38. XXXVIII.
THE WILL.
For some moments the silence of
death reigned in the apartment. It was
first broken by Ruthven, who had listened
with profound attention, and now, when
the narrative was finished, inclined his
head with calm courtesy.
“You have related a very singular
history, sir,” he said, “and I have listened
with attention and interest; but
you will pardon me for saying that I do
not see the necessity for my own presence
upon this painful occasion.”
“No necessity, my lord!” replied
Colonel Brand. “Your pardon, in my
turn, but I think it was absolutely incumbent
upon me to request your presence.”
“For what reason, sir?”
“Simply in view of the relation
which you sustained toward my family,
as the accepted suitor of my daughter.”
“The relation which I sustained,
sir?” said Ruthven. “Did I hear
aright?”
“Yes, my lord,” returned Colonel
Brand, with an obvious struggle to summon
all his fortitude; “to-day that relation
necessarily no longer exists.”
“No longer exists!”
“Assuredly not.”
“May I beg you to explain this extraordinary
observation, sir?” said Ruthven.
“In Heaven's name, why should I
not be still Miss Brand's accepted suitor?”
“Because the engagement of my Lord
Ruthven was to Miss Honoria Brand,
the daughter of Colonel Brand, of Rivanna—therefore
to the heiress of one
of the amplest fortunes in Virginia—”
“Well, well, sir!”
The exclamation was almost impatient.
“That was yesterday. To-day things
are different. Your engagement was to
a young lady of great possessions, not
to a portionless girl. Therefore it terminates.”
“Terminates? Do I hear aright,
sir? Am I, then, a vulgar person without
dignity or sentiments of honor? Did
you really suppose that, in paying my
addresses to Miss Brand, I was actuated
by the desire of gain?”
“No, my lord—but this is a painful
subject; let us not further discuss it.”
“Willingly, sir! The discussion is
very far from agreeable to me. I have
listened to the statement of your family
affairs, sir, and appreciate the compliment
paid me in making me a participant.
That subject is now dismissed,
and I may be permitted to pass to one
more agreeable to myself. No change
will take place, I trust, in the time fixed
upon for my union with Miss Brand.”
“No change!—the time! Impossible—this
union is impossible, my lord!
My daughter yesterday would have
brought you a princely dower: to-day,
she scarce possesses more than the clothing
she wears!”
Ruthven inclined his head. “'Tis
sufficient dowry for Miss Brand,” he
said.
“Impossible, my lord!”
Ruthven became almost irritated.
“In the name of Heaven, sir!” he
said, “what difference is there in the
fact you state?”
“I cannot—!”
Ruthven grew cool and ceremonious
suddenly.
“Colonel Brand,” he said, “you are
incapable of acting otherwise than as a
gentleman, and observing your word.
Well, I insist upon the performance of
your promise—that you keep your
plighted word!”
“How can I?” exclaimed the agitated
father, “the thing is not possible!
I repeat, sir, that we are beggars—beggars!—and
that my child is penniless!
There are some promises which a gentleman
should not be called upon to observe!—it
violates every sentiment of
my bosom to take advantage of your
magnanimity, and yield. Once more,
sir, we have nothing—absolutely nothing!
And it is not, permit me to say, in
accordance with my views of propriety
—with my weakness of pride, if you
choose — to permit a daughter of my
house to leave her father's roof-tree like
the child of a peasant; to go forth,
naked and portionless, to the stranger.”
Honoria and Innis had listened to
this colloquy with an alternate hope
and terror which cruelly agitated them.
Hope, despair, every emotion, tore their
hearts; and now all hung upon the reply
of Ruthven.
It came, and was uttered firmly and
deliberately.
“I have but one response to make to
all you have said, sir: I hold you—rigidly—to
the performance of your solemn
promise—to your plighted word of
honor.”
The words were slow, measured, and
fell one by one, as it were, from the compressed
lips of the speaker.
“My word of honor!” murmured
Colonel Brand.
“I mean your contract, if you prefer
the word, sir, but `word of honor' is a
stronger charm to conjure by, with persons
of your character. You accepted
me as your daughter's suitor; gave me
your word that she should become Lady
Ruthven. There all discussion ends, for
you are a gentleman, and noblesse oblige.”
Colonel Brand's head sank.
“Well, have it as you will, my
lord,” he said; “you have overcome me
by this appeal to my honor. You demand
the performance of my plighted
word. I yield, and consent to your union
with my daughter.—But, bear witness,
all present, that I resisted this proposal
to the last.”
He turned toward Honoria, looking
at her with deep melancholy.
“Pride! pride!” he muttered, in an
agitated voice; “how despotic is that
sentiment! Would to God I had a portion
for you, my child! my joy, my life,
wellnigh! That you should go forth a
penniless betrothed!—Bear with me, my
lord! I am growing old, and prouder
each day, I think! This is hard—hard!
But all is over; Honoria is your own, my
Lord Ruthven—her hand awaits you—
but where she will thus await you when
you come to claim her, I know not.”
“Miss Brand will await my Lord
Ruthven at Rivanna!”
The words rang out, cold and measured,
in the sudden silence. They were
uttered by Innis, who advanced a step as
he spoke; and now, taking the will of
Colonel Seaton from the table, tore it in
pieces.
“As the representative of my mother,
I am the legal owner of the estate of
Rivanna,” he added. “This paper is
the evidence of my right and title, and
I choose to destroy it. My cousin will
thus have a suitable portion on her marriage,
and will await my Lord Ruthven
in the home of her family.”
The words were uttered in the same
cold and deliberate tone, and Innis turned
toward Lady Brand and Honoria.
“I thank you for your goodness to
me, aunt, and thank Heaven too, that I
am able to make you this small and poor
return for all your love and tenderness;
for you have been like my own dear
mother. But do not overvalue my act.
For myself, I ask nothing; I care not
for this property. I shall leave Virginia,
and, as this is our last meeting, farewell.
May God bless and keep you—and Honoria!”
He turned toward the girl as he
spoke, and his pale lips moved as though
he wished to say something to her. But
no words were heard. The agony of his
soul had rendered the young man speechless,
and he turned away and left the
apartment.
The actors in this singular scene remained
silent and motionless.
Upon the floor at Colonel Brand's
feet, lay the fragments of the will which
had fallen from the hands of Innis at the
moment when he tore the document to
pieces.
