Part 33 (2/2)
”No, no, I can make no matches; but you know Madame de St. Aube is a widow now. You were always congenial.”
”Yes, but”--with a shrug of his shoulders, worthy of a Frenchman--”_que voulez vous?_ That woman has five children already, and a plantation mortgaged to Maginnis!”
”Maginnis again! The very name sends a chill through my bones! No, that will never do. Some maiden lady, then--some sage person of thirty-four or five.”
”I do not fancy such. I'll tell you what! I believe I will go back and court Bertie on some of her play-acting rounds, and make a decent woman of that little vagabond. Because she was disappointed once, is that a reason? Great Heavens! this tongue of mine! Cut it out, Mrs. Wentworth, and cast it to the seals in the bay. I came very near--”
”Betraying what I have long suspected, Major Favraud. Who _was_ that man?”
”Don't ask me, my dear woman; I must not say another word, in honor. It was a most unfortunate affair--a sheer misunderstanding. He loved her all the time; I knew this, but you know her manner! He did not understand her flippant way; her keen, unsparing, and bitter wit; her devoted, pa.s.sionate, proud, and breaking heart; and so there was a coolness, and they parted; and what happened afterward nearly killed her! So she left her home.”[6]
”I must not ask you, I feel, for you say you cannot tell me more in honor, but I think I know. The man, of all the earth, I would have chosen for her. Oh, hard is woman's fate!”
To the very last I have reserved what lay nearest my heart of hearts.
Three children have been born to us in California, and have made our home a paradise. The two elder are sons, named severally for my father and theirs, Reginald and Wardour.
The last is a daughter, a second Mabel, beautiful as the first, and strangely resembling her, though of a stronger frame and more vital nature. She is the suns.h.i.+ne of the house, the idol of her father and brothers, who _all_ are mine, as well as the fair child of seven summers herself.
Mrs. Austin presides, in imagination, over our nursery, but, in reality, is only its most honored occasional visitor, her chamber being distinct, and my own rule being absolute therein, with the aid of a docile adjunct.
Ernest Wentworth, our adopted son--so-called for want of any other name--is the standard of perfection in mind and morals, for the imitation of the rest of the band of children.
He has gained the usual stature of young men of his age, with a slight defect of curvature of the shoulders that does but confirm his scholarly appearance.
His face, with its magnificent brow, piercing dark eyes, pale complexion, and cl.u.s.tering hair, is striking, if not handsome.
He has graduated as a student of law, and, should his health permit, will, I cannot doubt, distinguish himself as a forensic orator.
George Gaston and Madge have promised a visit to the Vernons; but I cannot help hoping, rather without than _for_ any good reason, that they will not come! I love them both, yet I feel they are mismated, even if happy.
My husband is noted among his peers for his liberal and n.o.ble-minded use of a princely income, and his great public spirit. He unites agricultural pursuits with his profession, and has placed, among other managers, my old ally, Christian Garth and his family, on the ranch he holds nearest to San Francisco.
Thence, at due seasons, seated on a wain loaded with the fruits of their labor, the worthy pair come up to the city to trade, and never fail in their tribute to our house.
The immigrant possessed of worth and industry, however poor; the adventurous man, who seeks by the aid of his profession alone to establish himself in California; the artist, the man of letters, all meet a helping hand from Wardour Wentworth, who in his charities observes but one principle of action, one hope of recompense, both to be found in the teachings of philanthropy:
”As I do unto you, go you and do unto others.” This is his maxim.
Our lives have been strangely happy and successful up to this hour, so that sometimes my emotional nature, too often in extremes, trembles beneath its burden of prosperity, and conjures up strange phantoms of dark possibilities, that send me, tearful and depressed, to my husband's arms, to find strength and courage in his rare and calm philosophy and equipoise.
Never on his sweet serene brow have I seen a frown of discontent, or a cloud of sourceless sorrow, such as too often come--the last especially to mine--born of that melancholy which has its root far back in the bosoms of my ancestors.
Such as his life is, he accepts it manfully; and in his shadow I find protection and grow strong.
Reader, farewell!
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