Mr. Read was in his private sitting-room;--it adjoined his chamber,
and his longest walk was from one apartment to the other. The sun
beamed cheerfully through the damask curtains, and the fire blazed
and crackled in the grate; but wrapped in his wadded dressing-gown,
his feet sunk heavily into a cushion, and his face contracted into
a fretful frown, he appeared to be enduring the extreme of cold and
discomfort. He was a sorry picture of a three months' bridegroom.
His surroundings were tasteful and luxurious,--books and papers and
pictures and handsome furniture, and at his elbow stood a silver
hand-bell, whose tongue would bring an obsequious servant, ready to
perform his bidding; yet his sigh, as he fidgeted uneasily in his downy
_fauteuil_, was a groan of repining.--"Like a jaded old hack! they
won't knock him in the head, in consideration of past services; but he
may die as soon as he can--the quicker the better!"
"The Northern papers have come, sir, and I thought you would like to
see them;" said a gentle voice. It was his ward. A grunt and a gesture
bade her put them upon the stand.
"Are you in pain this afternoon?" she asked, sympathizingly.
"I am always in pain!"
"Can I do anything for you?"
"No!" He reached for the papers; but a twinge in his shoulder forced
him to drop them. Ida picked them up. The desolate old man excited her
sincerest pity.
"It must weary you, holding those large sheets; and the print is fine.
If you will designate the articles you wish read, I will do it for you
with pleasure."
The offer was tempting, although its acceptance was ungracious. He
pointed to a piece, and she removed her bonnet and seated herself near
him. He did not inquire if she were going out, and she did not make her
sacrifice meritorious in his eyes, by informing him that she gave up
her walk to minister to his enjoyment. She read well;--her voice was
exquisitely modulated; her enunciation perfect; Mr. Read forgot to be
peevish, and his corrugated forehead lost half its wrinkles. When she
ceased, he seemed to have been lulled by a strain of music. The article
selected was an editorial leader on political economy, unintelligible
and prosy to Ida; but she endeavored not to let this appear. He nodded,
and stripped the envelope from another sheet. His eye gleamed, and with
an approach to a smile, he showed her six columns of an oration;--a
grand effort of the immortal sage of Marshfield. Ida was appalled at
the superficies of the solid mass, but she said over to herself, a
verse she had lisped at her mother's knee.
"Did I this day, for small or great,
My own pursuits forego,
To lighten, by a feather's weight,
The load of human woe?"
and began the terrible undertaking. The preamble over, she became
insensibly interested. Her soul-lit face and ringing intonations
supplied to the auditor, the actual presence of the orator; he looked
and listened until the light failed; then rang for candles. Mrs. Read,
returning from her airing, seated herself silently by the fire. It
was the prettiest domestic scene that had ever been witnessed in that
house; and how little reality was there in its air of home-happiness!
"Is that all?" asked Mr. Read, at supper-time.
"Almost, sir. I can soon finish it. I will not detain you Mrs. Read."
But she waited to hear the conclusion. A gruff "Thank you," was Ida's
only reward, besides the praise of her conscience; and her tired
throat obliged her to refuse Charley his favorite song that night,
but she did not repent. She volunteered her services whenever she
knew that there were new books or journals, and at length, the latest
intelligence was distasteful, unless it came through her lips. It was
a selfish gratification; and she did not delude herself with illusions
of personal attachment. She strove to live for the benefit and pleasure
of her fellow-beings; to leave her interest and ease out of sight; and
she could not have been in a better school. The woman's heart was not
still. There were moments of weariness and longing, and passionate
regrets. The soul, refusing the realities, which made up the sum of
every-day duty, pined for the remembered "Dream Land;"--its retreat,
and the scene of its holiday revels;--and when the aching and thirst
were at their height, it was a trial to smile at a caress from Mrs.
Dana, or a friendly act of Charley's--dear and thoughtful brother! when
she could have rested her tired head upon the kind bosom, and wept her
life away--but she _did_ smile, and bore up bravely until God gave her
strength to rise above the weakness.
