HUGH AND GARNET.
When friends do meet in sorrow’s hour
’Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A watery ray, an instant seen,
The darkly closing clouds between.
_—Scott._
The full moon was shining broadly and brightly over the snow-clad hills
and plains around Mount Calm, when Hugh Hutton rode up to the front
entrance of the mansion in a full gallop. He threw himself from his
horse, flung the reins to a servant in attendance, ran up the marble
stairs, and, without stopping to ring, pushed at once into the house.
A large hanging-lamp lighted up the hall, and its rays fell upon the
form of a majestic and beautiful girl, whose presence immediately
arrested the impetuous hurry of the visitor. Pausing, he bowed with
deference, saying:
“Miss Seabright?”
He had always thought of her as Nettie; until he saw her he purposed to
have called her Nettie; but this was not to be thought of now, in the
presence of this imperial-looking girl, with whom he would no more have
ventured upon familiarity than he would have dared to make free with an
empress. She, too, had thought of her childhood’s companion as plain
Hugh, had addressed him as dear Hugh in her letter; but now, when she
saw before her this stately and reserved man, she blushed to think of
it. And when, with deferential suavity, he repeated his question:
“I presume—Miss Seabright?”
She answered: “Yes, Dr. Hutton;” and added, with mournful gentleness,
“Under happier circumstances I should say that I am very glad to see
you, sir; but now I can only tell you truly that you are very, very
welcome to Mount Calm.” And she offered him her hand.
“My mother? Miss Seabright! How is my mother?” he inquired, alarmed at
the sorrowful manner of his young hostess.
“Come into the parlor, Dr. Hutton; there is a fire there, and you are
chilled,” said Garnet, sadly evading the question, and leading the way.
“My mother?” again inquired the guest, when she had conducted him into
the drawing room.
“Sit down, pray, sit down; you look so weary—here, near the fire,” said
his hostess, drawing a chair to the hearth. He dropped into the seat—his
prophetic heart already prepared for the words she was about to utter.
“Your mother, Dr. Hutton, is above all pain and grief now.”
“Dead! dead!” exclaimed Hugh, dropping his head upon his open hands.
Garnet bent over the side of his chair, and laid her hand gently on his
shoulder, and bowed her head until tears fell upon his hands, but said
nothing.
At last: “How long since?” he asked, raising his head.
She seated herself by his side, and with her hand gently laid upon his,
she replied:
“Your mother was ill but three days, Dr. Hutton. Upon the first day I
wrote to you—upon the third she passed away. It is four days since, so
that, you see, you could not have reached here, even by the utmost
speed; and so you have nothing to blame yourself for.”
“Dead! really dead! dead four days!” he exclaimed, burying his face in
his hands.
“No, not dead—living in heaven! You know that—try to feel it also,” she
said tenderly.
He did not reply, nor did he speak again for some time, nor did she
break upon the sacred silence of his grief by any ill-judged attempt at
consolation.
At last he broke forth in bitter lamentation.
“Oh, that she had but lived! Oh, that my poor mother had but lived! That
her son might have atoned in the last half of her life for the sorrows
of her youth! Oh, that my mother had but lived!”
“Ah! do not mourn so; believe me, it is far better as it is. There are
some lives so wronged, so broken, that nothing but death can set them
right. Such a life was hers. There are some sorrows so deep that nothing
but heaven can cure them. Such sorrows were hers. Oh! believe me, by all
the loving-kindness of the Father, it is better as it is,” said Garnet,
kindly pressing the hand she held.
“If I could have seen her but once! Oh, Miss Seabright! I thought but
little about her in my boyhood, but as I grew to man’s estate the one
secret, cherished hope of my heart was to find my mother—to devote my
life to her. Oh, that I could have found her; oh, that I could have
reached here in time to have seen her living face but once, so as to
have known and remembered it.”
