100. C.
ACHMED
A SHORT ride brought us to Mordaunt's house, buried in the
depths of the woods, and, dismounting, we entered the same
apartment, decorated with book-shelves, pictures, and tiger-skins,
in which I had held my first interview with the singular man,
who from a stranger had become a friend.
On the table lay the identical copy of Hugo's “Les Miserables”
which I had noticed before. The same agate eyes glared at me
from the tiger and leopard skins—the same Arab horsemen
hurled their javelins or wielded their ataghans in the pictures.
On the threshold appeared Achmed the Moor, in his picturesque
costume, bowing low at sight of me, and a few words in
Arabic evidently announced supper.
It was spread in an apartment decorated with old mahogany
furniture and long rows of family portraits, doubtless those of
Mordaunt's ancestors. The dames and caveliers, in yellow lace,
and doublets loaded with embroidery, looked down sedately upon
their swarthy descendant in his gray uniform, with its braided
sleeves—on his brown hat, black plume, and heavy sabre.
The supper was excellent, and was placed upon a service plain
but rich. Mordaunt scarcely ate any thing, contenting himself
with a light meal and some bitterly strong coffee, after which
he lit his short, black meerschaum, and led the way back to his
library. I had eaten nothing. The depressing events of the
day had told upon me.
As I now, however, fixed my eyes upon Mordaunt, whose
martial figure was stretched in a leathern chair opposite me, the
reflection came, “What is your disappointment, compared to the
misery which this man has suffered? what right have you to complain
of a mere `cross in love,' when you see before one who, in
spite of suffering which would break the hearts of most men, retains
his calmness and endures his agony without complaint?”
The immense trial which Mordaunt had thus met and overcome
by his iron resolution came to my memory, and the sight of his
stern, brave face was like a tonic, giving me strength again after
a moment of prostration.
Of that dark passage in his life I had never spoken to him;
nor did he know that I had plucked out the heart of his mystery.
I shrank from letting this proud spirit suspect my knowledge of
his history, and had never breathed a syllable to him of my adventure
with Fenwick.
“You no doubt remember this apartment,” said Mordaunt. “I
have not been here for more than a year, but it remains as I left
it. See, Hugo's `Les Miserables,' which I remember we discussed,
is lying there open at the page I was reading.
And he pointed to the volume.
“I see—it is a story we never finish quite in this life, Mordaunt.”
“Ah! you philosophize, my guest!” he said, with his grim
smile, “and you are right. The history of `The Wretched' is that
of humanity, and it is rather long, as I once before said.”
What an infinitely mournful book that is! What a pathos!
What a genius! Beside it, with all its tedium and surplusage,
how small all other books of the epoch seem!”
“You are right,” replied Mordaunt; “but in a strong man
the death of the old galley-slave would be unnatural. Look,
here are the lines in which the author sums up his drama.”
And, taking the volume, he read aloud:
“Il dort. Quoique le sort füt pour lui bien étrange
Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n'eut pas son ange:
La chose simplement d'elle-même arriva,
Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s'en va.”
“If all men died when they lost those who were their good
angels,” he said, “what a grave-yard the world would be!
The man who is strong bears his woe in silence—if he is wronged,
he avenges himself!”
And I saw a stern, hard look in the swarthy face of Mordaunt.
I knew he was thinking of Fenwick, and that his fierce spirit
returned in thought to that scene near Elm Cottage. Then his
face cleared up; he resumed his tranquillity, and said:
“But we are touching too much upon philosophy, Surry. Let
us get to something more cheerful. You were talking this evening
with young Saltoun.”
“Yes; he is a splendid boy.”
“As brave a fellow as ever drew sabre. He has just returned
to his command.”
“And left his heart behind, if I am not mistaken, at Elm
Cottage—has he not? I break no confidence—he has told me
nothing, and I speak to his friend—but he is evidently in love
with Violet Grafton.”
Mordaunt turned his head quickly, but immediately became as
calm as before.
“Ah! you think that, do you?” he said in a low tone.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well,” was the cool response of Mordaunt, “he will make
her a very good husband.”
“You think she will marry him!” I exclaimed.
“Why not?” came as coolly as ever.
“You astonish me, Mordaunt! Violet Grafton marry this
gay youngster! Why, he would never suit her.”
“My dear Surry,” was the cold reply, “do you think that
women, when they love, inquire if the individual in question
will `suit them?' You are a novice if you think so, or imagine
that like takes to like! This young man, Harry Saltoun, is
what the French call the `flower of the peas'—all life, gayety, and
sunshine. Miss Grafton is tranquil, pensive, and serious. There
is your marriage made at once!”
And Mordaunt smiled; but I could see that there was little
gayety in his dark face.
“Well,” I said, “perhaps you know best; but there is another
circumstance which threatens to mix itself up with the
affair.”
“What is that?”
“The love of your protégé Achmed for the same person.”
“Ah! you have observed that, too! You are discerning.”
“It was made perfectly plain that night when he picked up
the young lady's handkerchief, and by his burning glances directed
toward her afterward.”
“Well,” said Mordaunt indifferently, “I don't think Miss
Grafton will ever unite herself with this young leopard; but she
would not thereby debase herself.”
“Is it possible that you think so, Mordaunt? Miss Grafton
marry your servant!”
“Achmed is not my servant—he is my friend. He is the son
of a sheik, and, in his own country, ranks as a nobleman.”
“Still he waits upon you.”
“Yes, as a son: he does not follow me for gain, but from affection.
You look incredulous—stay! I will give you a proof of
what I say.”
And. reaching out his hand, Mordaunt touched a small bell
upon the table, which gave forth a single ringing note.
Almost instantly the door opened without noise, and the
young Moor stood before us.
Mordaunt coolly drew from his pocket a heavy purse of gold,
and, emptying its glittering contents upon the table, said some
words to Achmed in a language which I did not understand.
The effect which they produced was remarkable. The youth
turned pale, and his lip trembled.”
“I informed him,” said Mordaunt to me, “that I had no
longer any need of his services, and offered him that gold as a
parting gift.”
Then turning to Achmed, he uttered a few additional words,—
like the first, in Arabic. This time the effect was more remarkable
than before.
Achmed trembled in all his limbs, his face flushed, tears rushed
to his eyes, and, falling upon his knees before Mordaunt, he
bowed his face in his hands and burst into bitter sobs, mingled
with accents so beseeching, that, ignorant as I was of the language
in which he spoke, I could not possibly misunderstand
them.
“He prays me, by the memory of his father, and the grave of
his mother,” said Mordaunt coolly, “not to make his life
wretched by banishing him from my presence. I am his life, the
poor boy says—without me, he will die. I offer him money,
when he would pour out his heart's blood for me!”
Mordaunt made no reply to the Moor in his own tongue; and
this silence seemed suddenly to arouse all the pride of the son of
the desert. He rose to his feet; folded his hands across his
bosom, and, letting his head fall, uttered a few words in a tone
so proud and calm that it was plain he would say no more.
“He says,” explained Mordaunt, “ `It is well. Kill me! The
son of Barach will not disgrace his blood—he does not fear death!
Kill me! I will never leave you!' Are you satisfied, Surry?”
“Yes,” I replied, filled with admiration by the proud and resolute
countenance of the young Moor; “he is a noble boy, and
you are happy in having so devoted an attaché!”
Mordaunt uttered a few words in Arabic, and again the boy
threw himself upon his knees, but this time with extravagant indications
of joy. Seizing Mordaunt's hand, he covered it with
kisses, and his eyes, as he raised them toward the face of his
master, were resplendent.
At a word from Mordaunt he retired, with a step as proud and
graceful as that of a young lion in his native desert; and, turning
to me, Mordaunt said:
“You see that the boy is disinterested.”
“Yes, I no longer doubt.”
“But I do not mean that he would be a proper mate for a
young lady of Virginia. Miss Grafton appears to me to have
made a much more rational selection in Lieutenant Saltoun—if
such be her selection—I know nothing. He is a gentleman, and
there is no braver officer in this army.”
The words were uttered with perfect coolness—not a muscle
of the proud face moved; and, knowing Violet Grafton's secret, I
could not suppress a sentiment of deep sympathy for the beautiful
girl. To have placed her affections upon Mordaunt, that stern
and haughty spirit, and to have done so, as his cold reference to
her probable marriage showed, with so little probability of inspiring
him with a similar feeling! I thought I saw impending
a tragedy as sorrowful as any in Hugo's volume.
From the fit of moody silence which these reflections occasioned,
I was aroused by the voice of my host, who rose and informed
me that he must return to his command, which was moving
on. Would I not accompany him, or spend the night at his
house?
These offers I declined, alleging my short leave, and at the
door we mounted, to go different ways.
With a grasp of his strong hand, Mordaunt bade me farewell;
and, touching his powerful horse with the spur, disappeared at
full gallop in the darkness. My own road led in the opposite
direction, and, gaining the Gap, I passed through, crossed the
Shenandoah, and by sunrise reached General Jackson's head-quarters
near Millwood.
