 | CHAPTER XVII.
A VISION. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
A VISION.
Edward Morton, could he have always kept his
blood in abeyance, would have made a first rate politician.
He had superior cunning, but he had, at the same time,
too much earnestness. He yielded himself quite too
much up to his subject. He could not tamper and trifle
with it. His impetuosity defeated his caution; and, in
every respect in which he failed, he could reproach himself
only as the true cause of his failure. The stuff which
he had expressed in conversation with Watson Gray,
about the influence of fortune, did not deceive himself.
He knew better, whenever he permitted himself to think
gravely, and speak honestly; but men get into a habit of
deceiving themselves while seeking to deceive others;
and fortune has always been compelled to bear the
go a-blundering. Pride makes them unwilling to admit
the fault to be in themselves, and fortune is a good-natured
damsel, who seldom resents the imputations cast upon
her. They clamour accordingly, and without fear, at
her expense; and grow familiar with the language of
unprofitable and unintended declamation. It scarcely
needs that we should remark how unfrequently they
make acknowledgments of her bounty. When successful,
it is their own excellent art, audacious courage, admirable
skill, and manly accomplishment, that achieves the conquest,
and the smile which denotes their satisfaction with
all the world, betrays first the gratifying conviction that
they themselves are good against all the world.
Edward Morton was by no means ignorant of his own
defect of character. He knew his impetuosity of blood,
and he feared it. It was necessary to guard particularly
against that in all his intercourse with Flora Middleton.
Of this he had previous experience. He knew her
acuteness of intellect. The very simplicity of her own
character, and the directness and almost masculine frankness
of her temper, made it somewhat difficult to elude
her analysis. Besides, she already suspected him. This
he knew. He had every reason to suppose, in addition,
that the late close intercourse between herself and
Clarence Conway, however brief, had enabled the latter
to afford her some information of the true state of their
mutual feelings and interests. But, in due proportion
with the small amount of knowledge which he possessed,
was the reasonable apprehension which he entertained of
the extent of what she knew. She might know much or
little. He had every reason to fancy that she knew all;
and his chief hope lay in the fruitful falsehoods which his
wily coadjutor had taken occasion to plant within her
mind. If those falsehoods had taken root—if they
flourished—perhaps the difficulty would not be great to
make her doubt all the assertions of his brother.
“If she believes him this villain,—well! She will
believe more. She will believe that he has slandered me
—nothing can be more natural,—and if one task be well
performed, it will not be hard to effect the other. But I
—looks far and deep. One hasty word—one incautious
look,—and her sharp wit detects the error, and all must
be begun anew. I must be cool now, or never. With
every thing at stake, I must school my blood into subjection,
if I have not already lost enough to make the
pains-taking unnecessary.”
Such were his thoughts, and such the hopes, upon
which he founded his new purposes of deception. The
surprise of all parties was great, and openly expressed,
as he suddenly entered the supper-room. But the outlaw
saw with pleasure that the surprise of the ladies did not
seem coupled with any coldness or dissatisfaction. It
has not been necessary for us to say, before, that Mrs.
Middleton had visited the invalid in his chamber. She
had done all the duties of hospitality and humanity. He
had accordingly no cause of complaint. He could have
no reason to expect the like attendance from the young
lady; and the gentle courtesy of the latter would have
convinced one even more suspicious than Morton, that
she had no hostile feeling whatsoever, at work against
him. The inquiries of both were kind and considerate.
He was requested to occupy the sofa entirely, and to
place himself at ease upon it; a permission which had the
effect of transferring the reluctant person of the surgeon
to a contiguous chair. The deportment of this person
had been productive of far more surprise to the ladies, than
the appearance of the outlaw. Flora Middleton had informed
her grandmother of the suit which she had rejected,
and it was, therefore, greatly to the wonder of the
one, and the consternation of the other, that they were
compelled to witness, in his deportment, the language of
confident assurance;—of a success, and exultation, as
unequivocal as ever betrayed themselves in the action of
a triumphant lover. His smirkings were not to be mistaken;
and the old lady looked to the young one, and
the young one returned the glance with equal vexation
and bewilderment. The arrival of Morton had the effect
of bringing some relief to the females of the party,
and possibly to diminish, in some degree, the impertinent
ladies were grateful to the outlaw; and hence, perhaps,
the greater benignity of the reception which they bestowed
upon the latter. But there was quite enough of
pleasure manifest in the visage of Hillhouse, even after
the coming of Morton; and when the first courtesies
which followed his entrance were fairly ended, he took
occasion to say something on the subject to this happy
person.
“Really, Mr. Hillhouse, I am surprised at the unusual
degree of happiness which your countenance exhibits this
evening. What is it makes you so peculiarly happy.
Have you good news from the army. Is his lordship
about to relieve you. Do you think of Charleston and
the next Meschianza?”
The surgeon simpered, smiled anew, and looked with
most provoking empressement at Flora Middleton. Before
he could frame the intricate and exquisite reply
which he was meditating, that young lady availed herself
of the occasion, to prove, as well she might, that she was
no willing party to the peculiar happiness which his
countenance expressed.
“I thank you for that question, Mr. Conway,—I was
about to make the same inquiry; for, really, I never saw
a gentleman put on so suddenly the appearance of so
much joy. I fancied that Mr. Hillhouse must have had
a fairy gift, as, you know, happens to us all in childhood;
and then again, I doubted, for there are reasons against
such a notion. But, in truth, I knew not what to think,
unless it be that it is surely no earthly joy which has
produced, or could produce, so complete an expression
of delight in the human face. I declare, Mr. Hillhouse,
I should be glad for mamma's sake,—if for the sake of no
one else, to know what it is that makes you so supremely
happy. There's nothing pleases old people so much,
you know, as the innocent pleasures of young ones.”
