University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

As tall tyrannous weeds and rank unshorn
grass close over and crush out slender, pure,
odorous flowerets on a hill-side, so the defects
of Irene's character swiftly strengthened and
developed in the new atmosphere in which
she found herself. All the fostering stimulus
of a hot-bed seemed applied to them, and her
nobler impulses were in imminent danger of
being entirely subdued. Diogenes Tenfelsdröckh's
“Crim Tartary Enclosure of a High
Seminary” is but the prototype of hundreds,
scattered up and down through Christendom;
and the associations which surrounded Irene
were well calculated to destroy the native
purity and unselfishness of her nature. The
school was on an extensive scale, thoroughly
fashionable, and thither pupils were sent from
every section of the United States. As regarded
educational advantages, the institution
was unexceptionable; the professors were con
sidered unsurpassed in their several departments,
and every provision was made for
thorough tuition. But what a Babel reigned
outside of the recitation-room. One hundred
and forty girls to spend their recesses in envy,
ridicule, malice, and detraction. The homely
squad banded in implacable hatred against
those whom nature had cast in moulds of
beauty; the indolent and obtuse ever on the
alert to decry the successful efforts of their
superiors; the simply-clad children of parents
in straightened circumstances feeding their
discontent by gazing with undisguised envy
at the richly-apparalled darlings of fortune;
and the favored ones sneering at these unfortunates,
pluming themselves on wealth, beauty,
intellect, as the case might be; growing more
arrogant and insufferable day by day. A
wretched climate this for a fresh, untainted
soul; and it is surprising how really fond
parents, anxious to promote the improvement
of their daughters in every respect, hasten to
place them where poisonous vapors wreathe
and curl about them. The principals of such
institutions are doubtless often conscientious,
and strive to discharge their duty faithfully;
but the evils of human nature are obstinate,
difficult to subdue under even the most favorable
auspices; and where such a mass of untrained
souls are turned into an enclosure, to
amuse themselves at one another's expense,
mischief is sure to follow. Anxious to shake
off the loneliness which so heavily oppressed
her, Irene at first mingled freely among her
companions; but she soon became disgusted
with the conduct and opinions of the majority,
and endeavored to find quiet in her own room.
Maria Ashley, who shared the apartment, was
the spoiled child of a Louisiana planter, and
her views of life and duty were too utterly
antagonistic to Irene's to allow of any pleasure
in each other's society. To cheat the professors
by ingenious stratagems, and to out-dress
her companions, seemed the sum total of the
girl's aspirations; and gradually, in lieu of the
indifference she evinced toward her roommate,
a positive hatred made itself apparent
in numberless trifles. Feeling her own superiority,
Irene held herself more and more
aloof; her self-complacency grew amazingly,
the graceful figure took a haughty, unbending
posture, and a coldly contemptuous smile
throned itself on her lip. The inevitable consequence
was, that she became a target for
the school. Thus the months crept away, her
father wrote rarely, and Miss Margaret's letters
contained no allusion to the family that
had caused her banishment. Finally she
wrote to Dr. Arnold, inquiring concerning
Mrs. Aubrey, but no reply reached her. Early
in winter a new pupil, a “day scholar,” joined
her class; she resided in New York, and very
soon a strong friendship sprang up between
them. Louisa Young was about Irene's age,
very pretty, very gentle, and winning in her

manners. She was the daughter of an affluent
merchant, and was blessed in the possession of
parents who strove to rear their children as
Christian parents should. Louisa's attachments
were very warm and lasting, and ere
long she insisted that her friend should visit
her. Weary of the school, the latter gladly
availed herself of the invitation, and one Friday
afternoon she accompanied Louisa home.
The mansion was almost palatial, and as Irene
entered the splendidly-furnished parlors her
own Southern home rose vividly before her.

“Mother, this is Miss Huntingdon.”

Mrs. Young received her cordially, and as
she held the gloved hand, and kindly expressed
her pleasure at meeting her daughter's
friend, the girl's heart gave a quick bound of
joy.

“Come up stairs and put away your bonnet.”

In Louisa's beautiful room the two sat talking
of various things till the tea-bell rang.
Mr. Young's greeting was scarcely less friendly
than his wife's, and as they seated themselves
at the table, the stranger felt at home for the
first time in New York.

