 | CHAPTER XVII. Howard Pinckney |  |
We must now transport our readers to New York.
On the steps of the Astor house, of a bright morning,
Pinckney was seen looking upon the park. Already
more than one fair cynosure of that brilliant city had
dwelt with an admiring eye upon the young southerner,
whose graceful form and handsome countenance attracted
the notice of all who chanced to glance at
him; and there were few, particularly of the gentle
sex, who passed by unobservant of his gallant bearing.
Taking the arm of his friend, Matemon, from
Charleston, he said:
“Let's go to the post-office.”
“With pleasure,” replied Matemon. “Pinckney,
you're a lucky fellow; your cotton which you thought
was going off at so great a sacrifice has sold at the
highest profit; your coffers are overflowing, and
your are about to wed one who will not only add to
your abundance, but whose mind, beauty, and heart,
are worthy of all praise.”
“Yes,” replied Pinckney, “I do believe in the last
report; at least I have secured a prize that is beyond
the caprices of fortune.”
“You're a lucky fellow, indeed!” exclaimed Matemon.
“I envy you.”
Arrived at the post office, Pinckney received Fanny's
put hastily in his pocket, and, stepping aside from his
friend, with a lover's impatience he opened what he
thought the love-freighted mission with a heart all
joy.
He could not at first believe the evidences of his
sences, as he perused Fanny's laconic note. Twice
and thrice he read it ere the full conviction impressed
itself upon his startled senses.
Nerving himself with self-possession, Pinckney took
the arm of Matemon, who, as they retrod their steps,
said:
“What news from Holly? that must have been a
love-letter, Pinckney?”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because you stepped aside to read it. The lover
is like the miser—he counts and recounts his treasure
privately.”
“Ah! you are mistaken; this time it was no love-letter.
Matemon, I have some letters to write—I cannot
make those calls with you as I promised. Apologise
for me, will you?”
“You will disappoint those ladies, Pinckney. You
had better go,” rejoined Matemon.
“Thank you, no. I have a letter which must be
answered by return of post. I'll see you at dinner.”
So speaking, the friend departed. With a curling lip
and a firm step, which concealed a whirlwind of emotions,
in which at the moment wounded pride predominated,
the proud southerner proceeded to his apartment.
Arrived there, he ordered his servant to deny
him, no matter who called, and strode the room for
an hour without knowing that a minute had elapsed.
Deep, dark, and misanthropical were his feelings—
over which, like a sunburst that flashes and vanishes,
better thoughts came to be crushed in the moment of
their birth.
“No!” he exclaimed as such an emotion crossed
him. “No! there can be no mistake in the origin
of this communication. It is as mercenary as Mammon
itself—as mercenary as hell. This bright dreamer
of abiding affection; this fair creature of eighteen;
this lady lapped in fortune's favours; realization of romantic
love—she who would have clung to me, as she
avowed, though poverty and famine clung to her, has
thought better of it. My fortune's gone, she thinks,
and she goes too. By heaven, I would not have believed
it! but for this conclusive testimony, though a
cloud of angels had borne evidence to the fact. Fool,
fool! thrice fooled! O! what a dream of happiness
has melted from my anticipation. This delicate
flower had the serpent in it—not taken to my bosom
yet, though—not taken to my bosom—yet for better
and for worse. Well, though they think—they must
have done it—it could not have been of her own
heart;—but what is the heart worth that so yields—
though they think I have lost my pelf, they shall find
I have not lost my pride.”
Agained Pinckney perused Fanny's note, and, seating
himself at the table, he hastily wrote the following
reply:—
“Mr. Pinckney's compliments to Miss Fitzhurst,
with the acknowledgment of the return of `the
presents and letters she had received from Mr. Pinckney.'
Mr. P. returns Miss Fitzhurst's, and asks no
acknowledgment of their reception. While Mr.
Pinckney congratulates himself that his supposed loss
of fortune has shown him the mercenary notices of
those whom he supposed above all such influences,
and with whom he was on the eve of forming so close
an alliance, he regrets poignantly that the facts will
go far to destroy his belief in any human being's disinterestedness.
In justice to himself, Mr. Pinckney
as alien to his heart as he supposed them alien to Miss
Fitzhurst's. Mr. Pinckney re-echoes Miss Fitzhurst's
remark, that should Mr. P. and Miss Fitzhurst ever
meet it must be on the footing of entire strangers.
Mr. P's only regret is, that their original dissimilarity
of character had not kept them strangers.”
Fanny herself did not make up her package half
so quick as Pinckney, or order her servant to take it
to the post-office, with half the determination with
which he despatched his on a similar errand.
Again he strode his room, with something almost
of fierceness in his eye, like one who has retaliated
upon an enemy. Strange this balked love is! and
how in the human heart the flower it most nurtured,
will, under some overwhelming influence, seemingly
turn to the deadly Upas.
Then he reflected how he should revenge himself
further, and almost made up his mind that he would
instantaneously return to —, and offer himself to
Miss Atherton. Such revenge is often taken—if that
can be called revenge, which is the certain proof that
the unwedded is the beloved one.
This reflection brought to mind Langdale's attentions
to Miss Atherton, and it occurred to him to
peruse the letter which he had received from his
friend. He did so, and was somewhat surprised at
its contents, which ran thus:
| CHAPTER XVII. Howard Pinckney | |