Macaria

by Augusta J. Evans

  CHAPTER VIII

  A DISCOVERY

  "I am so glad to see you, Mr. Young. Louisa is not sick, I hope?"

  "I came for you in Louisa's place; she is not well enough to quit her room.Did you suppose that I intended leaving you here for another month?"

  "I was rather afraid you had forgotten me; the prospect was gloomy tenminutes ago. It seems a long time since I was with you."

  She stood close to him, looking gladly into his face, unconscious of theeffect of her words.

  "You sent me no note all this time; why not?"

  "I was afraid of troubling you; and, besides, I would rather tell you whatI want you to know."

  "Miss Irene, the carriage is at the door. I am a patient man, and can waithalf an hour if you have any preparation to make."

  In much less time she joined him, equipped for the ride, and took her placebeside him in the carriage. As they reached his father's door, and heassisted her out, she saw him look at her very searchingly.

  "It is time that you had a little fresh air. You are not quite yourself.Louisa is in her room; run up to her."

  She found her friend suffering with sore throat, and was startled at theappearance of her flushed cheeks. Mrs. Young sat beside her, and after mostcordial greetings the latter resigned her seat and left them, enjoiningupon her daughter the necessity of remaining quiet.

  "Mother was almost afraid for you to come, but I teased and coaxed forpermission; told her that even if I had the scarlet fever you had alreadyhad it, and would run no risk. Harvey says it is not scarlet fever at all,and he persuaded mother to let him go after you. He always has things hisown way, though he brings it about so quietly that nobody would evensuspect him of being self-willed. Harvey is a good friend of yours, Irene."

  "I am glad to hear it; he is certainly very kind to me. But recollect youare not to talk much; let me talk to you."

  The following morning found Louisa much better, and Irene and the motherspent the day in her room. Late in the afternoon the minister came in andtalked to his sister for some moments, then turned to his mother.

  "Mother, I am going to take this visitor of yours down to the library;Louisa has monopolized her long enough. Come, Miss Irene, you shall jointhem again at tea."

  He led the way, and she followed very willingly. Placing her in a chairbefore the fire, he drew another to the rug; and seating himself, said justas if speaking to Louisa--

  "What have you been doing these two months? What is it that clouds yourface, my little sister?"

  "Ah, sir! I am so weary of that school. You don't know what a relief it isto come here."

  "It is rather natural that you should feel home-sick. It is a fierce ordealfor a child like you to be thrust so far from home."

  "I am not home-sick now, I believe. I have in some degree become accustomedto the separation from my father; but I am growing so different from what Iused to be; so different from what I expected. It grieves me to know that Iam changing for the worse; but, somehow, I can't help it. I make goodresolutions in the morning before I leave my room, and by noon I manage tobreak all of them. The girls try me and I lose my patience. When I am athome nothing of this kind ever troubles me."

  "Miss Irene, yours is not a clinging, dependent disposition; if I haverightly understood your character, you have never been accustomed to leanupon others. After relying on yourself so long, why yield to mistrust now?With years should grow the power, the determination, to do the work youfind laid out for you."

  "It is precisely because I know how very poorly I have managed myself thusfar that I have no confidence in my own powers for future emergencies.Either I have lived alone too long, or else not long enough; I rather thinkthe last. If they had only suffered me to act as I wished, I should havebeen so much better at home. Oh, sir, I am not the girl I was eight monthsago. I knew how it would be when they sent me here."

  "Some portentous cloud seems lowering over your future. What is it? Youought to be a gleeful girl, full of happy hopes."

  She sank farther back in her chair to escape his searching gaze and droopedher face lower.

  "Yes, yes; I know I ought, but people can't always shut their eyes."

  "Shut their eyes to what?"

  "Various coming troubles, Mr. Young."

  His lip curled slightly, and, replacing the book on the table, he said, asif speaking rather to himself than to her--

  "The heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddlewith his joy."

  "You are not a stranger, sir."

  "I see you are disposed to consider me such. I thought I was your brother.But no matter; after a time all will be well."

  She looked puzzled; and, as the tea-bell summoned them, he merely added--

  "I do not wonder. You are a shy child; but you will soon learn tounderstand me; you will come to me with all your sorrows."

  During the remainder of this visit she saw him no more. Louisa recoveredrapidly, and when she asked for her brother on Sabbath evening, Mrs. Youngsaid he was to preach twice that day. Monday morning arrived, and Irenereturned to school with a heavy heart fearing that she had wounded him;but a few days after, Louisa brought her a book and brief note of kindwords. One Saturday morning she sat quite alone in her small room; the weekhad been specially painful, and, wearied in soul, the girl laid her headdown on her folded arms, and thought of her home in the far South. A loudrap startled her from this painful reverie, and ere she could utter thestereotyped "come in," Louisa sprang to her side.

  "I have come for you, Irene; have obtained permission from Dr. ---- for youto accompany us to the Academy of Design. Put on your bonnet; Harvey iswaiting in the reception room. We shall have a charming day."

  "Ah, Louisa! you are all very kind to recollect me so constantly. It willgive me great pleasure to go."

  When they joined the minister, Irene fancied he received her coldly, and asthey walked on he took no part in the conversation. The annual exhibitionhad just opened; the rooms were thronged with visitors, and the hushedtones swelled to a monotonous hum. Some stood in groups, expatiatingeagerly on certain pictures; others occupied the seats and leisurelyscanned now the paintings, now the crowd. Furnished with a catalogue, thegirls moved slowly on, while Mr. Young pointed out the prominent beautiesor defects of the works exhibited. They made the circuit of the room, andbegan a second tour, when their attention was attracted by a girl who stoodin one corner, with her hands clasped behind her. She was gazing veryintently on an Ecce-Homo, and, though her face was turned toward the wall,the posture bespoke most unusual interest. Irene looked at her an instant,and held her breath; she had seen only one other head which resembledthat--she knew the purplish waving hair, and gliding up to her sheexclaimed--

  "Electra! Electra Grey!"

  The orphan turned, and they were locked in a tight embrace.

  "Oh, Irie! I am so glad to see you. I have been here so long, and lookedfor you so often, that I had almost despaired. Whenever I walk downBroadway, whenever I go out anywhere, I look at every face, peep intoevery bonnet, hoping to find you. Oh! I am so glad. Do come and see mesoon--soon. I must go now--I promised."

  "Where do you live? I will go home with you now."

  "I am not going home immediately. Mr. Clifton's house is No. 85, West ----Street. Come this afternoon."

  With a long, warm pressure of hands they parted, and Irene stood lookingafter the graceful figure till it glided out of sight.

  "In the name of wonder, who is that? You two have been the 'observed of allobservers,'" ejaculated the impulsive Louisa.

  "That is my old schoolmate and friend of whom I once spoke to you. I had noidea that she was in New York. She is a poor orphan."

  "Are you ready to return home? This episode has evidently driven picturesout of your head for to-day," said Mr. Young, who had endeavoured to screenher from observation.

  "Yes, quite ready to go, though I have enjoyed the morning very muchindeed, thanks to your kindness."

  Soon a
fter they reached home, Louisa was called into the parlour to see ayoung friend, and as Mrs. Young was absent, Irene found it rather lonelyupstairs. She thought of a new volume of travels which she had noticed onthe hall-table as they entered, and started down to get it. About half-wayof the flight of steps she caught her foot in the carpeting, where one ofthe rods chanced to be loose, and despite her efforts to grasp the railingfell to the floor of the hall, crushing one arm under her. The library-doorwas thrown open instantly, and the minister came out. She lay motionless,and he bent over her.

  "Irene! where are you hurt? Speak to me."

  He raised her in his arms and placed her on the sofa in the sitting-room.The motion produced great pain, and she groaned and shut her eyes. Acrystal vase containing some exquisite perfume stood on his mother'swork-table, and, pouring a portion of its contents in his palm, he bathedher forehead. Acute suffering distorted her features, and his face grewpallid as her own while he watched her. Taking her hand, he repeated--

  "Irene, my darling! tell me how you are hurt?"

  She looked at him, and said with some difficulty--

  "My ankle pains me very much, and I believe my arm is broken. I can't moveit."

  "Thank God you are not killed."

  He kissed her, then turned away and despatched a servant for a physician.He summoned Louisa, and inquired fruitlessly for his mother; no one knewwhither she had gone; it would not do to wait for her. He stood by the sofaand prepared the necessary bandages, while his sister could only cry overand caress the sufferer. When the physician came the white dimpled arm wasbared; and he discovered that the bone was broken. The setting wasextremely painful, but she lay with closed eyes and firmly compressed lips,uttering no sound, giving no token of the torture, save in the wrinkling ofher forehead. They bound the arm tightly, and then the doctor said theankle was badly strained and swollen, but there was, luckily, no fracture.He gave minute directions to the minister and withdrew, praising thepatient's remarkable fortitude. Louisa would talk, and her brother sent heroff to prepare a room for her friend.

  "I think I had better go back to the Institution, Mr. Young. It will be along time before I can walk again, and I wish you would have me carriedback. Dr. ---- will be uneasy, and will prefer my returning, as father leftme in his charge." She tried to rise, but sank back on the pillow.

  "Hush! hush! You will stay where you are, little cripple; I am onlythankful you happened to be here."

  He smoothed the folds of her hair from her temples, and for the first timeplayed with the curls he had so often before been tempted to touch. Shelooked so slight, so childish, with her head nestled against the pillow,that he forgot she was almost sixteen, forgot everything but the beauty ofher pale face, and bent over her with an expression of the tenderest love.She was suffering too much to notice his countenance, and only felt that hewas very kind and gentle. Mrs. Young came in very soon, and heard with thedeepest solicitude of what had occurred. Irene again requested to be takento the school, fearing that she would cause too much trouble during herlong confinement to the house. But Mrs. Young stopped her arguments withkisses, and would listen to no such arrangements; she would trust to no onebut herself to nurse "the bruised Southern lily." Having seen that all wasin readiness, she insisted on carrying her guest to the room adjoiningLouisa's, and opening into her own. Mr. Young had gone to Boston the daybefore, and, turning to her son, she said--

  "Harvey, as your father is away, you must take Irene upstairs; I am notstrong enough. Be careful that you do not hurt her."

  She led the way, and, bending down, he whispered--

  "My little sister, put this uninjured arm around my neck, there--now Ishall carry you as easily as if you were in a cradle."

  He held her firmly, and as he bore her up the steps the white face lay onhis bosom, and the golden hair floated against his cheek. If she had lookedat him then, she would have seen more than he intended that anyone shouldknow: for, young and free from vanity though she was, it was impossible tomistake the expression of the eyes riveted upon her. Mrs. Young wroteimmediately to Mr. Huntingdon, and explained the circumstances which hadmade his daughter her guest for some weeks at least, assuring him that heneed indulge no apprehension whatever on her account, as she would nurseher as tenderly as a mother could. Stupefied by the opiate, Irene tooklittle notice of what passed, except when roused by the pain consequentupon dressing the ankle. Louisa went to school as usual, but her motherrarely left their guest; and after Mr. Young's return he treated her withall the affectionate consideration of a parent. Several days after theoccurrence of the accident Irene turned toward the minister, who stoodtalking to his mother.

  "Your constant kindness emboldens me to ask a favour of you, which I thinkyou will scarcely deny me. I am very anxious to see the friend whom I sounexpectedly met at the Academy of Design. Here is a card containing heraddress; will you spare me the time to bring her here to-day? I shall bevery much obliged to you."

  "Very well. I will go after her as soon as I have fulfilled a previousengagement. What is her name?"

  "Electra Grey. Did you notice her face?"

  "Yes; but why do you ask?"

  "Because I think she resembles your mother."

  "She resembles far more an old portrait hanging in my room. I remarked itas soon as I saw her."

  He seemed lost in thought, and immediately after left the room. An hourlater, Irene's listening ear detected the opening and closing of the halldoor.

  "There is Electra on the steps; I hear her voice. Will you please open thedoor?"

  Mrs. Young laid down her work and rose to comply, but Harvey ushered thestranger in and then retired.

  The lady of the house looked at the new-comer, and a startled expressioncame instantly into her countenance. She made a step forward and pausedirresolute.

  "Mrs. Young, allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Electra Grey." Electrabowed, and Mrs. Young exclaimed--

  "Grey! Grey! Electra Grey; and so like Robert? Oh! it must be so. Child,who are you? Where are your parents?"

  She approached and put her hand on the girl's shoulders, while a hopefullight kindled in her eyes.

  "I am an orphan, madam, from the South. My father died before my birth, mymother immediately after."

  "Was your father's name Robert? Where was he from?"

  "His name was Enoch R. Gray. I don't know what his middle name was. He cameoriginally from Pennsylvania, I believe."

  "Oh! I knew that I could not be mistaken! My brother's child! Robert'schild!"

  She threw her arms around the astonished girl, and strained her to herheart.

  "There must be some mistake, madam. I never heard that I had relatives inNew York."

  "Oh! child! call me aunt! I am your father's sister. We called him by hismiddle name, Robert, and for eighteen years have heard nothing of him. Sitdown here, and let me tell you the circumstances. Your father was theyoungest of three children, and in his youth gave us great distress by hiswildness; he ran away from college and went to sea. After an absence ofthree years he returned, almost a wreck of his former self. My mother haddied during his long voyage to the South Sea Islands, and father, whobelieved him to have been the remote cause of her death (for her healthfailed soon after he left), upbraided him most harshly and unwisely. Hisreproaches drove poor Robert to desperation, and without giving us anyclue, he left home as suddenly as before. Whither he went we never knew.Father was so incensed that he entirely disinherited him; but at his death,when the estate was divided, my brother William and I decided that we wouldtake only what we considered our proportion, and we set apart one-third forRobert. We advertised for several years, and could hear nothing of him; andat the end of the fifth year, William divided that remaining third. Oh, mydear child! I am so glad to find you out. But where have you been all thistime? Where did Robert die?"

  She held the orphan's hand, and made no attempt to conceal the tears thatrolled over her cheeks. Electra gave her a detailed account of her lifefrom the time whe
n she was taken to her uncle, Mr. Aubrey, at the age offour months, till the death of her aunt and her removal to New York.

  "And Robert's child has been in want, while we knew not of her existence!Oh, Electra! you shall have no more sorrow that we can shield you from. Iloved your father very devotedly, and I shall love his orphan quite asdearly. Come to me, let me be your mother. Let me repair the wrong ofbygone years."

  She folded her arms around the graceful young form and sobbed aloud, whileIrene found it difficult to repress her own tears of sympathy and joy thather friend had found such relatives. Of the three, Electra was calmest.Though glad to meet with her father's family, she knew better than theythat this circumstance could make little alteration in her life, andtherefore, when Mrs. Young had left the room to acquaint her husband andson with the discovery she had made, Electra sat down beside her friend'ssofa just as she would have done two hours before.

  "I am so glad for your sake that you are to come and live here. Until youknow them all as well as I do, you cannot properly appreciate your goodfortune," said Irene, raising herself on her elbow.

  "Yes, I am very glad to meet my aunt," returned Electra, evasively, andthen she added earnestly--

  "I don't know that I ought to talk about things that should have beenburied before you were born. But you probably know something of whathappened. We found out after you left why you were so suddenly sent off toboarding-school; and you can have no idea how much my poor aunt wasdistressed at the thought of having caused your banishment. Irene, yourfather hated her, and of course you know it; but do you know why?"

  "No; I never could imagine any adequate cause."

  "Well, I can tell you. Before Aunt Amy's marriage your father loved her,and to please her parents she accepted him. She was miserable, because shewas very much attached to my uncle, and asked Mr. Huntingdon to release herfrom the engagement. He declined, and finding that her parents sided withhim she left home and married against their wishes. They adopted a distantrelative and never gave her a cent. Your father never forgave her. He hadgreat influence with the governor, and she went to him and entreated him toaid her in procuring a pardon for her husband. He repulsed her cruelly, andused his influence against my uncle. She afterwards saw a letter which hewrote to the governor, urging him to withhold a pardon. Now you have thekey to his hatred; now you understand why he wrote you nothing concerningus. Not even Aunt Amy's coffin could shut in his hate. Irene, I must gohome now, for they will wonder what has become of me. I will see you againsoon."

  She was detained by her aunt, and presented to the remainder of the family,and it was arranged that Mr. and Mrs. Young should visit her the ensuingday. While they talked over the tea-table of the newly-found, Harvey wentslowly upstairs and knocked at Irene's door. Louisa was chatteringdelightedly about her cousin, and, sending her down to her tea, he took herseat beside the sofa. Irene lay with her fingers over her eyes, and he saidgently--

  "You see that I am wiser than you, Irene. I knew that it would do you nogood to have company. Next time be advised."

  "It was not Electra that harmed me."

  "Then you admit that you have been harmed?"

  "No; I am low-spirited to-night; I believe that is all."

  He opened the _Rambler_, of which she was particularly fond, and began toread. For a while she listened, and in her interest forgot her forebodings,but after a time her long silky lashes swept her cheeks, and she slept. Theminister laid down the volume and watched the pure girlish face; noted allits witching loveliness, and thought of the homage which it would win herin coming years. He knew as he sat watching her slumber that he loved herabove everything on earth; that she wielded a power none had ever possessedbefore--that his heart was indissolubly linked with hers. He had wrestledwith this infatuation, had stationed himself on the platform of commonsense, and railed at and ridiculed this piece of folly. His clear, coolreason gave solemn verdict against the fiercely-throbbing heart, but notone pulsation had been restrained. As he sat looking down at her, a mightybarrier rose between them. His future had long been determined--duty calledhim to the rude huts of the far West; thither pointed the finger ofdestiny, and thither, at all hazards, he would go. He thought that he hadhabituated himself to sacrifices, but the spirit of self-abnegation wasscarcely equal to this trial. Reason taught him that the tenderly-nurturedchild of Southern climes would never suit him for a companion in thepioneer life which he had marked out. He folded his arms tightly over hischest, and resolved to go promptly.

  The gaslight flashed on Irene's hair as it hung over the side of the sofa;he stooped, and pressed his lips to the floating curls, and went down tothe library, smiling grimly at his own folly. Without delay he wrote twoletters, and was dating a third, when his mother came in. Placing a chairfor her, he laid down his pen.

  "I am glad to see you, mother; I want to have a talk with you."

  "About what, Harvey?"--an anxious look settled on her face.

  "About my leaving you, and going West. I have decided to start next week."

  "Oh, my son! how can you bring such grief upon me? Surely there is workenough for you to do here, without your tearing yourself from us."

  "Yes, mother, work enough, but hands enough also, without mine. These arethe sunny slopes of the vineyard, and labourers crowd to till them; butthere are cold, shadowy, barren nooks and corners, that equally demandcultivation. There the lines have fallen to me, and there I go to my work.I have delayed my departure too long already."

  "Oh, Harvey! have you fully determined on this step?"

  "Yes, my dear mother, fully determined to go."

  "It is very hard for me to give up my only son. I can't say that I willreconcile myself to this separation; but you are old enough to decide yourown future; and I suppose I ought not to urge you. For months I haveopposed your resolution; now I will not longer remonstrate. Oh, Harvey! itmakes my heart ache to part with you. If you were married I should bebetter satisfied; but to think of you in your loneliness!" She laid herhead on his shoulder, and wept.

  The minister compressed his lips firmly an instant, then replied--

  "I always told you that I should never marry. I shall be too constantlyoccupied to sit down and feel lonely. Now, mother, I must finish myletters, if you please, for they should go by the earliest mail."