Читать книгу Miriam Monfort - Catherine A. Warfield - Страница 7

"No; that is just why I don't like him. He has no mind of his own—or maybe he has two minds. Mamma thinks so, I know."

"She has told you so, I suppose?"

"If she had, I would not talk about it. No, she never told me so. I found it out myself. I know what she thinks, though, of every one, just by looking at her."

"Then what does she think of me?" asked Mrs. Austin, sharply.

"That you are a good, dear old nurse," I said, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, jumping up and throwing my arms about her; "only a little, very little, bit fonder of Evelyn than me. But that is natural. She is so much prettier and older than I am, and takes better care of her clothes. Besides, I am cross about dressing, I know I am; and afterward I am always so sorry."

"My Miriam always had a good heart," said Mrs. Austin, quite subdued, and returning my embraces. "And now let me call Charity to wash and comb and dress you before your mamma comes home. You know she always likes to see you looking nicely. But soon you must learn to do this for yourself; Charity will be wanted for other uses."

"I know, I know," I cried, jumping up and down; "Evelyn told me all about it yesterday," and the flush of joy mounted to my brow. "Won't we be too happy, Mrs. Austin, when our own dear little brother or sister comes?" And I clasped my hands across my bare neck, hugging myself in ecstasy.

"I don't know, child; there's no telling. What fingers" (holding them up wofully to the light); "every color of the rainbow! That green stain will be very hard to get out of your nails. How careless you are, Miriam! But, as I was saying, there's no telling what to expect from an unborn infant. It's wrong to speculate on such uncertainties; it's tempting Providence, Miriam. In the first place, it may be deformed, I shouldn't wonder—that lame boy about so much—short of one leg, at least."

"Deformed! O Mrs. Austin! how dreadful! I never thought of that." And I began to shiver before her mysterious suggestions.

"Or it may be a poor, senseless idiot like Johnny Gibson. He comes here for broken victuals constantly, you know, and your mamma sees him."

"Mrs. Austin, don't talk so, for pity's sake," catching at her gown wildly; "don't! you frighten me to death."

"Or it may be (stand still directly, Miriam, and let met get this paint off your ear)—or it may be, for aught we know or can help, born with a hard, proud, wicked heart, that may show itself in bad actions—cruelty, deceit, or even—" she hesitated, drearily.

"Mrs. Austin, sha'n't say such things about that poor, innocent little thing," I cried out, stamping my foot impatiently, "that isn't even born."

"Well, well; there's no use rejoicing too soon, that's all I mean to say. And why you should be glad, child, to have your own nose broken, is more than I can see," with a deep and awful groan.

"For pity's sake, stop! I am glad, I will be glad, there now! as glad as I please, just because I know mamma will be glad, and papa will be glad, and George Gaston will be glad, and because I do so adore babies, sin or no sin; I can't help what you think; I say it again, I do adore them. No, I ain't afraid of 'God's eternal anger' at all for saying so; not a bit afraid. What does He make them so sweet for if He does not expect us to love them dearly—His little angels on earth? Whenever a baby passes here with its nurse, I run after it and stop it and play with it as long as I can; and oh, I wish so often we had one of our own here at home!" embracing myself again with enthusiasm.

"Evelyn is right; you are a very absurd child, Miriam," she said, smiling, in spite of her efforts to keep grave; "very silly, even."

"And you are a very foolish, dear old nurse, and you will love our baby, too, won't you now?" clasping her also, zealously.

"Be still, child—here comes Charity. She will think you crazy to be rumpling my cap in that way, and talking about such matters. You are getting to be a perfect tomboy, Miriam! What would your papa say if he could see you now, so dirty and disorderly—your papa, as neat as a pink always?—Charity, what kept you so long to-day? Be quick and get Miss Miriam's new cambric dress, and her blue sash, and her new, long, gray kid gloves, and her leghorn hat, and white zephyr scarf. She is going to drive out presently with her mamma and papa, and must look decent for once in a while." After a pause she continued: "Miss Evelyn was dressed an hour ago, and is ready at the gate now, with her leghorn flat on and her parasol in her hand, I'll be bound," looking from the window. "There comes Norman Stanbury home from school. That's the idea, is it?" and the good nurse looked grave. "It will never do, it will never do in the world," she said, as she glanced at them, then turned away, shaking her head dolefully. "My child, my pretty piece of wax-work, must do better than that comes to. Her blood must never mix with such as runs in the veins of the Stanbury clan."

