31. XXXI.
THE INTERVIEW.
Colonel Brand was clad in full dress
—embroidered coat, gold threaded waistcoat,
velvet short-clothes, silk stockings,
ruffles, and powder. His air was even
more stately than when at Rivanna—his
reception by the governor, and the successful
début of his beautiful
daughters,
having, in no small degree, heightened
his consequence in his own eyes.
He bestowed a bow, full of stately
politeness, upon Innis, and, passing his
fingers, after his habitual fashion, between
his neck and cravat, with a lofty
air, said a few words to Honoria. The
young lady replied in a trembling voice;
and, finding that her self-possession was
leaving her—that, if she remained longer,
she would probably burst into tears
—abruptly left the apartment.
Colonel Brand followed her with his
eyes—their expression indicating unmistakable
astonishment. He turned suddenly
to Innis with some hauteur, and
found that the young man had resumed
his seat, thus manifesting a plain intention
not to take his departure. The hauteur
was succeeded by a glance of cold
surprise. The colonel sat down in a
great arm-chair, and, settling his chin in
his ample white cravat, looked at Innis
with the air of one who says, “Well,
sir, what have you to say to me?”
The youth courageously returned the
haughty glance of his companion—for
wretchedness had quite dulled his nerves
—and said:
“I beg a few words with you, sir,
upon a matter of great importance to
me.”
His voice was calm and measured—
the tremor of the tones almost entirely
imperceptible.
“A matter of importance, sir?” said
the colonel, coldly inclining his head; “I
am at your service.”
“I wish to ask your consent to my
marriage with Honoria.”
The words were quickly uttered, but
they seemed to have upon Colonel Brand
the effect of a blow.
“Your marriage!—with Honoria!”
he gasped, thrown completely from his
balance, and losing all his self-possession.
“With Honoria, sir.”
“Are you mad, sir!” came, in the
same gasp of utter astonishment, from
the colonel. “What has put so crazy a
thought into your mind, sir? It is an ut
ter absurdity—a piece of madness!
Your
proposal is astounding, sir!—it shocks
me beyond words!”
Innis was silent. With a heightened
color and a stern compression of the lips,
he braced his strength against the coming
storm.
“Yes, sir! I use the proper word—
your words shock me! Marriage—with
my daughter — Honoria! Good Heavens!”
“I had supposed that you had seen,
perhaps, reason to anticipate this request,
sir.”
The colonel grew purple—anger began
to take the place of astonishment.
“That I had seen—seen reason? Yes
sir, I have seen, as you have the goodness
to word it, your very improper proceedings.
But I had not dreamed, sir, that
it would come to this—that I should
coolly, calmly, without notice, be called
upon to consent to the marriage of Miss
Brand to a person like yourself—to one
who—”
“Stop, sir!” cried Innis suddenly, in
a voice as haughty as the colonel, “at
least spare me your insults; I am at
least a gentleman, and you shall not be
under the necessity of asking me out of
your house. I will leave it!”
As Innis spoke, the burning cheeks,
the flaming eyes, the lips trembling with
sudden ire at the tones of the colonel,
showed that the blood of a haughty
race in the veins of the youth had taken
fire.
“I am poor—nothing it may be, in
your eyes—but I am a gentleman, as you
are aware, sir, and, if I am to be insulted,
this interview shall here terminate!”
Innis rose, stern, cold, and erect—a
statue of pride—and had made a step
toward the door, when the voice of the
other arrested him.
“Sit down, sir,” said the colonel, in
an agitated voice. “I have more to say
to you, and it is far from my design to
offer you any insult.”
The eyes of Innis met those of Colonel
Brand, and he read in the latter no longer
the contemptuous expression which
they had at first worn, rather a gloomy
satisfaction at finding opposed to him
one as proud and strong as himself, who
would not consent to be crushed by a
word and a look.
