University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

“Surely, uncle Eric, there is room enough
in this large, airy house of ours to accommodate
my mother's brother? I thought it was
fully settled that you were to reside with us.
There is no good reason why you should not.
Obviously, we have a better claim upon you
than anybody else; why doom yourself to the
loneliness of a separate household? Reconsider
the matter.”

“No, Irene; it is better that I should have a
quiet little home of my own, free from the inevitable
restraint incident to residing under
the roof of another. My recluse nature and
habits unfit me for the gay young associates
who throng this house, making carnival-time of
all seasons.”

“I will change the library, and give you two
rooms on this floor, to avoid stair-steps; I will
build you a wall of partition, and have your
doors and windows hermetically sealed against
intrusion. No sound of billiard-ball, or dancing
feet, or noisy laughter shall invade your
sanctuary. Not St. Simeon, of isolated memory,
could desire more complete seclusion and
solitude than that with which I shall indulge
you.”

“It is advisable that I should go.”

“I appreciate neither the expediency nor
necessity.”

“Like all other crusty, self-indulgent bachelors,
I have many whims, which I certainly do
not expect people to bear patiently.”

“You are neither crusty nor self-indulgent,
that I have discovered; as for your whims, I
have large charity, and will humor them.”

“Irene, I want a house of my own, to which
I can feel privileged to invite such guests, such
companions, as I deem congenial, irrespective
of the fiats of would-be social autocrats, and
the social ostracism of certain cliques.”

She was silent a moment, but met his keen
look without the slightest embarrassment, and
yet when she spoke he knew, from her eyes
and voice, that she fully comprehended his
meaning.

“Of course, it is a matter which you must
determine for yourself. You are the best judge
of what conduces to your happiness; but I am
sorry, very sorry, uncle Eric, that, in order to
promote it, you feel it necessary to remove
from our domestic circle. I shall miss you
painfully.”

“Pardon me, but I doubt the last clause.
You lean on no one sufficiently to note the
absence of their support.”

“Do you recognize no difference between
a parasitic clinging and an affectionate friendship,

a valued companionship based on congenial
tastes and sympathies?”

“Unquestionably, I admit and appreciate
the distinction; but you do not meet me full-eyed,
open-handed, on this common platform
of congeniality, strengthened as it is, or should
be, by near relationship. You confront me
always with your emotional nature mail-clad,
and make our intercourse a mere intellectual
fencing-match. Now, mark you, I have no
wish to force your confidence; that is a curious
and complex lock, which only the golden key of
perfect love and trust should ever open; and
I simply desire to say that your constitutional
reticence or habitual reserve precludes the
hope of my rendering you either assistance or
sympathy by my continued presence.”

“Uncle Eric, it arises from no want of trust
in you, but in the consciousness that only I can
help myself. I have more than once heard
you quote Wallenstein; have you so soon forgotten
his words:

“But, my dear girl, you certainly are no
Thekla?”

Was there prescience in his question, and
a quick recognition of it in the quiver which
ran across her lips and eyelids?

“The fates forbid that I should ever be!”

“Irene, in the name and memory of your
mother, promise me one thing: that if sorrows
assail you, and a third party can bear aught
on his shoulders, you will call upon me.”

“A most improbable conjunction of circumstances;
but, in such emergency, I promise to
afflict you with a summons to the rescue.
Uncle Eric, I think I shall never gall any
shoulders but my own with the burdens which
God may see fit to lay on them in the coming
years.”

He looked pained, puzzled, and irresolute;
but she smiled, and swept her fingers over the
bars of her bird-cage, toying with its golden-throated
inmate.

“Have you any engagement for this morning?”

“None, sir. What can I do for you?”

“If you feel disposed, I should be glad to
have you accompany me to town; I want
your assistance in selecting a set of china for
my new home. Will you go?”

A shadow drifted over the colorless tranquil
face, as she said, sadly:

“Uncle Eric, is it utterly useless for me to
attempt to persuade you to relinquish this project,
and remain with us?”

“Utterly useless, my dear child.”

“I will get my bonnet, and join you at the
carriage.”

Very near the cottage formerly occupied by
Mrs. Aubrey stood a small brick house, par
tially concealed by poplar and sycamore trees,
and surrounded by a neat, well-arranged flower
garden. This was the place selected and
purchased by the cripple for his future home.
Mr. Huntingdon had opposed the whole proceeding,
and invited his brother-in-law to reside
with him; but beneath the cordial surface
the guest felt that other sentiments rolled deep
and strong. He had little in common with
his sister's husband, and only a warm and increasing
affection for his niece now induced
him to settle in W—. Some necessary
repairs had been made, some requisite arrangements
completed regarding servants, and to-day
the finishing touches were given to the
snug little bachelor establishment. When it
was apparent that no arguments would avail
to alter the decision, Irene ceased to speak of
it, and busied herself in various undertakings
to promote her uncle's comfort. She made
pretty white curtains for his library windows,
knitted bright-colored worsted lamp-mats, and
hemmed and marked the contents of the linen-closet.
The dining-room pantry she took
under her special charge, and at the expiration
of ten days, when the master took formal possession,
she accompanied him, and enjoyed the
pleased surprise with which he received her
donation of cakes, preserves, catchups, pickles,
etc., etc., neatly stowed away on the spotless
shelves.

“I shall make a weekly pilgrimage to this
same pantry, and take an inventory of its contents.
I intend to take good care of you,
though you have moved off, Diogenes-like.”

She stepped forward, and arranged some
glass jars which stood rather irregularly.

“How prim and old-maidish you are!”
laughed her uncle.

“I never could bear to see things scattered
in that helter-skelter style; I like bottles, jars,
plates, and dishes drilled into straight lines,
not leaning in and out, in that broken-rank
fashion. I am not given to boasting, but I will
say that no housekeeper can show a nicer,
neater pantry than my own.”

“What have you in that basket?”

“Flowers from the green-house. Come into
the library, and let me dress your new vases.”

He followed her into the next room, and
watched her as she leisurely and tastefully
disposed her flowers; now searching the basket
for a sprig of ever-green, and now bending
obstinate stems to make stiff clusters lean
lovingly to each other. Placing the vases on
the mantle, she stepped back to inspect the
effect, and said, gravely:

“How beautiful they are! Let me always
dress your vases, uncle. Women have a knack
of intertwining stems and grouping colors; our
fingers were ordained for all such embroidery
on the coarse gray serge of stern, practical
every-day life. You men are more at home
with state papers, machine-shops, navies,
armies, political economy, and agricultural

chemistry than with fragile azaleas and
golden-dusted lilies. Before he could reply
she turned, and asked:

“What do those large square boxes in the
hall contain?”

“Books which I gathered in Europe and
selected in New York; among them many
rare old volumes, which you have never seen.
Come down next Monday, and help me to
number and shelve them; afterward, we will
read them together. Lay aside your bonnet,
and spend the evening with me.”

“No, I must go back; Hugh sent me word
that he would bring company to tea.”

He took her hand, and drew her close to his
chair, saying, gently:

“Ah, Irene! I wish I could keep you always.
You would be happier here, in this little
unpretending home of mine, than presiding as
mistress over that great palatial house on the
hill yonder.”

“There you mistake me most entirely. I
love, better than any other place on earth, my
stately, elegant, beautiful home. Not Fontainebleau,
Windsor, Potsdam; not the vineyards
of Shiraz, or the gardens of Damascus,
could win me from it. I love every tree, every
creeper, every foot of ground from the front
gate to the brink of the creek. If you suppose
that I am not happy there, you err
egregiously.”

“My intuitions rarely deceive me.”

“At least, uncle Eric, they play you false in
this instance. Why, sir, I would not give my
grand old avenue of primeval elms for St.
Peter's nave. Your intuitions are full of cobwebs;
have them well swept and dusted before
I see you Monday. Good night, uncle; I must
really go. If you find we have forgotten anything,
send Willis up for it.”

He kissed her fingers tenderly, and, taking
her basket, she left him alone in his new home.

A few weeks passed without incident; Hugh
went to New Orleans to visit friends, and
Mr. Huntingdon was frequently absent at the
plantation.