About a month later the feeble wail of my little sister greeted my ear as I entered my mamma's room one morning, in obedience to her summons, and my heart was filled with a rapture almost as great as hers who owned this priceless treasure.

Three weeks later, very suddenly and most unexpectedly, my dear mamma was stricken mortally as she sat, apparently quite convalescent, in her deep chair by the cradle, smiling at and caressing her infant. Mrs. Austin and I were alone in the room with her; papa and Evelyn had gone out for a walk. I had just been thinking how very pretty she looked that day in her white wrapper, with a pink ribbon at the throat, and her little, closely-fitting lace cap, through which her rich brown hair was distinctly visible. She had a fine oval face, clear, pallid skin, and regular though not perfect features, and never appeared so interesting or beautiful as now, in the joy and pride of her new maternity. Suddenly she grew strikingly pale, gasped, stretched out her hands, fixed her imploring eyes on me, and fell back, half fainting, in her chair.

By the time we had placed her on her bed she was insensible, breathing hard, though with a low fluttering pulse, that kept hope alive until the doctor came. The moment he beheld her he knew that all was over; remedies were tried in vain. She never spoke again, and, when my father returned an hour later, a senseless mass of snow replaced the young wife he had left, happy and hopeful.

I was spared the first manifestations of his agony, in which disappointment and the idea of being pursued by a relentless fate bore so great a part, by my own condition, which rendered me insensible for nearly thirty hours, to all that passed around me. It was afternoon when I awoke, as if from a deep sleep, to find myself alone with Mrs. Austin in my chamber.

Except from a sense of lassitude I experienced no unpleasant sensations, and I found myself marveling at the causes that could have consigned me in health to my bed and bed-gown, to my shadowed chamber and the supervision of my faithful nurse, when the sound of suppressed yet numerous footsteps in the hall below met my ear, and the consciousness that something unusual was going on took possession of and quickened my still lethargic faculties.

"What does all this mean, Mrs. Austin?" I asked at last, in a voice feeble as an infant's, "and what are those steps below? Why am I so weak, and what are you doing here? Answer me, I beseech you," and I clasped my hands piteously.

"Eat your panada, Miriam, and ask no questions," she said, lifting a bowl from above a spirit-lamp on the chimney-piece, and bearing it toward me. "Here it is, nice and hot. The doctor said you were to take it as soon as you awoke."

I received eagerly the nourishment of which I stood so greatly in need, spiced and seasoned as it was with nutmegs and Madeira wine, and, as I felt new strength return to me with the warmth that coursed through my veins, the memory of all that had passed surged rapidly back, as a suspended wave breaks on the strand, and with the shock I was restored to perfect consciousness.

"I know what it all means now," I cried. "Mamma! mamma! Let me go to my poor mamma!" and before she could arrest my steps I flew to the head of the stairway, dressed as I was in my white bed-gown, and was about to descend, when Dr. Pemberton stopped my progress.

"Go back, Miriam; I must see you a moment before you can go down-stairs," he said, calmly, and with authority in his voice. "Nay, believe me, I will not restrain you a moment longer than necessary, if you are obedient now."

"Do you promise this?" I cried, sobbing bitterly.

"I do," and he led me gently back to Mrs. Austin, then examined my pulse, my countenance carefully, inquired if I had taken nourishment, gave me a few drops from a vial he afterward left on the table for use, and, signifying his will to Mrs. Austin, went calmly but sorrowfully from the room.

My simple toilet was speedily made. My dress consisted of a white-cambric gown, I remember, over which Mrs. Austin bound, with some fantastic notion of impromptu mourning, a little scarf of black crepe, passing over one shoulder and below the other, like those worn by the pall-bearers; and, so attired, she took me by the hand and led me, dumb with amazement and grief, through the crowd that surged up the stairs and in the hall and parlors below, into the drawing-room, where, on its tressels, the velvet-covered coffin stood alone and still open, its occupant waiting in marble peace and dumb patience for the last rites of religion and affection to sanctify her repose, ere darkness and solitude should close around her forever.

The spell that had controlled me was rent away, when I saw that sweet and well-beloved aspect once again fixed in a stillness and composure that I knew must be eternal, the tender eyes sealed away from mine forever, the fine sensitive ear dull, expression obliterated! I flung myself in a passion of grief across the coffin. I kissed the waxen face and hands a thousand times and bathed them with scalding tears, then stooping down to the dulled ear I whispered:

"Mamma! mamma! hear me, if your soul is still in your breast, as I believe it is; I want to say something that will comfort you: I want to promise you to take care of your little baby all my days and hers, to divide all I have with her—to live for her, to die for her if such need comes—never to leave her if I can help it, or to let any one oppress her. Do you hear me, Mamma Constance?"

