CHAPTER VII.
ELEANOR.
One week, another--a third--a fourth, passed by. Our village was as ifit had never been shaken by a fierce agitation. Already the tragedy wasas if it had not been, except to the household whose fairest flower ithad blighted. People no longer looked over their shoulders as theywalked; the story now only served to enliven the history of the littleplace, when it was told to a stranger.
Every thing that human energy could accomplish had been done to trackthe murder to its origin; yet not one step had been gained since wesat, that Wednesday afternoon, in the parlor, holding a council overthe handkerchief. Young and healthful as I was, I felt my spiritsbreaking down under my constant, unavailing exertions. The time for myexamination came, which could not be unsuccessful, I had so long beenthoroughly prepared, but I had lost my keen interest in this era of mylife, while my ambition grew torpid. To excel in my profession hadbecome, for the time, quite the secondary object of my life; my braingrew feverish with the harassment of restless projects--the recoil ofthwarted ideas. There was not one in the family group (always exceptingthat unseen and cloistered sufferer) who betrayed the wear-and-tear ofour trouble so much as I. James remarked once that I was improved bylosing some of my boyish ruddiness--I was "toning down," he said. Onanother occasion, with that Mephistophiles smile of his, he observedthat it must be that I was after the handsome rewards--the sum-totalwould make a comfortable setting-out for a person just starting in theworld.
I do not think he wished to quarrel with me; he was always doublypleasant after any such waspish sting; he was naturally satirical, andhe could not always curb his inclination to be so at my expense.
In the mean time an impression grew upon me that he was watchingme--with what intent I had not yet decided.
In all this time I had not seen Eleanor. She had recovered from herillness, so as to be about her room, but had not yet joined the familyat meals. I went frequently to the house; it had been a second home tome ever since I left the haunts of my boyhood and the old red-brickmansion, with the Grecian portico, whose massive pillars were almostreflected in the waters of Seneca lake, so close to the shore did itstand--and where my mother still resided, amidst the friends who hadknown her in the days of her happiness--that is, of my father's life.
With the same freedom as of old, I went and came to and from Mr.Argyll's. I was not apprehensive of intruding upon Eleanor, because shenever left her apartments; while Mary, gay young creature, troubled andgrieved as she was, could not stay always in the shadow. At her age,the budding blooms of womanhood require sunshine. She was lonely, andwhen she left her sister to the solitude which Eleanor preferred, shewanted company, she said. James was gloomy, and would not try to amuseher--not that she wanted to be amused, but every thing was so sad, andshe felt so timid, it was a relief to have any one to talk to, or evento look at. I felt very sorry for her. It became a part of my duty tobring her books, and sometimes to read them aloud, through thelengthening evenings; at others to while away the time with a game ofchess. The piano was abandoned out of respect for the mourner in thechamber above. Carols would rise to Mary's lips, as they rise from alark at sunrise, but she always broke them off, drowning them in sighs.Her elastic spirit constantly asserted itself, while the tendersympathy of a most warm, affectionate nature as constantly depressedit. She could not speak of Eleanor without tears; and for this my heartblessed her. She did not know of the choking in my own throat whichoften prevented me from speaking, when I ought, perhaps, to be utteringwords of help or comfort.
James was always hovering about like a restless spirit. It had been oneof his indolent habits to spend a great deal of time with the youngladies; and now he was forever in the house; but so uneasy, soirritable--as Mary said--he was not an agreeable companion. He wouldpick up a book in the library; in five minutes he would throw it down,and walk twice or thrice up and down the hall, out upon the piazza,back into the parlor, and stand looking out of the windows--then to thelibrary and take up another book. He had the air of one alwayslistening--always waiting. He had, too, a kind of haunted look, if myreader can imagine what that is. I guessed that he was listening andwaiting for Eleanor--whom, like myself, he had not seen since theSunday so memorable; but the other look I did not seek to explain.
There had been a light fall of snow. It seemed as if winter had come inNovember. But in a few hours this aspect vanished; the snow melted likea dream; the zenith was a deep, molten blue, transfused with the palesunshine, which is only seen in Indian-summer; a tender mist circledthe horizon with a zone of purple. I could not stay in the office thatafternoon, so infinitely sad, so infinitely lovely. I put aside thelaw-papers which I had been arranging for a case in which I was firstto appear before a jury and make my maiden argument. The air, soft asthat of summer and scented with the indescribable perfume of perishingleaves, came to me through the open window, with a message calling meabroad; I took up my hat, stepped out upon the pavement, and wanderingalong the avenue in the direction of the house, went in upon the lawn.I had thought to go out into the open country for a long walk; but myheart drew me and held me here. The language of all beauty, and ofinfinity itself, is love. The divine melancholy of music, the deeptranquillity of summer noons, the softened splendor of autumn days,haunting one with ineffable joy and sadness--what is the name of allthis varying demonstration of beauty, but love?
I walked beneath the trees, slowly, my feet nestling among thethickly-strewn leaves, and pressing a faint aroma from the moist earth.To and fro for a long time I rambled, thinking no tangible thoughts,but my soul silently filling, all the time, like a fountain fed bysecret springs. To the back of the lawn, extending around and behindthe flower-garden, was a little ascent, covered by a grove of elms andmaples, in the midst of which was a summer-house which had been afavorite resort of Eleanor's. Hither I finally bent my steps, andseating myself, looked musingly upon the lovely prospect around andbeneath me. The rustic temple opened toward the river, which wasvisible from here, rolling in its blue splendor across the exquisitelandscape. There is a fascination in water which will keep the eyesfixed upon it through hours of reverie; I sat there, mindful of thenear mountains, the purple mist, the white ships, the busy village, butgazing only at the blue ripples forever slipping away from the point ofmy observation. My spirit exhaled like the mist and ascended inaspiration. My grief aspired, and arose in passionate prayers to thewhite throne of the eternal justice--it arose in tears, etherealizedand drawn up by the rays from the one great source and sun--the spiritof Love. I prayed and wept for _her_. No thought of myself mingled withthese emotions.
Suddenly a slight chill fell upon me. I started to perceive that thesun had set. A band of orange belted the west. As the sun droppedbehind the hills the moon came up in the east. It seemed as if hersilver light frosted what it touched; the air grew sharp; a thin, whitecloud spread itself over the river. I had sat there long enough, and Iwas forcing myself to a consciousness of the fact, when I saw onecoming through the flower-garden and approaching the summer-house.
My blood paused in my veins when I saw that it was Eleanor. The sunsetyet lingered, and the cold moonlight shone full on her face. Iremembered how I had seen her, that last time but one, glowing andflushing in triumphant beauty, attired with the most skilled coquetryof a young, beloved woman, who is glad of her charms because anotherprizes them.
Now she came along the lonesome path, between the withered flower-beds,clothed in deepest black, walking with a feeble step, one small whitehand holding the sable shawl across her chest, a long crape vail thrownover her head, from which her face looked out, white and still.
A pang like that of death transfixed me, as I gazed at her. Not onerose left in the garden of her young life! The ruin through which shewalked was not so complete--but this garden would resurrect itself inthe months of another spring--while for her there was no spring on thisside of the grave.
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Slowly she threaded her way, with bent gaze, through the garden, outupon the hillside, and up to the little rustic temple in which she hadspent so many happy hours with him. When she had reached the grassyplatform in front of it, she raised her eyes and swept a glance aroundupon the familiar scene. There were no tears in her blue eyes, and herlips did not quiver. It was not until she had encircled the horizonwith that quiet, beamless look, that she perceived me. I rose to myfeet, my expression only doing reverence to her sorrow, for I had nowords.
She held out her hand, and as I took it, she said with gentleness--asif her sweetness must excuse the absence of her former smiles,
"Are you well, Richard? You look thin. Be careful of yourself--is itnot too chilly for you to be sitting here at this hour?"
I pressed her hand, and turned away, vainly endeavoring to command myvoice. _I_ had changed!--but it was like Eleanor to put herself asideand remember others.
"Nay, do not go," she said, as she saw that I was leaving her out offear of intruding upon her visit, "I shall remain here but a fewmoments, and I will lean upon your arm back to the house. I am notstrong, and the walk up the hill has tired me. I wanted to see you,Richard. I thought some of coming down-stairs a little while thisevening. I want to thank you."
The words were just whispered, and she turned immediately and lookedaway at the river. I understood her well. She wanted to thank me forthe spirit which had prompted me in my earnest, though unsuccessfulefforts. And coming down to the family-group a little while in theevening, that was for Mary's sake, and her poor father's. Her own lighthad expired, but she did not wish to darken the hearthstone any morethan was unavoidable. She sunk down upon the seat I had vacated,remaining motionless, looking upon the river and the sky. After a time,with a long, tremulous sigh, she arose to go. A gleam from the westfell upon a single violet which, protected from the frost by theprojecting roof, smiled up at us, near the door of the summer-house.With a wild kind of passion breaking through her quiet, Eleanorstooped, gathered it, pressed it to her lips, and burst into tears--itwas her favorite flower--Henry's favorite.
It was agony to see her cry, yet better, perhaps, than such marblerepose. She was too weak to bear this sudden shock alone; she leanedupon my shoulder, every sob which shook her frame echoed by me. Yes! Iam not ashamed to confess it! When manhood is fresh and unsullied, itstears are not wrung out in those single drops of mortal anguish whichthe rock gives forth when time and the foot of the world have hardenedit. I could still remember when I had kissed my mother, and wept myboyish troubles well upon her breast. I should have been harder thanthe nether millstone, had I not wept tears with Eleanor then.
I mastered myself in order to assist her to regain composure, for I wasalarmed lest the violence of her emotion should break down the remnantof her frail strength. She, too, struggled against the storm, soongrowing outwardly calm, and with the violet pressed to her bosom withone hand, with the other she clung to my arm, and we returned to thehouse, where they were already looking for Eleanor.
Under the full light of the hall-lamp we encountered James. It was hisfirst meeting with his cousin as well as mine. He gave her a quick,penetrating look, held out his hand, his lips moved as if striving toform a greeting. It was evident that the change was greater than heexpected; he dropped his hand, before her fingers had touched it, andrushing past us through the open door, he closed it behind him,remaining out until long after tea.
When he came in, Eleanor had retired to her chamber, and Mary broughthim the cup of tea which she had kept hot for him.
"You are a good girl, Mary," he said, drinking it hastily, as if to getrid of it. "I hope nobody will ever make you look like _that_! Ithought broken hearts were easily mended--that girls usually had theirsbroken three or four times, and patched them up again--but I havechanged my mind."
That gloomy look, which Mary declared she dreaded, clouded his faceagain. His countenance was most variable; nothing could excel it inglitter and brilliant color when he was in his pleasing mood, but whensullen or sad, it was sallow and lusterless. Thus it looked thatevening. But I must close this chapter now and here--it is consecratedto that meeting with the object of my sorrow and adoration, and I willnot prolong it with the details of other events.