"My dear master, I am here."

She lifted his head to her bosom, nestled her fingers into his cold palm, and leaned her cheek against his brow. Pressing his face close to hers, the grey eyes closed, and a smile throned itself on the parted lips. A slight tremor shook the limbs, a soft shuddering breath swept across the watcher's face, and the "golden bowl" was shivered, the "silver cord" was loosed.

The vigil was over, the burden was lifted from her shoulders, the weary ministry here ended; and shrouding her face in her arms, the lonely woman wept bitterly.

CHAPTER XV

AT HOME AGAIN

Four years had wrought material changes in the town of W----; new streets had been opened, new buildings erected, new forms trod the side-walks, new faces looked out of shop-windows, and flashing equipages, and new shafts of granite and marble stood in the cemetery to tell of many who had been gathered to their forefathers. If important revolutions had been effected in her early home, not less decided and apparent was the change which had taken place in the heiress of Huntingdon Hill; and having been eyed, questioned, scrutinized by the best families, and laid in the social scale, it was found a difficult matter to determine her weight as accurately as seemed desirable. In common parlance, "her education was finished,"--she was regularly and unmistakably "out." Having lost her aunt two years before her return, the duties of hostess devolved upon her, and she dispensed the hospitalities of her home with an easy, though stately elegance, surprising in one so inexperienced.

It chanced that Dr. Arnold was absent for some weeks after her arrival, and no sooner had he returned than he sought his quondam protege. Entering unannounced, he paused suddenly as he caught sight of her standing before the fire, with Paragon at her feet. She lifted her head and came to meet him, holding out both hands, with a warm, bright smile.

"Oh, Dr. Arnold! I am so glad to see you once more. It was neither friendly nor hospitable to go off just as I came home, after long years of absence.

I am very glad to see you."

He held her hands and gazed at her like one in a dream of mingled pain and pleasure, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.

"You cannot possibly be as glad to see me as I am to have you back. But I can't realize that this is, indeed, you, my pet--the Irene I parted with rather more than four years ago. Oh, child! what a marvellous, what a glorious beauty you have grown to be!"

"Take care; you will spoil her, Arnold. Don't you know, you old cynic, that women can't stand such flattery as yours?" laughed Mr. Huntingdon.

"I am glad you like me, Doctor; I am glad you think I have improved; and since you think so, I am obliged to you for expressing your opinion of me so kindly. I wish I could return your compliments, but my conscience vetoes any such proceeding. You look jaded--overworked. What is the reason that you have grown so grey and haggard? We will enter into a compact to renew the old life; you shall treat me exactly as you used to do, and I shall come to you as formerly, and interrupt labours that seem too heavy. Sit down and talk to me. I want to hear your voice; it is pleasant to my ears, makes music in my heart, calls up the bygone. You have adopted a stick in my absence; I don't like the innovation; it hurts me to think that you need it. I must take care of you, I see, and persuade you to relinquish it entirely."

"Arnold, I verily believe she was more anxious to see you than everybody else in W---- except old Nellie, her nurse."

She did not contradict him, and the three sat conversing for more than an hour; then other visitors came in, and she withdrew to the parlour. The doctor had examined her closely all the while; had noted every word, action, expression; and a troubled, abstracted look came into his face when she left them.

"Huntingdon, what is it? What is it?"

"What is what? I don't understand you."

"What has so changed that child? I want to know what ails her?"

"Nothing, that I know of. You know that she was always rather singular."

"Yes, but it was a different sort of singularity. She is too still, and white, and cold, and stately. I told you it was a wretched piece of business to send a nature like hers, so different from everybody else's, off among utter strangers; to shut up that queer, free untamed thing in a boarding-school for four years, with hundreds of miles between her and the few things she loved. She required very peculiar and skilful treatment, and, instead, you put her off where she petrified! I knew it would never answer, and I told you so. You wanted to break her obstinacy, did you? She comes back marble. I tell you now I know her better than you do, though you are her father, and you may as well give up at once that chronic hallucination of 'ruling, conquering her.' She is like steel--cold, firm, brittle; she will break; snap asunder; but bend!--never! never! Huntingdon, I love that child; I have a right to love her; she has been very dear to me from her babyhood, and it would go hard with me to know that any sorrow darkened her life. Don't allow your old plans and views to influence you now. Let Irene be happy in her own way. Did you ever see a contented-looking eagle in a gilt cage? Did you ever know a leopardess kept in a paddock, and taught to forget her native jungles?"

