 | The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
2. BOOK II.
1. CHAPTER I.
HOW CAPTAIN WATERS THREATENED LANKY WITH THE BASTINADO
IF HE SIGHED.
Since the events we have related, more than a year has
passed.
March, 1765, has come.
We cannot pause here to narrate those important political
events, which marked the period between the winter of
1763 and the spring of 1765: but in the course of our history,
the results of those events will unfold themselves and rise
to view, as the coral reef long growing beneath the ocean and
unseen, raises at last its dangerous wall above the waves—
events which made more noise than breakers: upon which
lordlier ships were shattered, than ever strewed the fatal
coasts of Madagascar.
In place of regaling the reader with an historical disquisition,
we shall proceed to relate the adventures which befell
the personages of our narrative, after the violent denouement
in which, as in a huge vortex, so many of the dramatis personæ
were swallowed up.
March has come again into the world, as that merry
month promises to come in all future times —with wind, and
rainy gusts, and chill moonshiny nights, and flowers peeping
from the sod looking for April, and their close-friend the gentle
May. The earth smiles again, and begins to forget the
snow and ice:—the days are growing warm again, but fires
are still far from uncomfortable. So at least thought a
military gentleman, who warmed his hands listlessly by a
cheerful blaze, on the day at which we have now arrived.
Captain Ralph Waters sits in that room, of the old fisherman's
mansion, which listened in the winter of '63, to the
narrative of his adventures. The room is very little changed
—the Captain scarcely more. He is as handsome and martial-looking
as ever—his moustache is as long and as black
—his face as open and careless—his sword clatters as gayly,
and his spurs jingle as serenely as before. Perhaps it is
not exactly correct in us to say, that his face is as careless
as ever:—for, though there is no absolute care upon
the martial countenance, there is a decided expression of
ennui.
The worthy soldier stretches out his legs, draws a long
breath from the bottom of his stalwart chest—and yawns
portentously: he then twirls his moustache, endeavoring to
give it the warlike and gallant curl toward the eye, but the
moustache rebels, as if it were weary, like its master, and
persists in curling in the opposite direction.
The Captain, after several attempts to coerce the rebellious
ornament, submits and yawns again.
“The fact is,” he says, addressing his hat and cloak
which—hanging on a nail,—bear no bad resemblance to
an exceedingly thin gentleman, walking on the air,—“the
fact is,” says the Captain sighing, “I am going to pieces
here, like a ship cast upon the shore and falling away, timber
after timber. My good spirits are leaving me, parbleu!
—I am dying of ennui.”
And having made this communication to the hat and
cloak, he relapses into silence for a moment.
“I really think that I will set out, and go and find mon
bon père, and Charley, and Beatrice, in their mountain
home. I have not seen them, hilf himmel! since last fall:
—they talk about something they call `Springs,' up there,
that there is nothing in them, for they did me no good, whatsoever!”
And having thus floored his imaginary opponent in debate,
and proved that the medicinal baths were folly, the
soldier again paused.
“I wonder where that farcical fellow Lanky is,” continues
the Captain, again attacking his moustache, “he makes
me die a-laughing, with his opinions upon love and all that.
I fancy, however, that Miss Smith has not been enlightened
on her admirer's real sentiments yet.”
And the Captain smiles.
“Heigho!” he adds, again yawning, “what the devil is
come to me! I am expiring of ennui—I am becoming fat, I
really believe—I have no longer any muscles!”
And to test the reality of his fears, the Captain draws
his hanger, and makes half a dozen furious lunges at the
cloak, which suffers considerably.
“I'm as strong as ever,” he adds, with a sigh, “I must
go and find somebody to quarrel with, or ventre du pape!
I shall die.”
At the same moment Lanky Lugg enters—clad nearly
as we had the pleasure of seeing him on a former occasion,
and wiping his face with an exceedingly dirty sleeve. Lanky's
feet are perhaps larger than ever, his hands more like reaping
hooks, his head more like a pine knot, than ever it has
been at any previous time. But there are some changes
observable in the gentleman. His stockings are more ornamental
than before, his clothes less ragged, his gait more
proud and impressive. When he bows his head from north-east
to south-west, he presents the appearance of a mandarin
figure fillipped by the finger of a child.
As Lanky enters, the Captain makes a terrific lunge at
him, the sword's point only stopping within an inch of his
breast:—at which horrible circumstance, Lanky starts back
in profound terror, and looks at his master with astonished
eyes.
The Captain bursts into a laugh.
“Don't be afraid, mon garçon!” he says, “I am only
taking a little exercise.”
But the explanation does not satisfy Lanky, who keeps
at a safe and respectful distance, scratching his head.
“Lanky,” says the Captain, “I am dying of weariness.”
Lanky is unimpressed.
“Come, give me a little advice, you rascal! Oh! you
are afraid of my toasting iron, are you? Well, here it
goes.”
And the Captain throws away the sword, which falls with
a tremendous clatter upon the table. This reassures his
companion, and obedient to his master's sign, he sits down
in the chimney corner.
“I am getting tired of life, Lanky,” resumes the Captain,
“existence, parbleu! seems to me not worth having, so to
speak. Come, give me your views. What do you think?”
“I never thinks about nothin', Cap'n,” says Lanky;
“leastways—”
“Never think!”
“I does sometimes—yes, I does,” adds Lanky, correcting
himself.
“What do you think of? Of Donsy Smith, I'll wager.”
Lanky draws himself up like an emperor.
“I ain't seen that young 'ooman lately, Cap'n,” he says.
“Have you quarrelled?”
“No, Cap'n.”
“How then?”
“Parted.”
And Lanky groans.
“Lanky, you are getting into bad spirits,” says the Captain,
“I shall not permit that, Diable! if we are both down,
what will become of us?”
Lanky nods his head, with a sigh.
“Don't sigh, you rascal—I will not allow it: no retainer
of mine shall sigh on pain of the bastinado.”
Lanky apparently does not understand this rhetorical
paraphrase.
“Take a slice of bacon, and a mug of beer, and get your
spirits again,” continues the Captain.
Lanky assents to this, and is soon munching and drinking.
“Now advise me, animal!” says the Captain, “egad! I
am perfectly ennuyé,” and the soldier yawns.
“S'pose you fall in love, Cap'n,” says Lanky, with his
mouth full.
The Captain greets this suggestion with a laugh.
“I cannot,” he replies.
“You ain't tried.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, sur.”
“And successfully?”
“Yes, Cap'n.”
“Miss Smith, eh?”
“Miss Smith and me, is 'most quit—” says Lanky, wofully.
“But she was the object of your affections?”
Lanky nods, wofully.
“I think then, I shall follow your advice,” says his master,
“and as you are a man of taste, I will adopt your own
sweetheart.”
Lanky starts.
“Rather a pretty girl, too,” says the Captain, caressing
the midnight fringe upon his upper lip.
“Oh, Cap'n!” Lanky observes, overcome with horror.
The soldier bursts into laughter.
“Well, well!” he says, “don't fear: we shall not probably
be rivals—but don't be too well assured. Let us now
dismiss the subject, and on this fine March morning, lay out
some plan for amusement.”
Lanky reflects.
“There's the races sir, near Jeamston,” he says soon.
“But they're a month or so off. Now in a month I
shall die, at the present rate. Something else, parbleu!
mon ami!”
“S'pose you take a ride, Cap'n: I never see a day better
for't.”
The Captain yawns.
“Well,” he says, “I believe I shall follow your advice;
go and get the Arab.”
Lanky rises obediently.
“No: the roan,” says the Captain.
“He's cast a shoe, and that's a fact, Cap'n.”
“Diable! then the Arabian—Selim, as the heathen dog
I bought him of calls him.”
Lanky goes out, and the Captain yawns uninterruptedly
until he returns.
“Ready, sir,” says Mr. Lugg.
The Captain then buckles on his sword, issues forth and
mounts the slim-legged animal, who whinnies at his approach.
He throws the bridle on his neck, and trusts to
Providence to direct him. Lanky meanwhile resumes his
meat and beer, and saws imaginary obstacles with the stereotyped
north-east and south-west movement of his visage.
Before following the soldier on his morning ride, let us
return for a moment to those personages who no longer light
up the rude mansion with their pleasant faces as of old—
and whose whereabouts we have heard Captain Waters very
briefly allude to in his muttered soliloquy.
We have seen how Hallam and his “Company of Virginia
Comedians,” had, like birds of passage, disappeared
from Virginia, after gathering in those “sweet fields”—to
carry out the simile—as much golden grain as could be
found therein: and the whispered words of Beatrice, as she
sobbed and poured out her tender regrets to Charles Waters,
have put the reader in possession of the particulars of
that last interview between herself and her pseudo father.
We may understand readily how the young girl's reluctant
and half-formed desperate resolution to remain with
Hallam, had melted before the tender caresses of the kind
old man, her uncle—the more than tender looks and words
of him whom she had loved so dearly, and yet given up
with a bursting heart, at the call of inexorable duty. Thus
she had remained—and soon after the scene upon the river,
the company had taken their departure, and were no more
seen in those borders—not any more, for ever.
Hallam, Shylock, Shallow, Mr. Effingham—all these
had passed from Beatrice's horizon, leaving it bright and
calm: and in the fresh sunshine now she saw alone the
figures of her kind uncle, and her tender Charles, and jovial
honest Captain Ralph, and Townes, and Lanky—all
smiling on her, full of love for her. Thus the poor dove,
beaten so long by storms, and tossed about from land to
land; exposed every where to persecutions, similar to those
under which we have seen her labor; thus Beatrice found
light and joy. God had heard the prayers she had uttered,
and the harbor was now reached: henceforth she was safe
from storms.
Her objections were now all removed, and Charles Waters
become her husband: and to him, too, life opened and
grew brilliant with an untold splendor: all his sadness
passed—his face was bright and joyous—she was beside him,
loved so long, denied to him so long, now all his own.
The spring following the autumn and winter, whose events
we have related, passed away, and nothing clouded the unalloyed
happiness of the household, but a slight cough
which Beatrice had caught, she said, far back as her first arrival
in Virginia, that day when she fell into the water from
the “Nancy.”
With the quick apprehension of a lover, Charles Waters
magnified this slight indisposition, and determined to go and
take up his residence for a time near one of the newly discovered
mineral springs, beyond the mountains. Beatrice
resisted this proposal at first, and laughed at his apprehensions—and
indeed her cough was the least possible, and gave
her no pain at all. She saw, however, that if she persisted
in her opposition he would be pained, and so she assented;
and ere long Charles and herself, and old John Waters, who
would not leave her, his new-found daughter and little pet,
all went away and took up their sojourn in the far mountain
land, leaving the unfortunate Captain Ralph to amuse himself
with Lanky in the paternal mansion.
Captain Ralph had, upon reflection, determined to remain;
having become accustomed to jovial society, he said,
those backwoods would kill him—spite of having the bon
père, Charley, and that “Marguerite des Marguerites”—
Beatrice, to narrate his adventures to. Mr. Jack Hamilton
and himself had become great friends, and this had for a
time diverted the active soldier's ennui; but Hamilton
could not fill up all his time; and the Captain was beginning
to spend many weary hours, such as we have seen him
yawning through, when our story again opened.
About once a month the lazy and leisurely post brought
him letters from the far mountains; and carried back huge
epistles from the Captain in return. In these epistles the
the progress of Lanky Lugg's love affair, which we shall
see something of in the course of our narrative. Beatrice
and the rest always laughed heartily at these accounts; and
their letters to the soldier were full of mirth, and tenderness,
and joy; especially those of the young girl, who experienced
a species of wistful sadness, whenever she wrote the
name of her dead father, “Ralph Waters.”
We shall now leave them, happy, joyous, in their far
mountain home, and proceed to the history of other personages
of the drama.
2. CHAPTER II.
AN ADVENTURE.
Let us follow the Captain.
Mounted on his beautiful steed, he set forward, utterly
careless whither his steps tended—leaving philosophically
to the intelligent animal this portion of the matter. The
horse took the road toward the mountains, as if he knew
where his master's heart was.
“Very well,” said the Captain, “that suits me, Monsieur
Selim, perfectly well. If you put forth that speed of
yours, you will reach them in a day, or less!—Strange,”
continued the soldier, “how that girl has won upon me!
By heaven, she's an angel—but faith! I can't go so far to-day
—I am intensely lazy. What a day to be lazy in, too!
It's extravagant.”
And the soldier looked admiringly at the trees just putting
forth their tender leaves, the grass just beginning to
peep up and lie a verdant background, for a thousand flowers;
the little streams dancing along joyously in the gay
sunlight. He listened, with pleasure, to the small birds
which chirruped gayly, and plumed their wings in the fresh
bracing wind of March, and went rising and falling on the
air billows, predicting summer and warmth. All pleased
him. On the day before there had been quite a heavy fall of
rain, and all the streams were swollen, and overflowed their
banks. The Captain had more than one of these to cross
them. He allowed the water to splash his boots with great
indifference, and rode on carelessly, humming a merry song
all about Marshal Soubise and the great Frederic. The
soldier's voice was excellent, and he gave the “Tra la! tra
la!” with great force and spirit—completely to his own
satisfaction, indeed.
He came thus, singing merrily, and looking around him,
with the roving and curious eye of the partisan, to one of
those hollows in the hills, such as are found frequently in
all portions of Virginia. The road which had for a mile or
two traversed a species of wooded upland, now descended
abruptly into the gorge, and mounted the thickly firred declivity
beyond. Through the gorge ran a deep stream,
which, swollen by the rain, had overflowed its banks, and
now rushed on under swaying pine boughs, with a merry
brawl, which sounded far from unpleasantly. The sunshine
gilded the rushing stream, the bold hill beyond, the thick
firs, and rude masses of rock: and so picturesque was the
scene, that Captain Ralph paused a moment, and looked at
it admiringly.
His fit of admiration soon subsided, however, and touching
his horse lightly, he passed down the steep road, having
resumed his song with new spirit. Selim hesitated a moment,
as he was about to place his delicate hoof in the water.
“Tra la! tra la!” came from the soldier's lungs lustily,
and apparently satisfied that this signified “go on!” the
beautiful animal plunged into the water. In an instant his
back was covered, and Captain Ralph Waters experienced
a disagreeable sensation about the lower part of his person.
“Morbleu! we are in for it!” he cried, drawing up his
knees, despairingly.
Selim snorted, and began to swim.
“Right!” cried the soldier; “Go on, comrade! What
is a trifling wetting!”
And in defiance of the obstacle, the Captain began again,
more lustily than before, to troll his ditty. Selim swam
vigorously; dashed the water from his glowing chest, and by
the time his master had arrived at the chorus of his song,
reached the opposite bank.
He emerged from the water like a statue of glittering
ebony, and the soldier, with a careless shake of his clothes,
was about to proceed onward, when suddenly his attention
was attracted to the opposite declivity, which, as we have
said, was singularly steep and rugged.
Down this road there now came, at full speed, a chariot
drawn by four spirited horses, who had plainly run away, for
the coachman in vain endeavored to check them, by vigorously
tightening the reins, and uttering violent cries.
The animals, with their rosetted heads fixed obstinately
sidewise, took no notice of these signs, and swept onward at
a gallop down the declivity toward the stream, dragging the
huge chariot like a mere nutshell, rudely over the stones.
At every bound the framework cracked, at every stone the
unwieldly vehicle rumbled and groaned.
“Parbleu! here will be a smash!” cried the Captain,
as the animals rushed towards him; “in an instant they will
be buried in that stream!”
At the same moment, the head of a gentleman emerged
from the door, and over his shoulders were seen the affrighted
faces of two young girls.
“Women, morbleu!” cried the soldier; “to the rescue!”
And as the furious animals rushed headlong toward the
stream, he caught, with a powerful hand, the bridle of the
leader next to him, and exerting all his strength, made him
swerve.
Selim reared and fell upon his haunches, as the hot mouth
of the animal struck his neck, and the Captain, clinging like
a vice to the rein he had grasped, was drawn half from his
saddle. The other leader, checked thus suddenly, reared,
and his hoof struck the Captain's arm heavily.
In another instant he would have been hurled, in spite
of his great strength and activity, beneath the feet of the
animals, when the gentleman whose head he had seen, and
the coachman, both came to his assistance, and the coach-horses,
still struggling, panting, and furious, were subdued.
The Captain rose erect in his saddle again, and seeing
the terrified faces of the ladies at the window of the chariot,
took off his hat with his left hand, and made an elegant
bow.
“Excuse my rudeness, Mesdemoiselles,” he said, “that
devil of an animal has nearly broken my right arm, parbleu!”
And the soldier made a wry face, as he tried to move it.
“I owe you a great many thanks, sir,” said the gentleman,
who had now abandoned the horses to the coachman;
“we should have run great risk here—indeed, I may say
that you saved our lives.”
“Not at all, not all—no thanks,” said the Captain; “but
faith you would have got a wetting, sir; and I very much
fear those charming young ladies would have had their silks
and velvets utterly demolished. Upon reflection, I am convinced
that so far they owe me thanks.”
“Pray let us know then, whom to return them to,” said
the gentleman, with a courteous smile.
“To Captain Ralph Waters—sometimes called the
Chevalier Waters, and the Chevalier La Rivière, by the
rascally French, who translate every thing, parbleu!” said
the soldier.
“Then, Captain, myself and my daughters are deeply
in your debt. My name is Lee, and I insist upon your going
with us to my house at Riverhead, to have your bruise
dressed.”
“My bruise? Oh yes! I had forgotten it: but, excellent
sir, I do not attach importance to these trifles. A
bruise, more or less? Basta! tis nothing. Still I will
gladly go with you, for I am dying of ennui.”
“Thanks, sir—now let us see to the means of returning”
The coachman soon reassured Mr. Lee upon this point.
The horses were now quiet, he said, and would go along easily.
They could not cross Duck creek, as it was too deep,
but the horses could be turned, and they could take the
cross-road to Riverhead. So the horses were turned, and
Mr. Lee, entering the carriage, the huge vehicle rolled up
the hill which it had descended so rapidly, and took the direction
of Riverhead; Captain Ralph Waters following
composedly by the window, and when not exchanging compliments
with the ladies, continuing to hum in a low voice,
his “Tra la! tra la!”
3. CHAPTER III.
HOW CAPTAIN RALPH INFORMED MISS HENRIETTA LEE THAT
WAR WAS THE NATURAL RELATION OF THE SEXES.
An hour's ride brought them to Riverhead, and the chariot
rolled around the gravelled circle, and stopped before the
large portico.
The old mansion looked much the same as it did on that
day, when in company with Mr. Champ Effingham, we first
entered its wide hall; and the soft leaves of spring began to
rustle around the gables, and throw their delicate and restless
shadows on the ancient walls. On that day, when Beatrice,
full of grief and mortification, had entered the house,
it looked silent and dismal, and the winds of autumn sobbed
around it mournfully:—now, times and personages were
changed. In place of a sad, weary-looking mansion, there
was a pleasant, cheerful one:—in place of a poor wounded
heart, a frail trembling form at the door, there entered under
that broad portal, a martial merry stranger, with huge
moustache, and jingling spurs and sword, and serene brows
and lips, save when the brow was elevated by its appreciation
of some odd humor, the lips moved by laughter.
Autumn was gone—merry and laughing spring had come.
They entered. Henrietta and Clare retired to make
their toilettes for dinner, and Mr. Lee explained briefly how
he had been to visit a neighbor, where he had spent the
night—was returning—how the horses took fright at something:
how they had been unable to check their fury, or
leap out. He wound up with a second expression of grateful
thanks.
The Captain refused to receive them, and declared that
he was delighted to have met with something to arouse his
blood. Then Mr. Lee offered him a dressing-room. No,
he did not need it: and in the middle of the conversation
the young girls made their re-entrance.
Then came thanks again, which the Captain received as
before—and Clare, with a delightful look of kind courtesy
in her sad little face, held out her hand. The Captain
pressed it with martial and chivalric respect to his lips.
He thought that this ceremony would be repeated immediately
with the lily hand of Henrietta: but he was mistaken.
Henrietta's thanks were returned with much more
coolness and stateliness than Clare's; and she made no
movement indicating an intention to surrender her hand to
the soldier. She was clad as usual, with the utmost elegance
and richness, and looked like a queen—except that
her mischievously sparkling eyes somewhat belied her royal
air.
The Captain submitted to this refusal with great good-humor,
and looked admiringly at the brilliant countenance.
Henrietta gave him back his gaze, and declared afterwards,
that she had never met with such an impudent person in all
her life before. Perhaps Captain Ralph was conscious of
what was passing through the young girl's mind, for he
turned away in a moment smiling.
Ten minutes afterwards a servant announced that dinner
was ready, and Henrietta hastily grasped her father's arm.
The Captain smiled again, as he offered his own to Clare,
and said to himself, “Why, she don't like me, parbleu!”
And so they entered, and took their places, the Captain making
grimaces.
Clare saw the expression of his countenance, and said,
suddenly:
“Oh, sir! you gave me the arm which the horse bruised
—I am very sorry!”
“Nothing—a mere trifle!” said the Captain, sitting
down; “do not give yourself a moment's uneasiness about
it, madam. We soldiers are accustomed to these incidents.”
“You have seen some service then, sir,” said Mr. Lee,
as dinner proceeded; “though I might have known that
from your appearance simply.”
“Yes, yes,” said the soldier; “not a little, excellent
sir. I was seized with a roving fit when I was a beardless
youth, and left home and the bon père—old John Waters,
the fisherman down there is my father, and an excellent father,
morbleu! See what bad habits I have caught!”
Mr. Lee smiled.
“Is it not shocking, madam,” continued the soldier, addressing
Henrietta, “that even in the presence of such
should not be able to drop my little peculiarities?”
“I suppose it is the result of your profession, sir,” returned
Henrietta, coldly. She had not forgotten the stare
yet.
“Certainly, certainly” said the Captain, “undoubtedly!
We poor soldiers cannot be expected to be very polished.
We find ourselves whipping out our `morbleus' and `egads,'
parbleu!—see there, again! Really, it is deplorable!”
And the Captain seemed so much vexed with himself,
that Clare could not help smiling.
“Ah, you appreciate the soldier's disadvantage, madam,”
said Captain Ralph, returning Clare's smile.
“Humph!” said Henrietta, to herself—“that means, I
suppose, that I am very unreasonable, and do not.”
“Madam—your elder sister, I presume—she looks much
older—does not appreciate the said disadvantages, I fear,”
continued the Captain, “and that is, I think, unreasonable.”
Henrietta frowned, and seemed to relish very slightly
this verification of her thoughts.
“Nothing could be more natural, Captain Waters,” she
said, somewhat piqued, “than that you should retain some
of the ways of camps. It would be unreasonable, as you
have said, to look for any thing else in—”
“A rude soldier. Well, I finish your thoughts, and you
are right. We had hard times under his gracious Majesty,
the great Frederic of Prussia. Diable! blows came as
thick as hail, and there was little polish except that on steel
caps and halberds, madam! Do not, however, understand
me as complaining. No, we had a glorious time—fighting
like devils, drinking, bivouacking, taking towns, chasing the
French; ah! it was a glorious life—believe me, madam, a
thing to stir the blood, and make one happy!”
With which words, the Captain raised his arm enthusiastically,
and in consequence uttered a distinct and unmistakable
“Diable!”
“Your recollections seem exceedingly vivid, sir,” said
Henrietta, with a satirical curl of her lip, “take care of your
arm!”
“Excellent advice!” cried the Captain, laughing, “admirable!”
“Will you not let me get you something, to dress the
bruise, sir?” said Clare, softly, “it is very little to do for
you, after exposing yourself to so much danger for us.”
“No, no! a thousand thanks, however, my dear Miss
Lee,” said the soldier, “you really make me regret that I
did not break both arms!”
And having uttered this witticism, Captain Waters
emptied a huge glass of wine to Clare's health.
“It would be hard for you to suffer such a calamity now,
after passing through so many wars,” said Mr. Lee, with a
smile, as the young ladies rose to leave the table.
“Yes, yes,” said the Captain, throwing a last smiling
glance upon Henrietta, “yes, Mr. Lee—after so many blood-and-thunder
battles, cannonading, charges, and assaults on
towns and ports, and every thing of that description—you
are right: it would be a bêtise to have my arm broken by
a horse, parbleu!”
“You were about to speak of your campaigns just now,
when we were drawn off by a discussion, in regard to camp-manners,”
Mr. Lee said, smiling.
“My campaigns? Ah! I cannot draw the diagram, as
well as I can handle my halberd in the ranks, sir.”
“You fought at Rosbach?”
“Yes, excellent sir.”
“Were you with the Duke of Cumberland?”
“No, Heaven be thanked. Being nonplussed is bad—
but by Marshal D'Etrées!”
And the soldier's moustache curled.
“Lissa, perhaps, was another of your battles,” said Mr.
Lee, who seemed to be curious on the subject of the Seven
Years' War:
The Captain nodded.
“Not Glatz, I hope.”
“Yes,” said the soldier.
“Really you must have seen a great deal of service,
Captain Waters,” said the old gentleman. “If it is not too
much trouble, would you be good enough to explain the position
of the forces at Lissa—the numbers of combatants and
other matters. The subject interests me deeply, and you
were an eye-witness?”
“Yes, my dear sir—yes: Will I explain, say you?
Why, certainly.”
Mr. Lee bent over, much interested. The Captain poured
some drops of wine on the table, and elongated them into
the lines of a diagram, with his finger.
“Mark you—our force was only 30,000, that of the enemy
close upon 100,000,” commenced the Captain; “it was
fought on the 5th of December, and this was the position of
the battalions: the great Frederic here—there Prince Charles
of Lorraine, and General Nadasti. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Lee, bending over.
“Well, parbleu! now for the battle.”
And the soldier began.
We regret that we cannot follow him, in his stirring and
excited narrative—a narrative in which men and actions rose
visibly before the auditor, colored by the brilliant and vigorous
mind of the soldier. The battle of Lissa, in which the
great Frederic surpassed Rosbach, has unfortunately nothing
at all to do with our history, and we are compelled to omit
the Captain's account of it—an account which Mr. Lee listened
to with rapt attention.
“That was it, parbleu!” cried the soldier. “Frederic
never surpassed it in all his wonderful campaigns—the old
Satyr! Imagine a wild boar cool and laughing—there is
the man, at Lissa. Well, after that last charge—a perfect
hell of guns and troopers, rushing on like a lake of fire suddenly
let loose, all was said! The enemy were nothing but
a parcel of sheep. We took nearly 30,000 prisoners on the
field, and 40,000 more, to say nothing of guns and wagons, at
Breslau. Tonnere! it was a day which a man remembers all
his life, and I hear the drums rolling over Breslau now—as
I hear plainly the tumult of that great tremendous battle,
roaring, crashing, rising and falling;—I almost smell the
blood!”
And the soldier's eyes were illuminated with a brilliant
and martial fire, which riveted the gaze of his deeply-interested
auditor.
“Ah, sir,” said Mr. Lee, “I envy you those experiences—you
are very fortunate: how grandly you must have
felt after that fight.”
“For a time—yes, friend. But it was not the most
agreeable sort of life. True, we have wild and splendid adventures,
passion, excitement, and delight. But there is some
relate some of my experiences of that suffering phase—but
it is not necessary. Parbleu! I don't regret any thing.”
And the two men rose, and betook themselves to the
drawing-room.
After an hour's conversation, in which Henrietta preserved
the same expression of coldness and pique, the soldier
rose to take his leave.
Mr. Lee held out his hand courteously, and said:
“I should esteem it a favor, Captain Waters, if you
would occasionally call and see me here. I am an old man,
and do not visit much myself: do not stand upon ceremony.”
“Ah, mon ami,” said the soldier, “you would have
some more battles—is it not so?”
“Yes—you have guessed my hobby,” replied the old
gentleman, smiling: “but I fear you will become weary.”
“Not at all. I am fond of going over my adventures,
and you know we can always defer the subject, until the
fair ladies, here, retire. While they are present, we will
discuss the last fashions and modes de Paris.”
With which the Captain twirls his moustache, and directs
an engaging smile toward Henrietta.
“Indeed, sir!” says the queenly young girl, “you must
have a very low opinion of our sex.”
“How! my dear madam?”
Henrietta feels some resentment, at this easy mode of
address, and becomes more indignant than ever, at the Captain's
impudence. But she replies:
“The injustice lies in your imagining that we think of
nothing but dress, and cannot understand battles.”
“Ah, you do me injustice, now,” says the Captain. “I
am so far from thinking your charming sex averse to battles,
that I am convinced that war is the normal state of their
lives.”
“War, sir?”
“To be sure! nothing plainer. Ah, my dear mademoiselle,
you cannot deny it! You make war, for ever, on the
unfortunate rude sex. Is it not so?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Possibly: then you are an exception—I can understand
war is your sex's natural state. See, the artillery of your
eyes—how fatal is it! What fatal, death-dealing glances,
you throw. By heaven, it is worse than gunpowder, and
many a tall fellow has succumbed. Well, well, I see I am
wearying you. I shall now respectfully bid you farewell.”
“I hope your arm does not pain you, sir,” says Clare,
softly.
“Not now, madam—scarcely at all:—'tis a mere trifle—
not like the cut I got at Glatz.”
“Remember, Captain, that Glatz is promised me,” says
Mr. Lee, “and I shall give you but a day or so to rest, after
fighting Lissa over for me. When shall we expect you?”
“Morbleu! very soon! I assure you that I am dying
of weariness down there—the bon père, Charley, and all,
are gone—behold me all alone, a sole cavalier, fault of
better.”
“Why does he not speak in French at once,” said Henrietta
to herself, satirically.
“Do you speak French, madam?” asked the Captain.
“No, sir,” said Henrietta, more piqued than ever, at
having her countenance read so easily, “why do you ask?”
“Faith! I saw you smiling at my unfortunately unEnglish
way of talking.”
Henrietta made no reply.
“Nothing is more natural, than that you should have
acquired the habit, in the Seven Years' War, Captain,” said
Mr. Lee, “and I promise you that I will listen to your account
of Glatz, if it is given entirely in French.”
“Well, sir—prepare yourself very soon. As I said, time
hangs on my hands, down yonder. Lanky, he is my servant,
amuses me sometimes, but I find much time on my hands.”
“Your visit will be a pleasure, and an honor, sir; and
permit me, again, to thank you for your service rendered to
us to-day.”
“Oh, it was nothing, as you know: and now, sir, I must
go—as I perceive that Mademoiselle Henriette—have I mistaken
your name, madam?—No? Well, I am afraid you
tire of me—and I take my leave.”
With which words the Captain bowed to Henrietta cavalierly,
the old gentleman, issued forth and mounted his horse.
“A splendid girl!” he said to himself, as he got into
the saddle, “what if I seriously thought of marrying? I
am sure she would have me—we would suit each other perfectly.”
And laughing quietly to himself, the Captain returned
homeward, humming his “Tra la! tra la!”
4. CHAPTER IV.
AN ENCOUNTER ON THE HIGHWAY.
Two days after the scene which we have just related, Henrietta
and Clare were sitting in the drawing-room at Riverhead,
waiting for their father, who was making his toilette,
to accompany them out to dinner. The chariot stood at
the door, with its four glossy horses, and liveried coachman
and footman.
Henrietta was amusing herself with a new book, at which
she laughed from time to time merrily. Clare was sitting
quietly engaged upon some small ornamental work, and her
sweet tender little face, wore its usual expression of quiet
sadness, as with her long dusky lashes resting on her cheek,
she pursued her occupation.
At last Henrietta threw down the volume, petulantly.
“I cannot have any peace of my life!” she exclaimed.
Clare raised her head.
“How, sister?” she said.
`For thinking of that rude man's impudence!”
“Who—Captain Waters?”
“Yes.”
“Did he offend you?”
“My goodness, Clarry! how unobservant you are! Did
you not hear his impertinent speeches to us?”
“No, sister.”
“Well, I heard them! and I think he is odious!”
“Odious?”
“Hateful!”
“Oh, you ought not to place too much stress upon his
roughness, sister,” said Clare, “he has not been bred in
courts—he has been fighting, you know.”
“Is that any reason why he should insult a lady?”
“Insult you, sister!”
“Yes, Clarry—you know he did. `Ladies could not
understand any thing but fashions,' indeed! He would wait
until we had retired, to narrate his heroic achievements!”
Clare smiled faintly.
“I don't think he meant to offend you, or me, sister,” she
said.
“Well, I choose to be offended, Clarry, whether you do
or not! Really! `The artillery of my eyes—war the natural
relation of the sexes!' Was any thing ever more impudent!”
“It was a very harmless jest, I think,” replied Clare.
“I think it very impudent.”
“Oh, no, sister.”
“There you are, Clarry, with your excessive good-nature!
You see nothing improper, in the free and easy address
of this rude man—who—”
“Who did us a very great service, sister,” added Clare,
softly.
“Well, suppose he did: any gentleman would have done
as much. Do not understand me to say, however, that I
think him a gentleman.”
“Papa says that he is a very worthy gentleman.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Henrietta.
“He says,” continued Clare, “that from his own account
he must have fought very bravely,—`like a lion,' papa
says—”
“Yes—his boasting!”
“No, no—papa says that he never mentioned himself,
unless he was questioned.”
“Mock modesty!”
Clare smiled again, with the same faint, quiet expression.
“You are determined, I see, to dislike Captain Waters,”
she said, “and I cannot convince you, that he meant no
offence when he was here.”
“No, Clarry, you cannot.”
“Your prejudices are very strong, sister.”
“Yes, they are, and I confess that I think this gentleman
is odious, hateful, impertinent; and I will never see him
again.”
As she spoke, a loud, hearty voice, was heard to say in
the passage, “Parbleu! you need not announce me, friend!”
and Captain Ralph entered, smiling and cheerful
“Bon jour, mesdames!” he said, bowing, “or if you do
not like French, permit me to inquire about your health in
good English.”
“Thank you, I am well, sir,” said Clare, with a courteous
little inclination of her smiling face.
“And Miss Henrietta?” said the Captain, “I am sure,
if outward appearances are to be relied on, she is distressingly
well, in awfully good spirits.”
“I am very well, sir,” said Henrietta, coldly.
“Any more adventures, madam?” asked the Captain,
with great interest, “no horses running away again, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, you have not missed me?”
“No, sir!” said Henrietta, with great emphasis.
The Captain smiled.
“Well, then, you are in my debt somewhat,” he said.
“How, pray sir?” asked Henrietta, with cold surprise,
and a look which was intended to transfix and render speechless
the audacious visitor.
“The plainest thing in the world, morbleu!” said the
Captain, “I am a bachelor.”
“Sir?”
“I live all alone down there, in my cabin on the river—
where the bon père used to live, you know.”
“No, I do not know, sir.”
“Ah, well! that does not alter the fact,” said the Captain,
with a cheerful smile, “it is the paternal mansion—my
father, my dear madam, is that excellent old fisherman, John
Waters. But he is now away with Charley—in the mountains;
and thus I am alone by myself—as lonely, parbleu!
as an unfortunate bear, forced to suck his paws for amusement.”
“Well, sir?” said Henrietta, as coldly as ever.
“Well,” continued the Captain, smiling, “it naturally
surrounded with it, I break the tenth commandment—though
not the clause relating to my neighbor's wife. When I
left you two days since, my unfortunate mansion seemed
more lonely than ever. Voila tout! That is why I missed
you.”
And the Captain curled his moustache toward the eye,
with a fascinating smile. It was Henrietta's lip that
curled.
“I would counsel you to marry then, sir,” she said, satirically,
“a companion would cheer your loneliness.”
“See! now, what a remarkable coincidence of thought!”
cried the soldier, laughing. “Parole d'honneur, Madam
Henrietta, you have hit upon just what occurred to myself!”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes, indeed—verily, as the English chaplain of our
regiment used to say, with a dreadful drawl, however, through
his nose. Yes, indeed—upon my word of honor as a soldier!
That has struck me—yes, I want a wife. For you
know I cannot be all the time with Jack Hamilton, and those
stupid members of the ruder sex.”
“Mr. Hamilton is one of my friends, sir,” said Henrietta,
more and more piqued.
“Ah? Well, he is a good fellow—an excellent fellow!
Parbleu! a delightful companion, and we have emptied many
a jovial cup together:—a good comrade—Seigneur Mort-Reynard,
as I call him. Guess, now, his name for me!”
“I have very little turn for guessing, sir.”
“Shall I reveal it then?”
“If you fancy, sir.”
“Certainly, I fancy. He calls me—the farceur!—his
name for me is Don Moustachio! What a deplorable attempt
at a jest.”
“It is at least characteristic, sir,” said Henrietta, with a
satirical smile.
“Why, yes,” replied the Captain, “there is some justice
in designating me by my moustache.”
And the Captain caressed that ornament affectionately;
his white teeth glittering under the ebon fringe like huge
pearls.
“A good companion is Hamilton,” he added, “and I
after all ma'm'selle, there is nothing like the divine sex.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“Oh, you think me insincere!”
“No, sir!”
“You think I flatter you.”
“Was any portion of your observation intended for me,
sir? Really you are very kind!”
“Any portion for yourself! Why the whole of it was
for you.”
“A thousand thanks, sir,” said Henrietta, with the same
satirical expression.
“You deserved it, morbleu!” added the Captain, “and
lest I may be considered ungallant by Miss Clare, I will say
that she deserved even more.”
Clare smiled politely.
“You are very gallant, I think, Captain Waters,” she
said.
“I gallant!—oh, no! ma'm'selle: I am only a rude soldier.
I handle the pike and halberd, sword and pistol, carbine
and musket, much better than the implements of peace
—smiling words, polite speeches, and all that. Frankness,
madam, is my only virtue—but that I claim to have in excess.”
“It is a quality I very much admire, Captain Waters,”
here interposed the voice of Mr. Lee, who had entered behind
the soldier; “give you good day, sir.”
And the old gentleman shook the soldier cordially by
the hand.
“You are going to ride, sir,” said the Captain; “I believe
another of my shining merits is, that I always happen
to arrive malapropos.”
“No—our ride is of no importance: to-morrow will do
as well. You came to dine with us, doubtless, and so I will
send the chariot back.”
Henrietta could not restrain a little sigh of dissatisfaction:
to be disappointed in their ride!—to be obliged to
entertain the soldier all day long! It was too vexatious.”
The Captain heard the sigh, and catching the expression
of the young girl's face, smiled. He had her at his mercy,
and for a moment paused maliciously.
At last he said, laughing:
“No, no, sir! I could not think of forcing you to defer
your excursion: I perceive that mesdames here are bent
upon it.”
“We were only going over to Effingham Hall, sir—a
matter of no urgency:—merely a friendly call,” said Mr. Lee.
“You shake your head. Ah, well sir—go with us. What
say you?”
“I have not the pleasure of Effingham Hall's acquaintance,”
said the Captain, coldly, “though I remember going
there one day, to challenge Mr. Effingham, Jr.”
“A challenge, sir!” said Henrietta.
“Yes, my dear madam. Mr. Effingham, Jr., aforesaid,
ran his toasting iron through my brother's shoulder, and as
there was a little affair already nearly hatched between them,
I thought it my duty to take Charley's place.”
“But you did not fight!” exclaimed poor Clare, “you
know—”
There she stopped, with her face overshadowed.
“No, Ma'm'selle Claire, vous avez raison. No! we did
not, and that for one circumstance which would not interest
you. The young gentleman went away, doubtless ignorant
of the fact that I had called.”
Poor Clare's head drooped, as the Captain uttered these
words, and she murmured, “Yes, he went the same evening.”
She alone knew all.
“Therefore,” continued the Captain, “I decline going
to Effingham Hall: but that does not prevent my riding by
the chariot, mesdames, for a mile or two. I am desperately
tired of that Lanky's society.”
And, smiling, the Captain issued forth with the company.
“Ah, your beautiful horse again,” said Mr. Lee, “an
Arabian, sir?”
“Yes, I took a fancy to him in Constantinople, and
bought him for a handful of piastres. A beautiful horse is
the next thing to a beautiful woman!”
“Thanks for the comparison, sir,” said Henrietta, disdainfully.
“Is it not just?”
“Sir?”
“Come, is not Selim handsome? Answer, ma'mselle.”
“Yes, sir—well?”
“That satisfies me: and faith! I am so well pleased
with getting the better of you in the argument, that if you
want him, I will present you with Selim.”
Henrietta looked at the soldier.
“You would suit each other: he's a charming horse,”
said the Captain, laughing.
Henrietta was completely overcome, by these audacious
compliments: and could only say, coldly:
“Thank you, sir—I have a riding horse.”
“Will you ride on horseback, or with us?” interposed
Mr. Lee.
“On horseback, sir—parbleu, on horseback. I am more
at home in the saddle—and Selim understands me.”
And passing to the carriage door, the Captain gallantly
assisted the young girls to enter the huge vehicle, laughing
all the while, at the successful generalship which forced
Henrietta to give her hand to him.
The chariot then rolled off toward Effingham Hall, and
the Captain, mounting Selim, who stood ready, rode toward
it, humming his eternal “tra la! tra la!” which he occasionally
changed, for the sake of variety, to “Tirra lirra! tirra
lirra!”
He rode for some miles by the carriage window, and
managed to materially deepen the impression of his impertinence
upon Henrietta, by declining to understand her satirical
repartees, and applauding them as so many evidences of
sprightliness, with which he was delighted. When the
chariot arrived at the road which led from the highway to
Effingham Hall, the Captain drew up.
“You will not go with us, then?” said Mr. Lee, “I
hope you have no quarrel with the squire, sir?”
“None—none: I may even say, I think that we are
good friends, since I recollect some very polite speeches he
made on our former meeting. But I must go to Williamsburg
this morning. I had quite forgotten that this is the
day of the arrival of the mountain post.”
“Ah, yes—your father—”
“Precisely, my dear sir—father, brother, sister: how
could I neglect that, morbleu!”
“Well, sir: then we must hope to see you at Riverhead
soon again.”
“With pleasure! with pleasure! Mesdames, bon jour!”
And the Captain bowed elegantly, taking off, and lowering
to his saddle-bow, his hat with its dark feather. The carriage
rolled on, and Captain Ralph continued his way, alternately
humming his song, laughing to himself, and addressing
himself to the woods, in a half audible tone.
He had nearly reached the town, when the sound of
a horse's hoofs attracted his attention, and raising his head,
which had been for some time hanging down listlessly, the
soldier saw within ten rods of him, a gentleman who was riding
toward him, mounted on a splendid sorrel.
Something in the air of the traveller, struck him as
strangely familiar; and his keen eye plunged beneath the
drooping hat, which, black like the stranger's clothes, covered
his brow.
The traveller drew nearer—raised his head quickly: and
the two men at the same moment recognized each other.
The new comer was Mr. Champ Effingham.
5. CHAPTER V.
TWO ENEMIES.
The two men looked at each other for some moments, in perfect
silence.
Mr. Effingham was much changed:—his face was thinner,
and had more character in it; his costume was more
subdued and in much better taste, though it was as rich as
ever; and his whole air and carriage was much more calm
and collected, than it had ever been before. But still the old
weary listless shadow in the eyes remained: and one might
have seen on a closer examination, that those eyes were not so
brilliant and youthful looking as before—that this man must
have lived long in a very short time, and—perforce of cramming
passion, so to speak, into his life—grown prematurely old.
The eye was clear, it is true—but it was not happy: the lips
were as handsome as ever, but two diverging lines betrayed
suffering and thought:—the pale brow was not so smooth as
all stormy emotions and become calm again:—not
so much the calmness of satisfied desires, as the slumber of
discordant emotions.
The reader may imagine from these few words of hasty
description, that this man, a portion of whose wild career we
have attempted to delineate, had lost that conspicuous grace
and fire, which formerly drew all eyes toward him:—that
he had grown old, as a young man does, by wild courses and
extraordinary dissipation:—that Mr. Effingham had no
longer any marked characteristic, at least pleasant characteristic.
This was only partially true. He was plainly a
man of far more character than ever—a finer cavalier, every
way stronger, so to speak, than before. The slight stoop
in his shoulders, which betrayed the intense thinker, gave to
his figure a singular nobleness of outline; his sword was worn
with a grace very unlike his old petit maître habit; his
broad brow, no longer disfigured with a wig, rose above the
thoughtful eyes like a tower: his costume, as we have said,
was rich but simple; and to sum up all in one word, Mr.
Effingham looked like a man who had suffered and grown
harder, and as a consequence of that suffering and new
strength, left behind many of his youthful follies:—and so,
achieved, if not happiness, at least calmness.
The Captain, with his keen, rapid glance, took in all these
details at once, and then, with a haughty inclination of his
head, was about to pass on.
Mr. Effingham raised his hand, and with great calmness
—though a slight flush rose to his cheek, as he spoke—
said:
“Would you be good enough to give me a moment of
your time, Captain Waters? I have something to say to
you.”
The soldier tightened his rein, and waited in silence for
his companion to speak.
“This is a meeting which I have long desired, sir,” continued
Mr. Effingham, stroking the mane of his horse.
The soldier inclined his head coldly, without speaking.
“I can easily understand that my face is not agreeable
to you, sir,” continued Mr. Effingham, in the same courteous
and placid tones which had characterized the first words
have no right to. It were singular if we met as good friends
after the scenes which we have passed through—or, more
properly speaking, those between Mr. Charles Waters and
myself. I do not expect you to give me your hand—I do
not ask that. But I have misunderstood your character,
if, after the few words I have to say, your mind and heart
remain bitter—if you are still my enemy.”
“We are not enemies, sir,” said the Captain, coldly;
“matters are all ended—accounts closed—we are indifferent
to each other.”
“Pardon me, sir: but that cannot be. In this world
persons who have sustained the singular relationship toward
each other which we have, can never afterwards be wholly
indifferent.”
“You had something to say, I believe, sir?”
“Yes, sir; and I shall proceed to say it, resolutely refusing
to adopt the tone toward yourself, which you adopt toward
me.”
There was so much courtesy and dignity in these words,
that Captain Waters felt that his haughty and freezing manner
was unreasonable.
“I have no desire to insult you, Mr. Effingham,” he said;
“we are nothing to each other, and, morbleu! have I not
already declared that I do not regard you as an enemy.”
“Well, sir, for that I thank you,” said Mr. Effingham,
as calmly and courteously as before; “and now, sir, let me
say what I have desired to utter, in the hearing of your
family, for a long time. Let me briefly tell you—for you
perhaps do not know all—let me tell you the nature of those
events, whose disastrous or nearly disastrous climax you arrived
in time, and just in time to witness. I am not fond
of the particle `I,' and beg that you will permit me to adopt
another form.
“Well, sir, there lived a year or two ago, near this place
where we now meet, a young man of strong passions and violent
impulses. He inherited the traits of his family—strong
feelings under an indifferent and easy exterior. One day
that young man met with a girl—it was in that very forest,
sir, which you have just emerged from—a young girl of rare
and dazzling beauty, a beauty which still blinds me when I
the mind since that luminous face shone on me. Well, sir,”
continued Mr. Effingham, whose voice for a moment had
changed singularly—“Well, sir, it was the old tale: he
loved her—devotedly, passionately, madly: so madly that
he even now doubts whether it was not a species of madness,
that strange, wild infatuation!
“He approached her, and told her rudely and carelessly,
as a `gentleman' so called speaks to an actress, that he
loved her. He thought her an ordinary comedienne, such as
he had known in London—she was not such: she was a noble
girl, as pure as an angel, and as good as she was beautiful.
Without a moment's hesitation, she told him that there could
be nothing in common between them—that she did not desire
him to pay her attentions—that she did not wish him to
approach her. Well, he raved and tore his hair, and suffered
dreadfully when he heard these words—for he loved her
passionately. He left his family and became a member of
the company of Comedians, and offered her his hand—not
once, but a score of times. She still refused to smile upon
him.”
Mr. Effingham paused for a moment: again stroked the
mane of his horse, and went on calmly.
“One day this young man saw a rival in her presence,
and read in her blushes, in the tones of her voice, in her
eyes, that this rival was the favored one. That drove him
mad, and he felt that thenceforth all was lost to him: spite of
his love, spite of his abandoning all for her, spite of his devotion,
she was not even indifferent to him he saw. She trembled
at his approach—as the dove does when the hawk appears:—she
shrunk from him with aversion. You may
imagine, sir, that this added to his infatuation a thousandfold:
it rose to such a height, his passion and consequent
suffering was so dreadful, that one day he placed the muzzle
of a pistol to his brain and might have killed himself, had
not God ordained that he should live. God interposed, and
for a moment, a single moment, he was calm,—for a moment
only, however.”
Again the young man paused, and the Captain saw his
eyes wander. He continued:
“God had ordained further, sir, that his own act should
and by so doing he gave his rival a new and stronger hold
upon her. He was thenceforward her blood relation—legally
and morally bound to protect her.
“You may understand now how that unfortunate man's
passions were worked up to the point of desperation. He
loved a woman with a species of infatuation; he had given
up every thing for her: she was about to be torn from him
by a successful rival. Is not that a powerful combination
of unfortunate circumstances, sir? Well, this combination
was what assailed that man in a weak moment. By one of
those accidents which seem to be produced by the direct
agency of the Devil, the tools of a mad scheme appeared
upon the tapis. Two boatmen—desperate characters, and
ready for any mischief—came to say that the young man's
new sail-boat was waiting in the river—at that moment his
design was conceived:—Yet he determined to give the young
girl a last opportunity to save herself and him.”
Captain Ralph saw a shadow cross his companion's brow,
and pitied his suffering: that suffering was very plain.
“He went to her and threw away his bitterness,” continued
Mr. Effingham, calmly, “his scoffs, his taunts. He
opened his poor afflicted heart to her and said, `I love you
—I suffer cruelly—I must always love you—I shall die unless
you consent to become my wife!' She felt sincere
pity—she was suffering herself—she no longer looked at
me coldly. The young man—I do not like these `I's,' sir—
for a moment hoped. Vain hope!—she ended with a passionate
refusal:—stung by his taunts she declared that
nothing would induce her to wed a man like him—she could
not, would not marry him! He tore his bosom with desperate
hands—it was not the first time—and rushed from the
room.
“In half an hour his scheme was all arranged. The
boatmen were directed to be ready:—a venal parson was
near, who for a bribe of two hundred guineas promised to
wed the parties without asking any questions, at a spot down
the river fixed on.
“The forcible abduction of the young girl, was all that
remained to be compassed. He raised her while she slept
in her chair, bore her to the ground, and carried her off!
“He was pursued—his rival was the pursuer—they came
together on the river: the young man's confederates were
overcome: he was left alone, foiled, beaten, laughed at. His
rival raised his hand to strike—the young man's sword
pierced his breast, God be thanked, not wounding him mortally.”
The Captain nodded in approbation of this sentiment.
“After that the victim of infatuation—of madness, I
may nearly say,” Mr. Effingham went on, calmly, “left the
country, and went into foreign lands, with blood upon his
hands, he thought. He repented bitterly—he spent days
and months of that suffering which surpasses all the rest—
remorse. At length he found in time and thought some
alleviation, and his peace was restored completely—can you
believe it, sir?—by a letter saying that his rival had recovered
from his wound.
“That is all, sir:—except that the unfortunate man who
enacted this tragic drama, has returned to the scene of those
unhappy events with a calmer heart, a brain no longer obscured
by the mists of passion and pride. That man now
says to the brother of his rival—the man he has injured—
`I have repented bitterly of all this—I have no pride for
you, none that will make me refuse this reparation of words,
all which I have to offer—I acknowledge my fault—I deplore
the suffering which I occasioned.'
“This is what I had to say, Captain Waters,” added
Mr. Effingham, calmly and courteously, as before, “I have
said it, and am content that you shall fold your arms in your
cloak, and refuse to touch my hand. My duty is done.”
“Refuse your hand?” said the honest soldier, “morbleu!
I do nothing of the sort! There is mine! I hated you
mortally until this moment: now I assent, and will maintain,
that you are a worthy gentleman!”
And Captain Waters forgetting completely all his enmity,
shook Mr. Effingham's hand cordially.
“You afford me a pleasure, which I have not experienced
often in my life,” said Mr. Effingham, with noble simplicity.
“No polite speeches!” said the soldier, “we understand
each other. A quarter of an hour ago, I would cheerfully
have run you through with my hanger, for your treatment of
when they said this very thing you have told me, that
you seemed to be laboring under a sort of infatuation. Parbleu!
they have both forgiven you long ago: why should
not I?”
“I am sure you no longer regard me in the light of an
enemy. I have offered you an explanation which—”
“Is perfectly satisfactory and convincing,” said the Captain,
with his frank, jovial voice.
“Where are they now?” asked Mr. Effingham, with a
slight shadow upon his brow.
“Who, Charley and Beatrice?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Up in the mountains.”
“I trust they are quite happy.”
And his eyes seemed to be fixed upon that past, which
had gone from him like a wild dream. He could scarcely
realize that those fiery passions had burned in his bosom.
“I hope, Captain Waters, that we shall meet frequently,”
said Mr. Effingham, at length; “I must leave you now, as I
have just arrived in Virginia. Give you good day, sir.”
And bowing with the same calm air as before, Mr. Effingham
continued his way toward the Hall, while Captain Ralph
went in the opposite direction.
6. CHAPTER VI.
OLD FRIENDS.
The Riverhead chariot rolled lazily up to Effingham Hall,
an event which caused the sleepy-looking pointer basking in
the sun upon the portico, to rise and wag his tail, in sign of
indolent satisfaction, and well-bred welcome.
The Hall has no longer that still, slumberous, melancholy
air about it, we have observed upon a former occasion:—indeed,
the very reverse is the fact. Effingham Hall has
waked up with the spring—and that joyous season, continuing,
as in Shakespeare's time, to “put a spirit of youth in
everything,” has touched with its merry and joyous hand the
all is bright and cheerful.
The tall old trees, with their tender budding leaves, are
rustling in the merry winds of March:—the sunshine lies
like a glory on the great portico; and the lawn, growing already
green and soft, is dotted with a thousand flowers which
raise their bright heads and smile, or cheerily shake the
dew diamonds from their gay petals when the breeze agitates
them.
From tree to tree dart the early songsters of spring, making
the air vocal with their chirping:—and it is very plain
that more than one courtship is going on in the tall elm yonder,
from which a concert by delighted blue birds' artists,
incessantly fills the air. They are no longer “prophesying
spring,” as our poet says: their prophecy is fulfilled, and
they are rejoicing like so many able editors, who have foretold
events and seen them come to pass. The oriole carols
too, above them all, from his high spray, which, swaying backward,
forward, sideways, in the wind—rocks his bright gurgling
throat and ruffled feathers gaily. A thousand little
swamp sparrows flit about: and bear up twigs from the
margin of the sparkling stream: and dart after each other
in excess of glee; and almost tumble over each other in the
blue mid air, from pure merriment.
Dozens of negroes—ranging from little ebon balls, clad
in unmentionable costumes, to the stately white-haired Catos
and Dinahs—pass about from out-house to out-house:—
horses are led in long rows from the huge stable on the hill,
toward the field:—dogs roll and bark and meditate with
staring eyes upon the lawn:—and in the midst of all a flock
of dignified geese ambulate like great seigneurs with their
wives, and startle with their cackle all the stately, serene
peacocks, who with brilliant plumage and restless movement
of their burnished necks sail slowly onward—bright-crested
swans upon an emerald sea.
And pleasanter than all—more excellent to hear and look
upon, are the sights and sounds from the Hall itself.
From the open window comes the merry murmur of the
harpsichord and a child's voice full of tender grace; adding
a splendor to the time—the perfect merriment which nothing
ever affords but music. And then the music stops, and there
the squire, who finds his skirts suddenly grasped by
laughing hands, and two merry eyes, as azure as the heavens,
laugh like the lips.
The squire is in exuberant health, and is clad just as we
have seen him before. His broad plain hat, which has lost
its loops and is rolled up shovel fashion, covers a face reddened
and embrowned by exercise and exposure:—his huge
coat brushes against his strong thick silk stockings, which
disappear in heavy half-boots:—and his long waistcoat is
nearly covered by his frill, soiled now like his wide cuffs and
stockings, with the dust of his fields. The squire has just
returned from his morning ride over the plantation, and has
been listening to Miss Kate Effingham performing upon the
harpsichord, and singing one of his favorite airs. She now
holds him back by the skirts, begging him to wait for her.
This young lady may possibly still dwell in the reader's
recollection. She has scarcely changed at all since we saw
her last, and is positively not a bit larger. She is the same
bright little creature with sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks,
and crimping laughing lips which are the color of cherries,
and reveal when their owner laughs, a row of small teeth,
much whiter than pearls, if not so rounded and regular.
Kate is dressed almost exactly as we have seen her formerly.
Her hair is still unpowdered, and falls in curls upon her
neck, around which extends a foam of snowy lace. Her
half-frock half-coat, with its embroidered velvet under-vest
still abbreviates itself—after the fashion of the time—in
close proximity to the knee: and the same scarlet silk stockings,
plunge themselves into the identical rosetted, red-heeled
shoes. Kate is perhaps merrier than we ever saw
her, and when she demands that the squire shall wait for
her before proceeding to assist the visitors from the carriage,
there is a violent contention between laughter and the faculty
of articulation, which results in a rush and jumble of the
two, which puts the merriment of the blue birds to such
shame that they are silent.
“Good morrow, neighbor,” says the squire, assisting
Henrietta and Clare to the ground, with the elegance of a
perfect courtier; “and you, my little mice, how are your
small selves?”
With which the squire squeezes Henrietta's hand, until
she screams.
“Thanks, sir,” says the laughing girl; “I was much
better before I saw you!”
And she shakes her hand, upon which the old gentleman's
fingers have left distinct white marks.
“You are not fond of having your hands pressed?”
laughs the squire.
“No, sir.”
“By an old fellow like me, I mean—and I take your
reply as given to the whole question. Well, well, I believe
you are right. I am rather an ancient cavalier, but the sight
of you young folks, all roses, pleases me.”
“That is my failing, I believe,” says Henrietta, laughing,
“but not Clare's.”
“No,” says the squire, “and I am sorry to see your
cheeks so much like lilies, Clare.”
Clare smiles.
“You know that is my style, sir,” she replies, “I never
had a bright color, but I am quite well.”
“And as good as ever, I do not doubt,” says the squire,
as they enter the mansion pleasantly.
“And me, sir—does that apply to me?” says Henrietta,
laughing.
“No, madam.”
“I am `as bad as ever,' I suppose.”
“I hope not!” says the old gentleman, delighted at his
witticism.
“Thanks, sir,” Henrietta replies, with exquisite demureness,
“thanks for an excellent character. And now I am
going to leave you and papa to discuss your deeply interesting
plantation affairs, and take off my hood.”
“By all means. I cannot see your pretty face now:—
and Clare is as bad, see! I believe she cannot kiss Kate,
for her huge coiffure.”
And the squire, laughing gayly, leads the way into the
library, followed by Mr. Lee—leaving the young ladies in
the hands of Miss Alethea, who has just emerged from the
kitchen.
Miss Alethea looks more placid and good-humored than
when we knew her formerly, though her stateliness has not
in Virginia fashion, both the girls. Then they are led away
to the sanctum up stairs to remove their wrapping, and make
their toilettes for dinner.
Seated in the library, the old gentlemen discuss matters
in general, over a decanter of sherry: and dispute with the
utmost vehemence, on the most trifling matters, in the good
old way. Both are fortified in their opinions as a matter of
course, and they deplore each the other's prejudices and
unreasonableness. But let no one suppose that these word-quarrels
were not the most friendly contentions imaginable.
There were no better friends in the world, and they were
only pursuing the immemorial habit of Virginians to discuss,
contradict, and argue on all occasions.
Some of these contradictions are amusing, and rather
vague.
“The fact is, my dear sir,” says Mr. Lee, philosophically
smoothing down his waistcoat, “the fact is that after all we
have said, and after all that can be said on this point, things
are—”
“I deny it!” says the squire, vehemently, “they are
not!”
“But listen now,” continues Mr. Lee, with a persuasive
and earnest voice, “you are too quick. I was going to say,
and I think you will coincide with me—you ought to, if you
do not:—I was going to say that the present state of this
country is such that these men will—”
“No! I join issue with you there,” interposes the squire,
argumentatively, “they will do no such thing, and I am
surprised to hear you say it!”
“I have not said it yet!”
“You have.”
“What have I said?”
“You said, that considering the present state of England—”
“No! of this country.”
“You said England!”
“Positively I did not.”
And so the argument goes on, thick set with contradictions
and dogmatical assertions.
At last—the worthies having glided gradually from the
gossip—the conversation grows quite friendly and
placid again, and there are no more contradictions:—those
weapons being made use of exclusively in polemics. They
talk of the races to be held soon at the course between Williamsburg
and Jamestown:—of the probable entries:—of
the amount of subscription, and the chances of Sir Archy's
overcoming Fair Anna or Dare Devil. From this they pass
to county court matters, and the demoralizing effect of the
absence of game-laws. This leads the squire to descant at
length, and in a tone of indignant reprehension, upon the
course of the defendant in a certain chancery suit, by the
style of “Effingham et al. vs. Jonas Jackson, sheriff of
York county, and as such, administrator de bonis non, with
the will annexed, of John Jones, dec'd.” This affords the
squire an opportunity to express his opinion of the high court
of chancery, which he does at some length, and with refreshing
frankness and directness.
So completely absorbed is the worthy gentleman in this
interesting subject, that he quite loses sight of a piece of
information which he has been on the point of giving his
visitor, for some moments. Let us leave him vituperating
the whole system of equity, and enter the adjoining apartment—the
drawing-room—from which the merry music of
the harpsichord is heard. Perhaps we shall be able to find
out from others the nature of this intelligence.
Clare sits at the harpsichord playing, and little Kate,
perched upon a cricket at her side, is turning over the leaves
of the music—while Miss Alethea and Henrietta exchange
neighborhood gossip, near the opposite window.
Clare finishes the piece she is playing, and turning her
quiet, good-natured face toward Kate, says, smoothing back
the child's locks as she speaks:
“Is that the piece you wished me to play, Katy?”
“Oh yes,” says Kate, her eyes sparkling, “and now
you mustn't play any more—for I have a great piece of news
to tell you!”
And the child's eyes fairly dance, as she draws a letter
from beneath her girdle.
“A great piece of news?” asks Clare, with a smile,
“what is it, pray?”
“Guess!” says Kate, covering the letter with her hand.
“I am afraid I am a poor hand at guessing, dear,” replies
Clare.
“Can't you think?” persists Kate, with a joyous rush
of laughter in her voice:—for if Rubini had tears in his
voice, it may be said that Kate had laughter in hers:
“can't you think now, cousin Clare—just try, now.”
“Well,” says Clare, smiling at the brilliant face of the
child, “has Will written you a love letter, and asked your
hand?”
“No, indeed,” Kate replies, pouting like a duchess, “he
asks me to marry him twenty times a day.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, indeed: he's a dreadful plague. But come, now,
cousin Clare, guess again.”
“Let me see: you have a letter, that is plain.”
“Yes.”
“And this letter contains the news?”
“Yes, yes, cousin Clare.”
“Good news?”
“Oh yes, indeed!”
“Of what sort?”
“Oh! now that would be telling you, you know. But
I'll see if you can guess it then. Somebody's coming!”
And Kate's eyes dance again: while a shadow suddenly
passes over the tender face of her companion.
“Somebody coming?” murmurs Clare; “I think I
can guess now—”
“I knew you could!”
“Mr. Effingham is coming back?”
“Oh yes! cousin Champ! See, here is his letter from
London. Look, what a funny mark upon it:—he says he
will be here early in April, and this, you know, is the first
week of March.”
And Kate clasps her hands.
“Shall I read it?” she says.
Clare shakes her head sadly.
“Then you may yourself, cousin,” says Kate, offering
the opened letter; “I know cousin Champ wouldn't care
for your seeing it.”
But Clare puts the offered letter aside with her hand.
“Well, if you don't like to read it, you can listen just
to this. He says he may be here even sooner than April.
Just think! We'll have the dear old fellow back so soon,
and he'll have so much to tell me,” adds Kate, with a
queenly little air; “you know how much we love each other.”
Suddenly the letter is removed from Kate's hand, and
the voice of a youthful gentleman, who has entered unperceived,
says petulantly:
“There you are, praising brother Champ again. It is
really vexatious, Kate.”
And Mr. Willie Effingham looks mortified and indignant.
This young gentleman has scarcely changed more
than Kate, and is clad at present in a handsome little pearl-colored
cocked hat, rosetted shoes, a coat with a rounded
skirt, and a bright scarlet waistcoat. His right hand grasps
a riding whip, and on the floor at his feet lies a school-book,
which he has dropped to take possession of the letter.
“It is really too bad,” says Will, allowing Kate to repossess
herself of the letter, without much struggling; “I
believe you're in love with brother Champ.”
“I am so,” says Kate, “and you're jealous, Willie!”
With which words the young lady laughs, to the great
annoyance of her cavalier.
“Jealous, am I?” says Will; “that's all the thanks I
get for giving up the game of Prisoner's base after school,
and coming home to see you. Never mind!”
And Will shakes his head.
“Did you, now?” asks Kate, touched by this piece of
devotion.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, let's make up, Willie.”
“Then give me a kiss.”
“Indeed I wont!” cries Kate; and she struggles to
avoid the proffered embrace.
“Heyday!” says the voice of the squire at the door,
as that gentleman enters with Mr. Lee; “fighting! Is it
possible, Will?”
Will ceases to struggle: but abstains from any explanation.
“We were not fighting, papa; but he wanted to kiss me,
kiss gentlemen—is it?”
And Kate throws a fatal glance from her brilliant eyes
towards Willie, who, secing the prize snatched from his
grasp, utters a sigh.
The squire laughs, and asks the child “What letter
that is?”
“Cousin Champ's, you know, papa.”
“Yes, yes: I was just telling neighbor Lee,” the squire
says to Clare, “that Champ was coming back soon.”
The hoofstrokes of a horse sound on the gravel walk,
but they do not hear them.
“He writes,” adds the squire, addressing himself equally
to Clare and Henrietta, “that we may expect him early
in April—sooner, perhaps.”
A spur sounds on the portico, but the harpsichord, which
Clare touches softly and absently with her finger, drowns
the noise.
“Kate, here, has taken possession of the letter as her
rightful property,” continues the squire, “and offers to exhibit
it, I believe, to every body—the little minx. They
were great friends.”
The shadow of a man falls upon the passage.
“Well, I'll be glad to see the boy; and God grant him
a safe passage to the old Hall again.”
As the squire speaks, Kate utters a delighted scream
and in a moment rushes to the arms of a gentleman who
stands upon the threshold.
“God has already granted that, sir,” says Mr. Effingham.
And amid a burst of exclamations, he enters the apartment.
We need not describe the scene which followed the entrance
of Mr. Effingham:—how the squire did little more
than press his hand, and gaze delighted on his face:—how
Clare tried in vain to still her agitated and throbbing heart:
—how the rest of the group overwhelmed the young man
with a thousand congratulations. The reader may fancy all
this with less trouble than we could describe it. We must
leave to fancy, too, the crowd of bright-faced Africans, who
jostled each other at the door:—the uproarious chanting of
Mas' Champ come home agin!”
place.
Yes, Mr. Champ, after all his weary wanderings, had returned
to his good old home.
7. CHAPTER VII.
HOW CAPTAIN RALPH LAID HIS COMMANDS ON MR. LUGG.
“Lanky!”
“Sur?”
“You're a villain.”
“Oh, Cap'n!”
“A most unconscionable villain!”
“Oh no I ain't, Cap'n.”
“You are, you rascal! Don't contradict me!”
“I didn't, Cap'n.”
“You did.”
“I didn't, Cap'n.”
“There is a pretty proof of it: you are contradicting
me now, you villain! I'll cut off your ears!”
“Oh, Cap'n!”
And Lanky raises his hand affectionately toward his auricular
appendages, with a dreadful conviction that their
size and prominence would render them an easy prey to the
enemy.
Captain Ralph addressed the above emphatic words to
Mr. Lugg two or three days after the scenes which we have
just described. The worthy soldier was sitting after breakfast,
with a meerschaum between his lips, with his feet in
close proximity to the hook fixed in the beam above the
great fireplace of his mansion. From time to time, clouds
of snowy smoke would issue from beneath his huge moustache,
and rise in circles to the rafters overhead, upon which
the red beams of the morning sun reposed, turning the
dusty timbers into bars of gold.
Lanky sat as usual, in his chimney corner, and from time
which lay upon his knees:—gazing all the while into the
blaze, which drove away the cool river mist with its crackling
laughter.
The Captain looked at his retainer for some moments in
silence, after the outburst we have faithfully chronicled
above; then added:
“Play that reel again—”
And the Captain, stopping to smoke a moment, Lanky
raised his violin with alacrity to obey his master's bidding.
—“If you dare, you rascal!” finished the Captain,
whose sentence had been broken off in the middle. Lanky's
arm subsided immediately, and the fiddle fell back to
its former position on his knees.
“Raly, Cap'n,” said Lanky, scratching his head, “nobody
can't please you. Now you know you told me, bein'
as you gin me a holiday to day, to bring out my fiddle and
scrape for you. And now,” added Lanky, with an injured
air, “you're a tellin' me that I dasn't play no more. Oh,
Cap'n!”
And after this stereotyped protest, Lanky remained silent.
“I told you to play, because I wanted to hear music,
parbleu!” said the Captain, “but that was a quarter of an
hour ago. I have changed my mind. I don't believe you
are much of an artist, with all your distinguished reputation
in the neighborhood. You scrape horribly, and your in
strument is an awful one.”
Lanky, though deeply hurt and indignant at this double
attack on his violin and his reputation, did not answer.
“Oh, Cap'n!” was all that his muttering lips enunciated.
At the end of ten minutes, Captain Ralph laid aside
his meerschaum, and stretched his legs.
“Lanky,” he began.
“Sur?”
The Captain paused for some moments, yawning.
“When did you see Donsy Smith?” he asked, at length.
Lanky started.
“Oh, Cap'n,” he said, “I ain't seen that ere young
'ooman for a month o' Sundays.”
“Have you quarrelled?”
“No, sir.”
“A rival?”
Lanky groaned.
“What horrible sound was that which issued from your
diaphragm, you villain?” asked the Captain.
“I never said nothin', sur.”
“You sighed.”
“Did I, Cap'n?”
“Yes, and do you know what these `heighos' mean?”
“He'o's, sur?”
“These sighs, you rascal?”
“No, sur.”
“They signify that one is deeply smitten by some angelic
fair one. Eh? do you understand?”
“I think I does, sur.”
“When I said `have you a rival?' you sighed, or rather
groaned. Now I understand from that, that you are far
gone.”
“Oh, Cap'n.”
“Come, now, you have a rival?”
“I b'lieve I has,” said Lanky, piteously, but beginning
to saw his head from north-east to south-west, according to
his habit.
The Captain observed this favorite manœuvre, and began
to laugh.
“You have a rival, eh?” he said; “a successful one?”
“I dun'no, sur.”
And Lanky groaned again, and sawed his head worse
than ever. The Captain twirled his moustache with a delighted
look.
“Listen to me now, Lanky,” he said, bursting into
laughter; “listen to my advice, mon ami. Here you are
groaning and sighing, and declaring in your delicious patois
that you have not seen your dulcinea for ages:—you are
plainly in high dudgeon, and have abandoned the field.
Now, sir, hear what I have to say. No retainer of mine
shall disgrace me by succumbing to a woman—laying down
his arms because the bastion frowns with guns, instead of
being wreathed with flowers. Tonnere! you villain, it is a
personal slight upon myself, and I won't have you give up
in this way to your little Donsy, who is only coquetting with
you! Do you hear, sir?”
“What kin I do, Cap'n? I can't do nothin,” sighed
Lanky.
“There it is, again—with your eternal groaning! Be a
man, you rascal, or, parbleu! I'll hang you by the legs to
the rafters!”
Lanky started at this terrible threat, and took a bird's-eye
view of matters, coming to the irresistible conclusion
that the posture suggested by his master would not only be
disagreeable, but would have the effect of adding a new and
undesired charm to the landscape.
“Oh, sur!” he ejaculated.
“Now listen,” said the Captain, “and do not sit there
moaning and groaning, sighing and crying, when as a brave
man you should buckle on your sword—figuratively speaking—and
advance upon the enemy. What is that enemy?
That, morbleu! is the first question with every courageous
and rational soldier. In the present instance a woman—a
young woman, or as you say in your barbarous dialect—
`young 'ooman.' Now, sir, I commence by laying down the
proposition that every member of the fair sex may be overcome
by well-directed and courageous generalship. They,
of course, despise a mere sighing, lachrymose lover, with his
heart in his hand, and a propensity for moonlight and soliloquy:—basta!
I am throwing away my philosophy on your
thick head! What do you know about soliloquies and
moonlight!”
And the Captain paused.
“I don't know nothin' 'bout slil'kees,” observed Lanky,
“but I hunts 'coons by moonlight, sometimes.”
“You unsentimental villain!” said the soldier, “are
you not ashamed of yourself, to mix up the divine sentiment
with 'coons—as you barbarously term it:—to mingle
tendresse with the consideration of furs!”
“You was goin' to give me some advice, Cap'n,” said
Lanky, desirous of averting the Captain's indignation.
“Well, you villain: in place of advice, I give you commands!
I command you to resume offensive operations immediately,
and yield not one point.”
Lanky looked dubious: these generalities were plainly
distasteful to him, since he did not very clearly comprehend
their meaning.
“Oh, Cap'n! I dun'no what that means,” he said.
“It means this, you villain! When Donsy or any other
young lady endeavors to turn you around her thumb, to
make you do just as she desires, to wheedle, and coax, and
bring you over—resist, morbleu! Yield not a single point,
as I said before!—never yield a point to one of the fair sex;
for observe, you pine knot! the ambitious desire to rule in
these enchanting creatures, closely resembles a body of water
pent in by a dam. Give it but one little point to issue
through, and diable! it rushes on, and carries all before it.
Never yield to women—it is a bad precedent: respect them,
love them, fight for them, die for them,—but never yield to
them, you unreasonable villain! En avant! with a brave
heart, and without thought of surrender:—ask no terms,
yield in nothing: refuse to see brilliant eyes, to listen to
coaxing words; close your heart obdurately, and victory is
yours! Bah!” continues the Captain, “here am I advising
you as to your course, when the first advice should be
to show your nose to your sweetheart: how can she respect
such a lover. As your master, sir, I command you to go
and make yourself agreeable to your sweetheart, and not
disgrace me by giving up the battle in this way.”
Lanky touched the violin absently.
“But how kin it be done, Cap'n?” he said. “I ain't
giv' up: I never intends to giv' up! But oh, Cap'n, when
a feller feels all sorts o' ways, how can he make hisself agreeable?”
The Captain laughed heartily. Lanky took courage at
this, and continued, sawing his head:
“I ain't a goin' to giv' up! No I ain't! He's too
young for her, and 'sides, he ain't as good lookin' as I am.”
“Who—your rival?”
“Yes, sur.”
“Who is he?”
“Will Efn'um.”
The Captain burst into a tremendous laugh.
“What, that little fellow, Lanky?” he said.
“Yes, sur.”
“Morbleu! you astonish me.”
“You know Donsy goes to school to the parson, sur,
and so does Will Efn'um.'
“There near town?”
“Yes, sur.”
“Well, now, I command you to enter the field at once,
and prosecute hostilities,” said the Captain. “Go, you rascal!
I give you a holiday.”
Lanky rose, with his fiddle under his arm.
“Won't your honor want your horse?” he said, scratching
his head.
“Yes—morbleu! I forgot. I must go and fight Glatz
for mon ami over there. Saddle Selim.”
“Yes, sur.”
And Lanky went out. In a quarter of an hour Captain
Ralph was riding towards Riverhead, singing merrily one
of his numerous repertory of camp ditties; and Lanky,
having first smoothed his hair, by means of a coarse comb,
and a triangular bit of looking-glass, was proceeding, with
his violin under his arm, toward the town of Williamsburg.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
ICHABOD: A HEBREW WORD SIGNIFYING THE GLORY HAS DEPARTED!
We shall follow Lanky.
He threaded the paths of the forest, traversed the tracts
of waste land, and hit the points where the brooks were
crossed by logs, stretched for the convenience of pedestrians
from bank to bank, with unerring precision. No doubt
those moonlight—but not sentimental—excursions discoursed
of to the Captain, had made him familiar with all
the devious ways of the country ride; and so ere long he
drew toward the school-house, which was situated in an open
glade of the forest between Williamsburg and Effingham
Hall.
The “old field school,” as these establishments have
been called from time immemorial, was a plain edifice of
logs of some size, and roofed with boards held in their places
by long poles pinned to the eaves by huge pegs. The windows
were small, and secured by shutters of oak, heavy and
creaking on their hinges. A log served for a step before
stone, and built up outside of the edifice, a slight curling
smoke rose. To these schools, as at the present day, children
of all ages and classes, and of both sexes, resorted—
for education, their parents thought, for amusement, the
youngsters were convinced.
But Lanky—sawing his head, and picking absently on
the strings of his violin—did not look at the school-house,
as he approached. His eyes were fixed upon the groups of
scholars of both sexes scattered through the glade in merry
play—and particularly upon one group, in the centre of
which stood, with laughing eyes and ruddy cheeks, half covered
by the owner's sun-bonnet, a young girl of some sixteen
summers. Lanky's sudden accession of rapidity in the
sawing operation, plainly betrayed his secret. That was the
lady of his heart, and his admiring eyes surveyed with true
lover minuteness, her neat plain dress, her careless locks of
glossy black, and the firm little foot in its plain strong shoe.
Miss Smith was, as we have said, the centre of a group
of maidens—and these maidens were gazing with delight
upon a parcel of youngsters, who, ranged in a long row with
their faces towards Lanky, listened to the oracular observations
of their chieftain, whose back was thus turned toward
our friend. The youngsters were clad in semi-military costume,
with paper hats, girdles of fluttering ribbon; and
each one carried martially erect upon his shoulder, something
to represent a gun—whether that something chanced
to be a hickory stick, a portion of a fence rail, or a cornstalk.
The corn-stalks, however, predominated, and seemed
to be the favorite weapon.
The young chieftain was clad with something more of
pretension: he wore epaulettes, at his side hung a tin sword
gracefully, and on his head was perched a conical hat made
of the paper which had once enveloped a loaf of sugar—
now decorated with ribbons, and sacred to Mars.
The chieftain held his head erect, and addressed his observations
to the company, with great importance, though
many of the troop were his elders. As we have said, the
young maidens stood looking up, and encouraging the soldiers
with their smiles;—upon the conviction, it would seem,
that being handsome, chivalric, and brave, they deserved the
approbation of the fair.
This was the state of things, as nearly as we can describe
it, when Lanky sauntered up, with his violin under his arm.
No sooner had the young maidens caught sight of the well
known pine knot head, the ornamental stockings, the huge
shoes, above all, of the battered violin, than they abandoned
the youthful disciples of the god of war, and ran precipitately
towards Lanky, crying out as they ran, for a tune and
a dance.
“Oh yes! now, Lanky!”
“Play us a tune!”
“A reel!”
“Let us have a dance.”
“Not a reel!”
“A May dance!”
“Both!”
And Lanky suddenly found himself assailed by a dozen
maidens, and ordered to strike up immediately. In proportion
to Lanky's popularity, and satisfaction therefrom, was
the neglect and excessive dissatisfaction of the youthful
soldiers. The smiles of ladies fair, are proverbially valuable
to gentlemen of the military profession; and the reader
may imagine the feelings of the cornstalk regiment, and
their proud commander, at finding themselves thus abruptly
deserted, with all their shining graces, for a common country
bumpkin, with a caricature head, a battered violin, and a
pair of feet which were beyond the power of pen or pencil
to exaggerate.
The youthful chieftain, whom we now beg leave to introduce,
as Captain William Effingham, “of the Cornstalk
Company of Virginia Volunteers,” his enemies added—Mr.
Willie Effingham was perhaps the most indignant of all. He
had just commenced a splendid and stirring oration, which
dealt in tremendous denunciation of the acts of Parliament
and King George, in relation to the colony of Virginia, and
finding himself the centre of a circle of admiring auditors,
had branched out with a vigor and splendor of rhetoric,
which was calculated to procure his arrest as a dangerous
and inflammatory rebel, when the untoward event which we
have just related, happened. To add to his mortification,
his own sweetheart, as he called Miss Donsy Smith, had
joined the deserters; she had been listening to his oration
in presence of his ladylove—and now, for all this, to be
abandoned without hesitation, for the aforesaid country
bumpkin. It was horrible!
Lanky resisted the entreaties of his maiden friends, and
sawed his head more vigorously than ever at Donsy.
“Now, Lanky!” said that young lady, with an expression
of coquettish entreaty, “I know you won't refuse me!”
“Hum!” said Lanky.
“Now, Lanky!”
“Miss Donsy, you ain't treated me well, and you know
it!” he said, touching the strings of his instrument.
“I not treated you well? My goodness!”
“You know you haven't.”
“How, Lanky?”
“Never mind!”
“Oh, it's too bad in you,” said the young lady, “to refuse
me—and I liking you so much.”
With which Donsy darted a killing glance at poor Lanky,
who felt his heart melt.
“Now, Lanky!” she added.
But our friend remained obdurate in spite of the hundred
solicitations, the cries and exclamations echoing on all
sides.
“Here comes Will Effin'um,” he said, “he'll play for
you!”
And Lanky smiled with the superiority of a great artist
in presence of a mere tyro. Master Will approached, followed
by his regiment, who had been hastily disbanded.
“What did you all run away for?” asked Will, gloomily.
“To have a dance!” cried Donsy.
“A dance?”
“Yes, Lanky's goin' to play for us.”
Lanky sawed his head.
“You are always coming to spoil fun, Lanky,” said
Will, surveying his rival, “and I won't stand it.”
Lanky fired up.
“Come now, Will!” cried Donsy, “you shan't ruin our
sport. Play on, Lanky!”
Lanky remembered the Captain's advice, and refused.
“Oh!” said Donsy, in a hurt and mortified tone.
Lanky closed his ears, and directed defiant glances toward
Will.
“You will not refuse Donsy!” continued the little maiden,
and in a whisper, “your Donsy!”
Lanky's heart began to succumb: his resolution was
oozing out at the ends of his fingers.
“You can't, after seeing how I hurt my hand with the
slate Sally Jones was drawing an ugly picture of you on!”
continued the maiden, holding out a small hand upon the
back of which a red mark was visible.
Lanky's resolution began to flow away; it no longer
oozed.
“Look how red it is!” continued the maiden, with a sly
glance at her admirer, and placing the hand in his own as she
spoke.
Lanky's knees shook as he took it in his own.
“Really now!” he said, in a murmur.
“Yes, indeed—and it's not the first time I've taken your
part—for you know how much I like you, Lanky!” said the
little maiden, throwing a deadly glance upon her beau, and
pressing his hand in her own.
Lanky forgot the Captain completely, and with a hesitating
movement tuned a string.
“Please now, dear Lanky,” said Donsy, tenderly, “a
nice May dance.”
Lanky's fiddle went to his shoulder.
“He shan't play!” cried Will, indignant at the tenderness
bestowed upon his rival, “stop!”
Lanky with a scowl struck his violin with a vigorous
hand, and making his bow fly backward and forward like
lightning, struck up an animated tune, to which the delighted
girls, and alas! the Cornstalk Regiment also, commenced
dancing, circling hand in hand around the pole on the summit
of which floated the regimental banner.
Will, we are compelled to say, did not really care a copper
for Donsy, and he bore no real ill will to Lanky: but
when he found himself thus ignominously abandoned, his
authority despised, his rival preferred, he fell into a passion
and looked around him for some means of venting his
wrath.
The means were not visible:—alas! his brave soldiers
merry school girls, who with bonnets thrown upon the
ground, and floating hair, and merry twinkling feet, to say
nothing of bright eyes, and ruddy cheeks, and laughing lips,
were no longer conscious of any thing upon earth, but a
sensation of excessive delight as the landscape revolved, and
danced like themselves; and the violin continued to fill the
air with its roaring, crashing, jubilant, rejoiceful laughter.
Will drew his sword and threw his cap upon the ground:
—Lanky continued to flash his bow across the strings regardless.
Willie in a rage rushed toward him:—Lanky only
raised his chin toward the sky, and shaking his head and
foot, rapturously roared on.
Will was about to charge the enemy, to vent at one fell
blow all his wrongs and hatred, when suddenly a bell rang
in the school-house, the door opened, and Lanky, with an
elegant bow, placed his violin under his arm and took off
his hat.
The master appeared upon the threshold, silent, in awful
state, and that master was no less a personage than our old
friend, Parson Tag; Parson Tag, who disgusted at the
slenderness and poverty of his Piedmont parish, had resigned;—Parson
Tag, who had abandoned the surplice for the
coat of formal cut; the prayer book for the classic; the
shovel hat and the staff for the profane cocked hat and ferrule.
The church might have got tired of him:—he forestalled
any disagreeable circumstances which might have attended
that event, by getting tired of the church:—the clergy
might have insisted on his leaving their ranks:—he avoided
that by leaving them himself. And now, like a great and
good man, the ci-devant parson bent his powerful mind to
teaching the young ideas of an old field school the art of
shooting.
The appearance of the pompous and austere gentleman,
at once silenced the fiddle, paralyzed the dance.
“What profane sound was that I heard?” asked the
parson, looking round with an air of importance and reproof.
“This here fiddle, sir,” replied Lanky, with great politeness.
“Begone you son of Belial,” said the parson, “and you
exercise and recreation has expired.”
With which words the worthy gentleman retired into
the school-house. The scholars trooped in—Will and Donsy
coming last.
“Now,” said Donsy, “you shall not fight: ain't you
ashamed of yourself, Lanky, to refuse so long to play and
we not have half a dance!”
And the country beauty smiled on her admirer, until he
forgot the import of her words.
“You were wrong too, Will, and you know it,” said
Donsy, “to try and break up our dance! It was too bad!”
And she gave her hand to Will, with a smile—threw a
kiss with the points of her fingers to the violinist; whispered,
“Come and see me soon, dear Lanky;” and entered the
school-house.
Lanky remained staring at the door, through which the
dazzling vision had disappeared, in utter disregard of Captain
Ralph's philosophy and advice. The reason was, that
Lanky was in love.
9. CHAPTER IX.
INTRODUCES A GENTLEMAN ONCE VERY POPULAR IN VIRGINIA.
Lanky stood for some moments gazing, as we have said, at
the door through which his lady had vanished, and during
this time his mind seemed to be engaged on some problem
which he could not solve. Not until a humming noise from
the school-house, and some merry faces at the window attracted
his attention, did he become conscious of the singularity
of his posture: and seeing that he was undergoing
that disagreeable ceremony, being laughed at, he slowly departed.
As he turned away, his thoughts took words unto
themselves, and shaking his head, he murmured the profound
sentiment:
“These women kind are mighty hard to understand!”
The expression of his opinion on this subject seemed to
quiet Lanky somewhat, and he took up a line of march toward
youthful individual, who had been a delighted auditor of his
fiddle playing.
The word `individual,' is perhaps the best to apply to
the person in question, as it leaves no distinct impression:—
any single word attempting to describe him, would miserably
fail. It was a something in the shape of a human being
about three feet high, with a large woolly head, a laughing
phiz, resembling in color and texture charcoal, a glittering
set of teeth, and a roll in its walk which seemed to indicate
the peculiarity known as bandy legs. This figure wore a
man's coat, all tattered and torn, and in consequence of the
wearer's smallness, the waist of the old coat was at his knees,
and the skirts dragged the ground. We refrain from describing
the rest of his attire, from a reasonable regard for
our reputation as a veracious chronicler. We can only say
that the garment called a tunic by the ancient Romans had
here reached its last degree of dilapidation: and that the
Gallic vesture was of that description that it cannot possibly
be described.
We have expended thus much description upon the figure
now following Lanky, because—more fortunate than brave
men who lived before Agamemnon—he has secured a poet
and an immortality.
The grotesque little goblin, who as we have said had
witnessed the exhibition of Lanky's skill with extreme delight,
now followed in his footsteps; sawing his left arm with
his right, in imitation of the motion of the bow arm; rolling
his head, chin erect, from side to side; and executing a species
of dance something between the waddle of a goose and the
antics of a monkey.
Lanky was not aware of the honor paid to his performance,
and went on thinking of Donsy and his prospects.
“The fact is,” said Lanky to himself, “I never ken say
any thing when Donsy's lookin' at me. I lose my wits
directly she begins to smile and talk sweet to me, and look
at me so! I couldn't do what the Captain said I ought to
—hold my head up and talk bold and free! I can't say
nothing—I feel so curious. What a unfortunate young man
I am!”
And Lanky sighed; and went on still thinking of Donsy,
and wholly unconscious of his `following.'
“Now there's no use talking,” he continued after a pause.
“I never ken tell her how much I love her—I needn't try.
I don't know any way to do, but to write a letter and tell
her all about it, though she knows it well enough now. But
what good would that do? I never would have the courage
to put it in the office in town, and run the chance of that
old fellow Smith laughin' at me. Oh me! that would be
dreadful! I could write it well enough, for Mr. Charles
showed me how to make my letters:—but how afterwards?
I couldn't have courage to hand it to her. `What's that?'
she would say! And then I'd feel like I wanted to creep
through a hole. Who could I get to send it by?”
Lanky heard a subdued whistle, and turning his head
saw the boy following him, and sawing away with an accuracy
of imitation which was worthy of the most elevated
praise.
“What are you doin', Crow?” said Lanky, “and how
did you get here?”
“I git here jest so, Mas' Lanky,” replied Crow, making
ready to jump out of the way of a blow, but sawing away as
enthusiastically as ever, “I been listen to you playin'.”
“Idle as usual, you little monkey,” said Lanky, “where
are you goin'?”
“I ain't gwyne nowheres.”
“Why ain't you workin'?”
“Is'e free; I is,” said Crow, executing a pas seul.
“An idea struck Lanky all at once, that Mr. Crow might
act as his messenger and postman, that young gentleman
being a privileged character whose presence would excite no
more remark than that of a shadow.
Just as this idea occurred to him, they reached the highway,
on the opposite side of which was visible the path leading
toward the abode of Captain Ralph. Lanky raised his
hand to his hat to salute a gentleman who was riding by:
and this ceremony was closely imitated by Mr. Crow, who
added the further honor of a complete `turn about,' in the
process of executing which, we are sorry to say, his long
skirts got in his way, and he made a considerable hole in the
sandy road with his head.
It may be readily understood, that Crow agreed to place
himself completely at the commands of Lanky for a very
slight gratuity:—we need not follow them. Let us rather
accompany the cavalier who had passed; and as this will
lead us into company a step higher, commence another chapter.
10. CHAPTER X.
HOW MR. JACK HAMILTON, FOXHUNTER, AND BACHELOR, ASPIRED
TO THE HONORS OF A WIG, A SUIT OF BLACK, AND A GOLD-HEADED
CANE.
The gentleman was our old acquaintance, honest Jack Hamilton:—for
by this honorable prefix was the worthy fellow
now almost universally known.
Mr. Hamilton had changed very little—not at all we
might venture to say. He had reached that middle ground
of human life, extending from thirty-five to forty, when the
mental and physical organization of man seems to stand still,
neither increasing nor decreasing in strength, bloom, or grace:
—when nature seems to pause upon the summit of those
piled up years, before descending slowly into the vale of age.
When a man has arrived at this point in his pilgrimage toward
the other world, his eye embraces a more ample horizon,
than at any former or later period. On one side lies
the brilliant land of youth and childhood, with its murmuring
streams filling the fields with music, its myriads of delicious
flowers, burdening the faint pure air with perfume;—
and by these streams so bright and sparkling, among these
flowers whose odor haunts the memory, glide forms which
filled with joy, and freshness, and a tender bloom, the whole
happy period of youth. What joy, what freshness, in the
bright eye and lip of the boy's sweetheart!—what a tender
bloom upon the cheek, which blushed with delight when
the loved one approached! And farther still into that past,
the man's eye plunges and finds again the all-embracing
mother's love, the father's tenderness—those things which
words fail to utter, leaving the heart to speak!
And on the other side the now mature man sees stretching
quiet joys, which, if they have not all the light illusion
and romance of youth, to gild them, still are quite as genuine
as the rapturous pleasures of that brilliant golden youth—
the sunset almost shames the dawn! And if at the end of
that quiet path, there stands a white stone—and if to reach
that bourne the foot must sometimes tread on thorns, still
upon the marble there is carved a symbol, and a suffering
head, which makes the weary heart forget those thorns, because
they are sanctified for ever, by encircling the brows
carved there.
Embracing at a glance the whole horizon, extending thus
from childhood to old age, the man of true heart, standing
on the summit of manhood, does not shrink. For if the
bright fields he looks back upon were filled with strange delights,
the path he has yet to tread is not sombre, does not
want for consolations—if the light of dawn was fresh and
golden, a light streams from the Cross, cut in stone, and rising
o'er the champaign, which is far more pure. For it
murmurs to the spirit “Peace!”
And now, if the reader is disposed to find fault with this
philosophic and meditative digression, we can only say that
we regret it, requesting him to pass over any future digressions
of the same description. Let us then return to Mr.
Jack Hamilton, whose middle-aged appearance, and two or
three gray hairs, led us away.
Mr. Hamilton rode on composedly, and soon reached Effingham
Hall, which was not very far, as we know, from
“The Trap,” where the forlorn and unhappy bachelor pined
in single blessedness, and uproarious mirth. Mr. Effingham
was standing before the fire-place in the dining-room, amusing
himself by gazing through the window, at the cloud
shadows.
Hamilton grasped him cordially by the hand, and this
exhibition of friendly regard was returned with as great
heartiness.
“I'm glad to see your familiar face, Hamilton,” said
Mr. Effingham, “and I do not think you have changed in
the least.”
“Not a bit, I believe,” returned the fox-hunter “but,
by George! you have.”
Mr. Effingham looked out of the window.
“Are all the boys well?” he asked at length.
“Yes.”
“And fox-hunt as much as ever?”
“More!”
“What an easy, careless time you must have, with that
passion for the chase, Hamilton.”
“Well, I don't know. It has its drawbacks,” replied his
friend. “but suits a disreputable bachelor like myself.”
“It is a great thing for the blood; I used to hunt—and
I can understand what you mean, by saying that it has its
drawbacks; a broken arm, collar bone, or leg, for instance.”
“I did not mean that, Champ, my boy. A good rider
can always avoid that—but the ladies don't like it.”
“The ladies?” asked Mr. Effingham, with his habitual
faint smile lighting up his calm, weary face, at the mortified
tones of his friend.
“Yes, yes,” said Hamilton.
“Explain yourself!”
“Why, Miss Alethea here, for instance.”
“Alethea?”
“Yes.”
“Does she lecture you?”
“By George! I should say she did. She never allows
me any rest. I never introduce the subject of fox-hunting,
but I am immediately informed that a gentleman of my
standing in the community should turn his attention to
other and more important matters; for instance, the improvement
of the parsonage of the new and popular Mr.
Christian, parson of the parish, or getting together a fund
for supplying the unfortunate little Indians over there on
the river with braccœ, as the Latin term is—vulgo trowsers.
Yes, sir! that is what makes me complain of the disadvantages
of my unfortunate bachelor and fox-hunter condition.
But enough; where are they all to-day?”
“Alethea and my father have gone over to Mr. Lee's.”
“Then you are all alone.”
“Yes—little Kate is here somewhere, I think.”
“A nice little creature,—and did you have a pleasant
passage?”
“Tolerably.”
“From London?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause for some moments, at the end of
which time Mr. Hamilton went into a fit of laughter, and
cried out:
“By George, Champ!—or if that oath is getting disreputable,
owing to his gracious Majesty's saying and doing—
by Jove! here am I dying to know all about your travels;
and according to the good old English custom, followed by
friends immemorially, we are dealing in the most ridiculous
commonplaces. Come, speak!”
And rising, Mr. Jack Hamilton assumed, what we believe
is known as the “Virginia position,” before the fire—
that is to say, a contented and indolent attitude, with the
shoulders bent forward, the coat skirts under the arms, the
right leg extended at an angle of ten or twenty degrees in
front.
“I have nothing to tell about my travels,” said Mr. Effingham,
wearily, and gazing as before at the cloud shadows
floating over the fields. “I went, knocked about, and came
back—that is all. What news of any consequence is there
in the neighborhood?”
“None.”
“There is to be a race soon, down near Jamestown?”
“Yes.”
“I think I shall go, though I take little interest in these
matters. Much politics talked about in the neighborhood?”
“Politics? there is nothing but politics talked. That
infernal Stamp Act is looked for every day, and the colony
is getting red hot.
“They are right,” said Effingham, with a slight color in
his wan cheek, “it is an infamous measure—and I saw the
whole affair in London; it will be passed.”
“Let 'em take care!” said Hamilton.
“Yes,” replied his friend, growing calm again; “you
rightly judge that it is an extreme test. But do not let us
talk politics, I have no spirits for it.”
Hamilton looked at his friend curiously.
“Were your travels very dull?” he asked. “It seems
to me that you have returned not much improved in vivacity,
Champ.”
Mr. Effingham raised his eyes, making no reply. Hamilton
returned his gaze, in perfect silence also, and for some
moments the friends looked thus at each other. Suddenly
Mr. Effingham held out his hand, and said:
“Well, Hamilton, if we must touch upon that subject—
if I speak of it—I know of no man better than yourself.
Come! you think I am dull—spiritless—with less vivacity
than ever?”
“Yes,” replied Hamilton, cordially pressing the hand
of his friend, “your cheeks are thinner and paler, your forehead
has the mark of thought upon it, your mouth does not
smile in a wholesome way. I repeat that you are less vivacious.”
“I was never very bright,” said Mr. Effingham; “but
can you not understand that there is in my case, to be estimated
and allowed for, a great force, an enormous motor?”
“A great force?”
“That of reaction!” said Mr. Effingham, calmly.
Hamilton had never been quick of apprehension, and it
must be confessed, did not understand the profound meaning
of these words.
“Well?” he said, however.
Mr. Effingham paused for some moments, looking calmly
through the window.
“Those clouds are very fine,” he said, “and the shadows
are beautiful.”
Then he added:
“But I was going to speak of myself. You wish to
know something of my travels, of my feelings, and all?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Hamilton,” continued Mr. Effingham, as calmly
as before, “you are a good friend, and I need not play the
reserved with you, though I assure you I feel no disposition
to dissect my own heart. It is not a pleasant task, but it
can do no harm.”
And after a pause of several minutes Mr. Effingham continued:
“You will no doubt recollect the affair which created so
much agreeable comment in this neighborhood, a year or two
ago:—an affair which, commencing like a comedy, came near
ending a tragedy for all the actors, among whom I held, I
go over that matter for your entertainment, for I think
you know very nearly as much about it as I do myself: how
I loved with a wild and passionate infatuation a splendid and
fiery woman, who, from the first moment we encountered each
other, became my fate. You knew all that, and no doubt
understood the sequel: the tragedy (to return to my theatrical
metaphor) requires no prologue for you.”
“But in relation to that young girl who exerted so powerful
an influence upon my life,” continued Mr. Effingham, “let
me say two or three words. On our first meeting, in the tall
forest yonder, she said, in reply to my questions, that she
`was not a lady,' and in this characteristic speech lies the
whole explanation of what followed. Had I loved her as a
lady—or rather, to correct myself, had I approached her as
gentlemen are in the habit of approaching ladies, much which
afterwards occurred would never have taken place. I chanced
to do what under any circumstances I think I should not
have done. I went to the theatre, and there I saw that her
criticism of herself was, as far as the mere letter went, strictly
true. She was not a lady in the ordinary acceptation of the
word; and, blinded by my pride, my love—infatuation if you
will—I continued to regard her as an actress, from that moment
to the last scenes of the affair. Do not, however, imagine
that my love was any thing but the purest, after the acquaintance
that I made with the rare and wonderful texture
of this woman's nature. No! I loved her madly, but with
profound purity—for I am not naturally an impure man, and
never adopted the revolting habitudes of the soi-distant noble
society of England. I have never regarded women in the
humbler ranks as the natural purveyors for the amusement
of gentlemen. I loved this girl madly, but not, for that
reason, coarsely: and I think, that in the course of the
intensely dramatic scenes we had together, I must have
offered her my hand more than a score of times. You see
how it was; I scoffed at and taunted her, railed at her coldness,
and sneered at her `prudish airs' as I called them:
but I also honored and respected her at the bottom of my
heart, for her purity and nobility of nature. That brings
me back to the few words I wished to say of this young
girl.”
And, after a pause, Mr. Effingham continued, with perfect
calmness,—
“She was one of those rare and extraordinary natures,
who unite the most opposing and incompatible traits of character
in one harmonious whole. You read this characteristic
in her very eyes, which melted or fired, were brilliant or dim,
flashed gloriously with imperious disdain, or swam in the
dews of tenderness and childlike innocent emotions. Upon
the stage she was the character she personated—nothing
more nor less, for she completely lost her individuality, and
forgot the world of reality, entering free and untrammelled
into the brighter world of art—the splendid domain of imagination.
I have seen her, Hamilton, pass from emotion to
emotion with such a marvellous ease and strength that I
almost feared to approach her afterwards; I felt, as you may
imagine a man would feel, were some queen or empress to
converse familiarly with him in disguise; then, throwing off
the cloak which covered her imperial robes, reveal herself
in all the haughty and dazzling beauty of rank and power.
This young girl at home was a mere child, affectionate to her
coarse old father, unaffected, simple; you would have thought
her rather dull at times. In her character she was the queen
of art, and what art was made to interpret, beauty and passion.
“You follow me, do you not? I mean that this girl was
in intellect above all the women I have ever known; in resolution
more than a match for thousands of men: and with all
this she had the heart of a child,—the innocence and purity
of a young girl who has never left her mother's side. You
may now understand how passionate my infatuation must
have been, for I have always experienced a powerful attraction
towards truth and nobility, and, of course, a cordial
respect for strong character. I loved her, and finding my
advances met with indifference and cold aversion, which
afterwards changed to passionate aversion and no little dread
at times, you may imagine that the fire was blown into a
whirlwind of flame.
“I was carried away with passion—I found myself openly
defied—I executed that exceedingly unworthy scheme of
abduction.”
Mr. Effingham looked out of the window at the cloud
shadows again, and paused for some time.
“Well,” he continued, at length, “after that denouement
I went away, you know, and you now ask me to give you
some account of my travels. I cannot recall any thing which
makes them very interesting. It was the old tale, which we
sometimes read in romances; where the despairing lover who
has committed some wild act which drives him from his native
country, seeks distraction in travel, and endeavors, by changing
his residence incessantly, to escape the thoughts which
follow him as the shadow follows the body moving on. I ran
all over Europe—went to Constantinople, Egypt, Syria;
smoked abominable tobacco in Smyrna, and eat disgusting
macaroni in Naples. Rome was rather interesting, and I
think the happiest portion of my time was spent among the
Bernese Alps, in the cottage of a herdsman, with an artist
from Florence, who was an excellent companion, and aroused
me whenever I fell into one of my fits of rage and despondency.
“I had many such fits, and suffered no little remorse;
for I was uncertain whether my rival was dead or not. I
had no desire to kill him, strange to say, and was extremely
pleased to hear of his recovery by a letter received while I
was in Florence. You may understand from this, that by
force of travel and incessant novelty, my infatuation for that
young girl was slowly being worn down and smoothed away,
as the tire of a wheel is worn by the leagues it passes over,
and the obstacles in the track. I understood for the first
time then, that my madness had spent itself perforce of its
own violence, as a storm does, and was gone. I did not
grind my teeth and curse that rival, and, if the intelligence
of his recovery and marriage was not agreeable, that feeling
soon wore away. But my cheerfulness (vivacity, to use your
own word) did not return with the disappearance of the
afflicting emotions which had tortured me so long. No, I
now began to comprehend the truth of the dogma, that the
mental system closely resembles, in its modes of operation,
the physical. You know that when the human—I mean the
physical—system is put under the effect of an excessive stimulant,
whether that stimulant be the grape, or opium, or
some poison, taken in a quantity not sufficient to produce
death—there is, for a time, an unnatural exaltation, a tremendous
accession of velocity in all the wheels of life.
senses become a thousand times more acute. I will give you
an instance, and then finish my idea.
“At Smyrna I went one day into one of those shops
where opium is provided for the true believers, and mats for
them to smoke upon, and lie extended on when the divine
exaltation overcomes them. I was always curious to investigate
the causas rerum, and I wished to experience the effects
of the drug which was said to possess such extraordinary
properties. Well, the old animal handed me a sort of
chibouque, and in a few moments I was smoking like the
faithful around me, some of whom were already beginning
to totter. As I smoked the opium, the objects in the apartment
began to fade, a sort of mist waved before my eyes —
then all disappeared, and I entered, it seemed to me, another
world—a world so brilliant and beautiful, that any description
would only mar it. It is enough to say that life seemed
to have passed away with all its suffering, and boundless happiness
in another sphere of being opened on me. My blood
seemed to roll on like a golden river; I could hear the
murmur of the waves; my feet trod upon clouds, not earth
— I felt as you may imagine felt the Persian Peri, in the
fable when she entered Paradise.
“Well, I woke up with a suicidal sensation:—a desire
to leave the world where a man had to support the bundle
of nerves which were driving me to agony, with their jarring
and aching. A physical exaltation, you observe, had been
succeeded by a physical reaction just in proportion—as the
balance descends upon one hand, because the other side rises
above the natural level, the normal condition. Perhaps I
never suffered greater physical torture, and so you have the
illustration, a very lame one, of my trite dogma.
“I had reached the period of my travels where the post
brought me that letter containing the intelligence of my
rival's recovery: and I was about to say that in spite of
this weight raised from my breast, I did not become cheerful
again—and that, because the stormy emotions I had experienced
began to react as the physical organism feels the
reaction of hashish or other stimulant. I was completely
flat, if I may use the word, and I am so now, in spite of
my sight seeing; spite of all the bright eyes in Italy,
you that I was regarded as a very grand seigneur on the
continent, owing to the reasonable plumpness of my purse,
especially by the Italian damsels. They wearied me—as
art, literature, plays, society of all descriptions wearied me.
I felt through all this that the proverb of the Preacher
shone like a fire—that all was vanity—the very vanity of
vanities. I grew quite calm, and am so now, as I said.
“But stay: there was an incident in London which may
possibly add another touch to this picture of myself undergoing
the distracting effects of a European tour:—it goes
to show that my feelings were not quite deadened by the
countries, scenes, personages, I had seen—the time which
had elapsed.
“In London, one day, I chanced to raise my eyes to the
door of a theatre, and I saw the names of the members of
the `Virginia Company of Comedians'—the worthy gentlemen
were to play that evening. You see they had by that
time returned from Virginia to England, and were figuring
in the humbler characters they were suited to. I know not
what feeling seized me, and I determined to go and see
them play that evening. I went, and found these men just
the same easy, jovial, and coarse characters which I had
known them to be formerly:—for you know I had the honor
to be an accredited member of the `Virginia Company of
Comedians,' and was favored with the society of these worthies.
There they were now, just the same:—Hallam strutted
in his pompous good-humored way; Shylock, as one of
these fellows was called, still exhibited an admirable burlesque
of tragedy:—the Virginia Company had become a
London Company, that was all.
“The effect produced upon me by the sight of these
men was singular. I seemed to go back in actual reality
to that former time so filled with fiery passion, with love,
disdain, hatred, despair. The very atmosphere seemed to
envelope me again—that atmosphere again filled my veins
with fierce heat, and so powerful were these emotions, that,
carried away by my old fury, I drew my short sword, and
would have struck a gentleman who stood by me, had it not
been wrested from my hand. He was enraged—I could not
explain, or rather he would not hear my vague excuse—we
was a lame hand, and I disarmed him, and allowed him to
depart. I do not think I recovered from the effect of that
performance for a whole month:—but it was the last muttering
of the storm—the tempest after that died away completely,
and I now feel convinced that nothing can again
arouse in me those tempestuous memories. Soon after the
incident I have mentioned, I left London, tired, completely
wearied of every thing European, and experiencing a singular
sentiment of home-sickness, which I had read of in Virgil,
and many poets after him; but had never believed in
before. I actually began to feel some return of warmth in
my frozen breast, thinking of Virginia here—the Hall—my
father—the children, and the servants. I cannot say that
any of my yearning—the rhetorical word, I believe—was
directed toward the ladies of the neighborhood: no, I have
done with women, Hamilton, and shall in future avoid them,
as the helmsman avoids the sunken rock, the whirlpool, or
the muttering storm: well, this is by the way. I was about
to tell you how I found that my heart was no longer subject
to these stormy memories; and I proved that satisfactorily
to myself on my arrival—after a tolerably pleasant passage
of two months—in Virginia.
“Do you remember—but you must—my sojourn in the
old days at the Raleigh tavern? Yes? Well, I also remember
it very distinctly! Let me tell you how I tried
myself, and found that my heart was thenceforth as cold as
ice, and equal to any test.
“I had occupied, in those former days I have alluded
to, an apartment in the tavern known as number six; and
she—you understand—had two rooms just opposite. Having
arrived in the town from York, at which port I disembarked,
late in the evening, I resolved to spend the night
there, and I ordered the apartments formerly occupied by
the young girl to be prepared for me, with the direct intention
to try myself That this trial should be final and definite,
I arranged the apartments just as they had been in the
past:—the first, I mean, for of the second, her bedroom, I
knew nothing, having never entered it. A bureau had been
removed to a different position: I changed it to its former
place: the slight couch was out of place: I restored it. An
it, and substituted the oblong mirror which had once
graced it—leaning forward from the wall. I ordered a single
wax-light then to be placed upon the table in the corner,
and went and procured a straw hat, such as she wore, with
red ribbon, for I remembered all perfectly; and this I
threw down upon the couch.
“I wandered about for an hour near the theatre, the
Governor's palace—along Gloucester street—reviving her
image in my mind: then as night drew on, I went to the
apartment—paused at the door and knocked, opened the
door and entered. The dim wax-light threw long shadows
through the room, and the illusion was complete. I could
almost fancy that she had just passed into the adjoining
chamber, having thrown down her hat upon the sofa.
“Well, I sat down, smiling, and with my hand upon my
brow, summoned all that past, so full of brilliant and passionate
figures, and more fiery and passionate emotions, back
to me. I commanded those days to rise and defile before
me in a long glittering line; and I went over every scene,
every sensation, every emotion, whether of suffering or delight,
happiness or anguish. I mean that I recalled them,
by an effort of memory, not that I really felt them. No: I
did not flush, and grow pale, and tear my breast, and rave,
as was my wont formerly:—I smiled. I saw that splendid
passionate beauty again, but she no longer filled my heart
with delirious love, mad anguish: she interested me merely.
I felt, as you may imagine a man feels, when he is listening
to some fine effort of an improvisatore;—where the passions,
feelings, incidents, all, interest without moving you very
deeply, however tragic. The drama of my life was merely
a drama to me now: and I smiled at my old infatuation.
To make the drama complete, I raised the window—summoned
perforce of my imagination the instruments of that wild
and unworthy scheme; and then, with a stealthy tread, approached
the chair which she had lain sleeping in. I saw
again her enchanting face, with its tender languid beauty as
she slept:—the profuse curls upon her snowy neck, the undulations
of her figure, as half reclining in the chair, she
drew long breaths, worn out with watching, and slumbering
heavily. I saw it all, and would have smiled again at the
bitterly for that act:—that stratagem which was so unworthy
of me, as it is unworthy of a man to cheat a child.
I sat down again, and thought of her in her far mountain
home, the happy wife of my rival—I left out no particular,
I tested my heart to the very bottom—and what was the
result? Why, indifference, Hamilton! My infatuation
was dead, and I slept as soundly that night in the apartment
she had moved about in like a bright sunbeam, as
ever I did worn out with travel in the inns of Switzerland.
“Well, here I am now, and I am happily over all that
—the play is played, the curtain has fallen on the whole,
and it is forgotten. Let it go: I went and took my part in
it of my own accord, and cannot complain that the fiery passions
of the drama have worn me out. I am completely
worn out, and there you see, I have returned precisely to
what I commenced with.”
Hamilton had listened to this narrative in almost perfect
silence; and he now remained silent for some time longer.
At length, looking curiously at Mr. Effingham, who,
stretched languidly in his chair, was gazing listlessly through
the window, the honest fellow said suddenly, with some embarrassment:
“Champ, have you seen Clare Lee yet?”
Mr. Effingham looked intently at his friend for an instant,
and then turning away his eyes again, said, indifferently:
“Yes.”
Hamilton found himself at a loss how to proceed. Mr.
Effingham came to his relief.
“I know what you mean,” he said, calmly; “and I will
answer the question which you have not asked—but you
have looked it. You mean, Hamilton, that perhaps my indifference
to every thing, my deadness, if you like the word,
springs from the fact that I have not yet seen the girl whose
presence used to have such an effect on me. You are mistaken:
I have seen her, and I was perfectly calm. On the
day I arrived at the Hall, she chanced to be here on a visit,
and when I made my appearance she was standing directly
in front of me, leaning on the harpsichord. Let me confess
that I did experience something like a distinct emotion upon
heart is too much like a sullen lake, deep and black:—it is
not moved by so slight a breeze—and I was quite calm
again in a moment, and bowed low, and turned round and
conversed with a placidity wholly unaffected. I do not say
that the sight of Clare,” continued Mr. Effingham, in a
slightly altered tone, “did not afford me a certain degree
of pleasure and pain. I loved her once, and my affection
was of that simple, tender description, which outlasts a
thousand bursts of passion: for it makes up in depth what
it lacks in fire. But I was not deeply stirred—and I think
I felt greater pleasure at seeing all here, than at meeting her.
Ah! I think she has almost forgotten my wild vagaries—a
good girl!”
And Mr. Effingham, for a moment, looked less weary.
Hamilton was thinking of the narrative he had just listened
to, and endeavoring by an exertion of his not very powerful
mind, to arrive at the psychological significance of it. Mr.
Effingham came to his assistance.
“You are puzzling yourself,” he said, with a languid
smile, “to make out what I am, Hamilton. What is the
sum total of all these various emotions, conflicting passions?
I will tell you. It is weariness, indifference, and content, if
I may be allowed thus to couple what seem to be incompatible
things. I assure you that I care for nothing in the
world. I love the family, I am fond of the Hall here; but
these feelings are not very strong. As to my convictions
opinions, I believe in nothing, Hamilton, I care for nothing.
I get angry sometimes, thinking of his gracious Majesty's
legislation on Virginia matters; but after all the thought
comes `What is the use? Why should I trouble myself
about his Majesty? He wearies me.' As to any ambition,
any social or political aspiration, I have none; it wearies
me, just as every thing wearied me in Europe. I played
whole days and nights, in Paris, and got up and kicked aside
the pile of cards around my ankles, with perfect indifference;
I was neither elevated nor depressed by good or bad fortune,
and gave a check on my banker, if I lost, or stuffed the gold
I won into my pocket, without emotion, good or bad. I went
and listened to innumerable tragedies, incessant operas in
France and Italy; they wearied me. I believe I fought
I left the ground after these events, with my scratches, when
I got any, as I came; indifferently. I have no gallant experiences
to add to this—I got enough of women here, and
made a resolution to avoid them, to which resolution I have
religiously adhered. Well. you see I am worn out—I believe
in nothing—I take interest in nothing—I do not complain—I
shall probably vegetate here, and become a fat, honest
squire, presiding, possibly, at county courts, and talking
knowingly of tobacco, and the prices of cattle and of blood,
and so, at the appointed time, go the way of all humanity.
There it is.”
And Mr. Effingham gazed at the fire as calmly as he had
spoken. Hamilton looked at him closely for some time, and
then said:
“Champ, you want a physician!”
“A physician?” asked his friend.
“Yes.”
“I am not sick!”
“Yes you are.'
“I?”
“Yes, you.”
“Sick?”
“Very sick.”
Mr. Effingham nodded.
“Oh! I understand you now;” he said, “my mind you
fancy, is not healthy.”
“I don't imagine any thing about it. By George! I
know it.”
“Well?”
“Let me be your doctor?”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Effingham.
“Will you follow my directions—take my prescriptions?”
“That depends wholly upon their flavor.”
“Come now—you retreat at once.”
“No.”
“If I ask nothing unreasonable?”
“Will I put myself under the direction of Doctor
Hamilton?” said Mr. Effingham, smiling faintly at the
say?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I promise that much very cheerfully.”
“Good!” cried honest Jack; “I'll cure you, by George!
and make you a jolly companion again, or I'll eat my head.”
“You would have an awful indigestion,” replied Mr. Effingham;
“but let me hear your scheme.”
“No, that does not concern you; I take the responsibility
of the drugs. No cure, no pay.”
“And what will be your pay, provided you succeed?”
“The satisfaction of hearing you laugh loud enough to
shake the windows, and seeing you become the jolly boy of
former times again.”
“Jack, you are the best friend I have, upon my honor, I
think,” said Mr. Effingham. “I wish you were as excellent
a physician.”
“Never mind! by Jove! we'll make the trial. And as
you say you do not believe in any thing, I do not ask you to
believe in my proficieney in the art, until you feel it. I am
going now to see Tom Lane. Goodbye.”
“Do not go yet; come, you are fashionable.”
“No, I must go,” said Hamilton, shaking hands with his
friend, and putting on his hat. “My horse is there—I told
them not to take him. By Jove! look at him! he's a splendid
fellow. Did you ever see such a sweep of the loin?
Remember now—I commence next week!”
And whistling merrily, Mr. Hamilton departed.
“There goes a happy man, and an honest fellow,” said
Mr. Effingham, going languidly into the library; “an intelligent
mind too. There is only one delusion under which he
labors—he thinks he can cure me.”
Mr. Effingham took his hat and cane, and strolled out on
the lawn.
“Very pretty, and very wearisome!” he said, looking
at the landscape. And he turned away.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE OTHER PHYSICIAN.
Just as Mr. Effingham turned to enter the Hall again, weary
already of the lovely afternoon, spite of its azure skies, and
singing birds, and pleasant breezes rustling the leaves, and
the small brilliant flowers scattered over the lawn, he heard
a merry child's voice calling him, from the banks of the little
stream which gurgled over its mossy rocks, at the foot of
the hill.
He looked round, and saw Kate, who was running towards
him, making signs to him.
“Oh, Cousin Champ! come and look at Snowdrop!”
she cried, enthusiastically, as she grasped his hand and
turned her bright little face with its sparkling eyes and
laughing lips up to him; “just come and see how pretty I
have made Snowdrop, please!”
Mr. Effingham smiled, and allowed himself to be led
down the hill toward the stream. On the grassy margin
stood a young heifer, as white as snow, munching with indifferent
pleasure, grass, moss, and the early flowers. Snowdrop,
as Kate had dubbed the heifer, exhibited a most extraordinary
appearance, which fact was attributable to her
mistress, it was very plain. The animal was decked out
with a multiplicity of red and blue ribbons tied in fluttering
bows; and altogether presented an extraordinarily picturesque
spectacle, as she quietly, and with the air of a conscious
favorite, munched the flowery grass.
“Just look! isn't she pretty!” cried Kate, in a paroxysm
of delight. “Did you ever see any thing prettier in
all your life, now, Cousin Champ? So! Snowdrop, so—so!”
and Kate caressed the white neck of the heifer, who raised
her intelligent head, and licked the hand of her young mistress.
“Are those the ribbons I gave you,” asked Mr. Effingham,
smiling, “brought all the way, with the rest of your
presents, in my trunk from London?”
“Oh no!” cried Kate, “I wouldn't set Snowdrop up
them, something for you.”
“What, pray, Katy?”
“Why a knot for your sword hilt, or a lovely bow for
your coat, to wear at the party.”
Mr. Effingham smiled again.
“I have done with all those vanities,” he said, “and I
shall be very plain at the party, which it seems they are
bent on.”
“Oh yes! it will be so nice; but you mustn't dress in
black, Cousin Champ.”
“What then—white and ribbons, like Snowdrop?”
“Oh no, in blue and gold—your pretty suit you know.”
“Do you think Snowdrop would be handsome if she was
blue, and you decorated her with gold-colored ribbon?”
Kate burst into a shout of laughter.
“Oh, wouldn't that be funny?” she cried, shaking with
merriment. “What do you think, Miss Snowdrop—tell me
now?”
Snowdrop remained mute.
“You must teach her to converse,” said Mr. Effingham.
“I believe I could!” cried Kate, “she is so smart, and
good, and likes me so much. Don't you, Snowdrop?”
And Kate paused for a reply. Instead of replying, however,
the heifer, having exhausted the spot she stood upon,
moved away indifferently from her mistress, and vouchsafed
no further exhibition of regard. She began to graze quietly
on the flowery margin, at some distance.
“The horrid thing!” cried the child, “to be so ungrateful!
Well, she may go along.”
Mr. Effingham smiled again.
“Tell her goodbye, and let us go in, and look at the new
book of engravings,” he said.
“No,” Kate replied, laughing, “I won't take any more
notice of her. Listen how the bluebirds are singing! and
look at Tray, yonder, rolling on the grass!”
They approached and entered the Hall, and Mr. Effingham
took from the book-case in the library, the book of pictures.
The man and the child amused themselves over it for
some time, Kate sitting in his lap, as was habitual with her.
At last the volume was gone through with, and laid aside.
Kate laid her head on Mr. Effingham's shoulder, and
sang in a low tone, thoughtfully. Mr. Effingham gazed for
some moments quietly into the little face, and said:
“What is that you're singing, Kate?”
“`It's hame, and its hame,'” replied the child, “I
didn't know I was singing.”
“It is very sweet:—commence now and sing it through,
for me. I like to hear you.”
“Do you really?” said Kate, smoothing back her hair.
“Yes, indeed.”
“I'll always sing when you ask me, then; but you know
I'll do any thing you want me to.”
And Kate sang, in her small child's voice, and with great
sweetness:
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie;
There's an e'e that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain
As I pass through Annan water wi' my bonny band again;
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf upon the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie!
“Hame, hame, hame,—hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie;
The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonny white rose it is witherin' an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And green it will grow in my ain countrie!
“Hame, hame, hame,—hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie;
There's nought now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys of kind Heaven to open the grave
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
“Hame, hame, hame,—hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie;
The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save,
The new grass is growing aboon their bloody grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e,
`I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.'”
The tender little voice ended its sweet carol, and for
some time Mr. Effingham was quite silent, caressing, absently,
the child's small hand, which lay in his own.
“That is a very pretty song, Kate,” he said at length;
and in an abstracted voice he repeated:
The lark shall sing me home in my own countrie.'
that I have come back just as the larks are beginning to
sing.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Kate, “and I am very much obliged
to the larks for singing you home.”
“Then, you are really glad to see me back?”
“How can you ask me that?” Kate said, reproachfully.
“Why are you glad? Come, tell me,” he asked smiling.
“Because I love you,” said the child, simply.
“And why do you love me?”
“Because you love me,” said Kate, laughing, “isn't that
the best reason in the world?”
“Indeed it is a very good reason, and is very true: but
come, tell me what you think of me, Kate—I am anxious
to know.”
“I can't answer that: how could I?”
“Am I good, or bad?”
“Oh, you're good!”
“Not very—I do not think I shall ever die of excessive
goodness. But go on—what else am I?”
“You are kind,” continued Kate, with a bright affectionate
look in her small face.
“Am I?”
“Yes, indeed: to me especially.”
“That's because you are such a poor little creature, not
much higher than my thumb,” said Mr. Effingham, forgetting
his weariness, and smiling.
“Indeed I am not,” said Kate, “I'm nearly an inch
taller than I was last year. Oh! you're jesting,” she added,
with a laugh.
“Well, go on now, and tell me something more about
myself. I am anxious to know. Am I very agreeable—
witty, amusing, entertaining? do you ever laugh heartily
when I talk to you?”
“No, I don't think I do: but you know you have not
come back very well.”
“Who, I?” said Mr. Effingham, “why I am the picture
of health.”
“No, indeed you are not, cousin Champ: your cheeks
are thinner and paler than I like to see them.”
“My face pale—thin?”
“Yes—and it grieves me: indeed it does.”
“Are you ever grieved at any thing, Kate? I thought
that you were always so bright, and merry, and laughing;
playing with Willie, and decking out Snowdrop, and running
about like a sunbeam incessantly, that you never stopped
to think a moment, much less to grieve.”
“Indeed, you are mistaken: I think a great deal,” said
Kate, “I think when I am playing, and sewing, and even
when I am singing.”
“What do you think of?”
“Of any thing—of you, or papa, or myself, or mamma.”
“Of your mother?”
“Yes, cousin Champ,” said Kate, quite simply, “you
know mamma is in heaven.”
Mr. Effingham made no reply.
“But what do you grieve about?” he asked at length.
“You said you grieved, Katy.”
“Yes, I grieve, but not often. I grieve about you sometimes.”
“Since my return?”
“Yes, cousin Champ, and while you were away too. I
didn't like you to be away—for you know you were my playmate.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Effingham.
“I had other playmates—Willie and Tommy Alston,
and Sue Ashton, but I liked you the best: and then you
know I thought you couldn't be so happy across the sea as
here.”
“I don't think I was.”
“I used to want you to come back mightily: and I've
prayed often for you, too.”
Mr. Effingham smoothed the bright little head in silence.
“You don't know how delighted I was, when your letter
shoulder.
“Were you?” he said, smiling.
“Yes, but I thought you would come back looking better—how
did you grow so pale?”
And the child looked affectionately at the white brow,
and thin cheek.
“Am I pale?” he said, “well, I must get rosy again,
and not make my little pet grieve.”
“Indeed, I wish you would look merry and well again—
I don't like to see you looking so tired, and as if you did
not care much for any thing.”
These words were so perfect an echo to what Mr. Effingham
had said of himself a little while before, that he was
struck.
“But, suppose I do not care for any thing?” he said.
“Listen now, Katy: suppose I considered life, this world you
know, a place where people dressed up and went through their
parts, as a matter of course, because other people were looking
at them; and suppose I thought that all their merry
faces, and laughing, and going on, was affected—and often
hid a feeling of disquiet, I mean painful feeling. Suppose
I did not take any interest in any thing, because the world
was not bright, and disagreeable things were always putting
me out of temper:—suppose I really did not care any thing
for the world, or the people in it?”
“But that would be wrong,” said Kate, simply.
“How?”
“Because the world is not so bad and disagreeable.”
“Isn't it?”
“Oh, no.”
“But if I thought so?”
“Well, cousin Champ, I think you still ought to do your
duty.”
“My duty?”
“Yes: you know there is a great deal of good to be
done in the world, and nobody has the right to leave it undone.
Don't be offended with me:—I wouldn't say it, you
know, if it wasn't right; or, I mean, if I didn't think it was
right: and I don't mean you.”
Mr. Effingham was silent.
“I read a good deal in my Bible,” said Kate, “and oh!
did I ever tell you what a strange thing happened? I missed
it one day—my little old Bible, that papa gave me, you
know—and I couldn't think where in the world it was.
Well, about a month afterwards it was brought to the Hall,
by somebody, without any message, and wrapped up so
nicely.”
For a moment a cloud passed over Mr. Effingham's face,
as he recalled those past scenes, which the child with the
thoughtlessness of youth had apparently forgotten. This
cloud soon passed away however, and he said:
“You dropped it somewhere, and some honest person
found it. Do you read much in it, Kate?”
“Oh yes, every night; and I ought to, you know, because
God has been so good to me, and he commands us to.”
“Yes.”
“We ought not to forget God,” said Kate, “at least, I
ought not to, for he sent papa to take me, when I hadn't any
father or mother.”
Mr. Effingham passed his hand over her hair, softly.
“That was our duty,” he said, “you are our blood, and
besides,” he added, smiling, “you are not so poor, Katy:
you are quite a little heiress.”
“I know papa says, I am not poor,” Kate said simply,
“but money you know couldn't buy love.”
“Indeed,—no.”
“And every body loves me,” said Kate. “It makes me
happy to think of that, and I try to be good.”
The child's face wore such a simple, tender look, at the
moment, that Mr. Effingham turned his eyes from it, to a
portrait over the fire-place, which wore an expression strikingly
similiar.
“You are very much like my mother, Katy,” he said,
softly, “you know your father and mine married cousins.”
“Did they? I am very glad—they are in heaven together,
you know, cousin Champ” she said, simply.
Mr. Effingham looked at the child again, and felt his
heart much softened.
“You are a good little creature, Kate,” he said, “and I
think it does not hurt me to talk to you. Now come, let us
and I think you will enjoy it.”
`Oh yes!” cried Kate, springing up, “I'll get my hat in
a moment.”
And she ran up stairs, and returned almost immediately,
with a small wide-rimmed straw hat decked with ribbon,
and a light velvet pelisse, which she threw around her shoulders,
rather to feel that she had some wrapping on, than because
the pleasant afternoon required it.
Then hand in hand the man and the child issued forth,
and took their way along the white, winding road, toward the
gate, visible at some distance through the wood.
12. CHAPTER XII.
A LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES.
Kate and Mr. Effingham reached and passed through the
old gate, and determined to extend their walk to a knoll, two
or three hundred yards beyond the little stream which crossed
the road. The stream was rendered passable by means
of a narrow footway, constructed of two large logs, above
which extended a slender sapling fixed to a tree upon either
side, and meant to answer the purpose of a balustrade.
Kate entered upon the narrow path over the brawling
little stream, with fear and trembling and laughter. The
swaying banister, so to speak, was very insecure, and one
might have supposed that Miss Kate Effingham was taking
lessons in the noble art of rope-dancing, so carefully, with
her right arm extended, did she balance herself upon the insecure
footway.
“Oh, me! I'll fall in! I'm sure I shall!” she cried, “oh,
cousin Champ!”
Mr. Effingham smiled, and said:
“Well, madam, you chose to precede me. It is your
own fault.”
“Oh!” continued Kate, making the most extraordinary
gyrations with her right arm, “oh! the tree is giving
way!”
In fact, the sapling began to bend more than ever.
“I shall fall in! I know I shall!” cried Kate, laughing,
and trying to steady herself. “Oh! cousin!”
Two strong arms raised the child, and bore her across.
“Thank you!” she cried, “I never should have got over,
I think.”
And they proceeded toward the hill, which they soon
reached. From the summit, there was a fine view of the
Hall, which raised its princely walls above the embowering
foliage in the sunset. The windows seemed to be on fire
with the crimson light of evening, and the rich rays died
away across the broad champaign in roseate splendor—fainting,
failing, dying. It was one of those lovely scenes which
are so common in Virginia, when the sun seems to linger,
loth to leave the fair fields and tall forests.
“Look, Katy,” said Mr. Effingham, “that is as pretty
a sight as you could find if you were to travel a thousand
miles.”
“It's lovely!” cried Kate, leaning her head against his
shoulder, and gazing at the landscape with her large bright
eyes; “and look at the clouds!”
“Yes: all gold. There is nothing as fine as this in Italy
—though I have seen something like it from a hill near Florence.
Ah! they have painters there—there are no painters,
no artists in Virginia: the time has not come—but it
will come.”
“Look!” cried Kate, “there is the carriage.”
And she pointed to the left, where the winding road
plunged into the woodland. There, indeed, was the Hall
chariot rolling on slowly toward them, the four glossy horses
lit up by the last rays of the sun.
“Somebody's with them,” continued Kate; “see what a
fine-looking-man, and what a beautiful horse. I never saw
any thing as pretty.”
“As the man—or the horse?” asked Mr. Effingham, with
a faint smile.
“Oh, the horse! look what slender, pretty legs he has,
and what a fine head and mane.”
“The man?”
“Oh, no! you are laughing at me: the horse: who can
it be?”
“It is Captain Ralph Waters,” said Mr. Effingham, calmly,
“let us go and meet them.”
Kate gave a delighted assent to this proposition; and descending
the hill again, they reached the stream just as the
carriage drove to the bank.
“Ah! there's my excellent cousin!” cried the voice of
Miss Henrietta Lee, from the chariot: and the brilliant
head of that young lady projected itself from the window.
Mr. Effingham bowed: and then turning to Captain Ralph,
said in his calm, courteous voice:
“I am glad to see you again, sir: give you good evening.”
“Why, good evening, companion,” replied the Captain,
“delighted to see you, though I did not anticipate that pleasure.”
“I have been taking a short walk—myself and my little
cousin.”
The Captain made Kate a very courteous little bow, which
that young lady was much pleased with.
“A short walk, eh?” continued the Captain; “how is
that?”
“There is the Hall, sir—it is not far.”
“The Hall?” said the Captain, drawing rein, “ah! the
Hall!”
And a cloud passed over the worthy soldier's brow.
“I believe I must return,” he added, approaching the
window of the carriage, and bowing to Henrietta, Alethea, and
the squire.
“I trust, Captain Waters, that you will not be so unfriendly
as to leave us at the door of my house,” said the old
gentleman, with frank courtesy: and he added, in a lower
tone, “I understand, sir, that your last visit was on a disagreeable
occasion, and did not tempt you to repeat your call:
but let the past sleep; you will do me an honor and a pleasure.”
The Captain twisted in his seat, twirled his moustache,
and made no reply.
“Do not afflict me, sir,” said the squire, in the same low
tone, and with as much cordial courtesy as before, “by causing
me to recollect events which should be forgotten. Come,
sir—I ask you to do me a personal favor.”
The Captain half yielded, muttering to himself.
“The ladies must be tired of me,” he said; “I am only
a rude soldier, sir: come now, Madam Henrietta, say! are
you not tired of me?”
This was one of those decisive questions which can only
be answered by a lady in the negative; as she could not say
yes, therefore, Henrietta said nothing.
“I am sure that I shall be glad if you go, sir,” said Miss
Alethea, “and I am quite as sure that Henrietta will.”
No reply from Henrietta.
“Ah, well,” said the Captain, seeming to conquer his repugnance
at last, “many thanks. I will weary you a little
longer. But is this young lady going to walk?” continued
the soldier, pointing to Kate. “Take my horse, he is perfectly
gentle, ma petite Mademoiselle; will you not? I will
fix the stirrup for you.”
“I'm afraid, sir,” Kate replied, laughing; “I don't mind
walking, if I was over the run.”
“Basta! then permit me to transport your small ladyship,”
said the soldier, laughing.
And he rode up to the fallen tree, upon which Kate was
standing. The child was quite delighted with this proposition,
and first interrogating the old gentleman by a glance,
was soon perched behind the Captain, who bore her across in
an instant behind the carriage.
“Do you like your seat, Ma'mselle?” asked the Captain.
“Did you speak to me, sir?”
“Yes, yes: Ma'm'selle is the outlandish for miss.”
“Yes, sir—I like to ride on such a pretty horse.”
“Then I'll carry you all the way, ma foi!”
“I don't want to leave cousin Champ,” said Kate.
Mr. Effingham, who had crossed the brook, smiled, and
opening the door of the chariot, entered it.
“Now, Katy, you may be at rest,” he said, “I am very
well here, and you shall have your ride.”
The chariot then rolled on and soon drew up before the
Hall, as did Captain Ralph, behind whom Kate was sitting
with delighted countenance. Will, who had just returned
from school, came forth and assisted the ladies from the carriage
with dignified courtesy, and the whole party entered
the old mansion, Willie lingering behind to ask Kate who
that man with the moustache was?
13. CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH THE COMEDY PROCEEDS.
“I do not know how you can say so, sir.”
“Is it not true, Madam Henrietta? Come now, say, is it
not?”
“No, sir; why should `ladies in general prefer a fop to any
other species of admirer?' You perceive, sir, that I repeat
your own words.”
“Yes; and I maintain that they are dooms correct. I
set up my rest upon that proposition, and defend it as becomes
a soldier, and one long cognizant of the humors and
peculiarities of the divine sex,” continued the Captain, gently
caressing his long black moustache, and bending forward
with great earnestness in his chair.
While the Captain and Henrietta converse upon one side
of the room, Mr. Effingham sits languidly looking out of the
window near Miss Alethea upon the other: Kate and Will
are holding an animated dialogue by the harpsichord; and the
squire is in the distance exchanging compliments with the
parson of the parish, who made his appearance at the Hall
soon after the entrance of the party. Mr. Christian is a quiet,
benevolent-looking gentleman of about forty, with an open,
pleasant eye, a mild manner: and he wears the clerical suit
of black, and white neckcloth. Dark colored leggings reach
to his knees, and in his hand he carries the shovel hat worn
by the clergy.
And now that the reader has these different groups before
him, in the old portrait-decorated, carved-wainscoted
drawing-room, let us return for a brief space to Miss Henrietta
Lee and her admirer:—for by this time Captain Ralph
has come to assume that position, having fought the battle of
Glatz for her own and Mrs. Lee's amusement, and having found
in Miss Henrietta—whether from interest or a disposition to
redeem the character of her sex—an attentive and silent listener.
This circumstance has pleased the Captain, and sure
of his auditor, he now branches forth into a discussion of the
interesting peculiarities of her sex.
“Nothing could be truer than the proposition I have had
continues, “let me hear you deny that the adorable sex—
the French term, that—is not better pleased with the gay
fops who adorn this wicked world, than with the more unpretending
individuals of the masculine gender. There is
no earthly doubt of the fact, and I feel convinced that a lady
of your discrimination, upon a calm view of the facts of the
matter, will not venture to deny the truth of the aforesaid
proposition.”
“I do deny it,” says Henrietta, with a toss of her brilliant
head, which diffused a light cloud of perfumed powder
through the air; “I deny it wholly, sir!”
“For the sake of argument, doubtless,” replies the Captain
coolly, and exhibiting very little emotion at the lady's
manner.
“I never argue, sir!” said Henrietta.
“Yes, yes: logic is not the failing of your admirable
sex, madam.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Verily, as our chaplain used to say. But come, let me
say a word on this subject: you know how much we masculine
animals love to hear ourselves talk—morbleu! almost
as much as the ladies: though not quite.”
Henrietta preserves a disdainful silence:—but her manner
is not so cold. She begins to regard Captain Waters as
an amusing as well as audacious gentleman.
“Instead of combating the proposition, I will explain
the reason thereof,” says the soldier, laughing. “And pray
what is a fop? Why a gentleman that wears drop curls,
carries a muff of leopard skin, pardy! and ambles elegantly
on his high-heeled shoes through the minuet, or other agreeable
divertisement. His hands are as soft as a woman's, and
are covered with rings: his cheeks are delicately vermilioned
with the new French thing called rouge, which being
translated is, as you are probably aware, red;—his lace is
redolent of perfume, and his sword is an inch or something
of that sort in length, and covered with knots of ribbon.
He takes snuff: he minces his words: he is exquisite:—
behold the picture of an elegant gentleman—called by some
a fop, by others a dandy.”
“Hum!” says Henrietta.
“Now what comparison can there be, my dearest Miss
Lee, between one of these noble seigneurs all glittering with
embroidery and covered with perfume, and an ordinary fellow
—a man of the law, a planter, or a soldier? Their hands are
respectably large:—their garments are plain—their swords
very lengthy and fit for honest blows—they are guiltless of
perfume, and never mince their words or amble. They are
much more apt to whip you out a pardy! or morbleu! and
their manner of walking is decidedly of the stride description.
Behold all. See here the difference! at my French idiom
again you perceive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well now, can any thing be more natural, more reasonable
than the preference your sex have for the former class,
madam? The elegant gentleman fascinates you with his
drop curls and lovely red cheeks: his muff is ready for your
little hands, and should they encounter his own there, they
are soft and white:—you admire his grace in the ambling
minuet: you are fond of perfumes such as he uses, and his
nice little ribbon-decorated sword does not frighten your
feminine hearts. How could you ever look at a brown
face, a stalwart hand, a plain cavalier, after this enchanting
picture? Impossible!”
And the Captain twirls his moustache with a delicious
expression of self-appreciation.
“I suppose you mean,” says Henrietta, satirically, “that
ladies judge wholly by the exterior, and do not like you,
sir.”
“Me? not like me? No, no, I am an exception!”
“An exception, sir?”
“Yes indeed!”
“Pray, how?”
“I unite, my dear madam, in my own person, the graces
of both classes.”
“Sir!” says Henrietta, completely astonished at this
climax of audacious conceit.
“I know it is in bad taste to say it,” replies the Captain,
liberally and gracefully; “but I am anxious to disabuse
your mind of the impression that in this matter I am actuated
by any feeling beyond a philosophical interest in the
question, calmly considered. No, no, I have never had
living.”
“Then the ladies every where have admired you, am I to
understand, sir?” says Henrietta, with her satirical curl of
the lip.
“Well now—really—you embarrass me extremely!” replies
her cavalier, affecting an innocent and confused expression.
“Morbleu! I have no right to reply to that question.”
And the Captain looks mysterious.
Really the vainest creature I have ever met with—
odiously vain!—is Henrietta's inward comment.
“Ah, you think me very vain!” says the Captain.
Henrietta starts: this acuteness of the soldier is beginning
to surprise and annoy her.
The Captain observes the movement she makes.
“Come now: confess I am insupportably vain!” he
says; “and quarrel with me for answering your own question.
By heaven! I feel as if I had been guilty of something
horrible—the bare idea of which causes my hair to
stand on end!”
And the Captain assumes an expression of such terror,
that Henrietta's sense of the comic overcomes her, and she
laughs in spite of herself. Conscious however that this will
flatter the soldier, she assumes again her habitual expression
of satirical indifference, and says:
“Well, sir, having proved, to your own satisfaction at
least, that our sex prefer fops to rational men; pray now
proceed to inform me why I especially prefer them. You
observe, sir, that I use your own words again.”
The Captain sees that he has advanced one step: he is
called upon to speak.
“Why you prefer them?” he asked, desirous of gaining
time.
“Yes, sir.”
`You wish to know, my dear madam, why I ventured to
say that you were likely to appreciate this class very highly
—the reason—”
“Yes, sir: I believe I speak plainly.”
“Very plainly, morbleu! and with the most charming
voice!”
This evasion of the point piques Henrietta's curiosity,
and annoys her at the same time.
“You seem to wish to dismiss the subject, sir,” she
says.
“Dismiss the subject?”
“Yes, sir!” replies the young girl, with a satirical flash
of her proud brilliant eye, “you are not fond of logic, it
seems, though your sex, you say, monopolize it to the exclusion
of my own.”
An idea strikes the Captain, and his face beams; all at
once he finds himself extricated from his dilemma.
“I do not reply to your insinuation, my dear Miss Lee,”
he says, “it would take up time. I proceed to tell you
why I think you, of all others, would prefer these soft, amiable,
delightfully tranquil, word-mincing gentlemen; and I
think that if you would cast your eye upon that mirror yonder,
you would require nothing more.”
“How, sir?” says Henrietta, gazing at her brilliant
image in the mirror.
“Why, it would show you a pair of bright flashing eyes,
lips full of animation and brilliancy,—in a word, you would
see a young lady full of fire and spirit. See here, morbleu!
the whole matter in a nutshell.”
Henrietta's lip curls.
“Really you must aspire to rival the Sphinx, sir,” she
says.
“I, madam? Oh, no! I have no desire to match myself
against that wonder of antiquity; and I think my point
quite plain.”
“How plain, sir?”
“You see brilliant eyes there; at least bright eyes: do
you not?”
“Well, sir?”
“Animated lips?”
“Proceed, sir.”
“Life, quickness, animation?”
“Well, what next?”
“Nothing, my dear madam, all is explained. You prefer
the aforesaid quiet, amiable, unoffending fops, because
they are so completely contrasted with yourself. Like seeks
unlike—you know the proverb.”
“Then, sir, I am not `quiet'—”
The Captain finds that his anxiety to escape from one
dilemma has plunged him into another, and he utters a sonorous
`hum!'
“Nor amiable—?”
“Really, madam—”
“Nor unoffending?”
“What an unfortunate man I am,” says the Captain, with
well-counterfeited contrition. “I do not understand the
English tongue, owing to my long sojourn in foreign lands.
I foresee, Ma'm'selle, that we shall not get on in English.
High Dutch, Prussian or the French, for heaven's sake, or I
am ruined, totally, completely—ayez pitie!”
Henrietta again feels a violent desire to laugh, so profound
is the Captain's chagrin—or rather the affectation of
chagrin. Feeling unwilling to encourage him, however, she
plays with a diamond necklace round her neck, and tugs at
it indifferently.
“Take care!” says the Captain, “I observe a portion
of your necklace loose, and—”
The caution comes too late: the unfortunate necklace
parts asunder and drops upon the carpet.
The Captain picks it up gallantly.
“There, now!” says Henrietta, with an expression of
annoyance, “you have made me break my necklace, sir!”
“I, my dear madam?”
“Yes, sir: if I had not—”
But finding the explanation likely to turn out somewhat
embarrassing, she pauses.
“Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory,” says the
soldier, laughing.
“What explanation, sir?” says Henrietta, more piqued
than she cares to show.
“Why, the explanation you gave of my agency in the
destruction of the unfortunate necklace.'
Henrietta tosses her head.
“I gave none, sir,” she said.
“Really, madam—”
“Well, sir?”
“Permit me to observe, that you undoubtedly did explain.”
“I was not conscious of it, sir.”
“Perhaps not: but I heard it; and I am so profoundly
convinced of my criminality by the aforesaid explanation,
that I hold myself the real author of this unhappy circumstance.”
“Well, sir, as you please.”
But this does not satisfy the Captain, who with the art
of a consummate soldier has already graven out the plan of
his campaign.”
“Am I not guilty?” he persists.
“If you choose, sir.”
“Yes, or no?”
“Yes, then, sir.”
The Captain exhibits great delight at this avowal, and
with his white teeth shining merrily under his black moustache,
returns the broken necklace to its owner, and continues
conversing with the utmost sang-froid and good humor;
as if indeed he had just rendered a service, instead of causing
an annoying accident.
Let us now turn to the other groups, which are as busily
engaged in conversing as the Captain and his friend—or
enemy—Miss Henrietta.
“It may surprise you, sir,” says Mr. Christian to the
squire, in his mild quiet voice, “but I do not consider the
present Church system so perfect as you seem to, though I
am a member of that system. I think that there are many
and great abuses in it; and I can understand how these
abuses have attracted so much attention from the new reformers
of the age.”
“We have too many reformers, parson,” says the bluff
squire; “they'll reform and reform, until no form is left in
any thing.”
“I thought, sir, that the legislation of parliament upon
matters connected with this colony found in you a determined
enemy. I am, as you know, a stranger here, but
still—”
“They do, sir!” interrupted the squire, “I am opposed
to the death to the whole policy of the present ministry—
meddling with our affairs here, and presuming to speak of a
stamp duty! It is abominable! But that does not blind
Church.”
“I would be much grieved to hear that you hated it,
sir,” says Mr. Christian mildly, “but we may cherish a system
and yet not be blind to its abuses.”
“What abuses under heaven are there in our Church,
sir?—the good old system under which my forefathers lived
and died? It is a queer question to ask you, sir—but you
have thrown down the gauntlet!”
Mr. Christian smiles.
“It is not customary for persons of my profession, Mr.
Effingham, to throw down defiances. Believe me, such was
not my intention: I meant only to express, in a Christian
and moderate spirit, my fears of the operation of our present
system. You ask what are the abuses in it: I think I can
reply in very few words. The presentation to parishes, in
the first place, is very unjust in its operation—that privilege
being often granted to noblemen and gentlemen who do not
care how parishes are governed. I have known instances,
sir, where persons were named for this sacred duty—and
who were called to it, in truth too, sir—persons, I say, whose
lives had been more scandalous than I can describe, and who
carried the vices of this world into the bosom of the holy
Church.”
“Well, sir—there is something in that, and I have heard
that the worthy who preceded you, parson, was no better
than he should be. I'm glad we are rid of him, and I send
Will to his school from pure charity.”
“I did not wish to make allusion to any one, sir—God
forbid: that is not my place.”
“A good exchange! I'll say that much, parson,” says
the honest squire, “but the other abuses?”
“I will mention but one, sir: and perhaps what I say
may surprise you. I think the union of Church and State
impolitic.”
“The union of Church and State impolitic!—impolitic!”
“Wrong, then, sir,” Mr. Christian replies mildly to
these impassioned words, “I think it a great injustice.”
“How, in heaven's name?”
“Thus, sir. The sentiment of religion is so high and
pure, depends so completely upon the untrammelled operation
and reduce it to rule must eternally fail, and operate
wofully for the great interest of mankind. This sentiment,
sir, must be permitted to be a law unto itself; nothing
can direct it; nothing should interfere with it. Especially
and terribly unjust are those laws which say to the follower
of Christ, `you shall not worship at any shrine but one, and
that shrine you must support.' You perceive, sir, that I am
as far advanced in my reform ideas as the most zealous new
light, as I believe those who dissent from our Church call
themselves. I cannot help myself, I cannot say what I do
not think, and, after much prayer to God to enlighten me,
and give me just and true understanding, I am compelled
to say that I believe religious toleration the first and most
important duty of a state.”
Mr. Christian ceases speaking, and gazes thoughtfully
and earnestly into the lawn. The squire clears his throat,
marshals his logic, and with a preparatory “hem!” commences
his refutation of the parson's views. Let us, however,
leave the worthy gentlemen, and pass on to the harpsichord,
not pausing to hear Miss Alethea inform Mr. Effingham
that Clare had a headache, and could not come, or to
listen to her companion's weary and languid discourse. Let
us pass on, and hear what Will and Kate are saying to each
other.
Comedy goes out of its proper field when it deals with
fiery passions, or grand personages or events; but, if it cannot
usurp the function of tragedy, it has this to recommend
it, that it may safely deal with every species of character, of
every class and every age; and when in this pursuit it finds
a peculiarity, it may paint it and vindicate itself, however
humble and apparently insignificant the personage or the
trait may be. The reader must have been convinced, before
this, that the second portion of our history is destined to
deal with comedy more than the former portion, though that
boasted a company of comedians,—and in this he has not
been mistaken.
Will and Kate are persons of the comedy, and we must
not neglect them now or at any future time.
They are holding an animated conversation, as we have
said, by the harpsichord, and Will seems to be in possession
She leans forward on the cricket she occupies, and with her
bright eyes fixed upon Master Will, is plainly desirous that he
shall unroll something which he holds in his hand. This
something is in the shape of a roll of parchment, and Will
hesitates, and hesitating, rubs the side of his nose with the
scroll.
“Now Willie,” says Kate, “I think you might show it to
me.”
Will rubs the other side of his nose.
“What is it?” continues Kate; “you say it is nice, and
pretty, and will make me happy—my goodness! what is
it?”
Will assumes a meditative attitude, and smooths that
portion of his face upon which he hopes hereafter to have
whiskers.
“Guess, Kate.”
“I can't.”
“Well, try.”
“Is it poetry?”
“No.”
“A picture?”
Will hesitates, and then says:
“No: not exactly.”
“Let's see,” says Kate, “what can it be? You said it
was `nice' and `pretty,' and I would like it—didn't you?”
Will, finding his description cast in his teeth, and apparently
dubious whether it is wholly correct, satisfies himself
with a doubtful nod.
“Is it a nosegay?—but I see it isn't,” says Kate, in
despair.
“No, it is not,” Will replies.
“What is it? O, my goodness gracious! what can it
be?” says Kate, laughing and perplexed.
Willie looks a little sheepish.
“I don't think I can show it to you,” he says, stuffing the
roll in his breast.
“And not tell me?”
“I think not.
“Now, Willie!”
Will is obdurate.
“O, Willie, what is it?”
“Really, Kate, you are very curious.”
“Women always are, you know—always. Now Will!”
And Kate laughs merrily, and attempts to gain possession
of the scroll.
“What will you give me to show it to you?”
“Any thing.”
“Hold up your mouth!”
And Will, with the gravity of a judge, fixes his lips for
a kiss.
“I won't,” says Kate.
“Not kiss me!” cries Will, in despair: and shaking his
head he adds, mournfully, “then I needn't have got Sam
Baskerville to write this.”
“Oh, it's writing,” says Kate, clapping her hands, “now
I know.”
Willie remains silent.
“It's a love letter, please let me see it,” adds his lady love.
“You will not so much as give me one kiss,” says Willie,
showing a strong disposition to put his knuckle in his eye,
and prize out a tear.
“Ladies of my age must preserve the dignity of their
position,” Kate says, with delightful gravity.
“Not kiss me!” repeats Willie, with a look to which his
former piteous glance was jolly merriment; “then I needn't
have got Bill Lane and Ellen Fellows to make the Roman
letters, and paint the wreath of flowers, and hearts, and
arrow.”
And Will looks the picture of patience on a monument
smiling at grief, or another deeply chagrined figure, which
the reader may imagine.
Kate bursts out laughing:
“Oh there's a wreath of flowers, and a heart—two hearts
you said—and an arrow, may be two arrows—”
“Only one,” murmurs Will, in a heart-broken tone, and
gazing piteously through the window, “wouldn't give me a
kiss—me!”
“Well, may be—who knows—but I won't promise.”—
Kate says,—“let me see it first.”
Will, with averted head and nerveless grip, resigns the
parchment, and Kate, seizing it, unrolls it quickly. At the
of which two deeply crimson hearts are pierced by an intensely
silver arrow. Above flutters a bow of ribbon, and beneath,
in the most ornamental letters possible, Kate reads, half
aloud, the following:
“This indenture, made in the month of March, of the
year of grace one thousand seven hundred and ninety-five,
in the Colony of Virginia, Continent of North America,—”
“Sam Baskerville's father was Sheriff, and he knows all
about it,” says Willie, regarding the parchment with forlorn
interest.
“—between William Effingham, Esq.,” continues Kate,
“of Effingham Hall, and Miss Kate Effingham, of ditto,
spinster,—”
“Me!” cries Kate.
“There! that's the way it is,” says Will, with forlorn
resignation.
“— Witnesseth,” continues Kate, mastered by her curiosity
and reading without stopping, “that for and in consideration
of his, the said William Effingham, Esq's., profound
affection and unutterable love, and liking for her the
said Kate Effingham, spinster as aforesaid, he the said William
Effingham, Esq., doth hereby endow the said Kate
Effingham, spinster as aforesaid, with all that property, lying
and being in the county of Gloucester, and known as the
Cove, with all and several, each and every, singular and
plural, the fields, tenements, messuages, hereditaments, tenures,
and remainder, to say nothing of the reversion and
contingent remainder, neither to mention the executory devise
thereof—and all this property, he the said William
Effingham, Esq., gives to the said Kate Effingham, spinster,
because his father gave it to him last Christmas Only provided,
and on the condition specified, well understood and
no mistake, that she the said Kate Effingham, spinster, who
is one of the nicest girls in the Colony—”
“I gave him that part!” murmurs Will.
Kate continues shaking with laughter, and curiosity.
“— shall on the execution hereof according to the style
and meaning, intent and signification of it, the said indenture
— that she the aforesaid spinster, shall agree to espouse
and in health, him the aforesaid William Effingham, Esquire.”
“Oh!” cries Kate; but goes on.
“—And to the better understanding of this indenture,
it is hereby stated that he the said William Effingham, Esquire,
has not at this time, nor ever hath had during any
previous time, whereof the memory of man runneth not to
the contrary, any affection, love, or desire to enter into matrimonial
engagements with Donsy Smith, spinster, who is a
nice girl, but not equal to the aforesaid Kate Effingham,
spinster. And to the end that all shall be done in the premises
the commonwealth's writ of subpœna shall issue, summoning
the parties to this indenture, to affix their names to
the same: and your petitioner will ever pray.
“Given under our hands and seals, the day and year
aforesaid.
“William Effingham, Esq., [Seal.]
[Seal.”
Kate finishes the paper and drops it, laughing loud.
“What are you laughing at, Kate?” says Will, mournfully.
“It nearly took my breath away!” cries Kate. “Oh,
goodness!”
“Won't you sign it?” pleads Willie, “say, dearest
Kate?”
The young lady observes for the first time the profoundly
mournful tone of her admirer, and feels the tender sentiment
of pity invading her heart. She sighs. Will hears
this sigh, and seizes her hand with impassioned expeetation.
“No—I don't think—” says Kate, bending her head,
with the air of a lady overwhelmed by confusion.
“Now, Kate—do sign! We'll have such a delightful
time playing down at the Cove—!”
Kate sees the splendid vision, but endeavors to resist.
She loves Will devotedly; why not make him happy, when
a flirt of the pen can compass that end?
Will throws upon her an affectionate glance, and endeavors
to put a pencil in her hand. As he bends down, a little
pincushion falls from his waistcoat pocket.
“What is that?” says Kate.
Willie looks the picture of guilt.
“A pincushion!” he murmurs.
“The one I gave you, Willie?”
“N—o,” says Will.
“Who gave you this?”
Will looks desperate.
“Donsy!” he murmurs, in an expiring voice.
“And where is mine, pray sir!” says Kate.
Will turns pale, but answers like a man—though a very
much frightened man:
“I gave it to Donsy, for this!”
“Then I won't marry you, Willie!” cries Kate, putting
her handkerchief to her eyes, “no! that I won't, sir!”
“Oh, Kate! I didn't mean—”
“I won't hear any excuses, sir—I don't want them. To
give my pincushion away! Oh! Willie!”
And putting down the true-love indenture, Kate turns
from her desperate admirer and pouts beautifully.
“Ah! petite Mademoiselle, you are annoyed,” says the
Captain, “I am sure that gallant little Monsieur has not
done it.”
Kate's face clears up, and a smile like a sunbeam drives
away her mortification.
“Yes, sir,” says Willie, “I am guilty.”
And having made this manly confession, he hastily rolls
up the true-love indenture, and stuffs it in his pocket. Then
he links arms with the not unwilling Kate, whose ill-humor
has nearly vanished, and they run out on the lawn to catch
the last rays of twilight, and in child phrase, “make up.”
We need not return to the groups whose conversation we
have listened to. Our history does not require that we
should listen to more:—and as far as one party went, this
was even rendered impossible. Captain Ralph rose to take
his departure. The squire of course pressed him to remain
and sup, but this the worthy soldier declined. He must be
at home before the night had set in. Would he then honor
them by coming on Thursday next to dinner? If possible.
And so with a consolatory assurance to Miss Henrietta,
that he would visit her soon again, the Captain went away.
Ma'mselle and Monsieur;” and then the twilight swallowed
Selim and his rider.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
AT THE TRAP, AND ELSEWHERE.
One morning, a few days after the scenes we have just related,
Mr. Effingham received a note couched in the following
terms:
“Come over to `the Trap,' and dine and sleep with me.
Be sure to be in trim to ride through a cane-brake, that is,
in buff and leather: and ride Tom—the large piebald: he's
a glorious animal, by George!
“I count on you to obey this, which comes from your
“`The Trap,'—on a splendid morning.”
For a moment Mr. Effingham was determined not to go,
and ordered the servant who brought the note to be directed
to wait. The servant from the Trap had departed however,
and Mr. Effingham finally determined to embrace his friend's
invitation.
“Why annoy the honest fellow?” he said, “he is one of
my very best friends, and I cannot afford to throw away such
—I have not enough. Now what can he want? Here I am
languidly speculating, and cannot, to save me, come to any
conclusion. It is too late in the season to hunt—and yet he
says I must come in buff and leather. I am to ride Tom,
and sleep there. Decidedly I will give it up.”
And Mr. Effingham dismissed the subject from his mind,
returning it seemed to some vague train of thought that had
possession of his mind. Sitting before the slight fire of
crackling twigs, with his feet upon the old grotesque and-irons,
he gazed into the coals:—then upon the old portrait
high upon the carved wainscot—then through the window
on the breezy lawn, covered with flowers which bowed their
March rang merrily round the gables, and whistled through
the keyhole, and rose and fell, and died away. Only the
ticking of the huge clock in the hall was heard in these
pauses, and footsteps of Miss Alethea, or Kate, or some servant—in
the apartments overhead.
The thinker gazed long at the portraits.
“I believe in blood,” said Mr. Effingham, musingly.
“The blood of men is quick or sluggish, generous or mean,
just as that of animals is. The race-horse has an ancestry
of race-horses—the common drudge, an ancestry of drudges;
the offspring of tigers are fierce, as the lamb follows its dam
in meekness—very trite and very true; every thing true is
trite. And man, the supreme animal, is not an exception.
There now is old Harry Effingham, in his armor—he fought
at Agincourt, they say, and did good service with his stout
arm. And there is the Chevalier Huon, of Effenghame, as
they call him, the princeps of all, who married a damsel of
the accursed race of Mahound, the family chronicle says, in
the Crusades—a wild fellow, I do not doubt, and perhaps I
have now, in this good year of grace, 1765, something of Sir
Huon in me. Possibly; I came very near wedding one who
—well, well; I will not rake in those cold ashes. What
boots it? The fire is burnt out, it is true; but why soil my
fingers? I think I have suffered enough. If not pleasure,
give me the next thing, apathy, which I think I have.”
A servant entered, to replenish the fire.
“Ned, have the piebald, Tom, saddled, and brought
round,” said Mr. Effingham.
“Yes, sir.”
The servant retired, and Mr. Effingham fell into another
fit of thought, from which he was roused by the intelligence
that his horse was ready.
“I suppose I may be allowed to disregard the caution
about dress,” he said to himself. “Bring my boots and
spurs,” he added, to the servant.
He was soon on his way, and before long, reached the
Trap. This abode of Mr. Jack Hamilton was a very handsome
specimen of the old hipped roof mansions which crown
so many hills in Virginia, and one might have seen at a
glance that none but a bachelor resided there. The front
the few abortive efforts to open and close it, having resulted
in nothing more than a semi-circular mark upon the floor.
The door had been in this condition just one year, and remained
unchanged until—but we anticipate. Upon the
small porch half-a-dozen dogs were dozing, and snapping at
the flies; and in the yard a score of hounds bayed, gambolled,
basked in the sun, or dragged their blocks.
An old white-haired negro came, with the well-bred courtesy
of the Virginia family servant, to take Mr. Effingham's
horse, and he entered.
Jack Hamilton came forth to greet him, and then they
entered the dining-room, or rather the apartment used for
that purpose when Mr. Hamilton was alone, which was very
seldom. Here Mr. Effingham found half-a-dozen gentlemen
from the neighborhood, all his acquaintances. They received
him with the cordial frankness of boon companions,
and after a few questions about his travels, commenced again
conversing, at the top of their voices, on hunting, plantation
matters, politics—especially upon politics. Did half-a-dozen
Virginians ever remain together half an hour, without talking
politics? We have never been present on such an occasion.
Dinner, and copious libations—perhaps we might say copious
libations and dinner also—succeeded. Afterwards a
cloud of smoke, from as many tobacco pipes as there were
men, Mr. Effingham excepted, and then politics more ferociously
than ever. Navigation laws—yes, sir, infamous, unconstitutional—dare
to pass that stamp act they talk of—
try it—the continent will be in a blaze—pshaw!—yes sir!
in a blaze—puff! puff!—I tell you, sir—no, sir—yes, sir—
I like the governor—he don't suit the times—here Oscar!
Is this Black's pup, Jack? But we refrain even from reporting
stenographically this chaos of voices, the new Babel
of confused tongues.
The afternoon passed, and night came, and then a substantial
supper, preceded by a walk out to look at the horses,
the dogs, the tobacco, the stock, every thing. Then all go to
the door to greet a stalwart gentleman, approaching on a
fine roan; and Captain Ralph greets his friends with a multiplicity
of morbleus! and they all sit down to supper.
After supper, cards, and wine, and tobacco smoke. Spadille
reigns supreme, and the Captain loses a pile of gold,
spite of his most desperate efforts, a circumstance which
causes him to explode a whole magazine of gunpowder-like
morbleus! and curse the stars, which are made responsible
for the ills that happen upon earth, much too often.
Mr. Effingham has long since heard that the object of
the gathering is nothing less than a real bona fide fox-hunt,
spite of the lateness of the season, and the smile which has
greeted this transparent device of the worthy Jack Hamilton,
has yielded to apathy again. Mr. Effingham will ride
after the hounds—it is not worse than idleness.
Cards and dice lose their charm at last, pipes emit only
acrid smoke, claret, and the best Jamaica, only make the
head muddier, even politics has died a natural death, and the
revellers sleep.
But before the day has reddened in the east, they are
flying after the hounds, who have struck a warm trail, and
the far distance swallows them, the yelping of the dogs dies
away, the Trap has caught silence, and holds it tight.
Mr. Effingham rides more madly than them all. He begins
to think that Mr. Hamilton is not so contemptible a
physician as he thought him, for his cheek is full of blood,
which was before so pale; his eyes are brilliant; his breast
feels no longer as though some heavy load oppressed it—he
is conscious of the effect which the body exerts upon the
mind. Mr. Effingham's habit was to sleep late in the morning;
here he was scouring the cold, fresh, shivering, dewy
fields, before sunrise, following the music of the dogs, and
whirling over fences, ditches, and hollows. One or two of
the hunters stumbled, and once a rider was rolled in a ditch.
Mr. Effingham positively found himself laughing.
They rode all the morning; they had started one of
those old gray foxes, who take pleasure in running all day,
and sleep all the sounder after their hen-roost supper, for the
exercise. By noon Reynard had disappeared—sunk into the
earth—vanished; the dogs were at fault, and after two hours
search for the provoking animal's traces, the hunt was abandoned.
Mr. Effingham, Captain Ralph, and Jack Hamilton, took
their way back together; calculating the distance they had
Effingham was not at all weary, and said he never felt
better.
They passed Mr. Lee's about noon, and the old gentleman
insisted on their going in to dinner. To this, Mr. Hamilton
and the Captain consented at once, but Mr. Effingham
at first demurred.
“You will offend Mr. Lee, Champ, my boy,” said Hamilton,
in a low tone.
Mr. Effingham gave his friend a strange look, sighed languidly,
and entered with them.
How it was, Mr. Effingham did not know, but Jack
Hamilton persuaded him to stay, and return with him, and
whenever he intimated to his friend a desire to go, the intimation
was received with a look which seemed to say, “Don't
hurry, my dear fellow; just let me finish this anecdote to
Miss Clare, and I'm with you;” or, “Let us hear Miss Henrietta
finish that rattling song which the Captain has worried
her into singing;” or, “Just let me refute these ideas of Mr.
Lee, on the mode of curing tobacco.” And so evening drew
on, and Mr. Effingham, to his own astonishment, did not feel
very unhappy.
They were all gathered now around the harpsichord,
whereat sat Henrietta, dazzlingly beautiful, and striking indifferently
all her visitors, with her satirical speeches, and
proud, laughing eyes.
The Captain listened with delight, or an excellent affectation,
to
“In the golden days of good Queen Bess,”
except the songs of the French soldiers on the night
preceding the battle of Mindon. This observation caused
Miss Henrietta to say, that perhaps Captain Waters preferred
male to female voices. To which satirical observation,
the Captain, with great candor, and cordial frankness,
replied that he did. Miss Henrietta thereupon requested a
song from some gentleman present, but failing in her desire,
retired to the opposite side of the room, where Captain
Ralph permitted her to remain, very cheerfully.
Finding this position somewhat dull, Miss Henrietta returned
sofa to the centre-table, from the table to the harpsichord
again, with a volume in her hand. She said that nothing
was more stupid than these accounts of battles—holding the
history of the late war, open, as she spoke. The Captain
roused himself, and replied, politely, yes, it was a very fine
evening. Miss Henrietta thereupon tossed her head; the
Captain said that the perfume of the hair-powder she used
was delightful. Thereupon Miss Henrietta, in great ill-humor,
turned her back upon him, and began to talk with
Mr. Effingham; and not to be exceeded in civility, the Captain
turned his back too, and began to converse, very cheerfully,
with Clare and Mr. Hamilton.
Clare, as we may imagine, supported with difficulty this
long interview with Mr. Effingham. He had not addressed
more than half a dozen words to her, and these had been
characterized by a calm reserve; but once or twice their
eyes furtively met, and they saw plainly that each was watching
the other. Clare seemed uneasy at his presence. Mr.
Effingham felt his heart stir, in the young girl's presence—a
nameless charm seemed to envelope her—but he kept his resolution
to avoid engaging in any conversation which could
bring on any allusion to former times and events. This was
not difficult, for Mr. Hamilton engrossed much of Clare's attention,
and she seemed to seek in his society a refuge from
that of Mr. Effingham. He commented inwardly on her
evident partiality for his friend, trying to say calmly to
himself that he would make her an excellent husband.
Perhaps the gloom upon his brow grew somewhat deeper,
when the innocent girl smiled upon Hamilton so kindly and
sweetly, but he controlled his feelings.
She sat down, at the request of Mr. Hamilton, and unaffectedly
commenced singing. The song was “Logan
Water,” and she sang it with great feeling and sweetness.
The sound of her voice affected him strangely, and sitting
down, he drank in the clear, tender carol, his dreamy eyes
fixed on her face.
That song revived all the past for him. She had sung it
often for him, and perhaps this was what led her to refuse
Mr. Hamilton's request for that particular song at first. As
she sang, all those bright, happy days of youth, returned to
the mornings, when, with her fair hair unbound, she ran hand
in hand with him, over emerald meadows, by rippling,
laughing streams. Again the birds carolled over head, as
they carolled in the past, and a flood of memories flowed in
upon his apathetic heart, and made its dull tide leap again.
As the last notes died away, he felt as though he were leaving
some fairy isle of warmth and verdure, and a million
flowers, to breast the cold, stormy seas of real life; and with
the last plaintive notes, the volume of his memory closed
again, and his heart sank.
As she rose, they exchanged a long look; and Mr.
Effingham turned away.
Her look had said: “Do not avoid me thus, because we
have both been unhappy and unfortunate; because our relations
are changed, forget, as I do.”
His own said as plainly: “I have tried your heart
cruelly, I know it; I suffer without complaining, or expecting
the past to return; you can never love me again; I do
not complain. I deserve all; but will bear my suffering in
silence.”
Had the lips but said it!—had those glances spoken
plainly!
Mr. Effingham, when he departed, merely bowed. He
looked at her again, with his old dreamy gaze, and went
away with his companions.
As he went to his chamber that night, he murmured:
“Well, I was mistaken; some of the old feeling, for a
wonder, still remains, surviving the storm. Let me beware
of it.”
And his head sank as he spoke.
15. CHAPTER XV.
AT THE HALL.
Our narrative does not require a lengthy description of the
great dinner and ball at the mansion of the squire. When
we have said that the noble mansion blazed from top to bottom
up, and deposited beautiful dames and gallant cavaliers, that
they dined in state, and danced and feasted and made merry,
we have said all that is necessary. As to describing with a
mere pen one of these old festivals, which still occasionally
fill with laughter and high revelry some old houses, the
thing is simply impossible. Some great artist, uniting a
genius for the humorous and the noble, the rude and the elegant,
the grotesque and the beautiful, might possibly delineate
one of these old jubilees, and the singular old race
who delighted in them; we cannot, yet we may, before passing
on to the real events of this narrative, pause a moment
to jot down some of the salient points of the brilliant
gathering.
In addition to the chariots with their rumbling wheels,
neighing horses, and cracking whips, there came great numbers
of brave cavaliers upon good steeds, in parties, laughing
and jesting, or singly. Sometimes these gentlemen accompanied
the chariots, as in the case of Mr. Hamilton, who
rode dutifully by the Riverhead coach, the said coach containing
Mr. Lee, Henrietta, and Clare, who had consented
to attend the ball, only after repeated requests from her
father, who had observed and regretted her inexplicable dislike
to visiting at the Hall for some weeks past.
The dinner was a splendid affair, and there was much
marshalling of the guests in their places—his Excellency,
Francis Fauquier, Governor of the Colony, sitting on the
squire's right hand. The dinner proceeded as those pleasant
pompous old affairs were wont to, and in due time the
gentlemen were left to their politics and wine. There was
not much political discourse, however, in deference to his
Excellency. It was not polite to denounce his gracious
Majesty, his ministry, and their darling money-project, the
stamp act; and to speak favorably of any one of these, was
more than any guest's courtesy could compass. So they discussed
the weather and the crops, and the seven years' war,
last passed, and, above all, the approaching races near
Jamestown, from which they glided into erudite disquisitions
on the pedigree of racers.
As night closed in—they dined early, even on state occasions,
in those honest days—the cavaliers betook themselves
into the glittering throng of lovely dames, all powdered and
furbelowed and flounced, and then arose that buzz which, in
our time, by force of progressive increase, has grown into a
stunning uproar, in which every one endeavors, by raising
his or her voice, to drown the voice of every one else.
The smiling cavaliers, in powder, ruffles, embroidery,
long waistcoats, and silk stockings, betook themselves to
paying devoted court to the fascinating dames in lace, diamonds,
satin robes with trains, and shoes portentously
high in the heels; and so, with flirting fans, and winning
smiles, and low bows and little graceful curtsies, the time
passed. Then the well-instructed musicians, led by Mr.
William Booker, colored gentleman, violinist and appendage
to the glebe of Effingham, struck up a minuet, and the furbelows
and silk stockings bowed and curtsied with ambling
swaying movement, with cocked hats pressed upon the heart,
and fans expanded, and then closed again, and many an unguarded
heart was taken captive, and many silk stockings
accompanied as many furbelows through the dance of life
thereafter, fascinated with each other in that dance of
pleasure.
His Excellency danced with Miss Alethea, though this is
not one of those matches which we have foretold. Clare
danced with Mr. Hamilton, while Mr. Effingham looked on
and sighed; lastly, Kate danced with the noble Earl of
Dorset, whose brilliant verses we have listened to upon a
similar occasion, at the metropolitan city of Williamsburg,
and the fresh, frank face of the child pleased all, and made
all love her. As for the sensations experienced by Master
Willie Effingham, and Master Tommy Alston who was dying
for love of Kate, we prefer not to venture upon such a tragical
subject. The noble Earl, on that occasion, made two
mortal enemies for life.
So the stately minuets glided onward to the lofty music,
rejoicing, one would say, with a low, melodious, well-bred
laughter in its undertones at all this pompous ceremony, and
graceful reverential bowing, and low curtsying. Then came
supper, in due time, where healths were drank many fathoms
deep, and where the ladies took scarcely more nourishment
than they do at present. Then the gay, glancing, merry
had long sounded, the ball drew to an end with that
merry and enlivening divertisement, a Virginia reel.
If the music for the minuet was glad and merry, under all
its stately and prim cadences, the music of the reel was more
than unaffected merriment:—the merriment was mad, desperate,
exuberant, headlong and uproarious. The right arm
of the noble minstrels darted furiously up and down—the
violins and hautboys nearly cracked with the immense flood
of harmony; and if the lovely damsels smiled before, they
laughed out loudly now: and flashed like shooting stars from
end to end of the great room:—and scattered perfumed powder
in a cloud:—and then, as the mad music stopped with a
long scrape, stood still with laughing lips and panting bosoms,
and red cheeks and dancing eyes, fanning themselves
and uttering little rapturous exclamations, and assuming die
away airs: and so the reel too was dead:—it ended all.
Perhaps the most picturesque portion of the whole festival
was the breaking up. In those times, they drank deep,
and a gentleman imbibed his two bottles as he wore his sword
—as a matter of course. The consequence was—heads being
much the same then as they are at present—that more than
one of the gallants present on the occasion found themselves
elated to the pitch of noisy merriment, and the Effingham
woods echoed back their shouts and songs for leagues.
The chariots resumed their burdens:—though many staid
at the ball all night—the gubernatorial coach, with those six
glossy white horses which have become history, bore off his
noble Excellency: and amid a tremendous clatter of negroes'
voices, cracking whips, rumbling wheels, and merry exclamations,
the festival, like all bright things, went onward to the
future.
Mr. Effingham assisted Clare to enter the Riverhead chariot,
with grave softness and courtesy: pressing Hamilton's
hand with friendly warmth; and so the carriage rolled away,
and Mr. Effingham's heart went with it.
As he entered his chamber, he murmured as before, “The
storm has passed, but all of the old feeling is not dead:—
beware!” and, sleeping with his pale face illumined by the
broad full moon, he dreamed of her, and saw her glide before
when he tried to clasp her to his heart she vanished.
A shadow crossed the sleeper's forehead, and his hand
stole to his brow. Then his face grew serene again—the
brow clear and soft. He heard her singing.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
SKETCHES THE COURT TO WHICH THE HON. MR. CROW WAS ACCREDITED
AS AMBASSADOR.
Absorbed in what has been going on at the Hall, at Riverhead,
at the bachelor Trap of Mr. Hamilton, which has never
caught a wife yet for that worthy gentleman, we have treated
with undeserved neglect and improper silence the affairs of
Lanky and his sweetheart—Donsy Smith, daughter of Mr.
A. Z. Smith, the rosy little factor at Williamsburg. But
the historian cannot give his attention at the same time to
the Lords and Commons: while the Lords prose in their
lofty elevation, the Commons debate furiously in the lower
house:—and so the entertaining prosiness and fiery debate
cannot be reported at one and the same time. For fear,
however, that our lame metaphor will break down if we push
it farther, and betray its want of application to the characters
of this history, we shall proceed to narrate simply what followed
the resolution taken on that bright spring morning by
our friend Lanky, and how Mr. Crow—or “Jeames,” as he
was wont to call himself with noble simplicity—acquitted
himself in the arduous and responsible character of Envoy
Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary near the Court
of Parson Tag, King of the Oldfield School, and Emperor
of the Ferule.
Perhaps the shortest and most satisfactory means of putting
the reader in possession of the events which attended the
embassy of the Honorable Mr. Crow will be to present those
events in a direct and dramatic form. Then shall we see
how umbrage was taken by Emperor Tag, at the person and
intent of the ambassador, as well as at his unambassadorial
costume:—how the right of the Minister Plenipotentiary to
appear in his every day citizen's dress was harshly questioned;
danger that costume afforded him no protection, and led by
its deficiencies to a speedy resignation of his high and responsible
duties. Let us not, however, anticipate: every event
in its place.
Willie arrived at school some time after the proper hour,
mounted as usual on his small pony, and he entered with some
fear of a reproof. But in this he was mistaken. Parson
Tag was mildly courteous, and most pleasantly good-humored.
To explain this singular and unwonted circumstance—
for the parson usually administered justice like Dionysius,
the tyrant—we have only to inform the reader that the worthy
gentleman had been present at the Hall on the previous evening,
and had delighted his inward man with sundry viands
and vintages of the most savory description. He had been
treated with great courtesy by the well-bred host, also:—and
thus he was in a highly amiable state of mind—especially
toward Willie. If the reader is surprised at the fact of the
parson's attending the festival at the Hall, after his quarrel
with the squire, we can only say that our sketch of this worthy's
character must have been defective. He was not the
man to despise an excellent supper and delicious wines, because
he hated and had quarrelled with the host.
The school was busy as usual, and a long row of girls and
boys stood in the middle of the floor conning their lessons,
and preparing for the fiery ordeal. On the benches ranged
round the apartment sat many more, leaning their slates, or
copy-books, or grammars, on the long desk which extended
equally with the benches from end to end; and these hard
little students were engaged apparently in the most intense
toil.
Some grasped their hair furiously at sums in arithmetic,
which persisted in turning out wrong:—for how could the
remainder be greater than the figures from which the others
were subtracted? Some went on voyages of half an hour
around the world, taking in spices of Sumatra, Ceylon and
the Sunda isles; fighting their way into inhospitable Japan;
taking a census of the population of the exclusive cities of
Pekin and Shanghai and other Chinese places: some fought
their way into the noble English grammar, others bent down
over copy-books, endeavoring painfully to enunciate in legible
and that “Evil communications corrupt good manners:”
and when a spatter fell upon the page, the hearts of
the urchins were filled with dreadful visions of descending
ferules, and aching blistered hands.
The little maidens were busy, too, in all these branches;
and with atlases before them, heard the nightingales singing
in the valley of Cashmere;—and sailed along the Tigris in
a splendid barge to visit the great Caliph Haroun at his
Bagdad palace;—and swam to the sound of melodious guitars
in gondolas on broad canals in Venice:—and looked
carefully for the mountain by the royal city of Grenada,
whereon pausing wofully, the handsome Moslem uttered
the “last sigh of the Moor.” Others were busy with arithmetic,
and copying just as the boys were; and the only difference
was that they did not anticipate chastisement for delinquency.
The parson had lived in his adopted country—
Virginia, that is to say—long enough to find that it was not
customary for one of the ruder sex, however lofty his station,
to lay his hand “even in the way of kindness” upon one of
the opposite sex, however humble, and so the little maidens
only dreaded “demerits,” and these they struggled to avoid.
What we have thus briefly described, was the exoteric
and external appearance of things:—which would have
struck a stranger, and caused him to believe that of all the
scholars that ever gladdened with their industry and application
the pedagogic heart, those of the pedagogue in question
were the most prudent and exemplary. A somewhat
closer view, however, would have revealed what we must
borrow another scientific word to characterize—the esoteric
phase of the Oldfield school. From time to time the
maidens and urchins exchanged laughing and mysterious
glances over their slates or atlases:—the lips of the damsels
would move with exaggerated expressiveness, to the end
that from the movement of those cherry-like appendages,
their cavaliers might divine what they meant to express.
Then when the cavaliers remained obstinately dull and would
not understand, the little maidens made signs upon their
fingers, after the well known manner of the dumb; and when
the still obtuse urchins shook their heads, little scraps of
paper were hastily covered with stealthy pencil marks, and
seemed to be deeply immersed in study. And the urchins
read, “Just look at Sally Jones and Tom Lackland!”—or,
“You promised me an apple!”—or, “Have you done that
horrid sum?”—or, “Robert Dawson don't know his lesson
again, and the parson'll whip him. Ain't it shameful?”
Another esoteric phase was going on sub rosâ, that is,
under the desk: small hands of little maidens were squeezed
there in the most gallant and impassioned manner by chevaliers
who coveted an opportunity to expire nobly in defence
of their ladyloves:—and fruit, cakes, tarts, biscuits, were
smuggled, as lasting proofs of devoted and disinterested affection:—and
while the hands were being pressed under the
little aprons, the noble cavaliers assumed an innocent and
abstracted expression which would have done them credit in
the eyes of indifferent observers:—and then at the master's
dreadful glance the beaus retreated from their sweethearts
precipitately, and betook themselves to study:—that is, to
studying the manner of passing “playtime” to the best advantage,
turning over the leaves of their spelling-books with
well-executed art, and deeply immersed in the study—
which we have mentioned.
No event of any importance disturbed the even tenor of
the noble academy that morning. True, some half a dozen
unfortunate dunces were feruled for being destitute of
brains; true, a youthful gentleman, with a genius for caricature,
was caught just as he had put the finishing touch to
a splendid design of the parson on his slate—which design
represented the worthy gentleman arrayed in a shovel hat
some leagues in width, with a body formed of a tobacco
hogshead, from beneath which issued an enormous pair of
feet crushing to death a squealing tythe pig:—true, the
wailing of the dunces and the unappreciated artist filled the
room and struck terror into cavalier and lady, boy and girl
alike:—but these little occurrences were not uncommon, and
things went on very pleasantly until “playtime:”—when all
rushed forth free as air, and wild as little colts turned loose
in a green pasture, with liberty to roll, and run, and turn
somersets, and gambol to their hearts' content.
The noble monarch of the school remained within, enthroned
in state upon his rostrum, from which he surveyed
the excruciating and tantalizing pleasure of hearing their
companions shouting at their play out under the blue sky.
The noble parson embraced the opportunity to comfort his
inner man with sandwiches and Jamaica rum, gazing, as he
partook of these humble condiments and liquids, upon the
sketch of himself we have already described.
Let us leave him there, enthroned in state, and go and
breathe that fresh air which is driving the little maids and
urchins mad with full delight. It is more wholesome.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
CROW MAKES A SPEECH ON THE STAMP ACT AND SUFFERS THE
FATE OF POPULARITY SEEKERS.
Look!
Perhaps the two things most similar and at the same
time dissimilar, are a play-ground and that work-ground
which we call the world. In both these are aspirations and
passions; loves and hatreds; sad and merry faces; toilings
after objects not worth the pursuit; and neglected pleasures,
which far outweigh those which humanity run after with
such ardor and enthusiasm. The child is father of the
man; and his offspring follows the bent of its parent:—pursues,
and loves, and suffers and rejoices, and runs the wild,
laughing or despondent race; and then the bell of fate summons
the weary player to the shades within, where no sun
shines, no blue sky arches overhead—save in the eye of
faith and hope.
But with all this similarity, we know that the real difference
is very striking. How gaily, thoughtlessly, the boy
plays, and laughs and rolls upon the grass, and climbs for
birds' nests, and is pleased with trifles—not dreaming of the
time when all his hopes, his illusions, his romance, his
thoughtless lightheartedness will change, and he will have to
go and buckle on his armor for the struggle with that strong
enemy—human life. How the little maidens run and play
and gambol with their boy sweethearts:—their hair flowing
hearts free as yonder bird's who cuts the blue air on his joyous
wings towards the rosy east:—they know not, will not,
cannot believe that the time will come when that hair must
be primly bound up; then turn gray: when those eyes will be
dimmed with care and suffering: when those hearts, so wild
with pleasure now, will be made to suffer cruelly by some
of the little urchins with whom they play now laughingly.
Let us thank heaven for childhood's lightness, however.
The spring should not be tried until it is tempered.
The reign of marbles had come in: and those who have
reflected philosophically upon these matters, will recall the
fact that schoolboys like men are subject to furores. The
games which balls figure in are everlasting—always popular:
but marbles, prisoner's base, and “fox and a warner” are
subject to the laws of change:—that is to say, they are at
one moment neglected, then placed high upon the throne of
popularity.
Marbles reigned then:—nothing was heard for a time
on the joyous playground but those cabalistic words,
“vence”—“things”—“leave lag”—“come to taw”—
“stop pokin'”—let's plump”—“play for havin's”—“got
my ownses”—“fat!”—“knuckle down”—“turnin's”—
etc., etc. We have more than once endeavored to arrive at
the origin and philosophic significance of these terms, but
always vainly. “Vence” still remains in our minds destitute
of any imaginable root in Hebrew, Sanscrit, Greek or
Scandinavian: and the origin of “lag” like that of the
popular German beer, is doubtful.
So they played: and many large proprietors were
“broke:”—and others acquired large fortunes, which they
stowed in their capacious pockets. The girls for the most
part played at skipping rope, puss in the corner, and hunt
the slipper—the soft grass affording a very agreeable emerald
carpet for the purpose:—or they partook of the contents
of their little baskets with great gusto, giving a portion
to their non-marble-playing cavaliers, who had finished
their own commissary stores some time before. A biscuit
from a maiden was considered proof of incipient affection—
an apple, of tenderness—but a tart, a real cherry tart, with
an evidence of passionate and eternal love.
Having exhausted marbles, the young gentleman betook
themselves to leap-frog, many of them rolling on the grass
thereat. The artist of Parson Tag took a forlorn sketch of
the scene as he gazed at it mournfully through the window
—the reader will understand that this young gentleman, in
addition to his flagellation, had been kept in—and having
been obliged with a view of this sketch, which has remained
in existence to the present day, we have taken the liberty
of using it for the benefit of our readers. It represents the
youths in their cutaway coats, and short clothes, and woollen
stockings, flying over the heads of others, who stoop with
their hands upon their knees; and under a tall oak a group
of girls are watching the vaulters, and laughing at those
who roll upon the ground, victims to the immoral practice
in the steeds, of raising the shoulders as the frogs leap.
Among the maidens we recognize Donsy perfectly—older
than the rest, and laughing louder as Will rolls upon the
ground.
Will breaks up the game, and suggests an undress parade
of the Cornstalk regiment, which proposition is hailed with
pleasure. Captain Effingham thereupon marshals his soldiers,
using a piece of fence rail for a sword; and, mounted
on a stump, makes them a patriotic address—this time uninterrupted—wherein
he repeats his father's views upon the
Stamp Act, which he believes to be a measure whereby the
heads of everybody in the Colony of Virginia are to be
chopped off. He denounces it, therefore, and calls on his
companions to organize an opposition to the tyrant; and
concludes with the observation that there is for himself but
one alternative—either victory or death!
This speech is much admired, and a small storm of cheers
crackle through the air; filling the orator's bosom with grateful
emotion; his soldiers, however, decline hearing any more,
as Donsy is heard to scream terribly: and they rush towards
her to ascertain the origin of her emotion.
It was very simple. Just as Master Will had arrived at
the grand burst, in which, as we have said, he declared his
sentiments on the subject of death and victory, Donsy Smith,
who had been listening admiringly, heard a low whistle behind
nearly impressed a salute upon those of Mr. Crow, who sat
squat behind her, grinning and goggle-eyed—resembling,
indeed, a small goblin of Ethiopian extraction.
Mr. Crow, finding himself the observed of all observers,
marched forth into the open space, the thumb of one hand in
his mouth, the other hand holding up the skirts of his lengthy
coat. He seemed to feel that he was well worth seeing, and
to court observation; his costume was, if possible, more diplomatic
than ever, and his eyes brighter. His appearance
was hailed with a great shout,—immediately a dozen hands
seized him, and he was hoisted to the stump, and ordered to
make a speech at once, on pain of dreadful punishment.
Mr. Crow does not display extraordinary confusion at
this honour,—does not press his hand upon his waistcoat, or
the portion of the frame usually covered with that garment;
does not bow or simper. He looks around with an expression
of modest confidence and amiable good nature, sucking
his thumb.
“A speech!” they cry.
“A speech from Crow!”
“Hurrah!”
Mr. Crow takes his thumb from his mouth, and finding
himself in a difficulty, draws upon Mr. William Effingham's
ideas, which he has listened to with great attention.
“Well, gemblem,” he says, with modesty, “I'se oppose,
myself. to dis stump ac.”
“Hurrah!” cry the scholars, “speak out, Crow.”
“I'se gwine to 'pose it!” continues Crow, extending
his right arm, with an electric gesture. The crowd shout and
hurrah.
“I'se gwine myself to 'pose choppin' off my head!—
'Two'nt do noways, gemblem! Just think how a feller 'd
feel!”
This sentiment produces loud applause, which Mr. Crow
acknowledges by waving the hand holding his coat tail, and,
consequently, that portion of his vestment also.
“I'se gwine to go agin it to death!” continues Crow,
with an heroic gesture, “I wants my head! how could I eat!
how gwine to drink! how gwine to do nothin'! 'thout a head.
Them's my senimers, gemblem—I say victry or deth.”
And Crow brandishes both arms tremendously, and fights
imaginary foes. His speech is received with tremendous applause,
and a popular ovation is organized in an instant.
Mounted on a rail, which is borne on the shoulders of half
a dozen of the scholars, who split their sides laughing, the
orator makes the circuit of the play-ground triumphantly.
To be sure, the ovation, like all such things, has its disadvantages,
and Crow makes more than one appeal to be permitted
to sink into obscurity again. But these entreaties
are disregarded, and he only has leave to change his horseback
position from time to time, by leaning forward on his
hands.
He says it hurts! they reply that it can't possibly.—
“Oh yes, it do!” says Crow, writhing. “Stuff your coat tails
under you,” say the urchins. Crow resigns himself, with the
air of a great man in misfortune,—when suddenly the bell
rings, and the rail—and, consequently, Crow—drops to the
ground.
Crow lies there until Donsy passes, rubbing his knees.
The master appears at the door: Crow's back being
turned he does not see him.
Donsy draws near, laughing. Crow makes mysterious
signals to her, which, at last, attract her attention.
Crow shows a letter, pushing it at her: Donsy bends
down her laughing face, and asks what in the world he
means. Crow makes mysterious signs of silence and precaution.
Donsy stretches out her hand to take the letter,
upon the back of which she reads her own name, written in
large, sprawling characters. Crow winks—Donsy smiles—
when, suddenly, the letter is grasped by a rough hand—Crow
starts up, under the application of a switch, and Parson Tag,
pursuing him, with infuriated visage, calls upon him by the
designations of “rascal,” “villain,” and “wretch,” to stop.
Crow runs for life—the parson pursues for the gratification
of revenge—his skirts flying, his puffy breast heaving
with the exertion and his wrath.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THE AMBASSADOR WAS UNHORSED AND THEN HORSED.
The muse is proverbially jealous and capricious—else would
we endeavor to describe the greater than Olympic race which
then ensued:—the windings, the turnings, the desperate
efforts of the great orator and ambassador to escape the impending
fate. Still thundered on behind him like an avenging
Nemesis the irate parson, and Crow saw the shadow of
his outstretched arm grasping at his coat tails.
New rapidity is added to his headlong speed:—he runs
like a deer, and bounds like an antelope:—when, most disastrous
event!—event ever to be deplored by Crow and all his
posterity!—his feet trod on his coat-skirts, and, rolling
on the ground, he became the prey of the enemy.
They had circled back to the school-house; and the parson
had not far to bear his captive, whom he grasped by the
waistband of his unmentionables and indescribables.
He enters in awful state—with gloomy brow, portentous
frown. The assembled company are terror-struck, and regard
Crow with horror and trembling, but with interest too:—as
in old days the populace of Rome looked on the ox going to
the altar to be immolated.
The parson looks round for a moment in silence:—he
regards Donsy with an awful frown.
“What is this letter, brought by that villain?” he says
to her.
Donsy blushes and murmurs:
“Indeed I don't know, sir.”
“You do not know?”
“Indeed, I don't know, sir.”
“Donsy Smith, you are telling me a falsehood!” says
the worthy, with a deeper frown.
Donsy flushes to the roots of her hair, and looks indignant.
“I never did—tell—a falsehood—in my life!” she says,
sobbing.
“Very well, madam!” replies the parson, “we shall see!
I have a notion that this letter will clear up matters, and as
Lane,” continues the worthy, addressing the author of the
sketch of himself, “take care that that rascal who brought
this does not escape. Hold him tight, sir.”
William Lane holds Crow tightly by the collar, and surveys
him with forlorn interest, thinking he would make a
good sketch.
The parson without further preface tears open the letter
and reads the following words, written in large uneven characters,
with the end of a stick apparently.
“Oh my dear Miss Donsy!
“How ken I express myself writin' to you. I feel all
over a-tremblin' and skeered, and I'm 'fraid the pen 'ill
drop from my hand 'fore I get thru. I couldent tell you
how much—there it is, comin' right out. Oh my dear Donsy,
if I may call you my dear Donsy, which I'm 'fraid you'll
git mad. Nobody in the whole wide world ken love you
like I do. 'Deed they can't—I've been a-lovin' you now for
one year and you don't know it, or perhaps you do, if so i'm
mistaken' I told the cap'n that I couldn't say nothin' when
you was lookin' at me, and he told me to go and talk to you
and look up bold and not giv' up: I tried to, but I couldent,
and you know how you twisted me over yo thum, i don't
complain—i don't—but I think you ought to like me sum,
cause I've been faithful to you, and never would have anything
to do with Sally Jones, who is a pretty girl too, you
know.
“And now my dear Miss Donsy—or if you'll let me call
you so, my dearest Donsy, take pity on poor Lanky; I love
you a heap, and I think you ought to like me sum, i can't
play on my fiddle or work for thinkin' of you, and I never
can forget you—no I can't. I thought I'd write it down, as
I couldn't say it, and Crow will carry it: the black boy from
town, you know.
“O! Donsy, I love you so much, indeed I do. So no more
from your friend, till death, and loving,
the girls or boys see it, they would laugh at me. O! if I
of that sort, you know.
says I may have holida'. I'm comin' to see you, and we can
go a fishin', you know. You've caught my heart, O! my
dear Miss Donsy, or rather, dearest Donsy.
The parson reads this epistle with a countenance working
with rage.
“And you dared to bring this, did you!” he says to the
unfortunate Crow, who rubs his coat cuff in his eyes despondingly,
“you are the black boy from town the letter speaks
of, are you! You are the villain that dared to come and
hold surreptitious intercourse with my female scholars, bearing
amatory missives, like this barbarous production!—you
are the messenger, are you!”
Crow does not understand the meaning of “amatory
missive,” and “barbarous production,” but he feels a dreadful
consciousness that he is guilty of committing those two
crimes, which he regards with horror, and fears a terrible
punishment for. He is not suffered to remain long in doubt.
The parson, rolling up his cuffs, and grasping a long and pliant
birch, cries:
“Horse the villain! You, sir! you William Lane!
immediately, sir.”
And Crow, spite of his desperate struggles, is placed
upon the back of Mr. William Lane. The parson looks at
him for a moment, with gloomy and irate interest: Crow,
with his head turned sideways, regards the dreadful birch,
and calculates the impending ruin. His hands are held
tightly by the “horse:”—his coat skirts are arranged gracefully
upon each side: his legs kick the air:—the hour was
come.
“Now, you rascal!” says the parson, “I have caught
you!”
And the birch descends upon the unfortunate Crow, who
writhes with anguish.
“Now, you've caught it!” cries the parson, whistling his
birch through the air, and bringing it down upon the repentant
ambassador again.
“Oh, mas' parson! oh, mas' parson!” cries Crow.
The blows fall thicker—the ambassador cries out more
loudly—the parson pants with the exertion—the unfortunate
Crow writhes.
“Try that again, sir?” says the parson, striking quicker.
Crow protests with overwhelming earnestness, that he
has repented—will reform. Debarred from using persuasive
gestures with his arms, he kicks his legs, following unconsciously
the great precept of Demosthenes.
Donsy looks on with indignation, and she does not care
to conceal it. The parson sees this expression, and says, in
a pause of his exertions:
“Very well, my lady! you are presuming to frown when
I am punishing this wretch!”
“It is unjust!” cries Donsy.
“Take care, madam!”
“It is!” sobs Donsy, “and you had no right to snatch
my letter and read it:—that you hadn't, sir!”
And she sheds a torrent of mortified tears—the parson
regarding her with a mixture of surprise, scorn, and anger.
“You presume, then, to lecture me, madam!” he says.
Donsy repeats obstinately:
“You had no right to read my letter!—no, you hadn't!”
The parson takes a step toward the girl.
“Don't provoke me, you little hussy!” he says, “or I'll
whip you too.”
“Me!” cries Donsy, overwhelmed with indignation, and
dread of the disgraceful punishment.
“Yes, you! I'll whip you, within an inch of your life!”
“No, you won't!” cries Will Effingham, starting up,
“just try it!”
But before the parson can turn round, this champion is
sunk into the shade immediately: the door bursts open with
a loud noise—a stool is turned over, and Donsy has a second
and more irate champion.
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
ride in chariots.
20. CHAPTER XX.
THE AUTHOR OF THE MS. EXPLAINS SUNDRY THINGS PERTINENT
TO THIS HISTORY.
“I have endeavored in portions of the preceding pages,”
says the author of the MS., “to trace the changes of feeling
in two different persons, whose fortunes enter largely into
this narrative. In the first place, I have tried to show how
Miss Henrietta Lee—proud, high-spirited, aristocratic, and
full of well-bred contempt for every one not unmistakably
a gentleman in blood—on their first interviews, regarded
Captain Ralph Waters, the honest and high-minded soldier,
with great disdain. I have shown how she addressed him,
when she condescended to do so, with frigid coldness; resented
his easy sang froid in her presence, as a deliberate
offence; summoned all her pride of blood and rank to suppress
her audacious admirer's ease, and reduce him to his
proper place. We have seen her in repeated interviews, preserve
this coldness less and less; then complain of him,
having lost her silent disdain; then launch forth into an
obstinate, hand-to-hand encounter of wit with the soldier;
finally, begin to be amused at his unaffected nonchalance, his
martial and brilliant narratives of the campaigns he had
fought almost from his boyhood to the present hour; and
feel some anxiety to rescue her character from the imputation
of preferring the exact antipode of himself— the fop!
“Miss Henrietta Lee was, of course, not conscious of
this gradual change of feeling towards the soldier. For not
one person in ten thousand ever becomes aware of his or her
feelings until some great crisis reveals them in their strength
and power. It is a common adage, that we do not know how
much we love certain persons until we have lost them; and
this is but one instance, taken from a thousand, of the truth
of the observation I have made.
“But if Miss Henrietta Lee was not aware of her change
of feeling toward Captain Ralph Waters, she must have felt
that he was not wholly the same to her as formerly; she
cold disdain, lordly contempt; that was no longer possible.
`She had prepared herself to encounter the rude and
offensive manners of a mere camp-soldier; a rough man, who
had won her father's friendship by relating the incidents of
the war in Europe. She had expected to find simply a disagreeable,
vulgar individual, who knew nothing of the rules
of good society, who would stumble over the chairs, commit
eternal gaucheries, make himself a nuisance and an eye-sore.
All this she had expected, and she was deceived. She found
a man who was quite cognizant of the rules of good breeding,
who bowed with the utmost grace, and with the exception
of his French expletives, was quite irreproachable.
“She did not come to this conclusion without a struggle
with herself; and she tried to say disdainfully, that all this
was affected, that he was a mere adventurer, that he was
ashamed of his origin, and wished to rise from the class in
which he was born. But the disdainful smile disappeared,
her scorn she felt was unjust; and Henrietta Lee, with her
proud, wealthy nature, never committed a deliberate injustice.
She was above that, and this sincerity of character now made
her confess to herself that in imagining Captain Waters a
mere adventurer, ashamed of his origin, and seeking to conceal
it, she was mistaken. The Captain had a score of times
taken occasion to say that he was the son of a fisherman,
with the most unaffected calmness; that he was proud of his
father and his brother; and it was very plain that this pride
and affection was not put on for the nonce, or it would never
have been spoken of so often. No; Captain Waters was
not ashamed of his lineage; he had not been bred up in the
midst of the singularly graded society of the colony; he
felt no inferiority in the presence of any one, that was plain.
The commander over him in battle was his superior—not the
citizen who wore finer clothes, and had a finer ancestry.
What Charles Waters arrived at by logic, the Captain came
to by pure instinct, and the instinct had been stronger than
the logic. No; Captain Waters was not desirous to hide his
low birth; he did not apologize for it, he did not regret it;
he regarded it as a circumstance in his life of small importance,
as long as he was the fearless soldier, the honest heart.
All this was plain to Henrietta.
“Now, when a proud nature finds that it has done injustice,
the first result is a strong reaction in opposition
to the former sentiment. The proud, brilliant mind of
Henrietta Lee had never stooped to any petty meanness, and
those who suffered from her wit and liked her least, confessed
that she had never been guilty of narrow and illiberal
things, even. Her aristocratic feeling was a portion of her
blood—uncontrollable; and this she did not regard as wrong
at all. So when she found that she had done Captain
Waters injustice she began to like him, and to laugh in
private over his amusing stories; and with the natural feeling
of her sex, to admire those martial traits of the soldier
which she had quarrelled with.
“We need not proceed at present to trace the change of
sentiment farther; in future pages of this history the reader
will perceive what further attended this young lady's revulsion
of feeling toward her admirer. I shall proceed now
to speak of my respected ancestor Champ Effingham, Esq.,
and his feelings briefly.
“I need not repeat the description of his own feelings
given by himself to his friend Mr. Hamilton, and had one
not listened to that monologue, I suppose none could fail to
have conceived a very accurate idea of this gentleman's character
from the former portion of the history. Let me then
pass at once to the first interview between himself and Miss
Clare Lee, the tender and sincere woman, whom I have given
so little space to in this narrative. His heart had experienced
a deeper emotion in that interview than he chose to confess;
he was not perfectly calm, though his long apathy had given
him the habit of suppressing every emotion with a rod of
iron. No; her soft, tender face, so full of former happiness,
and eloquent of his far golden youth, shone on him like a
bright harvest moon—full of peace, and joy, and love. His
dull blood had leaped, his stagnant heart had throbbed;
once more he experienced a sensation of that pure, delicate,
tender joy, which is never found in fiery, devouring passions.
He felt that his mad infatuation had scarcely diminished
that sentiment shrined far back in the recesses of his heart;
that the flame had not reached those depths; the MS. recording
his bright youth had not been burned; all then was
still the same: as clear as ever.
“Still he determined to avoid Clare sedulously, and for a
double reason:—first shame, and then fear. Not that my
worthy ancestor was really ashamed of his infatuation—
ashamed in the ordinary meaning of the term. I am afraid
that his headstrong nature seldom felt the sentiment. But
he experienced a rational doubt of his reception at Riverhead
by the young girl whose heart he had so cruelly tried;
whose pure, tender love, he had slighted for a wild passion.
He did not fancy playing the repentant—striking his breast
and crying mea culpâ! pity! This was quite out of the
question in the present instance with Mr. Effingham, and to
avoid all disagreeable scenes, he resolved to continue in
Virginia the resolution he had adopted on the Continent;
here as there, he would avoid all women.
“I have said that my respected ancestor's second
sentiment was fear—that is fear of himself. After that
volcano-like explosion, he dreaded his own passions; he was
perfectly well convinced that when aroused, these passions
were as fetterless as the wind; and he indulged, what seems
to me looking back now on his character, a rational fear of
his feelings.
“But Mr. Hamilton had by a word on the day of the
fox-hunt, persuaded him to conquer both these sentiments,
and enter. Then he felt that his resolution was not very
strong; that the very strength of feeling which caused him
to make those precautionary resolutions, now led him to break
them at a single word.
“He spent the day; and all that day the feeling that he
loved her still was gaining ground: he dwelt on her tender
face with pensive, drooping eyes, the faint weary smile
growing brighter as he went over the soft past; he experienced
a strange emotion of purity and gentleness in her
presence; she seemed to make the world bright for him again,
throwing a new light on the landscape of his life, like dawn
after the dim moonlight, or the white glare of snow.
“That song which he had heard her sing so often in the
past—the happy golden past, when he was young and loved
her so tenderly—came finally to complete his change of
feeling, and he knew that he loved her more than ever
—far more; more profoundly, truly, tenderly. Then, at
the same moment, he saw her giving kind glances to his
face did not move, only the shadow returned. He went as
quietly as he came, speaking with his eyes only, and those
eyes asked nothing. When he lost sight of her his head
drooped.
“The evening at the hall was a great trial; it was plain
that she and Hamilton were little less than lovers—she was
so kind—he so devotedly attentive. He spoke to her but
once or twice, and then calmly and quietly; and, as we have
seen, pressed Mr. Hamilton's hand with a warmth which
indicated something more than regret at parting. Thus he
laid no claim to her heart—he felt it was gone from him.
But he could dream of her; and how he dreamt I have
related.
“These few words of comment will enable the reader to
comprehend more easily the events which follow. Though
preferring to write down what the characters of my history
said to each other, from the conviction that their traits are
most easily developed by themselves, I have thought fit to
pause here, to speak thus briefly in my own person of Captain
Waters, and my respected ancestor. I now proceed.”
21. CHAPTER XXI.
HOW THE WHOLE COLONY OF VIRGINIA WENT TO THE JAMESTOWN
RACES, AND WHAT ENSUED.
The races!
That word always produces a strong effect upon men
in the South; and when the day fixed upon for the Jamestown
races comes, the country is alive for miles around with
persons of all classes and descriptions.
As the hour of noon approaches, the ground swarms
with every species of the genus homo; Williamsburg and
the seafaring village of Jamestown turn out en masse, and
leave all occupations for the exciting turf.
As the day draws on the crowd becomes more dense.
The splendid chariots of the gentry roll up to the stand,
and group themselves around it, in a position to overlook
sparkling eyes and powdered locks, and diamonds and gay
silk and velvet dresses of those fair dames who lent such
richness and picturesque beauty to the old days dead now so
long ago in the far past. The fine-looking old planters too
are decked in their holiday suits, their powdered hair is tied
into queues behind with neat black ribbon, and they descend
and mingle with their neighbors, and discuss the coming
festival.
Gay youths, in rich brilliant dresses, caracole up to the
carriages on fiery steeds, to display their horsemanship, and
exchange compliments with their friends, and make pretty
speeches, which are received by the bright-eyed damsels
with little ogles, and flirts of their variegated fans, and rapturous
delight.
Meanwhile the crowd grows each moment, as the flood
pours in from the north, the south, the east, the west—from
every point of the compass, and in every species of vehicle.
There are gay parties of the yeomen and their wives and
daughters, in carryalls and wagons filled with straw, upon
which chairs are placed: there are rollicking fast men—if
we may use the word becoming customary in our own day—
who whirl in, in their curricles: there are barouches and
chairs, spring wagons and carts, all full, approaching in
every way from a sober walk to a furious headlong dash, all
“going to the races.” There are horsemen who lean forward,
horsemen who lean back; furious, excited horsemen,
urging their steeds with whip and spur; cool, quiet horsemen,
who ride erect and slowly: there are, besides, pedestrians
of every class and appearance, old and young, male and female,
black and white—all going to the races.
These latter gather around the booths erected by the stand
and discuss the various mixtures of Jamaica there displayed
in tempting array; and near by, all varieties of edibles are
set out, and attacked. Ale foams; healths (and individuals)
are drunk; bets are made.
The vulgar blacklegs, if we may speak so disrespectfully
of that large and influential class, congregate temporarily
around the tables where a dozen games of chance are exhibited;
and here they amuse themselves while awaiting
the great supreme gambling of the race.
The crowd is all in a buzz, which at times rises to a
shout; it undulates like a stormy sea; it rolls and murmurs,
and rumbles and laughs—in a word, it has come to
see the races.
The hour at last arrives, and a horn sounding from the
judges' stand, the horses are led out in their blankets and
head coverings, and walked up and down before the crowd
by their trainers, who are for the most part old gray-headed
negroes, born and raised, to the best of their recollection,
on the turf. The riders are noble scions of the same ancient
stock, and average three feet and a half in height, and
twenty pounds in weight. They are clad in ornamental garments;
wear little close-fitting caps, and while they are
waiting, sit huddled up in the grass, sucking their thumbs,
and talking confidentially about “them there hosses.”
Let us look at the objects of their attention; they are
well worth it.
Mr. Howard enters the bay horse Sir Archy, out of
Flying Dick, by Roderick.
Mr. James enters Fair Anna, a white mare, dam Virginia,
sire Belgrave.
Captain Waters enters the Arabian horse Selim, descended
in a direct line, he is informed, from Al-borak, who
carried the prophet Mahomet up to heaven—though this pedigree
is not vouched for. The said pedigree is open to the
inspection of all comers. Note—That it is written in
Arabic.
There are other entries, but not much attention is paid
to them. The race will be between Sir Archy and Fair
Anna, and perhaps the outlandish horse will not be “distanced.”
The horses are stripped, and the excited spectators
gather round them and commence betting. Two to one is
offered on Sir Archy; he takes every eye; he is a noble
animal. His training has been excessive, and the sinews
web his limbs like cords of steel woven into network; he
strides like a giant, his eyes blaze, he bites at his groom.
Fair Anna is a beautiful little creature, as slender and
graceful as a deer, with a coat of milky whiteness; and she
steps daintily, like a kitten. She is known, however, and
those who have seen her run, know that she has extraordinary
speed and bottom.
The Arabian horse is unknown, and offers few indications
of either speed or strength. The ladies say he is
lovely, however, and the old jockeys scan the animal attentively,
and discover some unusual points.
But the ladies, for the most part, admire the white mare
above all; and the young damsels and gentlemen of youthful
years request their parents to furnish them with some
guineas to bet upon the lovely animal. The old planters,
having for the most part staked large sums on Sir Archy,
decline this request with petulance. Among these juveniles,
seized with the gambling mania, are Master Willie Effingham
and Mr. Tommy Alston, who espouse different sides. Tommy
admires fair Anna, Will, Sir Archy. Having no money beyond
a crown or so, they content themselves with staking
that, and Kate is called upon to hold the stakes, which she
does with great good nature.
“Ah! you are betting, I think, petite ma'mselle!” says
a sonorous and good-humoured voice.
Kate raises her eyes, and recognizes Captain Ralph, who
rides his roan. She smiles, for the kindly honest voice of
the soldier pleases her, and says:
“Oh no, sir! I was just holding stakes for Willie and
Mr. Alston.”
“Mr. Alston? Oh—pardonnez: I understand.”
And the Captain laughs, and asks how the betting goes.
“Two to one on Sir Archy,” says Kate quite easily.
“And on Selim?”
“I'm sure he's the prettiest, and I know he'll win, sir,”
says Kate, “but the bet is on Sir Archy and Fair Anna.”
The Captain laughs, and rides on: he draws up by Mr.
Lee's chariot.
“Ah good-day, my dear mesdames,” he says, “how is
the betting, pray?”
“I have bet largely against Selim, sir,” says Henrietta,
“I know he'll be beaten.”
“Beaten, say you, my dear madam?”
“Yes.”
“By what—rods?”
“No, sir, by Sir Archy.”
“Ah, you think so?” says the Captain, pleasantly.
“Well, I do not agree with you, morbleu!”
“He's found his match,” says Henrietta, with a mischievous
sparkle of her brilliant eye.
“So have I,” replies the Captain, with a look which
makes Miss Henrietta blush.
She endeavors to rally.
“What will you bet, sir?”
“I? I will bet you a thousand pounds to a penny, that
Selim wins the race. See how infatuated I am! What say
you, morbleu! madam?”
Henrietta smiles satirically.
“Suppose we wager something more valuable, sir” she
says, “something rare!”
“What shall it be?”
“This ringlet against one of your morbleus!”
The Captain relishes this pleasantry and laughs.
“Ah, madam!” he says, “the stakes are not even: suppose
I stake the contents of this box, against the said ringlet.”
And the soldier draws a morocco case from his bosom.
“What is it?” says Henrietta.
“I deny your right to ask,” laughs the soldier.
“Unjust!” says Henrietta.
“Why, 'faith?”
“Because, sir, you know what my stake is—while I do
not know yours.”
“How do I know what it is you offer to bet, madam?”
“Why it is this ringlet, sir.”
And Henrietta twines around her beautiful jewelled hand
a glossy curl which reposes on her cheek.
Captain Ralph laughs, and replies:
“Ma foi! I know it is: but I maintain that I am not
enlightened yet:—the said ringlet may be a wig, my dear
madam.”
Henrietta pouts: Clare smiles.
“I assure you, sir, that I never wear wigs,” says the
lady.
“Well, madam, then I will, for the sake of argument—
no, for the sake of betting, admit the reality of that exquisite
curl; and yet I must be permitted to make a request.”
“What is that, sir?”
“That you will let Miss Clare hold my stake, and promise
not to open it, or seek to find what it is.”
Henrietta takes the morocco case, and looks at it curiously,
hesitating.
“Well,” says the Captain, laughing, “I see our wager is
at an end, pardy! You refuse my conditions.”
“No, sir, I accept.”
And Henrietta hands the case to Clare.
“I suppose I may retain the curl until it is won—if that
ever happens, monsieur?” she says, satirically.
“Oui! oui!” responds the soldier, laughing, “assuredly,
and now what is our bet, pray? I see the judges about
to give the signal to prepare the horses.”
“I bet,” said Henrietta, “that Sir Archy or Fair Anna
will beat Selim.”
“The first heat?”
“As you choose, sir.”
“Well,” says Captain Ralph, “I close. Remember
Ma'mselle Clare,” he adds to her companion, “that Madam
Henriette and myself have laid a wager of that morocco case
and its contents, against a curl of her hair, that Sir Archy
beats my Arabian the first heat. Do not forget!”
“The first heat, sir?” asks Clare, in her mild voice.
“Yes,” replies the Captain, “there will be three I am
informed—three of two miles each. The horse which wins
two out of these three heats, of course beats the field.”
Clare nods.
“Prepare the horses!” comes from the judges' stand opposite.
Captain Ralph leaves the ladies with a gallant bow, and
pushes his way through the swaying and excited crowd, toward
the spot where the animals are being saddled.
A tremendous hurly-burly reigns there; men of all
classes, boys, negroes, gentlemen, indented servants—all are
betting with intense excitement. The dignified grooms endeavor
to keep back the crowd:—the owners of the horses
give their orders to the microscopic monkeys who are to ride.
Mr. Howard, a fine-looking, somewhat supercilious gentleman,
says to his rider:
“Jake, trail on a tight rein the first mile, press gradually
on the second, and win the heat by half a length: if you
are an inch before that, I'll murder you, you villain.”
“Yes, massa,” replies Jake, with a satisfied smile, and
great cheerfulness. “I gwine to do dat very ting, I is.”
Mr. James is a solemn-looking Napoleon of the turf, and
impresses upon his rider a whole volume of instructions,
with gravity, and a serious and affecting earnestness.
“Feel Sir Archy from the word proceed,” he says, “and
if it appears from a calm review of all the circumstances,
that the mare has got the heels of him, come in half a head
before him. If the mare fails to get her speed in the first
brush, refrain from pushing her:—it is a matter of no importance
to win this the first heat—but be sure to come to
me before the second.”
“Yes, my massa.”
Captain Ralph says to his rider:
“Give me your whip:—good! now take off those spurs.
Very well: now remember to keep silent—do not speak to
your horse, do not tug at his rein: simply keep him in the
track, and aim to keep the inside. Do not trouble yourself
to win the heat—the rest I think is safe. Remember to lean
far forward, and if there is danger of being distanced, I permit
you to whistle in the horse's ears. Again, do not push
to win this heat. Go!”
The riders are raised by one leg into the saddles: they
gather up the reins: the drum taps: they are off like lightning.
The course is a mile in circumference, and they go round
it before the excited crowd can look at them a dozen times.
They whirl past the stand, and push on again.
Sir Archy leads: Fair Anna trails on a hard rein: the
Arabian is two lengths behind: but he is not running.
They thunder up the quarter stretch: Sir Archy is
bounding, like some diabolical monster, far before his companions,
spite of his owner's cries: the Arabian has come up
and locks the mare: they run neck and neck. Sir Archy
whirls past the stand, and wins the heat by a hundred yards.
The immense crowd utters a shout which shakes the surrounding
forest.
The owner of Sir Archy looks with ominous meaning at
Jake:—that youth begins to tremble, and says that he
couldn't hold him. Mr. Howard turns to the horse. Sir
Archy's eyes glare—he does not sweat at all: his coat is
over-trained.
Fair Anna is as wet as if she had just swam a river: the
moisture streams from her: she looks like an ivory statue
in a fountain. The grooms rake the sweat off in foamy
floods: she breathes regularly.
The Arabian's coat is merely glossier: an imperceptible
moisture bathes it, and he is quite still: he does not pant:
his breathing is calm.
The horses are again enveloped in their hoods and
blankets. Captain Ralph returns to the Riverhead carriage.
“Parbleu! you've won, my dear madam!” he says,
“behold, here I am very unhappy!”
Henrietta does not quarrel this time with his French,
but laughs triumphantly.
“A favor?” continues the unfortunate Captain, with a
melancholy air.
“Oh, certainly!” cries Henrietta.
“I ask that you will not open the morocco case which—
miserable!—I have lost, until you return home. Is it very
hard?”
“Oh no, sir; and I promise without hesitation. Give
it to me, Clare.”
And she takes the case, puts it in her muff, and smiles.
“Any more betting, sir?” she says, satirically.
“Who, I?'
“Yes, sir.”
“Assuredly!” says the Captain;” do not think, chere
ma'm'selle, that I am very much cast down. I am so far
from that, I assure you, that I am ready to take the field
again.”
“Well, sir.”
“Then you will bet again, madam?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Bien! I now stake all that is left me in the world—
though not quite. I stake my horse, Selim, against the curl
and the pair of gloves you wear, with the knot of ribbons at
your girdle thrown in—all upon the final issue.”
Henrietta blushes; for, however common such gallant
proposals were at that day, she cannot misunderstand the
meaning of the soldier's glance, and reddens beneath it.
“That would be unfair, sir,” she says.
“Not so, my dear madam; for are you not sure to
lose?”
“To lose?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“No, sir; I am sure to win.”
“Bah! you ladies have such a delicious little confidence
in the things you patronize, that it is really astonishing.
You think Sir Archy will beat Selim? Pshaw! you know
nothing about it.”
This piques madam Henrietta, and she smiles satirically
again as she says:
“Well, sir, I do not want your pretty horse—but if you
insist, why, I cannot retreat. I shall, at least, have the
pleasure of returning him to his master.”
The Captain shakes his head.
“A bet upon such terms, is no bet at all, my dearest
madam,” he says, “for, I assure you, if I win, you will return
home curl-less, glove-less, and ribbon-less. All is fair in war
—and love.”
With which words, Captain Ralph darts a martial ogle
at his companion. This piques her more than ever.
“Well, sir,” she replies, “if you are determined, have
your desire.”
“Good!” cries the captain, “we are just in time. There
is the horse. Remember now, Ma'm'selle Clare, that we
have lain a wager on the final issue. I bet Selim against a
curl, a pair of gloves, and a piece of ribbon, that the
Arabian beats the field. Miss Henrietta, that he will not.
Voici, I do not ask you to hold my stakes,” adds the Captain
with a laugh as he bows, “for I think that will be as
much as his rider will be able to do!”
And, with another gallant bow, the Captain rides away
toward the horses.
The boys are again instructed much after the same
fashion: the signal is given in the midst of breathless suspense,
and the horses dart from their places.
They dart around, Sir Archy again leading: but this
position he does not hold throughout the first mile: he gradually
falls behind and when they pass the winning-post he is
crowd do not see him—they flush and shout.
The second mile is between Fair Anna and the Arabian,
and they lock in the middle of it: but the Arabian gradually
takes the lead, and when they flash up to the stand he is ten
yards ahead. Sir Archy is distanced and withdrawn.
It would be impossible to describe the excitement of the
crowd:—the tremendous effect produced upon them by this
reversal of all their hopes and expectations. They roll
about like waves, they shout, they curse, they rumble and
groan like a stormy sea.
The horses are the objects of every one's attention.
Their condition will go far to indicate the final result—and
Sir Archy being led away and withdrawn, the race now will
be between Fair Anna and the Arabian.
Mr. James looks more solemn than ever, and all eyes are
turned upon him. Captain Waters is not visible—he is
yonder, conversing with the ladies.
But the horses! Fair Anna pants and breathes heavily
her coat is drenched more completely than before with perspiration;
her mouth foams: she tosses her head: when the
rake is applied to her back a shower falls.
The Arabian is wet all over too: but he breathes regularly:
his eye is bright and his head calm. He has commenced
running. The first intention of Mr. James is to give
up the race, but his pride will not let him. He utters an
oath, and gives renewed instructions to his rider. These
instructions are to whip and spur—to take the lead and keep
it, from the start.
The moment for the final struggle arrives, and Captain
Ralph merely says, “Rein free!”
The boys mount—the crowd opens; the drum taps and
the animals are off like lightning.
Fair Anna feels that all her previous reputation is at
stake, and flies like a deer. She passes around the first mile
like a flash of white light: but the Arabian is beside her.
For a quarter of a mile thereafter they run neck and neck—
the rider of Fair Anna lashes and spurs desperately.
They come up to the quarter-stretch in the last mile
at supernatural speed:—the spectators rise on their toes and
shout:—two shadows pass them like the shadows of darting
has triumphed.
If we could not describe the excitement after the second
heat, what possibility is there that we could convey an idea
of the raging and surging pandemonium which the crowd now
came to resemble? Furious cries—shouts—curses—applause—laughter—and
the rattle of coin leaving unwilling
hands are some of the sounds. But here we must give up:—
as no mere pen can describe the raging of a great mass of
water lashed by an angry wind into foam and whistling spray
and muttering waves, which rise and fall and crash incessantly,
so we cannot trace the outline of the wildly-excited
crowd.
The Captain wipes Selim's neck with his white handkerchief,
and the panting animal raises his head and whinnies.
“See, gentlemen!” says the soldier laughing, while Mr.
Howard scowls proudly at him, “Morbleu! my horse is
merely a little warm—just come to his speed! Why did I
not stake my whole fortune on him!”
And uttering this preposterous jest, the soldier caresses
Selim, who manifests much pleasure thereat; and sending
him back to the stable, mounts his horse and goes and claims
his wager from the mortified Henrietta. She takes off the
gloves and hands them to him, with the ribbon knot, which
she detached from her girdle with a jerk betraying no slight
ill-humor.
“There, sir! at least I am honest, and pay my just
debts!” she says: “but please leave my curl.”
The Captain folds up the gloves, wraps them in the
ribbon, and places the whole in the pocket of his surtout.
“Leave the curl?” he says, laughing, “Oh, of course!
But I assure you, my dear Ma'm'selle Henrietta, that my
liberality is only for the moment. I shall claim it some day
or other. All is fair in war—and love!”
With which words the Captain laughs louder than he was
ever known to laugh before.
22. CHAPTER XXII.
SHADOWS OF THE PAST: SOMEWHAT GROTESQUE
The reader must have perceived from the foregoing sketch,
that “the races” in Virginia in the year 1765, did not materially
differ from those at the present day:—but we have
not quite finished our brief and hasty sketch, and he must suspend
his opinion.
Still we cannot enter into any thing like a full description
of the ceremonies which took up the remainder of the day:—
just as we have been unable to draw a full length portrait of
the fox-hunt—the festival at the hall—and further back, the
grand opening day of the house of Burgesses. As we have
said in former pages, this narrative is rather an account of
the fortunes of a certain set of personages, and the events
which directly affected them:—so the reader must be content
with a very brief and imperfect sketch of the amusements
which followed the triumph of Selim.
The race was gotten up by a number of subscribers, and
though a purse was not suspended from a pole for the
victorious jockey to take down, every other ceremony was
observed.
These ceremonies were characteristic of the times, and
an outline of them may amuse the reader.
First, a number of stalwart countrymen entered the ring
—the races between the remaining horses having been run
be it understood—and these hardy gentlemen are armed
with stout cudgels, which they brandish around their heads
in furious style, much after the manner of those gentlemen
who followed, and flourished the quarter-staff in honor of that
noble outlaw, Robin Hood.
The victor in the awful game is to have a hat worth
twenty shillings, and this hat, of the cocked species, with a
handsome feather, is suspended from a pliant pole above their
heads.
The signal is given, and the brave combatants close and
rain down a shower of blows, which rattle like hail, and cause
the crowd of spectators to utter shouts of delight. The
he perches the fine hat on his bushy locks:
“Well, I dusted 'em! Their jackets won't want a
brushin' soon agin!”
And he marches off amid great applause.
Next comes a wrestling match, and the prize of the victor
here is a pair of velvet buckles, which are exhibited to
all. The contestants enter the ring and tug and whirl, and
roll and fall. Is the gentleman who is declared victor, and
who bears away the buckles in triumph, called by the euphonious
name of Junks, or not? We cannot know certainly,
as his name is not announced: at least, he is an undeniable
water-dog, and will drink up his silver ornaments, we may
be sure.
Then comes a running match, the prize for which is a
pair of handsome shoes, with rosettes of ribbon; and running
being an amusement which may be indulged in without
fear of a cudgel blow or a fall, many enter the lists—among
the rest, Mr. Bill Lane, the artist. He has practised the
amusement when parson Tythetobacco was on his track,
rod in hand, and to such perfection that he now distances all
competitors, and bears off the shoes in triumph.
Another running match immediately. It is between
“twelve youths, twelve years old, to run one hundred and
twelve yards, for a hat worth twelve shillings.” The requisite
number of young gentlemen enter the lists and start off.
Sam Barkerville is declared victor, his powers of running
having been cultivated by humorous fleeing from his father,
the sheriff, who, by poetic license, has been the imaginary
holder of the legal writ of ca. sa. against Barkerville, jr.;
and the hat worth twelve shillings is handed to the young
gentleman, who cocks it over one eye, and marches off amid
applause.
Next the herald holds up a handsomely bound volume,
fluttering with ribbons and glowing with gilt, and proclaims
that the best singer among the divine sex will take the prize,
the said volume being a quire of ballads of the most approved
description, with the accompanying musical notes.
A dozen blushing maidens advance and alternately sing
such ballads as they fancy, in little fluttering voices, and
with downcast eyes. The last who performs upon the occasion
received with tumultuous applause. She is unanimously
declared victor, and the beautiful volume is duly presented
to Miss Donsy Smith, who receives it blushing, and retires
into the throng, who greet her with two distinct rounds of
applause, her bright, cheerful face having gained this young
lady a host of friends.
Then comes the great and paramount contest of fiddlers,
—many more in number than those who shared with “his
glass and his lass” the liking of “old King Cole, that jolly
old soul.” In other words, the fiddlers are more in number,
and they use instruments which range from those of backwoods
construction—emitting awful and terrible discord, like
veritable bulls of Bashan roaring, and pigs from the coast
of Guinea squeaking—to excellent ones, worn and discolored
by incessant use, and full of melodious power. The prize
for the best performer is a fine new instrument, direct from
London, and, in addition to this, the victor is to have the
privilege of presenting a pair of silk stockings to the “prettiest
country maiden on the ground.”
The fiddlers stand “all in a row,” and tune their instruments.
Then, at a given signal, they play, one after the
other, such pieces as they fancy, and exert their best powers
to win the fine instrument. They roar, they crash, they
storm, they pour a whirlwind of rapid, glittering notes upon
the air, deafening the ears and setting the crowd to dancing
almost; or else they link the sweetness and draw it out long
and slow, like golden ribbon, or a stream of moonlight—
sighing, crying, sobbing, laughing;—all this the violins do,
with extraordinary movement in the heads and arms of the
noble musicians. The air is filled with harmony, the crowd
applauds, the happy artists hold out their hands. Nineteen
hands are withdrawn abruptly; the twentieth receives the
prize, over which are hung the silk stockings.
Lanky is the victor. Lanky no longer in boots and
sword and cocked hat, it is true; but, at least, far more like
an elegant cavalier than usual. For a moment, Lanky
blushes,—scratches his head; then he twitches the string of
the violin, and starts with joy at its excellence. This gives
him courage: he places the silk stockings on the end of his
fiddle bow; they hang there with a truth of outline which
dive at a portion of the crowd, throwing his head at them,
—so to speak;—and lo! the silk stockings are seen to leave
the end of the bow, and elegantly repose in a straddling posture
around the neck of Miss Donsy Smith.
The crowd shout; the violins commence again; Jamaica
rum,—“to wet their windpipes,” says the chronicle,—is
handed round, and immediately the twenty fiddlers all in a
row begin to play furiously with the ardor of despair, such
a different tune! Pandemonium is broke loose—a shudder
runs through the crowd—they fly with their hands in their
ears, with shouts of laughter.
So far, we have followed the veracious chronicle, invention
having almost nothing to do with the scene we have
sketched; but there is one gentleman whose performances
on the occasion of the races we nowhere find any allusions
made to. We consider this unjust, and proceed briefly to
speak of him.
He is a colored gentleman; perhaps as much as three
fect and a half high. He wears a long coat, whose skirts
drag the ground; he sucks his thumb occasionally; he rejoices
in and is proud of the name of Crow, but prefers the
more modest and friendly appellation, “Jeames.” He has
suffered unmerited misfortunes lately, but, like a great man,
is not cast down, and has come to the races with the noble
intent to struggle against the effect of those misfortunes.
He has not betted largely, but no one has taken more interest
in the horses. He has criticised them; admired them;
openly and candidly extolled them,—acknowledged their
good points with simple frankness. He has lost his all—
three half-pence—upon Sir Archy, but is not cast down
thereat. He rises above his bad fortune, and preserves a
noble equanimity.
He provides himself with a dilapidated cornstalk, and
looks on while the cudgellers play. He flourishes the cornstalk
around his head gracefully, and when it hits one of the
dignified grooms, Mr. Crow does not disdain to take to flight
—averse as he is, from principle, to contention. When the
wrestlers commence, he takes his cornstalk in his arms and
struggles violently with it, and finally trips it up, and falls
triumphantly on it. When the running begins he drops his
running also, uttering enthusiastic “hooras!” He wins, in
his own opinion, and takes off his ragged straw hat, without
a rim, worn only on extraordinary occasions, and politely presents
it to himself, and places it proudly on his head again—
having fairly won it. When the maidens sing, he assumes a
modest and bashful air: but with the advent of the fiddlers,
his real representative powers begin to show themselves. He
resumes his cornstalk: he breaks it in two; he grasps the
shorter piece, and with his left hand inserts it under his chin.
He then screws up the broken end to tune it, flourishes in
his right hand the lengthier portion, and strikes the trembling
lyre. As the fiddlers proceed, he proceeds also—fast or
slow, enthusiastically with jerking head, shaking body, patting
foot: or sentimentally, with his chin up, his eyes fixed
upon the blue sky, with a die-away expression, his bow drawn
slowly and rapturously over its counterpart. He finishes
with the grand outburst of the twenty performers, and goes
into ecstasies: his rapture passes all bounds: he sways, he
shakes, he bows, he bends, he executes leaps, he turns somersets—still
playing. But comes the cruel fate—he is not appreciated:
he suffers from the effect of an uncultivated musical
taste in the million. Mr. Crow in his ecstasy rolls upon
a projecting boot—the boot rises up—Mr. Crow is hoisted—
he disappears like a black snowball swallowed up in nothingness.
He is gone—vanished—all the fiddles stop.
The day is wound up with a profuse banquet, at which
the subscribers, their wives and daughters, refresh themselves
with excellent roast beef and turkey, and a variety of wines.
Perhaps a picture of the graceful and imposing scene would
be worth drawing, but space fails us:—the eloquent discord
of the twenty violins still drives our senses mad. We leave
the dinner, therefore, to the reader's imagination: we leave
him to fancy the merry talk, the allusions to the races, the
congratulations offered Captain Waters, the praises of the
fresh little country beauty Donsy Smith, the toasting of Captain
John Smith, of old days, who landed yonder on the
river when he came here—that immortal soldier to whom a
monument should be erected, all declare—in whose honor a
“Jamestown Society” should be instituted, to meet yearly in
the month of May, and eat good dinners, fish and flesh and
this to the reader's imagination, and can only say that the
banquet, sub Jove, was a very merry and happy affair, and
that the birds were of the same opinion that evening, when
the brilliant party, having fled away, they picked up crumbs,
and twittered gayly.
And so the brilliant party fled away, as all bright things
fly far from us into the west, and dead days of the past.
Where are they now, those stalwart cavaliers and lovely
dames who filled that former time with so much light, and
merriment, and joyous laughter? Where are those good
coursers, Selim, Fair Anna and Sir Archy; where are black and
white, old and young, all the sporting men and women of the
swaying crowd? What do we care for them to-day? What
do we care if the laces are moth-eaten—the cocked hats
hung up in the halls of Lethe—the silk stockings laid away
in the drawer of oblivion? What does it concern us that
the lips no longer smile, the eyes no longer flash, the hands
no longer move, the faces no longer laugh? What do we
care for all those happy maiden faces—gallant inclinations—
graceful courtesies—every thing connected with the cavaliers
and dames of that old, brilliant, pompous, honest, worthy
race?
They have gone away to the other world; their lips are
dumb; their heads have bowed and their backs long bent,
and they have carried away their loads and themselves to the
happy or the miserable isles. We care so little for them,
that the poor chronicler who tries to make them speak again
to-day is scarcely heard: but still it is his province, he must
speak in spite of all.
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
IL SEGRETO PER ESSER FELICE.
Mr. Effingham had not gone to the races for the same
reason which had prevented Mr. Ralph Waters from attending
the party at the Hall. The Captain felt an unconquerable
repugnance to break bread under the roof of one who had
practising, unconsciously, the Arabic custom which he
had met with in his travels in the East. In like manner,
Mr. Effingham could not go and smile, and caracole, and
laugh at the joyous festival; it was too diametrically opposed
to his feelings.
We shall perceive more clearly what those feelings were
by entering the Hall on the evening succeeding the races, ascending
the broad pine stairs, and going into Mr. Effingham's
room.
The sun was just setting, and a stream of bright rosy light
streamed through the tall windows on the opposite wall, and
on the occupant of the room, who was seated in a tall carved
chair, such as our ancestors much affected, with that singular
taste for the stately, the grotesque, every thing but the
comfortable, which they possessed—at least in regard to furniture.
Mr. Effingham looked even paler than usual, and
his eyelids drooped, the dusky lashes reposing on his wan
cheek. His hair, free from powder, and hanging down upon
his shoulders, was brilliantly illuminated by the rosy ray, and
the single diamond upon his white hand glittered. That
hand hung listlessly, the arm reposing upon the red damask
cushion, and the other hand supported his cheek.
As he mused, gazing at the bright flood of sunlight, a
faint smile, like the reflection of the moon in water, dwelt
upon his pale lips and in his weary eyes. Then a sigh escaped
from the lips, and the breast heaved.
“Surely I have suffered much in my life,” he said, in a
low voice, with another weary sigh. “The fates seem to
pursue me; they will not permit me to pass any day, unless
it is more or less clouded. What a career mine has been—
how forlorn, how full of sad and unhappy events leaving so
many painful recollections. My boyhood was pure and
happy, and I laughed at care as the child heart laughs at
every thing; incredulous, obstinately hopeful, I saw before
me a long life of merriment, and I was never weary of the
joy which flowed into my heart from the bright world. All
things were couleur de rose. I had an open hand; a generous,
loving nature—I could have taken in my arms the
whole world from pure love and joy. I wandered through
these forests singing; I ran gayly over the breezy hills;
and vigorous emotions: life to me was one long carnival.
And what a carnival! What lovely masks—what picturesque
and beautiful dresses—how many thousands of flambeaux
seemed to flood the air with their bright flashing
light! I heard wondrous music in every thing,—the trees,
the streams, the very sky was vocal with those voices
which are ever calling, in their clear, soft tones on youth,
and telling it to enjoy! enjoy! enjoy! I loved a pure heart
then—I thought she loved me.”
Another sigh more profound escaped from the pale lips;
the faint sad smile again lit up the face with its twilight.
“Oh yes! she loved me then,” he continued in a murmur;
“that is my pride and happiness, my quiet joy now in
these weary days, when life seems wholly exhausted for me
—happiness gone past never to come back. What golden
hours we passed! Ah! men may talk of the love of children
slightingly, and stroke their beards and say they cannot
feel the sentiment in its full force. It is a fallacy. There
is nothing in after life so wholly pure and strong and grand
as the first love of a boy—as his devotion, tenderness, and
sincerity. In this after-life, our passions come to be matters
of calculation; we look to settlements—we estimate eligibility—of
rank, or wealth, or age. Youth, with its grand
blindness, looks to none of them. It sees but one object in
the world—wants not the money or the station, asks but the
heart!”
He paused: and then went on sadly.
“Yes, those were golden hours—very happy hours.
How beautiful she was! I think there never was such pure
and tender beauty in a human face! I remember, as though
it were yesterday, the child's face beaming on me, while the
birds were chirping in the trees and the brook laughing. I
thought the birds were envious of her singing when she carolled
clearly in the bright fresh morning. She wore a
wreath of roses in her hair, and carried on her arm a basket
full of flowers; how clearly I see all again—well! well!”
And the head drooped pensively again in the waning
sunset.
“Then, in the after days, when I came back from Europe,”
he continued, sadly, “I loved her just as before—
Still, it is true she rose for me like a pure, lovely star; but
the hours had drawn on slowly, and other stars had risen
which distracted my attention. Especially that fiery planet
which whirled through its brief orbit and so narrowly escaped
being quenched in blood!”
He looked gloomy for a moment: but very soon the old
sad, weary smile came back as his eyes were raised to a book-case
in the corner. On this bookcase stood two statues:
and by these statues lay some withered flowers. He rose,
took down the withered nosegay, and sat down again in the
same listless way. He looked at them sadly, and placed
them against his cheek with a forlorn smile.
“She gave them to me one afternoon when we were
walking hand in hand in the old garden,” he murmured,
wistfully, “and I told her they were not half so fresh and
bright and purely beautiful as her face. I see her soft, tender
blush—I feel her hand tremble: at that moment life-long
happiness was in my grasp—the brilliant pearl, a pure
loving heart—well: I threw it away! It is gone: another
has enshrined it in his heart.
“Well, this is but one more hope gone—one more memory
to make my days and nights weary, to multiply these
weary sighs. I cannot, do not complain—yet I loved her!
loved her dearly: well, well, it is passed. She will be very
happy: he is a worthy gentleman, a kind heart. She will
not think of me often; I am not what I was. Poor sword!”
he continued, sadly, looking at his weapon lying on the table,
“you and your master have lost edge: you rust wofully.
That master is no longer the gay and laughing cavalier
whispering to ladies, and met every where with smiles—
the proud heir of Effingham, living his life with nothing any
where but those welcome smiles:—like these poor flowers
he has withered; his freshness is gone.”
A low voice singing came from the next room, and Mr.
Effingham recognized Kate's accents. By a singular coincidence,
she was singing, “The flowers of the forest,” that
sweet and plaintive air, which seems to resemble the sighing
of the wind, the murmur of the flowers, the low trembling
of an Æolian harp in a calm evening when the airs are almost
dead.
“Yes, they are gone,” said Mr. Effingham, his head
drooping: “yes! yes! love, youth, every thing rosy, hopeful,
brilliant is gone and withered away: and life has drawn
near no longer any thing but a stern, hard reality. Yes, the
flowers of the forest went away with the autumn—they withered
like these I hold. Withered! that is a strange word—
can it apply to a human heart?”
The tender voice of the child came from the adjoining
room, and the fresh, pure accents pleased and quieted him:
he smiled faintly.