"What are you whispering about, Miriam?" said Mrs. Austin, drawing me away grimly.

"There, did you see her smile?" I asked, as in my childish imagination that sweet expression, that comes with the relaxation of the muscles to some dead faces toward the last of earth, seemed to transfigure hers as with an angel grace. "Her soul has not gone away yet," I murmured, "she heard me, she believed me," and I clasped my hands tightly and sank on my knees beside the coffin, devoutly thanking God for this great consolation.

"Child, child, you are mad," she said, drawing me suddenly to my feet. "Come away, Miriam, this is no place for you; I wonder at Dr. Pemberton! That coffin ought to be closed at once, for decay has set in; and there is no sense in supposing the spirit in the poor, crumbling body, when such signs as these exist," and she pointed to two blue spots on the throat and chin.

I did not understand her then—I thought they were bruises received in life—and wondered what she meant as well as I could conjecture at such a time of bewilderment; but still I resolutely refused to leave my dear one's side, sobbing passionately when Mr. Lodore came in to take me away at last, in obedience to Dr. Pemberton's orders.

"Come, Miriam, this will never do," he said. "Grief must have its way, but reason must be listened to as well. You have been ill yourself, and your friends are anxious about you; if your mamma could speak to you, she would ask you to go to your chamber and seek repose. Nay, more, she would tell you that, for all the thrones of the earth, she would not come back if she could, and forsake her angel estate."

"Not even to see her baby?" I asked, through my blinding tears. "O Mr. Lodore, you must be mistaken about that; you are wrong, if you are a preacher, for she told me lately she valued her life chiefly for its sake; and I heard her praying one night to be spared to raise it up to womanhood.—Mamma! mamma! you would come back to us I know, if God would let you, but you cannot, you cannot; He is so strong, so cruel! and He holds you fast." And I sobbed afresh, covering up my face.

"Miriam, what words are these?—Mr. Monfort, I am pleased that you have come. It is best for your little daughter to retire; she is greatly moved and excited;" and, yielding to my father's guidance and persuasion, I went passively from the presence of the dead, into which came, a moment later, the hushed crowd of her church-people and our few private friends, assembled to witness her obsequies.

Evelyn Erie accompanied my father to the grave as one of the chief mourners, and at my entreaty Mrs. Austin laid my little sister on the bed by my side, and I was soothed and strengthened by the sight of her baby loveliness as nothing else could have soothed and strengthened me.

Then, solemnly and in my own heart, I renewed the promise I had made the dead, and as far as in me lay have I kept it, Mabel, through thy life and mine!

I roused from an uneasy sleep an hour later, to find George Gaston at my side.

"I have brought you this, Miriam," he said, "because I thought it might help you to bear up. It is a little book my mother loved; perhaps you can read it and understand it when you are older even if you cannot now. See, there is a cross on the back, and such a pretty picture of Jesus in the front. It is for you to keep forever, Miriam. It is called Keble's 'Christian Year.'"

"Thank you, George," and I kissed him, murmuring, "But I do not think I shall ever read any more," tearfully.

He, too, begged to see the baby for all recompense—his darling as well as mine thenceforth; and I recall to this hour the lovely face of the boy, with all his clustering, nut-brown curls damp with the clammy perspiration incident to his debility, bending above the tiny infant as it lay in sweet repose, with words of pity and tenderness, and tearful, steadfast eyes that seemed filled with almost angelic solicitude and solemn blessing.

Two guardians of ten years old then clasped hands above its downy head, and in childish earnestness vowed to one another to protect, to cherish, to defend it as long as life was spared to either. Hannibal was not older than we were when he swore his famous oath at Carthage, kneeling at the feet of Hamilcar before the altar, to hate the Romans. How was our oath of love less solemn or impressive than his of hatred?—pledged as it was, too, in the presence of an angel too lately freed from earth's bondage not to hover still around her prison-house and above the sleeping cherub she left so lately!

Such resolutions, however carried out, react on the character that conceives them. I felt from that time strengthened, uplifted, calmed, as I had never felt before. I learned the precious secret of patience in watching over that baby head, and for its sake grew forbearing to all around; toward Evelyn, even, whose taunts were so hard to bear, so unendurable on occasions.

"There is a great change in Miriam," she said one day to Norman Stanbury. "I believe she is getting religion, or perhaps she and George Gaston are training themselves to go forth as married missionaries, after a while, to the heathen. They are studying parental responsibility already, one at the head and the other at the foot of the baby's cradle-carriage, but I am afraid it will be but a lame concern, after all."

