IRENE'S COUSIN
"You are better to-day, mother tells me."
"Yes, thank you, my foot is much better. You have not been up to see me for
two days."
Irene sat in an easy chair by the open window, and the minister took a seat
near her.
"I have not forgotten you in the interim, however."
As he spoke he laid a bouquet of choice flowers in her lap. She bent over
them with eager delight, and held out one hand, saying--
"Oh, thank you. How very kind you are! These remind me of the greenhouse at
home. They are the most beautiful I have seen in New York."
"Irene, you look sober to-day. Come, cheer up. I don't want to carry that
grave expression away with me. I want to remember your face as I first saw
it, unshadowed."
"What do you mean? Are you going to leave home?"
"Yes; to-morrow I bid farewell to New York for a long time, I am going to
the West to take charge of a church."
"Oh, Mr. Young! surely you are not in earnest? You cannot intend to
separate yourself from your family."
She dropped her flowers, and leaned forward.
"Yes, I have had it in contemplation for more than a year, and, recently, I
have decided to remove at once."
He saw the great sorrow written in her countenance, the quick flutter of
her lip, the large drops that dimmed the violet eyes and gathered on the
long golden lashes, and far sweeter than the Eolian harps was the broken
voice--
"What shall I do without you? Who will encourage and advise me when you
go?"
She leaned her forehead on her hands, and a tear slid down and rested on
her chin. The sun was setting, and the crimson light flooding the room,
bathed her with glory, spreading a halo around her. He held his breath and
gazed upon the drooping figure and bewitching face; and, in after years,
when his dark hair had grown silvery grey, he remembered the lovely sun-lit
vision that so entranced him, leaving an indelible image on heart and
brain. He gently removed the hands, and holding them in his, said, in the
measured, low tone so indicative of suppressed emotion--
"Irene, my friend, you attach too much importance to the aid which I might
render you. You know your duty, and I feel assured will not require to be
reminded of it. Henceforth our paths diverge widely. I go to a distant
section of our land, there to do my Father's work; and, ere long, having
completed the prescribed course, you will return to your Southern home and
take the position assigned you in society. Thus, in all human probability,
we shall meet no more, for----"
"Oh, sir! don't say that; you will come back to visit your family, and then
I shall see you."
"That is scarcely probable; but we will not discuss it now. There is,
however, a channel of communication for separated friends, and of this we
must avail ourselves. I shall write to you from Western wilds, and letters
from you will most pleasantly ripple the monotonous life I expect to lead."
"Can't you stay longer and talk to me?" said Irene, as he rose.
"No; I promised to address the ---- Street Sabbath-school children
to-night, and must look over my notes before I go."
There was no unsteadiness in his tone, no trace of emotion, as he stood up
before her. Irene was deeply moved, and when she essayed to thank him,
found it impossible to pronounce her words. Tears were gliding down her
cheeks; he put back the hair, and taking the face softly in his palms,
looked long and earnestly at its fascinating beauty. The great, glistening
blue eyes gazed into his, and the silky lashes and rich scarlet lips
trembled. He felt the hot blood surging like a lava-tide in his veins, and
his heart rising in fierce rebellion at the stern interdict which he saw
fit to lay upon it; but no token of all this came to the cool, calm
surface.
"Good-bye, Irene. May God bless you, my dear little friend!"
He drew the face close to his own as though he would have kissed her, but
forbore, and merely raising her hands to his lips turned and left the room.
Verily, greater is "he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a
city." He left before breakfast the ensuing morning, bearing his secret
with him, having given no intimation, by word or look, of the struggle
which his resolution cost him. Once his mother had fancied that he felt
more than a friendly interest in their guest, but the absolute repose of
his countenance and grave serenity of his manner during the last week of
his stay dispersed all her suspicions. From a luxurious home, fond friends,
and the girlish face he loved better than his life, the minister went forth
to his distant post, offering in sacrifice to God, upon the altar of duty,
his throbbing heart and hopes of earthly happiness.
A cloud of sadness settled on the household after his departure, and
scarcely less than Louisa's was Irene's silent grief. The confinement grew
doubly irksome when his voice and step had passed from the threshold, and
she looked forward impatiently to her release. The sprain proved more
serious than she at first imagined, and the summer vacation set in before
she was able to walk with ease. Mr. Huntingdon had been apprised of her
long absence from school, and one day, when she was cautiously trying her
strength, he arrived, without having given premonition of his visit. As he
took her in his arms and marked the alteration in her thin face, the
listlessness of her manner, the sorrowful gravity of her countenance, his
fears were fully aroused, and, holding her to his heart, he exclaimed--
"My daughter! my beauty! I must take you out of New York."
"Yes, father, take me home; do take me home." She clasped her arms round
his neck and nestled her face close to his.
"Not yet, queen. We will go to the Catskill, to Lake George, to Niagara. A
few weeks' travel will invigorate you. I have written to Hugh to meet us at
Montreal; he is with a gay party, and you shall have a royal time. A pretty
piece of business truly, that you can't amuse yourself in any other way
than by breaking half the bones in your body."
Thus the summer programme was determined without any reference to the
wishes of the one most concerned, and, knowing her father's disposition,
she silently acquiesced. After much persuasion, Mr. Huntingdon prevailed on
Louisa's parents to allow her to accompany them. The mother consented very
reluctantly, and on the appointed day the party set off for Saratoga. The
change was eminently beneficial, and before they reached Canada Irene
seemed perfectly restored. But her father was not satisfied. Her unwonted
taciturnity annoyed and puzzled him; he knew that beneath the calm surface
some strong undercurrent rolled swiftly, and he racked his brain to
discover what had rendered her so reserved. Louisa's joyous, elastic
spirits probably heightened the effect of her companion's gravity, and the
contrast daily presented could not fail to arrest Mr. Huntingdon's
attention. On arriving at Montreal the girls were left for a few moments in
the parlour of the hotel, while Mr. Huntingdon went to register their
names. Irene and Louisa stood by the window looking out into the street,
when a happy, ringing voice exclaimed--
"Here you are, at last, Irie! I caught a glimpse of your curls as you
passed the dining-room door."
She turned to meet her cousin and held out her hand.
"Does your majesty suppose I shall be satisfied with the tip of your
fingers? Pshaw, Irie! I will have my kiss."
He threw his arm round her shoulder, drew down the shielding hands, and
kissed her twice.
"Oh, Hugh, behave yourself! Miss Louisa Young, my cousin, Hugh Seymour."
He bowed, and shook hands with the stranger, then seized his cousin's
fingers and fixed his fine eyes affectionately upon her.
"It seems an age since I saw you, Irie. Come, sit down and let me look at
you; how stately you have grown, to be sure! More like a queen than ever;
absolutely two inches taller since you entered boarding-school. Irie, I am
so glad to see you again!" He snatched up a handful of curls and drew them
across his lips, careless of what Louisa might think.
"Thank you, Hugh. I am quite as glad to see you."
"Oh, humbug! I know better. You would rather see Paragon any day, ten to
one. I will kill that dog yet, and shoot Erebus, too; see if I don't! then
maybe you can think of somebody else. When you are glad you show it in your
eyes, and now they are as still as violets under icicles. I think you
might love me a little, at least as much as a dog."
"Hush! I do love you, but I don't choose to tell it to everybody in
Montreal."
Mr. Huntingdon's entrance diverted the conversation, and Irene was glad to
escape to her own room.
"Your cousin seems to be very fond of you," observed Louisa, as she
upbraided her hair.
"He is very impulsive and demonstrative, that is all."
"How handsome he is!"
"Do you think so, really? Take care, Louisa! I will tell him, and, by way
of crushing his vanity, add '_de gustibus, etc., etc., etc._'"
"How old is he?"
"In his twentieth year."
