30. XXX.
THE TWO RIVALS.
A month,!—a moment, an age; an
atom of time, an eternity! A month—
in which the idler dawdles through the
dull and colorless days, each flying,
eventless, in the wake of each; in
which, too, the good ship encircles one-half
of the world! A month—in which
existences fill with sunshine, or are sunk
in shadow; in which hearts break, and
griefs are assuaged; in which all things
come to us, or all things leave us, making
us happy or miserable, as the kind
Father of all decrees! Fatal days and
hours, in which the tide ebbs and flows!
I know nothing more remorseless, more
paralyzing to the reason, than this certainty
of the uncertain—this ignorance
of what a day may bring forth!
This month, over which we have
glided, brought Lord Ruthven as a suitor
to the feet of Honoria Brand. In
spite of every effort which the young
nobleman made to tear himself away
from her, he gravitated ever nearer,
more and more surely; one by one his
fears were dissipated, his resolutions undermined
and overthrown. He had
fallen passionately in love with the little
“Brand beauty;” and on this morning
was bent upon formally asking her hand
of her father.
Honoria and Innis had witnessed this
misfortune with inexpressible agony.
So far from becoming indifferent to Edmund,
in consequence of the thousand
gayeties and distractions which surrounded
her, Honoria had felt her affection
for the youth increase with every
passing hour. With natures like that of
this young girl, faith and constancy are
instincts—trial only strengthens them;
use brightens and tempers the metal, as
fire tests gold. To have Lord Ruthven,
therefore, appear as a suitor, was an inexpressible
pain to her—to Innis it was
almost paralysis. And, worst of all, he
could do nothing. What could he do?
For the youth, almost penniless, to aspire
to the hand of the wealthy and
beautiful young heiress, was, of itself,
sufficiently presumptuous; but, to go
to Colonel Brand and say: “I love
Honoria, and, for that all-sufficient reason,
ask you to refuse the proposed alliance
with Lord Ruthven, and give her to
me!”—that was little less than insanity.
Pride was the master-passion of the colonel—the
ambition of seeing his daughter
make a great match; and now, when
this match was offered, when Honoria
could become my Lady Ruthven, the
wife of a nobleman, Colonel Brand was
to be expected to say, “My daughter
cannot wed your lordship. I reserve
her for a poor, obscure little cousin of
ours!”
The result was, that Innis was wretched,
and Honoria was not happier. She,
too, saw the fate coming — could find
no ray of hope. All that these young
hearts could do, in their unhappy situation,
was to love each other more and
more, comfort each other with expressions
of hope in which they did not believe,
and await the intervention of that
good Providence which, watching over
the sparrows, watches much more over
pure hearts, loving and faithful to each
other.
On this morning, when we have heard
Lord Ruthven order his coach, Innis and
Honoria were conversing in the drawing-room;
and the poor youth had spoken
of the probable fate to befall them, with
mingled pride, suffering, and courage.
In the midst of their conversation, a
chariot stopped before the door, a knock
was heard, and the voice of Lord Ruthven
asked for Colonel Brand. The servant
was then heard replying that his
master was not at home, whereupon
Lord Ruthven asked for Miss Honoria,
was informed that she was in, and entered
the drawing-room.
As his eyes fell upon the young lady
and Innis, Ruthven turned visibly paler,
and his agitation was obvious. He,
nevertheless, advanced calmly into the
apartment, bowed with cordial courtesy,
and, offering his hand to Innis, said:
“I have not had the pleasure of seeing
you for some weeks, Mr. Innis.”
Innis returned his salutation with
calmness, and said:
“My books have taken up my attention
greatly, my lord; and then I fear
you attach little pleasure to our meeting
—the first time was unfortunate, and you
doubtless owe me a grudge.”
“For my fall? By no means, sir;
and I do not regret it, since it gave me
the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
There was something sincere and
courteous in the voice of Ruthven. His
melancholy was ineradicable, but the
new influence operating upon his character
seemed to have made his disposi
tion more frank and kindly. Innis bowed,
and said:
“Your lordship alludes with great
courtesy to what I shall always lament.”
And, having exchanged these polite
commonplaces, the gentlemen sat down.
Honoria's cheeks were burning, and
she kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet,
scarce raising them as she replied to the
commonplace phrases of Lord Ruthven.
That gentleman was much too well bred
to appear to notice the evident constraint
of the young lady's manner; and thus
half an hour passed, at the end of which
time Lord Ruthven rose, begged that
Honoria would present his compliments
to the family, bowed, first to the young
lady, and then to Innis, and left the
house.
Innis resumed his seat, and for some
time gazed in silence upon the floor.
“There is no longer any room for
doubt,” he said at length, with the calmness
of despair.
“To doubt, Edmund?” murmured
the young girl, faintly.
“In what character Lord Ruthven
comes hither,” said Innis; “'tis as a
suitor for your hand, Honoria.”
Honoria covered her face with her
hands and sobbed. The poor child had
no words to reply—she knew that denial
was vain.
“Am I mistaken in so thinking?”
said Innis. “You know this, as I do, do
you not?”
“Yes!”
And a second sob followed the desparing
monosyllable.
“His suit will prosper. You will be
—his wife, Honoria! Your father will
never permit you to reject a nobleman
of his high position! He is worthy of
you, too—anger shall not make me unjust.
But, worthy or unworthy, the die
is cast!”
“Oh, no! I will never, never consent!”
sobbed the girl.
“How can you resist?” said Innis, in
despair. “Your father's will is strong
enough to break down your own. He
will disregard your opposition and declare
that you know not what is best for
you. In his eyes, you will be but a coy
and romantic girl, unable to choose your
destiny aright.”
Honoria sobbed out, in a helpless
voice:
“O Edmund, Edmund, he cannot,
will not, force me to so miserable a
union. Lord Ruthven is a gentleman
worthy of esteem; but to marry him
would make me wretched, and I will tell
papa so! He is not so hard, it may be,
as you think him, Edmund. He loves
me, and when I tell him that—I love
you only—am yours, in the sight of
Heaven—that I have no other heart—”
The poor, faltering voice broke down.
In a faint whisper she added:
“Oh, he will not make me so wretched!”
Innis shook his head.
“You do not know what men are
made of, my poor darling—they are very
hard. The heart is very hard when the
hair is gray, and the blood cold. They
find excellent reasons, then, for separating
young hearts—money, position, prudence,
is the text of their discourse;
and I know not if I should blame them—
if, in Colonel Brand's situation, I should
act otherwise.”
“Oh, no!—do not speak so! I will
never, never become Lady Ruthven!”
The words seemed to pierce Innis
like a weapon, coming thus from Honoria's
lips, and his brows were suddenly
knit.
“Lady Ruthven! Are you so sure,”
he said, groaning, “that the difference
between plain Mrs. Edmund Innis and
my Lady Ruthven will not have some influence
on you even?”
“Edmund,” she exclaimed, “this is
cruel, very cruel in you! 'Tis unworthy
of you to so wound a poor girl who is
unhappy enough already!”
“Yes, doubtless 'tis cruel,
unworthy;
but I am so wretched! How can I see
my happiness, more than my life, at
stake, and keep my senses? Maidens
have lived who have shrunk under this
sore temptation—who, when called upon
to choose between a poor youth and a
wealthy nobleman, have forgotten all but
the splendor upon one side and the poverty
on the other. But, God keep me
from classing you with such, Honoria!
I am as certain of your faith as I am of
my own existence—I know that, if your
hand be tied to this gentleman's by a
mockery, your heart would not go with
it—I know all that, Honoria; I trust you
as I would trust an angel—but what is
the result for me?—what can I do? All
is dark before me!—I can do nothing—”
Innis bowed his head, and, for a moment,
no sound was heard but the sobs
of Honoria.
Suddenly Innis rose erect, and a
glance at his face indicated that, in this
single instant, he had come to a fixed
resolution.
“Listen, my poor, dear Honoria!—
my only hope in life! A man can only
fail. When he has done his best, and is
crushed, he can still fall with honor, and
with some solace in his misery! I will
formally ask your father for his daughter's
hand. Should he refuse, then—”
The door opened as Innis was speaking,
and Colonel Brand entered the
apartment.
