University of Virginia Library

6. VI.
PLOTTING AND POETRY.

It was late in the afternoon of the next day. Juno
Clifford turned wearily on her couch. Her very
accommodating physician called her disease a low,
nervous fever, but if he had said a severe attack of
ennui, he would have been quite as near the truth.
“What time is it, Jane?” Her tone was slightly
fretful, but her face brightened as the quadroon answered—“Near
five o'clock, my lady.”

“Almost time,” she ejaculated more cheerfully.

“Yes, madam, Mr. Clifford usually comes at five.”

“Does he?” Juno's tone was very impatient.
“I wasn't thinking of that; but Warren Clifford, my
son, will be here when the stage comes in—at half-past
five, is it not?”

A queer smile crossed the quadroon's face, as her
mistress uttered so complacently those two words,
“my son,” but it vanished instantly; and she answered
with respectful gravity—“Yes, ma'am, at half-past
five, I believe. Would you like to get up?”

“Yes, I suppose I had better. I must be dressed

by and by. Just draw that large easy-chair in front
of the cheval mirror, and then see if you can help me
to cross the room.” The girl obeyed, and Mrs. Clifford
arose, and with little apparent difficulty walked to
her chair. She looked in the mirror for a moment,
and then exclaimed—“Goodness, Jane, how frightfully
faded I look! I wanted to be pale, but one would
think I had been sick a month. Is there any of that
rouge left, I used in Paris?”

“A little; will madam like it now?”

“No, there is no hurry. It is just time for Mr.
Clifford to come. I'll dress afterwards.”

At that moment John Clifford's step sounded upon
the stair. He always seemed happier when Juno
was a little ill. Not that he didn't prize her health
and beauty; but then, if she wasn't well enough to go
into society, there seemed less of conventional restraint,
and more of real heart sympathy between
them. Few men ever married with higher hopes than
John Clifford. His fair bride was only seventeen,
and beautiful as our childhood's visions of angels.
He was twenty years older, and had enough of wealth
to give her a position worthy of her loveliness. He
adored her passionately, and to him her character
seemed as nearly perfection as her face. He expected
that she would go in society, and be admired; he
looked for some womanly vanity,—that would be but
natural, with so much grace and beauty; but he believed

her too truly proud to have married him for a
position merely. He expected her to love him. During
the gayeties of their honey-moon time, he contented
himself with seeing her the cynosure of every eye, and
remembering that she was his own. He looked forward
to a quieter season, when that bright head would
rest upon his breast, when those warm arms would
clasp his neck, and he should hear that music-laden
voice murmur love-words in his ear. But months
were braided into years, and this time never came.
After a while, he tried to think his fancies had been
extravagant. He smiled, as he looked into Juno's full-length
mirror, and said, with affected carelessness—
“You are not a handsome man, John Clifford. Why
should you expect any such unreasonable goings-on.”
But laugh at himself as he would, the old, aching void
was still there. He thought she must love him a little,
and he treasured up every look and tone, that his
hopeful fancy could torture into evidence. She was
true to him, he knew that; and he prided himself on
her purity; but the dreams that were so bright and
sunny at first, passed away, and left his heart in darkness,
as sunset clouds ever so golden and crimson, fade
suddenly into the night. And yet, he loved her just
as fondly as if it had been otherwise; perhaps even
more so; but it was rather the worship and homage of
the lover, than the sanctified tenderness of the husband.
Her caresses came at such long intervals, that
her lightest touch had power to thrill him like a
subtle infusion of electricity. But as years passed on,
he realized that this was all, and he grew in one sense
contented, and now his dreamings were not of what she
would be to him some day, but rather of an imaginary
wife, who yet never seemed, in his mind, wholly distinct
from Juno. She was loving, gentle, tender, and
very sweet in her simplicity. Just what Juno might
have been, he fancied, had he been more worthy of
her love, and she less beautiful. But there was, as I
said, less of restraint between them, when she was ill,
and her fashionable friends were not around her.

He paused for a moment in the upper hall, and
then came quietly in. “How is my sweet wife this
afternoon?” he said, in his deep, loving tones.

She raised her eyes languidly. “I am not very
strong. I have wished to dress all the afternoon, but
I haven't been able, and now that I feel a little better,
Jane is going to help me.”

He understood from her words and her manner
that she wished him to leave her, but he threw himself
down before her chair, and clasped his arm around
her waist. “Juno,” he said, in a voice tremulous
with emotion, “I have been thinking what a terrible
thing life would be, if I should lose you; and my
heart aches for one little token that you are mine.
Kiss me just once!” She bent coldly over him, as
if in mere passive obedience, and just touched her lips

to his forehead. That was all. He rose, and passed
from the room. Soon after a servant entered bearing
a bouquet of costly exotics, and a basket of hot-house
fruit. Her husband had brought them from the city,
but he would not intrude a second time upon her
presence to present them with his own hand.—“Now,
Jane, dress me quickly,” and the lady turned toward
the mirror, with an expression of weariness on her
face. “Make haste, or I shall not be ready to see
Warren. I believe I'll wear that white cashmere
wrapper lined with cherry satin.”

The quadroon's fingers moved rapidly, and in five
minutes Juno's hair was arranged with graceful
simplicity, and the folds of her cashmere dressing-gown
tastefully disposed about her regal figure.
“Now the rouge, Jane; draw my chair a little nearer
to the mirror. That's right. Give me just a little
hectic. There! What time is it now?”

“Just half-past five, madam.”

“Well then, go down stairs, and be ready to wait
on Warren. Tell him I've been very ill, but am
somewhat better to-day, and send him up here the
first thing.”

The girl left the room, and Juno Clifford sat
there, idly toying with the silken cord about her
waist. It was nearly ten minutes before she heard a
footfall on the stairs, that sent a whole tide of light
into her eyes. The door opened, and Warren threw

himself on his knees at her side, and wound his arms
caressingly about her waist. This time her face was
not turned away. “Mother, sweetest mother,” said
his earnest tones, “alas, that I find you thus. Are you
very ill, mother?”

“No, no, my own precious boy, I am not very ill,
now you have come,” and the proud head sunk on his
shoulders, the warm lips pressed kiss after kiss upon
his brow, his cheeks, and the blue eyes that closed lovingly
beneath her caresses. “I have been so lonely,
Warren, I have wanted you so much. Do you love
me, my precious son?”

“Do I not, mother? I should be an ingrate if I
did not. You have been every thing to me. I love
you more than all the rest of earth.”

“And always will, Warren? Tell me now, pledge
it before God and angels, that no other love shall separate
us; that no other shall ever be dearer than the
mother of your adoption?”

“I swear it, my sweetest mother.”

“And, Warren, if you should love some day,
promise me that she shall never separate us, or come
between us; that loving her, you will still be the same
to me.”

“I promise. No woman shall ever win my love
that will not let you have the first, the holiest place
in my heart. No other shall ever come between us for
a moment. Loving her, I will still love you best.”

Even as she listened to the words of this promise,
a sudden pang convulsed Juno s heart. She dared not
ask herself why it was that the very thought of any
other woman ever being dear to him, should thus
seem to darken all her visions of the future. She
resolutely turned conscience out of the counsels of her
heart, and banished the unpleasing question from her
memory. For a full hour she sat there, leaning back
against the luxurious cushions of her chair, while
Warren occupied an ottoman beside her. She inquired
with tender, mother-like interest, concerning his studies,
his companions, and his pleasures; and he felt
more and more what a blessed thing it was to be so
dear and necessary to the happiness of one, good and
beautiful as he deemed Juno Clifford.

It was nearly seven o'clock before Mr. Clifford
came up stairs to bid his son welcome. “Well, Warren,
my boy,” he said, in a kind, cheerful tone, as he
entered, “I thought I would let your mother have you
for the first hour without interruption. She has been
wanting you terribly during her illness. It has been
lonesome for her here. I've had to spend all the
day in town—that is, I couldn't get out before five
o'clock,” and he concluded his sentence with a sigh,
at the thought how little difference his presence or
absence made in the calculations of his wife.

“Mother,” said Warren, rising, “you are looking
terribly feverish. You must go to bed. We won't

let her tire herself with sitting up here; will we,
father?”

“I think we mustn't,” and Mr. Clifford came toward
her, and taking her in his arms, carried her
across the room, and laid her on the bed. “Thank
you,” she whispered with such a smile as he had not
been able to call to her lips in many a day, and he
stood over her, smoothing her pillow, and arranging
the drapery around her couch, in an ecstasy of delight.

“Go now, both of you,” she said, gently. “It is my
turn to be generous, and stay alone. You can coax
the housekeeper to give you a broiled chicken, Warren,
and your father will join you. Since I've been too
ill to go down stairs, he dines in town, and takes an
early supper at home.”

“But I don't like leaving you here alone, mamma.'

“Well, you may send Jane to me then, but go.
Don't you see how impatient I am to be rid of you?”

The boy smiled, and kissing her gently passed
from the room.

A week after he sat by her side, as usual. She
did not, as yet, consider herself able to go down stairs,
but she looked quite well and very lovely. “It seems
so nice to have you at home, Warren,” she said pleasantly,
“so very nice, that it is a strong temptation to
keep you here always.”

“Well, mother darling, when I have been through
college, I shall be home long enough for you to get
tired of me. Shall I read to you now? But wait a
moment. There comes James with the mail.” There
was a note for Juno from a fashionable friend, and a
packet of papers for Warren. “From Malcom Hastings,”
he exclaimed as he untied them; “what! and
here's our Glenthorne paper,” and he unfolded “The
Glenthorne Mercury.” Juno was engaged in the
perusal of her dainty-looking missive, and there was
silence for a few moments, while he glanced rapidly
over the local news. Warren broke it with the exclamation,
“Isn't it sweet? isn't it touching? My
own little Grace. Just look here, mother.”

Juno raised her drooping eyelids, and looked at
him inquiringly.

“Shall I read it, mamma?”

“Yes, certainly, any thing you like,” she replied with
an affected carelessness which ill concealed her real
anxiety. He read the poem with flushed cheek and
kindling eye, and yet to others it would scarcely
have afforded a momentary interest. The rhythm,
however, was quite sweet and natural. It ran thus:—

“Poor little Grace,” he said, half sorrowfully, when
he concluded. “She must have felt sad when she wrote
that, mustn't she, mother? You haven't told me, yet,
whether you don't think it beautiful?”

“You said `my Grace' in speaking of her, Warren,
and I feared I might pain you by differing with
you in opinion. The stanzas are well enough, but I
really cannot see any great amount of poetic merit
about them. Are they not rather obscure?” and as
she spoke, she reached forward and possessed herself
of the paper. “We are informed that Miriam sat
spinning, and a stranger came, but the author doesn't
explain how it was that he had the boldness to go
straight to love-making. Then we are quite left
in the dark whether he was false, or afraid of the
snow-storm, only we know for some reason he didn't
come back.”

Warren's face showed that he felt hurt by the
tone of her reply, but he answered deprecatingly—

“Why, mamma, that's the suggestive style of poetry,
and I thought it so beautiful.”

“Did you? Um-m! I suppose it was the fault of
my taste, or perhaps I am not quite well enough as
yet to appreciate poetry. But, Warren, draw your
chair nearer, dear, and tell me all about this sweet
Grace. Why have you never mentioned her before?
Perhaps I shall find so much to admire in her character,
that it will lend a charm to her poetry.”

Warren complied with her request. It was a real
pleasure to find her so interested in his friend. He
told her every particular of their acquaintance—how
like a beautiful picture the young girl looked when he
first saw her—and how after that he had met her almost
daily; how the summonsto Clifford Hall had found
him at her side, and she had seemed so sorry to part
with him. Juno listened very gently, schooling her
face to wear an expression of pleased sympathy, and
when he concluded she quietly remarked—“How
sweet and lovely she must be, Warren. But how long
I have kept you with me. Go now, and take the air
for a while. I am weary, and need rest; I shall never
get it, though, while you are here, for I'm sure to
talk to you as long as you stay.”

He kissed her, and went out, and then that haughty
woman clasped her hands across her eyes and
wept. In that hour she had met with a revelation.
The seals fell from her eyes. She knew then that

with no mother's love had she cherished the child of
her adoption. There had, indeed, been such a love at
first, but it had passed away long ago; and in its
stead she, the cherished wife of another, had yielded
up her heart to the handsome, manly youth, in wild,
tumultuous worship. Juno Clifford! Was there no
voice in that hour from your silenced conscience?
Had your guardian angel deserted you utterly, that
there came to your mind no shuddering at the deadly
sin with which your soul was stained? Not one tear
was for your guilt, not one resolve had for its key-stone
repentance. She loved him, and she could not
win him. For that cause fell those burning tears.
“And yet why not?” she exclaimed, calming herself
with a sudden effort—“Why not win him?” Once
that this thought had dawned upon her mind, she
clung to it with strange pertinacity. “I am only
twelve years older than he,” she mused on, “and am
I not beautiful? He says mine is the fairest face
his eyes ever rested on. Is it so impossible that he
should love me?” Then came the memory of other
ties—she was John Clifford's wife. The guilty woman
paused. There were whirlpools of crime before
which even her reckless thoughts stood still and shuddered.
Even then, false as she was in heart, she would
have hesitated to become criminal in act. But why
not hope?” she once more asked herself. “John Clifford
was fifty years old, and he was not come of a
long-lived stock. At least, she could take care that
Warren did not learn to love another; she had influence
enough for that. But Grace!”—For a few moments
she seemed buried in profound thought, then she said
aloud, “No, he does not love the girl as yet. He spoke
as calmly as if she were his sister. The idea has
never entered his head. But it might, if he returned
there. The only hope is in removing him from her
influence.” A smile crossed her face; not a sunny,
happy smile, but one of almost sardonic beauty. An
angel might have wept to see her then. She drew a
small Geneva watch from underneath her pillow.
The hands pointed at a quarter to five. She bathed
her tear-stained face with water of roses. She applied
a soothing cream to her parched lips, and then
she range for her maid. “Jane,” she said, in an impetuous
tone, “hurry; make me just as handsome as you
possibly can. What was that dress Mr. Clifford said
he liked to see me wear? There, now, do my hair;
and Jane, hand me those moss rose-buds your master
brought home yesterday, and then go down stairs, and
send him to me just as soon as he arrives.”

She turned to the mirror, as the girl went out,
and twined two or three of the buds among her tresses,
and then sank gracefully into a chair.

“Alone, Juno?” said her husband, entering.

“Yes, all alone, and I've been wanting you sadly.”

He came forward, his face fairly radiant with joy,

and took a low seat at her feet, reverently raising her
hand to his lips. Oh! but Juno Clifford had not studied
human nature in vain. She knew well the secret workings
of the heart, and this was perhaps the strongest
element in her irresistible power of fascination. She
sat silently for a time, smoothing his hair with her
hand, almost as if she loved him; and then, while his
pulses were thrilling at the unwonted caress, she said,
with a charming frankness, “My husband, I love
Warren very dearly; I have been unhappy sometimes,
for fear you did not love him as well as I do.”

This was a master-stroke of policy. After that,
John Clifford would have despised himself for ever,
could he have cherished one single emotion of jealousy
in connection with the boy he himself had first given
to his childless wife. He smiled as she spoke, and still
holding her hand in his own, answered earnestly—
“Yes, Juno, I do love Warren. He is dearer to me
than any one on earth, except my wife; and she surely
will not blame me, if I love her so entirely, any other
love seems weak in comparison?”

Juno bowed her haughty head upon his shoulder,
to conceal the satirical smile which she felt was curving
her lip. Lifting it, after a moment, she remarked—“Then
surely, John, you would be as grieved as
I, to have a year of Warren's life go to waste, or to
have him contract an ill-placed attachment, which
would injure his whole future?”

“Of course, but is there any such danger?”

“Yes, there is if he remains at Glenthorne. He
has shown me, this afternoon, a love-sick poem written
by a young student of the Female Seminary, and I
should judge the longest lessons he has learned of late,
were taught him by her eyes. Then, too, from his description,
and from the poem, I am very sure she is not
such a person as we would wish him to marry if he were
through with his studies. He is well prepared to enter
college now. I do not think he loves this girl as
yet, and the best way to prevent it, will be to have
him enter Yale this fall. You can tell him you have
come to the conclusion he had better go in the Freshman
year, and then he need return no more to Glenthorne.
But we must carefully conceal the motive of
this change, or we shall occasion the very thing we
wish to prevent. He is too high-spirited, much as he
loves us, to permit any interference in an affair of
that kind. Am I right, my husband?”

“You are always right, Juno.”

“And beside,” she added, blushingly, “he is much
too young to think of marriage. You were twenty
years older than him when we were married. Did
you ever repent waiting?”

“Repent!” That word was his only answer. He
had not been so blest in years. He bent over her,
and rested his head in her lap. Juno sat there very
patiently. It amused her to play with his feelings,

to see how skilfully she could mould that strong man
to her wishes; and now, with his head bowed in an
ecstasy upon her lap, she sat there, lounging negligently
back in her chair, and wondering, with no
shudder at her own wickedness, how much longer the
old man would see fit to cumber the ground.