University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Says D'Alembert: “The industry of men is
now so far exhausted in canvassing for places,
that none is left for fulfilling the duties of
them;” and the history of our government
furnishes a melancholy parallel. The regular
quadrennial storm had swept over the nation;
caucuses had been held and platforms fiercely
fought for, to be kicked away, plank by plank,
when they no longer served as scaffolding by
which to climb to office. Buchanan was
elected, but destined to exemplify, during his
administration, the truth of Tacitus' words:
“He was regarded as greater than a private
man whilst he remained in privacy, and would
have been deemed worthy of governing if he
had never governed.” The heat of the canvass
cooled, people settled down once more to
a condition of lethargic indifference—bought
and sold, sowed and reaped, as usual—little
realizing that the temporary lull, the perfect
calm, was treacherous as the glassy green expanse
of waters which, it is said, sometimes
covers the location of the all-destroying mælstrom
of Moskoe. Having taken an active
and prominent part in the presidential campaign,
and made frequent speeches, Russell
found himself again opposed by Mr. Huntingdon,
who was equally indefatigable during
the exciting contest. The old feud received,
if possible, additional acrimony, and there
were no bounds to the maledictions heaped
upon the young and imperturbable legislator
by his virulent antagonist. Many predicted a
duel or a street rencounter; but weeks passed,
and though, in casual meetings, Mr. Huntingdon's
glare of hate was always answered by a
mocking smile of cold disdain, the cloud floated
off without breaking into bloody showers.

Mr. Mitchell's health had failed so rapidly,
as winter approached, that Dr. Arnold persuaded
him to try the efficacy of a sea-voyage,
and he had accordingly sailed from New Orleans
in a vessel bound for Genoa. Irene
begged the privilege of accompanying him,
but her father peremptorily refused; and she
saw her uncle depart, and superintended the
closing of his house, with silent sorrow, and the
feeling of one who knows that the night is
deepening around her. In the course of the
political cataclysm much chaff came to the
surface, and whirled along with portentous
alacrity; gossip seemed to have received a new
impetus, and among the most important ondits
was that of Irene's speedy marriage to
her cousin. Hundred-tongued rumor was
busy, too, with the mysterious fact that Russell
had placed a handsome iron railing around
the humble home of his boyhood; had removed
the little three-roomed crumbling dwelling,
and planted shade-trees. Much curiosity was
excited, and the only plausible solution at
which the kindly inquiring public arrived was,
that he intended to marry somebody. But
whom? He occasionally visited at Judge
Harris' and Mr. Henderson's, and, as he had
been seen last at the house of the former, by a
species of not very abstruse ratiocination it
was finally decided, and promulgated as a
social edict, that the talented young lawyer
would soon claim Grace's hand at the altar.
In less than twenty-four hours all of fashionable
W— had discussed the young lady's
brilliant future, and were ready to tender
their congratulations to the ambitions man,
who was utterly unconscious of the commotion
which his individual plans and actions had
induced. This insatiable mania for obtaining
information about other people's affairs and
purposes, this ridiculous and contemptible
tittle-tattle, this news-mongering, scandal-pedlaring
proclivity, characteristic of cities,
towns, villages, and even country neighborhoods,
should certainly have been included by
the Massachusetts seer in his catalogue of
“social inflictions which the magistrate can not
cure or defend you from, and which must be
intrusted to the restraining force of custom,
and proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior
impressed on young people in their school
days;” and I trust I may be allowed the additional
suggestion, “by mothers around the
hearthstone.” But, unfortunately, the admirable
adage “il faut attendre le boiteux” finds
no acceptation in beau monde.

Late in the afternoon of Christmas day
Irene went into the green-house to gather a
bouquet for an invalid friend in town, and had
almost accomplished her errand when the
crash and whir of wheels drew her to the window
that looked out upon the lawn. Her
father had gone to the plantation early that
morning, and she had scarcely time to conjecture
whom the visitor would prove, when
Hugh's loud voice rang through the house,
and, soon after, he came clattering in, with
the end of his pantaloons crammed into his
boots and his whip trailing along in true boyish
fashion. As he threw down his hat, scattering
the petals of a snowy camelia, and drew
near his couisin, she saw that his face was deeply
flushed, and his eyes somewhat bloodshot.

