18. XVIII.
THE ALGERINE.
On the next morning I mounted my horse, and, following the
road by which we had returned on the preceding night, soon
found myself again in sight of Mordaunt's house.
The object of my visit is easily explained. I had never ceased
to remember the cold and yet passionate tones of that deep
voice which had resounded before the duel in Hollywood Cemetery;
and I know not what it was that told me, that some great
tragedy had darkened this man's life—some mortal poison imbittered
a character grand, noble, and magnanimous. I could
read that great nature in the clear bold eyes, the proud curl of
the lips, and the dignity of his most passionate utterances. Now,
this man, in whom I took an irresistible interest, was about to
be the victim of a plot devised by his bitter adversary. The
young lady whose portrait was hanging on his wall—his friend
or his kinswoman—was the object of the dark designs of Fenwick,
as I had ascertained that morning in the Wilderness. It
was certain that these designs were unknown to Mordaunt.
Was it not absolutely incumbent upon me, as a man of honor, to
put him on his guard by revealing them?
It did not take me very long to decide that question; and the
result was my visit. I entered the tall gate, passed between the
long rows of trees, through the extensive grounds, and, dismounting,
grasped the scowling knocker, and let it fall. This time a
negro answered my summons, and, showing me into the room on
the right, containing the portrait, went to announce my visit to
his master.
The apartment in which I found myself was curious. It was
evidently the private sitting-room of the owner of the mansion;
and, as I afterward discovered, I had been shown into it by
mistake. Nothing more
outré than the appearance of this room,
can possibly be imagined. The furniture was antique, with grotesque
ornaments carved upon the wood; and, in place of a carpet,
the floor was covered with the most magnificent skins, preserving
the outlines of the animals from which they had been
torn. Here were the shaggy spoils of the lion of Morocco; the
mottled and tawny skins of the Bengal tiger; and the brilliant
fur of the East India leopard, as soft as and more pliable than the
finest velvet. With these were mingled other rich furs; and the
peculiarity which struck me was the extreme care taken to preserve
the appearance of the animals. The eyes were replaced
by dazzling globes of agate; the teeth grinned threateningly beneath
the curled lips; and the sharp claws seemed ready to tear
any one who approached.
On two sides of the apartment the walls were covered with
books in every language. The opposite wall was filled with pictures,
representing combats on foot or horseback; encounters
between French Zouaves and Arabs in white burnous; hunting
scenes, and every species of conflict with man or animal. Between
the pictures hung, crossed as trophies, weapons of every
description, including beautiful specimens of the Moorish yataghan,
the Turkish scimetar, the deadly crease of the Malays, and,
by way of grim jest apparently, one of the long rude pikes used
by John Brown and his followers when they invaded Virginia.
On the table lay pipes of every form, chibouques, hookahs, narghilès,
meerschaums carved into grotesque or beautiful figures,
and the plain but excellent Powhatan pipe of Virginia. In
porcelain jars beside them were a dozen varieties of tobacco—
the pale Latakia; the dark Shiraz; the Peerrique from New Orleans,
black, fibrous, and powerful; and the milder brown, that
which is raised on the south side of James River.
Across an open volume of Hugo's “Les Miserables,” which had
then just appeared, lay a black meerschaum, which its owner
seemed to have been lately smoking.
Such was this curious apartment; and it was impossible not to
speculate upon the character of the individual whose tastes it
seemed to reflect. Here were the spoils of war and the chase;
the best books of all languages; and pictures which seemed to
start from the walls as you gazed upon them. Was my host,
then, a mixture of the soldier, the hunter, the student, and the
amateur of art? One thing was very plain—that he had little
taste for female beauty: not a picture of the entire collection
contained a single female figure. The portrait of Miss Grafton
was the sole recognition of the existence of her sex.
I was gazing intently at this portrait, whose resemblance to
my beautiful young hostess of the Wilderness struck me still more
forcibly than before, when the door opened, I heard a step behind
me, and the owner of the mansion entered.
His manner, as he greeted me, was characterized by the same
cold yet perfect politeness which I had observed on the preceding
evening. But in this there was no affectation whatever. It
seemed never to have occurred to him that he ought to ask, “To
what am I indebted, sir, for the honor of this visit?” That is
a phrase, my dear reader, which is used only in novels, or by
charlatans. Mr. Mordaunt's bearing was gloomy, but that of a
Virginia gentleman welcoming a guest. He was evidently a
man of the world, however, and, like the Black Douglas, “his
hand was his own.” He was perfectly polite—seemed to regard
my visit as a courtesy bestowed upon him—but there everything
ended. Behind the host was the man—and with that personage
Mr. Mordaunt evidently thought that I had nothing to do.
