AT HOME AGAIN
Four years had wrought material changes in the town of W----; new streets
had been opened, new buildings erected, new forms trod the side-walks, new
faces looked out of shop-windows, and flashing equipages, and new shafts of
granite and marble stood in the cemetery to tell of many who had been
gathered to their forefathers. If important revolutions had been effected
in her early home, not less decided and apparent was the change which had
taken place in the heiress of Huntingdon Hill; and having been eyed,
questioned, scrutinized by the best families, and laid in the social scale,
it was found a difficult matter to determine her weight as accurately as
seemed desirable. In common parlance, "her education was finished,"--she
was regularly and unmistakably "out." Having lost her aunt two years before
her return, the duties of hostess devolved upon her, and she dispensed the
hospitalities of her home with an easy, though stately elegance, surprising
in one so inexperienced.
It chanced that Dr. Arnold was absent for some weeks after her arrival, and
no sooner had he returned than he sought his quondam protege. Entering
unannounced, he paused suddenly as he caught sight of her standing before
the fire, with Paragon at her feet. She lifted her head and came to meet
him, holding out both hands, with a warm, bright smile.
"Oh, Dr. Arnold! I am so glad to see you once more. It was neither friendly
nor hospitable to go off just as I came home, after long years of absence.
I am very glad to see you."
He held her hands and gazed at her like one in a dream of mingled pain and
pleasure, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.
"You cannot possibly be as glad to see me as I am to have you back. But I
can't realize that this is, indeed, you, my pet--the Irene I parted with
rather more than four years ago. Oh, child! what a marvellous, what a
glorious beauty you have grown to be!"
"Take care; you will spoil her, Arnold. Don't you know, you old cynic, that
women can't stand such flattery as yours?" laughed Mr. Huntingdon.
"I am glad you like me, Doctor; I am glad you think I have improved; and
since you think so, I am obliged to you for expressing your opinion of me
so kindly. I wish I could return your compliments, but my conscience vetoes
any such proceeding. You look jaded--overworked. What is the reason that
you have grown so grey and haggard? We will enter into a compact to renew
the old life; you shall treat me exactly as you used to do, and I shall
come to you as formerly, and interrupt labours that seem too heavy. Sit
down and talk to me. I want to hear your voice; it is pleasant to my ears,
makes music in my heart, calls up the bygone. You have adopted a stick in
my absence; I don't like the innovation; it hurts me to think that you need
it. I must take care of you, I see, and persuade you to relinquish it
entirely."
"Arnold, I verily believe she was more anxious to see you than everybody
else in W---- except old Nellie, her nurse."
She did not contradict him, and the three sat conversing for more than an
hour; then other visitors came in, and she withdrew to the parlour. The
doctor had examined her closely all the while; had noted every word,
action, expression; and a troubled, abstracted look came into his face when
she left them.
"Huntingdon, what is it? What is it?"
"What is what? I don't understand you."
"What has so changed that child? I want to know what ails her?"
"Nothing, that I know of. You know that she was always rather singular."
"Yes, but it was a different sort of singularity. She is too still, and
white, and cold, and stately. I told you it was a wretched piece of
business to send a nature like hers, so different from everybody else's,
off among utter strangers; to shut up that queer, free untamed thing in a
boarding-school for four years, with hundreds of miles between her and the
few things she loved. She required very peculiar and skilful treatment,
and, instead, you put her off where she petrified! I knew it would never
answer, and I told you so. You wanted to break her obstinacy, did you? She
comes back marble. I tell you now I know her better than you do, though you
are her father, and you may as well give up at once that chronic
hallucination of 'ruling, conquering her.' She is like steel--cold, firm,
brittle; she will break; snap asunder; but bend!--never! never! Huntingdon,
I love that child; I have a right to love her; she has been very dear to me
from her babyhood, and it would go hard with me to know that any sorrow
darkened her life. Don't allow your old plans and views to influence you
now. Let Irene be happy in her own way. Did you ever see a
contented-looking eagle in a gilt cage? Did you ever know a leopardess kept
in a paddock, and taught to forget her native jungles?"
Mr. Huntingdon moved uneasily, pondering the unpalatable advice.
"You certainly don't mean to say that she has inherited----?" He crushed
back the words; could he crush the apprehension, too?
"I mean to say that, if she were my child, I would be guided by her,
instead of striving to cut her character to fit the totally different
pattern of my own."
He put on his hat, thrust his hands into his pockets, stood for some
seconds frowning so heavily that the shaggy eyebrows met and partially
concealed the cavernous eyes, then nodded to the master of the house, and
sought his buggy. From that day Irene was conscious of a keener and more
constant scrutiny on her father's part--a ceaseless _surveillance_, silent,
but rigid--that soon grew intolerable. No matter how she employed her time,
or whither she went, he seemed thoroughly cognizant of the details of her
life; and where she least expected interruption or dictation, his hand,
firm though gentle, pointed the way, and his voice calmly but inflexibly
directed. Her affection had been in no degree alienated by their long
separation, and, through its sway, she submitted for a time; but Huntingdon
blood ill-brooked restraint, and, ere long, hers became feverish,
necessitating release. As in all tyrannical natures, his exactions grew
upon her compliance. She was allowed no margin for the exercise of judgment
or inclination; her associates were selected, thrust upon her; her
occupations decided without reference to her wishes. From the heartless,
frivolous routine marked out, she shrank in disgust; and, painful as was
the alternative, she prepared for the clash which soon became inevitable.