One day he expressed the desire that Judge
Harris' family should dine with him, and added
several gentlemen, “to make the party
merry.” Irene promptly issued the invitations,
suppressing the reluctance which filled
her heart; for the young people were not favorites,
and she dreaded Charlie's set speeches
and admiring glances, not less than his mother's
endless disquisitions on fashion and the pedigree
of all the best families of W — and
its vicinage. Grace had grown up very pretty,
highly accomplished, even-tempered, gentlehearted,
but full of her mother's fashionable
notions, and, withal, rather weak and frivolous.
She and Irene were constantly thrown
into each other's society, but no warmth of
feeling existed on either side. Grace could
not comprehend her companion's character,
and Irene wearied of her gay, heedless chit
chat. As the latter anticipated, the day proved
very tiresome; the usual complement of music
was contributed by Grace, the expected quantity
of flattering nothings gracefully uttered
by her brother, the customary amount of execrable
puns handed around the circle for
patronage, and Irene gave the signal for dinner.
Mr. Huntingdon prided himself on his
fine wines, and, after the decanters had circulated
freely, the gentlemen grew garrulous as
market-women.

Irene was gravely discussing the tariff question
with Mr. Herbert Blackwell (whom Mrs.
Harris pronounced the most promising young
lawyer of her acquaintance), and politely
listening to his stereotyped reasoning, when
a scrap of conversation at the opposite end of
the table attracted her attention.

“Huntingdon, my dear fellow, I tell you I
never made a mistake in my life, when reading
people's minds; and if Aubrey has not
the finest legal intellect in W —, I will
throw up my judgeship. You have seen
Campbell, I suppose? He returned last week,
and, by the way, I half-expected to meet him
to-day; well, I was talking to him about Aubrey,
and he laughed his droll, chuckling
laugh, snapped his bony fingers in my face,
and said:

“Aye! aye, Harris! let him alone; hands
off! and I will wager my new office against
your old one that he steps into your honor's
shoes. Now you know perfectly well that
Campbell has no more enthusiasm than a
brick wall, or a roll of red tape; but he is as
proud of the young man as if he were his
son. Do you know that he has taken him into
partnership?

“Pshaw! he will never commit such a faux
pas.”

“But he has; I read the notice in this
morning's paper. Pass the madeira. The
fact is, we must not allow our old prejudices to
make us unjust. I know Aubrey has struggled
hard; he had much to contend —.”

“Hang Campbell and the partnership!
He will find that he has played the fool, before
he gets rid of his precious pet. Miss
Grace, do let me fill your glass? My young
prude there at the head of the table just sips
hers as if she feared it was poisoned. Mrs.
Harris, you have no sherry; permit me.”

“The young man's antecedents are most
disgraceful, Mr. Huntingdon, and I told the
judge last night that I was surprised at Mr.
Campbell's infatuation,” chimed in Mrs. Harris
over her golden sherry.

“Whose antecedents, mother?”

“My dear, we were speaking of Russell
Aubrey, and the stigma on his name and
character,”

“Oh, yes! His father was sentenced to
be hung, I believe, and committed suicide in
prison. But what a splendid, dark-looking
man he is! Decidedly the most superb figure

and eyes in W—. Shy, though! shy as a
school-girl; will cross the street to avoid meeting
a body. When he finds that he can not
dodge you, he gives you the full benefit of his
magnificent eyes, and bows as haughtily as
Great Mogul. Maria Henderson goes into
raptures over his figure.”

With head slightly inclined, and eyes fixed
on Mr. Blackwell's face, Irene had heard all
that passed, and as the gentleman paused in
his harangue to drain his glass, she rose and
led the way to the parlors. The gentlemen
adjourned to the smoking-room, and in a short
time Mrs. Harris ordered her carriage, pleading
an engagement with Grace's mantua-maker
as an excuse for leaving so early. With
a feeling of infinite relief the hostess accompanied
them to the door, saw the carriage
descend the avenue, and, desiring one of the
servants to have Erebus saddled at once, she
went to her room and changed the rich dinner-dress
for her riding-habit. As she sprang into
the saddle, and gathered up the reins, her
father called from the open window, whence
issued curling wreaths of blue smoke:

“Where now, Irene?”

“I am going to ride; it threatened rain this
morning, and I was afraid to venture.”

He said something, but without hearing she
rode off, and was soon out of sight, leaving the
town to the left, and taking the road that
wound along the river-bank—the same where,
years before, she had cantered with Grace,
Hugh, and Charlie. It was a windless, sunny
April afternoon; trees were freshly robed in
new-born fringy foliage, green and glistening;
long grassy slopes looked like crinkled velvet,
starred with delicate pale blue houstonias;
wandering woodbine trailed its coral trumpets
in and out of grass and tangled shrubs, and
late wood azaleas loaded the air with their
delicious, intoxicating perfume. Irene felt unwontedly
depressed; the day had wearied her;
she shook the reins, and the beautiful horse
sprang on in a quick gallop. For a mile farther
they dashed along the river bank, and
then reining him up, she leaned forward and
drew a long, deep breath. The scene was
surpassingly quiet and beautiful; on either
side wooded hills came down, herd-like, to the
edge of the stream to lave their thirsty sides,
and listen to the continual solemn monotone
of the foaming falls; here a small flock of sheep
browsed on the young waving grass, and there
contented-looking cows, with glossy satin skins,
sauntered homeward, taking the road with as
much precision as their Swiss sisters to the
tune of Ranz des Vaches; the broad river
sweeping down its rocky pavement, and, over
all, a mellow April sky of intense blue, with
whiffs of creamy vapor, sinuous as floss silk.
Close to the margin of the river grew a luxuriant
mass of ivy, and now the dark shining
foliage was flecked with tiny rosy buds, and
well-blown waxen petals, crimped into fairy
like cups, and tinted as no Sevres china ever
will be. Urging Erebus into the thicket,
Irene broke as many clusters as she could
conveniently carry; dragged a long tangled
wreath of late jasmine from its seclusion, fastened
it across the pommel of the saddle, and
turned her horse's head homeward. The sight
of these ivy cups recalled the memory of her
aunt Margaret; they had been her favorite
flowers, and, as thought now took another
channel, she directed her way to the graveyard.
She always rode rapidly, and, ere long,
Erebus' feet drew sparks from the rocky road
leading up the hill-side to the cemetery gate.
Dismounting, she fastened the reins to one of
the iron spikes, and, gathering the folds of her
habit over her arm, carried her flowers to the
family-burying ground. It was a large square
lot, enclosed by a handsome railing and tall
gate, bearing the name of “Huntingdon” in
silver letters. As she approached, she was
surprised to find a low brick wall and beautiful
new marble monument close to her father's
lot, and occupying a space which had been
filled with grass and weeds a few weeks previous.
While she paused, wondering whose
was the new monument, and resolved to examine
it, a tall form stepped from behind the
column, and stood, with folded arms, looking
down at the grave. There was no mistaking
face or figure; evidently he was unaware of
her presence, though she was near enough to
mark the stern sorrow written on his countenance.
She glided forward and opened the
heavy gate of her own enclosure; with difficulty
she pushed it ajar, and with a sudden,
sharp, clanging report it swung back, and the
bolt slid to its rusty place. He lifted his eyes
then, and saw her standing a few yards from
him; the rich soft folds of the Maria Louise
blue riding-dress trailed along the ground;
the blue velvet hat, with its long drooping
plume, had become loosened by the exercise,
and, slipping back, left fully exposed the dazzling
white face and golden glory of waving
hair. She bowed, he returned the silent token
of recognition, and she moved forward to her
aunt's tomb, wreathing it with the flowers
which Miss Margaret had loved so well. The
sun was low, leaning upon the purple crest of
a distant hill; the yellow light flashed over the
forest of marble pillars, and their cold polished
surfaces gave back the waning glare,
throwing it off contemptuously, as if sunshine
were a mockery in that silent city of the dead.
Sombre sacred guardian cedars extended
their arms lovingly over the marble couches
of fair young sleepers in God's Acre, and
venerable willows wept over many a stela,
whose inscription lichen-footed Time had effaced.
Here slept two generations of the
Huntingdons, and the last scion of the proud
old house stood up among the hoarded bones
of her ancestry, glancing round at the moss-stained
costly mausoleums, and noting the

fact that the crowded lot had room for but
two more narrow beds—two more silent citizens—her
father and herself. It was a reflection
which she had little inclination to linger
over, and, retaining a beautiful cluster of ivy
and jasmine, she left the enclosure, keeping
her eyes fixed on the ground.

