University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE SEIGNEUR MORT-REYNARD CATCHES A TARTAR.

The triumphant Mr. Hamilton went on laughing, as we have
described, toward Effingham Hall. He soon reached the
mansion, and tying his horse, walked in, whistling merrily;
he seemed to be at peace with himself and all the world—to
be revelling in the quiet pleasure of a man who has an excellent
conscience, and has just overcome by pure force of
genius all opposed to him.

He found the front door open, and without ceremony entered,
and proceeded to the library, where he did not doubt
he should find some one of the family. He was not mistaken;
seated languidly by the window he saw Mr. Effingham.

Mr. Effingham was looking out of the window, and so
profound was his gloomy reverie, that he was not aware of
the entrance of his visitor. His brow was even paler than
usual—his lips were more weary—his head drooped, and his
eyes were half closed and full of shadow. His posture,
too, was very indicative of his mood; it betrayed languor,
indifference, utter prostration of spirits.

Mr. Effingham was not aroused from his gloomy and

absorbing thought until the fox-hunter laid his hand upon
his shoulder.

“Why Champ,” he cried, “thinking eternally? Really
you will get your blood in such a state with this keeping in
the house, that even running a fox won't set it going.”

Mr. Effingham shrunk from the hand, and replied coldly:

“I am not very well.”

“Not well!” cried Hamilton; “that's because you don't
ride out.”

“No, it is not,” said Mr. Effingham.

“I tell you it is,” said Hamilton, who honestly believed
what he said.

“Well,” replied Mr. Effingham, in the same cold and
calm voice, full of constraint, “have it as you will.”

Hamilton was not quick at observing moods, and engaged
in contemplating a picture of the winning horse at the last
Derby races, which the squire had just received from England,
did not pay much attention to his companion's accent.

“Ah, well!” he said at length, “perhaps not—perhaps
you are really unwell, but what a splendid second thigh that
fellow's got, by George!”

Mr. Effingham made no reply, gazing out of the window
again. Mr. Hamilton looked at him.

“Why, Champ, you really don't seem well to-day,” he
said.

“I am not.”

“You are brooding over something. By Jove! your
eyes are as deep and gloomy as Bob Ashell's after his losses
at the Jamestown races, where that consumed little horse of
Waters' beat Sir Archy. Bob had bet heavily on Sir Archy,
and he cursed Captain Waters' racer from Dan to Beersheba.”

“Ah?” said Mr, Effingham.

“Yes, indeed! and Howard said no less. They couldn't
deny that the Captain had complied with all the rules—given
them a full trial of his horse before the races—shown Selim's
pedigree, and all that; but it seems the Arabian didn't
begin running until the second heat on the race-day; and
then you ought to have seen hin. By George! sir, he fairly
picked up the miles and tossed 'em behind him, and Waters

might have got a thousand pounds for him after the third
heat.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Effingham, with the same cold and
constrained air.

“Yes, indeed,” continued Hamilton, carried away by his
mental contemplation of Selim, “but the Captain absolutely
declined —where the devil does he get all his money?—and
prefers riding him. By Jove! just think of a man's riding
a horse worth a thousand pounds every day!”

And Mr. Hamilton groaned at the Captain's extravagance.

“I have just left him,” he continued, “and I ran a good
joke on him, which I'll tell you another time—by George!
it will make you die a-laughing.”

And Mr. Hamilton burst into a roar of laughter, which
did not relax Mr. Effingham's face, however, in the remotest
degree.

“The villain has been overcoming me lately on a variety
of occasions,” Hamilton went on. “The last was the other
day, but I had better not mention that: the explanation
would be awkward.”

And Mr. Hamilton laughed again.

“We have been over to Mr. Lee's,” he continued, “and
you never did hear such an infernal clatter as those two
men kept up, with their wearisome political discussions.”

“Indeed?” repeated Mr. Effingham, like an icicle.

“Yes, sir, by George! they nearly drove me crazy.
Nothing but the Stamp Act this, sir! the Stamp Act that,
sir! the Stamp Act the other, sir! the Stamp Act, here,
there, every where: in the middle, all around, on both sides!
In the same way it was the Navigation Laws this, that, and
the other! The opening of the House, and the Governor's
speech! The seven years' war, which I was in hopes had all
been fought and forgotten! Then it was this nightmare of
the Stamp Act again! By Jove! when the time comes, I
shall be ready to fight if need be, but where is the use of
this eternal wearisome discussion? Don't it weary you?”

“I am not fond of politics,” said Mr. Effingham, more
and more coldly: he was about to add a “sir” to his sentence,
but refrained.

“By George!” said Hamilton, “I believe you are fond
of nothing on earth.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Of what are you fond?”

“Of quiet,” said Mr. Effingham, in a freezing tone.

Hamilton did not observe it.

“Ah, that means you do not like to engage in these eternal
discussions. Well, we sympathize then.”

Mr. Effingham inclined his head coldly, making no
reply.

“It don't follow, however, that you need engage in them
when you visit Mr. Lee,” continued his visitor; “a man is
always at liberty to escape to the ladies.”

Mr. Effingham was silent.

