Nothing appeared less likely, at this period, than the fulfilment of
Lynn's prognostications of his destiny. He collected encouragement and
praise at every turn. A Bayard in society--a Raphael at the easel, he
bore a distinguished part in the lionization of the day. He sped well,
too, in his wooing. A quick fancy and impressible heart could hardly
resist the attractions of his person and genius; and the spice of
coquetry, generally predominant in Ellen's disposition, lay dormant,
as she hearkened to the voice of love. She made but one reservation
in pledging him her troth--that their engagement should be secret.
He would have had it proclaimed through the land--he so joyed in the
bliss he had won; but he bowed to the scarcely uttered wish, respecting
the maiden modesty that dictated the request. To Ida and Charley it
was divulged. He would not accept a happiness they wore forbidden to
share. For a few brief weeks this knew no shade or diminution; but a
change came. Ida discovered it; but he was silent, and she would not
extort confidence. It was a trial to see his clouded countenance and
fitful spirits; yet she knew his peculiarly sensitive organization, and
hoped the evil was magnified by its medium. In this hope she finally
persuaded him to speak.
They met at a Fancy Fair. Ida was in an embowered recess, Mr. Lacy for
a companion, and Charley hanging around to play propriety. Lynn entered
alone, and did not attach himself to any person or party. He marched
from end to end of the room, with folded arms, and a dogged look, too
foreign to him, not to impress one unpleasantly. He perceived Ida after
awhile, and acknowledged her presence by touching his hat, with no loss
of gloominess. Ida was _distrait_; even Mr. Lacy failed to charm; and
he was aware of it He guessed, too, from the direction of her eyes,
the working of her thoughts, and proposed a visit to the refreshment
table, which stood in the path of the promenaders. Lynn could not brush
by without speaking. The first tone of Ida's voice affected him. The
dull black of his eyes became lustrous, and the long lashes fell over
them to conceal the momentary weakness. She would not let him go. She
asked him questions without number or meaning, not waiting for answers,
until she had eaten her ice; when she gave her glass to Mr. Lacy, and
with an apology, his eye said was unnecessary, took Lynn's arm. He
confessed all, as she had determined he should. It was a common tale;
the scrupulousness of a love, made up of delicacy and truth, and the
thoughtless trifling of a girl who felt her power;--so she explained
it, but the young lover mourned the death of his first-born hope.
"I would as soon speak lightly of my dead sister, as tamper with _her_
affection," said he. "Your excuse that she does these things to try
mine--if you are right--proves that she never loved me."
"But why did I say she applied the test? In girlish caprice--foolish
enough--but harmless as to intention. Have you forgotten what women are
in their 'hour of ease?' if danger or sorrow menaced you, she would
stand by you to the last. She loves you, Lynn,--I am assured of this."
"Not so am I. I called there this evening. She had promised to
accompany me hither, but she was 'engaged with company!' Those
addlepates, Pemberton and Talbot were there, doling out their senseless
prattle; and she was gracious to them, repellant to me. If Pemberton
were not a puppy, I would not sleep before I crossed swords with him.
She waltzed with him last night. I had told her that I would not
invite any lady, whom I respected, to engage in that most disgusting
of dances. Conceive of my feelings, when, within the hour, I saw her
whirling down the hall in his arms! And the coxcomb's insufferable
impudence! if he thwarts me again, I will cane him!"
"You will _not_! Go and see Ellen to-morrow, when there is no one
to annoy you, by preventing a private interview. Set before her the
unkindness, the want of generosity apparent in her conduct; assert your
rights with dignity, and your resolution to uphold them."
"I would not pain her, Ida. She has chosen the easiest method of
undeceiving me; better this, than a life-time of misery to both. She
said, the other day, to a gentle reproach for an open slight, which
would have offended a vainer man, mortally, that she did it to mislead
others. 'A young lady,' she remarked, 'sinks into a cypher, if it is
suspected that she is betrothed. I have not had my lawful amount of
admiration yet.'
"'Ellen!' said I, 'I have loved you as man never loved woman before;
have believed you pure and high-minded. If I thought that the
despicable coquetry you insinuate, caused you to insist upon the
concealment of our engagement, I would trumpet it to the world, and
then break it myself!'"
"Lynn, remember where you are! You are too harsh; it was a jest."
"The manner displeased me most, and to-night, when I saw those
fops--could I be patient?"
Their conversation and saunter were prolonged.
"Are you going home to-night?" asked Josephine, gaily, hailing them in
one of their rounds. "They are extinguishing the lamps."
Ida changed color as she saw that she had Mr. Lacy's arm. Lynn observed
it, and waited for her.
"You are fast walkers--go on," said Josephine, at the door. As they
passed, Ida had a view of Mr. Lacy's features. They were so pale and
rigid, that she started. He answered her look of apprehension with one
that froze her blood.
What had she done to draw down that stern, yet sorrowful rebuke?
"The look you wear
A heart may heal or break."
Her pillow was damp that night.
Mr. Thornton had obtained a signal victory in his first important
cause. Already, his legal acumen and oratorical powers marked him in
the public eye for usefulness and fame; and on the evening after the
delivery of the verdict, he called together a band of select spirits to
rejoice with him. The banquet was well ordered; comprising the rarities
of the season, and a variety of wines, varied by the introduction
of agreeable non-intoxicants, coffee, tea, iced sherbet, etc. These
unwonted accompaniments of a bachelor supper were looked upon with an
evil eye by some of the guests. They were jealous of innovations which
might end in puritanical abstinence; and their fears were further
excited that three of their small number preferred the less stimulating
beverages. That Mr. Lacy's example should be copied by Mr. Compton, a
fellow-student, was not surprising, as they were intimate, and known
as members of the same church; but at Charles Dana's rejection of the
social glass, there was a hum of exclamations and inquiries, which was
calmed by his imperturbability, and the polite tact of the host. Morton
could not unriddle the conduct of his friend, for he knew that his most
trivial action was not meaningless. "Not a convert, Charley?" he said,
when the rest were in full cry after some inspiring subject.
"Unfortunately, no. It is from a motive of expediency that I abstain
to-night."
They sat together, and as he spoke, Mr. Lacy chanced to remark Lynn,
who was opposite. He drank deeply, but his potations had not had time
to ignite the fire that burned in his eyes and checks. His talk was
a volcanic eloquence, reckless as to course and consequence; and his
laugh had the peal of a maniac's yell. In real alarm, Morton turned to
his neighbor. Charley was on the alert; not outwardly--he might have
been more grave and taciturn than common, but there were no evidences
of anxiety. Morton divined his feelings, by a glance he saw exchanged
between him and his heated friend; a look of warning and appeal on one
side,--of anguish, scornful in its bitterness, on the other,--and the
torrent rolled on as before.
During the giving of toasts, Mr. Lacy and Charley fell into a quiet
chat, only pausing to lift their glasses in courtesy to the authors,
ignorant, most of the time, of the sentiment proposed. Lynn was more
sedate; from delirium he was relapsing into a comatose state, when he
was brought to his feet by a toast to his art, coupled with a neatly
turned compliment to himself, from Mr. Thornton. His unpremeditated
reply was beautiful and touching. He was under the very spur of genius;
rich metaphors, apt classical allusions, and delicate pathos poured
from his lips, as thoughts from his brain; his rapt hearers scarcely
conscious that he employed the machinery of words. The applause that
succeeded the last musical echo was deafening. For a moment, the wild
glare that had distressed Morton, disappeared, and with a happy,
grateful smile, he bowed his thanks for this spontaneous tribute of
approbation and regard.
"Egad!" said Pemberton, "you have mistaken your calling, Holmes--you
had better burn up your canvass, and take to stump-speaking, you'd make
more money by it."
Angry frowns and rebuking eyes were directed to the drunken speaker.
"If stumps and blockheads claim kindred, I shall not need to go far to
exercise my vocation," said Lynn, hotly.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the other, with a violent affectation of derision.
"Don't be frightened, gentlemen! Mr. Holmes and myself have wrestled
upon another battle-field, and I can afford to forgive him, from the
soreness of his defeat. Your friend and instructress, that loud-tongued
virago, Ida Ross, could not have uttered--"
Like a wounded panther, Lynn cleared the table at a bound, and grasped
his throat. A general rush was made to the spot, and they were parted
before either sustained serious injury. Pemberton had drawn a dirk at
the attack, but it was wrested from him by Mr. Lacy. Reconciliation was
impossible in the excited state of the combatants. Charley prudently
withdrew his friend, relying upon time and reflection to prepare the
mind of each for overtures and concessions. Lynn did not speak until
they reached his room; then, extricating his arm from Charley's hold,
he demanded in a high tone, what had been his object in terminating the
conflict. "If not finished there, you know it must be somewhere."
"I do not see the necessity," was the reply. "It is a drunken broil, of
which you will be ashamed to-morrow. No man in his senses would have
noticed him as you did. He shall have a cow-hiding for his last speech;
I would not disgrace a more honorable weapon by using it against him. I
am mortified, Lynn--I hoped you were learning to control those childish
fits of passion."
"Am I to be crossed and bullied forever by a meddling fool? Is it not
enough that he has helped to wreck my peace, but he must taunt me with
it?" cried Lynn passionately. "He ought not to live, and I do not care
to!"
"You certainly are not fit to die." said Charley composedly, "or you
would not rave so like a madman. Be sane for five minutes; by what
means has your happiness been put in his power?"
