University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

“You are better, to-day, mother tells me.”

“Yes, thank you, my foot is much better.
You have not been up to see me for two days.”

Irene sat in an easy chair by the open window,
and the minister took a seat near her.

“I have not forgotten you in the interim,

however.” As he spoke he laid a bouquet of
choice flowers in her lap. She bent over
them with eager delight, and held out one
hand, saying:

“Oh, thank you; how very kind you are.
These remind me of the green-house at home;
they are the most beautiful I have seen in
New York.”

“Irene, the man or woman who is impervious
to the subtle, spiritualizing influence of
flowers, may feel assured that there is something
lamentably amiss in either his or her
organization or habits of life. They weave
roay links of association more binding than
steel, and sometimes of incalculable value.
Amid the awful solitude of Alpine glaciers, I
recollect the thrill of pleasure which the blue
gentians caused me, as I noted the fragile
petals shuddering upon the very verge of
fields of eternal snow; and among cherished
memories of the far East are its acacias
and rhododendrons; the scarlet poppies waving
like a `mantle of blood' over Syrian valleys, and
the oleanders fringing the grey, gloomy crags
and breathing their exquisite fragrance over
the silent desolation of that grand city of rock
—immemorial Petra. I have remarked your
fondness for flowers; cultivate it always; they
are evangels of purity and faith, if we but unlock
our hearts to their ministry. Callous and
sordid indeed must be that soul who fails in
grateful appreciation of gifts designed especially
to promote the happiness and adorn the
dwellings of our race; for, in attestation of this
truth, stand the huge, hoary tomes of geology,
proving that the pre-Adamic ages were comparatively
barren of the gorgeous flowers
which tapestried the earth so munificently
just ere man made his appearance on the stage.
A reverent student of the rocks, who spent his
life in listening to the solemn, oracular whispers
of their grand granite lips, that moved, Memnon-like,
as he flashed the light of Revelation
upon them, tells us: `The poet accepted the
bee as a sign of high significance; the geologist,
also, accepts her as a sign. Her entombed
remains testify to the gradual fitting up of
our earth as a place of habitation for a creature
destined to seek delight for the mind and
eye as certainlly as for the grosser senses, and
in especial mark the introduction of stately
forest trees and the arrival of the delicious
flowers.' A profound thinker and eloquent
writer, who is now doing a noble work for his
generation by pointing it to unstained sources
of happiness, has said of flowers: `They are
chalices of Divine workmanship — of purple,
and scarlet, and liquid gold—from which man
is to drink the pure joy of beauty.' There is,
you know, a graduated scale of missionary
work for all created things; man labors for
God and his race through deep; often tortuous,
channels, and nature, all animate and inanimate
nature, ministers in feebler yet still
heaven-appointed processes. The trouble is,
that, in the rush and din and whirl of life, we
will not pause to note these sermons; and
from year to year the whispered precepts
of faith, hope, and charity fall on deaf ears.
Nature is so prodigal of refining, elevating
influences, and man is so inaccessible in his
isolating, inflated egotism.”

He paused, and busied himself in cutting the
leaves of a new book, while Irene looked into
his calm, noble face, pondering his words;
then her eyes went back to the bouquet, and
his dwelt once more upon her.

“Irene, you look sober to-day; come, cheer
up. I don't want to carry that grave expression
away with me. I want to remember
your face as I first saw it, unshadowed.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to
leave home?”

“Yes; day after to-morrow I bid farewell to
New York for a long time. I am going to
the West to take charge of a church.”

“Oh, Mr. Young! surely you are not in
earnest? You can not intend to separate
yourself from your family?”

She dropped her flowers, and leaned forward.

“Yes, I have had it in contemplation for
more than a year, and, recently, I have decided
to remove at once.”

He saw the great sorrow written in her
countenance, the quick flutter of her lip, the
large drops that dimmed the violet eyes and
gathered on the long, golden lashes, and far
sweeter than Eolian harps was the broken
voice:

“What shall I do without you? who will
encourage and advise me when you go?”

