21. CHAPTER XXI.
INTERVIEW BETWEEN GENERAL BLOUNT AND EDITH.
The hour struck for Sergeant Bim to go on duty, and
Wiry Willy, parting from his friend, was met by Mary in
the passage between the President's and Mr. Langdon's
suites of apartments. Intelligence of his arrival had been
communicated by General Blount, and hence Mary's vigilance.
The meeting was, without doubt, a happy one.
Once more they were together in spite of the obstacles and
dangers interposed by capricious fortune, and the evil machinations
of man.
At the same hour, and during the interview between the
President and Lord Slysir, Blount was standing at the
south end of a long drawing-room, holding the hand of
Edith. The single jet of gas which illuminated the centre
of the room, paled before the flood of moonbeams that
came in at the extremity.
Alice, attired magnificently, moved to and fro with folded
arms, at some distance from the lovers; and whenever a
stream of light fell upon her pale forehead, the lustrous diamond
on her brow radiated a thousand prismatic hues.
“And now, Edith,” said Blount, “I am convinced that
Ruffleton—we are both convinced—has been exerting his
evil ingenuity to estrange us from each other. These are
the intrigues of city life, the stratagems of civilization, the
artifices of superior society. Oh, Edith, honor, purity, religion,
happiness, may be found only in the rural districts.
Abandon the dense population of the North, and cast your
lot at once with mine. Among my people, there will be no
Ruffletons, nor Trapps, nor Snares. All is quiet now in
the South—”
“To-day all may be quiet—but to-morrow?”
“You would be ever safe. No invasion or civil tumult
would subject you to such distressing ordeals as you have
passed through in this city. Here, even the presence of
your father was not sufficient to exempt you from insult.
There, every true son of the South would be a champion
and a protector.”
“Harry, I know you could not approve infidelity on the
part of a daughter to a father, any more than you could
applaud the falsehood of a wife to her husband.”
“The words trembled on our lips at the altar, which if
once uttered, our union would have been indissoluble.
Why were they not pronounced? Was it destiny? Oh,
Edith, I should have seized the priest, and, perforce, extorted
from him a performance of his duty. And yet, the
solemn pledge, the sacred vow, what are they but merely
words?—and why should not their sanctity be the same,
when we repeat them to each other, and call heaven, everywhere
above us, to attest the obligation voluntarily assumed?”
“You forget the Church. Authority is given its ministers,
which must not be disregarded.”
“Certainly not, when it is available. There are ministers
now present in this city—”
“Nay, Harry, cease. In God's time, if it be His will,
every impediment will be removed. Thee must be peace
between the North and the South before my father will
consent to our union. We can pray for a speedy reconciliation
of the differences which now distract our country
—”
“Ay, and fight to end them. Edith, I fear many a sword
will be bathed in fratricidal blood before these differences
can be adjusted. And fate, which has thrown us together
again, if we neglect the opportunity, may sever us for ever
hereafter.”
“Not if we live, and be faithful. The vows you spoke
of, disunited though we be, might suffice for us. United,
even according to all the forms and ceremonies of the
Church, the present scenes of peril and destruction would
sever us. I could not dwell in camps, nor could I be with
my father, whose lot it might be to war against my husband.
No, Harry—it is better thus; but if it were not better, still
it is a duty. Only let us confide in each other. Let us
blame the post-masters, or censure the negligence of messengers,
but never reproach each other, when communications
are not received; and, above all, let us never harbor
the thought that other attachments can be engendered.”
“I stand rebuked—self-condemned, Edith—but it was
not the thought that you could possibly listen to the serpent-hisses
of Ruffleton. It was his presumption, his unchastised
impudence—but I will meet him yet. No, Edith, it
was not jealousy, or fear of rivalry, but an ardor of affection
that would engross all the thoughts, all the time and
attention of the object upon which it is lavished.”
“And you supposed,” responded Edith, smiling, “it
might not be possible for me to listen to the flatteries of
Ruffleton and think of you at the same time?”
“No. But I would not have him present when you
think of me! He contaminates the atmosphere in which
he breathes; a moral leprosy follows him wherever he
goes—”
“A monster, truly! And in truth I would willingly expel
him from my presence if it might be done without disobedience
to my father. Think not of him!”
“Your father, Edith, I fear—”
“Nay, do not blame him. Let us quarrel with each other,
rather.”
“Well. And where is the ring I sent you?”
“It was the fatal wedding ring.”
“Why say fatal? But where is it? Why not wear it
on this finger?”
“Because you did not place it there.”
“But I sent it by Alice.”
“And Alice keeps it.”
“Keeps it? What does that mean?”
“It means that she keeps the ring you gave her.”
“I gave it her for you. Did she not say so?”
“She did. And, faithful to her trust, she offered it to
me.”
“And you refused it?”
“It was when I was offended at your apparent suspicions.”
“Oh, Edith, a world in arms could not unman me as you
have the power to do. To you I must seem as a capricious
child, or an enthusiast without mental ballast. I am
now very angry—but you, too, were offended?”
“Very much—and I am not yet appeased. Such gifts as
that should be presented by the donor.”
“I will get it now, and place it on your finger.”
“No. Not yet. The probation is not ended. Alice is
a safe depository. Let us call her hither. See how incessantly
she glides to and fro. How beautiful!”
“It is too late! I have lingered too long!” said Blount,
as the clock struck four. “Farewell! but come with me to
Alice and take the ring.”
“No; not till you have done sufficient penance. You
frown! But go—go in anger, if you will! I will not wear
the ring until you are worthy, and—”
“Forbear, Edith! Adieu!” And pressing her hand to his
lips he hastened to Alice.
“Here is the ring!” said she, the light falling at the
same time on her pallid brow, where the diamond sparkled
like a star.
“You are very pale, Alice, and grave,” said Blount, taking
her hand. “What a change! But I must be brief. I
have quarrelled with Edith about this ring. I leave you as
my mediator. Tell her it is the excess of my love which
makes me capricious, exacting, impatient, jealous. Tell her
I love—”
“Nay, say that or write it yourself. Take back the ring.”
“No, no, no! keep it!” and he forced it on her finger.
“Adieu, now!—one word with your imperial—I mean imperious—father,
and then away. If I linger a moment
longer my word will be broken—”
“Your word broken?”
“His Lordship and myself pledged—”
“True; adieu!”
Blount a moment after was alone with the President.
“General,” said the latter, “his Lordship will bear no
order of release to Commodore Stout, and we shall probably
have some rather startling reports from Admiral Bang
before long.”
“That is a matter for your Excellency's consideration.
My business is with Ruffleton.”
“My advices convince me that he is preparing to beat
you up in your quarters.”
“I desire nothing better. Only one word. You will not
interpose?”
“You have carte blanche.”
“Enough! Let him come! Farewell, sir.”
The President, observing the excited condition of the
General, and attributing it to the right cause, did not seek
to prolong the interview.
