Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #108 (May 1859).
Aunt Helen had that afternoon been discoursing of Uncle Philip, saying how brave and generous he always was, and what pride she used to have in him when he came home for the vacations; at what risk he once saved the widow Leech's eldest son from drowning, when the little fellow had fallen through the ice on Chesterfield pond, and every one else thought the attempt to rescue him worse than useless; how grateful Mrs. Leech was; and that was the way her son, now a man grown, came to be called Rothsay; for hitherto the child's name had been Habakkuk, or, as the boys abbreviated it, Koot. Notwithstanding Habakkuk's Scripture appellation he had never been christened, but now that he had been at death's door his mother bethought herself that no time should be lost, so she collected her seven children, every one, and making them as tidy as possible, stood them up in a row in church and had them all christened together the very next Sunday morning. A very fine group of children Aunt Helen said they were, when once, through much painstaking, their real faces had become visible; the boys were swart as gipsies, with glittering eyes and hair black as jet, whereas the girls were all fair-haired and blue-eyed. From this time forth it had gone well with them; the neighbors lent a helping hand, and the widow Leech, instead of living in a perpetual worry to find bread for so many little mouths—for the eldest was not yet ten years old—had grown younger and cheerier, till Isaac Vail, the sexton, a man well-to-do in the world, and not so very old, though indeed the whole neighborhood had set him down as a foredoomed old bachelor, took herself and her seven children for better for worse; and after this there was not a more reputable family any where around. The boys grew up orderly and industrious; the girls pretty, modest, and tidy; and Isaac Vail had great satisfaction in sending them to schools as good as the best, so that they came to be a credit to themselves and their friends.
"And about Uncle Philip, Aunt Helen?"
She said he was the most self-denying person she ever knew in her life, and at the same time the most liberal toward others. He earned all he expended during his college life; his father would gladly have aided him, but Philip knew how they were straitened at home—that was before grandfather's Western land became valuable—and so he would accept nothing at the risk of diminishing the family comforts. Such strict economy as he must have used! But Aunt Helen said they never had a fear that it would affect his character unfavorably, since the more he stinted himself the more he managed to bestow on others. Then so good judgment as he had too! If he could not give his sisters many books, he took care that those he sent them should be of the very best. This had enabled them to acquire a better education than otherwise they could have had.
"Was Uncle Philip well-looking?" I asked.
Oh yes! at least before he went abroad; he was of a good height, and though rather slight, yet he was so compact and well-made that he seldom found his equal in strength. Still Aunt Helen could not say that people would call him handsome. Only he had fine eyes, the true Rothsay eyes (Aunt Helen had those); and then he had so much intelligence and goodness of expression: for her part, she prized far more highly beauty of expression than mere regularity of features. He had the family hair too; all the Rothsays had tolerable hair.
Aunt Helen's was certainly very beautiful; not a white thread in its dark sheen, though she was I don't know how many years old. I do not know, because, when I was a very little girl, she taught me that it is ill-bred to ask people about their age, if they are older than ourselves. I was sure she was older than myself.
"Did he stay at home when he was through college?"
