forth into impassioned praise of my cottage home, of the good clergyman, of old Alice and—Ernest.
Something which came over my mother's face at the mention of Ernest's name, warned me that it was not yet time to speak of my engagement to him.
That night I bathed my limbs in a perfumed bath, laid my head on a silken pillow, and slept beneath a canopy of lace, as soft and light and transparent as the summer mist through which you can see the blue sky and the distant mountain. And resting on the silken pillow I dreamed—not of the splendor with which I was surrounded, nor of the golden prospects of my future—but, of my childhood's home, and the quiet scenes of other days. In my sleep my heart turned back to them. Once more I heard the voice of the good old man. I heard the shrill tones of Alice, as the sun shone on my frosted window-pane, on a clear, cold winter morn. Then the voice of Ernest, calling me "Wife!" and pressing me to his bosom in the forest nook. I awoke with his name on my lips, and——
My mother stood by the bedside gazing upon me attentively, a smile on her lips, but the wrinkle darkly defined between her brows. The sun shone brightly through the window curtains.
"Get up my dear," she kissed me—"You have a busy day before you."
And it was a busy day! I was handed over to the milliners and dressmakers, and whirled in my carriage from one jeweler's shop to another. It was not until the third day that my dresses were completed—according to my mother's taste—and not until the fourth, that the jewels which were to adorn my forehead, my neck, my arms and bosom, had been properly selected. Wardrobe and diamonds worthy of a queen—and was I happy? No! I began to grow homesick, for my dear quiet home, on the hill-side above the Neprehaun.
CHAPTER XI.
"SHE'LL DO."
It was on the fourth day, in the afternoon, that my mother desired my presence in the parlor, where she wished to present me to a much esteemed friend, Mr. Wareham—Mr. Wallace Wareham.
"An excellent man," whispered my mother as we went down stairs together, "and immensely rich."
I was richly dressed in black; my neck, my arms and shoulders bare. My dark hair, gathered plainly aside from my face, was adorned by a single snow-white flower. As I passed by the mirror in the parlor, I could not help feeling a throb of womanly pride, or—vanity; and my mother whispered, "Frank, you excel yourself to-day."
Mr. Wareham sat on the sofa, in the front parlor, in the mild light of the curtained window. He was an elderly gentleman, somewhat bald, and slightly inclined to corpulence. He was sleekly clad in black, and there was a gold chain across his satin vest, and a brilliant diamond upon his ruffled bosom. He sat in an easy, composed attitude, resting both hands on his gold-headed cane. At first sight he impressed me, as an elderly gentleman, exceedingly nice in his personal appearance; and that was all. But there was something peculiar and remarkable about his face and look, which did not appear at first sight.
I was presented to him: he rose and bowed; and took me kindly by the hand.
Then conversing in a calm, even tone, which soon set me at ease, he led me to talk of my childhood—of my home on the Neprehaun—of the life which I had passed with the good clergyman. I soon forgot myself in my subject, and grew impassioned, perchance eloquent. I felt my cheeks glow and my eyes sparkle. But all at once I was brought to a dead pause, by remarking the singular expression of Mr. Wareham's face.
I stopped abruptly—blushed—and at a glance surveyed him closely.
His forehead was high and bold, and encircled by slight curls of black hair, streaked with gray—its expression eminently intellectual. But the lower part of his face was heavy, almost animal. There was a deep wrinkle on either side of his mouth, and as for the mouth itself, its upper lip was thin, almost imperceptible, while the lower one was large, projecting and of deep red, approaching purple, thus presenting a singular contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his cheeks. His eyes, half hidden under the bulging lids, when I began my description of my childhood's home, all at once expanded, and I saw their real expression and color. They were large, the eyeballs exceedingly white, and the pupils clear gray, and their expression reminded you of nothing that you had ever seen or heard of, but simply made you afraid. And as the eyes expanded, a slight smile would agitate his upper lip, while the lower one protruded, disclosing a set of artificial teeth, white as milk. It was the sudden expansion of the eyes, the smile on the upper lip and the protrusion of the lower one, that made up the peculiar expression of Mr. Wareham's face—an expression which made you feel as though you had just awoke from a grotesque yet frightful dream.
"Why do you pause, daughter?" said my mother, observing my confusion.
"Proceed my child," said Mr. Wareham, devouring me from head to foot with his great eyes, at the same time rubbing his lower lip against the upper, as though he was tasting something good to eat. "I enjoy these delightful reminiscences of childhood. I dote on such things."
But I could not proceed—I blushed again—and the tears came into my eyes.
"You have been fatigued by the bustle of the last three days," said my mother kindly: "Mr. Wareham will excuse you," and she made me a sign to leave the room.
Never was a sign more willingly obeyed. I hurried from the room, and as I closed the door, I heard Mr. Wareham say in a low voice—
"She'll do. When will you tell her?"
That night, as I sat on the edge of my bed, clad in my night-dress—my dark hair half gathered in a lace cap and half falling on my shoulders—my mother came suddenly into the room, and placing her candle on a table, took her seat by me on the bed. She was, as I have told you, an exceedingly beautiful woman, in spite of the threads of silver in her hair and the ominous wrinkle between her brows. But as she sat by me, and put her arm about my neck, toying with my hair, her look was infinitely affectionate.
"And what do you think of Mr. Wareham, dear?" she asked me—and I felt that her gaze was fixed keenly on my face.
I described my impressions frankly and with what language I could command, concluding with the words, "In short, I do not like him. He makes me feel afraid."
"O, you'll soon get over that," answered my mother. "Now he takes a great interest in you. Let me tell you something about him. He is a foreign gentleman, immensely rich; worth hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million. He has estates in this country, in England and France. He has traveled over half the globe; on further acquaintance you will be charmed by his powers of observation, his fund of anecdote, his easy flow of conversational eloquence. And then he has a good heart, Frank! I could keep you up all night in repeating but a small portion of his innumerable acts of benevolence. I met him first in Paris, years ago, just after he had unhappily married. And since I first met him he has been my fast friend. He is a good, a noble man, Frank; you will, you must like him."
"But, then, his eyes, mother! and that lip!" and I cast my eyes meekly to the floor.
"Pshaw!" returned my mother, with a start, "don't allow yourself to make fun of a dear personal friend of mine." She kissed me on the forehead—"you will like him, dear," and bade me good-night.
And on my silken pillow I slept and dreamed—of home—of the good old man—of Ernest and the forest nook—but all my dreams were haunted by a vision of two great eyes and a huge red lip—everywhere, everywhere they haunted me, the lip now projecting over the clergyman's head and the eyes looking over Ernest's shoulder. I awoke with a start and a laugh.
"You are in good spirits, my child," said my mother, who stood by the bed.
"I had a frightful dream but it ended funnily. All night long I've seen nothing but Mr. Wareham's eyes and lip, but the last I saw of them they were flying like butterflies a few feet above ground, eyes