University of Virginia Library

51. CHAPTER LI.
MAGDALEN IS COMING HOME.

THE Greys had been gone little more than three years
and a half, and the soft winds of June were kissing
the ripples of the sea on the morning when they
finally embarked for America. They had travelled all over
Europe, from sunny France to colder, bleaker Russia, but had
stopped the longest at the Isle of Ischia, where at the “Piccola
Sentinella” another little life came into their midst, and Guy
Seymour nearly went wild with joy over his beautiful little boy,
whose soft, blue eyes and golden brown hair were so much like
Alice's. Magdalen was permitted to name the wonderful baby,
and without a moment's hesitancy she said, “I would like him
to be called after the best man I ever knew — `Roger Irving.”'

“Oh, Magdalena mia, you don't forget him, do you? Love

once love forever, is your maxim,” Guy said, playfully; but he
approved the name, and so did Alice, who knew more of Magdalen's
heart-history now than she once had done, and who
with Guy had revolved many plans for bringing Roger and
Magdalen together.

Mr. Grey did not assent quite so readily to the name, though
he did not oppose it. He merely said, “Roger sounds rather
old for a baby; but do as you like, — do as you like.”

So they called the baby Roger Irving, and Magdalen was
godmother, and her tears fell like a baptismal shower upon the
little face as she thought of her own babyhood, and the man
whom she had loved so long, and who was continually in her
thoughts. She knew he was not married; she had heard that
from the Burleighs who came one day to the “Piccola Sentinella,”
bringing news direct from home.

“Not married yet, and is not likely to be,” Mrs. Franklin
Irving had said, as she sat talking with Magdalen, whose voice
was rather unsteady when she asked for Roger.

Quick to read expressions of thought and feeling, Bell noted
the flush on the young girl's face, and the tremor in her voice,
and felt that she had the key to Roger's bachelorhood. She
had met him twice, — once in Boston and once at Millbank, —
and had liked him very much, and shown her liking in many
ways, and even laid a little snare, hoping to entangle him for
Grace. This Frank saw, and told her “to hang up her fiddle,
for Roger's heart was disposed of long ago to one who loved
him in return, but who was laboring under some mistake.”

Bell had forgotten this, but it came back to her again with
Magdalen at her side, and she told her “rumor said there was
a cause for Roger's celibacy; that he loved a young girl who
had once lived with him, and that he was only waiting for
chance to bring her in his way again.” Then she told how popular
he was, and how greatly beloved by the people in Schodick
and vicinity, and how fast he was growing rich.

Oh, how Magdalen longed to go home after that, and how she
wondered that Roger did not write if he really loved her, and

how little she guessed that he had written long ago, and that
her father had kept the letter from her. To this act Mr. Grey
had been prompted by a feeling he did not himself quite understand.
Against Roger as a man he had nothing, but he did not
think it right that his daughter should marry the son of the
woman whose early death had been indirectly caused by himself.
Had he known how strong was Magdalen's love for Roger he
would never have withheld the letter, for, if possible, Magdalen
was dearer to him now than Alice, and he studied her happiness in
everything. But she never spoke of Roger, and he hoped that
time and absence would weaken any girlish affection she might
have cherished for him. So when the letter came, and he
saw it was from Schodick, he put it away unopened, and Magdalen
knew nothing of it until long after Roger had ceased to
expect an answer, and hope was nearly or quite extinct in his
heart.

Perhaps she would not have known of it then if death had
not invaded their family circle and laid his grasp upon her
father, who died in Germany, in a little village on the Rhine.
His death was sudden to all but himself. He had long known
that he suffered from heart disease, which might kill him at any
moment, and as far as his worldly affairs were concerned, he
was ready. Every debt in America had been paid, every business
matter arranged, and his immense fortune divided equally
between his two daughters, with the exception that to Magdalen
he gave thirty thousand dollars more than he gave to Alice, this
being just the amount of poor Laura's property. He was sick
only a day or two and able to talk but little, but he spoke to
Magdalen of Roger Irving, and told her of the letter withheld
and where to find it, and said to her faintly and at long intervals,
“Forgive me, if I did wrong. I thought it would be
better for the families not to come together. I hoped you
might forget him if you believed yourself forgotten, but I see I
was mistaken. I am sorry now for the course I pursued. I
would like to see the boy, or man he is now. I saw him once
when a little child. Jessie wanted to take him with her, but I

refused. I hated him, because he was hers and not mine. I
hated all the Irvings. I took Alice from New Haven because
I feared she might fancy Frank. I do not hate them now, and
when I'm dead, go back to Roger and tell him so, and tell —
tell Jessie — if you see her; — yes, — tell her and Laura, too,
— that I tried — I tried — to pray, and I did pray — and I
hope — ”

He did not say what he hoped, for his tongue grew stiff
and paralyzed, and only his eyes spoke the farewell which
was forever. Alice and Guy were both away at a little
town farther up the river, where Guy had some friends;
but they hurried back to the vine-wreathed cottage they had
taken for the summer, and where their father now lay dead.
He was an old man, of nearly seventy, and had lived out his
appointed time; but his children wept bitterly over him, and
kissed his white lips and snowy hair, and then made him ready
for the coffin, and buried him on the banks of the blue Rhine,
where the river, in its ceaseless flow, and the rustling vines of
Germany sing a requiem for the dead.

“Let us go back to America,” Magdalen said, when Guy
and Alice asked what her wishes were.

Even before her father was buried from her sight, she had found
Roger's letter, of more than two and a half years ago, and had
read it through, and her heart had leaped across the sea with
the answer she would give. She knew Roger had not forgotten.
He might have lost faith in her, from her silence;
but he loved her still, and amid all her sorrow for her father,
there was a spring of joy in her heart as she thought of the
future opening so blissfully before her. She told Guy and
Alice everything, and while they both felt how deeply she had
been wronged, they uttered no word of censure against the
father, who had wronged her so. He was dead and gone forever,
and they made his grave beautiful with flowers and
shrubs, and placed by it a costly stone, and dropped their tears
upon it; and then turned their backs on Germany and travelled
night and day until the sea was reached, — the glorious sea, at

sight of which Magdalen wept tears of joy, blessing the dashing
waves which were to bear her home to Beechwood and to Roger
Irving.