THE MINISTER'S LOVE
Two years rolled on, stained with the tears of many, ringing with the songs
and laughter of a fortunate few. The witchery of Southern spring again
enveloped W----, and Irene stood on the lawn surveying the "greenery of the
outdoor world" that surrounded her.
In this woman's sad but intensely calm countenance, a joyless life found
silent history. She felt that her life was passing rapidly, unimproved,
and aimless; she knew that her years, instead of being fragrant with the
mellow fruitage of good deeds, were tedious and joyless, and that the
gaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing upon her. The elasticity of
spirits, the buoyancy of youth had given place to a species of stoical mute
apathy; a mental and moral paralysis was stealing over her.
The slamming of the ponderous iron gate attracted her attention, and she
saw a carriage ascending the avenue. As it reached a point opposite to the
spot where she stood it halted, the door was thrown open, and a gentleman
stepped out and approached her. The form was not familiar, and the straw
hat partially veiled the features, but he paused before her, and said, with
a genial smile--
"Don't you know me?"
"Oh, Harvey! My brother! My great guardian angel!"
A glad light kindled in her face, and she stretched out her hands with the
eagerness of a delighted child. Time had pressed heavily upon him; wrinkles
were conspicuous about the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the black
hair had become a steely grey.
Holding her hands, he drew her nearer to him, scrutinized her features, and
a look of keen sorrow crossed his own as he said, almost inaudibly--
"I feared as much! I feared as much! The shadow has spread."
"You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you promised to write and failed. I
sent you one letter, but it was never answered."
"Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never received it, believe me. True, I
expected to write to you frequently when I parted with you, but
subsequently determined that it would be best not to do so. Attribute my
silence, however, to every other cause than want of remembrance."
"God only knows how I have wanted, how I have needed you, to guide and
strengthen me."
She raised the two hands that still held hers, and bowed her forehead upon
them.
For some moments silence reigned; then, standing before him, Irene said,
with touching pathos--
"My friend, I am so desolate! so lonely! I am drifting down the current of
life aimless, hopeless, useless! What shall I do with my future? I believe
I am slowly petrifying; I neither suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelings
are deadened; I am growing callous, indifferent to everything. I am fast
losing sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed up in self, oblivious
of the noble aspirations of promise. Once more I ask you, what shall I do
with my life?"
"Give it to God."
"Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in necessity. He will not accept the
worthless thing thrown at His feet, as a _dernier ressort_. Once it was my
choice, but the pure, clear-eyed faith of my childhood shook hands with me
when you left me in New York."
For a short while he struggled with himself, striving to overcome the
unconquerable impulse which suddenly prompted him, and his face grew pallid
as hers as he walked hastily across the smooth grass and came back to her.
Her countenance was lifted toward the neighbouring hill, her thoughts
evidently far away, when he paused before her, and said unsteadily--
"Irene, my beloved! give yourself to me. Go with me into God's vineyard;
let us work together, and consecrate our lives to His service."
The mesmeric eyes gazed into his, full of wonder, and the rich ruby tint
fled from her lips as she pondered his words in unfeigned astonishment, and
shaking her regal head; answered slowly--
"Harvey, I am not worthy. I want your counsel, not your pity."
"Pity! you mistake me. If you have been ignorant so long, know now that I
have loved you from the evening you first sat in my study looking over my
foreign sketches. You were then a child, but I was a man, and I knew all
that you had so suddenly become to me. Because of this great disparity in
years, and because I dared not hope that one so tenderly nurtured could
ever brave the hardships of my projected life, I determined to quit New
York earlier than I had anticipated, and to bury a foolish memory in the
trackless forests of the far West. I ought to have known the fallacy of my
expectation; I have proved it since. Your face followed me; your eyes met
mine at every turn; your glittering hair swept on every breeze that touched
my cheek. Irene, you are young, and singularly beautiful, and I am a
grey-haired man, much, much older than yourself; but, if you live a
thousand years, you will never find such affection as I offer you now.
There is nothing on earth which would make me so happy as the possession of
your love. You are the only woman I have ever seen whom I even wish to call
my wife--the only woman who, I felt, could lend new charm to life, and make
my quiet hearth happier by her presence. Irene, will you share my future?
Can you give me what I ask?"
The temptation was powerful--the future he held out enticing indeed. The
strong, holy, manly love, the noble heart and head to guide her, the firm,
tender hand to support her, the constant, congenial, and delightful
companionship--all this passed swiftly through her mind; but, crushing all
in its grasp, came the memory of one whom she rarely met, but who held
undisputed sway over her proud heart.
Drawing close to the minister, she laid her hands on his shoulder, and,
looking reverently up into his fine face, said, in her peculiarly sweet,
clear voice--
"The knowledge of your priceless, unmerited love makes me proud beyond
degree; but I would not mock you by the miserable and only return I could
make you--the affection of a devoted sister. That I do not love you as you
wish is my great misfortune; for I appreciate most fully the noble
privilege you have tendered me. I trust that the pain I may give you now
will soon pass away, and that, in time, you will forget one who is utterly
undeserving of the honour you have conferred on her to-day. Oh, Harvey! do
not, I beg of you, let one thought of me ever disquiet your noble, generous
heart."
A shiver crept over her still face, and she dropped her pale forehead. She
felt two tears fall upon her hair, and in silence he bent down and kissed
her softly, tenderly, as one kisses a sleeping babe.
"Oh, Harvey! do not let it grieve you, dear friend!"
He smiled sadly, as if not daring to trust himself in words; then, after a
moment, laying his hands upon her head, in the baptism of a deathless love,
he gently and solemnly blessed her. When his fingers were removed she
raised her eyes, but he had gone; she saw only the retreating form through
the green arches of the grand old avenue.