University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE STRANGER AND THE
WARNING.

We will not here interrupt
the thread of our narrative, to
describe the clashing feelings
which agitated the heart of
Arthur Warren, on finding
himself alone in the library,
as we will term the apartment
he entered. Suffice it to say,
that for some ten minutes he
paced the room in no enviable
frame of mind, ever and anon
clenching his hands, and otherwise
giving evidence of the
action of the stronger passions.
At length a servant appeared
to again bid him to dinner:
and recollecting that the family
were at the noon-day meal,
and that further delay on his
part would occasion surprise
and inquiry, he calmed himself
as much as possible, and
crossing a narrow hall, or entry,
which ran through the
centre of the house, entered
the dining room. As he expected,
he found all his friends
seated at table, and busy with
the tempting viands before
them. To his surprise and
chagrin, however, he saw that
Ernest occupied a place next
to Marian, whom he was waiting
upon assiduously, and
that the only vacant seat was
directly opposite. This arrangement
might have been
accidental, it is true; but to
Arthur, in his peculiar frame
of mind, it looked very much
like design; and so vexed and
annoyed him, that he was half
inclined to make some excuse
and leave the room. Perhaps
he would have done so, but
for the words of his father, who
said:

“Come, come, Arthur, you
pay our guests a poor compliment
by your delay, and are
like to be punished for your
neglect by a cold dinner.”

Arthur muttered some unintelligible

reply, and then
took his seat in moody silence,
glancing only furtively at Ernest
and Marian, as he helped
himself from the nearest dish,
and began to eat almost voraciously.

“Upon my word,” said Marian,
speaking across the table,
and smiling good humoredly,
“It must have been something
important, Arthur, that detained
you so long away with
such an appetite.”

“It was,” replied Arthur,
darting upon her a meaning
look, that, in spite of herself,
brought the color to her temples.

“One would think he had
been amputating the limb of
his dearest friend, or taking
some of the medicine he is
now legalized to prescribe to
others,” said Ernest jestingly.

“Only a little of the excrescence
of the Quercus infectoria,
which a friend administered,”
rejoined Arthur,
rather tartly, looking sharply
at Clifford, who slightly
changed countenance, but
otherwise appeared to take no
notice of the cutting sarcasm.

Marian saw that Arthur was
offended, and her smiling
countenance instantly became
grave, which accorded better
with her feelings, for her
smiles, as the reader is aware,
were all assumed. The meal,
so far as the three most important
actors in our life-drama
were concerned, passed
off rather dully. Ernest was
very attentive to Marian, anticipating
her every wish at the
table, and made several very
unsuccessful attempts to draw
her into animated conversation.
When he waited upon
her, she thanked him politely
—and when he asked her a
question, answered him civilly
—but, beyond these, said little
or nothing. Ernest seemed
determined at first to rally her
into good humor, and even
ventured on a conundrum for
this purpose.

“Why are you like the
soaring eagle, Miss Waldegrave?”
he asked.

“I am sure I do not know,”
she replied, with great simplicity,
and without exhibiting
any further interest in the
matter.

“Shall I tell you?”

“If you please.”

“Because you are on the
wing,” he rejoined, alluding
to that portion of a fowl, from
which she was trying to disengage
the meat.

“Capital! capital!” cried
Warren, from the head of the
table, who chanced to overhear
the jest; and the others,
of the elder personages,
echoed “capital;” and laughed
at the joke; but Arthur and
Marian scarcely smiled; and
Ernest, who saw he had
failed in his design, as regarded
the latter, for once in
his life looked quite chagrined.

The elder Warren now noticed
there was something
wrong, and said:

“Why, what ails you young
folks all at once? one would
think, to look at your serious
faces, that your friends were
all dead. Arthur, how is it?
you seem to have lost your
light spirits all of a sudden.”

“I do not feel well,” was
the answer.

“I am very sorry to hear
it, my son; but, for a sick
man, you have a good appetite.”

“I thank you for the hint,
father,” was the rejoinder;
and he instantly rose from the
table, with a flushed face, and
quitted the room.

Mr. Warren looked surprised;
but Mrs. Warren suggested
that his long ride might
have fatigued him, and immediately
changed the subject.
She, with a woman's quick
penetration, already suspected
the cause of the peculiar humor
exhibited by both Arthur
and Marian—but for the present
wisely determined on
keeping her thoughts to herself.
As soon as dinner was
over, Marian retired to the
little chamber before mentioned,
nor did she again make
her appearance till called by
her mother to accompany her
home.

As for Arthur, on quitting
the dining room, he repaired
to the parlor; and after taking
a few hasty turns up and
down the room, in a very excited
state of mind, he stopped
suddenly, and exclaimed:

“I am a fool! Why do I
give rein to my feelings and
passions in this half-crazed
manner? What will Ernest
think of me? Doubtless he
meant nothing beyond common
civilities; and if he did,
is he not my guest? and am
I not bound by the rules of
hospitality and good breeding
to treat him like a gentleman
—to show him all proper
courtesy and respect? And
what did he do, or say, to
offend me? He was studiously
polite to Marian. Well,
would I have him otherwise,
would I have him act like a
boor? Should I be called
upon to bring a charge against
him, and should I state the
real truth, would not people
laugh at me? Pshaw! pshaw!
let me redeem my foolish
error, by behaving myself in
future.”

Arthur had got thus far in
his soliloquy, when the door
opened, and his father, accompanied
by Ernest and Mr.
Waldegrave, entered the apartment.

“What is the matter, my
son?” inquired Mr. Warren,
anxiously; “are you really
ill?”

“I feel better now, father,
much better,” replied Arthur,
in an animated tone. “I did
not feel exactly right when I
left the table; but give yourself
no further uneasiness
about the matter;” and then
advancing to Ernest, he drew
him aside, and continued, in
a low tone: “Forgive me, my

friend, for my rude conduct
just now! I do not know
what possessed me—I was
not myself.”

“There is my hand,” replied
Ernest, with assumed
frankness. “I never harbor
malice for trifling matters. I
saw you looked hurt and
offended; but for the life of
me I could not conjecture the
cause that put you out of humor,
and so concluded something
had gone wrong before
you came in to dinner. True,
I did once or twice think,
that perhaps what I had
said—”

“There, there, say no more
about it,” interrupted Arthur,
smiling. “We are not so far
removed from childhood, even
at one and twenty, but that
we do sometimes act with infantile
simpleness—at least I
speak for myself, and acknowledge
it with shame. But let
that pass. And now for the
day. Would you like a run
on the hills for the fowler's
game? or are you too much
fatigued with your journey?”

“The hills, by all means,”
replied Ernest; “I am passionately
fond of gunning.”

“So be it: remain here and
amuse yourself, till I get
every thing ready;” and saying
this, Arthur left the room,
with his usual light, elastic
step, his features glowing with
their wonted animation.

About an hour later, Arthur
and Ernest, having donned
the regular hunting gear, with
pouch and powder-horn slung
over their shoulders, and accompanied
by Pete, who carried
their fowling-pieces and
game-bag, set out for the
mountains, taking with them
a fine dog for rousing the
game. It is not our purpose
here to treat the reader to a
gunning excursion; for the
incidents which properly belong
to our story, are of a heavier
and more startling character;
and as our space is
limited, we must avoid all
digression; for which necessity,
you who follow the traces
of our pen, have, without
doubt, good reason for being
thankful. We will only say,
therefore, that our friends, for
so we must still continue to
term them, had a long ramble,
some sport, and, very much
fatigued, set their faces homeward,
just as the sinking sun
was streaming a golden light
over the beautiful vale and
village of Walde Warren,
which lay spread before them,
a living picture. Their course
had been eastward, high up
on a ridge, which, beyond the
limits of the valley, kept the
windings of the stream at its
base for a considerable distance.
Along the bank of
this stream, ran the road before
alluded to; and just
where the two entered the
valley, was a mountain gorge
—a deep, wild, romantic pass
—where the hill seemed to
overhang the road, and the
road the river, which dashed

over its rocky bed, with sullen
roar, some ten or fifteen feet
below the traveled route.
The hills which environed
the valley, as elsewhere mentioned,
here came together,
or were separated only by the
river, which, in early times,
to judge by its present appearance,
had cut its way through
them with the impetuosity of
a mountain torrent. Altogether
the locality in question
was singularly wild, and, in
colloquial phrase, pokerish;
and a really timid person
would never have trod the
ground alone, at twilight, or
at a later hour, without looking
fearfully around, and recalling
dire tales of murder
and hobgoblins.

The sun had left the valley,
and the dark shadows of advancing
night were beginning
to steal over the landscape,
and envelope it as with a pall,
when our friends, having descended
the mountain to the
road, and sent the negro on
before, reached the gloomy
place we have attempted to
describe.

“Ugh!” ejaculated Clifford,
with a shudder, looking
eagerly around him, as he
and Arthur walked along,
side by side, through the
pass.

“What is the matter, Ernest?”
inquired his companion,
turning to look at him.

