University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The carriage had been despatched to the depot,
a servant stood at the end of the avenue

waiting to throw open the gate, Mr. Huntingdon
walked up and down the wide colonnade,
and Irene sat before the fire in her own room,
holding in one palm the flashing betrothal ring,
which she had been forced to wear since her
return from New York. She had looked into
the rooms to see that all was bright and cheerful,
had looped back the curtains in the apartment
prepared for Hugh, had filled the vases
with flowers that he preferred in his boyhood,
and now listened for his approach with complex
emotions. The sole companion of her infancy,
she would have hailed his arrival with
unmixed joy, but for the peculiar relationship
in which she now stood to him. The few
years of partial peace had passed; she knew
that the hour drew near when the long-dreaded
struggle must begin, and, hopeless of averting
it, quietly waited for the storm to break.
Dropping the ring in her jewelry box, she
turned the key, and just then her father's
voice rang through the house.

“Irene! the carriage is coming up the
avenue.”

She went slowly down stairs, followed by
Paragon, and joined her father at the door.
His searching look discovered nothing in the
serene face; the carriage stopped, and he hastened
to meet his nephew.

“Come at last, eh! Welcome home, my dear
boy.”

The young man turned from his uncle,
sprang up the steps, then paused, and the
cousins looked at each other.

“Well, Hugh! I am very glad to see you
once more.”

She held out her hands, and he saw at
a glance that her fingers were unfettered.
Seizing them warmly, he bent forward, but she
drew back coldly, and he exclaimed:

“Irene! I claim a warmer welcome.”

She made a haughty, repellent gesture, and
moved forward a few steps, to greet the stranger
who accompanied him.

“My daughter, this is your uncle, Eric Mitchell,
who has not seen you since you were a
baby.”

The party entered the house, and, seated
beside him, Irene gazed with mingled emotions
of pain and pleasure upon her mother's
only brother. He was about thirty, but looked
older, from life-long suffering; had used
crutches from the time he was five years of
age, having been hopelessly crippled by a fall
during his infancy. His features were sharp,
his cheeks wore the sallow hue of habitual ill
health, and his fine gray eyes were somewhat
sunken. Resting his crutches against the sofa,
he leaned back, and looked long and earnestly
at his niece. Very dimly he remembered a
fair flaxen-haired baby whom the nurse had
held out to be kissed when he was sent to
Philadelphia to be treated for his lameness;
soon after he heard of his sister's death, and
then his tutor took him to Europe, to command
the best medical advice of the old world.

“From the faint recollection which I have
of your mother, I think you strongly resemble
her,” he said, at last, in a fond, gentle tone.

“I don't know about that, Eric. She is far
more of a Huntingdon than a Mitchell. She
has many of the traits of your family, but in
appearance she certainly belongs to my side
of the house. She very often reminds me of
Hugh's mother.

Conversation turned upon the misfortune of
the cripple; he spoke freely of the unsuccessful
experiments made by eminent physicians;
of the hopelessness of his case; and Irene was
particularly impressed by the calmness and
patience with which he seemed to have resigned
himself to this great affliction. She
could detect no trace of complaining bitterness,
or, what was still more to be deplored,
the irritable, nervous querulousness so often
observed in persons of his situation. She found
him a ripe scholar, a profound archæologist,
and philosophic observer of his age and generation;
and, deeply interested in his quiet, low-toned
talk, she felt irresistibly drawn toward
him, careless of passing hours and of Hugh's
ill-concealed impatience of manner. As they
rose from the tea-table her cousin said, laughingly:

“I protest against monopoly. I have not
been able to say three words to my lady-cousin.”

“I yield the floor, from necessity. My long
journey has unfitted me for this evening, and
I must bid you all an early good-night.”

“Can I do anything for you, uncle?”

“No, thank you, Irene; I have a servant
who thoroughly understands taking care of
me. Go talk to Hugh, who has been wishing
me among the antipodes.”

He shook hands with her, smiled kindly, and
Mr. Huntingdon assisted him to his room.

“Irene, come into the library, and let me
have a cigar.”

“How tenacious your bad habits are, Hugh.”

“Smoking belongs to no such category. My
habits are certainly quite as tenacious as my
cousin's antipathies.”

He selected a cigar, lighted it, and drawing
a chair near hers, threw himself into it with
an expression of great satisfaction. “It is delightful
to get back home, and see you again,
Irene. I felt some regret at quitting Paris,
but the sight of your face more than compensates
me.”

She was looking very earnestly at him, noting
the alteration in his appearance, and for
a moment his eyes drooped before hers. She
saw that the years had been spent, not in
study, but in a giddy round of pleasure and
dissipation, yet the bright, frank, genial expression
of boyhood still lingered, and she
could not deny that he had grown up a very

handsome man. She knew that he was capable
of sudden, spasmodic impulses of generosity,
but saw that selfishness remained the great
substratum of his character, and her keen
feeling of disappointment showed her now how
much she had hoped to find him changed in
this respect.

