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“I am indeed frightfully pale,” he
murmured, surveying his ghastly cheeks,
“and my appearance will probably shock
my visitor. Still I must see him. It may
be that yesterday, while weak from loss
of blood, stunned, with my brain reeling,
I fancied—simply fancied—but no! there
can be no doubt! the face, the hair, the
lips, the eyes—all are the same!”

The brows of the speaker contracted,
and he drew a long, painful breath.

“No! let me not attempt to cheat
myself with any doubt!” he muttered;
“'tis the very man!—and I tempt the
evil fate that is dogging me by even speaking
to him—by the very fact of receiving
him! No, I will not see him! I will—
Fergus!” And he hastened toward the
door.

As he did so, steps were heard ascending
the staircase without. The visitor was
plainly coming up, conducted by Fergus.

“Too late!” groaned Lord Ruthven,
“the die is cast. I must receive him. I
shudder, and yet advance toward him—
would avoid him, and yet cannot resist
the temptation to gaze at him—to listen
to him—”

The hand of Fergus was heard upon
the knob, and his voice uttered the
words:

“This, as you know, sir, is his lordship's
apartment.”

And the door opened, Fergus standing
ceremoniously aside, and ushering in
the visitor.

Lord Ruthven had resumed his place
upon the couch, from which he now rose
as his visitor entered. The two gentlemen
exchanged courtly bows, and Lord
Ruthven gazed intently at the other, taking
in every detail of his face and figure.

Edmund Innis was a young man of
twenty-two or three, with brown hair,
powdered, after the fashion of the period,
and tied with a ribbon, eyes full of frankness,
a handsome mouth, indicating sincerity,
and a carriage of the person at
once proud and courteous. His embroidered
coat, long silken waistcoat, and ruffles,
indicated the class to which he belonged—for,
at that time costume marked
the social position of its wearer; but
these fine garments were quite shabby,
and the general appearance of the youth
seemed to prove that his exchequer was
in a very dilapidated state indeed. His
frill was irreproachably white, and upon
his finger sparkled a diamond ring; but
the seams of his coat were threadbare,
there was a hole in one of his elbows,
and the cocked-hat held in his hand had
lost every particle of the lace which once
adorned it.

In spite, however, of these unmistakable
marks of the “poor gentleman,”
Lord Ruthven had no difficulty in perceiving
at a glance that his visitor was,
what was called at that time, a person
of distinction. The head above the worn
coat was carried with proud courtesy,
and the discolored hat descended in a
bow which was as graceful as that made
by the nobleman.

“I beg that you will be seated, sir,”
said Lord Ruthven, pointing to an arm-chair.

“Thanks, my lord,” was the youth's
reply, as he took his seat, “I am truly
glad to find your lordship so greatly improved
since I last saw you.”

“A mere trifle, Mr. Innis.”

“I feared your case was much worse.”

“I am nearly recovered already.”

Innis bowed.

“That relieves my mind of a load of
self-reproach. I need scarce inform you
that I deeply regret my unfortunate
agency in this accident, and feel that
your lordship has done me the simple
justice to believe that I was entirely unaware
of the danger to which I enforced
you. Your sudden fall was a very great
shock to me.”

“I did not doubt that for a moment,
sir.”

“So you are not seriously injured?”

“In twenty-four hours I shall be as
well as ever.”

“God be thanked!” said the young
man, cordially; “and now, having relieved
my mind of all anxiety as to your
lordship's condition, I shall return to my
home without anxiety.”

During this exchange of commonplaces
and expressions of politeness,
Lord Ruthven had continued to gaze intently
at Innis, and, as trait after trait in
the voice and countenance of the youth
came out more plainly, this fixed gaze
became one of much agitation. It was
plain that Lord Ruthven was strongly
moved. His dark eyes were riveted to
the visitor's face, a slight color tinged
his pale cheeks, his voice trembled
perceptibly, and his breast labored in
breathing.

It was impossible that this agitation,
if it were prolonged, should not attract
the attention of the visitor. Lord Ruthven
seemed to feel this. He made a
powerful effort to suppress his emotion,
in which he partially succeeded, and now
said, in a voice which had grown calm
and ceremonious again:

“You speak of returning to your
home, sir—then you do not reside in
Williamsburg?”

“No, my lord.”

“Your residence is—?”

“In the mountains.”

“The Blue Ridge?”

“Yes, my lord. From the door of my
little home you may look upon a ring
wellnigh of blue mountains, like waves
on the horizon.”

“That must be indeed a most picturesque
prospect, sir. The Blue Ridge, I
have indeed heard, is very beautiful.”

