University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

A few weeks after Howard Pinckney had arrived
at Holly, we find him alone in his room on a cloudy
autumnal day, when the wind moaned and sighed
through the branches of the trees, from which the
whirling leaves fell by thousands. Pinckney's feelings
seemed in unison with the day. Sidney Fitzhurst had
gone to town, whither Pinckney had declined accompanying
him, saying, “Excuse me, I'm not in the
vein.”

After Sidney left, Pinckney sat for a short time
conversing with Fanny, when seizing the first opportunity
to leave her without abruptness, he gracefully
withdrew and repaired to his chamber. He closed
the door, stirred the fire which he had requested should
be lighted, and paced his apartment like one who felt
restless and unhappy. One moment he would pause
before his window with folded arms, and look out upon
the hills on which the dark masses of cloud seemed to
rest; and the next, he would turn and bend his brow
to the floor, and with quickening footsteps tread it.

At last he drew his large travelling trunk near the
fire and seated himself beside it. After opening it,
he took from it a small case or casket, which he unlocked
with a key that was suspended to his watch-chain.
The casket contained several rings of great
value, and a number of letters, most of them written
in a female hand, together with a miniature of a lovely
woman. The miniature was beautifully set in gold,
and in the back of it a lock of fine dark hair was inserted.
There was a singular expression in Pinckney's
countenance as his eye rested on it, a frown clouded
his brow, while a smile, that had a touch of sorrow,
played upon his lip.

“A fair, false face,” said he to himself, “and yet
how beautiful — thy power is departing, even the
memory of it grows dim. My heart is like the ocean
after a storm, a fearful storm; while the fragment of
my hopes are around me, a calm has come so deadly,
that those very hopes sleep in its bosom, as though
they wished not life—sought death. Yes! I could gaze
upon you now,” said he, looking upon the miniature,
“and feel as little emotion as your image feels beneath
my eye. But to no one, to man, nor to woman, will
I ever tell, or shall they ever know, all you have made
me suffer. The hell of passions—jealousy, love, pride,
hate—have all at once been at war within my heart,
have scathed it like the angry elements when they
meet in wrath and desolate the earth; but the blackness
and desolation that they leave may afterwards
produce a more abundant fertility—you have not seared
me to the quick, my gentle goddess. I have discovered
that my worship was idolatry; and when I reach the
true shrine my zeal shall be the more constant—yet
how she wrote, and in such language, beyond her sex's
custom.”

So speaking, he opened one of the letters and read
as follows:

“In the land of your birth, which is to be that
of my adoption—mine own becomes yours.

In that land of yours the travellers hold there were
fountains of perennial flow, from which they might
drink and perpetuate their youth and comeliness.
Our hearts shall be unto our loves such a fountain;
and like the waters in the vale of Avoca, they shall
mingle into one.

“As you discovered my secret without my knowledge,
as Romeo discovered Juliet—I, like her, throw
off my maidenly reserve, and give utterance to the
language of my heart. Though descended from American
parents—but an Italian by birth—my native skies
have touched my heart with Italian influences and
feelings. To meet some one whom I could love, and
on whom with undoubting faith I could fling all the
wealth of my heart, has been the only dream to which
my imagination has been constant. And if, sometimes,
o'er the heaven of my hope a cloud arose, the
winged torch-bearer would flash the mists away and
reveal the star. O! Howard, Howard! your letters
speak such a strength of love, that while my heart
echoes it I feel my pen cannot express it. And yet
confess, do you not think less of me for attempting it—
is there not a feeling in your sex, which, while it
hoards a woman's love with a miser's care, yet experiences
a sensation of coldness towards her when she
tells it? While your sex tell their love with a prodigality
of language, and while they expect all devotedness
from ours, why is it that there is so much waywardness
mingled with it, for I maintain that your sex
are much more wayward and capricious—start not—
in love than mine own. When a woman gives her
love, she gives her all—her diffidence may have kept
it hidden in her heart for a while, but that very
secresy increases its powers like the restrained waters
of a torrent, which, when they break forth, can never
be rolled back again. Tell me, tell me, do you not
think less of me because I have spoken so plainly to
you—you are a Southerner, and while your blood is all

meridian, yet is it not, tell me, is it not sometimes capricious
in its currents, if not icy in its flow. I will believe
that you will never suffer it to become frozen
towards me; but am I as sure that it will never become
chilled?”

