 | CHAPTER XXVI. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
“Well, Irene, what is your decision about
the party at Mrs. Churchhill's to-night?”
“I will go with you, father, if it is a matter
of so much interest to you; though, as I told
you yesterday, I should prefer declining the
invitation as far as I am concerned.”
“It is full time for you to go into society
again. You have moped at home long enough.”
“`Moped' is scarcely the right word, father.”
“It matters little what you call it, the fact
is the same. You have shut yourself in till
you have grown to look like a totally different
woman. Indeed, Irene, I won't permit it any
longer; you must come out into the world
once more. I am sick of your black looks;
let me see you in colors to-night.”
“Will not pure white content you, father?”
“No; I am tired of it; wear something
bright.”
Mr. Huntingdon smoked his after-breakfast
cigar half-reclined on the upper step, and
Irene walked up and down the wide colonnade,
enjoying the cool, dewy, fragrant June
day, whose sun was rapidly mounting in heaven.
The air was of that peculiar stillness
found only in southern summer mornings, but
now and then its holy calm was rippled by the
contented ringing whistle of a partridge far
down among the grassy orchard-depths, and
by the peaceful chime of doves cooing soft and
low, one to another, in the thickest shadows of
the dripping grove. True summer sounds—
sure concomitants of June. Frail, foam-like
cloud-navies in line-of-battle, as if piloted by
dubious, treacherous winds, sailed lazily across
at a ripening field of flashing wheat,
which bowed and wavered in a long billowy
sweep and swell as the mild June breeze stole
over it; and on a neighboring hill-side, where
sickles had been busy a few days before, the
royal yellow shocks stood thick and tall in
crowded ranks, like golden gods of Plenty.
Ah! rare June day, impearled and purpled,
freshly glowing from the robing hands of Deity,
serenely regal on her southern throne as Sheba's
brown queen.
“Irene, sit here on the step, where I can see
you without twisting my head off of my shoulders.
Now, then — what is the matter with
you?”
“Nothing unusual, father.”
“Don't evade me. Why can't you look and
act like other girls of your age?”
“Probably because I feel differently. But
to what do you allude? In what respect have
I displeased you?”
“Oh! in a thousand. You never would
look at things in their proper light. Why did
you treat William Bainbridge so coldly yesterday
evening? You know very well that he
came here expressly to see you.”
“And, for that reason, sir, I felt it my duty
to receive the visit coolly.”
“You disappointed all my plans for you
once; but let me tell you, if you are not a
down-right simpleton, you will accept the offer
William Bainbridge came here to make. You
are aware of the warm friendship which has
always existed between the governor and myself,
and his son is considered the finest match
in the state. If you live a thousand years
you will never have a better offer, or another
as good; and I do hope, my daughter, that you
will not be insane enough to reject him.”
“Father, why are you so anxious to get rid
of your only child?”
“I am not; but you must marry some time,
and I know very well such an opportunity as
this will not recur.”
“Don't you think, sir, that you and I could
live always happily here without planting a
stranger at our fireside? Father, let us understand
each other fully. I speak deliberately
and solemnly—I shall never marry.”
Mr. Huntingdon started up from his indolent
posture and surveyed his daughter
keenly.
Her spotless muslin morning-dress swept
down the marble steps, its wide sleeves falling
away from the rounded dazzling arms, and a
black cord and tassel girding the waist. The
geranium leaves fastened at her throat were
unstirred as the silver-dusted lilies sleeping,
lotos-like, on some lonely tarn; and the dewy
Lamarque roses twined in her colled hair
glittered and kindled into faint opaline flushes
as the sunshine quivered into their creamy
hearts. One hand held a steel ring, to which
half-a-dozen keys were attached—the other
toyed unconsciously with the heavy tassel,
and the hushed face, with its deep holy eyes,
was lifted to meet her father's.
“Nonsense, Irene! I have heard fifty
women say that same thing, and have danced
at their weddings six months later.”
“I do not doubt it. But, father, no one will
ever dance at mine.”
“And, pray, why have n't you as good a right
to marry and be happy as other women?”
“The abstract right, and the will to use it,
are different, father; and, as regards happiness,
I love my own beautiful home too well to
desire to change it for any other. Let me be
quiet here—I ask no more.”
“But, Irene, I can't be expected to live
always, even were my society sufficient for
you, which is not true.”
“Death yields allegiance to no decree of
man. I may find Hugh in another world
before you are called to quit this.”
Her father shuddered, and smoked silently
for several seconds; then the crash of wheels
on the shelled avenue startled both.
“Here comes Bainbridge now. I promised
him that you would play a game of billiards
with him this morning. For heaven's sake,
Irene! be reasonable for once in your life; let
me hear no more such stuff as you have been
talking, but treat the man civilly, and give
him what he will ask.”
