University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE ROSE AND THE VIOLET.

Two young ladies were walking upon the smooth-shaven
lawn, which stretched unbroken save by a few noble oaks and
clumps of shrubbery, from the fine old mansion to the woodland
on each side and the enclosure in front.

One of the ladies was tall and brilliant: her superb figure
undulating with every movement would have graced a palace,
and her bright eyes and merry lips were full of life and fire.
She was clad with extreme richness, and the fine silks and
velvets which she wore shone brilliantly in the clear October

sunlight as she moved. This sheen of silk seemed her appropriate
accompaniment, and the diamond necklace which
she wore was not observed. Her eyes and brilliant expression
threw the silk and velvet and all jewels in the back-ground.
She looked the incarnation of aristocracy, using
that term in its colloquial sense, and seemed to brim with
mirth and merry witticisms from a pure sentiment of life
and superiority to every one.

Her companion was smaller in stature, and plainly
younger—apparently about nineteen. Her figure was more
delicate, her beauty more pensive and aerial. The squire's
criticism, or abandonment of all criticism, did not seem at
all extravagant. A profusion of golden hair, blue eyes full
of deep tenderness and instinct with a species of quiet happy
pensiveness—these, added to a complexion as fair as a lily
and as transparent as a fresh stream, made up a countenance
of exquisite beauty.

The first lady was Miss Henrietta Lee:—the second was
her sister, Miss Clare Lee, between whom and Mr. Effingham
a sort of undeveloped courtship existed.

Mr. Effingham approached the ladies, trailing the feather
of his hat upon the grass.

“Ah! Mr. Effingham!” cried Henrietta, with a merry
laugh, “and as weary-looking as ever!”

“Still jesting, Miss Henrietta—or cousin Henrietta, as
you agree I may in future call you; have I presumed, and
may I address you by that pleasant name?”

“Certainly you may,” said the laughing girl, “though I
believe the cousinship is rather distant.”

“To my regret.”

“Your regret?—truly?”

“In sober truth,” replied Mr. Effingham, languidly twirling
his cocked hat: “near cousins, you know, have many
agreeable privileges. Have they not, Miss Clare?”

Clare turned her soft, frank eyes on the young man and
smiled.

“That is enough,” continued Mr. Effingham, “when a
lady smiles she always means yes.”

“A hasty conclusion!” said Henrietta, “many a gay
cavalier on his knees before a lady has been laughed at.”

“True, true: though I am most happy to say that I

have never had the bad fortune to verify the truth of your
observation.”

And smoothing gently the ruffles at his breast, Mr.
Effingham yawned. Henrietta burst into laughter, and her
brilliant eyes flashed mischievously.

Mr. Effingham looked round in apparent astonishment.

“If I may be permitted to inquire, Miss Henrietta, or
cousin Henrietta, as I shall beg leave henceforth to call
you —”

“Oh, certainly!”

“What were you laughing at, pray?”

“Shall I tell you?'

“If you please.”

“At you, then!”

“At me?”

“At you.”

“I am glad to find my company so agreeably entertaining:
true, I am in unusually excellent spirits.”

“Spirits! you? Why you yawned most portentously
this moment!”

“All habit—a bad habit, I confess: and to prove that I
am not weary, I have an adventure to relate.”

“An adventure?”

“Yes.”

And Mr. Effingham, in an elegant, petit maitre manner,
narrated his adventure, as he was pleased to call it, with the
unknown horsewoman.

“Who could it have been?” said Clare.

“Who, indeed!” echoed Henrietta.

“Upon my soul, I don't know. Some wandering queen,
or fairy, I suppose—this Virginia is the land of romance
and magic. I think it very fortunate that she did not bid me
dismount, seat myself behind her, and go off thus to fairyland
with her. In which case,” continued Mr. Effingham,
gallantly, “I should not have experienced the happiness of
gazing at your pleasant and beautiful countenances, cousins
Henrietta and Clare.”

“You are too kind!” laughed Henrietta.

