ERMINIE’S TRIALS.
On the morning succeeding the domestication of Colonel Eastworth in the
family, Erminie, restless with excess of happiness, arose earlier than
usual.
She went down into the library to open and air it, and to have the fire
lighted and the table set for breakfast under her own supervision.
And half an hour later, when Dr. Rosenthal and Colonel Eastworth entered
the room, a very pleasant scene greeted them.
The morning sun was shining brightly in, lighting up the amber-colored
hangings, the gilded picture frames, the glass bookcases, and the silver
service of the breakfast table. The fire burned clearly in the polished
grate, and by its side sat Erminie in her soft white merino morning
dress and rich auburn ringlets.
She arose with a smile to greet her father and her lover.
Her father kissed her fondly and then took up a morning paper and
appeared to become absorbed in its contents.
Her lover drew her away to the sunny window and whispered:
“My dearest, I recognized your loving care in every single arrangement
for my comfort in my rooms last night. I knew it was this dear hand that
wheeled my sofa in its place, and set the footstool, and even cut the
leaves of the magazines upon the table. Shall I thank you for all this?
No, sweet girl, I will not mock you so. But do you know, Erminie, that I
sat up last night turning over all those magazines, merely because these
dear fingers had touched them all?”
“I am so glad that you can be pleased with anything I can do for you,
for, oh, it is so little I can do,” she murmured, softly.
“You can love me! You do love me, and that love of yours makes your
slightest act for me a priceless service!” he replied, fervently
pressing her hand to his lips.
“Hallo, Eastworth! what’s this? what’s this? what’s this? What on earth
are they about in the Senate?” suddenly cried out the old minister,
staring at the paper in his hand.
“What is what, sir?” inquired Colonel Eastworth, leaving the side of
Erminie and going to join her father.
“This! this!” said the old minister, pointing emphatically to a
lengthened report of the previous day’s debate in the Senate. It was a
warm debate between the Union and the Secession factions. Eastworth
looked from the paper to the face of the reader, and his face grew dark.
“I am afraid, sir,” he said, “that you do not look into the papers very
often to keep up with the politics of the day.”
“No, no—I do not; I never did and never shall. I always let the opposing
parties fight out their own battles, having such firm faith in the
glorious destinies of the country as to feel well assured that the very
worst of them can never succeed in bringing it to ruin. My eyes only
happened to fall upon this debate by chance. But, I say, this looks a
little serious, doesn’t it—as if they really mean secession, eh?”
“I think the Southern States really mean it, sir,” said Eastworth,
gravely.
The old minister reflected a moment, and then laughed, and threw the
paper aside, exclaiming:
“Pooh! pooh! Eastworth! Nonsense! A few crafty and unscrupulous
politicians, who are willing to sacrifice their country so that they may
rise into transient notoriety upon its ruins, may rant as they please,
and a few hotheaded boys, who are ready for revolution or excitement of
any sort, at any price, may be led astray by their sophistries. But the
Southern people at large, with their whole-hearted attachment to and
pride in their country—never, Eastworth, never; it is all talk, all
dream, all moonshine! Nonsense! Erminie, ring for the breakfast, my
dear.”
The old Lutheran minister was no politician; he was a philosopher and
bookworm; but he was not alone in his incredulity. Even up to this late
period, it was very difficult to make any sane man, not infected with
the madness of the day, believe in the possibility of disunion.
Breakfast was served. But for some reason or other, the social morning
meal did not pass off so cheerfully as it might have been expected to
do. And as soon as it was over, Colonel Eastworth excused himself and
went out.
Colonel Eastworth came home to the late dinner. He was grave, absorbed,
absent-minded. He sometimes shook off this pre-occupation, but it was
with an evident effort. There was no danger that he should talk politics
with his host; he was very, very reticent on all public subjects.
After dinner they withdrew to the drawing-room, where coffee was served,
and then Dr. Rosenthal took his pipe and went off to his study to smoke
and read.
Erminie was left alone with her betrothed. A sort of shyness, that she
never could get rid of, when left _tête-à-tête_ with her lover, induced
her to rise and open the piano. She sang and played, one after another,
his favorite songs, and in many of them he joined his voice to hers. At
length she struck into the old, yet ever new, beloved and all-inspiring
“Star-Spangled Banner.” She had sung the first stanza, and was striking
into the chorus with all her heart and soul, expecting him to join her
with all the ardor and enthusiasm of his Southern nature, when suddenly
he laid his hand upon her shoulder—his hand, that shook as with palsy:
“Not that! not that! Oh, my dearest—not that, if you love me!” he
exclaimed, in a voice that shook as much as did his hand.
She ceased playing, and turned around and looked at him in meek
surprise. She had never before in all her acquaintance seen him moved
from his gentlemanly self-possession; but now he was terribly shaken.
She was alarmed.
“Why? Why may I not sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’?” she faltered.
“I cannot bear it! My dearest, I cannot! Strong man that I thought
myself, I cannot!” he exclaimed, with the same half-suppressed,
tempestuous emotion.
“But, why? Tell me why?” she persisted, with affectionate earnestness.
“You have fought gallantly for it; you have shed your priceless blood in
its defense; you have won immortal fame under it. Oh, why, then, may I
not sing the praises of that glorious banner, so doubly dear to me for
your sake?”
He was frightfully agitated.
“Oh, hush, Erminie, hush!” he cried.
“Ah! what has disturbed you so—what?” she exclaimed, rising from the
piano and standing by his side.
“Some day, better angel of my life, I will tell you all. Not now! I
cannot bear to do it; nor could you bear to hear it.”
“I can bear all things—all things for your sake! Try me—try me! Say, is
your trouble now connected with the dear old flag?”
“Yes, it is connected with——” He paused, and then, with a spasmodic
effort, added—“the dear old flag! But enough! ‘Old things shall pass
away, and all things shall become new!’ We shall raise a banner,
Erminie, in the blaze of whose young glory the old stars and stripes
shall pale and fade, as the stars of night at the rising of the sun!”
“Oh, what do you mean? What are you about to do?” gasped Erminie, in a
low voice, as she turned deadly pale.
“‘Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till you approve the
deed!’” he answered, smiling and throwing off the gloom that had
gathered around them.
And in good time he did so; for the door opened quietly, and the old
doctor, who had finished his pipe, sauntered into the room, to spend the
rest of the evening with his children, as he called these two.
Many more evenings did the betrothed lovers spend alone in that
drawing-room. But not again did Erminie attempt to sing the
“Star-Spangled Banner;” and not again did Colonel Eastworth lose his
self-possession, or hint darking at the “coming events” that cast their
shadows over his spirit. As the scene of that evening was not repeated,
Erminie let its memory fade from her mind, and she grew tranquil and
happy in the society of her lover.
But Colonel Eastworth was neither happy, nor even tranquil. An honorable
gentleman, a patriotic citizen, and a distinguished soldier, who had won
ever-living laurels in the service of his country, and now a State’s
Rights man, conscientiously plotting her ruin, his mind was torn by the
struggles of what he called a “divided duty,” and likened not unaptly to
the martyrdom of dismemberment by wild horses. Nor did the society of
his betrothed bride tend to soothe him.
He was too madly in love with the minister’s beautiful child to bear the
close intimacy of her constant companionship with anything like
calmness—unless he could be permitted to marry her immediately.
One evening they were as usual alone in the drawing-room. She was seated
at the piano, singing his favorite song. He was bending over her,
turning the music, but thinking far more of her than of anything else.
She was singing the refrain of that song so full of wild, sad, almost
despairing aspiration:
“Beloved eye! beloved star!
Thou art so near, and yet—so far!”
He bent lower over her, until his quick breath stirred her bright auburn
ringlets. As she ceased singing, he whispered, in a voice vibrating with
intense feeling:
“‘Beloved star!’ Thou art so near, and yet—so far! Oh, my dearest! Oh,
Erminie! do you know—do you know what my trial is! To be with you every
hour of the day, your betrothed husband, sharing the same home, sitting
at the same fireside, mocked with the appearance of the closest
intimacy, yet kept at the sternest distance! Oh, Erminie! I cannot bear
it longer, love! The period of my probation must—it must be shortened!
Say, love! shall I speak to your father once more? Shall I implore him
to fix an early day for our union?”
The color deepened on Erminie’s cheek; and she hesitated a few moments
before she replied:
“We are very happy now! we are together almost all the time. What more
can we require? My dear father is very much opposed to our marriage
taking place before two years. And why should we hurry him? Surely,
surely you do not dream that in these two years I shall change toward
you?” she suddenly inquired.
“No, my angel, no! I dream nothing of you but to your honor! I know that
you are truth itself! But I cannot wait two years to call you mine, my
love! I must—I must have your consent to speak to your father and
implore him to shorten the time of our betrothal.”
“I was very happy,” said Erminie, thoughtfully, “but I cannot be so any
longer if you are discontented, for your discontent would be mine. Speak
to my dear father, if you will.”
“Thanks, dearest, thanks! I will lose no time,” he said, and he pressed
her to his bosom for a moment, and then hurried out of the room to look
for Dr. Rosenthal.
He found the Lutheran minister in his study, sitting in his easy-chair,
enjoying his pipe, and enveloped in a cloud of aromatic smoke.
“Ah! is it you, Eastworth? Sit down; take out your pipe—I know you carry
it about you—and try some of this tobacco; it is prime,” said the
doctor, cordially, pushing another easy-chair toward his guest, and
setting his box of tobacco near to his hand.
“Thanks,” said Eastworth, availing himself at once of all his old
friend’s invitations, as the quickest method of conciliating him.
There was silence for a moment, then Colonel Eastworth said abruptly:
“Sir, I have come to speak to you about your daughter.”
The old minister laid down his pipe and turned to the speaker. The name
of his daughter was powerful enough, at any time, to bring him all the
way back from the past and fix his attention on the present.
“Yes; well, what of Erminie?” he inquired, anxiously.
Colonel Eastworth reflected for a moment, and then plunged headlong into
the subject.
“I would submit to you, sir, respectfully, but very earnestly, that an
engagement of two years will be intolerably tedious to me. I come to
entreat you to shorten the period. There is really no reason why we
should not be married at once. I love your daughter devotedly, and I am
so blessed as to have won her affections. My means are ample, and I
shall be only too happy to make any settlements upon my bride that you
may please to name. My character and position, I hope you know, are
unimpeachable.”
“All that is true, Eastworth—quite true!” said the old doctor, taking up
his pipe and putting it in his mouth, and puffing away leisurely.
“Then, sir, let me hope that you will reconsider your decision, and
allow the marriage to take place soon,” pleaded the colonel.
“No, Eastworth. She is much too young to be married yet. Think of
it!—she is not yet seventeen! Her youth is an objection to her marriage
that cannot be set aside, Eastworth, by any agent except time. You must
be patient, my friend.”
Nor could further pleading move the old man.
Colonel Eastworth rejoined Erminie in the drawing-room. She looked up
inquiringly as he entered.
“Your father is obdurate, my sweet love! I cannot win his consent to my
wishes, upon any terms,” he said, with a profound sigh.
“Then we must be patient. My dear father is very good to us in all other
respects; in this also, perhaps, though we do not know it,” replied
Erminie, gently.
“It may be so, love,” said Eastworth.
“And you know that if our engagement were to last ten years, or twenty,
and if, in the meantime, you should travel to the uttermost ends of the
earth, and I should never see or hear from you, I should still be true
to you—yes! true as truth!”
“I know it, my only love! And I shall soon put your truth to a terrible
test!”
“Put it to any test! to any!” exclaimed Erminie, rashly, in her great
faith.