University of Virginia Library

5. V.
GRACE.

It had been arranged that Warren should remain for
a twelvemonth longer at Glenthorne, that he might
enter Yale in the Sophomore year; and after a three
weeks' vacation he left Clifford Hall, and once more
repaired to the seminary. His friend, Malcom Hastings,
had been a frequent subject of conversation between
himself and his mother, and he had no sooner
reached Glenthorne, than he turned his steps towards
that gentleman's boarding place. Mr. Hastings was a
calm, dignified man of thirty, looking, perhaps, ten
years older than that. He had been, for two years,
the principal of the young ladies' seminary in Glenthorne,
and for many months Warren had been his
most constant companion. The formation of so close
a friendship between persons differing so widely in age
and character, had been as much a mystery to themselves
as to the good people of Glenthorne. It arose
in part from Warren's passion for the beautiful. He
had seen at a friend's rooms, a few choice sketches of
scenes in the vicinity, which were attributed to the

school-teacher; and thus impelled, had sought his acquaintance
with all the natural ardor of his disposition.
There was something in the frank cheerfulness
of the handsome, impetuous boy, that was singularly
attractive to the reserved and dignified Mr. Hastings,
and Warren was forthwith admitted to an intimacy to
which no one else had dared even to aspire.

His welcome of the young student was cordial
as a brother's, and he listened with unaffected sympathy
to Warren's eager description of his beautiful
home, and his raptures over his fascinating mother.
“And what of Glenthorne?” asked the boy, carelessly,
as he concluded his recital. Something very like a
blush crossed Malcom Hastings' calm, open countenance,
as he answered, in a tone of attempted indifference:—

“Nothing very particular. You know, Warren,
that beautiful cottage by the lake, which for the
past six months has stood empty? Well, who do
think took possession of it, the very day you
you left? No other than a family of my dearest
friends—Mr. Russel Atherton with his wife, and his
daughter Grace. I was for a long time an inmate of
their home, and I have held Grace in my arms many
an hour. But I haven't seen them since she was eight
years old, and she is fifteen now; a sweeter girl than
even my fancy ever painted her.”

“Can I see her? You will introduce me, won't

you?” coaxingly asked Warren, interested in spite of
himself. A keen observer would have detected Mr.
Hastings' secret in a moment. Juno Clifford, had
she been there, with her intuitive knowledge of character,
would not have failed to discover instantly that
Malcom Hastings loved the Grace of his narrative,
with all the intense, passionate devotion which a man
of thirty bestows, when he loves for the first time.
But Warren suspected nothing of the kind. It was
full a minute before Mr. Hastings made answer. He
turned his dark, serious eyes full upon Warren's face.
The boy was beautiful. As Juno Clifford once said,
he was the very impersonation of a summer morning.
Would not such beauty, such youth, such sunniness,
so to speak, of the whole character, be quick to charm
Grace Atherton's poet heart? And if it would, he
asked himself, what right had he to separate them.
Let them love, if Fate so willed, he would be happy
in her joy. “Yes, Warren,” he said, with the tone of
one who had conquered himself, “yes, you shall see
Grace. I will take you there to-morrow evening. She
is very lovely.”

“And gifted?” Warren inquired. “My mother
is so gloriously gifted, she has spoiled me, henceforth
and for ever, for all silly, missish individuals, be they
ever so pretty.”

There was a kind of timid pride in Malcom Hastings'
manner, as he drew from his escritoire a package

of young ladies' compositions. Turning them over, he
took one from their number, and handed it to Warren.
“Read that,” he said, “and then answer your own
question.”

The manuscript was distinguished by a singular
neatness and purity. The sheet was small, and spotlessly
white, and the penmanship light as the tracery
of a fairy. “Read it out loud, Warren;” and the
school-teacher settled himself back in his chair, with
an air of prospective enjoyment.

“Here goes,” cried Warren, gayly, as he commenced
to read—

“Why, Mr. Hastings, the girl is a real poet,” remarked
the reader, very gravely, as he concluded—“a
genuine poet, do you hear? There is an exquisite
simplicity in those lines, that is really wonderful for
such a child.”

“The child is only two years younger than yourself,”
laughed Malcom Hastings. “How is it, Ware;
have you come to the conclusion that she is gifted
enough to be worth a call?”

“I should rather think I had. Come now, there's
a good fellow, let us go to-night. I'm not one bit
tired.”

“No!”

“What! you won't? When shall I see her,
then?”

“Not one moment before half-past six o'clock, to
morrow evening; so hold your peace. Your face most
certainly belies your assertion that you are not tired,
and you must go over to the academy, and take possession
of your bedroom, instanter.”

“Nonsense! I don't want to!”

“Well, I want you should, and that's more to the
purpose. Here you've been hindering me a full
hour, and I have all these compositions to correct before
morning. Heaven knows they are hopeless-looking
subjects enough some of them.”

“Well, if I must, I must; but I want a bribe.
Give me that composition of Grace Atherton's, and
I'll take myself off.”

“On the contrary, Miss Atherton's composition
will be restored to the original owner, according to
the rules of the learned institution over which I have
the honor to preside. Good night, Warren.”

