CHAPTER XXI
THE MINISTER'S LOVE
Two years rolled on, stained with the tears of many, ringing with the songsand laughter of a fortunate few. The witchery of Southern spring againenveloped W----, and Irene stood on the lawn surveying the "greenery of theoutdoor world" that surrounded her.
In this woman's sad but intensely calm countenance, a joyless life foundsilent history. She felt that her life was passing rapidly, unimproved,and aimless; she knew that her years, instead of being fragrant with themellow fruitage of good deeds, were tedious and joyless, and that thegaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing upon her. The elasticity ofspirits, the buoyancy of youth had given place to a species of stoical muteapathy; a mental and moral paralysis was stealing over her.
The slamming of the ponderous iron gate attracted her attention, and shesaw a carriage ascending the avenue. As it reached a point opposite to thespot where she stood it halted, the door was thrown open, and a gentlemanstepped out and approached her. The form was not familiar, and the strawhat partially veiled the features, but he paused before her, and said, witha 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 theeagerness of a delighted child. Time had pressed heavily upon him; wrinkleswere conspicuous about the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the blackhair had become a steely grey.
Holding her hands, he drew her nearer to him, scrutinized her features, anda look of keen sorrow crossed his own as he said, almost inaudibly--
"I feared as much! I feared as much! The shadow has spread."
"You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you promised to write and failed. Isent you one letter, but it was never answered."
"Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never received it, believe me. True, Iexpected to write to you frequently when I parted with you, butsubsequently determined that it would be best not to do so. Attribute mysilence, however, to every other cause than want of remembrance."
"God only knows how I have wanted, how I have needed you, to guide andstrengthen me."
She raised the two hands that still held hers, and bowed her forehead uponthem.
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 oflife aimless, hopeless, useless! What shall I do with my future? I believeI am slowly petrifying; I neither suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelingsare deadened; I am growing callous, indifferent to everything. I am fastlosing sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed up in self, obliviousof the noble aspirations of promise. Once more I ask you, what shall I dowith my life?"
"Give it to God."
"Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in necessity. He will not accept theworthless thing thrown at His feet, as a _dernier ressort_. Once it was mychoice, but the pure, clear-eyed faith of my childhood shook hands with mewhen you left me in New York."
For a short while he struggled with himself, striving to overcome theunconquerable impulse which suddenly prompted him, and his face grew pallidas hers as he walked hastily across the smooth grass and came back to her.Her countenance was lifted toward the neighbouring hill, her thoughtsevidently far away, when he paused before her, and said unsteadily--
"Irene, 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 tintfled from her lips as she pondered his words in unfeigned astonishment, andshaking 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 Ihave loved you from the evening you first sat in my study looking over myforeign sketches. You were then a child, but I was a man, and I knew allthat you had so suddenly become to me. Because of this great disparity inyears, and because I dared not hope that one so tenderly nurtured couldever brave the hardships of my projected life, I determined to quit NewYork earlier than I had anticipated, and to bury a foolish memory in thetrackless forests of the far West. I ought to have known the fallacy of myexpectation; I have proved it since. Your face followed me; your eyes metmine at every turn; your glittering hair swept on every breeze that touchedmy cheek. Irene, you are young, and singularly beautiful, and I am agrey-haired man, much, much older than yourself; but, if you live athousand years, you will never find such affection as I offer you now.There is nothing on earth which would make me so happy as the possession ofyour love. You are the only woman I have ever seen whom I even wish to callmy wife--the only woman who, I felt, could lend new charm to life, and makemy 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 enticing indeed. Thestrong, holy, manly love, the noble heart and head to guide her, the firm,tender hand to support her, the constant, congenial, and delightfulcompanionship--all this passed swiftly through her mind; but, crushing allin its grasp, came the memory of one whom she rarely met, but who heldundisputed 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 beyonddegree; but I would not mock you by the miserable and only return I couldmake you--the affection of a devoted sister. That I do not love you as youwish is my great misfortune; for I appreciate most fully the nobleprivilege you have tendered me. I trust that the pain I may give you nowwill soon pass away, and that, in time, you will forget one who is utterlyundeserving of the honour you have conferred on her to-day. Oh, Harvey! donot, I beg of you, let one thought of me ever disquiet your noble, generousheart."
A shiver crept over her still face, and she dropped her pale forehead. Shefelt two tears fall upon her hair, and in silence he bent down and kissedher 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 amoment, laying his hands upon her head, in the baptism of a deathless love,he gently and solemnly blessed her. When his fingers were removed sheraised her eyes, but he had gone; she saw only the retreating form throughthe green arches of the grand old avenue.