As she passed the new lot the gate swung
open, and Russell stood before her.

“Good evening, Miss Huntingdon.”

“Good evening, Mr. Aubrey.”

The name sounded strange and harsh as she
uttered it, and involuntarily she paused and
held out her hand. He accepted it; for an instant
the cold fingers lay in his warm palm,
and as she withdrew them he said, in the rich
mellow voice which she had heard in the
church:

“Allow me to show you my mother's monument.”

He held the gate open, and she entered and
stood at his side. The monument was beautiful
in its severe simplicity—a pure, faultless shaft,
crowned with a delicately-chiselled wreath of
poppy leaves, and bearing these words in gilt
letters: “Sacred to the memory of my mother,
Amy Aubrey.” Just below, in black characters,
“Resurgam;” and, underneath the whole,
on a finely-fluted scroll, the inscription of St.
Gilgen. After a silence of some moments
Russell pointed to the singular and solemn
words, and said, as if speaking rather to himself
than to her:

“I want to say always, with Paul Flemming,
`I will be strong,' and therefore I placed here
the inscription which proved an evangel to
him, that when I come to my mother's grave
I may be strengthened, not melted, by the
thronging of bitter memories.”

She looked up as he spoke, and the melancholy
splendor of the deep eyes stirred her
heart as nothing had ever done before.

“I have a few flowers left; let me lay them
as an affectionate tribute, an `in memoriam'
on your mother's tomb—for the olden time, the
cottage days, are as fresh in my recollection as
in yours.”

She held out the woodland bouquet; he took
it, and strewed the blossoms along the broad
base of the shaft, reserving only a small cluster
of the rosy china cups. Both were silent;
but, as she turned to go, a sudden gust blew
her hat from her head, the loosened comb fell
upon the grass, and down came the heavy
masses of hair. She twisted them hastily into
a coil, fastened them securely, and received
her hat from him, with a cool:

“Thank you, sir; when did you hear from
Electra?”

They walked on to the cemetery gate, and
he answered:

“I have heard nothing for some weeks.
Have you any message? I am going to New
York in a few days, to try to persuade her to
return to W— with me.”

“I doubt the success of your mission;
W— has little to tempt an artist like your
cousin. Be kind enough to tender her my
love, and best wishes for the realization of her
artistic dreams.”

They had reached the gate where Erebus
waited, when Russell took off his hat reverently,
and pointed to the western sky all “aflame.”
Masses of purple, scarlet, gold, amber, and
pure pale opaline green blended in one magnificent
conflagration; and toward the zenith
tortuous feathery braids and dashes of blood-red
cirri, gleaming through the mild balmy
air like coral reefs in some breezeless oriental
sea.

“No soft, neutral, sober `Graiæ' there,”
said Irene, lifting her hand to the glowing
cloud-panorama.

He took up the quotation promptly, and
added:

“`The Angel of the Sea' is abroad on his
immemorial mission, the soft wings droop still
with dew, and the shadows of their plumes
falter on the hill; strange laughings and glitterings
of silver streamlets, born suddenly, and
twined about the mossy heights in trickling
tinsel, answering to them as they wave. The
coiled locks of `hundred-headed Typhon' leave
no menace yonder.”

He paused, and turning suddenly, with a
piercing look at his companion, continued:

“Miss Huntingdon, `on what anvils and
wheels is the vapor pointed, twisted, hammered,
whirled as the potter's clay? By what
hands is the incense of the sea built up into
domes of marble?”

