University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

“Irene, your father will be displeased if he
sees you in that plight.”

“Pray, what is wrong about me now? You
seem to glory in finding fault. What is the
matter with my `plight' as you call it?”

“You know very well your father can't
bear to see you carrying your own satchel
and basket to school. He ordered Martha to
take them every morning and evening, but
she says you will not let her carry them. It is
just sheer obstinacy in you.”

“There it is again! because I don't choose
to be petted like a baby or made a wax-doll
of, it is set down to obstinacy, as if I had the
temper of a heathen. See here, aunt Margaret,
I am tired of having Martha tramping
eternally at my heels as though I were a two
year old child. There is no reason in her
walking after me when I am strong enough to
carry my own books, and I don't intend she
shall do it any longer.”

“But, Irene, your father is too proud to
have you trudging along the road like any
other beggar, with your books in one arm and
a basket swinging on the other. Just suppose
the Carters or the Harrisses should meet you?
Dear me! they would hardly believe you
belonged to a wealthy, aristocratic family like
the Huntingdons. Child, I never carried my
own dinner to school in my life.”

“And I expect that is exactly the reason
why you are for ever complaining, and scarcely
see one well day in the three hundred and
sixty-five. As to what people think, I don't
care a cent; as to whether my ancestors did
or did not carry their lunch in their own aristocratic
hands is a matter of no consequence
whatever. I despise all this ridiculous nonsense
about aristocracy of family, and I mean
to do as I please. I thought that really well-bred
persons of high standing and birth could
afford to be silent on the subject, and that
only parvenus, coarse, vulgar people with a
little money, put on those kind of airs, and
pretended to be shocked at what they had
been accustomed to in early life.”

“I do not see where you get such plebeian
ideas; you positively make me ashamed of you
sometimes, when fashionable, genteel persons
come to the house. There is such a want of
refinement in your notions. You are anything
but a Huntingdon.”

“I am what God made me, aunt Margaret.
If the Huntingdons stand high, it is because
they won distinction by their own efforts; I
don't want the stepping-stones of my dead ancestry;
people must judge me for myself, not
from what my grandmother was.”

Irene Huntingdon stood on the marble steps
of her palatial home, and talked with the
maiden aunt who governed her father's household.
The girl was about fourteen, tall for
her age, straight, finely-formed, slender. The
broad straw hat shaded, but by no means concealed
her features, and as she looked up at
her annt the sunshine fell upon a face of extraordinary
beauty, such as is rarely seen, save
in the idealized heads of the old masters. Her
hair was of an uncommon shade, neither auburn
nor brown, but between gold and bronze;
and as the sun shone on it the rippling waves
flashed, until their burnished glory seemed a
very aureola. It was thick and curling; she
wore it parted on her pale, polished forehead,
and it hung around her like a gilded veil.
The face was an oval; you might measure it
by all the rules of art and no imperfection

could be found, unless the height of the brow
were considered out of proportion. The nose
was delicate and clearly cut, and in outline
resembled that in the antique medals of Olympias,
the wife of Philip of Macedonia. The
upper lip was short, and curved like a bow;
the lower, thin, firm, and straight. Her eyes
were strangely, marvellously beautiful; they
were larger than usual, and of that rare shade
of purplish blue which borders the white velvet
petals of a clematis. When the eyes were uplifted,
as on this occasion, long, curling lashes
of the bronze hue of her hair rested against
her brow. Save the scarlet lines which marked
her lips, her face was of that clear colorlessness
which can be likened only to the purest
ivory. Though there was an utter absence of
the rosy hue of health, the transparency of
the complexion seemed characteristic of her
type, and precluded all thought of disease.
People are powerfully attracted by beauty,
either of form, color, or a combination of both;
and it frequently happens that something of
pain mingles with the sensation of pleasure
thus excited. Now, whether it be that this
arises from a vague apprehension engendered
by the evanescent nature of all sublunary
things, or from the inability of earthly types
to satisfy the divine ideal which the soul enshrines,
I shall not here attempt to decide;
but those who examined Irene's countenance
were fully conscious of this complex emotion;
and strangers who passed her in the street felt
intuitively that a noble, unsullied soul looked
out at them from the deep, calm, thoughtful
eyes. Miss Margaret muttered something inaudible
in reply to her last remark, and Irene
walked on to school. Her father's residence
was about a mile from the town, but the winding
road rendered the walk somewhat longer;
and on one side of this road stood the small
house occupied by Mrs. Aubrey. As Irene
approached it she saw Electra Grey coming
from the opposite direction, and at the cottage
gate they met. Both paused; Irene held out
her hand cordially—

