 | CHAPTER V. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Weeks and months slipped away, and total
darkness came down on the widow. She
groped with some difficulty from room to
home and watch over her. Russell had become
a great favorite with his crusty employer,
and, when the labors of the office were
ended, brought home such books as he needed,
and spent his evenings in study. His powers
of application and endurance were extraordinary,
and his progress was in the same ratio.
As he became more and more absorbed in
these pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased,
and his habitually hasty step and abstracted
expression of countenance told of a
strong nature straining its powers to the utmost
to attain some distant, glimmering goal.
His employer was particularly impressed by
the fact that he never volunteered a remark
on any subject, and rarely opened his lips except
to ask some necessary information in
connection with his business. Sometimes the
silence of the office was unbroken for hours,
save by the dull scratching of pens, or an
impatient exclamation from Mr. Campbell.
Respectful in deportment, attentive to his duties,
never presuming upon kindness, constantly
at work from morning until night, yet with
an unmistakable sorrow printed on his face—
a sorrow never obtruded on any one, never
alluded to — he won first the rigid scrutiny of
the lawyer, then his deepest, most abiding
affection. Naturally cold and undemonstrative
in manner, Mr. Campbell gave little evidence
of feeling of any kind, yet the piercing
blue eye lost its keenness when resting on the
tall, stalwart form of the clerk, and once or
twice the wrinkled hand sought his broad
shoulder almost caressingly. He had not married;
had neither mother nor sisters to keep
his nature loving and gentle, and, though he
occasionally visited his brother, who was a
minister in the same town, he was held in awe
by the members of that brother's family. He
comprehended Russell's character, and quietly
facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy
on the part of the young man, no
patronage on that of the employer.
One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the
cottage-door, and entered the kitchen. Mrs.
Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace,
engaged in knitting; her smooth, neat calico
dress and spotless linen collar told that careful
hands tended her, and the soft auburn
hair brushed over her temples showed broad
bands of gray as the evening sun shone on it.
She turned her brown, sightless eyes toward
the door, and asked in a low voice:
“Who is it?”
“It is only me, Mrs. Aubrey.”
Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the
widow's, and kissed her forehead.
“I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it
has been a long time since you were here.”
“Yes, a good many weeks, I know, but I
could not come.”
“Are you well? Your hands and face are
cold.”
“Yes, thank you, very well. I am always
cold, I believe. Hugh says I am. Here are
some flowers from the greenhouse. I brought
them because they are so fragrant; and here,
too, are a few oranges from the same place.
Hush! don't thank me, if you please. I wish
I could come here oftener. I always feel better
after being with you; but I can't always
come when I want to do so.”
“Why not, Irene?”
“Oh, because of various things. Between
school and music, and riding and reading, I
have very little time; and besides, father
wants me with him when he is at home. I
play chess with him, and sometimes we are
three or four days finishing one game. Somehow,
Mrs. Aubrey, though I don't mean to be
idle, it seems to me that I do very little. Everybody
ought to be of some use in this world,
but I feel like a bunch of mistletoe, growing
on somebody else, and doing nothing. I don't
intend to sit down and hold my hands all my
life, but what can I do? Tell me how to
begin.”
She lifted a large tortoise-colored cat from
a small stool, and drew it near the hearth, just
at the widow's feet, seating herself, and removing
her hat.
“That is more easily asked than answered;
you are a great heiress, Irene, and in all human
probability will never be obliged to do
anything. For what is generally denominated
work you will have no occasion; but all who
wish to be really happy should be employed
in some way. You will not have to labor for
your food and clothes, like my Russell and
Electra; but you will have it in your power
to do a vast deal more good. In cultivating
your mind do not forget your heart; it is naturally
full of very generous, noble impulses;
but all human beings have faults; what yours
may be you know best, and you should constantly
strive to correct them. Read your
Bible, dear child; not now and then, but
daily and prayerfully. Oh, Irene! I have had
some bitter, bitter sorrows, and frequently I
thought that they would crush out my life.
In those times of trial if I had not had my
Bible and my God I believe I should have lost
my reason. But I read and was comforted.
His promises sustained me; and in looking
back I see many places which should be called
Jehovah Jireh, for the Lord saw and provided.
Your Bible will teach you your duty much
better than I possibly can. You owe your
father a great deal; his hopes and joys centre
in you, and through life he will look to you
for his happiness. When you are grown, society,
too, will claim you; you will be sought
after and flattered; and, Irene, under these
circumstances—with your remarkable beauty
and wealth—you will find it a difficult matter
to avoid being spoiled. Your influence will
be very great, and a fearful responsibility
must attend its employment. Let it be for
selfish or ignoble feelings; pray to God for
guidance, that you may be enabled through
His grace to keep yourself `unspotted from
the world;' those words contain the whole:
`unspotted from the world.' You have not
been spoiled thus far by luxury and life-long
petting, and I hope and believe that you never
will be; but remember, we must be continually
on the watch against temptation. Irene,
have I spoken too plainly?”
“No, I thank you for your candor. I want
you to advise me just as you would Electra.
I don't read my Bible as often as I ought, but
there are so many things in it which I do not
understand that I hardly ever open it now.
I have nobody to explain the difficulties.”
“It is very clear on the subject of our duty;
God left not the shadow of mystery in his laws
for the government of the heart and regulation
of the life. He commands us to receive
certain rules, to practise certain principles,
and to abstain from certain sinful things, all of
which are specified, and not to be mistaken
by even the most obtuse. Melvill has said in
one of his beautiful and comforting sermons:
`God breathed himself into the compositions
of prophets and apostles and evangelists, and
there, as in the mystic recesses of an everlasting
sanctuary, he still resides, ready to disclose
himself to the humble, and to be evoked
by the prayerful. But in regard to every
other book, however fraught it may be with
the maxims of piety, however pregnant with
momentous truth, there is nothing of this shrining
himself of Deity in the depths of its meaning.
Men may be instructed by its pages, and
draw from them hope and consolation, but
never will they find there the burning Shekinah
which proclaims the actual presence of
God; never hear a voice as from the solitudes
of an oracle pronouncing the words of immortality.'”
“How then does it happen, Mrs. Aubrey,
that different churches teach such conflicting
doctrines? Why are there so many denominations?
If the teachings of the Bible are so
plain, how can such various creeds arise?”
“Because poor human nature is so full of
foibles; because charity, the fundamental doctrine
of Christ, is almost lost sight of by those
churches; it has dwindled into a mere speck,
in comparison with the trifles which they have
magnified to usurp its place. Instead of one
great Christian church, holding the doctrines
of the New Testament, practising the true
spirit of the Saviour, and in genuine charity
allowing its members to judge for themselves
in the minor questions relating to religion;
such for instance as the mode of baptism, the
privilege of believing presbyters and bishops
equal in dignity, or otherwise, as the case
may be, the necessity of ministers wearing
surplice, or the contrary, as individual taste
dictates, we have various denominations, all
erected to promulgate some particular dogma,
to magnify and exalt as all-important some
trifling difference in the form of church government.
Once established, the members of
each sect apply themselves to the aggrandizement
of their peculiar church; and thus it
comes to pass that instead of one vast brotherhood,
united against sin and infidelity, they
are disgracefully wrangling about sectarian
matters of no consequence whatever. In all
this there is much totally antagonistic to the
principles inculcated by our Saviour, who
expressly denounced the short-sighted bigotry
of those who magnified external observances
and non-essentials at the expense of the genuine
spirit of their religion. I wish most earnestly
that these denominational barriers and
distinctions could be swept away, that the
names of Methodist and Episcopal, Presbyterian
and Baptist could be obliterated, and
that all the members were gathered harmoniously
into one world-wide pale, the Protestant
Church of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Mrs. Aubrey, do you belong to any
church?”
“Yes, Irene, because Christ founded a
church, and I think every man and woman
should belong to some religious organization.
Moreover, unless a member of some one of
the denominations, you can not commune;
and, as the sacrament particularly established
by our Saviour, all ought to be able to partake
of it. I think it a matter of little consequence
which of the evangelical sects one
selects. Do not imagine that I believe people
can only be saved by entrance into some
church; I think no such thing; the church is
a valuable instrument, but God who established
it can work without it. Still, it is
very reasonable to suppose that regular attendance
on divine service fosters piety, and
keeps the subject of our duty more constantly
before us.”
