University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
A CHANGE IN THE MYSTERY.

AS I entered the Seacliff grounds early on the following
day, I said to myself that I was reassured; that I believed
nothing of what I had seen and heard, nothing
of what I had suspected; and that in future nothing should
make me believe. I went, as it were, through all the darkened
chambers of my spirit one after another, and sought
bravely, though more than half in vain, to light them up once
more with something like hope and happiness. It was an
endless, disappointing task; it was like letting candles down
into foul, mephitic caverns; there was a momentary glow, and
then darkness.

Mrs. Westervelt was in the garden alone, pacing pensively
up and down, as men often do and women rarely. Knowing
how fond she was of company and small-talk, I thought that
her present demeanor betokened earnest reflection, and that
perhaps she had more serious power in her than I had ever
supposed. Possibly, she is brooding over the mystery, I
thought, as I approached and begged leave to join her.

There is something in the position and movement of persons
in a promenade which permits them to talk more unrestrainedly,
and so more sincerely, than when they are sitting
or standing face to face. The play of the features cannot be
so easily watched, and the quiet exercise aids the action of
the brain.

“You are very much to be envied, Mrs Westervelt,” I
said, intending to charge circuitously upon the mystery.

“Why so?” she asked, with a start which seemed almost
like a contradiction of my assertion.

“Because you are so independent of the world for your
means of happiness. Because you have such a charming little
world of your own, all wrapped up in green leaves and
roses, and peopled by certain forms that look,—to a stranger,
at least,—like angels.”

Mrs. Westervelt nodded and smiled good-humoredly; perhaps
accepting a trifle of the angelic similitude for herself.

“Yes, the girls are very beautiful,” she replied. “Mrs.
Van Leer, too, is pretty—don't you think she is—at times?
Well, perhaps not remarkably; but Mary and Jenny,—there
is no doubt about them,—they are sweetly beautiful. I do
wish that they could have a better chance to shine in society.
They only see a little life in New York during the winter;—
Mary not more than twenty or twenty-five parties a year,
really;—Genevieve none at all as yet. Some people would
think twenty parties enough; but now it is not, you know.
They ought to go to Saratoga and Newport. A girl misses
a great deal who grows up without seeing Saratoga and Newport
thoroughly. I really pity the poor children when I compare
their seclusion with the advantages I had at their age.
And the watering-places are even better now than they were
then, you know.”

“Superior privileges? More water?” I asked, a little
annoyed at her shallowness when my own thoughts were so
grave.

“No, not that. Gracious, how you do joke, Mr. Fitz
Hugh! But more society, you know; more chance of seeing
the world. Oh dear me! elderly married woman as I am
now, I have enjoyed myself superhumanly at Saratoga and
Newport, especially at Saratoga. I used to be fearfully gay,
Mr. Fitz Hugh,—a wild, waltzing thing, to be sure, in those
days,—though I suppose you can hardly believe it, now that

I am a mother of a family and living in such a quiet, retired
way.”

“Marriage is a noble life,” I said; “especially to those who
have children. I imagine that a parent lives youth over
again in his or her offspring, without the follies and consequent
regrets of the first youth.”

“Yes, there is something pleasant in that, I suppose,” she
answered hesitatingly. “Yes, one likes to see the young
ones coming forward. One is able to advise them sometimes.
I really love to aid the girls with my experience,—now really
I do,—notwithstanding that it gives me a dreadful sense of
aging. Dear me! how they would laugh at my good advice,
if they only knew how gay and flighty I used to be!”

“Do they stand in much need of solemn counsel and restraint?”
I asked, with what I thought exceeding boldness.
“Do you ever think of building a convent for them? They
are very young, and youth is heedless, everybody says.”

“Yes, they are young, but not heedless, I think; not very
unsophisticated, really. They are very clever,” she added,
after a moment of reflection. “You must live with them
years, and feel some responsibility for them, before you can
realize how much talent they have.” (I had realized it before
I had known them a fortnight.) “I don't feel yet as if
I knew Genevieve thoroughly. Mary is much franker, and
I can understand her better; yes, Mary is perfectly openhearted
and sincere; the dearest, best girl that ever lived.
As for Jenny, she is too shrewd for me; I never saw such a
keen, ready-witted girl; but she is not as prudent as her sister.
I hope she will have a good husband and love him
properly. After all, most women need husbands to steady
them and be their safeguards. I approve of early marriages,—I
do, really.”

She sighed, and fell back into a pensive, almost melancholy
revery. It seemed as if she had uttered the last two
or three sentences to herself, for she did not look at me, nor
have the air of expecting a reply. I made none, and we

took a turn or two in silence. Her emotion, slight and shallow
as it probably was, interested me for a moment, and I
busied myself in questioning why she gave such an earnest,
sighing approval of early marriages. Was it simply on the
broad ground that she had married somewhat late, and that
she felt her life to be a failure? Very likely, for she was not
a woman of profound or discriminating intellect, and an imperfectly
understood cause would easily account with her for
a half appreciated effect. It was hardly worth while to
spend much effort in divining the motions of a mind so sensational
and illogical as hers. She possessed some of that
social cleverness or tact which seems instinctive in woman,
but otherwise her spiritual calibre was not noticeably larger
than that of her cousins the Van Leers, although, as with
them, the heart was better and stronger than the head. But
whether she distinctly knew it or not, whether she could
state it or not, it was clear that something wore on her spirit
and jaded her life. Her form had an elegance of proportion
not easily destructible; her face had been remarkable for that
brunette beauty of regular features and sparkling black eyes,
which is so lasting; but, for all that, she had faded and was
fading. She frequently drew a long sigh, as if to throw off
the weight of some oppressive revery. Perhaps it was the
soberness and care of married life which galled her; perhaps
it was disillusion in regard to the happiness of holding a high
position in society; perhaps it was only a natural though
premature decay of health and spirits. An early blight of
beauty is frequently the lot of young women who marry old
men, and not necessarily, either, by reason of regret or of ill-treatment,
but through the quiet working of the ceaseless
laws of nature. Well, if this was all, Mrs. Westervelt was
but paying a something for something, and need not be pitied.
The Van Leers, it seems, were parvenus; great golden bubbles,
still struggling towards the surface of society; there
doubtless to shine and break and disappear, like the bubbles
which had preceded them. Mrs. Westervelt had married an
elderly aristocrat to rise quicker, and was but suffering under
the great and just law of compensation. Alas! I concluded,
if Genevieve is in danger of falling, this is not the woman
who can save her.

At her proposition we left the garden for the parlor where
the family had collected. For a time the conversation was
iced and slow, seeming to me in my uneasy abstraction like
the talk of people whose hearts are for the moment far away
from their tongues; but presently Mrs. Van Leer turned to
Genevieve, with her usual quizzing smile, and uttered a few
jesting words which sounded to me like the raillery of a devil.

“So you were very impru—dent last evening,” she drawled.
“You got terribly wet, I hear, while gratifying your passion
for the sublimities of na—ture.”

Somerville glanced at the two women with an expression
of surprise which was almost anger, but quelled himself
instantly, and became the most polished of human icebergs.
Genevieve hesitated before she answered, and then stammered
out, with a frail pretence at gayety: “Oh—I—you
heard of my ill luck, cousin Jule? Yes, Byron will be the
death of me, some day. That Jura thunderstorm of his has
bewitched me so that I never can come in when it rains. In
fact, lightning always did enchant me.”

“Ah, By—ron!” repeated the mocking lady. “That
would be very well, Jenny, if you confined yourself to
Childe Harold. But I understand” (in a loud whisper)
“that you have been studying Don Juan lately.”

Did she mean the poem Don Juan, or the living Don Juan
who stood there before me? Genevieve bit her lips in undisguisable
annoyance, but sought to turn the conversation into
nothingness by a jest.