The handsome suitor came up the steps
rather dubiously, as if fearful of his welcome;
and the heiress rose composedly and received
him with graceful, polished, imperturbable reserve.
A few months before, in compliance with
her father's earnest request, she had accompanied
him to the capital of the state, and during this
brief visit met and completely fascinated Mr.
Bainbridge, whose attentions were susceptible
of but one interpretation. He was a year her
senior—a chivalric, agreeable, gay young man,
who had grown up without selecting a profession,
knowing that his ample fortune would
more than suffice for his maintenance. He
was the only son of the governor; his character
was unimpeachable, his nature magnanimous,
and many of his impulses were truly
noble—but his intellect was far inferior to
hers. He could no more comprehend her
than some long-inurned Assyrian scroll, for
which the cipher key is wanting; and in the
midst of his devotion she was conscious of no
feeling save that of utter indifference, sometimes
waxing into impatience at his frequent
visits. She had studiously avoided encouraging
his attentions, but he either could not or
would not interpret her cold reticence.
The morning was spent over the billiard-table,
and at last, foiled by her skilful guiding
of the fragmentary conversation, Mr. Bainbridge
having been refused the honor of
escorting her to the party, took his leave, expressing
the hope that in a few hours he should
see her again.
“Well?” said Mr. Huntingdon, seating himself
at the luncheon-table.
“Well, father; we played till I was heartily
tired.”
“But the result of the visit, Irene?”
“The result was that I beat him three games
out of five. John, where is the claret? You
have forgotten it; here are the keys.”
“Pshaw! I mean, did Bainbridge come to
the point.”
“I took most of the points from him.”
“Confound your quibbling! Did you accept
him?”
“I am happy to be able to tell you, sir, that
he did not afford me an opportunity.”
“Then I will be sworn it was your fault—
not his!”
A short silence ensued: Irene sat, seemingly
abstracted, dipping her slender hand in a
ruby-colored Bohemian finger-bowl. Presently
John returned; she took the bottle from
him, and, filling her father's glass, said,
earnestly:
“Father, I have a favor to ask at your
hands; are you in a mood for concessions?”
“`That depends —,' as Guy Darrell says.
What is it? Do you want a new collar for
Paragon, or a bran new pigeon-box twice
the size of the old one? Something unreasonable,
I will warrant. You never want
what you ought to have. Speak out, my
bleached gentile Esther!”
“I do want another pigeon-box badly, but
that is not to be asked for to-day. Father,
will you give me that large beautiful vacant
lot, with the old willow tree, on the corner of
Pine street and Huntingdon avenue, opposite
the court-house?”
“Upon my word! I must say you are very
modest in your request! What the deuce do
you want with it?”
“I know that I am asking a good deal, sir;
but I want it as a site for an orphan asylum.
Will you give it to me?”
“No! I 'll be hanged if I do! Are you
going entirely deranged! What business have
you with asylums, I should like to know?
Put all of that ridiculous stuff out of your head.
Here is something for which I sent to Europe.
Eric selected it in Paris, and it arrived yesterday.
Wear it to-night.”
He drew a velvet case from his pocket and
laid it before her. Touching the spring, the lid
flew open, and on the blue satin lining lay the
blazing coils of a magnificent diamond necklace
and bracelets.
“How beautiful! how spendidly beautiful!”
She bent over the flashing mass in silent
admiration for some time, examining the delicate
setting, then looked up at her father.
“What did they cost?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I am pardonably curious on the subject.”
“Well, then, I was silly enough to give
seven thousand dollars for them.”
“And what is the value of that lot I asked
for?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Father, these diamonds are the finest I
ever saw. They are superbly beautiful; a
queen might be proud of them, and I thank
you most earnestly for such a gorgeous
present; but, if you will not be offended, I will
be candid with you—I would a thousand times
rather have the lot than the jewels.”
The expression of blank astonishment with
which these words were received would have
been ludicrous but for the ominous thickening
of his brows.
“Father, do not feel hurt with me, or attribute
my conduct to any want of gratitude
for your indulgent kindness. If I love the
smiles of happy children more than the
radiance of these costly gems, and would
rather wear in my heart the contented faces
of well-cared-for orphans than on my neck
these glitering diamonds, may I not at least
utter my preference without offending you?
When I think of the better use to which this
money might be applied, the incalculable good
it would effect, I shrink from hoarding it up
on my person to dazzle the eyes of my associates,
to incite some to intimate the lavish
expenditure, and to awaken in others envious
discountent at their inability to cover themselves
with similar splendor. The result of
such an example on our society would be like
dropping a pebble into some crystal lakelet
sleeping in evening sunshine; the wavering
ring would widen till the entire glassy surface
was shivered into spinning circles and dashed
on the rocky shore beyond. Father, forgive
me, if I have said anything disagreeable to
you. I shall be grieved indeed if, on the
occasion of your too generous indulgence, any
dissension arise between us. Tell me that
you are not angry with me.”
She laid her fingers on his arm, but he
shook off the touch, and, scowling sullenly,
snatched the velvet case from her hand and
stamped out of the room—slamming the door
so violently that the glasses on the table rang
out a tinkling chime, and the red wine in the
bottle danced a saraband.
He went to town, and she met him no more
till she was attired for the party. Standing
before the mirror in her own room she
arranged the flowers in her hair, and, when
the leaves were disposed to suit her fastidious
taste, she took up a pearl set which he had
given her years before, intending to wear it.
But just then raising her eyes, she saw her
father's image reflected in the glass. Without
turning she put up her arms, and laying her
head back on his shoulder said, eagerly:
“My dear, dear father, do let us be reconciled.”
Clouds and moodiness melted from his handsome
features as he bent over her an instant,
kissing her fondly; then his hands passed
it, and she was clothed with light.
“My beautiful child, wear your diamonds
as a seal of peace. I can't let you have the
Pine street lot — I want it for a different
purpose; but I will give you three acres on
the edge of town, near the depot, for your
asylum whim. It is a better location every
way for your project.”
“Thank you, father. Oh! thank you, more
than words can express.”
She turned her lips to one of the hands still
lingering on her shoulder.
“Irene, look at yourself. Diana of Ephesus!
what a blaze of glory!”
“Father, it would not require much stretch
of imagination to believe that, by some descendental
metempsychosis, I had become an exhumed
member of the sacred gnomides, torn
ruthlessly from my sisterhood in Cerro do
Frio or the cold dreary caverns of the Agathyrsi.”
“The metamorphosis is not sufficiently complete
without your bracelets. Put them on
and come down; the carriage is ready. Where
is your bouquet-holder? Give it to me; I will
fasten the flowers in, while you draw on your
gloves.”
Two days before, the marriage of Charles
Harris and Maria Henderson had been celebrated
with considerable pomp, and the party
to-night was given in honor of the event by
Mrs. Churchhill, a widowed sister of Judge
Harris. She had spent several years in Paris,
superintending the education of a daughter,
whom she had recently brought home to reside
near her uncle, and dazzle all W— with
her accomplishments.
At ten o'clock there stood beneath the gaslights
in her elegant parlor a human fleshy
antithesis, upon which all eyes were riveted—
Salome Churchhill—a dark imperious beauty,
of the Cleopatra type, with very full crimson
lips, passionate or pouting as occasion demanded;
brilliant black eyes that, like August days,
burned, dewless and unclouded, a steady blaze;
thick shining black hair elaborately curled,
and a rich tropical complexion, clear and
glowing as the warm blood that pulsed through
her rounded graceful form. She wore a fleecy
fabric, topaz-colored, with black lace trimmings;
yellow roses gemmed her hair, and
topaz and ruby ornaments clasped her throat
and arms. An Eastern queen she looked,
exacting universal homage, and full of fiery
jealousy whenever her eyes fell upon one who
stood just opposite. A statuesque face, pure
and calm as any ever cut from Pentelic
quarry, and cold as its dews—the delicately-carved
features borrowing no color from the
glare around her, the polished shoulders and
perfect arms gleaming frigidly in the rainbow-light
of her diamonds, and the bronze hair
caught up by a pearl comb, with here and
there a cluster of clematis bells drooping
toward her neck. Irene's dress was an airy
blue tulle, flounced to the waist, and without
trimming save the violet and clematis clusters.
Never had her rare beauty been more resplendent
— more dazzlingly chilly; it seemed the
glitter of an arctic iceherg lit by some low
midnight sun, and, turn whither she would, fascinated
groups followed her steps. Salome's
reputation as a brilliant belle had become
extended since Irene's long seclusion, yet
to-night, on the re-appearance of the latter, it
was apparent to even the most obtuse that
she resumed her sway — the matchless
cynosura of that social system. Fully conscious
of the intense admiration she excited,
she moved slowly from room to room, smiling
once or twice when she met her father's
proud look of fond triumph fixed upon her.
Leaning against the window to rest, while
Charles Harris went in search of a glass of
water, she heard her name pronounced by
some one on the gallery.
“They say Irene Huntingdon is positively
going to marry Bainbridge. Splendid match
both sides. Won't she shine at the governor's
mansion? I wonder if she really grieved
much for Seymour? How perfectly lovely
she is; and Huntingdon is so proud of her.
By the way, Neal, have you heard the last
gossip?”
“About whom? I have been away a month,
you must remember, and am behind the times.
Do tell me.”
“Well, the very latest report is that, after
all, Aubrey never fancied Grace Harris, as
the quidnuncs asserted—never addressed her,
or anybody else—but is now sure enough about
to bear off belle Salome, the new prize, right
in the face of twenty rivals. I should really
like to hear of something which that man could
not do, if he set himself to work in earnest. I
wonder whether it ever recurs to him that he
once stood behind Jacob Watson's counter?”
“But Aubrey is not here to-night. Does
not affect parties, I believe?”
“Rarely shows himself; but you mistake;
he came in not twenty minutes ago, and you
should have seen what I saw—the rare-ripe red
deepen on Salome's cheeks when he spoke to
her.”
Irene moved away from the window, and
soon after was about to accompany Charlie to
the hall, when Mr. Bainbridge came up and
claimed her hand for the cotillon forming in
the next room. As they took their places on
the floor, she saw that Salome and Russell
would be vis-a-vis. With an effort she raised
her eyes to those of the man whom she had
seen last at Hugh's bier; he drooped his head
very slightly, she inclined hers; then the band
smote their instruments, violin and piano, and
the crash of music filled the house.
Irene moved mechanically through the airy
mazes of the dance, giving apparent attention
to the low-toned, half-whispered observations
to catch the mellow voice which uttered such
graceful fascinating nothings to Salome. Several
times in the course of the cotillon Russell's
hand clasped hers, but even then he avoided
looking at her, and seemed engrossed in conversation
with his gay partner. Once Irene
looked up steadily, and as she noted the
expression with which he regarded his companion
she wondered no longer at the rumor
she had heard, and acknowledged to herself
that they were, indeed, a handsome couple.
Dr. Arnold, whom Mrs. Churchhill had coaxed
into “showing himself,” had curiously watched
this meeting, and observing Russell's marked
attentions, puzzled over the question: “Does
he really care for that fire-fly, or is he only
trying to make Irene jealous?” He looked
long and earnestly at both, then sighed heavily.
What did that haughty blue-robed woman
know of jealousy? How absurd such a suggestion
seemed when she turned her smiling
passionless face full upon him. The dance
ended; Irene found herself seated on a sofa at
the window of the deserted library, and Russell
and Salome walked slowly up and down
the veranda in front of it. Mr. Bainbridge
had manœuvred for this opportunity, and, seated
beside Irene, he eagerly and eloquently
pleaded his cause, assuring her of a devotion
which should know no diminution, and emphasizing
the fact that he had possessed himself
of her father's sanction.
She made no attempt to interrupt him, but
sat erect and motionless, with one hand partially
shielding her face, and the other pressed
hard against her heart, where a dull continual
pain was gnawing. Every few minutes Russell
passed the window, his noble head bent down
to the beautiful companion on his arm. Irene
could see the outline of his features distinctly,
and her soul sickened as she watched him and
reasoned concerning the future. He would
probably marry somebody, and why not Salome?
She could not expect him to remain
single always, and he could never be more
than a stranger to her. After his marriage,
what a blank her life would be; to love him
still would be sinful. She moved her fingers
slightly and looked fixedly at the handsome
man beside her, entreating her to give him the
privilege of making her life happy. For an
instant she wavered. The world held nothing
for her but dreariness at best; she was weary
of alienation and contention; why not accede
to her father's wishes, and thus repair the
grievous disappointment of other days? William
Bainbridge loved her, and perhaps if she
were his wife the sanctity of her vows might
strengthen her in tearing another image from
her heart. She took her future in the palm of
her hand, and pondered. At this moment the
couple on the veranda paused in front of the
window, to allow the promenading crowd to
pass, and Russell looked in, with a brilliant
smile on his countenance. It seemed to mock
her, with a “Marry him if you dare!” The
two passed on into the parlors, and closing her
eyes a moment, as if shutting out some hideous
vision, Irene briefly, but firmly and irrevocably,
declined the flattering offer; and rising,
left him with his disappointment. She looked
about for Dr. Arnold, but he had disappeared;
her father was deep in a game of euchre; and
as she crossed the hall she was surprised to see
Philip leaning against the door-facing, and
peering curiously into the parlors.
“Philip, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, Miss Irene! I have been hunting for
you ever so long. Mrs. Davis is dying, and
Susan sent me after you. I went to your
house two hours ago, and they said you were
here. I ran back and told mother you could
not come. But Mrs. Davis worried so, they
sent me here. She says she won't die in peace
unless she sees you. She wrung her hands,
and asked me if you would not have time
enough to go to parties when she was in her
grave? Will you come, ma'm?”
