University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A RETROSPECT.

SIX years have passed away and we lift the curtain of
our story in Charlestown, and, after pausing there a
moment, go back across the bridge which spans the
interval between the present and the past. It was the day but
one before the close of the term, and those who had learned to
love each other with a school-girl's warm, impetuous love,
would soon part, some forever and some to meet again, but
when, or where, none could tell.

sang a clear, bird-like voice in the music-room, where Magdalen
Lennox was practising the song she was to sing the following
night.

“Yes, it may be for years, and it may be forever! I wish
there were no such thing as parting from those we love,” the
young girl sighed, as, with her sheet of music in her hand, she
passed through the hall, and up the stairs, to the room which
had been hers so long.

Magdalen had been very happy at Charlestown, where every
one loved her, from the teacher, whom she never annoyed, to
the smallest child, whom she so often helped and encouraged;
and she had enjoyed her vacations at Millbank, and more than
once had taken two or three of her young friends there for the
winter or summer holidays. And Hester had petted, and admired,
and waited upon her, and scolded her for soiling so
many white skirts, and then had sat up nights to iron these
skirts, and had remarked, with a feeling of pride and complacency,
that Hattie Johnson's dresses were not as full or as long
as Magdalen's. Hester was very proud of Magdalen; they
were all proud of her at Millbank, and vied with each other in
their attentions to her; and Magdalen appreciated their kindness,

and loved her pleasant home, and thought there was no
place like it in the world; but for all that she rather dreaded
returning to it for good, with nothing to look forward to in the
future. She understood her position now far better than when
she was a child, and as she thought over the strange circumstances
which had resulted in bringing her to Millbank, her
cheeks had burned crimson for the mother who had so wantonly
deserted her. Still she could not hate that mother, and
her nightly prayers always ended with a blessing upon her, and
a petition that she might sometime find her, or know, at least,
who she was. She knew she had no claim on Roger Irving,
and, as she grew older, she shrank from a life of dependence at
Millbank, especially as Frank was likely to be there a good
share of his time.

With all the ardor of her impulsive nature she had clung to
and believed in him, until the day when he, too, said good-by,
and left her for Europe. He had been graduated with tolerable
credit to himself, and because of his fine oratorical ability
had appeared upon the stage, and made what Magdalen had
thought a “splendid speech;” for Magdalen was there in the
old Centre Church, listening with wrapt attention, and a face
radiant with the admiration she felt for her hero, whose graceful
gestures and clear, musical voice covered a multitude of
defects in his rather milk-and-watery declamation. It was
Magdalen's bouquet which had fallen directly at his feet when
his speech was ended, and nothing could have been prettier
than his manner as he stooped to pick it up, and then bowed
his thanks to the young girl, whose face flushed all over with
pride, both then and afterward, when, in the evening, she leaned
upon his arm at the reception given to the students and their
friends. Magdalen was a little girl of thirteen-and-a-half, while
Frank was twenty-two; was a graduate; was Mr. Irving, of
New York; and could afford to patronize her, and at the same
time be very polite and attentive to scores of young ladies
whose acquaintance he had made during his college career.

After that July day in New Haven, the happiest and proudest

of Magdalen's life, he went with her to Millbank, and fished
again in the Connecticut, and hunted in the woods, and smoked
his cigars beneath the maple-trees, and teazed and tyrannized
over, and petted, and made a slave of Magdalen, just as the
fancy took him. Then there came a letter from Roger, written
after the receipt of one from Magdalen, who, because she
fancied it might please her hero, had said how much Frank
would enjoy a year's travel in Europe, and how much good it
would do him, especially as he was looking worn and thin from
his recent close application to study.

Roger bit his lip when he read that letter and wondered if
the hint was Frank's suggestion, and wondered, too, if it were
best to act upon it; and then, with a genuine desire to see his
young kinsman, he wrote to Frank, inviting him to Paris, and
offering to defray his expenses for a year in Europe. Frank
was almost beside himself with joy, for, except at Millbank, he
felt that he had no home, proper, in the world. His mother
had been compelled to rent her handsome house, and board
with the people who rented it. This just supported her, and
nothing more. He would be in the way in Lexington. Avenue,
and he accepted Roger's invitation eagerly; and one bright
day, in September, sailed out of the harbor at New York, while
Magdalen stood on the shore and waved her handkerchief to
him until the vessel passed from sight.

The one year abroad had grown into five; Roger was fond
of travel; he had plenty of money at his command; it was as
cheap living in Europe as at Millbank, where under efficient
superintendence everything seemed to go on as well without as
with him. He never encroached upon his principal, even after
Frank came to be his companion, and so he had lingered year
after year, sometimes in glorious Italy, sometimes climbing the
sides of Switzerland's snow-capped mountains, sometimes wandering
through the Holy Land or exploring the river Nile, and
again resting for months on the vine-clad hills which overshadow
the legendary Rhine. Frank was not always with him.
He did not care for pictures, or scenery, or works of art; and

when Roger stopped for months to improve himself in these,
Frank went his own way to voluptuous Paris, where the gay
society suited him better, or on to the beautiful island of Ischia,
where all was “so still, so green, and so dreamy,” and where at
the little mountain inn, called the “Piccola Sentinella,” and
which overlooked the sea, he met again with Alice Grey.

But any hopes he might have entertained with regard to the
girl whom he had admired so much in New Haven were effectually
cut off by the studied coolness of Mr. Grey's manner towards
him, and the obstacles constantly thrown in the way of
his seeing her alone. Mr. Grey did not like Frank Irving, and
soon after the arrival of the latter at the “Piccola Sentinella,”
he gave up his rooms at the inn, and started with his daughter
for Switzerland. There was a break then in Frank's letters to
Magdalen, and when at last he wrote again it was to say that
he was coming home, and that Roger was coming with him.

This letter, which reached Magdalen the night preceding
the examination, awoke within her a feeling of uneasiness and
disquiet. She had been always more or less afraid of Roger,
and she was especially so now that she had not seen him for
more than eight years, and he would undoubtedly expect so
much from her as a graduate and a young lady of eighteen.
She almost wished he would stay in Europe, or that she had
some other home than Millbank. It would not be half so
pleasant with the master there, as it used to be in other days
when she was a little girl fishing with Frank in the river, or
hunting with him in the woods. Frank would be at Millbank,
too, it was true; but the travelled Frank, who spoke French
like a native, was very different from the Frank of five years
ago, and Magdalen dreaded him almost as much as she
dreaded Roger himself, wondering if he would tease her as he
used to do, and if he would think her improved and at all like
Alice Grey, whom she knew he had met again at the “Piccola
Sentinella.” “I wish they would stay abroad five years more,”
she thought, as she finished reading Frank's letter; and her
cheeks grew so hot and red, and her pulse beat so rapidly, that

it was long after midnight ere she could quiet herself for the
rest she would need on the morrow, when she was to act so
conspicuous a part.