CHAPTER XVIII.
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.