“Where is brother?” asked Louisa, glancing
at the vacant seat opposite her own.

“He has not come home yet; I wonder what
keeps him? There he is now, in the hall,”
answered the mother.

A moment after, he entered and took his
seat. He was tall, rather handsome, and looked
about thirty. His sister presented her
friend, and with a hasty bow he fastened his
eyes on her face. Probably he was unconscious
of the steadiness of his gaze, but Irene
became restless under his fixed, earnest eye,
and perceiving her embarrassment, Mrs.
Young said—

“Harvey, where have you been? Dr. Melville
called here for you at four o'clock; said
you had made some engagement with him.”

“Yes, mother; we have been visiting together
this afternoon.”

Withdrawing his eyes, he seemed to fall
into a reverie, and took no part in the conversation
that ensued. As the party adjourned
to the sitting-room, he paused on the rug, and
leaned his elbow on the mantle. Louisa lingered,
and drew near. He passed his arm
around her shoulders, and looked affectionately
down at her.

“Well, what is it?”

“Come into the sitting-room and help me
entertain Irene, instead of going off to your
stupid study; do, Harvey.”

“A very reasonable request, truly! I
must quit my work to talk to one of your
schoolmates; nonsense! How old is she?”

“Fifteen. Is not she a beauty?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Harvey! you are so cold! I thought
you would admire Irene prodigiously; and
now you say `yes' just exactly as if I had
asked you whether it was snowing out of
doors.”

“Which is certainly the fact; the first
flakes fell as I reached home.”

He stepped to the window and looked out,
saying carelessly—

“Go to your friend, and when you are at a
loss for conversation, bring her to my study to
see those sketches of Palmyra and Baalbec.”

He passed on to his work, and she to the
sitting-room. The study was simply the
library, handsomely fitted up with choice old
books in richly-carved rosewood cases, and
antique busts peering down from the tops of
each. Crimson damask curtains swept from
the ceiling to the carpet, and a luxurious arm-chair
sat before the glowing coal fire. The
table was covered with books, and loose sheets
of paper were scattered around, as if the occupant
had been suddenly called from his
labor. The gas burned brightly; all things
beckoned back to work. He sat down,
glanced over the half-written sheets, numbered
the pages, laid them away in the drawer,
and opened a volume of St. Chrysostom. As
the light fell on his countenance, it was very
apparent that he had been a student for years;
that his mind was habituated to patient, laborious
investigation. Gravity, utterly free from
sorrow or sternness, marked his face; he might
have passed all his days in that quiet room,
for any impress which the cares or joys of out-door
life had left on his features; a strong, clear
intellect, a lofty, earnest soul; a calm, unruffled
heart, that knew not half its own unsounded
abysses. He read industriously for some time,
occasionally pausing to annotate; and once
or twice he raised his head and listened, fancying
footsteps in the hall. Finally he pushed
the book away, took a turn across the floor,
and resumed his seat. He could not rivet
his attention on St. Chrysostom, and folding
his arms over his chest, he studied the red
coals instead. Soon after, unmistakable steps
fell on his ear, and a light tap at the door was
followed by the entrance of the two girls.
Irene came very reluctantly, fearful of intruding;
but he rose, and placed a chair for her
close to his own, assuring her that he was glad
to see her there. Louisa found the portfolio,
and, bringing it to the table, began to exhibit
its treasures. The two leaned over it, and as
Irene sat resting her cheek on her hand, the
beauty of her face and figure was clearly revealed.
Harvey remained silent, watching
the changing expression of the visitor's countenance;
and once he put out his hand to
touch the hair floating over the back and
arms of her chair. Gradually his still heart
stirred, his brow flushed, and a new light
burned in the deep clear eyes.

“Louisa, where did you get these?”

“Brother brought them home when he
came from the East.”

Irene lifted her eyes to his and said:

“Did you visit all these places? Did you
go to that crumbling Temple of the Sun?”

He told her of his visit to the old world, of
its mournful ruins, its decaying glories; of the
lessons he learned there; the sad, but precious
memories he brought back, and as he talked
time passed unheeded—she forgot her embarrassment,
they were strangers no longer. The
clock struck ten; Louisa rose at once.

“Thank you, Harvey, for giving us so much
of your time. Father and mother will be
waiting for you.”

“Yes, I will join you at once.”

She led the way back to the sitting-room,
and a few moments afterward, to Irene's great
surprise, the student came in, and sitting
down before the table, opened the Bible and
read a chapter. Then all knelt and he prayed.
There was a strange spell on the visitor; in
all this there was something so unexpected.
It was the first time she had ever knelt around
the family altar, and, as she rose, that sitting-room
seemed suddenly converted into a
temple of worship. Mutual “good-nights”
were exchanged, and as Irene turned toward
the young minister, he held out his hand. She
gave him hers, and he pressed it gently, saying:

“I trust this is the first of many pleasant
evenings which we shall spend together.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope so too, for I have
not been as happy since I left home.”

He smiled, and she walked on. His mother
looked up as the door closed behind her, and
exclaimed:

“What a wonderfully beautiful face she
has! Louisa often rhapsodized about her,
and now I am not at all surprised at her
enthusiasm.”

“Yes, such perfection of features as hers is
seen but once in a lifetime. I have travelled
over the greater part of the world; I have
looked upon all types of beauty, from the
Andalusians, whom Murillo immortalized, to
the far-famed Circassians of Habarda, but
never before have I found such a marvel of
loveliness as that girl. In Venice I spent a
morning studying one of Titian's faces, which
somewhat resembles hers; there is an approximation
to the same golden hair—forming a
nimbus, as it were—the same contour of features,
but Titian's picture lacked her pure,
unsearchable, indescribable eyes. Have you
noticed what a rare, anomalous color her hair
is? There never was but one other head
like it; the threads of fine gold in that celebrated
lock of her own hair, which Lucretia
Borgia gave Cardinal Bembo, match Irene
Huntingdon's exactly. Well and truly has it
been said of that glittering relic in the Ambrozian
library, `If ever hair was golden, it is
this of Lucretia Borgia's; it is not red, it is
not yellow, it is not auburn; it is golden, and
nothing else.' I examined it curiously, and
wondered whether the world could furnish
a parallel; consequently, when that girl's head
flashed before me, I was startled. Stranger
still than her beauty is the fact that it has not
spoiled her thus far.”

He folded his arms over his chest as if
crushing out something.

His mother laughed.

“Why, Harvey! What a riddle you are.
Take care, my son; that child would never do
for a minister's wife.”

“Of course not; who ever dreamed that
she would? Good-night, mother; I shall not
be at home to breakfast; do not wait for me, I
am going to Long Island with Dr. Melville.”
He bent down to receive her customary kiss,
and went to his own room.

“Louisa, how came your brother to be
a minister?” asked Irene, when they had
reached their apartment.

“When he was a boy he said he intended
to preach, and father never dissuaded him. I
was quite young when he went to the East,
and since his return he has been so engrossed
by his theological studies that we are rarely
together. Harvey is a singular man—so silent,
so equable, so cold in his manner, and yet he
has a warm heart. He has declined two calls
since his ordination; Dr. Melville's health is
very poor, and Harvey frequently fills his
pulpit. Sometimes he talks of going West,
where ministers are scarce; thinks he could do
more good there, but mother will not consent
for him to leave us. I am afraid, though, he
will go—he is so determined when he once
makes up his mind. He is a dear, good
brother; I know you will like him when you
know him well; everybody loves Harvey.”

The inclemency of the weather confined
the girls to the house the following day. Harvey
was absent at breakfast, and at dinner the
chair opposite Irene's was still vacant. The
afternoon wore away, and at dusk Louisa
opened the piano and began to play Thalberg's
“Home, Sweet Home.” Irene sat on
a sofa near the window, and as she listened,
visions of the South rose before her, till she
realized—