Lynn was a humored, wayward child, and this cold severity did more to
quiet him than an hour's rhetorical pleading. Charley listened with
knitting brows, to a rehearsal of his story to Ida, and an account of
that day's interview with Ellen. She was dressed for a ride with Mr.
Pemberton, and exasperated by this new example of her disrespect to
him in encouraging a man he despised--Lynn had spoke hastily--angrily.
She retorted with equal warmth, and after a turbulent scene they
parted. Pemberton arrived as he was leaving, and his malicious twinkle
told that he comprehended and enjoyed the state of affairs. Like Ida,
Charley had never heartily approved of this match; but his indignation
towards Ellen was none the less on this account. He saw, in her
behaviour, the most culpable flirting, and he said so to Lynn. He shook
his head sadly.
"Convince me of that and you destroy my faith in woman. No! I believe
she once fancied she loved me; but I have become obnoxious to her. It
is my fate. The last dream of hope is over--I have nothing to live for
now."
He covered his face with his hands. Charley remained with him all
night, an uninvited visitor. His host neglected him entirely, never
speaking, and seemingly unmindful of his presence. Whenever Charley
awoke, he heard him pacing the floor, or saw the outline of his figure,
dark and still, at the window, gazing into the black night.
"You will not do anything in the settlement of this nonsensical matter
until you confer with me?" requested Charley, on saying "Good bye."
"I shall not move in the affair," was the laconic rejoinder.
"You will acquaint me with Pemberton's proposals?"
"If I think proper--yes--you shall know in good time."
Charley was going out, and did not catch the exact import of these
words. He proceeded with the business of the day, comparatively at
ease. Knowing Pemberton to be an arrant coward at heart, bully as he
was, he did not fear a renewal of the subject from him.
Ida was alone that evening. Mr. Read was in the country; and Josephine,
having waited until visiting hours were over, went off to bed. Ida
liked to sit up late, but she usually preferred the snug comfort of
her room to the parlors. To-night she lingered over a book, reading
and musing, with a tincture of gloom in her thought-pictures. She was
pondering upon the instability of earthly plans and hopes. "How true
that the brightest light produces the deepest shadows!" The words arose
unexpectedly to her lips. In the loosely-linked chain of reverie, she
did not know that they had their origin in the memory of a slighter
circumstance than a word--in a look.
Rachel was coming to see after her, and hearing a ring as she tripped
by the front door, opened it. A man handed her a package saying,
briefly, "For Miss Ross," and instantly vanished. Ida saw Lynn's
hand in the superscription of the bulky parcel, and broke the seal.
Two letters were within it; one directed to Ellen Morris; the
other,--enclosing a miniature--to herself.
"My best, truest friend!" she read, "I cannot trust myself to speak
the farewell my heart indites to one who has been a loving and
faithful sister to me. It would unman me, and I have occasion for all
my manliness at this juncture. I have no regret in the prospect of
leaving a world where my horoscope was cast in clouds and storm;--I
cannot undergo the pangs of seeing your grief. Destiny will be
accomplished, Ida, however insignificant the instrument with which
it works. Charley will inform you of the baseness of that which has
severed the one shining thread of my existence. Heaven grant you may
never know the hatefulness of life, when that for which you thought,
toiled, lived, is torn from you! I have struck the reptile who trailed
over my Eden-flowers, and reared his head insultingly amid the ruin
he helped to effect, and in his unspent malice he would sting me to
death. The sting of death is gone! there will be unintentional mercy
in the stroke that releases me. I have been mad--I am calmer now. If I
know my own heart, I wish him no evil; I shall not attempt his life--I
will not imbrue my hands in the blood of the murdered.
"You will give the enclosed to my poor Ellen--'_my Ellen_!' she has
forbidden me to call her by that name. It may be, she will pity, when
no more, the wretch she could not love when living.
"My sister and friend! what can I say to you? Forgive my ingratitude
in being willing to die before I have made some feeble return for your
goodness! Will you wear or keep this image of him, by whom you were
never forgotten--not in the death-agony? I have written to Charley,
but he will not receive the letter until all is over. I was unwilling
to risk this--its contents are too sacred. You are dreaming in your
innocent slumbers, of years of peace and joy--I shall not close my
eyes but in the sleep that knows no awakening to care and woe. 'The
blessing of him who is ready to perish' be upon you!
"LYNN."
Ida's impulse was to scream for help; but ere her palsied tongue did
her bidding, the futility of all attempts to save him stared upon her;
the hour--nearly midnight; the illness of their man-servant; Mr. Read's
absence; her ignorance of Lynn's locality or plans beyond his suicidal
intention--towered, frowning spectres, mountain-high, each with its
sepulchral "Impossible!" Some women would have swooned--some sunk down
to weep in impotent despair;--the shock over, her energetic spirit
rallied to meet the emergency. He should be saved! at the peril of her
life, if need be--what were personal convenience and safety?
Charley--the sagacious, collected friend--what mortal could do, he
would--she must see him. Rachel had not spoken, terrified by her
mistress' expression and manner. It was a relief to aid her in any way;
she brought, without a second's parley, the cloak and hood Ida ordered,
and equipped herself to attend her. "Take the key," said Ida, as they
went out of the door; and they sped on their way. The night was dark,
and for whole squares not a light was visible. Half of the distance to
Mr. Dana's was traversed without encountering a single being, when they
approached a lighted doorway, in which two gentlemen were standing.
Fearing to attract their attention by her hurried gait, Ida slackened
her pace, and pulled her hood over her face. She heard one say--"If the
spasms do not return he may not want watchers to-morrow night;" and a
feeling of security stole upon her. The friends of the suffering would
not molest her, whose mission was one of mercy. A few squares further
on, they were met by a watchman. Rachel made out his badge of office
through the obscurity, and pressed to her mistress' side. The man
stopped. His keen eye discerned her color.
"Your pass!" said he, confronting Rachel.
"Her mistress is with her," answered Ida, emboldened by the exigency.
He bowed respectfully, and pursued his beat. Ida's heart throbbed
loudly, but she stifled her fears by a reconsideration of Lynn's
extremity of danger,--"it was no time for nervous failings." Rachel did
not possess such a tonic, and had seen every shadow, heard every rustle
of the breeze.
Before their adventure with the dreaded "guard," she had known that
one of the gentlemen above-mentioned had taken the same route with
themselves; keeping, however, upon the other side of the street; and
after Ida's ready response removed her apprehension of "the cage"
and Mayor's court, she saw him still upon her track--worse! crossing
towards them. Overcome with terror, she clutched her mistress' arm,
and by a frantic gesture, directed her to the object of alarm. He was
within six feet of them; and startled by his proximity, and the fright
of her attendant, she stood still. A minute of breathless suspense, and
the stranger was at her side.
"Miss Ross," he said, in a low but confident tone. "This is a strange
hour for a lady to be in the street with such attendance!"
His stern, cold address could not repress her thrilling pleasure.
"Oh, Mr. Lacy!" she exclaimed, clinging to his arm, and giving way, for
the first time, to tears. "Life and death depend upon my action--the
life of one very dear to us both--you would not reproach me if you
knew--"
"Ida! _dear_ Ida!" said he, mindful only of her sorrow. "Can there be
reason for this excessive grief? Your fears have misled you. Of whom do
you speak?"
She could not speak quite yet, but her sobs were subsiding under his
soothing.
"Will you not trust yourself and our friend to me, Ida?"
She looked up. "Yes," she said, simply.
He put her hand within his arm. "First, tell me where you are going."
"To Mr. Dana's."
"For what purpose?"
"I have something to tell Charley."
"I will be the bearer of your message. Let me see you home;--you shall
give it to me on the way."
She obeyed submissively as a child.
"Now!" said he, as they turned back.
"I had a note from Lynn to-night. It is worded so
ambiguously,--contains so many allusions I do not understand, that I
can glean but this--he has quarrelled, and been challenged;--they fight
to-morrow, where or when I do not know, nor the name of his opponent.
It is all a horrible mystery."
It was more clear to him. He related the incident of the altercation at
supper, suppressing Pemberton's use of her name.
"Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die! he declares
his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown
away!"
"Not if man can prevent it--I promise you this much. When did you get
this letter?"
"Not an hour since."
"Why did you not send to Charley or me?"
"Mr. Read is away, and John sick."
"What is the tone of the note? revengeful?"
"Oh, no! he says expressly--'If I know my own heart, I wish him no
evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting
rid of it."
"'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly.
"Forgive me, Ida! yet _you_ cannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he
believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?"
"No--but he does believe--I have thought, sometimes, with more than the
intellect. Do not judge him hardly;--he has suffered much of late; more
from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes
too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow."
"None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This
recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?"
"I am sure of it."
"He will be more manageable then," he replied encouragingly.
The wind blew roughly, and he folded her cloak around her.
"I recognised you by this, and your walk, and fearing lest you might
encounter rudeness in your nocturnal ramble, kept you in sight. I heard
your voice at the watchman's challenge, and concluded to declare myself
your protector. I have been sitting with a sick friend."
Ida did not know herself when they stopped at the door--her uneasiness
all gone, and with it the unnatural strength that impelled her
venturesome step--he had assumed the burden; and he was so strong
and sanguine, it did not oppress him. With the mild authority which
had checked her tears and reversed her design, he bade her "dismiss
anxiety, and rest quietly until morning, when he would send her glad
tidings." And with the same childlike docility she repaired to her
chamber, and betook herself to slumber.