56. LVI.
THE LAST MEETING.
Honoria had kept her appointment.
Ascending the staircase rapidly, after
speaking to Lady Brand, she had reached
her chamber, wrapped a cloak around
her, and descending by a flight of stairs
in the rear of the hall—that which she
had used on the night of the dumb-cake
ceremony — had opened the side-door,
gone forth into the freezing night, and
hastened down the hill toward the great
oak under which Innis awaited her.
Flying, affrighted and trembling, over
the snow which, at any other time, would
have made her feet in thin satin slippers
ache with cold, she had reached the tree,
had seen the figure of Innis hasten toward
her; and had fallen, weak, overwhelmed,
and powerless to bear up under her emotion,
into the outstretched arms of her
lover.
Then followed one of those scenes
which the pen cannot describe, and the
imagination only can form any conception
of. Forgetting all the world besides
—her past, her present, and her future
—remembering only that the human being
whom she loved with such unspeakable
tenderness was before her; and
obeying the resistless impulse driving
her, like a weary, storm-lost dove, into
his sheltering arms, she clung closely to
him, clasped him wildly to her bosom,
and exhausted on him every term of endearment,
in one passionate outburst,
which she made no effort to control.
And Innis, broken-hearted and despairing,
could only reply in broken
words. His great woe came upon him
at this last conclusive moment, with an
intenser bitterness than ever before.
The sense of what he had lost sent a
chill to his very heart, and a cruel, mad
despair was mingled with the delicious
happiness of the girl's caresses.
For many moments they thus remained,
locked in each other's arms,
murmuring words of endearment, and
striving to control their passionate agitation.
Innis was the first to succeed in
this, and, choking down violently a groan
which had risen to his pale lips, he said
in a trembling voice:
“I thank you for this last meeting,
my own darling. I may call you so now
—'tis the last time; and now you must
go back; you must not stay here longer
in this bitter cold! I felt as though I
should have died without these few last
words with you—these kisses you have
given me—and now I can say farewell!”
He tried to unclasp the arms of the
girl, but she resisted.
“Oh, no! no!” she exclaimed, in a
voice interrupted by sobs, “we need not
part so soon! Why must we part?”
“They will miss you, and wonder at
your absence; and this bitter night!
Your poor, dear little feet in their thin
slippers! — they will freeze! Yes, you
must go, my darling; we must part now.
I am calmer than I was; almost happy,
dear. My heart was black with evil
thoughts, with hatred, and all bitterness.
I doubted God, and man, and woman.
I was desperate, and meditated desperate
things; but I have seen your dear, good
face, my own Honoria; I have heard
your voice, and I think I can bear my
misery. Farewell, now—you must go;
but tell me once more that you will not
forget your poor cousin, however far
away from you I may be; that you will
pray for me, and try not to grieve over
what might have been! Promise this,
Honoria—my love—my lost love—and
I shall be almost happy!”
It was in reply to these words that
Honoria, raising her head from his bosom,
and letting it fall back upon his
shoulder, had uttered in a murmur the
words—
“I will love you in life and death!”
As the words escaped from her lips,
the moon emerged from the black cloud
which had concealed it, and Innis heard
the sound of footsteps. He raised his
head quickly, looked in the direction of
the sound, and Honoria's eyes turned
toward the same quarter.
Lord Ruthven and Fergus were within
a few paces of her, easily recognized
by the moonlight; and with a low cry
she fell back in the arms of Innis, and
fainted upon his breast.
