University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
THE VALEDICTORY.

It was in Clifford Hall that Warren Clifford found
Juno. She had removed from the city a month
earlier than usual, because she remembered to have
heard him express a preference for their country
home. All his little tastes had been carefully consulted.
She had even taken care to remove his
favorite paintings from Mount Vernon street, and to
superintend in her own person the arrangement of his
room. He entered the house unobserved, and proceeded
immediately to his mother's boudoir. She
was reclining, in one of her listless moods, upon a
lounge. The quadroon sat at a little distance, reading
aloud one of Byron's impassioned poems. Every
thing was at once so bright and so gorgeous, that you
might have fancied it a scene from one of the Arabian
tales. The crimson furniture, the summer-like temperature
of the room, the mirrors, multiplying indefinitely
all this splendor, the soft-eyed pictures, the
empress-like woman upon the lounge, the dusky grace

of the quadroon, conveyed an indefinable impression of
enchantment.

The door swung noiselessly open, and Warren entered.
Juno uttered a quick, glad cry of recognition,
and springing up, clasped him to her heart. The quadroon
lifted her eyes from the pages of the Giaour, and
bent them upon the two standing before her, with a
look of keen scrutiny. Juno understood the glance, and
said, somewhat less commandingly than usual, “You
can go now, Jane; I shall not want any more reading
this afternoon.” The girl obeyed, and then turning
to Warren, the lady murmured—“Thank Heaven,
dearest, that you are come. Sit down, and let me
talk to you.” She laid her head upon his shoulder,
and looked inquiringly up into his face. “Have you
been true, Warren? I dreamed last night that some
one else had won you away from me. Oh, Warren! I
should die if it were real. I thought she was beautiful
as an angel. You held her hand, and looked into
her eyes, and your mother's love was forgotten.”

“And thus go dreams by most delicious contrarieties.”
Warren bent over and kissed her, as he quoted
the line.

“Are you sure? Has not your heart wandered?
Am I dearest still?”

Warren thought of Lady Sara, but his regard for
her seemed a mere admiration, a passing fancy. Then
Grace Atherton's image rose up before him, in her

youth, her innocence, her quiet loveliness; but he felt
even she could never be as dear as the beautiful woman
who had been his idol from boyhood, and he answered
very fervently, “Now, and always, you are
dearest, my own mother. Have I not sworn no other
love should come between us?”

Juno seemed satisfied; her only answer was to
draw his hand caressingly to her lips. For a time
they sat there in silence. Once more in his mother's
presence, Warren half doubted whether his love for
Grace Atherton had, after all, been more than a fervent
friendship. He had resolved, that for the present
he would not mention her to Mrs. Clifford, and he
found this resolution by no means difficult to keep.
If he had thought Sara Hargrave magnetic, Juno was
ten times more so. Her power over him was bewildering.
Under its influence, he had not a single
thought for any one else. He would sit by her side,
read to her, follow her from room to room, drive her
out in her little pony carriage, or lay his head in her
lap, and listen to her singing, in a perfect trance of
delight. He was so absorbed, it seemed a surprise
when the gong sounded for dinner, when it was bedtime,
or when Mr. Clifford returned in the afternoon.
And yet, all this time, his love was pure as Heaven.
He knew, indeed, that she was a graceful and beautiful
woman, scarcely twelve years older than himself.
He had heard of marriages, happy ones, with more

than that difference; but he thought of her only as
his mother, always gentle to him, however proud and
imperious she might be to others. He loved her almost
adoringly, and yet, in the midst of her fascinations,
he had many times made fancy pictures about
some future day, when he would bring home a sweet
young wife, who should love his mother even as he
did, and whom Juno would welcome for his sake.

Sometimes he would speak to her of this, and
she would smile upon him very sweetly, keeping down
the bitterness in her heart, and say—“that day was
a good way in the future. He was too young to think
of such things now. He must be her own pet boy a
few years longer.”

Sometimes the quadroon would hear these remarks,
as she braided up her mistress's hair, and Juno looking
at her face in the mirror opposite, would notice that
same peculiar look which had attracted her attention
on the evening of Warren's arrival. Mr. Clifford
was more than ever absorbed in his business. Through
the mismanagement of the European partner, the
house had lost heavily in some foreign stock speculations.
Not enough, indeed, to affect his magnificent
private fortune, or in the least endanger the business
reputation of the firm, but still enough to be a source
of perplexity and vexation. There was one room
at Clifford Hall which he called his study. Its plainness
and simplicity were in striking contrast to the

splendor of the remaining portion of the house. He
passed most of the time he spent at home, in this
room, shut up with his books and papers. The furrows
of care deepened on his brow, and his locks grew
grayer and grayer, and Juno Clifford, watching him,
drooped the lashes over her flashing eyes, and thought
in the depths of her guilty, miserable heart, that he
had not many more years to be in the way. She was
very gentle to him, nowadays, and seemed far more
thoughtful of his comfort than of old; and yet in his
hours of trial and loneliness, he had no wife but the
imaginary one to sit beside him, and kiss the shadows
from his brow.

Warren stood alone at the window of the spacious
drawing-room, the evening before he returned to Yale.
It was what the country folks call an early spring.
The sun was just setting, and he was watching the
pageantry of clouds in the pathway of the fallen
monarch, and turning his eyes, from time to time,
upon the garden walks, growing so gay with flowers.
He felt an arm steal softly around his neck, and turning,
met Juno's reproachful gaze. “Going away to-morrow
morning, Warren, and yet watching the sun
go down alone?”

“I was just coming to you, mother.”

“Oh, my boy, Warren, these partings kill me.”

“But this one is only for three months, mother
darling, and then I am coming home to stay.”

“I know it, but who can tell what new grief those
three months may bring? It is like being shut out of
Heaven to have you leave me!”

“Don't, mother. Oh, if you only knew how your
grief pains me. It almost makes me resolve not to go
back, and yet I have such high hopes for this last
term.”

“Will you realize them?”

“I am almost certain of it. Remember, you promised
to come and rejoice in my success. And now
let us go to the piano. The twilight is just falling,
and I so love to have your twilight songs to dream
over.”

When Warren Clifford called at Col. Hargrave's
for the first time after his return, there was a timid,
yet delighted agitation in Grace Atherton's manner,
that gave him keen emotions of delight, notwithstanding
the indifference he had been professing to his
own heart, during his recent sojourn at Clifford Hall.
Joseph Seaton had returned, and as he engrossed Miss
Hargrave's attention during most of the evenings,
those short delicious evenings of spring and summer,
Warren had many uninterrupted opportunities for
conversation with Miss Atherton. More and more
was he charmed with the unaffected simplicity and
purity of her character.

Many an hour they rambled through the lovely environs

of New Haven, with the whispering elm-boughs
between them and the moonlight. Daily he realized
that his soul grew purer, his motives higher, for her
gentle influence. His love for her was very deep, but
calm and quiet, and so healthful. It never lured him
from his duty, but only served to strew flowers in his
pathway toward the true and right. There was none
of the subtle magnetic fascination, by which Juno
Clifford had power to make him deem “the worse, the
better reason.” He seldom considered whether she
was beautiful. He well knew there was nothing in
her quiet loveliness to attract a moment's admiration
by the side of Juno's superb figure, and dark, bewildering
eyes; but he felt that it was a very sweet face,
nevertheless.

He found her capable of sympathizing in his
highest pursuits. Triumphantly he sought her side,
when the honor for which he was striving, the appointment
of valedictorian, had been awarded him. “I am
so glad,” she said, innocently, lifting her sweet blue
eyes. Warren had much ado to avoid straining her
then and there to his heart; it was so dear a thing to
see the glow of pleasure his success brought to that
young face. But he was acquiring self-control, and
had resolved to wait, for a time, before attempting to
win her love. He wished to be secure of his own constancy.
He had too high a soul to win a young
heart, and then leave it to break; and too ardent impulses

to be happy with a wife whom he did not
idolize. He had resolved to be quite certain, before
hazarding her happiness, or his own; so he merely
thanked her by an expressive look, and then begged
her to choose his subject.

