The only reply I could make was to give her the casket containing Ramie’s ring and jewels, as he had directed.
She lifted her face, with eyes rather dry for such convulsive weeping, and taking the casket pressed it to her lips, as she said:
“And did he think of me! Oh, how can I ever love you enough for your kindness to him!”
I ventured to say, “Love his memory.”
“I do, I do,” she replied, looking into my eyes with hers clear and tearless. “Heaven alone knows how I cherish the memory of my noble Ramie!”
I did her the justice to believe her, but said nothing.
She continued, trying to open the back of the watch:
“But, my dear friend, for this mutual grief has made you seem nearer than ever before, there is one point on which I want your counsel. How must I act towards society? Must I open my heart to its hundred eyes, and, by a sudden seclusion and retirement, reveal my sacred sorrow to its gaze; or must I go through the hollow mockery of gaiety, and assume a cheerful face with an aching heart? Gentlemen call every evening, and I am at a loss to know what to do. If I refuse to receive visitors it will cause remark and inquiry, and my engagement with Mr. DeVare will be made public, with all the usual train of disagreeable comment. I sometimes think it were best to do violence to my own feelings, and appear in company as if nothing had happened, while I am here. I will soon be in New York, where I can adapt my conduct to my sad bereavement. Do you not think so?”
“Really, Miss Carrover,” I replied, coldly, for the veil of her pretended sorrow was too thin, “I do not feel competent to advise you. You know best how the death of DeVare affects you; and, if you will pardon me for saying it, your smiles and favors to the frivolous throng to-night would indicate that your course of action is already determined.”