University of Virginia Library

5. V.
IN THE DARKNESS.

Since the scenes just described, three
days had passed. Night had come, and
a violent storm was lashing the capital.
The wind rolled with the hoarse moan
of the sea in a tempest, above the crouching
houses; from moment to moment the
black clouds cracked from horizon to
zenith, letting out the lightning; and
these dazzling flashes were followed by
bursts of thunder, which seemed to utter
aloud the fury of inanimate Nature.

In spite of the storm and the heavy
drops preluding the coming rain, Lord
Ruthven, who had risen from his sick-couch
on that evening, took his way toward
the governor's palace to call upon
his excellency.

He wore a suit of black velvet, and
the small short-sword, then a portion of
full-dress costume. The lightning, from
instant to instant, revealed his funereal
figure and pallid face. From the gloomy
expression of eye and lip it was plain
that the agitating scenes of the day of his
accident had profoundly impressed him.

“Well,” he muttered, “I will sound
his excellency to-night upon the subject
of my departure—that is the best course.
He has left williamsburg—for the moment,
the danger is past — but who
knows? He may come back; fate is
powerful; and then—then—yes, I will
go! That is best!”

He went on, paying no attention to
the storm.

“Let me not palter with my destiny,”
he added, his voice low and mournful,
his lips assuming a melancholy smile.

“This accident is a presage—reciprocity
is the law of Nature—his act on this very
street struck me down—mine will strike
him!”

A dazzling flash of lightning followed
the words, and the roar of thunder succeeded.
A slight color had come to the
pale face.

“I believe I enjoy this hurly-burly of
Nature,” muttered Lord Ruthven; “'tis
in unison with my stormy life. Yes; the
more I reflect, the more clearly I perceive
'tis best to go. And yet—am I
panic-stricken, timid, nervous? He is no
longer here. He has gone to his home
in the mountains—”

The speaker struck suddenly against
some object approaching him. It was a
man whose footsteps had been drowned
by the uproar of the wind, and whose
form had been concealed by the black
darkness of the night. Lord Ruthven
drew his dress-sword—for it appeared
to him that something hostile was intended
by this unknown—and, retreating
a step, directed the point of the
sword toward the shadowy figure.

At the same instant a flash of lightning
cut the air like a white-hot blade,
and Ruthven recognized Innis.

“You!” he cried.

“Yes, I, my lord!” returned the
young man, with some sternness in his
voice. “What means this threat—this
sword's point at my breast?”

Lord Ruthven shuddered from head
to foot, and dropped the point of his
dress-sword, which he violently thrust
back into its scabbard.

“You, sir!” he repeated. “Good
Heavens! who could have dreamed of
this encounter? I thought you absent—
my sword's point — 'twas unwittingly
that I drew my weapon—pardon me, sir
—the night is dark, and—you have not
then left Williamsburg?”

The agitation of the speaker was so
great that Innis understood instantly that
nothing hostile had been intended.

“No, my lord,” he said; “and we
encounter each other again under singular
circumstances.”

“Fatal circumstances!”

Innis uttered a light-hearted laugh in
the darkness.

“Not so very fatal, my lord, since no
one is hurt. Your sword at my breast
caused me some astonishment, and a little
irritation, it may be. But a word explains
all. You no doubt took me for a
footpad, and in the dark 'tis well to be
on one's guard.”

“Yes—and in the light,” was the reply
of Ruthven, in a singular tone.

“You were going—?”

“To see his excellency. And you,
sir?”

“To the house of a gentleman living
near the capitol.”

“You designed leaving Williamsburg,
I think, when we parted, sir?”

“I did so design, my lord, but the
fates forbade.”

“The fates?”

“Or chance, or Providence, as there
is no chance, I think, in life.”

“You are right, sir. If you will not
think me singular or intrusive, may I ask
what you call `the fates,' or `Providence?”'

Lord Ruthven heard the smile, so to
say, of Innis, as he replied in the darkness:

“Oh, my lord, the explanation is extremely
simple. I came to Williamsburg,
designing to make arrangements with
my father's friend, Mr. Wythe, to become
a law-student in his office—when about
to leave the capital he begged me to stay
and copy for him some important papers.”

Lord Ruthven remained silent.

“There is all the mystery,” said Innis.

“And—this work, sir—doubtless, 'tis
onerous?”

“Somewhat.”

“'Twill detain you longer?”

“I fear so.”

“When you are anxious to return?”

“I confess, I shall be pleased to do
so.”

Lord Ruthven reflected for a few moments,
and then said, in a melancholy
tone:

“I envy you, Mr. Innis, this return
to your family. The hearthstone will
brighten for you; with me 'tis different.
I have no family and no home—a residence
only.”

“I am no less unfortunate, my lord.
My parents are dead, and I have no
brothers or sisters.”

“But relatives, friends — perchance,
one nearer and dearer than any friend—”

The expression of the speaker's voice
was singular. The words were careless,
but he listened anxiously, it was plain,
for Innis's reply.

“Nearer — and — dearer?” said the
youth, in a confused voice.

“I mean that you are expected by
some dear one yonder, Mr. Innis—some
young lady—who loves you—”

“Oh, no, my lord! I'm not so fortunate.”

“There is none such?”

“None.”

Lord Ruthven drew a long breath.

“Heaven be thanked!” he muttered.

“Your lordship said—?”

“Nothing, Mr. Innis.”

A sudden flash revealed Lord Ruthven's
face. He was sunk in profound
thought—his eyes half closed. But this
preoccupation rapidly disappeared.

“I am detaining you, Mr. Innis,” he
said. “This interview, as you have said,
is singular. Commencing with my sword-point
directed at your breast” — the
speaker shuddered as he uttered these
words—“and ending with a somewhat
ill-bred intrusion upon your private affairs.”

“Oh, not at all, I beg you to believe,”
said Innis; “'twas perfectly natural.”

“There was certainly no intent to
offend you with sword or tongue, Mr.
Innis; and now I bid you good-even.
The storm is about to burst. We shall
not meet again, sir—I have resolved to
return to Europe. Farewell, sir.”

He passed Innis, as he spoke, walking
rapidly, and not offering his hand.

“The die is cast—I go, and go at
once!” he muttered; “to stay were
madness indeed!”

The roar of the wind drowned the
words. Unconsciously he turned his
head. At the same moment a vivid flash
lit up the street, revealing the form of
Innis.

The youth was standing motionless,
looking after him.