University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Whether the general rule of implicit obedience
to parental injunction admitted of no
exceptions, was a problem which Irene readily
solved; and on Saturday, as soon as her
father and cousin had started to the plantation
(twenty-five miles distant), she put on her hat,
and walked to town. Wholly absorbed in
philanthropic schemes, she hurried along the
sidewalk, ran up a flight of steps, and knocked
at a door, on which was written in large gilt
letters “Dr. Arnold.”

“Ah, Beauty! come in. Sit down, and
tell me what brought you to town so early.”

He was probably a man of fifty; gruff in
appearance, and unmistakably a bachelor.
His thick hair was grizzled, so was the heavy
beard; and shaggy gray eyebrows slowly unbent,
as he took his visitor's little hands and
looked kindly down into her grave face. From
her infancy he had petted and fondled her,
and she stood as little in awe of him as of
Paragon.

“Doctor, are you busy this morning?”

“I am never too busy to attend to you,
little one. What is it?”

“Of course you know that Mrs. Aubrey is
almost blind.”

“Of course I do, having been her physician.”

“Those cataracts can be removed, however.”

“Perhaps they can, and perhaps they can't.”

“But the probabilities are that a good oculist
can relieve her.”

“I rather think so.”

“Two hundred dollars would defray all the
expenses of a trip to New Orleans for this
purpose, but she is too poor to afford it.”

“Decidedly too poor.”

His gray eyes twinkled promisingly, but he
would not anticipate her.

“Dr. Arnold, don't you think you could
spare that small sum without much inconvenience?”

“Really! is that what you trudged into
town for?”

“Yes, just that, and nothing else. If I had
had the money I should not have applied to
you.”

“Pshaw! your father could buy me a dozen
times.”

“At any rate, I have not the necessary
amount at my disposal just now, and I came
to ask you to lend it to me.”

“For how long, Beauty?”

“Till I am of age—perhaps not so long, I
will pay you the interest.”

“You will climb Popocatapetl, won't you?
Hush, child.”

He went into the adjoining room, but soon
returned, and resumed his seat on the sofa by
her side.

“Irene, did you first apply to your father?
I don't relish the idea of being a dernier
ressort.”

“What difference can it make to you
whether I did or did not? That I come to
you at all is sufficient proof of my faith in
your generosity.”

Hiram Arnold was an acute and practised
physiognomist, but the pale, quiet face perplexed
him.

“Do you want the money now?”

“Yes, if you please; but before you give it
to me I ought to tell you that I want the
matter kept secret. No one is to know anything
about it—not even my father.”

“Irene, is it right to inveigle me into
schemes with which you are ashamed to have
your own father acquainted?”

“You know the whole truth, therefore you
are not inveigled; and moreover, Doctor, I
am not ashamed of anything I do.”

She looked so unembarrassed that for a
moment he felt puzzled.

“I knew Mrs. Aubrey before her marriage.”
He bent forward to watch the effect of his
words, but if she really knew or suspected
aught of the past, there was not the slightest
intimation of it. Putting back her hair, she
looked up and answered:

“That should increase your willingness to
aid her in her misfortunes.”

“Hold out your hand; fifty, one hundred,
a hundred and fifty, two hundred. There,
will that do?”

“Thank you! thank you. You will not
need it soon, I hope?”

“Not until you are ready to pay me.”

“Dr. Arnold, you have given me a great deal
of pleasure—more than I can express. I—.”

“Don't try to express it, Queen. You have
given me infinitely more, I assure you.”

Her splendid eyes were lifted toward him,
and with some sudden impulse she touched
her lips to the hand he had placed on her
shoulder. Something like a tremor crossed
the doctor's habitually stern mouth as he
looked at the marvellous beauty of the girl's
countenance, and he kissed her slender fingers
as reverently as though he touched something
consecrated.

“Irene, shall I take you home in my buggy?”

“No, thank you, I would rather walk. Oh!
Doctor, I am so much obliged to you.”

