33. XXXIII.
THE RING.
Another month had passed. It was
one of those nights of winter when the
world seems to have bid farewell forever
to warmth and sunshine; when the
wind groans drearily around the houses
and through leafless trees, and the moon,
drifting through long surges of black
cloud, only adds with its funereal and
flitting beams to the hopeless desolation
of the face of the world.
Innis traversed the deserted streets
of Williamsburg, slowly advancing toward
the residence of Honoria. He had
been summoned by her, after a long
separation caused by the serious illness
of the young lady; he was ignorant of
the object of this long - deferred interview;
but something whispered to him
that it had some connection with the
continuous visits of Lord Ruthven, and
the dreary expression of the pale and
haggard face indicated the nature of his
anticipations.
He entered the house, not noticing
that the old family servant, who opened
the door, looked at him with deep commiseration.
Honoria was seated alone,
before the fire in the drawing-room, and
a susceptible tremor agitated her frame
as he entered. Innis started. The girl
was no longer any thing but the shadow
of herself. She was fearfully thin and
pale, and the eyes, dim and sunken, were
full of a strange apathy. With her long,
flowing robe fitting but loosely now to
her slender figure, she resembled a ghost.
She was motionless, except that, from
moment to moment, she turned backward
and forward with her thin fingers
a ring upon the third finger of her left
hand.
As Innis approached, she slowly
turned her head and looked at him.
The appearance of the haggard face, and
the apathetic eyes surrounded by red
rings, made him shudder.
“I—sent for you,” she said, in a faint,
low voice, with something dreary and
hopeless in its accent; “I wished to see
you—once at least—before—”
The voice faltered and died away.
“Before—my marriage,” she added,
in a sort of whisper.
Innis shook from head to foot, and
drew a long breath through his set teeth.
“Your marriage?” he said, convulsively.
“My marriage.”
The apathy had extended to the voice
now. Honoria looked at him, and added:
“Then you did not know that I was
to be married?”
The young man suddenly lost all self-command,
and cried:
“O my God! Honoria! Do not say
that! Do not look at me so! I shall
go mad!”
“And I too, Edmund, if I am not so
already.”
The slow, measured accents had not
changed; the young lady was evidently
the victim of utter despair, and her
nerves were paralyzed.
“Do you think,” she went on, “that
I too have had no reason to go mad?
My father has betrothed me to Lord
Ruthven, despite my tears, and prayers
for mercy—only mercy! Nothing moves
him. He acts for my good, he says. I
will thank him some day—girls do not
know their minds—another opportunity
for so great a match may never again
occur—I must abandon my school-girl
fancies—I must marry this nobleman!”
“You cannot—shall not?” Innis
suddenly cried; “it would be monstrous!”
“It will be monstrous.”
“Will be!”
“Yes.”
“You will marry this man?”
“I must!”
Innis fell into a chair, covering his
face with his hands. All his manhood
had succumbed.
“Oh, you cannot, you cannot!” he
cried; “it will kill me!”
“We shall then be together again,”
came in a low, solemn voice from the
girl.
Innis raised his head and looked at
her with fiery eyes, full of blinding
tears.
“Do you think,” said Honoria, slowly
and calmly, “that I am stronger than
you—that I can live through this degradation,
this lie of promising love to him
when I love — you — you only in this
world? I have submitted to the will of
my father, and have not sunk under my
sufferings—I have been very ill, but have
grown well again, as you see. Soon I
shall be ill a second time, and then I shall
not recover. Nor would I. Once I
shrunk from death—now I long for it,
and pray God to send it me, as His
dearest blessing.”
Innis fell upon his knees before her,
seizing the poor, thin hands.
“Oh, do not speak of death, my own
Honoria!” he cried. “Live for me, your
poor, poor Edmund!—refuse to sell yourself
thus, in this hateful, this horrible
union! Your father is cruel—leave him!
Come with me, and be what you are in
the sight of Heaven, my dear wife!”
Honoria slowly shook her head.
“Such unions are not happy. Obedience
to parents is commanded by a
greater power than any upon earth. Do
not urge me, Edmund—there is no hope—
no! Do not let us even speak of that!
Death alone can free me from this frightful
fate. I have sent for you, to tell you
that I shall die soon—to say farewell—
and—”
With a convulsive movement, she
drew the ring from her thin finger, held
it out to Innis, and, turning away her
head, whispered:
“And to return you this.”
The effort exhausted her strength,
but unsealed the blessed fountain of tears.
She burst into passionate sobs, let her
face fall hopelessly upon the wet face of
the youth at her feet, and exclaiming—
“This is killing me, Edmund!” fainted
in his arms.
A quarter of an hour afterward, Honoria
was in her chamber, clasped, almost
lifeless, in the arms of her sister;
and Innis was walking the street with
wild and uncertain steps — a hopeless
man in the dreary winter-night.
