At length the wounded self-esteem of the community received a healing salve, in the form of a report that Mr. Willc.o.xen had withdrawn from the gay world, in order the better to prepare himself for the Christian ministry. A report that, in twelve months, received its confirmation in the well established fact that Thurston Willc.o.xen was a candidate for holy orders.
And in the meantime the young guardian did not neglect his youthful charge, but in strict interpretation of his a.s.sumed duties of guardianship, he had taken the education of the girl and boy under his own personal charge.
"Many hard-working ministers of the Gospel have received pupils to educate for hire. Why may not I, with more time at my command, reserve the privilege of educating my own adopted son and daughter," he said, and acting upon that thought, had fitted up a little school-room adjoining his library, where, in the presence of Mrs. Morris, Miriam and Paul pursued their studies, Mrs. Morris hearing such recitations as lay within her province, and Mr. Willc.o.xen attending to the cla.s.sical and mathematical branches. Thus pa.s.sed many months, and every month the hearts of the children were knitted closer to each other and to their guardian.
And Thurston Willc.o.xen "grew in favor, with G.o.d and man." His name became the synonym for integrity, probity and philanthropy. He built a church and a free-school, and supported both at his own expense. In the third year after entering upon his inheritance, he was received into holy orders; and two years after, he was elected pastor of his native parish. Thus time went by, and brought at length the next eventful epoch of our domestic history--that upon which Miriam completed her sixteenth year.
CHAPTER x.x.x.
MIRIAM.
Six years had pa.s.sed away. Thurston Willc.o.xen was the most beloved and honored man, as well as the most distinguished clergyman of his day and state. His church was always crowded, except when he changed with some brother minister, whose pulpit was within reach--in which case, a great portion of his congregation followed him. Many flattering "calls" had the gifted and eloquent country parson received to metropolitan parishes; but he remained the faithful shepherd of his own flock as long as they would hear his voice.
As Miriam grew into womanhood prudence kept her silent on the subject of her strange vow. She, however, preserved in her memory the slight indexes that she already had in possession--namely, beginning with Marian"s return after her visit to Washington--her changed manner, her fits of reverie, her melancholy when she returned empty-handed from the post-office, her joy when she received letters, which she would read in secret and in silence, or when questioned concerning them, would gently but firmly decline to tell from whom or whence they came; the house-warming at Luckenough, where Marian suddenly became so bright and gay, and the evening succeeding, when she returned home through night and storm, and in such anguish of mind, that she wept all night; and the weeks of unexplained, unaccountable distress that followed this! All these things Miriam recalled, and studied if by any means they might direct her in the discovery of the guilty.
And her faithful study had ended in her a.s.surance of one or two facts--or one or two links, perhaps, we should say, in the chain of evidence. The first was, that Marian"s mysterious lover had been present in the neighborhood, and perhaps, in the mansion at the time of the house-warming at Luckenough--that he had met her once or more, and that his name was not Thomas Truman--that the latter was an a.s.sumed name, for, with all her observation and astute investigation, she had not been able to find that any one of the name of Truman had ever been seen or heard of in the county.
She was sure, also, that she had seen the man twice, both times in night and storm, when she had wandered forth in search of Marian.
She remembered well the strange figure of that man--the tall form shrouded in the black cloak--the hat drawn over the eyes--the faint spectral gleam of the clear-cut profile--the peculiar fall of light and shade, the decided individuality of air and gait--all was distinct as a picture in her memory, and she felt sure that she would be able to identify that man again.
Up to this time, the thought of her secret vow, and her life"s mission, had afforded only a romantic and heroic excitement; but the day was fast approaching when these indexes she retained, should point to a clue that should lead through a train of d.a.m.ning circ.u.mstantial evidence destined to test her soul by an unexampled trial.
Paul Dougla.s.s had grown up to be a tall and handsome youth, of a very n.o.ble, frank, attractive countenance and manners. To say that he loved Miriam is only to say that he loved himself. She mingled with every thought, and feeling, and purpose of his heart.
And when, at last, the time came that Paul had to leave home for Baltimore, to remain absent all winter, for the purpose of attending the course of lectures at the medical college, Miriam learned the pain of parting, and understood how impossible happiness would be for her, with Paul away, on naval or military duty, more than half their lives, and for periods of two, three, or five years; and after that she never said another word in favor of his wearing Uncle Sam"s livery, although she had often expressed a wish that he should enter the army.
Miriam"s affection for Paul was so profound and quiet, that she did not know its depth or strength. As she had not believed that parting from him would be painful until the event had taught her, so even now she did not know how intertwined with every chord and fibre of her heart and how identical with her life, was her love for Paul. She was occupied by a more enthusiastic devotion to her "brother," as she called her guardian.
The mysterious sorrow, the incurable melancholy of a man like Thurston Willc.o.xen, could not but invest him with peculiar interest and even strange fascination for one of Miriam"s enthusiastic, earnest temperament. She loved him with more than a daughter"s love; she loved him with all the impa.s.sioned earnestness of her nature; her heart yearned as it would break with its wild, intense longing to do him some good, to cure his sorrow, to make him happy. There were moments when but for the sweet shyness that is ever the attendant and conservator of such pure feeling, this wild desire was strong enough to cast her at his feet, to embrace his knees, and with tears beseech him to let her into that dark, sorrowful bosom, to see if she could make any light and joy there. She feared that he had sinned, that his incurable sorrow was the gnawing tooth of that worm that never dieth, preying on his heart; but she doubted, too, for what could he have done to plunge his soul in such a h.e.l.l of remorse? He commit a crime? Impossible! the thought was treason; a sin to be repented of and expiated. His fame was fairest of the fair, his name most honored among the, honorable. If not remorse, what then was the nature of his life-long sorrow? Many, many times she revolved this question in her mind. And as she matured in thought and affection, the question grew more earnest and importunate. Oh, that he would unburden his heart to her; oh! that she might share and alleviate his griefs. If "all earnest desires are prayers," then prayer was Miriam"s "vital breath and native air" indeed; her soul earnestly desired, prayed, to be able to give her sorrowing brother peace.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
DREAMS AND VISIONS.
Winter waned. Mrs. Waugh had attended the commodore to the South, for the benefit of his health, and they had not yet returned.
Mrs. Morris and Alice were absent on a long visit to a relative in Washington City, and were not expected back for a month. Paul remained in Baltimore, attending the medical lectures.
The house at Dell-Delight was very sad and lonely. The family consisted of only Thurston, f.a.n.n.y and Miriam.
A change had also pa.s.sed over poor f.a.n.n.y"s malady. She was no longer the quaint, fantastical creature, half-lunatic, half-seeress, singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of wild songs through the house--now here, now there--now everywhere, awaking smiles and merriment in spite of pity, and keeping every one alive about her. Her bodily health had failed, her animal spirits departed; she never sang nor smiled, but sat all day in her eyrie chamber, lost in deep and concentrated study, her face having the care-worn look of one striving to recall the past, to gather up and reunite the broken links of thought, memory and understanding.
At last, one day, Miriam received a letter from Paul, announcing the termination, of the winter"s course of lectures, the conclusion of the examination of medical candidates, the successful issue of his own trial, in the acquisition of his diploma, and finally his speedy return home.
Miriam"s impulsive nature rebounded from all depressing thoughts, and she looked forward with gladness to the arrival of Paul.
He came toward the last of the week.
Mr. Willc.o.xen, roused for a moment from his sad abstraction, gave the youth a warm welcome.
Miriam received him with a bashful, blushing joy.
He had pa.s.sed through Washington City on his way home, and had spent a day with Mrs. Morris and her friends, and he had brought away strange news of them.
Alice, he said, had an accepted suitor, and would probably be a bride soon.
A few days after his return, Paul found Miriam in the old wainscoted parlor seated by the fire. She appeared to be in deep and painful thought. Her elbow rested on the circular work-table, her head was bowed upon her hand, and her face was concealed by the drooping black ringlets.
"What is the matter, dear, sister?" he asked, in that tender, familiar tone, with which he sometimes spoke to her.
"Oh, Paul, I am thinking of our brother! Can nothing soothe or cheer him, Paul? Can nothing help him? Can we do him no good at all? Oh, Paul!
I brood so much over his trouble! I long so much to comfort him, that I do believe it is beginning to affect my reason, and make me "see visions and dream dreams." Tell me--do you think anything can be done for him?"
"Ah, I do not know! I have just left his study, dear Miriam, where I have had a long and serious conversation with him."
"And what was it about? May I know?"
"You must know, dearest Miriam, it concerned yourself and--me!" said Paul, and he took a seat by her side, and told her how much he loved her, and that he had Thurston"s consent to asking her hand in marriage.
Miriam replied:
"Paul, there is one secret that I have never imparted to you--not that I wished to keep it from you, but that nothing has occurred to call it out--"
She paused, while Paul regarded her in much curiosity.
"What is it, Miriam?" he at last inquired.
"I promised my dying mother, and sealed the promise with an oath, never to be a bride until I shall have been--"
"What, Miriam?"
"An avenger of blood!"
"Miriam!"
It was all he said, and then he remained gazing at her, as if he doubted her perfect sanity.
"I am not mad, dear Paul, though you look as if you thought so."
"Explain yourself, dear Miriam."