Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1872], Doctor Vandyke: a novel. (D. Appleton and Company, New York) [word count] [eaf505T].
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I. THE DOCTOR.
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A man was sitting in a house on Gloucester
Street, in Williamsburg, Virginia,
about a hundred years ago, busy at a
very singular employment.
In this lower world the inner character
of men and things connects itself so
mysteriously with their outward appearance,
that a pen-and-ink sketch is desirable
of the room in which the personage
we have introduced was sitting, and
of the personage himself.
It was the front apartment of a small
house, standing somewhat back from the
street, in the midst of a small garden,
given up chiefly to flowers; and, as the
season was autumn, the borders burned
with prince's - feathers, asters, yellow
primroses, and late geraniums. You approached
by a gravel-walk, mounted two
stone steps, entered by a heavy door, ornamented
with an enormous brass lock,
and, passing through an inner door on
the right, found yourself in the apartment
mentioned. It was half sitting-room,
half laboratory. A thick carpet,
with lozenge-shaped figures of black and
red alternately, covered the floor, and
some old, high - backed chairs rested
against the dingy walls. In one corner
was a walnut-wood bookease, containing
an array of volumes, chiefly upon medi
cal subjects, and these had overflowed
upon the chairs and the carpet. On the
tall mantel-piece were jars, phials, retorts,
and bones. It was plain that physiology
was a favorite study of the owner
of the mansion; and specimens of the
master-worm, man, in every stage of his
physical development, from the embryo
to the skeleton, dangling its legs and
arms, and grinning frightfully, met the
eye on every hand.
In the centre of the room stood a
long table, covered with machines and
retorts. Beside it, poring, with knit
brows, over a large leather-bound volume,
and looking, from moment to moment,
at a white rabbit under a glass
cover, sat the master of the establishment.
He was an altogether singular personage—
a sort of cut-off giant, scarcely five
feet in height, with an enormous chest,
broad and powerful shoulders, and long
arms, ending in immense hands. Here,
however, the Herculean character of the
strange figure terminated. An impotent
conclusion ensued. The legs were actual
pipe-stems, so slender were they; and
their tenuity was exaggerated by the enormous
size of the feet, reposing in mighty
buckled shoes. The costume of this
personage consisted of heavy silk stockings,
knee-breeches of drab cloth, a long
waistcoat reaching nearly to the knees,
and buttoned up to the throat; and a
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species of overcoat with a cape attached,
capacious flapped pockets, and skirts so
long that they reached down to the
wearer's heels. Neck, this outré figure
had none, apparently. The huge head,
half covered by long, gray elf-locks, rose
abruptly from the shoulders, and the face
was on a par with the torso. The eyes
were dark, piercing, and seemed to burn
with cynical fire under the bushy, gray
eyebrows. The nose was long and prominent;
the mouth wide, with thin, compressed
lips, and a sardonic, almost sneering
expression. From time to time the
personage uttered a sort of grunt, agreeably
alternating with a growl resembling
that of a wolf disturbed while tearing
his food.
He closed the book, and raised the
glass cover, beneath which was stretched
the body of the rabbit—a white one of
the English species.
“Well,” he said, in a vibrating and
metallic voice, “he is dead, after all, I
think. The formula was wrong. To be
certain, however.”
He took the white rabbit, and, opening
the window, placed it upon the sill
in the fresh air. For ten minutes he remained
looking attentively at it. No
movement indicated life.
“Humph!” he said; “yes, this time
he's dead. Decidedly the formula was
wrong. And yet—it is my dream, perchance,
but no—this is not a chimera.
And, if not—”
He looked toward the skeleton, and,
shaking his fist at it, exclaimed, in grim
and triumphant tones:
“I cannot conquer you, King Death!
My science is powerless in face of your
strength—you are master! But I do not
yield; I can fight you, drive you back;
and, if not checkmate you, can sometimes
tear your prey from your grasp! If I find
what I seek now, I triumph!—and I will
find it!—Yes, the formula was wrong—
there is a better—yonder!”
And, crossing the room with hasty
strides, he took down a heavy volume
from the bookcase. As he did so, there
fell from the shelf, where it had been
concealed behind the volume, a small
white glove, with a bow of blue ribbon
affixed to the wrist—only the delicate
fabric, once snow-white, was discolored
by age, and the ribbon-knot was faded.
The eccentric personage picked up
the glove and looked at it. An expression
of wonder had replaced the stern
glance.
“This here!” he muttered—“not
crumbled and gone to dust like all
else?”
He remained perfectly motionless for
a long time, looking at the glove, upon
which a ray of the autumn sunshine fell,
through the window. An expression of
sadness, almost of tenderness, had come
to the deep-set eyes now, and the thin
lips.
“I thought that was all done for—
that business!” he muttered; “and yet
here it is!—a ghost out of the past.—
What a fool I am!—The roses are as
faded as the blue of this ribbon; and
the woman—she has forgotten!”
The pathetic expression had already
disappeared, and the sardonie smile came
back.
“Here I am, dreaming over a woman's
glove!” he muttered; “the old
squat dwarf, with his patients to look
after! I'll cease this fooling!—go back
to your hiding-place, ghost!” he said,
replacing the glove behind the books;
“I'll never summon you again or look at
her, unless she calls me. `Send to me
if you are in trouble,' I said to her, `and
I'll come, day or night.' I'll do that—
but she shall send for me first.”
Muttering to himself, he went back
with his book to the table; at the moment,
a clock in the adjoining room
struck the hour of noon.
“Well, here's the morning wasted,
and I must go to the governor,” he said,
closing his book.—“Snuffers!”
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This cabalistic word died away, and
was then repeated in a louder tone:
“Snuffers!”
“Very well, Dr. Vandyke!” a voice
said from the next room; “there's no
use bawling at me—I'm coming.”
The door opened, and an old woman
of short stature, rotund person, and ruddy
face, appeared, her white head-kerchief
extending backward in the shape of a
sugar-loaf.
“Most excellent Mrs. Snuffers,” said
Dr. Vandyke, with his satirical smile,
“will you be so obliging as to inform
any person who calls to see me that I
have gone to the governor's?”
“And when will you be back?”
“I am unable to say, madam.”
Thereat the elderly lady looked peculiarly
irate.
“And how am I to know when you
will want your dinner, Dr. Vandyke?
How am I to take care of you, and act as
a Christian woman by you, when here,
just as I am getting ready to put the
dinner on the table, you go flying off!”
Dr. Vandyke glared at his enemy.
“Dinner?” he said.
“Dinner!” retorted the foe, in a
loud voice—“dinner! and I'd like to
know how often I have said—”
“That eating was the great object of
existence? A thousand times, most respectable
Snuffers! True, life is after all
but a struggle against starvation. All
else but what the human animal eats is
vanity! And the fact here stated is susceptible
of demonstration. From the
singular organization of the creature denominated
man—”
Unfortunately for the doctor's learned
discourse, an instant interruption thereof
occurred. Breathless, pop-eyed, with
haste written all over his face, rushed in
a small black urchin, who nearly precipitated
himself into the doctor's arms.
That gentleman received him with immovable
elbow, sharp and bony, which
sent him flying back.
“What's the meaning of this, you rascal?”
quoth Dr. Vandyke.
The boy cowered and fell back. But
in a moment he regained breath and
courage to deliver his message. A gentleman,
while riding along Gloucester
Street, had been thrown from his horse,
badly injured, and borne into the Raleigh
Tavern, where he awaited Dr. Vandyke's
professional services.
“Say I am coming,” grunted Dr.
Vandyke.
“And your dinner!” shrilled Mrs.
Snuffers.
The doctor wheeled and scowled at
her.
“Snuffers!—you are a pair of extin-
guishers instead of the implement bearing
your name. That is to say, you are—
a woman!”
Having discharged this thunder-bolt
at the head of his enemy, Dr. Vandyke
put on his hat, grasped a large stick in
his vigorous right hand, and, with his
long overcoat flapping against his
shrunken legs, went out of the house,
and toward the Raleigh Tavern.
II. A FALL FROM HORSEBACK.
At the moment when Dr. Vandyke
had unburdened his mind by shaking his
fist at the skeleton, a man had passed
along Gloucester Street, at full gallop,
on a black horse of great strength and
speed.
The man was apparently about thirty-five,
erect, sinewy, though rather thin,
and clad in a dark riding-suit and elegant
riding-boots. His face was handsome
and distinguished, but remarkable
for its pallor, which his black hair rendered
more striking. His seat in the
saddle was that of an excellent horseman,
but he had allowed the bridle to
fall on the neck of his horse; and the
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dreamy expression of his eyes indicated
that he was sunk in a profound reverie.
The result of this was unfortunate.
In passing the door of the Virginia Ga-
zette office, a young man, whose back
was turned to him, suddenly unfolded a
number of the paper, just handed to him
by a boy; and the black horse shied violently,
unseating and throwing his rider,
whose head struck heavily against the
stones of the street.
The young man, who had inadvertently
caused the accident, hastened to
the assistance of the fallen horseman and
raised him in his arms. He was quite insensible,
and the blood flowed from a
deep gash in his temple.
A crowd immediately collected.—
While some endeavored unsuccessfully
to stop the black horse, which galloped
off, the rest gathered around the fallen
man, shutting off the fresh air. All at
once, however, the throng divided, and
was thrust back. A tall, bony serving-man,
with a face like bronze, hastened
to throw his arms around the victim of
the accident. The new-comer paid no
attention to the youth. Raising the unconscious
form in his arms, he bore it
into the Raleigh Tavern, which was only
a few paces distant, and, ascending the
narrow staircase, deposited it upon a
couch in one of the chambers.
The crowd had remained on the
porch of the tavern, but the young man
who had hastened to the rescue, followed.
He had already dispatched a
boy for Dr. Vandyke, with orders that
he should lose no time.
The tall serving-man, meanwhile,
busied himself in bathing the wounded
forehead in cold water. The youth
looked on during this ceremony with an
expression of much concern.
“What is the name of your master?”
he said, at length, to the old servant.
That personage replied in a brief,
cold voice, without raising his head—
“My Lord Ruthven.”
“Of his Excellency's suite?”
“Yes.”
As the abrupt monosyllable was uttered,
Lord Ruthven opened his eyes.
As they fell upon the young man, he
started violently.
“You here!” he gasped, with an appalled
look. “Good Heavens!—you?”
He sank back, closing his eyes, and
shuddering.
The old serving-man rose erect, and
his whole body seemed to stiffen—his
eyes expressed a vague astonishment,
mingled with sternness. He had opened
his lips to speak, when another personage
made his appearance—Dr. Vandyke.
“Well,” said Dr. Vandyke, approaching
the couch, and striking the floor with
his stick at each step, “where is the
hurt?”
He stopped suddenly.
“Humph!—Lord Ruthven!” he said.
“An excellent horseman. How was he
thrown?”
“I was the unfortunate cause of the
accident, doctor,” said the young man.
Dr. Vandyke wheeled round and
gazed at the speaker.
“You are Edmund Innis?” he said.
“Then you know me?”
“Yes, I know you.”
“So much the better, doctor—then
you will understand how much I regret
this unfortunate occurrence.”
In a few words he described the origin
of the accident.
Dr. Vandyke, who was now engaged
in laving and bandaging the wound, replied
only in grunts. In a few moments,
the patient uttered a deep sigh,
and again opened his eyes. Again he
gave a violent start, and exclaimed:
“You!—then I did not
dream!—oh,
no, no!”
The words were almost a cry. The
wounded man shook as he uttered them.
Both the youth and Dr. Vandyke listened
with the utmost astonishment. Then
the physician looked keenly at the youth.
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“Your presence appears to agitate
Lord Ruthven,” he said.
“Agitate him? my presence? I cannot
conceive the reason!” exclaimed the
youth in utter bewilderment.
“He evidently recognizes you!”
growled Dr. Vandyke.
“Recognizes me? I have never before
seen him even!”
“That is strange,” was the reply,
and Dr. Vandyke directed another keen
glance at the speaker.
“It is true.”
“Doubtless—but listen, he is going
to speak!”
“That face!” murmured Lord Ruthven,
without opening his eyes, “that
form! — again! — and here, when I
thought I had fled from him forever?”
“Listen!” said Dr. Vandyke, with a
species of grunt.
“The ocean is no barrier, then!”
muttered Lord Ruthven. “Fate plays
with me!”
The young man gazed with great astonishment
on the wounded nobleman,
and then at the physician.
“This is the strangest of mysteries
to me, doctor,” he said. “What Lord
Ruthven can mean by thus speaking of
me—as though we had met elsewhere—
had relations with each other—I know
not. I am in utter darkness as to the
meaning of the whole affair. But one
thing is plain—that my presence agitates
him, as you say. I will therefore go,
and return later, to ascertain his condition.
I had proposed leaving Williamsburg
this very day; but I shall now defer
my departure. Before going I must
know that he is out of danger, as I was
the unhappy occasion of his very painful
accident.”
“Right,” said Dr. Vandyke; “go, and
come back to-morrow. The hurt is serious—
not mortal at all.”
The youth bowed, looked with sympathy
upon the pale face of the sick
man, and left the room.
As the door closed, Lord Ruthven
opened his eyes, and looked around him,
evidently seeking for some one. A deep
sigh followed.
“Where is he?” he said, in a low,
trembling voice.
“The young gentleman?” said Dr.
Vandyke.
“Yes—yes!”
“He is gone.”
“His name?”
“Mr. Edmund Innis.”
“I never heard the name before!”
And, as he spoke, Lord Ruthven fell
back, uttering a sigh, and closing his eyes.
“Humph!” grunted Dr. Vandyke;
“the mystery is growing more mysterious
than ever. Well!”
The words attracted the attention
apparently of the sick man, who looked
at the speaker.
“You are—a physician, I think, sir?”
he said.
“Yes—sent for, to come to see you.”
“Your name, doctor?”
“Vandyke.”
The patient inclined his head faintly.
“You are known to me, doctor, by
repute at least. I am fortunate. Tell
me how I was hurt. My horse threw
me, I think?”
“Yes.”
A few words described the accident.
“That was careless in me—very careless,”
he said; “and this young gentle-
man—will he return?”
“To-morrow, he informs me.”
Lord Ruthven made no reply for some
moments. His face had grown whither
than ever.
“If I could only—leave this place to-night!”
he murmured.
He looked at the physician, and said:
“My hurt is a mere trifle, I presume,
doctor?”
“Every thing in life is a trifle, and
every thing important,” was the reply.
“You may be ill for a month, or well in
a week.”
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“Thanks, doctor, and now I think a
little sleep will prove beneficial to me.
May I beg that you will call and see me
again to-morrow?—Wait upon the doctor,
Fergus—and give orders that I shall
not be disturbed. Then return.”
It was plain that Lord Ruthven
wished to be alone, and Dr. Vandyke
took his departure, escorted ceremoniously
by the body-servant Fergus.
In five minutes Fergus reëntered the
chamber, closing and locking the door
behind him. His master's face was even
paler, if that were possible, than before.
His eyes burned in their deep sockets.
“Fergus,” he said in a low, awe-struck
whisper, “I have seen him!”
III. THE BODY-SERVANT.
Fergus greeted this abrupt exclamation
with an air of perfect coolness.
“The young man, my lord?” he
said.
“Yes!”
“When?” was the laconic question
of the old body-servant.
“When I saw the other!”
“The young woman, my lord?”
“Yes!”
This brief dialogue was followed by
a long silence, interrupted once or twice
by a stifled groan from Lord Ruthven.
Fergus knit his brows, but preserved his
coolness.
“Well, my lord,” he said, at length,
“I say again what I have said time after
time in Scotland, England, France, and
elsewhere, that the future must take care
of itself.”
Lord Ruthven frowned.
“Meanwhile,” continued the body-servant,
coolly, “I would advise your
lordship to keep a stout heart, and hope
for the best.”
Whereat his master broke out:
“A stout heart!—then I am a baby!”
Fergus saw the storm coming, but
did not shrink in the least.
“You mean that I am a mere nervous
invalid!” continued Ruthven, angrily—
“a cowering slave, shrinking from shadows!”
Fergus retained his calmness, and replied:
“I beg to call your lordship's attention
to the fact that, if you grow excited,
your wound will bleed afresh.”
“I care naught for it—let it bleed!”
“The blood is even now oozing
through the bandage, my lord.”
Lord Ruthven replied by violently
tearing the linen from his head. Immediately
a stream of blood ran down his
white cheeks, rendering his appearance
ghastly.
The spectacle disarmed in an instant
the stiff old Scotchman of his coolness.
The upright bar of iron suddenly melted.
Fergus ran to his master, and placed his
arm around him.
“My lord! my lord! you will kill yourself!—
you will bleed to death!” he cried.
“What care I, Fergus?”
“My lord! my lord!”
“What care I whether my wretched
life ends here, and now or not?”
The old man uttered a groan, and
busied himself in washing away the
blood. He then replaced the bandage
with the tenderness of a mother, and
Lord Ruthven, who had sunk back and
closed his eyes, made no resistance.
“Your lordship cuts your poor old
Fergus to the very heart,” said the servant.
“I would not do so, Fergus,” was the
nobleman's low reply, “but you know
well the terrible effect upon me of the least
expression of doubt upon that subject.
I am to `hope for the best!' Then I am
not competent to direct the event. You
mean that, though you do not say it—!”
“Your lordship grows excited.”
“You intimate that I may fail in the
hour of trial!”
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“My lord!”
“That I may be induced to yield to
this accursed temptation!”
“My lord, I think nothing, and say
nothing.”
“Do you dream that I could?” said
Lord Ruthven, in a despairing tone, and
with gloomy sarcasm he added:
“You, no doubt, imagine that the part
of the drama in which you appear is to be
enacted also in Virginia.”
Fergus replied with great coolness:
“I think, my lord, that this world we
live in is a very strange world, and that
we can't tell what will happen a day in
advance.”
“True, true!” murmured Lord Ruthven,
in a hopeless voice.
“And as to myself, my lord—do you
think I am afraid? Has your lordship the
right to think that, when I have remained
with you—looking death in the face?”
The nobleman suddenly raised his
head, and held out his hand to the old
man.
“Pardon me, Fergus!” he said, “pardon
my injustice and ingratitude! You
are truly brave and faithful!”
Fergus bent down and kissed the hand
extended toward him, with an expression
of the deepest respect and affection. His
face flushed, and a moisture came to the
old eyes.
“There is naught to pardon, my lord.
Am I not your servitor? Do with me as
you will.”
From under the bushy eyebrows
darted a glance of absolute tenderness—
that of the feudal vassal for his beloved
lord.
“No!” Lord Ruthven said; “we are
not master and servitor, Fergus. You
are my foster-brother—more than that,
you are my friend. We must not quarrel.
We are in a strange land together. We
must be fast and true—fast and true!”
Fergus had retired a step, and now
bowed respectfully.
“I never doubted your devotion,
Fergus; that you remain with me is sufficient
proof of that; nor did I ever dream
that my brave Fergus was afraid.”
The old Scotchman, who had grown
as cold as ever, shook his head.
“As to the devotion, my lord, you do
me no more than justice. I am devoted
to you; but, as to the fear, there you are
wrong, I am afraid.”
“You have cause to be,” groaned Lord
Ruthven.
“But I dare the danger, and don't let
it frighten me, my lord. I have my duty
to do to the last of the great line of
Ruthven; and that duty I will perform,
though the devil himself rise in my path!”
“My faithful Fergus!”
“Thanks, my lord, for the word. I
hope I'm faithful. And, now as your lordship
calls me foster-brother—tell me—I
wish to know—will your lordship remain
here in Virginia?”
“I know not—no! no! How can I?”
Fergus looked for some moments, intently,
at his master. In this fixed glance
there was no little astonishment. Then,
slowly shaking his head, he said:
“It needs must be that something
terrible is going to happen when the last
of the Ruthvens—the bravest, strongest
of his race—talks thus! You shiver and
turn white! My lord, let us go.”
“Yes, yes!—and yet—his excellency
will think it strange! But—well, well!
leave me now. I will sleep, Fergus, and—
to-morrow—”
The voice died away, and the speaker,
with his eyes fixed upon the floor, fell
into a profound and gloomy reverie.
Fergus turned away. As he did so,
he uttered some words in Gaelic. These
words signified—“It is fated!”
IV. KNOWN AND UNKNOWN.
On the next evening Lord Ruthven,
clad in a rich robe de chambre, was
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stretched upon the couch in his apartment
at the Raleigh Tavern, when Fergus
entered, and said in his habitual tone of
formal respect:
“Mr. Edmund Innis has called to inquire
after your lordship's health.”
“The young man?” said Lord Ruthven,
his pale face suddenly filling with
blood.
“Yes, my lord.”
“I will see him.”
Fergus did not move.
“You heard, Fergus—I will see this
young gentleman,” added his master.
“Your lordship is very pale.”
“But I am better.”
“And still very weak.”
“The interview will do me no harm.”
“Your lordship insists?”
“Admit him.”
Fergus bowed and went out—his steps
were heard descending the stairs.
As he disappeared, Lord Ruthven
rose and went to a mirror.
“I am indeed frightfully pale,” he
murmured, surveying his ghastly cheeks,
“and my appearance will probably shock
my visitor. Still I must see him. It may
be that yesterday, while weak from loss
of blood, stunned, with my brain reeling,
I fancied—simply fancied—but no! there
can be no doubt! the face, the hair, the
lips, the eyes—all are the same!”
The brows of the speaker contracted,
and he drew a long, painful breath.
“No! let me not attempt to cheat
myself with any doubt!” he muttered;
“'tis the very man!—and I tempt the
evil fate that is dogging me by even speaking
to him—by the very fact of receiving
him! No, I will not see him! I will—
Fergus!” And he hastened toward the
door.
As he did so, steps were heard ascending
the staircase without. The visitor was
plainly coming up, conducted by Fergus.
“Too late!” groaned Lord Ruthven,
“the die is cast. I must receive him. I
shudder, and yet advance toward him—
would avoid him, and yet cannot resist
the temptation to gaze at him—to listen
to him—”
The hand of Fergus was heard upon
the knob, and his voice uttered the
words:
“This, as you know, sir, is his lordship's
apartment.”
And the door opened, Fergus standing
ceremoniously aside, and ushering in
the visitor.
Lord Ruthven had resumed his place
upon the couch, from which he now rose
as his visitor entered. The two gentlemen
exchanged courtly bows, and Lord
Ruthven gazed intently at the other, taking
in every detail of his face and figure.
Edmund Innis was a young man of
twenty-two or three, with brown hair,
powdered, after the fashion of the period,
and tied with a ribbon, eyes full of frankness,
a handsome mouth, indicating sincerity,
and a carriage of the person at
once proud and courteous. His embroidered
coat, long silken waistcoat, and ruffles,
indicated the class to which he belonged—
for, at that time costume marked
the social position of its wearer; but
these fine garments were quite shabby,
and the general appearance of the youth
seemed to prove that his exchequer was
in a very dilapidated state indeed. His
frill was irreproachably white, and upon
his finger sparkled a diamond ring; but
the seams of his coat were threadbare,
there was a hole in one of his elbows,
and the cocked-hat held in his hand had
lost every particle of the lace which once
adorned it.
In spite, however, of these unmistakable
marks of the “poor gentleman,”
Lord Ruthven had no difficulty in perceiving
at a glance that his visitor was,
what was called at that time, a person
of distinction. The head above the worn
coat was carried with proud courtesy,
and the discolored hat descended in a
bow which was as graceful as that made
by the nobleman.
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“I beg that you will be seated, sir,”
said Lord Ruthven, pointing to an arm-chair.
“Thanks, my lord,” was the youth's
reply, as he took his seat, “I am truly
glad to find your lordship so greatly improved
since I last saw you.”
“A mere trifle, Mr. Innis.”
“I feared your case was much worse.”
“I am nearly recovered already.”
Innis bowed.
“That relieves my mind of a load of
self-reproach. I need scarce inform you
that I deeply regret my unfortunate
agency in this accident, and feel that
your lordship has done me the simple
justice to believe that I was entirely unaware
of the danger to which I enforced
you. Your sudden fall was a very great
shock to me.”
“I did not doubt that for a moment,
sir.”
“So you are not seriously injured?”
“In twenty-four hours I shall be as
well as ever.”
“God be thanked!” said the young
man, cordially; “and now, having relieved
my mind of all anxiety as to your
lordship's condition, I shall return to my
home without anxiety.”
During this exchange of commonplaces
and expressions of politeness,
Lord Ruthven had continued to gaze intently
at Innis, and, as trait after trait in
the voice and countenance of the youth
came out more plainly, this fixed gaze
became one of much agitation. It was
plain that Lord Ruthven was strongly
moved. His dark eyes were riveted to
the visitor's face, a slight color tinged
his pale cheeks, his voice trembled
perceptibly, and his breast labored in
breathing.
It was impossible that this agitation,
if it were prolonged, should not attract
the attention of the visitor. Lord Ruthven
seemed to feel this. He made a
powerful effort to suppress his emotion,
in which he partially succeeded, and now
said, in a voice which had grown calm
and ceremonious again:
“You speak of returning to your
home, sir—then you do not reside in
Williamsburg?”
“No, my lord.”
“Your residence is—?”
“In the mountains.”
“The Blue Ridge?”
“Yes, my lord. From the door of my
little home you may look upon a ring
wellnigh of blue mountains, like waves
on the horizon.”
“That must be indeed a most picturesque
prospect, sir. The Blue Ridge, I
have indeed heard, is very beautiful.”
“Admirably beautiful and imposing.”
“As the Alps and Apennines, do you
think, sir?”
“Oh, doubtless not; but I have never
seen either, and can form no opinion.”
“Then, you have never visited Europe,
Mr. Innis?”
“Never, my lord. I am a mere Buckskin,
as the phrase is in our country, and
scarce travelled beyond my poor parish in
the mountains.”
Lord Ruthven drew a long breath,
and continued to gaze intently at the
youth.
“I thought — I had — seen you before,”
he said, in a low tone, and with
an agitation which he could not master.
“I fancied so,” Innis replied, looking
with some astonishment at the speaker.
“You fancied so?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Pray, why?”
“From some singular exclamations
which you uttered yesterday.”
“Some exclamations!”
“When you had not fully recovered
from the stunning effect of your fall.”
“Oh, yes!” returned Lord Ruthven,
with a sickly smile, “so that I uttered,
you say—some—singular exclamations?”
“Singular only as appearing to indicate
upon your part an impression that
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you had met with me in Europe, and
were surprised to find me in Virginia.”
“Oh, I said that? How very absurd
these fancies of fever!”
“I am assured that fever invariably
produces these effects.”
“And you attached no importance,
I presume, to these wanderings, sir?”
“None whatever.”
“They are truly absurd, and at times,
I fancy, rather laughable. Did I say more
in my delirium?—I am naturally curious
to hear of my vagaries.”
The sickly smile was repeated, as
Lord Ruthven uttered these words with
assumed carelessness; but his intent and
burning eyes, fixed on the face of his visitor,
betrayed the deep importance which
he attached to the reply.
Again Innis could not avoid observing
that singular agitation. He hesitated,
feeling a vague astonishment and uneasiness.
Whither was the singular colloquy
drifting? What was the object of Lord
Ruthven in these questions, and why was
he so deeply agitated?
“You are silent, sir!” said Lord
Ruthven, with feverish emotion; “I wish
to know—”
His voice had grown brief and imperious;
but he suddenly stopped.
“Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Innis,” he
said, sorrowfully; “my nerves indeed
must have been shaken, that I address a
gentleman of your quality with so little
ceremony. I beg you will overlook my
rudeness.”
Innis smiled.
“I am far from thinking any apology
necessary, my lord; nor was there aught
in your tone even at which I could justly
take offence.”
“Thanks for your courtesy, sir; and
now may I beg to repeat my question in
milder terms?”
“Your question?”
“Whether I said aught more in my
delirium yesterday than that I thought I
had met with you in Europe, and did
not expect to see you here?”
“Frankly, you did say more.”
“What more, may I ask?” said Lord
Ruthven, turning a shade paler.
Innis still hesitated. He remembered
distinctly the words uttered by the nobleman
on the preceding day:
“That face, that form again!—and
here!—when I thought I had fled from
him forever!”
He looked at Lord Ruthven and was
silent a moment; then he said:
“Your lordship attaches undue importance
to these exclamations of fever—
yours did not differ, probably, from
those uttered by others at such moments.
I am happy to find that this
confusion of mind has now wholly disappeared—
and that—”
“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Innis!”
said Lord Ruthven, feverishly,
“but you have not replied to the question
I had the honor to address to
you.”
“You would have me—?”
“Essay to recall, if it please you, sir,
the exact words which I uttered. I beg
that you will reply frankly.”
“I will do so, my lord. I do recall
your expressions.”
“What were they, sir?”
“Your lordship compels me to remember
and repeat words which I had
almost forgotten. As you plainly wish
to have them repeated, I reply that upon
opening your eyes, and seeing me standing
before you, you addressed me as a
person from whom you thought you had
fled forever!”
“Fled forever! I said that?”
“Such were your words, and I pray
you to observe that they are only repeated
at your urgent request. They
will, of course, be buried in my bosom,
as having no importance or significance.”
“I beseech you to thus bury them!”
exclaimed Lord Ruthven, with irrepressible
agitation, “and that from this mo-
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ment, if possible, you will even cease to
remember them.”
“You can rely upon my word with
implicit faith,” said the youth, proudly.
“I feel that I can do so, Mr. Innis.
Human beings with eyes and lips like
your own never deceive, sir!”
Innis inclined his head.
“Thanks for your courtesy, my lord.”
“Do not even remember if that is
possible, those foolish words, Mr. Innis!
My life has been strange and unfortunate,
my words and actions are wild, inexplicable,
and yet could be explained!
I said yesterday—but why recall that?—
there is a woful mystery, to be frank
with you, sir, under what I uttered. I
speak to a man of honor—your face says
`Trust me!' and would to God that I
could speak! I cannot. I have even
now said far more than in cooler moments
I should have done. We shall see
each other, after this day, no more, I
hope—suppose I should say, sir!”
Lord Ruthven wiped his forehead,
upon which had burst forth an icy perspiration.
By an immense effort, he
suppressed his emotion.
“This seems strange to you, doubtless,
sir, and you will think that my fever
has not left me,” he added, more calmly.
“I shall, therefore, cease to allude further
to this somewhat strange subject,
only repeating my request that you will
forget all these absurdities—the ravings
of my delirium, and the words just uttered
in confidence by one gentleman to
another.”
“I shall carefully observe your request,
my lord. Your fever and your
confidence are both sacred to me.”
“Thanks, sir,” said Lord Ruthven.
“I could not feel more perfectly assured
of that than I now do, in consequence of
your promise.”
His head drooped, and an expression
of weariness and sorrow came to his
face. Then, raising his eyes slowly, he
said:
“Do you know what thought passed
through my mind at that instant, Mr.
Innis? I thought how glad I should be
could I solicit your friendship.”
“My lord—”
“But I cannot—I should be proud
and glad to do so—but—but—I shall in
two or three weeks return to Europe,
and it is wholly improbable that we
shall ever meet again in this world.”
Innis listened with astonishment, and
could find no explanation for the tones
and glances of Lord Ruthven. His
voice had grown mild, cordial, and full
of kindness. The glance fixed upon the
young man's face was almost one of affection.
“You do me great honor,” said the
youth, much moved, “and can you not
remain? Do so, if possible. I, too,
should be proud to secure your lordship's
regard and friendship.”
“You!”
“Assuredly.”
“Oh, no! 'Tis impossible! And
yet—no! Pardon me—I mean only that
I must return.”
“You should remain with us longer.
Virginia is the land of lands!”
“'Tis doubtless beautiful, sir, but my
voyage is unavoidable.”
“You cannot defer it?”
“I regret that it is out of my power
to do so, sir.”
Innis rose.
“Well, at least, my lord,” he said,
“your hurt is healing, and I shall not
have the great grief of reflecting that
your death lay at my door.”
He smiled, but Lord Ruthven's face
had no smile upon it as he replied:
“Certainly no blame could—or can—
attach to you, sir.”
“And Virginia is spared the sadness,
too, since you will not die on our soil.”
“I know not, sir,” said Lord Ruthven,
with a singular and gloomy look.
Innis laughed.
“Let us hope for the best,” he said.
-- 016 -- p505-025
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“I shall now bid your lordship good-even.”
“Can you not sit longer, sir?”
“No, with thanks. I must set out
for the mountains at dawn, and I shall
now have the honor of taking a final
leave of your lordship.”
As he spoke, Innis cordially extended
his hand, his handsome face lit up by a
friendly smile.
Lord Ruthven made no movement to
accept the proffered hand.
His eyes had suddenly closed, as if he
were about to faint, and his face had
grown ghastly pale.
“Your lordship is ill!” exclaimed
Innis, hastening toward him.
“No, no!” returned Lord Ruthven,
in a low voice, and repulsing the youth
with a motion of his hand. “That is to
say—a slight dizziness—a species of vertigo,
doubtless—but 'tis passed.”
He rose, and, without making any motion
to offer his hand to his visitor, made
a low and courtly bow.
“Farewell, sir,” he said; “I owe you
many thanks for this obliging visit.
Should we not meet again, I shall retain
in my memory the recollection of a most
agreeable interview, Mr. Innis.”
A second bow followed the words.
Innis, without offering his hand a second
time, replied by a similar inclination,
and, putting on his hat, went out of the
apartment.
As the door closed, Lord Ruthven
tottered rather than walked to the couch,
and fell upon it, as though his strength
were completely exhausted.
“No, no, no!” he groaned, “I could
not take his hand! I could not be guilty
of that infamy at least! Whatever devil
drives me—whatever I do—I will not be
false—no! never! If he falls by my
sword 'twill not be the friend whose
hand I've clasped.—Knowing—”
There the voice of the speaker died
away in a species of gasp.
“Cursed! cursed! cursed!”
There words escaped in a stifled whisper
from Lord Ruthven's lips, and he fell
back, closing his eyes.
When, ten minutes afterward, Fergus
entered the apartment, he found that his
master had fainted.
V. IN THE DARKNESS.
Since the scenes just described, three
days had passed. Night had come, and
a violent storm was lashing the capital.
The wind rolled with the hoarse moan
of the sea in a tempest, above the crouching
houses; from moment to moment the
black clouds cracked from horizon to
zenith, letting out the lightning; and
these dazzling flashes were followed by
bursts of thunder, which seemed to utter
aloud the fury of inanimate Nature.
In spite of the storm and the heavy
drops preluding the coming rain, Lord
Ruthven, who had risen from his sickcouch
on that evening, took his way toward
the governor's palace to call upon
his excellency.
He wore a suit of black velvet, and
the small short-sword, then a portion of
full-dress costume. The lightning, from
instant to instant, revealed his funereal
figure and pallid face. From the gloomy
expression of eye and lip it was plain
that the agitating scenes of the day of his
accident had profoundly impressed him.
“Well,” he muttered, “I will sound
his excellency to-night upon the subject
of my departure—that is the best course.
He has left williamsburg—for the moment,
the danger is past — but who
knows? He may come back; fate is
powerful; and then—then—yes, I will
go! That is best!”
He went on, paying no attention to
the storm.
“Let me not palter with my destiny,”
he added, his voice low and mournful,
his lips assuming a melancholy smile.
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
“This accident is a presage—reciprocity
is the law of Nature—his act on this very
street struck me down—mine will strike
him!”
A dazzling flash of lightning followed
the words, and the roar of thunder succeeded.
A slight color had come to the
pale face.
“I believe I enjoy this hurly-burly of
Nature,” muttered Lord Ruthven; “'tis
in unison with my stormy life. Yes; the
more I reflect, the more clearly I perceive'
tis best to go. And yet—am I
panic-stricken, timid, nervous? He is no
longer here. He has gone to his home
in the mountains—”
The speaker struck suddenly against
some object approaching him. It was a
man whose footsteps had been drowned
by the uproar of the wind, and whose
form had been concealed by the black
darkness of the night. Lord Ruthven
drew his dress-sword—for it appeared
to him that something hostile was intended
by this unknown—and, retreating
a step, directed the point of the
sword toward the shadowy figure.
At the same instant a flash of lightning
cut the air like a white-hot blade,
and Ruthven recognized Innis.
“You!” he cried.
“Yes, I, my lord!” returned the
young man, with some sternness in his
voice. “What means this threat—this
sword's point at my breast?”
Lord Ruthven shuddered from head
to foot, and dropped the point of his
dress-sword, which he violently thrust
back into its scabbard.
“You, sir!” he repeated. “Good
Heavens! who could have dreamed of
this encounter? I thought you absent—
my sword's point — 'twas unwittingly
that I drew my weapon—pardon me, sir—
the night is dark, and—you have not
then left Williamsburg?”
The agitation of the speaker was so
great that Innis understood instantly that
nothing hostile had been intended.
“No, my lord,” he said;
“and we
encounter each other again under singular
circumstances.”
“Fatal circumstances!”
Innis uttered a light-hearted laugh in
the darkness.
“Not so very fatal, my lord, since no
one is hurt. Your sword at my breast
caused me some astonishment, and a little
irritation, it may be. But a word explains
all. You no doubt took me for a
footpad, and in the dark 'tis well to be
on one's guard.”
“Yes—and in the light,” was the reply
of Ruthven, in a singular tone.
“You were going—?”
“To see his excellency. And you,
sir?”
“To the house of a gentleman living
near the capitol.”
“You designed leaving Williamsburg,
I think, when we parted, sir?”
“I did so design, my lord, but the
fates forbade.”
“The fates?”
“Or chance, or Providence, as there
is no chance, I think, in life.”
“You are right, sir. If you will not
think me singular or intrusive, may I ask
what you call `the fates,' or `Providence?”'
Lord Ruthven heard the smile, so to
say, of Innis, as he replied in the darkness:
“Oh, my lord, the explanation is extremely
simple. I came to Williamsburg,
designing to make arrangements with
my father's friend, Mr. Wythe, to become
a law-student in his office—when about
to leave the capital he begged me to stay
and copy for him some important papers.”
Lord Ruthven remained silent.
“There is all the mystery,” said Innis.
“And—this work, sir—doubtless, 'tis
onerous?”
“Somewhat.”
“'Twill detain you longer?”
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
“I fear so.”
“When you are anxious to return?”
“I confess, I shall be pleased to do
so.”
Lord Ruthven reflected for a few moments,
and then said, in a melancholy
tone:
“I envy you, Mr. Innis, this return
to your family. The hearthstone will
brighten for you; with me 'tis different.
I have no family and no home—a residence
only.”
“I am no less unfortunate, my lord.
My parents are dead, and I have no
brothers or sisters.”
“But relatives, friends — perchance,
one nearer and dearer than any friend—”
The expression of the speaker's voice
was singular. The words were careless,
but he listened anxiously, it was plain,
for Innis's reply.
“Nearer — and — dearer?” said the
youth, in a confused voice.
“I mean that you are expected by
some dear one yonder, Mr. Innis—some
young lady—who loves you—”
“Oh, no, my lord! I'm not so fortunate.”
“There is none such?”
“None.”
Lord Ruthven drew a long breath.
“Heaven be thanked!” he muttered.
“Your lordship said—?”
“Nothing, Mr. Innis.”
A sudden flash revealed Lord Ruthven's
face. He was sunk in profound
thought—his eyes half closed. But this
preoccupation rapidly disappeared.
“I am detaining you, Mr. Innis,” he
said. “This interview, as you have said,
is singular. Commencing with my swordpoint
directed at your breast” — the
speaker shuddered as he uttered these
words—“and ending with a somewhat
ill-bred intrusion upon your private affairs.”
“Oh, not at all, I beg you to believe,”
said Innis; “'twas perfectly nat-
ural.”
“There was certainly no intent to
offend you with sword or tongue, Mr.
Innis; and now I bid you good-even.
The storm is about to burst. We shall
not meet again, sir—I have resolved to
return to Europe. Farewell, sir.”
He passed Innis, as he spoke, walking
rapidly, and not offering his hand.
“The die is cast—I go, and go at
once!” he muttered; “to stay were
madness indeed!”
The roar of the wind drowned the
words. Unconsciously he turned his
head. At the same moment a vivid flash
lit up the street, revealing the form of
Innis.
The youth was standing motionless,
looking after him.
VI. RUTHVEN'S RESOLUTION.
Toward midnight Lord Ruthven returned
from the governor's palace,
through the drenched streets, and, going
to his apartment in the Raleigh, aroused
Fergus, who was stretched asleep upon a
pallet in one corner of the chamber.
“Fergus! Fergus!” he said, feverishly.
“My lord,” was the cool response;
and Fergus, wide awake in a moment,
rose to his feet.
“Pack my trunks, Fergus,” said Lord
Ruthven, in the same agitated voice; “we
are going.”
“Yes, my lord.”
And the old servant calmly began to
collect the articles of his master's wardrobe,
carefully fold them, and deposit
them in two or three large travelling-trunks
which stood in a sort of closet.
“We are going,” repeated Lord Ruthven,
walking up and down the apartment.
“To Europe, my lord?”
“Yes.”
Fergus nodded.
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“I am glad to go,” he said, “and at
once.”
“I have seen him again!”
“Him?”
“Him.”
Fergus made the same movement with
his head.
“Then he has not left this town?”
“No.”
“Your lordship met him?”
“Yes—to-night.”
“In the storm, my lord?”
“Yes; and wellnigh began the struggle—
my sword at his breast.”
And Lord Ruthven described his nocturnal
meeting with Innis.
Fergus listened, busily packing the
trunks meanwhile.
“Well,” he said, when Ruthven had
finished his narrative, “I think your
lordship acts wisely. This is no place
for you if he is here. I know not how
it is, but I grow more frightened day by
day. Your lordship is changing, and for
the worse; let us go.”
“Yes, yes! Mount your horse to-morrow,
ride to the port on James
River, and engage our passage to England.”
“I will do so, my lord, at dawn.”
And Fergus continued steadily to
pack the travelling-trunks.
Lord Ruthven walked up and down
the apartment for some time in gloomy
thought, then took his seat at a table,
and wrote for an hour; then, laying
down his pen, rested his forehead upon
his arms, crossed on the table, and either
reflected or slept.
Fergus continued to pack the trunks.
VII. FERGUS RIDES.
With the first light of dawn Fergus
was in the saddle, and riding in the direction
of James River, where, at the
nearest wharf, he expected to find some
bark bound for England.
He saw two vessels, and was soon
making inquiries.
“You are outward bound soon?” he
said to the captain of one.
“No,” was the reply; “just arrived
from Portsmouth.”
“And that other bark yonder?”
“From the Bermudas — hugged me
close all the way—came up the river together.”
“There is no outward-bound ship?”
“None.”
Fergus rode back and reported the
result to his master, who received the
information in gloomy silence.
“Bring the last number of the Gazette,”
he said, at length.
Fergus descended, procured the Virginia
Gazette from the landlord, and returned.
“This paper brought me ill-fortune
but the other day,” Lord Ruthven muttered,
with a painful smile; “perhaps'
twill bring good fortune to-day—let us
see.”
He opened the paper, and his eyes
fell upon the lines:
“Port of York.—The Charming Sally,
Captain Fellowes, intends for England in
six days from this date. Passage secured
by applying to Captain Fellowes.”
Lord Ruthven read this announcement
to Fergus, and said:
“This vessel sails to-morrow; I will
go in her.”
Fergus nodded, went to the stable,
mounted, and took his way toward Yorktown,
where he found Captain Fellowes
standing on the wharf, and superintending
the efforts of his crew to drag the
Charming Sally on shore by means of
cables.
“What is the matter?” said Fergus.
Captain Fellowes turned round, surveyed
Fergus attentively, and said:
“The matter is, my friend, that the
Charming Sally has scraped a hole in her
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[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
sheathing, and that the young lady is
going to be laid up, neither more nor
less than happens on certain other occasions
with the interesting sex.”
And Captain Fellowes winked, rolled
the quid of tobacco in his ruddy cheek
under his tongue, and uttered a jovial
laugh.
“Then the ship will not sail?” said
Fergus, cool and unimpressed.
“Can't, my friend,” said the captain.
“She'd spring a leak in the very middle
of the Atlantic, mayhap; then good-by
to the Charming Sally.”
“Is any other vessel in port outward
bound?”
“There is no other.”
“And how long will it take to repair
your vessel?”
“Well, it may take three weeks, and
it may take three months. To tell you
the truth, my friend, I begin to think we
have made our last voyage this year.”
Fergus rode back to Williamsburg,
and reported this second failure to Lord
Ruthven. A bitter smile this time greeted
the return of the old servant.
“Fate seems to have assumed the
direction of affairs,” said Lord Ruthven;
“but I shall make one more effort.
Rest to-day, Fergus; to-morrow ride to
St. Mary's, on the Potomac. If you fail
to engage a passage there, proceed northward,
if necessary, to the port of New
York. I have no choice; any species of
vessel will content me, seaworthy or
unseaworthy. This may end as it will.”
And Lord Ruthven, leaning back in
his chair, was silent. Fergus looked at
him fixedly, shook his head, but made
no reply, and quietly left the apartment.
On the next morning he ordered his
horse to be saddled, put a change of
clothes in a small valise, and then, hat
in hand, said to Lord Ruthven, who was
gazing upon the floor in a fit of gloomy
abstraction:
“I am about to set out; has your
lordship any further orders?”
“None.”
“I must engage passages for your
lordship and myself, either at St. Mary's
or at New York?”
“Yes.”
Fergus bowed, and went toward the
door. As he did so, steps were heard
ascending the stairs, and a knock came
at the door. The old body-servant
opened it. A man, wearing the livery
of the governor, appeared, holding in
his hand a letter.
“For his lordship,” he said.
VIII. THE TWO LETTERS.
Ruthven mechanically opened the
letter, glancing at it with little interest.
As he read, however, his expression
grew more gloomy. Having finished it,
he placed it upon the table, muttering—
“Impossible!”
Fergus glanced at his master, hesitated,
then returned a step, and said:
“Will your lordship send a reply by
the servant?”
Ruthven raised his head.
“No—yes—let him wait a few moments.”
Fergus communicated this order to
the governor's servant, who closed the
door, and descended the stairs.
“Fergus!” said Ruthven, without
raising his eyes.
“My lord!”
“That same fate we were talking of
has taken a new form.”
“A new form, my lord?”
“The form of his excellency the governor.”
Fergus nodded; nothing ever seemed
to astonish him.
“Listen!” said his master, in a cold,
careless voice.
And, taking the letter from the table,
he read:
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[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
“My dear Lord: I have the honor
to say that I have received your note of
yesterday, informing me of your desire
to return to Scotland, but I trust 'tis not
essential to your plans, or required by
circumstances, that this departure should
be so very sudden. 'Twill subject me, I
fear, to serious inconvenience, as I highly
appreciate your services, my lord,
and should with difficulty supply your
place.
“Your lordship will observe that I
plead for a temporary change in your
determination, both officially and as a
personal friend.
“Receive, my lord, —.”
“You see,” said Lord Ruthven, stopping
suddenly, and throwing down the
letter.
“Yes, my lord. And what will be
your reply? My own movements will
depend thereon.”
“I shall not change my decision.”
“Your lordship will go, all the
same?”
“Yes.”
Fergus went toward the door.
“Wait an instant and take my reply,”
said Lord Ruthven. “These strange
serving-men sink their eyes before me,
but look pryingly at my poor pale face,
Fergus, when my eyes are turned from
them. I would be served by none but
yourself.”
And, drawing his chair to the table,
Lord Ruthven took up a pen, and began
to write.
He had written but two or three
lines, when steps again ascended the
stairs without, and a second knock was
heard at the door.
Fergus went and opened it. A servant
belonging to the tavern stood before
him, a letter in his hand.
“This was left for Lord Ruthven,”
said the man.
“By whom?” said Fergus.
“By young Mr. Innis.”
At that name Lord Ruthven quickly
raised his head.
“Mr. Innis!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, my lord,” said the man.
“When was this note brought—give
it me!”
The man was about to approach, but
Fergus intercepted him.
“No one waits on his lordship but
myself,” he said.
Placing the letter on the silver waiter,
he handed it to Lord Ruthven, who took
it hurriedly, and tore it open with visible
agitation. The letter contained these
lines:
“For Lord Ruthven.
“My Lord: You have twice, with
great courtesy, expressed your good-wishes,
in bidding me farewell—it is I
who go from Williamsburg the first, now:
and I can do no less than reciprocate
your lordship's obliging sentiments, and
express the hope that you may enjoy
health and happiness, whether in Virginia
or in Scotland.
“Having terminated my business at
the capital in a briefer space of time
than I supposed I should do, I am just
getting into the saddle to return to the
mountains. Should your lordship ever
find it suit your convenience, a visit to
my little cottage there would greatly
please Your lordship's
“Very obedient servant,
“Edmund Innis.”
Lord Ruthven drew a long breath,
and then turned to the servant who had
brought the letter.
“Who left this?” he said.
“Mr. Innis himself, my lord. He
was riding by with young Mr. Cary.”
“On a journey?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Ruthven looked at the letter—
glanced then at the governor's—tore up
what he had written, and said to Fergus
in a low tone:
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“As there is no further danger, you
need not ride to-day.”
Fergus bowed.
As he left the room, he muttered in
Gaelic as before:
“It is fated!”
An hour afterward, his excellency
the governor received a note from Lord
Ruthven, saying that, in order not to subject
his excellency to inconvenience, he
would abandon for the present his intended
voyage, which nevertheless might
be rendered necessary at any moment.
Having dispatched this reply, Lord
Ruthven shut himself up, locked his
door, and, drawing from a secret pocket
in his breast a book, began to write in it.
“Fatality—that is strong!” he said
in a low tone, “but the will of a man—
is that nothing? I have willed—naught
shall move me!”
IX. IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES TO THE MOUNTAINS.
The current of the narrative bears
us now from Williamsburg toward the
mountains.
It was there that the singular drama
we essay to unfold before the reader
was to find its stage, or at least to play
its chief scenes; and, by accompanying
him who is the main personage, we shall
witness what occurred.
The note for Lord Ruthven had been
delivered at the door of the Raleigh by
Edmund Innis, as he passed, on horseback,
along Gloucester Street, directing
his course toward the Blue Ridge. Beside
him rode a young gentleman, with
pale-blue eyes, chestnut curls, and laughing
lips.
Philip, or Phil Cary, as everybody
called him, was about the age of Innis,
that is to say, twenty-two or three,
graceful, vigorous, and active in every
movement, clad in a velvet hunting-suit,
with innumerable pockets; and from his
cocked hat floated a handsome feather.
It would be impossible to imagine any
thing more joyous, gallant, and redolent
of youth, than his smile. Life brimmed
for him, with gayety, enjoyment, and the
charming zest which accompanies the
first years of manhood—very plainly, the
inexorable ennui which lies at the
foundation of human life, as says Bossuet,
had never touched him with its
chilling finger. Jest, laughter, merriment,
overflowed in him; you would have
said that this young human being was
glad that he was alive.
Beside Innis, somewhat sad and
thoughtful, Phil Cary resembled a sunbeam
plunging through foliage into some
shadowy nook; he sang, laughed, rallied
his companion, looking on all sides with
his roving glance, and turning all he saw
into comedy.
“Come, old fellow!” he exclaimed,
“what's the matter? Laugh, I say!”
“At what, Phil?” said Innis, smiling.
“At every thing, or nothing. What's
the use of sighing?”
“I am not sighing.”
“Well, you are thinking — that's
equally bad.”
“Don't you ever think?”
“Never! I sing.”
And Phil Cary burst forth into a
song which made the forest, through
which they were passing, echo again.
“Very good!” he said when he had
finished his song; “I know what you are
thinking of.”
“What?”
“I mean what person.”
“Tell me.”
“Of Honoria.”
“Pshaw!” said Innis, coloring;
“why should I waste my time in—in—
what you mean? And yet, Phil — I
might retort and say that you were
thinking of—her elder sister?”
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
“Wrong! I never indulge in that
folly.”
“Then my fair cousin Lou and yourself
have quarrelled.”
“Not in the least. All the quarrelling
is done by the old lady—my venerable
mamma in the coach yonder.”
“Look; she is calling you.”
In fact, there was seen in front a
large family chariot, drawn by four
horses; and from the window waved a
white handkerchief. Mr. Phil Cary
obeyed this summons, and, putting spur
to his horse, was soon beside the coach,
which was occupied by an elderly lady
in black silk.
“Philip, my dear,” said the elderly
lady, drawing down a large pair of
glasses until they rested upon her nose,
and gazing over them.
“Well, mamma.”
“Did you write in my name to Mrs.
Byrd to say that we should stop at
Westover?”
“Yes, my respected mamma.”
“In time?”
“Full time; you see there are some
young ladies there on a visit; and as I
am in pursuit of a wife—”
“Nonsense, Philip! why will you
run on in that absurd manner?”
“Absurd, my dear madam? I think'
tis the most intelligent thing I could
do.”
The scapegrace turned his head as he
spoke and winked at Innis, who had
ridden up.
“Why think of marriage for a dozen
years to come?”
“Behold,” cried Mr. Phil Cary, “the
most unreasonable of her sex! May I
request to be informed of my age, my
dear madam?”
“You are twenty-three in November.”
“And the age of my papa when he
married my mamma?”
“There, there, Philip — let us not
speak so lightly—I was wrong perhaps,
but you are my only stay now; you must
remember that, my dear.”
The young man became for a moment
serious, and said:
“My dear mother, there is no danger
of my leaving you. A wife!—what do
I want with a wife? Rest easy on that
score.”
After which assurance, he rode on
with Innis, in advance of the coach,
which, heavily laden with huge trunks
went creaking on its way.
I know nothing more delightful than
a horseback journey through the variegated
forest, in the brilliant, breezy
autumn, when youth and health give a
zest to existence, and the wind in the
foliage whispers its mysterious secrets.
Then the fresh breeze laughs—in riper
age it sighs. To be young is the secret!—
to ride then through the splendid,
many-colored forest, the cream of earthly
enjoyment.
I should like to pause at “Westover,”
where the travellers were received with
warm hospitality. But these old interiors
interest few persons to - day.
“Westover,” the home once of Colonel
William Byrd, the haunt of starry-eyed
maidens, passes, as on a moving canvas,
and our party continue their way. They
halted again at “Belvidere,” on the site
of the present city of Richmond, where
they were lulled to sleep by the sweet
murmur of the falls in the river—then
they stopped at “Dungeonness”—the
home of Mr. Randolph in Goochland—
then a long day's journey brought them
in sight of “Elmwood,” the mansion of
Mrs. Cary.
On the horizon were seen “Blenheim,”
“Carysbrook,” and other ancient
mansions; and, sparkling like a fallen
star, with a last beam of the sun which
fell upon its windows, “Rivanna” crowning
its lofty hill and dominating the
whole region.
This enchanting land of field and
forest, through which ran sparkling like
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
threads of silver the Rivanna and its
affluents, was bounded in the west by
the deep-blue mountain, extending from
north to south like a long surge of the
ocean. Above it spread the purple flush
of sunset; against this exquisite background
every azure crest stood out in
clear relief; and a flock of birds moving
on slow wings amid the gray clouds,
sunk down toward the fairy-land of sunset.
Innis gazed from the portico of “Elmwood”
at this beautiful scene—slowly
turned his eyes toward the lofty hill
crowned by “Rivanna” — and murmured
with a happy smile:
“I shall see her soon!”
X. HONORIA BRAND.
Innis yielded to the importunities of
Phil Cary, and spent the night at Elmwood;
but at sunrise was again in the
saddle, and on his way to “Rivanna,”
where his friend promised soon to join
him.
The variegated foliage was fresh,
dewy, and sonorous with the “caw caw”
of the crows. That familiar sound
struck on the ear of Innis with delight,
and he went on at a gallop, full of joy,
reaching finally the summit of a hill
within half a mile of the old country-house.
There he checked his horse, and
looked for some moments with admiration
on the prospect. To the left were
circling hills, abrupt, heavily clothed
with evergreens, and cut by the foaming
current of a mountain-stream, above
which towered mighty masses of rock
full of wild and picturesque beauty. In
front and to the right the ground trended
off into charming slopes, dotted with
oaks and ash-trees, and a rustic bridge
was thrown across the stream below.
On a commanding eminence beyond,
standing proudly amid the great oaks of
the extensive grounds, was
“Rivanna,”
with its white portico, broad wings,
stacks of chimneys, and long rows of
quarters, the whole lit up by the gold
of sunrise.
Innis stopped for a few moments only.
Something beside the landscape evidently
attracted him. He put spur to his
horse, galloped down the hill, crossed
the bridge, and passed through a tall
gate, with ornamental capitals on the
posts, into the grounds of the mansion.
Suddenly he drew rein and uttered a joyous
exclamation.
Within twenty paces of him stood a
young lady, leaning against the trunk of
one of the great oaks, looking toward
him, blushing a little, and smiling.
Innis threw himself from the saddle
rather than dismounted, and, hastening
toward the young lady, exclaimed—
“Honoria!”
She came toward him with her fresh
cheeks just tinted with roses, pushing
back some brown curls from her forehead,
and holding out a small hand.
“I am very glad you have come back,
Edmund,” she said, simply.
“And I am happy for the first time
since I left you, Honoria.”
There was something ardent, earnest,
and moving, in the voice of the speaker.
His companion did not blush, but a
quick light filled the great soft eyes, and
an exquisite expression of happiness, at
once trustful and timid, came to her lips.
The sunrise fell upon her as she stood
thus, and seemed to caress her. She was
not more than eighteen, with a slender
figure, which swayed naturally as she
moved on her little feet, and a complexion
all lilies and roses. What was better
than the lilies and roses, the white neck
bending like a swan's, and the whole
physique of this gracious creature, was
the modesty of her glance and smile—a
certain winning sweetness—which said,
“I am pure,” as the snow says, “I am
white.”
-- 025 -- p505-034
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
Her hand lay for a moment in that of
Edmund Innis, and then was withdrawn,
but without affectation or mock prudery.
As they walked up the hill, Innis
leading his horse by the bridle, the feelings
of the youth were translated in his
glances, which dwelt upon the fresh face
beside him with an expression which left
nothing in doubt. Eager, tender, their
light veiled, as it were, by happiness, the
eyes of the youth betrayed his secret.
“When did you leave Williamburg?”
“Three days ago.”
“You came alone?”
“With our friends of Elmwood.”
“That must have made the journey
pleasant.”
“Very pleasant.”
Does the reader wish to have recorded
any more of this thrilling conversation?
I spare him. Why should not
youth and love play their parts unseen?
Why repeat the commonplaces under
which the heart beats? The words uttered
are nothing—the aim of each is to
hear the other's voice. So on this morning,
full of sunshine, foliage, freshness,
and charm, the young man and the girl
walked beside each other, exchanging
nothings, which were better than wit.
A short walk beneath the great oaks,
over a path gradually ascending, brought
them in front of the long porches of the
great mansion.
Innis entered, Honoria ran to announce
his arrival to her mother, and
the young man went into the library.
Before him sat, in a great arm-chair,
Colonel Brand.
XI. BIRTHS, DEATHS, AND MARRIAGES.
Of “Rivanna” and its owner it is
necessary to say a few words before proceeding
further in this narrative.
The house had been built by Colonel
Seaton, a prominent gentleman of the
colony, who, attracted by the beauty and
fertility of the Piedmont country, had
purchased a great estate here, sent to England
for workmen and materials, and
erected this fine mansion, at the then extremest
limits of civilization.
It is the hard fate of the rich to have
some nail in the shoe. Colonel Seaton's
nail was the want of children. The
great house was dreary without them;
and when one day he was informed that
his brother and his sister had died, leaving
each a little girl without a home, he
went and brought the children to Rivanna,
adopted them as his own, and, on
the death of his wife some years afterward,
gave his whole attention to the
task of rearing them as joint heiresses of
his estate.
The elder of the two cousins was his
favorite in spite of her high-spirited and
somewhat restive character. But the
moment came when this affection sustained
a heavy blow. The young girl
married Mr. Edmund Innis, an amiable
and honorable but thriftless gentleman
of the neighborhood; and Colonel Seaton,
who had opposed the alliance in
every manner possible, made his niece a
low bow, and informed her that thenceforth
they were to be strangers.
The separation soon became more
complete still. Colonel Seaton died.
When his will was opened it was found
that he had left the great estate of Rivanna
to his younger niece, and to the
eldest nothing.
The younger was thus a great heiress,
and suitors promptly appeared. None,
however, pleased the young lady, and,
weary of the wilderness, she went to
spend the winter in Williamsburg.
There her fate met her. Mr. Brand,
of an ancient family and a great estate,
paid his addresses. He was handsome,
he was courtly, he had made the grand
tour, he threw his money about in the
grandest style; and, until his marriage
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
with the young lady, which in due time
took place, it was not discovered that
the splendid suitor was bankrupt; his
luxury and seeming affluence a hollow
shell, covering — hopeless debt. His
wealthy marriage, however, rescued him
from ruin; his old associates lost sight
of him; he had become a staid and imposing
personage—the worshipful Colonel
Brand, of Rivanna.
Years passed, and two daughters were
born to Colonel Brand; when this history
opens they were approaching womanhood.
Meanwhile, the elder cousin,
Mrs. Innis, grandually saw poverty closing
in upon her. Her husband was a gentleman
of the highest character, but belonged
to that class of persons with
whom every thing fails. Some men
have only to touch lead to turn it to
gold. Mr. Innis had only to touch gold
to turn it into lead. He had possessed a
considerable property—as he advanced
in life it dwindled. In ten years more,
he would have been thrown homeless on
the world, when, fortunately or unfortunately,
he died, leaving his widow
with an only son, and in possession of
but a small remnant of the once ample
estate of the Innises.
What is it that a mother does when
her husband dies, leaving her with one
darling child only? She almost always
spoils the child: and Mrs. Innis did all
in her power to spoil Edmund. She did
not succeed. There was something in
the boy too proud, intelligent, and noble,
to be warped; and, when his mother
died, in his eighteenth year, clasping him
with her last remains of strength to her
poor heart, she left him simple, sweettempered,
and unselfish.
The hard hand of loneliness thus
came to press upon the boy, as he
touched the threshold of manhood. Immured
in his little house, resembling
rather a hunting-lodge than a dwelling,
in a gash of the mountain, he saw far
beneath him in the plain, “Rivanna,”
“Carysbrook,”
“Castlehill,” and the
happy homes of happy families, while
one or two old servants, who would not
desert him, were the only human beings
near him, and a few books were his
only other company. Then a new resource
suddenly presented itself.
The cousins—his mother and Lady
Brand, as the wife of the lordly colonel
was colloquially called, in accordance
with a usage not uncommon in colonial
Virginia—had had no intercourse.
This, it must be said, was the fault of
Mrs. Innis, who, proud, sensitive, and
high-spirited, would respond to no overtures,
and resolutely declined intercourse
with those who had spoken ill, she believed,
of her husband. Death had come
now to heal this breach. The sod had
scarce closed over the poor lady, when
Lady Brand came in her coach up the
mountain-road—entered the little house—
went up to Edmund, who was about
to receive her with a bow, and, clasping
her arms around him, kissed him, and
said, with tears in her eyes:
“My poor child, you must not stay
here in your solitary home. You are
my blood, and I love you very much, as
I loved dear Anna. You must love me
a little in return.”
Thereat the boy melted, and sobbed
in the good lady's arms.
An hour afterward they were at “Rivanna,”
and Edmund saw two young
ladies of twelve and fourteen come toward
him, offering their lips—in accordance
with instructions—to their cousin.
Thenceforth the life of Innis changed.
A large part of his time was spent at
Rivanna; and, in course of years, he
found it wellnigh impossible to remain
absent. The girl of twelve became the
maiden of fifteen, then the young lady
of eighteen; and Innis passionately loved
her. Grave, calm, and serene in manner,
the youth possessed strong impulses
and ardent aspirations. Solitude grew
distasteful, books wearied him—Honoria
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
was ever before his eyes; and, mounting
his thorough-bred, one of the few luxuries
left him, he would go to Rivanna,
spend whole days, and drink deeper and
deeper draughts of that most intoxicating
of beverages—first love!
Nothing hitherto had come to mar
his happiness. Lady Brand, whom he
called “aunt,” received him always with
the tenderest affection; Lou, the elder
of the two girls, was his warm friend,
and even the stiff colonel made him
stately bows, and overwhelmed him with
distinguished consideration—for the colonel
was given to “deportment.”
Of Honoria's feelings, the narrative
will present a fuller view than is here
possible. A few words more will convey
a correct conception of Innis's situation
and plans when our history commences.
He was twenty-three — passionately
in love with his cousin, the daughter of
a gentleman of large wealth—poor, and
doing nothing. At that thought the
very soul of Innis revolted within him.
He thought with bitterness of his probable
future — of visiting Rivanna thus,
year after year, in the character of a
“poor relation” — of one day seeing
Honoria give her hand to some glittering
youth, forgetting him; and of
growing old, uncared for, and forgotten
in his lonely lodge, buried in its lugubrious
pines. That thought had come day
after day to cut Innis like a sharp blade
to the very heart. His once ruddy cheek
grew pale with bitter meditation. With
the prejudice of race, at that time prevalent,
he shrank from trade—he had no
means to enter the professions — what
was left him but to mope and dream,
growing gray and sombre in his sombre
dwelling—bending lower year by year
beneath the inexorable weight which
bows the strongest shoulders toward the
tomb?
These thoughts preyed upon him, as
the worm preys on the bud, and his
cheeks grew so pale that Lady Brand
said one day:
“You are pining, Edmund; what is
the reason?”
“I am twenty-three, and am doing
nothing, aunt.”
“Well, why remain idle?”
“What can I do?”
“Make yourself the first counsellor
in the colony—you have the intellect.”
Innis felt his pulse throb. Then his
head sunk.
“I cannot, aunt. I have no means to
study.”
Lady Brand smiled.
“Listen, Edmund: my connection,
Mr. Wythe, at Williamsburg, wishes a
young gentleman in his office; he is
growing old, and requires assistance in
transcribing his law - papers. He will
receive you into his house as one of the
family gladly, in return for your services,
and instruct you in law besides—”
“Me, aunt?”
“I say you, my child, because he offers
to do so in this letter.”
She looked at him with her kind
eyes and smile, holding toward him the
letter.
“Why should I not scheme to set my
boy up in the world, like other people?”
Innis had his arms around her, ere
she had finished, and kissed her.
“Dear aunt!—you are very good to
me!”
“Don't thank me for only doing my
duty, Edmund. And now, I think it
best that you should go and see Mr.
Wythe.”
“I will set out to-morrow, aunt. Oh,
I assure you, I am not disposed to delay.”
“I will give you an early breakfast,
then, my son; and may God guide you!”
On the very next day Innis was, accordingly,
on his way to Williamsburg,
which he reached in due time. The venerable
Mr. Wythe greeted him cordially.
It was arranged that he should come to
-- 028 -- p505-037
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
live in his office on the first of the ensuing
January, and Innis returned, as the
reader has seen.
What befell him in Williamsburg has
been recorded; what occurred on his return
will now be related.
XII. AT RIVANNA.
Colonel Brand was seated in his
large arm-chair of carved oak, with Spanish-leather
covering—a tall and portly in-
dividual, ruddy of face from high living,
with gray side-whiskers, and formal air,
and clad in imposing costume. His face
and bearing said: “I am the lord of the
manor; you common people will be good
enough to bow down to me!” He even
held the number of the Virginia Gazette
which he was reading with a stately air,
as of a superior mortal, who performed
an act of condescension in perusing what
common people had written.
Innis entered, and, approaching,
bowed to the colonel, who rose slowly—
for it was a part of his social philosophy
never to omit any form of courtesy—
and grandly held out two fingers. Innis
took them; the colonel submitted to
the ceremony without responding in any
manner to the pressure bestowed upon
the two digits; and then came, in stiff
and formal tones:
“You have just returned from the
capital, I believe?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Innis, taking the
seat which the colonel indicated with a
stately wave of the hand.
“Hum!”
The colonel cleared his throat in a
formal manner, and resumed his seat.
“Perhaps you bring some intelligence
of interest,” he said, raising his chin,
and slowly passing his jewelled hand beneath
that portion of his person.
“Scarcely any thing, sir,” replied Innis;
“my stay, as you know, was brief.”
Colonel Brand made an inclination
with his head, as though to protest
against being supposed to remember, or
be aware of, a fact so very unimportant
as the duration of the young man's absence.
“His excellency is well, I trust?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“You saw him?”
“I did not, sir, except when he was
passing to his coach one day.”
“I have the honor to enjoy his lordship's
acquaintance. You saw none of
the council or his excellency's suite?”
“Yes, sir—I chanced to make the acquaintance
of Lord Ruthven, his secretary.”
“Lord Ruthven?”
“Yes, sir; a nobleman from Scotland,
I believe.”
The colonel seemed suddenly interested.
“A gentleman of—let me see—hum!
from sixty-five to seventy?”
“Scarce as old as forty, I think, sir.”
“Then 'tis not my Lord Ruthven of
Perthshire.”
“You knew his lordship, sir?”
“Well—indeed—hum!—I may speak
of his lordship as my personal friend,
and I possess and highly value a portrait
of him which I have—his own gift.”
“The Lord Ruthven of his excellency's
suite may be the elder nobleman's
son.”
“True; what is his personal appearance?”
“Very pale, with black hair and eyes,
and of grave demeanor.”
“The same; no doubt 'tis the son of
the elder lord, who may have died recently.”
Innis looked around for the portrait
of the elder Lord Ruthven; it was nowhere
to be seen.
Colonel Brand seemed to have dismissed
the subject. With imposing gravity
he began:
“The intelligence from England, I
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
perceive, sir—hum!—” when, unfortu-
nately for his stately discourse, the
breakfast-bell rang; and, rising, the colonel
approached the door, and, moving
slightly aside, waved his hand for Innis
to precede him.
“After you, sir,” said the youth,
courteously.
“I beg you will proceed, sir,” said
the colonel, with stately condescension.
Innis smiled and obeyed. They entered
the breakfast-room, and a tall,
elderly lady, very graceful and attractive
still, came from behind the urn, and, putting
her arms around the youth, kissed
him affectionately.
Then Miss Lou Brand, tall like her
mother, with dancing, hazel eyes, a superb
complexion, dazzling teeth between
rosy lips, and an air of gayety, mischief,
and abandon, came and greeted him
warmly. Honoria entered and took her
place, and breakfast proceeded.
“Where is Meta, aunt?” said Innis
to Lady Brand.
“I have no idea, Edmund; not making
her toilet, for she is an earlier riser
than any one in the household.”
“I fancied I saw her at one of the
windows as I came up the hill.”
A species of inarticulate murmur was
heard behind the youth; he turned quickly.
On the threshold of the apartment
stood a singular figure.
The new-comer was a girl, apparently
about fifteen, of very extraordinary
beauty, but with something wild and
elfish in her appearance. She wore a
dress of the most brilliant and variegated
colors, and superb dark hair fell in huge
masses of curls upon both shoulders.
Her eyes were dark, subtile, and penetrating,
and were fixed intently upon Innis.
He rose quickly, and went and held
out his hand, with a smile, saying:
“How do you do, Meta?”
The girl coldly refused the hand, and,
without uttering a sound, went to her
place at the table.
“Something has offended Meta,”
said
Lady Brand, in a low tone.—“Do not
take any notice of her, Edmund; it is
the best way.”
The youth resumed his seat; breakfast
went upon its way; the stately lord
of the manor rose and returned to the
library; and an hour afterward Innis
was seated in his aunt's chamber, informing
her of the fortunate results of his
journey. He had made every arrangement
to enter Mr. Wythe's office on the
first of January.
“Heaven be thanked that you have
been so fortunate, my son!” said the
worthy lady, busily knitting in her great
chair; for, like a good Virginia housewife,
she would never remain idle. “Now your
career in life is open to you. By assiduous
study you may become, not only
prosperous but distinguished; and your
old aunt will be as happy as yourself.”
“Dear aunt,” said the youth, warmly,
“how good you are to me! One
would really suppose that I was somebody.”
“You are of our blood, and that is
very good blood, too, Edmund.”
“But I am very poor.”
“That is of all human things the
least important to a young man—it is a
spur to exertion.”
“But, in case I were to—fall in love—
aunt?”
“Do not do so yet, Edmund. There
is time enough for that, as my friend
Mrs. Cary is always telling Phil.”
Innis sighed.
“I suppose you are right, aunt; but,
in case I were to find my affections engaged—
to love some one—then poverty
would be a serious bar, I fear.”
“Why should it, if you are energetic
and make your way? Two sorts of
wealth exist in this world, Edmund—
property and intellect. If your intellect
brings you revenue, is it not as valuable
as landed estate, which can do no more?”
“The land is much more certain,
-- 030 -- p505-039
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aunt; but we are wandering very far.
You see I am quite fortunate now, and,
thanks to you, have something to look
forward to. Let me tell yo of my adventures.”
And Innis related the incidents connected
with Lord Ruthven, suppressing,
however, as he had promised, all allusion
to the singular words of the nobleman.
“That was unfortunate, Edmund, but
in this world we must not regret too
strongly what we cannot help. You
had no intention to injury Lord Ruthven,
and, fortunately, he has recovered.
These accidents are sometimes truly unhappy.
Meta, you know, owes her loss
of reason to a similar fall.”
“Is it possible, aunt?”
“Did you not know it?”
“Strangely enough, I did not.”
“We rarely allude to it, and never in
her presence, as it agitates her frightfully.
Meta, you know, is the only daughter
of a cousin of my uncle, Colonel Seaton.
Her father and mother are both dead,
and we have only done our duty in taking
the poor orphan to our arms. She
came to us in her present condition—
dumb and bereft of sense. When about
ten years of age, she one day mounted a
spirited young horse; the animal ran
away and threw her to the ground, and
in falling her head struck a sharp stone,
which, it is supposed, drove a portion of
bone in upon her brain. When she recovered
from her fall the poor child had
lost her reason. Truly, the ways of
Providence are past finding out. And
now don't let me detain you, Edmund.
Old people must not monopolize young
people; and yonder comes Philip Cary,
a great rattle-trap, but a young man for
whom I have much regard. Come back
during the evening—I like to see as much
of my boy as I can. You know we must
soon part.”
XIII. THE PORTRAIT.
Replying to this speech of the good
lady by an affectionate glance, Innis
rose, left the chamber, and went toward
the staircase leading to the lower
floor.
As he did so, he perceived that the
door of a small apartment, the private
dressing-room of Colonel Brand, which
few persons ever entered, was half open.
Glancing idly through the opening, he
found his attention suddenly arrested by
a portrait on the opposite wall.
This portrait was the most perfect,
the most astonishing likeness of the Lord
Ruthven of Williamsburg: the pale face,
with its black hair and eyes, seemed
starting from the canvas, and about to
speak to him.
Innis advanced a step, and looked
long and intently at the picture.
“The very face!” he said.
And, returning to Lady Brand's chamber,
he said:
“Aunt, whose portrait hangs in the
dressing-room?”
“That with the white face and black
locks, Edmund?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“'Tis the picture of Lord Ruthven,
of Scotland, a former friend of Colonel
Brand's.”
“Strange that I never before saw it.”
“And yet the explanation is simple,
my son. The portrait originally hung in
the hall down-stairs, but the face gave
me a chill.”
“A chill?”
“It seemed to haunt me, with its
deep, dark, melancholy eyes—its ghostly
stare. So I begged Colonel Brand to remove
it; he complied with my request,
and it hangs now, you see, in his private
apartment.”
Innis nodded.
“It has had a strange effect upon me
too, aunt. The resemblance is striking
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to the Lord Ruthven I met with in Williamsburg.”
“Ah, indeed?”
“Yes aunt—the same haunting expression
in the eyes of the portrait is
reproduced in the eyes of the son.”
“The son?”
“Doubtless, my Williamsburg acquaintance
is a son of the elder lord.”
“Yes, yes — that explains the likeness.
These resemblances of father and
son are sometimes truly extraordinary.
I remember, when young Mr. Harrison
came to see us, I was so much astonished
by his likeness to his father—”
And Lady Brand plunged into a
story, all about young Mr. Harrison, his
father, who had once been a very intimate
friend of hers, and other persons
connected with them.
We shall not inflict the good lady's
reminiscences upon the reader. When
the narrative was concluded, Innis rose,
left the apartment, stopped again in
front of Colonel Brand's dressing-room,
to look at the portrait, and then went
down the stairs, murmuring:
“I could swear that this was my
Lord Ruthven—or his ghost!”
XIV. META.
Innis found his friend Phil Cary upon
the portico, engaged in a word-combat
with his intimate enemy, Miss Lou
Brand, between whom and himself existed
relations of permanent hostility—
or very great liking—it was difficult to
say which.
They certainly struck fire, like steel
and flint, whenever they met; but then
they apparently could not remain away
from each other; gravitated as it were
together; and were much too aggressive
and provoking to be indifferent.
That excellent class of persons who
take charge of the affairs of their neigh
borhoods, said that Miss Lou Brand was
extremely fond of Mr. Phil Cary, but
had confidentially announced, in the
secrecy of female friendship, that she intended
to “give him a lesson.” Mr. Phil
Cary, on the other hand, was said to be
aware of this dire resolve on the part
of his enemy, and to shape his course
with great skill in accordance therewith—
proceeding in his attentions just far
enough to provoke and tantalize Miss
Brand, but carefully refraining, with
covert enjoyment of the joke, from an
avowal. Such were the relations of the
young people — circumstances would
doubtless determine the result; meanwhile,
they laughed at each other, held
each other up to ridicule, and invariably
sought out each other in society.
Innis smiled as he passed them, and,
inviting his friend to come and see him,
mounted his horse.
“Remember the party on Wednesday!”
Miss Lou called out.
“The party?” said Innis.
“Haven't you heard of it? We expect
to have half a dozen girls; they
will stay for a week, and we intend to
turn night into day!—it will be delightful!”
“Turning night into day?”
“Yes, sir! why not? Day is so
stupid.”
“And then the fairer portion of
creation look so much better by lamplight,”
said Mr. Cary, meekly.
The young lady turned upon him
instantly.
“Why should not girls turn night into
day, if they fancy?”
“Why not?” echoed Mr. Phil Cary—
“they do nothing.”
“They sew, sir!—and that is better
than passing the time in idleness, or
eternally hunting, hunting, as is the
practice of some people.”
“Do you really sew?” said Mr. Cary,
with interest.
“Yes, sir; as your lordship is aware,
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we are the weaker species of vessels,
and—”
“Yes, yes, I had lost sight of that,”
interrupted Mr. Phil Cary; “you therefore
sew, and—am I wrong in supposing
that you occasionally talk?”
“Wearisome!”
And, turning her back on Mr. Cary,
Miss Brand returned Innis's bow, and
said:
“Be sure to come on Wednesday,
and stay for a week at least, Edmund.
We intend to have a charming time, and
to eat the dumb-cake.”
“What is that, cousin?”
“A secret.”
A smothered laugh behind the young
lady excited her sudden indignation.
“I don't believe there is any secret,”
said Phil Cary, with much frankness;
“women never keep secrets.”
What followed this renewal of the
assault, Innis did not observe; he left
the foes in the midst of their altercation,
and rode down the hill. As he
went along slowly, his lips wore a faint
smile, and his face was a little flushed.
He was thinking of Honoria. In his
absence, she had grown dearer far to
him than before. Now, he would see
her again for a few weeks — then he
would leave her; time, change, vicissitude,
would work their will on each.
When should he see her again, if he ever
saw her?
The young man was going along,
buried in these thoughts, his eyes fixed
upon the ground, when suddenly his
horse shied so violently that he was
nearly unseated.
The origin of this fright on the part
of the animal was the occurrence of a
very singular incident. From the great
oak, beneath which he had been passing,
had suddenly fallen, within five paces,
the figure of the girl Meta. A sort of
rustic bower in this great, wide-armed
tree, was indeed a favorite haunt of the
elf - like maiden; her singular agility
enabled her to mount without difficulty
to her hiding-place; and here, cradled
in foliage, she would spend hour after
hour, gazing at the sky, the passing
clouds, listening to the twitter of the
birds amid the leaves, or baring her
brow to the cooling breeze. As Innis
passed, she had swung from a drooping
bough, falling as lightly as a cat to the
turf beneath, and now stood looking at
him with her singularly-piercing eyes
framed in the masses of black curls
descending to and nearly covering her
shoulders.
The expression of the beautiful face
was strange. Anger, regret, tenderness—
all passed in turn over the telltale
countenance, which at certain moments
reflected what was passing in Meta's
breast so plainly that words were unnecessary.
Words, indeed, the girl had
none. Bereft alike of speech and reason,
this poor girl was nearly cut off by her
misfortune from all the life around her.
She had succeeded, however, in making
for herself a species of language of signs
and gestures — Innis understood in a
measure these signs — and, as the girl
now began to gesticulate with singular
energy, he understood that she was expressing
regret for her cold reception of
him upon his arrival.
Innis looked at the young face, filled
with its conflicting emotions, and an expression
of pitying kindness came to his
own.
“It was nothing, Meta,” he said; “I
was a little surprised, 'tis true. I am
not hurt, however, and will not even
ask you why you thus received me. I
am sure of your affection for me, and
you know my affection for you.”
The head sank quickly, and tears
came to the girl's eyes. She uttered
some inarticulate sounds, blushed, trembled,
then with a quick movement seized
the young man's hand and kissed it.
A few moments afterward she had
disappeared, running with inconceivable
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rapidity into the deepest shades of the
park.
Innis looked after her, shook his head
with a pitying sigh, and rode on.
XV. TWO PICTURES.
A ride of a few miles brought Innis
to his little hunting-lodge, perched on a
knoll in a gash of the mountain, and
overshadowed by haughty pines.
An old man-servant, bowed down
with age, came with a pleasant smile to
greet him, and take his horse. Some
kind words, indicative of affection on
the part of each for the other, were exchanged;
and Innis entered the little
dwelling, where a bright fire burned
upon the hearth, sat down, opened a
book, and appeared to be reading. In a
few moments the book sank on his knee,
his eyes were fixed upon the fire, and his
thoughts flew far away from his little
mountain-lodge to the lowland and Honoria.
He approached now a crisis in his life,
when, perhaps, a few months would decide
his future. Could he make something
of himself, or was he doomed to
vegetate thus forever in obscurity? No!
He would not rust away thus, his fresh
years fading to the yellow leaf—alone,
unknown, a mere atom, and even of less
importance than an atom in the universe.
“No,” he said, finally, gazing around
him at the small apartment, with its plain,
almost rude appurtenances, which the
firelight fell upon. “No, I cannot live
here forever, with no one to love me, a
mere nobody in the world. I will study,
work, make something of myself. I
may succeed as others have succeeded—
rise in the profession of the law—three
or four years hence I may go to the
House of Burgesses—she will then be
scarcely more than twenty—and—”
With this “and” he stopped. A
blush covered the youth's cheeks, and
his head sank. Falling into reverie
again, he fixed his eyes upon the fire,
and remained silent. Was his imagination
painting some brilliant future—the
picture of himself, prominent, wealthy,
honored, and married to Honoria?
“In three or four years,” he murmured—
“that is not so long—then—then—
who knows?”
The old, old story!—the tale that is
told of all the generations of humanity!
And at that very moment, Honoria,
leaning her forehead on her hand, and
looking out into the fine October night,
was thinking of him. He was her young
hero—the beloved of her fresh young
heart. To Edmund Innis all her thoughts
flowed, and her meditations were filled
with bitter pleasure—a species of delicious
pain.
For Honoria, too, realized that the
hour approached when her relations with
Innis must undergo a change. What is
it that one day suddenly tells the maiden
of seventeen that the youth who has
hitherto been to her but a cousin and
favorite playmate, has become a lover?
Then the old world of cousinship is dead,
the new world of first love appears, all
flowers, and sunshine, where the happy
breezes whisper their exquisite secrets.
It was plain to Honoria, as she sat sunk
in reverie, with blushing cheeks, that
Edmund was beginning to love her.
His glance had revealed all, and she must
take care how she treated him henceforth.
She did not love him! Oh! no, no!—
and the fact seemed very sorrowful,
for Honoria uttered a piteous sigh. She
loved him, of course, as her cousin, dearly—
yes, very dearly—and why
should
she not? It was natural. He was so
kind and generous and noble! So free
from any thing mean or little. This was
the origin of her liking. The fact that
he was extremely handsome, the most
graceful and elegant of all the gentlemen
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
of her acquaintance—this had no weight
with her, not the least! She loved him—
yes! she did love him—as her cousin—
for his goodness of heart; and she
must be cold, indeed, not to do so—but—
that was all! He was simply a favorite
cousin, and—he was falling in love
with her!
What should she do? Permit him to
deceive himself, perhaps, and grow unhappy?
Oh, no! If she loved him as
her friend and cousin, she should show it
now by refraining from her former marks
of affection, and discouraging him on
the threshold. Yes, that was her bounden
duty—she would resolutely perform
it; and, having come to this resolution,
Honoria sighed profoundly.
All at once a quick blush rushed to
her cheeks, and tears overflowed her
eyes.
“Edmund would never be so unjust,”
she murmured.
The quick thought had come to her
that the young man might attribute her
sudden coolness to the difference in point
of wealth—to his poverty. His poverty!
As if that could make any difference
with her! She loved him a thousand
times more for his poverty. The noblest
men of history had been proud to be
poor; and had found in high thoughts,
the affections of the heart, and honorable
toil, the noblest source of happiness.
Edmund Innis might be poor in worldly
goods, but he was rich in all else—in
truth, honor, grace, sweetness, whatever
best became a gentleman! His very
worn and discolored coat became him
better than the silks and velvets of
others. His hat might be frayed and
old, but when he bowed before a lady it
was like a prince's coronet. And even
his poverty was only a fancy. Why
was not his small house as desirable as
“Blenheim” or “Rivanna?” Why think
that splendor and imposing luxury are
desirable in this world? It was very
pretty, this little lodge, perched on its
knoll beneath the great pines. The
proudest girl in all Virginia might be
happy to live there—with Edmund!
A quick, guilty blush came to the
cheeks of the girl. Her reverie had led
her to a point where suddenly she recoiled.
“No, no!” she murmured; “I did
not mean that! I was dreaming day-dreams—
fancies—I am very foolish. Edmund
is nothing to me; and my pride,
perhaps, makes me think I am aught to
him. I hope I am not—”
A piteous sigh whispered through the
words.
“I am mistaken, I suppose; and even
if—poor fellow! how could I bear it—his
distress? But the young girls in Williamsburg
are very beautiful, they say.
If he loves me, I hope he will soon find
one who will make him forget me. That
would make me very, very happy!”
And leaning her forehead on the window-sill,
Honoria uttered a low sob.
The old, old story! The tale that is
told of all the generations of humanity!
XVI. TWO HEARTS.
From his lonely mountain - lodge,
where no sound disturbed the silence
but the low murmur of the great pines,
Innis passed to the stately halls of “Rivanna,”
where a party of youths and
maidens filled the days and nights with
uproar, revelry, and laughter.
He was warmly welcomed by the
young ladies and the gallants, assembled
at the hospitable mansion — then he
looked for Honoria.
The young lady was not visible. The
result of that sorrowful reverie, which
we have partially described, had been
that Honoria had resolved not to encourage
the youth; that is, to receive him,
if she received him at all, with something
less than ordinary politeness; and,
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
by way of inaugurating this auspicious
programme, she did not leave her apartment,
although she saw him plainly as
he came up the hill.
Innis acted with decision—or he was
fortunate. Having spoken to his friends,
he went straight to Lady Brand's chamber,
and there he found Honoria.
As he entered, the girl's face flushed,
and her lip quivered. Then she suppressed
these evidences of emotion;
raised her head with stately politeness,
and bowed to him with common courtesy—
nothing more.
This reception struck Innis like a
blow. He became crimson, bowed low,
and then stood in an attitude almost
haughty before the girl, not uttering a
word.
Lady Brand looked at them in perfect
bewilderment.
“Why, what is the matter with you,
Honoria; and with you, Edmund?” she
exclaimed.
“Nothing, mamma,” said Honoria,
in a trembling voice.
“Nothing, aunt,” repeated Innis.
“But something is the matter,” continued
Lady Brand. “I insist upon an
explanation. These misunderstandings
are perfectly absurd; why do not people
go and have an explanation at once,
when they fall out?—What is it, Honoria?”
“Don't ask me, mamma!” exclaimed
Honoria, suppressing with the utmost
difficulty a burst of tears. “I have no
explanation to make; no fault to find
with anybody!”
And, rising quickly, she hurried from
the apartment.
“What is the matter, Edmund?”
asked Lady Brand, profoundly mystified.
“I do not know, aunt,” said Innis,
calmly; “you know that young ladies
are subject to nervous fancies—Honoria
will soon recover; I think I shall go
down now, and pay my respects to the
company.”
He turned away as he spoke, descended
to the drawing-room, and, retiring
to a shaded recess, leaned upon the
window-sill, and surrendered himself to
bitter meditation.
He was thus engaged when he heard
a step at the door of the apartment, and
the ear of the lover told him that it was
Honoria's. A moment afterward, he
heard her gay voice as she addressed the
gentlemen; there was no agitation whatever
in its tones: Innis had to deal with
a woman perfect in all the lessons of her
sex.
He did not turn, until, as the party
of youths and young ladies were going
to stroll on the lawn, Phil Cary cried
out:
“Wake up there, old fellow, and
come and walk!”
Innis shook his head.
“That will never do, Mr. Innis!”
exclaimed an impulsive young lady, the
“romp” of the party; “come this moment
and walk with me, sir!”
Refusal was no longer possible. With
an internal opinion of the damsel which
would by no means have flattered her
amour-propre, he rose, offered his arm,
and, a moment afterward, the “romp”
had seized the arm of Honoria, dragging
both Innis and the latter forth beneath
the great oaks.
Much injustice is done the class of
young ladies called “romps;” what they
lack in ceremony they make up often in
warmth of heart. This one saw that
Innis had no eyes for any one but Honoria;
she brought them together; then
she heard some one call her, or pretended
to hear, and quietly retired, smiling
sweetly upon the young man, who
was thus left with Honoria.
For some moments it seemed that
this good fortune would have no results.
Innis found himself walking beside a
maiden who blushed a little, but exhibited
no other indication of emotion; one
who was determined to converse upon
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
the subject of the weather, and explain
nothing.
For nearly an hour he tried vainly
to direct the conversation to this topic—
the alteration in the young lady's demeanor.
She incessantly evaded the
subject; foiled him at every turn; and
preserved her self-possession.
Innis stopped, raised his eyes from
the ground upon which they had been
fixed, and for a moment gazed with a
long and searching look upon the
girl.
“So be it, Honoria,” he said, with
sorrowful composure, and an accent both
of grief and pride; “my pains, I see, are
thrown away. You avoid uttering the
few simple words I wish to hear. You
are changed to me.”
He could not suppress a species of
groan. It was hard to feel hope leaving
him.
“I thought you had some—affection—
for me, once. Had you not? But we
will not speak of that. Do not reply.
You had this affection, and are altered
to me, refusing to explain why; or you
had none, and do not feign. So be it,
once more. You shall not be annoyed
by my wretched importunity—by this
love—yes, love!—which wellnigh unmans
me. Oh, it is hard! very hard
to— Your gay company shall not be
made gloomy by my miserable face. I
will go—in an hour I shall leave Rivanna—
and forever!”
She raised her head with a startled
look, and gazed at him. Her cheeks
were pale, and her eyes swam in sudden
tears.
“Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed, impulsively,
“you must not go!”
A guilty blush instantly drove away
the pallor of her cheeks.
“That is to say—I mean—”
There the low voice died away, and
a sob issued from the trembling lips. A
moment had reversed every thing. It
was Honoria who pleaded—Innis who
was calm. His pride had come to his
assistance.
“You are cold to me, or angry with
me,” he said, in a firm voice; “what
course therefore remains for me, but
to—”
“No, no—not cold—not angry!”
She placed her handkerchief to her eyes,
and murmured: “But it is best that we
should not—” The words ended in another
sob.
“Should not what?” exclaimed the
youth, seizing her hand; “speak, Honoria!
What mystery is this? You can trust
me, can you not? You loved me a little,
once—did you not—as your poor
cousin, at least?”
“Oh, yes, yes! Heaven is my witness—
faithfully—and I act now from—affec-
tion for you!”
The words were uttered in a broken
and trembling voice. Honoria leaned
against the trunk of the oak, beneath
which they stood apart from the gay
groups, and her whole frame was convulsed.
Innis pressed the hand which he still
held, with vehemence, and exclaimed:
“Speak, Honoria! what means this?
You act thus from affection?”
“Oh, yes!”
“That prompts you to treat me thus—
coldly?”
“Yes!”
The youth was silent for a moment,
lost in wonder; then his face grew suddenly
pale, and an expression of intense
bitterness came to his lips. He dropped
the hand of the girl.
“I now understand!” he said, raising
his head with cold pride.
“You understand?”
“Yes,” he said; “yes, there is no
longer any mystery to solve, Honoria.
You are a woman—one of the best of
them—but, after all, you are a woman.”
He looked at her coldly and mournfully.
“You have reflected upon the
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
difference of our conditions,” he went on;
“you have realized how broad a gulf
separates the poor young man, obscure,
and alone in the world, where he is
nothing, from the beautiful young heiress
whom all conspire to flatter—”
“Edmund!” she exclaimed, wildly,
“oh, you must not, shall not—”
“Alas!” he said, with the same
proud sorrow in voice and countenance,
“it is true—too true! I can understand
that good-breeding prompts you to deny
the charge; it is possible, even, that you
are unwilling to wound your poor cousin—
your friend and playmate—who has
loved you so long and faithfully!”
“Edmund, Edmund!” she exclaimed,
“this is ungenerous—cruel, terrible injustice!”
He shook his head slowly.
“I would not be cruel—alas! I cannot.
It is the woful truth, which I
have the courage to tell you, because I
am about to leave you, and my heart is
breaking! You have found at last, my
poor darling—let me call you so, it is the
first time and the last time—you have
found that the present cannot be like the
past, because the world has its claims
upon you. You were Honoria once—
now you find that you are Miss Brand of
Rivanna, and must be governed by your
station—and, what right have I to blame
you? I am so wretched that I could
not have the heart to inflict upon my
worst enemy the agony I feel; but I
have no anger now. I shall go back to
my poor house yonder, and endeavor to
forget you—try to remember you only
to pray Heaven to bless you; but now,
before we part, I will say what has been
my feeling for months, for years. I love
you, Honoria! I love you, neither as
friend nor cousin, but with man's love
for woman! I love you!—Oh! that
does not express my thought! The very
ground your feet pressed has been dear
to me. Your glove, your handkerchief,
the simplest object you have touched,
has been precious to me. I have loved
you!—loved you day and night—waking
and in dreams—in my joy and my sorrow—
you were my only solace! You
took the place of father, mother, sister,
and brother; I was a poor, lonely orphan,
but your love was enough. You were
my all—the light of my poor life, the
pride and joy of a heart that centred
all in you! I lived for you—I would
have died for you! That is my last
word—farewell!”
He held out his hand, but suddenly the
girl tottered; her head fell languidly toward
one shoulder; and, had not Innis supported
her, she would have fallen. Overcome
by the long and passionate conflict,
the poor heart taxed beyond its strength,
Honoria had fainted.
Innis looked around — no one was
near, to render assistance. Within
twenty paces, a little stream, gushing
from a rock, ran between grassy banks.
Innis bore the girl to the stream, and a
handful of the cool water speedily revived
her.
As she opened her eyes, he withdrew
his arm, but suddenly she clung to him.
“Oh no, no! do not leave me!” she
exclaimed. “Oh, do not go, Edmund!
I too — have — loved you — loved
you
dearly!”
And, as though the avowal had exhausted
her strength, Honoria's head
sank on his breast; she hid her blushing
cheeks, and shook with a vague, delicious
tremor in her true-love's arms.
When she looked up at him, the
young face was full of tears and blushes,
but a smile shone there, like April sunshine.
The wind laughed above them, in the
mighty oak; the little stream ran gleefully
between its grassy margins; the
birds sang for them; the white clouds
floated—they were young, they loved,
and were triumphant over fate; for,
whatever the hard hours bring, two
hearts that love are the victors.
-- 038 -- p505-047
XVII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
The two fond hearts thus beat together;
each pressed to each—but, alas!
it was more than probable that a stern
hand, that of no less a personage than
the resolute Colonel Brand, would thrust
them asunder.
Innis felt a chill invade his heart.
What possibility could there be of gaining
the colonel's consent to his union with
Honoria? She was his favorite daughter,
his darling and pride; she would
inherit from him princely possessions;
would he ever permit her to unite her
fortunes to those of the poor youth,
when she might command the homage
of the proudest and wealthiest in the
land?
These questions came to the youthful
heart, still trembling and agitated from
the sudden weight of happiness, and
Innis had an additional source of foreboding.
Would not his course be attributed
to the basest motives — nay,
would not Colonel Brand meet him on
the very threshold of Rivanna, with an
insult—with the charge that he had dishonorably
taken advantage of the freedom
accorded him by the family, to win
the affection of the young and beautiful
heiress? The face of the youth blushed
at the very idea of such an accusation.
What would be the result? Insult—
quarrel—bitterness beyond words; and,
as he pondered thus, he looked at Honoria.
There was no doubt in her face;
naught but unshrinking, unhesitating
love. Where the youth trembled, she,
the “weaker vessel,” was firm; love had
wrought this mystery.
“My poor darling,” said Innis, looking
at the girl with inexpressible pride
and tenderness, “I fear this day is the
beginning of much suffering for you,
but I love you so dearly!”
She inclined her head sidewise until
it touched his shoulder. Then she
looked up into his eyes, and said, smiling:
“You ought to know that that is
enough to console me for all, Edmund!”
An hour afterward, Honoria had
told her mother all. The good lady
shook her head sadly.
“My poor, poor child,” she said,
drawing her daughter to her heart, “I
feared this, and yet had not resolution
enough to interfere between this affection
on your part and Edmund's. He
is all that the noblest woman could wish,
and, were I able to control your fate, I
should not hesitate; but I am powerless.
You know your father's pride, and, I
must add, worldliness. He has resolved,
I fear, that you shall make a
grand match; and Edmund is so poor—
this terrible poverty!”
“It is nothing, mamma!” said Honoria,
with a blush and a smile. Her
mother smiled in reply, but it was rather
a sad smile.
“It is every thing with Colonel
Brand—or much, at least—but let us
hope for the best. You say that Edmund
would not permit you to bind
yourself. That is like him, and time
may change all. He may make his mark
in the colony, and that may reconcile
your father to the arrangement. I think,
now, that Edmund had better absent
himself for a short time.”
“Yes, indeed, mamma; I have already
given him his orders,” replied
Honoria, laughing.
Do not laugh at her laughter, reader.
She was a mere child, and so happy.
Innis left Rivanna on the same evening,
and the place seemed dark to Honoria.
For the first time, she felt how
dearly, how absorbingly she loved him.
Such had been the events of a single
day in the life of Honoria Brand. She
was happy beyond words; her young
life was flooded all at once with sunshine;
and the future seemed to contain
-- 039 -- p505-048
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
no cloud which could overshadow her
existence.
XVIII. HOW THEY DREW LOTS WHICH SHOULD EAT THE DUMB-CAKE.
The Virginians have been noted always
for their devotion to the pleasures
of social intercourse—their love of company,
festivities, of whatever lifts from the
heart the inexorable weight of care, or
dissipates the wearying preoccupation
of affairs. To enjoy while life lasts, and
catch the perfume of the blossom—such
is the philosophy of this race of English
people living under brighter skies and
warmer sunshine than the skies and sunshine
of that “nest of swans,” as Shakespeare
calls Old England. To laugh, to
dance, to drive dull care away—such has
always been the habit of the country
society of Virginia; and at Rivanna, in
the old times of which I write, the days
and nights were one round of gayety.
The flying hours were sent upon their
way with joyous laughter—with music,
games, rides to the mountain, and that
most popular of all divertisements, love-making.
All day the merry revel went on, and
when night came the great mansion blazed
with lights—the negro violinists tuned
their instruments, the halls resounded,
and the little beauties and their cavaliers
bowed low in the stately minuet, or flew
through the mazes of the Virginia reel,
until the hands of the great shadowy-looking
clock behind the hall-door pointed
to midnight.
The evening came at last preceding
the day upon which it was determined
that the party should break up. The
company seemed to have grown weary
of dancing, of games, of jest and laughter.
As a new entertainment, they had recourse
to “ghost-stories;” and, the lights
having been put out, they grouped themselves
upon chairs, settees, cushions, and
the floor, listening in awe-struck silence
to the low whisper of the story-teller of
the moment.
The spectacle was striking. Through
the tall windows the pallid moonlight
streamed into the large apartment, projecting
fantastic shadows on the carpet;
the silken dresses of the young girls
shimmered in the weird light, and the
darker costumes of their male companions
assumed a lugubrious and funereal appearance,
the figures but half defined in
the gloom.
At last the ghost-story, related in a
low, awe-struck whisper, was over, and
the group drew a long breath. A second
and a third narration followed—the
mournful splendor of the moonlight
seemed to deepen—the shadow of the
great oak without, through whose leaves
a wind swept, waved upon the floor,
making all turn their heads quickly—and
when suddenly the great clock struck,
with its clangorous, metallic sound, in
the darkness, something like a shiver
ran through every frame.
The last story ended, and a deep
silence followed. It was broken by Lou
Brand, who, essaying to laugh, but failing
lamentably, said:
“Well, girls, there is but one thing
more for us to do, and that is, to eat
the dumb-cake to-night.”
“Yes, yes!” came from the rest.
“Who will venture?” continued the
young lady. “It is said to be a fearful
ordeal, and mamma tells of a young lady,
a friend of hers once, who saw a sight
so dreadful that she went distracted.”
Exclamations of terror and curiosity
greeted these words.
“What was it?”
The young lady shook her head.
“You may laugh at me,” she replied,
“for saying so, but these ghost-stories
have made me nervous. I tried to make
a jest just now, and failed. I cannot tell
you mamma's story—I could not sleep
after it. And I think, upon the whole,
-- 040 -- p505-049
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
that it would be as well not to eat
the dumb-cake to-night.”
But this proposition was received
with murmurs.
“No harm can result from it,” said
one.
“I will venture,” said another.
“And I.”
“And I,” said a third and fourth.
“Well,” said the young lady, “if you
are resolved, I will not dissuade you. But,
as there are so many candidates, you must
draw lots.”
This was readily agreed to, and, procuring
a wheat-straw, the young lady
divided it into a number of pieces of
equal length, with the exception of one,
which was very short, and grasped them
in her hand, the protruding ends exactly
coinciding.
“Form a circle on the floor, now,”
she said, “and I will stand in the centre,
and each can draw.”
About half a dozen of the young girls
promptly obeyed, and the protestations
of her companions induced Honoria, very
much against her will, to become one of
the group.
“Each draw one straw, now,” said
Lou Brand; “the girl who draws the
shortest will be the one.”
The ceremony was performed in solemn
silence. Each in turn drew.
“Now hold up your hands.”
This was done.
“You have drawn the short straw,
Honoria,” said Lou Brand to her sister,
“and you must go through the ordeal.”
“Oh, I cannot!” exclaimed Honoria.
But this was protested against by all;
and Honoria found herself doomed to eat
the dumb-cake.
XIX. TERROR.
The singular rite styled eating
the
dumb-cake was one of those superstitious
ceremonies which, whether derived from
half - civilized and credulous African
nurses, or having their origin far back
beyond memory, had taken fast hold upon
the imaginations of the young at this
period.
The origin of the name is difficult to
determine, especially as no cake of any
description was eaten. Was the name
metaphorical, and did it signify that those
who performed the ceremony saw sights
which sealed their lips, rendering them
dumb as to the mystery?
It is certain, at least, that there was
something sombre and mysterious about
the rite — a knowledge of which was
carefully concealed from all but the female
sex; and the preparations for it
were weird and fantastic.
First, the maiden selected to perform
the ceremony was to leave all her companions
and await the hour of eleven at
night. Then she was to take a bucket,
proceed silently and alone to the mystic
spot where three streams met, fill the
bucket, and then gain with it the chamber
selected for the mysterious ceremony.
All was to be performed without assistance.
No other human being must be
near. Having reached her chamber, she
was to deposit the bucket on the floor,
doff her garments, and, when ready to
retire, dip the sleeve of the garment
which she had worn nearest her person
in the water, and place it upon a chair.
These ceremonies, it was supposed,
would consume nearly an hour, and midnight
would be near when they were
finished. The neophyte was then to
stand perfectly motionless and silent,
awaiting the stroke of midnight. The
strokes were to be counted in silence
from “one” to “twelve.” At the stroke
of twelve the maiden was to look over
her shoulder into a mirror placed for the
purpose—and the result would be, that
she would see her future husband!
It will now be understood why Honoria
was reluctant to join the group.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
and had exclaimed, “Oh, I cannot!”
when the lot fell to her; and why, in both
cases, she permitted herself to be overruled.
She wished and she did not wish
to see her “future husband”—for these
two words conjured up the form of Edmund
Innis. Superstitious, like all at
that epoch, she had a lurking belief in
the mysterious ceremony, and shrunk
from attempting thus to read that future
which must bring her joy or misery
in connection with Innis.
She had yielded, however, ashamed
of herself, it may be, or saying, “It is
nothing.” When the whole party soon
afterward retired to their respective
apartments, Honoria went to her own,
where on this night no companion was
to share her couch, and resolutely prepared
for the mysterious ordeal.
An unexpected obstacle suddenly
presented itself. The night, which had
been hitherto fair, had gradually become
over-clouded; in the distance was heard
the low muttering of thunder; and from
moment to moment sullen flashes of far
lightning divided the night.
“If I go, I must go now, and I have
promised,” murmured the girl.
It was not far that she must go to
procure the mystic water. In a dell,
overshadowed by great trees, a few hundred
yards from the house, three small
rivulets, tributaries of the Rivanna, mingled
their waters within a few feet of
each other; and toward this spot, holding
in her hand the bucket, Honoria now
hastened.
The night had become darker and
darker, the heavens more and more obscured
by the huge masses of inky
clouds, which were divided at every instant
by vivid lightnings. These dazzling
serpents, appearing and vanishing
as suddenly, were followed by the hoarse
roar of thunder; and, terrified by this
uproar of the elements, Honoria hastened
on as rapidly as possible, to reach the
desired point. As she did so, terror
gradually took possession of her. Her
pulse beat feverishly, and her quick
breathing indicated that she was nearly
overcome by fright.
But her word was given, and her
character for resolution at stake. She
must go on, and she did so—pale, terrified,
stumbling as she ran. The shadowy
boughs above her seemed to reach down
spectral hands to grasp her and bear her
away. The bushes took the shape of
something weird and fearful lying in
wait for her. When, suddenly, an owl
uttered his ghostly laughter near, she
shrunk, and nearly fainted from terror.
How she had strength to proceed she
could never explain, but she resolutely
went on, reached the spot, filled the
bucket, and hurried back toward the
hall, panting, tottering, dizzy, and stumbling
as she ran from the fiery lightning,
whose red finger seemed to be feeling for
her in the darkness.
Her will supported her, nevertheless,
and at last her foot struck the sill of the
side-door by which she intended to gain
her chamber. Here her strength gave
way, and she sank down, nearly overcome
by nervous agitation.
A few moments, however, sufficed for
the recovery of her strength, and, raising
the bucket once more, she mounted painfully
with the heavy weight to her chamber.
There all was still, and nothing was
heard but the low sound of the fire,
which, in anticipation of the coolness
of the autumn night, had been kindled
some hours before in the great fireplace.
The wood had been nearly all consumed—
a few brands only were left, which
had fallen from the andirons, and around
these the flames, about to expire, were
licking with their snake-like tongues.
Without, the storm raged with violence,
and the ghastly glare of the moon,
seen from time to time, as the ebon
clouds drifted away before the wind,
only made the night more lugubrious.
-- 042 -- p505-051
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
“Oh, I cannot, I cannot!” exclaimed
the girl, looking around her with a shudder.
“I am not well, I am nervous—
sick—”
She went toward the fire, as though
that were something cheerful and friendly;
and, seating herself in a great arm-chair,
endeavored to regain her calmness.
XX. THE DUMB-CAKE.
In spite of every effort made by Honoria,
she found it impossible to recover
her calmness. It is probable that the
prolonged loss of rest, incident upon the
festivities of the many preceding nights,
had predisposed her to nervous agitation;
but, whatever may have been the cause,
she was now laboring under very great
excitement, and shrunk, trembling, at
every sound.
The strange rite she was about to
perform came to add the finishing touch
to her agitation.
There was the bucket, filled with
the mysterious water from the weird
locality where the three streams met;
she looked sidewise at it, with a sudden
quaking, as though it were some frightful
and repellent monster, some hideous
thing. This was to aid her in—in what?
In seeing the figure of her future hus-
band!
At that thought, a quick blush came
to the beautiful young face, driving away
for an instant the expression of terror.
It was the name Edmund that rose to
her lips, and brought the crimson to her
cheeks. Could any other person than
Edmund ever sustain toward her that
most sacred relation? Was it within the
bounds of possibility that any one but
Edmund could be her husband? At
the very thought, the pale cheeks flushed,
and she exclaimed in a low tone, “I
would rather die!”
Her own voice made her start, and
she looked round fearfully. Every object
seemed to have assumed a new
character, becoming threatening or lugubrious.
The shadows of the curtains
on the wall resembled dark hands
raised to strike her; the great oak without
was a spectre peering in through her
casement; the half-hideous, half-grotesque
heads on the tops of the tall andirons
seemed grinning at her terror and
mocking her.
The nervous agitation of the young
lady had now attained almost its highest
point. The storm roared with a fury
more appalling than before. The shadows
assumed more threatening shapes.
At every sound, Honoria started, shuddering
and gazing around her with affrighted
eyes. This excitement grew at
last so powerful that she scarcely dared
to move. With a trembling frame and
colorless cheeks she listened in an agony
of terror, and once she wellnigh uttered
a scream, for a low, painful breathing
seemed to issue from the great white
bed, which, with spectral curtains drawn
together like a shroud, alternately appeared
and vanished as the dying firelight
leaped aloft or disappeared.
The low breathing had scarcely
ceased, when another source of agitation
presented itself. Above the fireplace
hung that portrait of the elder Lord
Ruthven, Colonel Brand's friend, and
the picture had changed its quarter from
the colonel's dressing-room by a singular
chance, which will be explained in the
progress of the narrative. As Honoria
gazed now at the dark, melancholy face,
it seemed alive. The shadowy eyes
were fixed upon her with terrifying intensity.
She looked away, but they
seemed to draw her, and there again was
the dark, lugubrious gaze, full of mysterious
meaning. Then the brows seemed
to contract with a frown—the lips to
assume an ominous and threatening expression—
the portrait to move, and the
figure to be about to step from the
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
“At three in the morning.” p.43.
[figure description] 505EAF. Image of four women entering a bedroom where another woman is
lying passed out on the floor. Two of the women are holding candles for light,
while another is holding her hands clenched in front of her face. There is a
large chair pulled in front of a cold fireplace and a heavily blanketed canopy
bed can be seen on the left.[end figure description]
-- 043 -- p505-054
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
canvas and extend its shadowy hand toward
her.
Honoria rose to her feet, trembling
and shuddering. Her terror had reached
its climax. She felt that it was necessary
to dissipate the fearful atmosphere
around her, or she would fall fainting
upon the floor. The thought of calling
for assistance occurred to her, but
the storm was too violent to admit of
her being heard. Then she would become
the laughing-stock of all—was she
not overcome simply by foolish nervousness?
No, she would not shrink.
“I am no longer a child,” she murmured;
“I must prove myself a woman,
for his sake if not for my own!”
She knelt and prayed, trembling, but
firm in will.
Then partly disrobing herself, the
young lady dipped the sleeve of the
snowy garment, worn next her person,
in the bucket, placed it with a tremulous
hand upon a chair, and went toward the
mirror.
At the same moment the great clock
in the hall below began to strike midnight.
Pale, trembling, with bare feet, hair
falling upon her shoulders, and resembling
rather a ghost than a human being,
the young lady counted the strokes one
after another, shuddering more and
more as the number increased, and approached
the terrible “twelve,” denot-
ing midnight.
Had she not been so completely mastered
by terror, she might have seen
two burning eyes watching her from behind
the shroud - like curtains of the
great bed.
But she saw nothing; her eyes were
half closed, and fixed upon the floor;
one hand was placed upon her heart, to
still its terrible throbbing.
Suddenly the clock struck twelve: a
fearful shudder convulsed the frame of
Honoria; and, turning quickly, she
looked into the mirror.
XXI. AT THREE IN THE MORNING.
The occurrences of this terrible night
afterward became the topic of conversation
far and wide in the region around
Rivanna; and the point of most interest
seemed to be the exact hour of the night
at which the singular event—if there
were such—took place.
It was remembered that the party in
the drawing-room separated at about
eleven—the object having been to afford
Honoria time to make her preparations,
procure the water from the stream, and
be in readiness at midnight for the ordeal
of the dumb-cake. That she did make
every preparation, and, in spite of the
storm, reach the point where the three
streams met, and return with the bucket
of water, was soon ascertained—the
bucket was there, and one of the maids
had seen her pass through the grounds.
She had regained the house, it was ascertained,
some time before midnight;
and certainly had time to arrange her
night toilet, to perform the ceremony of
dipping the sleeve of her garment in the
water, and was ready to look into the
mirror at the moment when the great
clock in the hall below struck twelve.
And yet the horrible incidents of the
night must have taken place a considerable
time after midnight—perhaps
as late as one in the morning. There
was no means, it is true, of accurately
ascertaining this fact—that is to say, of
fixing the precise hour; but the young
ladies of the party were confident that
they had listened for sounds from Honoria's
room at midnight; were equally
certain that they had heard nothing; and
they had asserted that it was a considerable
time after midnight, and just as
they were retiring, when the piercing
shriek which startled them was heard
issuing from Honoria's apartment!
The shriek was followed by a heavy
fall. The whole party of young ladies,
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
clad in their white night-dresses, ran, in
undisguised alarm, to the chamber, and
there a piteous sight met their eyes. Honoria
was stretched upon the floor insensible,
and, when they raised her, her
companions gave a quick shudder; she
hung upon their arms so inert and lifeless,
that they thought her dead. Restoratives
were quickly applied, and
water dashed in the young girl's face, to
arouse her; but, for a long time, these
remedies had no effect. Meanwhile,
Lady Brand had been sent for, and hurried
to the chamber. As she ran to her
child, calling to her in agonized tones, a
faint color came to Honoria's cheeks; she
opened her eyes, gazed vacantly around
her, and then, clutching rather than simply
embracing her mother, cried in a
trembling and broken voice:
“O mother!—protect me! do not
leave me! protect me from that horror—
on my shoulder!”
As she spoke, she closed her eyes,
and with a frightful shudder clung to her
mother, as though for protection.
She was borne to bed immediately,
and Lady Brand requested the young
ladies to retire, and leave her to tend her
daughter. This they did with reluctance;
but the apartment was soon vacated
by all but Honoria, Lady Brand,
and her eldest daughter.
“Honoria has had some terrible
shock—Heaven knows what!” said Lady
Brand, supporting the trembling form
of the half-inanimate girl in her arms on
the bed. “What it was can be ascertained
afterward; what is necessary now
is a physician.”
“Oh, yes, yes, mamma!” exclaimed
her daughter, pale, and in tears.
“Do not disturb Colonel Brand; he
will be of no service. Send Cato—he is
trusty—on the best horse in the stables,
for Dr. Bond.”
The young lady hurried to arouse
Cato, who was soon in the saddle.
An hour afterward, Dr. Bond ar
rived—an elderly, solemn-looking gentleman,
who “hummed” between his
phrases, looked profound, and rounded
his periods with sonorous scientific
terms. He prescribed some trifle for
Honoria, assuring Lady Brand that the
young girl was “simply laboring under
a slight nervous disorder, partaking of
the character of, but not to be accurately
designated, at least at the present
moment, as hysteria; something had
doubtless disagreed with her, and subsequent
agitation on some subject, or, in
fact, on no subject, would amply account
for a slight attack which need occasion
no alarm—no alarm whatever, I assure
you, my dear madam.”
On the afternoon of the next day,
Honoria, who had passed the forenoon in
a condition of half-consciousness only,
began to grow animated, and had a magnificent
color.
“Look, doctor,” said Lady Brand
to Dr. Bond. “I think my daughter's
appearance indicates an access of fever.”
“Hum!” said Dr. Bond, clearing his
throat with extreme dignity, “it may be
that there is a slight—hum—inclination
to—as you say, madam—fever.”
And, with a profound air, the doctor
felt the young girl's pulse.
“I know it is fever,” said Lady
Brand,
brusquely, and turning to Colonel Brand,
who was seated, still and solemn, in the
chamber, she exchanged a few words
with him in a low tone, after which she
left the apartment.
Descending the staircase rapidly,
Lady Brand was just passing through
the hall, when suddenly she found herself
face to face with a pale young man,
whose white lips said:
“What is the matter with Honoria,
aunt?”
Lady Brand seized his hand, and exclaimed:
“I will tell you, when you return,
Edmund. I intended to send Cato, but
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
you will not return without him, if you
have to drag him.”
“Drag him! drag whom?”
“Dr. Vandyke.”
Innis gazed with startled eyes at
Lady Brand.
“Yes, Dr. Vandyke!” she repeated;
“he must come at once, and see my
child; this stupid Dr. Bond will let her
die—”
“Die!—good Heavens! of what?”
“Of brain-fever.”
As she was speaking, Lady Brand
had hastened toward a desk in a corner
of the hall, which contained pen, ink,
and paper. Taking a sheet, she wrote
upon it:
“You said once that if I ever needed
you, you would come, travelling night
and day, if necessary. I need you now.”
Signing and directing this note, she
gave it to Innis.
“Bring the doctor back with you,
my son, and as soon as possible,” she
said; “I have an instinct in diseases, and
this of Honoria's is going to be critical.”
Innis scarcely waited to hear the
sentence finished. His thorough-bred,
fresh and in fine condition, stood at the
door; he was in the saddle in a minute,
and disappeared at full gallop in the
direction of Williamsburg.
It seemed to Lady Brand a century
since the departure of Innis, and she
counted the hours, day and night, with
feverish impatience — holding the hot
face of Honoria in her bosom—giving
her cooling draughts—striving to combat
the disease until the arrival of the person
for whom she had sent.
Dr. Bond had taken up his residence
at the hall, and still rounded his periods
with serene dignity, drank the colonel's
wine, and declared the case of Miss
Brand one which would readily yield
to treatment, unless another and more
threatening phase was superinduced upon
the present, which his diagnosis told
him was—
The voice droned on, and Lady
Brand did not even seem to hear it. It
was three in the morning, and she held
the hot hand of the girl, listening.
All at once she turned her head
quickly.
“He has come!” she said.
“To whom, madam, may I ask, do
you—hum—refer?” said Dr. Bond.
Lady Brand was already at the door,
a lamp in her hand; steps traversed the
hall, and then mounted.
“Well,” said a vibrating and metallic
voice, “how is she?”
And Dr. Vandyke came and grasped
the hand of Lady Brand; his long, gray
hair streaming around his face, in which
burned two piercing eyes; his long overcoat
covered with dust; his pipe-stem
legs, lost in huge riding-boots, clattering
as he walked.
“How is Honoria?”
“She is ill.”
“Worse?”
“Yes.”
This dialogue terminated with a nod
from Dr. Vandyke, who went into the
chamber, and up to the bed.
Dr. Bond was standing there in an
attitude of much dignity. An expression
of some surprise, and even hauteur,
mingled with the dignity.
“Hum,” he said, “I have the honor
of seeing Dr.—”
“Vandyke, at your service. How is
Miss Brand?”
This question was delivered with
business-like brevity, and the tone of it
contrasted strongly with that of Dr.
Bond.
The latter cleared his throat, and
commenced an imposing sentence; but
Dr. Vandyke, measuring his professional
brother at one glance, proceeded unceremoniously
to form his own opinion of
the sufferer's condition.
Lady Brand was at his side. After
some moments' silence:
“Well, doctor?” she said, anxiously.
-- 046 -- p505-057
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Dr. Vandyke said, briefly:
“Well, madam?”
That was all; he did not look at the
lady.
“What do you think of Honoria?”
“She has brain-fever.”
“The attack is dangerous?”
“Hum—will you permit me, madam—
if I might venture to express an
opinion,” said Dr. Bond, with some hauteur,
“Miss Brand has already improved
under my treatment, and I do not regard
her case as critical in its character.”
Lady Brand bowed hurriedly, but
looked at Dr. Vandyke. This look was
unmistakable.
“You desire my opinion of Miss
Brand's condition, madam?” he said.
“Yes, doctor.”
He looked at her with a singular,
wistful glance, and muttered:
“You were always strong; superior
in brain and nerve to any woman I ever
knew—”
“Doctor!”
Lady Brand had begun to tremble
from head to foot.
“Speak, and speak plainly!” she
said.
“It is best. There is no more for me
to learn of this case. The crisis will
take place in three days. Honoria will
then be convalescent, or—do you think
you can stand the truth?”
“Yes—yes! Speak.”
“She will be dead!”
A low groan from the door-way came
like an echo to the words.
Dr. Vandyke looked round — his
steady gaze passing from the white face
of Lady Brand to the face of him who
had uttered the groan.
It was Innis who, leaning upon the
frame of the door, and gazing with eyes
wet with tears upon the sick girl, had
summed up as it were in this expression
of anguish the despair under which
it seemed to him his heart would
break.
XXII. THE CRISIS.
Three days nearly, hour for hour,
passed. During this time, Dr. Vandyke
scarcely left for an instant the bedside
of Honoria, scarcely tasted food, and
concentrated every faculty of his powerful
brain upon the wellnigh hopeless
task of snatching the sick girl from the
hand of Death stretched forth to clutch
her. There was something sublime in
this gigantic struggle of the eccentric
dwarf, in his outré costume, with the supreme
enemy of humanity. The conflict
was breast to breast; science and the
spirit of death wrestled over the wasted
body; and at last the decisive moment
came.
It was an hour or two past midnight.
The three days fixed by Dr. Vandyke, as
the term of the struggle when the crisis
would arrive, were about to expire.
Honoria, wasted away to a phantom
nearly, lay, or rather tossed to and fro,
burnt up by the fearful fever which was
preying upon all the sources of her life.
In the group near the fireplace stood
Colonel Brand, still, and overawed by the
terrible spectacle; Lady Brand, pale, but
with red rings around her eyes; her
elder daughter, faint and sobbing; and
Dr. Bond, who had lingered with unprofessional
persistence, preserving still his
air of offended dignity, but sullenly bending
before the imperious will of Dr. Vandyke,
who, standing at the head of the
bed, watched the girl with an intensity
which indicated the profound anxiety
concealed beneath his collected expression.
All felt that this man, in the long
overcoat, with the elfin gray locks, was
the master, and left all to him. The only
sound which disturbed the silence from
moment to moment was the brief, vibrating
voice, demanding “Ice!” “More
ice!” The burning temples seeming to
melt it as soon as it was applied. The
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
sick girl, with head thrown back, eyes
closed or wandering, lips full of physical
agony, and cruelly wasted already in face
and form, was wrestling with the enemy
of Life—Death, the pitiless, the inexorable.
All at once the mutterings of agony
gave place to words:
“The breathing! the breathing! there
in the bed!” exclaimed Honoria.
As she uttered the words, she threw
herself violently to the opposite side of
the bed, and said in a scream almost:
“The dagger!—the weight upon my
shoulders!—that horror!—”
Dr. Vandyke went quickly to Lady
Brand, and uttered a few words.
His communication must have been a
request that all but the girl's mother and
himself should leave the apartment, as
Lady Brand spoke in a low tone to her
husband, and all but herself and the physician
went out of the chamber.
“There is something terrible under
all this,” said Dr. Vandyke, in a low
tone, to the lady; “the case is mental—
physical remedies are of little avail.”
“O doctor, can nothing be done?”
“Something — physical æsthesia is
practicable; but—”
“Help! help!” cried the girl, raising
her hands as though to repulse some fearful
object.
Dr. Vandyke pressed the bandage containing
ice to her forehead, and with the
other hand forced her to receive between
her lips some drops of an anodyne.
“In ten minutes all will be decided,”
he muttered.
As he spoke, the girl fell back uttering
a low moan, and then lay motionless.
Her labored breathing only indicated
life.
Dr. Vandyke stood holding her pulse,
and watching her with the eyes of a
hawk. Some minutes passed thus; then
the flery flush on the patient's face faded
almost imperceptibly into a less crimson
tint, the least observable moisture ap
peared upon the forehead at the roots of
the hair; and through the iron frame of
the physician a tremor passed.
“The pulse is moderating!” he said,
in a low voice; “wait!”
And drawing from its fob a large
watch, he counted, fixing his eyes upon
the dial.
A minute passed in dead silence.
“Ninety!” rang out sonorous, from
the lips of the physician; and, turning to
Lady Brand, he added:
“Your daughter is saved!”
An hour afterward there was no longer
the least doubt of the patient's condition.
She was sleeping almost sweetly—
her brow bathed in perspiration, which
Lady Brand, scarce able to suppress her
sobs of joy, from time to time wiped
away with a handkerchief.
Dr. Vandyke was down-stairs eating
voraciously, and oblivious apparently of
the stately colonel and the dignified Dr.
Bond, who were seated at the same table,
drinking wine.
“May I—ahem—have the pleasure,
sir—”
And Dr. Bond, from whose oracular
lips issued these words, filled his glass,
and pushed the bottle to Dr. Vandyke.
“I never drink wine,” came in a species
of snap from that personage.
Dr. Bond drew back with hauteur.
“Unfits a physician for his business,”
said Dr. Vandyke, “and I don't want it.
When I am hungry I eat.”
“Obviously, sir,” was the remotely
satirical reply of Dr. Bond.
“Rode all day and all night to arrive,”
said Dr. Vandyke, with his mouth
full.
“And—ahem—you think that Miss
Brand—”
“I never think!”
Dr. Vandyke uttered the words with
extreme curtness, and went on eating.
“At least, sir,” responded Dr. Bond,
with lofty politeness, “you have formed
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
some theory — ahem — of Miss Brand's
case?”
“Theory?”
“Theory I said, sir.”
“No, I have formed no theory. I
can see with my eyes. Miss Brand has
brain-fever.”
“I was also aware of that fact, sir,”
said Dr. Bond, with immense politeness;
“brain-fever, attributable to loss of rest,
dissipation, and exposure.”
“No.”
“Do I—ahem—understand you, sir,
to say—”
“I don't know what you understand.
Miss Brand has brain-fever produced by
other causes.”
“What causes?”
“I decline to discuss the subject.”
Dr. Bond rose with dignity.
“If I am to be insulted in this house,
Colonel Brand, I will no longer intrude.
It seems that I am not only not to be
consulted, but my natural inquiries—
questions obviously drawn forth by the
case, sir—are to be treated with indignity!”
“I never answer questions, and I understand
this case,” said Dr. Vandyke,
pushing back his plate. “I am sent for
by Lady Brand, and I treat the case.”
A servant came at this moment to
summon Dr. Vandyke to the sick-room,
and he went thither at once, leaving Dr.
Bond in such extreme wrath that he
soon afterward left Rivanna in disgust.
Honoria was still sleeping, and the
healthful moisture still bathed her brow.
“I am so anxious, doctor,” said the
poor mother, in a whisper, “that I wish
you to remain with me. I disturbed you
in—”
“No, I had finished; was undergoing
a stupid interrogation from my brother
Bond, who is an ass.”
He felt the pulse of the girl, and
said:
“All is going on well, and the force
of the fever is spent. In three days the
body will begin to resume its normal
functions; the mind remains.”
“The mind, doctor?”
“The mind; that will be the real
struggle. Listen to me a moment.”
And the physician drew Lady Brand
toward the window.
“I am perfectly familiar with this
type,” he said; “it is simple—the patient
gets well or dies quickly—all that
is touch-and-go. What follows it is more
terrible. I will not bewilder you with
scientific terms. In brief words, Honoria's
attack will be followed by permanent
melancholy, hysteria, and worse,
unless a peculiar course is pursued in her
case. I will write to-day, delegating my
business in the capital to an associate,
and remain here—”
“Oh, thanks—thanks!”
Dr. Vandyke looked at Lady Brand
with a peculiar expression. When he
spoke his voice was no longer cold and
vibrating.
“I want no thanks,” he said. “People
call me eccentric. Well, one of my
eccentricities is to regard the daughter
of the woman I once loved as my own.
You were my only—well, what people
call their romance! I should have been
happy had you married me, and you less
happy—but enough of this. Let me finish.
In five days from this time Honoria
will have recovered in a great degree from
her fever, and then we must combat the
mental malady which will surely supervene.
I will instruct you when and how
to make your inquiries. This will be of
importance. That very dignified dunderhead
down-stairs thinks the attack produced
by loss of rest, which is pure nonsense.
It is the result of terror—of a
breathing heard in that bed on the night
of her seizure — of something which
sprung or fell upon her shoulders—of, I
know not what, and yet I will know!”
“Is it possible, doctor!”
“Of that and that alone. Let us, for
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
the present, however, combat the physical
malady—the mental must wait.”
The doctor went and sat down, as he
spoke, in the great, high-backed arm-chair,
upon which Honoria had placed
the garment dipped in the mystic water.
As he did so, he glanced quickly toward
the mirror beyond, as though impressed
by some sudden idea connected with the
relative positions of the two objects. His
present aim, however, seemed to be to
snatch a little sleep.
“I have not closed my eyes for forty-eight
hours, and am a little fatigued,”
he said. “This is an excellent bed—if
you will permit, madam—I never snore!”
And, closing his eyes, the doctor fell
asleep almost instantly — his fantastic
legs, ending in huge feet and buckled
shoes, stretched out straight before him;
his arms folded across his broad chest,
and his face nearly concealed by the
long, gray locks of his hair.
XXIII. DR. VANDYKE AND LADY BRAND.
Ten days after the scenes just described,
Lady Brand and Dr. Vandyke
were seated alone in the library at a late
hour of the night, engaged in earnest
conversation.
Colonel Brand had retired some time
before, and no sound was heard throughout
the great mansion, save the ticking
of the tall clock in its corner in the hall,
and the sighing of the autumn wind in
the trees without.
Dr. Vandyke was half-buried in a
large arm-chair, whose yielding cushions
made him resemble more than ever a cut-off
giant; and his pipe-stem legs were
supported on a velvet footstool, in the
full light of the wax-candles in silver candelabra—
the light, soft but clear, bringing
out in grand relief the enormous feet
in their huge buckled shoes. The gray
hair was pushed back for once from his
forehead; his eyes were animated; he
seemed to concentrate all the faculties of
his mind upon the communication being
made to him by Lady Brand, who, seated
opposite him, spoke in a rapid and somewhat
agitated voice, rising erect occasionally
in her seat, and then leaning
back again.
“I have obeyed your instructions,”
she said. “This evening Honoria was
so composed that I ventured to question
her upon the occurrences of that unfortunate
night.”
“Ah!” came in a low voice from Dr.
Vandyke.
“I was most anxious to do so,” continued
Lady Brand, “for what you predicted
has duly come to pass. My child
is nearly well of her mere physical disease,
but the terrible melancholy and
nervous prostration, which you foretold,
have come to torture me and fill me with
foreboding. She starts at the least noise;
never smiles, or seems at rest even;
there is a constant tendency to shudder
observable in her; and once or twice at
the least trifle—the movement of a shadow—
my suddenly rising from my chair—
she has half screamed.”
Dr. Vandyke said, quickly:
“A shadow? — rising from your
chair?”
“Yes, the shadow of any object
thrown upon the curtains or wall by
the firelight—the lights are often put
out, to avoid the glare.”
“Ah! shadows, then, affright her.
Hum!—well. And rising from your
chair? What chair?”
“The large one, in which I sit when
not at the bedside.”
“The invalid - chair, with a high
back?”
“Yes.”
“It remains in its former position?”
“Yes; 'tis really too heavy to be
moved easily, and stands, you know, facing
the fire, with the back to the bureau.”
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
“Upon which is the mirror, is it
not?”
“Yes, doctor; but pray what importance
can attach to—”
“I will return to that point. Shadows!—
rising from the chair!—hum!—
Will you be good enough to continue,
madam? You this evening questioned
Honoria: tell me in detail what you have
discovered.”
“I shall be able to do so in a few
words. The subject seemed to agitate
her fearfully, and nothing but your express
injunction could have induced me
to press my questions.”
“Right; but my injunctions were
necessary. The mental disease has supervened.
The physical has yielded to
treatment; the mental must be treated,
too, unless you wish a corpse in your
house. What does the child say?”
“I will tell you succinctly the result
of the conversation; that is, all that I
discovered. You know what preceded
the attack, and caused it. The young
ladies on a visit to us determined to perform
the superstitious ceremony of eating
the dumb-cake, as it is called—of
looking into a mirror to see their future
husbands—all absurd, but an old pastime—
and Honoria was chosen to undergo
the ordeal. She acquiesced with great
reluctance, but was persuaded to comply,
and courageously went through the
ceremony of going in person for a bucket
of water to the spot where three streams
met, and bearing it to her chamber. It
is probable that this agitated her, as the
night was dark, and a fearful storm was
in progress. She went, however, to the
point, a few hundred yards from the
house, returned hastily, and, at nearly
midnight, gained her chamber.”
Dr. Vandyke listened with absorbed
attention.
“Well,” he said, briefly.
“Having reached her apartment,
Honoria proceeded to perform the other
ceremonies dictated by this absurd super
stition, of removing the under-garment
next to her body, and dipping one of its
sleeves into the bucket.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Vandyke.
“During the performance of all this—
I mean during the process of undressing,
and preparing to retire—Honoria
declares that her agitation was very
great. It is probable that loss of rest,
arising from the late hours kept during
the visit of her young guests, may have
predisposed her nerves to be thus affected;
but it is possible that the storm had
been chiefly instrumental in exciting her.
Whatever the cause may have been, it is
plain, from her statement, that her agitation
was excessive, and that every object
around her assumed a threatening
and terrifying character. The curtains
of the bed took the shape, she declares,
of a shroud; the shadows were terrifying,
and a low breathing issued from the
bed, behind which something, she knew
not what, seemed to be moving.”
“`Something,' you say—`something'
is vague,” said Dr. Vandyke; “did Honoria
describe in any manner this something?”
“She could not. I laughed, of course—
told her 'twas nothing—had she seen
any thing?—to which her agitated response
was, that she had seen nothing at
all, but saw the curtains move, and heard
the breathing.”
“The breathing? Ah! the breathing!”
said Dr. Vandyke, in a low voice;
“this is so persistently alluded to, first
in delirium, now in a lucid condition of
mind—well, decidedly, I begin to think—
but continue, madam. Honoria heard
this low breathing from the bed whose
curtains were shroud-like—started at the
shadows—aught more?”
“But one circumstance, preceding the
real terror of the night, which occurred
an hour later.”
“That is to say, at about one in the
morning?”
“Yes.”
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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
“And this circumstance, coming at
twelve, to add its effect to the breathing
and the shadows?”
“It was more singular than agitating.
I should have enumerated, among the
causes of Honoria's agitation, the strange
idea that a portrait hanging over the
fireplace followed her with its eyes, enjoyed
her terror, and, at last, stretched
out its hand to seize her.”
“The poor child must indeed have
labored under nervous excitement. What
portrait was it? I did not note it.”
“That of Lord Ruthven—father, I
believe, of the young nobleman now in
Williamsburg.”
“Ah! How does it chance that this
portrait is here?”
“Lord Ruthven the elder was a
friend of Colonel Brand's, and presented
him, after the European fashion, with
his picture.”
“Well; but 'twas singular that it
should adorn your daughter's chamber,
was it not?”
“That is not the least strange incident.
Another portrait hung there until
within a day or two of the time of
this unhappy incident—a portrait of my
grandfather, the elder Colonel Seaton.
By some means the cord attaching the
picture to the hook in the wall broke,
from age and moths, perchance; the
picture fell—the fall broke the frame to
pieces, and thus the portrait could not
conveniently be rehung in its former
position.”
Dr. Vandyke nodded.
“So you replaced it with another?”
“Yes, the space on the wall covered
by the picture was clearly defined from
the rest of the wall, and unsightly. I
therefore removed from Colonel Brand's
dressing - room the portrait of Lord
Ruthven, and hung it in the place of the
former.”
“Well; and this picture was one of
the sources of Honoria's terror?”
“Yes, it seemed to follow her with
its eyes, and attempt to seize her; and,
added to her other causes of agitation,
this nearly unstrung her nerves.”
“Yes.”
“She rose to her feet, from the chair
on which she sat, and, kneeling before
which, she had performed her devotions.”
“The great chair?”
“Yes.”
“Continue, madam.”
“And then it was that, having performed
the ceremony of dipping the
sleeve of her under-garment in the bucket,
she turned to the mirror, just as the
clock struck midnight, to see her future
husband.”
“Ah!—and she saw—?”
“The portrait of Lord Ruthven.”
“The portrait!”
“Yes, doctor. It hung above the
fireplace; and the mirror, you know,
stands against the opposite wall, the bed
being on the right as you go toward it,
and the large double window on the left.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Thus, in looking into the mirror,
Honoria saw the reflection of the portrait
behind her.”
“Simple and absurd! So the dead
Lord Ruthven was to be her future
husband, since 'twas him she saw in the
magic mirror?”
Dr. Vandyke uttered a grunt.
“We will talk of this at another
time,” he said. “It is unimportant now.
This did not cause Honoria to shriek and
faint?”
“Oh, no! It simply made her more
nervous, but the reflection of the object
in the mirror was obviously so natural
that it impressed her instantly.”
“Her next proceeding?”
“She retired quickly to the great
bed, from which the breathing was no
longer heard; and it was about an hour
afterward, when she had been asleep for
a brief space of time, that the horror of
the night came.”
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
Dr. Vandyke made a slight movement
with his head, and said:
“We come now to the point of most
importance in the case. What was this
horror? Relate, as minutely as possible,
what occurred.”
XXIV. THE HORROR.
Lady Brand paused for some mo-
ments, and seemed to labor under very
great agitation.
“My poor child!” she said, at length.
“Doctor, you can scarcely conceive how
dangerously excited she grew while relating
the last and most terrible events
of this horrible night. She became as
white as a corpse, her voice was almost
hollow in its accent; and, O doctor,
doctor! there was something in the expression
of her eyes which I did not
like—I feared—”
“Yes, and justly. Your daughter
has narrowly escaped death from brain-fever:
what I aim at now is to prevent
what is worse than death—insanity.”
Lady Brand sobbed for some moments,
but recovered her self-command
at length, and said, firmly:
“I shall give you the exact substance
of Honoria's statement, doctor—a statement
made in broken words, as I held
her in my arms. She shook with nervous
excitement; but there is something
in being near a mother's heart which
calms a child, I think, and gives assurance
of safety. Honoria seemed to feel
this, and, spite of her frightful agitation,
went through with her narrative up to
the moment when she fainted and fell.”
“In front of the mirror?”
“Yes, doctor.”
Dr. Vandyke knit his brows, and
seemed to be concentrating all the faculties
of his mind upon one single idea.
“Allow me to ask you one or two
questions before you proceed,” he said.
The lady inclined her head and listened.
“Has any change been made in the
position of the furniture?”
“In Honoria's chamber, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“None at all. Every thing remains
in the same position which it formerly
occupied.”
“Good! that simplifies matters. Now,
madam, let us see. Entering the chamber
by the single door—for there is but one
door, I believe?”
“But one,” said Lady Brand, indicating,
by the expression of her countenance,
the surprise which she felt at
this apparently irrelevant question. The
doctor perceived this expression, and
said:
“I will indicate later the object of
these interrogatories. In entering your
daughter's apartment you have, immediately
upon your right, the fireplace; in
front of it the large arm-chair, facing the
fire; against the opposite wall the toilet-table
and mirror; on the left of the
mirror a double window; on the right
the great bed. Is that all, madam?”
“With the exception of the ordinary
number of chairs, stools, the carpet, and
an old linen-chest.”
“A chest? In what part of the
room is this chest?”
“In the corner beyond the fireplace.
But it is not used now; the key has been
lost, and the chest has not been opened,
I think, for twenty years.”
“Hum! I care nothing, however, for
the chest; and I have in my mind now a
picture of the theatre of this strange
drama. A fireplace, with a portrait
above it—a great chair in front—a mirror
against the opposite wall—a window, a
bed, and in this bed Honoria asleep at
half an hour or an hour past midnight.
What then occurred, madam?—something
frightful, I fear, and any scientific propensity
to sneer or jest dies in me at the
thought of Honoria. This child has seen,
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
or believes she has seen, something terrible—
some object such as the grave
gives up when the cerements of the dead
are torn away—speak, now, and tell me
what this horror was!”
“I shall proceed to do so,” said Lady
Brand, in a low and nervous voice. “I
have scarce recovered from the shock of
the narrative, and recall every particular.”
“Good,” said Dr. Vandyke, fixing his
penetrating eyes on the face of the lady;
“it is precisely these particular details
which I wish to ascertain. I know that
Honoria saw something—was assailed
by something, or that she fancied as
much—and that she shrieked and fainted.
What I wish now to know is the hour
of the night, the position she occupied
at the moment—all—and especially what
seems trifling and unimportant.”
“You shall know all, doctor, and in
as brief terms as possible. Honoria declares
that she retired at a few minutes
past midnight, and lay awake for some
time, the victim of nervous agitation.
The breathing which had so much alarmed
her was no longer heard, and the portrait
was thrown into shadow now; but it
was some time before she could compose
herself sufficiently to sleep. Finally,
however, exhaustion brought on slumber,
or rather a species of half-consciousness,
and she either saw or dreamed that she
saw a gigantic and shadowy arm—in the
hand a dagger—and this arm rose and
fell three times, striking the weapon into
the white garment which Honoria had
placed upon the chair.”
“Well,” said Dr. Vandyke, coolly,
“what next?”
“The occurrence was so real—or the
vision so vivid—that Honoria declares
she must have fainted. When she opened
her eyes—in a few minutes, as she supposes—
the apartment was darker than
before, and the storm which had raged
up to this time was dying away. All
was still, except the far mutter of thunder
and the low hissing of the expiring fire.
It must then have been nearly one in the
morning, and Honoria felt a new access
of terror at the thought that she alone,
in all probability, was awake in the house.
By degrees, however, this terror moderated;
she began to reason with herself upon
the occurrences of the night. Might that
all have been the result of her fancy—
the product of a diseased imagination
starting at the simplest noises? The
breathing might have been the sighing
of the wind in the great oak without—
the arm striking at the garment a mere
effect of light and shadow—the strange
expression of the portrait undoubtedly a
fantasy. Honoria, doctor, is of a very
delicate and sensitive organization, but
then she is a girl of excellent sense too;
and this process of reasoning upon her
fears gradually restored her self-possession
and in some degree quieted her nerves.”
The doctor nodded.
“I know the class to which she belongs,”
he said, “the nervous-sanguine-lymphatic.
Proceed, madam.”
“Honoria reached at last, doctor,
a degree of composure which induced
her to resolve upon discovering whether
there were any grounds for what appeared
to her to be an absurd fancy, if
not a dream—to ascertain, in a word,
whether the garment or the chair were
not injured. If the weapon in the hand
of the shadow had been a real weapon
and had pierced the garment, there must
be some hole or rent to show where the
point had entered; if there were none,
then it was a dream. This resolution she
proceeded to carry out. She rose from
bed, stole in her bare feet to the spot
where the garment hung, raised it in the
glimmering half-light from the dying fire,
and was about to examine it, when there
suddenly fell to the floor, with a ringing
clash, an antique poniard—!”
Dr. Vandyke shook his head.
“The case is worse than I had supposed,”
he muttered.
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
Lady Brand continued, with white
cheeks now, and a tremor in her voice:
“The worst of all, the most terrifying
event of all was yet to come!” she said,
almost in a whisper.
The doctor bent forward—this time
with a fixed and piercing look which
indicated that even his ever-firm nerves
began to be affected by the strange recital.
“That is not all, then—but I had forgotten!—
the `horror'—the `weight upon
the shoulders'—!”
“You recall the delirious raving of
my child, I see!” said Lady Brand,
trembling. “A few words more will
tell you all. When the weapon fell, or
when Honoria thought it fell, she recoiled
from the chair, turning her head from it,
and covering her face, when suddenly,
she declares, some horrible thing or
being leaped or fell upon her shoulders—
clutched her, and, crouching like a cat,
gibbered and tore at her with its teeth!”
Dr. Vandyke had grown a little pale,
and shook his head ominously.
“What next?” he said, in a low voice.
“It was then that Honoria uttered
the piercing shriek which attracted her
companions to her chamber, and fell
fainting upon the floor. After this she
remembers nothing.”
“One word before you finish, madam,”
and Dr. Vandyke knit his brows. “You
say that Honoria recoiled from the
chair, turning away her head?”
“Yes.”
“Then her back was to the large
chair?”
“Yes.”
“Her face to the mirror?”
“Yes.”
“Did she look into the mirror—if so,
what did she see, or fancy she saw?”
“I was about to tell you,” said Lady
Brand, in the same awe-struck whisper.
“The apartment was nearly in total
darkness, but Honoria's quick glance
toward the mirror showed her a shadowy,
crouching thing upon her back—a name
less something of no defined
shape—then,
paralyzed by this final terror, she lost
consciousness and fell heavily to the
floor.”
Dr. Vandyke remained for some moments
buried in gloomy meditation. He
then raised his head, and uttered a deep
sigh.
“Nothing, of course, was found when
the young ladies went to the chamber?”
he said.
“Nothing.”
“The garment was on the chair still?”
“Yes.”
“There were no rents in it?”
“None.”
“No dagger on the floor?”
“None.”
“And Honoria was alone—the chamber
had no other occupant?”
“I know that there was no one else
in the apartment; I reached it almost
as soon as the girls, and, thinking that a
dog or something else beneath the bed—
there is no other place of concealment—
had frightened Honoria, instituted an immediate
search.”
“And there was nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“The room has no closet?”
“None, doctor.”
Dr. Vandyke reflected again, preserving
the same melancholy silence.
“And this is all, madam?”
“All, doctor.”
“You have omitted nothing?”
“Nothing whatever that I can recall.”
The doctor uttered something like a
groan.
“God help us!” he muttered.
“O doctor, what do you mean?”
Dr. Vandyke looked at the lady with
eyes full of pity.
“I mean, madam,” he said, solemnly,
“that the inscrutable Power which rules
this world and all the worlds has seen
fit to visit you with a great misfortune.”
“O doctor, doctor! speak! — tell
me—!”
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“You are strong, and should know.
Honoria has—dormant in her mental organization,
and in process of development
at this moment—insanity.”
Lady Brand sobbed hopelessly, covering
her pale face with her hands.
“And is there no cure?” she said, in
a broken voice.
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Vandyke. “The
case is a strange one, madam—you see I
waste no time in commonplace consolation,
in soothing expressions. Your
lady friends will furnish that—I am the
physician, and this time the physician
not only of the body but the mind. I
have cured the body nearly—the mind
remains; and to cure that will be more
difficult. I shall nevertheless do all in
my power, leaving the rest to that allwise
and all-merciful Being disregarded
or not believed in by fools and savants,
but in whom I believe; to whom I look,
as the first great cause, the arbiter of
all.”
Dr. Vandyke rose as he spoke.
“To-morrow, madam,” he said, “I
shall make my diagnosis fully, and commence
my treatment.”
XXV. TREATMENT.
When Dr. Vandyke came down-stairs
on the next morning, he found Lady
Brand in the library, and requested her
to walk upon the lawn and converse
with him for a few moments.
The lady rose quickly, drying with
her handkerchief some tears that were
in her eyes, and the two persons walked
out beneath the great oaks and disappeared.
They did not return for an hour. As
they came back toward the house, it was
obvious, from the expression of Dr. Vandyke's
countenance, that the result of
the colloquy had been such as to afford
him extreme satisfaction. The melan
choly air which had characterized him
on the preceding evening had disappeared;
his demeanor was animated,
and he murmured:
“I know, or think I know! Now,
to find if my knowledge will prove of
any avail!”
On the same evening, he went to
Honoria's chamber with Lady Brand.
The girl lay still and quiet in her great
white bed, her eyes dreamy and full of
apathy.
Dr. Vandyke uttered a cheerful laugh.
“Well, my dear child,” he said, as he
approached her, “the roses are coming
back to their native soil—your cheeks.”
Honoria raised her great eyes, set
like stars in the wasted face, and looked
at the speaker in a dreamy way. Then
she tried to smile, but closed her eyes as
though the effort overcame her.
“I have never seen anybody get well
so quickly,” said Dr. Vandyke, in a
cheery voice.
Honoria made no reply.
“You have been quite sick, my
child,” continued the doctor, in his hearty
tone, “and we have all felt much solicitude;
but nothing in this world is unalloyed—
not even unhappiness. Sickness
has its comforts; one of these is
the sympathy of our friends, and everybody
has been to see you. Those who
could not be admitted, have left messages,
and my young friend Edmund Innis
commissioned me—”
The pale face suddenly flushed, and
the great eyes opened. At that name,
some of the apathy disappeared.
“His message is, that you must soon
get well, and—”
The doctor bent down and added:
“He says you are his sunshine, and
that he cannot live in darkness.”
It is to be hoped that this flat falsehood
was blotted from the book of the
recording angel. It caused Honoria to
look up eagerly, and brought back to her
face something almost like animation.
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Dr. Vandyke saw his advantage, and
pressed it.
“Well, little Miss Sunshine,” he said,
laughing, “I hope you will begin to
shine down-stairs very soon now, and,
when I return to visit this respectable
family, I expect to find you tripping
over the lawn, or dancing gavottes and
reels to the music of the fiddle.”
Honoria shook her head.
“You are not going away, doctor?”
she said.
“Yes.”
“And leave me?”
“Why not?”
“I am not well,” she said, wearily.
“You will be in a week.”
“No, no!”
Dr. Vandyke gazed at her with his
subtile and penetrating glance, and from
the quiet change in his expression it was
evident that he had made up his mind to
act promptly and with vigor.
“Why do you indulge this melancholy
mood, my dear child,” he said,
“you are rapidly recovering. You sleep
well, do you not?”
“Yes,” came in a hesitating voice.
“No fancies, and imaginary sounds, I
suppose—no low breathing—ha! ha!—
from behind your bed?”
Honoria shuddered, closing her eyes.
“That was the most absurd and
laughable idea imaginable,” said Dr.
Vandyke; “or at least to be frightened
by it. A breathing!—why, there it is
now!”
Honoria half started up.
“O doctor!” she exclaimed.
“What is it? I'll find!”
And, raising the counterpane, the
astute Dr. Vandyke drew forth a small
spaniel, the pet of Lou Brand, who
had placed the dog there while Honoria
was asleep, in compliance with the request
of the physician.
That personage burst into a hearty
laugh.
“Well, after all, you were right, my
dear!” he said, “there was a frightful
low breathing—Carlo, to wit.”
It could be seen at a glance that this
prosaic and commonplace explanation
of one source of her nocturnal terror
had made a profound impression upon
Honoria. She did not speak, but her
eyes spoke volumes.
“This habit that dogs have of creeping
under beds to sleep or protect themselves
from flies, is one of the greatest
objections to making household pets of
them,” said the doctor.
And, turning to Carlo, he added,
laughing:
“Come, my interesting young friend,
will you be good enough to entertain us
by your peculiar wheeze, attributable
doubtless to dog-asthma?”
As though in response to these
words, Carlo, who had stretched himself
upon the floor, uttered a low, asthmatic
sound, as though he experienced a difficulty
in breathing.
Dr. Vandyke looked sidewise at Honoria.
She was silent, but he saw that
her mind had received the impression
which he aimed to produce.
“Go out now, if you please, Mr.
Carlo,” he said, “and play in the sunshine.
There is a superb amount of it
to-day.—And, by-the-by, madam,” he
continued, addressing Lady Brand, “is
there not too much light in this chamber?
It may be painful to your daughter's
eyes.”
Lady Brand went to close the blinds.
“But no,” said Dr. Vandyke, “'tis
better, perhaps — more cheerful; and
these shadows moving to and fro on the
wall are cool and refreshing. What singular
shapes they take!—the bough of
the great oak yonder resembles an arm
grasping a dagger, and, if a good strong
wind were to arise, I can fancy that the
shadow, especially by moonlight, would
appear fearful—would become, in fancy,
a gigantic arm and poniard raised to
strike.”
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Honoria started again. She was gazing
at Dr. Vandyke, with her whole soul
in her eyes.
“What are you looking at, my dear
child?” he said, cheerfully. “You really
make me afraid with your intense gaze!'
Tis as bad as the look of the old fellow
up yonder, who has been staring me out
of countenance since my entrance. Look
at him!”
And, taking a broomstick, Dr. Vandyke
got up on a chair, thrust the stick
into Lord Ruthven's face, and assumed
the persuasive attitude of a public lecturer
upon science, with accompanying
diagrams.
“Behold the queer conformation of
the human eye, so well depicted here!”
he said, poking the portrait in the eye
with a movement so awkward that it was
wellnigh impossible not to laugh. “It
seems to follow you—speak to you—go
to the right or left, it still looks at you—
stares at you: this absurd, painted, human
eye!—Really, madam,” he said to
Lady Brand, “I would take this grum
and disagreeable fellow out. Did you
say the wall was disfigured behind
it?”
He suddenly thrust the picture to one
side and showed the wall.
“See, it is nothing; remove it, madam,
or each time you enter this room you
will have this old Sir Blunderbuss following
you with his eyes.”
“I will remove it to-day, doctor, as
you suggest.”
“Oh, 'tis not so important. For myself,
all the pictures in the world may
stare at me.—Shut your stupid eyes, my
dear Sir Blunderbuss!”
And administering a final poke with
the broomstick into the face of the picture,
Dr. Vandyke descended, laughing, to
the floor.
As he did so, he glanced furtively at
Honoria. She was smiling, either at
the absurd antics of the peculiar personage,
or with a sense of relief from old
fears connected with the portrait, thus
turned completely into ridicule.