“Hugh! what are you doing here? Father
expected you to overtake him at Crescent
Bend; you said last night that you would start
by five o'clock.”

“Merry Christmas, my beauty! I have come
for my Christmas gift. Give it to me, like the
queen you are.”

He stooped, as if to kiss her, but she shrank
back instantly, and said, gravely:

“You ought not to make promises which
you have no idea of keeping; father will be
annoyed, and wonder very much what has
happened. He was anxious that you should
go with him.”

“Oh! confound the plantation! I wish it
would sink! Of all other days none but Christmas
will suit him to tramp down there through
mud and mire. The fact is, I did not go to
sleep till four o'clock, and nobody ought to
be unchristian enough to expect me to wake
up in an hour. You may be quiet, though, for
I am on my way now to that paradise of black
mud. I only stopped to get a glimpse of you,
my Sappho! my Corinna! so don't homilize,
I pray you.”

“Better wait till daylight, Hugh; you know
the state of the roads and condition of the
bridges. It will be safer, and an economy of
time, to defer it till morning, since you have
made it so late.”

“No; I must go to-night, for I have an engagement
to ride with Maria Henderson, and
I can't get back in time if I wait till to-morrow
morning. I want to start back day after
to-morrow. As for time, Wildfire will make
it the better for the darkness; he is as much
afraid of night and shadows as if he had a
conscience, and had maltreated it, master-like.
I shall convince him that all Tam
O'Shanter's witches are in full pursuit, and his
matchless heels his only salvation.”

A shade of apprehension settled on her face,
and, placing the bouquet in a basket, she
turned to her cousin, saying:

“Indeed, you can not be insane enough to
drive that horse such a night as this weather
threatens. If go you will, in the face of a
coming rain, leave Wildfire here, and drive
one of the carriage-horses instead. I shall be
uneasy if you start with that vicious, unmanageable
incarnation of lightning. Let me
ring the bell and direct Andrew to make the
change.”

She stepped into the parlor adjoining, and
laid her fingers on the bell-cord, but he
snatched up the hand and kissed it several
times.

“No! I 'll be hanged if I don't drive my own
pearl of Arabia! I can manage him well
enough; and, beside, what do you care whether
he breaks my neck or not? Without compunction
you broke my heart, which is much
the greater catastrophe.”

“Come into the library; you don't know
what you are saying.”

She drew him into the room, where a warm
fire burned cheerfully, and made him sit down.

“Where did you go last night when you left
here? Tell me.”

“To Harry Neal's; a party of us were invited
there to drink egg-nog, and, of course,
found something stronger afterward. Then
we had a game or so of poker, and —, the
grand finale is, that I have had a deuced head
ache all day. Ah, my sweet saint! how
shocked you are, to be sure! Now, don't
lecture, or I shall be off like a flash.”

Without answering, she rang the bell and
quietly looped back the heavy crimson curtains.

“What is that for? Have you sent for
John or old Nellie to carry me up stairs, like
other bad boys sent to bed in disgrace, without
even the cold comfort of supper?”

“Hush, Hugh! hush.”

Turning to John, who opened the door and
looked in, she said:

“Tell William to make some strong coffee
as soon as possible. Mas' Hugh has a headache,
and wants some before he leaves.”

“Thank you, my angel! my unapproachable
Peri! Ugh! how cold it is. Pardon me, but
I really must warm my feet.”

He threw them carelessly on the fender of
the grate.

“Shall I get you a pair of slippers?”

“Could not afford the luxury; positively
have not the time to indulge myself.”

With a prolonged yawn he laid his head
back and closed his eyes. An expression of
disgust was discernible in his companion's
countenance, but it passed like the shadow of
a summer cloud, and she sat down at the
opposite side of the fire-place, with her eyes
bent upon the hearth, and the long silky
lashes sweeping her cheeks. A silence of some
minutes ensued; finally Hugh rapped startlingly
on his boot with the ivory handle of
his whip, and exclaimed:

“A Quaker-meeting is no part of my programme!
What the mischief are you thinking
about? — looking as solemn as an archbishop
in canonicals!”

