 | CHAPTER XV. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Four years had wrought material changes
in the town of W—; new streets had been
opened, new buildings erected, new forms trod
the side-walks, new faces looked out of shop-windows
and flashing equipages, and new
shafts of granite and marble stood in the cemetery
to tell of many who had been gathered to
their forefathers. The old red school-house,
where two generations had been tutored, was
swept away to make place for a railroad depot;
and, instead of the venerable trees that
once overshadowed its precincts, bristling walls
of brick and mortar rang with the shrill whistle
of the engine, or the sharp continual click
of repairing-shops. The wild shout, the rippling
laugh of careless, childish glee were
banished, and the frolicsome flock of by-gone
years had grown to manhood and womanhood,
were sedate business men and sober matrons.
If important revolutions had been effected in
her early home, not less decided and apparent
was the change which had taken place in the
heiress of Huntingdon Hill; and having been
eyed, questioned, scrutinized by the best families,
and laid in the social scales, it was found
a difficult matter to determine her weight as
accurately as seemed desirable. In common
parlance, “her education was finished”—she
was regularly and unmistakably “out.” Everybody
hastened to inspect her, sound her,
label her; mothers to compare her with their
own daughters; daughters to discover how
much they had to apprehend in the charms of
the new rival; sons to satisfy themselves with
regard to the truth of the rumors concerning
her beauty; all with curiosity stamped on
their countenances; all with dubiety written
there at the conclusion of their visit. Perfectly
self-possessed, studiedly polite, attentive
to all the punctilios of etiquette, polished and
irreproachable in deportment, but cold, reticent,
grave, indulging in no familiarities, and
allowing none; fascinating by her extraordinary
beauty and grace, but tacitly impressing
upon all, “Thus far, and no farther.” Having
lost her aunt two years before her return, the
dispensed the hospitalities of her home with
an easy though stately elegance, surprising in
one so inexperienced. No positive charge
could be preferred against her by the inquisitorial
circle; even Mrs. Judge Harris, the self-constituted,
but universally acknowledged, autocrat
of beau monde in W—, accorded her
a species of negative excellence, and confessed
herself baffled, and unable to pronounce a
verdict. An enigma to her own father, it was
not wonderful that strangers knit their brows
in striving to analyze her character, and cre
long the cooing of carrier-pigeons became audible:
“Her mother had been very eccentric;
even before her death it was whispered that
insanity hung threateningly over her; strange
things were told of her, and, doubtless, Irene
inherited her peculiarities.” Nature furnishes
some seeds with downy wings to insure distribution,
and envy, and malice, and probably
very innocent and mild-intentioned gossip,
soon provided this report with remarkable facilities
for progress. It chanced that Dr. Arnold
was absent for some weeks after her
arrival, and no sooner had he returned than
he sought his quondam protégée. Entering
unannounced, he paused suddenly as he caught
sight of her standing before the fire, with
Paragon at her feet. She lifted her head and
came to meet him, holding out both hands,
with a warm, bright smile.
“Oh, Dr. Arnold! I am so glad to see you
once more. It was neither friendly nor hospitable
to go off just as I came home, after
long years of absence. I am so very glad to
see you.”
He held her hands, and gazed at her like
one in a dream of mingled pain and pleasure,
and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.
“You can not possibly be as glad to see me
as I am to have you back. But I can't realize
that this is, indeed, you, my pet—the Irene I
parted with rather more than four years ago.
Child, what is it? What have you done to
yourself? I called you queen in your infancy,
when you clung to my finger and tottered
across the floor to creep into my arms, but
ten-fold more appropriate does the title seem
now. You are not the same Irene who used
to toil up my office steps, and climb upon the
tallest chair to examine the skeletons in my
cases—the snakes and lizards in my jars. Oh,
child! what a marvellous, what a glorious
beauty you have grown to be.”
“Take care; you will spoil her, Arnold.
Don't you know, you old cynic, that women
can't stand such flattery as yours?” laughed
Mr. Huntingdon.
“I am glad you like me, Doctor; I am glad
that you think I have improved; and, since
you think so, I am obliged to you for expressing
your opinion of me so kindly. I wish I
could return your compliments, but my conscience
vetoes any such proceeding. You look
jaded—over-worked. What is the reason that
you have grown so gray and haggard? We
will enter into a compact to renew the old life;
you shall treat me exactly as you used to do,
and I shall come to you as formerly, and interrupt
labors that seem too heavy. Sit down,
and talk to me. I want to hear your voice; it
is pleasant to my ears, makes music in my
heart, calls up the by-gone. You have adopted
a stick in my absence; I don't like the innovation;
it hurts me to think that you need
it. I must take care of you, I see, and persuade
you to relinquish it entirely.”
“Arnold, I verily believe she was more anxious
to see you than everybody else in W—
except old Nellie, her nurse.”
She did not contradict him, and the three
sat conversing for more than an hour; then
other visitors came, and she withdrew to the
parlor. The doctor had examined her closely
all the while; had noted every word, action,
expression; and a troubled, abstracted look
came into his face when she left them.
“Huntingdon, what is it? What is it?”
“What is what? I don't understand you.”
“What has so changed that child? I want
to know what ails her?”
“Nothing, that I know of. You know she
was always rather singular.”
“Yes, but it was a different sort of singularity.
She is too still, and white, and cold,
and stately. I told you it was a wretched
piece of business to send a nature like hers, so
different from everybody's else, off among
utter strangers; to shut up that queer, free,
untamed young thing in a boarding-school for
four years, with hundreds of miles between
her and the few things she loved. She required
very peculiar and skilful treatment,
and, instead, you put her off where she petrified!
I knew it would never answer, and I told
you so. You wanted to break her obstinacy,
did you? She comes back marble. I tell you
now I know her better than you do, though
you are her father, and you may as well give
up at once that chronic hallucination of `ruling,
conquering her.' She is like steel—cold,
firm, brittle; she will break; snap asunder;
but bend!—never! never! Huntingdon, I love
that child; I have a right to love her; she has
been very dear to me from her babyhood, and
it would go hard with me to know that any
sorrow darkened her life. Don't allow your
old plans and views to influence you now.
Let Irene be happy in her own way. Did you
ever see a contented-looking eagle in a gilt
cage? Did you ever know a leopardess kept
in a paddock, and taught to forget her native
jungles?”
Mr. Huntingdon moved uneasily, pondering
the unpalatable advice.
“You certainly don't mean to say that she
has inherited —.” He crushed back the
words; could he crush the apprehension, too?
“I mean to say that, if she were my child, I
cut her character to fit the totally different
pattern of my own.”
He put on his hat, thrust his hands into his
pockets, stood for some seconds frowning so
heavily that the shaggy eyebrows met and
partially concealed the cavernous eyes, then
nodded to the master of the house, and sought
his buggy. From that day Irene was conscious
of a keener and more constant scrutiny
on her father's part—a ceaseless surveillance,
silent, but rigid—that soon grew intolerable.
No matter how she employed her time, or
whither she went, he seemed thoroughly cognizant
of the details of her life; and where she
least expected interruption or dictation, his
hand, firm though gentle, pointed the way,
and his voice calmly but inflexibly directed.
Her affection had been in no degree alienated
by their long separation, and, through its sway,
she submitted for a time; but Huntingdon
blood ill brooked restraint, and, ere long, hers
became feverish, necessitating release. As in
all tyrannical natures, his exactions grew upon
her compliance. She was allowed no margin
for the exercise of judgment or inclination;
her associates were selected, thrust upon her;
her occupations decided without reference to
her wishes. From the heartless, frivolous
routine marked out, she shrank in disgust;
and, painful as was the alternative, she prepared
for the clash which soon became inevitable.