Mr. Huntingdon moved uneasily, pondering the unpalatable advice.

"You certainly don't mean to say that she has inherited----?" He crushed back the words; could he crush the apprehension, too?

"I mean to say that, if she were my child, I would be guided by her, instead of striving to cut her character to fit the totally different pattern of my own."

He put on his hat, thrust his hands into his pockets, stood for some seconds frowning so heavily that the s.h.a.ggy eyebrows met and partially concealed the cavernous eyes, then nodded to the master of the house, and sought his buggy. From that day Irene was conscious of a keener and more constant scrutiny on her father's part--a ceaseless _surveillance_, silent, but rigid--that soon grew intolerable. No matter how she employed her time, or whither she went, he seemed thoroughly cognizant of the details of her life; and where she least expected interruption or dictation, his hand, firm though gentle, pointed the way, and his voice calmly but inflexibly directed. Her affection had been in no degree alienated by their long separation, and, through its sway, she submitted for a time; but Huntingdon blood ill-brooked restraint, and, ere long, hers became feverish, necessitating release. As in all tyrannical natures, his exactions grew upon her compliance. She was allowed no margin for the exercise of judgment or inclination; her a.s.sociates were selected, thrust upon her; her occupations decided without reference to her wishes. From the heartless, frivolous routine marked out, she shrank in disgust; and, painful as was the alternative, she prepared for the clash which soon became inevitable.

From verbal differences she habitually abstained; opinions which she knew to be disagreeable to him she carefully avoided giving expression to in his presence; and while always studiously thoughtful of his comfort, she preserved a respectful deportment, allowing herself no hasty or defiant words. Fond of pomp and ceremony, and imbued with certain aristocratic notions, which an ample fortune had always permitted him to indulge, Mr.

Huntingdon entertained company in princely style, and whenever an opportunity offered. His dinners, suppers, and card-parties were known far and wide, and Huntingdon Hall became proverbial for hospitality throughout the State. Strangers were feted, and it was a rare occurrence for father and daughter to dine quietly together. Fortunately for Irene, the servants were admirably trained; and though this round of company imposed a weight of responsibilities oppressive to one so inexperienced, she applied herself diligently to domestic economy, and soon became familiarized with its details. Her father had been very anxious to provide her with a skilful housekeeper, to relieve her of the care and tedious minutiae of such matters; but she refused to accept one, avowing her belief that it was the imperative duty of every woman to superintend and inspect the management of her domestic affairs. Consequently, from the first week of her return, she made it a rule to spend an hour after breakfast in her dining-room pantry, determining and arranging the details of the day.

The situation of the house commanded an extensive and beautiful prospect, and the ancient trees that overshadowed it imparted a venerable and imposing aspect. The building was of brick, overcast to represent granite, and along three sides ran a wide gallery, supported by lofty circular pillars, crowned with unusually heavy capitals. The main body consisted of two stories, with a hall in the centre, and three rooms on either side; while two long single-storied wings stretched out right and left, one a billiard-room, the other a greenhouse.

A broad easy flight of white marble steps led up to the richly-carved front door, with its ma.s.sive silver knocker bearing the name of Huntingdon in old-fashioned Italian characters; and in the arched niches, on either side of this door, stood two statues, brought from Europe by Mr. Huntingdon's father, and supposed to represent certain Roman penates.

The grounds in front, embracing several acres, were enclosed by a brick wall, and at the foot of the hill, at the entrance of the long avenue of elms, stood a tall, arched iron gate. A smoothly-shaven terrace of Bermuda gra.s.s ran round the house, and the broad carriage-way swept up to a mound opposite the door, surmounted by the bronze figure of a crouching dog. Such was Irene's home--stately and elegant--kept so thoroughly repaired that, in its cheerfulness, its age was forgotten.

The society of W---- was considered remarkably fine. There was quite an aggregation of wealth and refinement; gentlemen, whose plantations were situated in adjacent counties, resided here, with their families; some, who spent their winters on the seaboard, resorted here for the summer; its bar was said to possess more talent than any other in the State; its schools claimed to be unsurpa.s.sed; it boasted of a concert-hall, a lyceum, a handsome court-house, a commodious well-built jail, and half a dozen as fine churches as any country town could desire. I would fain avoid the term, if possible, but no synonym exists--W---- was, indisputably, an "aristocratic" place.

Thus, after more than four years' absence, the summers of which had been spent in travel among the beautiful mountain scenery of the North, the young heiress returned to the home of her childhood.

For several months after her return she patiently, hopefully, faithfully studied the dispositions of the members of various families with whom she foresaw that she would be thrown, by her father's wishes, into intimate relationship, and satisfied herself that, among all these, there was not one, save Dr. Arnold, whose counsel, a.s.sistance, or sympathy she felt any inclination to claim. In fine, W---- was not in any respect peculiar, or, as a community, specially afflicted with heartlessness, frivolity, brainlessness, or mammonism; the average was fair, reputable, in all respects. But, incontrovertibly, the girl who came to spend her life among these people was totally dissimilar in criteria of action, thought, and feeling. To the stereotyped conventional standard of fashionable life she had never yielded allegiance; and now stood a social free-thinker. For a season she allowed herself to be whirled on by the current of dinners, parties, and picnics; but soon her sedate, contemplative temperament revolted from the irksome round, and gradually she outlined and pursued a different course, giving to her gay companions just what courtesy required, no more.

Hugh had prolonged his stay in Europe beyond the period originally designated, and, instead of arriving in time to accompany his uncle and cousin home, he did not sail for some months after their return. At length, however, letters were received announcing his presence in New York, and fixing the day when his relatives might expect him.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LOAN REPAID

The carriage had been dispatched to the depot, a servant stood at the end of the avenue waiting to throw open the gate, Mr. Huntingdon walked up and down the wide colonnade, and Irene sat before the fire in her own room, holding in one palm the flashing betrothal ring which she had been forced to wear since her return from New York. The few years of partial peace had pa.s.sed; she knew that the hour drew near when the long-dreaded struggle must begin, and, hopeless of averting it, quietly waited for the storm to break. Dropping the ring in her jewellery-box, she turned the key, and just then her father's voice rang through the house.

"Irene! the carriage is coming up the avenue."

She went slowly downstairs, followed by Paragon, and joined her father at the door. His searching look discovered nothing in the serene face; the carriage stopped, and he hastened to meet his nephew.

"Come at last, eh! Welcome home, my dear boy."

The young man turned from his uncle, sprang up the steps, then paused, and the cousins looked at each other.

"Well, Hugh! I am very glad to see you once more."

She held out her hands, and he saw at a glance that her fingers were unfettered. Seizing them warmly, he bent forward; but she drew back coldly, and he exclaimed--

"Irene! I claim a warmer welcome."

She made a haughty, repellent gesture, and moved forward a few steps, to greet the stranger who accompanied him.

"My daughter, this is your uncle, Eric Mitch.e.l.l, who has not seen you since you were a baby."

The party entered the house, and, seated beside him, Irene gazed with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure upon her mother's only brother. He was about thirty, but looked older from life-long suffering; had used crutches from the time he was five years of age, having been hopelessly crippled by a fall during his infancy. His features were sharp, his cheeks wore the sallow hue of habitual ill-health, and his fine grey eyes were somewhat sunken. Resting his crutches against the sofa, he leaned back, and looked long and earnestly at his niece. Very dimly he remembered a fair, flaxen-haired baby whom the nurse had held out to be kissed when he was sent to Philadelphia to be treated for his lameness; soon after he heard of his sister's death, and then his tutor took him to Europe, to command the best medical advice of the old world.

"From the faint recollection which I have of your mother, I think you strongly resemble her," he said at last in a fond, gentle tone.