Life at Poplar-grove was much as it had been, the previous summer;
still and bright. The mornings were spent in Carry's pleasant
sewing-room, from which male visitors were rigorously excluded; in
the afternoon, were the siesta, and ride or walk; at night, music and
social chat. Carry feared that this monotony, while it suited her
wishes and employments, might be less agreeable to her friend; that
she would miss the gay whirl, the intoxicating incense of her city
career. But Ida was contented, even happy. Beloved and caressed by the
whole household, in the home of kindred tastes and feeling; and above
all, with the firm hope that her life-long search was at last ended;
her wild cravings laid to rest beneath the waves, which welling from
the unsealed fountain, had risen higher and higher, until her soul was
overflowing with love and rapture;--she revelled in the quiet hours of
friendly communion, and the sweeter seasons of witching reverie. Carry
knew nothing of the spring of her happiness. She saw that her mind
had acquired a more healthy tone;--that her affections had expanded,
and attributed it to the influence of friendship;--to a strength of
mind, which had determined the world should be what it chose to have
it;--to anything but the true cause,--an idolatry that left no room for
suspicion or discontent. Once Carry alluded to the twilight promenade,
when Ida had told her of her forebodings of the wane of their love,
after the nuptials, which were now fast approaching; and was answered
by a warm embrace and smile, which said those fears were quelled, and
might have betrayed to more prying eyes, the enchantment that had
exorcised them. Her evening improvisations entranced, not only the
parlor-circle, but drew to the windows a larger audience from without,
spellbound by her heart-melodies. All her delight was not in memory.
Letters came and went;--from Charley and Mrs. Dana; and gossiping notes
from Anna Talbot and other of "the girls." These, Carry enjoyed with
her, and asked no questions about those which she did not see. Morton's
were what he engaged they should be; sincere and friendly, without a
hint that could alarm her delicacy. They were tinctured with a sadness,
she did not comprehend, until she noticed his many references to his
sister's sufferings, and his anxiety on her account. It was her turn
to console; and her most valued treasure was the letter, in which he
thanked and blessed her.
Carry was to be married the last of July. The middle of June brought
Mrs. Dana and the children, under Charley's protection. For the week of
his stay, he was the life of the house. One cloud was upon the spirits
of all;--Lynn was missed and mourned, and by none, with more sorrowful
tenderness, than by his vivacious friend; but he was unselfish even
in this. Ida could win him to speak of their loss; to the others, he
never mentioned it of his own accord. She was correct in saying that
he had grown more communicative and affectionate. He seemed to have
transferred to her the watchful love that had been Lynn's safeguard and
solace.
"Nothing changes you, Mars' Charley?" said Uncle Ike, the plantation
patriarch, halting at the piazza steps one afternoon, when he had
crawled out into the sunshine.
"I should like to say the same for you, Uncle Ike; time and sickness
have not treated you as well as you deserve."
"Better'n I desarve, Mars' Charles!--heap better'n I desarve! Time
for me to be packed and shoed for my journey. I'se lived in these
low-grounds of sorrow, nigh 'pon ninety years, and many' the young
folks I've seen step down into the grave before me. When I heard
that poor, handsome Mars' Lynn had gone too, 'pears-like I was ready
to grumble 'cause 'twant me--but 'twas the Almighty's will, Mars'
Charles,--'twas his will. It 'joices me to see you so well and
lively--jest like you used to be. You don't take trouble, I reckon,
Marster."
"No; it's against my principles;--beside, we'll have a plenty given to
us."
"Fact, Marster! You ain't knowed much yet; but 'the evil days will
come, when you shall say, I have no pleasure in them!'"
Charley kept his seat upon the step for some time after the old man had
gone:--once he sighed heavily. Ida was in the parlor, and longed to go
out to him, for she guessed the tenor of his thoughts, but doubted the
propriety of intruding upon them. He got up, presently, and began to
walk the porch, whistling an opera air. Spying her through the window,
he came in. "You are ruining your eyes and health with this eternal
stitching;" said he. "As I live, you are boring holes in that piece of
cloth, for the pleasure of sewing them up again! No wonder woman's work
is never ended! What are you making?"
"A handkerchief." She displayed the corner, in which she was
embroidering, "Carry Carleton."
"Where are the others?" he inquired.
"Mrs. Dana is in the nursery; Carry asleep; Dr. Carleton and Arthur
abroad."
