pcan
ees

estiehs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

apelin ttle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Ta
35 ee

MZ
a

 

 

Goruell University Library

Sthara, am York be te
* Bes ae

BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE

SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE GIFT OF

HENRY W. SAGE

1891 tg

 
‘ornell University Libra

acaria

All books are subject to recall after two weeks
li ch Library

DATE DUE

 
three hours ago.”—Page 2.

 
Wi Moan, ees a Tease’, eo

wt at MACARIA oe

 

 

By AUGUSTA J. EVANS

 

Author of “BEULAH,” ‘ INEZ,” “ST. ELMO,”
‘“VASHTI,” “INFELICE,” etc., etc. we

 

“ Lift thyself up! oh, thou of saddened face;
Cease from thy sighing, draw from out thy heart
The joyful light of faith.”

 

 

A. L. BURT COMPANY, & #& & & &
ad

* &# PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
H
AS19915

Wilson, Me, Keer poet Leneeg)
(83a0- ‘ToT

  

4 sana a
tet ine

  
MACARITA.

CHAPTER I.

The town clock was on the last stroke of twelve, the soli-
tary candle measured about two inches from its socket, and as
the summer wind rushed through the half-closed shutters, the
melted tallow dripped slowly into the brightly-burnished
brazen candiestick. The flickering light fell upon grim bat-
talions of figures marshaled on the long, blue-lined pages of a
ledger, and flashed fitfully in the face of the accountant, as he
bent over his work. In these latter days of physical degenera-
tion, such athletic frames as his are rarely seen among the
youth of our land. Sixteen years’ growth had given him un-
usual height and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was diffi-
cult to realize that the stature of manhood had been attained
by a mere boy in years. A gray suit (evidently home-made),
of rather coarse texture, bespoke poverty and, owing to the
oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the coat was thrown par-
tially off. He wore no vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon
suffered the snowy white collar to fall away from the throat
and expose its well-turned outline. The head was large, but
faultlessly proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut short
and clinging to the temples, added to its massiveness. The
lofty forehead, white and smooth, the somewhat heavy brows
matching the hue of the hair, the straight, finely formed nose
with its delicate but clearly-defined nostrils, the full, firm lips
unshaded by mustache, combined to render the face one of
uncommon beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning in his appearance,
for though you could not carp at the molding of his features,
you involuntarily shrank from the prematurely grave, nay,
austere, expression which seemed habitual to them. He looked
just what he was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who analyzed his counte-
2 MACARIA.,

nance, the conviction was inevitable that his will was gigantic,
his ambition unbounded, his intellect wonderfully acute and
powerful. It is always sad to remark in young faces the ab-
sence of that beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous heart
imparts, and though in this instance there was nothing dark or
sinister, you could not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless
resolution which said so plainly: “I struggle, and shall con-
quer. I shall mount, though the world defy me.” Although
he had labored since dawn, there was no drooping of the mus-
cular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save in the absolute color-
lessness of his face. Firm as some brazen monument on its
pedestal, he sat and worked on, one hand wielding the pen, the
other holding down the leaves which fluttered, now and then,
as the breeze passed over them.

“ Russell, do you know it is midnight?”

He frowned, and answered without looking up:

“ Yes.”

“How much longer will you sit up?”

“Till I finish my work.”

The speaker stood on the threshold, leaning against the door-
facing, and, after waiting a few moments, softly crossed the
room and put her hand on the back of his chair. She was two
years his junior, and, though evidently the victim of recent
and severe illness, even in her feebleness she was singularly
like him. Her presence seemed to annoy him, for he turned
round, and said hastily: “ Electra, go to bed. I told you good-
night three hours ago.”

She stood still, but silent.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

He wrote on for some ten minutes longer, then closed the
ledger and put it aside. The candle had burned low; he took
a fresh one from the drawer of the table, and, after lighting
it, drew a Latin dictionary near to him, opened a worn copy of
Horace, and began to study. Quiet as his own shadow stood
the fragile girl behind his chair, but as she watched him a
heavy sigh escaped her. Once more he looked up, with a fin-
ger still in the dictionary, and asked impatiently:

“Why on earth don’t you go to sleep?”

“T can’t sleep; I have tried my best.”

“ Are you sick again, my poor little cousin?”

He stretched out his arm and drew her close to him,
MACARIA, 3

“No; but I know you are up, hard at work, and it keeps me
awake. If you would only let me help you.”

“But you can’t help me; I have told you so time and again.
You only interrupt and hinder me.”

She colored, and bit her lip; then answered sorrowfully:

“Tf I thought I should be weak and sickly all my life, I
would rather die at once, and burden you and auntie no
longer.”

“Electra, who told you that you burdened me?”

“Oh, Russell! don’t I know how hard you have to work; and
how difficult it is for you to get even bread and clothes. Don’t
I see how auntie labors day after day, and month after month?
You are good and kind, but does that prevent my feeling the
truth, that you are working for me, too? If I could only help
you in some way.” She knelt down by his chair and leaned
her head on his knee, holding his hands between both hers.

“Electra, you do help me; all day long when I am at the
store your face haunts, strengthens me; I feel that I am gtriv-
ing to give you comforts, and when at night you meet me at
the gate, I am repaid for all I have done. You must put this
idea out of your head, little one; it is altogether a mistake.
Do you hear what I say? Get up, and go to sleep like a good
child, or you will have another wretched headache to-morrow,
and can’t bring me my lunch.”

He lifted her from the floor, and kissed her hastily. She
raised her arms as if to wind them about his neck, but his
grave face gave her no encouragement, and, turning away, she
retired to her room, with hot tears rolling over her cheeks.
Russell had scarcely read half a dozen lines after his cousin’s
departure, when a soft hand swept back the locks of hair on
his forehead and wiped away the heavy drops that moistened
them.

“My son, you promised me you would not sit up late to-
night.”

“Well, mother, I have almost finished. Remember the
nights are very short now, and twelve o’clock comes early.”

“The better reason that you should not be up so late. My
son, I am afraid you will ruin your health by this unremit-
ting application.”

“Why—look at me. I am as strong as an athlete of old.”
He shook his limbs and smiled, proud of his great physical
strength,
4 MACARIA.

“True, Russell, but, robust as you are, you cannot staad
such toil without detriment. Put up your books.”

“ Not yet; I have more laid out, and you know I invariably
finish all I set apart to do. But, mother, your hand is hot;
you are not well.” He raised the thin hand, and pressed it to
his lips.

“ A mere headache, nothing more. Mr. Clark was here to-
day; he is very impatient about the rent; I told him we were
doing all we'could, and thought that by September we should
be able to pay the whole. He spoke of going to see you, which
I urged him not to do, as you were exerting yourself to the
utmost.” She scanned his face while she spoke, and noted the
compression of his mouth. He knew she watched him, and
answered with a forced smile: “ Yes, he came to the store this
morning. I told him we had been very unfortunate this year
in losing our only servant; and that sickness had forced us to
incur more expense than usual. However, I drew fifty dollars,
and paid him all I could. True, I anticipated my dues, but
Mr. Watson gave me permission. So for the present you need
not worry about rent.”

“What is the amount of that grocery bill you would not let
me see last week?”

“My dear mother, do not trouble yourself with these little
matters; the grocery bill will very soon be paid. I have ar-
ranged with Mr. Hill to keep his books at night, and therefore,
you may be easy. Trust all to me, mother; only take care of
your dear self, I ask no more.”

“Oh, Russell! my son! my son!”

She had drawn a chair near him, and now laid her head on
his shoulder, while tears dropped on his hand. He had not
seen her so unnerved for years, and as he looked down on her
grief-stained, yet resigned face, his countenance under-
went a marvelous change; and, folding his arms about her, he
kissed her pale, thin cheek repeatedly.

“Mother, it is not like you to repine in this way; you who
have suffered and endured so much must not despond when,
after a long, starless night the day begins to dawn.”

“TJ fear ‘it dawns in clouds, and heralds only storms.’ For
myself I care not, but for you, Russell—my pride, my only
hope, my brave boy! it is for you that I suffer. I have been
thinking to-night that this is a doomed place for you, and that
if we could only save money enough to go to California, you
MAOARIA, 5

might take the position you merit; for there none would know
of the blight which fell upon you; none could look on your
brow and dream it seemed sullied. Here you have such bitter
prejudice to combat; such gross injustice heaped upon you.”

He lifted his mother’s head from his bosom, and rose, with
a haughty, defiant smile on his lip.

“Not so; I will stay here, and live down their hate. Mark
me, mother, I will live it down, so surely as I am Russell Au-
brey, the despised son of a Let them taunt and sneer!
Let them rake up the smoldering ashes of the miserable past,
to fling in my face and blind me; let them, and welcome! I
will gather up these same ashes, dry and bitter, and hide them .
with sacred zeal in a golden urn; and I will wreathe it with
chaplets that never die. Aye! the Phoenix lies now in dust,
but one day the name of Aubrey will rise in more than pris-
tine glory; and mine be the hand to resurrect its ancient splen-
dor. ‘Mens cujusque is est quisque!’ Menzikoff, who ruled
the councils of the Kremlin in its palmiest days, once sold pies
for a living in the streets of Moscow. ‘Mens cujusque is est
quisque!’ J will owe no man thanks; none shall point to me
and say, ‘He was drowning in the black, seething gulf of social
prejudice, and I held out a finger, and clinging to it he lived.’
Not so! dollar for dollar, service for service, I will pay as I
rise. I scorn to ask a favor, I am glad none is tendered me.
I have a grim satisfaction in knowing that I owe no human
being a kindness, save you, precious mother. Go to Cali-
fornia! Not I! Not I! In this State will I work and
conquer; here, right here, I will plant my feet upon the necks
of those who now strive to grind me to the dust. I swore it
over my father’s coffin! I tell you, mother, I will trample out
the stigma, for, thank God! ‘there is no free-trade measure
which will ever lower the price of brains.’ ”

“Hush, Russell, you must subdue your fierce temper; you
must! you must! Remember it was this ungovernable rage
which brought disgrace upon your young, innocent head. Oh!
it grieves me, my son, to see how bitter you have grown; it
wrings my heart to hear you challenge fate, as you so often do.
Once you were gentle ard forgiving; now scorn and defiance
rule you.”

“T am not fierce, I am not in a rage. Lay your hand upon
my temples—here on my wrist; count the pulse, slow and
steady, mother, as your owa. I am not vindictive; am no In-

 
6 MACARIA.

dian to bear about a secret revenge, ready to consummate it at
the first propitious moment. If I should meet the judge and
jury who doomed my father to the gallows, I think I would
serve them if they needed aid. But I am proud; I inherited
my nature; I writhe, yes, mother, writhe under the treatment
I constantly receive. I defy fate? Well, suppose I do? She
has done her worst. I have no quarrel with her for the past;
but I will conquer Ler in the future. I am not bitter; would
I not give my life for you? Are you not dearer to me than
my own soul? Take back your words, they hurt me; don’t
tell me that I grieve you, mother.”

His voice faltered an instant, and he put his arms tenderly
around the drooping form.

“We have trouble enough, my son, without dwelling upon
what is past and irremediable. So long as you seem cheer-
ful, I am content. I know that God will not lay more on me
than I can bear; ‘as my day, so shall my strength be.’ Thy
will be done, oh! my God.”

There was a brief pause, and Russell Aubrey passed his hand
over his eyes and dashed off a tear. His mother watched him,
and said cautiously:

“Have you noticed that my eyes are rapidly growing
worse?”

“Yes, mother, I have been anxious for some weeks.”

“You know it all, then?”

“Yes, mother.”

“T shall not murmur; I have become resigned at last; though
for many weeks I have wrestled for strength, for patience. It
was so exceedingly bitter to know that the time drew near when
I should see you no more; to feel that I should stretch out my
hands to you, and lean on you, and yet look no longer on the
dear face of my child, my boy, my all. But my prayers were
heard; the sting has passed away, and I am resigned. I am
glad that we have spoken of it; now my mind is calmer and I
can sleep. Good-night, my son.”

She pressed the customary good-night kiss on his lips and
left him. He closed the dictionary, leaned his elbow on the
table, and rested his head on his hand. His piercing black
eyes were fixed gloomily on the floor, and now and then his
broad chest heaved, as dark and painful thoughts crowded up.

Mrs. Aubrey was the only daughter of wealthy and ambitious
parents, who refused to sanction her marriage with the object
MACARIA. a

of her choice; and threatened to disinherit her if she persisted
in her obstinate course. Mr. Aubrey was poor but honest,
highly cultivated, and, in every sense of that much-abused
word, a gentleman. His poverty was not to be forgiven, how-
ever, and when the daughter left her father’s roof, and wedded
the man whom her parents detested, the die was cast; she was
banished forever from a home of affluence, and found that she
had indeed forfeited her fortune. For this she was prepared,
and bore it bravely; but erelong severer trials came upon her.
Unfortunately, her husband’s temper was fierce and ungovern-
able; and pecuniary embarrassments rarely have the effect of
sweetening such. He removed to an inland town, and em-
barked in mercantile pursuits; but misfortune followed him,
and reverses came thick and fast. One miserable day, when
from early morning everything had gone wrong, an importu-
nate creditor, of wealth and great influence in the community,
chafed at Mr. Aubrey’s tardiness in repaying some trifling sum,
proceeded to taunt and insult him most unwisely. Stung to
madness, the wretched man resented the insults; a struggle
ensued, and at its close Mr. Aubrey stood over the corpse of
the creditor. There was no mode of escape, and the arm of
the law consigned him to prison. During the tedious weeks
that elapsed before the trial his devoted wife strove to cheer
and encourage him by every effort which one human being can
make for another. Russell was about eleven years of age, and,
boy though he was, realized most fully the horrors of his
parent’s situation. The days of his trial came at last; but he
had surrendered himself to the demon Rage, had taken the life
of a fellow creature; what could legal skill accomplish? The
affair produced great and continued excitement; the murdered
man had been exceedingly popular, and the sympathies of the
citizens were enlisted in behalf of his family. Although
clearly a case of manslaughter only, the violent prejudices of
the community, and the exertions of influential friends. so
biased the jury that, to the astonishment of the counsel on
both sides, the ery of “blood for blood” went out from that
crowded courtroom, and in defiance of precedent Mr. Aubrey
was unjustly sentenced to be hung. When the verdict was
known, Russell placed his insensible mother on a couch from
which it seemed probable she would never rise. But there is
an astonishing amount of endurance in even a feeble woman’s
frame, and after a time she went about her house once more,
8 MACARIA,

doing her duty to her child and learning to “suffer and grow
strong.” Fate had ordained, however, that Russell’s father
should not die on the gallows; and soon after the verdict was
pronounced, when all Mrs. Aubrey’s efforts to procure a pardon
had proved unavailing, the proud and desperate man, in the
solitude of his cell, with no eye but Jehovah’s to witness the
awful deed, the consummation of his woes—took his own life,
and with the aid of a lancet launched his guilty soul into
eternity. On the floor of his cell was found a blurred sheet,
sprinkled with blood, directed to his wife, bidding her farewell,.
and committing her and her boy to the care of an outraged and
insulted God.

Such was the legacy of shame which Russell inherited. Was
it any marvel that at sixteen that boy had lived ages of sor-
row? Mrs. Aubrey found her husband’s financial affairs so
involved that she relinquished the hope of retaining the little
she possessed, and retired to a small cottage on the outskirts of
the town, where she endeavored to support herself and the two
dependent on her by taking in sewing. Electra Grey was the
orphan child of Mr. Aubrey’s only sister, who, dying in
poverty, bequeathed the infant to her brother. He had loved
her as well as his own Russell, and his wife, who cradled her
in her arms and taught her to walk by clinging to her finger,
would almost as soon have parted with her son as the little
Electra. For five years the widow had toiled by midnight
lamps to feed these two; now oppressed nature rebelled, the
long overtaxed eyes refused to perform their office; filmy
cataracts stole over them, veiling their sadness and their un-
shed tears—blindness was creeping on. At his father’s death
Russell was forced to quit school, and with some difficulty he
succeeded in obtaining a situation in a large drygoods store,
where his labors were onerous in the extreme, and his wages
a mere pittance. To domineer over those whom adverse for-
tune places under their contro! is by no means uncommon
among ignorant and selfish men, whose industry has acquired
independence; and though Russell’s employer, Mr. Watson,
shrank from committing a gross wrong, and prided himself on
his scrupulous honesty, still his narrow mind and penurious
habits strangled every generous impulse, and, without being
absolutely cruel or unprincipled, he contrived to gall the boy’s
proud spirit and render his position one of almost purgatorial
severity. The machinery of human will is occult and com-
MACARIA, 9

plicated; very few rigidly analyze their actions and discern
the motives that impel them, and if anyone had told Jacob
Watson that envy was the secret spring which prompted his
unfriendly course toward his young clerk, he would probably
have indignantly denied the accusation. The blessing of an
education had been withheld from him; he grew up illiterate
and devoid of refinement; and determined that his children
should enjoy every advantage which money could command.
His eldest son was just Russell’s age, had been sent to various
schools from his infancy, was indolent, self-indulgent, and
thoroughly dissipated. Having been a second time expelled
from school for most disgraceful misdemeanors, he lounged
away his time about the store, or passed it still more disrepu-
tably with reckless companions.

The daily contrast presented by Cecil and Russell irritated
the father, and hence his settled dislike of the latter. The
faithful discharge of duty on the part of the clerk afforded no
plausible occasion for invective; he felt that he was narrowly
watched, and resolved to give no ground for fault-finding; yet
during the long summer days, when the intense heat prevented
customers from thronging the store, and there was nothing to
be done, when Russell, knowing that the books were written
up and the counters free from goods, took his Latin grammar
and improved every leisure half hour, he was not ignorant
of the fact that an angry scowl darkened his employer’s visage,
and understood why he was constantly interrupted to perform
some unnecessary labors. But in the same proportion that
obstacles thickened, his energy and resolution doubled; and
herein one human soul differs from another in strength of will,
which furnishes powers of endurance. What the day denied
him he reclaimed from night, and succeeded in acquiring a
tolerable knowledge of Greek, besides reading several Latin
books. Finding that his small salary was inadequate, now
that his mother’s failing sight prevented her from accomplish-
ing the usual amount of sewing, he solicited and obtained per-
mission to keep an additional set of books for the grocer who
furnished his family with provisions, though by this arrange-
ment few hours remained for necessary sleep. The protracted
illness and death of an aged and faithful servant, together with
Electra’s tedious sickness, bringing the extra expense of
medical aid, had prevented the prompt payment of rent due
for the three-roomed cottage, and Russell was compelled to ask
10 MACARTA,

for a portion of his salary in advance. His mother little
dreamed of the struggle which took place in his heart ere he
could force himself to make the request, and he carefully con-
cealed the fact that at the moment of receiving the money,
he laid in Mr. Watson’s hand by way of pawn the only article
of any value which he possessed, the watch his father had al-
ways worn, and which the coroner took from the vest pocket of
the dead, dabbled with blood. The gold chain had been sold
long before, and the son wore it attached to a simple black rib-
bon. His employer received the watch, Iccked it in’ the iron
safe, and Russell fastened a small weight to the ribbon, and kept
it around his neck that his mother might not suspect the truth.
It chanced that Cecil stood near at the time; he saw the watch
deposited in the safe, whistled a tune, fingered his own gold
repeater, and walked away.

Such was Russell Aubrey’s history; such his situation at the
beginning of his seventeenth year. Have I a reader whose
fond father lavishes on him princely advantages, whose shelves
are filled with valuable, but unread, volumes, whose pockets
are supplied with more than necessary money, and who yet
saunters through the precious season of youth, failing utterly
to appreciate his privileges? Let him look back into that little
room where Russell sits, pale, wearied, but unbending, ponder-
ing his dark future, planning to protect his mother from want,
and racking his brain for some feasible method of procuring
such books as he absolutely needs; books which his eager, hun-
gry eyes linger on as he passes the bookstore every morning
going to his work. Oh, young reader; if such I have, look at
him struggling with adversity as a strong swimmer with the
murderous waves that lash him, and contrasting your own for-
tunate position, shake off the inertia that clings to you as
tenaciously as Sindbad’s burden, and go to work earnestly and
bravely, thanking God for the aid he has given you.

‘* Disappointment’s dry and bitter root,
Envy’s harsh berries, and the choking pool
Of the world’s scorn are the right mother-milk
To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind.”
MACARIA, 1:

CHAPTER ILI.

“Trene, your father will be displeased if he sees you in that
plight.” :

“Pray, what is wrong about me now? You seem to glory
in finding fault. What is the matter with my ‘plight,’ as you
eall it?”

“You know very well your father can’t bear to see you ear-
rying your own satchel and basket to school. He ordered
Martha to take them every morning and evening, but she says
you will not let her carry them. It is just sheer obstinacy in
you.”

“There it is again! Because I don’t choose to be petted
like a baby, or made a wax doll of, it is set down to obstinacy,
as if I had the temper of a heathen. See here, Aunt Margaret, ’
I am tired of having Martha tramping eternally at my heels
as though I were a two-year-old child. There is no reason in
her walking after me when I am strong enough to carry my
own books, and I don’t intend she shall do it any longer.”

“But, Irene, your father is too proud to have you trudging
along the road, like any other beggar, with your books in one
arm and a basket swinging in the other. Just suppose the
Carters or the Harrisses should meet you? Dear me! they
would hardly believe you belonged to a wealthy, aristocratic
family like the Huntingdons. Child, I never carried my own
dinner to school in my life.”

“And I expect that is exactly the reason aie you are for-
ever complaining, and scarcely see one well day in the three
hundred and sixty-five. As to what people think, I don’t care
a cent; as to whether my ancestors did or did not carry their
lunch in their own aristocratic hands, that is a matter of no
consequence whatever. I despise all this ridiculous nonsense
about aristocracy of family, and I mean to do as I please. I
thought that really well-bred persons of high standing and
birth could afford to be silent on the subject, and that only
parvenus, coarse, vulgar people with little money, put on
those kind of airs, and pretended to be shocked at what they
had been accustomed to in early life,”
12 MACARIA.

“T do not see where you get such plebeian ideas; you posi-
tively make me ashamed of you sometimes, when fashionable,
genteel persons come to the house. There is such a want of re-
finement in your notions. You are anything but a Hunting-
don.”

“T am what God made me, Aunt Margaret. If the Hunting-
dons stand high, it is because they won distinction by their own
efforts; I don’t want the stepping-stones of my dead ancestry;
people must judge me for myself, not from what my grand-
mother was.”

Irene Huntingdon stood on the marble steps of her palatial
home, and talked with the maiden aunt who governed her
father’s household. The girl was about fourteen, tall for her
age, straight, finely-formed, slender. The broad straw hat
shaded, but by no means concealed, her features, and as she
looked up at her aunt the sunshine fell upon a face of extraor-
dinary beauty, such as is rarely seen, save in the idealized
heads of the old masters. Her hair was of an uncommon
shade, neither auburn nor brown, but between gold and bronze;
and as the sun shone on it the rippling waves flashed, until
their burnished glory seemed a very aureole. It was thick and
curling; she wore it parted on her pale, polished forehead, and
it hung around her like a gilded veil. The face was an oval;
you might. measure it by all the rules of art and no imperfec-
tion could be found, unless the height of the brow were con-
sidered out of proportion. The nose was delicate and clearly
cut, and in outline resembled that in the antique medals of
Olympias, the wife of Philip of Macedonia. The upper lip
was short, and curved like a bow; the lower, thin, firm, and
straight. Her eyes were strangely, marvelously beautiful;
they were larger than usual, and of that rare shade of purplish
blue which borders the white velvet petals of a clematis.
When the eyes were uplifted, as on this occasion, long, curling
lashes of the bronze hue of her hair rested against her brow.
Save the scarlet lines which marked her lips, her face was of
that clear colorlessness which can be likened only to the purest
ivory. Though there was an utter absence of the rosy hue of
health, the transparency of the complexion seemed character-
istic of her type and precluded all thought of disease. People
are powerfully attracted by beauty, either of form, color, or a
combination of both; and it frequently happens that some-
thing of pain mingles with the sensation of pleasure thus ex-
MACARIA. 13

cited. Now, whether it be that this arises from a vague appre-
hension engendered by the evanescent nature of all sublunary
things, or from the inability of earthly types to satisfy the
divine ideal which the soul enshrines, I shall not here attempt
to decide; but those who examined Irene’s countenance were
fully aware of this complex emotion; and strangers who passed
her in the street felt intuitively that a noble, unsullied soul
looked out at them from the deep, calm, thoughtful eyes. Miss
Margaret muttered something inaudible in reply to her last
remark, and Irene walked on to school. Her father’s residence
was about a mile from the town, but the winding road rendered
the walk somewhat longer; and on one side of this road stood
the small house occupied by Mrs. Aubrey. As Irene ap-
proached it she saw Electra Grey coming from the opposite
direction, and at the cottage gate they met. Both paused;
Irene held out her hand cordially.

“Good-morning. I have not seen you for a fortnight. I
thought you were coming to school again as soon as you were
strong enough?”

“No; I am not going back to school.”

“ Why ? ”

“ Because auntie can’t afford to send me any longer. You
know her eyes are growing worse every day, and she is not
able to take in sewing as she used to do. I am sorry; but it
can’t be helped.”

“How do you know it can’t be helped? Russell told me he
thought she had cataracts on her eyes, and they can be re-
moved.”

“Perhaps so, if we had the means of consulting that cele-
brated physician in New Orleans. Money removes a great
many things, Irie, but unfortunately we haven’t it.”

“The trip would not cost much; suppose you speak to Rus-
sell about it?”

“Much or little, it will require more than we can possibly
spare. Everything is so high we can barely live as it is. But
I must go in, my aint is waiting for me.”

“Where have you been so early, Electra? I hope you will
not think me impertinent in asking such a question.”

“T carried this waiter full of bouquets to Mr. Carter’s.
There is to be a grand dinner-party there to-day, and auntie
promised as many flowers as she could furnish. However,
bouquets pay poorly. Irie, wait one minute; I have a little
14 MACARIA.,

border of mignonette all my own, and I should like to give
you a spray.”

She hurried into the garden, and returning with a few deli-
cate sprigs, fastened one in her friend’s belt and the remainder
in the ribbon on her hat.

“Thank you, Electra; who told you that I love mignonette
so well? It will not do for you to stay away from school; I
miss you in my class, and; besides, you are losing too much
time. Something should be done, Electra. Good-by.”

They shook hands, and Irene walked on. “Something
should be done,” she repeated, looking down fixedly, yet
vacantly at the sandy road. Soon the brick walls of the
academy rose grim and uninviting, and taking her place at the
desk she applied herself to her books. When school was dis-
missed in the afternoon, instead of returning home as usual
she walked down the principal street, entered Mr. Watson’s
store, and put her books on the counter. It happened that the
proprietor stood near the front door, and he came forward in-
stantly to wait upon her.

“ Ah, Miss Irene! happy to see you. What shall I have the
pleasure of showing you?”

“ Russell Aubrey, if you please.”

The merchant stared, and she added:

“T want some kid gauntlets, but Russell can get them for
me.”

The young clerk stood at the desk in the rear of the store,
with his back toward the counter; and Mr. Watson called out:
“Here, Aubrey, some kid gauntlets for this young lady.”

He laid down his pen, and taking a box of gloves from the
shelves, placed it on the counter before her. He had not
noticed her particularly, and when she pushed back her hat
and looked up at him he started slightly.

“Good-evening, Miss Huntingdon. What number do you
wish?”

Perhaps it was from the heat of the day, or from stooping
over his desk, or perhaps it was from something else, but his
cheek was: flushed, and gradually it grew pale again.

“Russell, I want to speak to you about Electra. She ought
to be at school, you know.”

“Yes.”

“But she says your mother can’t afford the expense.”

“ Just now she cannot; next year things will be better,”
MACARIA. 15

“What is the tuition for her?”

“Five dollars a month.”

“Ts that all?”

He selected a delicate fawn-colored pair of gloves and laid
them before her, while a faint smile passed over his face.

“Russell, has anything happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is troubling you so?”

“Nothing more than usual. Do these gloves suit you?”

“Yes, they will fit me, I believe.” She looked at him very
intently.

He met her gaze steadily, and for an instant his face bright-
ened; then she said abruptly:

“Your mother’s eyes are worse?”

“Yes, much worse.”

“Have you consulted Dr. Arnold about them?”

“He says he can do nothing for her.”

“How much would it cost to take her to New Orleans and
have that celebrated oculist examine them?”

“More than we can afford just now; at least two hundred
dollars.”

“Oh, Russell! that is not much. Would not Mr. Watson
Jend you that little?”

“T shall not ask him.”

“Not even to restore your mother’s sight?”

“Not to buy my own life. Besides, the experiment is a
doubtful one.”

“ Still, it is worth making.”

“Yes, under different circumstances it certainly would be.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Campbell about it?”

“No, because it is useless to discuss the matter.”

“Tt would be dangerous to go to New Orleans now, I sup-
pose?”

“ October or November would be better.”

Again she looked at him very earnestly, then stretched out
her little hand.

“Good-by, Russell. I wish I could do something to help
you, to make you less sorrowful.”

He held the slight waxen fingers, and his mouth trembled as
he answered:

“Thank you, Miss Huntingdon. I am not sorrowful, but
my path in life is not quite so flowery as yours.”
16 MAOARIA,

“TJ wish you would not call me ‘Miss Huntingdon,’ in that
stiff, far-off way, as if we were not friends. Or maybe it is a
hint that you desire me to address you as Mr. Aubrey. It
sounds strange, unnatural, to say anything but Russell.”

She gathered up her books, took her gloves, and went slowly
homeward, and Russell returned to his desk, with a light in
his eyes which, for the remainder of the day, nothing could
quench. As Irene ascended the long hill on which Mr. Hunt-
ingdon’s residence stood, she saw her father’s buggy at the
door, and as she approached the steps he came out, drawing on
his gloves.

“You are late, Irene. What kept you?”

“TI have been shopping a little. Are you going to ride?
Take me with you.”

“ Going to dine at Mr. Carter’s.”

“Why, the sun is almost down now. What time will you
come home? I want to ask you something.”

“Not till long after you are asleep.”

He took his seat in the buggy, and the spirited horse dashed
down the avenue. A servant came forward to take her hat and
satchel, and inform her that her dinner had waited some time.
Miss Margaret sat crocheting at the front window of the din-
ing-room, and Irene ate her dinner in silence. As she rose
and approached her aunt, the door swung open and a youth
entered, apparently about Russell’s age, but really a year older.

“Trene, I am tired to death waiting for you. What a pro-
voking girl you are. The horses have been saddled at least
one hour and a haif. Do get on your riding-dress. I am out
of all patience.”

He rapped his boot heavily with his whip by way of em-
phasis, and looked hurriedly at his watch.

“T did not promise to ride with you this evening; Hugh,”
answered his cousin, seating herself on the window-sill and
running her fingers lightly over the bars of a beautiful bird-
cage where her canary pecked playfully at the fair hand.

“Qh, nonsense! Suppose you didn’t promise? I waited
for you, and told Grace Harriss and Charlie that we would
meet them at the upper bend of the river just above the fac-
tory. Charlie’s new horse has just arrived from Vermont—
Green Mountain Boy, he calls him—and we have a bet of a
half-dozen pairs of gloves that he can’t beat my Eclipse. Da
come along! Aunt Margaret, make her come.”
MACARIA, 17

“T should like to see anybody make her do what she is not
in a humor for,” said his aunt, looking over her glasses at the
lithe, graceful figure on the window-sill.

“Hugh, I would rather stay at home, for I am tired, but I
will go to oblige you.”

Miss Margaret lifted her eyebrows, and as his cousin left
the room, Hugh Seymour exclaimed:

“Tsn’t she the greatest beauty in the United States?”

“She will be a belle when she is grown, just such a one as
your mother was, only she lacks her gayety of disposition.
She is full of strange notions, Hugh; you don’t know the half
of her character—her own father does not. Frequently I am
puzzled to understand her myself.”

“Oh! she will come out of all that. She is curious about
some things now, but she will outgrow it.”

“Tam afraid she will not, for it is as much a part of her as
the color of her hair or the shape of her nose. She has always
been queer.”

Irene appeared at the door with a small silver portemonnaie
in her hand. She counted the contents, put it into her
pocket, and gathering up the folds of her habit, led the way
to the front door. Hugh adjusted the reins, and laying one
hand on his, she sprang lightly to her saddle, then stroked
her horse’s silky mane and said:

“Erebus can leave Green Mountain Boy so far behind that
Charlie would find it no easy matter to count the plumes on
my hat. Are you ready?”

The beautiful, jetty creature, as if conscious of her praise,
tossed his head and sprang off in a canter, but wheeling round
she called to the groom who stood watching them:

x ° Unchain Paragon!”

Five minutes later the cousins were galloping on, with a
superb greyhound following close at Erebus’ heels, and leaping
up now and then in obedience to the motion of Irene’s hand.
The road ran through a hilly country, now clad in stern, an-
cestral pines, and now skirted with oak and hickory, and
about a mile beyond the town it made a sharp angle, and took
the river bank. The sun had set, but the western sky was still
aglow; and near the bank, where the current was not per-
ceptible, the changing tints of the clouds were clearly mir-
rored, but in the middle of the stream a ledge of rock
impeded its course, and the water broke over with a dull roar,

inet
18 MAOCARIA,

churning itself into foam and spray as it dashed from shelf
to shelf of the stony barrier. Just opposite the fall] Irene
checked her horse, and paused to admire the beauty of the
scene; but in another moment the quick tramp of hoofs fell on
her ear, and Hugh’s young friends joined them. Green Moun-
tain Boy was flecked with foam, and as Irene measured his
perfections at one hasty glance, she patted her favorite’s head
and challenged Charlie for a trial of speed.

“No, Charlie and I must have the race. Miss Grace, you
and Irene can take care of yourselves for a few minutes. We
will wait for you on the edge of the town, at the graveyard.
Now, Charlie, I am ready.”

They took their places in front, and were soon out of sight,
as the road followed the curves of the river. Erebus plunged
violently at first, not being accustomed to lag behind Eclipse,
but by much persuasion and frequent kind touches on his
kead, Irene managed to reconcile him to the temporary
disgrace.

Grace looked at his antics rather fearfully, and observed
that no amount of money could tempt her to mount him.

“Why not?”

“He will break your neck yet.”

“He is very spirited, but as gentle as Paragon. Come,
Grace, it is getting late; they will be waiting for us. Quicken
your sober, meek little brownie.”

“So Electra is not going back to school. It is a great pity
she can’t have an education.”

“Who told you anything about her?”

“Oh, everybody knows how poor her aunt is; and now, to
mend matters, she is going blind. I would go to see Electra
occasionally if the family had not been so disgraced. I like
her, but no genteel person recognizes Mrs. Aubrey, even in the
street.” .

“That is very unjust. She is one of the most refined, ele-
gant women I have ever seen. She ought not to be blamed for
her husband’s misfortune. Poverty is no crime.”

If she had been treated to a Hindostanee proverb, Grace
could not have looked more stupidly surprised.

“Why, Irene! Don’t you know Mrs. Aubrey wears a bit-
calico to church.”

“Well, suppose she does? Is people’s worth to be deter-
mined only by the cost or the quality of their clothes? If I
MACARGA, 19

were to give your cook a silk dress exactly like that one your
uncle sent you from Paris, and provide her with shawl and
bonnet to match, would she be your equal, do you think? I
imagine you would not thank me or anybody else who insinu-
ated that Mrs. Harriss’ negro cook was quite as genteel and
elegant as Miss Grace herself, because she wore exactly the
same kind of clothes. I tell you, Grace, it is all humbug! this
everlasting talk about fashion, and dress, and gentility!
Pshaw! I am sick of it. When our forefathers were fighting
for freedom, for a national existence, I wonder whether their
wives measured each other’s respectability or gentility by their
lace collars or the number of flounces on their dresses? Grace
Harriss, your gyreat-grandmother, -and mine, and probably
everybody’s else, spun the cotton, and wove the cloth, and cut
and made their own homespun dresses, and were thankful to
get them. And these women who had not even bit-calicoes
were the mothers and wives and sisters and daughters of men
who established the most glorious government on the face of
the broad earth!, The way the women of America have de-
generated is a crying shame. I tell you I should blush to look
my great-grandmother in the face.”

Grace shrugged her shoulders in expressive silence, and soon
after they reached the spot where the boys were waiting to
join them.

“Eclipse made good his name!” cried Hugh triumphantly,
while Charlie bit his lip with chagrin.

“Never mind, Charlie, Erebus can distance Eclipse any
day.”

“Not so easily,” muttered Hugh.

“T will prove it the next time we ride. Now for a canter as
far as Grace’s door.”

On they went, through the main street of the town, Erebus
ahead, Paragon at his heels, then all the others. The wind
blew Irene’s veil over her eyes, she endeavorcd to put it back,
and in the effort dropped her whip. It was dusk; they were
near one of the crossings, and a tall, well-known form stooped,
found the whip, and handed it up. Erebus shied, but the
hand touched Irene’s as it inserted the silver handle in the
slender fingers.

“Thank you, Russell, thank you very much.”

He bowed formally, drew his straw hat over his brow, and
walked on with two heavy account-books under his arm.

~
30 MACARIA,

“T can’t endure that boy,” said Hugh, at the distance of half
a square, flourishing his whip energetically as he spoke.

“Nor I,” chimed in Charlie.

“Why not? I have known him a long time, and like him
very much.”

“He is so confoundedly proud and saintly.”

“That exists entirely in your imagination, Hugh. You
don’t know half his good qualities,” returned Irene, a little
quickly.

“Bah!” began her cousin; but here their companions bade
them good-night, and, as if disinclined to continue the sub-
ject, Irene kept in advance till they reached home. Tea was
waiting; Miss Margaret and Hugh talked of various things;
Trene sat balancing her spoon upon the edge of her cup.
Finally, tired of listening, she glided to the front door and
seated herself on the steps. Paragon followed, and lay down
at her feet. Everything was quiet, save the distant roar of
the river as it foamed over its rocky bed; below, hanging on
the bank of the stream, lay the town. From her elevated posi-
tion she could trace the winding of the streets by the long
rows of lamps; and now and then a faint hum rose on the
breeze, as it swept up the hill and lost itself in the forest be-
hind the house. Very soon Hugh came out, cigar in hand, and
threw himself down beside her.

“What is the matter, Irie?”

“ Nothing.”

“What are you moping here for?”

“T am not moping at all; I am waiting for father.”

“He will not be here for three hours yet. Don’t you know
that Mr. Carter’s dinners always end in card-parties? He is
famous for whist and euchre, and doubtless his dinners pay
him well. What do you want with uncle?”

“ugh, do throw away your cigar. It is ridiculous to see a
boy of your age puffing away in that style. Betting and smok-
ing seem to be the only things you have learned at Yale. By
the way, when do you go back?”

“Are you getting tired of me? I go back in ten days.
Irene, do you know that I am not coming home next vacation:
T have promised a party of merry fellows to spend it with them
in Canada. Then the next summer I go to Europe, for two
years at least. Are you listening? Do you understand that
it will be four years before I see you again?”
MACARIA. 21

“Yes, I understand.”

“T dare say the time will seem longer to me than to you.”

“T hope when you do come back we shall not be disappointed
in you.” ‘

He took her hand, but she withdrew her fingers.

“Trene, you belong to me, and you know it.”

“No! I belong to God and myself.” :

She rose, and, retreating to the library, opened her books and
began to study. The night passed very slowly; she looked at
the clock again and again. Finally the house became quiet,
and at last the crush of wheels on the gravel-walk announced
her father’s return. He came into the library for a cigar, and,
without noticing her, drew his chair to the open window. She
approached and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Trene! what is the matter, child?”

“Nothing, sir; only I want to ask you something.”

“Well, Queen, what is it?”

He drew her tenderly to his knee, and passed his hand over
her floating hair.

Leonard Huntingdon was forty years old; tall, spare, with
an erect and martial carriage. He had been trained at West
Point, and perhaps early education contributed somewhat to
the air of unbending haughtiness which many found repulsive.
His black hair was slightly sprinkled with gray, and his
fetures were still decidedly handsome, though the expression
of mouth and eyes was, ordinarily, by no means winning. He
could seem very fascinating, but rarely deigned to be so; and
an intimate acquaintance was not necessary to teach people
that he was proud, obstinate, and thoroughly selfish—loving
only Hugh, Irene, and himself. She was his only child; her
mother had died during her infancy, and on this beautiful idol
he lavished all the tenderness of which his nature was capable.
His tastes were cultivated, his house was elegant and complete
and furnished magnificently; every luxury that money could
yield him he possessed, yet there were times when he seemed
moody and cynical, and no one could surmise the cause of his
gloom. To-night there was no shadow on his face, however;
doubtless the sparkle of the wine-cup still shone in his piercing
blue eyes, and the girl looked up at him fearing no denial.

“Father, I wish, please, you would give me two hundred
dollars.”

“ What would you do with it, Queen?”
22 MACARIA,

“T do not want it for myself; I should like to have that much
to enable a poor woman to recover her sight. She has cata-
racts on her eyes, and there is a physician in New Orleans who
can relieve her. She is poor, and it will cost about two hun-
dred dollars. Father, won’t you give me the money?”

He took the cigar from his lips, shook off the ashes, and
asked indifferently :

“What is the woman’s name? Has she no husband to take
care of her?”

“Mrs. Aubrey; she-——”

“What!”

The cigar fell from his fingers, he put her from his knee, and
rose instantly. His swarthy cheek glowed, and she wondered
at the expression of his eyes, so different from anything she
had ever seen there before.

“Father, do you know her?”

“What do you know of her? What business is it of yours
whether she goes blind or not? Is it possible Margaret allows
you to visit at that house? Answer me; what do you know
about her?”

“T know that she is a very gentle, unfcrtunate woman; that
she has many bitter trials; that she works hard to support her
family; that she is noble and oP

“Who gave you permission to visit that house?”

“No permission was necessary. I go there because I love
her and Electra, and because I like Russell. Why shouldn’t
I go there, sir? Is poverty disgrace?”

“Trene, mark me. You are to visit that house no more in
future; keep away from the whole family. I will have no such
associations. Never let me hear their names again. Go to
bed.”

“Give me one good reason, and I will obey you.”

s Reason! My will, my command, is sufficient reason. What
do you mean by catechising me in this way? Implicit obedi-
ence is your duty.”

The calm, holy eyes looked wonderingly into his; and as he
marked the startled expression of the girl’s pure face his own
eyes drooped.

“Father, has Mrs. Aubrey ever injured you?”

No answer.

“Tf she did not, you are very unjust to her; if she has, re-
member she is a women, bowed down with many sorrows, and

 
MACARIA, 23

it is unmanly to hoard up old differences. Father, please give
me that money.”

“T will bury my last dollar in the Red Sea first! Now are
you answered?”

She put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some pain-
ful vision: and he saw the slight form shudder. In perfect
silence she took her books and went up to her room. Mr.
Huntingdon reseated himself as the door closed behind her,
‘and the lamplight showed a sinister smile writhing over his
dark features. In the busy hours of day, in the rush and din
of active life, men can drown remorseful whispers and shut
their eyes to the panorama which memory strives to place be-
fore them; but there come still hours, solemn and inexorable,
when struggles are useless, and the phantom recollections of
early years crowd up like bannered armies. He sat there, star-
ing out into the starry night, and seeing by the shimmer of
the setting moon only the graceful form and lovely face of
Amy Aubrey, as she had appeared to him in other days.
Could he forget the hour when she wrenched her cold fingers
from his clasp, and, in defiance of her father’s wishes, vowed
she would never be his wife? No; revenge was sweet, very
sweet; his heart had swelled with exultation when the verdict
of death upon the gallows was pronounced upon the husband
of her choice; and now, her poverty, her humiliation, her
blindness gave him deep, unutterable joy. The history of the
past was a sealed volume to his daughter, but she was now for
the first time conscious that her father regarded the widow and
her son with unconquerable hatred; and with strange, forebod-
ing dread she looked into the future, knowing that forgive-
ness was no part of his nature; that insult or injury was never
forgotten.

CHAPTER III.

Whether the general rule of implicit obedience to parental
injunction admitted of no exceptions was a problem which
Irene readily solved; and on Saturday, as soon as her father
and cousin had started to the plantation (twenty-five miles
distant), she put on her hat and walked to town. Wholly ab-
sorbed in philanthropic schemes she hurried along the side-
walk, ran up a flight of steps, and knocked at a door, on
which was written in large gilt letters, “ Dr. Arnold.”
24 MACARIA.

“Ah, Beauty! come in. Sit down and tell me what brought
you to town so early.”

He was probably a man of fifty, gruff in appearance, and
unmistakably a bachelor. His thick hair was grizzled, so was
the heavy beard; and the shaggy eyebrows slowly unbent as he
took his visitor’s little hands and looked kindly down into her
grave face. From her infancy he had petted and fondled
her, and she stood as little in awe of him as of Paragon.

“Doctor, are you busy this morning?”

“T am never too busy to attend to you, little one. What
is it?”

“Of course you know that Mrs. Aubrey is almost blind?”

“Of course I do, having been her physician.”

“Those cataracts can be removed, however.”

“Perhaps they can, and perhaps they can’t.”

“But the probabilities are that a good oculist can relieve
her.”

“T rather think so.”

“Two hundred dollars would defray all the expenses of a
trip to New Orleans for this purpose, but she is too poor to
afford it.”

“ Decidedly too poor.”

His gray eyes twinkled promisingly, but he would not an-
ticipate her.

“Dr. Arnold, don’t you think you could spare that small
sum without much inconvenience?”

“Really! is that what you trudged into town for?”

“Yes, just that, and nothing else. If I had had the money I
should not have applied to you.”

“Pshaw! your father could buy me a dozen times.”

“At any rate, I have not the necessary amount at my dis-
posal just now, and I came to ask you to lend it to me.”

“For how long, Beauty?”

“Till I am of age—perhaps not so long. I will pay you the
interest.”

“You will climb Popocatepetl, won’t you? Hush, my
child.”

He went into the adjoining room, but soon returned, and
resumed his seat on the sofa by her side.

“Trene, did you first apply to your father? I don’t relish
the idea of being a dernier ressort.”

“What difference can it make to you whether I did or did
MACARIA. 25

not? That I come to you at all is sufficient proof of my faith
in your generosity.”

Hiram Arnold was an acute and practiced physiognomist,
but the pale, quiet face perplexed him.

“Do you want the money now?”

“Yes, if you please; but before you give it to me I ought
to tell you that I want the matter kept secret. No one is to
know anything about it—not even my father.”

“Trene, is it right to inveigle me into schemes with which
you are ashamed to have your own father acquainted?”

“You know the whole truth, therefore you. are not in-
veigled; and moreover, doctor, I am not ashamed of anything
I do.”

She looked so unembarrassed that for a moment he felt
puzzled.

“T knew Mrs. Aubrey before her marriage.” He bent for-
ward to watch the effect of his words, but if she really knew
or suspected aught of the past there was not the slightest in-
timation of it. Putting back her hair, she looked up and an-
swered :

“That should increase your willingness to aid her in her
misfortunes.”

“Hold out your hand; fifty, one hundred, a hundred and
fifty, two hundred. There, will that do?”

“Thank you! thank you! ‘You will not need it soon, i
hope?”

“Not until you are able to pay me.”

“Dr. Arnold, you have given me a great deal of pleasure—
more’ than I can express. I. ”

“Don’t try to express it, Queen. You have given me in-
finitely more, I assure you.”

Her splendid eyes were lifted toward him, and with some
sudden impulse she touched with her lips the hand he had
placed on her shoulder. Something like a tremor crossed the
doctor’s habitually hard mouth as he looked at the marvelous
beauty of the girl’s countenance, and he kissed her slender
fingers ag reverently as though he touched something con-
secrated.

“Trene, shall I take you home in my buggy?”

“No, thank you, I would rather walk. Oh! doctor, I am so
much obliged to you.”

She drew her hat over her face, and went down the steps.

 
26 MACARIA. =

Dr. Arnold walked slowly across the office-floor with his hands
behind him; the grim face was placid now, the dark furrows
on his brow were not half so deep, and as he paused and
closed a ponderous volume lying on the table a smile suddenly
flitted over his features, as one sees a sunbeam struggle
through rifts in low rain-clouds. He put the book in the case
and locked the glass door. The “ Augustinian Theory of Evil”
was contained in the volume, which seemed by no means to
have satisfied him.

“ All a maze worse than that of Crete! I will follow that
girl! she shall be my Ariadne in this Egyptian darkness.
Pshaw! if His Highness of Hippo were right, what would
become of the world? All social organizations are based (and
firmly, too) on man’s faith in man; establish the universal
depravity, devilishness of the human race, and lo! what sup-
ports the mighty social fabric! Machiavelism? If that queer
little untrained freethinker, Irene, is not pure and sinless, then
there are neither seraphim nor cherubim in high heaven!
Cyrus, bring me my buggy.” ;

In answer to Irene’s knock Electra opened the cottage door,
and ushered her into the small room which served as both
kitchen and dining room. Everything was scrupulously neat,
not a spot on the bare, polished floor, not a speck to dim the
purity of the snowy dimity curtains, and on a table in the
center stood a vase filled with fresh, fragrant flowers. In a
low chair before the open window sat the widow, knitting a
blue and white nubia. She glanced round as Irene entered.

“Who is it, Electra?”

“Miss Irene, aunt.”

“ Sit down, Miss Irene; how are you to-day?”

She spoke rapidly, and for a moment seemed confused, then
resumed her work. Irene watched her pale, delicate fingers,
and the long, auburn lashes drooping over the colorless
cheeks, and when she looked up for an instant the visitor saw
that the mild, meek, brown eyes were sadly blurred. If ever
resignation enthroned itself on a woman’s brow, one might
have bowed before Amy Aubrey’s sweet, placid, subdued face.
No Daniel was needed to interpret the lines which sorrow had
printed around her patient, tremulous mouth.

“Mrs. Aubrey, I am sorry to hear that your eyes are no
better.”
cd

MACARIA, 27

“Thank you for your kind sympathy. My sight grows more
dim every day.”

“T should think netting would be injurious to you now.”

“Tt is purely mechanical; I use my eyes very little. Electra
arranges the colors for me, and I find it easy work.”

Trene knelt down before her, and, folding one of the hands
in both hers, said eagerly:

“You shan’t suffer much longer; these veils shall be taken
off. Here is the money to enable you to go to New Orleans to
consult that physician. As soon as the weather turns ¢ooler
you must start.”

“Miss Irene, I cannot tax your generosity so heavily; I
have no claim on your goodness. Indeed, I ,

“Please don’t refuse the money! You will distress me very
much if you do. Why should you hesitate? If it makes me
happy and benefits you, why will you decline it? Do you
think if my eyes were in the condition of yours that I would
not thank you to relieve me?”

The widow had risen hastily, and covered her face with her
hands, while an unwonted flush dyed her cheeks. She trem-
bled, and Irene saw tears stealing through her fingers.

« “Mrs. Aubrey, don’t you think it is your duty to recover
your sight if possible?”

“Yes, if I could command the means.”

“You have the means; you must employ them. There, I
will not take back the money; it is yours.”

“Don’t refuse it, auntie; you will wound Irie,” pleaded
Electra.

How little they understood or appreciated the struggle in
that gentle sufferer’s heart; how impossible for them to realize
the humiliation she endured in accepting such a gift from the
child of Leonard Huntingdon.

With a faltering voice she asked:

“Did your father send me this money?”

“ No.”

It was the first time that she had ever alluded to him, and
Trene saw that some painful memory linked itself with her
father. What could it be? There was a silence for a few
seconds, then Mrs. Aubrey took the hands from her face and
said:

“Trene, I will accept your generous offer. If my sight is
restored, I can repay you some day; if not, I am not toa

 
28 MACARIA,

proud to be under this great obligation to you. Oh, Irene! I
can’t tell you how much I thank you; my heart is too full for
words.”

She threw her arm round the girl’s waist and strained her
to her bosom, and hot tears fell fast on the waves of golden
hair. A moment after Irene threw a tiny envelope into Elec-
tra’s lap, and without another word glided out of the room.
The orphan broke the seal, and as she opened a sheet of note-
paper a ten-dollar bill slipped out.

“Electra, come to school Monday. The enclosed will pay
your tuition for two months longer. Please don’t hesitate to
accept it, if you really love

“Your friend,
“Trene.”

Mrs. Aubrey sat with her face in her hands, listening to the
mournful, solemn voice that stole up from the moldering,
dusty crypts of by-gone years; and, putting the note in her
pocket, Electra leaned her head against the window and
thanked God for the gift of a true friend. Thinking of the
group she had just left, Irene approached the gate and saw that*
Russell stood holding it open for her to pass. Looking up she
stopped, for his expression frightened and pained her.

“Russell, what is the matter? Oh! tell me.”

A scornful, defiant smile distorted his bloodless lips, but he
made no answer. She took his hand; it was cold, and the fin-
gers were clenched.

“ Russell, are you ill?”

She shuddered at the glare of his black eyes.

“T am not ill.”

“Won't you tell your friend what ails you?”

“T have no friend but my mother.”

“Oh, Russell, Russell!”

Her head drooped, and the glittering hair swept as a veil
between them. The low, flute-like, pleading voice stirred his
heart, and the blood surged over his pallid forehead.

“T have been injured and insulted. Just now I doubt all
and all things—I doubt even the justice and mercy of

od.

es ‘Shall not the righteous Judge of all the earth do
right???
MACARIA, 29

“Shall the rich and the unprincipled eternally trample
upon the poor and unfortunate?”

“Who has injured you?”

“A meek-looking man who passes for a Christian, who
turns pale at the sound of a violin, who exhorts to mission-
ary labors, and talks often about widows and orphans. Such
a man, knowing the circumstances that surround me, my
poverty, my mother’s affliction, on bare and most unwarrant-
able suspicion turns me out of my situation as clerk, and
endeavors to brand my name with infamy. To-day I stand
disgraced in the eyes of the community, thanks to the vile
slanders of that pillar of the church, Jacob Watson. Four
years ago I went to my work quietly, hopefully; but now an-
other spirit has entered and possessed me. Irene, I am desper-
ate. Do you wonder? It seems to me ages have rolled over me
since my mother kissed me this morning; there is a hissing
serpent in my heart which I have no power to expel. I could
bear it myself, but my mother! my noble, patient, suffering
mother! I must go in, and add a yet heavier burden to those
already crushing out her life. Pleasant tidings these I bring
her: that her son is disgraced, branded as a rogue!”

There was no moisture in the keen eye, no tremor in the
metallic ring of his voice, no relaxation of the curled lip.

“Can’t you prove your innocence? Was it money?”

“No, it was a watch, which I gave up as security for draw-
ing a portion of my salary in advance. It was looked up in
the iron safe; this morning it was missing, and they accuse
me of having stolen it.”

He took off his hat as if it oppressed him, and tossed back
his hair.

“What will you do, Russell?”

“T don’t know yet.”

“Oh! if I could only help you.”

She clasped her hands over her heart, and for the first time
since her infancy tears rushed down her cheeks. It was pain-
ful to see that quiet girl so moved, and Russell hastily took
the folded hands in his, and bent his face close to hers.

“Trene, the only comfort I have is that you are my friend.
Don’t let them influence you against me. No matter what
you may hear, believe in me. Oh, Irene, Irene! believe in me
always!”

He held her hands in a clasp so tight that it pained her,
30 MACARIA,

then suddenly dropped them and left her. As a pantomime
all this passed before Electra’s eyes; not a word reached her,
but she knew, that something unusuai had occurred to bring
her cousin home at that hour, and felt that now he was but the
avant courier of a new sorrow. She glanced toward her aunt’s
bowed form, then smothered a groan, and sat waiting for the
blow to fall upon her. Why spring to meet it? He went to his
own room first, and five, ten, fifteen minutes rolled on. She
listened to the faint sound of his steps, and knew that he paced
up and down the floor; five minutes more of crushing’ suspense,
and he came along the passage and stood at the door. She
looked at him, pale, erect and firm, and shuddered in thinking
of the struggle which that calm exterior had cost him. Mrs.
Aubrey recognized the step and looked round in surprise.

“Electra, I certainly hear Russell coming.”

He drew near and touched her cheek with his lips, saying
tenderly: :

“How is my mother?”

“Russell, what brings you home so early?”

“That is rather a cold welcome, mother, but I am not
astonished. Can you bear to hear something unpleasant?
Here, put your hands in mine; now listen to me. You know
I drew fifty dollars of my salary in advance to pay Clark. At
that time I gave my watch to Mr. Watson by way of pawn,
he seemed so reluctant to let me have the money; you under-
stand, mother, why I did not mention it at the time. He
locked it up in the iron safe, to which no one has access except
him and myself. Late yesterday I locked the safe as usual,
but do not remember whether the watch was still there or
not; this morning Mr. Watson missed it; we searched safe,
desk, store, could find it nowhere, nor the twenty-dollar gold
piece deposited at the same time. No other money was miss-
ing, though the safe contained nearly a thousand dollars. The
end of it all is that I am accused as the thief, and expelled in
disgrace for ey

A low, plaintive cry escaped the widow’s lips, and her head
sank heavily on the boy’s shoulder. Passing his arm fondly
around her, he kissed her white face, and continued in the
same hushed, passionless tone, like one speaking under his
breath, and stilling some devouring rage:

“Mother, I need not assure you of my innocence. You
kmow that I never could be guilty of what is imputed to me:

 
MACARIA. OL

but, not having it in my power to prove my innocence, I shall
have to suffer the disgrace for a season. Only for a season,
I trust, mother, for in time the truth must be discovered. I
have been turned out of my situation, and, though they have
no proof of my guilt, they will try to brand me with the dis-
grace. But they can’t crush me; so long as there remains a
drop of blood in my ‘veins I will scorn their slanders and
their hatred. Don’t cry, mother; your tears hurt me more
than all my wrongs. If you will only be brave, and put entire
confidence in me, I shall bear all this infinitely better. Look
at the bitter truth face to face; we have nothing more to lose.
Poor, afflicted, disgraced, there is nothing else on earth to fear;
but. there is everything to hope for; wealth, name, fame, in-
fluence. This is my comfort; it is a grim philosophy, born of
despair. I go forward from to-day like a man who comes out
of some fiery furnace, and, blackened and scorched though he
be, looks into the future without apprehension, feeling assured
that it can hold no trials comparable to those already past.
Herein I am strong; but you should have another and far
brighter hope to rest upon; it is just such ordeals as this for
which religion promises you strength’ and _ consolation.
Mother, I have seen you supported by Christian faith in a
darker hour ‘than this. Take courage, all will yet be well.”

For a few moments deep silence reigned in the little kitchen,
and only the Infinite eye pierced teh heart of the long-tried
sufferer. When she raised her head from the boy’s bosom
the face, though tear-stained, was serene, and, pressing her
lips twice to his, she said slowly:

“¢ Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial
which is to try you; as though some strange thing happened
unto you. For whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and
scourgeth every son whom He receiveth.’ I will wait patiently,
my son, hoping for proofs which shall convince the world of
your innocence. I wish I could take the whole burden on my
shoulders, and relieve you, my dear boy.”

“You have, mother; it ceases to crush me, now that you
are yourself once more.” He spoke with difficulty, however,
as if something stifled him, and, rising hastily, poured out
and drank a glass of water.

“And now, Russell, sit down and let me tell you a little
that is pledsant and sunshiny. There is still a bright spot
‘eft co look upon.”
32 MACARTIA,

Stealing her hand into his, the mother informed him of all
that had occurred during Irene’s visit, and concluded by lay-
ing the money in his palm.

Electra sat opposite, watching the change that came over
the face she loved best on earth. Her large, eager, midnight
eyes noted the quick flush and glad light which overspread
his features; the deep joy that kindled in his tortured soul;
and unconsciously she clutched her fingers till the nails grew
purple, as though striving to strangle some hideous object,
thrusting itself before her. Her breathing became labored
and painful, her gaze more concentrated and searching, and
when her cousin exclaimed: “Oh, mother! she is an angel!
I have always known it. She is unlike everybody else!” Elec-
tra’s heart seemed to stand still; and from that moment a
somber curtain fell betwéen the girl’s eyes and God’s sun-
shine. She rose, and a silent yet terrible struggle took place
in her passionate soul. Justice and jealousy wrestled briefly;
she would be just, though every star fell from her sky, and
with a quick, uncertain step she reached Russell, thrust
Trene’s note into his fingers, and fled into solitude. An hour
later Russell knocked at the door of an office which bore on
a square tin plate these words, “Robert Campbell, Attorney
at Law.” The door was partially closed, and as he entered an
elderly man looked up from a desk covered with loose papers
and open volumes from which he was evidently making ex-
tracts. The thin hair hung over his forehead as if restless
fingers had plowed carelessly through it, and, as he kept one
finger on a half-copied paragraph, the cold, blue eye said very
plainly, “This is a busy time with me; dispatch your errand
at once.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Campbell; are you particularly en-
gaged?”

“How-d’y-do, Aubrey. I am _ generally engaged; con-
foundedly busy this morning. What do you want?”

His pen resumed its work, but he turned his head as if to
listen.

“T will call again when you are at leisure,” said Russell,
turning away.

“That will be—next month—next year; in fine, postponing
your visit indefinitely. Sit down somewhere—well—clear
those books into a corner, and let’s hear your business. I am
at your service for ten minutes—talk fast.”
MACARIA. 33

He put his pen behind his ear, crossed his arms on the desk,
and looked expectant.

“T came here to ask whether you wished to employ anyone in
your office.”

“And what the deuce do you suppose I want with an office-
lad like yourself? To put away the very books I need at the
bottom of a pile tall as the tower of Babel, and tear up my
briefs to kindle the fire or light your cigar? No, thank you,
Aubrey; I tried that experiment to my perfect satisfaction a
few months ago. Is that all?”

“That is all, sir.”

The boy rose, but the bitter look that crossed his face as
he glanced at the well-filled book-shelves arrested the lawyer’s
attention, and he added:

“Why did you leave Watson, young man? It is a bad plan
to change about in this style.”

“T was expelled from my situation on a foul and most un-
just accusation. I am seeking employment from necessity.”

“Expelled is a dark word, Aubrey; it will hardly act as a
passport to future situations. Expelled clerks are not in de-
mand.” °

“Still, I miust state the truth unreservedly.”

“TLet’s hear the whole business; sit down.”

Without hesitation he narrated all the circumstances, once
or twice pausing to still the tempest of passion that flashed
from his eyes. While he spoke, Mr. Campbell’s keen eyes
searched him from head to foot, and at the conclusion he
asked sharply:

“Where is the watch, do you suppose?”

“Heaven only knows. I have a suspicion, but no right to
utter it, since I might inflict a wrong equal to that from
which I now. suffer.”

“Tt is a dark piece of business as it stands.”

“Yes, but time will clear it up.”

“See here, Aubrey, I have noticed you two or three times
in the court-house, listening to some of my harangues. I
knew your father, and I should like to help you. It seems to
me you might make better use of your talents than you are
doing. And yet, if you rise, it will be over greater obstacles
than most men surmount. Do you understand me?”

“J do; for I am too painfully aware of the prejudice against
34 MACARIA.

which I have to contend. But if I live I shall lift myself out
of this pool where malice and hate have thrust me.”

“What do you propose to do?” :

“Work at the plow or before the anvil, if nothing else. can
be done to support my mother and cousin; and, as soon as I
possibly can, study law. This is my plan, and for two years
I have been pursuing my Latin and Greek with an eye to ac-
complishing the scheme.”

“T see fate has thumped none of your original obstinacy
out of you. Aubrey, suppose I shut my eyes to the watch
transaction and take you into my office?”

“Tf so, I shall do my duty faithfully. But you said you did
not need anyone here, and though I am anxious to find work,
I do not expect or desire to be taken from charity. I intend
to earn my wages, sir, and from your own account I should
judge you had very little use for an assistant.”

“Humph! a bountiful share of pride along with prodigious
obstinacy. Though I am a lawyer, I told you the truth; I
have no earthly use for such assistants as J have been plagued
with for several years. In the main, office-boys are a nuisance
comparable only to the locusts of Egypt; I washed my hands
of the whole tribe months since. Now I have a negro to attend
to my office, make fires, ete., and if I could only get an intelli-
gent, ambitious, honorable, trustworthy young man, he would
be a help to me. I had despaired of finding such, but, on the
whole, I rather like you; believe you can suit me exactly if
you will, and I am disposed to give you a trial. Sit down here
and copy this paragraph; let me see what sort of hieroglyphics
I shall have to decipher if I make you my copyist.”

Russell silently complied, and after'a careful examination
it seemed the chirography was satisfactory.

“Look there, Aubrey, does that array frighten you?”

He pointed to the opposite side of the room, where legal
documents of every shape and size were piled knee-deep for
several yards.

“They look formidable, sir, but nothing would afford me
more pleagure than to fathom their mysteries.”

“And what security can you give me that the instant my
back is turned you will not quit my work and go off to my
books yonder, which I notice you have been eying very
greedily?”

“No security, sir, but the promise of an honest soul to do
MACARIA, 35

its work faithfully and untiringly. Mr. Campbell, I under-
stand my position thoroughiy; I know only too well that I
have everything to make, an honorable name, an unblemished
reputation, and, relying only on myself, I expect to help my-
self. If you really need an assistant, and think me trust-
worthy, I shall be very glad to serve you, and will merit your
confidence. I come to you under adverse circumstances, with
a tarnished character, and of course you feel some hesitancy
in employing me. I have concealed nothing; you are ac-
quainted with all the facts, and must decide accordingly.”

There was nothing pleading in his tone or mien, but a
‘ proud, desperate calmness, unusual in one of his age. When
a truly honest, noble soul meets an equal barriers of position
and age melt like snow-flakes in sunshine, all extraneous cir-
cumstances fall away, and, divested of pomp or rags, as the
ease may be, the full, undimmed majesty of spirit greets
spirit, and clear-eyed sympathy, soaring above the dross and
dust of worldly conventionalities, knits them in bonds last-
ing as time. Looking into the resolute yet melancholy face be-
fore him, the lawyer forgot the poverty and disgrace clinging
to his name, and, leaning forward, grasped his hand.

“ Aubrey, you and I can work peaceably together; I value
your candor, I like your resolution. Come to me on Monday,
and in the matter of salary you shall find me liberal enough.
I think you told me you had a cousin as well as your mother
to support; I shall not forget it. Now, good-morning, and
leave me, unless you desire to accumulate work for yourself.”

People called Mr. Campbell “miserly,” “egotistic,” and
“selfish.” These are harsh adjectives, and the public fre-
quently applies them with culpable haste and uncharitable-
ness, for there is an astonishing proclivity in human nature
to detract, to carp, to spy out and magnify faults. If at all
prone to generous deeds, Mr. Campbell certainly failed to
placard them in public places; he had never given any large
amount to any particular church, institution, or society, but
the few who knew him well indignantly denied the charge
of penuriousness preferred by the community. A most unsafe
criterion is public estimation; it canonizes many an arch-
hypocrite, and martyrs many a saint
36 MAOCARIA.

OHAPTER IV.

From early childhood Irene had experienced a sensation of
loneliness. Doubtless the loss of her mother enhanced this
feeling, but the peculiarity of her mental organization would
have necessitated it even under happier auspices. Her in-
tellect was of the masculine order, acute and logical, rather
deficient in the imaginative faculties, but keenly analytical.
It is an old predicate that women are deductionists, that
womanly intuitions are swift and infallible. In richly en-
dowed female minds it not unfrequently happens that tedious,
reflective processes are ignored; but Irene was a patient
rather than brilliant thinker, and with singular perseverance
searched every nook and cranny, and sifted every phase of
the subject presented for investigation. Her conclusions were
never hasty and consequently rarely unsound. From the time
her baby-fingers first grasped a primer she became a student;
dolls and toys, such as constitute the happiness of most chil-
dren, had never possessed any attraction for her, and before
she was eight years old she made the library her favorite resort.
She would climb upon the morocco-covered table where stood
two globes, one celestial, the other terrestrial, and spend hours
in deciphering the strange heathenish figures twined among
the stars. When weary of studying the index of the ther-
mometer and barometer, and wondering why the quicksilver
varied with sunshine and shower, she would throw herself
‘down en the floor and fall asleep over the quaint pictures in
an old English encyclopedia, numbering thirty volumes. She
haunted this room, and grew up among books centuries old.
Thus until her tenth year there was no authority exerted over
her, and the strong, reflective tendency of her mind rapidly
developed itself. This was an abnormal condition, and indis-
putably an unfortunate training, and perhaps in after years it
might have been better had she spent the season of careless,
thoughtless childhood in childish sports and childhood’s wonted
ways, for anxious inquiry and tedious investigation come soon
enough with maturity.
’

= MACARTA, 37

Hers was not an enthusiastic, impulsive nature, fitful in
moodiness or ecstasy, inclined to passionate demonstrations
of any kind; but from infancy evinced a calm, equable tem-
perament, uniformly generous and unselfish, but most thor-
oughly firm, nay, obstinate, in any matter involving principle,
or conflicting with her opinions of propriety. How she ob-
tained these notions of right and wrong in minor details was
a subject of some mystery. They were not the result of educa-
tion in the ordinary acceptation of that term, for they had
never been instilled by anybody, and, like a wood-flower in
some secluded spot, she lived, grew, and expanded her nature,
without any influences to bias or color her views. In her
promiscuous reading she was quite as apt to imbibe poisonous
as healthy sentiments, and, knowing that she had been blessed
with few religious instructions, her father often wondered at
the rigidness of her code for self-regulation. Miss Margaret
considered her “a strange little thing,” and rarely interfered
with her plans in any respect, while her father seemed to take
it for granted that she required no looking after. He knew
that her beauty was extraordinary; he was proud of the fact;
and, having provided her with a good music master and sent
her to the best school in the county, he left her to employ her
leisure as inclination prompted. Occasionally her will con-
flicted with his, and more than once he found it impossible to
make her yield assent to his wishes. To the outward observ-
anees of obedience and respect she submitted, but whenever
these differences occurred he felt that in the end she was uncon-
quered. Inconsistent as it may appear, though fretted for the
time by her firmness, he loved her the more for her “ willful-
ness,” as he termed it; and despotic and exacting though he
certainly was in many respects, he stood somewhat in awe
of his pure-hearted, calm-eyed child. His ward and nephew,
Hugh Seymour, had resided with him for several years, and it
was well-known that Mr. Huntingdon had pledged his daugh-
ter’s hand to his sister’s son. The age of infant betrothals
has passed away, consequently this rare instance gave rise tc
a deal of gossiping comment. How the matter became public
he never knew; probably Sparrowgrasse’s “carrier pigeon”
migrated southward, for it is now no uncommon thing to find
one in our cities and country towns; and at all events Mr.
Huntingdon soon found that his private domestic affairs were
made an ordinary topic of conversation in social circles,
88 MACARIA.

Irene had never been officially apprised of her destiny, but
surmised very accurately the true state of the case. Between
the two cousins there existed not the slightest congeniality of
taste or disposition; not a sympathetic link, save the tie of re-
lationship. On her part there was a moderate share of cousinly
affection; on his, as much love and tenderness as his selfish
nature was capable of feeling. They rarely quarreled as most
children do, for when (as frequently happened) he flew into
a rage and tried to tyrannizc, she scorned to retort in any way,
and generally locked him out of the library. What she thought
of her father’s intentions concerning herself no one knew;
she never alluded to the subject, and if in a frolicsome mood
Hugh broached it, she invariably cut the discussion short.
‘ When he went to college in a distant State she felt infinitely
relieved, and during his vacations secluded herself as much as
possible. Yet the girl’s heart was warm and clinging; she
joved her father devotedly, and loved most intensely Electra
Grey, whom she had first met at school. They were nearly
the same age, classmates and firm friends. That she was beau-
tiful, Irene of course knew quite as well as her father or any-
one else; how could she avoid knowing it? From her cradle
she had been called “ Queen” and “ Beauty’; all her acquaint-
ances flattered her—strangers commented on her loveliness;
she no more doubted it than the fact of her existence, and
often stopped before the large parlor mirrors and admired
her own image, just as she would have examined and enjoyed
one of the elegant azaleas or pelargoniums in the green-house.
I repeat it, she prized and enjoyed her loveliness, but she was
not vain. She was no more spoiled by adulation than a meek
and snowy camelia, or one of those immense golden-eyed
pansies which astonish and delight visitors at the hot-houses on
Long Island. God conferred marvelous beauty on her, and she
was grateful for the gift—but to the contemptible weaknesses
of vanity she was a stranger. In the midst of books and
flowers she was happy, and seemed to desire no companions
but Erebus and Paragon. She rede every day when the
weather permitted, and the jetty horse with its graceful young
rider, followed by the slender, silky grayhound. was a familiar
spectacle in the vicinity of her home. She knew every hill and
valley within ten miles of the town; could tell where the rich-
est, rarest honeysuckles grew, where the yellow jasmine clam-
bered in greatest profusion, and always founded the earliest
MACARIA, 89

sprays of graybeard that powdered the forest. Often Mr.
Huntingdon had ordered his horse and gone out in the dusky
twilight to search for her, fearing that some disaster had over-
taken his darling, and at such times met Erebus laden with
her favorite flowers. These were the things she loved, and
thus, independent of society, yet conscious of her isolation,
she grew up what nature intended her to be. As totally dif-
ferent in character as appearance was Electra Grey. Rather
smaller and much thinner than Irene, with shining, purplish
black hair, large, sad, searching black eyes, from which there
was no escape, a pale olive complexion and full crimson lips
that rarely smiled. The forehead was broad and prominent,
and rendered very peculiar by the remarkable width between
the finely-arched brows. The serene purity characteristic of
Trene’s features was entirely wanting in this face, which would
have seemed Jewish) in its contour but for the Grecian nose;
and the melancholy yet fascinating eyes haunted the beholder
with their restless, wistful, far-reaching expression. Electra was
a dreamer, richly gifted; dissatisfied because she could never.
attain that unreal world which her busy brain kept constantly
before her. The child of genius is rarely, if ever, a happy one:

‘* Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”

If so, its recollections cling tenaciously to those who, like Elec- -
tra, seek continually for the airy castles of an ideal realm.
Her vivid imagination shaped and painted, but, as too often
happens, her eager blood-and-bone fingers could not grasp
the glories. The thousand cares, hardships and rough han-
dlings of reality struck cold and jarring on her sensitive,
highly-strung nature. She did not complain; murmuring
words had never crossed her lips in the hearing of any who
knew her; she loved her aunt too well to speak of sorrow or
disappointment. Fourteen years had taught her an un-
usual amount of stoicism, but sealed lips cannot sepulcher
grief, and trials have a language which will not be repressed
when the mouth is at rest. She looked not gloomy, nor yet
quite unhappy, but like one who sees obstacles mountain-high
loom between her and the destined goal, and asks only per-
mission to press on. Hers was a passionate nature; fierce
blood beat in her veins, and would not always be bound by
icy fetters. There was no serene plateau of feeling where she
40 MACARIA,
could repose; she enjoyed keenly, rapturously, and suffered
acutely, fearfully. Unfortunately for her, she had only Hima-
layan solitudes, sublime in their dazzling height, or valleys of
Tophet, appalling with flame and phantom. She knew wherein
she was gifted, she saw whither her narrow pathway led, and
panted to set her little feet in the direction of the towering
steeps crowned with the temple of art. To be an artist; to
put on canvas the grand and imperishable images that crowded
her brain, and almost maddened her because she could not give
them tangible form; this was the day-dream spanning her life
like a bow of promise, but fading slowly as the years thick-
ened o’er her head, and no helping hand cleared the choked
path. “Poverty! poverty!” Many a night she buried her
face under the pillow and hissed the word through closed teeth,
fearful of disturbing the aunt, who slumbered at her side.
Poverty! poverty! What an intolerable chain it binds around
aspiring souls! And yet the world’s great thinkers have
felt this iron in their flesh, and, bursting the galling bonds,
have carved their way to eminence, to immortality. It is a
lamentable and significant truth that, with a few honorable,
noble exceptions, wealth is the Cannze of American intellect.
Poverty is a rigid school, and the sessions are long and bitter;
but the men and women who graduate therein come forth
with physical frames capable of enduring all hardships, with
hearts habituated to disappointment and fortified against the
rebuffs of fortune, with intellects trained by patient, laborious,
unbending application. The tenderly nurtured child of wealth
and luxury very naturally and reasonably shrinks from diffi-
culties; but increase the obstacles in the path of a son or
daughter of penury, inured to trial, and in the same ratio you
strengthen his or her ability and determination to surmount
them.

Electra’s love of drawing had early displayed itself; first,
in strange, weird figures on her slate, then in her copy-book,
on every slip of paper which she could lay her hands upon;
and, finally, for want of more suitable material, she scrawled
all over the walls of the little bedroom, to the great horror
of her aunt, who spread a coat of whitewash over the child’s
frescoes, and begged her to be guilty of no such conduct in
future, as Mr. Clark might with great justice sue for damages.
In utter humiliation Electra retreated to the garden, and here
after a shower had left the sandy walks white and smooth,
MAOARIA, 4]

she would sharpen a bit of pine and draw figures and faces
of all conceivable and inconceivable shapes. Chancing to find
hex thus engaged one Sunday afternoon, Russell supplied her

‘{ with a package of drawing-paper and pencils. So long as these

lasted she was perfectly happy, but unluckily their strait-
ened circumstances admitted of no such expenditure, and be-
fore many weeks she was again without materials. She would
not tell Russell that she had exhausted his package, and passed
sleepless nights trying to devise some method by which she
could aid herself. It was positive torture for her to sit in
school and see the drawing-master go round, giving lessons on
this side and that, skipping over her every time because her
aunt could not afford the extra three dollars. How longingly
the eyes followed the master’s form, how hungrily they dwelt
upon the sketches he leaned over to examine and retouch?
Frequently during drawing-hour she would sit with her head
bent down, pretending to study, but the pages of the book
were generally blistered with tears which no eye but the
Father’s saw. There was, however, one enjoyment which noth-
ing could steal from her; the town contained two book-stores,
and she was wont to linger over the numerous engravings and
occasional oil paintings they boasted. The proprietors and
clerks seemed rather pleased than otherwise by the silent hom-
age she paid their pictures, and, except to tender her a seat,
no one ever interfered with her examinations. One engraving
interested her particularly; it represented St. John on Patmos
writing Revelations. She went as usual one Saturday morn-
ing for another look at it, but a different design hung in its
place; she glanced around, and, surmising the object of her
search, the proprietor told her it had been sold the day before.
An expression of sorrow crossed her face, as though she had
sustained an irreparable loss, and, drawing her bonnet down,
she went slowly homeward. Amid all these yearnings and
aspirations she turned constantly to Russell, with a worship-
ing love that knew no bounds. She loved her meek, affection-
ate aunt as well as most natures love their mothers, and did all
in her power to lighten her labors, but her affection for Russell
bordered on adoration. In a character so exacting and pas-
sionate as hers there is necessarily much of jealousy, and thus
it came to pass that, on the day of Irene’s visit to the cottage,
the horrible suspicion took possession of her that he loved
Irene better than herself. True, she was very young, but
MACARIA,

childish hearts feel as keenly as those of maturer years; and
Electra endured more agony during that day than in all her
past life. Had Irene been other than she was, in every respect,
she would probably have hated her cordially; as matters stood,
she buried the suspicion deep down in her own heart, and kept
as much out of everybody’s way as possible. Days and weeks
passed very wearily; she busied herself with her text-books,
and, when the lessons had been recited drew all over the mar-
gins—here a hand, there an entire arm, now and then a face,
sad-eyed as Fate.

Mrs. Aubrey’s eyes became so blurred that finally she could
not leave the house without having someone to guide her,
and, as cold weather had now arrived, preparations were made
for her journey. Mr. Hill, who was going to New Orleans,
kindly offered to take charge of her, and the day of departure
was fixed. Electra packed the little trunk, saw it deposited
on the top of the stage, in the dawn of an October morning,
saw her aunt comfortably seated beside Mr. Hill, and in an-
other moment all had vanished. In the afternoon of that day,
on returning from school, Electra went to the bureau, and,
unlocking a drawer, took out a small paper box. It contained
a miniature of her father, set in a handsome gold frame. She
knew it had been her mother’s most valued trinket; her aunt
had carefully kept it for her, and as often as the temptation
assailed her she had resisted; but now the longing for money
triumphed over every other feeling. Having touched the
spring, she took a knife and cautiously removed the bit of ivory
beneath the glass, then deposited the two last in the box, put
the gold frame in her pocket, and went out to a jewelry store.

As several persons had preceded her, she leaned against
the counter, and, while waiting, watched with some curiosity
the movements of one of the goldsmiths, who, with a glass over
one eye, was engaged in repairing watches. Some had been
taken from their cases, others were untouched; and as her eyes
passed swiftly over the latter they were suddenly riveted to
a massive gold one lying somewhat apart. A half-smothered
exclamation caused the workman to turn round and _ look
at her, but in an instant she calmed herself, and, thinking
it a mere outbreak of impatience, he resumed his employment.
Just then one of the proprietors approached and said politely:
“Tam sorry we have kept you waiting, miss. What can I de
for you?”
MACARIA, 43

“What is this worth?”

She laid the locket down on the counter, and looked up with
eyes that sparkled very joyously, he thought. He examined
it a moment, and said rather dryly:

: It is worth little or nothing to us, though you may prize
it. 17

“Tf I were to buy anather just like it, would you charge
me ‘little or nothing’ ?”

He smiled good-humoredly.

“Buying and selling are different things; don’t you know
that? Come, tell me what you want to sell this for?”

“ Because I want some money.”

“You are Mrs. Aubrey’s niece, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, how do I know, in the first place, that it belongs to
you? Jewelers have to be very particular about what they
buy.”

She crimsoned, and drew herself proudly away from the
counter, then smiled and held out her hand for the locket.

“Tt is mine; it held my father’s miniature, but I took it
out because I want to buy a paint-box, and thought I could sell
this case for enough to buy one. It was my mother’s once;
here are her initials on the back, H. G., Harriet Grey. But of
course you don’t know whether I am telling the truth; I will
bring my cousin with me, he can prove it. Sir, are you so
particular about everything you buy?”

“We try to be.”

Again her eyes sparkled; she bowed and left the store.

Once in the street, she hurried to Mr. Campbell’s office,
ran up the steps and rapped loudly at the door.

“Come in!” thundered the lawyer. ;

She stopped on the threshold, glanced round, and said tim-
idly :

“T want to see Russell, if you please.”

“Russell is at the post-office. Have you any jacleaiee spite
at my door that you belabor it in that style, or do you suppose
that I am as deaf as a gate-post?”

“T beg your pardon; I did not mean to startle you, sir. I
was not thinking of either you or the door.”

She sprang down the steps to wait on the sidewalk for her
cousin, and met him at the entrance.

“Oh, Russell! I have found your watch.”
44 MACARIA. os

A ray of light seemed to leap from his eyes as he seized her
hand.

“ Where?”

“ At Mr. Brown’s jewelry store.”

“Thank God!”

He went up the stairway, delivered the letters, and came back
accompanied by Mr. Campbell.

“This is my cousin, Electra Grey, Mr. Campbell.”

“So I inferred from the unceremonious assault she made
on my door just now. However, shake hands, little lady; it
seems there is some reason for your haste. Let’s hear about
this precious watch business.”

She simply told what she had seen. Presently Russell
said:

“But how did you happen there, Electra?”

“Your good angel sent me, I suppose; and, » she added in a
whisper, “JI will tell you some other time.”

On re-entering the store she walked at once to the work-
man’s corner, and pointed out the watch.

“Yes, it is mine. I would know it among a thousand.”

“How can you identify it, Aubrey?”

He immediately gave the number and name of the manu-
facturer, and described the interior tracery, not omitting the
quantity of jewels. Mr. Campbell turned to the proprietor
(the same gentleman with whom Electra had conversed) and
briefly recapitulated the circumstances which had occurred in
connection with the watch. Mr. Brown listened attentively,
then requested Russell to point out the particular one that
resembled his. He did so, and on examination the number,

‘date, name, and all the marks corresponded so exactly that no

doubt remained on the jeweler’s mind.

“Young man, you say you were accused of stealing your own
watch?”

“ Yes.”

“Then I will try to clear your name. This watch was brought
here several weeks since, while I was absent. I am very
guarded in such matters, and require my young men here to
take a certificate of the name and place of residence of all
strangers who offer articles for sale or exchange. I once very
innocently bought some stolen property, and it taught me a
lesson. This watch was sold for ninety dollars by a man
named Rufus Turner, who lives in New Orleans, No. 240 —~
MACARIA. 45

street. I will write to him at once, and find out, if possible,
how it came into his possession. I rather think he had some
horses here for sale.”

“Did he wear green glasses?” inquired Russell of the
young man who had purchased the watch.

“Yes, and he had one ‘arm in a sling.”

“T saw such a man here about the time my watch was
missing.”

After some directions from Mr: Campbell concerning the
proper course to be pursued, Electra drew out her locket,
saying:

“Now, Russell, is not this locket mine?”

“Yes, but where is the miniature? What are you going to
do with it?”

“The miniature is at home, but I want to sell the frame,
and Mr. Brown does not know but that it is another watch
case.”

“Tf it is necessary, I will swear that it belongs lawfully to
you; but what do you want to sell it for? I should think you
would prize it too highly to be willing to part with it.”

“T do prize the miniature, and would not part with it for
any consideration; but I want something far more than a
gold case to keep it in.”

“Tell me what you want, and I will get it for you,
pered her cousin.

“No—I am going to sell this frame.”

“ And I am going to buy it from you,” said the kind-hearted
merchant, taking it from her hand and weighing it.

Russell and Mr. Campbell left the store, and soon after Mr.
Brown paid Electra several dollars for the locket.

In half an hour she had purchased a small box of paints,
a supply of drawing-paper and pencils, and returned home,
happier and prouder than many an empress, whose jewels
have equaled those of the Begums of Oude. She had cleared
Russell’s character, and her hands were pressed over her
heart to still its rapturous throbbing. Happy as an uncaged
bird, she arranged the tea-table and sat down to wait for him.
He came at last, later than usual, and then she had her reward;
he took her in her arms and kissed her. And yet, while his lip
rested on hers, Irene’s image rose before her, and he felt her
shiver as she clung to him. He was her idol, and the bare sug-
gestion of his loving another better chilled the blood in her

” whis-
46 MACARIA,

veins. He spoke little of the watch, appeared to miss his
mother, and soon went to his room and began to study. How
ignorant he was of what passed in his cousin’s heart; how
little he suspected the intensity of her feelings! Constantly
occupied during the day, he rarely thought of her away from
home; and, though always kind and considerate, he failed
to understand her nature, or fully appreciate her affection for
him. Many days elapsed before Mr. Turner’s answer arrived.
He stated that he had won the watch from Cecil Watson, at
a horse-race, where both were betting; and proved the correct-
ness of his assertion by reference to several persons who were
present, and who resided in the town. Russell had suspected
Cecil from the moment of its disappearance, and now, pro-
vided with both letter and watch, and accompanied by Mr.
Brown, he repaired to Mr. Watson’s store. Russell had been
insulted, his nature was stern, and now he exulted in the
power of disgracing the son of thé man who had wronged him.
There was no flush on his face, but a cold, triumphant glitter
in his eyes as he approached his former employer, and laid
watch and letter before him. .

“What business have you here?” growled the merchant,
trembling before the expression of the boy’s countenance.

“My business is to clear my character, which you have
slandered, and to fix the disgrace you intended for me on your
own son. I bring you the proofs of his, not my, villainy.”

“Come into the back room. I will see Brown another
time,” said Mr. Watson, growing paler each moment.

‘ No, sir; you were not so secret in your dealings with me.
Here, where you insulted me, you shall hear the whole truth.
Read that. I suppose the twenty-dollar gold piece followed
the watch.”

The unfortunate father perused the letter slowly anc
smothered a groan. Russell watched him with a keen joy
which he might have blushed to acknowledge had he analyzed
his feelings. Writhing under his impaling ey3, Mr. Watson
said:

“Fave you applied to the witnesses referred to?”

“Yes; they are ready to swear that they saw Cecil bet
Turner the watch.”

“You did not tell them the circumstances, did you?”

it7 No.”

“Well, it is an unfortunate affair; I want it dropped as
MACARIA, 47

sonar as possible. It will never do to have it known far and
wide.”

“Aha! you can feel the sting now. But remember, you
took care to circulate the slander on my name. I heard of it.
You did not spare me, you did not spare my mother; and,
Jacob Watson, neither will I spare you. You never believed
me guilty, but you hated me and gloried in an opportunity
of injuring me. Do you suppose I shall shield your unprin-
cipled son for your sake? You showed me no mercy, you may
expect as little. The story of the watch shall make its way
wherever we——”

He paused suddenly, for the image of his gentle, forgiving
mother rose before him, and he knew that she would be grieved
at the spirit he evinced. There was an awkward silence, broken
by Mr. Watson.

“Tf I retract all that I have said against you, and avow your
innocence, will it satisfy you? Will you be silent about
Cecil?”

“No!” rose peremptorily to his lips, but he checked it; and
the patient teaching of. years, his mother’s precepts, and his
mother’s prayers brought forth their first fruit, golden charity.

“You merit no forbearance at my hands, and I came here
intending to show you none; but, on reflection, I will not
follow your example. Clear my name before the public, and
I leave the whole affair with you. There has never been any
love between us, because you were always despotic and ungen-
erous, but I am sorry for you now, for you have taught me how
heavy is the burden you have to bear in the future. Good-
morning.”

Afraid to trust himself, he turned away and joined Mr.
Campbell in the office.

In the afternoon of the same day came a letter from Mr,
Hill, containing sad news. The oculist had operated on Mrs.
Aubrey’s eyes, but violent inflammation had ensued; he had
done all that scientific skill could prompt, but feared she would
.be hopelessly blind. At the close of the letter Mr. Hill stated
that he would bring her home the following week.

One November evening, just before dark, while Russell was
cutting wood for the kitchen fire, the stage stopped at the cot-
tage gate, and he hurried forward to receive his mother in
his arms. It was a melancholy reunion; for a moment the
poor sufferer’s fortitude forsook her, and she wept. But his
48 MACARIA.

caresses soothed her, and she followed Electra into the house
while he brought in the trunk. When shawl and bonnet had
been removed, and Electra placed her in the rocking-chair,
the light fell on face and figure, and the cousins started at the
change that had taken place. She was so ghastly pale, so very
much reduced. She told them all that had occurred during
the tedious weeks of absence; how much she had regretted
having gone, since the trip proved so unsuccessful; how much
more she deplored the affliction on their account than her own;
and then from that hour no allusion was ever made to it.

CHAPTER V.

Weeks and months slipped away, and total darkness came
down on the widow. She groped with some difficulty from
room to room, and Electra was compelled to remain at home
and watch over her. Russell had become a great favorite with
his crusty employer, and, when the labors of the office were
ended, brought home such books as he needed and spent his
evenings in study. His powers of application and endurance
were extraordinary, and his progress was in the same ratio.
As he became more and more absorbed in these pursuits his
reserve and taciturnity increased, and his habitually hasty
step and abstracted expression of countenance told of a strong
nature straining its powers to the utmost to attain some dis-
tant, glimmering goal. His employer was _ particularly
impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark on
any subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some
necessary information in connection with his business. Some-
times the silence of the office was unbroken for hours, save
by the dull scratching of pens, or an impatient exclamation
from Mr. Campbell. Respectful in deportment, attentive to
his duties, never presuming on kindness, constantly at work
from morning until night, yet with an unmistakable sorrow
printed on his face—a sorrow never obtruded on anyone, never
alluded to—he won first the rigid scrutiny of the lawyer, then
his deepest, most abiding affection. Naturally cold and un-
demonstrative in manner, Mr. Campbell gave little evidence
of feeling of any kind, yet the piercing blue eye lost its keen-
ness when resting on the tall stalwart form of the clerk, and
once or twice the wrinkled hand sought his broad shoulder
MACARIA, 49

almost caressingly. He had not married; had neither mother
nor sisters to keep his nature loving and gentle, and, though
he occasionally visited his brother, who was a minister in
the same town, he was held in awe by the members of that
brother’s family. He comprehended Russell’s character, and
quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy on
the part of the young man, no patronage on that of the em-
ployer.

One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door and
entered the kitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to
the fireplace, engaged in knitting; her smooth, neat calico
dress and spotless linen collar told that careful hands tended
her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her temples showed
broad bands of gray as the evening sun shone on it. She
turned her brown, sightless eyes toward the door, and asked
in a low voice:

“Who is it?”

“Tt is only I, Mrs. Aubrey.”

Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the widow’s, and
kissed her forehead.

“T am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long
time since you were here.”

“Yes, a good many weeks, I know, but I could not come.”

“Are you well? Your hands and face are cold.”

“Yes, thank you, very well. I am always cold, I believe.
Hugh says Iam. Here are some flowers from the green-house.
I brought them because they are so fragrant; and here, too,
are a few oranges from the same place. Hush! don’t thank
me, please. I wish I could come here oftener. I always feel
better after being with you; but I can’t come when I want to
do so.”

“Why not, Irene?”

“Oh, because of various things. Between school and mu-
sic, and riding and reading, I have very little time; and be-
sides father wants me with him when he is at home. I play
chess with him, and sometimes we are three or four days fin-
ishing one game. Somehow, Mrs. Aubrey, though I don’t
mean to be idle, it seems to me that I do very little. Every-
body ought to be of some use in this world, but I feel like a
bunch of mistletoe growing on somebody else, and doing
nothing. I don’t intend to sit down and fold my hands all
my life, but what can I do? Tell me how to begin.”
50 MACARIA.

She lifted a large tortoise-colored cat from a small stool
and drew it near the hearth, just at the widow’s feet, seating
herself and: removing her hat.

“That is more easily asked than answered; you are a great
heiress, Irene, and in all human probability will never be
obliged to do anything. For what is generally denominated
work you will have no occasion, but all who wish to be really
happy should be employed in some way. You will not have
to labor for your food and clothes, like my Russell and Electra;
but you will have it in your power to do a vast deal more good.
In cultivating your mind do not forget your heart; it is natur-
ally full of very generous, noble impulses; but all human be-
ings have faults; what yours may be you know best, and you
should constantly strive to correct them. Read your Bible,
dear child; not now and then, but daily and prayerfully. Oh,
Irene! I have had some bitter, bitter sorrows, and frequently
I thought that they would crush out my life. In those times
of trial if I had not had my Bible, and my God, I believe I
should have lost my reason. But I read and was comforted.
His promises sustain me; and in looking back I see many
places which should be called Jehovah Jireh, for the Lord
saw and provided. Your Bible will teach you your duty much
better than I possibly can. You owe your father a great deal;
his hopes and joys are centered in you, and through life he
will look to you for his happiness. When you are grown, so-
ciety, too, will claim you; you will be sought after and flat-
tered; and, Irene, under these circumstances—with your re-
markable beauty and wealth—you will find it a difficult mat-
ter to avoid being spoiled. Your influence will be very great,
and a fearful responsibility must attend its employment.
Let it be for good. Try to keep your heart free from all self-
ish or ignoble feelings; pray to God for guidance, that you
may be enabled through His grace to keep yourself ‘ unspotted
from the world’; these words contain the whole— unspotted
from the world’ You have not been spoiled thus far by
luxury and lifelong petting, and I hope and believe that you
never will be; but remember, we must be continually on
the watch against temptation. Irene, have I spoken too
plainly?”

“No; I thank you for your candor. I want you to advise
me just as you would Electra. I don’t read my Bible as often
as I ought, but there are so many things in it which I do not
MACARIA, 51

understand that I hardly ever open it now. I have nobody to
explain the difficulties.”

“Tt is very clear on the subject of our duty; God left not
the shadow of mystery in his laws for the government of the
heart and the regulation of the life. He commands us to re-
ceive certain rules, to practice certain principles, and to ab-
stain from certain sinful things, all of which are specified,
and not to be mistaken by the most obtuse. Melville has said
in one of his beautiful and comforting sermons: ‘God breathed
himself into the compositions of prophets and apostles and
evangelists, and there, as in the mystic recesses of an everlast-
ing sanctuary, he still resides, ready to disclose himself to the
humble, and to be evoked by the prayerful. But in regard
to every other book, however fraught it may be with the
maxims of piety, however pregnant with momentous truth,
there is nothing of this shrining himself of Deity in the
depths of its meaning. Men may be instructed by its pages,
and draw from them hope and consolation, but never will they
find there the burning Shekinah which proclaims the actual
presence of God; never hear a voice as from the solitudes of
an oracle pronouncing the words of immortality.’”

“ How, then, does it happen, Mrs. Aubrey, different churches
teach such conflicting doctrines? Why are there so many de-
nominations? If the teachings «4 the Bible are so plain, how
can such various creeds arise?”

“Because poor human nature is so full of foibles; because
charity, the fundamental doctrine of Christ, is almost lost
sight of by those churches; it has dwindled into a mere speck,
in comparison with the trifles which they have magnified to
usurp its place. Instead of one great Christian church, hold-
ing the doctrines of the New Testament, practicing the true
spirit of the Saviour, and in genuine charity allowing its
members to judge for themselves in the minor questions re-
lating to religion, such for instance as the mode of baptism,
the privilege of believing presbyters and bishops equal in dig-
nity or otherwise, as the case may be, the necessity of minis-
ters wearing surplice, or the contrary, as individual taste dic-
tates, we have various denominations, all erected to promul-
gate some particular dogma, to magnify and exalt as all-im-
portant some trifling difference in the form of church govern-
ment. Once established, the members of each sect apply them-
selves to the aggrandizement of their peculiar church; and thus
52 MACARIA,

it comes to pass that instead of one vast brotherhood, united
against sin and infidelity, they are disgracefully wrangling
about sectarian matters of no consequence whatever. In this
there is much totally antagonistic to the principles inculcated
by our Saviour, who expressly denounced the short-sighted
bigotry of those who magnified external observances and non-
essentials at the expense of the genuine spirit of their religion.
I wish most earnestly that these denominational barriers and
distinctions could be swept away; that the names of Methodist
and Episcopal, Presbyterian and Baptist could be obliter-
ated, and that all the members were gathered harmoniously
into one world-wide pale, the Protestant Church of our Lord
Jesus Christ.”

“Mrs. Aubrey, do you belong to any church?”

“Yes, Irene, because Christ founded a church, and I think
every man and woman should belong to some religious organ-
ization. Moreover, unless a member of some one of the denom-
inations, you cannot commune; and as the sacrament of the
Lord’s Supper was particularly established by our Saviour,
all ought to be able to partake of it. I think it a matter of
little consequence which of the evangelical sects one selects.
Do not imagine that I believe people can be saved only by en-
trance into some church; I think no such thing; the church
is a valuable instrument, but God who established it can work
without it. Still, it is very reasonable to suppose that regular
attendance on divine service fosters piety and keeps the sub-
ject of our duty more constantly before us.”

She had finished her knitting, and sat with her hands
folded in her lap, the meek face more than usually serene,
the sightless eyes directed toward her visitor. Sunshine
flecked the bare boards under the window, flashed on the tin
vessels ranged on the shelves, and lingered like a halo around
Irene’s head. Her hair swept on the floor, and the cat played
now and then with the golden rings so softly as not to attract
notice, as though conscious the new toy was precious. The
countenances of the group contrasted vividly; the sweet res-
ignation of the blind sufferer, the marble purity of Irene’s
face, and just in the rear, Electra’s broad, pale brow and
restless, troubled midnight eyes. The latter had been drawing
at the table in the middle of the room, and now sat leaning
on her hand, watching the two at the fire. Presently Irene
approached, and began to examine the drawings, which were
MACARIA. 53

fragmentary, except one or two heads, and a sketch taken from
the bank opposite the falls. After some moments passed in
looking over them, Irene addressed the quiet little figure:

“Have you been to Mr. Clifton’s studio?”

“No, who is he?”

“An artist from New York. His health is poor, and he is
spending the winter South. Haven’t you heard of him?
Everybody is having their portraits taken. He is painting
mine now—father would make me sit again, though he has a
likeness which was painted four years ago. I am going down
to-morrow for my last sitting, and should like very much to
have you go with me. Perhaps Mr. Clifton can give you some
valuable hints. Will you go?”

“With great pleasure.”

“Then I shall call for you a little before ten o’clock. Here
are some crayons I bought for you a week ago. Good-by.”

She left the room as quietly as she had entered, and found
Paragon waiting for her at the door. He gamboled before her
all the way—now darting off, and as suddenly returning, to
throw himself at her feet and wonder why she failed to caress
him as usual. Other thoughts engaged her now; she could
see nothing but the form of the widow, and to-day she realized
more than ever before how much she needed a mother. Low,
sweet, gentle tones rarely fell upon her ear, and, except her
father and Dr. Arnold, no one had ever attempted to caress
her. She wearied of the fourteen years of isolation, and now,
on entering her fifteenth, looked about her for at least one con-
genial spirit. She knew of none’ but Electra and Mrs. Aubrey
who in any degree sympathized with her, and from these she
was debarred by parental interdict. Miss Margaret, seconded
by Mr. Huntingdon, now constantly prescribed a course of
conduct detestable to the girl, who plainly perceived that as she
grew older these differences increased. Was it her duty to
submit unhesitatingly to their dictation? Did the command of
filial obedience embrace all such matters, or was it modified
—limited by the right of individual conscience? This consul-
tation was long and patient, and the conclusion unalter-
able.

She would do what she believed to be proper, whatever she
thought her duty, at all hazards. She had no one to guide her,
and must rely only on God and her own heart.

The following day Miss Margaret accompanied her to the
54 MACARIA,

studio. As the carriage approached the cottage-gate, Irene
directed the driver to stop.

“ For what?” asked her aunt.

“Electra Grey is going with me; I promised to call for her.
She has an extraordinary talent for drawing, and I want to
introduce her to Mr. Clifton. Open the door, Andrew.”

“Trene, are you deranged? Your father never would forgive
yow if he knew you associated with those people. I can’t think
of allowing that girl to enter this carriage. Drive on. I must
really speak to Leonard about your obstinacy in visiting
at that-——’

“Stop, Andrew! If you don’t choose to ride with Electra,
Aunt Margaret, you may go on alone, for either she shall ride
or I will walk with her.”

Andrew opened the door, and she was stepping out, when
Electra appeared in the walk and immediately joined her.
Miss Margaret was thoroughly aroused and indignant, but
thought it best to submit for the time, and when Irene in-
troduced her friend she took no notice of her whatever, ex-
cept by drawing herself up in one corner and lowering her
veil. The girls talked during the remainder of the ride, and
when they reached Mr. Clifton’s door, ran up the steps to-
gether, totally unmindful of the august lady’s ill-humor.

The artist was standing before an easel which held Irene’s
unfinished portrait, and as he turned to greet his visitors,
Electra saw that, though pale and thin, his face was one of
rare beauty and benevolence. His brown, curling hair hung
loosely about his shoulders, and an uncommonly long beard of
the same silky texture descended almost to his waist. He
shook hands with Irene and looked inquiringly at her com-
panion.

“Mr. Clifton, this is Miss Electra Grey, whose drawings I
mentioned to you last week. I wish, if you please, you would
examine some of them when you have leisure.”

Electra looked for an instant into his large, clear gray eyes
as he took her drawings, and said he would be glad to assist
her, and knew that henceforth the tangled path would be
smoothed and widened. She stood at the back of his chair
during the hour’s sitting, and with peculiar interest watched
the strokes of his brush as the portrait grew under his prac-
ticed hand. When Irene rose, the orphan moved away and
began to scrutinize the numerous pictures scattered about

 
MACARTA, 55

‘ the room. A great joy filled her heart and illumined her face,
and she waited for the words of encouragement that she felt
assured would be spoken. The artist looked over her sketches
slowly, carefully, and his eye went back to her brilliant counte-
nance, as if to read there answers to ciphers which perplexed
him. But yet more baffling cryptography met him in the deep,
flashing, appealing eyes, on the crimson, quivering lips, on the
low, full brow, with its widely-separated black arches. Evi-
dently the face possessed far more attraction than the draw-
ings, and he made her sit down beside him, and passed his hand
over her head and temples, as a professed phrenologist might
preparatory to rendering a chart.

