our father had been before us—and, as I cared little for newspaper-reading, I had never suggested a subscription to any sheet that she did not fancy, although I inclined to democracy.

I was somewhat amused by the quaintness of some of the advertisements of this sheet for the people, that style of literature being new to me; and found myself smiling over the perfections set forth as necessary, by the paragons of the earth, in both wife and servant, when I came to a dead stand. Here was the very thing I should have selected, could I have chosen my own destination instead of depending on chance (as if, indeed, there were such a thing possible with God—the predestinator of the universe), or necessity (is the name a much better one as applied to the all-seeing Deity?), or fate (a more comprehensive but little less-abused term, perhaps), to do this for me!

The advertisement ran thus, and quite fascinated me with its eccentricity, as well as congeniality to my condition:

"A gentleman and lady, now sojourning for a short time at the Mansion House, wish to employ, immediately, for the benefit of their children, an instructress, who must be, imprimis, a lady—and young; secondly, soundly constituted and well educated; thirdly, a good reader, and able to teach elocution, and entertain a circle; fourthly, willing to reside with cheerfulness on a Southern plantation; fifthly, content with a moderate modicum as salary. None other need apply—no references given or asked. Inquire for Somnus."

I laid down the paper, and drew a long, free breath; then rang a peal of merriment, startling under the circumstances. It was the first hearty laugh that had left my lips for many days. "What an oddity, one or the other of these people must be!" I thought, "the man most probably—yes, I am sure it is he—no woman ever was so independent of references, or made youth a sine qua non, nor elocution either. But am I soundly constituted? ay, there's the rub! suppose my terrible foe sees fit to interfere, 'Epilepsy,' as Evelyn called it, and perhaps with reason—God alone knows!—what then? Well, I will hazard it—that is all—I will charge nothing for lost days, and try to be zealous in the interval; besides, it is a long time since one of these obliteration spells occurred; for I shall ever believe Evelyn dosed me for her own purposes on that last occasion! Fiend!—fiend!—and yet my little sister must remain in such hands for a season, protected by her guardian angel only."

I passed a feverish night, employing the first part of it in quilting my diamonds into a belt which I placed about my waist; and the remainder in putting together as many useful, as well as a few handsome clothes, as my travelling-trunk would contain; bonnets, evening-dresses, which require room to dispose of, and the like vanities, I abandoned to Evelyn's tender mercies. I rose early and, as usual whenever the weather permitted, sallied forth before breakfast, but this time unaccompanied by my usual attendant, Charity.

The "Mansion House" was at no great distance from our own residence. The beautiful home of the Bingham family, then converted into an hotel, destroyed by fire at a later period, like our own house, was situated in the ancient part of the city, from which fashion had gradually emerged, and shrank away to found new streets and dwellings.

I rang at the private door, and asked the porter for "Somnus;" at the same time sending up a card, on which was written:

"'Miriam Harz,' applicant for the post of teacher."

A few moments later a grave, copper-colored servant, respectably clad, and with an air of responsibility about him that was almost oppressive, invited me solemnly to follow him up the winding marble stair—so often trodden by the feet of Washington and his court, when a gracious assemblage filled the halls above—and ushered me into a small but lofty parlor at its head, in which a gentleman sat reading the morning journal.

Very wide awake, indeed, seemed he who affected the title of the god of sleep, as he arose courteously from his chair, still holding his paper in one hand, and waved me to a seat on the worn horse-hair sofa between the windows.

He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular homeliness.

"Miss Harz?" he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the mantel-shelf—near which he had been sitting—above an unseasonable, smouldering coal-fire.

I bowed affirmatively for all reply. "And I," he continued, "am Prosper La Vigne, of the 'Less durneer' settlement" (for thus he pronounced this anglicized French name) "Maurice County, Georgia," with an air that seemed to say, "You have heard of me, of course!" and again I bowed, as my only alternative.

"Lay off your bonnet, if you please," he said, coolly; "I would like to see the shape of your head before proceeding further. Mine, you see, is an ill-balanced affair," smiling quizzically in his effort to be condescending, perhaps. "This is a mere business transaction, you know," seeing that I hesitated to comply, "and your phrenological developments must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once—but do as you like. Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the brow is a good one. That will suffice, I suppose. I will take the moral qualities on trial for the nonce. My wife is wholly occupied with her domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home, and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is dubious. That reminds me! I have not heard the sound of your voice yet; I am much governed by intonation in my estimates of people, and usually form a perfect opinion at first sight. Be good enough to read this item," and he handed me the morning paper, formally indicating it with his long, lithe forefinger. It was from one of Mr. Clay's speeches. I did as he requested, without hesitation.

"People trot out horses and negroes when they wish to purchase; why not governesses?" I questioned, dumbly. "He did well to ask no references; his examination is thorough, I perceive," and I laid the paper down, half amused, half provoked, when I had finished. He was gazing at me open-mouthed—no unusual thing with him, I found later—and was silent for a few moments.

"Splendid! admirable!" he exclaimed, suddenly; "both, voice and elocution perfect—you possess the greatest of all accomplishments, madam, next to conversational excellence," rising to his feet, and bowing low and seating himself again, in a formal way of his own. "Music is a mockery compared to such reading! as well set a jew's-harp against the winds of heaven! You understand my meaning, of course; it is not precisely that, however. Now let us converse a little."

"The advertisement did not refer to that, I believe, as a condition," I said, somewhat indignantly, and flushing hotly as I spoke. "I really cannot converse to order. I am a person of moods, and do not feel always like talking at all," and I rose and prepared to draw down my veil, take up my parasol, and depart.

"I like you none the worse for a proper exhibition of spirit," he said, nodding kindly, and settling himself once more to his paper composedly. "Sit still, miss, and compose yourself by the time Madame La Vigne comes in, or she may think you high-tempered, and I am sure you are nothing of the kind—only very properly proud. There, now, that is right! You seem to be a very sensible, well-conditioned young person indeed, and I think you will suit. You are the tenth since yesterday morning," smiling and bowing blandly, "and the only one that could read intelligibly. Elocution, you see, is my hobby. I forgot to say," looking up from his paper, after a pause, "the salary is six hundred dollars—not enough, perhaps, for a lady of your merit—but quite as much as we can afford to give. This I call a modicum."