"Come, walk with me!" requested he. "Any handkerchief,--a wedding
mouchoir--can wait an hour."
Their course was along the brink of a deep ravine; overshadowed
by large old trees; and bridged by fallen trunks. The sides were
grass-grown, and at the bottom rolled the rivulet, which had fretted
out the gorge; blending its complainings with the low rush of the wind
through the forest.
"So one feeling often wears away the soul!" remarked Charley,
reflectively. "Man is but clay after all!"
"You! the champion of your species--turning against them!" exclaimed
Ida.
"No. I am still an unbeliever in the total corruption of our nature; a
doctrine so opposed to reason and experience, that I will never assent
to it, if it is preached at me until doomsday. But this is a miserably
unsatisfactory life!"
"Yet the world says you enjoy it."
"And do you, an adept in concealment, credit a man's outward show!"
"At least, I do not practise this accomplishment upon my friends;"
replied Ida, piqued.
"Did I say that you did? I am not sure that I could not prove this
point, too;--but we will let it pass for the present. I believe you to
be what you appear to me. Carry would never forgive one who impugned
your sincerity;--and what would Mr. Germaine say?"
This was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, whose marked attentions to
Ida subjected her to the raillery of the Poplar-grove household.
"Nonsense!" said she, laughing. "He has never been beyond the outermost
court of my heart."
"I own his does not appear likely to be the hand to unlock the
penetralia. This is the spot I wanted to show you. Is it not a fairy
nook?"
It was a mossy bank at the foot of a venerable sycamore, from whose
branches the trailing vines touched their heads. A spring of the
clearest crystal bubbled among its roots.
"Oh! for a fairy goblet!" said Ida.
"It is easily made, if these leaves are large enough," answered
Charley. He gathered some, but they were too irregularly-shaped to
suit his purpose. "It is a simple process," said he, as he failed,
after several trials, to convey a thimbleful of water to his amused
companion; "but as the man said who tried to fly and couldn't--'there
is every thing in knowing how to do it.' I never like to be outdone,
even in trifles. I saw some leaves as we came along that I know will
do--excuse me a moment, and I will get them."
He was gone before she could object; and she strolled idly around
the giant trunk of the sycamore, admiring the al fresco boudoir, of
which it was the centre ornament. She set her foot upon something
harder than the soft carpet--it was a small morocco case, which she
picked up, with an ejaculation of surprise, and without a thought of
who had dropped it, opened. She had nearly let it fall, as Carry's
lovely face smiled at her from within. "Arthur has been here," was her
comment, but a glossy curl untwined itself from an envelope labelled
in Charley's hand--"_The seat under the honeysuckle. May 1st_, 18--,"
a date four years back. There was no impropriety in his having Carry's
likenesss;--they had long been in feeling what they were shortly
to become in name--brother and sister; but her heart beat so with
indefinable terror that she could not stand;--it was as though, instead
of the senseless case, another heart, its every throbbing revealed, lay
in her hand.
"You are tired waiting, I suppose, but I had a longer search than--"
The glow of a stormy sunset rushed to his face as he saw the miniature
she did not attempt to conceal. She had never conceived of the dormant
passion which now awoke in his eye and form; but she did not quail.
"I found this over there, and opened it thoughtlessly, not suspecting
what it was or to whom it belonged. I am very sorry."
The storm passed while she was speaking. The man's wonderful
self-command was master. He dipped up the water with a careful hand;
the leafy cup did not quiver.
"Do you like it? is it cool?"
"Yes--thank you."
He drank draught after draught himself, threw away the leaves, and
resumed his seat upon the bank.
"There is no help for it, Ida! you must hear what I did not intend
you ever should; not that I disdain your sympathy, but it is a rule
with me not to disturb my friends with troubles, which they cannot
alleviate. I do not know what suspicions have been forced upon you;
if they are of the honor and affection I owe my brother, or of _her_
fidelity to him, they are groundless. That picture was painted for me
before I had any intimation that his was the prize I foolishly hoped to
secure. I relinquished her; but this is the amulet which has saved me
in many temptations. Although hope was no more, memory remained; and
vice could not mate with the visions of purity that memory recalled.
There has not been a time since I first saw her, a laughing babe,
just liberated from her nurse's arms, when I have not loved her more
than any other earthly being. As boy and man I have thought, studied,
labored for her alone. When I quitted home to seek my fortune, she was
still a child, who clung weepingly to me, and kissed me as fondly as
she did her father. It was the last time! At my next visit she was away
at school;--at the second I obtained that curl. She was then fifteen;
innocent and loving, full of jesting surprise at 'Charley's mannish
ways,' and hurt that I would not call her 'sister.' She did not ask
this the ensuing summer. Lynn was with me; and in the confidence of a
hope that saw no cloud ahead, I imparted to him my dreams and desires,
and engaged him to take her portrait secretly. I went back to New York,
and wrote to her father, asking his sanction of the proposal I could
not delay. The letter was upon my desk, ready for the post, when one
arrived from Arthur. He was not to blame for his silence; I had been
as reserved to him; but he entreated my forgiveness for hiding this,
his only secret, from me. She knew it now;--her father's only objection
was their youth--a 'fault,' he remarked, jocosely, 'which will mend
with time.' In place of the letter to my guardian, I forwarded one to
my brother, congratulating him upon his happy engagement to the woman
I idolized. He is worthy of her, if a mortal can be. I can see that
it is best. He has talents and energy, and loves her as she should be
loved--I am rough and eccentric, caring and striving for nothing, now
that my guiding star has set."
"Charley! Charley! you shall not so defame yourself!" cried Ida
bursting into tears. "You--the kindest--most generous of men! you _are_
worthy of her! Oh! I wish it could be!"
"Hush! hush! I would not have it otherwise. I came home last summer,
and saw them together without a pang of selfish regret; and gloried in
my subjugation of a passion their betrothal made sinful, until our ride
to 'the Castle.' My arm saved her from mutilation or death, and instead
of thanksgiving, sprang up a horrible envy, that I had rescued her for
_him_. It was momentary, but the repentance was bitter. I abhor myself
when I think of it. I have never fancied since that I did not love
her. I know it as well now that another month will make her his bride,
as I did when hope was highest. Poor Lynn! it grieved him to his dying
day!"
Silence and tears was a fitting reply to this narration. It came to
Ida, like sudden death to a festival; producing not only sorrow and
dismay, but a trembling insecurity--an awful whisper--"Who next?" Did
human love, then, always terminate in misery? Was there no remedy?
She wanted Charley to speak again, and say that he had some source of
comfort; or at least, strength for the last, greatest trial. His words
put this hope to flight.
"I have borne as much as I can;--if it be cowardly to avert further
suffering, I am not brave. I have business in the West next month,
which could, but shall not be postponed. John will not know of it in
time to provide a substitute. Arthur will be disappointed; I would
spare him this trifling pain, if I were certain that I should not give
him more by remaining. I shall not wear this after the marriage--I may
become a castaway without it, for aught I know. When Lynn died, I said,
'My secret is buried with him.' I have committed what the Machiavelis
of the day would call an unwise act," added he, smiling; "'consigned
it to the keeping of a woman'--but I have no fears for its safety with
you. Do not let it prey upon your spirits. I would not caution a less
sympathetic nature. Be happy, Ida,--it is your manifest destiny; and I
am still disinterested enough to 'rejoice with those who do rejoice.'
The sun is setting--you shall not go to the house with that woe-begone
face. Smile! or I don't stir."
He laughed at her attempt. "Rather hysterical,--with that sob treading
upon its heels; but it will do. Come, sister!"
Ida could have cried more heartily at an expression and tone, that
reminded her of Lynn; but he was resolute in not allowing it.
Carry was upon the piazza. "My dear friends!" cried she, running to
meet them. "Where _have_ you been! here's a house full of company, and
I have sent scouts in every direction. Did not you hear or see them?"
"'I heard the owls scream, and the crickets cry;'" said Charley. "Who
is here, that we can prefer to each other's society?"
"Your forest ramble has taught you gallantry. You'll find him but
a dull scholar, Ida--why, there are Messrs. Faulkner, Euston and
Germaine, impatiently waiting the belle's appearance."
"Irresistible--more irresistible--most irresistible! Are you going off
to beautify, Miss Ida? Don't hurry--I will tell them we got lost or
drowned in the woods."
When the girls went down, it was candle-light; and the "Irresistibles"
were laughing themselves black in the face, over the piano, and the
"funniest of fellows," who was entertaining them by an original parody
upon "Oh no! I never mention her!"