“Your sketches are very rough, very crude, but they also
display great power of thought; some of them singular
beauty of conception; and I see from your countenance that
you are dissatisfied because the execution falls so far short of
the conception. Let me talk to you candidly; you have uncom-
mon talent, but the most exalted genius cannot dispense with
laborious study. Michael Angelo studied anatomy for twelve
years; you will require long and earnest application before
you can possibly accomplish anything of importance. The
study of Art is no mere pastime, as some pecple suppose;
an artist’s life is an arduous one at best. I have been told
something of your history; you are very poor, and wish to
make painting a profession. Think well before you decide
this matter; remember that long, tedious months must elapse
before you can hope to execute even an ordinary portrait.
You must acquaint yourself with the anatomy of the human
system before you undertake anything. I thought I had fin-
ished my course seven years ago, but I went to Italy and soon
saw that I had only begun to Jearn my profession. Think well
of all this.” :

“T have thought of it; I am willing to work any number
of years; I have decided, and I am not to be frightened from
my purpose. I am poor, I can barely buy the necessary mate-
rials, much less the books, but I will be an artist yet. I have
decided, sir; it is no new whim; it has been a bright dream
to me all my life, and I am determined to realize it.”

“ Amen;.so let it be then. I shall remain here some weeks
longer; come to me every day at ten o’clock, and I will in-
struct you. You shall have such books as you need, and with
perseverance you have nothing to fear.”
56 MACARIA,

He went into the adjoining room, and returned with a small
volume. As he gave it to her, with some directions concerning
the contents, she caught his hand to her lips, saying hastily:

“My guardian angel certainly brought you here to spend
the winter. Oh, sir! I will prove my gratitude for your good-
ness by showing that I am not unworthy of it. I thank you
from the very depths of my glad heart.”

As she released his hand and left the studio he found two
bright drops on his fingers, drops called forth by the most in-
tense joy she had ever known. Having some commission from
her aunt, she did not re-enter the carriage, and, after thanking
Irene for her kindness, walked away. The drive home was very
silent. Miss Margaret sat stiff and icy, looking quite insulted,
while her niece was too much engrossed by other reflections
to notice her. The latter spent the remainder of the morning
in writing to Hugh and correcting her French exercises, and
when summoned to dinner she entered the room expecting a
storm. A glance sufficed to show her that Miss Margaret had
not yet spoken to her father; though it was evident from her
countenance that she was about to make what she considered
an important revelation. The meal passed, however, without
any allusion to the subject, and, knowing what she had to ex-
pect, Irene immediately withdrew to the library to give her
aunt an opportunity of unburdening her mind. The struggle
must come sometime, and she longed to have it over as soon as
possible. She threw up the sash, seated herself on the broad
cedar window-sill, and began to work out a sum in algebra.
Nearly a half hour passed; the slamming of the dining-room
door was like the first line of foam, curling and whitening
the sea when the tempest sweeps forward; her father stamped
into the library, and the storm broke over her.

“Trene! didn’t I positively order you to keep away from
that Aubrey family? What do you mean by setting me at
defiance in this way, you willful, spoiled, hard-headed piece?
Do you suppose I intend to put up with your obstinacy all my
life, and let you walk roughshod over me and my commands?
You have queened it long enough, my lady. If I don’t rein you
up, you will turn your aunt and me out of the house next, and
invite that precious Aubrey crew to take possession. Your
confounded stubbornness will ruin you yet. You deserve a
good whipping, miss; I can hardly keep my hands off of you.”

He did not; rough hands seized her shoulders, jerked her
MACARIA, 5Y

from the window-sill, and shook her violently. Down fell book,
slate, and pencil with a crash; down swept the heavy hair,
blinding her. She put it back, folded her hands behind her
as if for support, and, looking up at him, said in a low, steady,
yet grieved tone.

“T am sorry you are angry with me, father.”

“ Devilish sorry, I dare say! Don’t be hypocritical! Didn’t
I tell you to keep away from those people? Don’t stand there
like a block of stone; answer me!”

“Yes, sir; but I did not promise to do so. I am not hypo-
eritical, father.”

“You did not promise, indeed! What do I care for prom-
ises? It was your duty to obey me.”

“T don’t think it was, father, when you refused to give me
any reason for avoiding Mrs. Aubrey or her family. They
are unfortunate, but honorable people; and, being very poor
and afilicted, I felt sorry for them. I can’t see how my going
there occasionally harms you, or me, or anybody else. I know
very well that you dislike them, but you never told me why,
and I cannot imagine any good reason for it. Father, if I
love them, why should I not associate with them?”

“Because I say you shan’t! you tormenting, headstrong
little imp!”

“My father, that is no reason.”

“Reason! I will put you where you will have no occasion
for reasons. Oh! I can match you, you perverse little wretch!
I am going to send you to a boarding-school, do you hear that?
Send you where you will have no Aubreys to abet your obsti-
nacy and disobedience; where that temper of yours can be
_eurbed. How will you relish getting up before day, kindling
‘your own fire, if you have any, making your own bed, and liv-
ing on bread and water? I will take you to New York, and
keep you there until you are grown and learn some common
sense. Now get out of my sight!”

With a stamp of rage, he pointed to the door. Hitherto she
had stood quite still, but now an expression of anguish passed
swiftly over her face, and she put out her hands appealingly.

“Father! my father! don’t send me away! Please let me
stay at home.”

“Not if I live long enough to take you. Just as certainly
as the sun shines in heaven, you will go as soon as your clothes
can be made. Your aunt will have you ready in a week. Don’t
58 MACARIA,

open your mouth to me! I don’t want to hear another word
from you. Take yourself off.”

She picked up her slate and book and left the room. Her
hat hung on the rack in the hall, and taking it down, she
passed out through the rear piazza. Paragon leaped and
whined at sight of her; she unchained him, and, leaving the
yard, turned into a narrow, zigzag path, leading in an opposite
direction from the front of the house. The building stood on
quite a hill, one side of which sloped down to the brink of a
creek that emptied itself into the river a mile above the town.
This declivity was thickly wooded, and, on the opposite side of
the stream a dense swamp stretched away. Cypress, pine,
beech, and magnolias towered as far as the eye could reach,
and now, in the gathering gloom of evening, looked somber
and solemn. This was a favorite haunt of Irene’s; she knew
every nook of the forest and bend of the creek as well as the
shy rabbits that flitted away at her approach; and, on this
occasion, she sought a rude seat formed by the interlacing
of two wild grapevines. At her feet the channel ran deep and
strong, and the rocky bed was distinctly seen; but a few yards
off the stream widened into a small lake, and there, on its dark,
still surface, masses of water lilies spread out their broad,
green glossy leaves. It was a lonely place; even in the day
owls hooted one to another, and strange, harsh cries were heard
from birds that never forsook the swamp. I+ was April, early
April, and from the hillside, fringed with honeysuckle of varied
hue, and festooned with yellow jasmine that clambered in wild
luxuriance over tree and shrub, the southern breeze wafted
spicy, intoxicating aromas. Redbuds lifted their rosy limbs
against dark, polished magnolias, and here and there masses
of snow told where the dogwoods grew. Clusters of violets
embroidered the hillside, and crimson woodbine trailed over
the ground, catching at every drooping bough, and climbing
stealthily, anxious, like all weak natures, to hang to something
sturdy. Irene usually reveled amid this wealth of floral beauty,
but now she could not enjoy it. She looked at her favorites,
and understood what was meant by the words:

“‘T see them all so excellently fair;
T see, not feel, how beautiful they are.”

The first great grief of her life had fallen on her; hereto-
fore all had been so serene, so flowery, that she could not
MACARIA, 59

easily understand or endure the crushing weight on her
heart. eared in seclusion, the thought of being sent from
her beautiful, luxurious home, and thrust among utter
strangers, startled her and filled her with dread. She was as-
tonished, pained, and mortified by her father’s harsh lan-
guage; and, loving him very sincerely, she shrank from the
long separation he threatened; yet, amid all these complex
emotions, she felt not the slightest regret for the course she
had ‘pursued; under similar circumstances she would again
act just as she had done. Then came the remembrance that
she might meet her unfortunate friends no more. Mrs. Au-
brey was evidently declining rapidly, and what would become
of Electra and Russell? They might move away; they, too,
might die; nay, she might never come back to the home of her
birth; death’s harvest was in all seasons, and, looking upon
the lakelet, she shuddered and moaned. The snowy water lilies
glanced up at her, and seemed to say, as they trembled unceas-
ingly in the current far below the surface, “ Bend! bend!”
A passage in Dante, which she had read the week before,
crossed her mind now, as she noted the constant swaying of
the fragile flowers, so impotent to resist that undercurrent
sweeping their roots:
«, . . No other plant,
Covered with leaves, or hardened in its stalk,
There lives, not bending to the water’s sway.”

He had selected reeds as a type of patience, but the pale,
pure, quivering lilies were to her a far more impressive sym-
bol of resignation. An aged, gnarled cypress towered above
her, and from the knotted limbs drooped long funereal
wreaths of gray moss, fluttering mournfully in the evening
wind, like badges of crape in houses of death. From amid
this somber drapery came the lonely hoot of an owl, and, with
a strange sensation of desolation, Irene fell on her knees and
committed herself to the care of the Great Shepherd. Dark-
ness closed around, but as she prayed the silver rays of the
evening star peered down through the trembling streamers of
moss, and gleamed on the upturned face. She broke one of
the lilies, and, fastening it among her curls, followed Paragon
up the hillside. The week which succeeded was wretched to
the girl, for her father’s surveillance prevented her from visiting
the cottage even to say adieu to its inmates; and no alternative
60 MACARIA,

presented itself but to leave for them (in the hands of Nellie,
her devoted nurse) a note containing a few parting words and
assurances of unfailing friendship and remembrance. The
day of departure dawned rainy, gloomy, and the wind-sobbed
and wailed down the avenue as Irene stood at her window,
looking out on the lawn where her life had been passed. Al-
though Nellie was weeping bitterly at her side, she had not
shed a tear; but the face was full of grief, and her little hands
were clasped tightly as the faithful nurse pressed them affec-
tionately in her palms. Disengaging herself, Irene took an
umbrella and went to the stable for a last look at Erebus. This
tried her sorely, and her lip was unsteady when she left him
and sought Paragon. The latter, little suspecting the true
state of affairs, gamboled and whined as joyously as ever at her
approach; and, when the crowned head went down moaningly
on his silky neck, he barked and frisked in recognition of the
caress. The breakfast-bell summoned her away, and a half-
hour after she saw the lofty columns of the old house fade
from view, and knew that many months, perhaps years, must
elapse before the ancestral trees of the long avenue would
wave again over the head of their young mistress. Her father
sat beside her, moody and silent, and, when the brick wall and
arched iron gate vanished from her sight, she sank back in
one corner, and, covering her face with her hands, smothered
a groan and fought desperately with her voiceless anguish.

CHAPTER VI.

Youth is hopeful, beautifully hopeful, and fresh, pure
hearts rebound from sorrow with wonderful elasticity.. When
clouds lower and the way seems dark and tangled, hope flies
forward, pioneer-like, to clear away all obstacles. Huge bar-
riers frowned between Electra and the heights she strained
every nerve to reach, but never for an instant did she doubt
the success of the struggle. Like Orpheus seeking Eurydice,
to look back was fearful and hazardous; and, fixing her eyes
steadily on the future, she allowed herself no haunting fore-
boding.

“ Cry, faint not! climb the summit’s slope
Beyond the furthest flights of hope,
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope.”

iiss bg
MACARIA,. 61

What human powers can endure and accomplish is to be
measured only by the necessity which goads, and all hercu-
lean trophies are won by desperate needs. The laws which gov-
ern our moral and intellectual natures are as rigid and inex-
orable in their operation as those whose workings we constantly
trace in the physical world; of which truth the history of
nations and memoirs of great men furnish innumerable exern-
plifications. Consequently, it is both unjust and illogical to
judge of the probability of this or that event or series of events,
or the naturalness of this or that character, whether in au-
thenticated history or in fictitious works, without a thorough
acquaintance with all antecedents, and the various relations
surrounding the actor. Reader, as you walk side by side with
those whose lives I am narrating, bear this in mind—the sil-
ver-winged pigeons that flash in and out of the venerable trees
shading the old homestead, and coo and flutter amid the rain-
bow spray of the fountain, would droop, shiver, and die on
bald, awful Alpine pinnacles, where in the fierce howl and
scourging of tempests, eaglets whee) in triumph, and scream
defiantly; and tender pet lambs, coaxed into flowery, luxuriant
meadows, would soon make their graves in the murderous
snow over which young chamois bleat and skip in wild glee,
fearless as the everlasting hills.

Day after day Electra toiled over her work; the delicate
frame learned its destiny, sighed at its future, but grew strong,
and complaining nerves, catching some of her iron resolve,
endured patiently—became finally thoroughly inured to their
arduous duties. Her aunt constantly claimed her attention
for the various little offices so grateful to an invalid, but by an
extraordinary alchemy she contrived to convert every interrup-
tion into an occasion of profit. If lending her arm to support
the drooping form in a short walk around the little garden, she
would describe the varying tints of the sky, as the clouds
shifted their gorgeous curtains of purple and scarlet and gold,
until thoroughly familiarized with the varied chameleon hues
and strange grotesque outlines traced by every rift. Nature
was a vast store-house of matchless, unapproachable beauty,
to that eager, thirsty soul—a boundless studio filled with won-
derful creations, open to her at all times—in the rosy, opaline
flush of morning, the blazing splendor of full-orbed noon, the
silver gray of twilight, peopled with dusky phantoms, weird and
shifting as Fata-Morgana—the-still sublimity, the solemn, sacred
62 MACARIA.

witchery of star-crowned, immemorial Night. She answered
the first hoarse call of thunder by stationing herself at the win-
dow to watch the stormy panorama sweep over the heavens; and
not Ruysdael, nor Vandervelde, nor Turner ever gazed with
more intense delight on the hurrying masses of vapor than
that fragile girl, as she stood with the forked lightning glaring
luridly over her upturned, enraptured face. Favored ones of
fortune lean against marble pillars in royal museums, to study
the imperishable works of earth’s grandest old artists; but she
lived in a cosmopolitan temple, whose skyey frescoes were fresh
from the hands of Jehovah himself. The rapidity of her prog-
ress astonished Mr. Clifton. He questioned her concerning
the processes she employed in some of her curious combina-
tions, but the fragmentary, abstracted nature of her conver-
sation during the hours of instruction gave him little satis-
factory information. His interest in her increased, until
finally it became absorbing, and he gave her all the time she
could spare from home. The eagerness with which she listened
to his directions, the facility with which she applied his rules,
fully repaid him; and from day to day he postponed his return
to the North, reluctant to leave his indefatigable pupil. Now
and then the time of departure was fixed, but ere it arrived he
wavered and procrastinated.

Electra knew that his stay had been prolonged beyond his
original intention, and she dreaded the hour when she should
be deprived of his aid and advice. Though their acquaintance
had been so short, a strangely strong feeling had grown up in
her heart toward him; a feeling of clinging tenderness, blended
with earnest and undying gratitude. She knew that he under-
stood her character and appreciated her struggles, and it
soothed her fierce, proud heart, in some degree, to receive from
him those tokens of constant remembrance which she so
yearned to have from Russell. She felt, too, that she was not
regarded as a stranger by the artist; she could see his sad eyes
brighten at her entrance, and detect the tremor in his hand
and voice when he spoke of going home. His health had im-
proved, and the heat of summer had come; why did he linger?
His evenings were often spent at the cottage, and even Mrs.
Aubrey learned to smile at the sound of his step.

One morning as Electra finished her lesson and rose to go,
he said slowly, as if watching the effect of his words:

“This is the last hour I can give you. In two days I re-
MACARIA, 63

turn to New York. Letters of importance came this morning;
I have waited here too long already.”

“ Are you in earnest this time?”

“TI am; it is absolutely necessary that I should return
home.”

“Mr. Clifton, what shall I do without you?”

“ Suppose you had never seen me?”

“Then I should not have had to lose you. Oh, sir, I need
you very much.”

“Electra, child, you will conquer your difficulties without
assistance from anyone. You have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, I know I shall conquer at last, but the way would be
so much easier if you were only with me. I shall miss you
more than I can tell you.”

He passed his hand over her short, shining hair, and mused
for a moment as if laying conflicting emotions in the balance.
She heard his deep, labored breathing, and saw the working of
the muscles in his pale face; when he spoke, his voice was
husky:

“You are right; you need me, and I want you always with
me; we must not be parted. Electra, I say we shall not.
Come to me, put your hands in mine—promise me that you
will be my child, *ny pupil; I will take you to my mother, and
we need never be separated. You require aid such as cannot
be had here; in New York you shall have all that you want.
Will you come with me?”

He held her hand in a vise-like grasp, and looked pleadingly
into her astonished countenance. A mist gathered before her
and she closed hei eyes.

“Electra, will you come?”

“Give me ten minutes to think,” she answered shiveringly.
He turned away ard walked up and down the floor, taking care
to conceal his face’ She sat down before a table and dropped
her forehead in her palms. What slight things often shape
human destiny; how little people realize the consequences of
seemingly trivial words, looks, or actions. The day before
Electra would unhesitatingly have declined this proposition;
but only that morning, as she passed Russell’s door before
breakfast, she saw him with Irene’s farewell note in his hand;
saw him press his lips hastily to the signature. Her jealous
heart was on fire; the consciousness of his love for another ren-
dered her reckless and indescribably miserable. In this mood
64 MACARIA,

she reflected; Mr. Clifton seemed to have become warmly. at-
tached to her, and could help her to attain the eminence she
had in view; she was poor, why not accept this generous offer?
Russell would not miss her—would not care whether she left
him or remained. If she were far away, at least she would not
be tormented by his coldness and indifference; she had to earn
a support, she scorned to be dependent on her cousin; fame
lured her on. Yes, she would go. Mr. Clifton took out his
watch and paused beside her:

“Ten minutes have passed; Electra, will you come?”

She raised her bloodless face, stamped with stern resolve,
and ere the words were pronounced he read his answer in the
defiant gleam of her eyes, in the hard, curved lines of the
mouth.

“Mr. Clifton, I cannot go with you just now, for at present
T cannot, ought not, to leave my aunt. Helpless as she is, it
would be cruel, ungrateful, to desert her; but things cannot
continue this way much longer, and I promise you that as soon
as I can I will go to you. I want to go with you; I want some-
body to care for me, and I know you will be a kind friend to
me always. Most gratefully will I accept your generous offer
eo soon as I feel that I can do so.’

He stooped and touched her aa with his lips.

“My dear Electra, I will shield you from trials and diffi-
culties; I will prize you above everything on earth; I know
you are making a great sacrifice to be with me; I know how
hard it is for you to leave home and relatives. But, my child,
your aunt has only a short time to live; she is failing very fast,
and your duty to her will not keep you here long. You are
right to remain with her, but when she needs you no more I
shall expect you to come to me in New York. Meantime, I
shall write to you frequently, and supply you with such books
and materials as you require. My pupil, I long to have you in
my own home. Remember, no matter what happens, you have
promised yourself to me.”

“T shall not forget.” But he saw her shudder.

“ Shall I speak to your aunt about this matter before I go?”

“No, it would only distress her; leave it all with me. It is
late and I must go. Good-by, sir.”

He promised to see her again before his departure, and she
walked home with her head bowed and a sharp, continual pain
‘gnawing at her heart.
MACARIA, 65

In the calm, peaceful years of ordinary childhood the soul
matures slowly; but a volcanic nature like Electra’s, subjected
to galling trials, rapidly hardens, and answers every stroke
with the metallic ring of age. Keen susceptibility to joy or
pain taught her early what less impressive characters are years
in learning, and it was lamentably true that while yet a mere
girl she suffered as acutely as a woman. The battle of life
must be fought, and if one begins skirmishing in the cradle,
tactics are soon learned, and the conflict ends more speedily.
But Electra had also conned another lesson; to lock her
troubles in her own heart, voicing no complaint, and when she
sought her aunt and read aloud the favorite chapters in the
Bible, or led her up and down the garden-walks, talking of
various things, telling of the growth of pet plants, there was
no indication whatever of any unusual strife or extraordinary
occurrence. Russell knew that a change had come over his
cousin, but was too constantly engaged, too entirely absorbed
by his studies, to ask or analyze the cause. She never watched
at the gate for him now, never sprang with outstretched arms
to meet him, never hung over the back of his chair and caressed
his hands as formerly. When not waiting upon her aunt, she
was as intent upon her books as he, and though invariably kind
and unselfish in: her conduct toward him, she was evidently
constrained in his presence. .As the summer wore on, Mrs.
Aubrey’s health failed rapidly, and she was confined to her
couch. There, in a low chair, close to the pillow, sat Electra,
reading, talking, exerting herself to the utmost to cheer the
‘widow. She filled the thin fingers with dewy roses and ex-
patiated on the glories of the outer world, while the thoughts of
the invalid wandered to the approaching shores of another
realm, and she thanked God that though thick folds of darkness
shrouded the earth, the veil dropped from her sou] and the
spiritual vision grew clear and piercing. If faith and resigna-
tion could be taught like music or arithmetic, then had Electra
learned the grandest truths of Christianity; but it is a mourn-
ful fact that the bloody seal of Experience must stamp the les-
son ere deep thinkers or strong natures receive it, and as she
watched that precious life fade, like the purple light of sum-
mer in evening skies, the only feeling she knew was that of
grief for the impending loss—undefined apprehension of com-
ing isolation. If Mrs. Aubrey could have seen the countenance
which bent over her pillow, her serene soul would have been
66 MACARIA.

painfully disturbed. She felt hot tears on her hands and
cheeks, and knew that the lips which pressed hers often
trembled; but this seemed natural enough under the circum-
stances, and she sank quietly down to the edge of the tomb
ignorant of the sorrows that racked the girl’s heart. One
morning when Mr. Campbell, the pastor, had spent some time
in the sick room praying with the sufferer and administering
the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, Electra followed him
to the door, leaving Russell with his mother. The gentle
pastor took her hand kindly and looked at her with brimming
eyes.

“You think my aunt is worse?”

“Yes, my child. I think that very soon she will be with her
God. She will scarcely survive till night.”

She turned abruptly from him, and threw herself down
across the foot of the bed, burying her face in her arms. Rus-
sell sat with his mother’s hands in his, while she turned her
brown eyes toward him and exhorted him to commit himself
and his future to the hands of a merciful God. She told him
how the promises of the Saviour had supported and cheered her
in times of great need, and implored him to dedicate his ener-
gies, his talents, his life to the service of his Maker. Electra
was not forgotten; she was advised to go to a cousin of her
mother residing in Virginia. Long before she had written to
this lady, informing her of her own feebleness and of the girl’s
helpless condition; and a kind answer had been returned, cor-
dially inviting the orphan to share her home, to become an in-
mate of her house. Russell could take her to these relatives as
soon as possible. To all this no reply was made, and a few
moments later, when Russell kissed her tenderly and raised
her pillow, she said faintly:

“Tf I could look upon your face once more, my son, it would
not be hard to die. Let me see you in heaven, my dear, dear
boy.” These were the last words, and soon after a stupor fell
upon her. Hour after hour passed; Mrs. Campbell came and
sat beside the bed, and the three remained silent, now and then
lifting bowed heads to look at the sleeper. Not a sound broke
the stillness save the occasional chirp of a cricket, and a shy
mouse crept twice across the floor, wondering at the silence,
fixing its twinkling bright eyes on the motionless figures. The
autumn day died slowly as the widow, and when the clock
dirged out the sunset hour Russell rose, and, putting back the
MACARIA, 67

window curtains, stooped and laid his face close to his
mother’s.

Life is at best a struggle, and such perfect repose as greeted
him is found only when the marble hands of Death transfer
the soul to its guardian angel. N6 pulsation stirred the folds
over the heart, or the soft bands of hair on the blue-veined
temples; the still mouth had breathed its last sigh, and the
meek, brown eyes had opened in eternity. The long, fierce
-ordeal had ended, the flames died out, and from smoldering
ashes the purified spirit that had toiled and fainted not, that
‘had been faithful to the end, patiently bearing many crosses,
‘heard the voice of the Great Shepherd, and soared joyfully to
the pearly gates of the Everlasting Home. The day bore her
‘away on its wings, and as Russell touched the icy cheek a de-
spairing cry rolled through the silent cottage:

“Oh, mother; my own precious dead mother!”

Falling on his knees, he laid his head on her pillow, and
when kind, friendly hands bore her into the adjoining room
he knelt there still, unconscious of what passed, knowing only
that the keenest of many blows had fallen, that the last and
bitterest vial of sorrows had been emptied.

Night folded her starry curtains around the earth; darkness
settled on river and hill and valley. It was late September;
autumn winds rose, eager for their work of death, and rushed
rudely through the forests, shaking the sturdy, primeval
monarchs in token of their mission and mastery, and shivering
leaves rustled down before them, drifting into tiny grave-like
hillocks. Gradually the stars caught the contagious gloom and
shrank behind the cloud-skirts sweeping the cold sky. It was
a solemn, melancholy night, full of dreary phantoms, presaging
a dark, dismal morrow. Amy Aubrey’s still form reposed on
-the draped table in the kitchen, and the fitful candle-light
showed only a dim, rigid outline of white linen. Mr. Campbell
and his wife sat together in the next room, and the two young
mourners were left in the silence of the kitchen. Russell sat
at the open window, near the table; his head leaned on his
-hand, tearless, mute, still as his mother. At the opposite side
stood Electra, pressing her face against the frame, looking out
into the moaning, struggling night, striving to read the mystic
characters dimly traced on the ash-gray hurrying clouds as the
reckless winds parted their wan folds. The stony face of her
merciless destiny seemed to frown down at her, cold, grim,
68. MAOARIA,

Sphinx-like. Hitherto she had walked with loved ones; now a
vast sepulcher yawned to receive them; a tomb of clay for the
quiet sleeper, one of perhaps final separation from Russell, and
over this last hideous chasm Hope hovered with drooping wings.
To leave him was like inuring her heart and all the joy she
had ever known; and then, to crown her agony, a thousand
Furies hissed, “Irene will come back, and, loving her, he will
forget that you toil among strangers.”

She crushed her fingers against each other and stifled a
groan, while the chilling voice of destiny added: “ Trample out
this weakness, your path and his here separate widely; you are
nothing to him, go to work earnestly and cease repining.” She
shrank away from the window and approached her cousin. For
two hours he had not changed his position; as far as she knew,
had not moved a muscle. She sat down at his feet and crossed
her arms over his knees; he took no notice of her.

“Oh, Russell! say something to me, or I shall die.”

It was the last wail she ever suffered to escape her in his
presence. He raised his head and put his hand on her fore-
head, but the trembling lips refused their office, and as she
looked up at him tears rolled slowly down and fell on her cheek.
She would have given worlds to mingle her tears with his, but
no moisture came to her burning eyes; and there these two,
so soon to separate, passed the remaining hours of that long,
wretched night of watching. The stormy day lifted her pale,
mournful face at last, and with it came the dreary patter and
sobbing of autumn rain, making it doubly harrowing to com-
mit the precious form to its long, last resting-place. Electra
stood up beside her cousin and folded her arms.

“Russell, I am not going to that cousin in Virginia. I
could owe my bread and clothes to you, but not to her. She
has children, and I do not intend to live on her charity. I
know you and I must part; the sooner the better. I would not
be willing to burden you a‘day longer. I am going to fit my-
self to work profitably. Mr. Clifton offered me a home in his
house, said his mother was lonely and would be rejoiced to have
me; that letter which I received last week contained one from
her also, urging me to come; and, Russell, I am going to New
York to study with him as long as I need instruction. I did not
tell aunt of this, because I knew it would grieve her to think
that I would be thrown with strangers; and, having fully
determined to take this step, thought it best not to distress her
MACARIA. 69

by any allusion to it. You know it is my own affair, and I can
decide it better than anyone else.”

His eyes were fixed on the shrouded table, and he answered,
without looking at her:

“No, Electra, you must go to Mrs. Harden; she seems anx-
ious to have you; and as for being dependent upon charity, you
never shall be so long as I live. You will merely reside under
her roof, and shall not cost her a cent; leave this with me.”

“T cannot leave it with anybody; I must depend upon myself.
I have thought a great deal about it, and my resolution is not
to be shaken. You have been very kind to me, Russell, all my
life; and only God knows how I love and thank you. But I
will not accept your hard earnings in future; I should be
miserable ‘unless at work, and I tell you I must and will go to
Mr. Clifton.”

He looked at her now, surprised and pained.

“What is the matter with you, Electra? Have I not sor-
rows enough, that you must try to add another by your ob-
stinacy? What would she think of you?”

He rose and laid his hand on the pure, smooth brow of the
dead. ‘

“There is nothing new the matter with me. I have deter-
mined to go; nobody has any right to control me, and it is
worse than useless for you to oppose me. We have but little
time to spend together, do not let us quarrel here in her pres-
ence. Let there be peace between us in these last hours. Oh,
Russell! it is hard enough to part, even in love and kindness;
do not add painful contention.”

“So you prefer utter strangers to your relatives and

. friends!”

“Ties of blood are not the strongest; strangers step in to aid
where relatives sometimes stand aloof and watch a fatal
struggle. Remember Irene; who is nearer to you, she or your
grandfather? Such a friend Mr. Clifton is to me, and go to
him I will at all hazards. Drop the subject, if you please.”

He looked at her an instant, then turned once more to his
mother’s face, and his cousin left them together.

The day was so inclement that only Mr. and Mrs. Campbell
and Russell’s employer attended the funeral. These few fol-
lowed the gentle sleeper, and laid her down to rest till the star
of eternity dawns; and the storm chanted a long, thrilling
requiem as the wet mound rose above the coffin,

. -
50 " MAOARTA,

Back to a deserted home, whence the crown of joy had been
borne. What a hideous rack stands at the hearthstone whereon
merciless memory stretches the bereaved ones. In hours such
as this we cry out fiercely: “The sun of our life has gone
down in starless, everlasting night; earth has no more glory,
no more bloom or fragrance for us; the voices of gleeful chil-
dren, the carol of summer birds, take the mournful measure of
a dirge. We hug this great grief to our hearts; we hold our
darling dead continually before us, and refuse to be glad
again.” We forget that Prometheus has passed from the
world. Time bears precious healing on its broad pinions; folds
its arms compassionately about us as a pitying father; softly
binds up the jagged wounds, drugs memory, and though the
poisonous sting is occasionally thrust forth, she soon relapses
into stupor. So in the infinite mercy of our God, close at the
heels of Azrael follow the winged hours, laden, like Sisters of
Charity, with balm for the people.

The kind-hearted pastor and his wife urged the orphans to
remove to their house for a few days at least, until the future
could be mapped; but they preferred to meet and battle at once
with the specter which they knew stood waiting in the desolate
cottage. At midnight a heavy sleep fell on Russell, who had
thrown himself upon his mother’s couch; and, softly spreading
a shawl over him, Electra sat down by the dying fire on the
kitchen hearth and looked her future in the face. A few days
sufficed to prepare for her journey; and a gentleman from New
York, who had met her cousin in Mr. Campbell’s office, con-
sented to take charge of her and commit her to Mr. Clifton’s
hands. The scanty furniture was sent to an auction-room, and
a piece of board nailed to the gate-post announced that the cot-
tage was for rent. Russell decided to take his meals at a
boarding-house and occupy a small room over the office, which
Mr. Campbell placed at his disposal. On the same day the
cousins bade adieu to the only spot they had called “home”
for many years, and as Russell locked the door and joined
Electra his melancholy face expressed far better than words
could have done the pain it cost him to quit the house where
his idolized mother had lived, suffered, and died. Mr. Colton
was waiting for Electra at the hotel, whither the stage had been
driven for passengers; and as she drew near and saw her trunk
among others piled on top, she stopped and grasped Russell’s
hand between both hers. A livid paleness settled on her face,
MACARIA, "1

while her wild, black eyes fastened on his features. She might
never see him again; he was far dearer to her than her life;
how could she bear to leave him, to put hundreds of miles be-
tween that face and her own? An icy hand clutched her heart
as she gazed into his deep, sad, beautiful eyes. His feeling
for her was a steady, serene affection, such as brothers have for
dear young sisters, and to give her up now filled him with
genuine, earnest sorrow.

“Electra, it is very hard to tell you good-by. You are all I
have left, and I shall be desolate indeed when you are away.
But the separation will not be long, I trust; in a few years we
shall be able to have another home; and where my home is
yours must always be. Toil stretches before me like a sandy
desert, but I shall cross it safely; and then, Electra, my dear
cousin, we shall be parted no more. I should feel far better
satisfied if you were with Mrs. Harden, but you determine
otherwise, and, as you told me a few days ago, I have no right
to control you. Write to me often, and believe that I shall do
all that a brother could for you. Mr. Colton is waiting; good-
by, darling.”

He bent down to kiss her, and the strained, tortured look
that greeted him he never forgot. She put her arms around
his neck and clung to him like a shivering weed driven by
rough winds against a stone wall. He removed her clasping
arms and led her to Mr. Colton; but as the latter offered to
assist her into the stage she drew back, that Russell might per-
form that office. While he almost lifted her to a seat, her
fingers refused to release his, and he was forced to disengage
them. Other passengers entered, and the door was closed.
Russell stood near the window, and said gently, pitying her
suffering :

“ Electra, won’t you say good-by?”

She leaned out till her cheek touched his, and in a hoarse
tone uttered the fluttering words:

“Oh, Russell, Russell! good-by! May God have mercy on
me!”

And the stage rolled swiftly on; men laughed, talked, and
smoked; an October sun filled the sky with glory and gilded the
trees on the roadside; flame-colored leaves flashed in the air as
the wind tossed them before it; the deep, continual thunder of
the foaming falls rose soothingly from the river banks, and a
wretched human thing pressed her bloodless face against the
72 MAOARIA.

morocco lining of the coach and stared down, mute and tear-
less, into the wide grave of her all—

‘* Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge,
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.”

CHAPTER VII.

As tall, tyrannous weeds and rank, unshorn grass close over
and crush out slender, pure, odorous flowerets on a hillside, so
the defects of Irene’s character swiftly strengthened and devel-
oped in the new atmosphere in which she found herself. All
the fostering stimulus of a hot-bed seemed applied to them, and
her nobler impulses were in imminent danger of being entirely
subdued. Diogenes Teufelsdrockh’s “Crim Tartary Enclosure
of a High Seminary” is but the prototype of hundreds scat-
tered up and down through Christendom; and the associations
that surrounded Irene were well calculated to destroy the native
purity and unselfishness of her nature. The school was on an
extensive scale, thoroughly fashionable, and thither pupils were
sent from every section of the United States. As regarded
educational advantages, the institution was unexceptionable;
the professors were considered unsurpassed in their several de-
partments, and every provision was made for thorough tuition.
But what a Babel reigned outside of the recitation-room? One
hundred and forty girls to spend their recesses in envy, ridi-
cule, malice, and detraction. The homely squad banded in im-
placable hatred against those whom nature had cast in molds of
beauty; the indolent and obtuse ever on the alert to decry the
successful efforts of their superiors; the simply-clad children of
parents in straitened circumstances feeding their discontent
by gazing with undisguised envy at the richly-appareled dar-
lings of fortune; and the favored ones sneering at these unfor-
tunates, pluming themselves on wealth, beauty, intellect, as the
case might be; growing more arrogant and insufferable day by
day. A wretched climate this for a fresh, untainted soul; and
it is surprising how really fond parents, anxious to promote the
improvement of their daughters in every respect, hasten to
place them where poisonous vapors wreathe and curl about
' MACARIA, uo

them. The principals of such institutions are doubtless often
conscientious, and strive to discharge their duty faithfully;
but the evils of human nature are obstinate, difficult to subdue
under even the most favorable auspices; and where such
a mass of untrained souls are turned into an inclosure, to
amuse themselves at one another’s expense, mischief is sure to
follow. Anxious to shake off the loneliness which so heavily
oppressed her, Irene at first mingled freely among her com-
panions; but she soon became disgusted with the conduct and
opinions of the majority, and endeavored to find quiet in her
own room. Maria Ashley, who shared the apartment, was the
spoiled child of a Louisiana planter, and her views of life and
duty were too utterly antagonistic to Irene’s to allow of any
pleasure in each other’s society. To cheat the professors by
ingenious stratagems and outdress her companions seemed the
sum total of the girl’s aspirations; and gradually, in lieu of
the indifference she evinced toward her room-mate, a positive
hatred made itself apparent in numberless trifles. Feeling her
own superiority, Irene held herself more and. more aloof; her
self-complacency grew amazingly, the graceful figure took a
haughty, unbending posture, and a coldly contemptuous smile
throned itself on her lip. The inevitable consequence was that
she became a target for the school. Thus the months crept
away. Her father wrote rarely, and Miss Margaret’s letters
contained no allusion to the family that had caused her banish-
ment. Finally she wrote to Dr. Arnold, inquiring concerning
Mrs. Aubrey, but no reply reached her. Early in the winter a
new pupil, a “day scholar,” joined her class; she resided in
New York, and very soon a strong friendship sprang up be-
tween them. Louisa Young was about Irene’s age, very pretty,
very gentle, and winning in her manners. She was the daugh-
ter of an affluent merchant, and was blessed in the possession
of parents who strove to rear their children as Christian
parents should. Louwisa’s attachments were very warm and last-
ing, and erelong she insisted that her friend should visit her.
Weary of the school, the latter gladly availed herself of the
invitation, and one Friday afternoon she accompanied Louisa
home. The mansion was almost palatial, and as Irene entered
the splendidly furnished parlors of her own southern home
rose vividly before her.

“ Mother, this is Miss Huntingdon.”

Mrs, Young received her cordially, and as she held the gloved
[4 MACARIA,

hand, and kindly expressed her pleasure at meeting her
daughter’s friend, the girl’s heart gave a quick bound of joy.

“Come upstairs and put away your bonnet.”

In Louisa’s beautiful room the two sat talking of various
things till the tea-bell rang. Mr. Young’s greeting was scarcely
less friendly than his wife’s, and as they seated themselves to-
gether at the table the stranger felt at home for the first time
in New York.

“Where is brother?” asked Louisa, glancing at the vacant
seat opposite her own.

“He has not come home yet; I wonder what keeps him?
There he is now, in the hall,” answered the mother.

A moment after, he entered and took his seat. He was tall,
rather handsome, and looked about thirty. His sister pre-
sented him to her friend, and with a hasty bow he fastened his
eyes on her face. Probably he was unconscious of the steadi-
ness of his gaze, but Irene became restless under his fixed, ear-
nest eye, and perceiving her embarrassment, Mrs. Young said:

“Harvey, where have you been? Dr. Melville called here
for you at four o’clock; said you had made some engagement
with him.”

“Yes, mother; we have been visiting together this after-
noon.”

Withdrawing his eyes, he seemed to fall into a reverie, and
took no part in the conversation that ensued. As the party ad-
journed, to the sitting room he paused on the rug and leaned
his elbow on the mantel. Louisa lingered and drew near. He
passed his arm around her shoulders, and looked affectionately
down at her.

“Well, what is it?”

“Come into the sitting room and help me to entertain
Trene, instead of going off to your stupid study; do, Harvey.”

“A very reasonable request, truly! I must quit my work to
talk to one of your schoolmates; nonsense! How old is she?”

“Fifteen. Is not she a beauty?”

“ Yes.”

“Oh, Harvey! you are so cold! I thought you would ad-
mire Irene prodigiously; and now you say ‘yes’ just exactly
as if I had asked you whether it was snowing out of doors.”

“Which is certainly the fact; the first flakes fell as I reached
home.”

He stepped to the window and looked out, saying carelessly:
MACARIA, %5

“Go to your friend, and when you are at a loss for conver-
sation, bring her to my study to see those sketches of Palmyra
and Baalbec.”

He passed on to his work, and she to the sitting room. The
study was simply the library, handsomely fitted up with choice
old books in richly carved rosewood cases, and antique busts
peering from the tops of each. Crimson damask curtains
swept from the ceiling to the carpet, and a luxurious armchair
was placed before the glowing coal fire. The table was cov-
ered with books, and loose sheets of paper were scattered
around, as if the occupant had been suddenly called from his
labor. The gas burned brightly; all things beckoned back to
work. He sat down, glanced over the half-written sheets, num-
bered the pages, laid them away in the drawer, and opened a
volume of St. Chrysostom. As the light fell on his counte-
nance, it was very apparent that he had been a student for
years; that his mind was habituated to patient, laborious inves-
tigation. Gravity, utterly free from sorrow or sternness,
marked his face; he might have passed all his days in that
quiet room, for any impress which the cares or joys of outdoor
life had left on his features; a strong, clear intellect, a lofty,
earnest soul; a calm, unruffled heart, that knew not half its
own unsounded abysses. He read industriously for some time,
occasionally pausing to annotate; and once or twice he raised
his head and listened, fancying footsteps in the hall. Finally
he pushed the book away, took a turn across the floor, and re-
sumed his seat. He could not rivet his attention on St. Chrys-
ostom, and folding his arms over his chest, he studied the red
coals instead. Soon after, unmistakable steps fell on his ear,
and a light tap at the door was followed by the entrance of the
two girls. Irene came very reluctantly, fearful of intruding;
but he rose, and placed a chair for her close to his own, assur-
ing her that he was glad to see her there. Louisa found the
portfolio, and, bringing it to the table, began to exhibit its
treasures. The two leaned over it, and as Irene sat resting
her cheek on her hand, the beauty of her face and figure was
clearly revealed. Harvey remained silent, watching the chang-
ing expression of the visitor’s countenance; and once he put
out his hand to touch the hair floating over the back and arms
of her chair. Gradually his still heart stirred, his brow
flushed, and a new light burned in the deep, clear eyes,

_ “Louisa, where did you get these?”

‘ eeey
46 MACARIA.

“Brother brought them home when he came from the East.”

Trene lifted her eyes to his and said:

“Did you visit all these places? Did you go to that crum-
bling Temple of the Sun!”

He told her of his visit to the old world, of its mournful
ruins, its decaying glories; of the lessons he learned there; the
sad, but precious memories he brought back, and as he talked
time passed unheeded—she forgot her embarrassment, they
were strangers no longer. The clock struck ten; Louisa rose
at once.

“Thank you, Harvey, for giving us so much of your time.
Father and mother will be waiting for you.”

“Yes, I will join you at once.”

She led the way back to the sitting room, and a few moments
afterward, to Irene’s great surprise, the student came in, and
sitting down before the table, opened the Bible and read a
chapter. Then all knelt and he prayed. There was a strange
spell on the visitor; in all there was something so unexpected.
It was the first time she had ever knelt round the family altar,
and, as she rose, that sitting room seemed suddenly converted
into a temple of worship. Mutual “good-nights” were ex-
changed, and as Irene turned toward the young minister, he
held out his hand. She gave him hers, and he pressed it
gently, saying:

“T trust this is the first of many pleasant evenings which we
shall spend together.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope so, too, for I have not been so happy
since I left home.” ,

He smiled, and she walked on. His mother looked up as
the door closed behind her, and exclaimed:

“What a wonderfully beautiful face she has! Louisa often
rhapsodized about her, and now I am not at all surprised at
her enthusiasm.”

“Yes, such perfection of features as hers is seen but once in
a lifetime. I have traveled over the greater part of the world;
I have looked upon all types of beauty, from the Andalusians,
whom Murillo immortalized, to the far-famed Circassians of
Karbada, but never before have I found such a marvel of loveli-
ness as that girl. In Venice I spent a morning studying one
of Titian’s faces, which somewhat resembles hers; there is an
approximation to the same golden hair—forming a nimbus, as
it were—the same contour of features, but Titian’s picture
MACARIA, TE

lacked her pure, unsearchable, indescribable eyes. Have you
noticed what a rare, anomalous color her hair is? There never
was but one other head like it; the threads of fine gold in that
celebrated lock of her own hair, which Lucretia Borgia gave
Cardinal Bembo, match Irene Huntingdon’s exactly. Well
and truly has it been said of that glittering relic in the Am-
brosian library, ‘If ever hair was golden, it is this of Lucretia
Borgia’s; it is not red, it is not yellow, it is not auburn; it is
golden and nothing else.” I examined it curiously and won-
dered whether the world could furnish a parallel; consequently,
when that girl’s head flashed before me I was startled. Stran-
ger still than her beauty is the fact that it has not spoiled her
thus far.”

He folded his arms over his chest as if crushing out some-
thing.

His mother laughed.

“Why, Harvey! What a riddle you are! Take care, my
son; that child would never do for a minister’s wife.”

“Of course not; who ever dreamed that she would? Good-
night, mother; I shall not be at home to breakfast; do not wait
tor me, I am going to Long Island with Dr. Melville.” He
bent down to receive her customary kiss, and went to his own
room.

“Louisa, how came your brother to be a minister?” asked
Trene, when they had reached their apartment.

“When he was a boy he said he intended to preach, and
father never dissuaded him. I was quite young when he went
to the East, and since his return he has been so engrossed by
his theological studies that we are rarely together. Harvey is
a singular man—so silent, so equable, so cold in his manner,
and yet he has a warm heart. He has declined two calls since
his ordination; Dr. Melville’s health is very poor, and Harvey
frecuently fills his pulpit. Sometimes he talks of going West,
where ministers are scarce; thinks he could do more good there,
but mother will not consent for him to leave us. I am afraid,
though, he will zo—he is so determined when he once makes up
his mind. He is a dear, good brother. I know you will like
him when you know him well; everybody loves Harvey.”

The inclemency of the weather confined the girls to the
house the following day. Harvey was absent at breakfast, and
at dinner the chair opposite Irene’s was still vacant. The after-
noon wore away, and at dusk Louisa opened the piano “and be-
78 MACARIA.

gan to play Thalberg’s “ Home, Sweet Home.” Irene sat on a
sofa near the window, and as she listened, visions of the South
rose before her, till she realized—

“That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.”

She longed inexpressibly for her own home, for her father, for
the suffering friends of the cottage, and, as she thought of his
many trials, Russell’s image was more distinct than all. She
closed her eyes, and felt again his tight clasp of her hands;
his passionate, pleading words sounded once more:

“ Oh, Irene! believe in me! believe in me always,”

It seemed to her so unnatural, so cruel that they should be
separated. Then came the memory of Mrs. Aubrey’s words of
counsel :

“Pray constantly; keep yourself unspotted from the world.”

What would the blind woman think if she knew all the proud,
scornful, harsh feelings which were now in her heart? A sen-
sation of deep contrition and humiliation came upon her; she
knew she was fast losing the best impulses of her nature, and
experienced keen regret that she had yielded to the evil asso-
ciations and temptations of the school. How could she hope to
grow better under such circumstances? What would become
of her? The snow drifted against the panes, making fairy
fretwork, and through the feathery flakes the gaslight at the
corner burned steadily on.

“So ought the light of conscience to burn,” thought she; “so
ought I to do my duty, no matter how I am situated. That
light is all the more necessary because it is stormy and dark.”

Somebody took a seat near her, and though the room was
dim, she knew the tall form and the touch of his hand.

“Good-evening, Miss Irene; we have had a gloomy day.
How have you and Louisa spent it?”

“Not very profitably, I dare say, though it has not appeared
at all gloomy to me. Have you been out in the snow?”

“Yes, my work has been sad. I buried a mother and child
this afternoon, and have just come from a house of orphanage
and grief. It is a difficult matter to realize how many aching
hearts there are in this great city. Our mahogany doors shut
out the wail that hourly goes up to God from the thousand
sufferers in our midst.” «

Just then a servant lighted the chandelier, and Irene saw
that he looked graver than ever. Louisa came up and put her
MACARIA, 79

arm around his neck, but he did not return the caress; said a
few kind words, and rising, slowly paced the floor. As his eye
fell on the piano he paused, saying: “ Come, Louisa, sing that
song for me.”

She sat down, and began “Comfort ye my people,” and
gradually the sadness melted from his features. As Irene lis-
tened to the solemn strains she found it difficult to control her
feelings, and by degrees her head sank until it touched the arm
of the sofa. The minister watched the effect of the music,
and, resuming his seat, said gently:

“Tt is genuine philosophy to extract comfort and aid from
every possible source. There is a vast amount of strength
needed to combat the evils and trials which necessarily occur
in even the sunniest, happiest lives; and I find that sometimes
I derive far more from a song than a lengthy sermon. We are
curious bits of mechanism, and frequently music effects what
learned disputation or earnest exhortation could not accom-
plish. I remember once, when I was a child, I had given my
mother a great deal of trouble by my obstinacy. She had en-
treated me, reasoned with me, and finally punished me, but all
to no purpose; my wickedness had not been conquered. I was
bitter and rebellious, and continued so all day. That evening
she sat down to the piano and sang a hymn for my father.
The instant the strains fell on my ear I felt softened, crept
downstairs to the parlor door, and before she had finished was
crying heartily, begging her forgiveness. When a sublime air
is made the vehicle of a noble sentiment there is no computing
the amount of good it accomplishes, if properly directed. Dur-
ing my visit to London I went to hear a very celebrated divine.
I had just lost a dear friend, the companion who traveled with
me to Jerusalem and Meroe, and I went to church full of sor-
row. The sermon was able, but had no more effect in comfort-
ing me than if I had not listened to it. He preached from that
text of Job treating of the resurrection, and at the conclusion
the very words of his text, ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth,’
were sung by the choir. When the organ rolled its solemn
tones under the dim arched roof, and I heard the voices of the
choir swelling deep and full:

“ «Throb through the ribbed stone,’

then, and not till then, I appreciated the grand words to which
T had listened. The organ spoke to my soul as man could not,
80 MACARIA.

and FI left the church calmed and comforted. All things are
capable of yielding benefit, if properly applied, though it is a
lamentable truth that gross abuse has involved many possible
sources of good in disrepute; and it is our duty to extract ele-
vating influences from all departments. Such an alchemy is
especially the privilege of a Christian.”

As he talked she lifted her beautiful eyes and looked steadily
at him, and he thought that, of all the lovely things he had ever
seen, that face was the most peerless. She drew closer to him,
and said earnestly:

“Then you ought to be happy, Mr. Young.”

“That implies a doubt that I am.”

“You do not seem to me a very happy man.”

“There you mistake me. I presume there are few happier
persons.”

“ Qountenance is not a faithful index, then; you look so ex-
ceedingly grave.”

“Do you suppose that gravity of face is incompatible with
sunshine in the heart?”

“J think it reasonable that the sunshine should sparkle in
the eyes and gleam over the features. But, sir, I should like
to talk to you a little about other things. May I?”

“ Certainly; speak on, and speak freely; you may trust me,
I think.”

He smiled encouragingly as he spoke, and without a mo-
ment’s thought she laid her delicate hand in his.

“Mr. Young, I want somebody to advise me. Very often I
am at a loss about my duty, and, having no one to consult,
either do nothing at all or that which I should not. If it would
not trouble you too much, I should like to bring my difficulties
to you sometimes, and get you to direct me. If you will only
talk frankly to me, as you do to Louisa, oh! I shall be very
grateful.”

He folded his hands softly over the white, fluttering fingers.

“Louisa is my sister, and therefore I do not hesitate to tell
her unwelcome truths. But you happen to be a perfect stran-
ger, and might not relish my counsel.”

“Try me.”

“How old are you? Pardon my inquisitiveness.”

“ Fifteen.”

“ An age when young ladies prefer flattery to truth. Have
you no brother?”
MACARIA, 81

“T am an only child.”

“You would like a brother, however?”

“Yes, sir, above all things.”

“Take care; you express yourself strongly. If you can
fancy me for a brother, consider me such. One thing I can
promise, you will have a guardian sleepless as Ladon, and untir-
ing in his efforts to aid you as if he were in truth a Briareus.
If you are not afraid of espionage, make me your brother.
What say you?”

“T am not afraid, sir; I believe I need watching.”

“ Ah, that you do!” he exclaimed with unusual emphasis.

“He can be very stern, Irene, gentle as he looks,” suggested
Louisa.

“Tf he never found fault with me I should not need his
friendship.”

When Monday morning came, and she was obliged to return
to school, Irene reluctantly bade farewell to the new friends.
She knew that, in conformity to the unalterable regulations of
Crim Tartary, she could only leave the institution once a
month, and the prospect of this long interval between her visits
was by no means cheering. Harvey assisted her into the
carriage.

“T shall send you some books in a day or two, and if you are
troubled about anything before I see you again, write me a note
by Louisa. I would call to see you occasionally if you were
boarding anywhere else. Good-morning, Miss Irene; do not
forget that I am your brother so long as you stay in New York,
or need one.”

The books were not forgotten: they arrived the ensuing
week, and his selection satisfied her'that he perfectly under-
stood what kind of aid she required. Her visit made a last-
ing impression on her mind, and the Sabbath spent in Louisa’s
home often recurred to her in after years, as the memory of
some green, sunny isle of rest haunts the dreams of weary,
tempest-lashed mariners in a roaring sea. Maria Ashley was
a sore trial of patience, and occasionally, after a fruitless
struggle to rise above the temptations presented almost hourly,
Irene looked longingly toward Louisa’s fireside as one turns to
the last source of support. Finally she took refuge in silence,
and, except when compelled to do so, rarely commented upon
anything that occurred. The days were always busy, and
when the text-books were finished, she had recourse to those
82 MACARiA.

supplied by her new friends. At the close of the next month,
instead of accompanying Louisa home, Irene was suffering with
a severe cold, and too much indisposed to quit the house. This
was a grievous disappointment, but she bore it bravely, and
went on with her studies. What a dreary isolation in the midst
of numbers of her own age. It was a thraldom that galled her;
and more than once she implored her father’s permission to re-
turn home. His replies were positive denials, and after a time
she ceased to expect release, until the prescribed course should
be ended. Thus another month dragged itself away. On
Friday morning Louisa was absent. Irene felt anxious and
distressed; perhaps she was ill, something must have happened.
As the day pupils were dismissed she started back to her own
room, heart-sick because of this second disappointment.
“ After all,” thought she, “I may as well accustom myself to
being alone. Of course, I can’t have the Youngs always. I
must learn to depend on myself.” She put away the hat and
cloak laid out in readiness for departure, and sat down to write
to her Aunt Margaret. A few minutes after, a servant
knocked at the door, and infcrmed her that a gentleman wished
to see her in the parlor.

CHAPTER VIII.

“T am so glad to see you, Mr. Young. Louisa is not sick, I
hope?”

“T came for you in Louisa’s place; she is not well enough to
quit her room. Did you suppose that I intended leaving you
here for another month?”

“T was rather afraid you had forgotten me; the prospect was
gloomy ten minutes ago. It seems a long time since I was with
you.”

She stood close to him looking gladly into his face, uncon-
scious of the effect of her words.

“You sent me no note all this time; why not?”

“T was afraid of troubling you; and, besides, I would rather
tell you what I want you to know.”

“Miss Irene, the carriage is at the door. I am a patient
man, and can wait half an hour if you have any preparation to
make.”

In much less time she joined him, equipped for the ride, and
MACARIA. 83

took her place beside him in the carriage. As they reached his
father’s door, and he assisted her out, she saw him look at her
very searchingly.

“Tt is time that you had a little fresh air. You are not
quite yourself. Louisa is in her room; run up to her.”

She found her friend suffering with sore throat, and was
startled at the appearance of her flushed cheeks. Mrs. Young
sat beside her, and after most cordial greetings the latter re-
signed her seat and left them, enjoining upon her daughter the
necessity of remaining quiet.

“ Mother was almost afraid for you to come, but I teased and
coaxed for permission; told her that even if I had the scarlet
fever, you had already had it, and would run no risk. Harvey
says it is not scarlet fever at all, and he persuaded mother to
let him go after you. He always has things his own way,
though he brings it about so quietly that nobody would ever
suspect him of being self-willed. Harvey is a good friend of
qours, Irene.”

“T am very glad to hear it; he is certainly very kind to me.
But recollect, you are not to talk much; let me talk to
you.”

Mrs. Young sent up tea for both, and about nine o’clock Mr.
Young and his son both entered. Louisa had fallen asleep
holding Irene’s hand, and her father cautiously felt the pulse
and examined the countenance. The fever had abated, and
bending down, Harvey said softly:

“Can’t you release your hand without waking her?”

“T am afraid not; have prayer without me to-night.”

After the gentlemen withdrew, Mrs. Young and Irene
watched the sleeper till midnight, when she awoke. The fol-
lowing morning found her much better, and Irene and the
mother spent the day in her room. Late in the afternoon the
minister came in and talked to his sister for some moments,
then turned to his mother.

“Mother, I am going to take this visitor of yours down to
the library; Louisa has monopolized her long enough. Come,
Miss Irene, you shall join them again at tea.”

He led the way, and she followed him very willingly. Placing
her in a chair before the fire, he drew another to the rug, and
seating himself, said just as if speaking to Louisa:

“What have you been doing these two months? What is it
that clouds your face, my little sister?”
84 MACARIA,

“Ah, sir! I am so weary of that school. You don’t know
what a relief it is to come here.”

“Tt is rather natural that you should feel homesick. It is a
fierce ordeal for a child like you to be thrust so far from
home.”

“T am not homesick now, I believe. I have in some degree
become accustomed to the separation from my father; but I am
growing so different from what I used to be; so different from
what I expected. It grieves me to know that I am changing
for the worse; but somehow I can’t help it. I make good reso-
lutions in the morning before I leave my room, and by noon I
manage to break all of them. The girls try me and I lose my
patience. When I am at home nothing of this kind ever
troubles me. I know you think me very weak, and I dare say
I am; still I try much harder than you think I do.”

“Tf you never yielded to temptation you would be more than
mortal. We are all prone to err; and, Miss Irene, did it never
occur to you that, though you may be overcome by the evil
prompting, yet the struggle to resist strengthened you? So
long as life lasts this conflict will be waged; though you have
not always succeeded thus far, earnest prayer and faithful re-
solve will enable you to conquer. Look to a merciful and
watchful God for assistance; ‘divine knowledge took the mease
ure of every human necessity, and divine love and power gath
ered into salvation a more than adequate provision.’ Louisa
has told me the nature of the trials that beset you, and that
you still strive to rise superior to them ought to encourage you.
The books which I sent were calculated to aid you in your
efforts to be gentle, forgiving, and charitable under adverse
circumstances. I use the word charity in its broad, deep, true
significance. Of all charities, mere money-giving is the least;
sympathy, kind words, gentle judgments, a friendly pressure
of weary hands, an encouraging smile, will frequently out-
weigh a mint of coins. Bear this in mind, selfishness is the
real root of all the evil in the world; people are too isolated,
too much wrapped up in their individual rights, interests, or
enjoyments. I, Me, Mine, is the God of the age. There are
many noble exceptions; philanthropic associations abound in
our cities, and individual instances of generous self-denial now
and then flash out upon us. But we ought to live more for
others than we do. Instead of the narrow limits which restrict
so many, the whole family of the human race should possess
MACARIA, 85

our cordial sympathy. In proportion as we interest ourselves
in promoting the gocd and happiness of others our natures be-
come elevated, enlarged; our capacities for enjoyment are de-
veloped and increased. The happiest man I ever knew was a
missionary in Syria. He had* abandoned home, friends, and
country; but, in laboring for the weal of strangers, enjoyed a
peace, a serenity, a deep gladness, such as not the wealth of the
Rothschilds could purchase. Do not misapprehend me. All
cannot be missionaries in the ordinary acceptation of that term.
I believe that very few are really called to spend their lives
under inclement skies, in dreary by-corners of the earth, amid
hostile tribes. But true missionary work lies at every man’s
door, at every woman’s; and, my little sister, yours waits for
you, staring at you daily. ‘Do the work that lies nearest to
thee.” Let me give you the rule of a profound thinker, who
might have accomplished incaleulable good had he walked the
narrow, winding path which he stood far from and pointed out
to others: ‘Know that thou canst work at, and work at it like
a Hercules;’ and amid the holy hills of Jerusalem, the voice
of inspiration exclaimed: ‘ Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
do it with thy might.’ ”

His low voice fell soothingly on her ear; new energy kindled,
new strength was infused, as she listened, and she said hastily:

“Tt would be an easy matter to do all this if I had somebody
like you always near to direct me.”

“Then there would be no glory in conquering. Every soul
has trials which must be borne without any assistance, save
that which the Father mercifully bestows. Remember the
sublime words of Isaiah: ‘I have trodden the wine-press alone;
and of the people there was none with me. And I looked, and
there was none to help, and I wondered that there was none to
uphold; therefore mine own arm brought salvation unto me.’
Miss Irene, you, too, must ‘tread the wine-press alone.’”

She held her breath and looked up at him; the solemn em-
pnasis of his words startled her; they feil upon her weighty. as
prophecy, adumbrating weary years of ceaseless struggle. The
firelight glowed on her sculptured features, and he saw an ex-
pression of vague dread in her glance.

“Miss Irene, yours is not a clinging, dependent disposition;
if I have rightly understood your character, you have never
been accustomed to lean upon others. After relying on your-
self so long, why yield to mistrust now? With years should

\
86 MACARIA,

grow the power, the determination, to do the work you find laid
cut for you.”

“It is precisely because I know how very poorly I have man-
aged myself thus far that I have no confidence in my own
powers for future emergencies? Either I have lived alone too
long, or else not long enough; I rather think the last. If they
had only suffered me to act as I wished, I should have been so
much better at home. Oh, sir! I am not the girl I was eight
months ago. I knew how it would be when they sent me here.”

Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed sadly into the grate,
and saw, amid glowing coals, the walls of the vine-clad cottage,
the gentle face of the blind woman groping her way, the melan-
choly eyes of one inexpressibly dear to her.

“We cannot always live secluded, and at some period of your
life you would have been forced to enter the world and combat
its troubles, even had you never seen New York. It is com-
paratively easy for anchorites to preserve a passionless, equable
temperament; but to ignore the very circumstances and rela-
tions of social existence in which God intended that we should
be purified and ennobled by trial, is both sinful and cowardly.”

Taking a small volume from the table, he read impressively:

““« What are we set on earth for? Say to toil;
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines,
For all the heat o’ the day, till it declines,
And death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with His odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign . . . so others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart, and hand,
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer
And God’s grace fructify through thee to all.’

“Some portentous cloud seems lowering over your future.
What is it? You ought to be a gleeful girl, full of happy
hopes.”

She sank further back in her chair to escape his searching
gaze, and drooped her face lower.

“Yes, yes, I know I ought; but one can’t always shut their
eyes.”

“Shut their eyes to what?”

“Various coming troubles, Mr. Young.”

His lip curled slightly, and, replacing the book on the table,
he said, as if speaking rather to himself than to her:
MACARIA, 87

“<The heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger doth
not intermeddle with his joy.’”

“You are not a stranger, sir.”

“T see you are disposed to consider me such. I thought Y
was your brother. But no matter; after a time all will be well.”

She looked puzzled; and, as the tea-bell summoned them, he
merely added:

“T do not wonder. You are a shy child; but you will soon
learn to understand me; you will come to me with all your
sorrows.”

During the remainder of this visit he saw him no more.
Louisa recovered rapidly, and when she asked for her brother
on Sabbath evening, Mrs. Young said he was to preach twice
that day. Monday morning arrived, and Irene returned to
school with a heavy heart, fearing that she had wounded him;
but a few days after Louisa brought her a book and a brief note
ef kind words. About this time she noticed in her letters from
home allusions to her own future lot which increased her un-
easiness. It was very palpable that her father expected her to
accede to his wishes regarding a union with her cousin; and
she knew only too well how fierce was the contest before her.
Hugh wrote kindly, affectionately; and if she could have
divested her mind of this apprehension, his letters would have
comforted her. Thus situated, she turned to her books with
redoubled zest, and her naturally fine intellect was taxed ‘to the
utmost. Her well-earned pre-eminence in her classes increased
the jealousy, the dislike and censoriousness of her less studious
companions. Months passed; and though she preserved a calm,
impenetrable exterior, taking no heed of sneers and constant
persecution, yet the worm gnawed its slow way, and the plague-
spot spread in that whilom pure spirit.

One Saturday morning she sat quite alone in her small room;
the week had been specially painful, and, wearied in soul, the
girl laid her head down on her folded arms, and thought of
her home in the far South. The spicy fragrance of orange and
magnolia came to her, and Erebus and Paragon haunted her
recollection. Oh! for one ride through the old pine woods.
Oh! for one look at the water lilies bending over the creek.
Only one wretched year had passed; how could she endure those
which were to come! A loud rap startled her from this pain-
ful reverie, and ere she could utter the stereotyped “Come in,”
Lovisa sprang to her side.
88 MACARIA,

“T have come for you, Irene; have obtained permission from
Dr. —— for you to accompany us to the Academy of Design.
Put on your hat; Harvey is waiting in the reception room.
We shall have a charming day.”

“ Ah, Louisa! you are all very kind to recollect me so con*
stantly. It will give me great pleasure to go.”

When they joined the minister, Irene fancied he received her
coldly, and as they walked on he took no part in the conversa-
tion. The annual exhibition had just opened; the rooms were
thronged With visitors, and the hushed tones swelled to a
monotonous hum. Some stood in groups, expatiating eagerly
on certain pictures; others occupied the seats and leisurely
scanned now the paintings, now the crowd. Furnished with a
catalogue, the girls moved slowly on, while Mr. Young pointed
out the prominent beauties or defects of the works ex-
hibited.

They made a circuit of the room and began a second tour,
when their attention was attracted by a girl who stood in one
corner, with her hands clasped behind her. She was gazing very
intently on an Ecce-Homo, and though her face was turned to-
ward the wall, the posture bespoke most unusual interest. She
was dressed in black, and, having removed her straw hat, the
rippling jetty hair, cut short like a boy’s, glistened in the mel-
low light. Irene looked at her an instant, and held her breath;
she had seen only one other head which resembled that—she
knew the purplish waving hair. “ What is the matter?” asked
the minister, noting the change in her countenance. She made
no answer, but leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the face.
Just then the black figure moved slightly; she saw the profile,
the beautiful, straight nose, the arched brow, the clear olive
cheek; and gliding up to her, she exclaimed:

“Electra! Electra Grey!”

The orphan turned, and they were locked in a tight em
brace.

“Oh, Irie! I am so glad to see you. I have been here s.
long, and looked for you so often, that I had almost despaired.
Whenever I walk down Broadway, whenever I go out any-
where, I look at every face, peep into every bonnet, hoping to
find you. Oh! I am so glad.”

Joy flushed the cheeks and fired the deep eyes, and people
turned from the canvas on the walls to gaze upon two faces
surpassing in beauty aught that the Academy contained,
MACARIA, 89

“But what are you doing in New York, Electra? Is Rus-
sell with you? How long have you been here?”

“Since October last. Russell is at home; no, he has no home
now. When my aunt died we separated; I came on to study
under Mr. Clifton’s care. Have you not heard of our loss?”

“T have been able to hear nothing of you. I wrote to Dr.
Arnold, inquiring after you, but he probably never received
my letter.”

“And your father?” queried Electra proudly.

“Father told me nothing.”

“Ts the grave not deep enough for his hate?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t probably know all that I do; but this is no place
to discuss such matters; some time we will talk of it. Do come
and see me soon—soon. I must go now; I promised.”

“Where do you live? I will go home with you now.”

“T am not going home immediately. Mr. Clifton’s house is
No. 85 West street. Come this afternoon.”

With a long, warm pressure of hands they parted, and Irene
stood looking after the graceful figure till it glided out of sight.

“In the name of wonder, who is that? You two have been
the ‘observed of all observers,” ejaculated the impulsive
Louisa.

“That is my old schoolmate and friend of whom I once spoke
. to you. I had no idea that she was in New York. She is a
poor orphan.”

“ Are you ready to return home? This episode has evidently
driven pictures out of your head for to-day,” said Mr. Young,
who had endeavored to screen her from observation.

“Yes, quite ready to go, though I have enjoyed the morning
very much indeed, thanks to your kindness.”

Soon after they reached home Louisa was called into the
parlor to see a young friend, and, as Mrs. Young was absent,
Irene found it rather lonely upstairs. She thought of a new
volume of travels which she had noticed on the hall-table as
+hey entered, and started down to get it. About halfway of

he flight of steps she caught her foot in the carpeting, where
ne of the rods chanced to be loose, and, despite her efforts to
#rasp the railing, fell to the floor of the hall, crushing one arm
under her. The library door was thrown open instantly, and
the minister came out. She lay motionless, and he bent over
her,

 
90 MACARIA,

“Trene! where are you hurt? Speak to me.”

He raised her in his arms and placed her on the sofa in the
sitting room. The motion produced great pain, and she groaned
and shut her eyes. A crystal vase containing some perfume
stood on his mother’s work-table, and, pouring a portion of its
contents in his palm, he bathed her forehead. Acute suffering
distorted her features, and his face grew pallid as her own
while he watched her. Taking her hand, he repeated:

“Trene, my darling! tell me how you are hurt?”

She looked at him, and said with some difficulty:

“My ankle pains me very much, and I believe my arm is
broken. I can’t move it.”

“ Thank God you are not killed!”

He kissed her, then turned away and dispatched a servant
for a physician. He summoned Louisa, and inquired fruit-
lessly for his mother; no one knew whither she had gone; it
would not do to wait for her. He stood by the sofa and pre
pared the necessary bandages, while his sister could only cry
over and caress the sufferer. When the physician came the
white, dimpled arm was bared, and he discovered that the bone
was broken. The setting was extremely painful, but she lay
with closed eyes and firmly compressed lips, uttering no sound,
giving no token of the torture, save in the wrinkling of her
forehead. They bound the arm tightly, and then the doctor
said the ankle was badly strained and swollen, but there was, ,
luckily, no fracture. He gave minute directions to the min-
ister and withdrew, praising the patient’s remarkable forti-
tude. Louisa would talk, and her brother sent her off to pre-
pare a room for her friend.

“T think I had better go back to the institute, Mr. Young.
It will be a long time before I can walk again, and I wish you
would have me earried back. Dr. will be uneasy, and will
prefer my returning, as father left me in his charge.” She
tried to rise, but sank back on the pillow.

“Hush! hush! You will stay where you are, little cripple.
I am only thankful you happened to be here.”

He smoothed the folds of her hair from her temples, and for
the first time played with the curls he had so often before beet,
tempted to touch. She looked so slight, so childish, with her
head nestled against the pillow, that he forgot she was almost
sixteen, forgot everything but the beauty of her pale face, and
bent over her with an expression of the tenderest love. She

——_

 
MACARIA, Qt

was suffering too much to notice his countenance, and only felt
that he was very kind and gentle. Mrs. Young came in very
soon, and heard with the deepest solicitude of what had oc-
curred. Irene again requested to be taken to the school, fear-
ing that she would cause too much trouble during her long
confinement to the house. But Mrs. Young stopped her argu-
ments with kisses and would listen to no such arrangements;,
she would trust to no one but herself to nurse “the bruised
Southern lily.” Having seen that all was in readiness, she in-
sisted on carrying her guest to the room adjoining Louisa’s,
and opening into her own. Mr. Young had gone to Boston the
day before, and, turning to her son, she said:

“Harvey, as your father is away, you must take Irene up-
stairs; I am not strong enough. Be careful that you do not
hurt her.” ‘

She led the way, and, bending down, he whispered:

“My little sister, put this uninjured arm around my neck,,
there—now I shall carry you as easily as if you were in a
cradle.”

He held her firmly, and as he bore her up the steps the white
face lay on his bosom, and the golden hair floated against his
cheek. If she had looked at him then, she would have seen
more than he intended that anyone should know; for, young
and free from vanity though she was, it was impossible to mis-
take the expression of the eyes riveted upon her. She never
knew how his great heart throbbed, nor suspected that he turned
his lips to the streaming curls. As he consigned her to his
mother’s care, she held out her hand and thanked him for his
great kindness, little dreaming of the emotions with which he
held her fingers. He very considerately offered to go at once
to the principal of the school, and acquaint him with all that
had occurred; and, erelong, when an anodyne had been admin-
istered, she fell asleep, and found temporary relief. Mrs.
Young wrote immediately to Mr. Huntingdon, and explained
the circumstances which had made his daughter her guest for
some weeks at least, assuring him that he need indulge no ap-
prehension, whatever on her account, as she would nurse her as
tenderly as a mother could. Stupefied by the opiate, Irene
took little notice of what passed, except when roused by the
pain consequent upon dressing the ankle. Louisa went tv
school as usual, but her mother rarely left her guest; and afte
Mr. Young’s return he treated her with all the affectionate cons
92 MACARIA.

sideration of a parent. Several days after the occurrence oy
the accident Irene turned toward the minister, who stood talk-
ing to his mother.

“Your constant kindness emboldens me to ask a favor of
you, which I think you will scarcely deny me. I am very anx-
ious to see the friend whom I so unexpectedly met at the
Academy of Design; and if she knew the circumstances that
prevent my leaving the house, I am very sure she would come
to me. Here is a card containing her address; will you spare
me the time to bring her here to-day? I shall be very much
obliged to you.”

“T think you ought to keep perfectly quiet, and see no com-
pany for a few days. Can’t you wait patiently?”

“T+ will do me no harm to see her. I feel as if I could not
wait.”

“Very well. I will go after her as soon as I have fulfilled a
previous engagement. What is her name?”

“Electra Grey. Did you notice her face?”

“Yes; but why do you ask?”

“Because I think she resembles your mother.”

“ She resembles far more an old portrait hanging in my room.
I remarked it as soon as I saw her.”

He seemed lost in thought, and immediately after left the
room. An hour later, Irene’s listening ear detected the open-
ing and closing of the hall door.

“There is Electra on the steps; I hear her voice. Will you
please open the door?”

Mrs. Young laid down her work and rose to comply, but
Harvey ushered the stranger in and then retired.

The lady of the house looked at the newcomer, and a startled
expression came instantly into her countenance. She made a
step forward and paused irresolute.

“Mrs. Young, allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Electra
Grey.” Electra bowed, and Mrs. Young exclaimed:

“Grey! Grey! Electra Grey; and so like Robert? Oh, it
must be so. Child, who are you? Where are your parents?”

She approached and put her hand on the girl’s shoulders,
while a hopeful light kindled in her eyes.

“T am an orphan, madam, from the South. My father died
before my birth, my mother immediately after.”

“Was your father’s name Robert? Where was he from?”

“is name was Enoch R. Grey. I don’t know what his
MACARIA, 93

middle name was. He came originally from Pennsylvania, 1
believe.” -

“Oh, I knew that I could not be mistaken! My brother’s
child! Robert’s child!”

She threw her arms around the astonished girl, and strained
her to her heart.

“There must be some mistake, madam. I never heard that
I had relatives in New York.”

“Oh, child! call me aunt; I am your father’s sister. We
called him by his middle name, Robert, and for eighteen years
have heard nothing of him. Sit down here, and let me tell you
the circumstances. Your father was the youngest of three
children, and in his youth gave us great distress by his wild-
ness; he ran away from college and went to sea. After an ab-
sence of three years he returned, almost a wreck of his former
self. My mother had died during his long voyage to the South
Sea Islands, and father, who believed him to have been the re-
mote cause of her death (for her health failed soon after he
left), upbraided him most harshly and unwisely. His re-
wroaches drove poor Robert to desperation, and, without giving
us any clew, he left as suddenly as before. Whither he went
we never knew. Father was so incensed that he entirely disin-
herited him; but at his death, when the estate was divided, my
brother William and I decided that we would take only what
we considered our proportion, and we set apart one-third for
Robert. We advertised for several years, and. could hear noth-
ing of him; and, at the end of the fifth year, William divided
that remaining third. We knew that he must have died, and
I have passed many a sleepless night weeping over his wretched
lot, mourning that no kind words reached him from us; that
no monumental stone marked his unknown grave. Oh, my
dear child! I am so glad to find you out. But where have you
been all this time? Where did Robert die?”

She held the orphan’s hand, and made no attempt to conceal
the tears that rolled over her cheeks. Electra gave her a de-
tailed account of her life from the time when she was taken to
her uncle, Mr. Aubrey, at the age of four months, till the death
of her aunt and her removal to New York.

“ And Robert’s child has been in want, while we knew not of
her existence? Oh, Electra! you shall have no more sorrow
that we can shield you from. I lovéd your father very devot-
edly, and I shall love his orphan quite as dearly. Come to me,
94 MACARIA,.

let me be your mother. Let me repair the wrong of bygone
years.” ;

She folded her arms around the graceful young form and
‘sobbed aloud, while Irene found it difficult to repress her own
tears of sympathy and joy that her friend had found such rela-
tives. Of the three, Electra was calmest. Though glad to
meet with her father’s family, she knew better than they that
this circumstance could make little alteration in her life, and
therefore, when Mrs. Young had left the room to acquaint her
husband and son with the discovery she had made, Electra sat
down beside her friend’s sofa just as she would have done two
hours before.

“T am so glad for your sake that you are to come and live
here. Until you know them all as well as I do, you cannot
properly appreciate your good fortune,” said Irene, raising her-
self on her elbow.

“Yes, I am very glad to meet my aunt,” returned Electra
evasively, and then she added earnestly:

“ But I rather think that I am gladder still to see you again.
Oh, Irene! it seems an age since I came to this city. We have
both changed a good deal; you look graver than when we parted
that spring morning that you took me to see the painter. I
owe even his acquaintance to your kindness.”

“Tell me of all that happened after I left home. You know
that I have heard nothing.”

The orphan narrated the circumstances connected with her
aunt’s last illness and death; the wretchedness that came upon
her and Russell; the necessity of their separation.

“ And where is Russell now?”

“ At home—that is, still with Mr. Campbell, who has proved
a kind friend. Russell writes once a week; he seems tolerably
cheerful, and speaks confidently of his future as a lawyer. He
studies very hard, and knowing his will power I am sure that
he will succeed.”

“Your cousin is very ambitious. I wish he could have had a
good education.”

“Tt will be all the same in the end. He will educate himself
thoroughly; he needs nobody’s assistance,” answered Electra
with a proud smile.

“When you write to him again don’t forget to tender him my
remembrances and best wishes,”

“ Thank you.”
MACARIA. 95

A slight change came over the orphan’s countenance, and her
companion noted without understanding it.

“Electra, you spoke of my father the other day in a way
that puzzled me, and I wish, if you please, you would tell me
what you meant.” ;

“T don’t know that I ought to talk about things that should
have been buried before you were born. But you probably
know something of what happened. We found out after you
left why you were so suddenly sent off to boarding-school, and
you can have no idea how much my poor aunt was distressed at
the thought of having caused your banishment. Irene, your
father hated her, and of course you know it; but do you know
why?”

“No; I never could imagine any adequate cause.”

“Well, I can tell you. Before Aunt Amy’s marriage your
father loved her, and to please her parents she accepted him.
She was miserable, because she was very much attached to my
uncle, and asked Mr. Huntingdon to release her from the en-
gagement. He declined, and, finding that her parents sided
with him, she left home and married against their wishes.
They adopted a distant relative, and never gave her a cent.
Your father never forgave her. He had great influence with
the Governor, and she went to him and entreated him to aid
her in procuring a pardon for her husband. He repulsed her
cruelly, and used his influence against my uncle. She after-
ward saw a letter which he wrote to the Governor, urging him
to withhold a pardon. Oh, Irene! if you could have seen Rus-
sell when he found out all this. Now you have the key to his
hatred; now you understand why he wrote you nothing of us.
Not even Aunt Amy’s coffin could shut in his hate.”

She rose, and, walking to the window, pressed her face
against the panes to cool her burning cheeks.

Irene had put her hand over her eyes, and a fearful pano-
rama of coming years rolled before her in that brief moment.
She saw with miserable distinctness the parallelism between
Mrs. Aubrey’s father and her own, and, sick at heart, she
moaned, contemplating her lot. A feeling of remorseful com-
passion touched the orphan as she heard the smothered sound,
and, resuming her seat, she said gently:

“Do not be distressed, Irene; ‘let the dead past bury its
dead’; it is all over now, and no more harm can come of it. I
shall be sorry that I told you if you let it trouble you.”
96 MACARIA,

Irene knew too well that it was not over; that it was but the
beginning of harm to her; but she repressed her emotion, and
changed the subject by inquiring how Electra progressed with
her painting.

“Even better than I hoped. Mr. Clifton is an admirable
master, and does all that he can to aid me. I shall succeed,
Irene; I know, I feel that I shall, and it is a great joy to me.”

“T am very glad to hear it; but now you will have no need to
labor, as you once expected to do. You are looking much bet-
ter than I ever saw you, and have grown taller. You are nearly
sixteer, I believe.” ‘

“Yes, sixteen. I am three months your senior. Irene, I
must go home now, for they will wonder what has become of
me. I will see you again soon.”

She was detained by her aunt, and presented to the remain-
der of the family, and it was arranged that Mr. and Mrs.
Young should visit her the ensuing day. While they talked
over the tea-table of the newly-found, Harvey went slowly up-
stairs and knocked at Irene’s door. Louisa was chattering
delightedly about her cousin, and sending her down to her tea,
he took her seat beside the sofa. Irene lay with her fingers
over her eyes, and he said gently:

“You see that I am wiser than you, Irene. I knew that it
would do you no good to have company. Next time be ad-
vised.”

“Tt was not Electra that harmed me.”

“Then you admit that you have been harmed?”

“No; I am low-spirited to-night; I believe that is all.”

“You have not studied dialectics yet. People are not low-
spirited without a cause; tell me what troubles you.”

She turned her face to the. wall, and answered:

“Oh! there is nothing that I can tell you, sir.”

“Trene, why do you distrust me?”

“TI do not; indeed I do not. You must not believe that for
one moment.”

“You are distressed, and yet you will not confide in me.”

“Tt is something which I ought not to tell even my friend,
my brother.”

“You are sure that it is something I could not remedy?”

“Yes, sir; perfectly sure.”

“Then try to forget it, and let me read to you.”

He opened the “Rambler,” of which she was particularly
MAOARIA, 97

fond, and began to read. For a while she listened, and in her
interest forgot her forebodings, but after a time her long, silky
lashes swept her cheeks, and she slept. The minister laid down
the volume and watched the pure, girlish face; noted all its
witching loveliness, and thought of the homage which it would
win her in coming years. A few more fleetmg months, and she
would reign the undisputed queen of society. Wealth, intel-
lect, manly beauty, all would bow before her; and she was a
woman; would doubtless love and marry, like the majority of
women. He set this fact before him and looked it in the face,
but it would not answer; he could not realize that she would
ever be other than the trusting, noble-hearted, beautiful child
which she was to him. He knew, as he sat watching her slum-
ber, that he loved her above everything on earth; that -she
wielded a power none had ever possessed before—that his heart
was indissolubly linked with hers. He had wrestled with this
infatuation, had stationed himself on the platform of common
sense, and railed at and ridiculed this piece of folly. His clear,
cool reason gave solemn verdict against the fiercely-throbbing
heart, but not one pulsation had been restrained. At his age,
with his profession and long-laid plans, this was arrant mad-
ness, and he admitted it; but the long down-trodden feelings of
his heart, having gained momentary freedom, exultingly ran
riot and refused to be reined in. He might just as well have
laid his palm on the whitened crest of surging billows in
stormy, tropical seas, and bid them sink softly down to their
coral pavements. Human passions, hatred, ambition, revenge,
love, are despots; and the minister, who for thirty years had
struggled for mastery over these, now found himself a slave.
He had studied Irene’s countenance too well not to know that a
shadow rested on it now; and it grieved and perplexed him
that she should conceal this trouble from him. As he sat look-
ing down at her a mighty barrier rose between them. His
future had long been determined—duty called him to the rude
huts of the far West; thither pointed the finger of destiny, and
thither, at all hazards, he would go. He thought that he had
habituated himself to sacrifices, but the spirit of self-abnega-
tion was scarcely equal to this trial. Reason taught him that.
the tenderly-nurtured child of Southern climes would never
suit him for a companion in the pioneer life which he had
marked out. Of course he must leave her; hundreds of miles
would intervene; his memory would fade from her mind, and
98 MACARIA.

for him it only remained to bury her image in the prairies of
his new home. He folded his arms tightly over his chest, and
resolved to go promptly.

The gaslight flashed on Irene’s hair as it hung over the side
of the sofa; he stooped and pressed his lips to the floating curls,
and went down to the library, smiling grimly at his own folly.
Without delay he wrote two letters, and was dating a third,
when his mother came in. Placing a chair for her, he laid
down his pen.

“T am glad to see you, mother; I want to have a talk with
you.”

“ About what, Harvey?” An anxious look settled on her
face.

“ About my leaving you, and going West. I have decided to
start next week.”

“Oh, my son! how can you bring such grief upon me? Surely
there is work enough for you to do here, without your tearing
yourself from us.”

“Yes, mother, work enough, but hands enough also, without
mine. These are the sunny slopes of the vineyard, and laborers
crowd to till them; but there are cold, shadowy, barren nooks
and corners, that equally demand cultivation. There the lines
have fallen to me, and there I go to my work. Nay, mother!
don’t weep, don’t heighten, by your entreaties and remonstrances,
the barriers to my departure. -It is peculiarly the province of
such as I to set forth for this field of operations; men who have
wives and children have no right to subject them to the priva-
tions and hardships of pioneer life. But I am alone—shall -
always be so—and this call I feel to be imperative. You know
that I have dedicated myself to the ministry, and whatever I
firmly believe to be my duty to the holy cause I have espoused,
that I must do, even though it separate me from my mother.
It is a severe ordeal to me—you will probably never know how
severe; but we who profess to yield up all things for Christ
must not shrink from sacrifice. I shall come back now and
then, and letters are a blessed medium of communication and
consolation. I have delayed my departure too long already.”

“Oh, Harvey! have you fully determined on this step?”

“Yes, my dear mother, fully determined to go.”

“Tt is very hard for me to give up my only son. I can’t say
that I will reconcile myself to this separation; but you are old
enough to decide your own future; and I suppose I ought not
MACARIA, 99

to urge you. For months I have opposed your resolution, now
T will not longer remonstrate. Oh, Harvey! it makes my heart
ache to part with you. If you were married, I should be better
satisfied; but to think of you in your loneliness!” She laid
her head on his shoulder and wept.

The minister compressed his lips firmly an instant, then re-
plied:

“T always told you that I should never marry. I shall be
too constantly occupied to sit down and feel lonely. Now,
mother, I must finish my letters, if you please, for they should
go by the earliest mail.”

CHAPTER IX.

The artist stood at the window watching for his pupil’s re-
turn; it was the late afternoon hour, which they were wont to
spend in reading, and her absence annoyed him. As he rested
earelessly against the window, his graceful form was displayed
to great advantage, and the long brown hair drooped about a
classical face of almost feminine beauty. ‘The delicacy of his
features was enhanced by the extreme pallor of his complexion,
and it was apparent that close application to his profession had
made sad inroads on a constitution never very robust. A cer-
tain listlessness of manner, .a sort of lazy grace seemed char-
acteristic; but when his pupil came in and laid aside her hat,
the expression of ennui vanished, and he threw himself on a
sofa, looking infinitely relieved. She drew near, and without
hesitation acquainted him with the discovery of her relatives
in New York. He listened in painful surprise, and, ere she
had concluded, sprang up. “TI understand! they will want to
take you; will urge you to share their home of wealth. But,
Electra, you won’t leave me; surely you won’t leave me?”

He put his hands on her shoulders, and she knew from his

-quick, irregular breathing, that the thought of separation
greatly distressed hii.

“My aunt has not explicitly invited me to reside with her,
though I inferted from her manner that she confidently ex-
pects me to do so. Irene also spoke of it as a settled matter.”

“You will not allow them to persuade’ you? Oh, child, tell
me at once you will never léave me.’

“Mr. Clifton, we must part some day; I cannot always live

‘i
100 MACARIA,

here, you know. Before very long J must go out and earn my
bread.”

“Never! while I live. When I offered you a home, I expected
it to be a permanent one. I intended to adopt you. Here, if
you choose, you may work and earn a reputation; but away
from me, among strangers, never. Electra, you forget, you
gave yourself to me once.”

She shuddered, and tried to release herself, but the hands
were relentless in their grasp.

' “Electra, you belong to me, my child. Whom have I to love
but you, my dear pupil? What should I do without you?”

“T have no intention of living with my aunt; I desire to be
under obligations to no one but yourself. But I am very proud,
and even temporary dependence on you galls me. You are, I
believe, the best friend I have on earth, and until I can support
myself I will remain under your care; longer than that it would
be impossible. I am bound to you, my generous, kind master,
as to no one else.”

“This does not satisfy me; the thought that you will leave
me at even a distant day will haunt me continually—marring
all my joy. It cannot be, Electra! You gave yourself to me
once, and I claim you.”

She looked into his eyes, and, with a woman’s quick percep-
tion, read all the truth.

In an instant her countenance changed painfully; she
stooped, touched his hand with her lips, and exclaimed:

“Thank you a thousand times, my friend, my father; for
your interest in, and your unvarying, unparalleled kindness to
me. All the gratitude and affection which a child could give
to a parent I shall always cherish toward you. Since it annoys
you, we will say no more about the future; let the years take
care of themselves as they come.”

“Will you promise me positively that you will not go to your
aunt?” :

“Yes; I have never seriously entertained the thought.”

She escaped from his hands, and, lighting the gas, applied
herself to her books for the next hour.

If Irene found the restraint of boarding-school irksome, the
separation from Russell was well-nigh intolerable to Electra.
At first she had seemed plunged into lethargy; but after a time
this mood gave place to restless, unceasing activity. Like one
‘trying to flee from something painful, she rushed daily to her
MACARIA, 101

work, and regretted when the hours of darkness consigned her
to reflection. Mrs. Clifton was quite aged, and though uni-
formly gentle and affectionate toward the orphan, there was no
common ground of congeniality on which they could meet. To
a proud, exacting nature like Electra’s, Mr. Clifton’s constant
manifestations of love and sympathy were very soothing.
Writhing under the consciousness of her cousin’s indifference,
she turned eagerly to receive the tokens of affection showered
upon her. She knew that his happiness centered in her, and
vainly fancied that she could feed her hungry heart with his
adoration. But by degrees she realized that these husks would
not satisfy her; and a singular sensation of mingled gratitude
and impatience arose whenever he caressed her. In his house
her fine intellect found ample range; an extensive library wooed
her when not engaged with her pencil, and with eager curiosity
she plunged into various departments of study. As might
easily have been predicted, from the idealistic tendency of her
entire mental conformation, she early selected the imaginative
realm as peculiarly her own. Over moth-eaten volumes of
mythologic lore she pored continually; effete theogonies and
cosmogonies seized upon her fancy, and peopled all space with
‘the gods and heroes of most ancient days. She lived among
weird phantasmagoric creations of Sages and Puranas, and
roamed from Asgard to Kinkadulle, having little sympathy
or care for the realities that surrounded her. Mr. Clifton’s
associates were principally artists, and the conversations
to which she listened tended to increase her enthusiasm
for the profession she had chosen. She had no female
companion, except Mrs. Clifton, and little leisure to discuss the
topics which ordinarily engage girls of her age. The warm
gushings of her heart were driven back to their springs, and
locked from human gaze; yet she- sometimes felt her isolation
almost intolerable. To escape from herself, she was goaded
into feverish activity, and, toiling to-day, shut her eyes to the
to-morrow.

She counted the days between Russell’s letters; when they
arrived, snatched them with trembling fingers, and hastened to
her own room to devour them. Once read and folded away,
this thought fell with leaden weight upon her heart:

“There is so little in this letter, and how I must wait another
long week for the next.”

He never surmised half her wretchedness, for she proudly
102 MAOARIA.

concealed her discontent, and wrote as if happy and hopeful,
The shell of her reserve was beautifully polished and painted,
and it never occurred to him that it enclosed dark cells, where
only wailings echoed. In figure she was decidedly petite, but
faultlessly symmetrical and graceful; and the piquant beauty
of her face won her the admiration of those who frequented the
studio.

Among the artists especially she was a well-established pet,
privileged to inspect their work whenever she felt disposed, and
always warmly welcomed. They encouraged her in her work,
stimulated her by no means dormant ambition, and predicted a
brilliant and successful career. Mrs. Clifton was a rigid
Roman Catholic, her son a free-thinker, in the broadest signifi-
eance of the term, if one might judge from the selections that
adorned his library shelves. But deep in his soul was the ger-
mination of a mystical creed, which gradually unfolded itself
to Electra. The simple yet sublime faith of her aunt rapidly
faded from the girl’s heart; she turned from its severe sim-
plicity to the gorgeous accessories of other systems. The pomp
of ceremonial, the bewildering adjuncts of another creed, wooed
her overweening, excited fancy. Of doctrine she knew little,
and cared less; the bare walls and quiet service of the old
church at home had for her no attraction; she reveled in dim
cathedral light, among mellow, ancient pictures, where pale
wreaths of incense curled, and solemn organ tones whispered
through marble aisles. She would sit with folded arms, watch-
ing the forms of devotees glide in and out, and prostrate them-
selves before the images on the gilt altar; and fancy wafted her,
at such times, to the dead ages of imperial Greece, when devout
hearts bore offerings to Delphi, Delos, Dodona, and Eleusis. An
arch-idolatress she would have been in the ancient days of her
Mycenzean namesake—a priéstess of Demeter or Artemis. At
all hazards this dainty fancy must be pampered, and she gleaned
aliment from every source that could possibly yield it, fostering
a despotic tendency which soon towered above every other ele-
ment of her being. The first glimpse of her teacher’s Sweden-
borgian faith was sufficient to rivet her attention. She watched:
the expansion of his theories, and essayed to follow the pro-
found trains of argumentation, based on physical analogies and
corréspondences, which led him so irresistibly to his conclu-
sions. But dialectics formed no portion of her intellectual
heritage, and her imagination, seizing, by a kind of secret
MACARIA, 103

affinity, the spiritualistic elements of the system, turned with
loathing from the granite-like, scientific fundamentals. Irene
would have gone down among the mortar and bricks, measuring
the foundations, but Electra gazed upon the exquisite acanthus
wreathings of the ornate capitals, the glowing frescoes of the
mighty nave, and here was content to rest. Mr. Clifton never
attempted to restrain her movements or oppose her inclinations;
like a bee she roved ceaselessly from book to book, seeking
honey, and, without the safeguard of its unerring instinct, she
frequently gathered poison from lovely chalices. Ah, Amy
Aubrey! it was an evil day for your orphan charge, when
Atropos cut the tangled thread of your life, and you left her to
follow the dictates of her own temperament. Yet otherwise,
nature could never have fully woven the pattern; it would have
been but a blurred, imperfect design. It was late at night when
Electra retired to her room, and sat down to collect her thoughts
after the unexpected occurrences of the day.

More than one discovery had been made since the sunrise,
which she awoke so early to study. She had found relatives,
and an opportunity of living luxuriously; but, in the midst of
this beautiful bouquet of surprises, a serpent’s head peered out
at her. Once before she thought she had caught sight of its
writhing folds, but it vanished too instantaneously to furnish
disquiet. Now its glittering eyes held her spellbound; like the
Pentagram in Faust, it kept her in “ durance vile.” She would
‘fain have shut her eyes had it been possible. Mr. Clifton loved
her; not as a teacher his pupil, not as guardian loves ward, not
as parent loves child. Perhaps he had not intended that she
should know it so soon, but his eyes had betrayed the secret.
She saw perfectly how matters stood. This, then, had prompted
him, from the first, to render her assistance; he had resolved to
make her his wife; nothing less would content him. She
twisted her white fingers in her hair, and gazed vacantly down
on the carpet, and gradually the rich crimson blood sank out of
her face. She held his life in the hollow of her hand, and this
she well knew; death hung over him like the sword of Dam-
deles; she had been told that any violent agitation or grief
would bring on the hemorrhage which he so much dreaded, and
althdiigh he séemed stronger and better than usual, the insidi-
ous nature of the disease gave her little hope that he would

. ever bé robust. To feign ignorance of his real feelings for lier
would prove but a temporary stratagem; the time must in-
LU MAUAKIA,

evitably come, before long, when he would put aside this veil
and set the truth before her. How’should she meet it—how
should she evade him? Accept the home which Mrs. Young
would offer her, and leave him to suffer briefly, to sink swiftly
into the tomb? No; her father’s family had cast him most
unjustly off, withholding his patrimony; and now she scorned
to receive one cent of the money which his father was unwilling
that he should enjoy. Besides, who loved her as well as Henry
Clifton? She owed more to him than to any living being; it
would be the part of an ingrate to leave him; it was cowardly
to shrink from repaying the debt. But the thought of being
his wife froze her blood, and heavy drops gathered on her brow
as she endeavored to reflect upon this possibility.

A feeling of unconquerable revulsion sprang up in her heart,
nerving, steeling her against his affection. With a strange in-
stantaneous reaction, she thought with loathing of his words of
endearment. How could she endure them in future, yet how
reject without wounding him? One, and only one, path of
escape presented itself—a path of measureless joy. She lifted
her hands and murmured:

“ Russell! Russell! save me from this.”

When Mr. and Mrs. Young visited the studio the following
day, and urged the orphan’s removal to their house, she gently
but resolutely declined their generous offer, expressing an
affectionate gratitude toward her teacher, and a determination
not to leave him, at least for the present. Mrs. Young was
much distressed, and adduced every argument of which she was
mistress, but her niece remained firm; and, finding their en-
treaties fruitless, Mr. Young said he would immediately take
the necessary steps to secure Robert Grey’s portion of the estate
to his daughter. Electra sat with her hand nestled in her.
aunt’s, but when this matter was alluded to she rose, and said
proudly:

“No, sir; let the estate remain just as it is. I will never ac-
cept one cent. My grandfather on his death-bed excluded my
father from any portion of it, and since he willed it so, even |
so it shall be. I have no legal claim to a dollar, and I will
never receive one from your generosity. It was the will of the
dead that you and my Uncle William should inherit the whole,
and, as far as I am concerned, have it you shall. I am poor, I
know; so were my parents; poverty they bequeathed as my
birthright, and even as they lived without aid from my grand-
:

MACARIA, 105

father, so will I. It is very noble and generous in you, after
the expiration of nearly twenty years, to be willing to divide
with the orphan of the outcast; but I will not, cannot, allow you
todo so. I fully appreciate and most cordially thank you both
for your goodness; but I am young and strong, and I expect to
earn my living. Mr. Clifton and his mother want me to re-
main in his house until I finish my studies, and I gratefully
accept his kind offer. Nay, aunt! don’t let it trouble you so; I
shall visit you very frequently.”

“She has all Robert’s fierce obstinacy. I see it in her eyes,
hear it ringing in the tones of her voice. ‘Take care, child! it
ruined your father,” said Mrs. Young sorrowfully.

“You should remember, Electra, that an orphan girl needs a
protector; such I would fain prove myself.”

As Mr. Young spoke, he took one of her hands and drew her
to him. She turned quickly and laid the other on the artist’s
arm,

“T have one here, sir; a protector as true and kind as my
own father could be.”

She understood the flash of his eyes and his proud smile as
he assured her relatives that he would guard her from harm and
want so long as he lived, or as she remained under his care.
She knew he regarded this as a tacit sealing of the old com-
pact, and she had no inclination to undeceive him at this
juncture.

Urging her to visit them as often as possible, and extending
the invitation to Mr. Clifton, the Youngs withdrew, evidently
much disappointed; and, as the door closed upon them, Electra
felt that the circle of doom was narrowing around her. Mr.
Clifton approached her, but averting her head she lifted the
damask curtain that divided the parlor from the studio and
effected her retreat, dreading to meet his glance—putting off
the evil day as long as possible—trying to trample the serpent
that trailed after her from that hour.

CHAPTER X.

“You are better to-day, mother tells me.”

“Yes, thank you, my foot is much better. You have not
been up to see me for two days.”

Irene sat in an easy chair by the open window, and the
minister took a seat near her.

oe
106 MACARIA,

“T have not forgotten you in the interim, however.” As he
spoke he laid a bouquet of choice flowers in her lap. She bent
over them with eager delight, and held out her hand, saying:

“Oh, thank you; how very kind you are. These remind me
of the greenhouse at home; they are the most beautiful I have
seen in New York.”

“Trene, the man or woman who is impervious to the subtle,
spiritualizing influence of flowers, may feel assured that there
is something lamentably amiss in either his or her organiza-
tion or habits of life. They weave rosy links of association
more binding than steel, and sometimes of incalculable value.
Amid the awful solitude of Alpine glaciers, I recollect the
thrill of pleasure which the blue gentians caused me, as I noted
the fragile petals shuddering upon the very verge of fields of
eternal snow; and among my cherished memories of the far
East are its acacias and rhododendrons; the scarlet poppies
waving like a ‘mantle of blood’ over Syrian valleys, and the
oleanders fringing the gray, gloomy crags and breathing their
exquisite fragrance over the silent desolation of that grand city
of rock—immemorial Petra. I have remarked your fondness
for flowers; cultivate it always; they are evangels of purity and
faith, if we but unlock our hearts to their ministry. Callous and
sordid indeed must be that soul who fails in grateful apprecia-
tion of gifts designed especially to promote the happiness and
adorn the dwellings of our race; for in attestation of this truth
stand the huge, hoary tomes of geology, proving that the pre-
Adamic ages were comparatively barren of the gorgeous flowers
which tapestried the earth so munificently just ere man made
his appearance on the stage. A reverent student of the rocks,
who spent his life in listening to the solemn, oracular whispers
of their grand; granite lips, that moved Memnon-like, as he
flashed the light of Revelation upon them, tells us: ‘ The poet
accepted the bee as a sign of high significance; the geologist,
also, accepts her as a sign. Her entombed remains testify to
the gradual fitting up of our earth‘as a place of habitation for
a creature destined to seek delight for the mind and eye as cer-
tainly as for the grosser senses, and in especial mark the intro-
duction of stately forest trees, and the arrival of the delicious
flowers,’

“A profound thinker, who is now doing a noble work for
his generation by pointing it to unstained sources of happi-
ness, has said of flowers: ‘They are chalices of Divine work-
manship—of purple, and scarlet, and liquid gold—from which
MACARIA. 107

man is to drink the pure joy of beauty.’ There is, you know,
a graduated scale of missionary work for all created things;
man labors for God and his race through deep, often tortuous
channels, and nature, all animate and inanimate nature, min-
isters in feebler yet still heaven-appointed processes. The
trouble is that in the rush and din and whirl of life, we will
‘not pause to note these sermons; and from year to year the
whispered precepts of faith, hope, and charity fall-on deaf ears.
Nature is so prodigal of refining, elevating influences, and man
is so inaccessible in his isolating, inflated egotism.”

He paused and busied himself in cutting the leaves of a new
book, while Irene looked into his calm, noble face, pondering
his words; then her eyes went back to the bouquet, and his
dwelt once more upon her.

“Trene, you look sober to-day; come, cheer up. I don’t want
to carry that grave expression away with me. I wish to re-
member your face as I first saw it, unshadowed.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to leave home?”

“Yes, day after to-morrow I bid farewell to New York for a
long time. I am going to the West to take charge of a
church.”

“Oh, Mr. Young! surely you are not in earnest? You can-
not intend to separate yourself from your family?”

She dropped her flowers and leaned forward.

“Yes, I have had it in contemplation for more than a year,
and recently I have decided to remove at once.”

He saw the great sorrow written in her countenance, the
quick flutter of her lip, the large drops that dimmed the violet
eyes and gathered on the long, golden lashes, and far sweeter
than an A®olian harp was the broken voice:

“What shall I do without you; who will encourage and advise
me when you go?”

She leaned her forehead on her hands, and a tear slid down
and rested on her chin. The sun was setting, and the crimson
light flooding the room bathed her with glory, spreading a halo
around her. He held his breath and gazed upon the drooping
figure and bewitching face; and, in after years, when his dark
hair had grown silvery gray, he remembered the lovely, sun-lit
vision that so entranced him, leaving an indelible image on
heart and brain. He gently removed the hands, and holding
them in his, said, in the measured, low tone so indicative of sup-
pressed emotion:

“Trene, my friend, you attach too much importance to the
108 MAOARIA.

aid which I might render you. You know your duty, and I fee]
assured will not require to be reminded of it. Henceforth our
paths diverge widely. I go to a distant section of our land,
there to do my Father’s work; and, erelong, having completed
the prescribed course, you will return to your Southern home
and take the position assigned you in society. Thus, in all
human probability, we shall meet no more, for ie

“Oh, sir! don’t say that; you will come back to visit your
family, and then I shall see you.”

