THE FLIGHT OF TIME.
And years flew by, and the tale at last
Was told as a sorrowful one, long past.
_—Mistletoe Bough._
It was the morning of Garnet Seabright’s majority, when she was to come
into possession of the vast estate given her by her adopted father, and
she was expecting a visit from her trustee to give an account of his
stewardship and yield up his office.
Lionel Hardcastle, foreordained by General Garnet as the husband of his
inheritrix, had been appointed trustee of the estate and guardian of the
heiress, and of—his own interests at the same time.
And well had he fulfilled his trust; no Eastern despot had even
established a stricter guard over a young Georgian maid than did this
guardian over the heiress. At the early age of twelve he had placed her
at a strict convent school, where she avowed that she had to eat, drink,
and sleep; pray, sing, and learn lessons; sit, stand, and walk by exact
rule. We may fancy the effect of such a discipline upon our wild child.
The fleet deer of the mountain penned, the free bird of the air caged,
was nothing to this wild child of sea and land confined! At first she
was anxious to go; for all children like change; but at the first visit
of her guardian, whom with her confiding nature she already loved, she
sprang upon his lap, threw her arms around his neck, entreated, prayed,
wept to be taken away; and when she found her vehement solicitations
vain, she passionately dashed her hand into his face, called him an evil
spirit, sprang from his arms, and threw herself face downward flat upon
the floor; called the good sisterhood a pack of witches, with Hecate at
their head, and threatened to starve herself to death, as the partridge
did she tried to tame once; and so, by this conduct, got herself into
disgrace for a week. There is great adaptativeness in childhood, and in
time our little girl became reconciled to her convent, especially as the
gentle nuns took an affectionate interest in civilizing the little
barbarian, who, notwithstanding her faults, drew all hearts to herself.
The effect of this conventual education was altogether good. It
cultivated and directed the powers of her intellect and moral sense, and
taught her to control the almost savage strength and daring of her
passionate and energetic nature. But she left the convent distinguished
by the same inflexibility of will with which she had entered its walls.
By the will of her adopted father she was not to marry until she had
attained the age of twenty-one, and though then her choice was not
absolutely controlled, it was directed to her guardian. It was upon this
account, and to seclude her from society and the chance of forming
another attachment, that, despite the conscientious expostulations of
the Mother Superior, he left her boarding at the convent until she had
nearly reached her twentieth birthday. About that time Miss Seabright
became inspired with a desire to see the world—not society, but the
earth and all thereon; so, without asking any favors, she expressed her
will to leave the convent and travel for a year. This proposition well
suited the views of her guardian, as it obviated the awkward necessity
of leaving her in the convent, or the impolitic alternative of
introducing her into society, and gave him an admirable opportunity of
pressing his suit, and even imposing upon her the inevitable propriety
of accepting him.
They made the tour of Europe together, journeying over the kindred soil
of Old England, the “sunny land” of France, the old chivalric mountains
of Spain, the classic plains of Italy and Greece, the Alpine precipices
of Switzerland; along the forest, rock, and castle-shadowed rivers of
Germany; over the snow-clad plains of Russia, and thence down amid the
mosques and seraglios of Turkey. By Mr. Hardcastle’s position and
connection in America, and his letters of presentation to our ministers
abroad, he might have obtained introduction for himself and ward into
the best society of every capital in Europe, but it did not suit his
policy to do so. And even when her love of travel was somewhat sated,
and Miss Seabright expressed a desire to enter the world of society, he
put her off from time to time with various excuses. As her wish to
mingle with the world was not very strong, she did not insist. And thus
at the end of thirteen months’ travel in Europe Miss Seabright set out
on her return home as “innocent of the knowledge” of the world as when
she had left her convent walls. She had had the opportunity of studying
deeply but one specimen of human nature, and him she had well
learned—her guardian and traveling companion, Lionel Hardcastle.
Repeatedly had he pressed his suit, and eloquently had he pleaded the
passion with which his recent intimate association with the unique and
beautiful girl had inspired him. And repeatedly, amid protestations of
gratitude and friendship, had she lamented her utter inability to meet
his love. He bided his time!
It was in this relative position that the guardian and ward returned to
Mount Calm early in the spring of 18—. Miss Seabright had indulged her
love of luxury with the purchase of elegant furniture in France. These
had been transported to Mount Calm, where the mansion house had been
superbly fitted up for the reception of its young mistress.
It was then a fine day in the month of March that Miss Seabright sat in
her library, awaiting the arrival of her guardian.
“Mr. Lionel Hardcastle!” announced a servant, throwing open the door.
Miss Seabright seated herself before the library table, and Mr. Lionel
Hardcastle entered the library, accompanied by old Mr. Hardcastle, his
father, and a lawyer.
A half hour was occupied in the reading and transferring of certain
documents, of which the lawyer finally took charge.
Then the gentlemen got up to take leave. Miss Seabright also arose, to
dismiss them; but when she saw that Lionel Hardcastle was about to bow
the others out with the purpose of remaining himself, she courteously
advanced, and invited them all to remain and dine. A quick telegraphic
look from Lionel Hardcastle to his father arrested the old gentleman’s
intention of accepting, so that, excusing himself, he took leave and
withdrew, followed by the lawyer. Miss Seabright also followed, with the
intention of leaving the library, but Lionel Hardcastle intercepted her
purpose by bowing the gentlemen out, and closing the door after them.
Miss Seabright retreated to the library table, where she stood erect,
with one hand resting upon the table, and with her fiery eyes
concentrating all their rays into a burning focus in the gaze she fixed
upon his face. Yet he winced not; but advancing calmly toward her, said:
“That attitude and gaze, Miss Seabright, would remind me that my
authority as your guardian ceases from this hour.”
“Without referring to that circumstance, Mr. Hardcastle, I would only
plead excessive weariness of this room, and to be excused for the
remainder of the day.”
“You do not look in the least fatigued; and just now you even invited my
father and your lawyer to remain and dine with you.”
“And extended the same invitation to yourself; which I now repeat. Will
you now accept it, and excuse me for an hour’s repose until dinner
time?” she asked calmly—calmly, yet he could see by those dark eyes,
which blazed and darkened under their heavy lids like a flashing and
expiring flame, that under that quiet exterior, volcanic passion
stirred, threatening every instant to break out in destroying fury, and
only restrained by the force of her own will and the power of her own
moral sense.
He folded his arms, and gazed on her; his look was resolved, his face
was ashen pale, all the strength and fire of his nature seemed
concentrated and burning in his eyes, and in the gaze he fixed upon her
face. He answered, slowly, “No, Miss Seabright; there is no repose for
me, shall be none for you, until you hear me. I will not leave this
room, nor suffer you to leave it, until you hear me. Hitherto you have
disregarded your benefactor’s expressed will and wishes, contemned my
claims, despised my love.”
“Your ‘love’? Is yours the language or the deportment of love?” she
asked, in the deep, stern tone of suppressed indignation.
His manner suddenly changed; and from insolent and threatening, became
submissive and deprecating. He dashed his hands suddenly against his
forehead, then threw himself at her feet, seized her hands and dropping
his head upon them, almost wept, exclaiming: “No, no, Garnet! mine were
not the words or acts of love, but of ‘love to frenzy driven.’ I
forswear them. Pardon me, pardon me. Garnet, I love you! I adore you! I
worship you! Not that you have beauty, grace, genius—all these I have
seen in other women, with an undisturbed heart—but there is a unique
power in your look that draws me to you; there is a fire in your soul
and in your eyes that draws me to you as the sun attracts the earth.
Daughter of the sun you are indeed, with all his reddish rays
concentrated in your being, as in the burning gem, your family namesake.
Garnet, oh, Garnet, I rave still, and more insanely than before. Garnet,
restore peace, calmness, self-possession, and reason to my soul! Give
your peerless self to me! Be my salvation! Speak to me! Answer me! Say
something, oh, dear Garnet!”
Her lightning anger, quick to subside as to flash forth, had died away.
