Nearly dead with terror and indignation, I crept stealthily to my own chamber, in which I locked myself up securely, resisting all friendly overtures of the enemy, except one cup of tea, received from the hand of a servant through the half-opened door (which was instantly relocked) of my citadel.

My resolution was formed that night. I would leave Monfort Hall, and even forsake Mabel, until I could return and legally claim both. At my majority, Mabel would be of age to select between her guardians, by that time, according to law, and we should see! As for poor Morton, I would write to him and claim his prayers alone. Age like his is so irresponsible. I dared not trust him farther!

It was all very brief and bitter!

As yet I had digested no plan of action. I would go westward, I thought, but just as far away as my money would carry me from these fiends, trusting to God for the rest, just as a boat puts off from a blazing ship.

Of course, I must adopt another name what should it be? I should need clothing; and how secure and convey away my trunk unseen by Evelyn? My diamonds must be secreted or disposed of how should this be done? Could I trust Mrs. Austin Mabel?

No, the suggestion was discarded at once as unworthy of consideration.

One was too old, too self-indulged, too selfish; and in age people usually worship expediency alone. The other far too young not to be necessarily indiscreet and impulsive. To have been otherwise at her tender age would have been simply monstrous!

No, I must forego even the sweet satisfaction of saying farewell to Mabel; we must part perhaps forever, as we might meet again within an hour, and all her distress and anxiety must pass unshared and unheeded.

There was no one else I cared very much about leaving, but the love of locality was a strong feature in my disposition, and every room in my father’s house was dear to me, as was every book in his study, and every plant in our deep-green, shadowed garden.

The very streets were sacred in my sight, that I had trodden from childhood, but my liberty was more precious to my heart than scenes of old associations, and to gain one the other must be sacrificed. There was no hesitating now: I was on the tread-mill of fate, and must proceed, or fall and be crushed beneath.

And here again I repeat, what I have said so recently: “On what slight pivots our destiny often turns! through what small channels Providence works its wondrous ways!”

A pair of shoes had been sent home for me that day, which still lay on the table, wrapped and corded. In truth, they came very opportunely; “I shall want these soon,” I thought, as I examined the strong and elastic bootees, which had been made for me in view of my morning walks, a part of dear Dr. Pemberton’s regimen, which I strenuously and advantageously carried out.

As I spoke, the paper in which they had been enveloped rustled down on the floor by my side. I stooped, languidly, to pick it up, merely from a sense of order, and my eye fell on a long column, headed “Wanted,” and, almost for lack of resolution to withdraw it, wandered down its paragraphs, step by step.

It was a Democratic paper, such as was never patronized by Evelyn herself a zealous conservative in politics, as our father had been before us and, as I cared little for newspaper-reading, I had never suggested a subscription to any sheet that she did not fancy, although I inclined to democracy.

I was somewhat amused by the quaintness of some of the advertisements of this sheet for the people, that style of literature being new to me; and found myself smiling over the perfections set forth as necessary, by the paragons of the earth, in both wife and servant, when I came to a dead stand. Here was the very thing I should have selected, could I have chosen my own destination instead of depending on chance (as if, indeed, there were such a thing possible with God the predestinator of the universe), or necessity (is the name a much better one as applied to the all-seeing Deity?), or fate (a more comprehensive but little less-abused term, perhaps), to do this for me!

The advertisement ran thus, and quite fascinated me with its eccentricity, as well as congeniality to my condition:

“A gentleman and lady, now sojourning for a short time at the Mansion House, wish to employ, immediately, for the benefit of their children, an instructress, who must be, imprimis, a lady and young; secondly, soundly constituted and well educated; thirdly, a good reader, and able to teach elocution, and entertain a circle; fourthly, willing to reside with cheerfulness on a Southern plantation; fifthly, content with a moderate modicum as salary. None other need apply no references given or asked. Inquire for Somnus.”

I laid down the paper, and drew a long, free breath; then rang a peal of merriment, startling under the circumstances. It was the first hearty laugh that had left my lips for many days. “What an oddity, one or the other of these people must be!” I thought, “the man most probably yes, I am sure it is he no woman ever was so independent of references, or made youth a sine qua non, nor elocution either. But am I soundly constituted? ay, there’s the rub! suppose my terrible foe sees fit to interfere, ‘Epilepsy,’ as Evelyn called it, and perhaps with reason God alone knows! what then? Well, I will hazard it that is all I will charge nothing for lost days, and try to be zealous in the interval; besides, it is a long time since one of these obliteration spells occurred; for I shall ever believe Evelyn dosed me for her own purposes on that last occasion! Fiend! fiend! and yet my little sister must remain in such hands for a season, protected by her guardian angel only.”

I passed a feverish night, employing the first part of it in quilting my diamonds into a belt which I placed about my waist; and the remainder in putting together as many useful, as well as a few handsome clothes, as my travelling-trunk would contain; bonnets, evening-dresses, which require room to dispose of, and the like vanities, I abandoned to Evelyn’s tender mercies. I rose early and, as usual whenever the weather permitted, sallied forth before breakfast, but this time unaccompanied by my usual attendant, Charity.

The “Mansion House” was at no great distance from our own residence. The beautiful home of the Bingham family, then converted into an hotel, destroyed by fire at a later period, like our own house, was situated in the ancient part of the city, from which fashion had gradually emerged, and shrank away to found new streets and dwellings.

I rang at the private door, and asked the porter for “Somnus;” at the same time sending up a card, on which was written:

“‘Miriam Harz,’ applicant for the post of teacher.”

A few moments later a grave, copper-colored servant, respectably clad, and with an air of responsibility about him that was almost oppressive, invited me solemnly to follow him up the winding marble stair so often trodden by the feet of Washington and his court, when a gracious assemblage filled the halls above and ushered me into a small but lofty parlor at its head, in which a gentleman sat reading the morning journal.

Very wide awake, indeed, seemed he who affected the title of the god of sleep, as he arose courteously from his chair, still holding his paper in one hand, and waved me to a seat on the worn horse-hair sofa between the windows.

He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular homeliness.

“Miss Harz?” he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the mantel-shelf near which he had been sitting above an unseasonable, smouldering coal-fire.

I bowed affirmatively for all reply. “And I,” he continued, “am Prosper La Vigne, of the ‘Less durneer’ settlement” (for thus he pronounced this anglicized French name) “Maurice County, Georgia,” with an air that seemed to say, “You have heard of me, of course!” and again I bowed, as my only alternative.

“Lay off your bonnet, if you please,” he said, coolly; “I would like to see the shape of your head before proceeding further. Mine, you see, is an ill-balanced affair,” smiling quizzically in his effort to be condescending, perhaps. “This is a mere business transaction, you know,” seeing that I hesitated to comply, “and your phrenological developments must atone for my deficiencies, or all will go wrong at once but do as you like. Now that you have thrown back your veil, I can see that the brow is a good one. That will suffice, I suppose. I will take the moral qualities on trial for the nonce. My wife is wholly occupied with her domestic and private affairs, you must understand, when we are at home, and much will devolve on you; that is, if we suit one another, which is dubious. That reminds me! I have not heard the sound of your voice yet; I am much governed by intonation in my estimates of people, and usually form a perfect opinion at first sight. Be good enough to read this item,” and he handed me the morning paper, formally indicating it with his long, lithe forefinger. It was from one of Mr. Clay’s speeches. I did as he requested, without hesitation.

“People trot out horses and negroes when they wish to purchase; why not governesses?” I questioned, dumbly. “He did well to ask no references; his examination is thorough, I perceive,” and I laid the paper down, half amused, half provoked, when I had finished. He was gazing at me open-mouthed no unusual thing with him, I found later and was silent for a few moments.

“Splendid! admirable!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “both, voice and elocution perfect you possess the greatest of all accomplishments, madam, next to conversational excellence,” rising to his feet, and bowing low and seating himself again, in a formal way of his own. “Music is a mockery compared to such reading! as well set a jew’s-harp against the winds of heaven! You understand my meaning, of course; it is not precisely that, however. Now let us converse a little.”

“The advertisement did not refer to that, I believe, as a condition,” I said, somewhat indignantly, and flushing hotly as I spoke. “I really cannot converse to order. I am a person of moods, and do not feel always like talking at all,” and I rose and prepared to draw down my veil, take up my parasol, and depart.

“I like you none the worse for a proper exhibition of spirit,” he said, nodding kindly, and settling himself once more to his paper composedly. “Sit still, miss, and compose yourself by the time Madame La Vigne comes in, or she may think you high-tempered, and I am sure you are nothing of the kind only very properly proud. There, now, that is right! You seem to be a very sensible, well-conditioned young person indeed, and I think you will suit. You are the tenth since yesterday morning,” smiling and bowing blandly, “and the only one that could read intelligibly. Elocution, you see, is my hobby. I forgot to say,” looking up from his paper, after a pause, “the salary is six hundred dollars not enough, perhaps, for a lady of your merit but quite as much as we can afford to give. This I call a modicum.”

“It is not very important,” I remarked, “what I receive in the shape of money, so that I am at no expense beyond my clothing, and other personal matters, and that I find myself well situated. My engagement will, in no case, extend beyond a year. You have your peculiarities, I see, and I have mine. The question is, might they not jar occasionally?”

“Oh, never, never! ‘noblesse oblige,’ you know,” with a wave of the hand, soft and urbane. “I hope I shall know how to treat a lady and a teacher, both in one, and a member of my household. Besides that, I shall have very little to do with you, indeed. Just now it is different we are coming to terms; we have not made them yet, however. I always save my wife this trouble, if possible. Ah! there she comes, at last,” as a mild, lady-like looking woman emerged from an adjoining chamber, somewhat elaborately dressed for that early hour, and followed by a stream of pale, pretty little girls. “Madame La Vigne,” he said, rising ceremoniously, “permit me to introduce to you Miss Miriam Harz,” reading the name slowly from the card again, which he took from the wall, “’a candidate for the position of instructress at Beauseincourt.’ Say, how do you like her looks?”

I had come to the conclusion by this time that Mr. La Vigne was decidedly as eccentric as his advertisement, and that his vagaries and personalities were not worth minding or estimating in the consideration in question.

So, when Madame La Vigne replied to his abrupt query, “Oh, very, very much, indeed!” and held out her kind hand to me, I took it without misgiving, and the first glance we interchanged contained freemasonry. From that time Colonel Prosper La Vigne fell gracefully back into his proper position, and I talked away fluently enough with his lady, as he pompously called his wife. In short, at the end of an hour it was settled that I was to join them the same evening, at their hotel, and proceed with them thence to New York, there to take the packet for Savannah (their first destination) on the same night. The plantation on which they lived, they informed me, was nearly a day’s journey, by carriage-conveyance, beyond that city, but eligibly situated for health (though not for productiveness), among a low range of hills known as the “Les Dernier” Mountains, the name being anglicized into “Less derneer,” with the accent on the last syllable, so as to metamorphose it completely to the ear, instead of translating it.

“It is a very lonely place though, Miss Harz, in the winter-time mamma ought to tell you that,” whispered Marion, the eldest daughter, as she nestled so closely to me, and looked so kindly in my face, that the intruding thought of her unwillingness for my society was instantly banished. “In the summer it is pleasant enough, so many people come to their cottages in the hills; but, during eight months of the year, we have but one near neighbor, and not a very social one either.”

“From circumstances alone unsocial, Marion,” said Madame La Vigne, flushing slightly (her usual complexion was of a fair sallowness, common to Southern ladies). “Cousin Celia is certainly devoted at heart to every one of us, but she cannot, you know, leave home often.”

“Oh, I know, mamma! I only meant to keep Miss Harz from being disappointed.”

“Miss Harz has internal resources, I have no doubt,” rejoined Madame La Vigne; “and, even if she had not, I fear her duties would preclude much longing for excitement. It is a very onerous task you are undertaking, my dear young lady, certainly,” turning kindly to me. “Five ignorant little Southern girls, well disposed but imperfectly trained, will fill your hands to positive overflowing, I fear. You will find me exacting, too, sometimes. I am sure I shall enjoy your society whenever you choose to bestow it on me, and Colonel La Vigne as well.”

To which declaration on the part of his wife, that gentleman responded by laying his hand on his breast, complacently, and bowing profoundly from his chair, ending the ceremony by a flourish of his delicate cambric handkerchief, and the exhibition at the same time of a slender, sickly, and peculiarly-shaped hand, decorated with an onyx seal-ring. He looked the gentleman, however, unmistakably plain and peculiar as his appearance was, and pompous and pretentious as was his manner.

If words could do the work of the photographer, I should like to show him to my readers, as he appeared to me on that first interview; though later his whole aspect underwent a change in my sight, reflected from the cavernous depths within, so that, what seemed somewhat ludicrous in the beginning, came to be solemnly serious and even sophistically tragical and awful on later acquaintance.

We have all more or less witnessed this phenomenon of transformation in some familiar aspect, either through love or hatred, respect or contempt, fear or admiration, until we find ourselves marveling at past impressions, received, in ignorance of the truth, in the commencement of our observations.

I remember that Mr. La Vigne struck me on that occasion as a superficial man in every way, but kindly, courteous, and vivacious, though certainly eccentric and somewhat absurd. One would have supposed him even a flippant, whimsical person, seen casually; but, on later examination, the droop of his eyelids and under lip, and the depressed corners of his mouth, gave to the close observer a surer indication of his character.

The shape of his narrow, conical, and somewhat elegantly-placed head, denoted an inclination to fanaticism, which had been skillfully combated by a perfectly skeptical education, so as to turn this stream of character into strange channels.

Hobbyism was his infirmity, perhaps, and he was essentially a man of one idea at a time. The word “odd” applied to him peculiarly, which is in itself a sort of social ostracism when attached to any one, and raises a barrier at once between a man and his fellow-bipeds that not even superiority could surmount.

He was emphatically a tawny man as to coloring hair, skin, and eyes, being all pretty much of the same hue of “the ribbed sea-sands.” Yet there were vestiges about him of an originally fair complexion. His wrists and temples were white as those of a woman. His face was long, lank, and cadaverous; his eyes shone with a clear, amber, and steady light, and had an abstracted expression usually, accompanied with a not unfrequent and most peculiar warp of the pupils.

His hair was singularly shaggy and picturesque in its tawny grayness, and wavy, wiry length. Above his eyes his heavy brows of the same texture and color seemed to make a pent-house, from which the high, pale brow receded gradually; his profile was aquiline to absolute grotesqueness. The idea of “Punchinello” presented itself irresistibly at the sight of his parrot-like nose and suddenly-upturned chin.

His gait was as peculiar as his countenance and manner; he glided, in walking, carrying himself erectly, with his arms closely pinioned to his sides. He was altogether so extraordinary looking that I felt myself staring almost rudely at him on our first interview; yet his dress was in no way remarkable except for an air of old-fashioned and speckless neatness.

Madame La Vigne was a pretty and well-preserved woman, of about thirty-five, a fair brunette, originally, to whom most of her daughters bore a close resemblance. One alone, the plainest of the band, presenting a resemblance, most unfortunately for her, of “Colonel La Vigne,” as his wife called him, with scrupulous punctilio.

One son, the eldest of their family, they spoke of as the pride of their hearts even on that first interview. He was in the navy, and, consequently, much from home. They regretted this for many reasons, they said, and, among others, on my account. He was so genial, so companionable their own dear Walter “such a delightful fellow,” as his sister Madge declared exultingly the second of this band of sisters and, as far as I could observe, on first acquaintance, the brightest. Marion, the elder, was extremely pretty and gentle; and Bertie, the third, taciturn and unprepossessing, yet evidently sensible. She it was who alone resembled her father.

Fortunately, for the uninterrupted success of my scheme, Evelyn had one of her sick turns that day, and remained closely shut up in her room. At one o’clock, I summoned Franklin to my chamber.

“There is a trunk,” I said, “that I wish you would take to the Mansion House to the care of a Mr. Somnus lodging there here is the card attached, with his name; place it with his baggage. It is to go to New York, for a Miss Harz, a relation of mine a teacher, I believe, who has applied to me for assistance; but he understands all that, so you need not be at, any trouble to explain. Be quiet, Franklin, in removing it, as Evelyn is very nervous to-day, and dislikes noise; and go with the drayman yourself to insure its safe delivery.”

So passed my first lesson in deception, but I schooled lip and eye to obedience, so that Franklin suspected nothing, and, being a discreet servant, who never let his right hand know what his left was doing, especially when gold crossed the palm, I was sure of silence on the subject, at least until after my own departure.

Mabel and I dined tete-a-tete at two; I had caused dinner to be served earlier than usual for my own convenience, though indeed I found it a mere form for how could I swallow a morsel, choked as I was with grief, while the fair child I worshipped, yet was forsaking, sat so calmly and unconsciously in my sight!

After dinner I sought Mrs. Austin, leading Mabel by the hand. I had been kissing her, almost wildly, every foot of the way up-stairs, and she gazed on me, I could not help perceiving, with a sort of fond surprise, for it was not my habit to lavish such passionate caresses, even on her, without occasion.

“I am obliged to go out now,” I said, in a broken voice, which I vainly tried to command. “Take our darling, Mrs. Austin, and keep her very safely until I come again. Promise me this!” I added, eagerly seizing her hand.

“La! Miss Miriam, what’s the use of promising for one afternoon, when I have taken the best of care of her all her life? You act so singularly to-day!” she added, pettishly, and she began to smooth Mabel’s hair, grumblingly. I turned away without another word, murmuring blessings in my heart on that dear head.

There was no time to be lost now! The carriage was already at the door of the Mansion House to convey us to the steamboat when I reached it, and Colonel La Vigne standing, rather anxiously, on the pavement, looking up and down.

“I was afraid you had rued your promise and were not coming,” said Marion, springing forth from the door-way eagerly, to greet me.

“And we had forgotten to ask your address,” added Madame La Vigne, “or we might have called for you, and saved you a long walk, perhaps.”

“We should not have carried off your trunk, even had you not appeared, Miss Harz,” said Colonel La Vigne, blandly. “There it is you see, distinctly labeled, on the baggage-wagon in front, directed to the care of ’Mr. Somnus!’ a good deal of waggery about you, I perceive, or had you forgotten my name?”

“No, no! I had reasons but, you remember, no questions were to be asked; you must wait for voluntary communications.”

“I am so glad so glad you are going with us!” said little Louey La Vigne, pressing my hand, as she sat before me in the carriage by Aunt Felicite, her nurse Colonel La Vigne and three of his daughters having been consigned to another hack Louey and her sable attendant, stately with her large gold ear-hoops, and brilliant cotton handkerchief, being inseparable accompaniments of his wife.

“I have banished Mr. La Vigne, I fear,” I said, in a broken voice; “it would have been best for me, perhaps, to have gone with the young ladies. Let me begin at once.”

“No, it is much best as it is,” she answered, affectionately; “think of yourself just now, and take no charge until we all get home. You are our guest until then, remember. I know it is a sad trial to go with strangers, but you will find us friends, I hope;” and she clasped my hand in hers, and so held it until we reached the wharf.

Tears rained down my face, beneath the friendly shelter of my veil, but Madame La Vigne, with the tact of good-breeding, affected not to remark them. Once little Louey, a child of eight years old, the youngest and prettiest of all, leaned forward, as if to soothe or question me, but she was plucked quickly back into her place by the decorous Aunt Felicite, who had not lived so long with quality without acquiring some delicacy of behavior, at least, even if it struck no deeper root.

I had commanded myself, before the carriage stopped beside the panting steamboat, and soon we were gliding along the placid river toward the point whence the railroad was to carry us on to our goal. At New York, we found ourselves hurried for time to reach the packet Magnolia, and went directly from the depot to the quay, for embarkation.

By the pilot, who left us at the Narrows, I sent back a few lines to Mabel, also enjoining him, with the gift of a piece of gold, to mail my letters on the following day, and receiving his promise to do so.

In this brief communication, I promised my dear child that we should meet at my majority, and enjoined her to patience. “You will hear from me again before long,” I said, in conclusion; “and I will try and arrange some plan of correspondence. Bad people have obliged me to this step. Do not forget me, my darling, nor my lessons and counsel, and believe ever in the honor and devotion of your sister. Pray for me, Mabel! MIRIAM.”

My letter to Evelyn Erie, without date, written on the ship, and sent back by the pilot to be mailed also at New York, revealed my acquaintance with a portion of her duplicity, and Mr. Bainrothe’s dark design.

I promised her my forgiveness on two conditions alone: one was, that she should not seek to trace me, since all effort to regain me would be fruitless; another, that she would be kind to Mabel, and my father’s ancient servants until my return, and, of these last, especially Morton.

I uttered no threats nor reproaches asked no favors, beyond those which I had a right to demand at her hands as my father’s ward long supported by him, and even cherished with paternal tenderness and the guardian of his child. I knew that the use of my house and furniture would amply compensate her for all Mabel’s expenses, among the principal of which would be that liberal education which I demanded for her, as her right.

I was very nearly twenty, now; Mabel, ten. There was still time to redeem the past, and carry out all my frustrated intentions, after the expiration of one year of abeyance and exile. Yes! I would “stand and wait,” trusting so “to serve.”