University of Virginia Library

21. XXI.
WARREN HEREFORD STUDIES LAW.

All that night Warren paced back and forth in his
room at the Tremont House. By morning he had
matured his plans. In a few months more he
should complete his twenty-fourth year, and without a
fortune, or even a profession, he must commence the
world anew. For his adopted mother, he could
scarcely analyze his own feelings. He did not, and
he never could, return her passionate devotion.
When he remembered that she had yielded to it, even
as the wife of another, he was tempted to despise her.
And yet there were many blessed memories to link
him to her. Proud man as he was, his eyes overflowed
with tears, as he remembered her generous
kindness to his family, her tenderness to his own
suffering boyhood, and the impulse which had led him
to call her angel, when first he looked upon her
beauty. Then came such softening thoughts of the
all-enduring love which had followed him ever since

—the sacrifices of her pleasure, which she had made
for his sake so cheerfully—the sympathy in his sorrows—the
hours she had watched over him in
sickness, until he was tempted to go back and lift
her head to his bosom. Then there swept over him
the memory of her fearful sin, and he seemed to feel
her breath upon his cheek. No, he must not see
her; he could never give back love for love, and to
seek her side on any other terms, would be worse
than useless. A thousand times that night he pictured
her to his mind, in her despairing beauty,
lonely, sorrowing, calling vainly on his name. He
trembled lest she should indeed go mad, as she had
said; lest even then she might be a raving maniac,
struggling in the grasp of her black servants. Then
he thought of Grace. Not lightly had those early
vows been spoken. He would have deemed himself a
perjured man, could he have uttered love words to
another, and now she was wedded. Those sweet lips
were surrendered to another's pressure; that fair
form was yielded to another's clasp, and he was alone
—alone with not even a grave to which his heart
could turn. Had she been dead, he thought in his
agony, he could have borne it more easily. Better
the winding-sheet should fold her from his arms, than
the kisses of other lips come like a wall of fire between
them. And then he felt that this was sin.
Malcom Hastings was worthy, even of her love, and
he forced himself to kneel down and pray for Heaven's
blessing on their heads. He remembered that he too
had a work to do, a life-path to tread, however much
the way was hedged about with thorns. Looking
forth at the future, from among the desert places of
his sorrow, he saw his path marked out before him.
With the earliest dawning he sat down and wrote to
his friend, Percy Douglass. He reminded him of the
explanation he had promised, when they met the errand-boy
in Broadway, and then recounted, briefly, all
his early history. He spoke of all the Past, of his
separation from Grace, of his father's death, and then
of his mother's passionate love. On this last he dwelt
briefly, sorrowfully, and then he wrote:—

“I have told you all this, Percy, because I felt
that it was due to your long-tried friendship, and beside,
without this you could not understand my wishes
for the future. I dare not return to my mother. In
her past love for me, she has sinned deeply against
Heaven, but to me she has been all that mother could
be: I will follow her with my blessing. But I must
not see her more. It would be worse for her. Beside,
I dare not trust myself too far; I could never
call her wife, but who can tell how much of temptation
might await me in a love like hers, so wild, so
impetuous, and uttered by lips so beautiful.

“I have thought of it all night, I have prayed
God to help me, and I have decided. Never again

shall I enter that sumptuous dwelling. I will take
nothing thence, not even my own wardrobe. Rejecting
the love which she offers me, I will take nothing
at her hands; I would not even that she should know
where I am. To this end I must leave the city. I
have only fifty dollars in the world, but it will suffice
for my present necessities. You know my early wish
to become a lawyer. You will remember that even
by the faculty, in our dear old institution, it was pronounced
my proper vocation. Your father is an
honored and distinguished member of the bar. Will
he receive me as his pupil; and not this only, but will
he permit me to assist him? I can work. I will do
his copying, run his errands, sweep his office, any thing
to be independent while I am acquiring my profession.
I am not proud, and I know I can be useful. Residing
with you at Albany, I shall be far away from the
scenes of my early life, and, perchance, I shall be at
peace. Write to me soon. Address me at New
York, where I am going. I dare not remain here
longer, lest, in spite of my convictions of the right,
my love and my anxiety should hurry me into my
mother's presence. Address me as Warren Hereford.
It is the only name to which I have legally any right.
Commencing a new life, I will do it in my own
proper person. Never again call me Clifford. I relinquish
the name, the fortune, all that could remind
me of the Past. Not yet will I suffer myself to seek
my own mother's side, though my heart aches, even
now, for the pure love of kindred. While I was rich
and prosperous, I stood aloof from the loved ones of
my infancy; and I will not turn to them in my utter
poverty. For a time I will do penance. Not until
fickle fortune has once more smiled upon my efforts,
will I become a claimant for their tenderness.

“There is one sorrow of which I have not spoken,
and yet, Heaven pity me! it is bitterer than all.
You know how I loved Grace Atherton. Not until we
were separated, did I realize how much she had been
my idol, the hope and the light of my life. After my
father's death, she was ever in my thoughts. I could
not help it. Even in my dreams, I looked into her
blue eyes, and listened to the music of her voice.
I had meant, when the year of mourning was over,
once more to seek her side. I never once thought
that she might have ceased to love me. I never
doubted that she had been true to me. I cannot trust
myself to write of this. Yesterday I came home
intending to tell my mother of my hope, and secure
her consent. She put into my hand a paper containing
the intelligence that Grace—my own Grace—
was wedded to another. A great trouble always
makes me calm, and my mother construed the cold
stillness with which I received the communication
into an evidence of indifference. There, I have told
you all—I must not dwell on what I suffered

When we meet do not speak of this, only understand
one thing—I can sacrifice fearlessly all things else, now
that my dearest is gone. I will be brave, morally,
physically, and I know I shall succeed, even though
the fame I win be but a monument above my tomb.
I shall never love again. No other brow shall lie
upon the breast where her young innocent head has
rested.

“In twenty minutes I shall start for New York;
there I shall await your answer. I leave behind
me for ever the wealth and luxury in which I have
passed the last ten years of my life. I go forward
to a Future I am to carve out for myself, and I go
fearlessly.”

On the day when he expected an answer to this
letter, Warren Hereford walked hurriedly to the post-office.
The official received his name, and turned
over the great pile of letters in the “H” department
“None here, I think,” he said, carelessly, and
Warren turned away with his last hope of friendship
and assistance well-nigh crushed out. “Here it is, after
all,” exclaimed the clerk, recalling him; “I beg
your pardon, sir.”

Warren eagerly broke the seal. There were a few
words in Percy's hand.

“Come to us now,” they said—“come by to-night's
boat. I can talk better than I can write. I

must see you soon, or I shall explode with all the plans
I have to lay before you; come.”

This outer sheet enclosed a letter from Gen. Douglass,
warm and cordial, though couched in all the
ceremonious politeness of the old school. He had
several times met Warren, and had conceived for him
a hearty friendship. He expressed much pleasure in
the prospect of persuading him to make their house
his home, and in alluding to his desire for independence,
he said—

“My young friend, I admire and sympathize with
the spirit which prompted your remarks most fully.
In inviting you to make my house your home, to become
my pupil, and consider my purse your own, I
am confident that I am making a good bargain for
myself. I foresee that you will be one of our first
lawyers, and even now you can be of sufficient assistance
to me, to more than compensate for all the aid
I shall be able to render you. Let us have the happiness
of welcoming you as speedily as possible.”

The next morning found Warren Hereford quietly
ensconced in the General's breakfast parlor. He had
been most cordially welcomed. Mrs. Douglass, a
sweet, motherly woman of about fifty, growing old
most gracefully, had made him fully at home in five
minutes, by the cheerful, unobtrusive kindness with
which she catered for his comfort; and Percy, pulling
his arm with a touch of the old, college boyishness,

had whispered, “Well, old fellow, I've had your
traps carried up into my room. We roomed together
for so many years, that I thought I'd take you under
my wing again. You know you've gone wrong ever
since you have been left to your own devices.”

Well indeed was it for the wanderer that he could
moor his boat in such a pleasant haven, and better
still that his place with General Douglass was no sinecure.
There is no medicine for a troubled heart so
infallible as constant and active employment. Percy
was heart and soul an artist. It had been his father's
cherished hope to see him a lawyer and a statesman,
but when he found the fly leaves and broad margins
of his best copy of Blackstone covered with sweet angel
faces of saints and madonnas, and discovered that
his hopeful son was not quite clear as to the difference
between the supreme court and that of common
pleas, he concluded he might as well make a virtue of
necessity, and bestow upon Warren the benefit of his
extensive practice and profound legal knowledge, leaving
Percy to the more congenial companionship of the
vague, delicious visions, which float through the debatable
country of a painter's brain.

He took a vast amount of pride in his pupil's progress,
and with good reason. Law was emphatically
the young man's native element. He had one of
those clear, analytic minds, that delight in nothing so
much as a profound argument, and his eloquence was

forcible, swaying, irresistible. During the two years
that elapsed before he was admitted to the bar, he
was, under favor of his kind friends, forming acquaintances
which were to be of incalculable service in advancing
his future success—men of legal and political
eminence, as well as of stern moral integrity; and
among them all he was recognized as “a rising young
man.”

When, at length, after a brilliant examination, his
name was enrolled among the authorized members of
his profession, the kind General requested a private
interview.

“I am satisfied,” he said, cordially grasping his
hand, “more than satisfied with your past progress.
You have surpassed even the high expectations I had
formed of your success. But there is still much
ground to be possessed. Your assistance has much
more than compensated for all I have done for you.
Indeed, I am several hundred dollars in your debt.
Now what I want is that you should submit yourself
to my direction in the use of this money. For my
own sake, I should say to you, stay here and become
my partner.” Percy will be going to Italy in a year
or two more to study the old masters, and my old age
will be lonely. None could cheer it so well as you,
but still I shall not keep you. I have discussed this
matter with several leading men, and they agree with
me that New York is the proper field for your talents.

I want you should go there now. You must be present
at all the public trials of the spring assizes, and I
would also have you go often to the Tombs. You
will hear there the examinations of the prisoners, and
nothing could be more useful. You will become more
learned in the manner of cross-questioning witnesses
and receiving testimony, and it will be a source of
amusement, if not of profit, to watch the proceedings
of those rascally Tombs lawyers. After that, I will
fit you up a pleasant office, and present you a library,
and we shall see what we shall see. I am much mistaken
if I do not live to behold you a member of
your country's Congress.”

“You are too good,” Warren strove to say, but his
voice was choked by grateful tears, which were no
discredit to his manly nature. He could only clasp
closer the kind hand he held, and look the thanks he
could not utter, blessing God the while, from his
inmost soul, for the friend that had been raised up to
him in his hour of bitter need.

Those two past years had been a period of incessant
employment. He had allowed himself no time
to look sorrowfully backward into the past. He had
lived in the present, and he did well and wisely. Truly
had Sara Hargrave prophesied concerning him, that
only a great shock could arouse him to his noblest
self. That shock had come, and stunned for a moment
by the blow, he had yet arisen and struggled manfully.

All this time he had not written one word to Juno.
He thought it impossible that she could have heard
of his new residence. For many months he had been
deeply anxious concerning her, but reading on the first
midsummer after their separation, a lively account in
a Boston paper, of a fète champêtre, given at Clifford
Hall, which was supposed by the fashionable world to
be the prelude to the reappearance of the fair owner
among the gay circles of Up-Town, his anxiety was
relieved. He lingered with a half-regretful tenderness
over the paragraph which enlarged on the splendor of
the entertainment, the oriental magnificence of the
house and grounds, and above all, the rare beauty of
the hostess. That sumptuous home had sheltered the
happiest years of his life; that brilliant woman had
been very dear to him, and she had loved him wildly
as woman loves but once in a lifetime. Oh, there is
something very sad in thinking of a lost love. The
words we prized so little when they were uttered,
sound sadly sweet, floating back to us, softened by
the desert years between; the eyes into which we may
never more look seem very bright. Warren laid the
paper down, with a deep sigh, and drew his hand
across his eyes. He thought the sigh was but breathed
out of most tender sympathy for the poor, fated
woman's heart, that having none to love, had turned
for comfort to such empty breath of fashionable adulation;
but, all unknown, a tender sorrow for his own
sake gave it a deeper tone.

He had written once to Mohawk Village, in the
intensity of his longing for a mother's love, but the
letter came back with the words—“gone away,” traced
on its cover, and so Warren went to New York, a successful
student, but a lonely man.