16. XVI.
THE GUEST WHO DID NOT COME.
Two or three more scenes will terminate those days at “The
Oaks.” I shall now ask the reader to be present at a grand
dinner which the hospitable Colonel Beverley gave in honor of
his chance guest.
Here is the company seated at the broad table, in the large
dining-room, through which go and come, with shining faces,
the ebon subjects of the well-known “irrepressible conflict.”
After the dessert is finished, the ladies disappear—Mrs. Beverley
bland and smiling, her daughter silent and distraite.
The old Colonel then begins to talk politics. He has surrounded
himself with a Spartan phalanx of “original secessionists,”
every one of whom is a passionate admirer of the great
Calhoun, and the unanimity of the company, upon politics, is
almost painfully perfect. It is hard to find points of difference
sufficient to afford discussion; but the Colonel manages to pick
out an old gentleman who injudiciously “doubts if the views of
Mr. Calhoun were entirely practicable”—and then the storm
begins. Let us close our ears to it, reader, and remain quiet; it
will soon expend its wrath. Listen! it is already over, and
Colonel Beverley is addressing your humble servant.
“Captain Surry,” he says, bowing and drinking a glass of Madeira
to my good health, “you are here in the midst of the leading
traitors and chief gentlemen—the two being the same—of
the County of Fauquier. There is not a single neighbor of mine
absent to-day—yes, one is not here, but no invitation ever tempts
him.”
“Who is your hermit, Colonel?”
“You may well give him that name. I sent him a pressing
invitation to meet you to-day, but he very politely refused.”
I began to laugh.
“I am more anxious than ever to hear who he is—as not even
the charms of my society can move him.”
“His name is Mordaunt.”
“I do not know him.”
“But surely you must have heard of him?”
“Not in the least. We are too good Virginians down there
on the Rappahannock, to hear of, or care for, anybody out of our
own county.”
The old Colonel laughed and replied:
“Well, that accounts for it; but I must tell you about Mordaunt.
He is one of our celebrities, though few people have
ever seen him. In one word you have described him—he is an
absolute hermit.”
“And where does he live?”
“On a spur of the Blue Ridge, a few miles from this place.
His life of seclusion is only a part of the singularity about him.”
“You excite my curiosity more and more, Colonel.”
“Well, I'll try and gratify it, though I really know little, of
my own knowledge, in regard to him. There is something mysterious
about the man and his history—a somewhat doubtful recommendation
you will say—but our Mordaunt is unquestionably
a gentleman. He is still a young man, between thirty-five and
forty at least; but is known to have served against the French
in Algiers, where he fought for many years, taking the side of
the Arabs. It is even said that he became a leading chief among
these wild bands, and was as active against their enemies as if
he had been a good Mussulman.”
“That is a curious story, Colonel.”
“Is it not? But the man and his surroundings are even more
singular. I have met him two or three times—purely by accident—and
can describe him to you. He is tall and dark—in
fact, burnt nearly black by the sun of the tropics; but his manner
is very distinguished, and it is impossible not to see that he is
a gentleman born and bred. Now, as to his mode of living. It
is said that his house, which is situated in a secluded part of the
country, near the mountain, is full of tiger skins, strange weapons,
and a hundred outlandish mementos of travel in distant lands.
An ample estate enables him to gratify every whim, but he is
said to live very simply, spending most of his time in his study.
When not thus engaged, he is hunting, or taking long and solitary
rides among the mountains. All the old hunters know him, and
look upon him as a demi-god. He prefers their society, apparently,
to that of all other persons—though he scarcely ever opens
his lips, it is said, except to speak in Arabic to a Moorish attendant
he has brought with him from Algiers. Is not all that rather
curious?”
“A real chapter from the pages of romance, Colonel; but what
is the mystery of his life?”
“I really do not know—nor does anybody. He came to live
in this country a few years ago, but he goes nowhere, discourages
visitors, and it was only by accident that I made his acquaintance.
I have invited him to come and see me, two or three times, but
he always sends a cool, though perfectly courteous, refusal. I
thought I could tempt him to break his rule to-day—but you see
I have failed.”
“I am sorry, for I really should like to meet your singular
hermit.”
And the conversation glided to other topics. Soon afterward
the company rose, and, hearing the piano, I went into the drawing-room
and found Miss May Beverley singing the “Tempesta
del mio cor.” Was there really a storm raging in the heart of
that statue? I had never seen her look colder, or less repellant
in her manner, though the music of Verdi had brought a faint
rose-tint to the beautiful cheeks.
She ceased singing as I entered, and strolled carelessly to the
window.
“It is a very fine day,” she said, beating a tattoo on the pane.
“Superb,” I replied, “and I am sorry that the company to-day
prevented the ride you promised to take.”
“Yes—I think I should have enjoyed it.”
“Will you ride to-morrow, then?”
“If you wish, sir.”
“What were you playing?”
“Nothing.”
And she strolled away languidly, preferring her own thoughts,
apparently, to my society. Pygmalion sighed—his statue seemed
never destined to glow with human feeling.
