University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The icy breath of winter, the mild wandering
airs of spring, the luxurious laissez-nous-faire
murmurs of summer, and the solemn
moan of autumn, had followed each other in
rapid succession. Two years rolled on, stained
with the tears of many, ringing with the songs
and laughter of a fortunate few. The paths
of some had widened into sunny pastures,
flower-starred, Cridavana meadows; others
had grown narrower still, choked with the
débris of dead hopes, which the tide of time
drifted from the far-off glittering peaks of

early aspirations. The witchery of Southern
spring again enveloped W—, and Irene
stood on the lawn surveying the “greenery
of the out-door world” that surrounded her.
Peach and plum orchards on the slope of
a neighboring hill wore their festal robes of
promise, and as the loitering breeze stole
down to the valley, they showered rosy perfumed
shells, tiny avant couriers of abundant
fruitage. The air was redolent with delicate
distillations from a thousand flowery laboratories,
stately magnolias rustled their polished
shimmering leaves, long-haired acacias trailed
their fringy shadows over the young wavering
grass-blades; and, far above the soft green
wilderness of tangled willows, regal pines
spread out their wind-harps, glittering in the
sunshine like spiculæ of silver. A delicious
langor brooded in the atmosphere, the distant
narrow valleys were full of purple haze; beyond
and above the town, that nestled so
peacefully along the river banks, the marble
fingers of the cemetery gleamed white and
cold; and afar off, and over all, was heard the
measured music of factory bells, chanting a
hymn to sacred and eternal Labor. With her
brown straw hat in one hand and a willow-basket
filled with flowers in the other, Irene
leaned against the glossy trunk of an ancient
wild-cherry tree, and looked in dreamy abstraction
down the long shadowy vista of venerable
elms. Paragon lay panting on the grass
at her feet, now and then snapping playfully
at the tame pigeons who had followed their
mistress out upon the lawn, fluttering and
cooing continually around her; and a few
yards off a golden pheasant and two peacocks
sunned their gorgeous plumage on the smoothly-cut
hedges.
and in this woman's sad but intensely calm
countenance a joyless life found silent history.
The pale forehead bore not a single line, the
quiet mouth no ripple marks traced by rolling
years; but the imperial eyes, coldly blue as
the lonely ice-girt Marjelen-See, revealed, in
their melancholy crystal depths, the drearv
isolation of soul with which she had been
cursed from infancy. Her face was an ivory
tablet inscribed with hieroglyphics which no
social, friendly Champollion had yet deciphered.
Satiated with universal homage, weary of the
frivolity of the gay circle surrounding her, and
debarred from all hope of affectionate, sympathetic
intercourse with her father, her real life
was apart from the world in which report said
that she ruled supreme. She wandered in
the primeval temples of nature, and ministered,
a solitary priestess, at the silent, blazing shrine
of Astronomy. The soft folds of her white
muslin dress stirred now and then, and the
blue ribbons that looped back her braided
hair fluttered like mimic pennons in the
breeze; but the clematis bells which clustered
around her cameo pin were unshaken by the
slow pulsations of her sad heart. She felt that
her life was passing rapidly, unimproved, and
aimless; she knew that her years, instead of
being fragrant with the mellow fruitage of
good deeds, were tedious and joyless, and that
the gaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing
upon her. The elasticity of spirits, the
buoyancy of youth had given place to a species
of stoical mute apathy; a mental and moral
paralysis was stealing over her.

The slamming of the ponderous iron gate
attracted her attention, and she saw a carriage
ascending the avenue. As it reached a point
opposite to the spot where she stood it halted,
the door was thrown open, and a gentleman
stepped out, and approached her. The form
was not familiar, and the straw hat partially
veiled the features, but he paused before her,
and said, with a genial smile:

“Don't you know me?”

“Oh, Harvey! My brother! My great
guardian angel!”

A glad light kindled in her face, and she
stretched out her hands with the eagerness of
a delighted child. Time had pressed heavily
upon him; wrinkles were conspicuous about
the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the
black hair had become a steely gray. He was
not

but weather-beaten by its storms; and, in lieu
of the idiosyncratic placidity of former days, a
certain restlessness of expression betokened
internal disquiet. Holding her hands, he
drew her nearer to him, scrutinized her
features, and a look of keen sorrow crossed his
own as he said, almost inaudibly:

“I feared as much! I feared as much!
The shadow has spread.”

“You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you
promised to write, and failed. I sent you one
letter, but it was never answered.”

“Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never
received it, believe me. True, I expected to
write to you frequently when I parted with
you, but subsequently determined that it
would be best not to do so. Attribute my
silence, however, to every other cause than
want of remembrance.”

“Your letters would have been a great stay
and comfort to me.”

“Precisely for that reason I sent none. I
knew that you must rely upon yourself; that
I could not properly judge of the circumstances
which surrounded and influenced you. One,
at least, of my promises has been faithfully
fulfilled: I have prayed for you as often as
for myself in all these years of separation.”

“God only knows how I have wanted, how I
have needed you, to guide and strengthen me.”

She raised the two hands that still held
hers, and bowed her forehead upon them.

“You had a better friend, dear child, always
near you, who would have given surer
guidance and borne all your burdens. What
I most dreaded has come to pass. You have
forgotten your God.”

“No! indeed, no! but He has forsaken me.”

“Come and sit down here, and tell me what
the trouble is.”

He led her to a circular seat surrounding a
venerable oak, and placed himself where he
could command a full view of her face.

“Mr. Young, you must have had a hard life
out west; you have grown old so fast since I
saw you. But you have been doing good, and
that is sufficient recompense.”

“I have, of course, endured some hardships
inseparable from such a long sojourn on the
frontier, but my labors have been so successful
that I forget everything in my great reward.
Many a fair June day I have wished that you
could see my congregation, as we stood up to
sing in a cool shady grove of beech or hackberry,
offering our orisons in `God's first temples.'
No brick and mortar walls, but pavements
of God's own living green, and dome of
blue, and choir of sinless, consecrated birds.
My little log cabin in the far West is very
dear to me, for around it cluster some of the
most precious reminiscences of my life. The
greatest of my unsatisfied wants was that of
congenial companionship. I betook myself to
gardening in self-defence, and finer annuals
you never saw than those which I raised on
my hill-side. My borders I made of mignonette,
and the rusty front of my cabin I draped
with beautiful festoons of convolvulus. My
hermitage was pleasant enough, though humble
indeed.”

“Tell me the secret of your quiet contentment.
By what spell do you invoke the
atmosphere of happy serenity that constantly
surrounds you?”

“It is neither occult nor cabalistic; you will
find it contained in the few words of Paul:
`Be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding
in the work of the Lord; forasmuch as ye
know that your labor is not in vain in the
Lord.' There is nothing recondite in this
injunction; all may comprehend and practice
it.”

“It may seem so to you, who dispense peace
and blessings wherever you move; but to me,
alone and useless, cut off from such a sphere
of labor, it might as well be locked up in Parsee.
I thought once that God created every
human being for some particular work—some
special mission. That, in order that the vast
social machinery of the world might move harmoniously,
each had his or her allotted duties,
in accordance with the great fundamental law
of economy—`division of labor.' But, like
many other youthful theories, I have been
compelled to part with this, also.”

“Rather hold fast to it, for the precious
truth it is. Do you not find, on reflection,
that the disarrangement, the confusion in this
same social mill proves that some of the human
cogs are broken, or out of place, or not
rendering their part? I am older than you,
and have travelled farther, and I have yet to
see the New Atlantis, where every member of
society discharges fully the duties assigned.

“Irene, `why stand ye here all the day idle?'
Why wait afar off to glean, where you should
be a busy reaper in God's whitening harvestfields?
— closing your ears to the cager cry,
`The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are
few!'”

A wintry smile flitted over her lips, and she
shook her head.

“Ah, sir! long ago I marked out a different
programme; but my hands are tied. I am led
along another path; I can do nothing now.”

“You owe allegiance first to your Maker.
What stands between you and your work?
Irene, tell me what is this dark cloud that
shuts out sunshine from your heart, and throws
such a chill shadow over your face?”

He drew down the hand with which she
shaded her eyes, and bent his head till the
gray locks touched her check. She did not
shrink away, but looked at him steadily, and
answered:

“It is a cloud that enveloped me from the
hour of my birth, and grows denser each year;
I can neither escape from nor dissipate it. It
will not break in storms and clear away; but,
perchance, as I go down to my tomb the silver
lining may show itself. The sun was
eclipsed when I first opened my eyes in this
world, and my future was faithfully adumbrated.
I am not superstitions, but I can not be
blind to the striking analogy—the sombre symbolism.”

His grave face was painfully convulsed as he
listened to her, and it was with difficulty that
he restrained himself from drawing the head to
his shoulder, and revealing all the depth and
strength of love which had so long ruled his
heart and saddened his life. But he merely
enclosed her hand in both his with a gentle
pressure, and said:

“Carry out your metaphor, and at least you
must admit that, though the sun was eclipsed,
stars come out to light you.”

“But, at best, one shivers and gropes through
the cold light of stars, and mine have all set in
a clouded sky. You only are left to me; you
shine on me still, undimmed, all the brighter
for my gloom. Oh! if I could have you always.
But as well stretch out my hands to
clutch the moon.”

He started, and looked at her wistfully, but
the utter passionlessness of her face and manner
showed him all too plainly the nature of
her feelings and her iguorance of his own.

“Irene, you deal in similies and vague generalities.
Has absence shaken your confidence
in me? Be frank; tell me what this haunting
trouble is, and let me help you to exorcise it.”

“You can not. All the Teraphim of the
East would not avail. Let it suffice that,
many years since, I displeased my father in a
trifling matter; and, as I grew older, my views
and wishes conflicted with his. I disappointed
a darling plan which he had long cherished,
and we are estranged. We live here, father
and daughter, in luxury; we give and go to
parties and dinners; before the world we keep
up the semblance of affection and good feeling;
but he can not, will not, forgive me. I
have ceased to ask or to expect it; the only
possible condition of reconciliation is one to
which I can never consent; and, for more than
two years, he has scarcely spoken to me except
when compelled to do so. I pass my days
in a monotonous round, wishing for to-morrow,
and my nights yonder, among the stars. I
have little money to dispense in charity; I
dress richly, but the materials are selected by
my father, who will have my clothing of the
costliest fabrics, to suit his elegant and fastidious
taste. Though an only child, and presumptive
heiress of one of the finest estates at
the South, I have not a dime in the world which
I can call my own, except a small sum which
he voluntarily allows me per annum. Mark
you, I do not complain of my father—for, in the
twinkling of an eye, I could change this unnatural
position of affairs in my home; I only
mention some stern facts to prove to you that
my hands are tied. It was once the fondest
desire of my life to expend the fortune that
I supposed belonged to me in alleviating suffering
and want, and making people happy
around me; but, like other dewy sparkles of
childhood, this hope vanished as the heat and
strife of life overtook me.”

She spoke in a low, measured tone, unshaken
by emotion, and the expression of dreary abstraction
showed that she had long accustomed
herself to this contemplation of her lot. The
minister was deeply moved as he watched her
beautiful calm features, so hushed in their joylessness,
and he passed his hand across his eyes
to wipe away the moisture that so unwontedly
dimmed them. He pressed her fingers to his
lips, and said, encouragingly:

“You asked me once to be your brother;
my dear child, let me prove myself such now;
let me say that, perhaps, it is your duty to
yield obedience to your father's wishes, since
this deplorable alienation results from your
refusal. You never can be happy, standing
in this unnatural relation to an only parent.
Because it is painful, and involves a sacrifice
on your part, should you consider it any the
less your duty? Has he not a right to expect
that his wishes should guide you?”

She rose instantly, and, withdrawing her
hands, folded them together and replied, with
an indescribable mingling of hauteur and sorrow:

“Has he a right to give my hand to a man
whom I do not love? Has he a right to drag
me to the altar, and force me to swear to `love
and honor' one whom I can not even respect?
Could you stand by and see your father doom
your sister to such a miserable fate? I would
consent to die for my father to-morrow, if
thereby I might make him happy; but I can
not endure to live, and bring upon myself the
curse of a loveless marriage; and, God is my
witness, I never will!”

Her eyes gleamed like blue steel, and the
stern, gem-like features vividly reminded him
of a medal of the noble Medusa which he had
frequently examined and admired while in
Rome. In that brief flash he saw, with astonishment,
that beneath the studiedly calm
exterior lay an iron will, and a rigidness of
purpose, which he had never conjectured belonged
to her character.

“Forgive me, Irene; I retract my words.
Ignorant of the nature of the demand, I should
not have presumed to counsel you. Keep
true to the instincts of your own heart, and
you will never go far astray in the path of
duty. May God bless and comfort you! Other
friends can lend you no assistance in these
peculiar circumstances.”

He could not trust himself to say more, for
feelings too painful for utterance stirred the
depths of his soul.

For some moments silence reigned; then,
standing before him, Irene said, with touching
pathos:

“My friend, I am so desolate! so lonely! I
am drifting down the current of life aimless,
hopeless, useless! What shall I do with my
future? I believe I am slowly petrifying; I
neither suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelings
are deadened; I am growing callous,
indifferent to everything. I am fast losing
sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed
up in self, oblivious of the noble aspirations
which spanned the early years like a bow
of promise. I am cut off from companionship;
have no friend, save an uncle, to whom I could
put out my hand for support. People talk of
the desolation of Western wilds and Eastern
deserts; but, oh! God knows there is no isolation
comparable to that of a woman who walks
daily through halls of wealth and gay salons,
knowing that no human being understands or
truly sympathises with her. My prophet! as
you long ago foretold, I am `treading the wine-press
alone.' Once more I ask you, what shall
I do with my life?”

“Give it to God.”

“Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in
necessity. He will not accept the worthless

thing thrown at His feet as a dernier resort.
Once it was my choice, but the pure, clear-eyed
faith of my childhood shook hands with
me when you left me in New York.”

For a short while he struggled with himself,
striving to overcome the unconquerable impulse
which suddenly prompted him, and his
face grew pallid as hers as he walked hastily
across the smooth grass and came back to her.
Her countenance was lifted toward the neighboring
hill, her thoughts evidently far away,
when he paused before her, and said, unsteadily:

“Irene, my beloved! give yourself to me.
Go with me into God's vineyard; let us work
together, and consecrate our lives to His service.”

The mesmeric eyes gazed into his, full of
wonder, and the rich ruby tint fled from her
lips as she pondered his words in unfeigned
astonishment, and, shaking her regal head, answered,
slowly:

“Harvey, I am not worthy. I want your
counsel, not your pity.”

“Pity! you mistake me. If you have been
ignorant so long, know now that I have loved
you from the evening you first sat in my study
looking over my foreign sketches. You were
then a child, but I was a man, and I knew all
that you had so suddenly become to me. Because
of this great disparity in years, and
because I dared not hope that one so tenderly
nurtured could ever brave the hardships of
my projected life, I determined to quit New
York earlier than I had anticipated, and to
bury a foolish memory in the trackless forests of
the far West. I ought to have known the fallacy
of my expectation; I have proved it since.
Your face followed me; your eyes met mine
at every turn; your glittering hair swept
on every breeze that touched my cheek. I
battled with the image, but it would not avail;
I resolved not to write to you, but found that
the dearest part of my letters from home
consisted of the casual allusions which they
contained to you. Then came tidings from
Louisa that you were probably married—had
long been engaged to your cousin; and, though
it wrung my heart to think of you as the wife
of another, I schooled myself to hope that, for
your sake, it might be true. But years passed;
no confirmation reached me; and the yearning
to look on your dear face once more took possession
of me. My mother wrote, urging me
to visit her this summer, and I came out of my
way to hear of and to see you. The world
sneers at the possibility of such love as mine,
and I doubt not that it is very rare among
men; but, through all the dreary separation,
I have thought of you as constantly, and fondly,
and tenderly as when I first met you in my
father's house. Irene, you are young, and
singularly beautiful, and I am a gray-haired
man, much, much older than yourself; but, if
you live a thousand years, you will never find
such affection as I offer you now. There is
nothing on earth which would make me so happy
as the possession of your love. You are the
only woman I have ever seen whom I even
wished to call my wife—the only woman who,
I felt, could lend new charm to life, and make
my quiet hearth happier by her presence.
Irene, will you share my future? Can you
give me what I ask?”

The temptation was powerful—the future he
held out enticing indeed. The strong, holy,
manly love, the noble heart and head to guide
her, the firm, tender hand to support her, the
constant, congenial, and delightful companionship—all
this passed swiftly through her mind;
but, crushing all in its grasp, came the memory
of one whom she rarely met, but who held
undisputed sway over her proud heart.

Drawing close to the minister, she laid her
hands on his shoulder, and, looking reverently
up into his fine face, said, in her peculiarly
sweet clear voice:

“The knowledge of your priceless, unmerited
love makes me proud beyond degree; but I
would not mock you by the miserable and only
return I could make you—the affection of a
devoted sister. I would gladly, thankfully go
with you to your Western home, and redeem
my past by my future — but, as your wife, I
could not; and, without the protection of your
honored name, it would not be permitted me
to accompany you. I look up to you as to no
other human being; I revere and love you,
Harvey; and, oh! I wish that I could pass my
life at your side, cheered by your smile, doing
some good in the world. That I do not love
you as you wish, is my great misfortune; for
I appreciate most fully the noble privilege
you have tendered me. I do not say what I
earnestly wish could happen, that you will
find some one else who can make you happy,
because I feel that no woman whom I have
ever met is worthy of being your wife. But
I trust that the pain I may give you now will
soon pass away, and that, in time, you will
forget one who is utterly undeserving of the
honor you have conferred on her to-day.
Oh, Harvey! do not, I beg of you, let one
thought of me ever disquiet your noble, generous
heart.”

A shiver crept over her still face, and she
drooped her pale forehead. She felt two tears
fall upon her hair, and in silence he bent
down and kissed her softly, tenderly, as one
kisses a sleeping babe.

“Oh, Harvey! do not let it grieve you,
dear friend!”

He smiled sadly, as if not daring to trust
himself in words; then, after a moment, laying
his hands upon her head, in the baptism of a
deathless love, he gently and solemnly blessed
her. When his fingers were removed she
raised her eyes, but he had gone; she saw
only the retreating form through the green
arches of the grand old avenue.