University of Virginia Library

12. XII.
THE PARENTS' BLESSING.

Juno Clifford had allowed herself but one day for
shopping in New York, on her way to Saratoga.
Her first purchases were made at the very establishment
where Dick was employed. Leaving her carriage,
she swept into the store with the step of a
princess. Even in this bazaar of the costly and
recherché, twenty pair of eyes were turned in wonder,
no less at the empress-like magnificence of her robes,
than at her own superb beauty.

Her purchases were a camel's-hair shawl, that might
have set half Up-Town crazy with envy, a veil of costliest
Honiton, and a scarf, light and delicate as the
meshes of a spider's web. Her shopping was by no
means attended with the usual fashionable amount of
dawdling and uncertainty. Here, as in every thing
else, was made manifest her imperious will. Utterly
regardless of such minor considerations as dollars and
cents, every article sufficiently unique and costly to
attract her attention, was immediately transferred to
her own possession. Warren, who had been standing

at a little distance, joined her when she left the shop,
and extended his hand to assist her as she stepped
into the carriage. It was cold as ice. For a moment
the coachman stood awaiting her orders. “Up
Broadway,” she said at length; the door was shut,
and the carriage rolled on. There was a strange
glitter in Warren's eyes, and his face was deathly
white. She sat waiting for him to break the silence.
Her hands lay carelessly clasped upon her lap, her
attitude was graceful and composed as ever, but there
was a look of intense anxiety in her eyes, half veiled
by the long lashes which drooped over them. When
at length he spoke his voice was very husky with suppressed
emotion.

“Mother,” he said, “it is the second time! did
you see him?”

“Him! see who, Warren, dearest?”

“I forgot. You never saw him before, and you
could not know him. Mother, it was my brother
Dick, of whom you bought that scarf. I did not
speak to him, because I would not without your permission,
but I must go back. May I get out of the
carriage?”

“Yes, Warren, if you must, but wait one moment.”

Without and within! strange difference!

Without! Broadway was full of tumultuous, hurried,
bustling life. The shop windows were hung

with bright and costly fabrics. Men hurried down
the street with that peculiar air of life and death importance
which distinguishes New York from every
other city on the globe. Crowds of elegantly dressed
ladies swept along the side-walks, and many a bright
eye glanced up, from the throng of busy idlers, toward
the stylish equipage, with its magnificent milk-white
horses and self-satisfied black coachman, with a
half sigh at the imaginary happiness of the occupants.

Within! Juno Clifford's hands were tightly
clasped; spasms of agony convulsed her features, and
crouching down at Warren's feet, she murmured
passionately—“Oh, Warren, Warren! can you not give
them up for me? Was it not enough that the sweet
face of a young, happy girl has won your heart away
from me, who so love you; must you deprive me of
what still remains, and go back with it to those friends
of your babyhood? Have they not others to love?
Would they care for you as I have done these many
years?

“But never mind! I have sacrificed much for
your sake, I can bear more still. Go! my prayers
and my tears shall be no restraint. Go back, and
make yourself known to your brother. Tear yourself
away from me altogether. Take away the love which
has been the one hope of my life, and then, perhaps,
God will be merciful, and let me die. Go! Why do
you not leave me?”

“Because I will not,” and he raised her up, and
supported her in his arms. “Have I not sworn you
should be dearest of all? I will never leave nor forsake
you. If it would pain you so to have me seek
my brother, I will remember the conditions on which
I came to you, and fulfil them. Not for their sake
indeed, but because I will not grieve you, my own
beautiful mother, you who have the highest claim on
both my love and obedience.”

Soothed by his words, and still more by the embrace
in which he held her, at once respectful, protecting
and fond, she smiled in reply, and permitted herself
to be consoled. Her glorious eyes flashed sunshine
on him through her tears, her cheeks flushed
crimson beneath the heavy bands of her jetty hair,
and once more gazing on her beauty, the adopted son
forgot all but Juno Clifford.

