University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
EFFINGHAM HALL—SLUMBERS.

While these events were occurring at Williamsburg—these
various and conflicting passions, writhing, bubbling, boiling,
and exploding—while the town began to thrill, and buzz, and
rouse itself, and make preparation for the meeting of the
burgesses, and the great opening day—all this while profound
quiet reigned at Effingham Hall. Embowered in its
lofty oaks, which only sighed and rustled mournfully in the

sad autumn days, it seemed to sleep, looking, with its sunset
illumined windows, like great eyes, on the broad woodlands
and champaign, and the far river flowing solemnly to the great
ocean. One might have fancied, without any violent effort
of the imagination, that the great manor-house was a living
thing, which mourned for something which had happened not
long since. The casements rattled gloomily in the chill autumn
evening, and the mourning winds, scattering the variegated
leaves, sighed round the gables like an invisible host
of mourners, then died away with sobs in the dim forest.
The sun came up, but did not shine with cheerfulness and
warmth—something seemed to have dimmed his light, and
the rainy mist drooped long above the fields before his
struggling beams could pierce and overthrow it. He went
down in a pomp of golden clouds, indeed: but even they
looked sad—for it was like a great monarch dying on his
purple couch of state, and taking with him to the far undiscovered
land beyond the immense horizon, all that blessed
and cheered the hearts of nations. In the long nights, the
breezes of the ocean sighed, and sobbed, and murmured to
each other round the antique chimneys, and a sombre desolation,
uncheered by any light but the great struggling blood-red
moon's, appeared to brood over the broad domain of
Effingham and the thoughtful, silent Hall.

Within, there was scarcely more cheerfulness than without.
The servants moved about with quiet steps and subdued
voices; for they felt that the echoes should not be
aroused. The cloud on their master's brow awed them, and
instinctively they spoke in whispers, and tipped in and out;
and when a silver cup or salver chanced to fall, they started
and held their breath, and looked round fearfully. Little
was said by any member of the household; days, it seemed,
passed sometimes without a word being uttered by any one.
That gloom upon the old squire's brow repelled any advances
—silenced any attempts at social intercourse. The meals
passed in silence, with their array of almost motionless black
servants, standing behind the chairs, and moving noiselessly
in obedience to signs. All countenances were clouded, and,
when the old gentleman had swallowed his chocolate, or
eaten something with an obvious effort, he passed in silence
to the library, and was seen no more for hours.

Miss Alethea had grown unusually good-tempered; she
did not scold, or rate the servants, or fill the house with
clatter in her housekeeping, as her wont had been: she
looked sad, and spoke little—passing her time in assiduous
sewing on household articles—a dress for Kate, or else a frill
for Willie, or maybe a neckcloth for her father. Orange
was no longer in high favor, and would come and wag his
tail, and look up wistfully, and whine, and then, finding that
no notice was taken of him, would go and lie down on the
rug, and, resting his chin upon his paws, gaze into the
singing fire, hour after hour, in silence. Willie was, he
knew not why, in low spirits; he often thought of Champ,
now, and regretted all those hasty words he had uttered
lately. His whip no longer waked the echoes of the old
portrait-decorated hall; his halloos to the fox-hounds dragging
their heavy blocks and baying hoarsely, were never
heard now startling the silent lawn; the gallop of his poney
never sounded on the gravelled road winding through the
rich grounds up to the door. Little Kate had not had a
ride behind him now for weeks—Willie had lost his relish
for the amusement, and for all else, it seemed—he went
slowly singing about the house, in a low, melancholy tone,
and seemed to be looking for something which he could not
find.

And what of little Kate? She was, perhaps, the saddest
of them all. Her tender, sensitive heart had received
a wound from that which had occasioned all this gloom in
them. She loved him so dearly! as she had said, with her
simple, childish truth—they had been so happy all those days
and years before and since his return! How could she miss
his presence and not grieve? They had such quiet, smiling
talks together in the evenings, when stretched upon the sofa
with his head upon her lap she had sung for him her little
songs—“The Flowers of the Forest,” “Birks of Invermay,”
or “Roslin Castle,” in the clear sunny voice, instinct with so
much marvellous sweetness, he had said, one day. They had
walked together, hand in hand, far into the deep woods, and
he had never complained of the pebbles hurting his feet
through the frail Spanish leather slippers, as he had done
in her hearing to grown ladies; they had looked upon the
setting sun from the high hill westward from the Hall and

then, turning round, seen the tall windows all in flame: he
had taken such good care upon those rides that she should
sit easily, and pressed the little hand clasped round his
waist with such smiling goodness. She remembered so well
his voice, and looks, and smiles—other people said they were
affected or sarcastic smiles, but they were very bright when
they shone on her; and now, when she no longer saw them,
she missed their light, and sat down in her little corner, and
wetted the silk of which Carlos was composed with silent
tears. After one of these quiet, uncomplaining cries, she
felt that she must see him, and she did, as we know, at the
Raleigh. She came back from that interview with a greater
weight than ever on her heart. She could not understand
those gloomy words he uttered, but she heard him say, they
could not meet again, and that he could not go back with
her—and all the way back to the Hall, the child sobbed and
shook, and hid her face, making no reply to Miss Alethea's
questions. What could have changed him so at the tavern
—so suddenly? She knew she had half persuaded him when
he left her—and then the child shrunk and trembled, thinking
of those scenes which followed. She sat down in her
corner again, and mourned, and cried, and went on with her
work, or said her lessons, with a dumb sorrow, which it was
a cruel sight to see; at night, though, she was calmer—
having read her Bible and prayed for him.

One day the parson came to see his parishioner and condole
with him. He performed this parish duty by endeavoring
to prove that the prodigal was not worthy to be his father's
son, and that his “conduct” could not in any manner affect
the squire: he wound up with a reiteration of his argument
proving the young man's unworthiness, and then, to his horror,
saw the squire rise, and flush to his brows with passion.
High words followed—Champ should not be abused in his
father's house, the squire said, by any person in Christendom!
This was all the thanks he got, the parson said, with
indignation: and proceeding thus from irritation on both
sides, to rage, the interview had ended, as the parson had related
to the stranger, Kate to her cousin. Parson Tag had
drank his last glass of port at the Hall, and before many days
had accepted a call from the Piedmont region, and so shaken
the dust of the parish from his feet for ever.

Visitors talked about the weather, when they came to
the Hall, and of the crops, the news from England, the approaching
speech of his excellency, Governor Fauquier, at
the opening of the House of Burgesses, and indeed of every
thing but that one subject. Mr. Effingham's doings were,
indeed, the talk of the colony, as he had said, with such disdainful
indifference, but none of the colonists introduced the
subject at the Hall. One day Mr. Lee and his family dined
there, and Willie asked Clare, in the middle of a profound
silence, if she was going to the governor's ball with brother
Champ. Clare had colored, and her lip had trembled slightly,
as she had answered that she did not think of going to the
ball. Whereupon the squire had struck the table, and
sworn that he would go and take her—and he had looked so
mournful after his outburst, that Clare had said nothing.
It was half understood that she and Henrietta would go—
with the Effingham party, or accompanied by their cavaliers.

So the days passed, and Effingham Hall seemed to become
more and more sad and still:—its inmates conversed
less, and a deeper quiet seemed to reign. The winds that
sobbed across the lonely autumn fields, and swayed backward
and forward all the haughty oaks, seemed only to increase
the stillness. So the Hall slept its sleep.