“Of course. Philip, find Andrew and the
carriage, and I will meet you at the side door
in five minutes.”
She went to the dressing-room, asked for
pencil and paper, and wrote a few lines, which
she directed the servant to hand immediately
to her father—found her shawl, and stole down
to the side door. She saw the dim outline of a
form sitting on the step, in the shadow of clustering
vines, and asked:
“Is that you, Philip? I am ready.”
The figure rose, came forward into the light,
hat in hand, and both started visibly.
“Pardon me, Mr. Aubrey. I mistook you
in the darkness for another.”
Here Philip ran up the steps.
“Miss Irene, Andrew says he can't get to
the side gate for the carriages. He is at the
front entrance.”
“Can I assist you, Miss Huntingdon?”
“Thank you; no.”
“May I ask if you are ill?”
“Not in the least—but I am suddenly called
away.”
She passed him, and accompanied Philip to
the carriage. A few minutes rapid driving
brought them to the Row, and, directing Andrew
to return and wait for her father, Irene
entered the low small chamber where a human
soul was pluming itself for its final flight home.
The dying woman knew her even then in the
fierce throes of dissolution, and the sunken
eyes beamed as she bent over the pillow.
“God bless you! I knew you would come.
My children—what will become of them?
Will you take care of them? Tell me quick.”
“Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Davis. I
will see that your children are well cared for
in every respect.”
“Promise me!” gasped the poor sufferer,
clutching the jewelled arm.
“I do promise you most solemnly that I will
watch over them constantly. They shall
never want so long as I live. Will you not
believe me, and calm yourself?”
A ghastly smile trembled over the distorted
features, and she bowed her head in assent.
Irene poured some cordial into a glass and put
it to her lips, but she refused the draught, and,
joining her emaciated hands, muttered, half-inaudibly:
“Pray for me once more. Oh! pray for
me, my best friend.”
Kneeling on the bare floor in the midst of a
sobbing group, Irene prayed long and earnestly,
and gradually, as her sweet voice rolled
through the room, a peaceful look settled on
the dying mother's face. At last the petition
ended and silence reigned, broken only by the
smothered sobs of Susan and little Johnnie,
who clung to Irene's hand and buried his face
in her dress as she still knelt at the bedside.
“Mrs. Davis, don't you feel that you will
soon be at rest with God?”
“Yes—I am going home happy—happy.”
She closed her eyes and whispered:
“Sing my—hymn—once—more.”
Making a great effort to crush her own
feelings, Irene sang the simple but touching
words of “Home Again,” and though her voice
faltered now and then, she sang it through—
knowing, from the expression of the sufferer's
face, that the spirit was passing to its endless
rest.
It was a strange scene. The poverty of the
room—the emaciated form, with sharp, set
features—the magnificently beautiful woman
kneeling there in her costly festal robes, with
the light of the tallow candle flickering over
her diamonds, setting her neck and arms on
fire—and the weeping girl and wailing curly-haired
boy, whose tearful face was hidden in
the full flounces of blue tulle. “Passing
strange,” thought the proud man of the world,
who had followed her from the scenes of festivity,
and now stood in the door-way listening,
with hushed breath, to the prayer she had put
up, to the words of the hymn she had sung so
sorrowfully, and gazing in silent adoration
upon the face and form of the kneeling
woman. Now one of the beautiful arms stole
around the trembling child who clung to her
so tenaciously, and she gently lifted the chestnut
curls from his flushed face.
“Don't sob so, Johnnie. Your mother is in
heaven, where there is no sorrow, or sickness,
or trouble. She will be very happy there;
and if you are as good and patient as she was,
you will meet her in heaven when God calls
you to die.”
“Oh! is she dead? Miss Irene, is my
mother dead?”
“My dear little boy, she has gone to our
Father in heaven, who will make her happier
than she could possibly be in this world.”
A passionate burst of sorrow followed the
discovery of the melancholy truth, and rising
from the floor Irene seated herself on a chair,
taking the child on her lap, and soothing his
violent grief. Too young to realize his loss, he
was easily comforted, and after a time grew
quiet. She directed Susan to take him into
the next room and put him on his pallet; and
when she had exchanged a few words with
Philip's mother about the disposition of the
rigid sleeper, she turned to quit the apartment,
and saw Russell standing on the threshold.
Had the dead mother suddenly stepped before
her she would scarcely have been more astonished
and startled.
He extended one hand, and hastily taking
hers, drew her to the door of the narrow dark
hall, where the newly-risen moon shone in.
“Come out of this charnel-house into the
pure air once more. Do not shrink back—
trust yourself with me this once, at least.”
The brick walls of the factory rose a hundred
yards off in full view of the Row, and leading
her along the river bank he placed her on one
of the massive stone steps of the building.
“What brought you here to-night, Mr.
Aubrey?”
“An unpardonable curiosity concerning
your sudden departure—an unconquerable desire
to speak to you once more.”
“You witnessed a melancholy scene.”
“Yes—melancholy indeed; but not half so
sad as one which memory held before me while
I watched yonder pale corpse grow rigid.
The veil of the past was rent, and I stood
again over my own dead mother. For me
there is no Lethe. In memoriam creeps in
sombre characters over all that I look upon.'”
A waning June moon, in its last quarter,
struggled feebly up the eastern sky, “hounded
by a few dim stars,” and the spectral light fell
like a dying smile upon the silent scene — the
broad swift river flashing below, champing
with foamy lips on the rocky bit that barred
its current, and breaking into shimmering
silver cataracts as it leaped triumphantly over
a gray ledge of granite and thundered down
into the basin beyond, churning itself into
diamond spray, that wreathed and fluttered in
gleaming threads like a bridal veil streaming
on some mild May breeze. The shining shafts
of water gave back the ghastly light as huge
mirrors might, and from the dark depths of
foliage on the opposite bank and the lofty
aisles of pine-clad hills stretching far westward
and overtopping all, the deep solemn monotone
of the everlasting fall echoed and re-echoed,
chanting to the quiet night a sacred “in cœlo
quies.”
Standing with uncovered head in the weird
light, Russell's piercing eyes were fixed on his
companion.
“You do not know why I came here, Miss
Huntingdon?”
“You told me why.”
“No. But you shall know. I came here
led by an irresistible desire to see you alone,
to look at you, to tell you what I have almost
sworn should never pass my lips—what you
may consider unmanly weakness—nay, insanity,
on my part. We are face to face at last,
man and woman, with the golden bars of conventionality
and worldly distinction snapped
asunder. I am no longer the man whom
society would fain flatter, in atonement for
past injustice; and I choose to forget, for the
time, that you are the daughter of my bitterest
deadly foe—my persistent persecutor. I remember
nothing now but the crowned days
of our childhood, the rosy dawn of my manhood,
where your golden head shone my Morning
Star. I hurl away all barriers, and remember
only the one dream of my life—my deathless,
unwavering love for you. Oh, Irene! Irene!
why have you locked that rigid cold face of
yours against me? In the hallowed days of
old you nestled your dear hands into mine,
and pressed your curls against my cheek, and
gave me comfort in your pure, warm, girlish
affection; how can you snatch your frozen
fingers from mine now, as though my touch
were contamination? Be yourself once more
—give me one drop from the old over-flowing
fountain. I am a lonely man; and my proud
bitter heart hungers for one of your gentle
words, one of your sweet, priceless smiles.
Irene, look at me! Give it to me!”
He sat down on the step at her feet, and
raised his dark magnetic face, glowing with
the love which had so long burned undimmed,
his lofty full forehead wearing a strange flush.
She dared not meet his eye, and drooped
her head on her palms, shrinking from the
scorching furnace of trial, whose red jaws
yawned to receive her. He waited a moment,
and his low, mellow voice rose to a stormy
key.
“Irene, you are kind and merciful to the
poor wretches in the Row. Poverty — nay,
crime, does not frighten away your compassion
for them; why are you hard and cruelly
haughty only to me?”
“You do not need my sympathy, Mr.
Aubrey, and congratulations on your great
success would not come gracefully from my
lips. Most unfortunate obstacles long since
rendered all intercourse between us impossible,
still my feeling for you has undergone no
change. I am, I assure you, still your friend.”
It cost her a powerful effort to utter these
words, and her voice took a metallic tone
utterly foreign to it. Her heart writhed and
bled and moaned in the gripe of her steely
purpose, but she endured all calmly—relaxing
not one jot of her bitter resolution.
“My friend! Mockery! God defend me
from such henceforth. Irene, I looked at you
to-night in all your wonderful, incomparable
loveliness, as you hung upon the arm of your
acknowledged lover, and the possibility of
your becoming that man's wife absolutely
maddened me. I felt that I could never
endure that horrible reality, and I resolved to
know the truth. Other lips deceive, but
yours never can. Tell me, have you promised
your hand to Bainbridge? Will you ever
give it to him?”
“Such questions, Mr. Aubrey, you have no
right to propound.”
“Right! does my worshipping love give me
no right to relieve myself from torture, if possible?
