NEW FRIENDS
As tall tyrannous weeds and rank unshorn grass close over and crush out
slender, pure, odorous flowerets on a hill-side, so the defects of Irene's
character swiftly strengthened and developed in the new atmosphere in which
she found herself. The school was on an extensive scale, thoroughly
fashionable, and thither pupils were sent from every section of the United
States. As regarded educational advantages, the institution was
unexceptionable; the professors were considered unsurpassed in their
several departments, and every provision was made for thorough tuition. But
what a Babel reigned outside of the recitation room! One hundred and forty
girls to spend their recesses in envy, ridicule, malice, and detraction.
Anxious to shake off the loneliness which so heavily oppressed her, Irene
at first mingled freely among her companions; but she soon became disgusted
with the conduct and opinions of the majority, and endeavoured to find
quiet in her own room. Early in winter a new pupil, a "day scholar," joined
her class; she resided in New York, and very soon a strong friendship
sprang up between them. Louisa Young was about Irene's age, very pretty,
very gentle, and winning in her manners. She was the daughter of an
affluent merchant, and was blessed in the possession of parents who strove
to rear their children as Christian parents should. Louisa's attachment was
very warm and lasting, and ere long she insisted that her friend should
visit her. Weary of the school, the latter gladly availed herself of the
invitation, and one Friday afternoon she accompanied Louisa home. The
mansion was almost palatial, and as Irene entered the splendidly-furnished
parlours her own Southern home rose vividly before her.
"Mother, this is Miss Huntingdon."
Mrs. Young received her cordially, and as she held the gloved hand, and
kindly expressed her pleasure at meeting her daughter's friend, the girl's
heart gave a quick bound of joy.
"Come upstairs and put away your bonnet."
In Louisa's beautiful room the two sat talking of various things till the
tea-bell rang. Mr. Young's greeting was scarcely less friendly than his
wife's, and as they seated themselves at the table, the stranger felt at
home for the first time in New York.
"Where is brother?" asked Louisa, glancing at the vacant seat opposite her
own.
"He has not come home yet; I wonder what keeps him? There he is now, in the
hall," answered the mother.
A moment after, he entered and took his seat. He was tall, rather handsome,
and looked about thirty. His sister presented her friend, and with a hasty
bow he fastened his eyes on her face. Probably he was unconscious of the
steadiness of his gaze, but Irene became restless under his fixed, earnest
eye, and perceiving her embarrassment, Mrs. Young said--
"Harvey, where have you been? Dr. Melville called here for you at four
o'clock; said you had made some engagement with him."
"Yes, mother; we have been visiting together this afternoon."
Withdrawing his eyes, he seemed to fall into a reverie and took no part in
the conversation that ensued. As the party adjourned to the sitting-room,
he paused on the rug, and leaned his elbow on the mantel. Louisa lingered
and drew near. He passed his arm around her shoulders, and looked
affectionately down at her.
"Go to your friend, and when you are at a loss for conversation, bring her
to my study to see those sketches of Palmyra and Baalbec."
He passed on to his work, and she to the sitting-room. He read
industriously for some time, occasionally pausing to annotate; and once or
twice he raised his head and listened. A light tap at the door was followed
by the entrance of the two girls. Irene came very reluctantly, fearful of
intruding; but he rose, and placed a chair for her close to his own,
assuring her that he was glad to see her there. Louisa found the portfolio,
and, bringing it to the table, began to exhibit its treasures. The two
leaned over it, and as Irene sat resting her cheek on her hand, the beauty
of her face and figure was clearly revealed. Harvey remained silent,
watching the changing expression of the visitor's countenance; and once he
put out his hand to touch the hair floating over the back and arms of her
chair. Gradually his still heart stirred, his brow flushed, and a new light
burned in the deep clear eyes.
He told her of his visit to the old world, of its mournful ruins, its
decaying glories; of the lessons he learned there; the sad but precious
memories he brought back, and as he talked time passed unheeded--she forgot
her embarrassment, they were strangers no longer. The clock struck ten;
Louisa rose at once.
"Thank you, Harvey, for giving us so much of your time. Father and mother
will be waiting for you."
"Yes, I will join you at once."
She led the way back to the sitting-room, and a few moments after, to
Irene's great surprise, the student came in, and sitting down before the
table, opened the Bible and read a chapter. Then all knelt and he prayed.
