University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
AT BLANDFIELD.

Judge Bland did what might have been expected—he invited
Justin Harley to come and dine at Blandfield, with his friend, and
meet his old acquaintances of the neighborhood.

Harley would have refused, but it was impossible. He replied
that it would give him great pleasure, and, on the day appointed,
he and St. Leger proceeded in the Huntsdon chariot to Blandfield.
A dozen gentlemen of the neighborhood met them; cordially
expressed their pleasure at seeing Harley at home again after so
long an absence; welcomed Mr. St. Leger to Virginia; and, having
performed this social duty, proceeded to the more important work
of the day—dining. In Virginia this is a ceremony of some importance,
since it is not eating, simply, but the interchange, in addition,
of the amenities of friendly intercourse. When, at twilight, the
guests rose, cheerful and philanthropic, from the excellent claret
and the bountiful repast which had preceded it, the kindly and
rational festivities of the day culminated.

St. Leger had taken Miss Evelyn Bland in to dinner, and had
made himself agreeable. They were now strolling over the sward,
and talking—with much quiet laughter mingled with the talk—of
England and Virginia.

“Your friend Mr. Harley has just returned, I believe?” said
Evelyn.

“Yes.”

“After a very long absence?”

“Many years; and now I suppose he will settle down and
marry,” said St. Leger, “though he does not seem to enjoy the society
of your sex much, Miss Bland.”

“Wat a monster!”

“Is he not? But at least he never indulges in harsh or even critical
comments. For him women seem, simply, not to exist.”

“Worse and worse, sir. We can endure anything sooner than
indifference.”

“Harley, I think, has had some disappointment, and he is the
sort of man, with all his affectation of phlegm, to take such things
au grand sèrieux, Miss Bland.”

“By which you mean, I presume, that a love-disappointment is
not, in your estimation, so serious a matter?”

“Why should it be?”

“I reply by another French phrase, Mr. St. Leger—cela dèpend,”
laughed the young lady.

“True; but what is so irrational as to break one's heart about a
woman? Now Harley is a thoroughly good fellow. No man was ever
braver, truer, or more generous and whole-souled. Well, don't you
think, Miss Bland, that there is something quite unreasonable in a
man of that description allowing his life to be wrecked for a pair of
blue or black eyes?”

“Yes,” said Evelyn, “and, if I were a man, I should not permit
any woman to sadden me.”

“Who knows?” said St. Leger, laughing. “Men always grow
absurd when their feelings are involved.”

“Is it your experience, Mr. St. Leger?”

“Mine? Not in the least. I have never cared much for any
woman in my life, and, if I were not conversing with a lady, should
add that I don't think I ever shall.”

Evelyn laughed her low, musical laugh, and said,

“I shall repeat your own words, sir—`who knows?”'

St. Leger's laughter echoed her own. He turned his head slightly,
fixed his handsome eyes upon his companion, and said:

“I ask nothing better than to have some earthly angel make me
care!”

Miss Evelyn Bland cast her eyes down, pulled a late tea-rose
apart, leaf by leaf, raised the long lashes, cast a flitting glance at St.
Leger, and murmured:

“I fear it would be lost time for any one to attempt so hopeless
an undertaking.”

“Evelyn, my dear,” said the voice of Judge Bland from the portico,
“you must come and sing some of my songs.”

And obedient to, though mourning over, the paternal request,
Evelyn went in, sat down at the harpsichord, and her fine, fresh
voice rose in serene sweetness above the political discussions on
the portico.

Harley and St. Leger stood near her, also two or three young gentlemen
of the neighborhood who were among the young lady's
“killed and wounded” in numerous engagements. Harley found
himself enthralled, in spite of himself, by the magical voice, and
listened with avidity—for he was a passionate lover of music. A
slight color came to his cheek, and turning, at the end of her song,
the girl's eye met his own, in an electric glance which said more
than any words.

Evelyn rose from the harpsichord, distributed a smile to the hapless
victims of her charms—namely, the gentlemen characterized as
the “killed and wounded”—and went back toward the portico.
Harley never knew how it happened, but a moment afterward the
small hand was resting upon his arm, they were on the lawn, and
she was saying,

“Do you know I have just been talking about you with your
friend, Mr. St. Leger?”

The words were uttered with the gayest nonchalance, and Evelyn
looked up into her companion's face with a somewhat satirical
smile.

“Talking of me?” said Harley. “What can Miss Bland find to
interest her in such a humdrum subject?”

“Humdrum! You, Mr. Harley?”

And Miss Evelyn uttered a light laugh.

“You must certainly have forgotten all about rustic society, sir,
and its weaknesses. Your return is an opportunity for gossip.”

“That is not very flattering—is it? But I suppose I ought to
regard it as a proof of your interest.”

“Of mine? Well, I fear I am something of a gossip.”

Her tone changed quickly, and she said:

“But surely I should take an interest in Mr. Harley, since
I owe my life to him. It frightens me to think of that terrible
day!”

“I would forget it. Happily we are both alive, and enjoying this
fine evening.”

Evelyn looked up at him.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Assuredly.”

“And life, too? That may sound like a very singular question,
but do you know what Mr. St. Leger says? He says that something
has saddened you. But I am very intrusive.”

Harley shook his head.

“Your voice is too friendly and honest to appear intrusive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harley. I assure you I appreciate the compliment,
and you encourage me to say still more.”

“More?”

“To ask you a plain question.”

“Ask it,” said Harley, calmly.

“Why do you dislike our sex?”

Harley did not reply for a moment, then he said:

“What reason can you have for attributing that feeling to me?”

“Common report. Is the report so very untrue? You are said
to despise us. Do you?”

The question was a home one, and it was impossible for Harley
to evade it. He hesitated, his face became extremely sad, and he
looked at his companion for a moment intently. He then said, in
an earnest, almost solemn tone,

“Miss Bland, if you knew me better, you would know that I despise
no one. I dare not. This conversation has taken a singular
direction, and I find myself speaking of my own character and affairs.
I will speak still more plainly, that there may be no misunderstanding.
My life has not been a very happy one, and I will not
conceal the fact that an attachment formed when I was a young
man is one of the causes of my gloom. This attachment was very
strong, and—it was misplaced. For the person who—deceived
me—I have, however, no bitterness or contempt, or any feeling but
pity. I could not have. She has been dead for many years.”

Evelyn's head sank. The simle and earnest tones of Harley's
voice went to her heart.

“I am very, very sorry, I spoke of this. I did not mean—you
must pardon my foolish and inconsiderate speech, sir.”

“There is nothing to pardon, Miss Bland,” Harley said. “I was
aware of the reports in reference to myself and my sentiments, and
would avoid them if I could. I am growing old, and as we go on in
life, we crave human regard and sympathy. I am disenchanted,
perhaps—it is my misfortune. The night is damp. Let us go in.”

Evelyn permitted herself to be conducted to the house without a
word. She had commenced the conversation in a tone of raillery,
and with her most coquettish smiles—she finished by coloring, looking
serious, and having nothing to say. And there was no opportunity
of rallying after her defeat. Harley reminded St. Leger of
their proposed fox-hunt on the next morning, and they soon afterward
took their leave and rode homeward.

“Your friend Miss Bland is really a beauty!” said St. Leger.

“Yes—I suppose she would be regarded as beautiful.”

“You suppose! Come, my aged hermit, have you eyes in your
head? There's no room for supposition in so plain a matter. She's
a beauty—a fairy! For that matter, everybody is handsome in Virginia,
I own, to the little girls in the huts of the hunters and trappers!
Think of little Fanny! And now you give me a type of
the other social class, in Miss Evelyn Bland—this wonder!”

“You are enthusiastic.”

“I am in love!”

“Then you will make me a good visit.”

“I certainly shall, if you'll only be a good boy, and go back to
Williamsburg with me, to look in on his Excellency, if he has returned,
and procure a few articles of costume.”

“I will do so with the greatest pleasure, my dear St. Leger. Let
us defer the fox-hunt, and go to-morrow.”

“So be it. I am away from the tiresome scenes of London: have
no guard-duty to perform as a member of that odious company of
Blues. I am a bird-of-passage, free to go or stay—am in excellent
quarters, with deer-hunting, good dinners, bright eyes, an old friend,
and my favorite occupation of doing nothing to charm me; why,
then, should I rebel against fate, throw from me the joy of life, and
politely decline this most obliging invitation? I will not. I shall
remain here for one month, at least! Let us eat and drink, without
looking forward to dying to-morrow! Let us enjoy ourselves, my
friend!”

Harley actually smiled as he looked at the young man.

“You are a windfall, with your laughter, St. Leger, to a glum old
fellow like myself. At your orders, my dear friend—we will set
out for Williamsburg to-morrow.”

“Good!”

“In the coach or on horseback? Which do you prefer?”

“Horseback a thousand times!”

“My own preference; and so all is arranged. I can offer you a
fine riding-horse, and the weather is superb.”

An hour after sunrise, on the next morning, they were galloping
toward Williamsburg, determined to lose no time, and return to
Huntsdon on the same night.