Oh! relentless, beautiful idol, that
you are! I have cheated myself with a
heavenly dream—have hugged to my soul the
hope that, after all, I was more to you than
you designed to show—that far down in your
proud heart you, too, cherished memories of
other days. Irene, you loved me once—nay,
don't deny it! You need not blush for the
early folly which, it seems, you have interred
so deeply; and though you scorn to meet me
even as an equal, I know, I feel, that I am
worthy of your love—that I comprehend your
strange nature as no one else ever will—that,
had such a privilege been accorded me, I could
have kindled your heart, and made you
supremely happy. Cursed barriers have
divided us always; fate denied me my right.
I have suffered many things; but does it not
argue, at least, in favor of my love, that it has
survived all the trials to which your father's
hate has subjected me? To-night I could
forgive him all! all! if I knew that he had not
so successfully hardened, closed your heart
against me. My soul is full of bitterness
which would move you, if one trait of your
girlish nature remained. But you are not my
Irene! The world's queen, the dazzling idol
of the ball-room, is not my blue-eyed, angelic
Irene of old! I will intrude upon you no
longer. Try at least not to despise me for my
folly; I will crush it; and if you deign to remember
me at all in future, think of a man
who laughs at his own idiotcy, and strives to
forget that he ever believed there lived one
woman who would be true to her own heart,
even though the heavens fell and the world
passed away!”
He rose partially, but her hand fell quickly
upon his shoulder, and the bowed face lifted
itself, stainless as starry jasmines bathed in
equatorial dews.
“Mr. Aubrey, you are too severe upon
yourself, and very unjust to me. The circumstances
which conspired to alienate us were
far beyond my control; I regret them as sincerely
as you possibly can, but as unavailingly.
If I have individually occasioned you sorrow
or disappointment, God knows it was no fault
of mine! We stand on the opposite shores of
a dark, bridgeless gulf; but before we turn
away to be henceforth strangers, I stretch out
my hand to you in friendly farewell—deeply
regretting the pain which I may have innocently
caused you, and asking your forgiveness.
am. Good-by, my friend. May God bless
you in coming years, and crown your life with
the happiness you merit, is the earnest prayer
of my heart.”
The rare blue cord on her brow told how
fiercely the lava-flood surged under its icy
bands, and the blanched lip matched her
cheek in colorlessness; save these tokens of
anguish, no other was visible.
Russell drew down the hand from his
shoulder, and folded it in both his own.
“Irene, are we to walk different paths
henceforth—utter strangers? Is such your
will?”
“Such is the necessity, which must be as
apparent to you as to me. Do not doubt my
friendship, Mr. Aubrey; but doubt the propriety
of my parading it before the world.”
He bent his cheek down on her cold hand,
then raised it to his lips once, twice—laid it
back on her lap, and, taking his hat, walked
away toward town.
Two blithe crickets chirped merrily somewhere
in the brick pavement round the door;
a solitary mocking-bird, perched on the limb of
a neighboring china-tree, warbled his sweet
varied notes as if in answer; the mellow
diapason of the falls rose soothingly over all,
and the blue-robed woman sat still as the stone
steps of the factory, watching the vanishing
dying sparkles of a crystal draught of joy
which fate had rudely dashed at her feet,
sternly denying the parched eager lips.
For some time she remained just as Russell
had left her, then the white arms and dry eyes
were raised to the midnight sky.
“My God! my God! strengthen me in my
desolation!”
She put back the folds of hair that, damp
with dew, clung to her gleaming temples, and
recrossing the wide road or street, entered
the chamber of death. Low-spoken words
crept to and fro between Mrs. Martin and two
middle-aged, sad-faced women of the Row, who
sat around the candle on the little pine table,
clipping and scalloping a jaconet shroud. As
Irene approached the scissors rested, and all
looked up.
“Where is Philip, Mrs. Martin? I shall
ask him to walk home with me, and not wait for
the carriage.”
“I expect he is asleep, Miss Irene — but I
will wake him.”
“You need not; I think I hear wheels.
Yes; they are coming for me. Mrs. Martin,
I will see you about Susan and Johnnie to-morrow
or next day; meantime, I leave them
in your care. Good-night.”
“What a white angel she is!—almost as
pale as the poor creature on the bed yonder.
I catch my breath sometimes when she looks
like she did just now.”
All three sighed simultaneously, and the
dull click, click, began again.
It was not the carriage which Irene met at
the door, but Dr. Arnold's buggy.
“Irene, are you ready to go home?”
“Yes. Mrs. Davis is dead.”
“As I was leaving Mrs. Churchhill's your
father told me where you were, and I thought
I would come after you. Put on your shawl
and jump in. You are in a pretty plight,
truly, to stand over a death-bed! `Vanity of
vanities! all is vanity!' Here, let me wrap
that gauze cloud around your head. Now
then!”
The top of the buggy had been lowered, and
as they rode homeward she leaned her head
back, turning her face to the sickly moonlight.
“Irene, did Aubrey come up here with
you?”
