University of Virginia Library

29. XXIX.
IN WHICH WARREN HEREFORD MEETS
AN OLD FRIEND.

It was the beautiful Southern May-time, a season of
flowers on the banks of the Potomac. Warren Hereford
had returned to Washington that day, and now
he was standing on the deck of the evening boat for
Alexandria. He was very sad. Less than three
weeks before, he had followed his blind sister to her
dreamless rest in Greenwood. What was it to him now,
that opening blossoms were keeping holiday along the
banks of the beautiful river? what, that the spring-birds
sang, and winds chanted pleasant ballads? and
what, that the voices of his countrymen were uplifted
in praise of his eloquence and his integrity. She was
dead, and the sounds of all the voices in the world
could not reach her ear, down under her coverlet of
violets; the perfume of all the blossoms could not
call one smile to the cold, still lips. What wonder
that life seemed worthless as an egg-shell? But
there was one who suffered yet more deeply; the

young lover who had never called her wife. Percy
Douglass had turned away from that quiet grave of
his buried love, to a life which seemed to him dim,
and terrible, and ghastly as a skeleton crowned with
flowers. Warren shuddered at the contemplation of
this wilder grief, and only roused himself from his
sorrowful reverie, as the boat touched the pier. He
walked hurriedly toward the little vine-wreathed cottage
which Grace called her home. Tapping at the
door, he recognized in the person who admitted him
the well-known face of Irish Mary. He had not seen
her since the old days at Mount Vernon Street.
“Cousin Elsie” had been a most brilliant success, and
Grace had employed the first fruits of her triumph in
adding a few simple comforts to her humble home, and
bringing Mary back to share it with her. Warren's
voice faltered, as he said a few kind words of recognition.
Even the poor Irish girl had changed, during
the long, weary years; she was so different from the
fresh, young Mary who used to kindle his fire in the
cold winter mornings. He passed into the little sitting-room.
Grace rose to welcome him, but she turned
very pale as she met his glance. “Mabel,” she faltered,
“how is Mabel?”

“Dead, Grace; buried in Greenwood!”

His tone was calm, but its suppressed anguish
thrilled to her heart. She sprang forward with a
quick, impulsive cry, and throwing her arms round his

neck, buried her face in his bosom. “Dear Grace,” he
murmured, fondly putting back her hair, “you pity
me; or, Grace, can it be—do you love me still?”

There was no more room for pride, no more motive
for concealment. Fearlessly the blue, tearful eyes
sought his face, and the low, tremulous voice answered
—“I have loved you all the time!”

“Thank God,” was the fervently uttered response,
and then for a while he held her there in silence.
Lifting her face at last, so that he could read those
truthful features, he asked, “But, Grace, how is this?
Why did you reject me so haughtily, if you loved me
still?”

“Because I was proud, and I was wicked. When
I was poor and friendless, I would not turn to you.
It seemed as if we should never have parted, had I
been rich, and I couldn't marry you until I had raised
myself above want.”

“And now?”

It was beautiful to see the woman's pride struggling
through her tears. She rose and placed in his hand
a not for five thousand dollars; so rapid had been
the success of her book. “I am L'Inconnue,” she
whispered.

“You!” He caught her rapturously in his arms.
“You, and I never even suspected it. Ah, Grace, it
was not strange that book thrilled me so; that it
seemed so like a leaf out of my own heart. My pride,

my treasure, my heroic Grace! And now you will
be my wife?”

“Yes, if you will take me and Rosie.”

“She shall be ours now, the darling; mine as much
as yours; and Grace, we must be married this evening.”

“This evening? Impossible.”

“Not at all. Oh, Grace, you don't know how I
need you, how I have needed you all these years. And
now, with this great sorrow to bear, I must have you
to comfort me, to teach me to look from that mound
in Greenwood up to the blue heaven bending lovingly
over us all. I cannot wait; I could not have a
ceremonious wedding, while my heart is clinging with
such passionate sorrow to the dead. Since you love
me, what matter if you give up one or two established
notions for my sake, and come to my home on shorter
wooing than your woman's pride would dictate?”

“Oh, Warren, it is not pride. I have had enough
of that, but it seems so soon after Mabel's death.”

“The more reason that I need your love and sympathy.
Let me send a messenger for Joseph?”

“To-morrow morning,” she pleaded; “give me till
then.”

“Be it so. To-morrow, at ten, you must be ready.
Grace, I can thank God for all the past now.”

The next morning there was a quiet bridal. They
were wedded in the little cottage where “Cousin Elsie”

had been written. Rose, clinging to her mother's
hand, stood with them before the clergyman, and when
the last words of the ceremony had been pronounced,
Warren turned, and folding them both in one embrace
to his heart, murmured—“My wife, my child!”

A week after, a question of great importance was
before the House. Warren had carefully prepared
himself, and the members in their seats, the ladies in
the galleries, were bending eagerly forward in absorbed
attention. And one there was among the listeners,
whom Warren Hereford's eye sought oftenest; a fair,
meek woman, with the wife-like pride and tenderness
beaming in her soft eyes. He had been speaking for
some time, when, glancing round among his audience,
he saw another face. Prouder it was, and more
intense, more passionate in its expression, perhaps more
beautiful. It was the face of Juno Clifford She
had followed him even here, and there she sat, magnificent
in silk and diamonds, watching him with the old
look in her eyes. His thoughts went back to another
scene, years before. Once more he seemed to stand
as the valedictorian of his class. Once more those
two were before him, the fond mother, the sweet, innocent
betrothed. Juno's tones of tenderness came
caressingly back to his ear, but the husband who had
sat beside her on that commencement morning had
gone alone to the “Far-off Land,” and a great gulf,

which fondest memories could not bridge, lay between
him and the mother of his adoption.

Leaving the Capitol that day, with his quiet little
bride, in her deep mourning, leaning upon his
arm, he found himself face to face with Juno. For
the first time in years they spoke. “Mother,” he
said, in the calm tones she so well remembered
—“this is my wife, Mrs. Warren Hereford.” It was
wonderful to see that haughty woman's self-control.
She bowed and offered her congratulations, with a cold,
mocking civility, and then moved away, without one
change of feature to tell how that proud heart was
humbled. The next day she left Washington for ever.

It was the bright midsummer before Warren
Hereford knelt with his wife, to receive his mother's
blessing. The next day the whole family went together
to the grave of their blind Mabel. It was a sweet
spot. Willows waved over it, wild roses and honeysuckles
twined lovingly around the headstone, and
there stood a marble cross, on which was graven that
sweet name, Mabel. Their thoughts were not all sad,
as they stood grouped about the spot. Already the
mother's feet were nearing the shore of the invisible
river of Death, but her loved ones were beside her, and
it seemed sweet to think that on the other side would
beam for her a welcome from the blue eyes, sealed on
earth, which only heaven's sunshine had power to

open. Hither, to this peaceful grave, for many a year,
a lonely wanderer will come with the voices of the
spring-time. Percy Douglass will never marry, and
to him it is as the Kaaba of the world. Standing
among the glorious ruins of Italy, or floating with the
bargemen adown the castled Rhine, no matter how
many leagues of sea and mountain lie between, each
year, will come with the spring-time a yearning impulse
to look upon that sculptured cross, to stand beside that
grave. The tenth day of each year's April, he will
kneel beside that tombstone, and keep a tryst with
the dead—the one love of his lifetime. He will do
so till the last.

It is Christmas day. I close my eyes, and two
pictures stand out clear and distinct upon the canvas
of my mind. In the quiet home where Emmie Goldthwaite
dwells with her husband, a family group is
gathered. Years of married life have left almost
unchanged our Little Sunbeam. The sweet face is
fair as ever, and the proud and happy Simon syllables
her pet name with the old love-tones. Warren and
his Grace are there, with the little Rosebud, Malcom
Hastings' child. Dick stands by the window playing
with Emmie's little girl. They have called the child
Mabel, in memory of the dead, and Kate cherishes her
almost as fondly as she does her own little Harry,
laughing and crowing on his grandmother's knee. They

have all known sorrow, but its memory only falls
soothingly upon their present happiness, softening and
subduing it, as the low chimes of distant dirge notes,
floating over the waves, deepen to tears of joy the
exquisite tenderness of gay and happy hearts.

Another picture. In Juno Clifford's sumptuous
mansion a merry party hold their Christmas revel.
She moves among them, queenly and radiant. She
cannot live without this mirth around her, to hush to
silence the fiends whose voices echo so mockingly. But
the folds of silk and velvet cannot still the weary throbbing
of that lonely heart, and when they are all gone,
and she is alone with the memories of her lifetime, the
outbreak will be terrible. Her scorned, slighted love
will rise up clamorously, and then will sound from
out the lapse of years her husband's voice, and the
quadroon will stand by her side the while, like an attendant
demon.

Heaven be thanked that the scales which mete out
life's joys and sorrows tremble not in the hands of
Omnipotence. The Christmas day is dying, the fire
goes out upon the hearthstone, and my task is over.