It was not till the evening before commencement,
that he felt sufficiently assured of his position to declare
his love. Leading her to a sylvan nook, which
looked a very temple for lovers vows, he sat down beside
her, and recounted the story of the Past. He
spoke of their early friendship, of their first meeting
at New Haven. Then he confessed the spell, under
whose influence he had become a suitor for Miss Hargrave's
hand, and told her how patiently he had waited
ever since, that he might be fully assured of his own
constancy; and then he said, in the low earnest tones,
of profound truth—“I know I am not worthy of you,
my sweet Grace, but I do believe that you have more
power than any other to make me what a true man
ought to be. I love you with a love that can never
waver, and I will consecrate my whole life to your
happiness. Such as I am, will you take me, Gracie?”

Grace bowed her head upon her hand, and wept.
He thought she pitied him, because her heart gave
forth no response to his words. “Nay, then, Grace,
darling,” he whispered, bending over her, and feeling
a perverse dimness stealing over his own eyes at the
same time,—“Nay, then, do not weep for me. I am

not worth those tears. Only speak to me; I must
hear my fate in words, though it be to go out from
your presence with an anguished heart.”

Her hands dropped quietly upon her lap, and she
looked up, her eyes making sunshine through the falling
tears—“Warren,” her tone was fairly tremulous
with joy, “do you not see, if I weep, it is because this
is greater happiness than I have ever dared to hope?
Warren, I have loved you all these years!”

For an instant he caught her hand in both his
own—he murmured, passionately, “God in Heaven
bless you, darling,” then he pressed upon her brow a
single kiss, the pure token of their betrothal. For a
time they talked of the future, with all that earnest
hope of which young and happy hearts have an inexhaustible
treasury. It might be still some time
ere Warren could claim his bride, since it would depend
on the will of his parents; but she was to remain
in the mean while at Glenthorne, and see and
hear from him very often. In the whole star-lighted
sky of their future, to those loving eyes there seemed
no single cloud. Then after a time there was silence
between them, that sweet, delicious silence of two
hearts which love has made one, so much more eloquent
than words.

At length Grace broke the spell. She drew a letter
from her pocket. “Did I tell you papa will be
here to-morrow morning to take me home?”

“What! Your school closed to-day, did it not; but
surely, Gracie, you will wait to hear my address.
You know you chose the subject.”

“I hope so. I am almost certain I can persuade
papa to permit it. He is always indulgent. But any
way we must say good-bye to-night. We should go,
at least as soon as the orations are over, and you will
have no time to attend to me to-morrow.”

“That is true. My mother is to spend to-night
at a friend's house four miles out of the city, and she
will be in, early in the morning. Beside, there are
the processions of students, and the bustle, and confusion.
Yes, it must come to-night, but it will not be
for very long. I shall visit Glenthorne as soon as I
get rested. I wish I could see your father to-morrow,
and ask him to give me my little wife.” For an hour
or two longer they sat upon the moss-grown seat. In
spite of the coming parting, they were very happy.
Nineteen and twenty-one are ages when the spirits are
too elastic to be long borne down by any grief which
is not utterly hopeless. There were few words spoken,
but he held her hand fervently clasped in his own,
with a pressure, which seemed to promise, over and
over again, love and protection for all the future.
“We must go home,” whispered Grace, at length;
“see how late it is getting. The moon is almost
down, and you look so very tired to-night. You must
go home and rest.”

He rose, and lifting up her face towards the moonlight,
looked earnestly into her eyes. “Yes, you must
go home, my pet dove, you need rest more than I do.
Grace, promise me once more that no fate shall utterly
part us, that come what may, you will be my own
true wife for ever.”

“I will!”

“God bless you, Grace; I trust in your words
as if an angel had spoken them, and never, never
come what may of trial or trouble—never, as I hope
for Heaven's mercy, shall another head rest on my
heart. You shall be mine, or I will have no bride
but death!” And so they walked homeward, hand in
hand, pondering over in their hearts the vow which
they had vowed unto the Lord. At the door Warren
paused. “I cannot go in,” he said, “it is late,
and I do not want to say good-night before any other
eyes than the stars of Heaven!”

“It must be good-bye this time!”

“Yes; but courage, darling, it will be only for a
little while. In two weeks I shall be with you at
Glenthorne, and in the mean time I will write you.
You will hear from me in a week at farthest. One
thing, Grace, promise me that you will love Mrs.
Clifford for my sake. I know it will be a bitter grief
to her, to hear that my heart has chosen to itself an
idol; but she loves me so, she will bear it for my sake
without a murmur. I am all she has to love except

my father, and I have sometimes thought there was
a shadow between her heart and his. He is so different
from her, in her youth and the splendor of her
beauty. I have told her, that if ever I brought home
a bride, my wife should love her even as I love her.
Can you fulfil this promise, Grace?”

“Yes, dearest, for the sake of all her tenderness to
you, I will love her gladly.”

And now he put his arm around her, and drew
her passionately to his bosom for the first time. He
pressed his lips to hers in a long, lingering kiss; he
smoothed tenderly back the soft waves of her hair; he
called her his child, his pet, his little darling; and then
gathering courage for the effort, he said, earnestly, as
he put her from him, “Good-bye, sweetest Grace, God
in Heaven bless you, my bride, my beloved.”

Never had a commencement been more brilliant.
The galleries were thronged with crowds of beautiful
women; there were rustling silks and glancing fans,
fluttering of veils and waving of handkerchiefs,
and that morning Juno Clifford had come. She met
Warren with a triumphant smile. His father shook
hands with him heartily, and uttered a few words of
sincere congratulation, and now Mr. and Mrs. John
Clifford sat there in front of the stage, awaiting the
valedictory.

There was an indistinct murmur of admiration

as the young student came before the audience. He
had labored wearily during all the term, and his face
was very pale, while his eyes sparkled with unwonted
brilliancy. His golden curls clustered short and
thick upon his open brow, and his slight, elastic figure
looked very graceful, arrayed in the flowing black
gown of the graduates.

His subject, “Oratory of the Past and the
Present,” had been Grace Atherton's selection, and
her smiles had been his inspiration. He was calm,
collected, and irresistibly eloquent. His clear, deep
voice filled the house with its melody, and all else
was so still, you could almost have listened to the
beating of your own heart. And ever, as he spoke,
there were two seats on which the young student's
eyes turned lingeringly.

In one sat a woman, proud, radiant, beautiful.
Her heavy brocade dress, her sleeves and stomacher
of costliest lace, the ostrich feathers curling around
her leghorn hat, and the diamonds sparkling on
neck, arms, and the ungloved hand which was
carelessly twirling a fan, gorgeous with the plumage
of tropical birds; all betokened the extreme of wealth
and fashion. Her dark, magnetic eyes were bent
eagerly upon the speaker. In her attitude, as she sat
leaning back against the cushioned seat, there was a
kind of indolent grace, a luxurious abandon; but her

look was interested, intense, almost impatient. You
would have thought the speaker was one in whom
she had centred much of love, much of pride.

The occupant of the other seat was a young girl,
very slight, and very fair. She reminded you of a
half-opened rose-bud. Her dress gave no evidence
of wealth, and rather betokened taste than fashion.
It was a simple muslin robe, with a quiet little cottage
bonnet of plain straw, and a muslin mantle.
And yet she was very lovely. She looked so child-like
and so innocent in her white robes; leaning
forward, with her wide opened blue eyes, her parted
lips, and her small hands clasped upon her lap. Two
loves! Juno Clifford and Grace Atherton, what
could there be more of contrast? The one, magnificent
in silk and diamonds, with her haughty, defiant
grace, her dark, sparkling eyes, and her coronet of
jetty hair; the other, so very sweet and simple in her
cool muslin—so young, so pure!

And yet they both loved him. You could see
that one kindred element, spite of the wide dividing
line of wealth and circumstance, and all which marks
the exclusive kingdom of Up-Town!

When he had concluded, and the house range with
applause, you might have seen a flush of satisfaction
on Juno's sparkling face, and an air of triumph, as
she drew her heavily wrought shawl about her regal

figure. Had you looked at the young girl, you
might have noted, as Warren did, a quick blush, a
suffusion of the timid blue eye with proud and happy
tears, and a look of half-prayerful thankfulness, as
she arose to follow her father from the house.