114. CXIV.
MORDAUNT'S MOTIVE.
The deep voice ceased, and I remained buried in reflection.
What possible origin could there be for this bitter hatred of
Harry Saltoun's for Mordaunt—the man he loved and admired
the most in all the world? I remembered that declaration of
the youth in the preceding autumn, that he would rather have
“Well done,” from the lips of Mordaunt, than another grade—
and now all this love and admiration was changed into hate so
bitter that blood must flow to satisfy it!
All at once the thought of Violet Grafton came to my mind,
and, turning to Mordaunt, I said:
“Have you visited Elm Cottage recently?”
“More than once this spring,” was his reply; “my scouting
expeditions regularly take me in that direction.”
“And you have seen Violet Grafton?”
“Certainly,” returned Mordaunt, coolly; “she is living still
with her friends there.”
“And Lieutenant Saltoun has doubtless called too?”
“Yes, I was assured that he had frequently staid with them
when out scouting.”
“Then the whole affair is plain, Mordaunt,” I exclaimed, “and
the mystery is explained at once.”
“What can you mean?”
“I mean,” was my reply, “that Harry Saltoun is in love with
Miss Grafton, and has taken up the fancy, from some cause, that
you have injured him with the woman whom he loves!”
Mordaunt's brows contracted, and for some moments he preserved
a moody silence, gazing steadily into the fire.
“That is a curious idea,” he muttered; “strange that it never
occurred to me. And yet”—
“Remember, Mordaunt, how the young man blushed when
speaking of the young lady who had nursed him when he was
wounded—remember how her very name flushed his cheek;
then think of these regular visits which he has since paid to Elm
Cottage; lastly, think of the gossip and tittle-tattle which such
affairs occasion, and the great probability that you have been
represented to him as his rival.”
“As his rival!—I!” said Mordaunt; “what an idea! An old
bear like myself the rival of this glittering young gallant!”
And, under the cool accents of the speaker, I thought I discerned
the traces of bitter irony and melancholy.
“You are right, Surry,” he added, in a calmer tone; “something
of that description is probably mixed up with the affair.
But what imaginable grounds for such a supposition can my conduct
have afforded?”
“Simply that you are Violet Grafton's friend. That is enough
in the eyes of the old women, male and female, to make you her
suitor.”
“Yes, they are a plague—these male and female women;
they thus make trouble, and will not understand what I have
done.”
“What you have done?”
“Shall I tell you, Surry? I am not of that class who are fond
of making confidences—but I wish to retain your good opinion,
friend. Well, do you remember my meeting with Miss Grafton
at Manassas?”
“Certainly.”
“I rode with her that night, and she did me a great service.
I need not refer to this point further, except to say that through
her instrumentality I gained possession of a packet of papers,
more valuable to me than all the wealth of two hemispheres!”
Mordaunt paused, his face flushed; then he went on as calmly
as before:
“I had long avoided women, having, doubtless, little to attract
them, but it was impossible to converse with Miss Grafton without
discovering that she possessed a very exquisite character—a
soul all goodness and sincerity. My cold manner did not seem to
repel her—she resolutely refused to observe my bearishness, and
when we reached Elm Cottage we were almost friends. Not to
weary you out, however, I will come to the point of all this talk
directly: something like an honest friendship sprang up between
this young lady and myself; and during the autumn of the year
1861, while I was stationed near Fairfax, I visited her more than
once. The consequence of further acquaintance was a stronger
regard for her than ever; and, as I think that human friendship
should be `clothed in act,' as says the great English poet, I
sought for some means of benefiting Miss Grafton. She was an
orphan, without a permanent home, simply the guest of the hospitable
lady of Elm Cottage; and I thought that the best service
I could do her was to throw in her way some true-hearted youth
who would love her, and, marrying her, give her a home and that
happiness which she deserved.”
“I understand!” I said; “you found the opportunity in August
last year, when we were going to Manassas.”
“Yes. I had long observed young Saltoun—known him in
camp and seen him on the field—and I know that a braver and
truer boy never drew sabre. You see I am magnanimous,” said
Mordaunt with a melancholy curl of his proud lip; “I praise my
rival and my personal enemy! Well, this is no less true of him,
if he does intend to make me fight! I have never known that
boy to do a mean action, to shrink before peril, or to act in any
manner not becoming a gentleman. At this very moment, when
I think he hates me bitterly, I would trust him with my life; I
would sleep by his side, though he were awake with a poniard in
his hand! Well, I am prosing. I knew that this young man
was the son of a rich Marylander, and in every manner calculated
to make Violet Grafton happy as her husband. He was
wounded that night, could go no further; then I conceived the
project of sending him to be nursed by Miss Grafton at Elm Cottage,
and gave him a note to her, commending him to her good
keeping.