We both heard this cruel speech and the laugh that succeeded it, in passing by, as it was intended we should do, probably—heard it in silence, and perhaps it may be said in dignity, not even a remark being interchanged between us concerning it; but I saw George Gaston flush to the roots of his hair.

A few minutes later we were ourselves laughing merrily over the baby's ineffectual efforts to catch a bunch of scarlet roses which George dangled above her head, and, altogether forgetful of Evelyn's sneer, bumped our heads together in trying to kiss her.

In truth, my superb sense of womanhood lifted me quite above all frivolous suggestions; thenceforth George seemed to me physically almost as much of a baby as Mabel, and was nearly as dependent on my aid. In his sudden fits of exhaustion and agony of such uncertain recurrence as to render it dangerous for him to venture forth alone, he always turned with confidence to my supporting and guiding hand.

I taught him his lessons in the intervals of my own studies, which he recited when he could to a private teacher, the same who gave me lessons.

Evelyn preferred a public school, and was sent, at her own request, to a fashionable establishment in the city attended by the élite alone, as the enormous prices charged for tuition indicated, as a day-boarder. There she became proficient in mere mechanical music—her ear being a poor one naturally—and learned to speak two languages, dance to perfection, and conduct herself like a high-bred woman of fashion on all occasions and in all emergencies—each and all necessities for a belle, which, it may be remembered, she had aspired to be, and announced her intention of becoming.

The fame of my father's wealth, her own beauty, tact, and grace, and elegant attire, rendered her conspicuous among her school-mates, and from among these she selected as friends such as appeared to her most desirable as bearing on her future plans of life. So that already Evelyn had made for herself a sphere outside and beyond any thing known in "Monfort Hall" or its vicinity.

My father, who, like all shy persons, admired cool self-possession and the leading hand in others, looked on with quiet approbation and some diversion at these proceedings. He gave her the use of his equipage, his house, his grounds, reserving to himself only intact the refuge of his library, from which ark of safety he surveyed at leisure, with quiet, curious, and amused scrutiny, the gay young forms that on holiday occasions glided through his garden and conservatory, and filled his drawing-room and halls with laughter and revelry.

On such occasions I was permitted, on certain conditions, to appear as a spectator. One of the most imperative of these was, that I was never to reveal to any one that Evelyn was not my own half-sister.

"You are not called upon to tell a story, Miriam, only to give them no satisfaction. You see they might as well think part of all this wealth, which came from your mother, is mine. It will in no way affect the reality—only their demeanor—for they every one worship money."

"I would not care for such girls, sister Evelyn, nor what they thought," I rejoined. "Besides, are you not an earl's granddaughter; why not boast of that instead, which would be the truth?"

"An earl's fiddlestick! What do you suppose American girls would care for that? Nor would they believe it, even, unless I had diamonds and coronet and every thing to match. Your mother had diamonds, I know, but mine had not. By-the-by, where are they, Miriam? I have never seen them."

"I do not know, Evelyn," I replied, gravely. "I have never thought about them until now, I am so sorry your heart is set upon such things. You know what Mamma Constance used to tell us."

"Oh, yes, I remember she croaked continually, as all delicate, doomed people do, I believe. It was well enough in her case, as she had to die; but, as for me—look at me, Miriam Monfort! Do I look like death? No; victory, rather!" and she straightened her elastic form exultingly. "And you, too, little one, are growing up strong and tall and better-looking than you used to be," she continued, patting my cheek carelessly. "The Jewish gaberdine is gradually dropping off; I mean the dinginess of your early complexion. By the time I have had my successful career, and am settled in life, yours will begin. Help me now, and I will help you then."

"You are only a school-girl," I said, sententiously. "You had better be thinking of your lessons, and let beaux and diamonds alone. I would be ashamed to keep a key to my exercises and sums, as you do. I would blush in the dark to do such a thing."

"I am not preparing myself for a governess, that I should make a point of honor of such things, little pragmatical prig that you are; nor are you, that I know of. You will always have plenty of money. 'Rich as a Jew' is a proverb, you know, all the world over."

The taunt had long since lost its sting; so I replied, meekly:

"We none of us know what may happen. I should like to be able to support myself and Mabel, if the worst came. Old Mr. Stanbury says all property is uncertain nowadays, especially in this country."

"Oh, don't repeat what that old croaking vulgarian and general leveller and democrat says, to me! A democrat is my aversion, anyhow. I wonder papa, can tolerate that coarse old Jackson man in his sight. 'Adams and the Federal cause forever,' say I; and all aristocratic people are on that side. I never enjoyed any thing so much as our illumination when Mr. Clay gave his casting vote, and carried Congress. The Stanbury house was as dark as a grave that night; but Norman was in our interest, and I made him halloo 'Hurrah for Adams!' That was a triumph, at all events. It nearly killed the old gentleman, though."

"If I were a man, I, too, would vote for General Jackson," I said defiantly. "He was such a brave soldier; he could defend our country if it was attacked again. Besides, I like his face better than old moon-faced Adams; and I despise Norman for his time-serving."

"Miriam, I shall tell papa if you utter such sentiments again; you know how devoted he is to the Federal party, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"That is just because Mr. Bainrothe over-persuaded him. He used to admire General Jackson. I heard him say once, myself, he would be the people's choice, next time."

"I thought you accused Mr. Bainrothe of toadying papa. Where, now, is your boasted consistency?"

"Evelyn, you know very well that is the way to rule and toady papa. Yield to him apparently, and he will let you lead him and have your own way pretty much. You have found that out long ago, Evelyn." And I looked at her sharply, I confess. She colored, but did not reply. "There is more," I said. "A girl who would be ashamed of her own mother, and afraid to acknowledge her poverty, would not scruple to do this. I believe you are almost as great a humbug at heart as Mr. Bainrothe himself," and I smiled scornfully. "That is what some people call him."

She turned on me with cold, white eyes and quivering lips; she shook me by the shoulder until my teeth chattered and my hair tossed up and down like a pony's mane blown by the winds, with her long, nervous fingers.

"Inform on me if you dare," she said, "or utter such an opinion to papa, and I will make you and your baby both suffer for it, and that lame hop-toad too, who follows you everywhere like your shadow! Moreover, if you do breathe a syllable of this slander, I shall tell Mr. Bainrothe your opinion of him, and make him your enemy. And mark me, Miriam Monfort, precious Hebrew imp that you are, you could not have a direr one, not even if you searched your old Jewish Bible through and through for a parallel, or called up Satan himself. I shall tell papa, too, that you are a story-teller, so that he will never again believe one word that you say, miss!"

"You could not convince him of that," I said, disengaging myself from her grasp, "if you were to try, for I have honest eyes in my head, not speckled like a toad's back, nor turning white with rage like a tree-frog laid on a window-sill; but, if you ever dare to lay your hand on me again, Evelyn Erle, I will tell papa every thing—there, now! This is the last time, remember."

"I did not hurt you, and you know it, Miriam; I only shook you to settle your brains," and she laughed a ghastly laugh, "and to make you a little bit afraid of me."

"I am not afraid of you," I said, "that is one comfort; and you can never make me so again; and I am not a mischief-maker, that is another; so rest in peace. Pass for my sister if you choose, and are proud of the title; I shall not say yes or no, but of this be certain, you are no sister of mine, though I call you such, either in heart or blood. I do not love you, Evelyn Erle; and, if I were not afraid of the anger of God and my own heart, I would let myself hate you, and strike you. But I always try and remember what mamma said, and what Mr. Lodore tells us every Sunday. Yet I find it hard."

"Little hypocrite! little Jew!" burst from her angry lips, and she left the room in a whirl of rage, not forgetting, however, to write me a very smooth note before she went to school next morning, which was, with her usual tact, slipped under my pillow before I awoke; and, after that, all was outward peace between us for a season.

Evelyn was about sixteen when this occurred, I nearly twelve. The next year she left school and made her début in society, and, through her machinations, no doubt, I was sent away to a distant boarding-school for two years, coming home only at holiday intervals thereafter to my dearest baby, my home, my parent, and narrow circle of friends, and finding Miss Erle more and more in possession of my father's confidence, even to the arrangement of his papers and participation in the knowledge of his business transactions, and entirely installed as the head of the house, which post she maintained ever afterward indomitably.

Singularly enough, however, Mr. Bainrothe seemed secretly to prefer me at this period, however much he openly inclined to her, and he lost no occasion of privately speaking to me in rapturous terms (such as I never heard him employ in the presence of Evelyn and my father) of his only son, then absent in Germany engaged in the prosecution of his studies, but to return home, he told me, to remain, as soon as he had completed his majority.

It was only through our knowledge of his son's age, and his admissions as to the time of his own early marriage, that we arrived at any estimate of Mr. Bainrothe's years; for, as I have said, Time, in his case, had omitted what he so rarely forgets to imprint—his sign manual on his exterior.