As he held her hands, kissing them and almost weeping over them, she
answered, in a low voice: “Alas! Mr. Hardcastle, what shall I say? What
can I say, that I have not said with pain before this? I feel honored by
your esteem; I feel grateful for your love; I feel humbled that I cannot
return it. It is no disparagement to you—it is a misfortune, perhaps, to
me—that I cannot do so. One cannot always admire what may be admirable,
or esteem what may be estimable, still less can they always love what is
lovable. Yet I am disposed to entertain a profound friendship for you.
My dear guardian, cease then to torment yourself and me farther with
this question. I cannot marry,” she said, gently but firmly, as she sank
into the chair behind her.
“Cannot marry!” he repeated, rising and throwing himself upon a sofa
near her. “Cannot marry! Have you then made a vow of celibacy? Has your
convent education imbued you with that notion?”
“No; Heaven forbid! I have formed no resolution of leading a single
life. I should not be happy in such a destiny, should not even if I were
already blessed with father and mother, sisters and brothers, cousins
and friends—how could I possibly expect to be, standing perfectly alone
as I do? I have a sisterly affection for you—not love! There be many
affections; but only one love! only one—marriage.”
He had restrained himself as long as it was possible to do so. He now
started from the sofa where he had reclined, watching her with pale
cheeks and burning gaze, and, starting toward her with clenched fist, he
exclaimed:
“Yes, haughty girl, you speak truth; there is but one marriage—for you!
You are compelled to marry me! The world expects it of you. Is not the
will of your benefactor known? Are we not generally supposed to be
betrothed? Did we not make the tour of Europe alone together? The world
expects you to marry me. And you will forever lose the respect of the
world by failing to do so.”
Her brow crimsoned, her eyes blazed. She arose to her feet and answered
slowly:
“And I would rather lose the respect of the world by rejecting you than
deserve to lose it by accepting you.”
“Fool! Have you no regard for your reputation?”
“Yes; but think it wrong to secure good reputation at the expense of
good character.”
“What paradox, what nonsense is that?”
“Oh! they are not synonymous terms, character and reputation; on earth
they never have been, on earth they never will be. Often they are
antagonistic words. Many of the heroes and martyrs of history, the
demigods of our adoration, were men of the best characters, with—while
they lived—the worst reputations.”
“Then you have no respect for the good opinion of the world?”
“Yes! my aspiring heart! too much, I fear, for my soul’s good; and I
know, I know by all the glorious gifts of Heaven to me, I know by all my
mighty power for good or ill, by all my absolute unswerving will to
good, I know that I have a right and title, Heaven-patented, not to the
passive good opinion, but to the honor, the co-operation of the world.”
“And I tell you, haughty woman, as you stand here a very goddess of
pride, I tell you as you stand here beneath these halls, where you
should never have stood, invested with all this power, that you should
never have possessed, armed with the might of vast wealth and of high
talent, arrayed in the magic charms of young womanhood and perfect
beauty—I tell you, that you are now—naught that you will be, unless you
marry me—a suspected, proscribed, banned, outcast woman!” He expected
this to overwhelm her. But she turned her large, dark, solemn eyes,
solemn now with prophetic inspiration, upon him, and inquired calmly:
“Why?”
“Listen, girl. You are ambitious, arrogant, scornful. Yet a few words
from me will subdue all that, by showing you that you are obliged to
marry me. Attend! we made the tour of Europe alone together, putting up
at the same hotels, having a common parlor, a common table, a common
carriage——”
“Well, sir! That is easily understood in guardian and ward.”
“Not when the guardian is a man of thirty-seven and the ward a girl of
twenty; not when
“‘Both are young and one is beautiful,’”
he added sneeringly. “Often, you know it, we were mistaken for a married
pair——”
“And for brother and sister,” she added, the blood mounting to her brow.
“Which we were not. Now attend! All that familiarity may be understood
in a guardian and ward, who are, besides, known to be betrothed to each
other, and who keep their tacit promise to society by marriage. Now,
listen! if you should not consent to marry me——”
“If I do not! I will not. There is no if.”
“Then all your beauty, wealth, and talent, with all the power they give
you, avail you nothing. You are an outcast!”
She dropped into her chair again, she paled even to her lips, the fire
died out of her eyes, and even from every lurid ring of her dark, bright
hair. He gazed at her ironically, saying slowly:
“Ah! you do not care for the opinion of the world.”
“Do I not?” she exclaimed, with sudden and impassioned energy, “do I not
aspire to the honor of all the world? Do I not know and feel by all that
I am and have, and by all that I purpose to do and to be, that I have a
God-given patent to such honor? Has not my soul prophesied it?”
“And I repeat to you, haughty woman, that unless you marry me, you will
not have it. Your powers are all paralyzed.”
She dropped her hands upon her lap, her head upon her bosom, in the
collapse of despair.
“Ha! trapped, palsied, helpless!” he exclaimed exultingly. “Where is now
your vaunted independence? your pride? your scorn? Gone! quite gone!
Why, so much the better. You will make the better wife for the loss of
that. Come, Garnet, I love you; could worship your beauty, sometimes,
only that it seems to spoil you; come, I love you. Let us cease this
absurd quarrel and be friends. Come, do not look so despairingly. Harsh
and stern as I may be when threatened with your loss, I shall not make
such a bad husband. And for the rest—bless me, girl, you know my family
and my standing—shall I be such a very ill match for General Garnet’s——”
He paused, and she raised her deathlike brow, and, wiping the cold drops
of sweat from its pallid surface, said slowly, and with profound
sadness:
“Oh-h-h! You miserably misconceive my grief. It is this that overwhelms
me; it is the thought of your——”
“Villainy! Speak out, I will relieve you!” he said sarcastically.
“I did not mean to use the word.”
“Policy, then! for it was no more nor less; only finish.”
“It is this, then, that crushes me with sorrow—the knowledge that you,
my only protector, who should have warned my inexperience against the
least social mistake, and shielded my good name from the slightest
chance of injury; that you, my guardian, having perfect authority over
me, and indisputable control of all my actions; that you, my friend,
having my perfect confidence and affection, that you should have abused
that authority, betrayed that confidence, and wounded that affection by
leading me into a course of conduct pre-calculated, pre-contrived, to
fetter my choice in woman’s dearest privilege, or to blast my fair fame
and palsy my powers of usefulness forever!”
“Rave on! be abusive, scornful, insulting as you please. But I tell you,
arrogant woman, that he whom you abuse, insult, and scorn will be your
husband yet.”
“And I tell you, insolent man!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet with
all the fire of her nature burning in her cheeks, and blazing in her
eyes, “I tell you that, wronged, suspected, proscribed, outcast as I may
be; and add to that, poor, friendless, ill, persecuted, desolate as I
may be, I could not fall so low as to become the wife of the wretch you
are. I repel your pretensions with scorn and loathing. Begone!”
He gazed at her in speechless amazement. Was this incarnate storm, his
ward? the dignified, self-restraining, self-governing Miss Seabright?
Yes, the violent passions of her nature, restrained for many years, had
now burst the bonds of moral power. The volcanic tide of fire that had
ebbed and flowed, and been repressed through all this scene, had now
broken forth in appalling power. Her form was erect—her nostrils
dilated—her brow was crimson, her eyes blazed and darkened, and blazed
and darkened with terrific rapidity.
“Begone!” she thundered; “out of my sight, or by the Heaven that made
me, I will summon my slaves and have you thrust forth with contumely
from my gates!” Her hand was on the bell, her insane purpose was
indubitable.
With a gesture of desperation he rushed from the room.
She gazed after him until he had closed the door. She stood motionless a
long, long time, while the tide of fire ebbed; then, sinking with the
reaction of the exhaustion and self-reproach, she covered her face with
her hands, murmuring in heart-broken tones, “God pity me! God forgive
me! What a nature is mine! With a heart and bosom torn, tortured,
convulsed by storms of ferocious anger, scorn, and pride, yet with a
spirit brooding highly, calmly over all—as above the clouds, and
thunder, and lightning of the earth shine the holy stars of heaven.”