University of Virginia Library

XV.
ARDEN “DISMOUNTS” ME.

Arden had unconsciously touched his horse with
the spur, as he spoke, and we cantered over the
rough and unused road toward the mansion which he
had pointed out.

“That is `The Briars,' probably,” I said.

“Yes, colonel, one of many old mansions you
have seen or passed to-day, — `Chapeldale,' `Newmarket,'
`The Meadow,' `Pagebrooke,” — where
something of old times still lingers, Heaven be
thanked! and will linger, I trust, to the end of the
chapter; or, during my time, at least!”

“Fie, Arden! You are an aristocrat, a believer
in the past!”

“A very devout believer,” said the young man,
joyously. “You uphold class, — don't you, colonel?”

“No, I'm a leveller.”

“You? Good heavens!”

“You doubt my sincerity?”

“Completely, I am sorry to say, colonel.”

“Well, you are wrong, my dear Arden. I think

that whatever is, is best; and is not everybody equal
to everybody else? Consult the immortal Jefferson!”

“I wish he had never lived.”

“Fie! you think with his opponent, Randolph
of Roanoke.”

Arden's face glowed.

“Indeed I do, my dear colonel. If there ever
was a wise statesman it was your Randolph of Roanoke.
People called him erratic, crack-brained,
unreliable. But I'll tell you what I think: I
think he was the profoundest and wisest political
thinker this country ever produced.”

I began to laugh.

“Well,” I said, “let us not further discuss these
high themes. I very much fear that you are still in
the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity, my
young friend. My own opinion is, that everybody,
high and low, black and white, good and bad, educated
and ignorant, is equal to everybody else.
Now, as this is not very interesting, let us come
back to your little affair.”

“There's no time, colonel. Here is `The Briars.'
Follow me through this gate in the stone fence, and
we'll go round to the front of the house.”

As Arden spoke, he leaped his horse through the
torn-down wall; I followed, and, skirting a piece of
water at the lower end of a grove, we entered a
meadow, and saw the house to our right. It was a

stone building, stuccoed, of considerable size, and
with a long portico in front, overshadowed by trees.
Across the rolling fields in front was seen the long
wave of the North Mountain, like a faint mist on the
horizon. Toward the south a body of woods arrested
the view.

“Ah, here is the picture that an invisible artist
used to paint for you `in your tent on the Rapidan,'
Arden!” I said. “Where's the `oriole that sang in
the sycamore-tree?' I suspect the name of the oriole
was Annie, — was it not?”

“You are a terrible tease, colonel,” said the blushing
Arden; “and if you laugh at me any more, I
will ask after the health of the `Rose of Fauquier,'
whose other name is Miss May Beverley.”

The shot dismounted me. From the aged philosopher
and satirist, I found myself reduced suddenly
to the character of a romantic lover, — no better
than Harry Arden.

“Well aimed, my boy,” I said; “and I'm silenced.
Let us drop the subject and get on.”

“We have arrived, colonel!” And Arden threw
open the gate.

All at once, as he did so, we heard the trample of
hoofs behind the house.

Then a squad of gray-clad horsemen appeared
dashing toward the stable on the left of the house,
shouting “Halt! Halt!”