She had finished her knitting, and sat with
her thin hands folded in her lap—the meek
face more than usually serene, the sightless
eyes directed toward her visitor. Sunshine
flecked the bare boards under the window,
flashed on the tin vessels ranged on the
shelves, and lingered like a halo around
Irene's head. Her hair swept on the floor,
and the cat played now and then with the
golden rings so softly as not to attract notice,
as though conscious the new toy was precious.
The countenances of the group contrasted
vividly: the sweet resignation of the blind
sufferer, the marble purity of Irene's face,
and, just in the rear, Electra's broad, pale
brow and restless, troubled, midnight eyes.
The latter had been drawing at the table in
the middle of the room, and now sat leaning
on her hand, watching the two at the fire.
Presently Irene approached and began to examine
the drawings, which were fragmentary,
except one or two heads, and a sketch taken
moments passed in looking over them, Irene
addressed the quiet little figure.
“Have you been to Mr. Clifton's studio?”
“No; who is he?”
“An artist from New York. His health is
poor, and he is spending the winter south.
Have n't you heard of him? Everybody is
having portraits taken. He is painting mine
now—father would make me sit again, though
he has a likeness which was painted four
years ago. I am going down to-morrow for
my last sitting, and should like very much for
you to go with me. Perhaps Mr. Clifton can
give you some valuable hints. Will you go?”
“With great pleasure.”
“Then I will call for you a little before ten.
o'clock. Here are some crayons I bought for
you a week ago. Good-by.”
She left the room as quietly as she had
entered, and found Paragon waiting for her
at the door. He gambolled before her all the
way—now darting off, and as suddenly returning,
to throw himself at her feet and
wonder why she failed to caress him as usual.
Other thoughts engaged her now; she could
see nothing but the form of the widow, and
to-day she realized more than ever before how
much she needed a mother. Low, sweet, gentle
tones rarely fell upon her ear, and, except
her father and Dr. Arnold, no one had ever
attempted to caress her. She wearied of the
fourteen years of isolation, and now on entering
her fifteenth looked about her for at least
one congenial spirit. She knew of none but
Electra and Mrs. Aubrey who in any degree
sympathized with her, and from these she was
debarred by parental interdict. Miss Margaret,
seconded by Mr. Huntingdon, now
constantly prescribed a course of conduct
detestable to the girl, who plainly perceived
that as she grew older these differences increased.
Was it her duty to submit unhesitatingly
to their dictation? Did the command
of filial obedience embrace all such matters,
or was it modified—limited by the right of
individual conscience? This consultation was
long and patient, and the conclusion unalterable.
She would do what she believed to be
proper, whatever she thought her duty, at all
hazards. She had no one to guide her, and
must rely only on God and her own heart.
The following day Miss Margaret accompanied
her to the studio. As the carriage
approached the cottage-gate Irene directed
the driver to stop.
“For what?” asked her aunt.
“Electra Grey is going with me; I promised
to call for her. She has an extraordinary
talent for drawing, and I want to introduce
her to Mr. Clifton. Open the door, Andrew.”
“Irene, are you deranged! Your father
never would forgive you if he knew you associated
with those people. I can't think of
allowing that girl to enter this carriage.
Drive on. I must really speak to Leonard
about your obstinacy in visiting at that—”
“Stop, Andrew! If you don't choose to
ride with Electra, aunt Margaret, you may
go on alone, for either she shall ride or I will
walk with her.”
Andrew opened the door, and she was
stepping out, when Electra appeared in the
walk and immediately joined her. Miss Margaret
was thoroughly aroused and indignant,
but thought it best to submit for the time,
and when Irene introduced her friend she
took no notice of her whatever, except by
drawing herself up in one corner and lowering
her veil. The girls talked during the
remainder of the ride, and when they reached
Mr. Clifton's door ran up the steps together,
totally unmindful of the august lady's ill
humor.
The artist was standing before an easel
which held Irene's unfinished portrait, and as
he turned to greet his visitors Electra saw
that, though thin and pale, his face was one
of rare beauty and benevolence. His brown,
curling hair hung loosely about his shoulders,
and an uncommonly long beard of the same
silky texture descended almost to his waist.
He shook hands with Irene, and looked inquiringly
at her companion.
“Mr. Clifton, this is Miss Electra Grey,
whose drawings I mentioned to you last week.
I wish, if you please, you would examine some
of them when you have leisure.”
Electra looked for an instant into his large,
clear gray eyes as he took her drawings
and said he would be glad to assist her, and
knew that henceforth the tangled path would
be smoothed and widened. She stood at the
back of his chair during the hour's sitting, and
with peculiar interest watched the strokes of
his brush as the portrait grew under his practised
hand. When Irene rose, the orphan
moved away and began to scrutinize the numerous
pictures scattered about the room. A
great joy filled her heart and illumined her
face, and she waited for the words of encouragement
that she felt assured would be
spoken. The artist looked over her sketches
slowly, carefully, and his eye went back to
her brilliant countenance, as if to read there
answers to ciphers which perplexed him. But
yet more baffling cryptography met him in
the deep, flashing, appealing eyes, on the crimson,
quivering lips, on the low, full brow, with
its widely-separated black arches. Evidently
the face possessed far more attraction than
the drawings, and he made her sit down
beside him, and passed his hand over her
head and temples, as a professed phrenologist
might preparatory to rendering a chart.
“Your sketches are very rough, very crude,
but they also display great power of thought;
some of them singular beauty of conception;
and I see from your countenance that you are
dissatisfied because the execution falls so far
candidly; you have uncommon talent, but the
most exalted genius can not dispense with, laborious
study. Michael Angelo studied anatomy
for twelve years; you will require long
and earnest application before you can possibly
accomplish anything of importance. The
study of Art is no mere pastime, as some people
suppose; an artist's life is an arduous one at
best. I have been told something of your history;
you are very poor, and wish to make
painting a profession. Think well before
you decide this matter; remember that long,
tedious months must elapse before you can
hope to execute even an ordinary portrait.
You must acquaint yourself with the anatomy
of the human system before you undertake
anything. I thought I had finished my course
seven years ago, but I went to Italy and soon
saw that I had only begun to learn my profession.
Think well of all this.”
“I have thought of it; I am willing to work
any number of years; I have decided, and I
am not to be frightened from my purpose. I
am poor, I can barely buy the necessary materials,
much less the books, but I will be an
artist yet. I have decided, sir; it is no new
whim; it has been a bright dream to me all
my life, and I am determined to realize it.”
“Amen; so let it be, then. I shall remain
here some weeks longer; come to me every
day at ten o'clock, and I will instruct you.
You shall have such books as you need, and
with perseverance you have nothing to fear.”
He went into the adjoining room, and returned
with a small volume. As he gave it to
her, with some directions concerning the contents,
she caught his hand to her lips, saying
hastily:
“My guardian angel certainly brought you
here to spend the winter. Oh, sir! I will
prove my gratitude for your goodness by showing
that I am not unworthy of it. I thank
you from the very depths of my glad heart.”
As she released his hand and left the studio
he found two bright drops on his fingers, drops
called forth by the most intense joy she had
ever known. Having some commission from
her aunt, she did not re-enter the carriage,
and, after thanking Irene for her kindness,
walked away. The ride home was very silent;
Miss Margaret sat stiff and icy, looking quite
insulted, while her niece was too much engrossed
by other reflections to notice her.
The latter spent the remainder of the morning
in writing to Hugh and correcting her
French exercises, and when summoned to
dinner she entered the room expecting a
storm. A glance sufficed to show her that
Miss Margaret had not yet spoken to her
father; though it was evident from her countenance
that she was about to make what she
considered an important revelation. The
meal passed, however, without any allusion
to the subject, and, knowing what she had to
expect, Irene immediately withdrew to the
library to give her aunt an opportunity of
unburdening her mind. The struggle must
come some time, and she longed to have it over
as soon as possible. She threw up the sash,
seated herself on the broad cedar window-sill,
and began to work out a sum in algebra.
Nearly a half-hour passed; the slamming of
the dining-room door was like the first line of
foam, curling and whitening the sea when the
tempest sweeps forward; her father stamped
into the library, and the storm broke over her.
“Irene! did n't I positively order you to
keep away from that Aubrey family? What
do you mean by setting me at defiance in this
way, you wilful, spoiled, hard-headed piece?
Do you suppose I intend to put up with your
obstinacy all my life, and let you walk roughshod
over me and my commands? You have
queened it long enough, my lady. If I don't
rein you up, you will turn your aunt and me
out of the house next, and invite that precious
Aubrey crew to take possession. Your confounded
stubbornness will ruin you yet. You
deserve a good whipping, miss; I can hardly
keep my hands off of you.”
He did not; rough hands seized her shoulders,
jerked her from the window-sill, and
shook her violently. Down fell book, slate,
and pencil with a crash; down swept the
heavy hair, blinding her. She put it back,
folded her hands behind her as if for support,
and, looking up at him, said in a low, steady,
yet grieved tone:
“I am very sorry you are angry with me,
father.”
“Devilish sorry, I dare say! Don't be hypocritcal!
Did n't I tell you to keep away
from those people? Don't stand there like a
block of stone; answer me!”
“Yes, sir; but I did not promise to do so.
I am not hypocritical, father.”
“You did not promise, indeed! What do I
care for promises? It was your duty to obey
me.”
“I don't think it was, father, when you refused
to give me any reason for avoiding Mrs.
Aubrey or her family. They are unfortunate,
but honorable people; and, being very poor
and afflicted, I felt sorry for them. I can't
see how my going there occasionally harms
you, or me, or anybody else. I know very
well that you dislike them, but you never told
me why, and I can not imagine any good
reason for it. Father, if I love them, why
should not I associate with them?”
“Because I say you shant! you tormenting,
headstrong little imp!”
“My father, that is no reason.”
“Reason! I will put you where you will
have no occasion for reasons. Oh! I can
match you, you perverse little wretch! I am
going to send you to a boarding-school, do you
hear that? send you where you will have no
Aubreys to abet your obstinacy and disobedience;
curbed. How will you relish getting up before
day, kindling your own fire, if you have
any, making your own bed, and living on
bread and water? I will take you to New
York, and keep you there till you are grown
and learn common sense. Now get out of my
sight!”
With a stamp of rage, he pointed to the
door. Hitherto she had stood quite still, but
now an expression of anguish passed swiftly
over her face, and she put out her hands appealingly—
“Father! my father! don't send me away!
Please let me stay at home.”
“Not if I live long enough to take you.
Just as certainly as the sun shines in heaven,
you will go as soon as your clothes can be
made. Your aunt will have you ready in a
week. Don't open your mouth to me! I
don't want to hear another word from you.
Take yourself off.”
She picked up her slate and book and left
the room. Her hat hung on the rack in the
hall, and, taking it down, she passed out
through the rear piazza. Paragon leaped
and whined at sight of her; she unchained
him, and, leaving the yard, turned into a narrow
zigzag path, leading in an opposite direction
from the front of the house. The building
stood on quite a hill, one side of which
sloped down to the back of a creck that emptied
itself into the river a mile above the
town. This declivity was thickly wooded,
and, on the opposite side of the stream. a
dense swamp stretched away. Cypress, pine,
beech, magnolias towered far as the eye could
reach, and now, in the gathering gloom of
evening, looked sombre and solemn. This
was a favorite haunt of Irene's; she knew
every nook of the forest and bend of the
creek as well as the shy rabbits that flitted
away at her approach; and, on this occasion,
she sought a rude seat, formed by the interlacing
of two wild grape-vines. At her feet
the channel ran deep and strong, and the
rocky bed was distinctly seen; but a few
yards off the stream widened into a small
lake, and there, on its dark, still surface
masses of water-lilies spread out their broad,
green, glossy leaves. It was a lonely place;
even in the day owls hooted one to another,
and strange, harsh cries were heard from birds
that never forsook the swamp. It was April,
early April, and from the hill-side, fringed with
honeysuckles of varied hue, and festooned with
yellow jasmine that clambered in wild luxuriance
over tree and shrub, the southern breeze
wafted spicy, intoxicating aromas. Redbuds
lifted their rosy limbs against dark, polished
magnolias, and here and there masses of snow
told where the dogwoods grew. Clusters of
violets embroidered the hill-side, and crimson
woodbine trailed over the ground, catching at
every drooping bough, and climbing stealthily,
anxious, like all weak natures, to hang on
something sturdy. Irene usually revelled amid
this wealth of floral beauty, but now she
could not enjoy it. She looked at her favorites,
and understood what was meant by the
words—
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are.”
The first great grief of her life had fallen
on her; heretofore all had been so serene, so
flowery, that she could not easily understand
or endure the crushing weight on her heart.
Reared in seclusion, the thought of being sent
from her beautiful, luxurious home, and thrust
among utter strangers, startled and filled her
with dread. She was astonished, pained, and
mortified by her father's harsh language; and,
loving him very sincerely, she shrank from the
long separation he threatened; yet, amid all
these complex emotions, she felt not the slightest
regret for the course she had pursued;
under similar circumstances she would again
act just as she had done. Then came the remembrance
that she might meet her unfortunate
friends no more. Mrs. Aubrey was
evidently declining rapidly, and what would
become of Electra and Russell? They might
move away; they, too, might die; nay, she
might never come back to the home of her
birth; death's harvest was in all seasons, and,
looking upon the lakelet, she shuddered and
moaned. The snowy water-lilies glanced up
at her, and seemed to say, as they trembled
unceasingly in the current far below the surface,
“bend! bend!” A passage in Dante,
which she had read the week before, crossed
her mind now, as she noted the constant
swaying of the fragile flowers, so impotent to
resist that under-current sweeping their roots:
Covered with leaves, or hardened in its stalk,
There lives, not bending to the water's away.”
but the pale, pure, quivering lilies were to her
a far more impressive symbol of resignation.
An aged gnarled cypress towered above her,
and from the knotted limbs drooped long
funeral wreaths of gray moss, fluttering mournfully
in the evening wind, like badges of crape
in houses of death. From amid this sombre
drapery came the lonely hoot of an owl, and,
with a strange sensation of desolation, Irene
fell on her knees and committed herself to
the care of the Great Shepherd. Darkness
closed around, but as she prayed the silver
rays of the evening star peered down through
the trembling streamers of moss, and gleamed
on the upturned face. She broke one of the
lilies, and, fastening it among her curls, followed
Paragon up the hill-side. The week which
succeeded was wretched to the girl, for her
father's surveillance prevented her from visiting
the cottage, even to say adieu to its inmates;
and no alternative presented itself but
devoted nurse) a note containing a few parting
words and assurances of unfading friendship
and remembrance. The day of departure
dawned rainy, gloomy, and the wind sobbed
and wailed down the avenue as Irene stood at
her window, looking out on the lawn where
her life had been passed. Although Nellie
was weeping bitterly at her side, she had not
shed a tear; but the face was full of grief, and
her little hands were clasped tightly as the
faithful nurse pressed them affectionately in
her palms. Disengaging herself, Irene took
an umbrella and went to the stable for a last
look at Erebus. This tried her sorely, and
her lip was unsteady when she left him and
sought Paragon. The latter, little suspecting
the true state of affairs, gambolled and whined
as joyously as ever at her approach; and,
when the crowned head went down moaningly
on his silky neck, he barked and frisked in
recognition of the caress. The breakfast-bell
summoned her away, and, a half-hour after,
she saw the lofty columns of the old house
fade from view, and knew that many months,
perhaps yearn, must elapse before the ancestral
trees of the long avenue would wave again
over the head of their young mistress. Her
father sat beside her, moody and silent, and,
when the brick wall and arched iron gate
vanished from her sight, she sank back in one
corner, and, covering her face with her hands,
smothered a groan, and fought desperately
with her voiceless anguish.
| CHAPTER V. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |