University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

The sounds of that crazy violin, which I now
began again to hear, sounded a worse discord in
my ears than ever, and gave an impulse to my
footsteps which they seemed to need. I dashed
forward, following what seemed the opened
grounds, and soon found myself ascending a little
range of hills. The night was very clear and
very beautiful,—of that sombrous sort of beauty
when the light just suffices to enable you to distinguish
objects, but helps, at the same time, to
magnify their aspects by its own vague medium.
The trees stood up,—those stately pines which
maintain, day and night, one unceasing murmur,
which is more dear than song to the imaginative
spirit—in frowning and vast magnificence beside
me, like so many gigantic wardens of the land,
marshalling the entrance to some wondrous palace.
Under their guidance, as it were, and
through their ranks, I hurried on, musing over the
thousand fancies which, I suppose, would be natural
enough to any youth under the same circumstances—newly
enriched by a sense of liberty
—a feeling of manliness—which the very privilege
of roving at that hour, and in new scenes,
would be apt to inspire;—and, anon, reproached
by the stern internal monitor within, for filial disobedience,—remembering,

with sinking heart, the
tears of my mother, and the frowning farewell of
my father—all of which was, in another moment, to
be banished from thought, by the intrusive image
of that strange, sweet maiden, sitting by herself,
wrapped up in her heavy cloak, yet looking out
with such bright, diamond-like, heart-conducting
eyes. I might have wandered thus for hours,
perhaps all night, for what youth with such feelings
in his heart, and such ferment in his brain, ever
cares for the dull sleep of ordinary mortals,—had
I not been roused to other thoughts by a sudden
and startling sound, which reached me from
the range of dark hills opposite. I could only
liken this sound, with which I was unfamiliar,
to the bay or howl of the wolf, or perhaps, a
dozen of them; and though the idea of a wolf-hunt
struck me the next moment, as being among
the most famous of all ideas, it was some qualification,
just then, to any such desire, that I was
horseless, weaponless, without company, and totally
ignorant of the habits of the animal, and the
country in which I stood. That domestic virtue,
discretion, interposing at this juncture, persuaded
me to retrace my steps to Yannaker's, which I
reached in reasonable time, after once measuring
my length over a stump, that very imprudently
stood in my way on the slope of a little hillock.
The violin was still at work, and though I felt
apprehensive that, until it slept, I should not,—I
persuaded old Yannaker out of the circle, where
he himself shook a leg, in order that he should
show me the way to my chamber—a measure to
which I was induced, by being convinced that
the fair stranger would not again emerge from
hers that night.

I slept soon and soundly, in spite of my convictions—slept
to dream, precisely as I had
mused, of home, and strange woods and adventures,
with ever and anon, that fair young face,
and those dark lustrous eyes, peering downward,
as if from heaven, into my very heart. This image
so completely filled my brain, that it was the first
to encounter me at my waking. I started up
with a bright sun blazing through a half-opened
window upon me. There was a stir below, and,
half vexed with myself for having slept so late, I
jumped out of bed and ran to the open window.
As I feared, the travelling carriage had disappeared,
and in it, as I concluded, my fair incognita.
I dressed myself with all despatch, and
hurried below. Preparations for breakfast were
in progress, though the room still retained some
of the traces of last night's exertions. Part of an
antique frill lay in one place at my feet, and at a
little distance I detected beneath the breakfast
table a stripe of red stuff, most like red flannel,
in conjecturing the uses of which I was reminded
of the apocryphal story of the Countess of Salisbury,
and the now proverbial sentence of the
courteous monarch,—`Honi soit qui mal y pense.'
The worst evil that I was thinking of, was my

mysterious damsel, and the timely entrance of
Yannaker enabled me to make the necessary inquiries.

“Gone, sir—gone as fast as a pair of the best
horses in Massassipp could carry her.”

“How long, Mr. Yannaker?”

“Don't mister me, stranger,—I'm plain Jeph
Yannaker to travellers, and Yannaker to them
that knows me. I'm agin making a handle for a
man's name before you can trust yourself to take
hold of it.”

“No offence, Jeph Yannaker—I only speak as
I've been accustomed.”

“No offence, to be sure,—it's your teaching,
stranger, but here in our parts, where people's
scarce, and the sight of one's neighbor does the
heart good, a handle to his name seems to push
him too far out of the reach of a friendly gripe.
It's a stiff, cold sort of business, this mistering
and squiring—will do well enough among mere
gentlemen, and lawyers, and judges, and such sort
of cattle,—but out here, where a look upon the
hills and swamps seems to give a man a sort of
freedom, it's a God's blessing that we have few
such people here. Here we're nothing but men,
just as God made us,—not to speak of a little
addition, in the shape of jacket and breeches, made
out of blue or yellow homespun.”

Those who have had the good fortune to know
Jeph Yannaker will give me credit for having
reported him correctly. His life was an eventful

one, and, one day, shall have its history,
though it come from no better hand than my
own. But to return. After some little time
taken up in disclaimers and other matters,—for it
seemed to me as if the worthy publican was wilfully
bent on avoiding the topic to which I sought
to confine his attention,—I at length gathered
from him, not only that the damsel had taken her
departure, but that she had been gone ever since
midnight—that she never slept in the house at
all, but had only retired, with her uncle, from the
crowd—that, as soon as the moon rose, the latter
had geared his horses, and just when I was
enjoying the sweetest dreams of the treasure so
newly found, she was spirited away by her grisly
protector—whom I rejoiced to find was not her
father—but, in what direction, Yannaker either
could not or would not say. I immediately declared
my purpose to pursue, and requested that
he would have my horse brought out. He looked
at me with open mouth, and a chuckling “haw!
haw! haw!”—that promised to correspond with
the boundless dimensions of his distended throat.
I became impatient, and with some peevishness
demanded the occasion of so much unreasonable
and unseasonable merriment.

“What!—go?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,—go! and what is there so very
laughable in such a determination?”

He composed his muscles instantly.

Not before breakfast,—oh! no!—I'm sure of

you till then. Why, breakfast is a good thing,
the best of things on an empty stomach—breakfast
is a warm thing, the warmest of things for a
winter day. Why, stranger, no man's brains do
good service, unless breakfast has warmed his
belly; and, I tell you, even the horse, besides,
knows when his master is well filled and sensible,
and when he is not. Let a good horse alone for
that. Why, lad, the best horse I ever knew or
crossed, would always cut capers when a man
undertook to straddle him who happened to be
hungry; no horse of mine should ever be crossed,
if I know'd it, by a man who hadn't had his breakfast.”

“It so happens, Mr. Yannaker—”

“Plain Yannaker—plain Yannaker,” he said
interrupting me.

“Well, then, plain Yannaker—”

“Ha! ha! ha! That's it. You're right—I
like you the better for it. Say `plain Yannaker,'
if you please, in preference to Mister Yannaker.”

“I say, then, plain Yannaker, that my horse is
not yours, and neither knows nor cares whether
I have had my breakfast or not.”

“Wouldn't have such a horse, stranger, as a
gift. By the Lord Harry, I wouldn't. But don't
be wolfish at Jeph Yannaker. Here's your
breakfast, and your horse shall follow it, as soon
after as you please—only, let me tell you you're
clean mistaken. Never was a horse yet that
didn't know whether his master was fed or not—

unless he was an idiot beast—a clear senseless
animal,—and I reckon there may be idiot beasts
as well as idiot men. There now,—sit down to
your breakfast,—the old woman's poured out the
coffee, and all's ready. I'll see to the critter.”

