University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

When Pinckney entered his apartment he threw
himself into a chair, and soliloquised:

“Well, the state of my heart is like that of a person
who inhabits some romantic apartment, and who
thinks he knows all its appurtenances—its whole condition—when
suddenly a hidden spring is touched in the
wall which discloses to him scenes that he dreamed
not of—breathing glowing pictures where he dreamed
there was nothing but the cold marble. Ha! my
heart was stone, thought I—a petrifaction brought
about by Miss Clara Atherton's unworthiness, and
never to be impressed again—when lo! at the word—
no, the look of another—the marble melts, the rock
gives forth the waters. Is it smitten but to flow fruitlessly?
If I have not lost my sagacity, this Mr. Bradley
has designs upon Fanny. But it is all folly; why
should I yield to such feelings? I had given them up
—I must aim at some object in life; as it is, I am tossed
about by every wayward circumstance and impression.”

While Pinckney communed with himself, he arranged
his toilet with more care than a disregard to
the fair presence he was about to enter would warrant.
The servant rapped at his door to announce
tea before he left his mirror. Tea was scarcely
over when a couple of carriages drove up to the door,
and a number of Fanny's city acquaintances entered the
house. They were her intimates, and had come sans
ceremonie, as they said, to make a social party. In
the withdrawing room they formed a brilliant circle.

In spite of himself, Pinckney was abstracted
and silent. Bradley kept close to Fanny, and was
evidently exerting all his powers of address to please
her. Pinckney could not but confess to himself, as
Sir Lucius O'Trigger says, that there was a great
probability of success about him. Fanny was in
high spirits, and Pinckney attributed it to the presence
of Bradley.

Miss Moreland and Colonel Bentley were of the
party, and a short time after their arrival, Sarah Grattan,
who had been sent for by Fanny, entered the
room. Pinckney took a seat beside her, and they entered
into conversation, but their thoughts wandered
from each other; for Sarah could not but perceive
that Sidney was apparently deeply interested in Miss
Moreland, with whom he was conversing, while
Pinckney had not yet gained his self-possession.
With a searching eye he glanced at Bradley, and discovered,
as he thought, something in his manner that
implied a consciousness of Pinckney's feelings, and of
his own powers of pleasing.

In a morbid mood, Pinckney rose and left the room.
He passed out of the house, notwithstanding the chilliness
of the evening, sauntered forth under the noble
oaks that formed an extensive park beside the mansion.

“What a fool am I,” said he; “where is my boasted
self-control? gone to the winds. Am I really in
love with Fanny? This Mr. Bradley thinks so, 'tis
evident; and what a conscious air of success he bears
about him. I found her hanging on his arm—he is
an old acquaintance—has been here for days, and—
yes, thinks himself successful. I thought I had created
an interest in her feelings, and while I thought so
I forgot to examine my own, and deemed them but
passingly awakened. My senses are not in the best
plight, and this night air won't string them anew. This

Bradley is a man of manner, and, they say, of intellect.”

As this last thought passed his mind, Pinckney
entered the house, paused at the drawing-room door,
and then passed on into the library. He stood leaning
against a book-case, in deep abstraction, when
the door opened, and Fanny entered.

“Ah, Mr. Pinckney!” she exclaimed, “what makes
you such a truant from gay company.”

“Listen to me, Miss Fitzhurst, but for one moment,”
said Pinckney, as he gently closed the door;
“but for one moment.”

The impassioned tone in which he spoke produced
an instantaneous effect upon Fanny; the lively expression
of her countenance became subdued, and
she looked on him with emotions, in which there was
evidently some surprise.

“Miss Fitzhurst, listen to me: I cannot control
my feelings, why should I hide them. I have been a
wanderer, you know, in other lands, and there for a
passing hour I deemed my feelings interested; they
were interested in one who soon broke the charm. I
left Europe with the conviction that the shadow of
the wing of love, not even upon his flight, should ever
cross my heart again. I held it a romance which
thereafter was to be to me like the bowl that was
broken and the wine that was spilt;—a romance that
pleased me but for a moment, and left me the next to
feel, but more keenly, the dull reality to which sober
truth abandoned me. Since then, I have made a jest
of love and of myself, for fancying that I was possessed
of the emotion—yes, made a jest of it until I
saw and knew you; and even then, I struggled with
my own heart as man never struggled. I cultivated
the stoicism that Langdale inculcates, and tried to
hug it to my heart, as a miser would his gold. I
struggled in vain: there was a fair image there that

melted the icy philosophy. I saw you to-night; I
saw another attentive to you, and the truth—the full
conviction of the state of my affections—rushed upon
me with a force which I could not resist or conceal.
I have been wandering this half hour in the park,
trying in vain to school my feelings into something
like a fitness for society. I could not—I could not.
I repaired hither to look at some old sentence of
philosophy, and catch the feeling, when you—the
bright creator of all this tumult in a heart I deemed
callous to your sex, entered. Forgive me, I know I
have been hasty; but as you—but, Miss Fitzhurst,
as you value the peace of mind of another, think of
what I say when I declare how much I love you.”

