University of Virginia Library

3. III.
MASTER WARREN GOES TO SCHOOL.

The breakfast hour was just over, when the adopted
son made his appearance at Mount Vernon street.
Juno Clifford had given directions that he should be
shown to her boudoir, and there she awaited him
with impatient eagerness. He stole timidly through
the splendid rooms, scarcely daring to look upon the
grandeur of his new home. But when he reached
the boudoir, he paused at the door, and seemed unwilling
to enter. There was, he thought, so much of
graceful, beautiful life around him. The lilies on the
velvet carpet seemed to give forth a breath of perfume,
and he feared to crush them. The pictures on
the wall looked at him with their soft eyes, and he
thought they deemed him an intruder. He fairly
expected the curved lips of the Grecian statues to
call him by his name, they regarded him with such a
fixed and earnest gaze. To him they all seemed
living things, and into this charmed atmosphere of
grace and loveliness he feared to penetrate. For a
few moments Juno sat, silently enjoying his surprise

Then she said, very gently—“Warren, my child,
come hither.”

Until she spoke, he had not perceived her, but
now he passed on timidly, and stood beside her
fauteuil, at the farther extremity of the room. He
was very pale, and there were traces of tears upon
his face. She drew him tenderly toward her, and
said, in a low tone, reproachful, yet tender, “Was it
then so hard to come to me, my poor child?”

He threw himself on his knees beside her, and
pressed her hand to his lips. “Mrs. Clifford!”

“Nay, Warren, I am your mother now.”

The child choked back his tears, and said, tremblingly,
“I am not ungrateful, oh! believe me. I did
want to come to you, and all the days of my life I
will pray God to bless you, on my bended knees,
night and morning. I love you, sweet, beautiful
lady; oh, if you will let me, I shall love you so very
much; but it was hard to part with them. Mother
never closed her eyes last night. She held me all
that time in her arms, sometimes weeping, and sometimes
praying God in heaven to keep her first-born
son. And this morning it was so terrible. They
cried so. I thought my little sisters' hearts would
break. And yet we all knew it was for the best,”
and the boy paused and stood silently by her side.
The future lying so fair before him, the splendor
around his path, were alike unheeded in that hour.

His heart was with the loves of his childhood—the
mother on whose soft breast his head had been so
often pillowed—the sisters he had tended in his
arms, and the brother that had knelt by his side at
the hour of evening prayer. He lived over and
over again that fearful parting, and as he felt that he
had looked his last in those dear eyes, he bowed his
head, and the heavy tears stole down his cheeks, and
fell in bright, glittering drops upon the carpet.

Juno Clifford was thoroughly selfish in her nature,
and it vexed her that his heart should so cling
to the mother of his infancy. But she saw that he
was no common child, and the very difficulty of
winning all his love, made her prize it the more.
She skilfully dissembled her feelings of mortification,
and sitting down upon a lounge, drew him to a seat
beside her. Pillowing his head upon her bosom, she
murmured—“Weep now, poor child, on your new
mother's breast. Let this very sorrow be a tie between
us, my own Warren.”

For a long time he lay there silently, while the
pent-up grief exhausted itself in tears. It seemed
so strange, that the cold, stately, worldly-minded
woman should hold him thus. It was a new phase
in Juno's character, this intensity of loving, and it
astonished no one more than herself. Yet even to
Warren her love was purely selfish. She but sought
the happiness his unshared affection in return would

bestow on her. Where she could secure this happiness
to herself, and benefit him at the same time, she
was contented to do so, but she would sacrifice nothing
for his sake. Knowing, as she did, what joy it
would give him, to see, or at least to write to his
own gentle mother, she would on no account have
permitted it, lest she should occupy his attention less
exclusively. He would dwell upon his grief far less,
she reasoned, if he were encouraged to speak of it
freely, than if he were forced to guard it as a cherished
secret. Besides, was she not, by her very
sympathy, already making herself a part of his early
recollections; linking herself in his mind with every
thing most dear and sacred? Never, in all his after
life, when he thought upon that morning of sorrow,
could he fail to think of her sweet sympathy. And
so she let him weep on.

An hour had passed thus, when he raised his head
from her bosom. She saw, by the smile which broke
like sunlight into his clear eyes, that the struggle was
over, and she too smiled, as she gently kissed his
cheek. “Forgive me, sweetest mother,” he said
earnestly—I am not sorry to come to you. It will
be such happiness to live with you always, and here
too, where every thing is so beautiful; but it seemed
terrible to think that I should never see them all
again!”

“By and by, when you get older, darling, you

will understand why Mr. Clifford thought it not right
to permit it,” she answered in a tone of tender sympathy.
It was a part of Juno's selfish policy, in
order to secure the child's affections exclusively to
herself, that very little of fondness should exist between
him and his adopted father. He might respect
and fear John Clifford to his heart's content, but
he was to love only her. Juno did not by any means
hate her husband. Indeed, when no one else was
present, his compliments and attentions were very
welcome. She had lived for the world, and in the
strictly exclusive circle in which she moved, she had
been surrounded by an atmopshere of admiration and
devotion, but neither before her marriage, nor since,
had she ever yet loved. It is true, during the last
few months of her maidenhood, there had been quite
a spirited flirtation with a handsome navy officer, but
she unceremoniously discarded him when the wealthy
Mr. Clifford proposed for her hand. For a time, she
preserved a lock of his hair, and a half dozen letters,
and seriously attempted to be romantic after the
most approved fashion; but she caught a severe cold
one evening while looking at the moon, and made a
bonfire of the lock of hair and the letters from very
vexation. She was habitually indolent, and yet her
natural diposition was the most impetuous in the
world. Her character was a strange and contradictory
compound of the coldest selfishness and the
wildest enthusiasm. Her love for Warren was the
strongest sentiment she had ever yet experienced.
She would scarcely suffer him out of her sight. The
day after his adoption she countermanded her order
for the ball-dress of azure satin, on which she had
previously decided and resolved to make her appearance
at Mrs. Ashburton's in the costume of the
Elizebethan era, for the sole purpose of taking Warren
as her companion, in the magnificent attire of a
royal page.

The diamond stomacher and stiff brocade, the
ruff and farthingale, seemed singularly suited to the
haughty, imperious style of her beauty. She was,
as usual, the star of the evening, and her graceful
page, announced for the first time as Master Warren
Clifford, became all at once quite the fashion. There
was in Warren's natural character a great deal of
what some persons call vanity—a fondness for the
luxuries attendant upon wealth and station, and a
haughty family pride, which might have gladdened
the hearts of the old race of Hereford. With all his
unselfish love, his truth, his reverence, and the many
noble elements in his character, he was more easily
influenced by his external surroundings, than perhaps
one in ten thousand. It was like a scene of
enchantment, for him, to move among the flashing
lights, and look upon the costly plants, the rare articles
of bijouterie, and the splendid women which

adorned Mrs. Ashburton's crowded rooms. And
among them all his eyes sought, every few moments,
for the face of his adopted mother. He felt that
she was incomparably the most brilliant woman present;
and what to him was rather a feeling than a
knowledge, would have been the verdict of every
person of artistic taste.

A painter might perhaps have attempted to explain
it. He would have told you that you did not
see such eyes once in a century; that they were not
only large and lustrous, but perfectly almond-shaped.
He would have pointed out the exquisite clearness of
her complexion, the delicate arch of her pencilled
brow, the curve of her coral lip, and the undulating
lines of her graceful form. But when he had concluded,
you would have felt that he had not at all
approached the secret. Warren had a juster notion
of her loveliness than any artist in creation. It
consisted not in the beauty of her separate features,
faultless as they were, but in the exquisite harmony
of the whole, and, above all, in the unparalleled grace
of her movements, as if every footstep, every wave
of her hand, were keeping time to music unheard by
other ears.

She seldom sang; she said it was too much
trouble; but this evening she suffered herself to be
led to the piano. Her voice was just what Juno
Clifford's voice should have been, a clear, full soprano.

When she concluded, the approbation with
which she was greeted was fairly rapturous. She
turned away with an air of supreme indifference.
She was so much accustomed to the homage of the
gay circle around her, that it had ceased to charm.
As if seeking something truer and fresher, she bent
her eyes on Warren. Music was the boy's passion.
He stood like one entranced. His hands were clasped,
and his long lashes heavy with tears. Juno was satisfied,
and moving to his side she pressed his hand in
silence.

That winter, life was very bright to Warren
Clifford. A favorite Italian opera troupe were in
Boston, and his mania for music was indulged to the
fullest extent. He was Mrs. Clifford's constant companion,
and he seemed to have transferred to her all
the love he once bore to his own mother. The Hereford
family were settled in comfortable lodgings just
out of town, until their future home in Mohawk
village should be left vacant by its tenant. Near
at hand as they were, they never heard from Warren,
save through an occasional message from Mr. Clifford,
saying that he was well and very happy. The boy,
on his part, seldom spoke of them. All his thoughts
seemed completely absorbed in the beautiful mother
of his adoption.

One day in the early spring John Clifford entered

his wife's boudoir, with a pleasant smile. “It is your
twenty-fifth birthday, Juno.”

“Yes, and I have just discovered Warren's comes
at the same time. Master Warren Clifford is thirteen
to-day.”

“Indeed! a double birthday! Just the time for
a pleasant surprise, only what I have to say will
please you, I fancy, more than it will him. You
have so long wanted to visit Europe, that I have been
feeling for some time I ought not to defer it any
longer. Well, just at the most opportune moment in
the world, our firm have come to the conclusion that
it is highly important to establish a branch of our
house in Paris. Mr. Selwyn is too old to go, and
Parks is rather young to be intrusted with an affair
of so much moment, so it falls on me. It is just
what I desired. There will be no difficulty about
introductions, and my wife can see Parisian society
in just the phase she most wished. We haven't long
to make arrangements, for I must be off in two
months.”

“I am very glad we are going,” she remarked in
the quiet, half-indolent manner which usually characterized
her intercourse with her husband. “We shall
take Warren, I suppose?”

`Not unless you wish it very much. We need
not be more than a year from home. I can arrange
matters so that Parks can take my place by that

time. There will be so much to occupy your attention
that you would have little leisure to devote to
him. On the other hand, he is very deficient in
many branches of his education, and if we design
him for a collegiate career, as you have planned, he
absolutely needs to commence his studies immediately.”

Juno considered for a few moments. She could
not fail to perceive the justness of her husband's remark,
and now that the first flush of her enthusiasm
had passed away, she realized that life amid the fascinations
of a European court might be very happy
without him. It would be far better for him to remain,
she saw that plainly, but could she trust him?
That was the question on which it all depended.
Would his love for her continue as strong as ever?
Would his thoughts revert to her, and to the months
they had passed together, or would they go longingly
back to the mother of his earliest love?

Juno was, unconsciously to herself, a subtle analyst
of character. She understood all Warren's fondness
for the luxurious and beautiful. She remembered
how thoroughly she was associated with the gratification
of his favorite tastes, and that such a mind as
his dwelt more lingeringly upon the pleasures than
the pains of life, and she decided justly. “He will
think most of me,” she said to herself, “because I
have shared the brightest days with him; besides, I

can write to him, and Mrs. Hereford cannot.” Then
looking up, she quietly remarked—“Well, Mr. Clifford,
I have been considering. I think you are right.
We will leave Warren. Of course I shall take Jane
with me. I shall want her on ship-board, and I could
never suit myself anywhere with another dressingmaid.”

“Of course, and since you approve, I will
commence looking out a school for Warren immediately.
But stay, I had nearly forgotten that I had
a present for your birthday.” He drew a little azure
velvet casket from his pocket, and touching a silver
spring revealed a glittering diamond cross attached
to a necklace of exquisite workmanship. He clasped
it about her neck, and then, as he kissed her brow,
bade her look at herself in the mirror opposite.

Juno had all a Southerner's fondness for elegant
jewelry, and her eyes sparkled as she caught the reflection
of the brilliants, but she restrained the extreme
composure of her manner and merely said,—
“Thank you—you were very thoughtful; I like diamonds
better than any thing. By the way, Mr. Clifford,
as you go down town will you just step into
Madame Dudevant's and ask her to hurry with my
dress. I want to try it on this afternoon. You
know I see company to-night.”

Left to herself, Juno leaned her head against the
cushions of the chair, and seemed absorbed in thought.

It was evident, by the smile which crossed her dainty
lip, that her reverie was a pleasant one. She was
dreaming of the proud position her husband's wealth
and her own beauty would bestow in the gay city
whither she was going. She began already to plan
the costumes in which she would appear. The spoiled
child had a new toy, and for the moment Warren was
forgotten.

She had been dreaming a full hour when she
heard a quiet, stealing step in the passage, and a low
voice said, very gently, “May I come in, mamma?”

“Yes, Warren; yes, darling, come in certainly.
Sit here on my lap, Warren.”

“I shall tire you, mamma.”

“No, I will hold you while I can. I have something
to tell you. I am going to leave you very
soon. In two months I shall start for Europe, and
you will go to school.” She had not dreamed of the
effect this announcement would produce upon the
child. He slid from her arms, and kneeling beside
her chair buried his face in the folds of her garments,
and sobbed convulsively. Juno's heart thrilled
with a keen emotion of joy. She had not over-estimated
his love for her.

“Oh! mamma, mamma,” he said at length, “it
will break my heart, I know it will. I cannot have
you go and leave me here!”

Juno knelt down beside him, and drew him to her

bosom. “I must go, darling,” she murmured soothingly,
“but do not grieve so. Mr. Clifford has decided
that you ought to be in school, and he says you
cannot possibly go with us. But it is only for a year,
my precious boy, we shall not be gone more than
that. You shall write to me by every vessel, and
the time will pass sooner than you think. Don't
make it harder for me, by this wild grief of yours.
See, I too am weeping. Can you not do something
to make me happy? Promise me that you will think
of me every day while I am gone, and try, for my
sake, very earnestly to improve. Let me see how
much you can accomplish. I want to be proud of
you, Warren!” The words sunk into the boy's
heart; he never forgot them even for a moment. It
became as a life purpose to him to become what that
beautiful mother could be proud of.

During the next two months, Warren's pale, sorrowful
face was a perpetual joy to Juno. She felt
that he had never grieved half so deeply at the parting
with his own mother, and she was satisfied that
her ascendency over his affections would be maintained
during her absence. He listened to the arrangements
for his residence at Glenthorne Academy
with a kind of sorrowful resignation. He would
stand for hours together at Mrs. Clifford's side,
watching every expression that flitted over her face,
and then he would say, looking at her with a strange

earnestness in his tearful eyes, “You are so beautiful,
my mother,” and turn aside to weep.

At last the preparations for the voyage were completed.
They were to embark from New York, and
on their way thither, by the over-land route, they
were to leave Master Warren at the school they had
selected. The residence at Mount Vernon street was
left in charge of a faithful and competent housekeeper,
and the travellers bade it farewell in a frame of
mind somewhat less joyous than Juno's anticipations
of two months before.

At night-fall the carriage drew up before Glenthorne
Academy. It was a preparation-school, principally
attended by those students designing to become
members of Yale. The building was a stately
edifice, of dark gray stone. The grounds surrounding
it seemed very pleasant. There was a kind of
park, with tall trees scattered here and there, and a
little brook, just then swollen by the spring rains,
dashing musically along among the shrubbery.

A spacious apartment had been assigned to the
heir of the wealthy Mr. Clifford, and when the party
entered it, the last beams of the setting sun were just
lighting up the neighboring tree-tops. They walked
to the window. The view was beautiful. The freshness
of spring-time lay all over the green landscape.
To the travellers, just emerged from the dust and
din of the crowded city, it seemed like a Paradise

In the distance they could see two or three cows
walking slowly homeward, along a winding road, and
nearer still, a flock of sheep had laid down upon a
side-hill, with their lambs around them. They threw
open the lattice, and the room was flooded with the
fragrance of the lilacs and laburnums. The internal
arrangement was almost equally pleasant. Between
the lofty windows stood a table with a well furnished
writing desk. In one corner was a quaintly carved
book-case, and in another a capacious wardrobe.

Mr. Clifford had become really fond of the boy,
and when he had completed his survey of the apartment,
he turned to him and said, pleasantly, “I am
very glad we came this way. I shall be quite satisfied
about you now. Every thing will be pleasant
around you, and I have the utmost confidence in your
instructors. You have a great deal to accomplish
before your education can at all compare with other
boys of your own age, and I am sure, for your mother's
sake and mine, you will try earnestly to
improve.”

“Of course he will,” said Juno, carelessly. “Come,
Warren, Jane will unpack your trunks. I want you
to sit down and talk with me this last night!”

When the carriage rolled away from Glenthorne,
the next morning, it was as if half Warren Clifford's
life went with it. Juno had clasped him in her arms,
and covered him with tears and kisses, murmuring

words of endearment as tender as ever fell from
a mother's lips. Mr. Clifford had held his hand
and invoked Heaven's blessing on him, as if he were
indeed his son, and now they were both gone.
Every turn of the wheels was bearing them farther
from him.

He passed hurriedly into his own room. At the
foot of the bed hung a full length portrait of his
adopted mother. It was her parting gift. He threw
himself down before it and wept.