University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE RETURN.

It was one of those mild,
soft, balmy days of Spring,
which so refreshingly follow
the chill blasts and frosts of
winter, and give us a foretaste
of the approaching summer,
that a small group of persons
was collected in front of the
piazza of the White Deer,
awaiting the arrival of the
mail coach, which, it being
past ten o'clock in the morning,
was already due.

The eldest of this group was
a man between forty-five and
fifty years of age, stout built,
of medium height, and robust
and active. His countenance
had scarcely lost the freshness
of youth, and expressed frankness,
good-humor, benevolence,
and a contented mind.
There was something peculiarly
gentle and pleasing in
his mild, grey eye; and you
would have liked his face—
not for its comeliness, though
it was far from being ugly—
but for the kindliness and
goodness which beamed forth
in every expression. He was
the personation of vigorous
health, and his dark brown
hair showed not a single silver
mark of the years that had
rolled over his head. His
dress was plain, but neat, and
bespoke a man well-to-do in
the world, as also one devoid
of ostentation. This personage
was Horatio Warren, one of
the opulent proprietors of the
valley.

Of the others composing
the group, some four or five
in number, it is needless for
us to speak, as they have little
to do with our story. We
may state, however, that one
was the inn-keeper of the
White Deer, another the
post-master, and the remainder,
persons who, having idle
time on their hands, felt disposed
to enjoy it in a little
harmless gossip on the affairs
of the day. Standing somewhat
back from this group,
and leaning lazily against one
of the columns of the piazza,
but so as to get the full
warmth of the sun's rays, and
as little of the light breeze
stirring as possible, was a
sleek, fat negro, who was
amusing himself by making
grimaces at a child in the
street, who in return enjoyed
this species of fun vastly, as
it ever and anon gave proof
by a merry, exuberant laugh;
and this attracting the attention
of other urchins at a distance,
they dropped their occupations,
and hastened to
gather around this black Momus,
as bees collect around a
cup of honey. There were,
besides those mentioned, other
loungers here and there, two
of whom were on the bridge,

one leaning over the railings,
looking down into the stream,
in a sort of dreamy reverie,
and the other sitting flat on
the planks, with his legs
hanging over the water, and
in his hand a fishing rod,
which he jerked up occasionally,
like a drowsy man's nod,
as if he thought it necessary
to demonstrate that he was
not actually asleep if the fish
were. In short, the picture
of a warm, lazy Spring day,
in a quiet, inland village, was
complete; and if we have not
done full justice to it, we feel
confident the reader's recollection,
or imagination will supply
the finishing touches.

“By-the-by, Mr. Nixon,”
said Warren, breaking off
somewhat abruptly from a political
discussion, which he
had been holding with a
young sprig of the law, and
which he had evidently been
drawn into against his will,
and addressing the inn-keeper
—“what time have you?”

“I am just seventeen minutes
past ten,” replied Nixon,
looking at his watch.

“And I nineteen,” said
Jones, the postmaster.

“And I eighteen,” put in
the young lawyer, whose name
was Collins.

“And I fourteen,” added a
fourth speaker.

“Well, gentlemen, you see
I am right,” returned Nixon,
jocularly, “because I have the
mean time.”

“Yes,” said Jones, with
that ready wit in punning
which is always appreciated
in a crowd, pointing to the
bull's-eye the landlord was
transferring to his fob—“yes,
Nixon, you may well say
mean time; you might have
said the meanest time.”

“Well, you all agree on
one point, I perceive,” said
Warren, “that it is past the
time for the stage.”

“It should be here by ten
at least,” replied the postmaster;
“but the rains to the
north'ard have gullied the
roads so as to render it slow
traveling. You are expecting
your son, I understand?”

“Yes, Arthur writes me,
that without some unforeseen
delay, I shall see him to-day.”

“Will he remain with you
now? or does he go away
again soon?”

“I hope he will remain—
but there is no telling what
fancies a young man may
take into his head now-a-days.
He has finished his collegiate
course, and if he sets up practice,
I hope it will be somewhere
in this region.”

“There is not much business
for a doctor in our little
village,” said Nixon.

“No, Dr. Potter says it is
distressingly healthy,” returned
Jones, “and that, with
present prospects, he will
have to move or starve.”

“It is a poor place for law
and physic,” said Collins.

“Because there is too much

law and order,” rejoined the
postmaster. “No offence,
Mr. Collins; but doctors and
lawyers flourish best in a bad
community; for where men
most indulge in excesses, and
give most way to their passions,
there is always the most
for your professional gentlemen
to do.”

“I think it would be the
wisest plan to give doctors
and lawyers a regular salary
when they are not needed,
and stop it when they are,”
said Nixon.

“I differ with you,” replied
Warren. “I think it would
be better to live soberly, frugally,
uprightly, and dispense
with them altogether.”

“And yet you bring your
son up to one of these professions,”
rejoined the inn-keeper.

“Ay, sir, because the world
is not likely to take my advice;
and so long as such professions
are needed, so long
must they be supplied; besides-scientific
knowledge will
not injure a man, even if he
do not live by it.”

“And both doctors and lawyers
may be required when
you least think so,” said Collins,
laughing.

These words were prophetic,
though the speaker was
by no means a prophet.

“Ha! here comes your twin
brother, Mr. Warren,” said
Jones, pointing to Waldegrave,
who was now seen
crossing the bridge.

“Ah, you may well say
twin brother,” replied Warren;
“for had we both drawn
our sustenance from the same
breast, at the same time, we
could not have grown up with
warmer attachment for each
other. When it shall please
heaven to call either of us
hence, you may depend it
will be a sad day for the
other.”

He spoke with feeling; and
those who observed him closely,
saw that he was more affected
than he chose to have
appear.

We have elsewhere said
that Waldegrave and Warren
were both born in the same
year; but the former had a
much older look, and differed
materially from the latter in
his personal appearance, being
tall, of a slender make, with a
countenance intellectual, but a
complexion rather too sallow to
indicate a sound constitution
and a state of perfect health.
His features were regular,
soft, and pleasing, and had a
kindly, benevolent look, and
were rendered the more interesting,
perhaps, by the slightest
shade of melancholy,
equally perceptible when
wreathed with a smile or
remaining in grave repose.
His hair was quite grey, and
altogether he had the look of
a man who had seen more
than fifty winters. He dressed
in deep black, which became
his figure and person remarkably
well.

Just as Waldegrave joined
the group, the stage was
espied coming down the winding
road of the valley; and a
few minutes after it rolled
heavily over the bridge, making
its strong timbers creak
and tremble, and drew up before
the inn, the horses panting
and covered with mud and
foam. The next moment the
door of the coach was thrown
open by the impatient father,
and the hand of a handsome
young man was grasped and
shaken with true paternal affection.

“Why, father, I am delighted
to see you looking so well,”
said Arthur, gaily, as he
sprang to the ground. “I
need not ask how you do, for
your cheerful, healthy countenance
speaks for itself. How
is mother? Ah, Mr. Waldegrave,
most happy to greet
you—how is your good lady
and Marian?”

“All your friends are well,
Arthur,” said his father; “and
Marian and her mother are at
our house, waiting to receive
you as becometh old
friends.”

“Bless her sweet little face
—Marian I mean: but I forget—she
is no longer little—
I was thinking of old times,”
returned Arthur, in the same
buoyant, lively strain. “But
here comes my friend,” added
Arthur, as another young
man, splendidly dressed,
alighted from the coach.
“This is my father, Ernest
—father, this is Mr. Clifford,
the friend mentioned in my
letter, whom I have prevailed
upon to spend a few days
with us in Walde-Warren.”

“Most happy to greet you,
sir, as the friend of Arthur,”
said the elder Warren, shaking
heartily the hand of Clifford.
“Welcome, sir—a true
old fashioned welcome to our
little valley—and may you be
long our guest.”

“Thank you, sir—thank
you kindly,” replied Clifford.

“Mr. Waldegrave, my father's
old friend, Ernest, of
whom you have so often
heard me speak,” said Arthur,
introducing the gentleman
named. “And now,”
he pursued, with a gay laugh,
“as you have the mortal head
and front of Walde-Warren
within your grasp, my dear
Ernest, you will excuse me a
few moments, till I speak to
my friends here.”

He then passed round
among the by-standers, whose
number had augmented since
his arrival, and greeted each
in that frank, easy, cheerful
manner, which never fails to
get a cordial response and win
the hearts of old and young,
more especially if the individual,
as in the case of Arthur
Warren, stands one grade
higher on the sliding scale of
society than those he addresses.
He had a few kindly
words for each, seasoned

with playful humor, sometimes
a pleasant jest; and
when he had gone the entire
round, and spoken to all, there
was not a man but in his
heart wished long life and
happiness to the heir of
Walde-Warren.

Arthur now espied the negro—who,
no longer amusing
the children with his grimaces
was standing respectfully
back, watching every motion
of his young master, and anxious
for his turn to be noticed
—and approaching him with
a smile, the young man took
his hand, and said gaily:—

“Why, Pete, my oily
ebony, how fares the world
with you? Really, you look
as if your greatest exploits,
for the last six months, had
been eating and digesting!
How is Dinah, boy?”

“She well, massa, God
bress you!” replied Pete, doffing
his hat. “I's so glad
you come, massa, and you is
looking so well and so hansome,
massa! Why, massa,
all de niggers will be tickled
to deff to seed you got back
agin.”

“Thank you, Pete—I always
love to look upon cheerful
and happy faces, and it
takes nothing from my pleasure
to know they are made
so by my presence. You
have the carriage here,
Pete?”

“Yes, Massa Arthur, um
jus' round in de shed dar; I
couldn't go fetch um till I
spoke to you.”

“Well, you can go now,
Pete. Drive round the moment
the stage drives off, and
put on all that baggage you
see piled up yonder. Now
hasten, Pete, for I am impatient
to reach home.”

“Yes, massa, I do um quick
as chain lightning strike de
t'under clap;” and away
bounded the black, with a
light and happy heart.

And here we will take occasion
to say a few words of
Arthur and his friend. When
Peter called his young master
handsome, he applied no misnomer,
for in truth he was
very comely. Unlike his
father, he was of slender
build, of medium height,
straight as an arrow, and in
every respect symmetrical.
His features were fine, regular
and intelligent, and in expression,
frank, cheerful, vivacious.
There was nature's nobleness
in his high, broad,
smooth forehead, and dark
eloquent hazel eyes. You
could see he had temper, quick
and high, but coupled with a
disposition more forgiving
than vindictive. If quick to
take an affront, he was quick
to forgive one, provided forgiveness
became a virtue. In
short, he was a high-spirited,
noble young man, of the winning
and easy manners of a
true-bred gentleman. His
face was smooth, for he wore
no beard, and his short curly,

brown hair gave his head a
classic appearance.

In many essential points,
Arthur Warren differed from
Ernest Clifford. The latter
was taller, and not in every
respect so symmetrical. His
features were more elongated,
his cheeks more thin and hollow,
and his complexion had
a sallow hue. His eyes were
dark, almost black, and intense
and piercing in their expression.
There was something
about him you would like and
dislike at the same time.
There was intelligence in his
countenance, but it lacked the
open, cheerful candor of Arthur.
You felt he could be cool
and self-collected under any
circumstances, and that his
passions were so completely
under his control, that he
could dissemble almost without
an effort. He never laughed
loud and heartily as Arthur
sometimes would; but
if pleased, he smiled; and unlike
Arthur, too, he could
smile and be angry at the
same time. He was one of
those persons who never act
from impulse, but are wholly
governed by self-interest, or by
a deliberate resolve. He was
a man you would rather have
for a friend than an enemy—
but, at the same time, ten to
one, you would prefer he were
neither. His features were
regular, and many would term
them handsome; but to a keen
physiognomist, a sinister expression,
too often exhibited,
destroyed their beauty. His
nose was long and pointed,
and his lips were thin and
compressed: he wore a neatly
trimmed beard under his chin,
and his long and well oiled
hair dangled about his face
and neck. His manners were
easy and polished, yet a close
observer could detect they
were, to a great degree, artificial.
He was, on the whole,
and in brief, a man of the
world, and a man of circumstances.
We will say no more
for the present, for the reader
will soon have an opportunity
to see and judge both him and
Arthur for himself.

“Come, Ernest,” said Arthur,
as soon as the carriage
was ready, “get in, and I will
soon show you my valley
home. I will show you Marian,
too, but I warn you not
to fall in love with her.”

“I fear I shall, if all you
have said of her be true,”
smiled Ernest.

“He has been praising her
to you then?” said Warren,
exchanging glances with Waldegrave.

“Ah, sir, he has extolled
her beyond woman born—so I
shall look to find an angel,”
replied Ernest.

“She is a sweet, good girl,”
returned Warren, “and one
universally beloved for her
many virtues.”

“Come, come,” chimed in
Waldegrave, “she is my
daughter, and I am proud of

her; but praise to the face,
you know, Horatio—”

“Ay, ay, Archer,” laughed
the elder Warren; “I know:
but still, my friend, that modest
blush becomes you.”

“Well,” said Ernest, as the
carriage, with Pete as driver,
now rolled away over the
bridge, “I suppose one may
speak in praise of this valley,
without being considered an
open flatterer, even though
you, gentlemen, have a sort of
parental claim to its many
beauties. At all events, I
shall venture to say it is the
most delightful place it has
ever been my good fortune to
visit.”

“I am glad you like it,” replied
Warren, “and trust you
will have no reason for making
your first visit a short
one.”

A few minutes sufficed to
bring our friends to their destination;
and as the carriage
drew up at the door of his
home, Arthur, impatient to
greet his mother and friends,
begged Ernest to excuse him,
and darted into the house, the
others following more leisurely.
He found his mother and
Mrs. Waldegrave in the parlor;
and embracing the former,
and shaking hands with
the latter, with all the affection
and warm open-heartedness
of his nature, he said a
few hurried words, appropriate
to the occasion, and
then, glancing quickly around
the room, exclaimed:

“But is not little Marian
here to receive her old playmate?”

“In the next apartment,”
smiled his mother.

Arthur waited for no more,
but hastily opening the door,
bounded in. This apartment
was a kind of sitting-room and
library; and as he entered it,
he beheld the object of his
search seated near the win
dow, with a book in her hand,
the leaves of which she was
tumbling over in a manner
that, had he been less excited
himself, he must have perceived
indicated a good deal
of nervous agitation.

“Why, Marian, how is
this?” he cried, advancing
with a quick step to her side.
“I thought you would be the
first to welcome me, and yet
I find you—”

He stopped suddenly; for
by this time Marian had risen,
with true maidenly grace, and
turned her sweet face full upon
him, covered with blushes,
the import of which was not
to be mistaken. Arthur seemed
struck dumb by that look,
and, quick as lightning, the
truth flashed upon him, and
he in turn felt embarrassed
and confused. Had he ever
made the heart of woman his
study, and particularly that
of Marian Waldegrave, he
might have anticipated all
this; but somehow he had always
thought of her as a child,
his old playmate, his sweet
little friend, his pretty little

Marian, and as such he had
loved her, as such he had expected
to meet her now. But
Marian was no longer a child
—no longer a romping little
girl; she had grown to woman's
estate; she had a woman's
feelings, a maiden's delicacy;
she loved, and the
object of her love stood before
her. All this Arthur now
knew and comprehended from
a single glance at her countenance;
and its effect, as aforesaid,
was to confuse and embarrass
him; the words that
were but now bounding from
his lips, seemed driven back
into his very throat, as if to
choke him; he tried to speak,
but could not; he tried to appear
at ease, but knew he was
conducting himself awkwardly,
and this embarrassed him
still more; he felt he was acting
like a simpleton; he was
glad there was no one to witness
it; and he would have
given half his fortune to be
himself for five minutes
When he first began to speak,
he had extended his hand; he
had not withdrawn it; Marian
now took it, and dropping
her eyes to the ground, said,
in a faltering tone:

“I hope you are well, Arthur.”

Her voice in a measure
seemed to break the spell that
bound him; he essayed to
speak again, and he succeeded?
but still his words did
not flow freely, and he knew
he still appeared constrained
and awkward. He replied that
he was well, very well, and
hoped she was also; to which
she nodded an affirmation, and
then another embarrassing
pause succeeded. Arthur
wanted to compliment her on
having arrived at the bloom
of maturity—on her looking
better and more beautiful than
he had ever before seen her;
but somehow he felt afraid to
venture so much; the gay,
sprightly, dashing young man
had suddenly become timid
and bashful.

“But come,” he said, at
last, rallying himself, and assuming
a tone of ease he was
far from feeling; “come, Miss
Waldegrave, I have a friend
here to whom I have promised
to introduce you the moment
we should arrive. I hear him
speaking in the other room.”

He called her Miss Waldegrave,—she
whom but now
he had termed Marian—she
who had been his playmate
and sweet little friend from
infancy—she on whom he had
never bestowed so formal a
title in all his life: he addressed
her as Miss Waldegrave!
She noticed it—he
noticed it. Why did he not
call her Marian still? Why,
simply, because he somehow
thought—he fancied—that—
that Marian was a too familiar
appellation just at that
time.

O, Cupid, thou art a mischievous
little god! Thou
dost play such strange, wild

pranks with hearts of which
thou gettest possession, making
simpletons of the young,
and down right fools of the
old.

“You must excuse me, Arthur—Mr.
Warren, I mean,”
replied Marian. “I—I—that
is—I am not prepared to see
your friend just now—I will
presently;” and she hastened
out of the room.

Arthur followed her with
his eyes, till she had disappeared;
and for several minutes
after he seemed lost in
a deep reverie.

“It is strange!” he sighed,
at length—“it is very strange!”
and with slow steps, and in a
thoughtful mood, he re-entered
the parlor, and joined his
friends.