“Nothing, nothing,” replied
the other, quickly;
“only somehow—Did you
ever have a presentiment,
Arthur?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, there is something
about this place—I know not
what nor why—that makes
my blood run cold.”

“You are not afraid, Ernest?”

“No, I never knew what
it was to fear—and yet I
shudder.”

“Cold, doubtless; for since
the sun has set, the air feels
quite chilly and damp.”

“Nay, it is not that—I
am warm enough—but—Ha?
what is that yonder?”

“Where? what do you
see?”

“There, beside the road—
that dark object; it looks like
a human being.”

“And a human being it is,”
replied Arthur, fixing his eyes
upon a dark mass a few paces
before him “Yes, some person
in distress, perhaps,” he
continued, quickening his
steps, till he came close up to
the object, which proved to
be a man, stretched at full
length upon the ground.

“Drunk,” said Ernest, giving
the prostrate individual a
rude push with his foot, just
as Arthur was bending down
to ascertain the cause of his
lying there.

The man raised himself
upon his elbow, as he felt the
foot of Clifford, with a start
almost spasmodic, and glared
upon the latter with an expression
of vindictive rage:

and then, with a half stifled
groan, lay down again. It
was too dark by this time,
and in this place, shaded as it
was by overhanging trees and
bushes, to see any thing very
distinctly; but, nevertheless,
Arthur was able to make out
that the man was about forty
years of age, poorly clad, with
a harsh, strangely marked
countenance, sun browned,
begrimed, and rendered still
darker and more repulsive by
a black, heavy beard, of a
week's growth.

“Who are you, my friend?”
inquired Arthur, kindly;
“and what do you here?”

“I am a man,” answered
the stranger sullenly; “and
if you have eyes, you can see
what I am doing here?”

“But the night sets in
chilly, and if you lie here
you will suffer.”

“Well, what of that, who
cares?” growled the other.

“I care,” returned Arthur.
“I would not see a fellow being
suffer, while I am blessed
with the power to relieve
him.”

“You wouldn't, eh?” rejoined
the stranger, in tones a
little softened, partly raising
himself, but, as it seemed with
considerable effort. “You
wouldn't see a fellow being
suffer while you have the
means to relieve him, eh?
Come, let me look at your
face—for a man like what you
profess to be, is a rare sight,
which I should like to see before
I die.”

“You speak with bitterness,
as if the world had not used
you well, my friend.”

“The world use me well?
—the world?—ha, ha, ha!”
returned the man, with a hollow,
mocking laugh.

“Come on, Arthur, the man
is drunk,” put in Clifford;
“and what is the use of spending
breath on a liquor cask!”

“There,” said the stranger,
getting into a sitting posture
with some difficulty—“do you
not hear? there speaks one of
the world—listen to him!”

“You are insolent, knave!”
returned Clifford, rather
sharply.

“Don't call names!” growled
the man, again glaring ferociously
upon Ernest—“or if
you do, just please to apply
some that don't belong to
yourself.”

“Silence, sirrah! or—”

“Or what?” said the man,
as the other hesitated; “apply
your foot to me again,
maybe?”

“Perhaps.”

“Just do it! I dare you
to do it again, you miserable
coward!” almost shouted the
stranger.

“Hold!” cried Arthur, as
he saw Clifford raise his foot;
“surely—”

He was interrupted by a
yell almost demoniac, as the
foot of Clifford again touched
the man—not heavily, but
contemptuously—and the latter
gathered himself upon his
feet, as one suffering from
weakness and pain; but

though his countenance expressed
the raging of the most
vindictive passions within his
dark soul, he appeared of a
sudden to recollect himself,
and made no attempt to advance
upon the other, as his
first notion seemed to imply
he intended to do.

“For shame, Ernest—for
shame—to treat the man
thus!” said Arthur sternly;
“he did you no harm.”

“It will teach him, perhaps,
to keep a civil tongue in his
head, when next he addresses
a gentleman,” was the reply.
“You see I am cool, Arthur
—and I should scorn myself,
did I let such a human beast
excite my passions — but,
nevertheless, no man shall
dare me and go unpunished.”

“Come, no more of this!”

“O, let him go on,” said
the stranger—“I like to listen
to him. His jests amuse me
—they do indeed. Heard
you not he called himself a
gentleman? He a gentleman!
ha, ha, ha!—was not that
a capital joke?” and again
he laughed contemptuously.
“Why, all the broadcloth
ever imported, and all the
wealth of the Indies, would
not make him a man, much
less a gentleman.”

“Now hold your saucy
tongue!” cried Clifford—“or
your taunts will make me
forget myself.”

“A happy oblivion if you
could,” rejoined the other,
sneeringly—“for it would
save you much vile reckoning
hereafter.”