“Irene, I had a right to expect a warmer
welcome than you deigned to give me.”

“Hugh, remember that we have ceased to
be children. When you learn to regard me
simply as your cousin, and are satisfied with a
cousin's welcome, then, and not until then,
shall you receive it. Let childish whims pass
with the years that have separated us; rake up
no germs of contention to mar this first evening
of your return. Be reasonable, and now
tell me how you have employed yourself since
we parted; what have you seen? what have
you gleaned?”

He flushed angrily, but the imperturbable
face controlled him, even against his will, and,
muttering something which she thought sounded
very much like an oath, he smoked for some
seconds in silence. Without noticing his sullenness,
she made some inquiries concerning
his sojourn in Paris, and insensibly he found
himself drawn into a narration of his course
of life. She listened with apparent interest,
making occasional good-humored comments,
and bringing him back to the subject whenever
he attempted a détour toward the topic
so extremely distasteful to her.

The clock struck eleven; she rose, and said:

“I beg your pardon, Hugh, for keeping you
up so late. I ought to have known that you
were fatigued by railroad travel, and required
sleep. You know the way to your room; it is
the same you occupied before you went to college.
Good-night; I hope you will rest well.”

She held out her hand carelessly; he took it
eagerly, and holding it up to the light said, in
a disappointed tone:

“Irene, where is my ring? Why are you
not wearing it?”

“It is in my jewelry box. As I gave you
my reasons for not wearing it, when you offered
it to me, it is not necessary to repeat them
now. Good-night, Hugh; go dream of something
more agreeable than our old childish
quarrels.” She withdrew her fingers, and left
him.

As she entered her own room and closed the
door, she was surprised to find her nurse sitting
before the fire, with her chin in her hands,
and her keen black eyes fixed on the coals.

“Aunt Nellie, what are you sitting up so
late for? You will have another spell of rheumatism,
tramping about this time of night.”

“I have been in to see Mass' Eric, blessed
lamb that he always was, and always will be.
He is so changed I never would have known
him; he was a weak little white-faced cripple
when I first saw him, twenty years ago. It
seems like there is a curse on your family any
how, both sides. They died off, and have been
killed off, on your mother's side, till Mass' Eric
is the only one left of all the Mitchells, and, as
for master's family, you and Hugh are the two
last. You know some families run out, and I
don't think master ought to try to overturn the
Lord's plans. Queen, let things take their
course.”

“Who has put all this into your head?”

“Nobody put it into my head! I should
like to know where my eyes have been these
many years? I haven't been so near blind all
my life. Don't you suppose I know what master
's been after since you were eighteen
months old? Was n't I standing by the bed
when Hugh's mother died, and did n't I hear
master promise her that, when you were grown,
you and Hugh should marry? Don't I know
how your poor dying mother cried, and wrung
her hands, and said “Harm would come of it all,
and she hoped you would die while you were
a baby?” She had found out what Huntingdon
temper was. Poor blessed saint! what
a life she did lead between Miss Margaret and
Miss Isabella! It is no use to shut your eyes
to it, Queen. You might just as well look at
it at once. It is a sin for near kin like you
and Hugh to marry, and you ought to set your
face against it. He is just his mother over
again, and you will see trouble, as sure as your
name is Irene, if you don't take a stand. Oh!
they are managing people! and the Lord have
mercy on folks they don't like, for it is n't in
Huntingdon blood to forgive or to forget anything.
I am so thankful your uncle Eric has
come he will help to stand between you and
trouble. Ah! it is coming, Queen! it 's coming!
You did n't see how your father frowned
when you would n't let Hugh kiss you? I was
looking through the window, and saw it all. I
have n't had one hour's peace since I dreamed
of seeing you and your mother together. Oh,
my baby! my baby! there is trouble and sorrow
thickening for you; I know it. I have
had a warning of it.”

She inclined her head on one side, and
rocked herself to and fro, much as did early
Pelasgic Dodonides in announcing oracular
decrees.

“You need not grieve about it; I want nobody
to stand between me and trouble. Beside,
Nellie, you must remember that, in all my
father does, he intends and desires to promote
my welfare, and to make me happy.”

“Did he send you off to that boarding-school
for your happiness? You were very happy
there, wern't you? It is no use to try to
blindfold me; I have lived a little too long.
Oh, my baby! your white, white face, and big
sorrowful blue eyes follow me day and night!
I knew how it would be when you were born.
You came into this world among awful signs!
The sun was eclipsed! chickens went to roost,
as if night had come; and I saw stars in the
sky at two o'clock in the day! Oh! I thought,

sure enough, judgment-day had come at last;
and when they put you in my arms I trembled
so I could hardly stand. May God have mercy
on you, Queen!”

She shuddered for a moment, as if in the
presence of some dread evil, and, rising,
wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and
left the room.

Irene looked after her retreating form, smiling
at the superstitious turn her thoughts had
taken, then dismissing the subject, she fell
asleep, thinking of her uncle.

A week passed, varied by few incidents of
interest; the new-comers became thoroughly
domesticated—the old routine was re-established.
Hugh seemed gay and careless—hunting,
visiting, renewing boyish acquaintances,
and whiling away the time as inclination
prompted. He had had a long conversation
with his uncle, and the result was that, for the
present, no allusion was made to the future.
In Irene's presence the subject was temporarily
tabooed. She knew that the project was
not relinquished, was only veiled till a convenient
season, and, giving to the momentary
lull its full value, she acquiesced, finding in
Eric's society enjoyment and resources altogether
unexpected. Instinctively they seemed
to comprehend each other's character, and
while both were taciturn and undemonstrative,
a warm affection sprang up between
them.

On Sunday morning, as the family group
sat around the breakfast-table waiting for
Hugh, who lingered, as usual, over his second
cup of chocolate, Mr. Mitchell suddenly laid
down the fork with which he had been describing
a series of geometrical figures on the
fine damask, and said: “I met a young man
in Brussels who interested me extremely, and
in connection with whom I venture the prediction
that, if he lives, he will occupy a conspicuous
position in the affairs of his country.
He is, or was, Secretary of Mr. Campbell, our
minister to —, and they were both on a
visit to Brussels when I met them. His name
is Aubrey, and he told me that he lived here.
His talents are of the first order; his ambition
unbounded, I should judge; and his patient,
laborious application certainly surpasses anything
I have ever seen. It happened that a
friend of mine, from London, was prosecuting
certain researches among the MS. archives at
Brussels, and here, immersed in study, he says
he found the secretary, who completely distanced
him in his investigations, and then, with
unexpected generosity, placed his notes at my
friend's disposal. His industry is almost incredible.
Conversing with Campbell concerning
him, I learned that he was a protégé of the
minister, who spoke of his future in singularly
sanguine terms. He left him some time since
to embark in the practice of law. Do you
know him, Huntingdon?”

“No, sir! but I know that his father was
sentenced to the gallows, and only saved himself
from it by cutting his miserable throat,
and cheating the law.”

The master of the house thrust back his
chair violently, crushing one of Paragon's innocent
paws as he crouched on the carpet,
and overturning a glass, which shivered into
a dozen fragments at his feet.

Irene understood the scowl on his brow, but
only she possessed the clew, and, lazily sipping
his chocolate, Hugh added: “I recollect him
very well as a boy; he always had a bookish
look, and I met him one day on the boulevard
at Paris. He was talking to an attaché of the
American Legation as I came up, and took
no more notice of me than if I had been one
of the paving-stones. I could not avoid admiring
the cool sublimity of his manner, and
as I had snubbed him at school long ago, I put
out my hand, and said: “Howdy-do, Aubrey;
pray, when did you cross the water?” He
bowed as frigidly as Czar Nicholas, and, without
noticing my hand, answered: “Good-morning,
Mr. Seymour; I have been in Europe
two years,” and walked on. The day after I
got home I met him going up the court-house
steps, and looked him full in the face; he just
inclined his head, and passed me. Confound
it! he 's as proud as if he had found a patent
of nobility in digging among Belgic archives.”

“Nature furnished him with one, many
years since,” replied Eric.

“Yes; and his coat-of-arms should be jackketch
and a gallows!” sneered Mr. Huntingdon.

Looking at his watch, he said, as if wishing
to cut the conversation short:

“Irene, if you intend to go to church to-day,
it is time that you had your bonnet on.
Hugh, what will you do with yourself? Go
with Eric and your cousin?”

“No, I rather think I shall stay at home
with you. After European cathedrals, our
American churches seem excessively plain.”
Irene went to her room, pondering the conversation.
She thought it remarkable that, as
long as she had been at home, she had never
seen Russell, even on the street.

Unlocking her writing-desk, she took out a
tiny note which had accompanied a check for
two hundred dollars, and had reached her a
few months before she left boarding-school.
The firm, round, manly hand ran as follows:

She was conscious of a feeling of regret
that the money had been returned; it was
pleasant to reflect on the fact that she had
laid him under obligation; now it all seemed
cancelled. She relocked the desk, and, drawing
on her gloves, joined her uncle at the carriage.
Her father accompanied her so rarely
that she scarcely missed him, and during the
ride, as Eric seemed abstracted, she leaned
back, and her thoughts once more reverted to
the unfortunate topic of the breakfast-table.
Arriving at church later than was her wont,
she found the family pew occupied by strangers,
and crossed the aisle to share a friend's,
but at that instant a tall form rose in Mr.
Campbell's long vacant pew, stepped into the
aisle, and held open the door. She drew back
to suffer her uncle to limp in and lay aside
his crutches, saw him give his hand to the
stranger, and, sweeping her veil aside as she
entered, she saw Russell quietly resume his
seat at the end of the pew.

