University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A LOVER, FOX-HUNTER, AND PARSON.

Out of Williamsburg—into the forest—through the forest—
and so into the open highway sped Mr. Effingham, as if an
avenging Nemesis were behind him, and nothing but the
headlong speed he was pushing his noble bay to, could preserve
him from the clutches of the pursuer. He made
furious gestures, uttered more furious words. The ordinary
languor and nonchalance of this gentleman seemed to have
passed from him wholly, and a fiery, passionate man, taken
the petit maitre's place.

Going at this headlong speed, he very nearly ran over, before
he was aware of their proximity, a party of gentlemen
of his acquaintance, who were riding leisurely toward the
bachelor establishment of Mr. Hamilton, visible a few hundred
yards ahead. Mr. Hamilton rode in front of the
glittering cortège, and became aware of Mr. Effingham's
presence, by having his horse nearly driven from beneath
him.

“What, the devil!” cried jolly Jack Hamilton.

“It's Effingham, racing for life!” rose in chorus, from
the laughing horsemen.

“The devil, Champ! what's the matter?” asked Hamilton,
“have you made a bet that you will ride over us, horse,
foot and dragoons?”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Effingham, regaining a portion
of his habitual calmness, “but the fact is, Hamilton, I am
angry enough to gallop to the devil, whom you have twice
apostrophized so emphatically.”

“What's the matter?”

“I am mad.”

“Intellectually, or do you mean that you are merely out
of temper?”

“Both, I believe.”

“Then, come and sleep with me, and have a fox-hunt
with us in the morning.”

“No.”

“Come, now.”

“I cannot.”

“Well, at least, let us have the cause of your fury.”

Mr. Effingham hesitated, but at last, overcome with rage,
said:

“That young actress has been assuming her airs towards
me, and has made me as you find me. There it is! I confess
I am out of temper.”

“What a confession it is!” cried Hamilton, laughing,
“I thought you never suffered yourself to be ruffled.”

“I seldom do.”

“And she offended you?”

“Snubbed me—nothing less. It is really humiliating.”

And Mr. Effingham looked as if he believed what he
said: his face was flushed, and he looked gloomy.

“How was it?” asked the company.

“Why, just thus. I went to pay her a visit, and complimented
her performance in Portia, highly. What reply
did I receive, sir?” said Mr. Effingham, indignantly, “why,
an insult! `Please leave me—I must study my part!'
that was her reply. And when I declined to avail myself of
the privilege, she went on studying, as calmly as if I was
not present.”

“A perfect she-dragon, by George!” said Hamilton,
“but really, that was bad treatment.”

“Abominable!” said the chorus.

“She could not have treated a country clown more harshly,”
added Hamilton; “how could she be guilty of such
rudeness. She don't look like it—I thought her very lady-like.”

“All acting!” said Mr. Effingham.

“Plainly.”

“She shall repent it,” blurted out Mr. Effingham, “the
insulting girl! I never saw greater rudeness and hauteur.
A mere London commedienne of no talents, and bringing
her stilted affectations to the colony.”

“Come, my dear Effingham, don't be angry. Here we
are at the Trap—my respectable bachelor residence: come
in, and cool off in some Jamaica.”

“No, thank you—I must get on. I am bad company.”

And, leaving the fox-hunters, Mr. Effingham rode on
toward the Hall. A quarter of a mile from the house he

met Parson Tag, jogging on his cob from the Hall homeward,
with broad-brimmed hat, and knees and elbows painfully
angular.

“Good evening, sir,” said the parson, “you return soon:
the dews of evening are scarce falling.”

“I thought you were at the Hall, sir, for the evening.”

“Why so?”

“Because I was absent,” said Mr. Effingham coldly.
“We quarrel, I believe, always, and I thought you would remain,
as I was away.”

Mr. Effingham's irritation and ill-humor must plead his
excuse for this irreverent speech.

“The quarrelling is on your side, not on mine, sir,” said
the parson, endeavoring to be dignified; “I am a man of
peace.”

“Carrying out which character, you this morning attacked
Miss Hallam, sir!”

“Really, you seem to have espoused that young lady's
cause against all comers,” said the indignant parson. “Take
care, young sir; as the parson of your parish, it is my duty
to warn you against the snares of Satan. This Jezebel will
be your ruin.”

“Be pleased to speak respectfully of Miss Hallam, sir,”
said Mr. Effingham, threateningly, “when you address me
on the subject of her character. Though not her knight, I
hold myself ready to `espouse her cause,' as you say, sir,
even against the `parson of my parish!'”

“Here's a pretty mess,” returned the pompous gentleman,
descending to the vulgate: “you threaten me, forsooth!”

“No, sir: I acknowledge the folly of my words. You
wear no sword, and are not responsible for thus slandering
my friends—yes, my friends, sir! I say again, that Miss Hallam
is one of my friends, and a young lady who has thus far
conducted herself with immaculate propriety. Now, go sir,
and laugh at me. I value your derision as I value your
praise—as nothing.”

And Mr. Effingham rode on as furiously as before, without
reflecting for an instant on the strange inconsistency of
his conduct. Might not a small modicum of self-knowledge
have explained to him the truth of the matter? But he was
blinded by those dazzling eyes, and saw no inconsistency in
his words.