Ellen Morris accepted an invitation to Petersburg, ere the angry pique, aroused by Lynn's reproaches, passed off. The promise was hardly given, when she would have revoked it, had not pride held her to her word. Her friends were solicitous, that the far-famed hospitality of their city should not seem to the Richmond beauty, to have been vaunted too highly; and she appreciated their efforts; but the fortnight she had named as the period of her stay, crept slowly by. She hoped confidently to see her lover again at her feet, when the heat of passion was over; yet she was wretched in the recollection of her trifling, and the misery it had inflicted upon his high-toned spirit. Twice she prepared to write to him, and end a suspense torturing to both,—and twice dashed down the pen in shame and pride. The wished-for hour of departure arrived. The morning was bleak; the snow had ceased falling, but the clouds were low and threatening. Her entertainers begged her to wait but a day longer.
"If it were a matter of life and death, you could not be more obstinate," said her hostess, fretted at her unreasonableness.
"And how do you know that it is not?" answered she, jestingly.
"It is no joking matter, Miss Ellen," said a young man, gravely. "They have not cleared the snow from the track as it ought to be done. You would feel badly to have your neck broken."
"That is a trifle compared with a broken heart;" and she laughed lightly.
The train started, and the shivering passengers resigned themselves to a comfortless ride. Ellen's escort, an elderly gentleman, lost no time in settling his chin and ears down in the collar of his great coat, and the rest of his body in a corner, to sleep. She was wide-awake; and her spirits, raised by the near prospect of the meeting, her hopes had fed upon, for weary days and nights, found amusement in the uncouth figures, seen by the struggling light. She did not suffer from the cold or damp; herpulses bounded warmly; and when tired of being a solitary looker-on, she closed her eyes, and beguiled the time by fancies of home andhim; whether he too were repentant; if he did not show it, rather than lose him, she could humble herself to lure him back;—she could not be happy without the assurance of his love. She would tell him how miserable their parting had made her; and imagination revelled in the anticipation of the refreshing flood, her thirsting heart would receive in return. There were pictures of days, which should fleet by like a dream;—when doubts and fears should be lost in perfect beatitude; the dingy, smoky cars were metamorphosed into their cottage home, with its music and flowers and birds, and its atmosphere of love;—and the votaries of his divine art thronged to offer incense to him—her peerless one!
The halting of the laboring engine startled her. The drowsy travellers gathered themselves up; and elbowing and grumbling, rushed out. She lifted the window. They were at the Depot. Half-frozen officials stamped their toes and blew their fingers; hackmen swore at their horses and the porters;—now and then, a pair of watery eyes peered into the cars, in quest of some expected one; but the form she looked for was not there. "Pshaw! how could he know when she was coming? how silly not to recollect this!"
"There is no one here to meet you, Miss Ellen," said her companion, re-entering.
"I hardly expected it, sir; if you will be so kind as to get a carriage for me, I will not trouble you further."
Her smile thawed the old man's churlishness. He volunteered, his foot upon the step "to see her all the way home;" but she would not consent.
"I am not afraid; this kind 'uncle' will carry me safely."
The driver scraped and grinned, although his woolly whiskers were hoary with rime. "Pityallwomen can't be agreeable!" said the escort, trudging through the drifts, to his hack. That a gentleman of his temperament was ever otherwise, even on a raw morning, did not occur to him.
An omnibus blocked up the street;—Ellen's carriage was behind it, and the driver's objurgative eloquence retarded, instead of quickening the movements of its proprietor, who was stowing away baggage upon the roof.
"Hallo!" cried a young man, to another, who was knocking the snow from his boots against the curb-stone. "When did you get in?"
"Just now. Horrid weather for March!—isn't it? Any news going?"
"Not a bit—all frozen up—ah! yes! Lynn Holmes is dead."
"What! not the artist! when did it happen? I saw him on the street a week ago—another duel?"
"No—lung fever. He died night before last, after forty-eight hours' illness."
"Shocking!"
"Ellen! you are white as a sheet!" was Mrs. Morris' greeting. "My dear child—are you sick?"
"No ma'am—only cold—oh!socold!"
"Come to the fire."
"I think I will lie down awhile—I am chilled to the heart!"
The servant, who carried her breakfast, reported her asleep, and the careful mother would not let them waken her. Later in the day, she took a cup of hot coffee up to her. She was motionless; her head covered.
"My daughter!" said Mrs. Morris, softly, drawing down the coverlet.
She looked at her, but did not speak.
"How do you feel now?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"You are not quite awake yet, I believe," said her mother, smiling. "Here, drink this—it will do you good."
She took it.
