"The water is calm and still below;For the winds and waves are absent there,—And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air."
"The water is calm and still below;For the winds and waves are absent there,—And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air."
"The water is calm and still below;For the winds and waves are absent there,—And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air."
"Those are fine lines!" said Ida. They were recited with a purity of tone and emphasis that lent them an additional charm.
"They are Percival's," was the reply. "I love poetry, if I have not, like one of my friends, received the poetic afflatus. Ah! Improvisatrice! did you think me ignorant of your glorious gift?"
"You honour my petty talent by a higher name than it aspires to earn. Your informant was given to exaggeration."
"You do not ask who it was!" cried Lelia, peeping into her face. "Ah! that blush! you surmise. Now my demure darling, how will you excuse yourself for not having breathed his name in my hearing, when you knew how deep my interest is in all relating to him or his connections?"
This query was ably turned; but Ida's habitual self-control saved her from the pitfall. She would know and confess nothing.
"And you dare look in my eyes and deny one of your best friends?" said Lelia.
"I deny no one. The merest acquaintance may have imparted this information."
"It was not a casual acquaintance. Shall I name him?"
"If you choose," said Ida, with quickened pulsation.
"Then it was Mr.—look at me!—Mr. Germaine!"
The blood flowed regularly again. Miss Arnold'sruse, if such was intended, failed signally; and Ida shortly had cause to congratulate herself upon the equanimity she had maintained through the interview.
Leila's friendliness continued without abatement; and her predilection for her society was openly manifested. She invited her to walk on Monday afternoon, and was inconsolable for her refusal until Richard Copeland offered himself as a substitute. Alice rode out with Mrs. Read and Josephine; and Ida lay down at dusk upon a sofa, within a recess of the parlor. She soon dropped into a light slumber; and thought that she was dreaming still, when she heard voices, and saw, 'twixt sleeping and waking, two figures, dimly visible in the fire-light.
"You are cruelly unjust, Richard. Why seize upon every pretext to attack and wound one who never had an unkind thought of you?"
"Because I have no respect for you, Lelia," was the cool rejoinder. "Your trifling is disgraceful—inhuman!"
"I never trifled with you."
"For the best of reasons—you never had the chance. You will affirm too, that you did not design to coquet with Hilton or Sheppard."
"Their unhappiness was the fruit of their own blind folly."
"'Blind folly' it was to love a heartless woman! And this Lacy—are you retaining him as acorps de reserve?"
"He is nothing to me—."
An ejaculation of extreme disgust interrupted her. "Now this is too much! Do you think then that a solitary manoeuvre has been unnoticed by me? that I have not divined even the motive of your altered behaviour to Miss Ross? You have either guessed or heard what has been told me within a day or two—that he was her lover last winter—either discarded, or engaged to her now. Have a care! you may be foiled with your own weapons! Adieu!" His mocking laugh rang through the room. Lelia remained where he left her; the ruddy glare lighting up features contorted by anger or grief. "Can it be?"she said—"But, no!" she smiled, contemptuously. "A made-up tale to work upon my jealousy!Thatmatters not at present—but this—yet I am not discouraged—he is the only one!" and muttering over—"He is the only one!" she lifted her bonnet and shawl, and carried them from the apartment. Astonishment had chained Ida's limbs and tongue after she realised that she was awake. She grew weak and sick at the accomplished duplicity of one so youthful, so faultless in seeming;—the windings of her arms about her neck—her kisses were like the coil and sting of a serpent. She detected the artfulness of her pretended confidence; her lures to inveigle her into some embarrassment or admission which would betray her acquaintance with Mr. Lacy. She had suspected her then; the change of manner followed too soon upon the recognition of the handwriting. She rejoiced that the house was to be freed of her on the morrow. Ifhecould be warned! but this was a prohibited subject to thought as to words, and she was learning how to govern both. There was a soirée that evening, and Ida had never been more happy to see company. Alice and Lelia came together to her room to say farewell, for they were both to start early in the morning. She tried to treat them alike, but her regrets at losing them were addressed to Alice; and if they were heartfelt, the sigh of relief, with which she turned the bolt after them, was equally sincere.
The bridal festivities were not over until after Christmas, but Ida avoided further participation in them by spending holiday week at Mr. Dana's. She was invited expressly to meet Carry and Arthur, and, although the precedence belonged to them, as more unfrequent visitors, she was installed in the seat of honour as chief guest. Carry inveighed against Mr. Read's marriage, and was anxious to learn whether it would render her position more unpleasant. Ida thought not:—her heart said this could hardly be, but she spoke hopefully of the wholesome check Mrs. Read's elegant propriety would be upon Josephine's brusqueness. "They will not agree at first, for Mrs. Read, if she does appear too fond of her ease to contend, is not deficient in resolution; yet the end may be mutual endurance and forbearance. In any event I shall remain neutral. Who knows, Carry, but, unpromising as the field is, I may do as well as suffer, even there?"
They were alone in Carry's room. "There is one subject, upon which I wish to speak to you;" said the latter, seriously. "Has Arthur said anything to you of himself?"
"No—not particularly."
"He was always too good for me," pursued Carry. "You need not hold up your finger so threateningly—but for a year past, I felt that he was growing better, while I made no progress. After we were married, I discovered that he was in the habit of the daily study of his Bible, and secret prayer. I did not hint that I knew it, for it was too sacred a matter for me to touch. Ida! I suffered! he had a care which I could not share—was ill at ease, and I must not cheer him. When you wrote, recounting the alteration of your views and prospects, he unsealed his heart to me. He had long sought peace, without finding it; but latterly, had experienced a glimmering hope he feared to divulge, so faint was it—that he was a child of God. I wept for joy and grief—joy, for I was sure, although he was not, that he was a Christian;—and grief at my own hardness of heart. His light has burned brighter and brighter every day; and he is prepared now to avow it to his friends and the world. He says your fearlessness, in declaring your principles, filled him with shame, and urged him to emulate your example."
Here was one sheaf—an earnest of whitening harvest. The barrenness of opportunities for serving and honouring her Redeemer, was a troublesome stumbling-block. Her sphere of usefulness was so limited; and she had talents, which might be deployed to some purpose in a larger arena. The glowing zeal of a young convert called for action. In a moment of discontent with herself, and perhaps with her situation, she had expressed this to Charley, who silenced her with one line—
"'They also serve, who only stand and wait.'"
"'They also serve, who only stand and wait.'"
"'They also serve, who only stand and wait.'"
The intelligence of Arthur's conversion was an unlooked-for and refreshing element in her week's felicity. "Now, Charley, one thing more!" she said, when they were talking it over. She seldom made a pointed appeal, although he always took it kindly. He did not reflect her smile—he only said, gravely;—"You cannot desire it more than I do, Ida."
Invigorated in soul and body, and with a bounteous store ofloving memories heaped up for the time of famine, she sought her uncongenial home. "Ah, well! it's allers been my experience that molasses and water is mighty apt to sour, if it's kept; and it don't deceive me now," remarked the oracular Rachel, with the decline of the honeymoon. The metaphor was apt. Mr. Read's fondness was the saccharine that qualified the insipidity of his wife's apathy. He had been elevated to the seventh heaven of ecstacy, at his triumph over a host of rivals, younger than himself. Her evident preference had incited him to the contest, and he had no misgivings of its reality. She was "a splendid woman!" He delighted in exhibiting her; and hearing this from all sides, with compliments and congratulations to himself. But this renewal of youth was evanescent. He had counted more than half a century—she, not a quarter; and outraged nature revenged herself for his infatuation in striving to overleap this mighty gap. She was a "splendid woman!" that was unquestionable; but as he mounted guard, from ten at night to two or three o'clock in the morning against the wall of the assembly-room, waiting for her to despatch the list of partners that covered both sides of her tablets—he tired and moped, and stupidly wondering if the radiant creature, whose laugh came to him with each whirl of the interminable waltz, were in truth married, andhiswife! itisproblematical if he derived permanent consolation from the well-timed praises of his old friends, who facetiously inquired if he were not "jealous of his pretty bird"—or felt greatly flattered by the fine things, comparative strangers were saying about "his daughter." Shewasa "splendid woman!" and she shone most at the largest party of the winter, where everybody danced (she most sylph-like of all) except the papas and mammas, and the "past-worthy" chaperons. The rooms were hot:—the dancers must have air—the windows were robbed of their sashes. Mr. Read was in a draught—what of that? the reflection of his wife's splendor should have warmed him.Shewas not uncomfortable;—so she glided and pirouetted and swam by in the polka, and he shook as if he were afflicted with a dance of quite another name. An attack of inflammatory rheumatism was the finale. His life was in danger for awhile; and to his wife's credit, be it said, she nursed him dutifully, if not affectionately, until he entered upon his convalescence.
A few mornings after the doctors announced his safety, Ida observed, at breakfast, that Mrs. Read was looking badly.
"Confinement in a sick-room does not agree with you, I fear," said she, with interest. "We must not let you fall ill, too. Will you not delegate one of us to represent you this forenoon, while you take a ride?"
"Constant attendance is unnecessary," she replied. "Hereafter, I shall not stay in doors as I have been doing. I thank you for your offer, however. If I can avail myself of it, I will do so."
"Why did he not come down to breakfast?" asked Josephine, ironically.
"He cannot leave his bed;" was the calm reply.
"Nor turn himself in it, I believe, madam?"
"You are right."
"It must cost you a pang to surrender to another the privilege of allaying his pains, and paying those endearing little attentions, to which affection imparts such sweetness. How can you think of it?"
"I do not consider my health unimportant."
"Not in comparison with his?" continued Josephine, provokingly.
"The duty is not rendered less imperative by any comparison."
"The pursuit of pleasure and ease is included in this prudent care of yourself, I presume, madam?"
"In that, as in everything else, I shall consult my own inclinations."
"I did not know that a woman had a will of her own after she married," retorted Josephine.
"I am not conscious of having lost my volition or free agency."
"And acting upon this unbiassed volition, you will occupy your box at the theatre to-night. I saw a ticket upon the table in the parlor."
"I shall be there; but there will be room for you, and whatever friend you honor by accompanying."
"And this is conjugal devotion!" the suppressed wrath boiling over,—"After cajoling a feeble old man into marrying you,you desert him upon a bed of languishing, where he is laid by your follies, to flirt with your train of gallants in the most public place in the city!"
"If you have more remarks of like import to make, I will hear them in your father's presence, Miss Read," answered the unruffled step-mother. "Miss Ida, please excuse my withdrawing before you have finished your breakfast."
Josephine had emphatically picked this quarrel. She had received no provocation, and combined with this disadvantage, that of loss of temper. Chafing with anxiety to commence the warfare she had declared, she was too eager to wait for a pretext; and had plunged into a rash conflict, before estimating the strength of the enemy's forces. Ida said nothing, until she was ready to leave the room. She deemed it her duty to speak.
"Josephine," said she, mildly, "it is not my place to dictate to you; but as a well-wisher, I warn you not to carry this further. Constant dissension will be the only result. She is inclined to live peaceably with you; and she will be a dangerous, a powerful enemy."
"Have I asked your advice?" said Josephine. Her scowl dissuaded Ida from a second remonstrance. In reckless audacity, she proceeded straight to her father's chamber. It was pitiable to see that gray-haired man—helpless as infancy with disease, and remember that his frayed thread of life was entwisted with the golden cord of hers, who had barely attained the meridian of her early womanhood.
Josephine's visits had been rare and brief, and his salutation was surly. "To what am I indebted for this superlative pleasure?" he inquired, stretching his upper lip across his teeth, as was his wont, when displeased.
"If I had supposed that my presence was conducive to your comfort, no consideration should have detained me from you sir," was the meaning rejoinder.
He did not answer, but moved uneasily, and asked his wife for water. The goblet was nearest Josephine, and she held it to him. "Lift my head!" he said, fretfully, "Ugh! you hurt me! this comes of your officiousness. Why couldn't you letherdo it?"
"I regret, sir, that my unskilful touch is painful," said Josephine, "since you are to be dependent upon my cares."
"What the deuce are you talking about?" he demanded, sharply.
The slumberous eyes surveyed her listlessly over the couch.
"My speech is blunt, sir; I learned it from you, and I have an inconvenient practice of saying what I think. Old men, who have young and fashionable wives, should not indulge in the luxury of sickness. What woman, who has a right appreciation of her charms, can hesitate what course to pursue, when a decrepid husband is put in one scale—society and a score of beaux in the other?"
His glare of impotent fury was demoniacal—he was too weak to control it. The liquid eyes were dreamy and motionless still. The irascible old man jerked his head so that he could see her face—"Helen! what is that girl driving at?"
"She can best explain herself, sir."
"Speak!" he commanded, at the top of his tremulous voice.
"I hope you have made your will, sir;" said Josephine, deliberately.
"By my life, Iwilldo it, and cut you off, without a copper, if you parley much more?"
"You virtually severed our connection two months ago, sir. A stranger has supplanted me in your heart and house; and up to this time, I have held my peace. This is my revenge. Your idol, having used you for her pleasure and advancement, does not mean that this sickness, caused by your doating indulgence, shall fetter her dainty limbs. On the contrary, it frees her from the restraint of your observation,—the incumbrance of your attentions."
She dropped each word slowly, purposely to aggravate his impatience, which was now frightful. Manacled, bound down by the fiery bands of his malady, he writhed, as upon a Procrustean bed.
"Helen! speak! tell her she lies!"
"I never reply to inuendoes, sir." The eyes were passionless as ever.
"She is gentleness and patience personified," said Josephine,"Ask whom she will accompany to the theatre to-night and pray her,—your faithful wife—to stay with you."
"The theatre!" he uttered. "Are you going, and with whom?"
"With Mr. and Miss Talbot;" and save that she fastened her gaze upon him, instead of her, she looked and spoke the same.
"The 'Miss,' is an adroit addenda," sneered Josephine.
Her father was silent. His selfishness was wounded. He was angered and mortified that his wife should consign him to the care of others and find enjoyment in gay recreations, while he lay crippled and racked; but he detected the spring of Josephine's interference, and pride cried loudly that her impertinent malice should be punished. A study of his wife's determined face settled the point. If they differed, the mischief-maker should not know it. "Hark you!" said he, with sudden composure. "I see your game, my lady, and you may as well throw up your cards. I am master in my house, and there is no law against turning you out of it. I thought I had taught you this already. I have a piece of advice, you will do well to bear in mind. Attend to your own business, and let your betters alone. Now, be off! and don't let me see you again until you can behave yourself."
"I obey you, sir. If you want my services, I trust you will send for me."
Mr. Read was awkwardly embarrassed, when left with his wife. Domineering and stubborn as he was, she awed him. Her haughty endurance of his foolish fondness gave him no lien upon her affections; and the sang-froid, she had preserved under Josephine's insolence, was a bad augury of the efficacy of reproaches. She consulted her watch, and informed him that it was the hour for his medicine; administered it, and shook up his pillow.
"Helen," said he, coaxingly, "are you in earnest about leaving me? What shall I do?"
"Sarah will wait upon you. I have the utmost confidence in her fidelity."
"But what is a servant's nursing, after yours?"
"It is a pity you entertain this repugnance to every one'sattentions but mine. My health and spirits are injured by fatigue and want of rest. You are recovering, there is no absolute necessity for my remaining with you; and itisnecessary that I should take care of myself. We had best suspend this discussion, Mr. Read. You have been too much excited this morning; and arguments are useless, as my plans are made."
And "my plans are made" became the law of the household,—Josephine excepted, who had her schemes also. There was an ominous calm. Mr. Read mended gradually. His daughter's resentment outlived his; but his pride was as inflexible as hers. She would not enter his chamber, and he would not recall her. His wife performed mechanically a routine of duties, self-enjoined, as covering all that could be required of her. The residue of her time was devoted to the world, out of which, she did not seem tolive. She held her position as leader of the ton. She was the best-bred, best-dressed, and best-educated woman of her circle. No party was complete without her; and none vied with hers, in elegance and agreeableness. People gossipped, and prophecied, and pitied her "poor old husband"—courted and aped her. Ida had made a public profession of her faith, and was humbly "waiting." Her health did not now debar her from mingling in society; and she could discern neither wisdom nor piety in a hermit's life. Her re-appearance amongst them was hailed with acclamations by most of her acquaintances. Some were shy for a time, thanks to Josephine's exposition of her "strait-laced notions;" but her cheerful frankness banished their reserve; and if not so noisily admired, she was more beloved than in her palmy days.
She was one evening at a "sociable" at Mrs. Morris', the cynosure of a group, the liveliest in the room, for it comprised Ellen, Mr. Thornton, Charley, Mr. Germaine, Mr. Villet, and Richard Copeland. Charley was relating an amusing story; and Ida's peculiarly contagious laugh created as much merriment as the anecdote.
"Miss Ross is ever happy," said Mr. Villet. "Your beingdevotédoes not make you sad, morose—comme à l'ordinaire."
A glance of apprehension was exchanged by some of the circle; and Ida colored, as she replied, smiling, "I do not know why it should, Mr. Villet."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders: "Nor I! I do not comprehend these affairs myself, but it is usual, I believe, for the visible visage to elongate with the expansion of the—qu'est ce que c'est?—grace in the soul."
There was a laugh. Charley and Ida were grave; and Mr. Villet's politeness took the alarm. "I entreat your pardon, Miss Ross; I did not meditate an offence."
"You have given none," answered she. "You would not knowingly make sport of what you must respect. Religion is not gloomy, nor is it ridiculous."
"Its professors, with some honorable exceptions, are one or the other," said Richard.
"This is their misfortune or failing, not the fault of the system," returned Ida. "Mortal nature is fallible, Mr. Copeland."
"You admit it, then?" said Mr. Thornton. "The greatest objection I have to pious people is that they do not permit this indulgence to abused human nature. They wind themselves up in their impenetrable cloaks of sanctification and perfectionism, and send us—no matter where—for hankering after innocent amusements. And if one of their caste beats time to a merry tune, or shows his head inside of a theatre, he is run down as if he had the hydrophobia. Such sermons as they preach about the hand or foot offending! It would be a wise precaution, in my judgment, to make the amputation of the feet part of the ceremony of initiation into church membership. You are superior to such narrow-mindedness, I hope, Miss Ida?"
"If 'narrow-mindedness' signifies drawing a distinct line of demarcation between the church and the world, I shall come under your lash, Mr. Thornton."
"And do you, candid and liberal as you are, declare that there is sin—mind you! a 'want of conformity to, or transgression of the law of God'—in moving through a certain form of steps to the sound of music?" said he, indignantly.
"I do not profess to see sin in the mere act of dancing," replied Ida; "but—I do not wish to argue, Mr. Thornton. If nothing else forbade my joining in the amusement, it is prohibited by the church to which I belong."
"Worse and worse! Miss Ida, this is unworthy of you. Itis the Papal doctrine of depositing one's conscience in the priest's pocket book. If your church commanded you to steal or kill, would you obey?"
"No; for a higher law forbids it. I am bound to follow the church only so far as it follows the Bible."
"But the Bible says there is a time to dance."
Ida smiled; "I am surprised," said she, "that sensible persons should quote that poor text so frequently, as authority for dancing. In the same connection we read, 'there is a time to kill;'—you would be loath to defend a murderer who justified his crime by an appeal to this passage. 'A time to die;'—who sees in this permission to shorten his days?"
"And you must turn pavier, Thornton, because 'there is a time to gather stones together,'" said Charley.
There was another laugh, in which Mr. Thornton joined good-humoredly. "Weak as my text is, I am consoled by the knowledge that you cannot produce one interdicting that which reason and observation teach is not reprehensible."
"Not an explicit prohibition, perhaps," answered she, hesitating.
"Well an implied one, then?"
Ida's cheeks flushed, painfully, but her voice was firm as she said, "I read, 'Be ye not conformed to the world;' and 'Whatsoever ye do, do all to the honor and glory of God,' and my conscience says I would be guilty of wilful disobedience to the written commandment, and dishonor my profession, if I disregarded the plain meaning of these words."
Charley had bided his time. She stood the test well, and he came in to the rescue. "She is right, Thornton. You and I know it—why dispute it? Only yesterday, you were laughing at the inconsistency of the 'dancing Christians' you frolicked with down the country."
"I commended their liberality, their freedom from superstition," interposed Thornton, still laughing.
"Humbug! you said—'they have found a road to the Celestial City, which our orthodox brethren about here do not patronise;—have graded and widened the strait and narrow way we read of, until it is as smooth as a ball-room floor; and dance up the shining route. I used to think some preparation was requisite,before I could be fitted for heaven; but I am comforted in spirit since meeting them. My chance is as good as theirs in the long run.' Those were your very words—deny them if you can, or that you were ridiculing them. You are, like myself, more than a Sabbath-day's journey from being a Christian; and you assert that they are not much better off. The plain English of which is, that you are consistent to your professions;—they say they believe one thing, and practise the opposite. Pretending to despise the vanities of this life, they pursue them more eagerly than the things which are unseen and eternal. If a man unites himself with the church, let him live as if he were changed. I go to the theatre, although I do not consider it the best school of morals one can frequent; but itgrievesme to see, in my neighbor, a so-called pious man. I am ashamed for him—my respect for the reputation of his church is greater than his. I dance—and sleep afterwards with an easy conscience; but if you ever see me 'tripping on the light fantastic toe,' with an angelic creature who is a communicant in a Bible-reading sect, you may write it down as an immutable fact, that she asked me—not I her!"
Charley was lawless. Nobody criticised or was offended with him; and Ida was always certain of finding in him, an ally and advocate; but grateful as she was for his ready aid, upon occasions like the present, she prized more highly the counsels, which his knowledge of mankind, and his undeviating sense of rectitude qualified him to give. She had faults,—he pointed them out; she erred in judgment,—he corrected the evil as far as he could. The spectacle of his daily life was useful. He possessed almost boundless influence over his associates, and their attachment to him was close and strong. They understood, intuitively, the worth of the inner man,—never fully unveiled to the majority of them, and could not but admire and esteem. And Ida's constant thought of him was—"If he, calling himself unconverted, accomplishes so much—what ought not I—a Christian, to attempt?"
Mr. Read was in his private sitting-room;—it adjoined his chamber, and his longest walk was from one apartment to the other. The sun beamed cheerfully through the damask curtains, and the fire blazed and crackled in the grate; but wrapped in his wadded dressing-gown, his feet sunk heavily into a cushion, and his face contracted into a fretful frown, he appeared to be enduring the extreme of cold and discomfort. He was a sorry picture of a three months' bridegroom. His surroundings were tasteful and luxurious,—books and papers and pictures and handsome furniture, and at his elbow stood a silver hand-bell, whose tongue would bring an obsequious servant, ready to perform his bidding; yet his sigh, as he fidgeted uneasily in his downyfauteuil, was a groan of repining.—"Like a jaded old hack! they won't knock him in the head, in consideration of past services; but he may die as soon as he can—the quicker the better!"
"The Northern papers have come, sir, and I thought you would like to see them;" said a gentle voice. It was his ward. A grunt and a gesture bade her put them upon the stand.
"Are you in pain this afternoon?" she asked, sympathizingly.
"I am always in pain!"
"Can I do anything for you?"
"No!" He reached for the papers; but a twinge in his shoulder forced him to drop them. Ida picked them up. The desolate old man excited her sincerest pity.
"It must weary you, holding those large sheets; and the print is fine. If you will designate the articles you wish read, I will do it for you with pleasure."
The offer was tempting, although its acceptance was ungracious. He pointed to a piece, and she removed her bonnet and seated herself near him. He did not inquire if she were going out, and she did not make her sacrifice meritorious in his eyes, by informing him that she gave up her walk to minister to his enjoyment. She read well;—her voice was exquisitely modulated;her enunciation perfect; Mr. Read forgot to be peevish, and his corrugated forehead lost half its wrinkles. When she ceased, he seemed to have been lulled by a strain of music. The article selected was an editorial leader on political economy, unintelligible and prosy to Ida; but she endeavored not to let this appear. He nodded, and stripped the envelope from another sheet. His eye gleamed, and with an approach to a smile, he showed her six columns of an oration;—a grand effort of the immortal sage of Marshfield. Ida was appalled at the superficies of the solid mass, but she said over to herself, a verse she had lisped at her mother's knee.
"Did I this day, for small or great,My own pursuits forego,To lighten, by a feather's weight,The load of human woe?"
"Did I this day, for small or great,My own pursuits forego,To lighten, by a feather's weight,The load of human woe?"
"Did I this day, for small or great,My own pursuits forego,To lighten, by a feather's weight,The load of human woe?"
and began the terrible undertaking. The preamble over, she became insensibly interested. Her soul-lit face and ringing intonations supplied to the auditor, the actual presence of the orator; he looked and listened until the light failed; then rang for candles. Mrs. Read, returning from her airing, seated herself silently by the fire. It was the prettiest domestic scene that had ever been witnessed in that house; and how little reality was there in its air of home-happiness!
"Is that all?" asked Mr. Read, at supper-time.
"Almost, sir. I can soon finish it. I will not detain you Mrs. Read." But she waited to hear the conclusion. A gruff "Thank you," was Ida's only reward, besides the praise of her conscience; and her tired throat obliged her to refuse Charley his favorite song that night, but she did not repent. She volunteered her services whenever she knew that there were new books or journals, and at length, the latest intelligence was distasteful, unless it came through her lips. It was a selfish gratification; and she did not delude herself with illusions of personal attachment. She strove to live for the benefit and pleasure of her fellow-beings; to leave her interest and ease out of sight; and she could not have been in a better school. The woman's heart was not still. There were moments of weariness and longing, and passionate regrets. The soul, refusing the realities, which made up the sum of every-day duty, pined for the remembered "Dream Land;"—its retreat,and the scene of its holiday revels;—and when the aching and thirst were at their height, it was a trial to smile at a caress from Mrs. Dana, or a friendly act of Charley's—dear and thoughtful brother! when she could have rested her tired head upon the kind bosom, and wept her life away—but shedidsmile, and bore up bravely until God gave her strength to rise above the weakness.
The Sabbath was a season of delight. A band of little girls watched eagerly for her at Sabbath-school. Inclement indeed must the day be, that saw their form vacant; for she was always at her post, and regarded snow and rain as minor hindrances when her flock nestled closely to "dear Miss Ida." No class loved their teacher and their Bible so well as hers; her co-laborers said she had a secret spell, by which she won and governed them; and she had,—for she was ever mindful that she had another account to render than her report to the Superintendent, and prayed that it might be—"Those whom Thou gavest me, I have kept, and none of them is lost." She loved her pastor; but her acquaintance with him was slight. He visited her at stated times, and esteemed her an "amiable girl, with a creditable fund of general information;" he "could not know the exercises of all his members;" and that a woman whose life was so uncheckered, should have any difficulties and sorrows, but such as are incidental to the experience of every Christian, never crossed his brain. But he was a faithful expounder of the Scriptures; and if he did not remark the changeful light of the eyes, which never released him from the text to the "Amen" of his discourse;—she felt that consolations and advice so applicable, must be meant for her; and remembered him in her orisons, as a Shepherd who cared for his sheep, and selected for each, food convenient for him. She resolved repeatedly, to thank him for his fidelity; but her courage melted when the opportunity arrived; and she would rebuke the vanity that bred the desire. She read that in the primitive church, "those who loved the Lord, spake often to one another;" and imagined, in her simplicity, that such intercourse would be of mutual comfort and profit; yet a seal was upon her mouth, and she waited and wished in vain, for a word in the conversation of her brethren, which would dissolve it. It was strange that she could speak freely andheartily to Carry and to Charley, and be restrained by the presence of those, who had tasted like joys—were bound upon the same pilgrimage as herself.
There was an exception—a minister from another State, with whom she once dined at Mr. Dana's; a merry-hearted, whole-souled man, whose store of anecdote and pleasantry enlivened the company at table;—and after dinner, gathering from a passing remark, that she was a professing Christian, he sought her out; and while the rest were busy about other matters, they were talking of the "peace which passeth understanding," and the home in preparation for them;—not with austere gravity, but, easily and happily, as befitted a topic so inspiriting. They separated—not to meet again in time; and Ida went on her way, cheered and strengthened by the interview, and hoping to thank him in heaven, for the seed he had sowed by the wayside—notin the Scriptural sense of the term.
Mr. Read's disease assumed a chronic type. Some days well enough to transact business in person,—then relapsing, in consequence of trifling exposure or change of weather, his existence was a series of anxieties and sufferings. Ida did not know how she became his nurse; Josephine would not endure his petulance, and her retorts exasperated him; and his wife was too deep in the vortex of fashionable life to waste many minutes upon him; it was unjust and unfeeling to abandon him to the care of menials; and as with her reading, what was a favor, voluntarily offered, came to be regarded as a duty, expected and unrequited. The Danas objected to this thankless sacrifice; but she persisted. It was during one of his worst spells, that an incident occurred, which she did not heed at the time, but when recalled by subsequent events, was fraught with meaning. It was in the evening; and she was on her way to the dining-room, to order a cup of tea for the invalid, when the light streaming through a crack in the parlor-door suggested the probability that the servant she was in quest of, was lighting the lamps in there. She pushed the door open. Mrs. Read was in the middle of the room, her face averted, and her arm extended in repulsion or denial, towards a tall, dark man, who was speaking in a low, excited tone. "'Forget!' I do not forget that circumstances are not what they were then!" was all that Ida heard, as she retired hastily andunseen. As she passed through the entry, she caught a noise, like the rustle of drapery, but supposed it to be the waving of her dress in the wind. Mr. Read was in agony; and Ida sent to request Dr. Ballard's immediate presence. The messenger's steps were not cold upon the stairs, when the sick man tormented himself with impatience for the physician's arrival.
"If the servant had a pass, it was not signed—if it was signed, he had lost it—if he had lost it, Ballard would wait to eat his supper, before he came. I wish he had this shooting fire through his limbs! It would put some speed into his lazy body! Ah! there he is!"
It was Mrs. Read, who meeting the servant with the tea, and hearing of her husband's state, had taken it from him. Ida, preoccupied as she was, noticed that she was pale and agitated. Her voice too, was tremulous, and had a cadence that might have been mistaken for tenderness.
"I grieve to see you so much worse. Drink this, it may relieve you," she said, slipping her hand under his pillow to raise his head. Ida sprang forward to arrest the movement. He was suffering excruciating pain in his neck; and frantic at its augmentation by this change of position, he dashed the cup to the floor, with a shocking oath.
"You want to kill me! I've seen that for a long time; and then you can flaunt to your heart's content. You can marry whom you please, and make him rich with my money, like the shameless wretch you are!" he yelled, distractedly.
The smothered fire leaped high—the dark eye blazed with wrath, but she uttered not a sound, as she turned from him. Ida had never seen such a look in mortal face, and wild with fear of, she know not what, darted after her, and overtook her in the dressing-room.
"Oh! do not! do not!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the stately form.
"Do not what?" said the lady, trying to unlock her fingers. Ida held her fast.
"Oh! the horrible thing that is in your thoughts! He is mad with pain—he did not mean—did not think what he did. He says as hard things to me, to every one—but he loves you! hedoeslove you!" and dropping her head upon the lady's breast,she sobbed like a child. The haughty woman stood irresolute—passive in the tenacious grasp of the over-excited girl.
"He drove me from him—struck me!" she said, in thick accents. "Why should I stay?"
It was rather a soliloquy than a question, and Ida reiterated, "He did not mean it! he loves you!"
"Doyoulove him?" inquired the lady, lifting her face, and gazing piercingly into it.
"I pity him," said Ida.
"Do you hate him?" she asked, more energetically.
"No, I hate no one."
"Yet you have cause."
"I try to forgive."
"You do not hate him!" repeated Mrs. Read; and again to herself, she added, "Ido!"
Ida let her go. "I pity him!" she said, with mournful earnestness, "but I pity you more! doomed to a life of falsehood and misery! Heaven pity you as I do."
"Stay!" said Mrs. Read, as she would have gone back to the chamber. "Do you despise me utterly? Am I lost?"
"'Lost!' no—while life and reason last, there may be room for repentance."
Repentance! what had she, so queenly in her pride and beauty, to do with repentance? yet the words seemed to strike her. Mr. Read's querulous tones called "Ida!" "I must go," she said. "Will you come?"
"Not now—presently."
The patient was slumbering heavily under the influence of the medicine Dr. Ballard prescribed, when his wife rejoined her assistant nurse—lofty and unimpressible. She regarded the sleeper long and fixedly. His hair was nearly white, and his features pinched by sickness, but there was no softening of compassion in the rigid lines of her face. Setting her chair into the shade, she was speechless and motionless for hours. They watched him together all night; exchanging only brief remarks as to his situation, and the remedies to be employed. He rallied from this seizure, and Ida was as far from the brilliant worldling as before.
An unexpected event attracted her from the retirement inwhich her charitable functions had secluded her. Celestia Pratt was married! and to Ellen's chagrin, to a cousin of the Morris family. He was good-looking, ambitious and poor;—she susceptible a "Representative's" daughter, and rich. He wrote to his aunt that they would take Richmond in the wedding-tour; and she was obliged,nolens volens, to give them a party. Ida was disinclined to attend; but Ellen's solicitations conquered her reluctance. Mr. Cranleigh, the groom, was gentlemanly, even handsome, and accepted the customary greetings with as much complacency, as though his wife were not, as Ellen groaned to Ida—"Celestia, unmitigated Celestia!"
"A penny for your thoughts!" said Ida, tapping Charley's arm with her fan.
"I was thinking what falsehoods geologists tell us about the thickness of the crust of the earth, and how many years the mines of Peru have been worked."
"A profound subject for deep meditation, but I am at a loss—"
"Why, allowing a thousand brides a week in the civilized world, (and there are quadruple that number,) according to my rough computation, the miners ought to be within hail of the Chinese, or whatever nation is the antipodes of the Peruvians, by this time."
"Their kindred craft, the jewellers, have been called upon by the Celestia-ls," said Mr. Thornton.
"'Pon my word!" remarked Pemberton to Josephine, "I have heard of men who married 'for pretty,' but it's my opinion, Cranleigh married for ugly."
Josephine laughed, but her attention was absorbed by some object in another part of the room. "You know everybody," said she; "who is that gentleman talking with the bride?"
He knew everybody, and this must be nobody. He had certainly seen him somewhere before—it might have been at Newport—or perhaps in New Orleans, yet he could not call his name. Why did she inquire?
"A question by the way—she was not curious. He had a foreign air, and she fancied might be one of Mr. Pemberton's friends—he had so many abroad."
He had, and it would be awkward not to recollect him, if he should speak.
"There's Cranleigh! he knows!"
The stranger's name was Ashlin, an early acquaintance of Mrs. Cranleigh's, and later from the West Indies.
"Had he resided there long?" Miss Read asked.
"Two years—nearly three, indeed."
Mr. Ashlin was graceful anddistingué, and Ida was attacked by an unaccountable curiosity. She interrogated the bride.
"What handsome man was that, you were conversing with, awhile ago, Celestia?"
Her face was broad with smiles. "Law! why Mr. Cranleigh, my husband, to be sure! Haven't you been introduced? Here! Mr. Cran—"
"Oh! don't!" said Ida. "I know him—don't interrupt him! I alluded to that tall gentleman by the folding-doors."
"That's Mr. Ashlin. He used to live close by Pa's; and then his uncle died out in Cuba or West India, I forget which—and he went off there, where he's been three years, rolling in money they say. He's mighty smart too—I'm'most afraid of him. Don't he look like a-a-cannibal!" said Mrs. Cranleigh, some reminiscence of New Zealand history coming to her help.
"His is a dark beauty, certainly," replied Ida, hiding a smile. "I should say if he had not lived abroad, that I had seen his face somewhere else."
"You needn't be setting your cap!" retorted the bride, spitefully, "He won't be so easy caught as that Mr. Euston, you all think such anAdolphus. He's engaged."
"Ah! who is the fortunate lady?"
"A Miss Courtland,—or some such name;—that is—he was engaged once, but, seems to me, I've heard that he jilted her, and she married a rich old man for his 'tin.'"
"What did you call her? Speak lower!" said Ida.
"Law! you're scared! what ails you?"
"Nothing—nothing!" laughing. "You had as well be silent about this Mr. Ashlin,—he has quick ears, and gentleman do not admire gossiping ladies. You have a splendid bouquet—is this Mr. Cranleigh's taste?"
And while the history of the courtship, from their meeting atthe "Sulphur Springs" to the present glorification, was pouring upon her tympanum, she was arguing away her unjustifiable suspicions. His general appearance was that of the gentleman she had a glimpse of in Mr. Read's parlor; and Mrs. Read's behaviour that evening was so extraordinary as to give colour to the story;—But Celestia always garbled the simplest narrations, murdering names and jumbling facts, until it was next to impossible to arrive at the truth. A three years' absence, too! How nonsensical she was! Her fears returned, however, with reinforcements, when he attached himself to Mrs. Read's cordon of admirers. These were not all young men. Elderly gentlemen, who had not lost their eye for fair faces, and taste for repartee, were recipients of as gracious welcomes as were apportioned to their youthful rivals; and sagacious damsels, of doubtful belleship and charms, crept beneath the wings of her popularity, large enough to shelter a female favorite or so. Mr. Ashlin entered the outmost precincts of this circle, and by imperceptible advances penetrated to the centre of attraction. Mrs. Read flushed slightly, with surprise or displeasure, as he established himself by her side; but nothing intimidated, he presently usurped the management of the conversation; holding up some to ridicule so cleverly that they had only themselves to blame, and did not suspect his agency; flattering others, until they dropped off like surfeited leeches; and angering some so openly, that Ida, who was near enough to get an inkling of what was transpiring, was assured that he was playing for a rich stake. His purpose was effected; he had a clear field; and with no alteration of manner, unless a shade of respect moderated his gayinsouciance, he continued his attentions. No place is better for a confidential confabulation than a crowded room, if the parties understand how to conduct it. The initiated would have surmised from an occasional gleam of the eye, and the varying expression of that most uncontrollable of features, the mouth, that something more important than sugared nothings was upon the tapis; but to the purblind merrymakers, as a body, Mrs. Read was examining a portfolio of prints, and her companion, a travelled gentleman, descanting upon "High Art" in "the States," as contrasted with the love for poetry, painting andmusic, which, it was said, prevailed in gay, pleasure-loving Havana.
Ida was surprised that Mr. Ashlin requested a presentation to herself, and still more at the pertinacity with which he cultivated the acquaintance he must see she did not desire. He triumphed over her prejudice, inveterate as she had thought it. His air of deep interest—the admiration, too respectful to be conveyed in words, which spoke in every look and action, were dangerous flattery, and Ida was not invulnerable. But in reviewing the events of the evening, distrust obscured the pleasing recollection of his captivating address and the magic of his eloquence. Why was it bestowed upon her—a stranger, and so little attractive in her appearance? Why, especially, should he have asked permission to call? He knew Mrs. Read, and to her the application should, in etiquette, have been made. There was a vague apprehension hanging over her—a foreboding, for which she could assign no cause. He called, as he had promised, "at an early day." The family were collected in Mr. Read's room, when his card was brought to the lady of the house.
"Mr. Ashlin," she read. "Whom did he ask for, John?"
"The ladies, ma'am."
"Very well. Josephine, I will thank you and Miss Ida to receive him, and excuse me."
"Excuseme, if you please!" answered Josephine, bridling. "I scarcely know the gentleman, and do not covet the honour."
"Miss Ida?" said Mrs. Read, inquiringly.
"Why not go down with me, ma'am? Are you indisposed?"
"You need not say so—I am engaged. I really wish it," she added, for Ida was undecided.
"Then I will go," said she, with a sensation of infinite relief.
Josephine followed her out. "Beware, my lady-like Tartuffe!" hissed she, sneering in baffled malignity. "You are mixing yourself up in a scrape which will not reflect much credit upon the elect."
Her fiendish laugh was echoing after her, as Ida gained the parlor.
Mr. Ashlin did not appear abashed or disappointed, upon receipt of the apologies. He bowed, with a civil regret, andseemed to forget that there were other ladies in the house or in the world, than the one he was entertaining.
Ida's disagreeable oppression returned once, at his smile, when, in reply to his inquiry, she stated that the portrait in the niche opposite him, was Mr. Read's.
He got up to inspect it. To Ida, he was measuring himself with it, as he straightened his Apollo figure, and expanded his full chest.
"A good painting!" he observed. "How long since it was taken?"
"Two years."
"The pencil of time is the best test of the value of a picture—to some it is a destroyer,—it beautifies others. An excellent piece of work!"—still scanning it. "Is the likeness correct?"
"Uncommonly—or was, when it was painted. Mr. Read looks older and thinner now, that his health is impaired."
Again that sinister smile! but he said nothing more.
He called again, with a friend, anhabituéof the house. It was evening, and Mrs. Read saw them. The length of his stay in Richmond was indefinite;—they were not sure but each visit was his last; and he, keeping up the uncertainty, came frequently, at the hours which suited him best. Josephine, succumbing seemingly, to the power of his wizard wand, freely declared her dread of his departure; Ida felt as much when with him, and revoked it, secretly, as soon as her eyes recovered from their dazzlement. Mrs. Read treated him, as she did her other visitors, and bore no part in the chorus of laudations chaunted in his absence. When Mr. Read was well enough to see company, he fell an easy conquest to the arts of the inimitable stranger. "He was"—he protested, "a better doctor than Ballard. An hour of his society was more beneficial to him, than the apothecary's entire stock of drugs."
His birth-day was near at hand, and he determined to invite his friends to rejoice with him, at his partial restoration to health. It was to be an unostentatious affair—a dinner, and no ladies but those belonging to the family. Mr. Read was as impatient as a child at its first tea-party.
"They are late, Helen! they are not coming!" he said every few minutes, while they were awaiting the guests. He wasworking himself into a passion, when the welcome ring appeased him.
"Mr. Copeland!" called the stentorian lungs of the footman; and Mrs. Read was as white, as if the hand of Death had smitten her.
"How are you all?" said Richard, in his joyous, rattling style. "Miss Ross, I am delighted to meet you—Miss Josephine, I will not disparage your blooming cheeks by asking after your health,—and you, Mr. Read, have been practicing upon our fears, by stories of illness—hasn't he, Helen—youare ill!" he said, brought to a full stop by her pallor.
"Ill! you are well—are you not?" said Mr. Read, in alarm.
"Well! yes! what notions you have, Richard!" and the color flowed back. "When did you come in?—down, I mean, and how are they at home?"
"'Home' is too bridish for a demure matron; but they are well, and sent love. I arrived this morning, and should have been in before, but for business."
"Don't leave the room, Helen. Somebody will come while you are out. Send John for what you want;" said Mr. Read.—She was slipping out through the back parlor.
"I will be gone but a second," she answered; and Mr. Read was still telling Richard how opportune his visit was when she returned. She was the collected, urbane hostess, only an eager glance at each arrival, betrayed nervousness or expectation. Mr. Read watched the door, also; and his displeasure at the tardiness of his favorite was audibly vented.
"Helen! why don't Mr. Ashlin come?" he said, in Ida's hearing. Ears less acute would not have distinguished his wife's reply.
"Hush! these people are jealous of your preference already. He will be here before long."
Ida had mislaid her handkerchief, or not brought it into the room; and Richard offered to favor her retreat by a journey into the next room, to look at some green-house plants. Leaving him bending over them, she ran up-stairs, found the missing article, and was hurrying down, when a ring arrested her upon the lower landing. Thinking to let the visitor enter before her, she stepped back out of sight.
"Mr. Ashlin, I beg your pardon, sir," said John, "my mistress told me to give you this before you went into the drawing-room, sir."
Mr. Ashlin paused—she judged, to read a note.
"All right!" said he. "Tell your mistress, I regret exceedingly that I am called into the country, on account of a friend's danger, and cannot comply with my engagement to Mr. Read this evening. Deliver the message as I have given it. This is for yourself, John. Good day."
"Thank you, sir. Good afternoon."
Ida's limbs shook beneath her. She had not time to unravel the mystery—for mystery she knew it to be;—Mrs. Read's fright at her brother's entrance; her incoherence and exit; the strangely worded message; the bribe to the servant—swam in a chaotic medley through her mind. She was sick with terror, until warned to conceal her emotions by Richard's saying that "Helen's queer symptoms had become epidemic." Partaker of the alarms of guilt, by her knowledge of the sin,—averse as she was to participation in its concealment, she was possessed with the idea, that to her was committed the work of blinding Richard. While her ears were alert to every sentence uttered around her, and she was quaking at the least approach to a mention of the absentee, she aimed to monopolize Mr. Copeland's sense and thoughts. She anticipated their quitting the table as a blessed change; then a cold agony came over her, at the remembrance that the gentlemen would remain. Discovery, in this case, was inevitable. His wife's caution would not restrain Mr. Read from pledging Mr. Ashlin's health. She thought of bantering Richard into withdrawing with the ladies;—it would be too bold—too forward. He would obey, but his respect for her would be diminished;—as a final alternative, she must venture it—but was there no other?
"Our patient does us credit, Miss Ida." Her next neighbor was Dr. Ballard.
"Doesyoucredit, Doctor. I am only your custodian—a daring one, however, for I have a petition to submit. Will it not be imprudent for Mr. Read to remain long at table, after the cloth is removed? His system is still inflammatory." Her conscience reproved her for the deception, although shespoke the truth, but the case was desperate. The doctor's professional cap was on instantly.
"Unquestionably, my child!—unquestionably! well thought of, Miss Ida! We must guard against a relapse. How shall we get him into the parlor?"
Ida consulted Richard, who referred the case to Charley and returned her the reply, that if the ladies would delay their departure, a little longer than was customary,—not to startle those who loved to tarry at the wine, he would concert with most of the company to rise at the same time. Charley was at the helm, and Ida could safely have slept upon her watch. Mr. Read demurred at an infringement upon banquetting laws, but the seceders gallantly insisted upon attending their fair leaders; and the most disaffected had not courage to stand their ground. It was a weary, weary evening to Ida; she looked and felt wretchedly ill, after the guests dispersed. Richard looked in again, after saying "good night."
"I have purchased a buggy to-day," said he, to Ida; "and my pet horse is in town. Shall I have the pleasure of driving you out in the morning?"
She assented.
"At what hour?" he asked.
"I wonder what has happened, that Ashlin stayed away!" said Mr. Read.
Richard started violently. "Ashlin!" he echoed with a fiery look at his sister. "Ashlin—Ashlin;" he repeated, sensible of his imprudence. "I have heard the name—who is he?"
"An old friend of your sister's," replied Josephine.
Richard's face was profoundly meditative. "A small man—is he not? red-haired, stoops in the shoulders, and wears spectacles?"
Mr. Read spoke up indignantly. "A magnificent fellow! gentlemanly, intelligent, and one of the best hearts in the world."
"I do not know him then!" said Richard, emphatically. "Now I think of it, the red head's name may have been Ashton. Say eleven o'clock,"—to Ida—"it will be pleasantly warm then."
"It will suit me," she rejoined, trembling before his gaze.
He was punctual to the hour. Mr. Read hobbled to the doorto admire his "turn-out." To him, Richard was lively and friendly as usual, but he refused his sister's invitation to come in, and his bow, as his horse sprang off at the loosened rein, was to him. They left the city by the shortest route. Beyond the houses, Richard slackened their headlong speed.
"Miss Ross!" he said, abruptly facing her, "I have classed you among the limited number of your sex, who are upright and truthful. Within twelve hours past, I have doubtedyou. You are under no personal obligations to answer my questions;—but as a brother—for the honor of my family, I demand of you, all that you know of this Ashlin."
"Which is very little. I never saw him until Mr. Cranleigh's marriage, when he was introduced to me at Mrs. Morris'."
"By whom? by Helen?"
"By Mrs. Morris, herself. He made a party call, and has continued to visit the house."
"Artful as ever!" he said, through his shut teeth. "Does Mrs. Read see him?"
"Yes; and Mr. Read."
"The old blinkard! Does Helen receive him as your friend or as hers?"
"As the friend of the family."
"Tush! I might commend your diplomacy, Miss Ross, if I were not so thoroughly in earnest. It is clear you will not advance a step, without knowing why you are questioned. Having more confidence in you, than you have in me, I will set you an example of candor. Ashlin and my sister were betrothed when he was at college. We were 'chums.' He is ardent—generous in some of his impulses, but as I perceived, even with my boyishly irregular notions, lax in principle. Helen was not ignorant of my opinion, and with a woman's faith and perseverance, set herself to break it down. You do not know her as she was then—high-spirited, proud and passionate, but tractable as a child to the voice of affection. Her will was more ungovernable than mine, and she almost reconciled me to her choice. He had just completed his course at the University, when the death of an uncle put him in possession of a valuable estate in Cuba. The marriage, which was to have taken place immediately, was postponed for twelve months. Meantime, he was to visit hisproperty, and prepare for a permanent residence in the West Indies. The year elapsed—he did not return—and suddenly his letters were suspended. Helen was insanely trustful; he might be ill or dead—dying, or in the grave, he was true! Her romantic independent disposition led her to the formation of a mad project—to search for him in person, since she could learn nothing in any other way. I could not dissuade her;—she made but one concession,—that I might accompany her. The object and direction of our expedition was known only to ourselves. We were ready—a day before that fixed for starting, a letter came! He was enamored of an Italian cantatrice; 'designed marrying her, if Helen would liberate him;—if not, he would redeem his early pledge to her.' She was ill for weeks; and upon what, I believed was her death-bed, she extorted from me a vow not to revenge her. She 'should have foreseen how it would end,' she said, 'blind, confiding dupe, that she was!' She arose—a hardened, I think, sometimes, a heartless woman of the world:—with her trust in him, had perished her faith in God and man; an unfeminine panting for wealth and distinction filling its place. Chance threw this gold-fish, Read, in her net; and she clutched him. I had sorrowed for, and commiserated her until then; but so sordid, so wickedly weak was this act, that I reproached her angrily. I said it sprang from wounded vanity, and a mean desire to glitter, a hollow-hearted, tinselled doll in the view of those who would gibe, while pretending to applaud;—that her conduct was as degrading to her, as mortifying to us,—and she bore my vituperations, without attempting to defend herself, 'Richard!' she said, when I had exhausted my indignation, 'better reason with a tornado, than a slighted woman!'
"You regard me as a chattering coxcomb, Miss Ida; but I solemnly declare that I could have gone to the block more resignedly, than I saw my beautiful sister sold to her hoary bridegroom. These were circumstances, with which I could not cope—but the diabolical schemes of this assassin of her peace shall not mature! This is the sad tale—is it quite new to you?"
"In its details;" and she related Celestia's version.
"Which furnished you with a key—you have a clear head, and a woman's wit—have you found no locks that it fitted?"
No reply.
"Did you divine the cause of Helen's embarrassment at my appearance, yesterday?"
"Not at the time."
"But afterwards. He was invited—did she warn him of my being there? If so, do not say it. I can bear your silence better than the truth."
"I can neither deny nor assert, Mr. Copeland. I have imagined many dreadful things, which may have no real existence. You may judge for yourself."
His brow was lighter, when he had heard her unvarnished relation.
"I thank you!" said he, heartily. "We may cicatrize this wound yet. I will see Helen to-night; she expects a reproof; and if she is not what she appears,—refined steel—I will make her feel. I dare not meet Ashlin—but I will write—and if he crosses my path again—." He resumed in a milder tone, "I would crave one more proof of your good-will, but that I fear a refusal."
"Ask it."
"If he renews his visits, will you inform me?"
"No, sir!" said Ida, positively. "The service savors too much of espionage."
"I was afraid you would see it in that light. Miss Read," he continued, scornfully, "would require no persuasion to play the spy. I was near committing myself last night. His name was a galvanic shock."
"I cannot but hope," said Ida, "that our fears have magnified shadows into spectres. We are so prone to shape events after the fashion of our inclinations or forebodings. Do not consider it an impertinent liberty, Mr. Copeland, if I recommend to you to be very gentle in your reprehension of your sister. Callous, self-dependent in semblance, think what her sufferings are, empaled by memory and conscience. Oh! if we had more charity for the tempted!"
"Temptation, sin, suffering! how naturally the words succeed each other!" mused Richard.
"And they are an epitome of all human woe," said Ida"It is a doctrine of mine, that a small proportion of the great aggregate of crime is committed from actual love of sin."
She was gratified at his demeanor towards his sister upon their return. He dined with them, and was markedly attentive to her, combining so much brotherly kindness with a certain deference to her wishes and sentiments, that she struggled with the softness which menaced her proud composure. As they quitted the table, he passed his arm around her waist, and there were tears in the eyes upraised to his. No more auspicious time could occur for the contemplated conversation; and Ida enticed Mr. Read into his reading room, by the lure of an uncut periodical. The words fell from her mouth mechanically—her mind was upon the momentous interview. In the character and life delineated by Richard, she traced, with a thrill, a similarity to her own; the impetuous temper—unmanageable, save when the breath of love sighed over the heart; the blasted hope; the unworthiness of the object of adoration—ah! this bitterest ingredient in the cup of despair was spared her! but the prostration of soul and body; then the heaven-threatening billows of blasphemous misanthropy, and self-abandonment—the parallel was just here—to diverge how widely in the result of the ordeal! one, wilfully completing the ruin of her happiness by perjury—cauterizing her heart with corrodents, that eat away its fevered life; the other, dragging herself, wounded and weary, to the feet of the Good Physician, to be healed, and fed, and sustained by His loving mercy; and the language of Ida's thanksgiving was, "Lord!Thouhast made me to differ!"