53. CHAPTER LIII.
THE ORIGINALS OF THE PORTRAIT.
WITH this incident,” the Earl gravely continued,
“commenced my new life. From that moment,
when she came crying to take the young man
upon her bosom, I loved Edith Powys with all
the ardor of youth and romance. I do not scoff at it, or
laugh, as some persons I think do; love to me, sir, has been
a blessed reality, and solace—the supreme comfort and
charm of my existence. I have known many sneer at women,
and at the passion of pure love—for myself I regard it
with a sacred wonder, and kneel almost humbly before a
true-hearted girl, be she the peasant maid or queen on her
throne. Oh no, sir! women are capricious—they are fanciful—they
have many great weaknesses—but at the bottom
of all the folly which appears in many of them, there is
purest gold!
“Well I loved Edith Powys—she is with me still, though
long years have fled over me, and dulled my heart, since
the day when I buried her beneath the spring violets at
Denton. It was the decree of an All-merciful being that
she should love me too—in spite of all her prepossessions
against me. She often told me afterwards that her sentiment
toward me, on the day when I grappled with her
father in front of the balcony on the race-course, was pure
hatred—and that she had registered a vow never to have
any other for me. But the sight of her brother bleeding
in my arms—pressed to my heart—this touched her and
paved the way for the entrance of less bitter feelings; and
then love came to answer the love I felt for her.
“Powys Court was no longer closed against me now.
Thanks to the incident which I have related, entrance was
freely accorded me. I had really conceived a strong friendship
for Arthur—first from the fact that we never afterward
look indifferently upon a person whom we have been kind
to—whose weak form we have carried in our arms—and
secondly, from another and equally natural circumstance.
The brother and sister were not only twins—they were the
most extraordinary copies of each other. Both had delicate
features—the same clear, frank eyes—the same lips full of
laughing pride—the same soft brown hair. Had Edith assumed
the costume of her brother, you would have said,
that a miniature Arthur Powys stood before you. Had the
brother donned a female dress, Edith, larger it is true, and
more masculine, but still Edith, would have looked at you
with the smile of her brother.
“I have a portrait of the young man, painted some years
after these events—'tis up stairs over the fireplace of one of
the bed-chambers. I scarce dare to look at it when melancholy
oppresses me—for the resemblance to Edith Powys
sends a thrill of bitter anguish through my heart, and I recall
all the past, as I gaze! To continue: I say that this
singular resemblance between the young man and the young
lady, insensibly drew me to his side. In his company I was
almost enjoying the society of his sister. I availed myself
of the incident which had bound us together, and went
regularly to ask after his health. He soon improved. The
fracture was painful, but yielded to the treatment of the
physicians, and he was soon limping about the house again
—leaning on my shoulder or his sister's, and smiling as before.
He was a noble youth—one of the truest hearts I've
ever known. He soon came to look upon me with affection
and confidence, and the feud between the houses of Fairfax
and Powys seemed destined to terminate with the elders.
“But I had calculated without my host. Sir William
Powys was one of those men who never forgive. He might
waive his enmity, for the occasion, and even utter words of
courtesy and good humor—but beneath all this was the implacable
memory—the rooted and ineradicable recollection
of his real or fancied wrong. It thus happened that the
keen-eyed knight watched the growing intimacy between
myself and his daughter with ill-disguised disapprobation
and opposition. He was too well bred to refuse her hand
before I had asked it; and evidently writhed with secret
anger at the past. As my object in visiting Powys Court
became plainer and plainer, and the artless affection of the
young lady was less disguised, the Knight's dissatisfaction
grew more intense. I saw it, and ground my teeth as I
thought of it, often—but that was all. In the depths of my
heart I think I really respected him more for it—for his loyalty
to the family feud and the dislike he exhibited and
plainly experienced, to a match between his daughter and a
person, his social superior. He was only a baronet, and his
possessions were reduced to nothing nearly—but he nevertheless
opposed bitterly the union of his child with one who
would soon be Earl of Fairfax and Baron of Cameron, with
ample means of keeping up both titles. Indeed there was
nothing small or mean about Sir William Powys. If he
ever committed an action which seemed to indicate those
qualities, you had only to search deeper, and a more noble
passion would reveal itself. The craving for vengeance
might induce him to act basely—but mere paltry love of
gain never could.
“Thus, to return, I was obliged still to respect the knight,
in spite of my bitter feelings at his manifest opposition. I
tried to soften him—it was all in vain. Edith and Arthur
became my advocates, and would sound my praises. The
baronet only sneered, and asked if both of them were in
love with me. Thus things went on until I could no longer
control myself. I went to Sir William one day—confessed
my affection for his daughter—and requested his permission
to pay my addresses.
“ `My permission, sir!' he said, with a bitter laugh, `why
truly you are a very entertaining person.'
“ `Sir William!' I exclaimed.
“ `Oh! don't let us argue,' he replied, `I'm not such a
dunce, sir, as not to see beyond my nose. I have observed
what has taken place in my house for some months past, and
I therefore say that your addresses have been paid without
ceremony, and without my leave, sir! You will judge yourself
if the act was not dishonorable!'
“His face began to flush—and my own as darkly.
“ `Sir William,' I said, `you have wronged and insulted
me! It is not becoming to do so, when I hold the position
toward you which I do. And permit me to say, sir, that I
have done nothing unworthy of the name I bear—of the
name of Fairfax, which is as old and as honorable as that
of Powys!
“His reply was a burst of rage. The comparison of the
two names seemed to arouse all his old enmity. He gnashed
his teeth, and seemed about to offer me some outrage.
“I had dared to come into his house, he said, and wile away
the heart of his daughter—and his son. Under the mask of
friendship I had beguiled her affections, and now came impudently
to ask permission to pay my addresses. No! I
should not have his consent! I should never marry his
daughter! No person who bore the detested name of Fairfax
should wed with one of the family of Powys! He had
intended to express to his daughter plainly, his feelings on
the subject long before—but pride restrained him. He had
hoped that her sense of what was due to himself, as well as
the blood which ran in her veins, would preserve her from
yielding to this miserable infatuation! But he would no
longer preserve silence! He would speak his mind plainly!
Then, if she chose, she might marry me and welcome! She
would at least have his curse for a dower!
“The baronet uttered all this and much more with a
fiery wrath and indignation which seemed to increase as he
proceeded. When his speech ended, he was furious, and
red with anger. I was pale.
“ `Sir William Powys,' I said, with a sinking heart, but a
collected voice, `you have done what gentlemen seldom do
—insulted a visitor in your own house! But I have no insult
to hurl back in return. You know well that I cannot
answer you—you know why. I scorn to reply to your
charges of dishonor—they fall harmless, for they are unjust
and unfounded, as you know. I shall now go, sir—this interview
ends all, as you desire. I will intrude myself upon
no family which scorns me—you need fear nothing, sir—it
will not be necessary to curse your daughter.'
“And I bowed and went away. On the portico I met
Edith. She was as pale as death. She had heard all
through the open window. With a quivering lip she held
out her hand. I pressed it to my lips with a groan, and
rode away, at a gallop, with a choking sensation in my
throat. I had acted as a gentleman of the house of Fairfax
should act—but my heart was almost broken in the
struggle.
“I will hasten on in my narrative. When old events return
they beguile me into unending details.”
