CHAPTER XXV
RECONCILED
"Well, Irene, what is your decision about the party at Mrs. Churchill'sto-night?"
"I 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 invitationas far as I am concerned."
"It is full time for you to go into society again. You have moped at homelong enough."
"'Moped' is scarcely the right word, father."
"It matters little what you call it, the fact is the same. You have shutyourself 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 theworld once more. I am, sick of your black looks; let me see you in coloursto-night."
"Will not pure white content you, father?"
"No, I am tired of it. Wear something bright."
"I have a favour to ask at your hands, father, will you give me that largebeautiful vacant lot with the old willow tree, on the corner of PineStreet and Huntingdon Avenue, opposite the court-house?"
"Upon my word! I must say you are very modest in your request! What thedeuce do you want with it?"
"I know that I am asking a good deal, sir; but I want it as a site for anorphan asylum. Will you give it to me?"
"No! I'll be hanged if I do! Are you going entirely deranged? What businesshave you with asylums, I should like to know? Put all of that ridiculousstuff out of your head. Here is something for which I sent to Europe. Ericselected 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 thespring, the lid flew open, and on the blue satin lining lay the blazingcoils 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?"
"I am pardonably curious on the subject."
"Well, then, I was silly enough to give seven thousand dollars for them."
"And what was the value of that lot I asked for?"
"Five thousand dollars."
"Father, these diamonds are the finest I ever saw. They are superblybeautiful; a queen might be proud of them, and I thank you most earnestlyfor such a gorgeous present; but if you will not be offended, I will becandid with you--I would a thousand times rather have the lot than thejewels."
The expression of blank astonishment with which these words were receivedwould have been ludicrous but for the ominous thickening of his brows.
She laid her fingers on his arm, but he shook off the touch, and, scowlingsullenly, snatched the velvet case from her hand.
He went to town, and she met him no more till she was attired for theparty. Standing before the mirror in her own room she arranged the flowersin her hair, and, when the leaves were disposed to suit her fastidioustaste, 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'simage 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, do let us be reconciled."
Clouds and moodiness melted from his handsome features as he bent over heran instant, kissing her fondly; then his hands passed swiftly over herneck, 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 youhave the Pine Street lot--I want it for a different purpose; but I willgive you three acres on the edge of town, near the depot, for your asylumwhim. 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.
"Irene, look at yourself. Diana of Ephesus! what a blaze of glory!"
Two days before the marriage of Charles Harris and Maria Henderson had beencelebrated with considerable pomp, and the party to-night was given inhonour of the event by Mrs. Churchill, a widowed sister of Judge Harris.She had spent several years in Paris superintending the education of adaughter, whom she had recently brought home to reside near her uncle, anddazzle all W---- with her accomplishments.
At ten o'clock there stood beneath the gas-lights in her elegant parlour ahuman fleshy antithesis, upon which all eyes were riveted--SalomeChurchill--a dark imperious beauty, of the Cleopatra type, with very fullcrimson lips, passionate or pouting as occasion demanded; brilliant blackeyes that, like August days, burned dewless and unclouded, a steady blaze;thick, shining, black hair elaborately curled, and a rich tropicalcomplexion, clear and glowing as the warm blood that pulsed through herrounded graceful form. She wore a fleecy fabric, topaz-coloured, with blacklace trimmings; yellow roses gemmed her hair, and topaz and ruby ornamentsclasped her throat and arms. An Eastern queen she looked, exactinguniversal homage, and full of fiery jealousy whenever her eyes fell uponone who stood just opposite. Irene's dress was an airy blue _tulle_,flounced to the waist, and without trimming, save the violet and clematisclusters. Never had her rare beauty been more resplendent--more dazzlinglychilly; it seemed the glitter of an arctic ice-berg lit by some lowmidnight sun, and turn whither she would fascinated groups followed hersteps. Salome's reputation as a brilliant _belle_ had become extended sinceIrene's long seclusion, yet to-night, on the reappearance of the latter, itwas apparent to even the most obtuse that she had resumed her sway--thematchless cynosure of that social system. Fully conscious of the intenseadmiration she excited, she moved slowly from room to room, smiling once ortwice 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 ofa glass of water, she heard Aubrey's name pronounced by some one on thegallery.
"Well, the very latest report is that, after all, Aubrey never fanciedGrace Harris, as the quidnuncs asserted--never addressed her, or anybodyelse--but is now, sure enough, about to bear off _belle_ Salome, the newprize, right in the face of twenty rivals. I should really like to hear ofsomething which that man could not do, if he set himself to work inearnest. I wonder whether it ever occurs to him that he once stood behindJacob Watson's counter?"
"But Aubrey is not here to-night. Does not affect parties, I believe?"
"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'scheeks when he spoke to her."