He just came home for a week; and then Mr. Livermore, his father's friend, found him a situation in Washington as private tutor, with a great salary—she believed as much as a thousand dollars a year; and there he remained three years, all the while studying, studying; and observing too, for Mr. Livermore took care that he should know the people best worth knowing. So it was by no means lost time; he was only twenty-three when he left Washington. Then he came home again for a few weeks, and directly afterward went abroad; and though they often heard from him, they never saw him for five years. This time, when he returned, he brought a wife with him. She was a Genevese; a lovely, slight young creature; beautiful and gracious as a moss rose-bud, with a voice clear and sweet in singing as a robin's, and a speech far above singing; and then such a silvery, ringing laugh; and though she had many accomplishments—she could speak in three or four languages, and could play charmingly on several musical instruments; she would take a bit of paper and a pencil, chatting all the while, and before one would think what she was doing, there it was!—a picture just as natural as life, of any person or any thing she chose. And for all this she did not in the very least value herself upon it; only she pretended to be very proud of her English, which she had learned for Philip's sake, and so that she might talk with his friends when she should come to see them. "My sister Helen," she would say, "do I not speak English just as good as Philip? No? Ah! that is because you love him so much." And when the sisters remonstrated against the thick chestnut beard which they said spoiled his face, Eloise—that was her name—said, "Ah, no! it was charming; that made him exactly beautiful." Though they staid only a month, every body in the neighborhood knew and liked Philip's little wife. His father, mother, and sisters took her into their heart at once. She had no mother of her own; but she had been most kindly and judiciously reared. They went to live in Havana, in the West Indies. The distance seemed much greater then than now, because of the difference in facility of travel. After they had left the house seemed lonely enough; and only that my father and mother had then come to live at the old home, Aunt Helen did not know how it would have gone there. A great sorrow had befallen herself soon after this, and for a time a dark gloom gathered over the homestead. First the mother was called away. She died suddenly; no one had thought of her as dangerously ill. For years her health had been delicate; but the day on which she died she had risen as usual. It was Sunday morning; and she told them all to go to church, while she would remain at home. When they returned she was lying on the sofa, a book in her hand, and they thought she had fallen asleep; so they spoke with hushed voices and moved silently, that they might not waken her. She would never waken more! The calm smile on her face was there still when they shut the coffin lid upon it. The peace of God doubtless it was which made her grave-sleep blessed.
Then came the father's turn. One wish haunted him—to look once more on the faces of all his children. Letters were dispatched to all, and in a few weeks they were assembled there; Philip last, as his home was farthest. It was a sad meeting, yet not comfortless, for no breath of discord had ever come among them. The old father, gratified in his last wish, full of love and trust, lay down to his final sleep. A few days more and the children were again separated, only my father and mother remaining with Aunt Helen. Months passed and brought no tidings of Philip; then intelligence came, and of the saddest. During his absence a pestilence had devastated the city. His wife, who had gone to reside, while he-should be away, in the house of a friend, had perished among the first, leaving their little daughter, then in her third year, in the care of this friend. Within a few days the latter had died also. Madeline, his wife's servant, had used unwearied but unavailing efforts to preserve the child, and had then herself disappeared. There was no certainty, but it was supposed that she, too, had become a victim to the infection. The house, like others which had been similarly desolated, was closed by official authority. This was the welcome which awaited him.
He sought alleviation of his own suffering in the attempt to mitigate that of others. At length he took the disease; but he was kindly cared for and recovered. Then once more he returned to his old home at the North. Trouble and illness in a few months had done the work of years; he had grown prematurely old, his hair was thinned and whitened, he was meagre and sallow, his figure was bent, and at first no one, not even his sisters, recognized him. Gradually he regained his strength; but he never looked young again. The ensuing autumn he went to New Orleans, and there, eventually, he took up his residence.
Aunt Helen was never weary of recounting these events, nor I of listening to her recital. They had all occurred before I was old enough to retain a distinct remembrance of them; nor could I recollect ever to have seen my uncle Philip; nevertheless, I had a very definite and vivid idea of him, which was just about as accurate a likeness as imaginary pictures are wont to be.
It was just sunset. I was sitting on the doorstep, and, absorbed in a new book, I did not observe the approach of a gentleman who entered the gate until he had traversed the walk and was quite near me; nor then did I guess at all who it was. He inquired for my father and mother. The latter, who was busily stitching in the parlor, looked up at our entrance, and with a cry of joyous surprise came hastily to meet him. There was so much gladness in her welcome that I did not need her exclamation, "Dear Philip! dear brother Philip!" to inform me who was the new-comer.
