University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.
WARREN'S FIRST PROPOSAL.

The first three years of Warren Clifford's college
life passed rapidly away. His vacations were spent
in the society of his brilliant and fascinating mother,
alternately at Clifford Hall and Mount. Vernon
street. At twenty he was an unexceptionable type
of the pure Anglo-Saxon style of manly beauty. His
figure was tall, and rather slight, but well formed.
His features were regular, and yet expressive, and
about his manners there was a grace at once fascinating
and indescribable. It was near the beginning of
his senior year that an accident occurred which gave
a deeper coloring to his dreams. He was sauntering
carelessly through the elm-fringed streets of New
Haven, arm in arm with his old friend, Percy Douglass,
when his attention was attracted by a young
lady, directly in front of him on the sidewalk. There
was nothing remarkable about her, but from some
mysterious cause, every line of her graceful figure
seemed strangely familiar. She was leaning on the

arm of a tall, distinguished looking girl, the hues of
whose shot silk dress were bright as the glancing
wing of a humming-bird. The young lady herself was
attired in a sky-blue crape, entirely without ornament,
and over her shoulders was thrown a simple
scarf of white muslin. And yet there was about her
whole costume an unmistakable air of refinement. She
wore her plain straw bonnet with the most bewitching
grace, and the hand that lifted for a moment the folds
of her flowing dress as she crossed the street, was
small and delicate. The tiny foot thus revealed, was
trimly clad in silk and morocco, and her every movement
betrayed the lady. For some time her face was
turned towards her companion, but she glanced
around, as she ascended the steps of a somewhat stately
mansion, and Warren had a full profile view of a
fair, sweet face, shaded by a profusion of golden ringlets.
It recalled a pleasant memory of a sunset time
a little more than three years before, of a fair young
girl robed in white leaning against the portico of a
rustic cottage. There was no mistaking that spiritual
face, those delicately moulded features. “Grace!”
he exclaimed, as the door closed behind her. “Good
Heavens, Percy! I must see her. How shall we
manage?”

“Is she an old friend, Warren?”

“Yes, and the very dearest girl. What shall I
do? I tell you I must see her.”

“Well, only be patient; nothing easier. This
house where she has stopped is my cousin Sue Barrington's.
Sue gives a party this evening, and we are
both invited. Your unknown will of course be there,
as she is evidently intimate. Come, Ware, you've
only to moderate your transports a few hours longer.”

The sun was a terribly long time going down,
but eight o'clock came at last, and Warren Clifford
found himself in Miss Barrington's brilliantly lighted
rooms. The folding-doors were thrown open, and, as
if guided by some strange intuition, his eyes were instantaneously
directed to a merry group standing near
the piano, in the back parlor, of which Grace seemed
the centre of attraction. He advanced, with as much
composure as he could summon, to pay his compliments
to his hostess, and was detained a few moments
by her side in conversation. Percy had left him almost
immediately on his entrance, and it was nearly a
quarter of an hour before he returned, with a slight,
graceful figure, robed in white, leaning upon his arm.
“Well, Warren, I have forestalled you,” he laughed
merrily—“Miss Atherton, here is my poor friend
Clifford. He recognized you to-day as you came up
the steps, and it took all the weight of my influence
to prevent him from breaking open Miss Barrington's
front door, just to get another sight at you.”

For a moment the blue, smiling eyes sought
Warren Clifford's face, then they were suddenly cast

down, till the long, golden lashes drooped upon her
blushing cheeks. The hand she extended trembled
in his fervent clasp. “Come with me, Grace,” he
whispered, drawing her arm through his own, and
leading her into the hall. There he threw a shawl
around her shoulders, and laughingly asked “would
she borrow his hat, or should he send her to look after
a bonnet.”

“A bonnet! what are you going to do?”

“Nothing very shocking, little one, but these
October evenings are rather chilly. I haven't seen
you for more than three years, and I'm just going to
take you out into the garden for a bit of a talk.”

She smiled, and running up stairs, returned with
a light garden hat tied over her golden curls. The
evening was beautiful. The October moon flooded
the scene with its glory, and the elm-boughs waved
between earth and sky, and seemed at every kiss
of the wind-spirits to shiver with delight. It was
a beautiful garden, through whose winding paths
they walked. Its high walls o'errun with climbing
vines, its sun-dial, and summer-house, gave it a somewhat
English character. The autumn flowers were in
the full bloom of their gorgeous beauty; dahlias, and
marigolds, and sweet peas, with a score of rarer and
more costly shrubs, and amid them lingered the mignonette,
the summer's sweetest nursling, filling the air
with its breath of perfume. They walked on for some

time in silence. Warren was the first to speak.—“So
you thought of me sometimes, through the long three
years, did you, Gracie?”

“Yes, very often. It was lonesome at first, when
I knew you had sent for your things, and heard,
through Mr. Hastings, that you weren't coming back
any more. And you know you never sent me so
much as a message, and pretty soon you stopped writing
even to him. We thought you had quite forgotten
Glenthorne.”

“Forgotten! How could you? I never sent you
any message because I hardly felt that I had a right,
and I stopped writing to Hastings because I knew
he was an earnest man, living with a purpose; and
though he might be too kind to refuse to answer my
letters, yet they wouldn't be worth enough to warrant
such a waste of his time. How is he now? The
same hard worker as ever?”

“Yes, only in another way. Haven't you heard
how rich he is?”

“No, I've heard nothing about Glenthorne. I
supposed he was poor. He was thirty when I knew
him, and I supposed he had his fortune still to carve
out.”

“On the contrary, he was very rich all that time.
It all came out about a year after you left Glenthorne.
His property had been steadily increasing, all those
years that every one thought him but a poor schoolteacher.

He was doing that, he says, partly for mental
discipline, and partly to see how many friends he
could win to love him for his own sake; and, so when
he was through with his experiments, he bought the
old Priory grounds. You know how beautiful they
were, and he has built there just the sweetest cottage
you ever saw; not a little one, like ours, but a large
English-looking house, with dining-room, and parlors,
and library, and low windows with vines climbing over
them.”

Warren smiled at the odd mixture of ideas in her
description, and then said, carelessly, “Of course he
has a Mrs. Hastings, or it would be like a very pretty
bird's nest, without the bird in it.”

“No; unless you reckon the housekeeper, there
isn't any lady at Sunny Nook. By the way, isn't
that a pretty name? I told him once I thought the
house seemed almost too grand and stately for it,
though. But he said he meant it should just be a
real home; and if he thought it did not look so, he
would tear it down, and build over again; but he
wanted plenty of room. Then he pointed to the hillside
sloping down from the east wing of the house.
It was covered with anemones and violets, and golden
butter-cups. There were the most of the butter-cups.
It was fairly yellow with them, and the butterflies
were flitting over and over, with their glancing
wings, just like light. Then I understood it; I saw

that every little, helpless thing was free and happy
there, and it was just a nook for all of them.”

“And so you thought I had forgotten you?” said
Warren, returning again to the old subject.

“It certainly looked like it, though I never could
quite think so. It had to be faith, you know, and
that's hard work without any evidence.”

“Yes”—and then Warren repeated musingly the
last verse of one of Grace's own poems—

“Did you read that, Warren?” the young girl
asked, with a quick blush.

Warren did not notice the sudden flushing of her
cheek, and he answered, quietly—“Yes, I certainly
read it, and you perceive I remembered it. By the
way, do you write poetry now, Gracie?”

She laughed—“No, I never did write poetry. It's
a funny word to be applied to silly little Grace. I
used to write something that jingled, but I have pretty
much given that up since I left off going to school to
Mr. Hastings, and when I do write any thing I put it
in the fire.”

“And yet it is in you, Grace, I know it is!”

“What is in me? nothing very dangerous I hope;
do relieve my anxiety.”

“Nonsense, Grace! I mean the genius, the inspiration.
I know you have it, I always did know it,
ever since that night I saw you standing and looking
up to the sunset. I saw it then in your lifted glance,
your ethereal figure, your whole attitude. Grace, do
you want to be famous?”

“I don't know, I have never thought; I might, if it
would make people love me, or if I could help any
one by it.”

“But for itself, Grace. Have you no wish that
the world should call you gifted; that the great and
noble should do homage to your genius?”

“I believe not,” she answered, saucily. “I can't
see that it would help me along with my geometry, or
soften the heart of my deaf old music-master.”

“Grace, you are incorrigible. How came you here
in New Haven?”