“Good-morning. I have not seen you for a
fortnight. I thought you were coming to school
again as soon as you were strong enough?”

“No; I am not going back to school.”

“Why?”

“Because auntie can't afford to send me
any longer. You know her eyes are growing
worse every day, and she is not able to take
in sewing as she used to do. I am sorry; but
it can't be helped.”

“How do you know it can't be helped?
Russell told me he thought she had cataracts
on her eyes, and they can be removed.”

“Perhaps so, if we had the means of consulting
that celebrated physician in New Orleans.
Money removes a great many things,
Irie, but unfortunately we have n't it.”

“The trip would not cost much; suppose
vou speak to Russell about it.”

“Much or little, it will require more than
we can possibly spare. Everything is so high
we can barely live as it is. But I must go in,
my aunt is waiting for me.”

“Where have you been so early, Electra?
I hope you will not think me impertinent in
asking such a question.”

“I carried this waiter full of bouquets to
Mr. Carter's. There is to be a grand dinner-party
there to-day, and auntie promised as
many flowers as she could furnish. However,
bouquets pay poorly. Irie, wait one minute;
I have a little border of mignonette all my
own, and I should like to give you a spray.”

She hurried into the garden, and returning
with a few delicate sprigs fastened one in her
friend's belt and the remainder in the ribbon
on her hat.

“Thank you, Electra; who told you that I
love mignonette so well? It will not do for
you to stay away from school; I miss you in
my class, and besides, you are losing too much
time. Something should be done, Electra.
Good-by.”

They shook hands, and Irene walked on.
“Something should be done,” she repeated,
looking down fixedly yet vacantly at the sandy
road. Soon the brick walls of the academy
rose grim and uninviting, and taking her place
at the desk she applied herself to her books.
When school was dismissed in the afternoon,
instead of returning home as usual she walked
down the principal street, entered Mr. Watson's
store, and put her books on the counter.
It happened that the proprietor stood near the
front door, and he came forward instantly to
wait upon her.

“Ah, Miss Irene! happy to see you. What
shall I have the pleasure of showing you?”

“Russell Aubrey, if you please.”

The merchant stared, and she added:

“I want some kid gauntlets, but Russell can
get them for me.”

The young clerk stood at the desk in the
rear of the store, with his back toward the
counter; and Mr. Watson called out:

“Here, Aubrey, some kid gauntlets for this
young lady.”

He laid down his pen, and taking a box of
gloves from the shelves placed it on the counter
before her. He had not noticed her particularly,
and when she pushed back her hat
and looked up at him he started slightly.

“Good-evening, Miss Huntingdon. What
number do you wish?”

Perhaps it was from the heat of the day, or
from stooping over his desk, or perhaps it was
from something else, but his cheek was flushed,
and gradually it grew pale again.

“Russell, I want to speak to you about
Electra. She ought to be at school, you
know.”

“Yes.”

“But she says your mother can't afford the
expense.”

“Just now she can not; next year things
will be better.”

“What is the tuition for her?”

“Five dollars a month.”

“Is that all?”

He selected a delicate fawn-colored pair of
gloves and laid them before her, while a faint
smile passed over his face.

“Russell, has anything happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is troubling you so?”

“Nothing more than usual. Do those gloves
suit you?”

“Yes, they will fit me, I believe.” She
looked at him very intently.

He met her gaze steadily, and for an instant
his face brightened; then she said, abruptly:

“Your mother's eyes are worse?”

“Yes, much worse.”

“Have you consulted Dr. Arnold about
them?”

“He says he can do nothing for her.”

“How much would it cost to take her to
New Orleans and have that celebrated oculist
examine them?”

“More than we can afford just now; at
least two hundred dollars.”

“Oh, Russell! that is not much. Would
not Mr. Watson lend you that little?”

“I shall not ask him.”

“Not even to restore your mother's sight?”

“Not to buy my own life. Besides, the experiment
is a doubtful one.”

“Still it is worth making.”

“Yes, under different circumstances it certainly
would be.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Campbell about
it?”

“No, because it is useless to discuss the
matter.”

“It would be dangerous to go to New Orleans
now, I suppose?”

“October or November would be better.”

Again she looked at him very earnestly,
then stretched out her little hand.

“Good-by, Russell; I wish I could do something
to help you, to make you less sorrowful.”

He held the slight waxen fingers, and his
mouth trembled as he answered.

“Thank you, Miss Huntingdon. I am not
sorrowful, but my path in life is not quite so
flowery as yours.”

“I wish you would not call me `Miss Huntingdon,'
in that stiff, far-off way, as if we
were not friends. Or maybe it is a hint that
you desire me to address you as Mr. Aubrey.
It sounds strange, unnatural, to say anything
but Russell.”

She gathered up her books, took the gloves,
and went slowly homeward, and Russell returned
to his desk with a light in his eyes
which, for the remainder of the day, nothing
could quench. As Irene ascended the long
hill on which Mr. Huntingdon's residence
stood she saw her father's buggy at the door,
and as she approached the steps he came out,
drawing on his gloves.

“You are late, Irene. What kept you?”

“I have been shopping a little. Are you
going to ride? Take me with you.”

“Going to dine at Mr. Carter's.”

“Why, the sun is almost down now. What
time will you come home? I want to ask you
something.”

“Not till long after you are asleep.”

He took his seat in the buggy, and the
spirited horse dashed down the avenue. A
servant came forward to take her hat and
satchel and inform her that her dinner had
waited some time. Miss Margaret sat crotcheting
at the front window of the dining-room,
and Irene ate her dinner in silence. As she
rose and approached her aunt the door swung
open and a youth entered, apparently about
Russell's age, though really one year older.

“Irene, I am tired to death waiting for you.
What a provoking girl you are. The horses
have been saddled at least one hour and a
half. Do get on your riding-dress. I am out
of all patience.”

He rapped his boot heavily with his whip
by way of emphasis, and looked hurriedly at
his watch.

“I did not promise to ride with you this
evening, Hugh,” answered his cousin, seating
herself on the window-sill and running her
fingers fightly over the bars of a beautiful
cage, where her canary pecked playfully at
the fair hand.

“Oh, nonsense! Suppose you did n't promise;
I waited for you, and told Grace Harriss
and Charlie that we would meet them at the
upper bend of the river, just above the factory.
Charlie's new horse has just arrived
from Vermont—Green Mountain Boy, he calls
him—and we have a bet of a half-dozen pairs
of gloves that he can't beat my Eclipse.
Do come along! Aunt Margaret, make her
come.”

“I should like to see anybody make her
do what she is not in the humor for,” said
his aunt, looking over her glasses at the lithe,
graceful figure on the window-sill.

“Hugh, I would rather stay at home, for I
am tired, but I will go to oblige you.”

Miss Margaret lifted her eyebrows, and
as his cousin left the room Hugh Seymour
exclaimed:

“Is n't she the greatest beauty in the United
States?”

“She will be a belle when she is grown;
just such a one as your mother was, only she
lacks her gayety of disposition. She is full
of strange notions, Hugh; you don't know the
half of her character—her own father does
not. Frequently I am puzzled to understand
her myself.”

“Oh! she will come out of all that. She
is curious about some things now, but she will
outgrow it.”

“I am afraid she will not, for it is as much
a part of her as the color of her hair or
the shape of her nose. She has always been
queen.”