Ernest clenched his hand,
and seemed about to strike
the stranger, when Arthur
stepped between the two, and
said, sternly:

“Peace, both! I'll have
no more quarrelling! Ernest,
if you love me, go forward—I
would speak with this man
alone.”

“Let him thank you, then,
that he escapes further chastisement,”
answered Clifford,
moving away down the road.

“And now, my good fellow,”
said Arthur to the man,
“let me first give you a piece
of good advice, which one of
your years should have learned
ere this; and that is, if
you would be well treated by
the world, put your passions
under proper restraint, and a
strong curb on that unruly
member, your tongue. Soft
words are a better armor than
shirt of mail.”

“With gentlemen like yourself,
I grant you,” answered
the other, civilly; “but not
with counterfeits, like yonder
villain: a stout arm, and vantage
ground, is the best defence
against such.”

“Now peace, I pray you;
for I would serve you if I can
—but yonder gentleman is
my friend.”

“Then tear his friendship
from your heart, and banish
him your presence, lest he do
you harm—wrong you most
foully!—this is my advice,

young man, and I give it in
exchange for your's. I
should be twice your age,
young sir, and have seen more
of the world, and of mankind,
than you will ever see—for I
have studied them in every
form, from the ill-shaped
dwarf to the fairy-like belle—
in every degree, from the
beggar in rags to the prince
in velvet—and I say it without
boasting, I can read a
human face as the scholar
doth his book; and with all
this knowledge of humanity,
I warn you to beware of that
man, as you would a crawling
viper! for if he can, he'll
sting thee in thy dearest interest.
I tell you this, because
in your young face I read inexperience—a
kind, benevolent,
trusting heart—and you
have made me fancy you,
almost against my will—
otherwise, I should have
laughed to see you made miserable
by your friend—for I
hate mankind, with a bitter,
bitter hate, and delight to see
them war upon each other.”

“By your speech, you
should be other than you
seem,” said Arthur, feeling
a strange interest in the
stranger.

“I was,” replied the man,
with emphasis; “but what I
was, and what I am, are matters
that concern you not.
Ask me no questions, but go
your way in peace. Yet
stay,” he added, hesitatingly,
averting his face: “I never
yet did stoop to beg; and
when I laid me here, a half-hour
since, it was in hope
that I should die to-night, and
so end a life of misery and
wretchedness; but now, now,”
he pursued, with much vehemence,
“I wish to live a little
longer; and if you would—
O, the words stick in my
throat—in short, sir, I have
not tasted food for eight-and-forty
hours.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried
Arthur—“why did you not
tell me so at first? Dying
for want of food! Come,
come with me, my friend,
and you shall be provided
for.”

“No, no—I will go my
own way—not with you,”
replied the other. “If you
would assist me, give me
money—there, the words are
out.”

“Certainly, money you
shall have, if that will answer;
but money is not food, there
is no house nearer than my
own, and you seem too weak
and faint to be left thus.”

“Give me money — that
will do—I will not further
trouble you. Is there an inn
in yonder village?”

“Yes, a good one.”

“I may perhaps go there.”

“Well, here is my purse,”
pursued Arthur, drawing it
from his pocket; “it is not
so heavy as it might be, but
it is all I have with me.
Take it—it will serve your
immediate wants—and when

it is gone, have no scruples
about calling on Arthur Warren.
You need not mention
that I gave it you.”

“May God bless you, Mr.
Warren!” said the other, with
emotion, as he took the purse.
—“Your's is the charity of a
noble heart, that does not
vaunt its deeds with brazen
tongue. Heaven prosper you
and your's!”

“But I do not like to leave
you thus,” hesitated Arthur.
“Come, will you not go with
me?”

“No, I would be alone.
Fear not—I shall do well
enough now. I have a purpose
to live for, that will give
me strength beyond my present
seeming. By-the-by,
how is your friend called?”

“Ernest Clifford.”

“Does he reside in yonder
village?”

“No, in Alabama; he is
spending a few days with me
on a visit. But why do you
ask?”

“O, nothing, nothing—
only remember my warning!
When goes he hence?”

“I know not.”

“That is all—good night.”

“Shall I see you again?”

“It is uncertain.”

“Well, good night, my
friend, since you will not let
me do any thing more for
you;” and Arthur hastened
down the road to overtake
Ernest Clifford.

The stranger watched him
but of sight; and then, as he
turned to depart, his foot
struck against something,
which he stooped to pick up.

“Ha! the very thing!” he
muttered—“the very thing!”
and a terrible expression
swept over his countenance.