BRANDON HALL

September 1, 1848.—Paolo Langhetti used to say that it was useful to keep a diary; not one from day to day, for each day’s events are generally trivial, and therefore not worthy of record; but rather a statement in full of more important events in one’s life, which may be turned to in later years. I wish I had begun this sixteen months ago, when I first came here. How full would have been my melancholy record by this time!

Where shall I begin?

Of course, with my arrival here, for that is the time when we separated. There is no need for me to put down in writing the events that took place when he was with me. Not a word that he ever spoke, not a look that he ever gave, has escaped my memory. This much I may set down here.

Alas! the shadow of the African forest fell deeply and darkly upon me. Am I stronger than other women, or weaker? I know not. Yet I can be calm while my heart is breaking. Yes, I am at once stronger and weaker; so weak that my heart breaks, so strong that I can hide it.

I will begin from the time of my arrival here.

I came knowing well who the man was and what he was whom I had for my father. I came with every word of that despairing voyager ringing in my ears—that cry from the drifting Vishnu, where Despard laid down to die. How is it that his very name thrills through me? I am nothing to him. I am one of the hateful brood of murderers. A Thug was my father—and my mother who? And who am I, and what?

At least my soul is not his, though I am his daughter. My soul is myself, and life on earth can not last forever. Hereafter I may stand where that man may never approach.

How can I ever forget the first sight which I had of my father, who before I saw him had become to me as abhorrent as a demon! I came up in the coach to the door of the Hall and looked out. On the broad piazza there were two men; one was sitting, the other standing.

The one who was standing was somewhat elderly, with a broad, fat face, which expressed nothing in particular but vulgar good-nature. He was dressed in black; and looked like a serious butler, or perhaps still more like some of the Dissenting ministers whom I have seen. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me with a vacant smile.

The other man was younger, not over thirty. He was thin, and looked pale from dissipation. His face was covered with spots, his eyes were gray, his eyelashes white. He was smoking a very large pipe, and a tumbler of some kind of drink stood on the stone pavement at his feet. He stared at me between the puffs of his pipe, and neither moved nor spoke.

If I had not already tasted the bitterness of despair I should have tasted it as I saw these men. Something told me that they were my father and brother. My very soul sickened at the sight—the memory of Despard’s words came back—and if it had been possible to have felt any tender natural affection for them, this recollection would have destroyed it.

“I wish to see Mr. Potts,” said I, coldly.

My father stared at me.

“I’m Mr. Potts,” he answered.

“I am Beatrice,” said I; “I have just arrived from China.”

By this time the driver had opened the door, and I got out and walked up on the piazza.

“Johnnie,” exclaimed my father, “what the devil is the meaning of this?”

“Gad, I don’t know,” returned John, with a puff of smoke.

“Didn’t you say she was drowned off the African coast?”

“I saw so in the newspapers.”

“Didn’t you tell me about the Falcon rescuing her from the pirates, and then getting wrecked with all on board?”

“Yes, but then there was a girl that escaped.”

“Oh ho!” said my father, with a long whistle. “I didn’t know that.”

He turned and looked at me hastily, but in deep perplexity.

“So you’re the girl, are you?” said he at last.

“I am your daughter,” I answered.

I saw him look at John, who winked in return.

He walked up and down for a few minutes, and at last stopped and looked at me again.

“That’s all very well,” said he at last, “but how do I know that you’re the party? Have you any proof of this?”

“No.”

“You have nothing but your own statement?”

“No.”

“And you may be an impostor. Mind you—I’m a magistrate—and you’d better be careful.”

“You can do what you choose,” said I, coldly.

“No, I can’t. In this country a man can’t do what he chooses.”

I was silent.

“Johnnie,” said my father, “I’ll have to leave her to you. You arrange it.”

John looked at me lazily, still smoking, and for some time said nothing.

“I suppose,” said he at last, “you’ve got to put it through. You began it, you know. You would send for her. I never saw the use of it.”