Irene appeared at the door with a small
silver porte-monnaie in her hand. She counted
the contents, put it into her pocket, and,
gathering up the folds of her habit, led the
way to the front door. Hugh adjusted the
reins, and laying one hand on his she sprang
lightly to her saddle, then stroked her horse's
silky mane and said:

“Erebus can leave Green Mountain Boy so
far behind that Charlie would find it no easy
matter to count the plumes in my hat. Are
you ready?”

The beautiful, jetty creature, as if conscious
of her praise, tossed his head and sprang
off in a canter, but wheeling round she called
to the groom who stood watching them:

“Unchain Paragon!”

Five minutes later the cousins were galloping
on, with a superb greyhound following
close at Erebus' heels, and leaping up now
and then in obedience to the motion of Irene's
hand. The road ran through a hilly country,
now clad in stern, ancestral pines, and now
skirted with oak and hickory, and about a
mile beyond the town it made a sharp angle,
and took the river bank. The sun had set,
but the western sky was still aglow; and near
the bank, where the current was not perceptible,
the changing tints of the clouds
were clearly mirrored, but in the middle of
the stream a ledge of rock impeded its course,
and the water broke over with a dull roar,
churning itself into foam and spray as it
dashed from shelf to shelf of the stony barrier.
Just opposite the Fall, Irene checked
her horse, and paused to admire the beauty
of the scene; but in another moment the
quick tramp of hoofs fell on her ear, and
Hugh's young friends joined them. Green
Mountain Boy was flecked with foam, and
as Irene measured his perfections at one
hasty glance she patted her favorite's head
and challenged Charlie for a trial of speed.

“No, Charlie and I must have the race.
Miss Grace, you and Irene can take care of
yourselves for a few minutes. We will wait
for you on the edge of town, at the graveyard.
Now, Charlie, I am ready.”

They took their places in front, and were
soon out of sight, as the road followed the
curves of the river. Erebus plunged violently
at first, not being accustomed to lag behind
Eclipse, but by much persuasion and frequent
kind touches on his head, Irene managed to
reconcile him to the temporary disgrace.

Grace looked at his antics rather fearfully,
and observed that no amount of money could
tempt her to mount him.

“Why not?”

“He will break your neck yet.”

“He is very spirited, but as gentle as Para
gon. Come, Grace, it is getting late; they
will be waiting for us. Quicken your sober,
meek little brownie.”

“So Electra is not coming back to school.
It is a great pity she can't have an education.”

“Who told you anything about her?”

“Oh, everybody knows how poor her aunt
is; and now to mend matters she is going
blind. I would go to see Electra occasionally
if the family had not been so disgraced. I
like her, but no genteel person recognizes
Mrs. Aubrey, even in the street.”

“That is very unjust. She is one of the
most refined, elegant women I have ever seen.
She ought not to be blamed for her husband's
misfortune. Poverty is no crime.”

If she had been treated to a Hindostanee
proverb, Grace could not have looked more
stupidly surprised.

“Why, Irene! Mrs. Aubrey wears a bit-calico
to church.”

“Well, suppose she does? Is people's
worth to be determined only by the cost or
the quality of their clothes? If I were to
give your cook a silk dress exactly like that
one your uncle sent you from Paris, and provide
her with shawl and bonnet to match,
would she be your equal, do you think? I
imagine you would not thank me or anybody
else who insinuated that Mrs. Harriss' negro
cook was quite as genteel and elegant as Miss
Grace herself, because she wore exactly the
same kind of clothes. I tell you, Grace, it is
all humbug! this everlasting talk about fashion,
and dress, and gentility! Pshaw! I am
sick of it. When our forefathers were fighting
for freedom, for a national existence, I wonder
whether their wives measured each other's
respectability or gentility by their lace collars
or the number of flounces on their dresses?
Grace Harriss, your great-grandmother, and
mine, and probably everybody's else, spun the
cotton, and wove the cloth, and cut and made
their homespun dresses, and were thankful to
get them. And these women who had not
even bit-calicoes were the mothers, and wives,
and sisters, and daughters of men who established
the most glorious government on the face
of the broad earth! The way the women of
America have degenerated is a crying shame.
I tell you, I would blush to look my great-grandmother
in the face.”