"By the way, my dear," continued Mrs Morris, busying herself with the folds of a curtain, which did not hang to suit her. "I have melancholy news for you. Our friend, Mr. Holmes, died suddenly, night before last. I never was more astonished and grieved in my life. He was such a handsome, promising young man, and so attached to us! I said directly how sorry you would be to hear it. You were so much together—where are the pins? oh! here they are! His disease was a rapid inflammation of the lungs. The funeral will take place at the church this afternoon;—some of us must go, if the weatherisbad. Do you think you will be well enough?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Well—I hope so; and now I will go down and keep the children still, so that you can sleep."
The thunder of a thousand cannon would not have disturbed her. She heard and saw all that passed; but in place of heart and sense, was a dead vacuity, empty and soundless, although it had engulphed thought and feeling. She went to the funeral. Prudent, appearance-loving Mrs. Morris, dexterously flung a veil before the stony eyes, whose tearlessness people might observe, and wonder aloud, as she did mentally, at "Ellen's want of feeling;" but her daughter quietly raised it. The church was crowded. The untimely end of one so gifted and popular, thrilled the community, as the breast of one man. All was as still as the grave; the roar of the busy city-life deadened by the heavy atmosphere and cushioned earth. The wail of a clarion stirred the air;—nearer and nearer it sounded; and the plaintive breathing of other instruments; and at long intervals, a single roll of the drum;—nearer and nearer—they ceased, and the procession moved up the aisle. First walked Charles Dana and his sister-in-law, clad in deep mourning as for a brother; then Morton Lacy, pale and sorrowful, and on his arm another black-robed figure, (such privilege had Friendship above Love!) then a small band of fellow-artists; and the coffin! borne and followed by the Masonic fraternity, of which he was a member. It was set down in front of the pulpit; "the Book," with its drapery of black crape, laid reverently upon it; and the service proceeded. There were prayers and hymns and a sermon; she heard none;—the coffin lay in her sight—hiscoffin! It wasnot!Where then was the vigorous life which moved the still form within it? where the soul of splendid imaginings and lofty aspirations? where the heart, with its wealth of feeling? they could not die! He lived still—and living, loved her. That narrow coffin was a horrible mockery. And so, when the cover was removed, and those, who from curiosity or affection, desired to look for the last time upon his face, filed slowly by it, she arose too. He was there! royally beautiful, even in his prison-house; the rich black locks swept back from the marble temples; and a smile resting upon the lips. Oh! what power bears woman up in a moment like this! Her life—her world was shut in with the replacing of that lid;but she saw each screw returned to its place, without a tear or a shudder;—herself, proposed to her mother, that they should follow the corpse to its home; and watched them heap the snow and clods upon it. And through that and many succeeding nights, she stood in the attic, in cold and darkness, straining her eyes towards where the gleaming tomb-stones were visible in the day, and fancying she could tell which shadowed an unsodded mound.
Charley was his friend's executor. In the fulfilment of his trust, he found a casket marked—"To be given, at my death, to E.—M." He thought of sealing it up, and sending it to her with a note from himself; but decided upon further deliberation, to entrust it to Ida. It was a painful duty. She was not able yet to speak of Lynn without distressing emotion. His decease was so sudden, so awful,—snatched, as he was, from her very side, with the barest intimation of his danger, after months of intimate intercourse. She mourned for him as sisters and friends seldom weep. Charley did not command. "She was the more proper person," he said; "but he would not grieve her by enforcing the request."
"I cannot meet her!" said she. "He was so dear to us—how can I endure the sight of her indifference? They say she was calm and careless while they were burying him."
"Calm—she certainly was; but the glance I had at her face assured me not careless. I am much mistaken if she was not the greatest sufferer by that grave. I was angry with her, previously; I believe now that she merits our compassion."
Yet it was an unwilling heart that Ida carried to the interview. Ellen sent for her to come to her room. "I am busy, you see," said she, with the ghost of a smile. Ida held the precious legacy more tightly, as she noticed her occupation. A ball-dress was spread upon the bed, and she was fastening roses upon the skirt. Her cheek was white, as Ida glanced at her own sad-colored dress.
"You are going to the party to-night, then?" said the latter.
"Yes—will Josephine attend?"
"I have not heard her say—have not inquired—have not thought of it."
Despairing of broaching the subject in any other way, shetook the casket from under her shawl, and laid it upon the dress.
"The living forget sooner than the dead, Ellen!" was all she said.
The unhappy girl recoiled at the familiar characters upon the lid, and stretched out her arms with an imploring cry. Ida reached her as she fell. She had fainted. Charley's words were verified, and Ida blamed herself severely for her cruel abruptness. Her tears ran fast, as she strove to restore consciousness "Oh! Ida—Lynn!" groaned Ellen, reviving. Reserve, pride, self-control were borne down;—they wept in each other's arms. With the casket pressed to her bosom, Ellen heard his last message, and the hopeful words he had spoken of the future, he was not to know upon earth.