“Good night, since you are determined on turning
me out of doors.”

The next evening the call was made. Glenthorne
Cottage, as Mr. Atherton's residence had been christened
by the villagers, was, indeed, a fair and lovely
spot. The somewhat fanciful architecture of the
little cottage ornée suited well the beautiful scenery
lying around it. Nothing could have formed a more
striking contrast, than Clifford Hall, with its lofty
turrets and magnificent grounds, presented to this
rural home, so beautiful in its simplicity; unless, indeed,
it were Juno Clifford, and sweet Grace Atherton.
The yard in the rear of the cottage was bright
with spring-time flowers, and it sloped gently down to
the green shore of a tiny lakelet, whose clear blue
waters were the pride and glory of Glenthorne. The
little white cottage was itself hidden by a wilderness
of shrubbery. Over the rustic porch, in the right
wing of the building, twined lovingly the climbing
rose and trumpet creeper; while over the left-hand
wing, the deep green of the woodbine formed a beautiful
contrast with the white-veined ivy. In the
whole arrangements, within as well as without, the
most studied simplicity had been preserved. The
chair in the porch was of forest boughs, still green
with moss, fantastically twisted together. The choice
engravings which adorned the walls, were framed
with moss-grown twigs, and the chairs and sofas were

of home manufacture, simply covered with a delicate
green chintz. Every thing was in perfect keeping,
and betokened the most refined and cultivated taste.
As they approached the house, they had a full view
of Grace, before she was at all conscious of their
presence; and that view Warren bore away with him
and treasured in his heart, for many a changing year.
He never thought of her, that it was not present to
his mind, distinct and lifelike, as a portrait by a master
hand.

She stood in the western porch, watching the
clouds. Her hair, of a pale gold-color, was kindled into
flashes of brilliancy, by the last rays of the setting
sun. It fell in a shower of rippling waves about her
graceful neck and shoulders, and contrasted beautifully
with a skin fair as an infant's. Her eyes were
a clear, deep blue, and at that moment full of an unconscious
inspiration. Her face was turned towards
the sunset, and they saw it in profile. Her features
were small, and exquisitely delicate. The faintest
tinge of rose brightened the soft cheek, and the red
lips were just parted, revealing a glimpse of little
teeth, white and even as the break in a fresh cocoanut.
Her figure was almost ethereal in its lightness,
and was thrown into full relief by the pillar, covered
with woodbine, against which she leaned. Her dress
was of simple white muslin, confined around the
slender waist by a silken cord. Over her head

drooped the clinging tendrils of the ivy-vine, lovingly,
as if Nature, herself, were crowning her daughter.
There was an atmosphere of purity about that young
girl, into which sin would have feared to penetrate.
“Is she not beautiful?” whispered Warren under his
breath.

“She is something higher and better than that,”
was the low reply; and then for a few moments the
two remained, silently watching that slight girl,
standing there as if entranced, her fair forehead bathed
with the sunset glory.

“Grace!” said the teacher, at length, speaking
aloud. The girl turned toward him, with a smile of
welcome. When she saw a stranger beside him, her
cheek crimsoned with blushes; but she came forward
with quiet, graceful self-possession, and extended her
hand.

During the next month, Warren was a frequent
visitor at Glenthorne Cottage. For a time Malcom
Hastings was his companion, but when he saw that
Warren's voice had power to call a light to those blue
eyes his tones had never wakened, he gradually absented
himself. To Grace he continued the same kind
and faithful instructor, and his manner to Warren
was friendly and brother-like as ever; yet every one
in Glenthorne noticed the additional shade of sadness
that darkened his mild, serious eyes; and some who
loved him, remarked that the smiles which used to

light up his face, though they were sweet as ever,
came at far longer intervals.

But neither Warren Clifford nor the gentle Grace
had ever yet thought of love. Sufficient for them was
the happiness of the day and the hour, without casting
a single glance onward into the future. They wandered
together along the margins of the pleasant streams,
and through the green paths of the woodland, talking,
with the sweet faith of innocent youth, of every thing
beautiful in art and nature. And this led Warren on
to speak of his early childhood, his adoption, and the
glorious being who was still, as then, his eidolon of
beauty. Grace listened with a smile to the warm
praises he lavished on his adopted mother, and then
lifting her blue eyes, she said, gently, “and your own
mother, Warren, what of her?”

A painful blush crimsoned his face, as if he had
been convicted of some crime, as he answered—“She
was the tenderest of mothers, Gracie, and I loved her
dearly, but she gave me up of her own accord, and
bade me forget her. She said it would be better for
my happiness, and my new mother's, both!”

“And you obeyed her, Warren?” This time there
was a reproachful accent in the young girl's questioning
tones.

“No, Gracie! not quite that.” He hesitated—“No,
I did not forget her at all, but I tried to think of her
as seldom as possible; I thought it was for the best.”

“Warren, please let us go home.”

“Go home! Gracie, you are angry with me. Don't,
oh, Gracie, don't look at me with such cold, reproachful
eyes. I meant to do right. My mother had three
other children to love her, and Mrs. Clifford has only
me. She loves me so, more than my own mother
ever did. Oh, Grace, if you knew her, you wouldn't
wonder or be angry.”

“I don't wonder, and I haven't been angry. I don't
know as I am even quite sure you have done wrong; I
wanted to go home because I was tired. If I looked
at you strangely, it was only that a question puzzled
me. I was thinking whether if your new mother
hadn't been rich or beautiful, you would have loved
her so much?”

“I think not, Gracie, if she hadn't been beautiful,
but if she were to be ever so poor, that wouldn't make
any difference. I would work for her.”

One day soon after this conversation, he persuaded
Grace to come to his room, with two of her schoolmates,
and look at the full-length portrait of Juno Clifford.
She was entranced, and after that she expressed
no more astonishment at the love her friend bore to his
adopted mother. One evening,—it was the last week in
June,—Warren was sitting in the porch of Glenthorne
Cottage. He had brought over a volume of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, and had been reading aloud that
magnificent poem—“Lady Geraldine's Courtship.”

There was silence for a few moments when he concluded,
and then Grace said, musingly—“I wonder if
you would have done that, Warren?”

“Done what, Gracie?”

“What Geraldine did? I wonder, if you had
been her, whether you would have given up wealth and
station, and rejected the earl for a love-match with
the poet?”

“How can you ask, Grace? What true man or
woman would hesitate for a moment? If I loved, I
should give up every thing.”

“Do not be positive, Warren. Time will prove
this, it may be. There may come a time when you
will think of this very conversation.

“Well, Grace, we shall see, or, more likely, we shall
not see, for I can scarcely conceive of ever having any
such choice to make.”

“Yes, we shall see,” answered the young girl,
dreamingly. “Warren, tell me some more about Dick
and Emmie, and the little blind Mabel!”

“I told you all I know, long ago, Gracie. Somehow
I have thought of them more since I knew you,
than for three years back. I seem to see Emmie's
sunny face, as it used to smile on me when I went
home to that tottering old house, worn out and discouraged.

I do believe that child had a real Christian
spirit. She was so cheerful and contented in that
comfortless place. She would take off her own clothes
to wrap around poor sightless Mabel, and then sing
gayly as a lark, so that no one might think she was
cold, or suffering.”

“And Mabel,” suggested Grace, her eyes dim
with tears, “I think you told me she was pretty, did
you not?”

“Not pretty, at least, that is not quite the word
She had the most spiritual face I ever looked upon.
She seemed made perfect through suffering, mere babe
as she was. She was so poetical, too. You should
have seen her; you two would have loved each
other.”

“Warren,”—the girl's voice was tremulous with
emotion,—“you have called me your sister, sometimes.
Will you promise me to think of me always, when
you do of Emmie and Mabel? I shall like to remember
this promise when you are far away. I don't quite
want you to think of me, when you think of Mrs.
Clifford. She is so grand, and stately, and beautiful,
that she takes away my breath. But just remember
me whenever those gentle sisters seem to stand beside
you, and then I shall think there's a little corner
of your heart, where it says Grace, where my name
fits in just right. Will you promise, Warren?”

“Why yes, Gracie, I'll promise, if you wish it, but

you are strangly sad to-night. I see you so often, such
a promise seems needless.”

“Nevertheless I wanted it, and now you've given
it, I'm not sad any longer;” and in proof of her assertion,
she turned toward him a face so bright and beaming
with smiles, that he was half tempted to press a
brother's kiss upon the upturned brow. But he refrained,
he scarcely knew why himself. There was,
spite of her childishness, a great deal of calm, womanly
dignity and reserve about the simple cottage girl.

“Here you are, Clifford,” exclaimed a classmate's
voice, half an hour later, interrupting Warren and
Grace in a very philosophical discussion about the
Language of Flowers. Here's a letter the express-man
left for you, and I thought I would run over with it.
He said it was of immediate importance.”

Warren perceived by the post-mark that it was
from home, and he hurriedly broke the seal. He recognized,
as he did so, the flowing, characteristically
graceful chirography of his mother's quadroon maid.
Juno had caused the girl to be carefully instructed in
penmanship, and was accustomed to make use of her
services as amanuensis, whenever she felt indisposed
for the exertion of writing herself. Consequently,
this circumstance occasioned no surprise; but he
changed color rapidly as he read. “Just read that,
Gracie,” he exclaimed, handing it to his companion,
as he finished its perusal. You will see my mother is

very ill. Good Heavens! Grace, if she dies, I must
die too. I shall get a fast horse, and go to the next
town to-night, that I may take the morning stage.
There is no time to lose. Good-bye, little Grace; be
a good child, and think of me as often as you can get
time.”

In his hurry and confusion he did not notice that
the hand he clasped in his own was cold as marble,
or that a deathly pallor stole over Grace Atherton's
face. He did not heed the earnest prayer in her timid
eyes, but with a hurried farewell, rushed to his room.

In half an hour he had arranged the things he
was to leave behind, packed his portmanteau, bidden
Malcom Hastings an affectionate adieu, and started for
the stage-station of the neighboring town.