University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
OLD FRIENDS.

The Riverhead chariot rolled lazily up to Effingham Hall,
an event which caused the sleepy-looking pointer basking in
the sun upon the portico, to rise and wag his tail, in sign of
indolent satisfaction, and well-bred welcome.

The Hall has no longer that still, slumberous, melancholy
air about it, we have observed upon a former occasion:—indeed,
the very reverse is the fact. Effingham Hall has
waked up with the spring—and that joyous season, continuing,
as in Shakespeare's time, to “put a spirit of youth in
everything,” has touched with its merry and joyous hand the

trees, the grass, the very gables of the old manor-house, and
all is bright and cheerful.

The tall old trees, with their tender budding leaves, are
rustling in the merry winds of March:—the sunshine lies
like a glory on the great portico; and the lawn, growing already
green and soft, is dotted with a thousand flowers which
raise their bright heads and smile, or cheerily shake the
dew diamonds from their gay petals when the breeze agitates
them.

From tree to tree dart the early songsters of spring, making
the air vocal with their chirping:—and it is very plain
that more than one courtship is going on in the tall elm yonder,
from which a concert by delighted blue birds' artists,
incessantly fills the air. They are no longer “prophesying
spring,” as our poet says: their prophecy is fulfilled, and
they are rejoicing like so many able editors, who have foretold
events and seen them come to pass. The oriole carols
too, above them all, from his high spray, which, swaying backward,
forward, sideways, in the wind—rocks his bright gurgling
throat and ruffled feathers gaily. A thousand little
swamp sparrows flit about: and bear up twigs from the
margin of the sparkling stream: and dart after each other
in excess of glee; and almost tumble over each other in the
blue mid air, from pure merriment.

Dozens of negroes—ranging from little ebon balls, clad
in unmentionable costumes, to the stately white-haired Catos
and Dinahs—pass about from out-house to out-house:—
horses are led in long rows from the huge stable on the hill,
toward the field:—dogs roll and bark and meditate with
staring eyes upon the lawn:—and in the midst of all a flock
of dignified geese ambulate like great seigneurs with their
wives, and startle with their cackle all the stately, serene
peacocks, who with brilliant plumage and restless movement
of their burnished necks sail slowly onward—bright-crested
swans upon an emerald sea.

And pleasanter than all—more excellent to hear and look
upon, are the sights and sounds from the Hall itself.

From the open window comes the merry murmur of the
harpsichord and a child's voice full of tender grace; adding
a splendor to the time—the perfect merriment which nothing
ever affords but music. And then the music stops, and there

appears upon the portico the burly figure of our old acquaintance,
the squire, who finds his skirts suddenly grasped by
laughing hands, and two merry eyes, as azure as the heavens,
laugh like the lips.

The squire is in exuberant health, and is clad just as we
have seen him before. His broad plain hat, which has lost
its loops and is rolled up shovel fashion, covers a face reddened
and embrowned by exercise and exposure:—his huge
coat brushes against his strong thick silk stockings, which
disappear in heavy half-boots:—and his long waistcoat is
nearly covered by his frill, soiled now like his wide cuffs and
stockings, with the dust of his fields. The squire has just
returned from his morning ride over the plantation, and has
been listening to Miss Kate Effingham performing upon the
harpsichord, and singing one of his favorite airs. She now
holds him back by the skirts, begging him to wait for her.

This young lady may possibly still dwell in the reader's
recollection. She has scarcely changed at all since we saw
her last, and is positively not a bit larger. She is the same
bright little creature with sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks,
and crimping laughing lips which are the color of cherries,
and reveal when their owner laughs, a row of small teeth,
much whiter than pearls, if not so rounded and regular.
Kate is dressed almost exactly as we have seen her formerly.
Her hair is still unpowdered, and falls in curls upon her
neck, around which extends a foam of snowy lace. Her
half-frock half-coat, with its embroidered velvet under-vest
still abbreviates itself—after the fashion of the time—in
close proximity to the knee: and the same scarlet silk stockings,
plunge themselves into the identical rosetted, red-heeled
shoes. Kate is perhaps merrier than we ever saw
her, and when she demands that the squire shall wait for
her before proceeding to assist the visitors from the carriage,
there is a violent contention between laughter and the faculty
of articulation, which results in a rush and jumble of the
two, which puts the merriment of the blue birds to such
shame that they are silent.

“Good morrow, neighbor,” says the squire, assisting
Henrietta and Clare to the ground, with the elegance of a
perfect courtier; “and you, my little mice, how are your
small selves?”

With which the squire squeezes Henrietta's hand, until
she screams.

“Thanks, sir,” says the laughing girl; “I was much
better before I saw you!”

And she shakes her hand, upon which the old gentleman's
fingers have left distinct white marks.

“You are not fond of having your hands pressed?”
laughs the squire.

“No, sir.”

“By an old fellow like me, I mean—and I take your
reply as given to the whole question. Well, well, I believe
you are right. I am rather an ancient cavalier, but the sight
of you young folks, all roses, pleases me.”

“That is my failing, I believe,” says Henrietta, laughing,
“but not Clare's.”

“No,” says the squire, “and I am sorry to see your
cheeks so much like lilies, Clare.”

Clare smiles.

“You know that is my style, sir,” she replies, “I never
had a bright color, but I am quite well.”

“And as good as ever, I do not doubt,” says the squire,
as they enter the mansion pleasantly.

“And me, sir—does that apply to me?” says Henrietta,
laughing.

“No, madam.”

“I am `as bad as ever,' I suppose.”

“I hope not!” says the old gentleman, delighted at his
witticism.

“Thanks, sir,” Henrietta replies, with exquisite demureness,
“thanks for an excellent character. And now I am
going to leave you and papa to discuss your deeply interesting
plantation affairs, and take off my hood.”

“By all means. I cannot see your pretty face now:—
and Clare is as bad, see! I believe she cannot kiss Kate,
for her huge coiffure.”

And the squire, laughing gayly, leads the way into the
library, followed by Mr. Lee—leaving the young ladies in
the hands of Miss Alethea, who has just emerged from the
kitchen.

Miss Alethea looks more placid and good-humored than
when we knew her formerly, though her stateliness has not

in the least changed:—and she comes forward and kisses,
in Virginia fashion, both the girls. Then they are led away
to the sanctum up stairs to remove their wrapping, and make
their toilettes for dinner.

Seated in the library, the old gentlemen discuss matters
in general, over a decanter of sherry: and dispute with the
utmost vehemence, on the most trifling matters, in the good
old way. Both are fortified in their opinions as a matter of
course, and they deplore each the other's prejudices and
unreasonableness. But let no one suppose that these word-quarrels
were not the most friendly contentions imaginable.
There were no better friends in the world, and they were
only pursuing the immemorial habit of Virginians to discuss,
contradict, and argue on all occasions.

Some of these contradictions are amusing, and rather
vague.

“The fact is, my dear sir,” says Mr. Lee, philosophically
smoothing down his waistcoat, “the fact is that after all we
have said, and after all that can be said on this point, things
are—”

“I deny it!” says the squire, vehemently, “they are
not!”

“But listen now,” continues Mr. Lee, with a persuasive
and earnest voice, “you are too quick. I was going to say,
and I think you will coincide with me—you ought to, if you
do not:—I was going to say that the present state of this
country is such that these men will—”

“No! I join issue with you there,” interposes the squire,
argumentatively, “they will do no such thing, and I am
surprised to hear you say it!”

“I have not said it yet!”

“You have.”

“What have I said?”

“You said, that considering the present state of England—”

“No! of this country.”

“You said England!”

“Positively I did not.”

And so the argument goes on, thick set with contradictions
and dogmatical assertions.

At last—the worthies having glided gradually from the

rude highway of politics, into the pleasant paths of neighborhood
gossip—the conversation grows quite friendly and
placid again, and there are no more contradictions:—those
weapons being made use of exclusively in polemics. They
talk of the races to be held soon at the course between Williamsburg
and Jamestown:—of the probable entries:—of
the amount of subscription, and the chances of Sir Archy's
overcoming Fair Anna or Dare Devil. From this they pass
to county court matters, and the demoralizing effect of the
absence of game-laws. This leads the squire to descant at
length, and in a tone of indignant reprehension, upon the
course of the defendant in a certain chancery suit, by the
style of “Effingham et al. vs. Jonas Jackson, sheriff of
York county, and as such, administrator de bonis non, with
the will annexed, of John Jones, dec'd.” This affords the
squire an opportunity to express his opinion of the high court
of chancery, which he does at some length, and with refreshing
frankness and directness.

So completely absorbed is the worthy gentleman in this
interesting subject, that he quite loses sight of a piece of
information which he has been on the point of giving his
visitor, for some moments. Let us leave him vituperating
the whole system of equity, and enter the adjoining apartment—the
drawing-room—from which the merry music of
the harpsichord is heard. Perhaps we shall be able to find
out from others the nature of this intelligence.

Clare sits at the harpsichord playing, and little Kate,
perched upon a cricket at her side, is turning over the leaves
of the music—while Miss Alethea and Henrietta exchange
neighborhood gossip, near the opposite window.

Clare finishes the piece she is playing, and turning her
quiet, good-natured face toward Kate, says, smoothing back
the child's locks as she speaks:

“Is that the piece you wished me to play, Katy?”

“Oh yes,” says Kate, her eyes sparkling, “and now
you mustn't play any more—for I have a great piece of news
to tell you!”

And the child's eyes fairly dance, as she draws a letter
from beneath her girdle.

“A great piece of news?” asks Clare, with a smile,
“what is it, pray?”

“Guess!” says Kate, covering the letter with her hand.

“I am afraid I am a poor hand at guessing, dear,” replies
Clare.

“Can't you think?” persists Kate, with a joyous rush
of laughter in her voice:—for if Rubini had tears in his
voice, it may be said that Kate had laughter in hers:
“can't you think now, cousin Clare—just try, now.”

“Well,” says Clare, smiling at the brilliant face of the
child, “has Will written you a love letter, and asked your
hand?”

“No, indeed,” Kate replies, pouting like a duchess, “he
asks me to marry him twenty times a day.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed: he's a dreadful plague. But come, now,
cousin Clare, guess again.”

“Let me see: you have a letter, that is plain.”

“Yes.”

“And this letter contains the news?”

“Yes, yes, cousin Clare.”

“Good news?”

“Oh yes, indeed!”

“Of what sort?”

“Oh! now that would be telling you, you know. But
I'll see if you can guess it then. Somebody's coming!”

And Kate's eyes dance again: while a shadow suddenly
passes over the tender face of her companion.

“Somebody coming?” murmurs Clare; “I think I
can guess now—”

“I knew you could!”

“Mr. Effingham is coming back?”

“Oh yes! cousin Champ! See, here is his letter from
London. Look, what a funny mark upon it:—he says he
will be here early in April, and this, you know, is the first
week of March.”

And Kate clasps her hands.

“Shall I read it?” she says.

Clare shakes her head sadly.

“Then you may yourself, cousin,” says Kate, offering
the opened letter; “I know cousin Champ wouldn't care
for your seeing it.”

But Clare puts the offered letter aside with her hand.

“Well, if you don't like to read it, you can listen just
to this. He says he may be here even sooner than April.
Just think! We'll have the dear old fellow back so soon,
and he'll have so much to tell me,” adds Kate, with a
queenly little air; “you know how much we love each other.”

Suddenly the letter is removed from Kate's hand, and
the voice of a youthful gentleman, who has entered unperceived,
says petulantly:

“There you are, praising brother Champ again. It is
really vexatious, Kate.”

And Mr. Willie Effingham looks mortified and indignant.
This young gentleman has scarcely changed more
than Kate, and is clad at present in a handsome little pearl-colored
cocked hat, rosetted shoes, a coat with a rounded
skirt, and a bright scarlet waistcoat. His right hand grasps
a riding whip, and on the floor at his feet lies a school-book,
which he has dropped to take possession of the letter.

“It is really too bad,” says Will, allowing Kate to repossess
herself of the letter, without much struggling; “I
believe you're in love with brother Champ.”

“I am so,” says Kate, “and you're jealous, Willie!”

With which words the young lady laughs, to the great
annoyance of her cavalier.

“Jealous, am I?” says Will; “that's all the thanks I
get for giving up the game of Prisoner's base after school,
and coming home to see you. Never mind!”

And Will shakes his head.

“Did you, now?” asks Kate, touched by this piece of
devotion.

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, let's make up, Willie.”

“Then give me a kiss.”

“Indeed I wont!” cries Kate; and she struggles to
avoid the proffered embrace.

“Heyday!” says the voice of the squire at the door,
as that gentleman enters with Mr. Lee; “fighting! Is it
possible, Will?”

Will ceases to struggle: but abstains from any explanation.

“We were not fighting, papa; but he wanted to kiss me,

and you know it is not proper for young ladies of my age to
kiss gentlemen—is it?”

And Kate throws a fatal glance from her brilliant eyes
towards Willie, who, secing the prize snatched from his
grasp, utters a sigh.

The squire laughs, and asks the child “What letter
that is?”

“Cousin Champ's, you know, papa.”

“Yes, yes: I was just telling neighbor Lee,” the squire
says to Clare, “that Champ was coming back soon.”

The hoofstrokes of a horse sound on the gravel walk,
but they do not hear them.

“He writes,” adds the squire, addressing himself equally
to Clare and Henrietta, “that we may expect him early
in April—sooner, perhaps.”

A spur sounds on the portico, but the harpsichord, which
Clare touches softly and absently with her finger, drowns
the noise.

“Kate, here, has taken possession of the letter as her
rightful property,” continues the squire, “and offers to exhibit
it, I believe, to every body—the little minx. They
were great friends.”

The shadow of a man falls upon the passage.

“Well, I'll be glad to see the boy; and God grant him
a safe passage to the old Hall again.”

As the squire speaks, Kate utters a delighted scream
and in a moment rushes to the arms of a gentleman who
stands upon the threshold.

“God has already granted that, sir,” says Mr. Effingham.

And amid a burst of exclamations, he enters the apartment.

We need not describe the scene which followed the entrance
of Mr. Effingham:—how the squire did little more
than press his hand, and gaze delighted on his face:—how
Clare tried in vain to still her agitated and throbbing heart:
—how the rest of the group overwhelmed the young man
with a thousand congratulations. The reader may fancy all
this with less trouble than we could describe it. We must
leave to fancy, too, the crowd of bright-faced Africans, who
jostled each other at the door:—the uproarious chanting of

which rose from the lawn, after the fashion of the time and
place.

Yes, Mr. Champ, after all his weary wanderings, had returned
to his good old home.