There was a strange spell on the visitor; in all this there was something
so unexpected. It was the first time she had ever knelt around the family
altar, and, as she rose, that sitting-room seemed suddenly converted into a
temple of worship. Mutual "good nights" were exchanged, and as Irene turned
toward the young minister, he held out his hand. She gave him hers, and he
pressed it gently, saying--
"I trust this is the first of many pleasant evenings which we shall spend
together."
"Thank you, sir. I hope so too, for I have not been so happy since I left
home."
He smiled, and she walked on.
"Louisa, how came your brother to be a minister?" asked Irene, when they
had reached their apartment.
"When he was a boy he said he intended to preach, and father never
dissuaded him. Harvey is a singular man--so silent, so equable, so cold in
his manner, and yet he has a warm heart. He has declined two calls since
his ordination; Dr. Melville's health is very poor, and Harvey frequently
fills his pulpit. I know you will like him when you know him well;
everybody loves Harvey."
The inclemency of the weather confined the girls to the house the following
day. Harvey was absent at breakfast, and at dinner the chair opposite
Irene's was still vacant. The afternoon wore away, and at dusk Louisa
opened the piano and began to play Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home."
Somebody took a seat near Irene, and though the room was dim, she knew the
tall form and the touch of his hand.
"Good evening, Miss Irene; we have had a gloomy day. How have you and
Louisa spent it?"
"Not very profitably, I dare say, though it has not appeared at all gloomy
to me. Have you been out in the snow?"
"Yes, my work has been sad. I buried a mother and child this afternoon, and
have just come from a house of orphanage and grief. It is a difficult
matter to realize how many aching hearts there are in this great city. Our
mahogany doors shut out the wail that hourly goes up to God from the
thousand sufferers in our midst."
As he talked she lifted her beautiful eyes and looked steadily at him, and
he thought that, of all the lovely things he had ever seen, that face was
the most peerless. She drew closer to him, and said earnestly--
"You do not seem to me a very happy man."
"There you mistake me. I presume there are few happier persons."
"Countenance is not a faithful index, then; you look so exceedingly grave."
"Do you suppose that gravity of face is incompatible with sunshine in the
heart?"
He smiled encouragingly as he spoke, and without a moment's thought she
laid her delicate hand in his.
"Mr. Young, I want somebody to advise me. Very often I am at a loss about
my duty, and, having no one to consult, either do nothing at all or that
which I should not. If it will not trouble you too much, I should like to
bring my difficulties to you sometimes, and get you to direct me. If you
will only talk frankly to me, as you do to Louisa, oh, I will be very
grateful!"
"Have you no brother?"
"I am an only child."
"You would like a brother, however?"
"Yes, sir, above all things."
"Take care; you express yourself strongly. If you can fancy me for a
brother, consider me such."
When Monday morning came, and she was obliged to return to school, Irene
reluctantly bade farewell to the new friends. She knew that, in conformity
to the unalterable regulations of Crim Tartary, she could only leave the
institution once a month, and the prospect of this long interval between
her visits was by no means cheering. Harvey assisted her into the carriage.
"I shall send some books in a day or two, and, if you are troubled about
anything before I see you again write me a note by Louisa. I would call to
see you occasionally if you were boarding anywhere else. Good morning, Miss
Irene. Do not forget that I am your brother so long as you stay in New
York, or need one."
The books were not forgotten; they arrived the ensuing week, and his
selection satisfied her that he perfectly understood what kind of aid she
required. At the close of the next month, instead of accompanying Louisa
home, Irene was suffering with severe cold, and too much indisposed to quit
the house. This was a grievous disappointment, but she bore it bravely, and
went on with her studies. What a dreary isolation in the midst of numbers
of her own age! It was a thraldom that galled her, and more than once she
implored her father's permission to return home. His replies were positive
denials, and after a time she ceased to expect release, until the
prescribed course should be ended. Thus another month dragged itself away.
On Friday morning Louisa was absent. Irene felt anxious and distressed.
Perhaps she was ill; something must have happened. As the day pupils were
dismissed she started back to her own room, heart-sick because of this
second disappointment. A few minutes after a servant knocked at the door
and informed her that a gentleman wished to see her in the parlour.