University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.
IN WHICH MR. EFFINGHAM STARTS WITH ASTONISHMENT.

“My goodness!” said Kate.

Will looked dignified.

“Did you really now?” continued the mistress of his
heart.

“Yes, madam,” replied Will.

“Who would have thought of such a thing but you! Gracious!
it almost takes my breath away to think of it!”

And Kate placed her hand upon her breast and gasped,

and panted in a manner which was delightful to behold; her
eyes dancing all the while, her utterance struggling with
pent-up laughter.

Miss Kate Effingham, and Mr., otherwise Captain William
Effingham, patriotic leader of the Cornstalk regiment
of Virginia Volunteers, exchanged these observations on the
day after the scene at the Cross Roads. Kate was sitting
at the harpsichord whereon she had been playing; Master
Willie was perched upon the table, from which he dangled
his dignified legs, clad in their silk stockings and pumps,
which latter were ornamented with huge rosettes and silver
buckles.

Kate's hair flowed on her shoulders, which were bare,
and from time to time she removed it from her rosy cheeks,
and placed it behind her ears; her white arms were bare to
the shoulder nearly: she was clad in intense pink, and wore
golden clocks. She had been singing a song of which the
following is a specimen, as nearly accurate as possible:

and during this pleasant ditty, Master Will had been kicking
his heels to keep the time.

He had then startled Kate, by relating his abortive attempt
to murder his rival, and thus the exclamation, “My
goodness!” and the further observation, “gracious!” had
been produced. After this accurate and detailed description
of the circumstances of the interview, we may proceed to
hear what the devoted lovers are saying.

“I'm sorry it takes your breath away to think of it,”
said Will, with dignity; “but that's the way you always treat
me. I never can please you:—here I am running my life
into danger for you, and you only laugh at me.”

“Goodness gracious!” cried Kate, “I didn't.”

“You did.”

“Very well, sir, Tommy Alston never contradicts me.”

“There, you are going to drive me distracted with that
gawky Alston.”

“Gawky! hum!”

And Kate pouted.

“You know he is!”

“He is'nt a bit.”

“Now you are contradicting me,” observed Will, with
great good sense

“Well, you deserve it: you know you do. Tommy was
a great deal more attentive to me at the picnic than you:
and you would have let Jim Crow take my candy—but he
wouldn't.”

Will felt that this charge was unjust, and, not being able
to contradict Kate, determined to go and challenge Mr. Alston
immediately. He rose for that purpose.

“Where are you going?” said Kate.

“I am going to make your Mr. Alston give me satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction! Oh me!”

“Yes, madam.”

“To fight?”

“Immediately.”

And Will made a motion to go.

“Oh Willie!” cried Kate, holding him back.

“Before night one of us shall sleep in death!” cried
Willie, looking concentrated daggers.

Kate uttered a scream.

“Willie, you frighten me to death!” she cried, “I was
only joking. You were very good to me at the picnic; and
I didn't mind that foolish little fellow, Jim. Didn't he turn
funny summersets? My gracious! just to think of him
makes me die o' laughing.”

And Kate burst into such a ringing peal of laughter that
Willie's hostile ideas disappeared like mist before the sun.

“What a fine time we had!” said Kate, struggling not
to laugh all her words into stammerings; “only think of the
drummer, too! and Johnny Booker, from the Bowling Green,
and the way Jim Crow ate that pie!”

“It was splendid!” said Will, whose spirits were restored
completely.

“And it wasn't far from where you were going to fight
that ridiculous duel,” observed Kate.

Will's face clouded.

“Ridiculous?”

“Yes: did any body ever hear the like? Of course,
I'm flattered, and all for your doing it for me; but to think
Captain Waters was courting me. It was too funny.”

“Funny!” said Will, with dignity; “Mr. Waters did
not think so, madam. He formally renounced all claims
to your hand.”

“He was laughing at you.”

“Laughing! laughing! laughing!” cried Will, with
increased indignation, “he shall explain!”

And he would have rushed forth.