"I did love him! Heaven is my witness—I did love him!" she cried, anguishedly. "He did not condemn me; but I can never forgive myself! If I could have seen him once more to tell him so! Dead! oh! that I were in the grave beside him!"
This was grief without a glimmer of hope. Ida had no word of comfort.
Ellen's eye fell upon the gossamer robe.—she threw it upon the floor, and trampled it "I hate it! and myself, and everything else! I am a hypocrite! a lying hypocrite! with my hollow smiles and broken heart. Leave me! go! or I shall hateyou!"
Ida left her thus—writhing under the scorpion-lash of remorse, and rejecting consolation. She met Josephine, a square or two from home, and upon the door-step, Mr. Lacy. Admitting him, she ran up stairs to efface the marks of her recent agitation. Her pallor and swollen eyes remained, however, and did not escape him. He did not begin, as many would have done, in his place, to speak of topics entirely foreign to what was in their thoughts; he wished to apply a curative, not an anodyne.
"Charley tells me you are going to the country, before long;" he said. "I do not regret it, as I should if I were to stay here myself. After the first of April, I shall study at home, until autumn. You are to pay your friend Carry a visit, are you not?"
"Yes."
"She is the 'sister' I have heard so much of?"
"The same—I wish you knew her."
"I think I do. Her cheerful society is what you need. While it is neither possible, nor desirable to forget that we have been bereaved, we should beware how we indulge in a luxury of woe. Our duty to those we have lost, does not oblige us to neglect the friends who are spared to us."
"Very few remain to me," said Ida, tremulously.
"You are wrong. You may never find one who will fill his place; but the rest love you the more, that you are afflicted. Charley is a true brother."
"He is—and of late he is more unreserved, more affectionate than he used to be; his sympathy is very sweet. I must speak of yourself, also, Mr. Lacy, although I have no language to thank you for your kindness. I fear I have been wearisome at times; but you seem to understand why this was no common bereavement to me."
"So far from being wearied, I am grateful for your confidence. No act of mine shall cause you to repent it."
"Charley has given me some lines which he thinks were written recently," said Ida. "They were among some loose sheets in a portfolio of drawings. I wept over them, but they comforted me. I have been wishing that you had them. This is a rough copy, you observe; and probably not read after being penned."
Mr. Lacy's eyes filled, as he read at the top of the page, "11-1/2 P.M., after a visit from M. L."
"ALL IN CHRIST.Jesus, Saviour! from Thy dwelling,High all stars and thrones above,Hear my faltering accents, tellingOf weak faith and smouldering love.Poor love for Thee, the only worthy—Dull faith In Thee, the only wise—While to all things base and earthy,How madly cling my wistful eyes!I am blind! in rough paths groping,With outstretched hands and sightless eyes;Through gloom so dense, I scarce am hopingThat dawn will ever gild the skies.Black, grisly spectres hover o'er me,Filling my quaking soul with fright;Thou—of all worlds the sun and glory,Radiant Redeemer! be my light.I am lonely! often keepingSad vigils o'er affections dead;Some in the grave's strait chamber sleeping—Some like bursting bubbles fled!Yet for full love my deep soul longeth—Gently each seeking tendril bendTo Thee—to whom that soul belongeth;—Loving Redeemer! be my friend.I am guilty! oh how sinning!Against my kind—against my God;—Hell and corruption ever winningMy soul into the downward road.Insanely gloating on pollution—Quaffing thick lees for pleasures pure—Rend thou away each fell delusion,Holy Redeemer! be my cure!"
"ALL IN CHRIST.Jesus, Saviour! from Thy dwelling,High all stars and thrones above,Hear my faltering accents, tellingOf weak faith and smouldering love.Poor love for Thee, the only worthy—Dull faith In Thee, the only wise—While to all things base and earthy,How madly cling my wistful eyes!I am blind! in rough paths groping,With outstretched hands and sightless eyes;Through gloom so dense, I scarce am hopingThat dawn will ever gild the skies.Black, grisly spectres hover o'er me,Filling my quaking soul with fright;Thou—of all worlds the sun and glory,Radiant Redeemer! be my light.I am lonely! often keepingSad vigils o'er affections dead;Some in the grave's strait chamber sleeping—Some like bursting bubbles fled!Yet for full love my deep soul longeth—Gently each seeking tendril bendTo Thee—to whom that soul belongeth;—Loving Redeemer! be my friend.I am guilty! oh how sinning!Against my kind—against my God;—Hell and corruption ever winningMy soul into the downward road.Insanely gloating on pollution—Quaffing thick lees for pleasures pure—Rend thou away each fell delusion,Holy Redeemer! be my cure!"