“But do you think this is the party?”

“Oh, I dare say. It don’t make any difference any way. Nobody would take the trouble to come to you with a sham story.”

“That’s a fact,” said my father.

“So I don’t see but you’ve got to take her.”

“Well,” said my father, “if you think so, why all right.”

“I don’t think any thing of the kind,” returned John, snappishly. “I only think that she’s the party you sent for.”

“Oh, well, it’s all the same,” said my father, who then turned to me again.

“If you’re the girl,” he said, “you can get in. Hunt up Mrs. Compton, and she’ll take charge of you.”

Compton! At the mention of that name a shudder passed through me. She had been in the family of the murdered man, and had ever since lived with his murderer. I went in without a word, prepared for the worst, and expecting to see some evil-faced woman, fit companion for the pair outside.

A servant was passing along. “Where is Mrs. Compton?” I asked.

“Somewhere or other, I suppose,” growled the man, and went on.

I stood quietly. Had I not been prepared for some such thing as this I might perhaps have broken down under grief, but I had read the MS., and nothing could surprise or wound me.

I waited there for nearly half an hour, during which time no notice was taken of me. I heard my father and John walk down the piazza steps and go away. They had evidently forgotten all about me. At last a man came toward the door who did not look like a servant. He was dressed in black. He was a slender, pale, shambling man with thin, light hair, and a furtive eye and a weary face. He did not look like one who would insult me, so I asked him where I could find Mrs. Compton.

He started as I spoke and looked at me in wonder, yet respectfully.

“I have just come from China,” said I, “and my father told me to find Mrs. Compton.”

He looked at me for some time without speaking a word. I began to think that he was imbecile.

“So you are Mr. Potts’s daughter,” said he at last, in a thin, weak voice. “I—I didn’t know that you had come—I—I knew that he was expecting you—but heard you were lost at sea—Mrs. Compton—yes—oh yes—I’ll show you where you can find Mrs. Compton.”

He was embarrassed, yet not unkind. There was wonder in his face, as though he was surprised at my appearance. Perhaps it was because he found me so unlike my father. He walked toward the great stairs, from time to time turning his head to look at me, and ascended them. I followed, and after going to the third story we came to a room.

“That’s the place,” said he.

He then turned, without replying to my thanks, and left me. I knocked at the door. After some delay it was opened, and I went in. A thin, pale woman was there. Her hair was perfectly white. Her face was marked by the traces of great grief and suffering, yet overspread by an expression of surpassing gentleness and sweetness. She looked like one of these women who live lives of devotion for others, who suffer out of the spirit of self-sacrifice, and count their own comfort and happiness as nothing in comparison with that of those whom they love. My heart warmed toward her at the first glance; I saw that this place could not be altogether corrupt since she was here.

“I am Mr. Potts’s daughter,” said I; “are you Mrs. Compton?”

She stood mute. An expression of deadly fear overspread her countenance, which seemed to turn her white face to a grayish hue, and the look that she gave me was such a look as one may cast upon some object of mortal fear.

“You look alarmed,” said I, in surprise; “and why? Am I then so frightful?”

She seized my hand and covered it with kisses. This new outburst surprised me as much as her former fear. I did not know what to do. “Ah! my sweet child, my dearest!” she murmured. “How did you come here, here of all places on earth?”

I was touched by the tenderness and sympathy of her tone. It was full of the gentlest love. “How did you come here?” I asked.

She started and turned on me her former look of fear.

“Do not look at me so,” said I, “dear Mrs. Compton. You are timid. Do not be afraid of me. I am incapable of inspiring fear.” I pressed her hand. “Let us say nothing more now about the place. We each seem to know what it is. Since I find one like you living here it will not seem altogether a place of despair.”

“Oh, door child, what words are these? You speak as if you knew all.”

“I know much,” said I, “and I have suffered much.”

