THE LOAN REPAID
The carriage had been dispatched to the depot, a servant stood at the end
of the avenue waiting to throw open the gate, Mr. Huntingdon walked up and
down the wide colonnade, and Irene sat before the fire in her own room,
holding in one palm the flashing betrothal ring which she had been forced
to wear since her return from New York. The few years of partial peace had
passed; she knew that the hour drew near when the long-dreaded struggle
must begin, and, hopeless of averting it, quietly waited for the storm to
break. Dropping the ring in her jewellery-box, she turned the key, and just
then her father's voice rang through the house.
"Irene! the carriage is coming up the avenue."
She went slowly downstairs, followed by Paragon, and joined her father at
the door. His searching look discovered nothing in the serene face; the
carriage stopped, and he hastened to meet his nephew.
"Come at last, eh! Welcome home, my dear boy."
The young man turned from his uncle, sprang up the steps, then paused, and
the cousins looked at each other.
"Well, Hugh! I am very glad to see you once more."
She held out her hands, and he saw at a glance that her fingers were
unfettered. Seizing them warmly, he bent forward; but she drew back coldly,
and he exclaimed--
"Irene! I claim a warmer welcome."
She made a haughty, repellent gesture, and moved forward a few steps, to
greet the stranger who accompanied him.
"My daughter, this is your uncle, Eric Mitchell, who has not seen you since
you were a baby."
The party entered the house, and, seated beside him, Irene gazed with
mingled emotions of pain and pleasure upon her mother's only brother. He
was about thirty, but looked older from life-long suffering; had used
crutches from the time he was five years of age, having been hopelessly
crippled by a fall during his infancy. His features were sharp, his cheeks
wore the sallow hue of habitual ill-health, and his fine grey eyes were
somewhat sunken. Resting his crutches against the sofa, he leaned back, and
looked long and earnestly at his niece. Very dimly he remembered a fair,
flaxen-haired baby whom the nurse had held out to be kissed when he was
sent to Philadelphia to be treated for his lameness; soon after he heard of
his sister's death, and then his tutor took him to Europe, to command the
best medical advice of the old world.
"From the faint recollection which I have of your mother, I think you
strongly resemble her," he said at last in a fond, gentle tone.
"I don't know about that, Eric. She is far more of a Huntingdon than a
Mitchell. She has many of the traits of your family, but in appearance she
certainly belongs to my side of the house. She very often reminds me of
Hugh's mother."
Conversation turned upon the misfortune of the cripple; he spoke freely of
the unsuccessful experiments made by eminent physicians, of the
hopelessness of his case; and Irene was particularly impressed by the
calmness and patience with which he seemed to have resigned himself to this
great affliction. She felt irresistibly drawn toward him, careless of
passing hours and of Hugh's ill-concealed impatience of manner. As they
rose from the tea-table her cousin said laughingly--
"I protest against monopoly. I have not been able to say three words to my
lady-cousin."
"I yield the floor from necessity. My long journey has unfitted me for this
evening, and I must bid you all an early good night."
"Can I do anything for you, uncle?"
"No, thank you, Irene; I have a servant who thoroughly understands taking
care of me. Go talk to Hugh, who has been wishing me among the antipodes."
He shook hands with her, smiled kindly, and Mr. Huntingdon assisted him to
his room.
"Irene, come into the library and let me have a cigar."
"How tenacious your bad habits are, Hugh."
"Smoking belongs to no such category. My habits are certainly quite as
tenacious as my cousin's antipathies."
He selected a cigar, lighted it, and drawing a chair near hers, threw
himself into it with an expression of great satisfaction. "It is delightful
to get back home, and see you again, Irene. I felt some regret at quitting
Paris, but the sight of your face more than compensates me."
She was looking very earnestly at him, noting the alteration in his
appearance, and for a moment his eyes drooped before hers. She saw that the
years had been spent, not in study, but in a giddy round of pleasure and
dissipation; yet the bright, frank, genial expression of boyhood still
lingered, and she could not deny that he had grown up a very handsome man.
"Irene, I had a right to expect a warmer welcome than you deigned to give
me."
"Hugh, remember that we have ceased to be children. When you learn to
regard me simply as your cousin, and are satisfied with a cousin's welcome,
then, and not until then, shall you receive it. Let childish whims pass
with the years that have separated us; rake up no germs of contention to
mar this first evening of your return. Be reasonable, and now tell me how
you have employed yourself since we parted; what have you seen? what have
you gleaned?"
Insensibly he found himself drawn into a narration of his course of life.
She listened with apparent interest, making occasional good-humoured
comments, and bringing him back to the subject whenever he attempted a
detour toward the topic so extremely distasteful to her.
The clock struck eleven; she rose and said--
"I beg your pardon, Hugh, for keeping you up so late. I ought to have known
that you were fatigued by railroad travel, and required sleep. You know the
way to your room; it is the same you occupied before you went to college.
Good night; I hope you will rest well."
She held out her hand carelessly; he took it eagerly, and holding it up to
the light said, in a disappointed tone--
"Irene, where is my ring? Why are you not wearing it?"
"It is in my jewellery-box. As I gave you my reasons for not wearing it,
when you offered it to me, it is not necessary to repeat them now. Good
night, Hugh; go dream of something more agreeable than our old childish
quarrels." She withdrew her fingers and left him.
A week passed, varied by few incidents of interest; the new-comers became
thoroughly domesticated--the old routine was re-established. Hugh seemed
gay and careless--hunting, visiting, renewing boyish acquaintances, and
whiling away the time as inclination prompted. He had had a long
conversation with his uncle, and the result was that, for the present, no
allusion was made to the future. In Irene's presence the subject was
temporarily tabooed. She knew that the project was not relinquished, was
only veiled till a convenient season, and, giving to the momentary lull its
full value, she acquiesced, finding in Eric's society enjoyment and
resources altogether unexpected. Instinctively they seemed to comprehend
each other's character, and while both were taciturn and undemonstrative, a
warm affection sprang up between them.
On Sunday morning, as the family group sat around the breakfast-table
waiting for Hugh, who lingered, as usual, over his second cup of chocolate,
Mr. Mitchell suddenly laid down the fork with which he had been describing
a series of geometrical figures on the fine damask, and said, "I met a
young man in Brussels who interested me extremely, and in connexion with
whom I venture the prediction that, if he lives, he will occupy a
conspicuous position in the affairs of his country. He is, or was,
secretary of Mr. Campbell, our minister to ----, and they were both on a
visit to Brussels when I met them. His name is Aubrey, and he told me that
he lived here. His talents are of the first order; his ambition unbounded,
I should judge; and his patient, laborious application certainly surpasses
anything I have ever seen. It happened that a friend of mine, from London,
was prosecuting certain researches among the MS. archives at Brussels, and
here, immersed in study, he says he found the secretary, who completely
distanced him in his investigations, and then, with unexpected generosity,
placed his notes at my friend's disposal. His industry is almost
incredible. Conversing with Campbell concerning him, I learned that he was
a protege of the minister, who spoke of his future in singularly sanguine
terms. He left him some time since to embark in the practice of law. Do you
know him, Huntingdon?"
"No, sir! but I know that his father was sentenced to the gallows, and only
saved himself from it by cutting his miserable throat, and cheating the
law."
The master of the house thrust back his chair violently, crushing one of
Paragon's innocent paws as he crouched on the carpet, and overturning a
glass which shivered into a dozen fragments at his feet.
Looking at his watch, he said, as if wishing to cut the conversation short:
"Irene, if you intend to go to church to-day, it is time that you had your
bonnet on. Hugh, what will you do with yourself? Go with Eric and your
cousin!"
"No, I rather think I shall stay at home with you. After European
cathedrals, our American churches seem excessively plain." Irene went to
her room, pondering the conversation. She thought it remarkable that, as
long as she had been at home, she had never seen Russell, even on the
street.
Unlocking her writing-desk, she took out a tiny note which had accompanied
a check for two hundred dollars, and had reached her a few months before
she left boarding school. The firm, round, manly hand ran as follows--
"With gratitude beyond all expression for the favour conferred on my mother
and myself, some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon the money
which I have ever regarded as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future will
afford me some opportunity of proving my appreciation of her great
kindness,
"I remain, most respectfully,
"Her obliged friend,
"RUSSELL AUBREY.
"NEW YORK, _September 5th._"
She was conscious of a feeling of regret that the money had been returned;
it was pleasant to reflect on the fact that she had laid him under
obligation; now it all seemed cancelled. She relocked the desk, and,
drawing on her gloves, joined her uncle at the carriage. Arriving at church
later than was her wont, she found the family pew occupied by strangers,
and crossed the aisle to share a friend's, but at that instant a tall form
rose in Mr. Campbell's long-vacant pew, stepped into the aisle, and held
open the door. She drew back to suffer her uncle to limp in and lay aside
his crutches, saw him give his hand to the stranger, and, sweeping her veil
aside as she entered, she saw Russell quietly resume his seat at the end of
the pew.
Startled beyond measure, she looked at him intently, and almost wondered
that she recognized him, he had changed so materially since the day on
which she stood with him before his mother's gate. Meantime the service
commenced, she gave her hymn-book to her uncle, and at the same moment
Russell found the place, and handed her one of two which lay near him. As
she received it their eyes met, and she held out her hand. He took it, she
felt, his fingers tremble as they dropped hers, and then both faces bent
over the books. When they knelt side by side, and the heavy folds of her
elegant dress swept against him, it seemed a feverish dream to her; she
could not realize that, at last, they had met again, and her heart beat so
fiercely that she pressed her hand upon it, dreading lest he should hear
its loud pulsations.
The discourse was ended, the diapason of the organ swelled through the
lofty church, priestly hands hovered like white doves over the
congregation, dismissing all with blessing. Once more Irene swept back the
rich lace veil, fully exposing her face; once more her eyes looked into
those of the man who politely held the pew door open; both bowed with
stately grace, and she walked down the aisle. She heard Russell talking to
her uncle just behind her, heard the inquiries concerning his health, the
expression of pleasure at meeting again, the hope which Eric uttered that
he should see him frequently during his stay in W----. Without even a
glance over her shoulder, she proceeded to the carriage, where her uncle
soon joined her.
She met his searching gaze calmly, and as they now neared the house he
forbore any further allusion to the subject which he shrewdly suspected
engaged her thoughts quite as fully as his own.