The room is but slightly illuminated,—the Townsend House gas, manufactured on the premises, being only strong in odor.
By it he can see Miss Travenion standing near the centre of the apartment, so white she would seem a statue, were it not for the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes, that appear to have burnt up the tears that were in them, and a slight nervous twitching of the hands, such as comes to us when hope is no more.
Mrs. Livingston, seated on a sofa, is speaking in a tremulous sort of way, for the girl's manner just at this time frightens her.
She is saying, "You had best leave this awful place to-morrow morning, and come with us to California. I have ordered your maid to pack your trunks. My maid is doing the same." Then she turns to her son, remarking, "You think it will be best, also, Oliver?"
But Erma prevents his reply. She cries, taking a step towards him, "My father!" and seeing no one behind him, gasps, "What have you done to him, or what has he done to you?" for Mr. Livingston's pale face and disfigured trousers suggest ideas of combat that would make her laugh at other and happier times.
To this he replies curtly, "Nothing; I could not find him."
"Why not?"
"Their blasphemous meeting-house was closed." Then he says in a nasty, sneering tone, for the young lady's manner has added to his anger, "Your father and his Mormon brats had gone away."
"His Mormon brats?" This comes from both Mrs. Livingston and Erma, though one gives it with a shriek and the other with a shudder.
"Yes, your five little brothers and sisters," he sneers at Erma. "Didn't you see them? They got the Sunday-school prizes, I think. They look like your father, and one of the girls has your eyes," and would go on with some more such scoffing pleasantries, did not his mother spring to him and whisper, "Idiot!" for the girl has sunk down sobbing upon a chair and is wringing her hands at this last cruel revelation.