 | CHAPTER LII.
TWO WATER-DOGS. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
52. CHAPTER LII.
TWO WATER-DOGS.
Mr. Effingham spent a sleepless night, and rose more agitated
than ever. With a mind supernaturally active from
He followed the history of his infatuation for Beatrice from
his first meeting with her in the forest near Effingham Hall,
through the scenes at the theatre, at her apartment, in the
street, at the ball, to this last final denouement, which had
come like the blast of the trumpet and the roar of the drum,
to finish all before the curtain fell upon the drama.
He surveyed with a lightning-like glance his present position—the
state of his mind and life. He felt more than ever
that he must conquer that diabolical angel who had scorned
him, or die. She must yield to him, or he would yield to
her, and pass from the earth. He raved and tore his hair,
and revolved in his gloomy and agitated mind a thousand
plans. All were rejected after a moment's reflection, if
that word could be applied to the operations of the young
man's mind.
He rose in despair, and the room seemed too close to
breathe in. He went out, gloomy, and breathing heavily.
Suddenly, as he entered the passage, a loud, hearty voice
made the windows jar, and, turning round, he found himself
opposite to the stranger.
“Good day, comrade,” cried the soldier. “What!
gloomy on such a morning?”
“I am not well, sir,” said Mr. Effingham, coldly.
“Come, drink a cup of this abominable Rhenish they
vend at this hostelry,” said the soldier, laughing. “You see
me in excellent spirits. I am myself again!”
Indeed, the soldier was no longer cabined, cribbed, and
confined in the tight, foppish suit he had originally worn, but
was clad in the elegant military suit which we have seen
Mr. Effingham return in, on the night he left Williamsburg
for York. The costume seemed infinitely more appropriate
for the stranger's vigorous and martial figure; the heavily-laced
but dark uniform set of his person to great advantage,
and his fine face, with its keen, dark eye and long black
moustache, appeared to far more advantage beneath the rich
Flanders hat. The stranger, in his present proper costume,
was the model of a soldier.
To his merry observation, that he felt in excellent spirits,
Mr. Effingham made no reply.
“Why, see now, you are moody, comrade! That is not
or in life, which, parbleu! seems to me as much a battle as
Lissa, Glatz, or Minden. Come! hold your head up! I
have good news for you!”
“What news, sir?” said Mr. Effingham, still cold and
gloomy.
“Why, I am just about to go and arrange the details of
our little affair:—that is to say, I am going to see Mr.
Waters—brother of Ralph: an honest straightforward fellow
was Ralph, though I say it, parbleu!”
“Well, sir!” said Mr. Effingham, already tired of his
companion.
“Arrange, is not precisely the word, companion,” continued
the soldier, caressing the black fringe on his lip; “I
believe the day after to-morrow is fixed upon—though the
time, as all else, should have been left to us, the wheel-horses
—the seconds. Your friend is Mr.—, you omitted to tell
me, comrade, in the multitude of affairs we had to arrange:
—you will recollect that you omitted it.”
“Say at once, sir, that having a duel forced on me, I had
not fixed every thing. Well, sir, I now say further, that I
must defer the whole affair for a day or two longer. Circumstances,”
and Mr. Effingham's lip curled, “render me
somewhat cooler in the quarrel.”
The soldier looked keenly at the young man—but a
single glance convinced him, that this delay did not spring
from backwardness to match himself in combat against an
adversary. There was the unmistakable fire in the eye;
and fighting was a satisfaction to such a man, he felt.
“Perhaps you object to your antagonist,” said the soldier,
coolly.
“No, sir! I do not!”
“Come,” said the stranger, “suppose we have a little
bout here on the staircase. You really seem desirous of trying
my ferrara, comrade.”
“I have no such desire, sir,” replied Mr. Effingham,
coldly, “and if my tone is harsh, it is because I am in no
humor to answer questions, or converse. I am not well,
sir—arrange this matter as you choose. Mr. John Hamilton
will act for me—but I repeat, that I will not meet Mr.
Waters for three days or more.”
“Well, well, companion, I can arrange that. By heaven!
you must have something on your mind, but that is not my
affair. I'll empty a cup of Jamaica—I'm done with the
Rhenish—and get into my saddle. Bon jour—au revoir.”
And the soldier, curling his moustache, and humming a
rude song, took his way down the staircase, his huge sword
rattling against the banisters, and making with the jingle
of his heavily-rowelled spurs, a martial sort of music eloquent
of camps.
Mr. Effingham, gazing moodily after him, observed that
he stopped suddenly at the foot of the stairs. A gentleman
dressed in black had struck against him, owing to the fact
that the said gentleman refused to yield one inch of the
way. Then Mr. Effingham heard the important and pompously-uttered
words:
“You should have more respect for the clergy, sir.”
And no less a personage than Parson Tag came up, and
with a cold bow passed into the apartment, next to his own
—that one in which we have heard the man in the red cloak
play his violin. The young man gazed after him moodily,
and with a bitter smile; and hesitated whether he should return
to his room, or descend. A glance at the bright sunshine
of the clear cold autumn day decided him, and to
escape its brilliance, he went into his apartment again, with
a mocking and gloomy face painful to behold.
Then he sat down, as he had done on that day when
little Kate had come to see him, and again embraced at a
single glance, the sad and gloomy horizon of his life, where
no sun shone, no birds sang. Again he went over the path
which he had trodden—revived those bitter joys, those delicious
agonies he had suffered. Full of gloomy wonder, he
weighed all that had taken place in his acquaintance with
Beatrice, and as before, that fatal, unavoidable question came
to him, where would all this end? He had now defied society
for her, and he was convinced that he stood lower in
her regard than ever—he had given up all for her, she disdained
him the more for his sacrifice. As his love increased,
she grew colder—he was rushing toward the abyss! And
that revelation which he had been the instrument of!
Charles Waters was her cousin, and she loved him, perhaps!
He had given that man the right to watch over her, to defend
obstacle.
“Woe to him, if he crosses my path before we stand
face to face, sword in hand!” he muttered, with a sombre
and threatening flash of his proud eyes.
As he spoke, a tap came at his door, and a servant entered.
“Well?” said the young man, raising his head with a
movement which frightened the negro nearly out of his
wits, “what now?”
“Two boatmen, Mas' Effnum—say they want to see
you.”
“To the devil with them!” he said: but suddenly he
paused—a light shone from his eyes. Already his mind
had conceived the outline of a strange, desperate, and audacious
project.
“About my sail-boat? Yes; go and bring them here
—go!”
And he motioned the negro feverishly toward the door.
In two minutes the door opened again, and the rough-looking
watermen entered, and with their caps in their hands, louted
to the young man, standing respectfully on the threshold.
“Close the door and come in!” he said, gloomily: the
door was shut, and obedient to a sign from Mr. Effingham,
the watermen approached.
“About my sail-boat, I suppose?” he said, curtly.
“Yes, your honor,” replied the water-dog, who seemed to
be spokesman.
“Where is she?”
“Down at the landing, by Townes', your honor.”
“You got up to-day?”
“Jest so, your honor—and she's as tight a little craft,
as ever walked the water—swifter'n a waterfowl.”
Mr. Effingham looked strangely at the rough watermen,
who turned their tarpaulins in their hands, and coughed respectfully
behind them.
“Is she fully equipped?” he said.
“Out and out, your honor. I never see a jollier craft;
and she carries sail enough for a merchantman. I was a
sayin' to mate here only jest now, 'at I never hearn o' such
a thing afore.”
“And she is down there?”
“At Townes', your honor.”
“All ready?”
“Ready as a squall, when the rags are taut.”
Mr. Effingham looked at the water-dogs again with the
same strange expression.
“Your name is Junks, is it not?” he said, motioning to
the man to approach.
“Yes, your honor, and mate's name is Jackson.”
“Very well—you are poor?”
“Poor as a lean cat, sir.”
“Would you like to make fifty pistoles?”
The water-dogs opened their eyes.
“I'd sell myself to the devil for it,” said the spokesman,
laughing.
“No; I wish you to sell yourself to me,” said Mr.
Effingham, with haughty coldness. “Is this weather too
cold for a night run down the river?”
“Your honor is jokin'—it ain't warm, but ta'int nothin'
to the likes o' us.”
“Whoever I brought, then, you are willing to shut your
eyes?”
“Oh, your honor's got a frolic on hand? That suits me
to a circumstance.”
“And me, too, your honor,” said mate, in a mumbling
voice from behind his thick woollen comfort.
Mr. Effingham, looking keenly at these men, saw that
they were such as could be bought for much less than fifty
pistoles. Then he was silent. A struggle seemed to be
going on in his mind—his brow flushed, then grew pale, and
his cheeks were covered with a cold sweat. The water-dogs
looked at him wonderingly, for his eyes were not a pleasant
sight—they were like lurid lightning.
“Wait here,” he said, suddenly, as he heard a door open
and close without. “Don't stir until I return.”
And hastily putting on his hat, he went out, closed the
door, and crossing the passage, entered the room of Beatrice.
| CHAPTER LII.
TWO WATER-DOGS. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |