I. JOHN CLIFFORD'S WIFE.
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Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly
furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been
spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was
prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres
porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the
mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It
was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had
commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street—
the city was teeming with life and turbulent with
noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained
windows of that lofty house on Mount
Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very
pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in
which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner
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there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy
to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual
calmness. And yet there was something in the
curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her
arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand,
which told of a slumbering power; an energy,
resistless in its intensity; a will that might have
subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual—
the energy, native.
She was not yet twenty-five, and very beautiful.
Her eyes were large, black, and melting; her complexion
so clear in its cool olive, that you could see
the blue veins beneath it, and over her neck and
shoulders fell, like a cloud, the heavy waves of her
black hair. Her figure was very full, but exquisite
in its proportions, with the falling shoulders, the dimpled
arms, and the Grecian curve of the graceful
neck. She was nobly born, and yet poor; and this
was why she was John Clifford's wife. He was
nearly twenty years older than herself, and he loved
his beautiful flower of the South, with a passionate
tenderness, but poorly requited by the cold and formal
bestowal of her hand. Somehow there was an
empty place in his heart—a nook where her voice had
never entered — a temple where sometimes he retreated,
stealing away from the fashionable, bustling
life she led him, and bowed in secret before a divinity
of his own—the ideal semblance of a true woman,
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whose world was home, whose heart was her husband's.
This ideal woman was very simply clad;
Juno Clifford would have protested against having
such a common-looking person in the house, and perhaps
this was why John always worshipped her in
secret, and never even mentioned her to his wife, or
any of her fashionable friends.
There was, for a broker of forty-five, and a hardworking
man of business, a good deal of romance
stored away somewhere, low down in John Clifford's
heart. There were deep founts of tenderness there,
too, but no one cared to sound their depths, and so
John lived on very quietly. His name was excellent
on State street; his word as strong as any other
man's bond, and by his compeers in business, he was
held in high esteem. At home, his favorite cook
paid due regard to his tastes, his meals were well
served, his wife well-dressed, and his friends well
entertained. It was certainly very foolish of John,
ever to wish, as he sometimes did, that he wasn't
quite so wealthy; that he had a cosy room somewhere,
with a carpet that easy-chairs wouldn't hurt,
a round table, and a wife that would come at odd
times, when he was very tired, and brush his hair
back, or drop a gentle kiss upon his brow, and then
sit down by his side, for a quiet talk!
Certainly this vision of an imaginary wife was
very singular. Juno Clifford never thought of such
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a thing, and, least of all, this clear December morning,
when she stood before her mirror, waiting for
her husband, and her breakfast, and deliberating in
her own mind, the very grave question, whether a
garnet-colored velvet, trimmed with ermine, or a sky-blue
satin, spangled with silver stars, would best
adorn her regal beauty, at Mrs. Ashburton's bal
costumé. At length she decided upon the satin, and
winding her hair around her head, like a turban, she
drew her crimson dressing-gown about her, and walked
thoughtfully to the fire. It was an odd fancy of
John Clifford's, the lady mused, that he wouldn't
have his house heated with furnaces, like a Christian,
but must needs use grates, to the utter disregard, as
she persuaded herself, of time and labor, and most
certainly of fashion. She couldn't understand the
strange way he had of sitting, by the half-hour, with
his eyes fixed on the glowing embers, making pictures,
as he called it. She was leaning her elbow on
the mantel, absorbed in a profound meditation on
this important subject, when suddenly the door opened,
and she was face to face with her husband.
“John Clifford! My goodness, John! What
have you brought home now?” and she curled her
haughty lip, and stared in wonder, at a tattered,
miserable-looking little fellow, who stood shivering,
just within the door.—“Why don't you speak, John?
Who is he?”
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“I don't know that myself, sweet wife. I found
him hawking papers, and there was something in his
deep eyes, and the clear, melancholy tones of his
voice, that drew me to him in spite of myself. I
wish to keep him awhile. Have you any objections?
He needn't be in your way, and I'm sure he'll make
himself useful.”
The lady made no reply for a moment. She
glanced at the boy with an earnestness rather unusual
to her manner. He was a frightful-looking
object, very small for his age, with a thin, slight figure,
and the tiniest of little, half-starved looking
hands. There seemed to be something in his aspect
which touched even Juno Clifford's worldly heart.
“I don't know,” she said at length, “I'm sure I don't
know what is to be done with him. One couldn't
fancy such a miserable looking child round one, but
then if you want such pets, I have no special objection.
Ring the bell, please, I begin to have a fancy
for my breakfast.”
“Jane,” she continued, in a tone of absolute authority,
to the waiting maid who answered the summons,
“tell Scipio to bring up breakfast, and do you
take out this child, and have him dressed decently.
There are some of Maxwell Clifford's clothes in the
red-room bureau. When he is made decent, you can
give him his breakfast.”
The servant to whom these commands were
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addressed, was her own especial maid, the child of her
foster-mother. Mrs. Everett Stanley was distinguished
in the annals of the Stanley family for
nothing in the world but being the mother of our
lady Juno. She was a blue-eyed mite of womanhood,
with a very pitiful face, that always looked as
if she had been crying, and just finished washing the
tears off. She died some five or six days after Juno
first opened her great black eyes. I always believed
she breathed out life from sheer astonishment that a
child of hers should have such eyes. And then, besides,
Juno was one of those babies who are fully
determined on being heard, as well as seen, and the
effect of her full, clear soprano tones, must have been
disastrous on such weak nerves as Mrs. Stanley's.
Col. Stanley was a planter, in southern Louisiana,
the descendant of a noble race. Nothing remained
to the family, however, of the grand fortune of their
ancestors, but their name, the hereditary mansion,
and a few slaves. To the care of one of these, the
infant Juno was confided. Her quadroon maid was,
as I have said, the child of this same nurse. Col.
Stanley had died before his daughter's marriage, and
from the wreck of his involved estate, this favorite
servant was her sole inheritance. She was scarcely
less beautiful than her mistress, and Juno liked to
have beautiful things about her. Gifted by nature
with the peculiar talents and graces of her mixed
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race, the quadroon possessed not only unrivalled
skill and taste in matters of the toilet, but she could
play the guitar like a daughter of Spain, and dance
till you would have deemed her a visible incarnation
of the poetry of motion. The tie between a mistress
and the servant who has been cradled on the
same breast, is one which a Northerner can scarcely
comprehend, but it existed between Juno and her
favorite attendant, to its fullest extent. The girl
loved her mistress with a passionate devotion. From
earliest infancy she had been accustomed to the
most absolute submission to every caprice of Juno's
wayward, imperious nature. When Juno Stanley
became Juno Clifford, she refused to accept the freedom
that might have been hers, and residing in the
very capital of a free state, she was as much a slave as
ever. Her hand draped the damask curtains of the
young wife's boudoir, her low, sweetly modulated
voice read aloud the volumes with which Mrs. Clifford's
habitual indolence would otherwise have prevented
her from becoming acquainted. Juno Clifford
had a tropical taste, and an exquisitely keen and fastidious
sense of the beautiful, and she quite prided
herself on the rare grace of her personal attendant.
Secure in her own consciousness of superior charms,
her eyes lingered approvingly on the dusky, shadow-like
face of the quadroon. It was a perfect picture
to see the mistress and her maid within the boudoir.
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The chief characteristic of Juno's beauty was its
majesty—on the other hand, the quadroon's was distinguished
for softness. Juno sat for hours, in her
high-backed crimson chair, her feet half buried in
cushions of eider down, absorbed in fits of interminable
musing. At such times, the quadroon would
lie upon her cushions at the other end of the apartment,
and watch her steadily with her great mournful
brown eyes. Juno would seldom permit her to
employ herself, save about her own person, so she
would lie there idly, with her guitar by her side, and
her large languishing eyes upturned. There was a
dreamy grace about her, quite indescribable, aided
perhaps by the soft fabrics and glowing hues of her
favorite costumes, so that she adorned the apartment,
and pleased the eye of its mistress, like a beautiful
picture.
Juno Clifford ate her breakfast, that morning,
with an air a shade or two more thoughtful and subdued
than usual. Her husband looked at her across
the table, with a glance whose language was almost
worship, and when he arose, the tone in which he
said—“Good-bye, my wife Juno,” was really humble
in its earnest tenderness. There was something of
reverence, too, in the silent, half-timid kiss he pressed
upon her brow. She touched the bell, as he went
out, and then, contrary to her usual habit, sat down
to watch the clearing away of the breakfast things.
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As she sat there, the quadroon entered, and passing
behind her chair, commenced looping up the
heavy waves of her hair. At length a surly “you're
in the way,” from Scipio, attracted Mrs. Clifford's
attention toward the boy, who had entered the room
unperceived, and was quietly standing there, looking
around with his anxious eyes, as if in search of occupation.
“You gave him some breakfast, Jane?” the lady
said, inquiringly.
“I tried to, madam, but I could not make him
eat any thing. He only swallowed a few mouthfuls,
and then burst into tears, saying he couldn't eat,
when they were all starving at home.”
Mrs. Clifford looked at him more attentively.
He was twelve years old, but, as I said, very small of
his age. His features were regular, the blue eyes large
and clear, with a curve of gentle determination about
the pleasant mouth. Guido would have copied his face,
if he had seen it, for a child-head of the beloved disciple.
There was an innate nobility in his expression, albeit it
was slightly tinctured by that eager, half-famished
look which poverty never fails to leave as her terrible
signet, on the face of childhood. The quadroon had
attired him with singular taste. She had selected a
costume from a collection of fancy dresses, the property
of John Clifford's nephew, Master Maxwell
Clifford, who had been staying in the house. His
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complexion looked dazzlingly pure and fair, in contrast
with the slashed doublet of purple velvet, and
the picturesqueness of his whole aspect charmed
Juno Clifford's artistic eye, at the first glance. She
called him to her side, and he drew near, and stood
at her knee, looking up into her face with a kind of
wonder, as one might look at an angel, if a summer
cloud should chance to open, and give to mortals a
momentary glance into the blue beyond.
The lady bent over him for a moment, and brushing
back the faded, sun-burnt curls of his bronze
hair, looked into his clear eyes. “What is your
name?” she said at length.
“Warren Hereford,” was the reply, in a low and
musical tone.
“Well, Warren, would you like to stay here with
me always?”
The boy stood in silence for a time, with a look
of intense thought on his delicate features. At
length he lifted his eyes to her face. There was a
singular expression in them, partly of eager delight,
partly of doubt, and partly of the old hopeless sorrow.
“I don't know,” he said—“I should like it if
I only could. Oh, if I could stay with you always,
I should feel just like heaven, you are so beautiful,
but they are all so poor at home, mother, and Dick,
and Emmie, and little Mabel—I must stay there and
help them.”
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“Where do you live?” she asked very softly, for
there was a wordless appeal in his glance, his tone,
his up-raised face, that her heart could not resist, and
beside that, her vanity was pleased and flattered, by
his homage to her beauty. The fervent admiration
of the boy was so fresh, so unworldly, so different
from the hackneyed compliments of her fashionable
friends. It opened in that moment a glimpse of a
new and keen pleasure for her epicurean taste, and
with her usual impulsive waywardness, she formed a
sudden resolution that he should be hers, her child;
that this new delight should continue with her, and
she would deepen his homage into love. He still
stood there, in a kind of dreamy silence, and she repeated
her question—“Where do you live?”
“There!” he answered, slowly, almost painfully.
“I couldn't make you understand where, if you've
never been out of this,” and his glance seemed to
take in the handsome room, with all its elegant appointments.
“It's a long way from here, where I
don't think you ever went. I don't like it, and mother
don't like it, but we have to stay there because
we are poor. Did you ever know any one that was
poor, lady?”
Mrs. Clifford did not answer. She seemed revolving
some plan in her mind, and at length she
asked, with evident interest, “Warren, if you could
do something to get your mother and sisters a
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pleasant home, and make them comfortable, would you
be willing to go where you would never see them, to
forget them altogether?”
“I couldn't make myself forget, if it didn't come
of itself, but I would go any where, or do any thing
that ever I could, just to make mother well again,
and see them all happy.”
“Very well, I will try you. Your mother will
wonder where you are, and we will go to see her together
this afternoon.”
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II. MY SON'S MOTHER.
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At precisely three o'clock, Juno Clifford's elegant
private carriage drew up before her husband's office
in State street. The steps were let down, and the
lady alighting, swept with the mien of an empress
across the pave, through the front room, and into
John Clifford's private counting-room. “Business
hours are over, I suppose?” she said, briefly.
“Yes, we were just closing.”
“Well, I want you to go with me to Eliot street.
The boy you brought home is in the carriage, and I
am going to see his mother. I suppose it's a necessary
form. It's the best way to satisfy him, and
then we can adopt him with entire safety.”
“Adopt him?”
“Yes, wasn't that what you brought him home
for? You've been teasing me these three years
about adopting a child. You had Max Clifford
round till I got tired to death of him. I've never
been willing to take any one before, but this child
interests me, and we will have him.”
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“Well, certainly, if you wish it, wife. I don't
know but we may as well adopt this boy as another.
He pleased me very much when I saw him hawking
papers, and I told him, when I brought him home,
that I would find something better than that for him
to do. But we won't be hasty. We can take him
on trial for a time, and then, if we like him, we can
legally adopt him. We had better not make any
rash promises.”
They were all alone in the counting-room, and
the proud woman bent suddenly, and pressed her lips
to her husband's brow. It was so strange a thing for
her to do this—it had happened not more than once
or twice during the seven years of their married life,
and it moved him greatly. His eyes grew so dim, he
could hardly see her beauty, as she said in a low
tone, very sweet and touching, “My husband, God
has given me no child to love. This one pleased me,
and I want him now. I have so many long, lonely
hours to pass, and I need something to love, do I not,
John?”
“But you didn't like him when I brought him
home.”
“I like him now. John, I don't ask favors very
often. You will give me carte blanche to promise
this boy's mother whatever may be necessary?”
“I will. God knows, my beautiful, all I can do
will be little enough to reward you for the sacrifice
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you made, in dowering with your youth, and your
fresh loveliness, a worn and wearied man, twice your
own age. I could not die in peace, if I had left one
thing undone, to make you happy!”
As the showy equipage rolled on, Juno Clifford
sat in silence, leaning her head against the velvet
cushions of the carriage. Her long lashes were
drooped over her eyes, as if to shut in their expression,
lest it should betray some cherished secret. It
was a beautiful picture; Juno ought to have seen it
herself, for she was fond of pictures. John Clifford
sat there opposite, with his back toward the horses,
taking it all in, and reproducing it to hang upon the
walls of his heart. His forehead thrilled yet, with
the kiss she had given him, and his pulses quickened
at the unusual memory. In that hour he had no
thought for the ideal woman, the imaginary wife.
Mrs. Clifford always dressed well, and the rich ermine
that lay about her throat, and swept down to her
feet, along with the velvet folds of her cloak, imparted
to her complexion a singular brilliancy. The
fur cap of the Russian ladies, which so few can wear to
advantage, suited well the haughty style of her classic
face; and from under her drooped lashes shot
flashes of light that seemed fairly to kindle the band
of jewels which confined it under her chin. The
boy, still in his fancy costume, sat silently beside her.
Ah, it was indeed a splendid picture—the contrast
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between them—the lady, proud, defiant, stately, and
so beautiful — the fair, spiritual-looking child, with
his clear, earnest eyes, his pale face, and his loving
expression.
The boy had been looking silently from the window
for some moments. “It is here,” he said at
length, and once more the carriage stopped, and
Juno Clifford drew the folds of her cloak about her.
“Stay here for a while,” she said briefly to her husband,
and following the child, she descended to the
pavement. It was an old rickety house before which
the carriage stopped—a rambling, irregular wooden
building, that seemed looking mournfully at every
passer-by, and asking permission to fall down and
rest, which nobody had time to give. The child
climbed up one flight of stairs after another, looking
around every now and then at “the angel,” as he
called Juno, in his heart. Poor little thing, he
hadn't been so long out of heaven, but he had forgotten
how it looked there.
At last, he pushed open a door, and Juno stepped
quickly to his side. She paused, however, for a moment,
and lifting up her long lashes, allowed her eyes
to take in the whole scene. There had been a time
when she had been portionless, but she had never
shaken hands with real poverty. Now, its aspect did
not so much touch her heart, as it excited her curiosity.
The house had evidently been built for the
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abode of wealth. Perhaps feet as light as thine, my
lady Juno, have trod that crumbling floor; other
eyes as dark, and glorious, may have counted the
carved lilies on the oaken wall; but the bounding
feet were still long ago, and if the dark eyes open
ever so widely, they can only see the coffin lid. Didst
ever think of that, my lady Juno?
There was the tiniest bit of a fire, in the great
fire-place, wide and stately enough to have held Yule
logs at Christmas time. A few half-kindled chips
were striving, as all fire strives, to send up their flame
toward heaven, but the heaps of rubbish on top of
them, choked it down, and turned it awry. I suppose
thoughtful people would have traced an analogy,
and remembered the tiny little flame of love to God,
which our warden angels strive so hard to kindle,
and how the dust and rubbish of this world's pomp
and circumstance, so often choke it back again. But
Juno Clifford was no analogist, and she stood there
merely taking in the picture.
There was a slight, graceful woman sitting in a
low chair beside the embers. She was very pale and
delicate, and her blue eyes rested with a look of sorrowful
abstraction on the child in her arms. The
little one might have been five years old, and, begging
Master Warren's pardon, she looked a great
deal more like an angel than Juno Clifford. Her
brow was indescribably pure. It seemed almost
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luminous, the blue veins shone through it so distinctly.
Around it lay rings of golden hair, in short, clustering
curls. Her mouth and chin were very calm, and
a sweet, serene patience made her face even more
remarkable than her beauty. Her eyes were of the
same clear blue as her brother's, and they were
turned steadily toward the fire. About both mother
and children, there was, spite of their poverty, an air
of patrician grace and refinement, which was unmistakable.
At the mother's feet sat a girl of seven
little Emmie Hereford. There was but one adjective
needed to describe Emmie's face. It was emphatically
sunny. You just saw that she had brown
hair, and brown eyes of precisely the same shade,
but all you noticed was the sunshine. It fairly
flooded the great bare room, and lighted up the
dingy walls with something better than the warmest
firelight. She was singing when they opened the
door, singing a carol of the merry harvest time, in
the midst of that grim, bare poverty, when the very
name of harvest-time, on any other lips than those
so young, so hopeful, would have seemed a mockery.
“Mother, sweet mother,” cried Warren's voice,
as he sprang into the room. Juno's cheek flushed, as
she heard the exclamation. Already she loved him
enough to feel a pang of jealousy, at being forgotten,
even for a moment, but it passed away as quickly as it
came. He had only pressed one kiss on his mother's
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wasted cheek, and the innocent brow of the little one
upon her lap, when he rose to his feet, and, pointing
to the door, said reverently, as one should announce
an empress,—“Mother, that is Mrs. Clifford — the
angel, mother!”
The mother rose with an air of quiet propriety,
which circumstances had no power to affect, and offering
her chair to her visitor seated herself upon a
bench at a little distance. Juno Clifford might have
made a star actress. She had quick perceptions of
character, and never failed to fascinate where the
prize to be gained was worth the effort. On this occasion
her husband would scarcely have known her.
She was so quiet and gentle, so far removed from her
usual hauteur and reserve, that John Clifford, if he
had been watching her, might have fancied his imaginary
wife had just stepped out of her common,
every-day garb, and taken possession of Juno's velvet
and ermine. Calling Warren to her side, she laid
her hand upon his curls, and keeping him there, won
Mrs. Hereford to unfold her history. It was by no
means an uncommon one.
Her husband had been the younger son of a
noble English family, and was educated for the
church. But when he found that his own heart was
wanting in devotion to his calling, the highest, and
most indispensable qualification, he had quietly, but
firmly, refused to take orders. This step had
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effectually alienated him from his family, and the breach
was widened by his marriage with the daughter of a
poor curate. “I brought him nothing,” she said
meekly, “but a true, loving heart, and a face that to
his partial eyes seemed fair. I ought never to have
married him, but we loved each other so.” She
paused, and the tears fell slowly and very quietly
upon her clasped hands. A fierce frown, which she
bowed her head to conceal, contracted Juno Clifford's
features for a moment. A picture rose before her of
another bridal,—of youth and beauty bartered away
for gold, and her perjured, loveless heart beat tumultuously,
clamoring for a rest that came not.
They had been very happy for a few years, Mrs.
Hereford continued, looking up through her tears—
very happy. Three bright, smiling children made
light and music in their frugal home, and her Edward's
love had never failed her. At last a fourth
little one slept upon her breast, the one she held
there now, her little Mabel. But Mabel was hopelessly,
incurably blind. This was their first real
sorrow. Then her father died. They had shared
his humble dwelling ever since their marriage; but a
new curate came, and they went forth again, with
the whole world before them, where to choose a home
or a grave. Edward had been educated solely with
a view to the ministry. His organization was too
delicate for physical labor, and but few avenue of
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employment were open before him. They went to
London, and for nearly two years he gained a bare
pittance for himself and his family, by constant exertions
as a copyist. At last, what with severe labor,
mental uneasiness, and bad air, his health gave way,
and he failed rapidly. They had never been bitterly
poor before, but now Edward was reduced to part
with a diamond cross, the last gift of his dead mother,
which he had sacredly preserved through all his
misfortunes. With the money thus obtained, nearly
three hundred pounds, they resolved to emigrate to
America. It was represented as a kind of Eldorado
in those days, and under the influence of his new
hopes, Edward's health began to revive, as soon as he
had engaged their passage. The voyage was an unusually
long one, and they had not been a week at
sea, before she once more perceived that he was failing
rapidly. The blind Mabel was confided to the
care of the eldest child, Warren; thoughtful even
then beyond his years; and the anguished wife
passed day and night in anxious watching by her
husband's side. On the seventh day he died. They
were in mid-ocean—not so much as a green island
dotted its bosom. There was no grave for him but
the waves. The sea-sand must draggle in his bright
hair, the sea monsters wrap their slimy coils about
the breast where, for so many years, her head had
rested. There was madness in the thought. She
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threw herself at the captain's feet and pleaded, with
clasped hands and dry stony eyes, that strove to weep
and could not, that they would let her keep him—
only let her keep him, till she could lay him in a
grave on shore—where she could come sometimes and
press her lips to the green mound, and plant flowers
on it. But to her wild prayer there was no answer,
no amen. The waves closed over him, and the ship
passed on, making no pause for the ocean burial;
going on her way like a thing of life and beauty, as
if there were no waves but the waves of ocean—no
sorrow, and no prayer.
The mother stood alone, with her fatherless children,
on a foreign shore. “Would she have a
carriage?” “Where would she go?” They were
questions which she knew not how to answer. She
stood there with her blind girl in her arms, and the
rest around her, in a tide of troubled thought.
Edward had meant to settle in Boston. He had an
old friend there, a prosperous merchant, and there
would be a melancholy satisfaction in seeking his
friend, in following the course the dead one had
marked out.
Two days after, she sat in a quiet room at the
Tremont House. She had gone thither at the suggestion
of the captain, who supposed her wealthy
Her little girls lay sleeping on the low French bed,
Emmie's brown curls floating over the golden rings
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
of Mabel's hair. Their little hands were clasped
together, and Emmie's arm was wound protectingly
round her sister's neck. Warren and Richard seemed
to feel instinctively that she chose to be left to herself,
and they stood quietly at the window, watching
the people below, and the lights in the shops. The
mother's musings were as perplexing as they were
painful. She had four children, and not more than
nine hundred dollars in the world. She thought till
her brain throbbed, but she could see no means of
support. Were she alone, she might perhaps advertise
for a situation as governess, but even then she
would have no recommendations. And yet—a hopeful
thought dawned upon her. She rang for writing
materials and a directory. Turning the leaves with
her trembling fingers, she very soon ascertained the
address of her husband's friend; a dainty, lady-like
looking note was written and directed to Mark
Sutherland, Esq., Beacon street.
The next day, at the fashionable calling hour,
Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland were announced. The
lady was very showy, and somewhat handsome. Mr.
Sutherland was a mild-looking, middle-aged gentleman,
with an expression of much civility in his light
eyes, that always seemed to say—“By your leave, sir;
if you please, madam.” His head looked so sleek,
you would have imagined every individual one of his
iron-gray hairs was trying to compress itself into
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
the smallest possible space, just to get out of other
people's way. The lady greeted Mrs. Hereford with
almost oppressive cordiality, and eagerly insisted that
they should leave the hotel at once, and become her
guests, until they had time to look up a satisfactory
residence. Mr. Sutherland's face expressed as much
gratification at his wife's cordiality as such a face
could express. He asked a few timid questions about
his old friend, and then Mrs. Hereford managed to
tell them the object with which they had sailed for
America, and how small was the sum on which lay
her sole dependence. She expressed a wish that they
could assist her in getting scholars, or in some way
procuring a livelihood. Mr. Sutherland coughed a
very sympathetic cough, and lifted his meek eyes to
his wife in a mute appeal, as it seemed, for permission
to assist the widow of his old friend. But it was
quite lost upon his good lady. She, righteous soul,
was pouring out sympathetic discourse like wine.
She knew no opportunity indeed to get scholars, but
perhaps Mrs. Hereford could open a thread and
needle store, she had heard of such things being
done by ladies in reduced circumstances. She hoped
Mrs. Hereford would not fail to recollect that resignation
was a Christian duty, and so saying, she went
away, without renewing her invitation.
There was no help to be hoped for in that quarter
and the lonely English woman was compelled to
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
make a confident of her landlord. By his assistance,
she procured a cheap boarding-place, and employment
at plain sewing. But her wants were many,
and her strength small. The scanty remnant of her
fortune diminished daily, and she had sunk, step by
step, to penury. “I do not know why I have told
you all this,” she concluded, “but you seemed to
sympathize in my distress. For the last three weeks
I have been too weak and ill to accomplish any thing,
and with four children looking up to me for bread, I
can no longer afford to be proud. I have not so
much money in the whole world as would pay for
this desolate apartment a week longer. We have
tasted food but once in the last twenty-four hours.
This morning Warren and Dick both left me, with
high hopes of earning money enough to get some
supper, and Dick, poor, patient child, has not yet
returned.”
Juno Clifford sat in silence for a moment, after
Mrs. Hereford ceased speaking; then she drew a card
from her card-case, and wrote a hurried request to
her husband that he would send at once to the nearest
shops for all the necessaries of a comfortable
supper. “Go, Warren,” she said, gently, “hand this
to Mr. Clifford, and return again after a few moments.”
Then she turned to Mrs. Hereford, and said, in a
low, earnest tone, “Rich as you may have thought
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
me, I, too, suffer. I am poorer in heart than you can
ever be, for I have no child to love me. Will you
give me Warren?”
“He is my oldest son, lady; his dead father's
pride, and my chief dependence for the future.”
“But I love him. I will do more for him than
you could ever hope to do. Would you have your
children grow up in ignorance, and perhaps die of
starvation before your eyes, when, by parting with
him, you might provide for them all? I do not ask
you to do this for nothing. I will give you a pleasant
home, and a comfortable support. He shall be educated
as our own child, and cared for, by my husband
and myself, as if indeed he were of our own blood.
We will give him our name, and make him the heir
to our fortune.”
“Should I see him often?” the mother asked
with mournful resignation.
Juno's brow darkened, but her self-command was
wonderful, and she still retained her sweet, persuasive
accents. “You would hardly ask that,” she said,
gently. “Mr. Clifford would never consent to it, nor
indeed could I. We want him for his love, and we
never could bring him to regard us as his parents, if
he saw you often. Think what a future lies before
you, and consider if it would not be better to give
up this one child, and do without his presence, than
to bring them all up in want and misery? With us,
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
his fortune will be brilliant, as even his father could
have hoped. My husband has a little farm on the
banks of the Mohawk River. It is a sweet place,
thirty miles west of Albany. I have been there
once, and no one could desire a fairer home. You
shall have it rent free, and each year you shall receive
four hundred dollars, payable quarterly. In return,
I ask but for Warren. You will not be under a
single obligation. I want the boy, and his love will
be worth more than all I could do for you, to my
empty, childless heart.”
The mother threw herself upon her knees. For
a moment she sobbed bitterly. Then she lifted
toward heaven her streaming eyes, and a prayer
trembled upon her lips, very brief, very fervent, that
God would help her to decide aright. Then rising,
she walked back and forth across the floor, with
feeble steps. An age of agony swept over her soul
in those few moments. Could she give him up, she
asked herself again, and again—her first-born, beautiful
son? Could she have him called by another
name, her Edward's boy, the descendant of the proud
race of Hereford? And oh, worst of all, must she
live to know that she was no longer remembered,
that his lips were calling another one his mother, and
his heart had forgotten the first love of his babyhood.
Would it not be easier to see his bright head
shut down beneath the coffin-lid? Alas, if he should
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
die, she had not money enough in all the world to
buy a coffin! And then her frightened heart reproached
her with selfishness. Would not they all
rise up and condemn her, if she suffered this passionate
mother's love to deprive him of the bright
future opening before him; to consign them to a life
of poverty and wretchedness, whose sweetest goal
would be a nameless mound in the pauper's graveyard?
This thought decided her. She resolutely
choked back her tears, and turning to Mrs. Clifford,
she said, in a tone of forced calmness, “I have no
choice left, with these helpless, suffering ones around
me. He shall answer for himself. Poor as I am, I
will not send my boy from me, but if he will go willingly,
then take him, and may Heaven give your
kindness such a reward as I never can.”
“Be it so! He shall decide. I hear his foot
upon the stairs.” It was strange how soon Juno had
learned to catch the sound of that child's footstep;
she who, after seven years of married life, could not
distinguish her husband's tread from the footfall of
her black servants. Warren entered, and, of his own
accord, resumed his old place at Juno's side, and once
more, with one hand resting upon his head, and the
other imparting a kind of subtle magnetic influence,
by the caressing motion with which it moved backward
and forward over his small palm, the lady asked
him if he would like to live with her always. She
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
told him briefly of the proposal she had made to his
mother, and then she said, “I will love you, Warren,
as fondly as your own mother ever could, and I need
you more than she does, for I have no other child to
love. If you come to us, you will be the means of
making all your dear ones comfortable and happy,
and you will be educated to become every thing your
father could have wished. You are not to see or
write to your mother, or your family. This will be
better for them as well as you. It is a great sacrifice,
I know, but can you not make it for their sakes?
Will you go with me?”
There was a struggle in the boy's heart. He
grew pale as death. His eyes turned with a look of
anguished tenderness on the faces of his mother and
his sisters. But Juno Clifford triumphed. He put
back the hand he had withdrawn from her clasp, and
said, quietly, but still firmly—“I will go with you.”
Thus was made the life election of the adopted son.
Mrs. Clifford's point was gained, but she still
preserved the singular gentleness of her demeanor.
When her husband entered, followed by a servant
bearing a bundle of faggots and a hamper of provisions,
she quietly explained the promises she had
made, and called on him to confirm them. Then
telling Mrs. Hereford she would make arrangements
the next day for their removal to comfortable lodgings
out of the city, and in the spring they should
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
be sent to Mohawk village, she bade her a kind good
bye. “You will come to me in the morning, Warren,”
she said as she went out. “You may spend this last
night with your mother.”
Once in the carriage, Juno Clifford's acting was
over. She threw herself back on the cushions, and
declared she was fagged to death; that really she
never went through such a tiresome piece of work in
her life; that she was glad that it was well over, and
she hoped, now she had adopted a son at last, Mr.
Clifford would be satisfied. And, listening to these
words, some of the blessedness her kiss had left upon
his brow passed away, and leaning back on the cushions
opposite, he invoked once more that fair picture
of his imaginary wife, and thought how, if she were
with him, it might have been that if God gave them
children by birth or by adoption, she would have
knelt by his side, and prayed for grace to train the
soul for heaven. But she was not there, and turning
away his eyes from Juno's face John Clifford
breathed the prayer alone.
Left to themselves, the little family in Eliot
street forgot, for a time, the provisions and the firewood
of which they stood in such pressing need, and
remained huddled around the embers in silent thought.
Mabel's face was hidden upon the mother's shoulder;
Warren knelt beside her, with his head bowed upon
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
her lap, and even the gay, light-hearted Emmie, leaning
against her knee, was fairly sobbing. At last
they were roused from their reverie, by a slow, half-hesitating
step upon the stair, and Dick Hereford
entered. He was a fine, manly-looking little fellow,
fully as large as Warren, though two years younger.
He came slowly in, and going up to his mother's
chair, said, in a despairing accent—“Mother, I have
made but sixpence; we shall starve at this rate.”
Then his eyes fell upon Warren, and he exclaimed,
“Why, where have you been, Ware? You must
surely have done better than I. How came you by
those handsome clothes?”
With an inward prayer for strength, the mother
unfolded the events of the afternoon. Dick seemed
to enjoy the tidings. His spirit was naturally hopeful
and courageous, and, to him, the forthcoming
prosperity of the family was a matter of unqualified
joy.
“Give us your hand, old fellow,” he exclaimed,
with an assumed manliness, which was very amusing
in the boy of ten. “Give us your hand and see if
you can't look thankful at the good fortune that's
coming to you. I don't see any thing to look so
solemn about. Of course you can come to see us,
and we'll all write to you!”
“No, that is it,” and the mother's tone trembled
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
—“we cannot write him, and we are not going to see
him any more.”
A shadow stole over the boy's face, when at length
he comprehended the full force of the separation; but
with a cheerfulness, evidently assumed for his mother's
sake, he said, gayly—“Well, any way, if we must be
sober, we'll have a good supper to help us bear it.”
In five minutes he had kindled a nice fire in the
great fire-place and extracted from the hamper a
loaf of bread, a pie, a paper of tea, and a small box
of sugar. “There's some meat there, mother, dear,”
he said, in his good, cheerful voice; “if you'll cook
it, I'll be off after some water, and put the kettle
boiling.”
It was such a supper as they had not tasted in
many months. Mrs. Hereford strove to conquer her
emotions, and at least to appear to enjoy it for her
children's sake, and even she grew more cheerful,
under the influence of the light and warmth, and
the comfortable viands. After the table was cleared,
she sat down by the fire, with her children around
her. The little ones talked gayly of the future, and
the mother, though every pulsation of her heart
seemed a wail, forced back her tears, and listened.
Warren did nothing; the image of “the angel” lay
warm and bright at his heart, but he loved the mother
of his infancy too well to speak the words of
parting lightly. Dick talked hopefully of the time
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
when he should be old enough to relieve his mother
and sisters from dependence on a stranger; of the
nice home he would make for them, and the fine
horses he would have when he grew to be a man.
Emmie's sunny face kindled, and her brown eyes
sparkled, as she talked of the new home where they
were going. Only the summer before, when Mrs.
Hereford had been paid a few shillings more than
she expected, for the sewing she had done for a generous
lady, she had given the children an omnibus
ride into the country; and this was the great gala
day of Emmie's life. While Mrs. Hereford had sat
under the green trees, holding her little Mabel, and
never wearying of making word-pictures for the
blind girl; telling her how the sunshine slept among
the long grass of the meadows, and how bright were
the wings of the summer birds; Emmie had watched,
in delighted abstraction, the varied movements of the
lambs, ducks, and geese, which peopled the extensive
farm the mother had selected for her stopping place.
The child recalled all this as she sat looking at
the embers, and prattled merrily of the flowers, and
the lambs, and the poultry she should call her very
own, and the tiny little chickens she was to feed with
her own hand.
The sweet Mabel, also, sitting in the mother's
arms, raised to the dear face bending over her, her
meek, sightless eyes, and whispered—“It will be so
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
beautiful there, dear mamma. I can sit under the
trees, and I shall know their great arms are waving
above me, and the flowers are beneath my feet, and
the blue sky over all. You'll have time to talk to
me sometimes, won't you, mother dear, and tell me
how the sunshine trembles through the leaves, and
the hill rises in the distance, and the wind blows the
rye into little billows; and, mother, I shall feel it
blow cool, and fresh, and pure, on my very face, and
be so happy I shall never stop to think I cannot
see.”
The mother could not speak. She clasped her
fatherless ones in her arms, and with her tears falling
on Mabel's golden curls, bowed her head in prayer,
that though her own heart seemed breaking, the
Heavenly Father's hand might lead them through
the green pastures, and beside the still waters of
Peace.
-- -- p652-048
III. MASTER WARREN GOES TO SCHOOL.
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
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
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
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.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
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
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
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
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
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
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
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
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
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
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
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
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
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
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
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
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
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.
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
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
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
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
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
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
-- 053 --
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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
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
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.
-- -- p652-064
IV. CLIFFORD HALL.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Month after month rolled away, until three years
had passed since Warren Clifford's parting with his
adopted mother. She had fully intended to return
in a year, when she left home, but the fascinations of
continental society proved too strong for her resolution.
Mr. Clifford was as obedient as ever to her
caprices, and expressed no wish to revisit his native
country. Her letters to Warren, though not very
frequent, were always kind and tender, but she made
mention of no intention to return. Her triumphant
anticipations of a sojourn in Paris were more than
realized. The beautiful American, as she was usually
called, had become a star of the first magnitude, even
among the titled belles of the court. Her sayings
were quoted, her dress and manners copied, and her
path surrounded with flatterers. And yet Juno
Clifford had not learned the passionate lesson of love.
The most brilliant men in the realm had bowed at
her shrine, but she received their homage with the
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
cool pride of an empress. It was not that she had
strength of principle to guide her, for she was constantly
swayed by impulse, and her highest object in
life was her own happiness. But she had not yet
seen one who had power to quicken the play of her
languid pulses, and so she added to her reputation
for grace and beauty the distinction always
awarded to a correct life, and nowhere more prized
than in the midst of the voluptuous and dissolute.
She sat in her dressing-room one evening absorbed
in thought. Her restless spirit had become weary
of the life she led. There were no new acquaintances
to be made, no fresh hearts to be won. She was
tired of the homage, for which no effort was necessary,
and with the holy hush of the evening there
came to her a memory of the earnest-hearted boy
she had left behind her; of his worship of her
beauty, and his unselfish and grateful love. She had
very seldom thought of him of late, absorbed as she
had been, and in a continual whirl of fashionable dissipation.
His letters had been read with a merely
passing interest, and she had written him an occasional
note, with scarcely an effort to soothe the
disappointment her heart told her this long-continued
separation must have occasioned.
But this night her thoughts went back to him
very tenderly. She pleased herself by fancying how
much he would be grown and improved; how tall
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
he would be, and how graceful, for he gave rare
promise of grace, even in his early, suffering boyhood.
That he loved her as fondly as ever, she well
knew. Every American mail brought her a letter,
in his well-known hand, full of the most earnest and
tender expressions of affection. She recollected now,
with a feeling of self-reproach, that, absorbed in her
preparations for a brilliant assembly, she had scarcely
read his last letter. She rose, and sought for it
among the varied contents of her ebony writing-desk.
Then she drew a silver lamp toward her, and throwing
herself back in her chair, commenced its persual.
The chirography had become at once manly and
elegant, but the style was simple, and natural as
ever. Toward the close it said—
“Every day, sweetest mother, I pass many hours
looking at your farewell gift. Sometimes my heart
gets very heavy with this long parting. I see other
sons turn joyfully to seek loving mothers and happy
homes, and I crush back the tears I am too proud to
weep, as I think that, for three lonely years, home and
mother have been to me but a name. Then I walk
wearily into the pleasant room your parting cares made
so beautiful, and look upon your picture, until the
dream of a mother's love becomes a warm and bright
reality, and I almost expect the beautiful face to
bend smiling down from the canvas, and the bright
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
lips to drop a kiss upon my brow. Are you coming
some time, mother?”
The lady paused, still holding the letter in her
fingers with a kind of caressing clasp. A warm,
bright smile broke over her sparkling features, and
kindled her eyes. Her lips parted, and a murmured
“Dear child” escaped them. “He is really eloquent,”
she ejaculated after another silence; “not one of all
the flatterers surrounding me could have written half
so beautifully, for the unmistakable impress of truth
would have been wanting in their fine sentences.
The boy really thinks I'm an angel!”
Verily, that child's love was working wonders
when Juno Clifford talked of truth—she whose whole
life was but an embodiment of beautiful acting. “I
want to see him,” she mused on, “and why can't I?”
I have had enough of this humdrum life in Paris.
I am tired of it. Yes, I will see him.” Tinkle,
tinkle, rung out her little silver bell, and her quadroon
waiting-maid entered. “Jane,” she said in the
old, habitual tone of impatient authority, “send Mr.
Clifford to me; I want him now.”
In a moment more John Clifford entered. He
was a noble-looking man, or perhaps I should describe
him more correctly if I said a good-looking
man. His face was emphatically good. His calm,
English features wore the ruddy hue of hale and
hearty manhood. His form was square and stout,
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
indicating a high degree of muscular energy, combined
with great strength. His once soft brown
hair was fast becoming gray, and there were lines
about his mouth which suggested the idea of worthy,
and yet firm resolve. He was a very quiet man in
most things. You would never have suspected him
of being Juno Clifford's lover-husband, had you met
him outside of her boudoir, and still less of cherishing
in secret an ideal love, whose presence he summoned
to his side, to teach him patience with the
gay frivolity around him. His fiftieth birth-day was
near at hand, but he looked at least sixty. Already
he seemed a hale old man, “frosty, but kindly.” He
was very cheerful, however, in spite of the haunting
consciousness that something was wanting to him,
which should have made his life far better, and more
beautiful. More than ever was he proud of Juno.
Her peerless loveliness and regal pride made her,
wherever they went, the cynosure of surrounding
eyes; and more and more he felt that he owed her
the devotion of an eternity for consenting to gift him
with all this dower of grace and beauty. There was
a kind of proud humility in his manner, as he entered
the dressing-room, and stood beside her chair.
“Please to sit down,” she said, in a slightly imperious
tone. He obeyed her instantly. She folded
the open letter in her hand, and then looking
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
earnestly at him, she inquired, “Mr. Clifford, do you
never want to see Warren?”
“Certainly, I would like to see him. I often
think we have hardly done the poor child justice.
We call him by our own name, but we have never
legally adopted him. We took him from his home,
and his mother, and in six months left him, as lonely
and solitary as if he had not a friend in the world.
It is not quite right, certainly.”
“No, Mr. Clifford, and I am heartily tired of this
place. Isn't your business such, now, that Parks
could take charge of it?”
“Yes, certainly, very easily.”
“Well, have you still in your possession those
lovely grounds you purchased for a country seat, just
before we left home?”
“Yes, I have them still.”
“There is no house on them, of course?”
“No; our return seemed postponed for such an
indefinite period, I was undecided what to do with
the place.”
“Well, Mr. Clifford, I want to live there next
summer. You remember La Comtesse M—'s
beautiful villa we both admired so much? Well, La
Comtesse told me the architect and landscape gardener
who planned it are both out of employment.
I want you should send them over by the next vessel,
and have our place as nearly modelled after the villa
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
as possible. They can finish it by next spring; a
whole year. This summer we will visit England and
Germany, and this winter reside in Italy, and go
home in the spring. Does my plan suit you?”
“Perfectly, as all your plans do, provided you are
satisfied. I will send the men over, and write to
Parks by the same vessel.”
And so the architect and the gardener were sent
over, and with them a letter to Master Warren,
couched in Juno's most gentle and loving phrases.
She had persuaded Mr. Clifford to return, solely for
his sake, she wrote. She felt that it had been cruel
to leave him to his loneliness so long, but she was
coming. Soon as their summer residence was ready
for their reception, she should be with him.
The boy's heart thrilled with pleasurable anticipation
as he read it. In that hour he had no thought
for the mother who had cradled him on her breast.
During all these years, he had not once heard from
her, and her memory, though not dead utterly, slept
on, low down in his soul, a slumber too profound for
dreams.
And, one stone after another, Clifford Hall was
built up. The minutest directions were forwarded
from time to time, for the furnishing of every apartment;
and standing in the winter moonlight, within
her Italian villa, looking from her window over the
sluggish waters of the Po, Juno Clifford clasped her
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
hands, and speculated idly about that future, which
was so near, she could not see a single thing.
It was a bright May morning, on which the
Clifford family took possession of their new residence
They had reached Boston the night before, and they
drove out to their country-seat in their own carriage.
The architect and the gardener had made the most of
their materials. The carriage-drive wound through
an avenue of spacious horse-chestnuts, already odorous
with bloom. Looking out, between their trunks, you
could catch glimpses of playing fountains, and sparkling
streams; of green sunny banks, and thickets of
rose-trees, and of a summer-house built with the
classic elegance of a Grecian temple. A sudden turn
brought you for the first time in sight of the mansion.
It was built of pure, white stone, and the style of
the architecture was peculiarly light and graceful.
It was surmounted by a lofty observatory, and at the
western end was a miniature chapel, with its stained
glass windows, and cumbrous columns, forming a
pleasant contrast with the main building.
Scarcely deigning a look at all this loveliness
around her, Juno Clifford swept into the house. An
obsequious footman threw open the door of her
boudoir, and she walked proudly in. “Has Master
Warren Clifford arrived?” was her first question.
“No, madam, he cannot possibly get here before
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
evening. We did not hear of your arrival in time
for the news to reach him until last night.”
“Very well. Jane, you can take away my things.
I shall lie down for a half-hour, and then I will go
over the house. In the mean time you can ask Mr.
Clifford to unpack those pictures. I cannot trust the
servants to handle them, and I want to see them
hung this morning.”
All that day after her brief rest in the morning,
our idle Lady Juno was actually busy. They had
brought with them many costly gems of Italian art,
and she herself superintended their disposition about
her elegant rooms. Pictures were hung upon the
walls; rare, old masterpieces, worth thrice their weight
in gold. Out in the pleasure-grounds, graceful statues
were placed like sylvan deities beneath the leafy trees.
Water nymphs bent over the fountains, as if they had
paused in the very act of combing out their long
tresses, to listen to some dim, sweet melody of the
waves. A marble Flora stood among the beds of
variegated flowers with her graceful urn. Little gems
of European art were scattered all over the interior
of the mansion. Silver lamps, with garlands of raised
flowers; curious book-stands, and tiny tables, inwrought
with many an arabesque device, and a thousand
other little womanly trifles, at once betokened
refined taste, and most lavish expenditure.
Just under an old oak tree, that looked as if it
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
had withstood the blast of centuries with the bold
defiance of its green arms, had been dug a rustic well.
Already the stones were covered with moss, and the
plume-like ferns drooped over its margin. Even here
the lady left an index of her presence, and hung just
beside the oaken bucket, a golden drinking-cup fretted
with silver.
It was mid afternoon before her arrangements
were all completed, and she entered her dressing-room.
For once, she was quite satisfied; her expectations
had been surpassed. She threw herself down in a
chair by the window, and gazed out over the pleasure-grounds,
with a smile of triumph curling her lips.
“What will madam please to wear?” said the
soft tones of the quadroon, recalling her from her reverie.
They were waiting dinner for Warren, and she
was governed by a thought of him in the decision.
“Dress me in simple white muslin, Jane. I
don't want to frighten the poor child away from me
by Parisian splendors to which he is not accustomed.”
She had chosen well, as she acknowledged to herself,
standing before the mirror, when the business of
the toilet was completed. No other costume could
have suited so admirably the gentle, mother-like
character it was her purpose to assume. It seemed
even to enchance her beauty. Her dimpled arms
were bare from the shoulder, save a deep frill of
Mechlin lace. Her hair was braided with classic
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
simplicity, and wreathed about her head like a coronal,
and among its heavy folds lay a wreath of half-opened
water-lilies. She looked more beautiful, fresher,
younger even, than she had done for many years before.
She left her dressing-room, and joined her husband
on the terrace. He turned as she put her hand
through his arm, and whispered, with lover-like gallantry—
“Fairer than ever, Juno regina.”
It was only a half-hour before a carriage turned
up the drive, and stopped before the door. A young
gentleman alighted; a stranger, they thought, at the
first glance. He was taller than Juno, taller than even
Mr. Clifford; and yet he seized John Clifford's hand,
and called him father. Could that be Warren? It
must be, for he springs to her side, he clasps her fervently
in his arms, and whispers, with his lips against
her cheek—“My mother, my own sweet, beautiful
mother!”
“Bless me, Warren; why, how you have grown!”
she exclaimed, at length, extricating herself from his
embrace—“Stand off there, and let me look at you!”
He had indeed grown very handsome. His figure
was tall, but graceful; his forehead was fair, open,
and white as an infant's. On it clustered heavy
brown curls, and his clear blue eyes looked out from
beneath, with all the innocent earnestness peculiar to
their expression in early childhood. His features
were purely Grecian, and round his mouth was a look
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
of tempered firmness, which redeemed its beauty from
the charge of feminine softness. Juno was entranced;
she had thought of him as a child; grown indeed,
but still small enough to sit at her feet, and bear any
amount of petting. She found him a young gentleman,
whom her heart acknowledged as the handsomest
person she had ever yet met; whose low, musical tone
thrilled her with a vague, indefinable transport;
whose caresess called the blushes to her olive cheek,
as her husband's had never done; and yet she said to
herself, approvingly, “Surely it is well to love him, I
am his mother!” He was but seventeen years old,
and yet so fully developed in mind and person, that
he would usually have been taken for at least twenty-one.
He had faithfully improved the advantages
afforded him, and there was a quiet ease in his manner,
and a refined eloquence in his conversation, with
which Juno was momently more and more enchanted.
Mr. Clifford retired early, as was his habit on all
occasions, and for half the night Juno retained by her
side the child of her adoption. They went out together,
and wandered to and fro among the shrubbery, where
the moonbeams rained light and glory upon their
path, and Juno talked of the yet brighter moonlight
that flooded the glorious ruins of Italy. She told
him stories of many a land—the castled Rhine, the
blue lakes of Switzerland, and the French girls singing
beneath their vines; and somehow, by some
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
imperceptible channel, the conversation always wandered
back to the lonely hours she had passed without him,
and the sweet memories of the childish love he had
given her. She said those memories had lain warm
and bright at her heart, during all the months and
years of absence, and Warren listened and loved, and
thanked God that this gifted and beautiful being had
been given him for a mother. The love he had cherished
so many months in loneliness and solitude, seemed
springing into a wilder, and quicker life—it was becoming
akin to worship, and yet it was pure as Heaven.
It was such as a child might have felt, in those
blessed days of the earth's infancy, when angels did
not disdain to walk with mortals, for some sunbright
seraph, who sang him to sleep in a long, blue day of
summer,—so pure it was, and so beautiful; and ever
its key-note was that blessed word mother, which the
immaculate Son of God has not disdained to hallow
with the utterance of his divinity.
They walked in, out of the moonlight, and sat
down once more in the magnificent boudoir. Juno's
arm was around him whom she called her son. She
drew him to her bosom, with all the mother-like tenderness
of her earlier love; and then, with her heart
beating against his side as it had never beat before,
she bent smiling over him, twining in her fingers the
soft length of his brown curls, and listening to the
thrice-told story of his love and his loneliness.
-- -- p652-077
V. GRACE.
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
It had been arranged that Warren should remain for
a twelvemonth longer at Glenthorne, that he might
enter Yale in the Sophomore year; and after a three
weeks' vacation he left Clifford Hall, and once more
repaired to the seminary. His friend, Malcom Hastings,
had been a frequent subject of conversation between
himself and his mother, and he had no sooner
reached Glenthorne, than he turned his steps towards
that gentleman's boarding place. Mr. Hastings was a
calm, dignified man of thirty, looking, perhaps, ten
years older than that. He had been, for two years,
the principal of the young ladies' seminary in Glenthorne,
and for many months Warren had been his
most constant companion. The formation of so close
a friendship between persons differing so widely in age
and character, had been as much a mystery to themselves
as to the good people of Glenthorne. It arose
in part from Warren's passion for the beautiful. He
had seen at a friend's rooms, a few choice sketches of
scenes in the vicinity, which were attributed to the
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
school-teacher; and thus impelled, had sought his acquaintance
with all the natural ardor of his disposition.
There was something in the frank cheerfulness
of the handsome, impetuous boy, that was singularly
attractive to the reserved and dignified Mr. Hastings,
and Warren was forthwith admitted to an intimacy to
which no one else had dared even to aspire.
His welcome of the young student was cordial
as a brother's, and he listened with unaffected sympathy
to Warren's eager description of his beautiful
home, and his raptures over his fascinating mother.
“And what of Glenthorne?” asked the boy, carelessly,
as he concluded his recital. Something very like a
blush crossed Malcom Hastings' calm, open countenance,
as he answered, in a tone of attempted indifference:—
“Nothing very particular. You know, Warren,
that beautiful cottage by the lake, which for the
past six months has stood empty? Well, who do
think took possession of it, the very day you
you left? No other than a family of my dearest
friends—Mr. Russel Atherton with his wife, and his
daughter Grace. I was for a long time an inmate of
their home, and I have held Grace in my arms many
an hour. But I haven't seen them since she was eight
years old, and she is fifteen now; a sweeter girl than
even my fancy ever painted her.”
“Can I see her? You will introduce me, won't
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
you?” coaxingly asked Warren, interested in spite of
himself. A keen observer would have detected Mr.
Hastings' secret in a moment. Juno Clifford, had
she been there, with her intuitive knowledge of character,
would not have failed to discover instantly that
Malcom Hastings loved the Grace of his narrative,
with all the intense, passionate devotion which a man
of thirty bestows, when he loves for the first time.
But Warren suspected nothing of the kind. It was
full a minute before Mr. Hastings made answer. He
turned his dark, serious eyes full upon Warren's face.
The boy was beautiful. As Juno Clifford once said,
he was the very impersonation of a summer morning.
Would not such beauty, such youth, such sunniness,
so to speak, of the whole character, be quick to charm
Grace Atherton's poet heart? And if it would, he
asked himself, what right had he to separate them.
Let them love, if Fate so willed, he would be happy
in her joy. “Yes, Warren,” he said, with the tone of
one who had conquered himself, “yes, you shall see
Grace. I will take you there to-morrow evening. She
is very lovely.”
“And gifted?” Warren inquired. “My mother
is so gloriously gifted, she has spoiled me, henceforth
and for ever, for all silly, missish individuals, be they
ever so pretty.”
There was a kind of timid pride in Malcom Hastings'
manner, as he drew from his escritoire a package
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of young ladies' compositions. Turning them over, he
took one from their number, and handed it to Warren.
“Read that,” he said, “and then answer your own
question.”
The manuscript was distinguished by a singular
neatness and purity. The sheet was small, and spotlessly
white, and the penmanship light as the tracery
of a fairy. “Read it out loud, Warren;” and the
school-teacher settled himself back in his chair, with
an air of prospective enjoyment.
“Here goes,” cried Warren, gayly, as he commenced
to read—
KATHLEEN AND I.
It was the hazy Autumn!
The long October day,
The mists went drifting over
The hedges and highway.
The sunbeams came down lazily,
That all the summer gone
Had played among the meadows,
And the fields of yellow corn.
The reaches of the forest
Were vocal with the noise
Of happy squirrels chirping,
And merry girls and boys.
Kathleen and I went nutting,
And climbed the pleasant ways,
Where changing leaves like dials
Marked Autumn's short'ning days.
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The squirrels chirped above us,
The insects chirped around—
As thick as Sinbad's diamonds
Were the chestnuts on the ground.
We chanted, 'twixt our laughing,
The songs of harvest mirth,
And praised our God by loving
His fairest child—the earth!
And as our nuts we gathered,
And stored with nicest care,
The chatting squirrel, watching,
Chirped archly—“where's my share?”
We went home at the sunset
Of the pleasant Autumn day,
When the golden light was sleeping
Along the forest way.
And Kathleen, looking lovingly
With her eyes of softest brown,
Said, as we crossed the highway
From the forest to the town,
“For us, and for the squirrel,
Alike the chestnuts fall;
The same dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all!”
“Why, Mr. Hastings, the girl is a real poet,” remarked
the reader, very gravely, as he concluded—“a
genuine poet, do you hear? There is an exquisite
simplicity in those lines, that is really wonderful for
such a child.”
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“The child is only two years younger than yourself,”
laughed Malcom Hastings. “How is it, Ware;
have you come to the conclusion that she is gifted
enough to be worth a call?”
“I should rather think I had. Come now, there's
a good fellow, let us go to-night. I'm not one bit
tired.”
“No!”
“What! you won't? When shall I see her,
then?”
“Not one moment before half-past six o'clock, to
morrow evening; so hold your peace. Your face most
certainly belies your assertion that you are not tired,
and you must go over to the academy, and take possession
of your bedroom, instanter.”
“Nonsense! I don't want to!”
“Well, I want you should, and that's more to the
purpose. Here you've been hindering me a full
hour, and I have all these compositions to correct before
morning. Heaven knows they are hopeless-looking
subjects enough some of them.”
“Well, if I must, I must; but I want a bribe.
Give me that composition of Grace Atherton's, and
I'll take myself off.”
“On the contrary, Miss Atherton's composition
will be restored to the original owner, according to
the rules of the learned institution over which I have
the honor to preside. Good night, Warren.”
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“Good night, since you are determined on turning
me out of doors.”
The next evening the call was made. Glenthorne
Cottage, as Mr. Atherton's residence had been christened
by the villagers, was, indeed, a fair and lovely
spot. The somewhat fanciful architecture of the
little cottage ornée suited well the beautiful scenery
lying around it. Nothing could have formed a more
striking contrast, than Clifford Hall, with its lofty
turrets and magnificent grounds, presented to this
rural home, so beautiful in its simplicity; unless, indeed,
it were Juno Clifford, and sweet Grace Atherton.
The yard in the rear of the cottage was bright
with spring-time flowers, and it sloped gently down to
the green shore of a tiny lakelet, whose clear blue
waters were the pride and glory of Glenthorne. The
little white cottage was itself hidden by a wilderness
of shrubbery. Over the rustic porch, in the right
wing of the building, twined lovingly the climbing
rose and trumpet creeper; while over the left-hand
wing, the deep green of the woodbine formed a beautiful
contrast with the white-veined ivy. In the
whole arrangements, within as well as without, the
most studied simplicity had been preserved. The
chair in the porch was of forest boughs, still green
with moss, fantastically twisted together. The choice
engravings which adorned the walls, were framed
with moss-grown twigs, and the chairs and sofas were
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of home manufacture, simply covered with a delicate
green chintz. Every thing was in perfect keeping,
and betokened the most refined and cultivated taste.
As they approached the house, they had a full view
of Grace, before she was at all conscious of their
presence; and that view Warren bore away with him
and treasured in his heart, for many a changing year.
He never thought of her, that it was not present to
his mind, distinct and lifelike, as a portrait by a master
hand.
She stood in the western porch, watching the
clouds. Her hair, of a pale gold-color, was kindled into
flashes of brilliancy, by the last rays of the setting
sun. It fell in a shower of rippling waves about her
graceful neck and shoulders, and contrasted beautifully
with a skin fair as an infant's. Her eyes were
a clear, deep blue, and at that moment full of an unconscious
inspiration. Her face was turned towards
the sunset, and they saw it in profile. Her features
were small, and exquisitely delicate. The faintest
tinge of rose brightened the soft cheek, and the red
lips were just parted, revealing a glimpse of little
teeth, white and even as the break in a fresh cocoanut.
Her figure was almost ethereal in its lightness,
and was thrown into full relief by the pillar, covered
with woodbine, against which she leaned. Her dress
was of simple white muslin, confined around the
slender waist by a silken cord. Over her head
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drooped the clinging tendrils of the ivy-vine, lovingly,
as if Nature, herself, were crowning her daughter.
There was an atmosphere of purity about that young
girl, into which sin would have feared to penetrate.
“Is she not beautiful?” whispered Warren under his
breath.
“She is something higher and better than that,”
was the low reply; and then for a few moments the
two remained, silently watching that slight girl,
standing there as if entranced, her fair forehead bathed
with the sunset glory.
“Grace!” said the teacher, at length, speaking
aloud. The girl turned toward him, with a smile of
welcome. When she saw a stranger beside him, her
cheek crimsoned with blushes; but she came forward
with quiet, graceful self-possession, and extended her
hand.
During the next month, Warren was a frequent
visitor at Glenthorne Cottage. For a time Malcom
Hastings was his companion, but when he saw that
Warren's voice had power to call a light to those blue
eyes his tones had never wakened, he gradually absented
himself. To Grace he continued the same kind
and faithful instructor, and his manner to Warren
was friendly and brother-like as ever; yet every one
in Glenthorne noticed the additional shade of sadness
that darkened his mild, serious eyes; and some who
loved him, remarked that the smiles which used to
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light up his face, though they were sweet as ever,
came at far longer intervals.
But neither Warren Clifford nor the gentle Grace
had ever yet thought of love. Sufficient for them was
the happiness of the day and the hour, without casting
a single glance onward into the future. They wandered
together along the margins of the pleasant streams,
and through the green paths of the woodland, talking,
with the sweet faith of innocent youth, of every thing
beautiful in art and nature. And this led Warren on
to speak of his early childhood, his adoption, and the
glorious being who was still, as then, his eidolon of
beauty. Grace listened with a smile to the warm
praises he lavished on his adopted mother, and then
lifting her blue eyes, she said, gently, “and your own
mother, Warren, what of her?”
A painful blush crimsoned his face, as if he had
been convicted of some crime, as he answered—“She
was the tenderest of mothers, Gracie, and I loved her
dearly, but she gave me up of her own accord, and
bade me forget her. She said it would be better for
my happiness, and my new mother's, both!”
“And you obeyed her, Warren?” This time there
was a reproachful accent in the young girl's questioning
tones.
“No, Gracie! not quite that.” He hesitated—“No,
I did not forget her at all, but I tried to think of her
as seldom as possible; I thought it was for the best.”
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“Warren, please let us go home.”
“Go home! Gracie, you are angry with me. Don't,
oh, Gracie, don't look at me with such cold, reproachful
eyes. I meant to do right. My mother had three
other children to love her, and Mrs. Clifford has only
me. She loves me so, more than my own mother
ever did. Oh, Grace, if you knew her, you wouldn't
wonder or be angry.”
“I don't wonder, and I haven't been angry. I don't
know as I am even quite sure you have done wrong; I
wanted to go home because I was tired. If I looked
at you strangely, it was only that a question puzzled
me. I was thinking whether if your new mother
hadn't been rich or beautiful, you would have loved
her so much?”
“I think not, Gracie, if she hadn't been beautiful,
but if she were to be ever so poor, that wouldn't make
any difference. I would work for her.”
One day soon after this conversation, he persuaded
Grace to come to his room, with two of her schoolmates,
and look at the full-length portrait of Juno Clifford.
She was entranced, and after that she expressed
no more astonishment at the love her friend bore to his
adopted mother. One evening,—it was the last week in
June,—Warren was sitting in the porch of Glenthorne
Cottage. He had brought over a volume of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, and had been reading aloud that
magnificent poem—“Lady Geraldine's Courtship.”
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There was silence for a few moments when he concluded,
and then Grace said, musingly—“I wonder if
you would have done that, Warren?”
“Done what, Gracie?”
“What Geraldine did? I wonder, if you had
been her, whether you would have given up wealth and
station, and rejected the earl for a love-match with
the poet?”
“How can you ask, Grace? What true man or
woman would hesitate for a moment? If I loved, I
should give up every thing.”
“Do not be positive, Warren. Time will prove
this, it may be. There may come a time when you
will think of this very conversation.
`For this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God!'
“Well, Grace, we shall see, or, more likely, we shall
not see, for I can scarcely conceive of ever having any
such choice to make.”
“Yes, we shall see,” answered the young girl,
dreamingly. “Warren, tell me some more about Dick
and Emmie, and the little blind Mabel!”
“I told you all I know, long ago, Gracie. Somehow
I have thought of them more since I knew you,
than for three years back. I seem to see Emmie's
sunny face, as it used to smile on me when I went
home to that tottering old house, worn out and
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discouraged. I do believe that child had a real Christian
spirit. She was so cheerful and contented in that
comfortless place. She would take off her own clothes
to wrap around poor sightless Mabel, and then sing
gayly as a lark, so that no one might think she was
cold, or suffering.”
“And Mabel,” suggested Grace, her eyes dim
with tears, “I think you told me she was pretty, did
you not?”
“Not pretty, at least, that is not quite the word
She had the most spiritual face I ever looked upon.
She seemed made perfect through suffering, mere babe
as she was. She was so poetical, too. You should
have seen her; you two would have loved each
other.”
“Warren,”—the girl's voice was tremulous with
emotion,—“you have called me your sister, sometimes.
Will you promise me to think of me always, when
you do of Emmie and Mabel? I shall like to remember
this promise when you are far away. I don't quite
want you to think of me, when you think of Mrs.
Clifford. She is so grand, and stately, and beautiful,
that she takes away my breath. But just remember
me whenever those gentle sisters seem to stand beside
you, and then I shall think there's a little corner
of your heart, where it says Grace, where my name
fits in just right. Will you promise, Warren?”
“Why yes, Gracie, I'll promise, if you wish it, but
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you are strangly sad to-night. I see you so often, such
a promise seems needless.”
“Nevertheless I wanted it, and now you've given
it, I'm not sad any longer;” and in proof of her assertion,
she turned toward him a face so bright and beaming
with smiles, that he was half tempted to press a
brother's kiss upon the upturned brow. But he refrained,
he scarcely knew why himself. There was,
spite of her childishness, a great deal of calm, womanly
dignity and reserve about the simple cottage girl.
“Here you are, Clifford,” exclaimed a classmate's
voice, half an hour later, interrupting Warren and
Grace in a very philosophical discussion about the
Language of Flowers. Here's a letter the express-man
left for you, and I thought I would run over with it.
He said it was of immediate importance.”
Warren perceived by the post-mark that it was
from home, and he hurriedly broke the seal. He recognized,
as he did so, the flowing, characteristically
graceful chirography of his mother's quadroon maid.
Juno had caused the girl to be carefully instructed in
penmanship, and was accustomed to make use of her
services as amanuensis, whenever she felt indisposed
for the exertion of writing herself. Consequently,
this circumstance occasioned no surprise; but he
changed color rapidly as he read. “Just read that,
Gracie,” he exclaimed, handing it to his companion,
as he finished its perusal. You will see my mother is
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very ill. Good Heavens! Grace, if she dies, I must
die too. I shall get a fast horse, and go to the next
town to-night, that I may take the morning stage.
There is no time to lose. Good-bye, little Grace; be
a good child, and think of me as often as you can get
time.”
In his hurry and confusion he did not notice that
the hand he clasped in his own was cold as marble,
or that a deathly pallor stole over Grace Atherton's
face. He did not heed the earnest prayer in her timid
eyes, but with a hurried farewell, rushed to his room.
In half an hour he had arranged the things he
was to leave behind, packed his portmanteau, bidden
Malcom Hastings an affectionate adieu, and started for
the stage-station of the neighboring town.
-- -- p652-092
VI. PLOTTING AND POETRY.
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
It was late in the afternoon of the next day. Juno
Clifford turned wearily on her couch. Her very
accommodating physician called her disease a low,
nervous fever, but if he had said a severe attack of
ennui, he would have been quite as near the truth.
“What time is it, Jane?” Her tone was slightly
fretful, but her face brightened as the quadroon answered—
“Near five o'clock, my lady.”
“Almost time,” she ejaculated more cheerfully.
“Yes, madam, Mr. Clifford usually comes at five.”
“Does he?” Juno's tone was very impatient.
“I wasn't thinking of that; but Warren Clifford, my
son, will be here when the stage comes in—at half-past
five, is it not?”
A queer smile crossed the quadroon's face, as her
mistress uttered so complacently those two words,
“my son,” but it vanished instantly; and she answered
with respectful gravity—“Yes, ma'am, at half-past
five, I believe. Would you like to get up?”
“Yes, I suppose I had better. I must be dressed
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by and by. Just draw that large easy-chair in front
of the cheval mirror, and then see if you can help me
to cross the room.” The girl obeyed, and Mrs. Clifford
arose, and with little apparent difficulty walked to
her chair. She looked in the mirror for a moment,
and then exclaimed—“Goodness, Jane, how frightfully
faded I look! I wanted to be pale, but one would
think I had been sick a month. Is there any of that
rouge left, I used in Paris?”
“A little; will madam like it now?”
“No, there is no hurry. It is just time for Mr.
Clifford to come. I'll dress afterwards.”
At that moment John Clifford's step sounded upon
the stair. He always seemed happier when Juno
was a little ill. Not that he didn't prize her health
and beauty; but then, if she wasn't well enough to go
into society, there seemed less of conventional restraint,
and more of real heart sympathy between
them. Few men ever married with higher hopes than
John Clifford. His fair bride was only seventeen,
and beautiful as our childhood's visions of angels.
He was twenty years older, and had enough of wealth
to give her a position worthy of her loveliness. He
adored her passionately, and to him her character
seemed as nearly perfection as her face. He expected
that she would go in society, and be admired; he
looked for some womanly vanity,—that would be but
natural, with so much grace and beauty; but he
-- 085 --
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believed her too truly proud to have married him for a
position merely. He expected her to love him. During
the gayeties of their honey-moon time, he contented
himself with seeing her the cynosure of every eye, and
remembering that she was his own. He looked forward
to a quieter season, when that bright head would
rest upon his breast, when those warm arms would
clasp his neck, and he should hear that music-laden
voice murmur love-words in his ear. But months
were braided into years, and this time never came.
After a while, he tried to think his fancies had been
extravagant. He smiled, as he looked into Juno's full-length
mirror, and said, with affected carelessness—
“You are not a handsome man, John Clifford. Why
should you expect any such unreasonable goings-on.”
But laugh at himself as he would, the old, aching void
was still there. He thought she must love him a little,
and he treasured up every look and tone, that his
hopeful fancy could torture into evidence. She was
true to him, he knew that; and he prided himself on
her purity; but the dreams that were so bright and
sunny at first, passed away, and left his heart in darkness,
as sunset clouds ever so golden and crimson, fade
suddenly into the night. And yet, he loved her just
as fondly as if it had been otherwise; perhaps even
more so; but it was rather the worship and homage of
the lover, than the sanctified tenderness of the husband.
Her caresses came at such long intervals, that
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her lightest touch had power to thrill him like a
subtle infusion of electricity. But as years passed on,
he realized that this was all, and he grew in one sense
contented, and now his dreamings were not of what she
would be to him some day, but rather of an imaginary
wife, who yet never seemed, in his mind, wholly distinct
from Juno. She was loving, gentle, tender, and
very sweet in her simplicity. Just what Juno might
have been, he fancied, had he been more worthy of
her love, and she less beautiful. But there was, as I
said, less of restraint between them, when she was ill,
and her fashionable friends were not around her.
He paused for a moment in the upper hall, and
then came quietly in. “How is my sweet wife this
afternoon?” he said, in his deep, loving tones.
She raised her eyes languidly. “I am not very
strong. I have wished to dress all the afternoon, but
I haven't been able, and now that I feel a little better,
Jane is going to help me.”
He understood from her words and her manner
that she wished him to leave her, but he threw himself
down before her chair, and clasped his arm around
her waist. “Juno,” he said, in a voice tremulous
with emotion, “I have been thinking what a terrible
thing life would be, if I should lose you; and my
heart aches for one little token that you are mine.
Kiss me just once!” She bent coldly over him, as
if in mere passive obedience, and just touched her lips
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to his forehead. That was all. He rose, and passed
from the room. Soon after a servant entered bearing
a bouquet of costly exotics, and a basket of hot-house
fruit. Her husband had brought them from the city,
but he would not intrude a second time upon her
presence to present them with his own hand.—“Now,
Jane, dress me quickly,” and the lady turned toward
the mirror, with an expression of weariness on her
face. “Make haste, or I shall not be ready to see
Warren. I believe I'll wear that white cashmere
wrapper lined with cherry satin.”
The quadroon's fingers moved rapidly, and in five
minutes Juno's hair was arranged with graceful
simplicity, and the folds of her cashmere dressing-gown
tastefully disposed about her regal figure.
“Now the rouge, Jane; draw my chair a little nearer
to the mirror. That's right. Give me just a little
hectic. There! What time is it now?”
“Just half-past five, madam.”
“Well then, go down stairs, and be ready to wait
on Warren. Tell him I've been very ill, but am
somewhat better to-day, and send him up here the
first thing.”
The girl left the room, and Juno Clifford sat
there, idly toying with the silken cord about her
waist. It was nearly ten minutes before she heard a
footfall on the stairs, that sent a whole tide of light
into her eyes. The door opened, and Warren threw
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himself on his knees at her side, and wound his arms
caressingly about her waist. This time her face was
not turned away. “Mother, sweetest mother,” said
his earnest tones, “alas, that I find you thus. Are you
very ill, mother?”
“No, no, my own precious boy, I am not very ill,
now you have come,” and the proud head sunk on his
shoulders, the warm lips pressed kiss after kiss upon
his brow, his cheeks, and the blue eyes that closed lovingly
beneath her caresses. “I have been so lonely,
Warren, I have wanted you so much. Do you love
me, my precious son?”
“Do I not, mother? I should be an ingrate if I
did not. You have been every thing to me. I love
you more than all the rest of earth.”
“And always will, Warren? Tell me now, pledge
it before God and angels, that no other love shall separate
us; that no other shall ever be dearer than the
mother of your adoption?”
“I swear it, my sweetest mother.”
“And, Warren, if you should love some day,
promise me that she shall never separate us, or come
between us; that loving her, you will still be the same
to me.”
“I promise. No woman shall ever win my love
that will not let you have the first, the holiest place
in my heart. No other shall ever come between us for
a moment. Loving her, I will still love you best.”
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Even as she listened to the words of this promise,
a sudden pang convulsed Juno s heart. She dared not
ask herself why it was that the very thought of any
other woman ever being dear to him, should thus
seem to darken all her visions of the future. She
resolutely turned conscience out of the counsels of her
heart, and banished the unpleasing question from her
memory. For a full hour she sat there, leaning back
against the luxurious cushions of her chair, while
Warren occupied an ottoman beside her. She inquired
with tender, mother-like interest, concerning his studies,
his companions, and his pleasures; and he felt
more and more what a blessed thing it was to be so
dear and necessary to the happiness of one, good and
beautiful as he deemed Juno Clifford.
It was nearly seven o'clock before Mr. Clifford
came up stairs to bid his son welcome. “Well, Warren,
my boy,” he said, in a kind, cheerful tone, as he
entered, “I thought I would let your mother have you
for the first hour without interruption. She has been
wanting you terribly during her illness. It has been
lonesome for her here. I've had to spend all the
day in town—that is, I couldn't get out before five
o'clock,” and he concluded his sentence with a sigh,
at the thought how little difference his presence or
absence made in the calculations of his wife.
“Mother,” said Warren, rising, “you are looking
terribly feverish. You must go to bed. We won't
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let her tire herself with sitting up here; will we,
father?”
“I think we mustn't,” and Mr. Clifford came toward
her, and taking her in his arms, carried her
across the room, and laid her on the bed. “Thank
you,” she whispered with such a smile as he had not
been able to call to her lips in many a day, and he
stood over her, smoothing her pillow, and arranging
the drapery around her couch, in an ecstasy of delight.
“Go now, both of you,” she said, gently. “It is my
turn to be generous, and stay alone. You can coax
the housekeeper to give you a broiled chicken, Warren,
and your father will join you. Since I've been too
ill to go down stairs, he dines in town, and takes an
early supper at home.”
“But I don't like leaving you here alone, mamma.'
“Well, you may send Jane to me then, but go.
Don't you see how impatient I am to be rid of you?”
The boy smiled, and kissing her gently passed
from the room.
A week after he sat by her side, as usual. She
did not, as yet, consider herself able to go down stairs,
but she looked quite well and very lovely. “It seems
so nice to have you at home, Warren,” she said pleasantly,
“so very nice, that it is a strong temptation to
keep you here always.”
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“Well, mother darling, when I have been through
college, I shall be home long enough for you to get
tired of me. Shall I read to you now? But wait a
moment. There comes James with the mail.” There
was a note for Juno from a fashionable friend, and a
packet of papers for Warren. “From Malcom Hastings,”
he exclaimed as he untied them; “what! and
here's our Glenthorne paper,” and he unfolded “The
Glenthorne Mercury.” Juno was engaged in the
perusal of her dainty-looking missive, and there was
silence for a few moments, while he glanced rapidly
over the local news. Warren broke it with the exclamation,
“Isn't it sweet? isn't it touching? My
own little Grace. Just look here, mother.”
Juno raised her drooping eyelids, and looked at
him inquiringly.
“Shall I read it, mamma?”
“Yes, certainly, any thing you like,” she replied with
an affected carelessness which ill concealed her real
anxiety. He read the poem with flushed cheek and
kindling eye, and yet to others it would scarcely
have afforded a momentary interest. The rhythm,
however, was quite sweet and natural. It ran thus:—
MIRIAM'S SUNSHINE.
“Little Miriam sits spinning,
Where the noonday shadows fall
On the roses and the jasmine,
And upon the cabin wall.
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“Yellow hair about her waving,
Blushes flitting on her cheek,
And the golden lashes drooping
O'er her eyes so blue and meek.
“From her lips there drops no cadence,
But their smiling seems to sing,
All for joy to see the sunshine
Sparkle on her little ring.
“Till a stranger footstep falleth
On the path where roses lie,
Making in her eyes of azure
Sunshine brighter than the sky.
“Bashful little fingers quiver,
Blushes fade away to snow,
And you seem to see her heart beat
Where her bodice trembles so.
“Pushing back her yellow ringlets,
Shy she seems, and very fair,
For the stranger's accents couple
With her name a lover's prayer.
“Little Miriam sits sighing,
Very pale and very still,
Watching shades of winter lengthen
O'er the footpath, down the hill.
“Yellow hair about her waving,
Shadeth blushing cheeks no more—
They are paler than the snow-flakes,
Piled before the cabin door.
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“From her lips there comes no murmur,
But their silence seems to pray,
And her eyes are like a mourner's
Who should say—`Ah, well-a-day!
“Very cold the sunshine falleth
On the path he used to tread,
And her heart beats with a question—
`Is he false, or is he dead?'”
“Poor little Grace,” he said, half sorrowfully, when
he concluded. “She must have felt sad when she wrote
that, mustn't she, mother? You haven't told me, yet,
whether you don't think it beautiful?”
“You said `my Grace' in speaking of her, Warren,
and I feared I might pain you by differing with
you in opinion. The stanzas are well enough, but I
really cannot see any great amount of poetic merit
about them. Are they not rather obscure?” and as
she spoke, she reached forward and possessed herself
of the paper. “We are informed that Miriam sat
spinning, and a stranger came, but the author doesn't
explain how it was that he had the boldness to go
straight to love-making. Then we are quite left
in the dark whether he was false, or afraid of the
snow-storm, only we know for some reason he didn't
come back.”
Warren's face showed that he felt hurt by the
tone of her reply, but he answered deprecatingly—
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“Why, mamma, that's the suggestive style of poetry,
and I thought it so beautiful.”
“Did you? Um-m! I suppose it was the fault of
my taste, or perhaps I am not quite well enough as
yet to appreciate poetry. But, Warren, draw your
chair nearer, dear, and tell me all about this sweet
Grace. Why have you never mentioned her before?
Perhaps I shall find so much to admire in her character,
that it will lend a charm to her poetry.”
Warren complied with her request. It was a real
pleasure to find her so interested in his friend. He
told her every particular of their acquaintance—how
like a beautiful picture the young girl looked when he
first saw her—and how after that he had met her almost
daily; how the summonsto Clifford Hall had found
him at her side, and she had seemed so sorry to part
with him. Juno listened very gently, schooling her
face to wear an expression of pleased sympathy, and
when he concluded she quietly remarked—“How
sweet and lovely she must be, Warren. But how long
I have kept you with me. Go now, and take the air
for a while. I am weary, and need rest; I shall never
get it, though, while you are here, for I'm sure to
talk to you as long as you stay.”
He kissed her, and went out, and then that haughty
woman clasped her hands across her eyes and
wept. In that hour she had met with a revelation.
The seals fell from her eyes. She knew then that
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with no mother's love had she cherished the child of
her adoption. There had, indeed, been such a love at
first, but it had passed away long ago; and in its
stead she, the cherished wife of another, had yielded
up her heart to the handsome, manly youth, in wild,
tumultuous worship. Juno Clifford! Was there no
voice in that hour from your silenced conscience?
Had your guardian angel deserted you utterly, that
there came to your mind no shuddering at the deadly
sin with which your soul was stained? Not one tear
was for your guilt, not one resolve had for its key-stone
repentance. She loved him, and she could not
win him. For that cause fell those burning tears.
“And yet why not?” she exclaimed, calming herself
with a sudden effort—“Why not win him?” Once
that this thought had dawned upon her mind, she
clung to it with strange pertinacity. “I am only
twelve years older than he,” she mused on, “and am
I not beautiful? He says mine is the fairest face
his eyes ever rested on. Is it so impossible that he
should love me?” Then came the memory of other
ties—she was John Clifford's wife. The guilty woman
paused. There were whirlpools of crime before
which even her reckless thoughts stood still and shuddered.
Even then, false as she was in heart, she would
have hesitated to become criminal in act. But why
not hope?” she once more asked herself. “John Clifford
was fifty years old, and he was not come of a
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long-lived stock. At least, she could take care that
Warren did not learn to love another; she had influence
enough for that. But Grace!”—For a few moments
she seemed buried in profound thought, then she said
aloud, “No, he does not love the girl as yet. He spoke
as calmly as if she were his sister. The idea has
never entered his head. But it might, if he returned
there. The only hope is in removing him from her
influence.” A smile crossed her face; not a sunny,
happy smile, but one of almost sardonic beauty. An
angel might have wept to see her then. She drew a
small Geneva watch from underneath her pillow.
The hands pointed at a quarter to five. She bathed
her tear-stained face with water of roses. She applied
a soothing cream to her parched lips, and then
she range for her maid. “Jane,” she said, in an impetuous
tone, “hurry; make me just as handsome as you
possibly can. What was that dress Mr. Clifford said
he liked to see me wear? There, now, do my hair;
and Jane, hand me those moss rose-buds your master
brought home yesterday, and then go down stairs, and
send him to me just as soon as he arrives.”
She turned to the mirror, as the girl went out,
and twined two or three of the buds among her tresses,
and then sank gracefully into a chair.
“Alone, Juno?” said her husband, entering.
“Yes, all alone, and I've been wanting you sadly.”
He came forward, his face fairly radiant with joy,
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and took a low seat at her feet, reverently raising her
hand to his lips. Oh! but Juno Clifford had not studied
human nature in vain. She knew well the secret workings
of the heart, and this was perhaps the strongest
element in her irresistible power of fascination. She
sat silently for a time, smoothing his hair with her
hand, almost as if she loved him; and then, while his
pulses were thrilling at the unwonted caress, she said,
with a charming frankness, “My husband, I love
Warren very dearly; I have been unhappy sometimes,
for fear you did not love him as well as I do.”
This was a master-stroke of policy. After that,
John Clifford would have despised himself for ever,
could he have cherished one single emotion of jealousy
in connection with the boy he himself had first given
to his childless wife. He smiled as she spoke, and still
holding her hand in his own, answered earnestly—
“Yes, Juno, I do love Warren. He is dearer to me
than any one on earth, except my wife; and she surely
will not blame me, if I love her so entirely, any other
love seems weak in comparison?”
Juno bowed her haughty head upon his shoulder,
to conceal the satirical smile which she felt was curving
her lip. Lifting it, after a moment, she remarked—
“Then surely, John, you would be as grieved as
I, to have a year of Warren's life go to waste, or to
have him contract an ill-placed attachment, which
would injure his whole future?”
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“Of course, but is there any such danger?”
“Yes, there is if he remains at Glenthorne. He
has shown me, this afternoon, a love-sick poem written
by a young student of the Female Seminary, and I
should judge the longest lessons he has learned of late,
were taught him by her eyes. Then, too, from his description,
and from the poem, I am very sure she is not
such a person as we would wish him to marry if he were
through with his studies. He is well prepared to enter
college now. I do not think he loves this girl as
yet, and the best way to prevent it, will be to have
him enter Yale this fall. You can tell him you have
come to the conclusion he had better go in the Freshman
year, and then he need return no more to Glenthorne.
But we must carefully conceal the motive of
this change, or we shall occasion the very thing we
wish to prevent. He is too high-spirited, much as he
loves us, to permit any interference in an affair of
that kind. Am I right, my husband?”
“You are always right, Juno.”
“And beside,” she added, blushingly, “he is much
too young to think of marriage. You were twenty
years older than him when we were married. Did
you ever repent waiting?”
“Repent!” That word was his only answer. He
had not been so blest in years. He bent over her,
and rested his head in her lap. Juno sat there very
patiently. It amused her to play with his feelings,
-- 099 --
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to see how skilfully she could mould that strong man
to her wishes; and now, with his head bowed in an
ecstasy upon her lap, she sat there, lounging negligently
back in her chair, and wondering, with no
shudder at her own wickedness, how much longer the
old man would see fit to cumber the ground.
-- -- p652-109
VII. DICK.
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
It was a raw, cold winter day, in Warren Clifford's
first college vacation. He had spent a week with
Juno, in her winter residence, on Mount Vernon
street, and was now passing a few days at a fashionable
hotel in New York, with his friend and chum, Percy
Douglass. He was to start on his return to Boston,
the next morning, and the idea entered his head, that
he would like to carry home some costly and beautiful
present to his mother. Taking his friend's arm, he
strolled down Broadway, and entered a certain noted
establishment, unrivalled then, as well as now, for the
chaste and costly elegance of its importations. He
selected a magnificent opera cloak of crimson velvet,
and ordered it sent to his hotel.
“Dick,” called the salesman, in an authoritative
tone. The name awoke a chord of remembrance in
Warren's heart, which had long been slumbering. He
had never chanced to know but one person who bore
that name, and he turned round, almost expecting to
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see the open, spirited face of his little brother; the
curling chestnut hair, the sparkling hazel eyes, and
the athletic figure, with the threadbare cap and
patched, comfortless garments. The boy of almost sixteen,
who answered the summons, was quite a different
looking person. He was well, though not richly dressed,
handsome, and manly-looking his age, with an
honest yet fearless expression of countenance. And
yet in Warren's heart, the newly wakened chord kept
on vibrating. His long-lost brother was indeed before
him. There were twenty reasons which came to his
mind, in the brief moment afforded him for consideration,
why he ought not to recognize his brother.
In the first place, the very condition on which he was
entitled to his stately home, his fine education, and
more than all, the love of his beautiful mother, was
that he should neither write nor speak to any of his
family. Beside, it was the wish and pride of his
adopted parents, that he should pass for their own
child, wherever it was possible; and the friend who
was with him, the only son of the haughty General
Douglass, had never heard the story of his adoption.
No, he must not betray the secret, and if he did, what
would it avail? Honor, he thought, forbade him to
make any inquiries concerning his family, and it would
seem less heartless not to speak at all, and leave Dick
to suppose that perhaps he did not know him. So he
bit his lip, and remained silent, and yet, all the while,
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reason as he would, the newly wakened chord kept on
vibrating.
Dick looked earnestly in his face, as he received the
bundle from the salesman's hands. His color came
and went—his lips parted, and he seemed to restrain
himself with difficulty. But he turned, and walked
resolutely out of the shop. He had left the bundle,
and was on his return, when he again encountered
Warren and his friend. He crossed the side-walk,
and said, in a low tone, close to his brother's ear—
“Good-bye, brother Warren.” Then turning, he walked
away, pale as death, his lips firmly shut, and his
long eye-lashes heavy with glittering tears. Percy
Douglass turned round inquiringly. Warren's face
was flushed, and his whole manner agitated in the extreme.
“Percy,” he said, hurriedly, “let me beg that
you will ask me no questions, for I should feel it due
to your friendship to answer them. This affair involves
a family secret, which I am not at liberty to disclose,
and yet no blame attaches to any one. It it too much
to ask that you will believe me, and trust me? At
some future day, I may be at liberty to tell you all.”
“Surely, Warren, my friendship would be of small
value if such an incident could weaken my trust in
you. Take your own time for an explanation, and
never tell me, if it be any thing I ought not to know.”
That night, when business hours were over, a kind
hand was laid upon Dick's shoulder. He looked up
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Simon Goldthwaite stood before him. Simon was
the paymaster and head clerk, the confidential chargé
d'affaires. He was a unique specimen of a genuine
Yankee. One look at him would have convinced you
he never could have been born out of New England.
Tall and large, he had, in spite of his strength, an appearance
of being very loosely put together. He
walked with a kind of characteristic shuffle; his limbs
seemed as much too long for his body, as his clothes
were too short at the extremities. The very features
of his face were at sixes and sevens. His hair, about
an inch and a half in length, would, most persistently,
stand straight up, all over his head. Perhaps this
effect was aided by his constant, but ineffectual attempts
to run his fingers through it. Every individual
hair was so at war with its neighbor, that it did not
afford safe neutral ground even for a goose-quill.
There was no particular fault to be found with his
nose or his forehead, or indeed any of his features, only
no two of them looked as if they could, by any possibility,
have been designed to go together. The mouth
was wide, and very often wide open, and the nose and
chin were as unlike as a Gothic church and a Parisian
villa. The chin was a respectable and firm-looking
affair, short and broad, while the nose was long and
somewhat peaked. In addition to these various personal
qualifications, he had the fullest confidence of his
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
—employers, and was the very soul of kindness and
fidelity.
“Well, Dick, what is it?” he exclaimed, in his
hearty, kind-sounding voice—“some boyish scrape, or
a piece of real trouble?”
The kind words were too much for poor Dick.
The tears choked his utterance, as he answered, “Oh,
sir, if you only knew!”
“Well, to know, is just what I want. I've seen
enough in the few months that you've been here, to be
satisfied that you are a good, faithful boy, and I may
be able to help you in more ways than you dream of.
Come, now, just walk into my counting-room, and tell
me all about it. It'll be quiet there. Come along.”
Dick followed him, grateful for his sympathy, and
yet half reluctant to expose his family affairs to the
consideration of a stranger. Perhaps Simon guessed
this feeling, for he said in a low, half-sorrowful tone—
“Come, you needn't be afraid to trust me. If you
need help, I can afford to help you, for I've no kith
or kin in the wide world. My mother and my little sunny-haired
sister Lizzie died of starvation, when I was
four years old. Of starvation! Do you hear, Dick?
Young as I was, I can remember it perfectly. My
father lost all he had in an unfortunate speculation,
and was thrown into prison for debt. He died there
of a broken heart. My mother was sick, and she
could get nothing to do. Lizzie was two years older
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
than I, and mother used to send her out into the streets
to beg. But the poor little thing would get chilled and
frightened, and come back again empty-handed. And
so we lay and starved. Dick, I always give to beggars.
God said, `The poor ye have always with you;' and I
should be afraid to go home at night, if I had turned
away pitiless from a pleading face and an outstretched
hand. My mother and sister both died in one
night. I was so weak then, I couldn't walk; but little
as I was, I bore it better than they did, for my nature
was more hardy. Oh, how distinctly I remember it.
We all three went to bed together, on our heap of
straw, and in the morning, when the sunshine stole in
at the broken window, it wakened me. My mother's
arm felt very cold. I put up my lips to kiss her, and
her face was colder still. I turned to Lizzie, but she
couldn't speak, or open her blue eyes, and her little
bounding limbs were stiff and motionless. That
morning our landlord came to turn us out of doors.
We were bad tenants, we hadn't paid our rent. But
he found the debtor's widow in a sleep from which
his voice could not waken her. They buried them
both that day, and took me to the alms-house. Ah,
Dick, these are such memories as are seared upon the
soul. There is no such thing as forgetfulness possible.
They have been my safeguard against temptation.
But I bear a lonely heart. Let me help you in your
sorrows, and it will make my own lot easier.”
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Silently Dick pressed his hand; for a moment his
heart was too full to speak. Then he cleared his
voice, and said in a low tone—“Since you too have
suffered, Mr. Goldthwaite, you will understand my
mother's situation five years ago. A lonely Englishwoman
in a strange land—her fatherless children
around her, and not a sixpence to buy them a loaf of
bread. There were four of us; Warren, Emmie, Mabel
and I. Warren was our eldest, and he was only
twelve. One day, as he was hawking papers, a gentleman
took a fancy to him, and carried him home to his
wife. She liked him also. I have heard my mother say
the lady was the most beautiful being she ever looked
upon. That afternoon they came to our wretched
dwelling. They were childless, and they offered to
educate Warren, and adopt him as their own son, on
condition that he should never again recognize us as
his kindred, and, indeed, neither see nor speak to us.
Beside taking him, they agreed to give us a comfortable
home and four hundred dollars a year. What
could my mother do, when we were all starving?
She was sick, and suffering, and then, Warren wanted
to go. She consented. When I came home, the arrangement
was concluded, and the lady had gone with
her husband. But oh, Mr. Goldthwaite, that was a
night of fearful agony to my poor mother. Thus to
give up her first-born son, and feel that she was never
more to see his face on earth. I believe she suffered
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as much as she would have done to see him die before
her eyes. But she bore it bravely for our sakes.
His adopted parents have fulfilled their part of the
contract faithfully. Through the kind offices of our
village physician, I obtained my situation here, and
now my highest ambition is to get a salary large
enough to relieve my mother from her dependence
upon strangers. I know you will think this a very
insufficient explanation of the agitated state in which
you found me, but you have not heard all. Warren
took the name of Clifford, and people say he bids fair
to realize the proudest expectations of his adopted
parents. He is welcomed into circles where I should
be looked upon with contempt, and yet, Mr. Goldthwaite,
he never can find truer friends than the
mother who mourns for him day and night, and the
little sisters who never forget to say his name over in
their prayers. Oh how I loved him! Until he left
us, we had never been separated. We knelt together
every night at our mother's knee, we slept in each
other's arms, and we would have shared together our
last morsel. Well, I saw this cherished brother to-day,
for the first time in five years, and he turned
away his face, though I knew he recognized me, and
never spoke.”
“Nor you either, Dick?”
“Not then. I was sent to carry home a costly
garment he had been purchasing, and on my return, I
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met him once more in the open street. I walked up to
him, I could not help it, and called him brother. He
made no reply. He stood there as if thunderstruck
at my audacity, and I left him with his fashionable
friend and walked on. That was all; but oh, Mr.
Goldthwaite, if you knew how I loved him; how I
have dreamed at night of some chance meeting, when
the voice of kindred blood would be too strong for
restraint, and he would throw himself upon my neck
and weep.”
There was a strange moisture about Simon Goldthwaite's
eyes. He wouldn't have been suspected of
crying for the world, but he coughed and ahemmed, and
finally turned away without speaking. He came back
at length, and wringing Dick's hand said, in a tone of
honest, hearty sympathy, “You are a good boy, Dick.
My heart warms to you, as it doesn't very often warm
to any body. I can feel it all. I don't see how the
fellow could help speaking to you, and yet, may-be, he
made it a point of conscience. Some people have
very tender consciences, nowadays. Humph! Dick,
remember, you are to change boarding-places at
quarter-time. It won't cost you as much as it does
now. You shall share my room, for I want you where
I can see to you.”
From that night the rough but kind-hearted man
was Dick's firm and faithful friend. He himself had
risen by slow degrees from the position of
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[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
errandboy, until, at thirty, he found himself head clerk and
confidential adviser of the noted establishment he
served. He could fully sympathize with the boy's
loneliness and heart-sickness, and he resolved to open
a path for him to success.
That night, long after the turbulent hum of the
great city had gradually died away; long after gayest
revellers had left the theatres and assembly rooms,
Warren Clifford paced restlessly to and fro in his
chamber, communing with his own heart. Do what he
would, the newly-wakened chord would not cease to
vibrate—the voice of kindred would not be silenced.
Two mournful hazel eyes seemed continually meeting
his own; and a voice, tremulous with sorrow, said
over and over again in his ears, “Good-bye, brother
Warren.” He could not resolve to condemn himself
for the part he had acted. It was his duty, as he repeated
many times that night to his unquiet heart;
his duty to keep faith with his adopted parents. Alas,
if, that hour, less worthy motives arose to haunt him,
and he bowed his head before the mocking spectres of
sinful pride and unchristian vanity. But, through all,
he kept his promise to Juno, faithfully. She was still
dearer than all the rest of earth. Not even to have
knelt at his own mother's feet, and felt her hands laid
in blessing upon his head, would he have stricken that
proud woman's heart with a single pang. But the
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Past was strangely distinct before him, with its early
joys, its after-current of want and misery. Through
the breezes blowing over its unquiet fields, he heard
the distant gurgle of the waves closing over his dead
father—then there stole to him his mother's gentle
voice, and the low cadence of his sister's evening
prayers, and Dick was once more beside him. He
lived over again the dark days that followed—
when his sick mother's face grew each day paler and
thinner—when even Emmie cried for bread, and the
little Mabel lifted to heaven the untroubled azure of
her sightless eyes, and whispered, “The little children
that Jesus holds in his arms don't ever get very hungry,
do they, mamma?” Then, into the midst of all
this gloom and suffering, he seemed once more to watch
Juno Clifford's coming, with her grace, and her wondrous
beauty, and still, even as to his childish fancy,
she seemed the embodiment of all bright and lovely
things; and involuntarily he whispered once more,
after all this lapse of years—“The angel, mother!”
It was nearly morning before he threw himself on
his bed for an hour of troubled sleep, and then his
dreams were as unquiet as his waking visions had
been. He seemed walking through crowded streets,
with Juno Clifford on his arm, and at every corner he
met the sorrowful eyes of his brother Dick. Sometimes
Juno would hurry him along, and laugh triumphantly
as they left Dick behind them, but once he
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[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
paused to speak to him. His companion was transformed
to a beautiful demon, and vanished from his
sight. He awoke with a shudder. It wanted but
forty minutes to the time when he must start for
Boston.
“I have business out this evening, Juno,” said
John Clifford, rising and pushing back his chair, the
evening after Warren's return. “I suppose your
charming ladyship will want to give that new operacloak
an airing, so Warren can take you to hear
Norma; I brought home tickets.”
“Thank you,” said Juno, with her most brilliant
smile, but a moment after he left the room, she crossed
over to Warren's chair, and putting her arm about his
neck, whispered, playfully, “I believe I won't go after
all, Warren. I shan't have my dear boy at home very
long, and I want to see all I can of him. Will it be too
great a sacrifice to stay with your mother, darling?”
“No, indeed, it will be so much pleasanter to stay
with you. Do you know I have been thinking of late
how queer it sounds to hear you call me `son;' how
singular it is to say `mother,' to one so young and
beautiful!”
“Flatterer!” cried the lady, playfully, but with a
deep blush.
“No, sweetest mother, any thing but that. You
know well enough how beautiful you are, when you
see it every day in your mirror, and the very
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passersby in the street stand still, when they meet you, in an
involuntary homage. Oh, mother, how I love beauty!
I am going to marry when I find some one like you,
whose face it will be such a perpetual joy to look
upon.”
The proud woman trembled like a bashful girl as
she listened. He was silent for a moment, and then
he said in a husky tone—“Sit down, mother, please, I
have something to tell you.”
She obeyed, seating herself so that her own face
was in the shadow, while she could see the minutest
play of his every feature revealed in the strong light.
“Well, Warren?”
“Mother, day before yesterday I saw Dick.”
“Dick?” She repeated the word with an inquiring
cadence, as if she would encourage him to say more.
“Yes, Dick, mother; my own brother Dick, whom
I had not seen for five years.”
“Warren, Warren!” she exclaimed, earnestly—
“did you speak to him? did you forget your promise,
the conditions on which you came to us?”
“No, mother, I forgot nothing. I did not speak.”
“And he, did he speak to you, my son?”
“Only three words. I could see that my silence
was agony to him. He did not reproach me, but the
tone in which he said—`Good-bye, brother Warren,'
will haunt me to my dying day.”
Juno looked at him keenly. She could see the
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[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
veins swell in his forehead, and the tears gather in
his eyes. She waited a moment, and then she said,
in a low, sweet tone, “Come hither, Warren, my brave,
noble boy, and let me hold your head upon my breast,
as I have done in many another hour of trouble.
You were so good and true to keep your promise at
such a fearful cost. I know how hard it was, I can
feel it all.”
Warren felt the heart beat tumultuously against
which his head was lying. For a time there was silence
between them. Her mute sympathy satisfied
him. At length she bent over him, and whispered,
“Warren, in that hour did you love me better than
all? Did no longing to seek your other mother's side
cross this restless heart? Remember, you have sworn
I should be dearest. No other voice ever called
me mother; no other child ever clasped my neck.
Warren, Warren, dearer than life, answer me!”
The boy looked up, with his head still lying upon
her breast. He drew her hand tenderly to his lips.
Then he said, “God, who hears me, knows, that in
that hour even, I had not one wish to leave you. God
knows that in that hour, as in all others, you were
dearer to me than my own life. I could die for you
so easily—try me!”
“Nay, my beloved, I had rather you should live
for me;” and bending over him, in her bewildering
beauty, she pressed her lips to his own.
-- -- p652-123
VIII. WARREN'S FIRST PROPOSAL.
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The first three years of Warren Clifford's college
life passed rapidly away. His vacations were spent
in the society of his brilliant and fascinating mother,
alternately at Clifford Hall and Mount. Vernon
street. At twenty he was an unexceptionable type
of the pure Anglo-Saxon style of manly beauty. His
figure was tall, and rather slight, but well formed.
His features were regular, and yet expressive, and
about his manners there was a grace at once fascinating
and indescribable. It was near the beginning of
his senior year that an accident occurred which gave
a deeper coloring to his dreams. He was sauntering
carelessly through the elm-fringed streets of New
Haven, arm in arm with his old friend, Percy Douglass,
when his attention was attracted by a young
lady, directly in front of him on the sidewalk. There
was nothing remarkable about her, but from some
mysterious cause, every line of her graceful figure
seemed strangely familiar. She was leaning on the
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arm of a tall, distinguished looking girl, the hues of
whose shot silk dress were bright as the glancing
wing of a humming-bird. The young lady herself was
attired in a sky-blue crape, entirely without ornament,
and over her shoulders was thrown a simple
scarf of white muslin. And yet there was about her
whole costume an unmistakable air of refinement. She
wore her plain straw bonnet with the most bewitching
grace, and the hand that lifted for a moment the folds
of her flowing dress as she crossed the street, was
small and delicate. The tiny foot thus revealed, was
trimly clad in silk and morocco, and her every movement
betrayed the lady. For some time her face was
turned towards her companion, but she glanced
around, as she ascended the steps of a somewhat stately
mansion, and Warren had a full profile view of a
fair, sweet face, shaded by a profusion of golden ringlets.
It recalled a pleasant memory of a sunset time
a little more than three years before, of a fair young
girl robed in white leaning against the portico of a
rustic cottage. There was no mistaking that spiritual
face, those delicately moulded features. “Grace!”
he exclaimed, as the door closed behind her. “Good
Heavens, Percy! I must see her. How shall we
manage?”
“Is she an old friend, Warren?”
“Yes, and the very dearest girl. What shall I
do? I tell you I must see her.”
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“Well, only be patient; nothing easier. This
house where she has stopped is my cousin Sue Barrington's.
Sue gives a party this evening, and we are
both invited. Your unknown will of course be there,
as she is evidently intimate. Come, Ware, you've
only to moderate your transports a few hours longer.”
The sun was a terribly long time going down,
but eight o'clock came at last, and Warren Clifford
found himself in Miss Barrington's brilliantly lighted
rooms. The folding-doors were thrown open, and, as
if guided by some strange intuition, his eyes were instantaneously
directed to a merry group standing near
the piano, in the back parlor, of which Grace seemed
the centre of attraction. He advanced, with as much
composure as he could summon, to pay his compliments
to his hostess, and was detained a few moments
by her side in conversation. Percy had left him almost
immediately on his entrance, and it was nearly a
quarter of an hour before he returned, with a slight,
graceful figure, robed in white, leaning upon his arm.
“Well, Warren, I have forestalled you,” he laughed
merrily—“Miss Atherton, here is my poor friend
Clifford. He recognized you to-day as you came up
the steps, and it took all the weight of my influence
to prevent him from breaking open Miss Barrington's
front door, just to get another sight at you.”
For a moment the blue, smiling eyes sought
Warren Clifford's face, then they were suddenly cast
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down, till the long, golden lashes drooped upon her
blushing cheeks. The hand she extended trembled
in his fervent clasp. “Come with me, Grace,” he
whispered, drawing her arm through his own, and
leading her into the hall. There he threw a shawl
around her shoulders, and laughingly asked “would
she borrow his hat, or should he send her to look after
a bonnet.”
“A bonnet! what are you going to do?”
“Nothing very shocking, little one, but these
October evenings are rather chilly. I haven't seen
you for more than three years, and I'm just going to
take you out into the garden for a bit of a talk.”
She smiled, and running up stairs, returned with
a light garden hat tied over her golden curls. The
evening was beautiful. The October moon flooded
the scene with its glory, and the elm-boughs waved
between earth and sky, and seemed at every kiss
of the wind-spirits to shiver with delight. It was
a beautiful garden, through whose winding paths
they walked. Its high walls o'errun with climbing
vines, its sun-dial, and summer-house, gave it a somewhat
English character. The autumn flowers were in
the full bloom of their gorgeous beauty; dahlias, and
marigolds, and sweet peas, with a score of rarer and
more costly shrubs, and amid them lingered the mignonette,
the summer's sweetest nursling, filling the air
with its breath of perfume. They walked on for some
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time in silence. Warren was the first to speak.—“So
you thought of me sometimes, through the long three
years, did you, Gracie?”
“Yes, very often. It was lonesome at first, when
I knew you had sent for your things, and heard,
through Mr. Hastings, that you weren't coming back
any more. And you know you never sent me so
much as a message, and pretty soon you stopped writing
even to him. We thought you had quite forgotten
Glenthorne.”
“Forgotten! How could you? I never sent you
any message because I hardly felt that I had a right,
and I stopped writing to Hastings because I knew
he was an earnest man, living with a purpose; and
though he might be too kind to refuse to answer my
letters, yet they wouldn't be worth enough to warrant
such a waste of his time. How is he now? The
same hard worker as ever?”
“Yes, only in another way. Haven't you heard
how rich he is?”
“No, I've heard nothing about Glenthorne. I
supposed he was poor. He was thirty when I knew
him, and I supposed he had his fortune still to carve
out.”
“On the contrary, he was very rich all that time.
It all came out about a year after you left Glenthorne.
His property had been steadily increasing, all those
years that every one thought him but a poor
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schoolteacher. He was doing that, he says, partly for mental
discipline, and partly to see how many friends he
could win to love him for his own sake; and, so when
he was through with his experiments, he bought the
old Priory grounds. You know how beautiful they
were, and he has built there just the sweetest cottage
you ever saw; not a little one, like ours, but a large
English-looking house, with dining-room, and parlors,
and library, and low windows with vines climbing over
them.”
Warren smiled at the odd mixture of ideas in her
description, and then said, carelessly, “Of course he
has a Mrs. Hastings, or it would be like a very pretty
bird's nest, without the bird in it.”
“No; unless you reckon the housekeeper, there
isn't any lady at Sunny Nook. By the way, isn't
that a pretty name? I told him once I thought the
house seemed almost too grand and stately for it,
though. But he said he meant it should just be a
real home; and if he thought it did not look so, he
would tear it down, and build over again; but he
wanted plenty of room. Then he pointed to the hillside
sloping down from the east wing of the house.
It was covered with anemones and violets, and golden
butter-cups. There were the most of the butter-cups.
It was fairly yellow with them, and the butterflies
were flitting over and over, with their glancing
wings, just like light. Then I understood it; I saw
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that every little, helpless thing was free and happy
there, and it was just a nook for all of them.”
“And so you thought I had forgotten you?” said
Warren, returning again to the old subject.
“It certainly looked like it, though I never could
quite think so. It had to be faith, you know, and
that's hard work without any evidence.”
“Yes”—and then Warren repeated musingly the
last verse of one of Grace's own poems—
“Very cold the sunshine falleth
On the path he used to tread,
And her heart beats with a question—
`Is he false, or is he dead?'”
“Did you read that, Warren?” the young girl
asked, with a quick blush.
Warren did not notice the sudden flushing of her
cheek, and he answered, quietly—“Yes, I certainly
read it, and you perceive I remembered it. By the
way, do you write poetry now, Gracie?”
She laughed—“No, I never did write poetry. It's
a funny word to be applied to silly little Grace. I
used to write something that jingled, but I have pretty
much given that up since I left off going to school to
Mr. Hastings, and when I do write any thing I put it
in the fire.”
“And yet it is in you, Grace, I know it is!”
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“What is in me? nothing very dangerous I hope;
do relieve my anxiety.”
“Nonsense, Grace! I mean the genius, the inspiration.
I know you have it, I always did know it,
ever since that night I saw you standing and looking
up to the sunset. I saw it then in your lifted glance,
your ethereal figure, your whole attitude. Grace, do
you want to be famous?”
“I don't know, I have never thought; I might, if it
would make people love me, or if I could help any
one by it.”
“But for itself, Grace. Have you no wish that
the world should call you gifted; that the great and
noble should do homage to your genius?”
“I believe not,” she answered, saucily. “I can't
see that it would help me along with my geometry, or
soften the heart of my deaf old music-master.”
“Grace, you are incorrigible. How came you here
in New Haven?”
“Oh, I was sent to school here to be finished. I
have been here ever since July, and I'm going to stay
a whole year. Only think, I didn't know you were in
town, until to-day, I heard Sue Barrington say you
were coming to her party.” She paused a moment,
and then she said, in a lower tone, “Warren, have you
always thought of me, when you thought of Mabel
and Emmie? You promised, you know.”
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“Yes, Gracie, always. I have seen Dick since
then!”
“Your own brother Dick?” Her face beamed with
the intensity of her interest, though it grew somewhat
shaded as she listened to his account of the interview.
“And you couldn't speak to him?” she
asked, sadly, as he concluded his recital.
“No, it would not have been right. But I must
take you into the house. I've kept you out here an
hour, already. Where are you staying? Can I call
on you?”
“Oh, yes; you can come any time. I board at
Col. Hargrave's. Sara Hargrave, or Lady Sara, as
all the girls call her, is the most beautiful person you
ever saw.”
“A song, a song,” cried a half-dozen voices, as Grace
entered the parlor. “Yes, and let me choose it,” whispered
Warren, entreatingly. He led her to the piano,
and turned the leaves of a music-book, till he found a
ballad he remembered to have heard his own mother
sing, in his early boyhood. While she was singing,
he hung over the piano, too much absorbed even to
turn the leaves of the music. His mind was making
pictures of his early life, his mother, his gentle sisters,
and his brother Dick, and ever among them, as if she
were one of themselves, came the sweet face of Grace
Atherton. Later in the evening, while Grace was
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dancing with one of his classmates, he was presented
to Miss Hargrave—Lady Sara! She was certainly
worthy of her title. Her beauty was somewhat in
the Juno Clifford style. That is, she had heavy
braids of glossy black hair, and large, passionate black
eyes, but her complexion, instead of Juno's brilliant
olive, was pale and clear as the finest marble, and her
features were very different. Every movement of her
stately figure betokened high, vigorous health. The
blood evidently bounded, rather than flowed through
her veins. Her features were by no means what is
called spiritual, and yet they had an indefinable expression
of purity. Her brow was calm, and lofty,
and her haughty mouth wore a look of high resolve,
tempered by feminine gentleness. On the whole, you
would have pronounced her no angel, but a woman,
very high-toned, and very beautiful. She wore what
not another lady in the room could have worn—a dress
of deep crimson velvet, so long as to sweep the carpet
with the heavy folds. She was entirely without ornament,
save a cluster of white lilies in her hair, and a
single diamond, fastening the point-lace folds upon
her bosom.
That night, Warren's dreams were a little confused.
Two faces haunted them—one very sweet, very gentle,
very delicate; the other, sparkling, entrancing, bewilderingly
beautiful. He became a frequent visitor
at Col. Hargrave's. It was a debatable point in his
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own mind, which of the young ladies he went to see,
and as they were usually together, it did not much
matter. If either of them were out, the other became
the reigning divinity for the time being. And
so it chanced that the last evening he was to spend in
New Haven previous to his spring vacation, finding
Miss Hargrave alone, he invited that young lady to
be his companion in a long walk. She was quite bewildering
in walking costume, with a shawl of crimson
cashmere folded about her regal figure, and her white
leghorn bonnet just shading her beautiful face, and
deepening the contrast of her dark hair. It was a
lovely evening, and the path they had chosen led
through one of the sweetest spots in all the environs
of New Haven. Their conversation was very interesting;
and the scene, the hour, above all, the radiant
woman by his side, were quite excuse enough, to any
reasonable person, for a very susceptible young gentleman
coming to the conclusion that he was in love. At
least Warren Clifford thought them so. “I am so happy,”
he exclaimed, fervently, as they seated themselves
to rest, upon a moss-grown seat, in the full moonlight.
“You are too easily influenced. You live too
much in the present,” said Lady Sara, quietly. “Such
happiness is unstable, it comes and goes as the wind
changes.”
“But is not living in the present the only true and
real life?”
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“In one sense it is. We must do the present duty
without looking remorsefully back over the past, or
longingly onward into the far fields of the future.
`By little and little' must the high wall be built. But
it was not that I meant. We must not suffer ourselves
thoughtlessly to enjoy every thing that seems pleasant
for the time. We must not forget that just as surely
as, for the earth, there is seed-time and harvest, there
is, for every little act, its consequence on earth and
in Heaven!” Her face, as she spoke, seemed radiant
with inspiration—it was sublime. Warren threw himself
at her feet, and pressed her hand to his lips.
“Oh, Lady Sara,” he exclaimed, passionately—“I
love you, I adore you. Be my teacher, you can make
me what you will. Only promise to be my wife, my
guardian angel!”
The lady smiled, but it was not a smile to give
courage to a lover's heart. “Please to get up,” she
said, with an amused tone. Our hero arose, with an
air somewhat crest-fallen, and seated himself beside
her. “I don't want you to say any more such things
to me,” she continued, “because you do not mean them.
You may fancy me, but you love Grace Atherton.
I have known it ever since that first evening I saw
you together, and if you don't know it now, you'll find
it out soon enough.”
“Perhaps you are right” said Warren, submissively.
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“Right? I am certain of it. Beside, I thought
you knew I was the betrothed wife of Joseph Seaton,
else I should never have treated you with such sister-like
freedom. I forgot though, he has been out of
New Haven ever since you commenced visiting at the
house.”
“Well, my lady, it seems to me you've a mighty
straightforward way of telling of your engagement,”
was Warren's thought, but he simply said, “I congratulate
you, Miss Hargrave; but, pardon me, I thought
you were very proud.”
“What then?”
“Nothing, only Joseph Seaton is a poor beneficiary
student, and will be a poor clergyman!”
“Yes, and yet I am prouder of him than any
thing else on earth. I bow to talent and goodness,
and not to gold dollars.”
“And yet, I can hardly conceive of you as a
minister's wife.”
Lady Sara's beautiful eyes filled with tears, and
she spoke, after a moment, in a tone of suppressed agitation—
“I know I am unworthy—I feel it. I have
told him so many a time. Oh, I know it is a glorious
destiny to tread a path that has led in other days to
crowns of martyrdom—too high for me; too high and
too pure. But I love him, and I love his work. My
weak hands, but strong love, may strengthen him
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sometimes, and his teaching will make me every day more
worthy of the name I bear!”
“And I?” Warren's inquiring tone had a deep
cadence of sadness.
Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm through her
tears—“Oh, you will marry Grace Atherton, and be
happy. I predict for you a glorious future, if you can
only be true to yourself. God has given you a splendid
character, though I have sometimes feared that
only some great shock will rouse you to self-dependence,
and lofty action. I know what you can be—
we shall see in the future what you will be! But
come, let us go home, I must not engross all your
last evening!”
They found Grace in the drawing-room at home,
with Percy Douglass for her companion. He was reading
to her when they entered, and her cheek was
suffused with tender interest, her soft blue eyes filled
with tears. A sudden twinge of jealousy went a long
way to convince Warren that Miss Hargrave had not
been far wrong, when she asserted that he had loved
Grace Atherton from the first. He trembled lest her
heart had turned away, like a frightened bird, from
the cold refuge his formal politeness had of late
afforded, and gone to seek a nestling-place in another
bosom. She had never seemed more lovely. He
watched her graceful movements, her half-pensive face,
and listened to her low, sweet tones, with a new
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warmth at his heart. Sara Hargrave had been magnetic.
She had blinded, dazzled him, as when one
looks up to the sun at noontide in midsummer—
Grace shone on him like the virgin moon, or the patient,
ever-enduring stars, and his soul grew hushed
and glad in the beams of her quiet loveliness. When
he arose to go, Percy Douglass rose also, and both ladies
came into the hall, and stood for a moment in the
moonlight, by the open door. “Good-night,” he said
at length, extending his hand to Lady Sara—“you
have made me this night eternally your debtor.” His
tone was so low, that no one else comprehended his
words. Miss Hargrave understood him. She pressed
his hand reassuringly, as she answered,
“Yes, it is quite a long good-night. We shall not
see you again for at least three weeks.” He turned
to Grace. He fancied he saw a blush crimson her
cheek in the moonlight. For a moment her trembling
fingers rested on his outstretched palm. He
bent over her and whispered—“God bless my sweetest
sister!” The blue eyes were raised to his face. The
trembling hand very slightly returned his pressure;
he took his friend's arm, and walked thoughtfully
to his room.
-- -- p652-138
IX. THE VALEDICTORY.
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It was in Clifford Hall that Warren Clifford found
Juno. She had removed from the city a month
earlier than usual, because she remembered to have
heard him express a preference for their country
home. All his little tastes had been carefully consulted.
She had even taken care to remove his
favorite paintings from Mount Vernon street, and to
superintend in her own person the arrangement of his
room. He entered the house unobserved, and proceeded
immediately to his mother's boudoir. She
was reclining, in one of her listless moods, upon a
lounge. The quadroon sat at a little distance, reading
aloud one of Byron's impassioned poems. Every
thing was at once so bright and so gorgeous, that you
might have fancied it a scene from one of the Arabian
tales. The crimson furniture, the summer-like temperature
of the room, the mirrors, multiplying indefinitely
all this splendor, the soft-eyed pictures, the
empress-like woman upon the lounge, the dusky grace
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of the quadroon, conveyed an indefinable impression of
enchantment.
The door swung noiselessly open, and Warren entered.
Juno uttered a quick, glad cry of recognition,
and springing up, clasped him to her heart. The quadroon
lifted her eyes from the pages of the Giaour, and
bent them upon the two standing before her, with a
look of keen scrutiny. Juno understood the glance, and
said, somewhat less commandingly than usual, “You
can go now, Jane; I shall not want any more reading
this afternoon.” The girl obeyed, and then turning
to Warren, the lady murmured—“Thank Heaven,
dearest, that you are come. Sit down, and let me
talk to you.” She laid her head upon his shoulder,
and looked inquiringly up into his face. “Have you
been true, Warren? I dreamed last night that some
one else had won you away from me. Oh, Warren! I
should die if it were real. I thought she was beautiful
as an angel. You held her hand, and looked into
her eyes, and your mother's love was forgotten.”
“And thus go dreams by most delicious contrarieties.”
Warren bent over and kissed her, as he quoted
the line.
“Are you sure? Has not your heart wandered?
Am I dearest still?”
Warren thought of Lady Sara, but his regard for
her seemed a mere admiration, a passing fancy. Then
Grace Atherton's image rose up before him, in her
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youth, her innocence, her quiet loveliness; but he felt
even she could never be as dear as the beautiful woman
who had been his idol from boyhood, and he answered
very fervently, “Now, and always, you are
dearest, my own mother. Have I not sworn no other
love should come between us?”
Juno seemed satisfied; her only answer was to
draw his hand caressingly to her lips. For a time
they sat there in silence. Once more in his mother's
presence, Warren half doubted whether his love for
Grace Atherton had, after all, been more than a fervent
friendship. He had resolved, that for the present
he would not mention her to Mrs. Clifford, and he
found this resolution by no means difficult to keep.
If he had thought Sara Hargrave magnetic, Juno was
ten times more so. Her power over him was bewildering.
Under its influence, he had not a single
thought for any one else. He would sit by her side,
read to her, follow her from room to room, drive her
out in her little pony carriage, or lay his head in her
lap, and listen to her singing, in a perfect trance of
delight. He was so absorbed, it seemed a surprise
when the gong sounded for dinner, when it was bedtime,
or when Mr. Clifford returned in the afternoon.
And yet, all this time, his love was pure as Heaven.
He knew, indeed, that she was a graceful and beautiful
woman, scarcely twelve years older than himself.
He had heard of marriages, happy ones, with more
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than that difference; but he thought of her only as
his mother, always gentle to him, however proud and
imperious she might be to others. He loved her almost
adoringly, and yet, in the midst of her fascinations,
he had many times made fancy pictures about
some future day, when he would bring home a sweet
young wife, who should love his mother even as he
did, and whom Juno would welcome for his sake.
Sometimes he would speak to her of this, and
she would smile upon him very sweetly, keeping down
the bitterness in her heart, and say—“that day was
a good way in the future. He was too young to think
of such things now. He must be her own pet boy a
few years longer.”
Sometimes the quadroon would hear these remarks,
as she braided up her mistress's hair, and Juno looking
at her face in the mirror opposite, would notice that
same peculiar look which had attracted her attention
on the evening of Warren's arrival. Mr. Clifford
was more than ever absorbed in his business. Through
the mismanagement of the European partner, the
house had lost heavily in some foreign stock speculations.
Not enough, indeed, to affect his magnificent
private fortune, or in the least endanger the business
reputation of the firm, but still enough to be a source
of perplexity and vexation. There was one room
at Clifford Hall which he called his study. Its plainness
and simplicity were in striking contrast to the
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splendor of the remaining portion of the house. He
passed most of the time he spent at home, in this
room, shut up with his books and papers. The furrows
of care deepened on his brow, and his locks grew
grayer and grayer, and Juno Clifford, watching him,
drooped the lashes over her flashing eyes, and thought
in the depths of her guilty, miserable heart, that he
had not many more years to be in the way. She was
very gentle to him, nowadays, and seemed far more
thoughtful of his comfort than of old; and yet in his
hours of trial and loneliness, he had no wife but the
imaginary one to sit beside him, and kiss the shadows
from his brow.
Warren stood alone at the window of the spacious
drawing-room, the evening before he returned to Yale.
It was what the country folks call an early spring.
The sun was just setting, and he was watching the
pageantry of clouds in the pathway of the fallen
monarch, and turning his eyes, from time to time,
upon the garden walks, growing so gay with flowers.
He felt an arm steal softly around his neck, and turning,
met Juno's reproachful gaze. “Going away to-morrow
morning, Warren, and yet watching the sun
go down alone?”
“I was just coming to you, mother.”
“Oh, my boy, Warren, these partings kill me.”
“But this one is only for three months, mother
darling, and then I am coming home to stay.”
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“I know it, but who can tell what new grief those
three months may bring? It is like being shut out of
Heaven to have you leave me!”
“Don't, mother. Oh, if you only knew how your
grief pains me. It almost makes me resolve not to go
back, and yet I have such high hopes for this last
term.”
“Will you realize them?”
“I am almost certain of it. Remember, you promised
to come and rejoice in my success. And now
let us go to the piano. The twilight is just falling,
and I so love to have your twilight songs to dream
over.”
When Warren Clifford called at Col. Hargrave's
for the first time after his return, there was a timid,
yet delighted agitation in Grace Atherton's manner,
that gave him keen emotions of delight, notwithstanding
the indifference he had been professing to his
own heart, during his recent sojourn at Clifford Hall.
Joseph Seaton had returned, and as he engrossed Miss
Hargrave's attention during most of the evenings,
those short delicious evenings of spring and summer,
Warren had many uninterrupted opportunities for
conversation with Miss Atherton. More and more
was he charmed with the unaffected simplicity and
purity of her character.
Many an hour they rambled through the lovely
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environs of New Haven, with the whispering elm-boughs
between them and the moonlight. Daily he realized
that his soul grew purer, his motives higher, for her
gentle influence. His love for her was very deep, but
calm and quiet, and so healthful. It never lured him
from his duty, but only served to strew flowers in his
pathway toward the true and right. There was none
of the subtle magnetic fascination, by which Juno
Clifford had power to make him deem “the worse, the
better reason.” He seldom considered whether she
was beautiful. He well knew there was nothing in
her quiet loveliness to attract a moment's admiration
by the side of Juno's superb figure, and dark, bewildering
eyes; but he felt that it was a very sweet face,
nevertheless.
He found her capable of sympathizing in his
highest pursuits. Triumphantly he sought her side,
when the honor for which he was striving, the appointment
of valedictorian, had been awarded him. “I am
so glad,” she said, innocently, lifting her sweet blue
eyes. Warren had much ado to avoid straining her
then and there to his heart; it was so dear a thing to
see the glow of pleasure his success brought to that
young face. But he was acquiring self-control, and
had resolved to wait, for a time, before attempting to
win her love. He wished to be secure of his own constancy.
He had too high a soul to win a young
heart, and then leave it to break; and too ardent
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impulses to be happy with a wife whom he did not
idolize. He had resolved to be quite certain, before
hazarding her happiness, or his own; so he merely
thanked her by an expressive look, and then begged
her to choose his subject.
It was not till the evening before commencement,
that he felt sufficiently assured of his position to declare
his love. Leading her to a sylvan nook, which
looked a very temple for lovers vows, he sat down beside
her, and recounted the story of the Past. He
spoke of their early friendship, of their first meeting
at New Haven. Then he confessed the spell, under
whose influence he had become a suitor for Miss Hargrave's
hand, and told her how patiently he had waited
ever since, that he might be fully assured of his own
constancy; and then he said, in the low earnest tones,
of profound truth—“I know I am not worthy of you,
my sweet Grace, but I do believe that you have more
power than any other to make me what a true man
ought to be. I love you with a love that can never
waver, and I will consecrate my whole life to your
happiness. Such as I am, will you take me, Gracie?”
Grace bowed her head upon her hand, and wept.
He thought she pitied him, because her heart gave
forth no response to his words. “Nay, then, Grace,
darling,” he whispered, bending over her, and feeling
a perverse dimness stealing over his own eyes at the
same time,—“Nay, then, do not weep for me. I am
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not worth those tears. Only speak to me; I must
hear my fate in words, though it be to go out from
your presence with an anguished heart.”
Her hands dropped quietly upon her lap, and she
looked up, her eyes making sunshine through the falling
tears—“Warren,” her tone was fairly tremulous
with joy, “do you not see, if I weep, it is because this
is greater happiness than I have ever dared to hope?
Warren, I have loved you all these years!”
For an instant he caught her hand in both his
own—he murmured, passionately, “God in Heaven
bless you, darling,” then he pressed upon her brow a
single kiss, the pure token of their betrothal. For a
time they talked of the future, with all that earnest
hope of which young and happy hearts have an inexhaustible
treasury. It might be still some time
ere Warren could claim his bride, since it would depend
on the will of his parents; but she was to remain
in the mean while at Glenthorne, and see and
hear from him very often. In the whole star-lighted
sky of their future, to those loving eyes there seemed
no single cloud. Then after a time there was silence
between them, that sweet, delicious silence of two
hearts which love has made one, so much more eloquent
than words.
At length Grace broke the spell. She drew a letter
from her pocket. “Did I tell you papa will be
here to-morrow morning to take me home?”
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“What! Your school closed to-day, did it not; but
surely, Gracie, you will wait to hear my address.
You know you chose the subject.”
“I hope so. I am almost certain I can persuade
papa to permit it. He is always indulgent. But any
way we must say good-bye to-night. We should go,
at least as soon as the orations are over, and you will
have no time to attend to me to-morrow.”
“That is true. My mother is to spend to-night
at a friend's house four miles out of the city, and she
will be in, early in the morning. Beside, there are
the processions of students, and the bustle, and confusion.
Yes, it must come to-night, but it will not be
for very long. I shall visit Glenthorne as soon as I
get rested. I wish I could see your father to-morrow,
and ask him to give me my little wife.” For an hour
or two longer they sat upon the moss-grown seat. In
spite of the coming parting, they were very happy.
Nineteen and twenty-one are ages when the spirits are
too elastic to be long borne down by any grief which
is not utterly hopeless. There were few words spoken,
but he held her hand fervently clasped in his own,
with a pressure, which seemed to promise, over and
over again, love and protection for all the future.
“We must go home,” whispered Grace, at length;
“see how late it is getting. The moon is almost
down, and you look so very tired to-night. You must
go home and rest.”
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He rose, and lifting up her face towards the moonlight,
looked earnestly into her eyes. “Yes, you must
go home, my pet dove, you need rest more than I do.
Grace, promise me once more that no fate shall utterly
part us, that come what may, you will be my own
true wife for ever.”
“I will!”
“God bless you, Grace; I trust in your words
as if an angel had spoken them, and never, never
come what may of trial or trouble—never, as I hope
for Heaven's mercy, shall another head rest on my
heart. You shall be mine, or I will have no bride
but death!” And so they walked homeward, hand in
hand, pondering over in their hearts the vow which
they had vowed unto the Lord. At the door Warren
paused. “I cannot go in,” he said, “it is late,
and I do not want to say good-night before any other
eyes than the stars of Heaven!”
“It must be good-bye this time!”
“Yes; but courage, darling, it will be only for a
little while. In two weeks I shall be with you at
Glenthorne, and in the mean time I will write you.
You will hear from me in a week at farthest. One
thing, Grace, promise me that you will love Mrs.
Clifford for my sake. I know it will be a bitter grief
to her, to hear that my heart has chosen to itself an
idol; but she loves me so, she will bear it for my sake
without a murmur. I am all she has to love except
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my father, and I have sometimes thought there was
a shadow between her heart and his. He is so different
from her, in her youth and the splendor of her
beauty. I have told her, that if ever I brought home
a bride, my wife should love her even as I love her.
Can you fulfil this promise, Grace?”
“Yes, dearest, for the sake of all her tenderness to
you, I will love her gladly.”
And now he put his arm around her, and drew
her passionately to his bosom for the first time. He
pressed his lips to hers in a long, lingering kiss; he
smoothed tenderly back the soft waves of her hair; he
called her his child, his pet, his little darling; and then
gathering courage for the effort, he said, earnestly, as
he put her from him, “Good-bye, sweetest Grace, God
in Heaven bless you, my bride, my beloved.”
Never had a commencement been more brilliant.
The galleries were thronged with crowds of beautiful
women; there were rustling silks and glancing fans,
fluttering of veils and waving of handkerchiefs,
and that morning Juno Clifford had come. She met
Warren with a triumphant smile. His father shook
hands with him heartily, and uttered a few words of
sincere congratulation, and now Mr. and Mrs. John
Clifford sat there in front of the stage, awaiting the
valedictory.
There was an indistinct murmur of admiration
-- 141 --
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as the young student came before the audience. He
had labored wearily during all the term, and his face
was very pale, while his eyes sparkled with unwonted
brilliancy. His golden curls clustered short and
thick upon his open brow, and his slight, elastic figure
looked very graceful, arrayed in the flowing black
gown of the graduates.
His subject, “Oratory of the Past and the
Present,” had been Grace Atherton's selection, and
her smiles had been his inspiration. He was calm,
collected, and irresistibly eloquent. His clear, deep
voice filled the house with its melody, and all else
was so still, you could almost have listened to the
beating of your own heart. And ever, as he spoke,
there were two seats on which the young student's
eyes turned lingeringly.
In one sat a woman, proud, radiant, beautiful.
Her heavy brocade dress, her sleeves and stomacher
of costliest lace, the ostrich feathers curling around
her leghorn hat, and the diamonds sparkling on
neck, arms, and the ungloved hand which was
carelessly twirling a fan, gorgeous with the plumage
of tropical birds; all betokened the extreme of wealth
and fashion. Her dark, magnetic eyes were bent
eagerly upon the speaker. In her attitude, as she sat
leaning back against the cushioned seat, there was a
kind of indolent grace, a luxurious abandon; but her
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look was interested, intense, almost impatient. You
would have thought the speaker was one in whom
she had centred much of love, much of pride.
The occupant of the other seat was a young girl,
very slight, and very fair. She reminded you of a
half-opened rose-bud. Her dress gave no evidence
of wealth, and rather betokened taste than fashion.
It was a simple muslin robe, with a quiet little cottage
bonnet of plain straw, and a muslin mantle.
And yet she was very lovely. She looked so child-like
and so innocent in her white robes; leaning
forward, with her wide opened blue eyes, her parted
lips, and her small hands clasped upon her lap. Two
loves! Juno Clifford and Grace Atherton, what
could there be more of contrast? The one, magnificent
in silk and diamonds, with her haughty, defiant
grace, her dark, sparkling eyes, and her coronet of
jetty hair; the other, so very sweet and simple in her
cool muslin—so young, so pure!
And yet they both loved him. You could see
that one kindred element, spite of the wide dividing
line of wealth and circumstance, and all which marks
the exclusive kingdom of Up-Town!
When he had concluded, and the house range with
applause, you might have seen a flush of satisfaction
on Juno's sparkling face, and an air of triumph, as
she drew her heavily wrought shawl about her regal
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figure. Had you looked at the young girl, you
might have noted, as Warren did, a quick blush, a
suffusion of the timid blue eye with proud and happy
tears, and a look of half-prayerful thankfulness, as
she arose to follow her father from the house.
-- -- p652-153
X. JUNO CLIFFORD WRITES A LETTER.
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Warren Clifford awoke, the morning after his return
home, with a dull, heavy pain in his head and
limbs. He arose, and attempted to cross the floor,
but was overpowered by a strange dizziness. He had
hardly strength enough to ring his bell, and inquire
for Mr. Clifford. He was lying upon the bed when
his father entered the room. Mr. Clifford started
back in alarm as he clasped the feverish hand, and
noted the quick, irregular beating of the pulse.
“Warren, poor fellow,” he said, almost with a woman's
tenderness of tone, “you are very ill; I shall send for
Dr. Greene directly.”
“It's nothing but a hard headache, father, I got
so very tired.”
“I fear we shall find it something much more serious.
At least I shall be better satisfied, if I have
the Doctor's opinion.”
“An attack of brain fever, and a very bad case,”
was Doctor Greene's verdict. “The young gentleman
has certainly been over-worked.”
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“It was for my sake,” whispered Juno to herself,
“only to gratify my miserable pride, and now if he
should die!” She wrung her hands, and sank down
upon her knees by the bedside. Words of prayer
came to her lips for the first time in years, but it was
a mad, passionate cry to Heaven, that he she loved
might be spared to her. There was no penitence for
her own sins, no supplication for pardon. It was only
the wail of the woman's heart, guilty, miserable, unrepentant,
and yet recognizing Heaven.
Before nightfall Warren was delirious. For almost
two weeks his fever raged with unceasing violence.
He would shriek out for Juno, sometimes, in
his delirium, and she would snatch his head to her
bosom, and cover his fevered lips with kisses, crying
out in the silence betwixt them two and Heaven, “I
am here, I am here, my beloved!”
For many hours each day she would banish all
others from the room, and sitting as in a trance by
his bedside, listen to the utterances of his frenzy.
Sometimes he seemed living over again the scenes of
his early childhood. He would clasp his hands, and
say piteously, “Oh, mother, I cannot see you sit here
and starve. Is there no help?” Then he would seem
to recall the passionate farewell, when he broke from
his mother's arms and walked along the crowded
streets, with streaming eyes, to his new home. But
more than all these, he talked of Dick. Over and
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over again he would implore his forgiveness. He
would shriek out to him not to kill him, not to look
at him so with his reproachful eyes; and then he
would say so pleadingly that he must keep his word,
didn't Dick know he had promised?”
At other times he would seem absorbed in study,
and doubtful of success; and then there would be a
dream of one whom he called his inspiration. Juno
would have given worlds to know if he meant her.
There were hours, too, in which he would fancy himself
at home with her, and so happy—“Let me lay my
head in your lap, mother,” he would say, and then,
after a moment—“There, that's right, now; please
sing to me; I knew I should be better when I came
home to you.” One such sentence would repay that
proud woman for all the weariness of her watching.
Mr. Clifford always stayed with him at night.
The twelfth evening good Dr. Greene foretold a
crisis. Juno had been with difficulty persuaded to
retire, the Doctor was sleeping in an arm-chair by the
window, and John Clifford stood alone by the bedside
of his adopted son. He had never dreamed until this
sickness, how dear a place that son held in his heart.
His love for Juno had never yet outgrown the passionate
romance of long ago. She was still his idol. Compared
with her all the rest of earth was valueless as an
egg-shell. But outside that charmed circle of which
she was the sun and the centre, no one had so warm a
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nook in his heart as Warren. He was very proud of
the young man, and perhaps this strengthened his attachment.
He leaned over the bedside with anxiety
which surprised even himself. And as he watched,
Warren slowly unclosed his eyes. It needed but a
single glance, to see that he was delirious no longer.
But he evidently realized nothing of the Past. He
seemed awaking from some troubled dream. “Father,”
he said, anxiously, “you will not bid me give
her up?”
“Her, my son! whom do you mean?”
“Grace! my promised bride, Grace Atherton.
Surely I have told you before?”
“No, you have said nothing about it.”
“You will love her, I'm sure you will; and, father,”—
Mr. Clifford bent his head lower to catch the whisper
which was becoming more and more faint—
“please don't tell mother yet!”
“No, no, I will leave it for you to tell her yourself,
my boy.”
The assurance seemed to satisfy him, and he
closed his eyes and sank into a quiet slumber. The
next morning he awoke calm and refreshed, but very
weak still. “The danger is passed,” said the physician
in a tone of calm assurance. Juno was leaning
over the bedside. She bent down and pressed her
lips impetuously to his brow, whispering so low that
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no one else could hear it—“Thank God! I had well-nigh
been once more alone.”
It was several days before he had strength
enough for conversation. During this time, except
for a few hours at night, Juno never left him. He
could only let his hand lie quietly in hers, and reward
her by an occasional smile, or a low word of
thanks, but she was satisfied.
“Mother,” he said as she entered his room, on
the morning of the fifth day, “I want you to do something
for me this morning. It is nearly three weeks,
is it not, since I was first taken sick?”
“Yes, dear, nearly.”
“And there has been such an anxious heart all
this time. There is one who ought to have known
long ago. Will you write a letter for me this morning?
I had rather you should write it than to delegate
the office to Jane.”
“To Mr. Douglas, I suppose?”
“No, mother, to Miss Atherton. I am betrothed,
my mother!”
A quick cry burst from Juno's pallid lips, and she
sank senseless upon the floor. Warren pulled the
bell till the string broke. He was not yet strong
enough to lift her in his arms, but he raised her head,
and supported it tenderly. In an instant the quadroom
entered. She glanced around the room, and
then looked in his face, with the keen gaze peculiar
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[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
to her, before advancing to her mistress. Then
quietly coming to her side, she sprinkled her assiduously
with eau de cologne, and held a vinaigrette to
her nostrils. In a few moments she was perfectly
recovered. The first thought of her returning consciousness,
was a fear lest Warren should have understood
the cause of her emotion. She sat down in a
chair by the writing-table as quietly as if nothing
had occurred. “I hope you were not alarmed, dear
Warren,” she said in a cheerful tone. “These fainting
turns are quite common with me, especially of
late, since I have been so exhausted with anxiety.
Don't talk about it, please, I don't want to fancy myself
sick. I feel quite well now, and you shall tell me
all about this new daughter you wish to give me.”
The story was quickly recounted, he concealed nothing,
not even the episode with Miss Hargrave; and
his voice grew low and thrilling in its tenderness, as
he lingered over the last evening he had spent with
Grace, and repeated his promise of visiting her in
three weeks, and writing in the mean time. “Poor
Grace!” he said, “how she must have suffered; and
oh, mother, she loves me so!”
Juno sat in silence for a few moments, her head
bowed upon her hand. The tidings she had heard,
while they stung her soul with grief, only served to
arouse at once all the craft, and all the energy of her
strange character. “Should she give him up?” she
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asked herself, “him, whom it had been the sole labor
of years to secure—the only one her proud heart had
ever loved? Must she see another happy in his
caresses? Should she doom herself to a long, hopeless
life of misery and loneliness, for the sake of this
young girl, this interfering stranger, who did not,
could not, love him as she did? Was he not hers, her
own? Had she not taken him from poverty, cared
for him in health, and nursed him in sickness, and was
she to lose her reward? John Clifford's hair was
every day growing grayer, and she,”—she raised her
head and looked into the mirror—“she grew younger,
it almost seemed; and fairer still, if that were possible—
he might be all her own yet; he must. But
how?” This was the question. She saw that he
loved this young girl. She had studied his character
fully. She knew that if she openly opposed his passion,
she would lose all hope of attracting him to herself.
He must not fathom her motives. He must
never see her otherwise than kind, unselfish, generous,
sympathizing. For the present, she must be his
mother, and trust to the future for the establishment
of a dearer tie. She would separate them; aye, on
that she was resolved, even if it broke the young girl's
heart, who had dared to come between them. But it
must be done skilfully; John Clifford should bear the
blame. She would write the letter since he had asked
it, at whatever cost of suffering to herself. “Courage,
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Juno,” she said under her breath, “and now, if ever,
oh Satan, help me!”
Then she turned toward Warren, a face half
mournful, half lighted by a serene smile. “I had not
thought so soon to lose my home-boy, my pet; but I
must not forget that you are twenty-two, now, and I
cannot expect to keep you always. I must win this
dear Grace to love me, can I not?”
“She does already, sweetest mother, else she would
have no love of mine. And so you will write the
letter? How can I thank you?”
“Oh, be a good boy, and not let this, or any thing
else worry you. Just get well as fast as you can.”
She drew a desk toward her, and supplied herself with
a sheet of delicate Paris note-paper.
Warren smiled—“That's a little sheet, mamma
mine, for a lover's letter; however, I'll have mercy
upon you, and make it just as short as possible.”
“Well, what shall I say to begin with?”
“Dearest Grace.”
“`Dearest,' and to her!” thought Juno, bitterly—
“Where is his promise?” She bit her dainty lip,
till it bled, but she quietly wrote the words. The
letter he dictated was quite a long one. It was a sort
of history, detailing his illness, and the convalescence,
cheered by his mother's tenderness, but rendered so
sad by his anxiety lest she should suffer at his silence.
Then it said—
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“Oh, if you were here, my own Grace, it would be
so different. The days would never seem long, or
weary, if I could watch their light and shade in your
blue eyes. With your gentle hand in mine, I could
bear cheerfully this weakness, so much worse than
pain. Oh, how my heart cries out for you, like a tired
child. Grace, Grace! There is some happiness in
saying your name over to myself. Soon as I can, I
shall come to you. I am getting stronger every day.
I will be well enough to travel very soon. Even now
I sit up most of the time. I am longing to sit beside
you, to hold your hand in mine, to hear you tell me
once more that I am your dearest, and to thank God
for the precious gift, of which I am not worthy.
“My mother is writing this, sweetest Grace.
Knowing how I have always trusted her, you cannot
wonder that I am willing now her eyes should behold
the utterance of my heart's deepest and holiest feelings.
Perhaps I am strong enough to have written
it myself, but it would have tired me very much; and
now that I have a sweet Grace for whose sake to be
careful, I am a very niggard of my strength, in my
impatience to be once more with her. Write to me.
The sight of your sweet little Italian characters will
be `guid for sair een.' You will write quickly, will
you not? Judge from your own heart, how anxious
I must be. There, my beloved, I am going to sign
this letter with my own hand.”
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Juno wrote all this, with her face turned away,
that he might not note its changes. It was a strange
sight to see that haughty woman, with her fair brow
knitted in a fierce frown, biting her lips with her
small, white teeth, and writing with trembling hand,
and throbbing bosom, these words of tenderness to
another, from him, of whom her soul had made to itself
an idol. But she completed her task, and then
clearing her brow, turned to Warren, and held out the
pen with a smile. He wrote “Warren Clifford” in a
bold, distinct hand.
“That reminds me,” she remarked, carelessly, as
she folded the letter, that Mr. Clifford has never legally
adopted you. We were speaking of it the other
day. This carelessness in neglecting it so long, is
really unpardonable. But we don't like to do it now.
It has passed along for such a while, almost every one
thinks you are really our own by birth, and we are
too proud of you to be willing to undeceive them.
So Mr. Clifford thought of adjusting every thing by
a will. Glenthorne, I think you said; Miss Grace
Atherton, Glenthorne?”
“Yes, that is right, kindest mother.”
“Nay, love, you should keep all the superlatives
now for Grace.—What! there comes Mr. Clifford. I
thought you went to the city two hours ago!”
“So I did, but I came back for some papers I had
forgotten. I have seen Dr. Greene this morning.
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He wants you and Warren to set out immediately for
Saratoga. You can take our own horses and servants.
Could you start by Monday? He says the journey,
by easy stages, will do Warren good; and his report
has made me quite anxious about you both.”