“Ah, my dearest! you are too young and too beautiful to suffer.” An agony of sorrow came over her face. Then I saw upon it an expression which I have often marked since, a strange straggling desire to say something, which that excessive and ever-present terror of hers made her incapable of uttering. Some secret thought was in her whole face, but her faltering tongue was paralyzed and could not divulge it.

She turned away with a deep sigh. I looked at her with much interest. She was not the woman I expected to find. Her face and voice won my heart. She was certainly one to be trusted. But still there was this mystery about her.

Nothing could exceed her kindness and tenderness. She arranged my room. She did every thing that could be done to give it an air of comfort. It was a very luxuriously furnished chamber. All the house was lordly in its style and arrangements. That first night I slept the sleep of the weary.

The next day I spent in my room, occupied with my own sad thoughts. At about three in the afternoon I saw him come up the avenue My heart throbbed violently. My eyes were riveted upon that well-known face, how loved! how dear! In vain I tried to conjecture the reason why he should come. Was it to strike the first blow in his just, his implacable vengeance? I longed that I might receive that blow. Any thing that came from him would be sweet.

He staid a long time and then left. What passed I can not conjecture. But it had evidently been an agreeable visit to my father, for I heard him laughing uproariously on the piazza about something not long after he had gone.

I have not seen him since.

For several weeks I scarcely moved from my room. I ate with Mrs. Compton. Her reserve was impenetrable. It was with painful fear and trembling that she touched upon any thing connected with the affairs of the house or the family. I saw it and spared her. Poor thing, she has always been too timid for such a life as this.

At the end of a month I began to think that I could live here in a state of obscurity without being molested. Strange that a daughter’s feelings toward a father and brother should be those of horror, and that her desire with reference to them should be merely to keep out of their sight. I had no occupation, and needed none, for I had my thoughts and my memories. These memories were bitter, yet sweet. I took the sweet, and tried to solace myself with them. The days are gone forever; no longer does the sea spread wide; no longer can I hear his voice; I can hold him in my arms no more; yet I can remember—

I think I had lived this sort of life for three months without seeing either my father or brother.

At the end of that time my father sent for me. He informed me that he intended to give a grand entertainment to the county families, and wanted me to do the honors. He had ordered dress-makers for me; he wished me to wear some jewels which he had in the house, and informed me that it would be the grandest thing of the kind that had ever taken place. Fire-works were going to be let off; the grounds were to be illuminated, and nothing that money could effect would be spared to render it the most splendid festival that could be imagined.

I did as he said. The dress-makers came, and I allowed them to array me as they chose. My father informed me that he would not give me the jewels till the time came, hinting a fear that I might steal them.

At last the evening arrived. Invitations had been sent every where. It was expected that the house would be crowded. My father even ventured to make a personal request that I would adorn myself as well as possible. I did the best I could, and went to the drawing-room to receive the expected crowds.

The hour came and passed, but no one appeared. My father looked a little troubled, but he and John waited in the drawing-room. Servants were sent down to see if any one was approaching. An hour passed. My father looked deeply enraged. Two hours passed. Still no one came. Three hours passed. I waited calmly, but my father and John, who had all the time been drinking freely, became furious. It was now midnight, and all hope had left them. They had been treated with scorn by the whole county.

The servants were laughing at my father’s disgrace. The proud array in the different rooms was all a mockery. The elaborate fire-works could not be used.

My father turned his eyes, inflamed by anger and strong drink, toward me.

“She’s a d——d bad investment,” I heard him say.

“I told you so,” said John, who did not deign to look at me; “but you were determined.”

They then sat drinking in silence for some time.

“Sold!” said my father, suddenly, with an oath.

John made no reply.

“I thought the county would take to her. She’s one of their own sort,” my father muttered.

“If it weren’t for you they might,” said John; “but they ain’t overfond of her dear father.”

“But I sent out the invites in her name.”

“No go anyhow.”

“I thought I’d get in with them all right away, hobnob with lords and baronets, and maybe get knighted on the spot.”

John gave a long scream of laughter.

“You old fool!” he cried; “so that’s what you’re up to, is it? Sir John—ha, ha, ha! You’ll never be made Sir John by parties, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t you be too sure. I’m not put down. I’ll try again,” he continued, after a pause. “Next year I’ll do it. Why, she’ll marry a lord, and then won’t I be a lord’s father-in-law? What do you say to that?”

“When did you get these notions in your blessed head?” asked John.

“Oh, I’ve had them—It’s not so much for myself, Johnnie—but for you. For if I’m a lord you’ll be a lord too.”

“Lord Potts. Ha, ha, ha!”

“No,” said my father, with some appearance of vexation, “not that; we’ll take our title the way all the lords do, from the estates. I’ll be Lord Brandon, and when I die you’ll get the title.”

“And that’s your little game. Well, you’ve played such good little games in your life that I’ve nothing to say, except—‘Go it!’”

“She’s the one that’ll give me a lift.”

“Well, she ought to be able to do something.”

By this time I concluded that I had done my duty and prepared to retire. I did not wish to overhear any of their conversation. As I walked out of the room I still heard their remarks:

“Blest if she don’t look as if she thought herself the Queen,” said John.

“It’s the diamonds, Johnnie.”

“No it ain’t, it’s the girl herself. I don’t like the way she has of looking at me and through me.”

“Why, that’s the way with that kind. It’s what the lords like.”

“I don’t like it, then, and I tell you she’s got to be took down!”

This was the last I heard. Yet one thing was evident to me from their conversation. My father had some wild plan of effecting an entrance into society through me. He thought that after he was once recognized he might get sufficient influence to gain a title and found a family. I also might marry a lord. He thus dreamed of being Lord Brandon, and one of the great nobles of the land.

Amidst my sadness I almost smiled at this vain dream; but yet John’s words affected me strongly—“You’ve played such good little games in your life.” Well I knew with whom they were played. One was with Despard, the other with Brandon.

This then was the reason why he had sent for me from China. The knowledge of his purpose made my life neither brighter nor darker. I still lived on as before.

During these months Mrs. Compton’s tender devotion to me never ceased. I respected her, and forbore to excite that painful fear to which she was subject. Once or twice I forgot myself and began speaking to her about her strange position here. She stopped me with her look of alarm.

“Are you not afraid to be kind to me?” I asked.

She looked at me piteously.

“You are the only one that is kind to me,” I continued. “How have you the courage?”

“I can not help it,” she murmured, “you are so dear to me.”

She sighed and was silent. The mystery about her remained unchanged; her gentle nature, her tender love, and her ever-present fear. What was there in her past that so influenced her life? Had she too been mixed up with the crime on the Vishnu? She! impossible. Yet surely something as dark as that must have been required to throw so black a cloud over her life. Yet what—what could that have been? In spite of myself I associate her secret with the tragedy of Despard. She was in his family long. His wife died. She must have been with her at the time.

The possibilities that have suggested themselves to my mind will one day drive me mad. Alas, how my heart yearns over that lonely man in the drifting ship! And yet, merciful God! who am I that I should sympathize with him? My name is infamy, my blood is pollution.

I spoke to her once in a general way about the past. Had she ever been out of England? I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, dreamily.

“Where?”

She looked at me and said not a word.

At another time I spoke of China, and hinted that perhaps she too knew something about the East. The moment that I said this I repented. The poor creature was shaken from head to foot with a sudden convulsion of fear. This convulsion was so terrible that it seemed to me as though another would be death. I tried to soothe her, but she looked fearfully at me for a long time after.

At another time I asked her directly whether her husband was alive. She looked at me with deep sadness and shook her head. I do not know what position she holds here. She is not housekeeper; none of the servants pay any attention to her whatever. There is an impudent head servant who manages the rest. I noticed that the man who showed me to her room when I first came treats her differently from the rest. Once or twice I saw them talking in one of the halls. There was deep respect in his manner. What he does I have not yet found out. He has always shown great respect to me, though why I can not imagine. He has the same timidity of manner which marks Mrs. Compton. His name is Philips.