“The truth is that I stayed out because I was jealous.
Sissy here has gained all the hearts of the house by getting
herself run away with; and I wanted to do something to
draw back the general attention; catch cold and have an
interesting cough, for example.”

“Oh! I see,” laughed Mrs. Van Leer. “You wanted the
notice of our new physician. Doctor Somerville, you must
pre—scribe for this poor, distracted child. By the way,
Doctor, did you get wet last evening?”

“I, Mrs. Van Leer?” he replied with a smile as cool and
sweet as an iced cream. “I was in my room when the
shower came on. If I had been out, I should have begged
this imprudent young lady's permission to force her into the
house.”

Mrs. Van Leer wanted to continue the raillery; but
either his elegant composure discouraged her, or she saw
some menace in his manner which I could not see; and so
she held her flippant tongue. Genevieve was noticeably
flushed and tremulous, and did not once glance at Somerville.
Mrs. Westervelt, who was bending over a bit of
embroidery in a window-seat, pretending not to heed the
conversation, had become ghastly pale, as if every word
were a lancet and robbed her of some portion of her lifeblood.
Bob Van Leer was fast to my button-hole, a beefy
dead weight, perfectly non compos in the presence of all
mysteries. Miss Westervelt had quitted the room a moment
before, to bring something which she said was for me, and
which I guessed to be the completed sketch of her horseback
escapade and rescue. I stood speechless, stunned with
amazement, shame, and anger. Was it Genevieve, then,
who had walked last night in the company of Somerville;
who had sobbed and whispered to him, perhaps upon his
shoulder; who had humbly and vainly implored his pity;
whom he had so insolently pretended to love; whom he had
called a guilty woman; whom he could threaten to ruin?
The shame seemed to clutch fast hold of me, and to gnaw
my heart as if she were a sister of my own. Does Mrs.
Van Leer half suspect this, and does that pallid shrinking
mother-in-law know it, and is it this which so often flings sorrowful
shadows over the face of Mary? No, they could not
have seen through Somerville; for, if they had, they surely

would not permit him to infect the house with his presence.
And yet, it was possible that they might not—dared not—
drive him away. His character, I now feared, was capable
of any wicked extremity; and perhaps he made use of this
very mystery to keep his hold on the unfortunate family: if
they banished him, then he would fulfil his threat of exposure,
to the ruin of one and the shame of all. They were
weak and timid people, these Westervelts; all of them
women by sex or women by nature; all of them together
no match for him.

After these thoughts came a revulsion, and my imagination
flowed back, like an exhausted billow, from the cruel
stony credence upon which it had been driven. I glanced
around the room from face to face, half believing that some
sensitive heart would understand mine, and some merciful
eye contradict my suspicions; and when Miss Westervelt reentered,
she seemed to me like a good angel, come to
deliver me from a flight of bewildering demons who whispered
the omnipresence of wickedness, the universal, sepulchral
hollowness of virtue. There are moments of singular
excitement, of which the power is perhaps exaggerated to
the memory by their infrequency.

Miss Westervelt's sketch was a fine one, and I had been
delighted that it was to be mine, but now it pained me. As
I gazed abstractedly at the two rushing figures on horseback,
they seemed to float far back from me, to become weird and
unearthly, and to transform themselves into a fiend pursuing
a lady. I praised the picture, smiled over it, and inwardly
shrunk from it.

“I am glad you like it,” she said, pleased. “I am sorry
the frame is so much prettier than the drawing. You told
Genevieve that you meant to frame it; and Mamma said it
must be framed for you.”

In the effort to control my agitation and to express in my
face what was proper, genteel and suited to the exterior
occasion, I must have looked absurd, for Mrs. Van Leer

burst out laughing. “Come! do speak, Mr. Fitz Hugh,”
said she. “I never saw a man so dum—founded by a
pres—ent. Is it the first you ever got?”

“No; simply the best,” I returned, taking the sketch into
my own hands and holding it up bravely.

“The best, is it? Well, then, sit down and write some of
your best po—etry on it. Give us an im—promp—tu now,
and Mary will copy it into her al—bum.”