“That is scarcely probable, but we will not discuss it now.
There is, however, a channel of communication for separated
friends, and of this we must avail ourselves. I shall write to
you from Western wilds, and letters from you will most pleas-
antly ripple the monotonous life I expect to lead. This is the
last opportunity I shall have to speak with you; let me do so
freely, just as I would to Louisa. You are young, and rather
peculiarly situated; and sometimes I fear that, in the great
social vortex awaiting you, constant temptation and friv-
olous associations will stifle the noble impulses nature gave to
guide you.’ As you grow older you will more fully comprehend
my meaning, and find that there are social problems which
every true-hearted man and woman should earnestly strive to
solve. These will gradually unfold themselves as the web of
time unravels before you. You will occupy an elevated stand-
point of view, and you must take care that, unlike the great
‘mass of mankind, you do not grow callous, turning a deaf ear
to the cry, ‘the laborers are few.’ It is not woman’s place to
obtrude herself in the pulpit or harangue from the rostrum;
such an abnormal course levels the distinctions which all-wise
God established between the sexes, but the aggregate of her
usefulness is often greater than man’s. Irene, I want you to
wield the vast influence your Maker has given you nobly and
for His glory. Let your unobtrusive yet consistent, resolute,
unerring conduct leave its impress for good wherever you are
known. I would not have you debar yourself from a single
avenue of pure enjoyment; far from it. Monkish asceticism
and puritanic bigotry I abhor; but there is a happy medium
between the wild excesses of so-called fashionable life and the
strait-laced rigidity of narrow-minded phariseeism; and this
I would earnestly entreat you to select. To discover and ad-
here to this medium path is almost as difficult as to skip across
the Arabic Al-Sirat, of which we read last week. Ultraism is

 
MACARIA, 109

the curse of our race, as exemplified in all departments of
society; avoid it, dear child; cultivate enlarged views of life,
suppress selfishness, and remember that charity is the keystone
of Christianity.”

“JT have not the strength which you impute to me.”

“Then seek it from the everlasting Source.”

“T do, but God does not hear me.”

“You are too easily disheartened; strive to be faithful, and
He will aid you, brace you, uphold you. Will it be any com-
fort to you to know that I remember you in my prayers, that I
constantly bear your name on my lips to the throne of grace?”

“Oh, yes! very great comfort. Thank you, thank you; will
you always pray for me? If I thought so it would make me
happier.”

“Then rest assured that I always shall; and, Irene, when
sorrows come upon you, for come they must to all, do not forget
that you have at least one firm, faithful friend, waiting and
anxious to aid you by every means in his power.”

Disengaging her fingers, which still clasped his tightly, he
moved his chair backward and took a small blank book from his
pocket, saying:

“You once asked me to give you a catalogue of those works
which I thought it advisable for you to study, before you
plunged into miscellaneous reading. Such a list you will find
here, and my experience has enabled me to classify them so as
to save you some of the trouble which I had at your age. In
examining it, you will see that I have given prominence to the
so-called ‘ Natural Sciences.’ As these furnish data for almost
all branches of investigation nowadays (there being a growing
tendency to argue from the analogy of physics), you cannot
too thoroughly acquaint yourself with all that appertains to the
subject. The writings of Humboldt, Hugh Miller, Cuvier,
Agassiz constitute a thesaurus of scientific information essen-
tial to a correct appreciation of the questions now agitating the
thinking world, and as you proceed you will find the wonderful
harmony of creation unfolding itself, proclaiming in unmis-
takable accents that the works of God ‘are good.’ As time rolls
on, the great truth looms up colossal, ‘Science and Christianity
are handmaids, not antagonists.’ Irene, remember:

* A pagan kissing, for a step of Pan,
The wild goat’s hoof-print on the loamy down,
110 MACARIA,

Exceeds our modern thinker who turns back
The strata—granite, limestone, coal, and clay,
Concluding coldly with ‘ Here’s law! where’s God?’”

“Can’t you stay longer and talk to me?” said Irene, as he
gave the blank book to her and rose.

“No; I promised to address: the Street Sabbath-school
children to-night, and must look over my notes before I go.”

He glanced at his watch, smiled pleasantly and left her.

The following day was dreary to all in that dwelling. Mrs.
Young went from room to room, collecting various articles be-
longing to her son, making no effort to conceal the tears that
rolled constantly over her cheeks; and now and then Louisa’s
sobs broke the sad silence. Harvey was engaged in the library
packing his books, and Irene saw him no more until after tea.
Then he came up with his mcther, and kindly inquired con-
cerning her arm. He saw that she shared the distress of the
family, and, glancing over his shoulder at his mother, he said
laughingly:

“She looks too doleful to be left here alone all the evening.
Can’t we contrive to take her downstairs to the sitting room?
What think you, mother?”

“Tet her decide it herself. Shall Hatvey: take you down,
my dear? It is his last evening at home, you know.” Her
voice faltered as she spoke.

“T should like to join you all at prayer once more, and I
think I could walk slowly, with a little help. Suppose you let
me try; I walked a few steps yesterday, by pushing a chair be-
fore me.”

“Be very careful not to strain your foot.” She wrapped a
light shawl around the girl’s shoulders, and, leaning on the
minister’s arm, she limped to the head of the stairs; but he saw
from the wrinkle on her forehead that the effort gave her pain,
and, taking her in his arms as if she were an infant, he re-
placed her in the chair.

“T see it will not do to carry you down yet. You are not
strong enough, and besides, you ought to be asleep. Irene,
would you like for me to read and pray with you before I say
good-by?”

“Yes, sir; it would give me great pleasure.”

Mrs. Young drew the candle-stand and Bible from their cor-
ner, and, taking a seat near the armchair, Harvey turned over

 
MACARIA, 111

the leaves and slowly read the sixty-third and sixty-fourth
chapters of Isaiah. His voice was low and sweet as a woman’s,
and the calm, lofty brow on which the light gleamed was smooth
and fair as a child’s, bearing no footprints of the thirty years
that had crept over it. When the reading was concluded, he
knelt and prayed fervently for the girl who sat with her face
hidden in her arms; prayed that she might be guided by the
Almighty hand into paths of peace and usefulness; that she
might be strengthened to do the work required of her. There
was no unsteadiness in his tone, no trace of emotion, when he
ended his prayer and stood up before her. Irene was deeply
moved, and when she essayed to thank him, found it impossible
to pronounce her words. Tears were gliding down her cheeks;
he put back the hair, and taking the face softly in his palms,
looked long and earnestly at its fascinating beauty. The great,
glistening blue eyes gazed into his, and the silky lashes and rich
scarlet lips trembled. He felt the hot blood surging like a
lava-tide in his veins, and his heart rising in fierce rebellion at
the stern interdict which he saw fit to lay upon it; but no token
of all this came to the cool, calm surface.

“ Good-by, Irene. May God bless you, my dear little friend!”

He drew the face close to his own as though he would have
kissed her, but forebore, and, merely raising her hands to his
lips, turned and left the room. Verily, greater is “he that
ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a city.” He left home
before breakfast the ensuing morning, bearing his secret with
him, having given no intimation, by word or look, of the
struggle which his resolution cost him. Once his mother had
fancied that he felt more than a friendly interest in their guest,
but the absolute repose of his countenance and grave serenity
of his manner during the last week of his stay dispersed all her
suspicions. From a luxurious home, fond friends, and the
girlish face he loved better than his life, the minister went
forth to his distant post, offering in sacrifice to God, upon the
altar of duty, his throbbing heart and hopes of earthly happi-
ness.

A cloud of sadness settled on the household after his de-
parture, and scarcely less than Louisa’s was Irene’s silent grief.
The confinement grew doubly irksome when his voice and step
had' passed from the threshold, and she looked forward impa-
tiently to her release. The sprain proved more serious than she
had at first imagined, and the summer vacation set in before
112 MACARIA.

she was able to walk with ease. Mr. Huntingdon had been
apprised of her long absence from school, and one day, when
she was cautiously trying her strength, he arrived, without hav-
ing given premonition of his visit. As he took her in his arms
and marked the alteration in her thin face, the listlessness of
her manner, the sorrowful gravity of her countenance, his fears _
were fully aroused, and, holding her to his heart, he exclaimed:

“My daughter! my beauty! I must take you out of New
York.”

“Yes, father, take me home; do take me home.” She clasped
her arms around his neck and nestled her face close to his.

“Not yet, Queen. We will go to the Catskills, to Lake
George, to Niagara. A few weeks’ travel will invigorate you. :
I have written to Hugh to meet us at Montreal; he is with a
gay party, and you shall have a royal time. A pretty piece of
business, truly, that you can’t amuse yourself in any other way
than by breaking half the bones in your body.”

“Father, I would rather go home. Oh! I am so tired of this
city, so sick of that boarding-school. Do, please, let me go back
with you.”

“Oh, nonsense, Irene. Lift up your sleeve and let me see
your arm; stretch it out; all right, I believe; straight enough.
You were walking just now; how is your foot?”

“ Almost well, I think; occasionally I have a twinge of pain
when I bear my whole weight on it.” :

“Be sure you do not overtax it for a while. By Monday you
will be able to start for Saratoga. Your aunt sent a trunk of
clothing, and, by the way, here is a letter from her and one from
Arnold. The doctor worries considerably about you; is afraid
you will not be properly attended to.”

Thus the summer programme was determined without any
reference to the wishes of the one most concerned, and, knowing
her father’s disposition, she silently acquiesced. After much
persuasion, Mr. Huntingdon prevailed on Louisa’s parents to
allow her to accompany them. The mother consented very re-
luctantly, and on the appointed day the party set off for Sara-
toga. The change was eminently beneficial, and before they
reached Canada Irene seemed perfectly restored. But her
father was not satisfied. Her unwonted taciturnity annoyed
and puzzled him; he knew that beneath the calm surface some
strong undercurrent rolled swiftly, and he racked his brain to
discover what had rendered her so reserved. ‘Louisa’s joyous,
MACARIA, 113

elastic spirits probably heightened the effect of her companion’s
gravity, and the contrast daily presented could not fail to arrest
Mr. Huntingdon’s attention. On arriving at Montreal the
girls were left for a few moments in the parlor of the hotel,
while Mr. Huntingdon went to register their names. Irene
and Louisa stood by the window looking out into the street,
when a happy, ringing voice exclaimed:

“ere you are at last, Irie! I caught a glimpse of your
curls as you passed the dining-room door.”

She turned to meet her cousin and held out her hand.

“Does your majesty suppose I shall be satisfied with the tips
of your fingers? Pshaw, Irie! I will have my kiss.”

He threw his arm around her shoulder, drew down the shield-
ing hands, and kissed her twice.

“Oh, Hugh! behave yourself! Miss Louisa Young, my
cousin, Hugh Seymour.”

He bowed and shook hands with the stranger, then seized his
cousin’s fingers and fixed his fine eyes affectionately upon her.

“Tt seems an age since I saw you, Irie. Come, sit down and
let me look-at you; how stately you have grown, to be sure!
More like a queen than ever; absolutely two inches taller since
you entered boarding-school. Irie, I am so glad to see you
again.” He snatched up a handful of curls and drew them
across his lips, careless of what Louisa might think.

“Thank you, Hugh. I am quite as glad to see you.” |

“Oh, humbug! I know better. You would rather see Para-
gon any day, ten to one. JI will kill that dog yet, and shoot
Erebus, too; see if I don’t! then maybe you can think of some-
body else. When you are glad you show it in your eyes, and
now they are as still as violets under icicles. I think you might
love me a little, at least as much as a dog.”

“Hush! I do love you, but I don’t choose to tell it to every-
body in Montreal.”

Mr. Huntingdon’s entrance diverted the conversation, and
Trene was glad to escape to her own room.

“Your cousin seems to be very fond of you,” observed Louisa,
as she unbraided her hair. ‘ :

“He is very impulsive and demonstrative, that is all”

“How handsome he is!”

“Do you think so, really? Take care, Louisa! I will tell
him, and, by way of crushing his vanity, add ‘ de gustibus,’ etc.,
ete. ete.”
114 MAOARIA,

“ How old is he?”

“In his twentieth year.”

From that time the cousins were thrown constantly together;
wherever they went, Hugh took charge of Irene, while Mr.
Huntingdon gave his attention to Louisa. But the eagle eye
was upon his daughter’s movements; he watched her counte-
nance, weighed her words, tried to probe her heart. Week after
week he found nothing tangible. Hugh was gay, careless;
Irene equable, but -reserved. Finally they turned their faces
homeward, and in October found themselves once more in New
York. Mr. Huntingdon prepared’to return South and Hugh
to sail for Europe, while Irene remained at the hotel until the
morning of her cousin’s departure.

A private parlor adjoined the room she occupied, and here
he came to say farewell. She knew that he had already had a
long conversation with her father, and as he threw himself on
the sofa and seized one of her hands she instinctively shrank
from him.

“Trene, here is my miniature. I wanted you to ask for it,
but I see that you won’t do it. I know very well that you will
not value it one-thousandth part as much as I do your likeness
here on my watch-chain; but perhaps it will remind you of me
sometimes. How I shall want to see you before I come home!
You know you belong to me. Uncle gave you to me, and when
I come back from Europe we will be married. We are both
very young, I know; but it has been settled so long. Irie, my
beauty, I wish you would love me more; you are so cold. Won't
you try?”

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her face hastily
away and answered resolutely:

“No, I can’t love you other than as my cousin; I would not,
if I could. I do not think it would be right, and I won’t
promise to try. Father has no right to give me to you, or to
anybody else. I tell you now I belong to myself, and only I
can give myself away. Hugh, I don’t consider this settled at
all. You might as well know the truth at once; I have some
voice in the matter.”

Mr. Huntingdon had evidently prepared him for something
of this kind on her part, and, though his face flushed angrily,
he took no notice of the remonstrance. 7

“T shall write to you frequently, and I hope that you will
be punctual in replying. Irie, give me your left hand just ¢
MACARIA, 115

minute; wear this ring till I come back, to remind you that you
have a cousin across the ocean.”

He tried to force the flashing jewel on her slender finger, but
she resisted, and rose, struggling to withdraw her hand.

“No, no, Hugh! I can’t; I won’t. I know very well what
that ring means, and I cannot accept it. Release my hand; I
tell you I won’t wear it.”

“Come, Hugh, you have not a moment to spare; the carriage
is waiting.” Mr. Huntingdon threw open the door, having
heard every word that had passed. Hugh dropped the ring in
his vest-pocket and rose.

“Well, Irie, I suppose I must bid you farewell. Two or three
years will change you, my dearest little cousin. Good-by, think
of me now and then, and learn to love me by the time I come
home.”

She suffered him to take both her hands and kiss her ten-
derly, for her father stood there and she could not refuse; but
the touch of his lips burned her long after he was gone. She
put on her hat and, when her father returned from the steamer,
they entered the carriage which was to convey her to the dreary,
dreaded school. As they rolled along Broadway Mr. Hunting-
don coolly took her hand and placed Hugh’s ring upon it, say-
ing authoritatively:

“Hugh told me you refused to accept his parting gift, and
seemed much hurt about it. There is no reason why you should
not wear it, and in future I do not wish to see you without it.
Remember this, my daughter.”

“Father, it is wrong for me to wear it, unless I expected
to——"

“T understand the whole matter perfectly. Now, Irene, let
me hear no more about it. I wish you would learn that it is a
child’s duty to obey her parent. No more words, if you please,
on the subject.”

She felt that this was not the hour for resistance, and wisely
forbore; but he saw rebellion written in the calm, fixed eye, and
read in it the curved lines of the full upper lip. She had en-
treated him to take her home, and only the night before renewed
her pleadings. But his refusal was positive, and now she went
back to the hated school without a visible token of regret. She
saw her trunks consigned to the porter, listened to a brief con-
versation between Dr. and her father, and after a hasty
embrace and half-dozen words watched the tall, soldierly form

 
116 MACARIA.

re-enter the carriage. Then she went slowly up the broad stair-
way to her cell-like room, and with dry eyes unpacked her
clothes, locked up the ring in her jewelry-box, and prepared to
resume her studies.

The starry veil concealing the Holy of Holies of her Futurity
had swayed just once, and as quickly swept back to its wonted
folds; but in that one swift glance she saw, instead of hovering
Cherubim, gaunt specters, woeful, appalling as Brimo. At some
period of life all have this dim, transient, tantalizing glimpse
of the inexorable Three, the mystic Moirz, weaving with steely
fingers the unyielding web of human destiny. Some grow
cowardly, striving to wend their way behind or beyond the out-
spread network, tripping, at last, in the midst of the snare; and
some, with set teeth and rigid limbs, scorning to dodge the
issue, grapple with the Sisters, resolved to wrench the cunning
links asunder, trusting solely to the palladium of Will. Irene’s
little feet had become entangled in the fatal threads, and, with
no thought of flight, she measured the length and breadth of
the web, nerving herself to battle till the death.

CHAPTER XI.

A halo seems to linger around the haunts of genius, as
though the outer physical world shaped itself in likeness to the
ideal, and at the door of Mr. Clifton’s studio crude, matter-of-
fact utilitarians should have “put off their shoes from their
feet” before treading precincts sacred to Art. It was a long,
lofty, narrow room, with a grate at one end and two windows at
the other, opening on the street. The walls were stained of a
pale olive hue, and the floor was covered with a carpet of green,
embroidered with orange sheaves of wheat. In color, the
morocco-cushioned chairs and sofas matched it well, and from
the broad, massive cornice over the windows—cornice represent-
ing writhing serpents in clusters of oak leaves—folds of golden-
flowered brocatel hung stiff and stately to the floor. The ceiling
rose dome-like in the center, and here a skylight poured down a
flood of radiance on sunny days, and furnished a faint tattoo
when raindrops rattled over its panes. Crowded as the most
ancient catacombs of Thebes was this atelier, but with a trifle
less ghostly tenants. Plaster statues loomed up in the corners,
bronze busts and marble statuettes crowned mantel and sundry
MACARIA, 117

tables and wooden pedestals; quaint antique vases of china,
erystal, alabaster, terra-cotta and wood dark as ebony with
age and polished like glass, stood here and there in a sort of
well-established, regular irregularity, as if snatched from the
ashy shroud of Herculaneum and put down hastily in the first
convenient pace. An Etruscan vase, time- and lichen-stained,
was made the base for an unframed piece of canvas, that leaned
back against the wall; and another, whose handles were
Medusa-heads, and before which, doubtless, some Italian
maiden, in the palmy days of Rome, had stood twining feathery
sprays of blossoms whose intoxicating perfume might still
linger in its marble depths, was now the desecrated receptacle
of a meerschaum and riding-whip. The walls were tapestried
with paintings of all sizes, many richly framed, one or two cov-
ered with glass, and so dark as to pass, without close examina-
tion, for a faithful rep.esentation of Pharaoh’s ninth plague;
some lying helplessly on the olive background, others leaning
from the wall at an acute angle, looking threatening, as if fiery
souls had entered and stirred up the figures—among which
Deianira, bending forward with jealous rage to scan the lovely
Tole, destined to prove the Até of her house. Where a few feet
of pale green would have peered forth between large pictures,
crayon sketches were suspended; and on the top of more than
one carved frame perched stuffed birds of gorgeous tropical
hues, a mimic aviary, motionless and silent as if Perseus had
stepped into a choral throng and held up the Gorgon’s head. In
the center of the room, under the skylight, stood the artist’s
easel, holding an unfinished picture, and over its face was drawn
a piece of black silk. Further off was another easel, smaller,
and here was the dim outline of a female head traced by the
fair, slender fingers of a tyro. It was late October; a feeble
flame flickered in the grate; on the rug crouched an English
spaniel, creeping closer as the heat died out and the waning
light of day gradually receded, leaving the room dusky, save
where a slanting line of yellow quivered down from the roof
and gilded the folds of black silk. At one of the windows stood
Electra, half concealed by the heavy green and gold drapery,
one dimpled hand clinging to the curtains, the other pressed
against the panes, 2s she watched the forms hurrying along the
street below. The gas was already lighted on the crowded high-
ways of the great city, and the lamp just beneath the window
glared up like an electric eye. She was dressed in half-mourn-

\
118 MACARIA,

ing, in sober gray, with a black crape collar at the throat,
“There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the
proportions,” sdys Baron Verulam; and the strangeness of
Electra’s countenance certainly lay in the unusual width be-
tween the eyebrows. Whatever significance learned phre-
nologists or physiognomists attach to this peculiarity, at all
events it, imparted piquancy to the features that I am striving
to show you by that flaming gaslight. Her watching attitude
denoted anxiety, and the bloom on her cheek had faded, leaving
the whole face colorless. The lower lip was drawn under and
held hard and tight by the pearly teeth, while the wide-strained
eyes—

‘« Shining eyes like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone—”

searched every face that passed the window. “That hope de-
ferred maketh the heart sick,” she stood there in attestation;
yet it was not passive sorrow printed on. her countenance—
rather the momentary, breathless exhaustion of a wild bird beat-
ing out its life in useless conflict with the unyielding wires of
its cage. The dying hope, the despairing dread, in that fair
young face, beggars language, and as the minutes crept by the
words burst from her lips: “ Will he never, never come! ”

For three weeks she had received no letter from Russell; he
was remarkably punctual, and this long, wumprecedented
interval filled her, at first, with vague uneasiness, which grew
finally into horrible foreboding. For ten days she had stood at
this hour, at the same window, waiting for Mr. Clifton’s re-
turn from the post-office. Ten times the words “No letter”
had fallen, like the voice of doom, on her throbbing heart.
“No letter! ”—she heard it in feverish dreams, and fled con-
tinually from its hissing. Only those who have known what it
is to stake their hopes on a sheet of letter-paper; to wake at
dawn, counting the hours till the mail is due, working dili-
gently to murder time till that hour rolls round; to send a mes-
senger, in hot haste; to watch the clock, giving him just so
many minutes to go and come; to listen for the sound of re-
turning steps, to meet him at the door with outstretched hands,
and réceive—“ no letter”; only those who have writhed on this
rack know the crushing thought with which they pressed cold
hands to aching hearts; “another twenty-four hours to be en*
dured before the next mail comes in; what shall I do till then?”
These are the trials that plow wrinkles in smooth, girlish brows;

oo
MACARIA, 119

that harden the outline of soft, rosy lips; that sicken the weary
soul and teach women deception. Electra knew that Mr. Clif-
ton watched her narrowly, suspiciously; and behind the mask
of gay, rapid words, and ringing, mirthless laughter, she tried
to hide her suffering. Ah! God pity all who live from day to
day hanging upon the brittle thread of hope. On this eleventh
day suspense reached its acme, and time seemed to have locked
its wheels to lengthen her torture.. Mr. Clifton had been ab-
sent longer than usual; most unwillingly we are sometimes
grand inquisitors, loitering by the way, when waiting hearts
are secretly, silently dropping blood. At last an omnibus
stopped, and Mr. Clifton stepped out, with a bundle of papers
under his arm. Closer pressed the pallid face against the glass;
firmer gvew the grasp of the icy fingers on the brocatel; she had
no strength to meet him. He closed the door, hung up his hat
and looked into the studio; no fire in the grate, no light in the
gas-globes—everything cold and dark save the reflection on that
front window.

“ Electra!”

“T am here.”

“No letter.”

She stood motionless a moment; but the brick walls opposite,
the trées, the lamp-posts spun around, like maple leaves in an
autumn gale.

“My owlet! why don’t you have a light and some fire?” He
stumbled toward her and put his hand on her shoulder, but she
shrank away, and, lighting the gas, rang for coal.

“There is something terrible the matter. Russell is either
ill or dead. I must go to him.”

“Nonsense! sheer nonsense; he is busy, that is all. Your
cousin has forgotten you for the time; after a while he will
write. You are too exacting; young men sometimes find con-
stant, regular correspondence a bore; a letter every week is too
much to expect of him. Don’t be childish, Electra.”

As she noticed the frown on his face a dark suspicion seized
her; “perhaps he had intercepted her letters.” Could he stoop
to such an artifice?

“Blectra, I would try to divert my mind. After all, his let-
ters are short, and, I should judge, rather unsatisfactory.”

“ What do you know of the length or contents of his letters?”

“T: know they are brief, because I occasionally see them open
in your hand; I judge they are unsatisfactory from the cloud
120 MACARIA,

on your face whenever they come. But I have no. disposition
to contest the value of his correspondence with you. That
article on chiaroscuro has arrived at last; if you feel inclined,
you can begin it at once.”

Chiaroscuro, forsooth! Mockery! She had quite chiaros-
curo enough, and to spare; but the smile on the artist’s lip
stung her, and, without a word, she took a seat at his side and
began to read. Page after page was turned, technicalities
slipped through her lips, but she understood as little of the
essay as if the language had been Sanscrit instead of Saxon;
for, like the deep, undying murmur of the restless sea, there
rang in her ears, “No letter! no letter!” As she finished the
pamphlet and threw it on the table her hands dropped listlessly
on her lap. Mr. Clifton was trying to read her countenance,
and, impatient of his scrutiny, she rose to seek her own room.
Just then the door-bell rang sharply; she supposed it was some
brother-artist coming to spend an hour, and turned to go.

“Wait a minute; I want to ” He paused, for at that in-
stant she heard a voice which even amid the din of Shinar would
have been unmistakable to her, and, breaking from him, she
sprang to the threshold and met her cousin.

“Oh, Russell! I thought you had forgotten me.”

“What put such a ridiculous thought into your head? My
last letter must have prepared you to expect me.”

“What letter? I have had none for three weeks.”

“One in which I mentioned Mr. Campbell’s foreign appoint-
ment, and the position of secretary which he offered me.
Electra, let me speak to Mr. Clifton.”

As he advanced and greeted the artist she heard a quick,
snapping sound, and saw the beautiful Bohemian glass paper-
cutter her guardian had been using lying shivered to atoms on
the rug. The fluted handle was crushed in his fingers, and
drops of blood oozed over his hand. Ere she could allude to it
he put his hand into his pocket and asked Russell to be seated.

“This is a pleasure totally unexpected. What is the ap-
pointment of which you spoke?”

“Mr. Campbell has been appointed Minister to , and
sails next week. I am surprised that you have not heard of it
from the public journals; many of them have spoken of it and
warmly commended the selection. I accompany him in the
capacity of private secretary, and shall, meanwhile, prosecute
my studies under his direction.”

 

 
MACARIA, 121

The gray, glittering eyes of the artist sought those of his
pupil, and for an instant hers quailed; but, rallying, she looked
fully, steadfastly at him, resolved to play out the game, scorning

to bare her heart to his scrutiny. She had fancied that Rus-
sell’s affection had prompted this visit; now it was apparent
that he came to New York to take the steamer, not to see her;
to put the stormy Atlantic between them. The foaming
draught which she had snatched to her lips so eagerly, so joy-
fully, was turning to hemlock as she tasted; and though she
silently put the cup from her, it was done smilingly; there were
no wry faces, no gestures of disgust.

“New York certainly agrees with you, Electra; you have
grown and improved very much since you came North. I never
saw such color in your cheeks before; I can scarcely believe
that you are the same fragile child I put into the stage one
year ago. This reconciles me to having given you up to Mr.
Clifton; he is a better guardian than I could have been. But
tell me something more about these new relatives you spoke of
having found there.”

Mr. Clifton left the room and the two sat side by side for an
hour, talking of the gloomy past, the flitting present, the un-
certain future. Leaning back in his chair, with his eyes fixed
on the grate, Russell said gravely:

“There is now nothing to impede my successful career; ob-
stacles are rapidly melting away; every day brings me nearer
the goal I long since set before me. In two years at farthest,
perhaps earlier, I shall return and begin the practice of law.
Once admitted, I ask no more. Then, and not till then, I hope
to save you from the necessity of labor; in the interim, Mr. Clif-
ton will prove a noble and generous friend; and believe me,
my cousin, the thought of leaving you so Tene 4 is the only thing
which will mar the pleasure of my European sojourn.”

The words were kind enough, but the tone was indifferent,
and the countenance showed her that their approaching separa-
tion disquieted him little. She thought of the sleepless nights
and wretched days she had passed waiting for a letter from
that tall, reserved, cold cousin, and her features relaxed in a
derisive smile at the folly of her all-absorbing love. Raising
his eyes accidentally, he caught the smile, wondered what there
was to call it forth in the plans which he had just laid before
her, and, meeting his glance of surprise, she said carelessly :

“ Are you not going to see Irene before you sail?”
122 MACARIA,

His cheek flushed as he rose, straightened himself, and an-
swered: :

“A strange question, truly, from one who knows me as well
as you do. Call to see a girl whose father sent her from home
solely to prevent her from associating with my family!
Through’ what sort of metamorphosis do you suppose that I
have passed, that every spark of self-respect has been crushed
out of me?” ;

“Her father’s tyranny and selfishness can never nullify her
noble and affectionate remembrance of Aunt Amy, in the hour
of her need.”

“ And when I am able to repay her every cent we owe her,
then, and not till then, I wish to see her. Things shall change,
‘mens cuiusque is est quisque,’ and the day will come when Mr.
Huntingdon may not think it degrading for his daughter to
acknowledge my acquaintance on the street.”

A brief silence ensued. Russell drew on his gloves, and finally
said hesitatingly:

“Dr. Arnold told me she had suffered very much from a fall.”

“Yes; for a long time she was confined to her room.”

“ Has she recovered entirely?”

“ Entirely. She grows more beautiful day by day.”

Perhaps he wished to hear more concerning her, but she would
not gratify him, and, soon after, he took up his hat.

“Mr. Clifton has a spare room, Russell; why can’t you stay
with us while you are in New York?”

“Thank you; but Mr. Campbell will expect me at the hotel;
T shall be needed, too, as he has many letters to write. I will
see you to-morrow, and indeed every day while I remain in the
city.”

“Then pay your visits in the morning, for I want to paint
your portrait with my own hands. Give me a sitting as early as
possible.”

“Very well; look for me to-morrow. Good-night.”

The week that followed was one of strangely mingled sorrows
and joys; in after years it served as a prominent landmark to
which she looked back and dated sad changes in her heart.
Irene remained ignorant of Russell’s presence in the city, and
at last the day dawned on which the vessel was to sail. At the
breakfast table Mr. Clifton noticed the colorlessness of his
pupil’s face, but kindly abstained from any allusion to it. He
saw that, contrary to habit, she drank a cup of coffee, and,
MACARIA. 123

arresting her arm as she requested his mother to give her a
second, he said gently:

“My dear child, where did you suddenly find such Turkish
gastes? I thought you disliked coffee.” —

“T take it now as medicine. My head aches horribly.”

“Then let me prescribe for you. We will go down to the
steamer with Russell, and afterward take a long drive to Green-
wood, if you like.”

“He said he would call here at ten o’clock to bid us fare-
well.”

“¢N’importe. The carriage will be ready, and we will ac-
company him.”

At the appointed hour they repaired to the vessel, and, look-
ing at its huge sides, Electra coveted even a deck passage; en-
vied even the meanest who hurried about, making all things
ready for departure. The last bell rang; people crowded down
on the planks; Russell hastened back to the carriage, and took
the nerveless, gloved hand.

“T will write as early as possible; don’t be uneasy about me;
no accident has ever happened on this line. I am glad to leave
you with such a friend as Mr. Clifton. Good-by, cousin; it
will not be very long before we meet again.”

He kissed the passive lips, shook hands with the artist, and
sprang on board just as the planks were withdrawn. The ves-
sel moved majestically on its way; friends on shore waved hand-
kerchiefs to friends departing, and hands were kissed and hats
lifted, and then the crowd slowly dispersed—for steamers sail
every week, and people become accustomed to the spectacle.
But to-day it was freighted with the last fond hope of a deep
and passionate nature; and as Electra gazed on the line of
foam whitening the dull surface of the water, the short-lived
billows and deep hollows between seemed newly-made graves,
whose hungry jaws had closed forever over the one bright, lin-
gering hope which she had hugged to her heart.

“ Are you ready to go now?” asked Mr. Clifton.

“Yes, ready, quite ready—for Greenwood.”

She spoke in a tone which had lost its liquid music, and with
a wintry smile that fled over the ashy face, lending the features
no light, no warmth.

He tried to divert her mind by calling attention to various
things of interest, but the utter exhaustion of her position and
the monosyllabic character of her replies soon discouraged him.
124 MACARIA,

Both felt relieved when the carriage stopped before the studi,
and as he led her up the steps he said affectionately:

“T am afraid my prescription has not cured your head.”

“No, sir; but I thank you most sincerely for the kind effort
you have made to relieve me. I shall be better to-morrow. |
Good-by, till then.” et

“Stay, my child. Come into the studio, and let me read
something light and pleasant to you.”

“Not for the universe! The sight of a book would give me
brain fever, I verily believe.”

She tried unsuccessfully to shake off his hand.

“Why do you shrink from me, my pupil?”

“ Because I am sick, weary; and you watch me so that I get
restless and nervous. Do let me go! I want to sleep.”

An impatient stamp emphasized the words, and, as he relaxed
his clasp of her fingers, she hastened to her room, and locked
the door to prevent all intrusion. Taking off her hat, she
drew the heavy shawl closely around her shoulders and threw
herself across the foot of the bed, burying her face in her hands
lest the bare walls should prove witnesses of her agony. Six
hours later she lay there still, with pale fingers pressed to burn-
ing, dry eyelids.

Oh, bigotry of human nature! By what high commission,
by what royal patent do men and women essay to judge of
fellow-men and sister-women by one stern, inexorable standard,
unyielding as the measure of Damastes? The variety of emo-
tional and intellectual types is even greater than the physical,
and, as the ages roll, we need other criteria. Who shall dare
lay finger on fellow-creature and audaciously proclaim: “TI have
gone down among the voleanic chambers of this soul and groped
in its adytum, amid the dust and ruins of its overturned altars
and crumbling idols; have fathomed its mysteries, and will tell
you, by infallible plummet, the depths thereof.” There are
sealed cells where, veiled from scrutiny, and sacred as Eleusinia,
burns the God-given shekinah of the human soul. As the
myriad shells that mosaic old ocean’s pavements; as the vast
army of innumerable clouds which ceaselessly shift their color-
ing and their forms at the presto of wizard winds; as the leaves
of the forest that bud and wane in the flush of summer or the
howl of wintry storms, so we differ one from another. Lin-
neus and Jussien, with microscopic aid, have classified and
christened; but now and then new varieties startle modern
MACARIA. 195

savants, and so likewise new types stalk among men and women,
whose elements will neither be lopped off nor elongated to meet
the established measure.

*

CHAPTER XII.

Once more the labors of a twelvemonth had been exhibited
at the Academy of Design—some to be classed among things
“that were not born to die”; others to fall into nameless
graves. Many who had worked faithfully, recognizing the
sacredness of their commission, had climbed higher in public
estimation; and a few, making mere pastime, or resting upon a
reputation already earned, had slipped back. Mr. Clifton was
represented by an exquisite Cinone, and on the same wall, in a
massive, oval frame, hung the first finished production of his
pupil. For months after Russell’s departure she sat before her
easel, slowly filling up the outline sketched while his eyes
watched her. She lingered over her work, loath to put the final
stroke, calling continually upon memory to furnish the neces-
sary details; and frequently, in recalling transient smiles, the
curl of his lip, or bending of his brow, palette and brush would
slip from her fingers, while she sat weaving the broken yet price-
less threads of a hallowed past. Application sometimes
trenches so closely upon genius as to be mistaken for it in its
results, and, where both are happily blended, the bud of Art
expands in immortal perfection. Electra spared no toil, and
so it came to pass that the faultless head of her idol excited uni-
versal admiration. In the catalogue it was briefly mentioned
as “No. 17—a portrait; first effort of a young female artist.”
Connoisseurs, who had committed themselves by extravagant,
praise, sneered at the announcement of the catalogue, and, after
a few inquiries, blandly asserted that no ,tyro could have pro-
duced it; that the master had wrought. out its perfection and
generously allowed the pupil to'monopolize the encomiums. In
vain Mr. Clifton disclaimed the merit, and asserted that he
had never touched the canvas; that she had jealously refused to
let him aid her. Incredulous smiles and unmistakable motions
of the head were the sole results of his expostulation. Little
mercy has a critical world for a novice, particularly one clad
in woman’s garments; few helping hands are kindly stretched
toward her trembling fingers, few strengthening words find her
126 MACARIA,

in her seclusion; and when these last do come in friendly whis-
pers, are they not hung up “as apples of gold in pictures of
silver” along the checkered walls of memory? Cold glances
generally greet her earliest works; they are handled sus-
piciously, the beauties are all extracted, set in a row, and labled
“plagiarisms”; the residue, like dross in crucibles, is handed
back as “original, and her undoubted property.” Or, per-
chance, the phraseology varies, and she hears “This book, this
statue, this picture is no unpracticed woman’s work; we speak
advisedly and pronounce the fact that pen, or rasp, or chisel, or
brush belongs unmistakably to a master—an experienced writer
or veteran artist.” It is this bent of human nature to load
with chaplets well-established favorites of fame, to “ white-
wash” continually with praise, to jealously withhold the meed
of beginners, rendering grudgingly “ Cesar’s things to Cesar,”
which tips many a pen with gall, and shadows noble pictures
with unseemly clouds. Electra was indignant at the injustice
meted out to her, and, as might have been expected, rebelled
against the verdict. Very little consolation was derived from
the argument by which her master strove to mollify her—that
the incredulity of the critics was the highest eulogy that could
have been pronounced upon her work. Some weeks after the
close of the exhibition, the Génone was purchased and the por-
trait sent home. Electra placed it on the easel once more, and
stood before it in rapt contemplation. Down from the arched
roof flowed billows of light, bathing her rounded form as in a
sea of molten topaz, and kindling a startling, almost unearthly
beauty in the canvas. What mattered the*brevity and paucity
of Russell’s letters now—what though three thousand miles of
tempestuous sea roared and tossed between them ?—she had his
untarnished image in her heart, his lifelike features ever before
her. To this shrine she came continually, and laid thereon the
offering of a love passionate and worshiping as ever took entire
possession of a woman’s heart. Coldness, silence, neglect, all
were forgotten when she looked into the deep, keautiful eyes,
and upon the broad, bold, matchless brow.

“|, . Love is not love
Which alters, when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove;
Oh, no! it is an ever fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and {is never shaken.”
MACARIA, 127

* She had not the faintest hope that he would ever cherish a
tenderer feeling for her; but love is a plant of strange growth;
now lifting its head feebly in rich, sunny spots, where every
fostering influence is employed; and now springing vigorous
from barren, rocky cliffs, clinging in icy crevices, defying every
adverse element, sending its fibrous roots deeper and deeper in
uncongenial soil; bending before the fierce breath of storms, only
to erect itself more firmly; spreading its delicate petals over
the edges of eternal snow, self-sustaining, invincible, immortal.
A curious plant, truly, and one which will not bear transplant-
ing, as many a luckless experiment has proved. To-day, as
Electra looked upon her work, the coils of Time seemed to fall
away; the vista of eternity opened before her, peopled with two
forms, which on earth walked widely separate paths, and over
her features stole a serene, lifted expression, as if, after pain-
ful scaling, she had risen above the cloud region and caught
the first rays of perpetual sunshine.

Time, like a weaver, made strange, dim, confused masses of
woof and warp; but in Eternity the earthwork would be turned,
and delicate tracery and marvelous coloring, divine Gobelins,
would come to light. Patience! Away from the loom—let the
shuttle fly! “What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt
know hereafter.” Hence to thy barren fields, and till them
until the harvest.

Mr. Clifton had watched her for some moments, with lower-
ing brow and jealous hatred of the picture. Approaching, he
looked over her shoulder, and asked:

“How much longer do you intend to stand here? Pygmalion
was not more captivated by his ivory image than you are by
your head. Were it Antinous or Apollo, I doubt whether your
admiration would be enhanced.”

“Tt is more than Antinous and Apollo,” she answered, draw-
ing the folds of silk over the portrait and turning toward him.

“Child, you are an idolatress.”

“Perhaps so; but, at least, I am in a goodly company. Many
bow down before the shrine of their own handiwork; some bring
libations to mammon, some to fame, some to ambition, some to
love. Nature intended us to kneel, which is preferable to
standing, statue-like, exacting obeisance from others. Which
is nobler? But how am I an idolatress? Shall I not prize the
features of my cousin, my earliest friend and playmate?
would you have me tear off and cast away tho kindly emotions,
128. MACARIA,

the warm affections wherewith God clothed me, as badges of
humanity?”

“By no means. But would you have a second Ixion’s
wheel?”

“ Aye, sir, when I am weak enough to worship a cloud.
Mr. Clifton, I believe I have shaken hands with my rosy-
cheeked, sunny-eyed, siren-charmed childhood; and, to-day,
standing here a woman, with few ties to bind me to my fel-
low creatures, I hold this one jeweled link of the past in the
hollow of my hand and pet it. Why not? Oh, why not? I
am but seventeen; this is all that I have left to caress, and soon
the waves of coming years will wash this, too, through my fin-
gers. Would you, less merciful than Time, snatch it from me
prematurely?”

“TI would, that in exchange I might heap your hands with
untold treasure and joy.”

“T think I am less grasping, then, than you. Leave me the
little I value; I ask no more, wish no more, will have no more.”

She would have left him, but his hand fell heavily on hers.

“Electra, I must speak to you; hear me. You hug a phan-
tom to your heart; Russell does not and will not love you, other
than as his cousin.”

The blood deserted her face, leaving a grayish pallor, but the
eyes sought his steadily, and the rippling voice lost none of its
rich cadence.

“Except as his cousin, I do not expect Russell to love me.”

“Oh, child! you deceive yourself; this is a hope that you
cling to with mad tenacity.” *

She wrung her hand from his and drew her figure to its
utmost height.

“You transcend your privilege, sir! when you attempt to
catechise me thus. I deny the right of anyone on earth to put
such questions to me—to make such assertions.”

“ Electra, I did not mean to offend you, but the time has come
when we must understand each other——”

“You did not mean to' offend me—well, let that pass; another
day we will diseuss it, if you please,” she interrupted, waving
him off and turning toward the door.

“No; you must hear me now. I have a right to question
you—the right of my long, silent, faithful love. You may deny
it, but that matters little; be still and listen. Did you suppose
that I was simply a generous man when I offered to guard and
MACARIA, 129

aid you—when I took you to my house, placed you in my
mother’s care and lavished affection upon you? Did you dream
that I was disinterested in what I have done to encourage and
assist you? Did you imagine I was merely an amiable philan-
thropist, anxious to help all in difficulty and sorrow? IE so,
put away the hallucination. Consider me no longer your
friend; look at me as I am, a jealous and selfishly exacting man,
who stands before you to-day and tells you he loves you. Oh,
Electra! From the morning when you first showed me your
sketches you have been more than my life to me. An uncon-
querable love sprang up then, and it has grown with the months
and years, taking sole possession of a heart which never bowed
before any other woman. Every hope I had centered in you. I
have not deceived myself; I knew that you loved Russell. Nay,
don’t deny it; I have watched you too long not to probe your
mask. I knew that he had your girlish love, but I waited and
hoped my devotion would win you. You were but a child, and
I thought the depth and fervor of my affection would outweigh
a childish fancy. When he came here I saw that the old fasci-
nation still kept its hold upon you, but I saw, too, what you saw
quite as plainly—that in Russell Aubrey’s heart there is room
for nothing but ambition. J knew how you suffered, and I be-
lieved it was the death struggle of your love. But instead, I
find you day by day before that easel—oblivious of me, of every-
thing but the features you cling to so insanely. Do you won-
der that I hate that portrait? Do you wonder that I am grow-
ing desperate? Where is your womanly pride, that you lavish
your love on one totally indifferent to you? Strange paradox
that you are!—proud, passionate, exacting, and yet clinging
madly to a memory. Have you no mercy, that you doom me to
live forever on the rack? Shall yonder piece of canvas always
stand between your heart and mine? If he loved you in return
T could bear it better; but as it is I am tortured beyond all en-
durance. I have spent nearly three years in trying to gain
your heart; all other aims have faded before this one absorbing
love. To-day I lay it at your feet, and ask if I have not earned
some reward. Oh, Electra! have you no gratitude?”

A scarlet spot burned on his pale cheeks, and the mild, liquid
gray eyes sparkled like stars.

It was no startling revelation to her; long before she had seen
that this hour of trial must come to both, and now, despite her
resolution, his words unnerved her. She dared not look at him;
130 MACARIA,

the hollow voice told her too well what effect this excitement
was working on his feeble frame.

“Oh, Mr. Clifton! I am grateful; God, who sees my heart,
knows that I am. No child ever loved a parent better than I
rove you.” ,

“Tt is not filial affection that I ask of you now. I beg you
to lay your dear hands in mine and promise to be my wife. [{
ask this of you in the name of my devotion. You gave yourself
to me years ago, and to-day I beseech you to seal the compact
by a final promise. Electra, beware how you answer! Bridge
the gulf between us. Give me your hand.”

He stretched out his hand, but she drew back a step.

“God forgive me! but I have no such love for you.”

A ghastly smile broke over his face, and after a moment, the
snowy handkerchief he passed across his lips was stained with
ruby streaks.

“T know that, and I know the reason. But, once more, I ask
you to give me your hand. Electra, dearest, do not, I pray you,
refuse me this. Oh, child! give me your hand, and in time you
will learn to love me.”

He seized her fingers, and stooped his head till the silky brown
beard mingled with her raven locks.

“Mr. Clifton, to marry without love would be a grievous sin;
I dare not. We would hate each other. Life would be a curse
to both, and death a welcome release. Could you endure a wife
who accepted your hand from gratitude and pity? Oh! such
a relationship would be horrible beyond all degree. I shudder
at the thought.”

“But you would learn to love me.”

The summer wind shook the window-curtains and rustled the
folds of black silk till the drapery slid from the portrait and
left it fully exposed to view. She gave one guick glance at the
beloved countenance, and, falling on her knees before the easel,
raised her clasped hands passionately and exclaimed:

“Tmpossible! impossible! You have said that he is my idol,
and you make no mistake. He fills my heart so entirely that I
have nothing but reverence and gratitude to offer you. I am
young, I know, and you think that this is a girlish fancy, which
will fade with coming years. I tell you, sir, this love has be-
come part of me. When he went to Europe I said, ‘I will tear
it out of my heart, and forget him; I will give every thought
to my noble art.’ Faithfully I strove to do so; but a little
MACARIA. 131

mountain stream, once merged in the pathless ocean, might as
well struggle to gather back its tiny wavelets and return to its
pebbly channel. I am proud; it humiliates me to acknowledge
all this; and nothing on earth could wring it from me but my
desire to convince you that it is utterly impossible I can ever
love you, as you ask.

“‘*T lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well, perhaps.’

but you cannot take Russell’s place. None can come between
him and my heart.”

The yellow light dripped down on her purplish hair, erystal-
lizing into a nimbus, as she knelt before the portrait, lifting her
hands, like saints in medizval pictures fleeing from martyr-
dom. Shame dyed her cheeks, but a desperate, reckless triumph
flashed in the upraised eyes, revealing fully the aversion which
his suit had inspired. Unfortunate, deplorable as was her love
for a cousin, it seemed for the moment to glorify her, and
Mr. Clifton put his hand over his eyes to shut out the
vision.

“ Electra Gray, you are unwomanly in your unsought love.”

She turned her head, and, looking over her shoulder at him,
smiled derisively.

“Unwomanly! If so, made such by your unmanliness. Un-
womanly! I deny it. Which is most womanly—to yield to
the merciless importunity of one to whom I am indebted; to
give my hand to one whose touch chills the blood in my veins;
to promise to become his wife, when the bare thought sickens
my soul; to dare to stand before God’s altar and take false vows
bn my lips, or to tell the truth, to shield myself frcm his en-
treaties, under the holy mantle of a deep, undying love for an-
other? I volunteered no confession; you taxed. and taunted me
with my affection. Sir, it should have made me sacred in your
eyes, Unwomanly! Were you more manly, I had never
shocked your maudlin sentiments of propriety.” \
132 MACARIA.

“ And this is my reward for all the tenderness I have lavished
en you. When I stooped to beg your hand, to be repulsed with
scorn and loathing. To spend three years in faithful effort to
win your heart, and reap—contempt, hatred.”

Staggering back, he sank into his armchair and closed his
eyes a moment, then continued:

“Tf it were possible that you could be happy, I would not
complain; but there is no hope of that. You might as well
kneel to my marble Hermes yonder as to Russell. Stranger in-
fatuation never possessed a woman.”

“T am notblind; I neither ask nor expect anything from him.
Unless you betray my confidence he will never suspect the truth,
and I would sooner endure the tortures of Torquemada than that
he should know it. But by what process will you demonstrate
that, since a rare and royal banquet is forever shut beyond my
reach, it is my duty to sit down in the dust and try to content
myself with husks? Sir, my God never intended me to live on
erumbs, and I will not. I will be true to my heart; if the vast
host of my fellow-creatures should pass away from earth, I will
stand alone, and conquer solitude as best I may. Not one jot,
not one tittle of my nature will I yield for companionship. No
mess of pottage will I have in lieu of my birthright. All, or
none! Marriage is holy; God, in His wisdom, instituted it
with the seal of love; but its desecration with counterfeits
makes Tophets, Golgothas, instead of Edens. I know what I
have to expect; on my own head be my future. If quarrel there
be, it is between fate and me; you have no concern in it.”

“T would not have troubled you long, Electra. It was be-
cause I knew that my life must be short at best that I urged
you to gild the brief period with the light of your love. I
would not have bound you always to me; and when I asked
your hand a few minutes since, I knew that death would soon
sever the tie and set you free. Let this suffice to palliate my
‘unmanly’ pleading. I have but one request to make of you
now, and, weak as it may seem, I beg of you not to deny me.
You are preparing to leave my house; this I know; I see it in
your face, and the thought is harrowing to me. Electra, re-
main under my roof while I live; let me see you every day, here,
in my house. If not as my wife, stay as my friend, my pupil,
my child. I little thought I could ever condescend to ask this
of anyone; but the dread of separation bows me down. Oh,
child! I will not claim you long.”
MACARIA, 183

She stood up before him with the portrait in her arms, re-
solved, then and there, to leave kim forever. But the ghastly
pallor of his face, the scarlet thread oozing over his lips and
saturating the handkerchief with which he strove to stanch it,
told her that the request was preferred on no idle pretext. In
swift review his kindness, generosity, and unwavering affec-
tion passed before her, and the mingled accents of remorse and
compassion whispered: “Pay your debt of gratitude by sacri-
ficing your heart. If you can make him happy, you owe it to
him.”

Without a word she passed him and went up to her own
room. It was an hour of sore temptation for one so young and
inexperienced, but placing the portrait on the low mantel, she
crossed her arms before it and tried to lay matters in the
scale.

On one side, years of devotion, the circumstances of the artist’s
life, his mother’s infirmity, confining her sometimes to her bed,
often to her room, preventing her from nursing him; the weary
season of his tedious illness, the last hours gloomy and miser-
able, unsoothed by gentle words or tender offices. On the other
stern adherence, unerring obedience to the dictates of her heart,
the necessary self-abnegation, the patient attendance at the
couch of prolonged suffering, and entire devotion to him. For
a time the scales balanced; she could not conquer her repug-
nance to remaining in his home; then a grave and its monu-
mental stone were added, and, with a groan, she dropped her
face in her hands. At the expiration of two hours she locked
the portrait from view, and went back to the studio. The house
was very quiet; the ticking of the clock was distinctly heard as
she pushed the door open and glided in. Involuntarily she
drew a long, deep breath, for it was like leaving freedom at the
threshold and taking upon herself grievous bonds. The arm-
chair was vacant, but the artist lay on one of the sofas, with his
face toward the wall, and on a small table beside him stood a
erystal bowl of cracked ice, a stained wine-glass, and a vial con-
taining some dark, purple liquid. Approaching softly, she
scanned the countenance, and tears gathered in her eyes as she
saw how thin and hollow were the now flushed cheeks; how the
lips writhed now and then, as if striving to suppress bitter
words. The beautiful brown hair was all tossed back, and she
noticed that along the forehead clustered many silver threads.
One hand was thrust within his vest, the other thrown up over
134 MACARIA,

the head, grasping a fresh handkerchief. Softly she took this
hand, and, bending over him, said in a low, thrilling tone:

“Mr. Clifton, I was passionate and hasty, and said some un-
kind things which I would fain recall, and for which I beg your
pardon. I thank you for the honor you would have conferred
on me and for the unmerited love you offered mei Unless it
were in my power to return that love, it would be sinful to give
you my hand; but, since you desire it so earnestly, I will
promise to stay by your side, to do what I can to make you
happy; to prove by my devotion that I am not insensible to all
your kindness, that I am very grateful for the affection you
have given me. I come to offer you this, as a poor return for
all that I owe you; it is the most my conscience will permit me
to tender. My friend, my master, will you accept it, and for-
give the pain and sorrow I have caused you?”

He felt her tears falling on his fingers, and for a moment
neither spoke; then he drew the hands to his lips and kissed
them tenderly.

“Thank you, Electra. I know it is a sacrifice on your part,
but I am selfish enough tc accept it. Heaven bless you, my
pupil.”

“In future we will not allude to this day of trial—let it be
forgotten; ‘let the dead past bury its dead.’ I will have no
resurrected phantoms. And now, sir, you must not allow this
slight hemorrhage to depress you. In a few days you will be
stronger, quite able to examine and find fault with my work.
Shall I send a note to Dr. Le Roy, asking him to call and see
you this evening?”

“He has just left me. Say nothing of the hemorrhage te
mother; it would only distress her.”

He released her hands, and, stooping over his pillow, she
smoothed the disordered hair, and for the first time pressed her
lips to his forehead.

Thus she bowed her neck to the yoke, and, with a fixed un-
alterable will, entered on the long, dreary ministry to which she
felt that duty called.

We shade our eyes and peer into the dim unknown, striving
to see whither we are tending, and a sudden turn in the way, @
sharp angle, brings us face to face with huge, frowning ob-
stacles, that grimly bar all progress in the direction to which
our inclinations point. Strange, devious paths stretch out at
our feet, baffling all our wise conjectures, setting at defiance all
MACARIA, 135

our plans and prudential machinations. From breath to breath,
from step to step, from hour to hour, is man’s sole empire.
“Boast not thyself of to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XIII.

“Cities give not the human senses room enough,” says a
latter-day seer, and Electra Grey sometimes felt that her heart
and soul were in the stocks, or ironed down to a stake, leaving
only a periphery of a few feet. Brick walls and paving-stones
uttered no kindly message; hurrying foot-passengers and
crowded omnibuses told of the din and strife of life, but whis-
pered no word of cheer, no lesson of uncomplaining fortitude,
no exhortation to be strong and patient. She saw colossal
selfishness crushing along its Juggernautic way; wealth jostled
poverty into the gutter, and beauty picked a dainty crossing to
give a wide berth to deformity; hard, stern, granite-like faces
passed her window day by day; princely equipages, with
haughty supercilious occupants, rolled along the street, and
bridal trains and funeral processions mingled in their wind-
ings. If man be, indeed, a “ microcosm,” to what shall I liken
that great city wherein dwelt the painter and his pupil? Isis,
the great nursing-mother—genial Nature, teeming with sooth-
ing influences, and missals of joy and strength, seemed sepul-
chered—and in her place a flint-feathered, miserly, and most
intolerable stepmother frowned upon the luckless young artist. :
City life! City starvation, rather, she found it, until a long
and painful apprenticeship taught her the priceless alchemy
whereby smiling plenty beamed upon her. Reared on the out-
skirts of a country town, she longed for the freedom and soli-
tude of the old pine woods at home, and sickened at the thought
of spending her life within the walls of brick and mortar. She
had selected an attic room, with dormer windows looking east-
ward, and here she daily watched the pale gray dawn struggle
with the vapors and shadows of night. “ Quiet fields of crimson
cirrhi,” fleecy masses of restless, glittering cumuli, or the sweep
and rush of “ inky-fringed,” lowering rain-clouds, alike charmed
her. Long before the servants stirred below she was seated at
the window, noting the waning shimmer of the morning-star as
the waves of light rolled up and crested the horizon, whitening
136 MACARIA,

the deep blue with their sparkling spray. The peculiarities of
each sunrise and sunset were jotted down assiduously:

“« Cloud-walls of the morning’s gray
Faced with amber column,
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn,”

were sketched with great care, and put aside for future use;
and it rarely happened that, on a dull, rainy morning, she came
down to breakfast looking other than moody and disappointed,
as though her rights had been infringed, her privileges cur-
tailed. Constituted with keen susceptibility to impressions of
beauty or sublimity, whether physical, moral, or intellectual,
Nature intended her as a thing for sunshine and holidays, as a
darling to be petted; but Fate shook her head, and with a
grimace set the tender young soul on a bleak exposure, to be
hardened and invigorated.

With the characteristig fitfulness of. consumption, Mr. Clif-
ton rallied, and, for a time, seemed almost restored; but at the
approach of winter the cough increased, and dangerous symp-
toms returned. Several months after the rejection of his suit,
to which no allusion had ever been made, Electra sat before her
easel, absorbed in work, while the master slowly walked up and
down the studio, wrapped in a warm plaid shawl. Occasionally
he paused and looked over her shoulder, then resumed his pace,
offering no comment. {ft was not an unusual occurrence for
them to pass entire mornings together without exchanging a
word, and to-day the silence had lasted more than an hour. A
prolonged fit of coughing finally arrested her attention, and,
glancing up, she met his sad gaze.

“This is unpropitious weather for you, Mr. Clifton.”

“Yes, this winter offers a dreary prospect.”

“There is the doctor now, passing the window. I will come
back as soon as his visit is over.”

She rose hastily to quit the room, but he detained her.

“Do not go—I wish you to remain, and finish your work.”

Dr. Le Roy entered, and, after questioning his patient, stood
on the rug warming his fingers.

“The fact is, my dear fellow, this is not the place for you.
I sent you South four years ago nearly, and saved your life;
and, as I told you last week, you will have to take that same
MACARIA, 137

prescription again. It is folly to talk of spending the winter
here. I can do nothing for you. You must go to Cuba, or to
Italy. It is of no use to try to deceive you, Harry; you know,
. just as well as I do, that your last case is getting desperate,
‘and change of climate is your last hope. I have told you all
‘this before.”

Electra laid down her palette, and listened for the answer.

“T am sorry you think so, but I can’t leave New York.”

“Why not?”

“For various good reasons.”

“My dear fellow, is your life of any value?”

“ A strange question, truly.”

“Tf it is, quit New York in thirty-six hours; if not, remain
‘for various good reasons.’ Send to my office for an anodyne.
Better take my advice. Good-day.”

Passing by the easel, he whispered:

“Use your influence; send him South.” And then the two
were again alone.

Resting her chin in her hands, she raised her eyes and said:

“Why do you not follow the doctor’s advice? A winter
South might restore you.”

He drew near, and, leaning his folded arms on the top of the
easel, looked down into her face.

“There is only one condition upon which I could consent to
go; that is in your hands. Will you accompany me?’

She understood it all in an instant, saw the new form in
which the trial presented itself, and her soul sickened.

“Mr. Clifton, if I were your sister, or your child, I would
gladly go; but, as your pupil, I cannot.”

“ As Electra Grey, certainly not; but, as Electra Clifton, you
could go.”

“Electra Grey will be carved on my tombstone.”

“Then you decide my fate. I remain, and wait the slow ap-
proach of death.”

“No, before just Heaven, I take no such responsibility, nor
shall you thrust it on me. You are a man, and must decide
your destiny for yourself; I am a poor girl, having no claim
upon, no power over you. It is your duty to preserve the life
which God gave you, in the way prescribed by your physician,
avd I have no voice in the matter. It is your duty to go South,
and it will be both weak and wicked to remain here under exist-
ing circumstances.”
138 MACARIA.

“ My life is centered in you; it is worthless, nay, a burden,
separated from you.”

“Your life should be centered in something nobler, better; in
your duty, in your profession. It is suicidal to fold your hands
listlessly, and look to me, as you do.”

“ All these things have I tried, and I am weary of their hol-
lowness, weary of life and the world. So long as I have your
face here, I care not to cross my own threshold till friendly
hands bear me out to my quiet resting-place under the willows
of Greenwood. Electra, my darling, think me weak, if you will,
but bear with me a little while longer, and then this, my
shadow, shall flit from your young heart, leaving not even a
memory to haunt you. Be patient! I will soon pass away to
another, a more peaceful, blessed sphere.”

A melancholy smile lighted his fair waxen features, as wan-
ing, sickly sunshine in an autumn evening flickers over sculp-
tured marble in a silent churchyard.

How she pitied his great weakness, as he wiped away the
moisture which, even on that cold day, glistened on his fore-
head.

“Oh! I beseech you to go to Cuba. Go, and get strong once
more.”

“Nothing will ever help me now. Sunny skies and soft
breezes bring no healing for me. I want to die here, in my
home, where your hands will be about me; not among strangers,
in Cuba or Italy.”

He turned to the fire, and, springing up, she left the room.
The solemn silence of the house oppressed her; she put on her
thickest wrappings and took the street leading to the nearest
park. A steel-gray sky, with slowly trailing clouds, looked
down on her, and the keen, chilly wind wafted a fine snow-
powder in her face as she pressed against it. The trees were
bare, and the sere grass grew hoary as the first snowflakes of
the season came down softly and shroud-like. The walks were
deserted, save where a hurrying form crossed from street to
street, homeward bound; and Electra passed slowly along, ab-
sorbed in thoughts colder than the frosting that gathered on
shawl and bonnet. The face and figure of the painter glided
spectrally before her at every step, and a mighty temptation
followed at its heels. Why not strangle her heart? Why not
marry him and bear his name, if thereby she could make his
few remaining months of existence happy, and, by accompany-
MACARIA, 139

ing him South, prolong his life even for a few weeks? She
shuddered at the suggestion; it would be such a miserable lot.
But then, the question arose: “Who told you that your life was
given for happiness! Do you imagine your Maker set you on
earth solely to hunt your own enjoyment? Suppose duty costs
you pain and struggles; is it any the less duty? Nay, is it not
all the more urgent duty?” She knew that she could return
to the artist, and, with one brief sentence, pour the chrism of
joy over his suffering soul; and her great compassion, mild-
eyed, soft-lipped, tender-hearted, whispered: Why not? why
not?

“Nature owns no man who is not a martyr withal.” If this
dictum possessed any value, did it not point to her mission?
She could no longer shut her eyes and stumble on, for right in
her path stood an awful form, with austere lip and fiery eye,
demanding a parley, defying all escape; and calmly she stood
face to face with her Sphinx, considering her riddle. A young,
motherless girl, without the girding of a holy religion, a free,
untamed soul, yielding allegiance to no creed, hearkening only
to the dictates of her tempestuous nature, now confronting the
most ancient, immemorial destroyer who haunts the highways
of society. Self-immolation, or a poisoning of the spring of
joy in the heart of a fellow-creature? Was duty a Moloch,
clasping its scorching arms around its devotees?—a Jugger-
naut, indeed, whose iron wheels drank the life-blood of its vic-
tims? “Will you see your benefactor sink swiftly into an early
grave, and, standing by with folded arms, persuade yourself
that it is not your duty to attempt to save him at all hazards?
Can nothing less than love ever sanction marriage?” Such
was the riddle hurled before her, and, as she pondered, the flood-
gates of her sorrow and jealousy were once more lifted—the
rush and roar of bitter waters drowned, for a time, the accents
of conscience and of reason.

But out of these fierce asphaltic waves arose, Aphrodite-
like, a pure, radiant, heavenly form—a child of all climes,
conditions, and ages—an immortal evangel; and, as the pierc-
ing sunny eyes of womanly intuition looked upon the riddle,
the stony lineaments of the Sphinx melted into air. If
womanly eyes rest on this page the answer need not be
traced here, for in every true woman’s heart the answer is

‘to be found engraved in God’s own characters; and, how-
ever the rubbish of ignoble motives may accumulate, it can
(40 MACARIA,

never obliterate the divine handwriting. In the holiest oratory
of her nature is enshrined an infallible talisman, and she re-
quires no other panoply in the long struggle incident to trials
such as shook the stormy soul of the young artist. Faster fell
the snowflakes, cresting the waves of her hair like foam, and,
setting her teeth firmly, as if thereby locking the door against
all compassionating compunctions, Electra left the park and
turned into a cross street, on which was situated an establish-
ment where bouquets were kept for sale. The assortment was
meager at that late hour, but she selected a tiny bunch of deli-
cate, fragrant, hothouse blossoms, and, shielding them with her
shawl, hastened home. The studio was brilliant with gas-glare
and warm with the breath of anthracite, but an aspect of dreari-
ness, silence, and sorrow predominated. The figures in the
pictures shrank back in their frames, the statues gleamed
mournfully white and cold, and the emaciated form and face
of the painter, thrown into bold relief by the dark green lining
of the easy chair, seemed to belong to realms of death rather
than life. On the edge of the low, scroll-sculptured mantel,
supported at each corner by Caryatides, perched a large, tame.
gray owl, with clipped wings folded, and wide, solemn, oracular
eyes fastened on the countenance of its beloved master. A
bronze clock, of exquisite workmanship, occupied the center,
and represented the Angel of Revelations, “swearing by Him
that liveth for ever and ever, that Time shall be no longer.”
One hand held the open book, the other a hammer, which gave
out the hours with clear, metallic ring; and along the base, jusé
underneath the silver dial-plate, were carved, in German char-
acters, the words of Richter: “ And an immeasurably extended
hammer was to strike the last hour of Time, and shiver the
universe asunder.”

With swift, noiseless steps Electra came to the red grate.
and, after a moment, drew an ottoman close to the easy chair.
Perhaps its occupant slept; perchance he wandered, with closed
eyes, far down among the somber, dank crypts of memory. She
laid her cool fingers on his hand and held the bouquet before
him.

“My dear master, here are your flowers; they are not as
pretty as usual, but sweet enough to atone for lack of beauty.”

He fingered them caressingly, laid them against his hollow
cheeks, and hid his lips among their fragrant petals, but the
starry eyes were fixed on the features of the pupil.
MACARIA, 141

“Tt is bitter weather out; did you brave it for these? Thank
you, but don’t expose yourself so in future. Two invalids in a
house are quite enough. You are snow-crowned, little one;
do you know it? The frosting gleams right royally on that black
hair of yours. Nay, child, don’t brush it off; like all lovely
things, it fades rapidly, melts away like the dreams that flutter
around a boy in the witchery of a long, still, sunny summer
day.”

His thin hand nestled in her shining hair, and she submitted
to the touch in silence.

“My dove soared away from this dreary ark, and bathed her
silver wings in the free air of heaven, returning but to bring
me some grateful memorial, an olive branch, wherewith to deck
this gloomy ark of mine. Next time she will soar further, and
find a more tempting perch, and gladden Noah’s eyes no more.”

“Tf so, it will be because the high and dry land of God
beckon her: and when the deluge is ended, she will be needed
no longer.”

“For then, Electra, Noah’s haven of rest will be the fair,
still fields of Eternity.”

In this semi-metaphoric strain he often indulged of late, but
she felt little inclination to humor the whim, and, interlacing
her slight fingers, she answered half impatiently:

“Your simile is all awry, sir. Most unfortunately, I have
nothing dove-like in my nature.”

“Originally you had, but your character has been warped.”

“By what, or whom?”

“Primarily by unhappy extraneous circumstances, influ-
ences, if you will, which contributed to a diseased development
of two passions that now preponderate over all other elements
of your character.”

“A diagnosis which I will not accept.”

“A true one, nevertheless, my child.”

“Possibly; but we will waive a discussion just now. I am,
and always intend to be, true to the nature which God gave
me. ”

“A dangerous dogma that. Electra, how do you know that
the ‘nature’ you fondle and plume yourself upon emanated
from your Maker?”

“How do you know, sir, that God intended that willows
shouid droop, and trail their slender boughs earthward, while
poplars, like granite shafts, shoot up, lifting their silver-shim-
142 MACARIA,

mering leaflets ever to the clouds?, Who fingered their germs,
and directed their course?”

“The analogy will not hold between the vegetable kingdom
and the moral and intellectual spheres. Men and women are
not cast in particular molds, bound by iron laws, and labeled,
like plants or brutes, Genus » Species Moreover, to
man alone was given free agency, even to the extent of uproot-
ing, crushing entirely the original impulses implanted by God
in the human heart to act as motive power. I have known
people insane enough to pluck out the wheat, and culture into
rank luxuriance the tares in their nature. Child, do you ever
look ahead to the coming harvest-time?”

“Tf I do, it contents me to know that each soul binds up its
own sheaves.”

“No; angels are reapers, and make up the account for the
Lord of the harvest.”

“T don’t believe that. No third party has any voice in that
last long reckoning. God and the creature only see the bal-
ance sheet.”

She rose, and leaning against the mantel, put out her hand
to caress the solemn-eyed, solitary pet of the studio. How he
came to be the solace and companion of the artist she had
never been told, but knew that a strange fellowship linked the
gray old favorite with the master, and wondered at the almost
human expression with which it sometimes looked from its lofty
pedestal upon the languid movements of the painter. “ Munin”
was the name he ever recognized and answered to, and, when
she one day repeated it to herself, puzzling over its signifi-
eance, Mr. Clifton told her that it meant “memory,” in Sean-
‘dinavian lore, and belonged to one of the favorite birds of Odin.
It was one of his many strange whims, fostered by lifelong re-
searches among the mythologies of the Old World; and Electra
struggled to overcome the undefinable sensation of awe and re-
pulsion which crept over her whenever she met that fascinat-
ing stare fixed upon her. As little love had the bird for her,
and though occasionally it settled upon the crossbeam of her
easel and watched the slow motion of her brush, they seemed
to shrink from each other. Now, as her soft hand touched his
feathers, they rumpled, bristled, and he flitted to the artist’s
knee, uttering a hoarse, prolonged, most melancholy note as the
master caressed him.

“Why are not you and Munin better friends?”

 

 
MACARIA, 143

“Because I am not wise enough, or evil-boding in appear-
ance, or sufficiently owlish to suit him, I suppose. ‘He chills:
my blood, sometimes, when I come here in twilight before the
gas is lighted. I would almost as soon confront’ Medusa.”

‘She took from the curious oval mosaic table a new book con-
taining her mark, and reseated herself. As she did so, Munin
flapped his dusky wings and disappeared through the door
opening into the hall, and, shading her face with one hand, she
read aloud a passage heavily underlined by a pencil.

“But this poor, miserable Me! Is this, then, all the book
I have got to read about God in? Yes, truly so. No other
book, nor fragment of book, than that will you ever find—no
velvet-bound missal, nor frankincensed manuscript; nothing
hieroglyphic nor cuneiform; papyrus and pyramid are alike
silent on this matter; nothing in the clouds above, nor in the
earth beneath. That flesh-bound volume is the only revelation
that is, that was, or that can be. In that is the image of God
painted; in that is the law of God written; in that is the
promise of God revealed. Know thyself! for through thyself
only thou canst know God. Through the glass darkly; but, ex-
cept through the glass, in no wise. A tremulous crystal, waved
as water, poured out upon the ground; you may defile it, despise
it, pollute it at your pleasure, and at your peril; for on the
peace of those weak waves must all the heaven you shall ever
gain be first seen, and through such purity as you can win for
those dark waves must all the light of the risen Sun of Bright-
-ness be bent down by faint refraction. Cleanse them, and calm
them, as you love your life.’

“Mr. Clifton, this epitomizes my creed. There is nothing
new in it; I grant you it is old as the Delphian inscription.
Two thousand years ago Socrates preached it in the Agora, at
Athens. Now it shakes off its Greek apparel, and comes to this
generation encumbered in loosely fitting English garments—
immemorial Truth peering through modern masks.”

He regarded her with an expression of sorrowful tenderness,
and his hand trembled as he placed it upon her head.

“This darling creed, this infallible egotism of yours, will fail :
you in the day of fierce trial. Pagan that you are, I know not
what is to become of you. Oh, Electra! if you would only be’
warned in time.”

The warmth of the room had vermilioned her cheeks, snide
long black lashes failed to veil in any degree the flash of the
144 MACARIA,

eyes she raised to his face. Removing the hand from her head,
she took it in both hers, and a cold, dauntless smile wreathed
her lips.

“Be easy on my account. I am not afraid of my future.
Why should I be? God built an arsenal in every soul before
he launched it on the stormy sea of Time, and the key to mine
is Will! Iam young and healthy; the rich purple blood bubbles
through my veins like Chian wine; and, with my heritage of
poverty and obscurity, I look fortune’s favorites in the eye and
dare them to retard or crush me. A vast caravan of mighty
souls, ‘ whose distant footsteps echo down the corridors of Time,’
have gone before me, and step by step I tramp after. What
woman has done, woman may do; a glorious sisterhood of artists
beckon me on; what Elizabeth Cheron, Sibylla Merian, Angelica
Kauffman, Elizabeth Le Brun, Felicie Fauveau, and Rosa Bon-
heur have achieved, I also will accomplish, or die in the effort.
These traveled no royal road to immortality, but rugged, thorny
paths; and who shall stay my feet? Afar off gleams my resting
place, but ambition scourges me unflaggingly on. Do not worry
about my future; I will take care of it and of myself.”

“And when, after years of toil, you win fame, even fame
enough to satisfy your large expectations, what then? Whither
will you look for happiness?”

“T will grapple fame to my empty heart, as women do other
idols.”

“Tt will freeze you, my dear child. Remember the mournful
verdict which Dante gave the world through the lips of Oderigi:

«ee |. . Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting’s field: and now
The cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched
The lettered prize: and he, perhaps, is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from divers points and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from.’

And, Electra, that chill blast will wail through your lonely
heart, chanting a requiem over the trampled, dead hopes that
might have garlanded your life. Be warned, oh! daughter of
Agamemnon!
‘** The earth hath bubbles as the water hath,
And this is of them.’”
MACARIA, 145

“ At all events, I will risk it. Thank God! whatever other
faults I confess to, there is no taint of cowardice in my soul.”

She rose, and stcod a moment on the rug, looking into the
red network of coals, then turned to leave him, saying:

“T must go to your mother now, and presently I will bring
your tea.”

“You need not trouble. I can go to the dining room ‘to-
night.”

“Tt is no trouble; it gives me great pleasure to do something
for your comfort; and I know you always enjoy your supper
more when you have it here.”

As she closed the door, he pressed his face against the
morocco lining and groaned unconsciously, and large, glittering
tears creeping from beneath the trembling lashes hid themselves
in the curling brown beard.

To see that Mrs. Clifton’s supper suited her, and then to read
aloud to her for half an hour from the worn family Bible was
part of the daily routine which Electra permitted nothing to
interrupt. On this occasion she found the old lady seated, as
usual, before the fire, her crutches leaning against the chair,
and her favorite cat curled on the carpet at her feet. Most ten-
derly did the aged cripple love her son’s protégée, and the
wrinkled, sallow face lighted up with a smile of pleasure at her
entrance. it

“T thought it was about time for you to come to me. Sit
down, dear, and touch the bell for Kate. How is Harry?”

“No stronger, I am afraid. You know this is very bad
weather for him.”

“Yes; when he came up to-day I thought he looked more
feeble than I had ever seen him; and as I sit here and listen to
his hollow cough, every sound seems a stab at my heart.” She
rocked herself to and fro for a moment, and added mournfully:

“ Ah, child! it is so hard to see my youngest boy going down
to the grave before me. The last of five, I hoped he would sur-
vive me, but consumption is a terrible thing; it took my hus-
band first, then, in quick succession, my other children, and
now Harry, my darling, my youngest, is the last prey.”

Anxious to divert her mind, Electra adroitly changed the con-
versation, and, when she rose to say good-night, some time
after, had the satisfaction of knowing that the old lady had
fallen asleep. It was in vain that she arranged several tempt-
ing dishes on the table beside the painter and coaxed him to
146 MACARIA.

partake of them; he received but a cup of tea from her hand,
and motioned the remainder away. As the servant removed
the tray he looked up at his pupil, and said:

“Please wheel the lounge nearer to the grate; I am too tired
to sit up to-night.”

She complied at once, shook up the pillow, and, as he laid his .
head upon it, she spread his heavy plaid shawl over him.

“Now, sir, what shall I read this evening?”

“<¢ Arcana Ceelestina,’ if you please.”

She took up the volume and began at the place he designated,
and as she read on and on, her rich, flexible voice rose and fell
upon the air like waves of melody. One of her hands chanced
to hang over the arm of the chair, and as she sat near the
lounge, thin, hot fingers twined about it, drew it caressingly to
the pillow, and held it tightly. Her first impulse was to with-
draw it, and an expression of annoyance crossed her features;
but, on second thought, she suffered her fingers to rest passively
in his. Now and then. as she turned a leaf, she met his lumi-
nous eyes fastened upon her; but after a time the quick breath-
ing attracted her attention, and, looking down, she saw that he,
too, was sleeping. She closed the book and remained quiet,
fearful of disturbing him; and as she studied the weary, fevered
face, noting the march of disease, the sorrowful drooping of the
mouth, so indicative of grievous disappointment, a new and
holy tenderness awoke in her heart. It was a feeling analogous
to that of a mother for a suffering child, who can be soothed
only by her presence and caresses—an affection not unfre-
quently kindled in haughty natures by the entire dependence of
a weaker one. Blended with this was a remorseful conscious-
ness of the coldness with which she had persistently rejected,
repulsed, every manifestation of his devoted love; and winding
her fingers through his long hair, she vowed an atonement for
the past in increased gentleness for the remainder of his wan-
ing life. As she bent over him, wearing her compassion in her
face, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“ How long have I slept?”

“Nearly an hour. How do you feel since your nap?”

He made no reply, and she put her hand on his forehead.
The countenance lighted, and he said slowly:

“Ah, yes! press your cool, soft little palm on my brow. It
seems to still the throbbing of my temples.”

“Tt is late, Mr. Clifton, and I must leave you. William
MACARIA, 147

jooked in a few minutes since to say that the fire burned in
your room, but I would not wake you. I will send him to you.
Good-night.” ;

She leaned down voluntarily and kissed him, and with a quick
movement, he folded her to his heart an instant, then released
her, murmuring huskily:

“God bless you, Electra, and reward you for your patient en-
durance. Good-night, my precious child.”

She went to her room, all unconscious of the burst of emo-
tion which shook the feeble frame of the painter, long after she
had laid her head on her pillow in the sound slumber of health-
ful youth.

CHAPTER XIV.

The year that ensued proved a valuable school of patience,
and taught the young artist a gentleness of tone and quietude
of manner at variance with the natural impetuosity of her char-
acter. Irksome beyond degree was the discipline to which she
subjected herself, but, with a fixedness of purpose that knew no
wavering, she walked through the daily, dreary routine, keep-
ing her eyes upon the end that slowly but unmistakably ap-
proached. In midsummer Mr. Clifton removed for a few
weeks to the Catskills, and occasionally he rallied for a few
hours, with a tenacity of strength almost miraculous. During
the still, sunny afternoons hosts of gay visitors, summer
tourists, often paused in their excursions to watch the emaci-
ated form of the painter leaning on the arm of his beautiful
pupil, or reclining on a lichen-carpeted knoll while she sketched
the surrounding scenery. Increased feebleness prevented Mrs.
Clifton from joining in these outdoor jaunts, and early in Sep-
tember, when it became apparent that her mind was rapidly
sinking into imbecility, they returned to the city. Memory
seemed to have deserted its throne; she knew neither her son
nor Electra, and the last spark of intelligence manifested
itself in a semi-recognition of her favorite cat, which sprang
to welcome her back as friendly hands bore her to the chamber
she was to quit no more till death released the crushed spirit.
A letter was found on the atelier ‘mantel, directed to Electra in
familiar characters which she had not seen for months. Very
quietly she put: it in her pocket, and in the solitude of her room
broke the seal; found that Russell had returned during her ab-
148 MACARIA.

sence, had spent a morning in the studio looking over her work,
and had gone South to establish himself in his native town.
Ah! the grievous, grievous disappointment. A bitter ery rolled
from her lips, and the hands wrung each other despairingly;
but an hour later she stood beside the artist with unrufiled brow
and a serene mouth, that bore no surface token of the sorrow
gnawing at her heart. Winter came on earlier than usual, with
unwonted severity; and, week after week, Electra went con-
tinually from one sufferer to another, striving to alleviate pain,
and to kindle a stray beam of sunshine in the darkened man-
sion. As one living thing in a charnel-house, she flitted from
room to room, sometimes shrinking from her own shadow, that
glided before her on the polished wall as she went up and down-
stairs in the dead of night. Unremitted vigil set its pale, in-
fallible signet on her face, but Mr. Clifton either could not or
would not see the painful alteration in her appearance; and
when Mrs. Young remonstrated with her niece upon the ruin-
ous effects of this tedious confinement to the house, she only
answered steadily: “TI will nurse him so long as I have strength
left to creep from one room to another.”

During Christmas week he grew alarmingly worse, and Dr.
Le Roy counted the waning life by hours; but on New Year’e
Eve he declared himself almost well, and insisted on being
carried to the studio. The whim was humored, and wrapped i1
his silken robe de chambre, he was seated in his large cushioned
chair, smiling to find himself once more in the midst of his
treasures. Turning back the velvet cuff from his attenuated
wrist, he lifted his flushed face toward the nurse, and said
eagerly: “Uncover my easel; make William draw it close to
me; I have been idle long enough. Give me my palette; I
want to retouch the forehead of my hero. It needs a high
light.” :

“You are not strong enough to work. Wait till to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! to-morrow! You have told me that fifty times.
ae up the easel, I say. The spell is upon me, and work I
will,’

It was the “ruling passion strong in death,” and Electra ac-
quiesced, arranging the colors on the palette as he directed,
and selecting the brushes he required. Resting his feet upon
the crossbeam, he leaned forward and.gazed earnestly upon his
masterpiece, the darling design which had haunted his brain for
years. “Theta” he called this piece of canvas, which was a
MACARIA, 149

large, square painting, representing in the foreground the
death of Socrates. Around the reclining form of the philoso-
pher clustered Apollodorus, Cebes, Simmias, and Crito, and
through the window of the prison came the last slanting, quiv-
ering ray of the setting sun, showing the street beyond, where
against the stone wall, near a gleaming guardian, Hermes,
huddled a mournful group—Xantippe and her weeping chil-
dren. The details of the picture were finished with pre-
Raphaelite precision and minuteness—the sweep and folds of
drapery about the couch, the emptied hemlock cup—but the
central figure of the Martyr lacked something, and to these
last touches Mr. Clifton essayed to address himself. Slowly.
feebly, the transparent hand wandered over the canvas, and
Electra heard with alarm the labored breath that came panting
from his parted lips. She saw the unnatural sparkle in his
sunken eyes almost die out, then leap up again like smoldering
embers swept by a sudden gust, and in the clear, strong
voice of other years, he repeated to himself the very words of
Plato’s Pheedo: “ For I have heard that it is right to die with
good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.”

Leaning back to note the effect of his touches, a shiver ran
through his frame, the brush fell from his tremulous fingers,
and he lay motionless and exhausted.

Electra threw up the sash, that the wintry air might revive
him; and as the red glare of declining day streamed down
from the skylight upon’ the group, she looked from the easy
chair to the canvas, and mutely questioned: “ Which is most
thanatoid—painter or painted ? ”

Folding his hands like a helpless, tired child, he raised his
eyes to hers and said brokenly:

“T bequeath it to you; finish my work. You understand
me—you know what is lacking; finish my ‘Theta,’ and tell
the world I died at work upon it. Oh! for a fraction of my
old strength! One hour more to complete my Socrates!
Just one hour! I would ask no more.”

She tried to persuade him to return to his own room, but
he obstinately refused, and when she insisted, he answered,
pleadingly’: “No, no; let me stay here. Do let me be quiet
here. I hate that gloomy, tomb-like room.”

She gave him a powerful cordial which the physician had
left, and having arranged the pillows on the lounge, drew it
close to the easel, and prevailed on him to lie down.
150 MACARIA,

A servant was dispatched for Dr. Le Roy, but returned te
. say that a dangerous case detained him elsewhere.

“ Mr. Clifton, would you like to have your mother brought
downstairs and placed beside you for a while?”

“No; I want nobody but you. Sit down here close to me,
and keep quiet.”

She lowered the heavy curtains, shaded the gas globe, and,
placing a bunch of sweet violets on his pillow, sat down at his
side. His favorite spaniel nestled at her feet, and occasionally
threw up his head and gazed wistfully at his master. Thus
two hours passed, and as she rose to administer the medicine
he waved it off, saying:

“Give me no more of it. I won’t be drugged in my last
hours; I won’t have my intellect clouded by opiates. Throw
it into the fire, and let me rest.”
~ “Qh, sir! can I do nothing for you?”

“Yes; read tome. Your voice lulls me. Read me that letter
of Iamblichus to Agathocles, which I marked last summer.”

She read it, and, without questioning, laid the book aside and
took up a volume of Jacob Behmen, of which he was very fond,
selecting, here and there, passages designated by pencil marks,
He had long reveled among the echoless abysses of dim, mediz-
val, mystical lore, and, strange as it may appear, the quaint old
books preserved their spell and riveted the wandering mind,
even on the verge of dissolution. She knew that Cornelius-
Agrippa, Theophrastus, Paracelsus, and Swedenborg held sin-
gular mastery over him; but she shrank from all these now, as
though they had been bound in flames, and a yearning to com-
fort him from the sacred lips of Jewish prophets and apostles
took possession of her. Passages which she had read to her
blind aunt came back to her now, ringing trumpet-toned in her
ears,and she rose to bring a Bible from Mrs. Clifton’s room.

“ Where are you going?”

“To your mother’s room, for a moment only. I want a
book which I left there.”

“Sit still. Do not leave me, I beg of you.” He drew her
back to the seat, and after a short silence said slowly:

“ Blectra, are you afraid of death?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know that I am dying?”

“T have seen you as ill several times before.”

“You are a brave, strong-hearted child; glazed eyes and
MACARIA, 151

stiffened limbs will not frighten you. I have but few hours to
live; put your hand in mine, and promise me that you will sit
here till my soul quits its clay prison. Will you watch with
me the death of the year? Are you afraid to stay with me,
and see me die?” : x

She would not trust herself to speak, but laid her hand in
his and clasped it firmly. He smiled, and added:

“Will you promise to call no one? I want no eyes but
yours to watch me as I die. Let there be only you and me.”

“T promise.”

For some moments he lay motionless, but the intensity of
his gaze made her restless, and she shaded her face.

“Electra, my darling, your martyrdom draws to a close. I
have been merciless in my exactions, I know; you are worn to
a shadow, and your face is sharp and haggard; but you will
forgive me all, when the willows of Greenwood trail their
boughs across my headstone. You have been faithful and
uncomplaining; you have been to me a light, a joy, and a
glory! God bless you, my pupil. There was a time when,
looking at the future that stretched before you, I shuddered on
your account. Since then I have learned to know you better;
I feel assured your nature will be equal to its trials. You can
conquer difficulties, and, better still, you can work and live
alone; you can conquer your own heart. I am passing to a
higher, purer, happier sphere; but my spirit will hover con-
stantly around you here, in the midst of your work, overlook-
ing you continually, as in the days that have gone by. I have
one request to make of you, and unhesitatingly I make it; re-
main in this house, and watch over my poor mother’s last
hours as you watched over and cheered mine. It is a heavy
burden to lay upon you; but you have patiently borne as
heavy, and I have no fear that you will desert her when the
last of her sons sleeps under marble. She will never know
that I have gone before her till we meet in another world. In
my vest pocket is the key of my writing desk. There you will
find my will; take charge of it, and put it in Le Roy’s hands
as soon as possible. Give me some water.”

She held the glass to his lips, and, as he sank back, a bright
smile played over his face. :

“ Ah, child! it is such a comfort to have you here—you are
s0 inexpressibly dear to me.”

She took his thin hands in hers, and hot tears fell upon them.
152 MACARIA,

An intolerable weight crushed her heart, a half-defined, hor-
rible dread, and she asked falteringly:

“Are you willing to die? Is your soul at peace with God?
Have you any fear of Eternity?”

“None, my child; none.”

“ Would you like to have Mr. Bailey come and pray for you?”

“T want no one now but you.”

A long silence ensued, broken only by the heavily drawn
breath of the sufferer. The memory of her aunt’s tranquil
death haunted the girl, and, finally, the desire to direct his
thoughts to God triumphed over every other feeling. She sank
on her knees beside the lounge, and a passionate prayer leaped
from her pale lips. She had not prayed for nearly four years,
and the petition went up to God framed in strange, incoherent
language—a plaintive cry to the Father to release, painlessly, a
struggling human soul. His fingers clung spasmodically to
hers, and soon after the head sank on his chest, and she saw
that he slept.

The glittering cortege of constellations moved solemnly on
in their eternal march through the fields of heaven, and in mid-
sky hung a moon of almost supernatural brightness, glaring
down through the skylight like an inquisitorial eye. Two
hours elapsed; the measured, melancholy tick of the clock
marked the expiring moments of the old year; the red coals of
the grate put on their robe of ashes; the gaslight burned dimly,
and flickered now and then as the wind surged through the par-
tially opened window; and there by the couch sat the motion-
less watcher, noting the indescribable but unmistakable change
creeping on, like the shadow which slowly sailing summer clouds
cast down upon green meadows or flowery hillsides, darkening
the landscape. The feeble, thread-like pulse fluttered irregu-
larly, but the breathing became easy and low as a babe’s, and
‘occasionally a gentle sigh heaved the chest. Once his lips hat
moved, and she caught the indistinct words—“ Discrete de
grees—” “influx—” “type-creature.” She knew that the en
was at hand, and a strained frightened expression came into her
large eyes as she glanced nervously round the room, weird and
awful in its gloomy surroundings. The damp masses of hair
clung to her temples, and she felt heavy drops gathering on
her forehead, as in that glance she met the solemn, fascinating
eyes of Munin staring at her from the low mantel. She caught
her breath, and the deep silence was broken by the metallic
MACARIA, 153

tongue that dirged out “twelve.” The last stroke of the bronze
hammer echoed drearily; the old year lay stark and gold on its
bier; Munin flapped his dusky wings with a long sepulchral,
blood-curdling hoot, and the dying man opened his dim, failing
eyes, and fixed them for the last time on his pupil.

“lectra, my darling.”

“My dear master, I am here.”

She lifted his head to her bosom, nestled her fingers into his
cold palm, and leaned her cheek against his brow. Pressing his
face close to hers, the gray eyes closed, and a smile throned
itself on the parted lips. A slight tremor shook the limbs, a
soft, shuddering breath swept across the watcher’s face, and the
“golden bowl” was shivered, the “silver cord” was loosed.

She sat there till the iciness of the rigid form chilled her,
then laid the head tenderly down on its pillow, and walked to
the mantelpiece. The Angel of Time lifted the hammer and
struck “one”; and as she glanced accidentally at the inscrip-
tion on the base, she remembered a favorite quotation which it
had often called from the cold lips of the dead painter:

‘‘ Time is my fair seed-field, of. Time I’m heir.”

The seed-time had ended; the calm fields of eternity stretched
before him now; the fruits of the harvest were required at his
hands. Were they full of ripe, golden sheaves, or 2 She
shrank from her own questioning, and looked over her shoulder
at the dreamless, smiling sleeper.

 

‘‘ His palms are folded on his breast:
There is no other thing expressed,
But long disquiet merged in rest.”

The vigil was over, the burden was lifted from her shoulders,
the weary ministry here ended; and shrouding her face in her
arms, the lonely woman wept bitterly.

CHAPTER XV.

Four years had wrought material changes in the town of
~1—— new streets had been opened, new buildings erected,
new forms trod the sidewalks, new faces looked out of shop win-
dows, and flashing equipages, and new shafts of granite and
marble stood in the cemetery to tell of many who had been gath-
(154 MACARIA,

ered to their forefathers. The old red schoolhouse, where twe

generations had been tutored, was swept away to make place
for a railroad depot; and, instead of the venerable trees that
once overshadowed its precincts, bristling walls of brick and
mortar rang with the shrill whistle of the engine, or the sharp,
continual click of repairing shops. The wild shout, the rippling
laugh of careless, childish glee were banished, and the frolic-
some flock of bygone years had grown to manhood and woman-
hood, were sedate business men and sober matrons. If impor.
tant revolutions had been effected in her early home, not less
decided and apparent was the change which had taken place
in the heiress of Huntingdon Hill; and having been eyed, ques-
tioned, scrutinized by the best families, and laid in the social
scales, it was found a difficult matter to determine her weight
as accurately as seemed desirable. In common parlance, “ her
education was finished ”—-she was regularly and unmistakably
“out.” Everybody hastened to inspect her, sound her, label
her; mothers to compare her with their own daughters; daugh-
ters to discover how much they had to apprehend in the charms
of the new rival; sons to satisfy themselves with regard to the
truth of the rumors concerning her beauty; all with curi-
osity stamped on their countenances; all with dubiety written
there at the conclusion of their visit. Perfectly self-possessed,
studiedly polite, attentive to all the punctilios of etiquette,
polished and irreproachable in deportment, but cold, reticent,
grave, indulging in no familiarities, and allowing none; fas-
cinating by her extraordinary beauty and grace, but tacitly
impressing upon all, “thus far, and no farther.” Having
lost her aunt two years before her return, the duties of hostess
devolved upon her, and she dispensed the hospitalities of her
home with an easy, though stately, elegance, surprising in one
so inexperienced. No positive charge could be preferred
against her by the inquisitorial circle; even Mrs. Judge
Harris, the self-constituted, but universally acknowledged,
autocrat of beau monde in W- , accorded her a species of
negative excellence, and confessed herself baffled and unable to
pronounce a verdict. An enigma to her own father, it was not
wonderful that strangers knit their brows in striving to analyze
her character, and erelong the cooing of carrier pigeons became
audible : “ Her mother had been very eccentric ; even before her
death it was whispered insanity hung threateningly over her;
Strange things were told of her, and doubtless Irene inherited

 
MACARIA. 155

her peculiarities.” Nature furnishes some seed with downy
wings to insure distribution, and envy, and malice, and probably
very innocent and mild-intentioned gossip, soon provided this
report with, remarkable facilities for progress. It chanced that
Dr. Arnold was absent for some weeks after her arrival, and no
sooner had he returned than he sought his quondam protégée.
Entering unannounced, he paused suddenly as he caught sight
of her standing before the fire, with Paragon at her feet. She
lifted her head and came to meet him, holding out both hands,
with a warm, bright smile.

“Oh, Dr. Arnold! I am so glad to see you once more. It
was neither friendly nor hospitable to go off just as I came
home, after long years of absence. I am very glad to see you.”

He held her hands and gazed at her like one in a dream of
mingled pain and pleasure, and when he spoke his voice was
unsteady. ,

“You cannot possibly be as glad to see me as I am to have
you back. But I can’t realize that this is indeed you, my pet
—the Irene I parted with rather more than four years ago.
Child, what is it? What have you done to yourself? I called
you queen in your infancy, when you clung to my finger and
tottered across the floor to creep into my arms, but tenfold more
appropriate does the title seem now. You are not the same
Irene, who used to toil up my office steps, and climb upon the
tallest chair to examine the skeletons in my cases—the snakes
and lizards in my jars. Oh, child! what a marvelous, what a
glorious beauty you have grown to be.”

“Take care; you will spoil her, Arnold. Don’t you know,
you old cynic, that women can’t stand such flattery as yours?”
laughed Mr. Huntingdon.

“T am glad you like me, doctor; I am glad you think I have
improved; and since you think so, I am obliged to you for ex-
pressing your opinion of me so kindly. I wish I could return
your compliments, but my conscience vetoes any such proceed-
ing. You look jaded—overworked. What is the reason that

‘you have grown so gray and haggard? We will enter into a
compact to renew the old life; you shall treat me exactly as
you used to do, and I shall come to you as formerly and inter-
rupt labors that seem too heavy. Sit down and talk to me.
I want to hear your voice; it is pleasant to my ears, makes
music in my heart, calls up the bygone. You have adopted a
stick in my absence; I don’t like the innovation’; it hurts me to
156 MACARIA.

think that you need it. I must take care of you, I see, and
persuade you to relinquish it entirely.”

“ Arnold, I verily believe she was more arxious to see you
than everybody else in W , except old Nellie, her nurse.”

She did not contradict him, and the three sat. conversing for
more than an hour; then other visitors came in, and she with-
drew to the parlor. The doctor had examined her closely all
the while; had noted every word, action, expression; and a
troubled, abstracted look came into his face when she left them.

“Huntingdon, what is it? What is it?”

“What is what? I don’t understand you.”

“What has so changed that child? I want to know what
ails her?”

“Nothing, that I know of. You know that she was always
rather singular.”

“Yes, but it was a different sort of singularity. She is too
still, and white, and cold, and stately. I told you it was a
wretched piece of business to send a nature like hers, so dif-
ferent from everybody’s else, off among utter strangers; to shut
up that queer, free, untamed thing in a boarding-school for four
years, with hundreds of miles between her and the few things
she loved. She required very peculiar and skillful treatment,
and, instead, you put her off where she petrified! I knew it
would never answer, and I told you:so. You wanted to break
her obstinacy, did you? She comes back marble. I tell you
now I know her better than you do, though you are her father,
and you may as well give up at once that chronic hallucination
of ‘ruling, conquering her. She is like steel—cold, firm,
brittle; she will break, snap asunder, but bend!—never! never!
Huntingdon, I love that child; I have a right to love her; she
has been very dear to me from her babyhood, and it would go
hard with me to know that any sorrow darkened her life. Don’t
allow your old plans and views to influence you now. Let Irene
be happy in her own way. Did you ever see a contented look-
ing eagle in a gilt cage? Did you ever know a leopardess kept
in a paddock, and taught to forget her native jungles?”

. Mr. Huntingdon moved uneasily, pondering the unpalatable
advice.

“You certainly don’t mean to say that she has inherited-—”
He a back the words; could he crush the apprehension,
too

“T mean to say that if she were my child, I would be guided

 
MACARIA, 157

by her, instead of striving to cut her character to fit the totally
different pattern of my own.”

He put on his hat, thrust his hands into his pockets, stood
for some seconds, frowning so heavily that the shaggy eye-
brows met and partially concealed the cavernous eyes, then
nodded to the master of the house, and sought his buggy.
From that day Irene was conscious of a keener and more con-
stant scrutiny on her father’s part—a ceaseless surveillance,
silent, but rigid—that soon grew intolerable. No matter
how she employed her time, or whither she went, he seemed
thoroughly cognizant of the details of her life; and where she
least expected interruption or dictation, his hand, firm though
gentle, pointed the way, and his voice calmly but inflexibly
directed. Her affection had been in no degree alienated by
their long separation, and, through its sway, she submitted for
a time; but Huntingdon blood ill brooked restraint, and ere-
long hers became feverish, necessitating release. As in all
tyrannical natures, his exactions grew upon her compliance.
She was allowed no margin for the exercise of judgment or in-
clination; her associates were selected, thrust upon her; her
occupations decided without reference to her wishes. From the
heartless, frivolous routine marked out she shrank in disgust;
and, painful as was the alternative, she prepared for the clash
which soon became inevitable. He wished her to be happy, but
in his own way, in accordance with his views and aims, and,
knowing the utter antagonism of taste and feeling which un-
fortunately existed, she determined to resist. Governed less by
impulse than sober second thought and sound reasoning, it was
not until after long and patient deliberation that she finally
resolved upon her future course, and steadily maintained it.
She felt most keenly that it was a painful, a lamentable resolu-
tion, but none the less a necessity; and, having once deter-
mined, she went forward with a fixedness of purpose character-
istic of her family. It was the beginning of a lifelong contest,
and, to one who understood Leonard Huntingdon’s disposition,
offered a dreary prospect.

From. verbal differences she habitually abstained; opinions
which she knew to be disagreeable to him she carefully avoided
giving expression to in his presence; and, while always studi-
ously thoughtful of his comfort, she preserved a respectful de-
portment, allowing herself no hasty or defiant words. Fond of
pomp and ceremony, and imbued witb certain aristocratic
158 MACARIA,

notions, which an ample fortune had always permitted him to
indulge, Mr. Huntingdon entertained company in princely
style, and whenever an opportunity offered. His dinners, sup-
pers, and card parties were known far and wide, and Hunting-
don Hill became proverbial for hospitality throughout the
State. Strangers were feted, and it was a rare occurrence for
father and daughter to dine quietly together. Fortunately for
Irene, the servants were admirably trained; and though this
round of company imposed a weight of responsibilities op-
pressive to one so inexperienced, she applied herself diligently
to domestic economy, and soon became familiarized with its
details. Her father had been very anxious to provide her with
a skillful housekeeper, to relieve her of the care and tedious
minutiz of such matters; but she refused to accept one, avowing
her belief that it was the imperative duty of every woman to
superintend and inspect the management of her domestic
affairs. Consequently, from the first week of her return, she
made it a rule to spend an hour after breakfast in her dining-
room, pantry, determining and arranging the details of the
day.

The situation of the house commanded an extensive and
beautiful prospect, and the ancient trees that overshadowed it
imparted a venerable and imposing aspect. The building was
of brick, overcast to represent granite, and along three sides ran
a wide gallery, supported by lofty, circular pillars, crowned with
unusually heavy capitals. The main body consisted of two
stories, with a hall in the center, and three rooms on either
side; while two long, single-storied wings stretched out right
and left, one a billiard-room, the other a greenhouse.

The parlors and library occupied one side, the first opening
into the greenhouse; the dining room and smoking room were
correspondingly situated to the billiard saloon. The frescoed
ceilings were too low to suit modern ideas; the windows were
large and nearly square; the facings, sills, and doors, all of
cedar, dark as mahogany with age, and polished as rosewood.
The tall mantelpieces were of fluted Egyptian black marble, and
along the freshly tinted walls the elaborate arabesque molding
‘or cornice hung heavy and threatening. A broad easy flight of
white marble steps led up to the richly carved front door, with
its massive silver knocker bearing the name of Huntingdon in
old-fashioned Italian characters; and in the arched niches, on
either side of this door, stood two statues, brought from Europe
MACAKIA. 109

by Mr. Huntingdon’s father, and supposed to represent certain
Roman penates.

From the hall on the second floor a narrow, spiral iron stair-
way ascended to a circular observatory on the roof, with a row
of small columns corresponding with those below, and a tessel-
lated floor of alternating white and variegated squares of
marble. Originally the observatory had been crowned by a
heavy, pageda-shaped roof, but recently this had been removed
and a covering of glass substituted, which, like that of hot-
houses, could be raised and lowered at pleasure, by means of
ropes and pulleys. Two generations had embellished this house,
and the modern wings forming the cross had been erected
within Irene’s recollection. In expectation of her return, an
entirely new set of furniture had “been selected in New York,
and arranged some weeks before her arrival—costly carpets,
splendid mirrors, plush and brocatel sofas, rich china, and every
luxury which wealth and fastidious taste could supply. The
grounds in front, embracing several acres, were inclosed by a
brick wall, and at the foot of the hill, at the entrance of the
long avenue of elms, stood a tall, arched iron gate. A smoothly
shaven terrace of Bermuda grass ran round the house, and the
broad ecarriage-way swept up to a mound opposite the door, sur-
mounted by the bronze figure of a crouching dog. On one side
of the avenue a beautiful lawn, studded with clumps of trees,
‘extended to the wall; on the other, serpentine walks, bordered
with low hedges, carved flower-beds of diverse shapes; and here
delicate trellis-work supported rare creepers, and airy, elegant
arbors and summer-houses were overgrown with vines of rank
luxuriance. Everything about the parterre, from the well-
swept gravel walks to the carefully clipped hedges, betokened
constant attention and lavish expenditure. But the crowning
glory of the place was its wealth of trees—the ancient avenue
of mighty elms, arching grandly to the sky like the groined
nave of some vast cathedral; the circlet of sentinel poplars tow-
ering around the house, and old as its foundations; the long,
undulating line of venerable willows waving at the foot of the
lawn, over the sinuous little brook that rippled on its way to the
creek; and, beyond the mansion, clothing the sides of a steeper
hill, a somber background of murmuring, solemn, immémorial
pines. Such was Irene’s home—stately and elegant—kept so
thoroughly repaired that, in its cheerfulness, its age was for-
gotten,

~
160 MACARIA,

 

The society of W: was considered remarkably fine. There
was quite an aggregation of wealth and refinement; gentlemen
whose plantations were situated in adjacent counties resided
here with their families; some, who spent their winters on the
seaboard, resorted here fe the summer; its bar was said to pos-
sess more talent than any other in the State; its schools claimed
to be unsurpassed; it boasted of a concert-hall, a lyceum, a
handsome courthouse, a commodious, well-built jail, and half
a dozen as fine churches as any country town could desire. I
would fain avoid the term, if possible, but no synonym exists—
W. was indisputably an “ aristocratic” place.