Grace shrugged her shoulders in expressive
silence, and, soon after, they reached the spot
where the boys were waiting to join them.

“Eclipse made good his name!” cried Hugh,
triumphantly, while Charlie bit his lip with
chagrin.

“Never mind, Charlie, Erebus can distance
Eclipse any day.”

“Not so easily,” muttered Hugh.

“I will prove it the next time we ride. Now
for a canter as far as Grace's door.”

On they went, through the main street of
the town: Erebus ahead, Paragon at his heels,

then all the others. The wind blew Irene's
veil over her eyes, she endeavored to put it
back, and in the effort dropped her whip. It
was dusk; they were near one of the crossings,
and a tall well-known form stooped,
found the whip, and handed it up. Erebus
shied, but the hand touched Irene's as it inserted
the silver handle in the slender fingers.

“Thank you, Russell, thank you very much.”

He bowed formally, drew his straw hat over
his brow, and walked on with two heavy account-books
under his arm.

“I can't endure that boy,” said Hugh, at
the distance of half a square, flourishing his
whip energetically as he spoke.

“Nor I,” chimed in Charlie.

“Why not? I have known him a long time,
and I like him very much.”

“He is so confoundedly proud and saintly.”

“That exists entirely in your imagination,
Hugh. You don't know half his good qualities,”
returned Irene, a little quickly.

“Bah!—” began her cousin; but here their
companions bade them good-night, and, as if
disinclined to continue the subject, Irene kept
in advance till they reached home. Tea was
waiting; Miss Margaret and Hugh talked of
various things; Irene sat silent, balancing her
spoon on the edge of her cup. Finally, tired
of listening, she glided to the front door and
seated herself on the steps. Paragon followed,
and laid down at her feet. Everything was
quiet, save the distant roar of the river as it
foamed over its rocky bed; below, hanging on
the bank of the stream, lay the town. From
her elevated position she could trace the winding
of the streets by the long rows of lamps;
and now and then a faint hum rose on the
breeze, as it swept up the hill and lost itself in
the forest behind the house. Very soon Hugh
came out, cigar in hand, and threw himself
down beside her.

“What is the matter, Irie?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you moping here for?”

“I am not moping at all; I am waiting for
father.”

“He will not be here for three hours yet.
Don't you know that Mr. Carter's dinners
always end in card-parties? He is famous
for whist and euchre, and doubtless his dinners
pay him well. What do you want with
uncle?”

“Hugh, do throw away your cigar. It is
ridiculous to see a boy of your age puffing
away in that style. Betting and smoking
seem to be the only things you have learned
at Yale. By the way, when do you go back?”

“Are you getting tired of me? I go back
in ten days. Irene, do you know that I am
not coming home next vacation? I have
promised a party of merry fellows to spend it
with them in Canada. Then the next summer
I go to Europe, for two years at least.
Are you listening? Do you understand that
it will be four years before I see you again?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I dare say the time will seem longer to me
than to you.”

“I hope when you do come back we shall
not be disappointed in you.”

He took her hand, but she withdrew her
fingers.

“Irene, you belong to me, and you know it.”

“No! I belong to God and myself.”

She rose, and, retreating to the library,
opened her books and began to study. The
night passed very slowly; she looked at the
clock again and again. Finally the house became
quiet, and at last the crush of wheels on
the gravel-walk announced her father's return.
He came into the library for a cigar, and, without
noticing her, drew his chair to the open
window. She approached and put her hand
on his shoulder.

“Irene! what is the matter, child?”

“Nothing, sir; only I want to ask you something.”

“Well, Queen, what is it?”

He drew her tenderly to his knee, and
passed his hand over her floating hair.

Leonard Huntingdon was forty years old;
tall, spare, with an erect and martial carriage.
He had been trained at West Point, and perhaps
early education contributed somewhat to
the air of unbending haughtiness which many
found repulsive. His black hair was slightly
sprinkled with gray, and his features were still
decidedly handsome, though the expression of
mouth and eyes was, ordinarily, by no means
winning. He could seem very fascinating, but
rarely deigned to be so; and an intimate acquaintance
was not necessary to teach people
that he was proud, obstinate, and thoroughly
selfish—loving only Hugh, Irene, and himself.
She was his only child; her mother had died
during her infancy, and on this beautiful idol
he lavished all the tenderness of which his
nature was capable. His tastes were cultivated,
his house was elegant and complete,
and furnished magnificently; every luxury
that money could yield him he possessed, yet
there were times when he seemed moody and
cynical, and no one could surmise the cause of
his gloom. To-night there was no shadow on
his face, however; doubtless the sparkle of the
wine-cup still shone in his piercing blue eye,
and the girl looked up at him fearing no denial.

“Father, I wish, please, you would give me
two hundred dollars.”

“What would you do with it, Queen?”

“I do not want it for myself; I should like
to have that much to enable a poor woman to
recover her sight. She has cataracts on her
eyes, and there is a physician in New Orleans
who can relieve her. She is poor, and it will
cost about two hundred dollars. Father, won't
you give me the money?”

He took the cigar from his lips, shook off
the ashes, and asked indifferently:

“What is the woman's name? Has she no
husband to take care of her?”

“Mrs. Aubrey; she—.”

“What!”

The cigar fell from his fingers, he put her
from his knee, and rose instantly. His swarthy
cheek glowed, and she wondered at the expression
of his eyes, so different from anything
she had ever seen there before.

“Father, do you know her?”

“What do you know of her? What business
is it of yours, whether she goes blind or
not? Is it possible Margaret allows you to
visit at that house? Answer me; what do
you know about her?”

“I know that she is a very gentle, unfortunate
woman; that she has many bitter
trials; that she works hard to support her
family; that she is noble and—.”

“Who gave you permission to visit that
house?”

“No permission was necessary. I go there
because I love her and Electra, and because
I like Russell. Why should n't I go there,
sir? Is poverty disgrace?”

“Irene, mark me. You are to visit that
house no more in future; keep away from the
whole family. I will have no such association.
Never let me hear their names again.
Go to bed.”

“Give me one good reason, and I will obey
you.”

“Reason! My will, my command, is sufficient
reason. What do you mean by catechising
me in this way? Implicit obedience
is your duty.”

The calm holy eyes looked wonderingly into
his; and as he marked the startled expression
of the girl's pure face his own eyes drooped.

“Father, has Mrs. Aubrey ever injured
you?”

No answer.

“If she has not, you are very unjust to
her; if she has, remember she is a woman,
bowed down with many sorrows, and it is unmanly
to hoard up old differences. Father,
please give me that money.”

“I will bury my last dollar in the Red sea
first! Now are you answered?”

She put her hand over her eyes, as if to
shut out some painful vision; and he saw the
slight form shudder. In perfect silence she
took her books and went up to her room. Mr.
Huntingdon reseated himself as the door
closed behind her, and the lamplight showed
a sinister smile writhing over his dark features.
In the busy hours of day, in the rush and din
of active life, men can drown remorseful
whispers, and shut their eyes to the panorama
which memory strives to place before them;
but there come still hours, solemn and inexorable,
when struggles are useless, and the
phantom-recollections of early years crowd
up like bannered armies. He sat there,
staring out into the starry night, and seeing
by the shimmer of the setting moon only the
graceful form and lovely face of Amy Aubrey,
as she had appeared to him in other
days. Could he forget the hour when she
wrenched her cold fingers from his clasp, and,
in defiance of her father's wishes, vowed she
would never be his wife? No; revenge was
sweet, very sweet; his heart had swelled with
exultation when the verdict of death upon
the gallows was pronounced upon the husband
of her choice; and now, her poverty, her
humiliation, her blindness gave him deep, unutterable
joy. The history of the past was a
sealed volume to his daughter, but she was
now for the first time conscious that her
father regarded the widow and her son with
unconquerable hatred; and with strange, foreboding
dread she looked into the future, knowing
that forgiveness was no part of his nature;
that insult or injury was never forgotten.