“Much obliged for your offer of her services,” said I.
“Unfortunately, I have no impromptu prepared, and it
would take two or three days to write one.”

“How is that?” asked Mrs. Van Leer, simply surprised.
“I thought an impromptu was a piece spoken right off,
pat.”

Her brother burst into a loud laugh which fairly filled
the house with a noise as of vanity and lies.

“Nobly avowed, Mr. Fitz Hugh!” said he. “Permit me
to express my cordial admiration of your unflinching modesty.”

He rose, shook hands with me, and then paced the
room, speaking as follows: “But I must insist upon reproving
your incautiousness, Fitz Hugh. You blight the bays
of us versifiers; you dim the halo of swift inspiration which
is supposed to beam from us. Ladies,” (a sweep of his hand,)
“in the presence of our conscientious, our heroic friend, I
am impelled to confess my sins. Often and often have I
travailed a whole week with a little poem, licked it slowly
into shape with the industry of a Virgil, and then, at some
jovial board, or beneath the romantic shades of some picnic
retreat, have declaimed it as the offspring of the moment.”

Here was another exasperating disclosure, if I had been
in a state of mind to notice it. Hunter was a rhymester,
then; a rival of mine, and perhaps a superior in the favor
of the Muses; a companion in that flight by which I thought
to soar above the heads of my male friends at Seacliff. In
those days I magnified the office of the poet, because I

imagined that I was one of the inheritors of the divine succession.
Happy days! when I believed that I should sit
among the gods of song; in the lowest seat of their glorious
temple, indeed, but still among them and partaking of their
worship; not crowned with a whole bay tree, but at least
with a sprig.

Just now I did not trouble myself about Hunter's rivalship,
and in fact there was no need of it, inasmuch as his
only claim to the bardic character lay in his uncommon, but
not precisely poetic, faculty of invention. He had told me a
day or two before, that he never wrote a line of poetry in
his life; and it was a mere momentary whimsical puff of
vanity, which led him now to claim the lyric halo. Many
a man wears the cap and bells and walks in motley, who is
capable of winning our respect, and would win it, were he
not anxious to appear what he is not.

The conversation went on around me, a pattering of unmeaning
words, a repetition of irksome sounds, which annoyed
me, although I did not attend to it, nor catch a whisper of
its object, because there was a far other and more earnest
dialogue going on within me. Two voices, like two spirits,
were disputing there, one of which was brave and kindly,
saying “Remain!” the other cowardly and selfish, muttering,
“Away!” The selfish spirit conjured up before me a
house, like that of Seacliff, its doors written over with names
of dishonor at which a crowd of people pointed scornful fingers,
while within, peering through the windows, cunning yet
reckless, depraved, cruel, and exulting, sat a demon whose
face bore the likeness of Somerville. I must not stay here,
I concluded; I must break away while I have the power.
And even if to-morrow some new thought or revelation
should come to detain me, I will still hold my heart in such
iron links of will, that—no matter how mad it may go—it
shall not act out its lunacy. Yes, I tossed whole chains of
stout resolutions into my future, just as Xerxes flung his
fetters into the Hellespont. There was extravagance in the

feelings which I describe, and there is absurd hyperbole,
perhaps, in my rehearsal of them; but it was the natural
exaltation of a young man, stirred up by the supposed presence
of a great wrong, and unable as yet to state his griefs
calmly even to himself.

Mrs. Westervelt's little boy danced into the room and
broke my revery. I have not hitherto spoken of this child,
although he was a noticeable member of the family. Only
five years old, he was tall of his age, and in his pretty, pale
face and clear hazel eyes there was an expression which was
more like the quiet pensiveness of evening than the bright
brisk life of morning. His light brown hair hung in beautiful
ringlets, and his features were as delicate and regular as
those of his half-sisters. He seemed fragile in health, and,
like many frail children, premature in intellect. I think
that even at that early age he fashioned fictitious characters
for himself, and acted and talked in accordance with the
fanciful, sentimental individualities thus substituted for his
own. From hour to hour he varied strangely; sometimes
sitting grave and reflective, with a shadow-like melancholy
on his small face; then bursting out in skipping, singing
gayety, as gleefully clamorous as a mocking-bird. His imagination
was singularly forward in its development, and
brought him much happiness and many troubles. It wrought
in his little brain all kinds of wonderful phantoms and events,
which his lisping tongue described so fluently, so earnestly,
so solemnly, that strangers took them for verities. Yet his
inventions were not, like those of Hunter, the offspring of
mere vanity. They seemed rather to be incipient poetry;
the necessities of a fancy too ravenous to be satisfied with
every-day realities; the cravings of a precocious spirit after
unknown emotions; epics which would not wait for the
rhyming faculty. Very properly the family tried to discourage
this dangerous instinct, and his sisters shook their
sage little heads at his stories, while his papa had threatened
to whip him for one or two which were somewhat too practical

in their nature. The rod had never alighted on him,
however, for he was the only son, and more than that, the
only child by the second wife.

Willie's childish glee evaporated at sight of Somerville,
and sidling away from him, he took refuge with his sister
Mary. I had repeatedly noticed this dislike or fear with
which the boy regarded the elegant visitor, and had wondered
at it, for Somerville often tried to tame him with pretty
words and sugar plums.

“Well, Willie, what are you doing this morning?” said
Mary. “Why don't you ride your cane? You may ride it,
if you will go into the veranda.”

He lifted his head out of the folds of her dress, and looked
up in her face with a queer, cunning smile, which hinted at
far maturer objects than toys, and was as much too old for
him as his father's hat would have been.

“I'll tell you a 'tory,” said he in a whisper, turning a cautious
eye upon Somerville.

“No, Willie; I don't want to hear your story; you don't
tell true stories; you make them up.”

“Oh, but this is a true 'tory,” he urged. “This 'tory is
true, all the way. You hear me tell this 'tory, and then
n—o—o more. Once there was a gentleman wanted to
marry a laydee, and he couldn't because she wouldn't let
him. Then he used to 'cold her, and push her, and 'trike
her; and so the laydee used to cry and cry and be sick; and
then,” (here he paused as if studying out his conclusion,)
“and then the laydee died, and—and the gentleman was
hung.”

“Willie! Willie!” exclaimed Mary, laying down her
work and looking earnestly at him, as if seeking to gather
from his face more than he had said. “You mustn't make
up stories so; you make up naughty stories, Willie. Papa
has often told you not to do so; don't you remember it, Willie?”

She caught the curious expression in my face, and addressed

me: “Mr. Fitz Hugh, you mustn't mind what this
child says; he is a little heedless 'tory-teller, and that is all.”

Willie seemed rather abashed and peeped sidelong at me
to see how much he had fallen under my condemnation.
Detecting more fun than displeasure in my countenance, he
brightened up, smiled deprecatingly in his sister's eyes, and offered
another remark. “Now I'll tell you something all true.
Mamma has lost her picture, and can't find it no—where.
She thought Willie took it, but Willie didn't. It is lost.”

“What picture do you mean, Willie?” asked Mary.
“Not the pretty one? Not the one in the gold case?”

“Yes, the pretty one; the painted one, with gold over it,
like a watch; that one. She can't find it no—where.”

“Mamma has lost her miniature?” inquired Genevieve.
“Nonsense! why, papa took it, of course.”

“Naturally,” said Somerville. “Who else has so good a
right to it?”

“Of course Mr. Westervelt would take it,” chimed in
Mrs. Van Leer. “I al—ways remind Henry to take mine
with him when he goes away from me. The poor fellow is
dread—fully absent-minded on that point, and would forget
it every time and so suffer abom—inably, if I didn't assist
his memory. Isn't that so, Henry?”

“No, Jule. I always think of it, you know I do,” returned
the heavy creature, surveying her with a fond admiration
which made me respect his heart at the expense of his
head. “Jule is forever making fun of me,” he added. “I
have to keep a stiff upper lip.”

