University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

The summer day was near its death when
Col. Aubrey rode up the stately avenue,
whose cool green arches were slowly filling
with shadows. Fastening his spirited horse to
the iron post, he ascended the marble steps,
and John received his card, and ushered him
into the front parlor. The rich lace curtains
were caught back from the wide windows to
admit the air, and the whole room was flooded
with subtle intoxicating perfume, from numerous
elegant vases of rare flowers, which
crowned mantle, étagère, and centre-table.
On a small papier-maché stand drawn before
one of the windows stood an exquisite cutglass
bowl, fringed at the edge with geranium
leaves, and filled with perfect golden-hearted
water-lilies, whose snowy petals spread themselves
regally, breathing incense. The proud
and moody visitor regarded them a moment,
then his piercing eye ran around the room, and
rested upon a large oval picture on the opposite
wall. This portrait of Irene had been
painted soon after she left school, and represented
only the face and bust rising out of a
luminous purplish mist—a face which might
have served for Guido's Aurora. Clad in the
handsome glittering uniform, which showed
his nobly-proportioned and powerful figure so
advantageously, the officer stood, hat in hand,
the long sable plume drooping toward the
floor; and, as he scanned the portrait, his lips
moved, and these words crept inaudibly, mutteringly,
over them:

The frown on his face deepened almost to a
scowl, indescribably stern; he turned abruptly
away, and looked through the open window
out upon the lawn, where flashes of sunshine
and dusky shadows struggled for mastery.
The next moment Irene stood at the door; he
turned his head, and they were face to face
once more.

Her dress was of swiss muslin, revealing her
dazzling shoulders and every dimple and
curve of her arms. The glittering bronze
hair was looped and fastened with blue ribbons,
and from the heavy folds her favorite
clematis bells hung quivering with every
motion, and matching, in depth of hue, the
violets that clustered on her bosom. The
crystal calmness of the countenance was
broken at last; a new strange light brimmed
the unfathomable eyes, and broke in radiant
ripples round the matchless mouth. On the
white brow, with its marble-like gleam, “pure
lilies of eternal peace” seemed resting, as

Never had her extraordinary beauty so
stirred his heart; a faint flush tinged his cheek,
but he bowed frigidly, and haughtily his words
broke the silence.

“You sent for me, Miss Huntingdon, and I
obeyed your command. Nothing less would
have brought me to your presence.”

She crossed the room and stood before him,
holding out both hands, while her scarlet lips
fluttered perceptibly. Instead of receiving
the hands he drew back a step, and crossed
his arms proudly over his chest. She raised
her fascinating eyes to his, folded her palms
together, and, pressing them to her heart, said,
slowly and distinctly:

“I heard that you were ordered to Virginia,

to the post of danger; and knowing to what
risks you will be exposed, I wished to see you
at least once more in this world. Perhaps the
step I am taking may be condemned by some,
as a deviation from the delicacy of my sex—I
trust I am not wanting in proper appreciation
of what is due to my own self-respect—but the
feelings which I have crushed back so long,
now demand utterance. Russell, I have determined
to break the seal of many years
silence—to roll away the stone from the sepulchre—to
tell you all. I feel that you and I
must understand each other before we part
for all time, and, therefore, I sent for you.”

She paused, drooping her head, unable to
meet his searching steady black eyes riveted
upon hers; and, drawing his tall athletic figure
to its utmost height, he asked, defiantly:

“You sent for me through compassionate
compunctions, then—intending, at the close, to
be magnanimous, and, in lieu of disdain, tell
me that you pity me?”

“Pity you? No, Russell; I do not pity
you.”

“It is well. I neither deserve nor desire
it.”

“What motive do you suppose prompted
me to send for you on the eve of your departure?”

“I am utterly at a loss to conjecture. I
once thought you too generous to wish to
inflict pain unnecessarily on any one; but God
knows this interview is inexpressibly painful
to me.”

A numbing suspicion crossed her mind,
blanching lip and cheek to the hue of death,
and hardening her into the old statue-like expression.
Had he, indeed, ceased to love her?
Had Salome finally won her place in his
heart? He saw, without comprehending, the
instantaneous change which swept over her
features, and regarded her with mingled impatience
and perplexity.

“If such be the truth, Col. Aubrey, the
interview is ended.”

He bowed, and turned partially away, but
paused irresolute, chained by that electrical
pale face, which no man, woman, or child ever
looked at without emotion.

“Before we part, probably for ever, I should
like to know why you sent for me.”

“Do you remember that, one year ago to-night,
we sat on the steps of the Factory, and
you told me of the feeling you had cherished
for me from your boyhood?”

“It was a meeting too fraught with pain
and mortification to be soon forgotten.”

“I believe you thought me cold, heartless,
and unfeeling then?”

“There was no room to doubt it. Your
haughty coldness carried its own interpretation.”

“Because I knew that such was the harsh
opinion you had entertained for twelve
months, I sought this opportunity to relieve
myself of an unjust imputation. If peace had
been preserved, and you had always remained
quietly here, I should never have undeceived
you—for the same imperative reasons, the same
stern necessity, which kept me silent on the
night to which I allude, would have sealed my
lips through life. But all things are changed;
you are going into the very jaws of death,
with what result no human foresight can predict;
and now, after long suffering, I feel that
I have earned and may claim the right to
speak to you of that which I have always expected
to bury with me in my grave.”

Again her crowned head bowed itself.

Past bitterness and wounded pride were instantly
forgotten; hope kindled in his dark,
stern face a beauty that rarely dwelt there,
and, throwing down his hat, he stepped forward
and took her folded hands in his strong
grasp.

“Irene, do you intend me to understand—
are you willing that I shall believe that, after
all, I have an interest in your heart—that I am
more to you than you ever before deigned to
let me know? If it, indeed, be so, oh! give
me the unmistakable assurance.”

Her lips moved; he stooped his haughty
head to catch the low, fluttering words.

“You said that night: `I could forgive
your father all! all! if I knew that he had
not so successfully hardened, closed your heart
against me.' Forgive him, Russell. You never
can know all that you have been to me from
my childhood. Only God, who sees my heart,
knows what suffering our long alienation has
cost me.”

An instant he wavered, his strong frame
quivered, and then he caught her exultingly
in his arms, resting her head upon his bosom,
leaning his swarthy hot cheek on hers, cold
and transparent as alabaster.

“At last I realize the one dream of my life!
I hold you to my heart, acknowledged all my
own! Who shall dare dispute the right your
lips have given me? Hatred is powerless now;
none shall come between me and my own.
Oh, Irene! my beautiful darling! not all my
ambitious hopes, not all the future holds, not
time, nor eternity, could purchase the proud,
inexpressible joy of this assurance. I have
toiled and struggled, I have suffered in silence;
I have triumphed and risen in a world
that sometimes stung my fiery heart almost to
madness; and I have exulted, I have gloried,
in my hard-earned success. But ambition
dims, and my laurels wither, in comparison
with the precious, priceless consciousness of
your love. I said ambition shall content me—
shall usurp the pedestal where, long ago, I
lifted a fair girlish image; but the old worship
followed, haunted me continually. I looked
up from MS. speeches to find your incomparable
magnetic eyes before me; and now, in the
midst of bitterness and loneliness, I have my
great reward. God bless you, Irene! for this

one hour of perfect happiness in a cold and
joyless life. If, when disappointed and baffled
by your habitual polished reserve, I have said
or done harsh, unjust things, which wounded
you, forgive me—remembering only my love,
and my torturing dread that you would become
Bainbridge's wife. Oh! that was the most
horrible apprehension that ever possessed
me.”

“Instead of cherishing your affection for
me, you struggled against it with all the energy
of your character. I have seen, for some
time, that you were striving to crush it out—
to forget me entirely.”

“I do not deny it; and certainly you ought
not to blame me. You kept me at a distance
with your chilling, yet graceful, fascinating
hauteur. I had nothing to hope—everything
to suffer. I diligently set to work to expel
you utterly from my thoughts; and, I tell you
candidly, I endeavored to love another, who
was brilliant, and witty, and universally admired.
But her fitful, stormy, exacting temperament
was too much like my own to suit
me. I tried faithfully to become attached to
her, intending to make her my wife, but I
failed signally. My heart clung stubbornly to
its old worship; my restless, fiery spirit could
find no repose, no happiness, save in the purity,
the profound marvellous calm of your nature.
You became the synonyme of peace,
rest; and, because you gave me no friendly
word or glance, locking your passionless face
against me, I grew savage toward you. Did
you believe that I would marry Salome?”

“No! I had faith that, despite your angry
efforts, your heart would be true to me.”

“Why did you inflict so much pain on us
both, when a word would have explained all?
When the assurance you have given me to-day
would have sweetened the past years of trial?”

“Because I knew it would not have that
effect. I am constitutionally more patient
than you, and yet, with all my efforts to be
resigned to what could not be remedied, and
to bear my sorrow with fortitude, I found myself
disposed to repine; and, because I was so
sure of your affection to —

A belief of my indifference steeled you
against me—nerved you to endurance. But a
knowledge of the truth would have increased
your acrimony of feeling toward him whom
you regarded as the chief obstacle, and this,
at all hazards, I was resolved to avoid. Russell,
I knew that our relations could never be
changed; that the barriers, for which neither
you nor I are responsible in any degree, were
insurmountable; and that, in this world, we
must walk widely-diverging paths, exchanging
few words of sympathy. Because I realized
so fully the necessity of estrangement, I should
never have acquainted you with my own feelings,
had I not known that a long, and per
haps final, separation now stretches before us.
In the painful course which duty imposed on
me, I have striven to promote your ultimate
happiness, rather than my own.”

“Irene, how can you persuade yourself that
it is your duty to obey an unjust and tyrannical
decree, which sacrifices the happiness of
two to the unreasonable vindictiveness of
one?”

“Remember that you are speaking of my
father, and do not make me regret that I have
seen you in his house.”

“You must not expect of me more forbearance
than my nature is capable of. I
have lost too much through his injustice to
bear my injuries coolly. I was never a meek
man, and strife and trial have not sweetened
my temper. If you love me, and the belief is
too precious to me to be questioned now, I
hold it your duty to me and to your own heart
to give yourself to me, to gild our future with
the happiness of which the past has been
cheated. Your father has no right to bind
your life a sacrifice upon the altar of his implacable
hate; nor have you a right to doom
yourself and me to life-long sorrow, because of
an ancient feud, which neither of us had any
agency in effecting.”

“Duty, because inflexible and involving
great pain, is not therefore less imperative.
Russell, have you forgotten Chelonis?”

He tightened his clasping arms, and exclaimed:

“Ah, Irene! I would willingly go into
exile, with you for my Chelonis. Perish ambition!
live only such a future. But you
remember nothing but Chelonis' filial obligations,
forgetting all she owed, and all she nobly
gave, Cleombrotus. If you would lay your
hands in mine, and give me his right, oh!
what a glory would crown the coming years!
Irene, before it is too late, have mercy on us
both.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and
looked up pleadingly in his flushed, eager face.

“Russell, do not urge me; it is useless. Spare
me the pain of repeated refusals, and be satisfied
with what I have given you. Believe
that my heart is, and ever will be, yours entirely,
though my hand you can never claim.
I know what I owe my father, and I will pay
to the last iota; and I know as well what I owe
myself, and, therefore, I shall live true to my
first and only love, and die Irene Huntingdon.
More than this you have no right to ask — I
no right to grant. Be patient, Russell; be
generous.”

“Patient! patient! I am but human.”

“Rise above the human; remember that, at
best, life is short, and that after a little while
eternity will stretch its holy circles before our
feet. Such is my hope. I look down the
lonely, silent vista of my coming years, whose
niches are filled, not with joy, but quiet resignation—and
I see beyond the calm shores of

Rest, where, if faithful here, you and I may
clasp hands for ever! To me this is no dim,
shadowy, occasional comfort, but a fixed, firm,
priceless trust.”

She felt the deep, rapid throbbing of his
heart, as he held her to his bosom; and a dark
cloud of sorrow settled on his features, while
he listened to her low, sweet, steady voice.
He kissed her twice, and said, huskily:

“Do you intend to send me from you? To
meet me henceforth as a stranger?”

“Circumstances, which I can not control,
make it necessary.”

“At least you will let me hear from you
sometimes? You will give me the privilege
of writing to you?”

“Impossible, Russell; do not ask that of me.”

“Oh, Irene! you are cruel! Why withhold
that melancholy comfort from me?”

“Simply for the reason that it would unavoidably
prove a source of pain to both. I
judge you by myself. A correspondence
would keep your mind constantly harassed on
a subject which time will inevitably soften,
mellow; and the expectation of letters from
you would induce a feverish excitement and
impatience in my own heart, which I wish to
escape. It would feed useless regrets, and be
productive only of harm. I want neither
your usefulness in life nor mine impaired by
continual weak repining. If I can patiently
bear a great sea of silence between us henceforth,
you certainly should be stronger; should
appreciate my motives, without suspecting any
diminution of affection on my part. If your
life is spared I shall anxiously watch your
career, rejoicing in all your honors, and your
noble use of the talents which God gave you
for the benefit of your race and the advancement
of truth. No matter how the world may
deride, or cynics sneer at the supposition, I
tell you solemnly absence has no power over
a true woman's heart. Her affection will
triumph over separation, over silence, over
death! over everything but loss of confidence;
over all but discovered unworthiness in its
object. It can bid defiance to obstacles, to
adverse fate, so long as trust remains intact,
and respect is possible; that you will ever forfeit
either, I entertain no fear.”

“I am not as noble as you think me; my
ambition is not as unselfish as you suppose.
Under your influence, other aims and motives
might possess me.”

“You mistake your nature. Your intellect
and temperament stamp you one of the few
who receive little impression from extraneous
influences; and it is because of this stern, obstinate
individuality of character, that I hope
an extended sphere of usefulness for you, if
you survive this war. Our country will demand
your services, and I shall be proud and
happy in the knowledge that you are faithfully
and conscientiously discharging the duties of a
statesman.”

“Ah! but the wages are hollow. My ambition
has already been gratified to some extent,
and in the very flush of triumph I sat
down to eat its fruit, and smiled grimly over
its dust and ashes.”

“Because self-aggrandizement was then the
sole aim. But a holier, a more disinterested,
unselfish ambition to serve only God, Truth,
and Country, will insure a blessed consciousness
of well-spent years and consecrated
talents, comforting beyond all else that earth
can give.”

He shook his head sadly; placing his palm
under her chin, and tenderly raising the face,
in order to scan it fully.

“Irene, oblige me in what may seem a trifle;
unfasten your hair and let it fall around you,
as I have seen it once or twice in your life.”

She took out her comb, untied the ribbons,
and, passing her fingers through the bands,
shook them down till they touched the floor.

He passed his hand caressingly over the
glossy waves, and smiled proudly.

“How often I have longed to lay my fingers
on these rippling folds, as they flashed around
you so, or were coiled into a crown about your
head. With what a glory they invest you!
Your picture there upon the wall seems lighted
with the golden gleam. Irene, give me a
likeness of yourself as you stand now, or, if you
prefer it, have a smaller one photographed
to-morrow from that portrait, and send it to
me by express. I shall be detained in Richmond
several days, and it will reach me safely.
Do not, I beg of you, refuse me this. It is the
only consolation I can have, and God knows it
is little enough! Oh, Irene! think of my
loneliness, and grant this last request.”

His large brilliant eyes were full of tears,
the first she had ever seen dim their light;
and, moved by the grief which so transformed
his lineaments, she answered, hastily:

“Of course, if you desire it so earnestly,
though it were much better that you had nothing
to remind you of me.”

“Will you have it taken to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

She covered her face with her hands for
some seconds, as if striving to overcome some
impulse; then, turning quickly to him, she
wound her arms about his neck, and drew his
face down to hers.

“Oh, Russell! Russell! I want your promise
that you will so live and govern yourself that,
if your soul is summoned from the battle-field,
you can confront Eternity without a single
apprehension. If you must yield up your life
for freedom, I want the assurance that you
have gone to your final home at peace with
God; that you wait there for me; and that,
when my work is done, and I, too, lay my
weary head to rest, we shall meet soul to soul,
and spend a blessed eternity together, where
strife and separation are unknown. In the
realization of your ambitious dreams, I know

that you have given no thought to these things;
and it was chiefly my anxiety to impress upon
you their importance, their vital necessity,
which induced me to send for you. Your
hard, bitter heart must be softened; you must
try to overcome your vindictiveness; to cherish
more charity and forgiveness toward some who
have thwarted you. Sometimes, in watching
your gloomy, stern face, I have almost despaired
that you would ever feel otherwise;
and many a night I have prayed fervently
that you might be influenced to make some
preparation for futurity. Oh, Russell! I can
be brave, and strong, and patient; I can bear
to see your dear face no more in this world;
I can give you up to our country, and not
murmur that you died defending her liberties
—if I have the conviction that, in that noble
death, you found the gate of heaven—that I
shall meet you again when my God calls me
home. Think of this when you leave me for
the temptations of camp-life, and go forth to
scenes of strife and horror. Think of it by day
and night, striving to subdue your heart in
accordance with the precepts of Christ; to exert
a restraining, purifying influence over your
command; and remember, oh, remember, Russell!
that this is the only hope I have to cheer
me. Will you promise to read the bible I give
you now—to pray constantly for yourself?
Will you promise to meet me beyond the
grave?”