His voice, as he conversed upon the events of the day, was
deep, measured, and sonorous: his manner, although gloomy, was
high-bred, and what we call, for want of a better word, “distinguished.”
In half an hour I saw plainly that this hermit of my
imagination was not only a deep and powerful thinker, but a
trained and self-collected man of the world.
From the fugitive topics of the moment, the conversation
passed to art, and I said, as I pointed to the picture of Miss Grafton:
“I was admiring that fine head when you entered, Mr. Mordaunt.
It is a portrait, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply, in a voice of perfect coolness.
“I think I know the original.”
“The original!” he said, with a sudden glow upon his swarthy
face; “you know the original? That is impossible, sir—she is
dead.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed, in my turn, “why, that is impossible!
I saw her only a few days ago.”
My host greeted this statement with a look of unmistakable
astonishment. He did not speak for a moment; and then said,
coolly, in his deep, measured voice:
“You have doubtless met some lady who resembles this portrait,
sir. I repeat, that the original is long since dead.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Mordaunt?”
“Perfectly certain, sir.”
And I saw something like a shadow pass over his broad forehead.
“Your statement fills me with the utmost astonishment,” I
said. “Then you do not know a young lady named Violet Grafton?”
“I have never heard of her, sir.”
I looked at my host. It was impossible to believe that this
man, with the proud and loyal look, the deep, earnest voice, and
the bearing so cold and grave, could be deceiving me. And yet
it was utterly impossible that this portrait was not intended for
Miss Grafton. The likeness was positively startling.
Curiosity had now mastered me and absorbed every other sentiment.
I determined to penetrate, if possible, that armor of reserve
in which my singular host had encased himself.
“You have never heard of Miss Grafton, Mr. Mordaunt?” I
said. “Well, at least, you know a Mr. Fenwick, do you not?”
The question struck home. The head, which had drooped as
though bowed down by some gloomy recollection, suddenly rose
erect, and Mordaunt gazed at me with a glance so piercing that
the dark eyes seemed straining to penetrate my inmost soul.
Then the head sank again, and he replied, in tones more cold and
formal than I had yet heard from his lips:
“Yes, I know a person named Fenwick, sir.”
“This person, at least, is alive, is he not?”
“I believe so,” he said; and a flash of unmistakable hatred lit
up his black eye.
“Well, I know it, Mr. Mordaunt.”
“You are, then, acquainted with him?” was his cold interrogatory.
“I have never exchanged a word with him, but I have seen
him twice, and under somewhat peculiar cirsumstances. On the
first occasion he was engaged in a duel—on the second, he was
plotting against the peace of a young lady.”
Mordaunt looked at me fixedly, and said:
“Where did that duel take place, sir?”
“In the grounds of Hollywood Cemetery, at Richmond.”
He did not reply for a moment, and his dark eye still remained
fixed upon my own. Then he said, with perfect coolness:
“I really do not see how your presence, upon that occasion,
could have escaped me, sir. I thought that the principals and
seconds in the affair were the only persons who witnessed the
meeting you refer to.”
In ten words, I recounted everything. Mordaunt listened without
interrupting me, and, when I had finished, said, with cool
indifference:
“Well, that was really curious; and your explanation shows
that, in this world, many things pass us by without attracting
our notice. I thought the parties in that affair were the only
persons present.”
“You thought, also, that your adversary was dead, Mr. Mordaunt—but
he is not. He is not only alive, but at this very
moment is engaged in a conspiracy against a young lady who, if
not the original, is the exact image of the portrait hanging yonder
on your wall.”
And I briefly informed my host of that encounter with Fenwick,
at the house in the Wilderness; repeating the words which I had
heard him utter on the steps. Mordaunt listened with close
attention, and seemed especially struck with my description of
Miss Grafton.
“The image of my portrait!” he muttered; “that is very
strange—these singular resemblances!”
His eye wandered to the picture as he thus muttered to himself,
and he seemed to pass in gloomy thought to other scenes.
His brows contracted, his lips became rigid; then something like
a bitter smile came to them.
Suddenly he seemed to realize my presence, and his glance was
lowered. His face resumed all at once its former expression of
impenetrable coldness.
“You will pardon my absence of mind, sir,” he said, in his
formal tone. “I am almost a recluse here, and the habit grows
upon me. Thanks for your visit, and this information in regard
to that person and his plots. You know more of my relations
with him than I thought you could; but I am sorry to say that
circumstances of a private nature will not permit me to explain
an enmity which must appear somewhat singular to you. You
heard the words I addressed to my adversary's second, when he
attempted to stop that affair. Thus you know in what light I
regard this person. I have sworn the vendetta against him, Captain
Surry,” continued my host with a flash of the dark eyes
which resembled lurid lightning, “and I will keep that oath!
There is something more sure and fatal than the instinct of the
bloodhound: it is the eye and hand of the man who has sworn
to have his vengeance!”
“I tell you this, sir,” he said, more coldly, after pausing for a
moment, “because you are a gentleman of mind and discretion,
who will feel no temptation to repeat my words. So much for
the relations which exist between myself and that wretch. Of
this Miss Grafton, I declare to you again, that I know nothing.
If she resembles this portrait, as you seem to think, the resemblance
is purely accidental. As to the plot of that person, and
the danger she is exposed to, I shall only say that I hope soon
to remove all possibility of annoyance from that quarter.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, so cold
and full of menace; but the speaker seemed to suppress, by a
powerful effort of his will, any further exhibitions of enmity, and
plainly wished to change the topic.
“My servant has shown you into my private study, sir,” he
now said with his former air of courteous reserve, “and these
decorations, no doubt, appear to you eccentric. They are the
rubbish of travel, and were intended for no eye but my own.”
“They interest me much,” was my reply. “You have visited
Europe?”
“Yes, I spent some years there.”
“In Algiers.”
“Ah! you discover that from my pictures and weapons.”
“No, I heard it before I ever saw you.”
“Well, gossip is right for once, sir.”
“You served against the French.”
“Yes, I took part with the Arabs.”
“And have brought back one of the faithful.”
“You mean my Moor, Achmed?”
“Is that his name?”
“Yes. The youth took a fancy to me when he was a mere
child, and, since the death of his father, who fell in battle, has
remained with me. I am very much attached to him, and I
believe that he would lay down his life for me.”
“Were you often engaged with the French?”
“Frequently—they are the best troops in the world. I did
not rank myself on the side of the Arabs from any dislike of
their enemies, but because their soil was invaded.”
“The same principle will, doubtless, lead you to offer your
sword to the South.”
“Assuredly.”
“You, then, think of entering the army?”
“I never thought upon the subject. I am a Virginian—I fight,
therefore, as a matter of course.”
“You are right, Mr. Mordaunt. And what branch of the service,
may I ask, do you intend to enter?”
“The cavalry—it is that with which I am most familiar. I
have already raised a company, and it is nearly ready for the
field. The men are all mountaineers of this region, excellently
mounted, and have done me the honor to choose me for their
captain, from having heard, I suppose, that I am not entirely a
novice in military matters. But I am indulging in egotism.
Will you smoke? Here are several sorts of pipes and varieties
of tobacco, sent me from Europe. I prefer a plain meerschaum,
and the Lynchburg in that jar near your hand: you will find it
excellent.”
I declined, and, pointing to the volume upon which his own
pipe rested, said:
“I see you are reading `Les Miserables.' It absorbed me, in
Richmond, where I found a copy. Do you like it?”
“It is a mournful book,” replied Mordaunt, “and at times
affects even as rough a husk as my own. It is rather too long,
perhaps; but then the subject is an inexhaustible one, the history
of `the wretched.' ”
“It is the story of humanity.”
“You are right,” said my host, “a tragedy, that is to say.”
“Are all lives tragic?”
“When they are not dull. Life is a poor affair, to my thinking
Captain Surry, and the shadow predominates. But we are growing
didactic. Are you fond of arms? I have a tolerable collection.”
And taking down weapon after weapon, Mordaunt pointed out,
with evident interest in the subject, their various merits.
“Man is a blood-thirsty animal,” he said, “and cudgels his
brains to invent improved instruments of death. But after all,
this mediæval bludgeon, studded with points of steel, is as effective
as the last invention. My own favorite is the light French
sabre, pliable and pointed. Held at tierce-point, with the horse
at a gallop, it easily pierces through from breast to back.”
And he passed to other weapons. When they were exhausted,
he called my attention to the pictures.
When, an hour afterward, I parted with my host, I felt that I
had been conversing with a remarkable man. Beneath the cold
exterior I could easily see the traces of a powerful organization;
in the flash of the dark eye there was a latent force and passion
which would make this man equal to the most desperate undertakings.
Such should have been the commander of the French
cuirassiers who charged the living volcanoes of English infantry
at Waterloo: such the officer at the head of the “Six Hundred”
who rode through the Russian fire at Balaklava. Something
told me that, in work like this, the stern and passionate spirit
under that mask of ice would rejoice—and I lived to see the
hour and the man both come.
