 | CHAPTER XIX. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
“Come out on the colonnade; the air is delicious.”
As he spoke, Hugh drew his cousin's
arm through his, and led the way from the tea-table.
“You had company to dine to-day?”
“Yes; if I had known that you were coming
home to-day, I would have postponed the invitation
till to-morrow. Grace expressed much
disappointment at your absence.”
“Indeed! Of course I am duly grateful.
What a pretty, sweet little creature she is!
So sprightly, so vivacious, so winning; so
charmingly ignorant of `Almacantar' and
`Azimuth,' and all such learned stupidity.
Unlike some royal personages of my acquaintance,
who are for ever soaring among the
stars, she never stretches my brains the hundredth
part of an inch to comprehend her delightful
prattle. Like Dickens' `Dora,' she
regards any attempt to reason with her as a
greater insult than downright scolding. Your
solemn worshipper was also present, I believe?”
“To whom do you allude?”
“Your tedious, tiresome, pertinacious shadow,
Herbert Blackwell, of course! Do you
know that I detest that man most cordially?”
“For what reason?”
“I really do not feel in the mood to enumerate
all his peccadilloes and disagreeable traits;
but it is supremely ridiculous to see the way in
which he hovers round you, like one of those
large black moths about the hall lamp.”
“Come, come, Hugh! Mr. Blackwell is a
man whom I respect and esteem, and you shall
not make him a target for your merriment.”
“Oh, doubtless! my czarina! and, as a reward
for your consideration, he would fain
confer on you his distinguished hand and
fortune. It is quite a respectable farce to
watch him watching you.”
“I wish you had a tithe of his industry and
perseverance. Did it ever occur to you that
life is given for nobler purposes and loftier aspirations
gambling, and similar modes of murdering
time which you habitually patronize?”
“You are too young to play the role of
Mentor, and those rare red lips of yours were
never meant for homilizing. Irene, how long
do you intend to keep me in painful suspense?”
“I am not aware that I have in any degree
kept you in suspense.”
“At all events you know that you torture
me with cool, deliberate cruelty.”
“I deny your charge most solemnly.”
“My dear Irie, let us understand each other
fully, for —.”
“Nay, Hugh—be honest; there is no misapprehension
whatever. We thoroughly understand
each other already.”
“You shall not evade me; I have been patient,
and the time has come when we must
talk of our future. Irene, dearest, be generous,
and tell me when will you give me, irrevocably,
this hand which has been promised
to me from your infancy?”
He took the hand and carried it to his lips,
but she forcibly withdrew it, and, disengaging
her arm, said, emphatically:
“Never, Hugh. Never.”
“How can you trifle with me, Irene? If
you could realize how impatient I am for the
happy day when I shall call you my wife, you
would be serious, and fix an early period for
our marriage.”
“Hugh, why will you affect to misconceive
my meaning? I am serious; I have pondered,
long and well, a matter involving your life-long
happiness and mine, and I tell you, most
solemnly, that I will never be your wife.”
“Oh, Irene! your promise! your sacred
promise!”
“I never gave it! On the contrary, I have
never failed to show you that my whole nature
rebelled against the most unnatural relation
forced upon me. I can not, shall not, hold
myself bound by the promise of another made
when I was an unconscious infant. I know
the family compact, sealed by my father's
word, at your mother's death-bed, making
two little irresponsible children parties to a
thoroughly selfish, ignoble contract, which is
revolting to me. Your future and mine were
adumbrated from my cradle, and that which
only we could legitimately decide was usurped
and predetermined. You have known, for
years, that I loathed the heartless betrothal
and ignored its restrictions; my unalterable
determination was very apparent when you
returned from Europe. You were kept in no
suspense; you understood me then as fully as
now; and it is ungenerous, unmanly, to press
a suit which you can not fail to know is extremely
disagreeable to me.”
“My dear Irene, have you, then, no love for
me? I have hoped and believed that you
hid your love behind your cold mask of proud
silence. You must, you do love me, my beautiful
cousin!”
“You do not believe your own words; you
are obliged to know better. I love you as
my cousin, love you somewhat as I love uncle
Eric, love you as the sole young relative left
to me, as the only companion of my lonely
childhood; but other love than this I never
had, never can have for you. Hugh, my
cousin, look fearlessly at the unvarnished
truth; neither you nor I have one spark of
that affection which alone can sanction marriage.
We are utterly unlike in thought,
taste, feeling, habits of life, and aspirations;
I have no sympathy with your pursuits, you
are invariably afflicted with ennui at the bare
suggestion of mine. Nature stamped us with
relentless antagonisms of character; I bow to
her decree, rather than to man's word. Dante
painted no purgatory dark enough to suit the
wretchedness that would result from such an
unholy union as ours would be. Think of it,
Hugh; a loveless marriage; a mere moneyed
partnership; a sort of legal contract; the only
true union being of bank stock, railroad
shares, and broad plantations.” She leaned
against one of the pillars with her arms folded,
and a cold, merciless smile curling the beautiful
mouth.
“Indeed, you wrong me! my worshipped
cousin. You are dearer to me than everything
else on earth. I have loved you, and
you only, from my boyhood; you have been a
lovely idol from earliest recollection!”
“You are mistaken, most entirely mistaken;
I am not to be deceived, neither can you
hoodwink yourself. You like me, you love
me, in the same quiet way that I love you;
you admire me, perhaps, more than any one
you chance to know just now; you are partial
to my beauty, and, from long habit, have
come to regard me as your property, much in
the same light as that in which you look upon
your costly diamond buttons, or your high-spirited
horses, or rare imported pointers. After
a fashion you like me, Hugh; I know you
do; and, my cousin, it would be most lamentable
and unnatural if you had not some affection
for me; but love such as a man should
have for the woman whom he makes his life-companion,
and calls by the sacred name of
wife, you have not one atom of. I do not
wish to wound you, but I must talk to you as
any reasonable woman would on a question
of such great importance; for I hold it no light
thing for two souls to burden themselves with
vows which neither can possibly perform.
Hugh, I abhor shams! and I tell you now
that I never will be a party to that which
others have arranged without my consent.”
“Ah! I see how matters stand. Having
disposed of your heart, and lavished your love
elsewhere, you shrink from fulfilling the sacred
obligations that make you mine. I little
had not left you feeling so secure. My uncle
has not proved the faithful guardian I believed
him when I entrusted my treasure, my
affianced bride to his care.”
Bitter disappointment flashed in his face
and quivered in his voice, rendering him reckless
of consequences. But though he gazed
fiercely at her as he uttered the taunt, it
produced not the faintest visible effect; the
cloudless chiselled face still wore its quiet smile
of mild irony, and the low clear voice preserved
its sweetness.
“You do my father rank injustice, Hugh.
Not Ladon was more faithful or tireless than
he has been.”
“He can not deny that the treasure has
been stolen, nevertheless!”
“He probably can and will deny that the
golden treasure has been snatched from his
guardianship. Another Atlas or a second
Hercules would be needed for such a theft.”
The application stung him; he crimsoned,
and retorted with a degree of bitterness of
which he was probably unconscious at the
moment:
“You, at least, dare not deny my charge,
my truthful, constant fiancèe!”
“Either you over-estimate my supposed
offence or under-rate my courage; there are
few honorable things which I dare not do.”
“Confess, then, who stands between your
heart and mine. I have a right to ask; I will
know.”
“You forget yourself, my cousin. Your right
is obviously a debatable question; we will waive
it, if you please. I have told you already, and
now I repeat it for the last time, I will not go
with you to the altar, because neither of us
has proper affection for the other to warrant
such a union; because it would be an infamous
pecuniary contract, revolting to every true
soul. I do not want your estate, and you
should be content with your ample fortune
without coveting my inheritance, or consenting
to sell your manhood to mammon. I
would not suit you for a wife; go find some
more congenial spirit, some gentle, clinging
girl, who will live only in your love and make
you forget all else in her presence. I have
no fancy for the Gehenna our married life
would inevitably prove. Henceforth there is
no margin for misapprehension; understand
that we meet in future as cousins, only as
cousins, acknowledging no other relationship,
no other tie save that of consanguinity; for
I do not hesitate to snap the links that were
forged in my babyhood, to annul the unrighteous
betrothal of other hands. Hugh, cherish
no animosity against me; I merit none. Because
we can not be more, shall we be less
than friends?”
She held out her hand, but he was too
angry to accept it, and asked, haughtily:
“Shall I break this pleasant piece of infor
mation to my uncle? Or do you feel quite
equal to the task of blighting all his long-cherished
hopes, as well as mine?”
“I leave it in your hands; consult your discretion,
or your pleasure; to me it matters
little. Remember my earnest request, that
you bear me no malice in the coming years.
Good-night, my cousin.”
She turned to leave him, but he caught her
dress, and exclaimed, with more tenderness
than he had ever manifested before:
“Oh, Irene! do not reject me utterly! I
can not relinquish you. Give me one more
year to prove my love; to win yours. If your
proud heart is still your own, may I not hope
to obtain it, by —.”
“No, Hugh! no. As well hope to inspire
affection in yonder mute marble guardians.
Forgive me if I pain you, but I must be candid
at every hazard.” She pointed to the
statues near the door, and went through the
green-house to the library, thence to the
observatory, expecting, ere long, to be joined
by her father. Gradually the house became
quiet, and, oppressed with the painful sense of
coming trouble, she sought her own room just
as the clock struck twelve. Pausing to count
the strokes, she saw a light gleaming through
the key-hole of her father's door, opposite her
own, and heard the sound of low but earnest
conversation mingled with the restless tramp
of pacing feet. She was powerfully tempted
to cross the passage, knock, and have the
ordeal ended then and there; but second
thought whispered, “To-morrow will soon be
here; be patient.” She entered her room,
and, wearied by the events of the day, fell
asleep, dreaming of the new lot in the cemetery,
and the lonely, joyless man who haunted
it.
As she adjusted her riding-habit the following
morning, and suffered Andrew to arrange
her stirrup, the latter said, good-humoredly:
“So, Mas' Hugh get the start of you? It
is n't often he beats you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He started a while ago, and, if he drives as
he generally does, he will get to his plantation
in time for dinner.”
“Did father go, too?”
“No ma'm; only Mas' Hugh, in his own
buggy.”
In the quiet, leafy laboratory of nature
there is an elixir of strength for those wise
enough to seek it; and its subtle, volatile
properties continually come to the relief of
wearied, over-taxed brains, and aching, oppressed
hearts. The human frame, because of
its keen susceptibility to impressions from the
external world, and its curious adaptation
thereunto, becomes, like the strings of an
Æolian harp, attuned perfectly to the breath
that sweeps it, and is by turns the exponent
of stormy passion or holy resignation. Thus
from the cool serenity, the dewy sparkle, and
derived a renewal of strength such as no
purely human aid could have furnished. She
remembered now the sibyllic words of the
young minister: “You, too, must tread the wine-press
alone,” and felt that the garments of her
soul were taking the dye, the purple stain of
the wine of trial. Doubtless he had alluded
to a different ordeal, but she knew that all the
future of her earthly existence was to receive
its changeless hue from this day, and she could
entertain but a modicum of doubt as to what
that hue would prove. Returning from her
ride, she stood a moment on the front step,
looking down the avenue. The bermuda terrace
blazed in the sun-light like a jewelled
coronal, the billowy sea of foliage, crested by
dewy drops, flashed and dripped as the soft air
stirred the ancient trees, the hedges were all
alive with birds and butterflies, the rich aroma
of brilliant and countless flowers, the graceful
curl of smoke wreathing up from the valley
beyond, the measured musical tinkle of bells
as the cows slowly descended the distant hills,
and, over all, like God's mantling mercy, a
summer sky—
To Aaron, when he took it off to die.”
Involuntarily she stretched out her arms to
the bending heavens and her lips moved, but
no sound escaped to tell what petition went
forth to the All-Father. She went to her
room, changed her dress, and joined her father
at the breakfast-table. Half-concealed behind
his paper, he took no notice of her quiet
“good-morning,” seeming absorbed in an editorial.
The silent meal ended, he said, as they
left the table:
“I want to see you in the library.”
She followed him without comment; he
locked the door, threw open the blinds, and
drew two chairs to the window, seating himself
immediately in front of her. For a moment
he eyed her earnestly, as if measuring
her strength; and she saw the peculiar sparkle
in his falcon eye, which, like the first lurid
flash in a darkened sky, betokened tempests.
“Irene, I was very much astonished to learn
the result of an interview between Hugh and
yourself; I can scarcely believe that you were
in earnest, and feel disposed to attribute your
foolish words to some trifling motive of girlish
coquetry or momentary pique. You have
long been perfectly well aware that you and
your cousin were destined for each other; that
I solemnly promised the marriage should take
place as soon as you were of age; that all my
plans and hopes for you centered in this one
engagement. I have not pressed the matter
on your attention of late, because I knew you
had sense enough to appreciate your position,
and because I believed you would be guided
by my wishes in this important affair. You
are no longer a child; I treat you as a reason
able woman, and now I tell you candidly it is
the one wish of my heart to see you Hugh's
wife.”
He paused, but she made no answer, and,
taking one of her hands, he continued:
“My daughter, I can not believe that you,
on whom I have lavished so much love and
tenderness, can deliberately refuse to accede
to my wishes, can disappoint my dearest hopes.
Of course, in all that I do or counsel, I am
actuated only by a desire to promote your
happiness. My dear child, I have a right to
direct you, and surely your affection for your
only parent will induce you to yield to his
wishes.”
He tightened his clasp of her cold hand,
and leaned toward her.
“Father, my happiness will not be promoted
by this marriage, and if you are actuated
solely by this motive, allow me to remain just
as I am. I should be most miserable as Hugh's
wife; most utterly miserable.”
“Why so?”
“For reasons which I gave him last night,
and which it is hardly necessary for me to recapitulate,
as he doubtless repeated them to you.”
“Let me hear them, if you please.”
“Our characters are totally dissimilar; our
tastes and opinions wide as the poles asunder;
our natures could not possibly harmonize;
and, more than all, we do not love each other
as people should who stand at the altar and
ask God's blessing on their marriage. I suppose,
sir, that Hugh tells you he loves me;
perhaps he likes me better than any one else
beside himself, but the deep, holy affection
which he ought to feel for the woman whom
he calls his wife, has no existence in his heart.
It will prove a mere temporary disappointment,
nothing seriously touching his happiness;
for, I assure you, that is not in my
keeping.”
“And if I answer that I know the contrary
to be true?”
“Father, I should still adhere to my own
opinion; and, even were I disposed to accept
your view of it, my own feelings would stand
an everlasting barrier to our union. I do not
love Hugh, and—I must tell you, sir, that I
think it wrong for cousins to marry.”
“You talk like a silly child; I thought you
had more sense. Your objections I have listened
to; they are imaginary and trifling; and
I ask you, as a father has a right to ask his
child, to waive these ridiculous notions, and
grant the only request I have ever made of
you. Tell me, my daughter, that you will
consent to accept your cousin, and thereby
make me happy.”
He stooped and kissed her forehead, watching
her countenance eagerly.
“Oh, father! do not ask this of me! Anything
else! anything else.”
“Answer me, my darling child; give me
your promise.”
His hold was painful, and an angry pant
mingled with the pleading tones. She raised
her head and said, slowly:
“My father, I can not.”
He threw her hand from him, and sprang
up.
“Ingrate! do you mean to say that you will
not fulfil a sacred engagement?—that you
will break an oath given to the dead?
“I do not hold myself bound by the oaths
of another, though he were twice my father.
I am responsible for no acts but my own. No
one has the right to lay his hand on an unconscious
infant, slumbering in her cradle, and
coolly determine, for all time, her destiny.
You have the right to guide me, to say what I
shall not do with your consent, but I am a
free-born American, thank God! I did not
draw my breath in Circassia, to be bartered
for gold by my father. I, only, can give myself
away. Why should you wish to force this
marriage on me? Father, do you think that
a woman has no voice in a matter involving
her happiness for life? Is one of God's holy
sacraments to become a mere pecuniary transaction?—only
a legal transfer of real estate
and cotton bales? Oh, my father! would you
make yourself and your child parties to so
ignoble, so loathsome a proceeding?”
“Oh! I suspected that your cursed obstinacy
would meet me here, as well as elsewhere
in your life. You have been a source of trouble
and sorrow from your birth; but the time
has come to end all this. I will not be trifled
with; I tried to reason with you, to influence
you through your affection, but it seems you
have none. If I resort to other measures now,
you have only yourself to thank. Irene, there
can be peace between us, but upon one condition;
I have set my heart on seeing you
Hugh's wife; nothing less will satisfy me. I
warn you, as you value your own happiness,
not to thwart me; it is no trivial risk that you
run. I tell you now, I will make you suffer
severely if you dare to disobey me in this matter.
You know that I never menace idly, and
if you refuse to hear reason, I will utterly disinherit
you, though you are my only child.
Ponder it well. You have been raised in
luxury, and taught to believe yourself one of
the wealthiest heiresses in the state; contrast
your present position, your elegant home, your
fastidious tastes gratified to the utmost; contrast
all this, I say, with poverty — imagine
yourself left in the world without one cent!
Think of it! think of it! My wealth is my
own, mark you, and I will give it to whom I
please, irrespective of all claims of custom.
Now the alternative is fully before you, and
on your own head be the consequences. Will
you accede to my wishes, as any dutiful child
should, or will you deliberately incur my everlasting
displeasure? Will you marry Hugh?”
Both rose, and stood confronting each other;
his face burning with wrath, every feature
quivering with passion; hers white and rigid
as a statue's, with only a blue cord-like crescent
between the arching brows to index her
emotion. Steadily the large violet eyes looked
into those that regarded her so angrily; there
was no drooping of the long silken fringes;
no moisture dimming their depths; then they
were raised slowly, as if to the throne of God,
registering some vow, and, pressing her hands
over her heart, she said, solemnly:
“Father, I will not marry Hugh, so help
me God!”
Silence fell between them for several moments;
something in that fixed, calm face of
his child awed him, but it was temporary, and,
with a bitter laugh, he exclaimed:
“Oh, very well! Your poverty be upon
your own head in coming years, when the
grave closes over me. At my death every
cent of my property passes to Hugh, and with
it my name, and between you and me, as an
impassable gulf, lies my everlasting displeasure.
Understand that, though we live here
in one house, as father and child, I do not, and
will not, forgive you. You have defied me;
now eat the bitter fruit of your disobedience.”
“I have no desire to question the disposition
of your wealth; if you prefer to give it to my
cousin, I am willing, perfectly willing. I
would rather beg my bread from door to door,
proud though I am; I would sooner soil my
Huntingdon hands by washing or cooking,
than soil my soul with perjury, or sell myself
for gold. It is true, I love elegance and luxury;
I enjoy wealth as well as most people do, I
suppose; but poverty does not frighten me half
so much as a loveless marriage. Give Hugh
your fortune, if you wish, but, father! father!
let there be no estrangement between you
and me. I can bear everything but your displeasure;
I dread nothing so much as the loss
of your love. Oh, father! forgive a disappointment
which my conscience would not
permit me to avert. Forgive the pain which,
God knows, I would not have caused you, if I
could have avoided it without compromising
principle. Oh, my father! my father! let not
dollars and cents stand between you and your
only child. I ask nothing now but your love.”
She drew nearer, but he waved her off and
said, with a sneering laugh:
“Away with all such cant! I gave you the
choice, and you made your selection with your
eyes fully open. Accept poverty as your
doom, and with it my eternal displeasure. I
intend to make you suffer for your obstinacy.
You shall find, to your sorrow, that I am not to
be trifled with, or my name is not Leonard
Huntingdon. Now go your own way, and
find what a thorny path you have made
for yourself.”
He pointed to the door as he had done, years
before, when the boarding-school decree went
forth, and without remonstrance she left him,
Soon after, the sound of his buggy wheels told
her that he had gone to town, and, leaning
her cheek on her hand, she recalled the painful
conversation from first to last. That he
meant all he had threatened, and more, she did
not question for an instant, and, thinking of
her future, she felt sick at heart. But with
the shame and sorrow came, also, a thrill of
joy; she had burst the fetters; she was free.
Wounded affection bled freely, but brain and
conscience exulted in the result. She could
not reproach herself; she resolved not to reproach
her father, even in thought. Hers
was not a disposition to vent its griefs and
troubles in tears; these had come to her relief
but three or four times in the course of a
life, and on this occasion she felt as little inclination
to cry as to repine idly over what
could not be rectified. Her painful reverie
was interrupted by the click of approaching
crutches, and she rose to meet her uncle.
“Do not get up, Irene; I will sit here beside
you. My child, look at me—are you sick?”
“No, uncle Eric; what put that absurd notion
into your head? I rode past your door
two hours ago, and was powerfully tempted to
stop and breakfast with your bachelorship.”
He regarded her anxiously, noting the singular
crescent on her pale forehead, and connecting
it with the scowling face of his brother-in-law,
which had passed him on the avenue.
He knew that something very unusual had
excited the calm, inflexible woman till the hot
blood swelled that vein, but he forebore all
question.
“What are you thinking of, uncle Eric?”
“Only of a line in a poem which I was
reading last night. Shall I quote it for you?
All curdled —.'”
She looked in his face, smiled, and passed
her hand over her forehead, hiding the blue
cord.
“Ah! a gentle way of reading me a lecture
on ill-temper. I lay no claim to saintship, you
know, and when I am out of humor my face
won't play the hypocrite. I am no Griselda;
obviously none of my name can ever expect
canonization on that score. Come to the conservatory;
the lemons are in full bloom, and
marvellously sweet. Put your hand on my
shoulder, and come down slowly.”
“Where is Hugh? I thought he came home
yesterday?”
“He started to his plantation at daylight.
Take care, sir; these flags are slippery with
dew; your crutches are unsafe.”
| CHAPTER XIX. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |