72. LXXII.
ARCADES AMBO.
Fenwick seemed to be, as I have said, in that condition which
induces men to talk of every thing or nothing. There was a
defiant abandon in his manner which I had never seen before.
“Come, my dear Madam Parkins,” he said, with a harsh and
discordant laugh, as he pushed the bottle toward the woman,
“you don't drink, my dear. Fill, fill! Let me see your countenance
expand under the mollifying effects of this devil's
elixir! It will much improve your appearance!”
The woman seemed to take no umbrage at this unceremonious
address. She coolly grasped the bottle, poured out some of the
spirit, and raised it to her lips.
But I observed that she did not drink. Then I caught a quick
glance of her eye, toward her companion. She was watching
him.
“We are a jolly pair!” he exclaimed, emptying his glass and
leaning back in his seat; “we resemble lovers—eh, my dear
creature? We are here all alone and téte à téte, with no one to
disturb us. We are revelling in the uninterrupted interchange
of fond affection, and we never grow weary of each other's
society.”
Nothing more sneering and disdainful than the air of the
speaker, at that moment, can be imagined.
“Come, let us find some method of passing the evening agreeably,
my angel,” continued Fenwick. “Tell me a little love
romance, my dear creature, or sing me a song!”
“Don't you think,” said the woman, in her harsh and forbidding
voice, “that you had better get away from here?”
“And pray why, madam?”
“The rebels are not far off. You heard the guns this evening.”
“Ha, ha!—and so you think, my dear, that Fenwick, the
Yankee spy, blockade-runner, and secret agent, had better get
off, eh?”
“Yes,” was the cool reply, “they say that Colonel Mordaunt
is coming here; and if he finds you”—
“Curse him!” suddenly exclaimed Fenwick; “do you think I
fear him? Woe to him, if we meet again!”
The woman's face was distorted by a quick sneer, which instantly
disappeared, but not without attracting the attention of
her companion.
“Aha!” he growled, “you are langhing at me, are you? You
are thinking of that scene in the Stone House at Manassas,
when I did not stay to fight two well-armed men, Mordaunt
and that cursed friend of his, Surry! But I know what
I am about, madam. Do you think I am going to meet your
Colonel Mordaunt in open fight, instead of taking him unawares?”
“You met him once at Richmond.”
A bitter scowl came to Fenwick's face.
“I did,” was his reply, “but under a compulsion which I need
not explain, my dear madam.”
The woman nodded, as if the subject did not interest her, and
Fenwick again had recourse to the bottle. I saw his cheeks
grow ruddier, and his eyes sparkle. Soon his tongue was loosened.
“I will not tell you about my little arrangement for the benefit
of our dear friend Mordaunt,” he said, with his sardonic laugh;
“but, by way of passing the evening agreeably, I ought to let
you know why I don't like that gentleman.”
“I know something, but not all; tell me the story,” said the
woman, who still watched her companion, and evidently lost
not a single word.
“You really wish to hear all about that little affair, my
dear?”
“Yes.”
Fenwick hesitated, and looked with a quick flash of the eye at
his companion. It was the last struggle between his cunning
and desire to talk.
“After all, why shouldn't I tell you, most amiable Parkins?”
he said, with a leer; “my life is a pretty little romance, which
will amuse us this dull evening. But are you sure no one besides
can hear us?”
“There is not another soul within five miles of this place!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Nevertheless, my dear, suppose I make entirely sure?”
And rising, Fenwick walked, with a perfectly steady step, to
the door, from which he passed to the front door of the house,
which he threw open.
I shrank down in the shadow of the porch, within five feet of
him. The darkness concealed me—the door closed—and, hearing
the sound of his feet in the apartment again, I returned to
my place at the shutter.
Fenwick had resumed his former seat, and prepared himself
for his narrative by swallowing another glass of brandy.
“You really think it will interest you to know why I don't
like the excellent Colonel Mordaunt?” he said.
“Yes, I should like to know.”
“It will involve a long explanation, my dear one, but there
should be perfect confidence between us. Must I begin at the
beginning, like a romance?”
The woman nodded, and looked at her companion with the
same furtive glance.
Fenwick did not observe it.
“Now for the little romance!” he said.
“I am listening,” said the woman.
Her companion leaned back and said:
“Well, my dearly-beloved elderly Parkins, once upon a time
there were two young men about twenty years of age, whose
names, respectively, were Fenwick and Mordaunt. They lived
in Fairfax County, in the State of Virginia, and were a perfect
instance of Damon and Pythias. They could not hunt without
each other, ride without each other, or pass a day out of each
other's society. This heavenly state of things might, no doubt,
have lasted, had not a woman appeared on the scene—one of
that angelic sex to which you, my charming one, belong.”
The woman remained silent and impassive.
“Well, this pretty devil, who was to rend asunder the touching
bonds of friendship between Damon Mordaunt and Pythias
Fenwick, was a young lady named Carleton—Frances Carleton.
You have never heard of her?”
“Yes, go on.”
“With delight, my elderly one. Well, Miss Carleton was the
daughter of an English gentleman, who had come, with his wife,
daughter, and only sister, to America, a few months before. The
sister married Mr. Grafton, a clergyman, of Maryland; the
brother, Miss Frances's father, settled, with his wife and daughter,
in Fairfax County, renting a small estate near Manassas, upon
which stood the picturesque Stone House, in which we recently
had our pleasing little adventure.
“Here Messrs. Fenwick and Mordaunt first knew Frances
Carleton. She was a pleasing young female, with light auburn
hair falling in ringlets around her face, and `as pure as an
angel,' everybody was fond of saying. So Fenwick and Mordaunt
immediately fell in love with her, and from that moment
grew as cold as ice toward each other. I believe there was
some sickly attempt on Mordaunt's part to continue on friendly
relations with his old companion, but that gentleman treated his
proposition with deserved contempt; and soon events took place
which made them open foes. Mordaunt—curse him!—was the
handsomer of the two, and possessed a large estate. To make a
long story short, he paid his addresses to Miss Carleton, and
married her!”
Fenwick grew livid as he uttered these words, and paused.
“That made me his life-long foe!” he added, at length, with
bitterness; “that is to say, it made my young friend, Mr. Fenwick!
He had heard preachers prate about brotherly love, but
never pretended to love the rival who carried off the woman he
had been crazily in love with. From that moment he began to
hate Mordaunt bitterly, and swore in his inmost soul that he
would take vengeance on him. It was not a common, vulgar
revenge he aimed at, a duel or affray, ending in mere blows and
blood. No! such a thing seemed silly and childish. What Fenwick
wanted, my dear madam, was not so much to shed his
enemy's heart's blood, as to make his existence one long groan of
misery. You, no doubt, feel shocked at this, madam, as you are a
woman, but that is the way men hate when they hate in earnest.”
“I can understand it.”
“Very well—all the better. It will save me from repeating
over and over that the amiable Fenwick had a hatred for the
respectable Mordaunt so bitter that it stopped at nothing in the
way of its gratification. To reach his aim, Fenwick was obliged
to have recourse to what is called treachery by fools, but strategy
by military men. He did not quarrel with his beloved friend
Mordaunt—the coldness between them completely passed away—
and very soon young Mr. Fenwick was a regular visitor at the
Stone House, where Mordaunt lived with his bride. He had become
the `friend of the family,' you see, madam, and Mrs. Mordaunt
had unbounded confidence in him.
“For a long time no opportunity of avenging the affront put
on him presented itself to Mr. Fenwick. Mordaunt and his wife
were completely happy—and the idea of sowing suspicion or
producing any misunderstanding between them was simply absurd.
They `lived in a dream of felicity,' as says the poet, my
dear madam; and Mr. Fenwick was compelled to put off his
little plan for the benefit of his dear friend Mordaunt.
“Events, however, very soon occurred which seemed to favor
his scheme. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton both died, within a few days
of each other, and Mordaunt and his wife were left alone together
in the Stone House. The only other inmate of the establishment
was a most charming, respectable, and excellent person, of the
euphonious name of Parkins, who filled the position of housekeeper.
Have you ever heard of that lovely creature, madam?”
asked Fenwick, with a guttural laugh; “she was the paragon of
her sex.”
“Go on,” was the response of the woman, who was evidently
watching Fenwick closely, and waiting for him to come to something
which had excited her curiosity.
“The respectable Parkins,” continued Fenwick, leaning upon
the table, and looking at his companion with a leer of affected
admiration, “was in every way calculated to prove an ornament
to her sex, and had only a single failing. Which of us is without
his peculiar weakness? That of the worthy Parkins was a
love of money, and, not to weary you, my dear madam, with a
prosy explanation—Fenwick bought her. He gently insinuated
into her not unwilling hand a bank note of the denomination of
one thousand dollars, with the promise of more, and lo! the
virtuous Parkins was at his orders.”
“Go on,” was the woman's sole reply.
“With pleasure. Well, with the housekeeper thus bought,
one great step was taken toward a little plan Mr. Fenwick had
on foot. It had suddenly flashed upon him one day, when he
visited the Stone House soon after Mr. Carleton's death, and he
heard Mordaunt inform his wife that he would be compelled to
go to England to attend to very important claims left by the
young lady's father. A charming scene followed—tears, fond
words, remonstrances, embraces, kisses! Curse him!” exclaimed
Fenwick, “I could have killed him where he stood!”
“Why didn't you?” asked the woman coolly.
“For this good reason—that I had a better plan in view.
Listen now, and you shall hear how skilfully the youthful Fenwick
set about his little arrangements.”
The speaker touched his empty glass to his lips, as if from
habit, looked with a sneer at the woman, and resumed his
monologue.