“No, I believe my heart is not wholly withered,” he
murmured, “like my hopes.”
And reclining in the tall carved chair, his sad eyes wandered
to the sunset, waning slowly over the great forest with
a pomp of golden clouds. His face was bathed in the rich
rosy light, and his calm eye gazed steadily upon the blood-red
orb. It was one of those real pictures which surpass
the masterpieces of the greatest painters, and the flood of
light poured upon it like a crimson stream. Strikingly
handsome, pale, thoughtful, with chiselled lips, and long, waving
hair, and rich, elegant costume—the mere externals
would have rejoiced an artist: but no artist could have
caught the sad smile upon the lips; the calm, uncomplaining
sorrow in the eye; the posture so full of calm, almost
languid repose.
As he gazed on the sunset, the shadow in his eyes disappeared
in a degree: his brow cleared up partially; he
sighed, but no longer so wearily with such painful languor.
“Well, well,” he murmured, “there is the sun going
down after running his course honestly, and giving light to
all; warming the earth and quickening the germ within its
bosom. The seed has started beneath this warmth; the
leaves begun to bud; the birds have rejoiced in it, and the
whole universe grown stronger, brighter, fresher since he
rose this morning. And now he sets, quite calmly, having
done his duty—ah! that is Kate's word! Duty? that
is surely something, and it seems that the sun has not
stopped shining ever because clouds interposed and dimmed
him! Why should a man grow faint and murmur then,
and fold his arms and be idle, because the world is not a
fairy land of roses and perfumes—where a sweet do-nothing
I feel that it is not—and I have always laughed at
those Arcadian dreams of shepherdesses and shepherds with
their crooks, making languid love, and sighing and dreaming
the long days away in beautiful woodlands by the murmuring
streams of fancy.
“No, life is not a bower to dally in, to be happy, careless,
in; where all is sunshine. I feel it in my heart, and
trample on that Epcurean philosophy which teaches such a
doctrine. All things work—nature nowhere rests in these
unhappy delights which lap the heart in down and tell us
that the cold wind cannot reach us—that it should not.
That wind—even though it be a storm-wind—is healthy,
fresh, invigorating, like the breeze which stirs the leaves
yonder in the sunset. The sun is going—slowly, gradually
—he has done his duty, and will rise to-morrow to commence
again! Have not men a duty?”
He paused with dreamy eyes gazing upon the sunset.
“I have suffered—I have enjoyed—I have tasted life—
drained some delicious draughts, and been driven delirious
by them,” he continued. “Come, let me see if there is no
way open yet for me to imitate the sun, and do some good
in the world. Poor brain! I fear it is dulled now, and the
heart no longer warm: but I will put away my flowers at
least, and not sigh over the old days.”
He replaced the nosegay on the book-case, and as he did
so, he heard Kate come tripping along the broad passage
singing. But this time it was a merrier song—one of those
laughing ditties which have rung through so many houses,
filling them with the contagious laughter of the singer. Mr.
Effingham smiled, and was pleased to hear the fresh, merry
voice.
“The little chirper,” he said, “merry as usual!”
Kate came running on her tip-toes, and carolling that old
ditty, in which the singer asserts that her lover, who is gone
to the fair, has promised to buy her “a bunch of blue
ribbon;” and if there had been a multiplicity of bunches
of ribbon of all imaginary colors promised to Kate, she
could not have carolled her little ditty with more contagious
merriment.
She stopped at the door, and tapped. Mr. Effingham,
and his voice was much less sad.
Kate entered bright and sparkling, tripping, and running
on her tiptoes, with her curls flying, and her eyes dancing.
“Oh my goodness! here you are all by yourself,” she
said. “You mustn't be moping, now you know, cousin. I
won't allow that.”
“Pray, what right have you, madam, to command me?”
was the smiling answer.
“I? Why you belong to me, you know. Gracious!”
continued Kate laughing, “did any body ever?”
And the child put her arm round his waist, and drew him
toward the door.
“Come now, cousin, and take a walk with me,” she said.
“I'm rather dull, Katy.”
“You mustn't be.”
“Suppose I cannot help it.”
“But you shall.”
There was no resisting her entreaties, and Mr. Effingham
soon prepared himself for the walk. As they went forth in
the clear, still evening of the month of flowers, the birds
sang overhead, the streams ran merrily, the whole earth
seemed lapped in soft repose. The bleat of sheep came from
the hills, the cattle bells were tinkling as the long line came
slowly back from the pasture, and the wagoners returning
from their work, were singing their rude African songs, and
jesting with each other gayly. Flocks of gay birds were
circling through the sky, and filling the wide air with joyous
carollings. The thousand tranquil noises of a country
evening, gave a light and music to the time which cities never
feel. And then the songs died away through the forest like
a merry laugh; the sheep no longer bleated, but with lazy
lips; the cattle drew near home; and the low tinkle of their
bells was hushed. The birds, too, folded up their wings,
and only chirped occasionally as they went to sleep. The
night had come.
The tranquil hour, and all these quiet sounds, calmed the
sad heart, and made it lighter; and he looked fondly on the
little, bright-eyed face at his side. And Kate burst out joyfully
singing:—
The lark shall sing me home in my ain countrie.”
Mr. Effingham gazed at the child smiling, and said:
“I know who is my lark, and I'm glad I am home in my
own country to hear the songs she sings.”
So they returned home through the quiet evening to the
old hall, whose chimneys still glowed in the sunset, and sent
up a golden flood of curling smoke. The dogs rose up and
came to have a romp with Kate. The squire's face was
smiling as he looked up from his newspaper; the house
smiled not less brightly; and his face was sad no longer.
The healthful voice of nature had spoken to his heart,
and he was calm.
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW THE SEIGNEUR MORT-REYNARD PREACHED AND PRACTISED.
That merry fox-hunter and incorrigible bachelor, Mr. Jack
Hamilton, or as Captain Waters called him, Seigneur Mort-Reynard,
was holding a confidential conversation with Miss
Alethea in the library—when we say confidential, we mean
personal—inasmuch, as the colloquy in question busied itself
with the moral delinquencies of the identical seigneur, and
especially referred to his reynard-hunting propensities.
When Mr. Effingham entered, he found that his friend
was engaged in that forlorn and desperate undertaking—
arguing with one of the opposite sex. Mr. Jack Hamilton
was accustomed to plume himself upon his knowledge of the
female character; to mention with pride and satisfaction the
fact that he had always seen through them, as he expressed
it, and been enabled by his splendid sagacity to detect and
escape their wiles; in a word, he would often inform his
Nimrod associates over their claret, after a jovial hunt, that
he knew women perfectly, and that he was so old a fox that
the swiftest of them could not run him down. And yet,
with all this boasted knowledge of the sex, with all this profound
insight into their peculiarities of organization, the unfortunate
man was absolutely arguing a proposition with a
lady. The poor fellow had really not learned the first and
And how he did boast when he got Tom Lane, and Charley
Cotes, and the rest, snugly seated at a jovial supper at the
Trap!
“My dear fellow,” this keen student of (female) human
nature would say, with one arm resting on the table, the
right hand holding to his lips a glass of claret, “you are not
as old as I am, and will not take my advice, and leave the
girls alone. Avoid them, sir!—this world would get on
gloriously were it not for these women—with their sighings,
and oglings, and flirting fans, and rustling flounces. All the
trouble in the universe—more or less—is caused by them,
and many a tall fellow—in the Shakespearian sense, I was
reading him yesterday; a good writer!—many a fine fellow,
brave, and holding up his head, has bit the dust before
'em!
“Just look! Here is a jolly companion, ready to run a
fox to the death, to hunt deer on the coldest night that ever
a fryingpan shone in, what I call a boy of metal, ready for
fun, and joyous as the day! ready to clash glasses, to laugh
at matrimony, to break through every thing which bothers
him, and as brave as Julius Cæsar. Well, sir—the bottle
stays with you!—just look now how the thing works! He goes
to some ball or other, makes the acquaintance of a pair of
blue eyes, lips to match—to say nothing of the rest. He
looks—the infatuated fellow will not cut and run as a brave
man may, when he knows the enemy can beat him easily—
he dances with her—goes bowing and ambling, and mincing
his steps and smiling through a minuet or a quadrille: he
squeezes her hand—the poor, infatuated boy! Never squeeze
a woman's hand, sir! by Jove, it is too ridiculous. Well,
the unhappy victim of the eyes, does this more and more:
he returns her ogles, he thinks her courtesies, as she holds
out her silken skirt, the very sublimity of grace, by George!
he feels a something creeping over him, that makes him feel
like a thousand pins were sticking in him, and as if the black
rascals, who are scraping away on their fiddles, are playing
rainbow music, on moonlight violins, with bows made of
flowers, by Jove! The reel finishes him, sir!—he dances it
with her—her face flushes up, her eyes sparkle, her satins
rustle, she shoots him down, by Jove! with her eyes, and
in her pocket—if ladies have pockets, which I doubt.
“Now, mark me, sir—not bad claret, this!—from that
minute, he is gone! He leaves hunting—he passes over to
the other side, when he meets us jolly fellows on the road;
he frowns when we refuse to acknowledge that all the sense,
all the virtue, all the brilliancy of the world, is found in
women; and let any one dare to assert that his particular
paragon is not the pearl of all—the top froth—the moonlight
and flowers—the head and front of all. Try it! a cock-sparrow
is nothing to him. He whips out his hanger, by
Jove! his eyes blaze up, he makes a pass at you, and runs
you through the gizzard, causing a large and affectionate
circle to mourn your loss.
“All this, sir, is caused by women—from their passion
for matrimony. Men, sir, are to them, what the fox is to
us—they take pleasure in running them down and slaughtering
them. No, I am wrong—they are not so easy as that:
they are like cats, sir, when a mouse falls into their clutches.
They tie the infatuated poor fellow to their apron-string—
they watch, and smile, and simper, and die away: but try
to escape, sir, under the impression that the enemy is lulled
to sleep. By Jove! sir, the claw comes out from the velvet
paw, and you are gone! You are married, sir!—you are
led like a sheep to the slaughter, and you may bleat as much
as you choose, by George! You are thenceforth a married
man, and your bachelor joys are all gone. Try a fox hunt
if you dare—madam will make you rue it: speak to your
bachelor friends—she'll scratch you, sir. From that moment
you are a joyless, married man, and your whole life is to be
spent in working like a drudge for a set of little dirty-faced
darlings, who make you get up fifty times in the night,
and won't let you read your newspaper for crawling over
you.
“That's it, sir: you are an unfortunate married man.
You dare not ask your friends to dinner, or if you feel that
it is a shame not to, you say in a mild and sheepish voice,
`Really, now, my dear Tom (or Jack, as the case may be), I
am delighted to see you; your face reminds me of old times
(poor fellow, so it does!) come and—I hope you can make
it convenient—you are sure you have no engagement—I
George! sir, he hangs his head, and looks like he had been
caught stealing a sheep; for he knows that madam will sit
up like a lump of ice, and make personal observations unpleasantly
alluding to his past life with us jolly fellows, and
when she has him, sir, alone, will make the watches of the
night miserable with a lecture behind the curtains, in which
she will prove, to his own, and her own, satisfaction, that he
is falling back into his old abominable courses, when he
used to commit the deadly sin of sitting up a-nights, and
rattling the dice, and eating suppers, and chasing reynard
with us jolly boys, by George! He knows she'll lay it all
out to him, with that eloquence which she possesses in such
a high degree; and no wonder that the poor fellow blushes,
and hesitates, and hems! when he ventures to suggest that his
old friends should visit him—the reprobates, as madam calls
them. I, for one, would not go and dine with him—I should
shake my head, and go on my way, in pity, not anger,
and I would empty six bottles, and run down fifty foxes to
get his face out of my mind. Yes, sir, that is the short and
the long of it—your fate will be to find yourself henpecked!
Avoid them in time, by Jove! never put yourself in their
power, or you are gone—you are, indeed! Never laugh and
talk with them—never visit them — above all, sir, never
argue with them, for you are sure to get the worst of it. Lay
this down as a general rule, that a woman will always have
the last word; and, secondly, that no woman ever yet understood
how a demonstration followed a fixed set of premises;—
logic is not their weakness, sir, they don't understand it;
but what they do understand, is jumping to their own conclusions,
and sticking to 'em like grim death. One of their
conclusions is, that all men of right ought to be caught, if
eligible. Now, sir, you needn't resist—they will convince
you: the only way is to do as I do—never go near them,
and cultivate a bachelor life.”
And after these diabolical sentiments, Mr. Jack Hamilton
would empty his claret, pour out a second glass, and
begin singing, “Oh, a jolly life for me-e-e! A jolly life
for me!”
Let us return from this digression to the Hall, which we
have left, to listen to Mr. Hamilton's advice given to his
report the words uttered by Mr. Hamilton and Miss Alethea.
It is enough to say that the Seigneur Mort-Reynard
proved his own philosophy to be perfectly correct, and was
quietly unhorsed by Miss Alethea in every charge—that
lady managing the weapons with her habitual air of prim
and stately grace.
“Ah, here's Champ coming to the rescue!” cried the
delighted seigneur. “I am in a bad way here, friend Effingham.
Miss Alethea has been proving satisfactorily that
I am a most hardened sinner.”
Miss Alethea smiled, with a wintry look, but said nothing.
“I am glad to see you, Jack,” replied Mr. Effingham,
suppressing by an effort the painful emotion caused by the
sight of his rival; “how did I miss seeing you when you
rode up?”
“Oh, I slipped through the lane by the stable; I wanted
to get the nearest road to Riverhead.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Effingham, coldly; but immediately
suppressing this exhibition of feeling, he added, calmly,
“present my best respects to the family.”
“Including Clare?” said Mr. Hamilton, easily.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Effingham, austerely: and he picked
up a book to conceal his emotion. Then conscious that this
tone was a great injustice to his friend, he said, “I am
rather unwell to-day—I hope you are as hearty as ever,
Hamilton.”
“I?” said the Seigneur Mort-Reynard, laughing; “why
I never felt better in my life. We had a glorious—”
Suddenly the seigneur paused: he saw the eye of Miss
Alethea fixed on him, and suppressed the remainder of his
sentence with a sheepish look.
“I am going over to carry Miss Clare these gloves,” he
added. “She commissioned me to procure them in town
for her.”
“You know the size of her hand, then?” asked Mr.
Effingham, not to have his painful silence observed.
“Her hand? I think so! The sweetest little hand.
She laid it in my own buckskin one, and by Jove!—a thousand
pardons, Miss Alethea!—and I measured it by laying
width of her hand, and her thumb was the size of my little
finger.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Effingham.
“Yes, indeed! Now if the ladies only wore some species
of covering on the lips!”
Mr. Hamilton paused with a laugh.
“On the lips, sir?” asked Miss Alethea, who was not
quick at a jest.
“And I measured with my own, as I measured the
hand!” said the seigneur, laughing.
Miss Alethea drew herself up: Mr. Effingham's face
flushed. His friend did not perceive it, apparently, and
went on.
“I really think I am becoming a lady's man,” he said.
“Here I am running about buying gloves, and flirting fans,
and making myself useful in a variety of ways. I really
should not be surprised if I ended by attaching myself to
some fair lady for life!”
“A good resolution,” said Mr. Effingham, looking away.
“As for myself, I am growing more and more careless in
these matters.”
“That reminds me, Champ,” said Miss Alethea, “that
we are all invited to Mr. Lee's to-morrow.”
“I shall not go.”
“Why?”
Mr. Effingham looked at his sister, but suppressed his
irritated feeling.
“I am not very well,” he added, “please say as much.”
“Now, Champ,” said Mr. Hamilton, “permit me to observe
that you do wrong in neglecting the ladies over there.
They are really charming—and though I confess what I
probably should conceal, that for certain reasons I am not
an unbiassed judge between Miss Henrietta and Miss Clare,
yet I assure you I think the former a most beautiful and
lovely girl.”
This speech was so plain that Mr. Effingham felt a pang
shoot through his breast: he said nothing.
“They were talking about your neighborly behavior,”
continued his friend, coolly, “and Clare—Miss Clare, I
mean—said that you had scarcely been near them since your
you are driven away by that Don Moustachio, Captain Waters,
whom you do not like!”
We regret to say that this was a fib: the fox-hunter had
no reason to suppose that the Riverhead family had any
such thoughts.
Mr. Effingham replied:
“I do not dislike Captain Waters—we are good friends.”
“Why then stay away?”
Mr. Effingham replied by the same look which had
greeted a similar question from Miss Alethea. And the
same suppression of his irritability ensued.
“I stay away because I visit nowhere,” he said.
“Ah, you fear the bright eyes of Henrietta!” said Mr.
Hamilton.
This quiet assumption that Clare could not be the source
of fear from her peculiar relations towards himself—Mr.
Hamilton—produced a painful effect upon Mr. Effingham.
He began to feel some rising indignation, too, at these banterings
from a man who had asked him with a twinkle in
his eye, in a former interview, “if he had seen Clare?”—
upon his return, the reader will remember. Therefore to
Mr. Hamilton's bantering charge, that he feared Henrietta's
eyes, he replied, coldly:
“I think you might have added Miss Clare Lee to the
number of those I do not visit at Riverhead, from a sentiment
of fear.”
“Clare?” said Mr. Hamilton, with some surprise, “but,
my dear fellow! she is wholly out of the question.”
“How, sir?”
“Hum!” said Mr. Hamilton, looking mysterious, “perhaps
I am not at liberty to speak: there are certain things
which should not be alluded to, I believe.”
Mr. Effingham turned his head aside, and his breast
heaved:—his cheek grew paler. Then he conquered this
emotion, so painful and trying: and turning to his friend,
said, as he offered his hand:
“You are right, Hamilton, I will go to-morrow!”
And his head sank. Ten minutes afterwards the Seigneur
Mort-Reynard rose and departed.
25. CHAPTER XXV.
GENERALSHIP OF DON MOUSTACHIO.
When the Hall chariot drove up to the residence of Mr.
Lee on the succeeding day, it contained—in addition to the
squire, Miss Alethea and Kate—Mr. Effingham. He was
perfectly calm, though a little paler than usual, and greeted
the ladies with calm and proud courtesy. Mr. Lee was
delighted to see them,—exhibiting much more satisfaction,
indeed, than might have been expected from one merely discharging
the stereotyped duties of a host: and soon the
squire and himself were engaged in an obstinate political
dispute, which was carried on with various brandishings of
the arms, contortions of the visage and flirting of the coat-skirts.
But let not the reader imagine that because we have
made the squire and Mr. Lee, whenever this narrative has
brought them together, dispute vehemently, this disputing is
a radical peculiarity of the country gentleman always,—no:
he sometimes converses, and does not argue. But those
were troublous times, and men's minds were agitated; and
whenever the Virginia mind is agitated it brandishes the
weapons of oratory, before donning the instruments of national
warfare.
But there was another reason, at least in the case of Mr.
Lee, for this propensity to talk. Captain Waters had not
made his appearance since some days before the races, and
the old gentleman missed the loud-voiced soldier. The
“Virginia Gazette” and the talk of the girls was a bad substitute,
and Mr. Lee now opposed every thing the squire
said for the pure sake of talking. For it is well known that
people who dispute talk the most and the loudest.
In the middle, however, of a lengthy and involved sentence,
which was trampling disdainfully on Lindley Murray,
Mr. Lee found himself greeted by a martial and courteous
voice, which said:
“A charming day, sir!”
And Captain Ralph entered, caressing his moustache and
distributing smiles. Behind him came Willie, who had
love.
There was a general shaking of hands, and after some
desultory conversation, dinner succeeded. After the meal,
the various members of the party began conversing. Mr.
Lee and the squire sat in the porch smoking their pipes and
brandishing their arms, starting up and removing their legs
from the balustrade when the fire of the pipes fell on them in
the heat of debate, and from time to time replenishing, and
lighting the cob pipes with a coal, brought by an ingenui
vultus puer ingenuique pudoris of the African race, on
a two-pronged fork. When the pipes were refilled, these
politicians commenced puffing and arguing with new zest.
Mr. Effingham and Clare had walked out into the garden:
the Captain, before issuing forth also with Miss Alethea
and Henrietta, passed a few moments conversing with Kate,
who sat by him on the sofa, the object of Willie's devoted
regards.
“Ah, Monsieur Willie,” he said, “I am pleased to see
you: and you, petite mam'selle,” he added with a laugh to
Kate, “or signorina, or signoretta as the Italians say when
they wish to address a very pretty, bright-faced little lady:
are you well—bien aise?”
“Merci, monsieur! parfaitement!” cried Kate, laughing,
and to Willie's profound consternation.
“Ah! possible? you speak French?” said the delighted
Captain.
“No, no, sir,” said Kate, smiling merrily, “that is all I
know: please don't speak to me in any thing but English.”
The Captain liked the fresh child's face, and said:
“I will not, then: but indeed, little miss, I ought to be
allowed to use French to describe to you the little Alsatian
girls—charming little creatures—whom you resemble: especially
in costume.”
Kate assumed a delightful little womanly air, and replied
primly:
“Oh, sir, that about the costume spoils all. Do they
dress like me—in Alsatia? Where is that, sir?”
“On the Rhine, petite mam'selle, and the costume is like
yours. Handsome colored dress, laced in front and ornamented
with ribbons—fluttering, morbleu! like flags! skirt,
this skirt very short like your own again; hair, lastly, unpowdered
and parted in the middle.”
“Oh, my next dresses are going to be made long,” said
Kate, “and papa says I shall have my hair powdered.”
“Ah! that will spoil the likeness! You should see your
counterparts, Mam'selle Kate, with their water-jars on their
heads, coming from the fountains singing.”
“They must be very pretty,” said Kate, and then she
added quickly, laughing and covering her mouth, “indeed I
didn't mean that! you know I did not, sir!”
The Captain laughed heartily, and saying, “parbleu! I
think it very true, they are like you and are very pretty little
creatures!” turned to the elder ladies.
Willie cast gloomy and jealous looks at Kate, and made
signs to the effect that he did not admire Captain Waters, and
would like to engage in single combat with that gentleman.
“Aint you ashamed!” said Kate, “to be doing so!”
“Who is this individual?” said Willie, with a grand
air.
“Captain Waters, sir. You know that very well.”
“Hum!” said Willie.
“You are jealous!”
“I aint.”
“To be quarrelling with every body who speaks to me.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I like Captain
Waters a thousand times better than you. He laughs with
me, and you do nothing but quarrel.”
Willie looked so much hurt and mortified at these harsh
words, that Kate relented, and said:
“Now Willie—don't be angry—you know how much I
like you.”
Willie refused to be comforted.
“I didn't mean I liked him better than you.”
Willie shook his head.
“For you know you are my sweetheart,” added Kate
with a fatal glance of her bright eyes.
Willie brightened.
“Am I?” he said.
“Yes indeed.”
Willie put his hand into his bosom, drew out the true
love indenture, and unrolling it, said solemnly:
“Sign it?”
Kate burst out laughing, and cried, “Oh no! no! I am
not of age, sir! See they are looking at us and laughing.
Oh Willie! and there's Mr. Hamilton.”
Willie rolled up the contract with a deep sigh, and then
followed Kate out into the grove.
Mr. Hamilton entered just as the colloquy ended, smiling,
good-humored, shaking every body by the hand. The
moment he made his appearance, Captain Waters, with consummate
generalship, offered his arm to Henrietta, bore her
off with a triumphant smile, and disappeared.
But two observations had passed between the gentlemen.
“Bon jour, Seigneur Mort-Reynard!”
“Why, good day, Don Moustachio!”
The former was uttered by the Captain, with malicious
courtesy and a low bow; the latter observation was characterized
by a defeated and humbled look, which we suspect
was somewhat affected by Mr. Jack Hamilton. The explanation
of all this was, that Mr. Hamilton had mentioned
Miss Alethea among the list of ladies who were the enemies
and lecturers of bachelors, in the Captain's hearing, a few
days before; and now the Captain, by his rapid and consummate
strategy, left him to make himself agreeable to the
lecturing lady, while he, the soldier, with his head erect, his
breast shaking with laughter, bore off Henrietta.
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW HENRIETTA RETURNED THE DIAMOND NECKLACE.
They descended to the lawn.
“I am glad you came, sir,” said Henrietta to the Captain.
That gentleman assumed a delighted expression of countenance,
and replied:
“Really, my dear Madam Henriette, you flatter me extremely.”
“Flatter you, sir?”
“Yes, morbleu!”
“How, sir?”
“Why, when a lady says in a soft, charming voice, and
with a tender glance, to one of the ruder sex, `Ah! I am
glad you came!' what can it be but an exhibition of extraordinary
regard, and how can the rude individual aforesaid
prevent himself from experiencing a sentiment of pleasure at
such a flattering observation?”
Henrietta listened to this reply, and said, satirically,
when the Captain had finished:
“You are slightly mistaken, sir—in two things.”
“What are they?” asked the Captain, with great anxiety.
“First, sir, I did not speak in a `soft, charming voice'—
“Ah, madam,” commenced the gallant Captain.
“Let me proceed, sir: nor with a `tender glance'—tender,
indeed!”
And Miss Henrietta pouted.
“See now,” said the Captain, “there is another illustration
of a fact which I have always asserted.”
“Pray, what fact, sir?”
“That we do not ourselves know the tone in which we
speak—are wholly ignorant of the expression of our eyes,
morbleu!”
And after this audacious bit of philosophy, the soldier
looked around him, with a delighted and self-satisfied air, at
the grass, the trees, the various pleasant objects visible on
the well-kept lawn they were traversing.
Henrietta felt a strong disposition to take her hand from
the arm of her companion; but this feeling of pique soon
passed: she had almost learned to bear the soldier's banter
by this time.
“I did not doubt, sir, when I denied having flattered
you,” she said, with a somewhat satirical expression, “that
you would, with your extreme fertility of invention, find
some proof of the assertion you made; but jesting aside,
Captain Waters, I wished to see you; and that is the simple
truth.”
“There again!”
The young girl took no notice of this triumphant exclamation,
and drew from her reticule the oblong morocco
case, which we have seen her win upon the day of the race.
“About this, sir,” she said.
The Captain perused the clouds.
“Yes,” he replied; “nothing could be truer!—a charming
afternoon.”
And he looked around with great satisfaction.
“The necklace, sir—”
“I agree with you.”
“Is entirely too—”
“Yes, they are equal to nightingales. As you observed,
the song of the oriole is as clear and musical as a silver
trumpet!”
“I observed no such thing, sir,” said Henrietta, piqued
at the wanderings of her companion.
“Ah!” said the Captain, readily, “but you might have
said it; for nothing could be more just. I have heard the
Bendermere nightingales—the birds who love the roses so,
you are aware, my dear Mademoiselle Henrietta, in Gulistan,
which signifies, if I am not mistaken, `Land of Roses.' Well,
I give you my parole d'honneur I don't think they are much
finer than that oriole.”
“Captain Waters!”
“Yes, he's a glorious fellow—looks as if he was singing
himself away into smoke. I expect to see him rise to the
clouds in a moment, like the curl rising up from those graceful
pipes yonder.”
This beautiful illustration did not satisfy Henrietta, who
was more and more piqued.
“Captain Waters, will you or will you not listen to me?”
she said, pouting.
“Listen to you? How could you ask such a question?”
said the Captain, gallantly.
“Well, sir, as it is so pleasant to hear my voice—”
“It is pure music!”
“Be good enough, sir—”
“Ah, I am very bad!”
“To listen while I speak ten consecutive words.”
“Fifteen, fifteen,” said the Captain, generously.
“Very well, sir—a little of your attention also. I trust
ten words will be enough.”
“I will give you twenty-five—thirty,” said the Captain,
you honor me by conversing throughout the ensuing night.”
Henrietta uttered a little sigh, which meant plainly,
“Was there ever such a provoking man to talk to!”
“I am dreadfully disagreeable, I know,” said the Captain,
translating his companion's sighs into words as usual,
“but you are going to weary me to death about that miserable
necklace. You are going to make me send it back to
the port of New York to have it altered, re-set, something.”
“No, sir.”
“What then?”
“I wish you to send it back to be retained, or present it
to some one else.”
“How so?”
“I cannot accept it, sir.”
“Accept!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, you won it fairly; it is the spoils of a fair battle
—of your bow and spear: you won it.”
“No, I did not, Captain Waters. I laid a very ridiculous
wager—of a trifle against a trifle, I thought. My
stake—I believe that is the word—was this curl—”
“Which reminds me that I won it on the final result!”
cried the Captain. “Come, pay your debts, morbleu! my
dear Madam Henriette.”
“For heaven's sake, sir, let me go on.”
“You have finished the thirty words,” said the Captain,
with ready logic. “My curl! my curl!”
Henrietta, in a paroxysm of impatience, pulled down
and bit the curl in two, and threw it in the direction of her
companion. The Captain extended his hand and received it
as it fell.
“Parbleu, 'tis far more valuable than I expected!” he
cried; “as far more valuable as a row of pearls are than a
pair of miserable and unhappy scissors!”
Henrietta could not retain a smile at this grotesque and
ridiculous speech; which, like all the Captain's observations,
seemed to be intended solely to defer the subject he wished
to avoid.
“I am pleased to hear that my teeth are pearls,” she
heaven's sake what are you doing, sir?”
The Captain, in fact, was holding his sword up before him,
point down. He made no reply, but touching a little spring,
opened the hilt, and deposited the curl in the cavity. After
performing this remarkable operation, he lowered the weapon
again, and twirled his moustache.
“That is my receptacle for title deeds, curls, and other
valuables, ma foi!” he said; “that is to say, it will be if
I ever get any title deeds. But I have made a good beginning!”
And he burst into laughter, significantly. Henrietta
chose not to understand this laugh—perhaps did not—and
said:
“When you interrupted me, sir, I was about to say that
I laid a wager with you, and staked what I considered a
trifle—”
“No, no!” interposed the Captain.
“Against what I thought was equally unimportant,”
continued Henrietta.
“The curl was much the more costly,” said the Captain,
“and morbleu! I will not now exchange.”
“You exacted a promise from me,” continued Henrietta,
not heeding these interruptions, “that I would not open the
case until I returned home. I did not, thinking it some
trifle. Instead of a trifle it is a magnificent diamond necklace.”
And opening the case, she drew out the necklace, which
was of extraordinary beauty and value. The diamonds were
very large, and set in the most tasteful manner. The bauble
must have been worth at least a thousand guineas.
“Take it, Captain Waters,” said Henrietta, “I cannot
keep it.”
“How vexatious,” said the Captain very seriously; “what
in the world am I to do with it? Besides, I am not entitled
to it—you know very well I am not, madam.”
“I do not consider the wager binding, sir; I cannot accept
it.”
“Answer, now, did you not confess the other day at
Effingham Hall,” continued the Captain, readily, “that I had
caused you to break your own necklace?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Captain looked triumphant.
“But, sir,” said Henrietta, “that was in one of those
piques which I am afraid I have indulged in very frequently
in your presence.”
“Yes, I am a terrible annoyer!”
“I meant to blame myself, sir,” said the young girl; “I
am somewhat quick, and I now embrace the opportunity to
say that I trust you will pardon any harsh words I have
been led to utter.”
“Harsh! it is impossible that you could!” cried the
soldier, delighted at getting away from the subject of the
necklace.
“Very well, sir; I am glad you think so well of me.
Now take the necklace.”
And she held it out. The Captain became again despairing.
“Why you have a double claim to it,” he said; “first,
I broke your own; secondly, and lastly, you have fairly
won this.”
“My hand is almost tired, sir.”
“What am I to do?” cried the Captain, disconsolately;
“if I take that back to my house it will lie about—be thrown
here and there; Lanky will perhaps take possession, and
Donsy Smith will be the ultimate possessor!”
With which words the Captain groaned.
“Lanky?—Donsy Smith? Who in the world are they?”
“The first is my servant, the second his sweetheart,”
said the Captain, ready to weep.
Henrietta burst into a laugh.
“Do you really mean that you would permit your servant
to take such a beautiful necklace?” she said, admiring
the glittering jewels.
“What could I do with them?” asked the forlorn soldier;
“besides, I think they would become my honest retainer's
sweetheart—Donsy. She is a charming little creature!”
“How? Do you know her?”
“Yes, indeed—very intimately. She had a pleasant ride
with me the other day.”
Miss Henrietta imagined a picture of Captain Waters in
round his waist as she rode behind, and was not much
pleased with the effort of her fancy.
“Donsy is a fine, bright faced girl,—very lady-like and
pleasing; they would suit her,” said the Captain, with a
thoughtful sigh. “Yes, yes, she's a sweet creature, and I
nearly threw Lanky into a fever some weeks since, by announcing
my intention to enter the lists as his rival.”
“You, sir?” said Henrietta.
This exclamation did not displease the Captain.
“Yes, yes, my dear madam, even me. She would make
me a capital wife, and I assure you I am becoming tired of
single blessedness. In one word, I want a wife.”
Henrietta made no reply.
“Stop!” continued the Captain, “you must have seen
Donsy, down there at the races!”
“I, sir?” said Henrietta, coldly.
“Why, yes! Do you not recollect a lovely little creature,
of seventeen or thereabouts, who won the finely-bound
volumes of ballads in the singing match after the race?”
“I believe I saw her,” said Henrietta, with the freezing
air of a duchess.
“Well, that was Donsy,” said the Captain, apparently
absorbed in the bright memory, and fixing his eyes thoughtfully
on the clouds.
“And you would marry this little—”
Henrietta stopped; she could not find a word.
“Fairy?” suggested the Captain, cheerfully; “why I
do not see any objection beyond the affection Lanky bears
her. You know, my dear Mam'selle Henrietta, that I am
not of very excellent family—as opinions go, for, frankly
speaking, I think I am. My father is an old fishmonger,—
the name applied derisively, you will recollect, by my Lord
Hamlet, to the counsellor Polonius. Charley's a small farmer;
Beatrice was an actress. Charley's my brother;
Beatrice my sister. We are all poor, but honest,” continued
the Captain, laughing, “and I think the bon père—
health to him!—is the most honest of all!”
With which words the Captain looked cheerfully, and
with a fine light on his martial features, toward the west.
Henrietta, for a moment, made no reply, the hand holding
martial face, which, with its high and proud look, and its
warlike appendages, towered above her, flooded with the red
sunset, brow, and eyes and cheeks,—the brow and cheeks
browned by sun and wind,—the clear eyes, giving back the
golden flush of evening, she said in a low voice:
“Captain Waters, why do you so incessantly allude to
this subject of birth? Do you fancy for a moment, sir,
that I do not consider you as true a gentleman as the noblest
in the land? That I am blind to the fact that you
are a brave soldier and a refined man, worthy of all respect?
You cannot think that I consider you ashamed of your
birth! Why, then, say this so often?”
“Ashamed of my birth? True, I am not, my dear
Mam'selle Henriette,” said the Captain. “The bon père
is a nobleman; Charley's a seigneur—chevalier of the middle
ages; and Beatrice,—parbleu! Beatrice is a born
duchess!”
And the Captain burst into laughter.
“We are all sovereigns—for we're honest!” he continued,
with a quick change in his expression to an aspect
of noble pride. “My father, mam'selle, is brave and honest,
and with a great heart—morbleu! a noble, kindly, generous
heart; I am indifferent ready with my hand, to open
it, or close it on a sword hilt,—that is my profession; Beatrice
is a wealthy, golden nature, as true as she is beautiful,
as good and pure as she is lovely; and Charley—tonnere!
my dear madam, my brother Charley is one of those natures
which are very seldom met with. I have seen dukes and
generals, lords and ministers; I have heard all talk; I have
seen all speak with those noble lips, the eyes: well, madam,
I have never met a more powerful soul than Charley's. He
has the strength of calmness;—but I am wearying you.
Enough—no! you are right, my dear madam,—I, perhaps,
have even too high an opinion of my family!”
And, after this outburst, which, every word of it, was
spoken with a proud sincerity which lit up the martial features,
like the sunset, Captain Ralph was silent.
Henrietta replied, in a low voice:
“This was not necessary, sir.”
And she held up the necklace for him to take.
“Oh, heaven preserve me! I thought we had dropped
that subject!” said the soldier, resuming his tone of vexation
and humor.
“I cannot accept such a valuable present, sir,” said the
young girl, with some embarrassment.
“Then oblige me by keeping it for me,” said the soldier.
“I really have no receptacle for it.”
Henrietta hesitated.
“You need not wear it, my dear mam'selle,” he said.
Henrietta hesitated still.
“Well,” said the Captain, “I suppose Donsy must have
it;—morbleu! 'tis vexatious, for here your name is engraved
upon it beneath here—at least, your initials, my dear Miss
Henriette; and I must send back the bauble to have them
erased. See!”
And pointing to a small gold plate, he showed her the
letters H. L.; but these letters were so engraved that space
was left upon the plate for another letter.
She understood; a deep blush suffused her face; her
head drooped.
“Will you not keep it?” said the Captain.
“Yes,” she said, in a lower tone than she had yet
spoken.
A brilliant light illuminated the martial features of the
soldier, and they walked on in silence.
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE TWO TREES.
Clare and Mr. Effingham, as we have said, had gone into
the garden.
He had quietly taken her hand in his with a calm and
mild look in his shadowy eyes, placed the hand on his arm
and led her into the old garden, where they both had played
in childhood, and talked merrily in the old days, whose
every flower bed, and row of trim box, and towering tree,
was old and familiar and dear. And she had followed him
with some slight agitation, but a soft look of maiden diffidence,
her look before.
It was one of those evenings which seem to unite all the
freshness of the spring, all the gorgeous wealth of summer,
all the melancholy softness of the misty autumn, and the
golden Indian summer, into one perfect whole. The perfumed
breezes, laden with the odors of a million early flowers,
came softly from the far south; the oriole hung on the
poplar spray, and sung his soul away for joy; the leaves,
and buds, and flowers, had all the tender velvety softness
of the early spring; and over all the great sun poured the
fresh crimson light of morning.
Mr. Effingham walked on for some time in silence.
Then, pausing in a grassy nook, he pointed, with a mild
glance at the young girl, to two trees which grew side by
side.
“How long ago it seems!” he said, with a pensive
accent, which was quite calm and unaffected.
“Yes,” said Clare, in a low voice, “we were children.”
“And now we are grown-up people,” said Mr. Effingham.
“We have almost wholly forgotten those old happy
days when we planted those trees,—when, taking your hand
in mine, I said, “Clarry, we will come here every day we
live, and see how we are growing. Do you not remember?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I at least have not kept that resolution; have you?”
“I have come very often,” she said, in the same low
tone.
He looked at her for a moment: and not a trait of the
soft, tender face, the mild, dewy eyes, the innocent, artless
lips, escaped him. She stood before him the loving ideal of
his dreams; the memory he had summoned in that evening
musing; the child-enchantress of his youth, who ever stood
before his mind's eye, holding out her arms to him, her brow
wreathed round with flowers, her eyes and lips murmuring,
“Come!” He felt what he was losing, a contraction of his
pale brow proved it, and the hand he laid upon his heart.
But these exhibitions of emotion soon passed away, and his
face regained the calm sadness which habitually characterized
it.
“When I asked,” he said mildly, “if you had kept that
did not mean a reproach. Ah no! That is assuredly not
possible from me to you. I came to speak to you quite
calmly, as those who have been happy children together may
speak to each other; and to open my heart to you. This is
due to myself. It will make me happier, and I cannot lose
the occasion to make my lot somewhat brighter.”
He paused for a moment, and continued in the same low,
mild voice.
“What I have to say is a confession, Clare—there is no
harm in my calling you by that name now—a brief confession,
which will explain much in my career, which I doubt not
has made you look unhappy when my name ever was mentioned
in your presence. And let me speak first of those
days which we passed here. Now, it seems, long centuries
ago. I loved you dearly as a child: you were my saint, my
ideal—nay! Why blush, Clare? You must have known
it from my eyes; yes, my heart spoke to you much more
plainly than my lips could speak. I say again you were my
ideal, all my world was full of you. I dreamed, and sang,
and thought of you alone. The old romances took a glory
from your smile, and I understood for the first time what the
`love of ladies' meant, and how the old chevaliers willingly
perilled life for their idols. You gilded my existence with a
new, undreamed of light; the future expanded before me
like a boundless horizon where all the glory of the sun, all
the perfume of the breezes, all the fairy melodies of whispering
pines and flowers were mingled into one harmonious and
perfect ideal of warmth, and joy, and beauty. I saw only
you in the wide universe—you were the star that guided me
upon my way—you kept me pure—and your eyes seemed
ever on me; still and calm and innocent eyes that blessed
me. I recall you now so perfectly, that my frozen heart
beats again and again. I am a child. I recall all those
happy days; you were a merry, bright-eyed child, full of
tenderness and joy! and the breath from that far past comes
to me again—faint, like the odor of those spring flowers
yonder in the grass, but strong as fate. I see you as I saw
you then—an incarnation of pure grace, and tender joy, a
fairy from the far land of dreams—my love—my blessing.
