“Oh, she did but follow her fate, as all her predecessors had done before her. But the rage of Aunt Pole was beyond all description. Justin, I have seen something of war, but I have never seen anything so terrible, so horrible as that old lady’s roused wrath!”
“I can well believe it. I have seen her once,” thought Justin to himself.
“She stormed and raved and foamed. She forbade me, on pain of her everlasting vengeance, ever to see, speak of, or think about my sister. I think the root of her bitterness grew in this fact—that she had to leave her handsome city house, which really belonged to Mona, and to break up her showy establishment, which she could no longer support on Mona’s ample fortune. She sent me to school at Bellemont, and she returned to Witch Elms, breathing maledictions upon all the world.”
“So that was the secret of her misanthropy.”
“Yes.”
“Go on, dear Britomarte.”
“I went to school, but I could not obey my aunt in regard to my sister. I loved Mona; I had no one but her to love, and all the affections of my heart were concentrated upon her, I could not refrain from writing to her. I knew that Bercelloni was singing in Paris. I wrote to my sister, enclosing my letter to him. In that manner a correspondence was commenced between my sister and myself, which was kept up until her death.”
“She is dead, then?” said Justin, gently.
“She has been dead five years. I will tell you all about that presently. In a very short time Bercelloni contrived to run through all my sister’s fortune, wasting it upon wine, dice, and other abominations. And then he left her.”
“The base villain!”