17. XVII.
THE “LAST RIDE TOGETHER.”
There is a piece in Browning called “The Last Ride Together.”
Did you ever meet with it, my dear reader? It is worth your
notice. Read that wonderful extravaganza, that supreme cry
of passion from a heart that fails in the struggle, and you will
have some idea of the feelings of a friend of yours when he took
his last ride with May Beverley.
The month of flowers had come now—May had bloomed in all
its glory—and the girl who bore the name of this month of
months seemed blooming too. The balmy breezes blew against
her cheeks just tinted with the rose, made the ribbons of her
bodice flutter gayly, and just stirred the bright waves of her
chestnut hair, in which nestled a single flower of spring. The
lips, pensive and half parted, had the ripe red of the carnation—
the great dreamy eyes were as blue as the sky above us.
Then I knew what the poet meant when he made his unfortunate
hero utter that prayer, that he might “ride forever, forever
ride” by the side of the woman he adored.
The young lady had promised to conduct me to a lofty hill,
from which there was a superb view, and we were soon flying
along through fields and forests toward the Blue Ridge. In half
an hour we reached the hill, and I saw far beneath me the green
slopes of Fauquier, crowned with white mansions, embowered
in the young spring foliage. To the right, and in rear of us, rose
the shaggy, pine-clad sides of the Blue Ridge.
She checked her horse, and, leaning her cheek upon her hand,
murmured, as she gazed at the beautiful landscape:
“What a contrast to the tedium and sameness of society!”
Then looking at me with her large, pensive eyes:
“I believe I will turn hermit,” she added.
“Like the Solitary of the Blue Ridge? He must have inoculated
you with his enthusiasm for retirement.”
“I have never seen him,” was her reply.
“And you do not know where he lives?”
“No, I have never heard.”
And she relapsed into silence.
I see her now as I saw her then—leaning her fair cheek
languidly upon the delicate gauntlet, and gazing pensively toward
the blue horizon. She wore a brown habit which revealed every
outline of the exquisite figure—slender, and swaying like the
reed, or the lily; the plume in her riding-hat just shaded her
white forehead, and against the snowy neck shone the glossy
braids of her hair. There, sitting upon her docile bay, in the
bright spring afternoon, May Beverley was “a sight to make an
old man young.”
You fancy, perhaps, that the spring sunshine had at last
thrilled her pulses, and that the marble statue had become a
happy girl. Listen!
“Life is a dull affair,” she murmurs; “nature the only solace,
and even that is not very gay. Come, sir, you must be tired of
waiting. Let us ride on.”
So we descended the hill, and rode in the direction of another.
Pausing to enjoy every new view, the young lady did not seem
to observe the lapse of time. The light slowly faded, darkness
approached, and we found ourselves many miles from “The
Oaks,” in a wild and unknown region.
“We had better return,” I said. “But do you know the
country?”
She looked round carelessly, and replied:
“Not in the least, sir?”
“Then I really think we had better lose no time in retracing
our steps before the light entirely disappears.”
She bent her head indifferently, and turned her horse into a
road which led through a belt of woods.
“This is the direction to `The Oaks,' ” she said. “I know by
the mountain.”
And she tranquilly rode on; but I was by no means satisfied.
We were in a wild and rugged country—I knew how easily a
road is lost—and night was now upon us. We had entered what
resembled an interminable forest, and soon the winding character
of the road we pursued rendered it almost certain that we
were not proceeding in the direction of “The Oaks.”
“I am very sorry to inform you, Miss Beverley,” I said at last,
“that we have lost our way. This a slight affair to myself, but
the air is growing cold, and you are very thinly clad.”
“It is nothing,” she replied coolly; “I never take cold, and we
can inquire at the first house we find.”
But none appeared—still stretched on and on the interminable
forest.
It was then that I thought of the “Last Ride” of Browning.
If we never reached “The Oaks” any more forever, but continued
thus to ride, side by side! would that destiny be hard? I
would have accepted it.
But suddenly a light glimmered through the foliage to the left,
and we soon reached a tall gate, which evidently led into the
grounds of a dwelling-house. We passed through it, rode on
through an avenue of magnificent trees, and, ascending a gentle
slope, found ourselves in front of a low, brick mansion, with
extensive wings, over which drooped the arms of some enormous
black oaks.
I dismounted, and at the first sound of the knocker—I remember
it was a scowling face, in bronze, like the mask of the old tragedians—the
door opened, and a singular figure presented itself.
It was that of a young Moor, about eighteen apparently, with a
slender frame, swarthy face, and sparkling black eyes. He wore
an ornamented caftan, a braided jacket, and around his waist
was tied a shawl by way of girdle.
I briefly explained the object of my visit, but the young Moor
shook his head, evidently to indicate that he did not understand
my words. I was about to repeat my attempt to make him comprehend
me, when all at once my eyes encountered an object
which drove everything else from my mind.
The door leading into an apartment on the right of the entrance
was open; a chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling
lit up a strange scene of furs, weapons, and pictures; but what at
once riveted my gaze was a portrait hanging on the wall of the
apartment, full in the light of the chandelier.
That portrait was the most exact likeness of the young lady I
had encountered at the house in the Wilderness—Violet Grafton.
I gazed at it with very great astonishment. Why was that
picture hanging here? Could the Solitary of the Mountains—
for this was plainly the house of Mordaunt—know the girl
buried yonder in that obscure mansion? Here plainly was her
portrait; what relation did she bear to him?
I was still gazing, lost in astonishment, at the beautiful face,
with its mild eyes peering out from the golden ringlets, when
the hoof-strokes of a horse resounded on the avenue, and the
young Moor, who had remained standing by me motionless, at
once hastened to the door.
A man riding a powerful black horse had halted there, and
across the pommel of his saddle I saw the dead body of a bear,
still bleeding from a deep gash in the throat. The light then
fell upon the features of the horseman. I recognized the unknown
adversary of Fenwick in the duel at Hollywood Cemetery.
Mordaunt—for the reader no doubt understands that this was
the solitary—saluted Miss Beverly with profound but ice-like
courtesy. Then he bestowed a bow of the same description
upon me.
I hastened to break the awkward pause by an explanation of
the object of our visit. Mordaunt replied in a tone of formal
politeness that he would send a servant to guide us back—meanwhile,
as Miss Beverley must be fatigued, would she honor him
by dismounting? When this proposal was declined, the formal
personage uttered three words in Arabic, to the young Moor,
and in a few minutes a mounted servant was ready to accompany
us. Mr. Mordaunt was evidently accustomed to talk little
and to be served promptly. He did not utter another word, and
his formal air—mingled with deep gloom—had not changed for
an instant.
“You have a magnificent bear there,” I said as I mounted;
“was he killed in the mountain, sir?”
“Yes, sir,” was the brief reply; “he gave me a hard fight, but
I mastered him.”
A slight color came to the swarthy check. The recollection
of his combat seemed to please the stranger. But he seemed to
have little desire to describe it or to prolong the interview. His
manner was perfectly polite, but no ice could be colder; and,
thanking him for the guide, I set out with the young lady for
“The Oaks.”
A ceremonious bow from the tall, gloomy figure—a slight
movement of Miss Beverley's head in return—so we parted.
“Well, what do you think of the hermit?” I said, laughing, as
we rode on.
“He is very cold in his manners,” was her indifferent reply.
“Something in his past life must have made him melancholy.”
In an hour we had reached “The Oaks.”
