"She has been here a month. Are you glad?"

"She was never a particular friend of mine, mamma."

"You will love her now," said mamma; and the conversation turned. It had only filled me with vague fears. I could not understand it.

I met Faustina soon in company. She was as brilliant a vision as I have often seen; her beauty was perfected in her womanhood, and was of that type which draws all eyes. She was not changed, however; and she was not changed towards me. She met me with the old coldness; with a something besides which I could not fathom. It gave me a secret feeling of uneasiness; I suppose, because that in it I read a meaning of exultation, a secret air of triumph, which, I could not tell how or why, directed itself towards me and gathered about my head. It grew disagreeable to me to meet her; but I was forced to do this constantly. We never talked together more than a few words; but as we pa.s.sed each other, as our eyes met and hers went from me, as she smiled at the next opening of her mouth, I felt always something sinister, or at least something hidden, which took the shape of an advantage gained. I tried to meet her with perfect pleasantness, but it grew difficult. In my circ.u.mstances I was very open to influences of discouragement or apprehension; indeed the trouble was to fight them off.

This intangible evil however presently took shape.

I thought I had observed that for a day or two my father's eyes had lingered on me frequently with a tender or wistful expression, more than usual. I did not know what it meant.

Mamma was pushing me into company all this while, and making no allusion to my own private affairs, if she had any clue to them. One morning I had excused myself from an engagement which carried away my aunt and her, that I might have a quiet time to read with papa. Our readings had been much broken in upon - lately. With a glad step I went to papa's room; a study, I might call it, where he spent all of the time he did not wish to give to society. He was there, expecting me; a wood-fire was burning on the hearth; the place had the air of comfort and seclusion and intelligent leisure; books and engravings and works of art scattered about, and luxurious easy-chairs standing ready for the accommodation of papa and me.

"This is nice, papa!" I said, as the cushions of one of them received me.

"It is not quite the Mount of Olives," said papa.

"No indeed!" I answered; and my eyes filled. The bustle of the fashionable world was all around me, the storms of the political world were shaking the very ground where I stood, the air of our little social world was not as on Lebanon sweet and pure. When would it be again? Papa sat thinking in his easy-chair.

"How do you like Paris, my child?"

"Papa, it does not make much difference, Italy or Paris, so long as I am where you are, and we can have a little time together."

"Your English friend has followed you from Florence."

"Yes, papa. At least he is here."

"And your German friend."

"He is here, papa."

There was a silence. I wondered what papa was thinking of, but I did not speak, for I saw he was thinking.

"You have never heard from your American friend?"

"No, papa."

"Daisy," said papa, tenderly, and looking at me now, - "you are strong?"

"Am I, papa?"

"I think you are. You can bear the truth, cannot you?"

"I hope I can, -any truth that you have to tell me," I said.

One thought of terrible evil chilled my heart for a moment, and pa.s.sed away. Papa's tone and manner did not touch anything like that. Though it was serious enough to awake my apprehension. I could not guess what to apprehend.

"Did you get any clear understanding of what your mother might mean, one day at breakfast, when she was alluding to friends of yours in America? - you remember?"

"I remember. I did not understand in the least, papa."

"It had to do with Miss St. Clair."

"Yes."

"It seems she spent all the last winter in Washington, where the society was unusually good, it is said, as well as unusually military. I do not know how that can be true, when all Southerners were of course out of the city - but that's no matter. A girl like this St. Clair girl of course knew all the epaulettes there were."

"Yes, papa - she is always very much admired. She must be that everywhere."

"I suppose so, though I don't like her," said papa. "Well, Daisy, - I do not know how to tell you. She knew your friend."

"Yes, papa."

"And he admired her."

I was silent, wondering what all this was coming to.

"Do you understand me, Daisy? - She has won him from you."

A feeling of sickness pa.s.sed over me; it did not last. One vision of my beautiful enemy, one image of her as Mr.

Thorold's friend, - it made me sick for that instant; then, I believe I looked up and smiled.

"Papa, it is not true, I think."

"It is well attested, Daisy."

"By whom?"

"By a friend of Miss St. Clair, who was with her in Washington and knew the whole progress of the affair, and testifies to their being engaged."

"To whose being engaged, papa?"

"Miss St. Clair and your friend, - Colonel Somebody. I forget his name, Daisy, though you told me, I believe."

"He was not a colonel, papa; not at all; not near it."

"No. He has been promoted, I understand. Promotions are rapid in the Northern army now-a-days; a lieutenant in the regulars is transformed easily into a colonel of volunteers. They want more officers than they have got, I suppose."

I remained silent, thinking.

"Who told you all this, papa?"

"Your mother. She has it direct from the friend of your rival."

"But, papa, n.o.body knew about me. It was kept entirely private."

"Not after you came away, I suppose. How else should this story be told as of the gentleman _you were engaged to?_"

I waited a little while, to get my voice steady, and then I went on with my reading to papa. Once he interrupted me to say, "Daisy, how do you take this that I have been telling you?" - and at the close of our reading he asked again in a perplexed manner, "You do not let it trouble you, Daisy?" - and each time I answered him, "I do not believe it, papa."

Neither did I; but at the same time a dreadful shadow of possibility came over my spirit. I could not get from under it, and my soul fainted, as those were said to do who lay down for shelter under the upas tree. A poison as of death seemed to distil upon me from that shadow. Not let it trouble me? It was a man's question, I suppose, put with a man's powerlessness to read a woman's mind; even though the man was my father.