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In her determination to overcome all obstacles, Madame even condescended to apply to my wife, whose influence over Mademoiselle she was clever enough not to undervalue.

“I want you to talk to Mademoiselle,” she said. “She thinks a great deal of you, and I want you to give her some good advice. You know what society is, and you know that she ought to be proud of her advantages, and not make a fool of herself. Many a girl would be glad enough of what she has before her. She’s got money, and she’s got chances, and I don’t begrudge her anything. She can spend all she likes on clothes and things, and I’ll take her anywhere if she’ll behave herself. They wear me out–her and her father. It’s her father that’s ruined her, and her living as she’s done. Her father never knew anything, and he’s made a pet of her, and got her into his way of thinking. It’s ridiculous how little ambition they have, and she might marry as well as any girl. There’s a marquis that’s quite in love with her at this moment, and she’s as afraid of him as death, and cries if I even mention him, though he’s a nice enough man, if he is a bit elderly. Now, I want you to reason with her.”

This Clelie told me afterward.

“And upon going away,” she ended, “she turned round toward me, setting her face into an indescribable expression of hardness and obstinacy. ‘I want her to understand,’ she said, ‘that she’s cut off forever from anything that’s happened before. There’s the’ Atlantic Ocean and many a mile of land between her and North Carolina, and so she may as well give that up.'”

Two or three days after this Mademoiselle came to our apartment in great grief. She had left Madame in a violent ill-temper. They had received invitations to a ball at which they were to meet the marquis. Madame had been elated, and the discovery of Mademoiselle’s misery and trepidation had roused her indignation. There had been a painful scene, and Mademoiselle had been overwhelmed as usual.

She knelt before the fire and wept despairingly.

“I’d rather die than go,” she said. “I can’t stand it. I can’t get used to it. The light, and the noise, and the talk, hurts me, and I don’t know what I am doing. And people stare at me, and I make mistakes, and I’m not fit for it–and–and–I’d rather be dead fifty thousand times than let that man come near me. I hate him, and I’m afraid of him, and I wish I was dead.”

At this juncture came the timid summons upon the door, and the father entered with a disturbed and subdued air. He did not conceal his hat, but held it in his hands, and turned it round and round in an agitated manner as he seated himself beside his daughter.

“Esmeraldy,” he said, “don’t you take it so hard; honey. Mother, she’s kinder outed, and she’s not at herself rightly. Don’t you never mind. Mother she means well, but–but she’s got a sorter curious way of showin’ it. She’s got a high sperrit, an’ we’d ought to ‘low fur it, and not take it so much to heart. Mis’ Dimar here knows how high-sperrited people is sometimes, I dessay,–an’ mother she’s got a powerful high sperrit.”

But the poor child only wept more hopelessly. It was not only the cruelty of her mother which oppressed her, it was the wound she bore in her heart.

Clelie’s eyes filled with tears as she regarded her.

The father was also more broken in spirit than he wished it to appear. His weather-beaten face assumed an expression of deep melancholy which at last betrayed itself in an evidently inadvertent speech.

“I wish–I wish,” he faltered. “Lord! I’d give a heap to see Wash now. I’d give a heap to see him, Esmeraldy.”

It was as if the words were the last straw. The girl turned toward him and flung herself upon his breast with a passionate cry.