She drew her hat over her face, and went
down the steps. Dr. Arnold walked slowly
across the office-floor with his hands behind
him; the grim face was placid now, the dark
furrows on his brow were not half so deep,
and as he paused and closed a ponderous
volume lying on the table, a smile suddenly
flitted over his features, as one sees a sunbeam
struggle through rifts in low rain-clouds.
He put the book in the case, and locked the
glass door. The “Augustinian Theory of
Evil” was contained in the volume, which
seemed by no means to have satisfied him.

“All a maze worse than that of Crete! I
will follow that girl; she shall be my Ariadne
in this Egyptian darkness. Pshaw! if His
Highness of Hippo were right, what would
become of the world? All social organizations
are based (and firmly too) on man's
faith in man; establish the universal depravity,
devilishness of the human race, and
lo! what supports the mighty social fabric?
Machiavelism? If that queer little untrained
freethinker, Irene, is not pure and sinless,
then there are neither seraphim nor cherubim
in high Heaven! Cyrus, bring out my
buggy.”

In answer to Irene's knock, Electra opened
the cottage-door and ushered her into the
small room which served as both kitchen and
dining-room. Everything was scrupulously
neat, not a spot on the bare polished floor, not
a speck to dim the purity of the snowy
dimity curtains, and on the table in the
centre stood a vase filled with fresh fragrant
flowers. In a low chair before the open
window sat the widow, netting a blue and
white nubia. She glanced round as Irene
entered.

“Who is it, Electra?”

“Miss Irene, aunt.”

“Sit down, Miss Irene; how are you to-day?”

She spoke rapidly, and for a moment
seemed confused, then resumed her work.
Irene watched her pale, delicate fingers, and
the long auburn lashes drooping over the
colorless cheeks, and, when she looked up for
an instant, the visitor saw that the mild, meek
brown eyes were sadly blurred. If ever resignation
enthroned itself on a woman's brow,
one might have bowed before Amy Aubrey's
sweet, placid, subdued face. No Daniel was
needed to interpret the lines which sorrow
had printed around her patient, tremulous
mouth.

“Mrs. Aubrey, I am sorry to hear your
eyes are no better.”

“Thank you for your kind sympathy. My
sight grows more dim every day.”

“I should think netting would be injurious
to you now.”

“It is purely mechanical; I use my eyes
very little. Electra arranges the colors for
me, and I find it easy work.”

Irene knelt down before her, and, folding
one of the hands in both hers, said eagerly:

“You shan't suffer much longer; these veils
shall be taken off. Here is the money to
enable you to go to New Orleans and consult
that physician. As soon as the weather turns
cooler you must start.”

“Miss Irene, I can not tax your generosity
so heavily; I have no claim on your goodness.
Indeed I—.”

“Please don't refuse the money! You will
distress me very much if you do. Why should
you hesitate? if it makes me happy and benefits
you, why will you decline it? Do you
think if my eyes were in the condition of
yours that I would not thank you to relieve
me?”

The widow had risen hastily, and covered
her face with her hands, while an unwonted
flush dyed her cheeks. She trembled, and
Irene saw tears stealing through the fingers.

“Mrs. Aubrey, don't you think it is your
duty to recover your sight if possible?”

“Yes, if I could command the means.”

“You have the means; you must employ
them. There, I will not take back the money;
it is yours.”

“Don't refuse it, antie, you will wound
Irie,” pleaded Electra.

How little they understood or appreciated
the struggle in that gentle sufferer's heart;
how impossible for them to realize the humiliation
she endured in accepting such a gift
from the child of Leonard Huntingdon?”

With a faltering voice she asked:

“Did your father send me this money?”

“No.”

It was the first time she had ever alluded
to him, and Irene saw that some painful memory
linked itself with her father. What could
it be? There was silence for a few seconds;
then Mrs. Aubrey took the hands from her
face and said: “Irene, I will accept your generous
offer. If my sight is restored, I can
repay you some day; if not, I am not too
proud to be under this great obligation to
you. Oh, Irene! I can't tell you how much
I thank you; my heart is too full for words.”
She threw her arm round the girl's waist and
strained her to her bosom, and hot tears fell
fast on the waves of golden hair. A moment
after, Irene threw a tiny envelope into Electra's
lap, and without another word glided out
of the room. The orphan broke the seal,
and as she opened a sheet of note paper a
ten-dollar bill slipped out.

Mrs. Aubrey sat with her face in her hands,
listening to the mournful, solemn voice that
stole up from the mouldering, dusty crypts of
by-gone years; and putting the note in her
pocket, Electra leaned her head against the
window and thanked God for the gift of a
true friend. Thinking of the group she had
just left, Irene approached the gate and saw
that Russell stood holding it open for her to
pass. Looking up she stopped, for the expression
of his face frightened and pained her.

“Russell, what is the matter? oh! tell me.”

A scornful, defiant smile distorted his bloodless
lips, but he made no answer. She took
his hand; it was cold, and the fingers were
clenched.

“Russell, are you ill?”

She shuddered at the glare in his black
eyes.

“I am not ill.”

“Won't you tell your friend what ails you?”

“I have no friend but my mother.”

“Oh, Russell, Russell!”

Her head drooped, and the glittering hair
swept as a veil between them. The low flutelike,
pleading voice stirred his heart, and the
blood surged over his pallid forehead.

“I have been injured and insulted. Just
now I doubt all people and all things, even
the justice and mercy of God.”

“Russell, `shall not the righteous Judge of
all the earth do right?'”

“Shall the rich and the unprincipled eternally
trample upon the poor and the unfortunate?”

“Who has injured you?”

“A meek looking man who passes for a
Christian, who turns pale at the sound of a
violin, who exhorts to missionary labors, and
talks often about widows and orphans. Such
a man, knowing the circumstances that surround
me, my poverty, my mother's affliction,
on bare and most unwarrantable suspicion
turns me out of my situation as clerk, and endeavors
to brand my name with infamy. To-day
I stand disgraced in the eyes of the community,
thanks to the vile slanders of that
pillar of the church, Jacob Watson. Four
hours ago, I went to my work quietly, hopefully;
but now another spirit has entered and
possessed me. Irene, I am desperate. Do
you wonder? It seems to me ages have rolled
over me since my mother kissed me this morning;
there is a hissing serpent in my heart
which I have no power to expel. I could
bear it myself, but my mother! my noble,
patient, suffering mother! I must go in, and
add a yet heavier burden to those already

crushing out her life. Pleasant tidings, these
I bring her: that her son is disgraced, branded
as a rogue!”

There was no moisture in the keen eye, no
tremor in the metallic ring of his voice, no relaxation
of the curled lip.

“Can't you prove your innocence? Was it
money?”

“No, it was a watch; my watch, which I
gave up as security for drawing a portion of
my salary in advance. It was locked up in
the iron safe; this morning it was missing, and
they accuse me of having stolen it.”

He took off his hat as if it oppressed him,
and tossed back his hair.

“What will you do, Russell?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Oh! if I could only help you.”

She clasped her hands over her heart, and
for the first time since her infancy tears rushed
down her cheeks. It was painful to see
that quiet girl so moved, and Russell hastily
took the folded hands in his, and bent his face
close to hers.

“Irene, the only comfort I have is that you
are my friend. Don't let them influence you
against me. No matter what you may hear,
believe in me. Oh, Irene, Irene! believe in
me always!”

