University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SEQUEL TO THE ADVENTURE.

The fat manager did not know whether to laugh or weep.
She was saved! that was all he was conscious of; and he
scarcely knew how he got on shore. Beatrice, who had by
this time revived wholly, though she still shivered with cold
and terror, was borne to dry land by the strong boatman;
and the rest following, the whole party was safe from the
storm, which raged more furiously still, at thus being forced
to give up its prey.

Before them rose a rough but comfortable cottage, which
from its bluff, overlooked the river up and down for miles.
A walk of ten minutes brought them to the door, and within
a cheerful fire was burning, apparently made necessary by
the high and exposed situation of the house. The boatman

deposited, we may almost say, the young girl on a comfortable
chair. She had been supported from the landing between
the honest fellow and her father—the young man
walking in silence before.

After thus getting rid of his charge, the boatman turned
to greet the owner of the mansion, saying:

“Well, neighbour Waters, here's a mess!—the young
lady's been overboard and nigh gone.”

The host was an old man of sixty-five or more: in every
thing about him, the simplicity of his nature was manifest.
His open features were almost constantly lit up by a cheerful
smile, and his eyes were full of kindness and good-humor.
He was clad as the humbler class were almost universally at
that day—in a broad-skirted coat of drab cloth, with plain
cuffs, but turned back after the fashion of the time: his
stockings were of wool, and his waistcoat was of plain serge,
with large pockets, and reaching almost to the knees. On
his feet he wore heavy, thick-soled shoes; and his gray hair,
gathered in a club behind, was free from powder.

To the boatman's address, he replied, cheerily:

“Overboard! how so, neighbor Townes? and in your
craft? I never hearn tell of such a thing happenin' to you
before. The pretty bird! we must see how to fix her. Sit
down, sir: sit down—your daughter, I reckon. Well, well,
this is a bad day to be on the water. How does the young
lady feel now?”

Beatrice had profited by the cheering blaze, and replied
quietly, though with a slight shiver:

“I am a great deal better than I was, sir: I owe you
many thanks for your kindness,”

“No kindness in the world,” said the old man, “I'm
poor and simple, but you're heartily welcome.”

“Poor and simple as you say you are, neighbor,” here
broke in the boatman, “there ain't a squire about here equal
to you: and I've been knowin' you this thirty years: and
Charley,” here he looked at the young man, who had taken
his seat in silence, “Charley is a chip of the old block. Ef
it hadn't been for him, the young lady'd a been at Davy
Jones' locker by now.”

“Why, did Charley?”

“Yes, he did so, neighbor; he saved the young 'ooman.

As for me, I'm most nigh 'shamed to say it, but the wind and
foam blinded me.”

“Well, well—it's what Charley ought 'a done, and there's
an end on it. Now we'll see to a room for you, miss,” he said
to Beatrice; “you musn't move to-day. I don't know you,
but you're welcome to any thing old John Waters owns.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Waters,” said the fat manager,
who had been looking around him, “but we had better
get back to town. Our horses are down at your house,
friend,” he added, to the boatman; “couldn't you bring 'em
here?”

“Easiest thing in life. Jest give me time to swallow
a drop; and that puts me in mind, won't you take somethin'
yourself, 'squire, and the young lady? Neighbor Waters
drinks nothing but water—he don't.”

Mr. Manager Hallam received this proposal with extreme
satisfaction, and no doubt reflecting that it was just “what
the great Congreve” would have done—a favorite authority
with him—emptied nearly half a pint. Beatrice, however,
refused the rum, with a shake of her head.

“Now, I'll take Sam, neighbor,” said the boatman, “and
jog down. There's Lanky onhitchin' him. 'Seems to me
the sooner I am back the better.”

“Yes, yes; and there's a pistole,” said Mr. Hallam.

The boatman received the money doubtfully, hesitated,
then pocketed it; finally, mounting Sam, a rough-looking
cart-horse, harness and all, clattered off through the whirling
leaves of the forest toward his cabin.

“But you ain't goin' to take the young lady away so
soon,” said old John Waters; “she'll catch the agy, friend.
We'll have a room for her—the little place up there—fixed
in no time. Lanky's just come from town, and will make a
blazing fire.”

“I think we had better get back,” said Hallam, uneasily;
“eh, daughter?”

“Yes, sir; I feel quite strong now, and would like to
ride. I never can thank you, sir, and—and your son,
enough for what you have done. He saved my life.”

“Oh,” laughed the old fisherman, “that's his place—
you're a weak little thing, and couldn't be expected to take
keer of yourself—not a strong woman, either; only a little
easy-livin' lady.”

“Oh no, sir,” said Beatrice, with her lip twitching, “I am
only an actress.”

“An actress!—what's that? Oh—”

“My name is Beatrice Hallam,” said the young girl, regaining
her calmness.

