"Oh, surely, Mr. Raymond; and let me beg that, when you are near me, you will come freely to my house. I shall be most happy to entertain you." And I gave him my hand, frankly.
"One word more, Miss Monfort. Are you engaged to any other and more fortunate man than Mr. Bainrothe and myself? Is it for another's sake you have felt so very indignant? Forgive a sailor's frankness, and a sailor's interest, even if bestowed in vain. I fear you will add to these, a sailor's undue curiosity."
"No, Mr. Raymond, neither engaged nor likely to be. But hinge no hope on this declaration of mine. I am probably destined to walk through life alone, and, like many better women, to live for the good of others, in self-defense, if for good at all. I shall never marry, Lieutenant Raymond."
The hand that held mine, trembled slightly, relaxed, relinquished its eager hold, and fell listlessly to his side. He believed me, evidently, as I believed myself.
"I have loved you," he said, hoarsely, "far more than you will ever understand. Do not forget me!"
"That is scarcely probable," I murmured; "but we shall meet again," and I spoke cheerfully and aloud, "and under happier auspices, I trust. The world is fair before you, Mr. Raymond; this much let me counsel, and the counsel is drawn from experience: do not surrender your freedom too lightly—it is a precious gift to man or woman, and those who drag broken fetters wear woful hearts. Farewell!"
We left Saratoga on the following day. It was autumn when we reached our home again—sad and strange September—my birth-month, and the grave of many hopes. Mabel was well, and finely grown for a child of her years; and the joy of seeing her, and holding her to my heart again, made me oblivious of all else for a season. After our brief separation even, her loveliness struck me afresh. How beautiful she was! not with the white radiance of Evelyn, but lovely as a young May rose, blushing among its leaves and peerless in grace, sweetness, and expression. She had her sainted mother's great blue, soulful eyes, with finer features and more brilliant coloring, and her father's gleaming teeth and clustering hair, "brown in the shadow, gold in the sun," falling, like his, over a brow of sculptured ivory. I was not alone in my appreciation of her loveliness. It was a theme of universal remark. Even Mr. Bainrothe, who could never forgive my father for having married his children's governess, confessed that she had the "air noble," which he valued far above beauty. "And where she got it from, Miriam, is sufficiently plain," he said, one day, glancing at me with undisguised admiration as he spoke. "Her mother was simple and unpretending enough, Heaven above knows, but you Monforts, and you, especially, Miriam, are truly distingué, which is a word that cannot often be justly applied in any land to man or woman either."
"By-the-by, Miriam," he continued, "you are growing into a very beautiful woman, after a somewhat unpromising childhood. You surpass Evelyn as rubies do garnets, or diamonds aqua marine, or sapphires the opaque turquoise. You do, indeed, my dear," and he attempted to take my hand in the old fashion. I murmured something indicative of my disapprobation.
"It is an exquisite hand!" he remarked, as I coldly drew it away; "I have an artist's eye, and can admire beauty in the abstract, even though I am an old man, you know."
"Admire it also at a distance, I beg, hereafter," I said, bowing coldly, smiling very bitterly, I fear, with lips white with anger and disgust.