CHAPTER II

The Breaking Heart—A Scene of Tenderness and Despair.

The pale slumberer lay perfectly still, and a close observer could scarcely have perceived that he breathed. Thus had he lain a few moments, when a side door slowly opened, and a fair feminine countenance, a perfect blonde, surmounted with a profusion of flaxen ringlets, was thrust gently into the apartment. Then the door opened wider, and the symmetrical form of a young girl of seventeen years stood in the aperture. She listened a moment, and then advanced one tiny foot into the chamber; then the other; and finally she stood within the apartment, but with the door left open behind her. There stood the beautiful sylph trembling and pale, and sometimes looking back, as if hesitating whether to proceed or return. At length she stept lightly forward and fixed her eyes upon the countenance of the slumberer. She instantly clasped her hands across her bosom, raised her large blue eyes to heaven, and an expression of deep agony rested on those sunny features, like a heavy thunder cloud passing over a beauteous landscape in midsummer.

Her timidity seemed to have fled with the first glance that she had bestowed upon the invalid. Turning her back towards him, she even murmured aloud, ‘And all this he has suffered for the preservation of my uncle’s property. Oh! why could he not have delegated that duty to others more fitted for such rude work? Already had he performed a deed sufficient to gild his name with perpetual glory—in saving an accomplished—an—an—in saving human life; for it matters not who she was. To save a life is enough, and at the risk of his own.’

She turned and looked once more at the sleeping youth; again she pressed her hands against her heart, and, this time, she sighed deeply. A footstep was heard in the passage way, approaching the door that opened into the hall, and gliding through the one at which she had entered, the young girl had retired, just as two other individuals entered the sick chamber. One of those who now approached the couch of the invalid was a tall, slender, middle-aged man, elegantly attired, and yet with a sort of graceful negligence which drew the attention of the observer rather to the manners and bearing of the gentleman himself, than to the garb in which he was arrayed.

The other gentleman wore a plain suit of black, was of middling height, with light hair and eyes, and probably thirty years of age.

‘Yes, doctor,’ said the latter gentleman, as they entered the room. ‘It is as I tell you.’

‘But, sir,’ returned the other, ‘recollect the acquaintantship—female timidity and the gentleness of the sex’s nature. To see one whom she had so long known dangerously wounded, brought suddenly into the house, with a mind unprepared; remember all the attendant circumstances, Mr. Vandewater, and you will not be astonished that the poor girl exhibited symptoms of agitation.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, my dear sir. Otherwise she would not be woman,’ replied the merchant. ‘Agitation, sympathy, pity, all these were to be expected. But, sir, she would have been frank in the expression of her sympathy if all had been well. Instead of that, she strove to hide her concern. She became as pale as chalk—as white as milk, sir; and moved off without uttering a syllable, or making the least inquiry, and if my wife had not followed her and supported her to her chamber, she would have fell lifeless to the floor.’

‘His pulse is better,’ said the doctor, whose thoughts now ran in the line of his profession, and who had taken the youth by the wrist. ‘He will escape a fever—it was that I dreaded.’

‘And then her aunt has remarked her deportment while in the presence of the young man.’

‘A fine constitution, sir. You must not throw him away—don’t give him up yet. I think he will be restored to you, after all.’

‘She is the daughter of a beloved brother, whose death, some ten years ago, occasioned me the most poignant distress, and I shall take care of her as if she was my own child.’

‘You must not let him be disturbed, sir, and I will leave something to be administered to him as soon as he wakes.’

‘I don’t think you heard my last observation, sir.’

‘Oh, yes—I heard, sir. You remarked that she was the daughter of your esteemed brother: but, pray, sir, if the young people love one another?—’

‘You don’t understand me, sir,’ was the quick _coup de parole_ of the merchant. ‘I did not say that the young people loved each other.’

‘Ah! now I understand,’ said the surgeon, looking really concerned. ‘I see—you wish to preserve your niece’s happiness, not to prevent it!’

‘Exactly, sir. There is not a man in the world to whom I would sooner marry my niece, than to him who lies before you. Of unquestioned integrity, candid, honorable, devoted to my interests, of elegant manners, without being effeminate, humane as he is brave, well educated, and of respectable parentage. I find no fault in Lorenzo Monteagle—none at all, sir. But my niece shall be forced upon no man, sir. The king’s son is not good enough for her, when it comes to that.’

‘But will he not, in time, admire Miss Julia, sir. It appears to me, that if I were a bachelor—’

‘You shouldn’t have her if you were, sir—‘interrupted Vandewater with a burst of laughter that made the wounded man start in his sleep, ‘would I have a son-in-law or a nephew-in-law, think you, that carries about with him such awful weapons—those horrible saws, gimlets, I know not what you call them, I should never feel sure of my legs and arms one moment, while he was in the house—ha! ha! ha!’

‘However that may be,’ said the other, ‘if I were a young swain like your paragon here, I should deem my self but too happy to try to win a smile from that fair niece of yours, and if you are really willing that the match should take place—’

‘It will never be,’ returned the merchant, gravely interrupting the surgeon—‘Monteagle is very fastidious, even in his friendship. He is a singular young man. It must be a particular woman that strikes his fancy, possessed of decided qualities; none of your pretty faces and piano songs will steal away his heart. Of that I am too well assured. More than one young lady has tried her utmost skill—’

‘But has the man no heart?’

‘So decidedly one that it must have a decided choice,’ cried the merchant, ‘before it can consent to own itself the property of another. He likes the society of ladies; but he does not prefer one to another. I am persuaded that he has never seen the woman he can love. He has known Julia more than two years, and has never treated her differently from other women. But it matters not. So you think the young man is fairly out of danger?’

‘It might be going too far to say so, sir—but I think he will recover. I would not be afraid to stake a hundred ounces on the event.’

‘Glad to hear that. I don’t doubt your skill, Doctor, so let us walk below and finish that old Madeira before it gets any sourer.’

After another brief examination of his patient, the surgeon followed Mr. Vandewater down stairs; and in half an hour afterwards might have been seen mounting his horse and winding over the hills and through the valleys towards the town of San Francisco.

Several days had passed since the occurrence of the events mentioned above, when on a fair morning, a pale youth sat in a recess at the bottom of the merchant’s garden. A staff stood by his side, an evidence that he was not yet able to walk without support, and his white attenuated hands were pressed together in his lap, while his large blue eyes, which looked nearly black when contrasted with his white brow, were fixed upon some object in the distance. His gaze rested on the dwelling place of Senor del Castro; but what were his reflections, we cannot pretend to divine; nor was he long permitted to indulge them without interruption.

From behind a cluster of bushes near, sailed out a figure in a white dress, which floating gently towards the invalid, placed one hand upon his arm, and caused him to turn suddenly towards her.

‘Mr. Monteagle, I’m glad to see you abroad once more. Oh! it looks so much more natural to see you up and stirring, that it really reminds me of old times.’

With a smile slightly sarcastic, the youth replied—‘I am but too happy to be the cause of reviving pleasant reminiscences in the mind of Miss Vandewater.’

A deep blush passed over the cheek and brow of the fair girl as she replied: ‘You are very severe, sir. I will say then, in downright English, since I must, that I am rejoiced to see you improved in health, with a fair chance of recovery. Now, Mr. Critic, are you satisfied?’

‘Oh! no doubt I ought to be, since Miss Vandewater has used the commonly approved phrase which custom has made necessary for all like occasions.’

‘Nay, then I will send Inez del Castro to you: no doubt she will do the honors of the occasion better—at least her mode will be more _original_ than mine.’

Miss Vandewater uttered the latter part of the sentence in a quick, hurried manner, and in spite of herself, delivered the word ‘original’ in a tone of considerable bitterness. The tears rose to her eyes, and she blushed deeper than ever. It was plain that she would have given much to recall her words and manner; but it was too late. The youth looked down and sighed.

The young lady heard that sigh, and it seemed to restore her to all her dignity. She lifted her head and shook back the flaxen curls from her snowy brow. ‘I know that you are not acquainted with Inez, though she—fainted in your arms! It was very romantic.’

Monteagle had great self-possession; but he was obliged to turn his face partly aside to conceal an expression of surprise and sorrow at the broad raillery into which the young lady suffered herself to be betrayed by feelings too palpable to be mistaken. The many instances in which she had evinced jealousy of any attention showed by Monteagle to other ladies, had long since let him into the secret—if secret it could be called.

‘Miss Vandewater,’ said he, at length, ‘I have seen the daughter of Senor del Castro but twice in my life, and have spoken to her, but on one occasion. When I stood at the top of the ladder enveloped in flame, I asked her to trust herself in my arms, and without betraying any affected delicacy, yet with great feminine dignity she placed her foot on the ladder and reclined upon my shoulder.’

‘And did she say nothing?’

“She said, ‘thanks, thanks, generous American—my father will bless your name at the altar of his God!’ It was all she said, and the next moment the smoke stifled her, and she became insensible on my bosom.”

‘And, oh! Monteagle!’ cried Miss Vandewater, clasping her hands and looking upwards, ‘we heard that you were nearly perishing in the flames!’

As she uttered these words, the tears gushed from her eyes, and throwing herself upon a rock near the feet of the invalid, she covered her face with her hands and wept aloud at the recollection of that bitter moment.

‘Ungrateful wretch that I am, how unworthy of this more than sisterly interest which she takes in my welfare!’ said Monteagle to himself, and placing one of his hands upon the head of the unhappy girl, he said—‘Oh! it was not so bad as that a stream of water soon removed all inconveniences, and a very trifling burn was all that I suffered.’

The girl looked up, seized the hand that had been extended to her, kissed it vehemently, and fled, blushing, to the house of her uncle.

‘If the sacrifice of my life could make her happy!’ ejaculated Monteagle, brushing the tears from his eyes which he could no longer restrain.

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