He held her hands in a clasp so tight that it
pained her, then suddenly dropped them and
left her. As a pantomime all this passed before
Electra's eyes; not a word reached her,
but she knew that something unusual had occurred
to bring her cousin home at that hour,
and felt that now he was but the avant-courier
of a new sorrow. She glanced toward her
aunt's bowed form, then smothered a groan,
and sat waiting for the blow to fall upon her.
Why spring to meet it? He went to his own
room first, and five, ten, fifteen minutes rolled
on. She listened to the faint sound of his
steps, and knew that he paced up and down
the floor; five minutes more of crushing suspense,
and he came along the passage and
stood at the door. She looked at him, pale,
erect, and firm, and shuddered in thinking of
the struggle which that calm exterior had cost
him. Mrs. Aubrey recognized the step, and
looked round in surprise.

“Electra, I certainly hear Russell coming.”

He drew near and touched her cheek with
his lips, saying tenderly:

“How is my mother?”

“Russell, what brings you home so early?”

“That is rather a cold welcome, mother,
but I am not astonished. Can you bear to
hear something unpleasant? Here, put your
hands in mine; now listen to me. You know
I drew fifty dollars of my salary in advance, to
pay Clark. At that time I gave my watch to
Mr. Watson by way of pawn, he seemed so
reluctant to let me have the money; you understand,
mother, why I did not mention it at
the time. He locked it up in the iron safe, to
which no one has access except him and myself.
Late yesterday I locked the safe as
usual, but do not remember whether the watch
was still there or not; this morning Mr. Watson
missed it; we searched safe, desk, store,
could find it nowhere, nor the twenty-dollar
gold piece deposited at the same time. No
other money was missing, though the safe contained
nearly a thousand dollars. The end of
it all is that I am accused as the thief, and expelled
in disgrace for—”

A low, plaintive cry escaped the widow's
lips, and her head sank heavily on the boy's
shoulder. Passing his arm fondly around
her, he kissed her white face, and continued
in the same hushed, passionless tone, like one
speaking under his breath, and stilling some
devouring rage:

“Mother, I need not assure you of my innocence.
You know that I never could be
guilty of what is imputed to me; but, not
having it in my power to prove my innocence,
I shall have to suffer the disgrace for a season.
Only for a season, I trust, mother, for in time
the truth must be discovered. I have been
turned out of my situation, and, though they
have no proof of my guilt, they will try to
brand me with the disgrace. But they can't
crush me; so long as there remains a drop of
blood in my veins, I will scorn their slanders
and their hatred. Don't cry, mother; your
tears hurt me more than all my wrongs. If
you will only be brave, and put entire confidence
in me, I shall bear all this infinitely
better. Look at the bitter truth, face to face;
we have nothing more to lose. Poor, afflicted,
disgraced, there is nothing else on earth to
fear; but there is everything to hope for;
wealth, name, fame, influence. This is my
comfort; it is a grim philosophy, born of despair.
I go forward from to-day like a man
who comes out of some fiery furnace, and,
blackened and scorched though he be, looks
into the future without apprehension, feeling
assured that it can hold no trials comparable
to those already past. Herein I am strong;
but you should have another and far brighter
hope to rest upon; it is just such ordeals as
this for which religion promises you strength
and consolation. Mother, I have seen you
supported by Christian faith in a darker hour
than this. Take courage, all will be well
some day.”

For a few moments deep silence reigned in
the little kitchen, and only the Infinite eye
pierced the heart of the long-tried sufferer.
When she raised her head from the boy's
bosom, the face, though tear-stained, was
serene, and, pressing her lips twice to his, she
said slowly:

“`Beloved, think it not strange concerning
the fiery trial which is to try you; as though
some strange thing happened unto you. For
whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and
scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' I

will wait patiently, my son, hoping for proofs
which shall convince the world of your innocence.
I wish I could take the whole burden
on my shoulders, and relieve you, my dear
boy.”

“You have, mother; it ceases to crush me,
now that you are yourself once more.” He
spoke with difficulty, however, as if something
stifled him, and, rising, hastily poured out and
drank a glass of water.

“And now, Russell, sit down and let me tell
you a little that is pleasant and sunshiny.
There is still a bright spot left to look upon.”

