2. CHAPTER II.
SIEUR.
Hold to Genesis if we may, to Hugh Miller if we must, for the story of the
creation; but who that has seen a summer morning upon the sea-shore can
doubt that there was once an Eden whose echoes yet haunt the earth? The
hush, the dreamy melancholy, the mystery of night, is gone, the soul no longer
sighs to escape from earth and float unfettered into space; but rather it incorporates
itself more closely in the body, giving to a man almost the afflatus of a
God, saying to him, Up and be doing, for what limit is there to our capacity?
And one no longer treads the common earth with weary feet, but feels himself
upborne upon invisible wings above the garden where angels walked with men
and infused new strength into their souls with every word.
Such a morning dawned upon Bonniemeer, and Neria, alone upon the terrace,
stood looking over sea and earth, and dreaming the pure, bright dreams that
such scenes should stir in a young and virgin heart.
Not dreaming, but humming a blithe hunting song that suited well his active
and virile mien, came Fergus, striding rapidly up the avenue, until catching sight
of Neria, he stopped, half in admiration of her attitude and the glorified beauty
of her eager face, half shame-faced in remembering his disordered appearance
and the dripping towel in his hand.
At the same moment Vaughn, appearing in the doorway, paused to look at
the two, and especially at Fergus, trying to see him with a young girl's eyes. “A
handsome fellow,” thought he, with a strange reluctance in making the admission,
“and with a certain air of pride and resolution that should have its weight. Not
highly intellectual, perhaps, certainly not fanciful or romantic, although not free
from the sentimentality of youth. Bearing the impress upon his face of a clear
and well-trained mind, of high principle and fastidious honor, of elegant tastes
and habits—a man whom a girl must admire, might easily love, should he love
her,” concluded Vaughn, just as his nephew sprang up the steps, giving him a gay
good-morning, and he replied, a little coldly,
“Good-morning, Fergus. You have the advantage of us in your early walk.”
“Yes, sir, and also in my dip into the surf. A splendid morning for a
bath.”
And the young man passed on, with one sidelong, wistful glance at Neria,
who smiled a greeting, but did not speak. At the same moment Vaughn approached
and greeted her.
“Good-morning, sir,” said she, half shyly extending her hand.
Vaughn took it and held it for an instant, examining the slender, rose-tipped
fingers.
“And what a morning!” continued Neria, turning to meet a little wave of
fresher air, one of Ocean's ponderous love-sighs that just then grazed her cheek.
“Yes,” replied Vaughn, absently, and then asked,
“Of what were you thinking, Neria, just before Fergus came up?”
“I was thinking of you, sir,” replied Neria, quietly.
“Of me!” echoed Vaughn, too startled even to be flattered.
“Yes, sir. I was thinking that a man born and brought up in face of such
grandeur and beauty as this, must of necessity be noble and pure, and wise as—”
“No, do not say it, child!” cried Vaughn, in terror. “Do not put me to
shame by reminding me of opportunities, incentives, aids to a nobler life, that
have been showered so freely upon me, and which have been so miserably, miserably
neglected.”
The clear eyes looked into his with such wonder, almost such fright, that the
pain melted from his brow in a tender smile as he said,
“Do not look so much shocked, either. I did not mean to represent myself
as an ogre, or even as a man stained with some dark crime; but who is, then,
worthy to live, as you say, in the presence of such beauty and such grandeur as
this? What man, I mean? If one looks among women—”
He paused, and with a smile half playful, half in earnest, looked deep into
the transparent eyes still raised to his.
“But, Neria, tell me something,” added he, drawing her hand through his
arm and walking up and down the shady terrace. “Why have you given me no
name since I came home? It is three weeks now, and you have not once called
me anything but sir. Five years ago, you said papa, as Franc does now.”
Neria looked a little troubled, and then suddenly relieved.
“I am glad you spoke of it, sir,” said she, “for now I can ask you what I
had better say. I do not like to say papa or father, because you know you are
not my father, and it is claiming a right and a place which do not belong to me.”
“Do not belong to you, dear?” asked Vaughn, in pained surprise. “Have
you felt any want of affection or consideration in me, or in any one? Has
Francia ever shown a feeling of jealousy or assumed—”
“O no! no!” interrupted Neria, anxiously. “Pray do not think of such a
thing. Franc does not know I have thought of these things. She has forgotten,
I believe, that I am not her very sister.”
“And how came you to know it?” asked Vaughn, half smiling at the childish
expression, and yet with an ominous frown gathering in his dark eyes.
“It was long ago,” said Neria, dreamily, “when we were quite little girls,
that we had some dispute, Franc and I; and although I gave up to her, I said
she had no right to try to force me to, for she was in the wrong, and was really
the one to yield. Then Mrs. Rhee, who was by, said something about everything
being more Franc's than mine; and when we asked what she meant, she
said I was an orphan whom you had taken in out of pity, and though it was no
fault of mine, it should make me humble and less forward to speak of rights
and to contend with Francia about trifles. I thought about it a good deal, and
although Mrs. Rhee never would say any more, and seemed to wish it were forgotten,
I made old Chloe tell me, little by little, all about it.”
“All about what?” asked Vaughn, quietly.
“About your finding me on the sea-beach, in the arms of my poor dead
mother—”
Neria paused, and stood for a moment looking out toward the sea with a
wistful yearning in her eyes, as if the memory of that dead mother were to her
forever associated with that other mystery beside which she had lain. A look
so full of inexpressible longing of lonely grief, that Vaughn, gazing down upon
it, would fain have clasped her to his heart and kissed the darkening eyes and
quivering lips to peace and trust; but he could not do it, as he should, he would
not, as he wished.
“I always thought about it while I was little,” continued Neria, drearily;
“and sometimes it made me sad—made me feel as if I did not quite belong here,
and really had not the right to resist if Francia did not agree with me. But
since I have grown up it seems different. I feel as if you really wished I should
be your daughter, and did all you could for me, and it was ungrateful not to
keep the place you had put me in. Besides, I cannot—I do not think it right
for any one to give up what they know to be true and just, even if some one else
has rights which they have not. I could not tell Francia that I thought as she
did, if I did not, or even be silent when she or any one said what I did not
think the truth. But I hope I am not ungrateful or quarrelsome, and indeed I
love Franc as if she were my mother's child, and you, sir, as if you were my
father.”
No cloud, no doubt, dimmed the candid eyes which Vaughn questioned with
the keen interrogatory of a man's selfishness, no maiden timidity made them
droop before his own. He slowly withdrew his gaze, half pleased, half pained.
“But still,” pursued Neria, “I do not like to call you father, because you
are not in very truth my father, and so I should do nothing to make it appear
so.”
“Perhaps you are right, Neria, although, as I have always considered you a
child of my own, your scruples seem to me excessive. But, after all, it is as
well to change this paternal title for one that will express no more than the exact
truth. Will you call me guardian?”
“Yes, sir, if you like it.”
“But not `sir!' little ward! That is too formal.”
“Francia says `sir,' and so does Fergus,” suggested Neria, hesitatingly
“And I was thinking if you liked it, that Sieur is the very name I would like
to call you best, as if you knew you were the king and I the orphan ward for
whom you cared.”
“Ah, you do not leave out the romance when you read history,” said Vaughn,
smiling. “Well, then, call me Sieur if you will, and the name so resembles
your usual address that no one will notice the change, and so our little secret
shall be our own.”
“I don't like secrets very much,” said Neria, apprehensively.
“Child, you are morbidly sensitive on this matter of candor. It is right and
just that every heart should keep some things locked safely away from the world.
So only do we preserve our individuality,” said Vaughn, gravely; and his ward
answered with docility,
“Then this shall be a secret.”
“Come, good people, come to breakfast, we are all waiting for you,” called
Claudia from the window, and Neria turned to her so winsome a face, that the
young matron smiled as she had not done for many a day.