She longed inexpressibly for her own home,
for her father, for the suffering friends of the
cottage, and, as she thought of his many trials,
Russell's image was more distinct than all.
She closed her eyes, and felt again his tight
clasp of her hands; his passionate, pleading
words sounded once more: “Oh, Irene! believe
in me! believe in me always!” It
seemed to her so unnatural, so cruel that they
should be separated. Then came the memory
of Mrs. Aubrey's words of counsel: Pray
constantly; keep yourself unspotted from the
world.” What would the blind woman think
if she knew all the proud, scornful, harsh feelings
which were now in her heart? A sensation
of deep contrition and humiliation came
upon her; she knew she was fast losing the
best impulses of her nature, and experienced
keen regret that she had yielded to the evil
associations and temptations of the school.
How could she hope to grow better under such
circumstances? What would become of her?
The snow drifted against the panes, making
fairy fretwork, and through the feathery
flakes the gaslight at the corner burned steadily
on. “So ought the light of conscience to
burn,” thought she; “so ought I to do my
duty, no matter how I am situated. That
light is all the more necessary because it is
stormy and dark.”

Somebody took a seat near her, and though
the room was dim she knew the tall form and
the touch of his hand.

“Good-evening, Miss Irene; we have had
a gloomy day. How have you and Louisa
spent it?”

“Not very profitably I daresay, though it
has not appeared at all gloomy to me. Have
you been out in the snow?”

“Yes; my work has been sad. I buried a
mother and child this afternoon, and have just
come from a house of orphanage and grief.
It is a difficult matter to realize how many
aching hearts there are in this great city.
Our mahogany doors shut out the wail that
hourly goes up to God from the thousand sufferers
in our midst.”

Just then a servant lighted the chandelier,
and she saw that he looked graver than ever.
Louisa came up and put her arm around his
neck, but he did not return the caress; said a
few kind words, and rising, slowly paced the
floor. As his eye fell on the piano he paused,
saying, “Come, Louisa, sing that song for me.”

She sat down, and began “Comfort ye my
people;” and gradually the sadness melted
from his features. As Irene listened to the
solemn strains she found it difficult to control
her feelings, and by degrees her head sank
until it touched the arm of the sofa. The
minister watched the effect of the music, and,
resuming his seat, said gently—

“It is genuine philosophy to extract comfort
and aid from every possible source. There
is a vast amount of strength needed to combat
the evils and trials which necessarily occur in
even the sunniest, happiest lives; and I find
that sometimes I derive far more from a song
than a lengthy sermon. We are curious bits
of mechanism, and frequently music effects
what learned disputation or earnest exhortation
could not accomplish. I remember once,
when I was a child, I had given my mother a
great deal of trouble by my obstinacy. She
had entreated me, reasoned with me, and
finally punished me, but all to no purpose;
my wickedness had not been conquered. I
was bitter and rebellious, and continued so all
day. That evening she sat down to the piano
and sang a hymn for my father. The instant
the strains fell on my ear I felt softened, crept
down stairs to the parlor-door, and before she
had finished was crying heartily, begging her
forgiveness. When a sublime air is made the
vehicle of a noble sentiment there is no computing
the amount of good it accomplishes, if
properly directed. During my visit to London,
I went to hear a very celebrated divine.
I had just lost a dear friend, the companion
who travelled with me to Jerusalem and Meroe,
and I went to church full of sorrow. The
sermon was able, but had no more effect in
comforting me than if I had not listened to
it. He preached from that text of Job treating
of the resurrection, and at the conclusion
the very words of his text, `I know that my
Redeemer liveth,' were sung by the choir.
When the organ rolled its solemn tones under
the dim arched roof, and I heard the voices of
the choir swelling deep and full—

then, and not till then, I appreciated the
grand words to which I had listened. The
organ spoke to my soul as man could not, and
I left the church calmed and comforted. All
things are capable of yielding benefit, if properly
applied, though it is a lamentable truth
that gross abuse has involved many possible
sources of good in disrepute; and it is our
duty to extract elevating influences from all
departments. Such an alchemy is especially
the privilege of a Christian.”

As he talked she lifted her beautiful eyes
and looked steadily at him, and he thought
that, of all the lovely things he had ever seen,
that face was the most peerless. She drew
closer to him, and said earnestly:

“Then you ought to be happy, Mr. Young.”

“That implies a doubt that I am.”

“You do not seem to me a very happy
man.”

“There you mistake me. I presume there
are few happier persons.”