“Chilled!” exclaimed Pinckney with bitterness;
“yes it is chilled, and I would that it were frozen.”
“But,” said he, and he made the quotation from his
favourite, slowly, like one who is impressed with the
truth of every word. “I suppose the thinks

“But why should I read them. Often,” said he, as
he placed the letters and likeness in the casket, and
locked it within his trunk, “often have I determined to
destroy those memorials, as I have flattered myself I had
overcome my foolish passion. But what folly; the
very effort that I vainly make to destroy them, shows
that some of the old feeling survives. There let them
remain; yes, there they shall be until they are as indifferent
to my eyes as the commonest object in
nature, which I look on without being aware of it.”

Here the sound of Fanny's voice, as she sung and
accompanied herself on the piano, reached Pinckney's
ears. He pushed the trunk from him, arose, and with
scrupulous care adjusted his dress before the glass;
and after taking two or three turns up and down the
room, as if to compose his feelings, he repaired to her
presence.

As Pinckney entered the room, Fanny arose from
the piano, humming as she did so the words of the
song:

“Do you believe that, Mr. Pinckney?” she asked

gaily. The shadow of a moment passed over Pinckney's
brow, and then he answered as gaily.

“Had I experience, Miss Fitzhurst, I should probably
say with the poet. But I am no believer in love,
as I have told you, and therefore my advice would be
not to be on with any love at all. Love is the vitality
of a novel, the life of it; but to life itself, to the reality,
it is the simoon of the desert to the flower that springs
by the fountain; it withers up both fountain and
flower. There,” said he, changing his tone, and
seating himself beside her, “in so fair a presence have
I not spoken like a most skeptical cynic. But, Miss
Fitzhurst, maybe I have found the grapes sour.”

“I should really think so myself,” said Fanny,
“sometimes; did not brother and others give such
account of the smiles you have won.”

“And lost,” interrupted Pinckney; “say they
nothing of the smiles I have won and—lost.”

“No, not a word of what you have lost; as their
authority for what you had won was probably an
autobiographical account, the hiatus may be accounted
for.”

“You are severe, Miss Fitzhurst, this morning;
what has perplexed you? would not your curls obey
the schooling of your fingers or your maids? or
were you disappointed in getting your new bonnet
yesterday?”

“No, sir; neither of those awful calamities has
occurred. I have my hair this morning plain as a
Madonna's, not because of the merits of the morning,
but because it suited my whims. And as for new bonnets
I am condemned all this winter to the country, Mr.
Pinckney, and a new bonnet would be my aversion,
for it would put me in mind of town.”

“I am to be envied,” said Pinckney. “How many
of the gay gallants of the city would like to have the
pleasure of sharing your exile. Alas! there is this

great difference, however, that you sigh for town, while
you put me in raptures with the country. There
be those in town who could make you think, are
there, that the country was a paradise?”

“No, sir,” said Fanny, with perhaps a little frankness,
as though she were provoked at the levity of
Pinckney, “no, sir; there be no such person either in
town or country.”

Pinckney fixed his eye for a moment on the carpet,
and then, laughing, said: “I am like many an unfortunate
fellow who is envied for what I acknowledge
is most enviable; but for that may eventually make
him miserable.”

“You said that quite gallantly, Mr. Pinckney.
Like many a dramatic gentleman whom I have seen
upon the stage, who having been often applauded for
the fine way with which he uttered compliment by
rote, always does it with a consciousness—”

“That his fair listener deserves it,” said Pinckney,
continuing the sentence; “come, will you not play
for me.”

“Certainly, sir. And as you would have me believe
that you are the victim of unrequited love, O!
la”—

“You do me wrong, Miss Fitzhurst, I am as
heartless as the bamboo that grows up without a heart
—hollow.”

“There is many a true word spoken in jest. I
don't believe you are capable of love. You are a
male flirt and a flatterer. But, sir, hoping that some
day you may require by art, what you have not by
nature,—a heart, I will sing you a song on `Love.'
The words were written by a college chum of brother's,
so you may say of them what you please; but I'd
have you know, sir, that I set them to music myself.