Thus, after more than four years’ absence, the summers of
which had been spent in travel among the beautiful mountain
scenery of the North, the young heiress returned to the home of
her childhood. Standing on the verge of nineteen, she put the
early garlanded years behind her and looked into the solemn
temple of womanhood, with its checkered pavement of light:
and shadow; its storied friezes, gilded architraves, and fretted
shrines, where white-robed bands of devotees enter with uncer-
tain step, all eager, trembling Myste, soon to become clear-eyed,
sad-eyed, Epoptc, through the unerring, mystical, sacred initia-
tion of the only true hierophant—Time.

From her few early associates she had become completely
estranged; and the renewal of their acquaintance now soon con-
vinced her that the utter want of congeniality in character and
habits of life precluded the possibility of any warm friendships
between them. For several months after her return she pa-
tiently, hopefully, faithfully studied the dispositions of the
members of various families with whom she foresaw that she
would be thrown, by her father’s wishes, into intimate relation-
ship, and satisfied herself that, among all these, there was not
one save Dr. Arnold, whose counsel, assistance, or sympathy
she felt any inclination to claim. Human nature at least is,
beyond all cavil, cosmopolitan in its characteristics (barring a
few ethnologic limitations); and a given number of men and
women similarly cireumstanced in Chili, England, Madagascar,
Utah, or Burmah would, doubtless, yield a like quota of moral
and intellectual idiosynerasies. In fine, W- was not in any
respect peculiar, or, as a community, specially afflicted with
heartlessness, frivolity, brainlessness, or mammonism; the
average was fair, reputable, in all respects. But, incontro-
vertibly, the girl who came to spend her life among these people

 

 
&

MACARIA. 161

was totally dissimilar in criteria of action, thought, and feel-
ing. To the stereotyped conventional standard of fashionable
life she had never yielded allegiance; and now stood (not in the
St. Simon, Fourier, Owen, or Leroux sense) a social free-
thinker. For a season she allowed herself to be whirled on by
the current of dinners, parties, and picnics; but soon her sedate,
contemplative temperament revolted from the irksome round,
and gradually she outlined and pursued a different course, giv-
ing to her gay companions just what courtesy required, no more.

Hugh had prolonged his stay in Europe beyond the period
originally designated; and, instead of arriving in time to ac-
company his uncle and cousin home, he did not sail for some
months after their return. At length, however, letters were re-
ceived announcing his presence in New York, and fixing the
day when his relatives might expect him.

CHAPTER XVI.

The carriage had been dispatched to the depot, a servant
stood at the end of the avenue waiting to throw open the gate,
Mr. Huntingdon walked up and down the wide colonnade, and
Irene sat before the fire in her own room, holding in one palm
the flashing betrothal ring, which she had been forced to wear
since her return from New York. She had looked into the
rooms to see that all was bright and cheerful, had looped back
the curtains in the apartment prepared for Hugh, had filled
the vases with flowers that he preferred in his boyhood, and
now listened for his approach with complex emotions. The
sole companion of her infancy, she would have hailed his ar-
rival with unmixed joy, but for the peculiar relationship in
which she now stood to him. The few years of partial peace
had passed; she knew that the hour drew near when the long-
dreaded struggle must begin, and, hopeless of averting it,
quietly waited for the storm to break. Dropping the ring in
her jewelry box, she turned the key, and just then her father’s
voice rang through | the house.

“Trene! the carriage is coming up the avenue.”

She went slowly downstairs, followed by Paragon, and joined
her father at the door. His searching look discovered nothing
in the serene face; the carriage stopped, and he hastened to
meet his nephew.
162 MACARIA,

“Come at last, eh! Welcome home, my dear boy.”

The young man turned from his uncle, sprang up the steps,
then paused, and the cousins looked at each other.

“Well, Hugh, I am very glad to see you once more.”

She held out her hands, and he saw at a glance that her fin-
gers were unfettered. Seizing them warmly, he bent forward,
but she drew back coldly, and he exclaimed:

“Trene! I claim a warmer welcome.”

She made a haughty, repellent gesture, and moved forward
a few steps to greet the stranger who accompanied him.

“My daughter, this is ycur uncle, Eric Mitchell, who has
not seen you since you were a baby.”

The party entered the house, and, seated bzside him, Irene
gazed with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure upon her
mother’s only brother. He was about thirty, but looked older
from lifelong suffering; had used crutches from the time he
was five years of age, having been hopelessly crippled by a fall
during his infancy. His features were sharp, his cheeks wore
the sallow hue of habitual ill health, and his fine gray eyes were
somewhat sunken. Resting his crutches against the sofa, he
leaned back, and looked long and earnestly at his niece. Very
dimly he remembered a fair, flaxen-haired baby whom the
nurse had held out to be kissed when he was sent to Philadelphia
to be treated for his lameness; soon after he heard of his sister’s
death, and then his tutor took him to Europe, to command the
best medical advice of the old world.

“From the faint recollection which I have of your mother, I
think you strongly resemble her,” he said at last, in a fond,
gentle tone.

“T don’t know about that, Eric. She is far more of a Hunt-
ingdon than a Mitchell. She has many of the traits of your
family, but in appearance she certainly belongs to my side of
the house. She very often reminds me of Hugh’s mother.”

Conversation turned upon the misfortune of the cripple; he
spoke freely of the unsuccessful experiments made by eminent
physicians; of the hopelessness of his case; and Irene was pat-
ticularly impressed by the calmness and patience with which he
seemed to have resigned himself to this great affliction. She
could detect no trace of complaining bitterness, or, what was
still more to be deplored, the irritable, nervous querulousness
so often observed in persons of his situation. She found him
a ripe scholar, a profound archeologist, and philosophic ob-

S
MACARYA. 163

server of his age and generation; and deeply interested in his
quiet, low-toned talk, she felt irresistibly drawn toward him,
careless of passing hours and of Hugh’s ill-concealed impa-
tience of manner. As they rose from the tea-table her cousin
said laughingly :

“TI protest against monopoly. I have not been able to say
three words to my lady-cousin.”

“T yield the floor from necessity. My long journey has un-
fitted me for this evening, and I must bid you all an early
good-night.”

“Can I do anything for you, uncle?”

“No, thank you, Irene; I have a servant who thoroughly
understands taking care of me. Go talk to Hugh, who has
been wishing me among the antipodes.”

He shook hands with her, smiled kindly, and Mr. Hunting-
don assisted him to his room.

“Trene, come into the library and let me have a cigar.”

“How tenacious your bad habits are, Hugh!”

“Smoking belongs to no such category. My habits are cer-
tainly quite as tenacious as my cousin’s antipathies.”

He selected a cigar, lighted it, and, drawing a chair near
hers, threw himself into it with an expression of great satis-
faction. “It is delightful to get back home and see you again,
Irene. I felt some regret at quitting Paris, but the sight of
your face more than compensates me.”

She was looking very earnestly at him, noting the alteration
in his appearance, and for a moment his eyes drooped before
hers. She saw that the years had been spent, not in study, but
in a giddy round of pleasure and dissipation, yet the bright,
frank, genial expression of boyhood still lingered, and she could
not deny that he had grown up a very handsome man. She
knew that he was capable of sudden, spasmodic impulses of gen-
erosity, but saw that selfishness remained the great substratum
of his character, and her keen feelings of disappointment
showed her now how much she had hoped to find him changed
in this respect.

“Trene, I had a right to expect a warmer welcome than you
deigned to give me.”

“Hugh, remember that we have ceased to be children. When
you learn to regard me simply as your cousin, and are satisfied
with a cousin’s welcome, then, and not until then, shall you re-
ceive it. Let childish whims pass with the years that have
164 MACARIA,

separated us; rake up no germs of contention to mar this first
evening of your return. Be reasonable, and now tell me how
you have employed yourself since we parted; what have you
seen? what have you gleaned?”

He flushed angrily, but the imperturbable face controlled
him, even against his will, and muttering something that she
thought sounded very much like an oath, he smoked for some
seconds in silence. Without noticing his sullenness, she made
some inquiries concerning his sojourn in Paris, and insensibly
he found himself drawn into a narration of his course of life.
She listened with apparent interest, making occasional good-
humored comments, and bringing him back to the subject when-
ever he attempted a detour toward the topic so extremely dis-
tasteful to her.

The clock struck eleven; she rose and said:

“T beg your pardon, Hugh, for keeping you up so very late.
I ought to have known that you were fatigued by railroad
travel, and required sleep. You know the way to your room; it
is the same you cccupied before you went to college. Good:
night; I hepe you will rest well.”

She held out her hand carelessly; he took it eagerly, and hold-
ing it up to the light, said, in a disappointed tone:

“Trene, where is my ring? Why are you not wearing it?”

“Tt is in my jewelry box. As I gave you my reasons for not
wearing it whén you offered it to me, it is not necessary to re-
peat them now. Good-night, Hugh; go dream of something
more agreeable than our old childish quarrels.” She withdrew
her fingers and left him.

As she entered her own room and closed the door, she was
surprised to find her nurse sitting before the fire, with her chin
in her hands, and her keen black eyes fixed on the coals.

“ Aunt Nellie, what are you sitting up so late for? You will
have another spell of rheumatism, tramping about this time of
night.”

“T have been to see Mass’ Eric, blessed lamb that he always
was and always will be. He is so changed I never would have
known him; he was a weak, little white-faced cripple when I
first saw him, twenty years ago. It seems like there is a curse
on your family, anyhow, both sides. They died off, and have
been killed off, on your mother’s side, till Mass’ Eric is the only
one left of all the Mitchells, and, as for master’s family, you
and Hugh are the two last. You know some families run out,
MACARIA, 165

and I don’t think master ought to try to overturn the Lord’s
plans. Queen, let things take their course.”

“Who has put all this into your head?”

“Nobody put it into my head! I should like to know where
my eyes have been these many years? I haven’t been so near
blind all my life. Don’t you suppose I know what master’s
been after since you were eighteen months old? Wasn’t I
standing by the bed when Hugh’s mother died, and didn’t I hear
master promise her that, when you were grown, you and Hugh
should marry? Don’t I know how your poor, dying mother
cried, and wrung her hands, and said ‘Harm would come of it
all” and she hoped you would die while you were a baby? She
had found out what Huntingdon temper was. Poor, blessed
saint! What a life she did lead between Miss Margaret and
Miss Isabella! It is no use to shut your eyes to it, Queen!
You might just as well look at it at once. It is a sin for near
kin like you and Hugh to marry, and you ought to set your
face against it. He is just his mother over again, and you will
see trouble as sure as your name is Irene, if you don’t take a
stand. Oh! they are managing people! and the Lord have
mercy on folks they don’t like, for it isn’t in Huntingdon blood
to forgive or to forget anything. I am so thankful your uncle
Eric has come; he will help to stand between you and trouble.
Ah! it is coming, Queen! it’s coming! You didn’t see how
your father frowned when you wouldn’t let Hugh kiss you?
I was looking through the window and saw it all. I haven’t
had one hour’s peace since I dreamed of seeing you and your
mother together. Oh, my baby! my baby! there is trouble and
sorrow thickening for you; I know it. I have had a warning
of it.”

She inclined her head on one side, and rocked herself to and
fro, much as did early Pelasgic Dodonides in announcing oracu-
lar decrees.

“You need not grieve about it; I want nobody to stand be-
tween me and trouble. Besides, Nellie, you must remember
that, in all my father does, he intends and desires to promote
my welfare, and make me happy.”

“Did he send you off to that boarding-school for your hap-
piness? You were very happy there, weren’t you? It is no use
to try to blindfold me; I have lived a little too long. Oh, my
baby! your white, white face, and big, sorrowful, blue eyes fol-
low me day and night! I knew how it would be when you were
166 MACARIA.,

born. You came into this world among awful signs! The sun
was eclipsed! chickens went to roost, as if night had come; and
I saw stars in the sky at two o’clock in the day! Oh! I thought
sure enough, judgment day had come at last; and when they
put you in my arms I trembled so I could hardly stand. May
God have mercy on you, Queen!”

She shuddered for a moment, as if in the presence of some
dread evil, and, rising, wrapped her shawl about her shoulders
and left the room.

Trene looked after her retreating form, smiling at the super-
stitious turn her thoughts had taken, then dismissing the sub-
ject, she fell asleep thinking of her uncle.

A week passed, varied by few incidents of interest; the new-
comers became thoroughly domesticated—the old routine was
re-established. Hugh seemed gay and careless—hunting, visit-
ing, renewing boyish acquaintances, and whiling away the time
as inclination prompted. He had had a long conversation with
his uncle, and the result was that, for the present, no allusion
was made to the future. In Irene’s presence the subject was
temporarily tabooed. She knew that the project was not relin-
quished, was only veiled till a convenient season, and giving to
the momentary lull its full value, she acquiesced, finding in
Eric’s society enjoyment and resources altogether unexpected.
Instinetively they seemed to comprehend each other’s char-
acters, and while both were taciturn and undemonstrative, a
‘warm affection sprang up between them.

On Sunday morning, as the family group sat around the
breakfast table waiting for Hugh, who lingered, as usual, over
his second cup of chocolate, Mr. Mitchell suddenly laid down
the fork with which he had been describing a series of geo-
metrical figures on the fine damask, and said: “I met a young
man in Brussels who interested me extremely, and in connec-
tion with whom I venture the prediction that, if he lives, he
will occupy a conspicuous position in the affairs of his country.
He is, or was, secretary of Mr. Campbell, our Minister to —,
and they were both on a visit to Brussels when I met them.
His name is Aubrey, and he told me that he lived here. His
talents are of the first order; his ambition unbounded, I should
judge; and his patient, laborious application certainly sur-
passes anything I have ever seen. It happened that a friend of
mine, from London, was prosecuting certain researches among
the MS. archives at Brussels, and here, immersed in study, he
MACARIA. 167

says he found the secretary, who completely distanced him in
his investigations, and then, with unexpected generosity, placed
his notes at my friend’s disposal. His industry is almost in-
credible. Conversing with Campbell concerning him, I learned
that he was a protégé of the Minister, who spoke of his future
‘in singularly sanguine terms. He left him some time since to
embark in the practice of law. Do you know him, Hunting-
don?”

“No, sir; but I know that his father was sentenced to the
gallows, and only saved himself from it by cutting his miser-
able throat, and cheating the law.”

The master of the house thrust back his chair violently, crush-
ing one of Paragon’s innocent paws as he crouched on the
carpet, and overturning a glass which shivered into a dozen
fragments at his feet.

Irene understood the scowl on his brow, but only she possessed
the clew, and, lazily sipping his chocolate, Hugh added: “T
recollect him very well as a boy; he always had a bookish look,
and I met him one day on the boulevard, at Paris. He was
talking to an attaché of the American Legation as I came up,
and took no more notice of me than if I had been one of the
paving-stones. I could not avoid admiring the cool sublimity
of his manner, and as I had snubbed him at school long ago, I
put out my hand and said: ‘ Howdy-do, Aubrey; pray, when did
you cross the water?’ He bowed as frigidly as Czar Nicholas,
and, without noticing my hand, answered: ‘ Good-morning, Mr.
Seymour; I have been in Europe two years,’ and walked on.
The day after I got home I met him going up the court-house
steps, and looked him full in the face; he just inclined his head
and passed me. Confound it! he’s as proud as if he had found
a patent of nobility in digging among Belgic archives.”
“Nature furnished him with one many years since,” replied

Tic.

“Yes; and his coat of arms should be J ack Ketch and a gal-
lows!” engered Mr. Huntingdon.

Looking at his watch, he said, as if wishing to cut the conver-
sation short:

“Trene, if you intend to go to church to-day, it is time that
you had your bonnet on. Hugh, what will you do with your-
self? Go with Eric and your cousin?”

“No, I rather think that I shall stay at home with you.
After European cathedrals, our American churches seem ex-
168 MACARIA,

cessively plain.” Irene went to her room, pondering the con-
versation. She thought it remarkable that, as long as she had
been at home, she had never seen Russell, even on the street.

Unlocking her writing desk, she took out a tiny note which
had accompanied a check for two hundred dollars, and had
reached her a few months before she left boarding-school. The
firm, round, manly hand ran as follows:

“With gratitude beyond ail expression for the favor con-
ferred on my mother and myself, some years since, I now return
to Miss Huntingdon: the money which I have ever regarded as
a friendly loan. Hoping that the future will afford me some
opportunity of proving my appreciation of her great kindness,
{ remain, most respectfully,

“Her obliged friend,
“Russell Aubrey.”

“New York, September 5th.”

She was conscious of a feeling of regret that the money had
been returned; it was pleasant to reflect on the fact that she
had laid him under obligation; now it all seemed canceled.
She relocked the desk, and, drawing on her gloves, joined her
uncle at the carriage. Her father accompanied her so 1arely
that she scarcely missed him, and during the drive, as Eric
seemed abstracted, she leaned back, and her thoughts once more
reverted to the unfortunate topic of the breakfast table. Ar-
riving at church later than was her wont, she found the family
pew occupied by strangers, and crossed the aisle to share a
friend’s, but at that instant a tall form rose in Mr. Campbell’s
long-vacant pew, stepped into the aisle, and held open the door.
She drew back to suffer her uncle to limp in and lay aside his
crutches, saw him give his hand to the stranger, and, sweeping
her veil aside as she entered, she saw Russell quietly resume his
seat at the end of the pew.

Startled beyond measure, she looked at him intently, and al-
most wondered that she recognized him, he had changed so
materially since the day on which she stood with him before his
mother’s gate. Meanwhile the service commenced, she gave
her hymn-book to her uncle, and at the same moment Russell
found the place, and handed her one of two which lay near him.
As she received it their eyes met, looked fixedly into each othe‘,
and she held out her hand. He took it, she felt his fingers
MACARIA, 169

tremble as they dropped hers, and then both faces bent over the
books. When they knelt side by side, and the heavy folds of
her velvet dress swept against him, it seemed a feverish dream
to her; she could not realize that, at last, they had met again,
and her heart beat so fiercely that she pressed her hand upon it,
. dreading lest he should hear its loud pulsations. Lowering her
veil, she drew her costly drapery about her and leaned back;
and the anthem was chanted, the solemn organ-notes hushed
themselves, the minister stood up in the pulpit, and his dull
tones fell on her ear and brain meaningless as the dry patter
of dying leaves in an autumn wind. The outline of that tall,
broad-shouldered, magnificently-turned figure, replete with vig-
orous muscular strength; the massive, finely-formed head,
easily, gracefully poised, like that of a statue; above all, the
olive-pale, proud face, unshaded by beard, with regular features
sharply yet beautifully cut, like those in the rare gems which
Benvenuto Cellini left the world, greeted her now, turn which
way she would. The coat was buttoned to the throat, the strong
arms were crossed over the deep chest, the piercing black eyes
raised and fastened on the pulpit. It has been well said: “ The
eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul, or through how many
forms it has already ascended.” If so, his seemed brimful of
destiny, and seons old, in that one long, unveiling look which
they had exchanged; deep, sparkling, and yet indescribably
melancholy, something in the expression vividly recalling the
Beatrice Cenci; then all analogy was baffled. Electra knew
wherein’ consisted their wonderful charm, and because she put
those eyes on canvas connoisseurs studied and applauded her
work. Now face and figure, cold and unrelenting, stamped
themselves on Irene’s memory as indelibly as those which
laborious, patient lapidaries carve on coral or cornelian. The
discourse was ended, the diapason of the organ swelled through
the lofty church, priestly hands hovered like white doves over
the congregation, dismissing all with blessing. Once more
Irene swept back the rich lace veil, fully exposing her face;
once more her eyes looked into those of the man who politely
held the pew door open; both bowed with stately grace, and she
walked down the aisle. She heard Russell talking to her uncle
just behind her, heard the inquiries concerning his health, the
expression of pleasure at meeting again, the hope which Eric
uttered that he should see him frequently during his stay in
W—. Without even a glance over her shoulder, she pro-
170 MACARIA,,

ceeded to the carriage, where her uncle soon joined her, taking
the front seat instead of sharing the back one, as is customary.
He scrutinized his niece’s countenance, but it baffled him, as on
the first night of his arrival; the serene, colorless face showed
not the slightest symptom of emotion of any kind. Neither
spoke till they approached the cottage on the roadside, then she
extended her hand and said indifferently:

“Your European acquaintance, the quondam secretary, for-
merly lived in that little three-roomed house hid among the
vines yonder.”

“When I spoke of him this morning, you did not mention
having known him. I inferred from your manner that he was
a stranger to you.”

“He is a stranger now. I knew him long ago, when we were
children, and met him to-day for the first time in some years.”

“There is something peculiarly commanding in his appear-
ance. He impresses me with respect and involuntary admira-
tion, such as no man of his age ever excited before, and I have
traveled far and wide, and have seen the lordliest of many
lands.”

“Years have greatly changed him. He is less like his mother
than when I knew him in his boyhood.”

“He is an orphan, I learned from Campbell.”

“ Yes.”

She pulled the check-cord, and, as the driver stopped, she
leaned out of the window, pointing to a mossy tuft on the
margin of the little brook just at the foot of the hill.”

“ Andrew, if you are not afraid to leave your horses, get me
that cluster of violets just this side of the sweet-gum tree.
They are the very earliest I have seen.”

He gathered them carefully and placed them in the daintily-
gloved, outstretched hand. She bent over them an instant, then
divided the tiny bunch with her uncle, saying:

“Spring has opened its blue eyes at last.”

She met his searching gaze as calmly as the flowerets, and as
they now neared the house, he forebore any further allusions
to the subject, which he shrewdly suspected engaged her
thoughts quite as fully as his own.
MACARIA, val

CHAPTER XVII.

“Trene, it is past midnight.”

She gave no intimation of having heard him.

“Trene, my child, it is one o’clock.”

Without looking up, she raised her hand toward the clock on
the mantel, and answered coldly:

“You need not sit up to tell me the time of night; I have a
clock here. Go to sleep, Uncle Eric.”

He rested his shoulder against the door-facing, and, leaning
on his crutches, watched her.

She sat there just as he had seen her several times before,
with her arms crossed on the table, the large celestial globe
drawn near, astronomical catalogues scattered about, and a
thick folio open before her. She wore a loose wrapper, or robe
de chambre, of black velvet lined with crimson silk and girded
with a heavy cord and tassel. The sleeves were very full, and
fel? away from the arms, exposing them from the dimpled
elbows, and rendering their pearly whiteness more apparent by
contrast with the sable hue of the velvet, while the broad, round
collar was pressed smoothly down, revealing the polished turn
of the throat. An ivory conib lay on the table, and the unbound
hair, falling around her shoulders, swept over the back of her
chair and trailed on the carpet. A marvel of statuesque beauty
was his queenly niece, yet he could not look at her without a
vague feeling of awe, of painful apprehension; and, as he stood
watching her motionless figure, in its grand yet graceful pose,
he sighed involuntarily. She rose, shook back her magnificent
hair, dnd approached him. Her eyes, so like deep, calm, azure
lakes, crossed by no ripple, met his, and the clear, pure voice
echoed through the still room.

“Uncle Eric, I wish you would not sit up on my account; I
do not like to be watched.”

“Trene, your father forbade your studying until this hour.
You will accomplish nothing but the ruin of your health.”

“How do you know that? Do statistics prove astronomers
short-lived? Rather the contrary. I commend you to the con-
templation of their longevity. Good-night, uncle; starry dreams
to you.”
172 MACARIA,

“Stay, child; what object have you in view in all this labori-
ous investigation ?”

“ Are you skeptical of the possibility of a devotion to science
merely for science’ sake? Do my womanly garments shut me
out of the Holy of Holies, debar me eternally from sacred
arcana, think you? Uncle Eric, once for all, it is not my
aim to

«ce |. brush with extreme flounce
The circle of the sciences.’

I take my heart, my intellect, my life, and offer all upon the
altar of its penetralia. You men doubt women’s credentials for
work like mine; but this intellectual bigotry and monopoly
already trembles before the weight of stern and positive results
which women lay before you—data for your speculations—alms
for your calculation. In glorious proof of the truth of female
capacity to grapple with some of the most recondite problems
of science stand the names of Caroline Herschel, Mary Somer-
ville, Maria Mitchell, Emma Willard, Mrs. Phelps, and the
proud compliment paid to Madame Lepaute by Clairant and
Lalande, who, at the successful conclusion of their gigantic
computations, declared: ‘The assistance rendered by her was
such that, without her, we never should have dared to under-
take the enormous labor in which it was necessary to calculate
the distance of each of the two planets, Jupiter and Saturn,
from the comet, separately for every degree, for one hundred
and fifty years.’ Uncle Eric, remember,

««. . . Whoso cures the plague,
Though twice a woman, shall be called a Jeech;
Who rights a Jand’s finances is excused
For touching coppers, though her hands be white.’”

She took the volume she had been reading, selected several
catalogues from the mass, and, lighting a small lamp, passed
her uncle and mounted the spiral staircase leading to the ob-
servatory. He watched her tall form slowly ascending, and, in
the flashing light of the lamp she carried, her black dress and
floating hair seemed to belong to some veritable Urania—some
Ancient Egyptic Berenice. He heard her open the glass door
of the observatory, then the flame vanished, and the click of the
lock fell down the dark stairway as she turned the key. With
a heavy sigh the cripple returned to his room, there to ponder
MACARIA. 1738

the singular character of the woman whom he had just left, and
to dream that he saw her transplanted to the constellations, her
blue eyes brightening into stars, her waving hair braiding itself
out into brilliant rushing comets. The night was keen, still,
and cloudless, and, as Irene locked herself in, the-chill from the
marble tiles crept through the carpet to her slippered feet. In
the center of the apartment rose a wooden shaft bearing a brass
plate, and to this a telescope was securely fastened. Two chairs
and an old-fashioned oaken table, with curious carved legs, com-
prised the furniture. She looked at the small sidereal clock,
and finding that a quarter of an hour must elapse before she
could take the desired observation, drew a chair to the table and
seated herself. She took from the drawer a number of loose
papers, and prepared the blank book for registering the obser-
vation; then laid before her a slate covered with figures, and
began to run over the calculation. At the close of fifteen
minutes she placed herself at the telescope, and waited patiently
for the appearance of a small star which gradually entered the
field; she noted the exact moment and position, transferred the
result to the register, and after a time went back to the slate
and figures. Cautiously she went over the work, now and then
having recourse to pen and paper; she reached the bottom of
the slate and turned it over, moving one finger along the lines.
The solution was wrong; a mistake had been made somewhere;
she pressed her palm on her forehead, and thought over the
whole question; then began again. The work was tedious, the
calculation subtle, and she attached great importance to the
result; the second examination was fruitless as the first; time
was wearing away; where could the error be? Without hesita-
tion she turned back for the third time, and commenced at the
first, slowly, patiently threading the maze. Suddenly she
paused and smiled; there was the mistake, glaring enough now.
She corrected it, and working the sum through, found the
result perfectly accurate, according fully with the tables of
Leverrier by which she was computing. She carefully trans-
ferred the operation from slate to paper, and, after numbering
the problem with great particularity, placed all in the drawer
and turned the key. Jt was three o’clock; she opened the door,
drew her chair out on the little gallery, and sat down, looking
toward the east. The air was crisp but still, unswayed by cur-
rent waifs; no sound swept its crystal waves save the low,
monotonous, distant thunder of the falls, and the deep, cloud-
174 MACARIA.

less, blue ocean of space glowed with its numberless argosies of
stellar worlds. Constellations which, in the purple twilight,
stood sentinel at the horizon, had marched in majesty to mid-
heaven, taken reconnoissance thence, and as solemnly passed the
opposite horizon to report to watching gazers in another hemi-
sphere. “-Scouts stood upon every headland, on every plain;”
mercilessly the inquisitorial eye of science followed the heavenly
wanderers; there was no escape from the eager, sleepless police
who kept vigil in every clime and country; as well call on
Bostes to give o’er his care of Ursa Major, as hopelessly at-
tempt to thrust him from the ken of Cynosura. From her
earliest recollection, and especially from the hour of entering
school, astronomy and mathematics had exerted an overmaster-
ing influence upon Irene’s mind. The ordinary text-books only
increased her interest in the former science, and while in New
York, with the aid of the professor of astronomy, she had pos-
sessed herself of all the most eminent works bearing upon the
subject, sending acrocs the Atlantic for tables and seleno-
graphic charts, which were not to be procured in America.
Under singularly favorable auspices she had pursued her
studies perseveringly, methodically, and, despite her father’s
prohibition, indefatigably. He had indulged, in earlier years,
a penchant for the same science, and cheerfully facilitated her
progress by rearranging the observatory so as to allow full play
for her fine telescope; but, though proud of her proficiency, he
objected most strenuously to her devoting so large a share of
her time and attention to this study, and had positively inter-
dicted all observations after twelve o’clock. Most girls patronize
certain branches of investigation with fitful, spasmodic,
vehemence or periodic impulses of enthusiasm; but Irene knew
no intermission of interest, she hurried over no details, and,
when the weather permitted, never failed to make her nightly
visit to the observatory. She loved her work as a painter his
canvas, or the sculptor the marble one day to enshrine his cher-
ished ideal; and she prosecuted it, not as a mere pastime, not
as a toy, but as a lifelong labor, for the labor’s sake. To-night,
as her ‘drooping palms nestled to each other, and her eyes
searched the vast, jeweled dome above, thought, unwearied as
the theme it pondered, flew back to the dim, gray dawn of Time,
“When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of
God shouted for joy.” In panoramic vision she crossed ihe
dusty desert of centuries, and watched with Chaldean shepherds
MACARIA, 175

the pale, sickly light of waning moons on Shinar’s plains; wel-
comed the gnomon (first-born of the great family of astro-
nomic apparatus); toiled over and gloried in the Zaros; stood
at the armillary sphere of Ju, in the days of Confucius; studied
with Thales, Anaximander, and Pythagoras; entered the sacred
precincts of the school of Crotona, hand in hand with Damo,
the earliest woman who bowed a devotee at the starry shrine,
and, with her, was initiated into its esoteric doctrines; puzzled
with Meton over his lunar cycle; exulted in Hipparchus’
gigantic labor, the first collection of tables, the earliest reliable
catalogues; walked through the Alexandrine school of savants,
misled by Ptolemy; and bent with Uliegh Beigh over the
charts at Samarcand. In imagination she accompanied Coper-
nicus and Tycho-Brahe, and wrestled with Kepler in the Titanic
struggle that ended in the discovery of the magnificent trinity
of astronomic laws framed by the Divine Architect when the
. first star threw its faint shimmer through the silent wastes of
space. Kepler’s three laws were an unceasing wonder and joy
to her, and with fond, womanly pride she was wont to recur to
a lonely observatory in Silesia, where, before Newton rose upon
the world, one of her own sex, Maria Cunitz, launched upon
the stormy sea of scientific literature the “Urania Propitia.”
The Congress of Lilienthal possessed far more of interest for
her than any which ever sat in august council over the fate of
nations, and the names of Herschel, Bessel, Argelander, Struve,
Arago, Leverrier, and Maedler were sacred as Persian telefin.
From the “ Almagest” of Ptolemy, and the “ Cométographie
of Pingré,” to the “ Mécanique Celeste,” she had searched and
toiled; and now the sublime and almost bewildering speculations
of Maedler held her spellbound. The delicate, subtle, beautiful
problem of parallax had heretofore exerted the strongest fasci-
nation over her; but this magnificent hypothesis of a “central
sun,” from the monarch of computations at Dorpat, seized upon
her imagination with painful tenacity. From the hour when
Kepler stretched out his curious fingers, feeling for the shape
of planetary orbits, or Leverrier groped through abysses of
darkness for the unknown Neptune, which a skeptical world
declared existed only in his mathematical calculations, no such
daring or stupendous speculation had been breathed as this
which Maedler threw down from his Russian’ observatory.
Night after night she gazed upon the Pleiades, singling out
Alcyone, the brilliant central sun of the mighty astral system,
176 MACARIA,

whose light met her eager eyes after the long travel of five
hundred and thirty-seven years; and, following in the footsteps
of the great speculator, she tried to grasp the result, that the
period of one revolution of our sun and system around that
glittering center was eighteen million two hundred thousand
years.

The stony lips of geology asserted that our globe was growing
old, thousands of generations had fallen asleep in the bosom of
mother-earth, the ashes of centuries had gathered upon the
past, were creeping over the present; and yet, in the face of
catacombs, and mummies, and moldering monuments, chiseled
in the infancy of the human race, mathematics unrolled her fig-
ured scroll, and proclaimed that Time had but begun; that
chiliasms must elapse, that sons on zeons must roll away, before
the first revolution of the starry universe could be completed
about its far-off Alcyone center. What mattered human
labors, what need of trophies of human genius, of national
grandeur, or individual glory? Eighteen millions of years
would level all in one huge, common, shapeless ruin. In com-
parison with the mighty mechanism of_the astral system, the
solar seemed a mere cluster of tiny jewels set in some infinite
abyss; the sun shrank back to insignificance, the moon waned,
the planets became little gleaming points of light, such as her
diamond ring threw off when held under gas chandeliers.
Perish the microcosm in the limitless macrocosm, and sink the
feeble earthly segregate in the boundless, rushing, choral aggre-
gation! She was oppressed by the stupendous nature of the
problem; human reason and imagination reeled under the
vastness of the subject which they essayed to contemplate and
measure; and to-night, as she pondered in silent awe the
gigantic, overwhelming laws of God’s great Cosmos, by some
subtle association there flashed upon her memory the sybillic
inscription on the Temple of Neith at Sais; “I am all that has
been, all that is all, all that will be. No mortal has ever raised
the veil which conceals me; and the fruit I have produced is
the sun.” Had Maedler, with telescopic insight, climbed by
mathematical ladders to the starry adyta of nature, and tri-
umphantly raised the mystic veil? With a feeling of adoration
which no language could adequately convey she gazed upon
nebuls, and suns and systems; and with the solemn reflection
that some, like Cassiopeia’s lost jewel, might be perishing,
wrapped in the last conflagration, while their light still jour-
MAOARIA. Li?

neyed to her, she recalled the feverish yet sublime vision of the
great German dreamer: “Once we issued suddenly from the
middle of thickest night into an aurora borealis—the herald of
an expiring world—and we found, throughout this cycle of
solar systems, that a day of judgment had indeed arrived. The
suns had sickened, and the planets were heaving, rocking, yawn-
ing in convulsions; the subterraneous waters of the great
deeps were breaking up, and lightnings that were ten diameters
of a world in length ran along from zenith to nadir; and, here
and there, where a sun should have been, we saw, instead,
through the misty vapor, a gloomy, ashy-leaden corpse of a
solar body, that sucked in flames from the perishing world, but
gave out neither light nor heat... Then came eternities of
twilight that revealed but were not revealed; on the right hand
and on the left towered mighty constellations, that by self-
repetitions and answers from afar, that by counter positions
built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways
—horizontal, upright—rested, rose at altitude by spans—that
seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the
architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory
the gates. Suddenly, as thus we rode from infinite to infinite,
and tilted over abyssmal worlds, a mighty cry arose, that sys-
tems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights
and other depths, were coming, were nearing, were at hand.
Then the angel threw up his glorious hands to the heaven of
heavens, saying: ‘End is there none to the universe of God.
Lo! also, there is no beginning.’ ”

Among the mysteries of the Crotona school the Samian sage
had taught the “music of the spheres,’ and to-night Irene
dwelt upon the thought of that grand choir of innumerable
worlds, that mighty orchestra of starry systems,

“‘ Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise,”

unceasingly to the Lord of glory, till her firm lips relaxed, and
the immortal words of Shakspere fell slowly from them:

** Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims,
178 MACARIA,

Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”

That the myriad members of the shining archipelago were
peopled with orders of intelligent beings, differing from our race
even as the planets differ in magnitude and physical structure,
she entertained not a doubt; and as feeble fancy struggled
to grasp and comprehend the ultimate destiny of the
countless hosts of immortal creatures, to which our earthly
races, with their distinct, unalterable types, stood but as one
small family circle amid clustering worlds, her wearied brain
and human heart bowed humbly, reverently, worshipingly be-
fore the God of Revelation, who can “bind the sweet influences
of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion; bring forth Mazzaroth
in his season, and guide Arcturus with his sons.” Kneeling
there, with the twinkling light of stars upon her upturned face,
she prayed earnestly for strength, and grace, and guidance from
on High, that she might so live and govern herself that, when
the season of earthly probation ended, she could fearlessly pass
to her eternal home, and joyfully meet the awful face of
Jehovah.

The night was almost spent; she knew from the “ celestial
elock-work ” that Day blushed just behind the horizon; that,
ere long, silver-gray fingers would steal up the quiet sky, part-
ing the sable curtains; and, taking up the lamp, she hung the
observatory key upon her girdle, and glided noiselessly down
the stairway to her own apartment.

Paragon slept on the threshold, and raised his head to greet
her; she stooped, stroked his silky ears, and closed the door,
shutting him out. Fifteen minutes later she, too, was sleeping
soundly; and an hour and a half afterward, followed by that
faithful guardian “dweller cf.the threshold” she swept down
the steps, and, amid the matin chant of forest birds, mounted
Erebus, and dashed off at full gallop for the customary ride.
No matter what occurred to prevent her sleeping, she invariably
rode before breakfast when the weather permitted; and as her
midnight labors left few hours for repose, she generally retired
to her room immediately after dinner and indulged in the
luxury of a two-hours’ nap. Such was a portion of the regimen
she had prescribed for herself on her return from school, and
which she suffered only the inclemency of the weather to
infringe.
MAOARIA, 179

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Surely, Uncle Eric, there is room enough in this large,
airy house of ours to accommodate my mother’s brother! I
thought it was fully settled that you were ta reside with us.
There is no good reason why you should not. Obviously, we
have a better claim upon you than anybody else; why doom
yourself to the loneliness of a separate household? Reconsider
the matter.”

“No, Irene; it is better that I should have a quiet little home
of my own, free from the inevitable restraints incident upon
living under the roof of another. My recluse nature and habits
unfit me for the gay young associates who throng this house,
making carnival-time of all seasons.”

“TJ will change the library and give you two rooms on this
floor, to avoid stair-steps. I will build you a wall of partition,
and have your doors and windows hermetically sealed against
intrusion. No sound of billiard-ball, or dancing feet, or noisy
laughter shall invade your sanctuary. Not St. Simeon, of iso-
lated memory, could desire more complete seclusion and soli-
tude than that with which I shall indulge you.”

“Tt is advisable that I should go.”

“T appreciate neither the expediency nor necessity.”

“Like all other crusty, self-indulgent bachelors, I have many
whims, which I certainly do not expect people to bear patiently.”

“You are neither crusty nor self-indulgent that I have dis-
covered; as for your whims, I have large charity, and will
humor them.”

“Trene, I want a house of my own to which I can feel privi-
leged to invite such guests, such companions as I deem con-
genial, irrespective of the fiats of would-be social autocrats,
and the social ostracism of certain cliques.”

She was silent a moment, but met his keen look without the
slightest embarrassment, and yet when she spoke he knew, from
her eyes and voice, that she fully comprehended his meaning.

“Of course, it is a matter which you must determine for
yourself. You are the best judge of what conduces to your
happiness; but I am sorry, very sorry, Uncle Eric, that, in
180 MACABIA,

order to promote it, you feel it necessary to remove from our
domestic circle. I shall miss you painfully.”

“Pardon me, but I doubt the last clause. You lean on no
one sufficiently to note the absence of their support.”

“Do you recognize no difference between a parasitic clinging
_ and an affectionate friendship, a valued companionship based
on congenial tastes and sympathies?”

“Unquestionably, I admit and appreciate the distinction;
but you do not meet me full-eyed, open-handed on this common
platform of congeniality, strengthened as it is, or should be, by
near relationship. You confront me always with your emo-
tional nature mail-clad, and make our intercourse a mere in-
tellectual fencing-match. Now, mark you, I have no wish to
force your confidence; that is a curious and complex lock which
only the golden key of perfect love and trust should ever open;
and I simply desire to say that your constitutional reticence or
habitual reserve precludes the hope of my giving either assist-
ance or sympathy by my continued presence.”

“Uncle Eric, it arises from no want of trust in you, but in
the consciousness that only I can help myself. I have more
than once heard you quote Wallenstein ; have you so soon for-
gotten his words:

** «Permit her own will.
For there are sorrows
Where, of necessity, the soul must be
Its own support. A strong heart will rely
On its own strength alcne.’”

“But, my dear girl, you certainly are no Thekla?”

Was there prescience in his question, and a quick recogni-
tion of it in the quiver which ran across her lips and eyelids?

“The fates forbid that I should ever be!”

“Trene, in the name and memory of your mother, promise
me one thing; that if sorrows assail you, and a third party can
hear aught on his shoulders, you will call upon me.’

“A most improbable conjunction of circumstances; but, in
such emergency, I promise to afflict you with a summons to the
rescue. Uncle Eric, I think I shall never gall any shoulders
but my own with the burdens which God may see fit to lay on
them in the coming years.”

He looked pained, puzzled, and irresolute; but she smiled, and
swept her fingers over the bars of her bird cage, toying with its
golden-throated inmate.
MACARIA,. 181

“Have you any engagement for this morning?”

“None, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Tf you feel disposed, I shall be glad to have you accompany
me to town; I want -your assistance in selecting a set of china
for my new home. Will you go?”

A shadow drifted over the colorless, tranquil face, as she said
sadly :

“Uncle Erie, is it utterly useless for me to attempt to: per-
suade you to relinquish this project, and remain with us?”

“Utterly useless, my dear child.”

“T will get my bonnet and join you atthe carriage.”

Very near the cottage formerly occupied by Mrs. Aubrey
stood a small brick house, partially concealed by poplar and
sycamore trees, and surrounded by a neat, well-arranged flower
garden. This was the place selected and purchased by the
cripple for his future home. Mr. Huntingdon had opposed the
whole proceeding, and invited his brother-in-law to reside with
him; but beneath a cordial surface the guest felt that other
sentiments rolled deep and strong. He had little in common
with his sister’s husband, and only a warm and increasing affec-
tion for his niece now induced him to settle in W- Some
necessary repairs had been made, some requisite arrangements
completed regarding servants, and to-day the finishing touches
were given to the snug little bachelor establishment. When it
was apparent that no arguments would avail to alter the deci-
sion, Irene ceased to speak of it, and busied herself in various
undertakings to promote her uncle’s comfort. She made pretty
white curtains for his library windows, knitted bright-colored
worsted lamp-mats, and hemmed and marked the contents of
the linen-closet. The dining-room pantry she took under her
special charge, and at the expiration of ten days, when the mas-
ter took formal possession, she accompanied him, and enjoyed
the pleased surprise with which he received her donation of
cakes, preserves, catsups, pickles, ete. neatly, stowed away on
the spotless shelves.

“T shall make a weekly pilgrimage to this same pantry, and
take an inventory of its contents. J intend to take good care
of you, though you have moved off, Diogenes-like.”

She stepped forward and arranged some glass jars which
stood in rather an irregular line.

. “How prim and old-maidish you are!” laughed her uncle.

“T never could bear to see things scattered in that helter-

 
182 MACARIA,

skelter style; I like bottles, jars, plates, and dishes drilled into
straight lines, not leaning in and out, in that broken-rank
fashion. I am not given to boasting, but I will say that no
housekeeper can show a nicer, neater pantry than my own.”

“ What have you in that basket?”

“ Flowers from the greenhouse. Come into the library, and
let me dress your new vases.”

He followed her into the next room, and watched her as she
leisurely and tastefully disposed her flowers, now searching the
basket for a sprig of evergreen, and now bending obstinate
stems to make stiff clusters lean lovingly to each other. Plac-
ing the vases on the mantel, she stepped back to inspect the
effect, and said gravely:

“How beautiful they are! Let me always fill your vases,
uncle. Women have a knack of entwining stems and grouping
colors; our fingers were ordained for all such embroidery on
the coarse, gray serge of stern, practical, everyday life. You
men are more at home with state papers, machine shops, navies,
armies,: political economy, and agricultural chemistry, than
with fragile azalias and golden-dusted lilies.” Before he could
reply she turned and asked:

“What do those large, square boxes in the hall contain?”

“Books which I gathered in Europe and selected in New
York; among them are many rare old volumes which you have
never seen. Come down next Monday and help me to number
and shelve them; afterward, we will read them together. Lay
aside your bonnet and spend the evening with me.”

“No, I must go back; Hugh sent me word he would bring
company to tea.”

He took her hand and drew her close to his chair, saying
gently:

“ Ah, Irene! I wish I,could keep you always. You would be
happier here, in this little unpretending home of mine, than
presiding as mistress over that great, palatial house on the hill
yonder,”

“There you mistake me most entirely. I love, better than
any other place on earth, my stately, elegant, beautiful home.
Not Fontainebleau, Windsor, Potsdam; not the vineyards of
Shiraz, nor the gardens of Damascus, ‘could win me from. it.
I love every tree, every creeper, every foot of ground from the
front gate to the brink of the creek. If you suppose that I am
not happy here, you err egregiously.”
MACARIA, 183

“My intuitions rarely deceive me.”

“ At least, Uncle Eric, they play you false in this instance.
Why, sir, I would not give my grand old avenue of primeval
elms for St. Peter’s nave. Your intuitions are full of cobwebs;
have them well swept and dusted before I see you Monday.
Good-night, uncle; I must really go. If you find we have for-
gotten anything, send Willis up for it.”

He kissed her fingers tenderly, and, taking her basket, she
left him alone in his new home.

A few weeks passed without incident. Hugh went to New
Orleans to visit friends, and Mr. Huntingdon was frequently
absent at the plantation.

One day he expressed the desire that Judge Harris’ family
should dine with him, and added several gentlemen “to make
the party merry.” Irene promptly issued the invitations, sup-
pressing the reluctance which filled her heart; for the young
people were not favorites, and she dreaded Charlie’s set speeches
and admiring glances, not less than his mother’s endless dis-
quisitions on fashion and the pedigree of all the best families
of W. and its vicinage. Grace had grown up very pretty,
highly accomplished, even-tempered, gentle-hearted, but full of
her mother’s fashionable notions, and, withal, rather weak and
frivolous. She and Irene were constantly thrown into each
other’s society, but no warmth of feeling existed on either side.
Grace could not comprehend her companion’s character, and
Irene wearied of her gay, heedless chit-chat. As the latter
anticipated, the day proved very tiresome; the usual comple-
ment of music was contributed by Grace, the expected quantity
of flattering nothings gracefully uttered by her brother, the cus-
tomary amount of execrable puns handed around the circle for
patronage, and Irene gave the signal for dinner. Mr. Hun-
tingdon prided himself on his fine wines, and, after the de-
canters had circulated freely, the gentlemen grew garrulous as
market-women.

Irene was gravely discussing the tariff question with Mr.
Herbert Blackwell (whom Mrs. Harris pronounced the most
promising young lawyer of her acquaintance), and, politely
listening to his stereotyped reasoning, when a scrap of conver-
sation at the opposite end of the table attracted her attention.

“Huntingdon, my dear fellow, I tell you I never made a mis-
take in my life, when reading people’s minds; and if Aubrey
has not the finest legal intellect in W——, I will throw up my

 

 
184 MACARIA,

judgeship. You have seen Campbell, I suppose? He returned
last week, and, by the way, I half expected to meet him to-day;
well, I was talking to him about Aubrey, and he laughed his
droll, chuckling laugh, snapped his bony fingers in my face and
said: a

“¢ Aye! aye, Harris, let him alone; hands off! and I will
wager my new office against your old one that he steps into
your honor’s shoes.’ Now, you know perfectly well that Camp-
bell has no more enthusiasm than a brick wall or a roll of red
tape; but he is as proud of the young man as if he were his son.
Do you know that he has taken him into partnership?”

“Pshaw! he will never commit such a faux pas.”

“But he has; I read the notice in this morning’s paper.
Pass the madeira. The fact is, we must not allow our old
prejudices to make us unjust. I know Aubrey has struggled
hard; he had much to conten y

“Hang Campbell and the partnership! He will find that he
has played the fool before he gets rid of his precious pet. Miss
Grace, do let me fill your glass? My «young prude there at the
head of the table just sips hers as if she feared it was poisoned.
Mrs. Harris, you have no sherry; permit me.”

“The young man’s antecedents are most disgraceful, Mr.
Huntingdon, and I told the judge last night that I was sur-
prised at Mr. Campbell’s infatuation,” chimed in Mrs. Harris
over her golden sherry.

“Whose antecedents, mother?”

“My dear, we were speaking of Russell Aubrey, and the
stigma on his name and character.”

“Oh, yes! His father was sentenced to be hung, I believe,

_and committed suicide in prison. But what a splendid, dark-
looking man he is! Decidedly the most superb figure and eyes
in W——. Shy, though! shy as a schoolgirl; will cross the
street to avoid meeting a body. When he finds that he cannot
dodge you he gives you the full benefit of his magnificent eyes,
and bows as haughtily as the Great Mogul. Maria Henderson
goes into raptures over his figure.”

With head slightly inclined and eyes fixed on Mr. Blackwell’s
face, Irene had heard all that passed, and as the gentleman
paused in his harangue to drain his glass she rose and led the
way to the parlors. The gentlemen adjourned to the smoking
room, and in a short time Mrs. Harris ordered her carriage,
pleading an engagement with Grace’s mantua-maker as an eX-

 
MACARIA, 185

cuse for leaving so early. With a feeling of infinite relief the
hostess accompanied them to the door, saw the carriage descend
the avenue, and, desiring one of the servants to have Erebus
saddled at once, she went to her room and changed the rich
dinner-dress for her riding-habit. As she sprang into the
saddle, and gathered up the reins, her father called from the
open window, whence issued curling wreaths of blue smoke:

“Where now, Irene?”

“TI am going to ride; it threatened rain this morning, and I
was afraid to venture.”

He said something, but, without hearing, she rode off, and
was soon out of sight, leaving the town to the left and taking
the road that wound along the river-bank—the same where,
years before, she had cantered with Grace, Hugh, and Charlie.
It was a windless, sunny April afternoon; trees were freshly
robed in new-born fringy foliage, green and glistening; long,
grassy slopes looked like crinkled velvet, starred with delicate,
pale blue houstonias; wandering woodbine trailed its coral
trumpets in and out of grass and tangled shrubs, and late wood
azaleas loaded the air with their delicious, intoxicating per-
fume. Irene felt unwontedly depressed; the day had wearied
her; she shook the reins, and the beautiful horse sprang on in
a quick gallop. For a mile farther they dashed along the river
bank, and then, reining him up, she leaned forward and drew
a long, deep breath. The scene was surpassingly quiet and
beautiful; on either side wooded hills came down, herd-like, to
the edge of the stream to lave their thirsty sides and listen to
the continual, solemn monotone of the foaming falls; here a
small flock of sheep browsed on the young, waving grass, and
there contented-looking cows, with glossy, satin skins, sauntered
homeward, taking the road with as much precision as their
Swiss sisters to the tune of Ranz des Vaches; the broad river
sweeping down its rocky pavement, and, over all, a mellow April
sky of intense blue, with whiffs of creamy vapor, sinuous as
floss silk. Close to the margin of the river grew a luxuriant
mass of ivy, and now the dark, shining foliage was flecked with
tiny rosebuds and well-blown waxen petals, crimped into fairy-
like cups, and tinted as no Sevres china ever will be. Urging
Erebus into the thicket, Irene broke as many clusters as she
could conveniently carry; dragged a long, tangled wreath of
late jasmine from its seclusion, fastened it across the pommel
of the saddle. and turned her horse’s head homeward. The
186 MACARIA,

sight of these ivy cups recalled the memory of her Aunt Mar-
garet; they had been her favorite flowers, and, as thought now
took another channel, she directed her way to the graveyard.
She always rode rapidly, and erelong Erebus’ feet drew sparks
from the rocky road leading up the hillside to the cemetery
gate. Dismounting, she fastened the reins to one of the iron
spikes, and, gathering the folds of her habit over her arm,
carried the flowers to the family burying-ground. It was a
large, square lot, inclosed by a handsome railing and tall gate
bearing the name of “Huntingdon” in silver letters. As she
approached she was surprised to find a low brick wali and beau-
tiful new marble monument close to her father’s lot and occupy-
ing a space which had been filled with grass and weeds a few
weeks previous. While she paused, wondering whose was the
new monument, and resolved to examine it, a tall form stepped
from behind the column and stood, with folded arms, looking
down at the grave. There was no mistaking face or figure;
evidently he was unaware of her presence, though she was near
enough to mark the stern sorrow written on his countenance.
She glided forward and opened the heavy gate of her own in-
closure; with difficulty she pushed it ajar, and with a sudden,
sharp, clanging report it swung back, and the bolt slid to its
rusty place. He lifted his eyes then, and saw her standing a
few yards from him; the rich, soft folds of the Marie Louise
blue riding-dress trailed along the ground; the blue velvet hat,
with its long, drooping plume, had become loosened by the
exercise, and, slipping back, left fully exposed the dazzling
white face and golden glory of waving hair. She bowed, he re-
turned the silent token of recognition, and she moved forward
to her aunt’s tomb, wreathing it with the flowers which Miss
Margaret had loved so well. The sun was low, leaning upon
the purple crest of a distant hill; the yellow light flashed over
the forest of marble pillars, and their cold, polished surfaces
gave back the waning glare, throwing it off contemptuously, as
if sunshine were a mockery in that silent city of the dead.
Somber guardian cedars extended their arms lovingly over the
marble couches of fair young sleepers in God’s Acre, and ven-
erable willows swept over many a. stela, whose inscription
lichen-footed Time had effaced. Here slept two generations of
the Huntingdons, and the last scion of the proud old house
stood up among the hoarded bones of her ancestry, glancing
round at the moss-stained, costly mausoleums, and noting the
MACARIA, 187

fact that the crowded lot had room for but two more narrow
beds—two more silent citizens—her father and herself. It was
a reflection which she had little inclination to linger over, and,
retaining a beautiful cluster of ivy and jasmine, she left the
inclosure, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground.

As she passed the new lot the gate swung open, and Russell

_ stood before her.

“ Good-evening, Miss Huntingdon.”

“ Good-evening, Mr. Aubrey.”

The name sounded strange and harsh as she uttered it, and
involuntarily she paused and held out her hand. He accepted
it; for an instant the cold fingers lay in his warm palm, and as
she withdrew them he said, in the rich, mellow voice which she
had heard in the church:

“ Allow me to show you my mother’s monument.”

He held the gate open, and she entered and stood at his side.
The monument was beautiful in its severe simplicity—a pure,
faultless shaft, crowned with a delicately chiseled wreath of
poppy leaves, and bearing these words in gilt letters: “Sacred
to the memory of my mother, Amy Aubrey.” Just below, in
black characters, “Resurgam”; and, underneath the whole, on
a finely-fluted scroll, the inscription of St. Gilgen. After a
silence of some moments Russell pointed to the singular and
solemn words, and said, as if speaking to himself:

“T want to say always, with Paul Fleming, ‘I will be strong,’
and therefore I placed here the inscription which proved an
evangel to him, that when I come to my mother’s grave I may
be strengthened, not melted, by the thronging of bitter
memories.”

She looked up as he spoke, and the melancholy splendor of
the deep eyes stirred her heart as nothing had ever done before.

“T have a few flowers left; let me lay them as an affectionate
tribute, an ‘in memoriam,’ on your mother’s tomb—for the
olden time, the cottage days, are as fresh in my recollection as
in yours.”

She held out the woodland bouquet; he took it, and strewed
the blossoms along the broad base of the shaft, reserving only a
small cluster of the rosy china cups. Both were silent; but, as
she turned to go, a sudden gust blew her hat from her head, the
loosened comb fell upon the grass, and down came the heavy
masses of hair. She twisted them hastily into a coil, fastened
them securely, and received her hat from him with a cool:
188 MACARIA,

“Thank you, sir; when did you hear from Electra?”

They walked on to the cemetery gate, and he answered:

“T have heard nothing for some weeks. Have you any mes-
sage? I am going to New York in a few days to try to per-
suade her to return to W: with me.”

“JT doubt the success of your mission; W. has little to
tempt an artist like your cousin. Be kind enough to give my
love and best wishes for the realization of her artistic dreams.”

They had reached the gate where Erebus waited, when Rus-
sell took off his hat reverently, and pointed to the western sky
all “aflame.” Masses of purple, scarlet, gold, amber, and pure,
pale, opaline green blended in one magnificent conflagration;
and toward the zenith tortuous, feathery braids and flashes of
blood-red cirrhi, gleaming through the mild balmy air like coral
reefs in some breezeless Oriental sea.

“No soft, neutral, sober ‘ Graie’ there,” said Irene, lifting
her hand to the glowing cloud panorama.

He took up the quotation promptly, and added:

““The Angel of the Sea’ is abroad on his immemorial mis-
sion; the soft wings droop still with dew, and the shadows of
their plumes falter on the hill; strange laughings and glitter-
ings of silver streamlets, born suddenly and twined about the
mossy heights in trickling tinsel, answering to them as they
wave. The coiled locks of ‘hundred-headed Typhon’ leave no
menace yonder.”

He paused, and, turning suddenly, with an earnest look at
his companion, continued:

“Miss Huntingdon, ‘On what anvils and wheels is the vapor
pointed, twisted, hammered, whirled as the potter’s clay? By
what hands is the incense of the sea built up into domes of
marble?’ ”

“T see that you follow eagerly the beck of Nature’s last
anointed hierophant, and go in and out with the seer, even
among the cherubim and seraphim of his metropolitan
cathedral, with its ‘gates of rock, pavements of cloud, choirs
of stream, altars of snow, and vaults of purple, traversed by the
continual stars.’ ”

“Yes; I am a reverent student and warm admirer of John
Ruskin. I learned to love him first through the recommenda-
tion of my cousin; then for his gorgeous, unapproachable word-
painting.”

While they talked the brilliant pageant faded, the coral banks

 

 
MACARIA. 189

paled to snowy lines, as if the blue waves of air were foam-
crested, and in the valley below rose the dusky outline of dark-
haired, wan-browed, gray-clad twilight, stealing her “sober
livery ” over the hushed and fretted bosom of the murmuring
river.

“You have a long walk to town,” said Irene, as Russell ar-
ranged her horse’s reins.

“T shall not find it long. It is a fine piece of road, and the
stars will be up to light it.”

He held out his hand to assist her; she sprang easily to the
saddle, then leaned toward him, every statue-like curve and
molding of her proud, ivory face stamping themselves on his
recollection as she spoke.

“Be so good as to hand me my glove; I dropped it at your
feet as I mounted. Thank you. Good-evening, Mr. Aubrey;
take my best wishes on your journey and its mission.”

“Good-by, Miss Huntingdon.” He raised his hat, and, as
she wheeled off, the magnetic, handsome face followed, haunted
her. Erebus was impatient, out of humor, and flew up the next
steep hill as if he, too, were haunted. Glancing back as she
reached the summit, Irene saw the erect, solitary figure at the
extremity of the wooded vista, and in that mystical, dim light
he looked a colossal avenging Viking.

Once more, as in childhood, she heard the whirl of the loom
of destiny; and to-night, catching sight of the Parce fingers,
she knew that along the silver warp of her life ran dark, alien
threads, interweaving all in one shapeless, tangled web.

On through gathering gloom dashed horse and rider, over
the little gurgling stream, through the gate, up the dark, rayless
avenue to the doorstep. The billiard-room was a blaze of light,
and the cheerful sound of mingled voices came out at the open
window, to tell that the gentlemen had not yet finished their
game. Pausing in the hall, Irene listened an instant to dis-
tinguish the voices, then ascended the long, easy staircase.
The lamp threw a mellow radiance on the steps, and as she
reached the landing, Hugh caught her in his arms and kissed
her warmly. Startled by his unexpected appearance, she re-
coiled a step or two, and asked, rather haughtily :

“When did you get home?”

“Only a few moments after you left the house. Do change
your dress quickly and come down. I have a thousand things
to say.”
190 MACARIA.

She waited to hear no more, but disengaged herself and went
to her room.

“Now, child! why will you do so? What makes you stay
out so late and then come thundering back like a hurricane?
I never did like that horse’s great big saucy, shining, devilish
eyes. I tell Andrew constantly I wish he would manage to
break his legs while he is jumping over all the fences on the
place. You scare me nearly to death about your riding; I tell
you, Beauty, that black Satan will break your neck yet. Your
grandfather was flung from just such a looking brute, and
dragged till he was dead; and some day that everlasting long
hair of yours will drag you to your grave. Here it is now, all
streaming down your back; yes—just as I expected—not a
blessed hairpin left in it; done galloped ’em all clean out. You
will ride yourself into eternity. Sit down, and let me comb it
out; it is all in a tangle, like raveled yellow silk.”

Nellie looked cloudy, moody, and her mistress offered no re-
sistance to her directions.

“Mas’ Hugh’s come.”

“Yes; I know it.”

“ But you don’t know supper is almost ready, do you? Pres-
ently you will hear your father’s voice sounding like a brass
trumpet downstairs, if you ar’n’t ready. There! John rings
that bell as if he had the dead to raise!”

“ That will do, Aunt Nellie; only give me a handkerchief.”

She went down and met her father at the dining-room door.

“Come, Queen; we are waiting for you.”

He looked at her fondly, took her hand, and drew her to the
table; and, in after years, she recalled this occasion with mourn-
ful pleasure as the last on which he had ever given her his pet
name. ‘

‘« |. . There are fatal days, indeed,
In which the fibrous years have taken root
So deeply, that they quiver to their tops
Whene’er you stir the dust of such a day.”

CHAPTER NIX.

“Come out on the colonnade; the air is delicious.” As he
spoke Hugh drew his cousin’s arm through his and led the way
frem the tea-table.

“You had company to dine to-day?”
MACARIA. 191

“Yes; if I had known that you were coming home to-day I
woulc have postponed the invitation till to-morrow. Grace
expressed much disappointment at your absence.”

“Indeed! Of course, I am duly grateful. What a pretty,
sweet creature she is! So sprightly, so vivacious, so winning;
so charmingly ignorant of ‘ Almacantar’ and ‘ Azimuth,’ and
all such learned stupidity. Unlike some royal personages of
my acquaintance, who are forever soaring among the stars, she
never stretches my brains the hundredth part of an inch to
comprehend her delightful prattle. Like Dickens’ ‘Dora,’ she
regards any attempt to reason with her as a greater insult than
a downright scolding. Your solemn worshiper was also present,
I believe?”

“To whom do you allude?”

“Your tedious, tiresome, pertinacious shadow, Herbert
Blackwell, of course! Do you know I detest that man most
cordially ?”

“For what reason?”

“T really do not feel in the mood to enumerate all his pecca-
dilloes and disagreeable traits; but it is supremely ridiculous to
see the way in which he hovers round you, like one of those
large, black moths about the hall lamp.”

“Come, come, Hugh! Mr. Blackwell is a man whom I re-
spect and esteem, and you shall not make him a target for your
merriment.”

“Oh, doubtless! my czarina! and, as a reward for your con-
sideration, he would fain confer on you his distinguished hand
and fortune. It is quite a respectable farce to watch him
watching you.”

“T wish you had a tithe of his industry and perseverance.
Did it ever occur to you that life is given for nobler purposes
and loftier aspirations than hunting, fishing, horse-racing,
gambling and similar methods of murdering time. which you
habitually patronize?”

“You are too young to play the role of Mentor, and those
rare, red lips of yours were never meant for homilizing. Irene,
how long do you intend to keep me in painful suspense? ”

“T am not aware that I have in any degree kept you in sus:
pense.”

“ At all events, you know that you torture me with cool, de-
liberat., cruelty.”

“T deny your charge most solemnly.”
*

192 MACARIA.

“My dear Irie, let us understand each other fully, for——”*

“Nay, Hugh, be honest; there is no misapprehension what-
ever. We thoroughly understand each other already.”

“You shall not evade me; I have been patient, and the time
has come when we must talk of our future. Irene, dearest, be
generous, and tell me when you will give me, irrevocably, this
hand which has been promised to me from your infancy?”

He took the hand and carried it to his lips, but she forcibly
withdrew it, and disengaging her arm, said emphatically:

“Never, Hugh. Never.”

“How can you trifle with me, Irene? If you would realize
how impatient I am for the happy day when I shall call you my
wife, you would be serious, and fix an early period for our
marriage.”

“Hugh, why will you affect to misconceive my meaning? I
am serious; I have pondered, long and well, a matter involving
your lifelong happiness and mine, and I tell you, most solemnly,
that I will never be your wife.” ;

“Oh, Irene! your promise! your sacred promise

“T never gave it! On the contrary, I have never failed to
show you that my whole nature rebelled against the most un-
natural relation forced upon me. I cannot, shall not hold
myself bound by the promise of another made when I was an
unconscious infant. I know the family compact, sealed by my

1»

- father’s words, at your mother’s death-bed, making two little,

irresponsible children parties to a thoroughly selfish, ignoble
contract, which is revolting to me. Your future and mine
were adumbrated from my cradle, and that which only we
could legitimately decide was usurped and predetermined. You
have known, for years, that I loathed the heartless betrothal
and ignored its restrictions; my unalterable determination was
very apparent when you returned from Europe. You were kept
in no suspense; you understood me then as fully as now; and it
is ungenerous, unmanly to press a suit which you cannot fail
to know is extremely disagreeable to me.”

“My dear Irene, have you, then, no love for me? I have
hoped and believed that you hid your love behind your cold
mask of proud silence. You must, you do love me, my beau-
tiful cousin!”

“You do not believe your own words; you are obliged to
know better. I love you as my cousin, love you somewhat as
I love Uncle Eric, love you as the sole young relative left to
MACARIA, 193

me, as the only companion of my lonely childhood; but other
love than this I never had, never can have, for you. Hugh, my
cousin, look fearlessly at the unvarnished truth; neither you
nor I have one spark of that affection which alone can sanction
marriage. We are utterly unlike in thought, taste, feeling,
habits of life and aspirations; I have no sympathy with your
pursuits, you are invariably afflicted with ennui at the bare sug-
gestion of mine. Nature stamped us with relentless an-
tagonisms of character; I bow to her decree rather than to
man’s word. Dante painted no purgatory dark enough to suit
the wretchedness that would result from such an unholy union
as ours would be. Think of it, Hugh; a loveless marriage; a
mere moneyed partnership; a sort of legal contract; the only
true union being bank stock, railroad shares and broad planta-
tions.” She leaned against one of the pillars with her arms
folded, and a cold, merciless smile curling the beautiful mouth.

“Tndeed, you wréng me, my worshiped cousin. You are
dearer to me than everything else on earth. J have loved you,
and you only, from my boyhood; you have been a lovely idol
from earliest recollection.”

“You are mistaken, most entirely mistaken; I am not to be
deceived, neither can you hoodwink yourself. You like me, you
love me in the same quiet way that I love you; you admire me,
perhaps, more than anyone you chance to know just now; you
are partial to my beauty, and, from long habit, have come to
regard me as your property, much in the same light as that in
which you look upon your costly diamond buttons, or your
high-spirited horses, or fine, imported pointers. After a fashion
you like me, Hugh; I know you do; and, my cousin, it would
be most lamentable and unnatural if you had not some affec-
tion for me; but love, such as a man should have for the woman
whom he makes his life-companion, and calls by the sacred
name of wife, you have not one atom of. I do not wish to
wound you, but I must talk to you as any reasonable woman
would on a question of such great importance; for I hold it no
light thing for two souls to burden themselves with vows which
neither can possibly perform. Hugh, I abhor sham! and I tell
you now that I never will be a party to that which others have
arranged without my consent.”

“Ah, I see how matters stand. Having disposed of your
heart, and lavished your love elsewhere, you shrink from ful-
filling the sacred obligations that make you mine, I little
194 MACARIA,

dreamed that you were so susceptible, else I had not left you
feeling so secure. My uncle has not proved the faithful
guardian I believed him when I intrusted my treasure, my
affianced bride, to his care.”

Bitter disappointment flashed in his face and quivered in his
voice, rendering him reckless of consequences. But though he
gazed fiercely at her as he uttered the taunt, it produced net
the faintest visible effect; the cloudless, chiseled face still
wore its quiet smile of mild irony, and the low, clear voice pre-
served its sweetness.

“You do my father rank injustice, Hugh. Not Ladon was
more faithful or tireless than he has been.”

“He cannot deny that the treasure has been stolen, never-
theless! ”

“He probably can and will deny that the golden treasure has
been snatched from his guardianship. Another Atlas or a
second Hercules would be needed for such a theft.”

The application stung him; he crimsoned and retorted with
a degree of bitterness of which he was probably unconscious at
that moment:

“You, at least, dare not deny my charge, my truthful, con-
stant fiancée!”

“Either you overestimate my supposed offense or underrate
my courage; there are few honorable things which I dare
not do.”

“Confess, then, who stands between your heart and mine.
I have a right to ask; I will know.”

“You forget yourself, my cousin. Your right is obviously
a debatable question; we will waive it, if you please. I have
told you already, and now I repeat it for the last time, I will
not go with you to the altar, because neither of us has proper
affection for the other to warrant such a union; because it
would be an infamous pecuniary contract, revolting to every
true soul. I do not want your estate, and you should be con-
tent with your ample fortune without coveting my inheritance,
or consenting to sell your manhood to Mammon. I would not
suit you for a wife; go find some more congenial spirit, some
gentle, clinging girl, who will live only in your love and make
you forget all else in her presence. I have no fancy for the
Gehenna our married life would inevitably prove. Henceforth
there is no margin for misapprehension; understand that we
meet in future as cousins, only as cousins, acknowledging no
MACARIA, 195

other relationship, no other tie save that of consanguinity; for
I do not hesitate to snap the links that were forged in my baby-
hood, to annul the unrighteous betrothal of other hands.
Hugh, cherish no animosity against me; I merit none. Because
we cannot be more, shall we be less than friends?”

She held out her hand, but he was too angry to accept it, and
asked haughtily:

“Shall I break this pleasant piece of information to my
uncle? Or do you feel quite equal to the task of blighting all
his long-cherished hopes, as well as mine?”

“T leave it in your hands; consult your discretion, or your
pleasure; to me it matters little. Remember my earnest re-
quest, that you bear me no malice in the coming years. Good-
night, my cousin.”

She turned to leave him, but he caught her dress, and ex-
claimed, with more tenderness than he had ever manifested:

“Oh, Irene! do not reject me utterly. I cannot relinquish
you. Give me one more year to prove my love; to win yours.
If your proud heart is still your own, may I not hope to obtain
it, by: pe

“No, Hugh, no! As well hope to inspire affection in yonder
mute marble guardians. Forgive me if I pain you, but I must
be candid at every hazard.” She pointed to the statues near
the door, and went through the greenhouse to the library,
thence to the observatory, expecting, ere. long, to be joined by
her father. Gradually the house became quiet, and, oppressed
with the painful sense of coming trouble, she sought her own
room just as the clock struck twelve. Pausing to count the
strokes, she saw a light gleaming through the keyhole of her
father’s door, opposite her own, and heard the sound ef low but
earnest conversation mingled with the restless tramp of pacing
feet. She was powerfully tempted to cross the passage, knock,
and have the ordeal ended then and there; but second thought
whispered, “To-morrow will soon be here; be patient.” She
entered her room, and, wearied by the events of the day, fell,
asleep, dreaming of the new lot in the cemetery, and the lonely,
joyless man who haunted it.

As she adjusted her riding-habit the foliowing morning, and
suffered Andrew to arrange her stirrup, the latter said good-
humoredly :

“So, Mas’ Hugh got the start of you. It isn’t often he beats

you.”

 
196 MACARIA,

“What do you mean?”

“He started a while ago, and, if he-drives as he generally
does, he will get to his plantation in time for dinner.”

“Did father go, too?”

“No, ma’am; only Mas’ Hugh, in his own buggy.”

In the quiet, leafy laboratory of nature there is an elixir of
strength for those wise enough to seek it; and its subtle, vola-
tile properties continually come to the relief of wearied, over-
taxed brains, and aching, oppressed hearts. The human frame,
because of its keen susceptibility to impressions from the ex-
ternal world, and its curious adaptation thereunto, becomes,
like the strings of an olian harp, attuned perfectly to the
breath that sweeps it, and is by turns the exponent of stormy
passion or holy resignation. Thus from the cool serenity, the
dewy sparkle, and delicate perfume of the early morning, Irene
derived a renewal of strength such as no purely human aid
could have furnished. She remembered now the sibyllic
words of the young minister: “ You, too, must tread the wine-
press alone,” and felt that the garments of her soul were tak-
ing the dye, the purple stain of the wine of trial. Doubtless he
had alluded to a different ordeal, but she knew that all the
future of her earthly existence was to receive its changeless
hue from this day, and she could entertain but a modicum of
doubt as to what that hue would prove. Returning from her
ride, she stood a moment on the front step, looking down the
avenue. The Bermuda terrace blazed in the sunlight like a
jeweled coronal, the billowy sea of foliage, crested by dewy
drops, flashed and dripped as the soft air stirred the ancient
trees, the hedges were all alive with birds and butterflies, the
rich aroma of brilliant and countless flowers, the graceful curl
of smoke wreathing up from the valley beyond, the measured,
musical tinkle of bells as the cows slowly descended the distant
hills, and, over all, like God’s mantling mercy, a summer sky—

“* As blue as Aaron’s priestly robe appeared
To Aaron, when he took it off to die.”

Involuntarily she stretched out her arms to the bending
heavens, and her lips moved, but no sound escaped to tell what
petition went forth to the All-Father. She went to her room,
changed her dress, and joined her father at the breakfast-table.
Half-concealed behind his paper, he took no notice of her quiet
MACARIA, 197

“ vood-morning,” seeming absorbed in an editorial. The silent
meal ended, he said, as they left the table:

“T want to see you in the library.”

She followed him without comment; he locked the door,
threw open the blinds, and drew two chairs to the window, seat-
ing himself immediately in front of her. For a moment he
eyed her earnestly, as if measuring her strength; and she saw
the peculiar sparkle in his falcon eye, which, like the first lurid
flash in a darkened sky, betokened tempests. “Irene, I was
very much astonished to learn the result of an interview be-
tween Hugh and yourself; I can scarcely believe that you were
in earnest, and feel disposed to attribute your foolish words to
some trifling motive of girlish coquetry or momentary pique.
You have long been perfectly well aware that you and your
cousin were destined for each other; that I solemnly promised
the marriage should take place as soon as you were of age; that
all my plans and hopes for you centered in this one engage-
ment. I have not pressed the matter on your attention of late,
because I knew you had sense enough to appreciate your posi-
tion, and because I believed you would be guided by my wishes
in this important affair. You are no longer a child; I treat
you as a reasonable woman, and now I tell you candidly it is
the one wish of my heart to see you Hugh’s wife.”

He paused, but she made no answer, and, taking one of her
hands, he continued:

“My daughter, I cannot believe that you, on whom I have
lavished so much love and tenderness, can deliberately refuse
to accede to my wishes, can disappoint my dearest hopes. Of
course, in all that I do or counsel, I am actuated only by a de-
sire to promote your happiness. My dear child, I have a right
to direct you, and surely your affection for your only parent
will induce you to yield to his wishes.”

He tightened his clasp of her cold hand, and leaned toward
her.

“Father, my happiness will not be promoted by this mar-
riage, and if you are actuated solely by this motive, allow me
to remain just as Tam. I should be most miserable as Hugh’s
wife; most utterly miserable.”

“ Why 80?”

“For reasons which I gave him last night, and which it is
hardly necessary for me to recapitulate, as he doubtless repeated
them to you.”
198 MACARTA.

“Let me hear them, if you please.”

“Our characters are totally dissimilar; our tastes and opin-
ions wide as the poles asunder; our natures could not possibly
harmonize; and, more than all, we do not love each other as
people should who stand at the altar and ask God’s blessing on
their marriage. I suppose, sir, that Hugh tells you he loves
me; perhaps he likes me better than anyone else besides himself,
but the deep, holy affection which he ought to feel for the
woman he calls his wife, has no existence in his heart. It will
prove a mere temporary disappointment, nothing seriously
touching his happiness; for, I assure you, that is not in my
keeping.”

“ And if I answer that I know the contrary to be true?”

“Father, I should still adhere to my ewn opinion; and, even
were I disposed to accept your view of it, my own feelings
would stand an everlasting barrier to our union. I do not love
Hugh, and—I must tell you, sir, that I think it wrong for
cousins to marry.”

“You talk like a silly child; I thought you had more sense.
Your objections I have listened to; they are imaginary and
trifling; and I ask you, as a father has a right to ask his child,
to waive these ridiculous notions, and grant the only request I
have ever made of you. Tell me, my daughter, that you will
consent to accept your cousin, and thereby make me happy.”

He stooped and kissed her forehead, watching her counte-
nance eagerly.

“Oh, father! do not ask this of me! Anything else! any-
thing else.”

“ Answer me, my darling child; give me your promise.”

His hold was painful, and an angry pant mingled with the
pleading tones. She raised her head and said slowly:

“My father, I cannot.”

He threw her hands from him, and sprang up.

“TIngrate! do you mean to say that you will not fulfill a sacred
engagement ’—that you will break an oath given to the dead?”

“T do not hold myself bound by the oaths of another, though
he were twice my father. I om responsible for no acts but my
own. No one has the right to lay his hand on an unconscious
infant slumbering in her cradle, and coolly determine, for all
time, her destiny. You have the right to guide me, to say what
T shall not do with your consent, but I am a free-born Ameri-
can, thank God! I did not draw my breath in Circassia, to be
MACARIA. 199

bartered for gold by my father. I, only, can give myself away.
Why should you wish to force this marriage on me? Father,
do you think that a woman has no voice in a matter involving
her happiness for life? Is one of God’s holy sacraments to be-
come a mere pecuniary transaction?—only a legal transfer of
real estate and cotton bales?) Oh, my father! would you make
yourself and your child parties to so ignoble, so loathsome a
proceeding ? ”

“Oh! I suspected that your cursed obstinacy would meet me
here, as well as elsewhere in your life. You have been a source
of trouble and sorrow from your birth; but the time has come
to end all this. I will not be trifled with; I tried to reason with
you, to influence you through your affection, but it seems you
have none. If I resort to other measures now, you have only
yourself to thank. Irene, there can be peace between us but
upon one condition; I have set my heart on seeing you Hugh’s
wife; nothing less will satisfy me. I warn you, as you value
your own happiness, not to thwart me; it is no trivial risk that
you run. I tell you now, I will make you suffer severely if you
dare to disobey me in this matter. You know that I never
menace idly, and if you refuse to hear reason, I will utterly
disinherit you, though you are my only child. Ponder it well.
You have been raised in luxury, and taught to believe yourself
one of the wealthiest heiresses in the State; contrast your
present position, your elegant home, your fastidious tastes
gratified to the utmost; contrast all this, I say, with poverty:
imagine yourself left in the world without one cent! Think
of it! think of it! My wealth is my own, mark you, and I will
give it to whom I please, irrespective of all claims of custom.
Now the alternative is fully before you, and on your own head
be the consequences. Will you accede to my wishes, as any
dutiful child should, or will you deliberately incur my everlast-
ing displeasure? Will you marry Hugh?”

Both rose, and stood confronting each other; his face burn-
‘ing with wrath, every feature quivering with passion; hers
white and rigid as a statue’s, with only a blue, cord-like crescent
between the arching brows to index her emotion. Steadily the
large violet eyes looked into those that regarded her so angrily;
thre was no drooping of the long silken fringes; no moisture
dimming their depths; then they were raised slowly, as if to the
throne of God, registering some vow, and, pressing her hands
over her heart, she said solemnly:
200 ' MACARIA,

“ Father, I will not marry Hugh, so help me God!”

Silence fell between them for several moments; something in
that fixed, calm face of his child awed him, but it was tem-
porary, and, with a bitter laugh, he exclaimed:

“Oh, very well! Your poverty be upon your own head in
coming years, when the grave closes over me. At my death
every cent of my property passes to Hugh, and with it my
name, and between you and me, as an impassable gulf, lies my
everlasting displeasure. Understand that, though we live here
in one house, as father and child, I do not, and will not, for-
give you. You have defied me; now eat the bitter fruit of your
disobedience.”

“T have no desire to question the disposition of your wealth;
if you prefer to give it to my cousin, I am willing, perfectly
willing. I would rather beg my bread from door to door, proud
though I am; I would sooner soil my Huntingdon hands by
washing or cooking, than soil my soul with perjury, or sell my-
self for gold. It is true, I love elegance and luxury; I enjoy
wealth as well as most people do, I suppose; but poverty does
not frighten me half so much as a loveless marriage. Give
Hugh your fortune, if you wish, but, father! father! let there
be no estrangement between you and me. [ can bear every-
thing but your displeasure; I dread nothing so much as the loss
of your love. Oh, father! forgive a disappointment which my
conscience would not permit me to avert. Forgive the pain
which, God knows, I would not have caused you, if I could have
avoided it without compromising principle. Oh, my father!
my father! let not dollars and cents stand between you and your
only child. I ask nothing now but your love.”

She drew nearer, but he waved her off and said, with a sneer-
ing laugh:

“ Away with all such cant! I gave you the choice, and you
made your selection with your eyes fully open. Accept poverty
as your doom, and with it my eternal displeasure. I intend to
make you suffer for your obstinacy. You shall find, to your’
sorrow, that I am not to be trifled with, or my name is not
Leonard Huntingdon. Now go your own way, and find what a
thorny path you have made for yourself.”

He pointed to the door as he had done years before, when the
boarding-school decree went forth, and without remonstrance
she left him, and sat down on the steps of the greenhouse.
Soon after, the sound of his buggy-wheels told her that he had
MACARIA, 201

gone to town, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, she recalled
the painful conversation from first to last. That he meant all
he had threatened, and more, she did not question for an in-
stant, and, thinking of her future, she felt sick at heart. But
with the shame and sorrow came, also, a thrill of joy; she had
burst the fetters; she was free. Wounded affection bled freely,
but brain and conscience exulted in the result. She could not
reproach herself; she resolved not to reproach her father, even
in thought. Hers was not a disposition to vent its griefs and
troubles in tears; these had come to her relief but three or four
times in the course of a life, and on this occasion she felt as
little inclination to ery as to repine idly over what could not be
rectified. Her painful reverie was interrupted by the click of
approaching crutches, and she rose to meet her uncle.

“Do not get up, Irene; I will sit here beside you. My child,
look at me—are you sick?”

“No, Uncle Eric; what put that absurd notion into your
head? I rode past your door two hours ago, and was power-
fully tempted to stop and breakfast with your bachelor-
ship.”

He regarded her anxiously, noting the singular crescent on
her pale forehead, and connecting it with the scowling face of
his brother-in-law, which had passed him on the avenue. He
knew that something very unusual had excited the calm, in-
flexible woman till the hot blood swelled that vein, but he fore-
bore all question. :

“What are you thinking of, Uncle Eric?”

“Only of a line in a poem which I was reading last night.
Shall I quote it for you?

“A still Medusa, with mild milky brows
All curdled a

 

She looked in his face, smiled, and passed her hand over her
forehead, hiding the blue cord.

“ Ah! a gentle way of reading me a lecture on ill-temper. I
lay no claim to saintship, you know, and when I’m out of humor
my face won’t play the hypocrite. I am no Griselda; obviously
none of my name can ever expect canonization on that score.
Come to the conservatory; the lemons are in full bloom, and
marvelously sweet. Put your hand on my shoulder, and come
down slowly.”
202 MACARIA,

“Where is Hugh? I thought he came home yesterday?”
“He started to his plantation at daylight. Take care, sir;
these flags are slippery with dew; your crutches are unsafe.”

CHAPTER XX.

“ To-whit—to-whoo!” Munin stretched his broad, gray
wings, and, quitting the mantelpiece, perched upon the top of
the easel, gazing down at the solitary artist, and uttering all
the while a subdued, melancholy note of complaint, as if to at-
tract her attention. She looked up and held out her hand
coaxingly.

“Munin! Munin! what do you want? You haunt me like
my shadow. Poor pet, true to your name, you pine for your
master.”

The ruffled plumes smoothed themselves, the plaint was
hushed. He fluttered to her shoulder, received her soft, caress-
ing touch with evident satisfaction, nestled his beak in her
snining hair, and then, as if soothed and contented, flitted to
the open window. Resuming her brush, Electra leaned forward
and continued her work. “ Laborare est orare”’; if so, no more
ardent devotee ever bowed at the shrine of toil, bearing sacri-
ficial offerings. Thoughts, hopes, aspirations, memories, all
centered in the chosen profession; to its prosecution she
brought the strength and energy of an indomitable will, the
rich and varied resources of a well-stored, brilliant intellect. It
was evident that she labored con amore, and now the expecta-
tion of approaching triumph lent additional eagerness to her
manner. The fingers trembled, the eyes sparkled unwontedly,
a deeper, richer crimson glowed on the smooth cheeks, and the
lips parted and closed unconsciously. The tantalizing dreams
of childhood, beautiful but evanescent, had gradually embodied
themselves in a palpable, tangible, glorious reality; and the
radiant woman exulted in the knowledge that she had but to
put forth her hand and grasp it. The patient work of twelve
months drew to a close; the study of years bore its first fruit;
the last delicate yet quivering touch was given; she threw down
palette and brush, and stepping back, surveyed the canvas.
The Exhibition would open within two days, and this was to

~ be her contribution. A sad-eyed Cassandra, with pallid, pres-
MACARIA, 2038

cient, woe-struck features—an over-mastering face, wherein the
flickering light of divination struggled feebly with the human
horror of the To-Come, whose hideous mysteries were known
only to the royal prophetess. In mute and stern despair it
looked out from the canvas, a curious, anomalous thing—cut
adrift from human help, bereft of aid from heaven—yet, in its
doomed isolation, scorning to ask the sympathy which its
extraordinary loveliness extorted from all who saw it. The
artist’s pride in this, her first finished creation, might well be
pardoned, for she was fully conscious that the cloud-region of a
painful novitiate lay far beneath her; that henceforth she
should never miss the pressure of long-coveted chaplets on
her brow; that she should bask in the warm, fructifying rays
of public favor; and measureless exultation flashed in her beau-
tiful eyes. The torch of genius burned brightly, as, buoyant
and eager, she took her place in the great lampadrome of life;
but would it endure till the end? Would it light up the goal
standing upon the terminus of time?

The door opened, and Russell came into the studio. She was
not expecting him; his sudden appearance gave her no time to
adjust the chilling mask of pride, and all her uncontrolled affec-
tion found eloquent language in the joyful face.

“ Russell! my own dear Russell! ”

He drew his arm around her and kissed her flushed cheek,
and each looked at the other, wondering at the changes which
years had wrought.

“Electra, you have certainly improved more than anyone I
ever knew. You look the impersonation of perfect health; it
is needless to ask how you are.” And again his lips touched
the beaming face pressed against his shoulder. Her arms stole
tremblingly around his neck, past indifference was forgotten in
the joy of his presence, and she murmured:

“T thought I should not see you before I left America. I
cannot tell you what a pleasure this surprise is to me. Oh,
Russell! I longed inexpressibly to be with you once more.
Thank you, a thousand times, for coming to me at last.”

“Did you suppose that I intended to let you put the Atlantic
between us without making an effort to see you again? Were
you unjust enough to believe that I had forgotten the only
relative whom I love? My dear little skeptic, I have come to
prove my affection, and put yours to the test.”

He pressed her closer to his heart, but suddenly she shrank
204 MACARIA,

from him, unclasped his arm, and, wheeling two chairs to the
window said hurriedly:

“Sit down, and let me look at you. You have grown so tall
and commanding that I am half-afraid of my own cousin. You
are less like Aunt Amy than formerly.”

“ Allow me to look at your painting first, for it will soon be
too dark to examine it. This is the Cassandra of which you
wrote me.”

He stood before it for some moments in silence, and she
watched him with breathless eagerness—for his opinion was of
more value to her than that of all the dilettanti and connois-
seurs who would soon inspect it. Gradually his dark, cold face
kindled, and she had her reward.

“Tt is a masterly creation; a thing of wonderful and im-
perishable beauty; it is a great success—as such the world will
receive it, and hundreds will proclaim your triumph. I am
proud of it, and doubly proud of you.”

He held out his hand, and, as she put her fingers in his, her
head drooped, and hot tears blinded her. Praise from the lips
she loved best stirred her womanly heart as the applause of the
public could never do; and, in after years, when grief and lone-
liness oppressed her, these precious words rang sweet and sil-
very through the darkened chambers of her soul, working
miracles of comfort infinitely beyond the potent spell of Indian
O-U-M, or. mystic Agla. Without perceiving her emotion he
continued, with his eyes fixed on the picture:

“Some day you must make me a copy, and I will hang it over
the desk in my office, where I can feast my eyes on its rare
loveliness and my ears with your praises from all who see it.
How long have you been at work upon it?”

“T can’t recall the time when it first took hold of my imagi-
nation; it paced by my side when I was a child; brooded over
me in my troubled dreams, looked out from the pomp of sum-
mer clouds and the dripping drab skies of winter, floated on
snowflakes, and flashed in thunder-storms; but I outlined it
about a year ago. For my exhibition picture, I wavered long
between this and an unfinished Antigone; but finally decided
in favor of Cassandra.”

“And selected wisely. While in Europe I saw, in a private
house, an exquisite head of the ‘ Erythreean Sibyl,’ which some-
what resembles your painting. The position is almost identical
—the nose, mouth, and chin very similar; but the glory of this
_ MACARIA. 205

Cassandra is the supernatural eyes, brimful of prescience. It
might afford matter for curious speculation, however, and some
time we will trace the subtle law of association of ideas by
which two artists, separated by the Atlantic, and by centuries,
chanced, under totally different circumstances, to portray simi-
larly the two distinct prophetesses who both foretold the doom
of Troy.”

“Tf such is the case, the world will be very skeptical of the
coincidence. I did not even know that there was an ‘ Ery-
threan Sibyl,’ much less a picture of her; so much for igno-
rance. The critics who knew that I did not paint your por-
trait, simply because it was well done, will swear that I stole
the whole of my Cassandra,” answered Electra, perplexed and’
troubled.

“You need not look so rueful, and plow your forehead with
that heavy frown. In all probability I am the only person in
New York who has seen the other picture; and, granting the
contrary, the resemblance might not be detected. If you suffer
it to annoy you I shall be sorry that I mentioned it. Yet, I
doubt not, the withering charge of plagiarism has often been
hurled in the face of an honest worker, quite as unjustly as it
would be in your case. Very startling coincidences sometimes
occur most innocently; but carping envy is a thrifty plant, and
flourishes on an astonishingly small amount of soil.”

“Who painted that Sibyl?”

“Tt is not known positively. Traveling through the northern
part of France, I was detained some hours at a village, and em-
ployed the delay in rambling about the suburbs. Following a
winding road it brought me to the inclosure of a chateau, and
I leaned on the fence and admired the parterre, which was un-
commonly pretty. The owner happened to be among his flower
beds, saw me, and,’ with genuine French politeness and
urbanity, insisted that I should enter and rest myself while he
gathered me a bouquet of mignonette and pinks. The afternoon
was warm, and I asked for a glass of water. He took me into
the house, and on the parlor wall hung this picture. It riveted .
my attention, and flattered, doubtless by my evident admira-
tion, he gave me its history. His father had found it at a
picture-shop in Germany, I forget now exactly where, and
Yought it for a Dolce, but doubted its genuineness; and my
host, who seemed thoroughly au fait in art matters, asserted
‘that it belonged to a much earlier school. That is all that I or
206 MACARIA.

the owner know of it; so dismiss the subject from your
mind.”

“T shall not, I promise you. Give me minute directions, and
I will hunt up chateau, mignonette, gentlemanly proprietor,
Sibyl, and all. Who knows but metempsychosis may be true
after all, and that the painter’s soul possesses me bodily, striv-
ing to portray the archetype which haunted him in the last
stage of existence? According to Vaughn, the Portuguese
have a superstition that the soul of a man who has died leaving
some duty unfulfilled, or promised work unfinished, is fre-
quently known to enter into another person, and, dislodging for
a time the rightful soul-occupant, impel him unconsciously to
complete what was lacking.”

“You are growing positively paganish, Electra, from con-
stant association with the dead deities of classic ages, and I
must reclaim you. Come, sit down and tell me something of
your life, since the death of your friend, Mr. Clifton.”

“Did you receive my last letter, giving an account of Mrs.
Clifton’s death?”

“Yes; just as I stepped upon the platform of the cars it was
handed to me. I had heard nothing from you for so long that
I thought it was time to look after you.”

“You had started, then, before you knew that I was going to
Europe?”

“ce Yes.”

He could not understand the instantaneous change which
came over her countenance—the illumination, followed as sud-
denly by a smile, half compassionate, half bitter. She pressed
one hand to her heart, and said: ,

“Mrs. Clifton never seemed to realize her son’s death, though,
after paralysis took place, and she became speechless, I thought
she recovered her memory in some degree. She survived him
just four months, and, doubtless, was saved much grief by her
unconsciousness of what had occurred. Poor old lady! she suf-
fered little for a year past, and died, I hope, without pain. I
have the consolation of knowing that I did all that could be
done to promote her comfort. Russell, I would not live here
for any consideration; nothing but a sense of duty has detained
me this long. I promised him that I would not forsake his
mother. But you can have no adequate conception of the feel-
ing of desolation which comes over me when I sit here during
the long evenings. He seems watching me from picture-frames
MACARIA, 207

and pedestals; his face, his pleading, patient, wan face, haunts
me perpetually. And yet I tried to make him happy; God
knows I did my duty.”

She sprang up, and paced the room for some moments with
her hands behind her, and tears glittering on her cheeks. Paus-
ing at last on the rug, she pointed to a large, square object
closely shrouded, and. added:

“Yonder stands his last picture, unfinished. The day he died
he put a few feeble strokes upon it, and bequeathed the comple-
tion of the task to me. For several years he had worked occa-
sionally on it, but much remains to be done. It is the ‘ Death
of Socrates.’ I have not even looked at it since that. night; I
‘ do not intend to touch it until after I visit Italy; I doubt
whether my hand will ever be steady enough to give the last
strokes. Oh, Russell! the olden time, the cottage days seem
far, far off to me now!”

Leaning against the mantelpiece, she dropped her head on
her hand, but when he approached and stood at the opposite
corner he saw that the tears had dried.

“Neither of us has had a sunny life, Electra; both have had
numerous obstacles to contend with; both have very bitter
memories. Originally there was a certain parallelism in our
characters, but with our growth grew the divergence. You
have preserved the nobler part of your nature better than I;
for my years I am far older than you; none of the brightness of
my boyhood seems to linger about me. Contact with the world
is an indurating process; I really did not know how hard I had
grown, until I felt my heart soften at sight of you. I need you
to keep the kindly charities and gentle amenities of life before
me, and, therefore, I have come for you. But for my poverty
I never should have given you up so long; I felt that it would
be for your advantage in more than one respect to remain with
Mr. Clifton tintil I had acquired my profession. I knew that
you would enjoy privileges here which I could not give you in
my straitened circumstances. Things have changed; Mr.
Campbell has admitted me to partnership; my success I con-
sider an established fact. Give up, for a season, this projected
tour of Europe; wait till I can go with you; till I can take you;
go back to W- with me. You can continue your art-studies
if you wish it; you can prosecute them there as well as here.
You are ambitious, Electra; so am I, let us work together.”

She raised her head and looked up at the powerful, nobly-

 
208 MACARIA,

proportioned form, the grand, kingly face, calm and colorless,
the large, searching black eyes, within whose baffling depths lay
all the mysteries of mesmerism, and a spasm of pain seized her
own features. She shaded her brow and answered:

“No, Russell; I could not entertain that thought an instant.”

“ Are you too proud to accept a home from me?”

“Not too proud, exactly; but, as long as I have health, I
mean to make a support. I will not burden you.”

“What bunglers you women are at logic! The thought of
living on my charity affrights you, and yet you fly from me to
the cold charity of the world—for what else is fleeting, fickle
public favor—fitful public patronage or praise?”

“Full value received for benefit rendered is not charity; be-
sides, Russell, you, too, seek and subsist upon this same fickle
public favor.”

“Partially, I grant you; but I ground my claims far deeper
than you; I strike down, taking root in the substratum of
selfishness. Interest, individual interest, is the outpost of
which I am paid to be the sentinel; stern necessity is my
guardian angel, compelling all men to see that my wages are
inviolate. I stand in the great brain-market place, and deal
with mankind in the normal, everyday manifestations of
avarice, selfishness, or hate, profit and loss the theme—dollars
or blood the currency. M. Quetelet, one of the most eminent
statisticians of Europe, has proved that, in a given population,
a given number of crimes will annually be committed; so you
see that, in this market, also, production keeps pace with con-
sumption, and legal counsel is necessitated. On the contrary,
you address yourself to a class of emotions fluctuating and
short-lived—common to comparatively few—involving no
questions of utility—Iluxuries, not necessities. Yours is a pro-
fession of contingencies; not so mine; for injustice, duplicity,
theft, are everyday, settled certainties. A man will give me
one-half of his estate to save the other, which the chicane of his
neighbor threatens.”

“ And if that villainous, avaricious neighbor had employed
you half an hour before the injured man sought to engage your
services?”

“Why, then the lawyer next in his estimation gets the case,
and it is resolved into a simple question of his superior adroit-
ness, acumen, and industry, or mine. The world is hard upon
lawyers, its faithful servants, and holds them up as moral mon-
MACARIA, 209

sters to the very children whose mouths their labor fills with
bread. An erroneous and most unjust impression prevails that
a lawyer of ability, plus extensive practice, equals Bacon,
Jeffries, Impey, or some other abnormal disgrace to jurispru-
dence; whereas, the sole object of the institution of law is to
secure right, justice, and truth. You are opening your lips to
ask if the last is not often willfully suppressed. Remember
that even the Twelve found a Judas among their number, and
the provision of counsel is to elicit truth, and all the truth, on
both sides. I bring testimony in defense of all that is suscepti-
ble of proof in my client’s favor, and it is the business of the
opposite counsel to do likewise; if he neglects his duty, or,
through lack of intellect, suffers me to gain the case, even
against real justice, am I culpable? I did my duty; he failed
to defend his cause, however righteous, and on his shoulders
rests the turpitude.”

“Ah, Russell, you have taken a diploma in the school of
sophistry.”

“T am content that you should think so, since a recent great
historian has decided that the Sophists were a sadly maligned
sect, and, instead of becoming a synonym of reproach, merited
the everlasting gratitude of mankind, as the tireless public
teachers of Greece—the walking school system of Athens in her
imperial, palmy days.”

“T never will believe that! I wish to heaven archeologists
would let the dust of Athens rest, instead of plowing it up
periodically with the sacrilegious shares of new-fangled
theories.”

“And thereby exhuming the moldering bones of some of
your favorite divinities, I suppose? The literary philhellenism
of the present age, and especially its philologic tendency, is fast
hunting the classic specters of the heroic times into primeval
shade. Oldfogyism in literature is considered, I believe, quite
as unpardonable as in politics. Take care how you handle the
Sophists, for I hold that they differed in but one respect from
your hero, Socrates.”

“You shall not insult his memory by any such disgraceful
association,” interrupted his cousin.

“And that difference,” he continued, without heeding her,
“consists in the fact that they taught for money, while he
scorned to accept remuneration. Sydney Smith maintains that
‘Socrates invented common sense two thousand years ago, as
210 MACARIA.

Ceres invented the plow, and Bacchus intoxication.’ I should
receive the dictum more readily if he had pocketed the honest
wages of his talents, instead of deluding himself with the belief
that he was the heaven-appointed regenerator of Athens, and
making his labors purely eleemosynary, to the possible detri-
ment of his family. Who knows but that, after all, Xantippe
deserved a place in martyrology, having been driven to parox-
ysms of rage and desperation by an empty purse, or wretched
household derangements, victimized by her husband’s cosmo-
politan mission; for it is a notorious fact that men who essay
to manage the opinions of the world invariably neglect their
domestic affairs and allow them to run to ruin.”

“Five years ago you would not have said that, Russell, and
I think it questionable whether you believe it all now. I hold
my profession a nobler one than yours, and dispute your predi-
cate that it involves no utility. Whatever tends to exalt, to
purify, to ennoble, is surely useful; and esthetics, properly
directed, is one of the most powerful engines of civilization.
See what it wrought for Athens.”

“You mistake effect for cause. The freedom of Athens
was the lever which raised it to such a pitch of glory; as a
sequence the arts flourished and beauty was apotheosized.
When freedom perished the arts received their death-blow, and,
impotent to preserve the prosperity of the city, shed a linger-
ing halo around its melancholy but majestic ruins. That
esthetics and utility are synonyms is an axiom which might
find acceptation in ‘ Bensalem’; but in this intensely practical,
mechanical epoch of human history, and this money-making
quarter of the globe, you must educate the masses up to an
entirely different level, before you can expect them to receive it.”

“And, so far as my feeble influence extends, or my limited
ability will permit, I purpose to become such a teacher. Do
not laugh at me, Russell, I beg of you.”

“T smile at the beautiful dream rather than the enthusiastic
dreamer. So, doubtless, dreamed Phidias, Praxiteles, and the
Rhodian Trio, and only a few time-corroded blocks of marble
remain in attestation. Cui bono?”

“Yours and mine!—for dead nations, and for generations
yet unborn, who shall gaze upon their noble and imperishable
monuments. You are worse than Goth or Vandal, if you can
ignore their softening, spiritualizing influence—for even they,
rude and untutored, bowed before such immortal beauty. What
MACARIA. 211

has come over you, Russell, hardening your nature, and sealing
the sources of genial, genuine appreciation?”

“The icy breath of experience, the crystallizing touch of
years. You must not be so severe upon me, Electra; many a
time, since we parted, I have left my desk to watch a gorgeous
sunset, and for a few minutes fancy myself once more leaning
on the garden-gate of my early home. I love beauty, but I
subordinate it to the practical utilities of life. I have little
time for esthetic musings; I live among disenchanting, com-
monplace realities. It is woman’s province and prerogative to
gather up the links of beauty, and bind them as a garland round
her home; to fill it with the fragrance of dewy flowers, the
golden light of western skies, the low, soothing strains of music,
which can chant all care to rest; which will drown the clink of
dollars and cents and lead a man’s thoughts to purer, loftier
themes. Ah! there is no apocalypse of joy and peace like a
happy home, where a woman of elegance and refinement goes to
and fro. This recalls the object of my visit. You say, truly,
that full value received for benefit rendered is not charity;
apply your principle, come to W-. , share my future, and
what fortune I may find assigned me. I have bought the cot-
tage, and intend to build a handsome house there some day,
where you and Mr. Campbell and I can live peacefully. You
shall twine your esthetic fancies all about it, to make it pictur-
esque enough to suit your fastidious taste. Come and save me
from what you consider my worse than vandal proclivities. I
came here simply and solely in the hope of prevailing on you
to return with me. I make this request, not because I think it
will be expected of me, but for more selfish reasons—because it
is a matter resting very near my heart.”

“Oh, Russell! you tempt me.”

“JT wish to do so. My blood beats in your veins; you are the
only relative I value, and were you indeed my sister, I should
scarcely love you more. With all a brother’s interest, why
should I not claim a brother’s right to keep you with me, at
least until you find your Pylades, and give him a higher claim
before God and man? Electra, were I your brother, you would
require no persuasion; why hesitate now?”

She clasped her hands behind her, as if for support in some
fiery ordeal, and, gathering up her strength, spoke rapidly, like
one who fears that resolution will fail before some necessary
sentence is pronounced.

 
912 MACARLA,

“You are very kind and' generous, Russell, and for all that
you have offered me I thank you from the depth of a full heart.
The consciousness of your continued interest and affection is
inexpressibly precious; but my disposition is too much like
your own to suffer me to sit down in idleness, while there is so
much to be done in the world. I, too, want to earn a noble
reputation, which will survive long after I have been gathered
to my fathers; I want to accomplish some work, looking upon
which, my fellow-creatures will proclaim: ‘ That woman has not
lived in vain; the world is better and happier because she came
and labored in it.’ I want my name carved, not on monu-
mental marble only, but upon the living, throbbing heart of
my age!—stamped indelibly on the generation in which my lot
is cast. Perhaps I am too sanguine of success; a grievous
disappointment may await all my ambitious hopes, but failure
will come from want of genius, not lack of persevering, patient
toil. Upon the threshold of my career, facing the loneliness of
coming years, I resign that hope with which, like a golden
thread, most women embroider their future. I dedicate myself,
my life, unreservedly to art.”

“You believe that you will be happier among the marble and
canvas of Italy than in W- with me?”

“Yes; I shall be better satisfied there. All my life it has
gleamed afar off, a glorious land of promise to my eager, long-
ing spirit. From childhood I have cherished the hope of reach-
ing it, and the fruition is near at hand. Italy! bright Alma
Mater of the art to which I consecrate my years. Do you
wonder that, like a lonely child, I stretch out my arms toward
it? Yet my stay there will be but for a season. I go to com-
plete my studies, to make myself a more perfect instrument for
my noble work, and then I shall come home—come, not to New
York, but to my own dear native South, to W , that I may
labor under the shadow of its lofty pines, and within hearing of
its murmuring river—dearer to me than classic Arno, or im-
mortal Tiber. I wrote you that Mr. Clifton had left me a
legacy, which, judiciously invested, will defray my expenses in
Europe, where living is cheaper than in this country. Mr.
Young has taken charge of the money for me, and has kindly
offered to attend to my remittances. Aunt Ruth’s friends, the
Richardsons, consented to wait for me until after the opening
of the Exhibition of the Academy of Design, and one week

from to-morrow we expect to sail.”
«we -

 

 
MACARIA. 213

“What do you know of the family?” ;

“Nothing, except that the lady, who is an old friend of my
aunt, is threatened with consumption, and has been advised to
spend a year or two in Florence. Aunt Ruth took me to see
her the other day; she seems intelligent and agreeable, and, I
dare say, I shall find her kind and pleasant enough.”

“Since such is the programme you have marked out, I trust
that no disappointments await you, and that all your bright
dreams may be realized. But if it should prove otherwise, and
you grow weary of your art, sick of isolation, and satiated with
Italy, remember that I shall welcome you home and gladly
share with you all that I possess. You are embarking in an
experiment which thousands have tried before you, and wrecked
happiness upon; but I have no right to control your future,
and certainly no desire to discourage you. At all events, I
hope our separation will be brief.”

A short silence followed, broken at last by Electra, who
watched him keenly as she spoke:

“Tell me something about Irene. Of course, in a small
town like W. , you must see her frequently.”

“By no means. I think I have seen her but three times since
her childhood—once riding with her father, then accidentally
at church, and again a few evenings before I left home, at the
graveyard, where she was dressing a tombstone with flowers.
There we exchanged a few words for the first time, and this re-
minds me that I am the bearer of a message. She inquired after
you, and desired me to tender you her love and best wishes.”

He neither started nor changed color at the mention of
Trene’s name, but straightened himself, and buttoned to the
throat the black coat, which, from the warmth of the room, he
had partially loosened.

“Ts she not a great belle?”

“T presume few women have been more admired than she
is. I hear much of her beauty, and the sensation which it
creates wherever she goes; but the number of her suitors is
probably limited, from the fact that it is generally known she
is engaged to her cousin, young Seymour.”

“T cannot believe that she loves him.”

“Qh! that is not necessary to latter-day matrimonial con-
tracts; it is an obsolete clause, not essential to legality, and
utterly ignored. She is bound hand and foot, and her father .
will immolate her on the altar of money.”

 
214 MACARIA,

He smiled bitterly, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You mistake her character, Russell. I know her better, and
TI tell you there is none of Iphigenia in her nature.”

“ At least I do not mistake her father’s, and I pity the woman
whose fate rests in his iron grasp.”

“She holds hers in her own hands, small and white though
they are; and, so surely as the stars shine above us, she will
marry only where she loves. She has all the will which has
made the name of her family proverbial. I have her here in
crayons; tell me what you think of the likeness.”

She took down a portfolio and selected the head of her quon-
dam playmate, holding it under the gaslight, and still scrutiniz-
ing her cousin’s countenance. He took it, and looked gravely,
earnestly, at the lovely features.

“Tt scarcely does her justice; I doubt whether any portrait
ever will. Besides, the expression of her face has changed
materially since this was sketched. There is a harder outline
now about her mouth, less of dreaminess in the eyes, more of
cold hauteur in the whole face. If you desire it I can, in one
line of Tennyson, photograph her proud beauty, as I saw her
mounted on her favorite horse, the week that I left home:

‘¢« Paultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly ‘null!’ ”

He laid the drawing back in the open portfolio, crossed the
room, and took up his hat.

“ Where are you going, Russell? Can’t you spend the even-
ing with me at Aunt Ruth’s?”

“No, thank you; I must go. There is to be a great political
meeting at Tammany Hall to-night, and I am particularly
anxious to attend.”

“What! are you, too, engaged in watching the fermentation
of the political vat?”

“Yes; I am most deeply interested; no true lover of his
country can fail to be so at this juncture.”

“Tow long will you be in New York?”

“Since I cannot persuade you to return with me, my stay
here will be shortened. One of our courts meets soon, and,
though Mr. Campbell will be there to attend to the cases, I
want, if possible, to be present. I shall return day after to-
morrow. And now good-night; I will see you early in the
morning.” r

The door closed behind him, and she remained standing for
MACARIA, 215

some time just as he left her. Slowly the folded hands shrank
from each other, and dropped nerveless to her sides; the bright
glow in her cheeks, the dash of crimson on her lips, faded from
both; the whole face relaxed into an expression of hopeless sor-
row. Lonely as Moses when he calmly climbed Nebo to die,
she bowed herself a despairing victim upon the grim, flint-
fronted altar of necessity.

Curiously subtle and indomitable is 2 woman’s heart, so often
the jest of the flippant and unthinking—the sneer of the un-
scrupulously calculating, or mercilessly cynical. It had long
been no secret to this woman that she occupied the third place
in her cousin’s affections—was but a dweller of the vestibule.
Her pride had been tortured, her vanity sorely wounded; yet,
to-night, purified from all dross, love rose invincible, trium-
phant, from the crucible of long and severe trial—sublime in
its isolation, asking, expecting no return.

“ Self-girded with torn strips of hope.”

Such is the love of a true woman. God help all such, in this
degenerate world of ours, so cursed with shams and counter-
feits.

Raising her tearless, shadowy eyes to the woeful face of her
Cassandra, Electra extended her arms and murmured:

“ Alone henceforth! a pilgrim in foreign lands! a solitary
worker among strangers. So be it! I am strong enough to
work alone. So be it!”

The flaming sword of the angel of destiny waved her from
the Eden of her girlish day-dreams, and by its fiery gleam she
read the dim, dun future; saw all.

“The long mechanic pacings to and fro,
The set gray life, and apathetic end.”

CHAPTER XXI.

“Don’t you know that even granite mill-stones finally grind
themselves into impalpable powder? You give yourself no rest,
Aubrey, and human machinery wears rapidly.”

“But if the powder ground be golden?”

“The dust is but dust still, despite its glitter, and fills men’s
eyes and dims their’vision like any other dust; ending often in
a moral ophthalmia past cure
216 MACARIA,

“«« The plague of gold strikes far and near

And deep and strong it enters.

This purple chimar which we wear,
Makes madder than the centaur’s;

Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange,
We cheer the pale gold-diggers;

Each soul is worth so much on ’Change,
And marked, like sheep, with figures.

Be pitiful, O God!’

“T should really dislike to think you had become a confirmed,
inveterate chrysologist. Take time, Aubrey! take time; you
are overworked, and make months press upon your brow more
heavily than years on most men’s. After all, my dear fellow,
as Emerson says, ‘ Politics is a deleterious profession, like some
poisonous handicrafts.’ I sometimes feel like drawing a long
breath for you; it wearies me to look at you—you are such a
concentrated extract of work! work! Simply for this reason, I
sent for you to come and take a cup of tea with me.”

“T have been too much engaged of late to spare an evening
to merely social claims. A man whose life rests at his feet, to
be lifted to some fitting pedestal, has little leisure for the
luxury of friendly visiting.”

The two were in Eric Mitchell’s pleasant library. Russell sat
in an armchair, and the master of the house reclined on a
lounge drawn near the hearth. The mellow glow of the lamp,
the flash and crackle of the fire, the careless, lazy posture of the
invalid, all betokened quiet comfort, save the dark, fixed face,:
and erect, restless figure of the guest.

“But, Aubrey, a man who has already achieved so much
should be content to rest a while, and move more slowly.”

“That depends altogether on the nature and distance of his
goal.”

“ And that goal is—what?”

“Men call it by a variety of names, hoping to escape Luci-
fer’s fate by adrvitly cloaking Lucifer’s infirmity.”

“Yes; and whenever I look at you toiling so ceaselessly,
climbing so surely to eminence, I am forcibly reminded of
Macaulay’s fine passage on the hollowness of political life:
‘A pursuit from which, at most, they can only expect, by re-
linquishing liberal studies and social pleasures. by passing
nights without sleep and summers without one glimpse of the
beauty of nature, they may attain that laborious, that invidious,
MACARIA, 217

that closely-watched slavery which is mocked with the name of
power.’ You have not asked my opinion of your speech.”

“J was not aware that you heard it.”

“Of course not, but I read it; and, let me tell you, it was a
great speech, a masterly argument, that will make a lasting
impression upon the people. It has greatly changed the vote
of this county already.”

“You mistake appearances; the seed fell in good soil, but
party spirit came, as fowls of the air, and devoured them.”

“At any rate, it produced a profound impression on public
opinion, and startled some of our political patriarchs.”

“No, a mere transitory effect; they have folded their arms
and gone to sleep again. I am, of course, gratified by your
favorable appreciation of my effort, but I differ with you as to
its result. The plowshare of naked truth must thoroughly sub-
soil the mind of the Southern States before the future of the
country is realized in any degree; as yet, the surface has been
but slightly grazed. The hydra-headed foe of democracy is
slowly but certainly coiling around our American eagle, and
will crush it if not seared promptly. But, Mr. Mitchell, the
‘flaming brands’ are not ready.”

“To what hydra do you allude?”

“Demagogism, of course. Cleon was the prototype of a
numerous class; the school is flourishing vigorously at the
North, and no longer a stranger here. The people must root it
out, or the days of our national existence are numbered.”

“History proves it an invaluable concomitant of democracy;
rather a rank off-shoot from than antagonistic to it.”

“You confound the use and abuse of a system. Civilization
is indisputably a blessing to our race, yet an abuse of the very
improvements and discoveries that constitute its glory, entails
incalculable sorrow, and swells criminal statistics. The march
of medical science has induced the administering of deadly
poisons with the happiest results, when skillfully directed; yet
it sometimes happens that fatal effects follow an over-dose.
Powerful political levers should be handled judiciously—not
thrown into the clutches of ignorant empirics.”

“Universal suffrage is not your hobby, then?”

“On the contrary, I hold, with one of the most brilliant
statesmen this country ever produced, that ‘it is the Greek
horse introduced into the citadel of American liberties and
sovereignty.’ ”
218 MACARIA.

“On my honor, I am astonished at hearing you quote and
indorse a dictum of Hamilton. The millennium can’t be far off
when democrats seek illustration from federalism!”

“ Bigotry in polities is as indefensible as in religion or science,
Truth is a sworn foe to monopolists; is the exclusive right of
no one organization or party that ever waxed and waned. I
am a democrat; I believe in liberal, enlarged, but not universal
suffrage; it is a precious boon, and should be hedged about with
cautious restrictions. The creation of the ephori was a sort of
compromise measure, a concession to appease the people of
Sparta, and, as an extension of the elective franchise, was most
deplorable in its results. Universal suffrage always recalls to
my mind the pithy criticism of Anacharasis, the Scythian
philosopher, on the Solonian code, which lodged too much power
in the hands of the people: ‘ Wise men debate, but fools decide,’
Mr. Mitchell, it matters little whether we have one or one hun-
dred million tyrants, if our rights are trampled; it is a mere
question of taste whether you call the despot Czar, Dictator, or
Ballot-box. The masses are electrical, and valuable principles
of government should be kept beyond the reach of explosion.”

“ And except in a powerful centralization, where could you
place them for safety?”

“They are already deposited in the Constitution. I would,
in order to secure them, extend our naturalization laws so as
to restrict the foreign vote, limit the right of suffrage by
affixing a property qualification, make the tenure of our
judiciary offices for life or good behavior, and lengthen the
term of administration of our chief magistrate, thereby dimin-
ishing the frequency of popular elections, which, in offering
premiums for demagogism, has been a prolific cause of mis-
chief. In examining the statistics of the Northern and
Western States recently, and noting the dangerous results of
the crude foreign vate, I was forcibly reminded of a passage in
Burke’s ‘ Reflections on the French Revolution’: ‘Those who
attempt to level never equalize. In all societies, consisting of
various descriptions of citizens, some description must be upper-
most. The levelers, therefore, only change and pervert the
natural order of things; they load the edifice of society by set-
ting up in the air what the solidity of the structure requires to
be on the ground,’ The day is not far distant, I fear, when
European paupers, utterly ignorant of our institutions, will
“determine who shal! sit in the Presidential chair, and how far

~-
MACARIA, 219

the Constitution shall be observed. These are grave truths,
which the enlightened body of the American people should
ponder well; but, instead, they are made mere catchwords for
party purposes, and serve only to induce a new scramble for
office. It requires no extraordinary prescience to predict that
the great fundamental principles of this government will soon
become a simple question of arithmetic—will lie at the mercy
of an unscrupulous majority. The surging waves of Northern
faction and fanaticism already break ominously against our
time-honored constitutional dykes, and if the South would
strengthen her bulwarks there is no time to be slept or wrangled
away.”

As he spoke, Russell’s eye fell upon a large, oval vase on the
mantelpiece filled with rare exotics, whose graceful tendrils
were tastefully disposed into a perfumed fringe. Rising, he
looked carefully at the brilliant hues, and said, as he bent to
inhale their fragrance:

“Where do you grow such flowers at this season?”

“Trene brings them almost every day from the greenhouse on
the hill. She takes a peculiar pleasure in arranging them in
my vases. I think she stood a half hour yesterday twining and
bending those stems the way she wanted them to hang. They
are so brittle that I snap the blossoms off, but in her hands they
seem pliable enough.”

Russell withdrew the fingers which had wandered caressingly
amid the delicate leaves, and, reseating himself, took a book
from his pocket.

“Mr. Mitchell, I dare say you recollect a discussion which we
had, some months ago, regarding the Homeric unity question?
Since that time I have been looking into Payne Knight’s views
on the subject, and am more than ever convinced that the Ger-
man theory is incorrect. I will read a portion of his argument,
and leave the book for you to examine at your leisure.”

“By all means! But I thought your red-tape gyves kept you
from archzologic researches?”

“Tt is true they do bind me tighter than I sometimes relish;
but we are all in bondage, more or less, and, since one must
submit to tyranny, I prefer a stern master.”

He drew his chair nearer the lamp, and began to read aloud.
Nearly a half-hour passed thus when the library door was
opened hastily, and Irene came in, dressed magnificently in ball
costume. She stood a moment, irresolute and surprised, with
220 MACARIA.

her eyes fixed on Russell’s, then both bowed silently, and she
came to the fire.

“Tow are you, Uncle Eric? You look flushed, feverish.”

She laid her cold, pearly hand on his forehead, and stood at
his side.

“Tolerably comfortable, thanks to Mr. Aubrey, who has made
me almost forget my headache. You will be fashionably late
at the party to-night.”

“Yes, as usual; but for a better reason than because I wish
to be fashionable. I wanted to know how you were, and, as
father was not quite ready, I came in advance, and sent the
carriage back for him and Hugh. I was not aware that you
were in Mr. Aubrey’s hands for the evening. You were read-
ing, I believe; pardon my intrusion, and do not let me interrupt
you.”

“Sit down, Irene; here, child, where I can look at you. We
can both bear such an interruption.”

Russell closed the volume, but kept his finger in the leaves,
and his fascinated eyes went back to the face and form of the
heiress. The dress was of heavy blue silk, with an overskirt
and bertha of rich white lace, looped with bunches of violets
and geranium leaves. The rippling hair was drawn smoothly
over the pure brow, and coiled at the back of the head under a
blue and silver netting, from which fuchsias of torquoise and
pearl hung low on the polished neck. The arms and shoulders
gleamed like ivory as the lamplight glowed over her; and, save
the firm, delicate crimson lips, there was no stain of color in
the cold but superbly beautiful face. It was the first time they
had met since that evening at the cemetery, many months be-
fore. Lifting her splendid violet eyes, she met his gaze an
instant, and, tapping the book, Russell asked, with quiet non-
chalance:

“Where do you stand, Miss Huntingdon, in this vexed
Wolfian controversy concerning the authorship of the Iliad and
Odyssey ?”

“T would render unto Cesar the things that are Cresar’s.”

“ Equivocal, of course!—a woman’s answer,” laughed her
uncle.

“ Explicitly, then, I believe that, as Scott absorbed the crude
minstrelsy of Scotland and reproduced national songs and
legends under a fairer, sweeter form, so Homer, grand, old,
blind eclectic, gathered the fragmentary myths of heroic ages,
MACARIA. 291

and, clothing them with the melody of wandering Greek rhap-
sodists, gave to the world his wonderful epic—the first and last
specimen of composite poetic architecture.”

“You ascribe the Odyssey, then, to a different author and a
later period?” asked Mr. Mitchell.

“T am too little versed in philology to determine so grave a
question. My acquaintance with Greek is limited, and I am
not competent to the task of considering all the evidence in
favor of the identity of authorship.”

She put on her white cashmere cloak, and stood still a mo-
ment, listening.

“ Good-night, Uncle Eric; the carriage is coming. I believe
I’ should know the tramp of those horses amid a regiment of
cavalry.”

“Why need you hurry off? Let your father come in.”

“JT will spare him that trouble. Good-night, Mr. Aubrey.”

She turned to leave the room, but, in gathering her cloak
around her, dropped her fan. Russell stooped to pick it up,
and, as he restored it, their hands met. His brow flushed, but
not even the pale, pearly glow of a sea shell crept to her cheek.
Again she raised her eyes to his, and a haughty, dazzling smile
flashed over her face as she inclined her head.

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a brief silence, broken by Eric, when the sound
of the carriage had died away.

“Trene is the only perfectly beautiful woman I ever saw;
and yet, Aubrey, it makes me sad to watch her counte-
nance.” /

“Whenever I see her I cannot avoid recalling an old Scan-
dinavian myth, she realizes so fully my ideal Iduna, standing
at the portals of Valhalla, offering apples of immortality.”

He returned at once to his book and read several pages, occa-
sionally pausing to call attention to some special passage;
finally he rose and took his hat.

“Tt is early yet, Aubrey; don’t go.”

“Thank you; I must fulfill another engagement.”

“A word before you leave; will you be a candidate for the
Legislature ?”

“Yes; I was waited upon by a committee to-day, and my
name will be announced to-morrow. Good-night.”

Slowly he walked back to town, and, once upon the main
street, took a new pair of gloves from his pocket, fitted them
299 MACARIA,

carefully, and directed his steps to the handsome residence,
whose approach was well-nigh blocked with carriages. This
was the second time that he had been invited by the Hender-
sons, and he had almost determined to decline, as formerly,
but something in Irene’s chill manner changed his resolution.
He knew, from various circumstances, that the social edict
against him was being revoked in fashionable circles; that be-
cause he had risen without its permission, aid, or countenance,
and in defiance of its sneers, the world was beginning to court
him. A gloomy scowl sat on his stern lips as he mounted
the steps of the mansion from which his meek and suffering
mother had borne bundles of plain work, or delicate masses of
embroidery; for the mother and daughter who passed her in the
street with a supercilious nod.

Beau-monde suddenly awoke to the recollection that “after
all, Mrs. Aubrey belonged to one of the wealthiest and first
families in the State.” At first Russell had proudly repelled all
overtures, but gradually he was possessed by a desire to rule
in the very circle which had so long excluded his family. Most
fully he appreciated his position and the motives which actu-
ated the social autocrats of W. ; he was no longer the poor,
disgraced clerk, but the talented young lawyer, and prospective
heir of Mr. Campbell’s wealth. Bitterly, bitterly, came mem-
ories of early trial, and now the haughtiness of Irene’s manner
stung him as nothing else could possibly have done. He was at
a loss to comprehend this change in one who had dared so much
in order to assist his family, and proud defiance rose in his
heart. It was ten o’clock, the féte was at its height; the sound
of music, the shimmer of jewels, the rustle of costly silks
mingled with the hum of conversation, and the tread of danc-
ing feet, as Russell deposited hat and overcoat in the dressing
room, and entered the brilliant parlors. The quadrille had just
ended, and gay groups chattered in the center of the room;
among these Maria Henderson, leaning on Hugh’s arm, and
Grace Harris, who had been dancing with Louis Henderson.
As Russell crossed the floor to speak to the host and hostess, all
eyes turned upon him, and a sudden hush fell on the merry
dancers.

“Coaxed at last within the pale of civilization! How did
you contrive it, Louis?” asked Maria.

“Oh! he declined when I invited him; but I believe father
saw him afterward and renewed the request. Do observe him

 
MACARIA, 223

talking to mother; he is as polished as if he had spent his life
at court.”

“He is a man whom I never fancied, but that two hours’
speech of his was certainly the finest effort I ever listened to.
Cesar’s ambition was moderate in comparison with Aubrey’s,
and, somehow, even against my will, I can’t help admiring him,
he is so coolly independent,” said Hugh, eying him curiously.

“T heard father say that the Democrats intend to send him
to the Legislature next term, and the opposition are bothered to
match him fully. By the way, they speak of Mr. Huntingdon
for their candidate. But here comes your hero, Miss Maria.”
As he spoke, Charlie Harris drew back a few steps, and suffered
Russell to speak to the young lady of the house. Irene stood
not far off, talking to the Governor of the State, who chanced
to be on a brief visit to W. , and quite near her Judge Harris
and her father were in earnest conversation. Astonished at
the sudden apparition, her eyes followed him as he bowed to
the members of the central group; and as she heard the deep,
rich voice above the buzz of small talk, she waited to see if he
would notice her. Soon Governor G gave her his arm for
a promenade, and she found uerself, erelong, very near Maria,
who was approaching with Russell. He was saying something,
at which she laughed delightedly; just then his eye fell on
Irene; there was no token of recognition on the part of either;
but the Governor, in passing, put out his hand to shake. Rus-
sell’s, and asked for Mr. Campbell. Again and again they met
during the ensuing hour, but no greeting was exchanged; then
he disappeared. As Irene leaned against the window-frame in
the crowded supper room, she heard Charlie Harris gayly ban-
tering Maria on the events of the evening.

“What have you done with Aubrey? I will challenge him
before to-morrow morning for cutting me out of my schottische
with his prosy chat.”

“Oh! he left a half-hour ago; excused himself to mother on
the plea of starting off to court at daybreak. He is perfectly
fascinating; don’t you think so, Grace? Such eyes and lips!
and such a forehead!”

“Don’t appeal to me for corroboration, I beg of you, Maria,
for you really gave nobody else an opportunity of judging.
Take a friendly hint, and do not betray your admiration so
publicly,” answered the friend, pouting her pretty, childish lip.

“T see clearly that the remainder of us may as well go hang

 

 
2294 MACARTA,

ourselves at once for any future favor we can expect, since My
Lord Aubrey condescends to enter the lists. Miss Irene, I
have not heard you rhapsodizing yet about the new sensation.”

“T rarely rhapsodize about anything, sir.”

“To whom does she allude?” asked Governor G » good-
humoredly.

“To Mr. Aubrey, who is no stranger to you, I believe.”

“ Ah! Campbell’s partner. I have had some correspondence
with him recently, and when I met him at his office yesterday
I was no longer surprised at the tone of his letters. His intel-
lect is one of the keenest in the State; his logical and analytical
powers are of the rarest order. I shall watch his career with
great interest. Campbell may justly be proud of him.”

If she had felt any inclination to reply, the expression of her
father’s face discouraged her. Ile had joined them in time to
hear the Governor’s eulogium, and she saw a sneer distort his
features as he listened. During the drive homeward, Mr.
Huntingdon suddenly interrupted a strain of Hugh’s nonsense
by exclaiming:

“People have certainly lost common sense! Their memory
is not as long as my little finger.”

“What is the matter, sir? With what recent proof of imbe-
cility have they favored you?”

“The idea of that upstart wheedling this community is
utterly preposterous. His impudence is absolutely astounding.
I am astonished that Henderson should give him counte-
nance!”

“The world has strange criteria to determine its verdicts.
His father was sentenced to be hung for committing murder;
and my uncle, Clement Huntingdon, who deliberately shot a
man dead in a duel, was received in social circles as cordially
as if his hands were not bloodstained. There was more of
palliation in the first case (one of manslaughter), for it was
the hasty, accidental work of a moment of passion; in the last
a cool, premeditated taking of human life. But the sensitive,
fastidious world called one brutal and disgraceful and the other
‘honorable satisfaction, in which gentlemen could indulge
with impunity by crossing State lines. O tempora! O mores!”

As Irene uttered these words, she involuntarily crushed her
bouquet and threw it from her, while Hugh expected an explo-
sion of wrath on the part of his uncle. He merely muttered
an oath, however, and smoked his cigar in sullen silence, leav-

 
MACARIA, 225)

ing the cousins to discuss the events of the party during the
remainder of the drive.

Once more in his own room, at the quiet boarding-house,
Russell lighted the gas-burner over a small desk, and sat down
to'a mass of papers. The apartment was cold; the fire had
long since died out; the hearth looked ashy and desolate.
There was nothing home-like or cozy in the aspect of the room;
the man lived at his office, and this was but a place to pass the
brief, unconscious hours of sleep. He had no home-life, no
social existence; was fast becoming callous, impervious to the
gentler emotions and kindly sympathies which domestic ties
foster and develop. No womanly touch left pleasant traces
here, as in Eric’s home; no graceful, luxurious trifles met the
eye; all things were cold, and prim, and formal. He had no
kindred and few friends, but unbounded ambition stood in lieu
of both. Fortunately for him, his great physical strength
enabled him to pursue a course of study which men of feebler
constitution could never have endured. On the desk lay sev-
eral volumes, carefully annotated for future reference—
Ricardo, Malthus, Say, and Smith. To these he turned, and
busied himself in transferring such excerpts as suited his pur-
pose to an unfinished MS. designed for future legislative
service. The brilliant smile which lighted his face an hour
before, imparting an irresistible charm, had wholly faded, leav-
ing the features to their wonted grave immobility—the accus-
tomed non-commitalism of the business man of the world. The
measured tones of the watchman on the town tower recalled
him, finally, from the cold realm of political economy; he closed
the books, took off his watch and wound it up. It wanted but
three hours to dawn; but he heeded it not; the sight of the
massive old watch brought vividly back the boyish days of sor-
row, and he sat thinking of that morning of shame when Irene
came close to him, nestling her soft little hand in his, and from
some long silent, dark, chill chamber of memory leaped sweet,
silvery echoes:

“Oh, Russell! if I could only help you!”

With an involuntary sigh he arose, and walking to the chim-
ney, leaned his elbow on the mantel. But it would not answer:
the faint, delicious perfume of violets seemed to steal up from
the gray ashes on the hearth, and the passionless, peerless face
of a queenly woman followed him from the haunts of fashion.
The golden-haired dream of his early youth had lost none of her
226 MACARIA,

former witchery; she only shared the mastery of his heart with
stern, unrelaxing ambition, and the gulf which divided them
only enhanced the depth, the holiness of his love for her. Since
his return from Europe he had accustomed himself to think of
her as Hugh’s wife; but he found it daily more difficult to real-
ize that she would willingly give her hand to her heedless, self-
indulgent cousin; and now the alteration in manner toward
him perplexed and grieved him. Did she suspect the truth, and
fear that he might presume on her charity in bygone years? To
his proud spirit this was a suggestion singularly insulting, and
he had resolved to show her in future that he claimed not even
a nod of recognition. Instead of avoiding her as formerly, he
would seek occasions to exhibit an indifference which he little
thought that her womanly heart would rightly interpret. He
had found it more difficult than he supposed to keep his atten-
tion chained to Maria’s and Grace’s gay nonsense; to prevent
his eyes from wandering to the face whose image was enshrined
in his lonely heart, and now, with complex feelings of tender-
ness and angry defiance, he sought his pillow for a short respite
before the journey that waited but for daylight.

For a few weeks all W was astir with interest in the im-
pending election; newspaper columns teemed with caustic
articles, and Huntingdon and Aubrey clubs vilified each other
with the usual acrimony of such occasions. Mr. Campbell’s
influence was extensive, but the Huntingdon supporters were
powerful, and the result seemed doubtful until the week pre-
vious to the election, when Russell, who as yet had taken no act-
ive part, accepted the challenge of his opponent to a public dis-
cussion. The meeting was held in front of the courthouse, the
massive stone steps serving as a temporary rostrum. The
night was dark and cloudy, but huge bonfires, blazing barrels
of pitch, threw a lurid glare over the broad street, now con-
verted into a surging sea of human heads.

Surrounded by a committee of select friends, Mr. Hunting-
don sat, confident of success; and when the hiss of rockets
ceased, he came forward and addressed the assembly in an hour’s
speech. As a warm and rather prominent politician, he was
habituated to the task, and bursts of applause from his own
party frequently attested the effect of his easy, graceful style,
and pungent irony. Blinded by personal hate, and hurried on
by the excitement of the hour, he neglected the cautious policy
which had hitherto been observed, and finally launched inte a

 
MACARIA. 227

fierce philippic against his antagonist—holding up for derision
the melancholy fate of his father, and sneeringly denouncing
the “ audacious pretensions of a political neophyte.”

Groans and hisses greeted this unexpected peroration, and
many of his own friends bit their lips, and bent their brows in
angry surprise, as he took his seat amid an uproar which would
have been respectable even in the days of the builders of Babel.
Russell was sitting on the upper step, with his head leaning on
his hand, and his eyes fixed on the mass of upturned, eager
faces, listening patiently to the lengthy address, expecting just
what he was destined to hear. At the mention of his family
misfortunes he lifted his head, rose, and advancing a few steps,
took off his hat, and stood confronting the speaker in full view
of the excited crowd. And there, the red light flaring over his
features, showed a calm, proud, self-reliant man, who felt that
he had nothing to blush for in the past or to dread in the
future. When the tirade ended, when the tumult ceased and
silence fell upon the audience, he turned and fixed his deep,
glowing eyes full on the face of his opponent for one moment,
smiling haughtily; then, as Mr. Huntingdon quailed before his
withering gaze, he crossed his arms over his chest, and ad-
dressed the meeting.

He came, he said, to discuss questions of grave importance
to the State, not the pedigree or antecedents of his antagonist,
with which, he supposed, the public had no concern. He could
not condescend to the level of the gentleman; was not profi-
cient, not his equal in slang phrases, or gross, vulgar vitupera-
tion, and scorned to further insult the good taste of his hearers
by acquainting them with the contemptible motives of indi-
vidual hatred which had induced his opponent to forget what
the rules of good breeding and etiquette imperatively de-
manded. He would not continue to disgrace the occasion by
any refutation of the exceedingly irrelevant portion of the pre-
ceding harangue which related purely to personal matters, and
was unworthy of notice, but asked the attention of his hearers
for a few moments, while he analyzed the platform of his party.
Briefly he stated the issues dividing the people of the State;
warned the opposition of the probable results of their policy,
if triumphant; and, with resistless eloquence, pleaded for a firm
maintenance of the principles of his own party. He was, he
averred, no alarmist, but he proclaimed that the people slept
upon the thin, heaving crust of a voleano, which would inevi-
228 MACARIA,

tably soon burst forth; and the period was rapidly approaching
when the Southern States, unless united and on the alert, would
lie bound at the feet of an insolent and rapacious Northern
faction. He demanded that, through the legislatures, the States
should appeal to Congress for certain restrictions and guaran-
tees, which, if denied, would justify extreme measures on the
part of the people. The man’s marvelous magnetism was never
more triumphantly attested; the mass, who had listened in
profound silence to every syllable which had passed his lips,
now vented their enthusiasm in prolonged and vociferous ap-
plause, and vehement cries of “Go on! go on!” The entire
absence of stereotyped rhodomontade rendered his words
peculiarly impressive, as he gave them utterance with no visible
token of enthusiasm. He did not lash the passions of the popu-
lace into a passing frenzy, but effectually stirred the great deep
of sober feeling and sound senses. With his graceful delivery,
and polish, sparkling diction, he stood, as it were, on some lofty,
cool pedestal, and pointed unerringly to coming events, whose
shadows had not yet reached them, of which they had not
dreamed before, and it was not wonderful that the handsome
young speaker became an idol to be worshiped afar off.

As he descended the steps and disappeared amid the shouts
of the crowd, Judge Harris turned to Mr. Huntingdon and said,
with ill-concealed annoyance:

“You have lost your election by your confounded impru-
dence.”

“That remains to be seen, sir,” was the petulant rejoinder.

“Tt is a foregone conclusion,” muttered Dr. Arnold, button-
ing his overcoat, and looking around for his cane.

“T have sworn a solemn oath that I will trample the upstart
out of existence, at least politically!”

“ As well try to trample out the stars yonder! Your speech
ruined you, I am afraid.”

The judge walked off, pondering a heavy bet ehidh he had
relative to the result.

By sunrise on the day of the election the roads leading to
town were crowded with voters making their way to the polls.
The drinking saloons were full to overflowing; the sidewalks
thronged with reeling groups as the day advanced. Because
the Huntingdon side bribed freely, the Aubrey partisans felt
that they must, from necessity, follow the disgraceful prece-
dent. Not a lady showed her face upon the street; drinking,
MACARIA, 229

wrangling, fighting was the order of the day. Windows were
smashed, buggies overturned, and the police exercised to the
utmost. Accompanied by a few friends, Mr. Huntingdon rode
from poll to poll, encouraging his supporters, and drawing
heavily upon his purse, while Russell remained quietly in his
office, well assured of the result. At five o’clock, when the
town polls closed, Russell’s votes showed a majority of two hun-
dred and forty-four. Couriers came in constantly from coun-
try precincts, with equally favorable reports, and at ten o’clock
it was ascertained, beyond doubt, that he was elected. Irene
and her uncle drove down to learn the truth, and, not knowing
where to find Mr. Huntingdon, stopped the carriage at a corner
of the main street, and waited a few moments. Very soon a
rocket whizzed through the air, a band of music struck up be-
fore Russell’s office, and a number of his adherents insisted that
he should show himself on the balcony. A crowd immedi-
ately collected opposite, cheering the successful candidate and
calling for a speech. He came out, and in a few happy, dig-
nified words, thanked them for the honor conferred, and pledged
himself to guard most faithfully the interests committed to his
keeping. After the noisy constituents had retired, he stood
talking to some friends, when he chanced to recognize the fiery
horses across the street. The carriage-top was thrown back,
and by the neighboring gaslight he saw Irene’s white face
turned toward him, then the horses sprang off. Mr. Campbell
noticed, without understanding, the sudden start, and bitter
though triumphant smile that crossed his face in the midst of
pleasant gratulations. ‘

“Go home, Andrew. I know now what I came to learn.”

Irene sat back and folded her mantle closer around her.

“Ts master elected?”

“No.”

“Your father’s speech last week was most unfortunate in
every respect,” said her uncle, who felt indignant and morti-
fied at the course pursued by his brother-in-law.

“We will not discuss it, if you please, Uncle Eric, as it is
entirely unless now.”

“Don’t you think that Aubrey deserves to succeed?”

“c Yes.”

Her dreary tone disconcerted him, and he offered no further
comment, little suspecting that her hands were pressed hard
against her heart, and that her voiceless sorrow was: “ Hence-
230 MACARIA.

forth we must be still more estranged; a wider gulf, from this
night divides us.”

The din, the tumult of the day, had hushed itself, and deep
silence brooded over the sleeping town, when, by the light of
the newly-risen moon, Russell leaned upon the little gate and
gazed on the neglected cottage overgrown with vines and
crumbling to ruin. <A sweet, resigned face smiled at him once
more from the clustering tendrils that festooned the broken
window, where, in other years, his mother had been wont to
sit at work, watching for his return; and, in this hour of his
first triumph, as he sought the hallowed spot, and thought of
her long martyrdom, recollection rolled its troubled waves over
his throbbing, exultant heart, until the proud head drooped on
the folded arms, and tears fell upon the moldering gate.

“Oh, mother! mother! if you could have lived to see this
day—to share my victory!”

“© Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces! ”

CHAPTER XXII.

The icy breath of winter, the mild, wandering airs of spring,
the luxurious laissez-nous-faire murmurs of summer, and the
solemn moan of autumn, had followed each other in rapid suc-
cession. Two years rolled on, stained with the tears of many,
ringing with the songs and laughter of a fortunate few. The
paths of some had widened into sunny pastures, flower-starred,
Cridavana meadows; others had grown narrower still, choked
with the debris of dead hopes, which the tide of time drifted
from the far-off, glittering peaks of early aspirations. The
witchery of Southern spring again enveloped W. , and Irene
stood on the lawn surveying the “greenery of the out-door
world” that surrounded her. Peach and plum orchards on the
slope of a neighboring hill wore their festal robes of promise,
and as the loitering breeze stole down the valley, they show-
ered rosy, perfumed shells, tiny avant couriers of abundant
fruitage. The air was spiced with the delicate distillations
from a thousand flowery laboratories, stately magnolias rustled

 
MACARIA, 231

their polished, shimmering leaves; long-haired acacias trailed
their fringy shadows over the young, wavering grass-blades,
and, far above the soft green wilderness of tangled willows,
regal pines spread out their wind-harps, glittering’ in the sun-
shine like spicule of silver. A delicious languor brooded in the
atmosphere, the distant, narrow valleys were full of purple
haze; beyond and above the town, that nestled so peacefully
along the river banks, the marble fingers of the cemetery
gleamed white and cold; and afar off, and over all, was heard
the measured music of factory bells, chanting a hymn to sacred
and eternal Labor. With her brown straw hat in one hand and
a willow basket filled with flowers in the other, Irene leaned
against the glossy trunk of an ancient wild-cherry tree, and
looked in dreamy abstraction down the long, shadowy vista of
venerable elms. Paragon lay panting on the grass at her feet,
now and then snapping playfully at the tame pigeons that had
followed their mistress out upon the lawn, fluttering and coo-
ing continually around her; and a few yards off a golden pheas-
ant and two peacocks sunned their gorgeous plumage on the
smoothly-cut Bee

«. . . Some faces show
The last act of a tragedy in their regard,
Though the-first scenes be wanting.”

And in this woman’s sad but intensely calm countenance a
joyless life found silent history. The pale forehead bore not
a single line, the quiet mouth no ripple marks traced by rolling
years; but the imperial eyes, coldly blue as the lonely ice-girt
Marjelen-See, revealed, in their melancholy crystal depths, the
dreary isolation of soul with which she had been cursed from
infancy. Her face was an ivory tablet inscribed with hiero-
glyphics which no social, friendly Champollion had yet de-
ciphered. Satiated with universal homage, weary of the
frivolity of the gay circle surrounding her, and debarred from
all hope of affectionate, sympathetic intercourse with her
father, her real life was apart from the world in which report
said that she ruled supreme. She wandered in the primeval
temples of nature, and ministered, a solitary priestess, at the
silent, blazing shrine of Astronomy. The soft folds of her
white muslin dress stirred now and then, and the blue ribbons
that looped back her braided hair fluttered like mimic pennons
in the breeze; but the clematis bells which clustered around her
x

232 MACARIA.

cameo pin were unshaken by the slow pulsations of her sad
heart. She felt that her life was passing rapidly, unimproved
and aimless; she knew that her years, instead of being fragrant
with the mellow fruitage of good deeds, were tedious and joy-
less, and that the gaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing
upon her. The elasticity of spirits, the buoyancy of youth had
given place to a species of stoical, mute apathy; a mental and
moral paralysis was stealing over her.

The slamming of the ponderous iron gate attracted her at-
tention, and she saw a carriage ascending the avenue. As it
reached a point opposite to the spot where she stood it halted,
the door was thrown open, and a gentleman stepped out and
approached her. The form was not familiar, and the straw
hat partially veiled the features, but he paused before her, and
said, with a genial smile:

“Don’t you know me?”

“Oh, Harvey! My brother! My great guardian angel!”

A glad light kindled in her face, and she stretched out her
hands with the eagerness of a delighted child. Time had
pressed heavily upon him; wrinkles were conspicuous about the
corners of his eyes and mouth, and the black hair had become a
steely gray. He was not

‘‘ A little sunburnt by the glare of life,”

but weather-beaten by its storms; and, in lieu of the idiosyn-
cratic placidity of former days, a certain restlessness of expres-
sion betokened internal disquiet. Holding her hands, he drew
her nearer to him, scrutinizing her features, and a look of sor-
row crossed his own as he said, almost inaudibly:

“JT feared as much! I feared as much! The shadow has
spread.”

“You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you promised to write
and failed. I sent you one letter, but it was never answered.”

“Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never received it, be-
lieve me. True, I expected to write to you frequently when I
parted from you, but subsequently determined that it would be
best not todo so. Attribute my silence, however, to every other
cause than want of remembrance.”

“Your letters would have been a great stay and comfort to
me.”

“Precisely for that reason I sent none. I knew that you
must rely upon yourself; that I could not properly judge of the
MACARIA, 2338

.eireumstances which surrounded and influenced you. One, at

least, of my promises has been faithfully fulfilled; I have
‘prayed for you as often as for myself in all these years of
separation.”

“God only knows how I have wanted, how I have needed you,
to guide and strengthen me.”

She raised the two hands that still held hers and bowed her
forehead upon them.

“You had a better friend, dear child, always near you, who
would have given you surer guidance and borne all your bur-
dens. What I most dreaded has come to pass. You have for-
gotten your God.”

“No! indeed, no! but He has forsaken me.”

“Come and sit down here, and tell me what the trouble is.”

He led her to a circular seat surrounding a venerable oak,
and placed himself where he could command a full view of her
face.

“Mr. Young, you must have had a hard life out West; you
have grown old so fast since I saw you. But you have been
doing good, and that is sufficient recompense.”

“T have, of course, endured some hardships inseparable from
such a long sojourn on the frontier, but my labors have been so
successful that I forget everything in my great reward. Many
a fair June day I have wished that you could see my congre-
gation, as we stood up to sing in the cool, shady grove of beech
or hackberry, offering our orisons in ‘ God’s first temples.’ No
brick and mortar walls, but pavements of God’s own living
green, and dome of blue, and choir of sinless, consecrated birds.
My little log cabin in the far West is very dear to me, for
around it cluster some of the most precious reminiscences of
my life. The greatest of my unsatisfied wants was that of con-
genial companionship. I betook myself to gardening in self-
defense, and finer annuals you never saw than those which I
raised on my hillside. My borders I made of mignonette, and
the rusty front of my cabin I draped with beautiful festoons
of convolvulus. My hermitage was pleasant enough, though
humble indeed.”

“Tell me the secret of your quiet contentment. By what
spell do you evoke the atmosphere of happy serenity that con-
stantly surrounds you?”

“Tt is neither occult nor cabalistic; you will find it contained
in the few words of Paul: ‘ Be ye steadfast, unmoyable, always
234 MACARIA,

abounding in the work of the Lord; forasmuch as ye know that
your labor is not in vain in the Lord.’ There is nothing recon-
dite in this injunction; all may comprehend and practice it.”

“Tt may seem so to you, who dispense peace and blessings
wherever you move; but to me, alone and useless, cut off from
all such labor, it might as well be locked up in Parsee. I
thought once that God created every human being for some par-
ticular work—some special mission. That, in order that the
vast social machinery of the world might move harmoniously,
each had his or her allotted duties in accordance with the great
fundamental law of economy—‘ division of labor.’ But, like
many other youthful theories, I have been compelled to part
with! this, also.”

“Rather hold fast to it, for the precious truth it is. Do you
not find, on reflection, that the disarrangement, the confusion
in this same social mill proves that some of the human cogs are
broken, or out of place, or not: rendering their part? I am
older than you, and have traveled farther, and I have yet to see
the New Atlantis, where every member of society discharges
fully the duties assigned.

‘** T might say, in a world full of lips that lack bread,
And of souls that lack light, there are mouths to be fed,
There are wounds to be healed, there is work to be done,
And life can withhold love and duty from none!’

“Trene, ‘Why stand ye here all the day idle?’ Why wait
afar off to gleam, when you should be a busy reaper in God’s
whitening harvest fields? closing your ears to the eager cry,
‘The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few!’”

A wintry smile flitted over her lips and she shook her head.

“ Ah, sir! long ago I marked out a different programme, but
my hands are tied. I am led along another path; I can do
nothing now.”

“You owe allegiance first to your Maker. What stands be-
tween you and your work? Irene, tell me, what is this dark
cloud that shuts out sunshine from your heart and throws such
a chill shadow over your face?”

He drew down the hand with which she shaded her eyes, and
bent his head till the gray locks touched her cheek. She did
not shrink away, but looked at him steadily, and answered:

“Tt is a cloud that enveloped me from the hour of my birth,
and grows denser each year; I can neither escape from nor dis-
MACARIA, 235

sipate it. It will not break in storms and clear away; but, per-
chance, as I go down to my tomb the silver lining may show
itself. The sun was eclipsed when I first opened my eyes in
this world, and my future was faithfully adumbrated. I am
not superstitious, but I cannot be blind to the striking analogy
—the somber symbolism.”

His grave face was painfully convulsed as he listened to her,
and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from draw-
ing the head to his shoulder and revealing all the depth and
strength of love which had so long ruled his heart and sad-
dened his life. But he merely inclosed her hand in both his
with a gentle pressure, and said:

“Carry out your metaphor, and at least you must admit that,
though the sun was eclipsed, stars came out to light you.”

“But, at best, one shivers and gropes through the cold light
of stars, and mine have all set in a clouded sky. You only are
left to me; you shine on me still, undimmed, all the brighter
for my gloom. Oh! if I could have you always. But as well
stretch out my hands to clutch the moon.”

He started, and looked at her wistfully, but the utter passion-
lessness of her face and manner showed him all too plainly the
nature of her feelings and her ignorance of his own.

“Trene, you deal in similes and vague generalities. Has
absence shaken your confidence in me? Be frank; tell me what
this haunting trouble is, and let me help you to exorcise it.”

“You cannot. All the Teraphim of the East would not avail.
Let it suffice that, many years since, I displeased my father in
a trifling matter; and, as I grew older, my views and wishes
conflicted with his. I disappointed a darling plan which he
had long cherished, and we are estranged. We live here, father
and daughter, in luxury; we give and go to parties and dinners;
before the world we keep up the semblance of affection and
good feeling; but he cannot, will not, forgive me. I have
ceased to ask or to expect it; the only possible condition of
reconciliation is one to which I can never consent; and, for
more than two years, he has scarcely spoken to me except when
compelled to do so. I pass my days in a monotonous round,
wishing for to-morrow, and my nights yonder, among the stars.
I have little money to dispense in charity; I dress richly, but
the materials are selected by my father, who will have my
clothing of the costliest fabrics, to suit his elegant and fas-
tidious taste. Though an only child, and presumptive heiress
236 MACARIA.

of one of the finest estates in the South, I have not a dime in
the world which I can call my own, except a small sum which
he voluntarily allows me per annum. Mark you, I do not com-
plain of my father—for, in the twinkling of an eye, I could
change this unnatural position of affairs in my home; I only
mention some stern facts to prove to you that my hands are
tied. It was once the fondest desire of my life to expend the
fortune that I supposed belonged to me in alleviating suffering
and want, and making people happy around me; but, like other
dewy sparkles of childhood, this hope vanished as the heat and
strife of life overtook me.”

She spoke in a low, measured tone, unshaken by emotion,
and the expression of dreary abstraction showed that she had
long accustomed herself to this contemplation of her lot. The
minister was deeply moved as he watched her beautiful, calm
features, so hushed in their joylessness, and he passed his
hand across his eyes to wipe away the moisture that so unwont-
edly dimmed them. He pressed her fingers to his lips and said
encouragingly :

‘** Lift thyself up! oh, thou of saddened face!
Cease from thy sighing, draw from out thy heart
The joyful light of faith.”

“You asked me once to be your brother; my dear child, let
me prove myself such now; let me say that, perhaps, it is your
duty to yield obedience to your father’s wishes, since this de-
plorable alienation results from your refusal. You never can
be happy, standing in this unnatural relation to an only parent.
Because it is painful, and involves a sacrifice on your part,
should you consider it any the less your duty? Has he not a
right to expect that his wishes should guide you?”

She rose instantly, and, withdrawing her hands, folded them
together, and replied, with an indescribable mingling of
hauteur and sorrow:

“Has he a right to give my hand to a man whom I do not
love? Has he a right to drag me to the altar, and force me to
swear to ‘love and honor’ one whom J cannot even respect?
Could you stand by and see vour father doom your sister to
such a miserable fate? I would consent to die for my father
to-morrow, if thereby I might make him happy; but I cannot
endure to live and bring upon myself the curse of a loveless
marriage; and God is my witness, I never will!”
MACARIAs 287

Her eyes gleamed like blue steel, and the stern, gem-like
features vividly reminded him of a medal of the noble Medusa
which he had frequently examined and admired while in Rome.
In that brief flash he saw, with astonishment, that beneath the
studiedly calm exterior lay an iron will and a rigidness of pur-
pose which he had never conjectured belonging to her char-
acter.

“Forgive me, Irene; I retract my words. Ignorant of the
nature of the demand, I should not have presumed to counsel
you. Keep true to the instincts of your own heart, and you
will never go far astray in the path of duty. May God bless
and comfort you! Other friends can lend you no assistance
in these peculiar circumstances.”

He could not trust himself to say more, for feelings too
painful for utterance stirred the depths of his soul.

For some moments silence reigned; then, standing before
him, Irene said, with touching pathos:

“My friend, I am so desolate! so lonely! I am drifting down
the current of life aimless, hopeless, useless! What shall I do
with my future? I believe I am slowly petrifying; I neither
suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelings are deadened; I am
growing callous, indifferent to everything. I am fast losing
sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed up in self,
oblivious of noble aims. I am cut off from companionship;
have no friend, save an uncle, to whom I could put out my hand
for support. People talk of the desolation of Western wilds
and Eastern deserts; but, oh! God knows there is no isolation
comparable to that of a woman who walks daily through halls
of wealth and gay salons, knowing that no human being under-
stands or truly sympathizes with her. My prophet! as you long
ago foretold, I am ‘treading the wine-press alone.’ Once more
I ask you, what shall I do with my life?”

“Give it to God.”

“ Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in necessity. He will
not accept the worthless thing thrown at His feet as a dernier
ressort. Once it was my choice, but the pure, clear-eyed faith
of my childhood shook hands with me when you left me in New
York.”

For a short while he struggled with himself, striving to over-
come the unconquerable impulse which suddenly prompted him,
and his face grew pallid as hers as he walked hastily across the
smooth grass and came back to her. Her countenance was
238 MACARIA.

lifted toward the neighboring hill, her thoughts evidently far
away when he paused before her, and said unsteadily:

“Trene, my beloved! give yourself to me. Go with me into
God’s vineyard; let us work together, and consecrate our lives
to His service.”

The mesmeric eyes gazed into his, full of wonder, and the
rich, ruby tint fled from her lips as she pondered his words in
unfeigned astonishment, and, shaking her regal head, answered
slowly:

“Harvey, I am not worthy. I want your counsel, not your
pity.”

“Pity! You mistake me. If you have been ignorant so long,
know now that I have loved you from the evening you first sat
in my study looking over my foreign sketches. You were then
a child, but I was a man, and I knew all that you had so sud-
denly become to me. Because of this great disparity in years,
and because I dared not hope that one so tenderly nurtured
could ever brave the hardships of my projected life, I deter-
mined to quit New York earlier than I had anticipated, and to
bury a foolish memory in the trackless forests of the far West.
I ought to have known the fallacy of my expectation; I have
proved it since. Your face followed me; your eyes met mine
at every turn; your glittering hair swept on every breeze that
touched my cheek. I battled with the image, but it would not
avail; I resolved not to write to you, but found that the dearest
part of my letters from home consisted of the casual allusions
which they contained to you. Then came tidings from Louisa
that you were probably married—had long been engaged to
your cousin; and, though it wrung my heart to think of you as
the wife of another, I schooled myself to hope that, for your
sake, it might be true. But years passed; no confirmation
reached me; and the yearning to look on vour dear face once
more took possession of me. My mother wrote, urging me to
visit her this summer, and I came out of my way to hear of and
to see you. The world sneers at the possibility of such a love
as mine, and I doubt not that it is very rare among men; but,
through all the dreary separation, I have thought of you as con-
stantly and fondly and tenderly as when I first met you in my
father’s house. Irene, you are young, and singularly beautiful,
and I am a gray-haired man, much, much older than yourself;
but, if you live a thousand years, you will never find such affec-
tion as I offer you now. There is nothing on earth which would
MACARIA. 239

make me so happy as the possession of your love. You are the
only woman I have ever seen whom I even wished to call my
wife—the only woman who, I felt, could lend new charm to life,
and make my quiet hearth happier by her presence. Irene, will
you share my future? Can you give me what I ask?”

The temptation was powerful—-the future he held out entic-
ing indeed. The strong, holy, manly love, the noble heart and
head to guide her, the firm, tender hand to support her, the
constant, congenial and delightful companionship—all this
passed swiftly through her mind; but, crushing all in its grasp,
came the memory of one whom she rarely met, but who held
undisputed sway over her proud heart.

Drawing close to the minister, she laid her hands on his
shoulder, and, looking reverently up into his fine face, said, in
her peculiarly sweet, clear voice:

“The knowledge of your priceless, unmerited love makes me
proud beyond degree; but I would not mock you by the miser-
able and only return I could make you—the affection of a de-
voted sister. I would gladly, thankfully go with you to your
Western home, and redeem my past by my future—but, as your
wife, I could not; and, without the protection of your honored
name, it would not be permitted me to accompany you. I look
up to you as to no other human being; I revere and love you,
Harvey; and, oh! I wish that I could pass my life at your side,
cheered by your smile, doing some good in the world. That I
do not love you as you wish is my great misfortune; for I ap-
preciate most fully the noble privilege you have offered me. I
do not say what I earnestly wish could happen, that you will
find someone else who can make you happy, because I feel that
no woman whom I have ever met is worthy of being your wife.
But I trust that the pain I may give you now will soon pass
away, and that, in time, you will forget one who is utterly un-
deserving of the honor you have conferred on her to-day. Oh,
Harvey! do not, I beg of you, let one thought of me ever dis-
quiet your noble, generous heart.”

A shiver crept over her still face, and she drooped her pale
forehead. She felt two tears fall upon her hair, and in silence
he bent down and kissed her softly, tenderly, as one kisses a
sleeping babe.

“Oh, Harvey! do not let it grieve you, dear friend!”

He smiled sadly, as if not daring to trust himself in words;
then, after a moment, laying his hands upon her head, in the
240 MACARIA.

baptism of a deathless love, he gently and solemnly blessed her,
When his fingers were removed she raised her eyes, but he had
gone; she saw only the retreating form through the green
arches of the grand old avenue.

“ Unlike are we, unlike, O princely heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. . .
The chrism is on thine head—on mine the dew,
And death must dig the level where these agree.”

CHAPTER XXIii.

Says D’Alembert: “The industry of men is now so far ex-
hausted in canvassing for places that none is left for fulfilling
the duties of them” ; and the history of our government fur-
nishes a melancholy parallel. The regular quadrennial storm
had swept over the nation; caucuses had been held and plat-
forms fiercely fought for, to be kicked away, plank by plank,
when they no longer served as seaffolding by which to climb to
office. Buchanan was elected, but destined to exemplify, dur-
ing his administration, the truth of Tacitus’ words: “He was
regarded as greater than a private man whilst he remained in
privacy, and would have been deemed worthy of governing if
he had never governed.” The heat of the canvass cooled, people
settled down once more to a condition of lethargic indifference
—bought and sold, sowed and reaped, as usual-—little realizing
that the temporary lull, the perfect calm, was treacherous as
the glassy green expanse of waters, which, it is said, sometimes
covers the location of the all-destroying maelstrom of Moskoe.
Having taken an active and prominent part in the presidential
campaign, and made frequent speeches, Russell found himself
again opposed by Mr. Huntingdon, who was equally indefati-
gable during the exciting contest. The old feud received, if
possible, additional acrimony, and there were no bounds to the
maledictions heaped upon the young and imperturbable legis-
lator by his virulent antagonist. Many predicted a duel or a
street encounter; but weeks passed, and though, in casual meet-
ings, Mr. Huntingdon’s glare of hate was always answered by
a mocking smile of cold disdain, the cloud floated off without
breaking into bloody showers.
MACARIA, 941

Mr. Mitchell’s health had failed so rapidly, as winter ap-
proached, that Dr. Arnold persuaded him to try the efficacy
of a sea-voyage, and he had accordingly sailed from New
Orleans in a vessel bound for Genoa. Irene begged the privi-
lege of accompanying him, but her father peremptorily refused;
and she saw her uncle depart, and superintended the closing of
his house, with silent sorrow, and the feeling of one who knows
that the night is deepening around her. In the course of the
political cataclysm much chaff came to the surface, and whirled
along with portentous alacrity; gossip seemed to have received
a new impetus, and among the most important on dits was that
of Irene’s speedy marriage to her cousin. Hundred-tongued
rumor was busy, too, with the mysterious fact that Russell had
placed a handsome iron railing around the humble home of his
boyhood; had removed the little, three-roomed, crumbling dwell-
ing, and planted shade trees. Much curiosity was excited, and
the only plausible solution at which the kindly inquiring public
arrived was that he intended to marry somebody. But whom?
He occasionally visited at Judge Harris’ and Mr. Henderson’s,
and as he had been seen last at the house of the former, by a
species of not very abstruse ratiocination it was finally decided
and promulgated as a social edict that the talented young
lawyer would soon claim Grace’s hand at the altar. In less
than, twenty-four hours all of fashionable W had discussed
the young lady’s brilliant future, and were ready to proffer
their congratulations to the ambitious man, who was utterly
unconscious of the commotion which his individual plans and
actions had induced. This insatiable mania for obtaining in-
formation about other people’s affairs and purposes, this ridicu-
lous and contemptible tittle-tattle, this news-mongering,
scandal-peddling proclivity, characteristic of cities, towns, vil-
lages and even country neighborhoods, should certainly have
been included by the Massachusetts seer in his catalogue of
“social inflictions which themagistratecannot secure or defend
you from, and which must be intrusted to the restraining force
of custom, and proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior im-
pressed on young people in their school days” ; and I trust I
may be allowed the additional suggestion, “by mothers around
the hearthstone.” But, unfortunately, the admirable adage,
“i faut attendre le boiteux” finds no acceptation in le beau
monde.

Late in the afternoon of Christmas day Irene went into the

 
949 MACARIA.

greenhouse to gather a bouquet for an invalid friend in town,
and had almost accomplished her errand when the crash and
whirl of wheels drew her to the window that looked out on the
lawn. Her father had gone to the plantation early that morn-
ing, and she had scarcely time to conjecture whom the visitor
would prove, when Hugh’s loud voice rang through the house,
and, soon after, he came clattering in, with the end of his parita-
loons.tucked into his boots and his whip trailing along in true
boyish fashion. As he threw down his hat, scattering the
petals of a snowy camellia, and drew near his cousin, she saw
that his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes somewhat
bloodshot. :

“Hugh! what are you doing here? Father expected you to
overtake him at Crescent Bend; you said last night that you
would start by five o’clock.”

“Merry Christmas, my beauty! JI have come for my Christ-
mas gift. Give it to me, like the queen you are.” .

He stooped as if to kiss her, but she shrank back instantly,
and said gravely:

“You ought not to make promises which you have no idea
of keeping; father will be annoyed, and wonder very much what
has happened. He was anxious that you should go with him.”

“Oh! confound the plantation! I wish it would sink! Of
all other days none but Christmas will suit him to tramp down
there through mud and mire. The fact is, I did not go to
sleep till four o’clock, and nobody ought to be unchristian
enough to expect me to wake up in an hour. You may be
quiet, though, for I am on my way now to that paradise of black
mud. I only stopped to get a glimpse of you, my Sappho! my
Corinna! so don’t homilize, I pray you.”

“Better wait till daylight, Hugh; you know the state of the
roads and condition of the bridges. It will be safer, and an
economy of time, to defer it till morning, since you have made
it so late.”

“No; I must go to-night, for I have an engagement to ride
with Maria Henderson, and I can’t get back in time if I wait
till to-morrow morning. J want to start back day after to-
morrow. As for time, Wildfire will make it the better for the
darkness; he is as much afraid of night and shadows as if he
had a conscience, and had maltreated it, master-like. I shall
convince him that all Tam o’Shanter’s witches are in full pur-
suit, and his matchless heels his only salvation.”
MACARIA. 243

A shade of apprehension settled on her face, and, placing the
pouquet in a basket, she turned to her cousin, saying:

“Tndeed, you cannct be insane enough to drive that horse
such a night as this weather threatens. If go you will, in the
face of a coming rain, leave Wildfire here, and drive one of the
carriage horses instead. I shall be uneasy if you start with
that vicious, unmanageable incarnation of lightning. Let me
ring the bell and direct Andrew to make the change.”

She stepped into the parlor adjoining and laid her fingers on
the bell-cord, but he snatched up the hand and kissed it several
times.

“No! Tll be hanged if I don’t drive my own pearl of Arabia!
I can manage him well enough; and, besides, what do you care
whether he breaks my neck or not? Without compunction you
broke my heart, which is much the greater catastrophe.”

“Come into the library; you don’t know what you are saying.”

She drew him into the room, where a warm fire burned cheer-
fully, and made him sit down.

“Where did you go last night when you left here? Tell me.”

“To Harry Neal’s; a party of us were invited there to drink
eggnog, and, of course, found something stronger afterward.
Then we had a game or so of poker, and—the grand finale is
that I have had a deuced headache all day. Ah, my sweet saint!
how shocked you are, to be sure! Now, don’t lecture, or I shall
be off like a flash.”

Without answering, she rang the bell and quietly looped back
the heavy crimson curtains.

“What is that for? Have you sent for John or old Nellie to
carry me upstairs, like other bad boys sent to bed in disgrace,
without even the cold comfort of supper?”

“Hush, Hugh! hush.”

Turning to John, who opened the door and looked in, she
said:

“Tell William to make some strong coffee as soon as possible.
Mas’ Hugh has a headache and wants some before he leaves.”

“Thank you, my angel! my unapproachable Peri! Ugh!
how cold it is. Pardon me, but I really must warm my
feet.

He threw them carelessly on the fender of the grate.

“Shall I get you a pair of slippers?”

“Could not afford the luxury; positively have not the time te
indulge myself.”
944 MACARIA,

With a prolonged yawn he laid his head back and closed his
eyes. An expression of disgust was discernible in his com-
panion’s countenance, but it passed like the shadow of a sum-
mer cloud, and she sat down at the opposite side of the fireplace,
with her eyes bent upon the hearth, and the long, silky lashes
sweeping her cheeks. A silence of some minutes ensued; finally
Hugh rapped startlingly on his boot with the ivory handle of
his whip, and exclaimed:

“ A Quaker meeting is no part of my programme! What the
mischief are you thinking about?—looking as solemn as an
archbishop in canonicals!”

“Do you really want to know what I am thinking of?”

“Of course I do, if it is not something as supernal and far
off as the stars, which you have taken under your special pro-
tection and patronage.”

“T was thinking of a passage which I read yesterday, and
wishing that it could be framed and hung up in every dwelling.
Emerson says: ‘Goethe said well, “nobody should be rich but
those who understand it.” They should own who can admin-
ister, not they who hoard and conceal; not they who, the greater
proprietors they, are only the greater beggars; but they whose
work carves out work for more, opens a path for all. For he is
the rich man in whom the people are rich, and he is the poor
man in whom the people are poor; and how to give all access
to the masterpieces of art and nature is the problem of civiliza-
tion!’ Weighed in this balance, how many of our millionaires,
think you, would find Belshazzar’s warning traced on their
walls?”

“ All of which, I suppose, I am to interpret into a polite cir-
eumlocutory way of telling me that I am a worthless spend-
thrift, squandering away a fortune which J don’t deserve, and a
disgrace to my fair cousinly Lady Bountiful? When do you
contemplate mounting a pedestal, marble image that you are,
folding those incomparable hands of yours, and encouraging
idolatry? I promise you J shall fall down and worship most
irreproachably. But seriously, Irene, if you do not admire my
style of living, why don’t you take me in hand, as is your privi-
lege, and make me a model of strait-laced propriety?”

“You might, with very great advantage to yourself, take a
little common sense in hand. Of course, Hugh, you are your
own master, but it frequently pains me to see you throwing
away your life and privileges so recklessly. You might do a

—_
MACARIA, 245

vast amount of good with your money, if you felt disposed to
employ it benevolently and judiciously.”

“Well, whose fault is it? I offered to make you my banker
and let you dispense charities for both of us, and you snatched
back your dainty fingers in haughty refusal. If I play Prodigal
to the end of the chapter, you are responsible for it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I am no scapegoat for any of
your shortcomings. Shoulder your own peccadilloes, please.
But here comes your coffee. Put the waiter on the table, John,
and tell Andrew to take Mas’ Hugh’s buggy.”

“Do nothing of the kind! but send somebody to open that
everlasting gate, which would not have disgraced ancient
Thebes. Are you classical, John? Be off, and see about it; I
must start in five minutes.”

“Hugh, be reasonable for once in your life; you are not in
a proper condition to drive that horse. For my sake, at least,
be persuaded to wait till morning. Will you not remain, to
oblige me?”

“Oh, hang my condition! I tell you I must and I will go, if
all the stars fall, and judgment day overtakes me on the road.
What splendid coffee you always have! The most fastidious
of bashaws could not find it in his Moorish heart to complain.”

He put on his hat, buttoned his costly fur coat, and, flourish-
ing his whip, came close to his cousin.

“Good-by, Beauty. I hate to leave you; upon my word I do;
but duty before pleasure, my heavenly-eyed monitress. J have
not had my Christmas present yet, and have it I will.”

“On one condition, Hugh; that you drive cautiously and
moderately, instead of thundering down hills and over bridges
like some express train behind time. Will you promise?”

“To be sure I will! everything in the world; and am ready
to swear it, if you are skeptical.”

“Well, then, good-by, Hugh, and take care of yourself,’

She allowed him to press his hot lips to hers, and, accom-
panying him to the door, saw him jump into the frail, open-
topped buggy. Wildfire plunged and sprang off in his usual
style, and, with a crack of the whip and wave of his hat, Hugh
was fairly started.

Seven hours later Irene sat alone at the library table, ab-
sorbed in writing an article on Laplace’s Nebular Theory for a
scientific journal to which she occasionally contributed over the
signature of “Saban.” Several books, with close “mar-
246 MACARIA,

ginalia,” were scattered around, and the “ Mécanique Céleste”
and a volume of “ Cosmos” lay open before her. The servants
had gone to rest; the house was very still, the silence unbroken
save by the moan of the wind and the melancholy tapping of
the poplar branches against the outside. The sky was black,
gloomy as Malbolge, and instead of a hard, pattering rain, a
fine cold mist drizzled noiselessly down the panes. Rapt in her
work, Irene wrote on rapidly until the clock struck twelve. She
counted the strokes, saw that there remained but one page un-
copied, and concluded to finish the MS. At last she affixed her
nom de plume, numbered the pages, and folded the whole for
transmission. The fire was still bright; and, with no inclination
to go to sleep, she replaced the books on their respective shelves,
turned up the wick of the lamp, and sat down close to the grate
to warm her stiffened fingers. Gradually her thoughts wandered
from the completed task to other themes of scarcely less inter-
est. The week previous she had accompanied Hugh to an oper-
atic concert given by the Parodi troupe, and had been aston-
ished to find Russell seated on the bench in front of her. He so
rarely showed himself on such occasions that his appearance
elicited some comment. They had met frequently since the
evening at Mr. Mitchell’s, but he pertinaciously avoided ‘¥ecog-
nizing her; and, on this particular night, though he came dur-
ing an interlude to speak to Grace Harris, who sat on the same
row of seats with Irene, he never once directed his eyes toward
the latter. This studied neglect, she felt assured, was not the
result of the bitter animosity existing between her father and
himself; and though it puzzled her for a while she began
finally to suspect the true nature of his feelings, and
with woman’s rarely erring instinct, laid her finger on
the real motive which prompted him. The report of his
engagement to Grace had reached her some days before,
and now it occurred to her mind like a haunting specter.
She did not believe for an instant that he was attached
to the pretty, joyous girl whom rumor gave him; but she
was well aware that he was ambitious of high social posi-
tion, and feared that he might possibly, from selfish, ignoble
reasons, seek am alliance with Judge Harris’ only daughter,
knowing that the family was one of the wealthiest and most
aristocratic in the State. She recollected, with unutterable
scorn, the frequent sneers at his blind mother, in which Grace,
Charlie, and even Mrs. Harris had indulged in the season of
MACARIA, 247

trial and adversity; and pondering all that she had silently en-
dured because of her sympathy with him and his mother, a feel-
ing of bitterness, heretofore unknown, rose in her heart. True,
impassable barriers divided them; but she could not endure the
thought of his wedding another—it tortured her beyond all ex-
pression. With a suffocating sensation she unfastened the
eameo pin that held her robe de chambre at the throat, and
threw back the collar. Taking out her comb, she shook down
her hair, gathered it up in her hands, and tossed it over the
back of her chair, whence it fell to the floor, coiling there in
glittering rings. Life had seemed dreary enough before; but,
with this apprehension added, it appeared insupportable, and
she was conscious of a degree of wretchedness never dreamed
of or realized heretofore. Not even a sigh escaped her; she
was one of a few women who permit no external evidences of
suffering, but lock it securely in their own proud hearts, and in
silence and loneliness go down into the “ ghoul-haunted,” dark-
ened chambers to brood over it, as did the Portuguese monarch
the moldering remains of his murdered wife. The painful
reverie might, perhaps, have lasted till the pallid dawn looked
in with tearful eyes at the window, but Paragon, who was sleep-
ing on the rug at her feet, started up and growled. She raised
her head and listened, but only the ticking of the clock was
audible and the wailing of the wind through the leafless poplars.
“Down, Paragon! hush, sir!”

"She patted his head soothingly, and he sank back a few
seconds in quiet, then sprang up with a loud bark. This time
she heard an indistinct sound of steps in the hall, and thought:
“Nellie sees my light through the window, and is coming to
coax me upstairs.” Something stumbled near the threshold, a
hand struck the knob as if hunting for it, the door opened
softly, and, muffled in his heavy cloak, holding his hat in one
hand, Russell Aubrey stood in the room. Neither spoke, but he
looked at her with such mournful earnestness, such eager yet
grieved compassion, that she read some terrible disaster in his
eyes. The years of estrangement, all that had passed since
their childhood, was forgotten; studied conventionalities fell
away at the sight of him standing there, for the first time, in
her home. She crossed the room with a quick, uncertain step,
and put out her hands toward him—vague, horrible apprehen-
sion blanching the beautiful lips which asked shiveringly:

“What is it, Russell? what is it?”
248 MACARIA.

He took the cold little hands tremblingly in his, and endeav-
ored to draw her back to the hearth, but she repeated:

“What has happened? Is it father, or Hugh?”

“Your father is well, I believe; I passed him on the road
yesterday. Sit down, Miss Huntingdon; you look pale and
faint.”

Her fingers closed tightly over his; he saw an ashen hue settle
on her face, and in an unnaturally calm, low tone, she asked:

“Ts Hugh dead? Oh, my God! why don’t you speak, Rus-
sell?”

“He did not suffer much; his death was too sudden.”

Her face had such a stony look that he would have passed
his arm around her, but could not disengage his hand; she
seemed to cling to it as if for strength.

“Won't you let me carry you to your room, or call a servant?
You are not able to stand.”

She neither heeded nor heard him.

“Was it that horse? or how was it?”

“ One of the bridges had been swept away by the freshet, and,
in trying to cross, he missed the ford. The horse must have
been frightened and unmanageable, the buggy was overturned
in the ereek, and your cousin, stunned by the fall, drowned in-
stantly. Life was just extinct when I reached him.”

Something like a moan escaped her, as she listened.

“Was anything done?” .

“We tried every means of resuscitation, but they were en®
tirely ineffectual.”

She relaxed her clasp of his fingers, and moved toward the
door.

“Where are you going, Miss Huntingdon? Indeed, you
must sit down.”

“Russell, you have brought him home; where is he?”

Without waiting for an answer, she walked down the hall and
paused suddenly at the sight of the still form resting on a gray
traveling blanket, with a lantern at its head, and an elderly
man, a stranger, sitting near, keeping watch. Russell came to
her side, and, drawing his arm around her, made her lean upon
him. He felt the long, lingering shudder which shook the ele-
gant, queenly figure; then she slipped down beside the rigid
sleeper and smoothed back from the fair brow the dripping,
curling auburn hair.

“Hugh, my cousin! my playmate! Snatched away in an
MACARIA, 249

hour from the life you loved so well. Ah! the curse of our
house has fallen upon you. It is but the beginning of the end.
Only two of us are left, and we, too, shall soon be caught up to
join you.”

She kissed the icy lips which a few hours ago had pressed
hers so warmly, and, rising, walked up and down the long hall.
Russell leaned against the wall, with his arms crossed over his
chest and his head bent low, waiting for her to speak again.
But, calm and tearless, she walked on and on, in profound
silence, till he grew restless at the strange sound of her
hair trailing along the oilcloth, and once more approached
her.

“ Are you entirely alone?”

“Yes, except the servants. Oh, Russell! how am I to break
this to my father? He loves that boy better than everything
else; infinitely better than he ever loved me. How shall I tell
him that Hugh is dead—dead?”

“A messenger has already gone to inform him of what has
happened, and this distressing task will not be yours. Herbert
Blackwell and I were riding together, on our return from
T , when we reached the ford where the disaster occurred.
Finding that all our efforts to resuscitate were useless, he
turned back and went to your father’s plantation to break the
ead truth to him.”

His soothing, tender tone touched some chord deep in her
strange nature, and unshed tears gathered for the first time in
her eyes.

“ As you have no friend near enough to call upon at present,
I will, if you desire it, wake the servants, remain, and do all
that is necessary until morning.”

“Tf you please, Russell; I shall thank you very much.”

As her glance fell upon her cousin’s gleaming face, her lip
fluttered, and she turned away and sat down on one of the sofas
in the parlor, dropping her face in her hands. A little while
after the light of a candle streamed in, and Russell came with
a cushion from the library lounge, and his warm cloak. He
wrapped the latter carefully about the drooping form, and would
have placed her head on the silken pillow, but she silently re-
sisted without looking up, and he left her. It was a vigil which
she never forgot; the slow hours crushed her as they rolled, the
very atmosphere seemed filled with the curse which brooded in-
exorably over the ancient house, and when, at last, the eastern

 
250 MACARIA,

sky blanched, and the wan forehead of the day lifted itself
sadly up, it seemed, indeed, as if—

“The dim red morn had died, her journey done,
And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,
Half-fallen across the threshold of the sun,

Never to rise ‘again.”

Shaking off her covering, Irene passed into the greenhouse
and broke clusters of jasmine and spicy geranium leaves, and,
thus engaged, her glance fell upon the dashed camellia petals
which Hugh had ruined so recklessly the previous evening.
They seemed fitting symbols, as they lay in withering heaps, of
the exuberant life so suddenly cut short—the gay, throbbing
heart so unexpectedly stilled.

“|. . Life struck sharp on death
Makes awful lightning.”

and she felt a keen pang at sight of his cambric handkerchief,
which had been dropped unconsciously between two branching
fuchsias. As she stooped and picked it up, his name stared at
her, and the soft folds gave out the powerful breath of berga-
mot, of which he was particularly fond. She turned away from
the wealth of beauty that mocked her sorrow, and walked on to
the library.

The fire had died out entirely, the curtains were drawn back
to let in the day, on the library table the startling glare of white
linen showed the outlines of the cold young sleeper, and Rus-
sell slowly paced the floor, his arms crossed, as was their habit,
and his powerful form unweariedly erect. She stood by the
table, half irresolute, then folded down the sheet, and exposed
the handsome, untroubled face. She studied it long and
quietly, and with no burst of emotion laid her flowers against
his cheek and mouth, and scattered the geraniums over his
pulseless heart.

“T begged him not to start vesterday, and he answered that
he would go if the stars fell and judgment day overtook him.
Sometimes we are prophets unawares. His star has set—his
day has risen! Have mercy on his soul! oh, my God!”

The voice was low and even, but wonderfully sweet, and in
the solemn morning light her face showed itself gray and
bloodless; no stain of color on the still lips, only the blue cord
standing out between the brows, sure signet of a deep distress
MACARIA, 251

which found no vent. Russell felt a crushing weight lifted
from his heart; he saw that she had “loved her cousin, cousinly
—no more;” and his face flushed when she looked across the
table at him, with grateful but indescribably melancholy eyes,
which had never been closed during that night of horror.

“T have come to relieve you, Russell, from your friendly
watch. Few would have acted as you have done, and for all
your generous kindness to poor Hugh I thank you most ear-
nestly, as well for my father as myself. The day may come,
perhaps, when I shall be able to prove my gratitude, and the
sincerity of my friendship, which has never wavered since we
were children together. Until that day, farewell, Russell; but
believe that I rejoice to hear of your successes.”

She held out her hand, and, as he took it in his, which
trembled violently, he felt, even then, that there was no quiver
in the icy white fingers, and that his name rippled over her lips
as calmly as that of the dead had done just before. She en-
dured his long, searching gaze, like another Niobe, and he
dropped the little hand and quitted the room. She heard his
quick step ring changes down the long hall and stony steps;
when all was still again she knelt beside the table and, crossing
her arms over it, bowed her face upon them. Now and then the
servants looked in, but crept away awed, closing the door
stealthily; and as the day advanced, and the news of what had
happened flew through the town, friends came to offer assist-
ance and condolence. But none dared disturb or address the
kneeling figure, veiled by waving hair, and giving no more sign
of life than the form before her. At ten o’clock Mr. Hunting-
don returned, and, with his hat drawn over his eyes, went
straight to the library. He kissed the face of the dead passion-
ately, and his sob and violent burst of sorrow told his child of
his arrival. She lifted her rigid face and extended her arms
pleadingly.

“Father! father! here, at least, you will forgive me!”

He turned from her, and answered, with bitter emphasis:

“TJ will not! But for you he would have been different, and
this would never have happened.”

“Father, I have asked for love and pardon for the last time.
Perhaps, when you stand over my dead body, you may remem-
ber that you had a child who had a right to your affection.
God knows, if it were possible, I would gladly lay my weary
bead down to rest, here on Hugh’s bier, and give him back to
252 MACARIA.

your arms. Life is not so sweet to me that I would not yield it
up to-day without a murmur,”

She bent down and kissed her cousin, and, with a hard, bitter
expression on her countenance, went up to her own room, lock-
ing out Paragon and old Nellie, who followed cautiously at her
heels. :

“ For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil.
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about?”

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Where are you going, Irene?”

“Only to the Factory row.”

“For what, I should like to know?”

“To see Bessie Davis, who has been very ill.”

“Fiddlestick! I want the carriage myself. I promised to
send down to the hotel for Judge Peterson, who is coming to
spend the night here.”

“Of course, father, if you want Andrew, I do not wish to
interfere with your arrangements. I did not know that you
intended to use the carriage. John, tell Andrew to drive the
horses back to the stable-yard until called for, and have Erebus
saddled at once. Unpack that flat basket I left on the pantry
shelf, and put the things into one with a handle, that I can
carry in my hand. The egg-basket will do very well; it has a
cover.”

She went to her room, changed her dress for her riding-habit
and came down to the front door, where her father sat smoking.

“What are you going to do with that basket? Erebus won't
suffer you to carry it.”

“Yes, sir; he will suffer just what I please to take. I havea
bottle of wine, some jelly, and some light bread for poor Mrs.
Davis.” o

“What sort of wine?”

“Not your high-priced sherry or port, but a pint bottle of
Madeira. Tighten that girth for me, Andrew, if you please;
the saddle turned the last time I rode.”

‘ «P11 bet that you will let that basket fall before you get to
the gate, and lose every drop in it. It is all nonsense; sheer
nonsense!”

She made no reply, but mounted the beautiful, spirited ani-
MACARIA, 2538

mal, who arched his neck and curveted at sight of the basket.
Patting his mane soothingly, she hung the basket securely on
the pommel of the saddle, and rode off.

“He is wilder to-day than he was when I first bought him;
he will break her neck, yet, I haven’t a doubt,” muttered Mr.
Huntingdon, looking after her.

“No he won't, master; she can tame him down any minute.
Last week she wanted to ride, but he had got out into the creek
pasture, and I couldn’t catch him. I raced him for half an
hour up and down, and -couldn’t come near him; I tried him
with corn and fodder, but he ran like a deer. I gave it up,
sir, and told Miss Irene he was in one of his tantrums, and I
could do nothing with him. She just put on her hat and
walked over to the pasture, and the minute he saw her coming
he neighed two or three times, and, before I could get to her,
she had her hand on his mane, patting him, and he was rubbing
his head against her. Miss Irene can tame anything in this
world, she has such a steady, conquering look in her eyes.”

Such were Andrew’s reassuring words, as, with his hat on
the back of his head, and both hands thrust into his deep
pockets, he stood watching his young mistress, until a turn in
the road obscured both horse and rider, then walked back to
the stable.

It was a cold afternoon in November,

** And Autumn, laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves,”

had kindled her forest conflagration. Golden maples and
amber-hued cherries, crimson dogwoods and scarlet oaks shook
out their flame-foliage and waved their glowing boughs, all
dashed and speckled, flecked and rimmed with orange and
blood, ghastly green, and tawny brown. The hectic spot burned
everywhere, save on the solemn, somber pines that lifted them-
selves defiantly far above the fevered region of decay. Royal
clusters of goldenrod were blackened and seared by the lips of
an early frost, and pallid, starry asters shivered and dropped
their faded petals as the wind bowed their fragile heads. The
smoky atmosphere, which had hung all day in purple folds
around the distant hills, took a golden haze as the sun sank
rapidly; and, to Irene’s gaze, river and woodland, hillside and
valley, were brimmed with that weird “light which never was
on sea or land.” Her almost “ Brahminical” love of nature
954 MACARIA.

had grown with her years, but a holier element mingled with
her adoration now; she looked beyond the material veil of
beduty and bowed reverently before the indwelling Spiritual
Presence. Only during these silent hours of communion af-
forded by her solitary rides was the shadow lifted from her
heart, and at such times immemorial Cybele’s fingers, soft and
warm, touched the still face, and the icy lines melted.
Since Hugh’s death, nearly a year before, she had become a
recluse, availing herself of her mourning dress to decline
all social engagements, and, during these months a nar-
row path opened before her feet; she became a member of the
church which she had attended from infancy, and her hands
closed firmly over her life work. The baffling Sphinx that had
long vexed her sat no more at the crossroads of her existence;
she found an Cdipus in the far more than cabalistic words:

‘« Thy path is plain and straight, that light is given.
Onward in faith! and leave the rest to heaven.”

Sorrow and want hung out their signs among the poor of
W: , and here, silent, but melancholy, she had become, not a
ministering angel certainly, but a generous benefactress, a
sympathetic friend—a counselor whose strong good sense ren-
dered her advice and guidance valuable indeed. By a system
of rigid economy she was enabled to set apart a small portion
of money which she gave judiciously, superintending its invest-
ment; kind, hopeful words she scattered like sunshine over
every threshold; and here and there, where she detected smol-
dering aspirations, or incipient appreciation of learning, she
fanned the spark with some suitable volume from her own
library, which, in more than one instance, became the germ,
the spring of “a joy forever.” Frequently her father threw
obstacles in her way, sneering all the while at her “ sancti-
monious freaks.” Sometimes she affected not to notice the
impediments, sometimes frankly acknowledged their magni-
tude and climbed right over them, on to her work. Among
the factory operatives she found the greatest need of ameliorat-
ing touches of every kind. Improvident, illiterate, in some
eases almost brutalized, she occasionally found herself puzzled
as to the proper plan to pursue; but her womanly heart, like
the hidden jeweled levers of a watch, guided the womanly hands
unerringly.

This evening as she approached the row of low, white-washed

 
MACARIA. 255

houses, a crowd of children swarmed out, as usual, to stare at

her. She rode up to a doorstep where a boy of some fourteen
years sat sunning himself, with an open book on his knee and a
pair of crutches beside him. At sight of her a bright smile
broke over his sickly face and he tried to rise.

“Good-evening, Philip; don’t get up. How are you to-day?”

“ Better, I thank you, ma’am; but very stiff yet.” ;

“This stiffness will pass off gradually, I hope. I see you
have not finished your book yet; how do you like it?”

“Oh, I could bear to be a cripple always, if I had plenty like
it to read.”

“You need not be a cripple; but there are plenty more, just
as good and better, which you shall have in time. Do you
think you could hold my horse for me a little while? I can’t
find a suitable place to tie him. He is gentle enough if you
will only hold the reins.”

“Certainly, ma’am; I shall be glad to hold him as long as
you like.”

She dismounted, and, taking her basket, placed the bridle in
the boy’s hands, saying encouragingly:

“Don’t be afraid of him. Speak to him quietly if he gets
restless, and if you can’t keep him in order, call me; I am
going in next door.”

He smiled assent, wrapped the bridle round his wrist, and
returned eagerly to his treasure, Simms’ “Lifco of Nathaniel
Green,” while Irene passed into the adjoining house. Some
sick rooms are inviting from the costly display of marble, rose-
-wood, velvet and silver, from the tasteful arrangement of books
and flowers, from the air of delicacy and affectionate considera-
tion which pervades them. But those where poverty stands
grim and gaunt on the hearth are rarely enticing, and to this
dreary class belonged the room where Bessie Davis had suffered
for months, watching the sands of life run low, and the shadow
of death growing longer across the threshold, day by day. The
dust and lint of the cotton-room had choked the springs of life,
and on her hollow cheeks glowed the autograph of consumption.
She stretched out her wasted hand, and said:

“Ah, Miss Irene! I heard your voice outside, and it was
pleasant to my ears as the sound of the bell when work-hours
are over. I am always glad to see your face, but this evening
{ was longing for you, hoping and praying that you would
come. I am in trouble.”
256 MACARIA.

“About what, Mrs. Davis? Nothing serious, I hope; tell
me.”

“T don’t know how serious it is going to be. Johnnie is sick
in the next room, taken yesterday; and about noon to-day Susan
had to knock off work and come home. Hester is the only one
left, and you know she is but a baby to work. I don’t like to
complain of my lot, God knows, but it seems hard if we are all
to be taken down.”

“T hope they will not be sick long. What is the matter with
Johnnie?” :

“Dear knows! I am sure I don’t; he complains of the head-
ache and has fever, and Susan here seems ailing the same way.
She is as stupid as can be—sleeps all the time. My children
have had measles, and whooping-cough, and chicken-pox, and
searlet fever, and I can’t imagine what they are trying to catch
now. I hear that there is a deal of sickness showing itself in
the row.”

“Have you sent for the doctor?” asked Irene, walking
around to the other side of the bed, and examining Susan’s
pulse.

“Yes, I sent Hester; but she said he told her he was too busy
to come.”

“Why did you not apply to some other physician?”

“Because Dr. Brandon has always attended me, and as I
sent for him first, I didn’t know whether any other doctor
would like to come. You know some of them have very curious
notions about their dignity.”

“ And sometimes, while they pause to discuss etiquette, hu-
manity suffers. Susan, let me see your tongue. Who else is
sick in the row, Mrs. Davis?”

“Three of Tom Brown’s children, two of Dick Spencer’s, and
Lucy Hall, and Mary Morehead. Miss Irene, will you be good
enough to give me a drink of water? Hester has gone to try
to find some wood, and I can’t reach the pitcher.”

“T brought you some jelly. Would you like a little now, or
shall I put it away in the closet?”

“Thank you; I will save it for my Johnnie, he is so fond of
sweet things; and, poor child! he sees em so seldom nowadays.”

“There is enough for you and Johnnie, too. Eat this, while
T look after him, and see whether he ought to have any this
evening.” :

She placed a saucer filled with the tempting, amber-hued
MACARIA. 257

delicacy on the little pine table beside the bed, and went into
the next room. The boy, who looked about seven or eight years
old, lay on a pallet in one corner, restless and fretful, his cheeks
burning, and his large, brown eyes sparkling with fever.

“Johnnie, boy! what is the matter? Tell me what hurts
you?”

“My head aches so badly,” and tears came to the beautiful,
shildish eyes.

“Tt feels hot. Would you like to have it bathed in cold
water?”

“Tf you please, ma’am. I have been calling Hettie, and she
won’t hear.”

“Because she has gone out. Let me see if I can’t do it just
as well as Hettie.”

She hunted about the room for a cloth, but finding nothing
suitable, took her cambric handkerchief, and, after laving his
forehead gently for ten or fifteen minutes, laid the wet folds
upon it, and asked smilingly:

“Doesn’t that feel pleasant?”

“Ever so nice, ma’am—if I had some to drink.”

She put the dripping gourd to his parched lips, and, after
shaking up his pillow and straightening the covering of his
pallet, she promised to see him again soon, and returned to his
mother.

“How does he appear to be, Miss Irene? I had him moved
out of this room because he said my coughing hurt his head,
and his continual fretting worried me. I am so weak now,
God help me!” and she covered her eyes with one hand.

“He has some fever, Mrs. Davis, but not more than Susan.
I will ask Dr. Arnold to come and see them this evening. This
change in the weather is very well calculated to make sickness.
Are you entirely out of wood?”

“Very nearly, ma’am; a few sticks left.”

“When Hester comes, keep her at home. I will send you
some wood. And now, how are you?’

“My cough is not quite so bad; the ‘pectoral holds it a little
in check; but I had another fhermnnehaee last night, and I am
growing weaker every day. Oh, Miss Irene! what will become
of my poor little children when I am gone? That is such an
agonizing thought.” She sobbed as she spoke.

“Do not let that grieve you now. I promise you that your
ehildren shall be taken care of. I will send a servant down to
258 MACARIA.

stay here to-night, and perhaps some of the women in the row
will be willing tc come in occasionally and help Hester till
Susan gets able to cook. I left two loaves of bread in the
closet, and will send more in the morning, which Hester can
toast. I shall go by town and send Dr. Arnold out.”

“T would rather have Dr. Brandon, if you please.”

“Why?”

“T have always heard that Dr. Arnold was so gruff and un-
feeling that I am afraid of him. I hate to be snapped up
when I ask a question.”

“That is a great mistake, Mrs. Davis. People do him in-
justice. He has one of the kindest, warmest hearts I ever
knew, though sometimes he is rather abrupt in his manner. If
you prefer it, however, I will see your doctor. Good-by; I will
come again to-morrow.”

As she took her bridle from Philip’s hand, the boy looked up
at her with an expression bordering on adoration.

“Thank you, Philip; how did he behave?”

“Not very well; but he is beautiful enough to make up for
his wildness.”

“That is bad doctrine; beauty should never excuse bad be-
havior. Is your mother at home?”

“No, ma’am.”

“When she comes, say I ask her to please to step in now and
then and overlook things for Mrs. Davis; Susan is sick. Philip,
if it is not asking too much of you, Johnnie would like to have
you sit by him till his little sister comes home, and wet that
eloth which I left on his head. Will you?”

“Tndeed I will. I am very glad you told me. Certainly I
will.”

“T thought so. Don’t talk to him; let him sleep if he will.
Good-by.”

She went first to a wood-yard on the river, and left an order
for a cord of wood te be sent immediately to No. 13 Factory
Row; then took the street leading to Dr. Brandon’s office. A
servant sat ca the step whistling merrily; and, in answer to
her question, he informed her that his master had just left town,
to be absent two days. She rode on for a few squares, doubling
her veil in the hope of shrouding her features, and stopped
once more in front of the door where stood Dr. Arnold’s buggy.

“Cyrus, is the doctor in his office?”

“Yes, Miss Irene.”
MACARIA. 259

“ Hold my horse for me.”

She gathered the folds of her riding-habit over her arm, and
went upstairs. Leaning far back in his chair, with his feet on
the fender of the grate, sat Dr. Arnold, watching the blue smoke
of his meerschaum curl lazily in faint wreaths over his head;
and as she entered, a look of pleasant surprise came instantly
into his cold, clear eyes.

“Bless me, Irene! I am glad to see you. It is many a day
since you have shown your face here; sit down. Now, then,
what is to pay? You are in trouble, of course; you never
think of me except when you are. Has old Nellie treated her-
self to another spell of rheumatism, or Paragon broke his leg,
or small-pox broke out anywhere; or, worse than all, have the
hawks taken to catching your pigeons?”

“None of these catastrophes has overtaken me; but I come,
as usual, to ask a favor. If you please, I want you to go up to
the Factory Row this evening. Mrs. Davis, No. 18, has two
children very sick, I am afraid. I don’t like the appearance of
their tongues.”

“Humph! what do you know about tongues, I should like to
be informed?”

“How to use my own, sir, at least, when there is a necessity
for it. They are what you medical savants call typhoid tongues;
and from what I heard to-day, I am afraid there will be a dis-
tressing amount of sickness among the operatives. Of course
you will go, sir?”

“How do you know that so well? Perhaps I will, and per-
haps I won’t. Nobody ever looks after me, or cares about the
condition of my health; I don’t see why I must adopt the whole
human race. See here, my child; do not let me hear of you at
the row again soon; it is no place for you, my lily. Ten to one
it is some low, miserable typhus fever showing itself, and I will
take care of your precious pets only on condition that you keep
away, so that I shall not be haunted with the dread of having
you, also, on my hands. If I lay eyes on you at the row, I swear
I will write to Leonard to chain you up at home. Do you
hear?”

“JT shall come every day, I promise you that.”

“Oh! you are ambitious of martyrdom? But typhus fever
is not the style, Queen. There is neither éclat nor glory in
such a death.”

A sad smile curved her mouth, as she answered slowly:
260 MAOARIA,

“Indeed you wrong me, doctor. I am not ready to die; I am
not fit for eternity; my work has but begun.”

“ Why do you think so, my child? What sin have you ever
committed?”

“Sins of omission, sir, foot up as heavily as those of com.
mission.”

“Don’t tread upon my Antinomianistic toes, if you please;
they are tender. Wherein have you failed to do your duty?”

“God and my own soul only sit in assize upon my derelic-
tions.”

“Trene, I have watched you for years with hungry, eager
eyes; and of late I have followed you in your rounds among the
poor. You are inaugurating a new system; the fashion is to
organize societies, flame in print as officer, president, treasurer,
as the case may be, and placard the members and purposes of
the organization. Left hand industriously puffs what right
hand doeth. Is it not so? One of your own sex, the greatest,
strongest, noblest of your learned women singers, pithily tells
you:

‘«* There’s too much abstract willing purposing,
In this poor world. We talk by aggregates,
And think by systems. . . If we pray at all,
We pray no longer for our daily bread,
But next centenary’s harvests. If we give,
Our cup of water is not tendered till
We lay down pipes and found a company
With branches. A woman cannot do the things she ought,
Which means whatever perfect thing she can,
In life, in art, in science, but she fears
To let the perfect action take her part
And rest there; she must prove what she can do
Before she does it—prate of woman’s rights,
Of woman’s mission, woman’s function, till
The men (who are prating too, on their side) cry—
‘* A woman’s function plainly is—to talk.
Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed!
They cannot Lear each other speak.”’”

“T tell you, Queen, I have watched these associations all my
life; I am getting old now, and I am as completely nauseated
with their cant and phariseeism as Macaulay was with that of
the seventeenth-century Puritans. Self-glorification has a deal
of influence over our modern Dorcases.”

“T think, sir, that you are unjust in some instances; your
MACARIA. 261

cynical lenses distort the facts. Judiciously conducted charit-
able societies greatly facilitate matters, by systematizing the
work and inducing punctuality. I grant that the evils you
speak of are much to be deprecated, and, to complete your own
lengthy quotation: ,

“« T'd whisper—Soft, my sister! not a word!
By speaking, we prove only we can speak:
Which he, the man here, never doubted. What
He doubts is, whether we can do the thing
With decent grace, we’ve not done at all;
Now do it!’

“Doctor, I wish you were more of an optimist.”

He took one of her hands, spread out the ivory fingers on his
broad palm, and said, in a lower tone:

“My Chaldean priestess, who says that I am not as orthodox
on optimism as Leibnitz himself? Don’t you know that I am
a sort of latter-day troglodyte, very rarely airing my pet creeds
for the benefit of the public? That was a wise law of Solon’s
which declared ‘every man infamous who, in seditious or civil
dissensions of the State, remained neuter, and refused to side
with either party’ ; but I do not regard it as expedient, or in- '
cumbent upon me, to advertise my individual status on all
ethical schisms. What is it to the public whether I indorse
‘Candide’ or Leibnitz’s ‘ Theodicea’?”

“One thing I certainly do know, with regret, that your seem-
ing austerity, your roughness of manner, renders you very un-
popular; whereas, you should be universally beloved.”

“Really! have I become a bugbear in my old age?”

“Not that, exactly, sir; but I wish, if it were possible, that
you would not mask your really kind, generous, sympathizing
heart by such repellent, abrupt conduct in sick rooms, where
people expect gentleness and consideration on the part of a
physician. I know you are often annoyed by senseless and
ridiculous questions; but I wish, for your own sake, that you
could be a little more patient with poor, weak human nature.”

“Child, I am not gregarious; never was. I touch my hat to
the world, and it is welcome io think just what it chooses of
me.”

“No, sir; far from touching your hat, you stand aloof, scowl-
ing at your race, smiling grimly at the struggling, drowning
men and women around you, as if we were not all one great
262 MACARIA,

family, designed by God to assist and cheer each other. Every
man ee

“Pardon me, Queen; but I am not one of those deluded, self-
complacent human beings who actually lay the ‘flattering
unction to their souls’ that they were sent into this world for
some particular purpose—some special mission. I want you
to distinctly understand, child, that I don’t consider myself
appointed to do any work but that of attending to my own
affairs and taking care of myself.”

“Then you admit yourself a marred, imperfect block, rejected
by the Divine Architect as unworthy of a place in the grand
social temple. God clothed you with human affections and
sympathies that, in accordance with the fundamental law of
social existence, you might extend a helping hand to your
fellow-creatures.”

He moved restlessly, and his gray, shaggy brows met in a
heavy frown.

“T believe, Irene, I am entirely innocent of any agrarian or
socialistic tendency.”

“And so, I trust, am I. “But sir, because I abhor Brook
Farm, I will not take refuge in the cave of Trophonius.”

He looked up at her with one of his steely, probing glances,
then the brows unbent, and he drew her hand caressingly across
his cheek.

“Well, child, we won’t quarrel over my bearishness. If you
will keep that hard, frozen look away from your lips, and smile
now and then as you used to do in your childhood when I held
you on my knee, I will promise to try and unearth myself, to
seal up my gnome habitation, and buy me a tub which I can
drag after me into the sunlight. Is it a bargain?”

“That is problematical, doctor. But it is getting late, and
I wish, if you please, you would go at once to the row.”

“Stop! if any good is accomplished among those semi-
savages up yonder, who is to have the credit? Tell me that?”

“God shall have the thanks; you all the credit as the worthy
instrument, and I as much of the gratification as I can steal
from you. Are you satisfied with your wages, my honored Shy-
lock? Good-night.”

“Humph! it is strange what a hold that queer, motherless
child took upon my heart in her babyhood, and tightens as she
grows older.

‘“* That souls are dangerous things to carry straight
Through all the spilt saltpeter of the world.’

 
MACARIA, 263

who will question? Not I, surely; and yet I know that girl
will take hers safely to the terminus of time, pure, with no
smut or smell of gunpowder. A pearl before swine! But I
swear, untrampled to the end.”

He shook the ashes from his pipe, put it away behind the
clock and went down to his buggy. Before breakfast the fol-
lowing morning, while Irene was in the poultry-yard feeding
her chickens and pigeons, pheasants and pea-fowls, she received
a note from Dr. Arnold containing these few scrawling words:

“Tf you do not feel quite ready for the day of judgment,
avoid the row as you would the plagues of Egypt. I found no
less than six developed cases of rank typhus. Yours,

“Hiram Arnold.”

She put the note in her pocket, and while the pigeons flut-
tered and perched on her shoulders and arms, cooing and peck-
ing at her fingers, she stood musing—calculating the chances
of contagion and death if she persisted. Raising her eyes to
the calm blue sky, the perplexed look passed from her counte-
nance, and, fully decided regarding her course, she went to
breakfast. Mr. Huntingdon was going to a neighboring county
with Judge Peterson, to transact some business connected with
Hugh’s estate, and as the buggy came to the door, he asked
carelessly :

“What did Cyrus want?”

“He came to bring a note from the doctor concerning some
sick people whom I asked him to see.”

“Oh! John, put my overcoat in the buggy. Come, Judge,
I am ready.”

As he made no inquiry about the sick, she volunteered no
explanation, and he bade her good-by with manifest cold in-
difference. She could not avoid congratulating herself that,
since he must take this journey soon, he had selected the pres-
ent occasion to be absent, for she was well aware that he would
violently oppose her wishes in the matter of the row. When
Dr. Arnold met her, late in the afternoon of the same day, at
little Johnnie’s side, his surprise and chagrin found vent, first
in a series of oaths, then, scowling at her like some thunder-
cloud with the electricity expended, he said:

“Do you consider me a stark idiot, or a shallow quack?”

“Neither, sir, I assure you.”
264 MACARIA,

“Then, if I know anything about my business, I wrote you
the truth this morning, and you treat my advice with cool con-
tempt. You vex me beyond all endurance! Do you want to
throw yourself into the jaws of death?”

“No, sir; far from it; but I had incurred the risk before [
was aware that there was any. Besides, I really do not think
I shall take the fever. I believe a good resclution is a powerful
preventive, and that, you know, I have.”

“The deuce you have! you obstinate, ungovernable piece of
marble! Look here, Irene, I shall go straight to your father
and let him know the facts. It is my duty, and I mean to
do it.”

“T don’t think you will, for he started to B—— County this
morning. And now, doctor, you may just as well quit scolding
me, for I have made up my mind to nurse Johnnie, come what
will.”

“Yes! I will warrant you have! And you may as well go
and make up your shroud, too—for you will want it, I am
thinking.”

“Well, my life, at least, is my own, even if it should prove
the price.”

“Oh! is it, indeed? What has become of that pretty doc-
trine you preached to me yesterday? I thought you belonged
to the whole human fraternity? Your life yours, indeed!”

“You forget, doctor; ‘Greater love hath no man than this,
that he lay down his life for his friends.’ ”

She slipped her hand into his, and looked up, smiling and
calm, into his harsh, swarthy face.

“My child, you made a mistake; your life belongs to me, for
I saved it in your infancy. I cradled you in my arms, lest
death should snatch you. I have a better right to you than
anybody else in this world. I don’t want to see you die; I wish
to go first.” .

“T know what I owe you, doctor; but I am not going to die,
and you have scolded me enough for one time. Do make
peace.”

“ Remember, I warned you, and you would not heed.”

From that hour she kept faithful vigil in No. 18, passing con-
tinually from one bedside to another. Susan’s attack proved
comparatively light, and she was soon pronounced convalescent ;
but little Johnnie was desperately ill, and for several nights
Trene sat at his pillow, fearing that every hour would be his
MACARIA, 265

last. While his delirium was at its height, Hester was taken
violently, and in the morning when Irene felt that her labor
was not in vain and that the boy would get well, his little sister,
whom she had nursed quite as assiduously, grew rapidly worse,
and died at noon. As is frequently observed in such diseases,
this increased in virulence with every new case. It spread with
astonishing celerity through the row, battling the efforts of the
best physicians in W , and finally, the day after Hester’s
death, as Irene sat trying to comfort the poor mother, a neigh-
bor came in, exclaiming:

“Oh, Miss Irene! Philip Martin is down, too. He caught
the fever from his mother, and his father says won’t you please
come over.”

She went promptly, though so wearied she could scarcely
stand, and took a seat by the bed where tossed the poor boy in
whom she had taken such an interest since the accident which
crushed his leg in the machinery, and rendered him a tempor-
ary cripple.

“He has been talking about you constantly, Miss Irene, and
calling for you. Philip, my son, here is Miss Irene.”

He smiled and turned, but there was no recognition in the
hot eyes, and after an instant he muttered on incoherently.

“You must go home, Miss Huntingdon; you are worn out.
His father can watch him till his mother gets stronger,” said
Dr. Brandon, who was fully acquainted with her faithful at-
tendance at the next house.

“No, I must stay with Philip; perhaps he will know me when
he wakes.”

A hope doomed to disappointment, for he raved for four days
and nights, calling frantically for the serene, sad woman who
sat at his pillow, bending over him and laying her cold hands
on his scorched brow. On the fifth day, being free from fever
and utterly prostrated, he seemed sinking rapidly; but she kept
her fingers on his pulse, and, without waiting for the doctor’s
advice, administered powerful stimulants. So passed two
hours of painful anxiety; then Philip opened his eyes lan-
guidly, and looked at her.

“Philip, do you know me?”

“Yes—Miss Irene.”

She sank back as if some strong, supporting hand had sud-
denly been withdrawn from her; and, observing that she looked
ghastly, Mr. Martin hastily brought her a glass of water. Just

 
266 MACARIA,

then Dr. Brandon entered and examined his patient with evi-
dent surprise.

“What have you done to him, Miss Huntingdon?”

“Since daylight I have been giving him ammonia and
brandy; his pulse was so feeble and thready I thought he needed
it, and was afraid to wait for you.”

“Right! and you saved his life by it. I could not get here
any earlier, and if you had delayed it until I came it would
probably have been too late. You may call him your patient
after this.”

She waited no longer, but staggered to the door; and An-
drew, seeing how faint she was, came to meet her, and led her
to the carriage. The ten days of watching had told upon her;
and when she reached home, and Nellie brought her wrapper
and unlaced her shoes, she fell back on her lounge in a heavy,
death-like sleep. Mr. Huntingdon had been expected two days
before, but failed to arrive at the time designated; and having
her fears fully aroused, Nellie dispatched a messenger for Dr.
Arnold.

CHAPTER XXV.

“Do you see any change, Hiram?”

“None for the better.”

Mr. Huntingdon dropped his head upon his hand again, and
Dr. Arnold resumed his slow walk up and down the carpet. The
. blue damask curtains had been looped back from the western
window, and the broad band of yellow belting the sky threw a
mellow light over the bed where lay the unconscious heiress of
the grand old Hill. Fever rouged the checks usually pure
as alabaster, and touched the parted lips with deeper scarlet,
lending a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty to the sculp-
tured features. Her hair, partially escaping from confinement,
straggled in crumpled rings and folds across the pillow, a mass
of golden netting; and the sparkling eyes wandered from one
object to another as if in anxious search. The disease had
assumed a different type, and instead of raving paroxysms, her
illness was characterized by a silent, wakeful unconsciousness,
while opiates produced only the effect of increasing her restless-
ness. A week had passed thus—during which time she had
recognized no one, and though numerous lady friends.came to
offer assistance, all were refused permission to see her. Mr.
MACARIA, 967

Huntingdon was utterly ignorant of the duties of a nurse; and
though he haunted the room like an unlifting shadow, Dr.
Arnold and Nellie took entire charge of the patient. The for-
mer was unremitting in his care, sitting beside the pillow
through the long winter nights, and snatching a few hours’
sleep during the day. Watching her now, as he walked to and
fro, he noticed that her eyes followed him earnestly, and he
paused at the bedside and leaned over her.

“Trene, what do you want? Does my walking annoy you?”

No answer.

“Won't you shut your eyes, my darling, and try to sleep?”

The deep, brilliant eyes only looked into his with mocking
intentness. He put his fingers on the lids and pressed them
gently down, but she struggled, and turned away her face. Her
hands crept constantly along the snowy quilt as if seeking for
something, and taking them both, he folded them in his and
pressed them to his lips, while tears, which he did not attempt
to restrain, fell over them.

“You don’t think she is any worse, do you?” asked the
father huskily. ;

“T don’t know anything, except that she can’t live this way
much longer.”

His harsh voice faltered and his stern mouth trembled. He
laid the hands back, went to the window and stood there till

the room grew dusky and the lamp was brought in. As Nellie
‘closed the door after her, the doctor came to the hearth, and
said sharply:

“T would not be in your place for John Jacob Astor’s for-
tune.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“T mean that, if you have any conscience left, you must suffer
the pains of purgatory for the manner in which you have per-
secuted that. child.”

“Tn all that I have ever done I have looked only to her good,
to her ultimate happiness. T know that she——”

“Wush, Leonard! hush! You know very well that you have
been down on your knees before the Golden Calf ever since that
girl opened her eyes in this plagued world of trouble! You
are no more fit to be a father than I am to be a saint! You
have tyrannized and fretted her poor, innocent soul nearly out
of her ever since she was big enougb to crawl. Why the
d—-1 could not you let the child have a little peace? I told
268 MACARIA.

you how it would end; but oh, no! you could see ncthing but
the gilt face of your bellowing calf. You tormented her so
about Hugh that anybody else would have hated the poor fel-
low. Mind you, she never opened her lips to me with reference
to that matter in her life; she would have been gibbeted first.
But I am not blind entirely; I knew what was going on; I
knew that the proud, sensitive bird was hunted, and could find
no spot to rest upon. There are ninety-nine chances to one
that she has come to her rest at last. You will feel pleasantly
when you see her in her shroud.”

His hard face worked painfully, and tears glided down the
wrinkled cheek and hid themselves in his gray beard. Mr.
Huntingdon was much agitated, but an angry flush crossed his
brow as he answered hastily:

“T am the best judge of my family matters. You are unjust
and severe. Of course I love my child better than anybody
else.”

“Heaven preserve her from such love as you have lavished
on her! She is very dear to me. I understand her character;
you either cannot or will not. She is the only thing in this
world that I do really love. JI have fondled her from the time
when she was a week old, and it hurts me to see her suffer as
she has done ever since you posted her off among strangers in
New York. It will go hard with me to lay her down, in all her
loveliness, in the grave. My pet, my violet-eyed darling!”

He shaded his face and swallowed a sob, and for some mo-
ments neither spoke. After a while the doctor buttoned up his
coat and took his hat.

“T am going down to my office to get a different prescription.
I will be back soon.”

“Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Clark said they would sit up to-night.
Hiram, you must be worn out, losing so much sleep.”

“Tell Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Clark to go to Egypt! Do you
suppose I want two such gossip-hawks perched over my dove?
I am going to sit up myself. Give Irene a spoonful of that
mixture in the small vial at seven o’clock.”

Contrary to his phlegmatic habit, the doctor had taken coun-
sel of his fears until he was completely unnerved, and he went
home more than usually surly and snappish. As he entered his
office, Russell advanced to meet him from the window, whence,
for nearly an hour, he had been watching for his arrival.

“ Good-evening, doctor.”

sn at
MACARIA, 269

“What do you want?”

“How is Miss Huntingdon?”

“What is Miss Huntingdon to you?”

“She was one of my mother’s best friends, though only a
little girl at the time.”

And you love her for your mother’s sake, I suppose? Truly
filial.

“For that matter, she is beautiful enough to be very easily
loved for her own sake, judging from the number of her devoted
admirers. But I certainly am very grateful for her kindness
to my mother, years ago.”

“And well you may be, Aubrey! She paid dearly for her
friendly interest in your family.”

“In what respect, sir?”

“In more respects than I choose to recapitulate. Did you
ever know where she got the two hundred dollars which she
gave your mother?”

“T presume she took it from her own purse.”

“She borrowed it from me, and paid me back gradually in
the money that her father gave her from time to time while she
was at boarding-school. Cyrus! you stupid! bring me some
coffee! ”

“How is she to-night? Rumors are so unreliable that I
came to you to find out the truth.”

“She is going to die, I am afraid.”

A sudden pallor overspread Russell’s face, but he sat erect
and motionless, and, fastening his keen eyes upon him, the
doctor added:

“She is about to be transplanted to a better world, if there is
such a place. She is too good and pure for this cursed, pestifer-
ous earth.”

“Tg the case so utterly hopeless? I cannot, I will not be-
lieve it!” came distinctly from the young man’s bloodless lips.

“T tell you I know better! She stands on a hair stretched
across her grave. If I don’t succeed to-night in making her
sleep (which I have been trying to accomplish for two days),
she can’t possibly live. And what is that whole confounded
crew of factory savages in comparison with her precious life?”

“Ts it true that her illness is attributable to nursing those
people?”

“Yes. D——I take the row! I wish the river would swal-
low it up!”
270 MACARIA,

“Ts she conscious?”

“Heaven only knows; I don’t. She lies with her eyes wide
open, looking at everything as if she were searching for some-
thing which she had lost, but never speaks, and understands’
nothing, except to swallow the medicine when I put the spoon
to her lips.”

“Tf I could only see her!” exclaimed Russell, and an expres-
sion of such intense agony settled on his features, usually so
inflexible, that his companion was startled and astonished. The
doctor regarded him a moment with perplexity and compassion
mingled in his own face; then light broke upon him, and, ris-
ing, he laid his hand heavily on Russell’s shoulder.

“Of course, Aubrey, you don’t visit at that house?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you meet her often?”

“T have not seen her for nearly a year. Not since the night
on which Hugh Seymour was drowned.”

He rose, and turned away to screen his countenance from the
scrutiny to which it was subjected, for the painful shock baffled
all his efforts at self-control, and he felt that his face would
betray him.

Where are you going, Aubrey?”

“ Back to my office.”

“Ts there any message which you would like for me to deliver
to her, if she should recover consciousness? You may trust
me, young man.”

“Thank you; I have no message to send. I merely called to
ask after her. I trust she will yet recover. Good-night.”

He walked on rapidly till he reached the door of his office.

The gas was burning brightly over his desk, and red-tape and
legal-cap beckoned him in; but fathomless blue eyes, calm as
mid-ocean, looked up at him, and, without entering, he turned
and went through the cold and darkness to the cemetery, to his
mother’s tomb. She had been his comfort in boyish sorrows,
and habit was strong; he went to her grave for it still.

When Russell left him, Dr. Arnold took from his pocket the
only solace he had ever known—his mcerschaum. While he
smoked, and mixed some powders in a marble mortar, memory
industriously ran back,raking amid the ashes of the by-gone for
here a word and there a look, to eke out the Ariadne thread
which his imagination was spinning. The possibility of an
attachment between Irene and the blind widow’s son had never
MACARIA, orl

occurred to him before; but that Russell’s unmistakable emo-
tion could be referable simply to gratitude to his mother’s
benefactress was an explanation of which he was disposed to
be very skeptical. If this surmise should prove correct, what
were Irene’s feelings toward the popular young politician?
Here he was absolutely without data; he could recall nothing
to assist him; but, comprehending the bitter animosity existing
between the lawyer and her father, he sighed involuntarily,
knowing the hopelessness of any such attachment on either or
both sides. Determined to satisfy himself of the truth at the
earliest opportunity, he carefully weighed out the powder and
rode back to the Hill. He could perceive no change, unless it
were a heightening of the carmine on cheeks and lips, and an
increased twitching of the fingers, which hunted so persistently
about the bed-clothes. °

“That everlasting picking, picking at everything is such an
awful sign,” said poor Nellie, who was crying bitterly at the
foot of the bed, and she covered her face with her apron to shut
out the sight.

“You ‘pick’ yourself off to bed, Nellie! I don’t want you
snubbing and groaning around day and night.”

“T am afraid to leave her a2 minute. I am afraid when my
poor baby shuts her eyes she will never open ’em again till she
opens ’em in heaven.”

“Oh, go along to sleep! you eternal old stupid. I will wake
you up, I tell you, if she gets worse.”

He mixed one of the powders and stooped down.

“Trene—Irene, take this for me, won’t you, dear?”

She gave no intimation of having heard him till he placed the
wineglass to her mouth and raised her head tenderly; then she
swallowed the contents mechanically. At the expiration of an
hour he repeated the dose,and at ten o’clock, while he sat watch-
ing her intently, he saw the eyelids begin to dreop, the long,
silky lashes quivered and touched her cheeks. When he listened
to her breathing, and knew that at last she slept, his gray head
sank on his chest, and he murmured inaudibly, “ Thank God!”
Patient as a woman, he kept his place at her side, fearing to
move lest he should wake her; the dreary hours of night wore
away; morning came, gloriously bright, and still she slept. The
flush had faded, leaving her wan as death, and the little hands
were now at rest. She looked like the figures which all have
seen on cenotaphs, and anxiously and often the doctor felt the
272 MACARIA.

slow pulse, that seemed weary of its mission. He kept the room
quiet and maintained his faithful watch, refusing to leave her
for a moment. Twelve o’clock rolled around, and it appeared,
indeed, as if Nellie’s prognostications would prove true, the
sleeper was so motionless. At three o’clock the doctor counted
the pulse, and, reassured, threw his head back against the velvet
lining of the chair, and shut his aching eyes. Before five
minutes had elapsed, he heard a faint, sweet voice say,
“Paragon.” Springing to his feet, he saw her put out her
hand to pat the head of her favorite, who could not be kept out
of the room, and howled so intolerably when they chained him
that they were forced to set him free. Now he stood with his
paws on the pillow and his face close to hers, whining with de-
light. Tears of joy almost blinded the doctor as he pushed
Paragon aside, and said eagerly:

“Trene, one dog is as good as another! You know Paragon;
do you know me, Queen?”

“ Certainly—I know you, doctor.”

“God bless you, Beauty! You haven’t known me for a
week.”

“T am so thirsty—please give me some water.”

He lifted her head and she drank eagerly, till he checked
her.

“ There—we haven’t all turned hydropathists since you were
taken sick. Nellie! I say, Nellie! you witch of Endor! bring
some wine-whey here. Irene, how do you feel, child?”

“Very tired and feeble, sir. My head is confused. Where
is father?”

“Here I am, my daughter.”

He bent down with trembling lips and kissed her, for the
first time since the day of their estrangement, nearly three
years before. She put her arms feebly around his neck, and
as he held her to his heart, she felt a tear drop on her forehead.

“Father, have you forgiven me?”

He either could not or would not answer, but kissed her
again warmly; and, as he disengaged her arms and left the
room, she felt assured that, at last, she had been forgiven. She
took the whey silently, and, after some moments said:

“Doctor, have you been sitting by me a long time?”

“T rather think I have!—losing my sleep for nearly ten days,
you unconscionable young heathen.”

“ Have I been so ill as to require that? I have a dim recol-
MACARIA. OTS

lection of going on a long journey, and of your being by my
side all the way.” ,

“Well, I hope you traveled to your entire satisfaction, and
found what you wanted—for you were feeling about, as if hunt-
ing for something, the whole time. Oh! I am so thankful that
you know me once more. Child, you have cost me a deal of sor-
row. Now be quiet and go to sleep again; at least don’t talk
to Nellie or Paragon. I shall take a nap on the sofa in the
library.”

She regained her strength very slowly, and many days
elapsed before she was able to leave her room. One bright
sunny morning she sat before the open window, looking down
on the lawn where the pigeons flashed in and out of the hedges,
and now and then glancing at the bouquet of choice hothouse
flowers in the vase beside her. In her lap lay a letter just re-
ceived from Harvey Young—a letter full of fond remembrance,
grave counsel, and gentle encouragement—and the unbent
lines about her mouth showed that her mind was troubled.

The doctor came in and drew up a chair.

“T should like to know who gave you leave to ride yester-
day?”

“Father thought that I was well enough, and the carriage
was close and warm. I hope, sir, that I shall not be on your
hands much longer.”

“What did I tell you? Next time don’t be so hard-headed
when you are advised by older and wiser persons. I trust you
are quite satisfied with the result of your eleemosynary per-
formances at the row?”

“Far from it, doctor. I am fully acclimated now, and have
nothing to fear in future. I am very sorry, sir, that I caused
you all so much trouble and anxiety. I did not believe that I
should take the fever. If Philip had not been go ill I should
have come out safely; but, I suppose, my uneasiness about him
unnerved me in some way—for, when I saw that he would get
well, all my strength left me in an instant. How is he, sir?”

“Oh! the young dog is as well as ever; limps around now
without his crutches. Comes to my office every day to ask after
his blessed Lady Bountiful.”

Leaning forward carelessly, but so as to command a full view
of her face, he added:

“You stirred up quite an excitement in tows, and intro-
duced me generally to society. People who never inflicted
974 MACARIA.

themselves on me before thought it was incumbent on them tu
hang around my door to make inquiries concerning my fais
patient. One night I found even that statue of bronze and
steel, Russell Aubrey, waiting at my office to find out whether
you really intended translation.”

A change certainly passed swiftly over her countenance; but
it was inexplicable, indescribable; an anomalous lightening of
the eye and darkening of the brow. Before he could analyze
it, her features resumed their wonted serenity, and he found
her voice unfluttered.

“T was not aware that I had so many friends; it is a pleasant
discovery, and almost compensates for the pain of illness.
Take care, doctor! You are tilting my flowers out of their
vase.”

“Confound the flowers, Queen! They are always in the
way. It is a great pity there is such Theban-brother affection
between your father and Aubrey. He has any amount of fine
feeling hid away under that dark, Jesuitical, non-committal
face of his. He has not forgotten your interest in his mother,
and when I told him that I thought you had determined to take
your departure from this world, he seemed really hurt about it.
I always liked the boy, but I think he is a heretic in polities.”

Looking steadily at him as she spoke, she smiled coldly, and
answered:

“Tt is very apparent that the fierceness of party spirit, this
bitter political animosity, is driving the ship of state on the
rock of ruin. The foamy lips of the breakers are just ahead,
but you men will not open your eyes to the danger.” /

“Better get some of you wise women to pilot us, I dare say!”
sneered her companion, provoked at her unsatisfactory manner
and inflexible features.

“Tt is not our calling, doctor; but I promise you, if the ex-
periment were tried, that you would ‘find no Palinurus among
us. We have no desire to thrust ourselves into the forum, like
Roman women, ‘storming at the Oppian law and crushing
Cato’; still less to imitate Hortensia, and, confronting august
Triumvyirs in the market-place, harangue against the tax, how-
ever unjust. Practically, women should have as little to do
with politics as men with darning stockings or making puff-
paste; but we should be unworthy of the high social position
which your chivalry accords us were we indifferent to the con-
duct of public affairs.
MACARIA, 275

*« « Man for the field, and woman for the hearth:
Man for the sword, and for the needle she:
Man with the head, and woman with the heart:
Man to command, and woman to obey.’

“Such is the judicious arrangement of nature—a wise and
happy one, indubitably. We bow before it, and have no wish
to trench on your prerogatives; but we do protest against your
sleeping on your posts, or lulling yourselves with dreams of
selfish ambition when Scylla and Charybdis grin destruction on
either side.”

“ Phew—Queen! Who told you all that? Has Aubrey in-
doctrinated you in his ‘ fire-eating, schismatic principles?
What platform do you propose to mount?”

“None, sir, but that of the Constitution-—ignoring both
Whig and Democratic additions which make it top-heavy. I
don’t like latter-day political carpentering. I want to see
Nestors in the councils of my country, not nerveless imbeciles
or worthless, desperate political gamesters.”

“You rabid little Jacobin! Don’t you think that, Portia-
like, you might completely transmogrify yourself, and get into
Congress and Cabinet long enough to write ‘Mene, mene’ on
their walls?”

“They would have no Daniel there, even if I should, which
is no business of mine. Doctor, I claim to be no politician; a
thousand years will scarcely produce another De Staél. I am
simply a true lover of my country—anxious in view of its
stormy, troubled future.”

“ Aubrey has not proselyted you, then, after all?”

She had unlocked her writing-desk, and, without seeming to
hear his last words, handed him a letter.

“Here is a letter from Wncle Eric, which I received yester-
day. It contains a message for you about some medical books
and journals.”

He muttered something indistinctly, put the letter in his
pocket, and took her hand.

“Trene—what is the matter, dear child? Your pulse is en-
tirely too quick.”

“That is nothing new, doctor. Father insists that I shall
drink port wine, and it does not suit me—keeps my head ach-
ing continually.”

“Try porter instead.”
276 MACARIA,

She shook her head wearily.

“T need nothing, sir, but to be let alone.”

He smoothed back her hair and said hastily:

“You will never get what you need. Oh, child! why won’t
you trust me?”

“ Why—doctor! I do.”

“Hush! don’t tell me that! I know better. You steel that
white face of yours, and lock your confidence from the old man
who loves you above all other things.”

She drew down his hand from her head and leaned her cold
cheek upon it.

“You misunderstand me, sir; I repose the most perfect con-
fidence in you. If I were in trouble, and wanted help cr a
favor of any kind, I would apply to you sooner than to any
other human being—for you have always been more patient
with my whims than even my own father—and I should be
worse than an ingrate if I had not the most complete trust in
you. My dear, kind friend, what have I done to fret you?”

He did not reply, but searched her countenance sorrowfully.

“Doctor, tell me one thing. You nursed me constantly while
I was unconscious, and I want to know whether I said any-
thing during my delirium that surprised or annoyed you.”

“No; the trouble was that you sealed your lips hermetically.
Are you afraid now that you divulged some secret which I may
betray?”

“T am not afraid of your betraying anything—never had
such a thought. When do you think that I may take a horse-
back ride with impunity? I am so tired of the house.”

“Not for a week, at least. You must be prudent, Irene, for
you are not strong yet, by a great deal.”

“T wanted to talk to you this morning about something very
near my heart; but you are going.”

“T can wait, my child. What is it?”

“To-morrow will do as well. I want you to aid me in get-
ting a bill passed by the Legislature appropriating a school
fund for this county. Perhaps you can obtain Mr. Aubrey’s
influence with the members of the lower house.”

“Perhaps I’li go to the North Pole to cool a glass of amon-
tillado for your majesty! I'll be hanged if I have anything to
do with it? Why the deuce can’t you ask Mr. Aubrey your
self?”

“ Because, in the first place, you know very well that I never
MACARIA, 277

see him, and I could not ask him even if I should meet him;
and, besides, I do not wish to be known at all in the affair. It
is not a woman’s business to put forward legislative bills.”

“Indeed? Then why are you meddling with other people’s
business ? ”

“Our legislators seem to have forgotten one grand and good
maxim of Lycurgus: ‘Children are the property of the state,
to whom alone their education should be intrusted.’ They have
forgotten that our poor require educating, and I simply desire
some of their constituents to call their attention to the over-
sight. Doctor, I know you will do it.”

“T will first see myself floundering like Pharaoh! I'll rake
out nobody’s chestnuts! Not even yours, child! Put down
that window; the air is too chilly. You are as cold as an ice-.
berg and as blue as a gentian.”

The doctor had scarcely taken his departure when Nellie’s
turbaned head showed itself at the door.

“That factory boy, Philip, is downstairs; he brought back
a book, and wants to see you. He seems in trouble; but you
don’t feel like being bothered to-day, do you?”

“Did he ask to see me?”

“Not exactly; but showed very plainly he wanted to see
you.”

“Let him come up.”

As he entered, she rose and held out her hand.

“ Good-morning, Philip; I am glad you are well enough to be
out again.”

He looked at her reverently, and, as he noticed the change
her illness had wrought, his lips quivered and his eyes filled.

“Oh, Miss Irene! I am so glad you are better. I prayed
for you all the time while you were so very ill.”

“Thank you. Sit down and tell me about the sick.”

“They are all better, I believe, ma’am, except Mrs. Davis.
She was wishing yesterday that she could see you again.”

“T shall go there in a day or two. You are walking pretty
well without your crutches. Have you resumed your work?”

“T shall begin again to-morrow.”

“Tt need not interfere with your studies. The nights are
very long now, and you can accomplish a great deal if you feel
disposed to do so.”

He did not answer immediately, and, observing the cloud on
his countenance, she added:
278 MACARIA,

“Philip, what is the matter? You look troubled; can I do
anything for you?”

A deep flush mantled his sallow cheek, and, drooping his
head, as if in humiliation, he said passionately:

“Oh, Miss Irene! You are the only friend I have. I am so
mortified I can hardly look anybody in the face. Father is
drinking again worse than ever, and is so violent that mother
won't stay at home; she has gone across the river for a few
days. I have done all I could, but I can’t influence him.”

“Where is he now?”

“The police put him in the guard-house last night for creat-
ing a disturbance. I suppose when the Mayor holds court he
will be fined and turned out. Miss Irene, I feel like jumping
‘into the river and drowning myself. It is so horrible to be
ashamed of my own father.”

He dropped his face in his hands, and she saw that he trem-
bled violently.

“You must struggle against such feelings, Philip; though it
is certainly very mortifying to know that your father has been
arrested. If you conduct yourself properly, people will respect
you all the more because of your misfortune.”

“No, Miss Irene! they are always holding it up tome. Hard
as I try to do right they are continually sneering at me and
sometimes it makes me almost desperate.”

“That is unjust and ungenerous. No one who has any re-
finement or goodness of heart will be guilty of such behavior.
I do not know positively that I can assist you, but I think it
possible I can obtain a situation for your father as carpenter
on a plantation in the country, if he will promise to abstain
from drinking. I have heard that he was a very good mechanic,
and in the country he would not meet with such constant temp-
tation. Do you suppose that he would be willing to leave
town?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! I think so; he is generally very repentant
when he gets sober. If you please, Miss Irene, I should be so
glad if you would talk to him, and persuade him to take the
pledge before he starts. I believe he would join the Temper-
ance Society if you asked him to do it. Oh! then I should
have some heart to work.”

“You and your mother must try to influence him, and in a
few days I will talk to him. In the meantime I will see about
the situation, which is a very desirable one. I am very sorry,
MAOARIA, 279

Philip, that this trouble has occurred again; I know that it is
very painful, but you must endeavor to be patient and hopeful,
and to bear up bravely. Brighter days will soon come, I trust.”

He took his cap from the carpet, rose, and looked at her
with swimming eyes.

“Oh, Miss Irene! I wish I could tell you all I feel. I thank
you more than I can express, and so does mother.” 3

“You have finished your book, I see; don’t you want an-
other? Nellie will show you the library, and on the lower
book-shelf on the right hand side of the door, you will find
a large volume in leather binding—‘ Plutarch.’ Take it with
you, and read it carefully. Good-by. I shall come down to
the row to-morrow or next day.”

As she heard his halting step descend the stairs she leaned
back wearily in her chair, and, closing her eyes, these words
crept almost inaudibly over her pale lips:

«« . . , But go to! thy love
Shal! chant itself its own beatitudes,
After its own life-working. A child’s kiss,
Set on thy sighing lips, shall make thee glad;
A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich;
A sick man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong.

a”

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Well, Irene, what is your decision about the party at Mrs.
Churchill’s to-night?”

“T will go with you, father, if it is a matter of so much
interest to you; though, as I told you yesterday, I should
prefer declining the invitation as far as I am concerned.”

“Tt is full time for you to go into society again. You have
moped at home long enough.”

“<< Moped’ is scarcely the right word, father.”

“Tt matters little what you call it, the fact is the same.
You have shut yourself in till you have grown to look like a
totally different woman. Indeed, Irene, I won’t permit it
any longer; you must come out into the world once more. I
am sick of your black looks; let me see you in colors to-night.”

“Will not pure white content you, father?”

“No; I am tired of it; wear something bright.”
280 MACARIA.

Mr. Huntingdon smoked his after-breakfast cigar, half-
reclined on the upper step, and Irene walked up and down
the wide colonnade, enjoying the cool, dewy, fragrant June
day, whose sun was, rapidly mounting in heaven. The air
was of that peculiar stillness found only in Southern summer
mornings, but now and then its holy calm was rippled by
the contented ringing whistle of a partridge far down among
the grassy orchard depths, and by the peaceful chime of doves
cooing soft and low, one to another, in the thickest shadows
of the dripping grove. True summer sounds—sure concomi-
tants of June. Frail, foam-like cloud-navies in line of battle,
as if piloted by dubious, treacherous winds, sailed lazily
across the sea of intense blue, staring down covetously at a
ripening field of flashing wheat, which bowed and waved in
a long, billowy sweep and swell as the mild June breeze stole
over it; and on a neighboring hill-side, where sickles had been
busy a few days before, the royal yellow shocks stood thick
and tall in crowded ranks, like golden gods of Plenty.

Ah! rare June day, impearled and purpled, freshly glowing
from the robing hands of Deity, serenely regal on her southern
throne as Sheba’s brown queen.

“Trene, sit here on the step, where I can see you without
twisting my head off my shoulders. Now, then—what is the
matter with you?”

“Nothing unusual, father.”

“Don’t evade me. Why can’t you look and act like other
girls of your age?”

“Probably because I feel differently. But to what do you
allude? In what respect have I displeased you?”

“Oh! in a thousand. You never would look at things in
their proper light. Why did you treat William Bainbridge so
coldly yesterday evening? You know very well that he came
here expressly to see you.”

“And for that reason, sir, I felt it my duty to receive the
visit coolly.”

“You disappointed all my plans for you once; but let me
tell you, if you are not a downright simpleton you will accept
the offer William Bainbridge came here to make. You are
aware of the warm friendship which has always existed be-
tween the Governor and myself, and his son is considered the
finest match in the State. If you live a thousand years you
will never have a better offer, or anothe* as good; and I:do
MACARIA, 981

hope, my daughter, that you will not be insane enough to re-
ject him.”

“Father, why are you so anxious to get rid of your only
child?”

“JT am not; but you must marry some time, and I know
very well such an opportunity as this will not recur.”

“Don’t you think, sir, that you and I could live always hap-
pily here, without planting a stranger at our fireside? Father,
let us understand each other fully. I speak deliberately and
solemnly—I shall never marry.”

Mr. Huntingdon started up from his indolent posture and
surveyed his daughter keenly.

Her spotless muslin morning-dress swept down the marble
steps, its wide sleeves falling away from the rounded, dazzling
wrms, and a black cord and tassel girdled the waist. The
geranium leaves at her throat were unstirred as the silver-
dusted lilies sleeping lotus-like on some lonely tarn, and the
dewy Lamarque roses twined in her coiled hair kindled into
fainy opaline flushes as the sunshine quivered into their creamy
hearts. One hand held a steel ring, to which half a dozen
keys were attached—the other toyed unconsciously with the
heavy vassel, and the hushed face, with its deep, holy eyes, was
lifted to meet her father’s.

“Nonsense, Irene! I have heard fifty women say that same
thing, ana have danced at their weddings six months later.”

“T do nut doubt it. But, father, no one will ever dance at
mine.”

“ And, pray, why haven’t you as good a right to marry and
be happy as other women?”

“The abstract right, and the will to use it, are different,
father; and, as regards happiness, I love my own beautiful
home too well ro desire to change it for any other. Let me be
quiet here—I ask no more.”

“But, Irene, ¢ can’t be expected to live always, even were
my society sufficient for you, which is not true.”

“Death yields allegiance to no decree of man. I may find
Hugh in another world before you are called to quit this.”

Her father shuddered, and smoked silently for several sec-
pu! then the crash of wheels on the shelled avenue startled

oth.

“Here comes buinbridge now. I promised him that you
would play a game of billiards with him this morning. For
282 MACARIA,

heaven’s sake, Irene! be reasonable for once in your life! let
me hear no more such stuff as you have been talking, but
treat the man civilly, and give him what he will ask.”

The handsome suitor came up the steps rather dubiously,
as if fearful of his welcome; and the heiress rose composedly
and received him with graceful, polished, imperturbable re-
serve. A few months before, in compliance with her father’s
wishes, she had accompanied him to the capital of the State,
and during this brief visit met and completely fascinated
Mr. Bainbridge, whose attentions were susceptible of but one
interpretation. He was a year her senior—a chivalric, agree-
able, gay young man, who had grown up without selecting
a profession, knowing that his ample fortune would more than
suffice for his maintenance. He was the only son of the Gov-
ernor; his character was unimpeachable, his nature magnan-
imous, and many of his impulses were truly noble—but his
intellect was far inferior to hers. He could no more com-
prehend her than some long inured Assyrian scroll, for which
the cipher-key is wanting; and in the midst of his devotion
she was conscious of no feeling save that of utter indifference,
sometimes waxing into impatience at his frequent visits. She
had studiously avoided encouraging his attentions, but he
either could not or would not interpret her cold reticence.

The morning was spent over the’ billiard-table, and at last,
foiled by her skillful guiding of the fragmentary conversation,
Mr. Bainbridge, having been refused the honor of escorting
her to the party, took his leave, expressing the hope that in
a few hours he should see her again.

“Well?” said Mr. Huntingdon, seating himself at the
luncheon-table. ;

“Well, father; we played till I was heartily tired.”

“But the result of the visit, Irene?”

“The result was that I beat him three games out of five.
John, where is the claret? You have forgotten it; here are
the keys.”

“Pshaw! I mean, did Bainbridge come to the point?”

“T took most of the points from him.”

“Confound your quibbling! Did you accept him?”

“Tam happy to be able to tell you, sir, that he did not afford
me an opportunity.”

“Then I will be sworn it was your fault, not his.”

A short silence ensued; Irene sat, seemingly abstracted,
MACARIA, 283

dipping her slender hand in a ruby-colored Bohemian finger-
bowl. Presently John returned; she took the bottle from
him, and, filling her father’s glass, said, earnestly:

“Father, I have a favor to ask at your hands; are you in
a mood for concessions?”

“<That depends , as Guy Darrell says. What is it? Do
you want a new collar for Paragon, or a brand new pigeon-
box twice the size of the old one? Something unreasonable,
I will warrant. You never want what you ought to have.
Speak out, my bleached, Gentile Esther!”

“T do want another pigeon-box badly, but that is not to be
asked for to-day. Father, will you give me that large, beau-
tiful, vacant lot, with the old willow tree, on the corner of
Pine Street and Huntingdon Avenue, opposite the court-
house?”

“Upon my word! I must say you are very modest in your
request! What the deuce do you want with it?’

“T know that I am asking a good deal, sir; but I want it
as a site for an orphan asylum. Will you give it to me?”

“No! Ill be hanged if I do! Are you going entirely de-
ranged! What business have you with asylums, I should like
to know? Put all that ridiculous stuff out of your head.
Here is something for which I sent to Europe. Eric selected
it in Paris, and it arrived yesterday. Wear it to-night.”

He drew a velvet case from his pocket and laid it before
her. Touching the spring, the lid flew open, and on the blue
satin lining lay the blazing coils of a magnificent diamond
necklace and bracelets. :

“How beautiful! how splendidly beautiful!”

She bent over the flashing mass’ in silent admiration for
some time, examining the delicate setting, then looked up at
her father.

“What did they cost?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“T am pardonably curious on the subject.”

“Well, then, I was silly enough to give seven thousand dol-
lars for them.”

“And what is the value of that lot I asked for?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Father, these diamonds are the finest I ever saw. They
are superbly beautiful; 2 queen might be proud of them, and
I thank you most heartily for such a gorgeous present: but

 
284 MACARIA.

if you will not be offended, I will be candid with you—I would
a thousand times rather have the lot than the jewels.”

The expression of blank astonishment with which these
words were received would have been ludicrous but for the
ominous thickening of his brows.

“Father, do not feel hurt with me, or attribute my conduct
to any want of gratitude for your indulgent kindness. If I
love the smiles of happy children more than the radiance of
these costly gems, and would rather wear in my heart the
contented faces ot well-cared-for orphans than on my neck
these glittering diamonds, may I not at least utter my prefer-
ence without offending you? When I think of the better
use to which this money might be applied, the incalculable
good it would effect, I shrink from hoarding it up on my
person to dazzle the eyes of my associates, to incite some to
imitate the lavish expenditure, and to awaken in others en-
vious discontent at their inability to cover themselves with
similar splendor. The result of such an example on our
society would be like dropping a pebble in some crystal lake-
let sleeping in evening sunshine; the wavering ring would
widen till the entire glassy surface was shivered into spinning
circles and dashed on the rocky shore beyond. Father, forgive
me if I have said anything disagreeable to you. I shall be
grieved indeed if, on occasion of your too generous indulgence,
any dissension arise between us. Tell me that you are not
angry with me.”

She laid her fingers on his arm, but he shook off the touch,
and, scowling sullenly, snatched the velvet case from her hand
and stamped out of the room—slamming the door so violently
that the glasses on the table rang out a tinkling chime, and
the red wine in'the bottle danced a saraband.

He went to town, and she met him no more till she was at-
tired for the party. Standing before the mirror in her own
room, she arranged the flowers in her hair, and, when the
leaves were disposed to suit her fastidious taste, she took up
a pearl set which he had given her years before, intending
to wear it. But just then, raising her eyes, she saw her
father’s image reflected in the glass. Without turning she
put up her arms, and, laying her head back on his shoulder,
said, eagerly:

“My dear, dear father, let us be reconciled.”

Clouds and moodiness melted from his handsome features
MAOARIA, 285

as he bent over her an instant, kissing her fondly; then his
hands passed swiftly over her neck, an icy shower fell upon
it and she was clothed with light.

“My beautiful child, wear your diamonds as a seal of peace.
I can’t let you have the Pine Street lot—I want it for a dif-
ferent purpose; but I will give you three acres on the edge of
town, near the depot, for your asylum whim. It is a better
location every way for your project.”

“Thank you, father. Oh! thank you more than words can
express.”

She turned her lips to one of the hands still lingering on her
shoulder.

“Trene, look at yourself. Diana of Ephesus! what a blaze
of glory!”

“Father, it would not require much stretch of imagination
to believe that, by some descendental metempsychosis, I
had become an exhumed member of the sacred gnomides, torn
ruthlessly from my sisterhood in Cerro do Frio or the cold
dreary caverns of the Agathyrsi.”

“The metamorphosis is not sufficently complete without your
bracelets. Put them on and come down; the carriage is ready.
Where is your bouquet-holder? Give it to me; I will fasten
the flowers in, while you draw on your gloves.”

Two days before, the marriage of Charles Harris and Maria
Henderson had been celebrated with considerable pomp, and
the party to-night was given in honor of the event by Mrs.
Churchill, a widowed sister of Judge Harris. She had spent
several years in Paris superintending the education of a daugh-
ter, whom she had recently brought home to reside near her
uncle, and dazzle all W-. with her accomplishments.

At ten o’clock there stood beneath the gaslights in her par-
lor a human, fleshly antithesis, upon which all eyes were riv-
eted—Salome Churchill--a dark, imperious beauty, of the
Cleopatra type, with very full, crimson lips, passionate or pout-
ing, as occasion demanded; brilliant black eyes that, like
August days, burned dewless and unclouded, a steady blaze;
thick, shining black hair elaborately curled, and a rich, trop~
ical complexion, clear and glowing as the warm blood that
pulsed through her rounded, graceful form. She wore a fleecy
fabric, topaz-colored, with black lace trimmings; yellow roses
gemmed her hair, and topaz and ruby ornaments clasped her
throat and arms. An Eastern queen she looked, exacting

 
286 MACARIA.

universal homage, and full of jealousy whenever ler eyes fell
upon one who stood just opposite. A statuesque face, pure and
calm as any ever cut from Pentelic quarry, and cold as its
dews—the delicately-carved features borrowing no color from
the glare around her, the polished shoulders and perfect arms
gleaming frigidly in the rainbow light of her diamonds, and
the bronze hair caught up by a pearl comb, with here and there
a cluster of clematis bells drooping toward her neck. Irene’s
dress was an airy blue tulle, flounced to the waist, and without
trimming, save the violet and clematis clusters. Never had
her rare beauty been more resplendent—more dazzlingly chilly;
it seemed the glitter of an arctic iceberg lit by some low mid-
night sun, and, turn whither she would, admiring eyes followed
her steps. Salome’s reputation as a brilliant belle had become
extended since Irene’s long seclusion, yet to-night, on the re-
appearance of the latter, it was apparent to even the most
obtuse that she had resumed her sway—the matchless cynosure
of that social system. Fully conscious of the admiration she
excited, she moved slowly from room to room, smiling once or
twice when she met her father’s proud look of fond triumph
fixed upon her.

Leaning against the window to rest, while Charles Harris
went in search of a glass of water, she heard her name pro-
nounced by someone on the gallery.

“They say Irene Huntingdon is positively going to marry
Bainbridge. Splendid match on both sides. Won’t she shine
at the Governor’s mansion? I wonder if she really grieved
much for Seymour? How perfectly lovely she is; and Hunt-
ingdon is so proud of her. By the way, Neal, have you heard
the last gossip ?”

“About whom? I have been away a month, you must re-
member, and am behind the times. Do tell me.”

“Well, the very latest report is that, after all, Aubrey never
fancied Grace Harris, as the quidnuncs asserted—never ad-
dressed her, or anybody else—but is now sure enough about to
bear off belle Salome, the new prize, right in the face of
twenty rivals. I should really like to hear of something
which that man could not do, if he set himself to work in
earnest. I wonder whether it ever occurs to him that he once
. stood behind Jacob Watson’s counter?”

“But Aubrey is not here to-night. Does not affect parties,
I believe?”
MACARIA, 287

“Rarely shows himself; but you mistake; he came in not
twenty minutes ago, and you should have seen what I saw—
the rare ripe red deepen on Salome’s cheeks when he spoke to
her.”

Irene moved away from the window, and soon after was
about to accompany Charlie to the hall, when Mr. Bainbridge
came up and claimed her hand for the cotillion forming in
the next room. As they took their places on the floor she saw
that Salome and Russell wouldbe theirvis-a-vis. With an effort
she raised her eyes to those of the man whom she had seen
last at Hugh’s bier; he drooped his head very slightly, she
inelined hers; then the band smote their instruments, violin
and piano, and the crash of music filled the house.

Irene moved mechanically through the airy mazes of the
dance, giving apparent attention to the low-toned, half-
whispered observations of her devoted partner, but straining
her ear to catch the mellow voice which uttered such graceful,
fascinating nothings to Salome. Several times in the course
of the cotillion Russell’s hand clasped hers, but even then he
avoided looking at her, and seemed engrossed in conversation
with his gay partner. Once Irene looked up steadily, and, as
she noted the expression with which he regarded his com-
panion she wondered no longer at the rumor she had heard,
and acknowledged to herself that they were, indeed, a hand-
some couple. Dr. Arnold, whom Mrs. Churchill had coaxed
into “showing himself,” had curiously watched this meeting,
and, observing Russell’s marked attentions, puzzled over the
question: “ Does he really care for that fire-fly, or is he only
trying to make Irene jealous?” He looked long and earnestly
at both, then sighed heavily. What did that haughty, blue-
robed woman know of jealousy? How absurd such a sugges-
tion seemed when she turned her smiling, passionless face full
upon him. The dance ended; Irene found herself seated on
a sofa at the window of the deserted library, and Russell and
Salome walked slowly up and down the veranda in front of it.
Mr. Bainbridge had maneuvered for this opportunity, and
seated beside Irene, he eagerly and eloquently pleaded his
cause, assuring her of a devotion which should know no dim-
inution, and emphasizing the fact that he had possessed him-
self of her father’s sanction.

She made no attempt to interrupt him, but sat erect and
taotionless, with one hand partially shielding her face, and
288 MACARIA,

the other pressed hard against her heart, where a dull, cons
tinual pain was gnawing. Every few minutes Russsell passed
the window, his noble head bent down to the beautiful compan-
jon on his arm. Irene could see the outline of his features dis-
tinctly, and her soul sickened as she watched him and rea-
soned concerning the future. He would probably marry some-
body, and why not Salome? She could not expect him to re-
main single always, and he could never be more than a
stranger to her. After his marriage, what a blank her life
would be; to love him still would be sinful. She moved her
finger slightly and looked fixedly at the handsome man be-
side her, entreating her to give him the privilege of making
her life happy. For an instant she wavered. The world held
nothing for her but dreariness at best; she was weary of
alienation and contention; why not accede to her father’s
wishes, and thus repair the grievous disappointment of other
days? William Bainbridge loved her, and perhaps if she were
his wife the sanctity of her vows might strengthen her in
tearing another image from her heart. She took her future
in the palm of her hand and pondered. At this moment the
couple on the veranda paused in front of the window, to allow
the promenading crowd to pass, and Russell looked in, with a
brilliant smile on his countenance. It seemed to mock her
with a “ Marry him, if you dare!” The two passed on into the
parlors, and, closing her eyes a moment, as if shutting out
some hideous vision, Irene briefly, but firmly and irrevocably,
declined the flattering offer; and, rising, left him with his
disappointment. She looked about for Dr. Arnold, but he had
disappeared; her father was deep in a game of euchre, and,
as she crossed the hall, she was surprised to see Philip leaning
against the door-facing, and peering curiously into the parlors.

“Philip, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, Miss Irene! JI have been hunting for you ever so long.
Mrs. Davis is dying, and Susan sent me after you. I went to
your house two hours ago, and they said you were here. I
yan back and told mother that vou could not come. But Mrs.
Davis worried so they sent me here. She says she won’t die in
peace unless she sees you. She wrung her hands and asked
me if you would not have time enough to go to parties when
she was in her grave? Will you come, ma’am?”

“Of course. Philip, find Andrew and the carriage, and I
will meet you at the side door in five minutes.”
MACARIA. 289

She went tc the dressing-room, asked for pencil and paper,
and wrote a few lines, which she directed the servant to hand
immediately to her father—found her shawl, and stole down
to the side door. She saw the dim outline of a form sitting
an the step, in the shadow of the clustering vines, and asked:

“Ts that you, Philip? I am ready.”

The figure rose, came forward into the light, hat in hand,
and both started visibly.

‘ “Pardon me, Mr. Aubrey. I mistook you in the darkness
for another.”

Here Philip ran up the steps.

: “Miss Irene, Andrew says he can’t get to the side gate for
ithe carriage. He is at the front entrance.”

“Can I assist you, Miss Huntingdon?”

“T thank you; no.”

“May I ask if you are ill?”

“Not in the least—but I am suddenly called away.”

She passed him, and accompanied Philip to the carriage.
‘A few minutes’ rapid driving brought them to the row, and,
directing Andrew to return and wait for her father, Irene
entered the low, small chamber where a human soul was
pluming itself for its final flight home. The dying woman
khew her even then in the fierce throes of dissolution, and
the sunken eyes beamed as she bent over the pillow.

“God bless you! I knew you would come. My children—
what will’ become of them? Will you take care of them?
Tell me quick.”

“Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Davis. I will see that your
children are well cared for in every respect.”

“Promise me!” gasped the poor sufferer, clutching the
jeweled arm.

“TI do promise you most solemnly that I will watch over
them constantly. They shall never want so long as I live.
Will you not believe me, and calm yourself?”

A ghastly smile trembled over the distorted features, and
she bowed her head in assent. Irene poured some cordial into
a glass and put it to her lips, but she refused the draught,
and, joining her emaciated hands, muttered, half inaudibly:

“Pray for me once more. Oh! pray for me, my best friend.”

Kneeling on the bare floor, in the midst of the sobbing group,
Trene prayed long and earnestly, and gradually, as her sweet
voice rolled through the room, a peaceful look settled on the
290 MACARIA.

dying mother’s face. At last the petition ended and silence
reigned, broken only by the smothered sobs of Susan and little
Johnnie, who clung to Irene’s hand and buried his face in her
dress as she knelt at the bedside.

“Mrs. Davis, don’t you feel that you will soon be at rest
with God?”

“Yes—I am going home happy—happy.”

She closed her eyes and whispered:

“Sing my—hymn—once—more.”

Making a great effort to crush her own feelings, Irene
sang the simple but touching words of “Home Again,” and
though her voice faltered now and then, she sang it through—
knowing from the expression of the sufferer’s face that the
spirit was passing to its endless rest.

It was a strange scene. The poverty of the room—the
emaciated form, with sharp, set features—the magnificently
beautiful woman kneeling there in her costly festal robes,
with the light of the tallow candle flickering over her dia-
monds, setting her neck and arms on fire—and the weeping
girl and wailing, curly-haired boy, whose tearful face was
hidden in the flounces of the blue tulle. “ Passing strange,”
thought the proud man of the world, who had followed her
from the scene of the festivity, and now stood in the doorway
listening, with hushed breath, to the prayer she had put up,
to the words of the hymn she had sung so sorrowfully, and
gazing in silent adoration upon the face and form of the
kneeling woman. Now one of the beautiful arms stole around
the trembling child who clung to her so tenaciously, and she
gently lifted the chestnut curls from his flushed forehead.

“Don’t sob so, Johnnie. Your mother is in heaven, where
there is no sorrow, or sickness, or trouble. She will be very
happy there; and if you are as good and patient as she was,
you will meet her in heaven when God calls you to die.”

“Oh! is she dead? Miss Irene, is my mother dead?”

“My dear little boy, she has gone to our Father in heaven,
who will make her happier than she could possibly be in this
world.”

A passionate burst of sorrow followed the discovery of the
melancholy truth, and, rising from the floor, Irene seated her-
self on a chair, taking the child on her lap and soothing his
violent grief. Too young to realize his loss, he was easily
comforted, and after a time grew quiet. She directed Susan
MAOARIA, : 291

to take him into the next room and put him on his pallet;
and when she had exchanged a few words with Philip’s mother
about the disposition of the rigid sleeper, she turned to quit
the apartment, and saw Russell standing on the threshold.
Had the dead mother suddenly stepped before her she would
scarcely have been more astonished and startled.

He extended one hand, and, hastily taking hers, drew her
to the door of the narrow, dark hall, where the newly-risen
moon shone in.

“Come out of this charnel-house into the pure air once
more. Do not shrink back—trust yourself with me this once,
at least.” The brick walls of the factory rose a hundred
yards off in full view of the row, and, leading her along the
river bank, he placed her on one of the massive stone steps of
the building.

“What brought you here to-night, Mr. Aubrey ?”

“An unpardonable curiosity concerning your sudden de
parture—an unconquerable desire to speak to you once
more.”

“You witnessed a melancholy scene.”

“Yes—melancholy indeed; but not half so sad as one which
memory held before me while I watched yonder pale corpse
grow rigid. The veil of the past was rent, and I stood again
over my own dead mother. For me there is no Lethe. In
memoriam creeps in somber characters over all that I look
upon.”

A waning June moon, in its last quarter, struggled feebly
up the eastern sky, “hounded by a few dim stars,” and the
spectral light fell like a dying smile upon the silent scene—
the broad, swift river flashing below, champing with foamy
lips on the rocky bit that barred its current, and breaking
into shimmering silver cataracts as it leaped triumphantly
over a gray ledge of granite and thundered down into the basin
beyond, churning itself into diamond spray, that wreathed
and fluttered in gleaming threads like a bridal veil stream-
ing on some mild May breeze. The shining shafts of water
gave back the ghastly light as huge mirrors might, and from
the dark depths of foliage on the opposite bank and the lofty
aisles of pine-clad hills stretching far westward and overtop-
ping all, the deep, solemn monotone of the everlasting fall
echoed and re-echoed, chanting to the quiet night a sacred
“in caelo quies.”
292 : MACARIA,

Standing with uncovered head in the weird light, Russell’s
eyes were fixed on his companion.

“You do not know why I came here, Miss Huntingdon?’

“You told me why.”

“No. But you shall know. I came here overmastered by
some ‘Imp of the Perverse,’ led by an irresistible desire to see
you alone, to look at you, to tell you what I have almost
sworn should never pass my lips—what you may consider un-
manly weakness—nay, insanity—on my part. We are face to
face at last, man and woman, with the golden bars of con-
ventionality and worldly distinction snapped asunder. I am
no longer the man whom society would fain flatter, in atone-
ment for past injustice; and I choose to forget, for the time,
that you are the daughter of my bitterest, deadly foe—my
persistent persecutor. I remember nothing now but tha
erowned days of our childhood, the rosy dawn of my man.
hood, where your golden head shone my Morning Star. I hurl
away all barriers, and remember only the one dream of my
life—my deathless, unwavering love for you. Oh, Irene!
Trene! why have you locked that rigid, cold face of yours
against me? In the hallowed days of old you nestled your
dear hands into mine, and pressed your curls against my cheek,
and gave me comfort in your pure, warm, girlish affection;
how can you snatch your frozen fingers from mine now, as
though my touch were contamination? Be yourself once more;
give me one drop from the overflowing fountain. I am a lonely
man, and my proud, bitter heart hungers for one of your gentle
words, one of your sweet, priceless smiles. Irene, look at me!
Give it to me!”

He sat down on the step at her feet, and raised his dark,
magnetic face, glowing with the love which had so long burned
undimmed, his lofty, full forehead wearing a strange flush.

She dared not meet his eye, and drooped her head on her
palms, shrinking from the scorching furnace of trial, whose
red jaws yawned to receive her. He waited a moment, and
his low, mellow voice rose to a stormy key.

“Trene, you are kind and merciful to the poor wretches in
the row. Poverty, nay, crime, does not frighten away your
compassion for them? Why are you hard and cruelly haughty
only to me!”

“You do not need my sympathy, Mr. Aubrey, and congrat-
ulations on your great success would not come gracefully frow
MACARIA. 293

my lips. Most unfortunate obstacles long since rendered all
intercourse between us impossible, still my feeling for you
has undergone no change. I am, I assure you, still your
friend.”

It cost her a powerful effort to utter these words, and her
voice took a metallic tone utterly foreign to it. Her heart
writhed, bled, and moaned in the gripe of her steely purpose,
but she endured all calmly—relaxing not one jot of her bitter
resolution.

“My friend? Mockery! God defend me from such hence-
forth. Irene, I looked at you to-night in all your wonderful,
incomparable loveliness, as you hung upon the arm of your
acknowledged lover, and the possibility of you becoming that
man’s wife absolutely maddened me. I felt that I could never
endure that horrible reality, and resolved to know the truth.
Other lips deceive, but yours never can. Tell me, have you
promised your hand to Bainbridge? Will you ever give it to
him?”

“Such questions, Mr. Aubrey, you have no right to ask.”

“Right! Does my worshiping love give me no right to re-
lieve myself from torture, if possible? Oh! relentless, beauti-
ful idol that you are! I have cheated myself with a heav-
enly dream—have hugged my soul to the hope that, after all,
I was more to you than you deigned to show—that far down
in your proud heart you, too, cherished memories of other days.
Trene, you loved me once—nay, don’t deny it! You need not
blush for the early folly, which, it seems, you have interred so
deeply; and though you scorn to meet me even as an equal, I
know, I feel, that I am worthy of your love—that I comprehend
your strange nature as no one else ever will—that, had such a
privilege been accorded me, I could have kindled your heart,
and made you supremely happy. Cursed barriers have divided
us always; fate denied me my right. I have suffered many
things; but does it not argue, at least, in favor of my love, that
it has survived all the trials to which your father’s hate has sub-
jected me? To-night I could forgive him all! all! if I knew
that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your heart
against me. My soul is full of bitterness which would move
you, if one trait of your girlish nature remained. But you
are not my Irene! The world’s queen, the dazzling idol of the
ball-room, is not my blue-eyed, angelic Irene of old! I will
intrude upon you no longer. Try at least not to despise me
294 MACARIA.

for my folly; I will crush it; and if you deign to remember
me at all in future, think of a man who laughs at his own
idiocy and strives to forget that he ever believed there lived
one woman who would be true to her own heart, even though
the heavens fell and the world passed away!”

He rose partially, but her hand fell quickly on his shoul-
der, and the bowed face lifted itself, stainless as starry jas-
mines bathed in equatorial dews.

“Mr. Aubrey, you are too severe upon yourself, and very un-
just to me. The circumstances which conspired to alienate
us were far beyond my control; I regret them as sincerely
as you possibly can, but as unavailingly. If I have individu-
ally occasioned you sorrow or disappointment, God knows it
was no fault of mine! We stand on the opposite shores of a
dark, bridgeless gulf; but before we turn away to be hence-
forth strangers, I stretch out my hand to you in friendly fare-
well—deeply regretting the pain which I may have innocently
caused you, and ask your forgiveness. Mr. Aubrey, remember
me as I was, not as I am. Good-by, my friend. May God
bless you in coming years, and crown your life with the happi-
ness you merit, is the earnest prayer of my heart.”

The rare blue cord on her brow told how fiercely the lava
flood surged under its icy bands, and the blanched lips matched
her cheeks in colorlessness; save those tokens of anguish, no
other was visible.

Russell drew down the hand from his shoulder, and folded
it in both his own.

“Trene, are we to walk different paths henceforth—utter
strangers? Is such your will?”

“Such is the necessity, which must be as apparent to you as
to me. Do not doubt my friendship, Mr. Aubrey; but doubt
the propriety of my parading it before the world.”

He bent his cheek down on her cold hand, then raised it
to his lips once, twice—laid it back in her lap, and, taking his
hat, walked away toward town.

Two blithe crickets chirped merrily somewhere in the brick
pavement round the door; a solitary mocking-bird, perched
on the limb of a neighboring china-tree, warbled his sweet,
varied notes as if in answer; the mellow diapason of the falls
rose soothingly over all, and the blue-robed woman sat still
as the stone steps of the factory, watching the vanishing,
dying sparkles of a crystal draught of joy whiea fate had
MACARIA, 295

rudely dashed at her feet, sternly denying the parched, eager
lips.

For some time she remained just as Russell had left her,
then the white arms and dry eyes were raised to the midnight
sky.

“My God! my God! strengthen me in my desolation!”

She had put back the folds of hair, that, damp with dew, clung
to her temples, and, recrossing the wide road or street, en-
tered the chamber of death. Low-spoken words crept to and
fro between Mrs. Martin and two middle-aged, sad-faced wo-
men of the row, who sat around the candle on the little pine
table, clipping and scalloping a jaconet shroud. As Irene ap-
proached, the scissors rested, and all looked up.

“Where is Philip, Mrs. Martin? I shall ask him to walk
home with me, and not wait for the carriage.”

“T expect he is asleep, Miss Irene—but I will wake him.”

“You need not; I think I hear wheels. Yes; they are
coming for me. Mrs. Martin, I will see you about’Susan and
Johnnie to-morrow or next day; meantime, I leave them in
your care. Good-night.”

“What a white angel she is!—almost as pale as the poor
creature on the bed yonder. I catch my breath sometimes
when she looks like she did just now.”

All three sighed simultaneously, and the dull click, click
began again.

It was not the carriage which Irene met at the door, but
Dr. Arnold’s buggy.

“Trene, are you ready to go home?”

“Yes; Mrs. Davis is dead.”

“As I was leaving Mrs. Churchill’s your father told me
where you were, and I thought I would come after you. Put
on your shawl and jump in. You are in a pretty plight, truly,
to stand over a death-bed! ‘Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!’
Here, let me wrap that gauze cloud around your head. Now
then !”

The top of the buggy had been lowered, and as they rode
homeward she leaned her head back, turning her face to the
sickly moonlight.

“Trene, did Aubrey come up here with you?”

“No, sir. He was at the row for a while, however. You
must have met him returning.”

“T did; what did he want here?”
296. MACARIA,

“You must ask him, if you are curious. It is no business
of either yours or mine to watch his movements.”

“JT wonder he was able to tear himself away from that brown
sibyl, Salome. What a splendid dark pair they will be some
day, when he makes her Mrs. Aubrey !”

Surgeon-like, he was pressing his finger heavily on the
wound, but no flinching could be detected, no moan of pain;
and he was startled by the singular short, quick laugh, which
sounded to his ear like the sudden snapping of a musical
string. It was the first time he had heard her laugh since her
return from New York.

“Sage of Sinope! how long since your transmigration into
a latter-day newsmonger ?”

“Newsmonger be hanged! It is a transparent fact that Au-
brey intends to marry the daughter of Herodias. Don’t you
believe it, Irene?”

“ Doctor, I believe I have dropped my bouquet-holder. I am
sorry to give you so much trouble, but Uncle Eric bought it
for me in Geneva, and I should dislike to lose it. Give me
the reins. Yonder it is in the sand—I see its glitter.”

Fulminating inaudible plagues on the chased silver toy, the.
doctor picked it up and placed it in her hand.

“Drop yourself out next, won’t you, when you have another
question to dodge?”

“What is the matter? Who has fretted you, sir? Were you

cheated out of your supper by coming after me?”
. “You fret me beyond all patience—slipping everlastingly
through my fingers. Child, answer me one thing truly; are you
going to marry Bainbridge, as everybody believes, and as Leon-
ard led me to believe ?”

“No, Dr. Arnold, I shall never marry Mr. Bainbridge.”

“Tf he does not suit your fastidious taste, pray, who will,
Queen ?”

“You might, perhaps, if you were thirty-five years younger
and a trifle less surly. Doctor, come in, and let me give you a
glass of wine ; it is very late, and you must be tired.”

“ No—but I will light my pipe at the hall-lamp.”

They went into the house, and as he filled and lighted his pipe
his cavernous eyes ran curiously over her.

“How you have blazed to-night! Your diamonds are s¥
perb.”

“Yes, sir.”
MAOARIA, 254

“Go to sleep at once, child. You look as if you had seen a
ghost. What has knotted up your forehead in that style ?”

“T have looked upon a melancholy death to-night, and have
seen two helpless children orphaned. Come and see me soon;
I want to consult you about an orphan asylum for which
father has given me a lot. Good-night, sir, I am very much
obliged to you for your kindness in bringing me home. No-
body else is half so considerate and thoughtful.”

In her room she took off the jewels, withered violets and
moist tulle—and, drawing on her dressing-gown, went up to
the observatory and sat down on the threshold of one of the
glass doors looking eastward.

“Think of a man who laughs at his own idiocy, and strives
to forget that’ he ever believed there lived one woman who
would be true to her own heart, though the heavens fell and
the world passed away!”

These words of scorn were the burning shares over which
her bare foot trod, and his bitter accents wailed up and down
her lonely heart, mournful as the ceaseless cry of “ El Alma Per-
dida” in moonless, breezeless, Amazonian solitude. Through
the remainder of that cloudless night she wrestled silently—not
like the Jewish patriarch, with angels—but with despair, grim
as Geryon. At last, when the sky flushed rosily, like an opal
smitten with light, and holy resignation—the blessing born only
of great trials like hers—shed its heavenly chrism over the worn
and weary, bruised and bleeding spirit, she gathered up the
mangled hopes that might have gladdened and gilded and glori-
fied her earthly career, and, pressing the ruins of her heart, laid
herself meekly down, offering all upon the God-built altar of
filial obedience. In the

«, , . Early morning, when the air
Was delicate with some last starry touch,”

she opened the door of her father’s room and approached the
bed. The noise wakened him, and, raising himself on his
elbow, he looked wonderingly at her.

“What is the matter, Irene? You look as if you had not
closed your eyes.”

“Father, you took me in your arms last night, and kissed
me as you have not dowe before fur years; but I tearca nw.
when Mr. Bainbridge told you what passed between us at
298 MACARIA,

Mrs. Churchill’s you would again close your heart against me.
Do not! oh, do not! Because I prefer to remain at home with
you rather than accept his brilliant offer, ought you to love me
less? I have spent a sorrowful, a wretched night, and, like a
weary child, I come to you to find rest for my heart. Oh, father!
my father! do not cast me off again! Whom have I in the
world but you? By the memory of my sainted mother I ask
—I claim your love!”

“You are a strange girl, Irene; I never did understand you.
But I don’t want to drive you away from me, if you prefer to
live here single. There shajl be peace between us, my dear
daughter.” He leaned forward and laid his hand caressingly
on her head, as she knelt at his bedside, pleading with up-
lifted arms.

‘« And her face is lily-clear,
Lily-shaped and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The treacherous four years’ lull was broken at last by the
mutter of the storm which was soon to sweep over the na-
tion, prostrating all interests, and bearing desolation to almost
every hearthstone in our once happy, smiling land of consti-
tutional freedom. Sleepless watchmen on the tower of South-
ern Rights,—faithful guardians, like William T. Yancey,—
who had stood for years in advance of public opinion, lifting
their warning voices far above the howling waves of popular
faction and party strife, pointing to the only path of safety—
now discerned the cloud upon the horizon, and at the selec-
tion of delegates to the Charleston Convention hedged our
cause with cautious resolutions. Among the number ap.
pointed was Russell Aubrey; and during the tempestuous
debates which ushered in the war of 1861 his earnest, elo-
quent pleadings on the question of a platform rang through
his State, touching the master-chord that thrilled responsive
MACARIA. 299

in the great heart of the people. When demagogism tri-
umphed in that Convention, and the Democratic party was
rent into hopeless fragments, Russell returned to stump the
State in favor of the only candidate whom he believed the
South could trust with her liberties; and during the arduous
campaign that ensued he gathered fresh laurels and won a
brilliant reputation. Aside from individual ambitious pro-
jects, the purest patriotism nerved him in his ceaseless
labor.

He was deeply impressed with the vital consequences of the
impending election; and as the conviction forced itself upon
his mind that, through the demoralization of the Northern wing
ot Democracy, Lincoln would be elected, he endeavored to pre-
pare the masses for the final separation which he foresaw was
inevitable. During that five months’ campaign faction, fanat-
icism, demagogism held high revel—ran riot through the land.
The gauntlet had been thrown down by the South at Charleston
and Baltimore: “ The election of a sectional President will be
the signal for separation.” The North sneered at the
threat, derided the possibility, and in frantic defiance
the die was cast. The 6th of November dawned upon
a vast populous empire, rich in every resource, capable
of the acme of human greatness and prosperity, claim-
ing to be the guardian of peaceful liberty. It set upon a na-
tion rent in twain, between whose sections yawned a bottom-
less, bridgeless gulf where the shining pillars of the temple of
Concord had stood for eighty years, and a grating sound of
horror shuddered through the land as the brazen, blood-clot-
ted doors of Janus flung themselves suddenly wide apart.
Lincoln was elected. Abolitionism, so long adroitly cloaked,
was triumphantly clad in robes of state—shameless now,
and hideous; and while the North looked upon the loathsome
face of its political Mokanna, the South prepared for resist-
ance.

No surer indication of the purpose of the Southern people
could have been furnished than the temper in which the news
was received. No noisy outbursts, expending resolve in empty
words —no surface excitement—but a stern, calm gloom, set
lips, heavy, bent brows, appropriate in men who realized that
they had a revolution on their hands; not indignation meet-
ings, with fruitless resolutions—that they stood as body-guard
for the liberty of the Republic, and would preserve the trust
300 MACARIA,

at all hazards. It would seem that, for a time at least, party
animosities would have been crushed; but, like the Eumen-
ides of Orestes, they merely slept for a moment, starting up
wolfish and implacable as ever; and even here, in many in-
stances, the old acrimony of feeling showed itself. Bitter dif-
ferences sprang up at the very threshold on the modus operandi
-of Southern release from Yankee Egyptic bondage. Separate
“State action” or “co-operation” divided the people, many
being earnestly impressed by the necessity and expediency of de-
liberate, concerted, simultaneous action on the part of all the
Southern States, while others vehemently advocated this latter
course, solely because the former plan was advanced and sup-
ported by their old opponents. In this new issue, as if fate per-
sistently fanned the flame of hate between Mr. Huntingdon and
Russell Aubrey, they were again opposed as candidates for the
State convention. Ah! will-the ghost of Faction ever be laid
in this our republican land? Shall this insatiate immemorial
political Fenris forever prey upon the people?

W: was once more convulsed, and strenuous efforts were
made by both sides. Russell was indefatigable in his labors
for prompt immediate State action, proclaiming his belief
that co-operation was impracticable before secession; and it
was now that his researches in the dusty regions of statis-
tics came admirably into play, as he built up his arguments
on solid foundations of indisputable calculation.

For the first time in her life Irene openly confronted her
father’s wrath on political grounds. She realized the immi-
nence of the danger, dreaded the siren song of co-operation,
and dauntlessly discussed the matter without hesitation. The
contest was close and heated, and resulted somewhat singularly
in the election of a mixed ticket—two Secessionists being re-
turned and one Co-operationist, Mr. Huntingdon, owing to
personal popularity.

While the entire South was girding for the contest South
Carolina, ever the avant courier in the march for freedom,
seceded; and if any doubt had existed before, it vanished
now from every mind—for all felt that the gallant State must
be sustained. Soon after Russell and Mr. Huntingdon stood
face to face on the floor of their own State Convention and
wrestled desperately. The latter headed the opposition, and
so contumacious did it prove that for some days the fate of
the State lay in dangerous equilibrium. Finally, the vigilance

 
MACARIA, 301

of the Secessionists prevailed, and late in the afternoon of a
winter day the ordinance was signed.

Electricity flashed the decree to every portion of the State,
and the thunder of artillery and blaze of countless illuminations
told that the people gratefully and joyfully accepted the verdict.
W—— was vociferous; and as Irene gazed from the colonnade
on the distant, but brilliant, rows of lights flaming along the
streets, she regretted that respect for her father’s feelings kept
the windows of her own home dark and cheerless.

Revolution is no laggard, but swift-winged as Hermes, and as
quick succession seven sovereign States, in virtue of the in-
herent rights of a people acknowledging allegiance only to the
fundamental doctrine that all just governments rest on the con-
sent of the governed, organized a provisional government,
sprang, Pallas-like, upon the political arena, and claimed an
important réle in the grand drama of the nineteenth century.
It was not to be expected that a man of Mr. Huntingdon’s
known acerbity of temper would yield gracefully to a defeat
against which he had struggled so earnestly, and he submitted
with characteristic sullenness.

Great contrariety of opinion prevailed concerning the course
of the Federal Government—many deluding themselves with
the belief that the separation would be peaceful. But Russell
had stated his conviction at the time of Lincoln’s election that
no bloodless revolution of equal magnitude had yet been
effected, and that we must prepare to pay the invariable sac-
rificial dues which liberty inexorably demands.

So firm was this belief that he applied himself to the study
of military tactics, in anticipation of entering the army, and
many a midnight found him bending over Hardee, Mahan,
Gilham, Jomini, and Army Regulations.

The 12th and 18th of April were days of unexampled excite-
ment throughout the Southern States. The discharge of the
first gun from Fort Moultrie crushed the last lingering ves-
tiges of “Unionism,” and welded the entire Confederacy in
one huge homogeneous mass of stubborn resistance to despot-
ism.

With the explosion of the first shell aimed by General
Beauregard against Fort Sumtcr burst the frail, painted bubble
of “Reconstruction,” which had danced alluringly upon the
dark, surging billows of revolution. W—— was almost wild
with anxiety; and in the afternoon of the second day of tho
302 MACARIA.

bombardment, as Irene watched the avenue, she saw her father
driving rapidly homeward. Descending the steps, she met him
at the buggy.

“Beauregard has taken Sumter. Anderson surrendered un-
conditionally. No lives lost.”

“Thank God!”

They sat down on the steps, and a moment after the roar of
guns shook the atmosphere, and cheer after cheer went up the
evening sky.

“ Act I. of a long and bloody civil war,” said Mr. Huntingdon
gravely.

“Perhaps so, father; but it was forced upon us. We left no
honorable means untried to prevent it, and now it must be
accepted as the least of two evils. Political bondage—worse
than Russian serfdom—or armed resistance; no other alterna-
tive, turn it which way you will; and the Southern people are
not of stuff to deliberate as to choice in such an isssue. God
is witness that we have earnestly endeavored to avert hostil-
ities—that the blood of this war rests upon the Government at
Washington; our hands are stainless.”

“T believe you are right, and to-day I have come to a deter-
mination which will doubtless surprise you.”

He paused, and eyed her a moment.

“No, father; I am not surprised that you have determined
to do your duty.”

“How, Irene? What do you suppose that it is?”

“To use Nelson’s words, the Confederacy ‘expects that
every man will do his duty’; and you are going into the army.”

“Who told you that?”

“My own heart, father; which tells me what I should do
were I in your place.”

“Well, I have written to Montgomery, to Clapkam, to ten-
der my services. We were at West Point together; I served
under him at Contreras and Chapultepee, and he will, no
doubt, press matters through promptly. The fact is, I could
not possibly stay at home now. My blood has been at boiling
heat since yesterday morning, when I read Beauregard’s first
dispatch.”

“Did you specify any branch of the service?”

“Yes; I told him I preferred artillery. What is the matwr.
Your lips are as white as cotton. Courage failing you already
at thought of grape, shell, and canister?”
MACARIA, 803

A long shiver crept over her, and she shielded her face with
her hands. When she met his eagle eye again her voice was
unsteady.

“Qh, father! if I were only a man, that I might go with you
—stand by you under all circumstances. Couldn’t you take
me anyhow? Surely a daughter may follow her father, even
on the batttlefield?”

He laughed lightly, and swept his fingers over her head.

“Couldn’t you learn a little common sense, if you were to
try? Do you suppose I want all this gold braid of yours
streaming in my face while I am getting my guns into posi-
tion? A pretty figure you would cut in the midst of my bat-
tery! Really, though, Irene, I do not believe that you would
flinch before all the cannon of Borodino. My blood beats at
your heart, and it has never yet shown a cowardly drop. I¢
you were a boy, I swear you would not disgrace my name in
any conflict. By the way, what shall I do with you? It
won’t do to leave you here all alone.”

“Why not, father? Home is certainly the proper place for
me, if you cannot take me with you.”

“What! with nobody but the servants?”

“They will take better care of me than anybody else. Nel-
lie, and Andrew, and John are the only guardians J want in
your absence. They have watched over me all my life, and
they will do it to the end. Give yourself no trouble, sir, on my
account.”

“T suppose your uncle Eric will be home before long; he
can stay here till I come back—or—till the troubles are over.
In the meantime, you could be with the Harrises, or Hender-
sons, or Mrs. Churchill.”

“No, sir; I can stay here, which is infinitely preferable on
many accounts. I will, with your permission, invite Mrs.
Campbell to shut up the parsonage in her husband’s absence
and remain with me until Uncle Eric returns. I have no doubt
that she will be glad to make the change. Do you approve the
plan?”

“Yes. That arrangement will answer for the present, and
Arnold will be here to take care of you.”

At the close of a week a telegraphic dispatch was received,
informing Mr. Huntingdon of his appointment as major in
the provisional army of the Confederacy and containing an
order to report immediately for duty.
304 MACARIA,

Some days of delay were consumed in necessary preparations
for an indefinite absence. Sundry papers were drawn up by
Judge Harris—an old will was destroyed, a new one made—
and explicit directions were reiterated to the overseer at the
plantation. More reticent than ever, Irene busied herself in
devising and. arranging various little comforts for her father
when he should be debarred from the luxuries of home. No
traces of tears were ever visible on her grave, composed face;
but several times, on coming suddenly into the room,he found
that her work had fallen into her lap, and that her head was
bowed down on her arms. Once he distinguished low, plead-
ing words of prayer. She loved him with a devotion very rarely
found between father and child, and this separation cost her
hours of silent agony which even her father could not fully
appreciate.

Having completed his arrangements, and ordered the car-
riage to be in readiness at daylight next morning to convey
him to the depot, he bade her good-night much as usual, and
retired to his own room.

But thought was too busy to admit of sleep. He turned
restlessly on his pillow, rose and smoked a second cigar, and
returned, to find himself more wakeful than ever. The clock
downstairs in the library struck one; his door opened softly,
and, by the dim moonlight struggling through the window, he
saw Irene glide to his bedside.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, Irene?”

“Because I can’t. I am too miserable.”

Her voice was dry, but broken, faltering.

“T never knew you to be nervous before; I thought you
scorned nerves? Here, my daughter—take this pillow, and
lie down by me.”

She put her arm about his neck, drawing his face close to
hers, and he felt her lips quiver as they touched his cheek.

“Father, when yeu know exactly where you are to be sta-
tioned, won’t you let me come and stay somewhere in the
vicinity where I could be with you if you should be wounded?
Do promise me this; it will be the only comfort I can
have.”

“The neighborhood of an army would not be a pleasant
place for you; besides, you could do me no good even if I were
hurt. I shall have a surgeon to attend to all such work much
better than your inexperienced hands could possibly do it. I
MACARIA, 305

am surprised at you, Irene; upon my word, I am. I thought
you wanted me to go into service promptly?”

“So I do, father. I think that every man in the Confederacy
who can leave his family should be in our army; but a stern
sense of duty does not prevent people from suffering at separa-
tion and thought of danger. I should be unworthy of my
country if I were selfish enough to want to keep you from its
defense; and yet I were unworthy of my father if I could see
you leave home, under such circumstances, without great grief.
Oh! if I could only go with you! But to have to stay here, use-
less and inactive!”

“Yes—it is bad to be obliged to leave you behind, but it
can’t be helped. I should feel much better satisfied if you
were married, and had somebody to take care of you in case
anything happens to me. It is your own fault that you are
not; I never could understand what possessed you to discard
Bainbridge. Still, that is passed, and I suppose irreparable,
and now you must abide by your own choice.”

“T am satisfied with my choice; have no regrets on any
score, save that of your departure. But, father, the future is
dark and uncertain; and I feel that I want an assurance of
your entire reconciliation and affection before you go. I came
here to say to you that I deeply regret all the unfortunate cir-
cumstances of my life which caused you to treat me so coldly
for a season—that if in anything I have ever seemed obstinate
or undutiful, it was not because I failed in love for you, but
from an unhappy difference of opinion as to my duty under
very trying circumstances. Father, my heart ached very bit-
terly under your estrangement—the very memory is unut-
terably painful. I want your full, free forgiveness now, for all
the trouble I have ever occasioned you. Oh, father! give it to
me!”

He drew her close to him, and kissed her twice.

“You have my forgiveness, my daughter—though I must
tell you that your treatment of poor Hugh has been a contin-
ual source of sorrow and keen disappointment to me. I never
can forget your disobedience in that matter. I do not believe
you will ever be happy, you have such a strange disposition;
but since you took matters so completely in your own hands,
you have only yourself to reproach. Irene, I very often wonder
whether you have any heart—for it seems to me that if you
have, it would have been won by the devotion which has been
306 MACARIA.

lavished on you more than once. You are the only woman I
ever knew who appeared utterly incapable of love; and I some-
times wonder what will become of you when I am dead.”

“God will protect me. I look continually to his guardian-
ship. Father, do not be offended if I beg you most earnestly
to give some thought to Him who has blessed you so abun-
dantly in the privileges of this world, and to prepare for that
future into which you may be ushered, at any moment, from
the battlefield. You have never allowed me to speak to you
on this subject; but, oh, my dear father! it is too solemn a
question to be put aside any longer. If you would only pray
for yourself, my mind would be eased of such a weight of
anxiety and apprehension. Oh! that the spirit of my mother
may join in my prayers before the Throne in your behalf.”

He unclasped her arms and turned his face away, saying
coldly:

“Do you consider it your privilege to tell me that I am so
wicked there is no hope for me in the next world, if there be
one?”

“No! no! father; but it is enjoined, as the duty of even
the purest and holiest, to acknowledge their dependence upon
God, and to supplicate his mercy and direction. It is true,
I pray constantly for you, but that is a duty which our Maker
requires every individual to perform for himself. Do not be
displeased, father; if it were anything else than your eternal
happiness, I should not presume to question your conduct. I
ean only hope and trust that your life will be spared, and that
some day you will without offense suffer me to talk to you of
what deeply concerns my peace of mind. I won’t keep you
awake any longer, as you have a tedious journey before you.
Good-night, my dear father.”

She kissed him tenderly and left him, closing the door softly
behind her.

A spectral crescent moon flickered in the sky, and stars still
burned in the violet east, when the carriage came to the door,
and Irene followed her father to the steps.

Even in that dim, uncertain gray light he could see that her
face was rigid and haggard, and tears filled his cold, briiliant
eyes as he folded her to his heart.

“Good-by, Beauty. Cheer up, my brave child! and look on
the bright side. After all, I may come back a brigadier-
general, and make you one of my staff-officers! You shall be
MACARIA, 307

my adjutant, and light up my office with your golden head.
Take care of yourself until Eric comes, and write to me often.
Good-by, my dear, my darling daughter.”

She trembled convulsively, pressing her lips repeatedly to
his,

“Oh, may God bless you, my father, and bring you safely
back to me!”

He unwound her arms, put her gently aside, and stepped
into the carriage.

William, the cook, who was to accompany him, stood sob-
bing near the door, and now advancing, grasped her hand.

“Good-by, Miss Irene. May the Lord protect you all till
we come back!”

“William, I look to you to take care of father, and let me
know at once if anything happens.”

“T will, Miss Irene. I promise you I will take good care
of master, and telegraph you if he is hurt.”

He wrung her hand, the carriage rolled rapidly away, and
the sorrow-stricken, tearless woman sat down on the steps and
dropped her head in her hands. Old Nellie drew near, wiping
her eyes, and essaying comfort.

“Don’t fret so, child. When trouble comes it will be time
enough to grieve over it. Master was in the Mexican war,
and never had a scratch; and maybe he will be as lucky this
time. Don’t harden your face in that flinty way. You never
would cry like other children, but just set yourself straight up,
for all the world like one of those stone figures standing over
your grandfather’s grave. Try to come and take a nap; I
know you haven’t shut your eyes this night.”

“No—I can’t sleep. Go in, Nellie, and leave me to myself.”

The shrill scream of the locomotive rang through the still,
dewy air, and between two neighboring hills the long train of
cars dashed on, leaving a fiery track of sparks as it disappeared
around a curve. Oppressed with a horrible dread, against
which she struggled in vain, Irene remained alone, and was
only aroused from her painful reverie by the low, musical coo~
ing of the pigeons, already astir. As they fluttered and nestled
about, she extended her arms, and catching two of the gentlest
to her heart, murmured mournfully:

“Come, messengers of peace! bring me resignation. Teach
me patience and faith.”

The empty carriage came slowly up the avenue, as if re-
308 MACARIA,

turning from a funeral, and passed to the stable yard; birds
chirped, twittered, sang in the waving, glistening tree-tops;
the sun flashed up in conquering splendor, and the glory of
the spring day broke upon the world.
“«« To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself,

And goest where thou would’st: presently

Others shall gird thee,’ said the Lord, ‘ to go

Where thou would’st not.’”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

To those who reside at the convulsed, throbbing heart of a
great revolution a lifetime seems compressed into the com-
pass of days and weeks, and men and women are conscious of
growing prematurely old while watching the thundering tramp
of events, portentous with the fate of nations. W. pre-
sented the appearance of a military camp, rather than the
peaceful manufacturing town of yore. Every vacant lot was con-
verted into a parade-ground—and the dash of cavalry, the low,
sullen rumble of artillery, and the slow, steady tread of infan-
try echoed through its wide, handsotne streets. Flagstaffs
were erected from public buildings, private residences, and at
the most frequented corners, and from these floated banners
of all sizes, tossed proudly in the balmy breeze the new-born
ensign of freedom—around which clustered the hopes of a
people who felt that upon them, and them only, now devolved
the sacred duty of proving to the world the capacity of a na-
tion for self-government. In view of the iniquitous and im-
possible task which it had insanely set itself to accomplish, the
government at Washington had swept aside all constitu-
tional forms, in order to free its hands for the work of blood—
had ultimated in complete despotism. The press was
thoroughly muzzled—freedom of speech was erased from the list
of American privileges; the crowded cells of Bastile Lafayette,
McHenry, and Warren wailed out to the civilized world that
habeas corpus was no more; and, terror-stricken at the hideous
figure of Absolutism carved by cunning fingers and_ set
up for worship at Washington, Liberty fled from her
polluted fane, and sought shelter and shrine on the ban-
ner of the Confederacy, in the dauntless, devoted hearts
of its unconquerable patriots. Fondly and proudly was the

 
MACARIA. 3809

divinity guarded. Smiling, flowery valleys rang with pzaus
that rose high above the din of deadly strife—and rugged,
lonely hills and purple mountains lifted themselves to the God
of battle, like huge smoking altars red with the noble blood of
slaughtered heroes. Loathing and detestation succeeded the old
affection for the Federal government, and “Union ” became
everywhere the synonym of political duplicity, despotism, and
the utter abrogation of all that had once constituted American
freedom, and rendered the republic, in earlier years, the civil
Pharos of Christendom.. The Confederacy realized that the
hour had arrived when the historic Sphinx must find an
Cdipus, or Democratic Republican Liberty would be devoured,
swept away, with the debris of other dead systems. Lifting
their eyes to God for blessing, the men of the South girded on
their swords and resolved, calmly and solemnly, to prove that
(Edipus—to read, and for ever set at rest the haunting,
vexing riddle. Another ) adjective than “Spartan” must
fleck with glory the pages of future historians, for all the
stern resolution and self-abnegation of Rome and Lacedseemon
had entered the souls of Southern women. Mothers closed
their lips firmly to repress a wail of sorrow as they buckled on
the swords of their first-born and sent them forth with a “ god-
speed!” to battle for the right; fond wives silently packed
their husband’s knapsacks, with hands that knew no faltering;
and sisters with tearless eyes bent by the light of midnight
lamps over canteens which their thoughful care covered for
brothers who were to start for the scene of action on the mor-
row. A nation of laboring, nimble-fingered, prayerful-hearted,
brave-spirited women, and chivalric, high-souled, heroic men,
who had never learned that Americans could live and not be
free. Grant us our reward, O God! the independence of the
land we hold so dear.

W—— gave her young men liberally; company after com-
pany was equipped, furnished with ample funds by the mu-
nificence of citizens who remained, and sent forward to Vir-
ginia, to make their breasts a shield for the proud old “ Mother
of Presidents.” The battle of Bethel was regarded as part
of an overture to the opera of blood, yclept “ Subjugation,”
and people watched in silence fox the crimson curtain to rise on
the banks of the Potomac. Russell Aubrey had succeeded in
raising a fine, full company for the war, as contra-distinguished
from twelve-months’ volunteers; and to properly drill and dis-
§10 MACARTA,

cipline it, he bent all the energy of his character. It was made
the nucleus of a new regiment, recruits gathered rapidly, and
when the regiment organized, preparatory to starting for Vir-
ginia, he was elected colonel, with Herbert Blackwell as lieu-
tenant-colonel, and Charles Harris was appointed adjutant.
They were temporarily encamped on the common between the
railroad depot and Mr. Huntingdon’s residence, and from the
observatory or colonnade Irene could look down upon the gleam-
ing tents and the flagstaff that stood before the officers’ quarters.
Re-eille startled her dawn and tattoo regularly warned her of
the shortness of summer nights. As the fiery carriage-horses
would not brook the sight of the encampment she discarded
them for a time, and when compelled to leave home rode
Erebus at no slight risk of her life—for he evinced the greatest
repugnance to the sound of drum or fife.

One afternoon she went over to the row, and thence to the
factory. A new company had been named in honor of her
father; uniforms and haversacks were to be furnished, and Mr.
Huntingdon had intrusted her with the commission. Select-
ing the cloth and accomplishing her errand, she returned by
way of the orphan-asylum, whose brick walls were rapidly ris-
ing under her supervision. One of the workmen took her
horse, and she went over to the building, talking to the princi-
pal mechanic about some additional closets which she desired
to have inserted. Dr. Arnold chanced to be passing, but saw
Erebus at the gate, stopped, and came in.

“T was just going up to the Hill to see you. Queen—glad I
am saved the trouble. Here, sit down a minute; I will clear
the shavings away. When did you hear from Leonard?”

“T had a letter yesterday. He was well, and on outpost duty
near Manassas.”

“Well, I shall join him soon.”

74 Sir 2?

“T say I shall join him very soon; don’t you believe it?
Why shouldn’t I serve my country as well as younger men?
The fact is, I am going as surgeon of Aubrey’s regiment. It
would never do to have that handsome young colonel maimed
for life, through the awkwardness of a new-fledged M. D.
Miss Salome would spoil her superb eyes with crying—which
catastrophe would, doubtless, distress him more than the loss
of a limb—eh, Irene?”

She looked at him, betraying neither surprise nor regret,
MAOARIA. 311

“When will you leave W- en

“Day after to-morrow morning; can’t get transportation any
sooner. Aubrey has received orders to report at once to Gen-
eral Beauregard. Child, have you been sick?”

“No, sir; I am glad you are going with the regiment; very
glad. Every good surgeon in the Confederacy should hasten
to the front line of our armies. Since you leave home, I am
particularly glad that you are going to Manassas, where you
can be near father.”

“Humph! Do you suppose that I am a patent life-preserver
against minie balls and grape-shot?”

“T know that you will do all that skill and affection can sug-
gest, and I shall feel much better satisfied.”

He mused a moment, watching her furtively.

“T suppose you have heard of the performance for to-more
row?”

“No, sir; to what do you allude?”

“The daughter of Herodias is preparing to dance.”

“T don’t understand you, doctor.”

“Oh, don’t you, indeed? Well, then, she intends to present
a splendid regimental flag with her own brown hands; and,
as Aubrey is to receive it, the regiment will march to Mrs.
Churchill’s, where the speeches will be delivered. Will you
attend?”

“Searcely, I presume, as I am not invited. I knew that
Salome was having a flag made, but was not aware that to-
morrow was appointed for the ceremony of presentation.”

“Who will look after you when I am gone? You are the
only tie I have here. I can’t bear to leave you.”

“T dare say I shall get on very well; and, besides, you, of
course, must go and do your duty, no matter what happens.”
“But you will be so lonely and isolated till Eric comes.”

She smiled suddenly, strangely, yet with no tinge of bitter-
ness.

“That is nothing new. I have been solitary all my life.”

“And it is your own fault. You might have married like
other people, and been happier.”

“You are mistaken in assuming that I am not happy in my
home.”

“Hush, Irene! hush! I know the signs of true happiness,
if I don’t possess it myself. You never murmur; oh, no!—
you are too proud! You don’t droop like some poor, weak,

 
312 MACARIA.

sickly souls; oh, no!—you are too stately and regal. You will
live and die a model of reticent, chill propriety; and when
you are in your shroud your placid, treacherous face will bear
no witness that you were cheated out of your rights in this
world.” ‘

Again she smiled, and laid her hand on his.

“ What a pity you mistook your forte in early life; with such
a fertile imagination, not physic, but fiction, was your calling.
When will you come to see me? I want you to take a parcel
to father for me; and then I want to have a long talk.”

“T know what the long talk amounts to. You need not
hold out any such rosy-cheeked apples of Sodom as a bait. I
am coming, of course, after the flag ceremonies, where I am
expected. At one o’clock I will be at the Hill—perhaps earlier.
Where now?”

“T must go by Mrs. Baker’s, to see about giving out some
sewing for the ‘Huntingdon Rifles.’ I can’t do it all at home,
and several families here require work. I shall expect you at
one o’clock—shall have lunch ready for you. By the way,
doctor, is there anything I can do for you in the sewing line?
It would give me genuine pleasure to make something for you,
if you will only tell me what you need. Think over your
wauts.”

She had caught up her reins, but paused, looking at him.
He averted his head quickly.

“T will tell you to-morrow. Good-evening.”

‘Turning. from the town, she took a narrow, sandy road lead-
ing among low, irregular hills, and after passing a thicket of
sweet-gum, bay, and poplar, that bordered a clear, brawling,
rocky-bosomed stream which ran across the road, she rode up to
a three-roomed log house. Two small children with anomalous,
bluish-white hair, were playing marbles in the passage, and a
boy, apparently ten years of age, was seated on the ground,
whistling “ Dixie,” and making split baskets, such as are gen-
erally used on plantations for picking cotton. He threw down
his work and ran to open the gate, which was tied with a piece
of rope.

“How do you do, Hanson? Is your mother at home?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave him her bridle and entered the house, in one of
the rooms of which she found a tall, muscular, powerful-look-
ing woman kneeling on the floor, and engaged in cutting out
MACARIA. 313

work from a roll of striped cloth. Putting her grayish hair
behind her ears, she paused, looked up, and, with scissors in
hand, said bluntly:

“Be seated, Miss Irene. I haven’t time, or I would get up.
Lucinda, bring some fresh water from the spring, and if your
grandmother is awake, tell her Miss Irene is here.”

“T see you have not finished your contract, Mrs. Baker.”

“Very nearly, ma’am, I will finish off and send in the last lot
of these haversacks by twelve o’clock to-morrow. The captain
was out to-day to hurry me up; said the regiment had orders
to leave day after to-morrow. I gave him my word that he
should have them by noon, and that is something I never break.”

“Have you heard from your husband since I saw you?”

Again the busy scissors paused.

“Not a word. But my boy, Robert, has had a terrible spell
of fever at Lynchburg. I received a few lines from the doc-
tor of the hospital yesterday. Thank God! he was better when
the letter was written. His father knows nothing of it. I
can’t find out exactly where Mr. Baker’s company is. They
are doing good service, I hope, somewhere—making their mark
on the Union wretches in the Virginia valley. I want to hear
that my husband had a hand in burning Wheeling.”

“T believe you told me that you were from Virginia?”

“Yes, ma’am; but not from that part of it, I want you to
understand. I was born in Amelia, thank my stars! and that
is as true as steel.”

“Tt must be a great trial to you to have your husband and
son so far off, and yet separated.”

“Of course I hate to have them away, and times are hard for
such a family as mine, with little means of support; but I
don’t grieve. Every man has to do his duty now, and every wo-
man, too. I told Stephen I thought I could take care of the
children and myself—that I would rather live on acorns, than
that he should not serve his country when it needed him; and
I told Robert when I fixed him off, that I never would dic
contented if he and his father did not both do something to
distinguish themselves in this war. I am a poor woman, Miss
Trene, but no soul loves the Confederacy better than I do, or
will work harder for it. JI have no money to lend the govern-
ment, but I give my husband and my child—and two better sol-
diers no State can show.”

“You have done your part nobly, and J trust both your dear
314 MACARIA,

ones will be spared, and brought back safely to you. How is
your mother to-day?”

“Very feeble. I was up nearly all night with her. She had
one of her bad spells. Have some water; it is sweet and cold.”

“Do you want any more work this week?”

“Yes, ma’am; I should like some after to-morrow. Do you
know where I can get any?”

“T can give you seventy-five flannel overshirts and the
same number of haversacks; but you could scarcely finish them
all in time, and I thought I would send you the shirts, and let
Mrs. Pitchard take the haversacks.”

“T shall be very glad to get them. You are not raising a
eompany yourself, Miss Irene?”

“Oh, no! but there is a new company named ‘ Huntingdon
Rifles,’ for my father, and he wishes to give them everything
they need. When can you come in to see me about cutting out
the shirts?”

“Day after to-morrow morning, quite early, if it will suit
you.”

“That will suit me very well. Here is the remedy for
asthma, which I mentioned to you once before. If you will
try it faithfully, I have no doubt it will at least relieve your
mother of much suffering. If you can’t find the ingredients
here, let me know, and I can get them from the plantation.”

As the kneeling figure received the slip of paper she rose,
and tears gathered in the large, clear gray eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Irene; it is very good of you to remember
my poor old mother so constantly. I am afraid nothing will
ever do her much good; but I am grateful to you, and will try
your remedy faithfully. I want to thank you, too, for the
good you have done Hanson; I never saw a boy so changed.
He is up by daylight Sunday mornings, getting all things in
trim, so that he can be off to Sabbath-school. I have always
tried to teach my children to be honest and upright, but I am
afraid I did not do my duty fully; I am afraid they were neg-
lected in some respects, till you began with them in Sabbath-
school.”

“Your children all learn very readily, but Hanson is par-
ticularly bright. I am very glad to have him in my class; he
is one of my best pupils.”

As she went homeward a shadow fell upon her face—a shadow
darker than that cast by the black plume in her riding-hat—
MACARIA. 315

and once or twice her lips writhed from their ordinary curves
of beauty. Nearing the encampment she lowered her veil, but
saw that dress parade had been dismissed, and as she shook
the reins and Erebus quickened hisgallop,she found herself face
to face with the colonel, who had just mounted his horse and
was riding toward town. She looked at him and bowed; but,
in passing, he kept his eyes fixed on the road before him, and
in the duskiness his face seemed colder and more inflexible
than ever. Such had been the manner of their occasional
meetings since the interview at the factory, and she was not
surprised that this, her first greeting, was disregarded. The
public believed that an engagement existed between him and
Salome, and the attentions heaped upon him by the family
of the latter certainly gave color to the report. But Irene was
not deceived; she had learned to understand his nature, and
knew that his bitterness of feeling and studied avoidance of
her betokened that the old affection had not been crushed.
Struggling with the dictates of her heart, and a sense of the
respect due to her father’s feelings, she passed a sleepless night
in pacing the gallery of the conservatory. It was 4 vigil of
almost intolerable perplexity and anguish. Under all its pain-
ful aspects she patiently weighed the matter, and at snnrise
next morning, throwing open the blinds of her room, she drew
her desk to the window, and wrote these words:

“Col. Aubrey:

“Before you leave W: allow me to see you for a few
moments. If your departure is positively fixed for to-morrow,
come to me this afternoon, at any hour which may be most
convenient.

 

“ Respectfully,
“Trene Huntingdon.
“Huntingdon Hill, June, 1861.”

As the regiment prepared to march to Mrs. Churchill’s resi-
dence, the note was received from Andrew’s hands. Return
ing his sword to its scabbard, the colonel read the paper twice,
three times—a heavy frown gathered on his forehead, his
swarthy cheek fired, and, thrusting the note into his pocket,
turned toward his regiment, saying hastily to the servant:

“You need not wait. No answer is expected.”

At +he breakfast-table Irene opened a hasty missive from
316 MACARIA.

Salome, inviting her to be present at the presentation of the
flag, and begging a few choice flowers for the occasion. Smil-
ing quietly, she filled the accompanying basket with some of
the rarest treasures. of the green-house, added a bowl of rasp-
berries which the gardener had just brought in, and sent all,
with a brief line excusing herself from attending.

The morning was spent in writing to her father, preparing
a parcel for him, and superintending the making of a large
quantity of blackberry jelly and cordial for the use of the
hospitals.

About noon Dr. Arnold came, and found her engaged in
sealing up a number of jars, all neatly labeled. The day was
warm; she had pushed back her hair from her brow, as she
bent over her work; the full sleeves were pinned up above the
elbow, and she wore a white check muslin apron to protect her
dress from the resin and beeswax.

“Tn the name of Medea and her ealdron! what are you about,
Irene?”

“Fixing a box of hospital stores for you to take with you.”

“Fixing! you Yankee! crucify that word! I detest it. Say
arranging, getting up, putting in order, aggregating, conglom-
erating, or what you will, but save my ears from ‘ fixing!’
How do I know that all that trash wasn’t boiled in a brass ket-
tle, and is not rank poison?”

“Because I always use a porcelain kettle, sir. Here is a
glass; try some of my ‘trash.’ I am determined to receive you
‘cordially.’ ”

“Take my advice, Queen, and never attempt another pun so
long as life and reason are spared to you. It is an execrable,
heathenish, uncivil practice, which should be tabooed in all
well-regulated, respectable families. As a class, your punsters
are a desperate, vulgar-souled set. Old Samuel Johnson
treated the world to a remarkably correct estimate of the whole
sorry tribe. Just a half-glass more. You have spilled a drop
on your immaculate apron. Well, your pun and your cordial
are about on a par; not exactly ecither—for one has too much
spice, and the other none at all.”

“Well, then, Fadladeen, I will reconsider, and send the box
to a Richmond hospital.”

“No; give it to me. The poor fellows who are to use it may
not be so fastidious. How much longer do you intend to sit
here? I did not come to make my visit to the pantry.”
MACARIA, 317

“T have finished, sir. Let me wash my hands, and I will
give you some lunch in the dining-room.”

“No; I lunched with the Israelites. Salome was brilliant
as a Brazilian firefly, and presented her banner quite grace-
fully. Aubrey looked splendidly in his uniform; was superbly
happy in his speech—always is. Madam did the honors in-
imitably, and, in fine—give me that fan on the table—every-
thing was decidedly comme il faut. You were expected, and
you ought to have gone; it looked spiteful to stay away. I
should absolutely like to see you subjected to 212° Fahrenheit,
in order to mark the result. Here I am almost suffocating with
the heat, which would be respectable in Soudan, and you sit
there bolt upright, looking as cool as a west wind in March.
Beauty, you should get yourself patented as a social refriger-
ator, ‘Warranted proof against the dog-days.’ What rigmarole
do you want me to repeat to Leonard?”

“T have sent a parcel and a letter to your buggy. Please
hand them to father, and tell him that I am well.”

“ And what is to become of my conscience in the meantime? ”

“Doctor, I might answer in the words of Raphael to the
Prefect of Alexandria: ‘What will become of it in any case,
my most excellent lord?’ ”

“Humph, child! I am not such a reprobate, after all. But
I am thankful that I am not as some Pharisees I know.”

She looked up in his harsh face to read the meaning. He
leaned forward, seized her hands, and said, hurriedly:

“Don’t look so much like one of your own pigeons might,
if you had coaxed it to come to you, and then slapped it off.
When I say bitter things, you may be sure you are the last
person in my thoughts. Straighten that bent lip; I did not
allude to you, my starry priestess. I meant all that noisy
crew down town, who ”

“Tet them rest; neither you nor I have any interest in
them. I wish, if you please, when you get to Manassas, that
you would persuade father to allow me to come, at least as
far as Richmond. You have some influence with him; will
you use it in my favor?”

“You are better off at home; you could not possibly do any.
good.”

“Still, I want te go. Remember, my father is all I have in
this world.”

“ And what have you elsewhere, Irene?”

 
318 MACARIA.

“My mother, my Saviour, and my God.”

“Are you, then, so very anxious to go to Virginia?” he re-
peated after a pause.

“T am. I want to be near father.”

“Well, I will see what I can do wth him. If I fail, recol-
lect that he is not proverbial for pliability. Look here—are
you nervous? Your fingers twitch, and so do your eyelids
occasionally, and your pulse is twenty beats too quick.”

“T believe I am rather nervous to-day.”

“Why so?”

“T did not sleep last night; that is one cause, I suppose.”

“And the reason that you did not sleep? Be honest with
me.”

“My thoughts, sir, were very painful. Do you wonder at
it, in the present state of the country?”

“Trene, answer me one question, dear child: What does the
future contain for you? What hope have you?—what do you
live for?”

“JT have much to be grateful for—much that makes me
happy, and I hope to do some good in the world while I live.
I want to be useful—to feel that I have gladdened some
hearts, strengthened some desponding spirits, carried balm to
some hearthstones, shed some happiness on the paths of those
who walked near me through life. There are seasons when I
regret my incapacity to accomplish more; but at such times,
when disposed to lament the limited sphere of woman’s in-
fluence, I am reminded of Pascal’s grand definition: ‘A sphere
of which the center was everywhere, the circumference no-
where;’ and I feel encouraged to hope that, after all, woman’s
circle of action will prove as sublime and extended. Doctor,
remember:

so8 No stream from its source
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course,
But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose
And set without influence somewhere. Who knows
What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No life
Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.’ ”’

“But who pointed your aims, and taught you these the-
ories ?”

“In the emptiness of my former life—the insatiable yearn-
ings for solid, unalloyed happiness. I enjoy society, and cling
MACARIA. 319

to many social ties; but these alone could not content me.
I love the world better, for striving to be of some little use
to it, and I should be pained to have anybody believe that I
have grown misanthropic or cynical, simply because I some-
times tire of a round of gayety, and endeavor to employ my
time usefully and for the benefit of my race. I felt the pres-
sure of the iron signet which the Creator set to his high com-
missions for life-long human labor, and, breaking the spell of
inertia that bound me, I have, in part, my reward.

see

. . . Get leave to work

In this world, ’tis the best you get at all;

For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts

Than men in benediction. God says ‘ sweat :

For foreheads’; men say ‘crowns’; and so we are crowned,
Aye, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel

Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work; get work;
Be sure ’tis better than what you work to get.’

God knows we do little enough for each other in this whirl
of selfishness and grasping after gain.”

“Have you, then, fully resolved to remain single?”

“Why do you ask me that, Dr. Arnold?”

“Because you are dear to me, Queen; and I should like to
see you happily married before I am Jaid in my grave.”

“You will never see it. Be sure I shall live and die Irene
Huntingdon.”

“What has induced you to doom yourself to a x

“Ask me no more, doctor. If I am content with my lot,
who else has the right to question?”

He looked into that fair, chiseled face, and wondered
whether she could be truly “content” ; and the purity and
peace in her deep, calm eyes baffled him sorely. She rose, and
laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Dr. Arnold, promise me that, if there is a battle, and father
should be hurt, you will telegraph to me at once. Do not hesi-
tate—let me know the truth immediately: Will you?”

“T promise.”

“And now, sir, what can I make or have made for you,
which will conduce to your comfort?”

“Have you any old linen left about the house, that could
be useful among the wounded?”

“T have sent off a good deal, but have some left. In what
form do you want it? As lint, or bandages?”

 
320 MACARIA,

“Neither; pack it just as it is, and send it on by express,
I can’t carry the world on my shoulders.”

“ Anything else?”

“Write to the overseer’s wife to sow all the mustard-seed
she can lay her hands on, and save all the sage she can.
And, Irene, be sure to send me every drop of honey you can
spare. That is all, I believe. If I think of anything else, I will
write you.”

“Will you take Cyrus with you?”

“Of course. What guarantee have I that some villainous
stray shell or shot may not ricochet, and shave my head off?
I shall take him along to drag me off the field, in any such
emergency; for if I am not a Christian myself, I want to be
buried by Christian people—not by those puritanical, golden-
ealf worshipers, of ‘ higher-law’ notoriety.”

“T trust that, in the exercise of your professional duties,
you will be in no danger. Surgeons are rarely hurt, I be-
lieve.”

“Not so sure of that. Spherical-case or grape-shot have
very little respect for scientific proficiency or venerable old
age. One thing is certain, however—if anything happens to
me, Cyrus will bring me home; and I want a quiet place near
your lot in the cemetery, where your hands, Queen, will some-
times be about my grave. Ah, child! I have lived a lonely,
savage sort of life, and spent little love on the world or the
people about me. JI have had neither wife, nor children, nor
sister in my home, to humanize me; but you have always had
a large share of my heart, and even Leonard can hardly love
you better than I do. Think of me sometimes, Queen, and
write to me freely. No eyes but mine will ever see your let~-
ters.”

He stood with his hands on her shoulders, speaking falter-
ingly; and, unable to reply immediately, she turned her lips to
the brawny hand which had caressed her for twenty-five years.

Making a great effort, she said pleadingly:

“Dr. Arnold, when I pray for father, I always include you
in my petitions. Do you never intend to pray for yourself?”

“T should not know how to begin now, my child.”

“Words always come with will. Postpone it no longer. Oh,
doctor! I beg of you to begin at once.”

Her lashes were heavy with unshed tears, as she looked up
in his face.
MACARIA. 321

“T have faith in your prayers, Queen, but not in my own.
Pray for me always, dear child. God bless you! my comfort,
my light, in a dark, troubled world of sin.”

He stooped, kissed her forehead, and hurried out to his
buggy.

She could not realize that he would be exposed to such im-
minent danger as many others—and, having concluded her
packing and dispatched the box to the depot, she wrote a few
lines to a well-known bookseller, and sent Andrew to the store.
An hour after he returned, bringing a package of small, but
elegantly bound Bibles. From among the number she selec-
ted one of beautiful, clear type, and taking it to her room,
locked herself in to escape all intrusion.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The summer day was near its death when Colonel Aubrey rode
up the avenue, whose cool, green arches were slowly filling
with shadows. Fastening his spirited horse to the iron post,
he ascended the marble steps, and John received his card, and
ushered him into the parlor. The rich lace curtains were
caught back from the wide windows to admit the air, and the
whole room was flooded with subtle, intoxicating perfume, from
numerous vases of rare flowers, which crowned mantel, étagére,
and center-table. On a small papier-maché stand drawn be-
fore one of the windows stood an exquisite cut-glass bowl,
fringed at edge with geranium leaves, and filled with perfect
golden-hearted water-lilies, whose snowy petals spread them-
selves regally, breathing incense. The proud and moody
visitor regarded them a moment, then his eyes ran around the
room, and rested on a large oval picture on the opposite wall.
This portrait of Irene had been painted soon after she left
school, and represented only the face and bust rising
out of a luminous purplish mist—a face which might
have served for Guido’s Aurora. Clad in the handsome,
glittering uniform, which showed his nobly-proportioned and
powerful figure advantageously, the officer sat, hat in hand,
the sable plume drooping toward the floor; and, as he scanned
the portrait, his lips moved, and these words crept inaudibly,
mutteringly, over them:
322 MACARIA.

“«¢ Behold her there,
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart;
My first, last love; the idol of my youth,
The darling of my manhood, and, alas!
Now the most blessed memory of mine age.’”

The frown on his face deepened almost to a scowl, inde-
seribably stern; he turned abruptly away, and looked through
the open window out upon the lawn, where flashes of sunshine
and dusky shadows struggled for mastery. The next moment
Irene stood at the door; he turned his head, and they were
face to face once more.

Her dress was of Swiss muslin, revealing her dazzling
shoulders and every dimple and curve of her arms. The glit-
tering bronze hair was looped and fastened with blue ribbons,
and from the heavy folds her favorite clematis bells hung
quivering with every motion, and matching, in depth of hue,
the violets that clustered on her bosom. The crystal calmness
of the countenance was broken at last; a new, strange light
brimmed the unfathomable eyes, and broke in radiant ripples
round the matchless mouth. On the white brow, with its
marble-like gleam, “pure lilies of eternal peace” seemed rest-
ing, as

‘* She looked down on him from the whole

Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days,
There were long months and years. in that heart-searching gaze.”

Never had her extraordinary beauty so stirred his heart; a
faint flush tinged his cheeks, but he bowed frigidly, and
haughtily his words broke the silence.

“You sent for me, Miss Huntingdon, and I obeyed your com-
mand. Nothing less would have brought me to your presence.”

She crossed the room and stood before him, holding out both
hands, while her scarlet lips fluttered perceptibly. Instead of
receiving the hands he drew back a step, and crossed his arms
proudly over his chest. She raised her eyes to his, folded her
palms together, and pressing them to her heart, said, slowly
and distinctly :

“JT heard that you were ordered to Virginia, to the post. of
danger; ‘and knowing to what risks you will be exposed, I
wished to see you at least once more in this world. Perhaps
the step T am taking may be condemned by some as a devia-
tion from the delicacy of my sex—I trust I am not wanting
in proper appreciation of what is due to my own self-respect—
MACARIA. 323

but the feelings that I have crushed back so long now de-
mand utterance. Russell, I have determined to break the seal
of many years’ silence—to roll away the stone from the
sepulcher—to tell you all. I feel that you and I must under-
stand each other before we part for all time, and, therefore, I
sent for you.”

She paused, drooping her head, unable to meet his search-
ing, steady, black eyes riveted upon hers; and drawing his tall,
athletic figure to its utmost height, he asked defiantly «

“You sent for me through compassionate compunctions, then
—intending at the close, to be magnanimous, and, in lieu of
disdain, tell me that you pity me?”

“Pity you? No, Russell; I do not pity you.”

“Tt is well. I neither deserve nor desire it.”

“What motive do you suppose prompted me to send for you
on the eve of your departure?”

“T am utterly at a loss to conjecture. I once thought you.
too generous to wish to inflict pain unnecessarily on anyone;
but God knows this interview is inexpressibly painful to me.”

A numbing suspicion crossed her mind, blanching lip and
cheek to the hue of death, and hardening her into the old
statue-like expression. Had he, indeed, ceased to love her?
Had Salome finally won her place in his heart? He saw, with-
out comprehending, the instantaneous change which swept over
her features, and regarded her with mingled impatience and
perplexity.

“Tf such be the truth, Colonel Aubrey, the interview is
ended.”

He bowed, and turned partially away, but paused irreso-
lute, chained by that electrical pale face, which no man,
woman, or child ever looked at without emotion.

“Before we part, probably forever, I should like to know
why you sent for me.”

“Do you remember that, one year ago to-night, we sat on
the steps of the factory, and you told me of the feeling you
had cherished for me from your boyhood?”

“It was a meeting too fraught with pain and mortification
to be soon forgotten.”

“T believe you thought me cold, heartless, and unfeeling
then?”

“There was no room to doubt. it. Your haughty coldness
carried its own interpretation,”
324 MACARIA,

“Because I knew such was the harsh opinion you had en-
tertained for twelve months, I sought this opportunity to re-
lieve myself of an unjust imputation. If peace had been pre-
served, and you had always remained quietly here, I should
never have undeceived you—for the same imperative reasons,
the same stern necessity, which kept me silent on the night
to which I allude, would have sealed my lips through life. But
all things are changed; you are going into the very jaws ot
death, with what result no human foresight can predict; and
now, after long suffering, I feel that I have earned and may
claim the right to speak to you of that which I have always
expected to bury with me in my grave.”

Again her crowned head bowed itself.

Past bitterness and wounded pride were instantly forgot-
ten; hope kindled in his dark, stern face a beauty that rarely
dwelt there, and, throwing down his hat, he stepped forward
and took her folded hands in his strong grasp.

“Trene, do you intend me to understand—are you willing
that I shall believe that, after all, I have an interest in your
heart—that I am more to you than you ever before deigned to
let me know? If it, indeed, be so, oh! give me the unmistak-
able assurance.”

Her lips moved; he stooped his haughty head to catch the
low, fluttering words:

“You said that night: ‘I could forgive your father all! all!
if I knew that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your
heart against me. Forgive him, Russell! You never can
know all that you have been to me from my childhood. Only
God, who sees my heart, knows what suffering our long aliena-
tion has cost me.”

An instant he wavered, his strong frame quivered, and then
he caught her exultingly in his arms, resting her head upon
his bosom, leaning his swarthy, hot cheeks on hers, cold and
transparent as alabaster.

“ At last I realize the dearest dream of my life! I hold you
to my heart, acknowledged all my own! Who shall dare dis-
pute the right your lips have given me! Hatred is powerless
now; none shall come between me and my own. Oh, Irene!
my beautiful darling! not all my ambitious hopes, not all the
future holds, not time, not eternity, could purchase the proud,
inexpressible joy of this assurance. I have toiled and
struggled. I have suffered in silence; I have triumphed and
MACARIA., 326

risen in the world that sometimes stung my fiery heart almost
to madness; and I have exulted, I have gloried in my hard-
earned success. But ambition dims, and my laurels wither,
in comparison with the precious, priceless consciousness of your
love. I said, ambition shall content me—shall usurp the ped-
estal where, long ago, I lifted a fair, girlish image; but the
old worship followed, haunted me continually. I looked up
from MS. speeches to find your incomparable, magnetic
eyes befcre me; and now, in the midst of bitterness and loneli-
ness, I have my great reward. God bless. you, Irene! for this
- one hour of perfect happiness in a cold and joyless life. If,
when disappointed and baffled by your habitual polished re-
serve, I have said or done harsh, unjust things, which wounded
you, forgive me—remembering only my love, and my torturing
dread that you would become Bainbridge’s wife. Oh! that was
the most horrible apprehension that ever possessed me.”

“Tnstead of cherishing your affection for me, you struggled
against it with all the energy of your character. I have seen,
for some time, that you were striving to crush it out—to for-,
get me entirly.”

“T do not deny it; and certainly you ought not to blame me.
You kept me at a distance with your chilling, yet graceful,
fascinating hauteur. I had nothing to hope—everything
to suffer. I diligently set to work to expel you utterly
from my thoughts; and, I tell you candidly, I endeavored
to love another, who was brilliant and witty, and universally
admired. But her fitful, stormy, exacting temperament
was too much like my own to suit me. I tried faith-
fully to become attached to her, intending to make
her my wife, but I failed signally. My heart clung stubbornly
to its old worship; my restless fiery spirit could find no repose,
no happiness save in the purity, the profound, marvelous calm
of your nature. You became the synonym of peace, rest; and,
because you gave me no friendly word or glance, locking your
passionless face ‘against me, I grew savage toward you. Did
you believe that I would marry Salome?”

“No! I had faith that, despite your angry efforts, your
heart would be true to me.”

“Why did you inflict so much pain on us both, when a word
would have explained all? When the assurance you have given
me to-day would have sweetened the past years of trial?”

“Because I knew it would not have that effect. I am con-
826 MACARIA,

stitutionally more patient than ‘you, and yet, with all my ef-
forts to be resigned to what could not be remedied, and to
bear my sorrow with fortitude, I found myself disposed to re-
pine; and; because I was so sure of your affection to—

“*Cry to the wind, oh, God! it might have been.’

A belief of my indifference steeled you against me—nerved you
to endurance. But a knowledge of the truth would have in-
creased your acrimony of feeling toward him whom you re-
garded as the chief obs‘acle, and this, at all hazards, I was re-
solved to avoid. Russell, I knew that our relations could never
be changed; that the barriers, for which neither you nor I are
responsible in any degree, were insurmountable; and that, in
this world, we must walk widely diverging paths, exchanging
few words of sympathy. Because I realized so fully the neces-
sity of enstrangement, I should never have acquainted you with
my own feelings, had I not known that a long, and perhaps
final, separation now stretches before us. In the painful
course which duty imposed on me, I have striven to promote
your ultimate happiness, rather than my own.”

“Trene, how can you persuade yourself that it is your duty
to obey an unjust and tyrannical decree, which sacrifices the
happiness of two to the unreasonable vindictiveness of one?”

“Remember that you are speaking of my father, and do
not make me regret that I have seen you in his house.”

“You must not expect of me more forbearance than my
nature is capable of. I have lost too much through his injus-
tice to bear my injuries coolly. I was never a meek man, and
strife and trial have not sweetened my temper. If you love
me—and the belief is too precious to me to be questioned now
—I hold it your duty to me and to your own heart to give
yourself to me, to gild our future with the happiness of which
the past has been cheated. Your father has no right to bind
your life a sacrifice upon the altar of his implacable hate; nor
have you a right to doom yourself and me to life-long sorrow,
because of an ancient feud, which neither of us had any
agency in effecting.”

“Duty, because inflexible and involving great pain, is not
therefore less imperative.”

He tightened his clasping arms, and exclaimed:

“Ah, Irene! I would willingly go into exile, with you for
my Chelonis. Perish ambition! live only such a future, But
MACARIA, 327

you remember nothing but Chelonis’ filial obligations, forget-
ting all she owed, and all she nobly gave, Cleombrotus.
If you would lay your hands in mine and give me
my right, oh! what a glory would crown the coming years!
Trene, before it is too late, have mercy on us both.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked up plead-
ingly in his flushed, eager face.

“Russell, do not urge me; it is useless. Spare me the pain
of repeated refusals, and be satisfied with what I have given
you. Believe that my heart is, and ever will be, yours en-
tirely, though my hand you can never claim. I know what I
owe my father, and I will pay to the last iota; and I know as
well what I owe myself, and, therefore, I shall live true to my
first and only love, and die Irene Huntingdon. More than
this you have no right to ask—I no right to grant. Be pa-
tient, Russell; be generous.”

“Patient! patient! I am but human.”

“Rise above the human; remember that, at best, life is
short, and that after a little while eternity will stretch its holy
circles before our feet. Such is my hope. I look down the
lonely, silent vista of my coming years, whose niches are filled
not with joy, but quiet resignation—and I see beyond the calm
shores of Rest, where, if faithful here, you and I may clasp
hands forever. To me this is no dim, shadowy, occasional com-
fort, but a fixed, firm, priceless trust.”

She felt the deep, rapid throbbing of his heart, as he held
her to his bosom; and a dark cloud of sorrow settled on his
features, while he listened to her low, sweet, steady voice. He
kissed her twice and said huskily:

“Do you intend to send me from you? To meet me hence~
forth as a stranger?”

“Circumstances which I cannot control make it neces-
sary.”

“ At least you will let me hear from you sometimes? You
will give me the privilege of writing to you?”

“Impossible, Russell; do not ask that of me.”

“Oh, Irene! you are cruel! Why withhold that melancholy
comfort from me?”

“Simply for the reason that it would unavoidably prove a
source of pain for both. I judge you by myself. A correspond-
ence would keep your mind constantly harassed on a subject
which time will inevitably soften, mellow; and the expecta-
328 MACARIA,

tion of letters from you would induce a feverish excitement
and impatience in my own heart, which I wish to escape. It
would feed useless regrets, and be productive only of harm,
I want neither your usefulness in life nor mine impaired by
‘ continual weak repining. If I can patiently bear a great sea of
silence between us henceforth, you certainly ought to be
stronger; should appreciate my motives, without suspecting
any diminution of affection on my part. If your life is
spared I shall anxiously watch your career, rejoicing in all
your honors, and the noble use of the talents which God gave
you for the benefit of your race and the advancement of truth.
No matter how the world may deride, or cynics sneer at the
supposition, I tell you solemnly, absence has no power over a
true woman’s heart. Her affection will triumph over separa-
tion, over silence, over death! over everything but loss of con-
fidence; over all but discovered unworthiness in its object. It
ean bid defiance to obstacles, to adverse fate, so long as trust
remains intact and respect is possible; that you will ever for-
feit either, I entertain no fear.”

“T am not as noble as you think me; my ambition is not as
unselfish as you suppose. Under your influence, other aims
and motives might possess me.”

“You mistake your nature. Your intellect and temperament
stamp you one of the few who receive little impression from ex-
traneous influences; and it is because of this stern, obstinate
individuality of character that I hope an exterded sphere of
usefulness for you, if you survive this war. Our country will
demand your services, and I shall be proud and happy in the
knowledge that you are faithfully and conscientiously discharg-
ing the duties of a statesman.”

“Ah! but the wages are hollow. My ambition has already
been gratified to some extent, and in the very flush of triumph
I sat down to eat its fruit, and smiled grimly over its dust
and ashes.”

“Because self-aggrandizement was then the sole aim. But
a holier, a more disinterested, unselfish ambition to serve cnly
God, Truth, and Country, will insure a blessed consciousness
of well-spent years and consecrated talents, comforting beyond
all else that earth can give.”

He shook his head sadly; placing his palm under her chin,
and tenderly raising the face. in order to scan it fully.

“Trene, oblige me in what may seem a trifle; unfasten your
MAOARIA, 329

hair and let it fall around you, as I have seen it once or twice
in your life.”

She took out her comb, untied the ribbons, and, passing her
\fingers through the bands, shook them down till they touched
{the floor.

He passed his hands caressingly over the glossy waves, and
smiled proudly.

“How often I have longed to lay my fingers on these rip-
pling folds, as they flashed around you so, or were coiled into
a crown about your head. With what glory they invest you!
Your picture there upon the wall seems lighted with the golden
gleam. Irene, give me a likeness of yourself as you stand now,
or, if you prefer it, have a smaller one photographed to-mor-
row from that portrait, and send it to me by express. I shall
be detained in Richmond several days, and it will reach me
safely. Do not, I beg of you, refuse me this. It is the only
consolation I can have, and God knows it is little enough!
Oh, Irene! think of my loneliness, and grant this last request.”

His large, brilliant eyes were full of tears, the first she had
ever seen dim their light; and, moved.by the grief which so
transformed his features, she answered hastily:

“Of course, if you desire it so earnestly, though it were
much better that you had nothing to remind you of me.”

“Will you have it taken to-morrow?”

“ Yes.”

She covered her face with her hands for some seconds, as if
striving to overcome some impulse; then, turning quickly to
him, she wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face
down to hers.

“Oh, Russell! Russell! I want your promise that you will
so live and govern yourself that, if your soul is summoned
from the battlefield, you can confront Eternity without a single
apprehension. If you must yield up your life for freedom,
I want the assurance that you have gone to your final home
at peace with God; that you wait there for me; and that, when
my work is done, and J, too, lay my weary head to rest, we shall
meet soul to soul, and spend a blessed eternity together,
where strife and separation are unknown. In the realization
of your ambitious dreams, I know that you have given no
thought to these things; and it was chiefly my anxiety to im-
press upon you their importance, their vital necessity, which
induced me to send for you. Your hard, bitter heart must be
330 MACARIA,

softened; you must try to overcome your vindictiveness; to
cherish more charity and forgiveness toward some who have
thwarted you. Sometimes, in watching your gloomy, stern
face, I have almost despaired that you would ever feel other-
wise; and many a night I have prayed fervently that you might
be influenced to make some preparation for futurity. Oh, Rus-
sell! I can be brave, and strong, and patient; I can bear to
see your dear face no more in this world; I can give you up to
our country, and not murmur that you died defending her
liberties—if I have the conviction that, in that noble death,
you found the gate of heaven—that I shall meet you again
when my God calls me home. Think of this when you lcave
me for the temptations of camp-life, and go forth to scenes of
strife and horror. Think of it by day and night, striving to
subdue your heart in accordance with the precepts of Christ;
to exert a restraining, purifying influence over your command;
and remember, oh, remember, Russell! that this is the only
hope I have to cheer me. Will you promise to read the Bible
I give you now—to pray constantly for yourself? Will you
promise to meet me beyond the grave?”

His black locks lay upon her forehead as he struggled for
composure, and, after a moment, he answered, solemnly:

“T will try, my darling.”

She put into his hand the Bible, which she had carefully
marked, and which bore on the blank leaf, in her handwriting,
“Colonel Russell Aubrey, with the life-long prayers of his best
friend.”

“Thank God! for that promise. I shall lean my heart upon
it till the last pulsations are stilled in my coffin. And now I
will keep you no longer from your regiment. I know that you
have many duties there to claim your time. Turn your face
toward the window; I want to look at it, to be able to keep its
expression always before me.”

She put up her waxen hand, brushed the hair from his pale,
domelike brow, and gazed earnestly at the noble features, which
even the most fastidious could find no. cause to carp at.

“Of old, when Eurystheus threatened Athens, Macaria, in
order to save the city and the land from invasion and sub-
jugation, willingly devoted herself a sacrifice upon the altar
of the gods. Ab, Russell! that were an easy task in com-
parison with the offering I am called upon to make. I can-
not, like Macaria, by self-immolation redeem my country;
MACARIA, 331

from that great privilege I am debarred; but I yield up more
than she ever possessed. I give my all on earth—my father
and yourself—to our beloved and suffering country. My God!
accept the sacrifice, and crown the South a sovereign, independ-
ent nation! Gladly, unshrinkingly would I meet a death so
sublime; but to survive the léss of those dearer far than my
life, to live and endure such desolation—oh! my lot, and that
of thousands of my countrywomen, is infinitely more bitter
than the fate of Macaria!”

She smothered a moan, and her head sank on his shoulder;
but lifting it instantly, with her fathomless affection beaming
in her face, she added:

“To the merey and guidance of Almighty God I commit you,
dear Russell—trusting all things in His hands. May He shield
you from suffering, strengthen you in the hour of trial, and
reunite us eternally in His kingdom, is, and ever shall be, my
constant prayer. Good-by, Russell! Do your duty nobly; win
deathless glory on the battlefield, in defense of our sacred cause;
and remember that your laurels will be very precious to my
lonely heart.”

He folded her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly; but,
disengaging herself, she put him gently aside, and snatching
up his hat, he left the room. He reached his horse, then
paused, and returned to the parlor.

The sun had set, but waves of rich orange light rolled
through the window, and broke over the white figure kneel-
ing there, half-veiled by curling hair. The clasped hands were
uplifted and the colorless face was thrown back in silent sup-
plication. He watched the wonderful loveliness of face and
form till: his pride was utterly melted, and, sinking on his
knees, he threw one arm around her waist, exclaiming:

“Oh, Irene! you have conquered! With God’s grace I will
so spend the residue of my iife as to merit your love and the
hope of reunion beyond the grave.”

She laid her hand lightly on his bowed head as he knelt
‘beside her, and, in a voice that knew no faltering, breathed out
a fervent prayer, full of pathos and sublime faith, invoking
blessings upon him—life-long guardianship, and final salvation
through Christ. The petition ended, she rose, smiling through
the mist that gathered over her eyes, and he said:

“T came back to ask something which I feel that you will
_ not refuse me. Electra will probably soon come home, and
382 MACARIA.

she may be left alone in the world. Will you sometimes go to
her for my sake, and give her your friendship?”

“T will, Russell, for her sake, as well as for yours. She
will be the only sister I have ever known.”

She drew his hand to her lips, but he caught it away, and
pressed a last kiss upon them. ~

“Good-by, my own darling! my life angel!”

She heard his steps across the hall; a moment after, the
tramp of his horse, as he galloped down the avenue, and she
knew that the one happy hour of her life had passed—that the
rent sepulcher of silence must be resealed.

Pressing her hands over her desolate Leart, she murmured
sadly:

“Thy will, not mine, oh, Father! Give me strength to do
my work; enable me to be faithful even to the bitter end.”

CHAPTER XXX.

Strange heroic parallelisms startle the grave, reflecting
student of history, and propound the inquiry: Is the Buckle
theory of immutable cycles correct? Is the throbbing, surging
world of human emotions and passions but a mere arithmetical
problem, to be solved through the erudition and astuteness of
a Quetelet or Hassel, by an infallible statistical rule-of-three?
Has the relentless Necessity of Comte erected its huge mill on
this continent to grimly grind out the annual quantity of
patriotism, tyranny, self-abnegation, or Machiavelism, in the
prescribed, invariable ratio of “Sociology?” Is it that times
make men and women, throughdirenecessity of individual or na-
tional salvation, or will it be urged that sublime records of the
past fire the soul to emulation and duplication of ancient hero-
ism? Davus sum, non (Edipus. In 1781, when compelled to
raise the siege of Ninety-six, it became very important that
General Greene should communicate with Sumter. The inter-
vening country was, however, so filled with British and Tories,
and such dangers attended the mission, that no one could be
found willing to undertake it. In this emergency, when even
our patriots of the first Revolution shrank back, Emily Geiger,
only eighteen years of age, volunteered to make the hazardrous
attempt, and received from General Greene a letter and ver-
bal messages, which he was extremely desirous should reach
MACARIA, 3833

their destination. Mounting a swift horse, she performed a
portion of the journey in safety; but was ultimately arrested
by two Tories, who suspected that she might be rendering im-
portant, though clandestine, service to “the rebels.” Swiftly
and unobserved she swallowed the written dispatch, amd,
baffled in their expectation of finding suspicious documents,
they allowed her to proceed. Sumter’s camp was safely
reached, the messages were delivered, General Greene’s army
was re-enforced, and soon became strong enough to assume the
offensive. Rawdon was forced to retreat, and Greene sub-
sequently met and vanquished the British army at Eutaw
Springs. Was not Emily Geiger’s slender womanly hand in-
strumental in preparing for that battle, the result of which
freed the Carolinas?

In July, 1861, when the North, blinded by avarice and hate,
rang with the cry of “ On to Richmond,” our Confederate army
of the Potomac was divided between Manassas and Winchester,
watching at both points the glittering coils of the Union boa-
constrictor, which writhed in its efforts to crush the last sanc-
tuary of freedom. The stringency evinced along the Federat
lines prevented the transmission of dispatches by the Seces~
sionists of Maryland, and for a time General Beauregard and
Johnston were kept in ignorance of the movements of the
enemy. Patterson hung dark and lowering around Win-
chester, threatening daily descent; while the main column of
the grand army under McDowell proceeded from Washington-
confident in the expectation of overwhelming the small army
stationed at Manassas. The friends of liberty who were com-
pelled to remain in the desecrated old capital appreciated the
urgent necessity of acquainting General Beauregard with the
designs of McDowell, and the arch-apostate, Scott; but all
channels of egress seemed sealed; all roads leading across the
Potomac were vigilantly guarded, to keep the secret safely;
and painful apprehensions were indulged for the fate of the
Confederate army. But the Promethean spark of patriotic
devotion burned in the hearts of Secession women; and, re-
solved to dare all things in a cause so holy, a young lady of
Washington, strong in heroic faith, offered to encounter any
perils, and pledged her life to give General Beauregard the
necessary information. Carefully concealing a letter in the
twist of her luxuriant hair, which would escape detection even
should she be searched, she disguised herself effectually, and,
3834 MACARIA.

under the mask of a market-woman, drove a cart through
Washington, across the Potomac, and deceived the guard by
selling vegetables and milk as she proceeded. Once beyond
Federal lines, and in friendly neighborhood, it was but a few
minutes’ work to “off ye lendings,” and secure a horse and
riding-habit. With a courage and rapidity which must ever
command the admiration of a brave people, she rode at hard gal-
lop that burning July afternoon to Fairfax Court-house, and
telegraphed to General Beauregard, then at Manassas Junc-
tion, the intelligence she risked so much to convey. Availing
himself promptly of the facts, he flashed them along electric
wires to Richmond, and to General Johnston; and thus,
through womanly devotion, a timely junction of the two
armies was effected, ere McDowell’s banners flouted the skies
of Bull Run.

Carthaginian women gave their black locks to string their
country’s bows and furnish cordage for its shipping; and the
glossy tresses of an American woman veiled a few mystic ciphers
more potent in General Beauregard’s hands than Talmudish
Shemhamphorash.

Her mission accomplished, the dauntless courier turned her
horse’s head, and, doubtless, with exulting, thankful heart re-
turned in triumph to Washington. When our national jewels
are made up, will not a grateful and admiring country set her
name between those of Beauregard and Johnston in the
revolutionary diadem, and let the three blaze through coming
ages, baffling the mists of time—the Constellation of Manassas?
The artillery duel of the 18th of July ended disastrously for
the advance guard of the Federals—a temporary check was
given.

All things seemed in abeyance; dun, sulphurous clouds of
sinoke lifted themselves from the dewy copse that fringed
Bull Run, floating slowly to the distant purple crests of the
Blue Ridge, which gazed solemnly down on the wooded
Coliseum, where gladiatorial hosts were soon to pour out
their blood in hideous orgies held by loathsome fanati-
cism—guarded by Federal bayonets, and canopied by the Stars
and Stripes. During the silent watches of Saturday night,

“« Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire.”

A pure Sabbath morning kindled on the distant hill-tops,
MACARIA. 335

wearing heavenly credentials of rest and sanctity on its pearly
forehead—credentials which the passions of mankind could
not pause to recognize; and with the golden glow of summer
sunshine came the tramp of infantry, the clatter of cavalry,
the sullen growl of artillery. Major Huntingdon had been
- temporarily assigned to a regiment of infantry after leaving
Richmond, and was posted on the right of General Beaure-
gard’s lines, commanding one of the lower fords. Two miles
higher up the stream, in a different brigade, Colonel Aubrey’s
regiment guarded another of the numerous crossings. As the
day advanced, and the continual roar of cannon toward Stone
Bridge and Sudley’s Ford indicated that the demonstrations
on McLean’s, Blackford’s and Mitchell’s fords were mere feints
to hold our right and center, the truth flashed on General
Beauregard that the main column was hurled against Evans’
little band on the extreme left. Hour after hour passed,
and the thunder deepened on the Warrenton road, then the
general learned, with unutterable chagrin, that his order for
an advance on Centreville had miscarried, that a brilliant plan
had been frustrated, and that new combinations and disposi-
tions must now be resorted to. The regiment to which Major
Hutingdon was attached was ordered to the support of the left
wing, and reached the distant position in an almost incredibly
short time, while two regiments of the brigade to which Colonel
Aubrey belonged were sent forward to the same point as a
reserve.

Like incarnations of victory, Beauregard and Johnston swept
to the front where the conflict was most deadly; everywhere
at sight of them, our thin ranks dashed forward, and were
mowed down by the fire of Ricketts’ and Griffin’s batteries,
which crowned the position they were so eager to regain. At
half-past two o’clock the awful contest was at its height; the
rattle of musketry, the ceascless whistle of rifle balls, the deaf-
ening boom of artillery, the hurtling hail of shot, the explosion
of shell, dense volumes of smoke shrouding the combatants,
the clouds of dust boiling up on all sides, lent unutterable hor-
ror to a scene which, to cold, dispassionate observers, might
have been sublime. As the vastly superior numbers of the
Federals forced our stubborn bands to give back slowly, an
order came from General Beauregard for the right of his line,
except the reserves, to advance, and recover the long and des-
perately disputed plateau. With a shout, the shattered lines
336 MACARIA,

sprang upon the foe and forced them temporarily back. Major
Huntingdon’s horse was shot under him; he disengaged him-
self and marched on foot, waving his sword and uttering
words of encouragement. He had proceeded but a few yards
when a grape-shot entered his side, tearing its way through his
body, and he fell where the dead lay thickest. For a time the
enemy retired, but heavy re-enforcements pressed in, and they
returned, reoccupying the old ground. Not a moment was to
be lost; General Beauregard ordered forward his reserves for
a second effort, and with magnificent effect led the charge in
person. Then Russell Aubrey first came actively on the field.
At the word of command he dashed forward with his splendid
regiment, and high above alli towered his powerful form, with
the long, black plume of his hat drifting upon the wind as he
led his admiring men.

As he pressed on, with thin nostrils dilated, and eyes that
burned like those ot a tiger seizing his prey, he saw, just in
his path, leaning on his elbow, covered with blood and smeared
with dust, the crushed writhing form of his bitterest enemy.
His horses’ hoofs were almost upon him; he reined him back
an instant, glaring down at his old foe; it was only for an
instant, and as Major Huntingdon looked on the stalwart figure
and at the advancing regiment, life-long hatred and jealousy
were forgotten—patriotism throttled all the past in her grasp
—he feebly threw up his hand, cheered faintly, and, with his
eyes on Russell’s smiled grimly, saying, with evident difficulty:

“ Beat them back, Aubrey! Give them the bayonet!”

The shock was awful, beggaring language. On, on they
swept, while ceaseless cheers mingled with the cannonade; the
ground was recovered, to be captured no more. The Federals
were driven across the turnpike, and now dark masses of re-en-
forcements debouched on the plain, and marched toward our
left. Was it Grouchy or Blucher? Some moments of painful
suspense ensued, while General Beauregard strained his eyes
to decipher the advancing banner. Red and white and blue
certainly; but was it the ensign of despotism or of liberty?
Nearer and nearer came the rushing column, and lo! upon the
breezes streamed, triumphant as the Labarum of Constantine,
the Stars and Bars. Kirby Smith and Elzey! God be praised!
The day was won, and Victory nestled proudly among the
folds of our new-born banner. One more charge along our
whole line, and the hireling hordes of oppression fled, panic-
MACARIA, 337

stricken. Russell had received a painful wound from a minie
ball, which entered his shoulder and ranged down toward the
elbow, but he maintained his position, and led his regiment a
mile in pursuit. When it became evident that the retreat was
a complete rout, he resigned his command to Lieutenant-
Colonel Blackwell, and rode back to the battlefield.
Hideous was the spectacle presented—dead and dying,
friend and foe, huddled in indiscriminate ruin, weltering
in blood and shivering in the agonies of dissolution, blackened,
headless trunks and fragments of limbs—ghastly sights and
sounds of woe, filling the scene of combat.

Picking his way to avoid trampling the dead, Russell saw
Major Huntingdon at a little distance, trying to drag himself
toward a neighboring tree. The memory of his injuries crowded
upon the memory of all that he had endured and lost through
that man’s prejudice—the sorrow that might have been averted
from his blind mother—and his vindictive spirit rebelled at
the thought of rendering him aid But as he paused and strug-
gled against his better nature, Irene’s holy face, as he saw it
last, lifted in prayer for him, rose, angel-like, above all that
mass of death and horrors. The sufferer was Irene’s father;
she was hundreds of miles away; Russell set his lips firmly, and,
riding up to the prostrate figure, dismounted. Exhausted by
his efforts, Major Huntingdon had fallen back in the dust, and
an expression of intolerable agony distorted his features as
Russell stooped over him and asked in a voice meant to be
gentle:

“Can I do anything for you? Could you sit up if I placed
you on my horse?”

The wounded man scowled as he recognized the voice and
face, and he turned his head partially away, muttering:

“What brought you here?”

“There has never been any love between us, Major Hunting-
don; but we are fighting in the same cause for the first time in
our lives. You are badly wounded, and, as a fellow soldier, I
should be glad to relieve your sufferings, if possible. Once
more, for humanity’s sake, I ask, can you ride my horse to the
rear, if I assist you to mount?”

“No. But, for God’s sake, give me some water!”

Russell knelt, raised his head, and unbuckling his canteen,
put it to his lips, using his own wounded arm with some dif-
ficulty. Half of the contents was eagerly swallowed, and the

 
338 MACARIA,

remainder Russell poured slowly on the gaping, ghastly wound
in his side. The proud man eyed him steadily till the last
cool drop was exhausted, and said sullenly:

“You owe me no kindness, Aubrey. I hate you, and you
know it. But you have heaped coals of fire on my head. You
are more generous than I thought you. Thank you, Aubrey;
lay me under that tree yonder, and let me die.”

“JT wiil try to find a surgeon. Who belongs to your regi-
ment?”

“Somebody whom I never saw until last week. I won’t have
him hacking about me. Leave me in peace.”

“Do you know anything of your servant? I saw him as I
came on the field.”

“Poor William! He followed me so closely that he was
shot through the head. He is lying three hundred yards to
the left, yonder. Poor fellow! he was faithful to the last.”

A tear dimmed the master’s eagle eye as he muttered, rather
than spoke these words.

“ Then I shall find Dr. Arnold at once, and send him to
you.”

It was no easy atten. on that crowded, confused Aceldama,
and the afternoon was well-nigh spent before Russell,
faint and weary, descried Dr. Arnold busily using his instru-
ments in a group of wounded. He rode up, and, having pro-
cured a drink of water and refilled his canteen, approached
the surgeon.

“Doctor, where is your horse? I want you.”

“Ho, Cyrus! bring him up. What is the matter, Aubrey?
You are hurt.”

“Nothing serious, I think. But Major Huntingdon is des-
perately wounded—mortally, I am afraid. See what you can
do for him.”

“You must be mistaken! I have asked repeatedly for Leon-
ard, and they told me he was in hot pursuit, and unhurt. I
hope to heaven you are mistaken.”

“Tmpossible; I tell you I lifted him out of a pool of his own
blood. Come; I will show you the way.”

At a hard gellop they rode across the intervening woods, and
without difficulty Russell found the spot where the mangled
form lay still. He had swooned, with his face turned up to
the sky, and the ghastliness of death had settled on his strongly-
marked, handsome features,
MACARIA, 339

“God pity Irene!” said the doctor, as he bent down and ex-
amined the horrid wound, striving to press the red lips together.

The pain caused from handling him roused the brave spirit
to consciousness, and opening his eyes he looked around
wonderingly.

“Well, Hiram, it is all over with me, old fellow.”

“T hope not, Leonard; can’t you turn a little, and let me
feel for the ball?”

“Tt is of no use; I am torn all to pieces. Take me out of
this dirt, on the fresh grass somewhere.”

“T must first extract the ball. Aubrey, can you help me raise
him a little?”

Administering some chloroform, he soon succeeded in taking
out the ball, and, with Russell’s assistance, passed a bandage
around the body.

“There is no chance for me, Hiram; I know that. I have
few minutes to live. Some water.”

Russell put a cup to his white lips, and, calling in the as-
sistance of Cyrus, who had followed his master, they carried
him several yards further, and made him comfortable, while
orders were dispatched for an ambulance.

“Tt will come after my corpse. Hiram, see that I am sent
home at once. I don’t want my bones mixed up here with other
people’s; and it will be some comfort to Irene to know that
I am buried in sight of home. I could not rest in a ditch here.
I want to be laid in my own vault. Will you see to it?”

73 Yes.”

“Hiram, come nearer, where I can see you better. Break
the news gently to Irene. Tell her I did my duty; that will
be her only comfort, and best. Tell her I fell in the thickest
of the battle, with my face to Washington; that I died glori-
ously, as a Huntingdon and a soldier should. Tell her a sent
her my blessing, my love, and a last kiss.”

He paused, and tears glided down his wan cheeks as the
picture of his far-off home rose temptingly before him.

“She is a brave child; she will bear it, for the sake of the
cause I die in. Take care of her, Arnold; tell Eric I leave
her to his guardianship. Harris has my will. My poor, lonely
child! It is bitter to leave her. My golden-haired Irene!”

He raised his hand feebly and covered his face.

“Don’t let it trouble you, Leonard. You know how I love
her; I promise you I will watch over her as long as I live.”
340 MACARIA,

“T believe you. But if I could see her once more, to ask
her not to remember my harshness—long ago. You must
tell her for me; she will understand. Oh! I 2

A horrible convulsion seized him at this moment, and so
intense was the agony that a groan burst through his set
teeth, and he struggled to rise. Russell knelt down and rested
the head against his shoulder, wiping off the cold drops that
beaded the pallid brow. After a little while, lifting his eyes
to the face bending over him, Major Huntingdon gazed into
the melancholy black eyes, and said, almost in a whisper:

“T little thought I should ever owe you thanks. Aubrey,
forgive me all my hate; you can afford to do so now. I am
not a brute; I know magnanimity when I see it. Perhaps I
was wrong to visit Amy’s sins on you; but I could not for-
give her. Aubrey, it was natural that I should hate Amy’s
son,”

Again the spasm shook the lacerated frame, and twenty
minutes after his fierce, relentless spirit was released from
torture; the proud, ambitious, dauntless man was with his God.

Dr. Arnold closed the eyes with trembling fingers, and
covered his face with his hands to hide the tears that he could
not repress.

“A braver man never died for freedom. He cheered me
on as my regiment charged over the spot where he lay,” said
Russell, looking down at the stiffening form.

“He had his faults, like the rest of us, and his were stern
ones; but, for all that, I was attached to him. He had some
princely traits. I would rather take my place there beside
him, than have to break this\to Irene! Poor, desolate
child! what an awful shock for her! She loves him with
a devotion which I have rarely seen equaled. God only knows
how she will bear it. If I were not so needed here, I would
go to her to-morrow.”

“Perhaps you can be spared.”

“No; it would not be right to leave so much suffering be-
hind.”

He turned to Cyrus, and gave directions about bringing the
body into camp, to his own tent: and the two mounted and
rode slowly back.

For a few moments silence reigned; then Dr. Arnold said
suddenly:

“T am glad you were kind to him, Aubrey. It will be some

 
MACARIA, 341

consolation to that pure soul in W-——, who has mourned over
and suffered for his violent animosity. It was very generous,
Russell.”

“Save your commendation for a better occasion; I do not
merit now. I had, and have, as little magnanimity as my
old enemy, and what I did was through no generous oblivion of
the past.”

Glancing at him as these words were uttered gloomily, the
doctor noticed his faint, wearied appearance, and led the way
to his temporary hospital.

“Come in, and let me see your arm. Your sleeve is full of
blood.” :

An examination discovered a painful flesh wound—the minie
ball having glanced from the shoulder and passed out through
the upper part of his arm. In removing the coat to dress the
wound, the doctor exclaimed:

“Here’s a bullet-hole in the breast, which must have just
missed your heart! Was it a spent ball?”

A peculiar smile disclosed Russell’s faultless teeth an in-
stant, but he merely took the coat, laid it over his uninjured
arm, and answered:

“Don’t trouble yourself about spent balls—finish your job.
I must look after my wounded.”

As soon as the bandages were adjusted he walked away, and
took from the inside pocket of the coat a heavy, square mor-
occo case containing Irene’s ambrotype. When the coat was
buttoned, as on that day, it rested over his heart; and during
the second desperate charge of General Beauregard’s lines, Rus-
sell felt a sudden thump, and, above all the roar of that scene
of carnage, heard the shivering of the glass which covered the
likeness. The morocco was torn and dented, but the ball was
turned aside harmless, and now, as he touched the spring, the
fragments of glass fell at his feet. It was evident that his
towering form had rendered him a conspicuous target; some
accurate marksman had aimed at his heart, and the ambrotype
case had preserved his life. He looked at the uninjured, radi-
ant face, till a mist dimmed his eyes; nobler aspirations, purer
aims possessed him, and, bending his knees, he bowed his fore-
head on the case and reverently thanked God for his deliv-
erance.

With a countenance pale from physical suffering, but beaming
with triumphant joy tor the nation’s first great victory, he
342 MACARIA,

went out among the dead and dying, striving to relieve the
wounded, and to find the members of his own command. Pass-
ing from group to group, he heard a feeble, fluttering voice
pronounce his name, and saw one of his men sitting against a
tree, mortally wounded by a fragment of shell.

“Well, Colonel, I followed that black feather of yours as
long as I could. I am glad I had one good chance at the
cowardly villains before I got hurt. We’ve thrashed them
awfully, and I am willing to die now.”

“T hope you are not so badly hurt. Cheer up, Martin; I
will bring a doctor to dress your leg, and we will soon have
you on crutches.”

“No, Colonel; the doctcr has seen it, and says there is
nothing to be done for me. I knew it before; everybody feels
when death strikes them. Dr. Arnold gave me something that
has eased me of my pain, but he can’t save me. Colonel,
they say my captain is killed; and, as I may not see any of
our company boys, I wish you would write to my poor wife,
and tell her all about it. I haven’t treated her as well as I
ought; but a wife forgives everything, and she will grieve for
me, though I did act like a brute when I was drinking. She
will be proud to know that I fought well for my country, and
died a faithful Confederate soldier; and so will my boy, my
Philip, who wanted to come with me. Tell Margaret to send
him to take my place just as soon as he is old enough. ,The
boy will revenge me; he has a noble spirit. And, Colonel, be
sure to tell her to tell Miss Irene that I kept my promise to
her—that I have not touched a drop of liquor since the day
she talked to me before I went out to build Mr. Huntingdon’s
gin-house. God bless her sweet, pure soul! I believe she
saved me from a drunkard’s grave, to fill that of a brave sol-
dier. I know that she will never let my Margaret. suffer, as
long as she lives.”

“Ts there anything else I can do for you, Martin?”

“Nothing else, unless I could get a blanket or something to
put under my head. I am getting very weak.”

“TLeavens, pick up one of those knapsacks seattered about,
and bring a blanket. I promise vou, Martin, I will write to
your wife; and when I go home, if I outlive this war, I will
see that she is taken care of. I am sorry to lose you, my brave
fellow. You were one of the best sergeants in the regiment.
But remember that you have helped to win a great battle, and
MACARIA, 348

your country will not forget her faithful sons who fell at
Manassas.”

“Good-by, Colonel; I should like to follow you to Washington.
You have been kind to us all, and I hope you will be spared to
our regiment. God bless you, Colonel Aubrey, wherever you
go.”

Russell changed him from his constrained posture to a more
comfortable one, rested his head on a knapsack and blanket,
placed his own canteen beside him, and with a long, hard grip
of hands, and faltering “God bless you!” the soldiers parted.
The day of horrors was shuddering to its close; glazing eyes
were turned for the last time to the sun which set in the fiery
west; the din and roar of the pursuit died away in the dis-
tance; lowering clouds draped the sky; the groans and wails
of the wounded rose mournfully on the reeking air; and night
and a drizzling rain came down on the blanched corpses on
the torn, trampled, crimson field of Manassas.

‘«T hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
And Echo there, whatever is asked her, answers ‘ Death’ !”

But all of intolerable torture centered not there, awful as was
the scene. Throughout the length and breadth of the Con-
federacy telegraphic dispatches told that the battle was rag-
ing; and an army of women spent the 21st upon their knees,
in agonizing prayer for husbands and sons who wrestled for
their birth-right on the far-off field of blood. Grayhaired
pastors and curly-headed children alike besought the God of
Justice to bless the right, to deliver our gallant band of patriots
from the insolent hordes sent to destroy us; and to that vast
volume of prayer which ascended from early morning from
the altars of the South, God lent his ear and answered.

The people of W—— were subjected to a painful suspense
as hour after hour went by, and a dense crowd collected in
front of the telegraph office, whence floated an ominous red
flag. Andrew waited on horseback to carry to Irene the
latest intelligence, and during the entire afternoon she paced
the colonnade, with her eyes fixed on the winding road. At
half-past five o’clock the solemn stillness of the sultry day was
suddenly broken by a wild, prolonged shout from the town;
cheer after cheer was caught up by the hills, echoed among
344 MACARIA,

the purple valleys, and finally lost in the roar of the river.
Andrew galloped up the avenue with an extra, yet damp from
the printing-press, containing the joyful tidings that McDow-
ell’s army had been completely routed, and was being pur-
sued toward Alexandria. Meager was the account—our heroes,
Bee and Bartow, had fallen. No other details were given, but
the premonition, “ Heavy losses on our side,” sent a thrill of
horror to every womanly heart, dreading to learn the price of
victory. Irene’s white face flashed as she read the dispatch,
and raising her hands, she exclaimed:

“Oh, thank God! thank God!”

“Shall I go back to the office?”

“Yes; I shall certainly get a dispatch from father some time
to-night. Go back and wait for it. Tell Mr. Rogers, the oper-
ator, what you came for, and tell him I say please to let you
have it as soon as it arrives. And, Andrew, bring me any other
news that may come before my dispatch.”

Tediously time wore on; the shadows on the lawn and ter-
race grew longer and thinner; the birds deserted the hedges;
the pigeons forsook the colonnade and steps; Paragon, tired of
walking after Irene, fell asleep on the rug; and the slow,
drowsy tinkle of cow-bells died away among the hills.

Far off to the east the blue was hidden by gray, thunderous
masses of rain-cloud, now and then veined by lightning; and
as Irene watched their jagged, grotesque outlines, they took the
form of battling hosts. Cavalry swept down on the flanks, huge
forms heaved along the center, and the lurid furrows plow-
ing the whole from time to time, seemed indeed death-deal-
ing flashes of artillery. She recalled the phantom cloud-
battle in the Netherlandish vision,and shuddered involuntarily
as, in imagination, she

“« Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew
From the nations’ airy navies grappling in the central blue.”

Gradually the distant storm drifted southward, the retreat
passed the horizon, a red sunset faded in the west; rose and
amber and orange were quenched, and sober blue, with starry
lights, was over all. How the serene, regal beauty of that sum-
mer night mocked the tumultuous throbbing, the wild joy,
and great exultation of the national heart! Mother Earth
industriously weaves and hangs about the world her radiant,
lovely tapestries, pitiless of man’s wails and requiems, deaf to
MACARIA, 845

his peans. Irene had earnestly endeavored to commit her
father and Russell to the merciful care and protection of God,
and to rest in faith, banishing apprehension; but a horrible
presentiment, which would not “down” at her bidding, kept
her nerves strung to their utmost tension. As the night ad-
vanced, her face grew haggard, and the wan lips fluttered cease-
lessly. Russell she regarded as already dead to her in this
world, but for her father she wrestled desperately in spirit.
Mrs. Campbell joined her, uttering hopeful, encouraging
words, and Nellie came out with a cup of tea on a waiter.

“Please drink your tea just to please me, Queen. I can’t
bear to look at you. In all your life I never saw you worry so.
Do sit. down and rest; you have walked fifty miles since morn-
ing.”

“Take it away, Nellie. I don’t want it.”

“But, child, it will be time enough to fret when you know
Mas’ Leonard is hurt. Don’t run to meet trouble; it will face
you soon enough. If you won’t take the tea, for pity’s sake
let me get you a glass of wine.”

“No, I tell you I can’t swallow anything. If you want to
help me, pray for father.”

She resumed her walk, with her eyes strained in the direc-
tion of the town.

Thus passed three more miserable hours; then the clang of
the iron gate at the foot of the avenue fell on her aching ear;
the tramp of horses’ hoofs and roll of wheels came up the grav-
eled walk.

“Bad news! they are coming to break it to me!” said she
hoarsely, and pressing her hands together, she leaned heavily
against one of the guardian statues which had stood so long
before the door, like ancient Hermee at Athens. Was the im-
age, indeed, prescient? It tilted from its pedestal, and fell
with a crash, breaking into fragments. The omen chilled her,
and she stood still, with the light from the hall-lamp stream-
ing over her. The carriage stopped; Judge Harris and his
wife came up the steps, followed slowly by Andrew, whose’ hat
was slouched over his eyes. As they approached, Irene put
out her hands wistfully.

“We have won a glorious victory, Irene, but many of our
noble soldiers are wounded. I knew you would be anxious, and
we came——”

“Ts my father killed?”
346 MACARIA,

“Your father was wounded. He led a splendid charge.”

“Wounded! No! He is killed! Andrew, tell me the truth
—is father dead?”

The faithful negro could no longer repress his grief, and
sobbed convulsively, unable to reply.

“Oh, my God! 1 knew it! I knew it!” she gasped.

The gleaming arms were thrown up despairingly, and a low,
dreary cry wailed throught the stately old mansion as the
orphan turned her eyes upon Nellie and Andrew—the devoted
two who had petted her from childhood.

Judge Harris led her into the library, and his weeping wife
endeavored to offer consolation, but she stood rigid and tear-
less, holding out her hand for the dispatch. Finally, they gave
it to her, and she read:

“Charles T. Harris:
“Huntingdon was desperately wounded at three o’clock to-
day, in making a charge. He died two hours ago. I was with
him. The body leaves to-morrow for W:

 

“Hiram Arnold.”

The paper fell from her fingers; with a dry sob she turned
from them, and threw herself on the sofa, with her face of woe
to the wall. So passed the night.

Four days after a number of Major Huntingdon’s friends
waited at the depot to receive the body. The train had been
detained; it was nine o’clock at night when the cars arrived.
and the coffin was placed in a hearse and escorted to the Hill.
By Judge Harris’ direction it was carried into the parlor, and
placed on the table draped for the purpose; and when arrange-
ments had been made for the funeral on the morrow, he dis-
missed all but a few who were to remain during the night.

Irene sat at her window upstairs, looking out upon the
somber, soughing pines that rose like a cloud against the
starry sky, while Grace and Salome walked about the room,
erying spasmodically, and trying to utter something comfort-
ing to the still figure, which might have been of ivory or gran-
ite, for any visible sign of animation. After a time, when the
bustle had ceased, when the carriages had withdrawn, and the
hurried tread of many feet had subsided, Irene rose, and said:

“Grace, tell your father I wish to see him.”
MACARIA, 347

Judge Harris came promptly.

“T am greatly obliged to you for all your kindness. Please
take the gentlemen into the dining-room or library, if you will
stay, and do not allow any of them to return to the parlor; I
shall sit there to-night, and need no one.”

“Oh, my child, impossible! It would not be proper. Yot,
are not able.”

“T know what I am able to do, and what I have resolved ty
do. Be good enough to remove those gentlemen at once.”

Something in her face startled him; perhaps its frightful,
tearless immobility; and he silently complied.

When all was quiet she crossed the passage, entered tha:
draped room, and locking the door, was alone with her dead.
The coffin stood in the center of the floor, and upon it lay thy
sword and plumed hat. She looked down on the lid wheru
the name was ‘inscribed, and kissed the characters; and as all
her isolation and orphanage rushed upon her, she laid hes
head on the table, calling mournfully upon the manly sleepes
for comfort and forgiveness.

When morning broke fully Judge Harris knocked softly at
the door. No answer. He rapped loudly, trying the bolt. A)\
within was as silent as the grave. He hurried around to thu
green-house, threw up the sash, pushed open the door, ani
entered, full of undefinable alarm. The wax candles on thy
table and mantel had just expired: the smoke from on
was still creeping, threadlike, to the ceiling. A white form
knelt on the floor, with clasped hands and bowed head resting:
against the coffin.

“Trene! Irene!”

She did not stir.

He looped back the curtains to admit the light, and bending
down lifted the head. The face was chill and colorless as
death, the eyes were closed, and a slender stream of ‘blood
oozed slowly over the lips, and dripped upon the linen shroud-
ings of the table. She had fainted from the hemorrhage, and,
taking her in his arms, he carried her up to her own room.
348 MACARIA.

CHAPTER XXXI.

“T intend to trust you with important dispatches, Miss Grey
—for I have great confidence in female ingenuity, as well as
female heroism. The meekest of women are miniature Gran-
velles; nature made you a race of schemers. Pardon me if I
ask how you propose to conceal the dispatches? It is no easy
matter now to run the blockade of a Southern port, especially
on the Gulf; and you must guard against being picked up by
the Philistines.”

“T am fully aware of all the risk attending my trip; but if
you will give me the papers, prepared as I directed in my note
from Paris, I will pledge my life that they shall reach Rich-
mond safely. If I am captured and carried North, I have
friends who will assist me in procuring a passport to the South,
and little delay will oceur. If I am searched, I can bid them
defiance. Give me the dispatches, and I will show you how T
intend to take them.”

Electra opened her trunk, took out a large portfolio, and
selected from the drawings one in crayon representing the
heads of Michael Angelo’s Fates. Spreading it out, face
downward on the table, she laid the closely written tissue paper
of dispatches smoothly on the back of the thin pasteboard; then
fitted a piece of oil silk on the tissue missive, and having, with
a small brush, coated the silk with paste, covered the whole
with a piece of thick drawing paper, the edges of which were
carefully glued to those of the pasteboard. Taking a hot iron
rom the grate, she passed it repeatedly over the paper, till all
was smooth and dry; then in the center wrote, with a pencil:
“Michael Angelo’s Fates, in the Pitti Palace. Copied May 8,
1861.” From a list of figures in a small note-book she added
the dimensions of the picture, and underneath all, a line from
Euripides.

Her eyes sparkled as she bent over her work, and at length,
lifting it for inspection, she exclaimed triumphantly:

“There, sir! I can baffle even the Paris detective, much
less the lynx-eyed emissaries of Lincoln, Seward & Co. Are
you satisfied? Jixamine it with your own hands,”
MACARIA, 349

“Perfectly satisfied, my dear young lady. But suppose they
should seize your trunk? Confiscation is the cry all over the
North.”

“Finding nothing suspicious or ‘contraband’ about me, ex-
cept my Southern birth and sympathies, they would scarcely
take possession of the necessary tools of my profession. I have
no fear, sir; the paper is fated to reach its destination.”

“ Are your other dispatches sealed up pictorially?”

She laughed heartily.

“Of course not. We women are too shrewd to hazard all
upon one die.”

“Well—well! You see that we trust important data to your
cunning fingers. You leave London to-morrow for Southamp-
ton; will arrive just in time for the steamer. Good-by, Miss
Grey. When I get back to the Confederacy I shall certainly
find you out. I want you to paint the portraits of my wife and
children. From the enviable reputation you have already ac-
quired, I am proud to claim you for my countrywoman. God
bless you, and lead you safely home. Good-by, Mr. Mitchell.
Take care of her, and let me hear from you on your arrival.”

From that hour when tidings of the fall of Sumpter reached
Europe, Electra had resolved to cut short the studies which
ske had pursued so vigorously since her removal to Florence,
and return to the South. But the tide of travel set toward,
not from the European shores, and it was not until after re-
peated attempts to find some one homeward-bound, that she
learned of Eric Mitchell’s presence in Paris, and his intention
of soon returning to W She wrote at once, requesting
his permission to place herself under his care. It was cordially
granted; and, bidding adieu to Italy, she joined him without
delay, despite the pleadings of Mr., Mrs. Young, and Louisa,
who had recently arrived at Florence, and mourned a separa-
tion under such painful circumstances.

Eric was detained in Paris by a severe attack of the old dis-
ease, but finally reached London—whence, having completed
their arrangements, they set off for Southampton, and took
passage in the Trent, which was destined subsequently to play
@ prominent part in the tangled role of Diplomacy.

The voyage proved pleasant and prosperous; and, once in
Havana, Erie anxiously sought an opportunity of testing the
vaunted efficiency of the blockade. Unfortunately, two steam-
ers had started the week previous, one to New Orleans, the

 
350 MACARLIA.

other to Charleston; only sailing vessels weré to be found, and
about the movernents of these impenetrable mystery seemed
wrapped. On the afternoon of the third day after their ar-
rival, Eric, wearied with the morning’s fruitless inquiry, was
resting on the sofa at the hotel, while Electra watched the tide
of passers-by, when Willis, Eric’s servant, came in quickly,
and walked up to the sofa.

“ Master, Captain Wright is here. I asked him to come and
see you, and he is waiting downstairs.”

“Captain Wright?”

“Yes, sir; the captain you liked so much at Smyrna—the
one who gave you that pipe, sir.”

“Oh, I remember! Yes—yes; and he is here? Well, show
him up.”

“Master, from the way he watches the clouds, I believe he
is about to run out. Maybe he can take us?”

“Willis is invaluable to you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Electra,
as the negro left the room.

“He is indeed. He is eyes, ears, crutches, everything to me,
and never forgets anything or anybody. He has traveled over
half the world with me—could desert me, and be free at any
moment he felt inclined to do so—but is as faithful now as
the day on which I first left home with him.”

“ Ah, Captain! this is an unexpected pleasure. I am heart-
ily glad to see you. Miss Grey—Captain Wright. Take a
seat.”

The Captain looked about thirty, possibly older; wore a gray
suit and broad straw hat, and, when the latter was tossed on
the floor, showed a handsome, frank, beaming face, with large,
clear, smiling blue eyes, whose steady light nothing human
could dim. His glossy, reddish-brown hair was thrust back
from a forehead white and smooth as a woman’s, but the lower
portion of the face was effectually bronzed by exposure to the
vieissitudes of climate and weather; and Electra noticed a
peculiar nervous restlessness of manner, as though he were
habitually on the watch.

“T am astonished to see you in Havana, Mitchell. Where
did you come from?”

“Just from Paris, where bad health drove me, after I bade
you good-by at Smyrna. What are you doing here?”

“T suppose you have heard of our great victory at Manas-
sas?” :
MACARIA, 3851

“Yes, and am rejoiced beyond all expression, but feel anx-
ious to see a full list of our loss. I had a brother-in-law in
that engagement.”

“His name?”

“Huntingdon—Major Huntingdon, of W: » in

“T have seen no mention of his name in the papers, but our
loss in officers was very heavy. We can ill afford to spare Bee,
Bartow, and Fisher; and I want the war carried on till we
burn every public building in Washington, and raise a monu-
ment to our dead on the site of the Capitol. We owe this debt,
and we must pay it.”

“Have you a vessel here, Captain?”

“Of course I have! Don’t you suppose that I would be in
the army if I could not serve my country better by carrying in
arms and ammunition? I have already made two successful.
trips with my schooner—ran in, despite the blockaders. I am
negotiating for a steamer, but until I can get one ready, I in-
tend to sail on.”

“When did you arrive here last?”

“About ten days ago. They chased me for nearly fifteen
wiles, but I stole out of sight before morning.”

“When do you expect to leave here?”

The captain darted a swift, searching glance at Electra,
rose and closed the door, saying, with a light laugh:

“Take care, man! You are not exactly deer-hunting or
crab-catching in a free country! Mind that, and talk softly.
I am watched here; the Federal agents all know me, and
there are several Federal vessels in port. When do I expect
to leave? Well, to-night if the weather thickens up, as I think
it will, and there is evident sign of a storm. Most sailors
wait for fair weather; we blockade-runners for foul.”

“Oh, Captain! do take us with you!” said Electra eagerly.

“What! in a rickety schooner, in the teeth of a gale? Be-
sides, miss, I am taking a cargo of powder this trip, and if I
am hard pressed I shall blow up vessel and all, rather than
suffer it to fall into Yankee clutches. You would not relish
going up to heaven after the fashion of a rocket, would
you?”

“T am willing, sir, to risk anything you threaten, rather
than wait here indefinitely.”

“Qan’t you take us, Wright—Miss Grey, Willis, and myself?
We are very impatient to get home.”

»”

 

 
352 MACARIA,

“But I have no accommodations for passengers. I should
be ashamed to ask Miss Grey aboard my little egg-shell—every-
thing is so small and comfortless. I have not lost all my polite-
ness and chivalry, if I am a rough-looking Confederate sailor.
I assure you I have every disposition to oblige you, but really
it would not be right to subject a lady to such a trip as I may
have before me.”

“But, Captain, if, with all these facts staring me in the face,
I appeal to your chivalry, and beg of you to allow me to under-
go the hardships incident to the trip, in preference to uncertain
delay here. If I prefer to run the gantlet in your schooner,
you surely will not refuse me.”

“ Really, miss, I don’t know what to say. I thought I would
frighten you out of the notion—for, to tell you the truth, I
am always so much more anxious when I have ladies’ lives
in my hands. I pledge you my word I would sooner run afoul
of a Federal frigate than see you suffer for want of anything.
I can’t even set a table half the time.”

“But I suppose, sir, we could contrive to live a few days with-
out eating at a regular table. I will take some cheese and
crackers and fruit along in a basket, if that will ease your
mind. , Do waive your scruples, and consent to take charge of
us.”

“T add my prayers to hers. Wright, do take us. We shall
not mind privations or inconvenience.”

“Well, then, understand distinctly that, if anything hap-
pens, you are not to blame me. If the young lady gets sea-
sick, or freckled, or sun-burnt, or starved to death, or blown
up, or drowned, or, worse than all, if the Yankee thieves by
the wayside take her as a prize, it will be no fault of mine
whatever, and I tell you now, I shall not lay it on my con-
science.”

“Raw-head and bloody bones never frightened me, even when
I was a little child, sir; so you may reconcile yourself to the
prospect of having us compagnons de voyage.”

“ Suppose a small hand-to-hand fight forms a part of the pro-
gramme?”

“Tn that case, I have a splendid brace of pistols, which were
given to me before I left Europe.”

“Do you know how to handle them?”

“Moderately well. I will practice as we go along, by mak‘
ing a target of one of your small ropes.”
MACARIA. 353

“T see you are incorrigible; and I suppose I must let you go
with me, bon gré, mal gré.”

“Bon gré let it be by all means. I am inexpressibly impa-
tient to get home.”

“Wright, to what port are you bound?”

“Ah! that is more than I can tell you. The winds must
decide it. I can’t try the Carolinas again this trip; they are
watching for me too closely there. New Orleans is rather a
‘Jonger run than I care to make, and I shall keep my eyes on
Apalachicola and Mobile.”

“What object have you in starting to-night, particularly in
the face of a gale?”

, Again the captain’s eyes swept around the room, to guard
‘against the doors that might be ajar.

“As I told you before, I am watched here. The Federals
have a distinguished regard for me, and I have to elude sus-
picion, as well as run well, when I do get out. Two hours ago
a Federal armed steamer, which had been coaling here, weighed
anchor, and has probably left the harbor, to cruise between this
place and Key West. As they passed one of the crew yelled
out to me that they would wait outside, and catch me certainly
this time; and that I had made my last jaunt to Dixie, ete.
I have carefully put out the impression that I need some re-
pairs, which cannot be finished this week; and have told one or
two confidentially that I could not leave until the arrival of a
certain cargo from Nassau, which is due to-morrow. That
puritanical craft which started off at noon does not expect me
for several days, and to-night I shall rub my fingers and sail
out right in her wake. Ha! ha! how they will howl! What
gnashing of teeth there will be, when they hear of me in a Con-
federate port! And now about your baggage. Have everything
ready; I will show Willis the right wharf, and at dark he must
bring the trunks down; I will be on the watch, and send a boat
ashore. About sunset you and Miss Grey can come aboard, as
if for a mere visit. I must go and make what little preparation
I can for your comfort.”

Nothing occurred to frustrate the plan; Eric and Electra
were cordially received, and at dusk Willis and the baggage
arrived punctually. The schooner was lying some distance
from the wharf, all sails down, and apparently contemplating
no movement. With darkness came a brisk, stiffening wind,
and clouds shutting out even dim starlight. At ten o’olock,
354 MACARIA.

all things being in readiness, the captain went on deck; very
soon after the glimmering lights of the city, then the frown-
ing walls of Morro, were left behind, and the “ Dixie” took her
way silently and swiftly seaward.

About two o’clock, being unable to sleep, from the rocking of
the vessel, Electra, knowing that Eric was still on deck, crept
up the steps in the darkness, for the lights had been extin-
guished. The captain was passing, but paused, saying, in a
whisper:

“Ts that you, Miss Grey? Come this way, and I will show
you something.”

He grasped her hand, led her to the bow, where Eric was
sitting on a coil of rope, and, pointing straight forward, added,
in the same suppressed tone:

“Look right ahead—you see a light? The Philistines are
upon us! Look well, and you will see a dark, irregular, mov-
ing mass; that is the steamer of which I told you. They have
found out at last that there is going to be all sorts of a gale,
and as they can’t ride it like my snug, dainty little egg-shell,
they are putting back with all possible speed. Twenty min-
utes ago they were bearing down on me; now, you see that they
will pass to our left. What a pity they don’t know their
neighbors! ”

“Do you think that they will not see us?”

“Certainly! with sails down and lights out, there is nothing
to be seen on such a night as this. There! don’t you hear her
paddles?”

“No. I hear nothing but the roar of the wind and water.”

“Ah! that is because your ears are not trained like mine.
Great Neptune! how she labors already! Now! be silent.”

On came the steamer, which Electra’s untrained eyes, almost
blinded by spray, could barely discern; and her heart beat like
a muffled drum as it drew nearer and nearer. Once she heard a
low, chuckling laugh of satisfaction escape the captain; then,
with startling distinctness, the ringing of a bell was borne from
the steamer’s deck.

“Four bells—two o’clock. How chagrined they will be to-
morrow, when they find out they passed me without paying their
respects!” whispered the captain.

Gradually the vessel receded, the dark mass grew indistinct,
the light flickered and was soon lost to view, and the sound of
the laboring machinery was drowned in the roar of the waves.
MACARIA, 355

“Hurrah! for the ‘Dixie!’ Strike a light below, Hutchin-
son, and get some glasses. We must have a little champagne
in honor of this performance. Come down, Miss Grey, and
you, too, Mitchell; the water is beginning to break very near
your feet. Oh! but you must take some wine, Miss Grey. I
can’t have you looking like a ghost when I land you on Confed-
erate soil. People will swear I starved you, and nothing humil-
iates me half so much as an imputation on my hospitality.
Here’s to the Confederacy! and to our Beauregard and John-
ston! God bless them both!”

Electra drank the wine, and, before he went back on deck,
the captain made a comfortable place for her on the sofa in
the little cabin. The storm increased until it blew a hurri-
cane, and the schooner rolled and creaked, now and then shiv-
ering in every timber. Jt was utterly impossible to sleep, and
Eric, who was suffering from a headache, passed a miserable
night. In the white, sickly dawn the captain looked in again,
and Electra thought that no ray of sunshine could be more
radiant and cheering than his joyous, frank face.

“Good-morning. I wonder if I look as much like a drenched
lily as you do, Miss Grey? Doubtless, much more like a
drenched sunflower, you think. ‘Were you alarmed all night?”

“No, sir; I knew that we were not in the hands of Pali-
nurus.”

“Oh! thank you for your confidence! I wil! tell my wife of
that, if I live to see her again. I certainly did not fall over-
board, which was lucky—for, though I rather pride myself on
my proficiency as a swimmer, I am very skeptical concerning
the mythologic three days’ performance. Mitchell, I hope a
good cup of hot coffee will set your head straight.”

“Flow is the storm? Any abatement?” asked Eric.

“Not a whit yet; but the wind has veered a little, and I
think that by twelve o’clock it will break away.”

“ Captain, can I go on deck for a little while?”

“Whew! My dear young lady, you would not be able to
catch your breath again for a half-hour. You could not stand
@ moment; spray and wind would blind you, and the waves
would take you overboard—wash you away.”

“But I want to see a genuine, violent storm at sea. I shall
probably never have another opportunity.”

“T will answer for the genuineness of this specimen, if you
really want to look out. Wrap a shawl around your shoulders;
356 MACARIA,

give me your hand; step up; look for yourself. No counterfeit
—take my word for that. Squally enough, isn’t it?”

A wild, howling waste of waters leaped and rolled like leaden
mountains against a wan, drab sky, where dun, smoke-colored
clouds trailed sullenly before the wind. Foam-crowned walls
towered on either side of the schooner, leaned over as if to meet
and crush it, and broke in wreaths of spray about the deck,
while ghastly sheet-lightning glimmered ceaselessly.

“Old Father Neptune must be in a towering rage with his
pretty Amphitrite, to churn up all this commotion. Don’t
you think you have seen enough, Miss Grey? You are get-
ting wet.”

He saw her face flush and her eyes sparkle strangely.

“Tf I could only paint this sea! If I could only put that
roll and sweep of waves yonder upon canvas! I could afford
to die young. Oh! for the brush of Clarkson Stanfield for one
hour to fix that sea—‘ where it gathers itself into a huge billow,
fronting the blast like an angry brow, corrugated in agony
and rage.” My father was a sailor, and I think I must have
inherited my love of the ocean from him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead—long ago—before I was born. His ship, the ‘ Elec-
tra,’ went down with all on board.”

“ And your mother?”

“Named me for the wreck, and followed my father when I
was four months old.”

As swirls of spray dashed in her face,

‘* Her eyes had looks like prisoned birds.”

“Captain, I have read somewhere of a Dutch painter who,
in his passionate longing to portray accurately such scenes
as this, had himself lashed to the deck of a vessel during a
terrific gale, where he could study and note the peculiar aspects,
so difficult to render correctly. I am tempted to follow his
example. Doubtless you could furnish a rope for such a pur-
pose.”

“Not even a bit of twine. Come down instantly, Miss Grey.
I can’t afford the luxury of a physician on board; and if you
should be so unfortunate as to catch a catarrh or spell of pneu-
monia by this piece of imprudence, I should be distressed to
death, and frightened out of my wits. Come down at once.”

About noon the fury of the gale subsided, the sun looked
MACARIA, 857

out through rifts in the scudding clouds, and toward night
fields of quiet blue were once more visible. By next morning
the weather had cleared up, with a brisk westerly wind; but the
sea still rolled heavily; and Eric, unable to bear the motion,
kept below, loath to trust himself on his feet. Electra strove
to while away the tedious time by reading aloud to him; but
many a yearning look was cast toward the deck, and finally
she left him with a few books, and ran up to the open air.

On the afternoon of the third day after leaving Havana
she was sitting on a buffalo-robe stretched near the stern,
watching the waves and graceful curls of foam that marked
the schooner’s path, and forgetful for a season of the fifth
volume of “ Modern Painters,” which lay open beside-her. The
wind had blown back her straw hat, and her short black hair
fluttered about a face fully exposed to view.

The captain had been tuning a guitar for some moments,
and now drew near, throwing himself down on the buffalo-robe.

“What are you staring at so solemnly? Tell me what you
are thinking of.”

“Tf you are really curious you are welcome to know. I was
only watching the wake of the vessel, and thinking of that
beautiful simile of Coleridge in the ‘Friend’: ‘Human ex-
perience, like the stern-lights of a ship at sea, illumines only
the path we have passed over.’”

Her clear, olive cheeks burned, and her great, shadowy, elfish
eyes kindled as was their wont when her feelings were deeply
stirred.

“T believe you are an artist, Miss Grey.”

“T am trying to become one, sir. Before we leave you, I
want you to examine some of my sketches, and select the one
which you like best. It will afford me great pleasure to paint
it for you, as a feeble token of my gratitude and appreciatior
of your kindness.”

“Thank you. I hope the day is not distant when I shal}
have my wife with me once more, then I shall beg you to paini
her portrait for me.”

“Where is she?”

“ At our home in Maryland.”

“ Are you a Marylander, Captain?”

“Oh, yes! but that is no place for true men now. Nothitie
can be accomplished there at this juncture, and those who are
true to the Constitution and the South have joined the Con-
358 MACARIA.

federate service in one form or another. We shall have to
hang that infamous traitor, Hicks, before we can free the
State; and it is because I appreciate the lamentable scarcity
of arms and ammunition that I am engaged in my present
business. If I arm ten thousand men it will be better for our
cause than if I handled a musket myself. Poor, down-trodden,
handcuffed, humilitated Maryland. Miss Grey, you have prob-
ably not heard cur favorite new song, ‘Maryland, My Mary-
land?’ I comfort myself by singing it now and then, while
hundreds of miles of stormy sea toss between me and my home.
Would you like to hear it?”

“By all means. In Europe I, of course, heard nothing.”

He struck a few full, rich chords, and sang the stirring words
as only a true Marylander can who feels all the wrongs and
ignominy of his State.

His fine eyes were full of tears as he began the last prophetic
verse; and when it was concluded he sprang up and repeated,
triumphantly:

‘« She breathes—she burns! She’ll come! she’ll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!” —

“Tf such be the feeling of her sons, Captain, she will soon
‘gird her beauteous limbs with steel,’ and as a State come out
proudly from amid the Abomination of Desolation. The music
is peculiarly adapted to the burden of the noble thoughts,
and invests them with extraordinary power and pathos. The
wonderful effect of national lyrics in such stormy times as
these exemplifies the truth of the remark, which I have seen
very felicitously applied to Béranger, but which was the first
quoted, I believe, by Fletcher of Saltoun: ‘If a man were per-
mitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should
make the laws of a nation.’ Oh! what a sunset! I never saw
anything from Fiesole comparable to that.”

The sun had gone down below the water line. From the
zenith, eastward, the sky was violet-hued; in the west light
cloud-flakes had gathered in fleecy masses and semi-spiral
whiffs; some burned like dashes of vermilion in lakes of beryl
or chrysoprase; others, in purple pomp, fringed their edges
with gold; snowy mountain ranges were tipped with fire, pil-
Jared cathedrals with domes of silver; and, beneath all, glared a
sea of rippling flame. A sky which only Ruskin could describe,
or Turner paint.
MAOARIA, 359

“The West is an altar, where earth daily gathers up her
garlanded beauty in sacrificial offerings to God. Agamemnon-
like, she gives her loveliest.”

These words seemed to pass the girl’s lips unconsciously,
as she leaned forward with her hands clasped in her lap; and,
smiling at the breathless eagerness of her face, and the, to
him, incomprehensible enthusiasm she evinced, the captain
said:

“Tf you are so very fond of such things, I wish you could
see a midnight sky in the tropics as I have seen it, sailing be-
tween Rio Janeiro and Baltimore. I believe I have not much
sentiment in my nature, but many a night I have lain awake
on deck, looking up at the stars that glowed, burned—I hardly
know how to express it—like diamonds clustered on black vel-
vet. There are splendid constellations there, which you have
never seen. When we win independence and peace, I intend
to have a fine steamship of my own, and then I shall ask you
to make a voyage with me as far as Uruguay. I will show you
scenery in Brazil that will put you on your knees in adoration.”

“T shall accept the invitation when peace is made. Captain
Wright, have you any children?”

“Yes—-two; a son and daughter; the eldest five years
old.”

“Then train them up to love sunsets, stars, flowers, clouds
of all kinds., We are creatures of education, and I hold it the
imperative duty of parents to teach their children to appreciate
the beautiful things in this world, which God has given to gild
life with. There is grief and gloom enough at best; and so
much innocent, exquisite joy may be extracted from a thou-
sand sources that it seems philosophic, as well as a sacred duty,
to reap the great harvest of happiness which calls to us from a
proper appreciation of Beauty. I do not mean learned dis-
quisitions, or tedious, scientific terminology. A child can ad-
mire, love an aster or a magnolia, without understanding
botany; may watch for and delight in such a sky as that, with-
out classifying the clouds or designating the gorgeous tints in
genuine artistic phraseology; may clap its little hands and
shout with joy in looking at the stars, without knowing Orion
from Ursa Major. I have often been laughed at, and requested
not to talk nonsense, when I have expressed these views; have
been sneered at as an enthusiast; but the longer I live the more
earnest becomes my conviction of the truth of my opinion.
360 MAOARIA,

The useful, the material necessities of life require little study;
our comfort involves attention to them; but the more ideal
sources of peace and enjoyment demand care and cultivation.
I am an orphan; I had no parental hand to guide my thoughts
and aspirations to the beautiful in all its protean phases; my
life has not been spent in the most flowery paths; but because,
as a lonely child, I learned to derive pleasure from communion
with Nature and Art, I have seasons of rapturous enjoyment
which all California could not purchase. The useful, the prac-
tical and the beautiful are not opposed—are even united—if
people would only open their eyes to the truth. I am no mor-
bid sentimentalist or dreaming enthusiast; if nature intended
me for such, a cold, matter-of-fact world has cheated me out
of my birthright. I live, sustain myself by my art, as you by
your sailor’s craft; it feeds and clothes my body as well as
my mind. But I can’t bear to walk through a grand metropoli-
tan cathedral of wonderful and varied loveliness, and see the
endless caravan of men and women tramping along its glorious
aisles, looking neither to the right nor to the left, oblivious of
surrounding splendors, gazing stolidly down at the bag of
coins in their hands, or the bales of cotton, or hogsheads of
sugar or tobacco they are rolling before them. I long to lay
my hand on their shoulders, to stay their hurrying steps, and
whisper gently: ‘Fellow-pilgrims, brothers, sisters, look up
at the glories that canopy you. Bend your knees one instant
before yonder shrines of Beauty.’ Oh! esthetics is a heavenly
ladder, where, like Jacob’s angels, pure thoughts and holy as-
pirations come from and go to God. Whatever tends to elevate
and ennoble the soul is surely useful; and love of beauty is
a mighty educational engine, which all may handle if they will.
Captain, sow the seeds of appreciation early in your children’s
hearts, and they will thank you when you are an old, silver-
haired man.”

Across the rosy sea tripped magic memories. The sailor’s
heart found its distant haven in the joyful, tender welcome
of his blue-eyed wife—the lisping, birdish tone of his fair-
browed, curly-headed children, stretching their little dimpled
arms to clasp his neck! and to the artist woman came melan-
choly thoughts of bygone years shrouded in crumbling garlands
—of hopes and feverish aspirations that had found their graves
—of her future cheerless life and her lonely destiny.

For some time both were silent; then the captain roused
MACARIA, 3861

himself from his dream of home, and, passing his hand over
his eyes, said:

“Well, Miss Grey, I shall place you on Confederate soil to-
morrow, God willing.”

“Then you are going to Mobile?”

“ Yes, I shall try hard to get in there early in the morning-
You will know your fate before many hours.”

“Do you regard this trial as particularly hazardous?”

“Of course; the blockading squadrons grow more efficient
and expert every day, and some danger necessarily attends
every trial. Mobile ought to be pretty well guarded by this
time.

The wind was favorable, and the schooner plowed her way
swiftly through the autumn night. The captain did not close
his eyes; and just about daylight Electra and Eric, aroused
by a sudden running to and fro, rose, and simultaneously
made their appearance on deck.

“What is the matter, Wright?”

“Matter! why, look ahead, my dear fellow, and see where we
are. Yonder is Sand Island lighthouse, and a little to the
right is Fort Morgan. But the fleet to the left is hardly six
miles off, and it will be a tight race if I get in.”

There was but a glimmering light, rimming the east, where
two or three stars burned with indescribable brilliance and
beauty, and in the gray haze and wreaths of mist which curled
over the white-capped waves Electra could distinguish nothing.
The air was chill, and she said, with a slight shiver:

“T can’t see any lighthouse.”

“There is, of course, no light there, these war-times, but
you see that tall, white tower, don’t you? There, look through
my glass. That low, dark object yonder is the outline of the
fort; you will see it more distinctly after a little. Now, look.
right where my finger points; that is the flag-staff. Look up
overhead—I have hoisted our flag, and pretty soon it will be
a target for those dogs. Ha! Mitchell! Hutchinson! they see
us! There is some movement among them. They are getting
ready to cut us off this side of the Swash channel! We shall
see.”

He had crowded on all sail, and the little vessel dashed
through the light fog as if conscious of her danger, and re-
solved to sustain herself gallantly. Day broke fully, sea and
sky took the rich orange tint which only autumn mornings give,
362 MACARIA,.

and in this glow a Federal frigate and sloop slipped from
their moorings and bore down threateningly on the graceful,
bounding schooner.

“But for the fog, which puzzled me about three o’clock, I
should have run by unseen, and they would never have known
it till I was safe in Navy cove. We will beat them, though,
as it is, by about twenty minutes. An hour ago I was afraid
I should have to beach her. Are you getting frightened, Miss
Grey?”

“Oh, no! I would not have missed this for any considera-
tion. How rapidly the Federal vessels move! They are gain-
ing on us.”

Her curling hair, damp with mist, clustered around her
forehead; she had wrapped a scarlet crape shawl about her
shoulders, and stood, with her red lips apart and trembling,
watching the exciting race.

“Look at the frigate!”

There was a flash at her bow, a curl of white smoke rolled
up, then a heavy roar, and a thirty-two-pounder round shot
fell about a hundred yards to the right of the vessel.

A yell of defiance rent the air from the crew of the “ Dixie”
—hats were waved—and, snatching off her shawl, Electra shook
its bright folds to the stiffening breeze, while her hot cheeks
matched them in depth of color.

Another and another shot were fired in quick succession,
and so accurate had they become that the last whizzed through
the rigging, cutting one of the small ropes.

“Humph! they are getting saucy,” said the captain, looking
up coolly, when the yells of his crew ceased for a moment—
and, with a humorous twinkle in his fine eyes, he added:

“Better go below, Miss Grey; they might clip one of your
curls next time. The vandals see you, I dare say, and your
red flag stings their Yankee pride a little.”

“Do you suppose they can distinguish me?”

“Certainly. Through my glass I can see the gunners at
work, and, of course, they see you. Should not be surprised
if they aimed specially at you. That is the style of New
England chivalry.”

Whiz—whiz; both sloop and frigate were firing now in good
earnest, and one shell exploded a few yards from the side of the
little vessel, tossing the foam and water over the group on deck.

“They think you have hardly washed your face yet, Muss
MACARIA. 363

Grey; and are courteously anxious to perform the operation for
you. But the game is up. Look yonder! Hurrah for Dixie
and Fort Morgan!”

“ From the dim flagstaff battery bellowed a gun.”

The boom of the columbiad from the fort shook the air like
thunder, and gave to the blockaders the unmistakable assur-
ance, “ Thus far, and no farther.”

The schooner strained on its way; a few shot fell behind,
and soon, under the frowning bastions of the fort, whence the
Confederate banner floated so proudly on the balmy Gulf
breeze, spreading its free folds like an egis, the gallant little
vessel passed up the channel, and came to anchor in Mobile
bay, amid the shouts of crew and garrison, and welcomed by
a salute of five guns.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Immediately after her arrival in Mobile Electra prepared
to forward her dispatches by Captain Wright, whose business
called him to Richmond before his return to Cuba, and an
examination of them proved that the expedient resorted to
was perfectly successful. By moistening the edges of the
drawing-paper, the tissue missive was drawn out uninjured,
and, to Eric’s surprise, she removed the carefully-stitched
blue silk which lined the top of her traveling gauntlets, and
extracted similar dispatches, all of which were at once trans-
mitted to the seat of government. While waiting for a boat
they heard the painful tidings of Major Huntingdon’s death,
which increased Eric’s impatience to reach W- The re-
mainder of the journey was sad, and four days after leaving
the Gulf City the lights of W. and roar of the Falls simul-
taneously greeted the spent travelers. Having telegraphed of
his safe arrival, the carriage was waiting at the depot, and
Andrew handed to Electra a note from his mistress, requesting
her to come at once to her house, instead of going to the hotel.
Eric added earnest persuasion, and, with some reluctance, the
artist finally consented. They were prepared for the silent,
solemn aspect of the house, and for the mourning-dress of the
orphan, but not for the profound calm, the melancholy, tearless
composure with which she received them. Mental and physical

 

 
364 MACARIA,

suffering had sadly changed her. The oval face was thinner,
and her form had lost its roundness, but the countenance re-
tained its singular loveliness, and the mesmeric splendor of the
large eyes seemed enhanced. Of her father she did not
speak, but gave her uncle a written statement of all the facts
which she had been able to gather concerning the circumstances
of his death, and thus a tacit compact was formed to make no
reference to the painful subject.

As she accompanied Electra to the room prepared for her,
on the night of her arrival, the latter asked, with ill-concealed
emotion:

“Trene, can you tell me anything about Russell? I am very
anxious to hear something of him.”

Irene placed the silver lamp on the table, and, standing in
its glow, answered quietly:

“He was wounded in the arm at Manassas, but retains com-
mand of his regiment, and is doing very well. Dr. Arnold
is the regimental surgeon, and in one of his letters to me he
mentioned that your cousin’s wound was not serious.”

“T am going to him immediately.”

“Unfortunately you will not be allowed to do so. The
wounded were removed to Richmond as promptly as possible,
but your cousin remained at Manassas, where ladies are not
permitted.”

“Then I will write to him to meet me in Richmond.”

Irene made no reply, and, watching her all the while, Elec-
tra asked:

“When did you see him last? How did he look?”

“The day before he started for Richmond. He was very well,
I believe, but looked harassed and paler than usual. He is so
robust, however, that I think you need entertain no apprehen-
sion concerning his heaith.”

The inflexible features, the low, clear, firm voice were puz-
zling, and Electra’s brow thickened and darkened as she
thought:

“er father is dead now; there is no obstacle remaining.
She must love him, and yet she gives no sign of interest.”

“ Good-night, Electra; I hope you will sleep well after your
fatiguing journey. Do not get up early. I will send your
breakfast to your room, whenever you wish it.”

She turned away, but the artist. stepped before her and caught
up both her hands.
MACARIA, 365

“Oh, Irene! it grieves me to see you looking so. Talk to
me about your great, pent-up sorrows, and it will relieve

“My sorrows cannot be talked away. Graves never give
back their dead. Good-night, my dear Electra.”

Electra looked at her sadly, wistfully; and, suddenly throw-
ing her arms around the queenly figure, kissed her white, cold
cheek. Irene returned the caress, withdrew from the embrace,
and passed to her own room.

Jealous women are rarely generous to their rivals, and
Electra’s exacting, moody character rendered it peculiarly
difficult for her to stifle her feelings. She would most. cer-
tainly have cordially hated any other woman who stcod be-
tween her and her cousin’s heart; but before the nobility, the
loftiness, the cool purity of Irene’s soul her own restless
spirit bowed down with emotions nearly akin to adoration.
The solemn serenity of that pale brow awed and soothed the
fevered, tumultuous nature of the artist; and she had schooled
herself to look upon her as Russell’s future wife—with a pang
of pain, it is true, but certainly with no touch of bitterness.
She could endure that he should love so devotedly one who
ministered at the shrine of Christian charity, and whose hands
threw down, wherever she moved, the blessed largess of peace,
contentment, and plenty. They stood in strange relationship,
these two women. One ignorant of the absorbing love of the
other for the man to whom she had given her heart long years
ago, and that other conscious of an undying affection which she
silently inurned in her own bosom.

Two days later they sat together before one of the parlor
windows. Electra was engaged in tearing off and rolling
bandages, while Irene slowly scraped lint from a quantity of
old linen, which filled a basket at her side. Neither had spoken
for some time; the sadness of their occupation called up gloomy
thoughts; but finally Electra laid down a roll of cloth, and,
interlacing her slight fingers, said:

“Trene, as you sit there, you remind me of the ‘ Cameo Brace-
let.” -You have seen it, of course?”

“Yes; it is one of the finest imaginative creations I have ever
read; and I cannot divest myself of the apprehension that it
adumbrates the fate of New Orleans.”

Electra watched the motion of her companion’s fingers and
in a rich, musical voice repeated the words, beginning:
366 MACARIA.

‘ She’s sifting lint for the brave who bled,
And I watch her fingers float and flow,
Over the linen, as, thread by thread,

It flakes to her lap like snow.”

“Trene, the women of the South must exercise great in-
fluence in determining our national destiny; and, because I
felt this so fully, I hurried home to share the perils, privations,
and trials of my countrywomen. It seems to me that no
true son or daughter can linger in Europe now, with the broad
ocean surging between them and the bloody soil of their native
land. It is not my privilege to enter the army and wield a
sword or musket; but I am going to true womanly work—into
the crowded hospitals, to watch faithfully over sick and
wounded.”

“T approve your plan, think it your duty, and wish that I
could start to Richmond with you to-morrow—for I believe
that in this way you would save valuable lives. You should, as
you have said, go on at once; you have nothing to keep you;
your work is waiting for you there. But my position is dif-
ferent; I have many things to arrange here before I can join
you. J want to see the looms at work on the plantation; and
am going down next week with Uncle Eric to consult with the
overseer about several changes which I desire made concern-
ing the negroes. When all this is accomplished, I too shall
come into the hospitals.”

“ About what time may I expect you?”

“Not until you see me; but at the earliest practicable
day.”

“Your uncle objects very strenuously to such a plan, does he
not?”

“He will acquiesce at the proper time. Take care; you are
making your bandages too wide.”

“A long dark vista stretches before the Confederacy. I
cannot, like many persons, feel sanguine of a speedy termina-
tion of the war.”

“Yes—a vista lined with the bloody graves of her best sons;
but beyond glimmers Freedom—Independence. In that light
we shall walk without stumbling. Deprived of liberty we can-
not exist, and its price was fixed when the foundations of time
were laid. I believe the termination of the war to be contin-
gent only on the method of its prosecution. Aguthocles, with
thirteen thousand men, established a brilliant precedent, which
MACARIA. 867

Scipio followed successfully in the second Punic war; and when
our own able generals are permitted to emulate those illus-
trious leaders of antiquity, then, and I fear not until then,
shall we be able to dictate terms of peace.”

“Your devotion, then, is unshaken, even by your sorrows.”

“Unshaken! Does the precious blood of a sacrifice unsettle
the holy foundation of the altar?”

“But, Irene, if you could have foreseen all that Secession
has cost you?”

The mourner raised her eyes from the snowy heap of lint,
and answered with impressive earnestness and pathos:

“Could I have foreseen the spirit which actuates the North
—the diabolical hate and fiendishness which its people have
manifested—and had I known that resistance would have cost
the lives of all in the Confederacy, I should have urged Seces-
sion as the only door of escape from political bondage. Rather
would I have men, women, and children fill one wide, common
grave than live in subjection to, or connection with, a people
so depraved, unscrupulous, and godless. Electra, national, like
individual, life, which is not noble, free, and honorable, is not
worth the living. A people who can survive their liberty are
beneath contempt; and to-day, desolate though I am, I would
sooner take my place by my father’s side than recall him to live
a subject of the despotic government at Washington. Even
when I believed the friendly professions of thousands at the
North—when I believed in the existence of a powerful consti-
tutional and conservative party—I was, from the beginning, a
Secessionist; and now that the maskof political cant is stripped
from them, I am more than ever convinced of the correctness
of my views, and the absolute necessity of the step we took.
The ultimate result can never affect the question of the right
and propriety of Secession, though it may demonstrate the de-
plorable consequences of our procrastination. In attestation
of the necessity of separation stand the countless graves of
our dear and gallant dead. I look to a just God to avenge them
and deliver us.”

“But do you still cling to a belief in the possibility of
Republican forms of government? This is a question which
constantly disquiets me.” ;

“My faith in that possibility is unshaken. Entire self-
abnegation I certainly expected, hoped for, on the part of our
people; and I still feel assured that the great masses are capable
368 MACARIA,

of patriotism as sublime as the world ever witnessed, and that
our noble armies have had no equal in the history of our race.
Nevertheless, it is apparent to those who ponder the aspect of
public affairs that demagogism crawls along its customary
sinuous path, with serpent-eyes fastened on self-aggrandize-
ment. The pure ore of our country will be found in the ranks
of our armies; and the few scheming politicians, plotting for
position, for offices of emolument in civil or military depart-
ments, will prove the dross in the revolutionary crucible. I
have no apprehension for our future as long as demagogism
and nepotism can be kept down; for out of these grow innum-
erable evils—not the least of which is entrusting of important
posts to the hands of men who have none of the requisites, save
their relationship to, or possession of, the favor of those in
authority. If the nation will but mark the unworthy sons
whose grasping, selfish ambition will not even be restrained in
hours of direst peril to the cause, and brand them with Mene,
Mene, we shall yet teach the world that self-government is
feasible.”

“But in Europe, where the subject is eagerly canvassed, the
impression obtains that, in the great fundamental principle of
our government will be found the germ of dissolution. This
war is waged to establish the right of Secession, and the doc-
trine that ‘all just governments rest on the consent of the
governed.’ With such a precedent, it would be worse than
stultification to object to the secession of any State or States
now constituting the Confederacy, who at a future day may
choose to withdraw from the present compact. Granting our
independence, which Europe regards as a foregone conclusion,
what assurance have you (say they, gloating, in anticipation,
over the prospect) that, so soon as the common dangers of war,
which for a time cemented us so closely, are over, entire dis-
integration will not ensue, and all your boasts end in some
dozen anarchical pseudo-republies, like those of South America
and Mexico? Irene, I confess I have a haunting horror of the
influence of demagogues on our future. You know Sir Robert
Walpole once said: ‘ Patriots are very easily raised. You have
but to refuse an unreasonable request, and up springs a patriot.’
I am afraid that disappointed politicians will sow seeds of dis-
sension among us.”

“That is an evil which our legislators must guard against,
by timely provision. We are now, thank God! a thoroughly
MACARIA. 369

homogeneous people, with no antagonistic systems of labor,
necessitating conflicting interests. As states, we are completely
identified in commerce and agriculture, and no differences need
arise. Purified from all connection with the North, and with
no vestige of the mischievous element of New England Puritan-
ism, which, like other poisonous mycelium, springs up pertina-
ciously where even a shred is permitted, we can be a prosperous
and noble people. Rather than witness our national corruption
through the thousand influences which have so often degraded
people of vast wealth, I would gladly welcome the iron currency
and frugal public tables of Lycurgus. One possible source of
evil has occurred to me. Unless our planters everywhere be-
come good agricultural chemists, and by a moderate outlay re-
new their lands every year, the planting interests will gradually
drift westward, in pursuit of fresh fertile fields, and thus leave
such of the more eastern States as possess great advantages in
the water line to engage in manufactures of various kinds.
That negro labor is by no means so profitable in factory as field
seems well established; and if this condition of affairs is allowed
and encouraged, contrariety of interests will soon show itself,
and demagogues will climb into place by clamoring for ‘ prc-
tection.’ Heaven preserve us from following the example of
New England and Pennsylvania! But if free trade is declared,
and our ports are thrown open to all the markets of the world,
except Lincolndom, the evil will be arrested. True, Europe has
no love for the Confederacy, and we certainly have as little for
trans-Atlantic nations—but the rigid laws of political economy
forge links of amity. If our existence as a Republic depends
upon the perpetuity of the institution of slavery, then, it seems
to me, that the aim of our legislators should be to render us
par excellence an agricultural people—and, with the exception
of great national arsenals and workshops, to discourage home
manufactures. I hope, too, for an amendment of our consti-
tution, which will render the members of the cabinet, and all
our foreign ministers, subject entirely to the appointment of
Congress, and the tenure of the latter class of officials for life
or good behavior, instead of being selected by the President, as
heretofore, for four or six years. . To the disgraceful hunt
for office is to be attributed much of the acrimony of party
feeling which characterizes presidential campaigns. When our
Presidents are selected and supported solely for their intrinsic
ability and nobility of soul, instead of for the places they will
370 MACARIA.

confer upon their party, we shall begin to seek out our Cincin-
natus and Aratus, and the premium for demagogism will be lost.
But we have statesmen among us who must see all these evils,
and doubtless they will arrest them in time. We are paying
too high a price for freedom to have it stolen from us in future
by unscrupulous political gamesters, who would sacrifice a valu-
able principle of government in order to secure a foreign ap-
pointment.”

“T cannot avoid feeling skeptical of the public virtue, when
seasons of prosperity and wealth succeed these years of trial;
and of late, in casting the horoscope of our young Confederacy,
I have frequently recalled that fine passage in Montagu’s ‘ Re-
flections on the Rise and Fall of Republics’; ‘Greece, once the
nurse of arts and sciences, the fruitful mother of philosophers,
law-givers, and heroes, now lies prostrate under the iron yoke
of ignorance and barbarism. ... Carthage, once the mighty
sovereign of the ocean, and the center of commerce, which
poured the riches of all nations into her lap, now puzzles the in-
quisitive traveler in his researches after even the vestiges of
her ruins. . . . And Rome, the mistress of the universe, which
once contained whatever was esteemed great or brilliant in
human nature, is now sunk into the ignoble seat of whatever
is esteemed mean and infamous. .. Should faction again pre-
dominate and succeed in its destructive views, and the dastardly
maxims of luxury and effeminacy universally prevail against
us, . . . such, too, will be the fate of Britain;’ and I may add
of the Confederacy—for where are the safeguards of its public
purity?”

Electra had finished the bandages and was walking slowly
before the windows, and, without looking up from the lint,
which she was tying in small packages, Irene answered:

“ The safeguards will be found in the mothers, wives, and sis-
ters of our land.”

“ Ah! but their hands are tied; and they walk but a short,
narrow path, from hearthstone to threshold, and back again.
They have, I know, every inclination to exert a restraining in-
fluence, but no power to utilize it. Sometimes I almost fear
that the fabled Norse Ragnardk is darkening over this contin-
ent. The monsters, Midgard-Serpent, Fenris, and all have cer-
tainly been unloosed at the North.”

“Electra, though we are very properly barred from the
‘tented field,” I have entire confidence that the cause of our
MACARIA, 371

country may be advanced, and its good promoted, through the
agency of its daughters; for, out of the dim historic past come
words of encouragement. Have you forgotten that when Sparta
forsook the stern and sublime simplicity of her ancient man-
ners, King Agis found himself unable to accomplish his scheme
of redeeming his degenerate country from avarice and corrup-
tion until the ladies of Sparta gave their consent and support
to the plan of reform? Southern women have no desire to
usurp legislative reins; their appropriate work consists in mold-
ing the manners and morals of the nation; in checking the wild
excesses of fashionable life and the dangerous spirit of extrav-
agance; of reckless expenditures in dress, furniture, and equip-
age, which threatened ruinous results before the declaration of
hostilities. Noble wives, who properly appreciate the responsi-
bility of their position, should sternly rebuke and frown duwn
the disgraceful idea, which seems to be gaining ground and
favor in our cities, that married women may, with impunity,
seek attentions and admiration abroad. Married belles and
married beaux are not harmless, nor should they be tolerated in
really good society. Women who so far forget their duties to
their homes and husbands, and the respect due to public opin-
ion, as to habitually seek for happiness in the mad whirl of
so-called fashionable life, ignoring household obligations, should
be driven from well-bred, refined circles, to hide their degrada-
tion at the firesides they have disgraced. That wives should
constantly endeavor to cultivate social graces, and render them-
selves as fascinating as possible, I hold their sacred duty; but
beauty should be preserved, and accomplishments perfected, to
bind their husbands’ hearts more closely, to make their homes
attractive, instead of being constantly paraded before the world
for the unholy purpose of securing the attentions and adulation
of other gentlemen. I do not desire to see married women re-
cluses; on the contrary, I believe that society has imperative
claims upon them, which should be promptly met, and faithfully
and gracefully discharged. But those degraded wives, who are
never seen with their husbands when they can avoid it—who
are never happy unless riding or walking with strangers, or
receiving their attentions at theaters, concerts, or parties—are
a disgrace to the nation, which they are gradually demoralizing
and corrupting. From the influence of these few deluded weak
libels on our sex, may God preserve our age and country!
They are utterly unworthy the noble work which calls loudly
372 MACARIA,

to every true Southern woman. Statesmen are trained up
around the mother’s armchair, and she can imbue the boy with
lofty sentiments, and inspire him with aims which, years hence,
shall lead him to congressional halls to adhere to principles, to
advance the Truth—though, thereby, votes for the next election
fall away, like stricken leaves in autumn. What time has the
married belle for this holy hearthstone mission? The conscien-
tious, devoted, and patriotic Christian women of a nation are
the safeguards of its liberties and purity.”

“ All perfectly true, and very encouraging in the abstract;
but, Irene, how many women do you suppose sit down and
ponder their individual responsibility?”

“Electra, my friend, are you sure that you do? Your pro.
fession will give you vast influence in forming public taste,
and I hope much from its judicious use. Be careful that you
select only the highest, purest types to offer to your country-
men and women, when peace enables us to turn our attention
to the great work of building up a noble school of Southern
art. We want no feeble, sickly sentimentality, nor yet the som:
ber austerity which seems to pervade your mind, judging from
the works you have shown me.”

A slight quiver crossed the mobile features of the artist as
she bit her full lip, and asked:

“What would you pronounce the distinguishing character-
istic feature of my works? I saw, yesterday, that you were not
fully satisfied.”

“A morbid melancholy, which you seem to have fostered
tenderly, instead of crushing vigorously. A disposition to
dwell upon the stern and gloomy aspects of the physical world,
and to intensify and reproduce abnormal and unhappy
phases of character. Your breezy, sunshiny, joyous moods you
have kept under lock and key while in your studio.”

“You are right; but I merely dipped my brush in the colors
of my own life, and if my work is gray, and sad, and shadowy,
it is no fault of mine. One who Bits at her easel, listening
ever to

“The low footsteps of each coming il,”

should be pardoned if her canvas glows not with gala occasions,
and radiant faces that have never looked beyond the glittering
confines of Aladdin’s palace. Remember, the ‘lines’ did not
fall to me ‘in pleasant places,’ and it is not strange that ]
MACARIA, 373

sometimes paint desert, barren scenes, without grapes of Eschol
or Tokay. Irene,

66

. . . Long green days,

Worn bare of grass and sunshine—long calm nights
From which the silken sleeps were fretted out—

Be witness for me, with no amateur’s

Irreverent haste and busy idleness

I’ve set myself to Art!”

“T admit the truth of your criticism, and I have struggled
against the spirit which hovers with clouding wings over all
that I do; but the shadow has not lifted—God knows whether it
ever will. Do you recollect among those fine illustrations of
Poe’s works which we examined yesterday, the dim spectral
head and sable pinions brooding mournfully over ‘The City in
the Sea?’ Ah! its darkening counterpart flits over me. You
have finished your work; come to my room for a few minutes.”

They went upstairs together; as Electra unlocked and bent
over a large, square trunk, her companion noticed a peculiar
curl about the lines of the mouth, and a heavy scowl on the
broad brow.

“T want to show you the only bright, shining face I ever
painted.”

She unwrapped an vval portrait, placed it on the mantel-
piece, and, stepping back, fixed her gaze on Irene. She saw a
tremor cross the quiet mouth, and for some seconds the sad
eyes dwelt upon the picture as if fascinated.

“Tt must have been a magnificent portrait of your cousin,
years ago; but he has changed materially since it was painted.
He looks much older, sterner, now.”

“Would you have recognized it under any circumstances?”

“Yes—anywhere; if I had tumbled over it in the dusty
erypts of Luxor, or on the icy wastes of Siberia. I have never
seen but one head that resembled that, or eyes that were in
any degree comparable.”

“Trene, I value this portrait above everything else save the
original; and, as I may be called to pass through various perils,
I want you to take care of it for me until I come back to
W. It is a precious trust, which I would be willing to
leave in no hands but yours.”

“You forget that, before long, I, too, shall go to Virginia.”

“Then pack it away carefully among your old family pic-
tures, where it will be secure. I left my large and best paint-

 
374 MACABIA,

ings in Italy, with Aunt Ruth, who promised to preserve and
send them to me as soon as the blockade should be raised.”

“What are Mr. Young’s views concerning this war?”

“He utterly abhors the party who inaugurated it, and the
principles upon which it is waged. Says he will not return
to America, at least for the present; and as soon as he can
convert his property into money intends to move to the South.
He opposed and regretted Secession until he saw the spirit of the
Lincoln dynasty, and from that time he acknowledged that all
hope of Union or reconstruction was lost. Have you heard
anything from Harvey since the troubles began?”

“Tt is more than a year since I received a line from him.
He was then still in the West, but made no allusion to the
condition of the country.”

“Trene, I hope to see Russell soon. You were once dear
friends; have you any message for him—any word of kind
remembrance?”

One of Irene’s hands glided to her side, but she answered
composedly :

“He knows that he always has my best wishes, but will ex-
pect no message.”

On the following day Electra started for Richmond, taking
with her a large supply of hospital stores, which the ladies of
W. had contributed.

Eric had suggested to his niece the expediency of selling
the Hill and becoming an inmate of his snug, tasteful, bachelor
home; but she firmly refused to consent to his plan; said that
she would spend her life in the house of her birth; and it was
finally arranged that her uncle should reserve such of the fur-
niture as he valued particularly, and offer the residue for sale,
with the pretty cottage, to which he was warmly attached. Dur-
ing the remainder of the autumn Irene was constantly engaged
in superintending work for the soldiers, in providing for several
poor families in whom she was much interested, and in fre-
quent visits to the plantation, where she found more than
enough to occupy her mind; and Eric often wondered at the
admirable system and punctuality she displayed—at the grave
composure with which she discharged her daily duties, and the
invariable reticence she observed with regard to her past life.

 
MACARIA, 375

CHAPTER XXXITII.

“Did you ring, Mas’ Eric?”

“Yes. Has Irene come home?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Bring some more wood.”

Owing to the scarcity of coal the grate had been removed,
and massive brass andirons substituted. John piled them with
oak wood, swept the hearth, and retired. It was a cold evening,
there had been sleet the night before; the trees were glittering
with icicles; but in the afternoon the sky cleared and a sharp
northwester promised good weather. Eric drew the sofa nearer
the blazing fire and laid himself down to rest—waiting im-
patiently for the return of his niece, who had been absent
since dinner. The library looked cheerful, comfortable, lux-
urious. Irene’s pretty work-basket sat on the little mosaic table,
close to the hearth; and by its side lay a volume of Tennyson
open at “Locksley Hall,” with a half-finished glove which
she had been knitting that morning resting on the page. Upon
the low mantelpiece stood two ruby-colored bulb-glasses, con-
taining purple hyacinths in full bloom; between them a fluted
crystal vase of perfect white camellias from the green-house;
and in a rich Bohemian goblet three éarly golden crocuses
looked out from a mass of geranium leaves. Bronze busts of
Kepler, Herschel, and La Place crowned the heavy carved book-
cases; the soft, silvery glow of the lamp fell upon the form of
the cripple, wrapped in a warm, plaid dressing-gown, and
showed the thin, sharply-cut visage of Paragon, who had curled
himself lazily on the velvet rug. The room was very still,
save the sound of the crackling fire and the chirping of the
canary, whose cage had been placed on one of the broad win-
dow-sills. After a time the door opened and the mistress came
in.

“Trene, you must be nearly frozen. What kept you out so
late?”

“T had more than usual to attend to at the Asylum this
afternoon.”
376 MACARIA.

“What was the matter?”

“ We have a new matron, and I was particularly anxious that
she should start right in one or two respects. I waited, too,
in order to see the children at supper, and satisfy myself about
the cooking.”

“Tiow many orphans are there in the Asylum?”

“Thirty-four. I admitted two this evening—children of one
of our soldiers, who died from a wound received at Leesburg.”

“Poor little things! I am afraid you will find numbers of
similar instances before this war is at an end.”

“We will try to find room for all such cases. The building
will accommodate one hundred.”

“You must be very cold; I will make John bring you a glass
of wine.”

“No, sir; I do not need it. My shawl was thick and warm.”

Resting his elbows on the silken cushions, her uncle leaned
forward so as to see her countenance distinctly. She had put
out one hand on the shining head of the dog, who now sat
close to her chair, gazing solemnly into the red coals; and her
posture, as she rested far back against the morocco lining, be-
tokened weariness. By contrast with the thick folds of her
bombazine dress, the face gleamed singularly white, and the
curling brown lashes made fringy shadows on the polished
cheeks.

“ Trene.”

She turned her head slightly and raised her eyes.

“Did you receive a letter which I sent to your room?”

“Yes, sir. It was from Dr. Arnold.”

“He has established himself in Richmond.”

“Yes, sir; his recent attack of rheumatism unfitted him for
service in the field.”

“T had a letter from Colonel Aubrey to-day. He wants to
buy my house.”

She made no comment, and her eyes drooped again to the
perusal of the strange shapes which danced and flickered on
the burnished andirons.

“What use do you suppose he has for it?”

“T cannot imagine, unless he intends it as a home for
Electra.”

“What a witch you are at guessing—that is exactly it. Ile
says in this letter that he may not survive the war, and wishcs
to have the assurance that his cousin is comfortably provided
MACARIA, 377

for before he goes into another battle. His offer is liberal, and
T shall accept it.”

“Well, I am glad she will own it—for I have often heard
her speak of those old poplar trees in the front yard. She has
always admired the place.”

“T trust Aubrey will come back safely, marry some woman
worthy of his heart and intellect, and live there happily him-
self. Do you believe the current report that he is engaged
to Salome?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not? She is certainly a brilliant girl, and an un-
doubted beauty.”

“Such a temperament as hers would scarcely suit him, I
think.”

“But people often select their opposites.”

“And for that reason I suspect that she would not make
him happy. What a glowing beauty she is! As I went to the
Asylum I saw her riding with some gentlemen, and I felt as if
I could warm my fingers by holding them near her burning
cheeks. Such complexions as hers are very rare at the South.”

“T should not wonder if Russell married her after all.”

He hoped for some change of countenance implying con-
cern, but not a shadow hovered over the fair face. There was
no uneasy movement of the dimpled hand which lay on Para-
gon’s head, nor could he detect the faintest indication of in-
terest. At this juncture the tea-bell summoned them to the
dining-room, and she allowed her uncle no opportunity of re-
newing the conversation. When the meal was concluded, and
they had returned to the library, Irene drew her table and
basket near the lamp, and resumed her knitting. The invalid
frowned, and asked impatiently:

“Can’t you buy as many of those coarse things as you want,
without toiling night and day?”

“Tn the first place, I do not toil; knitting is purely mechan-
ical, very easy, and I like it. In the second place, I cannot
buy them, and our men need them when they are standing
guard. It is cold work holding a musket in the open air,
such weather as this.”

He looked annoyed, and dived deeper among his cushions.

“Don’t you feel as well as usual this evening, Uncle Eric?”

“Oh! I am well enough—but I hate the everlasting motion
of those steel needles.”
378 MACARIA,

She rolled up the glove, put it in her basket, and rose.

“Shall I read to you? Or, how would you like a game of
chess?”

“T do not expect you to humor my whims. Above all things,
my child, I dread the thought of becoming troublesome to
you.”

“You can never be that, Uncle Eric; and I shall always be
glad if you will tell me how I can make your time pass more
pleasantly. I know this house must seem gloomy enough at
best. Let us try a game of chess; we have not played since
you came from Europe.”

She brought the board, and they sat down to the most quiet
and absorbing of all games. Both played well, and when Eric
was finally vanquished he was surprised to find, from the hands
of the clock, that the game had lasted nearly two hours. As
she carefully replaced the ivory combatants in their box, Irene
said:

“Uncle, you know that I have long desired and intended to
go to Richmond, but various circumstances combined to keep
me at home. I felt that I had duties here which must first be
discharged; now the time has come when I can accomplish my
long-cherished plan. Dr. Arnold has taken charge of the hos-
pital at Richmond which was established with the money we
sent from W: for the relief of our regiment. Mrs. Camp-
bell is about to be installed as matron, and I have to-day de-
cided to join them. In his letter received this afternoon he
orders me not to come, but I know that he will give me a ward’
when he finds me at his elbow. I am aware that you have al-
ways opposed this project, but I hope, sir, now that I have fully
decided, that you will waive your objections, and go on with
me next week.”

“Tt is a strange and unreasonable freak, which, I must say,
I do not approve of. There are plenty of nurses to be hired,
who have more experience and are every way far more suit-
able for such positions.”

“Uncle, the men in our armies are not hired to fight our
battles; and the least the women of the land can do is to nurse
them when sick or wounded. The call is imperative. Mothers
and wives are, in most instances, kept at home; but I have
nothing to bind me here. I have no ties to prevent me from
giving my services in the only way in which I can aid the cause
for which my father died. I feel it a sacred duty; and, Uncle

 
MACARIA, 879

Eric, it is useless to argue the matter. I am determined to
go at once. Will you accompany me?”

“You will kill yourself.”

“T could not die in a better cause.”

“Ts life so worthless that you would rashly throw it away?”

“By no means. I am able to endure what I undertake.”

“Does not one querulous invalid cripple sufficiently exercise
your patience?” :

“No, sir. Beside, I can take care of you in Richmond, as
well as of others, who need me much more.”

“What do you propose to do with the house, meantime? ”

“T shall send the horses to the plantation, and take Andrew
with me; he is an admirable nurse. Martha also, whom I have
tested on several occasions, can assist me greatly in the hos-
pital. The other servants I shall leave here. John and Nellie
will keep things in order. I have endeavored to foresee and re-
move all obstacles to my departure.”

“Ah! but you have been so delicately nurtured, and the bur-
den you would take upon yourself is so onerous.”

“T have counted the cost.”

She laid her hand gently on his whitening hair, and added,
pleadingly :

“Do not oppose me, Uncle Eric. I want your sanction in all
that I do. There are only two of us left; go with me as my
adviser—protector. I could not be happy if you were not with
me.”

His eyes filled instantly, and, drawing her close to him, he ex-
claimed tremulously:

“My dear Irene! there is nothing I would not do to make
you happy. Happy I fear you never will be. Ah! don’t smile
and contradict me; I know the difference between happiness
and resignation. Patience, uncomplaining endurance, never
yet stole the garments of joy. I will go with you to Virginia,
or anywhere else that you wish.”

“Thank you, Uncle Eric. I will try to make you forget the
comforts of home, and give you no reason to regret that you
sacrificed your wishes and judgment to mine. I must not keep
you up any later.”

She rang for Willis, and, taking a taper from the stand, pro-
ceeded to light the small lamp which had been placed in readi-
ness on the table. With its use her uncle had long been fa-
miliar,
380 MACARIA.

“You surely are not going up to that ice-house such a night
as this? That marble floor will freeze you.”

“T shall not stay long. It is the first clear night we have
had for more than a week, and I cannot lose such an oppor-
tunity. The nebula in Orion will show splendidly, and,

“« The Pleiads rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.’”

“What a devotee you are! What a bigot you would have
been five hundred years ago! What a tireless Rosicrucian
you would have made! What an indefatigable traveler after
mythic Sangraal! You very often remind me of an aphorism
of Emerson: ‘No man is quite sane; each has a vein of folly
in his composition, a slight determination of blood to the head,
to make sure of holding him hard to some one point which
nature has taken to heart.’ ”

“T am no more insane than Emerson is orthodox or infal-
lible, and a mild form of Sabeanism ought to be tolerated even
in this age, when it is used as a glittering ladder to God, to
purity, and to peace. Here I am continually oppressed with a
sense of desolation; as I walk these silent rooms, Father!
Father! is the ery of my lonely soul. But up yonder I forget
my loss. In the observatory my griefs slip from me, as did
Christian’s burden. I remember only the immeasurable
heights and depths, the infinitude, the grandeur and the glory
of the universe—and there, as nowhere else, I can bow myself
down, and say, humbly and truly, ‘Not my will, oh, God! but
thine!’ Good-night, Uncle Eric. Willis, shut Paragon in his
house before you go to sleep.”

She wrapped a heavy, black shawl around her shoulders, and,
taking the lamp, went up to the observatory.

The army of the Potomac had fallen back to Yorktown when
Irene reached Richmond; and the preparations which were
being made for the reception of the wounded gave melancholy
premonition of impending battles.

Dr. Arnold had been intrusted with the supervision of sev-
eral hospitals, but gave special attention to one established
with the funds contributed by the citizens of W——, and
thither Irene repaired on the day of her arrival.

In reply to her inquiries she was directed to a small room,
and found the physician seated at a table, examining a bundle
MACARIA, 381

of papers. He saw only a form darkening the doorway, and,
without looking up, called out gruffly:

“Well, what is it? What do you want?”

“ A word of welcome.”

He sprang to his feet instantly, holding out both hands.

“Dear child! Queen! God bless you! How are you?
Pale as a cloud, and thin as a shadow. What the deuce are
you doing here? I ordered you to stay at home, didn’t I?”

He had caught her hand eagerly to his lips, and held them
like a vise.

“Home was too dreary. I wanted to see you, to be with you
once more, to work here in your sight, by your direction.
Don’t scold and growl at me for coming. Give me a morsel
of affection; oh, doctor! I am hungry, hungry and desolate!”

She lifted her sorrow-stricken face to his, and felt the tears
fall thick on her silky hair.

“Dear child! I knew how it would be. I wanted to go to
you, but I could not. ‘Irene, don’t look so dreary and hopeless;
it wrings my heart to see that expression on your mouth. You
know I am glad to have you, my treasure, my beloved child.
You know that you are the very light of my life. Growl at
you, Queen! I will see myself hanged first! Sit down here
by me. Where is Eric?”

“He was much fatigued, and I left him at the hotel.”

“You have been ill a long time, Irene, and have kept it from
me. That was not right; you should have been honest in your
letters. A pretty figure you will cut nursing sick folks! Work
in my sight, indeed! If you say work to me again, I wiil clap
you into a lunatic asylum, and keep you there until the war is
over. Turn your face to the light.”

“Tam well enough in body; it is my mind only that is ill at
ease; my heart only that is sick—sorely sick. Here I shall
find employment, and, I trust, partial forgetfulness. Put me
to work at once; that will be my best medicine.”

“ And you really missed me, Queen?”

“Yes, inexpressibly; I felt my need of you continually. You
must know how I cling to you now.”

Again he drew her little hands to his granite mouth, and
seemed to muse for a moment.

“Doctor, how is Electra?”

“Very well—that is, as well as such an anomalous, volcanic,
torrid character ought to be. At first she puzzled me (and that
382 MACABIA.

is an insult I find it hard to forgive), but finally I found the
clew. She is indefatigable and astonishingly faithful as a
nurse; does all her duty, and more, which is saying a good deal
—for I am a hard task-master. Aren’t you afraid that I will
work you more unmercifully than a Yankee factory child or a
Cornwall miner? See here, Queen; what do you suppose
brought Electra to Richmond?”

“A desire to render some service to the sick and suffering,
and also to be comparatively near her cousin.”

“Precisely; only the last should be first, and the first last.
Russell is a perverse, ungrateful dog.”

As he expected, she glanced up at him, but refrained from
comment.

“Yes, Irene—he is a soulless seamp. Here is his cousin en-
tirely devoted to him, loving him above everything else in this
world, and yet he has not even paid her.a visit, except in pass-
ing through to Yorktown with his command. He might be a
happy man, if he would but open his eyes and see what is as
plain as the nose on my face—which, you must admit, requires
no microscope. She is a gifted woman, and would suit him ex-
actly—even better than my salamander, Salome.”

A startled, incredulous expression came into Irene’s large
eyys, gradually a look of keen pain settled on her features.

“ Aha! did that idea never occur to you before?”

“ Never, sir; and you must be mistaken.”

“Why, child? The fact is patent. You women profess to
be so quick-witted, too, in such mattters—I am amazed at your
obtuseness. She idolizes Aubrey.”

“Tt is scarcely strange that she should; she has no other rel-
atives near her, and it is natural that she should love her
cousin.”

“T tell you I know what I say! she will never love anybody
else as she loves Aubrey. Besides, what is it to you whether
he marries her or not?”

“T feel attached to her, and want to see her happy.”

“ As Russell’s wife?”

“No, sir. The marriage of cousins was always revolting to
me.”

She did not flinch from his glittering, gray eye, and her
grieved look deepened.

“Ts she here? Can I see her?”

“She is not in this building, but I will tell her of your ar-
MACARIA. 383

rival. I have become much interested in her. She is a bril-
liant, erratic creature, and has a soul! which cannot safely be
predicated of all the sex, nowadays. Where are you going?”

“Back to Uncle Eric. Will you put me in the same hospital
with Electra and Mrs. Campbell?”

“JT will put you in a strait-jacket! I promise you that.”

Electra was agreeably surprised at the unusual warmth with
which Irene received her, some hours later; but little suspected
why tk« lips lingered in their pressure of hers, or understood
the wistful tenderness of the eyes which dwelt so fondly on her
face. The icy wall of reserve had suddenly melted, as if in the
breath of an August moon, and dripped silently down among
things long past. Russell’s name was casually mentioned more
than once, and Electra fell asleep that night wholly uncon-
scious that the torn and crumpled pages of her heart had been
thoroughly perused by the woman from whom she was most
anxious to conceal the truth.

Having engaged a suite of rooms near the hospital, a few
days sufficed for preliminary arrangements, and Irene was in-
stalled in a ward of the building to which she had requested
Dr. Arnold to assign her.

Thus by different, by devious thorny paths, two sorrowing
women emerged upon the broad highway of Duty, and, clasp-
ing hands, pressed forward to the divinely-appointed goal—
womanly usefulness.

Only those who have faithfully ministered in a hospital can
fully appreciate the onerous nature of the burdens thus as-
sumed—can realize the crushing anxiety, the sleepless appre-
hension, the ceaseless tension of brain and nerve, the gnaw-
ing, intolerable sickness and aching of heart. over sufferings
which no human skill can assuage; and the silent, blistering
tears which are shed over corpses of men whose families kneel
in far-distant homes, praying God’s mercy on dear ones lying
at that moment stark and cold on hospital cots, with strangers’
hands about the loved limbs. Ah! within these mournful pre-
cincts are perpetually recurring scenes of woe, or resignation,
and éf sublime endurance, transcending in pathos aught that
fiction ever painted; and as the Nation’s martyrs drop swiftly
down into nameless billowy graves, that fret the quiet, green
surface of our broad and sunny land, the bleeding tendrils of
a Nation’s sympathy trail athwart the rude headstones, and
from stern lips comes the prophecy:
384 MACARIA.

« . . . Let them slumber!
No king of Egypt in a pyramid
Is safer from oblivion, though he number
Full seventy cerements for a coverlid.
These Dead be seeds of life, and shall encumber
The sad heart of the land until it loose
The clammy clods and let out the spring growth,
In beatific green through every bruise.
Each grave our nationality has pierced
By its own majestic breadth, and fortified
And pinned it deeper to the soil. Forlorn
Of thanks, be, therefore, no one of these graves!”

Day by day, week after week, those tireless women-watchers
walked the painful round from patient to patient, administer-
ing food and medicine to diseased bodies, and words of hope
and encouragement to souls, who shrank not from the glare,
and roar, and carnage of battle—but shivered and cowered
before the darling images which deathless memory called from
the peaceful, happy Past. It was not wonderful that the home-
sick sufferers regarded them with emotions which trenched on
adoration, or that often, when the pale, thin faces lighted with
a smile of joy at their approach, Irene and Electra felt that
they had a priceless reward.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

“Mother, I did not flinch! They shot the flag out of my
hand, and I bathed it with my blood when I fell on it. Here
is the staff—I held on to the very last. Don’t you see it,
mother, all smeared and clotted with blood?”

Raving with delirium, a light-haired, slender boy of seven-
teen summers struggled to rise from his cot, and, grasping a
corner of the calico quilt, stretched it toward Irene, who sat a
few yards off, spreading a blister. Laying aside the ointment,
she approached, and took the extended hand.

“Yes, Willie, I see it; and I know you did your duty. I
will take care of the staff for you; now go to sleep.” ;

“T can’t sleep; the din of the cannon wakes me. I want to
go home. Mother, why don’t you carry me to my own room, my
own bed, where I can see Harry and hear Jessie sing? Help
me to my feet, mother; I promised to make a new flag-staff.”
MACARIA, 885

His fair, smooth cheeks were flushed with fever from the
wound received at the battle of Seven Pines, and his beautiful,
dilated eyes gleamed unnaturally, as he gazed appealingly at
the 'tall form standing at his pillow—an elegant, queenly form,
clad in mourning vestments, with spotless linen cuffs and collar,
and white muslin apron.

She placed her hand on his hot brow, and bent tenderly over
him.

“Not to-night, Willie. When you are stronger I will carry
you to Harry and Jessie. Now you must try to sleep.”

“You'll stay by me, mother, if I shut my eyes?”

“Yes. I will not leave you.”

He smiled contentedly; and while her cold fingers wandered
soothingly over his forehead, the long lashes fell upon his
cheeks, and in delirious dreaming he muttered on of the con-
flict and incidents of carnage. From his entrance into the
hospital he had fancied her his mother, and she fostered the
only illusion which could gild the fleeting hours of his young
life. His deeds of daring had won honorable mention from
the brigade commander, and Irene had written to his mother,
in a distant State, detailing the circumstances, and urging her
to hasten to him. But to-night the symptoms showed that ere
the dawning of another day the manly spirit would desert its
boyish prison.

“Give me some water, please.”

The feeble voice came from an adjoining cot, where lay an
emaciated, wrinkled old man, with gray hair straying over the
pillows that propped him into an almost upright posture. She
put the glass to his trembling lips, and as he drained it tears
trickled down the futrowed face.

“What distresses you, Mr. Wheeler? Tell me, won’t
you?”

“T am about to die, and I long so for the face of my wife.
Tf I could have seen her again, it would not seem so hard. It
is easy to die on the battle-field, and I expected that when I
left home; but to sicken and die in a hospital, away from my
family and my comrades—oh! this is bitter! bitter! You have
been kind to me—as gentle and as good as my own daughter
Mary could have been—and, if you please, I would like to send
some messages to my people at home. You have written for me
ence—will you do it again—and for the last time?”

“Certainly, just as often as you like.”
386 MACARIA.

She gave him a powerful stimulant, brought her portfolic
to the side of the cot and wrote at his dictation:

“Tell my wife I had hoped and prayed to be spared to get
home once more, but it wasn’t the will of God, and I trust she
will try to bear up like a Christian. I am not afraid to die; I
have done my duty to my God and to my country; and though
my heart clings to my dear ones, way down in Mississippi, I
know I am going home to rest. Tell her she must not grieve
for our brave boy, Joe; he died as a Confederate soldier
should. I buried him where he fell, and we will soon meet
where battles and separation are unknown. I want Mary and
her children to live at home, and if Edward lives through the
war, he will provide for all. I want my watch given to my
oldest grandson, Calvin, as soon as he is of age. I send my love
to all, and especially to my poor sister Emily. I send a kiss
to Mary and her children, and to my dear, dear wife, whom I
hope to meet soon in heaven. May God bless and preserve
them all, for Jesus Christ’s sake.”

His voice was weak and unsteady, and his breathing rapid,
short, labored.

As she folded the letter and closed the portfolio the surgeon
entered, and went slowly from patient to patient—speaking
gently to some and feeling cautiously at the wrists of others
who slept. At the two last cots he lingered long and his benev-
olent face saddened as he noted the change that a few hours
had wrought.

“Dr. Whitmore, I have been giving Mr. Wheeler strong egg-
nog this afternoon.”

“ All perfectly right, and let him have the ammonia as often
as his pulse indicates need of it.”

He sighed heavily, and she followed him into the pat
sage.

“ After all, Miss Huntingdon, we shall lose them both. I
had such strong hope of young Walton yesterday; but it is of
no use, he will not live till morning. Poor fellow! It is too
bad! too bad!”

“Can we do nothing more?”

“Nothing. I have racked my brain, exhausted my remedies.
Wheeler, too, is sinking very rapidly, and you must stimulate
him constantly. These typhoid-pneumonia cases are disheart-
ening. By the way, you are overtaxing your strength. Let me
send Martha down here to relieve you to-night. For forty-
MACARIA, 387

eight hours you have not closed your eyes. Take some rest to-
night; your presence can do no good now.”

“T prefer to remain; how are the cases upstairs?”

“Doing finely, except Moorehouse; and I have strong faith in
his constitution. I shall sit up with him to-night, to watch the
effect of the veratrum. God bless you, Miss Irene, you have a
melancholy watch before you.”

As she returned to her post Andrew came in with a pitcher
of iced water; and after creeping across the room several times,
arranging the covering on the cots, he unrolled his blankets on
the floor, and laid himself down to sleep, within reach of his
mistress’ hand.

It was a long, low, rather narrow room, lined with rows of
cots, which stretched on either side to the door, now left open
to admit free circulation of air. A muffled clock ticked on the
mantelpiece. Two soldiers, who had been permitted to visit
their sick comrades, slumbered heavily—one with head drooped
on his chest, the other with chair tilted against the window-
facing, and dark-bearded face thrown back. The quivering
flame of the candle gleamed fitfully along the line of features
—some youthful, almost childish; others bearing the impress
of accumulated years; some crimsoned with fever; others wan
and glistening with the dew of exhaustion; here a forehead
bent and lowering, as in fancy the sleeper lived over the clash
and shock of battle; and there a tremulous smile, lighting the
stern, manly mouth, as the dreamer heard again the welcome
bay of watch-dog on the door-step at home, and saw once more
the loved forms of wife and children springing joyfully from
the cheery fireside to meet his outstretched arms. A few tossed
restlessly, and frequent incoherent mutterings wandered, waif-
like, up and down the room, sometimes rousing Andrew, who
once or twice lifted his head to listen, and then sank back vo
slumber.

Before a small pine table, where stood numerous vials, Irene
drew her chair, and leaning forward, opened her pocket Bible,
and rested her head on her hand.

She heard the painful breathing of the old man, who had
fallen into a heavy stupor, and as she sat reading her hand
stole to his feeble pulse, pausing to count its fluttering.
Twice she rose, administered the stimulants, and renewed the
hot bottles to his feet, the mustard on his wasted wrists. Tak-
ing the skeleton hand in hers, she chafed it vigorously; but
388 MACARIA,

sixty-three years had worn away the bonds of flesh, and the
soul was near its exodus. Sorrowfully she watched the sharp-
ening features, which five weeks of nursing had rendered
singularly familiar; and as she thought of the aged wife to be
widowed, and the daughter orphaned, memories of her own
father’s kisses stirred the great deeps of her spirit, and tears
gathered in her calm eyes.’

“Wa! ha! ha! They will never get to Richmond! John-
ston is down there—and Longstreet is there—and our regi-
ment is there! Johnston is between them and Richmond—
ha! ha!”

The wounded boy started up, twirling one arm, as if in the
act of cheering, and then fell back, groaning with pain which
the violent effort cost him.

Irene stooped over him, and softly unbuttoned his shirt-
collar, removed the hot, bloody cloths from his lacerated
shoulder, and replacing them with fresh folds of linen, cold and
dripping. She poured out a glass of water and lifted his head,
but he frowned, and exclaimed:

“T won’t have it in a tumbler. Mother, make Harry bring
me a gourdful fresh from the spring. I say—send Buddie for
some.”

She humored the whim, walked out of the room, and paused
in the passage. As she did so, a dark form glided unperceived
into a dim corner, and when she re-entered the room with the
gourd of water the figure passed through the hall-door out into
the night.

“Here is your gourd, Willie, fresh and cold.”

He swallowed the draught eagerly, and his handsome face

‘wore a touching expression as he smiled and whispered:

“Hush! Jessie is singing under the old magnolia down by
the 3pring. Listen! ‘Fairy Belle!’ We used to sing that in
camp; but nobody sings like Jessie. So sweet! so sweet!”

He set his teeth hard, and shuddered violently; and taking
his fingers in hers, she found them clinched.

“ Andrew!”

“Here I am, Miss Irene.”

“Qo upstairs and ask the doctor to come here.”

The surgeon came promptly.

“T am afraid he is going into convulsions. What shall T
do for him?”

“ Yes—just what I have been trying to guard against. I fear
MACARIA, 389

nothing will do any good; but you might try that mixture
which acted like a charm on Leavens.”

“ Here is the bottle; how much shall I give?”

“A spoonful every half hour while the convulsions last. If
he can swallow it; it can’t possibly do any harm, and may ease
his suffering. Poor fellow! may the vengeance of a righteous
God seek out his murderer! J would stay here with you, Miss
Huntingdon, if I could render any service. As it is, I am more
needed upstairs.”

The paroxysms were short, but.so severe that occasionally
she required Andrew’s assistance to hold the sufferer on his
cot, and as they grew less frequent, she saw that his strength
failed rapidly. Finally he fell into a troubled sleep, with one
hand clutching her arm.

Nearly an hour passed thus, and the nurse knelt softly be-
side her charge, and prayed long and fervently that the soul o4
the young martyr might find its home with God, and that his
far-off, mourning mother might be strengthened to bear this
heavy burden of woe. There, in the shadow of death, the
woman’s spirit soared far from sin and sorrow, from the stormy
shores of Time, and held holy communion with her Maker—
pleading for aid, for grace, and resignation through the re-
maining years of her earthly pilgrimage.

As she knelt with her face upturned, a soft warm palm was
laid upon her forehead, and a low, sweet, manly voice pro-
nounced in benediction:

“May the Lord bless you, Irene, and abundantly answer al
your prayers.”

She rose quickly, and put out her disengaged hand.

“Oh, Harvey! dear friend! Thank God, I have found yor
once more.”

He lifted the candle and held it near her face, scanning the
sculptured features; then stooped and kissed her white cheek

‘¢T felt that I could not be mistaken. I heard our soldier:
blessing a pale woman in black, with large eyes bluer thar
summer skies, and hair that shone like rays of a setting sun
and I knew the silent, gentle, tireless watcher, before they tolc
her name. For many years I have prayed that you might be
come an instrument of good to your fellow-creatures, and to:
night I rejoice to find you, at last, an earnest co-worker.”

“Where have you been this long time, Harvey? And how is
it that you wear a Confederate uniform?”
390 MACARIA,

“Tam chaplain in a Texas regiment, and have been with the
army from the beginning of these days of blood. At first it
was a painful step for me; my affections, my associations, the
hallowed reminiscences of my boyhood, all linked my heart with
New York. My relatives and friends were there, and I knew not
how many of them I might meet among the war-wolves that
hung in hungry herds along the borders of the South. More-
over, I loved and revered the Union—had been taught to re-
gard it as the synonym of national prosperity. Secession I
opposed and regretted at the time as unwise; but to the dogma
of consolidated government I could yield no obedience; and
when, every sacred constitutional barrier had been swept away
by Lincoln—when habeas corpus was abolished and freedom of
speech and press denied—when the Washington conclave es-
sayed to coerce freemen, to ‘crush Secession’ through the
agency of sword and cannon—then I swore allegiance to the
‘Seven States’ where all of Republican liberty remained. The
fierce and unholy spirit of the North appalled and disgusted
me. I felt that I could have no connection with a people who
madly plunged into a fratricidal war, who goaded their sol-
diers to rapine, to the massacre of women and children, and who
left no means untried to inflict upon the Cotton States all the
unparalleled horrors of a servile insurrection. The billows
of innocent blood which their fury shed surged between us as
an everlasting gulf. As Ruth to Naomi, so I turned fondly to
the fair, free land of my adoption and her devoted sons: ‘ Thy
people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou
diest I will die, and there will I be buried” Though J look
upon my mother’s face no more in this world, and forever re-
sign the consolation of my father’s blessing and my sister’s
smile, I shall never see New York again. My step has passed
away from the homestead—my shadow from the dear old
hearthstone. Henceforth my home is with the South; my hopes
and destiny hers; her sorrows and struggles mine.”

His white, scholarly hands were sunburnt now; his bronzed
complexion and long, untrimmed hair and beard gave a grim,
grizzled aspect to his face; and the worn and faded uniform
showed an acquaintance with the positive hardships and ex-
posure of an active campaign.

“T expected nothing less from you, my brother. I felt that
our holy cause must claim your sympathy and support, and I
am proud and inexpressibly happy to find you in our devoted
MACARIA, 391

army. You were dear to me before; but, ah, Harvey! how
much dearer now in these dark days of trial, which you have
vountarily chosen to share with a young, brave, struggling
Nation!”

His eyes dwelt upon her face as she looked gladly at him,
and over her waving hair his hands passed tenderly, as they
had done long years before, when she was an invalid in his
father’s house.

“You have found your work, and learned contentment in
usefulness, since that spring day on which we talked together,
in the shadow of the wild cherry tree. Irene, the peaceful look
of your childhood has come back to your face.”

“Yes, thanks to your guidance, I have found employment for
head and hands; but my heart is not conquered. I have yet to
learn patient, perfect resignation.”

“You ought to be grateful and happy for the good you are
accomplishing every day. I hear much of the influence you
exert here; your name is constantly on the lips of many a con-
valescent; and in the dead of night, in the deep hush of camp,
I have listened to a fervent, tearful petition ascending to the
Throne of Grace from an elderly man, who told me he had not
prayed since his childhood, till you knelt beside his cot here
and asked God to spare his life to his country and his family.
Does not such blessed fruitage content you?”

“You overrate my services. I try to do my duty; but such
cases as these two before us discourage me—bow down my
heart.” A

“T accept the estimate of those of your countrymen over
whom you have watched, and prayed, and toiled. True, it is
very melancholy to lose any; but in such a mass we must not
expect to save all. With my face pressed against the window-
pane, I have been watching you for more than an hour—ever
since Colonel Aubrey came out—and I know all the sadness of
the circumstances that surround you; how painful it is for you
to see these two men die.”

“Colonel Aubrey? He has not been here.”

“Yes; I passed him on the steps; we rode up together from
camp. He came on special business, and returns at daylight;
but I shall remain several days, and hope to be with you as
much as the nature of your engagement will permit. Aubrey
is from W. ; you know him, of course?”

“Yes; I know him.”

 
392 MACARIA,

He saw a shade of regret drift over her countenance, and
added:

“T have many things to say to you, and much to learn con-
cerning your past; but this is not the time or place for such
interchange of thought and feeling. To-morrow we will talk;
to-night I could not repress my impatience to see you, though
but for a few moments.”

They had conversed in low smothered tones, and now, gently
unclasping young Walton’s fingers, which still grasped her arm,
Irene went back to the old man’s pillow and bent over the
ghastly face, where the chill of death had already settled.

“ Feel how thready and feeble the pulse is; a few more throbs
and the heart will be stilled. It is hard, hard to see him die,
after all my care and watching. Five long weeks I have nursed
him, and now this is the end. Harvey, pray for the departing
soul, that, through Christ, his salvation may be sure.”

The chaplain bowed his head, but no sound broke the sad
silence; and some moments after Irene laid her ivory fingers
on the lids and pressed them down over the glazed eyes.

“He is at rest. ‘ Whosoever believeth in me shall never die,
saith the Lord.’ He believed, and that comforts me. I have
talked and read much to him during his illness, and found
that he had no fear of eternity. Another patriot gone—an-
other soul to bear witness before God against our oppressors
and murderers.”

She drew the sheet over the face of the dead, and beckon-
ing to the two soldiers who now stood near, silent and awe-
struck, they took up the cot and bore it into a small room ad-
joining.

“ Ah, Irene! how harrowing such frequent spectacles must be.
I should think this position would be almost intolerable to one
of your keen sympathies.”

“How harrowing, only God knows.”

She drew a chair near young Walton, and seating herself,
continued :

“Tt would be intolerable, but for the conviction that I some-
times save lives—lives precious to friends and country. Hard
as that case may seem, this is sadder still. That old man
had but few years left at best; this boy stands on the verge of
manhood, with the fair, green meadows of life stretching dewy
and untrodden before him, enameled with hope, and bounded
by shining peaks, which his brave, ambitious spirit panted to
MACARTIA, 398

scale. A mother’s pride and solace, a sister’s joy, one of a Na-
tion’s treasured guardians, stricken down in his first battle—
bathing his country’s riddled banner in his warm young blood.
How long—how long will Almighty God withhold his vengeance
from the wolfish hordes who are battening upon the blood of
freemen? Harvey, if there be not a long and awful retribu-
tion for that Cain-cursed race of New England, there is neither
justice nor truth in high heaven. I have become strangely at-
tached to this boy. He mistakes me for his mother, follows me
eagerly with his eyes, clings to my dress, fondles my hands.
Around his neck is suspended a locket containing her minia-
ture; and yesterday, when I dressed his wound, he felt for it—
showed me how he kissed it before going into battle—
believing that it would prove a talisman. What harm could
befall, with his mother’s face over his heart? Only a private
in the ranks. No stars and bars to deck his homespun
jacket—no official pomp or glittering paraphernalia to please
his youthful fancy—none of the gorgeous accessories which
gild the ‘stern profession,’ like jewels on a corpse—no
badge of distinction, save his ghastly death-wound. The
tenderly nurtured darling of Southern parents, cheerful
in the midst of unparalleled hardships, content with meager
rations, which his negroes at home would  scornfully
reject, standing dreary watch in snow and sleet and rain, with
memories of luxury and fireside joys tempting him from his
gloomy, solitary post—springing to meet the columns of the
foe as though the Nation’s fate depended upon his individual
valor, and asking but a grave on the soil he died defending.
Only a private in the ranks! Oh, to this consecrated legion,
stretching like a wall of flesh along the borders of our land,
what a measureless debt we owe! When Independence is ob-
tained and white-robed Peace spreads her stainless hands in
blessing over us, let history proclaim, and let our people rever-
ently remember, that to the uncomplaining fortitude and sub-
lime devotion of the private soldiers of the Confederacy, not
less than to the genius of our generals and the heroism of our
subordinate officers, we are indebted for Freedom.”

She laid her head close to the boy’s mouth to listen to his
low breathing, and the minister saw her tears fall on his pil-
low and gleam on his auburn locks. The delirium seemed
to have given place to the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, and
folding one of her hands around his fingers, with the other
394 MACARTA,

she softly stroked the silky hair from his fair, smooth fore.
head.

“Trene, will my presence here aid or comfort you? If so, I
will remain till morning.”

“No; you can do no good. It is midnight now, and you
must be tired by your leng ride. You cannot help me here,
but to-morrow I shall want you to go with me to the cemetery.
I wish his family to have the sad consolation of knowing that
a minister knelt at his grave when we laid the young patriot
in his last resting place. Good-by, my brother, till then.
Electra is in the next room; will you go in and speak to
her?”

“No; I will see her early in the morning.”

He left her to keep alone her solemn vigil; and through the
remaining hours of that starry June night she stirred not from
the narrow cot—kept her fingers on the sufferer’s fleeting pulse
—her eyes on his whitening face. About three o’clock he
moaned, struggled slightly, and looked intently at her. She
gave him some brandy and found that he swallowed with great
difficulty.

“Willie, are you in pain?”

“Ts it you, mother—and are we at home?” he asked indis-
tinctly.

“You are going home, Willie; you will soon be there.”

“J have not said my prayers to-night. Mother, hold my
musket a minute.”

He put out his arm as if to consign it to her care, and
folded his hands together.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name——”
His voice sank to a whisper, inaudible for some seconds; then
he paused, as if confused; a troubled look crossed his features,
the hazel eyes filled, and the hands fell powerless on his chest.
Laying her hand on his forehead, Irene slowly repeated a
favorite psalm which had seemed to haunt his mind two days
before—that psalm of promise: “The Lord is my Shepherd;
I shall not want.” Whether he understood it now she never
knew, but his fingers crept caressingly to her face, feebly strok-
ing her cheek while she spoke, and when she concluded he
seemed trying to recall something.

“ Jessie knows it all; I don’t ” Then came, indistinctly,
snatches of the infant prayer which had been taught him at
his trundle-bed in the nursery.

 
MACARIA, 395

After a short silence he shivered, and murmured:

“Corporal of the guard! post number nine! Mother, it is
cold standing guard to-night, but the relief will soon be round.
Standing guard—mother

His eyes wandered around the dim room, then slowly closed,
as he fell into the sleep that knew no earthly waking.

A sick man a few yards off asked for some water, and as
Trene received the tumbler from his hand he said, under his
breath:

“He is worse to-night, isn’t he, ma’am?”

“Yes. How is that pain in your side? I must put a blister
on it if it grows more severe.”

“It does not trouble me as much as it did about dark.
How is my fever?”

“Not so high by fifteen beats. You will be able to take
quinine at seven o’clock.”

She snuffed the candle and resumed her seat, and again
silence reigned—silence broken only by the deep breathing of
the patients and the sudden jingle of the vials on the table, as
a hungry mouse ran among them, to nibble at the open jar of
simple cerate.

The air grew chilly as a light mist gathered along the James,
and finally the rumble of wheels on the paved streets told that
people were beginning to stir in the sleeping city.

Slowly a half-hour rolled away; Irene could barely feel the
faint pulsation at Willie Walton’s wrist, and as she put her ear
to his lips a long, shuddering sigh escaped him—the battle of
life was ended. Willie’s Relief had come. The young sentinel
passed to his Eternal Rest.

 

“ The picket’s off duty forever.”

Tears dropped on the still face as the nurse cut several locks
of curling hair that clustered around the boyish temples and
took from the motionless heart the loved picture which had
been so often and so tenderly kissed in the fitful light of camp-
fires. Irene covered the noble head, the fair, handsome feat-
ures, with her handkerchief, and, waking Andrew, pointed to
the body—left her own ward and entered one beyond the pas-
sage.

It was smaller, but similar in arrangement to the room where
she had passed the night. A candle was sputtering in its
socket, and the cold, misty, white dawn stared in at the eastern
396 MACARIA.

window upon rows of cots and unquiet, muttering sleepers.
There, in the center of the room, with her head bowed on the
table, sat, or rather leaned Electra, slumbering soundly, with
her scarlet shawl gathered about her shoulders—her watch
grasped in one hand and the other holding a volume open at
“ Hesperid-Aeglé.”

Irene lifted the black curls that partially veiled the flushed
cheek, and whispered:

“Electra, wake up! I am going home.”

“Ts it light yet, out of doors? Ah, yes—I see! I have
been asleep exactly fifteen minutes—gave the last dose of medi-
cine at four o’clock. How are those two men? I am almost
afraid to ask.”

“Dead. Willie lived till daylight. Both dead.”

“Oh! how sad! How discouraging! I went to your door
twice and looked in, but once you were praying, and the last
time you had your face down on Willie’s pillow, and as I could
do nothing, I came back. Dr. Whitmore told me they would
die, and it only made me suffer to look at what I could not
relieve. I am thankful my cases are all doing well; that new
prescription has acted magically on Mr. Hadley yonder, who
has pneumonia. Just feel his skin—soft and pleasant as a
child’s.”

“T have some directions to leave with Martha about giving
quinine before the doctor comes down, and then I shall go
home. Are you ready?”

“Yes. I have a singular feeling about my temples and an
oppression when I talk—shouldn’t wonder if I have caught
cold.”

“ Electra, did you see Harvey last night?”

“Harvey! Where did he come from?”

“He is chaplain in a regiment near Richmond, and said
he would see us both this morning. Was Russell here last
night?”

“Russell? No. Why do you ask? Is he in the city? Have
you seen him?”

She rose quickly, laid her hand on Irene’s, and looked search-
ingly at her.

“T have not seen him, but your cousin Harvey mentioned
that Colonel Aubrey came up with him, on some very important
errand and had but a few hours to remain. I will get my
shawl and join you in five minutes. Electra, you must stay
MACARIA, 397

at home and rest for a day or two; you are feverish and worn
out with constant watching.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

“Tt is a mercy that she is delirious; otherwise her unavoid-
abe excitement and anxiety would probably prove fatal. She
is very ill, of course; but, with careful nursing, I think you
have little to apprehend. Above all things, Irene, suffer no-
body to bolt into that room with the news—keep her as quiet
as possible. I have perfect confidence in Whitmore’s skill;
he will do all that I could, though I would not leave her if I
did not feel it my duty to hurry to the battlefield. Queen,
you look weary; but it is not strange, after all that you have
passed through.”

“Doctor, when will you start?”

“Tn twenty minutes.”

“Tas any intelligence been received this morning?”

“Nothing but confirmation of last night’s news. “Hill holds
Mechanicsville, and the enemy have fallen back in the direc-
tion of Powhite Swamp. A general advance will be made
all along our lines to-day, and I must be off. What is the
matter? Surely you are not getting frightened.”

“Frightened—Dr. Arnold? No. I have no fears about the
safety of Richmond; defeat is not written in Lee’s lexicon; but
I shudder in view of the precious human hecatombs to be im-
molated on yonder hills, before McClellan is driven back. No
doubt of victory disquiets me, but the thought of tts awful
price.”

She shaded her face and shuddered. ;

“Cheer up, child. We may make quicker work of it than
you seem to imagine. But suppose reverses should overtake
us, what would you do?”

“T shall remain here as long as a man or woman is left, to
attend to the wounded; and if—which God forbid!—our army
should be forced back by overwhelming numbers, I rejoice to
know that the spirit of ‘Edinburgh after Flodden’ will be found
in Richmond. Northern banners shall never flaunt over our
capital, tainting the atmosphere we breathe; in such dire
emergency the people are resolved, and we will chant the grand
words of Aytoun, as we gather round our national pyre:
398 MACARIA,

“oT were better that in fiery flame the roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe should trample in the town!

Though the ramparts rock beneath us, and the walls go crashing
down,

Though the roar of conflagration bellow o’er the sinking town:

There is yet one place of shelter, where the foeman cannot come,

Where the summons never sounded, of the trumpet or the drum.

There shall we find rest and refuge, with our dear departed brave,

And the ashes of the city be our universal grave!’

“T repeat it, doctor—not the fate of Richmond troubles me
—for I have not a shadow of doubt that God will give us
victory; but the thought of the lives to be yielded up in its
defense. As a nation, we shall rejoice; but, ah! the desolation
hovering over thousands of happy home-circles, ready to swoop
down, darkening peaceful hearthstones for all time. What a
burden of wailing woe this day will bear to the ears of a pitying
God!”

“True, it is an awful reflection; but we have counted the
cost, and it will not do to repine. Extermination, rather than
submission to their infamous tyranny. Hampden’s immortal
motto has become our own: ‘ Vestigia nulla retrorsum!’ But
I must go, Queen. I wish you were safely back in W——,
away from these horrors that so sicken your soul. Child, take
care of yourself. Have you anything more to say? Talk fast.”

“T directed Andrew to give Cyrus a small box of cordials,
which I received yesterday from home. You may find use
for it.”

She paused, and her whole face quivered as she laid her
clasped hands on his arm.

“Well—what is it? Dear child, what moves you so?”

“Doctor, promise me that if Colonel Aubrey should be mor-
tally wounded you will send instantly for me. I must see him
once more.”

Her head went down on her hands, and she trembled as white
asters do in an early autumn gale. Compassionately the old
man drew one arm around her.

“After all, then, you do care for him—despite your life-
long reserve and apparent indifference? I have suspected as
much, several times, but that imperturbable, sphinx-face of
yours always baffled me. My child, you need not droop your
head; he is worthy of your love; he is the only man I know
MACARLIA, 399

whom I would gladly see you marry. Irene, look up—tell me
—did Leonard know this? Conscious of your affection for
Aubrey, did he doom you to your lonely lot?”

“No. My father died in ignorance of what would have
pained and mortified him beyond measure. Knowing him as
well as you do, can you suppose that I would ever have allowed
him to suspect the truth? I realized my duty and did it; that
is the only consolation I have left. It never caused him one
throb of regret, or furnished food for bitter reflection; and the
debt of respect J owe to his memory shall be as faithfully dis-
charged. If Colonel Aubrey lives to enjoy the independence
for which he is fighting—if he should be spared to become a
useful, valued member of society—one of the pure and able
statesmen whom his country will require when these dark days
of strife are ended; then I can be content, though separated
from him and watch his brilliant career from afar off. But if
he must give his life for that which he holds dearer still, {£
ask the privilege of seeing him again, of being with him in his
last moments. This consolation the brave spirit of my father
would not withhold from me, were communion allowed between
living and dead; this none can have the right to deny me.”

“Tf such be your stern and melancholy resolution, what hap-
piness can the future contain?”

“My future holds the hope of promoting God’s glory, and
of contributing, as far as one feeble woman can, to the hap-
piness and weal of her fellow-creatures. JI cheat myself with
no delusive dreams; I know that my way is, and ever must be,
lonely, but, putting my trust in Him who never yet withheld
strength and guidance in the hour of need, I say to myself:

“© «Oh, pusillanimous Heart, be comforted—
And like a cheerful traveler, take the road,
Singing beside the hedge.’”

The doctor gathered up her hands in his and said coaxingly:

“May I tell Aubrey all this? It will, at least, comfort him
in. some degree.”

“No; you must tell him nothing. I know what is best for
him and for me.”

“Oh, child! what harm could come of it?”

“ Ask me no more; but give me your promise to send a mes-
senger, if he should be severely, dangerously wounded.”
400 MACARIA,

“T promise that you shall know all as early as possible. If
you receive no tidings, believe that he is uninjured. As yet
his regiment has not moved forward, but I know not how soon
it may. God preserve you! my precious child.”

He pressed a kiss on the drooped head and left her to re-
sume her watch in the darkened room where Electra had been
ill with typhoid fever for nearly three weeks. It was thought
that she contracted the disease in the crowded hospital; and
when delirium ensued, Irene temporarily relinquished her ward
to other nurses and remained at the boarding-house, in attend-
ance on her friend. It was a season of unexampled anxiety,
yet all was singularly quiet in the beleaguered city. Through-
out the Confederacy hushed expectancy reigned. Gallant
Vicksburg’s batteries barred the Mississippi; Beauregard and
Price, lion-hearted idols of the West, held the Federal army in
Corinth at bay; Stonewall Jackson—synonym of victory—after
sweeping like a whirlwind through the Valley, and scattering
the columns that stealthily crept southward, had arrived at
Richmond at the appointed time. A greater than Serrurier,
a grander than Castiglione, he gave the signal to begin; and as
a sheet of flame flashed along the somber forests of Chicka-
hominy, the nation held its breath and watched the death-
grapple of armies around its proud young eapital. Thank
God! we had no cravens there to jeopardize our cause; the
historic cycle had revolved, and heroic ages dawned again.
Neither ancient, medisval, nor modern lore can furnish a paral-

lel for the appalling panorama of blood and fire which stretched

from Mechanicsville to Westover—for the Seven Days’ con-
flict, which converted twenty-six miles of swamp and forest
into a vast necropolis.

During Friday the wounded came slowly in, and at four in
the afternoon the roar of artillery told that the battle of Gaines’
Mill was raging; that the enemy were fighting desperately,
behind entrenchments which none but Confederate soldiers
could successfully assault. Until eight o’clock at night the
houses trembled at every report of cannon, and then McClellan’s
grand army, crippled and bleeding, dragged itself away under
cover of darkness, to the south bank of the Chickahominy.
Saturday saw a temporary lull in the iron storm; but the
wounded continued to arrive, and the devoted women of the
city rose from their knees to minister to the needs of these
/umerous sufferers. Sunday found our troops feeling about
MACARIA. 401

the swamps for the retreating foe; and once more, late in the
afternoon, distant thunder resounded from the severely con-
tested field of Savage’s Station, whence the enemy again
retreated.

On Sabbath morning Irene learned that Russell’s command
had joined in the pursuit; and during that day and night, as
the conflict drifted farther southward, and details became neces-
sarily more meager, her anxiety increased. Continually her
lips moved in prayer, as she glided from Electra’s silent room
to aid in dressing the wounds of those who had been disabled
for farther participation in the strife; and, as Monday passed
without the receipt of tidings from Dr. Arnold, she indulged
the hope that Russell would escape uninjured. During Tues-
day morning Electra seemed to have recovered consciousness,
but in the afternoon she relapsed into incoherent muttering of
“Quyp,” “Correggio,” “ Titian’s Bella,’ and my “best, great
picture left in Florence.”

Irene was sitting at her bedside, rolling bandages, when the
sudden, far-distant dull boom of cannon, followed by the quick
rattling of the window panes, gave intimation that the long
contest was fiercely renewed. Prophetic dread seized her; the
hideous To-Come scowled at her in the distance; and, as the
roll of cloth dropped from her fingers, she covered her eyes to
shut out the vision of horror. The long afternoon hours crept
by in mournful procession—trooping phantom shadows filled
the room—night fell at last, an unheeded flag of truce—and
people stood in their doors, at their windows, many clustered
on the pavements, listening in solemn silence to the fiend-like
roar of the fifty pieces of artillery that, like a fiery crescent,
crowned Malvern Hill. <A courier had arrived with the intel-
ligence that here the enemy’s forces were very strongly posted,
were making desperate resistance; and though no doubt of the
result was entertained, human nature groaned over the carnage.

At ten o’clock, having given a potion, and renewed the folds
of wet linen on Electra’s head, Irene stole back to the window,
turned the shutters, looked down the street. Here and there
an anxious group huddled on the corners, with ears strained to
catch every sound, and while she watched, a horseman clattered
at a hard gallop over the paving-stones, reined up at the door
of the boarding-house, swung himself to the sidewalk, and an
instant after the sharp clang of the bell rang startlingly
through the mansion.
402 MACABIA,

“Oh, my God! It has come at last!”

Irene groaned, and leaned heavily against the window-facing;
quick steps came up the stairway. Martha entered and held
out a slip of paper.

“Miss Irene, Cyrus has just brought this.”

Her mistress’ icy fingers clutched it, and she read:

“Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded. Cyrus will
show the way. Hiram Arnold.”

“You are going to faint, Miss Irene! Drink some of this
cordial! ”

“No. Tell Andrew to go after the carriage as quick as
possible, and have it brought here immediately ; and ask Uncle
Eric to come to my room at once.’

Irene went to her own apartment, which adjoined Electra’s,
put on her bonnet and veil, and, though the night was warm,
wrapped a shawl about her.

Mr. Mitchell entered soon after and started at sight of his
niece’s face.

“Trene, what does this mean? Where are you going at this
hour?”

“To the battle-field!—to Malvern Hill. Colonel Aubrey is
mortally wounded, and I must see him. Will you go with me?
Oh, Uncle Eric! if you have any mercy in your soul ask me no
questions now! only go with me.”

“ Of course, my dear child, I will go with you, if it is possible
to procure a carriage of any kind. I will see——”

“ T have had one engaged three days. Martha, stay with Elec-
tra till I come back; leave her on no account. If you notice
any change, send for Dr. Whitmore. Here is my watch; count
her pulse carefully, and as long as it is over one hundred, give
her, every two hours, a spoonful of the medicine in that square
vial on the table. I trust to you, Martha, to take care of her.
If she should be rational, and ask for me, tell her nothing about
the battles, and say I have gone to see a sick man, and will be
back soon. Come. Uncle Eric.”

They entered the closed carriage which she had ordered re-
served for her, and she called Cyrus to the door.

“Did you see Colonel Aubrey after he was wounded?”

“T only had a glimpse of him as they brought him in. Miss
Irene, he was shot in the breast,”
MACARIA, 403

“You know the way; ride outside; and, Cyrus, drive as fast
as possible.”

The night was gloomy and spectral, and the wind sobbed a
Miserere through the somber forests that bordered the road,
which was now crowded with vehicles of all descriptions has-
tening to and returning from the field of action. Under ordinary
circumstances with no obstacle intervening, it was a long ride;
and to Irene the way seemed interminable. During the first
hour utter silence reigned within the carriage, and then, as the
driver paused to allow an ambulance to pass, Eric put his hand
on his niece’s arm and said tenderly:

“Trene, why did you deceive me so long? Why could you not
trust your uncle’s love?”

She shrank farther back in one corner, and answered with a
voice which he could scarcely recognize as hers:

“Tf you love me, spare me all questions now.”

By the glimmer of the carriage lamps she could see the
wagons going to and fro, some filled with empty coffins, some
with mangled sufferers. Now and then weary, spent soldiers
sat on the roadside, or struggled on toward the city which
they had saved, with their arms in slings, or hands bound up,
or bloody bandages across their stern faces. After another
hour, when the increasing number of men showed proximity
to the scene of danger, Cyrus turned away from the beaten
track, and soon the flash of lights and the hum of voices told
that they were near the place of destination. The carriage
stopped, and Cyrus came to the door.

“We are at the lines, and I can’t drive any nearer. If you
will wait, I will go and find Master.”

It was one o’clock; and as they waited, men passed and re-
passed with blazing torches, some bearing wounded men,
whose groans rose above the confusion. The cannonading had
long ceased, and Eric called to a group of soldiers belonging
to the Infirmary corps.

“What is the last news from the front? Have the enemy
fallen back?”

“Not yet; but they. are getting ready to run as usual; by
daylight they will be out of sight, and we shall be all day to-
morrow hunting them up. Their style is to fight about three
hours and run the balance of the twenty-four. They take to
the swamps like all other such miserable varments.”

The delay seemed intolerably long, and for the first time an
404 MACARIA,

audible moan escaped Irene just as Cyrus came back accom:
panied by a muffled figure.

“Trene, my child.”

She leaned out till her face nearly touched Dr. Arnold’s.

“ Only tell me that he is alive, and I can bear all else.”

“He is alive, and sleeping just now. Can you control your-
self if I take you to him?”

“Yes; you need not fear that I will disturb him. Let me go
to him.”

He gave her his arm, and led her through the drizzling rain
for some distance—avoiding as much as possible the groups of
wounded, where surgeons were at their sad work. Finally, be-
fore a small tent, he paused and whispered:

“Nerve yourself, dear child.”

“Ts there no hope?”

She swept aside her long mourning veil, and gazed implor-
ingly into his face.

Tears filled his eyes, and hastily averting his head, he raised
the curtain of the tent and drew her inside.

A candle burned dimly in one corner, and there, on a pallet
of straw, over which a blanket had been thrown, lay the power-
ful form of the leader, whose deeds of desperate daring had so
electrified his worshiping command but a few hours before.
The head was pillowed on a knapsack; one hand pressed his
heart, while the other drooped nerveless at his side, and the
breast of his coat was saturated with blood, which at intervals
oozed through the bandages and dripped upon the straw. The
tent was silent as a cemetery, and not a sound passed Irene’s
white, fixed lips, as she bent down and looked upon the loved
face, strangely beautiful in its pallid repose. The shadowy
wings of the bitter By-gone hovered no longer over the feat-
ures, darkening their chiseled perfection; a tranquil half-smile
parted the lips, and unbent the lines between the finely-arched
black brows.

Sinking softly on the floor of the tent, Irene rested her chin
on her folded hands, and calmly watched the deep sleep. So
passed three-quarters of an hour; then, as Dr. Arnold cau-
tiously put his fingers on the pulse, the sufferer opened his
eyes.

Trene was partially in the shade, but as she leaned forward, a
sudden bewildered smile lighted his countenance; he started
up, and extended one arm.
MACARIA. 405

on My darling! am I dreaming, or are you indeed with
me?

“T have come to nurse you, Russell; but if you do not calm
yourself, the doctor will send me away.”

She took the outstretched hand in both of hers, and pressed
her lips repeatedly upon it.

“Come close to me. I am helpless now, and cannot go to
you.”

She seated herself on the edge of the straw, laid her shawl in
her lap, and lifting his head, rested it on the soft woolen folds.
Dr. Arnold removed the warm cloth soaked with blood, placed a
cold, dripping towel on the gaping wound, and after tightening
the bandages to check the hemorrhage, passed out of the tent,
leaving the two alone.

“Oh, Irene! this is a joy I never hoped for. I went at night
to the hospital in Richmond just to get a glimpse of you—to
feast my eyes with another sight of your dear, dear face! I
watched you ministering like an angel to sick and wounded
soldiers, and I envied them the touch of your hand—the sound
of your voice. I little expected to die in your arms. This rec-
onciles me to my fate; this compensates for all.”

Her fingers tenderly smoothed the black locks that clung to
his temples, and bending down she kissed his forehead. His
uninjured arm stole up around her neck, drew her face to his,
and his lips pressed hers again and again.

“Dear Russell, you must be quiet, or you will exhaust your-
self. Try to sleep—it will refresh, strengthen you.”

“Nothing will strengthen me. I have but a short time to
live; shall I sleep away the opportunity of my last earthly
communion with you, my life-long idol! Oh, Irene! my beauti-
ful treasure! This proof of your love sweetens death itself.
There have been hours (ever since we parted a year ago) when
I reproached you for the sorrow and pain you sternly meted out
to me, and to yourself. When IJ said bitterly, if she loved as she
should, she would level all barriers—she would lay her hands in
mine—glorify my name by taking it as my wife, and thus defy
and cancel the past. I was selfish in my love; I wanted you in
my home; I longed for the soft touch of your fingers, for your
proud, dazzling smile of welcome when the day’s work was
ended; for the privilege of drawing you to my heart, and listen-
ing to your words of encouragement and fond congratulation
on my successes. I knew that this could never be; that your
406 MACARIA,

veneration for your father’s memory would separate us in fu-
ture, as in the past; that my pleadings would not shake your
unfortunate and erroneous resolutions; and it was hard to give
up the dearest hope that ever brightened a lonely man’s life.
Now I know, I feel that your love is strong, deathless as my
own, though long locked deep in your heart. I know it by the
anguish in your face, by the quiver of your mouth, by your
presence in this place of horrors. God comfort and bless you,
my own darling!—my brave, patient, faithful Irene!”

He smiled triumphantly, and drew her hand caressingly
across his cheek.

“Russell, it is useless now to dwell upon our sorrowful past;
what suffering our separation has cost me, none but my God
can ever know. To his hands I commit my destiny, and ‘ He
doeth all things well.’ In a little while you will leave me, and
then—oh! then, I shall be utterly desolate indeed! But I can
bear loneliness—I can walk my dreary earthly path uncomplain-
ingly, I can give you up for the sake of my country, if I have
the blessed assurance that you have only hastened home before
me, waiting for me there—that, saved through Christ, we shall
soon meet in Heaven, and spend Eternity together. Oh, Rus-
sell! can you give me this consolation, without which my future
will be dark indeed? Have you kept your promise, to live
so that you could at last meet the eyes of your God in
peace?”

“J have. I have struggled against the faults of my char-
acter; I have earnestly endeavored to crush the vindictive
feelings of my heart; and I have conscientiously tried to do
my duty to my fellow-creatures, to my command, and my
country. J have read the Bible you gave me; and, dearest, in
praying for you, I have learned to pray for myself. Through
Jesus, I have a sure hope of happiness beyond the grave.
There, though separated in life, you and I shall be united by
death. Oh, Irene! but for your earnest piety this precious
anticipation might never have been mine. But for you I
would have forgotten my mother’s precepts and my mother’s
prayers. Through your influence I shall soon join her, where
the fierce waves of earthly trial can lash my proud soul no
more.”

“Thank God! Oh, Russell! this takes away the intolerable
bitterness of parting; this will support me in coming years.
I can brave all things in future.”
MACARIA. 407

She saw that a paroxysm of pain had seized him. His brow
wrinkled, and he bit his lips hard, to suppress a groan. Just
at this moment Dr. Arnold re-entered, and immediately after
gave him another potion of morphine.
fers Aubrey, you must be quiet, if you would not shorten your
ife.

He silently endured his sufferings for some moments, and,
raising his eyes again to Irene’s, said, in a tone of exhaus-
tion:

“Tt is selfish for me to make you witness my torture; but I
could not bear to have you leave me. There is something I
want to say while I have strength left. How is Electra?”

“Partially delirious still, but the doctor thinks she will re-
cover. What shall I tell her for you?”

“That I loved and remembered her in my dying hour. Kiss
her for me, and tell her I fell where the dead lay thickest, in
a desperate charge on the enemy’s batteries—that none can
claim a nobler, prouder death than mine—that the name of
Aubrey is once more glorified—rebaptized with my blood upon
the battlefield. Irene, she is alone in the world; watch over her
and love her, for my sake. ‘Doctor, give me some water.”

As the hemorrhage increased despite their efforts to stanch
it, he became rapidly weaker, and soon after, with one hand
locked in Irene’s, he fell asleep.

She sat motionless, supporting his head, uttering no sound,
keeping her eyes fixed on his upturned countenance. Dr. Ar-
nold went noiselessly in and out, on various errands of mercy;
occasionally anxious, weather-beaten soldiers softly lifted the
curtain of the tent, gazed sadly, fondly, on the prostrate figure
of the beloved commander, and turned away silently, with tears
trickling down their bronzed faces. Slowly the night waned,
and the shrill tones of reveillé told that another day had risen
before the murky sky brightened. Hundreds, who had sprung
up at that call twenty-four hours ago now lay stiffening in
their gore, sleeping their last sleep, where neither the sound of
fife and drum, nor the battle-cry of comrades, would ever rouse
them from their final rest before Malvern Hill—over which
winds wailed a requiem, and trailing, dripping clouds settled
like a pail.

The bustle and stir of camp increased as preparations were
made to follow the foe, who had again taken up the line of re-
treat; but within the tent unbroken silence reigned. It was
408 MACARIA.

apparent that Russell was sinking fast, and at eight o’clock
he awoke, looked uneasily around him, and said feebly:

“What is going on in front?”

“McClellan has evacuated Malvern Hill, and is in full re-
treat toward his gunboats,” answered the doctor.

“Then there will be no more fighting. My shattered regi-
ment wil! rest for a season. Poor fellows! they did their duty
nobly yesterday. Tell my men for me that I am proud of their
bravery and their daring, and that though my heart clings fondly
to my gallant regiment, I glory in the death I die—knowinz
that my soldiers will avenge me. Give my love to one and all,
and tell them, when they next go into battle, to remember him
who led their last charge. I should like to have seen the end of
the struggle—but Thy will, oh, God! not mine.”

He lifted his eyes toward Heaven, and for some moments his
lips moved inaudibly in prayer. Gradually a tranquil expres-
sion settled on his features, and his eyes closed again he mur-
mured faintly:

“ Trene—darling—raise me a [ittle.”

They lifted him, and rested his head against her shoulder.

“Trene! ” ;

“T am here, my Russell; my arms are around you.”

She laid her cheek on his, and listened to catch the words;
but none came. The lips parted once, and a soft, fluttering
breath swept across them. Dr. Arnold put his hand over the
heart—no pulsation greeted him; and turning away, the old
man covered his face with his handkerchief.

“ Russell, my Russell, speak to me once more.”

There was no sound—no motion. She knew that the sol-
dier’s spirit had soared to the shores of everlasting peace, and
that not until she joined him there would the loved tones again
make music in her heart. She tightened her arms around the
still form, and nestled her cheek closer to his, now growing
cold. No burst of grief escaped her, to tell of agony and
despair:

‘* But like a statue solid set
And molded in colossal calm,”

she sat, mute and resigned, at the foot of the red, dripping
altar of patriotism, where lay, in hallowed sacrifice, her noble,
darling dead.

In the morning light her face looked stony, pallid as his, and

ib
MACARIA, 409

the tearless but indescribably mournful eyes were fastened on
his placid, handsome features. Eric and Harvey Young stood
in one corner of the tent, wiping away tears which would not
be restrained; and finally Dr. Arnold stooped and said, falter-
ingly:

“My dear child, come with me now.”

She did not seem to hear him, and he repeated his words,
trying, at the same time to unwind her arms.

She yielded, and with her own hands smoothed out and cut a
lock of hair that waved over his gleaming forehead.

Leaning over him, she kissed the icy lips; then rose, and,
clasping her hands, whispered:

“Good-by, my own brave Russell!”

The minister approached, and stood before her. She lifted
her wan, dry face, and, as she put out her arms to him, a
wintry smile flitted over the mouth that had seemed frozen.

“Harvey! Harvey! he was my all. He was the idol of my
childhood! and girlhood! and womanhood! Oh, pray for me
—that I may be patient and strong in my sie desolation.”

Electra’s apenly convalescence repaid the care adiead upon
her; and one afternoon, ten days after quiet had again settled
arount the Confederate capital, she insisted on being allowed
to sit up later than usual, protesting that she would no longer
be regarded as an invalid.

“Trene, stand in the light, where I can see you fully. How
worn and weary you look! I suspect I am regaining my health
at the expense of yours.”

“No; I am as well in body as I could desire, but, no doubt,
my anxiety has left its traces on my countenance.”

She leaned over Electra’s chair, and stroked back the artist’s
shining hair.

“T wish you would let me see the papers. My eyes are
strong enough now, and I want to know exactly what has taken
place everywhere during my sickness. It seems to me /mpos-
sible that General Lee’s army can face McClellan’s much longer
without bringing on a battle, and I am so anxious about Rus-
sell. If he should be hurt, of course I must go to him. It is
very strange that he has not written. Are you sure no letters
came for me?”

“There are no letters, I am sure; but I have a message for
you. I have seen him once since you were taken sick.”
410 MACARIA,

“ Ah! what is it? He heard that I was ill, and came to see
me, I suppose. When was he here?”

Irene bent down and kissed her companion tremulously, say-
ing slowly:

“ He desired me to kiss you for him. Electra, I have not told
you before because I feared the effect upon you in your weak
state; but there have been desperate battles around Richmond
during your illness, and the Federals have been defeated—
driven back to James River.” ‘

Was Russell wounded? -Yes, I understand it all now.
Where is he? Oh! tell me that I may go to him.”

She sprang up, but a death-like pallor overspread her face
and she tottered to the open window.

Irene followed the thin figure, and putting her arms about
her, made her lean against her.

“He was wounded on the last day, and I went to see him;
you were then delirious.”

“Tet me go at once. I will not disturb him; I will control
myself! Only let me see him to-day!”

“Electra, you cannot see him. He has gone to his God, but
in his dying hour he spoke of you fondly, sent love and: ”

The form reeled, drooped, shivered, and fell back insensible
in Irene’s arms. :

So heavy was the swoon that it seemed as if her spirit had
fled to join her cousin’s in endless union; but at length con-
sciousness returned, and with it came woeful realization of her
loss. <A long, low wail rose and fell upon the air, like the ery
from lips of feeble, suffering, helpless children, and her head
sank on the shoulders of the sad-faced nurse, whose grief could
find no expression in sobs, or moans, or tears.

“Dead! Dead! and I shall see his dear face no more! Oh!
why did you not let me die, too? What is my wretched life
worth now? One grave might have held us both! My noble,
peerless Russell! the light of my solitary life! Oh, God! be
merciful! take me with my idol! Take me now!”

Very tenderly and caressingly Irene endeavored to soothe her
—detailed the circumstances of her cousin’s death, and pointed
her despairing soul to a final reunion.

But no rift appeared in the artist’s black sky of sorrow;
she had not yet learned that, in drawing near the hand that
holds the rod, the blow is lightened; and she bitterly demanded
of her Maker ‘to be released from the burden of life

 
MACARIA, 411

“Electra, hush your passionate cries! crush back your re-
bellious words. Your heart knows no depth of agony which
mine has not sounded; and yet, in this season of anguish,
when Russell is taken away from us both, I look upon his grave,
and feel that—

. Tam strong

Knowing ye are not lost for aye among

The hills, with last year’s thrush. God keeps a niche
In Heaven to hold our idols: and albeit

He brake them to our faces, and denied

That our close kisses should impair their white,

I know we shall behold them raised, complete,

The dust swept from their beauty—slorified,

New Memnons singing in the great God-light!’”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The sunlight of a warm spring day flashed through the open
window, and made golden arabesque tracery on the walls and
portraits of the parlor at Huntingdon Hill. The costly crim-
son damask curtains had long since been cut into shirts for the
soldiers, and transported to the Army of Tennessee, and air
and sunshine entered unimpeded. Electra sat before her can-
vas in this room, absorbed in the design which now engaged
every thought. The witchery of her profession had woven its
spell about her, banishing for a time the spectral past.

The extension of the Conscription statute had, several months
before, deprived Irene of a valuable and trusty overseer; and to
satisfy herself concerning the character of his successor, and the
condition of affairs at home, she and her uncle had returned to
W. , bringing Electra with them.

Irene stood on the colonnade, leaning over the back of Eric
Mitchell’s armchair, dropping crumbs for the pigeons that cooed
and scrambled at her feet, and looking dreamily down the
avenue at the band of orphans who had just paid her a visit,
and were returning to the asylum, convoyed by the matron.

“What contented looking, merry little children those are,”
said her uncle, watching the small figures diminish as they
threaded the avenue. ;

“Yes; they are as happy as orphans possibly can be. I love
to look into their smiling, rosy faces, and feel their dimpled

 
412 MACARIA.

hands steal timidly into mine. But, uncle, Dr. Arnold has
finished his nap and is waiting for you.”

She gave him her arm to the library door, saw him seated
comfortably at the table where the doctor was examining a
mass of papers, then joined Electra in the parlor.

“What progress are you making, Electra?”

“Very little. I can’t work well to-day. Ruskin says that no
artist has fully grasped or matured his subject who caunot quit
one portion of it at any moment, and proceed to the comple-
tion of some other part. Doubtless he is correct; but I am sc
haunted by those blue eyes that I can paint nothing else this
afternoon. Do you recognize them? Yours, Irene. Forgive
me; but I can find no others, in imagination or in life, that so
fully express serenity. My work has taken marvelous hold upon
me; sleeping or waking, it follows, possesses me. I shall
not hurry myself; I intend that the execution shall
be equal to my ideal—and that ideal entirely worthy of the
theme. I want to lay my ‘Modern Macaria’ as the first offer-
ing of Southern art upon my country’s altar, as a nucleus
around which nobler and grander pictures from the hands of
my countrymen and women shall cluster. In sunny climes like
ours my glorious art had its birth, its novitiate, its apotheosis;
and who dare say that future ages shall not find art students
from all nations pressing like pilgrims to the perfected school of
the Southern States? Ancient republics offered premiums, and
saw the acme of the arts; why not our Confederate republic,
when days of national prosperity dawn upon us? If the Legis-
lature of each State would annually purchase, for the embel-
lishment of the galleries and grounds of its capitol, the best
picture or statue produced within its borders during the twelve
months, a generous emulation would be encouraged. Our
marble-hearted land will furnish materials which Southern
genius can mold into monuments of imperishable beauty.
This war furnishes instances of heroism before which all other
records pale, and our poets, sculptors, and painters have only to
look around them for subjects which Greek or Italian art would
glorify and immortalize.

‘** T do distrust the poet who discerns
No character or glory in his times,
And trundles back his soul five hundred years.’

“Our resources are inexhaustible, our capabilities as a peo-
MACARIA, 413

ple unlimited, and we require only the fostering influences
which Cosmo De Medici and Niccolo Niceoli exerted in Flor-
ence, to call into action energies and latent talents of which
we are as yet scarcely conscious. Such patrons of art
and Literature I hope to find in the planters of the Confed-
eracy. They have wealth, leisure, and every requisite ad-
junct, and upon them, as a class, must devolve this labor of
love—the accomplishment of an American Renaissance—the
development of the slumbering genius of our land. Burke
has remarked: ‘ Nobility is a graceful ornament to the civil
order; it is the Corinthian capital of polished society.’ Cer-
tainly Southern planters possess all the elements of this high-
est order of social architecture, and upon their correct appre-
ciation of the grave responsibility attending their wealth and
influence depends, in great degree, our emancipation from
the gross utilitarianism which has hitherto characterized us,
and our progress in refinement and esthetic culture. As we
are distinct, socially and politically, from other nations, so
let us be, intellectually and artistically. The world has
turned its back upon us in our grapple with tyranny; and,
in the hour of our triumph, let us not forget that, as we won
Independence without aid or sympathy, so we can maintain
it in all departments.”

“ Electra, in order to effect this ‘consummation devoutly to
be wished,’ it is necessary that the primary branches of Art
should be popularized, and thrown open to the masses. Mill
contends in his ‘ Political Economy,’ that the remuneration of
the peculiar employments of women is always far below that
of employments of equal skill carried on by men, and he finds
an explanation in the fact that they are overstocked. Hence,
in improving the condition of women, it is advisable to give
them the readiest access to independent industrial pursuits,
and extend the circle of their appropriate occupations. Our
Revolution has beggared thousands, and deprived many of
their natural providers; numbers of women in the Confed-
eracy will be thrown entirely on their own resources for main-
tenance. All cannot be mantua-makers, milliners, or school-
teachers; and in order to open for them new avenues of support,
I have determined to establish in W- a School of Design for
women—similar in plan, though more extensive, than that
founded some years ago by Mrs. Peter of Philadelphia. The
upper portion of the building will be arranged for drawing

 
414 MACARIA,

classes, wood-engraving, and the various branches of Design;
and the lower, corresponding in size and general appearance, I
intend for a circulating library for our county. Over that
School of Design I want you to preside; your talents, your edu-
cation, your devotion to Art fit you peculiarly for the position.
The salary shall be such as to compensate you for your services;
and, when calmer days dawn upon us, we may be able to secure
some very valuable lecturers among our gentlemen artists. I
have a large lot on the corner of Pine Street and Huntingdon
Avenue, opposite the court-house, which will be a fine location
for it, and I wish to appropriate it to this purpose. While you
are adorning the interior of the building, the walls of which are
to contain frescoes of some of the most impressive scenes of our
Revolution, I will embellish the grounds in front, and make
them my special charge. I understand the cultivation of
flowers, though the gift of painting them is denied me. Yester-
day I sold my diamonds for a much larger amount than I sup-
posed they would command, and this sum, added to other funds
now at my disposal, will enable me to accomplish the scheme.
Dr. Arnold and Uncle Eric cordially approve my plan, will aid
me very liberally, and as soon as tranquillity is restored I shall
succeed in erecting the building without applying to anyone
else for assistance. When your picture is finished, I wish you
to make me a copy to be hung up in our School of Design, that
the students may be constantly reminded of the debt of grati-
tude we owe our armies. How life-like your figures grow; I
can almost see the quiver of that wife’s white lips and hear the
dismal howling of the dead man’s dog.”

The canvas, which she leaned forward to inspect more closely,
contained an allegorical design representing, in the foreground,
two female figures. One stern, yet noble-featured, crowned with
stars—triumph and exultation flashing in the luminous eyes;
Independence, crimson-mantled, grasping the Confederate Ban-
ner of the Cross, whose victorious folds streamed above a cap-
tured battery, where a Federal flag trailed in the dust. At
her side stood white-robed, angelic Peace, with one hand over
the touch-hole of the cannon against which she leaned, and
the other extended in benediction. Vividly the faces con-
trasted—one all athrob with national pride, beaming with bril-
liant destiny; the other wonderfully serene and holy. In the
distance, gleaming in the evening light which streamed from
the west, tents dotted a hillside; and, intermediate between
MACARIA, 415

Peace and the tents, stretched a torn, stained battle-field, over
which the roar and rush of conflict had just swept, leaving
mangled heaps of dead as evidence of its fury. Among the
trampled, bloody sheaves of wheat, an aged, Niobe mother bent
in anguish, pressing her hand upon the pulseless heart of a
handsome boy of sixteen summers, whose yellow locks were dab-
bled from his death wound A few steps farther, a lovely young
wife, kneeling beside the stalwart form of her husband, whose
fingers still clutched his broken sword, lifted her woeful ashen
face to Heaven in mute despair, while the fair-browed infant
on the ground beside her dipped its little snowy, dimpled feet in
a pool of its father’s blood, and, with tears of terror still glisten-
ing on its cheeks, laughed at the scarlet coloring. Just beyond
these mourners, a girl of surpassing beauty, whose black hair
floated like a sable banner on the breeze, clasped her rounded
arms about her dead patriot lover, and kept her sad vigil—with
all of Sparta’s stern stoicism in her blanched, stony counte-
nance. And, last of the stricken groups, a faithful dog, crouch-
ing close to the corpse of an old silver-haired man, threw back his
head and howled in desolation. Neither blue shadows nor
wreathing, rosy mists, nor golden haze of sunset glory, soft-
ened the sacrificial scene which showed its grim features
strangely solemn in the weird, fading, crepuscular light.

“How many months do you suppose it will require to com-
plete it?” asked Irene, whose interest in the picture was scarcely
inferior to that of its creator.

“Tf I work steadily upon it, I can soon finish it; but if I go
with you to a Tennessee hospital, I must, of course, leave it
here until the war ends. After all, Irene, the joy of success
does not equal that which attends the patient working. Per-
haps it is because ‘ anticipation is the purest part of pleasure.’
I love my work; no man or woman ever loved it better; and
yet there is a painful feeling of isolation, of loneliness, which
steals over me sometimes, and chills all my enthusiasm. It
is so mournful to know that, when the labor is ended, and new
laurels come, I shall have no one but you to whom I can turn for
sympathy in my triumph. If I feel this so keenly now, how
shall I bear it when the glow of life fades into sober twilight
shadows, and age creeps upon me?

“©*OQ my God! my God!
© supreme Artist, who as sole return
For all the cosmic wonder of thy worl,
416 MACARIA,

Demandest of us just a word—a name,

* My father! ’—thou hast knowledge—only thou,
How dreary ’tis for women to sit still

On winter nights by solitary fires,

And hear the nations praising them far off,

Too far!’”

She threw down her brush and palette, and, turning toward
her companion, leaned her purplish black head against her.

“ Electra, it is very true that single women have trials for
which a thoughtless, happy world has little sympathy. But
lonely lives are not necessarily joyless; they should be, of all
others, most useful. The head of a household, a wife and
mother is occupied with family cares and affections—can find
little time for considering the comfort or contributing to the
enjoyment of any beyond the home-circle. Doubtless she is
happier, far happier, than the unmarried woman; but to the last
belongs the privilege of carrying light and blessings to many
firesides—of being the friend and helper of hundreds; and be-
cause she belongs exclusively to no one, her heart expands to
all her fellow-creatures. In my childhood I always thought
of ‘Old Maids’ with a sensation of contempt and repulsion;
now I regard those among them who preserve their natures
from cynicism and querulousness, and prove themselves ‘social
evangels of merey, as an uncrowned host of martyrs. Electra,
remember other words of the same vigorous gifted woman whom
you so often quote:

“«« And since we needs must hunger—better, for man’s love,
Than God’s truth! better, for companion sweet
Than great convictions! let us bear our weights,
Preferring dreary hearths to desert souls!’

“Remember, dear, that the woman who dares to live alone
and be sneered at, is braver, and nobler and better than she who
escapes both in a loveless marriage. It is true that you and I
are very lonely, and yet our future holds much that is bright.
You have the profession you love so well, and our new School
of Design to engage your thoughts; and I a thousand claims on
my time and attention. I have Uncle Eric to take care of and
to love, and Dr. Arnold, who is growing quite infirm, has
promised me that as soon as he can be spared from the hospitals,
he will make his home with us. When this storm of war has
spent itself, your uncle’s family will return from Europe and
reside here with you. Harvey, too, will come to W-: to live

 

.
MACARIA, 417

—-will probably take charge of Mr. Campbell’s church—and we
shall have the pleasure and benefit of his constant counsel. If
I could see you a member of that church I should be better satis-
fied—and you would be happier.”

“T would join to-morrow, if thereby I could acquire your sub-
lime faith, and strength, and resignation. Oh, Irene! my
friend and comforter! I want to live differently in the future.
Once I was wedded to life and my Art—pre-eminence in my
profession, fame, was all that I cared to attain; now I desire
to spend my remaining years so that I may meet Russell be
yond the grave. His death broke the ties that bound me to
this world; I live now in hope of re-union in God’s eternal
kingdom. I have been selfish, and careless, and complaining;
but, oh! I want to do my whole duty henceforth. Irene, my
calm, sweet, patient guide, teach me to be more like you.”

“Electra, take Christ for your model, instead of an erring
human being like yourself, constantly falling short of her own
duty. With Harvey to direct us, we ought to accomplish a
world of good, here in sight of Russell’s grave. Cheer up!
God’s great vineyard stretches before us, calling for laborers.
Hand in hand we will go in and work till evening shades close
over us; then lift up, in token of our faithfulness, rich, ripe
clusters of purple fruitage. You and I have much to do during
these days of terrible gloom and national trial—for upon the
purity, the devotion, and the patriotism of the women of our~
land, not less than upon the heroism of our armies, deperids
our national salvation. To jealously guard our homes and
social circles from the inroads of corruption, to keep the fires of
patriotism burning upon the altars of the South, to sustain and
encourage those who are wrestling along the border for our
birthright of freedom, is the consecrated work to which we are
called; and beyond this bloody baptism will open vistas of life-
long usefulness, when the reign of wrong and tyranny is ended,
when the roar of battle, the blast of bugle, and beat of drum is
hushed among our hills, and Peace! blessed Peace! again makes
her home in our smiling, flowery valleys. Hasten the hour, oh!
my God! when her white wings shall hover over us once more!”

The eyes of the artist went back to the stainless robes and
seraphie face of her pictured Peace in the “ Modern Macaria,”
and as she resumed her work, her brow cleared, the counte-
nance kindled as in days of yore, bitter memories hushed their
moans and fell asleep at the wizard touch of her profession,
418 MACARIA,

and the stormy, stricken soul found balm and rest in heaven-
appointed labor.

Standing at the back of Electra’s chair, with one hand rest-
ing on her shoulder, Irene raised her holy, violet eyes, and
looked through the window toward the cemetery, where glit-
tered a tall marble shaft, which the citizens of W: had:
erected over the last resting-place of Russell Aubrey. Sands
of time were drifting stealthily around the crumbling idols of
the morning of life, leveling and tenderly shrouding the past,
but sorrow left its softening shadow on the orphan’s counte-
nance, and laid its chastening finger about the lips which
meekly uttered: “ Thy will be done.” The rays of the setting
sun gilded her mourning dress, gleamed in the white roses that
breathed their perfume in her rippling hair, and lingered like
a benediction on the placid, pure face of the lonely woman who
had survived every earthly hcpe; and who, calmly confronting
her Altars of Sacrifice, here dedicated herself anew to the hai-
lowed work of promoting the happiness and gladening the paths
of all who journeyed with her down the checkered aisles of
time.

 

‘« Rise, woman, rise!
To the peculiar and best altitudes
Of doing good and of enduring ill,
Of comforting for ill, and teaching good,
And reconciling all that ill and good,
Unto the patience of a constant hope.
. - . Henceforward, rise, aspire,
To all the calms and magnanimities,
The lofty uses and the noble ends,
The sanctified devotion and full work,
To which thou art elect for evermore!”
BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Top& Price, $1.00

 

Abbe. Constantin. By Halevy.
Abbot, The. By Sir Walter Sccit,
Adam Bede. By George Eliot.
‘Addison’s Essays. By Joseph Addison.
@neid of Virgil.

' ZEsop’s Fables.

Alexander, the Great, Life of. By
John Williams.
Alfred, the Great, Life of. By

Thomas Hughes.
Alhambra, The. Washington Irving.
Alice in Wonderlané. Lewis Carroll.

All Sorts and Conditions of Men.
By Walter Besant.

Alton Locke. By Charles Kingsley.

Amiel’s Journal.

Andersen’s Fairy Tales.

Anne of Geirstein, Sir Walter Scott.

Antiquary, The. Sir Walter Scott.

Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.

Ardath. By Marie Corelli.

Arnold, Benedict, Life of. By George
Canning Hill.

Arnold’s Poems. Matthew Arnold.
Around the World in the Yacht
Sunbeam. By Mrs, Brassey.

Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil Hay.

At the Back of the North Wind. By
George Macdonald.

Attic Philosopher. Emile Souvestre.

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By
O. W. Holmes.

Bacon’s Essays. By Francis Bacon.

Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens.

Barrack Room Ballads. By Rudyard
Kipling.

Beulah. By Augusta J. Evans.

‘Black Beauty. By Anna Sewell.

“Black Dwarf, The. Sir Walter Scott.

Black Rock. By Ralph Connor.

Black Tulip, The. By Alex. Dumas.

Bleak House. By Charles Dickens.

Blithedale Romance, The. By Na-
thaniel Hawthorne.

Bondsman, The. By Hall Caine.

Book of Golden Deeds. By Charlotte
M. Yonge.

Boone, Daniel, Life of. By Cecil B.
Hartley.

Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Waiter
Scott.
Browning’s Poems.

Brownine’s Poems.

(Elizabeth.)
CRobert.)

 

Bryant’s Poems. W. C. Bryant.
Burgomasters’ Wife. Geerge Ebers,
Burns’ Poems. By Robert Burns.
By Order of the King. By Hugo,
Byron’s Poems. By Lord Byron.

Caesar, Julius, Life of By James
Anthony Froude,

Carson, Kit, Life of. By Charles
Burdett.

Cary’s Poems, (Alice and Phoebe.)
Cast Up by the Sea. Sir S. Baker,
Charles Auchester. By E. Berger,
Character. By Samuel Smiles,

Charlemagne (Charles the Great),
Life of. By Thomas Hodgkin. i

Charles O’Malley. By Charles Lever, |

Chesterfield’s Letters. By Lord '
Chesterfield.
Chevalier de Maison Rouge. By Al-

exander Dumas.

Children of the Abbey. By Regina
Maria Roche.

Chicot the Jester. By Alex. Dumas.

Child’s History of England. By
Charles Dickens.

Christmas Stories. Charles Dickens,
Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles

Reade.

Coleridge’s Poems. By S. T. Coles
ridge.

Columbus, Christopher, Life of. Bp
Washington Irving,

Companions of Jehu, The, Dumas

Complete Angler. Walton & Cotton.
Conduct of Life. R. W. Emerson.

Confessions of an Opium Eater. By
Thomas de Quincey.

Conquest of Granada. By Washiuge
ton Irving.

Conquest of Mexico, Vol. I. By
Wm. H. Prescott.

Conquest of Mexico. Vol. II. By

m. H. Prescott.
Conquest of Peru. Vol. I. By Wm
H. Prescott, - :
Conquest of Peru.
H. Prescott.
Conspiracy of Pontiac.
Parkman, Jr.
Conspirators, The. Dumas,
Consuelo. By George Sand,
Cook’s Voyages. Captain James Cook,
Corinne. By Madame de Stael,
Count of Monte Cristo. Vel I. Bp
'  AJex ‘Dumas.

Vol, II. By Wm.

By Francig
BURT'S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth.

Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00

 

Count it Monte Cristo. Vol. TI.

By ex. Dumas.
_ Mountess de Charney. Alex Dumas.
{Countess of Rudolstadt, Geo. Sand.
Country Doctor. By H. de Balzac.

Courtship of Miles Standish, By «1.
. Longfellow.

Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell,
Crockett, David. An autobiography.

Cromwell, Oliver, Life of. Ey Edwin
Paxton Hood.

Crusades, The. By George W. Coz.
Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot.
Data of Ethics. By Herbert Spencer.

Daughter of an Empress. By Louisa
Muhlback.

David Copperfield. Charles Dickens.
‘Days of Bruce. By Grace Aguilar.
Deemster, The. By Hall Caine.
Deerslayer, The. By J. F. Cooper.
Descent of Man. By Charles Darwin.
Discourses of Epictetus.

Divine Comedy, The. (Dante.)
Translated by Rev, H. F. Carey.

Dombey & Sen. Charles Dickens.
Donal Grant. George Macdonald.
Donovan. By Edna Lyall.

Deve in the Eagle’s Nest.
lotte M. Yonge.

Dream Life. By Ik Marvel.

Pr. Jekyll and Mr. fyte. By, RK. L,
Stevenson,

Duty. By Samuel Smiles,

ast Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood.
Mducation. By Herbert Spencer.
sHgoist. By George Meredith,
Wgyptian Princess. George Ebers.

(Wight Hundred Leagues on the Ama-
: zon. By Jules Verne,

Eliot’s Peems. By George Eliot.
Elizabeth and Her German Carden.

Plizabeth (Queen of England), Life
of. Edward Spencer Beesly.

Elsie Venner. By O. W. Holmes,
Emerson’s Essays. Complete.)
Emerson’s Poems. R. W. Emerson.
Essays in Criticism. Matthew Arnoid.
Essays of Elie. Ry Charles Lamb.
Evangeline. By H. W. Longfellow.
Fair Maid of Perth. Sir Walter Scott.

Holy ene of Sotence. By Arabella
Buckley.

By Char-

 

Faust. (Goethe.)
Felix Holt. By George Eliot.

Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World,
By E. S. Creasy.

File No.. 113. By Emile Gaboriau
First Principles. Herbert Spencer,
First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill.
For Lilias. By Rosa N. Carey.
Forty-Five Guardsmen. Dumas,

Foul Play. By Charles Reade.

Fragments of Science. John Tyndall

Franklin, Benjamin, Life of, Ar
autobiography.

Frederick the Great and His Court.
By Louisa Muhlback,

Frederick, the Great, Life of.
Francis Kugler.

French Revolution. Thomas Carlyle.
From the Earth to the Moon. By

By

Jules Verne,

Garibaldi, General, Life of. By Theo-
dore Dwight,

Gil Blas. A. R. Le Sage.

Gold Bug, The. Edgar A. Poe
Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt.
Golden Treasury. By T. Palgrave.
Goldsmith’s Poems.

Grandfather’s Chair. By Nathaniel
Hawthorne,

Grant, Ulysses S., Life of. By J.
T. Headley.

Gray’s Poems. Thomas Gray.
Great Expectations. Charles Dickene.
Greek Heroes. Charles Kingsley.

Green Mountain Boys, The By DB.
P. Thompson.

Grimm’s Household Tales,

Grimm’s Popular Tales.

Gulliver’s Travels. By Dean Swift.
Guy Mannering. Sir Walter Scott.

Hale, Nathin, the Martryr Spy.
Charlotte M. Holloway. ere

Handy Andy. Ey Samuel Lover,

Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of
By Thomas Arnold.

Hardy Norseman. By Edna Lyall.
Harold. By Bulwer-Lytton.
Harry Lorrequer. Charles Lever.

Heart of Midlothian. By Sir Walter
Scott.

Heir of Redclyffe.
Yonge.

Heman’s Poems. By Felicia Hemans.

By Charlotte M.
BURT’S HOME LIBRARY.

Henry Esmond. W. M. Thackeray.
Monty, Patrick, Life of. By William
irt. p

Mereward. By Charles Kingsley.

Heroes and Hero-Worship. By Thos:
Carlyle.

Hiawatha. By H. W. Longfellow.

Hidden Hand. By Mrs. Southworth.

History of Crime, Victor Hugo.

History of Civilization in Europe.
By M. Guizot.

History of Our Own Times.
By Justin McCarthy.

History of Our Own Times.
a By Justin McCarthy.

Holmes’ Poems. By O. W. Holines.
Holy Roman Empire. James Bryce.
Homo Sum. By George Ebers.

Hood’s Poems. By Thomas Hood.

House of the Seven Gables. By Na-
thaniel Hawthorne.

Hunchback of Notre Dame. By Victor
Hugo.

Hypatia. By Charles Kingsley.

Iceland Fisherman. By Pierre Lott.

Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. By
Jerome K. Jerome.

Viad, The. Pope’s Translation, .
Inez. By Augusta J. Evans.
Ingelow’s Poems. Jean Ingelow.
Inteilectual Life. P, G. Hamerton.
In the Golden Days. Edna Lyall.
Ishmael. By Mrs. Southworth.

It Is Never Too Late to Mend. By
Charles Reade.

Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott.
Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte.

Jefferson, Thomas, Life of, By Sam-
wel L. Schmucker.

Joan of Arc, Life of,
Michelet.

John Halifax. By Miss Mulock.
Jones, John Paul, Life of. James
Otis.

Vol. I.
Vol.

By Jules

Joseph Balsamo. By Alex. Dumas.

Josephine, Empress of France, Life
of. By Frea A. Ober.

Keats’ Poems. By John Keats.
Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott.
Kidnapped. By R. L. Stevenson.

King Arthur and His Noble Knights.
By Mary Macleod.

floth, Gilt Tops.

 

Price, $1.00

Knickerbocker’s History of New
York. By Washington Irving.

Knight Errant. By Edna Lyall.

Koran, The. Sales Translation.

Lady of the Lake. By Sir W. Scott.

Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. By
P. C, Headley.

Lalla Rookh. By Thomas Moore,

Lamplighter. Marie S, Cummins.

Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwe>
Lytton.

Last of the Barona. Bulwer-Lytton.

Last_of the Mohicans. By James
Fenimore Cooper.

Lee, Gen. Robert E., Life of. By G.
Mercer Adam.

Lena Rivers. By Mary J. Holmes.

Les Miserables. Vol. I. By Vic-
tor Hugo.

Les Miserables. Vol. II. By Vic-
tor Hugo.

Life of Christ,
Life of Jesus.
Light of Asia.

By F. W. Farrar. -
By Earnest Renan,
Sir Edwin Arnold.

Light That Failed, The. By Rude
yard ‘Kipling.

Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. By
Henry Ketcham.

Lincoln’s Speeches. By G. Mercer
Adam.

Literature and Dogma. By Mat
thew Arnold.

Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick»
ens.

Little Minister, The. By James

Barrie.

Livingstone, David. Life of. By!
Thomas Hughes.

Longfellow’s Poems. H. W. Longs
fellow.

Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore.

Louise de ia  Valliere. Alex.
Dumas.

Lowell’s Poems. J. Rusell Lowell,

Lucile. By Gwen Meredith,

Macaria. Augusta J. Evans.

Macauley’s Literary Essays. By
T. B. Macauley.

Magic Skin. Honore de Balzac.

Mahomet, Life of. Washington
Irving.

Makers of Florence. Mrs. Olis
phant,

Makers of Venice. Mrs, Oliphant,

‘
 

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1-00

Man in the Iron Mask. By Alex-| Nelson, Admiral Horatio. Life of.
andre Dumas. By Robert Southey.

Marble Faun. N. Hawthorne. Newcomes, The. W. M. Thack-

Marguerite de la Valois. By eray. ,
Alexandre Dumas. Nicholas Nickleby. Chas. Dickens,

‘Marius, The Epicurean. By Walter| Ninety-Three. By Victor Hugo.

: ater. Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa

Marmion. By Sir Walter Scott. N, Carey.

Marquis of  Lossie. Geo. Mac-} Odyssey, The. Pope’s Translation.
donald. Old Curiosity Shop. Chas. Dick

Martin Chuzzlewit. Charles Dickens. ens.

Mary, Queen of Scots, Life of.| Old Mam’selle’s Secret. By E
By P. C. Headley. Marlitt.

‘Master of Ballantrae, The. By R.} Old Mortality. Sir Walter Scott.
L. Stevenson, Old Myddleton’s Money. By Mary

Masterman Ready. Capt. Mar- Cecil Hay.
ryatt. Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens,

Meadow Brook. Mary J. Holmes. Only the Govervess. By Rosa N.

Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Carey.

Memoirs of a Physician. By Alex-
andre Dumas.
Micah Clarke. A. Conan Doyle.

Michael Strogoff. Jules Verne.

Middlemarch. By George Eliot.

Midshipman Easy. Capt. Mar-
ryatt.

Mill_ on the Floss. By George
jot.

Milton’s Poems. John Milton.

Minister’s Wooing, The. By Har-
riet Beecher Stowe.

Monastery. Sir Walter Scott.

Montaigne’s Essays. Vol. I. By
Michel de Montaigne.

Montaigne’s Essays. Vol. II. By

Michel de Montaigne,

Moonstone, The. By Wilkie Col-
} lins.

Moore’s Poems. Thomas Moore.

Mosses from an Old Manse.
Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Murders in the Rue Morgue.
Edgar Allan Poe.

Mysterious Island. Jules Verne.

By

By

Napoleon and His Marshals. By
J. T. Headley.
K'apoleon Bonaparte, Life of. By
P, C. Headley,
Law. in the_ Spiritual

Natural
World. By Henry Drummond.

Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.
By Edgar Allan Poe.

Nature, Addresses and Lectures.
By R. W. Emerson,

 

On the Heights. B. Auerbach.
Oregon Trail. Francis Parkman,

Origin of Species. Charles Dar.
win.

Other “Worlds Than Ours. By
Richard Proctor.
Our Mutual Friend. Chas. Dickens,

Page of the Duke of Savoy. Dumas.
Past and Present. Thos. Carlyle.
Pathfinder, The. By James F. Cooper.

Paul and Virginia. St. Pierre.

Pendennis. Wm. M. Thackeray.

Penn, William, Life of. By W.
Hepworth Dixon.

Pere Goriot. Honore de Balzac.

Peter, the Great, Life of. By John
Barrow.

Phantom Rickshaw, The, By
Rudyard Kipling.

Philip II. of Spain, Life of. By

Martin A, S. Hume. :
Pickwick Papers. Charles Dickens.
Pilgrim’s Progress. John Bunyan.
Pillar of Fire. J. H. Ingraham,
Pilot, The. James F. Cooper.
Pioneers, The. James F. Cooper.
Pirate, The. Sir Walter Scott.

Plain. Tales from the Hills.
Rudyard Kipling. =

Plato’s Dialogues,
Pleasures of Life.
Poe’s Poems. By Edgar A, Poe.
Pope’s Poems. Alexander Pope,
Prairie, The. James F. Cooper,

By

Sir J. Lubbock,
CONSERY ATION 1998
 

 

 

tenes

pale
Sr RanS