“Oh, I was sent to school here to be finished. I
have been here ever since July, and I'm going to stay
a whole year. Only think, I didn't know you were in
town, until to-day, I heard Sue Barrington say you
were coming to her party.” She paused a moment,
and then she said, in a lower tone, “Warren, have you
always thought of me, when you thought of Mabel
and Emmie? You promised, you know.”

“Yes, Gracie, always. I have seen Dick since
then!”

“Your own brother Dick?” Her face beamed with
the intensity of her interest, though it grew somewhat
shaded as she listened to his account of the interview.
“And you couldn't speak to him?” she
asked, sadly, as he concluded his recital.

“No, it would not have been right. But I must
take you into the house. I've kept you out here an
hour, already. Where are you staying? Can I call
on you?”

“Oh, yes; you can come any time. I board at
Col. Hargrave's. Sara Hargrave, or Lady Sara, as
all the girls call her, is the most beautiful person you
ever saw.”

“A song, a song,” cried a half-dozen voices, as Grace
entered the parlor. “Yes, and let me choose it,” whispered
Warren, entreatingly. He led her to the piano,
and turned the leaves of a music-book, till he found a
ballad he remembered to have heard his own mother
sing, in his early boyhood. While she was singing,
he hung over the piano, too much absorbed even to
turn the leaves of the music. His mind was making
pictures of his early life, his mother, his gentle sisters,
and his brother Dick, and ever among them, as if she
were one of themselves, came the sweet face of Grace
Atherton. Later in the evening, while Grace was

dancing with one of his classmates, he was presented
to Miss Hargrave—Lady Sara! She was certainly
worthy of her title. Her beauty was somewhat in
the Juno Clifford style. That is, she had heavy
braids of glossy black hair, and large, passionate black
eyes, but her complexion, instead of Juno's brilliant
olive, was pale and clear as the finest marble, and her
features were very different. Every movement of her
stately figure betokened high, vigorous health. The
blood evidently bounded, rather than flowed through
her veins. Her features were by no means what is
called spiritual, and yet they had an indefinable expression
of purity. Her brow was calm, and lofty,
and her haughty mouth wore a look of high resolve,
tempered by feminine gentleness. On the whole, you
would have pronounced her no angel, but a woman,
very high-toned, and very beautiful. She wore what
not another lady in the room could have worn—a dress
of deep crimson velvet, so long as to sweep the carpet
with the heavy folds. She was entirely without ornament,
save a cluster of white lilies in her hair, and a
single diamond, fastening the point-lace folds upon
her bosom.

That night, Warren's dreams were a little confused.
Two faces haunted them—one very sweet, very gentle,
very delicate; the other, sparkling, entrancing, bewilderingly
beautiful. He became a frequent visitor
at Col. Hargrave's. It was a debatable point in his

own mind, which of the young ladies he went to see,
and as they were usually together, it did not much
matter. If either of them were out, the other became
the reigning divinity for the time being. And
so it chanced that the last evening he was to spend in
New Haven previous to his spring vacation, finding
Miss Hargrave alone, he invited that young lady to
be his companion in a long walk. She was quite bewildering
in walking costume, with a shawl of crimson
cashmere folded about her regal figure, and her white
leghorn bonnet just shading her beautiful face, and
deepening the contrast of her dark hair. It was a
lovely evening, and the path they had chosen led
through one of the sweetest spots in all the environs
of New Haven. Their conversation was very interesting;
and the scene, the hour, above all, the radiant
woman by his side, were quite excuse enough, to any
reasonable person, for a very susceptible young gentleman
coming to the conclusion that he was in love. At
least Warren Clifford thought them so. “I am so happy,”
he exclaimed, fervently, as they seated themselves
to rest, upon a moss-grown seat, in the full moonlight.

“You are too easily influenced. You live too
much in the present,” said Lady Sara, quietly. “Such
happiness is unstable, it comes and goes as the wind
changes.”

“But is not living in the present the only true and
real life?”

“In one sense it is. We must do the present duty
without looking remorsefully back over the past, or
longingly onward into the far fields of the future.
`By little and little' must the high wall be built. But
it was not that I meant. We must not suffer ourselves
thoughtlessly to enjoy every thing that seems pleasant
for the time. We must not forget that just as surely
as, for the earth, there is seed-time and harvest, there
is, for every little act, its consequence on earth and
in Heaven!” Her face, as she spoke, seemed radiant
with inspiration—it was sublime. Warren threw himself
at her feet, and pressed her hand to his lips.

“Oh, Lady Sara,” he exclaimed, passionately—“I
love you, I adore you. Be my teacher, you can make
me what you will. Only promise to be my wife, my
guardian angel!”

The lady smiled, but it was not a smile to give
courage to a lover's heart. “Please to get up,” she
said, with an amused tone. Our hero arose, with an
air somewhat crest-fallen, and seated himself beside
her. “I don't want you to say any more such things
to me,” she continued, “because you do not mean them.
You may fancy me, but you love Grace Atherton.
I have known it ever since that first evening I saw
you together, and if you don't know it now, you'll find
it out soon enough.”

“Perhaps you are right” said Warren, submissively.

“Right? I am certain of it. Beside, I thought
you knew I was the betrothed wife of Joseph Seaton,
else I should never have treated you with such sister-like
freedom. I forgot though, he has been out of
New Haven ever since you commenced visiting at the
house.”

“Well, my lady, it seems to me you've a mighty
straightforward way of telling of your engagement,”
was Warren's thought, but he simply said, “I congratulate
you, Miss Hargrave; but, pardon me, I thought
you were very proud.”

“What then?”

“Nothing, only Joseph Seaton is a poor beneficiary
student, and will be a poor clergyman!”

“Yes, and yet I am prouder of him than any
thing else on earth. I bow to talent and goodness,
and not to gold dollars.”

“And yet, I can hardly conceive of you as a
minister's wife.”

Lady Sara's beautiful eyes filled with tears, and
she spoke, after a moment, in a tone of suppressed agitation—“I
know I am unworthy—I feel it. I have
told him so many a time. Oh, I know it is a glorious
destiny to tread a path that has led in other days to
crowns of martyrdom—too high for me; too high and
too pure. But I love him, and I love his work. My
weak hands, but strong love, may strengthen him sometimes,

and his teaching will make me every day more
worthy of the name I bear!”

“And I?” Warren's inquiring tone had a deep
cadence of sadness.

Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm through her
tears—“Oh, you will marry Grace Atherton, and be
happy. I predict for you a glorious future, if you can
only be true to yourself. God has given you a splendid
character, though I have sometimes feared that
only some great shock will rouse you to self-dependence,
and lofty action. I know what you can be—
we shall see in the future what you will be! But
come, let us go home, I must not engross all your
last evening!”

They found Grace in the drawing-room at home,
with Percy Douglass for her companion. He was reading
to her when they entered, and her cheek was
suffused with tender interest, her soft blue eyes filled
with tears. A sudden twinge of jealousy went a long
way to convince Warren that Miss Hargrave had not
been far wrong, when she asserted that he had loved
Grace Atherton from the first. He trembled lest her
heart had turned away, like a frightened bird, from
the cold refuge his formal politeness had of late
afforded, and gone to seek a nestling-place in another
bosom. She had never seemed more lovely. He
watched her graceful movements, her half-pensive face,
and listened to her low, sweet tones, with a new

warmth at his heart. Sara Hargrave had been magnetic.
She had blinded, dazzled him, as when one
looks up to the sun at noontide in midsummer—
Grace shone on him like the virgin moon, or the patient,
ever-enduring stars, and his soul grew hushed
and glad in the beams of her quiet loveliness. When
he arose to go, Percy Douglass rose also, and both ladies
came into the hall, and stood for a moment in the
moonlight, by the open door. “Good-night,” he said
at length, extending his hand to Lady Sara—“you
have made me this night eternally your debtor.” His
tone was so low, that no one else comprehended his
words. Miss Hargrave understood him. She pressed
his hand reassuringly, as she answered,

“Yes, it is quite a long good-night. We shall not
see you again for at least three weeks.” He turned
to Grace. He fancied he saw a blush crimson her
cheek in the moonlight. For a moment her trembling
fingers rested on his outstretched palm. He
bent over her and whispered—“God bless my sweetest
sister!” The blue eyes were raised to his face. The
trembling hand very slightly returned his pressure;
he took his friend's arm, and walked thoughtfully
to his room.