Gifts of Genius | Page 8

did my duty, when the
temptation to neglect it was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from
the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and respected my own
name and honor, too much to remain. It was better to break my heart, I
said, than take advantage of my position at the hall, to engage a young
girl's heart, and drag her down, in case she loved me, to the poor low
sphere in which I moved. If her father had said to me, "You have
abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with duplicity," I think it
would have ruined me, forever, in my own esteem. And would he not
have had the right to say it?
So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into

my proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.
Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire
and myself? 'Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me
something which I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath my
hand; let us look at it. It passed soon after my departure:
"Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18--.
"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND:
"Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered that event
with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned by a want of
kindness in myself, or some member of my family. I saw with regret
that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon you with as much favor
as I hoped. If any word or action of mine has wounded you, I pray you
to forget and pardon it.
"Your friend,
"C. BARRINGTON.
"P.S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was many long
years ago, a very dear friend of mine."
My reply was in the following words:
"MY DEAR MR. BARRINGTON:
"Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat hasty
departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member of the
household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances. You will not
think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I think these
circumstances were better not alluded to at present.
"Truly and faithfully,
"ST. GEORGE CLEAVE."

Thus ended then our correspondence. Three years afterward I received
another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It
contained simply the words:
"I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you to come
and see me, my young friend?
"C. BARRINGTON."
I need not say that I went at once. As I approached the old manor house
a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. There were the
fields over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so
often I had wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great
oak against which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his
setting, and where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow,
still raised its head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the
bright-tinted foliage of autumn.
I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed to smile; they saluted
me sweetly, as in other hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome
me--I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the hall.
All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; my heart beat violently, and
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to
meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days? I held the small hand,
and looked into the deep eyes for some moments without uttering a
word. She was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed a grace
and elegance a thousand times finer than before. Her eyes were filled
with the strangest sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed at me.
"Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, Mr. Cleave," she said, in a
low, sad voice; "will you come up and see him at once? he is very ill."
And turning away her head, the fair girl burst into uncontrollable sobs,
every one of which went to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to
yield to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led the way into
the parlor, where I was received by Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff,
but much more subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce my

arrival to her father, and soon I was alone with the old man.
I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. He seemed twenty years
older. I scarcely recognized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country
gentleman whom I had known.
The motive for his letter was soon explained. The executorial accounts,
whose terrible disarrangement I