The Sabbath was a season of delight. A band of little girls watched
eagerly for her at Sabbath-school. Inclement indeed must the day
be, that saw their form vacant; for she was always at her post, and
regarded snow and rain as minor hindrances when her flock nestled
closely to "dear Miss Ida." No class loved their teacher and their
Bible so well as hers; her co-laborers said she had a secret spell,
by which she won and governed them; and she had,--for she was ever
mindful that she had another account to render than her report to the
Superintendent, and prayed that it might be--"Those whom Thou gavest
me, I have kept, and none of them is lost." She loved her pastor; but
her acquaintance with him was slight. He visited her at stated times,
and esteemed her an "amiable girl, with a creditable fund of general
information;" he "could not know the exercises of all his members;"
and that a woman whose life was so uncheckered, should have any
difficulties and sorrows, but such as are incidental to the experience
of every Christian, never crossed his brain. But he was a faithful
expounder of the Scriptures; and if he did not remark the changeful
light of the eyes, which never released him from the text to the "Amen"
of his discourse;--she felt that consolations and advice so applicable,
must be meant for her; and remembered him in her orisons, as a Shepherd
who cared for his sheep, and selected for each, food convenient for
him. She resolved repeatedly, to thank him for his fidelity; but her
courage melted when the opportunity arrived; and she would rebuke the
vanity that bred the desire. She read that in the primitive church,
"those who loved the Lord, spake often to one another;" and imagined,
in her simplicity, that such intercourse would be of mutual comfort
and profit; yet a seal was upon her mouth, and she waited and wished
in vain, for a word in the conversation of her brethren, which would
dissolve it. It was strange that she could speak freely and heartily
to Carry and to Charley, and be restrained by the presence of those,
who had tasted like joys--were bound upon the same pilgrimage as
herself.
There was an exception--a minister from another State, with whom she
once dined at Mr. Dana's; a merry-hearted, whole-souled man, whose
store of anecdote and pleasantry enlivened the company at table;--and
after dinner, gathering from a passing remark, that she was a
professing Christian, he sought her out; and while the rest were busy
about other matters, they were talking of the "peace which passeth
understanding," and the home in preparation for them;--not with austere
gravity, but, easily and happily, as befitted a topic so inspiriting.
They separated--not to meet again in time; and Ida went on her way,
cheered and strengthened by the interview, and hoping to thank him
in heaven, for the seed he had sowed by the wayside--_not_ in the
Scriptural sense of the term.
Mr. Read's disease assumed a chronic type. Some days well enough
to transact business in person,--then relapsing, in consequence of
trifling exposure or change of weather, his existence was a series of
anxieties and sufferings. Ida did not know how she became his nurse;
Josephine would not endure his petulance, and her retorts exasperated
him; and his wife was too deep in the vortex of fashionable life to
waste many minutes upon him; it was unjust and unfeeling to abandon
him to the care of menials; and as with her reading, what was a favor,
voluntarily offered, came to be regarded as a duty, expected and
unrequited. The Danas objected to this thankless sacrifice; but she
persisted. It was during one of his worst spells, that an incident
occurred, which she did not heed at the time, but when recalled by
subsequent events, was fraught with meaning. It was in the evening; and
she was on her way to the dining-room, to order a cup of tea for the
invalid, when the light streaming through a crack in the parlor-door
suggested the probability that the servant she was in quest of, was
lighting the lamps in there. She pushed the door open. Mrs. Read was
in the middle of the room, her face averted, and her arm extended in
repulsion or denial, towards a tall, dark man, who was speaking in
a low, excited tone. "'Forget!' I do not forget that circumstances
are not what they were then!" was all that Ida heard, as she retired
hastily and unseen. As she passed through the entry, she caught a
noise, like the rustle of drapery, but supposed it to be the waving of
her dress in the wind. Mr. Read was in agony; and Ida sent to request
Dr. Ballard's immediate presence. The messenger's steps were not cold
upon the stairs, when the sick man tormented himself with impatience
for the physician's arrival.
"If the servant had a pass, it was not signed--if it was signed, he
had lost it--if he had lost it, Ballard would wait to eat his supper,
before he came. I wish he had this shooting fire through his limbs! It
would put some speed into his lazy body! Ah! there he is!"
It was Mrs. Read, who meeting the servant with the tea, and hearing
of her husband's state, had taken it from him. Ida, preoccupied as
she was, noticed that she was pale and agitated. Her voice too,
was tremulous, and had a cadence that might have been mistaken for
tenderness.