Irene moved away from the window, and soon after was about to accompanyCharlie to the hall, when a Mr. Bainbridge came up and claimed her hand forthe cotillion forming in the next room. As they took their places on thefloor, she saw that Salome and Russell would be _vis-a-vis_.
Irene moved mechanically through the airy mazes of the dance, straining herear to catch the mellow voice which uttered such graceful, fascinatingnothings to Salome. Several times in the course of the cotillion Russell'shand clasped her, but even then he avoided looking at her, and seemedengrossed in conversation with his gay partner. Once Irene looked upsteadily, and as she noted the expression with which he regarded hiscompanion she wondered no longer at the rumour she had heard, andacknowledged to herself that they were, indeed, a handsome couple.
The dance ended; Irene declined to dance again. 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 againstthe door-facing, and peering curiously into the parlours.
"Philip, what are you doing here?"
"Oh, Miss Irene! I have been hunting for you ever so long. Mrs. Davis isdying, and Susan sent me after you. I went to your house two hours ago, andthey said you were here. Will you come, ma'am!"
"Of course. Philip, find Andrew and the carriage, and I will meet you atthe side door i
n five minutes."
She went to the dressing-room, asked for pencil and paper, and wrote a fewlines, which she directed the servant to hand immediately to herfather--found her shawl, and stole down to the side door. She saw the dimoutline of a form sitting on the step, in the shadow of clustering vines,and asked--
"Is that you, Philip? I am ready."
The figure rose, came forward into the light, hat in hand, and both startedvisibly.
"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 the carriages.He is at the front entrance."
"Can I assist you, Miss Huntingdon?"
"I 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 andwait for her father, Irene entered the low small chamber, where a humansoul was pluming itself for its final flight home. The dying woman knew hereven then in the fierce throes of dissolution, and the sunken eyes beamedas she bent over the pillow.
"God bless you! I knew you would come. My children--what will become ofthem? Will you take care of them? Tell me quick."
"Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Davis. I will see that your children are wellcared for in every respect."
"Promise me!" gasped the poor sufferer, clutching the jewelled arm.
"I 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 calmyourself?"
A ghastly smile trembled over the distorted features, and she bowed herhead in assent.
"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 buttouching 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.
A passionate burst of sorrow from Johnnie followed the discovery of themelancholy truth, and rising from the floor Irene seated herself on achair, taking the child on her lap, and soothing his violent grief. Tooyoung to realize his loss, he was easily comforted, and after a time grewquiet. She directed Susan to take him into the next room and put him on hispallet; and when she had exchanged a few words with Philip's mother aboutthe disposition of the rigid sleeper, she turned to quit the apartment, andsaw Russell standing on the threshold. Had the dead mother suddenly steppedbefore her she would scarcely have been more astonished and startled.
He extended one hand, and hastily taking hers, drew her to the door of thenarrow, dark hall, where the newly-risen moon shone in.
"Come out of this charnel-house into the pure air once more. Do not shrinkback--trust yourself with me this once at least." The brick walls of thefactory rose a hundred yards off, in full view of the Row, and leading heralong the river bank he placed her on one of the massive stone steps of thebuilding.
"What brought you here to-night, Mr. Aubrey?"
"An unpardonable curiosity concerning your sudden departure--anunconquerable desire to speak to you once more. I came here overmastered byan irresistible desire to see you alone, to look at you, to tell you what Ihave almost sworn should never pass my lips--what you may consider unmanlyweakness--nay, insanity, on my part. We are face to face at last, man andwoman, with the golden bars of conventionality and worldly distinctionsnapped asunder. I am no longer the man whom society would fain flatter, inatonement for past injustice; and I choose to forget for the time, that youare the daughter of my bitterest deadly foe--my persistent persecutor. Iremember nothing now but the crowned days of our childhood, the rosy dawnof my manhood, where your golden head shone my Morning Star. I hurl awayall barriers and remember only the one dream of my life--my deathless,unwavering love for you. Oh, Irene! Irene! why have you locked that rigidcold face of yours against me? In the hallowed days of old you nestled yourdear hands into mine, and pressed your curls against my cheek, and gave mecomfort in your pure, warm, girlish affection; how can you snatch yourfrozen fingers from mine now, as though my touch were contamination? Beyourself once more--give me one drop from the old overflowing fountain. Iam a lonely man; and my proud, bitter heart hungers for one of your gentlewords, one of your sweet, priceless smiles. Irene, look at me! Give it tome?"
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 fullforehead wearing a strange flush.
She dared not meet his eye, and drooped her head on her palms, shrinkingfrom 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.
"Irene, you are kind and merciful to the poor wretches in the Row.Poverty--nay, crime, does not frighten away your compassion for them! Whyare you hard and cruelly haughty only to me?"
"You do not need my sympathy, Mr. Aubrey, and congratulations on your greatsuccess would not come gracefully from my lips. Most unfortunate obstacleslong since rendered all intercourse between us impossible still; my feelingfor 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 ametallic tone utterly foreign to it. Her heart writhed, bled and moaned inthe grip of her steely purpose, but she endured all calmly--relaxing notone jot of her bitter resolution.
"My friend? Mockery! God defend me from such henceforth. Irene, you lovedme 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 evenas an equal, I know, I feel, that I am worthy of your love--that Icomprehend your strange nature as no one else ever will--that, had such aprivilege been accorded me, I could have kindled your heart, and made yousupremely happy. Cursed barriers have divided us always; fate denied me myright. I have suffered many things; but does it not argue, at least, infavour of my love, that it has survived all the trials to which yourfather's hate had subjected me? To-night I could forgive him all! all! if Iknew that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your heart againstme. My soul is full of bitterness which would move you, if one trait ofyour 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 ofold! I will intrude upon you no longer. Try at least not to despise me formy folly; I will crush it; and if you deign to remember me at all infuture, think of a man who laughs at his own idiocy, and strives to forgetthat he ever believed there lived one woman who would be true to her ownheart, even though the heavens fell and the world passed away!"
He rose partially, but her hand fell quickly upon his shoulder, and thebowed face lifted itself, stainless as starry jasmines bathed in equatorialdews.
"Mr. Aubrey, you are too severe upon yourself, and very unjust to me. Thecircumstances which conspired to alienate us were far beyond my control; Iregret them as sincerely as you possibly can, but as unavailably. If I haveindividually occasioned you sorrow or disappointment, God knows it was nofault of mine! We stand on the opposite shores of a dark, bridgeless gulf;but before we turn away to be henceforth strangers, I stretch out my handto you in friendly farewell--deeply regretting the pain which I may haveinnocently caused you, and asking your forgiveness. Mr. Aubrey, remember meas I was, not as I am. Good-bye, my friend. May God bless you in comingyears, and crown your life with the happiness you merit, is the earnestprayer of my heart."
The rare blue cord on her brow told how fiercely the lava-flood surgedunder its icy bands, and the blanched lip matched her cheek incolourlessness; save these tokens of anguish, no other was visible.
Russell drew down the hand from his shoulder, and folded it in both hisown.
"Irene, are we to walk different paths henceforth--utter strangers? Is suchyour will?"
"Such is the necessity, which must be as apparent to you as to me. Do notdoubt my friendship, Mr. Aubrey; but doubt the propriety of my parading itbefore the world."
He bent his cheek down on her cold hand, then raised it to his lips once,twice--laid it back on her lap, and taking his hat, walked away towardtown.
For some time she remained just as Russell had left her; then the whitearms and dry eyes were raised to the midnight sky.
"My God! my God! strengthen me in my desolation!"
She put back the folds of hair that, damp with dew, clung to her gleamingtemples, and recrossing the wide road or street, approached the chamber ofdeath.
Irene met at the door Dr. Arnold's buggy.
"Irene, 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, andI thought I would come after you. Put on your shawl and jump in. You are ina pretty plight, truly, to stand over a deathbed! 'Vanity of vanities! allis 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 leanedher head back, turning her face to the sickly moonlight.
They went into the house, and as he filled and lighted his pipe, hiscavernous eyes ran curiously over her.
"How you have blazed to-night! Your diamonds are superb."
"Yes, sir."
"Go to sleep at once, child. You look as if you had seen a ghost. What hasknotted up your forehead in that style?"
"I have looked upon a melancholy death to-night, and have seen two helplesschildren orphaned. Come and see me soon; I want to consult you about anorphan asylum for which father has given me a lot. Good night, sir; I amvery much obliged to you for your kindness in bringing me home. Nobody elseis half so considerate and thoughtful."
In her own room she took off the jewels, withered violets and moist_tulle_--and drawing on her dressing-gown, went up to the observatory, andsat 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 heever 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 feet trod,and his bitter accents wailed up and down her lonely heart. Through theremainder of that cloudless night she wrestled silently. At last, when thesky flushed rosily, like an opal smitten with light, and holyResignation--the blessing born only of great trial like hers--shed itsheavenly chrism over the worn and weary, bruised and bleeding spirit, shegathered up the mangled hopes that might have gladdened, and gilded, andglorified her earthly career, and pressing the ruins to her heart, laidherself meekly down, offering all upon the God-built altar of FilialObedience.
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 noisewakened him, and raising himself on his elbow, he looked wonderingly ather.
"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 notdone before for years. 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 Iask--I claim your love!"
"You are a strange girl, Irene; I never did understand you. But I don'twant to drive you from me, if you prefer to live here single. There shallbe peace between us, my dear daughter."
He leaned forward, and laid his hand caressingly on her head, as she kneltat his bedside, pleading with uplifted arms.