“Countenance is not a faithful index, then;
you look so exceedingly grave.”

“Do you suppose that gravity of face is incompatible
with sunshine in the heart?”

“I think it reasonable that the sunshine
should sparkle in the eyes and gleam over the
features. But, sir, I should like, if you please,
to talk to you a little about other things. May
I?”

“Certainly; speak on, and speak freely;
you may trust me, I think.”

He smiled encouragingly as he spoke, and
without a moment's thought she laid her delicate
hand in his.

“Mr. Young, I want somebody to advise
me. Very often I am at a loss about my duty,
and, having no one to consult, either do nothing
at all or that which I should not. If it
will not trouble you too much, I should like to
bring my difficulties to you sometimes, and
get you to direct me. If you will only talk

frankly to me, as you do to Louisa, oh! I will
be very grateful.”

He folded his hands softly over the white,
fluttering fingers.

“Louisa is my sister, and therefore I do not
hesitate to tell her unwelcome truths. But
you happen to be a perfect stranger, and
might not relish my counsel.”

“Try me.”

“How old are you? Pardon my inquisitiveness.”

“Fifteen.”

“An age when young ladies prefer flattery
to truth. Have you no brother?”

“I am an only child.”

“You would like a brother, however?”

“Yes, sir, above all things.”

“Take care; you express yourself strongly.
If you can fancy me for a brother, consider me
such. One thing I can promise, you will
have a guardian sleepless as Ladon, and untiring
in his efforts to aid you as if he were
in truth a Briareus. If you are not afraid of
espionage, make me your brother. What say
you?”

“I am not afraid, sir; I believe I need
watching.”

“Ah, that you do!” he exclaimed with unusual
emphasis.

“He can be very stern, Irene, gentle as he
looks,” suggested Louisa.

“If he never found fault with me I should
not need his friendship.

When Monday morning came, and she was
obliged to return to school, Irene reluctantly
bade farewell to the new friends. She knew
that, in conformity to the unalterable regulation
of Crim Tartary, she could only leave the
institution once a month, and the prospect of
this long interval between her visits was by
no means cheering. Harvey assisted her into
the carriage.

“I shall send you some books in a day or
two, and if you are troubled about anything
before I see you again, write me a note by
Louisa. I would call to see you occasionally
if you were boarding anywhere else. Good-morning,
Miss Irene; do not forget that I am
your brother so long as you stay in New York,
or need one.”

The books were not forgotten; they arrived
the ensuing week, and his selection satisfied her
that he perfectly understood what kind of aid
she required. Her visit made a lasting impression
on her mind, and the Sabbath spent
in Louisa's home often recurred to her in after
years, as the memory of some green, sunny
isle of rest haunts the dreams of weary, tempest-lashed
mariners in a roaring sea. Maria
Ashley was a sore trial of patience, and occasionally,
after a fruitless struggle to rise above
the temptations presented almost hourly, Irene
looked longingly toward Louisa's fireside as
one turns to the last source of support. Finally
she took refuge in silence, and, except
when compelled to do so, rarely commented
upon anything that occurred. The days were
always busy, and when the text-books were
finished, she had recourse to those supplied
by her new friends. At the close of the next
month, instead of accompanying Louisa home,
Irene was suffering with severe cold, and too
much indisposed to quit the house. This was
a grievous disappointment, but she bore it
bravely and went on with her studies. What
a dreary isolation in the midst of numbers of
her own age. It was a thraldom that galled
her; and more than once she implored her
father's permission to return home. His replies
were positive denials, and after a time
she ceased to expect release, until the prescribed
course should be ended. Thus another
month dragged itself away. On Friday
morning Louisa was absent. Irene felt anxious
and distressed; perhaps she was ill, something
must have happened. As the day-pupils
were dismissed she started back to her own
room, heart-sick because of this second disappointment.
“After all,” thought she, “I may
as well accustom myself to being alone. Of
course, I can't have the Youngs always. I
must learn to depend on myself.” She put
away the bonnet and cloak laid out in readiness
for departure, and sat down to write to
her aunt Margaret. A few minutes after, a
servant knocked at the door and informed her
that a gentleman wished to see her in the
parlor.