Juno stood a moment in a thoughtful attitude.
She did not think it necessary to say that this very
disinterested medical advice had originated in a suggestion
of her own. She replied, after an instant, in a
tone of decision—“It will be somewhat difficult, but I
will promise to be ready. Of course if Warren needs
change of air, that must be our first consideration.
You will go with us?”
“No, it is impossible for me to leave quite yet, but
I'll follow you by public conveyance within the week.
Shall I take your letter to town? I see you have one
ready?”
“Yes, I suppose you had best. It is Warren's.”
Mr. Clifford left the room, and Juno said, lovingly—
“Now I shall soon see you looking better, my
poor boy.”
“But it hardly seems right to go to Saratoga,
until I have been to Glenthorne.”
“Go to Saratoga, that you may be able to go to
Glenthorne. The answer to your letter can be sent
after us. It will do you so much good, and I feel the
need of it myself.”
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Warren thought of the fainting-turn. “No wonder,
you have worn yourself out watching me. I
ought to be only too glad to go any where, where you
can get back your strength again.”
-- -- p652-165
XI. EMMIE HEREFORD WRITES A LETTER.
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“I have news for you, Dick Hereford,” cried Simon
Goldthwaite, flinging open the door of the room which
for nearly four years he had shared with his young
companion. Dick looked up with a cheerful smile—
“Well, what now?”
“It seems your hopeful brother Warren received
the valedictory appointment at Yale Commencement,
a month ago, nearly.”
“Oh, I am so glad. I am sure he deserves it.
My mother always felt that he was a genius.”
“Glad! Don't you remember the shameful manner
he treated you, four years ago?”
A flush passed over Dick Hereford's face. “Yes,
I remember our last meeting perfectly, but I know he
was trying to do right, and I can never love him less
for an act like that. Thank you for telling me of his
success; and now, I've something you will like to
hear;—a letter from our little Emmie.”
A close observer could have seen the quick glance
of delight that kindled up the light-blue eye, which
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[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
shone with all the gentleness of a woman's from
underneath Simon's shaggy lashes. He seated himself
in a listening attitude, and remarked, in a tone
of suppressed interest, “Well, well, why don't you go
on with the letter? You say they are my sisters
also.”
It was a clear, delicate little hand, Simon could
see that, as Dick held it up between him and the
candle. Miss Emmie was seventeen now, and there
was about every thing which bore the impress of her
womanly fingers, a kind of young-ladylike grace and
propriety, which was very pretty. Dick unfolded it
and read:
“Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write,
but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day,
that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge
of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries.
In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am
writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now.
The dear, blue river glides along so gently between
its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like
summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its
breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending
over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and
all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing
in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will
tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my
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eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very
strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the
beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and
it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they
cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to
have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their
two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier.
His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has
grown old among the crash of contending armies, and
the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered,
and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings,
young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her
long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front,
hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender
arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter
I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and
truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all
the world could look upon them as I do, that they
could teach every one the same lesson.
“Surely tourists need no longer say, America
lacks the grandeur and beauty of ruins; unless, indeed,
the handiwork of God be less note-worthy than
the works of man—
`Fragments of stone reared by creatures of clay.'
“There, I know just how you are looking. You
are laughing, and crying, `Bravo! my silly little
Emmie a philosopher!' but it's not me, only the
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influence of the scene around me. And I have not told
you all that my eyes behold. No words could ever
paint the serene glory of this summer sky—this clear,
deep, untroubled blue, with a white cloud sailing
slowly over, here and there, like the phantom ships we
used to read about in the long evenings, in those old
German tales. Then there are such sunny fields, such
green hills, where the sunshine swoons away in its
great blessedness, and goes to sleep; and, there is
Mabel. Oh, Dick! is she not heaven-sent and an
angel? I never can look at her, without feeling all
sinful thoughts melt away in the charmed atmosphere
of her purity. She seems so unconscious of her
affliction. Sometimes I think she is happier than any
of us. She whose outward eyes take in no sight of
nature, yet gazes inwardly on such beatific visions.
She tells us sometimes of the `Pleasure-land' wherein
her thoughts go roving, where there are thornless
flowers, and such bright-winged birds sing for ever.
The hills are soft and sunny, and the skies blue as
those of a poet's vision, and hither our Mabel wanders,
needing no guiding hand.
“She is sitting now just within view, as I raise my
eyes from this sheet. She is all in white, and nothing
else could possibly be so appropriate. Her little
straw hat lies on the grass beside her; the sunshine is
sifting down through the beeches upon her golden
tresses; her small, thin hands are clasped, and her
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earnest yet sightless eyes are wide open, looking
toward the sunshine. You would think the Wonderland
whither they are gazing, must be heaven. Oh,
Dick, you know I never loved poetry, and yet I have
thought of late, that Mabel's whole life was a poem,
and I like it because it doesn't quite rhyme. I believe
there are a great many true, sweet poets I would like,
if, like Mabel, they didn't rhyme, but I can't fancy
that ugly `stop short' at the end of every line.
“But I haven't quite finished my picture. You
know just how it looks inside—this pleasant old sitting-room,
with its bay-windows, the bookcase, the
round table, the guitar, and your own especial nook,
just as you left it, with your writing-desk, and your
drawing-case. Then there is dear mamma, with her
sweet, pensive face, sitting just as you have seen her
a hundred times, at her little work-stand. She has
on a new black dress, the one you sent her, and the
widow's cap she wears is prettier, to my fancy, than
of old, because I made it.
“The rest of the family are scattered around.
Pussy has irreverently taken possession of Master
Dick Hereford's own chair, and our glorious old
Newfoundland, Bruno, is deliberately crossing the
fields in the direction of Mabel. Then, there are my
own especial pets—my plantation, I call them—the
geese, and ducks, and turkeys, to say nothing of the
dear little chickens that are lifting up their heads at
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every mouthful, in a kind of meek thankfulness. I
have much happiness in them all, especially the
chickens. The peacocks offend my taste a little by
their absurd pride, and then there are flirtations,
each one with the wife of his neighbor, which I don't
quite like; but on the whole, they are a very well-behaved
plantation. They are just the things one needs
here. I do believe I am a born-housewife. I can feel
for a time the quiet, poetic beauty around me most
intensely, but I should get weary, without the life
that only living things can impart to the landscape.
“There, I have written more about this than I
meant. I only hope it will help to make you home-sick,
for we want to see you here more than even you
can guess, Yankee as you boast that you are getting
to be.
“Did I tell you, away back there at the beginning
of my letter, that I had been thinking of you to-day?
And not of you only, but I have been going back over
ten years of life. Did you think I could remember
so long? Do you know how I used to sit and sing
harvest-carols, in all the desolation of that tumble-down
house in Eliot street, and you and Warren used
to get vexed sometimes with silly little Emmie and
her noise, to think I could have a hopeful heart in the
midst of that freezing poverty? Mother was so sick
then, and every thing was so gloomy, I have wondered
since that my spirits could have been so light. But
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I was only seven, and to my disposition, I do believe
troubles always seem lighter than they do to others.
They may talk all the wisdom they please, about sun,
moon, and planets, I hold that hope is the true sunshine
of life, and without it, the best day in all the
summer would be dark as the winter midnight of an
Esquimaux. It is true, I sung harvest-carols a long
time, and no relief came. The fireless hearth grew
colder and colder, and the garments thinner, which
wrapped us from the chill. What of that? The deliverance
is promised to those who wait. Our turn
came after a while. Oh what a light it made in that
old gloomy house, when the beautiful lady entered
with her rich robes; and after that, there was no more
darkness, nor cold, nor hunger. Do you remember
now we clapped our hands and rejoiced, when we
came in sight of this dear home? How the river
sparkled in the sunshine, and the little cottage, over-grown
with honeysuckles and climbing roses, looked
such a loving welcome, and how our Mabel lifted
up her fringed eyelids, and said, in her low, gentle
voice—`Are we part way to Heaven, mother?' Then
there was the pleasure of settling every thing, and
making it beautiful; and dear mamma grew better
every day, until she was quite well. I have been
thinking of all these things this morning. They came
to me like a sermon, and what do you suppose was the
text? Nothing else than a passage in your last
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letter, where you write of the old bitterness, that
meeting with brother Warren in Broadway, nearly
four years ago. Dick, you were wrong, it seems to
me, in blaming him even `a little.' Through him
and the mother of his adoption, came all the blessings
we enjoy. But for them, we should never have
known even the good physician who introduced you to
your employers. And shall we complain, because
Warren felt bound, in honor, to observe to the letter
the conditions on which we receive all these benefits?
Such a feeling is not quite worthy of you, brother
Dick. The time may come when Warren will be
free once more to stand in our midst, and if it does,
I feel we shall never have cause to blush for our
brother.
“Every one sends love to you, at least mother
does, and before Mabel went out of doors, I asked
her what I should say for her, and she said, `Tell him
to come home when he can;' and she added, with the
tear-drops just glistening in those dear eyes, `any
place would be nice, where Dick is—where he could
come home every evening. Don't you think he will
let us come and live near him, when he gets real rich,
Emmie?'
“Of course I knew well enough, in the plenitude
of my practical wisdom, how far off such a time must
be, but I did not like to pain her; so I told her you
had very often promised this, and you were too good a
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brother to disappoint us. There, Dick, you must give
me credit for good intentions. I did not mean to persecute
you with such a long letter, but I fancy my
best excuse is the very old one, `it wrote itself.'
You will remember, to the kind friend and room-mate
you so often mention, the kind regards of
“Your sister,
“Emmie Hereford.”
Dick folded the precious document with an audible
sigh. Then smiling he said—“I am sure you must
be quite out of patience. I had no idea the letter
was so long, until I began to read it aloud. Poor
little Emmie! Don't you think she has given me a
sufficient reason for not being angry with Warren?”
“Yes!” Simon thoughtfully stroked his chin. “I
tell you, Dick,” he exclaimed after a moment, “you
must never say silly little Emmie again; call her,
rather, `little Sunbeam,' for she has the sunniest character
I ever heard of.”
“Yes, she is better than sunshine, truly. Why,
Mr. Goldthwaite, who would have dreamed of your
being so poetical? I shall write to Emmie, and tell
her what you've named her, and we'll all call her so,
as long as she deserves the title. Oh dear!”
“What's that sigh for?”
“Because I long so to have her here, to make sunshine
among the brick walls. How I want to send
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for them, but, as Emmie says, it's a long way yet in
the future. I cannot send till I'm well enough off to
dispense with Juno Clifford's four hundred dollars;
then we'll politely make our thankful leave-takings to
the great lady. Heigho! that will be a proud day for
me; I wish there was any reasonable hope of its coming
before my hair turns gray.”
“What if you should send for them next spring?”
“Next spring? Man alive! A salary of five hundred
dollars a year. I couldn't do it. My mother and
sisters must live respectably.”
“What if it were doubled?”
“I should send for them certainly, but no hope of
that.”
“I don't know. I am paymaster, and, between
ourselves, the head-bookkeeper gets fifteen hundred
a year, and his assistants are better off than you are.
One of them is going to leave.”
“What, Ezekiel Sharpe?”
“No such good news. That quiet, accommodating
Seldon, and the firm intend you shall take his place.
We will see, New-Year's day, what a lift that will give
you. You must introduce me to little Sunbeam, if she
comes to the city.”
“Of course. Aren't you going to send some reply
to her message?”
“It's not worth while to impose upon her kindness.
She couldn't like me, if she once saw me, even
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as your friend. Her fancies about the oak and the ivy
were very sweet, but I am the scarred and battered
oak, with no green ivy to twine about the ruin, and
she would see me in all the deformity of my ugliness.”
He turned abruptly and left the room as he ceased
speaking, and Dick sat down with a sigh and a smile,
to give an account of the evening's conversation to his
pet sister Emmie.
-- -- p652-176
XII. THE PARENTS' BLESSING.
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Juno Clifford had allowed herself but one day for
shopping in New York, on her way to Saratoga.
Her first purchases were made at the very establishment
where Dick was employed. Leaving her carriage,
she swept into the store with the step of a
princess. Even in this bazaar of the costly and
recherché, twenty pair of eyes were turned in wonder,
no less at the empress-like magnificence of her robes,
than at her own superb beauty.
Her purchases were a camel's-hair shawl, that might
have set half Up-Town crazy with envy, a veil of costliest
Honiton, and a scarf, light and delicate as the
meshes of a spider's web. Her shopping was by no
means attended with the usual fashionable amount of
dawdling and uncertainty. Here, as in every thing
else, was made manifest her imperious will. Utterly
regardless of such minor considerations as dollars and
cents, every article sufficiently unique and costly to
attract her attention, was immediately transferred to
her own possession. Warren, who had been standing
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at a little distance, joined her when she left the shop,
and extended his hand to assist her as she stepped
into the carriage. It was cold as ice. For a moment
the coachman stood awaiting her orders. “Up
Broadway,” she said at length; the door was shut,
and the carriage rolled on. There was a strange
glitter in Warren's eyes, and his face was deathly
white. She sat waiting for him to break the silence.
Her hands lay carelessly clasped upon her lap, her
attitude was graceful and composed as ever, but there
was a look of intense anxiety in her eyes, half veiled
by the long lashes which drooped over them. When
at length he spoke his voice was very husky with suppressed
emotion.
“Mother,” he said, “it is the second time! did
you see him?”
“Him! see who, Warren, dearest?”
“I forgot. You never saw him before, and you
could not know him. Mother, it was my brother
Dick, of whom you bought that scarf. I did not
speak to him, because I would not without your permission,
but I must go back. May I get out of the
carriage?”
“Yes, Warren, if you must, but wait one moment.”
Without and within! strange difference!
Without! Broadway was full of tumultuous, hurried,
bustling life. The shop windows were hung
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with bright and costly fabrics. Men hurried down
the street with that peculiar air of life and death importance
which distinguishes New York from every
other city on the globe. Crowds of elegantly dressed
ladies swept along the side-walks, and many a bright
eye glanced up, from the throng of busy idlers, toward
the stylish equipage, with its magnificent milk-white
horses and self-satisfied black coachman, with a
half sigh at the imaginary happiness of the occupants.
Within! Juno Clifford's hands were tightly
clasped; spasms of agony convulsed her features, and
crouching down at Warren's feet, she murmured
passionately—“Oh, Warren, Warren! can you not give
them up for me? Was it not enough that the sweet
face of a young, happy girl has won your heart away
from me, who so love you; must you deprive me of
what still remains, and go back with it to those friends
of your babyhood? Have they not others to love?
Would they care for you as I have done these many
years?
“But never mind! I have sacrificed much for
your sake, I can bear more still. Go! my prayers
and my tears shall be no restraint. Go back, and
make yourself known to your brother. Tear yourself
away from me altogether. Take away the love which
has been the one hope of my life, and then, perhaps,
God will be merciful, and let me die. Go! Why do
you not leave me?”
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“Because I will not,” and he raised her up, and
supported her in his arms. “Have I not sworn you
should be dearest of all? I will never leave nor forsake
you. If it would pain you so to have me seek
my brother, I will remember the conditions on which
I came to you, and fulfil them. Not for their sake
indeed, but because I will not grieve you, my own
beautiful mother, you who have the highest claim on
both my love and obedience.”
Soothed by his words, and still more by the embrace
in which he held her, at once respectful, protecting
and fond, she smiled in reply, and permitted herself
to be consoled. Her glorious eyes flashed sunshine
on him through her tears, her cheeks flushed
crimson beneath the heavy bands of her jetty hair,
and once more gazing on her beauty, the adopted son
forgot all but Juno Clifford.
Rooms had been engaged at the United States
Hotel a week before, and two or three of Juno's servants
had been there several days in advance, so that
she was met at the door by her own people. There
were a crowd of idlers lounging about the entrance,
but their eager glances met little to satisfy their
curiosity. Juno gathered up the folds of her costly
travelling dress, with the tiny fingers of one daintily
gloved hand, then resting the other on Warren's extended
arm, she passed haughtily into the house. The
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heavily wrought black lace veil swept downward almost
to her feet, and the by-standers could only
guess that she was beautiful, by the exquisite grace
of her every movement, and the brilliant eyes, whose
flashing even the thick folds of her veil could not
obscure.
“By Jove!” cried one of the loungers to his companion,
“she is the most magnificent creature we have
had in Saratoga this summer—a perfect goddess, a
Juno!”
His friend smiled—“Well done, Max, you have
guessed her name—hit the mark exactly.”
“Her name? What do you mean?”
“Nothing, only those milk-white horses, which
that grinning rascal of a black coachman is driving
off to the stables, are the property of John Clifford,
Esq., of Clifford Hall near Boston, and the lady is
Mrs. John Clifford, Juno Stanley that was.”
“How in the world do you know every one?”
The self-satisfied exquisite stroked, complacently,
his perfumed moustache, and answered, with an air
of fashionable indifference,—“Well, I flatter myself
I know most people one cares to know. I have no
doubt you will see Mrs. Clifford at dinner, and you'll
admit that her eyes are not easily to be forgotten. I
never saw her but twice, and once was in her girlhood.
She was of a Southern family, haughty as Lucifer
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himself. But somehow she was left poor, and she
married this John Clifford.”
“Well, what of him?”
“O he's Mrs. Clifford's husband; quiet, gentleman-like,
and twenty years older than herself. I've seen
them once together, and one thing I know—she doesn't
love him.”
“Ha, say you so? Then the Hon. Max Greene,
M. C. from Georgia, is at her service for a flirtation.”
“No use, Max, you can't do it. Why, the lady
was for three years at Paris, and every one pronounced
her the most beautiful woman who appeared at
Court. Half the men in the realm were at her feet,
and she came back, without having given a look of
encouragement to one of them.”
“Has the woman no vanity?”
“Yes, that is, she knows she is beautiful. She has
been accustomed to homage, and she likes it.”
“That's it. I know my ground now. Probably
her Parisian cavaliers were too devoted. You can
watch the game, Fred, I am secure of my flirtation.
There are a few days left of August, and I shall stay
until the middle of September.”
But the Hon. Max Greene was doomed to a most
inglorious defeat. Juno came down to dinner, calm
and queenly as ever, leaning on Warren's arm, and
followed by her own servant. He secured the honor
of an introduction, and then commenced his
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contemplated siege, by a display of the most studied neglect
and indifference. But the lady seemed entirely unconscious
of his presence. If he condemned the air
she was playing, loudly enough to be heard by half
the room, she would finish it with a pride careless yet
firm, overtopping and conquering his own. She found
many friends at Saratoga, but she visibly sought no
society but Warren's. Gradually the M. C.'s manners
veered from neglect to the most assiduous attention,
but he was equally unsuccessful. While he was
standing by her side, or bending over her chair, the
lady, entirely oblivious of his presence, would summon
her son, or beckon to her quadroon shadow, for the
clasping of a bracelet upon her arm, or the adjustment
of a shawl. The evening of the third day, she
was sitting at an open window, somewhat retired from
the gay groups thronging the spacious parlor. Her
eyes were bent upon the carpet, where a single moonray
was struggling to make itself seen, among the
glow of the lamp-light. The quadroon had just entered
with a cashmere scarf, which she was folding
about her shoulders, when Mr. Greene approached.
“Is not the evening lovely, Mrs. Clifford?”
The lady very slightly raised her drooping lashes—
“Jane,” she said, as if the exertion of speaking
wearied her, “you can look out, and tell the gentleman
what kind of an evening it is!”
Her manner was a ludicrous caricature of the
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gentleman's own deportment toward his valet. As if
totally unconscious of this, however, Juno drew the
scarf more closely around her, and going back to her
reverie, cast the long lashes downward over the lustrous
eyes, once more seeking the carpet. There was
a smile of suppressed mirth on every face, which met
the eyes of the despairing Georgian. Acutely sensitive
to ridicule, he left the room, and gave orders that
all things should be in readiness for his departure the
next morning. In spite of the neglectful, half indolent,
half contemptuous style of Mrs. Clifford's
manners, these three days had already sufficed to
make her the star of Saratoga. Warren enjoyed this
intensely. He had prided himself on her rare beauty
for many years, and it was matter of undisguised
triumph to find it so readily acknowledged by the
galaxy of wealth and fashion assembled at what
somebody has called—“the great market-place of
marriageable women.”
The next morning John Clifford made his appearance.
It was nearly mid-day, and very warm. His
lady lay upon a lounge in her own room, Warren was
reading aloud, and the quadroon knelt upon a cushion
beside her, waving to and fro a large fan, made from
the plumage of the African ostrich.
Warren paused, and Juno lifted her eyes as he
entered, but she did not spring from her lounge to
meet him; so he came quietly forward, and bending
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over her, pressed his lips to her brow. “Please don't,
I am not very well,” she said, faintly. He rose with
a half sigh, and extended his hand to Warren. “And
there's something you will be glad to get.” He smiled,
as he handed Warren a delicate-looking little letter,
a perfect snow-drop of an affair, with its pure white
onvelope, its faint yet graceful superscription, and the
single drop of bright ruby-colored wax which sealed
it. Warren eagerly opened it, and Juno watched him
while he read. The color came and went in his face,
his eyes sparkled at first, but before he finished they
were dim with tears. He pressed it passionately
to his lips, and then folded it and placed it in his
bosom. “Poor little Grace!” he said, tenderly—
“she has been so anxious about me. I know she has
worried herself ill. There is such a tone of sadness
all through her letter. I must start for Glenthorne
this very noon. Even then I cannot reach there till
to-morrow night. You are willing, are you not,
father? Now you have come, my mother will not
need me any longer.”
“Yes, oh yes,” was the reply. “Go as fast as
ever you please, only don't let us have you getting
sick again.”
Juno frowned, but she bit her lip, and strove to
force back her features to their habitual calmness.
`Father”—Warren's tone was very earnest—“I go to
ask from her parents the hand of my betrothed. Can
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I say, may I say, that you have consented, that you
will welcome her by and by to your own fireside?”
“No!” Juno's quick whisper was almost passionate
in its earnestness. It reached only her husband's
ear, but it regulated his answer—“No, Warren, I
should hardly like you to say that until I have seen
the young lady. It is not necessary as yet. We
will wait a little.” His tone was kind but firm, and
Warren left the room in silence to make arrangements
for his journey. In half an hour he re-entered. Mr.
Clifford had gone out to visit the stables, Juno had
despatched the quadroon on a brief errand, and she
was alone. Warren knelt down beside her, and turned
her face tenderly toward him. The long lashes were
glittering with tears, which he silently kissed away.
“I am ill,” she murmured, “very ill. I am going to
start for home to-morrow. I shall not like this place
when you will be here no longer; beside, I am not
strong enough to stay.”
For a moment Warren's heart reproached him, but
the pale, sweet face of his anxious, suffering Grace rose
up before him, and clasping her to his heart in a tender
farewell, he went out. He met Mr. Clifford, and
bade him a hurried good-bye upon the stairs, and in
five minutes stepped on board the next train for Albany.
He reached Glenthorne the evening of the next
day. It was the last night of the summer. Already
the moon was rising, fair, and sweet, and tremulous as
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a young bride. His coming was entirely unlooked-for,
and Grace had wandered forth to inhale the fragrant
breath of the dying summer. Warren left his
portmanteau at the hotel, and walked toward the
cottage. His heart beat tumultuously, as he caught
the outline of her graceful figure, the gleam of her
white robe. He came silently toward her, and clasped
her suddenly in his arms. She strove to break from
the embrace in which he held her, but he only drew
her more fondly to his heart, and bending over her
whispered—“My own Grace, my betrothed wife!”
There were no more struggles then—the golden head
lay at rest in the shelter of his bosom. He was wise
as he was kind, and he let her weep till her timid,
fluttering heart beat more quietly against his side.
“You are so good not to scold me for crying,” she
said, with childlike simplicity, looking up at length,
and smiling through her tears.
“Scold you; as if I could scold you, Grace!
Nay, love, those blue eyes may weep at their own
sweet will, if you will shed all the tears upon my
breast.”
“Shure, ma'am,” said Irish Katy, next morning,
“the candles in those long sticks in the parlor are
burnt down to just nothing at all. You can see for
yoursel.” Mrs. Atherton smiled, but there was a
heavy weight in her heart, at the thought of the
young wooer who was to bear away her treasure.
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Three had the grave taken, and now this youngest and
fairest one of all, this nursling of her old age, was to
go forth to make life and light beside the hearthstone
of another.
The week which Warren spent at Glenthorne
passed rapidly away. There were dear old scenes to
be traversed over and over again, old books to be
searched for the passages they had marked years before,
and then, the haying time was not yet over. Grace's
simple, light-hearted gayety was infectious, and Warren
found the grave dignity of the successful graduate
rapidly disappearing. He even confessed that a hay
cart, piled high with its fragrant load, was a great
deal merrier, if a slightly less elegant vehicle than his
mother's carriage, with its sumptuous cushions of Genoa
velvet. Then it was so nice to lie and dream, under
the spreading trees, never tiring of his companion;
asking over and over again the same questions, and
listening over and over again to the same low murmured
replies. “Ah, Gracie, I do believe I could be happy
in Glenthorne for ever,” he whispered, as they entered
the post-office, the usual termination to their sunset
walk.
The letter which was placed in his hand, was
directed in the bold, somewhat heavy chirography of
his father. It contained a request that he would
hasten home and go to Washington immediately upon
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important business. The summons could not be set
aside, but Warren left the office with a heavy heart.
The next day Warren stood before Mr. Atherton,
with a mien as bashful as a boy. He had meant to
say some very nice things. Indeed he had arranged
the heads of quite a discourse in his mind. There
was a good deal about unworthiness, dutiful submission,
blessing of parents, and so on, but somehow it
all vanished, when he came in sight of the benevolent-looking
old gentleman, in his home-made easy chair.
He could only stammer forth very confusedly—“I love
your daughter Grace, Mr. Atherton; could you trust
her happiness to my keeping?”
The old gentleman took off his spectacles, wiped
them, and deliberately put them on again. Then
looking Warren in the face, he inquired, “Well, sir,
when do you want to get married?” Warren was
not ready with an answer to this question, and something
very like a blush passed over his face.
The old gentleman evidently pitied his embarrassment,
for he said, with a kindly smile—“I believe I
am very glad, young man, that you are not prepared
to answer my question. The longer we can keep our
little Grace at home, the happier it'll be for us—won't
it, wife?” Mrs. Atherton's calm womanly face smiled
a reply from the arm-chair over opposite, and he went
on with another question—“Does my little girl love
you?”
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“She has told me so, dear sir.”
“Mary, go and bring her here.”
The gentle mother reappeared in a moment, with
the child of her old age by her side. The father held
out his hand tenderly: “Come here, Mistress Grace,
and tell me if this be true, that you want to go away
and leave your old father and mother?”
“Please don't, dear father,” was all that she could
trust herself to say, but there was a sufficient answer
in the look the blue eyes turned on Warren. The
young man was bold enough now. He drew nearer,
and took her hand in his own, and there was the
eloquence of deep and fervid feeling in the words
which told how dear and beautiful he thought her,
how tenderly he would guard her happiness. The
father's eye grew dim. “Come here, mother,” he said
earnestly—“eome here, and say if you are willing to
give your nursling to this suitor's care.”
The mother read the deep love in the sweet girl's
eloquent eyes, and the truth and honor in the eager
face bending over her, and she bowed her head, and
answered, “I am willing.”
“She is the last of four,” said the old man's husky
tones. “We shall go hence very soon, where they
have gone before us. Deal gently with the child, when
our heads are lying low in the churchyard.”
“I will; behold, my father, she trusts me.” There
was a deep and fervent resolve in Warren Clifford's
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tone, and he sank on his knees before her father's
chair, with the young girl still in his arms, and the
trembling hands of old Russel Atherton were laid
in benediction upon those two bowed heads.
-- -- p652-191
XIII. JUNO CLIFFORD GOES A VISITING.
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We are told in the beginning of Virgil, (don't be
shocked, gentle lady reader, I mean Pope's Virgil; I
am a woman, and I know the proprieties,)—in the first
book of Pope's Virgil then, we are told how in olden
times on an errand of mischief, the goddess Juno
went a-visiting. I don't mean to assert that this very
ancient example had any effect on our lady, Juno
Clifford; and indeed, the errand of persuading the
good king Æolus to “strike force into his winds,” and
scatter abroad the ships of the pious Æneas, was certainly
far enough removed from Juno Clifford's peaceable
design of making her appearance at Glenthorne
Cottage. She had detained Warren for more than a
week at home, before permitting him to set off for
Washington, where he had business which could not
fail to occupy him a month longer. He had already
been absent more than two weeks, when she entered
her husband's study on the first morning in October.
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Mr. Clifford was looking over some papers, but he
laid them aside with a happy smile, at this unusual interruption.
“What have you there?” she said, carelessly.
“Only my will,” was the reply. “You know we
were discussing the subject a long while ago, and decided
that it was better to make a will, than to take
measures to adopt Warren now; and yesterday I came
to the conclusion that I had better not put off attending
to it any longer.” He opened it and laid it before
her. The first bequest was a hundred thousand
dollars to the adopted son, and then the rest of his
immense fortune was bequeathed to his beloved wife,
Juno Clifford. The lady was not satisfied. True,
her own share was many times the largest; but years
before, when they were first married, Mr. Clifford had
made a will leaving her the sole and undisputed mistress
of all, and she had hoped this would continue to
the end, and Warren be left wholly dependent upon
her bounty. She dared not give utterance to this
feeling now. She pushed the paper from her with a
smile.
John Clifford rose, and going to an India cabinet
in one corner of the room, deposited it therein.
“There, Juno,” he remarked, “you will know
where to find it, if any thing should happen to me
suddenly. You saw I had the same witnesses as in
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the old will, made more than twenty years ago; by
the by, that is in your possession?”
“Yes, I will destroy it. Heaven send it may be
many a year before any will be needed.”
Her husband thanked her with a look, and then
she came, and stood over his chair, hanging her taper
fingers idly upon his shoulder. He drew her hand
across his wet eyes, and she said in the tone of a
spoiled child, “Please, John, I want to go somewhere.”
“Well, my sweet wife.”
“And I want you to go too. It's to Glenthorne.
I think if Warren was our own child, we wouldn't
quite want him to get engaged, without seeing the
lady-love and her parents. So it seems right to go.
Then I want to go from there to New York and do
some shopping. Can you spare so much time?”
“Yes, twice as much, if you wished it. We will
start to-morrow.”
“Troth, ma'am, but it's the most beautiful lady,”
said Glenthorne Katy, returning from answering the
door-bell.
“Did she inquire for me, or for my mother?” asked
Grace, hurriedly putting aside her work.
“Yes, miss, she inquired for both of yees, av
coorse, and such an ilegant chain at her waist, all the
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solid goold intirely, and a power of little things beside
it, and a dress all flashing bright, with silver, and
little glittering things in her ears; and what bates all
the rest intirely, her beautiful eyes, so swate and yet
looking as if she could kill you with them.”
“Quite a princess, according to your description,
Katy.” The mother and daughter were sewing, in
Grace's own little room. The girl walked to the
mirror, and twined her curls over her fingers in a little
flutter of agitation. Then she turned to follow
her mother down stairs. There was an air of simple
yet perfect refinement about them both—the mother
in her well preserved black silk, and snowy cap; the
daughter, looking, in her simple delaine dress buttoned
close to the throat, with its wrought muslin collar,
more elegant and really lady-like than half the brocade
clad belles on Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Clifford
had handed her card to our friend Katy, but printed
bits of pasteboard were not much in vogue, in simple
Glenthorne, and Katy very innocently put it in her
bosom, to examine at her leisure, supposing it to be
something designed for herself. But Grace had not
only seen the lady's full-length portrait years before,
but she had often noticed a very fine daguerreotype
of his father and mother, which Warren accounted
one of his chief treasures. She recognized Mrs.
Clifford instantly, much to her own surprise, and went
forward to shake hands. “You should not blush at
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seeing his mother, my sweet Grace,” was Juno's tender
whisper, and looking full in her face with her
dark, magnetic eyes, she bent forward and kissed her.
There was a spell in that kiss to bind that young girl's
heart more strongly than any words could have done.
From that moment, Juno possessed much of that mysterious
influence over her, which was all-powerful with
Warren and her husband.
“May I come to your room, dear Grace?” asked
the lady that evening as they went up stairs; and
long after John Clifford had been soundly sleeping,
she sat there on the lounge, with her arm drawn
around that young, innocent girl, whom in her heart
she hated, oh how bitterly, discoursing of the absent
son and lover. “There is his miniature,” she said
kindly. “I brought it on purpose for you to see, as I
believe you have none.” At that moment Grace's
timid heart was fluttering against a tiny little locket
received from Washington but the day before, but she
took the larger one which Juno handed her, and
looked on the calm features pictured there, with a
thrill of exquisite delight. Mrs. Clifford found her a
much more formidable rival than she had anticipated.
To even her worldly eyes, the singular purity of the
girl's character was apparent. She realized that it
was the very thing to retain the adoration of a mind
like Warren's, and she bit her lip with vexation, that
this simple country lassie could be, without an effort,
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the very thing which she had struggled for years to
appear. Then Grace was beautiful; perhaps her
jealous eyes even heightened the charm of the sweet,
spiritual face, with its shading curls. Juno certainly
acted her part skilfully. She talked as if Warren was
dearer than her own life, and yet loving him as she
did, she could feel the faults of his character most intensely,
and she spoke of them sorrowfully to his betrothed,
as to one who must know and feel them
likewise. His want of firmness, she said, was worst
of all. He had given up his early friends so very
easily, that she sometimes feared lest it would be
no sacrifice to part even with them, though they had
done so much for him. Grace endeavored to defend
him, but her tone was not very hopeful. Mrs. Clifford
had reawakened an old and sorrowful fear of
her own. That night, when at length Juno clasped
her in her arms, and pressed a good-night kiss upon
her lips, she threw herself on the bed, in an agony
of tears. Her love was perfect, still, but much of her
sweet trust was gone; she could no longer look fearlessly
into the future, for a shadow walked beside
her; the calm moonlight of cloudless faith was gone
out, and the stars of her heart seemed far-off and cold
and chill, like distant and deferred hopes. And yet
she thought, amid her tears, how happy she ought to
be, that Warren's mother had learned so easily to love
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her, and would even sorrow for her sake, if he should
prove cold and false.
It had been settled, after very urgent entreaty on
the part of Mrs. Clifford, that they should start for
New York the next morning, taking Grace with them,
and leaving her at Glenthorne on their return. It
was the first time Grace had ever visited a city larger
than New Haven, and in spite of the heaviness at her
heart, the journey was matter of unqualified delight.
Mrs. Clifford was so kind, that Grace ceased to wonder
at the adoring tenderness with which she had inspired
Warren. She could not quite sympathize, indeed, with
Juno's raptures over star actresses and loves of
dresses, but she was too much charmed with her
peerless, to heed what seemed to her charitable judgment,
very minor faults of character. She was quite
prepared, on her return, to second Mrs. Clifford's
earnest entreaty to her parents, that she should visit
Boston early in December, and pass a few weeks
at Mount Vernon street. Beside the rapturous
thought of constant association with her betrothed,
which sent the eloquent blood in tides to her cheek and
brow, there was an untold wealth of anticipated delight
in the companionship of Juno Clifford. It was a
perpetual joy to look upon one so beautiful, and beside
this glorious woman loved her. She had said so,
drawing her head to her breast with motherly
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tenderness; said that she had never known the sweet companionship
of mother and daughter; that even in her
lonely girlhood, when she had seen some happier child
lift her young face for a mother's yearning kiss, she
had turned aside to weep. She had had no brother and
no sister, not even a grave to which her heart could
cling; and when she was a wife, no child had climbed
her knee, no voice had called her mother, until God
sent her Warren, and now a daughter had been given
her also, a new claimant for her love; and at the words,
the weeping girl nestled closer to her bosom, and
Juno pressed kiss after kiss upon that innocent brow,
hating her all the while, bitterly, bitterly.
And then she left Glenthorne, and Grace followed
her with the prayers and blessings of a loving spirit;
and Mrs. Atherton sighed, bending wearily over her
work, for, somehow, heavy upon her heart lay a presentiment
of the ill which should befall her only
child.
The weeks passed rapidly over Glenthorne. Mother
and daughter were busily engaged in preparation
for the anticipated visit. New dresses were sent for
and brought home, and the village dressmaker reported
sundry somewhat extravagant stories of silks that
would stand alone, and a white tarleton flounced from
top to bottom.
Meantime Warren's letters were frequent and
affectionate as ever, each one containing some tender
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message from Mrs. Clifford; and gradually the shadow
passed quite away from Grace Atherton's loving heart,
and even her mother looked forward with something
like pleasurable anticipation to her darling's introduction
into the enchanted atmosphere of Up-Town.
-- -- p652-200
XIV. A LADY OF FASHION.
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It was nearly twilight, on a cold December evening,
when Grace stepped from the cars, with the feeling
that she was at last in Boston. Her journey had been
a somewhat fatiguing one, as the first part had been
performed by stage. She had been indulging a secret
hope that Warren would come to Glenthorne to bear
her company. Of course she could not propose it,
and there was really no need of such a course, as she
was to travel under the protection of a worthy Glenthorne
merchant, going to the city for his holiday
goods. Warren had said nothing concerning it, but
perhaps he meant to surprise her, and she had not
quite given up the expectation until the very morning
of her departure. She was scarcely aware herself
how much bitterness this disappointment added to
the parting with the fond parents who folded her again
and again in their loving arms.
She had scarcely stepped from the cars, ere a
well-known voice whispered—“My own, own Grace,”
and her hand trembled in the fervent clasp of her
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betrothed. “This way, Gracie, my mother is waiting for
you in the carriage, and here, just give me your checks,
and I'll look after your baggage.” Juno's welcome
was very cordial, much tenderer, it seemed to Grace's
excited fancy, than Warren's had been, and she sank
into her seat, with a perverse inclination to cry, which
she bravely tried to conquer. She thought he might
just have kissed her, when they hadn't met for months;
but perhaps it wouldn't have been proper in the crowd,
and she tried to listen to what Mrs. Clifford was saying
about a certain Miss Sommers. “Yes,” cried
Warren, at that moment joining them, “mother insisted
that she and I, to say nothing of father, were
not enough to keep you from dying of the blues, so
she has invited a companion for you, a young lady, to
stay in the house, this Miss Sommers; but come, dear
child, you have told me nothing of Glenthorne.”
Their conversation, during the drive home, was
sadly constrained. It was very kind in Mrs. Clifford
to meet her, and she reproached herself for the ingratitude
of feeling a little grieved that Warren had
not come alone; that she could not have him all to
herself, for the first few moments. But then very
likely Mrs. Clifford would not think that quite proper,
and she had promised her parents to guard her watchfully
as if she were her own; and Grace smiled a little
at thinking how the knowledge of all their lonely
walks, with only the moon and stars for watchers,
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would startle these strict notions of propriety. The
carriage stopped, at last, before a stately mansion,
whose door was instantaneously thrown open, and she
felt Warren press her hand reassuringly, as she stepped
out into the full glare of the gaslight. Mr. Clifford
met her with a cordial welcome, and then Juno led her
up stairs to her own room. “There, love,” she said
with another kiss, “I will leave you here now, while
I dress for dinner. Your trunks will be brought up
immediately, and when you want any assistance in
dressing, you must ring.”
Grace managed to preserve her self-command
until her trunks were unstrapped, and she was left
quite alone; then throwing herself down on the low
French bed, she burst into a passion of tears. She
paid no heed to the costly and elegant appointments
of the room assigned her. Lace curtains heavily
wrought draped the windows, a carpet of delicate and
graceful pattern covered the floor, and a bright fire
burning in the grate, flooded the rose-wood furniture
with its genial glow, and bathed the marble madonnas
holding up the chimney piece with a golden haze.
The gaslight poured down its tempered brilliancy
upon her head, and all around her was warmth and
comfort and luxury; and yet she wept, with a sense
of utter loneliness and desolation which had never
before oppressed her.
At length she roused herself and chided back her
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tears. It was wrong, she said, it was ungrateful;
every thing had been done for her comfort, and she had
no cause for complaint. She must struggle against
this weakness, or her lover would indeed have cause to
blush for the simple country girl he had chosen. She
rose, and commenced unfastening the loops of her
travelling dress. Then she bathed her eyes, and arranged
her disordered tresses, and threw open her
trunks with a new feeling of anxiety. What should
she put on? Mrs. Clifford was so elegant, and then
there was the stranger too, to criticise the country girl's
simple toilet. One after another she drew her dresses
out upon the carpet. There were two or three very
handsome silks, and the much talked of white tarleton,
a blue crape, and a simple white muslin. She could
not quite make up her mind to appear in any of them.
It would be a great deal worse to be too fine, than to
go to the farthest extreme of plainness. At least
there would be nothing in the white muslin to excite
ridicule. She put it on. She fastened a blue ribbon
around her waist, and arranged her few, simple ornaments,
and then turned to go down stairs. She opened
the door, and Warren's arms enfolded her. “I have
been waiting here for a whole half-hour, just to get a
single kiss. My own little wild-flower, my darling.”
Grace's heart reproached her with the injustice that
had deemed him changed or cold. He drew her forward
into the light and looked at her eagerly. “Just
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as I hoped to see you,” he said, exultingly. “My
little white lily, so pure, so sweet. It's a blessed
thing to have you here, among the artificial roses of
this great city. As if any body could compare you
with Miss Sommers.”
“Tell me all about her, Warren.”
“Oh, there isn't much to tell. She has been here
about a week. I believe there was an old thought—
I don't know whether it originated with her father or
mine—that I should marry her, at some future time.
My mother never favored it; and now that she is
grown up, father wouldn't at all wish it; but, somehow
or other, the young lady has got it into her head that
it is to be, and it makes her insufferably stupid. She
used to be a nice little thing enough, merry and
romping, and every one called her `Wild Maggie
Sommers.' She is Miss Margaretta now, or, as the
initiated dub her, Maggie Margaretta. General Sommers
was a widower, an old friend of my father's, and
his bright little girl was coming up pretty much her
own way, when a distant relative was so accommodating
as to give up the ghost, leaving him a large fortune, and
Mag became Miss Margaretta, and was promoted in a
single day into tight corsets and a boarding-school.
She is as insipid and languishing as your most poetical
fancy could possibly imagine. She dresses—but there,
I can't describe it! You are just right to-night, Grace—
such a contrast!” He took a half-opened rosebud from
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his buttonhole, and twined it carelessly in her golden
curls, and then, once more folding her to his heart, led
her down stairs. Leaning on his arm, she was composed
and happy, though the first sight of those spacious
parlors was bewildering to her unsophisticated eyes.
Mrs. Clifford was there before her. Her velvet robes
swept over the chair whereon she was seated, and the
diamonds on her gleaming neck and arms seemed fairly
to emit flashes of light. At a little distance, Miss
Maggie Margaretta Sommers was half reclining upon
a lounge. She was tall and slight, with a very slender
waist, very light hair, which couldn't really make up
its mind to curl, but floated poetically over her
shoulders; rather light-blue eyes, of which the lids
drooped languidly, while the short lashes pertinaciously
curled upward. Her quite irregular features would
have been very well, if she had but contented herself
with the piquant, sparkling character nature originally
designed her, but which suited very oddly the languishing,
sentimental demeanor she had deemed it lady-like
to assume. Her azure satin dress was a very
miracle of elegance. It fitted the dainty little waist
to perfection. Jewels sparkled on the thin, tapering
arm, which rose, as Warren was wont to observe, like an
inverted icicle, out of her sleeve of lace and satin; and
jewels flashed on the thin, tapering fingers which supported
her head. Warren gravely led Miss Atherton
forward, and presented her. The young lady seemed to
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[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
be in some doubt as to the propriety of rising, but one
dainty satin slipper had protruded a little too far from
under her costly robe. It was a good opportunity for
adjusting it; so she rose, so gracefully as not to disorder
a single fold of her drapery, languidly extended her
hand, and then sank back again, in precisely the same
attitude as before.
The evening passed very wearily to the simple
country girl. The chairs seemed a great deal too nice
to be used, and the very books looked forbidding, in
their bindings of gold and velvet. At home, and
especially before visitors, Juno was very stately; and
Grace Atherton, sitting quietly on her ottoman, could
not imagine how she had ever dared to clasp that
jewelled hand in her own, and press her plebeian
kisses on that haughty face. There was one great
comfort. They did not force her to talk. Even Warren,
though he came and sat by her side occasionally,
and seemed to take pleasure in watching her, was
for the most part occupied in polite attentions to Miss
Sommers' platitudes, and responding to the brilliant
sallies of his fascinating mother. She had never before
been placed in a situation so painfully awkward,
and she had much ado to prevent the tears from
coming to her eyes. It was a great relief when Mr.
Clifford remarked, kindly, that she looked very much
fatigued, and had better go up stairs.
She rose instantly, and Warren came to her side.
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“You do look half-tired to death, Gracie, and I'm going
to help you to your room.”
Mrs. Clifford's good-night was very kind and
sweet-toned, but there was a shade of displeasure on
her brow.
“I know it has been terribly tiresome for you this
evening, dearest,” whispered Warren, with his arm
around her waist, as they went up stairs, “but it'll be
so different, when you've been here a few days, if only
that Miss Maggie Margaretta was out of the way.”
They stood for perhaps five minutes at the head of the
stairs, and then the quadroon made her appearance.
“Mrs. Clifford wished me to assist Miss Atherton,”
she remarked, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.
“Very well, you can go into her room, and she
will come to you in a moment.” Warren detained
Grace's hand while he spoke, and when the quadroon
passed out of sight, he whispered, hurriedly—“Should
you mind getting up very early, Grace? If you
wouldn't, I should like to take you at sunrise for a
walk on the common. Miss Sommers won't be about
then.” He might have added, “nor my mother, either.”
“I should like it very much,” was the reply—“I
will be down stairs in time.”
She went into her room, and patiently submitted
to have her dress taken off, and her hair put back in
bandeaux under her little muslin cap, and then gently
asked if she might be left alone. By a hasty survey
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she saw there was no night-lamp in her room, and no
matches; if she dressed by sunrise, according to her
promise, she would have to ring for lights in the
morning. There would be no difficulty about that,
for the bell-pull was directly over the head of her bed,
so she hastily finished undressing. She walked to
the window, and looked out. It was not yet ten
o'clock, and the streets were brilliantly lighted; but
they looked very narrow and confined to those blue
eyes, accustomed to take in the free range of hill, and
field, and lake. She came back, and knelt down by
the bedside. Grace Atherton was thoroughly religious
in heart and life, and kneeling there, her heart grew
happier. She forgot the pride and coldness which had
seemed to rise up like walls about her sensitive nature;
her soul called upward, and the cry was answered.
The young and inexperienced cottage-girl could forget
the high places of earth, and the timid dread which
had shrunk from encountering them, for she was the
heir to a higher heritage, travelling toward the Beautiful
City, whose streets are paved with gold.
The clock was striking six the next morning, when
she unclosed her eyes. She pulled the bell, and in a
moment a smiling face appeared at the door. “If
you please, miss,” said a voice, unmistakably Irish,
“should you like to git up?”
“Is no one else up in the house?” asked Miss
Atherton, smiling.
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[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
“Jist the two of us, miss, Mr. Warren and meself.
The young gintleman gits up every morning
to read, miss, and I git up to light his fire for him.
Oh, but he's the raal gintleman.”
“Then, I suppose I can get up now, if I please?”
“Shure, the young gintleman expects you, miss.
He said I was to light your fire, and help you about
dressing; so if you'll jist please to lie still, I'll have
the room warm for you in a moment.”
Grace felt very cheerful. There was something
fresh and piquant in the sparkling, handsome face of
her Hibernian attendant, and there was all the charm
of novelty in lying there, in the lamp-light, watching
the kindling of the coal fire. “Mary,” called a voice
half way up the stairs. The girl sprang to the door.
Coming back, she said, “Shure if you please, miss, he
says the morning is cowld, and ye'll want plenty of
wrapping.”
“Dear, kind Warren, how careful of my comfort,'
thought the young girl, with a blush.
She was quickly dressed. Somehow it was so
much easier to ask assistance from the cheerful, and
good-humored Irish girl, than it had been to receive it
even from Juno Clifford's stately maid, the evening
previous. She went gayly down stairs, almost tempted
to break into a snatch of song.
The walk on the breezy, beautiful common was
very pleasant, and the sunrise was glorious. With
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the keen fresh wind in her face, and Warren talking
hopefully about the beautiful future, over whose paths
they were to wander hand in hand, she forgot that there
were in all the world such troublesome, weary visitants
as care and sorrow. But the illusion was not to last.
The breakfast parlor was warm and cheerful, but,
somehow, Grace experienced a sudden sensation of
chill as she entered it, though she had not thought of
the cold during her breezy morning walk. Miss
Sommers curled her lip with a half-defined sneer, and
there was something in the tone and manner of Juno's—
“You're indeed an early riser—we were hardly prepared
for such excellent country habits”—which Grace
felt as a reproof. When the breakfast hour was over,
she hastened to her own room. There, in a tiny vase,
stood the rosebud Warren had twined in her curls,
the evening previous. She pressed it tenderly to her
lips. There was something like a caress in the touch
of those velvet petals. It seemed as if she had grown
old many years, in the last four and twenty hours.
Then she chided herself for the indulgence of these
feelings. She remembered that if she was Warren's
wife, she must pass her whole future life there, and
she gave one glance to the splendor around her, and
tried to think it would be pleasant. There was a
light tap upon her door, and Juno Clifford entered.
Once more the proud woman folded her in her arms,
and swayed her by the irresistible magnetism of her
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looks, her caresses, and her low, sweetly modulated
tones. She feared she had made a great mistake, she
said, in inviting Miss Sommers to the house. She
could not feel free before her herself, and she was sure
Grace could not; but then she had got her there, and
she must make the best of it. It was a good thing
Grace had come, for notwithstanding all her foolishness,
poor Margaretta was elegant-looking and had all
the prestige of rank and fashion on her side, and
Warren was getting too much interested in her, “but
never mind, love,” she added with another kiss,
“that's all over now.”
Then very skilfully she managed to lead the conversation
to Warren's early life. “You will keep it
from your father, of course, that we found the poor
child hawking papers; so few know it, it cannot hurt
him now, but it might render your father averse to
the marriage.”
The girl's cheek crimsoned. “Mrs. Clifford,”
she said, firmly, “my father knew that long ago; it
would ill become a village blacksmith for such a
cause to refuse his daughter's hand.”
“A village blacksmith!” A quick gleam of joy
kindled Juno's eyes.
The color deepened on Miss Atherton's face, but
her tone did not in the least falter. “Yes, madam,
my father worked with his own hands at the forge
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and anvil, until he was worth enough to buy our pleasant
home, and the few acres of land around it.”
“Warren surely doesn't know of this?”
“I do not know. He may have heard it from
Mr. Hastings. I do not think I ever mentioned it to
him, though I certainly never thought of concealing
it.”
“Well, but you must think of it now. You
could not for an instant think the fact would make
any difference with me, but Warren; Grace, I could
not tell you how strong the pride of birth is in him.
He is English to the core of his heart. If he never
knows it, it can do him no harm, but if he had known
it, he never would have asked you to become his
wife.”
“Then he shall know it instantly.” She rose
from her seat as she spoke, and stood there, her young
head lifted, her slight figure drawn up, her eyes
flashing, and her whole frame quivering with intense
excitement. “He shall know. I am proud of my old
grey-headed father. He has walked with God now to
a serene old age, and there is not an act in his whole
life for which his child has cause to blush. If Warren
Clifford could love me less, because my father's
hands have grown hard with honest toil, it is time. I
will go home, where my voice and my steps are welcome,
and pray Heaven to banish his image from my
heart.”
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Tears came into her eyes, which she bowed her
head to conceal, and then Juno folded her to her
heart. “Dear, noble Grace,” she whispered, in her
soft, treacherous tones, “he could not love you less.
He would glory in you as I do. You shall indeed
tell him all, but you are my child now; grant me one
prayer. In two weeks I shall give a large and brilliant
party. I give it to introduce our sweet, new
daughter to my friends, and you must promise me to
wait until after it is over; I have good, true reasons.”
“But how can I? I shall feel every moment till
the whole is told, like a traitor stealing into his heart
under false pretences. I shall expect to lose his love;
it will be standing on the brink of a volcano.”
“Not if I who know, tell you he will but love you
better. My first thought was of his pride, but I know
he prizes unstained truth and fearless honesty more
than all. Fear nothing, only wait for my sake.
Promise me, my sweet, sweet Grace, my daughter!”
The fond words and the caress which accompanied
them triumphed, and half reluctantly the promise was
accorded.
-- -- p652-214
XV. MRS. CLIFFORD'S GREAT PARTY.
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The next two weeks passed wearily to our timid
Grace. It is true Juno was caressingly affectionate
as ever, and Warren was still kind and tender whenever
they were alone, but somehow she seemed to see
very little of him. There was a constant round of
driving, and calling, and in the evening, theatres, and
operas, and concerts, which absorbed all the time;
though Juno made it a point to refuse all invitations
for herself, until Miss Atherton had been properly introduced
by the great party, which, in one way and
another, was a prominent idea with every one in the
household. Warren was absent several evenings in
close attendance upon Miss Sommers, who had taken
it in her head to be present at one or two fashionable
reunions. Their adventurous morning walk had
never been repeated; and daily her heart grew heavier
with doubt, whether even his love remained to her,
and ached more and more wearily, to hear one of the
old, accustomed words of tenderness. She still
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persevered in what Mrs. Clifford had called her country
habit of early rising, but her mornings were spent
until breakfast in her own room. One morning, as
she lay watching her good-humored Irish handmaiden
in her task of kindling the fire, she observed her
quietly raise her checked apron to her face. “Mary,”
she said. The girl turned suddenly, and her eyes
were full of tears. “Mary, the fire will burn now;
come and sit down here, I want to know what has
been troubling you so these few days back.” Half
timidly the girl obeyed her, and she reached forward
and took that hard hand tenderly in her own delicate
fingers. “What is it, Mary?”
A gush of tears answered her, and it was several
moments before she could speak. “It's all along of
poor Pathrick, miss. He's been in the hospital this
many weeks. He was in a decline, but they thought
he would get better, and now he's sinking. They say
it's not many days he can live.”
“Is he your brother?” asked Miss Atherton,
kindly.
A deep blush kindled Mary's face. “We are
promised,” she said, in a low tone. “He staid behind
me in Ireland till he buried his owld father and
mother, and he's been in America for a year, come
next Easter. It's seven years we've been waiting.”
“And you so young?”
“I was fifteen when we took the vow, miss; and
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shure it's true we've been all the time. Och hone! but
he was a purty boy, though he's white and thin now.”
Tenderly, as if she had been one whom the world called
her equal, Grace led her on to unfold all her sorrow;
and drawing near to the sobbing girl, wept more quietly,
but it may be more bitterly, thankful to make
the excuse to her own heart, that she was weeping for
the woes of another.
And so two hearts ached wearily in that stately
mansion, while the preparations for the party went on.
A distinguished upholsterer superintended the arrangement
of the rooms, the supper table was confided to
an artiste of the first rank, and the crowning charm
was given by the poetic touches of the quadroon.
Wherever she went, she seemed absolutely to shower
beauty. The broad staircases, the halls, and the passages
were lined with the costliest flowers; but there
was a genuine poem in every bouquet of her arranging,
which would have distinguished it to the most careless
observer. Dreamily, half sadly, Grace Atherton
watched the preparations. She had none to make.
She was to wear the white tarleton dress, and Warren
had petitioned for white rosebuds in her hair. It did
not seem to her that she had any part in the matter,
but yet the costly and brilliant preparations fascinated
her attention.
There was one plan, however, which had not
reached her ears. The morning before the party, our
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lady Juno took Miss Sommers into her confidence.
Closing the door of her own private room upon the
confidante she had sumoned, she said, with an abruptness
unusual to her—“Miss Sommers, you want
to be Warren Clifford's wife!”
The young lady addressed made an ineffectual
attempt at blushing, and half stifled in her perfumed
mouchoir a little scream. Juno's lip curled as if in
involuntary contempt of her own self, and the part she
was acting. Very dryly she remarked, “This is
quite unnecessary with me, Miss Sommers. Spare the
blushes, I entreat, until the young gentleman himself
is at your feet. Was my question too presuming to
claim an answer?”
“You have penetrated the veil, Mrs. Clifford, with
which I strove to conceal my feelings. I do indeed
love your son.”
Juno's lip curled still more, but her tone was very
quiet—“Well, you have noticed his fancy for Miss
Atherton.”
“Is it only a fancy, madam?”
“That depends. If you have noticed it, you
must feel that until her influence over him is lost, you
can have no hope of success. Now you can bring this
about; you have it in your own hands.”
“Me! How, Mrs. Clifford?”
“Listen. You know already that Warren is not
our son, but you do not know that he is come from
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one of the noblest families in all England. Pride of
birth is the strongest sentiment in his nature. Miss
Atherton's father has been a blacksmith. She told
me so with her own lips. Warren does not know it,
and with difficulty I persuaded her to conceal it from
him until after to-night. Do you see how this will
serve you?”
“Warren will give her up when he finds it out,
I suppose, but I don't see what I have to do with it.”
“Warren will not give her up, if she tells him
herself. He will give her up, if he thinks she has deceived
him. Do you see now what you have to do?
My guests to-night will be of the most aristocratic
order. You know most of them. You can easily
contrive to make your neglect of Miss Atherton
sufficiently marked to attract attention. Then you
must privately give her obscure parentage as a reason.
The whisper will circulate through the room, and the
result we desire will follow. Warren will be mortified
by the coolness with which his lady love is received,
and when he learns the reason, he will think she has
deceived and imposed upon him, and despise her.
You must be very careful to conceal your own share
in the affair. Just start the whisper, but tell them
they must not couple your name with it, and above all
things, in no instance give me as your authority.”
“Oh! Mrs. Clifford,” sighed the fair Margaretta,
“you have indeed proved yourself my friend. My
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heart thrills with gratitude, and I forget to blush that
you have discovered my secret.” She sank on her
knees, and pressed the lady's fingers to her lips.
Juno shook her off, almost roughly. “You needn't
thank me,” she said, with a bitter smile, “I don't want
him to marry this Miss Atherton, myself, and he
shall not, he shall not. There, go to your room and
think it all over.” She watched the retreating figure
of the sentimental young lady, with the same bitter
smile, and when the door closed, she laughed a scornful
laugh. “We'll see, dainty little wild flower;
sweet little cottage girl, we'll see who'll be mistress
of Clifford House!”
Then she leaned back her head against the chair
and abandoned herself to thought. Sometimes her
brow was compressed, and her teeth closely set; then a
smile would flood her face with its rare sunshine, and
her foot would tap upon the carpet, as if beating time
to strains of cheerful music. The luncheon bell rang,
but she did not go down. Warren was away on business,
and John Clifford came and went without entering
her apartment. It was nearly sunset in the short
winter afternoon, when there was a light tap upon her
door. “Come in,” she said, dreamingly, but she gave
a little start of surprise when Irish Mary answered
her summons, and stood blushing and silent before
her. “What do you want?” she asked, after a moment.
Still more terrified, the poor girl burst into
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tears. “You had better go away until you can tell
me quietly what you came for,” said Juno, coldly.
The girl drew nearer. “Oh, ma'am,” she murmured
huskily, “he is worse, he will die. He has
sent for me. Can I go to him? Poor Pathrick, he
is there by himsel', and he greets for me so.”
Juno drew herself up with an air of haughty, frigid
indifference. “You have annoyed me about this man
in the hospital, till I can't bear it much longer; I don't
want you here, if I'm to have you running off every
day or two, to see a man die, somewhere or other.
How do I know there is any such man? You can't
go to-day, it's out of the question. If you do, you
need never come back again. Every one about the
house is needed until the last guest has left. You
may go as early as you please in the morning, if you'll
get some one to light the fires, but if you go to-night
you can stay when you get there.”
The girl bowed her head and went out, trying to
choke back the sobs that convulsed her whole frame
with their violence. She had borne meekly with many
whims and caprices, for the sick one's sake, and she
would strive to bear with this one also. If she went
away without a character, another place was a very uncertain
hope; and if she were left homeless and destitute,
whence would come the little luxuries that
Patrick Regan said were better than all the Doctor's
stuff, when Mary brought them. She would try to
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wait till morning, and God wouldn't let him die till
she had seen him, and kissed him just once more.
“Stupid, disagreeable creature,” muttered Juno
as the door closed behind her. “She'll be asking, the
next thing, to have us send her over to the hospital in
the carriage. I wish I had staid South. I would, if it
weren't for those absurd, vulgar notions about abolition,
John Clifford picked up somewhere, along with the rest
of his low breeding. I'd like to own my servants, body
and soul, and we'd see if they'd get troublesome.”
Oh, but that lofty house on Mount Vernon street
was all aglow with light and beauty that December
midnight. It was the evening before Christmas. At
one end of the long hall stood the Christmas tree, glittering
with bonbons, and heavy with the costly gifts
which were not to be taken down until the next
morning. Through the magnificent drawing-rooms
moved ladies, lustrous with silks, and gleaming with
jewels. The trees, and the tall flowering shrubs in
the conservatory, were hung with lights, and among
them wandered in pairs the young and happy, uttering
words, perchance, whose echo was to float through
all time, and be borne outward on the air of Eternity.
The refreshment tables glittered with massive plate,
the staircases were fragrant with the breath of southern
flowers, and
“All went merry as a marriage bell.”
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The beautiful hostess wore a robe of rich purple
velvet, heavily wrought with gold. Her neck and
arms gleamed like unsoiled snow, through the misty
folds of the point lace scarf, floating like a cloud
around her. Diamonds lit up the midnight of her
hair, encircled her wrists, and rose and fell upon her
bosom. But brighter than the gems were the large,
oriental eyes, flashing from under her drooped lashes;
softer than the folds of the velvet, the peach-like
bloom of her rounded cheek. Near her stood Miss
Sommers, radiant in a superb white silk, brocaded with
silver. There was an evil look in her light-blue eyes,
albeit her manners were characterized by the same air
of languishing softness. At a little distance was Miss
Atherton. She had purposely withdrawn herself from
observation. Standing amid the gay throng, she felt that
she was not of them, and yet no one, whose eye once
rested on her, could fail to look again, and yet again.
There was a singular purity, a look almost of heaven,
about that young face. The white tarleton was the
simplest costume in all those crowded rooms, and the
sweet face of its wearer might well have been likened
to the angels. The mirth was at its height. In another
room, merry feet were keeping time to the joyous
music. The lights poured down their floods of
radiance; jests and repartees sparkled on crimson
threaded lips, and there was no pause for thanksgiving,
when the Christmas morning broke.
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There was yet another watcher in the moonlight
and the midnight of December. A patient nurse sat
beside a low bed in the hospital. Its occupant seemed
already, in the expressive New England phraseology,
struck with death. His brow, fair and white as a
woman's, was already moist with the death-sweat.
He raised his thin fingers, and pushed off the damp
brown curls. His large, mournful eyes were lifted for
a moment to heaven, then he said, in a low, entreating
tone—“Can't you send for Mary?”
“We did send this afternoon, don't you remember?
She cannot be here now till morning.”
He was silent. All the weary hours of that
mournful night, he had tossed upon his pillow, calling
restlessly for Mary. More than once the kind eyes of
the nurse had filled with tears, accustomed as she had
been to stand beside the death-beds of the friendless.
“Is it most daybreak?” he said again, after a moment.
He had taken no heed of the midnight chimes.
“Not quite,” said the nurse, gently.
“Oh, she will come when it is morning. Her blue
eyes will shine on me. I shall die looking at them.
Mary! Mary! A sad heart she'll be bearing, all the
years of her life. Oh, I would fain take her with me,
but I must go alone. Oh, the hard pain has come
again, I shall die before she can get here. Come a
little nearer. Tell Mary, when I am gone, how I
loved her. Tell her she was the very pulse of my
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heart. It will comfort her to think that we loved
each other always, that there was never the hard word
between us. Tell her she is my wife, and I called
her so in dying. Oh the weary, painful nights I have
said her name over and over, and she does not come
to me. It is hard. It is hard. Must I die here alone
in the strange, far off counthry? What, is it daylight?
The morning breaks very bright. The sun shines.
Mary! Mary!”—The nurse bowed her head amid her
tears—the low voice ceased—the eyelids drooped
downward—the brow grew ever colder and colder—
the clock struck one, and the Christmas morning
broke over the face of the dead!
There was a momentary pause when Miss Atherton
followed Juno Clifford into the dancing room. A
gentleman who had been presented to her, earlier in
the evening, came forward, and solicited her hand for
a quadrille that was just forming. At nearly the
same moment one of the perfumed scions of Uppertendom
approached Miss Sommers. “Come, lady
fair,” he said, gayly, taking her hand, “I believe I
had the promise of this dance.”
Grace had already taken her place, and Miss Margaretta
drew back, for a moment, haughtily surveying
the group before her—“Excuse me, but I cannot
dance with Miss Atherton for a vis-a-vis.”
“Will you explain?”
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“Yes, I may be too exclusive, but I think Margaretta
Sommers could hardly be expected to dance
opposite the daughter of a village blacksmith.”
“Lou, Lou Ethrington, look here,” exclaimed the
exquisite to his fashionable sister. Miss Sommers
placed her hand upon his arm, and said in a low whisper,
“Do not give me as authority, I insist upon it.
It would be so embarrassing while I'm staying in the
same house. Mrs. Clifford did not know the fact
when she invited her, and she will pack her off as
soon as possible, but we must keep quiet until she is
gone. Be careful.”
“As wise as a serpent,” was the laughing reply;
then turning to his sister, who had now reached his
side—“Well, my aristocratic Miss Louise Ethrington,
that young lady in white I saw you making such
friends with, an hour ago, is the hopeful heiress of a
village blacksmith.”
“Not his daughter?”
“Yes, his daughter.”
“And Mrs. John Clifford insulted us by inviting
us to meet her? I shall cut her acquaintance.”
The young man laughed. “Don't be terrible, sis.
You know well enough you will do no such thing, for
Mrs. Clifford is too much the fashion. Her entertainments
are the most brilliant in the city. To do
the lady justice, though, I believe she did not know
her guest's station when she invited her, and she is too
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much of a Southerner to fail in the rites of hospitality,
now she has made the discovery.”
“A blacksmith's daughter, and young Vernon is
dancing with her; I must tell his sister.” She glided
gracefully across the room, full of the important secret,
and thus the ball was set in motion. When the
dance was over, young Vernon led his tired partner
to a seat, and went himself for an ice. On the way he
met his sister, and learned the astounding fact that he,
the son of a millionnaire, the grandson of a—huckster
woman, had been dancing with a blacksmith's daughter.
He was a good-hearted fellow, naturally, and the
young girl's unaffected simplicity had really interested
him; but the fear of ridicule was stronger even than
the instinct of gentlemanly courtesy; he did not return.
Gradually the whisper spread and the circle
around Grace widened, until she was quite alone, her
slight figure and bowed head a mark for all the curious
eyes in the room. Warren, standing at a distance,
had seen the whole affair in pantomime, but he
had heard nothing. Crossing the room hurriedly he
laid his hand upon his mother's arm. “Mother,” he
said, in a husky whisper, “what does this mean?
You see how Grace is treated.”
Juno raised her glass and surveyed the room.
There was a quick gleam of satisfaction in her eyes,
which he failed to notice, for their expression was very
tender, almost sorrowful, when she turned to him.
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“I see it,” she said, “but I could not help it. They
have discovered that she is a blacksmith's daughter,
and they will not dance with her, or talk to her.”
“A blacksmith! Mr. Atherton is no more a
blacksmith than I am.”
“He was, my son.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive!”
“And you concealed it from me?”
“How could I refuse? I thought if you never
knew it, it could not harm you, and I had no idea of
any such mortifying discovery as this of to-night.”
He turned away, and deliberately approached
Grace. There was a look upon his face which she
had never seen there before. He bent over her and
offered her his arm. “You are tired,” he said; “this
is very late for you; had you not better retire?”
Mechanically she obeyed him. He led her from the
room, and supported her trembling footsteps to the
very door of her own apartment. Then, bowing coldly,
he was about to turn away. Not a word had passed
between them since they left the dancing-room. The
silence drove her to desperation. She threw her
arms about his neck and sobbed out, “Oh, Warren,
don't leave me so. It will kill me. Don't you love
me, your own little Grace?” His heart was fairly
wild with sorrow for the grief he was causing her, and
yet deeper anguish at the thought that she whom he so
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loved and trusted had deceived him; but he resolutely
controlled his emotion, and said calmly, “Miss
Atherton is best aware how true she has been to me—
how much reason I have to treat her lovingly. I believe
I must go. My absence will be remarked by the
guests.”
Her outstretched arms sank powerless by her side.
She permitted him to go away without another word,
and then walked quietly into her room and shut the
door. Twice he stole back again to listen, and note if
there were sob or sound to betoken that she suffered
from his words. He heard none. He knew not
that there were seasons of agony, when even in
woman's heart the tears that cannot rise to the
dry, stony eyes, fall inward, seething, choking; bitterer
than any gentle rain which moistens the cambric
handkerchief, or makes dew-drops among a lover's
hair. He turned away and joined the gay throng below,
with a smile upon his lips; and she sat motionless,
with her clasped hands, her wide opened eyes, and her
throbbing heart. After a time she rose, still calmly,
tearlessly, and took off her festal garb. It was the
first time his tone had ever fallen harshly or coldly
upon her ears. She could not guess the reason. Absorbed
in her own thoughts, she had hardly noticed,
and quite failed to comprehend the attempt which had
been made to mortify her. She thought he must be
jealous; jealous, perhaps, because she had danced with
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another, and yet he had danced half the evening, and
not once with her. She could not comprehend it.
She knelt down by her bedside and offered a childlike
yet fervent prayer to Heaven, and then the blessed
tears came to her relief. She threw herself upon the
bed, and sobbed herself into a troubled sleep. It was
ten o'clock when she awoke.
The sun was pouring brightly through the windows.
There was a heavy weight upon her heart,
but she could not at first remember its cause. She
raised herself upon her elbow, and glanced around the
room. The fire was not yet lighted, but there, before
the grate, was Mary crouched upon the floor, and
swaying herself restlessly to and fro. Her face was
covered by her hands and her coarse apron. Very
gently Grace called her name. The hands dropped
upon her lap, and the face she lifted struck a thrill,
almost of terror, to Miss Atherton's heart. The lips
were white and bloodless, the hair hung in elf-locks
over the ghastly face, and the blue eyes, usually so
mild and quiet, glittered like live coals of fire. “I
curse her, I curse her!” burst from the compressed
lips.
“Oh, Mary, that is wrong. Come here and tell me
what it is that has grieved you so.”
There is always a kind of irresistible authority in
a firm yet gentle tone, and the girl struggled with her
tears and threw herself on her knees before the
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bedside. She spoke in a low yet passionate voice. “Oh,
Miss Grace, Miss Grace, it's jist me heart that's
breaking. I can feel it ache. They sint for me yesterday
to come to my poor Pathrick. They towld me
he was worse, and I went to the misthress. She
refused intirely, and I knew if I was afther goin',
I could never come back here again, and, may-be, I
wouldn't find another place till he'd be gone, and then
where would be all the jellies, and oranges, and the
nice dhrinks I'd buy for him? So I jist staid, with a
sad heart in my bosom. This morning, soon as the
last carriage drove away, I went to him. Oh how
shall I tell it!—he was dead, dead, and cowld, and
stiff! He had died an hour after midnight, all the
time calling for me, and saying I was his wife. Far
away in the strange counthry, with not a frind to the
fore. Nobody to stand beside his bed, to give him a
sup of dhrink but the stranger.”
“Didn't they send for the priest?”
“Is it the praste? My poor Pathrick was a protestant.
We both believed in the good Saviour and
forsook the false doctrines intirely.”
“And yet you could curse Mrs. Clifford. Wouldn't
he say this was very wrong?”
“Oh, may the blessed Jesus forgive me, but I was
wild with the hard pain. I'll not curse her again, but
I'll never eat bread in her house. And where can I
go, with no character and no friends?”
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Grace reflected for a moment. She could not
think it wrong to encourage the poor girl in leaving,
and yet it might bring trouble on her own head.
Glenthorne Katy was going to be married, and surely
it could be no sin to take this suffering, homeless
girl in her stead. “Could you go to Glenthorne
alone, Mary, and find Mr. Russel Atherton?”
“Is it where yees came from? I could do it
aisy.”
“Well, our girl will leave us soon, and if you
would like to live with me, I will send a note to my
father, and you shall stay as long as you like. Will
you go to-day?”
“May the dear God bless you, for shure it's Himself
has found a home for me, when I'm bowed down
with the bitter trouble. I will go to-morrow. To-day
my poor Pathrick is to be put in his grave, and I
must stay by till it is over.”
“Well, come to me early to-morrow morning, and
I will give you the letter, and let no one here know
where you are going, not even Mr. Warren.”
The girl rose, and turned toward the grate. It
seemed as if her sorrow had in some sort passed from
her mind, as she listened to Miss Atherton's plan
for her future, and now it came over her again with
an increased intensity. She turned toward the bed a
frightful, ghastly face—she fairly shrieked, “He is
dead!” and fell down on the floor in another paroxysm
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of grief. I suppose Juno Clifford and all her aristocratic
friends would have been still more shocked
with the plebeian blacksmith's daughter, could they
have seen her spring from her couch, and throwing a
shawl around her shoulders fold her arms about that
weeping girl, and whisper over, and over, and over
again, the soothing, blessed promises our Father has
given for the encouragement of His suffering children.
There were eyes which witnessed the scene, holy eyes
of saints and angels—there was a voice which said,
“Well done, good and faithful servant. Inasmuch as
thou hast done it unto the least of these, thou hast
done it unto me!”
It was a long time ere she could win to those
wailing lips aught but the prolonged, sorrowful cry,
“He is dead!” but at last there came a Heaven-sent
calm; and when the low, sweet voice uttered our Saviour's
words of promise—“Thy dead shall rise again,”
the stricken one lifted her bowed head, and said, fervently,
“Amen, God be praised!” And then she
rose calmly, as you and I have seen Heaven's pensioners,
the poor, arise from many another strife with sorrow,
and went about her daily tasks. Oh, how often
to such the practical language of the rich and great has
been—“What need of pause—let the dead bury their
dead.”
Absorbed in her sympathy with this great sorrow,
Grace entered the breakfast room, half oblivious of
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her own grief. Mr. Clifford's good morning was
cordial as ever, Juno addressed her in the old, treacherous,
caressing tones; the half-sneer on Miss Sommers'
face was unchanged; but Warren rose, with the
same cold, ceremonious politeness which had characterized
their parting of the evening before, and handing
her a small casket remarked, “A Christmas present
for you, I presume. A boy brought it to the
door, and said he was directed to leave it for Miss
Atherton.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she courageously
prevented them from falling, and opened the box.
A tiny gold chain lay before her, of exquisite workmanship,
and attached to it, instead of the customary
cross, were a miniature hammer and anvil. In her
confusion she let both the casket and the ornament
fall upon the floor. Warren raised them with mock
civility. “A most appropriate gift,” he remarked,
with a half-suppressed sneer, “it surely came from
some one better informed as to your circumstances
than myself; very probably from your admirer of last
evening, Mr. Vernon.”
These words brought a stray gleam of hope to
the girl's heart. He surely was jealous; then he
must love her. She said with a forced yet dignified
calmness, “Follow me to the drawing-room for a
moment, I wish to speak to you.”
He was too much of a gentleman, even in his
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anger, to refuse compliance with her request. He passed
on after her into the drawing-room, and shutting the
door, stood with his back against it.
“Warren,” she said, in the same calm, low tone,
“I must have an explanation of your changed manner.
You are paining me very much.”
“Yes,” he said, bitterly, “and I suppose you have
quite forgotten that I was at all pained and mortified
last night?”
“Do you mean with Mr. Vernon? Were you jealous
of him, Warren?”
“Jealous of him! Jealous of a man who had not
respect enough for you to return and bring you an ice,
after he found you were a blacksmith's daughter? Oh
yes, I was very jealous of Mr. Vernon! But I'll give
you the explanation you want; I was mortified to see
my betrothed wife a mark for scorn, and contempt, and
ridicule to all the room, and far worse than this, was
the pain of feeling that the one I most fondly loved
and trusted had deceived me.”
“Then you did love me?”—The words came
tremblingly from her lips, and at last her self-control
gave way, and she burst into tears.
“Faugh!” he cried, angrily, “stop that, please—
you disgust me. As long as you were true, every tear
you shed was sacred. You might have wept all night
upon my breast, but now—you have been false in other
things, and most likely these very tears are a piece of
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beautiful acting.” But she did not seem to hear, or
heed, his cruel words; with her face buried in her
hands, she wept on. Then his mood changed. He
went up to her, and resolutely removing her hands
from her face, said firmly, but not unkindly, “Look
up, and tell me, Grace, why did you deceive me?”
The blue eyes fearlessly met his own, a look of
earnest truth shining through their tears—“I never
did, Warren.”
“Then why did you not tell me, long ago, that
your father had been a blacksmith?”
“You had lived so long in Glenthorne, I supposed
you knew it, and I never thought of its making any
difference. I should have spoken of it long ago, had
I dreamed it could make you love me less.”
“How, then, did my mother know it?”
“I told her. I spoke of it as naturally and freely
as I would of any other thing, and then she said you
did not know it. I was going to tell you, but she said
you would love me less, and—” she paused, for at that
moment she recollected that it would be a betrayal of
Mrs. Clifford's confidence, to speak of the promise she
had made.
Warren lifted her soothingly in his arms, and whispered,
“And so you feared to lose my love, my poor
Grace. With such a motive, I were less than human
not to forgive you. But the affair has mortified me
horribly; and then, this insulting present is worst of
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all. Who could have sent it? If I knew, man or
woman, they should pay for it dearly.”
Grace could not help feeling it a little hard to be
forgiven when she was not guilty; but she thought
Mrs. Clifford had loved her, and acted for her good,
and come what would, she was too honorable to betray
her. Little did she dream that Juno herself was the
donor of the mysterious present, and had caused it to
be made with an eye to this very denouement. She was
glad to regain, at any cost, the dear love she deemed
her life's best blessing, and she sat there in his arms,
looking gratefully into his eyes. He held her very
tenderly, and bent, every now and then, to press his
lips to her cheek or brow; but she could see from the
glitter in his eye, that the inward tempest was not yet
over. “If I could have dreamed of this,” he said,
after a moment, “you should never have appeared at
that party, never. I would not have had you or myself
so mortified. How could those people have heard
of it?”
“I do not know. Is it then so terrible, so disgraceful?”
“Not in my eyes, Grace, whatever my mother may
have thought I should feel about it; but it's a pretty
effectual sentence of banishment from Up-Town society.”
At that moment Juno Clifford lifted her stately
head from the keyhole of the drawing-room door,
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and walked leisurely to her boudoir. There was
surely no disgrace in listening, for no one knew it.
She forgot God and the angels, but she seldom
thought of them; and now her heart was swelling
with triumph, that the young girl she had injured
had not betrayed her.
Notwithstanding her reconciliation with her lover,
Grace was haunted by a painful consciousness that she
had somehow fallen in his esteem. He was evidently
bitterly mortified, both at the scene of the previous
evening, and the sarcastic present. She could see that
these memories would be a long time in passing from
his mind. Indeed, how could she hope he would ever
forget them, should she become his wife? Had he not
said they would for ever exclude her from the circle in
which he was accustomed to move, and so, shut out
from his old friends for her sake, would he not remember
them bitterly? Her heart ached, and she longed
to go home, and rest her head upon her mother's breast,
and seek the advice and sympathy which had never yet
failed her. And so, to the letter of which the sorrowing
Irish girl was to be the bearer, she added this
postscript:—
“Send for me to come home, dear mother. My
heart is like to break, and I cannot come until I hear
from you. They would think me angry or ungrateful.
I do not want to stay here. This beautiful
house seems like a great prison—the perfumed air
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stifles me—the very sunshine mocks me, and I am
wretched. What am I saying? I do not mean that.
Every one is kind to me, and I've nothing of which
to complain, but all this splendor wearies me. It is
as if you should send the lowly thrust to dwell in the
eyrie of the eagle. Mayn't I come home?”
When she opened her eyes the next morning, Irish
Mary stood beside her bed, with her shawl on, and her
bonnet in her hand.
“I built your fire one more mornin', Miss Grace,
darlin'. I'm goin' now. Would I take the letter?”
“Is it car-time?”
“No, miss, but I'm jist goin' to walk. I spent
my last money for poor Pathrick's burial.”
“Have you told Mrs. Clifford you are going?”
“Shure I did that same last evening. She said
she was glad to get rid of me, but if I was goin' off
in this ondacent manner, she should give me no character,
and I wouldn't get my last month's wages.”
“Not get your wages?”
“No, miss, you see I did not give her warning.”
For an instant Grace said nothing. Could it be that
Juno Clifford, so rich, so beautiful, so seemingly gentle,
so lavish in every expenditure, would make use of
such a pitiful pretext to gratify a petty revenge, and
send the poor Irish girl out into the world penniless?
She would have been still more shocked, had she
known that the prime cause was the girl's apparent
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devotion to herself. She rose, and took her purse
from the bureau by her bedside. She had had several
little purchases to make, and it was not very well
filled; but she drew forth a five-dollar bill, and said,
gently, “There, Mary; you need not hesitate to take
it. You are going to my father's, and I shall not have
you walking in this bitter cold. Here is the letter.”
The poor girl sank on her knees before her, in
speechless gratitude, and Grace fairly started as her
eyes fell on that upturned face. It had changed so,
in one short twenty-four hours—it wore such an expression
of hopeless misery. “Have you been crying,
Mary?” she asked, bending over her.
“No, miss. The heart was too sore for that. My
eyes wouldn't shut up the night. I kept seein' him,
there in the coffin, with the dirt fallin' on him. Oh,
it's a bitter grief, and a long one, and I could not see
him die. If I had only been there, and kissed him,
and answered him when he called me his wife, and
towld him I'd never be that same to another. But
no, I couldn't go to him. The grand folks must have
their great party, and now he's dead!”
It was in vain to try to console her, or hush that
endless wail which came momently up from her heart.
Grace could only soothe her with a few gentle words
about the home and friends she was going to, and then
she went out, in the cold gray morning, with her tearless,
stony eyes, and the sore pain which mocked at
all human words of consolation.
-- -- p652-240
XVI. NEW YEAR'S IN TWO PLACES.
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New Year's day dawned clear, and bright, and cold.
Simon Goldthwaite looked out of the window of the
little den he called his private counting-room. The
streets literally swarmed with gentlemen on their way
to the parlors of their lady friends. Now and then
a sleigh dashed by, with its sleek, prancing horses, its
liveried servants, and the bright young face of its mistress
raised to the manly countenance bending over
her; the cheeks flushed, the eyes sparkling like beads,
and the whole expression speaking that genuine happiness
which so rarely lingers after the first fresh enthusiasm
of youth. He seemed to take pleasure in
the sight, and then he turned away with a little inward
chuckle of satisfaction.
“Poor boy,” he said aloud, “why should I not help
him to bring his mother to the city? I have no one
else to help. How pleased he will be when I tell him
his salary is raised to one thousand a year. After all,
four hundred of it isn't much to pay out of my own
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pocket; I can't give it to him any other way, for he's
too proud to let me help him if he knew it. Heigho,
he'll think the firm are getting generous;” and he
chuckled again, rubbing his hands as if excessively
delighted.
“Hallo! Dick, my boy, good news for you.
You've got the situation, and your salary raised to a
thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars! Am I dreaming? I must
go and thank them this moment.”
Simon smiled—“You must do no such thing. I
have known them longer than you, and they would
not like it. Now I suppose we shall have brave
doings. I shall have to go all over the city to hunt
you up a house. Let me see, it shall be in Brooklyn,
and near South Ferry. That will be so pleasant.
They can come across on the pleasant summer days,
and go to walk on the Battery, and then up Broadway
to the store. It will be the best walk for Mabel.”
“Oh, Mr. Goldthwaite, how kind, how good; you
have planned it all. It is just what I should like.
How I wish you were a woman.”
“Would you marry me?” asked Simon, with imperturbable
gravity—“would you, really?” and as
if with greatly increased self-complacency, he stroked
an apology for a whisker of terribly uncertain color.
“Nonsense, but I am so happy. I wished you
were a woman, so I could kiss you.”
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For a moment Simon's brow was shaded. Unheeded
the tears gathered in his eyes, and his voice
trembled. “The last kiss I ever received, my mother
gave me, the night before she died. All these
years since no lips were ever pressed to brow or
cheek of mine. Sometimes I think I can feel it still,
and hear over again the tones of her good-night
blessing. Oh, this friendless life has seemed a weary
journey oftentimes. Thank God, my dear boy, that
your boyhood was not left motherless.”
“I do, and I thank Him, too, for the sisters he has
given me. I got a letter from Emmie this morning.
Dear little Sunbeam, how happy she will be, that she
can come to live with me at last. Such a little philosopher.
The rest of the village girls, it seems, are
having new bonnets, and she couldn't afford any. Her
account of the display at their one milliner's shop, is
really laughable. I believe I can afford to treat her
to a present of a new bonnet on the strength of my recent
good fortune.”
“To be sure you can. I'll pay you for all that
copying you did for me, on that very condition, and
I'll go with you and help select. Come, we shall
both be at leisure for an hour or two. There must be
one for each of them.”
They sauntered along Broadway in the very
gayest spirits. At length Simon paused, and indicated
a hat which had completely captivated his
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fancy. “That's the very thing for little Sunbeam
now, isn't it?” The bonnet in question was bright red,
with flowers of a deep yellow. Dick could hardly
suppress a hearty laugh, as he attempted to imagine
Emmie's sweet, sunshiny face, and intelligent, brown
eyes, with such remarkable surroundings; but he only
said, quietly, that he was sure it wouldn't quite suit
her complexion. In the very next window was one
which he decided to secure, with the fullest approbation
of the obliging Simon. It was white, with lining
and strings of pale rose color, and plumes as soft and
delicate as December snow-flakes. There was another
of deep azure silk. He fancied it would just
match the untroubled blue of Mabel's dream-haunted
eyes; and he went home, the triumphant possessor of
them both. He could never remember so happy a
New Year, and yet he was only a merchant's clerk, on
a small salary, alone in the great city, with no friends,
save that one honest, kind-hearted man. He could
not rest contented until he had coaxed Simon across
South Ferry, and fixed on a half-dozen cosy houses,
any one of which he fancied would be a pretty nest
for the home-birds who were to migrate thither with
the spring sunshine. Long, and very eloquent with
love and hope, was the letter he wrote that evening
to the dear ones in Mohawk Village, while Simon sat
silently by in his arm-chair, enjoying his young friend's
happiness, and yet thinking half sorrowfully the while,
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[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
of what might be, if he, himself, were not quite so old,
and a little bit more handsome.
It was New Year's also on Mount Vernon street.
The seasons of the year are terribly republican in
their character, and the day was not a bit brighter for
our lady Juno, than for the tired beggar woman, resting
for a moment on her steps, whom the quadroon
had just before so haughtily repulsed. Juno was in
her dressing-room. The dainty shutters of satinwood,
picked out with gold, were carefully closed, to
exclude the sunlight, and the room was brilliantly illuminated
with gas, for she wished to try the effect of
the gaslight on a costume which must be worn late
into the night. She sat with a cashmere dressing-gown
falling in graceful folds about her, while her
quadroon maid knelt at her feet, adjusting the tiny
white satin slippers. Her robe for the occasion was a
moire antique, white, with rippling waves of light all
over it, and spotted here and there, as if dashed with
dew-drops. Over this she was to wear a dress of
Mechlin lace, exquisite in its pattern, and fine and
soft enough for the coronation robes of a fairy queen.
Dupont had given his most classic touches to her hair,
and ornamented it with a wreath of delicate orange
blossoms, manufactured with the purest oriental
pearls set in silver. Her dress lay on the lounge before
her, the little feet were properly chaussée, and
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the quadroon was ready for the completion of her
task; but still Master Warren chose to linger, and
still Juno looked up with her brightest smile to the
handsome face bending over her. “But, mother dearest,”
he said, earnestly, “must you insist? Grace does
not wish it herself, and it will be positive pain to me.”
“Pain to have your betrothed wife sit for callers
with your own mother?”
“You understand me, mother. You must surely
know I love Grace too well, and appreciate her too
highly, to be willing the scene of Christmas evening
should be re-enacted.”
“It may not be; at any rate, the experiment is
worth trying. If Miss Atherton is to be your wife,
she must live here, and living here, she cannot seclude
herself from society. That unfortunate story
may perhaps be forgotten in time; at any rate, we
must not seem to notice it. The poor child's manners
are awkward to the last degree in society, and we
must have her a little more accustomed to it, before
she is introduced as your bride. Go now, I am
waiting to dress; and please let her know it is my
very earnest wish that she should be present in the
drawing-room before eleven.”
All that week, the poor girl's heart had ached
wearily. Her longed for summons home had not yet
arrived, and more than ever her simple country habits
seemed out of place among the magnificence with
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which she was surrounded. She listened to Mrs. Clifford's
wishes with a sigh so deep it made Warren's
heart ache. She was sitting in the library, and she
rose to go up stairs. He sprang to her side, and drew
her head impulsively to his bosom. But the action
called no flush to her cheek, no sparkle to her eye,
and he said, half reproachfully, “Grace, what ails
you? What makes you so calm, and still, and cold?
Are you sick? has any thing vexed you?”
There was a mournful, pathetic look in the blue
eyes which sought his own; a look which haunted
him for years afterwards. “No,” she said, very quietly,—
“I am not sick; I am not vexed; I am lonesome.”
“And yet I am with you, Gracie,” he said, reproachfully.
“I know it, but I had rather you were with me at
home. I am pining for Glenthorne. It is too stately
for me here, I can't live; I'm a wild, mountain daisy,
and I don't want to be put here with your fuchsias
and French roses.”
“You are ill. You never would speak so despairingly
if you were not. I suppose you must go and
dress; my mother is very much in earnest about it.
But if you find the parade is tiring you, just steal
away to your own room, and no one shall find fault.”
Even his tender words failed to gladden her, as
they would have done two weeks before. Listlessly
she went up stairs, and twined her golden tresses over
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her finger. Then she put on a dress of deep azure
silk. It was a simple costume, but very becoming to
the almost ethereal style of her face and figure. When
she descended to the drawing-room, she found Mrs.
Clifford and Miss Sommers already surrounded by a
group of gentlemen. Warren had lingered still in
the hope of seeing her before he went out, and meeting
her at the door, he conducted her to a seat beside
a stand of choice engravings. For the first few moments
she had leisure to look about her. Miss Sommers,
elegantly arrayed in rose-colored satin, was
playing the sentimental young lady, after the most
approved fashion, to a young gentleman whose collar
turned down à la Byron, and “eyes in a fine frenzy
rolling,” betrayed the incipient poet. She was just informing
him what a very nice young lady she thought
Leila, and how she had doted on brides, ever since she
saw a certain distinguished actress appear in the costume
of Miss Lammermuir. Juno was conversing with
a distinguished looking man in military costume, and
the other gentlemen, joining in the conversation only
now and then, seemed sufficiently entertained by the
reflection of their own faces in their patent-leather
boots. The day passed very wearily. There were a
few who took the trouble to talk to Grace, and there was
no repetition of the insults of the Christmas evening.
But she was too sad to be very entertaining, and at
length, as if by a tacit consent, they abandoned her to
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her silence and her table of engravings. There was
one which especially fascinated her. There were
bleak, barren hills in the background, and over them
the moon was rising, lifting her face, wan and spectral,
from the black clouds folded round her. Then there
was a chain of rugged rocks, against which the sea
surged and dashed like mad, and on the cliff jutting
farthest out to sea, stood a young girl. She was evidently
a fisherman's daughter. Her face was very
beautiful. Her loose cloak was blown backward, and
so were the long folds of her hair. Her eyes were
straining to catch a view of a far-off skiff, which had
well-nigh gone to pieces in its battle with the waves.
In her expression there was a strange blending of hope,
and the most abject, miserable despair. The hope had
almost gone out, and in the despair there was something
strangely sublime. It was such a look as a lost
angel might have worn, who had tried in vain to scale
the steeps of Heaven. To Grace there was a prophecy
in those troubled, mournful eyes. She turned it a
dozen different ways, and in each new light it seemed
to grow more and more drearily mournful. And so she
sat, while the first sun of the New Year was going down
slowly. She did not seem to comprehend any thing
around. The voices did not enter her ear; the faces
and figures might have been those of phantoms.
Her soul was heavy with a dim, underfined presentiment
of some terrible evil.
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Juno Clifford, sitting there, looking like a royal
bride in her costly robes, watched her furtively and
enjoyingly, while Miss Margaretta coined a sneer or
two for her especial benefit; but they were both unheeded.
The next morning a note with the Glenthorne
postmark roused her from the listlessness into which
she was falling. Juno had declared herself too ill to
appear at breakfast, and both Warren and Miss Atherton
were sitting by her bedside, when the welcome
missive was brought in.
“I am going home to-morrow,” she said, when she
had concluded its perusal, and her tone had something
of its old cheerfulness.
“Not to-morrow, surely. Mr. Clifford leaves to-day
for Washington, and I am so ill I would not dare to
stay without Warren. You cannot go home alone.”
“Oh yes, I shall have no difficulty; you know I
came without him My mother has sent for me, and
I must go.”
“But he fully intended to go with you.”
“Never mind, you need him more than I, and I
shall do very well.” At that moment Warren's eyes
met her own with a reproachful look, which seemed
to say, “Has my presence ceased to be welcome?”
She rose, and retreated hastily to her own room. She
had a kind of feeling that Warren never looked at her
without recalling the scene of Christmas evening,
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[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
and this thought gave her a feeling of constraint.
She longed to escape from it all, to her own free, happy
home; and yet she loved him—he must have indeed
been blind to doubt that—loved him with a love as
eternal as the soul which conceived it. She read the
precious letter over and over again, kissing the words,
and blistering the paper with her tears. There were
sentences, fairly eloquent with the gushing tenderness
of a mother's love for her only child. They told of the
fond welcome which awaited her—of the songs her pet
birds sang in the winter mornings when she was not
there to hear them; of the buds on her rose-tree, and
of the good, kind Mary, so patient in her great sorrow;
busy every where, but most of all in making her young
lady's room look bright and neat. She must come—
they were all ready, waiting for her, they should be so
much happier when she was there. She pressed the
loving words to her lips, and her heart overflowed with
a tearful thanksgiving for this blessed place of refuge.
Juno parted with her the next morning with many
outward expressions of regret. Grace listened to her
words, and was folded to her heart, as in a dream.
She scarcely heeded Miss Sommers' half-mocking farewell,
but she clung to Warren's arm almost despairingly,
as he led her to the carriage. She had not
realized, before, how terrible would be the parting.
That hour she felt how far dearer was her betrothed
husband, than all things earthly; dearer even than her
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[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
own life. During the short drive to the depot, there
were but few words spoken. Her head lay silently upon
his breast. There was time for but a hurried good-bye—
a hasty promise to write often, to see her
soon, and then, utterly regardless of the gazing eyes
around him, he strained her for one moment passionately
to his heart. Then he had a glimpse, as the cars
started, of a pale, tearless face looking from the window
with a weary, sorrowful glance, very pitiful in one so
young. He went back into the presence of his fascinating
mother, with that sad face haunting him; and
reading the sorrow in his eyes, Juno Clifford began to
realize that the game on which she hazarded all things
was but a desperate chance.
That afternoon, in Mohawk Village, a happy party
were gathered round a blazing fireside, while Emmie
Hereford read her brother's letter. She had tried on
her new bonnet at least a half-dozen times, and extemporized
as many dances before the mirror in her extravagant
joy. Now she sat with her lashes demurely
drooped, half veiling the sunshine in her brown eyes.
“And so, mother dearest, we are to go to Dick next
spring? Won't it be joy to live together again? Mabel
will feel it most of all; and my Lady Juno Clifford
can have back her cottage upon her hands.” And the
mother, answering, smiled with the tears dimming her
kind eyes, and breathed a silent prayer that God would
bless the absent son and brother.
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That afternoon, a white-haired man, unmistakably
growing old, stood beside his gentle wife on the steps
of Glenthorne Cottage. The stage stopped at the
door, and a slight, pale girl came forward, and was
folded in their arms. They showered tenderest kisses
on the young, sad face; they breathed blessings over
her; and Grace Atherton, coming back worn and wearied
from her sojourn in the wondrous regions of Up-Town,
blessed God afresh for the love of home, akin
to the love of heaven.
-- -- p652-253
XVII. CHECKMATED.
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When Warren returned, Mrs. Clifford had not yet
risen. He entered the room and sat down beside her,
tenderly kissing her cheek. “You shall not see company
again this year, darling mother, if it's going to
make you so ill next day.” His tone was playful, but
there was deep anxiety in the look he bent upon her.
“It was not that, Warren,” she said, quietly.
“Not that?”
“No, the cause lay deeper. Warren, could you be
happy if we were separated? We have been together
now so many years—there would be so many memories
of sorrows we have shared—of pleasures we have
experienced; nay, would not every twilight of the
future echo with the evening hymns we have sung
together?”
“But why think of this, mother dearest, when
such a thing can never be?”
“Warren, do you love Grace Atherton?” She
fixed her dark eyes upon his face with a searching look.
“Surely I love her, she is my betrothed.”
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“It would cost you more, then, to part with her,
than with your mother?”
“I cannot tell; in mercy do not ask me. It would
be death or madness to do either.”
“And yet answer me!”
“How can I? Grace is so sweet, so gentle, she
soothes me like pleasant music. You are different.
Your dark eyes thrill me, kindle up my soul. I have
known you longest—you are my mother.”
She twined her arm around his neck, and drew
his head down on the pillow beside her. “Then you
wouldn't leave me,” she said in a gentle whisper, “not
even if this dear Grace wished it?”
“Never! Have I not sworn I would never leave
nor forsake you? She could not wish it; if she did,
I would cast her from my heart.”
Juno thanked him in a low, tremulous tone, and
then she asked—“But, Warren, if you must give up
one of us two; if my husband were to forbid the nuptials,
and the marriage vows you plighted were to be
your eternal sentence of banishment from my presence,
what would you do then?”
“My duty, if God would help me to discover it.
It would be a fearful choice, between breaking the
young heart which has trusted me, and refusing obedience
to the guardians of a lifetime, parting with
you.”
“Think you that Grace Atherton, with her girl's
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heart, could ever love you as I have loved?” Her
tone was one of intense passion; her warm lips were
against his cheek, and yet he dreamed not that it was
other than a mother's sanctified tenderness of which
she spoke.
He answered earnestly—“Oh, mother, try me no
farther. Such choice could never be. If it could,
God help me; but it is wrong to think of any thing so
terrible, so impossible.
“And yet, my own boy, it was this terrible fear
which made me ill. John Clifford likes not your fair
bride, and a few words he said made me down sick
with fear lest all this lay before you.”
“But surely, mother, you could influence him.”
“I will try,” she answered. Her face was lying
so that Warren could not look upon it, but at that
moment it wore the expression of a beautiful fiend.
During the week that followed before John Clifford's
return, Juno was lovelier than ever. Miss Margaretta
had departed for her own home, in absolute despair
of the success of her plans, and they were constantly
together. Warren seemed more and more to realize
how impossible it would be to live without her. Even
the absent Grace seldom came between them, save
when he would rouse himself to write to her, or pause
for a moment to read her words of purest love and
trust. For the time being, his mother seemed to unite
to her own proud beauty and unrivalled elegance, all
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the sweet, unselfish purity which had most attracted
him in Grace. There was a shade of sadness in her
manners, which made them irresistibly charming.
At length Mr. Clifford came. Juno had laid her
plans skilfully. She met him at the door, and rested
her head on his breast as she had not done more than
once or twice in a life-time. He clasped her in his
arms. “I am so glad you have come,” she whispered,
“I have been so anxious, I have needed you so much.”
He threw off his outside wrappings and followed her
to her boudoir. She sat down beside him, and for a
moment there was silence. Then looking up she said,
as if with a sweet, wife-like trust, “You do love me,
John?”
“Love you, my own wife, my beautiful angel; if
you knew how gladly I would die for you.”
“I do know. It is a blessed thought that I will
have your love to comfort me when my heart is fit to
break.”
“Your heart! My own love, what is this great
sorrow?”
“Is it nothing to be left childless? If Warren
Clifford is Grace Atherton's husband, he cannot be
my son.”
“Why not? he can bring her home. There need
be no separation.”
She reached up, and twined her arm caressingly
about his neck. “But I don't like her,” she said,
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coaxingly—“It would make me very unhappy to have
her here; and she don't like me, and wouldn't want to
stay here. She got very home-sick, the little time she
did stay. The result of the marriage would be that
Warren would live in Glenthorne. I am sure of it.”
“That would be a trial, certainly. You would be
very lonely now without his society, and I really need
him about my business.”
“It would be more than a trial, my husband; it
would kill me. I have only you and him in all the
world; how can I spare either?”
“You must not, but what can I do?”
“Forbid it!”
“But would that help the matter? Some young
men would marry all the quicker.”
“It would not be so with Warren. His notions
of duty are very high, and he would think it wrong to
leave us. You would only have to be firm. Tell him
if he weds her, he must never again enter our doors.
That he must part with us for ever or with her. Let
him think that you do not like her; that you would
feel disgraced by her humble origin. He would be
insane to go forth into the world portionless, with not
even a profession. Loving her he would not link her
to such a fate. For her own sake he would give her
up.”
“But would he not suffer terribly?”
“Trust that to me, my husband. I am too fond
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a mother, to wish him made unhappy. Their love, as
yet, is not much beyond a mere fancy on either side.
They would suffer very little, not half so much as you
or I should grieve at parting with our boy. If worst
came to worst, and he did marry her, we could take
them back after a time. But there is not much danger
of this, only be resolute. Will you do this for my
sake?” The bewildered man had a half consciousness
that he was promising to commit a sin before high
Heaven, but he worshipped Juno. What could he say,
when she was lying, as he had never before held her,
in his arms, with those magnetic eyes burning into his
very soul? He bent his lips to hers with a passionate
fervor, and whispered the promise she had requested,
as he held her to his heart.
He was very persistent, naturally, and when he had
once undertaken an object, was seldom known to fail.
The next morning, Warren was summoned to a conference
in his study. Juno Clifford heard the door
close behind them, and sat in her boudoir the while,
in an agony of impatient expectation. It was nearly
a half hour after, when Warren rushed in, and threw
himself at her feet. “It has come,” he exclaimed—
“mother, I have got a blow.” He buried his face in
her lap, and his frame shook with those bursting sobs
which are so terrible when the storm of some passionate
grief o'ersweeps a manly nature. “Warren, darling,”
she whispered, laying her hand very tenderly
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on his brown, clustering curls—“speak to me, my own
boy. You frighten me!”
He lifted his pale face, and struggled to speak
calmly. “You were right, my mother. Oh help me
not to be angry with him, not to forget how much I
owe him. He would separate us. He hates my gentle
Grace, and scorns the low descent, which he fancies
would disgrace his proud name. He has told me that
if I marry her I can be no child of his. I must go
forth from your dear presence for ever. Oh, he was
so cold and stern! Is there no hope?”
She folded him in her arms, and hid her face upon
his shoulder, and then she answered in trembling tones,
as if she were sharing all his suffering—“There is
none. I talked to him all last night, and when I cannot
soften him, surely no other can. He does not
think Grace Atherton truly loves you. He thinks
she is dazzled by your father's wealth, and he will
never forget the terrible misfortune of that Christmas
evening.”
“He has given me two weeks to decide. He says
he will not take my answer before. But what can I
say? Dare I hope I could win my gently-nurtured
Grace to be a poor man's wife, one bitterly poor as I
shall be? And if she would, could I give you up,
whom I so idolize? Mother, help me.”
“I cannot. It will kill me if you leave me. My
heart returns but one answer, and yet I will try to
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council you. What if you should write to Grace, and
ask her whether she would share your poverty, if you
left your parents for her sake.”
“I will, this moment.”
“There is no hurry. It cannot leave Boston now
until to-morrow.”
“I know, but I must do something. I shall feel
better to have it written.” He drew a writing desk
toward him, and wrote for a time with nervous energy.
Then he tossed the half-filled sheet to his mother.
She looked over its contents. They were very contradictory.
One paragraph would be filled with the passionate
outpourings of his love for Grace; the next
would picture vividly the clinging tenderness which
bound him to his mother. Then there would be a
startling prophecy of the poverty with which he so
dreaded to darken her young life, concluding, perhaps,
with a question whether they might not be wildly happy
yet, with such deep love as theirs; whether any thing
of suffering or penury would not be better than a separation
which would go nigh to crush the life out of
those two young hearts? And at the close he said—
“Grace, I know not what I have written. I leave
it all in your hands. Decide as you will. You know
I love you. I have sworn before Heaven to love you
always. Will you be my wife? If yes, I will go out
from my father's house for your sake; and you shall
be my world, but it will be a humble lot. We shall
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both suffer much. It is for you to say whether your
love shall be strong enough to lighten it. Write to
me. I shall be wretched until I know my fate.”
Juno smiled faintly as she finished its perusal.
Triumphantly she whispered to herself—“She will
know at least that his heart has more than one idol.”
There was in it little of that exclusive devotion which
could win a woman like Grace Atherton to consent to
burthen him with poverty for her sake. She almost
trembled lest he should not send it, for she foresaw with
all its contradictions and inconsistencies it would be a
valuable aid to her own plans. “Seal it now,” she said,
as she handed it back to him. “It is all right. She
will say yes, if she loves you, and I—” She paused,
and Warren turned away. He had not courage to meet
the pleading agony in those lustrous eyes. The letter
was sealed, and that night, when all the rest of the
house were sleeping, Juno Clifford left her husband's
side, and folding a shawl about her, sought her boudoir.
Then she lit a little silver lamp, and sitting
down at her own table, indited a letter to Grace Atherton's
parents. She communicated her husband's
conversation with Warren. She spoke deprecatingly
of the sinful pride which made him unwilling to welcome
Grace Atherton as his daughter. Humbly she
begged them to forgive her the ungracious task she
had imposed upon herself. Very sweetly she spoke of
her own love for Grace, and then there was a perfect
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torrent of wild, passionate pleading, that they would
pity the mother's heart, which clung so to her son.
She told them she was writing, when all other eyes
were closed, to pray them to have mercy, not to permit
her son to be taken from her, or she should go
mad, or die. Would they use their influence with
Grace; only persuade her to wait. It would all come
right sometime. Mr. Clifford might change his mind
by and by, or something might happen to bring them
together. But if Warren left them now, and married
in direct opposition to his father's will, there would be
no hope of forgiveness. She would trust them, she
said, to keep her letter secret. She would not have it
reach her husband's ears, or Warren's, but she could
not refrain from writing. Sitting there alone, in the
desolate midnight, she was weeping over the sheet, to
think what life would be, if he, her only one, were
taken from her. When she had written the last sentence,
she held it up to the light, and read it over. It
was very skilfully worded to produce the desired
effect. It could not fail to touch a parent's heart,
and it pictured vividly the destitution which would
be their daughter's if she became Warren's wife
against his father's will. A mocking smile sat upon
her face, as she sealed it, and wrote the superscription.
Then she proceeded with noiseless footstep to the sleeping
apartment of the quadroon. “Jane,” she said,
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flashing the lamp in her eyes so as to awaken her,
“Can you do an errand for me at daybreak?”
The girl was fully aroused in a moment. “Yes,
madam,” she replied, unhesitatingly.
“You know where the post-office is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to send this letter. It is very important
it should go to-morrow, and that it should be
kept secret from Warren and Mr. Clifford. I am
setting you a hard task, but I can trust no one else.
Will you undertake to put this in the morning mail?”
“I will. It shall be there, surely and secretly.”
“Very well, I am sure that I can trust you.” She
turned and left the room. She did not hear the passionate
murmur that followed her—“I would die for
you, oh my mistress! I would steep my soul in the
rivers of death, for one such caress as you bestow on
your pet greyhound!” Nothing was more singular
about Juno's character, than her power of inspiring
attachment; and perhaps by none was she so madly
worshipped as by her quadroon servant. With all
the tropical fervor of her mixed blood, the girl adored
the beautiful being whom, from childhood, she had
been taught to obey and reverence. Her mother was
dead, her brothers and sisters sold into hopeless
slavery, and she clung to her mistress with a passionate
devotion, compounded of all the good and evil in
her nature. There was not a crime so black, she
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would not have stained her soul with its deadliest dye
at that mistress's bidding, and yet Heaven's own angels
were not purer than Juno Clifford might have
made her, had she so willed. It was a human soul
committed to her keeping, for which she would be
called to answer, when “the judgment was set, and
the books opened.” Quietly, now that her task was
done, Juno Clifford lay down by her husband's side.
Well she knew want of rest would impair the fresh
beauty she more than ever prized: and so she clasped
those tiny hands upon her breast, and composed herself
to sleep as calmly as if no evil thought had ever
thrilled the heart which beat beneath. It was four
days ere Grace Atherton's answer came—
“I love you,” thus she wrote, after a few words of
kindly greeting.
“I love you; I should belie my own heart, were I
not to tell you that; but I cannot decide for you. The
task you have imposed is too heavy. Had you been
utterly penniless when you sought my love, I should
have put my hand in yours, with a trust just as unfaltering;
therefore I would not hesitate to share poverty
with you now. I have never yet been rich, and a
life of constant exertion has no terrors for me. I am
young and active; I can work. But is it right?
That is the question I have been asking myself all this
weary night. You owe every thing to your parents;
could I hope God's blessing if I took you from them,
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[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
if I induced you to disobey them? There is yet another
question. What is simple Grace Atherton, that
her quiet presence and her loving heart could atone to
you for all you must give up? You have been surrounded
with every thing glorious and beautiful in art
and nature. The home we could make for ourselves
must be a very humble one. You would miss the luxury
which has grown to be almost a necessity of your existence.
And then your mother. Oh, Warren, I can
feel how, as week after week passed away and you
could not see her, you would pine for her voice, her
step, or the very touch of her fingers upon your hair.
There would be the long twilights, when you could
sing with her no longer,—the home-comings, when you
would pause vainly for her welcome. With her you
share the memories of a lifetime's tenderness. With
me it is only one dream of love,—very bright indeed,
but briefer, and it may be easier to forget. You
shall decide, I will never blame you. Sometimes I
think it is your duty to stay with them to whom you
owe most. Let your own heart answer. If that
should utter a cry which only my voice can answer;
if without me life will indeed be desolate, then come
hither and claim your bride.”
“Do you not see it all?” asked Juno, folding it
up, after he had given it to her to peruse. “She
does not like to give you up in so many words, rather
than share your poverty, so she just intimates that
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your duty ought to keep you here, and sets before you
very vividly the terrors of a life of poverty.”
Warren took the note from her hand. “I am not
sure,” he said, “that you have understood her. It
seems to me that she is hoping I shall turn to her,
only she wants me to see beforehand, what I will
have to regret afterwards, and she is afraid of influencing
me to do wrong.”
“Well, how will you answer?”
“Not at all, until the last moment. I shall try to
soften my father's heart. If I fail, I can but strive
to see which way duty lies. It is a fearful struggle.”
“It will kill me if you leave me; I will not try
to live.”
“And will it not break poor Grace Atherton's
young heart, and wreck the whole future of her life,
if I prove recreant to the vow which I swore, to
cherish her for ever?”
Morning after morning during the miserable ten
days that followed, Warren was awakened at early
dawn by a restless step keeping a ceaseless vigil before
his door. The first time this happened, he was
fairly startled, for no one in the house arose so early.
He threw on a dressing-gown and opened the door.
It was Juno. Her thin, white robes alone protected
her against the cold; her black, dishevelled hair fell
nearly to her feet, and she was walking to and fro, her
hands tightly clasped, and her face bathed in tears.
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He was frightened lest the madness she threatened
had overtaken her. He sprang to her side. “Mother,”
he cried, “indeed you are beside yourself, here in this
cold passage with these thin robes. You will die.”
“I hope so.” Her tone was fearfully calm. “I
am not mad, I am only wretched; I want to die since
I foresee that you will leave me. Oh, Warren, was
it for this I so cherished you? Have you decided?”
“No, mother. I must not decide until the very
last. There is a path of duty somewhere; I must have
time to find it.”
“Well, well, go back to your bed. I can bear it
alone, only do not send me off. I must stay here. I
will not go. My child, my idol, if another has won
you from me, I will be with you while I may. Even
in your hours of sleep will I linger near you, and remember,
when you go, you take my heart and my life
with you.”
Morning after morning would that light step waken
him from his troubled sleep—morning after morning
he watched her in her despairing beauty, and listened
over again to the same pleading tones, the same wild
prayers. She had never seemed so lovely, as when,
laying aside all pride, all conventional constraint
and frivolity, she abandoned herself to her passionate
woman's love and grief. He could not be insensible to
such devotion. Was it strange if he grew to believe
that the mother was dearer than the bride, to think that
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this woman, so glorious in her pride, and passion, and
despair, loved him more deeply than the young heart
whose earliest love-beat had syllabled his name?
John Clifford had never been so happy as during
this time of trial. Juno had easily persuaded him to
believe that Warren's grief would be but of short duration,
and fearful lest he should be induced, in spite
of all, to accord his consent to the marriage, she
maintained her ascendency by caresses so rare and
precious, that they thrilled him with a fever of delight.
Vainly, in the course of every day, Warren
tried to soften the sternness of his resolution, and
every day received a more decided negative.
It was the last day of the appointed fortnight.
Warren met his mother at the door of Mr. Clifford's
study. She gave him a look of searching inquiry.
“Do you go to tell him your decision?” she whispered.
“No, to make one more attempt to soften his
heart.”
Passionate were the pleadings he offered in his
anguish, but John Clifford was steeled against them.
His wife's kisses still lingered on his lips, and he
must keep the compact they had sealed. She still
stood near the door when Warren came forth. With
an imploring gesture she laid her hand upon his arm.
“Has he consented?” she exclaimed, eagerly.
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“No,” was the bitter reply, “he has shown no
mercy. I have humbled myself in vain.”
She threw herself on the floor at his feet, she
clasped his knees, she plead with him not to leave
her, to let her live. For a moment he lifted her in
his arms. “Mother,” he said, almost sternly, “this
is wrong. Be calm. You should leave this matter
to God and to my conscience.” He led her to the
boudoir, and throwing open the door passed from her
presence. The hour that elapsed before his return,
swept over her like an age of torture.
At length he came. There were no traces of
emotion on his face, save that it was pale as marble.
He threw an unsealed letter into her lap. “There,
mother,” he said, slowly, “that is your work. You
have triumphed. Seal it, and send it. I do not
want it ever again mentioned in my presence.”
She raised her eyes, but she was again alone.
She opened the letter and read it slowly out loud.
“My own, my darling Grace:
“I will call you so this once more. God help us,
for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell
you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know
it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes,
every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me
than my own life. I would not look upon your face
for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My
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mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting.
She has whispered that a time might come, when I
would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope.
I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I
cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather
let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other
love the happiness I can never again taste. May he
who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your
love; he cannot return it more truly.
“You know me too well to dream that I could
consider it a sacrifice to give up wealth and splendor
for your sake; that would be so easy I should never
give it a second thought. But it would be hard to
ask you whom I so worship to share the hardships of
a poor man's lot. I have prayed God, night and day
for these two weary weeks, to guide my feet in the
right way. I believe I have chosen it. My mother,
to whom I owe all things, has clung to my knees entreating
me not to leave her. I dare not disregard
her prayers. I have written this calmly, but, Gracie,
the struggle is driving me mad. Oh if it would
but kill me. Then I could have some hope you
would think of me lovingly. Standing over my grave
you would forget that I darkened your young life
with this heavy sorrow. Perhaps it will come, this
merciful death. Oh, Grace, do not hate me! It is
the only prayer I dare offer. Remember, after all,
the sorrow falls heaviest on my own heart. God bless
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you, God in heaven bless you, Grace, whom I hoped
to call my wife! Farewell for ever, until I can
come to your side in heaven.”
Proud and strong as was his manly heart, the letter
was in many places blistered with his tears. Juno
read it very calmly, with a mocking smile of triumph
on her lips. Then she refolded it, and sealed it with
the nicest care. Ringing for her footman, she ordered
it taken to the office, and then adjusting her dress sat
down to wait for Warren. All that evening she
waited in vain. Twenty times during the night she
knocked on his door and pleaded for admission, but
received no answer; only through all the night she
could hear his heavy sighs, and the quick, firm step
pacing restlessly to and fro.
It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Atherton
entered the parlor at Glenthorne Cottage, with
Warren's letter in his hand. Grace sprang to meet
him, and broke the seal. Then sinking into a chair she
exclaimed, “Mamma, please read it, I cannot. Read
it all out loud, every word.” She was obeyed. She
listened calmly to the close, but her face grew deathly
pale and her whole figure rigid, with the effort to
suppress her emotion. When the last word was read,
the single cry, “Lost!” burst from her lips, in a low,
prolonged wail, and she fell senseless upon the floor.
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Tenderly her gray-haired father raised her in his arms,
and bore her to the bed from which her young head
was not lifted for many a week. With the child of
their old age, their only one, lying pale and still and
suffering before them, it was a hard lesson to forgive;
but old Russel Atherton was a Christian, even in his
sorrows, and together with the prayers for her recovery,
he put up a petition that God would deal gently with
him who had brought that bright head to the very
brink of the grave, and kneeling at the bed's foot, the
sorrowing mother whispered her low Amen.
And so Juno Clifford triumphed, and the sweet
child Grace, poor, innocent little player, was check-mated
in the great game of life.
-- -- p652-273
XVIII. LITTLE SUNBEAM IN THE CITY.
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
Dick had secured a very comfortable house for his
mother and sisters, and, for two or three weeks, had
spent all his leisure in arranging it, of course assisted
by the indefatigable Simon. There was a pleasant
little sitting-room, which was to be Emmie's own.
Not that it was designed for the sole use of the little
lady, but Mr. Goldthwaite had insisted on furnishing
it himself, in accordance with his own notions of her
taste. In this undertaking he had met with excellent
success. The room was really charming. The walls
were hung with light, delicate paper, and two or three
paintings were scattered around, bright, sunny landscapes,
with cattle wading knee-deep in limpid
streams, or lying under the trees, in the long grass of
the meadow. In one corner stood a small but sweet
toned piano; in another, a well filled bookcase. There
was a cushioned easy chair for Mabel at one window,
a stand of green-house plants at another, and at the
pleasantest one of all was a little low rocking-chair, a
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working-table, and writing-desk, which were evidently
Emmie's own. There was a nook for Mrs. Hereford,
the very picture of comfort, a cosy sofa, and a dozen
graceful, womanly trifles, which no one would have
suspected Simon of having taste enough to select.
They had written to Mrs. Clifford a grateful letter,
returning her house and grounds, and declining
for the future her proffered annuity. It had been
kindly answered, but no allusion had been made to
Warren. Dick had vainly endeavored to persuade
Mr. Goldthwaite to become a member of their family,
but he persisted in remaining in his bachelor quarters,
though he promised to be a frequent visitor.
They were expected on the morning of the middle of
May. They were to come down the Hudson in the
night-boat, so as to have a whole day in which to get
quietly settled in their new home. Dick had secured
leave of absence for the day, and Simon had promised
to make his appearance in the evening.
He had arrayed himself for the occasion in an
entire new suit. It presented, however, the usual appearance
at the wrists and ankles, of having been made
for some one a few inches shorter than himself. He
had inflicted such unparalleled tortures on his obstinate
tresses, that they were, if possible, in a still sterner
state of antagonism than usual. He had never been
known before to manifest such unheard of anxiety
about his personal appearance. He had actually
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done his best; though, if the truth must be told, after
all his exertions, he didn't “handsome much.” He
was confident he should know Emmie at the first
glance, and he had thought of several very fine sounding
sentences with which to address her. At precisely
eight o'clock he rung the bell, and Dick himself came
to the door in high spirits. Poor Simon! Never had
he felt more inclined to beat a retreat, and yet he
would not have failed to see Emmie Hereford's sunny
face for a year's salary. In his confusion he quite
forgot to leave his hat in the hall, and hastily put it
down on the sofa, near the door of Emmie's own
room, whither he was ushered. “This is Sunbeam,”
said Dick's cheerful voice. Never was poor bachelor
more bewildered. Sure enough, there she was, right
before him, her brown hair neatly braided, her blue
dress fitting trimly to her light little figure, he brown
eyes overflowing with merriment, and her lips with
smiles. There she was, but what to say to her was
the question; he had forgotten every one of his
speeches. Her plump little hand was extended.
Was it possible that he was permitted to clasp those
white fingers in his own? He could have gone down
on his knees on the spot, from excess of gratitude.
Mrs. Hereford came to his relief with her kind, motherly
welcome, and her cordial gratitude for all his
kindness to her dear boy; and then another tiny hand
was extended, and a voice, musical as those one hears
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in dreams, said, gently, “Brother Dick's friend won't
forget Mabel?”
He retreated to the sofa, as soon as the first civilities
were over; but he was somewhat puzzled at Emmie's
very evident attempt to restrain the mirth,
which, in spite of herself, would dimple the corners
of her pretty mouth. “Excuse me, Mr. Goldthwaite,”
she said, quietly, “you are sitting on something.”
“The kitten!” he exclaimed, springing from his
seat in an agony of terror, but it was simply his own
hat, which he had demolished.
“That new beaver!” observed Dick, with a most
lugubrious expression. The poor hat had evidently
come to its end, annihilated “at one fell swoop;”
but the hearty laugh which followed was worth ten
hats, and somehow, in spite of the awkwardness of the
incident, poor Simon felt infinitely more at home.
He spent a delightful evening, and departed with the
promise of seeing them at least once a week.
As the days passed on, Dick declared that he had
never known what home was before. Emmie was
housekeeper, and she carried sunshine with her
wherever she went. She could have “made home and
hold out of four bare walls.” No wonder that Simon
Goldthwaite sighed, as he watched those graceful
household ways, and listened to the love tones that
made every word she spoke sound like a caress.
She came to the store very often in the warm,
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pleasant days, it was such a nice walk for Mabel.
Crossing the ferry was a perpetual delight to the
blind girl. She would push back her bonnet for the
sea-breeze to fan her brow, and sit and dream that
she saw great ships in the distance, with all their crews
of bold mariners. The two fair English girls were
objects of great interest to all the clerks; and there
was one, Stephen Montford, who managed never to be
too busy to constitute himself Emmie's messenger to
the little room where her brother sat with his books,
and found a rich reward in her timid smile and word
of quiet thanks.
About this time there was a new comer to the store,
a young man named Harry Cunningham, who had
been recommended to the firm as a superior salesman.
There was something in his pleasant smile, and his
frank, open face, that attracted Dick at once, and a
few days sufficed to make them friends. He had been
there about two weeks, when one evening Dick came
home earlier than usual. “Mr. Goldthwaite is coming
over,” he said, cheerfully. “He will have to take my
place to-night, for I've promised to go over to Cunningham's.
He wants me to give him lessons in penmanship;
he writes a wretched hand now, and he is
trying to improve it, so he can get copying from the
lawyers to do out of hours. He has a sister, and they
two keep house over in Williamsburgh. Their mother
died when they were mere children, and they lost their
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father a few months since. He had lived beyond his
income, and left them poor; but up to that time the
sister had been accustomed to every luxury, and it
cuts Harry to the heart to see her suffer privations
now. I hope he will get on with the copying, for his
salary is only five hundred a year.”
The humble lodgings where the brother and sister
lived together, had an air of taste and refinement, in
spite of their simplicity. You could see every where
the graceful feminine touches, from the fall of the
curtains to the moss vases they had preserved as
relics of their country home. And Kate Cunningham
shone upon her brother's friend as a revelation. She
was such a type of the sweet woman nature as he had
never before met. Not purer or truer than his
sisters, for that would have been impossible; but very
different. One of those women, such as we read of
in stories and legends, whom you might expect to do
and dare all for the beloved one. She could not have
been more than seventeen, but her figure was very full
in its outline, and displayed to excellent advantage by
the closely fitting mourning dress of black bombazine.
She was a brunette. Her dark and glossy tresses fell
in natural curls almost to her waist. Her features
were any thing but regular, yet her face was singularly
expressive, with the broad, low brow, the intelligent
hazel eyes full of fire and passion, and the crimson
cheeks. Dick's female acquaintances had never
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extended very far beyond his own roof-tree, and the
young and lovely girl thrilled his heart, as when
one sees for the first time a beautiful picture. But it
was a nobler face than painter ever limned. You
could read there quick scorn for wrong, strong love,
and woman's holiest heritage of unsoiled purity.
Young Cunningham's voice had an intonation of pride
when he said—“My sister Kate,” which Dick thought
extremely pardonable.
The lesson in penmanship was very successful; the
scholar was quick, and the teacher both patient and
persevering, with those dark hazel eyes furtively
watching him from the sewing-chair over opposite.
Indeed he must have taken a very praiseworthy
interest in his friend's progress, for he became a frequent
visitor. Miss Cunningham was soon desirous
of sharing in the benefit of his instructions. Dick
thought, in his secret heart, nothing else could possibly
be so charming as that light, graceful chirography,
looking as if the little hand had skimmed the paper
as daintily as the wing of a humming-bird. But he
wouldn't have expressed this opinion for the world.
It was such a pleasure to teach her. It gave him
such excellent opportunities to prison the little fingers
in his own, now and then, and look across the copy
book into the hazel eyes. There was a kind of proud,
defiant grace about her, an evident superiority to her
circumstances, which was one of her chiefest charms.
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Had she been a princess of the realm, she could not
have kept herself more charily.
He had urged the point for weeks, before he succeeded
in persuading her to accompany her brother,
and spend an evening with his mother and sisters.
But when once she came among them, she appeared
very happy. She seemed to love Mrs. Hereford from
the first glance, and the kind-hearted Englishwoman
could not fail to be charmed with her frank innocence.
They were a picture for a painter—Dick's mother
sitting in her high-backed chair, her silver-gray hair
put smoothly back under her widow's cap, and her
muslin kerchief folded, with quaker-like precision, over
her black silk dress, and the young girl sitting on a
low stool at her feet, with the lamplight falling on her
flushed cheeks, her waving curls, and her sparkling
eyes. It was a pretty sight too, at least Simon Goldthwaite
seemed to think so, to see the little Emmie
flitting here and there, busied in her gentle, housewifely
cares, for her guests' comfort. “You will
come very often,” said Mrs. Hereford, kindly, as they
parted. “You have no mother, and I shall call you
one of my children.” A quick flush crimsoned Kate
Cunningham's neck and brow, and then her dark eyes
filled with tears. She bent reverently over the hand
that clasped her own and pressed it to her lips. “You
could not make a motherless girl so happy,” she said,
in a low whisper.
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That night, after his mother and Mabel had retired,
Dick stood before the mantle for a few moments in
silence, with his arm thrown around Emmie's waist.
“Well, Sunbeam,” he said, after a time, drawing her
closer to him, “what do you think of Harry Cunningham's
sister?”
“Oh, she is charming, lovely. I wish she was
mine.”
He lifted her little round face in both his hands,
and as he bent forward to give her a good-night kiss,
whispered, earnestly—“So do I!”
-- -- p652-282
XIX. THE FAR-OFF LAND.
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Sometimes the fulfilment of our dearest wishes comes
to us like a curse. For twelve long months had
Warren Clifford been separated from his Grace, and
Juno had been waiting wearily for the “old man's”
slow feet to reach the shore of the dark river of death.
For a long time Warren had seemed like one who walks
in his sleep. He had eaten and drank, performed all
the duties of life, and complied passively with her
wishes, all the while with a strange glitter in his eye,
and a stern composure of manner, which to that
passionate woman was almost fearful. But for some
months he had seemed quite himself again, albeit between
him and his adopted father there was a scarcely
perceptible shadow of coldness. To Juno he was tenderly
affectionate as ever, and even more lively in
general society than before, but never had Grace
Atherton's name crossed his lips.
It was Christmas, and the three sat together over
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their five o'clock dinner. The gas had been lighted,
and a flood of radiance streamed downward over the
massive silver plate and sparkling Bohemian glass of
the dessert service. Rich purple grapes lay piled up
on vases of crystal, rare old Rhenish mantled the antique
goblets, and you might have deemed it all the
work of an enchanter, so costly and unique were the
appointments of that sumptuous board. And no unworthy
Circe might have been the proud woman at
its head. No mantling wine was deeper in its glow
than the crimson on her cheek; no jewels, were they
worth a prince's ransom, brighter than her flashing
eyes; and not even the queen of the genii could have
worn a robe more fitting than that velvet, vieing in its
purple tint with the rare hue of the Tuscan grapes.
She alone, of those three at the board, had quaffed
deep draughts of the sparkling Rhenish. With her
clear head and strong nerves, it only gave her a wilder,
freer sense of life, and sent the blood tingling to her
rosy finger tips with a warmer glow. A cup of clear
water stood at Warren's side, and before Mr. Clifford
an untasted glass of champagne.
“You are very still, both of you,” she said, in her
soft, silvery tones. “One would think there was a
skeleton at the feast. Pledge me in that bright champagne,
John Clifford, if you like not my Rhenish.
Here's to your very long life, my lord and master!”
He raised the glass to his lips, but a spasm of
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sudden agony contracted his features, and he set it down
again untasted. His face grew wan and ghastly as
the face of death, and he sank to the floor, strong man
as he was, powerless, senseless, helpless. “Is he
dead?” cried Juno, pale with terror. In that moment,
even her haughty soul was humbled. She closed
her eyes to shut out the sight she dared not look
upon, and before them passed horrible visions of retribution.
Hourly and daily she had wished him dead,
and now Satan had sent an answer to her prayer.
She could almost feel upon her cheek the breath of
flame seething upward from the pit. An hour seemed
to have passed, though in reality it was but a moment,
before Warren, who had lifted his head from the carpet,
answered, “No, mother, he is not yet dead. It is
apoplexy.” The servants bore him up stairs and laid
him on the bed, where she had rested so many nights
beside him, wishing and longing for his death, and
she went after them, shuddering. All that night he lay
in a profound trance, so fearfully like death. Dr.
Greene, standing over him, sorrowfully shook his head,
and doubted whether the flickering life-flame would
not go out without word or sign; Warren, condemning
himself bitterly for every cherished thought of coldness
or reproach toward his father, his benefactor,
knelt by his bedside, praying wildly, imploringly, that
he might live long enough to assure him of his forgiveness;
and Juno paced to and fro in the next room,
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like a chafed lioness, cursing in her passionate heart the
tie that bound her to him, the husband that lay dying;
and, more than all, this fearful answer to her prayer.
Sometimes her reason seemed forsaking her. She
would deem the quadroon, who sat crouching in one
corner, with her shadow-like face and flashing eyes,
an avenging fiend sent to haunt her; and seizing
her fiercely would seem about to hurl her from the
room. Then, reassured by her tones, she would plead
with the girl not to leave her, not to let her stay there
alone with her old friend, Satan.
And yet, when, with the sunrise, life and reason
seemed coming back to the husband of her youth, she
experienced a shock of something like indignation.
Underlying all her guilty fear and tumult, there
had been a secret joy and exultation, of which she
herself was scarcely conscious, in the near hope of
being Warren Clifford's wife. “What if he should
get well enough to torment me for years longer?” she
asked herself, angrily, as he opened his eyes and
gasped forth with difficulty, “Where is she—Juno?”
Then smoothing her furrowed brow, she came and
knelt down at the bedside, and pressed his hand to
her lips. For a whole week, the scales seemed trembling
in the balance between life and death. Hating
him more and more every hour, she yet forced herself
to sit by his bedside, and abandon her hand to his
passionate clasp; for she would not have Warren,
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watching over him ceaselessly and tending him so lovingly
and gently, deem her heartless. In the first
moment of comparative ease, when once more the
light of reason beamed from the sufferer's eyes,
Warren had knelt beside him and pleaded for forgiveness
for every shade of coldness, every accusing
thought; and the sick man, blessing him, had whispered,
“You had cause, Warren, bitter cause; may
God forgive me if I was wrong,—God, who knows
I meant it for the best.
It was the seventh day at noon. For many hours
John Clifford had been passing from one spasm to
another, and at last Dr. Greene had succeeded, by a
powerful opiate, in soothing him to a profound
sleep. Warren had left the room, and Juno said,
entreatingly, as one should speak who pleaded for the
life dearest on earth, “Dr. Greene, answer me truly,
are these spasms fatal? is there no hope?”
The doctor, good, innocent soul, looked, with a
glance of profound pity, into the wild, passionate eyes
raised so imploringly to his face, and answered, kindly,
“I dare not promise. The spasms are not so bad a
sign. He may recover. I can tell better when he
rouses from this sleep. I must leave him now, but
will return in a half-hour.”
“Oh, doctor, save him,” she murmured, clasping her
hands in agony most skilfully feigned,—and Dr. Greene
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went home, and told the wife who had shared his
own life's pilgrimage with the love and truth of a pure
woman, that he wished he could be loved and grieved
for like his wealthy patient; and she, gentle wife,
tender mother, let fall a quiet tear upon her knitting,
and raised a silent prayer that it might be long ere she
should have such bitter cause to grieve.
Standing there alone by her husband's bedside,
Juno drooped her lashes over her eyes, and
brooded upon Dr. Greene's prediction. “He might
recover, and she might lose the love which had seemed
so nearly in her grasp, the love for which she had
perilled her salvation. And then the fierce hatred
which had been growing more and more bitter for
years, surged up in her heart. She had been a fool
ever to marry him, she said to her unquiet soul.
How could she have given her young life to that
coarse old man. True, he had been kind to her, but
had she not paid for it, aye and dearly, by submitting
to his caresses. Was not every kiss he bestowed
on her so utterly abhorrent that she would sooner
have clasped a reptile to her bosom, and yet she had
borne it. Was not that enough? And now it
seemed he might get well, to plague her, perhaps, for
half a century. She drew her breath hard—she bit her
lip till it bled—she clinched her hands till the nails
pricked through the delicate skin—and then the sentence
burst forth—“I hate you, John Clifford; oh, I
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hate you, and I wish you were dead!
” Every word
had fallen from her lips, full, distinct, clear, filling the
room with its utterance. And then there was silence.
She paused as if almost expecting a judgment. She
had never dared before to say those words aloud, but
John Clifford slept on steadily. The sunshine came
through the windows, weaving meshes of light in his
hair, the flowers in the vases on the mantle gave forth
their delicious perfume as before, and seeing that “all
things remained as they were,” the lady smiled mockingly.
At that moment the quadroom put away the curtains
from the other side of the bed, and came forth into
the light. “You are safe with me, my mistress,” she
said, in her low, flute-like tones—“but it might have
been another. Be careful.” At any other time Juno
would have rebuked her severely for the insolence of
advising, but she said nothing now, and the girl passed
from the room.
It was two hours before Mr. Clifford awoke, calm,
and apparently free from pain. Dr. Greene was bending
over his bedside. “Well, Doctor,” he said, “I
want to hear the truth, can I recover?”
Juno had thought the reply would be in the affirmative.
To her unpractised eye he seemed much
better, but she listened with impatience for the answer.
“No, Mr. Clifford, at farthest you have not
more than a week to live. You had better make
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your peace with God, for I dare not say hope, when
there is no hope.”
“He has been my friend from my youth up, and he
will not forsake me now,” said the sick man, solemnly;
“but my poor wife; Warren, you will guard her?”
“With my life,” was the reply, and John Clifford
seemed satisfied.
For two or three days, that luxurious room was
like the gate of heaven. God must have sent his
own angels, surely, to comfort that heart, so strong, so
hopeful in its undimmed faith. The soul seemed
waiting on the threshold of its prison-house, making
its peaceful preparations for a long journey. “It is a
far off land,” he would say, lying there quietly—“you
know the promise, Warren; He said it many, many
years ago; he left it as his legacy—`Thou shalt see
the King in his glory, and the land that is very far off.'”
He was not afraid, for One stood by him—One
whom only his eyes could see, the “fourth man,” who
trod the fiery furnace with the three holy children.
And as he lay upon the tide, drifting ever farther
away from earth and nearer heaven, his soul clung
to Juno with a yearning fondness, very different from
the passionate worship which had hitherto deemed
her faultless. Much of the cold pride of her character
seemed softened away in the near presence of that
death which was to bring her freedom. She was
very tolerant of his fancies, now that she knew they
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could trouble her but a few days longer. She would
submit to his wish to have her near him, from
morning until night, sitting on a low stool by his bedside.
There he would lay his hand upon her shining
hair, and look into her face with such mournful tenderness,
as brought the tears to Warren's eyes, and
murmur, “Oh, if I could but know you would surely
come after me to the far-off land, it wouldn't be such
a hard wrench to leave you. You must see the King's
face in peace, my darling, and the Beautiful City.
Very far off, isn't it? but it won't seem so far when
angels bear you.” And then he would be silent for
a time, looking at her thoughtfully, lovingly sometimes,
and sometimes watching the lights and shadows
on the walls, and ever on the tide of the unseen
sea he kept drifting outward. Standing on the
shore, Warren thanked God that the heaven-bound
voyageur was at peace, that there were no wild struggles
to return to the land he had left, no idolatrous
longings for the false gods of earth.
And very peacefully the day dawned that was to
be his last. When its earliest rays stole through his
window, he well knew that he should never behold its
setting, that ere then he would have drifted very far
beyond the stars. And yet so peacefully he smiled,
so cheerfully he spoke, you might have fancied him a
wanderer going home, where fond kiss of wife, sweet
voices of children, kind eyes of sister and brother
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should bid him welcome. For him no more Yule
logs should be kindled at the Christmas tide, no more
south winds would woo him all the summer long—in
the house whither he was going snows never fall, and
noontides never beat. The sounds and sights of earth
fell very dimly on the eyes watching the Distant Hills
of Heaven; the ears strained to listen to the far-off
chants of angels. And yet his love clung to Juno
still. Fairer she looked that hour to the eyes grown
dim with watching, than when he had clasped her to
his heart a bride. Alas, he dreamed not that she had
never loved him all those years. “It will be very
hard, I know, darling,” he said, stroking her hair with
the old, passionate fondness, “harder for you even
than for me. I go to the home He has prepared for
me, to the blessedness of that great Peace; I leave
you to battle with the troublesome world. You will be
very lonely, poor child, with no friend but Warren,
but I will pray God's love may rest on you.” Toward
noon, he seemed to sink into a drowse, though
he started from it many times, and murmured some
broken words about the land whither he was going.
He was fully aroused at length by a paroxysm of intense
pain. His partners, who had trusted so many
years to his cool judgment and unclouded intellect,
stood by his bedside weeping like very children. Dr.
Greene and a brother physician were striving to lighten
his sufferings; and Warren stood beside him,
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earnestly clasping his hand. At a little distance was
Juno, very calm, very composed; and those men, his
sorrowing friends, thought it but the calmness of despair.
His thoughts seemed busy for a moment with
the cares he was leaving behind for ever. “The will,”
he gasped, brokenly—“destroyed! India cabinet in
study—right one!”
“Do not try to think of that, you must not,” said
Dr. Greene, in a tone of authority. Submissively as a
child he complied, and shut his eyes, ceasing for the
time his efforts to speak. When those words were
uttered the quadroon had seen a quick gleam of intelligence,
a look of evil triumph kindle her mistress's
face, but now she beheld her lie fainting upon the
floor. “Bring her to the boudoir, he must not see
her so,” she exclaimed, in a low tone, springing to the
door. The two men, John Clifford's partners, raised
his wife in their arms and followed. Laying her
down on a sumptuous lounge, they stood near, while
the maid bathed her temples and chafed her hands.
At first, she too had thought the well-acted swoon a
reality, but now she felt a cautious pressure from the
hand she held, and then she said, imploringly, “Oh
please to go back to Mr. Clifford. He will die, and I
can recover my mistress so much better alone. I am
used to these turns whenever she is excited—I must
unfasten her dress.”
They readily obeyed her, for their own deepest
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anxiety was with the dying, and when the door closed
behind them she whispered, “We are alone, my
mistress.”
Juno raised her head. “Will you serve me at
my need, faithfully?” The quadroon bowed. “Well
then, hark. Here is the key to John Clifford's study,
and this one will unlock his cabinet. I must have
Warren in my power. He shall be left without a
penny. No one could tell which will Mr. Clifford
said was destroyed. Here is one which gives me all.
Take it; unlock the cabinet, and secure the other;
leave the old will there, and return. Lock the cabinet
and the room. You understand me, go! If any one
is here when you come back, you will know how to
invent an errand.” The girl took the parchment.
She glided out of the room and up the stairs with her
stealthy, cat-like step. Juno, meantime, sank languidly
back upon the couch, in an attitude befitting one but
just aroused from a deathly swoon. The quadroon
was not absent more than three minutes, but they
seemed like hours to the eager watcher. She
came back and drew from her pocket another sealed
parchment, precisely like in its appearance to the
one she carried away. Juno tore it open. It bequeathed
one hundred thousand dollars to “Warren
Clifford, born Hereford.” She smiled exultingly.
“Jane,” she said, quietly, “stand at the door and see
that no one surprises me.” Then rising, she walked
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deliberately to the grate, and tearing the parchment
into strips, threw them one by one upon the embers.
John Clifford was indeed dying. Never more sun
of earth might light up his silver hair. For a time
he was silent. Then he called on the wife who was
not there to hear him. His glazed eyes could take
no note of her absence. “Juno, darling, come nearer,”
he whispered, in fond, caressing tones. “You have
been a true wife, and though others might have been
more worthy, none could have loved you more than I.
The God of our fathers bless you, my beloved.
May He deal with you lovingly, even as you have
dealt with me!” Could a curse more bitter have
been invoked on the guilty woman, who was at that
very moment watching the flames close around the
stolen will? “It is very near now, that other shore,”
he said once more, a beautiful light breaking like
heavenly sunshine over the features growing cold
in death. “Are you weeping, darling? Bend over, let
the tears fall on my face, and clasp my hand
tighter,” and Warren bent sobbing above him, not
daring to grieve that dying heart by the faintest
whisper that the wife of his idolatry was not with him
at the last. He made a sign as if he would have her
press her lips to his, and bending lower still, Warren
received that kiss—so wild, so passionate, the
last. And so it was the imaginary-wife, the dream of
his earlier years, who went with him into the dark
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valley; and the woman for whom he would have perilled
all things, heard not, heeded not the farewell of that
love which had outlived every thing earthly in the
true heart that nourished it. John Clifford was dead!
And Juno, now that the last fragment of the will
was consumed; now that her tones could fall only on
the ears of the dead, rushed into the room, as if half
wild with grief, threw herself on the bed beside him,
and buried her face in his bosom.
-- -- p652-296
XX. RETRIBUTION.
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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
-- 288 --
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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.”
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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
-- 290 --
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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
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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
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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
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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
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
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
-- 295 --
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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
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[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
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,
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[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
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.
-- -- p652-309
XXI. WARREN HEREFORD STUDIES LAW.
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
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
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
—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
-- 302 --
[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
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
-- 303 --
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
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
-- 304 --
[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
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
-- 305 --
[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
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
-- 306 --
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
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,
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[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
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
-- 308 --
[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]
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.
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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.
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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
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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.
-- -- p652-321
XXII THE LONG GAME.
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It was a clear, cold evening in the first week in December,
some two months before Warren Hereford was
admitted to the bar. Simon Goldthwaite sat alone in
his private counting-room, when Harry Cunningham
pushed open the door, and walked hesitatingly to his
side. “Mr. Goldthwaite,” he said, in a tone as if the
request was one he scarcely cared to make, “could
you just as well pay me the rest of my year's salary
to-night?”
“Why, you had fifty dollars a week since; there is
only one hundred and fifty more to come, and it isn't
all due till the first of January.”
“I know it,” the young man answered, carelessly.
“I suppose I may as well leave the last fifty in your
hands till New Year's, but I want a hundred to-night
pretty badly. This housekeeping is expensive business.”
“So it is;” Simon smiled the cheerful, benevolent
smile that had become habitual to him of late. “I
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suppose we must let you have the money,” and he
placed the amount in his hands. The young man
seized it eagerly, and was turning away. “Wait a
moment,” said the indefatigable accountant—“here is
the receipt to sign.”
“So there is, I beg your pardon. I had quite forgotten
it.” As he left the store, the bells rung for
nine. He had persuaded his sister Kate, as he had
done many times of late, to sleep at Brooklyn with her
friend Emmie Hereford. On these occasions his excuse
had been, that he would be engaged until very late,
and it was too lonely for her to remain alone. A passing
wonder as to the nature of these engagements
sometimes crossed Dick's mind, but their result was
so very pleasant, that he forbore to ask any questions.
Not a word of love had Dick ever uttered to the
beautiful Kate Cunningham, and yet she knew as fully
that she was the one joy and hope of his life, as he
exulted in the consciousness that he was beloved in
return. No words had been needed. His duty to his
family forbade him to think of marriage for the present,
and the day when he could ask her to share his
future might be very far distant. And yet they were
both satisfied. For more than three years he had seen
her almost daily. She went in and out of his mother's
house like a daughter, and he well knew that his
faintest tone could call a blush to that eloquent cheek,
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his lightest look cause the fringed eyelids to droop
over those hazel eyes.
Harry Cunningham did not turn his footsteps in
the direction of his own home. Standing for a
moment in front of the store, he buttoned his overcoat,
and drew on his gloves, and then walked hurriedly
up the street. “I cannot fail this time,” he
muttered to himself. “I'll stake so little, I'll be so
prudent. If I do win back what I have lost, I'll
never set foot inside those accursed doors again.
Poor Kate, she mustn't suffer for my fault. She little
dreams why she has been sent from home. That
would be worst of all to her pure nature.” He paused
at length before the door of what appeared to be an
elegant private mansion, and rung the bell. He spoke
in a low tone to the man who answered his summons,
and was instantly admitted. There was nothing save
the exquisitely carved faro table in the centre of the
apartment which he sought, to distinguish it from the
drawing-room of any fashionable mansion. Imperial
carpets, sumptuous divans of crimson brocade, massive
mirrors, pictures, chandeliers, girandoles, every thing
was there to minister to the refined habits of the most
luxurious. Six weeks ago, he had been introduced for
the first time into this scene of enchantment, by a
fashionable friend. He had been dazzled by the
unaccustomed splendor which surrounded him. Contrary
to the remonstrances of his friend, a really
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kindhearted fellow, who having plenty of money, could
afford to play with a good grace his usual part of
loser, Harry had persisted in learning the game. He
had the fullest confidence that he could scheme more
wisely, nor was this confidence one whit abated, though
he had already lost two hundred dollars of the hard
earned money which was to have secured the next
year's comforts of his orphan sister. He would win
that back, he said hopefully to himself, and then play
no more. “Hallo, Cunningham,” “How are you, my
fine fellow?” “Good evening, mon ami,” came in
varied tones from the men surrounding the table.
They were some half-dozen in number, and all what
the world calls gentlemen; rich men, who considered
the loss of a few hundreds a mere pastime. It was yet
early in the evening. Several members of the club
had not as yet reached their place of rendezvous, and
there had been no very heavy playing. The banker
stood over the table shuffling the cards. He was tall
and slender, really fashionable-looking, with a face that
would have been handsome, but for the sinister expression
which disfigured it. “Well, gentlemen,” he said,
lifting his cold gray eyes, “who bets?”
“I,” exclaimed one whom his companions addressed
as “Slingsby,” and whom they seemed to consider
their “crack” player. “I go five dollars on the queen
of hearts.” He laid the amount on the table, and
silently Harry Cunningham laid an equal amount
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beside it. “What, you bet against me, do you?”
cried Slingsby, with an assured air.
“No, I am going to back you.”
“And I, it seems, gentlemen, am to have the honor
of betting against both of you, for want of a better opponent,”
said the banker, in his most deferential tones.
He placed ten dollars upon the table. “Lost, gentlemen,”
he said, with a sweet smile, raking the money
towards him, as the winning card proved to be the ace
of spades.
“Bah,” exclaimed Slingsby, in nowise daunted,
“no wonder I lost. Dame Fortune was ashamed of
me, for staking such a paltry sum. I'll go twenty, this
time, on the same lady.”
“And I will back you once more.” Mr. Goldthwaite
had paid Harry twenty five dollar bills. He
drew the roll from his pocket, and separated four from
the rest with nervous eagerness. Again they lost.
“Fifty on the same card,” exclaimed Slingsby, with
imperturbable coolness; then, turning to a companion,
he said, in a low tone, “look now, I will bet on that card
till it wins, or I lose every dollar in my possession.”
As if in some sort fascinated by this resolute daring,
young Cunningham took five more bills from his
pile, and placed them on the board. “I'll try twenty-five
this time,” he said, with a hollow laugh. The
banker placed seventy-five beside it, covering both
stakes, and the king of hearts fell upon the table.
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Slingsby took it up with a light laugh. “They twain,
of course his wife can't be far behind him. I'll try a
hundred this time, and see if she'll think that worth
coming for.” Cunningham staked his remaining fifty,
his last dollar, and once again they lost. Harry grew
pale as death. He leaned silently over the back of
a chair, with his glittering eyes fixed on the cards.
Even Slingsby became somewhat excited. “I've said
it, and I'll do it,” he muttered in a low tone, “here
are two hundred on the queen of hearts.”
“Again?” queried the banker, politely; “it seems
rather a losing card this evening.” He covered it with
a half mocking smile,—and Slingsby won. “If I
had had only two hundred dollars I might have won
all back,” thought Harry Cunningham, bitterly, as he
turned to the door. “Going,” cried several voices.
“Yes, unless some one has some money he wants
to lend.”
“Hardly, to one so much in luck as yourself,” was
the reply, and he passed out into the night. Dark,
repining thoughts were in his mind as he walked along.
He cursed himself, he cursed fortune, he almost cursed
God. He reached his home at length. He knew
Kate had left it not many hours before. There was
still a cheerful fire in the grate. An easy chair was
drawn before it, and there were his slippers which she
had worked. On the table stood some simple refreshment
that she had prepared, and on the little stand
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beside her work-table lay a Bible. It had been their
mother's once, and for her sake his father had preserved
it with almost superstitious care. At his death
it had been given to Kate. A folded paper lay between
the leaves; she had evidently been reading it. Not for
worlds would he have opened those pages. He knew
that every line would fall on his heart like an accusation,
but by some indescribable magnetism the cover
fascinated his eyes, and he sat there, and looked at it.
“She is an angel,” fell from his lips at length. “That
girl is too good for earth; oh God, why am I not more
worthy to take care of her? Only fifty dollars left,
and I agreed to pay rent in advance—what will become
of us?” Then he rose and paced the small room
backward and forward, now and then groaning aloud
in his agony. Once he sank on his knees, but he
sprang up again, and cried with a bitter sneer, “Yes,
you had better pray, Harry Cunningham; as well
might the Arch-Fiend preach sermons. As if God
would hear you!” After a time, his features kindled
as if with a new thought. He drew his chair to the
table, and sat down, bowing his face upon his folded
arms. For a full hour he remained motionless. The
spirits of good and evil were battling in his soul. The
good spirit said, “Go to Kate, confess all; promise
never to enter again that place of gilded infamy. She
will pity and forgive you; you need fear no reproach
from her loving heart. Then borrow money of Mr.
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[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]
Goldthwaite; he is good and generous; and when he
knows the circumstances, he will lend it freely. Live
frugally, till you are once more free from debt.” Over
and over again, the good spirit pleaded thus, and every
time the bad spirit answered, “But only consider the
shame, the humiliation of making such a confession;
fancy yourself obliged to submit to the reproof of
every man more fortunate than yourself. Think how
Kate will grieve; think how long before you can recover
the lost confidence of those you value most. If
you could only try it once more, with money enough,
you could not fail to win.”
That was the strongest thought after all, that with
one more trial he should be sure to succeed. He
could not lose always; no one did. Had he not failed
this time, merely for want of a little more gold?
another hundred would have surely saved him. If he
could only borrow it, but no one would lend him the
large amount he needed. Then the bad spirit suggested,
faintly, “You have had papers from the firm
to copy, you know their signature. Many another in
your place would sign their name to a note, and get it
discounted.” Again and again the thought recurred
to him. He persuaded himself at first that he was
quite a hero not to yield to the temptation. Then he
thought discontentedly that they ought to be willing;
that it would be his salvation, and it could never do
them any hurt, for he was sure to restore it; there
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could be no doubt of that; sure as the sun. Finally
he ended by taking a sheet of paper, and commencing
to imitate their signature. After a few attempts, the
counterfeit was so successful that the firm themselves
could scarcely have detected the difference. After a
while he took from his desk some unfilled notes which
chanced to be in his possession. His hand was very
like Dick Hereford's since those lessons in penmanship
he had taken. That would be another thing in his
favor, he thought, suppose he were going to forge a
note. Dick prepared such things nearly always for
the firm's signature, and if he were to go to a broker
with whom they were accustomed to deal, the familiar
handwriting would aid to deceive them. Of course
he would do nothing of the kind, and yet, if he did,
he could take it up long before it fell due. He filled
up one of the notes. “If I were going to have any
thing,” he said to himself, “I would like a thousand
dollars. Then before trying what I could do even,
I'd pay the rent here for Katie, pay up all our little
debts, and get her a good stock of provision, and then
I'd have seven hundred left. With that, why with
that I could make my fortune.” He had been writing
as he spoke, and now he read—“Ninety days after
date we promise to pay to the order of John A. Wilson,
one thousand dollars.”
“Humph, I'll sign it; no harm in seeing how it
will look,” and now signed and dated, it lay before him,
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as authentic and honest a looking note as one could
desire to see. He folded it carefully, after a critical
examination, and put it in his pocket-book, all the
while persuading himself that he did not intend to use
it. It was nearly morning. He threw himself on the
bed, and slept a troubled sleep. At first he dreamed
a fearful dream, which was yet too much like reality.
He thought he had lost every thing in the mad excitement
of play, and he seemed to see his gentle sister,
the last legacy of his dead father, suffering, aye dying
of cold and hunger. He started up shuddering.
Then he closed his eyes, and the scene changed. He
seemed standing by the faro table. The lights were
bright above, and the song and jest were gay around,
and then a being fair as a houri approached and whispered,
“Bet on the diamonds.” Once, twice, thrice,
he was unsuccessful, and each time he doubled his
venture, but the fourth time he won, and recovered all
he had lost. He awoke in a perfect fever of excitement.
It was morning. He threw on his clothes, and
rushed out into the fresh air.
That day, at half-past eleven, he entered the broker's
office of John A. Wilson. “Can you accommodate us
this morning?” he said to that gentleman, with a tone
and manner as assured as if he were one of the firm; “we
are making out some heavy payments, and are a little
short. We shall probably want to take it up some
time before it falls due.” The office was full, just then,
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of customers, and merely glancing at the well-known
signature, the broker counted out the money, and Harry
left the building. For that day he could do no more,
for his resolve was fixed to provide for his sister's
necessities before hazarding the venture, which all the
time he never once doubted would prove successful.
The next morning he rose early, called upon
his landlord, and paid in advance the rent for the
next year, taking a receipt with unwonted carefulness.
Then to the grocer's, and once more he took a receipt
for his large order. Going home he threw both papers
in his sister's lap. “Take care of them, Katie, housewife,”
he said, playfully, “and there,” giving her
thirty dollars, “is money for any notions you may
want to buy.” Had her confidence in him been less
perfect, she might have been surprised at his being in
possession of so much money; but she had long been
accustomed to trust every thing to his care, so she
thanked him smilingly, thinking what a dear, kind
brother he was, and fancying that he must have got
at least half his next year's salary in advance.
After she had supposed him gone, he came back
again to tell her not to trouble if he did not get home
early; he might have something to do that would
keep him, she mustn't sit up for him, and she sprang
after him to the door, and throwing her arms around
his neck, kissed him with an unaccountable presentiment
of evil. When he was gone, she children herself
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[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
for it, and strove to cast it off, but it rested all day
like an incubus upon her spirits.
That evening Harry Cunningham left the store at
an early hour, and walked with an air of resolute
determination toward the clubroom, where he had
already lost three hundred dollars. Confident that his
former failures had arisen merely from want of funds,
and trusting most implicitly to the direction given him
in his dream, he was positive of success. He determined
to commence very cautiously, and to be guided only
by his own judgment. He had seven hundred dollars
in his possession now; he was determined to bring
away a thousand. He replied very carelessly to the
salutations which greeted his entrance, then drawing a
chair to the table, he deliberately sat down. “Who
wants to play against me,” he said, “I have had a
dream, and I am sure to win.” He spoke with a tone
of assurance as calm and decided as if he had said,
“it is beginning to rain out of doors.” For a moment
they all seemed to hesitate, and then a man named
Luke drew a chair opposite to him and sat down, with
an air careless and yet resolute as his own. This
man was known as the highest and boldest player
connected with the club; and yet he almost always
lost. He was evidently of Jewish descent. It was
indicated by his dark olive complexion, and oriental
eye, as well as by his raven hair, and the whole cast
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of his features. His wealth was apparently boundless,
for he had several times lost thousands in a single
night, and yet no one had ever known him in the
slightest degree agitated or discomposed. For the first
hour their stakes were very light, and fortune seemed
alternating between them almost equally. Now each
had staked a hundred dollars. “It is a fearful night,”
said Slingsby, entering; “hark a moment, and you can
hear the storm hurtle against the windows.” At that
instant the bet was decided; Harry Cunningham had
lost. “There is no hope,” said the still small voice of
the good spirit in his heart. “Pause, go to Mr.
Goldthwaite; he will befriend you. You have five
hundred dollars left yet, of the ill-gotten gold.” And
then the bad spirit answered,—“What, are you then
so cowardly? would you give up now, when the means
of recovering all your losses are in your hands? Did
you not lose in the dream, once, twice, thrice?” and
so he played on. At half an hour before midnight,
his last dollar was on the table. It was a stake of two
hundred. There was a moment's pause in the game,
for the storm beat against the windows, and rattled on
the pavement, like the tramp of an armed host.
“Mr. Luke, why don't you take up your money?
Mr. Cunningham, do you perceive you have lost?”
said the banker's calm voice.
“Lost; yes, I am lost!” he cried wildly, rousing
himself from the apathy into which he had fallen—
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“you knew I should be. Why didn't you tell me
that before?” His tone was so wild, so hopeless, so
despairing, that the hearts of his listeners almost
stood still to hear it. His face was pale as death,
only there was a spot of burning red in the centre of
each cheek, glowing like a live coal. He seized his
hat, and rushed to the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,”
he said, turning round with mocking politeness
when he had reached it. For a moment after he left
there was silence. It was a genteel house. They
were not used to the life and death excitement of men
staking their last farthing on a desperate hope. His
pale face and despairing words had struck terror to
the hearts of the bravest. “Go after him; surely
some one ought to go after him,” cried one of their
number, starting from the terrified attitude in which
they had sat, looking at each other's faces.
“No, it is no use,” muttered Slingsby, “go on
with the game. He is far enough off by this time.
The storm will cool him down pretty effectually.”
And so the wretched wanderer hurried on. But
the fever in his veins was not one to be allayed by
the wild night blowing in his face. There seemed a
thousand voices on the blast, and each one shrieked
in his ear, “Forger! forger!” He had never once
doubted that he should win, and feeling so sure he
should recover all he had lost, he had scarcely given a
thought to his fearful crime. But now, alas, there was
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no hope. What better could he do, than bury his
sorrow and his shame from human ken in the boiling
waves. He stood upon the pier, and swollen by the rain
they were surging like mad beneath his feet. One
leap, and then rest! It was a sweet thought, and he
stooped forward. The first stroke of the midnight
chimes fell upon his ear. He paused, and counted
each one. Then a vision came before him. He stood
a boy of five before his mother's death-bed. His
father bent weeping over her, his baby sister lay
beside her. Her thin hand rested upon his hair.
“Mother's little Harry must be good,” said her faint,
sweet tones, “very good, and then some day he will
come to mamma. He must take good care of little
sister,” and then he remembered how passionately she
snatched him to her heart with one last effort of her
failing strength, and covering his face with tears and
kisses murmured, “Oh God keep thee, darling, darling.
You will have no mother's love to guide you, and the
world is very wicked. But after death comes the
judgment; oh, I must watch over you, I shall, I feel
it, God will let me,” and the clasping arms grew very
stiff, holding him there, his mother's eyes closed
wearily; she was dead. Young as he was, he had
always remembered her words, and now they came to
him, as if borne on the wings of the storm, with a
strange and fearful distinctness. Was he ready for
that judgment of which she had spoken? He thought
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how bright the smile had been on that cold, dead face,
but she died the death of a Christian. Was she watching
him now? The storm subsided into a low, tearful,
sobbing wail, which sounded to his excited fancy
like the tones of her voice. He turned away, putting
his fingers in his ears to shut out the accusations
which seemed borne on every gale, and ran as if for
life.
It was two o'clock when he silently turned his
night-key in the lock and entered his own door. Kate
was sitting by the fire, pale, but tearless. She sprang
up, and threw her arms around his neck. “Not yet
in bed?” he asked, kissing her.
“No, I could not have slept, the storm was so
fearful. But oh, Harry, how wild you look! You are
wet to the skin. Come, you must put on some dry
clothes, and go to bed instantly, and I'll bring you
something hot to take. Do.”
He had no choice but to obey her pleading tones.
She hovered around him like an angel of mercy,
bringing him hot drinks, covering him with heaps of
clothes, and now and then laying her cool, moist
fingers on his flushed and throbbing brow. The next
morning he was not able to rise from the bed. Kate
was almost beside herself with terror, but she had the
presence of mind of a true woman. She attended to
all his little comforts, and then hurrying to a next door
neighbor's who she happened to know was blest with
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[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]
plenty of boys, she despatched one messenger to his
employers, and sent another for a physician. During
a whole week he lay in a dull, heavy fever—scarcely
speaking during the time. But his thoughts were
very busy. Kate watched over him like a guardian
angel. Her loving forethought seemed to anticipate his
every wish, and more and more intense became every
moment the burning, passionate desire to shield her
from disgrace. It would do no good to confess now,
he thought, not one whit. He had no money to restore
what he had taken, and they would think he only confessed
for fear of detection and punishment. They
surely would never suspect him, and if he were not
discovered, he would be rich enough some time to
make restoration, penny for penny. Oh for this, he
could deny himself every thing, only Kate must not
suffer. His love for her was fast becoming idolatry.
Day after day, night after night, he lay contriving how
he could best escape from the neighborhood of his
crime. And by and by, through the kindness of the
very man whom he had wronged, the opportunity
came. His frank, open face, and remarkable business
tact, had already made him a great favorite with his
employers, in the three years he had been with them,
and during his illness, one or another of the firm
called to inquire for him almost daily.
One day, after he had been ill a week, the senior
member of the firm chanced to be present during the
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[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
Doctor's daily visit. “You are getting better fast,”
said that worthy functionary; “I only fear the winter
will prove too hard for you. Nothing would set you
up quite as quick as to go South.”
“Doctor,” exclaimed Mr. S., calling him back as
he was leaving the room, “do you think Cunningham
will be able to travel, and do business by the first of
January?”
“I am sure he will, and before too, if he gets on
as nicely as present appearances seem to indicate
That is nearly two weeks, and he ought to be on his
feet now in three or four days.”
When the M. D. had departed, Mr. S. thoughtfully
drew his chair to Harry's bedside. “We have some
business affairs in New Orleans just now, that require
close attention. We had thought of sending young
Hereford to look after them. He has been with us
from a boy, we trust him thoroughly, and the trip
could hardly fail to give him pleasure. But you
seem to need it most. Will you undertake the commission?”
“Thank Heaven!” was the fervently uttered reply.
“I have not deserved such kindness: I will be ready
to start at any moment.” His great earnestness of
manner struck Mr. S. as singular at the time, but he
attributed it to the weakness of his nerves, so severely
tried by the heavy, nervous fever.
“Come here, Katie,” said the brother, when they
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were again alone. “You know you are going with
me?”
“Can I?”
“Yes, surely; you don't think I would leave you.
They will provide liberally for my expenses, and we
can get along easily enough. You must never go out
of my sight any more, little Kate. They say every
life has its guardian angel. I am more fortunate than
others. I can see mine; she is my sister.”
New Year's day brought with it several changes.
The head bookkeeper left the firm to go into business
for himself, and his vacant place would of course fall
to the lot of one of his two assistants, Dick Hereford
and Mr. Ezekiel Sharpe. Mr. Sharpe was a character
after the Uriah Heep order, and he had made application
for the post in the most “umble” manner. Dick
had been quite contented to leave it to the judgment
of his employers, though he had a powerful friend in
Mr. Goldthwaite. Ezekiel was the elder, and had
been two years longer in the store, and he certainly
resented it as a bitter injury when Dick received the
situation, being, as he expressed it, “promoted over
his head.” Fifteen hundred dollars was the salary
attached to the post, and Dick's first glad thought,
after his hearty expression of gratitude, was of marriage
and Kate Cunningham. Somewhat to his dismay,
he learned that she was to start for New Orleans
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with her brother the next morning. She spent that
evening with his sister, but Harry came with her, and
accompanied her home, and he had no opportunity to
give utterance to the love, earnest yet tender, which
for three long years had so patiently bided its time.
-- -- p652-341
XXIII. THE DEATH PENALTY.
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
The business in New Orleans was progressing finely.
By every mail young Cunningham forwarded to his
employers an account of his success, and they daily
congratulated themselves on their good-fortune in
securing an agent so faithful and trustworthy. But
there was something in his manners which Kate had
never seen there before, a kind of deprecating tenderness.
He had never been so affectionate. True, he
had always loved her, but now he would come and put
back her curls, and call her his poor little darling,
looking into her face so mournfully that it brought
tears to her eyes. There was something, too, she
could not understand in the eager, fascinated gaze
with which he would scan the news items of each
northern paper, and the sigh of relief when he laid
them down.
During the latter part of February, Mr. Goldthwaite
was sent West to collect some heavy bills for the
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firm, and the junior partner undertook to supply his
place at home. One morning, early in March, he
entered the store, and proceeded to the counting-room.
He was accompanied by two gentlemen, one of whom
Ezekiel Sharpe recognized as the broker, Wilson, with
whom he had often transacted business for the firm,
and the other he shrewdly suspected to be a police
officer. Mr. Wilson held in his hand the forged note,
which had that morning been protested. The junior
partner was in a state of great excitement, and he was
never very cautious. Dick was absent at the time on
some errand for his employers, and so taking the note
he placed it before Ezekiel with the sudden inquiry—
“Do you know that handwriting?”
At a glance, Ezekiel understood the whole affair.
He did not indeed suspect the real culprit, though he
knew Dick well enough to believe him innocent; but
the loss of the situation he coveted, was still rankling
in his mind, and here seemed an excellent opening for
revenge. If Dick was exculpated even, as he had
really no doubt that he would be, yet the very accusation
would be disgraceful and inflict an incurable
wound on his sensitive spirit.
He looked at the note for a moment, and then he
answered,—“Why yes, it looks more like Hereford's
hand than any one I know of. It isn't just as he usually
writes, yet I should recognize it any where. He draws
up the notes, doesn't he?”
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“Yes, but don't you comprehend, this note is
forged, and it is done so skilfully, it was surely the
work of some one very familiar with our signature;
but it couldn't have been Hereford?”
“I should hope not,” answered Ezekiel, in a tone
of mock sympathy. “You might just compare it with
his handwriting in the books,” and stepping to Dick's
desk he threw one open. They laid the note beside it,
and Ezekiel, with an appearance of great horror,
exclaimed—“Only look, there are the very same turns
to the looped letters; look at those g's and y's; but
no, there is some hope yet, the c's are different.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Wilson, impatiently, “he
would try to disguise his handwriting, but you recognized
it at the first glance; that is sufficient evidence.
I must have the young man arrested.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the junior partner,
with a convulsive shudder, “I had as lief it would
have been my brother! I would far rather pay the
money.”
The broker seemed at first inclined to accept the
offer, but Ezekiel suggested, in his smoothest tones,
that it would do no good now, since the sheriff had
been witness to the scene; beside, most likely, Hereford
would be able to prove himself innocent; and so Mr.
S. withdrew his proposal.
“Perhaps the next thing will be to find him,”
remarked the sheriff's officer, who had not before
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spoken; “he must have known that the note fell due
this morning, and very likely you will discover him to
have taken French leave.”
“Hush,” said Ezekiel, with his finger upon his lips,
“there he comes; good morning, Hereford.”
The officer advanced leisurely toward the new
comer and arrested him for forgery. “Oh, my God!”
he cried, turning pale as death. This emotion was of
course interpreted as conclusive evidence of his guilt,
though it was but the protest of a sensitive, honorable
soul against disgrace.
They placed the note before him, and the similarity
of the hand to his own struck him at the first glance.
He did not recognize the chirography of Harry Cunningham
in its improved form. Truth to tell, toward
the close of the lessons, his fairer pupil had occupied
so much more of his attention, that he retained no
very distinct recollection of any thing connected with
Harry's progress. At a careless glance he would have
taken the handwriting of the note for his own, and he
saw at once the fearful weight such testimony would
bear against him.
“I am innocent, oh I am innocent!” he said, turning
his eyes imploringly on Mr. S.
“God knows I hope you will be able to prove it,”
answered his employer, fervently.
“To the Tombs for the first step toward such a
desirable consummation,” remarked Mr. Wilson, with
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[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
a covert sneer. A private carriage was called by
the order of Mr. S., and the four men entered it.
Ezekiel went out to the door, and looked after them as
long as he could see the carriage, with a gaze of internal
satisfaction. During the ride, Dick spoke but
once, and that was to inquire how soon the case could
be brought to trial.
“It could be managed in three weeks,” was the
reply, “unless you chose to have it put off. You could
do that if it would help you.”
“Oh no,” he answered, eagerly, “not for worlds;
it would do me no good. The quicker the better.”
Then he said nothing more until he stood before the
magistrate in the police court. The handwriting was
the only evidence against him, but they had brought
his ledger from the store, and the similarity was pronounced
sufficiently strong to warrant a committal.
He listened silently to the magistrate, but when Mr.
S. came forward and inquired the necessary amount
of bail, he cried impetuously, “May God reward you,
sir, for all this kindness, but I will not be bailed out.
The Heavenly Father will not suffer me to be condemned
innocently, and I can stay here for three
weeks. I will not go with the shadow of this grief
upon me into my happy home. No, I will wait here.”
It was in vain to attempt to shake his resolution.
At length he turned to his employer. “Do you
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[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
indeed believe me innocent?” he asked, in tremulous
tones.
“I do; from my heart I do,” was the earnest reply;
“but I fear my belief cannot help you.”
“Yes, it can. Oh, if you believe it, I pray you go
to my mother and my sisters, and tell them so. Tell
them they cannot see me, that if they come here they
will be refused admission. Bid them, if they love me,
stay quietly at home until every thing is decided. I
will not have them link themselves with my unmerited
disgrace. Tell my mother, by my hopes of the Heaven
in which she has taught me to believe, I am guiltless
of this crime. Will you do all this?”
“I will,” answered Mr. S., deeply moved, “and
now let me see that you have proper counsel.”
“He has,” cried a firm voice, from the other side
of the room, “I will plead for him; I, his brother,”
and starting forward, a handsome, distinguished-looking
young man sprang to the prisoner's side, and
murmured, in husky tones, “My brother, my own
brother Dick.”
Those immediately interested in the examination,
had been too much absorbed during its continuance,
to notice this stranger, who had sat with flushed face
and eager eyes, bending breathlessly forward. Warren
Hereford had been for three days only in New York,
and that morning had visited the Tombs for the first
time. He accompanied his brother to his cell, and
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when once they were alone, clasped him in his arms
with an embrace passionate in its fondness. “To meet
thus!” he murmured, “after these many years.”
Dick raised his head and looked at him with his
clear eyes—“I am innocent, brother Warren,” he said,
almost reproachfully.
“Innocent! Good Heavens, did you think I
doubted that for a moment? If I did I should go
mad; but that you should be suspected is horrible!”
During the half-hour that followed, Warren recounted,
briefly, all his past life since their separation,
and told how destitute and lonely he had seemed at
the time of his separation from his adopted mother.
Then he spoke of the generous friend and teacher God
had given him; of his resolution not to seek out his
own family until he should have proved himself worthy
of them by energy and perseverance; of the time
when, prompted by his irresistible yearning for love,
he had written to his mother, and learned from the
return of his letter, that she had gone away; and then
he said, with the earnest, boyhood look, whose memory
Dick had cherished so faithfully, “You tell me they
have been here nearly four years, and are all well and
happy? I shall see them by and by.”
“To-night, surely you will go to them to-night?”
“No, did you not hear me charge Mr. S. not to
let them know I was in the city? Do not urge me, it
is useless. I will not meet them until I have won a
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[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
right to their tenderness by rescuing you from disgrace.
Alas! I can never be to them what you are.
You have always loved them, Dick.”
“And they have always loved you; but are you
sure I shall get clear?”
Warren had still a firm faith in his profession.
He devoutly believed that it was all-powerful to detect
the guilty, and screen the innocent from punishment,
so he answered, cheerfully, “There is no doubt of that,
not the least. We must find out whether the broker
remembers who presented the note, and see if we can
prove that you were somewhere else just then. Keep
up a good heart. We shall manage it all nicely.”
Mr. Wilson had no distinct recollection of the person
who had given him the note, but he remembered
the hour and the day distinctly, and Warren was able
to prove that his brother had been at the store, engaged
in his usual employment, at the time when the business
was transacted. This was one thing in his favor, but
there seemed no clue to guide them to the detection
of the real criminal. Harry Cunningham might not
have escaped suspicion so readily, had not all his letters
to the firm, from New Orleans, been written by
his sister, at his dictation. She readily accepted his
excuse that his fever had left him too nervous to write
legibly, and they, unaware of this fact, and constantly
receiving letters signed with his name, in a hand differing
so widely from that of the forged note, never
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[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
even fancied for a moment that their trusty agent
might have been its author. Mrs. Hereford and her
daughters obeyed Dick's earnest wish that they would
not visit him, but they suffered even more severely in
their lonely home, than did the prisoner in his cell,
cheered as he was by the daily visits of the enthusiastic,
hopeful Warren. It was Warren's first case, and this
circumstance alone would have excited him intensely,
had it not been absorbed in a deeper consideration.
His brother, his only brother was a prisoner, charged
with a fearful crime, and on his efforts depended his
acquittal. Night and day he gave his energies to the
task with a zeal that never flagged.
A week after Dick's examination before the police
court, Harry Cunningham and his sister sat alone in
their room at New Orleans. It was evening. He
had been very busy all that day, and now he opened
the papers for the first time. He unfolded one, and
then laid it down, pressing his hand to his brow.
“Kate,” he murmured, “something terrible is in that
paper.”
“What, where?” She sprang to his side.
“I have not seen it yet, but I feel it; I felt it the
moment I took the paper in my hand. There, let me
look!” His eye glanced quickly over the long column
of police reports, and then the paper dropped from his
grasp. “Just Heaven,” he cried, “my best friend,
Dick Hereford!” Even before he spoke, Kate had
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[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
read the whole paragraph. Her lover, for so in her
heart she considered him—he, whom she had deemed
the impersonation of all goodness and nobleness, was
in prison for forgery. From her pale lips there came
no word, no moan, but gliding to the floor, as quietly
as a snow-wreath, she lay there, as silent, as helpless,
and almost as white. Mastering for the moment his
own intense emotion, he sprinkled her face with icewater,
and raised her in his arms. Kissing her he
murmured, “He is innocent! he is innocent! Poor
Kate! was he then so loved?”
The words, “He is innocent,” seemed to rouse her
from her stupor. She opened her eyes, and clung to
him shudderingly. “Do you know?” she gasped;
“are you sure?”
“Alas, yes; listen, Kate, it was me, I did it.” He
had feared she would go back to that death-like swoon,
but she kept her glittering eyes fixed on his face,
and only said, very faintly, “You, brother Harry,
you?”
In reply he told her all the history of the crime.
How he had been first introduced into the club-room;
how, little by little, the temptation had overcome him;
how he had welcomed the chance to go South, as an
escape from the terror that haunted him day and night;
how he had been even more wretched since, in his wild
foreboding of evil; but how God knew he had never
dreamed it would come to this, never dreamed another
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[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
would suffer in his stead—“and now,” he said, with a
sorrowful pause, as he concluded.
“Well, what now; what will you do now?” She
looked into his face with something almost fierce in
her burning eyes.
“There is but one course, Kate; I must make all
my arrangements here to-morrow morning, and we must
travel night and day, you and I, poor little Kate,—we
can get there before the trial. He must not suffer—
the innocent for the guilty. I will confess it all, and
then, oh Kate, darling, darling, you will be the sister
of a condemned felon.”
Then she kissed him, and the tears gushed from
those burning eyes, until their glance grew tenderer.
“That is right,” she said. “Now work. I will never
desert you, but Dick must be saved.”
“He shall. Kate, child, are you going to hate me?
God knows I have loved you through it all.” She could
not trust herself to answer, but once more she kissed
him.
The Court-House was crowded to overflowing, to
witness the trial of the handsome young clerk. The
examination of the witnesses was very brief. On the
part of the prosecution the handwriting of the forged
note was compared with young Hereford's account
books, and several persons swore to their belief in its
identity. The defence summoned witnesses to prove
-- 343 --
[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]
the unimpeached character of the accused, and his
presence in the counting-room of his employer, at the
time when the note was presented. The State's attorney,
in opening the case, dwelt upon the close similarity
of the handwriting, and the opportunity afforded
by the prisoner's position, to become familiar with the
signature of his employers. When Warren spoke, his
whole heart was in his subject, and he was glowingly,
and yet truthfully eloquent. He called the attention of
the Court to the different formation of various letters,
in the note, and in the books of the accused, which he
said must be obvious to them all; he spoke of the
calm security of innocence which had led the prisoner
to remain cheerful, serene, and undisturbed in the performance
of his daily duties, up to the very morning
of his arrest; of the certainty that he did not present
the note to the broker, and the improbability that, had
he been guilty, he would have trusted this task to
another's hand. Having proved that the evidence
was merely circumstantial in its character, and imperfect
in various respects, he dwelt upon the testimony
which had been offered, to prove the integrity and
well-known virtues of the accused. He told of the
widowed mother, and blind sister, whose support and
dependence he had so long been; of the humble and
happy home which his conviction would make desolate,
until there was not a dry eye among his listeners, save
only that of the untroubled Ezekiel. When he
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[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
concluded, the lawyer for the prosecution declined to reply.
The charge of the judge was brief and impressive. He
reminded them that according to the whole spirit of
the law, where a reasonable doubt existed, the prisoner
was to have the benefit of it; and then, without even
retiring, the jury rendered a unanimous verdict of
“Not Guilty,” and one long, irrepressible shout of
applause rang through the Court-House. The prisoner,
overcome for the first time, bowed his head upon
his hands in a gush of silent tears.
Two of our old friends were present at the trial;
Simon Goldthwaite, who had unexpectedly returned,
and General Douglass, who had come down from
Albany to listen with proud satisfaction to the maiden
plea of his pupil. Scarcely had the universal acclamation
subsided, when a messenger entered the court,
and placed a folded note in Warren Clifford's hand.
It was addressed to the council for the defence. “May
it please the Court,” he said, after a hasty perusal,
“I am requested to summon a magistrate, and proceed
to Williamsburgh, to receive the confession of one
Harry Cunningham, the real perpetrator of this forgery,
who is lying at the point of death.”
Dick had recognized, as the note was unfolded, the
handwriting of his beloved Kate, and springing to
Warren's side he obtained possession of it. There was
a request at the bottom of the page, made in the sick
man's name, that he too would accompany the
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[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]
magistrate, if it might be permitted. He beckoned Mr. Goldthwaite
to his side, and entreated him, in a hurried
whisper, to go immediately to his mother and sisters,
assure them of his acquittal, and bring Mrs. Hereford
and Emmie to Williamsburgh.
Accompanied by a magistrate, as well as the senior
partner of the firm, and his own brother Warren, Dick
Hereford entered the chamber where Kate Cunningham
awaited him, standing by the bedside of the
dying. A physician was holding the pulse of the repentant
criminal. His eye brightened when it rested
on Dick's well-known features, and he extended his
hand. “You didn't think I meant to wrong you,” he
said, faintly. “I never dreamed that you could be
suspected.”
“I know it, Harry,” said Dick's cordial, friendly
tones, as he pressed the thin hand he held.
They had left New Orleans the afternoon of the
next day after they received news of Dick's arrest.
Kate's strength and energy seemed untiring, and Harry
was possessed by the one wild longing to make
confession and reparation as far as possible, while it
was yet in his power. The anxiety attendant on his
crime, and its concealment, had rapidly undermined
his constitution, and he had scarcely passed two days
of his homeward journey, before he woke to the conviction
that already his hours were numbered, that
he was very near to death. They had been obliged
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[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]
to travel by slow stages, toward the last, on account of
his extreme weakness, but Kate had hurried him forward,
and ever forward. There were hours in the
future, when she thought of this merciless haste with
bitter tears; but at the time, her mind had room for
but one picture—her lover condemned, imprisoned for
a crime of which he was not guilty. They had reached
their home but the evening before, and her woman's
tenderness came back with a burst of repentant sorrow,
when she saw her brother sink upon the bed, too
exhausted to speak or move. For a time she almost
thought he had already ceased to breathe, as he lay
prone upon that couch from which he never rose again.
All night the physician had remained beside him, in
the vain attempt to restore his exhausted energies. It
was late in the next forenoon, before she had time to
glance at the morning paper. She had not expected
the trial could take place in several weeks, but now
she read that it was to be that very day. Already
she thought he might be condemned. She seized a
pen, and wrote a rapid note to the lawyer for the defence,
and despatched it to the Court-House. Then
going back to his bedside, she said, in a low, firm tone,
“You must speak now, Harry. Even now Dick Hereford
is on trial for your crime; I have sent a messenger
to the Court-House, and they will come here to
receive your confession.”
His eyes kindled, he raised himself on his elbow.
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[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
“Thank God,” he said earnestly, “that I can make
so much of atonement.”
Now that those she had summoned were gathered
about his bedside, he insisted on making a full and
clear confession which should be taken down in writing.
“It is not worth while to trouble about that,”
said Mr. S., kindly. “Hereford has been acquitted,
and we forgive you the fault very freely.”
But he still persisted, and finding he could be
satisfied in no other way, they suffered him to proceed.
Scarcely was the task over when Mrs. Hereford entered
the room with Emmie, followed by the indefatigable
Simon. There was a silent, tearful embrace, in
which Warren folded his long-lost mother and sister
to his throbbing heart, and then all eyes were fixed on
Harry. A fearful change was passing over his face, and
Kate Cunningham, raising her eyes for the first time
since their entrance, whispered hoarsely, “Is it death?”
Her brother caught the whisper. “Yes, it is
death,” he answered, “and it is bitter. I am going to
leave you helpless, friendless, with a stained name.”
“Not friendless,” said Mrs. Hereford, gently;
“not motherless while I live.”
“She shall bear my name if she will,” said Dick's
earnest tones. “This is no time nor place for lover's
vows, but I have loved her well and long.”
Harry's dying eyes sparkled. “Dick Hereford,”
he cried eagerly, “would you wed a forger's sister?”
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[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
“I would wed Kate Cunningham,” was the reply,
“if she could think me worthy, and thank God day
and night that she was mine.”
“Kate, dear little Kate,” pleaded the dying man,
“will you not answer him?”
She could not speak, but she placed her hand in
one that clasped it, in that hour of bitter sorrow, with
a pressure whose thrilling touch she remembered every
day of her after life.
For a moment Harry Cunningham closed his eyes,
with a smile of thankful peace. Then his face contracted
with an expression of intense pain, and he
cried out in a wild, despairing tone, “I have prayed
to Him for life, and He will not hear me. I am going,
going to the blackness and darkness, and the long despair.
`To the uttermost farthing,' it says, I must pay
for all—`to the uttermost farthing.' Kate Cunningham,
answer me, doesn't it say so in the Bible?”
Kate could not speak for very terror, but Mrs.
Hereford said, soothingly, “That is to those who do not
repent; but you repent, don't you, and God for Christ's
sake is very merciful.”
“I repent—yes, I repent,” he said, repeating the
words slowly, “but you say hope when there is no
hope. Kate, pray. Repeat that prayer I heard you
reading last night when you thought I was asleep.”
It was no time for hesitation. She knew it was
her voice he longed to hear, and regardless of the
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[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
strangers around his bedside, she knelt down, and
bowing her head, repeated in clear, distinct tones, the
Church of England's beautiful prayer for the dying.
He grew weak very rapidly, meanwhile, but it seemed
to soothe him. “It is hard work,” he said, faintly,
when she concluded, “hard work getting ready now,
but I can't live the bad life over again. Don't it say
Christ pardoned the thief on the Cross? Kate, sister,
my eyes are getting dim, so I can't see you very plain,
sing to me. Sing that hymn mother wanted to hear
when she was dying.”
And struggling with her tears, the fair girl sang.
Her clear voice flooded the room with its melody.
Ere she concluded, a smile broke like light over his
dying features. His lips parted, and bending over
him they caught the word “mother!” Then the smile
faded out into the cold, gray hue of death, the young
life lapsed away into the night.
Was there any hope? God and the future alone
can answer the question which those sorrowing mourners
whispered to their own hearts with a thrill of fear.
God is merciful, and human strength is weakness. We
can but trust. Lovingly Kate Cunningham pushed
the clustering curls from that damp brow; tenderly
she pressed her lips to that still, dead face, and turning
away, met, for the first time, the tender kiss of her
betrothed, and then came the blessed tears. Harry
Cunningham had paid the Death Penalty.
-- -- p652-359
XXIV. THE BRIDAL.
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
After the funeral was over, and Kate Cunningham
had looked for the last time on the dead face of her
only brother, Mrs. Hereford, urgently seconded by
Dick, had insisted on her removal to their own residence.
Emmie could not be spared to remain with
her any longer, and Dick would not consent to her
being left alone, in that deserted home. It was not
good for her to be there, they could all see that. She
would wander listlessly from room to room, sit in his
favorite seat, smooth the pillows on his bed, and take
up his books, opening one after another and laying
them down again with an air of patient sorrow, which
it broke their hearts to see.
And so they carried her away from it all. The
room she shared with Emmie Hereford, in the home
to which she was welcomed as a daughter, was bright,
and sunny as Emmie's own face. Paper of a light
and cheerful pattern was on the walls, flowers were in
the windows, and muslin curtains, lined with rose-colored
cambric, aided to give it a cheerful look. The
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[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
family circle, too, among which she came, had just that
happy, cheerful cast which was needed to restore the
tone of her mind. Now that Warren was once more
with them, Mrs. Hereford thought she had nothing
left for which to wish. His brilliant and successful
plea, and the circumstances attending it, had already
established his reputation among the members of his
own profession, and surrounded by those who had
loved him from infancy, his heart forgot its loneliness,
and he was happier than he had been for years. The
family sitting-room, “Sunbeam's room,” as they called
it, where they all assembled of an evening, remained
just as Simon had originally arranged it, save that
Dick had added, for Kate's accommodation, another
little chair and table, the counterpart of Emmie's own.
Here Simon came often of an evening, and found good,
motherly Mrs. Hereford; sweet, patient Mabel; Kate
in her haughty, womanly beauty, looking in her deep
mourning robes a little less proud and defiant than of
old; Warren, with his thoughtful, earnest look; Dick,
subduing his light-heartedness into tenderest care and
sympathy for his betrothed; and the one face which to
his eyes seemed so much fairer and sweeter than all,
her whom he had long ago called “Little Sunbeam.”
It was impossible to bear a heavy heart among
such cheerful and innocent happiness, and ere long
Kate Cunningham felt the weight being gradually
lifted from her soul. She chided herself when she
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first discovered this. It seemed to her like injustice
to the memory of the dead, and stretching forth her
hand, she pushed back untasted the cup of pleasure,
and folded closer to her heart the old, desolate sorrow.
But it seemed to be gradually stealing away
from her while she slept, for each morning, as the
spring days grew longer, the first sun-rays stealing
through the muslin window-curtains, and making
meshes of light in her tangled curls, awoke her to a
fresher and more exultant sense of the young life
within.
But one evening, it was a sobbing April storm.
A long day, turbulent with rain, had gone down amid
clouds and darkness. It was twilight. One great
cloud canopied the sky from pole to pole. There was
not a single streak of blue, not one star hung out as a
night-lamp to point the way to Heaven. There had
been a lull, in which the wind had sobbed and wailed,
like the despairing cry of a human soul, and now the
storm burst forth again. Like grape-shot it rattled
against the windows, faster and ever fiercer, as it would
seem to retreat, and then come rushing up again to
the encounter. There was no light in the room, save
the bright glow from the blazing coal fire, and it
revealed the outline of Kate Cunningham's superb
figure dimly traced against the window pane. She had
flung back her long black curls, and they fell down
over her shoulders, mingling with the folds of her
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mourning dress. Her hands were folded together,
and her great, mournful eyes looked out into the storm.
Mrs. Hereford was in another room, Mabel sat rocking
slowly back and forth, in a low chair before the fire,
repeating now and then snatches of hymns about
saints and martyrs. At a little distance sat Emmie,
mournfully watching her friend, but yet not daring to
interrupt her solemn reverie.
After a time, Kate turned toward her, pushing
the curls still farther from her pale brow. “It was
just such a night, Emmie,” she said in a low, yet
intense tone, “when he came home after he had committed
that forgery. He told me afterward that the
winds shrieked `forger' in his ear all the way. Oh, how
wet he was. I made him go to bed, and the next day
he was so sick, and he never got quite well again.
Didn't he suffer enough in this world; answer me
that?”
But Emmie dared not speak to her, in this mood
of sorrowful yet fierce excitement, and she exclaimed
more earnestly, “Why don't you answer? You all
hate him, and despise him; I know you do, and you
will not comfort me. Why don't you tell me he is
happy?”
“Kate,” it was Mabel's calm, steady voice which
spoke, “come away from that window, please, and
kneel down here beside my chair in the firelight.” It
was so seldom Mabel expressed a wish, and she was so
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loved and reverenced in the household, that even Kate
Cunningham in her wildest moods was accustomed to
render her implicit obedience, so she went and knelt
down beside her on the carpet. The blind girl
threaded those masses of curls with her fingers, and
then she said, in a grieved tone, “Kate, you have hurt
me very much. Do you not love our Father in
Heaven, and where Love is should not Faith and Trust
walk beside her? Do you fear to trust Harry in His
hands, who died for his enemies? This impatient
sorrow is very wrong. You have love to bless you;
such passionate, absorbing love as may never be the
blind girl's portion. Is not Dick more to you than
even Harry ever was, and yet you murmur. Even I,
who cannot look upon a loved one's face, who cannot
see the stars nor the sunshine, and who can never listen
to love words from mortal lips, save the love of kindred,
yet sit by the fireside grateful, happy; and you,
rich in all those things for which my soul might long
in vain for ever, look forth into the storm and murmur!”
“I was wrong. Forgive me!” The rich voice
was penitent and tearful as the tones of an humbled
child, and the proud head was bowed in a passion of
tears on the gentle Mabel's lap. From that hour no
word of mourning or repining fell from Kate Cunningham's
lips. She wore a smile of hopeful resignation
that night when she greeted her betrothed, and
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all that long, stormy evening, she sat beside him, with
her hand clasped in his, meekly, lovingly, all her pride
humbled, and her grief softened; as gentle as a three
year child.
Mabel's favorite position was by Warren's side,
her head lying upon his breast. She had been parted
from him so many years, that it was a perpetual delight
to touch him, to assure herself of his presence, to
realize thus that he was come back again, to be once
more her own brother. She reminded him, painfully,
at first, of his lost Grace, with her blue eyes, and the
pale gold of her hair, but gradually the resemblance
grew to be a pleasure, half tearful it is true, but yet
so exquisite, he would not have relinquished it for
worlds.
“Well, mother, congratulate me, I am a rich man,”
said Dick, coming home one evening in early June.
His mother smiled. “Ah,” he cried, gayly, “you
needn't look so incredulous, it's quite true, and I
brought along that sober-faced Warren to add the
weight of his testimony to mine. My employers called
me into their private room this morning, and told me
they felt that that unfortunate suit last spring must
have wounded me deeply, and they had wished to have
it in their power to make some amends; they had
always found me faithful and capable, and had concluded
to offer me a share in their business. It would
be many times more advantageous, they said, than my
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present situation, and the only capital I need bring
was my talents. Of course I could only thank them,
in a gratitude altogether more sincere than eloquent.
They told me I might dispose as I pleased of my present
post of chief bookkeeper.
“What did you do with it?” asked Emmie,
eagerly.
“What do you think, Sunbeam? I gave it to
Mr. Ezekiel Sharpe. I knew he was a good bookkeeper,
and faithful to the firm, notwithstanding his
hatred to me, and I fancied he might like me better
after getting the situation which was so long the object
of his ambition. But where is Kate? Mr. S. spoke
so kindly about my prospect of entering into another
partnership, and they are desirous I should live in a
style suitable to the reputation of the firm, so the poor
errand-boy that was can give his bride a sumptuous
Up-Town residence after all?”
“You are my good boy, always,” said his mother,
kissing him with glistening eyes. “Kate is in the garden,
and I wish you God speed in your errand.”
It took many a prayer, many an entreaty to persuade
Kate to become a bride, so soon after the death
of her only brother. But Dick set before her how
long and how patiently he had already waited, how
many years he had loved her faithfully and well, and
at last he won a blushing, half-reluctant consent to the
early day he wished to name.
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Emmie was to be bridesmaid, and Dick begged
that Simon might be invited to stand with her, he was
such an old friend. Kate consented, on condition
that Dick himself should superinted the manufacture
of a suit of clothes for that worthy individual, not
more than one inch too short at the wrists and ankles,
and that she might also have Mabel, to whom her
heart clung with peculiar tenderness. And so Warren
Hereford writing to invite his friend Percy to attend
the nuptials, added, “Mabel my sister is sweet, fair,
and graceful. Could you go to the altar with a blind
girl on your arm, without too great a sacrifice of pride?
Will you attend her as groomsman?”
And Percy Douglass answered it in person. At
the first glance, his artistic eye was charmed with the
perfectness of Mabel's features, and the pure, spiritual
cast of her young face. He said he could almost
fancy one of Titian's saints had stepped out of its
frame, to come among mortals. The low, sweet tones
of her voice were just suited to her face and figure, and
altogether there was a beautiful harmony about her so
that she charmed him like some saintly painting, or
some of Haydn's sublime yet low and soothing church
music.
The group standing before the altar of Holy
Trinity, on that bridal morning, would have been deeply
interesting even to a stranger. The young bride,
youngest of them all, yet so haughty in the carriage
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of her dainty head, and her queenly step; so beautiful
with her irregular, piquant features, her flushed
cheeks, her hazel eyes, and crimson-threaded lips, and
the raven curls that shone through the misty folds of
her vail; so touchingly humble and gentle in the timid
glance she lifted now and then to the proud face bending
over her; so unstained in her woman's truth and
purity,—the groom, handsome, protecting, manly,—
Emmie in her simple, muslin robe, with her sunny face,
her smoothly braided brown hair, and her loving
brown eyes,—Simon, with the new garments, whose
extra length seemed an awkward encumbrance of
which he hardly knew how to dispose, with his ungainly
figure, and his irascible hair,—Mabel, with her
swaying form, her lily-like grace and purity,—Percy,
dreamy-eyed, ardent, in a word artist-like; and standing
near them Warren, with his mother on his arm,
her thoughts going back to the quiet little English
church where her own bridal vows were plighted, in
her vanished spring-time of youth and loveliness,
listening to a voice which had long been singing with
the angels; and his, making pictures of past scenes,
and dreaming about how bright had risen over his
own path the stars of hope and love, which had gone
down in night.
Bridals are always solemn, where the heart goes
with the hand; where the young, beautiful life is offered
up in meek trust and lovingness at the shrine of the
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heart's worship. The sun-rays floated through the
stained glass windows, making the shadow of a cross
on Mabel's young, bowed head, and resting like a
crown of glory on the dark curls of the bride.
There was a silent prayer, trembling upward from
each quivering lip, and then rising they walked
down the aisle. Drawing the hand he held through
his arm, Dick bent downward to look in the hazel eyes
of his Kate, and whispered for the first time, those
sweet, fond words, “My wife.”
The bridal home, where they were to spend the
first day, was situated very pleasantly, in a fashionable
street. It was furnished with unostentatious
elegance. The paintings and statuary had been
Percy Douglass' bridal gift, and from the firm, into
whose number he had so recently been admitted, Dick
received a massive and elegant service of plate, marked
with the name of his bride. One little room opening
into the conservatory, was the gem of the whole
house, and Dick had furnished it for his wife's morning
room. In the golden-wired cage by the window,
a mocking bird was pouring forth his soul in song.
Vases of rare and costly flowers filled the air with
their fragrance; elegantly bound copies of the young
bride's favorite authors stored the shelves of a rosewood
book-case, and every little fancy of her capricious
nature had been minutely studied in its
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arrangement. They went there alone, while the rest of the
party were examining the mansion.
For the first time that day Kate's eyes filled with
tears. Going up to his side, she laid her head with
child-like simplicity upon his arm, and said, “You
are very good to me, my husband,” and Dick, holding
her to his heart, in his arms, as he had longed to hold
her from the first hour he looked upon her beauty,
was silent in the fulness of his great joy.
Driving with the bridal cortége up Broadway,
Warren Hereford saw a familiar face. A carriage
closely shut drove by him, and looking through its
window Juno Clifford's reproachful eyes fell upon
him, sitting at his own true mother's side. There was
a look about that face which his heart ached to see; a
desolate, weary, forsaken look, as if earth had nothing
left worth living for, and yet her eyes were veiled that
she could not gaze toward Heaven. The two carriages
passed each other very slowly. He could see the
quadroon crouched in the corner, with the old look on
her dusky face; he could note the impatient movement
with which Juno pushed back the hair from her brow,
and the strained, eager glance with which her eyes
followed him. It recalled all her old love for him,
the tenderness which had so blessed his boyish life,
and the passionate idolatry which at length had driven
him from her side. He longed to go to her, to offer to
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be her son once more; to pour out in one gush of eloquent
words, all his past love for her, all his grateful
remembrance of her kindness; but other duties were
upon him now, and he passed and made no sign.
She had heard of him in New York, and had purchased
a sumptuous mansion there, with the sole hope
of once more looking upon that face so madly and so
vainly loved. And now she had seen him. She gave
orders to be driven home. She went into her own room,
and sat down alone with the spectres of the past. So
many years she had wished John Clifford dead, for
this, for this. He had gone back now, this brave,
young lover, to the friends from whom she bought him
in his poverty-stricken boyhood. He had rewarded
her love with his cold scorn, and yet she loved him
still; that one look from his earnest eyes had thrilled
her heart as no other one's glance had done in all
her lifetime.
She smiled bitterly at her own folly. In a frantic
self-contempt, she tore the jewels from her hair; the
folds of lace and muslin from her heart. She abandoned
herself to a paroxysm of despair. She gnashed
her beautiful teeth, tears rained from her proud eyes,
and then, looking backward, she cursed him bitterly
under her breath.
That evening she went forth from her lonely room,
jewels flashing in her tresses, gleaming on her arms,
and burning on her bosom. Her eyes sparkled with
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mirth, her lips were wreathed with smiles, and proud
Up-Town condescended to wonder at her toilette so
unequalled in its richness, and her stately beauty.
Many times after that Warren met her carriage in
his daily walks. The haughty, despairing face would
be pressed against the pane, the servant crouching in
the corner would look at him with her eyes of fire,
and so they two, who had shared one home so long,
who had so loved, and so parted, lived on in the same
city, and never spoke.
-- -- p652-372
XXV. L'INCONNUE.
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Do you see that humble-looking little cottage? It is
the home of one to whose genius the world has already
begun to do homage. The simply furnished room is
bathed in the sober glory of the September moonlight.
A lady of, it may be, twenty-five, is sitting by the vine-wreathed
window. She is very simply clad, in her
deep-mourning costume, the dress made high at the
neck, and the sleeve falling in heavy folds to the slight
wrist. Her face, though gentle, is very sad, her large
blue eyes wear a look of patient grief, lightened by
trust in heaven, and her golden curls alone relieve the
grave plainness of her attire. At her feet kneels a
child so sweet and fair you might have deemed her an
infant cherub strayed away from Heaven. And yet
at one time her mother must have resembled her very
much. The child has the same curling, sunny hair,
the same large blue eyes, but smiles curve in and out
at the rosebud mouth, and the eyes are full of childish
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merriment, albeit half hidden now by the veiling
lashes. The tiny hands, white as ocean spray-wreaths,
are meekly folded, and the baby voice is lisping a simple
evening prayer.
When it was over, the mother raised her in her
arms and laid her gently in her low bed. “Kiss
Rosie,” said the sweet voice—“Rosie dood all day.”
The kiss was given, and then the mother sat down
beside her, and gently sung her to sleep. When at
length the little busy hands were quite at rest, and the
blue eyes were tightly closed, she rose from her seat,
and, bending over her, pressed her lips to that polished
brow. All the mother's love was in her eyes, as she
raised her head, and there was a deep and touching
tenderness in the voice which whispered, “For thy sake,
little one, surely God will give me His blessing.”
Then she lit a tiny lamp, and drew forth from her
desk a closely written manuscript. Seizing a pen she
wrote rapidly. After a time there came to the sad
face a look of inspiration—tears trembled on the
lashes, the colorless cheeks grew flushed and red as
hearts of June-time roses. Then that too passed, and
once more she lived in the present; a lonely, sorrowful
woman, with a grave beneath her feet.
At this moment there was a gentle tap on the outer
door. She opened it noiselessly. “Oh, it is you,
Sara? This is indeed kind. Come in softly so as not
to wake Rose, for I want to talk to you.”
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The visitor entered, laid aside her bonnet, and
threw her shawl upon a chair. As Mrs. Joseph Seaton,
the rector's wife, she was little changed from that
Sara Hargrave whom we knew long ago.
“Well, Grace,” she said, “talk fast. What have
you determined?” Now, indeed, hearing her called
by the old name, with her face kindled by that smile
of welcome, you could recognize some traces of the
light-hearted Grace Atherton of other days. Her
voice, when she replied, had some of the old tones
blended with its dreamy sadness.
“I am getting on pretty well,” she said. “I came
here because you were here, and you were my last
friend. I couldn't stay in Glenthorne with all those
graves. It has proved the best thing after all. Ever
since you introduced me to Dr. Baldwin, I get along
nicely. I write a sketch for the Standard, every
week, and he pays my five dollars so punctually that
I do very well indeed.”
“And you call that very well? Five dollars a
week for you and this child?”
“Oh yes, for the present, but I know Rose will
need more soon. I have a plan in my head, and you
must advise me about it. You know one of my great
trials was parting with Irish Mary. She has been
with me ever since that visit to Boston. She would
have staid with me freely, but I could not even give
her bread to eat. She followed me to Alexandria,
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though I had not found it out when I saw you last.
She is chambermaid and nurse in a family here. Poor
thing, she didn't know how to find me, and it was by
the merest accident I met her as I was taking Rose
out for a walk. Now my ambition is to be able to get
her back again. I need her very much. No child
could be better than Rose, but it takes more than half
my time to amuse her. With no one to take care of
her, I cannot send her away from me for a moment,
and I can't resist the temptation to pet her and make
her happy, when I see her little face get so lonely with
watching me at my task. The truth is I do not write
much except when she is sleeping.”
“That is it. I have often wondered you did
not try to write for something beside the Standard.
You are famous already, Gracie. You would hardly
believe it if I were to tell you how many inquiries I
hear about L'Inconnue, how much of praise is
lavished at her shrine.”
“Then may-be you won't think my plan so very
wild.” Grace drew nearer to her, and rested her head
caressingly against her shoulder. “I am trying,” she
said in a timid, half-frightened whisper, “trying to
write a book.”
“You are, you pet wild-bird, you little darling.
It's the very thing I wanted you to do, but I thought
you couldn't have time. Have you begun it? What
do you call it?”
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“I have christened it “Cousin Elsie,” and only
look, I have all this written.” She laid the manuscript
on Lady Sara's lap.
For a half-hour her visitor sat silently reading it;
then laying it down, she said, earnestly—“Grace, you
will succeed, you cannot fail. You are writing a book
that will live.”
There was rapture in those delicious tears, dimming
the blue eyes lifted to her face. “You have
done me so much good,” she said, in her pretty, graceful
way. “Now I can sit up nights, and work at it
so much more hopefully. But look out, there is
Joseph at the gate, and you must go. Sara, pray for
me. I am lonely, and sometimes I am weak.”
“I do, I will, and Our Father will strengthen you to
do this work. Good-by, Grace, my friend, my sister.”
Then she went away in the moonlight, leaning on
her husband's arm, and Grace came back into the
humble cottage. There was no broad breast where
her head might rest, no strong heart to shelter her; and
yet she lifted her thankful eyes to heaven for the girlhood
friend, whose love was with her still; for the
sleeping child, whose lips had learned to call her
mother; and for the gift of that genius which could
evoke from Chaos a magic world of her own, and people
it with the creations of her fancy. Then, trimming
the little lamp once more, she sat down and wrote
late into the night.
-- -- p652-377
XXVI. SIMON GOLDTHWAITE SEES THE SUN RISE.
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Once more it was summer. A year had passed since
Dick Hereford led a bride to the altar. Dick's affairs
had prospered, and his wife had just been driven up to
her mother-in-law's door, by her own coachman, in her
own carriage, and taken Mrs. Hereford and Mabel for
an airing, while Emmie was left to keep house.
Simon Goldthwaite ascended the steps somewhat
slowly, and rang the bell, as if his errand was of a less
agreeable nature than usual. It was very singular, but
a quick blush mantled Emmie's cheek when she heard
his shuffling footstep in the hall; and the little fingers
crocheting so busily, dropped a stitch in the pretty
purse. He came in and took a seat near her. “How
do you do, Little Sunbeam,” had been his customary
salutation, but now he simply said “Good afternoon,”
and then remained for a few moments in silence.
After a time he remarked, in a composed voice,
“You remember Stephen Montfort, Emmie?”
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She laughed. “What, that nice young gentleman
who used to take so much pains to help me find Dick,
when I first came to the city?”
“The same. He is a noble young man, the very
best clerk we have in the store, and he loves you and
wants to marry you.”
“Me!” She laughed still more merrily. “Why,
I scarcely ever said a half-dozen words to him in my
life.”
“But he says he has loved you from the first; I
don't think it so strange, Emmie. He could see the
pure soul looking out of your face. Ah, you are a
fortunate girl, for he is young, and handsome, and
honorable; well worthy of woman's love. I am sure
will be happy.”
“Have I got to marry him?” She had stopped
laughing now, and she looked up like a frightened
child.
“Got to! Oh no; but you can hardly fail to want
to. It is right to marry; at least people who have
tried it, say it's the happiest way, and you could never
hope to do better. He loves you very truly.”
A queer, quizzical look lurked about the corners
of Emmie's mouth. “Does he? Well, why didn't he
tell me of it himself; what did he send you for?”
There was an accent of wounded feeling in Simon's
tone, as he replied, “I don't wonder you ask. Words
of love do not come very fittingly from my mouth. I
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[figure description] Page 370.[end figure description]
am indeed a strange messenger for such an errand
But he did not like to speak to Dick, and I came here
so often, I knew you so well, I suppose he thought I
would do his bidding faithfully.”
“Well, you can go back and tell him I do not want
him.”
“But surely you do not mean that. I should be
sorry that his having been unfortunate enough to
choose such an awkward ambassador should lose him
the suit on which his whole life's happiness depends.”
“Should you? Then you want me to marry
him?” Emmie's tone was more nearly petulant than
he had ever before heard it. A new, yet faint light
began to break into his mind, like the clouds of gold
which herald the dawning. It was his turn to question.
“Emmie, ought you to refuse this offer? Would
it be right to make him wretched, with no better
reason than a girlish caprice?”
She drooped her lashes over the tears that had
begun to glitter in her eyes. Her voice was very low
and tremulous, as she said—“It is no woman's whim.
I cannot marry him, for I love another.”
“What other? Nay, listen, Emmie, do not turn
away. I must know. Forgive me, I have no right to
say must, but if I have ever been kind to you or
yours, if I have ever deserved your confidence, you
will tell me now.”
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He drew her toward him, but he held her very
awkwardly, much as you have seen an old bachelor
take up a three month's baby. “Now Emmie, tell
me,” he whispered, with his lips so near her cheek
that they almost touched the brown braids of her hair.
Her nature was very truthful, and she felt it was
a question which he had a right to ask, and she must
answer even though he should despise her so when he
said again, still more earnestly, “Tell me whom you
love, Emmie,” she whispered, “You.”
It was but a single word, still Simon heard it distinctly.
There was no awkwardness now, the young
loving girl he held was his own. He drew her fervently
to his heart, murmuring—“Say it again, Emmie,
oh say it again. This is such happiness. I have loved
you always. But you don't love me, Emmie,—you
can't love me. You are mocking me. I am old and
ugly; I could not win your love. Look up. Let me
see your eyes.”
He lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked
earnestly in her face. There was no mistaking the
clear, innocent, brown eyes that so fearlessly met his
own. Looking into their depths, he knew that of a
very truth he was beloved; that the young heart
throbbing against his side would beat for him only,
for ever. The sunny face he had loved to gaze on,
would brighten his own fireside, and as all that wealth
of love and light flooded his soul, he saw the sun of
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[figure description] Page 372.[end figure description]
his life arise, a sun which could only set above her
grave or his, and clasping her still more tenderly he
murmured, “Mine, mine at last; Little Sunbeam
mine!”
It was strange, so the world would have said, that
that graceful girl, so young, so fair, should have turned
from the fashionable-looking young wooer who sought
her love, to lay her hand in that great, awkward
palm which was so tenderly smoothing her tresses.
But it seemed not strange to Emmie. To her, the
lineaments of Simon Goldthwaite's face wore a glorious
beauty, for she looked through them to the hero-soul
within. Very deeply she reverenced him, and her only
wonder was that her simple, devoted affection should
have power so to move one so noble as she deemed him.
They were so fully satisfied with, so suited to each
other, that their tenderness was beautiful to see.
“Now you can go,” whispered Emmie, playfully,
raising her head from the broad breast where it was
lying, “you can go and tell Mr. Montfort that I will
marry him, because you don't think I can do any better.”
“No I won't, Sunbeam. I'll go and ask him to go
to church next week and see us married.”
“Next week?”
“Yes, why not? There is plenty of time. You
will like it best to have no parade, so shall I. Pomp
and show would hardly suit the husband you have
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[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]
chosen, and I want my little girl made all my own as
soon as possible. I am a great many years older than
you, darling, and mine has been a lonely, sorrowful life.
Since my mother died and left me a friendless little
thing not much beyond babyhood, no one ever loved
me until I knew Dick; and now, now that the love for
which I never dared to hope has come,—for I feel it in
my soul that you do love me, Emmie,—now that I am
your life as fully as you have long been mine, I will
not have you separated from me a day longer than is
necessary. Oh, I need you. Do you remember your
oak tree and ivy vine at Mohawk Village? Well, you
are my ivy, and you must twine around me in your
youth and innocence until you hide my deformity with
your tenderness and your beauty.”
The gentle kiss she dropped upon his brow, the
proud look in her earnest eyes, told that, to her at
least, there was no deformity to conceal. Reading her
face, he said, “You are silent, Emmie. You do not fear
to become mine, to trust your future in my keeping?”
“Fear! It is not that. How could I fear when
I love you so? But I was thinking of Mabel and my
mother. Is it right to leave them?”
“You do not think I would ask it, Emmie?
There is room enough here for us all, and a quiet home
is all we care for, my darling. I know your tastes so
well. If you wanted splendor, you should have it, for
I am rich enough to give it to you, but I think I know
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what will please you better. I like this home. Then
there is that house lot on the south side, standing
empty. It is so pleasant to see the green grass growing
there. Warren, you know, takes his seat in Congress
next December, and there will be no one to see
to things while he is in Washington. I tell you what,
Emmie, he has a three years' lease of this house. He
shall give it up to me, and then I'll buy the house, and
we'll all live here together. I never could like any
other home half so well, because it was here I saw you
first. Do you like my plan, little darling?”
Her eyes answered him, with their look of blessed
content, even better than the sweet voice which fairly
trembled with delight. Then she laughed gayly. “I
was thinking,” she said, “about that first evening you
ever came here, and how funny you looked when you
sat down on your hat. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, and how I loved you from that first blessed
moment, though you seemed so far apart from me in
your youth and beauty, and I never dared hope to call
you wife. Oh, Emmie!”
Time passed unheeded by those two so deeply
blest, and it was nearly sunset when Emmie sprang
from the arms which so tenderly enfolded her.
“Look,” she exclaimed, “there is the carriage at the
door. Mamma and Mabel are on the steps, and see,
there is Kate laughing her good-by. The sun is
setting.”
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He folded his arm around her waist, and whispered,
“I have seen the sun rise for the first time, this
afternoon, my darling,—the sun of hope, and truth,
and love, which never dawned for me before. It will
bless all my future.”
He stood there beside her, with his arm around
her, when Mrs. Hereford opened the door. With a
simple dignity, he clasped her hand in his, and went to
meet her mother. “She loves me,” he said, earnestly;
“she has promised to be my wife. Will you give us
your blessing?”
Mrs. Hereford read the Amen to his prayer in
Emmie's pleading eyes, and thankfully she gave the
consent for which they both hoped. That night the
wedding day was fixed. “I must write to Percy,”
said Warren, with Mabel's head lying in its usual
resting-place upon his breast, and none but he noted
the sudden flushing of the pale cheek, or the quick
drooping of the golden lashes over the sightless eyes.
When he saw these tokens of the emotion which that
name awakened, it gave him a sudden thrill of terror.
Percy had been a frequent visitor during the past year.
Could it be he had come too often for his blind sister's
peace; she who must love, if at all, so hopelessly?
The day before the wedding Simon Goldthwaite
threw two folded papers into Emmie's lap. “It is
my bridal present, darling,” he said, as she opened
them. One was the deed of the pleasant house which
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had so long been her home; the other, of the empty
house-lot on the south.
For a moment her heart was too full to speak, then
she said, smiling through her tears and holding up
the paper she had last unfolded, “But what in the
world am I to do with this; you don't expect me to
turn land speculator?” “No, but right here, among
the city's din, I wanted to make a little country for
you. I remembered how you used to enjoy your flowers
and your chickens, and so we will have a high wall
put round this spot, with grape-vines and ivy-vines
twining over it, and you shall have plenty of posies,
and a little summer-house in the centre, and a place
for your poultry yard.” He paused, for she was sobbing
in his arms. “What now, Emmie, dearest, have
I vexed you?”
“Vexed me! Oh, my best one, you will kill me with
such kindness. I am so intensely happy, it makes
the tears come. You don't leave me any thing to wish
for. Can it last?”
“Please God, it shall last through your life and
mine, my blessed one.”
The bridal was very quiet. They were married
in church. Emmie looked so neat, and trim, and wife-like,
in the little white chip travelling hat, and the
fawn-colored travelling dress. And once more Percy
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Douglass led Mabel to the altar, and she stood there
as bridesmaid, who might never hope to stand there
as bride; once more kneeling before the altar, the sunshine
came through the stained-glass windows, making
the shadow of a cross on that young, bowed head.
It was wonderful to see what an effect love and
happiness had produced on Simon. His very figure
seemed to have changed. His hair was still in the
nominative case independent, and his features were as
irregular as the architecture of a modern building, but
there was scarcely a trace of the awkward and angular
Simon in that manly form, bending so protectingly
over the young girl at his side.
They rode away alone together, the newly married
pair. They were to travel for a while, and so commence
building up that peaceful world of their own
into which no third person could ever come. Emmie
longed to ride upon the broad lakes of the West, to
listen to the eternal anthem of Niagara, to look upon
the great calm face of the “Old man of the mountains,”
and for this once, all Emmie's simple wishes
were to meet their fulfilment.
That night Mabel was alone. She had taken Emmie's
old seat by the window, and she sat there thinking
sorrowfully of the sister who was in some degree
lost to her, since she could never again be so exclusively
her own. The door opened gently, a step she
knew too well, if one could judge by the quick
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suffusion of her delicate face, stole quietly across the carpet.
She could not see him, and yet she knew that
Percy Douglass was kneeling by her side, even before
his arm had stolen about her waist.
“Nay, turn not away, my sweet Mabel,” said his
pleading voice. “I have come to tell you that without
your love life has henceforth for me no joy and
no hope. Oh, Mabel, I have longed to say this for
many months, but I have not dared. You have seemed
so pure, so saint-like, as if thought or touch of earthly
passion must not come nigh you. But the words must
be spoken. I love you, Mabel; I would die for you,
Mabel; but this is weak. I cannot make you understand
my soul with empty words. Oh, let me live for
you,—let me prove my love in every act of my life.
Oh Mabel, love me. Can I not win you by years of
waiting? I will be so good, so pure, if you will give
me ever so little hope.”
He paused, and the sweet face was not turned
away. “I have loved you long,” she whispered, and
her hand lay still in his fervent clasp.
“And you will be my wife, my life's angel; you
will, Mabel?”
She shuddered. “Oh, I don't know,” she said, “I
dare not. If I could but see you. You must not
link your bright, sunshiny existence with the night
and darkness of the blind.”
“Oh Mabel, do not torture me! What is all
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this when I love you—when I am wild to call you
mine?”
“It is much, dearest, though you may not feel it
now. But I will not say no, I will not answer you.
I will tell you in the morning.”
To all his passionate pleadings she would give but
this one answer—“I will tell you in the morning;”
still, she suffered him to draw her to his heart, to lay
her head on his bosom, and talk to her for one long,
blessed hour, of the beautiful future he would plan for
her; of the long days when he would never weary of
making word-pictures for her sake, about every thing
in art and nature.
Then she crept from his arms, and went up stairs
in the moonlight. After a time her mother came to
the door of her little room, but it was locked, and
the sweet voice within pleaded—“Please let me stay
alone this one night, dear mother,” and so she was left
to herself. For three hours she knelt before her bed,
motionless as a statue, trying to see the right, and
praying God to give her strength. One thought was
ever in her mind—“What if she should marry him,
and by and by he should weary of the blind wife he
had chosen? He would go forth in the world and
meet fair and lovely women, their eloquent glances
would flash sunshine into his soul, and then he might
turn regretfully to the sealed eyes that could only
gaze toward Heaven. Loving him as she did, would
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it not be wrong and selfish to subject him to the bare
possibility of such a fate?” When once her heart
and her conscience had answered this question in the
affirmative,—when once she had become convinced that
it would be wrong, her mind was made up. There was
a firmness of principle, a strength of character about
that delicate, young blind girl, that no one would
have suspected, who looked upon her almost ethereal
loveliness.
She arose, and sat down by the window, in the
moonlight. The love which, from her earliest girlhood,
she had learned to look upon as a blessed gift in which
she could have no part nor lot, had come like a stray
bird, praying to nestle in her bosom, and sing songs to
her all her life long. And now she must turn the
glorious wanderer out of doors, out into the midnight,
and perchance into the storm. Oh, if she could but
see! for a moment there was a rebellious thought, a
murmur against Heaven, but she subdued it instantly.
Until the morning she sat there, absorbed in her pictures
of what might have been. There was a strange,
wild happiness in knowing that she was beloved, even
if she must put the sparkling cup untasted from her
lips.
At early dawning she went down stairs. Her
lover met her at the door of the sitting-room. “I
could not sleep,” he said, “and so I am here, waiting
for you.”
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She gave him her hand, and suffered him to lead
her to a seat, and encircle her with his arm, but he
almost trembled as he saw the unshed tears glittering
upon her lashes, and the pale face, which the conflict
of one night had made so ghastly. “I cannot, I will
not be your wife,” she said, in passionate, hurried
tones, as if longing to have the scene over.
“Not my wife? Do I hear you? Do I understand
you? Then Heaven pity me. Did you not
say you loved me?”
“I do love you, but I will not marry you. I cannot,
I dare not. Do not plead with me, for I have
decided, and all you can say will only pain me.” He
looked into her face, and saw the fixed, stony wretchedness
on those young, wistful features, and he had no
choice but to believe her. “Is there no hope?” he
murmured, clasping her passionately to his bosom, and
she answered, “There is none!”
“Good-by, my life's star, my Mabel. I must not
stay here, or I shall go mad.” He put her from him,
and walked to the door; but once, twice, thrice he
came back to press a hundred passionate kisses on
that pure, sorrowful face, and then he went out, with
his aching, desolated heart, into the beautiful morning
sunshine; and she sat there where he had left her, not
fainting, but fixed, and motionless, in the profound
stupor of this heavy sorrow.
-- -- p652-391
XXVII. OUR ROSEBUD
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It was a December day, cold, even at Washington.
Warren Hereford drew a fur-lined cloak about his
shoulders, as he stepped on board a crowded ferry-boat
to cross over to Alexandria. There was a lady on
the other side of the boat whose appearance singularly
interested him. He could only see the outline of her
classic profile beneath the long folds of her black crape
veil, and a single curl, which, unconsciously to the
wearer, had strayed out from the close hat, and floated
like a ray of sunshine over her mourning garments.
Every time he looked, there seemed something more
and more familiar in her aspect, something that made
his pulses thrill, and his heart beat faster. On the
seat beside her, stood a graceful little creature, a sweet
child, as beautiful as an infant angel. He watched
them both, furtively, yet eagerly, until a friend standing
near called his attention to some object at a little
distance.
Before he again turned toward them, a piercing
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scream froze upon the air. A voice gave it utterance
which he recognized but too surely; a voice which had
haunted the dreams of years. “Save her!” it shrieked,
“save her, my child, my Rosebud!”
He sprang forward just as the mother was struggling
to throw herself into the sea, in a frantic attempt
to rescue her lost darling. He threw his cloak to a
by-stander. “Hold her, in Heaven's name hold her,”
he shouted, “and stop the boat!” In an instant more
he was in the wake of the boat, near the spot where
the little one had fallen, waiting for her to rise the
second time. There was a moment's breathless hush—
the child rose to the surface of the water—he sprang
forward—he caught her. In two minutes more she
was in her mother's arms.
Then the tears came, falling on the little one's
hair, rousing her from her trance, and when the blue
eyes opened at length, the young mother lifted her
tearful face. “May God bless you,” she murmured;
“I cannot thank you.”
His reply came as naturally, as authoritatively
almost, as if they had not been parted for a day, and
she was still the young girl, happy most of all in
yielding to his wishes. “Grace,” he said, holding out
the cloak lined with fur, “give her to me, she is too
heavy for you now, and beside she is wet. I will wrap
her in this.”
Abandoning herself for a moment to the old dream,
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she obeyed his tone of command, and gave him the
child. He said nothing more for a while, then bending
over to look into her eyes, he noticed for the first
time how fearfully thin and pale she had grown.
“Grace!” he murmured.
The hoped-for reply came—“Warren!” and he
seemed satisfied.
When they reached the landing, he called a carriage,
and she looked up inquiringly. “I am going
with you, Grace,” he said; “you could not think I
would leave you.”
She blushed slightly, but made no objection,
merely remarking that it was but a step, as she gave
directions to the driver.
“Grace,” he asked once more, as still holding the
dripping child he sprang to a seat beside her, “do
you live here?”
“Yes, I am all alone now,—Rose and I, I mean.”
He chided himself for a wild joy-thrill which he
could not help at the thought that she was once more
free; but he controlled his voice perfectly, and calmly
inquired if he could be of any farther assistance after
she reached home. No, she was very grateful, but she
should need nothing. At least, then, she would let
him come back again in the evening. He would go and
get some dry clothes, and be with her very early.
She did not refuse. When he gave the little Rose
back again to her arms, he bent over and pressed a
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fond kiss on the child's sweet brow, and then drawing
his cloak around him sprang back into the carriage.
His heart beat tumultuously as he opened her gate
that evening, and walked up to the door. She met
him with a smile of welcome, and he entered. Little
Rose sprang to greet him, and he raised her in his
arms. “It did not hurt her, Grace?” he said, inquiringly.
“No, I think not in the least, but I fear you cannot
say the same. I have been feeling badly ever
since, lest I treated you almost unkindly, in my anxiety
for her. Oh, I was not thankless, do not think so;
I owe you more than life. To live would have been
terrible, without her, my darling.”
Then she spoke of his success. She had heard he
was in Congress, and she congratulated him warmly.
For a time they conversed on indifferent subjects,
until the little Rose had fairly gone to sleep in his
arms. The mother raised her from his lap, and laid
her on the bed, and when she came back, he drew his
chair nearer, and said, “Grace, may I tell you what
has been in my heart for nearly four years past?”
“Surely the preserver of my child has earned a
right to speak to me freely.”
“I would you had not said that, Grace; but I have
no right to murmur. What I suffered when we parted,
you can never dream. The next year was one long,
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despairing void. It boots not now to speak of that.
Then my father died, and Grace, may-be it was wicked,
but I could not help a feeling something like relief.
I had never dreamed that you would not be true to
me, and I thought when the year of mourning was
over I could come to your side, and call you mine.
Your image was with me night and day, and with this
hope strong in my heart, I went home to my mother,
on the anniversary of my father's death. She showed
me that day a paper containing your marriage. Grace,
my idolized Grace was another's. I thought I should
go mad. I dared not blame you, for I myself had
given you up; and yet God knows if you had been
false to me ten thousand times, I could never have
loved another. Perhaps it was well for me that my
mother mistook my despair for indifference, and told
me what I had never before suspected, that she loved
me, not with a mother's unselfish tenderness, but with
a woman's passionate love. I could not return it, I
could not stay with her, and that very hour we parted.
I have never entered her doors since. I studied law
without her aid, and now, as you have heard, I am in
Congress. For nearly two years I have been with my
own mother and the sisters of whom we used to talk;
but oh, Grace, there has been such an aching void at
my heart all these years. I am not like you, I could
not love another.”
“Warren,” she cried, with flashing eyes, “that is
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ungenerous, unmanly. Had you not to-day given me
back my child rescued by your hands from death, I
would tell you that you did not deserve to hear the
story of my life since our parting. But listen, you
shall know all. When that cruel letter came—forgive
the word, but it seemed cruel then—when I knew that
you had chosen between love and wealth, between me
and Mrs. Clifford, I fell to the floor more dead than
alive. For six long weeks I lay in the delirium of a
brain fever that had well-nigh proved fatal. Week
after week those anxious parents watching over me
had no hope that I would arise unless it were to madness.
But youth and their fond care at length prevailed,
and I went forth into the sunshine, a girl no
longer; a heart-broken, miserable woman. Malcom
Hastings knew all, and longed to comfort me. I
learned then that he had worshipped me with all his
noble, generous heart, ever since we first came to Glenthorne.
He did not ask me then to marry him, but
his care for my comfort was constant. The flowers in
my vases, the books on my table, the fresh fruit with
which he strove to tempt my capricious appetite, all
were his gift. At that time my heart seemed dead.
It never thrilled with one such emotion as you had
inspired, and yet he became very dear. I should have
been worse than an ingrate to have borne a thankless
heart for his constant kindness.
“At last my parents sickened. I have no strength
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to speak of that. They died on the same day, and
were buried in one grave. It was God's own reward
to the life-long faithfulness of their love. The day they
died I was kneeling by their bedside. Malcom Hastings
was there too. He had shared my watching through it
all. My father had been a long time silent. At last he
put forth his thin hand, and drew my curls caressingly
through his fingers. `My poor Grace,' he said, `this
is hardest. I shall have to leave you poor, and so
friendless.'
“`Not friendless while I live,' said Malcom, drawing
nearer. `I know,' my father answered, `you
have loved her long and faithfully, but the world
would judge her harshly if you were her protector
and not her husband. I would have given her to your
care so gladly. If she were your wife, I could die
happy!' I rose and turned my pale face toward Malcom
Hastings. `Malcom,' I said, `I loved Warren
Clifford as I can never love another. He gave me up
at the command of his father, and I have never seen
him since. That father has been dead a year, and he
has not sought my side. He is lost, dead to me, and
now you are dearer than all others, save these my
parents. It is not such love as I bore him that I can
give you, but it is calm and pure; it will be faithful.
Is it worth your having?'
“He came to my side. `It is worth all things,' he
said, fervently. `Will you be my wife now? It
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would make them happier?' I saw the anxious look
in my father's eyes, and I bowed my head. In half
an hour a clergyman stood at the bedside. It was
Joseph Seaton, who was then in Glenthorne. We
were married, and I bent to kiss my father's brow.
He clasped me convulsively to his heart, murmuring,
`Thank God!' and in that embrace he died. My
mother moved then, it was the first time that day, and
laid her head upon his breast. She never lifted it
again.
“After the burial, my husband took me home.
It was a fair, sweet home which he gave me, and I
loved it, but my heart was very sad. I could not forget
the past. Its bitter waters would surge chokingly
over my soul until I longed to lie down in the churchyard
beside that double grave. Malcom was gentle
with me always. Oh, how he loved me! My sad face
and mourning robes brought only darkness to his
hearthstone, and yet I was dearer than his own life.
When they put my baby in my arms, I thanked God.
I thought the touch of those tiny fingers would bring
the warmth back to my life. For a time I was happier;
and then, just as I was learning to requite his
tenderness, my husband died. There was another
grave in the churchyard, and another empty place in
my heart.
“And then came poverty. He had been very rich,
and he thought he had left enough for me and baby.
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But a friend for whom he had endorsed to the amount
of his whole fortune, one whom he loved and trusted
as a brother, failed and swept away our whole dependence
in the wreck of his own property. Then I came
here. I knew I had one friend still, in the wife of
Joseph Seaton, and I was too much a bankrupt in
human love not to seek her, and this was her home.
By means of her influence I got employment, and I
managed to support myself very comfortably.”
Warren dared not question her as to the nature of
her task, but a roll of music lay upon the stand, and
he fancied she was a teacher. “Forgive me, Grace,”
he said, when she had concluded her recital, “forgive
me that I ever dared to deem you false or fickle. We
have both suffered, shall we not both forgive? Grace,
may we not dream the old dream o'er again? Will
you be my wife now?”
She rose from her chair and drew her slight figure
up to its fullest height. “Mr. Hereford,” she said, in
a tone very firm and almost haughty, “if you would
have my friendship, if you would visit here at all,
never mention this again. You chose once. You
gave up the poor Grace Atherton for wealtheir friends,
and now Grace Hastings, poorer still, will not accept
from your compassion, what she failed to gain from
your love.”
“But oh, Grace, my life's angel, you cannot be so
unforgiving, so merciless. It broke my heart to give
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you up, but I thought it duty. Grace, Grace, my own
sweet love, life of my life, do not send me forth from
your presence, hopeless, miserable.”
She heard him through, she could not help it, for
his words thrilled her heart with a joy whose exquisiteness
was almost pain, but her cheeks were flushed, and
her eyes glittering.
“No,” she said, “I will not bid you hope; I will
not be your wife. You wronged me bitterly. But
for you, my parents might be living still. They looked
upon my sorrow till their hearts were broken, and they
died. Go! When you can speak of other themes,
my child's preserver will be welcome.”
He had no choice but to obey, and when once more
she was alone, she bowed her head and wept wildly.
She loved him still. Every tone of his voice had
power to make her heart tremble with the olden thrill.
She would have given worlds but to be folded to his
breast once more, but pride had triumphed. While
she was obscure and portionless she would not become
his bride. At length she raised her head, and said
hopefully to herself—“Courage, faint heart. All is
not lost yet. Even his love may be mine. In three
months I shall know whether `Cousin Elsie' succeeds,
and if it does, oh then the successful authoress
may be even his bride. He has been faithful, and it
may be the reward is at hand.”
-- -- p652-401
XXVIII. THE BLIND EYES SEE.
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The three months passed rapidly. Warren could not
stay away, but he visited Grace Hastings rather as a
eherished sister, than one whom he had hoped to call
his wife. The little Rose learned to know his footstep,
and she would spring to meet him, and cling caressingly
to his neck, with her chubby arms. Once or
twice he had met Mrs. Seaton, and she had reminded
him of her old prophecy about his greatness, with a
generous pride in its fulfilment. It was early in
April, when he entered the house one evening with a
copy of “Cousin Elsie” in his hand.
“It is glorious, it is magnetic,” were his first
words. Then he said, eagerly, “I have brought you
something, Grace, which I want you to read for my
sake. What a strange signature—L'Inconnue! There
is so much of desolation in that word—The Unknown!
It is as if she said the friendless, the forsaken. Oh,
Grace, I wish I knew her; she must have suffered as
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few women have suffered, and borne as few could have
borne. There is power here, life and vitality, and
yet sometimes there gushes forth a perfect wail of
music. There is always, too, a deep, underlying principle
of faith and trust in Heaven. But listen, I must
read it to you myself, at least some of it. I want you
to feel it as I do.”
And Grace listened, with flushed cheek and kindled
eye. The hour of her reward had come. The seed
sown in silence and sorrow, and watered with tears,
had sprung up, and borne fruit a hundred-fold.
“The Unknown” heard her own praises from the lips
dearest on earth. Passages, which she had written in
doubt and fear, by the bedside of her sleeping child,
came to her now as a revelation, and fairly thrilled
her with their beauty, now that his voice gave them
utterance. It was as if she had entertained angel
guests without looking upon their faces, and when
the veil was put aside, stood bewildered at their loveliness.
But not that evening would she disclose her
secret. She would wait a little to get accustomed to
her position.
When he left, she took the book from his hand,
and lifting her eyes to his face, remarked, “I want to
see you to-morrow, Warren; will you come over and
spend the evening?”
He bent over her with the old love-light in his
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glance, and there was deep tenderness in the voice with
which he gave the promise she requested.
The next evening she sat absorbed in a vague,
trance-like revery. She felt that he still loved her.
The strife with the world had not worn away the freshness
of his heart—years had not weakened the passion
she had inspired in her girlhood. Momently she
expected to hear his footsteps. She fancied what a
smile his face would wear, when he knew that the
Grace of his love and the L'Inconnue of his admiration
were one and the same.
A laggard tread came up the walk. It was too
slow for him. She opened the door, and a messenger
handed her a note. She came back to the light, and
for a moment she held it with the seal unbroken. A
sudden memory thrilled her heart. The last time she
had looked upon that familiar superscription, its
enclosure had well-nigh brought her death. The old,
bitter grief surged up into her soul, but she controlled
her emotion after a time, and tore it open. Only a
few words were traced there, and she read them over
and over again.
“Grace, my precious darling:—
“There, forgive those words, I could not help
them. When once more, after all this lapse of years,
I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had
been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I
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saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very
young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and
trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot
come to you to-night. I have received a message that
Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying,
but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night
and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace.
Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will
not let me be, as in other days—
Your Warren.”
Turning the note over and over, she sat there in
the lamplight, until the little Rose crept to her lap,
and passed her dimpled fingers over her mother's face.
“Mamma's face all wet. What make mamma cry?
Please smile 'ittle bit at Rosie.” Then, clasping the
baby-comforter to her breast, she realized that her
tears were born more of joy than grief, and from her
heart swelled up a silent thanksgiving.
Meanwhile Warren Hereford was borne onward
toward New York. It was mid-afternoon when he
reached his home. “How is Mabel?” he faltered
forth to the girl who answered his summons.
“Worse,” was the reply, and he turned toward his
sister's chamber with a hesitating step, as if he feared
to enter. But there was nothing there to mark the
presence of the death angel. It was a lovely April
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day. White muslin curtains, lined with rose-color,
were looped up at the windows, and the spring sunshine
lay warm and bright on the rosewood furniture.
Bunches of spring flowers stood in vases, scattered
here and there about the room, and in a little glass on
a stand by the sick girl's bedside, was a bouquet of
wild-wood blossoms. Percy Douglass had walked out
into the country and gathered them, that morning,
while still the dew lay fresh upon their petals. There
were violets and anemones, and the tiny, pearl-like
bells of the wild crocus. Mabel could not see them,
but she knew their separate fragrance; she could call
them each one by their names, and she loved to take
their dainty leaves in her thin fingers.
Percy had been with her from the commencement
of her illness. Though she had refused to be his
wife, yet well he knew that it was for his sake the
delicate, peach-like bloom had died out of the wan
cheek. He would talk hopefully, sometimes, of her
recovery. She must be his bride yet, he would say.
When she got stronger they would be married, and he
would bear her far away, where suns of Italy should
brighten the flowers in her pathway, and winds of the
South woo the life and warmth back to her cheek with
their kisses. She would listen with a smile very sweet
and happy, but when drawing her head to his bosom, he
would whisper—“My wife,” she would answer softly—
“Yes, in Heaven;” and Percy hoping, praying, with
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the might of love's despair, yet saw her fading day
by day.
Once, kneeling by her bedside, he had besought
her with prayers and tears to be his, even then—to let
him go down beside her into the night, even if the new
name, Mabel Douglass, could but be written upon her
tombstone. But her face contracted with a sudden
look of pain, for his words brought back the memory
of that long night of trial, the sorest that had swept
over her young life. “Do not ask it,” she murmured
with passionate earnestness—“it is wrong, it is wrong.”
After that, he had forborne all attempts to change her
resolution, and contented himself in cherishing what
still remained of that beautiful life, with a love which
combined the worshipping idolatry of the lover with
the tender care of a woman.
He sat beside her, as Warren Hereford threw open
the door. Emmie, now Simon Goldthwaite's cherished
wife, sat by the window, and Mrs. Hereford, swaying
to and fro in her arm-chair, watched mournfully the
young, fair features of her blind child, whereon, alas
but too distinctly, she could read the sentence of
death. When Warren entered, the blind girl was the
first to speak. His heart fairly trembled and stood
still, as he noted the fearful change four months of
absence had wrought in his pet sister. And yet his
eyes had never rested on a fairer object. No dream
of poet or of painter was ever purer or more seraphic
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in its beauty. Her small, graceful head lay lightly
against the snowy pillows piled beneath her shoulders,
and the curls, soft and sunny as an infant's, clustered
in rings about her forehead. One hand lay in the clasp
of Percy Douglass, the other she extended to her
brother. “You were so good to come,” she said,
gently, “I so longed to see you before I died.” From
a child, she had thus spoken of seeing those she loved,
and yet, for the first time, Warren noticed it, and then
he thought how dark had been the path over which
those young feet had trod. To her, the summer sun
had never risen with its wondrous glory. No moon
of winter had silvered the life pages for her eyes, no
stars of midnight ever cheered her with their longenduring
hope; and now, through these dark ways, she
was groping onward to the great end, her patient hands
outstretched toward the shadow-lands of death.
He drew near the bed, and holding her once more
on his breast, wept for the young life which had not
been strong enough to climb the steep paths of earth,
and so had plumed its wings for heaven.
The next three days passed like a painful dream.
Her spirit was losing its hold on human love, and
eyes of lover and mother, brother and sister could only
watch and weep. Once more it was afternoon. All
her loved ones were gathered around her. Kate Hereford
stood at the bed's foot. Softened by this great
sorrow, she no longer looked like the haughty, defiant
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Kate Cunningham of other years. She had loved
Mabel better than any other living thing except her
husband, and now her proud eyes had grown very dim
with tears and watching. The old gray-headed rector
had just administered the sacrament of the Holy Communion,
and now the dying girl lay in the calmness
of her heaven-sent faith, like an infant, smiling in its
dreams of heaven.
“Come and kiss me, all of you,” she murmured.
“Nay, Kate, do not sob so. You would not keep me
here when the summons has come for my departure.
Dick, Simon, Emmie, dear ones all of you; my own
brother Warren, ah, I know you will think lovingly of
the absent Mabel. It will be hardest for you, my own
sweet mother; but you have nurtured your blind girl
tenderly, and when she passes from your sight, it will
not be long ere you can come to her side in heaven,
and I shall see you there. You have made life very
fair and bright, so that I have almost forgotten the
one sorrow which has darkened it. And you, Percy—”
Her arms clung convulsively to his neck, and the
watchers by that dying bed saw that this was the
bitterness of death—“Percy, you will love another.
I would not have you mourn very long for Mabel.
Let other eyes look into yours, eyes that can give you
glance for glance; other love make you happier than
mine ever could—and yet I would not be quite forgotten.
Think tenderly, sometimes, of the blind girl who
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loved you too truly to be your wife, whose young life
withered for your sake, and perhaps God will let me
look down from heaven and rejoice in your happiness.
Hold my head on your bosom once more, please, and
let me go to sleep.”
Pale, silent, tearless, he held her in his arms. For
a half-hour she lay there quietly, then for an instant
her eyes opened. “Oh light,” she whispered, “oh
joy, mother, Percy, I see you all,” and once more the
lashes drooped downward, and the young heart had
beat its last throb. To the eyes so dim on earth, the
sunshine of heaven was very bright, she looked on the
Beautiful City and the Great King—the Blind Eyes
saw.
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XXIX. IN WHICH WARREN HEREFORD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.
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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
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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
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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,
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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”
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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,
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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
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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
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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.
THE END.
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Moulton, Louise Chandler, 1835-1908 [1856], Juno Clifford: a tale. (D. Appleton and company, New York) [word count] [eaf652T].
