University of Virginia Library

10. X.
JUNO CLIFFORD WRITES A LETTER.

Warren Clifford awoke, the morning after his return
home, with a dull, heavy pain in his head and
limbs. He arose, and attempted to cross the floor,
but was overpowered by a strange dizziness. He had
hardly strength enough to ring his bell, and inquire
for Mr. Clifford. He was lying upon the bed when
his father entered the room. Mr. Clifford started
back in alarm as he clasped the feverish hand, and
noted the quick, irregular beating of the pulse.
“Warren, poor fellow,” he said, almost with a woman's
tenderness of tone, “you are very ill; I shall send for
Dr. Greene directly.”

“It's nothing but a hard headache, father, I got
so very tired.”

“I fear we shall find it something much more serious.
At least I shall be better satisfied, if I have
the Doctor's opinion.”

“An attack of brain fever, and a very bad case,”
was Doctor Greene's verdict. “The young gentleman
has certainly been over-worked.”

“It was for my sake,” whispered Juno to herself,
“only to gratify my miserable pride, and now if he
should die!” She wrung her hands, and sank down
upon her knees by the bedside. Words of prayer
came to her lips for the first time in years, but it was
a mad, passionate cry to Heaven, that he she loved
might be spared to her. There was no penitence for
her own sins, no supplication for pardon. It was only
the wail of the woman's heart, guilty, miserable, unrepentant,
and yet recognizing Heaven.

Before nightfall Warren was delirious. For almost
two weeks his fever raged with unceasing violence.
He would shriek out for Juno, sometimes, in
his delirium, and she would snatch his head to her
bosom, and cover his fevered lips with kisses, crying
out in the silence betwixt them two and Heaven, “I
am here, I am here, my beloved!”

For many hours each day she would banish all
others from the room, and sitting as in a trance by
his bedside, listen to the utterances of his frenzy.
Sometimes he seemed living over again the scenes of
his early childhood. He would clasp his hands, and
say piteously, “Oh, mother, I cannot see you sit here
and starve. Is there no help?” Then he would seem
to recall the passionate farewell, when he broke from
his mother's arms and walked along the crowded
streets, with streaming eyes, to his new home. But
more than all these, he talked of Dick. Over and

over again he would implore his forgiveness. He
would shriek out to him not to kill him, not to look
at him so with his reproachful eyes; and then he
would say so pleadingly that he must keep his word,
didn't Dick know he had promised?”

At other times he would seem absorbed in study,
and doubtful of success; and then there would be a
dream of one whom he called his inspiration. Juno
would have given worlds to know if he meant her.
There were hours, too, in which he would fancy himself
at home with her, and so happy—“Let me lay my
head in your lap, mother,” he would say, and then,
after a moment—“There, that's right, now; please
sing to me; I knew I should be better when I came
home to you.” One such sentence would repay that
proud woman for all the weariness of her watching.

Mr. Clifford always stayed with him at night.
The twelfth evening good Dr. Greene foretold a
crisis. Juno had been with difficulty persuaded to
retire, the Doctor was sleeping in an arm-chair by the
window, and John Clifford stood alone by the bedside
of his adopted son. He had never dreamed until this
sickness, how dear a place that son held in his heart.
His love for Juno had never yet outgrown the passionate
romance of long ago. She was still his idol. Compared
with her all the rest of earth was valueless as an
egg-shell. But outside that charmed circle of which
she was the sun and the centre, no one had so warm a

nook in his heart as Warren. He was very proud of
the young man, and perhaps this strengthened his attachment.
He leaned over the bedside with anxiety
which surprised even himself. And as he watched,
Warren slowly unclosed his eyes. It needed but a
single glance, to see that he was delirious no longer.
But he evidently realized nothing of the Past. He
seemed awaking from some troubled dream. “Father,”
he said, anxiously, “you will not bid me give
her up?”

“Her, my son! whom do you mean?”

“Grace! my promised bride, Grace Atherton.
Surely I have told you before?”

“No, you have said nothing about it.”

“You will love her, I'm sure you will; and, father,”
—Mr. Clifford bent his head lower to catch the whisper
which was becoming more and more faint—
“please don't tell mother yet!”

“No, no, I will leave it for you to tell her yourself,
my boy.”

The assurance seemed to satisfy him, and he
closed his eyes and sank into a quiet slumber. The
next morning he awoke calm and refreshed, but very
weak still. “The danger is passed,” said the physician
in a tone of calm assurance. Juno was leaning
over the bedside. She bent down and pressed her
lips impetuously to his brow, whispering so low that

no one else could hear it—“Thank God! I had well-nigh
been once more alone.”

It was several days before he had strength
enough for conversation. During this time, except
for a few hours at night, Juno never left him. He
could only let his hand lie quietly in hers, and reward
her by an occasional smile, or a low word of
thanks, but she was satisfied.

“Mother,” he said as she entered his room, on
the morning of the fifth day, “I want you to do something
for me this morning. It is nearly three weeks,
is it not, since I was first taken sick?”

“Yes, dear, nearly.”

“And there has been such an anxious heart all
this time. There is one who ought to have known
long ago. Will you write a letter for me this morning?
I had rather you should write it than to delegate
the office to Jane.”

“To Mr. Douglas, I suppose?”

“No, mother, to Miss Atherton. I am betrothed,
my mother!”

A quick cry burst from Juno's pallid lips, and she
sank senseless upon the floor. Warren pulled the
bell till the string broke. He was not yet strong
enough to lift her in his arms, but he raised her head,
and supported it tenderly. In an instant the quadroom
entered. She glanced around the room, and
then looked in his face, with the keen gaze peculiar

to her, before advancing to her mistress. Then
quietly coming to her side, she sprinkled her assiduously
with eau de cologne, and held a vinaigrette to
her nostrils. In a few moments she was perfectly
recovered. The first thought of her returning consciousness,
was a fear lest Warren should have understood
the cause of her emotion. She sat down in a
chair by the writing-table as quietly as if nothing
had occurred. “I hope you were not alarmed, dear
Warren,” she said in a cheerful tone. “These fainting
turns are quite common with me, especially of
late, since I have been so exhausted with anxiety.
Don't talk about it, please, I don't want to fancy myself
sick. I feel quite well now, and you shall tell me
all about this new daughter you wish to give me.”
The story was quickly recounted, he concealed nothing,
not even the episode with Miss Hargrave; and
his voice grew low and thrilling in its tenderness, as
he lingered over the last evening he had spent with
Grace, and repeated his promise of visiting her in
three weeks, and writing in the mean time. “Poor
Grace!” he said, “how she must have suffered; and
oh, mother, she loves me so!”

Juno sat in silence for a few moments, her head
bowed upon her hand. The tidings she had heard,
while they stung her soul with grief, only served to
arouse at once all the craft, and all the energy of her
strange character. “Should she give him up?” she

asked herself, “him, whom it had been the sole labor
of years to secure—the only one her proud heart had
ever loved? Must she see another happy in his
caresses? Should she doom herself to a long, hopeless
life of misery and loneliness, for the sake of this
young girl, this interfering stranger, who did not,
could not, love him as she did? Was he not hers, her
own? Had she not taken him from poverty, cared
for him in health, and nursed him in sickness, and was
she to lose her reward? John Clifford's hair was
every day growing grayer, and she,”—she raised her
head and looked into the mirror—“she grew younger,
it almost seemed; and fairer still, if that were possible—he
might be all her own yet; he must. But
how?” This was the question. She saw that he
loved this young girl. She had studied his character
fully. She knew that if she openly opposed his passion,
she would lose all hope of attracting him to herself.
He must not fathom her motives. He must
never see her otherwise than kind, unselfish, generous,
sympathizing. For the present, she must be his
mother, and trust to the future for the establishment
of a dearer tie. She would separate them; aye, on
that she was resolved, even if it broke the young girl's
heart, who had dared to come between them. But it
must be done skilfully; John Clifford should bear the
blame. She would write the letter since he had asked
it, at whatever cost of suffering to herself. “Courage,
Juno,” she said under her breath, “and now, if ever,
oh Satan, help me!”

Then she turned toward Warren, a face half
mournful, half lighted by a serene smile. “I had not
thought so soon to lose my home-boy, my pet; but I
must not forget that you are twenty-two, now, and I
cannot expect to keep you always. I must win this
dear Grace to love me, can I not?”

“She does already, sweetest mother, else she would
have no love of mine. And so you will write the
letter? How can I thank you?”

“Oh, be a good boy, and not let this, or any thing
else worry you. Just get well as fast as you can.”
She drew a desk toward her, and supplied herself with
a sheet of delicate Paris note-paper.

Warren smiled—“That's a little sheet, mamma
mine, for a lover's letter; however, I'll have mercy
upon you, and make it just as short as possible.”

“Well, what shall I say to begin with?”

“Dearest Grace.”

“`Dearest,' and to her!” thought Juno, bitterly
—“Where is his promise?” She bit her dainty lip,
till it bled, but she quietly wrote the words. The
letter he dictated was quite a long one. It was a sort
of history, detailing his illness, and the convalescence,
cheered by his mother's tenderness, but rendered so
sad by his anxiety lest she should suffer at his silence.
Then it said—

“Oh, if you were here, my own Grace, it would be
so different. The days would never seem long, or
weary, if I could watch their light and shade in your
blue eyes. With your gentle hand in mine, I could
bear cheerfully this weakness, so much worse than
pain. Oh, how my heart cries out for you, like a tired
child. Grace, Grace! There is some happiness in
saying your name over to myself. Soon as I can, I
shall come to you. I am getting stronger every day.
I will be well enough to travel very soon. Even now
I sit up most of the time. I am longing to sit beside
you, to hold your hand in mine, to hear you tell me
once more that I am your dearest, and to thank God
for the precious gift, of which I am not worthy.

“My mother is writing this, sweetest Grace.
Knowing how I have always trusted her, you cannot
wonder that I am willing now her eyes should behold
the utterance of my heart's deepest and holiest feelings.
Perhaps I am strong enough to have written
it myself, but it would have tired me very much; and
now that I have a sweet Grace for whose sake to be
careful, I am a very niggard of my strength, in my
impatience to be once more with her. Write to me.
The sight of your sweet little Italian characters will
be `guid for sair een.' You will write quickly, will
you not? Judge from your own heart, how anxious
I must be. There, my beloved, I am going to sign
this letter with my own hand.”

Juno wrote all this, with her face turned away,
that he might not note its changes. It was a strange
sight to see that haughty woman, with her fair brow
knitted in a fierce frown, biting her lips with her
small, white teeth, and writing with trembling hand,
and throbbing bosom, these words of tenderness to
another, from him, of whom her soul had made to itself
an idol. But she completed her task, and then
clearing her brow, turned to Warren, and held out the
pen with a smile. He wrote “Warren Clifford” in a
bold, distinct hand.

“That reminds me,” she remarked, carelessly, as
she folded the letter, that Mr. Clifford has never legally
adopted you. We were speaking of it the other
day. This carelessness in neglecting it so long, is
really unpardonable. But we don't like to do it now.
It has passed along for such a while, almost every one
thinks you are really our own by birth, and we are
too proud of you to be willing to undeceive them.
So Mr. Clifford thought of adjusting every thing by
a will. Glenthorne, I think you said; Miss Grace
Atherton, Glenthorne?”

“Yes, that is right, kindest mother.”

“Nay, love, you should keep all the superlatives
now for Grace.—What! there comes Mr. Clifford. I
thought you went to the city two hours ago!”

“So I did, but I came back for some papers I had
forgotten. I have seen Dr. Greene this morning.

He wants you and Warren to set out immediately for
Saratoga. You can take our own horses and servants.
Could you start by Monday? He says the journey,
by easy stages, will do Warren good; and his report
has made me quite anxious about you both.”

Juno stood a moment in a thoughtful attitude.
She did not think it necessary to say that this very
disinterested medical advice had originated in a suggestion
of her own. She replied, after an instant, in a
tone of decision—“It will be somewhat difficult, but I
will promise to be ready. Of course if Warren needs
change of air, that must be our first consideration.
You will go with us?”

“No, it is impossible for me to leave quite yet, but
I'll follow you by public conveyance within the week.
Shall I take your letter to town? I see you have one
ready?”

“Yes, I suppose you had best. It is Warren's.”

Mr. Clifford left the room, and Juno said, lovingly—“Now
I shall soon see you looking better, my
poor boy.”

“But it hardly seems right to go to Saratoga,
until I have been to Glenthorne.”

“Go to Saratoga, that you may be able to go to
Glenthorne. The answer to your letter can be sent
after us. It will do you so much good, and I feel the
need of it myself.”

Warren thought of the fainting-turn. “No wonder,
you have worn yourself out watching me. I
ought to be only too glad to go any where, where you
can get back your strength again.”