"ALL IN CHRIST.
Jesus, Saviour! from Thy dwelling,High all stars and thrones above,Hear my faltering accents, tellingOf weak faith and smouldering love.Poor love for Thee, the only worthy—Dull faith In Thee, the only wise—While to all things base and earthy,How madly cling my wistful eyes!
I am blind! in rough paths groping,With outstretched hands and sightless eyes;Through gloom so dense, I scarce am hopingThat dawn will ever gild the skies.Black, grisly spectres hover o'er me,Filling my quaking soul with fright;Thou—of all worlds the sun and glory,Radiant Redeemer! be my light.
I am lonely! often keepingSad vigils o'er affections dead;Some in the grave's strait chamber sleeping—Some like bursting bubbles fled!Yet for full love my deep soul longeth—Gently each seeking tendril bendTo Thee—to whom that soul belongeth;—Loving Redeemer! be my friend.
I am guilty! oh how sinning!Against my kind—against my God;—Hell and corruption ever winningMy soul into the downward road.Insanely gloating on pollution—Quaffing thick lees for pleasures pure—Rend thou away each fell delusion,Holy Redeemer! be my cure!"
"Do you recollect the visit to which he refers?" inquired Ida.
"I was with him until late, one night, a week before his death," was the reply; "and our conversation may have inspired the thoughts he has expressed here; but I cannot say with certainty, that it did. If this temper of spirit and heart was habitual to him, what may we not hope?"
"If!" exclaimed Ida, sadly. "Doubt is agonizing. It is not consistent with God's mercy that he should be consigned to never ending misery; he whose faults made us love him better; the soul of honor and integrity! I will not believe that so much that was pure and good is quenched in eternal darkness. This thought is with me night and day. What authority have men, his inferiors by nature—hardly his equals in the practice of virtue, to doom him, and hope a happier fate for the themselves?"
"Who has done this?" asked Mr. Lacy, sternly.
"More than one, in my hearing; and Charley was exasperated to insult a man, a church member, who exhorted him not 'to imitate his example, and thereby meet the same awful punishment.' Charley regrets now, that he spoke rudely to one his senior, and whom he had hitherto respected, but says he, 'a Christian should not forget that he is a man!'"
"Nor does he," replied Morton. "From some who cross the river of Death we hear the 'All's Well,' when their feet touch the solid ground; then we may rejoice in the confident assurance that we shall meet them again. As many pass over in timid, asin despairing silence;—timidity, exchanged for rapture, on the bright shore beyond. God only knows the heart—only knows when the doomed oversteps the bounds He has appointed for his mercy; and as we hope for it ourselves, we should tremble at the thought of limiting it by our finite judgments. In this immeasurable love and pity is our trust, Ida; doubts and fearings cannot solve the mystery; we know this, however—'He doth not afflict willingly,' and 'remembereth our feeble frame.' Who pardons a child's faults more than a parent? and 'Our Father' is alsohis. Yet," continued he, "Charley erred in repulsing the warning, kindly, if injudiciously extended. The suffering we experience in our uncertainty as to his condition, should teach us to make our salvation sure, so that when our hour shall come—if a call at midnight, we may not leave those who love us, comfortless."
"His death has caused a heart-rending void," said Ida. "I start whenever the door opens at the hours he was accustomed to visit us. At Mr. Dana's, I am listening all the time for his step or voice. Oh! why do nonentities, cumberers of the earth, spin out a tiresome life, and the loved and useful perish?"
"Perhaps they are taken away from the evil to come. You would not rebel if you believed this? At best, what are the short years of toil and change we pass below, compared with the never-ending life of our heavenly home?"
"You forget that I have no portion in that home, Mr. Lacy."
"No portion! You do not mean to refuse an inheritance so graciously offered! It may be long before we have another opportunity to speak of these things; will you make me a promise?"
"If I can perform it," answered she.
"It is that you will every day, ask yourself, 'What happiness does my soul desire that Christ cannot, and will not bestow?' Will you do this?"
She promised.
"It seems impossible," he pursued, "that a sorer trial than that which you are now undergoing, can befall you; yet there may be such in reserve, and then, I would have you recollect, that as He is the only happiness, He is also the only comfort. Willingly—gladly as I would suffer in your stead, I would not save you a pang, if I thought it was His means to bring you to Himself."
He spoke with emotion, as if possessed with the conviction that the event he adverted to would assuredly take place; and that this was his sole chance of preparing her for it. He arose—she gave him her hand—it was taken as silently, and held for a long minute.
"This is not our parting," said he; "if we both live, I shall see you again soon, but to provide against contingencies, I will ask you now to write to me; I mean, of course, in answer to my letters, as you would to Charley—to a brother,—will you?"
"Yes, if your letters are as frank as your speech, and I am granted a like indulgence."
True to his promise, he called upon the eve of her departure, but the presence of the family and other visitors prevented private conversation; and Charley's manoeuvres, skilful and unsuspected as they were, failed to effect a diversion of Josephine's watchfulness. Yet as they said "farewell" Ida felt a card slipped into her hand. Upon it was pencilled, "Remember your promise. Mizpah."
Life at Poplar-grove was much as it had been, the previous summer; still and bright. The mornings were spent in Carry's pleasant sewing-room, from which male visitors were rigorously excluded; in the afternoon, were the siesta, and ride or walk; at night, music and social chat. Carry feared that this monotony, while it suited her wishes and employments, might be less agreeable to her friend; that she would miss the gay whirl, the intoxicating incense of her city career. But Ida was contented, even happy. Beloved and caressed by the whole household, in the home of kindred tastes and feeling; and above all, with the firm hope that her life-long search was at last ended; her wild cravings laid to rest beneath the waves, which welling from the unsealed fountain, had risen higher and higher, until her soul was overflowing with love and rapture;—she revelled in the quiet hours of friendly communion, and the sweeter seasons of witching reverie. Carry knew nothing of the spring of herhappiness. She saw that her mind had acquired a more healthy tone;—that her affections had expanded, and attributed it to the influence of friendship;—to a strength of mind, which had determined the world should be what it chose to have it;—to anything but the true cause,—an idolatry that left no room for suspicion or discontent. Once Carry alluded to the twilight promenade, when Ida had told her of her forebodings of the wane of their love, after the nuptials, which were now fast approaching; and was answered by a warm embrace and smile, which said those fears were quelled, and might have betrayed to more prying eyes, the enchantment that had exorcised them. Her evening improvisations entranced, not only the parlor-circle, but drew to the windows a larger audience from without, spellbound by her heart-melodies. All her delight was not in memory. Letters came and went;—from Charley and Mrs. Dana; and gossiping notes from Anna Talbot and other of "the girls." These, Carry enjoyed with her, and asked no questions about those which she did not see. Morton's were what he engaged they should be; sincere and friendly, without a hint that could alarm her delicacy. They were tinctured with a sadness, she did not comprehend, until she noticed his many references to his sister's sufferings, and his anxiety on her account. It was her turn to console; and her most valued treasure was the letter, in which he thanked and blessed her.
Carry was to be married the last of July. The middle of June brought Mrs. Dana and the children, under Charley's protection. For the week of his stay, he was the life of the house. One cloud was upon the spirits of all;—Lynn was missed and mourned, and by none, with more sorrowful tenderness, than by his vivacious friend; but he was unselfish even in this. Ida could win him to speak of their loss; to the others, he never mentioned it of his own accord. She was correct in saying that he had grown more communicative and affectionate. He seemed to have transferred to her the watchful love that had been Lynn's safeguard and solace.
"Nothing changes you, Mars' Charley?" said Uncle Ike, the plantation patriarch, halting at the piazza steps one afternoon, when he had crawled out into the sunshine.
"I should like to say the same for you, Uncle Ike; time and sickness have not treated you as well as you deserve."
"Better'n I desarve, Mars' Charles!—heap better'n I desarve! Time for me to be packed and shoed for my journey. I'se lived in these low-grounds of sorrow, nigh 'pon ninety years, and many' the young folks I've seen step down into the grave before me. When I heard that poor, handsome Mars' Lynn had gone too, 'pears-like I was ready to grumble 'cause 'twant me—but 'twas the Almighty's will, Mars' Charles,—'twas his will. It 'joices me to see you so well and lively—jest like you used to be. You don't take trouble, I reckon, Marster."
"No; it's against my principles;—beside, we'll have a plenty given to us."
"Fact, Marster! You ain't knowed much yet; but 'the evil days will come, when you shall say, I have no pleasure in them!'"
Charley kept his seat upon the step for some time after the old man had gone:—once he sighed heavily. Ida was in the parlor, and longed to go out to him, for she guessed the tenor of his thoughts, but doubted the propriety of intruding upon them. He got up, presently, and began to walk the porch, whistling an opera air. Spying her through the window, he came in. "You are ruining your eyes and health with this eternal stitching;" said he. "As I live, you are boring holes in that piece of cloth, for the pleasure of sewing them up again! No wonder woman's work is never ended! What are you making?"
"A handkerchief." She displayed the corner, in which she was embroidering, "Carry Carleton."
"Where are the others?" he inquired.
"Mrs. Dana is in the nursery; Carry asleep; Dr. Carleton and Arthur abroad."
"Come, walk with me!" requested he. "Any handkerchief,—a wedding mouchoir—can wait an hour."
Their course was along the brink of a deep ravine; overshadowed by large old trees; and bridged by fallen trunks. The sides were grass-grown, and at the bottom rolled the rivulet, which had fretted out the gorge; blending its complainings with the low rush of the wind through the forest.
"So one feeling often wears away the soul!" remarked Charley, reflectively. "Man is but clay after all!"
"You! the champion of your species—turning against them!" exclaimed Ida.
"No. I am still an unbeliever in the total corruption of our nature; a doctrine so opposed to reason and experience, that I will never assent to it, if it is preached at me until doomsday. But this is a miserably unsatisfactory life!"
"Yet the world says you enjoy it."
"And do you, an adept in concealment, credit a man's outward show!"
"At least, I do not practise this accomplishment upon my friends;" replied Ida, piqued.
"Did I say that you did? I am not sure that I could not prove this point, too;—but we will let it pass for the present. I believe you to be what you appear to me. Carry would never forgive one who impugned your sincerity;—and what would Mr. Germaine say?"
This was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, whose marked attentions to Ida subjected her to the raillery of the Poplar-grove household.
"Nonsense!" said she, laughing. "He has never been beyond the outermost court of my heart."
"I own his does not appear likely to be the hand to unlock the penetralia. This is the spot I wanted to show you. Is it not a fairy nook?"
It was a mossy bank at the foot of a venerable sycamore, from whose branches the trailing vines touched their heads. A spring of the clearest crystal bubbled among its roots.
"Oh! for a fairy goblet!" said Ida.
"It is easily made, if these leaves are large enough," answered Charley. He gathered some, but they were too irregularly-shaped to suit his purpose. "It is a simple process," said he, as he failed, after several trials, to convey a thimbleful of water to his amused companion; "but as the man said who tried to fly and couldn't—'there is every thing in knowing how to do it.' I never like to be outdone, even in trifles. I saw some leaves as we came along that I know will do—excuse me a moment, and I will get them."
He was gone before she could object; and she strolled idly around the giant trunk of the sycamore, admiring the al frescoboudoir, of which it was the centre ornament. She set her foot upon something harder than the soft carpet—it was a small morocco case, which she picked up, with an ejaculation of surprise, and without a thought of who had dropped it, opened. She had nearly let it fall, as Carry's lovely face smiled at her from within. "Arthur has been here," was her comment, but a glossy curl untwined itself from an envelope labelled in Charley's hand—"The seat under the honeysuckle. May 1st, 18—," a date four years back. There was no impropriety in his having Carry's likenesss;—they had long been in feeling what they were shortly to become in name—brother and sister; but her heart beat so with indefinable terror that she could not stand;—it was as though, instead of the senseless case, another heart, its every throbbing revealed, lay in her hand.
"You are tired waiting, I suppose, but I had a longer search than—"
The glow of a stormy sunset rushed to his face as he saw the miniature she did not attempt to conceal. She had never conceived of the dormant passion which now awoke in his eye and form; but she did not quail.
"I found this over there, and opened it thoughtlessly, not suspecting what it was or to whom it belonged. I am very sorry."
The storm passed while she was speaking. The man's wonderful self-command was master. He dipped up the water with a careful hand; the leafy cup did not quiver.
"Do you like it? is it cool?"
"Yes—thank you."
He drank draught after draught himself, threw away the leaves, and resumed his seat upon the bank.
"There is no help for it, Ida! you must hear what I did not intend you ever should; not that I disdain your sympathy, but it is a rule with me not to disturb my friends with troubles, which they cannot alleviate. I do not know what suspicions have been forced upon you; if they are of the honor and affection I owe my brother, or ofherfidelity to him, they are groundless. That picture was painted for me before I had any intimation that his was the prize I foolishly hoped to secure. I relinquished her; but this is the amulet which has saved me in many temptations.Although hope was no more, memory remained; and vice could not mate with the visions of purity that memory recalled. There has not been a time since I first saw her, a laughing babe, just liberated from her nurse's arms, when I have not loved her more than any other earthly being. As boy and man I have thought, studied, labored for her alone. When I quitted home to seek my fortune, she was still a child, who clung weepingly to me, and kissed me as fondly as she did her father. It was the last time! At my next visit she was away at school;—at the second I obtained that curl. She was then fifteen; innocent and loving, full of jesting surprise at 'Charley's mannish ways,' and hurt that I would not call her 'sister.' She did not ask this the ensuing summer. Lynn was with me; and in the confidence of a hope that saw no cloud ahead, I imparted to him my dreams and desires, and engaged him to take her portrait secretly. I went back to New York, and wrote to her father, asking his sanction of the proposal I could not delay. The letter was upon my desk, ready for the post, when one arrived from Arthur. He was not to blame for his silence; I had been as reserved to him; but he entreated my forgiveness for hiding this, his only secret, from me. She knew it now;—her father's only objection was their youth—a 'fault,' he remarked, jocosely, 'which will mend with time.' In place of the letter to my guardian, I forwarded one to my brother, congratulating him upon his happy engagement to the woman I idolized. He is worthy of her, if a mortal can be. I can see that it is best. He has talents and energy, and loves her as she should be loved—I am rough and eccentric, caring and striving for nothing, now that my guiding star has set."
"Charley! Charley! you shall not so defame yourself!" cried Ida bursting into tears. "You—the kindest—most generous of men! youareworthy of her! Oh! I wish it could be!"
"Hush! hush! I would not have it otherwise. I came home last summer, and saw them together without a pang of selfish regret; and gloried in my subjugation of a passion their betrothal made sinful, until our ride to 'the Castle.' My arm saved her from mutilation or death, and instead of thanksgiving, sprang up a horrible envy, that I had rescued her forhim. It was momentary, but the repentance was bitter. I abhor myself when I think of it. I have never fancied since that I did notlove her. I know it as well now that another month will make her his bride, as I did when hope was highest. Poor Lynn! it grieved him to his dying day!"
Silence and tears was a fitting reply to this narration. It came to Ida, like sudden death to a festival; producing not only sorrow and dismay, but a trembling insecurity—an awful whisper—"Who next?" Did human love, then, always terminate in misery? Was there no remedy? She wanted Charley to speak again, and say that he had some source of comfort; or at least, strength for the last, greatest trial. His words put this hope to flight.
"I have borne as much as I can;—if it be cowardly to avert further suffering, I am not brave. I have business in the West next month, which could, but shall not be postponed. John will not know of it in time to provide a substitute. Arthur will be disappointed; I would spare him this trifling pain, if I were certain that I should not give him more by remaining. I shall not wear this after the marriage—I may become a castaway without it, for aught I know. When Lynn died, I said, 'My secret is buried with him.' I have committed what the Machiavelis of the day would call an unwise act," added he, smiling; "'consigned it to the keeping of a woman'—but I have no fears for its safety with you. Do not let it prey upon your spirits. I would not caution a less sympathetic nature. Be happy, Ida,—it is your manifest destiny; and I am still disinterested enough to 'rejoice with those who do rejoice.' The sun is setting—you shall not go to the house with that woe-begone face. Smile! or I don't stir."
He laughed at her attempt. "Rather hysterical,—with that sob treading upon its heels; but it will do. Come, sister!"
Ida could have cried more heartily at an expression and tone, that reminded her of Lynn; but he was resolute in not allowing it.
Carry was upon the piazza. "My dear friends!" cried she, running to meet them. "Wherehaveyou been! here's a house full of company, and I have sent scouts in every direction. Did not you hear or see them?"
"'I heard the owls scream, and the crickets cry;'" said Charley. "Who is here, that we can prefer to each other's society?"
"Your forest ramble has taught you gallantry. You'll find him but a dull scholar, Ida—why, there are Messrs. Faulkner, Euston and Germaine, impatiently waiting the belle's appearance."
"Irresistible—more irresistible—most irresistible! Are you going off to beautify, Miss Ida? Don't hurry—I will tell them we got lost or drowned in the woods."
When the girls went down, it was candle-light; and the "Irresistibles" were laughing themselves black in the face, over the piano, and the "funniest of fellows," who was entertaining them by an original parody upon "Oh no! I never mention her!"
Charley departed, and for several days, Ida disregarded his injunction of cheerfulness. She liked the warm-hearted, reliable Arthur; but she was unjust in her vexation at his happiness, when she pictured the lonely brother, who had sacrificed his, to preserve it unabated. Her conscience reproached her for a display of this impatience, while they were watching the receding form of their visitor. Arthur linked her arm in his, saying playfully, "Come, cousin Ida, tell us what made you and my rattling brother so sober this morning. You parted as if you did not expect to meet again in this world. Is there any hope of my claiming nearer kinship?"
With a quick, fretful gesture she broke from him; and although she recovered herself immediately, and answered pleasantly, he was amazed and wounded, and never repeated the familiarity. A letter from Mr. Lacy came opportunely to brighten the current of thought. She wished Charley could read it; but as this was not to be, she embodied its sentiments in her reply to a communication she had received from him. She was in the habit of moralising speculatively; and he had no clue to betray from what quarter this practical strain had emanated.
John arrived a week before the marriage, with intelligence that set the house in a turmoil; Charley had started to Missourithat morning. He "was the bearer of his excuses and the bridal gift." Carry wept; and Arthur was indignant; Dr. Carleton proposed a postponement, which was unanimously voted for by the servants. "Twouldn't be no wedding wuth talking about, 'thout Mars' Charles was thar!" The motion was strenuously opposed by a minority of three—John, Ida and Arthur; John asserting, in his business way, that the ceremony could be performed as well without the absentee; and that his example of punctuality in keeping engagements should be improved. The two others deprecated a change, without distinctly stating their reasons. They carried the day. Poplar-grove was visible for miles around, on the moonless night of the bridal. Lights blazed in every window; starry festoons depended from the trees; and in the garden, the glow-worm fairies might have been celebrating the royal birth-night. In doors, the scene was one of bewildering beauty. Fairies of mortal mould flitted through the summer bowers, at whose decoration, Flora must have presided in person. Carry was too modest to covet display; but Dr. Carleton was wealthy and liberal; and Ida and Mrs. Dana, who were both fond of splendor and excitement, had his hearty concurrence in their designs. The former planned everything. It was a new business to her; but she struck out boldly, copying a gorgeous conception of her fertile brain, guided solely by her eye and judgment. Her subordinates marvelled at first; but had too much faith in her to rebel; and as the idea was developed, their industry and delight surpassed her expectations. When completed, the effect was so novel and pleasing, they were ready to fall down and worship her; and more cultivated taste did not derogate from their eulogistic approbation. Dr. Carleton thanked her with moistened eyes; Arthur laughingly wondered—"what talent next? her versatile genius kept him in a state of perpetual wonderment;" but Carry's silent kiss was dearer praise than all. As first bridesmaid, and an inmate of the mansion, Ida was virtually mistress of the ceremonies; Mrs. Dana confining her attention to the arrangement of the banquet, dressing-rooms and chambers. Carry had invited all of her schoolmates who were within reach; among those who came, were Anna Talbot, Emma Glenn, Ellen Morris, who was staying at Mr. Truman's, and our old friend Celestia;—"cousin Lucindy" being again conveniently remembered. The three firstnamed, were bridesmaids. Ida walked with Mr. Euston; and as the train formed, she thought of the two who would have taken precedence of him; of the chilly sleep of the pulseless heart, and the desolation of the living one; while the irrevocable words were said, she heard, like the echo of a knell—"caring for nothing, striving for nothing—now that my guiding star has set;" and the sigh, which contended with her smile of salutation to the bride, was "poor Charley!"
Ellen Morris, too, may have had her reminiscences; this event could not but revive the recollection of her sister's bridal, not a year before; but the sparkling hazel orbs were unshadowed as then; her manner as charmingly coquettish. Celestia had not forgotten Mr. Euston; and seized an early opportunity to renew their flirtation. The gentleman was not so willing; he was not exactly in love with his partner; but was not insensible to her attractions, and that in his position he was envied by most of the single men present—cordially hated by one. Ida knew not that he was taxing every energy to achieve fascination. She felt the nervousness of a youthful hostess that things should "go off" well; the company be pleased with their reception and themselves; conscious, that although the praise or censure might not be put upon her, yet in reality the result depended upon her exertions. Solicitude yielded to triumphant satisfaction, as the electric sympathy spread, leaping from tongue to tongue; and evolving, in dazzling coruscations, from kindling eyes. She did not seek her reward then, but she had it. Few were so blind and ungrateful, as not to recognise her hand in the pleasures offered to them. The girls, the most fastidious of the various classes for whose whims a party-giver has to cater, forgave her magnet influence upon the choicest beaux, as they were themselves well-supplied notwithstanding; the old people were charmed with her respectful affability; and of her immediate attendants, there was not one who was not convinced that he contributed most to her amusement.
Ill-nature is indigenous to all soils, and spite creates its own food; and she did not escape wholly unscathed. She overheard the epithets, "flirt," and "dashing," in the same breath with her name; but she laughed at the silly shot. If she flirted, no one was offended or injured; if she dashed, she did it with agrace her maligners tried vainly to copy. As she left the supper-room, a glance at the hall-mirror showed that her head-dress was disordered; and she repaired to the dressing-room to rectify it. She paused before the glass there, in unfeigned wonder at the reflected figure. It was the first time a spark of personal vanity had ever inflamed her mind. She knew that she was admired; she believed, because she amused people by her sprightly repartee; compliments upon her appearance were forgotten as soon as heard, leaving, as their only trace, contempt for their author. To-night, the thoughtful eyes were alive with light; the cheeks, usually colorless, as rosy as Carry's; and the wreathing smile imparted a wondrous beauty to the proud lips. A softer, sweeter happiness succeeded the girlish exultation—pardonable since it was short-lived—she turned from the mirror, with indifference, as she murmured—