CHAPTER VIII.
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Young.
Louisa is not sick, I hope?”
“I came for you in Louisa's place; she is
not well enough to quit her room. Did you
suppose that I intended leaving you here for
another month?”
“I was rather afraid you had forgotten me;
the prospect was gloomy ten minutes ago. It
seems a long time since I was with you.”
She stood close to him, looking gladly into
his face, unconscious of the effect of her words.
“You sent me no note all this time; why
not?”
“I was afraid of troubling you; and, besides,
I would rather tell you what I want you
to know.”
“Miss Irene, the carriage is at the door. I
am a patient man, and can wait half an hour
if you have any preparation to make.”
In much less time she joined him, equipped
for the ride, and took her place beside him in
the carriage. As they reached his father's
door, and he assisted her out, she saw him
look at her very searchingly.
“It is time that you had a little fresh air.
You are not quite yourself. Louisa is in her
room; run up to her.”
She found her friend suffering with sore
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throat, and was startled at the appearance of
her flushed cheeks. Mrs. Young sat beside
her, and after most cordial greetings the latter
resigned her seat and left them, enjoining
upon her daughter the necessity of remaining
quiet.
“Mother was almost afraid for you to come,
but I teazed and coaxed for permission; told
her that even if I had scarlet fever you had
already had it, and would run no risk. Harvey
says it is not scarlet fever at all, and he
persuaded mother to let him go after you.
He always has things his own way, though he
brings it about so quietly that nobody would
ever suspect him of being self-willed. Harvey
is a good friend of yours, Irene.”
“I am very glad to hear it; he is certainly
very kind to me. But recollect, you are not
to talk much; let me talk to you.”
Mrs. Young sent up tea for both, and about
nine o'clock Mr. Young and his son both entered.
Louisa had fallen asleep holding Irene's
hand, and her father cautiously felt the pulse
and examined the countenance. The fever
had abated, and, bending down, Harvey said
softly:
“Can't you release your hand without
waking her?”
“I am afraid not; have prayer without me
to-night.”
After the gentlemen withdrew, Mrs. Young
and Irene watched the sleeper till midnight,
when she awoke. The following morning
found her much better, and Irene and the
mother spent the day in her room. Late in
the afternoon the minister came in and talked
to his sister for some moments, then turned to
his mother.
“Mother, I am going to take this visitor of
yours down to the library; Louisa has monopolized
her long enough. Come, Miss Irene,
you shall join them again at tea.”
He led the way, and she followed him very
willingly. Placing her in a chair before the
fire, he drew another to the rug; and, seating
himself, said just as if speaking to Louisa:
“What have you been doing these two
months? What is it that clouds your face,
my little sister?”
“Ah, sir! I am so weary of that school.
You don't know what a relief it is to come
here.”
“It is rather natural that you should feel
homesick. It is a fierce ordeal for a child
like you to be thrust so far from home.”
“I am not homesick now, I believe. I have
in some degree become accustomed to the
separation from my father; but I am growing
so different from what I used to be; so different
from what I expected. It grieves me to
know that I am changing for the worse; but,
somehow, I can't help it. I make good resolutions
in the morning before I leave my
room, and by noon I manage to break all of
them. The girls try me, and I lose my pa
tience. When I am at home nothing of this
kind troubles me. I know you will think me
very weak, and I dare say I am; still I try
much harder than you think I do.”
“If you never yielded to temptation you
would be more than mortal. We are all
prone to err; and, Miss Irene, did it never
occur to you that, though you may be overcome
by the evil prompting, yet the struggle
to resist strengthened you? So long as life
lasts this conflict will be waged; though you
have not always succeeded thus far, earnest
prayer and faithful resolve will enable you
to conquer. Look to a merciful and watchful
God for assistance; `divine knowledge took
the measure of every human necessity, and
divine love and power gathered into salvation
a more than adequate provision.' Louisa has
told me the nature of the trials that beset
you, and that you still strive to rise superior
to them ought to encourage you. The books
which I sent were calculated to aid you in
your efforts to be gentle, forgiving, and charitable
under adverse circumstances. I use
the word charity in its broad, deep, true significance.
Of all charities mere money-giving
is the least; sympathy, kind words, gentle
judgments, a friendly pressure of weary hands,
an encouraging smile, will frequently out-weigh
a mint of coins. Bear this in mind,
selfishness is the real root of all the evil in
the world; people are too isolated, too much
wrapped up in their individual rights, interests,
or enjoyments. I, Me, Mine, is the God
of the age. There are many noble exceptions;
philanthropic associations abound in
our cities, and individual instances of generous
self-denial now and then flash out upon
us. But we ought to live more for others
than we do. Instead of the narrow limits
which restrict so many, the whole family of
the human race should possess our cordial
sympathy. In proportion as we interest ourselves
in promoting the good and happiness
of others our natures become elevated, enlarged;
our capacities for enjoyment are developed
and increased. The happiest man I
ever knew was a missionary in Syria. He
had abandoned home, friends, and country;
but, in laboring for the weal of strangers,
enjoyed a peace, a serenity, a deep gladness,
such as not the wealth of the Rothschilds
could purchase. Do not misapprehend me.
All can not be missionaries in the ordinary
acceptation of that term. I believe that very
few are really called to spend their lives
under inclement skies, in dreary by-corners
of the earth, amid hostile tribes. But true
missionary work lies at every man's door, at
every woman's; and, my little sister, yours
waits for you, staring at you daily. `Do the
work that lies nearest to thee.' Let me give
you the rule of a profound thinker, who might
have accomplished incalculable good had he
walked the narrow, winding path which he
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stood afar off and pointed out to others;
`know what thou canst work at, and work at
it like a Hercules;' and, amid the holy hills
of Jerusalem, the voice of Inspiration proclaimed:
`Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
do it with thy might.'”
His low voice fell soothingly on her ear;
new energy kindled, new strength was infused,
as she listened, and she said hastily:
“It would be an easy matter to do all this,
if I had somebody like you always near to direct
me.”
“Then there would be no glory in conquering.
Every soul has trials which must be
borne without any assistance, save that which
the Father mercifully bestows. Remember
the sublime words of Isaiah: `I have trodden
the wine-press alone; and of the people there
was none with me. And I looked, and there
was none to help, and I wondered that there
was none to uphold; therefore mine own arm
brought salvation unto me.' Miss Irene, you,
too, must `tread the wine-press alone.'”
She held her breath and looked up at him;
the solemn emphasis of his words startled her;
they fell upon her weighty as prophecy, adumbrating
weary years of ceaseless struggling.
The firelight glowed on her sculptured features,
and he saw an expression of vague
dread in her glance.
“Miss Irene, yours is not a clinging, dependent
disposition; if I have rightly understood
your character, you have never been
accustomed to lean upon others. After relying
on yourself so long, why yield to mistrust
now? With years should grow the power,
the determination, to do the work you find
laid out for you.”
“It is precisely because I know how very
poorly I have managed myself thus far that I
have no confidence in my own powers for future
emergencies. Either I have lived alone
too long, or else not long enough; I rather
think the last. If they had only suffered me
to act as I wished, I should have been so much
better at home. Oh, sir! I am not the girl I
was eight months ago. I knew how it would
be when they sent me here.”
Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed
sadly into the grate, and saw, amid glowing
coals, the walls of the vine-clad cottage, the
gentle face of the blind woman groping her
way, the melancholy eyes of one inexpressibly
dear to her.
“We can not always live secluded, and
at some period of your life you would have
been forced to enter the world and combat
its troubles, even had you never seen
New York. It is comparatively easy for anchorites
to preserve a passionless, equable
temperament; but to ignore the very circumstances
and relations of social existence in
which God intended that we should be purified
and ennobled by trial is both sinful and
cowardly.”
Taking a small volume from the table, he
read impressively:
“What are we set on earth for? Say to toil;
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines,
For all the heat o' the day, till it declines,
And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign...... so others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand,
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all.”
“Some portentous cloud seems lowering
over your future. What is it? You ought
to be a gleeful girl, full of happy hopes.”
She sank farther back in her chair to escape
his searching gaze, and drooped her face
lower.
“Yes, yes; I know I ought, but one can't
always shut their eyes.”
“Shut their eyes to what?”
“Various coming troubles, Mr. Young.”
His lip curled slightly, and, replacing the
book on the table, he said, as if speaking
rather to himself than to her:
“The heart knoweth his own bitterness,
and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his
joy.”
“You are not a stranger, sir.”
“I see you are disposed to consider me such.
I thought I was your brother. But no matter;
after a time all will be well.”
She looked puzzled; and, as the tea-bell
summoned them, he merely added:
“I do not wonder. You are a shy child;
but you will soon learn to understand me; you
will come to me with all your sorrows.”
During the remainder of this visit she saw
him no more. Louisa recovered rapidly, and
when she asked for her brother on Sabbath
evening, Mrs. Young said he was to preach
twice that day. Monday morning arrived,
and Irene returned to school with a heavy
heart, fearing that she had wounded him; but
a few days after, Louisa brought her a book
and brief note of kind words. About this
time she noticed in her letters from home allusions
to her own future lot, which increased
her uneasiness. It was very palpable that her
father expected her to accede to his wishes
regarding a union with her cousin; and she
knew only too well how fierce was the contest
before her. Hugh wrote kindly, affectionately;
and if she could have divested her
mind of this apprehension, his letters would
have comforted her. Thus situated she turned
to her books with redoubled zest, and her
naturally fine intellect was taxed to the utmost.
Her well-earned pre-eminence in her
classes increased the jealousy, the dislike, and
censoriousness of her less studious companions.
Months passed; and though she preserved a
calm, impenetrable exterior, taking no heed
of sneers and constant persecution, yet the
worm gnawed its slow way, and the plaguespot
spread in that whilom pure spirit. One
Saturday morning she sat quite alone in her
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small room; the week had been specially
painful, and, wearied in soul, the girl laid her
head down on her folded arms, and thought of
her home in the far South. The spicy fragrance
of orange and magnolia came to her,
and Erebus and Paragon haunted her recollection.
Oh! for one ride through the old
pine-woods. Oh! for one look at the water-lilies
bending over the creek. Only one
wretched year had passed, how could she endure
those which were to come. A loud rap
startled her from this painful reverie, and ere
she could utter the stereotyped “come in,”
Louisa sprang to her side.
“I have come for you, Irene; have obtained
permission from Dr. — for you to accompany
us to the Academy of Design. Put on your
bonnet; Harvey is waiting in the reception
room. We shall have a charming day.”
“Ah, Louisa! you are all very kind to recollect
me so constantly. It will give me great
pleasure to go.”
When they joined the minister Irene fancied
he received her coldly, and as they walked
on he took no part in the conversation.
The annual exhibition had just opened; the
rooms were thronged with visitors, and the
hushed tones swelled to a monotonous hum.
Some stood in groups, expatiating eagerly on
certain pictures; others occupied the seats
and leisurely scanned now the paintings, now
the crowd. Furnished with a catalogue, the
girls moved slowly on, while Mr. Young pointed
out the prominent beauties or defects of the
works exhibited. They made the circuit of
the room, and began a second tour, when their
attention was attracted by a girl who stood in
one corner, with her hands clasped behind her.
She was gazing very intently on an Ecce-Homo,
and, though her face was turned toward
the wall, the posture bespoke most unusual
interest. She was dressed in black, and, having
removed her straw hat, the rippling jetty
hair, cut short like a boy's, glistened in the
mellow light. Irene looked at her an instant,
and held her breath; she had seen only one
other head which resembled that — she knew
the purplish waving hair. “What is the matter?”
asked the minister, noting the change
in her countenance. She made no answer,
but leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the
face. Just then the black figure moved slightly;
she saw the profile, the beautiful straight
nose, the arched brow, the clear olive cheek;
and gliding up to her she exclaimed:
“Electra! Electra Grey!”
The orphan turned, and they were locked
in a tight embrace.
“Oh, Irie! I am so glad to see you. I have
been here so long, and looked for you so
often, that I had almost despaired. Whenever
I walk down Broadway, whenever I go out
anywhere, I look at every face, peep into
every bonnet, hoping to find you. Oh! I am
so glad.”
Joy flushed the cheeks and fired the deep
eyes, and people turned from the canvas on
the walls to gaze upon two faces surpassing in
beauty aught that the Academy contained.
“But what are you doing in New York,
Electra? Is Russell with you? How long
have you been here?”
“Since October last. Russell is at home;
no, he has no home now. When my aunt
died we separated; I came on to study under
Mr. Clifton's care. Have you not heard of
our loss?”
“I have been able to hear nothing of you.
I wrote to Dr. Arnold, inquiring after you,
but he probably never received my letter.”
“And your father?” queried Electra proudly.
“Father told me nothing.”
“Is the grave not deep enough for his
hate?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don't probably know all that I do;
but this is no place to discuss such matters;
some time we will talk of it. Do come and
see me soon — soon. I must go now, I promised.”
“Where do you live; I will go home with
you now.”
“I am not going home immediately. Mr.
Clifton's house is No. 85 West — street.
Come this afternoon.”
With a long, warm pressure of hands they
parted, and Irene stood looking after the
graceful figure till it glided out of sight.
“In the name of wonder, who is that?
You two have been the `observed of all observers,
'” ejaculated the impulsive Louisa.
“That is my old schoolmate and friend of
whom I once spoke to you. I had no idea
that she was in New York. She is a poor
orphan.”
“Are you ready to return home? This
episode has evidently driven pictures out of
your head for to-day,” said Mr. Young, who
had endeavored to screen her from observation.
“Yes, quite ready to go, though I have
enjoyed the morning very much indeed, thanks
to your kindness.”
Soon after they reached home, Louisa was
called into the parlor to see a young friend,
and as Mrs. Young was absent, Irene found it
rather lonely up stairs. She thought of a
new volume of travels which she had noticed
on the hall-table as they entered, and started
down to get it. About half-way of the flight
of steps she caught her foot in the carpeting
where one of the rods chanced to be loose,
and despite her efforts to grasp the railing
fell to the floor of the hall, crushing one arm
under her. The library-door was thrown
open instantly, and the minister came out.
She lay motionless, and he bent over her.
“Irene! where are you hurt? Speak to
me.”
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He raised her in his arms and placed her
on the sofa in the sitting-room. The motion
produced great pain, and she groaned and
shut her eyes. A crystal vase containing
some exquisite perfume stood on his mother's
work-table, and, pouring a portion of the
contents in his palm, he bathed her forehead.
Acute suffering distorted her features, and
his face grew pallid as her own while he
watched her. Taking her hand, he repeated:
“Irene, my darling! tell me how you are
hurt?”
She looked at him, and said with some
difficulty:
“My ankle pains me very much, and I
believe my arm is broken. I can't move it.”
“Thank God you were not killed.”
He kissed her, then turned away and despatched
a servant for a physician. He summoned
Louisa, and inquired fruitlessly for his
mother; no one knew whither she had gone;
it would not do to wait for her. He stood by
the sofa and prepared the necessary bandages,
while his sister could only cry over and caress
the sufferer. When the physician came the
white dimpled arm was bared, and he discovered
that the bone was broken. The setting
was extremely painful, but she lay with closed
eyes and firmly compressed lips, uttering no
sound, giving no token of the torture, save in
the wrinkling of her forehead. They bound
the arm tightly, and then the doctor said that
the ankle was badly strained and swollen,
but there was, luckily, no fracture. He gave
minute directions to the minister and withdrew,
praising the patient's remarkable fortitude.
Louisa would talk, and her brother
sent her off to prepare a room for her friend.
“I think I had better go back to the Institute,
Mr. Young. It will be a long time
before I can walk again, and I wish you would
have me carried back. Dr. — will be so
uneasy, and will prefer my returning, as father
left me in his charge.” She tried to rise, but
sank back on the pillow.
“Hush! hush! You will stay where you
are, little cripple. I am only thankful you
happened to be here.”
He smoothed the folds of hair from her
temples, and for the first time played with the
curls he had so often before been tempted to
touch. She looked so slight, so childish, with
her head nestled against the pillow, that he
forgot she was almost sixteen, forgot everything
but the beauty of the pale face, and
bent over her with an expression of the tenderest
love. She was suffering too much to
notice his countenance, and only felt that he
was very kind and gentle. Mrs. Young came
in very soon, and heard with the deepest
solicitude of what had occurred. Irene again
requested to be taken to the school, fearing
that she would cause too much trouble during
her long confinement to the house. But Mrs.
Young stopped her arguments with kisses,
and would listen to no such arrangement; she
would trust to no one but herself to nurse
“the bruised Southern lily.” Having seen
that all was in readiness, she insisted on carrying
her guest to the room adjoining Louisa's,
and opening into her own. Mr. Young had
gone to Boston the day before, and, turning to
her son, she said—
“Harvey, as your father is away, you must
take Irene up stairs; I am not strong enough.
Be careful that you do not hurt her.”
She led the way, and, bending down, he
whispered—
“My little sister, put this uninjured arm
around my neck; there—now I shall carry you
as easily as if you were in a cradle.”
He held her firmly, and as he bore her up the
steps the white face lay on his bosom, and the
golden hair floated against his cheek. If she
had looked at him then, she would have seen
more than he intended that any one should
know; for, young and free from vanity though
she was, it was impossible to mistake the expression
of the eyes riveted upon her. She
never knew how his great heart throbbed, nor
suspected that he turned his lips to the streaming
curls. As he consigned her to his mother's
care she held out her hand and thanked him
for his great kindness, little dreaming of the
emotions with which he held her fingers. He
very considerately offered to go at once to the
principal of the school, and acquaint him with
all that had occurred; and, ere long, when an
anodyne had been administered, she fell asleep,
and found temporary relief. Mrs. Young
wrote immediately to Mr. Huntingdon, and
explained the circumstances which had made
his daughter her guest for some weeks at
least, assuring him that he need indulge no
apprehension whatever on her account, as she
would nurse her as tenderly as a mother could.
Stupefied by the opiate, Irene took little notice
of what passed, except when roused by the
pain consequent upon dressing the ankle.
Louisa went to school as usual, but her mother
rarely left their guest; and after Mr. Young's
return he treated her with all the affectionate
consideration of a parent. Several days after
the occurrence of the accident Irene turned
toward the minister, who stood talking to his
mother.
“Your constant kindness emboldens me to
ask a favor of you, which I think you will
scarcely deny me. I am very anxious to see
the friend whom I so unexpectedly met at the
Academy of Design; and if she knew the circumstances
that prevent my leaving the house,
I am very sure she would come to me. Here
is a card containing her address; will you
spare me the time to bring her here to-day?
I shall be very much obliged to you.”
“I think you ought to keep perfectly quiet,
and see no company for a few days. Can't
you wait patiently?”
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“It will do me no harm to see her. I feel
as if I could not wait.”
“Very well. I will go after her as soon as
I have fulfilled a previous engagement. What
is her name?”
“Electra Grey. Did you notice her face?”
“Yes; but why do you ask?”
“Because I think she resembles your mother.”
“She resembles far more an old portrait
hanging in my room. I remarked it as soon
as I saw her.”
He seemed lost in thought, and immediately
after left the room. An hour later, Irene's
listening ear detected the opening and closing
of the hall-door.
“There is Electra on the steps; I hear her
voice. Will you please open the door.”
Mrs. Young laid down her work and rose to
comply, but Harvey ushered the stranger in
and then retired.
The lady of the house looked at the new-comer,
and a startled expression came instantly
into her countenance. She made a step
forward and paused irresolute.
“Mrs. Young, allow me to introduce my
friend, Miss Electra Grey.” Electra bowed,
and Mrs. Young exclaimed—
“Grey! Grey! Electra Grey; and so like
Robert? Oh! it must be so. Child, who are
you? Where are your parents?”
She approached and put her hand on the
girl's shoulders, while a hopeful light kindled
in her eyes.
“I am an orphan, madam, from the South.
My father died before my birth, my mother
immediately after.”
“Was your father's name Robert? Where
was he from?”
“His name was Enoch R. Grey. I don't
know what his middle name was. He came
originally from Pennsylvania, I believe.”
“Oh! I knew that I could not be mistaken!
My brother's child! Robert's child!”
She threw her arms around the astonished
girl, and strained her to her heart.
“There must be some mistake, madam. I
never heard that I had relatives in New York.”
“Oh, child! call me aunt; I am your father's
sister. We called him by his middle name,
Robert, and for eighteen years have heard
nothing of him. Sit down here, and let me
tell you the circumstances. Your father was
the youngest of three children, and in his
youth gave us great distress by his wildness;
he ran away from college and went to sea.
After an absence of three years he returned,
almost a wreck of his former self. My mother
had died during his long voyage to the South
Sea islands, and father, who believed him to
have been the remote cause of her death (for
her health failed soon after he left), upbraided
him most harshly and unwisely. His reproaches
drove poor Robert to desperation,
and without giving us any clew, he left home
as suddenly as before. Whither he went we
never knew. Father was so incensed that he
entirely disinherited him; but at his death,
when the estate was divided, my brother William
and I decided that we would take only
what we considered our proportion, and we
set apart one-third for Robert. We advertised
for several years, but could hear nothing
of him; and, at the end of the fifth year,
William divided that remaining third. We
knew that he must have died, and I have
passed many a sleepless night weeping over
his wretched lot, mourning that no kind words
reached him from us; that no monumental
stone marked his unknown grave. Oh, my
dear child! I am so glad to find you out. But
where have you been all this time? Where
did Robert die?”
She held the orphan's hand, and made no
attempt to conceal the tears that rolled over
her cheeks. Electra gave her a detailed account
of her life from the time when she was
taken to her uncle, Mr. Aubrey, at the age of
four months, till the death of her aunt and
her removal to New York.
“And Robert's child has been in want, while
we knew not of her existence! Oh, Electra!
you shall have no more sorrow that we can
shield you from. I loved your father very devotedly,
and I shall love his orphan quite as
dearly. Come to me, let me be your mother.
Let me repair the wrong of by-gone years.”
She folded her arms around the graceful
young form and sobbed aloud, while Irene
found it difficult to repress her own tears of
sympathy and joy that her friend had found
such relatives. Of the three, Electra was
calmest. Though glad to meet with her
father's family, she knew better than they
that this circumstance could make little alteration
in her life, and therefore, when Mrs.
Young left the room to acquaint her husband
and son with the discovery she had made,
Electra sat down beside her friend's sofa just
as she would have done two hours before.
“I am so glad for your sake that you are to
come and live here. Until you know them
all as well as I do, you can not properly appreciate
your good fortune,” said Irene, raising
herself on her elbow.
“Yes, I am very glad to meet my aunt,”
returned Electra evasively, and then she
added earnestly:
“But I rather think that I am gladder still
to see you again. Oh, Irene! it seems an age
since I came to this city. We have both
changed a good deal; you look graver than
when we parted that spring morning that you
took me to see the painter. I owe even his
acquaintance to your kindness.”
“Tell me of all that happened after I left
home. You know that I have heard nothing.”
The orphan narrated the circumstances
connected with her aunt's last illness and
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death; the wretchedness that came upon her
and Russell; the necessity of their separation.
“And where is Russell now?”
“At home—that is, still with Mr. Campbell,
who has proved a kind friend. Russell writes
once a week: he seems tolerably cheerful, and
speaks confidently of his future as a lawyer.
He studies very hard, and I know that he
will succeed.”
“Your cousin is very ambitious. I wish he
could have had a good education.”
“It will be all the same in the end. He
will educate himself thoroughly; he needs
nobody's assistance,” answered Electra with a
proud smile.
“When you write to him again don't forget
to tender him my remembrances and best
wishes.”
“Thank you.”
A slight change came over the orphan's
countenance, and her companion noted without
understanding it.
“Electra, you spoke of my father the other
day in a way that puzzled me, and I wish, if
you please, you would tell me what you
meant.”
“I don't know that I ought to talk about
things that should have been buried before
you were born. But you probably know
something of what happened. We found out
after you left why you were so suddenly sent
off to boarding-school, and you can have no
idea how much my poor aunt was distressed
at the thought of having caused your banishment.
Irene, your father hated her, and of
course you know it; but do you know why?”
“No; I never could imagine any adequate
cause.”
“Well, I can tell you. Before aunt Amy's
marriage your father loved her, and to please
her parents she accepted him. She was miserable,
because she was very much attached to
my uncle, and asked Mr. Huntingdon to release
her from the engagement. He declined,
and finding that her parents sided with him
she left home and married against their
wishes. They adopted a distant relative, and
never gave her a cent. Your father never
forgave her. He had great influence with the
governor, and she went to him and entreated
him to aid her in procuring a pardon for her
husband. He repulsed her cruelly, and used
his influence against my uncle. She afterward
saw a letter which he wrote to the
governor, urging him to withhold a pardon.
Oh, Irene! if you could have seen Russell
when he found out all this. Now you have
the key to his hatred; now you understand
why he wrote you nothing concerning us.
Not even aunt Amy's coffin could shut in his
hate.”
She rose, and, walking to the window,
pressed her face against the panes to cool
her burning cheeks.
Irene had put her hand over her eyes, and
a fearful panorama of coming years rolled
before her in that brief moment. She saw
with miserable distinctness the parallelism
between Mrs. Aubrey's father and her own,
and, sick at heart, she moaned, contemplating
her lot. A feeling of remorseful compassion
touched the orphan as she heard the smothered
sound, and, resuming her seat, she said
gently:
“Do not be distressed, Irene; `let the
dead past bury its dead;' it is all over now,
aud no more harm can come of it. I shall be
sorry that I told you if you let it trouble
you.”
Irene knew too well that it was not over;
that it was but the beginning of harm to her;
but she repressed her emotion, and changed
the subject by inquiring how Electra progressed
with her painting.
“Even better than I hoped. Mr. Clifton is
an admirable master, and does all that he can
to aid me. I shall succeed, Irene! I know,
I feel that I shall, and it is a great joy to
me.”
“I am very glad to hear it; but now you
will have no need to labor, as you once expected
to do. You are looking much better
than I ever saw you, and have grown taller.
You are nearly sixteen, I believe?”
“Yes, sixteen. I am three months your
senior. Irene, I must go home now, for they
will wonder what has become of me. I will
see you again soon.”
She was detained by her aunt, and presented
to the remainder of the family, and it was
arranged that Mr. and Mrs. Young should
visit her the ensuing day. While they talked
over the tea-table of the newly-found, Harvey
went slowly up stairs and knocked at Irene's
door. Louisa was chattering delightedly about
her cousin, and, sending her down to her tea,
he took her seat beside the sofa. Irene lay
with her fingers over her eyes, and he said
gently—
“You see that I am wiser than you, Irene.
I knew that it would do you no good to have
company. Next time be advised.”
“It was not Electra that harmed me.”
“Then you admit that you have been
harmed?”
“No; I am low-spirited to-night; I believe
that is all.”
“You have not studied dialectics yet. People
are not low-spirited without a cause; tell
me what troubles you.”
She turned her face to the wall, and answered—
“Oh! there is nothing which I can tell
you, sir.”
“Irene, why do you distrust me?”
“I do not; indeed I do not. You must not
believe that for one moment.”
“You are distressed, and yet will not confide
in me.'
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“It is something which I ought not to tell
even my friend, my brother.”
“You are sure that it is something I could
not remedy?”
“Yes, sir; perfectly sure.”
“Then try to forget it, and let me read to
you.”
He opened the “Rambler,” of which she
was particularly fond, and began to read.
For a while she listened, and in her interest
forgot her forebodings, but after a time the
long silky lashes swept her cheeks, and she
slept. The minister laid down the volume
and watched the pure girlish face; noted all
its witching loveliness, and thought of the
homage which it would win her in coming
years. A few more fleeting months, and she
would reign the undisputed queen of society.
Wealth, intellect, manly beauty, all would
bow before her; and she was a woman;
would doubtless love and marry, like the majority
of women. He set this fact before him
and looked it in the face, but it would not
answer; he could not realize that she would
ever be other than the trusting, noble-hearted,
beautiful child which she was to him. He
knew as he sat watching her slumber that he
loved her above everything on earth; that
she wielded a power none had ever possessed
before—that his heart was indissolubly linked
with her. He had wrestled with this infatuation,
had stationed himself on the platform of
sound common sense, and railed at and ridiculed
this piece of folly. His clear, cool reason
gave solemn verdict against the fiercely-throbbing
heart, but not one pulsation had been
restrained. At his age, with his profession
and long-laid plans, this was arrant madness,
and he admitted it; but the long down-trodden
feelings of his heart, having gained momentary
freedom, exultingly ran riot and refused to be
reined in. He might just as well have laid
his palm on the whitened crest of surging billows
in stormy, tropical seas, and bid them
sink softly down to their coral pavements.
Human passions, hatred, ambition, revenge,
love, are despots; and the minister, who for
thirty years had struggled for mastery over
these, now found himself a slave. He had
studied Irene's countenance too well not to
know that a shadow rested on it now; and it
grieved and perplexed him that she should
conceal this trouble from him. As he sat
looking down at her, a mighty barrier rose
between them. His future had long been determined—
duty called him to the rude huts of
the far West; thither pointed the finger of
destiny, and thither, at all hazards, he would
go. He thought that he had habituated himself
to sacrifices, but the spirit of self-abnegation
was scarcely equal to this trial. Reason
taught him that the tenderly-nurtured child
of southern climes would never suit him for a
companion in the pioneer life which he had
marked out. Of course, he must leave her;
hundreds of miles would intervene; his memory
would fade from her mind, and for him it only
remained to bury her image in the prairies of
his new home. He folded his arms tightly over
his chest, and resolved to go promptly.
The gas-light flashed on Irene's hair as it
hung over the side of the sofa; he stooped,
and pressed his lips to the floating curls and
went down to the library, smiling grimly at
his own folly. Without delay he wrote two
letters, and was dating a third, when his
mother came in. Placing a chair for her, he
laid down his pen.
“I am glad to see you, mother; I want to
have a talk with you.”
“About what, Harvey?”—an anxious look
settled on her face.
“About my leaving you, and going west.
I have decided to start next week.”
“Oh, my son! how can you bring such
grief upon me? Surely there is work enough
for you to do here, without your tearing yourself
from us.”
“Yes, mother, work enough, but hands
enough also, without mine. These are the
sunny slopes of the Vineyard, and laborers
crowd to till them; but there are cold, shadowy,
barren nooks and corners, that equally
demand cultivation. There the lines have
fallen to me, and there I go to my work.
Nay, mother! don't weep; don't heighten, by
your entreaties and remonstrances, the barriers
to my departure. It is peculiarly the
province of such as I to set forth for this field
of operations; men who have wives and children
have no right to subject them to the privations
and hardships of pioneer life. But I
am alone—shall always be so—and this call I
feel to be imperative. You know that I have
dedicated myself to the ministry, and whatever
I firmly believe to be my duty to the
holy cause I have espoused, that I must do—
even though it separate me from my mother.
It is a severe ordeal to me—you will probably
never know how severe; but we who profess
to yield up all things for Christ must not
shrink from sacrifice. I shall come back now
and then, and letters are a blessed medium of
communication and consolation. I have delayed
my departure too long already.”
“Oh, Harvey! have you fully determined
on this step?”
“Yes, my dear mother, fully determined to
go.”
“It is very hard for me to give up my only
son. I can't say that I will reconcile myself
to this separation; but you are old enough to
decide your own future; and I suppose I
ought not to urge you. For months I have
opposed your resolution, now I will not longer
remonstrate. Oh, Harvey! it makes my heart
ache to part with you. If you were married,
I should be better satisfied; but to think of
you in your loneliness!” She laid her head
on his shoulder, and wept.
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The minister compressed his lips firmly an
instant, then replied:
“I always told you that I should never marry.
I shall be too constantly occupied to sit
down and feel lonely. Now, mother, I must
finish my letters, if you please, for they should
go by the earliest mail.”
Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane), 1835-1909 [1864], Macaria, or, Altars of Sacrifice (West & Johnson, Richmond) [word count] [eaf748T].