Now there had always come occasional letters from my uncle, and at intervals not very remote; but the one which should have advised us of this visit happened not to reach its destination; so it was regarded as a signal piece of good fortune, his arrival at this juncture. For my father had received an appointment requiring him to be away for several years. My mother was to accompany him, and they were to take their departure in less than a month. It was a somewhat sudden arrangement, and Uncle Philip, who had left New Orleans several weeks before, had missed the letters which would have informed him of the plan. So, through these failures, it looked like the merest chance that there was any meeting at all. It proved a very pleasant chance for me. It had appeared that the best disposal to make of me would be to send me to school, and this was resolved upon. Hartford was the place selected, and Aunt Helen was to go there too; not to school, certainly, but in some sort as my guardian, for my mother did not think too highly of boarding-schools. Uncle Philip demanded a change of programme—that the school plan should be summarily dismissed, and another adopted in its stead. This, which met my own cordial approbation, was to the effect that Aunt Helen and myself should accompany him home, and remain his guests during the period of my parents' absence. A few objections were skillfully met; we were assured that instruction in all desirable forms was just as attainable in New Orleans as elsewhere. Another inducement, the probable benefit to my health—I had grown rapidly the last few years, and was really not strong—was very influential. It was conceded that, instead of spending two years at a Northern school, I should return with Uncle Philip to New Orleans. Aunt Helen shared fully my preference for this arrangement. So, one bright September morning, we all left the old homestead to go together as far as New York; thence our paths diverged.
My uncle's residence was in a quiet part of the city; the house was large and handsome; every thing in and about it was on a scale liberal and even luxurious in my eyes, accustomed as I was to the frugality of a New England country home. Our mode of life would, perhaps, have seemed to most persons monotonous, but to me every phase of it was replete with zest. At first, indeed, my own pleasure was somewhat marred by the apprehension that it was obtained at a sacrifice on my uncle's part, but he soon reassured me. Aunt Helen found a little more difficulty in adapting herself to her new surroundings, but she was, on the whole, well pleased. She had always much consideration for others, and possessed a quiet cheerfulness of temperament which was infectious; and then she abounded, beyond most women I have known, in a ready tact, which gave her ease and grace every where. If it be true of home-keeping youths that they have ever homely wits, it is not always true of home-keeping women. Driving, walking, sightseeing of every kind, Aunt Helen held in aversion. An appeal to her kindness, so the want were genuine, was electric; she was at once attracted by it out of her love of ease, or rather she then found her ease in painstaking. For the rest, her tastes and habits chimed excellently with Uncle Philip's. His drawing-room was simply and handsomely furnished, but books had accumulated there until it was drawing-room and library both in one. When we came he proposed a reform, but Aunt Helen liked it as it was, and so no change was attempted.
On Sundays we had company to dinner. Sometimes there were ladies, but usually only gentlemen. Two or three of these were habitual guests; one of them, M. Vallière, a native of France, was an intimate friend of Uncle Philip; they had first met in Switzerland while the latter resided in Europe. Afterward they had renewed their acquaintance in Cuba, and finally M. Vallière, incidentally meeting Uncle Philip in New Orleans, had been induced to make his own home there. He had come to the city to make disposal of some property which had fallen to him; and having become the possessor of a valuable plantation a few miles distant, he resided alternately there and in the city. He was slight, dark as a Moor, and his eyes had a wonderful variety of expression, appearing even to change color with his moods. Commonly they were gray, but when he grew earnest they darkened; and again, when he became angry, as indeed I saw him but once or twice, the dilated pupil overspread the whole iris, and emitted such glances as, were they aimed at me, I should shrink from encountering. He was often at the house during the week, and on Sundays invariably occupied his seat at the dinner-table. He talked a great deal, speaking English with as much apparent ease as if it were his native language. At first I hardly knew whether to like or dislike him most; something about him indicated that no person who had any thing to conceal would be exactly safe under the quiet scrutiny of his eye. But at home I had been encouraged always to openness, my faults being patent as daylight, and I had nothing that I knew of to hide, so presently the distrustful feeling departed at once and forever.
"And so, Miss Janet," he said, one evening, several weeks after we had first met, "it is decided that we are to be friends."
"Yes, Monsieur," I answered; "but I doubted it at first."
"So I perceived; but giving you credit for penetration, I did not allow myself to be anxious, since it was certain that you would, sooner or later, recognize my merit. I knew that we were destined to become fast friends. And as the first-fruits, Dr. Rothsay"—turning to my uncle—"I have found a French teacher for Miss Janet here; one who possesses the two-fold recommendation of ability and necessity; a countryman of my own, of whom an unfortunate process of litigation has made a poor man. When I knew him in France he was the proprietor of a large estate, and one of the most actively benevolent individuals I have ever known. Deeply religious, he is without a tincture of fanaticism. I think no person has ever won from me more unreserving respect. He was just the man to bear reverses admirably; he avers that this change from abundance to slenderness of means has only very slightly diminished his personal comforts."
"Were there none to suffer with him?"
"No; he has only one son, a young man who is full of capacity and excellence of every kind; he is in South America now, and the father has come here to gain a livelihood in whatever way may present itself. He mentioned teaching as that of which he felt himself most capable, and I immediately bethought myself of this young lady, your ward."
And it was settled accordingly. We all felt interested in M. Henri; even Aunt Helen avowed her willingness to furbish up her knowledge of French for the sake of enlarging his income; and thenceforth Uncle Philip managed to induce M. Henri to give us the pleasure of his company at our Sunday dinners.
These gatherings came to be among the pleasantest occurrences of the week. Frequently there were strangers, sometimes travelers who had spent years in foreign countries, and who dealt out freely their gathered treasures. Occasionally, too, we made visits, sometimes to my uncle's friends in town, and sometimes to plantations a few miles away.
For music I had a love which, though wholly uncultivated, was nevertheless intense, and to indulge and encourage this was Uncle Philip's good pleasure. One evening, at a concert, my attention was attracted toward a party just opposite to a degree that I felt to be scarcely consistent with courtesy; nevertheless, do what I would, my eyes reverted almost immediately, as if drawn by a power beyond my own control, to the trio of persons who, though occupying a position by no means conspicuous, were yet noticeable amidst the assembled multitude. Had the gentleman been alone there was nothing perhaps in his aspect to challenge a second regard; he was large, high-shouldered, with light hair, eyebrows, and eyes, and red mustache. The features were not in themselves repulsive, but their expression was stolid. Of the ladies the elder was eminently handsome; but while I observed her the face changed. In looking around, her glance, so I imagined, fell upon us, and thereupon a lurid light kindled in her black eyes, burned in her cheeks, and for a moment made her face ferocious; then suddenly, as it had come, it was gone again, and the features were in repose, proud, impassive, handsome as before. Could I have mistaken? At least I could not deter myself from noticing if the phenomenon recurred. It did: once more that defiant gleam shot athwart the beautiful face, imparting to it a manifest fierceness; and this time the gentleman's look, fixed full upon the lady's, seemed to wear an answering expression. In both instances the flash came and went with electric swiftness. I observed that the brilliants on the lady's bosom rose and fell with no quicker motion, that the glittering fan in her jeweled hand never paused nor wavered in its steady, equal swaying.
The younger lady could scarcely have been older than myself. Her face was somewhat pale, but this pallor only heightened the purity of her look; the brown hair was laid back from the low, pearly forehead in a way which would have marred any face but the loveliest; the beauty of this it seemed to enhance; the eyebrows were delicate yet well-defined and mobile. The whole face was faultless, but its exquisite charm, as it impressed me then and as it came into my mind afterward, was in the blue, dark eyes, fringed with the most beautiful lashes in the world. Once her glance met my own, and then, by one of those mysterious experiences which sometimes, I suppose, come to all persons, I was conscious of a momentary recollection of that face; it seemed a familiar, well-remembered object.
Twice afterward, during the winter, I met the elder lady; once with her young companion, and once alone. The habitation nearest our own was unoccupied. It was an old-fashioned structure, elegant once, perhaps, still picturesque, but somewhat gloomy of aspect. A balconied window from my own room commanded a view of it. The grounds bore marks of former care; they were filled with rare and beautiful shrubs, groups of orange and lemon trees, and a profusion of flowering climbers, all of which had attained a rank luxuriance indicative that nature had there resumed absolute control. It seemed probable that the whole house, grown over with exuberant vegetation, would, like the castle of the sleeping Dornröschen, become effectually secluded from the outer world.
I have my full woman's share of curiosity, and should have liked well to penetrate into this lonely house around which there seemed to me to hover a certain mystery. In the early spring I did once attempt to effect a passage through the hedge of dwarf pomegranate which divided its garden from our own, but the thorns were too much for me. I indemnified myself for this failure by a free use of my opera-glass. My uncle had occupied his present residence only a few years. He had heard that the owner of the premises was a M. Dupressin, for a long time non-resident, and that the house had remained vacant since he left it. This was all Uncle Philip could tell me. M. Vallière knew no more, but he promised to lose no opportunity of enlightening himself thereupon.
Accordingly a month or two afterward, he said he had heard that we were to have neighbors in the Dupressin house.
Uncle Philip asked who they were.
French, he said; recently from Marseilles; the name, Montargis; and there was a young lady, a neighbor for Mademoiselle Janet.
Now this intelligence was pleasant. With heightened interest I looked next morning through the catalpa boughs that shaded my favorite window, effectually shaded it, insomuch that it was a perfect "coigne of vantage;" one might sit there, bowered in green, and overlook the whole vicinage. One particular window I had assigned to the young lady; it reached to the floor and opened on an extended balcony; musk-roses and cape-jasmine overran the railing and fastened their sprays above the upper edge of the window: a thicket of oleanders grew so near that some of the branches had thrust themselves through the balcony and flowered there. Every thing about the place looked to me more attractive than ever, and I strongly wished the new-comers might harmonize with all this beauty which awaited them.
After all I did not witness the arrival, which must therefore have occurred while I was asleep.
There were soon unmistakable signs that my favorite room was occupied. One morning the transparent curtain was put aside and a young girl came out on the balcony; her face was turned away from me, but I saw that her figure was slight and graceful; she reached up and broke off a branch of jasmine, and her sleeve falling back showed a round, white arm. While she carelessly inhaled the odor of the flowers another person came out—a lady also. This must be Madame Montargis. Certainly I recognized that face, so coldly handsome, and yet with such capacity of evil expression! It was one of those which had so enchained my attention early in the winter. As she addressed the young lady she passed a hand caressingly over her cheek. Was it, then, the same with whom I had previously seen her? Yes; as she turned I knew her; paler, and to my thought lovelier, than before.
Immediately I set up an exalted and unchangeable friendship for the younger lady, on the strength of the qualities with which my imagination invested her, and toward the elder an uncompromising hostility. Moreover, I succeeded tolerably in enlisting Aunt Helen's sympathies on the side of my own prejudices. M. Vallière also listened encouragingly to the outpouring of my thoughts, and pledged himself to all possible aid in eliciting confirmation of my various and opposing theories in regard to the relations existing among our new neighbors. To do him justice, it was long before he furnished any substantial elucidation of the mystery of this dove and vulture fellowship—for so I chose to regard it.
A friend of Uncle Philip had asked us to spend a few days at a residence a little way up the river, and Aunt Helen yielding to our united persuasion, it was decided that we should avail ourselves of the invitation. Uncle Philip accompanied us, and would come for us again the ensuing week. This new phase of existence—life on a plantation—I found charming, and would willingly have prolonged it. Nevertheless, at the time appointed we were on our way homeward. One of the first passengers that met my eye on the boat by which we returned was M. Montargis. Where, then, were the ladies? possibly elsewhere on the vessel, and I determined not to overlook them if only they should come within the range of my vision. But first it was necessary to establish Aunt Helen in her state-room, for she invariably became sea-sick with the first motion of the boat; so leaving her to seek in sleep forgetfulness of suffering, we went to the saloon. Not there was my quest successful, but we had not yet been on the upper deck, and we presently went thither.
I scanned carefully the groups around me, at first to no purpose; but perseverance is usually rewarded, and so it was in this case. There, just before me, stood the tall, dark lady. In my hand I had a gay, beautiful bunch of flowers, which I had brought on board, and, moved by a sudden impulse, I offered them to her. She accepted them with suave courtesy and a brilliant smile, which, passing swiftly away, left on her face an expression so care-worn and troubled that I made up my mind directly to forego hostilities. A few minutes afterward she had disappeared, and I saw her no more.
We had just reached home. M. Vallière, who met us at the landing and accompanied us to the house, had been gone scarcely five minutes, when the bell rang sharply and he re-entered, to call away Uncle Philip. M. Montargis had been thrown from his carriage just there by his own door, and it was feared fatally injured.
It was evening before we saw Uncle Philip again. M. Montargis, his wife, and the young lady were all three in the carriage at the time of the accident. The horses had become restive, and M. Montargis had opened the door and attempted to assist the driver in controlling them; they made a sudden turn, and the carriage was overset. Besides a wound on the head, the gentleman had received severe internal injury, and the result was doubtful.
Weeks passed; our life went on in its customary routine. My interest in our neighbors had taken a definite form, and by no means diminished. Physically, M. Montargis was slowly amending, but there was reason to fear that his mind was permanently disordered. His wife did not for an hour resign the care of him to any other person.
Had Uncle Philip ever seen the young lady?
Not once; he had inquired for her, had ascertained that she suffered no ill consequences from the accident. I imagined that she now occupied a room in another part of the house, for I saw her no more at the window.
One day Uncle Philip announced that the Montargises were going away on a journey; they would travel by easy stages, and would be governed in their plans entirely by the effect on the health of M. Montargis. A day or two afterward I saw a carriage brought to the door, and the sick man slowly and carefully borne to it; a lady in traveling-dress, shawled and vailed, followed, and it moved away. Then came another carriage, into which two female figures entered; one of them I recognized, the other, doubtless, was a servant. Then there was a great passing to and fro, and adjusting of luggage; finally all were gone, and its old, lonely stillness had settled around the Dupressin house once more.
The sickly season approaching, Uncle Philip proposed that we should make a visit to the Northern States. M. Vallitre accompanied us. It was a leisurely, pleasant tour, and after a month of loitering wherever we liked, we found ourselves in Boston.
The very next morning after our arrival M. Vallière and myself saw, for an instant, in the hall of the Revere House, our New Orleans neighbor, Madame Montargis. M. Vallière remarked that he had an indefinite impression of having met her long ago, though when and where he could not recollect.
We had just told Aunt Helen, when Uncle Philip came in; he brought a harvest of letters, some of them for M. Vallière, and both gentlemen sat and read them.
"Philip—brother! what is the matter?" exclaimed Aunt Helen. "Are you ill?" For, looking toward him, she saw that he had grown very pale.
He did not reply at first—not until, having gone to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder, she repeated the question—and then he hardly answered; but he gave her the letter which he had been reading.
She looked first at the signature. "Montargis! But, Janet, you just now told me that Madame Montargis was in this house."
I averred that I had seen her within the hour. Uncle Philip seemed incredulous; M. Vallière confirmed my assertion. They talked apart a little while, and then left the room. Aunt Helen and I read the letter together; it was in French, and it was this:
"If Dr. Rothsay will look back through a period of twelve years, to the time of his residence in Cuba, he will, perhaps, recall to mind that his little daughter, then two years of age, conceived a strong regard for Madeline, a French servant in the service of Madame Cazneau, the friend of Madame Rothsay; and that, influenced by this childish fancy, Dr. Rothsay engaged Madeline as an attendant on Mademoiselle Eloise. Madame Montargis, wife of the gentleman whom Dr. Rothsay recently so kindly and unweariedly attended in New Orleans, and Madeline, the French servant, are identical.
"And Mademoiselle Eloise Etienne, the reputed niece of Madame Montaf¢is, is Dr. Philip Rothsay's daughter, left, on the death of her mother, in the charge of Madame Cazneau.
"From Madame Rothsay I received only kindness; and in her illness I nursed her faithfully. On the death of Madame Cazneau, which followed in one week that of Madame Rothsay, Mademoiselle Eloise was left in my sole care. Just at this time I determined to avail myself of an unexpected opportunity to return to France. Deeply attached as I had become to Mademoiselle Eloise, I should still have left her in Cuba, had I known any person to whom I might safely have intrusted her. But I knew none such; therefore I took her with me to France—to Marseilles.
"The confusion attending the fatality of the fever that season in Havana facilitated my departure, and enabled me to furnish myself with means of defraying the expenses of the voyage and of a maintenance afterward.
"In Marseilles I met the gentleman who afterward, became my husband.
"And in proof of what I have asserted, Dr. Rothsay will probably remember an incident which occurred on his child's second birthday. She was playing with a perfume-bottle, taken from Madame's stand; she broke it, and received in her little hand a deep, bad wound. Monsieur dressed it himself. The mark is still there.
"Besides this, among my fellow-passengers from Havana was M. Vallière, now a resident in New Orleans, and, I believe, the friend of Dr. Rothsay. It is possible that this gentleman will recollect a little girl whose beauty and caressing ways won his attention; and that one day the eager delight which she manifested at the play of light on an opal which he wore induced him to take off the ring and attach it to a little coral bracelet on her arm. I wished to return the jewel, but the gentleman courteously begged that she might be allowed to retain it. The bracelet, with the ring attached, are still in the possession of Mademoiselle Eloise.
"It may be that these circumstances, with one more—the singular likeness of the young lady to her mother—will yield to Dr. Rothsay conviction of the truth of what I have stated. [I might have placed it all beyond a doubt by making myself known to him before leaving New Orleans; but circumstances which I could not control rendered this step injudicious. I have, therefore, deferred this revelation, which, indeed, I have long wished to make, until now that we are about to take our final departure from this country.]
"Mademoiselle Rothsay will await in the residence of Madame Clerc, Mount Vernon Street, Boston, communications from her father."
The letter bore date three weeks preceding, and had been forwarded from New Orleans.
For the first time in my life I think I should have been vexed with Aunt Helen, sitting there so quietly after reading this letter, if I had not seen, at a second glance, that her tears were dropping fast.
Interminable seemed the suspense. It was at last ended by the entrance of M. Vallière. I plied him well with questions, and elicited these particulars:
A relapse on the part of M. Montargis, just on the eve of departure, had detained him in Boston.
When M. Vallière and Uncle Philip had sent up their names to Madame Montargis there had been a little delay. She received them, however, notwithstanding the inevitable surprise, with a cool equanimity, through which flashed now and then a fierce glitter of the eye that made her look dangerous. This ceased when she ascertained that their errand was exclusively in relation to Eloise. Both gentlemen fully recognized her, and both expressed wonder that they should have failed to do so sooner.
Of the meeting of father and daughter M. Vallière did not tell us. He began, but broke off; and rising suddenly, went to the window, where he seemed to have found something interesting.
When, at length, Uncle Philip came in, leading the gentle, beautiful young girl, who clung to him already, and sent timid glances, through fast-falling tears, toward the new-found friends—when he brought her to us, and just said, "Helen—Janet—my daughter," and could say no more—Aunt Helen, without speaking, folded her closely in her arms, and made her feel herself most dearly welcome. I am sure I have not often in my life felt so glad, but I could not help crying too. Uncle Philip did not try to comfort us; but he drew Eloise toward him and smoothed her hair, and soothed her gently as a mother could have done, and he said something to her in a low voice which she alone heard, and which made her give him, through her tears, a look which must have gone to his heart of hearts.
One morning while we were still in Boston, wishing to show Uncle Philip how long and beautiful was Eloise's hair, I undid the fastening and let it fall, a shower of bright curls, around her face and shoulders. It was just as if the lovely picture in Uncle Philip's room at home had taken life! I know that he remarked the likeness from the way in which he kissed her forehead, and then turned gently away.
Madame Montargis, with her husband, left Boston for Havre three days after the restoration of Eloise to her father. Intelligence came of the safe arrival of the vessel in which they had gone, and then for several years all attempts to gain farther information of their movements were ineffectual. At length M. Henri, the friend of M. Vallière, and my ci-devant French teacher, received the announcement that a valuable estate in the south of France had devolved upon him; and not many weeks after his departure, in a letter to M. Vallière, he stated that the preceding proprietor of the estate was M. Montargis, our former neighbor, and that the death of that gentleman's wife, a few weeks previous to his own, was supposed to have had a fatal effect upon his health, already for a long time precarious.
Eloise, amidst all her new-found happiness, grieved deeply at this intelligence. She had a sincere regard for Madame Montargis, from whom, indeed, she had received always the most affectionate indulgence.
Aunt Helen's home is now at the South, and she is now Madame Vallière. Herself, Uncle Philip, and my cousin Eloise—the dearest cousin in all the world—come in the summer and make us the most delightful visits, marred only by a too early termination; and then again, as the cold weather advances, we, too, often go South; so that we manage to be together full half the time.