“Well! did any one ever!” said the old man, “the young
lady that played!—I heard all about you, the other day, and
made Charley go to see the playin': and he said a heap in
your favor. Charley, you know,” said the old fellow, with a
smile, “aint much given to these things—and I 'most fear he
hurts his health over his books—look through the door, there
what a parcel! He works hard, too, in the field, and helps
me with the seine, but he's been studyin' too much lately.
I told him so: and says I, `Charley, you'd better go to town
and take some rest: go and see the players.' At first he
wouldn't hear of it; but he went, and praised you a heap, I
can tell you, Miss; though I'm bound to say he didn't say
much in favor of young Squire Effin'ham.”

Beatrice flushed to her forehead, and stole a glance at
the young man. He rose, and seeming to banish with an effort
the thoughts which preoccupied his mind, said, in a grave
and serious voice:

“I confess, Miss Hallam, that your acting was faultless,
as far as I could judge of it; and my father has not misunderstood
my opinion of Mr. Effingham's very unworthy conduct
toward yourself. But let us dismiss all these matters
—you must be greatly fatigued, and not much disposed to
listen to conversation. We are very poor, here, as you see,
but can give you, and you also, Mr. Hallam, shelter for the
night. Remain.”

Beatrice gazed a moment furtively at the noble and
thoughtful face, allowed the last sound of the clear voice to
die away, then replied:

“We had better return, sir—indeed, we should not refuse
your kindness, I know: but—”

“Yes, we must return: you have not dried your own
clothes even, sir,” said the manager, “and we are under sufficient
obligation for one day. You saved my daughter's life,
sir—God reward you.”

“I did nothing but what I should have done, Mr. Hallam.
My father has told you that it was my simple duty,

and there was little risk. Had there been real risk, I trust
I should still have done my duty.”

“I know you would, Charley,” said the old man proudly,
“you'd throw your life away for a child: and I rather
think Mr. Effingham would a had a hard time, if you had
met after the play!”

“Come—come, father,” said the young man, gravely, “do
not repeat my follies. I have repented it. Harsh words do
no good.”

“If what you said was true, he deserved 'em and more,”
said old Waters: “you can't deny it!”

“Well, yes! he deserved harsh comment! you are
right!” said the young man, his face flushing, “for he insulted
and annoyed a woman. We cannot go far wrong in
saying that the man who annoys a woman or a child, must
have a bad heart, and ungenerous and narrow soul!”

The young man's voice, ordinarily grave and simple,
changed, as he uttered these words: and his flushed face
positively overawed the fat manager, who, feeling his own
character of pater familias indirectly called in question, was
about to speak, and ask Beatrice the particulars of Mr.
Effingham's conduct. His tone was so firm and proud—his
eye so clear and full of disdain—his attitude so erect and
noble, as he uttered these words, that the wide apartment,
with its fishing-nets, and rough chairs and tables, seemed to
grow brilliant and imposing—mind penetrating matter, and
transforming it to its own likeness.

Beatrice Hallam felt her face fill with blood, her heart
throb: for the first time in her life she had found the nature
which heaven had moulded in the form of her own, and when
the young man, apparently regretting his excitement, momentary
as it was, returned in silence to his seat, her lustrous
glances, brilliant as light itself, but dimmed by a haze
of emotion, followed him, and could not withdraw themselves
from him.

A few moments afterwards, the boatman returned with
the horses, and the manager, who began to feel some embarrassment,
rose to go.

“We've treated you very bad considerin',” said the old
man, “but the fire here was about the best thing for you, I
thought, after the wettin'. Lanky's makin' the fire now for

the young lady: but 'sides that, we had in the way o' clothes
nothin' much better 'n a peajacket to offer her, and you said
the rum was the best thing for you after the wettin'.”

“All I wanted—all I wanted, sir,” said the manager,
with a good-humored laugh.

“And I am nearly quite dry now, sir,” said Beatrice,
with a timid smile; “I shall never forget your kindness to
me, Mr. Waters.”

And she pressed with her small fingers the huge, hearty
hand of the old fisherman, and then held out the same little
hand to his son, who pressed it with a sensation at his heart
which he could not understand.

“Strange!” he said, as they turned away, “I seem to
have met this young girl in some other world—well, well, the
common fancy!”

And following Beatrice to the door, he assisted her to
mount—which operation was somewhat embarrassed by the
long riding dress, brought with the horses from the boatman's
cabin—after which the guests set forward toward
Williamsburg.

“Waters—Waters? I seem to have heard that name before,
father,” said Beatrice, “and really seem to have known
Mr. Charles.”

“It's a very common name,” replied the manager, “and
we often find these resemblances. How the evening has
cleared off. I don't think any rain has fallen; the storm
must have passed off to the southward.”

Whether Mr. Manager Hallam wished to turn the conversation
or not, remains a mystery: but if such was his
design, it succeeded perfectly, and Beatrice began to talk
about the adventures through which they had passed. Soon
the houses of the town came in sight, and they passed
along, and drew up before the “Raleigh.”

Beatrice changed her wet garments, and felt no bad
effects from her accident beyond a slight chill. One would
have said that the warmth at her heart vivified her person,
and defied the chilly waters of the river. All that evening,
while the fat manager was relating the adventures of the
day, she sat studying, apparently; but merely her dreamy
eyes were fixed upon the page.

Of what was she thinking, and why that flush upon the
tender face, that light in the veiled eyes?