“Do you really want to know what I am
thinking of?”

“Of course I do, if it is not something as
supernal and far off as the stars, which you
have taken under your special protection and
patronage.”

“I was thinking of a passage which I read
yesterday, and wishing that it could be
framed and hung up in every dwelling.
Emerson says: `Goethe said well, `nobody
should be rich but those who understand it.'
They should own who can administer, not
they who hoard and conceal; not they who,
the greater proprietors they are, are only the
greater beggars; but they whose work carves
out work for more, opens a path for all. For
he is the rich man in whom the people are
rich, and he is the poor man in whom the
people are poor; and how to give all access
to the master-pieces of art and nature, is the
problem of civilization.' Weighed in this
balance, how many of our millionaries, think
you, would find Belshazzar's warning traced
on their walls?”

“All of which, I suppose, I am to interpret
into a polite circumlocutory way of telling me

that I am a worthless spendthrift, squandering
away a fortune which I don't deserve,
and a disgrace to my fair cousinly Lady
Bountiful? When do you contemplate
mounting a pedestal, marble image that you
are, folding those incomparable hands of
yours, and encouraging idolatry? I promise
you I shall fall down and worship most irreproachably.
But seriously, Irene, if you do
not admire my style of living, why don't you
take me in hand, as is your privilege, and
make me a model of strait-laced propriety?”

“You might, with very great advantage to
yourself, take a little common-sense in hand.
Of course, Hugh, you are your own master, but
it frequently pains me to see you throwing
away your life and privileges so recklessly.
You might do a vast amount of good with
your money, if you felt disposed to employ it
benevolently and judiciously.”

“Well, whose fault is it? I offered to
make you my banker, and let you dispense
charities for both of us, and you snatched
back your dainty fingers in haughty refusal.
If I play Prodigal to the end of the chapter,
you are responsible for it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I am no scapegoat
for any of your short-comings. Shoulder
your own peccadilloes, if you please. But
here comes your coffee. Put the waiter on
the table, John, and tell Andrew to take Mas'
Hugh's buggy.”

“Do nothing of the kind! but send somebody
to open that everlasting gate, which
would not have disgraced ancient Thebes.
Are you classical, John? Be off, and see
about it; I must start in five minutes.”

“Hugh, be reasonable for once in your life;
you are not in a proper condition to drive
that horse. For my sake, at least, be persuaded
to wait till morning. Will you not remain,
to oblige me?”

“Oh, hang my condition! I tell you I must
and I will go, if all the stars fall and judgment
day overtakes me on the road. What
splendid coffee you always have! The most
fastidious of bashaws could not find it in his
Moorish heart to complain.”

He put on his hat, buttoned his costly fur
coat, and, flourishing his whip, came close to
his cousin.

“Good-by, beauty. I hate to leave you; upon
my word I do; but duty before pleasure, my
heavenly-eyed monitress. I have not had my
Christmas present yet, and have it I will.”

“On one condition, Hugh: that you drive
cautiously and moderately, instead of thundering
down hills and over bridges like some
express train behind time. Will you promise?”

“To be sure I will! everything in the
world; and am ready to swear it, if you are
sceptical.”

“Well then, good-by, Hugh, and take care
of yourself.”

She allowed him to press his hot lips to hers,
and, accompanying him to the door, saw him
jump into the frail open-topped buggy. Wildfire
plunged and sprang off in his usual style,
and, with a crack of the whip and wave of his
hat, Hugh was fairly started.

Seven hours later Irene sat alone at the
library table, absorbed in writing an article on
Laplace's Nebular Theory for the scientific
journal to which she occasionally contributed
over the signature of “Sabæan.” Several
books, with close “marginalias,” were scattered
around, and the “Mécanique Céleste” and a
volume of “Cosmos” lay open before her. The
servants had gone to rest; the house was
very still, the silence unbroken save by the
moan of the wind and the melancholy tapping
of the poplar branches against the outside.
The sky was black, gloomy as Malbolge; and,
instead of a hard, pattering rain, a fine, cold
mist drizzled noiselessly down the panes.
Wrapped in her work, Irene wrote on rapidly
till the clock struck twelve. She counted the
strokes, saw that there remained but one page
uncopied, and concluded to finish the MS.
At last she affixed her nom de plume, numbered
the pages, and folded the whole for transmission.
The fire was still bright; and, with no
inclination to go to sleep, she replaced the
books on their respective shelves, turned up
the wick of the lamp, and sat down close to the
grate to warm her stiffened fingers. Gradually
her thoughts wandered from the completed
task to other themes of scarcely less interest.
The week previous she had accompanied
Hugh to an operatic concert given by the
Parodi troupe, and had been astonished to
find Russell seated on the bench in front of
her. He so rarely showed himself on such
occasions, that his appearance elicited some
comment. They had met frequently since the
evening at Mr. Mitchell's, but he pertinaciously
avoided recognizing her; and, on this particular
night, though he came during an interlude
to speak to Grace Harris, who sat on the
same row of seats with Irene, he never once
directed his eyes toward the latter. This
studied neglect, she felt assured, was not the
result of the bitter animosity existing between
her father and himself; and though it puzzled
her for a while, she began finally to suspect
the true nature of his feelings, and, with woman's
rarely erring instincts, laid her finger on
the real motive which prompted him. The
report of his engagement to Grace had reached
her some days before, and now it recurred to
her mind like a haunting spectre. She did
not believe for an instant that he was attached
to the pretty, joyous girl whom rumor gave
him; but she was well aware that he was ambitious
of high social position, and feared that
he might possibly, from selfish, ignoble reasons,
seek an alliance with Judge Harris' only
daughter, knowing that the family was one of
the wealthiest and most aristocratic in the
state. She recollected, with unutterable scorn,

the frequent sneers at his blind mother, in
which Grace, Charlie, and even Mrs. Harris
had indulged in the season of trial and adversity;
and, pondering all that she had silently
endured because of her sympathy with him
and his mother, a feeling of bitterness, heretofore
unknown, rose in her heart. True, impassable
barriers divided them; but she could
not endure the thought of his wedding another
—it tortured her beyond all expression. With
a suffocating sensation she unfastened the
cameo pin that held her robe de chambre at
the throat, and threw back the collar. Taking
out her comb, she shook down her hair,
gathered it up in her hands, and tossed it over
the back of her chair, whence it fell to the
floor, coiling there in glittering rings. Life
had seemed dreary enough before; but, with
this apprehension added, it appeared insupportable,
and she was conscious of a degree of
wretchedness never dreamed of or realized
heretofore. Not even a sigh escaped her; she
was one of a few women who permit no external
evidences of suffering, but lock it securely
in their own proud hearts, and in silence
and loneliness go down into the “ghoul-haunted,”
darkened chambers to brood over it, as
did the Portuguese monarch the mouldering
remains of his murdered wife. The painful
reverie might, perhaps, have lasted till the
pallid dawn looked in with tearful eyes at the
window, but Paragon, who was sleeping on
the rug at her feet, started up and growled.
She raised her head and listened, but only the
ticking of the clock was audible, and the wailing
of the wind through the leafless poplars.

“Down, Paragon! hush, sir!”

She patted his head soothingly, and he sank
back a few seconds in quiet, then sprang up
with a loud bark. This time she heard an
indistinct sound of steps in the hall, and
thought: “Nellie sees my light through the
window, and is coming to coax me up stairs.”
Something stumbled near the threshold, a
hand struck the knob as if in hunting for it,
the door opened softly, and, muffled in his
heavy cloak, holding his hat in one hand, Russell
Aubrey stood in the room. Neither spoke,
but he looked at her with such mournful earnestness,
such eager yet grieved compassion,
that she read some terrible disaster in his eyes.
The years of estrangement, all that had passed
since their childhood, was forgotten; studied
conventionalities fell away at sight of him
standing there, for the first time, in her home.
She crossed the room with a quick, uncertain
step, and put out her hands toward him —
vague, horrible apprehension blanching the
beautiful lips, which asked, shiveringly:

“What is it, Russell? what is it?”

