42. XLII.
THE SEARCH FOR INNIS.
Rivanna, in the gloomy days of that
winter, was a sad place; and the very
servants went about in silence, treading
warily, as though fearful of arousing
echoes in the dreary mansion.
Colonel Brand remained shut up almost
constantly in his library, and had
few words for anybody. Lady Brand,
subjugated by the imperious will of her
husband—a person whom she had rather
feared than loved from the day of their
marriage—said nothing, uttered no remonstrance,
but seemed to grow sadder
and older day by day; and Meta, who
spent most of her time upon a couch,
breathing with difficulty, was often surprised
shedding tears.
The only member of the family who
preserved even the semblance of a sad
cheerfulness was Lou Brand, whose
buoyant disposition enabled her to combat
in some slight degree the general
tendency to gloom. Phil Cary was at
Rivanna almost daily—for he was the
formally-acknowledged affiancé of the
young lady; and they talked interminably
of the sad state of things.
One day Lou Brand, after gazing for
some moments into the fire, said:
“Philip, you really must find where
Edmund is, and why we never hear of
or from him.”
“You then wish me to try again?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“You know how unsuccessful I have
been. As soon as I got back from Williamsburg,
I lost no time in going to find
him, knowing that he had ridden already
away from the capital. I rode up the
mountain to his house, and found doors,
windows, shutters, all closed, and not
even a servant. I tried a second time—
knocked—shouted—no one came. Shall
I make a third attempt?”
“Yes; I must know something about
him! Yesterday my poor Honoria asked
me, in a low voice, what had become of
him, and I could tell her nothing.”
Phil Cary sighed deeply.
“I will try once more, then,” he said,
“but would to Heaven this sad tragedy
were over!”
“Would that it were! Rivanna, that
was so cheerful once, is like a tomb.
Meta is hopelessly ill, I fear, and I shall
not be astonished to find her take to her
bed at any instant. O me! what will
become of us!”
And the impulsive and warm-hearted
girl burst into tears. She almost instantly
dried her eyes, however, and said:
“Why not go to-day?”
“To-day? I shall lose so much of
your society. You know I am compelled
to go to Williamsburg on business
to-morrow.”
“The more reason, Philip, to relieve
poor Honoria's mind. Try, for the last
time, to see Edmund; it will make my
poor sister happier to hear of him, and
we can do nothing better in this sad
world than to make somebody happier.”
Phil Cary looked at the speaker with
great tenderness, and exclaimed:
“You are a dear, good girl, Lou!
That anybody should regard you as
careless and unthinking! I will go at
once, and return before evening, if possible.”
And, in ten minutes, the young man
was on horseback, riding in the direction
of the western mountains.
It was a dreary, chilling landscape
through which he passed. On the day
before, a heavy snow had fallen, and the
fields were one great shroud; the mountain
evergreens weighed down with the
masses of snow which had clung to them.
The atmosphere, gray, hazy, and ominous,
indicated another storm; and the
wind, rising and falling fitfully, died
away, in the dense masses of pine, in a
sorrowful moan.
Phil Cary pushed on through the
deep snow, following the narrow road
only by means of the opening in the firs,
for no track was visible; and thus slowly
and with difficulty ascended the
mountain, amid whose gorges the wind,
now grown keener, howled and groaned.
But one living thing had met his gaze—
an immense eagle, which rose, flapping
his enormous wings, from a pine-tree, as
the rider approached, to wing his way
deeper into the solitary fastnesses.
An hour's ride brought the young
man at last in sight of Innis's small
house in a gash of the mountain. No
smoke rose from the chimney; no sign
of habitation was visible. He dismounted,
knocked, received no reply, then he
shouted; still no reply came; and at
the end of half an hour the young man
remounted his horse, and descended the
mountain by the same path which he
had pursued in ascending. He had uttered
but two words as he turned away
from the deserted house—
“Poor Edmund!”
At Rivanna distressing intelligence
greeted him. Meta had been taken suddenly
ill, and at one time Lady Brand,
who had been hastily summoned, feared
that she would die. When the young
man reached the house, she was better;
but such was Lady Brand's anxiety, that
she requested Phil Cary, whose design
of visiting the capital was known to her,
to beg Dr. Vandyke to come, if possible,
and see the child.
“Nothing stops that very remarkable
man, when he can relieve suffering,” said
Lady Brand. “Beg him to come to me,
Philip—I feel as though his presence
would do good to us all. We are a sad, a
very sad family, Philip!”
And the kind lady hastened to the
side of Meta.
On the next morning Phil Cary set
out for Williamsburg.
Five days afterward, hour for hour
from that evening, Dr. Vandyke got out
of his carriage, and, entering the house,
said:
“Well, how is the child?”