“But there is another missing miniature, which Mr. Westervelt
has not taken,” continued the satirical lady. “It is a
mere tri—fle in value, to be sure; but it is won—derfully
precious, I fancy, to the gentleman who stole it.”

Here I saw Bob let off a wink of triumph and happiness
so emphatic that it ought to have been accompanied by a report.

“Really,” pursued Mrs. Van Leer, “what woman ever

complained before of losing her miniature? That is just
what we want,—to have the men run off with our likenesses,
and then bring them back to swap them for the orig—inals.
I al—ways know how matters are going to end when a girl
lets a young fellow get possession of her por—trait.”

Miss Westervelt blushed, but made no other response to
this badinage. Evidently it was a portrait of hers which
had disappeared, and I began to question quite earnestly
whether Mrs. Van Leer referred to the sketch just presented
to me, or to some other which had fallen into the hands of a
rival. By this time Bob could contain his glee and self-gratulation
no longer. He floundered into the hall, executed
three or four steps of a cumbrous polka, and nodded at me
through the doorway with such violence that I had some
hopes that he would break his neck. Sketch in hand, I
slipped out of the parlor and joined the elated blockhead.
He was in the gayest state of mind and body, pounding me
on the shoulders with his great fist, then ramming his hands
elbow-deep in his pockets, then walking up and down chuckling.

“Did you hear about that miniature?” said he. “I've
got it. I'm the feller. Come up stairs and look at it.”

I followed him to his room, and sat down in the midst of a
saturnalian confusion of cigar-boxes, meerschaums, ale-bottles,
soda-water-bottles, scent-bottles, loose corks, brushes, gloves,
dressing-cases, hats, caps, boots, slippers, morning-gowns,
coats, pants, foils, boxing-gloves, pistols, fowling-pieces, fish-lines,
&c. &c., all spread over the bed, the chairs, the trunks,
the tables, the wash-stand, the floor.

“Got a lot of things here,” observed Bob. “I never let
the chambermaid meddle with 'em; she gets 'em out of their
places. Upset them traps on the floor and take the chair;
take a cigar too, won't you? I'm going to. I haven't had
my first smoke yet. I was just about to light up when I
heard you come in, and run down to see you. I say, you get
up here bright and early every morning, don't you, though?”

I accepted a regalia, for I felt that I needed a sedative to
endure the sight of that portrait in his possession.

Unlocking a trunk, he took out of it a little package, carefully
wrapped in a fine cambric handkerchief, unfolded it and
exhibited a daguerreotype in a well-remembered case of
crimson velvet. It was the one which I had seen and coveted
on the day of the horseback escapade. The first look
at the face was granted to himself, and was enjoyed with a
chuckle of satisfaction, a sigh of supreme contentment, which
made me envy him, hate him, admire him, and pity him,
altogether. He passed it to me as carefully and reverently
as he would have handled the Koh-i-noor. Unconsciously
I rose to receive it, and then sat quickly down again, for
either the sudden rising or the sight of that fair face in his
hands, made me dizzy.

“An't it pretty?” said he with another sigh and chuckle.
“I tell you I am getting my courage up, old feller. I hooked
that, and carried it off right before her eyes, though it scared
me awfully to do it. But I knew I must begin to show grit
sometime or other, or I never should make any headway.
She made up all kinds of pretty pretences that she wanted it
back again, but Sis told me not to be scared, and I held on
like a good one. Glad I did, by Jove! an't you, old feller?
The fact is, a man mustn't believe the girls half the time
when they say No, or he'll act like a fool, and they'll despise
him. I tell you, I begin to think there's nothing the girls
hate so much as a fool,—a regular bashful fool;—they like
a confounded rascal better than a confounded fool, if the rascal
has only got the brass and the brains and the manners;
they do so.”

“I am afraid you are correct,” said I. Of course, I was
thinking of the rascal who pervaded the mystery of Seacliff.

