41. XLI.
THE RETURN.
When it was announced that “the
Brand beauty” and her almost equally
lovely sister were about to leave the
capital in the height of the fashionable
season, a great sensation took place
among the gallants of that gallant epoch.
Honoria had partially enslaved more
than one “fine gentleman” of the place
and time; and these now uttered piteous
sighs at her intended departure; wrote
verses in her honor; and were incessant
in their attempts to obtain speech of her,
and bid her farewell.
The young lady, however, resolutely
denied herself to all visitors; remained
in her chamber like an invalid, and even
sent her excuses to Lord Ruthven when
he came, the accepted suitor being placed
on the same footing as the rest.
When at last the great chariot rolled
up to the door one bright winter morning,
and Honoria made her appearance,
clad in her travelling-dress, her admirers,
who had received notice of the intended
“flitting,” obtained a last view of her,
and followed her to the very door of the
chariot. All wondered at her pale face,
and the apathetic eyes in which dwelt
a settled sadness. They felt that a portion
of the beauty and splendor of the
capital was leaving it; but this splendor
was evidently under a cloud—the sunshine
was dimmed—and, above all, they
no longer had any hope, having ascertained
Honoria's formal betrothal to
Lord Ruthven, who assisted her into the
chariot. They therefore kissed their
hands, uttered a few gallant speeches,
wished their lady-love a pleasant journey,
and went to court some other dulcinea,
and celebrate her in love-verses in
the poet's corner of the Virginia Gazette.
So Honoria rolled away from Williamsburg,
and out of that splendid society—forgotten.
She did not regret it.
Sinking back in a seat, beside her sister,
and opposite her father and mother,
she covered her face with a scarf, and
was soon lost in the dangerous land of
reverie.
It is needless to say that she was
thinking of one person only, Edmund
Innis. He had left Williamsburg some
time before, without even giving his
friend Phil Cary an opportunity to see
him. For the rest, it is doubtful if Mr.
Philip Cary, riding now beside the coach,
Miss Lou Brand's accepted suitor, had
thoughts for any human being except
the queenly girl with whom, as he gallantly
caracoled at the window, he exchanged
those glances which are the
joy of youth and love, and which we
elders laugh at and regret so.
Beside her sister, who was all happiness,
Honoria was the spirit of sadness.
Her life had suddenly changed on the
day when her father had announced his
will. From that moment she had shrunk
from the brilliant scenes in which she
had shone with a nervous terror and
disgust. All that splendor had grown
dull and dreary; she lived in a sort of
dream; and a strange apathy had seized
upon her, paralyzing all her faculties.
She had but one sentiment now, besides
her settled despair—it was a longing to
be away from noise and bustle and prying
eyes; from the scenes where she
must speak, and reply to what was spoken;
and, burying herself in her quiet
chamber in the silent old walls of Rivanna,
collect, if possible, her weary
thoughts, and summon strength for the
woful sacrifice which loomed up before
her, like a coming fate.
The old family chariot rolled slowly
on its way toward the mountains, stopping
each night at the house of some
one of the gentry, Colonel Brand's
friends—for, at that time, entertainment
of travellers at the old Virginia country
houses was regarded as a matter of
course—and in due time the lumbering
vehicle, drawn by its stalwart bays, entered
the great gate of Rivanna, and ascended
the hill, upon which stood the
old mansion.
As it passed beneath the great oak-trees,
bare and spectral now, divested of
their leaves, Honoria looked toward that
particular tree, beneath whose wide
boughs she and Innis had plighted their
troth, and a pang, like an acute physical
pain, passed through her heart.
There his lips had pressed her own, and
she had leaned her cheek upon his breast,
her innocent heart throbbing as she felt
his arm encircle her in that long, pure,
lingering embrace. There she had looked
into his frank eyes and read the treasure
of his love; had avowed her own in a
murmur as low and soft as the whisper
of the wind in the leaves—all that scene,
gone now so long into the past, rose up
again before her, and made her wretched.
He had left her!—she was betrothed to
another! The sunshine and music and
singing-birds had gone out of her life—
the great oak was bare and forbidding,
no longer musical with song and laughter;
and the change was a type of that
which had taken place in her own fate.
She turned away her eyes, uttered a sob
which she could not suppress, and soon
afterward was in her chamber, weeping
as though her very heart were breaking.
She had promised herself comfort
and calmness, when once back to her
old home; and now every object, like
the weird oak, reminded her of her past
happiness, and made her wretched. There
was the wide hall where she and Edmund
had so often walked up and down in
happy talk; the drawing-room, where
so many sunny hours had fled away in
his society; her mother's chamber, where
it had been his habit to repair regularly
as soon as he entered the mansion, and
where the great chair by the fireplace
seemed still to retain the impress of his
form: these, and a hundred other parts
of the house, still spoke of him, recalling
him to mind; and Honoria was plunged
into a despair greater than any which
she had yet experienced. She felt now
the full extent of what she had lost; and
when at last she threw herself upon her
bed at night, in a fit of passionate weeping,
she felt that death would be a relief
from her agony.
But the strong hours march, regardless
of joy and woe. Honoria fell from
despair into a sombre apathy. She
scarcely ever left her chamber, and seldom
uttered more than a few commonplace
words in response to what was said
to her.
She seemed to be looking forward
with a sort of terror to the day—but a
few weeks off now—when Lord Ruthven
would appear at Rivanna, and claim
her hand. When that thought came to
her, she shuddered, and felt faint.
