Woman's Trials

The man named Burton, to whom reference has been made as being particularly attentive to Miriam, was really charmed with the beautiful young girl.  But the affection of a man such as he was comes to its object as a blight instead of a blessing.  Miriam, while she did not repel his attentions, for his manner towards her was ever polite and respectful, felt, nevertheless, an instinctive repugnance towards him, and when she could keep out of his way without seeming to avoid him, she generally did so.

A few evenings after the conversation held with Edith, as given in the last chapter, Burton, in passing from the dining room, said to Miriam,—­

“Come.  I want you to play for me some of those beautiful airs in Don Giovanni.”

“Indeed you must excuse me Mr. Burton,” replied Miriam.  I don’t feel like playing to-night.”

“Can’t excuse you, indeed,” said Burton, smiling pleasantly, and, at the same time, taking Miriam’s hand, which she quickly withdrew from his touch.  The contact sent an unpleasant thrill along her nerves.  “So come.  I must have some music to-night.”

Miriam yielded to the request, although she felt in no mood for touching the piano.  After playing several pieces, she lifted her hands from the instrument, and, turning away from it, said,—­

“There, Mr. Burton, you must really excuse me.  I cannot play to-night.”

“Excuse you!  Certainly.  And for the pleasure you have given me, accept my thanks,” replied Mr. Burton.  There was a change in his tone of voice which Miriam did not comprehend.  “And now,” he added, in a low voice, bending to her ear, “come and sit down with me on the sofa.  I have something particular that I wish to say.”

Miriam did as she was desired, not dreaming of what was in the mind of Burton.

“Miriam,” said he, after a pause, “do not be startled nor surprised at what I am going to say.”

But his words and manner both startled her, and she was about rising, when he took her hand and gently detained her.

“Nay, Miriam,” said he, “you must hear what I wish to speak.  From the day I entered this house, you have interested me deeply.  Admiration was followed quickly by profound respect; and to this succeeded a warmer sentiment.”

A deep crimson instantly mantled the face of Miriam, and her eye fell to the floor.

“Can you, my dear young lady,” continued Mr. Burton, “reciprocate the feeling I have expressed?”

“Oh, sir!  Excuse me!” said Miriam, so soon as she could recover her disordered thoughts.  And she made another effort to rise, but was still detained by Burton.

“Stay! stay!” said he.  “Hear all that I wish to utter.  I am rich”—­

But, ere he could speak another word, Miriam sprang from the sofa, and, bounding from the room, flew rather than walked up the stairs.  The instant she entered her own room she closed and locked the door, and then, falling upon the bed, gave vent to a flood of tears.  A long time passed before her spirit regained its former composure; and then, when her thought turned towards Mr. Burton, she experienced an inward shudder.

Of what had occurred, she breathed not a syllable to Edith when she joined her in the chamber to retire for the night.

“How my heart aches for mother!” sighed Edith, as she came in.  “I have been trying to encourage her; but words are of no avail.  ’Where is all to end?’ she asks; and I cannot answer the question.  Oh dear!  What is to become of us?  At the rate we are going on now, every thing must soon be lost.  To think of what we have sacrificed and are still sacrificing, yet all to no purpose.  Every comfort is gone.  Strangers, who have no sympathy with us, have come into our house; and mother is compelled to bear all manner of indignities from people who are in every way her inferiors.  Yet, for all, we are losing instead of gaining.  Ah me!  No wonder she is heart-sick and utterly discouraged.  How could it be otherwise?”

Miriam heard and felt every word; but she made no answer.  Thought, however, was busy, and remained busy long after sleep had brought back to the troubled heart of Edith its even pulsations.

“I am rich.”  These words of Mr. Burton were constantly recurring to her mind.  It was in vain that she turned from the idea presented with them:  it grew more and more distinct each moment.  Yes, there was a way of relief opened for her mother, of safety for the family, and Miriam saw it plainly, yet shuddered as she looked, and closed her eyes, like one about to leap from a fearful height.

Hour after hour Miriam lay awake, pondering the new aspect which things had assumed, and gazing down the fearful abyss into which, in a spirit of self-devotion, she was seeking to find the courage to leap.

“I am rich.”  Ever and anon these words sounded in her ears.  As the wife of Burton, she could at once lift her mother out of her present unhappy situation.  Thus, before the hour of midnight came and went, she thought.  He had offered her his hand.  She might accept the offer, on condition of his settling an income upon her mother.

This the tempter whispered in her ears, and she hearkened, in exquisite pain, to the suggestion.

When Edith awoke on the next morning, Miriam slept soundly by her side; but Edith, observed that her face was pale and troubled, and that tears were on her cheeks.  At breakfast time, she did not appear at the table; and when her mother sent to her room she returned for answer that she was not very well.  The whole of the day she spent in her chamber, and, during all the time, was struggling against the instinctive repulsion felt towards the man who had made her an offer of marriage.

At supper time, she reappeared at the table with a calm, yet sad face.  As she was passing from the dining room after tea, Burton came to her side and whispered—­

“Can I have a word with you in the parlour, Miriam?”

The young girl neither looked up nor spoke, but moved along by his side, and descended with him to the parlour, where they were alone.

“Miriam,” said Burton, as he placed himself by her side on the sofa, “have you thought seriously of what I said last evening?  Can you reciprocate the ardent sentiments I expressed?”

“Oh, sir!” returned Miriam, looking up artlessly in his face, “I am too young to listen to words like these.”

“You are a woman, Miriam,” replied Burton, earnestly—­“a lovely woman, with a heart overflowing with pure affections.  Deeply have you interested my feelings from the first; and now I ask you to be mine.  As I was going to say last evening, I am rich, and will surround you with every comfort and elegance that money can obtain.  Dearest Miriam, say that you will accept the hand I now offer you.”

“My mother will never consent,” said the trembling girl, after a long pause.

“Your mother is in trouble.  I have long seen that,” remarked Mr. Burton, “and have long wanted to advise and befriend her.  Put it in my power to do so, and then ask for her what you will.”

This was touching the right key, and Burton saw it in a moment.

“Yes, you have said truly,” replied Miriam; “my mother is in great trouble.  Ah! what would I not do for her relief?”

“Ask for your mother what you will, Miriam,” said Burton.

The maiden’s eyes were upon the floor, and the rapid heaving of her bosom showed that her thoughts were busy in earnest debate.  At length, looking up, she said—­

“Will you lift her out of her present embarrassed position, and settle upon her an income sufficient for herself and family?”

“I will,” was the prompt answer.  “And now, my dear Miriam, name the sum you wish her to receive.”

Another long silence followed.

“Ah, sir!” at length said the maiden, “in what a strange, humiliating position am I placed!”

“Do not speak thus, Miriam.  I understand all better than words can utter it.  Will an income of two thousand dollars a year suffice?”

“It is more than I could ask.”

“Enough.  The moment you are mine, that sum will be settled on your mother.”

Miriam arose up quickly, as Burton said this, murmuring—­

“Let me have a few days for reflection,” and, ere he could prevent her, glided from the room.