I once asked Mrs. Compton who Philips was, and what he did. She answered quickly that he was a kind of clerk to Mr. Potts, and helped him to keep his accounts.

“Has he been with him long?” I continued.

“Yes, a considerable time,” she said—but I saw that the subject distressed her, so I changed it.

For more than three months I remained in my room, but at last, through utter despair, I longed to go out. The noble grounds were there, high hills from which the wide sea was visible—that sea which shall be associated with his memory till I die. A great longing came over me to look upon its wide expanse, and feed my soul with old and dear memories. There it would lie, the same sea from which he so often saved me, over which we sailed till he laid down his noble life at my feet, and I gave back that life to him again.

I used to ascend a hill which was half a mile behind the Hall within the grounds, and pass whole days there unmolested. No one took the trouble to notice what I did, at least I thought so till afterward. There for months I used to go. I would sit and look fixedly upon the blue water, and my imagination would carry me far away to the South, to that island on the African shore, where he once reclined in my arms, before the day when I learned that my touch was pollution to him—to that island where I afterward knelt by him as he lay senseless, slowly coming back to life, when if I might but touch the hem of his garment it was bliss enough for one day. Ah me, how often I have wet his feet with my tears—poor, emaciated feet—and longed to be able to wipe them with my hair, but dared not. He lay unconscious. He never knew the anguish of my love.

Then I was less despairing. The air around was filled with the echo of his voice; I could shut my eyes, and bring him before me. His face was always visible to my soul.

One day the idea came into my head to extend my ramble into the country outside, in order to get a wider view. I went to the gate.

The porter came out and asked what I wanted. I told him.

“You can’t go out,” said he, rudely.

“Why not?”

“Oh, them’s Potts’s orders—that’s enough, I think.”

“He never said so to me,” I replied, mildly.

“That’s no odds; he said so to me, and he told me if you made any row to tell you that you were watched, and might just as well give up at once.”

“Watched!” said I, wonderingly.

“Yes—for fear you’d get skittish, and try and do something foolish. Old Potts is bound to keep you under his thumb.”

I turned away. I did not care much. I felt more surprise than any thing else to think that he would take the trouble to watch me. Whether he did or not was of little consequence. If I could only be where I had the sea before me it was enough.

That day, on going back to the Hall, I saw John sitting on the piazza. A huge bull-dog which he used to take with him every where was lying at his feet. Just before I reached the steps a Malay servant came out of the house.

He was about the same age as John. I knew him to be a Malay when I first saw him, and concluded that my father had picked him up in the East. He was slight but very lithe and muscular, with dark glittering eyes and glistening white teeth. He never looked at me when I met him, but always at the ground, without seeming to be aware of my existence.

The Malay was passing out when John called out to him,

“Hi, there, Vijal!”

Vijal looked carelessly at him.

“Here!” cried John, in the tone with which he would have addressed his dog.

Vijal stopped carelessly.

“Pick up my hat, and hand it to me.”

His hat had fallen down behind him. Vijal stood without moving, and regarded him with an evil smile.

“D—n you, do you hear?” cried John. “Pick up my hat.”

But Vijal did not move.

“If you don’t, I’ll set the dog on you,” cried John, starting to his feet in a rage.

Still Vijal remained motionless.

“Nero!” cried John, furiously, pointing to Vijal, “seize him, Sir.”

The dog sprang up and at once leaped upon Vijal. Vijal warded off the assault with his arm. The dog seized it, and held on, as was his nature. Vijal did not utter a cry, but seizing the dog, he threw him on his back, and flinging himself upon him, fixed his own teeth in the dog’s throat.

John burst into a torrent of the most frightful curses. He ordered Vijal to let go of the dog. Vijal did not move; but while the dog’s teeth were fixed in his arm, his own were still fixed as tenaciously in the throat of the dog.