He took the cold little hands tremblingly in
his, and endeavored to draw her back to the
hearth, but she repeated:

“What has happened? Is it father, or
Hugh?”

“Your father is well, I believe; I passed
him on the road yesterday. Sit down, Miss
Huntingdon; you look pale and faint.”

Her fingers closed tightly over his; he saw
an ashen hue settle on her face, and, in an unnaturally
calm, low tone, she asked:

“Is Hugh dead? Oh, my God! why don't
you speak, Russell?”

“He did not suffer much; his death was too
sudden.”

Her face had such a stony look that he
would have passed his arm around her, but
could not disengage his hand; she seemed to
cling to it as if for strength.

“Won't you let me carry you to your room,
or call a servant? You are not able to stand.”

She neither heeded nor heard him.

“Was it that horse; or how was it?”

“One of the bridges had been swept away
by the freshet, and, in trying to cross, he
missed the ford. The horse must have been
frightened and unmanageable, the buggy was
overturned in the creek, and your cousin,
stunned by the fall, drowned instantly; life
was just extinct when I reached him.”

Something like a moan escaped her, as she
listened.

“Was anything done?”

“We tried every means of resuscitation,
but they were entirely ineffectual.”

She relaxed her clasp of his fingers, and
moved toward the door.

“Where are you going, Miss Huntingdon?
Indeed you must sit down.”

“Russell, you have brought him home;
where is he?”

Without waiting for an answer, she walked
down the hall, and paused suddenly at sight of
the still form resting on a gray travelling-blanket,
with a lantern at its head, and an
elderly man, a stranger, sitting near, keeping
watch. Russell came to her side, and, drawing
his arm around her, made her lean upon
him. He felt the long, long lingering shudder
which shook the elegant, queenly figure; then
she slipped down beside the rigid sleeper, and
smoothed back from the fair brow the drippling
curling auburn hair.

“Hugh, my cousin! my playmate! Snatched
away in an hour from the life you loved so
well. Ah! the curse of our house has fallen
upon you. It is but the beginning of the end.
Only two of us are left, and we, too, shall soon
be caught up to join you.”

She kissed the icy lips which a few hours
before had pressed hers so warmly, and, rising,
walked up and down the long hall. Russell
leaned against the wall, with his arms crossed
over his chest and his head bent low, waiting
for her to speak again. But, calm and tearless,
she walked on and on, in profound silence,
till he grew restless at the strange sound
of her hair trailing along the oil-cloth, and
once more approached her.

“Are you entirely alone?”

“Yes, except the servants. Oh, Russell!
how am I to break this to my father? He
loves that boy better than everything else;
infinitely better than he ever loved me. How
shall I tell him that Hugh is dead—dead?”

“A messenger has already gone to inform
him of what has happened, and this distressing
task will not be yours. Herbert Blackwell
and I were riding together, on our return
from T—, when we reached the ford where
the disaster occurred. Finding that all our
efforts to resuscitate were useless, he turned
back, and went to your father's plantation to
break the sad intelligence to him.”

His soothing, tender tone touched some
chord deep in her strange nature, and unshed
tears gathered for the first time in her eyes.

“As you have no friend near enough to call
upon at present, I will, if you desire it, wake
the servants, remain, and do all that is necessary
until morning.”

“If you please, Russell; I shall thank you
very much.”

As her glance fell upon her cousin's gleaming
face, her lip fluttered, and she turned
away and sat down on one of the sofas in the
parlor, dropping her face in her hands. A
little while after, the light of a candle streamed
in, and Russell came with a cushion from
the library lounge, and his warm cloak. He
wrapped the latter carefully about the drooping
form, and would have placed her head on
the silken pillow, but she silently resisted without
looking up, and he left her. It was a vigil
which she never forgot; the slow hours crushed
her as they rolled, the very atmosphere
seemed filled with the curse which brooded
inexorably over the ancient house, and when,
at last, the eastern sky blanched, and the wan
forehead of the day lifted itself sadly up, it
seemed, indeed, as if—

Shaking off her covering, Irene passed into
the green-house, and broke clusters of jasmine
and spicy geranium leaves, and, thus engaged,
her glance fell upon the dashed camelia petals
which Hugh had ruined so recklessly the
previous evening. They seemed fitting symbols,
as they lay in withering heaps, of the
exuberant life so suddenly cut short—the gay,
throbbing heart so unexpectedly stilled.

