University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
HOW THE GHOST OF MR. EFFINGHAM ARRIVED AT THE “RALEIGH,”
AND CALLED FOR SOME VINO D'ORO.

The manuscript from which this veracious history is taken,
contains many passages similar to that which we have just
transcribed. The writer, indeed, seems very fond of tracing
thus the secret steps of Providence—making plain the wondrous
ways of that invisible Power which guides the universe
in its onward course—directing men and events as it
rolls the great globe through the realms of space, around
the central sun of Eternal Law. The reader would, however,
be apt to complain were we to transcribe many such

pages; for this narrative is much more a development of
events and characters than a bundle of essays. The words
which men and women utter are far more powerful interpreters
of what they think and feel than any mere comment on
their thoughts and feelings by an indifferent person; and,
acting upon this conviction, we shall proceed to deal again,
directly, with the personages of the history.

We have seen how Mr. Effingham, with that blind and
obstinate wilfulness, had clung to his determination to appear
upon the stage, and how he had ridden forth to procure
the necessary costume. We have also seen how he returned
to the “Raleigh,” a few hours afterwards, equipped in a complete
military costume perfectly adapted to the character which
he designed to represent. Busy with other and more important
events, we could not follow him on his night ride;
but we now proceed to show in what manner he became possessed
of the costume—a costume which no less a personage
than Mr. Manager Hallam himself had declared wonderfully
appropriate, not without many exclamations and interrogatories,
which were left unanswered.

Mr. Effingham, on the next morning, had just repaired
to his room, after languidly conversing at the door of the
“Raleigh” with half a dozen of the wild hangers-on of the
dramatic company, to whose society he had learned to stoop
in gracious condescension, when a singular circumstance attracted
the attention of the worthies who surrounded the
door. This circumstance was the arrival of a traveller,
who, pushing his way through the crowd, halted at the door
of the “Raleigh.” This event, it is perfectly plain, was not
in itself very remarkable, inasmuch as travellers were accustomed
to come and go in Virginia at that period—to and
from Williamsburg and the “Raleigh”—as at present. The
observable circumstance about the foreign-looking gentleman,
who now drew up and called in a loud, hearty voice for
the ostler, was that, in his outward appearance, he presented
a perfect counterpart of no less a person than Mr. Champ
Effingham. His broad, muscular shoulders were clad in a
rich velvet coat, which was stretched across them as tightly as
the skin upon a drum; his waistcoat was of embroidered silk,
and not more than three of the buttons had yielded and
given way; his vigorous limbs were moulded on a scale entirely

too large for the velvet knee-breeches and silk stockings,
which fitted so tightly as to define every swelling muscle
with the utmost distinctness. The rosettes had burst off
from his shoes—his hands were saffron-colored, and you
only found, upon close inspection, that he wore gloves fitting
as closely as the cuticle—in one of these remarkable hands
he carried a gold handled riding whip. As he dismounted,
the other hand arranged conveniently the hilt of a small,
highly-decorated sword, and then raised from its owner's
brows his feather-ornamented hat of the last London fashion.

The head thus bared was that of a man of about thirty
or thirty-two, whose profession was evidently arms. The
bright martial eye, black and full, could not be mistaken;
the straight form, which indeed almost bent backward, so
erect was it, plainly indicated the profession of the worthy.
The face was an excellent one, not because it was very handsome,
in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but for its
frank and bold carelessness—its sunshine; in the open features
mental and physical health fairly shone. The hair was
dark and somewhat grizzled; the brow broad, and darkened
by sun and wind; the eye, as we have said, black and brilliant;
the nose prominent, the chin and under lip full of resolution
and character. We say the chin and under lip, because
the stranger wore a long and very heavy moustache,
as black as jet, under which his white teeth sparkled when
he laughed—very frequently, that is. For the traveller's
face seemed to be made for laughing—it was so bold, so
careless, he seemed to enjoy life so much that laughter more
or less loud was a necessity to him, and he reminded the
observer irresistibly of Hamlet's friend, Horatio. But a
single glance was needed to perceive that this was

a soldier who had been tossed upon the surges of war, until
he had grown quite indifferent to storms, and, in the gloomiest
weather, still saw the sunshine through the clouds; who,
losing once, rattled the dice again; who took the world
easily, and pushed his way, and laughed and drank, and
slept and fought, contented, fearless, waiting without any
apprehension for the fatal ball, taking the chances.

This is a brief and hurried sketch of the martial gentleman
who, stopping at the “Raleigh” tavern that bright
morning, delivered into the hands of the astounded ostler
the bridle of his cob. Ned, the ostler, rubbed his eyes and
gazed at the stranger precisely as the worthies on the portico
were doing.

“Well, well, my friend,” said the traveller, in a strong,
hearty voice, “what detains you? my horse is weary.”

“Yes, your honor—yes, sir—”

And Ned the ostler led away the animal, with his eyes
still fixed upon the stranger, to the serious inconvenience of
his neck, twisted until the blood covered his face.

The stranger entered the “Raleigh,” politely giving the
good-day to those gentlemen who, after staring at him with
a curious look, made way for him.

Mine host stopped in the middle of a sentence, which he
was addressing to one of his numerous patrons—a crowd of
whom filled the ordinary—and the look which accompanied
this sudden silence was more eloquent than any words.
Then, suddenly recollecting himself, he bowed low, and said:

“Your honor is looking for me, the landlord?”

“Yes, parbleu,” said the stranger; “my horse has
gone to the stable, where they will, doubtless, take good care
of him?”

“Oh yes, sir—the best ostlers, sir—”

“And now, mine host,” continued the stranger, twirling
his mustache, “now a stall for me.”

“A stall! oh, your honor, sir—”

“Perpend, mon ami—a room, I mean.”

“Oh yes, sir—I understand, sir. I have an excellent
room, just given up by Farmer Williamson—number 8, sir—
just up there, sir.”

And mine host pointed to the stairs.

“Bon,” replied his guest, “and send me a bottle of wine.
I'm as thirsty as a fish.”

“What will your honor have?” asked the landlord, still
riveting his eyes upon the extraordinary counterpart of Mr.
Effingham.

“Val de Penas—my favorite vintage.”

“I'm really afraid, sir—”

“Haven't the blood of Spain!” interrupted the stranger,

who exhibited some disappointment at mine host's apologetic
grimace.

“We are just out, sir—exceedingly sorry, sir—but Mr.
Williamson—”

“Well, well; give me a flask of vino d'oro. I must be
satisfied.

Mine host made a second grimace, which was more
eloquent than words.

“What! none of the vino d'oro!” cried the stranger,
who seemed to understand perfectly well what the expressive
features of the landlord indicated; “none of the bottled
sunset, as one of my friends calls it! I really am afraid,
mine host,” continued the traveller, shaking his head, “that
this hostelry of yours is not a place for an honest and Christian
soldier to tarry in;—none of the wine of Lebanon?”

“Oh, sir!—the most unfortunate thing, I know—but
really, now—my last bottle has just been sent up to Squire
Wilton.”

“I should like very much to engage in single combat
against your Farmer Williamson and Squire Wilton! Most
unjustifiable in them to be drinking up my favorite wines in
this way!”

“We have some excellent claret, Madeira, and some
Rhenish, sir, which I think your honor—”

“Bon! I choose the Rhenish. Send it to my room.”

“Yes, sir; directly, sir. Would your honor give me
your name to write in my book? I wish to keep that book,
sir—for my family, sir—that they may know the distinguished
gentlemen I have had the great pleasure to entertain,
sir.”

The stranger's mustache curled, and his white teeth
shone under the black fringe.

“My name? Ah, very well,” he said; “that is easy.”

And raising up the hilt of his sword, the stranger carefully
scanned some letters cut into the gold.

“My name is Effingham,” he said. “Parbleu, I had
forgotten it; as nothing is more troublesome to recollect
than names.”

And, leaving the landlord in a state of semi-stupefaction,
the stranger pushed his way through the crowd, who drew
back for him, and went up the stairs. The worthies who

had witnessed his arrival, also, were present at the scene between
the traveller and mine host; and now they crowded
round the landlord, to give vent to their astonishment. We
need not take the trouble to report their sage opinions. The
general conviction was, that Mr. Effingham had a ghost, who,
unlike himself, wore a mustache, and they waited for the reappearance
of the spectre.