At this moment the library door opened, and Mr.
Bradley appeared.

In the meantime the feelings of Sarah Grattan, who
still sat in the withdrawing room, were as disquieted
as those of her late companion. Colonel Bentley had
taken Pinckney's place when he left the room, and,
being fond of teasing, and not indifferent to Sarah
himself, and suspecting her interest in Sidney, he
said:

“I suppose you have heard the news, Miss Grattan?”

“What news, colonel?” she asked.

“Why, that our friend Sidney is to marry Miss
Moreland.”

“Ah,” said Sarah, faintly; “yes, yes—is it so?”

“A fact I have every reason to believe.”

At this moment Miss Rachellina, in all the dignity
of antiquated maidenhood, approached them in her
way to the other side of the room, and the colonel
said to her—“Miss Rachellina, I am just telling Miss
Sarah of the news; I am surprised she has not heard
it, and she seems surprised at hearing it.”

“What is it?” Colonel Bentley.

“That my friend Sid is to change the name of Miss
Moreland.”

“I don't see why Miss Grattan should be surprised,”
said Miss Rachellina, sharply, for at the moment
Fanny's jests with her brother with regard to Sarah
arose in her memory; “I don't see why Miss Grattan
should be surprised, I am sure it is a most desirable
match in every respect. Miss Moreland's family is
highly respectable in every way; her connections are
all among our first people; she has been brought up
in the very best of society, and is an accomplished,
fashionable, and beautiful woman.”

So speaking, with a stern glance at Sarah, Miss
Rachellina passed on. A few moments afterwards
Sidney went up to Sarah, and said to her that arrangements
which he had been making with Miss
Moreland to pay a visit to some of her acquaintance
with her for a few days, had prevented him from taking
a seat by her sooner, when Miss Rachellina called
him to her, and gave him some commission to execute
in another room. Sarah's heart sunk within her.
Colonel Bentley, not suspecting the depth of her emotions,
but observing her ashy paleness, supposed she
was seized with sudden indisposition, and exclaimed:

“Bless me, Miss Grattan! you are ill.”

“Yes, sir; yes—rather so. May I take your arm,
and will you walk with me into the open air for a
moment? the room is close—I shall recover myself in
a moment.”

“Certainly, certainly;” and the colonel assisted
her out of the room. Arrived in the entry, she begged
him to wait for a moment; and hurrying to the
chamber where she had deposited her bonnet and
cloak, she returned, and, taking his arm, went out into
the air.

“I really wish that I were at home,” said she. “I
feel, indeed, ill.”

“You had better enter the house, Miss Grattan, and
go to a chamber, and lie down.”

“No, no; I thank you—no. Colonel, is not that
carriage there, with the lamp burning, the one in which
you came out?”

“It is,” Miss Grattan.

“Do—do, then, in pity's sake, let your driver take
me home.”

“Certainly; if you wish it I will accompany you,
but had you not better remain here?”

“Indeed I must not; my uncle will expect me.
You need not accompany me.”

“It gives me pleasure, if you will go,” said the
colonel, and he handed her into the carriage, and gave
the driver directions.

Before they arrived at Mr. Elwood's, Sarah, by a
powerful effort, had somewhat rallied her spirits.
She contrived to say, in a tone of cheerfulness, that
she was much better as they drove to the door, and
the colonel, after handing her in, and lingering for a
few minutes, bid her adieu.

Sarah followed him to the door, and requested him
to make apologies for her to Fanny. He promised
to do so, and the coach drove off. Sarah stood unconsciously
gazing after it, when her uncle came up to
her, and said:—

“Sarah, you're soon home; suppose you got tired
of the flummery there, child. I got a letter from Bronson
to-day; he expressed bushels of love for you. He
pressed me very much upon your marrying him.
Come, girl; come, now; don't dilly-dally so; say
when.”

“Uncle, in mercy spare me upon that subject.”

“Spare the devil, Sarah; I tell you it must be.
Now, that's a good girl; say when.”

“Spare me now a little while, and you may dispose
of me as you choose,” said Sarah, in an agonised tone,

and she passed into the house, and, lifting a light,
repaired to her chamber.

Poor Juliet in her agony was not sadder than
Sarah that night. She took her needle-work, and
tried, by a strong effort, to compose her mind; but, alas!
the mournful tales of blighted love that Nurse Agnes
was so fond of telling her, rose so vividly to her
memory, that they seemed to pass between her and
the wall, as though she were sitting at a play—more
as though she witnessed the reality. Her mind particularly
dwelt upon the story of Jane Lovel—her
fearful end, and the desolation that fell upon her parents,
and their deaths seemed to press like a weight
at her heart. Sarah often attempted poetry, though
she was too modest to show any of her attempts to
even her nearest friends. The following fragment
which she blotted with many tears as she wrote it,
and thus found in weeping some relief, may, perhaps,
dimly shadow forth to the reader her emotions. They
were written some days after this event: