University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

After the court adjourned, Pinckney waited some
time to see Mr. Mason, with the intention of showing
him some civilities; but as he was still engaged with
Pompey and the constable, and there was no knowing
when he would get through, Pinckney returned
to Holly, which Mr. Bradley had now left.

With what a confiding, yet flattering heart, Fanny
met Pinckney. How coy the blush that melted into
confidence! how full the confidence that in a moment
grew shy, startled at itself, as if it would question the
fulness of its faith, and know if the awakened world
of love within, were, indeed, a reality, or merely a
dream! “Her heart was of its joy afraid.” Did
Pinckney, indeed, love her, as he said? how thrilling
the consciousness, that if words must not from the lips
of gentle maid tell all she felt, 'twas well—for they
could not. At one time, while he sat conversing with
her, her coyness would all vanish, and when he had
gone, she would take herself to task for her want of
maidenly reserve; at another, her timidity would overpower
her, and she would think, when he had left her
side, what a bashful creature she had been, and resolve
to banish it, at least sufficiently to meet his eye,
and reply, without faltering, to his inquiry.

But it was all evidence of the depth of her affection.
The beautiful illusions of life were around her. Her
heart was like the fountain that throws up its silvery
spray in the air, and hope was the sunbeam that gilded
it with the hues of the rainbow.

“My dearest Fanny,” said Pinckney; “I have
some little business in town to night—how I hate
leaving you.”

“It will be dark now before you can get to town,
Howard—and have you no fear of another assault
upon you?”

“None in the world.”

“Well, I have.”

“Bless you! then I will go at once; my horse is
fleet, and I can reach the city before night. I value my
life now,” and encircling her form gently, he pressed
a kiss upon her brow and hand, and left her. He
proceeded to his room, unlocked his trunk, and took
from it the letters, ring and miniature, which our
readers may remember had, on a former occasion,
awakened restless and bitter memories. The bitterness
has gone—given place to indifference, for as he
put them in his pocket of his riding coat, he said to
himself:

“I should have returned them before I left Venice;
I must have those foolish letters of mine. What a
fascinating creature Fanny is. Her father received
my proposals with real pleasure, and Miss Rachellina,
what a pleased dignity and importance sat upon her
maiden brow! I wish Sid were back.”

So speaking, Pinckney left his room, and passing
out, mounted his horse, which he had ordered to be
in readiness when he entered the house, he rode off,
kissing his hand to Fanny, who called out to him, saying:

“O! Mr. Pinckney, if you see Mr. Langdale's
beauty, apologise to her, or rather to him, for my not

calling the day I promised him. Say father's indisposition
prevented me.”

He bowed in gallant obedience, spurred his horse
into a brisk canter, and with a heart full of the witcheries
of Fanny Fitzhurst, gave himself up to happy
dreams of the future. As he approached the place
where he had been robbed, the shades of night were
gathering in, and he naturally felt an impulse of
watchfulness. Down the bridle-path which led to the
hills near which Sidney had caught his horse, Pinckney
heard the rapid clatter of a horse's hoofs. His
attention was attracted; and while he still rode on at
the same rate, he prepared his pocket-pistol for an
emergency. Just as Pinckney reached the spot where
the bridle-path met the main road, the horseman at
full speed entered it. He reined back his horse as
he saw Pinckney, and held down his head; but Pinckney
at a glance recognised him as the leading witness
against Bobby. It was Jack Gordon.

“You ride fast, sir,” said Pinckney, anxious to discover
something of the character of the man, who had
interested him, not only on Bobby's account, but he
knew not why.

“Me! yes; sometimes fast, sometimes slow,” replied
Gordon, in a voice that was harsh and husky, in the
first words, but which he subdued, at the same time
he checked his horse, and again gave him the rein,
so as to keep pace with Pinckney.

“How far do you ride?” asked Pinckney.

“Ride; I ride—no, not to the city. I go about a mile
below—I have some business there with a friend, and
as I must be back to the court to-morrow, I'm making
the best of my time.”

“That's a very young man to be leagued with
counterfeiters. Is he not?”

“Young!” he's cut his eye-teeth, sir. That negro
and him have colleagued together for years. Damn

me! that black rascal ought to be strung up neck and
heels. Did you ever hear of such a thing in a free
country as to let a slave speak that way of a white
man? I'll swear he's paid for it. I'd give a thousand
dollars for him; I'd put his carcass in condition
for the crows. What Thompson was going to give
him would ha' been only a priming. They can't save
Bob Gammon—he's got to go.”