"I grieve to see you so much worse. Drink this, it may relieve you,"
she said, slipping her hand under his pillow to raise his head. Ida
sprang forward to arrest the movement. He was suffering excruciating
pain in his neck; and frantic at its augmentation by this change of
position, he dashed the cup to the floor, with a shocking oath.
"You want to kill me! I've seen that for a long time; and then you can
flaunt to your heart's content. You can marry whom you please, and make
him rich with my money, like the shameless wretch you are!" he yelled,
distractedly.
The smothered fire leaped high--the dark eye blazed with wrath, but she
uttered not a sound, as she turned from him. Ida had never seen such a
look in mortal face, and wild with fear of, she know not what, darted
after her, and overtook her in the dressing-room.
"Oh! do not! do not!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the
stately form.
"Do not what?" said the lady, trying to unlock her fingers. Ida held
her fast.
"Oh! the horrible thing that is in your thoughts! He is mad with
pain--he did not mean--did not think what he did. He says as hard
things to me, to every one--but he loves you! he _does_ love you!" and
dropping her head upon the lady's breast, she sobbed like a child. The
haughty woman stood irresolute--passive in the tenacious grasp of the
over-excited girl.
"He drove me from him--struck me!" she said, in thick accents. "Why
should I stay?"
It was rather a soliloquy than a question, and Ida reiterated, "He did
not mean it! he loves you!"
"Do _you_ love him?" inquired the lady, lifting her face, and gazing
piercingly into it.
"I pity him," said Ida.
"Do you hate him?" she asked, more energetically.
"No, I hate no one."
"Yet you have cause."
"I try to forgive."
"You do not hate him!" repeated Mrs. Read; and again to herself, she
added, "_I_ do!"
Ida let her go. "I pity him!" she said, with mournful earnestness, "but
I pity you more! doomed to a life of falsehood and misery! Heaven pity
you as I do."
"Stay!" said Mrs. Read, as she would have gone back to the chamber. "Do
you despise me utterly? Am I lost?"
"'Lost!' no--while life and reason last, there may be room for
repentance."
Repentance! what had she, so queenly in her pride and beauty, to
do with repentance? yet the words seemed to strike her. Mr. Read's
querulous tones called "Ida!" "I must go," she said. "Will you come?"
"Not now--presently."
The patient was slumbering heavily under the influence of the
medicine Dr. Ballard prescribed, when his wife rejoined her assistant
nurse--lofty and unimpressible. She regarded the sleeper long and
fixedly. His hair was nearly white, and his features pinched by
sickness, but there was no softening of compassion in the rigid lines
of her face. Setting her chair into the shade, she was speechless and
motionless for hours. They watched him together all night; exchanging
only brief remarks as to his situation, and the remedies to be
employed. He rallied from this seizure, and Ida was as far from the
brilliant worldling as before.
An unexpected event attracted her from the retirement in which her
charitable functions had secluded her. Celestia Pratt was married!
and to Ellen's chagrin, to a cousin of the Morris family. He was
good-looking, ambitious and poor;--she susceptible a "Representative's"
daughter, and rich. He wrote to his aunt that they would take
Richmond in the wedding-tour; and she was obliged, _nolens volens_,
to give them a party. Ida was disinclined to attend; but Ellen's
solicitations conquered her reluctance. Mr. Cranleigh, the groom, was
gentlemanly, even handsome, and accepted the customary greetings with
as much complacency, as though his wife were not, as Ellen groaned to
Ida--"Celestia, unmitigated Celestia!"
"A penny for your thoughts!" said Ida, tapping Charley's arm with her
fan.
"I was thinking what falsehoods geologists tell us about the thickness
of the crust of the earth, and how many years the mines of Peru have
been worked."
"A profound subject for deep meditation, but I am at a loss--"
"Why, allowing a thousand brides a week in the civilized world, (and
there are quadruple that number,) according to my rough computation,
the miners ought to be within hail of the Chinese, or whatever nation
is the antipodes of the Peruvians, by this time."
"Their kindred craft, the jewellers, have been called upon by the
Celestia-ls," said Mr. Thornton.
"'Pon my word!" remarked Pemberton to Josephine, "I have heard of men
who married 'for pretty,' but it's my opinion, Cranleigh married for
ugly."
Josephine laughed, but her attention was absorbed by some object in
another part of the room. "You know everybody," said she; "who is that
gentleman talking with the bride?"
He knew everybody, and this must be nobody. He had certainly seen him
somewhere before--it might have been at Newport--or perhaps in New
Orleans, yet he could not call his name. Why did she inquire?
"A question by the way--she was not curious. He had a foreign air, and
she fancied might be one of Mr. Pemberton's friends--he had so many
abroad."
He had, and it would be awkward not to recollect him, if he should
speak.
"There's Cranleigh! he knows!"
The stranger's name was Ashlin, an early acquaintance of Mrs.
Cranleigh's, and later from the West Indies.
"Had he resided there long?" Miss Read asked.
"Two years--nearly three, indeed."
Mr. Ashlin was graceful and _distingue_, and Ida was attacked by an
unaccountable curiosity. She interrogated the bride.
"What handsome man was that, you were conversing with, awhile ago,
Celestia?"
Her face was broad with smiles. "Law! why Mr. Cranleigh, my husband, to
be sure! Haven't you been introduced? Here! Mr. Cran--"
"Oh! don't!" said Ida. "I know him--don't interrupt him! I alluded to
that tall gentleman by the folding-doors."
"That's Mr. Ashlin. He used to live close by Pa's; and then his uncle
died out in Cuba or West India, I forget which--and he went off there,
where he's been three years, rolling in money they say. He's mighty
smart too--_I'm_ 'most afraid of him. Don't he look like a-a-cannibal!"
said Mrs. Cranleigh, some reminiscence of New Zealand history coming to
her help.
"His is a dark beauty, certainly," replied Ida, hiding a smile. "I
should say if he had not lived abroad, that I had seen his face
somewhere else."
"You needn't be setting your cap!" retorted the bride, spitefully,
"He won't be so easy caught as that Mr. Euston, you all think such an
_Adolphus_. He's engaged."
"Ah! who is the fortunate lady?"
"A Miss Courtland,--or some such name;--that is--he was engaged once,
but, seems to me, I've heard that he jilted her, and she married a rich
old man for his 'tin.'"
"What did you call her? Speak lower!" said Ida.
"Law! you're scared! what ails you?"
"Nothing--nothing!" laughing. "You had as well be silent about this
Mr. Ashlin,--he has quick ears, and gentleman do not admire gossiping
ladies. You have a splendid bouquet--is this Mr. Cranleigh's taste?"
And while the history of the courtship, from their meeting at the
"Sulphur Springs" to the present glorification, was pouring upon her
tympanum, she was arguing away her unjustifiable suspicions. His
general appearance was that of the gentleman she had a glimpse of
in Mr. Read's parlor; and Mrs. Read's behaviour that evening was so
extraordinary as to give colour to the story;--But Celestia always
garbled the simplest narrations, murdering names and jumbling facts,
until it was next to impossible to arrive at the truth. A three years'
absence, too! How nonsensical she was! Her fears returned, however,
with reinforcements, when he attached himself to Mrs. Read's cordon of
admirers. These were not all young men. Elderly gentlemen, who had not
lost their eye for fair faces, and taste for repartee, were recipients
of as gracious welcomes as were apportioned to their youthful rivals;
and sagacious damsels, of doubtful belleship and charms, crept beneath
the wings of her popularity, large enough to shelter a female favorite
or so. Mr. Ashlin entered the outmost precincts of this circle, and by
imperceptible advances penetrated to the centre of attraction. Mrs.
Read flushed slightly, with surprise or displeasure, as he established
himself by her side; but nothing intimidated, he presently usurped
the management of the conversation; holding up some to ridicule so
cleverly that they had only themselves to blame, and did not suspect
his agency; flattering others, until they dropped off like surfeited
leeches; and angering some so openly, that Ida, who was near enough
to get an inkling of what was transpiring, was assured that he was
playing for a rich stake. His purpose was effected; he had a clear
field; and with no alteration of manner, unless a shade of respect
moderated his gay _insouciance_, he continued his attentions. No place
is better for a confidential confabulation than a crowded room, if the
parties understand how to conduct it. The initiated would have surmised
from an occasional gleam of the eye, and the varying expression of
that most uncontrollable of features, the mouth, that something more
important than sugared nothings was upon the tapis; but to the purblind
merrymakers, as a body, Mrs. Read was examining a portfolio of prints,
and her companion, a travelled gentleman, descanting upon "High Art"
in "the States," as contrasted with the love for poetry, painting and
music, which, it was said, prevailed in gay, pleasure-loving Havana.
Ida was surprised that Mr. Ashlin requested a presentation to
herself, and still more at the pertinacity with which he cultivated
the acquaintance he must see she did not desire. He triumphed over
her prejudice, inveterate as she had thought it. His air of deep
interest--the admiration, too respectful to be conveyed in words, which
spoke in every look and action, were dangerous flattery, and Ida was
not invulnerable. But in reviewing the events of the evening, distrust
obscured the pleasing recollection of his captivating address and the
magic of his eloquence. Why was it bestowed upon her--a stranger, and
so little attractive in her appearance? Why, especially, should he have
asked permission to call? He knew Mrs. Read, and to her the application
should, in etiquette, have been made. There was a vague apprehension
hanging over her--a foreboding, for which she could assign no cause.
He called, as he had promised, "at an early day." The family were
collected in Mr. Read's room, when his card was brought to the lady of
the house.
"Mr. Ashlin," she read. "Whom did he ask for, John?"
"The ladies, ma'am."
"Very well. Josephine, I will thank you and Miss Ida to receive him,
and excuse me."
"Excuse _me_, if you please!" answered Josephine, bridling. "I scarcely
know the gentleman, and do not covet the honour."
"Miss Ida?" said Mrs. Read, inquiringly.
"Why not go down with me, ma'am? Are you indisposed?"
"You need not say so--I am engaged. I really wish it," she added, for
Ida was undecided.
"Then I will go," said she, with a sensation of infinite relief.
Josephine followed her out. "Beware, my lady-like Tartuffe!" hissed
she, sneering in baffled malignity. "You are mixing yourself up in a
scrape which will not reflect much credit upon the elect."
Her fiendish laugh was echoing after her, as Ida gained the parlor.
Mr. Ashlin did not appear abashed or disappointed, upon receipt of the
apologies. He bowed, with a civil regret, and seemed to forget that
there were other ladies in the house or in the world, than the one he
was entertaining.
Ida's disagreeable oppression returned once, at his smile, when,
in reply to his inquiry, she stated that the portrait in the niche
opposite him, was Mr. Read's.
He got up to inspect it. To Ida, he was measuring himself with it, as
he straightened his Apollo figure, and expanded his full chest.
"A good painting!" he observed. "How long since it was taken?"
"Two years."
"The pencil of time is the best test of the value of a picture--to
some it is a destroyer,--it beautifies others. An excellent piece of
work!"--still scanning it. "Is the likeness correct?"
"Uncommonly--or was, when it was painted. Mr. Read looks older and
thinner now, that his health is impaired."
Again that sinister smile! but he said nothing more.
He called again, with a friend, an _habitue_ of the house. It was
evening, and Mrs. Read saw them. The length of his stay in Richmond was
indefinite;--they were not sure but each visit was his last; and he,
keeping up the uncertainty, came frequently, at the hours which suited
him best. Josephine, succumbing seemingly, to the power of his wizard
wand, freely declared her dread of his departure; Ida felt as much when
with him, and revoked it, secretly, as soon as her eyes recovered from
their dazzlement. Mrs. Read treated him, as she did her other visitors,
and bore no part in the chorus of laudations chaunted in his absence.
When Mr. Read was well enough to see company, he fell an easy conquest
to the arts of the inimitable stranger. "He was"--he protested, "a
better doctor than Ballard. An hour of his society was more beneficial
to him, than the apothecary's entire stock of drugs."
His birth-day was near at hand, and he determined to invite his friends
to rejoice with him, at his partial restoration to health. It was to be
an unostentatious affair--a dinner, and no ladies but those belonging
to the family. Mr. Read was as impatient as a child at its first
tea-party.
"They are late, Helen! they are not coming!" he said every few minutes,
while they were awaiting the guests. He was working himself into a
passion, when the welcome ring appeased him.
"Mr. Copeland!" called the stentorian lungs of the footman; and Mrs.
Read was as white, as if the hand of Death had smitten her.
"How are you all?" said Richard, in his joyous, rattling style. "Miss
Ross, I am delighted to meet you--Miss Josephine, I will not disparage
your blooming cheeks by asking after your health,--and you, Mr. Read,
have been practicing upon our fears, by stories of illness--hasn't he,
Helen--_you_ are ill!" he said, brought to a full stop by her pallor.
"Ill! you are well--are you not?" said Mr. Read, in alarm.
"Well! yes! what notions you have, Richard!" and the color flowed back.
"When did you come in?--down, I mean, and how are they at home?"
"'Home' is too bridish for a demure matron; but they are well, and sent
love. I arrived this morning, and should have been in before, but for
business."
"Don't leave the room, Helen. Somebody will come while you are out.
Send John for what you want;" said Mr. Read.--She was slipping out
through the back parlor.
"I will be gone but a second," she answered; and Mr. Read was still
telling Richard how opportune his visit was when she returned. She was
the collected, urbane hostess, only an eager glance at each arrival,
betrayed nervousness or expectation. Mr. Read watched the door, also;
and his displeasure at the tardiness of his favorite was audibly vented.
"Helen! why don't Mr. Ashlin come?" he said, in Ida's hearing. Ears
less acute would not have distinguished his wife's reply.
"Hush! these people are jealous of your preference already. He will be
here before long."
Ida had mislaid her handkerchief, or not brought it into the room; and
Richard offered to favor her retreat by a journey into the next room,
to look at some green-house plants. Leaving him bending over them, she
ran up-stairs, found the missing article, and was hurrying down, when a
ring arrested her upon the lower landing. Thinking to let the visitor
enter before her, she stepped back out of sight.
"Mr. Ashlin, I beg your pardon, sir," said John, "my mistress told me
to give you this before you went into the drawing-room, sir."
Mr. Ashlin paused--she judged, to read a note.
"All right!" said he. "Tell your mistress, I regret exceedingly that I
am called into the country, on account of a friend's danger, and cannot
comply with my engagement to Mr. Read this evening. Deliver the message
as I have given it. This is for yourself, John. Good day."
"Thank you, sir. Good afternoon."
Ida's limbs shook beneath her. She had not time to unravel the
mystery--for mystery she knew it to be;--Mrs. Read's fright at her
brother's entrance; her incoherence and exit; the strangely worded
message; the bribe to the servant--swam in a chaotic medley through her
mind. She was sick with terror, until warned to conceal her emotions
by Richard's saying that "Helen's queer symptoms had become epidemic."
Partaker of the alarms of guilt, by her knowledge of the sin,--averse
as she was to participation in its concealment, she was possessed with
the idea, that to her was committed the work of blinding Richard. While
her ears were alert to every sentence uttered around her, and she
was quaking at the least approach to a mention of the absentee, she
aimed to monopolize Mr. Copeland's sense and thoughts. She anticipated
their quitting the table as a blessed change; then a cold agony
came over her, at the remembrance that the gentlemen would remain.
Discovery, in this case, was inevitable. His wife's caution would not
restrain Mr. Read from pledging Mr. Ashlin's health. She thought of
bantering Richard into withdrawing with the ladies;--it would be too
bold--too forward. He would obey, but his respect for her would be
diminished;--as a final alternative, she must venture it--but was there
no other?
"Our patient does us credit, Miss Ida." Her next neighbor was Dr.
Ballard.
"Does _you_ credit, Doctor. I am only your custodian--a daring one,
however, for I have a petition to submit. Will it not be imprudent
for Mr. Read to remain long at table, after the cloth is removed? His
system is still inflammatory." Her conscience reproved her for the
deception, although she spoke the truth, but the case was desperate.
The doctor's professional cap was on instantly.
"Unquestionably, my child!--unquestionably! well thought of, Miss Ida!
We must guard against a relapse. How shall we get him into the parlor?"
Ida consulted Richard, who referred the case to Charley and returned
her the reply, that if the ladies would delay their departure, a little
longer than was customary,--not to startle those who loved to tarry at
the wine, he would concert with most of the company to rise at the same
time. Charley was at the helm, and Ida could safely have slept upon
her watch. Mr. Read demurred at an infringement upon banquetting laws,
but the seceders gallantly insisted upon attending their fair leaders;
and the most disaffected had not courage to stand their ground. It was
a weary, weary evening to Ida; she looked and felt wretchedly ill,
after the guests dispersed. Richard looked in again, after saying "good
night."
"I have purchased a buggy to-day," said he, to Ida; "and my pet horse
is in town. Shall I have the pleasure of driving you out in the
morning?"
She assented.
"At what hour?" he asked.
"I wonder what has happened, that Ashlin stayed away!" said Mr. Read.
Richard started violently. "Ashlin!" he echoed with a fiery look at his
sister. "Ashlin--Ashlin;" he repeated, sensible of his imprudence. "I
have heard the name--who is he?"
"An old friend of your sister's," replied Josephine.
Richard's face was profoundly meditative. "A small man--is he not?
red-haired, stoops in the shoulders, and wears spectacles?"
Mr. Read spoke up indignantly. "A magnificent fellow! gentlemanly,
intelligent, and one of the best hearts in the world."
"I do not know him then!" said Richard, emphatically. "Now I think
of it, the red head's name may have been Ash_ton_. Say eleven
o'clock,"--to Ida--"it will be pleasantly warm then."
"It will suit me," she rejoined, trembling before his gaze.
He was punctual to the hour. Mr. Read hobbled to the door to admire
his "turn-out." To him, Richard was lively and friendly as usual, but
he refused his sister's invitation to come in, and his bow, as his
horse sprang off at the loosened rein, was to him. They left the city
by the shortest route. Beyond the houses, Richard slackened their
headlong speed.
"Miss Ross!" he said, abruptly facing her, "I have classed you among
the limited number of your sex, who are upright and truthful. Within
twelve hours past, I have doubted _you_. You are under no personal
obligations to answer my questions;--but as a brother--for the honor of
my family, I demand of you, all that you know of this Ashlin."
"Which is very little. I never saw him until Mr. Cranleigh's marriage,
when he was introduced to me at Mrs. Morris'."
"By whom? by Helen?"
"By Mrs. Morris, herself. He made a party call, and has continued to
visit the house."
"Artful as ever!" he said, through his shut teeth. "Does Mrs. Read see
him?"
"Yes; and Mr. Read."
"The old blinkard! Does Helen receive him as your friend or as hers?"
"As the friend of the family."
"Tush! I might commend your diplomacy, Miss Ross, if I were not so
thoroughly in earnest. It is clear you will not advance a step, without
knowing why you are questioned. Having more confidence in you, than
you have in me, I will set you an example of candor. Ashlin and my
sister were betrothed when he was at college. We were 'chums.' He is
ardent--generous in some of his impulses, but as I perceived, even with
my boyishly irregular notions, lax in principle. Helen was not ignorant
of my opinion, and with a woman's faith and perseverance, set herself
to break it down. You do not know her as she was then--high-spirited,
proud and passionate, but tractable as a child to the voice of
affection. Her will was more ungovernable than mine, and she almost
reconciled me to her choice. He had just completed his course at the
University, when the death of an uncle put him in possession of a
valuable estate in Cuba. The marriage, which was to have taken place
immediately, was postponed for twelve months. Meantime, he was to
visit his property, and prepare for a permanent residence in the
West Indies. The year elapsed--he did not return--and suddenly his
letters were suspended. Helen was insanely trustful; he might be ill
or dead--dying, or in the grave, he was true! Her romantic independent
disposition led her to the formation of a mad project--to search for
him in person, since she could learn nothing in any other way. I
could not dissuade her;--she made but one concession,--that I might
accompany her. The object and direction of our expedition was known
only to ourselves. We were ready--a day before that fixed for starting,
a letter came! He was enamored of an Italian cantatrice; 'designed
marrying her, if Helen would liberate him;--if not, he would redeem his
early pledge to her.' She was ill for weeks; and upon what, I believed
was her death-bed, she extorted from me a vow not to revenge her. She
'should have foreseen how it would end,' she said, 'blind, confiding
dupe, that she was!' She arose--a hardened, I think, sometimes, a
heartless woman of the world:--with her trust in him, had perished her
faith in God and man; an unfeminine panting for wealth and distinction
filling its place. Chance threw this gold-fish, Read, in her net; and
she clutched him. I had sorrowed for, and commiserated her until then;
but so sordid, so wickedly weak was this act, that I reproached her
angrily. I said it sprang from wounded vanity, and a mean desire to
glitter, a hollow-hearted, tinselled doll in the view of those who
would gibe, while pretending to applaud;--that her conduct was as
degrading to her, as mortifying to us,--and she bore my vituperations,
without attempting to defend herself, 'Richard!' she said, when I
had exhausted my indignation, 'better reason with a tornado, than a
slighted woman!'
"You regard me as a chattering coxcomb, Miss Ida; but I solemnly
declare that I could have gone to the block more resignedly, than
I saw my beautiful sister sold to her hoary bridegroom. These were
circumstances, with which I could not cope--but the diabolical schemes
of this assassin of her peace shall not mature! This is the sad
tale--is it quite new to you?"
"In its details;" and she related Celestia's version.
"Which furnished you with a key--you have a clear head, and a woman's
wit--have you found no locks that it fitted?"
No reply.
"Did you divine the cause of Helen's embarrassment at my appearance,
yesterday?"
"Not at the time."
"But afterwards. He was invited--did she warn him of my being there? If
so, do not say it. I can bear your silence better than the truth."
"I can neither deny nor assert, Mr. Copeland. I have imagined many
dreadful things, which may have no real existence. You may judge for
yourself."
His brow was lighter, when he had heard her unvarnished relation.
"I thank you!" said he, heartily. "We may cicatrize this wound yet.
I will see Helen to-night; she expects a reproof; and if she is not
what she appears,--refined steel--I will make her feel. I dare not
meet Ashlin--but I will write--and if he crosses my path again--."
He resumed in a milder tone, "I would crave one more proof of your
good-will, but that I fear a refusal."
"Ask it."
"If he renews his visits, will you inform me?"
"No, sir!" said Ida, positively. "The service savors too much of
espionage."
"I was afraid you would see it in that light. Miss Read," he continued,
scornfully, "would require no persuasion to play the spy. I was near
committing myself last night. His name was a galvanic shock."
"I cannot but hope," said Ida, "that our fears have magnified shadows
into spectres. We are so prone to shape events after the fashion of
our inclinations or forebodings. Do not consider it an impertinent
liberty, Mr. Copeland, if I recommend to you to be very gentle in your
reprehension of your sister. Callous, self-dependent in semblance,
think what her sufferings are, empaled by memory and conscience. Oh! if
we had more charity for the tempted!"
"Temptation, sin, suffering! how naturally the words succeed each
other!" mused Richard.
"And they are an epitome of all human woe," said Ida "It is a doctrine
of mine, that a small proportion of the great aggregate of crime is
committed from actual love of sin."
She was gratified at his demeanor towards his sister upon their return.
He dined with them, and was markedly attentive to her, combining so
much brotherly kindness with a certain deference to her wishes and
sentiments, that she struggled with the softness which menaced her
proud composure. As they quitted the table, he passed his arm around
her waist, and there were tears in the eyes upraised to his. No
more auspicious time could occur for the contemplated conversation;
and Ida enticed Mr. Read into his reading room, by the lure of an
uncut periodical. The words fell from her mouth mechanically--her
mind was upon the momentous interview. In the character and life
delineated by Richard, she traced, with a thrill, a similarity to
her own; the impetuous temper--unmanageable, save when the breath of
love sighed over the heart; the blasted hope; the unworthiness of
the object of adoration--ah! this bitterest ingredient in the cup
of despair was spared her! but the prostration of soul and body;
then the heaven-threatening billows of blasphemous misanthropy, and
self-abandonment--the parallel was just here--to diverge how widely
in the result of the ordeal! one, wilfully completing the ruin of her
happiness by perjury--cauterizing her heart with corrodents, that eat
away its fevered life; the other, dragging herself, wounded and weary,
to the feet of the Good Physician, to be healed, and fed, and sustained
by His loving mercy; and the language of Ida's thanksgiving was, "Lord!
_Thou_ hast made me to differ!"