15. 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
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!