“I repeat, sir,” said the colonel, “that
I have no earthly intention of offering
you offence—of insulting you. Insult
you? No, sir. If, under the excitement
of the moment—in consequence of this
very sudden and unexpected proposition
—I have forgotten the courtesies of good
society, I beg that you will forgive it, sir,
receiving my apologies. I trust that I
am too well acquainted with the proprieties
of life, and the respect due from one
gentleman to another, to offer outrage to
one bearing your name; but I repeat also,
sir, and I wish to repeat it so plainly
that there can be no misunderstanding,
that the alliance which you do me the
honor to propose is entirely out of the
question.”
Innis bowed with gloomy courtesy in
response to these calmer words, and
said:
“I do not wish to discuss the subject
—to interrogate you, sir; but before I
terminate this interview, the last in all
probability I shall ever have with you,
may I beg you to inform me why my
proposal for Honoria's hand is entirely
out of the question?”
The words as nearly confused Colonel
Brand as it was possible for him to be
confused. He had no answer ready. It
is very easy to exclaim, storm, declare a
thing absurd, but difficult sometimes to
declare why it is absurd. Colonel Brand
remained, therefore, for a moment entirely
silent, and Innis, catching with the
despair of a drowning man at this straw
of hope, suddenly said, in his earnest and
pathetic voice:
“Why—I pray you, sir, to tell me—
why is my marriage with Honoria im
possible? I am a gentleman, her equal,
poor, 'tis true, but I have talent, people
say, and I love her dearly — with the
fondest, the truest devotion—and would
make her happy! Why, then is it so
impossible? I do not ask you to have
pity upon my suffering—that is not the
tone of a man—but I love Honoria so
truly! How shall I live without her!”
This passionate cry of love and anguish,
bursting through all the wrappings
of ceremony, visibly touched the
proud but not narrow or sterile mind of
the colonel. He was silent, but slowly
shook his head, uttering a sort of sigh.
“My young friend,” he said at length,
“this painful interview is quite useless,
'tis only a suffering to us both. You
touch my feelings, but you do not shake
my fixed resolve. I have said, and repeat,
that your social status is not the question
—a gentleman is a gentleman under all
circumstances, whatever his condition;
but your union with Honoria is none the
less an impossibility. She is a mere
child, and, although I do not say that her
age is an insuperable obstacle. 'tis still a
serious one. I believe, sir, that you are
attached to your cousin. I will not for
a single moment do you the gross injustice
of believing, much less of saying,
that mercenary motives control you. A
vulgarian might offer you that insult, sir,
and so be rid of your presence; but I, a
Virginia gentleman, am incapable of so
degrading myself. No, my poor young
friend, I am perfectly well assured that
you are far above so ignoble a calculation;
the question is different, but I am
none the less immovable. I regret that
my words should cause you so much
pain, but believe me, on an occasion like
this, plain words are best. I cannot give
you my daughter, Mr. Innis. Enough
that I am compelled to refuse your request.
For yourself personally, sir, I
cherish both respect and regard. It is
possible that I have not appeared to you
a very cordial personage, but my manners
are naturally reserved, and perhaps
pride is one of my defects. If you have
thought me without regard, even affection
for you, you are mistaken. You
will find this fancy dissipated in course
of time, perhaps, and do me justice.
Now, let us cease to speak upon this very
painful subject. The present conversation
need not make us strangers henceforth,
but I would counsel you as a friend
to avoid as far as possible occasions that
will serve to nourish a hopeless attachment.
I must leave you now, sir; let
us part friends. I do not venture, sir,
under the circumstances, to make offers
to a gentleman of your rank, but, should
the occasion present itself, I shall take
the liberty of proving myself your friend,
begging you not to take offence thereat,
but to regard me as your very sincere
well-wisher.”
With these words the stately colonel
rose, held out his hand to Innis, or
rather took that of the youth in his own,
pressed it cordially, and with a bow, left
the apartment.
Innis had scarcely returned the grasp
of the colonel's hand. His head seemed
turning. He slowly took his hat, and
went, walking as it were in a dream, to
the door, which opened and, closed behind
him.
The clash sent a pang to the lonely
heart up-stairs—the girl who, in her
chamber, lay sobbing as though her
heart were breaking.
