University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
SCENE THE SECOND.

Seated upon the sofa, in her chamber, Miss Incledon,
while Captain Tarnish reads her note, leans her fine head
upon her hand, and ponders.

Her figure is enveloped in a loose robe, which conceals
a complete travelling dress, and looking intently into the
fire, her gracefully curved eyebrows meet together in the
middle, and her gaze is almost wild in its intense excitement.

Peeping from the fringed edge of the counterpane behind
her, is visible, the corner of a small travelling trunk,
of yellow leather, such as are carried in the hand by both
handles, fixed upon the side.

Midnight has passed, and her candle burns low, spattering
the silver candlestick with the hard, white spermaceti—which
is, nevertheless, unheeded, as it patters, drop
after drop, in the deep silence of the night.

The young woman's head bends lower, and her large,
white arm, upon which a golden bracelet is clasped, seems
scarcely able to support the weight imposed upon it.

The red firelight streams upon the woman's figure, and
every detail of her appearance is made visible—almost
painfully so.

She remains silent for a long time, then, with a cold
smile, her brows relax; and she raises her proud eyes, in
which the expression of haughty triumph is unmistakeable.

“He thought to force me to bend to him!” she murmurs,
clenching her hand, “he thought that I would suffer
him to watch and spy, and sneak, and find out everything
about me, and then make me obey him as his slave!
Fool! he did not know, with all his boasted knowledge
of life and books, that one wronged woman is a match for
a hundred men! My guardian, forsooth! a pretty
guardian, that wished to make love to his ward, and go
back home, and say, `I have performed my part so well,
that I have got my ward an excellent husband! Oh, yes!
excellent! He would have made me an excellent husband,
no doubt! `My dear, have you seen the theological
work I have been reading?'—`My love, don't you think
it would be best to go to fewer parties, and not waltz so
much?'—`Sil—vi—a! I am afraid you are sadly given to
the vanities of life—you think too much of this world!'
How I hate him!”

And resuming with these words her bitter and scornful
tone, which she had dropped to assume, with the case of
a great actress, Mr. Incledon's mild manner, she clenched
her beautiful hand more tightly and frowned again.

“So he thought to marry me, did he!” she continued,
“he thought to wheedle, and cajole, and trick me into
accepting him! And when I chose to exercise my right
of choosing freely, he must shake his head forsooth! and
say I am running into danger! How I despise him!”

And she tosses her head and curls her lip with such
derision, that her beautiful countenance grows painfully
repulsive. As she speaks, a door opens on the passage

leading by her chamber, and a step is heard approaching
her apartment.

Miss Incledon starts from her seat—springs to the
mantel-piece, and extinguishes the light; and then falls
back upon the sofa, covering her travelling dress with the
robe.

She has scarcely finished these preparations when the
door opens, and an elderly lady enters, smiling. She
wears a loose, evening robe, in which she has been attending
to her household matters, and carries on her arm a
basket of keys. This is Mrs. Incledon, the young woman's
aunt, and she says in a kind voice:

“What, Silvia? are you awake yet? You 'll spoil
your roses, my daughter.”

Silvia, repressing a tumultuous throbbing at her heart
with one hand, while she rubs her eyes with the other. Yes,
Aunt Fanny—I am afraid I will—but really that novel
there is so attractive that it kept me up until now—and I
have just blown out my candle.

Aunt Fanny, pressing down a lump of coal upon the
fire for safety. What novel, Silvia? Ah! that is a great
waste of time, and calculated to injure many persons.
What is it?

Silvia. The “Mysteries of Paris.”

Aunt Fanny, shaking her head. I have heard that
these French works are not what they should be.

Silvia. They are so horrible, Aunt Fanny; but have
you been down stairs again, since you came up.

Aunt Fanny. Yes; I had a jar of pickles to see to
which I forgot, and it has kept me busy for an hour.

Silvia. I hope you will have a good night's rest;—I
do always—I have everything so comfortable.

Aunt Fanny, looking around with pride. Yes, I
arranged everything myself. But what is that yonder—
your trunk?

Silvia, hastily. Oh, yes!—I ought to have put it in
the closet with my larger one.

Aunt Fanny, going to the trunk and pulling it out.
These are very convenient, are they not, for—why, it is
packed!

Silvia, with her hand upon her heart. Some things I
thought I should n't have any use for until I set out to
return.

Aunt Fanny. Ah! you young women! You have a
thousand things which were not allowed us when we were
young. Let me see what you have stuffed in there.
Where is the key?

Silvia, in a voice scarcely audible. The key?

Aunt Fanny. Yes, I want to see the arrangements
of the trunk inside—I may want one.

Silvia. I don't think—I hardly know—it 's somewhere—to-morrow
I will—

Aunt Fanny. Never mind. Do not trouble yourself.

Silvia, regaining her voice. Oh, it 's no trouble, aunt;
you may have that trunk, as you say you like it I really
don't want it.

Aunt Fanny. Don't you? Well, I think I will borrow
it for my visit to sister Jane, in two or three days. I
will take it now, and you shall come and unpack it.

Silvia, darting towards the trunk. No! don't take it!

Aunt Fanny, in astonishment. You frighten me,
child. Why, who would have thought?—well, well! this
is a strange generation.

Silvia, smiling on her as she rises and is going. You
mus'nt mind my folly, Aunt Fanny.

Aunt Fanny. Oh, it 's nothing, daughter. Come, go
to bed—why, what is that you have on? Your pearl-colored
travelling dress!

Silvia, nearly fainting, but gathering courage immediately.
Yes, ma'am, I thought I 'd see how it looked,
and put it on this evening—and I haven't taken it off yet.

Aunt Fanny. How odd you are!

Silvia, turning pale and murmuring inaudibly. How
base, and false, and miserable I am!

Aunt Fanny. What did you say, my daughter?

Silvia, covering her face. Nothing, Aunt Fanny. Do
you love me, Aunt—oh, can you love me?”

Aunt Fanny, astounded at this outburst. Certainly, I
do, child! What on earth can you mean?

Silvia, suppressing a rising sob. I mean, Aunt, that I
am not strong like you—and that some day I may commit
something which would not seem right to you. You
would not think hardly of me, if I did—at least you
would forgive me; would'nt you, Aunt?

Aunt Fanny, in deepest astonishment. Forgiveness is
a bounden duty, Silvia. If one be overtaken in a fault,
restore such an one in the spirit of meekness. I read that
in my Bible, and I try to make the Bible my rule of conduct.

Silvia, growing calmer. Well, Aunt Fanny, when you

write home—if you write before I do—give my deepest
love to every one, and say that I would have written, only
I am in such a whirl.

Aunt Fanny, completely stupefied by the confusion and
want of connection in Silvia's discourse. Certainly, I will,
daughter. But Ralph writes to Runland, and they know
all about you and your doings.

Silvia, with wide eyes—they know?

Aunt Fanny.—Why, assuredly, it is Ralph's place
when he writes, to tell them especially of you—that you
are well and happy and enjoying yourself. What more
natural?

Silvia, in a murmur. Yes—very natural.

Aunt Fanny, counting her keys. Ralph is very fond of
you.

Silvia. Is he?

Aunt Fanny, looking for the key of the tea caddie.
Yes, he ought to be proud of his guardianship, over such
a brilliant young lady, as Miss Silvia. You ought to follow
Ralph's suggestions in everything, daughter; he is one
of the most intelligent and high-minded young men I ever
met in all my life—and if you wished to do one thing, and
he wished another, it would be better for you follow his
suggestions than your own.

Silvia, with a cloud upon her face. I do not think so!
That is, I mean, there may be things—but I am keeping
you up, Aunt.

Aunnt Fanny, pouncing upon the key and easy in her
mind again. Yes, so you are: good night

Silvia. Good night, ma'am.

Aunt Fanny, closing the doors and disappearing. Pleasant
dreams!

Silvia, rising and looking after her with a frown. If
that man's name had not been uttered, I might have
yielded to this silly regret at leaving a house where I have
been treated kindly. But that name has steeled me—I
am resolute again. He thought to choose my husband,
did he! Fool! I foiled him with his own sickening
mildness. Yes, I am once more determined; and not all
the `intelligent and high-minded' Mr. Incledons in the
world shall drive me from my purpose One!—so late; I
will soon hear the signal!

And Miss Incledon resumes her seat, and gazes again
into the fire, with her brows joined together into the “bar
of Michael Angelo.”

The stroke of one! dies away, and all is silent.