He wished her to be happy, but in his
own way, in accordance with his views and
aims, and, knowing the utter antagonism of
taste and feeling which unfortunately existed,
she determined to resist. Governed less by
impulse than sober second thought and sound
reasoning, it was not until after long and patient
deliberation that she finally resolved
upon her future course, and steadily maintained
it. She felt most keenly that it was a
painful, a lamentable resolution, but none the
less a necessity; and, having once determined,
she went forward with a fixedness of purpose
characteristic of her family. It was the beginning
of a life-long contest, and, to one who
understood Leonard Huntingdon's disposition,
offered a dreary prospect.
From verbal differences she habitually abstained;
opinions which she knew to be disagreeable
to him she carefully avoided giving
expression to in his presence; and, while
always studiously thoughtful of his comfort,
she preserved a respectful deportment, allowing
herself no hasty or defiant words.
Fond of pomp and ceremony, and imbued
with certain aristocratic notions, which an
ample fortune had always permitted him to
indulge, Mr. Huntingdon entertained company
in princely style, and whenever an opportunity
offered. His dinners, suppers, and card-parties
were known far and wide, and Huntingdon
Hill became proverbial for hospitality
throughout the state. Strangers were feted,
and it was a rare occurrence for father and
daughter to dine quietly together. Fortunately
for Irene, the servants were admirably
trained; and though this round of company
imposed a weight of responsibilities oppressive
to one so inexperienced, she applied herself
diligently to domestic economy, and soon became
familiarized with its details. Her father
had been very anxious to provide her with a
skilful housekeeper, to relieve her of the care
and tedious minutia of such matters; but she
refused to accept one, avowing her belief that
it was the imperative duty of every woman to
superintend and inspect the management of
her domestic affairs. Consequently, from the
first week of her return, she made it a rule to
spend an hour after breakfast in her dining-room
pantry, determining and arranging the
details of the day.
The situation of the house commanded an
extensive and beautiful prospect, and the ancient
trees that over-shadowed it imparted a
venerable and imposing aspect. The building
was of brick, overcast to represent granite,
and along three sides ran a wide gallery, supported
by lofty circular pillars, crowned with
unusually heavy capitals. The main body
consisted of two stories, with a hall in the
centre, and three rooms on either side; while
two long single-storied wings stretched out
right and left, one a billiard-room, the other a
green-house.
The parlors and library occupied one side,
the first opening into the green-house; the
dining-room and smoking-room were correspondingly
situated to the billiard-saloon. The
frescoed ceilings were too low to suit modern
ideas; the windows were large, and nearly
square; the facings, sills, and doors all of cedar,
dark as mahogany with age, and polished as
rosewood. The tall mantle-pieces were of
fluted Egyptian black marble, and along the
freshly-tinted walls the elaborate arabesque
moulding or cornice hung heavy and threatening.
A broad easy flight of white marble
steps led up to the richly-carved front door,
with its massive silver knocker bearing the
name of Huntingdon in old-fashioned Italian
characters; and in the arched niches, on either
side of this door, stood two statues, brought
from Europe by Mr. Huntingdon's father,
and supposed to represent certain Roman
penates.
From the hall on the second floor, a narrow,
spiral, iron stairway ascended to a circular
observatory on the roof, with a row of small
columns corresponding with those below, and
a tessellated floor of alternating white and
variegated squares of marble. Originally the
observatory had been crowned by a heavy
pagoda-shaped roof, but recently this had
been removed and a covering of glass substituted,
which, like that of hot-houses, could be
raised and lowered at pleasure, by means of
ropes and pulleys. Two generations had embellished
forming the cross had been erected within
Irene's recollection. In expectation of her
return, an entirely new set of furniture had
been selected in New York, and arranged
some weeks before her arrival—costly carpets,
splendid mirrors, plush and brocatel sofas, rich
china, and every luxury which wealth and
fastidious taste could supply. The grounds in
front, embracing several acres, were enclosed
by a brick wall, and at the foot of the hill, at
the entrance of the long avenue of elms, stood
a tall arched iron gate. A smoothly-shaven
terrace of Bermuda grass ran round the house,
and the broad carriage-way swept up to a
mound opposite the door, surmounted by the
bronze figure of a crouching dog. On one
side of the avenue a beautiful lawn, studded
with clumps of trees, extended to the wall; on
the other serpentine walks, bordered with low
hedges, carved flower-beds of diverse shapes;
and here delicate trellis-work supported rare
creepers, and airy, elegant arbors and summerhouses
were overgrown with vines of rank
luxuriance. Everything about the parterre,
from the well-swept gravel walks to the carefully-clipped
hedges, betokened constant attention
and lavish expenditure. But the
crowning glory of the place was its wealth of
trees—the ancient avenue of mighty elms,
arching grandly to the sky like the groined
nave of some vast cathedral; the circlet of
sentinel poplars towering around the house,
and old as its foundations; the long, undulating
line of venerable willows waving at the
foot of the lawn, over the sinuous little brook
that rippled on its way to the creek; and, beyond
the mansion, clothing the sides of a
steeper hill, a sombre background of murmuring,
solemn, immemorial pines. Such was
Irene's home—stately and elegant—kept so
thoroughly repaired that, in its cheerfulness,
its age was forgotten.
The society of W— was considered
remarkably fine. There was quite an aggregation
of wealth and refinement; gentlemen,
whose plantations were situated in adjacent
counties, resided here, with their families;
some, who spent their winters on the seaboard,
resorted here for the summer; its bar was said
to possess more talent than any other in the
state; its schools claimed to be unsurpassed;
it boasted of a concert-hall, a lyceum, a
handsome court-house, a commodious, well-built
jail, and half-a-dozen as fine churches,
as any country town could desire. I would
fain avoid the term, if possible, but no synonym
exists—W— was, indisputably, an
“aristocratic” place.
Thus, after more than four years absence,
the summers of which had been spent in travel
among the beautiful mountain scenery of the
North, the young heiress returned to the home
of her childhood. Standing on the verge of
nineteen, she put the early garlanded years
behind her and looked into the solemn temple
of womanhood, with its chequered pavement
of light and shadow; its storied prizes, gilded
architraves, and fretted shrines, where white-robed
bands of devotees enter with uncertain
step, all eager, trembling Mystœ, soon to become
clear-eyed, sad-eyed Epoptœ, through
the unerring, mystical, sacred initiation of the
only true hierophant—Time.
From her few early school associates she
had become completely estranged; and the
renewal of their acquaintance now soon convinced
her that the utter want of congeniality
in character and habits of life precluded the
possibility of any warm friendships between
them. For several months after her return
she patiently, hopefully, faithfully studied the
dispositions of the members of various families
with whom she foresaw that she would be
thrown, by her father's wishes, into intimate
relationship, and satisfied herself that, among
all these, there was not one, save Dr. Arnold,
whose counsel, assistance, or sympathy she felt
any inclination to claim. Human nature at
least is, beyond all cavil, cosmopolitan in its
characteristics, (barring a few ethnologic limitations);
and a given number of men and
women similarly circumstanced in Chili, England,
Madagascar, Utah, or Burmah would,
doubtless, yield a like quota of moral and intellectual
idiosyncrasies. In fine, W—
was not in any respect peculiar, or, as a community,
specially afflicted with heartlessness,
frivolity, brainlessness, or mammonism; the
average was fair, reputable, in all respects.
But, incontrovertibly, the girl who came to
spend her life among these people was totally
dissimilar in criteria of action, thought, and
feeling. To the stereotyped conventional
standard of fashionable life she had never
yielded allegiance; and now stood (not in the
St. Simon, Fourier, Owen, or Leroux sense)
a social free-thinker. For a season she allowed
herself to be whirled on by the current of
dinners, parties, and picnics; but soon her
sedate, contemplative temperament revolted
from the irksome round, and gradually she
outlined and pursued a different course, giving
to her gay companions just what courtesy required,
no more.
Hugh had prolonged his stay in Europe
beyond the period originally designated; and,
instead of arriving in time to accompany his
uncle and cousin home, he did not sail for some
months after their return. At length, however,
letters were received announcing his
presence in New York, and fixing the day
when his relatives might expect him.
| CHAPTER XV. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |