Part 25 (1/2)
For a short while he struggled with himself, striving to overcome the unconquerable impulse which suddenly prompted him, and his face grew pallid as hers as he walked hastily across the smooth gra.s.s and came back to her.
Her countenance was lifted toward the neighbouring hill, her thoughts evidently far away, when he paused before her, and said unsteadily--
”Irene, my beloved! give yourself to me. Go with me into G.o.d's vineyard; let us work together, and consecrate our lives to His service.”
The mesmeric eyes gazed into his, full of wonder, and the rich ruby tint fled from her lips as she pondered his words in unfeigned astonishment, and shaking her regal head; answered slowly--
”Harvey, I am not worthy. I want your counsel, not your pity.”
”Pity! you mistake me. If you have been ignorant so long, know now that I have loved you from the evening you first sat in my study looking over my foreign sketches. You were then a child, but I was a man, and I knew all that you had so suddenly become to me. Because of this great disparity in years, and because I dared not hope that one so tenderly nurtured could ever brave the hards.h.i.+ps of my projected life, I determined to quit New York earlier than I had antic.i.p.ated, and to bury a foolish memory in the trackless forests of the far West. I ought to have known the fallacy of my expectation; I have proved it since. Your face followed me; your eyes met mine at every turn; your glittering hair swept on every breeze that touched my cheek. Irene, you are young, and singularly beautiful, and I am a grey-haired man, much, much older than yourself; but, if you live a thousand years, you will never find such affection as I offer you now.
There is nothing on earth which would make me so happy as the possession of your love. You are the only woman I have ever seen whom I even wish to call my wife--the only woman who, I felt, could lend new charm to life, and make my quiet hearth happier by her presence. Irene, will you share my future?
Can you give me what I ask?”
The temptation was powerful--the future he held out enticing indeed. The strong, holy, manly love, the n.o.ble heart and head to guide her, the firm, tender hand to support her, the constant, congenial, and delightful companions.h.i.+p--all this pa.s.sed swiftly through her mind; but, crus.h.i.+ng all in its grasp, came the memory of one whom she rarely met, but who held undisputed sway over her proud heart.
Drawing close to the minister, she laid her hands on his shoulder, and, looking reverently up into his fine face, said, in her peculiarly sweet, clear voice--
”The knowledge of your priceless, unmerited love makes me proud beyond degree; but I would not mock you by the miserable and only return I could make you--the affection of a devoted sister. That I do not love you as you wish is my great misfortune; for I appreciate most fully the n.o.ble privilege you have tendered me. I trust that the pain I may give you now will soon pa.s.s away, and that, in time, you will forget one who is utterly undeserving of the honour you have conferred on her to-day. Oh, Harvey! do not, I beg of you, let one thought of me ever disquiet your n.o.ble, generous heart.”
A s.h.i.+ver crept over her still face, and she dropped her pale forehead. She felt two tears fall upon her hair, and in silence he bent down and kissed her softly, tenderly, as one kisses a sleeping babe.
”Oh, Harvey! do not let it grieve you, dear friend!”
He smiled sadly, as if not daring to trust himself in words; then, after a moment, laying his hands upon her head, in the baptism of a deathless love, he gently and solemnly blessed her. When his fingers were removed she raised her eyes, but he had gone; she saw only the retreating form through the green arches of the grand old avenue.
CHAPTER XXII
”COUSINLY--NO MORE”
Says D'Alembert: ”The industry of men is now so far exhausted in canva.s.sing for places, that none is left for fulfilling the duties of them;” and the history of our government furnishes a melancholy parallel. The regular quadrennial storm had swept over the nation; caucuses had been held and platforms fiercely fought for, to be kicked away, plank by plank, when they no longer served as scaffolding by which to climb to office. Buchanan was elected, but destined to exemplify, during his administration, the truth of Tacitus' words: ”He was regarded as greater than a private man whilst he remained in privacy, and would have been deemed worthy of governing if he had never governed.” The heat of the canva.s.s cooled, people settled down once more to a condition of lethargic indifference--bought and sold, sowed and reaped, as usual--little realizing that the temporary lull, the perfect calm, was treacherous as the gla.s.sy green expanse of waters which, it is said, sometimes covers the location of the all-destroying maelstrom of Moskoe. Having taken an active and prominent part in the presidential campaign, and made frequent speeches, Russell found himself again opposed by Mr. Huntingdon, who was equally indefatigable during the exciting contest. The old feud received, if possible, additional acrimony, and there were no bounds to the maledictions heaped upon the young and imperturbable legislator by his virulent antagonist. Many predicted a duel or a street encounter; but weeks pa.s.sed, and though, in casual meetings, Mr.
Huntingdon's glare of hate was always answered by a mocking smile of cold disdain, the cloud floated off without breaking into b.l.o.o.d.y showers.
Mr. Mitch.e.l.l's health had failed so rapidly as winter approached, that Dr.
Arnold persuaded him to try the efficacy of a sea-voyage, and he had accordingly sailed from New Orleans in a vessel bound for Genoa. Irene begged the privilege of accompanying him, but her father peremptorily refused; and she saw her uncle depart, and superintended the closing of his house, with silent sorrow, and the feeling of one who knows that the night is deepening around her.
Late in the afternoon of Christmas Day Irene went into the greenhouse to gather a bouquet for an invalid friend in town, and had almost accomplished her errand when the crash and whir of wheels drew her to the window that looked out on the lawn. Her father had gone to the plantation early that morning, and she had scarcely time to conjecture whom the visitor would prove, when Hugh's loud voice rang through the house, and, soon after, he came clattering in, with the end of his pantaloons tucked into his boots, and his whip trailing along in true boyish fas.h.i.+on. As he threw down his hat, scattering the petals of a snowy camellia, and drew near his cousin, she saw that his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes somewhat bloodshot.
”Hugh! what are you doing here? Father expected you to overtake him at Crescent Bend; you said last night that you would start by five o'clock.”
”Merry Christmas, my beauty! I have come for my Christmas gift. Give it to me, like the queen you are.”
He stooped as if to kiss her, but she shrank back instantly, and said gravely--
”You ought not to make promises which you have no idea of keeping; father will be annoyed, and wonder very much what has happened. He was anxious that you should go with him.”
”Oh! confound the plantation! I wish it would sink! Of all other days none but Christmas will suit him to tramp down there through mud and mire. The fact is, I did not go to sleep till four o'clock, and n.o.body ought to be unchristian enough to expect me to wake up in an hour. You may be quiet, though, for I am on my way now to that paradise of black mud. I only stopped to get a glimpse of you, my Sappho! my Corinna! so don't homilize, I pray you.”