Stealing her hand into his, the mother informed
him of all that had occurred during
Irene's, visit, and concluded by laying the
money in his palm.

Electra sat opposite, watching the change
that came over the face she loved best on
earth. Her large, eager, midnight eyes noted
the quick flush and glad light which overspread
his features; the deep joy that kindled
in his tortured soul; and unconsciously she
clutched her fingers till the nails grew purple,
as though striving to strangle some hideous
object thrusting itself before her. Her
breathing became labored and painful, her
gaze more concentrated and searching, and
when her cousin exclaimed: “Oh, mother!
she is an angel! I have always known it. She
is unlike everybody else!” Electra's heart
seemed to stand still; and from that moment
a sombre curtain fell between the girl's eyes
and God's sunshine. She rose, and a silent
yet terrible struggle took place in her passionate
soul. Justice and jealousy wrestled
briefly; she would be just, though every star
fell from her sky, and with a quick, uncertain
step she reached Russell, thrust Irene's note
into his fingers, and fled into solitude. An
hour later, Russell knocked at the door of an
office which bore on a square tin plate these
words, “Robert Campbell, Attorney at Law.”
The door was only partially closed, and as he
entered an elderly man looked up from a
desk, covered with loose papers and open
volumes from which he was evidently making
extracts. The thin hair hung over his forehead
as if restless fingers had ploughed carelessly
through it, and, as he kept one finger on
a half-copied paragraph, the cold blue eye
said very plainly, “this is a busy time with me;
despatch your errand at once.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Campbell; are you
particularly engaged?”

“How-d'y-do, Aubrey. I am generally
engaged; confoundedly busy this morning.
What do you want?”

His pen resumed its work, but he turned his
head as if to listen.

“I will call again when you are at leisure,”
said Russell, turning away.

“That will be—next month—next year; in
fine, postponing your visit indefinitely. Sit
down — somewhere — well — clear those books
into a corner, and let 's hear your business.
I am at your service for ten minutes — talk
fast.”

He put his pen behind his ear, crossed
his arms on the desk, and looked expectant.

“I came here to ask whether you wished to
employ any one in your office.”

“And what the deuce do you suppose I
want with an office-lad like yourself? To put
the very books I need at the bottom of a pile
tall as the tower of Babel, and tear up my
briefs to kindle the fire or light your cigar?
No, thank you, Aubrey, I tried that experiment
to my perfect satisfaction a few months
ago. Is that all?”

“That is all, sir.”

The boy rose, but the bitter look that
crossed his face as he glanced at the well-filled
book-shelves arrested the lawyer's attention,
and he added:

“Why did you leave Watson, young man?
It is a bad plan to change about in this style.”

“I was expelled from my situation on a foul
and most unjust accusation. I am seeking
employment from necessity.”

“Expelled is a dark word, Aubrey; it will
hardly act as a passport to future situations.
Expelled clerks are not in demand.”

“Still, I must state the truth unreservedly.”

“Let 's hear the whole business; sit down.”

Without hesitation he narrated all the circumstances,
once or twice pausing to still the
tempest of passion that flashed from his eyes.
While he spoke, Mr. Campbell's keen eyes
searched him from head to foot, and at the
conclusion he asked sharply:

“Where is the watch, do you suppose?”

“Heaven only knows. I have a suspicion,
but no right to utter it, since I might thereby
inflict a wrong equal to that from which I now
suffer.”

“It is a dark piece of business as it stands.”

“Yes, but time will clear it up.”

“See here, Aubrey, I have noticed you two
or three times in the court-house listening
to some of my harangues. I knew your father,
and I should like to help you. It seems to me
you might make better use of your talents
than you are doing. And yet, if you rise it
will be over greater obstacles than most men
surmount. Do you understand me?”

“I do; for I am too painfully aware of the
prejudice against which I have to contend.
But if I live, I shall lift myself out of this
pool where malice and hate have thrust me.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Work at the plough or before the anvil, if
nothing else can be done to support my mother
and cousin; and as soon as I possibly can
study law. This is my plan, and for two
years I have been pursuing my Latin and
Greek with an eye to accomplishing the
scheme.”

“I see fate has thumped none of your original
obstinacy out of you. Aubrey, suppose

I shut my eyes to the watch transaction, and
take you into my office?”

“If so, I shall do my duty faithfully. But
you said you did not need any one here, and
though I am anxious to find work I do not
expect or desire to be taken in from charity.
I intend to earn my wages, sir, and from your
own account I should judge you had very
little use for an assistant.”

“Humph! a bountiful share of pride along
with prodigious obstinacy. Though I am a
lawyer, I told you the truth; I have no
earthly use for such assistants as I have been
plagued with for several years. In the main,
office-boys are a nuisance, comparable only to
the locusts of Egypt; I washed my hands of
the whole tribe months since. Now, I have a
negro to attend to my office, make fires, etc.,
and if I could only get an intelligent, ambitious,
honorable, trustworthy young man,
he would be a help to me. I had despaired
of finding such, but, on the whole,
I rather like you; believe you can suit me
exactly if you will, and I am disposed to give
you a trial. Sit down here and copy this paragraph;
let me see what sort of hieroglyphics
I shall have to decipher if I make you my
copyist.”

Russell silently complied, and after a careful
examination it seemed the chirography
was satisfactory.

“Look there, Aubrey, does that array frighten
you?”

He pointed to the opposite side of the room,
where legal documents of every shape and size
were piled knee-deep for several yards.

“They look formidable, sir, but nothing
would afford me more pleasure than to fathom
their mysteries.”

“And what security can you give me that
the instant my back is turned you will not
quit my work and go off to my books yonder,
which I notice you have been eying very
greedily.”

“No security, sir, but the promise of an
honest soul to do its work faithfully and untiringly.
Mr. Campbell, I understand my position
thoroughly; I know only too well that I
have everything to make, an honorable name,
an unblemished reputation, and, relying only
on myself, I expect to help myself. If you
really need an assistant, and think me trustworthy,
I will be very glad to serve you, and
shall merit your confidence. I come to you
under adverse circumstances, with a tarnished
character, and of course you feel some hesitancy
in employing me. I have concealed
nothing; you are acquainted with all the facts,
and must decide accordingly.”

There was nothing pleading in his tone or
mien, but a proud, desperate calmness, unusual
in one of his age. When a truly honest,
noble soul meets an equal, barriers of position
and age melt like snow-flakes in sunshine, all
extraneous circumstances fall away, and, di
vested of pomp or rags, as the case may be,
the full, undimmed majesty of spirit greets
spirit, and clear-eyed sympathy, soaring above
the dross and dust of worldly conventionalities,
knits them in bonds lasting as time.
Looking into the resolute yet melancholy face
before him, the lawyer forgot the poverty and
disgrace clinging to his name, and leaning
forward grasped his hand.

“Aubrey, you and I can work peaceably together;
I value your candor, I like your resolution.
Come to me on Monday, and in the
matter of salary you shall find me liberal
enough. I think you told me you had a
cousin as well as your mother to support; I
shall not forget it. Now, good-morning, and
leave me unless you desire to accumulate work
for yourself.”

People called Mr. Campbell “miserly,”
“egotistic,” and “selfish.” These are harsh
adjectives, and the public frequently applies
them with culpable haste and uncharitableness,
for there is an astonishing proclivity in
human nature to detract, to carp, to spy out,
and magnify faults. If at all prone to generous
deeds, Mr. Campbell certainly failed to
placard them in public places; he had never
given any large amount to any particular
church, institution, or society, but the few who
knew him well indignantly denied the charge
of penuriousness preferred by the community.
A most unsafe criterion is public estimation;
it canonizes many an arch-hypocrite, and martyrs
many a saint.