She leaned her forehead on her hands, and
a tear slid down and rested on her chin. The
sun was setting, and the crimson light flooding
the room bathed her with glory, spreading a
halo around her. He held his breath and
gazed upon the drooping figure and bewitching
face; and, in after years, when his dark
hair had grown silvery gray, he remembered
the lovely sun-lit vision that so entranced him,
leaving an indelible image on heart and brain.
He gently removed the hands, and holding
them in his said, in the measured, low tone so
indicative of suppressed emotion:

“Irene, my friend, you attach too much
importance to the aid which I might render
you. You know your duty, and I feel assured
will not require to be reminded of it. Henceforth
our paths diverge widely. I go to a
distant section of our land, there to do my
Father's work; and, ere long, having conclueed
the prescribed course, you will return
to your Southern home and take the position
assigned you in society. Thus, in all human
probability, we shall meet no more, for—”

“Oh, sir! don't say that; you will come
back to visit your family, and then I shall see
you.”

“That is scarcely probable, but we will not

discuss it now. There is, however, a channel
of communication for separated friends, and
of this we must avail ourselves. I shall write
to you from western wilds, and letters from
you will most pleasantly ripple the monotonous
life I expect to lead. This is the last
opportunity I shall have to speak with you;
let me do so freely, just as I would to Louisa.
You are young, and rather peculiarly situated;
and sometimes I fear that, in the great social
vortex awaiting you, constant temptation and
frivolous associations will stifle the noble impulses
nature gave to guide you. As you grow
older you will more fully comprehend my
meaning, and find that there are social problems
which every true-hearted man and woman
should earnestly strive to solve. These
will gradually unfold themselves as the web of
time unravels before you. You will occupy
an elevated stand-point of view, and you must
take care that, unlike the great mass of mankind,
you do not grow callous, turning a deaf
ear to the cry `the laborers are few.' It is
not woman's place to obtrude herself in the
pulpit or harangue from the rostrum; such an
abnormal course levels the distinctions which
an all-wise God established between the sexes,
but the aggregate of her usefulness is often
greater than man's. Irene, I want you to
wield the vast influence your Maker has given
you nobly and for His glory. Let your unobtrusive
yet consistent, resolute, unerring
conduct leave its impress for good wherever
you are known. I would not have you debar
yourself from a single avenue of pure enjoyment;
far from it. Monkish asceticism and
puritanic bigotry I abhor; but there is a
happy medium between the wild excesses of
so-called fashionable life and the strait-laced
rigidity of narrow-minded phariseeism; and
this I would earnestly entreat you to select.
To discover and adhere to this medium path
is almost as difficult as to skip across the
Arabic Al-Sirat, of which we read last week.
Ultraism is the curse of our race, as exemplified
in all departments of society; avoid it,
dear child; cultivate enlarged views of life,
suppress selfishness, and remember that charity
is the key-stone of Christianity.”

“I have not the strength which you impute
to me.”

“Then seek it from the Everlasting source.”

“I do, but God does not hear me.”

“You are too easily disheartened; strive to
be faithful and He will aid you, brace you, uphold
you. Will it be any comfort for you to
know that I remember you in my prayers,
that I constantly bear your name on my lips
to the throne of grace?”

“Oh, yes! very great comfort. Thank you,
thank you; will you always pray for me? If
I thought so it would make me happier.”

“Then rest assured that I always shall;
and, Irene, when sorrows come upon you, for
come they must to all, do not forget that you
have at least one firm, faithful friend, waiting
and anxious to aid you by every means in his
power.”

Disengaging her fingers, which still clasped
his tightly, he moved his chair backward and
took a small blank book from his pocket, saying:

“You once asked me to give you a catalogue
of those works which I thought it advisable
for you to study, before you plunged
into miscellaneous reading. Such a list you
will find here, and my experience has enabled
me to classify them so as to save you some of
the trouble which I had at your age. In
examining it, you will see that I have given
prominence to the so-called `Natural Sciences.'
As these furnish data for almost all
branches of investigation now-a-day (there
being a growing tendency to argue from the
analogy of physics), you can not too thoroughly
acquaint yourself with all that appertains
to the subject. The writings of Humboldt,
Hugh Miller, Cuvier, and Agassiz constitute
a thesaurus of scientific information essential
to a correct appreciation of the questions
now agitating the thinking world; and as
you proceed, you will find the wonderful
harmony of creation unfolding itself, proclaiming,
in unmistakable accents, that the works
of God `are good.' As time rolls on, the great
truth looms up colossal, `Science and Christianity
are hand-maids, not antagonists.' Irene,
remember:

“Can't you stay longer and talk to me?”
said Irene, as he gave the blank book to her
and rose.

“No, I promised to address the — Street
Sabbath school children to-night, and must
look over my notes before I go.” He glanced
at his watch, smiled pleasantly, and left her.

The following day was dreary to all in that
dwelling; Mrs. Young went from room to
room, collecting various articles belonging to
her son, making no effort to conceal the
tears that rolled constantly over her cheeks;
and now and then Louisa's sobs broke the
sad silence. Harvey was engaged in the
library packing his books, and Irene saw him
no more till after tea. Then he came up
with his mother, and kindly inquired concerning
her arm. He saw that she shared the
distress of the family, and, glancing over his
shoulder at his mother, he said, laughingly:

“She looks too doleful to be left here alone
all the evening. Can't we contrive to take
her down stairs to the sitting-room? What
think you, mother?”

“Let her decide it herself. Shall Harvey
take you down, my dear? It is his last evening
at home, you know.” Her voice faltered
as she spoke.

“I should like to join you all at prayer once
more, and I think I could walk down slowly,
with a little help. Suppose you let me try?
I walked a few steps yesterday, by pushing a
chair before me.”

“Be very careful not to strain your foot.”
She wrapped a light shawl around the girl's
shoulders, and leaning on the minister's arm,
she limped to the head of the stairs; but he
saw, from the wrinkle on her forehead, that
the effort gave her pain, and taking her in his
arms as if she were an infant, he replaced her
in the chair.

“I see it will not do to carry you down yet.
You are not strong enough, and, beside, you
ought to be asleep. Irene, would you like for
me to read and pray with you before I say
good-by?”

“Yes, sir; it would give me great pleasure.”

Mrs. Young drew the candle-stand and
bible from its corner, and taking a seat near
the arm chair, Harvey turned over the
leaves and slowly read the sixty-third and
sixty-fourth chapters of Isaiah. His voice
was low and sweet as a woman's, and the
calm lofty brow on which the light gleamed
was smooth and fair as a child's, bearing no
foot-prints of the thirty years that had crept
over it. When the reading was concluded,
he knelt and prayed fervently for the girl who
sat with her face hidden in her arms; prayed
that she might be guided by the Almighty
hand into paths of peace and usefulness; that
she might be strengthened to do the work
required of her. There was no unsteadiness
in his tone, no trace of emotion, when
he ended his prayer and stood up before
her. Irene was deeply moved, and when
she essayed to thank him, found it impossible
to pronounce her words. Tears were gliding
down her cheeks; he put back the hair, and
taking the face softly in his palms, looked
long and earnestly at its fascinating beauty.
The great glistening blue eyes gazed into his,
and the silky lashes and rich scarlet lips
trembled. He felt the hot blood surging like
a lava-tide in his veins, and his heart rising in
fierce rebellion at the sten interdict which
he saw fit to lay upon it; but no token of all
this came to the cool, calm surface.

“Good-by, Irene. May God bless you, my
dear little friend!”

He drew the face close to his own as though
he would have kissed her, but forbore, and
merely raising her hands to his lips, turned
and left the room. Verily, greater is “he that
ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a
city.” He left before breakfast the ensuing
morning, bearing his secret with him, having
given no intimation, by word or look, of the
struggle which his resolution cost him. Once
his mother had fancied that he felt more than
a friendly interest in their guest, but the absolute
repose of his countenance and grave serenity
of his manner-during the last week of
his stay dispersed all her suspicions. From a
luxurious home, fond friends, and the girlish
face he loved better than his life, the minister
went forth to his distant post, offering in sacrifice
to God, upon the altar of duty, his throbbing
heart and hopes of earthly happiness.

A cloud of sadness settled on the household
after his departure, and scarcely less than
Louisa's was Irene's silent grief. The confinement
grew doubly irksome when his voice
and step had passed from the threshold, and
she looked forward impatiently to her release.
The sprain proved more serious than she had
at first imagined, and the summer vacation set
in before she was able to walk with ease. Mr.
Huntingdon had been apprised of her long absence
from school, and one day, when she was
cautiously trying her strength, he arrived,
without having premonition of his visit. As
he took her in his arms and marked the alteration
in her thin face, the listlessness of her
manner, the sorrowful gravity of her countenance,
his fears were fully aroused, and, holding
her to his heart, he exclaimed:

“My daughter! my beauty! I must take
you out of New York.”

“Yes, father, take me home; do take me
home.” She clasped her arms round his neck
and nestled her face close to his.

