University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

After a substantial meal had been despatched,
our travellers repaired to the livery-stable, to inspect
in person the condition of their horses. The establishment
was lighted with a single lamp, swung in
the centre of the building. The approach of the
two young gentlemen was not therefore immediately
noticed by old Cato and another groom (who
proved to be the coachman of the equipage they had
left on the road), as they were busily engaged in
rubbing down their horses, the dialogue between
them was not brought to a close at once.

“Who did you say the gentleman was?” said old
Cato.

“His name is Brumley,” replied coachee.

“And the young lady is his daughter, I suppose?”
continued Cato.

“Oh! as to that, I cannot say,” continued coachee,
“but I believe she is only his step-daughter; they
calls her Miss Fanny St. Clair, and sometimes of
late the old gentleman calls her Mrs. Frances; but
between you and me and the horse-stall, there is
some strange things about this family; I rather
guess that Sukey, the maid up yonder, could tell us
something that would make us open our eyes, if
she was not so confounded close; all that I know

about it is, that the harsh old gentleman sometimes
gives her a talk in the carriage that throws her
a'most into a faintin spell. But I could never
see into it, not I; I don't somehow believe in all
these little hurrahs the women kicks up just for
pastime.”

Our travellers did not think proper to listen further
to the gossip of the grooms, and having executed
their business at the livery, they retraced
their steps to the splendid establishment at which
they had put up. Notwithstanding the doubtful
source from which Chevillere had gained his latest
information concerning the singularly interesting
young lady whom they had seen at the inn, it made
its impression. Corrupt indeed must be that channel
of information relative to a beautiful and attractive
female, apparently in distress, which will not find
an auditor in the person of a sensitive young man
just emancipated from college. On such occasions,
and with such persons, the credibility of all witnesses
is the same, and the most improbable tale
is taken at once, and made the foundation of a whole
train of reveries, dreams, and plans.

It is not to be denied that Victor Chevillere had
worked his imagination up to a very romantic
height, and had allowed his curiosity concerning the
youthful lady to reach such a pitch that little else
gave occupation to his fancies.

He was in this state of mind, leisurely marking
time with lazy steps, and in an abstracted mood,
as he ascended the grand staircase of the establishment,

when his attention was again riveted by
the sound of the lady's voice in earnest entreaty
with the old gentleman.

“Consider, my dear Frances,” said the latter,
“that your health is now nearly re-established, and
that these are subjects that you must dwell upon;
why not, therefore, become accustomed to it at
once?”

“For heaven's sake! for my dear mother's!
never, sir, mention that fearful marriage, and more
fearful death to me again! Why should I recall
hideous and frightful dreams!”

Chevillere was compelled to move on, but it must
be confessed that his steps were slower than before;
and it may be readily imagined, that his fancy
and his curiosity were not much allayed by the
shreds of conversation which he had involuntarily
overheard. When he had ascended to his own
apartment, and could indulge freely in that bachelor
recreation of pacing to and fro, the two words
still involuntarily quickened his movements whenever
they flashed through his mind—“marriage”
and “death” were words of opposite import certainly,
viewed in the abstract, and we doubt whether
he had ever connected them together before;—
“Fearful marriage! and more fearful death!” what
could it mean? to whom could they refer? Only
one of them could refer to her, that was certain;
who then was married and died so fearfully?
“Ah!” thought he, “I have it! her mother has married
this old man, and died suddenly; and he has got

the fortune of both in his hands! Suspicious circumstance!
If fortune puts it in my power, I will
watch him narrowly! I disliked his countenance
from the first!—must be cool, however, and deliberate—must
watch—and wait! pshaw, what am I
at!” Thus ended Victor Chevillere's solution of
the enigma, when Lamar stepped into the room
and disturbed his revery.

“What! still musing, Chevillere. By my troth,
she must be a witch; but it will be glorious
news to write to our friend Beverly Randolph, of
old Virginia. What say you? Shall I sit down
and indite an epistle? Let me see—how do such
narratives generally begin? Cupid, and darts, and
arrows—blind of an eye—shot right through the
vitals of a poor innocent youth that never did him
any harm—never was struck before—covered with
a panoply, and shield, and armour, and all that;
and then worship prostrate before the shrine; and
vows, and tears, and tokens; and then the dart is
taken out—and the wound heals up—and then—
`Richard's himself again!' What say you to that,
or rather what would Randolph say to that, think
you?”

“He would say that Augustus Lamar was still
the same mirth-loving fellow, without regard to
time or place.”

“Then it is a serious affair, and too true to
make a joke of! Well, then I have done! She's a
beautiful young creature, it is true; but then from
what I had seen of your cold philosophy, I did not

think you were the man to be slain at first sight,
and surrender at discretion before a single charge.”

“I will acknowledge to you, Lamar, that my
curiosity is most painfully excited with regard to
that unhappy young lady, but nothing more, I
assure you. Some facts have, without my seeking,
come to my knowledge, with which you are entirely
unacquainted, and which have tended greatly
to increase that curiosity. I cannot at this time
explain; as soon as my own mind is satisfied on
the subject, my confidence shall not be withheld
from you.”

“Lovers are truly a singular set of mortals—
here is a young lady (and a Yankee too, perhaps)
of some dozen hours' acquaintance, and with whom
you have never exchanged a dozen words; and
yet you are already entrusted with profound
secrets, which excite you in the most painful
manner!”

“Come, come, Lamar, I see you are determined
to misunderstand me. Let us drop the subject.
What do you think of the Kentuckian?”

“I think he is an admirable fellow; and I intend
to patronise him; and induct him into fashionable
life; but do you think his singularities are the
natural products of the life, manners, and climate
of Kentucky?”

“I cannot decide whether there is much in him
that is peculiar to Kentucky. Some of the most
elegant and accomplished gentleman I have seen
were natives of that state.”

“He takes a laugh at his expense admirably.”

“He does, but you must be careful not to exceed
the limits he has laid down for himself and us, in
that respect. For my own part, I entertain a
serious respect for Damon and his unsophisticated
honesty, degenerating, as it sometimes does, into
prejudices and ludicrous fancies.”

“Good night, and pleasant dreams to you. I
will call early to interpret them for you.”

As Lamar closed the door, Chevillere drew from
his pocket a little basket segar-case, from which he
extracted a genuine Havana, and lighting a taper
at the candle, and throwing himself into one of those
easy attitudes familiar to smokers, with his head
back, and his eyes closed, gave himself up to those
absorbing reveries, generally delightful in proportion
to the goodness of the segar, which a southern
knows so well how to enjoy. To be fully relished,
segars should be resorted to only in the evening,
and then in moderation. The sensibility is blunted
by excess, and in that case, tobacco, like the intoxicating
drinks, will sometimes conjure up frightful
images upon the wall of a dimly-lighted chamber,
or among the embers of a dying fire. Victor,
however, had not converted his capacity for enjoyment
into fruitful sources of mental and physical
suffering—he sat for a long time gently throwing
the fragrant results of his efforts into various columns,
wreaths, and pyramids. Not that his mind
dwelt upon these things for a moment; he was
far distant in spirit; his imagination was calling up

delightful dreams of love and friendship, with
thoughts of a beloved cousin, of his friend and
room-mate Beverley Randolph—his mother, his
home, and the scenes of his childhood, and finally,
of the lady of the black mantle. He beheld airy
castles,—romantic adventures,—bridal scenes—
and flowers,—assemblies,—parties,—and the high
hills of the Santee.

Aladdin's lamp never wrought more rich and
highly-coloured scenes of enchantment than did
this same Havana; but the most pleasant dream
must come to an end, as well as the richest flavoured
segar—and so did Chevillere's. Tossing
the little hot remnant from him with a passionate
jerk, as if in anger at the insensible cause of his
interruption, he bounced into the centre of the floor
and began to pace to and fro, in his accustomed
mood, clenching his fists now and then, and by his
whole appearance showing a perfect contrast to
the calm and delightful revery attendant upon the
first stage of tobacco intoxication.

In this mood we shall leave him to seek his rest,
while we recount in the next chapter what farther
befel our late collegians on the following morning.