Winter waned1. 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, Fanny and Miriam.
A change had also passed over poor Fanny's malady2. She was no longer the quaint3, fantastical creature, half-lunatic, half-seeress, singing snatches 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 chamber4, 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 impulsive5 nature rebounded6 from all depressing thoughts, and she looked forward with gladness to the arrival of Paul.
He came toward the last of the week.
Mr. Willcoxen, roused for a moment from his sad abstraction, gave the youth a warm welcome.
Miriam received him with a bashful, blushing joy.
He had passed 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 parlor8 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 concealed9 by the drooping10 black ringlets.
"What is the matter, dear, sister?" he asked, in that tender, familiar tone, with which he sometimes spoke11 to her.
"Oh, Paul, I am thinking of our brother! Can nothing soothe12 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?"
"Miriam!"
"I am not mad, dear Paul, though you look as if you thought so."
"Explain yourself, dear Miriam."
"I am going to do so. You remember Marian Mayfield?" she said, her face beginning to quiver with emotion.
"Yes! yes! well?"
"You remember the time and manner of her death?"
"Yes—yes!"
"Oh, Paul! that stormy night death fell like scattering15 lightning, and struck three places at once! But, oh, Paul! such was the consternation16 and grief excited by the discovery of Marian's assassination17, that the two other sudden deaths passed almost unnoticed, except by the respective families of the deceased. Child as I then was, Paul, I think it was the tremendous shock of her sudden and dreadful death, that threw me entirely18 out of my center, so that I have been erratic19 ever since. She was more than a mother to me, Paul; and if I had been born hers, I could not have loved her better—I loved her beyond all things in life. In my dispassionate, reflective moments. I am inclined to believe that I have never been quite right since the loss of Marian. Not but that I am reconciled to it—knowing that she must be happy—only, Paul, I often feel that something is wrong here and here," said Miriam, placing her hand upon her forehead and upon her heart.
"But your promise, Miriam—your promise," questioned Paul, with increased anxiety.
"Ay, true! Well, Paul, I promised to devote my whole life to the pursuit and apprehension20 of her murderer; and never to give room in my bosom21 to any thought of love or marriage until that murderer should hang from n gallows22; and I sealed that promise with a solemn oath."
"That was all very strange, dear Miriam."
"Paul, yes it was—and it weighs upon me like lead. Paul, if two things could be lifted off my heart, I should be happy. I should be happy as a freed bird."
"And what are they, dear Miriam? What weights are they that I have not power to lift from your heart?"
"Surely you may surmise—the first is our brother's sadness that oppresses my spirits all the time; the second is the memory of that unaccomplished vow24; so equally do these two anxieties divide my thoughts, that they seem connected—seem to be parts of the same responsibility—and I even dreamed that the one could be accomplished23 only with the other."
"Dearest Miriam, let me assure you, that such dreams and visions are but the effect of your isolated25 life—they come from an over-heated brain and over-strained nerves. And you must consent to throw off those self-imposed weights, and be happy and joyous26 as a young creature should."
"In this way—first, for my brother's life-long sorrow, since you can neither cure nor alleviate28 it, turn your thoughts away from it. As for your vow, two circumstances combine to absolve29 you from it; the first is this—that you were an irresponsible infant, when you were required to make it—the second is, that it is impossible to perform it; these two considerations fairly release you from its obligations. Look upon these matters in this rational light, and all your dark and morbid30 dreams and visions will disappear; and we shall have you joyous as any young bird, sure enough. And I assure you, that your cheerfulness will be one of the very best medicines for our brother. Will you follow my advice?"
"No, no, Paul! I cannot follow it in either instance! I cannot, Paul! it is impossible! I cannot steel my heart against sympathy with his sorrows, nor can I so ignore the requirements of my solemn vow. I do not by any means think its accomplishment31 an impossibility, nor was it in ignorance of its nature that I made it. No, Paul! I knew what I promised, and I know that its performance is possible. Therefore I can not feel absolved32! I must accomplish my work; and you, Paul, if you love me, must help me to do it."
"I would serve you with my life, Miriam, in anything reasonable and possible. But how can I help you? How can you discharge such an obligation? You have not even a clue!"
"Yes, I have a clue, Paul."
"You have? What is it? Why have you never spoken of it before?"
"Because of its seeming unimportance. The clue is so slight, that it would be considered none at all, by others less interested than myself."
"What is it, then? At least allow me the privilege of knowing, and judging of its importance."
"I am about to do so," said Miriam, and she commenced and told him all she knew, and also all she suspected of the circumstances that preceded the assassination on the beach. In conclusion, she informed him of the letters in her possession.
"And where are now those letters, Miriam? What are they like? What is their purport33? It seems to me that they would not only give a hint, but afford direct evidence against that demoniac assassin. And it seems strange to me that they were not examined, with a view to that end."
"Paul, they were; but they did not point out the writer, even. There was a note among them—a note soliciting34 a meeting with Marian, upon the very evening, and upon the very spot when and where the murder was committed! But that note contains nothing to indicate the identity of its author. There are, besides, a number of foreign letters written in French, and signed 'Thomas Truman,' no French name, by-the-bye, a circumstance which leads me to believe that it must have been an assumed one."
"And those French letters give no indication of the writer, either?"
"I am not sufficiently35 acquainted with that language to read it in manuscript, which, you know, is much more difficult than print. But I presume they point to nothing definitely, for my dear mother showed them to Mr. Willcoxen, who took the greatest interest in the discovery of the murderer, and he told her that those letters afforded not the slightest clue to the perpetrator of the crime, and that whoever might have been the assassin, it certainly could not have been the author of those letters. He wished to take them with him, but mother declined to give them up; she thought it would be disrespect to Marian's memory to give her private correspondence up to a stranger, and so she told him. He then said that of all men, certainly he had the least right to claim them, and so the matter rested. But mother always believed they held the key to the discovery of the guilty party; and afterward36 she left them to me, with the charge that I should never suffer them to pass from my possession until they had fulfilled their destiny of witnessing against the murderer—for whatever Mr. Willcoxen might think, mother felt convinced that the writer of those letters and the murderer of Marian was the same person."
"Tell me more about those letters."
"Dear Paul, I know nothing more about them; I told you that I was not sufficiently familiar with the French language to read them."
"But it is strange that you never made yourself acquainted with their contents by getting some one else to read them for you."
"Dear Paul, you know that I was a mere37 child when they first came into my possession, accompanied with the charge that I should never part with them until they had done their office. I felt bound by my promise, I was afraid of losing them, and of those persons that I could trust none knew French, except our brother, and he had already pronounced them irrelevant38 to the question. Besides, for many reasons, I was shy of intruding39 upon brother."
"Does he know that you have the packet?"
"I suppose he does not even know that."
"I confess," said Paul, "that if Thurston believed them to have no connection with the murder, I have so much confidence in his excellent judgment40, that I am inclined to reverse my hasty opinion, and to think as he does, at least until I see the letters. I remember, too, that the universal opinion at the time was that the poor young lady had fallen a victim to some marauding waterman—the most likely thing to have happened. But, to satisfy you, Miriam, if you will trust me with those letters, I will give them a thorough and impartial41 study, and then, if I find no clue to the perpetrator of that diabolical42 deed, I hope, Miriam, that you will feel yourself free from the responsibility of pursuing the unknown demon—a pursuit which I consider worse than a wild-goose chase."
They were interrupted by the entrance of the boy with the mail bag. Paul emptied the contents of it upon the table. There were letters for Mr. Willcoxen, for Miriam, and for Paul himself. Those for Mr. Willcoxen were sent up to him by the boy. Miriam's letter was from Alice Morris, announcing her approaching marriage with Olive Murray, a young lawyer of Washington, and inviting43 and entreating44 Miriam to come to the city and be her bridesmaid. Paul's letters were from some of his medical classmates. By the time they had read and discussed the contents of their epistles, a servant came in to replenish45 the fire and lay the cloth for tea.
When Mr. Willcoxen joined them at supper, he laid a letter on Miriam's lap, informing her that it was from Mrs. Morris, who advised them of her daughter's intended marriage, and prayed them to be present at the ceremony. Miriam replied that she had received a communication to the same effect.
"Then, my dear, we will go up to Washington and pass a few weeks, and attend this wedding, and see the inauguration46 of Gen. ——. You lead too lonely a life for one of your years, love. I see it affects your health and spirits. I have been too selfish and oblivious47 of you, in my abstraction, dear child; but it shall be so no longer. You shall enter upon the life better suited to your age."
Miriam's eyes thanked his care. For many a day Thurston had not come thus far out of himself, and his doing so now was hailed as a happy omen7 by the young people.
Their few preparations were soon completed, and on the first of March they went to Washington City.
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1
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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2
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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3
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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6
rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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7
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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8
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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9
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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13
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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14
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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15
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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16
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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17
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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18
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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21
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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22
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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23
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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27
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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28
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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29
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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32
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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33
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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34
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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35
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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39
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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40
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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41
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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42
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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43
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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44
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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45
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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46
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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47
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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