University of Virginia Library

53. LIII.
THE APPOINTMENT.

Honoria was standing before the
mirror in her chamber, surrounded by
the brilliant little beauties, her bridesmaids,
who, having assiduously aided the
young lady in making her toilet, now
gazed at her with rapture. The sentiment
seemed wholly unaffected. Honoria's
exquisite but girlish beauty had suddenly
taken to itself something cold and
queenly, and it was only on a careful
scrutiny that the rose in the cheeks was
seen to be a hectic flush, and the calmness
of the eyes that of utter despair.

One person alone understood the
young lady's feelings, and was not deceived
by this ominous calmness — her
mother. Lady Brand had assisted her
daughter in dressing; had trembled at
the thought of what she must pass
through; and now gazed at her with
deep anxiety.

“Be calm, dear—this is well,” she
said. “Come now, and sit down and
rest before the ceremony.”

“I am not tired, mother,” was the
young lady's reply, “and my strength
will not fail me.”

Lady Brand shook her head sadly.

“My poor, poor child!” she murmured,
“you appear calm, but you are
really feverish, agitated, laboring under
nervous excitement.”

A strange smile came to the young
lady's lips.

“Excitement!—oh, no! mamma, I
am perfectly calm.”

“At least come and sit down.”

“I would rather stand, mamma.”

Lady Brand sighed deeply.

“But you must positively remain
quiet: a few moments of privacy, to
collect your thoughts, my child—”

And Lady Brand looked at the bridesmaids,
who, taking the hint, quietly left
the apartment. As the last disappeared,
mother and daughter exchanged a long
look. But no alteration took place in
the young lady's demeanor. She was
still perfectly calm, but this, it was obvious,
arose from a morbid state of mind.

“My child,” exclaimed Lady Brand,
“you are very, very unwell! Come,
lean your head upon my bosom; it will
rest and soothe you! You will remember,
perhaps, the time when you were a little
child, and dropped to sleep there.”

The fond mother's arms were extended,
but Honoria did not move.

“O me!” she murmured. “I am
not a child!—if I only were a little child
again—!”

“You are my child still, my own
dear little one!”

The words came with a burst of grief
from the trembling lips.

“Come—lean your head here!—it
will rest you, my own Honoria!”

But the young lady drew back, and
the same strange smile again came to her
lips.

“Lean my head upon your breast,
mamma!” she said, in a singular voice.
“How can you propose such a thing?
'Twould spoil my bonny bridal curls and
flowers.”

As she spoke, she pointed to the
snowy wreath above her long bridal veil,
and began to sing in a low voice:

The strange intonation of the girl's
voice made her mother tremble.

“Come, come, Honoria!” she exclaimed,
in accents of displeasure, “this
is out of place!”

“What is out of place, mamma!”

“This levity—this unnatural gayety.
It belies your feelings.”

“Belies my feelings, mamma?”

“Yes, yes! Honoria — you never
were so miserable!”

“Miserable?” repeated the young
lady, with the same strange smile on her
lips, “why, what an idea! Am I not
about to become the `happy bride' of a
very great nobleman—to make a brilliant
match, as every one says? I shall
soon become my Lady Ruthven!—and
what more silly than to feel miserable at
being made a countess?”

“My child—my child! Your voice
is strange! You are not in your right
senses!”

“Why not, mamma—?”

“Because I know your secret!—that
you look with horror upon this marriage!”

Honoria slowly and coldly shook her
head.

“With horror?” she said; “I look
with horror upon my approaching marriage?
Is such a thing conceivable,
mamma? Would my father, who says
that he loves me dearly, compel me to
marry thus against my will? Could he
possibly make his poor child so wretched?
Could you—my own mother—!”

Honoria suddenly stopped. Lady
Brand had covered her face with both
hands, and burst into tears. For a moment
the girl looked at her in silence,
and without moving. Then suddenly
she ran to her, broke into a wild flood

of weeping, and, throwing her arms
around her mother's neck, cried:

“O mamma! mamma! do not sob
so! 'Twill break my poor heart! I was
undutiful, unfeeling, to taunt you when
'tis not your fault! Forgive me, mamma!—no,
I am not in my right senses—
I am wretched—out of my head almost.
This marriage is killing me, for I am
going to perjure myself before God and
man; but I will strive to bear all, and
not make you more unhappy, mamma!
Forgive me! forget my wicked words—
I love you so dearly!”

Clinging to Lady Brand, she buried
her face in her mother's bosom, and
sobbed until her agitated heart grew
calmer. Tears had come to her at last,
as a blessed relief—the burst of the tempest
relieved her overcharged brain—
and her mother saw, with delight, that
the dull and apathetic look had disappeared
from her eyes. Honoria was
quite hopeless, but calm and resigned.

“There, there, mamma,” she said,
pressing her lips to her mother's cheek,
“do not remember my wild, sinful words,
and forget that I rebelled against God,
and taunted you, when I ought to love
and obey you, and treat you with respect.
I am very unhappy, mamma, but
—I will try not to wound you again.
You see I am quite calm now, and—kiss
me, mamma—I love you very, very dearly,
and soon—shall—see you no more.”

The head sank, and Honoria uttered
a single sob. It was the last cry of her
despair. Her mother could only whisper
as she held her close:

“God bless and keep my child, and
give us both strength to bear this woe!
for I know all, my daughter—I know,
and am powerless as yourself. Come,
now — dry your eyes, and summon all
your courage, for the hour is near. Let
me arrange your disordered hair; the
idle crowd must not make their comments.”

“Do not fear me,” said the young
girl with sudden calmness and stateliness.
“I know what my blood requires
of me, and will not fail. And now will
you do me a last favor, mamma? Leave
me to myself for a few moments. I
would be alone—have no fear, mamma;
and do not ask me why.”

Lady Brand looked intently at her
daughter, and said:

“Leave you alone?”

The girl smiled sadly.

“You fear I'll do myself some mischief,
perchance! No, indeed! There
need be no fear of that, mamma. I shall
die of this marriage; but not now! Pray
grant my request.”

Lady Brand rose.

“I will go, then, my child; but remember
that your presence will soon be
required.”

With which words, she left the apartment.

Honoria listened to the light, retreating
steps; went quickly to the door;
turned the key without noise in the ponderous
old - fashioned lock; and then,
hastening to a casket, unlocked it, took
out a paper, and read it hurriedly by
the lights on her toilet-table.

The paper was a note, which a servant
had brought on the day before, and
ran as follows:

In reply to this note, Honoria had
written three lines, intrusting them to
the servant, who saw no other member
of the family, and left Rivanna as soon
as he had received the reply:

Why had she written that note, forgetting
the cold, the snow, the almost
utter impossibility of keeping the appointment?
She knew not; she only
felt that she must see him once more, or
die. She now hastily read the note of
Innis again, and thrust it into her bosom.
Then she sat down, clinched her hands
together, and gazed into the fire.

“I will go! — nothing shall fright
me!—Edmund, Edmund!”

Suddenly steps were heard in the
passage, and a hand was laid upon the
knob. Honoria calmly opened the door.
Her sister had come to summon her.

“I am ready,” she said.