University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.
JUNO CLIFFORD GOES A VISITING.

We are told in the beginning of Virgil, (don't be
shocked, gentle lady reader, I mean Pope's Virgil; I
am a woman, and I know the proprieties,)—in the first
book of Pope's Virgil then, we are told how in olden
times on an errand of mischief, the goddess Juno
went a-visiting. I don't mean to assert that this very
ancient example had any effect on our lady, Juno
Clifford; and indeed, the errand of persuading the
good king Æolus to “strike force into his winds,” and
scatter abroad the ships of the pious Æneas, was certainly
far enough removed from Juno Clifford's peaceable
design of making her appearance at Glenthorne
Cottage. She had detained Warren for more than a
week at home, before permitting him to set off for
Washington, where he had business which could not
fail to occupy him a month longer. He had already
been absent more than two weeks, when she entered
her husband's study on the first morning in October.

Mr. Clifford was looking over some papers, but he
laid them aside with a happy smile, at this unusual interruption.
“What have you there?” she said, carelessly.

“Only my will,” was the reply. “You know we
were discussing the subject a long while ago, and decided
that it was better to make a will, than to take
measures to adopt Warren now; and yesterday I came
to the conclusion that I had better not put off attending
to it any longer.” He opened it and laid it before
her. The first bequest was a hundred thousand
dollars to the adopted son, and then the rest of his
immense fortune was bequeathed to his beloved wife,
Juno Clifford. The lady was not satisfied. True,
her own share was many times the largest; but years
before, when they were first married, Mr. Clifford had
made a will leaving her the sole and undisputed mistress
of all, and she had hoped this would continue to
the end, and Warren be left wholly dependent upon
her bounty. She dared not give utterance to this
feeling now. She pushed the paper from her with a
smile.

John Clifford rose, and going to an India cabinet
in one corner of the room, deposited it therein.

“There, Juno,” he remarked, “you will know
where to find it, if any thing should happen to me
suddenly. You saw I had the same witnesses as in

the old will, made more than twenty years ago; by
the by, that is in your possession?”

“Yes, I will destroy it. Heaven send it may be
many a year before any will be needed.”

Her husband thanked her with a look, and then
she came, and stood over his chair, hanging her taper
fingers idly upon his shoulder. He drew her hand
across his wet eyes, and she said in the tone of a
spoiled child, “Please, John, I want to go somewhere.”

“Well, my sweet wife.”

“And I want you to go too. It's to Glenthorne.
I think if Warren was our own child, we wouldn't
quite want him to get engaged, without seeing the
lady-love and her parents. So it seems right to go.
Then I want to go from there to New York and do
some shopping. Can you spare so much time?”

“Yes, twice as much, if you wished it. We will
start to-morrow.”

“Troth, ma'am, but it's the most beautiful lady,”
said Glenthorne Katy, returning from answering the
door-bell.

“Did she inquire for me, or for my mother?” asked
Grace, hurriedly putting aside her work.

“Yes, miss, she inquired for both of yees, av
coorse, and such an ilegant chain at her waist, all the

solid goold intirely, and a power of little things beside
it, and a dress all flashing bright, with silver, and
little glittering things in her ears; and what bates all
the rest intirely, her beautiful eyes, so swate and yet
looking as if she could kill you with them.”

“Quite a princess, according to your description,
Katy.” The mother and daughter were sewing, in
Grace's own little room. The girl walked to the
mirror, and twined her curls over her fingers in a little
flutter of agitation. Then she turned to follow
her mother down stairs. There was an air of simple
yet perfect refinement about them both—the mother
in her well preserved black silk, and snowy cap; the
daughter, looking, in her simple delaine dress buttoned
close to the throat, with its wrought muslin collar,
more elegant and really lady-like than half the brocade
clad belles on Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Clifford
had handed her card to our friend Katy, but printed
bits of pasteboard were not much in vogue, in simple
Glenthorne, and Katy very innocently put it in her
bosom, to examine at her leisure, supposing it to be
something designed for herself. But Grace had not
only seen the lady's full-length portrait years before,
but she had often noticed a very fine daguerreotype
of his father and mother, which Warren accounted
one of his chief treasures. She recognized Mrs.
Clifford instantly, much to her own surprise, and went
forward to shake hands. “You should not blush at

seeing his mother, my sweet Grace,” was Juno's tender
whisper, and looking full in her face with her
dark, magnetic eyes, she bent forward and kissed her.
There was a spell in that kiss to bind that young girl's
heart more strongly than any words could have done.
From that moment, Juno possessed much of that mysterious
influence over her, which was all-powerful with
Warren and her husband.