John sprang forward and kicked him with frightful violence. He leaped on him and stamped on him. At last, Vijal drew a knife from his girdle and made a dash at John. This frightened John, who fell back cursing. Vijal then raised his head.

The dog lay motionless. He was dead. Vijal sat down, his arm running blood, with the knife in his hand, still glaring at John.

During this frightful scene I stood rooted to the spot in horror. At last the sight of Vijal’s suffering roused me. I rushed forward, and tearing the scarf from my neck, knelt down and reached out my hand to stanch the blood.

Vijal drew back. “Poor Vijal,” said I, “let me stop this blood. I can dress wounds. How you suffer!”

He looked at me in bewilderment. Surprise at hearing a kind word in this house of horror seemed to deprive him of speech. Passively he let me take his arm, and I bound it up as well as I could.

All this time John stood cursing, first me, and then Vijal. I said not a word, and Vijal did not seem to hear him, but sat regarding me with his fiery black eyes. When at last I had finished, he rose and still stood staring at me. I walked into the house.

John hurled a torrent of imprecations after me. The last words that I heard were the same as he had said once before. “You’ve got to be took down; and I’ll be d—d if you don’t get took down precious soon!”

I told Mrs. Compton of what had happened. As usual, she was seized with terror. She looked at me with a glance of fearful apprehension. At last she gasped out:

“They’ll kill you.”

“Let them,” said I, carelessly; “it would be better than living.”

“Oh dear!” groaned the poor old thing, and sank sobbing in a chair. I did what I could to soothe her, but to little purpose. She afterward told me that Vijal had escaped further punishment in spite of John’s threats, and hinted that they were half afraid of him.

The next day, on attempting to go out, Philips told me that I was not to be permitted to leave the house. I considered it the result of John’s threat, and yielded without a word.

After this I had to seek distraction from my thoughts within the house. Now there came over me a great longing for music. Once, when in the drawing-room on that famous evening of the abortive fÊte, which was the only time I ever was there, I had noticed a magnificent grand piano of most costly workmanship. The thought of this came to my mind, and an unconquerable desire to try it arose. So I went down and began to play.

It was a little out of tune, but the tone was marvelously full and sweet. I threw myself with indescribable delight into the charm of the hour. All the old joy which music once used to bring came back. Imagination, stimulated by the swelling harmonies, transported me far away from this prison-house and its hateful associations to that happier time of youth when not a thought of sorrow came over me. I lost myself therein. Then that passed, that life vanished, and the sea-voyage began. The thoughts of my mind and the emotions of my heart passed down to the quivering chords and trembled into life and sound.

I do not know how long I had been playing when suddenly I heard a sob behind me. I started and turned. It was Philips.

He was standing with tears in his eyes and a rapt expression on his emaciated face, his hands hanging listless, and his whole air that of one who had lost all senses save that of hearing. But as I turned and stopped, the spell that bound him was broken. He sighed and looked at me earnestly.

{Illustration: “I STOOD LOOKING AT HIM WITH A GAZE SO FIXED AND INTENSE THAT IT SEEMED AS IF ALL MY BEING WERE CENTERED IN MY EYES."}

“Can you sing?”

“Would you like me to do so?”

“Yes,” he said, in a faint imploring voice.

I began a low song—a strain associated with that same childhood of which I had just been thinking—a low, sad strain, sweet to my ears and to my soul; it spoke of peace and innocence, quiet home joys, and calm delights. My own mind brought before me the image of the house where I had lived, with the shadow of great trees around, and gorgeous flowers every where, where the sultry air breathed soft, and beneath the hot noon all men sank to rest and slumber.

When I stopped I turned again. Philips had not changed his attitude. But as I turned he uttered an exclamation and tore out his watch.

“Oh, Heavens!—two hours!” he exclaimed. “He’ll kill me for this.”

With these words he rushed out of the room.

I kept up my music for about ten days, when one day it was stopped forever. I was in the middle of a piece when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I turned and saw my father. I rose and looked at him with an effort to be respectful. It was lost on him, however. He did not glance at me.

“I came up to say to you,” said he, after a little hesitation, “that I can’t stand this infernal squall and clatter any longer. So in future you just shut up.”

He turned and left me. I closed the piano forever, and went to my room.

The year ended, and a new year began. January passed away. My melancholy began to affect my health. I scarcely ever slept at night, and to eat was difficult. I hoped that I was going to die. Alas! death will not come when one calls. One day I was in my room lying on the couch when Mrs. Compton came. On entering she looked terrified about something. She spoke in a very agitated voice: “They want you down stairs.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Potts and John.”

“Well,” said I, and I prepared to get ready.

“When do they want me?”

“Now,” said Mrs. Compton, who by this time was crying.

“Why are you so agitated?” I asked.

“I am afraid for you.”

“Why so? Can any thing be worse?”

“Ah, my dearest! you don’t know—you don’t know.”

I said nothing more, but went down. On entering the room I saw my father and John seated at a table with brandy before them. A third man was there. He was a thick-set man of about the same height of my father, but more muscular, with a strong, square jaw, thick neck, low brow, and stern face. My father did not show any actual ferocity in his face whatever he felt; but this man’s face expressed relentless cruelty.

On entering the room I walked up a little distance and stood looking at them.

“There, Clark; what do you think of that?” said my father.

The name, Clark, at once made known to me who this man was—that old associate of my father—his assistant on board the Vishnu. Yet the name did not add one whit to the abhorrence which I felt—my father was worse even than he.

The man Clark looked at me scrutinizingly for some time.

“So that’s the gal,” said he, at last.

“That’s the gal,” said my father.

Clark waved his hand at me. “Turn round sideways,” said he.

I looked at him quietly without moving. He repeated the order, but I took no notice of it.

“D—n her!” said he. “Is she deaf?”

“Not a bit of it,” said John; “but she’s plucky. She’d just as soon you’d kill her as not. There isn’t any way of moving her.”

“Turn round!” cried my father, angrily.

I turned as he said. “You see,” said he, with a laugh, “she’s been piously brought up; she honors her father.”

At this Clark burst into a loud laugh.

Some conversation followed about me as I stood there. Clark then ordered me to turn round and face him. I took no notice; but on my father’s ordering it, I obeyed as before. This appeared to amuse them all very greatly, just as the tricks of an intelligent poodle might have done. Clark gave me many commands on purpose to see my refusal, and have my father’s order which followed obeyed.

“Well,” said he, at last, leaning back in his chair, “she is a showy piece of furniture. Your idea isn’t a bad one either.”

He rose from his chair and came toward me. I stood looking at him with a gaze so fixed and intense that it seemed as if all my being were centred in my eyes.

He came up and reached out to take hold of my arm. I stepped back. He looked up angrily. But, for some reason, the moment that he caught sight of my face, an expression of fear passed over his.

“Heavens!” he groaned; “look at that face!” I saw my father look at me. The same horror passed over his countenance. An awful thought came to me. As these men turned their faces away from me in fear I felt my strength going. I turned and rushed from the room. I do not remember any thing more.

It was early in February when this occurred. Until the beginning of August I lay senseless. For the first four months I hovered faintly between life and death.

Why did they not let me die? Why did I not die? Alas! had I died I might now have been beyond this sorrow: I have waked to meet it all again.

Mrs. Compton says she found me on the floor of my own room, and that I was in a kind of stupor. I had no fever or delirium. A doctor came, who said it was a congestion of the brain. Thoughts like mine might well destroy the brain forever.

For a month I have been slowly recovering. I can now walk about the room. I know nothing of what is going on in the house, and wish to know nothing. Mrs. Compton is as devoted as ever.

I have got thus far, and will stop here. I have been several days writing this. I must stop till I am stronger.