IRENE MEETS RUSSELL
"Surely, Uncle Eric, there is room enough in this large, airy house of ours
to accommodate my mother's brother! I thought it was fully settled that you
were to reside with us. There is no good reason why you should not.
Obviously, we have a better claim upon you than anybody else; why doom
yourself to the loneliness of a separate household? Reconsider the matter."
"Irene, I want a house of my own, to which I can feel privileged to invite
such guests, such companions as I deem congenial, irrespective of the fiats
of would-be social autocrats, and the social ostracism of certain cliques."
She was silent a moment, but met his keen look without the slightest
embarrassment, and yet when she spoke he knew, from her eyes and voice,
that she fully comprehended his meaning.
"Of course, it is a matter which you must determine for yourself. You are
the best judge of what conduces to your happiness; but I am sorry, very
sorry, Uncle Eric, that, in order to promote it, you feel it necessary to
remove from our domestic circle. I shall miss you painfully."
He looked pained, puzzled, and irresolute; but she smiled, and swept her
fingers over the bars of her bird-cage, toying with its golden-throated
inmate.
"Have you any engagement for this morning?"
"None, sir. What can I do for you?"
"If you feel disposed, I shall be glad to have you accompany me to town; I
want your assistance in selecting a set of china for my new home. Will you
go?"
A shadow drifted over the colourless tranquil face, as she said sadly--
"Uncle Eric, is it utterly useless for me to attempt to persuade you to
relinquish this project, and remain with us?"
"Utterly useless, my dear child."
"I will get my bonnet, and join you at the carriage."
Very near the cottage formerly occupied by Mrs. Aubrey stood a small brick
house, partially concealed by poplar and sycamore trees, and surrounded by
a neat, well-arranged flower-garden. This was the place selected and
purchased by the cripple for his future home. Mr. Huntingdon had opposed
the whole proceeding, and invited his brother-in-law to reside with him;
but beneath the cordial surface the guest felt that other sentiments rolled
deep and strong. He had little in common with his sister's husband, and
only a warm and increasing affection for his niece now induced him to
settle in W----. Some necessary repairs had been made, some requisite
arrangements completed regarding servants, and to-day the finishing touches
were given to the snug little bachelor establishment. When it was apparent
that no arguments would avail to alter the decision, Irene ceased to speak
of it, and busied herself in various undertakings to promote her uncle's
comfort. She made pretty white curtains for his library windows, knitted
bright-coloured worsted lamp-mats, and hemmed and marked the contents of
the linen-closet. The dining-room pantry she took under her special charge,
and at the expiration of ten days, when the master took formal possession,
she accompanied him, and enjoyed the pleased surprise with which he
received her donation of cakes, preserves, ketchups, pickles, etc., etc.,
neatly stowed away on the spotless shelves.
"What do those large square boxes in the hall contain?"
"Books which I gathered in Europe and selected in New York; among them many
rare old volumes, which you have never seen. Come down next Monday, and
help me to number and shelve them; afterward, we will read them together.
Lay aside your bonnet, and spend the evening with me."
"No, I must go back; Hugh sent me word that he would bring company to tea."
He took her hand, and drew her close to his chair, saying gently--
"Ah, Irene! I wish I could keep you always. You would be happier here, in
this little unpretending home of mine, than presiding as mistress over that
great palatial house on the hill yonder."
He kissed her fingers tenderly, and, taking her basket she left him alone
in his new home.
A few weeks passed without incident; Hugh went to New Orleans to visit
friends, and Mr. Huntingdon was frequently absent at the plantation.
One day he expressed the desire that Judge Harris's family should dine with
him, and added several gentlemen, "to make the party merry." Irene promptly
issued the invitations, suppressing the reluctance which filled her heart;
for the young people were not favourites, and she dreaded Charlie's set
speeches and admiring glances, not less than his mother's endless
disquisitions on fashion and the pedigree of all the best families of W----
and its vicinage. Grace had grown up very pretty, highly accomplished,
even-tempered, gentle-hearted, but full of her mother's fashionable
notions, and, withal, rather weak and frivolous. She and Irene were
constantly thrown into each other's society, but no warmth of feeling
existed on either side. Grace could not comprehend her companion's
character, and Irene wearied of her gay, heedless chit-chat. As the latter
anticipated, the day proved very tiresome; the usual complement of music
was contributed by Grace, the expected quantity of flattering nothings
gracefully uttered by her brother, the customary amount of execrable puns
handed around the circle for patronage and Irene gave the signal for
dinner. Mr. Huntingdon prided himself on his fine wines, and, after the
decanters had circulated freely, the gentlemen grew garrulous as
market-women.
Irene was gravely discussing the tariff question with Mr. Herbert Blackwell
(whom Mrs. Harris pronounced the most promising young lawyer of her
acquaintance), and politely listening to his stereotyped reasoning, when a
scrap of conversation at the opposite end of the table, attracted her
attention.
"Huntingdon, my dear fellow, I tell you I never made a mistake in my life,
when reading people's minds; and if Aubrey has not the finest legal
intellect in W----, I will throw up my judgeship. You have seen Campbell, I
suppose? He returned last week, and, by the way, I half-expected to meet
him to-day; well, I was talking to him about Aubrey, and he laughed his
droll, chuckling laugh, snapped his bony fingers in my face; and said--
"'Aye! aye, Harris, let him alone; hands off! and I will wager my new
office against your old one that he steps into your honour's shoes.' Now
you know perfectly well that Campbell has no more enthusiasm than a brick
wall, or a roll of red tape; but he is as proud of the young man as if he
were his son. Do you know that he has taken him into partnership?"
"Pshaw! he will never commit such a _faux pas_."
"But he has; I read the notice in this morning's paper. Pass the Madeira.
The fact is, we must not allow our old prejudices to make us unjust. I know
Aubrey has struggled hard; he had much to contend----"
With head slightly inclined, and eyes fixed on Mr. Blackwell's face, Irene
had heard all that passed, and as the gentleman paused in his harangue to
drain his glass, she rose and led the way to the parlours. The gentlemen
adjourned to the smoking-room, and in a short time Mrs. Harris ordered her
carriage, pleading an engagement with Grace's mantua-maker as an excuse for
leaving so early. With a feeling of infinite relief the hostess accompanied
them to the door, saw the carriage descend the avenue, and, desiring one of
the servants to have Erebus saddled at once, she went to her room and
changed the rich dinner-dress for her riding-habit. As she sprang into the
saddle, and gathered up the reins, her father called from the open window,
whence issued curling wreaths of blue smoke--
"Where now, Irene?"
"I am going to ride; it threatened rain this morning, and I was afraid to
venture."
He said something, but without hearing she rode off, and was soon out of
sight, leaving the town to the left, and taking the rocky road leading up
the hill-side to the cemetery gate. Dismounting she fastened the reins to
one of the iron spikes, and, gathering the folds of her habit over her
arm, carried her flowers to the family burying-ground. It was a large
square lot, enclosed by a handsome railing and tall gate, bearing the name
of "Huntingdon" in silver letters. As she approached, she was surprised to
find a low brick wall and beautiful new marble monument close to her
father's lot, and occupying a space which had been filled with grass and
weeds a few weeks previous.
As she passed the new lot the gate swung open, and Russell stood before
her.
"Good evening, Miss Huntingdon."
"Good evening, Mr. Aubrey."
The name sounded strange and harsh as she uttered it, and involuntarily she
paused and held out her hand. He accepted it; for an instant the cold
fingers lay in his warm palm, and as she withdrew them he said, in the rich
mellow voice which she had heard in the church--
"Allow me to show you my mother's monument."
He held the gate open, and she entered and stood at his side. The monument
was beautiful in its severe simplicity--a pure faultless shaft, crowned
with a delicately chiselled wreath of poppy leaves, and bearing these words
in gilt letters: "Sacred to the memory of my mother, Amy Aubrey." Just
below, in black characters, "_Resurgam_"; and underneath the whole, on a
finely fluted scroll, the inscription of St. Gilgen. After a silence of
some moments Russell pointed to the singular and solemn words, and said, as
if speaking rather to himself than to her--
"I want to say always, with Paul Flemming, 'I will be strong,' and
therefore I placed here the inscription which proved an evangel to him,
that when I come to my mother's grave I may be strengthened, not melted, by
the thronging of bitter memories."
She looked up as he spoke, and the melancholy splendour of the deep eyes
stirred her heart as nothing had ever done before.
"I have a few flowers left; let me lay them as an affectionate tribute, an
'_in memoriam_' on your mother's tomb--for the olden time, the cottage
days, are as fresh in my recollection as in yours."
She held out a woodland bouquet which she had previously gathered; he took
it, and strewed the blossoms along the broad base of the shaft, reserving
only a small cluster of the rosy china cups. Both were silent; but as she
turned to go, a sudden gust blew her hat from her head, the loosened comb
fell upon the grass, and down came the heavy masses of hair. She twisted
them hastily into a coil, fastened them securely, and received her hat from
him, with a cool--
"Thank you, sir. When did you hear from Electra?"
They walked on to the cemetery gate, and he answered--
"I have heard nothing for some weeks. Have you any message? I am going to
New York in a few days to try to persuade her to return to W---- with me."
"I doubt the success of your mission; W---- has little to tempt an artist
like your cousin. Be kind enough to tender her my love, and best wishes for
the realization of her artistic dreams."
They had reached the gate where Erebus waited, when Russell took off his
hat.
"You have a long walk to town," said Irene, as Russell arranged her horse's
reins.
"I shall not find it long. It is a fine piece of road, and the stars will
be up to light it."
He held out his hand to assist her; she sprang easily to the saddle, then
leaned toward him, every statue-like curve and moulding of her proud ivory
face stamping themselves on his recollection as she spoke.
"Be so good as to hand me my glove; I dropped it at your feet as I mounted.
Thank you. Good evening, Mr. Aubrey; take my best wishes on your journey
and its mission."
"Good-bye, Miss Huntingdon." He raised his hat, and, as she wheeled off,
the magnetic handsome face followed, haunted her. Erebus was impatient, out
of humour, and flew up the next steep hill as if he, too, were haunted.
On through gathering gloom dashed horse and rider, over the little gurgling
stream, through the gate, up the dark, rayless avenue to the doorstep. The
billiard-room was a blaze of light, and the cheerful sound of mingled
voices came out at the open window, to tell that the gentlemen had not yet
finished their game. Pausing in the hall, Irene listened an instant to
distinguish the voices, then ascended the long easy staircase. The lamp
threw a mellow radiance on the steps, and as she reached the landing Hugh
caught her in his arms, and kissed her warmly. Startled by his unexpected
appearance, she recoiled a step or two and asked, rather haughtily--
"When did you get home?"
"Only a few moments after you left the house. Do change your dress quickly,
and come down. I have a thousand things to say."
She waited to hear no more, but disengaged herself and went to her room.
When she went down she met her father at the dining room door.
"Come, Queen; we are waiting for you."
He looked at her fondly, took her hand, and drew her to the table; and, in
after years, she recalled this occasion with mournful pleasure as the last
on which he had ever given her his pet name.