Doctor Vandyke :: :: University of Virginia Library

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,

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

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—affection
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 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.