“Again I say it is better as it is. The tender mercy of God spared you
the trial. Would you have carried away in your heart the picture of a
countenance transiently distorted by delirium, as the only impression of
your mother’s face? Oh, no! Think of her only as she has been described
to you in her youthful beauty, or think of her as she is now, in her
immortal beauty. She has always been shrined in your heart as a
beautiful and sacred memory and hope. Let it be so still, and let the
hope be immortal.”
She ceased speaking, and both relapsed into silence, that lasted until
the door opened and a servant entered, bringing coffee and other
refreshments upon a waiter.
“Wheel the table forward here, and set the waiter upon it, and then you
may go, Pompey,” said Miss Seabright, in a low voice.
When they were alone together again Miss Seabright poured out a cup of
coffee, and offered it to her guest. He thanked her, but declined it,
and dropped his head again upon his hands, and fell into silence and
despondency.
Miss Seabright put the cup of coffee down and came and sat by his side,
and laid her hand upon him again, and said softly:
“I feel how you suffer, Dr. Hutton; and I can imagine that when we have
lost a dear friend or dear relative, especially a parent, we should
think it almost a sin to take comfort in any way, and selfishness even
to refresh the wasted, wearied frame with needful food and sleep. It is
so natural to feel so. Fasting and vigil are first compelled by anxiety
and grief, and afterward, when all is over, and when nature has
reasserted her claims, and made us feel the need of food and rest—still
often the heart’s fond superstition will not yield, and fasting and
vigil are offered as a tribute to the memory of the lost. It is so
natural—but so wrong, Dr. Hutton—the rent garments, and the torn hair,
and the ashes sprinkled on the head, and the inordinate worship of
grief, belong to pagan bereavement, which is ‘without hope, and without
God’—not to Christian sorrow, which should be calmed by resignation and
cheered by faith. My friend, you are very weary and depressed—you need
refreshment. Come, Hugh, lift up your head; take this coffee from my
hand—Nettie’s hand.”
As she stooped over him, offering the cup, the ends of her soft ringlets
touched his brow, and her breath fanned his cheek. He raised his head,
received the refreshment, and gratefully pressed the gentle hand that
gave it. When he had drained the cup and set it down, he said:
“Miss Seabright, how much I thank you for your sympathy and kindness
none can know but God. Dear and gentle comforter, tell me, now, the
facts of this sad discovery. When did my mother return, and under what
circumstances?”
“Had you not better defer hearing the story for the present, Dr. Hutton?
You look so tired. Retire early, and sleep well to-night, and to-morrow
morning I will tell you everything you desire to know.”
“Miss Seabright, I have not slept since I received your letter telling
me of my mother’s advent and illness. I shall never be able to sleep
until I have heard all you have to tell me of that mother’s history and
sorrows. But, Miss Seabright, I beg your pardon—you are so good, that
your very goodness has made me selfish, and forgetful of the trouble I
may give you. You are doubtless fatigued, and should not be longer
harassed by the presence of an exacting egotist like me. If so, let me
bid you good-night,” said Dr. Hutton, rising.
“Oh, no; sit down; besides, I cannot let you go to-night. You are to
remain with us, certainly, to-night—and as many more days and nights as
your convenience will permit. Sit down; I am not the least wearied, and
if, indeed, you think you will rest better after having heard the story
I have to tell you, why, of course, I will willingly tell it. Yes, and
upon second thought, I feel that it is better you should hear it
to-night. To-night let the grave close in faith over the sad past.
To-morrow you will arise with new hope for the future.”
They both resumed their seats. And Miss Seabright related to him the
story of the nightly light seen on Hutton’s Isle; her visit there, to
ascertain the cause; her guardian’s unexpected arrival; the sudden
apparition of Agnes; the encounter and the death of Lionel Hardcastle by
the accidental discharge of the pistol. Having reached this point of her
story, she went on to say:
“At the first appearance of your mother I saw by her wild look and
frenzied manner that reason had fled. But instantly after the fall of
Lionel Hardcastle the sudden change, the quiet manner with which she
exculpated herself from the suspicion of blood-guiltiness deceived me so
that I mistook for sanity that mood which was only the reaction of
frenzy—or, at best, a lucid interval of madness. As soon as I had
ascertained the victim to be quite dead, and had collected my thoughts
for action, I determined to return to the mainland and rouse the
magistrate, Judge Wylie. The unhappy woman was sitting upon the ground,
with her head bowed upon her hands, and her wild hair streaming all
around her, like a veil. I spoke to her, and told her my purpose, and
asked her to accompany me. She gave me no reply. I spent a long time in
trying to persuade her to get up and go with me—but I could not get a
word or gesture from her. I made no more impression on her than if she
had been a statue. Finally I was obliged to leave her for the purpose of
procuring assistance. I went down to the beach, got into the skiff, took
the paddle, and rowed swiftly to the landing at Point Pleasant. I found
all the family there still up, owing to the decease of old Mrs. Wylie,
who had just expired. Judge Wylie, with his usual promptitude, gave me
all the help that was needful. I returned with the party to Hutton Isle,
where we found the unfortunate woman in the same posture in which we had
left her. I spoke to her again, and with no more success than before.
Finding it impossible to make any impression upon her, I requested Mr.
Ulysses Roebuck, who had command of the party, to lift her up gently and
convey her to the boat. He attempted to do so, but on being raised she
broke into sudden frenzy. Dr. Hutton, spare me and yourself the details
of this illness—it is over now. It is sufficient to say that she was
brought hither, that she had the best medical attendance and the best
nursing that could be procured. She recovered her reason about an hour
before her death, and asked to see a clergyman. Mr. Wilson, the
Methodist preacher, attended her. Of the circumstances of her forcible
abduction, and the misfortunes that ensued to her, she refused to make
any revelations, saying that the dying should not drop a fire-brand into
the circle they were leaving. When told that she had a son, she blessed
you, and left this message for you, that ‘Forgiveness is the only remedy
for some wrongs’; and of herself she said that ‘Death was the only
rectifier of some lives.’ She died at set of sun—calmly and hopefully.
At some future day I will show you where they have laid her. As for the
unhappy man who met his death so suddenly—the coroner’s jury sat upon
his case before his remains were permitted to be removed from the Isle.
The body was then conveyed to Hemlock Hollow for burial. Old Mr.
Hardcastle has not been able to leave his bed since the shock of his
son’s sudden death threw him upon it. It is supposed that he cannot
recover.” This Miss Seabright added with the purpose of partially
diverting the mind of her guest from dwelling too intently upon the
circumstances of his mother’s death.
At the close of her recital Dr. Hutton remained silent for a few
minutes, and then, taking and pressing her hand, he thanked her, with
much emotion, for the care she had bestowed upon his mother.
Miss Seabright rang for night-lamps, and when they were brought directed
the servant to attend Dr. Hutton’s leisure, and when he felt inclined to
retire to show him to his chamber. Then bidding her guest good-night,
she left the room.
The next morning Dr. Hutton came down very early and found Miss
Seabright already in the drawing room. She advanced to meet him, holding
out her hand. After the usual courteous inquiries about health, etc.,
Dr. Hutton said:
“Miss Seabright, I scarcely know how to pardon myself for my
forgetfulness of an aged and worthy relative last evening; but pray tell
me now, how is my old aunt?”
“Miss Joe! oh, very well, indeed. The only mark of infirmity I can
perceive in her is her wish to go to bed earlier now than heretofore.
She had retired before you arrived last night, and I would not have her
disturbed. She is in the breakfast room superintending breakfast. She
knows that you are here, but does not know that you have risen. Shall I
send for her?”
“If you please, Miss Seabright. I have not seen my aunt for two years. I
have generally made it a point to come and see her every year or two
since I first left her, and should have visited her this spring even,
had not your letter summoned me now. Ah! here she comes.”
Miss Joe came in smiling and weeping, and drying her eyes, and wiping
her spectacles with her check apron, and as soon as she saw her nephew
she ran to him and fell in his arms, laughing and crying and talking all
at once, and not regaining self-possession until she became alarmed for
the propriety of her cap and kerchief, when she extricated herself,
smoothing down her apron and exclaiming:
“There, Hugh! There, Neffy! You’re not a baby now; don’t tumble my cap
and my handkerchief—there’s no sense in it;” though, dear old soul, the
fault lay all the while in her own fondling—not Hugh’s. “There, come to
breakfast now. It is all on the table waiting, and will get cold.”
Dr. Hutton offered his arm to Miss Seabright, and they went in to
breakfast.
After the meal was over Dr. Hutton made a motion to depart, but Miss Joe
vigorously opposed his purpose, supplicating him to remain at Mount Calm
for only a few days, if not longer. Miss Seabright joined her invitation
to the old lady’s entreaties, and Dr. Hutton finally consented to stay,
and retired to his room to write letters to his friends in the West.
The few days of Dr. Hutton’s projected stay at Mount Calm grew into a
week, and the week was stretching into a month, and still Hugh Hutton
found it daily more difficult to tear himself away from Garnet
Seabright, for every time he would make an attempt to go she would say:
“Not yet, Dr. Hutton. Not just yet! Stay till to-morrow;” and she would
think, “Why does he not speak? He loves me! He stays here at my bidding.
He must know that I love him, too! Why does he not speak? Will he go
away without an explanation? Can it be that my fortune and his own lack
of wealth hinders him? There are some men so proud that they will not
marry an heiress, lest it be said of them that they owe all they have to
their wives. But such a thought would never enter the head of my noble
Hugh! He would not elevate money on one side or the other into
importance enough to divide two hearts that love. Yet there is some
reason, and some good reason, why, when his eyes and tones and gestures
tell me every hour that he loves and esteems me, his words never do.”
And then sometimes when alone she would break forth impatiently, thus:
“Indeed, I won’t bear this much longer! No, that I won’t! I shan’t have
Hugh’s heart and my own tormented in this way to no good purpose! I will
make him tell me what it all means! Feeling very sure he loves me he
shall tell me what all this hesitation means.”
Such would be her impatient resolve, but Garnet never could bring
herself to lead her lover on to any explanation, until one night when
Hugh for the dozenth time made known that he should leave Mount Calm the
next morning. It was after supper when Miss Joe retired, and they were
playing a game of backgammon together. Miss Seabright looked up from her
dice and said:
“Well, Dr. Hutton, since you are going to-morrow, and I feel that we
cannot justly keep you from your business any longer, I wish, before you
depart, to ask your advice—I——”
“Well, Miss Seabright?”
“I—you know that my social position is a very singular one.”
“It is, indeed, Miss Seabright.”
“Responsible as I am for the faithful stewardship of a very large
fortune——”
“It is indeed, in your case especially, a very heavy responsibility.”
“Yes; and I have neither father nor brother to aid and counsel me.”
“My poor counsel is at your command always, Miss Seabright.”
“Thank you! It is in relation to the stewardship of Heaven’s goods
intrusted to me that I wish your advice. One should not live for
themselves alone, you know.”
“Assuredly not,” said Dr. Hutton, giving her his close attention.
Miss Seabright then related at length certain very judicious and
extensive schemes of benevolence, and desired his opinion upon them.
“Your plans of usefulness and beneficence would be both wise and good,
reflecting honor on your head and heart, but that they lack the proper
foundation of all schemes of action.”
“What is that?”
“Justice.”
“Justice?”
“Justice!”
“I do not understand you in the least!”
“Miss Seabright, have you ever learned how it was that you came into
possession of all this estate?”
“My dear godfather gave it to me.”
“Do you know why he conveyed it to you in his life rather than bequeath
it to you at his death?”
“No.”
“Because, had he merely bequeathed it to you, his will would have been
set aside by our courts of justice in favor of his wife and child.”
“Well, he did convey it to me! It is mine, at all events!” said Garnet,
with a flushed cheek and brow.
“And yet he had a wife and daughter whom he beggared to enrich you. Was
this right?”
“Right! Yes, it was right! He cut off a fugitive wife and a rebellious
daughter! Right! Yes, it was right! He did it, and he could have done no
wrong! Therefore it was right! Right! Yes, it was right! Who dares to
gainsay it?” she exclaimed, with her bosom heaving and her color rising.
“Ah! Miss Seabright, it is an ungracious task indeed to unveil before
you the true character and hidden motives of your benefactor, of one
whom you have always looked upon with affection and respect——”
“Stop!” exclaimed Garnet breathlessly, and pressing both hands upon her
bosom, as was her custom when trying to repress an eruption of anger.
“Stop! If you are about to breathe a syllable reflecting upon the memory
of my godfather—hold! I will not hear a breath, believe me! A word that
should wound his good name would transfix my own heart.”
“For your dear sake, Miss Seabright, I will respect the name of General
Garnet; but for the dearer sake of justice I will plead the cause of his
widow and daughter.”
“Of his widow and daughter! I am not—the Lord knows it!—ungrateful,
ungenerous, or cruel. I will largely dower them both.”
“You will do no such thing, Miss Seabright! I trust there is too much
latent nobility in your character to permit you to add such ‘insult’ to
their ‘injury.’”
“Then what is it that you wish me to do?”
“What your conscience shall, after you understand the matter, dictate to
be done. He who gave you the Mount Calm estate had no just right to do
so. The whole of the estate came by his wife, and should descend to her
daughter. It was held by her family, the Chesters, for two hundred
years.”
“Well, I think two centuries quite long enough for any one family to
hold any one landed estate. I think it quite time the property had
passed into other hands,” said Miss Seabright firmly. Then she added:
“Besides, my godfather must have had a legal right to the property, else
he could not have conveyed it to me.”
“Miss Seabright, if you will permit me, for justice’s sake, I will tell
you the whole history of the transaction by which General Garnet became
legally possessed of the Mount Calm estate. It is right—it is necessary
that you should know it.”
“Say on, sir.”
Dr. Hutton began, and, softening as much as possible, for her sake, the
conduct of General Garnet, related the atrocious history of his life and
actions—first, how, aided by her father, he sundered the engagement
existing between Alice Chester and Milton Sinclair and forcibly married
the heart-broken child; their wedded life of tyranny on his side and
suffrance on hers; the separation of the mother and daughter; in after
years his betrothal of Elsie and Magnus; his subsequent attempt to break
their engagement from mercenary motives; his furious anger at their
marriage; the arts by which he gained from his wife a deed of the Mount
Calm estate; his revenge in disinheriting his daughter; the taunts and
cruelties by which he had nearly caused the death of his wife, and had
finally driven her from him; and lastly, the legal acumen with which,
for the sake of more surely impoverishing his wife and child, he had
conveyed the estate, instead of bequeathing it, knowing that the will,
upon account of its crying injustice, would have been set aside by the
courts in favor of the widow and daughter.
“There, Miss Seabright, that is the way in which your godfather first,
and you after him, came into possession of the Mount Calm property.”
Garnet Seabright had not listened patiently to this recital. Many times
her large, heavily-fringed eyes blazed and darkened; her cheeks
crimsoned and faded; and, though she pressed both hands to her chest,
her bosom heaved and fell like the waves of the sea. Many times she
interrupted him, and nothing, perhaps, but the felt law of justice
enabled Dr. Hutton to persevere to the close of his ungracious and
unwelcome narrative.
When he had closed by revealing the hypocrisy, treachery, and revenge of
General Garnet, all the color was suddenly struck out from her face, as
though she had been blasted by a stroke of lightning, so white, so
still, and aghast was her aspect. Dr. Hutton hastened to her side and
took her hand. At the touch she rose in trepidation, and, scarcely
heeding what she said, exclaimed:
“Not now! Not one single word now! I must be alone, or die!
To-morrow!—to-morrow I will hear you!” and hurried, or rather reeled,
from the room.