“I see that you follow assiduously the beck
of Nature's last anointed hierophant, and go
in and out with the seer, even among the cherubim
and seraphim of his metropolitan cathedral,
with its `gates of rock, pavements of
cloud, choirs of stream, altars of snow, and
vaults of purple, traversed by the continual
stars.'”

“Yes; I am a reverent student and warm
admirer of John Ruskin. I learned to love
him first through the recommendations of my
cousin; then for his gorgeous, unapproachable
word-painting.”

While they talked, the brilliant pageant
faded, the coral banks paled to snowy lines, as
if the blue waves of air were foam-crested, and
in the valley below rose the dusky outline of
dark-haired, wan-browed, gray-clad twilight,
stealing her “sober livery” over the flushed
and fretted bosom of the murmuring river.

“You have a long walk to town,” said
Irene, as Russell arranged her horse's reins.

“I shall not find it long. It is a fine piece
of road, and the stars will be up to light it.”

He held out his hand to assist her; she
sprang easily to the saddle, then leaned toward
him, every statue-like curve and moulding of
her proud ivory face stamping themselves on
his recollection, as she spoke.

“Be so good as to hand me my glove; I
dropped it at your feet as I mounted. Thank
you. Good-evening, Mr. Aubrey; take my
best wishes on your journey and its mission.”

“Good-by, Miss Huntingdon.” He raised
his hat, and, as she wheeled off, the magnetic
handsome face followed, haunted her. Erebus
was impatient, out of humor, and flew up the
next steep hill as if he, too, were haunted.
Glancing back as she reached the summit,
Irene saw the erect, stern, solitary figure at
the extremity of the wooded vista, and in
that mystical dim light he looked a colossal
avenging Viking.

Once more, as in childhood, she heard the
whirr of the loom of destiny; and to-night,
catching sight of the Parcæ fingers, she knew
that along the silver warp of her life ran dark
alien threads, interweaving all in one shapeless,
tangled web.

On through gathering gloom dashed horse
and rider, over the little gurgling stream,
through the gate, up the dark, rayless avenue
to the door-step. The billiard-room was a
blaze of light, and the cheerful sound of mingled
voices came out at the open window, to
tell that the gentlemen had not yet finished
their game. Pausing in the hall, Irene listened
an instant to distinguish the voices, then
ascended the long, easy stair-case. The lamp
threw a mellow radiance on the steps, and as
she reached the landing Hugh caught her in
his arms, and kissed her warmly. Startled by
his unexpected appearance, she recoiled a
step or two and asked, rather haughtily:

“When did you get home?”

“Only a few moments after you left the
house. Do change your dress quickly, and
come down. I have a thousand things to say.”

She waited to hear no more, but disengaged
herself and went to her room.

“Now, child! why will you do so? What
makes you stay out so late, and then come
thundering back like a hurricane? I never
did like that horse's great big saucy, shining,
devilish eyes. I tell Andrew constantly I wish
he would manage to break his legs while he
is jumping over all the fences on the place.
You scare me nearly to death about your riding;
I tell you, beauty, that black satan will
break your neck yet. Your grandfather was
flung from just such a looking brute, and
dragged till he was dead; and some day that
everlasting long hair of yours will drag you to
your grave. Here it is now, all streaming
down your back; yes—just as I expected—
not a blessed hair-pin left in it; done galloped
'em all clean out. You will ride yourself into
eternity. Sit down, and let me comb it out;
it is all in a tangle, like ravelled yellow silk.”

Nellie looked cloudy, moody, and her mistress
offered no resistance to her directions.

“Mas' Hugh 's come.”

“Yes; I know it.”

“But you don't know supper is almost ready,
do you? Presently you will hear your father's
voice sounding like a brass trumpet down
stairs, if you ar'n't ready. There! John
rings that bell as if he had the dead to raise!”

“That will do, aunt Nellie, only give me a
handkerchief.”

She went down, and met her father at the
dining-room door.

“Come, Queen; we are waiting for you.”

He looked at her fondly, took her hand, and
drew her to the table; and, in after years, she
recalled this occasion with mournful pleasure
as the last on which he had ever given her his
pet name.