 | Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 |  |
XXVI.
NAMELESS.
With compressed lips Landon resumed his narrative.
“I had already parted forever with Miss Adair.
That abrupt announcement probably surprises you,
and I will briefly relate the particulars of this
somewhat curious occurrence. Up to the latter
months of my stay at West Point, no change had
taken place in my relations with the young lady.
Our correspondence had continued uninterrupted.
Her letters were all that I could wish, and when the
intelligence of my brother's and sisters' illness
brought me back to `Bizarre,' I had found in her
love, as I have said, my greatest comfort. So much
for my affair up to the last few months of my
absence.
“Then everything changed. In her letters I
began to discern that indefinable something which
cannot be described, but which indicates a change of
feeling, as the atmosphere indicates an approaching
storm. I could not define this; it eluded my vigilance
when I attempted to touch it; but it was
behind the hand that wrote! The next letter I
received was positively chilling. I wrote, demanding
an explanation. None came. I wrote again.
The response was a sheet of paper enveloping the
young lady's engagement ring. Upon the sheet
was written: —
“`Our correspondence and acquaintance end here
and now. It will be useless to attempt a renewal of
either.'
“I remember the words perfectly. There are
certain things written or uttered in this world which
burn their impress upon the heart and memory, and
are ineffaceable. Spoken, you hear them long years
afterward. Written, you see, when a quarter of a
century has passed, the very page which contained
them, and across which they seemed dashed in
flame!
“`Our correspondence and acquaintance end
here and now!'
“Did I hold a pen in my hand, with a sheet of
paper before me, I could trace with perfect accuracy
the shape of every letter in that sentence as she
traced them! I recall the appearance of the
words, as a man recalls the page that he read when
labouring under some frightful grief.
“What made her write thus to me? Why did
this honest and true heart strike my heart so pitilessly,
which I had been building in the future? Why
did Ellen Adair thus insult, outrage, ruin the man
who loved her more than he loved his own life?
That is still a mystery to me. Was it the result of
Ratcliffe's cowardly calumnies? It is hard to believe
so, and yet what could have come between us
but that? What other arts did he use? What
means did he employ? This is still the mystery of
mysteries to me, and I can only attribute the young
lady's action to the discreditable reports in regard to
me, since she denied me all opportunity of defending
myself.
“This surprises you; and it is more than surprising,
— it is incredible. Truth is generally incredible.
But I will narrate the plain facts, without
comment: —
“Well, I raged when I read that letter, and for
days was the victim of the cruellest despair. What
should I do? Write again? My pride revolted
from thus lowering myself and coming back, like a
whipped hound, to receive another cut of the lash!
Friend, my theory in this world is, that an honourable
gentleman gives much when he gives his whole heart;
that a young lady owes him something in return, —
some consideration; that she does wrong in acting
as though all the giving were upon her side alone,
and his love a trifling affair in comparison with her
give her the right to outrage me thus wantonly, — to
strike me cruelly, mercilessly, with insult, to the
very heart. Well, I swore that I would not write a
line in reply, — and I did not.
“But I writhed terribly. I was not a philosopher,
only a young man very much in love, and the
steel pierced me to the heart. I determined to wait
until I saw Miss Adair in person, and I saw her
when I came to Virginia in the autumn of 1860.
Shall I describe my reception, or rather how I was
not even received? No sooner had I arrived at
`Bizarre' and embraced my mother, than I ordered
my horse, set out at full speed, passed through Millwood
without drawing rein, and soon found myself
at Chapeldale.
“`Judge Adair was not at home,' a servant informed
me, as I threw myself from my horse, and
hastened up the steps of the mansion. Judge
Adair? I did not wish to see Judge Adair, I
responded; where was Miss Adair? The servant
looked confused. He would go and inquire, he
said. He went, remained away a few minutes, and
returning, said, `Miss Ellen begged to be excused,
— she had a headache.' I remember staring vacantly
in the face of the old gray-haired servant, who
knew and loved me; his agitation and confusion were
greater than my own even. Then I flushed to the
resolved that I would never return.
“I returned on the next day. Cold and stern,
expecting my fate, and looking it in the face, I
again knocked at the door. The same old gray-haired
servant appeared, and I again asked for the young
lady. This time he had not to leave me in order to
go and receive Miss Adair's response to my summons.
With a countenance which indicated the
deepest respect and sympathy, the old servant delivered
the message with which he had been intrusted.
My visit had thus been foreseen, and Miss Adair
evidently intended that it should be the last. This
time there was no allusion made to a headache.
Miss Adair's response in advance, to my morning
call, was simply to the effect that it was not her
intention to come downstairs and see Mr. St. Leger
Landon.
“Well, that ended everything, you see. I listened
to the words quietly, left the mansion, and,
mounting my horse, returned to `Bizarre,' swearing
in my heart that I would never again darken the
doors of a house in which I had been wantonly outraged;
and this time I have kept my oath. From
that time to the other day, or night rather, at the
Chapel, I have never even seen the young lady, nor
do I ever intend again to see her if I can avoid it.
“Enough of that; let me finish my sorrowful
took place as soon as I reached Virginia; but a few
weeks afterwards events occurred at `Bizarre' which
made me lose sight of all else. My mother's illness,
pneumonia, combined with a nervous disorder, produced
by these calumnies which I have mentioned,
grew rapidly more threatening. A month afterwards
she was evidently sinking; and one night, when she
placed her feeble arms around me, I felt her head
fall upon my bosom, — she was dead!”
Landon uttered a hoarse sob as he spoke, and
turned away. Something in my own throat seemed
choking me. To witness the emotion of this man of
marble was a terrible spectacle.