From that time the cousins were thrown constantly together; wherever they
went Hugh took charge of Irene, while Mr. Huntingdon gave his attention to
Louisa. But the eagle eye was upon his daughter's movements; he watched her
countenance, weighed her words, tried to probe her heart. Week after week
he found nothing tangible. Hugh was gay, careless; Irene, equable, but
reserved. Finally they turned their faces homeward, and in October found
themselves once more in New York. Mr. Huntingdon prepared to return South
and Hugh to sail for Europe, while Irene remained at the hotel until the
morning of her cousin's departure.
A private parlour adjoined the room she occupied, and here he came to say
farewell. She knew that he had already had a long conversation with her
father, and as he threw himself on the sofa and seized one of her hands,
she instinctively shrank from him.
"Irene, here is my miniature. I wanted you to ask for it, but I see that
you won't do it. I know very well that you will not value it one-thousandth
part as much as I do your likeness here on my watch-chain; but perhaps it
will remind you of me sometimes. How I shall want to see you before I come
home! You know you belong to me. Uncle gave you to me, and when I come back
from Europe we will be married. We are both very young, I know; but it has
been settled so long. Irie, my beauty, I wish you would love me more; you
are so cold. Won't you try?"
He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her face hastily away and
answered resolutely--
"No, I can't love you other than as my cousin; I would not, if I could. I
do not think it would be right, and I won't promise to try. Father has no
right to give me to you, or to anybody else. I tell you now I belong to
myself, and only I can give myself away. Hugh, I don't consider this
settled at all. You might as well know the truth at once; I have some voice
in the matter."
Mr. Huntingdon had evidently prepared him for something of this kind on her
part, and, though his face flushed angrily, he took no notice of the
remonstrance.
"I shall write to you frequently, and I hope that you will be punctual in
replying. Irie, give me your left hand just a minute; wear this ring till I
come back, to remind you that you have a cousin across the ocean."
He tried to force the flashing jewel on her slender finger, but she
resisted, and rose, struggling to withdraw her hand.
"No, no, Hugh! I can't; I won't. I know very well what that ring means, and
I cannot accept it. Release my hand; I tell you I won't wear it."
"Come, Hugh; you have not a moment to spare; the carriage is waiting." Mr.
Huntingdon threw open the door, having heard every word that had passed.
Hugh dropped the ring in his vest-pocket and rose.
"Well, Irie, I suppose I must bid you farewell. Two or three years will
change you, my dearest little cousin. Good-bye; think of me now and then,
and learn to love me by the time I come home."
She suffered him to take both her hands and kiss her tenderly, for her
father stood there, and she could not refuse; but the touch of his lips
burned her long after he was gone. She put on her bonnet, and, when her
father returned from the steamer, they entered the carriage which was to
convey her to the dreary, dreaded school. As they rolled along Broadway,
Mr. Huntingdon coolly took her hand and placed Hugh's ring upon it, saying
authoritatively--
"Hugh told me you refused to accept his parting gift, and seemed much hurt
about it. There is no reason why you should not wear it, and in future I do
not wish to see you without it. Remember this, my daughter."
"Father, it is wrong for me to wear it, unless I expected to----"
"I understand the whole matter perfectly. Now, Irene, let me hear no more
about it. I wish you would learn that it is a child's duty to obey her
parent. No more words, if you please, on the subject."
She felt that this was not the hour for resistance, and wisely forbore; but
he saw rebellion written in the calm, fixed eye, and read it in the curved
lines of the full upper lip. She had entreated him to take her home, and
only the night before renewed her pleadings. But his refusal was positive,
and now she went back to the hated school without a visible token of
regret. She saw her trunks consigned to the porter, listened to a brief
conversation between Dr. ---- and her father, and after a hasty embrace and
half-dozen words, watched the tall, soldierly form re-enter the carriage.
Then she went slowly up the broad stairway to her cell-like room, and with
dry eyes unpacked her clothes, locked up the ring in her jewellery-box, and
prepared to resume her studies.