“May I come to your room, dear Grace?” asked
the lady that evening as they went up stairs; and
long after John Clifford had been soundly sleeping,
she sat there on the lounge, with her arm drawn
around that young, innocent girl, whom in her heart
she hated, oh how bitterly, discoursing of the absent
son and lover. “There is his miniature,” she said
kindly. “I brought it on purpose for you to see, as I
believe you have none.” At that moment Grace's
timid heart was fluttering against a tiny little locket
received from Washington but the day before, but she
took the larger one which Juno handed her, and
looked on the calm features pictured there, with a
thrill of exquisite delight. Mrs. Clifford found her a
much more formidable rival than she had anticipated.
To even her worldly eyes, the singular purity of the
girl's character was apparent. She realized that it
was the very thing to retain the adoration of a mind
like Warren's, and she bit her lip with vexation, that
this simple country lassie could be, without an effort,

the very thing which she had struggled for years to
appear. Then Grace was beautiful; perhaps her
jealous eyes even heightened the charm of the sweet,
spiritual face, with its shading curls. Juno certainly
acted her part skilfully. She talked as if Warren was
dearer than her own life, and yet loving him as she
did, she could feel the faults of his character most intensely,
and she spoke of them sorrowfully to his betrothed,
as to one who must know and feel them
likewise. His want of firmness, she said, was worst
of all. He had given up his early friends so very
easily, that she sometimes feared lest it would be
no sacrifice to part even with them, though they had
done so much for him. Grace endeavored to defend
him, but her tone was not very hopeful. Mrs. Clifford
had reawakened an old and sorrowful fear of
her own. That night, when at length Juno clasped
her in her arms, and pressed a good-night kiss upon
her lips, she threw herself on the bed, in an agony
of tears. Her love was perfect, still, but much of her
sweet trust was gone; she could no longer look fearlessly
into the future, for a shadow walked beside
her; the calm moonlight of cloudless faith was gone
out, and the stars of her heart seemed far-off and cold
and chill, like distant and deferred hopes. And yet
she thought, amid her tears, how happy she ought to
be, that Warren's mother had learned so easily to love
her, and would even sorrow for her sake, if he should
prove cold and false.

It had been settled, after very urgent entreaty on
the part of Mrs. Clifford, that they should start for
New York the next morning, taking Grace with them,
and leaving her at Glenthorne on their return. It
was the first time Grace had ever visited a city larger
than New Haven, and in spite of the heaviness at her
heart, the journey was matter of unqualified delight.
Mrs. Clifford was so kind, that Grace ceased to wonder
at the adoring tenderness with which she had inspired
Warren. She could not quite sympathize, indeed, with
Juno's raptures over star actresses and loves of
dresses, but she was too much charmed with her
peerless, to heed what seemed to her charitable judgment,
very minor faults of character. She was quite
prepared, on her return, to second Mrs. Clifford's
earnest entreaty to her parents, that she should visit
Boston early in December, and pass a few weeks
at Mount Vernon street. Beside the rapturous
thought of constant association with her betrothed,
which sent the eloquent blood in tides to her cheek and
brow, there was an untold wealth of anticipated delight
in the companionship of Juno Clifford. It was a
perpetual joy to look upon one so beautiful, and beside
this glorious woman loved her. She had said so,
drawing her head to her breast with motherly tenderness;

said that she had never known the sweet companionship
of mother and daughter; that even in her
lonely girlhood, when she had seen some happier child
lift her young face for a mother's yearning kiss, she
had turned aside to weep. She had had no brother and
no sister, not even a grave to which her heart could
cling; and when she was a wife, no child had climbed
her knee, no voice had called her mother, until God
sent her Warren, and now a daughter had been given
her also, a new claimant for her love; and at the words,
the weeping girl nestled closer to her bosom, and
Juno pressed kiss after kiss upon that innocent brow,
hating her all the while, bitterly, bitterly.

And then she left Glenthorne, and Grace followed
her with the prayers and blessings of a loving spirit;
and Mrs. Atherton sighed, bending wearily over her
work, for, somehow, heavy upon her heart lay a presentiment
of the ill which should befall her only
child.

The weeks passed rapidly over Glenthorne. Mother
and daughter were busily engaged in preparation
for the anticipated visit. New dresses were sent for
and brought home, and the village dressmaker reported
sundry somewhat extravagant stories of silks that
would stand alone, and a white tarleton flounced from
top to bottom.

Meantime Warren's letters were frequent and
affectionate as ever, each one containing some tender

message from Mrs. Clifford; and gradually the shadow
passed quite away from Grace Atherton's loving heart,
and even her mother looked forward with something
like pleasurable anticipation to her darling's introduction
into the enchanted atmosphere of Up-Town.