University of Virginia Library

57. CHAPTER LVII.
THE FATHER AND SON.

Mr. Effingham, uttering a wild curse, had thrown himself
into the water as Charles Waters fell, and still holding the
stump of the bloody sword, had struck out toward the shore.

At one moment he determined to make no effort to reach
the shore, to let the dark waves ingulf him—but nature
prevailed. Still grasping madly the weapon, he swam toward
the bank, and issued from the water near the point from
which he had started.

His horse was grazing where he had left him, and came
whinnying to him.

He mounted, and plunging the broken sword into the
scabbard, looked over his shoulder.

There was the bark upon which the mortal encounter
had just taken place—a dark object upon the silvery expanse.

He turned from it gloomily.

Where should he go?

He looked around him from side to side, and shook his
head. That was a hard question. But one thing he knew
—that he would not stay there to be devoured with rage
and despair.

Motion! motion! and striking his spur into the animal's
side so cruelly, that it neighed with pain, he set forward
furiously, his hair streaming in the wind—his lips writhing
—his eyes glaring with despair.

All was thenceforth lost to him—he was lost!—his infatuation
for that diabolical angel had ended, as he predicted,
in a terrible crash, which shook the props of his whole life!
But at least he had no longer that rival.

Every noise startled him—he trembled at the moaning
of the wind—shook at the fitful shadows:—the moon
seemed to grow pale, the stars to fade. Still the wild animal
fled on—the bridle on his neck—his sides reeking with
sweat.

The young man knew nothing of the road he was taking:—he
did not see that the animal, with a strange instinct,
had followed the road to the hall, avoiding the town.

Still on! more desperately, still he urged the flying
horse with his spur—he tried to outrun his thoughts in vain.
They pursued him like ferocious bloodhounds, and caught
him with their sharp teeth, and tore him!

The sobbing, panting animal bounded onward wildly—
passed mile after mile, and entered the forest stretching
around the hall, just as the first streak of dawn reddened
in the east.

The young man raised his head and looked around.

“This place is familiar to me,” he muttered, “it is
home!”

And he groaned.

The poor moaning animal halted in front of the great
portico; and, panting, covered with sweat, foaming at the
mouth, stood still. Mr. Effingham dismounted and passed
his hand over his neck—the affection of that animal was
grateful.

Suddenly a voice startled him and he turned round. It
was a negro just risen, and his face expressed the greatest
delight at seeing his master back. Mr. Effingham gave him
his hand—ordered him to attend to his horse—and then,
scarcely knowing what he did, entered the hall, sombre, and
moving slowly.

He sat down in the library, where a fire had just been
kindled, for the squire was accustomed to rise very early:
and looking round, took note of all the familiar household
objects, which he had not seen for so long—years, it seemed
to him.

There was the squire's writing-table covered with papers,
and ears of corn, and specimen apples, and large heads of
wheat. There was the plain leather-bottomed chair with
the marks of powder on the carved back, where the old gentleman's
head had rested. There was the book-case half
open—the “Gazette” lay on a chair—Willie's new whip
was on the floor. There was his mother's portrait over the
fire-place:—he turned from it with a groan. There was little
Kate's embroidery now finished, and converted into a
screen:—he looked away from that too. And the shadow
on his brow grew deeper:—his pale lips writhed.

A step behind him, startled him, and he rose. The
squire stood before him.

The old gentleman's pride was all broken in his heart,
by the sight of his long lost son; and he would have grasped
his hand hard: but Mr. Effingham drew back.

“No sir,” he said, hoarsely, “do not touch that hand:
there is blood on it!”

“Blood!” echoed the horrified squire, with wide distended
eyes.

“Blood!—the blood of a man: perhaps that of a woman
too.”

And the shadow in the dark eyes grew deeper.

The squire fell into a chair overwhelmed with this announcement:
he could not speak at first. At last he regained
his voice, and said, with a gasp:

“Blood? whose blood?”

“A rival's.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Charles Waters.”

The old man groaned.

“That woman!—that woman!” he said, in a low voice,
which trembled piteously.

“Yes, sir, that woman!” replied his son, with eyes which
resembled nothing human, “you were right in warning me
against her. She has ruined me—I am lost!”

The squire could not reply:

“I have committed a murder, sir,” continued Mr. Effingham,—“see,
my sword is still bloody, I believe—”

And drawing from the scabbard the stump of the weapon,
on which some drops of clotted blood still hung, he
threw it on the floor before the old man.

“A murder?” cried the squire, turning deadly pale.

“Well, sir—no: not an assassination, for his arm was
raised to strike me, and he was not alone—”

“Thank God!—I am spared that!” groaned the old
man.

“But it is scarcely better,” said the young man, in the
same tone of gloomy calmness, “I carried off a woman, sir:
that woman, whom you rightly dreaded so:—yes, she has
been my evil genius—my fate! I loved and hated her—I
was mad! But this is from the purpose. I carried her off
—was pursued—first on land—then on the water—we were
attacked—my associates in the diabolical affair were both disabled,
one of them by myself, one by his adversary—then I
plunged my sword into my enemy's heart, having first tried
to kill him with my pistol, thinking, from a stumble I made,
that he would strike me unprepared. That is it, sir.”

And looking at the squire with lurid eyes, the young
man paused.

“I believe the ball wounded the woman,” he added,
hoarsely.

“But thank God, you did not kill in cold blood!” cried

his father, “it was while your blood was hot, and in a struggle.
My poor son! how fatally this has ended!”

And the squire covered his face.

“Yes, sir—ruin has been the end for me:—henceforth,
I am lost. As I shall probably be wanted by the officers
of the law some time to-day, I think that we had better
decide upon something.”

“Yes—yes!” cried the squire, starting up, “you are
right! The officers of the law arrest you!—my son!”

And the old man, with some of his youthful heat, flushed
to the temples.

“The middle age is past,” said Mr. Effingham, with the
same sombre calmness; “we cannot drop the portcullis, and
from our castle bid defiance to all foes.”

The squire fell into his seat again.

“There is one way which ends all, and well ends it,”
continued the young man, with the calmness of incipient
madness; “I have another pistol—if the water has not wetted
the powder.”

And he drew it from his belt. The squire wrested it,
with a groan, from his hand.

“Well, sir—you are right. I feel that this is the act
of a coward. I have no intention of committing suicide:—
what remains?”

“To the continent!—Oh, you can go to Europe.”

“I'm tired of it, sir.”

“But Virginia—you cannot remain in Virginia.”

“True.”

“The paper, there!—see what vessel sails, and when.
Perhaps one goes from York, or Norfolk, this very week.”

And the squire seized the paper: the first words he read,
were:

“On Saturday, the 21st, will sail from the port of York,
for Amsterdam, via Liverpool, the bark Charming Sally,
Capt. Fellowes—”

“That is to-morrow! Oh, go in this vessel!” cried the
agitated squire, losing all his pride, and melting at the sight
of the pale and disfigured features of his son.

“Well, sir—that will suit me as well as any thing
else.”

“I will send off a servant to engage your passage in the

ship, instantly—Cato will understand:—he is as secret as
night: instantly!”

And the squire hastened out.

Mr. Effingham sat down again with the same stony calmness:—that
calmness would not have pleased a physician.
He was in that state of despair which deadens the nerves.

Suddenly a light step came down the stairs—Kate entered—saw
him—ran to him, and with a face radiant with
joy, threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her cheek
to his own. Then, as a sequel to all this, she burst out crying,
from pure delight.

Mr. Effingham removed the arms, and rose:—she shrunk
back, frightened at his expression—it was terrible.

“Oh, cousin, Champ!” she cried, “you won't drive me
from you!”

He was silent.

“Oh! you are not angry at me, for —, oh! you make
me feel so badly!”

And she sobbed.

“I cannot talk to you now—I cannot kiss you—I am
not angry with you—” he said.

And muttering to himself, he went his way to the chamber,
which he had occupied before leaving the hall, and disappeared
at the turn of the great staircase from Kate's eyes.
The child sat down, and wept piteously.

The day drew on, and still the young man remained in
his chamber. Miss Alethea passed in and out, making preparations
for him, and her face was observed to be bathed
in tears. The squire shut himself up in his library, and
only once came out to ascend to Mr. Effingham's chamber.

About noon a visitor in a military dress, and with a countenance
convulsed with passion, came to the Hall, and was
closeted for an hour with the old man in the library, from
which were heard high voices, “parbleus!” and exclamations.
Finally the voices moderated, and the visitor, still
much moved, but more calm, came out and rode away.

The squire went to the young man's room, and told him
that the brother of Charles Waters—Captain Ralph Waters,
had just come and informed him, that his brother was not
dead—though he was despaired of—and the young woman
scarcely at all injured. A flush greeted this information
then a sombre frown.

“Was there no challenge left for me,” he asked.

“By Captain Waters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“None.”

And the squire, to avoid further embarrassing questions,
went out. The Captain had come to take Mr. Effingham's
life in return for his brother's—simply and purely—and he
would have “left a challenge,” had the squire not made him
change his mind. How this was effected must remain a
mystery.

The night drew on cold and gloomy, and Mr. Effingham
was to set out for York soon after midnight. He and the
squire sat up talking, for neither could sleep. No persons
were present but themselves, and we know nothing of that
conversation.

About two o'clock, when a chill wind had arisen and
moaned round the gables, Cato came and reported the horses
ready, and took his master's baggage.

Mr. Effingham then wrapped himself in his cloak; buckled
on a new sword, calmly, and went out.

As he entered the passage he was approached by a small
figure clad in white. This was Kate, who was in her night-clothes,
and who pressed with her bare feet the chill polished
oak of the floor.

“Oh, cousin Champ!” she sobbed, “please don't go
without kissing me! They made me go to bed, but I
couldn't sleep, for you were going. Oh, don't go away feeling
angry with me. Please kiss me!”

The hard heart was overcome: he stooped down and
took the child in his arms, and pressing her to his breast,
two large bitter tears rolled down his pale thin cheeks.
Then hastily kissing her, he again wrapped his cloak around
him and passed on.

In fifteen minutes he was in the saddle.

The wild wandering wind sobbed mournfully around the
lofty gables and through the pines.

This was the sound which greeted Mr. Effingham as he
turned his back upon the Hall, and rode forth into the cold,
gloomy night.