“Ah, Miss Flora, do you then ask? It is, indeed, no
earthly joy which has made me happy.”
“You are then really happy?” said Conway.
“Really, and in truth, I may say so. A dream—”
“What! and is it a dream only? Well, I thought as
much;” exclaimed Flora.
“Nay, Miss Middleton, life itself, for that matter, is a
sort of dream. But, in ordinary speech, mine is not a
dream. I have had a vision—”
“A vision!” exclaimed Conway.
“A vision, sir!” said the old lady, putting on her
spectacles, and looking around the room.
“A vision! Do you see it now, Mr. Hillhouse.
Where? What is it like?” The demand of Flora was
made with all the girlish eagerness of one who really
believed in the prophetic faculty of the present seer.
“Yes, what is it like, Mr. Hillhouse,” asked the outlaw,
“I am very curious to hear! a vision!”
“Like!” exclaimed the surgeon, “Like! Like an opening
of heaven upon me. A sudden revelation of delight,
and the shape within is that of—a woman!”
“Dear me!—only a woman!” exclaimed Morton,
affectedly.
“Only a woman, sir!” cried the surgeon with an air
of profoundest gallantry;—“and what lovelier object can
one see in this visible creation—upon the earth or in the
sky—”
“Or the waters under the earth.”
“Nay, I'm not so deep in the world, Mr. Conway,”
said the surgeon; “but when you ejaculate in wonder,
sir, because my vision of unspeakable delight takes the
shape of a young and beautiful woman—”
“What's the colour of her eyes—and hair, Mr. Hillhouse?”
was the interruption of Conway. “Give us
now a just description, that we may judge for ourselves
what sort of a taste you have in matters of beauty.”
Hillhouse looked to Flora Middleton with an inquiring
expression, which said, as plainly as a look could say—
“Shall I?” The scorn and vexation of the maiden's
countenance, at this mute, but obvious interrogation, was
equally plain, but indescribable. She rose from her chair,
as if about to leave the room, but the sudden, and hurried
words of Edward Morton arrested her, with a new occasion
for wonder, more legitimate than that which the
surgeon entertained.
“By heavens, Mr. Hillhouse, I too have a vision, and
one far less lovely, I think, than yours. Pray, look to
that door if you please. There was a strange visage at
it but a moment ago. Look! Look!—a man, not a
woman; and one not from Heaven, though in may
be,—”
Before the surgeon could reach the door, or Morton
could finish the sentence, a dark figure entered the room,
confronted the party, and taking from his face a black
mask, with which it was covered, displayed to the
anxious gaze of the outlaw his own late lieutenant,
and always bitter enemy, Lieutenant Stockton. The
latter had heard what Morton said, and concluded his
speech, perhaps, in the most fitting manner.
“From hell, you would say, would you! and you are
right, sir. I came from hell, and I am come for you.
You are prepared for travel, I trust!”
The behaviour of Morton was equally fearless and dignified.
He had a game to play in the eyes of Flora, and
a difficult part to act in more eyes than hers. His agitation
had not been concealed, at the first sudden exhibition
which Stockton had made of his hostile visage at the
entrance;—but when the person of the intruder was no
longer doubtful, his firmness came back to him, and no
man, on the verge of a precipice, could have looked down
with more indifference than he, upon its awful abysses.
He raised himself with composure from the sofa, and
directing the eyes of Stockton to the ladies, camly remarked,—
“Whatever you may be, and whatever your purpose,
as a man, remember where you are, and be civil to the
ladies.”
He was answered by a grin, of mingled exultation and
malice.
“Ay! Ay! I will remember. Don't suppose I shall
ever forget them, or yourself, or even that pink-looking
gentleman in the corner, who smells so sweetly, and
looks so frightened. Ha! Ha!—Did you ever know the
devil to forget any of his flock. Ladies, you know me,
or you should. You will know me soon enough. I am
names. My most innocent one is perhaps the most
familiar to you. I am the captain of the Black Riders.
Do you deny that?” he demanded at the close, turning
full upon Edward Morton.
It did not need that the latter should answer this
inquiry, for the alarm which this bold annunciation produced,
prevented his words from being heard by any ears
but those of the intruder.
“You may be the devil, himself, for any thing I know,
or care.”
“Indeed! you are bold. But we shall see. You will
find me a worse person to deal with perhaps. You are
my prisoner. Remember that.”
“I know not that!” exclaimed Morton, rising with
evident pain from the sofa, upon which he had sunk but
a minute before, and looking the defiance which he had
no means to enforce. His attitude was, however, threatening;
and, drawing a pistol from his belt, the intruder
levelled it full at the head of his superior. The eye of
Morton did not shrink. His gaze was undaunted. Not
a muscle of his face was discomposed. At that instant
Watson Gray suddenly entered the apartment, strode
between them, and confronted Stockton with a weapon
like his own. At the same time he thrust another into
the hands of Morton.
“There are two to play at this game, Stockton,” was
the cool remark of Gray. “Ladies, leave the room, if
you please. We need no witnesses; and you, sir, unless
you can kill as well as cure, you may as well follow the
ladies.”
This was addressed to the surgeon.
“I have no weapon;” was his answer.
“Pshaw! look to the fireplace. A brave man never
wants a weapon.”
Hillhouse possessed himself of the poker with sufficient
resolution; but he evidently looked with great dissatisfaction
upon the prospect before him, of soiling his dove-colored
suit in an unexpected melée. Meanwhile, the
which might have prevented bloodshed was necessarily
removed in their departure.
| CHAPTER XVII.
A VISION. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |