University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
IN WHICH A CHARIOT AND FOUR HORSES COMES TO THE RESCUE.

The new champion is no other than our friend Lanky—but
so disguised that we should scarcely have known him by
twilight. He wears an old cocked hat of the Captain's, a
pair of his cast-off boots, and around his waist is buckled an
old sword, which clatters against his boots:—all which decorations
he has assumed by the advice of the soldier, to make
an impression on the heart of his ladylove.

Lanky had followed his messenger, seen the capture of
his letter, the pursuit of Crow, and the capture of that gentleman:—he
had gone to the door when it was closed;—seen
the parson reading disdainfully, the splendid epistle which
it had taken him a week to concoct;—and then witnessed
the sacrifice of Mr. Crow:—all this with anger and indignation
which gradually grew hotter, and began to boil within
him. Then he had seen Donsy remonstrate, had heard the
parson threaten her—lastly had seen him advance toward
that empress of his heart, with an upraised rod to inflict
upon his Donsy a disgraceful punishment. Then he boiled
over, rage carried him away—he burst open the door, and
rushed in, regardless of consequences.

The parson turns, with a tremendous frown upon his
visage.

“Try it! yes, try it!” cries Lanky, drawing his sword
and boiling over, as we have observed, with indignation, “just
touch Donsy! let me see you!”

The scholars gaze at the champion, and tremble.

“Yes, it's shameful to be a threatenin' a girl! you know
it is!” continues Lanky, trembling with excitement, and
stamping upon the floor with his great feet; “a man who
would hurt a girl don't deserve any sort o' respect!”

The parson, for a moment paralyzed by the audacity of
the intruder, and doubting whether he is not some grand
seigneur—makes no reply: but suddenly recognizes Lanky:
Lanky the country bumpkin: Lanky the barbarous heathen,
ignorant even of the existence of syntax and prosody:
Lanky the scum of the earth. He starts forward to attack
him.

But Donsy interposes to protect her cavalier—she seizes
the uplifted rod. The parson utters a cry of rage, and endeavors
to release his arm, and strike the girl.

Lanky rushes at him thereupon, and grapples with him
furiously—Donsy screams—Crow rolls—the parson struggles
with his enemy, and with one of the quick movements
of his elbow, strikes Donsy, who falls into the arms of Will
Effingham, rushing to her rescue.

Lanky, driven to fury, clenches his teeth, throws his
whole weight upon his antagonist's breast, and they both fall,
Lanky's sword striking against the benches with an awful
clatter.

“Murder!” cries the parson.

“Oh Lanky!” says Donsy.

“Go it!” says Will.

But Lanky cannot strike a prostrate foe: had he been a
knight of the middle age, his martial sword no doubt would
have entered the breast of his enemy. But Lanky is a
simple country young gentleman of the eighteenth century,
and he rises.

The parson starts to his feet again, furious, raging:—he
seizes the tongs: he launches those useful instruments at
Lanky, and knocks down the unfortunate Crow, who disappears
like a ball of charcoal through the open door, and is
no more seen.

Lanky thereupon draws his sword:—the parson seizes
a stick of wood: Lanky brandishes the deadly weapon—
the parson grasps his billet;—the bitter enemies prepare for
the final and decisive charge, the great struggle which shall
decide all.

This is the position of affairs, when there appears at the
door a martial and stalwart looking gentleman, with a long
black moustache and laughing face, who cries in loud, strident
tones,

“Morbleu! Diable! Sacre! Why it's Lanky!”

And overcome by the ludicrous figure of the parson and
the intensely warlike attitude of Lanky, Captain Ralph
bursts into a loud laugh. Lanky turns at this noise, recognizes
his master, and dutifully lowers his sword.

“Que le diable!” cries the Captain, laughing again.
“Was the like ever seen? What! fighting the clergy, you
villain? I'm ashamed of you!”

Lanky restores his weapon to its place, and hangs his
head.

“He wanted to whip Donsy,” says Lanky.

“Whip a girl?”

“Yes, Cap'n.”

“Bah! is that possible, reverend sir? It cannot be
that you would have struck a child, and that child a
girl?”

The parson draws himself up haughtily, and drops the
stick of wood.

“Permit me, if you please, sir,” he says, looking sidewise
at his interlocutor, “to act as seems proper to me in
my own school!”

“Basta! I shall permit no such thing! Ah! your
reverence, you are greatly mistaken if you think the State
of Virginia is like the frontier of Germany. You will
recollect.”

The parson looks gloomily at the Captain, striving to
recognize him.

“Who are you, sir?” he says.