“Not yet, queen. We will go to the Catskill,
to Lake George, to Niagara. A few
weeks travel will invigorate you. I have
written to Hugh to meet us at Montreal; he is
with a gay party, and you shall have a royal
time. A pretty piece of business, truly, that
you can't amuse yourself in any other way
than by breaking half the bones in your body.”

“Father, I would rather go home. Oh! I
am so tired of this city, so sick of that boarding-school.
Do, please, let me go back with
you.”

“Oh, nonsense, Irene. Lift up your sleeve
and let me see your arm; stretch it out; all
right, I believe; straight enough. You were
walking just now; how is your foot?”

“Almost well, I think; occasionally I have
a twinge of pain when I bear my whole weight
on it.”

“Be sure you do not over-tax it for a while.
By Monday you will be able to start to Saratoga.
Your aunt sent a trunk of clothing,
and, by the way, here is a letter from her and
one from Arnold. The doctor worries considerably
about you; is afraid you will not be
properly attended to.”

Thus the summer programme was determined
without any reference to the wishes of the
one most concerned, and, knowing her father's
disposition, she silently acquiesced. After
much persuasion, Mr. Huntingdon prevailed
on Louisa's parents to allow her to accompany
them. The mother consented very reluctantly,
and on the appointed day the party set off
for Saratoga. The change was eminently
beneficial, and before they reached Canada

Irene seemed perfectly restored. But her
father was not satisfied. Her unwonted taciturnity
annoyed and puzzled him; he knew
that beneath the calm surface some strong
under-current rolled swiftly, and he racked his
brain to discover what had rendered her so reserved.
Louisa's joyous, elastic spirits probably
heightened the effect of her companion's
gravity, and the contrast daily presented could
not fail to arrest Mr. Huntingdon's attention.
On arriving at Montreal the girls were left for
a few moments in the parlor of the hotel, while
Mr. Huntingdon went to register their names.
Irene and Louisa stood by the window looking
out into the street, when a happy, ringing
voice exclaimed:

“Here you are, at last, Irie! I caught a
glimpse of your curls as you passed the dining-room
door.”

She turned to meet her cousin and held out
her hand.

“Does your majesty suppose I shall be satisfied
with the tips of your fingers? Pshaw,
Irie! I will have my kiss.”

He threw his arm round her shoulder, drew
down the shielding hands, and kissed her twice.

“Oh, Hugh! behave yourself! Miss Louisa
Young, my cousin, Hugh Seymour.”

He bowed, and shook hands with the stranger,
then seized his cousin's fingers and fixed
his fine eyes affectionately upon her.

“It seems an age since I saw you, Irie.
Come, sit down and let me look at you; how
stately you have grown, to be sure! More
like a queen than ever; absolutely two inches
taller since you entered boarding-school. Irie,
I am so glad to see you again!” He snatched
up a handful of curls and drew them across
his lips, careless of what Louisa might think.”

“Thank you, Hugh. I am quite as glad to
see you.”

“Oh, humbug! I know better. You would
rather see Paragon any day, ten to one. I
will kill that dog yet, and shoot Erebus, too;
see if I don't! then maybe you can think of
somebody else. When you are glad you show
it in your eyes, and now they are as still as violets
under icicles. I think you might love
me a little, at least as much as a dog.”

“Hush! I do love you, but I don't choose to
tell it to everybody in Montreal.”

Mr. Huntingdon's entrance diverted the
conversation, and Irene was glad to escape to
her own room.

“Your cousin seems to be very fond of you,”
observed Louisa, as she unbraided her hair.

“He is very impulsive and demonstrative,
that is all.”

“How handsome he is!”

“Do you think so, really? Take care, Louisa!
I will tell him, and, by way of crushing
his vanity, add `de gustibus, etc., etc., etc.'”

“How old is he?”

“In his twentieth year.”

From that time the cousins were thrown
constantly together; wherever they went
Hugh took charge of Irene, while Mr. Huntingdon
gave his attention to Louisa. But the
eagle eye was upon his daughter's movements;
he watched her countenance, weighed her
words, tried to probe her heart. Week after
week he found nothing tangible. Hugh was
gay, careless; Irene equable, but reserved.
Finally they turned their faces homeward,
and in October found themselves once more
in New York. Mr. Huntingdon prepared to
return South and Hugh to sail for Europe,
while Irene remained at the hotel until the
morning of her cousin's departure.

A private parlor adjoined the room she occupied,
and here he came to say farewell.
She knew that he had already had a long conversation
with her father, and as he threw himself
on the sofa and seized one of her hands,
she instinctively shrank from him.

“Irene, here is my miniature. I wanted
you to ask for it, but I see that you won't do
it. I know very well that you will not value
it one-thousandth part as much as I do your
likeness here on my watch-chain; but perhaps
it will remind you of me sometimes. How I
shall want to see you before I come home!
You know you belong to me. Uncle gave you
to me, and when I come back from Europe we
will be married. We are both very young, I
know; but it has been settled so long. Irie,
my beauty, I wish you would love me more;
you are so cold. Won't you try?”

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned
her face hastily away and answered, resolutely:

“No, I can't love you other than as my
cousin; I would not, if I could. I do not
think it would be right, and I won't promise to
try. Father has no right to give me to you, or
to anybody else. I tell you now I belong to
myself, and only I can give myself away.
Hugh, I don't consider this settled at all. You
might as well know the truth at once; I have
some voice in the matter.”

Mr. Huntingdon had evidently prepared
him for something of this kind on her part,
and, though his face flushed angrily, he took no
notice of the remonstrance.

“I shall write to you frequently, and I hope
that you will be punctual in replying. Irie,
give me your left hand just a minute; wear
this ring till I come back, to remind you that
you have a cousin across the ocean.”

He tried to force the flashing jewel on her
slender finger, but she resisted, and rose, struggling
to withdraw her hand.

“No, no, Hugh! I can't; I won't. I know
very well what that ring means, and I can not
accept it. Release my hand; I tell you I won't
wear it.”

“Come, Hugh; you have not a moment to
spare; the carriage is waiting.” Mr. Huntingdon
threw open the door, having heard
every word that passed. Hugh dropped the
ring in his vest-pocket, and rose.

“Well, Irie, I suppose I must bid you farewell.
Two or three years will change you,
my dearest little cousin. Good-by; think of
me now and then, and learn to love me by the
time I come home.”

She suffered him to take both her hands
and kiss her tenderly, for her father stood
there and she could not refuse; but the touch
of his lips burned long after he had gone.
She put on her bonnet, and, when her father returned
from the steamer, they entered the carriage
which was to convey her to the dreary,
dreaded school. As they rolled along Broadway
Mr. Huntingdon coolly took her hand and
placed Hugh's ring upon it, saying, authoritatively:

“Hugh told me you refused to accept his
parting gift, and seemed much hurt about it.
There is no reason why you should not wear
it, and in future I do not wish to see you
without it. Remember this, my daughter.”

“Father, it is wrong for me to wear it, unless
I expected to —.”

“I understand the whole matter perfectly.
Now, Irene, let me hear no more about it. I
wish you would learn that it is a child's duty
to obey her parent. No more words, if you
please, on the subject.”

She felt that this was not the hour for resistance,
and wisely forbore; but he saw rebellion
written in the calm, fixed eye, and read
it in the curved lines of the full upper lip.
She had entreated him to take her home, and,
only the night before, renewed her pleadings.
But his refusal was positive, and now she went
back to the hated school without a visible token
of regret. She saw her trunks consigned
to the porter, listened to a brief conversation
between Dr. — and her father, and, after
a hasty embrace and half-dozen words, watched
the tall, soldierly form re-enter the carriage.
Then she went slowly up the broad
stairway to her cell-like room, and with dry
eyes unpacked her clothes, locked up the ring
in her jewelry-box, and prepared to resume
her studies.

The starry veil concealing the Holy of Holies
of her Futurity had swayed just once, and
as quickly swept back to its wonted folds; but
in that one swift glance she saw, instead of
hovering Cherubim, gaunt spectres, woful, appalling
as Brimo. At some period of life all
have this dim, transient, tantalizing glimpse
of the inexorable Three, the mystic Moiræ,
weaving with steely fingers the unyielding
web of human destiny. Some grow cowardly,
striving to wend their way behind or beyond
the out-spread net-work, tripping, at last, in
the midst of the snare; and some, with set
teeth and rigid limbs, scorning to dodge the
issue, grapple with the Sisters, resolved to
wrench the cunning links asunder, trusting
solely to the palladium of Will. Irene's little
feet had become entangled in the fatal threads,
and, with no thought of flight, she measured
the length and breadth of the web, nerving
herself to battle till the death.