ELEANOR.
One week, another--a third--a fourth, passed by. Our village was as if
it had never been shaken by a fierce agitation. Already the tragedy was
as if it had not been, except to the household whose fairest flower it
had blighted. People no longer looked over their shoulders as they
walked; the story now only served to enliven the history of the little
place, when it was told to a stranger.
Every thing that human energy could accomplish had been done to track
the murder to its origin; yet not one step had been gained since we
sat, that Wednesday afternoon, in the parlor, holding a council over
the handkerchief. Young and healthful as I was, I felt my spirits
breaking down under my constant, unavailing exertions. The time for my
examination came, which could not be unsuccessful, I had so long been
thoroughly prepared, but I had lost my keen interest in this era of my
life, while my ambition grew torpid. To excel in my profession had
become, for the time, quite the secondary object of my life; my brain
grew feverish with the harassment of restless projects--the recoil of
thwarted ideas. There was not one in the family group (always excepting
that unseen and cloistered sufferer) who betrayed the wear-and-tear of
our trouble so much as I. James remarked once that I was improved by
losing some of my boyish ruddiness--I was "toning down," he said. On
another occasion, with that Mephistophiles smile of his, he observed
that it must be that I was after the handsome rewards--the sum-total
would make a comfortable setting-out for a person just starting in the
world.
I do not think he wished to quarrel with me; he was always doubly
pleasant after any such waspish sting; he was naturally satirical, and
he could not always curb his inclination to be so at my expense.
In the mean time an impression grew upon me that he was watching
me--with what intent I had not yet decided.
In all this time I had not seen Eleanor. She had recovered from her
illness, so as to be about her room, but had not yet joined the family
at meals. I went frequently to the house; it had been a second home to
me ever since I left the haunts of my boyhood and the old red-brick
mansion, with the Grecian portico, whose massive pillars were almost
reflected in the waters of Seneca lake, so close to the shore did it
stand--and where my mother still resided, amidst the friends who had
known her in the days of her happiness--that is, of my father's life.
With the same freedom as of old, I went and came to and from Mr.
Argyll's. I was not apprehensive of intruding upon Eleanor, because she
never left her apartments; while Mary, gay young creature, troubled and
grieved as she was, could not stay always in the shadow. At her age,
the budding blooms of womanhood require sunshine. She was lonely, and
when she left her sister to the solitude which Eleanor preferred, she
wanted company, she said. James was gloomy, and would not try to amuse
her--not that she wanted to be amused, but every thing was so sad, and
she felt so timid, it was a relief to have any one to talk to, or even
to look at. I felt very sorry for her. It became a part of my duty to
bring her books, and sometimes to read them aloud, through the
lengthening evenings; at others to while away the time with a game of
chess. The piano was abandoned out of respect for the mourner in the
chamber above. Carols would rise to Mary's lips, as they rise from a
lark at sunrise, but she always broke them off, drowning them in sighs.
Her elastic spirit constantly asserted itself, while the tender
sympathy of a most warm, affectionate nature as constantly depressed
it. She could not speak of Eleanor without tears; and for this my heart
blessed her. She did not know of the choking in my own throat which
often prevented me from speaking, when I ought, perhaps, to be uttering
words of help or comfort.
James was always hovering about like a restless spirit. It had been one
of his indolent habits to spend a great deal of time with the young
ladies; and now he was forever in the house; but so uneasy, so
irritable--as Mary said--he was not an agreeable companion. He would
pick up a book in the library; in five minutes he would throw it down,
and walk twice or thrice up and down the hall, out upon the piazza,
back into the parlor, and stand looking out of the windows--then to the
library and take up another book. He had the air of one always
listening--always waiting. He had, too, a kind of haunted look, if my
reader can imagine what that is. I guessed that he was listening and
waiting for Eleanor--whom, like myself, he had not seen since the
Sunday so memorable; but the other look I did not seek to explain.
There had been a light fall of snow. It seemed as if winter had come in
November. But in a few hours this aspect vanished; the snow melted like
a dream; the zenith was a deep, molten blue, transfused with the pale
sunshine, which is only seen in Indian-summer; a tender mist circled
the horizon with a zone of purple. I could not stay in the office that
afternoon, so infinitely sad, so infinitely lovely. I put aside the
law-papers which I had been arranging for a case in which I was first
to appear before a jury and make my maiden argument. The air, soft as
that of summer and scented with the indescribable perfume of perishing
leaves, came to me through the open window, with a message calling me
abroad; I took up my hat, stepped out upon the pavement, and wandering
along the avenue in the direction of the house, went in upon the lawn.
I had thought to go out into the open country for a long walk; but my
heart drew me and held me here. The language of all beauty, and of
infinity itself, is love. The divine melancholy of music, the deep
tranquillity of summer noons, the softened splendor of autumn days,
haunting one with ineffable joy and sadness--what is the name of all
this varying demonstration of beauty, but love?
I walked beneath the trees, slowly, my feet nestling among the
thickly-strewn leaves, and pressing a faint aroma from the moist earth.
To and fro for a long time I rambled, thinking no tangible thoughts,
but my soul silently filling, all the time, like a fountain fed by
secret springs. To the back of the lawn, extending around and behind
the flower-garden, was a little ascent, covered by a grove of elms and
maples, in the midst of which was a summer-house which had been a
favorite resort of Eleanor's. Hither I finally bent my steps, and
seating myself, looked musingly upon the lovely prospect around and
beneath me. The rustic temple opened toward the river, which was
visible from here, rolling in its blue splendor across the exquisite
landscape. There is a fascination in water which will keep the eyes
fixed upon it through hours of reverie; I sat there, mindful of the
near mountains, the purple mist, the white ships, the busy village, but
gazing only at the blue ripples forever slipping away from the point of
my observation. My spirit exhaled like the mist and ascended in
aspiration. My grief aspired, and arose in passionate prayers to the
white throne of the eternal justice--it arose in tears, etherealized
and drawn up by the rays from the one great source and sun--the spirit
of Love. I prayed and wept for _her_. No thought of myself mingled with
these emotions.
Suddenly a slight chill fell upon me. I started to perceive that the
sun had set. A band of orange belted the west. As the sun dropped
behind the hills the moon came up in the east. It seemed as if her
silver light frosted what it touched; the air grew sharp; a thin, white
cloud spread itself over the river. I had sat there long enough, and I
was forcing myself to a consciousness of the fact, when I saw one
coming through the flower-garden and approaching the summer-house.
My blood paused in my veins when I saw that it was Eleanor. The sunset
yet lingered, and the cold moonlight shone full on her face. I
remembered how I had seen her, that last time but one, glowing and
flushing in triumphant beauty, attired with the most skilled coquetry
of a young, beloved woman, who is glad of her charms because another
prizes them.
Now she came along the lonesome path, between the withered flower-beds,
clothed in deepest black, walking with a feeble step, one small white
hand holding the sable shawl across her chest, a long crape vail thrown
over her head, from which her face looked out, white and still.
A pang like that of death transfixed me, as I gazed at her. Not one
rose left in the garden of her young life! The ruin through which she
walked was not so complete--but this garden would resurrect itself in
the months of another spring--while for her there was no spring on this
side of the grave.
[Illustration:
Page 90.
ELEANOR.]
Slowly she threaded her way, with bent gaze, through the garden, out
upon the hillside, and up to the little rustic temple in which she had
spent so many happy hours with him. When she had reached the grassy
platform in front of it, she raised her eyes and swept a glance around
upon the familiar scene. There were no tears in her blue eyes, and her
lips did not quiver. It was not until she had encircled the horizon
with that quiet, beamless look, that she perceived me. I rose to my
feet, my expression only doing reverence to her sorrow, for I had no
words.
She held out her hand, and as I took it, she said with gentleness--as
if her sweetness must excuse the absence of her former smiles,
"Are you well, Richard? You look thin. Be careful of yourself--is it
not too chilly for you to be sitting here at this hour?"
I pressed her hand, and turned away, vainly endeavoring to command my
voice. _I_ had changed!--but it was like Eleanor to put herself aside
and remember others.
"Nay, do not go," she said, as she saw that I was leaving her out of
fear of intruding upon her visit, "I shall remain here but a few
moments, and I will lean upon your arm back to the house. I am not
strong, and the walk up the hill has tired me. I wanted to see you,
Richard. I thought some of coming down-stairs a little while this
evening. I want to thank you."
The words were just whispered, and she turned immediately and looked
away at the river. I understood her well. She wanted to thank me for
the spirit which had prompted me in my earnest, though unsuccessful
efforts. And coming down to the family-group a little while in the
evening, that was for Mary's sake, and her poor father's. Her own light
had expired, but she did not wish to darken the hearthstone any more
than was unavoidable. She sunk down upon the seat I had vacated,
remaining motionless, looking upon the river and the sky. After a time,
with a long, tremulous sigh, she arose to go. A gleam from the west
fell upon a single violet which, protected from the frost by the
projecting roof, smiled up at us, near the door of the summer-house.
With a wild kind of passion breaking through her quiet, Eleanor
stooped, gathered it, pressed it to her lips, and burst into tears--it
was her favorite flower--Henry's favorite.
It was agony to see her cry, yet better, perhaps, than such marble
repose. She was too weak to bear this sudden shock alone; she leaned
upon my shoulder, every sob which shook her frame echoed by me. Yes! I
am not ashamed to confess it! When manhood is fresh and unsullied, its
tears are not wrung out in those single drops of mortal anguish which
the rock gives forth when time and the foot of the world have hardened
it. I could still remember when I had kissed my mother, and wept my
boyish troubles well upon her breast. I should have been harder than
the nether millstone, had I not wept tears with Eleanor then.
I mastered myself in order to assist her to regain composure, for I was
alarmed lest the violence of her emotion should break down the remnant
of her frail strength. She, too, struggled against the storm, soon
growing outwardly calm, and with the violet pressed to her bosom with
one hand, with the other she clung to my arm, and we returned to the
house, where they were already looking for Eleanor.
Under the full light of the hall-lamp we encountered James. It was his
first meeting with his cousin as well as mine. He gave her a quick,
penetrating look, held out his hand, his lips moved as if striving to
form a greeting. It was evident that the change was greater than he
expected; he dropped his hand, before her fingers had touched it, and
rushing past us through the open door, he closed it behind him,
remaining out until long after tea.
When he came in, Eleanor had retired to her chamber, and Mary brought
him the cup of tea which she had kept hot for him.
"You are a good girl, Mary," he said, drinking it hastily, as if to get
rid of it. "I hope nobody will ever make you look like _that_! I
thought broken hearts were easily mended--that girls usually had theirs
broken three or four times, and patched them up again--but I have
changed my mind."
That gloomy look, which Mary declared she dreaded, clouded his face
again. His countenance was most variable; nothing could excel it in
glitter and brilliant color when he was in his pleasing mood, but when
sullen or sad, it was sallow and lusterless. Thus it looked that
evening. But I must close this chapter now and here--it is consecrated
to that meeting with the object of my sorrow and adoration, and I will
not prolong it with the details of other events.