“Ma foi! Waters is my name, and you will recollect
that we had the pleasure of carrying a halberd, side by side,
somewhere about the year '55. Eh? Well, sir, I repeat
that your reverence can no longer carry the high hand, and
make the women and girls scream, as you once used to, when
you drove them in crowds from their quarters in the villages.
Bah! you disgust me, you great gobemouche, and I think
that Lanky must decidedly have been in the right.”

Strange and tremendous to relate, the parson no longer
looks bold, or retains his proud, haughty attitude; he cowers
before the disdainful words of the soldier; he permits Lanky
to make his report without interruption. The Captain exonerates
Lanky, but observes that, as a general rule, it is
improper to attack the clergy with carnal weapons, and then
makes a sign to Donsy, who approaches, sobbing.

“Ah, my dear Miss Donsy,” he says, gallantly, “I assure
you I understand perfectly Lanky's infatuation now!
But believe me, if you have a pretty face, Lanky has a warm
and excellent heart—bon garçon! and as true as steel, with
that pine knot head of his. Now see! I am sure the parson
will treat you well in future, for my sake.”

The parson feels himself in his enemy's power: he is
growing humbler and humbler.

“Come, don't cry,” says the worthy Captain, “that is
bad.”

“I'm not well, sir. I have been sick lately. I'm not
crying, sir.”

With which Donsy sobs.

“Morbleu! I never could bear tears. Egad! I'll take
you home. Where do you live?”

“In town, sir.”

“Too far to walk if you are unwell; faith! you shall go
with me.”

Donsy looks at the parson dutifully, who nods a sullen
assent, and says to the Captain:

“I'm afraid your horse will not carry us both, sir.”

“My horse? I have none.”

“Sir?” says Donsy.

“I can offer you better than a horse, Miss Donsy,” says
the Captain, and he leads her out, Lanky following.

Not far from the door stands a splendid chariot, with
four fine pawing horses, reined in by a plethoric coachman.
Behind on the shining footboard stands another servant, and
the whole equipage is in the richest and finest taste. Lanky's
eyes expand to the dimensions of saucers; the Captain
laughs.

“My new coach, pardy!” he says. “Permit me to introduce
it to you, Mr. Lanky; just arrived, and my jewels
with it.”

“Your coach, sir?” says Lanky, in an attitude of
wonder.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Your jewels, sir?”

“Pardy!”

“Oh, Cap'n!”

And after this supreme exhibition of surprise, Lanky remains
in a trance of wonder and admiration.

“I heard that infernal racket you were raising in there,”
says the Captain, as he leads Donsy towards the chariot,
“and felt a presentiment that you and your new ornaments
had something to do with it. I jumped out—entered!
Voila toute!”

And the Captain assists Donsy in, and motions Lanky to
follow.

“Oh, Cap'n!” says Lanky.

And this is all he can say. The Captain enters last, the
door is closed, and, wheeling round, the coach takes the
road toward Williamsburg, which it has just left. Lanky
preserves the silence of admiration and triumph. His stalwart
arm has rescued his lady love; a fairy chariot rolls up
to bear her and him away from the enemy's clutches; he
rides in state, on velvet cushions, his head reposing, like a
proud, gigantic pine knot, on the silken lining of the vehicle.
He looks at Donsy, who sobs in one corner, and he can make
no reply to his master's raillery.

The small shop of Mr. A. Z. Smith, factor, is thrown
into a tremendous excitement by the coach stopping before
the door, and Mr. A. Z. Smith issues forth, hat in hand.
He is anxious to know the wishes of his Honor, who, without
replying, hands out Donsy, to his profound astonishment.
Lanky greets Mr. A. Z. Smith with dignified courtesy, and
offers his arm to lead Donsy in, with his nose in the air.

The Captain now explains all, with a profusion of morbleus
and laughter. Mr. A. Z. Smith vituperates the parson
with his wheezy little voice, and when Captain Ralph
empties a cup of rum with him, Lanky's prospects have
taken a great stride. That young gentleman makes the appointment
to go on a fishing ramble in the morning, being
Saturday, and then he re-enters the coach with the air of a
nobleman, his hand upon his hip, his hat cocked over one
eye, his boots clattering, his sword making a martial clangor,
as it bangs against the door. Captain Ralph regards these
things with a smile, and says, “to the Raleigh.”

They stop before the tavern. Lanky does not stir.

“Get out, you villain!” says the Captain; and Lanky
flies out like a rocket.

“Oh, Cap'n!” he observes.

“I have determined not to make my visit,” says the
Captain. “I shall return home on Selim; you need not
wait, Lanky, as you will walk.”

And the Captain twirls his mustaches, with a laugh, and
enters the tavern. As for Lanky, he gazes after him for a
moment, sighs, pulls his hat over his eyes, and sets out for

home, with the philosophic reflection that one cannot always
ride in chariots.