Startled beyond measure, she looked at him
intently, and almost wondered that she recognized
him, he had changed so materially
since the day on which she stood with him
before his mother's gate. Meantime the service
commenced, she gave her hymn-book to
her uncle, and at the same moment Russell
found the place, and handed her one of
two which lay near him. As she received it
their eyes met, looked fixedly into each other,
and she held out her hand. He took it, she
felt his fingers tremble as they dropped hers,
and then both faces bent over the books.
When they knelt side by side, and the heavy
folds of her elegant dress swept against him, it
seemed a feverish dream to her; she could not
realize that, at last, they had met again, and
her heart beat so fiercely that she pressed her
hand upon it, dreading lest he should hear its
loud pulsations. Lowering her veil, she drew
her costly velvet drapery about her and leaned
back; and the anthem was chanted, the
solemn organ-tones hushed themselves, the
minister stood up in the pulpit, and his dull
tones fell on her ear and brain meaningless as
the dry patter of dying leaves in an autumn
wind. The outline of that tall, broad-shouldered,
magnificently-turned figure, replete
with vigorous muscular strength; the massive,
finely-formed head, easily, gracefully poised,
like that of a statue; above all, the olive-pale,
proud face, unshaded by beard, with regular
features sharply yet beautifully cut, like those
in the rare gems which Benvenuto Cellini left
the world, greeted her now, turn which way
she would. The coat was buttoned to the
throat, the strong arms were crossed over the
deep chest, the piercing black eyes raised and
fastened on the pulpit. It has been well said:
“The eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul,
or through how many forms it has already ascended.”
If so, his seemed brimful of destiny,
and œons old, in that one long unveiling look
which they had exchanged; deep, sparkling,
and yet indescribably melancholy, something
in the expression vividly recalling the Beatrice
Cenci; then all analogy was baffled. Electra
knew wherein consisted their wonderful charm,
and because she put these eyes on canvas
connoisseurs studied and applauded her work.
Now face and figure, cold and unrelenting,
stamped themselves on Irene's memory as indelibly
as those which laborious, patient lapidaries
carve on coral or cornelian. The discourse
was ended, the diapason of the organ
swelled through the lofty church, priestly
hands hovered like white doves over the congregation,
dismissing all with blessing. Once
more Irene swept back the rich lace veil, fully
exposing her face; once more her eyes looked
into those of the man who politely held the
pew door open; both bowed with stately grace,
and she walked down the aisle. She heard
Russell talking to her uncle just behind her,
heard the inquiries concerning his health, the
expression of pleasure at meeting again, the
hope which Eric uttered that he should see
him frequently during his stay in W—.
Without even a glance over her shoulder, she
proceeded to the carriage, where her uncle
soon joined her, taking the front seat instead
of sharing the back one, as is customary. He
scrutinized his niece's countenance, but it
baffled him, as on the first night of his arrival;
the serene, colorless face showed not the
slightest symptom of emotion of any kind.
Neither spoke till they approached the cottage
on the road-side, then she extended her hand
and said, indifferently:

“Your European acquaintance, the quondam
secretary, formerly lived in that little
three-roomed house hid among the vines
yonder.”

“When I spoke of him this morning, you did
not mention having known him. I inferred
from your manner that he was a stranger to
you.”

“He is a stranger now. I knew him long
ago, when we were children, and met him to-day
for the first time in some years.”

“There is something peculiarly commanding
in his appearance. He impresses me with
respect and involuntary admiration, such as
no man of his age ever excited before, and I
have travelled far and wide, and have seen the
lordliest of many lands.”

“Years have greatly changed him. He is
less like his mother than when I knew him in
his boyhood.”

“He is an orphan, I learned from Campbell.”

“Yes.”

She pulled the check-cord, and, as the driver
stopped, she leaned out of the window, pointing
to a mossy tuft on the margin of the little
brook just at the foot of the hill.

“Andrew, if you are not afraid to leave
your horses, get me that cluster of violets just

this side of the sweet-gum tree. They are the
very earliest I have seen.”

He gathered them carefully and placed them
in the daintily-gloved, out-stretched hand.
She bent over them an instant, then divided
the tiny bunch with her uncle, saying:
“Spring has opened its blue eyes at last.”

She met his searching gaze as calmly as the
flowerets, and as they now neared the house
he forbore any further allusion to the subject,
which he shrewdly suspected engaged her
thoughts quite as fully as his own.