And she felt a keen pang at sight of his cambric
handkerchief, which had been dropped
unconsciously between two branching fuchsias.
As she stooped and picked it up, his
name stared at her, and the soft folds gave out
the powerful breath of bergamot, of which he
was particularly fond. She turned away from
the wealth of beauty that mocked her sorrow,
and walked on to the library.

The fire had died out entirely, the curtains
were drawn back to let in the day, on the library
table the startling glare of white linen showed
the outlines of the cold young sleeper, and
Russell slowly paced the floor, his arms crossed,
as was their habit, and his powerful form unweariedly
erect. She stood by the table, half-irresolute,
then folded down the sheet, and
exposed the handsome, untroubled face. She
studied it long and quietly, and with no burst
of emotion laid her flowers against his cheek
and mouth, and scattered the geraniums over
his pulseless heart.

“I begged him not to start yesterday, and
he answered that he would go, if the stars fell
and judgment day overtook him. Sometimes
we are prophets unawares. His star has set—
his day has risen! Have mercy on his soul!
oh, my God!”

The voice was low and even, but wonderfully
sweet, and in the solemn morning light
her face showed itself gray and bloodless; no
stain of color on the still lips, only the blue
cord standing out between the brows, sure
signet of a deep distress which found no vent.
Russell felt a crushing weight lifted from his
heart; he saw that she had “loved her cousin,
cousinly—no more;” and his face flushed when
she looked across the table at him, with grateful
but indescribably melancholy eyes, which
had never been closed during that night of
horror.

“I have come to relieve you, Russell, from
your friendly watch. Few would have acted
as you have done, and for all your generous
kindness to poor Hugh I thank you most earnestly,
as well for my father as myself. The
day may come, perhaps, when I shall be able
to prove my gratitude, and the sincerity of
my friendship, which has never wavered since
we were children together. Until that day,
farewell, Russell; but believe that I rejoice to
hear of your successes.”

She held out her hand, and, as he took it in
his, which trembled violently, he felt, even
then, that there was no quiver in the icy
white fingers, and that his name rippled over
her lips as calmly as that of the dead had done
just before. She endured his long, searching
gaze, like any other Niobe, and he dropped
the little pearly hand and quitted the room.
She heard his quick step ring changes down
the long hall and stony steps, and, when all
was still again, she knelt beside the table, and
crossing her arms over it, bowed her face upon
them. Now and then the servants looked in,
but crept away awed, closing the door stealthily;
and as the day advanced, and the news of
what had happened flew through the town,
friends came to offer assistance and condolence.
But none dared disturb or address the kneeling
figure, veiled by waving hair, and giving
no more sign of life than the form before her.
At ten o'clock Mr. Huntingdon returned, and,
with his hat drawn over his eyes, went straight

to the library. He kissed the face of the dead
passionately, and his sob and violent burst of
sorrow told his child of his arrival. She lifted
her rigid face, and extended her arms,
pleadingly.

“Father! father! here, at least, you will
forgive me!”

He turned from her sternly, and answered,
with bitter emphasis:

“I will not! But for you, he would have
been different, and this would never have
happened.”

“Father, I have asked for love and pardon
for the last time. Perhaps, when you stand
over my dead body, you may remember that
you had a child who had a right to your affection.
God knows, if it were possible, I would
gladly lay my weary head down to rest, here
on Hugh's bier, and give him back to your
arms. Life is not so sweet to me that I would
not yield it up to-day without a murmur.”

She bent down and kissed her cousin, and,
with a hard, bitter expression in her countenance,
went up to her own room, locking
out Paragon and old Nellie, who followed
cautiously at her heels.