“You see they had killed her!” he muttered in
a low, deep voice; “they had told her I was a
wretch, and broken her heart. True, a word from
me had been sufficient to brand that lie, and undo
the whole devilish plot against me. The mother's
heart was soft, if the heart of my betrothed was
hard; but the work was done, and my poor, fond
mother had no more strength even to be happy!
She died in my arms, with her head upon my bosom,
and sleeps yonder in the Old Chapel, where I hope
some day to lie beside her.
“Well, such were the events of the fall and winter
of 1860, colonel. I was alone at `Bizarre,' a
mere wreck, no longer like myself. A double chord
First had come the terrible result of my affair with
Miss Adair: the woman I loved had thrown me away
like a worthless glove, split and useless; and, dead
as she was to me, attempt as I might to forget her,
every object reminded me of her; everything recalled
her. At `Bizarre,' where she had been often,
for she was a great favourite with my mother, there
was scarce a piece of furniture, a book, a wicker
chair on the lawn, which I did not associate with
her. Over every walk we had strolled together,
over every country road we had ridden, and here, at
Lover's Leap, we had twenty times conversed.
Here, sitting on this very rock, she looked at me as
women only look at the men they love; here her
delicious voice had rung clearly in the sunset, and
we had passed long hours, with the pines whispering
above, the river murmuring beneath, watching the
clouds which floated over us, all gold in the light of
sunset. I loved that woman! God help me, but I
believe I love her still!”
Landon paused, his cheeks glowing, his eyes
flashing.
“Good!” he said in a moment, with his sardonic
smile. “I am growing poetical, colonel. I am talking
about eyes and sighs; let us leave all that flummery,
and come back to events. My narrative will
be ended very soon now.
“The last blow, as I said, was my mother's death,
and I dare not attempt to describe the void left by
that. I can tell you how I missed everywhere the
presence of the woman I loved; but I cannot speak
of my feelings when I looked round the old deserted
house of `Bizarre,' and heard a voice say, `Your
mother is gone!' You can replace your betrothed,
even your wife, — that happens, though I think it
would not to me, — but there is something which
you cannot replace, — the smile of the face which
bent over you when you were a helpless babe in
arms. God gives that once, and only once. And
he had taken it from me forever.
“Well, in the spring of 1861, things had come
to a bad pass with me. My mother was dead; the
woman I loved had thrown me away; I was alone, —
seemed even to have no friends. On all sides I saw
cold looks, heard cold voices, and touched cold
hands. I cared little; grief had stunned me; but
the strange fact was that I could not discover the
origin of this coldness, or solve the mystery.
Everybody avoided me; I was an outlaw, apparently,
and at last the pride and disdain of my character
rose up and spurred me to a wild rage. I tried
to find some one to insult and fight; but, alas! I had
not even that consolation. I could find no enemy,
only people who bowed coldly; and I went back to
`Bizarre,' torn by wrath, misery, and despair. That
Landons! That my father's son should be supposed
even to have soiled his noble name! The thought
was bitter, almost intolerable.
“I writhed under it; then the war broke out.
I joined the army; and you now know, colonel,
why I took my mother's name of St. Leger, under
which you first met me. To that name, at least, I
was entitled.
“The rest of my story need not detain you. I
had just received my commission of captain of cavalry,
a year ago, when we rode together through
the barricade near Manassas. You will ask what
had become of Ratcliffe. The response is easy.
He had always been northern in his sentiments;
remained at West Point and graduated; joined the
enemy, and was sent to serve in Missouri, where I
heard he was killed in 1862.
“To end my narrative. Tired of the regular
service, I resigned my commission last spring;
raised a company of Partisans, and came to operate
against Sheridan in the Valley here. With my
former friends I have had nothing to do; from the
first I held myself aloof from them; but one of them
stopped me one day, and kindly volunteered at the
eleventh hour to state a few facts for my information.
Then I knew, for the first time, the extent
of my obligations to Ratcliffe. My informant not
or three letters in Ratcliffe's handwriting, which, if
believed, were sufficient to ruin me a hundred times
in the estimation of virtuous people. That was a
month or two ago. You were present at the skirmish
yonder when I found that Ratcliffe was not
dead; crossed sabres with him; and came near settling
our account with him then and there. What
has followed you know. At last my foe is in my
power; he shall fight me fairly, man to man, in honourable
combat; but before that combat takes place,
I shall have a private interview with him, — an interview
in which many things will be discussed, I
promise you.
“Enough, colonel,” said Landon; “let us return;
I am anxious to look after my dear guest. I took
his parole with repugnance, and under compulsion;
I distrust him. Were he to break it, I would miss
one of the few enjoyments that I promise myself in
life, — that of standing face to face with him, and
sending a bullet or a sword's point through the
cowardly heart that has worked my misery!”
Suddenly rapid hoof-strokes resounded from the
pines in the direction of the mansion; and one of the
Rangers appeared, approaching at full speed.
“What is it?” said Landon, quickly.
“The Yankee captain has escaped!” exclaimed
the man.
“Escaped!”
And Landon rose erect with one bound, his eyes
flaming.
“Yes, captain. You know he was paroled.
Well, he walked out coolly to the woods, mounted a
horse, and was half a mile off before we knew it. A
dozen of us chased him, but he got off.”
Landon's teeth were set together; his brows contracted.
“And the lieutenant?” he said; “he was also
paroled.”
“He is all right, captain. He says the Yankee
captain is a liar and a coward.”
Landon's lip curled bitterly.
“I could have told him that,” he muttered.
And, turning to me: —
“Come, colonel,” he said, “let us go back. The
indulgence of this fit of egotism has cost me dear!”
| Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 | |