“No, sir. He was at the Row for a while,
however. You must have met him returning.”
“I did; what did he want here?”
“You must ask him, if you are curious. It
is no business of either yours or mine to watch
his movements.”
“I wonder he was able to tear himself from
that brown Sybil, Salome. What a splendid
dark pair they will be some day, when he
makes her Mrs. Aubrey!”
Surgeon-like, he was pressing his finger
heavily on the wound, but no flinching could
be detected—no moan of pain; and he was
startled by a singular short, quick laugh, which
sounded to his ear like the sudden snapping
of a musical string. It was the first time he
had heard her laugh since her return from
New York.
“Sage of Sinope! how long since your
transmigration into a latter-day news-monger?”
“News-monger be hanged! It is a transparent
fact that Aubrey intends to marry the
daughter of Herodias. Don't you believe it,
Irene?”
“Doctor, I believe I have dropped my
bouquet-holder. I am sorry to give you so
much trouble, but uncle Eric bought it for me
in Geneva, and I should dislike to lose it. Give
me the reins. Yonder it is, in the sand—I see
its glitter.”
Fulminating inaudible plagues on the chased
silver toy, the doctor picked it up and placed
it in her hand.
“Drop yourself out next, won't you, when
you have another question to dodge?”
“What is the matter? Who has fretted
you, sir? Were you cheated out of your
supper by coming after me?”
“You fret me beyond all patience—slipping
everlastingly through my fingers. Child,
answer me one thing truly: are you going to
marry Bainbridge, as everybody believes, and
as Leonard led me to suppose?”
“No, Dr. Arnold; I shall never marry Mr.
Bainbridge.”
“If he does not suit your fastidious taste,
pray who will, Queen?”
“You might, perhaps, if you were thirty-five
Doctor, come in, and let me give you a glass of
wine; it is very late, and you must be tired.”
“No—but I will light my pipe at the hall-lamp.”
They went into the house, and as he filled
and lighted his pipe his cavernous eyes ran
curiously over her.
“How you have blazed to-night? Your
diamonds are superb.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to sleep at once, child. You look as if
you had seen a ghost. What has knotted up
your forehead in that style?”
“I have looked upon a melancholy death
to-night, and have seen two helpless children
orphaned. Come and see me soon; I want to
consult you about an orphan-asylum for which
father has given me a lot. Good-night, sir; I
am very much obliged to you for your kindness
in bringing me home. Nobody else is half so
considerate and thoughtful.”
In her own room she took off the jewels,
withered violets, and moist tulle—and, drawing
on her dressing-gown, went up to the observatory,
and sat down on the threshold of one of
the glass doors looking eastward.
“Think of a man who laughs at his own
idiotcy, and strives to forget that he ever
believed there lived one woman who would be
true to her own heart, though the heavens
fell and the world passed away!”
These words of scorn were the burning
shares over which her bare feet trod, and his
bitter accents wailed up and down her lonely
heart, mournful as the ceaseless cry of “El
Alma Perdida” in moonless, breezeless Amazonian
solitudes. Through the remainder of
that cloudless night she wrestled silently—not
like the Jewish patriarch, with angels—but with
Despair, grim as Geryon. At last, when the
sky flushed rosily, like an opal smitten with
light, and holy Resignation—the blessing born
only of great trial like hers—shed its heavenly
chrism over the worn and weary, bruised and
bleeding spirit, she gathered up the mangled
hopes that might have gladdened, and gilded,
and glorified her earthly career, and pressing
the ruins to her heart, laid herself meekly
down, offering all upon the God-built altar of
Filial Obedience.
In the
Was delicate with some last starry touch,”
approached the bed. The noise wakened
him, and, raising himself on his elbow, he
looked wonderingly at her.
“What is the matter, Irene? You look as
if you had not closed your eyes.”
“Father, you took me in your arms last
night, and kissed me as you have not done
before for years; but I feared that when Mr.
Bainbridge told you what passed between us
at Mrs. Churchhill's, you would again close
your heart against me. Do not! oh, do not!
Because I prefer to remain at home with you
rather than accept his brilliant offer, ought
you to love me less? I have spent a sorrowful,
a wretched night, and, like a weary child,
I have come to you to find rest for my heart.
Oh, father! my father! do not cast me off
again! Whom have I in the world but you?
By the memory of my sainted mother I ask—
I claim your love!”
“You are a strange girl, Irene; I never did
understand you. But I don't want to drive
you from me, if you prefer to live here single.
There shall be peace between us, my dear
daughter.” He leaned forward and laid his
hand caressingly on her head, as she knelt at
his bedside pleading with uplifted arms.
Lily-shaped and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.
And a forehead, fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.”
| CHAPTER XXVI. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |