A RETROSPECT.
Six years have passed away and we lift the curtain of our story in
Charlestown, and, after pausing there a moment, go back across the
bridge which spans the interval between the present and the past. It was
the day but one before the close of the term, and those who had learned
to love each other with a schoolgirl’s warm, impetuous love, would soon
part, some forever and some to meet again, but when, or where, none
could tell.
“It may be for years, and it may be forever!”
sang a clear, bird-like voice in the music-room, where Magdalen Lennox
was practising the song she was to sing the following night.
“Yes, it may be for years, and it maybe forever! I wish there were no
such thing as parting from those we love,” the young girl sighed, as,
with her sheet of music in her hand, she passed through the hall, and up
the stairs, to the room which had been hers so long.
Magdalen had been very happy at Charlestown, where every one loved her,
from the teacher, whom she never annoyed, to the smallest child, whom
she so often helped and encouraged; and she had enjoyed her vacations at
Millbank, and more than once had taken two or three of her young friends
there for the winter or summer holidays. And Hester had petted, and
admired, and waited upon her, and scolded her for soiling so many white
skirts, and then had sat up nights to iron these skirts, and had
remarked, with a feeling of pride and complacency, that Hattie Johnson’s
dresses were not as full or as long as Magdalen’s. Hester was very proud
of Magdalen; they were all proud of her at Millbank, and vied with each
other in their attentions to her; and Magdalen appreciated their
kindness, and loved her pleasant home, and thought there was no place
like it in the world; but for all that she rather dreaded returning to
it for good, with nothing to look forward to in the future. She
understood her position now far better than when she was a child, and as
she thought over the strange circumstances which had resulted in
bringing her to Millbank, her cheeks had burned crimson for the mother
who had so wantonly deserted her. Still she could not hate that mother,
and her nightly prayers always ended with a blessing upon her, and a
petition that she might sometime find her, or know, at least, who she
was. She knew she had no claim on Roger Irving, and, as she grew older,
she shrank from a life of dependence at Millbank, especially as _Frank_
was likely to be there a good share of his time.
With all the ardor of her impulsive nature she had clung to and believed
in him, until the day when he, too, said good-by, and left her for
Europe. He had been graduated with tolerable credit to himself, and
because of his fine oratorical ability had appeared upon the stage, and
made what Magdalen had thought a “splendid speech;” for Magdalen was
there in the old Centre Church, listening with rapt attention, and a
face radiant with the admiration she felt for her hero, whose graceful
gestures and clear, musical voice covered a multitude of defects in his
rather milk-and-watery declamation. It was Magdalen’s bouquet which had
fallen directly at his feet when his speech was ended, and nothing could
have been prettier than his manner as he stooped to pick it up, and then
bowed his thanks to the young girl, whose face flushed all over with
pride, both then and afterward, when, in the evening, she leaned upon
his arm at the reception given to the students and their friends.
Magdalen was a little girl of thirteen-and-a-half, while Frank was
twenty-two; was a graduate; was Mr. Irving, of New York; and could
afford to patronize her, and at the same time be very polite and
attentive to scores of young ladies whose acquaintance he had made
during his college career.
After that July day in New Haven, the happiest and proudest of
Magdalen’s life, he went with her to Millbank, and fished again in the
Connecticut, and hunted in the woods, and smoked his cigars beneath the
maple-trees, and teazed and tyrannized over, and petted, and made a
slave of Magdalen, just as the fancy took him. Then there came a letter
from Roger, written after the receipt of one from Magdalen, who, because
she fancied it might please her hero, had said how much Frank would
enjoy a year’s travel in Europe, and how much good it would do him,
especially as he was looking worn and thin from his recent close
application to study.
Roger bit his lip when he read that letter and wondered if the hint was
Frank’s suggestion, and wondered, too, if it were best to act upon it;
and then, with a genuine desire to see his young kinsman, he wrote to
Frank, inviting him to Paris, and offering to defray his expenses for a
year in Europe. Frank was almost beside himself with joy, for, except at
Millbank, he felt that he had no home, proper, in the world. His mother
had been compelled to rent her handsome house, and board with the people
who rented it. This just supported her, and nothing more. He would be in
the way in Lexington Avenue, and he accepted Roger’s invitation eagerly;
and one bright day, in September, sailed out of the harbor at New York,
while Magdalen stood on the shore and waved her handkerchief to him
until the vessel passed from sight.
The one year abroad had grown into five; Roger was fond of travel; he
had plenty of money at his command; it was as cheap living in Europe as
at Millbank, where under efficient superintendence everything seemed to
go on as well without as with him. He never encroached upon his
principal, even after Frank came to be his companion, and so he had
lingered year after year, sometimes in glorious Italy, sometimes
climbing the sides of Switzerland’s snow-capped mountains, sometimes
wandering through the Holy Land or exploring the river Nile, and again
resting for months on the vine-clad hills which overshadow the legendary
Rhine. Frank was not always with him. He did not care for pictures, or
scenery, or works of art; and when Roger stopped for months to improve
himself in these, Frank went his own way to voluptuous Paris, where the
gay society suited him better, or on to the beautiful island of Ischia,
where all was “so still, so green, and so dreamy,” and where at the
little mountain inn, called the “Piccola Sentinella,” and which
overlooked the sea, he met again with Alice Grey.
But any hopes he might have entertained with regard to the girl whom he
had admired so much in New Haven were effectually cut off by the studied
coolness of Mr. Grey’s manner towards him, and the obstacles constantly
thrown in the way of his seeing her alone. Mr. Grey did not like Frank
Irving, and soon after the arrival of the latter at the “Piccola
Sentinella,” he gave up his rooms at the inn, and started with his
daughter for Switzerland. There was a break then in Frank’s letters to
Magdalen, and when at last he wrote again it was to say that he was
coming home, and that Roger was coming with him.
This letter, which reached Magdalen the night preceding the examination,
awoke within her a feeling of uneasiness and disquiet. She had been
always more or less afraid of Roger, and she was especially so now that
she had not seen him for more than eight years, and he would undoubtedly
expect so much from her as a graduate and a young lady of eighteen. She
almost wished he would stay in Europe, or that she had some other home
than Millbank. It would not be half so pleasant with the master there,
as it used to be in other days when she was a little girl fishing with
Frank in the river, or hunting with him in the woods. Frank would be at
Millbank, too, it was true; but the travelled Frank, who spoke French
like a native, was very different from the Frank of five years ago, and
Magdalen dreaded him almost as much as she dreaded Roger himself,
wondering if he would tease her as he used to do, and if he would think
her improved and at all like Alice Grey, whom she knew he had met again
at the “Piccola Sentinella.” “I wish they would stay abroad five years
more,” she thought, as she finished reading Frank’s letter; and her
cheeks grew so hot and red, and her pulse beat so rapidly, that it was
long after midnight ere she could quiet herself for the rest she would
need on the morrow, when she was to act so conspicuous a part.