“Oh, Willie! Willie!” cried Kate in despair, and
holding him tight; “you will kill me: I am very nervous
and sensitive.”

“Laughing!”

And Willie struggled.

“Oh no! he couldn't have laughed at you,” said Kate,
“for he is a very good-humored gentleman, and he must
have felt that you were doing a brave action, Willie. Come
now, let us make friends.”

Will shook his head.

“Oh Willie!” pleaded Kate, “to refuse me who—who
—love you so much!”

And Kate slew him with her eyes.

Will still hesitated.

“You say you love me?”

“Yes, indeed! so much!”

“How will you prove it?”

“By any thing you ask.”

Will looked triumphant, and drew from his breast the
true-love indenture, which he unrolled. At sight of it, Kate
drew back, laughing.

“You said you'd do any thing,” said Will.

“Oh! not that!”

“There is a pen on the table; now, Kate, keep your
promise.”

“Oh! I cannot!” Kate cried, laughing, and wringing
her hands, and assuming an air as of one about to cry.

Will moved toward the door.

“Oh! you are going to fight a duel,” said Kate; “it
is my duty to prevent bloodshed!”

And, seizing the pen, she affixed the words “Kate Effingham”

to the flower-and-heart-ornamented love indenture.

“There!” she said, throwing down the pen, “will that
satisfy you?”

“That is sufficient!” said Will; “now for one kiss!”

“One kiss, sir?”

“It is habitual,” said Will, with dignity; “engaged
people always kiss.”

And he opened his arms to clasp his mistress to his
heart. The fair Chloe fled, however, from the outstretched
arms, and they closed on air.

In running out, Kate struck against Mr. Hamilton, who
was coming in; whereupon Willie assumed an expression of
dignity, and rolling up his indenture, was content.

Kate, however, distrusted this dignified deportment,
and, bidding Mr. Hamilton a laughing good-morning, continued
her flight some way upon the lawn, her hair streaming,
her feet tripping merrily.

She paused finally under an oak, and looked back; Will
was not pursuing; and, satisfied upon this point, she began
singing, and so wandered on until she reached a sort of
summer-house in the dell, a favorite resort of Mr. Effingham.

She found him there now, reading, his brow resting on
his hand, the flowering vines falling around him as he half
reclined upon the trellis work.

Kate stole behind him, and before he knew it leaned her
head upon his shoulder, and uttered a little, quiet laugh.

The pale face was raised from the volume, and, leaning
his head upon that of the child, his old pensive smile came
to his lips.

“What are you reading, cousin?” asked Kate

“The writings of Steele,” he said; “and now I suppose
you are quite as much in the dark as ever.”

“Oh no! I read once a very pretty piece he wrote.”

“What was it?”

“I don't know, but it is in the other volume: where he
tells how he cried when his father, I believe it was, died,
and had a battledore; and his mother was crying, too, I
think. Poor fellow!”

Mr. Effingham smiled.

“I believe these children criticise better than we men

do,” he murmured; “but, Kate,” he continued, “don't
you like his merry pieces better?”

“I think I do; but you know I don't know any thing
about London, or any cities.”

“I am glad you do not; you shall grow up a pretty little
flower of the woods.”

“Thankee; I'm not a weed, I'd have you to know,
cousin Champ.”

“The lily of the valley and the violet are not weeds,”
he said, musing, as he looked at the bright face.

“Oh please, come, gather some violets with me?” said
Kate.

“Oh certainly,” he said, smiling, and the man and the
child were soon bending down over the grassy banks of the
stream for all sorts of flowers. They spent half an hour in
this occupation, and then slowly returned to the Hall, which
was hidden from the summer-house by a clump of trees.

Kate ran in, crying out, and admiring her nosegay. Mr.
Effingham followed.

He did not see a horse tied near the gate: he did not
observe a hat in the hall of the mansion.

He opened the door of the library, and witnessed a spectacle
which made him start. It is necessary that even the
chronicle should pause before proceeding to describe the
enormity. Let us commence a new chapter.