“I tell you this to clear myself of all reproach, friend. I did
it from a good motive—none was ever better. And now you can
understand the falsehood and malignity in representing me as
young Saltoun's rival. Nor rival only! I am plotting secretly
against him with Miss Grafton; injuring his character; `outraging'
him, he says, and my blood must flow for it!”
Mordaunt ceased, the prey apparently of bitter and conflicting
emotions.
“My life is an unhappy one, Surry,” he added, gazing into the
fire. “I thought that upon my tombstone might have been at
least written, with the applause of all, `He lost all but honor'—
yet, it seems, that this, too, is to be denied me. I am to be regarded
as a hypocrite and base traducer of the youth I called
my friend!”
There was something so proud and melancholy in the accents
of the speaker, that his words went to the heart. More than
ever I admired the great wealth of magnanimity and sincerity
which lay concealed beneath the cold exterior of this man. Did
he love Violet Grafton all that time, too? It was more than
probable, as his fits of moody abstraction during the progress of
his narrative seemed to indicate. And she—did she love him
yet? Or had the youthful attractions of Harry Saltoun driven
the dark eyes of Mordaunt from her heart? I knew not; but I
thought I saw that she was the sole oasis in the desert of Mordaunt's
life—the sunshine under which his cold and arid heart
had burst, for a moment, into bloom, soon to have its leaves
strewn to the winds by the remorseless hand of that fatality
which seemed to make his life unhappy, and thus hold him to
his hard, stern work with the sabre.
“I have listened to your explanation, Mordaunt,” I now said,
“and, more than ever, recognize you in what you have done. It
is truly a monstrous thing that this boy should take up such a
fancy as he seems to have done, and force you, by his insults, to
meet him in mortal combat. There must be an explanation before
you fight. But what was that other insult which he uttered
—that `name of a woman'—not Miss Grafton's—which was a
part of his offence?”
Mordaunt's brow was suddenly overshadowed.
“I will tell you another time,” he said, moodily. “Enough
for to-night.”
“As you will,” I replied; “but, meanwhile, in all this fancied
rivalry and conflict between you and Saltoun, what becomes of
that boy, who loves the young lady too?”
And I pointed to the prostrate form of Achmed, wrapped
from head to foot in his long, Moorish burnous, on the opposite
side of the camp-fire.
Mordaunt gazed at the sleeping form in melancholy silence for
a moment, and then said:
“True—that is something I had not thought of. Yes! the
boy loves her passionately now; he worships the very ground
she walks upon—and there is no hope for him. This handsome
youth—this stranger, you see, Surry, with his laughing eyes,
quite overcomes us all—the moody Mordaunt, and the Moor,
too! Well, Achmed and I will return, doubtless, after the fighting
here is done—if we live to see it end—and spend the rest of
our days in the desert.”
“You are going back to Europe?”
“If I live—a somewhat uncertain condition. And why not,
my dear Surry? I have no family, no ties here in my native
country. I am a mere estray—a leaf on the current. Why
should I not drift with the stream, and let it carry me where it
will? Here I am hemmed in by convention. If I try to make
a young girl happy, at some cost, too, to myself—but we'll not
speak of that—the gossips buzz, and misrepresent my motives,
and even blacken my fair fame as a gentleman. It is not so
younder. In the desert all these voices die away. On my horse,
with my arms by my side, I am free—perfectly free! I can go
where I will, act as I fancy—and the wind which sweeps the
sand never whispers what I say or do—for the eye and ear of
the Almighty alone sees and hears in the desert. Yes, I think I
will go back with Achmed—the East is the land of lands, and
we will bury there all the trouble we have felt in this.”
Mordaunt rose as he spoke, and looked out into the night.
The dark, proud eyes, full of fire and melancholy, seemed endeavoring
to plunge into the darkness. Then he banished, by an
obvious effort, the bitter thoughts which absorbed him, and said,
with his habitual calmness:
“You are going over the river in the morning, Surry?”
“Yes, to see some friends.”
“Well, I have a little journey to make, too? If you return
this way in four days from this time, I hope you will stop again
and see me.”
“I will certainly do so.”
“Well, now let us get to sleep, my guest. You must be tired
after riding so far.”
And Mordaunt made room for me on his cloak.
In half an hour I was sound asleep.
