University of Virginia Library

20. XX.
RETRIBUTION.

The dead man was buried with much of meaningless
pomp and parade. Sable plumes nodded over his
hearse, and a long procession of fashionable carriages
followed him to his last rest, in peaceful Mount
Auburn. Where they had scooped away the snow to
dig his grave, there were one or two hardy young
shoots of green, which had been struggling upward
underneath it, harbingers of the blest spring that
should rise out of its winter shroud—symbols of the
soul's resurrection. Warren pointed them out to his
mother with filling eyes. They had come together to
the burial, riding in their closed carriage next to the
hearse, and all the way Juno had lain sobbing upon
his bosom, and Warren, soothing her, never dreamed
that she wept for very joy that she was so folded to
his heart—that the husband was dead, who she deemed
had so long stood between her and happiness. But
she wore the very deepest mourning, and every body
so pitied “poor Mrs. Clifford” in her “terrible bereavement.”

The rector put up a special prayer for her
benefit, and she wept on, looking very beautiful through
the black crape.

It seemed lonely, even to her, when she went back,
after the funeral, into the silent house, whence the
dead had been borne forth so solemnly. There were
few words spoken that evening. Warren mourned for
the departed, with a deep and heartfelt grief, and ever
striving to seem what he most approved, Juno was
forced to assume its semblance. It was lonely, too,
that night, tossing on the restless couch; where for so
many years he had lain beside her; where now she
must lie, with only the spectres of the past reproaching
her ceaselessly.

An early day had been appointed to read the will.
Carefully John Clifford's cabinet had been sealed, the
very hour of his death, and the seals were broken in
the presence of witnesses. Good Dr. Greene was
present at the reading, and so were all who had stood
beside the lost one's death-bed. The lawyer, who had
been for many years his attorney, looked around
with a face of blank astonishment, as he read the sentence
bequeathing the whole estate of the deceased,
fully and unconditionally, to his wife Juno. He put
it down, and taking off his spectacles, said, with an air
of quiet determination, looking Juno full in the face,
“I had the honor to draw up a will more recent than
this.”

Not a muscle of her face moved; no slightest
change of color gave token of emotion—she merely
answered, as if the whole affair were a weariness,
“Yes, surely there was one, my husband showed it to
me. It gave Warren a large amount, a hundred
thousand, I believe.”

“It did, and this will is dated nearly twenty years
earlier.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Dr. Greene,
“Mr. Clifford said something just before his death of
having destroyed a will; without doubt it was that
one. At any rate he said we should find the right one
in his cabinet, and the cabinet was sealed within a
half-hour after his death.”

“Um—m—m!” answered the lawyer, musingly;
“it is very strange. He was so anxious to have that
will drawn. He said it was to remedy an act of
injustice. I don't understand it.”

“But I do,” said Warren, who had not before
spoken. “There was a very important difference of
opinion between my father and myself, about a year
ago, and it produced a coldness which lasted until his
last sickness. I understand it all, but I had not
thought I had angered him so severely.”

Juno slid her hand into his very quietly. “I am
sorry,” she whispered; “but all that I have is yours,
so it can really make no difference.”

And so the successful schemer triumphed yet once

more, and she was left in undisputed possession of
her husband's splendid fortune.

A year passed very quietly. Warren seemed
more than ever careful of his mother's happiness, now
that there was the new sense of protection, now that
he felt he was indeed her all. They had lived since
John Clifford's death solely for each other. It
would have been contrary to Up-Town etiquette for
the lady to go into society with her widow's weeds, in
this first year of mourning. It was still more contrary
to her inclination. Her passionate love for
Warren grew every day more absorbing, and though
the time was not yet ripe for its open manifestation,
she managed to make him almost constantly her companion.
Six weeks before the anniversary of her
husband's death, he was obliged to leave her. Some
extensive business transactions were to be settled up
in the South and West, which none understood so well
as he. He parted with her very reluctantly. “Nay,
mother darling, do not weep so,” he whispered, as she
clung sobbing to his bosom. “I know you will be
very lonely, but I shall write so often, you will have
scarcely time to miss me, and I shall be with you
before that day; I could not let you keep that alone.”

“But this parting is breaking my heart, and you
do not suffer,” she said, lifting her chiding eyes.

“Do I not? How ill you read me. I am striving

to be calm for your sake. Oh, my mother, you are all
I have now—all—we are every thing to each other.”
He clasped her for a moment to his heart, in one
straining, convulsive pressure, then hurriedly putting
her from him, he left the house. During the whole six
weeks of his absence, she brooded over that parting.
She would sit for hours recalling every look, every
tone, and then those wild passion-throbs would come
back again which had so thrilled her, when he clasped
her to his breast, and she would press her hand upon
her heart, and blush like a timid girl. His letters
were very frequent, and she treasured them lovingly
in her bosom. Her manners to all around grew
strangely sweet and gentle. She would lie on her
couch for hours, weaving vague, delicious fancies of
future happiness, making the quadroon sing to her low,
sweet ballads of olden love. Warren's affairs detained
him longer than he expected. Christmas came and
went without him; New Year, and it was the day
before the anniversary which brought even to her heart
a nameless terror. It was mid-afternoon, and a footman,
entering, presented to her the evening mail, on
a silver salver. She seized it eagerly. There was a
paper directed to Warren, and a letter in his hand.
She lingered long over the letter. It was full of affection,
and the concluding words made her heart thrill
tumultuously. They said—

“The day after to-morrow, my own mother, I shall

be with you. Forgive me that I cannot come before,
but that day will be the return of much of sadness
and trial. I cannot reach you until afternoon, but I
will at least share part of it with you. Oh, what an
age it seems since our last meeting! I am pining to
listen to your voice, to look into your eyes.” The
letter had been twenty-four hours on its way. The
next afternoon, then, he would be with her. Oh, he
did love her, he must. She pressed the fond words
he had written caressingly to her lips, to her bosom.
Then she opened the paper. A marked passage caught
her attention in a moment. It read thus:—

“Married, Dec. 25th, at Glenthorne Cottage, by
the Rev. Joseph Seaton, Malcom Hastings, Esq., to
Miss Grace Atherton, both of Glenthorne.”

“Surer than ever,” she murmured, triumphantly.
Then she touched her little silver bell. Tinkle, tinkle,
the sweet tones rung through the boudoir, and ere they
ceased, the quadroon stood before her. “Sit down,
Jane,” she said, very gently, pointing to the cushions at
her feet. Then there was a moment of silence, during
which she twined the girl's long, silken tresses about
her fingers. It was curious to see how gentle her
great happiness made her. No young girl, in the flush
of her first love dream, was ever sweeter. At length
she spoke. “Jane, I know that you love me; I have
trusted you already, until you have become more of a
friend than a servant; why should I not tell you

more? I love Warren Clifford; I have loved him for
years. I do not think he has ever yet suspected it.
It was for this reason I had you change those wills.
I cared not for the empty gold, but I wanted to have
him in my power, to give him all things. To-morrow
afternoon he returns, and I shall tell him. Think you
I can fail to win a return?”

“I do not know. You are gifted, and fascinating
beyond all others; you have wealth and genius, and
oh, such beauty; but does not Mr. Clifford love Miss
Atherton?”

“Ah, that news is best of all. There came a
paper to-day, with a notice of her marriage. I shall
let him see that first, and then think you his heart can
fail to requite my life-long tenderness? Is that black
velvet dress finished?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, I will wear that to-morrow.”

“Juno was indeed glorious in the dress she had
chosen. True to her scheming nature, even in the
dearest hopes of her heart, she had the black velvet
made for the occasion. It was cut very low on the
neck and bosom, revealing the perfection of her superb
shoulders. It fitted closely to her regal figure. The
sleeves were very short, and over her snowy arms fell
a frill of black lace. She wore not a single ornament;
so that her costume was almost severe in its
studied simplicity. When all was completed, she

stood before the mirror. Never in her life had she
been so beautiful. The lightness of early girlhood
had given place to the rare symmetry of the fully
developed woman. The glow on her cheek was as
warm as at eighteen, and the eyes, so full of fire and
passion, were softened by a hope dearer, brighter than
her girlhood ever knew. “Pull those pins out of my
hair, Jane,” she commanded.

“But they are all which holds it up, madam.”

“Never mind, pull them out.” She was obeyed.
The glossy, ebon tresses swept downward, almost to
her feet. If any thing could have enhanced the perfection
of her oriental beauty, it was thus supplied.

“I shall wear it so,” she said, quietly. “Of all
times, I would not look overdressed to-day; beside, he
has never seen me thus, and I fancy it is becoming.”

Seated on a low divan, in one corner of the boudoir,
she had not long to wait, ere the door was
thrown open, and she was folded to his heart. Putting
her from him after a moment, he looked at her much
as one might examine a beautiful painting. “Mother,
what is it?” he said, earnestly, “what have you been
doing? I never before saw you look so beautiful.”
Her cheek deepened in its tint, but she answered carelessly—“Nonsense,
love, the change is in your own
fancy, but sit down here, and tell me all you have done
since I saw you.”

The recital was not a long one; and when it was

over, she said, “I have news for you, Warren. God
grant it be not painful,” and she placed in his hand
the paper which had come the day before, and pointed
to the marked paragraph. He sat so the light from
the lofty window fell full upon his face. She watched
him narrowly, but the calm reticence of his countenance
gave her no reply. “Ah, Warren,” she murmured,
after a moment—“you see now that she never loved
you as I have loved. Think you I could have forgotten
in two years?”

“Her character, indeed, differs from the estimate
I had formed, but I gave her up, and I could not have
expected her to consecrate her whole life to a memory.
She has married one good and noble; may he cherish
her lovingly!”

“But had you chosen differently, had you given me
up, think you, in two short years I could have learned
the lesson to forget?”

“I am sure you could not, my own mother, but
your love is different.”

“Yes, it is different. Listen, Warren; nay, sit
where you are; come no nearer; I have a long story
to tell you. I knew a girl once, very young, and the
world said very beautiful. She had never known the
softening influence of a mother's love. Perhaps if
she had, her whole life would have been different.
But she was her father's idol. Educated at the far
South, this young girl of whom I speak, had been

taught to deem nothing so disgraceful as self-dependence.
When she was but sixteen, her indulgent, idolizing
father died and left her poor, bitterly poor. No
human being could have been more utterly helpless.
And then a stranger came. He was a man full twenty
years older than herself, but very rich, and her rare
beauty won his love. Utterly friendless and destitute,
awakened to gratitude by his kindness, touched
by his generosity, is it strange that at seventeen she
became his bride, though even then her heart cried
out in rebellion? Years passed on, and no children
were given her; there was no tie to cement the uncongenial
union. Clasped in the embrace of a passion
to which her heart gave back no answer, what wonder
that she came almost to loathe him. At last she met
a child, one who interested her greatly; who won from
her more of love than she had ever before bestowed
on mortal. She made him her own. Her childless
heart lavished its wealth upon him; scarcely twelve
years younger than herself, she yet cherished him as
her son. Then by her husband's will these two were
separated. She was surrounded by the enticements
of a foreign court. The gay and noble bowed before
her, and she had no love for him who called her wife.
But she came forth from the trial pure, unstained,
even in thought. The memory of that child of her
adoption lay warm at her heart; the lips of her he
called mother must not be polluted. She came back
to him. For four years they had been separated, and
he was grown almost to manhood. He was more beautiful
than her brightest dreams. He clasped her in
his arms, he folded her to his bosom, and she, oh judge
her not harshly, she loved him; not with the calm
love of a mother, but with womanhood's passionate,
deathless idolatry. She had never loved before, and the
sweet spell stole upon her unawares. It was long ere
she acknowledged it to herself; not until she had heard
him breathe another's name in tones of tenderness.
Then, alas for it, she felt the sin and the sorrow. She
struggled against it, she wrestled with it in the long
nights when others slept, and still it grew upon her
daily, overcoming all things. It was not a temptation
she could flee from. She must dwell in his presence,
listen to the melody of his tones, be folded in his
arms, and to no one could she turn for counsel or
sympathy. Time passed on, and he was separated
from the object of his love; but she,—alas, she was
still a wife, and she bore on in silence, chiding herself
for every throb of the passionate love she could
not conquer, as for a deadly sin. Then came death,
and she was free. But it was no time for dreams of
love, and she kept silence still—she thought his heart
might cling to that past love. Warren, shall I say
all? Yesterday the news came that Grace Atherton
was wedded to another—that she had thus cast from
her a love for whose very memory I would have
perilled my salvation. Life of my life, at least pity
me. I cannot bear your scorn. Oh, think before you
cast from you a love that would sacrifice earth and
heaven for your happiness. I have loved you all
these years. It is no mock young lady sentimentalism,
this passion that has outlasted all things. I am yours,
yours. Cast me off never so much, and I will not be
another's. My wealth is yours—my life is yours. If
you will not call me wife, I will be your slave; but
you shall not cast me from you. Is it worth nothing,
this wild love? Does it wake no response in your
cold heart? Speak to me, Warren! you will drive me
mad by this stern silence! Speak to me, if you would
not have me die here at your feet!” She started forward,
and would have thrown herself on her knees
before him, but he restrained her by a look. While
she told her love, he had bowed his head lower and
lower, so that toward the last she could not see his
face, but now he raised it. Sorrowfully, upbraidingly,
those blue eyes sought her own. “Speak,” she cried
once more—“speak, if it be but to curse me. I tell
you, you will drive me mad with your silence.”

From his parted lips there fell, calmly, distinctly,
the one word—“Mother.” It was his only answer,
but it said all. In that hour she knew that the wild
passion of a lifetime was hopeless. That word, that
tone told her, that as a mother she had been loved,
cherished, respected, and now by this one rash throw,

she had lost all. There was a moral heroism, a simple
grandeur in that reply, before which her passionate
soul did homage. As it fell from his lips, he arose,
and passed slowly, determinately, from the room.
At the door he paused, and gave one long look backward.
She had thrown herself upon the floor, in a
paroxysm of despair, and was tearing out her magnificent
hair by handfuls. The clock struck two. That
day, that hour, just twelve months before, had John
Clifford died. The thought hardened his heart still
more against her, and he passed on, out into the
street.