Dr. Vandyke prepared for the final
scene of his acting. Suddenly he mounted
into the great high-backed chair
standing in front of the fireplace, leaned
his arms on the huge back, rested his
enormous head, with its long, elfin gray
locks, upon the folded arms, and grinned
amiably. His expression was so ludicrous
indeed that Honoria uttered a slight
laugh.
A quick glance from Dr. Vandyke
toward Lady Brand seemed to warn her
that her aid in the performance was
now required. She moved to the space
between the chair and the mirror, and
turned toward the latter, when, with the
agility of a cat, Dr. Vandyke bounded
over the back of the great chair, and lit
upon her shoulder.
Honoria uttered a scream, and cried:
“O doctor! The frightful thing!—
the horror!”
“The nonsense and tomfoolery, my
dear child,” said Dr. Vandyke, with a
laugh, and lighting on his feet; “call
things by their right names, and let us
have done with absurdities.”
Honoria was looking at him with animated
eyes. A sudden revulsion seemed
to have taken place in her feelings—a
change in her mental condition. There
was no longer in her eyes that vacant
and apathetic expression which had
made the heart of the experienced physician
sink within him—a natural and
healthful light began to animate her
glance; the medicine for the mind was
having its effect, like the medicine for
the body.
No sooner had Dr. Vandyke descried
this longed-for alteration in Honoria, than
he said to Lady Brand:
“I will go and write some letters
now, madam, and I think Honoria had
best sleep a little. Place the bell beside
her hand, and show me where I may
write.”
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Lady Brand quietly obeyed, and went
toward the door. Dr. Vandyke followed
her, but suddenly turned.
“I had nearly forgotten you, my
grum friend,” he said to the portrait of
Lord Ruthven.
And, mounting with agility upon a
chair, he placed one foot upon an abutment
of the mantel-piece, and unceremoniously
pulled down the fearful portrait,
which he tucked under his arm and
bore from the apartment.
As soon as the door was closed, Dr.
Vandyke's face assumed its habitual expression
of coolness, and, taking a large
handkerchief from his coat-pocket, he
wiped his forehead.
“Acting fatigues!” he said; “but
the end is reached—or nearly.”
“Yes, yes, doctor!”
He deposited the picture in a corner,
and gave it a kick.
“I would put that rubbish in the garret,
madam,” he said, “and hang above
Honoria's fireplace a flower-piece or
cheerful landscape. All depends now
upon trifles. Let her reflect, and allow
my medicine to work. To-morrow I
hope to finish the cure.”
XXVI. THE MYSTERY.
When Dr. Vandyke entered Honoria's
chamber, on the next morning, his countenance
wore the same cheerful and animated
expression.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “any more
shadows—breathings, etc., etc.?”
A last remnant of nervous agitation
passed through the frame of the young
lady, but she replied in a sweet and serious
tone:
“Oh, no! I hope these fancies have
left me—”
“Ah, ah! you call them fancies, do
you? That shows that you are cured.”
“They must have been fancies, doctor;
and yet—that strange thing—”
The old shudder came back, and Honoria's
eyes assumed an expression which
induced Dr. Vandyke to exclaim:
“Come, come! every thing in order.
I will come to that!”
“Come to it, doctor?”
“Yes, my dear, I propose to deliver
a brief lecture this morning upon natural
phenomena, with the effect produced by
them upon the human mind. The term
lecture may fright you, but be tranquil.
I aim only to explain a circumstance or
two. It will be best that you should
have this explanation.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“And you feel, I hope, that affection
as well as professional duty prompts it?”
“Yes, yes, indeed! Something in
your face tells me that you have for me—
that you really—love me!”
“My face interprets my heart, Honoria,”
said the eccentric physician, with a
quick flush; and, taking in his own the
thin, white hand of the girl, he said,
earnestly:
“I loved your mother once, Honoria—
I mean, was her suitor; and what better
means could I adopt, to prove the sincerity
of my love, than to cure her child?
I have effected this cure, or nearly effected
it—you see that I speak to you
as a rational being, which you were not
yesterday morning.”
Honoria sobbed.
“I fear I was not, doctor. Those
terrible sights and sounds—”
“Stop, Honoria! No more nervous
tremors—no more shuddering. Listen
to me, and the last remains of your fright
will disappear.”
The girl raised her head and gazed at
him with deep earnestness.
“Let us divide the phenomena, or
supposed phenomena, into four parts,”
said Dr. Vandyke, coolly. “You hear a
low breathing from the bed in your
chamber; the eyes of a picture make
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
you afraid; a shadowy dagger strikes at
your night - dress; and some nameless
thing leaps on your shoulders. Is that
all?”
“Yes, doctor,” was the reply, in a
low and nervous voice.
“Well, now, for elucidation of these
terrible phenomena,” said the physician.
“You repaired to your chamber on the
night of the performance of this absurd
dumb-cake ceremony, in a high state
of nervous excitement, consequent upon
terror at the storm through which you
had passed, and superstitious fear. Well,
the first thing you hear is a mysterious
breathing from your bed—then a picture
stares at you—then an arm wields a
poniard. Let us stop there for the present,
and let me ask you if you now
doubt the real character of those phenomena?
The breathing from the bed
was the wind, or a dog, or a cat, or—
nothing! The eyes of the portrait
looked at you, as the eyes of all good
portraits look at all persons, whatever
position is taken up, either to the right,
to the left, or in front. Lastly, the gigantic
and frightful arm, grasping the
dagger, seen when you were half asleep,
and half conscious, was simply the
shadow of that bough of the oak yonder
through the window, which shadow
was cast by the moon, and waved, as
the bough waved, in a manner so peculiarly
terrifying that it produced brain-fever.
So far you understand, do you
not, my child?”
“Yes, doctor,” came in a low tone
from Honoria, “but—”
“The horror! the frightful, nameless
something—the nightmare, bugbear, call
it what you will!”
The doctor burst out laughing, in
spite of Honoria's quick shudder.
“That was the only real part of the
whole phenomena,” said Dr. Vandyke,
coolly. “The thing, or individual, rather,
who leaped from that chair, as you saw
me leap, was—Meta!”
Honoria half rose, exclaiming:
“Meta! doctor?”
“Meta,” was the calm response, “who
had hidden herself in this apartment to
frighten you during the ordeal of the
dumb-cake—who may or may not have
uttered the low breathing from the bed—
who certainly did spring upon your
shoulders.”
“O doctor! is it possible? It cannot
be that Meta could have been so
cruel—”
“Meta is a lunatic, or nearly so,”
was the calm reply, “and lunatics are
both cunning and malevolent.”
“But what motive could she have?”
“To frighten you?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Hatred arising from—jealousy.”
“Jealousy!”
Honoria gazed at Dr. Vandyke, as
she uttered this word, with profound
astonishment.
“Yes, my child,” said the physician.
“Listen. As soon as I entered this
house, and ascertained the causes of your
condition, I concentrated my whole mind
upon the question — who was it that
frightened you—not what? A human
being must have caused you to fall with
that piercing shriek; and the mystery
was—what human being? No servant
would have dared—no young lady friend
have been so cruel. Thus the irresistible
conclusion was, that some idiot, or other
weak-minded person, must have been
guilty of this act, and there was such a
person in the family. So far, the chain
of reasoning was perfect; but what
motive could exist for the act of this
girl, who was supposed to love you?
Even with idiots there is a motive, and
I questioned Lady Brand, the servants,
and all, so closely that I discovered what
I wished to know.”
“The motive—O doctor what could
it have been? Jealousy? Jealousy of
me—!”
“Precisely,” said Dr. Vandyke;
-- 060 -- p505-071
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“Meta happens to have fallen in love
with a young gentleman named Edmund
Innis; she knows that he loves you —
there, the words are uttered!—she overheard,
in the drawing-room, the whole
discussion in regard to the dumb-cake,
and she hid in this chamber behind the
bed—watched you in your sleep—concealed
herself in this chair — saw you
rise—leaped on your shoulders gibbering
as insane persons do, and, when you
shrieked and fell, escaped from the apartment.”
Honoria drew a long breath, and for
some moments remained silent; at last
she murmured:
“How do you know this, doctor?”
“From Edmund Innis, who is able
to communicate by signs with the girl,
and extracted the confession from her.”
Honoria covered her face with her
hands. She was quietly weeping.
“It was cruel in Meta,” she murmured.
“I thought she loved me too
much to—”
“To love young Master Edmund
more?” said the doctor, with a smile.
“No, Honoria; that passion exceeds in
force all others—is as strong in Meta
as in Edmund Innis, only he loves
you.”
Honoria's face was covered with
blushes, but a happy smile shone through
her tears.
“At last!” said Dr. Vandyke, rising.
“You are now well, my dear Honoria!
let me call you dear. I call few so!
You are well in body and mind, in heart
as in brain. God watch over you, my
child, and guard you from all danger,
and give you this honest gentleman,
Edmund Innis, to be your faithful husband!
That is my prayer, Honoria, the
prayer of the old dried-up physician who
loved once a human being—your mother.
Farewell now, Honoria!”
And, stooping, the eccentric personage
touched the girl's brow with his
lips, left the apartment, and on the same
evening set out on his return to the
capital.
His patient was cured.
XXVII. BEFORE THE ASSEMBLY.
Since the scenes which we have just
described more than three months had
passed. It was the depth of winter, and
the city of Williamsburg, the capital of
Virginia, residence of the viceroy, and
centre of fashion for the time, was in all
its glory.
Before a mirror, in an upper apartment
of a house near the governor's
“palace,” as it was called, Honoria was
standing one evening, busily arranging, in
multitudinous braids and plaits, the dark
locks of Meta, who half reclined, with a
delighted expression of countenance, in
a velvet arm-chair, gazing at herself in
the low-swung mirror.
Honoria, who stood behind the dark
little beauty at her work, was clad in her
dressing-gown; her hair was in disordered
curls upon her shoulders, and her
toilet was yet to be made. At a window
near stood her sister Lou, in magnificent
ball-costume—all lace, satin, jewels, and
powder—erect, superb, turning her head
from moment to moment to gaze at the
pair in front of the mirror, and beating
an impatient tattoo upon the windowpane.
The last words of Dr. Vandyke to
Lady Brand, on leaving “Rivanna,” after
Honoria's convalescence, had been:
“Madam, if you wish your daughter
to regain her roses and lose the mortal
pallor you see in her cheeks, take her
away from Rivanna. Give her gayety,
change of scene, distraction of some
kind: what she now requires is forgetfulness.”
Lady Brand had repeated these words
to her husband, and that gentleman had
responded—chin elevated, hand passing
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[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
slowly and with dignity between his collar
and his neck:
“Hum! — ha! — gayety, distraction,
change of scene? Well, madam, that
comports with my own views. I have
affairs of some importance to transact at
Williamsburg, and design going thither.
You and the young ladies may accompany
me, and make a protracted stay if
you desire to do so.”
The affairs of importance were imaginary.
Colonel Brand had long promised
himself the luxury of exhibiting the
beauty of his daughters in the viceregal
capital; and, greatly alarmed by the
now unmistakable attachment between
Innis and Honoria, he had already determined
to remove the young lady to
new scenes, and, if possible, effect a
match between her and some wealthy
young scion of the seaboard. Dr. Vandyke's
advice, therefore, coincided with
his own views. No time was lost in
making arrangements for spending the
winter with his family in Williamsburg,
whither Lady Brand decided to go. A
house was procured and furnished; every
article of comfort and luxury sent down;
and, in due time, the old, lumbering
chariot, drawn by its four horses, landed
the colonel and his family at their “town
mansion” in the capital.
On the evening when we present the
young ladies to the reader they were
preparing for their first formal ball or
“assembly”—to take place at the palace
of his excellency. Or, rather, Miss Lou
Brand had made her preparations, while
Honoria, busy with Meta, had not begun
her own.
“For Heaven's sake, Honoria, make
haste and have done with Meta!” exclaimed
Miss Lou Brand, at last, out of
all patience. “The chariot will be at
the door in half an hour, and you'll not
be dressed.”
“That is time enough, sister,” said
Honoria, with her habitual smile, full of
sweetness, and a little sadness.
“Time enough! Who ever heard of
a young lady dressing for a ball in thirty
minutes? Your hair alone will take an
hour!”
“If I choose to spend an hour arranging
it, sister; but I shall not.”
“But, begin—begin!”
“Meta's hair is nearly done.”
“Why in the world did you not leave
it to one of the maids?”
“Meta wished me to arrange it, sister,
and you know how obstinate the
poor child is when she takes a fancy.”
“Yes, I do—hateful little creature!”
said Miss Lou Brand, with emphasis.
“We must make allowance for her
infirmity, sister. She is very unfortunate,
and has few pleasures. Something—I
know not what—has made her attach
great importance to this ball—to her appearance—”
“Something!” exclaimed the elder
beauty, with a satirical but not ill-natured
laugh; Lou Brand was incapable
of ill-nature. “`Something!' you know
very well what that something is: Edmund
Innis will be there, and Meta is—
in love with his lordship, Mr. Wythe's
worshipful law-student!”
Honoria blushed, and Meta, as though
she knew when Innis's name was pronounced,
by the very movement of any
one's lips in uttering his name, riveted
her eyes with a dark and angry expression
upon the elder young lady, who
thereupon burst into a ringing laugh.
“The world is full of finesse, secret
motives, and things sans les cartes!”
she
cried. “Women, even girls like Meta,
are eternally scheming! But, come,
come, Honora!—I won't tell you that you
too are blushing—ha, ha!—but I do tell
you that, unless you commence your toilet,
you'll not be at the ball.”
“There, there, sister, I've done,” said
Honoria, hurriedly. “At least, Meta,
poor thing, is pleased; and, it is so good
to make people happy, sister! I'll get
ready in a moment.”
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And this remarkable young lady, who
had forgotten her own hair, to fix a poor
girl's, began energetically dressing.
“No!” exclaimed Lou Brand, resolutely,
“you shan't throw your things
on in that way, Honoria! If you don't
know it, I'll tell you, that you are going to
be the belle of the assembly—the centre
of all eyes; and I don't intend to have
those hateful old dowagers in turbans,
ranged, like sunflowers and hollyhocks
gone to seed, along the wall, nodding
and tittering behind their fans, and chattering
to each other, and whispering:
`Just see Miss Honoria Brand, the beauty!
Did you ever see so frightful a toilet?'
No!”
And, sweeping toward Honoria, the
energetic beauty threw down her pearl
fan, took possession of her sister, and
busily began dressing her hair, which,
under the plastic fingers, soon rose in an
exquisite tower of curls, brilliant, powdered,
and interwoven with pearls.
“Now your hair is something like!
Where is your white satin?”
To this abrupt question Honoria replied,
rather timidly:
“I thought of wearing my blue silk,
sister.”
“Your blue silk?”
“Why not?”
“Did anybody ever hear of such an
idea? You are utterly absurd, Honoria!—
at the governor's assembly!”
“That does not impress me greatly;
and you know I am not a bride, sister.”
“You never will be, either, at this
rate, madam! Your blue silk! You positively
shall not!”
“Well, have it your way, sister: the
white satin let it be.”
A maid quickly laid out the gorgeous
costume upon a bed; the young lady's
toilet was finished, and her sister, retreating
a step, looked at her, with head
sidewise, admiringly. Then she rushed
at her, rearranged a curl, retied a bow
of ribbon, slightly drew a fold of lace
across one of the snowy shoulders, and
exclaimed:
“You really are a beauty, Honoria;
and will have everybody looking at you!”
Honoria blushed and smiled. What
woman could listen to such an observation
coldly? She gazed at herself in the
glass, and then, as the thought came to
her “He will see me,” her cheeks grew
crimson. In a corner of the chamber,
Meta, with her strange, crouching attitude,
was watching her. Miss Lou
Brand, who seemed to understand every
thing and everybody, turned and looked
at her, and quickly ran to her, and seized
her arm.
“Go on, you little wretch, and get
into the coach—I hear it at the door!”
she exclaimed.
With which, Miss Lou Brand hustled
Meta out of the room, and shut the
door.
“Now I feel more at my ease!” she
exclaimed. “That hateful creature was
standing there, glowering at you, dear,
and thinking that Edmund Innis would
see her, too! What a goose! He has
no eyes for any one but you! And now
stop blushing, and come on. Your blue
silk? Absurd! The white satin! And
you shall marry him, and be happy, and
wear white as a bride yet, dear!—and I
mean to dance at your wedding—and let
myself be kissed, too, by—my brother
Edmund!”
XXVIII. THE ASSEMBLY.
All Williamsburg was in commotion.
Through the frosty air of the clear winter
night flashed chariots drawn by four-in-hands;
gallant young beaux mounted
upon prancing thorough-breds followed,
and the capital was all joy, merriment,
and uproar.
Colonel Brand had selected the most
opportune season for his visit to the city,
and on this night the carnival
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culminated. Hitherto the days had been full
of pleasure and enjoyment; balls, races,
tea - drinkings, riding - excursions, and
card-parties, had been the order of the
day; but these were all thrown in the
shade by the coming “assembly.”
Colonel Brand's chariot stopped before
the great gate of the governor's
palace, in front of which a crowd of
motley character had assembled to look
at the richly-dressed beauties, as they
descended from their vehicles; and up
the broad walk, edged with Scottish lindens,
from which were suspended colored
lanterns to light the guests, the colonel
and his family advanced, and entered the
broad door.
In the large apartment, adorned with
full-length portraits of the king and
queen, the crowd was already great, and
it would be difficult to convey an idea
of the brilliance of the spectacle. Silk,
velvet, lace, and jewels, caught and threw
back in dazzling splendor the light of
the great chandeliers overhead, and the
stately gentlemen and smiling beauties
of an epoch famed for such, were mingled
in one great crowd, rich-colored as
the dream of some grand painter. Sonorous
music rang; the buzz of conversation
mingled with it; and in the centre
of the apartment his smiling excellency
the royal governor received and bowed
low to his guests with his well-known
urbanity and elegance.
He was leaning on the arm of his
confidential secretary, Lord Ruthven,
who, pale, clad in a rich but sombre costume,
and with his black hair only slightly
powdered, surveyed the company
with courteous but stately attention.
Despite obvious efforts, however, Ruthven
scarcely smiled; something plainly
bore heavily on this man's heart. In
fact, the melancholy young nobleman
had never ceased to be haunted by his
possessing thought, his mysterious dread.
Remaining in Virginia only at the express
and repeated request of the gov
ernor, he had never lost the apprehension
which rendered his life miserable;
and, on this evening, resembled, in his
black costume, with his dark eyes set
in his pale face, a veritable “death's
head at the feast.”
Suddenly the governor felt a convulsive
pressure upon his arm; and Lord
Ruthven, who had grown as pale as a
corpse, whispered in a low voice in his
ear:
“Who is she, my lord?”
The governor turned and looked at
the speaker. His eyes were distended,
and his finger indicated a young lady
who had just entered.
“What ails you, Ruthven?” the
governor said, in great astonishment.
“Who is she?” repeated Ruthven,
in the same tone.
The governor followed the direction
of the trembling finger, and said:
“The young lady in white satin, with
pearls in her hair?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Miss Brand—the daughter of my
friend Colonel Brand. Your solitary
way of living alone accounts for your
ignorance, my dear Ruthven.”
“Brand! Brand!” murmured Ruthven,
in a voice almost inaudible; “my
father had a friend—a Colonel Brand.”
“'Tis the same; and Miss Brand is a
beauty, is she not? Nay, there are two
beauties in the family. See! that tall
damsel is also a daughter of the colonel.
They are approaching. Here they are.
Let me present you.”
“No! no!” exclaimed the young
nobleman, almost fiercely, “not for the
universe — never! — that is—I mean —
pardon me, my lord, I am not well to-night—
and—another time—”
The governor had not time to think
of these singular words, or even to look
at the speaker. Colonel Brand was
within a few feet of him, accompanied
by the ladies of his family, and it was
utterly impossible for Ruthven to retire
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without obvious and gross discourtesy.
With one hand, the governor, in fact,
detained him, the other hand grasped
Colonel Brand's, and the host cordially
welcomed his guest, and was presented
to the ladies.
Ruthven was on the point of tearing
himself away; his agitation was frightful,
and he seemed to have lost all self-control.
In the midst, however, of the
sort of vertigo which had seized upon
him, he heard the governor say:
“Miss Brand, may I have the honor
of presenting my friend Lord Ruthven?”
The young nobleman bowed low,
raised his hand to his breast, as though a
sudden pain assailed him, uttered some
hurried words, and, in spite of every effort
of the governor to detain him, retired
from the spot, and sought to leave the
apartment. This, however, was no
easy task. The crowd had become so
dense that to make way through it was
almost impossible. He found the way
barred on every hand, could only move
to and fro, borne like a leaf on the waves
of silk and velvet, and a sudden movement
of the mass almost made him lose
his balance. In regaining it, he placed
his foot on a young lady's train; the
young lady moved at the same instant,
and the consequence was that the satin
train was rent nearly in twain.
The instincts of the gentleman
triumphed over the cruel agony of the
individual, and Lord Ruthven, bowing
low, exclaimed:
“A thousand pardons, madam, for
my awkwardness!”
“It is nothing, sir!—do not annoy
yourself—the crowd is so great—”
And the beautiful eyes of Honoria
were fixed upon Lord Ruthven's face—a
smile upon the bright lips. As she
looked at him, his own sombre glance
met the young lady's, and he shuddered.
Honoria had gathered up the torn
skirt, thrown it over her snowy arm,
and now repeated, in her frank and simple
voice:
“It is impossible to avoid these accidents,
I assure you, my lord, in such
crowded rooms, and this will not inconvenience
me at all.”
“But—in dancing—there is a minuet—”
The words were forced from the lips
by a tremendous effort. Honoria did
not seem to observe the fact; her little
red-heeled slipper was beating time delightedly
to the stately music.
“Oh, I shall dance, I assure you, in
spite of it.”
The die was cast. It was a fatal
necessity, in accordance with the etiquette
of the time, that Lord Ruthven
should solicit the young lady's hand for
the minuet. He did so in a voice which
those who knew him would have scarce
recognized as his own. Honoria made
him a little courtesy of delighted assent,
and in a moment they were dancing together
in the stately menuet de la cour.
It was fortunate that nearly all eyes were
fixed upon the little “Brand beauty,” as
Honoria began to be called; upon her fair
face full of happy smiles bent toward her
bosom in the low courtesy—the slender
figure moving with exquisite grace—the
beautiful eyes, dancing with youthful
joy beneath the piled-up curls, the powder,
and the interwoven pearls. The
figure of the girl was sunshine incarnate—
the figure of Ruthven in his dark
dress, shadow. Innis, looking at them
from a corner of the apartment—for he
had returned to Williamsburg even after
Colonel Brand's arrival, and was one of
the guests on this night—Innis, gazing
at them, not without some trouble in his
frank face, felt a sort of shudder, in
presence of the funereal partner of his
idol.
The stately minuet bowed itself
through its splendid evolutions, and came
to an end. Lord Ruthven stopped suddenly;
remained as motionless as a
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figure of black marble for an instant, then,
with a visible tremor of his nerves, offered
Honoria his arm, and was lost
again in the crowd.
“The music of his excellency is admirable—
you are fond of dancing—Miss
Brand?”
His voice had the same forced tones—
tones almost convulsive.
“Very fond, my lord,” said Honoria,
wondering at the evident agitation of
her companion.
“And the gavotte—the reel—the latter,
I think, is our own Scottish reel?”
“We call it the Virginia reel already,
and it is even a greater favorite than the
minuet.”
“It is natural that the ladies of Virginia
then should prefer their own dance,
Miss Brand. And you are a native of
Virginia, I believe?”
“Yes, indeed, my lord.”
“You have never visited England—
Scotland—I mean the Old World?”
He looked at her with singular intensity
as he spoke, and seemed to await
her reply with very extraordinary agitation.
“I have never been out of Virginia
in my life, sir,” said Honoria, and, laughing
with the frankness and simplicity
which made her so charming, she added:
“I should think you might know so,
my lord, by my provincial air and appearance.”
“By no means—Miss Brand is wholly
mistaken. Your father, however, has visited
the Old World—was a friend, I think,
of my own father, the late Lord Ruthven.
Then we two should be friends.”
Why he uttered the words he could
never understand. He did not mean
them, for Ruthven had registered a solemn
oath to leave the city of Williamsburg
on the very next day.
The interview lasted but a few moments
longer. Suddenly Honoria said,
with a little flutter in her voice, to some
one:
“I am very
glad to see you!”
And, raising his eyes, Ruthven saw,
within three paces of him, Edmund Innis.
The young man, who had bowed low
over the little hand which Honoria held
out to him, made a bow also to Lord
Ruthven.
“I am pleased to find that your lordship
has recovered,” he said.
Innis held the hand of Honoria still,
as he spoke; and Ruthven gazed with
an indescribable expression upon the
graceful figures of the youth and maiden,
as they were grouped thus under the brilliant
chandelier.
“Yes—many thanks, sir—yes, I have,
I believe, recovered, and—you have returned
to the capital, Mr. Innis?”
“To prosecute my studies, my lord.
I design becoming a counseller one of
these days.”
“May your lot be happy, sir,” Ruthven
said, “though I shall not have the
opportunity to witness your forensic
triumphs. I shall return on the next
vessel to Europe.”
“Indeed, my lord!”
“Yes, I am under the necessity of so
doing.”
Innis had offered Honoria his arm,
Lord Ruthven having released the young
lady.
“Your lordship will not set out for
Europe, I hope,” said Honoria, smiling,
“without calling to see us—my father
will be happy, I am sure, to see the son
of his friend the late Lord Ruthven.”
The young nobleman bowed low.
Before he was aware of the words which
he was uttering, he said:
“I shall be very happy to pay my
respects to Colonel Brand and yourself,
Miss Brand.”
With a second bow he was lost in
the crowd, and ten minutes afterward
he had left the ballroom, and gained his
lodgings.
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XXIX. LINKS OF THE CHAIN.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
Fergus was in the chamber, silent,
erect, and respectful. His master threw
himself into a chair, and said, in a hoarse
voice:
“Fergus, I have seen the woman!”
“The woman, my lord?” was the
cool reply, “and what is she like?”
“Like?—Good Heavens!—beautiful,
very beautiful, and like — like — the
spectre!”
For some moments a deep silence
reigned in the apartment. Lord Ruthven
then said, in the same low, hoarse
voice:
“We go to-morrow!”
“To Europe, my lord?”
“Yes!”
“Good, my lord.”
“There is a vessel?”
“I think so.”
“Heaven grant it!”
“And this time your lordship is determined
really to go?”
“Resolutely determined!”
Fergus made a movement of his head,
and began folding the articles of his
master's wardrobe and laying them carefully
in a huge trunk, in one corner of
the apartment.
For some moments Lord Ruthven
remained perfectly silent, his breast
heaving.
“I tried to avoid her—to avoid making
her acquaintance!” he muttered,
“but Fate forced it upon me!”
“Eh?” grunted Fergus, dryly, continuing
to pack the trunk.
“It happened as before in the case
of—the man.”
“Your lordship means young Mr.
Innis?”
“Yes. That was what is called an
accident. This, too, was—an accident.”
“Do you believe in accidents, my
lord?”
“No!”
“Nor I. There are none.”
“None, and yet to think that, despite
every effort, I am thrown with—these
people! Does it not seem strange?”
“Every thing is strange in this world,
my lord. But I am glad we are going.”
“Yes, yes, we will go! Nothing
shall withhold me. Cursed Fate that
drives me! Oh, why, Fergus, am I not
a poor common mortal like the rest of
my kind? Why am I the exception, the
anomaly, the one being denied all happiness?”
“Your lordship speaks mysteriously.
You would say—”
Lord Ruthven was silent again and
slowly his pale face flushed.
“I mean,” he said, in a low tone,
“that were I not Ruthven, and therefore
accursed, I might — possibly — who
knows?—find some solace, some happiness,
in—”
He stopped, and knit his brows. His
eyes were fixed upon the floor. His face
filled with blushes.
“She is very beautiful!” he said, as
though to himself.
It is impossible to describe the expression
of Fergus, as he listened to this
unmistakable avowal. The old face
assumed an air of scorn, of pity, of apprehension,
of affection, wonderful to
see. He stopped packing the trunk, and,
looking at his master intently, said:
“Is your lordship really going to-morrow?
If not, 'twill be useless to
continue these preparations.”
“Going? Certainly I am going!”
exclaimed Lord Ruthven, almost angrily;
“what made you dream that I was not
really going?”
“I did not dream it, I thought it; and
what made me think it was—experience!”
said Fergus, coolly.
“Experience! what do you mean?”
“I mean, my lord, that you said you
were going before—when you first saw
the man—and you did not go!”
“You know why I did not go—
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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
because I could not, and the man went
away! And I will add that it is disagreeable
to me to be thus catechised!”
An angry scowl accompanied the
words. Fergus stopped suddenly, and
turned to his master with a strange mixture
of offence and mortification upon
his old weather-beaten face.
Ruthven for a moment said nothing.
His heavy breathing was audible in the
silence. Suddenly he rose, went to
Fergus, and seized his hand in his own—
“Forgive me, Fergus—my poor, good
Fergus! poor, since you have so unhappy,
so wayward and unjust a master! Forgive
me, old friend—I am mad, I think,
to wound thus the only heart on earth
that beats true to me! But I have been
unnerved to-night—I scarce know what
I say. That face! that smile!—the lips,
the hair, all—they were the same, the
very same, Fergus! There was no room
for doubt—I have seen her, heard her—'
tis she! And listen, Fergus! I was
fool enough to promise to call and pay
her my respects. Do not sneer at your
poor master! I was weak, but I will be
strong. That promise binds me—I will
see her for ten minutes, but first my passage
will be taken to Europe—then I will
go—I will go—I will leave this cursed
soil, and, with the blessing of Heaven,
will set my foot upon it no more!”
“Heaven grant that your lordship
may keep your vow!”
“Oh, be not uneasy; I will keep it.”
Fergus inclined his head.
“Your lordship knows one thing—
that, whether in Europe or Virginia, he
possesses the heart of Fergus, who will
live or die with him!”
On the next morning, Fergus had
made all his arrangements: packed all
the trunks, paid all his master's accounts,
and went to engage their passage
in a vessel to sail that very night
for England.
A few moments before, his master
had gone to pay his first and last visit
to
Colonel Brand and his family.
In three or four hours Fergus came
back. The vessel would not sail for four
days. His master had not returned; he
only reentered his lodgings toward midnight,
having dined and spent the evening
with Colonel Brand, who was greatly
interested in the news from Scotland.
Fergus shrugged his shoulders, and
said nothing. When he announced the
delay in the vessel's sailing, Ruthven said,
simply, in an absent way:
“'Tis well, Fergus.”
“I thought to hear `'Tis ill!”' muttered
the old servant; “and now, `'Tis
well!”'
Colonel Brand had requested Ruthven
to call, before his departure, and receive
some letters he designed writing to
friends in Scotland. The young nobleman
accordingly did so—on the very
next day—and, as before, remained until
late in the evening, conversing this time
almost exclusively with Honoria. When
he returned homeward, he might have
been heard muttering:
“And, if Fergus was right in his incredulity!—
if I do not go!—'twould be
frightful!—fearful! Does Fate drag me?
Oh, but I will go!—I will go!—I swear
it!”
As Colonel Brand's letters were not
written, it was necessary that Lord Ruthven
should repeat his visit. He went
thither on the next day—on the next—
and, to come to the result, announced
finally to Fergus, in a tone of voice impossible
to convey to the reader, that he
had changed his resolution: he would
not sail for Europe.
Fergus simply bowed his head, suppressing
the groan which rose to his lips
until his master left the room. Then he
uttered a species of moan, and muttered:
“Have mercy upon us, O Lord! but
may I live and die with my poor master!”
A month passed. Lord Ruthven and
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Fergus had never again alluded to the
projected journey to Europe. The nobleman
spent the greater part of his time
in his chamber, motionless, in a sort of
trance; only, from time to time, he
looked, in a singular manner, over his
shoulder, as though some frightful object
haunted him. His private talks with
Fergus had abruptly ceased. At times
his eyes would meet those of the old servant,
and a glance, full of gloomy meaning,
would be exchanged between them.
But the pale lips did not open. The old
clansman only nodded, uttering deep
sighs, intent upon one thing only now—
implicit obedience to his chief.
When a month had passed in this
manner, Lord Ruthven, who had grown,
if possible, paler and more haggard than
before, said one morning to the old servant:
“Fergus, order my coach.”
Fergus bowed, and went to obey.
“It has come at last!” he muttered.
“The bonny bridegroom is going to his
bridal!”
XXX. THE TWO RIVALS.
A month,!—a moment, an age; an
atom of time, an eternity! A month—
in which the idler dawdles through the
dull and colorless days, each flying,
eventless, in the wake of each; in
which, too, the good ship encircles one-half
of the world! A month—in which
existences fill with sunshine, or are sunk
in shadow; in which hearts break, and
griefs are assuaged; in which all things
come to us, or all things leave us, making
us happy or miserable, as the kind
Father of all decrees! Fatal days and
hours, in which the tide ebbs and flows!
I know nothing more remorseless, more
paralyzing to the reason, than this certainty
of the uncertain—this ignorance
of what a day may bring forth!
This month, over which we have
glided, brought Lord Ruthven as a suitor
to the feet of Honoria Brand. In
spite of every effort which the young
nobleman made to tear himself away
from her, he gravitated ever nearer,
more and more surely; one by one his
fears were dissipated, his resolutions undermined
and overthrown. He had
fallen passionately in love with the little
“Brand beauty;” and on this morning
was bent upon formally asking her hand
of her father.
Honoria and Innis had witnessed this
misfortune with inexpressible agony.
So far from becoming indifferent to Edmund,
in consequence of the thousand
gayeties and distractions which surrounded
her, Honoria had felt her affection
for the youth increase with every
passing hour. With natures like that of
this young girl, faith and constancy are
instincts—trial only strengthens them;
use brightens and tempers the metal, as
fire tests gold. To have Lord Ruthven,
therefore, appear as a suitor, was an inexpressible
pain to her—to Innis it was
almost paralysis. And, worst of all, he
could do nothing. What could he do?
For the youth, almost penniless, to aspire
to the hand of the wealthy and
beautiful young heiress, was, of itself,
sufficiently presumptuous; but, to go
to Colonel Brand and say: “I love
Honoria, and, for that all-sufficient reason,
ask you to refuse the proposed alliance
with Lord Ruthven, and give her to
me!”—that was little less than insanity.
Pride was the master-passion of the colonel—
the ambition of seeing his daughter
make a great match; and now, when
this match was offered, when Honoria
could become my Lady Ruthven, the
wife of a nobleman, Colonel Brand was
to be expected to say, “My daughter
cannot wed your lordship. I reserve
her for a poor, obscure little cousin of
ours!”
The result was, that Innis was wretched,
and Honoria was not happier. She,
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[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
too, saw the fate coming — could find
no ray of hope. All that these young
hearts could do, in their unhappy situation,
was to love each other more and
more, comfort each other with expressions
of hope in which they did not believe,
and await the intervention of that
good Providence which, watching over
the sparrows, watches much more over
pure hearts, loving and faithful to each
other.
On this morning, when we have heard
Lord Ruthven order his coach, Innis and
Honoria were conversing in the drawing-room;
and the poor youth had spoken
of the probable fate to befall them, with
mingled pride, suffering, and courage.
In the midst of their conversation, a
chariot stopped before the door, a knock
was heard, and the voice of Lord Ruthven
asked for Colonel Brand. The servant
was then heard replying that his
master was not at home, whereupon
Lord Ruthven asked for Miss Honoria,
was informed that she was in, and entered
the drawing-room.
As his eyes fell upon the young lady
and Innis, Ruthven turned visibly paler,
and his agitation was obvious. He,
nevertheless, advanced calmly into the
apartment, bowed with cordial courtesy,
and, offering his hand to Innis, said:
“I have not had the pleasure of seeing
you for some weeks, Mr. Innis.”
Innis returned his salutation with
calmness, and said:
“My books have taken up my attention
greatly, my lord; and then I fear
you attach little pleasure to our meeting—
the first time was unfortunate, and you
doubtless owe me a grudge.”
“For my fall? By no means, sir;
and I do not regret it, since it gave me
the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
There was something sincere and
courteous in the voice of Ruthven. His
melancholy was ineradicable, but the
new influence operating upon his character
seemed to have made his disposi
tion more frank and kindly. Innis bowed,
and said:
“Your lordship alludes with great
courtesy to what I shall always lament.”
And, having exchanged these polite
commonplaces, the gentlemen sat down.
Honoria's cheeks were burning, and
she kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet,
scarce raising them as she replied to the
commonplace phrases of Lord Ruthven.
That gentleman was much too well bred
to appear to notice the evident constraint
of the young lady's manner; and thus
half an hour passed, at the end of which
time Lord Ruthven rose, begged that
Honoria would present his compliments
to the family, bowed, first to the young
lady, and then to Innis, and left the
house.
Innis resumed his seat, and for some
time gazed in silence upon the floor.
“There is no longer any room for
doubt,” he said at length, with the calmness
of despair.
“To doubt, Edmund?” murmured
the young girl, faintly.
“In what character Lord Ruthven
comes hither,” said Innis; “'tis as a
suitor for your hand, Honoria.”
Honoria covered her face with her
hands and sobbed. The poor child had
no words to reply—she knew that denial
was vain.
“Am I mistaken in so thinking?”
said Innis. “You know this, as I do, do
you not?”
“Yes!”
And a second sob followed the desparing
monosyllable.
“His suit will prosper. You will be—
his wife, Honoria! Your father will
never permit you to reject a nobleman
of his high position! He is worthy of
you, too—anger shall not make me unjust.
But, worthy or unworthy, the die
is cast!”
“Oh, no! I will never, never consent!”
sobbed the girl.
“How can you resist?” said Innis, in
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[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
despair. “Your father's will is strong
enough to break down your own. He
will disregard your opposition and declare
that you know not what is best for
you. In his eyes, you will be but a coy
and romantic girl, unable to choose your
destiny aright.”
Honoria sobbed out, in a helpless
voice:
“O Edmund, Edmund, he cannot,
will not, force me to so miserable a
union. Lord Ruthven is a gentleman
worthy of esteem; but to marry him
would make me wretched, and I will tell
papa so! He is not so hard, it may be,
as you think him, Edmund. He loves
me, and when I tell him that—I love
you only—am yours, in the sight of
Heaven—that I have no other heart—”
The poor, faltering voice broke down.
In a faint whisper she added:
“Oh, he will not make me so wretched!”
Innis shook his head.
“You do not know what men are
made of, my poor darling—they are very
hard. The heart is very hard when the
hair is gray, and the blood cold. They
find excellent reasons, then, for separating
young hearts—money, position, prudence,
is the text of their discourse;
and I know not if I should blame them—
if, in Colonel Brand's situation, I should
act otherwise.”
“Oh, no!—do not speak so! I will
never, never become Lady Ruthven!”
The words seemed to pierce Innis
like a weapon, coming thus from Honoria's
lips, and his brows were suddenly
knit.
“Lady Ruthven! Are you so sure,”
he said, groaning, “that the difference
between plain Mrs. Edmund Innis and
my Lady Ruthven will not have some influence
on you even?”
“Edmund,” she exclaimed, “this is
cruel, very cruel in you! 'Tis unworthy
of you to so wound a poor girl who is
unhappy enough already!”
“Yes, doubtless 'tis cruel,
unworthy;
but I am so wretched! How can I see
my happiness, more than my life, at
stake, and keep my senses? Maidens
have lived who have shrunk under this
sore temptation—who, when called upon
to choose between a poor youth and a
wealthy nobleman, have forgotten all but
the splendor upon one side and the poverty
on the other. But, God keep me
from classing you with such, Honoria!
I am as certain of your faith as I am of
my own existence—I know that, if your
hand be tied to this gentleman's by a
mockery, your heart would not go with
it—I know all that, Honoria; I trust you
as I would trust an angel—but what is
the result for me?—what can I do? All
is dark before me!—I can do nothing—”
Innis bowed his head, and, for a moment,
no sound was heard but the sobs
of Honoria.
Suddenly Innis rose erect, and a
glance at his face indicated that, in this
single instant, he had come to a fixed
resolution.
“Listen, my poor, dear Honoria!—
my only hope in life! A man can only
fail. When he has done his best, and is
crushed, he can still fall with honor, and
with some solace in his misery! I will
formally ask your father for his daughter's
hand. Should he refuse, then—”
The door opened as Innis was speaking,
and Colonel Brand entered the
apartment.
XXXI. THE INTERVIEW.
Colonel Brand was clad in full dress—
embroidered coat, gold threaded waistcoat,
velvet short-clothes, silk stockings,
ruffles, and powder. His air was even
more stately than when at Rivanna—his
reception by the governor, and the successful
début of his beautiful
daughters,
having, in no small degree, heightened
his consequence in his own eyes.
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
He bestowed a bow, full of stately
politeness, upon Innis, and, passing his
fingers, after his habitual fashion, between
his neck and cravat, with a lofty
air, said a few words to Honoria. The
young lady replied in a trembling voice;
and, finding that her self-possession was
leaving her—that, if she remained longer,
she would probably burst into tears—
abruptly left the apartment.
Colonel Brand followed her with his
eyes—their expression indicating unmistakable
astonishment. He turned suddenly
to Innis with some hauteur, and
found that the young man had resumed
his seat, thus manifesting a plain intention
not to take his departure. The hauteur
was succeeded by a glance of cold
surprise. The colonel sat down in a
great arm-chair, and, settling his chin in
his ample white cravat, looked at Innis
with the air of one who says, “Well,
sir, what have you to say to me?”
The youth courageously returned the
haughty glance of his companion—for
wretchedness had quite dulled his nerves—
and said:
“I beg a few words with you, sir,
upon a matter of great importance to
me.”
His voice was calm and measured—
the tremor of the tones almost entirely
imperceptible.
“A matter of importance, sir?” said
the colonel, coldly inclining his head; “I
am at your service.”
“I wish to ask your consent to my
marriage with Honoria.”
The words were quickly uttered, but
they seemed to have upon Colonel Brand
the effect of a blow.
“Your marriage!—with Honoria!”
he gasped, thrown completely from his
balance, and losing all his self-possession.
“With Honoria, sir.”
“Are you mad, sir!” came, in the
same gasp of utter astonishment, from
the colonel. “What has put so crazy a
thought into your mind, sir? It is an ut
ter absurdity—a piece of madness!
Your
proposal is astounding, sir!—it shocks
me beyond words!”
Innis was silent. With a heightened
color and a stern compression of the lips,
he braced his strength against the coming
storm.
“Yes, sir! I use the proper word—
your words shock me! Marriage—with
my daughter — Honoria! Good Heavens!”
“I had supposed that you had seen,
perhaps, reason to anticipate this request,
sir.”
The colonel grew purple—anger began
to take the place of astonishment.
“That I had seen—seen reason? Yes
sir, I have seen, as you have the goodness
to word it, your very improper proceedings.
But I had not dreamed, sir, that
it would come to this—that I should
coolly, calmly, without notice, be called
upon to consent to the marriage of Miss
Brand to a person like yourself—to one
who—”
“Stop, sir!” cried Innis suddenly, in
a voice as haughty as the colonel, “at
least spare me your insults; I am at
least a gentleman, and you shall not be
under the necessity of asking me out of
your house. I will leave it!”
As Innis spoke, the burning cheeks,
the flaming eyes, the lips trembling with
sudden ire at the tones of the colonel,
showed that the blood of a haughty
race in the veins of the youth had taken
fire.
“I am poor—nothing it may be, in
your eyes—but I am a gentleman, as you
are aware, sir, and, if I am to be insulted,
this interview shall here terminate!”
Innis rose, stern, cold, and erect—a
statue of pride—and had made a step
toward the door, when the voice of the
other arrested him.
“Sit down, sir,” said the colonel, in
an agitated voice. “I have more to say
to you, and it is far from my design to
offer you any insult.”
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
The eyes of Innis met those of Colonel
Brand, and he read in the latter no longer
the contemptuous expression which
they had at first worn, rather a gloomy
satisfaction at finding opposed to him
one as proud and strong as himself, who
would not consent to be crushed by a
word and a look.
“I repeat, sir,” said the colonel, “that
I have no earthly intention of offering
you offence—of insulting you. Insult
you? No, sir. If, under the excitement
of the moment—in consequence of this
very sudden and unexpected proposition—
I have forgotten the courtesies of good
society, I beg that you will forgive it, sir,
receiving my apologies. I trust that I
am too well acquainted with the proprieties
of life, and the respect due from one
gentleman to another, to offer outrage to
one bearing your name; but I repeat also,
sir, and I wish to repeat it so plainly
that there can be no misunderstanding,
that the alliance which you do me the
honor to propose is entirely out of the
question.”
Innis bowed with gloomy courtesy in
response to these calmer words, and
said:
“I do not wish to discuss the subject—
to interrogate you, sir; but before I
terminate this interview, the last in all
probability I shall ever have with you,
may I beg you to inform me why my
proposal for Honoria's hand is entirely
out of the question?”
The words as nearly confused Colonel
Brand as it was possible for him to be
confused. He had no answer ready. It
is very easy to exclaim, storm, declare a
thing absurd, but difficult sometimes to
declare why it is absurd. Colonel Brand
remained, therefore, for a moment entirely
silent, and Innis, catching with the
despair of a drowning man at this straw
of hope, suddenly said, in his earnest and
pathetic voice:
“Why—I pray you, sir, to tell me—
why is my marriage with Honoria im
possible? I am a gentleman, her equal,
poor, 'tis true, but I have talent, people
say, and I love her dearly — with the
fondest, the truest devotion—and would
make her happy! Why, then is it so
impossible? I do not ask you to have
pity upon my suffering—that is not the
tone of a man—but I love Honoria so
truly! How shall I live without her!”
This passionate cry of love and anguish,
bursting through all the wrappings
of ceremony, visibly touched the
proud but not narrow or sterile mind of
the colonel. He was silent, but slowly
shook his head, uttering a sort of sigh.
“My young friend,” he said at length,
“this painful interview is quite useless,'
tis only a suffering to us both. You
touch my feelings, but you do not shake
my fixed resolve. I have said, and repeat,
that your social status is not the question—
a gentleman is a gentleman under all
circumstances, whatever his condition;
but your union with Honoria is none the
less an impossibility. She is a mere
child, and, although I do not say that her
age is an insuperable obstacle. 'tis still a
serious one. I believe, sir, that you are
attached to your cousin. I will not for
a single moment do you the gross injustice
of believing, much less of saying,
that mercenary motives control you. A
vulgarian might offer you that insult, sir,
and so be rid of your presence; but I, a
Virginia gentleman, am incapable of so
degrading myself. No, my poor young
friend, I am perfectly well assured that
you are far above so ignoble a calculation;
the question is different, but I am
none the less immovable. I regret that
my words should cause you so much
pain, but believe me, on an occasion like
this, plain words are best. I cannot give
you my daughter, Mr. Innis. Enough
that I am compelled to refuse your request.
For yourself personally, sir, I
cherish both respect and regard. It is
possible that I have not appeared to you
a very cordial personage, but my
-- 073 -- p505-084
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
manners are naturally reserved, and perhaps
pride is one of my defects. If you have
thought me without regard, even affection
for you, you are mistaken. You
will find this fancy dissipated in course
of time, perhaps, and do me justice.
Now, let us cease to speak upon this very
painful subject. The present conversation
need not make us strangers henceforth,
but I would counsel you as a friend
to avoid as far as possible occasions that
will serve to nourish a hopeless attachment.
I must leave you now, sir; let
us part friends. I do not venture, sir,
under the circumstances, to make offers
to a gentleman of your rank, but, should
the occasion present itself, I shall take
the liberty of proving myself your friend,
begging you not to take offence thereat,
but to regard me as your very sincere
well-wisher.”
With these words the stately colonel
rose, held out his hand to Innis, or
rather took that of the youth in his own,
pressed it cordially, and with a bow, left
the apartment.
Innis had scarcely returned the grasp
of the colonel's hand. His head seemed
turning. He slowly took his hat, and
went, walking as it were in a dream, to
the door, which opened and, closed behind
him.
The clash sent a pang to the lonely
heart up-stairs—the girl who, in her
chamber, lay sobbing as though her
heart were breaking.
XXXII. DR. VANDYKE'S DISCOVERY.
Innis was going along Duke-of-Gloucester
Street, walking like a somnambulist,
wholly unconscious of the world
around him, when suddenly he was arrested
by a material obstacle: he had
stumbled all at once against another
somnambulist, as far away from the
real world of Gloucester Street as himself.
He raised his eyes, and saw that the
obstacle was a human being, and this
human being Dr. Vandyke.
The eccentric physician was as
strange a spectacle as ever. His squat
and powerful form was arrayed as before
in the long overcoat whose skirts beat
his heels; his feet were encased in enormous
buckled shoes, into which descended
his old shrunken legs clad in splatter-
dashes, and from under his wide hat
flowed the long gray elf-locks, framing
the thin face, with its sardonic lips, and
piercing eyes burning like coals beneath
the bushy gray eyebrows.
“Well met, my young sir!” said Dr.
Vandyke, whose countenance was full
of joy; “you walk over old friends, it
seems, without deigning to notice their
existence.”
“Your pardon, doctor,” said Innis in
a low, hopeless voice; “I was thinking—
did not see you—”
“Thinking? — a villanous habit! —
What has youth to do with thinking?
Act! enjoy! and leave the rascally
thinking to the graybeards!”
There was a species of tonic in the
rough, unceremonious voice—commonplace
consolation would have disgusted
Innis; this man's talk was a stimulant,
making him lose sight of his woe. He
nodded, therefore; unconsciously permitted
the cut-off giant to link an arm
in his own, and drag him along with
him, and said:
“So youth is the time of enjoyment,
is it? And yet I am young, and I do not
enjoy.”
Dr. Vandyke looked sidewise at him.
“You do not enjoy?”
“I do not.”
“A love-disappointment?”
Innis groaned.
“Let us not speak of it.”
“So be it,” said Dr. Vandyke, “but
suffering brings strength. True, I'd
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
rather not have strength at that price,
and go, even at my age, for enjoyment—
which I have at last secured.”
Innis looked at him, and simply nodded.
“Ah! ah!” chuckled the physician,
“you do not comprehend. You don't
see how an old mummy like myself can
enjoy. But I have discovered the elixir
vitœ.”
And Dr. Vandyke's face grew radiant
with joy and pride.
“The elixir vitœ?” said Innis.
“I so style it, since it combats pain,
suffering, perhaps death itself.”
The young man gazed at the speaker
in astonishment.
“Your meaning, doctor?”
“Come with me to my laboratory,
and I will show you.”
“To your laboratory?”
“In the next street. You are disengaged?”
“Yes.”
“Come, then!”
And with huge strides, his long great-coat
flapping against his thin legs, Dr.
Vandyke went onward, dragging Innis
with him.
“I have not seen you for some weeks
now,” he said—“scarcely since my visit
to Rivanna.”
“I have lived much retired, engaged
in study.”
“One of the joys of life. And the Rivanna
family are well? They have
brought with them, I see, that strange
child Meta, who played so tragic a part
in the `dumb-cake' business. I saw
her at his excellency's ball looking at
you.”
“She is with the family.”
“And still insane?”
“The word is strong, doctor. She is
deaf, dumb, and weak in mind, from an
accident—a fall from horseback which
drove, it is supposed, a portion of bone
into the brain.”
“Ah? But why was no operation
ever performed? I mean no surgical
operation.”
“The attempt was made, I believe,
but the child struggled so violently that'
twas impossible.”
An expression of extreme joy and
triumph overspread the countenance of
Dr. Vandyke.
“I was not mistaken, then,” he muttered;
“but for my grand discovery—”
He stopped suddenly, and said:
“When did you last see our friend
Lord Ruthven?”
“This morning.”
The words were forced from the lips,
and a suppressed groan came out with
them. The marvellously acute ears of
the physician caught the sound.
“Enough—I know all now,” he muttered;
“they are rivals for the love of my
little patient, and it is Ruthven who will
win.”
Innis turned his gloomy eyes upon
his companion. He had caught the
word Ruthven.
“You are speaking of his lordship?”
he said.
“Was I? Well, this soliloquizing is
a bad habit. Ruthven, however, makes
one think. Mad—mad as a March hare!”
“Lord Ruthven?”
“Himself. Do you doubt it? What
else explains his fits and starts—his visions—
his terrible look at times as he glances
over his shoulder? He is mad—and yet
as sane a man too as I ever encountered.”
The doctor chuckled. “Science tells of
such cases,” he said.
“I had not thought thus of his lordship,”
said Innis. “He is calm, courteous,
an official of acknowledged efficiency, I
am assured, and, if mad, mad on one
subject only.”
“You have hit it. There is one
chamber in his brain full of cobwebs,
but otherwise vacant—or, if not vacant,
inhabited by spectres called Edmund
Innis and Honoria Brand.”
Innis started.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
“Your meaning, doctor?”
“I saw him at the assembly when
she entered, and his face wore the same
look as on that day when he saw you
first.”
“Doctor, your penetration is frightful,
terrible.”
“Why not? 'Tis my trade—this
diagnosis of body and mind. To dismiss
Ruthven. He is a mystery still to me,
despite my theories—and a mystery from
which I anticipate something fearful.
But here we are at my house. Come in.
I will make you, first of all the world,
partaker of my triumph!”
Innis suffered himself to be led by the
singular personage up the steps of the
small house which we have described in
the beginning of this history; a huge
key opened the door; and, throwing
open another door on the right, the doctor
ushered his guest into his study,
where a fire was burning—a yellow cat
stretched on the rug before it. Dr. Vandyke's
first proceeding was to pause and
listen.
“Good!” he then said, with an air of
relief. “Snuffers, that venerable female,
is reposing on her virtuous couch!—methinks
I hear the noise of distant thunder,
long reverberating, and unmistakably
proceeding from her ancient nose!
Sweet music!—dulcet harmony! Everybody,
friend, is afraid of something or
somebody—I am afraid of Snuffers! Her
tongue is caustic, her head-dress a nightmare!—
but I philosophize! Sit down,
my guest; you are in domo mea, or rather
tua. See, even Felina, my favorite, welcomes
us—my cat—though her frontleg
has sustained a compound fracture,
doubtless the result of night-prowling
and the encounter of dogs.”
Felina from her rug uttered a low cry
of pain or response. Dr. Vandyke enthroned
himself in a great arm-chair; his
thin legs spread out; his hands extended
toward the blaze; his face joyful.
“The moment approaches,” he said,
“when the great arcanum is to be revealed
to one of the elect! But I jest in
an unseemly manner over so serious a
topic. Let me speak gravely.”
The eccentric countenance suddenly
lost its joyful and careless expression.
“I am about to exhibit before you,
my young friend,” he said, “what will
prove one of the greatest and most
blessed discoveries which God has ever
permitted the poor, narrow brain of
humanity to reach. But first let me ask
you what is the greatest of human ills?”
“Despair,” said Innis, with an expres-
sion of immovable gloom.
“Suffering, that is to say.”
“Yes.”
“Of the mind?”
“Yes.”
“You reply justly; and yet, my young
friend, there is reason to question whether
the capacity of suffering possessed by
the body is not greater than that possessed
by the mind. I say that there is a
question—I assert positively nothing.
But remember the warnings of the Holy
Book. The `wrath to come,' is typified
by fire—the continuous burning of
the flesh, and the gnawing of a worm
upon the vitals. Thus 'tis bodily pain
that is held up as the chief woe—the utmost
penalty.”
“Yes, but—”
“The soul, you would say, suffers remorse,
despair, and these are worst of
all. So let it be—let us only say, then,
that bodily pain is terrible; that there is
reason to doubt whether medicines affect
the body as they affect the soul.
You are in despair—well, a year afterward
you are joyful. You love your
wife, your child, your sweetheart, and—
you forget them. Time, the great physician,
has cured your mental malady,
and yet time has not cured yonder victim
of consumption, as it did not cure
the leper.”
Innis nodded.
“I understand. You would say
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
that there are many anodynes for the
soul—fewer for the body.”
“Yes! yes! yes!—Until yesterday.”
“Until yesterday?”
Dr. Vandyke seized the cat lying upon
the rug.
“Look at this animal,” he said. “She
is in pain—is she not?”
“Doubtless. Her leg is broken, and
hanging down. When you only touch
it, she utters a cry of suffering.”
“Good!”
And, filled again with his overflowing
joy, Dr. Vandyke took a phial, uncorked
it, poured some of the contents of a
liquid which it contained upon his handkerchief,
and applied it to the mouth of
the animal.
The liquid exhaled a penetrating odor,
which seemed as repulsive to the cat as
it was to Innis. But Dr. Vandyke continued
to press the handkerchief upon
the mouth of the animal; gradually its
head drooped sidewise, and in a few
minutes it exhibited every indication of
death.
“What now!” said the physician,
whose face was radiant; “what is the
condition of this animal?”
“I should say that you had poisoned
her, doctor—that she is dead.”
“You shall see.”
And, stretching the apparently inanimate
form upon the table, Dr. Vandyke
opened a drawer and took out a long,
sharp instrument, whose point he tried
upon his palm.
“If she is dead,” he said, “there can
be no harm in probing the wound which
she had the misfortune to sustain during
her late life—for the benefit of science!
I may be called in by some wealthy
dowager to set or amputate the leg of
her pet Angola: then, my young friend,
a knowledge of cat-anatomy may result
in guineas.”
The doctor raised the broken leg and
felt it.
“A bad compound fracture,” he said,
“and scarce such as to admit of
setting.
She would die of it.”
“Then the cat is not dead?” said
Innis, absorbed in spite of himself in
the singular proceeding of his companion.
“Wait, and see.”
And Dr. Vandyke carefully probed
the wound, extracting some fragments
of bone. The cat did not stir.
“Useless,” he said; “the limb must
be amputated.”
And, returning the probe to its
drawer, he took out an exceedingly
sharp knife, a minute saw, and some
thread.
“Now, for the surgical operation,” he
exclaimed.
And, with a sure and rapid hand, he
made a circular incision, dividing the
flesh to the bone; sawed the bone asunder;
threw away the remnant, gathered
up and confined the bleeding arteries,
and exclaimed—
“The operation is over!”
The cat had not moved a muscle, or
uttered a sound indicating pain, or even
consciousness.
“What say you now?” cried Dr.
Vandyke.
“I say that it was useless to perform
so skilful an operation upon a dead animal.”
“Look!”
At the same instant the body of the
cat was agitated with a species of tremor;
the eyes opened, and the animal
looked at its master without indications
of any pain. Innis gazed at the spectacle
with profound astonishment, and
then his eyes passed to the face of Dr.
Vandyke.
“I now understand your meaning,”
he said; “you have discovered the
antidote to pain. You are immor-
tal!”
“If some other human being does
not secure the fame of my discovery.
I have found what the most eminent
-- --
“'Now for the surgical operation.'” p. 76.
[figure description] 505EAF. Image of a scary looking man with stringy gray hair, sunken
face, and hooked nose, standing over a cat, which is laid out on its back on a
table, with a scalpel in his hand about to make a cut. There are a variety of
jars on the table and on the mantlepiece of a nearby fireplace and a book with
metal clasps at his feet. In a chair to the right of the man sits an apathetic
looking man. He is holding his tri-cornered hat in one hand, while the other
holds up his head, as he stares up at the other man.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 077 -- p505-090
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
doctors have been seeking for in vain.*
Yes! a poor physician of the colonies
has revolutionized medical science! For
what I have here performed upon this
poor animal may be performed with the
same ease upon men and women! Pain
under the surgeon's knife has had its day—
the study of a lifetime is rewarded
supremely by this blessed triumph! O
humanity! — humanity, that perchance
will never hear my name—I am your
supreme benefactor — to me you owe
statues!”
A species of furious triumph possessed
the eccentric personage. He
gesticulated, strode about the room, and
seemed wild with joy and triumph.
Suddenly he stopped.
“You now know, do you not, friend,
why I asked you the condition of the
young girl Meta?”
“Of Meta, doctor?”
“She has had a fall from horseback;
it has paralyzed alike brain, and tongue,
and hearing, for a fragment of bone has
impinged upon the brain, and this little
fragment has dethroned language, and
reason, and education, since education
is through the ear. This poor creature
is thus a pagan and a lunatic. No
operation can be performed, from the
wild struggling with which she resists it.
Well, see that small phial!—with one-fourth
of its contents, I paralyze, in my
turn, this rebellious bundle of
nerves—I
cut with the knife and saw into the
child's very brain, and she feels no pain!
I remove the obstacle to the action of
her reason—she hears, speaks, thinks, is
taught—I have performed—I, the poor
worm—what the world calls a miracle;
and have I not the right to demand my
statue?”
An hour afterward Innis was returning
to his lodging, full of an astonishment
which, for the moment, dissipated his
misery; and Dr. Vandyke, on the same
evening, was closeted with Lady Brand,
and speaking of Meta.
Leaving the sequel of the consultation
to its proper place, we return to the
main current of our narrative.
eaf505n1* Though the discovery of the anæsthetic
properties
of ether three-quarters of a century before the first
experiments of Wells and Morton, may seem too improbable
even for fiction, yet it should be remembered
that ether was known to the alchemists, and that the
method of making it was described by Valerius Cordus
in 1540. It is also to be considered that physicians long
sought for some means of benumbing the nerves of
sensation during surgical operations, and that in the
last century their attention was particularly turned to
ether, which Dr. Frobinius first brought into general
notice by a paper in the “Philosophical Transactions”
of 1780. There is, therefore, really no improbability in
supposing that an able and inventive student of chemistry
and medicine like Dr. Vandyke may have anticipated
in his solitary researches the discovery of Mor-
ton, and that the memory of his success may have been
lost in the confusion of the Revolution, which was then
close at hand.
XXXIII. THE RING.
Another month had passed. It was
one of those nights of winter when the
world seems to have bid farewell forever
to warmth and sunshine; when the
wind groans drearily around the houses
and through leafless trees, and the moon,
drifting through long surges of black
cloud, only adds with its funereal and
flitting beams to the hopeless desolation
of the face of the world.
Innis traversed the deserted streets
of Williamsburg, slowly advancing toward
the residence of Honoria. He had
been summoned by her, after a long
separation caused by the serious illness
of the young lady; he was ignorant of
the object of this long - deferred interview;
but something whispered to him
that it had some connection with the
continuous visits of Lord Ruthven, and
the dreary expression of the pale and
haggard face indicated the nature of his
anticipations.
He entered the house, not noticing
that the old family servant, who opened
the door, looked at him with deep
-- 078 --
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commiseration. Honoria was seated alone,
before the fire in the drawing-room, and
a susceptible tremor agitated her frame
as he entered. Innis started. The girl
was no longer any thing but the shadow
of herself. She was fearfully thin and
pale, and the eyes, dim and sunken, were
full of a strange apathy. With her long,
flowing robe fitting but loosely now to
her slender figure, she resembled a ghost.
She was motionless, except that, from
moment to moment, she turned backward
and forward with her thin fingers
a ring upon the third finger of her left
hand.
As Innis approached, she slowly
turned her head and looked at him.
The appearance of the haggard face, and
the apathetic eyes surrounded by red
rings, made him shudder.
“I—sent for you,” she said, in a faint,
low voice, with something dreary and
hopeless in its accent; “I wished to see
you—once at least—before—”
The voice faltered and died away.
“Before—my marriage,” she added,
in a sort of whisper.
Innis shook from head to foot, and
drew a long breath through his set teeth.
“Your marriage?” he said, convulsively.
“My marriage.”
The apathy had extended to the voice
now. Honoria looked at him, and added:
“Then you did not know that I was
to be married?”
The young man suddenly lost all self-command,
and cried:
“O my God! Honoria! Do not say
that! Do not look at me so! I shall
go mad!”
“And I too, Edmund, if I am not so
already.”
The slow, measured accents had not
changed; the young lady was evidently
the victim of utter despair, and her
nerves were paralyzed.
“Do you think,” she went on, “that
I too have had no reason to go mad?
My father has betrothed me to Lord
Ruthven, despite my tears, and prayers
for mercy—only mercy! Nothing moves
him. He acts for my good, he says. I
will thank him some day—girls do not
know their minds—another opportunity
for so great a match may never again
occur—I must abandon my school-girl
fancies—I must marry this nobleman!”
“You cannot—shall not?” Innis
suddenly cried; “it would be monstrous!”
“It will be monstrous.”
“Will be!”
“Yes.”
“You will marry this man?”
“I must!”
Innis fell into a chair, covering his
face with his hands. All his manhood
had succumbed.
“Oh, you cannot, you cannot!” he
cried; “it will kill me!”
“We shall then be together again,”
came in a low, solemn voice from the
girl.
Innis raised his head and looked at
her with fiery eyes, full of blinding
tears.
“Do you think,” said Honoria, slowly
and calmly, “that I am stronger than
you—that I can live through this degradation,
this lie of promising love to him
when I love — you — you only in this
world? I have submitted to the will of
my father, and have not sunk under my
sufferings—I have been very ill, but have
grown well again, as you see. Soon I
shall be ill a second time, and then I shall
not recover. Nor would I. Once I
shrunk from death—now I long for it,
and pray God to send it me, as His
dearest blessing.”
Innis fell upon his knees before her,
seizing the poor, thin hands.
“Oh, do not speak of death, my own
Honoria!” he cried. “Live for me, your
poor, poor Edmund!—refuse to sell yourself
thus, in this hateful, this horrible
-- 079 -- p505-092
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
union! Your father is cruel—leave him!
Come with me, and be what you are in
the sight of Heaven, my dear wife!”
Honoria slowly shook her head.
“Such unions are not happy. Obedience
to parents is commanded by a
greater power than any upon earth. Do
not urge me, Edmund—there is no hope—
no! Do not let us even speak of that!
Death alone can free me from this frightful
fate. I have sent for you, to tell you
that I shall die soon—to say farewell—
and—”
With a convulsive movement, she
drew the ring from her thin finger, held
it out to Innis, and, turning away her
head, whispered:
“And to return you this.”
The effort exhausted her strength,
but unsealed the blessed fountain of tears.
She burst into passionate sobs, let her
face fall hopelessly upon the wet face of
the youth at her feet, and exclaiming—
“This is killing me, Edmund!” fainted
in his arms.
A quarter of an hour afterward, Honoria
was in her chamber, clasped, almost
lifeless, in the arms of her sister;
and Innis was walking the street with
wild and uncertain steps — a hopeless
man in the dreary winter-night.
XXXIV. PHIL CARY FINDS THE MOMENT.
It was the morning succeeding this
scene, full of passionate anguish. In the
same chair which had been occupied by
Honoria in the drawing-room, sat her
sister Lou, bending down and weeping.
“I cannot endure it! Oh, I cannot
endure the thought!” she sobbed out.
“It will kill Honoria! What is to become
of us? Oh, what is to become of us?”
The hands which had covered her
beautiful face fell, and her eyes were
seen bathed in tears which flowed silently
down the flushed cheeks. She gazed
for some moments fixedly upon the floor;
uttered a moan; and, rising to the full
height of her superb figure, leaned for
support—for she felt weak and faint—
against the carven wood-work of the tall
mantel-piece.
Such was her preoccupation that she
did not hear the door open, or see a
personage who stopped upon the threshold.
“Oh, this place is hateful, hateful!”
she exclaimed. “Why did we ever come
hither, and Honoria meet this person?
If I could only fly from this town—never
to return! Oh, who will take me?”
“I, Lou,” said a voice behind her, and
turning quickly she saw Phil Cary, smiling,
with a frank light in his blue eyes,
standing in the door-way.
“You!” she exclaimed; “I did not
know that you were within a hundred
miles, sir!”
Phil Cary's face had been full of happy
smiles. Now he blushed suddenly, and
a gloomy expression replaced the sunshine.
“So the capital has made you formal!”
he said.
“Formal!—me?”
“You no longer call me Phil as at
Rivanna—then you have forgotten me,
or grown cold to me?”
Miss Lou Brand blushed unmistakably
in her turn.
“Cold?—no! you are so unjust!—
why should you think—!” There she
stopped.
There seemed little reason for so
much embarrassment, or for such careful
avoidance of her visitor's eye. What
could be the matter with the witty and
satirical Miss Brand?
The young man became more and
more gloomy; but it was easy to see that
with this gloom mingled a passionate
sentiment of some description.
“I thought you would have met me
with a little more cordiality, Lou,” he
said. “But pardon me—doubtless 'tis
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
disagreeable to you to have such liberties
taken.”
“Liberties!” murmured the young
lady, carefully not looking at him.
“The liberty of calling you by your
old name. I will not further offend.”
“Oh no! no!—do not call me otherwise;
do not be formal with me, Philip.”
A roseate flush spread itself over the
beautiful face.
“I am so unhappy!” she added, with
a suppressed sob.
“Very unhappy?”
The impetuous youth drew the hand
which he held in his own toward him.
The owner did not seem to observe the
circumstance, or the fact that her companion
was gazing into her averted face
with passionate tenderness.
“Oh, yes, yes!” she murmured;
“this town is hateful to me! Why
should I conceal my feelings, or hide our
family trouble from you? Honoria is to
marry my Lord Ruthven!—think of it!
He is odious to her—or, if not odious,
indifferent — and she, you know, she
loves Edmund with her very heart of
hearts! Oh, 'tis frightful! Can Heaven
smile upon a union so repulsive? To
give the hand to one when the heart is
another's—to be driven to a marriage
from which you shrink with a shudder
of disgust! And yet, 'tis fated to be
thus — our father is immovable. Last
night Edmund bade farewell forever to
Honoria, and the poor, poor thing fainted
in his arms—where she belongs—where
she belongs!”
And the warm-hearted girl burst into
passionate tears. Before she was aware
of it, she was sobbing upon her old playmate's
shoulder; he was speaking to her
in hurried, passionate words of love and
comfort; and, a quarter of an hour afterward,
the young man, in a moment, as it
were, and ignorant almost how it came
about, had avowed his own love, and was
the girl's accepted lover.
These things thus happen. — They
had lived all their lives together,
jested,
laughed, teased each other daily — not
knowing that, amid all that mirth and
carelessness, they were gradually approaching
the moment when they would
love each other! This instant of passionate
anguish had decided their destinies.
The beautiful young girl was sobbing,
suffering, looking around her for some
one to comfort her, and Fate brought
her playmate—loved more than she herself
dreamed. He had spoken, and the
throbbing hearts beat close, each pressed
to each, in a long, lingering embrace.
An hour afterward, Miss Lou Brand,
blushing in an angelic manner, and smiling
through her tears like an April morning,
whispered, faintly:
“But, your mother, Philip? She
does not wish you to marry anybody,
you know. Are you sure—do you think
she will—have me?”
The reply of Mr. Phil Cary to this
question was of a peculiar character;
but neither his words nor his actions will
be here recorded. In due time he succeeded
in expressing himself intelligibly,
and informing the young lady that his
excellent mother had been quite ill; that
she longed for a daughter-in-law to cheer
her loneliness; and he further assured his
companion that Mrs. Cary had ended
their last discussion by warmly urging
her son to pay his addresses to Lou
Brand.
“Then—”
The young lady uttered that single
word, blushing radiantly as she did so,
and glancing sidewise for the hundredth
part of a second at her lover.
“Don't, Philip!” came from her a
moment afterward; and, as the description
of this scene has proceeded to sufficient
length, we now close the door, and
discreetly retire.
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XXXV. A STRANGE COMFORTER.
To return, for a moment, to the preceding
night. Innis had walked the
street wildly for an hour after his interview
with Honoria. Then, without consciousness
of the fact, he bent his way
toward his lodgings, entered, ascended
the narrow stairs, and found himself in
his chamber, where the dying embers
scarce revealed the outlines of the furniture.
He fell into a seat, uttered a groan,
and covered his face with his hands.
“I was sure of it!” muttered a voice
on the opposite side of the fireplace.
“Who will say hereafter that penetration
is not one of my qualities!”
Innis started, and looked in the direction
of the voice.
“Oh, it's only your friend Vandyke,”
said the eccentric, who was sprawled as
usual in a capacious chair. “I have only
been awaiting you an hour and a half.
Your old servant told me where you had
gone, and I knew what the result of your
visit would be. So the bonny bird is going
to flit from you at last?”
“Spare me!” groaned Innis. “I am
wellnigh heart-broken, and cannot speak
of this.”
“Let us speak of something else, then.
Have you seen Meta?”
“No.”
“She is cured.”
And the doctor kicked together the
brands in the fireplace with his huge foot,
and produced a blaze.
“Let us talk a little by firelight—'tis
the best to talk by,” he said, composedly.
“Yes, Meta is cured.”
“You have not performed—”
“My operation? Yes. Three weeks
since—without difficulty, without pain!—
and the child is convalescent—more,
sane! SANE! SANE—I tell you!”
As he uttered the words, “sane, sane,
sane,” Dr. Vandyke's voice rose steadily
in loud and sonorous accents, until the
latter word was nearly shouted aloud.
“Yes, my young friend,” he added,
“after our last interview I sought Colonel
Brand and Lady Brand immediately—
proposed to perform the operation—
conquered their scruples—administered
my elixir vitœ to the child—removed the
fragment of bone thrust by her fall upon
her brain; and now she smiles, hears,
understands, and babbles! — babbles, I
say, for speech slowly returns. But, it
will return—nay, it has!—and you will
find as much.”
The words were uttered with a
strange, wistful, mysterious significance.
One would have said that this man was
in possession of some secret which he
longed to reveal, but was prevented by
circumstances from disclosing.
In a moment, Innis lost sight of his
own misfortunes, thinking of Meta.
“Cured—sane!” he said; “is it possible,
sir? I confess I had no faith in any
such miracle.”
“There are no miracles,” said Dr.
Vandyke, “save those of the Holy Scriptures.
A miracle is the violation by the
Supreme Law-giver of His own law—as
when Lazarus rose at the command of
the Son of God. Else the seasons, the
course of the stars, the growth of the
acorn, were miracles. Nor is this cure
of a poor human being, under the sealpel,
more of a miracle than these. The
obstacle to the operation was there, and
was removed. Science moves and acts
under the fiat of the Supreme Power.
The child is sane—she laughs and weeps,
and I heard her praying!”—the words
were uttered proudly, triumphantly —
“and without pain!” added the physician.
“Absolutely?” said Innis.
“She did not move! When the operation
was over, she murmured, in a low
voice, `That is my oriole singing in the
tree!”'
Innis listened with astonishment.
-- 082 -- p505-095
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
“And she speaks distinctly?”
“Not perfectly. Long disuse of the
lingual muscles is the only obstacle. And
now that I have told you of Meta, tell
me of yourself.”
“I have naught to tell you, doctor,”
said Innis, in a voice of utter despair.
“Your words, a few moments since, indicated
a knowledge of my most private
affairs—of my very great distress—spare
me, then, the grief of referring to it.”
“So be it,” said he; “but will you
receive advice from a very old man, who
has suffered much?”
“Advice?”
“Counsel, based upon experience.”
“Most willingly.”
“Then I sum up my advice to you in
a single word—wait.”
“Wait, for what?”
“For that which the future will bring
forth. I do not say that it will bring
forth happiness—it may produce misery.
But—wait. Take no trouble on trust.
The cloud is dark often when the sun is
about to shine. There are no miracles,
but there are strange events in the histories
of human lives; and 'twas to say
this that I came to-night, through cold
and storm—and I was going to wait, if
necessary until daylight, for your return.”
Having uttered these mysterious
words, the physician seized Innis's
hand, squeezed it with the force of a
giant, dashed his hat upon his head, and
disappeared from the apartment.
XXXVI. THE FAMILY IN CONCLAVE.
Innis was seated before the fire in
his chamber, on the second day after
these scenes, gazing with dull and stupefied
eyes into the blaze, when a knock
came at his door, and the old butler of
Colonel Brand entered, bowing respectfully.
The young man returned his greeting,
in a dreary way, and said:
“Well, Robin?”
“A note from master, Mas' Edmund.”
And the old gray-haired servant went
to a table, took a small waiter therefrom,
deposited the note upon it, and respectfully
presented it to Innis. He took it
with a strange expression of mingled repugnance
and surprise, and, tearing it
open, read the following lines:
“Sir: May I beg you to do me the
honor to visit me at my house between
the hour of noon and one o'clock to-day?
An affair of a very extraordinary character
renders your presence desirable,
and I beg that you will not fail to be
present at the hour named.
“I have the honor to be
“Your servant,
“R. Brand.
“To Edmund
Innis, Esq., Gloster
Street.”
The young man read this note over
twice, with indications of very great astonishment,
and muttered, “An affair of
an extraordinary character.”
A slight movement made by old
Robin recalled the fact of his presence.
It was necessary to reply to the colonel's
note; and Innis wrote a line to him, informing
him that he would be present at
the hour indicated. This note he handed
to old Robin. That old colored gentleman—
for gentleman Robin was in his
character and feelings—carefully placed
the missive in his pocket, fell back a
step, and—waited.
Innis looked at him.
“You have something to say to me,
Robin?”
“I thought, Mas' Edmund,” said
Robin, “you might have something to
say to me.”
“Yes, yes, I understand you, Robin!
Thanks, thanks, my good friend. Your
Miss Honoria—”
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
“She is better to-day, sir.”
Innis sighed deeply, and his head
sank. His eyes were fixed upon the fire,
his expression absent and dreamy, and,
taking this as an indication that his
presence was no longer desired, old Robin
silently and respectfully left the apartment.
The young man continued for some
time lost in reverie.
“What now!” he muttered at length.
“Here is a mystery which at other times
would certainly interest me! `An affair
of an extraordinary character' — what
may that be? That my Lord Ruthven
is an impostor—I a changeling, and the
true representative of the earldom?
What means this most mysterious mystery?
Ah! well—all speculation is idle,
doubtless. I shall very soon see.”
And, relapsing into reverie, the young
man continued to gaze with his old expression
into the blaze.
At noon precisely, Innis presented
himself at Colonel Brand's door, and
had no necessity to ask for the master of
the mansion, who stood upon the threshold
of the great drawing-room, waiting
to receive him.
It was obvious, from the appearance
of the colonel's face, that some surprising
event had occurred. A sudden alteration
had taken place in him. The
countenance, ordinarily so flushed and rubicund
with high living and rich wines,
was pale and haggard; the air of proud,
almost haughty politeness, not unmingled
with condescension, had given place to a
bearing full of absent-mindedness and
gloom; the erect figure was bent; the
shoulders stooped, and the unwonted
negligence of the colonel's toilet betrayed
the absorbing character of the
thoughts which occupied him.
Innis advanced with slow and measured
steps, and made a low and ceremonious
bow.
“I have come in response to your request,
this morning, sir,” he said, coldly.
“I thank you, sir,” said the
colonel,
in a much-altered, and singularly faltering
voice.
He almost instantly recovered, however,
his self-possession, and, with something
of his old stateliness, bowed low,
and said:
“I pray you to come into the drawing-room,
Mr. Innis. I desire to communicate
to you a matter of very great importance.”
The last words were uttered with a
quick tremor, of which the colonel tried
vainly to divest his voice. As he spoke,
he stood ceremoniously aside, that Innis
might precede him; and the young man,
inclining slightly in response to this
courtesy, entered the apartment.
Near a table, on the right of the fireplace,
sat Lady Brand, holding in her
own the thin hand of Honoria, who,
pale, anxious, and with eyes which never
wandered from Innis, seemed occupied
by some absorbing emotion. Within a
few feet Lon Brand stood erect, her superb
figure drawn up to its full height,
her jewelled hand resting upon the carved
back of an arm-chair, and in this chair
reclined Meta, looking very white and
much reduced, but with an unwonted
expression of calmness and sweetness in
her dark eyes, around which fell a few
stray curls of her black hair.
We have heard Dr. Vandyke explain
to Innis the daring attempt made to restore
Meta, and its perfectly successful
result. It is unnecessary to dwell further
upon the scene. The all-powerful
anæsthetic had done its work, and
plunged the child into coma—the rapid
and unerring hand had removed the obstruction
to reason—painlessly removed
it even; and the human being, but lately
a subtle, scheming, insane girl, tonguetied,
and deaf as dumb, was in possession
of her reason, in possession of the
power of hearing and of speaking—
smiled, as those around her had not seen
her smile for years, and thrilled with
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
happiness when informed of this miracle
wellnigh, which had restored to her the
light of reason, and opened the blessed
fountain of tears.
As he slowly advanced into the apartment,
Innis surveyed with a fixed glance
the group near the fireplace, suppressing
with difficulty his agitation at the sight
of Honoria. As he drew near, the countenance
of the young girl flushed slowly;
her lips trembled, and her thin hand
convulsively grasped the hand of Lady
Brand, whose eyes were swimming in
tears.
Before Innis could speak, Colonel
Brand advanced, and said in a voice
which he vainly endeavored to control:
“You will perceive, sir, that I have
invited you to something which resembles
a family consultation. You see
here assembled all the members of my
family, as it is my wish that all should
be present and participate in this interview.”
Innis bowed, but said nothing. He
felt that his voice would fail him.
Colonel Brand cleared his throat, and
drew himself up with a painful assumption
of dignity.
“The object of this interview, sir, is
to inform you of a very unexpected discovery.”
A suppressed sigh from Lady Brand
was heard as the colonel ended his sentence,
and the sound seemed to irritate
him.
“I pray you do not permit any evidence
of emotion, madam, to mingle
with this strictly business consultation.
You will perceive that I, madam, am not
agitated in the least.”
And Colonel Brand's voice shook.
Innis looked at Lady Brand, and saw
that she was nearly ready to sob. The
spectacle broke down his haughty pride,
and he exclaimed:
“What is the occasion of this agitation,
aunt? Speak! I am lost in won
der at this scene. What is the occasion
of your grief?”
“It is not grief, sir!” said Colonel
Brand, with hauteur.
“What then?” said Innis.
“Agitation — mere agitation, sir!
Ladies do not understand business.”
“The cause of this agitation, then, if
it be agitation alone?”
Innis spoke with vehemence, a vague
excitement mastering him.
“The reply is simple, sir,” said Colonel
Brand. “Yesterday I and my family
were persons of wealth and consequence—
to-day we are stripped of all, and are
penniless.”
Innis looked at the speaker with
stupefaction.
“You speak in riddles, sir. I pray
you will explain yourself.”
“That is easy, sir. I am no longer
the proprietor of Rivanna!”
“Good Heavens!—and who—”
“Is the owner of the estate? It is
yourself, sir.”
“I!” exclaimed Innis. “I the owner
of Rivanna!”
“Yes, sir; and I beg to say that
I shall in no manner contest your
claim. The entire estate will be surrendered
to you, so soon as I shall have
been able to secure shelter for my
family.”
Innis uttered no word of reply. His
eyes were riveted upon the face of Colonel
Brand with an expression of incredulous
astonishment.
“I shall be compelled, for a brief
space, to remain a trespasser upon your
property, sir,” said the colonel, in an
agitated voice. “I shall proceed at once
to collect my scattered resources, and
shall be able, I trust, to secure a moderate
provision for my household—an honorable
support for them—the rest I leave
to Providence.”
“In Heaven's name, end this preface,
sir, and explain what you mean!” exclaimed
Innis.
-- 085 -- p505-098
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
“It is easily explained,” muttered
Colonel Brand. But there he stopped.
“The explanation!” said Innis, gloomily.
“So many things have occurred
recently, sir, that I am proof against
almost all emotion. You, nevertheless,
excite my curiosity.”
“Without further delay, then, you
are, as I have said, the sole proprietor
of the Rivanna estate. Your indulgence,
sir! I did not think to betray
this agitation, but the thought is bitter
that Ellen—I mean Lady Brand—and
my children—my dear children—”
The haughty spirit broke down. The
voice stuck in the throat.
At the same moment a chariot was
heard to stop before the door; the
knocker rose and fell.
“Lord Ruthven!” old Robin announced.
“It is well!” muttered Colonel
Brand; “the family party is now complete,
and one explanation will suffice
for everybody.”
As he uttered these words, Lord
Ruthven, who had paused for a moment
in the hall to divest himself of his furs,
entered the apartment, and saluted the
assembled company with a profound and
courtly inclination.
XXXVII. THE EXPLANATION.
Ruthven surveyed the gathering before
him with unmistakable curiosity
and astonishment; but, suppressing immediately
all indications of surprise, said
to Colonel Brand in his grave and courtly
voice:
“I received your note, sir, and trust
that I have not compelled you to await
me.”
As he spoke he drew from his breast
his watch, and added, after looking at
it:
“I am glad to find that I am punc
tual, having just the hour mentioned in
your note.”
Colonel Brand bowed.
“Strict punctuality was immaterial,
my lord,” was his ceremonious reply;
“and Mr. Innis, a necessary personage
in this family meeting, has just arrived.”
“Mr. Innis?” said Ruthven, turning
his head. He spoke almost unconsciously,
but was quickly aware of the unceremonious
character of his words, and added:
“I beg that Mr. Innis will pardon the
apparent discourtesy of my question. I
had forgotten that he is a close and
valued member of your family, sir.”
Colonel Brand inclined his head, preserving
his cold, almost stiff air of ceremony.
“It was absolutely necessary, as you
will ere long become aware, that Mr.
Innis should attend at this very painful
interview,” he said, “and should have
his part in what is to take place.”
Ruthven again bowed, and said:
“Certainly, sir; but may I venture
to say that Lady Brand and Miss Brand
appear unwell and agitated? Is their
presence necessary?”
“Absolutely necessary.”
“Then this is a family consultation?”
“A family meeting, at all events, my
lord; and, though I shall speak for my
wife and daughters, it is their own desire
to be present when I do so.”
“That terminates the discussion, sir;
pray pardon the seeming intrusion of my
advice. I had feared that a business discussion
would perhaps embarrass or annoy
the ladies. As it is not so, their
presence is a satisfaction to me. I derive
too much pleasure from the society
of those toward whom I hope even to
sustain more intimate relations.”
Colonel Brand was silent. It was
easy to see that he was greatly agitated.
His face was pale, and his breathing
labored. He looked around him, found
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
that every one was waiting, and at length
said:
“I see that you expect me to speak,
gentlemen, and I can no longer delay my
very painful communication.—Lord Ruthven,
yesterday I was a gentleman of large
landed estate, living in affluence and luxury:
to-day I am wellnigh penniless—
nearly a beggar! A moment, my lord:
your astonishment is natural, but I beg
that you will withhold it until I have
terminated my necessary explanation. I
shall proceed to put yourself and Mr. Innis,
who is equally ignorant, in possession
of the facts, and inform you of the
unexpected manner in which I became
aware of the real situation of affairs.”
The ladies had not moved. Lady
Brand continued to hold Honoria's hand—
her sister to lean composedly upon the
back of Meta's chair. Innis and Ruthven
alone exhibited curiosity and astonishment.
“I shall address myself to you, my
lord,” continued Colonel Brand, in an
agitated voice, “as Mr. Innis is more or
less familiar with the subject of which I
shall speak. The estate of `Rivanna,'
upon which I live, and which is justly
regarded as one of the most princely in
the colony, was formerly the property
of Colonel Seaton, a gentleman of many
accomplishments and very high character.
He was never married, and, to dissipate
his loneliness, he adopted two
nieces, cousins, who were greatly beloved
by him, and stood to him in the
relation of children. Of these, it was
supposed that the elder niece was the
favorite; but, on the death of Colonel
Seaton, it was ascertained that he had
devised his estate of Rivanna to the
younger, my wife, leaving an inconsiderable
estate to the elder. The origin
of this disproportion was never accurately
ascertained. It could only be conjectured
that the elder young lady, who
was very impulsive and high-spirited,
had had some misunderstanding with her
uncle, and that he had punished her by
bestowing the bulk of his property upon
her cousin. Something was said of Colonel
Seaton's disapproval of a preferred
suitor of the elder young lady. But these
points are not important. Colonel Seaton
died, leaving Rivanna to his younger
niece. The elder married Mr. Innis, of
`Lodore,' and died, leaving an only
child, Mr. Edmund Innis, now present.
My marriage had taken place some
months before, and, in right of my wife,
I became the proprietor of the estate of
Rivanna. This estate now passes to the
representative of the elder niece of Colonel
Seaton, Mr. Edmund Innis.”
Colonel Brand turned, and bowed
with formal ceremony to the young man,
who gazed at him in silent astonishment,
and seemed to regard the whole
scene as a dream.
“The ground of Mr. Innis's claim to
the estate,” continued Colonel Brand,
“or, rather, the title by which he holds
it from this moment, is derived from a
later will of Colonel Seaton's, only recently
discovered by a member of my
family. This will entirely annuls the
first—is indisputable, and perfectly regular
and formal—if it were not, the intent
of the testator is so clearly expressed,
in his own writing, that I should not oppose
for a moment the effect of the instrument.”
Innis let his head fall, and uttered a
deep sigh. Then, a flash of the eye indicated
that some sudden thought had
passed through his mind. He said nothing,
however, and Colonel Brand continued:
“The will of Colonel Seaton was discovered
in an extraordinary manner.
During the last autumn, a party of young
ladies, then on a visit to Rivanna, determined
to indulge in the very absurd and
superstitious ceremony of `eating the
dumb-cake,' as it is called—some highly-
objectionable mummery, connected with
procuring buckets of water from a
-- 087 -- p505-100
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particular locality, looking into a mirror at
midnight, and other folly. Not to dwell
further upon this unfortunate incident
than is necessary, Honoria was selected
to undergo the trial. And this poor
child”—he pointed, as he spoke, to Meta—
“who had then the misfortune to labor
under mental infirmity, determined to
frighten her cousin. She accordingly
went to Honoria's chamber, and—as she
has revealed to us since her happy restoration
to health—sought for a place of
concealment. There were no closets,
but in one corner stood an old linen-chest
which had not been opened for
years. The key had been long lost; but
Meta, in her solitary explorations of
garrets and dark closets, had discovered
the key—a large and peculiar one—and
succeeded in opening the chest, which
she designed using as a hiding-place.
This she, however, found to be impossible.
The chest was filled with nondescript
articles — old worn-out clothes,
papers, and other things. She accordingly
abandoned the idea of hiding
there—took her place behind the curtains
of the bed, and, on her cousin's
entry, succeeded, in a manner it is needless
to dwell upon, in very seriously and
almost fatally frightening Honoria. Not
further to dwell upon this very unpleasant
incident — Meta, after her cousin's
recovery, returned to pry into the chest,
and carried off many articles to store
away in private receptacles — among
others, this paper” — Colonel Brand
drew from his breast a folded document,
yellow with age—“which, in some manner,
became mixed up with the articles
of her wardrobe when they were placed
in a trunk to be brought to Williamsburg.
Of the character of the paper,
the poor child knew nothing, and it was
only discovered by accident yesterday,
when she at once declared whence it had
come, Of the authenticity of the paper
there can be no doubt. You may see for
yourselves, gentlemen!”
With marks of great agitation, the
speaker unfolded the paper.
“See—the last will and testament of
Henry Seaton, of Rivanna, in the county
of Albemarle, Esq.—written, I am informed
by Lady Brand, in his own handwriting,
signed, sealed, and attested by
two witnesses, both dead, I am further
informed, a number of years since, but
whose writing could doubtless be identified.
That is, however, of no importance,
as the paper is in Colonel Seaton's handwriting.
You will perceive the date—
several months later than that of the will
under which Lady Brand holds the estate.
You will see, at a glance, that
Colonel Seaton devises his entire landed
estate to the elder of his nieces—the
mother of the gentleman here present,
Mr. Edmund Innis.”
Colonel Brand, with a trembling hand,
laid the paper on the table.
“You will now understand, my lord,”
he added, with an effort, “what I meant
in saying that I and my family are beggared.”
XXXVIII. THE WILL.
For some moments the silence of
death reigned in the apartment. It was
first broken by Ruthven, who had listened
with profound attention, and now, when
the narrative was finished, inclined his
head with calm courtesy.
“You have related a very singular
history, sir,” he said, “and I have listened
with attention and interest; but
you will pardon me for saying that I do
not see the necessity for my own presence
upon this painful occasion.”
“No necessity, my lord!” replied
Colonel Brand. “Your pardon, in my
turn, but I think it was absolutely incumbent
upon me to request your presence.”
“For what reason, sir?”
“Simply in view of the relation
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which you sustained toward my family,
as the accepted suitor of my daughter.”
“The relation which I sustained,
sir?” said Ruthven. “Did I hear
aright?”
“Yes, my lord,” returned Colonel
Brand, with an obvious struggle to summon
all his fortitude; “to-day that relation
necessarily no longer exists.”
“No longer exists!”
“Assuredly not.”
“May I beg you to explain this extraordinary
observation, sir?” said Ruthven.
“In Heaven's name, why should I
not be still Miss Brand's accepted suitor?”
“Because the engagement of my Lord
Ruthven was to Miss Honoria Brand,
the daughter of Colonel Brand, of Rivanna—
therefore to the heiress of one
of the amplest fortunes in Virginia—”
“Well, well, sir!”
The exclamation was almost impatient.
“That was yesterday. To-day things
are different. Your engagement was to
a young lady of great possessions, not
to a portionless girl. Therefore it terminates.”
“Terminates? Do I hear aright,
sir? Am I, then, a vulgar person without
dignity or sentiments of honor? Did
you really suppose that, in paying my
addresses to Miss Brand, I was actuated
by the desire of gain?”
“No, my lord—but this is a painful
subject; let us not further discuss it.”
“Willingly, sir! The discussion is
very far from agreeable to me. I have
listened to the statement of your family
affairs, sir, and appreciate the compliment
paid me in making me a participant.
That subject is now dismissed,
and I may be permitted to pass to one
more agreeable to myself. No change
will take place, I trust, in the time fixed
upon for my union with Miss Brand.”
“No change!—the time! Impossible—
this union is impossible, my lord!
My daughter yesterday would have
brought you a princely dower: to-day,
she scarce possesses more than the clothing
she wears!”
Ruthven inclined his head. “'Tis
sufficient dowry for Miss Brand,” he
said.
“Impossible, my lord!”
Ruthven became almost irritated.
“In the name of Heaven, sir!” he
said, “what difference is there in the
fact you state?”
“I cannot—!”
Ruthven grew cool and ceremonious
suddenly.
“Colonel Brand,” he said, “you are
incapable of acting otherwise than as a
gentleman, and observing your word.
Well, I insist upon the performance of
your promise—that you keep your
plighted word!”
“How can I?” exclaimed the agitated
father, “the thing is not possible!
I repeat, sir, that we are beggars—beggars!—
and that my child is penniless!
There are some promises which a gentleman
should not be called upon to observe!—
it violates every sentiment of
my bosom to take advantage of your
magnanimity, and yield. Once more,
sir, we have nothing—absolutely nothing!
And it is not, permit me to say, in
accordance with my views of propriety—
with my weakness of pride, if you
choose — to permit a daughter of my
house to leave her father's roof-tree like
the child of a peasant; to go forth,
naked and portionless, to the stranger.”
Honoria and Innis had listened to
this colloquy with an alternate hope
and terror which cruelly agitated them.
Hope, despair, every emotion, tore their
hearts; and now all hung upon the reply
of Ruthven.
It came, and was uttered firmly and
deliberately.
“I have but one response to make to
all you have said, sir: I hold you—rigidly—
to the performance of your solemn
-- 089 -- p505-102
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promise—to your plighted word of
honor.”
The words were slow, measured, and
fell one by one, as it were, from the compressed
lips of the speaker.
“My word of honor!” murmured
Colonel Brand.
“I mean your contract, if you prefer
the word, sir, but `word of honor' is a
stronger charm to conjure by, with persons
of your character. You accepted
me as your daughter's suitor; gave me
your word that she should become Lady
Ruthven. There all discussion ends, for
you are a gentleman, and noblesse oblige.”
Colonel Brand's head sank.
“Well, have it as you will, my
lord,” he said; “you have overcome me
by this appeal to my honor. You demand
the performance of my plighted
word. I yield, and consent to your union
with my daughter.—But, bear witness,
all present, that I resisted this proposal
to the last.”
He turned toward Honoria, looking
at her with deep melancholy.
“Pride! pride!” he muttered, in an
agitated voice; “how despotic is that
sentiment! Would to God I had a portion
for you, my child! my joy, my life,
wellnigh! That you should go forth a
penniless betrothed!—Bear with me, my
lord! I am growing old, and prouder
each day, I think! This is hard—hard!
But all is over; Honoria is your own, my
Lord Ruthven—her hand awaits you—
but where she will thus await you when
you come to claim her, I know not.”
“Miss Brand will await my Lord
Ruthven at Rivanna!”
The words rang out, cold and measured,
in the sudden silence. They were
uttered by Innis, who advanced a step as
he spoke; and now, taking the will of
Colonel Seaton from the table, tore it in
pieces.
“As the representative of my mother,
I am the legal owner of the estate of
Rivanna,” he added. “This paper is
the evidence of my right and title, and
I choose to destroy it. My cousin will
thus have a suitable portion on her marriage,
and will await my Lord Ruthven
in the home of her family.”
The words were uttered in the same
cold and deliberate tone, and Innis turned
toward Lady Brand and Honoria.
“I thank you for your goodness to
me, aunt, and thank Heaven too, that I
am able to make you this small and poor
return for all your love and tenderness;
for you have been like my own dear
mother. But do not overvalue my act.
For myself, I ask nothing; I care not
for this property. I shall leave Virginia,
and, as this is our last meeting, farewell.
May God bless and keep you—and Honoria!”
He turned toward the girl as he
spoke, and his pale lips moved as though
he wished to say something to her. But
no words were heard. The agony of his
soul had rendered the young man speechless,
and he turned away and left the
apartment.
The actors in this singular scene remained
silent and motionless.
Upon the floor at Colonel Brand's
feet, lay the fragments of the will which
had fallen from the hands of Innis at the
moment when he tore the document to
pieces.
XXXIX. RUTHVEN'S OATH.
On the night succeeding these events,
Lord Ruthven sat up until nearly daylight,
writing. He was plainly not engaged
upon an ordinary letter; the thin
and nervous hand moved with painful
deliberation over the paper; and the expression
of Ruthven's face was that of
a man who has bid farewell to his last
hope on earth.
This man was evidently the victim
of some secret misery which blotted out
all sunshine from his existence; his face
was as pale as death, his lips like ashes;
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[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
and from time to time he glanced over
his shoulder with wild and startled eyes,
as though he feared the presence of some
terrible intruder.
At last he threw down the pen. He
had not written rapidly; rather slowly,
painfully, with obvious effort and repugnance;
and the sheets which he had covered
with writing were not numerous.
He reflected for an instant; raised and
read over the sheets one by one; then
folded them securely, sealed them, impressing
his signet-ring deeply into the
wax, and deposited the package in his
breast.
Ruthven then uttered a deep sigh,
and, rising, looked around him. Fergus
was seated in a corner of the great fireplace,
nodding over the dying embers;
for nothing could induce the old clansman,
with his rigid views of respect and
propriety, to retire to his own pallet until
he had assisted his master in his toilet.
Ruthven had quite forgotten his
presence now; but, as he rose, Fergus
stood up, and, in respectful silence, prepared
to wait upon his lord.
Ruthven motioned him to resume his
seat, and said in a low voice:
“I have written it down, Fergus.”
“Written what, my lord?” was the
calm reply.
“The whole truth—”
Fergus gazed intently at his master.
“The truth?” he said.
“Yes!”
“The whole?”
“Yes!”
Fergus inclined his head, but said
nothing.
“Things may take the course that
the devil would have them take,” said
Ruthven, gloomily, “I know not—Fate
drags us. But I do not wish to be regarded
as a monster of blood. Hence all
is here written—that all may be known.”
“It is well, my lord.”
“I had it again last night, as you
know,” said Ruthven, in a low tone.
“I supposed as much.”
“You had the right.”
“Naturally, my lord; inasmuch as
your lordship sprang from your bed at
midnight, caught up your sword, and
when I grappled with you, and took
steps that you should not harm yourself,
your lordship made an attempt to
put an end to me.”
Ruthven groaned.
“O Fergus! Fergus! how and when
will this end?” he exclaimed. “Pardon
your poor, miserable master, my
old friend! Better, far better that I were
insane, a diseased lunatic, than the
wretched being that I am, sane as I may
be!”
Fergus did not reply.
“Some day I shall kill you, Fergus—
you, the most faithful of my blood, for
you are of the very blood of Ruthven,
Fergus!”
The old man's face was lit up with
pride and happiness, as he listened to
these words, and, when he spoke, his
voice showed that he was greatly moved.
“Your lordship is very good, and
makes your old clansman happy! They
do say that my great-great-grandfather
was fifth cousin on the mother's side, to
your lordship's ancestor. But, doubtless'
tis folly for the clansman to compare
himself with his lord—let us think of
other matters.”
“I can scarce think, to-night, my
head is in a whirl, Fergus. I go on a
dark and bloody path, whose end I know
not.”
“Why not stop, then?”
“I cannot—I cannot!”
Fergus replied with the eternal movement
of his head, that said: “I am the
clansman, you my chief—I obey.”
“You say to me `Stop,' but to stop is
impossible now, even had I the power
over my own will! The betrothal has
taken place in regular form; the word
of Ruthven is pledged, and cannot be
recalled—and more, more—if more bind-
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
ing reason could exist—you know what
I would say; I love this girl! love her
with all the power of my being, and—
will dare the worst!”
“So be it, my lord,” said Fergus,
coolly raking the brands together; “it
is unfortunate but fatal, you say.”
“Yes, fatal, awful!”
A long silence followed these words.
Ruthven broke it by a groan.
“Oh, no, no!” he exclaimed. “I
cannot, I will not believe it! I will not
be ensnared so horribly, even though the
devil set the trap!”
“He is a good hand at snares and
traps, this same devil, my lord.”
“Speak not of it—!”
“I obey your lordship—'tis well your
order came in time.”
“You were about to say—”
“Your lordship bids me be silent.”
“Speak!”
“I would say that you have been
duly warned.”
“Yes, yes!”
“You have seen both the man and
the woman; things are advancing as they
were doomed to advance; your lordship
has told me all—”
“No, not all! I have not told you
what I saw last night!” said Ruthven, in
a horror-struck whisper, which thrilled
through the old clansman.
“Last night?” he said, fixing his
eyes upon his master. “What was
that?”
“I saw the actual spot—the
whole—
nothing was left out!”
Fergus became slightly pale, but said,
in a cool voice:
“And yet, after this, you do not give
up the affair?”
Fergus nodded only, and this indifference
seemed almost to enrage his master.
“Your coldness drives me mad nearly!”
he cried through his set teeth;
“you do not understand, then, that I am
on the brink of an awful precipice!”
And, as though he had not intended
to utter these particular words — as
though they had forced themselves from
his lips without an act of the will, Lord
Ruthven started, shuddered convulsively,
and turned so pale that he seemed
about to faint.
“My lord,” said Fergus, “I have but
one reply to make to all this; but, as I
have already frequently made that reply,
I shall not trouble you with it again.”
“Speak! speak!”
“Well, I say again, my lord, `Give up
this affair, and let us go back to Scotland.”'
“I cannot!”
“An answer which your lordship has
before made; so be it. I see no advantage
in further discussion at this hour of
the night.”
“A last word, Fergus—listen.”
“I listen, my lord.”
Lord Ruthven's feverish excitement
all at once disappeared, and he now said,
with a strange pathos and earnestness:
“Fergus, my faithful friend, and foster-brother,
you at least must not misapprehend
me, and execrate my memory.
Listen, then. Despite the Evil One and
all his spirits, I will steel myself against
temptation, and rather plunge that poniard
yonder into my heart than become
the tool of Satan! I cannot draw back
now and return to Europe; my honor
and my love both draw me on; but I
would here, upon the threshold, without
a tremor of the nerve, put an end to my
own existence, if I thought I should
yield in this frightful drama. Death—a
thousand deaths first! I swear I will
crush this fate!—I have resolved, Fergus,
even to resort to self-destruction first!
Living or dying thus, my faithful Fergus
must love, not curse, my memory!”
Ruthven held out his hand to Fergus,
who bent over it and pressed it to his
trembling lips. As the lips touched it,
the young nobleman felt a hot tear fall
upon his hand.
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“In life and death I am your clansman—
it is you who are the chief!”
And, as he uttered these low words,
the old man's heart melted, and he
sobbed aloud.
XL. THE HEART OF A CHILD.
There has survived the tempest of
these events which we are recording, a
little MS. volume in which Meta, the orphan,
wrote down her whole life. Many
pages of this book are painful; many
full of a strange pathos. It is a record
of the child's inner life, of her struggles,
pangs, happinesses, and unhappinesses,
naive, eloquent, moving—but sacred for
its very candor and unreserve.
From this record the following leaf
is taken, as necessary to the comprehension
of our history, which deals less with
Meta than with others. It was written,
as the reader will perceive, immediately
after her restoration to reason, and clearly
paints her life and feelings at the moment:
“After a long sleep, I seem to have
awakened, as it were—no longer a poor,
insane human creature, but, as mamma
taught me to read in the Holy Book,
`clothed, and in my right mind.'
“I have lived for years, I think, in a
sort of dream-life, like twilight when
the sun has gone down; and the world
around me now seems so strange, and
so sad! Naught surrounds me but unhappiness—
and, O me, he is the unhappiest
of all! Shall I write of him—and
of—myself? I scarce dare place this feeling
upon paper, but why should I not?
It was, and is, only love—the fond, simple
love of a poor child that I felt for
him—Edmund. I write the name, Edmund,
with a throb of the heart; but,'
tis written, and gives me strength to go
on. I loved him very, very much, and
love him as dearly now: but, no longer
to watch him, and scheme to make him
unhappy. Oh, no, no! I would give
my life for him—my poor, worthless life,
which I think will not last long. I think
I could die happy, telling him, `'Tis for
your happiness I die!'
“I must not write down these exclamations,
but remember what has happened,
rather than what I have felt. At
Rivanna, I was very, very vile—I was
nearly the death of my dearly-loved Honoria,
by frightening her so; and I then
acted from a base, wretched jealousy of
her. I was so vile that I could have
killed her to separate her and him!
Now, all is changed. It may be even
that I shall bring him happiness. By
my act, he is no longer a poor, penniless
boy, but the lord of Rivanna.
“This came about so strangely! In
the old chest, where I tried to hide that
night, I found many things which I hid
away, and, among others, a paper which
became mixed with my clothes, and was
so brought to the capital. Before I knew
any thing of this, came that strange
change in my whole life—the removal,
by Dr. Vandyke, my dear, good friend,
of the cause of my insanity. I remember
nothing of that, save a strange, dull
feeling, a sinking, and an awakening, to
find my reason, and my power of hearing
and speaking, all restored. Of my
rapture I cannot speak. It was like entering
a new world, and I recalled but
dimly what had taken place in all those
years, during which I was a poor, unreasoning,
cunning, scheming lunatic.
And it was just at this moment that,
looking in my travelling-trunk one day,
I chanced to discover the paper taken
from the old chest, and remembered
where I had found it. I read it with
wonder, and scarcely understanding it
at first, but soon its great importance
was plain to me. I had heard vague rumors
of another will of Colonel Seaton's,
and, now, here was this will, leaving all
his property to Edmund's mother!
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“I held the paper in my hand, gazing
at it with a fixed look, and thinking.
To think was almost a pain to me, but
gradually I linked one thought to another,
and said to myself: `This paper,
which makes Edmund wealthy, gives him
Honoria. Her father would never consent
to Honoria's marriage with a penniless
youth; but, if the youth be a rich
suitor, the master of Rivanna, he will
consent!' That thought dazzled me,
and made me wretched. Then he and
Honoria would be happy—I should be
wretched! In my hand I held their future
life—it would be I who would give
her to him! I shook, and felt
the evil
spirit tempting me. To burn the paper
would be as easy as to produce it. Why
not burn it?
“I looked at the paper for a little
while, and then fell on my knees, and
prayed for strength to resist temptation;
and got up, and ran to dear aunt, and
cried: `Here it is!—here it is! Take
it—take it!' She looked at me in great
surprise, and wished me to tell her where
I had gotten the paper; but I burst out
crying, and for a long time went on
sobbing, as she clasped me in her dear
arms. Then I told her, and she hurriedly
called Uncle Brand, who came quickly,
and read the paper, turning very pale
as he did so. When he had read it in
silence, and turned it over, and examined
it, he groaned, and said: `This beggars
us; but there is but one thing to be
done. Rivanna is not ours, but his; and
must be surrendered to him.' He then
questioned me, and I told him of the
discovery of the paper, when he knit his
brows, but said no more, and left the
room, carrying the paper with him. A
painful scene followed this. I was led
by aunt one morning into the drawing-room,
and Edmund and Lord Ruthven
soon came, and Uncle Brand spoke of
the will. Edmund tore it in pieces, and
left the room — Lord Ruthven having
claimed, as he said, Uncle Brand's
`plighted word of honor' that he should
marry Cousin Honoria.
“Poor, poor, Honoria! There is no
hope for her or for him—Edmund! Uncle
Brand is not to be moved, and Honoria
and Lord Ruthven will surely be
married. I do not rejoice at it—oh, no—
no! My heart bleeds to think of his
unhappiness—of how much he will suffer.
Why, oh, why do such things happen
in this world? Why should his
heart be broken when he loves Honoria
so—and all that she may marry a lord?
What is a lord? Is he better than a
gentleman? Compare Edmund and Lord
Ruthven, and who shall say that Edmund
is not the better worth loving?
But there is no hope for him. Uncle
Brand would rather die, and have his
daughter made miserable, than break his
`word' when he has once given it. I
heard him say as much, but I do not
think that he understands or believes she
will be unhappy. He has said to aunt,
more than once, in my hearing: `Pshaw!—
this fancy for her cousin is nothing.
Lady Ruthven will soon be consoled;
women are fickle!' Are they? I know
not how it may be with others: but one
poor, weak girl—a girl, not a woman—
would die if she could buy thus the happiness
of one she has loved long, and
dearly, and faithfully!
“I am not well to-day. Exposure in
a thin dress at the great assembly, at the
governor's palace, has given me what
aunt calls `a cold,' and a sharp pang
strikes through my breast at times. I
feel so weak; but all is in God's hands.
He knows what is best for me. My life
is not sunshine that I should cling to it,
and I see little happiness for me in the
future. And, yet, I do not repine. He
can never love me; but I can love him,
and pray for him, and think night and
day of him. Oh, may he be happier,
and forget this misery, and be a good
man, and think sometimes, when I am
gone, of his poor Meta!—”
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Tears had fallen on the page which
held this confession. You might see the
blots. On the next leaf was written:
“We leave Williamsburg to-morrow.
I have told no one, but I think I am going
to be ill—and that I shall not see the
spring flowers. God's will be done! I
have seen him no more. I think he has
left the capital—my poor Edmund!”
XLI. THE RETURN.
When it was announced that “the
Brand beauty” and her almost equally
lovely sister were about to leave the
capital in the height of the fashionable
season, a great sensation took place
among the gallants of that gallant epoch.
Honoria had partially enslaved more
than one “fine gentleman” of the place
and time; and these now uttered piteous
sighs at her intended departure; wrote
verses in her honor; and were incessant
in their attempts to obtain speech of her,
and bid her farewell.
The young lady, however, resolutely
denied herself to all visitors; remained
in her chamber like an invalid, and even
sent her excuses to Lord Ruthven when
he came, the accepted suitor being placed
on the same footing as the rest.
When at last the great chariot rolled
up to the door one bright winter morning,
and Honoria made her appearance,
clad in her travelling-dress, her admirers,
who had received notice of the intended
“flitting,” obtained a last view of her,
and followed her to the very door of the
chariot. All wondered at her pale face,
and the apathetic eyes in which dwelt
a settled sadness. They felt that a portion
of the beauty and splendor of the
capital was leaving it; but this splendor
was evidently under a cloud—the sunshine
was dimmed—and, above all, they
no longer had any hope, having ascertained
Honoria's formal betrothal to
Lord Ruthven, who assisted her into the
chariot. They therefore kissed their
hands, uttered a few gallant speeches,
wished their lady-love a pleasant journey,
and went to court some other dulcinea,
and celebrate her in love-verses in
the poet's corner of the Virginia Gazette.
So Honoria rolled away from Williamsburg,
and out of that splendid society—
forgotten. She did not regret it.
Sinking back in a seat, beside her sister,
and opposite her father and mother,
she covered her face with a scarf, and
was soon lost in the dangerous land of
reverie.
It is needless to say that she was
thinking of one person only, Edmund
Innis. He had left Williamsburg some
time before, without even giving his
friend Phil Cary an opportunity to see
him. For the rest, it is doubtful if Mr.
Philip Cary, riding now beside the coach,
Miss Lou Brand's accepted suitor, had
thoughts for any human being except
the queenly girl with whom, as he gallantly
caracoled at the window, he exchanged
those glances which are the
joy of youth and love, and which we
elders laugh at and regret so.
Beside her sister, who was all happiness,
Honoria was the spirit of sadness.
Her life had suddenly changed on the
day when her father had announced his
will. From that moment she had shrunk
from the brilliant scenes in which she
had shone with a nervous terror and
disgust. All that splendor had grown
dull and dreary; she lived in a sort of
dream; and a strange apathy had seized
upon her, paralyzing all her faculties.
She had but one sentiment now, besides
her settled despair—it was a longing to
be away from noise and bustle and prying
eyes; from the scenes where she
must speak, and reply to what was spoken;
and, burying herself in her quiet
chamber in the silent old walls of Rivanna,
collect, if possible, her weary
thoughts, and summon strength for the
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woful sacrifice which loomed up before
her, like a coming fate.
The old family chariot rolled slowly
on its way toward the mountains, stopping
each night at the house of some
one of the gentry, Colonel Brand's
friends—for, at that time, entertainment
of travellers at the old Virginia country
houses was regarded as a matter of
course—and in due time the lumbering
vehicle, drawn by its stalwart bays, entered
the great gate of Rivanna, and ascended
the hill, upon which stood the
old mansion.
As it passed beneath the great oak-trees,
bare and spectral now, divested of
their leaves, Honoria looked toward that
particular tree, beneath whose wide
boughs she and Innis had plighted their
troth, and a pang, like an acute physical
pain, passed through her heart.
There his lips had pressed her own, and
she had leaned her cheek upon his breast,
her innocent heart throbbing as she felt
his arm encircle her in that long, pure,
lingering embrace. There she had looked
into his frank eyes and read the treasure
of his love; had avowed her own in a
murmur as low and soft as the whisper
of the wind in the leaves—all that scene,
gone now so long into the past, rose up
again before her, and made her wretched.
He had left her!—she was betrothed to
another! The sunshine and music and
singing-birds had gone out of her life—
the great oak was bare and forbidding,
no longer musical with song and laughter;
and the change was a type of that
which had taken place in her own fate.
She turned away her eyes, uttered a sob
which she could not suppress, and soon
afterward was in her chamber, weeping
as though her very heart were breaking.
She had promised herself comfort
and calmness, when once back to her
old home; and now every object, like
the weird oak, reminded her of her past
happiness, and made her wretched. There
was the wide hall where she and Edmund
had so often walked up and down in
happy talk; the drawing-room, where
so many sunny hours had fled away in
his society; her mother's chamber, where
it had been his habit to repair regularly
as soon as he entered the mansion, and
where the great chair by the fireplace
seemed still to retain the impress of his
form: these, and a hundred other parts
of the house, still spoke of him, recalling
him to mind; and Honoria was plunged
into a despair greater than any which
she had yet experienced. She felt now
the full extent of what she had lost; and
when at last she threw herself upon her
bed at night, in a fit of passionate weeping,
she felt that death would be a relief
from her agony.
But the strong hours march, regardless
of joy and woe. Honoria fell from
despair into a sombre apathy. She
scarcely ever left her chamber, and seldom
uttered more than a few commonplace
words in response to what was said
to her.
She seemed to be looking forward
with a sort of terror to the day—but a
few weeks off now—when Lord Ruthven
would appear at Rivanna, and claim
her hand. When that thought came to
her, she shuddered, and felt faint.
XLII. THE SEARCH FOR INNIS.
Rivanna, in the gloomy days of that
winter, was a sad place; and the very
servants went about in silence, treading
warily, as though fearful of arousing
echoes in the dreary mansion.
Colonel Brand remained shut up almost
constantly in his library, and had
few words for anybody. Lady Brand,
subjugated by the imperious will of her
husband—a person whom she had rather
feared than loved from the day of their
marriage—said nothing, uttered no remonstrance,
but seemed to grow sadder
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and older day by day; and Meta, who
spent most of her time upon a couch,
breathing with difficulty, was often surprised
shedding tears.
The only member of the family who
preserved even the semblance of a sad
cheerfulness was Lou Brand, whose
buoyant disposition enabled her to combat
in some slight degree the general
tendency to gloom. Phil Cary was at
Rivanna almost daily—for he was the
formally-acknowledged affiancé of the
young lady; and they talked interminably
of the sad state of things.
One day Lou Brand, after gazing for
some moments into the fire, said:
“Philip, you really must find where
Edmund is, and why we never hear of
or from him.”
“You then wish me to try again?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“You know how unsuccessful I have
been. As soon as I got back from Williamsburg,
I lost no time in going to find
him, knowing that he had ridden already
away from the capital. I rode up the
mountain to his house, and found doors,
windows, shutters, all closed, and not
even a servant. I tried a second time—
knocked—shouted—no one came. Shall
I make a third attempt?”
“Yes; I must know something about
him! Yesterday my poor Honoria asked
me, in a low voice, what had become of
him, and I could tell her nothing.”
Phil Cary sighed deeply.
“I will try once more, then,” he said,
“but would to Heaven this sad tragedy
were over!”
“Would that it were! Rivanna, that
was so cheerful once, is like a tomb.
Meta is hopelessly ill, I fear, and I shall
not be astonished to find her take to her
bed at any instant. O me! what will
become of us!”
And the impulsive and warm-hearted
girl burst into tears. She almost instantly
dried her eyes, however, and said:
“Why not go to-day?”
“To-day? I shall lose so much of
your society. You know I am compelled
to go to Williamsburg on business
to-morrow.”
“The more reason, Philip, to relieve
poor Honoria's mind. Try, for the last
time, to see Edmund; it will make my
poor sister happier to hear of him, and
we can do nothing better in this sad
world than to make somebody happier.”
Phil Cary looked at the speaker with
great tenderness, and exclaimed:
“You are a dear, good girl, Lou!
That anybody should regard you as
careless and unthinking! I will go at
once, and return before evening, if possible.”
And, in ten minutes, the young man
was on horseback, riding in the direction
of the western mountains.
It was a dreary, chilling landscape
through which he passed. On the day
before, a heavy snow had fallen, and the
fields were one great shroud; the mountain
evergreens weighed down with the
masses of snow which had clung to them.
The atmosphere, gray, hazy, and ominous,
indicated another storm; and the
wind, rising and falling fitfully, died
away, in the dense masses of pine, in a
sorrowful moan.
Phil Cary pushed on through the
deep snow, following the narrow road
only by means of the opening in the firs,
for no track was visible; and thus slowly
and with difficulty ascended the
mountain, amid whose gorges the wind,
now grown keener, howled and groaned.
But one living thing had met his gaze—
an immense eagle, which rose, flapping
his enormous wings, from a pine-tree, as
the rider approached, to wing his way
deeper into the solitary fastnesses.
An hour's ride brought the young
man at last in sight of Innis's small
house in a gash of the mountain. No
smoke rose from the chimney; no sign
of habitation was visible. He dismounted,
knocked, received no reply, then he
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shouted; still no reply came; and at
the end of half an hour the young man
remounted his horse, and descended the
mountain by the same path which he
had pursued in ascending. He had uttered
but two words as he turned away
from the deserted house—
“Poor Edmund!”
At Rivanna distressing intelligence
greeted him. Meta had been taken suddenly
ill, and at one time Lady Brand,
who had been hastily summoned, feared
that she would die. When the young
man reached the house, she was better;
but such was Lady Brand's anxiety, that
she requested Phil Cary, whose design
of visiting the capital was known to her,
to beg Dr. Vandyke to come, if possible,
and see the child.
“Nothing stops that very remarkable
man, when he can relieve suffering,” said
Lady Brand. “Beg him to come to me,
Philip—I feel as though his presence
would do good to us all. We are a sad, a
very sad family, Philip!”
And the kind lady hastened to the
side of Meta.
On the next morning Phil Cary set
out for Williamsburg.
Five days afterward, hour for hour
from that evening, Dr. Vandyke got out
of his carriage, and, entering the house,
said:
“Well, how is the child?”
XLIII. DR. VANDYKE'S DIAGNOSIS.
Dr. Vandyke arrived toward nightfall,
and was up with Meta until a late
hour of the night.
On the next morning he requested
that his carriage might be ordered, as it
was necessary that he should return to
Williamsburg.
Colonel Brand, of whom this request
was made, protested with ceremonious
courtesy against this sudden return; but
the eccentric physician responded:
“I have my sick to see to. I must go,
but desire first some conversation with
yourself, sir.”
“Some conversation, sir?” repeated
Colonel Brand.
“In private.”
“Willingly, sir.”
And the colonel led the way to the
library, closing the door behind them.
Dr. Vandyke came to the point with
his habitual directness.
“Do you know that two members of
your household are as good as dying?”
he said.
“Two members! — good Heavens,
sir! You mean—”
“Your daughter Honoria, and the
child Meta.”
Colonel Brand looked inexpressibly
shocked; but, before he could reply, the
physician continued in the same abrupt,
matter-of-fact voice:
“First, to speak of Meta. She
`caught cold,' as fools say, at the governor's
ball, where, after the mad fashion
of young ladies in general, she went in a
gossamer dress, and shoes as thin as
paper—that is to say, her lungs, never
strong, became diseased — the disease
was not crushed in its infancy, as perhaps
might have been done; and the
consequence is, that the projected wedding
of your daughter Honoria promises
to be followed by a funeral.”
“Your intelligence deeply distresses
me!” exclaimed Colonel Brand. “I
had not supposed—”
“That things were so bad, you would
say?”
“I had not, sir.”
“Well, I put you in possession of the
exact state of the case.”
Colonel Brand knit his brows. Suddenly
he turned to the physician.
“But—” he said.
“You mean that Meta is not Miss
Brand?”
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
“You spoke also of Miss Brand, sir—
made, if I understood you aright, a very
surprising statement in regard to her.”
“I did. I said that Honoria Brand
was as good as dying—as bad, I should
have said; for death, whatever fanciful
people say, is bad, very bad—and not
good in any sense.”
“You astound me, sir! Honoria ill?
I was aware that the dissipations of the
capital, extremely late hours, and excitement,
had—”
“Colonel Brand,” said Dr. Vandyke.
“Sir!”
“Do you consider me a fool?”
“A fool? Really, sir, this conversation,
you will permit me to say, is assuming
an unusual—a very unusual character!”
“Because I speak to the point; and
speaking to the point, I grant you, is unusual
in this world of froth and circum-
loculation! I say that you either regard
me as a ninny, or you wish to avoid hearing
what I am going to tell you—since
you know, as well as I know, that Honoria's
condition is due in no measure
whatever to either late hours, dissipation,
or excitement in society.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Colonel Brand,
drawing himself up with some hauteur,
“you are very good to take the trouble
of informing yourself so profoundly upon
the private affairs of my family.”
“I have the right to do so.”
“What right, sir?”
“The right of a man who was once
in love with your wife, and who swore
to her when the last parting came—when
she was about to marry—that if ever she
were in trouble, and I could help her, I
would speak out, caring for nothing, and
be a friend to her!”
The announcement seemed wellnigh
to take away the stately colonel's breath.
He gazed at the now fiery Dr. Vandyke,
who was glaring at him fixedly, with a
mixture of astonishment and hauteur
wonderful to see.
“You know now why I am meddling
in your family affairs,” said the eccentric
physician. “You call it meddling—well,
I reply that meddling is—meddling: and
I am simply affording you information—
laying before you the result of a medical
diagnosis, made last night, of your
daughter's condition. Act as you please—
it is no part of my business to try the
pathetic. I tell you that Honoria Brand
is the victim of what is called, in the
mummery of society, a decline—that is
to say, she is undermined by a slow fever
which is going to kill her; and the
fever is due, neither to dissipation, late
hours, nor excitement, but to the prospect
of marrying Lord Ruthven, when
she loves her cousin, Edmund Innis.”
The words were blurted out with little
ceremony. Dr. Vandyke was, evidently,
either too much in earnest to
care for forms, or aimed, by the very
rudeness of his address, to strike more
heavily, and produce the desired effect.
His words, indeed, seemed to impress
Colonel Brand strangely. He turned red
and then pale, his lip trembled slightly,
and he cleared his throat twice before
replaying.
“Your very—ahem!—extraordinary
communication,” he at length said, with
affected coolness and ceremony, which
his agitation belied, “leaves me at a loss,
sir, how to reply. I am, then, to regard
this communication as due to—”
“My affection for Lady Brand? Yes.
Let that be stated plainly. I was her
suitor—a poor suitor. She married you.
Well, I said nothing; did not make a
fool of myself by falling into a rage. I
said, `A woman chooses her own destiny—
or has it chosen for her—I will be
this one's friend in spite of all;' and I
prove myself her friend by saying to you,
`If you persist in this design of forcing
your daughter into the arms of Ruthven,
he will have a corpse for a bride!”'
Dr. Vandyke rose as he spoke, and
added:
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
“I have said all that I intended to
say, except to communicate a slight circumstance
of which you may be ignorant.”
“Your slight circumstance, if it
please you, sir,” said Colonel Brand,
with sudden ire, “your chivalric espousal
of the interests of my family, leads me
to anticipate newer and more startling
intelligence!”
“Pride—pride!” growled Dr. Vandyke,
sotto voce. “This figure in buckram,
dubbed `colonel,' is a simulacrum
worked by that mainspring! Pull the
string, he jumps to it!”
“You say, sir—”
“That I am a fool to come here, and
give you the result of my diagnosis of
your daughter's condition. I am an intruder—
a meddler! Well, at least, you
know all now. I tell you that Honoria
Brand is sinking day by day under this
terror—that her life is not worth twelve
months' purchase; that she loves one
man with absolute passion, and you think
to force her, without fatal results, into
the embrace of another! Do so, then—
you are master! I am not here to beg
you to do this or to do that. I have no
more to say—yes, one word more, to inform
you of the trifling circumstance to
which allusion was made by me just
now. Your proposed son-in-law, my
Lord Ruthven, is mad.”
“Mad!”
“I use the colloquial term. Insane,
if you prefer the word—I call him mad.”
Colonel Brand seemed utterly astounded.
“And what proof have you to allege
in support of this very astounding—this
most absurd statement, sir?”
“None but the fact—I say he is mad;
and, if you doubt it now, you will ascertain
the fact hereafter. Do not question
me further! I have already said more
than becomes the physician who has attended
a patient. The physician and the
priest are bound to silence. Act as seems
best to you—for myself, I wish you goodday,
sir!”
And Dr. Vandyke abruptly left the
room — he had already taken leave of
everybody—and hastened to his coach,
which he entered, slamming the door.
The vehicle rolled down the hill rapidly,
and passed through the great gate.
“Toward Williamsburg, sir?” said
the driver, drilled to ask those directions
which Dr. Vandyke never gave.
“No!” exclaimed the physician, almost
furiously—“to the mountain!”
And he pointed westward.
The obedient Jehu, without a word,
turned his leaders to the right, and followed
the road which Phil Cary had
pursued in his ride to Innis's dwelling.
No snow had fallen since the youth's
ride, and, save where the wind had obliterated
the tracks, the footprints of his
horse were still visible. But Dr. Vandyke
seemed perfectly familiar with the
route.
The coach ascended the mountain-road,
drawn rapidly by four powerful
horses, which plunged through the deep
snow, snorting and smoking.
“A cheerful landscape!” muttered
Dr. Vandyke, blowing his fingers to keep
them warm. “To live in this elevated
wilderness, and have your sweetheart
about to marry another—ough!” And
the physician knit his brows, and fell
back, shouting to his coachman: “Faster!—
there is the house I am going to!”
The small lodge of Innis was indeed
visible beneath the great pines; and in
fifteen minutes more the coach had
stopped before it.
Dr. Vandyke got out, and waded
through the snow, and knocked.
The door opened as he touched it.
Innis was seen standing on the threshold.
“Welcome, doctor!” he said; “I saw
you coming up the mountain, and was
awaiting you.”
“It is well,” returned Dr. Vandyke,
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looking at the young man from under his
bushy brows. “I had sworn to break
down this door, if kicking would break
it down!”
And he entered.
XLIV. THE LETTER.
Colonel Brand had closed the door
of the library behind Dr. Vandyke, reseated
himself with evident marks of
agitation in his great arm-chair, and was
sunk in troubled thought, when a timid
knock was heard. He said, harshly,
“Come in!” and Lady Brand entered.
She was pale, and trembled slightly,
for Colonel Brand had achieved that
poor triumph of making all around him
afraid of him. His wife was no exception—
she stood in awe of the stiff personage;
but now she had evidently
made up her mind to brave his ire.
“Dr. Vandyke leaves us in displeasure,
I fear,” she said, approaching and
seating herself. “Is it not in consequence
of a conversation in reference to Honoria?”
“Yes, madam!” snapped Colonel
Brand, losing all his hauteur.
“Oh, tell me! Did he not urge you
to break off our poor child's marriage
with Lord Ruthven?”
“Yes, madam!”
“Upon the ground that—that—she
loved Edmund Innis, and shrunk from
Lord Ruthven?”
“Yes, madam!”
These three “Yes, madams!” were
uttered with increasing vehemence.
Colonel Brand had grown fiery, and
looked dangerous.
“Then—oh! then!—'tis your own
poor child, remember—!”
“Stop, madam!” exclaimed Colonel
Brand; “this interview which you are
good enough to inflict upon me at a very
inopportune moment—I say a very in
opportune moment, madam!—has proceeded
sufficiently far! It is unnecessary
to continue it, and, to speak plainly,
I desire you to be silent! I am the master
in this house, for the present at least,
and I will not have my will disputed in
consequence of the underhand schemes—
the meddling interference—of this Dr.
Vandyke—this dwarf, who had the insolence—
yes, the insolence, madam!—
to inform me that—that—he had been,
forsooth, once upon a time, your suitor—
that is to say, my rival!”
The poor lady's head sank, and her
frame trembled.
“There was no wrong done,” she
murmured, a slight color appearing in
the thin cheek. “I was a girl, and Dr.
Vandyke was a young gentleman highly
respected.”
“We will cease to discuss your former
affairs of the heart, if it please you,
madam!”
“Willingly,” said Lady Brand, sadly.
“I designed no allusion whatever to
them. But it is my duty, and I must perform
it, however it may excite your displeasure—
it is my duty as a mother, to
say that I think Honoria is wasting
away, will die, if—”
The faltering voice here quite broke
down.
“Oh, do not insist on this marriage!”
she exclaimed.
Colonel Brand was not as completely
master of himself as he fancied. The
trembling voice shook his stern coldness.
Wheeling round and facing the lady, he
exclaimed:
“You would, then, have me break
my plighted word!”
“You did not know of this terrible
result when you gave your word.”
“This is sophistry, madam!—the jugglery
of reasoning, which smooths over a
breach of faith, because to keep it is not
agreeable or desirable! No, madam! I
have sworn that Honoria shall marry Lord
Ruthven, and I will keep my oath!”
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Lady Brand bowed her head, and
fixed her eyes, red with weeping, upon
the carpet.
“So be it,” she said, in a low voice;
“but if Honoria dies, I shall die too.”
Colonel Brand's features contracted,
but he only replied:
“I must keep faith.”
Lady Brand raised her head and
looked at him.
“Even if he—Lord Ruthven—exhibits
a desire to retire from the affair?”
“`Lord Ruthven retire!' Lord Ruthven
exhibit a desire to—” Your meaning,
madam?”
“I mean that Lord Ruthven treats
our daughter and ourselves with scant
courtesy.”
“You would say—”
“That a month, wellnigh, has passed
since we have heard from him, and he
has not visited Rivanna at all.
Colonel Brand turned pale. He had
required no notice of the fact, but had
avoided all allusion to it.
“Something has prevented him—the
mails are irregular,” he said, knitting
his brows.
“Other letters from the capital arrive
promptly.”
Colonel Brand was silent. He had
not been prepared for this direct discussion
of a circumstance which had secretly
stung him, and had no reply ready.
“I thank Heaven,” said Lady Brand,
“that Lord Ruthven has not visited us,
and am even pleased at his not having
written. O Colonel Brand! Honoria's
apathy is fearful — worse a thousand
times than agitation—than despair!”
The father groaned.
“And all comes from this infatuation
for a boy — a curly pate—this Edmund
Innis!”
“'Twas natural!—he is a generous
and noble boy.”
“You would say that he is generous
to us! But you know well my resolution,
madam! I say this `noble boy'
has produced our household misery, and,
by Heaven! Honoria shall marry Ruthven
if only to teach him a lesson!—
Speak no further of this, madam! I
have sworn, and will keep my oath!
Honoria is promised to Lord Ruthven,
and he shall have her, if I am alive to
give her away! This `apathy' you speak
of is the folly of a child! Once Lady
Ruthven—a countess, madam!—she will
forget all else. Now, no more of this. I
am resolved!”
Lady Brand rose and placed her
handkerchief to her eyes.
As she did so, a servant entered and
handed respectfully to his master the
bag containing the mail. The first letter
he drew forth was one from Lord Ruthven,
which he opened and hastily perused.
“As I supposed, madam,” he said,
“Lord Ruthven has been ill—is so still.
But he expresses an earnest hope that
his recovery will be sufficiently safe to
enable him to claim Honoria's hand upon
the day appointed for the ceremony.
See the letter.”
But Lady Brand made a movement
with her thin hand.
“I do not desire to read it,” she said,
“and I must return to Honoria.”
She left the room as she spoke, uttering
a low sob as she disappeared.
The sob was echoed by a groan from
the proud gentleman, who sank back in
his chair—bent, shrunken, and looking
ten years older than an hour before.
XLV. IN WHICH DR. VANDYKE PROPOSES TO MAKE A NIGHT OF IT.
Dr. Vandyke walked into the small
sitting-room of Innis's mountain lodge,
with the air of a gentleman who feels
perfectly at home; and posting himself
with his back to the fire, his slender legs
wide apart, and his voluminous skirts
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gathered under his arms, looked around
with interest and some curiosity.
The room was small and low-pitched,
but with an ample fireplace, in which a
fire of heavy logs was quietly burning,
the mass supported on old - fashioned
brass andirons, with grotesquely-carved
heads, resembling the ancient masks.
The carpet had once been superb, with
bouquets of flowers in their natural colors,
but was now quite faded, and, where
the legs of the small square table in the
centre of the room rested upon it, was
worn with holes which showed the floor
beneath. The furniture of the room
was very old, but had evidently belonged
to persons of taste and elegance. It
consisted of a large carved sofa of some
dark wood covered with rich cloth, and
an old sideboard with worn silver, some
chairs with elaborately - ornamented
backs and dark cushions, two large arm-chairs
on each side of the fireplace, a
venerable harpsichord, and a tall clock
in one corner, reaching from the floor to
the ceiling, with a great white face, black
hands, and colored representations of the
sun, moon, and stars, above the face. On
the walls, yellow with age, were a number
of engravings representing the battle
of Blenheim, and other scenes in the
wars of Marlborough, wherein the
roughly - engraved figures of wooden-looking
human beings lay about, and
automata-like horses pranced in the cavalry-charge;
and on each side of the
mantel-piece, which was very tall and
supported a few books, was a comic engraving
by Hogarth, the one representing
a cock-fight, and the other the idle
apprentice playing upon a tombstone.
There were but two portraits in the room—
those of Innis's father and mother.
These faced each other on the eastern
and western walls, and represented, the
first a gentleman of distinguished bearing,
his smiling face half covered by a flowing
peruke; the other a lady of great beauty
and very high-spirited appearance—the
frames of dark oak, the canvas dingy.
In one corner, a fowling-piece leaned,
supporting a bird-bag of netted twine;
and near this a small bookcase stood
against the wall, half filled with odd
volumes in brown leather, of histories,
poems, romances, and treatises on English
law.
Dr. Vandyke took in these details of
the apartment with a comprehensive
glance; drew a huge watch from his
fob, and consulted it, glancing as he did
so through the window at the sun, which
was already declining; and, abruptly
turning to Innis, said:
“I have come to dine with you, and
perhaps to spend the night.”
“Thanks, doctor,” said Innis, who
was pale, and spoke in a dull, apathetic
voice. “I am fortunate enough to be
able to entertain you, and to provide for
your horses too. My old servant will
see that the horses and driver want
nothing.”
The young man went as he spoke into
an adjoining room, through the door
of which Dr. Vandyke saw a neat bed;
and, coming back in a few moments, said:
“All will be attended to, doctor—
there is old Ned showing the way to the
stables; and now, welcome again to my
poor home. I had not expected to see
you in so remote a spot.”
“That's natural, and I am not quite
sure of my own identity; but I believe
the individual who has the honor to address
you is Dr. Julius Vandyke.”
“You were at Rivanna, no doubt,
and took the fancy—”
“Stop all that roundabout talk, my
young friend,” said the doctor, abruptly;
“let us throw ceremony to the dogs, and
come to business. You are breaking
your heart about Honoria Brand—come,
deny it, if you can!”
An expression of great wretchedness
came to the young man's face.
“Who am I, to presume to look up to
Miss Brand?” he said, bitterly.
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“You are a man—and a gentleman,
too, if there is any difference! I say
you are making yourself unhappy about
a girl, and I have come here to have a
little talk with you on that subject.”
Innis shook his head gloomily.
“What good will come of it?” he
said. “Let the ashes cover it — you
know the warning of the Latin poet:
`Do not disturb the ashes that conceal
the hidden fire.”'
“I know a little Latin, but I choose
to think and resolve for myself. I mean
to talk about this affair—to talk to my
heart's content! But I propose to dine
first, as I perceive the odor of that meal,
and welcome it.”
The door opened as Dr. Vandyke
spoke, and an old family servant with
gray hair, and a profoundly deferential
bearing, made his appearance, and proceeded
to set the table. He then disappeared,
but soon served dinner, which
was plain but appetizing. As the host
and his guest sat down, a knock was
heard at the outer door; the doctor's
driver appeared with a leather-covered
case, and this case the doctor at once
opened, producing a brace of heavy,
square bottles, through whose transparent
sides a ruby-colored liquid was seen
to agitate itself, as the bottles were deposited
on the table.
“Always travel with my liquor-case,”
said the doctor. “Rum—and superb!”
He pushed the square bottle to Innis,
who poured out some, but scarcely
touched the glass with his lips.
“Come! drink—eat!” cried Dr. Vandyke,
with his mouth full of ham.
“I have no appetite to-day, doctor,”
was the reply.
“And had none yesterday, I'd be
willing to swear. Such is the effect of
this abominable love-business.”
The doctor continued to growl
throughout the repast, in which Innis
rather affected to join than took any
real part; and in due time the cloth was
removed, and host and guest drew their
chairs to the fire.
“This is comfortable,” said Dr. Vandyke,
leaning forward and rubbing his
knees, with a glance through the window
at the sun, about to disappear behind
the mountain. “Snow a foot deep
without, but a good fire within of bickory-logs
that warms one through and
through! Hear the wind, how it howls!
Faith! I'll brew a bowl of punch to
crown the victory over Boreas, and we'll
make a night of it!”
As he spoke, the doctor rose and
pounced upon a great bowl of porcelain
on the sideboard; at the same moment
the old major-domo appeared with a
japanned waiter containing a silver coffee-pot,
and some small cups of exquisitely
thin china, richly colored.
“Coffee!” cried the doctor; “how
now, thou Sybarite! But if coffee—then
hot water! Some hot water, my aged
friend; I see before me the sugar!”
With profound deference the old servant
brought in hot water; the doctor
proceeded to brew the punch, which he
subsequently dealt out with a silver
ladle; and, having informed his host that
he preferred firelight to candles, the eccentric
guest resumed his arm-chair before
the fire, rubbed his legs with an air
of enjoyment, and said:
“I beg to offer a toast! To our
common and highly-esteemed friend the
most excellent lady, who once came
near espousing the amiable Julius Vandyke!”
With these words, the amiable Julius
Vandyke raised his ponderous feet,
placed them upon the cross-piece of his
chair, elevated thus his knees very nearly
to the level of his eyes, and, leaning
his head back, swallowed his glass of
punch at one gulp. Innis had never lost
his apathetic expression. He now said:
“The lady you were near espousing
once, doctor?”
“Lady Brand.”
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“Ah! You were once an admirer
of my aunt?”
“At least I asked her to marry me,
in this very room.”
“In this room?”
“Hold! She was sitting yonder. The
sun was setting, and the shadow of the
crooked pine-tree there was thrown
upon the face of the old clock. It was
half-past six in the evening, I remember.”
Innis looked at the eccentric being
before him, who was now clasping his
arms around his drawn-up knees.
“You surprise me, doctor,” he said.
“I did know—”
“That this house was familiar to me?
Perfectly; and, as we have plenty of
time to-night, suppose I tell you a little
of what the poets would call the `romance
of my existence?”'
Innis inclined his head; and, refilling
his glass with a bacchanalian air, Dr.
Vandyke said:
XLVI. THE ROMANCE OF DR. VANDYKE.
“I am, correctly speaking, not Dr.
Vandyke, but the Baron Julius von
Dyke, a German by birth, and belonging
to a family whose representatives held
important commands in the armies of
the Emperor Charles V. As I am a
person, however, of democratical opinions,
I do not value the von in my name
a farthing, and will sell you my patent
of baron for sixpence. I will not enlarge
upon the former importance of my
family, which, in time, grew poorer—
then poorer—then landless. Whereupon
the baron, my father, went to London;
was induced to emigrate to Virginia;
brought me, his only son, with him; and
died, leaving me at twenty-five possessed
of a small, a very small, estate, but, what
was better, an education as a physician,
the result of study at Göttingen.
“Well, when my father died, I
found
myself quite alone, and did not much
relish the lonely life of a country physician
in Charles City, where my small
estate lay; so I disposed of the land, removed
to Williamsburg, and announced
that I was ready to administer pills and
draughts to the inhabitants of that thriving
capital.
“My success was not encouraging.
The children ran behind their mother's
dresses when I made my appearance;
and once or twice it was intimated to me
that, in certain cases connected with one
branch of the leech's art, my personal
appearance was calculated to produce unfortunate
results. In fact, my young
friend, I was hideously ugly—as ugly as I
am at this moment, or very nearly—and,
in consequence thereof, there was nothing
in the world that I admired so much
as personal beauty. This became, at last,
almost a mania with me, and I would
place myself at the window of my poor
lodgings on Gloucester Street—a small
room on the second floor of a small
house—that which you one day entered
with me—and, from this elevated perch,
I would watch the passers-by on the
street, riveting my eyes, with a passionate,
craving admiration on the beautiful
forms moving to and fro before me.
Not a white, bending neck, seen beneath
a blue scarf, not a slender foot with
arched instep in its high-heeled shoe, or
graceful figure, undulating as it moved
on, but filled me with delight and admiration.
And—not with that material
sentiment which you might imagine—
all was etherealized for me; beauty was
poetry, and I enjoyed this beauty as a
painter enjoys the beauty of a summer
day, when white clouds float against a
blue sky, over emerald fields and forests!”
Dr. Vandyke stopped, to utter a short,
grating laugh.
“Poetical, you see, my young friend.
Try the punch! No? Well, to go on
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with my romantic narrative: My greatest
misfortune was to have inherited a
mirror which afforded me a full-length
view of my own exquisite proportions.
This mirror was fixed against the wall
between the windows of my lodging,
and I had only to turn my head to see
my own image. I did turn my head often,
and chiefly after following with my
eyes some handsome young cavalier on
his prancing steed—some radiant young
Apollo, with gracefully-fashioned figure,
slender, erect, and elegant, straight
limbs, rounded where they pressed
against the saddle, attractive features,
chestnut curls—some young Adonis, in
a word, compared with whom I was a
satyr of waste places—a monster. For,
what did I behold in that fatal mirror?
A being scarcely human. A thing, let
us say, about four feet and a half in
height, splay-footed, thin-legged, with
enormous chest, the arms of a windmill,
a head like a pumpkin, sunken eyes, wide
mouth, no neck—a fearful, frightful lusus
naturœ, sent into the world to appall
children, and make the dogs bark—ha!
ha!
“Well, things went on thus for years,
when one day I made the acquaintance
of two young ladies on a visit to the
capital: one was afterward your mother,
the other your aunt. It was your
aunt I fell in love with, and this came
about in an accidental manner—if there
be any accidents in the world. Colonel
Seaton, the uncle of the young ladies,
was addicted to high living, and, one
day, on returning from a grand dinner,
he was taken with an indigestion, which
was near putting an end to him. The
most prominent physician in the capital
was sent for in great haste, but was
absent. The consequence was, that I
was called in to attend Colonel Seaton,
and succeeded in relieving him so expeditiously
that he conceived a high opinion
of my abilities, and invited me to visit
at his house as a friend. This offer I
gladly accepted; and, as Colonel Seaton
had known my father, the baron, I soon
became a familiar friend of the family,
and—fell in love with your aunt, Lady
Brand.”
Dr. Vandyke stopped suddenly, and
plunging his hand into the capacious
pocket of his great-coat, which he persisted
in keeping on, drew forth a huge
pipe and a handful of tobacco.
“It is an extraordinary evidence of
absent-mindedness in me to have forgotten
my pipe,” he said. “Is the world
coming to an end? Come, sweetest solace,
come!”
And, grinning amiably, the doctor
filled the great bowl, picked up a coal
with the tongs, lit his pipe, and began
to puff out clouds of snowy smoke.
“You won't smoke? No? Well, to
continue my interesting narrative: Where
did I stop? Oh, at the commencement
of my charming little romance — what
I call, elegantly, `the romance of Dr.
Vandyke' — my love - affair with the
young beauty from the mountains—from
Rivanna, in a word.”
And the doctor darted a keen glance
at Innis, who remained cold and apathetic.
“'Twas an absolute passion I conceived
for the young lady,” said the doctor,
smoking away in the most nonchalant
manner, “and, after all, my young
friend, there is nothing so strong as what
is called love. Nothing hurts, for a short
time, like disappointment therein! I
will not enlarge upon the charming details
of my affair, but will state what
may appear to you, since it so appears to
me, an astounding circumstance — the
fact that the lady of my affections was
not wholly unkind nor cold to her admirer,
the present narrator. Ellen—you
call her Aunt Ellen now, but she was
then a blooming beauty, too youthful
for auntship—was touched, it seems, by
the devotion of the poor physician who
evidently adored her. She blushed when
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
Splay-foot entered: actually faltered in
her address when she spoke to Bleareyes:
and, one day, the presumptuous
Wide-mouth said, `I love you!' — at
which she no more shrunk than she
would have shrunk from an Adonis!
Can you believe that? I remember without
believing it! And at that moment I
tasted the first moment of real happiness
I had tasted in the world! Then the
poor, deformed dwarf was a human being
after all!—the monster was not so
hideous and repulsive as he had dreamed!—
after all, he was a man, belonged to
mankind, was not an ape, a wild-man of
the woods, an object of disgust or horror.
When I took her hand in my own
she did not shudder or grow sick!—then
she had seen that behind this mask was
a heart and a brain—felt that the brain
thought, and the heart throbbed; and her
own heart melted—was nearly my own,
I think!”
Dr. Vandyke terminated this sentence
with a grin, and, smoking with great
gusto, said:
“I am growing a little tired of this
part of my subject, but nothing is so seductive
as this analytical exposition of
human nature under peculiar phases.
You see, my dear friend, I am proceeding
exactly as I proceed when a subject—
a dead body, that is—is lying on a table
before me, and I have the scalpel in
my hand. I dissect a heart as I dissect a
body. Well, what is the lesson that is
sought to be demonstrated in the present
lecture, my youthful friends—friend, that
is? Why, that a deformed dwarf has
actually a heart, feelings, passions, and
that a woman can understand as much,
and see the man through the hideous
mask! To proceed. The romance is
nearly ended. An interruption took
place on that eventful morning, and the
ladies left Williamsburg almost immediately.
I did not see them again for some
years. Then your mother had married
your father—they came to this house to
live—and, visiting Williamsburg
once,
Mrs. Innis invited me to come and see
them, as an old friend, in their mountainhome.
I did so, for my old romance remained
untouched—and here I found
your aunt. Shall I continue? I offered
her my hand in this apartment. She
did not reply either `Yes' or `No;' I was
forced to return to the capital—and a
year afterward she was Lady Brand.
All that came about in the most natural
way. Colonel Seaton brought the young
lady to Williamsburg. She there met
Colonel Brand. Her uncle, her friends,
everybody, said, `Marry him,' and she
finally did so, caring for him, as I happen
to know, not a fig! I saw that at a
glance; and what did I do, my friend?
I said to her: `If you should ever require
the aid of a true friend, send for
me, and I will come to you, either by
day or by night;' and then I went back
to my duties, and forgot all about my
romance, and don't care a farthing now
for her beyond mere friendship, nor regret
that she married my rival!
“There's your pretty little romance,
my boy!” said the doctor, laughing;
“love, nay, passion! — disappointment,
anguish, indifference, oblivion! That's
the course of things in this curious world.
You break your heart about a woman
to-day, and in half a year you have forgotten
her! Every thing changes, my
son—nothing remains the same! Do you
think that time, that wears away the very
Pyramids, don't wear away human grief?
The grief is the easier of the two, I assure
you! Eternal despair!—nonsense!
A year is not an eternity! Come! let
us cease this philosophic strain! Drink
me this glass of punch—'tis imperial!
Vive la joie! and let dull care
begone!”
The doctor imbibed a huge mouthful
of punch; refilled his glass; mounted
with great agility into his chair, from
which he stepped to the table, and, raising
his arm until it nearly touched the
ceiling, cried:
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“A health to Oblivion—the last, best
friend of humanity!”
At an hour past midnight, Dr. Vandyke
was shown to bed by his host; and
anybody who had looked at him would
have seen upon his countenance an expression
of unmistakable disappointment.
In reply to his narrative, Innis had
only said, with the same dull, apathetic
look:
“I said when you came, doctor, that
I regarded you as one of my best friends—
well, your history has more than ever
convinced me of the fact. You relate
your own disappointment, to impress
upon me the moral that grief wears
away, and indifference comes. So be it.
I trust 'twill come! But I shall none the
less leave this house and Virginia, in two
days from this time, never to return.
My house is sold, my valise is already
packed—it is my great good fortune, as
I turn my back forever on Virginia, to
have heard your friendly voice, doctor.
Good-night!”
On the next morning, Dr. Vandyke
returned to Williamsburg.
XLVII. HALLUCINATION.
A week after these events, Lord
Ruthven was seated in an arm-chair, in
his lodgings at Williamsburg, wrapped
in his dressing-gown of figured silk. In
a chair opposite sat Dr. Vandyke, whose
eyes were fixed upon his patient.
Ruthven was fearfully thin and pale.
His frame seemed to have dwindled
away; and his eyes had that dreamy,
wandering expression which indicates
the want of physical energy under the
hand of disease.
“So you think I shall recover now,
doctor?” he said, in a low voice.
“Unless you have a relapse, which,
to be frank with you, is apt to prove
fatal,” was the reply.
Ruthven inclined his head.
“I like frankness, doctor. I have
had a dangerous attack, have I not?”
“Very dangerous.”
“You have not yet given me your
opinion of my case—I should say, have
not explained its nature, and I should be
glad to know now the character of the
disease which has just assailed me.”
“Do you wish the scientific or the
familiar definition; that is to say, jargon
or intelligible statement?”
“The familiar definition, doctor.—
What has been the cause of my illness?”
“Nervous prostration.”
Ruthven nodded.
“Your view coincides with my own.
And to what was this prostration of the
nervous system due; to physical or to
mental causes?”
“Do you wish a plain statement of
your case? I hate beating round the
bush,” said Dr. Vandyke, in his vibrating
and metallic voice.
“A plain statement, by all means,
sir.”
“Listen, then, my Lord Ruthven.
Men of your organization and habits
never undergo nervous prostration from
physical causes. Drunkards, roués, and
others, have attacks of that description.
You are neither a drunkard nor a roué;
thus the cause of disease is to be sought
elsewhere; and I may as well inform
you that I have not had long to seek.
You have been ill, very ill, in consequence
of mental excitement, which, reacting,
as every thing does, on the body,
has brought the physical system in sympathy
with the mental condition—that
is, made you ill. Beyond this, I see no
necessity to go.”
“And yet you have gone further?”
The eyes of the two men met.
“Yes,” said Dr. Vandyke, coolly.
“You have discovered the source of
my mental excitement.”
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[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“You wish me to speak plainly?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Well, I employ the scientific term
now. You have been the victim of hallucination.”
“The plainer term for which is—?”
Ruthven looked with sudden intensity
at the physician.
“Second sight,” said Dr. Vandyke.
Ruthven uttered a low groan, and
closed his eyes as though he were about
to faint.
“Your—meaning?” he murmured.
“I mean nothing—a mere jest,” said
Dr. Vandyke; “here, a few drops of this
cordial?”
“No, doctor,” said Ruthven, sitting
erect in his chair, and speaking in a firm
voice. “I do not need it, and am stronger,
I think, than you suppose. You
would turn the conversation, I see, but
do not fear—the topic does not agitate
me.”
He remained lost in thought for some
moments; then he said:
“I was not aware that you had
turned your attention to a subject which
few thinkers regard as worthy of their
serious attention. Then you believe—in
the superstition, as the world calls it, of—
second sight?”
He uttered the last words only after
a moment's hesitation, and with evident
repugnance.
Dr. Vandyke looked fixedly at him,
and said:
“Believe in is a phrase which means
much or little. If you tell me that you
have seen a ghost and felt the breath of
the grave issue from the phantom, I believe
in the ghost—as far as it concerns
yourself.”
“Well, well,” was Ruthven's impatient
exclamation, “but that is no reply.
I ask if you believe that—”
“Human beings in the island of Skye
and in parts of Scotland fall into trances,
and see the future? Yes—I believe
that
they believe it.”
“Then you do not believe it?” Lord
Ruthven murmured.
“I believe in science, and science defines
hallucination as plainly as it defines
any other, the most rational operation
of the human brain.”
“We drop logic and fence with
words, sir,” said Ruthven, impatiently.
“You plainly have no faith in this—
second sight,” again he paused before
the words; “but suppose I were to tell
you that I know persons—in my own
family—who possess the fearful gift?”
“Yourself, that is to say,” said Dr.
Vandyke. “I know very well that
second sight is hereditary, or people
think so, ut ante—otherwise I should
not have said, `Your nervous prostration
is due to this cause.' Am I
wrong?”
“You have divined rightly.”
The words were uttered in an almost
sepulchral whisper.
“Yes,” continued Lord Ruthven,
gloomily, “my family has for two hundred
years been the victim of this frightful
faculty. They have seen, in vision,
the events that are to come—the faces,
the figures, the scenes, have all passed
before them. And the scenes of my future
have passed before me!”
“My lord!” said Dr. Vandyke.
“Sir!”
“You will have the goodness, if you
please, to stop this sort of talk. I consented
to discuss with you this scientific
question, but had no design to bring on
a second attack of nervous illness. In
an evil moment I uttered the words,
`hallucination' and `second sight.' I
am sorry I did so, and it was a waste of
time, too, for I now inform you frankly
that your `second-sight' business is all
flummery—moonshine.”
“You think so?” came in a low voice
from Ruthven's pale lips. “Well, so be
it, sir.”
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“I know it! All froth and devil's
deception! Let the thought alone! It
will madden you! Buy a fiddle, and
drink rum, and go and dance a dozen
reels—there's your philosophic proceeding—
and let these chimeras rest in congenial
darkness.”
Lord Ruthven bowed with calm courtesy,
and said, coolly:
“I thank you for your advice, doctor,
and acknowledge that it is sound. And
now let us have done with this rather
melancholy subject, which I had no design
to discuss, and was betrayed into,
before becoming aware of the fact.
What is my condition — when shall I
recover?”
“Speedily, if you have no relapse.”
“I shall be able to—travel, say—in
my coach—in a week?”
“No.”
“In two weeks?”
“Possibly.”
“Thanks, sir. That will serve my
purpose.”
“If you take my advice,” growled
Dr. Vandyke, “you will put off this
travelling for a month.”
“That is impracticable, doctor, for
reasons it is needless to detail.”
“Right — I know them. You are
going to Rivanna to marry Honoria
Brand.”
“Yes, doctor—I see that you are acquainted
with my private affairs.”
“Perfectly; and, perhaps, I know
some circumstances unknown to yourself.”
“Unknown?”
“Do you know that Honoria Brand
loves her cousin, Edmund Innis?”
A cloud passed across Ruthven's
brow, and his eyes grew cold and
haughty.
“I knew at least that Mr. Innis did
the future Countess of Ruthven the honor
to bestow his affections upon her.”
“And this mutual attachment—for it
is mutual—is no obstacle in your eyes?”
“An obstacle? No! A cause of displeasure?
Yes!”
“Why, then—”
“Persist in the offer of my hand, sir?
For the very simple reason that marriage
is not silly romance. This is better understood
in Europe than in Virginia, sir!
Do you fancy that in Europe young ladies
neglect to enjoy their private romance?
Everywhere they do so; but
they form alliances, sir, upon solider
foundations!”
Dr. Vandyke listened to these words
in gloomy silence.
“Well,” he muttered, “'tis no affair
of mine; I have done all I could, and
this one is like the other at Rivanna.”
Having solaced himself with this
growl, Dr. Vandyke rose.
“If she can't stand up, that will end
it!” he added, in the same tone.
He turned to Lord Ruthven.
“You are doing well now, and need
me no further,” he said. “Good-day,
sir.”
Before Lord Ruthven could reply he
had left the room.
XLVIII. WHAT OCCURRED AT THE WEDDINGDINNER.
The morning of the day fixed on for
Honoria's marriage came at last. All
night the snow had been falling—the
fields, forests, and mountains, were enveloped
in a white shroud—and now,
when the storm had ceased, a freezing
wind had succeeded, howling around
the gables and in the spectral trees, and
driving the light snow before it in blinding
gusts.
Despite, however, the forbidding nature
of the weather, the wedding-guests
began to arrive at an early hour, curious
to witness the ceremony of the wedding
of a young lady of the quiet country
neighborhood with a real nobleman.
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The invitations had been almost universal—
no one with the slightest pretensions
to good society having been omitted;
but there had been a species of
distinction made by the proud Colonel
Brand. While a countless number were
invited, as we now say, to “the ceremony,”
which was to take place at night,
invitations to dinner had been confined
to a select few of the most prominent
personages of the vicinity. These now
arrived; but unfortunately, as the reader
will perceive, there mingled with them
some others, who, liberally regarding an
invitation as an invitation, made their
appearance in the forenoon, bent on
dinner.
Colonel Brand received every guest,
however, with the formal politeness habitual
with him; and general conversation
ensued in the great drawing-room, where
the motley throng warmed their chilled
limbs before the mighty fire of roaring
hickory. As yet, the ladies had not
made their appearance, and the company
separated itself into groups instinctively—
the grand old nabobs, in powdered
wigs, silk stockings, and ruffles, conversing,
ore rotundo, with stately dignity, to
themselves; the plainer planters, with
waistcoats buttoned to their chins, and
hair tied in plain knots behind, meanwhile
exchanging in a coterie, some feet
distant, observations on the approaching
ceremony.
As the forenoon passed on, guests
continued to gather, and at last a movement
of all heads in the direction of the
window indicated the arrival of a personage
of importance.
This personage proved to be Lord
Ruthven. He descended, wrapped in
heavy furs, from his chariot, whose four
horses were smoking and covered with
foam, from the rapidity of the arduous
journey through the snow, and entered
the mansion, on the threshold of which
Colonel Brand was ready to receive him.
“Welcome to Rivanna, my lord!”
said the colonel, with stately dignity,
and bowing low, as, with outstretched
hand, he greeted the bridegroom. “I
had hoped for your earlier arrival, but
the roads are, no doubt, most difficult.”
Lord Ruthven bowed low in turn, uttered
a few words in response to his
host's greeting, and was ushered into the
drawing-room where the assembled company
was presented to him, one after
another. He replied, in every instance,
by a simple bow, and seemed entirely
unaware of the fact that he was the centre
of all eyes. All were struck with
his pallor, and the settled gloom of his
expression; and it was afterward remembered
that, as he entered the room, he
had looked around him in a most singular
manner, growing paler than before. Another
unusual circumstance also attracted
attention. When, after the general introduction,
some one spoke to him, he
would suddenly rouse himself with a
start from his species of reverie, gaze
with a fearful expression at the speaker,
and, even while replying in a few brief
and constrained words, would glance
over his right shoulder in a very unaccountable
manner, as though he suspected
the presence of some danger, against
which it was necessary for him to be
upon his guard.
It was impossible that these very unusual
circumstances, in connection with
Lord Ruthven's appearance and demeanor,
should not excite surprise, and occasion
subsequent comment, on the part of
the guests; but his lordship was quickly
shown to his chamber, whither the silent
and attentive Fergus had seen his travelling-trunks
borne, and the door of the
drawing-room closed abruptly, erecting
an impassable barrier between the pale
nobleman and the curious company.
Nearly two hours then passed, when
the door opened, and Lord Ruthven
was again ushered in by the stately
Colonel Brand. He had changed his
travelling-dress, and had donned a dark
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costume of the richest and most elegant
description. It was impossible not to be
struck by his air of high breeding and
distinction; but, as before, it was the
singular face of the young nobleman
which riveted all eyes. He was, if possible,
paler than ever, and entered the
room in sepulchral silence—a walking
shadow. During the few moments which
followed his entry he did not utter a
word, but stood like a statue amid the
crowd of guests, who unconsciously drew
back.
The appearance of the ladies afforded
a welcome diversion. Lady Brand, accompanied
by her daughters and her
lady-guests, entered, and greeted her
visitors. But she attracted attention for
an instant only. All eyes were fixed
upon Honoria, who was as pale as Lord
Ruthven, and who resembled, in her
white dress and with her whiter cheeks,
a ghost, rather than a human being.
Lord Ruthven had advanced quickly
and bowed low, with stately courtesy,
over the hands which Lady Brand and
the young ladies held out. Honoria's
was extended toward him in an abrupt
and convulsive manner, and he found it
as cold as ice. For an instant their eyes
met—the sunken eyes of the girl wore a
strange expression—but she preserved
her self-possession, seemed unconscious
of the scrutiny to which she was subjected,
and seemed to regard with apathetic
indifference the whole scene around
her.
Everybody felt relieved when the
door opened, and the old, gray-haired
major-domo, Robin, with a silver waiter
under his arm, looked respectfully toward
Colonel Brand, thus announcing that
dinner was served.
Lord Ruthven offered his arm to Lady
Brand, who stood near him; the company
entered the great dining-room,
blazing with lights in silver candelabra—
for night was near—and took their
seats at the broad board whose rich blue
china and old plate sparkled in the flood
of light.
The grand dinner went on its way in
a stiff and stately manner, little relieved
by conversation. Honoria sustained the
glances of all without change in her apathetic
expression, and sent away course
after course nearly untasted. The only
indication of her feelings was her frightful
pallor; and this became at times so
unnatural that Lady Brand was, more
than once, upon the point of rising, and
leading her from the room, under the
apprehension that she was about to faint.
Nothing, for some time, however, occurred
to mar the festivity—if such it
could be called. On the contrary, the
stiffness of the scene gradually gave way
before the rich wines; the awe felt for
the ceremonious Colonel Brand, by a
portion of the company, melted, and
the dinner promised to terminate more
cheerfully and cordially than it had commenced.
But the fates were adverse. The
heady wines had done their work. Ceremony
was lost sight of by some of the
honest old fellows who had construed
their general invitation to the wedding,
into an invitation to the wedding and
dinner; and two of these old neighbors
now began to discuss the approaching
ceremony.
The conversation of these worthy
country gentlemen, now warmed by the
colonel's canary, was not precise or formal,
as will be seen; and a portion of it
will account for what followed.
“Strange enough,” said one of them
to his old neighbor. “And beats the
story-books all hollow, eh?”
“All hollow,” replied his friend.
“It was honorable in our friend
Brand, though, to record it in the court
of probate,” continued the first speaker.
“If what they say is true, young Innis
tore up the will, and swore he wouldn't
take the property.”
“Did he do that?”
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“I'm told so, and it's like his father's
son; his father was as honest a gentleman
as ever hunted a fox.”
“A gentleman before he was born!
So Ned Innis tore up the will?”
“Yes, neighbor, and they say it was
all on account of the boy's love for little
Miss Honoria; and if so, I say it's a thousand
pities he can't get her instead of
this `my lord,' who looks like a block of
ice, with a handful of snow for a face!”
“Ha! ha! That's good, neighbor!
A block of ice, ha! ha! A good thing!
Yes, it's a thousand pities!”
“And I'm told—hold your ear close,
neighbor.”
“Yes—”
And the other drew nearer.
“I'm told the little lady loves him
better—a thousand times better—than
her fine lord and master to be.”
“Loves Ned Innis?”
“Yes.”
“That's a pity—a sad pity, neighbor.
Loves the boy, did you say?”
“Better than she loves herself. I
drink your health, neighbor.”
“Your good health! So this match
is hard on her.”
“Look at her; you can see that it is
killing her!”
“So it is—hum! hum!”
“Such cheeks! Was any thing ever
as white?”
“As white as a sheet.”
“Look! I think she's going to faint.
There is Lady Brand getting up to take
her out of the room!”
“Yes—no! She is down again. A
sad business, neighbor—a sad business.”
And, overcome by grief, the worthy
gentleman poured out a large glass of
canary, passing the decanter to his neighbor,
who imitated him. In the half an
hour which followed, this ceremony was
repeated several times, and the worthies
began to talk thick.
“And this will you told me of—
where did they find it?”
“In a desk where Colonel Seaton
kept his private papers.”
“You are wrong there, sir,” suddenly
exclaimed a red-faced worthy next to
the speaker. He had evidently partaken
in large quantities of the canary, and
spoke fiercely. “You are wrong! The
will was found in a chest of drawers—
not a desk.”
“You are wrong, sir! 'Twas a
desk!” was the retort of the first
speaker.
“I am not wrong, sir!” exclaimed
the other, with drunken severity, “and I
am not in the habit of stating what I
don't know—do you hear, sir? If you
doubt my word, sir, I'll soon show you
whether I'm talking sense!”
And, raising his voice to a pitch
which drowned the conversation of the
rest of the company, the red-faced speaker
called out:
“Colonel Brand!”
The words rang out clearly, and instantly
attracted everybody's eyes toward
him who uttered them. The colonel,
who was at the moment uttering a ceremonious
compliment to a dowager seated
on his left, suddenly turned his head,
and frowned slightly.
“Colonel Brand! I say, Colonel
Brand!” came again from the impatient
worthy.
“Did you address me, sir?” said the
host, with crushing dignity.
“Yes, sir! I did. My word has
been doubted, and I call on you to say
if I know what I'm talking about or
not!”
Colonel Brand scowled at the rudeness
of the speaker.
“Being ignorant of the subject of
your conversation, sir,” he said, “I am
naturally unable to afford you the information
which you are good enough to
demand so loudly of me, sir!”
But the colonel's interlocutor was
beyond the point where hauteur makes
any impression. The worthy only
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[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
comprehended that Colonel Brand meant to
ask information, and cried:
“I said that old Colonel Seaton's
will—his last will in favor of young Innis's
mother—was found in a chest of
drawers, and not in a desk. This statement,”
added the worthy with drunken
dignity, “has been doubted!—and I call
on you to say if I know what I'm talking
about!”
Colonel Brand felt the blood rush to
his face, and an angry shot from his
eyes. He controlled his rising wrath,
however, and replied with intense hau-
teur:
“I should prefer not discussing my
private affairs at the dinner-table, sir!”
“Well, that's just as you choose!”
was the reply of the red-faced guest,
whose wrath rose to meet that of his
host. “You can talk or not talk, just as
you like, but I say that the will was
found in a chest of drawers; and, moreover,
that young Innis was a fool to tear
it up, and let you have his property!”
“Sir!” gasped the colonel, flushing
crimson and glaring at the speaker, “are
you aware that you are in a gentleman's
house!—at my table!—in the presence
of ladies!”
“I know where I am!” growled the
worthy, “and that—”
“This is a vulgar intrusion, sir!—I—
I—!”
The colonel gasped for breath; but
his ire flew off harmless from the canary-heated
guest.
“Vulgar, am I?—an intruder, am I?”
exclaimed that worthy; “and only because
I say what everybody is saying!
I'm not to be frowned down, Colonel
Brand, if you are marrying your daughter
to a lord, who's no better, in my
opinion, than any other man!”
“Will you—have the goodness—!”
Colonel Brand began thus, and we
are sorry to say, ended with a violent
oath, which produced no effect, however,
on his valorous opponent.
“Don't be swearing at me!”
was
the wrathful response. “I'm not your
slave, sir! If you only knew it, everybody
has his opinion of your marrying
your daughter against her will to this
foreigner, when she loves young Innis—
he loves her too, and gives up his whole
property to the man who's come to take
away his sweetheart!”
A low cry followed the words, and
Lady Brand caught Honoria in her arms.
The girl had fainted, and was borne
from the apartment in the midst of a
scene of the utmost agitation and confusion.
Above this scene towered the
wrathful form of Colonel Brand; and it
is impossible to say what might have
occurred, had not his drunken opponent
been borne almost forcibly from the
room, and soon afterward to his home.
For some moments the colonel stood
silent, flushed with rage, and drawing
long breaths. He was evidently struggling
against his rage, and succeeded in
controlling himself. But the attention
of all was more particularly directed to
Lord Ruthven. His expression was full
of the deadliest menace, and he resembled
a tiger about to spring. Those who
had looked at him during the utterance
of the vulgar insults of the drunken
guest, said afterward that his hand had
silently glided to his side where the Highland
dirk is generally suspended, and
that his glaring eyes betrayed a positive
thirst for the offender's blood.
Colonel Brand's voice all at once made
itself heard in the turmoil. In stern and
gloomy tones, he said:
“I pray those who have done me the
honor to assemble at my board, to forget,
if possible, this offensive intrusion
of this vulgar person. Such accidents
must occur, when persons unfamiliar
with the commonest rules of good-breeding,
are invited to mingle in the society
of gentlemen. I disdain to reply to this
man's insults; and Mr. Innis—my young
friend and kinsman, now undisputed
-- 114 -- p505-127
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
owner of the lands of Rivanna—would be
the first to express his disgust at this vulgar
insolence!”
The colonel resumed his seat, and the
dinner went on its way, but the festivity
was all hushed. The meal ended in ominous
silence, and the company rose and
returned to the drawing-room.
At the same moment the great hall-door
was thrown open. A newly-arrived
personage, wrapped in a huge cloak,
stamped to cleanse the snow from his feet—
and this personage, coming into the
circle of light, revealed the squat and
powerful figure, the long, gray hair, and
piercing eyes of Dr. Vandyke.
XLIX. THE CONTENTS OF RUTHVEN'S TRUNKS.
As Lord Ruthven passed Dr. Vandyke,
on his way to the drawing-room,
their eyes met, and the young nobleman,
going close to him, said, in a low voice,
quite inaudible to the rest of the company:
“I wish to have a few moments' private
conversation with you, doctor.”
Dr. Vandyke's piercing glance seemed
to aim at penetrating the design of the
speaker: but Ruthven remained calm
and impressive.
“When?” said Dr. Vandyke.
“In half an hour.”
“Where?”
“In my chamber.”
The physician nodded.
“I will come thither; but will first
go see Lady Brand and the child, Meta.
I came for that.”
With these words, Dr. Vandyke bestowed
a comprehensive nod upon the
company, who gazed at his singular figure
with some astonishment, and proceeded,
without ceremony, toward the
wing of the mansion, in which Meta's
chamber was situated.
Colonel Brand, who had greeted the
doctor with a stately bow, looked after
him, and now said:
“Our friend Dr. Vandyke is a somewhat
singular personage, my lord.”
“But a most estimable person,” returned
Ruthven.
“Assuredly; and I owe him my personal
thanks for coming through such
weather to see Meta.”
“She is better, I trust, sir?”
“We hope so.”
“'Tis a pleasing augury, on an occasion
of this description,” said Ruthven;
“and now, with your permission, sir, I
will retire to my chamber for a short
space.”
Colonel Brand bowed.
“I will conduct you, my lord.”
“'Tis unnecessary. Let me not take
you from your guests.”
And, with a gesture of courteous refusal,
Lord Ruthven went up the great
staircase toward his chamber.
As he entered he saw Fergus standing
with his back toward him, gazing
upon a portrait upon the wall between
two of the lofty windows. The apartment
was elegantly furnished with what
is now called an “ashes-of-roses” carpet,
a centre-table of carved oak, easychairs,
a couch, an immense bed, and in
the fireplace burned a cheerful fire.
For the moment, Fergus seemed quite
unaware of all these surroundings. His
eyes were fixed upon the portrait with
absorbing attention; and, looking in the
same direction, Lord Ruthven betrayed
much astonishment. The portrait was
an exact likeness of himself, and this fact
evidently astounded the old body-servant.
Ruthven speedily remembered,
however, that Colonel Brand had informed
him of the existence of this portrait
of the elder Lord Ruthven—which
had been hung in this apartment after
its removal from Honoria's chamber—
and he wondered that he had not noticed
it on his first entrance.
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[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
“That is a striking likeness, Fergus,”
he said.
The old body-servant suddenly turned
round.
“Is it a picture of the late lord or of
your lordship?”
“Of the late lord, who was Colonel
Brand's friend.”
Fergus nodded.
“'Twould do for either, my lord, and
is surprising.”
Ruthven stood for some time, gazing
at the painting.
“The sight of this picture takes me
back to Ruthven Castle, when I was a
child, Fergus,” he said; “and that seems
a long time ago.”
“A very long time, my lord.”
“And who would then have dreamed
that Fate would conduct me to this remote
spot in the Virginia mountains;
that my errand here would be to find a
Lady Ruthven; and that, at the very
moment when the ceremony is about to
take place, I should see my father, as it
were, looking at me with his sad, stern
eyes; for the eyes are very sad, Fergus—
full of melancholy, I think!”
The words were uttered in a sorrowful
voice, and Lord Ruthven's head drooped.
“Strange destiny,” he murmured;
“and who can foretell his fate? Singular
current of events! That portrait
was painted when the original was a
strong and stalwart man — I a rosycheeked
child. He is long dead now—
and I am no longer a happy child, but a
very sorrowful man, Fergus — sorrowful,
but not bad, Fergus! I think there
is even much good in me, old friend.
My — visions — have not disturbed me
now for weeks—a strange softness and
kindness seem to have come to me!
Shall I be happy, then? Has my evil
genius fled, to make way for the beneficent
spirit of love and happiness?”
“Heaven grant it, my lord!” said
Fergus, with earnest feeling.
“Perchance 'tis you who are my good
genius, Fergus,” said Ruthven, with
a
glance of affection. “You are devoted
to me, I know, as few clansmen are to
their chieftains.”
“Devoted, my lord?” said the old
man, with a flush in his aged cheeks;
“that is scarcely the word. You are
more to me than I am to myself! Your
happiness and honor are no less, nay,
more, my care than your own! I would
guard them, as the watch-dog guards his
charge on the hills; and, 'tis not much
to say that I would die for you!”
Fergus turned away to hide the emotion,
of which he seemed to be somewhat
ashamed, and busied himself in taking
from Lord Ruthven's trunks the various
articles of his wardrobe. Among these
were two or three dress-swords—at that
time a portion of the full toilet of a gentleman—
and these he laid upon the table.
Next came a number of articles of
dress, and then a curiously-fashioned
Highland dirk.
At sight of this weapon, Ruthven approached,
and said, gently:
“Replace that dangerous-looking affair,
Fergus; 'tis out of place on so happy
an occasion. Why was it brought?”
“From habit, my lord. We Highlanders,
you know, carry the dirk, as the
Sassenach wears his rapier. 'Tis from
custom; and this came with the other
things.”
“So be it; but hide it away—'twould
fright some of the servants.”
“I will obey you, my lord.”
And Fergus replaced the grim-looking
weapon in the trunk, where it lay,
concealed beneath an embroidered coat
and the ruffled linen of its owner.
“Your lordship will not change your
dress?” said Fergus, when this ceremony
had been performed.
“No, Fergus; I am, I believe, properly
attired.”
At this same moment a knock came
at the door.
“Come in,” said Ruthven.
-- 116 -- p505-129
L. META AND HER PHYSICIAN.
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
Meta was lying on a small couch beside
the fire, in her little apartment in
one of the wings; and Lady Brand, who
had succeeded in soothing Honoria's agitation,
and had intrusted her to the care
of her bridesmaids, had come for a few
moments to see Meta before the ceremony.
The child was very thin and
white, and her black hair, lying in profuse
curls upon the snowy pillow, framed
the sweet countenance, lit up by a tender
smile.
Lady Brand was engaged in conversasation
with Meta, sighing deeply from
time to time, as she thought of Honoria,
when steps were heard approaching.
The door suddenly opened, and a hearty
voice cried:
“Well, my little snow-drop, how are
we to-day?”
With the words, Dr. Vandyke clattered
into the apartment, shook hands
vigorously with Lady Brand, and then
went to Meta.
“Oh, I am very glad to see you, doctor,”
said the child, with a bright smile.
“Do you know there is something about
you—I don't know what, but I think it
is sunshine!”
This seemed to highly please Dr. Vandyke.
“Hear her!” he exclaimed. “And
this is your boasted invalid—your pining
sick girl!”
“I am not pining, doctor!”
“I should think not! Pining? Ha,
ha! You are radiant, inspiring, sunbeam
like—positively jolly!” exclaimed
the doctor, in search of a word.
“Then I am better?”
“You are getting well so fast that it
is a perfect farce for me to be coming all
the way from Williamsburg, through the
snow, to look after you. But I knew'
twas unnecessary. I came to the wedding.”
Meta looked a little sad at this, and
sighed.
“Yes, Cousin Honoria is to be married,”
she said, pensively; “and mamma
tells me everybody in the neighborhood
is here.”
Dr. Vandyke's preternaturally acute
ear caught the sigh, and his penetrating
intelligence comprehended it.
“Edmund Innis is the only one absent,”
he said; “but that is easily ac-
counted for: he's left the country, for a
time.”
“Left the country, doctor?”
“Yes; some time since. You see,
my dear, he had a sort of weakness for
Mam'selle Honoria, and was unwilling to
be present on this joyous occasion. At
first he was unhappy about the affair,
and would see nobody — not even his
friend Phil Cary. When he perceived
the approach up the mountain-road of
that young man, he shut up doors and
windows, retired to his inner den, and
would not open. I went to see him,
however, and he did me the honor to receive
me.”
“And—?” began Meta, eagerly.
“We talked about the matter—discussed
it in every form; and I found my
young friend quite resigned. The affair
was unlucky, he said, but such things
would occasionally occur. He had loved
Honoria—but that was over now. He
could still love her as her brother.”
Meta closed her eyes, murmuring to
herself:
“And I have changed too. I love
him only as a sister might.”
“What did you say, my dear?”
“Nothing, doctor. I am so glad that—
Edmund — is resigned, and does not
grieve.”
“Grieve? I think not! Why, my
dear little one, only conceive that we
spent a jolly night together. I give you
my word of honor, we made a bowl of
punch, and, as well as I remember—the
punch was rather strong—we, or I, at
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[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
least, chanted a bacchanalian song—ha!
ha!”
What Dr. Vandyke stated “on his
word of honor” was always the truth—
omitting that phrase, he considered himself,
on certain occasions, and for certain
purposes, justifiable, we are sorry to say,
in telling lies.
“The song sung on this occasion was,
I believe, `The Jolly Miller,”' he continued.
“You have not heard it? It
commences thus—”
And, in a powerful voice, gesticulating
as he sung, Dr. Vandyke chanted:
“`There was a jolly miller,
And a jolly wight was he”'—
At which point he suddenly stopped, exclaiming:
“But the fine company will be startled
by my mellifluous strains! Let us
respect the rules of good society, my
friends.”
And, looking sidewise at Meta, Dr.
Vandyke saw that she was ready to
laugh.
“Good!” he muttered; “who says
there's no advantage in playing the buffoon?”
And, in his careless, hearty voice, he
said aloud:
“In fact, my dear, we made a night
of it, and I came near inducing our
young friend Innis to be present at the
wedding, take things philosophically,
and not go on his travels. He determined,
nevertheless, to adhere to his
original intention not to come, and to
make a brief tour, at least, with a view
of coming back home when he had
quieted down. So he went—won't be
here — and now let us talk of other
things. You are fast recovering, my
dear. I am going to feel your pulse,
and put my ear on your chest, just for
the form of the thing.”
Dr. Vandyke then enclosed the thin
wrist of Meta in his immense hand, the
index-finger touching the vein. At the
same moment he bent down and placed
his ear upon the child's breast.
“Pulse, excellent; breathing, all that
could be wished,” he said. “Only keep
up your spirits, my little snow-bird, and
you'll soon be well.”
Meta smiled. The intelligence in
reference to Innis had inexpressibly relieved
her, and now the good news of
her condition further cheered her.
“You are very changeable in your
comparisons, doctor,” she said; “you
make me out at one moment a snow-
drop, and then a snow-bird.”
“And are you not both? say, little
Miss White-face, with your little chirping
voice.”
“You must be trying to make me
laugh, doctor.”
“To make you laugh? Not a bit—
I am telling you the truth. You are
getting well.”
Meta's face was lit up by a tender,
happy light.
“I am very, very glad, doctor,” she
said, gently. “I am not afraid to die,
for God is kind and good, and I do not
fear Him—I love Him, and think He
would receive me, a poor little child.
But I would like to live—to be with
mamma, and all I love so—now.”
Dr. Vandyke's face slightly flushed.
“Right,” he said, no longer able to
preserve his jocular air, and gazing, as
he spoke, at the child with great tenderness.
He then looked at his watch, and
turned to Lady Brand, who had just
risen.
“I must retire and change my dress
now, madam. Will you show me my
chamber?”
“At once, doctor.”
And, assuring Meta that she would
send her her old nurse, who generally
remained in the chamber, Lady Brand
went out with the doctor, closing the
door. When they were thus alone, the
lady said:
“You do not think as favorably of
-- 118 -- p505-131
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the poor child's condition as you seem to
do, doctor?”
“No,” said Dr. Vandyke.
“Why, then—”
“Tell her lies? Because, if she lives,'
twill smooth the way; if she dies, 'twill
do no harm. I make it a point to tell
lies in my profession, madam. There is
no change for the worse, that is all.”
Lady Brand sighed.
“And what you said of Edmund?”
“Was a lie also,” returned Dr. Vandyke,
with candor. “He is wretched
enough. I tried to cheer him and console
him, but could do nothing; and can
only say, I think nothing unfortunate
will happen, which I feared.”
“Heaven grant it! Whither did he
go, doctor?”
“I do not know.”
“This sad, sad business!”
“Very sad, madam; but life is a sad
affair, however you take it. Now, time
is passing, and I have an appointment
with Lord Ruthven, who wishes to see
me, he says, for a few moments. Which
is his chamber?”
“The second door on the right after
ascending the main staircase. You will
scarcely have time, doctor. Honoria's
toilet is made, and the ceremony will
soon take place.”
“There will be time, doubtless.”
With which words Dr. Vandyke
gained the hall, mounted the great staircase,
which wound up to the area above,
and knocked at Lord Ruthven's door just
at the moment when Fergus had replaced
the Highland dirk in the trunk, and asked
his master if any change was necessary
in his dress.
LI. THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN LORD RUTHVEN AND DR. VANDYKE.
At the words “Come in!” Dr. Vandyke
turned the knob of the door and
entered. In the few moments which
had elapsed since the end of the interview
with Meta, the eccentric physician's
impression had undergone an entire
change. In the child's chamber he had
laughed, jested, nearly played the clown—
now he was cold, stern, collected, with
the air of a man who does not particularly
relish the society of the person
with whom he is about to converse, and
has made up his mind to be surprised at
nothing.
As Dr. Vandyke advanced into the
apartment, Lord Ruthven bowed with
calm courtesy, and said:
“Welcome, doctor; I thank you for
your punctuality.”
He then turned to Fergus.
“Leave us to ourselves, Fergus, closing
the door carefully. Remain there
without, and see that no one approaches
the door. I wish to converse for a few
moments with Dr. Vandyke.”
Fergus silently left the apartment,
closing the door after him. Lord Ruthven's
next proceeding was singular. He
raised a window and looked out upon a
species of balcony, apparently to ascertain
if any one were there; closed the
window, went and sounded the walls,
carefully locked the door, and then returned
to the fireplace, near which Dr.
Vandyke was standing.
“We are entirely alone, doctor,” he
said, “and may converse upon matters
the most secret without danger of being
overheard.”
Dr. Vandyke looked intently at Ruthven,
but simply nodded.
“This interview is, no doubt, a mystery
to you—I mean its object?” con-
tinued Lord Ruthven.
“Humph!—perhaps—perhaps not.”
“We shall see—but you have visited
Meta. She is better, I trust?”
“No better.”
“Worse?”
“No worse.”
“But not agitated—suffering?”
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“Not at all.”
“Will she live, or die?”
Lord Ruthven seemed unable or unwilling
to come to the real subject of the
interview.
“Will she live, or die?” repeated Dr.
Vandyke. “To answer that question I
should require to be a divinity—and I
am a worm! What matters it? What
is life or death? This child will see the
spring-flowers at Rivanna—or in heaven!'
Tis the same.”
A dreamy glance of the eyes accompanied
the words. The metallic voice
was suddenly modulated, and sounded
like music.
“You seem moved, doctor,” said Lord
Ruthven.
“Moved?”
“Your voice grows soft—I scarcely
recognize it.”
“Well, that is the sequel of talking
with a sick girl. I am nearly seventy,
without illusions—my heart is hard—
well, the patience and sweetness of this
child have melted me. But, to business!”
Lord Ruthven bowed.
“True, doctor—and time presses. I
have not requested you to inform me of
Miss Brand's condition; she fainted in
consequence of a very disgusting scene
at dinner, but has, I am assured, recovered
now, and is preparing for the approaching
ceremony.”
“Yes.”
Ruthven was silent for a moment;
then he looked fixedly at the doctor, and
said:
“'Tis of the ceremony—my marriage—
that I desire to speak with you.”
“I know it.”
Ruthven was again silent. The glance
fixed upon Dr. Vandyke grew more intense.
“We are losing time, doctor,” he
said, with sudden gloom.
“Well, come to the point!”
“I will do so. You think me—insane!”
“Is that a question?”
“Reply to the words as though they
were, doctor.”
“To be frank, then—I do.”
“And yet, you are absolutely mistaken.”
Dr. Vandyke smiled grimly, but said
nothing. This silence and the expression
of the physician's countenance apparently
irritated Lord Ruthven.
“You would say—if you said any
thing, sir,” he exclaimed—“that madmen
never believe themselves mad,
would you not? Well, that is perfectly
just, and I do not ask you to take my
own denial. What I do ask of you is, an
attentive perusal of this paper.”
And, taking from his breast a folded
document, Ruthven extended it toward
Dr. Vandyke.
“'Tis a strange testimony, and on a
strange subject,” said Ruthven, relapsing
into gloom, “as you will perceive, sir. I,
too, was disposed to entertain, at one
time, the same conviction you entertain—
regarded myself as of unsound mind—
and took steps to determine the question.
I visited Paris, Rome, Berlin, and the
chief cities of Europe, where, frankly,
fully, without reservation, my case, to
use the medical term, was laid before the
first physicians. These gentlemen subjected
me to the severest examination—
prosecuted the investigation without
ceremony—and there is the result.”
Ruthven pointed, as he spoke, to the
paper, upon which were a few lines of
writing in five different languages, signed
by five of the first physicians of Europe.
Of these languages, Dr. Vandyke was
familiar with four — French, German,
Italian, and Latin; and a perusal of the
paper placed the fact beyond doubt that
the man whom he regarded as a mad-
man was considered perfectly sane by
five of the most celebrated doctors of the
Old World.
The fact staggered him.
“I see that you still doubt,” said
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Ruthven; “and, after all, doctor, authority,
however great it may be, is still
inconclusive, since the human mind is
liable to error. Use, then, your own
judgment. Madmen have a strange glitter
of the eye—my eyes, I believe, are
calm. Their expression is wild, roving—
do you perceive aught of wildness in
mine? They talk incoherently—do I?
I reason, remember, love, and hate nor-
mally, and can be charged, I think, at
worst, with being the victim of an absurd
superstition. Can you tell me what
human being is not irrational or superstitious
upon some point?”
Dr. Vandyke was more and more
staggered. Lord Ruthven saw the advantage
which he had gained, and resumed
with ardor the strange conversation.
“I speak to one who will understand
me, and weigh my words in the scales of
reason,” he said. “You and I, doctor,
are not children, or shallow gossips talking
neighborhood news. I would descend
with you, if possible, into the
depths of this profound subject, and endeavor
to reach some just and rational
conclusion. Is that rational?”
And a sad smile came to the speaker's
lips.
“Yes; go on,” said Dr. Vandyke.
“Well, to sum up in a few words.
You hold in your hand evidence of the
fact that the first savants of Europe regard
me as a person of sound mind;
neither in my eyes, my talk, nor my acts,
do you perceive traces of aberration of
mind, which, I need not tell so distinguished
a physician as yourself, signifies
divergence, either in diminution or excess,
from the normal condition. What
remains is this simple superstition of—
let us speak plainly—second-sight; that
is to say, the conviction that the future
is revealed to certain persons in dreams.
That is all—is it not?”
“All,” said Dr. Vandyke.
“Then I triumph! For, demand of
your reading, your study, your observation,
whether the world is not full of
`vulgar errors'—if you choose to call
this such. Is the peasant insane who
believes that the hare running across his
path brings bad fortune? Is the sailor
insane who believes that Friday is an ill
day for the commencement of his voyage?
Is the Irish squire insane who believes
that the banshee cries when Death
is about to visit his household? All be-
lieve—are they necessarily insane
therefore?
Absurd, irrational, credulous, you
may call them; but are they really in-
sane?”
“That's good sense, I grant you,”
said Dr. Vandyke; “and your superstition—”
“Was, doubtless, instilled into me by
some old Highland crone, who believed
in every thing and nothing. The child's
mind is wax—doubtless, my own took
the imprint.”
Dr. Vandyke knit his brows.
“And you yourself, then, consider all
this second-sight business folly and moonshine?”
he said.
Ruthven's brows were knit in turn;
and, with a strange, gloomy look, he
said:
“I know not! How ask a human
being, the victim of superstition, if he is
superstitious? I reason, simply—'tis for
you to judge. And one of the elements
of your decision must be the rational or
irrational character of my reasoning.”
“Judging thus, you are sane,” said
Dr. Vandyke. “No pride of opinion
shall prevent me from saying that. But—
these stubborn buts!—tell me something
more important.”
“Speak, doctor.”
“This second-sight—what is it?”
“The future seen in vision,” replied
Ruthven, in a low tone.
“Seen clearly?”
“Clearly!”
“Recalled clearly when you awake?”
“With absolute distinctness.”
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“All—faces, places?”
“All!” said Ruthven, in a still lower
voice.
Dr. Vandyke nodded.
“Now, but one thing remains,” he
said—“to tell me what your vision, as
you style it, has been in connection
with—”
He paused, looking at Ruthven, who
was as pale as death.
“Speak out,” the latter whispered.
“In connection with Honoria Brand
and Edmund Innis!” said Dr. Vandyke.
Lord Ruthven breathed heavily, and
made no reply. Fully five minutes
elapsed before he could speak. Then he
said, in an almost inaudible tone:
“'Twas to tell you that, or to let you
read something I have written, that I
asked this interview.”
“To read something?”
“This!”
And Ruthven drew from his breast
the paper which he had written on that
night at Williamsburg. Dr. Vandyke extended
his hand to take it—his eyes
blazing with curiosity — but Ruthven
drew back.
“A moment!” he said. “Before
proceeding further, or intrusting this
paper to you, I must exact a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That you will take no steps to obstruct
my marriage!”
“To obstruct your marriage?”
“You may otherwise fancy that 'tis—
desirable—to do so.”
Dr. Vandyke looked gloomily at the
speaker, whose cheeks had filled with
blood.
“And if I refuse to give this promise?”
“Your perusal of this paper will be
impossible!”
“I will give no promise!”
“So be it.”
And Lord Ruthven restored the paper
to his breast.
“Stop!” said Dr. Vandyke, for his
master - weakness, curiosity, overcame
him. “What is it that you exact as a
condition precedent to my reading your
statement?”
“That you shall take no steps whatever,
in consequence of having come
into possession of my secret.”
“What steps do you speak of?”
“Any steps!”
“I am to remain silent, inactive—
whatever I may read?”
“Yes!”
“Impossible!”
Lord Ruthven inclined his head.
“As you will, doctor. But, observe,
that your ignorance is equally disadvantageous
with your obligation.”
“True,” muttered Dr. Vandyke.
With a hesitating movement, he extended
his hand.
“Give it me!” he said.
“You accept the condition?”
“Yes!”
“You swear upon your honor to remain
silent, and to take no steps whatever
to place an obstacle in the way of
my marriage with Miss Brand, whatever
you may read in this paper which I have
written?”
“I swear!”
“Enough, sir. The word of a man
like yourself is sufficient. Read!”
And, unsealing the package, he extended
it to Dr. Vandyke, who clutched
it eagerly, and began to read by the light
of the wax-candles in the silver candelabra
on the tall mantel-piece. Lord
Ruthven, meanwhile, remained erect
near the mantel-piece, upon one of
whose carved ledges he leaned his elbow.
His face had resumed its deep
pallor, and his dark eyes were half
closed, the long lashes drooping toward
the cheeks.
As Dr. Vandyke proceeded with his
perusal of the document, his countenance
gradually lost its color, and his lips were
closely compressed, or, opening, showed
the large teeth set like iron beneath.
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When approaching the middle of the
paper, these evidences of emotion became
more marked and striking. Toward
the end, every particle of blood
faded from his face, his bosom labored
with long breaths, and, suddenly finishing
the paper, he whirled it from him,
raised his head, and exclaimed, in hoarse,
imperious tones—his frame shaking, his
eyes blazing:
“You have laid a trap for me! You
are—! Oh! to exact that oath! Monstrous!
But I will not be bound by it!
Before I'll stand by, silent, and permit
this marriage to proceed, I will—”
Ruthven stooped, and drew from the
trunk, in which Fergus had hidden it,
the Highland dirk.
“Here is the very weapon!” he said,
in his deep voice. “Strike!”
Dr. Vandyke drew a long breath,
shuddering visibly.
“You are mad, after all!” he muttered,
hoarsely.
“I am as sane as yourself!”
“I will reveal the contents of this
accursed paper!”
“You dare not! You are bound by
your word of gentleman!”
“And you would have me permit this
murderous—”
Lord Ruthven extended his hand, and
placed it on the physician's lips.
“Your promise!” he said.
Dr. Vandyke fell heavily into a chair,
uttering a groan. Lord Ruthven quietly
refolded the paper, sealed it again, placed
it in a drawer of the table beside him,
and said, coldly:
“If any thing should happen, remember
that the paper is there. 'Tis my vindication!”
He shuddered as he uttered the words
“if any thing should happen,” and
looked for a moment at Dr. Vandyke in
silence.
“But, what can happen?” he continued,
in a deep, firm, measured voice.
“Do you think, sir, that I would not
plunge this dirk into my heart before
committing that crime? And ask yourself
another question: What earthly
motive could I have for this deed without
a name? Men act from rational motives—
except madmen; and you declare
that I am not mad! What motive here?
He has left the country; and, as to the
other, what earthly motive could impel
me to a deed at which my soul revolts?
I love, adore, worship, this woman—I
would lie down and die to save her from
a moment's suffering! And yet—you
think—you dream that I am capable—
without motive, I say—without
motive!”
“Woe to you!” cried Dr. Vandyke,
suddenly bounding up and confronting
the speaker—“woe to you if you take
one step toward the commission of this
horror! I am old, but not weak; I
would slay you with my own hand!”
“And you would do right! I will
not resist! But listen.”
And he went close up to Dr. Vandyke.
“I do not know,” he said, in a low
voice, “if there be truth or no in this
forewarning—if the devil will or will not
tempt me to a crime without conceivable
reason! But I am a free agent to a certain
point. This horror will take place,
if it takes place at all, at midnight.
Well, neither at midnight, nor at any
other hour between the marriage ceremony
and dawn, shall my foot be placed
in that chamber—do you hear, doctor?”
Dr. Vandyke rose erect, and looked
at the speaker with blazing eyes.
“Swear it!” he said.
Before Ruthven could reply, a knock
was heard at the door, and Fergus entered.
“They await you, my lord,” he said:
“the bride is ready.”
-- 123 -- p505-136
LII. UNDER THE OAK.
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During the progress of these scenes
in private apartments of the large establishment,
numerous guests had continued
to arrive, and the night was full of noise.
Chariot after chariot rolled up to the
door, depositing portly old planters in
huge ruffles, smiling old dames in silk
and diamonds, and beautiful damsels in
lace and satin, with pearls in their hair,
and round arms sparkling with bracelets;
with them came young gallants on spirited
horses. All hastened in out of the
cold; and the great mansion, blazing
from garret to basement, was crowded
with a gay company, from which rose an
incessant buzz and uproar.
The disagreeable scene at dinner was
not alluded to; jest and merriment and
laughter resounded; and the large assemblage,
moving to and fro in the light
of the chandelabra, was the picture of enjoyment.
Such was the scene within. Without,
the vast, wild landscape slept in its
snowy shroud, and the night wind swept
along—a ghostly thing on invisible wings—
across the freezing expanse, to die
away, with a low moan, in the dense
evergreens.
The moon had risen like a bloody
shield, and, as it was rolled into the sky,
poured upon the dreary waste a mournful
and mysterious light, which rendered
the snow more spectral, and the scene
more forbidding. The lofty pines rose
up like phantoms; and, at certain moments,
the night wind, in their tufted
heads, resembled the low cry of some
creature perishing from cold, or calling
for assistance against danger.
The contrast between this sombre
scene and that within Rivanna was startling.
The company had all arrived;
the drivers of the numerous vehicles
were safely housed, like their masters,
from the cold; and silence had settled
down on the wild waste of snow, wrapping
the whole earth as far as the eye
could see.
As the night advanced, there appeared
on this chill expanse a single human figure—
that of a man who leaped the enclosure
of the grounds below the hill,
crossed the expanse, with slow, meassured
steps, and reached the large oak-tree
beneath which Honoria and Innis
had plighted their troth.
Having reached this spot, the new-comer
stopped, wrapped his cloak closely
around his shoulders, and leaned against
the trunk—whose shadow concealed him—
looking intently, as he did so, toward
the great mansion, blazing with lights.
LIII. THE APPOINTMENT.
Honoria was standing before the
mirror in her chamber, surrounded by
the brilliant little beauties, her bridesmaids,
who, having assiduously aided the
young lady in making her toilet, now
gazed at her with rapture. The sentiment
seemed wholly unaffected. Honoria's
exquisite but girlish beauty had suddenly
taken to itself something cold and
queenly, and it was only on a careful
scrutiny that the rose in the cheeks was
seen to be a hectic flush, and the calmness
of the eyes that of utter despair.
One person alone understood the
young lady's feelings, and was not deceived
by this ominous calmness — her
mother. Lady Brand had assisted her
daughter in dressing; had trembled at
the thought of what she must pass
through; and now gazed at her with
deep anxiety.
“Be calm, dear—this is well,” she
said. “Come now, and sit down and
rest before the ceremony.”
“I am not tired, mother,” was the
young lady's reply, “and my strength
will not fail me.”
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[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
Lady Brand shook her head sadly.
“My poor, poor child!” she murmured,
“you appear calm, but you are
really feverish, agitated, laboring under
nervous excitement.”
A strange smile came to the young
lady's lips.
“Excitement!—oh, no! mamma, I
am perfectly calm.”
“At least come and sit down.”
“I would rather stand, mamma.”
Lady Brand sighed deeply.
“But you must positively remain
quiet: a few moments of privacy, to
collect your thoughts, my child—”
And Lady Brand looked at the bridesmaids,
who, taking the hint, quietly left
the apartment. As the last disappeared,
mother and daughter exchanged a long
look. But no alteration took place in
the young lady's demeanor. She was
still perfectly calm, but this, it was obvious,
arose from a morbid state of mind.
“My child,” exclaimed Lady Brand,
“you are very, very unwell! Come,
lean your head upon my bosom; it will
rest and soothe you! You will remember,
perhaps, the time when you were a little
child, and dropped to sleep there.”
The fond mother's arms were extended,
but Honoria did not move.
“O me!” she murmured. “I am
not a child!—if I only were a little child
again—!”
“You are my child still, my own
dear little one!”
The words came with a burst of grief
from the trembling lips.
“Come—lean your head here!—it
will rest you, my own Honoria!”
But the young lady drew back, and
the same strange smile again came to her
lips.
“Lean my head upon your breast,
mamma!” she said, in a singular voice.
“How can you propose such a thing?'
Twould spoil my bonny bridal curls and
flowers.”
As she spoke, she pointed to the
snowy wreath above her long bridal veil,
and began to sing in a low voice:
“`Oh! the bonny, bonny bride,
And the bonny, bonny flowers
In her hair!”'
The strange intonation of the girl's
voice made her mother tremble.
“Come, come, Honoria!” she exclaimed,
in accents of displeasure, “this
is out of place!”
“What is out of place, mamma!”
“This levity—this unnatural gayety.
It belies your feelings.”
“Belies my feelings, mamma?”
“Yes, yes! Honoria — you never
were so miserable!”
“Miserable?” repeated the young
lady, with the same strange smile on her
lips, “why, what an idea! Am I not
about to become the `happy bride' of a
very great nobleman—to make a brilliant
match, as every one says? I shall
soon become my Lady Ruthven!—and
what more silly than to feel miserable at
being made a countess?”
“My child—my child! Your voice
is strange! You are not in your right
senses!”
“Why not, mamma—?”
“Because I know your secret!—that
you look with horror upon this marriage!”
Honoria slowly and coldly shook her
head.
“With horror?” she said; “I look
with horror upon my approaching marriage?
Is such a thing conceivable,
mamma? Would my father, who says
that he loves me dearly, compel me to
marry thus against my will? Could he
possibly make his poor child so wretched?
Could you—my own
mother—!”
Honoria suddenly stopped. Lady
Brand had covered her face with both
hands, and burst into tears. For a moment
the girl looked at her in silence,
and without moving. Then suddenly
she ran to her, broke into a wild flood
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of weeping, and, throwing her arms
around her mother's neck, cried:
“O mamma! mamma! do not sob
so! 'Twill break my poor heart! I was
undutiful, unfeeling, to taunt you when'
tis not your fault! Forgive me, mamma!—
no, I am not in my right senses—
I am wretched—out of my head almost.
This marriage is killing me, for I am
going to perjure myself before God and
man; but I will strive to bear all, and
not make you more unhappy, mamma!
Forgive me! forget my wicked words—
I love you so dearly!”
Clinging to Lady Brand, she buried
her face in her mother's bosom, and
sobbed until her agitated heart grew
calmer. Tears had come to her at last,
as a blessed relief—the burst of the tempest
relieved her overcharged brain—
and her mother saw, with delight, that
the dull and apathetic look had disappeared
from her eyes. Honoria was
quite hopeless, but calm and resigned.
“There, there, mamma,” she said,
pressing her lips to her mother's cheek,
“do not remember my wild, sinful words,
and forget that I rebelled against God,
and taunted you, when I ought to love
and obey you, and treat you with respect.
I am very unhappy, mamma, but—
I will try not to wound you again.
You see I am quite calm now, and—kiss
me, mamma—I love you very, very dearly,
and soon—shall—see you no more.”
The head sank, and Honoria uttered
a single sob. It was the last cry of her
despair. Her mother could only whisper
as she held her close:
“God bless and keep my child, and
give us both strength to bear this woe!
for I know all, my daughter—I know,
and am powerless as yourself. Come,
now — dry your eyes, and summon all
your courage, for the hour is near. Let
me arrange your disordered hair; the
idle crowd must not make their comments.”
“Do not fear me,” said the young
girl with sudden calmness and stateliness.
“I know what my blood requires
of me, and will not fail. And now will
you do me a last favor, mamma? Leave
me to myself for a few moments. I
would be alone—have no fear, mamma;
and do not ask me why.”
Lady Brand looked intently at her
daughter, and said:
“Leave you alone?”
The girl smiled sadly.
“You fear I'll do myself some mischief,
perchance! No, indeed! There
need be no fear of that, mamma. I shall
die of this marriage; but not now! Pray
grant my request.”
Lady Brand rose.
“I will go, then, my child; but remember
that your presence will soon be
required.”
With which words, she left the apartment.
Honoria listened to the light, retreating
steps; went quickly to the door;
turned the key without noise in the ponderous
old - fashioned lock; and then,
hastening to a casket, unlocked it, took
out a paper, and read it hurriedly by
the lights on her toilet-table.
The paper was a note, which a servant
had brought on the day before, and
ran as follows:
“I am about to leave Virginia forever;
but, before I go, I must see you
once more, or die of despair. I cannot
enter Rivanna, as one of the wedding-guests,
and witness your marriage. That
would kill me, or drive me to some act
of madness which would but make you
still more unhappy. Devise some other
means—at the hour and spot you fix, I
will be present.
“These are calm words, are they not,
for a man whose heart is breaking? But
the hour to weep and rave is past, and I
have no tears.
“Farewell until we meet.
“Edmund Innis.”
-- 126 -- p505-139
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In reply to this note, Honoria had
written three lines, intrusting them to
the servant, who saw no other member
of the family, and left Rivanna as soon
as he had received the reply:
“I cannot escape from the company
until to-morrow night — my wedding-night.
Come, then, to the oak-tree—
where—that day—O me!
“Honoria.”
Why had she written that note, forgetting
the cold, the snow, the almost
utter impossibility of keeping the appointment?
She knew not; she only
felt that she must see him once more, or
die. She now hastily read the note of
Innis again, and thrust it into her bosom.
Then she sat down, clinched her hands
together, and gazed into the fire.
“I will go! — nothing shall fright
me!—Edmund, Edmund!”
Suddenly steps were heard in the
passage, and a hand was laid upon the
knob. Honoria calmly opened the door.
Her sister had come to summon her.
“I am ready,” she said.
LIV. THE MARRIAGE.
The moment had come for the performance
of the marriage-ceremony.
The crowd, filling the drawing-rooms,
the hall, every foot of space, all at once
ceased their uproar. A deep silence followed;
and, in the midst of this silence,
the rustle of satin trains was heard at
the head of the staircase, like a breeze
of summer rustling the long blades of
corn. An instant afterward the imposing
bridal party descended slowly, the
bridesmaids leaning upon the arms of
their groomsmen, the ample trains
sweeping the polished oak of the staircase.
The bride and groom came last.
Honoria was very pale, but quite
calm, and did not seem to require the
arm of Lord Ruthven to support her, as
she scarcely touched it with one of her
little, white, gloved hands. She was superbly
dressed, and wore a profusion of
lace, hereditary in the family, with not
a few jewels of great value. Her air
was collected, and exhibited no emotion
whatever. Lord Ruthven, on the contrary,
evidently labored under very considerable
agitation. He was paler even
than the bride, and the smile which he
endeavored to assume was so plainly
forced that it was painful. Once, while
descending the staircase, he turned his
head quickly, and glanced with a singular
expression over his right shoulder—a
circumstance which was afterward spoken
of, and commented upon in various
ways.
The bridal train entered the large
drawing-room, where the reverend parson
of the parish was standing in his
black gown; and the bridesmaids and
groomsmen, separating, and ranging
themselves in two opposing lines, left an
avenue open for the bride and groom,
who slowly advanced and stood before
the clergyman.
Honoria retained her surprising calmness—
a calmness far exceeding that of
her companion—and the ceremony proceeded,
Colonel Brand giving away the
bride.
At the injunction of the clergyman,
that, if any one knew just cause why the
ceremony should not take place, they
should speak then, or forever after hold
their peace, it was observed that Honoria
half turned her head with a sudden look
of fright, apparently dreading or expecting
some interruption. None, however,
took place; Honoria duly bowed her
head, murmuring inaudibly the responses,
and a prayer ended the ceremony.
Honoria Brand had become the Countess
of Ruthven.
Then commenced the joyous uproar
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customary in Virginia upon wedding occasions.
The young lady found her cold,
pale lips saluted by her friends, and this
evidence of regard was bestowed, even
upon the bridesmaids, by all with the
slightest claim, from consanguinity, to
that privilege. Lord Ruthven received
his share of the congratulations of the
company—the low bows and impressive
hand-shakings of the portly old nabobs,
and the good wishes of the dames their
partners—with profound courtesy and
elaborate smiles. But it was plain that
these smiles were forced. When left for
a moment to himself, his countenance
assumed a singular expression of haunting
gloom; and twice he was observed
to cast the strange, furtive glance over
his right shoulder which had already attracted
the attention of the guests.
As the night drew on, and the hour
of supper approached, Honoria was seen
to look more than once toward the tall
clock in the hall, and to glance sidewise
through one of the great windows toward
the lawn without. Her pale cheek
was slightly tinged with blood, and the
eyes, so apathetic throughout the ceremony,
betrayed concealed agitation. At
last her lips were compressed in a manner
which seemed to indicate that she
had formed some resolution; and, turning
to her mother, who was standing
near, she said:
“Mamma, I am somewhat tired from
standing too long. Make my excuses to
any one who inquires for me; I will retire
for a little while, but return soon.”
“Very well, my dear,” said Lady
Brand, who was not unwilling that the
young lady should rest for a short time
from her fatigue; “but do not stay long.
Supper will be ready in half an hour.”
“Yes, mamma, I will be ready.”
And smiling upon the company, who
made way for her, admiring as they did
so her now rosy cheeks, Honoria went
up the broad staircase to her chamber, in
which she disappeared.
The uproar in the great drawing-room
had now become deafening; and
perhaps this circumstance was, in no
slight degree, to be attributed to the frequent
visits of a large number of the
guests to a small room in rear of the
large hall, where stood, on a centre-table,
an enormous punch-bowl, filled with
arrack-punch, flanked by a mighty array
of bottles containing mellow old Jamaica
rum, brandies, and the richest vintages of
sherry and canary. A huge silver ladle
reposed in the punch-bowl, or, rather,
was not permitted to do so for a moment
by the festive visitors, holding out impatient
tumblers; and two attentive
servants, silent, rapid in their movements,
and profoundly deferential, opened
incessantly the wine bottles, and handed
glasses to the old planters, who sipped
in a stately way, and loomed above
the more youthful company, the red
and important old faces rising over
masses of white neck-cloth and ruffles.
In this room the crowd was continuous,
the noise great; when the visitors returned
to the drawing-room they smiled
elaborately, and were communicative in
the highest degree upon any and every
subject.
At last the old major-domo opened
the door of the dining-room a few inches,
and respectfully looked at Lady Brand,
to signify that supper was ready. Lady
Brand looked around for Honoria, but
did not see her; and, saying to Lord
Ruthven, as she passed him, “Supper is
about to be announced, my lord,” she
went into the dining-room, closing the
door.
Ruthven seemed to greet the announcement
that supper was near—that
is to say, that the trying evening was
coming to an end—with deep satisfaction;
and looked around for Honoria, to
whom etiquette required that he should
give his arm. She was nowhere to be
seen; and, thinking that she might have
gone out into the hall, from the great
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heat of the immense fire in the drawing-room,
went thither to find her. But Honoria
was not in the hall.
A maid was passing at the moment,
and, supposing that Honoria was in her
chamber, Lord Ruthven directed the
maid to go thither, and inform her mistress
that the company was about to go
in to supper.
The maid hastened to obey, Lord
Ruthven waiting her in the hall; but in
a few minutes she returned with the information
that the young lady was not
in her chamber.
“Not in her chamber?” exclaimed
Lord Ruthven; “where, then, can she
be?”
The great front-door suddenly opened
behind him as he spoke, and a person,
who came in, heard the words. Lord
Ruthven felt a hand laid upon his arm,
and a low voice whispered in his ear:
“Hush, my lord! — and come with
me!”
LV. THE STEPS IN THE SNOW.
The voice was that of Fergus. Ruthven
turned suddenly, and gazed at the
old Highlander with undisguised astonishment
and vague disquiet; and the
expresssion of the ancient servitor's
countenance was not calculated to dispel
his emotion. The weather-beaten
face was flushed, and the eyes of Fergus
sparkled with wrath. His lips were
compressed like iron, and the hand
which he had laid upon his master's arm
was so heavy and unceremonious—so indicative
of forgetfulness of every form
of respect—that Lord Ruthven felt his
heart throb, his pulse give a great leap.
“What is it?” he said, grasping the
Highlander suddenly by the arm.
“Hist! my lord—make no noise!”
“Your meaning? You are no child!”
exclaimed Ruthven; “you must have
good reason for this abrupt address!”
“I have; of that you shall judge!
Follow me, my lord.”
“Go on!” said Lord Ruthven.
Fergus glided through the door; Ruthven
followed, and it closed behind them.
They had passed, in three steps, into another
world, as it were. The sepulchral
glare of the snow, bathed in icy moonlight,
and the freezing wind, which cut
like a sharp steel blade through the nobleman's
thin silk coat, made the contrast
between the warm apartments within
and the frozen expanse without as
striking as it was abrupt.
But Ruthven did not heed it for an
instant. A vague suspicion fired his
frame, and sent the blood boiling to his
cheeks.
“Well!” he said to Fergus.
“Follow me, my lord!”
“Your object?”
“To show you something—come?”
Fergus went rapidly, as he spoke,
down the broad steps; turned and followed
the façade of the mansion; came
in sight of a side-door, opening on the
lawn, and, looking round, exclaimed:
“Your lordship's married a bonny
bride!”
“What do you mean, I say! Speak!”
cried Lord Ruthven, imperiously.
“That will I, speedily, my lord.
Where is the countess?”
“I know not!”
“I know.”
“Where? Your meaning, Fergus?—
Something in your words — your
voice—!”
“Yes, yes — your lordship is right.
I have lost my coolness, even my respect;
and yet, I must go further—I
must exact a promise from your lordship!”
“A promise! The meaning of all
this? Speak if you would have me retain
my senses!”
“Promise that—you will not slay my
lady.”
“Slay!—you are mad!”
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“I am in my senses—promise, my
lord!”
“I promise nothing, and I command
you to explain your words! Speak! or,
by Heaven, I'll tear your meaning out of
your very heart!”
And Ruthven seized the old servant
by the throat, shaking him with such
violence that he seemed about to strangle
him.
Fergus made no remonstrance whatever.
He simply gasped for breath, and
Ruthven released his grasp.
“I obey your lordship, then,” said
Fergus. “I've done my duty at least.”
“Where is Lady Ruthven?”
Fergus started down, and pointed to
the snow.
“Look, my lord!” he said.
Ruthven looked, and saw the imprint
of a small delicate slipper in the snow.
“There is another!” said Fergus, in
a low tone, “and another still. The
person came out of that side-door; it
has not been long since, you see, my
lord, as the wind has not filled the
tracks; and you can tell in which direction
the person went. There are the
steps!”
His master no longer listened. With
a burning cheek, and a heart which
throbbed almost to bursting, Ruthven
followed the delicate footsteps down the
hill, the moonlight enabling him to do so
without difficulty. Stooping and hastening
onward, he resembled some wild animal
crouching, and ready to spring upon
his prey. Suddenly a cloud passed over
the moon, and the dull glare of the snow
barely afforded him the means of tracing
the steps. It was sufficient, however,
and Ruthven rapidly descended the slope,
leaving the great gate far on his left.
All at once a deep shadow fell upon the
marks in the snow. He looked up and
saw a great oak, distant twenty or thirty
paces.
At the same moment, the sound of
voices was heard; and a voice which he
recognized as that of Honoria murmured:
“I will love you in life and death!”
Ruthven's burning glance followed
the direction of the sound, penetrated
the shadow, and saw Honoria clasped in
the arms of Edmund Innis.
LVI. THE LAST MEETING.
Honoria had kept her appointment.
Ascending the staircase rapidly, after
speaking to Lady Brand, she had reached
her chamber, wrapped a cloak around
her, and descending by a flight of stairs
in the rear of the hall—that which she
had used on the night of the dumb-cake
ceremony — had opened the side-door,
gone forth into the freezing night, and
hastened down the hill toward the great
oak under which Innis awaited her.
Flying, affrighted and trembling, over
the snow which, at any other time, would
have made her feet in thin satin slippers
ache with cold, she had reached the tree,
had seen the figure of Innis hasten toward
her; and had fallen, weak, overwhelmed,
and powerless to bear up under her emotion,
into the outstretched arms of her
lover.
Then followed one of those scenes
which the pen cannot describe, and the
imagination only can form any conception
of. Forgetting all the world besides—
her past, her present, and her future—
remembering only that the human being
whom she loved with such unspeakable
tenderness was before her; and
obeying the resistless impulse driving
her, like a weary, storm-lost dove, into
his sheltering arms, she clung closely to
him, clasped him wildly to her bosom,
and exhausted on him every term of endearment,
in one passionate outburst,
which she made no effort to control.
And Innis, broken-hearted and despairing,
could only reply in broken
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words. His great woe came upon him
at this last conclusive moment, with an
intenser bitterness than ever before.
The sense of what he had lost sent a
chill to his very heart, and a cruel, mad
despair was mingled with the delicious
happiness of the girl's caresses.
For many moments they thus remained,
locked in each other's arms,
murmuring words of endearment, and
striving to control their passionate agitation.
Innis was the first to succeed in
this, and, choking down violently a groan
which had risen to his pale lips, he said
in a trembling voice:
“I thank you for this last meeting,
my own darling. I may call you so now—'
tis the last time; and now you must
go back; you must not stay here longer
in this bitter cold! I felt as though I
should have died without these few last
words with you—these kisses you have
given me—and now I can say farewell!”
He tried to unclasp the arms of the
girl, but she resisted.
“Oh, no! no!” she exclaimed, in a
voice interrupted by sobs, “we need not
part so soon! Why must we part?”
“They will miss you, and wonder at
your absence; and this bitter night!
Your poor, dear little feet in their thin
slippers! — they will freeze! Yes, you
must go, my darling; we must part now.
I am calmer than I was; almost happy,
dear. My heart was black with evil
thoughts, with hatred, and all bitterness.
I doubted God, and man, and woman.
I was desperate, and meditated desperate
things; but I have seen your dear, good
face, my own Honoria; I have heard
your voice, and I think I can bear my
misery. Farewell, now—you must go;
but tell me once more that you will not
forget your poor cousin, however far
away from you I may be; that you will
pray for me, and try not to grieve over
what might have been! Promise this,
Honoria—my love—my lost love—and
I shall be almost happy!”
It was in reply to these words that
Honoria, raising her head from his bosom,
and letting it fall back upon his
shoulder, had uttered in a murmur the
words—
“I will love you in life and death!”
As the words escaped from her lips,
the moon emerged from the black cloud
which had concealed it, and Innis heard
the sound of footsteps. He raised his
head quickly, looked in the direction of
the sound, and Honoria's eyes turned
toward the same quarter.
Lord Ruthven and Fergus were within
a few paces of her, easily recognized
by the moonlight; and with a low cry
she fell back in the arms of Innis, and
fainted upon his breast.
LVII. THE ADVERSARIES.
Ruthves did not rush upon Innis, or,
indeed, betray any evidence whatever of
violent emotion. A sudden and strange
calmness seemed to have succeeded his
wild rage. He had apparently reached
that stage when men grow pale instead
of red, cold instead of violent; and when
the mind, discarding all mere flurry and
passion, decides coolly and in silence
upon the course to be pursued.
The deadly glance of the young nobleman's
dark eyes, and the ashy pallor
of his lips, alone indicated the depth of
his wrath; his voice, when he spoke,
was firm and measured.
“It is quite unnecessary to hold me
back,” he said to Fergus, who, knowing
the terrible strength of his master's passions
when they were once aroused, had
seized his arm to restrain him from advancing
farther. “I do not purpose doing
any thing rash. Remove your hand
from my arm, and remain where you
now are, until you receive further orders
from me.”
Fergus released the grasp on his
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[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
master's arm, and Ruthven advanced slowly
and deliberately until he closely confronted
Honoria and Innis. The latter had
quickly regained his coolness, and returned
Ruthven's fixed and icy glance
with a look of the same description.
“I will relieve you of Lady Ruthven,
sir,” said the young nobleman; “as the
night is unpleasantly cold, and in so thin
a dress, she might suffer inconvenience
from further exposure. I shall escort
her ladyship to the house, and, as it will
be necessary to have a brief discussion
with you afterward, sir, shall beg you
to await my return without moving
from this place. May I count upon you,
sir?”
“You may, my lord!” returned Innis,
in an ardent tone. There was no
doubt of the intention of Ruthven. His
eye said all; and Innis greeted the
thought of mortal combat with his successful
rival with a thrill of fierce satis-
faction.
As he spoke, Honoria opened her
eyes, and returned to consciousness. Her
glance met the cold eyes of Ruthven
fixed upon her; she understood all; and
suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of agony:
“Oh, I am innocent of intended
wrong!—It was but for a moment—one
last meeting—I had to bid him good-by!—
Edmund!—my lord—!”
“Enough, madam!” said Ruthven,
abruptly, a species of contortion passing
over his dark face. “With your permission
we will not discuss this subject further
at present!”
He advanced, as he spoke, took the
young lady's hand, placed it upon his
arm, and, exchanging with Innis a meaning
glance, reconducted Honoria toward
the house, followed by Fergus. No
words were exchanged between the
bridegroom and bride upon the way.
Honoria was sobbing—from Ruthven's
lips no sound issued.
Following the steps in the snow, they
reached the side-door, through which
Honoria had gained the lawn. Here
Ruthven stopped, and said:
“As you doubtless desire to observe
the proprieties, and avoid all scandal,
madam, it will be best to enter by this
door and gain your chamber. Supper is
ready to be announced; and I will attend
you at the foot of the great staircase.”
Honoria bowed her head, and, replying
only with a low sob, entered the side-door,
and closed it behind her. Ruthven
then went around to the front of the
house, ascended the broad steps, carefully
removed from his boots all traces
of snow, and, opening the great door,
entered. His entrance did not attract
attention, and he had reached the threshhold
of the drawing-room, when he encountered
Colonel Brand.
“We were looking for you, my lord,
as supper is ready; and, strangely
enough, Lady Ruthven also is not to be
found.”
“She has retired to her chamber, in
all probability, sir.”
“I think not.”
And Colonel Brand turned to look
for Lady Brand to ask. Time was thus
afforded the young lady to reach her
chamber, divest herself of her cloak, suppress
her agitation, and descend. Lord
Ruthven met her at the foot of the staircase,
as he had promised, offered his arm,
with a profound inclination; and, supper
being announced at the same moment,
the bridal party, followed by the guests,
entered the great dining - room. The
apartment was one blaze of lights, and
this brilliant flood fell upon a table extending
nearly the whole length of the
room, and groaning with its burden of
substantials and delicacies of every imaginable
description. Meats, game, confections—
each in a dozen varieties,
and a dozen methods of serving—pyramids
of cake, and exotic fruits, ices,
jellies, and, on a side-table, coffee, tea,
“strong-waters,” the richest wines—
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[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
such formed a portion, and only a portion,
of the entertainment offered by
Colonel and Lady Brand to their guests.
The crowd flocked in, noisy, joyous,
full of laughter; and few paid any attention
to the bride and groom. Those who
did so, however, afterward spoke of Lord
Ruthven's courtly attention to his bride.
He waited upon her most assiduously;
and, but for a strange glitter of the eyes,
was the model of an overjoyed bridegroom.
That metallic glitter was not inviting,
it is true, and was afterward remembered;
but, for the moment, all was
joy and uproar.
One person only was not so easily deceived.
With eyes sharpened by tenderness
for her daughter, Lady Brand saw
the evidences of deep, suppressed emotion;
and, knowing that Honoria had not
been in her chamber ten minutes before
her reappearance, sought an opportunity
now to question her, and hear a solution
of the mystery. This design of Lady
Brand seemed, however, to be penetrated
by Lord Ruthven, who persistently remained
by Honoria, or returned instantly
if forced to leave her; and when the fond
mother, weary of this struggle of wits,
addressed a plain question to the young
lady, Ruthven replied, quickly, with a
singular smile:
“No, madam! I beg you will not insist
upon your question. Your daughter
is Lady Ruthven now, and is entitled to
have her own secrets!”
Lady Brand looked earnestly at the
speaker, but his face was impenetrable.
“Well, my lord,” she said, gloomily,
“'tis for you to decide; but you will let
me say that the augury is not happy
when the bride begins by having secrets
from her own mother.”
Ruthven did not reply, and soon afterward
the company began to move
back toward the drawing-room, whither
the bride and bridegroom led the way—
Honoria pale and faint—Ruthven cold,
firm, and impassive.
Lord Ruthven led his bride to a seat
near the fire, and then made her a low
bow. With her permission, he said he
would return to the supper-room; and,
passing through the crowd, with a formal
smile on his lips, he reached the hall.
He did not go thence, however, to the
supper-room, but to his chamber, where
Fergus was seated, his elbows on his
knees, his face sunk in his hands.
“Come, quick!—the swords!” said
Ruthven. “I have worn none to-night;
but there are two of the same length!”
Fergus faltered out:
“Your lordship will not—! Think!
after all, 'twas but—!”
“Silence! — obey the order I give
you! The dress-swords, and my cloak!”
Dominated by the imperious voice
and flaming eyes, Fergus drew from one
of the trunks, with a trembling hand,
two dress-swords, which Ruthven seized.
The latter then threw a cloak around his
shoulders, concealed the swords beneath
it, and, saying imperiously to Fergus—
“Remain here; I command you!” went
hastily out of the room. He had taken
notice of the position of the side-door,
through which Honoria had reentered.
This he now gained by the back staircase,
for the moment quite deserted,
opened the door, passed through, closed
it behind him, and went rapidly down
the hill toward the oak.
LVIII. THE COMBAT.
Innis had not stirred from the spot.
What thoughts had passed through
the mind of the despairing young man,
as he waited in the freezing cold, with
Honoria's innocent kisses yet warm upon
his lips, and a bloody combat with her
husband imminent? Despair is a strange
stimulant, and Innis had little hope left
him in the world. Burnt up by harsh
and gloomy emotion—seeing nothing in
-- --
The Combat. p. 132.
[figure description] 505EAF. Image of two men struggling in a snowy forest. One man has
dropped his sword, which is broken and slightly covered with snow, so he is
desperately trying to wrench the other man's sword out of his hand. They are
surrounded by winter trees, no leaves, and snowy ground.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
the future for him but hopeless misery—
he greeted almost with joy the coming
struggle, which would probably end his
life and his woes together. That such a
struggle was near he had no doubt whatever—
a single combat with swords,
doubtless; and as, like all young gentlemen
at that time, he had been taught
the use of the rapier, there would be no
obstacle.
Suddenly Ruthven's figure appeared
in the moonlight. He almost rushed toward
Innis, reached him, and exclaimed,
in a hollow tone:
“It is well, sir! You keep your word
at least! You will not add cowardice to
treachery!”
“Treachery, sir!” cried Innis —
“cowardice! Beware, sir! By Heaven,
if you insult me thus, I'll throw myself,
weaponless as I am, upon you, and
tear you to pieces!”
Ruthven threw back his cloak.
“Here are two swords!” he said,
“of equal length and good temper. You
are not weaponless, sir, since one is for
you!”
And he hurled it at Innis's feet in
the snow, his eyes burning with lurid
fire.
The young man stooped quickly, and
caught it by the hilt.
“Thanks!” he said; “this combat
need not be delayed, then.”
“No! here and now! Here, where—”
And, with an expression of deadly
menace, Lord Ruthven took a step,
sword in hand, toward his enemy.
“A moment, my lord!—there is time
enough!” said Innis, in a cold and
gloomy tone. “As one or both of us
will probably be dead in an hour from
this time, a few words are necessary.”
“I want none! Defend yourself!”
The sharp point glittered in front of
the young man's breast; but he remained
perfectly motionless.
“I say that these words are necessary,”
he replied, in the same gloomy
tone. “What you mean by treachery I
am unable to understand, sir! We were
mere acquaintances—I never professed
to be your bosom friend; and if there
be wrong done, who is guilty of that
wrong?”
“Enough—!”
“You shall hear me! and, as I may
be driven to rage, I'll speak first of what
is most important,” said Innis. “You
are so ignorant of the person who is now
Lady Ruthven, that you madly dream
that she could be guilty of an impure action!
That is the madness of jealousy,
and suspicion, sir—naught else! Honoria
is as pure as that snow; as the moon
above you! Her sole fault, if it be a
fault, has been her imprudence in granting
me, to-night, at my urgent request,
a few moments to say farewell, before
we parted forever. I am about to leave
Virginia—I loved her—you know that—
I besought her to see me for an instant
before I went; she was here for a little
space, thus, at my own solicitation; and
had you not come, the young lady and
myself would have parted—”
“With a last embrace! with kisses!—
with caresses!—with `love in life and
death!' Your sword, sir! This shall
end!”
“A single moment more, sir,” Innis
replied, with the same immovable coldness,
but a bitterness in his tone. “Your
lordship is the lucky one, and can afford
to listen an instant, if only to prevent
misunderstanding when our ghosts meet
in another world! Well, before she met
you, Lady Ruthven was engaged to be
married to me. You did not know that?'
Tis true, sir; and the circumstance was
not so astonishing. We were cousins,
had been playmates all our lives here at
Rivanna; and before she went to Williamsburg,
where she first saw you, plighted
her faith to me here under this very
oak-tree, where she came to bid me farewell
to-night. That is a bitter memory
to the poor, unhappy man who speaks to
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[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
you—must it not be, sir? Well, I soon
saw that Honoria was not to choose her
mate. You paid your addresses, and I
asked for her hand. Her father refused
me—I was very poor; and accepted you.
Did the young lady? And, in spite of
all, I was going away, now—after these
few words of farewell.
“That is the history of three persons,
sir—one happy, the other two miserable.
As to this meeting, I repeat, sir,
that it was my fault, and meant nothing.
You speak of kisses—in Virginia, young
ladies kiss kinsmen. I was this one's—
she was innocent as an angel—do not
give the devil that triumph of believing
Honoria Brand other than purity itself!
And now I've done, my lord. If there
be fault in any one, the fault is mine.
Spend your wrath on me; for that wrath
I care nothing, as I care nothing for my
life. Just now, when you used the word
treachery, I wished to kill you. Now,
you may kill me, if you choose, sir—my
life is a matter of indifference to me, I
am too miserable; but I charge you, on
your honor as a gentleman, to absolve
my cousin!”
“Have you done, sir?”
The brief, stern words range out suddenly,
leaving no doubt of Ruthven's
intention. His resolve was unshaken.
Hatred, jealousy, blood-thirstiness — all
this was written in his eyes.
“Your lordship is bent on killing me,
then?” said Innis, as coldly as before.
Lord Ruthven's reply was to rush
upon his adversary, and to lunge straight
at his heart. Innis parried the blow;
and a brief combat followed—bitter, desperate,
breast to breast. Suddenly Innis's
sword snapped, and the foes grappled
and fell — Lord Ruthven beneath
his adversary. They were body to body,
face upon face, panting and bloody. Then
Innis uttered a low cry, his hold relaxed,
and he fell forward, a torrent of blood
gushing from his bosom.
Ruthven, who had retained his clutch
of his sword, had shortened it quickly,
and driven the point by main force into
his adversary's breast.
He rose, breathing heavily, and
looked at the body lying on the bloody
snow.
All movement had ceased.
“So much is done,” said the nobleman
in a low, hollow voice; “now let
me go back to my bonny bride!”
His lip, writhed as he spoke, and the
strange wild glitter of the eye was horrible.
On this face, resembling a mask of
Hate, was written a terrible resolution.
LIX. THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
It was now eleven o'clock, as all
could see by the minute-hand of the
great ghostly clock ticking in the hall,
and the wedding-guests began to take
their departure with many congratulations,
addressed to Lord Ruthven and
his bride, who stood beside colonel and
Lady Brand in the middle of the drawing-room.
Lord Ruthven was fearfully pale, and
the strange glitter of his eyes had not
disappeared. He had gained his chamber
by the door in the rear, divested himself
of his cloak, and descended just as
Dr. Vandyke disappeared through a door
leading to Meta's chamber, whither he
had been summoned hastily by intelligence
that the child had been taken suddenly
ill.
A terrible smile passed across Ruthven's
pale lips, as the physician disappeared,
and he hastened to join the
company. The leave - taking was gone
through with, and the guests entered
their coaches awaiting them in front of
the portico. A quarter of an hour afterward
the last chariot had rolled away
from the door; the members of the
household retired; and the great mansion,
lately so noisy and brilliant, was
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as still and dark as a haunted house,
from which all human occupants have
fled, leaving it to the mysterious tenants
of the darkness.
In this profound and almost painful
silence, no sound was heard but the subdued
murmur of the river beyond the
pine-clad hill, and the measured ticking
of the tall clock in the hall; no light
was visible but the spectral gleam of the
setting moon, which, passing through a
narrow window in front of the great
door, lit up the white dial-plate of the
clock, making it resemble a ghost.
Slowly the “tick—tick,” resounded
with a dull, monotonous sound, through
the deserted hall—slowly the black hand
moved over the white face, second after
second, minute after minute.
“Tick, tick!—tick, tick!”
It was ten minutes of midnight now.
The hand crawled slowly, the monotonous
sound went on, never faster, never
slower, like a metallic fate, careless of
what was near at hand.
“Tick, tick!—tick! tick!”
It was five minutes of midnight now—
four minutes—three minutes—
The last rays of the moon, dim, mysterious,
bloody, were on the ghostly
face: the black hand was on the stroke
of midnight, when a door opened violently
in the direction of Meta's chamber,
and Dr. Vandyke rushed into the vacant
hall.
At the same instant, a sudden and terrible
scream issued from the chamber of
Lady Ruthven.
The clock struck midnight. As the
hammer fell, the door of the bride's
chamber opened violently, a dark figure
rushed down the staircase nearly overturning
the physician, who vainly attempted
to grapple with and arrest it—
the great door opened and closed with a
clash; and past the window of the bridal
chamber—past the delicate footprints in
the snow—past the oak where a dusky
object was stiffening in the freezing
winter night—past tree and rock, lit
up
by the bloody light of the sinking moon—
the dark figure, followed headlong now
by another figure, disappeared in the
gloomy night.
The second figure was that of Fergus,
who, issuing forth from the side-door of
the mansion, had hastened with the
speed of a deer upon the track of his
master.
The fearful scream from Lady Ruthven's
chamber had aroused the entire
household. In a few minutes, the upper
hall was filled with trembling figures
in night - dresses uttering cries,
and demanding the origin of the alarm.
Through the agitated group, Lady Brand,
wrapped in her dressing - robe, hurried
to Honoria's chamber, her heart throbbing
violently, her cheeks as pale as
ashes.
Through the door-way came a hollow
moan. She hastened into the chamber,
only illumined by a few chance gleams
of the dying fire, and the last red rays
of the moon; and, as she did so, heard
the low words—
“Mother! mother!”
Suddenly she felt her bare feet—for
in her haste she had not put on her slippers—
touch something moist.
She stooped—touched the floor—and
held up her finger.
It was blood.
With a wild, awful cry, she called for
lights. They were all ready at the door
in the hands of the affrighted household;
and a spectacle of unspeakable horror
was revealed to all eyes.
Lady Ruthven was extended upon
the couch, which it was obvious she only
had occupied — her head hanging back
like a wounded bird's, the bosom of her
snowy night-dress stained with blood—
and the flow of blood had been so profuse
that, lying as she did upon the edge
of the bed, it had reached the floor, and
extended in a long, narrow stream toward
the chair before the fire, upon which
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the young lady had deposited her garments
when she retired.
The awful climax to this scene of horror
was the hilt of a Highland dirk clearly
relieved against the white night-dress,
and buried apparently in the young lady's
bosom.
Beneath the head of the young lady
was passed the arm of Dr. Vandyke, who,
divining in an instant, as Ruthven darted
by him, what had happened, had hastened
to the chamber and the bedside.
“O doctor!—what is this?” cried
Lady Brand.
“Murder, madam!” was the hoarse
reply.
Lady Brand, with a low cry, extended
her arms toward her child, tottered,
and would have fallen, had not Colonel
Brand, who hastily entered at the moment,
caught her in his arms.
Such was the spectacle in the bridal
chamber. But the family were destined
on this night to sup full on horror.
Colonel Brand, nearly unmanned,
bore his wife to a couch, and had just
deposited the apparently lifeless form
thereon, when violent knocking was
heard at the great door of the mansion,
and voices loudly demanded admittance.
A shudder ran through the crowd,
and every one listened. The violent
knocking continued — there was in its
very sound something urgent and terrible—
and, seizing a flambeau, Colonel
Brand, ashy pale and with compressed
lips, hastened down the staircase, threw
open the door, and, holding the flambeau
aloft, demanded the occasion of
the outcry.
No reply was necessary. Borne in
the arms of two servants, he saw the
body of Edmund Innis—the face deadly
pale, the eyes closed, the bosom covered
with blood. The servants, chancing to
pass by the great oak, on their way to
the quarters, had been startled by a
groan — fled with superstitious fear at
first; but, summoning courage, had re
turned to the spot, and discovered Innis
stretched in a pool of blood upon the
snow. They had hastily raised him—
borne him between them to the “great
house,” and knocked loudly at the door
to summon assistance.
Colonel Brand uttered a low groan,
as the servants explained in hurried
words how and where they had found
the body. He could only gasp out an
order that the dying man should be
brought in. He then went back, wellnigh
broken-hearted, to his daughter's chamber.
As he crossed the threshold, he staggered
in his gait, but all at once his eyes
expanded with a sort of joy. Lady
Brand was holding the head of Honoria
upon her bosom, and the young lady was
sobbing. Dr. Vandyke, crouching down,
was rapidly applying bandages to the
wound. On the floor, whither he had
hurled it, lay a hideous object — the
bloody weapon drawn by the physician
from the body of the girl.
It had not entered her bosom, toward
which the murderous hand had no doubt
directed it—it slipped, or the hand was
unsteady; the point had only pierced
the white arm beneath the shoulder. A
profuse flow of blood had taken place,
but the wound was merely dangerous,
not necessarily mortal; and, under the
skilful hand of Dr. Vandyke, the blood
soon ceased to flow.
In a few words, Colonel Brand informed
Dr. Vandyke of the discovery of
Innis's body. A start and a strange
glance greeted the intelligence of this
additional tragedy.
“The devil is let loose, then!” he muttered,
in his harsh metallic voice—“both
fulfilled to the letter!”
And, with these singular words, the
physician turned and said:
“Honoria is easy for the present.
Where is he—Edmund Innis?”
He was conducted to the chamber,
where the young man had been laid
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upon a bed, nearly but not quite insensible.
“A hideous business, truly!” muttered
the physician, tearing away the clothes
from the young man's breast, and examining
the wound, around which the
blood had coagulated in the intensely
cold night. “This one will die, I think—
the lung pierced—”
He called for hot water, washed the
wound, bandaged it, and, giving directions
to an old nurse to remain with Innis,
went back to Honoria's chamber.
All eyes were turned toward him, including
Honoria's, who breathed regularly
now.
“A bad wound, but not mortal,” he
said; “and now this young lady must
go to sleep. All will please leave this
chamber but Lady Brand.”
The agitated group disappeared, Dr.
Vandyke going out last with Colonel
Brand.
As the door closed, their eyes met.
“The meaning of all this! the meaning,
doctor?” groaned the colonel,
ghastly pale.
“Simple,” was the reply. “Your
daughter married, as I told you, a madman.”
“Good Heavens! — and — this poor
boy—?”
“They fought, or the madman struck
him in the dark.”
“And—?”
“Will he die, you mean?”
“Yes, yes!”
“In three days. Honoria's hurt is
slight, comparatively. The boy's is mortal.
I give him three days!”
An hour afterward, a further discovery
was made, which put the finishing
touch to this night of horrors. What
had become of Lord Ruthven and his
body-servant? Dr. Vandyke recalled
the violent collision with Lord Ruthven
on the staircase, as he rushed toward
the front-door; and the servants who
had discovered the body of Innis, reported
that they had seen two dark fig
ures—one apparently in pursuit of the
other—hastening in the direction of the
hills skirting the river. This intelligence
left little doubt that Lord Ruthven had
attempted or committed suicide; and a
party, supplied with torches, followed the
footsteps, plain in the snow, toward the
point in question. The steps were evidently
those of Lord Ruthven and his
servant, whose ponderous boots had left
very different traces from those of his
master.
The double footprints crossed the
snow-covered expanse of the lawn—led
by the oak where the combat had taken
place — were traced on the other side
of the enclosure around the grounds,
through the melancholy wilderness of
evergreens beyond, and ceased abruptly
upon the summit of a rock, beneath
which the river — hemmed in between
high banks—rushed with great rapidity
through its deep and narrow channel.
Here, on the brink of the awful precipice—
to use the very words of Lord Ruthven,
uttered to Fergus at Williamsburg—
were found the traces apparently of a
violent struggle. The snow was trampled
and the footprints of master and servant
were clearly distinguishable, intermingled
in such a manner as to leave little doubt
that they had grappled with each other.
The fact was plain that both had fallen
or thrown themselves into the stream;
and this proved to be the truth. Two
hundred yards down the bank, the bodies
of Lord Ruthven and Fergus were discovered—
both were dead—the arms of
the clansman clasping his chieftain, as
though he had died in the effort to save
him.
This was all that was ever known.
Had the two committed suicide? Or, in
the struggle, had they fallen into the
rushing stream, and been drowned?
There was no means of determining the
question.
The bodies were borne back to Rivanna.
On the next day they were
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interred side by side in the graveyard attached
to the parish church some miles
distant. Death had thus not separated
them, and Fergus lay where he would
have chosen, beside his master.
LX. THE STATEMENT AND THE PAPER.
Nothing, in reference to the events
of this fearful night, between the moment
when Honoria retired to the time
when her screams aroused the household,
was ever accurately known, except by
three persons. These persons bound
themselves, it is said, by a solemn obligation,
not to speak upon so painful and
terrible a subject. But, in spite of that
fact, a rumor, in time, began to creep
about. Some indiscreet listener had overheard,
perchance, some words uttered in
supposed privacy; and, link by link, detail
by detail, the mystery was, or professed
to be, revealed.
This whispered rumor, for want of
better information, is here given. Of its
accuracy, the reader will form his own
opinion.
Honoria's statement was, that she had
retired, on her wedding-night, at a quarter-past
eleven; a fact which she remembered,
as she had glanced at the
clock in the hall as she went toward the
great staircase. She was, at this hour,
completely exhausted, and nearly sunk
down from pure weakness and agitation,
as her bridesmaids assisted her in making
her night-toilet. The young ladies
had then left her apartment; she retired
to bed, fell into a morbid state, half
sleeping, half waking; but was suddenly
aroused by a horrible breathing, apparently
issuing from behind the curtains
of her bed, identical with that heard on
the night when she had performed the
ceremony of eating the dumb-cake. This
sound, she stated, filled her with such
fright that she nearly fainted, and only
remembered what followed, as human
beings remember dreams. She saw, or
fancied she saw, the fire slowly die away,
and darkness invade the chamber. The
only light now was that of the blood-red
moon, which shone through the western
window, throwing upon the opposite
wall the shadow of one of the boughs
of the great oak opposite the window;
and this shadow, as before, assumed the
appearance of a gigantic arm, the hand
grasping a dagger.
From this moment she recalled little,
and that as a sort of dream, full of terror.
Lord Ruthven seemed to stand at
her bedside, his face as pale as death, his
lips writhing, and his eyes fearfully
bright. In his hand he grasped a dagger,
such as she had seen in the dumb-cake
dream, and exclaiming, in a hollow tone,
“False! false! false!” he had crouched,
lifted his arm; the weapon had gleamed
in the red moonlight, and a hot iron
seemed suddenly to pass through her
shoulder, whereupon she had lost consciousness,
only to be aroused by the entrance
of her mother.
Such was the narrative attributed to
the young lady, and there was little reason
to discredit it, with the exception of
the asserted identity between the real
poniard which had inflicted the wound,
and that seen in the dream on the night
of the dumb-cake. That Honoria believed
the two to be identical in appearance
is certain. When the weapon was
shown to her she swooned, and, as soon
as she opened her eyes, begged those
around her to remove it, as she had seen
it before. It is certain, at least, that
this idea of the identity of the real and
fanciful weapon had taken strong possession
of the young lady's mind; and
a paper, discovered in a drawer of the
chamber occupied by Lord Ruthven,
directed to Colonel Brand, is said to
have strongly corroborated this strange
idea.
To this paper—which was the same
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shown by Lord Ruthven to Dr. Vandyke—
we now pass. For reasons, of which
he declared himself, in brief words, to
be the best judge, Colonel Brand, after
reading this paper, proceeded at once to
destroy it by holding it in the flame of a
candle until it was reduced to ashes. He
never afterward alluded to it to any
member of his household; but, either
through himself or through Dr. Vandyke,
its purport became known, or professed
to be known. Here, as before,
recourse must be had to rumor—that
ambiguous but often accurate version of
secret occurrences which so frequently
creeps about.
It was said that, in this paper, Lord
Ruthven sought to vindicate himself
in advance from the charge of blood-thirstiness,
in the event of the commission
by himself of a terrible crime. In
order to thus relieve his memory of a
portion at least of the guilt, he presented
a history of his life. He declared himself
to be the representative of an ancient
Scottish family, which had possessed,
time out of mind, the fearful gift
of the “second-sight”—a faculty which
enabled them to look into the future, and
thus foresee the events of their own
lives. The consciousness of this fatal
gift had, he declared, afforded him, from
his earliest years, unspeakable wretchedness.
His character had been naturally
genial and cheerful; this fearful faculty
had made him harsh, irritable, and melancholy.
He had struggled long and
obstinately to divert his mind of all belief
in it—had striven to laugh at it as
an absurd superstition, instilled into him
by the old Highland crone who had
nursed him, and told him frightful
stories from his cradle; but all was vain.
The fearful proof was there to falsify his
hopes. In his dreams he had foreseen
events which duly and literally came to
pass, in spite of every effort which he
made to prevent their occurrence. This
was the terrible part. He could not re
sist this secret fate, driving him to
fulfil
the visions. Of this statement, Lord
Ruthven presented several instances.
He had had a favorite hound. A vision
told him that the hound would perish by
his hand, and to avoid this painful event
he had presented the animal to a neighboring
friend, with the injunction to
keep him out of his (Lord Ruthven's)
sight. The hound had, nevertheless,
perished by his own knife. He was
deer-hunting—the animal was driven to
bay, and he had dismounted and thrown
himself upon the stag, struggling with
the dogs, couteau de chasse in hand, and
struck at his throat. Instead of the
deer's throat, the knife entered the breast
of one of the dogs. It was his favorite,
who, hearing the cry of his old companions
on the hills, had joined in the hunt,
and thus met his death, in accordance
with the vision.
A second instance was similar. He
had a riding-horse of great beauty and
speed, though so violent at times that he
was dangerous. He was his favorite of
the whole stud; and when he one night
had a vision, in which he saw himself
shoot the animal dead, he awoke depressed
and sorrowful. This time he
swore to disappoint the devil; and,
without delay, sent the animal by a reliable
groom to an English nobleman, his
friend, residing more than three hundred
miles distant, requesting him to accept
the horse. A note of thanks for so
fine an animal came back. Ruthven forgot
the incident; but a year afterward
was visiting in Perthshire, when, in a
paddock attached to the mansion of his
host, he saw the horse, dragging a groom
by the bridle and pawing at him.
Whence had the animal come? he
asked. The reply was that Lord —
was coming for the hunting-season, and
had sent this horse to await his arrival.
This explanation had scarcely been given,
when the groom was thrown to the
earth, and the animal tore him with his
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teeth, and rose on his hind-legs to paw
him to death. Ruthven was just going
out grouse-shooting, and had his fowling-piece
in his hand. It was a choice between
the life of the man and the life of
the horse. He discharged the contents
of his fowling-piece into the animal behind
the shoulder—he rolled over, tore
up the grass with his teeth, and expired.
The man was saved; but Ruthven returned
to the house, bade his friend farewell,
and went back sorrowfully to his
castle. He had fulfilled the second vision.
This had made him wellnigh lose all
hope, and surrender himself to despair.
But a blessed discontinuance of the visions
succeeded. For many years he slept
tranquilly—saw nothing—and began to
hope that Heaven had mercifully exempted
him from further torture. The
visions came no more; he attained the
age of twenty-five—when all at once he
began to see vaguely the forms of a young
man and a young lady, in connection
with whom some terrible event was to
occur, in which event he was to act the
chief part. Filled with horror at this
vague (and more frightful because vague)
vision, he determined to leave Scotland;
and that for a double reason. The popular
belief in connection with the fearful
gift of second-sight was, that those afflicted
with it had only to leave their
own land and travel, to lose the faculty.
This was the main reason inducing him
to resolve upon a prolonged absence from
Scotland. Another was to seek in travel,
society, cards, dissipation, if necessary,
relief from his frightful visions. Still a
third reason for visiting the Continent
was to allay a foreboding, which had for
some time chilled him—the fancy that,
perhaps, after all, he was simply a person
of unsound mind—the apparent fulfilment
of his visions, in the cases of the
dog and the horse, being only coincidences.
In accordance with the resolution
formed, he left Scotland, went to
Paris, plunged into gay society, and
found his visions disappear.
The question of his sanity remained;
and he laid his “case,” without reserva-
tion or concealment of any description,
before some of the most celebrated physicians
of Europe, who declared, over
their own names, in a written paper,
that Lord Ruthven was, in their opinion,
a person of somewhat morbid and excitable
organization, but, in point of sanity
or insanity of mind, no more insane than
themselves. This had proved an enormous
relief to him. Then, he was simply
“excitable”—torturing himself with
“morbid” fancies; the second-sight was
a chimera! He would, therefore, return
home, and laugh at his visions.
This resolution was followed by a return
to Scotland. For a brief time, no visions
disturbed him; but then they returned
in a more aggravated form than
before. The vagueness had now quite disappeared—
all was clear-cut, and distinct.
He saw a young man and a young lady
whose blood was to be shed by himself.
The young lady was to be his bride—the
young gentleman was his unsuccessful
rival. They were to inhabit a region diversified
by mountains—those of Scotland,
apparently. The tragedy was to
grow out of the preference of the young
lady for his poorer rival. She was to
prove false to him by granting, on his
very wedding-night, a stolen and criminal
interview to this rival. They were
to fight in the snow—the rival was to
fall; then, he, Ruthven, was to go to the
bridal chamber, strike his Highland dirk
into the bosom of the bride; and afterward
commit self-destruction by throwing
himself from a precipice, crowned
with evergreens, into a swollen torrent.
Such was to be his fate—this was his
future: love, murder, and suicide!
In unutterable horror, he determined
to fly from Scotland, which he supposed
to be the scene of the future tragedy—
for the precipice, the evergreens, the
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swollen torrent, all seemed to indicate,
with sufficient exactness, the locality.
This time he resolved that he would
cheat Fate itself of its prey: he would
leave the accursed scene of future crime
forever. An opportunity to do so unexpectedly
presented itself. His friend
Lord Botetourt was appointed Governor
of Virginia — beyond the ocean was
safety. He at once applied for permission
to join the suite of the new governor—
readily received it; sailed for Virginia;
and breathed freely once more,
with the delightful consciousness that he
had outrun the haunting Fate.
His comfort was short-lived. Riding
one day at full gallop along Gloucester
Street, in Williamsburg, his horse had
shied suddenly; he was unseated and fell—
losing his senses by the fall. When he
regained consciousness, he saw before
him the young gentleman seen in his vi-
sion in Scotland! The sight of the youth
overcame him with horror; and he had
but one hope—that this was a coincidence
only; that he had met with this
young gentleman, Mr. Innis, in Europe,
and hence the recognition of him. He
had accordingly questioned him, and discovered
that no such meeting could have
taken place, as Mr. Innis had never visited
Europe—thus he was certain that
they had never before met. Upon this
discovery, his resolution was promptly
taken. As Virginia was to be the scene
of his crime, he would instantly leave
the country, as he had left Scotland; and
he gave prompt orders to have his trunks
gotten ready for his departure. The departure
had not taken place. First, there
was a difficulty about a vessel; then the
governor begged him to delay; then Mr.
Innis left Williamsburg, and all danger
for the moment was plainly over.
The second identification followed.
At the governor's assembly he saw enter
the room the young lady of his vision—
his bride and victim to be. Thereat his
horror had been overwhelming. He
sought to avoid even an introduction to
her; but circumstances rendered it necessary;
he had danced with her, visited
her, conceived an ardent passion for
her; and thus completely lost the power
of leaving her. He had not sufficient
strength to do so; but soothed his agitation,
at thought of the vision, by swearing
that he would put an end to his own
life, before he would do harm to the
young girl whom he loved so dearly.
Thenceforward things took their course.
He proposed for Honoria's hand, was accepted
by her father, the time was fixed—
and, to crown his happiness, Mr. Innis,
the unsuccessful lover of the young lady,
was perfectly resigned to his fate, and
about to leave the country. Thus, the
hated visions were a cheat—second-sight
a farce, after all—he would be happily
married, do harm to no one, and, in the
sunshine of love, forget all his past sorrows.
But, if his Fate still hunted him down—
if some hidden hand drove him on to
conceive the possibility of such crimes
as he had seen himself commit, he would
stop on the threshold, perish by his own
hand; and this paper, addressed to Colonel
Brand, would be the explanation and
vindication of the tragedy.
Such were the alleged contents of
Lord Ruthven's narrative. How the
terrible sequel was brought about has
been recorded.
EPILOGUE.
For three months the life of Innis
seemed suspended by a hair, which the
hand of a child—the least breath—would
break.
His wound then began slowly to heal,
and, in the last days of May, he rose,
pale, thin, and tottering, from his bed,
entering the world thus once more, as it
were, from the postern of the grave.
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Honoria had completely recovered
from her wound some time before; and
the terrible events of her wedding-night
began to relax their painful hold upon
her mind. She looked back now to those
events as to a fearful dream, from which
she had awakened; and the May sunshine
saw the roses once more blooming
in her cheeks.
That she and Innis were married in
due time, we need scarcely assure the
reader. Of the will of Colonel Seaton
there was no question at all. Colonel
Brand had duly recorded it in the proper
court, surrendered Rivanna to Innis,
gave him the hand of Honoria—and all
lived in peace and harmony under a single
roof.
On the night of Honoria's marriage
to Innis, Miss Lou Brand bestowed her
queenly hand upon Mr. Phil Cary. It
was a happy double wedding, and even
Mrs. Cary, who was present, and in the
seat of honor, was overjoyed at the happiness
of her son.
Side by side, near the married couples,
stood two persons who have frequently
appeared in this history—Meta
and Dr. Vandyke.
With the termination of the tragedy,
so long overshadowing Rivanna, Meta
had begun to recover her strength, and
to regain the roses in her cheeks. It
seemed a miracle, this return to life, and,
what was far better than life, the blessed
light of reason. No more, now, a subtle,
scheming, mad girl, burnt up by a
morbid jealousy, but a gentle and tender
woman, moved by all sweet influences
and kindly emotions, Meta stood beside
Honoria, as one of her bridesmaids, smiling
and beautiful—in her dark curls the
spring flowers she thought she should
never more see.
And Dr. Vandyke—the cynical, bitter,
large-hearted, profound, and clownish
personage—Dr. Vandyke had come
all the way from Williamsburg to be
present at the wedding, which he had
contemplated with a grin, and spiced
with an allusion to Mrs. Snuffers, a venerable
personage, whom he believed to
be bent on marrying him. As the night
drew on, and the long hours fled by like
birds into the darkness, the wit and
satire of Dr. Vandyke sparkled more and
more.
Beside the great punch-bowl, and occasionally
waving the ladle around his
head, he resembled some eccentric goblin,
and there was something weird
about his laughter. But, toward midnight
this merriment disappeared—the
face of this strange man grew deeply
sorrowful. With his eyes fixed upon
the great clock, whose hand approached
twelve, the doctor fell into a reverie, and
sighed.
Phil Cary laid a hand upon his shoulder,
and cried:
“What are you thinking of, doctor?”
Dr. Vandyke uttered a deeper sigh
than before.
“Poor Ruthven!” he muttered.
THE END.
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