“And not very sincere,” said Clare, smiling.

“Not sincere?”

And Mr. Effingham's glance dwelt for a moment almost

tenderly on the face of Clare, who looked like a pure angel,
in the bright crimson light of sunset.

“If you thought us so pleasant you would come oftener,”
she said, with a flitting blush.

“My poor society would only weary you, I fear,” he said,
ostensibly addressing both of the sisters, but looking at
Clare, “I am a poor visitor.”

Clare turned away and pulled a rose.

“It is not so far,” she murmured, refusing plainly to
accept the excuse, and speaking in so low a tone that Henrietta,
who had taken some steps to meet her approaching
father, did not hear the words.

“And if I came?” whispered Mr. Effingham.

Clare turned away to hide her confusion.

“Could I hope, dear cousin Clare—dearest Clare!—”

Mr. Effingham was getting on. But Henrietta and Mr.
Lee approached.

“That you could—could—”

“Good evening, Champ,” said Mr. Lee, a fine portly old
gentleman, coming up arm in arm with Henrietta, “glad to
see you.”

Mr. Effingham bowed, and Clare bent down to examine,
with profound curiosity, the rosebud which she held in her
little hand.

“The evening was so fine, that I thought I could not
spend it more agreeably than in a ride to Riverhead, sir,”
said Mr. Effingham.

“Delightful!—these August days are excellent for the
corn; what news?”

“Nothing, sir—I have not seen the `Gazette.'”

“Oh, the `Gazette' never contains any intelligence:
sometimes, it is true, we hear what is going on in Parliament,
but it never condescends to afford us any news from Virginia.
The tobacco on the south side may be all gone to
the devil for any thing you read in the `Gazette.' Here it
is—an abominable sheet! Ah! I see we are to have a theatrical
performance in Williamsburg next week,” added the
old gentleman, glancing over the paper, “Mr. Hallam and
his `Virginia Company of Comedians'—very politic, that
addition of `Virginia!'—are to perform The Merchant of
Venice, by permission of his worship the Mayor, at the Old
Theatre near the Capitol, he announces. Truly we are improving:

really becoming civilized, in this barbarous terra
incognita.

Mr. Effingham winced; he had more than once expressed
a similar opinion of Virginia in good faith—not ironically—
and the old gentleman's words seemed directed at himself.
A moment's reflection, however, persuaded him that this
could not be the case; he had not visited Riverhead a dozen
times since his return from Oxford and London—and on
those occasions had never touched upon the subject of Virginia
and its dreadful deficiencies.

“A play?” he said, “that is really good news:—but the
`Merchant of Venice' is not one of my acquaintances.”

“Ah, you young men are wrong in giving up Will
Shakespeare for the Steeles, Addisons, and Vanbrughs.
Mr. Addison's essays are very pleasant and entertaining
reading, and sure, there never was a finer gentleman than
Sir Roger;—but in the drama, Will Shakespeare distances
him all to nothing.”

“Let us go to see the play, papa,” said Henrietta.

“Oh, yes,” said Clare.

The old gentleman tenderly smoothed the bright golden
hair.

“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said.

“And may I request permission to accompany the party,
ladies?” said Mr. Effingham, languidly.

“How modest!” said Henrietta, laughing; “certainly
you may go, sir. You will tell us when to hiss or applaud,
you know, as you are just from London!”

“What a quick tongue she has!” said Mr. Lee, fondly;
“well, we will all go, and see what the `Virginia Company
of Comedians' is like: not much, I fear.”

“Oh, we'll have a delightful time,” cried Clare, glancing
at Mr. Effingham softly and frankly.

That young gentleman's languor melted like snow in
the sunshine, and as he placed the little hand upon his arm
to lead its owner in to supper, he pressed it tenderly, and
whispered:

“I know I shall, for you will be with me, dearest Clare:
—don't be offended, for you know—”

The whisper of the leaves around them, drowned the
end of the sentence, but the red sunset lighting up Clare's
soft warm cheek might very well have spared its crimson!