57. CHAPTER LVII.
SOME OLD FRIENDS—AT LEAST THE AUTHOR HOPES SO.[1]
St. John's business was nothing more nor less, says our
author, than some pecuniary arrangements in connection
with his proposed embarkation upon the seas of matrimony,
and the agent in these arrangements was a certain Mr.
A. Z. Smith, factor.
We should like to pause in our narrative, and once more
enter the small warehouse of the worthy factor, salute the
round-faced shopboy, who, as of old, presides with smiles
over the domain of tin pans and flitches, whips and boxes
of tobacco, in perennial youth. We should like to enter the
little counting-room beyond, where Mr. A. Z. Smith, as in
old days, transacts his real business with his courtly customers,
and taste his rum, and see the picture of his mustachioed
aneestor, and admire his great ledgers chronicling the business
of a lifetime. But, unfortunately, Mr. A. Z. Smith,
factor, is not destined to affect the current of our narrative,
which runs in other channels past the little shop.
Mr. St. John was with Mr. A. Z. Smith a portion of every
day, and the smiling little factor made him his best bows
when he appeared, and went away; that salute of familiar
respect which the wealthy
bourgeois bestowed at the period
on one of the
gentry.
After these business interviews Mr. St. John was idle
for the rest of the day, and one morning he thought he
would take a gallop into the country for the benefit of the
air.
He accordingly mounted Tallyho, and putting spur to
that spirited animal, was soon beyond the limits of the town,
carcering through the summer forest, in the direction of
Captain Ralph's.
Tallyho seemed to think that the choice of the road was
left to himself, and his master soon found that he had diverged
from the highway, and that they had arrived in front
of a certain mansion known as the “Trap,” where resided
a certain Mr. Jack Hamilton.
“Well,” said the young man, smiling, “why not go in
and see Jack? I'm idle, and I'll stop.”
With which words he halted and dismounted before the
mansion.
An old gray-haired African came, respectfully, to take the
bridle of one of the new generation, and this bridle was
loftily relinquished by the perennial old nobleman of the
stables to a grotesque individual about four feet high, addressed
by the euphonious name of Crow.
Mr. Crow still rolled in his gait, distended his large popped
eyes, grinned from ear to ear, and if he did not turn summersets,
danced as before, with like danger of trenching on
the rights of his sweeping coat skirts.
Mr. Hamilton received his friend with great cordiality,
and laughed heartily when, over a bottle of claret, Mr. St.
John related the interview between Captain Waters and
the secretary.
“The fact is, my dear St. John,” he said, “our friend,
Waters, is a trump, and sooner or later, I predict, will run
the secretary through the body. Eh? Do n't you think so?”
“Not unlikely.”
“He'll do his work better than you did in the case of
Lindon.”
“I'm very glad of the result in that case, my dear Hamilton.”
“Glad?”
“Certainly; you see, I'm naturally indisposed to shed
blood, and I was forced into that duel. I begin to think all
duels folly though, and there's the whole matter.”
Hamilton laughed.
“I understand,” he said; “there's a little angel who's
been talking to you, doubtless—come, do n't blush, my boy,
she certainly is an angel, and if I'm not mistaken, you wish
to monopolize her.”
St. John stopped blushing, and smiled.
“See how the world is given to scandal,” he said.
“Scandal,” exclaimed his friend; “do you deny it?”
“I will reply by asking you a question, my friend.”
“Ask it, Harry, my boy.”
“Do n't you understand the real motive of my visits to
Vanely?”
“I think I do,” observed Mr. Hamilton, triumphantly;
“you go thither in order—”
“To see Colonel Vane on important business! Yes, I
perceive you know my affairs thoroughly!”
And Mr. St. John concluded with a burst of laughter
which caused Jack Hamilton to look rather sheepish.
“I've plainly got the better of you, my dear fellow,” said
St. John, “and now I shall leave you to continue my ride.
I want exercise—come, go with me.”
“Willingly; I have a little message for the squire at the
Hall yonder—let us go there.”
Mr. St. John assented, and very soon the two friends were
in the saddle and on their way to Effingham Hall. The
old mansion ere long rose before them, and they passed beneath
the great trees, and stopped at the door.
On the portico, the old squire, now grown gray, but lusty
and determined as before, was arguing vigorously with his
old neighbor, Mr. Lee, on whose head had also descended
the snows of those ten additional winters. As in long past
days, the squire indignantly denied the propositions of his
friend before they were enunciated, and, in contrast to all
this violent discussion of the gray heads, at their feet a child
was busily weaving larkspurs—those little flowers resembling
goblin hoods—into a wreath, intent upon her toil and
wholly indifferent to the progress of the argument.
Mr. Champ Effingham and Madam Clare came forth to
welcome their friends—the one calm and serene, the other
smiling and bright—and behind these, Mr. William Effingham,
raised his intelligent head, and shot a stately smile;
one hand extended courteously, the other supporting a form
leaning on his arm.
Before this latter, says our worthy author, with her joy
and beauty, and perennial loveliness and goodness; before
Kate Effingham, now as in old days, the queen of purity
and meekness, the present chronicler bends to the very
ground, and takes his hat off and does homage, as in presence
of an empress. Not in vain has his pen, gliding
through the hours, and taking him from present scenes to
older days and figures; not in vain has his pen labored, as
the painter's brush does, to delineate the lovely visions of
the past, when this fair form remains to speak of him.
Among those faces and characters which he tried to draw,
and which he is fain to hope, the readers of the present
chronicle will have also looked on—among all the figures
of his former history, not one contents him but this maiden.
Everywhere something is to add to make the drawing
worthier, something to take away, an outline to round, a
trait to expand; but here he can add nothing. Not from
his idle imagination could this picture have proceeded—this
vision of purity and joy. A portrait painter simply, he can
claim no laurels such as are justly due to the great artist
originating from an inner impulse something new and beautiful.
Old letters, yellow and faded, and crumbling into
dust, told of that fairest maiden; and her portrait yonder,
laughing on my wall, spoke audibly the words I read, with
pensive smiles, from the old sheet her snowy fingers rested
on. I read those dear old letters often—letters commencing,
“Dearest Bonnybel,” and ending, “Your own Kate”—
and thus, with these memorials, I knew what loveliness and
goodness the original of the portrait was endowed with.
Then with this image of the maiden of the last century,
blended the fair figure of a child of the present age—a child
of such rare and touching purity and truth, that thinking of
her now, I grow young again almost, and live in the scenes
of other years—bright years which have flown, but left behind
the aroma of their joy and tenderness, and sunshine.
Thus I am satisfied, as far as that is possible in any instance,
with the picture of this maiden—I have nothing to add, no
trait to change. I shall never do the like again, and I dare
not introduce her into the present history, or even so much
as repeat her letters. As she passes before me smiling and
beautiful, with the light on her hair and in her tender eyes;
as she glides on thus like a vision or a dream; I stand aside
as she moves, and only smile as I look, and return to that
life which is poor and cold without her, for it holds no figure
adequate to represent her beauty!
After this fashion does our worthy old chronicler discourse
upon the subject of Mrs. William Effingham, which
lady seems to have been an extreme favorite with him. In
the former portion of this MSS. this feeling of complaisant
satisfaction with his work more than once appears, and as,
doubtless, the character of Miss Kate Effingham shone fairer
for him than it can for the reader, we may pardon his rhapsody,
as the harmless exhibition of that fondness for youthful
recollections, which frequently characterizes elderly gentlemen.
We should extract the author's account of Mr. St. John's
visit to Effingham Hall, which he describes at length, repeating
all the conversation of the personages, but unfortunately
our narrative leads us to more important scenes.
The friends remained to dinner, which was served at an
early hour, and then departing, the two gentlemen returned
homeward—Mr. Hamilton to the “Trap,” and Mr. St. John
toward Williamsburg.
His route lay in the direction of the old field school,
and just as he came opposite that sylvan academe, Uncle
Jimmy Doubleday terminated the toil of the day, and gave
the summons of dismissal to his flock of chirping youngsters,
male and female.