“You seem to have a stout heart in the cause, sir,”
replied Pinckney. “Have I not seen you before?”

Gordon thrust his hand in his pocket, and reined
back his horse so quickly that the animal was thrown
on his haunches. This surprised Pinckney, and he
stopped his horse, and faced Gordon. “Ha, ha!” said
Gordon, with an attempt at facetiousness, and apparently
changing his purpose; “I have the luck of it.
Maybe you're like old Pompey, Mr. Pinckney; you
saw me do what never entered my head.”

Pinckney's suspicions of Gordon's character were
aroused. He said sternly, but certainly impudently:
“Maybe I have; and remember my testimony is good.”
And without noticing him any further, Pinckney rode
on. Tremblingly Gordon's hand went again to his
pocket; there it remained, and he sat motionless on
his horse while Pinckney pursued his way.

Pinckney had not ridden a hundred yards from the
spot where he left Gordon, before he heard him start
again at the top of his speed. Gordon seemed to have
passed into the woods, for his horse's hoofs no longer
rattled in the road, and Pinckney thought he heard
the rustling of leaves and the breaking of sticks under
his tread. Presently the tramp in the woods was
parallel with his own horse's, as he thought, and in a
few moments it seemed to die away ahead of him, as
if he was surpassed in speed. Just after the noise
ceased, he passed the very spot where he had been
assaulted, and his horse—it was the one he rode at

that time, without any resistance on the part of the
rider, shyed to the other side of the road. 'Twas
lucky, perhaps, for Pinckney that it did so; for at the
instant the sharp report of a pistol was heard in the
bushes from which the animal shyed, and a bullet
cut the whisker that protruded from that rider's chin.
His horse took fright, and sprang uncontrollably on.
If Pinckney had not been an admirable horseman, the
suddenness of the start would have thrown him. He,
however, kept his seat; but it was impossible for him
at once to stop his horse, or even turn his head, which
he attempted, without reflection, to do, that he might
dash upon his waylayer, and shoot him down. The
horse seemed determined that Pinckney should do no
such thing, for he went nearly a mile before he would
yield entirely to the control of the rein. Pinckney's
suspicions naturally attached to Gordon, and he arrived
at Langdale's pretty well satisfied in his own
mind that it was Gordon who had assaulted him
before. The more he thought of the affair the stronger
were his convictions that his suspicions were just, and
he determined to have Gordon arrested on his appearance
in the court the next morning, when he
reflected it would be of no use, as he had no testimony
against him.

When Pinckney entered Langdale's it was some
time after dark. He found within Langdale seated
by Miss Atherton, in what he thought a whispering
conversation, while her uncle sat by a centre-table
busy with the evening paper. There was a confusion,
notwithing her great self-control, in Miss Atherton's
manner towards him; but it was so slight, that it
escaped every eye but Pinckney's, even the quick
eye of Langdale. Pinckney would not have detected
it had he not known her so intimately. He was
greeted cordially by Langdale, and presented to Mr.
Atherton, who was a handsome, worldly old bachelor.

“Fanny, dearest, of all the dears!” how is the fair
Fanny, Pinckney?” asked Langdale, in his cheerfulest
tone.

“Blooming and beautiful, I thank you, sir,” replied
Pinckney, “and full of sweet converse upon your
gallantry. Oh! Miss Fitzhurst charged me,” bowing
to Miss Atherton and Langdale, “to make apologies
for not calling on Miss Atherton the day she promised;
her father's indisposition prevented her. When he
has the gout badly he will have nobody by him but
his daughter. She will seize the first opportunity of
calling, Miss Atherton. Langdale, who so seldom
speaks highly of aught of womankind, has awakened
in her all her sex's curiosity. I might say envy, if
Miss Fitzhurst were capable of the passion.”

Miss Atherton bowed graciously, and Langdale
said:

“You have done me but justice. Is the fair Fanny
capable of the other passion—jealousy? if she be, I'll
warn her to keep a certain friend of mine in rosy
bondage-bound at Holly. Not that Miss Fanny has
not every attraction; but where two magnets are of
equal power, the one that you are nearest to is sure to
attract you; and when it has attracted you,” bowing
to Miss Atherton, “of course you think its powers unparalleled.”

“You flatter that certain friend of yours, Langdale,
beyond all bounds, by even insinuation that Miss
Fitzhurst can have any interest in him: and if he
were in your situation nearest to the one magnet, I
have no doubt he would make your confession.”

“Ha, ha! what a sad situation: speaking of magnets,
what a sad situation he would be in, Miss Atherton,
who should be placed exactly between two such
magnets.”

“He would be in the situation of Mahomet's coffin,”
said Miss Atherton.

“Yes, Miss Atherton,” replied Pinckney, laughing,
archly, he would be suspended between heaven and
hell.”

“Your compliment is not equally attractive, Mr.
Pinckney,” said Miss Atherton, loudly; “for it is
evident that you would prefer one magnet, the upper
one, though the laws of gravitation might in some
cases aid the lower one.”

“Doubtless all the earthy powers and passions
would aid that one, but even in extremity, like a dying
man, I should look up with hope.”

Langdale looked quickly at the two, and fell into
a musing attitude, while Miss Atherton said to her
uncle:

“My dear uncle, not that I would drive you away
from agreeable company, but you promised to call
on Mr. Paulton; did you not, this evening?”

“True,” said Langdale, “and I promised to call
with him. So, Mr. Pinckney, I will make no apologies,
as I leave you in a tête-è-tête with Miss Atherton.”

Pinckney bowed; Mr. Atherton made his apologies,
and with Langdale, departed.

When the door closed on Miss Atherton and Pinckney,
there was the silence of more than a minute,
which the lady broke, by saying:

“A fine night, Howard. Have you just arrived?”

“A few moments since; and on a special message.
Pardon me one moment, Miss Atherton, and I will
fulfil it.” So saying, Pinckney left the room, and
taking from the pocket of his overcoat which hung
in the hall, the miniature, letters, and rings, returned,
and resumed his seat.

“What does this mean, Howard?” asked Miss
Atherton, turning slightly pale as she observed the
packet.

“It means what it seems, Miss Atherton—that I
have brought you the memorials of the past. I have

no longer any claims to them, and desire to restore
them to their rightful owner. I should have done it
before leaving Italy, but knew no one to whom I
could intrust them; and it was also my desire that
when I did so, that I should recover my own.”

“You seem determined that I shall not misunderstand
you, Mr. Pinckney; and there is also great
directness in doing such an errand one's-self.
Howard, Howard, Howard! but give them to me—
no matter. Your's are now in one of my trunks, among
some of my baggage which I have not had brought
here. You shall have them at the earliest opportunity.”

“If you please, Miss Atherton.”

As she took the packet, she, with apparent carelessness,
glanced over the contents, and observed:

“The locket is not here.”

While Pinckney was explaining how he lost it, a
servant entered, and said that there was a person in
the hall, who requested that he might speak with
her.

“A person to speak with me! why don't you show
him in, if he is a gentleman?”

“He is not a gentleman, ma'am.”

“Ah! some verbal message from the hotel: tell
him to come in. The hotel at which I stopped was
a very fine one, Mr. Pinckney.”

As Pinckney assented, he threw his eye upon the
messenger, who was just entering the room, and was
surprised to see no other than the individual who, he
supposed, had attempted to murder him—the witness
against Bobby—Jack Gordon. He started with even
more surprise than Pinckney, and looked as if he
expected to be charged with something or other.
Before Gordon spoke, Pinckney arose, and said:

“I must bid you good night, Miss Atherton.”

“Good night, Mr. Pinckney; I hope I shall have

the pleasure of seeing you often. Do bring Miss
Fitzhurst to see me.”

Pinckney bowed low and left the room, resumed
his overcoat, and stepped forth into the streeet, wondering
what Gordon could have to say to Miss Atherton.
The night was not a very bright one, but the
lamp at a corner, some twenty steps off, rendered objects
quite distinct. As Pinckney advanced towards
the lamp, a man met him, who seemed to have been
stationary for a moment before, and asked politely
if Pinckney would tell him who lived in that house,
pointing to Langdale's.

“Mr. Richard Langdale,” replied Pinckney.

“Thank you, sir,” rejoined the inquirer, loitering
past.

Pinckney, after a moment's deliberation as to how
he should spend the evening, determined to go to the
theatre.