“Admirably beautiful and imposing.”

“As the Alps and Apennines, do you
think, sir?”

“Oh, doubtless not; but I have never
seen either, and can form no opinion.”

“Then, you have never visited Europe,
Mr. Innis?”

“Never, my lord. I am a mere Buckskin,
as the phrase is in our country, and
scarce travelled beyond my poor parish in
the mountains.”

Lord Ruthven drew a long breath,
and continued to gaze intently at the
youth.

“I thought — I had — seen you before,”
he said, in a low tone, and with
an agitation which he could not master.

“I fancied so,” Innis replied, looking
with some astonishment at the speaker.

“You fancied so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Pray, why?”

“From some singular exclamations
which you uttered yesterday.”

“Some exclamations!”

“When you had not fully recovered
from the stunning effect of your fall.”

“Oh, yes!” returned Lord Ruthven,
with a sickly smile, “so that I uttered,
you say—some—singular exclamations?”

“Singular only as appearing to indicate
upon your part an impression that

you had met with me in Europe, and
were surprised to find me in Virginia.”

“Oh, I said that? How very absurd
these fancies of fever!”

“I am assured that fever invariably
produces these effects.”

“And you attached no importance,
I presume, to these wanderings, sir?”

“None whatever.”

“They are truly absurd, and at times,
I fancy, rather laughable. Did I say more
in my delirium?—I am naturally curious
to hear of my vagaries.”

The sickly smile was repeated, as
Lord Ruthven uttered these words with
assumed carelessness; but his intent and
burning eyes, fixed on the face of his visitor,
betrayed the deep importance which
he attached to the reply.

Again Innis could not avoid observing
that singular agitation. He hesitated,
feeling a vague astonishment and uneasiness.
Whither was the singular colloquy
drifting? What was the object of Lord
Ruthven in these questions, and why was
he so deeply agitated?

“You are silent, sir!” said Lord
Ruthven, with feverish emotion; “I wish
to know—”

His voice had grown brief and imperious;
but he suddenly stopped.

“Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Innis,” he
said, sorrowfully; “my nerves indeed
must have been shaken, that I address a
gentleman of your quality with so little
ceremony. I beg you will overlook my
rudeness.”

Innis smiled.

“I am far from thinking any apology
necessary, my lord; nor was there aught
in your tone even at which I could justly
take offence.”

“Thanks for your courtesy, sir; and
now may I beg to repeat my question in
milder terms?”

“Your question?”

“Whether I said aught more in my
delirium yesterday than that I thought I
had met with you in Europe, and did
not expect to see you here?”

“Frankly, you did say more.”

“What more, may I ask?” said Lord
Ruthven, turning a shade paler.

Innis still hesitated. He remembered
distinctly the words uttered by the nobleman
on the preceding day:

“That face, that form again!—and
here!—when I thought I had fled from
him forever!”

He looked at Lord Ruthven and was
silent a moment; then he said:

“Your lordship attaches undue importance
to these exclamations of fever
—yours did not differ, probably, from
those uttered by others at such moments.
I am happy to find that this
confusion of mind has now wholly disappeared—and
that—”

“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Innis!”
said Lord Ruthven, feverishly,
“but you have not replied to the question
I had the honor to address to
you.”

“You would have me—?”

“Essay to recall, if it please you, sir,
the exact words which I uttered. I beg
that you will reply frankly.”

“I will do so, my lord. I do recall
your expressions.”

“What were they, sir?”

“Your lordship compels me to remember
and repeat words which I had
almost forgotten. As you plainly wish
to have them repeated, I reply that upon
opening your eyes, and seeing me standing
before you, you addressed me as a
person from whom you thought you had
fled forever!”

“Fled forever! I said that?”

“Such were your words, and I pray
you to observe that they are only repeated
at your urgent request. They
will, of course, be buried in my bosom,
as having no importance or significance.”

“I beseech you to thus bury them!”
exclaimed Lord Ruthven, with irrepressible
agitation, “and that from this moment,

if possible, you will even cease to
remember them.”

“You can rely upon my word with
implicit faith,” said the youth, proudly.

“I feel that I can do so, Mr. Innis.
Human beings with eyes and lips like
your own never deceive, sir!”

Innis inclined his head.

“Thanks for your courtesy, my lord.”

“Do not even remember if that is
possible, those foolish words, Mr. Innis!
My life has been strange and unfortunate,
my words and actions are wild, inexplicable,
and yet could be explained!
I said yesterday—but why recall that?—
there is a woful mystery, to be frank
with you, sir, under what I uttered. I
speak to a man of honor—your face says
`Trust me!' and would to God that I
could speak! I cannot. I have even
now said far more than in cooler moments
I should have done. We shall see
each other, after this day, no more, I
hope—suppose I should say, sir!”

Lord Ruthven wiped his forehead,
upon which had burst forth an icy perspiration.
By an immense effort, he
suppressed his emotion.

“This seems strange to you, doubtless,
sir, and you will think that my fever
has not left me,” he added, more calmly.
“I shall, therefore, cease to allude further
to this somewhat strange subject,
only repeating my request that you will
forget all these absurdities—the ravings
of my delirium, and the words just uttered
in confidence by one gentleman to
another.”

“I shall carefully observe your request,
my lord. Your fever and your
confidence are both sacred to me.”

“Thanks, sir,” said Lord Ruthven.
“I could not feel more perfectly assured
of that than I now do, in consequence of
your promise.”

His head drooped, and an expression
of weariness and sorrow came to his
face. Then, raising his eyes slowly, he
said:

“Do you know what thought passed
through my mind at that instant, Mr.
Innis? I thought how glad I should be
could I solicit your friendship.”

“My lord—”

“But I cannot—I should be proud
and glad to do so—but—but—I shall in
two or three weeks return to Europe,
and it is wholly improbable that we
shall ever meet again in this world.”

Innis listened with astonishment, and
could find no explanation for the tones
and glances of Lord Ruthven. His
voice had grown mild, cordial, and full
of kindness. The glance fixed upon the
young man's face was almost one of affection.

“You do me great honor,” said the
youth, much moved, “and can you not
remain? Do so, if possible. I, too,
should be proud to secure your lordship's
regard and friendship.”

“You!”

“Assuredly.”

“Oh, no! 'Tis impossible! And
yet—no! Pardon me—I mean only that
I must return.”

“You should remain with us longer.
Virginia is the land of lands!”

“'Tis doubtless beautiful, sir, but my
voyage is unavoidable.”

“You cannot defer it?”

“I regret that it is out of my power
to do so, sir.”

Innis rose.

“Well, at least, my lord,” he said,
“your hurt is healing, and I shall not
have the great grief of reflecting that
your death lay at my door.”

He smiled, but Lord Ruthven's face
had no smile upon it as he replied:

“Certainly no blame could—or can—
attach to you, sir.”

“And Virginia is spared the sadness,
too, since you will not die on our soil.”

“I know not, sir,” said Lord Ruthven,
with a singular and gloomy look.

Innis laughed.

“Let us hope for the best,” he said.

“I shall now bid your lordship good-even.”

“Can you not sit longer, sir?”

“No, with thanks. I must set out
for the mountains at dawn, and I shall
now have the honor of taking a final
leave of your lordship.”

As he spoke, Innis cordially extended
his hand, his handsome face lit up by a
friendly smile.

Lord Ruthven made no movement to
accept the proffered hand.

His eyes had suddenly closed, as if he
were about to faint, and his face had
grown ghastly pale.

“Your lordship is ill!” exclaimed
Innis, hastening toward him.

“No, no!” returned Lord Ruthven,
in a low voice, and repulsing the youth
with a motion of his hand. “That is to
say—a slight dizziness—a species of vertigo,
doubtless—but 'tis passed.”

He rose, and, without making any motion
to offer his hand to his visitor, made
a low and courtly bow.

“Farewell, sir,” he said; “I owe you
many thanks for this obliging visit.
Should we not meet again, I shall retain
in my memory the recollection of a most
agreeable interview, Mr. Innis.”

A second bow followed the words.
Innis, without offering his hand a second
time, replied by a similar inclination,
and, putting on his hat, went out of the
apartment.

As the door closed, Lord Ruthven
tottered rather than walked to the couch,
and fell upon it, as though his strength
were completely exhausted.

“No, no, no!” he groaned, “I could
not take his hand! I could not be guilty
of that infamy at least! Whatever devil
drives me—whatever I do—I will not be
false—no! never! If he falls by my
sword 'twill not be the friend whose
hand I've clasped.—Knowing—”

There the voice of the speaker died
away in a species of gasp.

“Cursed! cursed! cursed!”

There words escaped in a stifled whisper
from Lord Ruthven's lips, and he fell
back, closing his eyes.

When, ten minutes afterward, Fergus
entered the apartment, he found that his
master had fainted.

University of Virginia Library

4. IV. KNOWN AND UNKNOWN.

4. IV.
KNOWN AND UNKNOWN.