Jeph Yannaker had a way of his own, as most
who knew him know, which there was no resisting.
He had the most good humored cast of
countenance, the most benevolent smile, the most
kind solicitude of manner,—yet, if tales speak
true, he could cut a purse, and a throat too upon
occasion, as promptly as the Pacha of Yannina.
Of this, however, in another history. Enough,
for the reader, that I, a boy of eighteen, found it
impossible to be angry with such a person, and
he forty-five or fifty. He quieted me in the most
persuasive manner, and, seeing me safely seated
over my eggs and hominy, in equal good humor
with them and with himself, he sallied forth to put
my nag in readiness. My breakfast was soon
discussed, and my horse at the door. My host,
however, did not seem so willing to part with
me. I had dropped the usual quid into his hands,
saying good humoredly.

“There, plain Yannaker, we are quits for this
time.”

He laughed.

“You are a clever chap, and I somehow like
you. We takes a liking for a human every now
and then, jest the same as we takes for a fine
horse, or a speaking hound; and I've got a notion

that when you give yourself time you're a raal
good fellow. Aint you?”

“There's more than you who think so,” I
answered with boy sharpness.

“Oh! git out,” said he, “nobody beside yourself.
But where away, lad? You're not a guine
running after that gal you seed last night?”

“I am though,” I answered doggedly.

“No, don't. Take an old fool's counsel for
once, and save your horse's wind. In the first
place you can't find her.”

“I'll try for it.”

“And in the next, if you do, it'll be much worse
than shaking hands with a hungry bear that aint
willing to be friendly at no time.”

“Indeed! But what know you of her? You
told me you knew nothing.”

“Well, in one way, that's true enough; and
when you gets to be as old as me, you'll find out
for yourself, that a gal child is about the hardest
critter in the world to know entirely. But I
wasn't speaking of any danger from her, by no
means,—but of them that, mout-be, you'll find
along with her.”

“Ha! that old uncle of hers?”

“Prehaps,—and a rough colt, I tell you, to deal
with, take him at any turn. Bud Halsey is all
bone and gristle, I tell you, from tooth to toe-nail.”

“Is his name Bud Halsey?”

“Yes, when he comes to Yannaker's,—but I

can't answer for it any where else. All I can
say is, that your course lies in any other part of
the world than where he is. I say so, lad, for
your good,—for, as I told you, I somehow likes
you.”

“But what is he, friend Yannaker?”

“He! He's nothing, as the world goes,—but
something, I tell you, when he works his grinders.
Keep clear of him, that's all. It don't become me
to be talking behind the back of a man that pays
his way in good money,—and I never axes such
a man how he gets his money. That's no business
of mine. But, to begin agin, and to end, lad,
at the same time—keep clear of that gal's track;—
it can't be that you've got so deep into the mire
at one sight, so there's no reason to go deeper.
Go home, and let Bud Halsey's niece marry some
body else.”

Yannaker was evidently no sentimentalist. His
phraseology, which likened love to a bog, and
the lady to a wild beast, or angry cur at least,
seemed to me nothing to the purpose, and strangely
savage and unpoetical. I answered him in a
way intended to be conclusive, as I flung my leg
over the saddle.

“Thank you, friend Yannaker,—you no doubt
mean me kindly, but if Bud Halsey were twice
the monster that he seems, I'd take his track.”

“Well, it's cl'ar, lad, that you've been pretty
much used to having your own way, and such
people are never made wise, but by a little

worry,—so go ahead, as quick as you please,—
only keep your eyes busy, believe nothing that
you hear, be scared at nothing that you see, and
be ready to treat a man with two legs as if he
was an animal with four;—for, if you go after
Bud Halsey, there's no telling whether man or
beast will sprawl first. If you must have the
ways of a man, be sure you have the heart of
one. There's no telling how many dangers a
stout heart will carry a fellow through.”

Something piqued with the tone of this discourse,
I struck spurs into my steed, and sent him
through the gateway, as I replied:—

“Thank you, thank you, friend Yannaker—I
have no fears, so do you have none. I trust your
eggs won't give out before I return. I shall be
back by Christmas for my egg-nog.”

“Go ahead!” was all of his response which
reached my ears,—but I could hear him mutter
something more, as, shading his eyes with his
hands, he watched my progress along the road.