Rooms had been engaged at the United States
Hotel a week before, and two or three of Juno's servants
had been there several days in advance, so that
she was met at the door by her own people. There
were a crowd of idlers lounging about the entrance,
but their eager glances met little to satisfy their
curiosity. Juno gathered up the folds of her costly
travelling dress, with the tiny fingers of one daintily
gloved hand, then resting the other on Warren's extended
arm, she passed haughtily into the house. The

heavily wrought black lace veil swept downward almost
to her feet, and the by-standers could only
guess that she was beautiful, by the exquisite grace
of her every movement, and the brilliant eyes, whose
flashing even the thick folds of her veil could not
obscure.

“By Jove!” cried one of the loungers to his companion,
“she is the most magnificent creature we have
had in Saratoga this summer—a perfect goddess, a
Juno!”

His friend smiled—“Well done, Max, you have
guessed her name—hit the mark exactly.”

“Her name? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, only those milk-white horses, which
that grinning rascal of a black coachman is driving
off to the stables, are the property of John Clifford,
Esq., of Clifford Hall near Boston, and the lady is
Mrs. John Clifford, Juno Stanley that was.”

“How in the world do you know every one?”

The self-satisfied exquisite stroked, complacently,
his perfumed moustache, and answered, with an air
of fashionable indifference,—“Well, I flatter myself
I know most people one cares to know. I have no
doubt you will see Mrs. Clifford at dinner, and you'll
admit that her eyes are not easily to be forgotten. I
never saw her but twice, and once was in her girlhood.
She was of a Southern family, haughty as Lucifer

himself. But somehow she was left poor, and she
married this John Clifford.”

“Well, what of him?”

“O he's Mrs. Clifford's husband; quiet, gentleman-like,
and twenty years older than herself. I've seen
them once together, and one thing I know—she doesn't
love him.”

“Ha, say you so? Then the Hon. Max Greene,
M. C. from Georgia, is at her service for a flirtation.”

“No use, Max, you can't do it. Why, the lady
was for three years at Paris, and every one pronounced
her the most beautiful woman who appeared at
Court. Half the men in the realm were at her feet,
and she came back, without having given a look of
encouragement to one of them.”

“Has the woman no vanity?”

“Yes, that is, she knows she is beautiful. She has
been accustomed to homage, and she likes it.”

“That's it. I know my ground now. Probably
her Parisian cavaliers were too devoted. You can
watch the game, Fred, I am secure of my flirtation.
There are a few days left of August, and I shall stay
until the middle of September.”

But the Hon. Max Greene was doomed to a most
inglorious defeat. Juno came down to dinner, calm
and queenly as ever, leaning on Warren's arm, and
followed by her own servant. He secured the honor
of an introduction, and then commenced his contemplated

siege, by a display of the most studied neglect
and indifference. But the lady seemed entirely unconscious
of his presence. If he condemned the air
she was playing, loudly enough to be heard by half
the room, she would finish it with a pride careless yet
firm, overtopping and conquering his own. She found
many friends at Saratoga, but she visibly sought no
society but Warren's. Gradually the M. C.'s manners
veered from neglect to the most assiduous attention,
but he was equally unsuccessful. While he was
standing by her side, or bending over her chair, the
lady, entirely oblivious of his presence, would summon
her son, or beckon to her quadroon shadow, for the
clasping of a bracelet upon her arm, or the adjustment
of a shawl. The evening of the third day, she
was sitting at an open window, somewhat retired from
the gay groups thronging the spacious parlor. Her
eyes were bent upon the carpet, where a single moonray
was struggling to make itself seen, among the
glow of the lamp-light. The quadroon had just entered
with a cashmere scarf, which she was folding
about her shoulders, when Mr. Greene approached.
“Is not the evening lovely, Mrs. Clifford?”

The lady very slightly raised her drooping lashes
—“Jane,” she said, as if the exertion of speaking
wearied her, “you can look out, and tell the gentleman
what kind of an evening it is!”

Her manner was a ludicrous caricature of the

gentleman's own deportment toward his valet. As if
totally unconscious of this, however, Juno drew the
scarf more closely around her, and going back to her
reverie, cast the long lashes downward over the lustrous
eyes, once more seeking the carpet. There was
a smile of suppressed mirth on every face, which met
the eyes of the despairing Georgian. Acutely sensitive
to ridicule, he left the room, and gave orders that
all things should be in readiness for his departure the
next morning. In spite of the neglectful, half indolent,
half contemptuous style of Mrs. Clifford's
manners, these three days had already sufficed to
make her the star of Saratoga. Warren enjoyed this
intensely. He had prided himself on her rare beauty
for many years, and it was matter of undisguised
triumph to find it so readily acknowledged by the
galaxy of wealth and fashion assembled at what
somebody has called—“the great market-place of
marriageable women.”

The next morning John Clifford made his appearance.
It was nearly mid-day, and very warm. His
lady lay upon a lounge in her own room, Warren was
reading aloud, and the quadroon knelt upon a cushion
beside her, waving to and fro a large fan, made from
the plumage of the African ostrich.

Warren paused, and Juno lifted her eyes as he
entered, but she did not spring from her lounge to
meet him; so he came quietly forward, and bending

over her, pressed his lips to her brow. “Please don't,
I am not very well,” she said, faintly. He rose with
a half sigh, and extended his hand to Warren. “And
there's something you will be glad to get.” He smiled,
as he handed Warren a delicate-looking little letter,
a perfect snow-drop of an affair, with its pure white
onvelope, its faint yet graceful superscription, and the
single drop of bright ruby-colored wax which sealed
it. Warren eagerly opened it, and Juno watched him
while he read. The color came and went in his face,
his eyes sparkled at first, but before he finished they
were dim with tears. He pressed it passionately
to his lips, and then folded it and placed it in his
bosom. “Poor little Grace!” he said, tenderly—
“she has been so anxious about me. I know she has
worried herself ill. There is such a tone of sadness
all through her letter. I must start for Glenthorne
this very noon. Even then I cannot reach there till
to-morrow night. You are willing, are you not,
father? Now you have come, my mother will not
need me any longer.”

“Yes, oh yes,” was the reply. “Go as fast as
ever you please, only don't let us have you getting
sick again.”

Juno frowned, but she bit her lip, and strove to
force back her features to their habitual calmness.
`Father”—Warren's tone was very earnest—“I go to
ask from her parents the hand of my betrothed. Can

I say, may I say, that you have consented, that you
will welcome her by and by to your own fireside?”

“No!” Juno's quick whisper was almost passionate
in its earnestness. It reached only her husband's
ear, but it regulated his answer—“No, Warren, I
should hardly like you to say that until I have seen
the young lady. It is not necessary as yet. We
will wait a little.” His tone was kind but firm, and
Warren left the room in silence to make arrangements
for his journey. In half an hour he re-entered. Mr.
Clifford had gone out to visit the stables, Juno had
despatched the quadroon on a brief errand, and she
was alone. Warren knelt down beside her, and turned
her face tenderly toward him. The long lashes were
glittering with tears, which he silently kissed away.
“I am ill,” she murmured, “very ill. I am going to
start for home to-morrow. I shall not like this place
when you will be here no longer; beside, I am not
strong enough to stay.”

For a moment Warren's heart reproached him, but
the pale, sweet face of his anxious, suffering Grace rose
up before him, and clasping her to his heart in a tender
farewell, he went out. He met Mr. Clifford, and
bade him a hurried good-bye upon the stairs, and in
five minutes stepped on board the next train for Albany.

He reached Glenthorne the evening of the next
day. It was the last night of the summer. Already
the moon was rising, fair, and sweet, and tremulous as

a young bride. His coming was entirely unlooked-for,
and Grace had wandered forth to inhale the fragrant
breath of the dying summer. Warren left his
portmanteau at the hotel, and walked toward the
cottage. His heart beat tumultuously, as he caught
the outline of her graceful figure, the gleam of her
white robe. He came silently toward her, and clasped
her suddenly in his arms. She strove to break from
the embrace in which he held her, but he only drew
her more fondly to his heart, and bending over her
whispered—“My own Grace, my betrothed wife!”
There were no more struggles then—the golden head
lay at rest in the shelter of his bosom. He was wise
as he was kind, and he let her weep till her timid,
fluttering heart beat more quietly against his side.
“You are so good not to scold me for crying,” she
said, with childlike simplicity, looking up at length,
and smiling through her tears.

“Scold you; as if I could scold you, Grace!
Nay, love, those blue eyes may weep at their own
sweet will, if you will shed all the tears upon my
breast.”

“Shure, ma'am,” said Irish Katy, next morning,
“the candles in those long sticks in the parlor are
burnt down to just nothing at all. You can see for
yoursel.” Mrs. Atherton smiled, but there was a
heavy weight in her heart, at the thought of the
young wooer who was to bear away her treasure.

Three had the grave taken, and now this youngest and
fairest one of all, this nursling of her old age, was to
go forth to make life and light beside the hearthstone
of another.

The week which Warren spent at Glenthorne
passed rapidly away. There were dear old scenes to
be traversed over and over again, old books to be
searched for the passages they had marked years before,
and then, the haying time was not yet over. Grace's
simple, light-hearted gayety was infectious, and Warren
found the grave dignity of the successful graduate
rapidly disappearing. He even confessed that a hay
cart, piled high with its fragrant load, was a great
deal merrier, if a slightly less elegant vehicle than his
mother's carriage, with its sumptuous cushions of Genoa
velvet. Then it was so nice to lie and dream, under
the spreading trees, never tiring of his companion;
asking over and over again the same questions, and
listening over and over again to the same low murmured
replies. “Ah, Gracie, I do believe I could be happy
in Glenthorne for ever,” he whispered, as they entered
the post-office, the usual termination to their sunset
walk.

The letter which was placed in his hand, was
directed in the bold, somewhat heavy chirography of
his father. It contained a request that he would
hasten home and go to Washington immediately upon

important business. The summons could not be set
aside, but Warren left the office with a heavy heart.

The next day Warren stood before Mr. Atherton,
with a mien as bashful as a boy. He had meant to
say some very nice things. Indeed he had arranged
the heads of quite a discourse in his mind. There
was a good deal about unworthiness, dutiful submission,
blessing of parents, and so on, but somehow it
all vanished, when he came in sight of the benevolent-looking
old gentleman, in his home-made easy chair.
He could only stammer forth very confusedly—“I love
your daughter Grace, Mr. Atherton; could you trust
her happiness to my keeping?”

The old gentleman took off his spectacles, wiped
them, and deliberately put them on again. Then
looking Warren in the face, he inquired, “Well, sir,
when do you want to get married?” Warren was
not ready with an answer to this question, and something
very like a blush passed over his face.

The old gentleman evidently pitied his embarrassment,
for he said, with a kindly smile—“I believe I
am very glad, young man, that you are not prepared
to answer my question. The longer we can keep our
little Grace at home, the happier it'll be for us—won't
it, wife?” Mrs. Atherton's calm womanly face smiled
a reply from the arm-chair over opposite, and he went
on with another question—“Does my little girl love
you?”

“She has told me so, dear sir.”

“Mary, go and bring her here.”

The gentle mother reappeared in a moment, with
the child of her old age by her side. The father held
out his hand tenderly: “Come here, Mistress Grace,
and tell me if this be true, that you want to go away
and leave your old father and mother?”

“Please don't, dear father,” was all that she could
trust herself to say, but there was a sufficient answer
in the look the blue eyes turned on Warren. The
young man was bold enough now. He drew nearer,
and took her hand in his own, and there was the
eloquence of deep and fervid feeling in the words
which told how dear and beautiful he thought her,
how tenderly he would guard her happiness. The
father's eye grew dim. “Come here, mother,” he said
earnestly—“eome here, and say if you are willing to
give your nursling to this suitor's care.”

The mother read the deep love in the sweet girl's
eloquent eyes, and the truth and honor in the eager
face bending over her, and she bowed her head, and
answered, “I am willing.”

“She is the last of four,” said the old man's husky
tones. “We shall go hence very soon, where they
have gone before us. Deal gently with the child, when
our heads are lying low in the churchyard.”

“I will; behold, my father, she trusts me.” There
was a deep and fervent resolve in Warren Clifford's

tone, and he sank on his knees before her father's
chair, with the young girl still in his arms, and the
trembling hands of old Russel Atherton were laid
in benediction upon those two bowed heads.