University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
SOMETHING LIKE AN ADVENTURE.

Leaving the group which we have seen assemble in the
drawing-room of Effingham Hall, let us follow the worthy
whose misdeeds in connection with the work-box and lapdog
caused the dramatic assemblage.

Mr. Effingham, elegantly clad in a riding costume, perfect
in its appointment, and mounted on a splendid courser which
he had appropriated from his father's stud, took his way
through the fresh woods towards Riverhead, the residence
of Mr. Lee and his two daughters, Henrietta and Clare.
But Mr. Effingham was much too sensible a gentleman to
bore himself, as we say to-day, with the fine scenery of October—the
fair blue skies, with their snowy clouds floating on
like ships towards the clear horizon—the variegated woods
full of singing birds—the streams dancing in the sun—and
all the myriad attractions of an autumn afternoon. His
taste had been shaped in London, and the glare of lights,

the noise of revelry, and gay encounter of bright wits and
beauty, had long since deprived him of the faculty of admiring
such an insipid thing as simple nature. There was little
affectation about the worthy gentleman in reality: he was
really and truly worn out. Accustomed for some length of
time to every species of dissipation, his character had been
seriously injured—his freshness was gone, and he sought
now for nothing so much as emotions. We shall see if he
was fortunate in his search.

At times, as he went along, Mr. Effingham indulged in a
sort of silent, well-bred laughter, at the scene he had just
witnessed at the Hall.

“What a farce the world is,” he said, philosophically,
“we all run after something—one has his literary ambition,
another political aspiration: this young lady wishes to marry
a lord: that young gentleman's highest hope in life is, that
his comedy may not be damned for its want of freedom—the
polite word now I understand. It's all weariness: I really
begin to think that little Katy and Alethea, with their embroidery
and lapdogs, are the most sensible after all. Embroidery
and lapdogs cost less, and—”

Mr. Effingham drew up suddenly—so suddenly, that his
horse rose on his haunches, and tossed his head aloft.

The meaning of this movement was simply that he saw
before him in the centre of the road he was following, a lady,
who apparently awaited his approach.

The lady was mounted upon a tall white horse, which
stood perfectly quiet in the middle of the road, and seemed
to be docility itself, though the fiery eyes contradicted this
first impression. Rather would one acquainted with the singular
character of horses have said that this animal was
subdued by the gentle hand of his rider, and so laid aside
from pure affection, all his waywardness.

This rider was a young girl about eighteen, and of rare
and extraordinary beauty. Her hair—so much as was visible
beneath her hood—seemed to be dark chestnut, and her
complexion was dazzling. The eyes were large, full, and
dark—instinct with fire and softness, feminine modesty, and
collected firmness—the firmness, however, predominating.
But the lips were different. They were the lips of a child—
soft, guileless, tender, confiding: they were purity and innocence

itself, and seemed to say, that however much the
brain might become hard and worldly, the heart of this young
woman never could be other than the tender and delicately
sensitive heart of a child.

She was clad in a riding dress of pearl color—and from
the uniformity of this tint, it seemed to be a favorite with her.
The hood was of silk, and the delicately-gloved hand held a
little ivory-handled riding whip, which now dangled at her
side. The other gloved hand supported her cheek; and in
this position the unknown lady calmly awaited Mr. Effingham's
approach still nearer, though he was already nearly
touching her.

Mr. Effingham took off his hat and bowed with elegant
courtesy. The lady returned this inclination by a graceful
movement of her head.

“Would you be kind enough to point out the road to the
town of Williamsburg, sir?” she said, in a calm and clear
voice.

“With great pleasure, madam,” replied Mr. Effingham,
“you have lost your way!”

“Yes, sir, very strangely, and as evening drew on, was
afraid of being benighted.”

“You have but to follow this road until you reach
Effingham Hall, madam,” he said—“the house in the distance
yonder: then turn to the left, and you are in the
highway to town.”

“Thanks, sir,” the young girl said, with another calm
inclination of her head: and she touched her horse with
the whip.

“But cannot I accompany you?” asked Mr. Effingham,
whose curiosity was greatly aroused, and found his eyes, he
knew not why, riveted to the rare beauty of his companion's
face, “do you not need me as a guide?”

“Indeed, I think not, sir,” she said, with the same calmness,
your direction is very plain, and I am accustomed to
ride by myself.”

“But really,” began Mr. Effingham, somewhat piqued,
“I know it is intrusive—I know I have not the honor—”

She interrupted him with her immovable calmness.

“You would say you do not know me, and that your offer
is intrusive, I believe, sir. I do not consider it so—it is very

kind: but I am not a fearful girl, and need not trouble
you at all.”

And she bowed.

“One moment, madam,” said Mr. Effingham; “I am really
dying with curiosity to know you. 'Tis very rude to say
so, of course—but I am acquainted with every lady in the
neighborhood, and I do not recall any former occasion upon
which I had the pleasure—”

“It is very easily explained, sir,” the young girl said.

“Madam—?”

“I do not live in the neighborhood—”

“Ah?—no?”

“And I am not a lady, sir: does not that explain it?”

Mr. Effingham scarcely believed his ears: these astounding
words were uttered with such perfect calmness that there
was no possible room to suppose that they were meant for
a jest. What then? He could not speak: he only looked
at her.

“You are surprised, sir,” the young girl said, quite
simply and gravely.

“Upon my word, madam—never have I—really—”

“Your surprise will not last long, sir.”

“How, madam?”

“Do you ever visit the town of Williamsburg?”

“Frequently.”

“Well, sir, I think you will see me again. Now I must
continue my way, having returned you my very sincere thanks
for your kindness.”

With which words—words uttered in that wondrous voice
of immovable calmness—the young girl again inclined her
sumptuous head, touched her white horse with the whip, and
slowly rode out of sight.

Mr. Effingham remained for several moments motionless,
in the middle of the road, gazing with wide and astonished
eyes after the beautiful equestrian. He was endeavoring
by a tremendous mental exertion to solve the astounding
problem of her identity. Vain was all his pondering—nothing
came of all his thought, his knit brows, his lip gnawed
ferociously, as he mused. Mr. Effingham was confident that
he knew, at least by sight, every young lady at Williamsburg,
and within a circuit of twenty miles, but this face was wholly

unknown to him. He had certainly never seen her before,
and then the strange fact of her riding out alone: her self-possession:
“she was accustomed to ride alone”—“she was
not a lady”—“they should probably meet again”—what in
the name of Fate, was the meaning of all this?

“May the fiend seize me, if the days of wandering
knights and forlorn damsels, haunted castles and giants have
not returned!” exclaimed Mr. Effingham, emphatically. And
having thus disburdened his mind, he rode on—but still his
mind dwelt on the strange lady, and her more singular
words.

Not a lady!” what could she mean? was there ever
since the days of the Sphinx so complete a puzzle! In face,
person, dress, and carriage she was every inch a lady—why
then utter that astounding observation, enunciate that startling
intelligence? who could she be, however? Mr. Effingham
ran over in his mind, the whole of his friends and acquaintances,
and could recollect no one whose face bore the
slightest resemblance to that of the unknown lady. He gave
up in despair, finally, and struck his spurs into the noble animal
he rode, with unusual vigor. The horse started forward,
and in half an hour he had reached Riverhead.