34. XXXIV.
PHIL CARY FINDS THE MOMENT.
It was the morning succeeding this
scene, full of passionate anguish. In the
same chair which had been occupied by
Honoria in the drawing-room, sat her
sister Lou, bending down and weeping.
“I cannot endure it! Oh, I cannot
endure the thought!” she sobbed out.
“It will kill Honoria! What is to become
of us? Oh, what is to become of us?”
The hands which had covered her
beautiful face fell, and her eyes were
seen bathed in tears which flowed silently
down the flushed cheeks. She gazed
for some moments fixedly upon the floor;
uttered a moan; and, rising to the full
height of her superb figure, leaned for
support—for she felt weak and faint—
against the carven wood-work of the tall
mantel-piece.
Such was her preoccupation that she
did not hear the door open, or see a
personage who stopped upon the threshold.
“Oh, this place is hateful, hateful!”
she exclaimed. “Why did we ever come
hither, and Honoria meet this person?
If I could only fly from this town—never
to return! Oh, who will take me?”
“I, Lou,” said a voice behind her, and
turning quickly she saw Phil Cary, smiling,
with a frank light in his blue eyes,
standing in the door-way.
“You!” she exclaimed; “I did not
know that you were within a hundred
miles, sir!”
Phil Cary's face had been full of happy
smiles. Now he blushed suddenly, and
a gloomy expression replaced the sunshine.
“So the capital has made you formal!”
he said.
“Formal!—me?”
“You no longer call me Phil as at
Rivanna—then you have forgotten me,
or grown cold to me?”
Miss Lou Brand blushed unmistakably
in her turn.
“Cold?—no! you are so unjust!—
why should you think—!” There she
stopped.
There seemed little reason for so
much embarrassment, or for such careful
avoidance of her visitor's eye. What
could be the matter with the witty and
satirical Miss Brand?
The young man became more and
more gloomy; but it was easy to see that
with this gloom mingled a passionate
sentiment of some description.
“I thought you would have met me
with a little more cordiality, Lou,” he
said. “But pardon me—doubtless 'tis
disagreeable to you to have such liberties
taken.”
“Liberties!” murmured the young
lady, carefully not looking at him.
“The liberty of calling you by your
old name. I will not further offend.”
“Oh no! no!—do not call me otherwise;
do not be formal with me, Philip.”
A roseate flush spread itself over the
beautiful face.
“I am so unhappy!” she added, with
a suppressed sob.
“Very unhappy?”
The impetuous youth drew the hand
which he held in his own toward him.
The owner did not seem to observe the
circumstance, or the fact that her companion
was gazing into her averted face
with passionate tenderness.
“Oh, yes, yes!” she murmured;
“this town is hateful to me! Why
should I conceal my feelings, or hide our
family trouble from you? Honoria is to
marry my Lord Ruthven!—think of it!
He is odious to her—or, if not odious,
indifferent — and she, you know, she
loves Edmund with her very heart of
hearts! Oh, 'tis frightful! Can Heaven
smile upon a union so repulsive? To
give the hand to one when the heart is
another's—to be driven to a marriage
from which you shrink with a shudder
of disgust! And yet, 'tis fated to be
thus — our father is immovable. Last
night Edmund bade farewell forever to
Honoria, and the poor, poor thing fainted
in his arms—where she belongs—where
she belongs!”
And the warm-hearted girl burst into
passionate tears. Before she was aware
of it, she was sobbing upon her old playmate's
shoulder; he was speaking to her
in hurried, passionate words of love and
comfort; and, a quarter of an hour afterward,
the young man, in a moment, as it
were, and ignorant almost how it came
about, had avowed his own love, and was
the girl's accepted lover.
These things thus happen. — They
had lived all their lives together,
jested,
laughed, teased each other daily — not
knowing that, amid all that mirth and
carelessness, they were gradually approaching
the moment when they would
love each other! This instant of passionate
anguish had decided their destinies.
The beautiful young girl was sobbing,
suffering, looking around her for some
one to comfort her, and Fate brought
her playmate—loved more than she herself
dreamed. He had spoken, and the
throbbing hearts beat close, each pressed
to each, in a long, lingering embrace.
An hour afterward, Miss Lou Brand,
blushing in an angelic manner, and smiling
through her tears like an April morning,
whispered, faintly:
“But, your mother, Philip? She
does not wish you to marry anybody,
you know. Are you sure—do you think
she will—have me?”
The reply of Mr. Phil Cary to this
question was of a peculiar character;
but neither his words nor his actions will
be here recorded. In due time he succeeded
in expressing himself intelligibly,
and informing the young lady that his
excellent mother had been quite ill; that
she longed for a daughter-in-law to cheer
her loneliness; and he further assured his
companion that Mrs. Cary had ended
their last discussion by warmly urging
her son to pay his addresses to Lou
Brand.
“Then—”
The young lady uttered that single
word, blushing radiantly as she did so,
and glancing sidewise for the hundredth
part of a second at her lover.
“Don't, Philip!” came from her a
moment afterward; and, as the description
of this scene has proceeded to sufficient
length, we now close the door, and
discreetly retire.
