CHAPTER II.

Before leaving the hospitable roof of General Curzon—­beneath which I tarried for several days—­awaiting the tardy sailing of the packet-steamer Kosciusko, bound for New York, circumstances determined me to leave in the hands of my host a desk which I had intended to carry with me, and which contained most of my treasures.  First among these, indisputably, in intrinsic value were my diamonds—­“sole remnant of a past magnificence;” but the miniatures of my father and mother, and Mabel, in the cases of which locks of twisted hair—­brown, and black, and golden, and gray—­were contained and combined (dear, imperishable memorials of vitality in most instances when all the rest was dust and ashes), and the early letters of my parents, together with the carefully-kept diary I had written at Beauseincourt, ranked beyond these even in my estimation.

The cause of this deposit of valuables was simply owing to the unstable lock of my trunk, the condition of which was detected too late to have it repaired before sailing.  Madame Curzon had suggested to me the unsafe nature of such custody for objects of price, if, indeed, I possessed such at all.  I told her then of my diamonds, and it was agreed between us that these, at least, had better be deposited in the bank of her husband, who would bring them to me himself a few months later—­and on reflection I concluded to add my desk, pictures, and papers, to my more substantial treasures.  These, at least, I felt assured no accident should throw into the hands of Bainrothe.

On my way to the ship I left the carriage for a moment, in pursuance with this idea, and, followed by King, the bearer of my large and weighty desk, entered the banking-house of my host, and was shown at once, by attentive clerks, to his peculiar sanctum.  I told him my errand in a few words.

“Keep it until called for, unless you hear from me in the interval,” I had said in allusion to my deposit, for he acknowledged the chances were slight of his leaving home until the following year, notwithstanding Madame Curzon’s convictions.

“Called for by whom?” he asked, calmly.

“By Miriam Monfort in person or her order,” I replied, laughingly, “This is a mystery that, by-and-by, shall be explained to you.”

“I understand something of that already,” he rejoined.  “Marion has been whispering to the reeds, you know, or Madame Curzon, the same thing nearly; but let us be earnest, as your time is short, and mine precious to-day.  Life is uncertain, and, young and strong as you are, or seem to be, you cannot foresee one hour even of the future, or of your own existence.  Suppose Miriam Monfort neither comes in person nor sends her order for its restoration—­what, then, is to become of this treasure-chest of hers?”

“You shall keep it then,” I replied, unhesitatingly, “until my little sister reaches her majority, and cause it to be placed in her own hands, none other—­or, stay, let her have it on the day before her marriage, should this occur earlier than the time mentioned, or when she reaches her eighteenth year in any case; but, above all things, be careful.”