His black locks lay upon her forehead as he
struggled for composure, and, after a moment,
he answered, solemnly:

“I will try, my darling.”

She put into his hand the bible, which she had
carefully marked, and which bore on the blank
leaf, in her handwriting: “Colonel Russell
Aubrey, with the life-long prayers of his best
friend.”

The shadow fled from her countenance,
which grew radiant as some fleecy vapor suddenly
smitten with a blaze of sunlight, and
clear and sweeter than chiming bells her voice
rang through the room.

“Thank God! for that promise. I shall
lean my heart upon it till the last pulsations
are stilled in my coffin. And now I will keep
you no longer from your regiment. I know
that you have many duties there to claim your
time. Turn your face toward the window; I
want to look at it, to be able to keep its
expression always before me.”

She put up her waxen hand, brushed the
hair from his pale, dome-like brow, and gazed
earnestly at the noble features, which even the
most fastidious could find no cause to carp at.

“Of old, when Eurystheus threatened
Athens, Maearia, in order to save the city and
the land from invasion and subjugation, willingly
devoted herself a sacrifice upon the altar
of the gods. Ah, Russell! that were an easy
task, in comparison with the offering I am called
upon to make. I can not, like Macaria, by
self-immolation, redeem my country; from
that great privilege I am debarred; but I yield
up more than she ever possessed. I give my
all on earth—my father and yourself—to our
beloved and suffering country. My God!
accept the sacrifice, and crown the South a
sovereign, independent nation! Gladly, unshrinkingly,
would I meet a death so sublime;
but to survive the loss of those dearer far than
my life, to live and endure such desolation—
oh! my lot, and that of thousands of my country-women,
is infinitely more bitter than the
fate of Macaria!”

She smothered a moan, and her head sank
on his shoulder; but lifting it instantly, with
her fathomless affection beaming in her face,
she added:

“To the mercy and guidance of Almighty
God I commit you, dear Russell—trusting all
things in His hands. May He shield you from
suffering, strengthen you in the hour of trial,
and reunite us eternally in His kingdom, is,
and ever shall be, my constant prayer. Good-by,
Russell! Do your duty nobly; win deathless
glory on the battle-field, in defence of our
sacred cause; and remember that your laurels
will be very precious to my lonely heart.”

He folded her in his arms, and kissed her
repeatedly; but, disengaging herself, she put
him gently aside; and, snatching up his hat, he
left the room. He reached his horse, then
paused, and returned to the parlor.

The sun had set, but waves of rich orange
light rolled through the window, and broke
over the white figure kneeling there, half-veiled
by curling hair. The clasped hands
were uplifted, and the colorless face was thrown
back in silent supplication. He watched the
wonderful loveliness of face and form, till his
pride was utterly melted; and, sinking on his
knees, he threw one arm around her waist,
exclaiming:

“Oh, Irene! you have conquered! With
God's grace I will so spend the residue of my
life as to merit your love, and the hope of
reunion beyond the grave.”

She laid her hand lightly on his bowed head
as he knelt beside her, and, in a voice that
knew no faltering, breathed out a fervent
prayer, full of pathos and sublime in faith—
invoking blessings upon him—life-long guardianship,
and final salvation through Christ.
The petition ended, she rose, smiling through
the mist that gathered over her eyes, and he
said:

“I came back to ask something which I feel
that you will not refuse me. Electra will probably
soon come home, and she may be left alone
in the world. Will you sometimes go to her
for my sake, and give her your friendship?”

“I will, Russell, for her sake, as well as for
yours. She shall be the only sister I have ever
known,”

She drew his hand to her lips, but he caught
it away, and pressed a last kiss upon them.

“Good-by, my own darling! my life-angel!”

She heard his step across the hall; a moment
after, the tramp of his horse, as he galloped
down the avenue, and she knew that the one
happy hour of her life had passed—that the
rent sepulchre of silence must be resealed.

Pressing her hands over her desolate heart,
she murmured, sadly:

“Thy will, not mine, oh, Father! Give me
strength to do my work; enable me to be faithful
even to the bitter end.”