From verbal differences she habitually abstained; opinions which she knew
to be disagreeable to him she carefully avoided giving expression to in his
presence; and while always studiously thoughtful of his comfort, she
preserved a respectful deportment, allowing herself no hasty or defiant
words. Fond of pomp and ceremony, and imbued with certain aristocratic
notions, which an ample fortune had always permitted him to indulge, Mr.
Huntingdon entertained company in princely style, and whenever an
opportunity offered. His dinners, suppers, and card-parties were known far
and wide, and Huntingdon Hall became proverbial for hospitality throughout
the State. Strangers were feted, and it was a rare occurrence for father
and daughter to dine quietly together. Fortunately for Irene, the servants
were admirably trained; and though this round of company imposed a weight
of responsibilities oppressive to one so inexperienced, she applied herself
diligently to domestic economy, and soon became familiarized with its
details. Her father had been very anxious to provide her with a skilful
housekeeper, to relieve her of the care and tedious minutiae of such
matters; but she refused to accept one, avowing her belief that it was the
imperative duty of every woman to superintend and inspect the management of
her domestic affairs. Consequently, from the first week of her return, she
made it a rule to spend an hour after breakfast in her dining-room pantry,
determining and arranging the details of the day.
The situation of the house commanded an extensive and beautiful prospect,
and the ancient trees that overshadowed it imparted a venerable and
imposing aspect. The building was of brick, overcast to represent granite,
and along three sides ran a wide gallery, supported by lofty circular
pillars, crowned with unusually heavy capitals. The main body consisted of
two stories, with a hall in the centre, and three rooms on either side;
while two long single-storied wings stretched out right and left, one a
billiard-room, the other a greenhouse.
A broad easy flight of white marble steps led up to the richly-carved front
door, with its massive silver knocker bearing the name of Huntingdon in
old-fashioned Italian characters; and in the arched niches, on either side
of this door, stood two statues, brought from Europe by Mr. Huntingdon's
father, and supposed to represent certain Roman penates.
The grounds in front, embracing several acres, were enclosed by a brick
wall, and at the foot of the hill, at the entrance of the long avenue of
elms, stood a tall, arched iron gate. A smoothly-shaven terrace of Bermuda
grass ran round the house, and the broad carriage-way swept up to a mound
opposite the door, surmounted by the bronze figure of a crouching dog. Such
was Irene's home--stately and elegant--kept so thoroughly repaired that, in
its cheerfulness, its age was forgotten.
The society of W---- was considered remarkably fine. There was quite an
aggregation of wealth and refinement; gentlemen, whose plantations were
situated in adjacent counties, resided here, with their families; some, who
spent their winters on the seaboard, resorted here for the summer; its bar
was said to possess more talent than any other in the State; its schools
claimed to be unsurpassed; it boasted of a concert-hall, a lyceum, a
handsome court-house, a commodious well-built jail, and half a dozen as
fine churches as any country town could desire. I would fain avoid the
term, if possible, but no synonym exists--W---- was, indisputably, an
"aristocratic" place.
Thus, after more than four years' absence, the summers of which had been
spent in travel among the beautiful mountain scenery of the North, the
young heiress returned to the home of her childhood.
For several months after her return she patiently, hopefully, faithfully
studied the dispositions of the members of various families with whom she
foresaw that she would be thrown, by her father's wishes, into intimate
relationship, and satisfied herself that, among all these, there was not
one, save Dr. Arnold, whose counsel, assistance, or sympathy she felt any
inclination to claim. In fine, W---- was not in any respect peculiar, or,
as a community, specially afflicted with heartlessness, frivolity,
brainlessness, or mammonism; the average was fair, reputable, in all
respects. But, incontrovertibly, the girl who came to spend her life among
these people was totally dissimilar in criteria of action, thought, and
feeling. To the stereotyped conventional standard of fashionable life she
had never yielded allegiance; and now stood a social free-thinker. For a
season she allowed herself to be whirled on by the current of dinners,
parties, and picnics; but soon her sedate, contemplative temperament
revolted from the irksome round, and gradually she outlined and pursued a
different course, giving to her gay companions just what courtesy required,
no more.
Hugh had prolonged his stay in Europe beyond the period originally
designated, and, instead of arriving in time to accompany his uncle and
cousin home, he did not sail for some months after their return. At length,
however, letters were received announcing his presence in New York, and
fixing the day when his relatives might expect him.