University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
WHAT MR. EFFINGHAM MEANT WHEN HE SAID THAT THE DIE
WAS CAST.

Let us now endeavor to explain why Mr. Effingham acted so
strangely toward the child, refusing to kiss her at parting,
and exhibiting that singular solicitude about her Bible's
safety, in the little pocket. The explanation of these matters
will be found in that interview with the nameless gentleman,
whom Mr. Effingham left Kate to go and see.

When the young man descended, he saw, seated in the
ordinary, waiting for him, his friend, Jack Hamilton, the
fox-hunter. A family tradition, supported by the family
Bible, averred that this gentleman's name had originally
been John, but this was not generally credited, so completely
had the sobriquet by which he was almost universally
addressed, come to be regarded as the name given to him by
his sponsors in baptism. The face which Mr. Hamilton rejoiced
in, was, perhaps, remotely responsible for this alteration
in his patronymic; and it seemed almost impossible to
feel that he should be addressed by any other name than a
nickname. He was a hearty, laughing, honest-looking fellow,
with frank, open eyes; a nose, which seemed to be everlastingly
engaged in snuffing up the odors of broils and roasts,
or critically testing wines; a voice, which greeted all, high
and low, with nearly equal friendliness, cordiality, and
heartiness. Mr. Hamilton was richly clad, but down his
velvet pantaloons ran a long red stain, the blood of a fox he
had followed to the death on the preceding day.

Mr. Effingham greeted him with unusual cordiality, and
his languid, indifferent, petit maître manner seemed to have
entirely disappeared—at least, this was the observation
made by his friend.

“You were busy, were you not?” said Hamilton; “any
friends?”

“No, no; I'm very glad to see you, my dear fellow.”

“Well, that's understood, or, it would be understood,”
said honest Jack Hamilton, “if my visit was a mere dropping-in,
as I passed by, to use the new slang which is becoming

fashionable; but I came to say something to you,
Champ. Come, let's take a stroll.”

“I would—but—really—”

And Mr. Effingham thought of Kate.

“Oh, you need not fear being detained any time, scarcely.
Come, we cannot talk here.”

And, putting his arm through Mr. Effingham's, the fox-hunter
led him away.

“Well, well,” said the young man to himself, “Katy
can amuse herself for a few minutes, until I return; and I
must know what brings Hamilton to see me. He evidently
has something on his mind.”

They strolled out into the square, in the centre of the
town, and found themselves thus insulated from the ears, if
not from the eyes, of the community. Hamilton stopped,
and said:

“I came to talk about this ball, Champ.”

“What? at the Governor's?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my dear fellow?”

“These actors, here, and the people at the tavern, are
saying—”

“That I am going to it?”

“Yes.”

“With Beatrice Hallam?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they had the right to say so I announced my
intention to do so,” said Mr. Effingham, in a gloomy and
hesitating voice.

“The people at the tavern have been talking through
the town about it,” continued Hamilton, “and so it got to
the gentlemen in the neighborhood, and created quite a
sensation.”

“It seems that every thing I do creates something of that
description,” said Mr. Effingham, gloomily.

“But, really, you must confess that this—”

“Deserves to create a sensation, you would say: is it
not so?”

“Well, Champ, I'll be honest with you, and say that I
think it does.”

Mr. Effingham passed his hand thoughtfully and wearily

across his brow. A struggle seemed to be going on in his
mind. “If I fancy going with this young woman, I will
go,” he said, at length.

“You have not determined, then?” said Hamilton, displaying
great satisfaction at these words.

Mr. Effingham mused. “I had determined,” he replied,
“but I do not know now if I shall go—I think not.”

“Delighted to hear it! really now, Champ, you must
permit me to say that you are too good a fellow to throw
yourself away upon that young girl, though I grant you she
is pretty. I suppose, though, you are running after her as
we run a fox, for the glorious excitement of the chase. Up
and away! ride all day and night! no matter if you break
your neck, you gain the excitement and glory!”

Mr. Effingham's countenance displayed still the struggle
going on in his mind. Then a bright light cleared away the
gloom and doubt, and his features became serene and soft
once more. He had thought of Kate, and now said: “Jack,
I don't think I will go. No, I will not!”

“By George, I'm delighted to hear it!”

“You're a good friend!”

“I hope so; we have run many a fox together.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Don't you remember the gray rascal we ran from
Cote's to the ford? what a day we had—and Tom Lane has
not got over his dislocated shoulder to this day.”

“Those were fine times, fine times!” said Mr. Effingham,
cheerily.

“And you remember, by George!” said Hamilton,
laughing heartily, “I recollect it as if it was yesterday!
You remember when we swept by the Hall like a parcel of
wild devils, Tom Lane came near running over your little
cousin—what was her name? I think it was Kate?”

“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Effingham, with a soft smile.

“A lovely little creature, and as good as she's pretty;
I saw her at the Hall the other day, when I went to see my
good friend, Miss Alethea—think of a bachelor, confirmed
and obdurate like myself, having lady friends!—the child
took my eye mightily, and I do believe she recollected the
old times before you went to England!”

“Happy times, happy times!” said Mr. Effingham,

returning to his youth again, as the fox-hunter brought the
past back to him with his familiar, honest voice, his frank
eyes, and laughing reminiscences.

“Yes, they were happy enough,” said Hamilton, “and
you thought so then, I know, judging from the foolish things
you were guilty of about Clare Lee. By George, she was a
perfect little angel, and is yet!”

Mr. Effingham's head drooped.

“I remember when we all used to go to gather apples.
I was a young man, then, but just as young as the youngest,
and your favorite practice was to hold up the corners of her
silk apron, until that black monkey, Joe, threw down enough
to fill it—”

Mr. Effingham smiled.

“And as the little apron slowly got full, it weighed
down more and more, and naturally you came closer to pretty
Clare; and somehow your face struck against her own, the
lower portions thereof! and—ah, Champ, my boy, you were
a wild fellow then!” And Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily.
His companion smiled, with dreamy eyes and tender lips,
thinking of his boyhood and of Clare.

“After that, you took it into your head to go to England,
and came back the perfect dandy you are,” continued
honest Jack Hamilton, with refreshing frankness.

“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Effingham, smiling.

“And snubbed us.”

“No, no!”

“And swaggered about like a lord, and talked literature
like a wit—what a wearisome thing literature is! And you
altogether deteriorated! Come, now, deny it?”

“I'm afraid I cannot,” said Mr. Effingham, thinking of
Clare.

“Still our family—we are distant kin, you know—our
family comes of too good a stock to degenerate, and I don't
think your foreign journeyings, have hurt you much. The
folks all about stand up for you, and have one eternal observation,
which makes me yawn, about your `sowing your
wild oats.' They always shake their heads when my name
is mentioned, and hint that my crop is always being put in,
and never reaped and disposed of.”

“You're better than I am, Jack,” said his friend quietly.

“The devil! no compliments! If some folks heard that,
they would dissent most emphatically!”

“Who?”

“All sorts of people, even down to that little chick we
were talking of, Kate. By George, sir, you should have
heard the eulogy she pronounced in your honor, on the visit
I mentioned I made to the Hall!”

“What! little Kate praised—”

“Yes, I should think so: the private impression of any
stranger who had heard her, would have been that her illustrious
cousin united in his single person all the graces, attractions,
and virtues of the greatest sages and heroes of modern
and ancient times. Of course such extravagance couldn't
deceive one who knew you as well as I did!”

Mr. Effingham found himself laughing delightedly, and
murmuring, “Darling Kate!”

“Well, now, I'm glad to see that my well-meant advice
is not needed,” continued Hamilton. “You will not go to
the ball with Beatrice Hallam?”

“No—no; I think I shall go back to the Hall to-day.”

“Good! Take a seat in my turn-out! I'm glad you
are not going there—for there would have come no good
from it. Those fellows are very hotbrained.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I was just thinking of what a party of fellows were
saying of it,” said Hamilton, not reflecting upon his words,
or being at all conscious how injudicious they were. “They
talked so that I thought I would come and see you.”

“What did they say?” Mr. Effingham asked, with an
imperceptible clouding of the brow.

“Oh, don't mind them. They got to talking, and said
nothing but what was foolish—they said that your going
with Miss Hallam was out of the question—and I agree
with them.”

“How out of the question?”

“Why, ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”

“Come! my dear fellow, don't think of them.”

“But what did they say?—who were they?” asked
Mr. Effingham, feeling his anger rise at what he regarded as
an impertinent piece of interference with his private affairs.

“I will not tell their names,” said Hamilton.

“Well—their words, then.”

“Their words?”

“Yes; what did they say of my going to the ball?
Come, tell me, Hamilton.”

“Well, as I came to tell you, I will,” his friend replied,
thoughtlessly; “they said it was wrong.”

“Wrong!”

“Yes, and ridiculous.”

“Is that all?” asked Mr. Effingham, with a curling lip.

“No!” said Hamilton; “they got to saying after the
third bottle, that they would not permit it—by George!
There it is out, fool that I am! But when did I ever fail
to make a fool of myself!”

And conscious, too late, of his indiscretion, Mr. Jack
Hamilton regarded his own conduct with profound contempt
and indignation. He was not far wrong, if this were on the
score of discretion: for his last words completely aroused
the devil of pride and obstinate wilfulness, which had been
put to sleep by those familiar reminiscences of youth and
home, and Clare's tenderness—Kate's, too.

“Not permit me to attend the ball with Beatrice Hallam!”
said Mr. Effingham, with disdainful pride. “By
heaven! I will know who dared to say that!”

“I will not tell you,” said Jack Hamilton, stoutly. Mr.
Effingham's hand grasped the hilt of his sword.

“I have been insulted!” he said.

“None was meant.”

“None meant!”

“I tell you, Champ; they had all been drinking, and did
not know what they said.”

“No man shall insult me, and say he was intoxicated!
I will not take such a lame excuse, Hamilton.”

“Come, now—challenge me,” said his friend, coolly.

“No; I shall apply to the proper parties for redress.”

“Of course, I am responsible, Champ. Come, run your
short sword through me, and let out the foolish mind which
has made me act so childishly!”

“Hamilton, you have acted as a real friend,” said Mr.
Effingham, with a frown. “I hold that no friend should
hear another spoken of in such terms, without informing him
of the assault upon his honor.”

“What assault is there here, in the devil's name?”

“They said that my conduct was ridiculous—”

“A mere joke!”

“And they—the paladins of respectability and chivalry
—they would not permit me to go to the Governor's ball—
to escort Miss Hallam thither. By heaven! I'll make them
repent it.”

“Champ, you are as furious as a Spanish bull—you see
red at a moment's warning! Come, moderate your anger.”

“I am not angry!” said Mr. Effingham, furiously.

“Not angry!”

“No—I am indignant, though; and I will show these
excellent gentlemen that my actions or intentions are not
such as concern themselves. I shall find the paladins!”

“How will you?”

“Why, I will go to that ball with Miss Hallam, and if
any gentleman in the room looks sideways at her or at me, I
will call him to account for it. Your bottle critics will not
fail to expose themselves!”

And Mr. Effingham's lip curled with anger and scorn.

“Presume to criticise my affairs thus!” he continued,
indignantly, “I am then a child who is to ask permission of
these worthy gentlemen—these potent, grave, and reverend
signors—if I chance to feel a wish to escort a lady to a ball!
Yes, a lady, Hamilton! for by heaven! I tell you, that Beatrice
Hallam is as pure and high-souled as the noblest lady
in the land! I know her well, and to my cost; and I tell
you that she is the pearl of honor, delicacy, and truth. You
may smile, and I know well what causes your mirth. You
are thinking of my wild words, that day when I met you
going out of town. Well, I was angry that day, because
Miss Hallam had received my familiar addresses with proper
coldness—had repulsed me. She was right—and I honor
her for it. If she scorns me again, I may hate her, and taunt
her; but at the bottom I respect and honor her. You look
at me ironically! well, say I do love her—say I am infatuated
about her—better men have made fools of themselves!
whether that be true or not, one thing is certain, I shall
allow no man to make a fool of me!”

And Mr. Effingham put his cocked hat on with a movement
which betrayed his anger and indignation: he had

taken it off during this speech to wipe his brow, moist with
perspiration.

For a moment Hamilton said nothing.

“Well, Champ,” he replied, at length, “I repeat that I
was a great fool to tell you this, and I still hope you will regard
these hasty words I have reported to you—I did it in
the most friendly spirit—in the light they should be regarded—as
the mere idle talk of young men. Come, dismiss
your anger, and go back with me. Forget what I have
said, and let the matter end.”

Mr. Effingham shook his head, with a frown.

“It will end otherwise,” he said.

“You will not go to the ball?”

“Yes, I will.”

“With Miss Hallam?”

“With Miss Hallam.”

“It will be a dreadful thing for you:—you will be
laughed at all over the colony.”

“Let them laugh!” said Mr. Effingham, dsidainfully.

“You may even get a dozen duels on your hands.”

“Oh, very well!—very well! I wish some little excitement.
I have a good deal of time on my hands. I think it
highly probable that some chevalier will espouse the cause
of outraged society, and avenge its accumulated wrongs upon
my insignificant person—if I do not give an account of the
chivalrous gentleman myself!” added Mr. Effingham, with a
scornful pride. Hamilton saw that he had raised a storm
beyond his power to quell, and with mingled sorrow, and
self-upbraiding, very unusual with him, led the way back to
the tavern in silence.

“Well,” he said, as they reached the door, “I have used
my best efforts to persuade you to give this up, Champ: you
are determined, I see, and I know it is useless to say any
more. I have only to add, that as you are alone, and the
enemy is numerous, I shall hold myself prepared to espouse
your side in any thing which may arise of a hostile character.
Good day.”

And the honest fox-hunter, refusing to receive Mr. Effingham's
assurances of regret, for any thing that he might have
said, and declining to enter the tavern, parted from him, with
a shake of the hand, full of cordiality and friendship. Mr.
Effingham for a moment looked after him with friendly regard,

then the old gloomy expression usurped its former
place upon his visage, and he ascended to his chamber.
Kate was not there, and he hurried out to look around for
her. He heard voices in Beatrice's room—Kate's, he
thought; and hastening to the door, opened it just as they
were issuing forth as we have seen. What ensued thereon,
we have related.