“There is Henrietta always ready to discuss fashions,
travel, books, every thing but politics.”

Mr. Effingham continued still silent, but his breast
heaved.

“Of course Clare would not amuse you,” Hamilton
went on, “absorbed as she naturally is in our approaching—
hem! see what a fellow I am!”

And Mr. Hamilton seemed to wish his tongue in Guinea,
Jericho, or other remote place, where it would not easily be
got at. Mr. Effingham turned away his head, and his brow
darkened.

“Clare is a woman out of a thousand,” continued his
visitor, “just the girl for a jolly fellow, not too soft and
lackadaisical, but quite soft enough to smooth down those
bachelor asperities which interfere with a fellow's standing
in society. She is a finer girl than any within fifty leagues,
though I say it.

He did not observe Mr. Effingham's frown.

“You would be benefited now,” continued Mr. Hamilton,
“if you would go over there oftener, and not persist in shutting
yourself up here so secluded and lonely. By George!
you'll expire of weariness.”

No reply: but the brow grew darker.

“Come, tell me how this ridiculous habit has grown on
you?—why don't you go and see Henrietta?”

Mr. Effingham's eye flashed.

“She's a splendid girl.”

No reply.

“Of course I don't speak of Clare: by the bye, you used
to pay her some attention—”

He did not observe the flush rising in the cheek.

“You were even sweethearts in childhood. How things
change in this world: women don't continue to like a man
because they were fond of him when he was a boy.”

Mr. Hamilton was treading upon dangerous ground:
Mr. Effingham was losing his self-control rapidly, as his
heaving breast, and eyes filling slowly with a lurid fire,
plainly indicated.

“Strange! isn't it?” continued Hamilton, “that after
having at her feet so many elegant fellows, Clare should—
well, well, where am I rushing? I can't keep any thing
secret. But the more I study these women, the more I am
puzzled. I can understand you, now, and 'most any man—
but a woman? By George! that's beyond me—they're too
deep. Now, I should have thought Clara would have liked
—some people, better than, well, say, other people: that's
non-committal. By George! you are pale, Effingham! How
this staying in the house is hurting you! You are growing
a perfect girl.”

Mr. Effingham was indeed pale, but this pallor sprung
from rage: every word that Hamilton uttered was another
dagger plunged into his heart, and these were poisoned daggers—poisoned
with contemptuous coolness.

Hamilton assumed a commiserating air, and said with a
cool and easy smile,

“Why do you stay from Riverhead? Clare's present
relation toward a nameless individual should not keep you
from the house. Come, tell me why!”

The measure was full.

Mr. Effingham rose to his feet, and said haughtily, and
with flashing eyes,

“Mr. Hamilton, be good enough to shape your discourse
in such a manner, that I may not be compelled to insult
you in my own house!”

“Insult me!” cried Hamilton.

“Yes, sir! your air of astonishment does not deceive me
—I am not the dupe of your good-humored surprise at my
address. You know well, sir, that I have cause to insult

you. Not content with making me wretched and miserable
beyond conception, by depriving me of the heart of the only
woman I have ever really loved, you choose to come here,
and, under the protection of this roof, utter your insulting
and ironical speeches in my very teeth! By heaven, sir, I
will not endure it! I am not sudden in quarrel, sir, and
have no desire to engage in any altercation; but, beware,
sir! Woe to the man who strikes me, as you have done,
through the heart!—let him not count upon a very lengthy
forbearance! You affect to feel surprise, sir—you look
shocked! Very well, you are at liberty to assume any expression
of countenance you fancy! I have endeavored to
prevent my feelings from mastering me, sir—I have more
than once curbed my rage, and my despair—yes, in my despair,
it is humiliating to say it, but I wish to be frank—I
have more than once concealed the emotions produced in me
by your unfeeling and unworthy allusions; but I now say to
you, sir, that my patience is exhausted. I shall not always
put a rein upon my anger—I will not attempt it. Go, sir!
and laugh at me with that lady who has chosen you in my
place, as she had the right to do. Go, sir! and mock, deride,
sprinkle your ambiguous voices, and despise me to your
heart's desire. But beware, sir, how you come hither to
taunt and jest at me—to make me the butt of your wit and
humor—to insist that I too shall join in the laugh at myself,
and wait until you have gone, before I tear my breast
and curse you!”

It was impossible to describe the passionate emotion with
which these words were uttered; Mr. Effingham looked
dangerous; his eyes flashed; his lip writhed; his haughty
brow was covered with perspiration; and his teeth were
clenched. As he uttered the last words, he surveyed Hamilton
with one of those haughty glances, which seem like
flashes of fire, and for a moment hesitated whether he should
add any thing to what he had uttered. The struggle was
brief; he restrained himself, and bowing with cold dignity,
he left the room.

Hamilton for a moment continued gazing after him completely
dumbfoundered, and in no little anger. Then as he
disappeared, the fox-hunter rose, hesitated a moment, grasped
his hat and whip furiously, and hastily left the house.

“By Jove!” who would have thought it?” he said. “I
thought, however, it was wrong. This joking will ruin me!”

And uttering a prolonged whistle, indicative of anger and
dissatisfaction, he mounted his horse and rode away.