“It an't right though, is it?” resumed Bob. “A fool may
be a good feller after all, and have a first-rate heart. But for
all that they can't stand him unless he has the brass and the
brains and the manners.”

The idea of a fool having brains and manners seemed paradoxical,
but I did not think it worth while to interrupt my
friend, and, besides, a contradiction might have seemed like
a personality.

“An't it beautiful?” he resumed, reaching out to take back
the miniature. “You have a picture of her, too, in that
little drawing there. You needn't feel anyways delicate on
my account, Fitz Hugh, about keeping that. I'm glad she
worked it for you, and I'd rather you should have it than not,
for you deserve so much. I did want it, though, till I got
hold of this other. Now I'm perfectly satisfied. I say,
wouldn't you like to swap, hey?”

“No, I think not,” said I. “Don't you see, you dull youth,
that this sketch is worth a hundred of your daguerreotype.”
I broke out on him with a sort of vindictiveness, because he
had annoyed me by his chuckling confidence, his assumption
of a monopoly in Miss Westervelt, and his stupid impudence
in committing that sacrilegious theft of her portrait.
“Don't you know that that daguerreotype was done by a
hired artist or artist's apprentice, while this sketch is the
product of her own brain, and the labor of her own hands?
Don't you understand that this expresses something? that it
means gratitude? Don't you perceive that it is a token of
comprehension between us? that it is a link for memory?
Besides, it was not stolen; it was her own gift, devised by
her; it came freely and unsolicited. What do you think of
that, my boy?”

A wild stare, an open mouth, and two red cheeks showed
me that his thoughts were astonishment and dismay. “What!
she—you,” he gasped. “Old feller!—you don't mean to say
that you—you are courting her?”

I had been too bold, too frank; and I turned coward and
hypocrite again. What if he should take alarm, make a desperate
rush to New York, and offer to lend the needy father
fifty thousand or so, on condition of an early marriage with
the daughter!

“Nonsense!” said I. “Don't scare yourself with a shadow,
Bob. You are welcome to the daguerreotype, and to the
original—when you get her.”

“Oh!! well! I'm glad you an't going in for her, old chap.
You scared me awfully, though, for a minute. I tell you,
Fitz Hugh, you wouldn't say them kind of things if you
knew how they cut me. I wish you wouldn't do it again,
that's a good feller!”

“I won't,” said I, and resolved to keep my promise, injurious
as it might be to Bob's interests. I left the room a
sadder man than I had entered it, but not a wiser, for jealousy
had shattered all my resolutions of caution. Does not every
sane adult know the sanctity with which a heart invests the
object of its adoration? It wishes to make no proselytes to
that religion; desires no concourse of fellow-worshippers;
asks for no high priest, no mediator. Above all does it shrink
and groan within itself when it sees another's hand venture
near that image which itself only dares to admire from a
distance. Yet, when it sees this, the idol seems to become
doubly worshipful. Where now was my resolution of living
the life of an icicle at Seacliff? Melted in a furnace hotter
than that of affliction. Only to hear Robert Van Leer claim
Miss Westervelt, made me feel that I could not give her up,
no matter what might be contained in the cloud of mystery
which shadowed her sister. And then this other thought
moved me: that I was not yet certain of any error in Genevieve;
that by leaving Seacliff I should only draw a veil
between myself and the truth; and that thus I might do
lifelong injustice to one who was perhaps as spotless as the
angels. Furthermore I argued to myself that I ought to
remain, in order to be the enemy, and, if possible, the con-queror
of the vampire. Yes, I concluded, I will stay and
guard Genevieve; not suspecting her of any evil, though
watching her as closely as if I were sworn to suspicion; but
tracking this man, spying out his very purposes, balking him
and driving him hence.

Oh, Youth! how magniloquent it is, even in its sentiments!
how rhetorical even before it has spoken! And yet, thank
God for enthusiasm, the poetry of life, the prophet which
shows us men and acts, not as they are in the present, but as
they may be in the great future. Without the atmosphere,
the skies would be blackness; without enthusiasm, life might
be a colorless gloom.