“Well, well: you will tire of all this prosing: let me
and die with you; for I thought I could not breathe without
you. I grew older, and I loved you still with the same pure
feeling, and the child's heart was grafted into the wild boy's
breast; and in all his wild pranks and dissipations you were
in his heart, softening and blessing him, and making him
more pure. I changed for the worse, somewhat—you, if you
changed at all, for the better; your childlike innocence was
all the more striking in the girl; your face assumed the
tender seriousness of incipient womanhood. I could not love
you more than when we were child-lovers; but I loved you
with more strength and calmness. I thought that feeling
would remain unchanged through all shocks and changes.
Well!”
He paused again, and looked at the two trees thoughtfully:
his brow was slightly overshadowed.
“Well,” he continued, mildly still, “I went to Europe,
that changed my life, and made me lose sight of my innocent
star. No longer near you, I was a worse, a less pure man.
I plunged into every species of dissipation; I felt developed
in me that fiery character which I inherit from my race.
Aroused, you know, we pass all bounds. Draw the curtain
over that mad time, when, nominally at Oxford, I lived in
London; that may be omitted.
“I returned to Virginia, here, with the heart of a wornout
gamester. Nothing interested me. I was, as far as my
capacity to enjoy simple things, completely exhausted. Every
thing wearied me; life was a lame and tedious comedy which
I played without caring for the hisses or the applause. I passed
my days in idle lounging; I slept long, and passed my whole
time in a terrible mental indolence, the most dreadful of all.
I had lost sight of you—you were no longer in my eyes;
but I now feel and know you were in my heart.
“I came and brought to you my weary air and exhausted
feelings. You did not draw back on finding the man so
different from the boy; you held out your hands to me with
the old, frank, childish kindness and affection, and my heart
was touched. The past came back to me, and I was not so
gloomy. That was the crisis of my life—the turning point;
every thing was balanced; a hair in either scale would have
turned it.
“Fate decreed that your innocent face should not shine
on me; a rude hand struck the balance, and all was over.
That strange young girl came to Virginia, and I became infatuated.
You know the unhappy history of that delirium;
the family blood again. I do not hold down my head and
blush, and say forgive me—no! I say that my actions
were those of a madman; that I was infatuated; that I now
regard that whole drama as some wild dream. I say further,
that I have cruelly suffered, that I have bitterly expiated my
offence; that the pang that tore my bosom more cruelly than
all, was the thought of you; for I have lost you. Well!
After that mad, wild dream, I went to Europe again, and had
my despair and suffering in due season, and then came home
again as you see me, almost apathetic. I have done with
feeling, I shall never love again.”
He stopped; his bosom heaved: he went on.
“My tedious talk, no doubt, has wearied you; but it was
my duty, Clare, to come and tell you by the trees which we
planted in our happy childhood, why I had not remained
faithful to that vow we made. I have shown you how cruelly
I was tortured by a mad infatuation; how my headstrong
passions drove me to commit actions which I regard now
with horror; how through all my unfortunate career, that
golden childhood I have spoken of, was shrined in my heart
of hearts. There was no impropriety in my telling you this,
for I know all. He is my friend, and has a noble heart.
Well! well! I will try not to suffer too greatly; and here
under the shade of these trees we planted, amid the scenes
of all our childhood joys, I ask God to bless you, Clare, and
thank you for the small share of purity I have left, and say
to you, `I will love and cherish your memory always, as that
of the tenderest soul, the warmest, purest heart that ever
was in human bosom.' No! do not speak—enough; here
comes little Kate, who resembles you, for she is good and
pure. I have spoken with difficulty; it is not easy to be
calm when all one's hopes are gone for ever; it is better that
you should not speak.”
And placing her hand upon his arm, he led the trembling,
blushing, weeping girl away, and to the house. He was outwardly
calm, and all the way back to the Hall he remained
quiet and silent. It was the silence of despair; that scene
had overcome him, and his heart was faint.
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY DESCENDS TO THE LOVES OF CORYDONS
AND PHILLISES IN ARCADY.
“Lugy!”
“Did you address a observation to me, Cap'n?”
“Yes, sir; on a former occasion I stated that you were
a villain and a wretch; I now add, that you are a poltroon!”
“Oh, Cap'n! Cap'n!” cried Lanky, who being wholly
ignorant of the meaning of the word poltroon, naturally considered
it something infinitely worse than wretch and villain.
“Yes, a poltroon!” continued the Captain, “and I will
wager a hundred pounds that your benighted ignorance is
such, that you do not know what it means.”
Lanky scratched his head.
“Come! say now, you rascal.”
“A poltroon?” said Lanky, studying the table; “is it
an individual who is broke into a hen-roost, and wringed the
necks of the cock-a-doodle-doo's, Cap'n?”
“No, you villain: you will never guess, at that rate.”
“Oh!” cried Lanky, “it's a feller who plays upon the
fiddle and don't know how!”
“No, sir.”
“Then I give it up, Cap'n: but I ain't a poltroon—I
ain't—that is, if it's any thing bad, leastways very bad.”
And Lanky was silent.
This conversation took place three or four days after the
scenes we have just related, in the mansion of the Captain.
The sun was declining—it was a pleasant afternoon, and the
waves of the James were lapping with a long swell upon the
shore beneath the cottage. The Captain occupied his habitual
seat, formerly used by old John Waters, and smoked his
meerschaum; Lanky sat doubled up upon his cricket, his
hands clasped around his knees, his fine new fiddle lying near;
his pine-knot head, and enormous feet, and striped stockings
and brilliant fustian waistcoat, all illuminated by the joy
shining from his eyes. Something had evidently occurred
very pleasing to Lanky, and his thoughts were plainly agreeable
thoughts.
After his reply to the Captain, Lanky would have continued
his meditations, but this his master was by no means
willing to permit.
“You say,” continued the soldier, pouring forth a cloud
of snowy smoke, “that my charge against you, you scaramouch,
cannot be any thing bad,—`leastways very bad,' as
your elegant dialect has it. Now, sir, I will let you know
that `poltroon' is not a flattering expression. It means a
coward, sir!”
“Oh me! a coward, Cap'n!”
“Yes.”
“Me a coward?”
“Yes; I understand, sir, you are pluming yourself upon
overcoming one of the clergy the other day. Are you not
ashamed, you villain, to attack a holy man in the conscientious
discharge of his dignified and ennobling duty of training
up the youthful intellect in the paths of virtue and
exalted purity?”
And having addressed this stern reproach to Lanky, the
Captain smoked faster than ever. Lanky's face assumed an
expression of consternation.
“Why, Cap'n,” he said, “you called him a gobmoush,
yourself!”
The Captain forwned.
“I am not you, sir,” he said, “and I am surprised that
you place yourself on a level with me. The parson was an
old fellow-soldier, and we can interchange these small compliments;
but you, sir, are bound to regard him as a noble
spiritual guide.”
Lanky scratched his head.
“I say you are a poltroon, you rascal,” continued his
master, “in spite of your ferocious attack upon a man only
armed with a stick of wood, while you had a sword.”
“Oh! Cap'n, he was a-presumin' to threaten Donsy.”
“There—that is where you are a coward.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Donsy is the word.”
“Cap'n?”
“Ah! you don't understand. Well, sir, I say that you
are a coward because you have not attacked and reduced to
submission that citadel.”
“Me, Cap'n?” said Lanky, with a self-satisfied smile, like
the sunshine on a pine knot.
“Yes, sir, and that in spite of every thing I have done for
you.”
Lanky smiled again.
“I gave you a seat in my coach by your sweetheart,—I
drank some execrable rum for your sake at that Mr. A. Z.
Smith's, the villain; I have done my best, opened the
trenches, fixed the scaling ladders, and when the word to advance
upon the fortress is passed to you, morbleu! you
hang fire, and lie down in despair like a sleepy dog.'
Lanky burst out:
“Oh, I ain't done it!”
“What do you mean?”
“I fit it out,” observed Lanky, triumphantly
“Speak, you scaramouch! how have you done—have you
really charged the enemy?”
“Yes, sir—leastways, I been a-courting Donsy,” said
Lanky, with simplicity.
The Captain burst into laughter.
“Have you really?” he said.
“Yes I is, Cap'n.”
“Tell me how it was, and if I find that you have acquitted
yourself bravely, I'll retract that unjust aspersion on
your courage.”
Lanky seemed nowise averse to complying with this request,
and said:
“You know, Cap'n, Donsy and me had a nice Saturday
together, after the things 'at took place at the Oldfield
school.”
“Do I know it? not a whit of it, master scaramouch.
Speak.”
“Well, sir,” said Lanky, with an expression of modest
pride at his own generalship, “we had a nice fish that day,
and we had a walk, yestiddy, down in the woods.”
“You unconscionable rascal—not content with water
scenery, you must explore the woodland, too.”
“Yes, Cap'n: that's just what we did; we 'splored the
woodlan'. On the previous 'casion we had a good time; but
oh, Cap'n, that wa'nt nothin' to the other.”
“You had a pleasant fishing frolic, did you?”
“Yes, sur; 'fore we went away in the fine coach, Donsy
and me made a bargain to go on the next day a-fishin' together.
Well, Cap'n, we went thar—and I 'tacked the enemy
all the time. I remembered what you told me, sur, and I kept
my chin up and my eyes straight—for, you see, havin' reskied
Donsy from the parson, I was proud.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Donsy did'nt laugh at me much, I tell you; but she
was quite still, an' good, an' we fished all day; and when we
come back, she giv' me both her hands, and said, in her nice
little voice, `Come again, soon, Lanky.' I feel like a villain
talkin' 'bout it,” continued Lanky, “but you ain't hard to
talk to, Cap'n.”
The Captain appreciated this compliment and smoked on.
“Then come the races,” continued Lanky, “and you
know, sur, me and Donsy both got a prize; she got the quire
of ballads, an' I got the fiddle.”
“Well, sir.”
“I got the stockin's, too, said Lanky, proudly, “and they
was to be giv' up to the han'somest girl upon the ground.
'Course, sir, I giv' 'em to Donsy, I did.”
“Of course; I'd have liked to have seen you presume to
give them to any one else.”
“Well, sur,” continued Lanky, embracing his knees and
not heeding this interruption, “Donsy liked that, and I think
it made a impression on her, Cap'n. 'Tai'nt every day that
girls get silk stockin's, I tell you, and they like 'em accordin'.”
“A profound remark, sir,” said the Captain, “and quite
true. I admire the moral and philosophic sentiments with
which you adorn your discourse, Lanky; you are a man of
sense.”
Lanky received this compliment with a modest expression,
as who should say, “Well, I believe I am,” and so continued:—
“Them stockin's walked into her 'fections, Cap'n.”
“You mean, sir, that she donned the said stockings and
walked into yours, eh?” said the Captain.
“Oh, sur, she done that long before I giv' her the stockin's.”
“Well, proceed.”
“She smiled so sweet on me that day, sur,” continued
Lanky, proudly, “that I thought I'd make a 'pintment with
her, and put the question 'mediately.”
“Quite right, Lanky.”
“I thought I heard somethin' a sayin' to me, `Go in,
Lanky—go in an' win;' I'm—”
“Exactly what every great man would tell you—not excepting
the grand Frederic.”
Lanky was proud of this comparison, and proceeded:
“So I tol' Donsy I was comin' next Saturday—bein' last
Saturday, sur—to walk with her in the woods and play my
fiddle.”
“Ah, you rascal! not content with personating Mars,
the god of war—you are ambitious to excel Apollo, the god
of music.”
Lanky felt prouder still at this nobler compliment than
the first.
“Well, sur,” said Lanky, “she said she would—and
promised to bring her quire o' ballads; it's mighty purty,
sur, an's got a picture in the front that beats the world—all
of lovely ladies an' han'some gentlemanses a playin' in the
woods.”
“Ah—really?”
“Yes, sur; and they've got long waistses, and carry
things with a crook at the top, and ribbons are flutterin'
every where, and they are a smilin' an' simperin' an'—makin'
love,” added Lanky, after hesitating a moment.
“Making love! that's why you like the Corydons and
Phillises so much! Go on, sir.”
“Well, Cap'n,” continued Lanky, clasping his hands
round his knees, twirling his thumbs one over the other delightedly,
and gazing at his feet, “well, sur, me an' Donsy
went—and oh! we had such a time. Would you b'lieve
me, she had brought a whole bundle of red ribbons; and
when we got to where we was to eat the snack—”
“Snack! you horrible and atrocious wretch! Did you
mix up snack with love? Lanky, you are a dreadful fellow!”
“Oh, sur, you know we was hungry; but Donsy didn't
eat much—nuther did I: and she only nibbled off a little
piece o' biscuit, like a pretty mouse, you know, Cap'n.”
“Rascal! to compare your sweetheart to a mouse!”
“A pretty mouse, Cap'n,” said Lanky, correcting his
master; “but, howsomdever, I'll go on. I broke a cake in
two, and says I, `Donsy, that's my heart, if you won't love
me.' She laughed, and took a cake and eat it like a heart.
`This is mine, Lanky,' says she, blushin.' `May I have it?'
says I; and she didn't take away her hand,—only she
started up, droppin' the cake into my hand.”
“And what did you do with it, sir?”
“I eat it, sur,” said Lanky, with great simplicity.
“Go on!” said the Captain, shaking with laughter.
“Donsy started up first an' told me she would sing, and
I must then play. Oh! what a voice she's got, sur! It
makes me feel like honey was a droppin' down from the sky,
and a feller had his mouth open!”
“A fine sentiment,” said the Captain, generously.
“Well, sur, then I played my fiddle, and you may be
sure I made it say, `Donsy, I'm a dyin' for you.' I didn't
play any but the mournful chunes, an' I made 'em talk to
her, and she understood, for she sort o' blushed, sur. Well,
I got through, an' then Donsy, laughin', took up the ribbon,
an' pointin' to the picture in the book, said I must
have ribbon knots tied all over me, sur. I didn't keer, an'
she tied 'em—on my coat, my breast, my elbows, my hair:
and then she did herself so too. Oh, sur, how she looked!
I felt a sort o' tremblin' when I saw her beautiful hair all
flutterin' with ribbons; the body of her dress covered;
her shoes with big rosettes in 'em; and, if a feller might be
allowed to say it, the silk stockin's I giv' her, on. Oh! she
looked so bright an' red an' laughin'; and when she give me
a sort o' crooked thing, and took one herself, she looked like
the lady in the picture. She stopped a little then, an' I see
her blush. `You shall be my shepherd, Lanky,' she said,
in her melojus voice—and I answered quick as lightnin',
`Then you must be my shepherdess, my dear Miss Donsy,'
and she blushed agin! I knew the time had come, sur,”
cried Lanky; “I recollected your advice, an' I put the
question right to her!—and made her a speech!—and it's
all arranged!—and she's agreed to marry me!—and she's
the sweetest creatur in the world!—and I love her to distraction!—and
thief for tellin' 'bout it!—and—”
Lanky burst into tears, and swayed about, and laughed,
and cried. The recollection of his happiness had brought
on an access of joyful tears in the honest fellow: and the
Captain laughed no longer at him.
“Lanky,” said he, “if the Corydons and Phillises of
antiquity were as honest lads and lasses as you and Donsy,
the old Arcadian days were truly happy!”
And Lanky only said:
“Oh, Cap'n!”
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
VISITORS.
Captain Ralph did not laugh at Lanky again, for he respected
the sincerity and truth of his rude, boorish retainers,
highly. He knew that Lanky, at that moment, loved
Donsy as purely and delicately as the highest gentleman in
the land—and one of Captain Ralph's rules was, never to
deride sincere emotion.
“Well now, Lanky,” he said, “you tell me that Donsy
has consented to marry you?”
“Yes, sur,” said Lanky, in an inarticulate tone.
“Are you fixed to marry?”
“I'm 'fraid not, sur.”
“Hum!”
“But Donsy says she'll wait a thousand years for me,
sur.”
“That would be too long,” said his master.
“I know she'd do it, sur.”
“No doubt: but then she would be a thousand and
seventeen years old; much too antique to enter into matrimony.
She is seventeen, eh?”
“Nearly eighteen, sur.”
“And you?”
“I was nineteen last month, sur.”
“All right, morbleu! and now, what would you say if I
set you up in the world?”
“Oh, Cap'n!” cried Lanky—literally cried.
“That would be an expressive observation,” said the soldier,
looking kindly at his retainer; “but I mean how would
you like to farm?”
“Oh, sur!”
“You mean you would like it very well?”
“Oh, Cap'n! me an' Donsy would—”
And then the honest fellow stopped, unable to proceed:
the splendid vision overcame him.
“Suppose I were to give you a lease of the cottage here,
with all appurtenances—carts and every thing—the fifty
acres, and the boats: the rent to be paid out of the proceeds
at your leisure?”
“Oh, sur!”
The Captain smiled.
“Do you think, however, that Smith will consent?”
“I dn'no, Cap'n.”
“Have you asked him?”
“For Donsy? no, sur.”
The Captain shook his head.
“I'm as good as he is, sur,” said Lanky, proudly; “an'
my mother was a real lady, sur—old farmer Brock's
daughter. I never could git to talk right—but I loved her,
sur, mor'n any thing. That's what Donsy said, sur—says
she, `Lanky, I like you because you loved your mother so:'
that's what she said, sur.”
And Lanky cried.
“Well, well,” said the Captain, “listen now. I will
try and get friend Smith to consent. Don't be cast down,
mon ami—there is no reason. Diable! many an honest
fellow has had harder times than that to get his sweetheart.
I repeat that I'll try and make Donsy's bon père give his
assent. And now, I return to the cottage.”
“Oh, sur!”
“I want some splendid palace to live in. Diable! what
is life worth if one is not an emperor?”
Lanky nods affirmatively.
“I must have an empire!”
Lanky nods again, quite sure that if his master really
wants it, the empire—which is an ambiguous thing to him—
will assuredly come.
“Having bought a chariot and horses, I naturally want
some place to put them in,” continued his master, smoking.
“Oh yes, Cap'n.”
“Perhaps, like you,” continued the soldier, “I may,
some day, get a wife: I am wearying of this bachelor existence—and
who knows what may happen?”
“Who knows?” echoed Lanky, philosophically.
“Therefore, I may give up the cottage for the time: the
bon père and Charley are with Beatrice up there, and when
they wrote spoke highly of the land, and wished to remain:
strange they have not written lately,” added the soldier, his
clear eye looking toward the west.
“The mail ain't safe, sur.”
“Yes: that accounts for it. Well, all this goes to explain,
Lanky, that I shall probably become an emperor—and
then, I promise you this place as long as you want it, at a
nominal rent, to pay when you can—to the bon père.
Should he wish to return here, you must pack up and go,
bag and baggage: but don't fear, I will provide for you.”
“Oh, Cap'n, you are mighty good to me!” said Lanky,
gratefully.
“Good to you? parbleu! no retainer of mine shall ever
suffer.”
“Donsy 'll be delighted, sur.”
“Parbleu! I almost envy you your bride!” laughed
the Captain; “she is a charming little creature.”
“Then she's so good, Cap'n.”
“Yes, I don't doubt it.”
“Are you goin' to get married, sur?”
The Captain laughed.
“Doubtful!” he said.
“The lady 'll git the kindest sort o' husban,” said Lanky,
with grateful sincerity.
“Now, sir, you flatter me!”
“Oh no, sur.”
“You say the lady.”
“Yes, sur!” said Lanky; “the finest lady in the land
needn't be 'shamed to marry you, sur!”
“Why, dear Lanky, perpend! You are as good as I
am.”
“Oh, Cap'n!”
“All honest men are worthy; and, morbleu! I think
Donsy will have in you a better husband than she would
find in me. I am a roving soldier, clattering along, always
ready for the field, morbleu! and impatient of control: while
you—you are a most respectable looking citizen, with that
splendid pine-knot head, and see-saw movement. Basta!
you will become a squire;—but who comes here? two horsemen
at the door! Diable!—see to them!”
And Captain Ralph rose. In fact, two gentlemen had
reined in at his door: they now dismounted, and Lanky
holding their horses, with many bows, came toward the cottage
door.
The Captain met them on the threshold.
30. CHAPTER XXX.
UTOPIAN DREAMS.
He who came first, was a man of about thirty, but looking
much older. In his keen eye could easily be discovered the
strong and excitable character of his intellect: across his
high forehead extended the lines of incessant, brooding,
anxious thought: around his grim mouth, were two semi-circular
furrows, which gave a rigid and iron-like expression
to the whole lower portion of his face. Captain Ralph
needed but a glance at this man, who was clad in a suit of
plum-color, with silk stockings, and who wrapped himself in
an old red cloak, to perceive that he was in the presence of
one of those born leaders, who burn up, with the fires of their
genius, all that opposes itself to them.
His companion was taller, and carried himself with elegant
simplicity. His eye was mild and benevolent—the
features comely, and full of character—his head covered
with a curling flaxen wig, and his dress plain, but rich.
The man in the red cloak came forward, and made a curt
ducking movement with his head, and extended his hand.
The captain grasped it hospitably, and then, in the same
manner, shook hands with his smiling companion, whose
greeting was very plain and courteous.
“Can Mr. Charles Waters have gone elsewhere to live?”
said the man in the red cloak, sitting down, and speaking in
a strong, rough voice of sincerity and open plainness, “I
came to visit him, sir.”
“My brother—my name is Ralph Waters, sir, a captain
in his Majesty's Prussian corps, formerly,” explained the
soldier; “my brother is now residing in the mountains, and
will regret not seeing you.”
“Yes,” said the man in the red cloak, “we are old
friends.”
The other visitor had, meanwhile, taken his seat in a
corner, and with a courteous, “Will you permit me, sir?”
to Captain Ralph, in his clear, silvery voice, had betaken
himself to perusing a legal record. “I trust the urgency of
my business will excuse this seeming discourtesy, sir,” he
added, “I am much pressed for time in a very important
case.”
And soon his smiling face was buried in his record.
The Captain turned again to the man in the red cloak.
“I think we have had the pleasure of meeting at the
Raleigh tavern, formerly, mon ami!” he said, “pray were
you not there in the autumn of '63?”
“Yes,” said his visitor, “and I now recollect you.”
“Charley has spoken of you frequently; and even has
used some very extravagant terms in praise of your acute
and vigorous intellect.”
The stranger smiled grimly: the circles around his
mouth growing deeper.
“Did he?” he said.
“Morbleu! yes! he was quite extravagant—though observe,
companion, I do not say that he was too much so.”
“You are complimentary.”
“I never compliment.”
“Well, sir, I will then return you my own opinion of
Mr. Waters. I found him one of those clear, vigorous
minds, which carry all before them—in debate, in thought,
in battle, whether that battle be of words, or of swords. He
will harden into an intellectual giant. I tested him.”
“Ah, you have a keen eye!” said Captain Ralph, twirling
his moustache, “you are, peradventure, some sorcerer,
who can read men's minds by merely looking at them.”
“In a degree, sir.”
“And when you hear them talk,” continued the Captain,
laughing, “what then?”
“I have found out as much of them as I need.”
“Diable! 'tis a great talent. Say, now, what do you
find in me, sir?—for you have both seen me, and hear me
talking now.”
“I do not pretend to sorcery, Captain Waters,” said the
stranger, in his strong, rough voice, “but I think I can
divine your character, without much difficulty.”
“Ah, well! speak then, sir: I assure you, you interest
me greatly.”
“You are frank, sir.”
“Ah, morbleu! I believe I am.”
“Perfectly sincere.”
“Thanks, thanks!”
“And you would strike in a good cause with that sword
upon the table, until it fell from your hand.”
“Ma foi! so I would.”
“Well, sir, I read that very clearly in your face—in
your eye—in your lip; for they are all full of martial fire
and frankness. Beyond this, I cannot speak: but I saw
more in your brother, for I knew him longer.”
“Ah! well, speak now of him!”
“Willingly; it gives me pleasure: for I found in that
young man, sir, the mind I had been looking for to help me
in the work which I see before me. I gauged him from the
first, and my object from that moment was, to dive into the
depths of his soul, to study line by line, joint by joint, articulation
after articulation, the character of his genius. We
went to the root of government—he taught me: I commenced
by laughing—I ended by feeling the flood in my
eyes as he spoke. I studied that young man, and I think I
understood him.”
“Why he is as open and transparent as the day: your
study was thrown away, it seems to me, mon ami!”
“No, sir: and the proof is that I wished to talk farther
with him, for which reason I came by with my friend from
Caroline. No, sir, you are mistaken; that young man is
not transparent, or, if so, 'tis the transparency of the tropical
seas, where the eye pierces hundreds of feet, to the far
fury. There is the man in that illustration, sir,” said the
stranger, drawing his old red cloak about him, and appearing
to take a peculiar delight in speaking of Charles Waters,
“very calm, very pure, very simple and limpid, so to speak:
but once roused, I fancy he would be more dangerous than
the most furious—as the calm sea, lashed by the wind, becomes
more fatal than the noisiest brook. His weakness,
however, in one point, was great—in his heart. That is too
soft and easy: it will interfere with him in the struggle, I
foresee. But the intellect, the reason, ah! sir, that is so
powerful in its humility, so strong in its weakness, that I
predict it will grow up gigantic, if God spares him for
twenty years. At present—excuse me, sir, but I find a
strange pleasure in speaking of that man—at present, his
mind is in the transition state: he is too full of love for
humanity, not to say it profanely;—he wants hardness: his
ideas are too grand, he cannot bend them down to common
things wholly—he cannot mount step by step upon that ladder
which reaches to the sky—he would soar. As a proof
of this I have but to mention his political theory: will you
listen, sir?”
“Parbleu! I am delighted to hear you talk,” cried the
Captain, “and yours is a face, mon ami, which promises
ideas.”
The stranger smiled grimly.
“I am only a poor member of the House of Burgesses,”
he said, “but let me tell you one of Charles Waters's grand
ideas; those grand ideas, as I said, are his weakness. He
commences by saying that the present bond with England
cannot last—”
“The devil!” are you sure of that, companion?”
“Perfectly sir, but to continue. Next, Mr. Waters
uses the word Republic.”
“A grand word, but—”
And the Captain shook his head.
“Next, while I listen attentively, he begins to speak of
that republic, and his scheme is, that the free white people
who have reached their majority, should wield all power.”
“I doubt the feasibility of that,” said the Captain.
“Next,” continued the stranger, “he explains the republic
idea. The people shall elect the sheriffs, the clerks of courts,
the justices, the burgesses, even the governor of the State.”
The Captain again shook his head doubtfully.
“That is not all,” said the stranger, “he has gone further.
Virginia, he assumes, will not be the only colony which
will cast off the chains. All the rest will follow—all as far
north as Massachusetts, which will arm its very slaves against
England. Then, sir—for with his grand confidence, he assumes
our success in the struggle—then he has arranged
what he styles the federation of the colonies, in the shape of
a league offensive and defensive, to be known as one nation,
as the `Federated Colonies,' or the `United States,' or by
some other name which shall denote the terms of the compact.
And now mark the conclusion of his scheme. Having
made all offices and dignities spring from the people in this
colony of Virginia, he says that the officers of this federated
government should also be elected by votes. He would have
a great supreme justice of the peace, to be called a protector
or president; a great senate, and a lower house, also elected
by the people; a great national court, also elected by the
people; one grand national organization, partaking of the
character of an empire, and a league of sovereign countries.
His Utopia is complete, perfect, not a rod or a wheel wanting
in the machine, not a flaw in the work; it is only a pity
that 'tis but a Utopia, for of course such a monstrosity can
never exist.”
The stranger paused a moment, then added:
“This is one of the grand weaknesses of Mr. Waters
which I mentioned, sir; those splendid Utopian ideas which
will disappear as his intellect matures, leaving it all steel.
But I have even respect for his fallacies, for they spring from
a man of trained intellect, and impassioned, political genius.
Yes, sir, from a brain of rare fertility, and power, and
strength, for it is humble; from a soul that goes up to the
upper air, and looks down calmly above the mist and rain.
The hours spent with him impressed me so profoundly, that
I have come hither to say to him, `Now is the time, sir—
this is the crisis—you promised to assist me—keep that
promise.'”
“To what do you refer?” said the Captain, “to politics?”
“Assuredly.”
“The stamp act?”
“Yes.”
“You believe it will pass?”
“I know it.”
“And you count on Charles to render you assistance of
some description?”
“Yes, sir, a great assistance.”
The Captain shook his head; the stranger's glance in
terrogated him.
“I very much fear you have forgotten the old maxim,
that where love enters, every thing else disappears,” said the
soldier.
“Love, sir?”
“Charley's married.”
The stranger reflected for a moment, and replied—
“Well, sir, marriage makes a man stronger. One is not
a perfect citizen until he has given to society those hostages
of fortune, which Lord Bacon speaks of.”
“I doubt much whether his mind is as full of political
ideas as formerly, mon ami,” said the Captain, “he has never
lived, he writes, until now.”
The stranger reflected.
“He is in the grand mountains yonder, with a wife who,
morbleu! has never had her equal; he says the country is
a paradise, and that the world is dead to him.”
The stranger shook his head.
“In one word, he is happy and contented, sir,” said the
Captain.
The stranger uttered a sigh, which seemed to say, “all is
over then.”
“I will send him any message, companion,” said the
Captain, “or if you want a good arm for any active service,
why, for Charley's sake, my own is yours.”
The stranger rose, shaking his head.
“I trust 'tis no disparagement to say, sir, that you cannot
supply his place,” he said. “When the time comes I know you
will be at your post, Captain Waters; but your brother is
different. You may think all this very strange, but I repeat
that I need all the lights to guide me on the dark path I shall
soon tread; and this torch I came to seek cannot have its
that I must go alone. I see many noble lights around me,”
continued the stranger, with his high, calm look, and glancing
at the gentleman seated in the corner poring over his brief,
“but I do not think they will guide me as far as I wish to
go; again sir, let me say that the impression made upon
me by Mr. Waters, must be my excuse for this strange
conversation.”
“Not at all! not all!” said the Captain. “I am most
happy to hear Charley praised; and he will, I am sure, be
glad to hear of your visit.”
“Well, sir,” said the stranger, “when you write again,
say that I remembered his words, `If God decrees revolution
let it come!' Say to him, that this decree of God has
gone forth; that he is needed.”
And bowing with his old, awkward bow, the man in the
red cloak, refusing to stay and sup, took his leave, followed by
his companion, who exchanged a cordial and smiling farewell
with the Captain.
In ten minutes they had disappeared in the direction of
Williamsburg.
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
HOW THE PARSON CURSED THE CAPTAIN BOTH IN LATIN AND
FRENCH.
Captain Ralph Waters was one of those men who have too
high a regard for themselves, not to keep their word in the
amplest and most perfect manner. Having promised Lanky
to arrange his matrimonial affairs if possible, he mounted
Selim on the morning after the visit of the strange man in
the red cloak, and set out for Williamsburg, viâ the Old
Field School.
It was one of those days in May which drive away, by
simple force of their own brightness, every care and annoyance.
The sky was blue; the streams ran merrily, sparkling
in the sun; the woodland rustled gayly in the warm
spring breeze; and far up in the clouds the lark made himself
an invisible song, which filled the air with music.
All nature seemed to be laughing and singing—not the
streams, and skies, and birds alone—the very flowers which
gemmed the glades and sunny hillocks, turned smiling faces
to the merry sun, and plainly knew that May—the month of
flowers—had come.
The soldier was not behindhand; his mood did not clash
with the joyous season. Naturally, life was bright and joyous
to him, with his strong, hearty senses, that drank in
brilliant colors rapturously, and took delight in pleasant
odors, and felt the world was happier for the singing birds.
And not to neglect his own duty, he added his own joyous
“tirra-lirra!” to the concert; in so loud and hearty a voice,
that the oriole who was shaking his trills down on the blue
air from a lofty pine, paused with a pleased surprise, and
listened.
Thus the Captain drew near the school-house and slowly
approached the door.
“Ah! not a palace of education like the European
Academies,” he said, “and even not quite equal to `William
and Mary' in the town yonder. But morbleu! 'tis not on
that account to be despised. It seems to me that there is
a large amount of excellent information to be acquired in
these log houses, even though the source of the stream be
muddy as it is here. I have a notion that the Colony of
Virginia will some day turn out a number of distinguished
men,—at least it is probable; and then the Old Field School
will be rendered honorable, as the forest lyceum where the
young patriots drank in their first ideas. A man gets a
better knowledge of life in these places, ma foi! with the birds
singing, the trees rustling, the sun dancing along them:—
they look free! In the old world all is battered up between
hot brick walls, in crowded thoroughfares. The only misfortune
is that I got neither one or the other.”
And as if in defiance of the agency of fate in this particular,
Captain Ralph began singing lustily his song again,
and ended with a loud “tra la! tra la!” that shook the
forest.
This song attracted to the open window of the school-house
a number of faces, among the rest that of Miss Donsy
Smith. Without dismounting the Captain approached and
touched his hat gallantly.
“Ah, Miss Donsy! delighted to see you,” he said, “do
you know me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Donsy, blushing, for the Captain's laughing
eye very plainly said, “I know all.”
“Well, Miss Donsy,” said the soldier, lowering his voice
as he leaned down to Donsy, who bent her head through the
window, “Lanky has been making a clean breast of it!”
And he laughed. Donsy blushed crimson and was silent.
“'Tis a bon garçon,” continued the Captain, restraining
his hilarity, “and he will make an excellent husband. I
have promised him to go and see your respected father,
mam'selle, and I thought I would call by and gather
strength for the attack from your bright eyes. Ah! I think
Lanky is very fortunate, parbleu!”
“Oh, sir!” said Donsy, with tears in her eyes, “he is so
good you know—I am not good enough for him.”
The Captain admired the fresh, sincere face, the earnest
voice, and said, laughing:
“Diable! I think then that all is arranged, if you have
such a mutual liking. As for Lanky, he is dying for you,
Mam'selle Donsy; and I really begin to think that I should
acquiesce in the old saying, `love conquers all things,' and
leave you and Lanky to fight it out, morbleu!”
And the Captain again burst into laughter. Donsy only
blushed more deeply still, and gave him a look which said
“Please see my father and ask him to consent; I never
could speak of it to him.”
“Well, well,” said the Captain, twirling his moustache, “I
will go on then in my course and do my best: but really I
think the shortest way will be to whisk you through this
window, carry you off to my robber strong-hold, capture the
parson, your pedagogue, and force him to tie the nuptial
knot at a word. How would the venerable man look, think
you, seated behind me, jolted up and down as I galloped?
Faith! he would make a picture!”
And, enamored of his own fancy, Captain Waters burst
into a roar of laughter.
“Who are you talking with there, Donsy Smith!” cried a
pompous and severe voice suddenly from the interior.
The Captain put his head through the window.
“With me, parbleu!” he said.
The parson, who was seated in state upon his rostrum,
hearing a class recite and occasionally ferruling the delinquents,
started back as the martial head, with its long black
moustache, sparkling eyes and brilliant smile, appeared. Behind
this warlike visage, surmounted by its Flanders hat
with its dark feather, was seen the fine spirited head and
flowing mane of the Arabian. The appearance of this vision
nearly took the parson's breath away, and he murmured:
“Vade retro sathanas!”
“Ah, your reverence!—bon jour!” cried the Captain
laughing.
“Good day, sir,” muttered the unwilling parson.
“I trust your reverence is well to-day; charming weather—and
a charming sight to see you sitting there teaching
the young idea, instead of, as you formerly were in the habit
of doing, following the tuck of the drum, behind some warlike
captain.”
“Anathema!” observed the parson, who, afraid to
vituperate in English, selected the Latin language for that
purpose.
“Ah?” inquired the Captain politely.
“Nothing, sir.”
“I am going to town, your eminence, any commands?”
“No, sir.”
“I trust your reverence has not had an indigestion; you
look badly—sour, if I may say so.”
“I am reasonably well, sir.”
“Delighted to hear it; you would be a loss to the parish.”
And the Captain turned again to Donsy, whose fresh face
was not many inches from his own.
“Well,” he said, “I am going.”
“Thank'ee, sir,” murmured Donsy.
“I will do my best, morbleu!”
“I am sure you will,” said Donsy, in the same low,
grateful voice.
“I have promised Lanky the cottage we live in.”
“Oh, sir!” said Donsy, looking at the soldier gratefully,
“you are very kind.”
“Not in the least.”
“Indeed you are, sir.”
“No—I expect to be paid.”
“Paid, sir?”
“Do you think I intend to neglect my business to go
gadding for you and Lanky, ma'mselle, to say nothing of
giving up my mansion to you, without any reward?”
“Your reward, sir?” murmured Donsy.
“Yes: do you refuse it?”
“What can it be, sir?”
“Answer—do you refuse?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, then, I will exact payment in advance!”
said the Captain, with his joyous and loud laughter.
And bending down he brushed the girl's cheek with his
huge moustache, which caused that portion of Donsy's face to
turn the color of her lips—which were crimson.
The parson saw all, and rose up, brandishing his ferrule
and muttering an unmistakable “Sacre!”
“Take care, your eminence, I understand French!” cried
the Captain, “objurgate me in Latin, not in the Français!”
And before the parson could reply, the head exchanged
a confidential look with Donsy, and disappeared. In five
minutes the forest again resounded with the “tirra lirra!”
which slowly died away in the direction of the town of
Williamsburg.
32. CHAPTER XXXII.
HOW THE CAPTAIN PROVED THAT LANKY WAS A GREAT NOBLEMAN
IN DISGUISE.
The Captain continued his way, quickly forgetting this little
incident, and soon reached the town and the shop of Mr. A.
Z. Smith.
In this history, which aims at presenting in a brief and
rapid manner, some view, however slight, of the various
classes of individuals who formed that Virginia of 1765, it
would be unjust to wholly omit, after touching upon the
peculiarities of the Crows and Lankys, all mention of the
factors as they were then called. These men were the agents
of English merchants, and their business was to arrange the
shipping of tobacco from the various wharves; to negotiate for
transmit to the planters the price received for the great staple.
They willingly undertook, also, to attend to any commissions
for goods from England: and the planter had only to deposit
with his factor the measure of his person, the size of his
extremities, and the style of garments he wanted, to ensure
a suit from London direct, by the best maker. The factor
did all this, and more, for a very small percentage.
The factors were of the opinion, for the most part, that
life was an agreeable institution, the chief end of which was
to make money throughout the week, and on Saturday finish
the week with a carouse around a bowl of punch or lamb's
wool: they practised this habit at least; and one of the
most zealous advocates of this mode of life was Mr. A. Z.
Smith, who, as we have seen, kept a small shop on Gloucester-street,
not far from the “Raleigh.”
Without further digression—for this worthy will scarcely
reappear in our history—we shall proceed to follow the
Captain.
He drew up before the door of the shop, and Mr. A. Z.
Smith made his appearance, smiling and rosy as usual. The
attrition of the lamb's wool seemed to have made his countenance
red; and its owner at the same time very good-humored.
Smith took the Captain's outstretched hand with
the air of a man who feels himself greatly honored.
“Ah, Captain, you do me a great pleasure—really now,”
he said, with that polite air he had caught from the noble
aristocracy.
“Basta!” said the Captain, hitching his horse to a rack
before the door; “don't make me talk until I have tasted
your Jamaica. I'm as thirsty as a leviathan, seigneur bourgeoise.”
The factor smiled, as a man smiles when rosy visions rise
in his mind.
“Come in, come in, Captain,” he said.
And they entered the shop.
It was very small, and the goods for sale were of the
simplest description. Onions hung in strings from the
rafters—flitches of bacon kept them in countenance—buckets
and tin pans and whips were suspended in graceful and
artistic relief. On the small counter stood open boxes of
these smirked the round face of a single shopman. Behind
the shop was a small private room—and this was the real
counting-house—where Mr. A. Z. Smith received his noble
visitors, and where a huge safe and pile of ledgers testified
to his usefulness in the community, and his well-to-do condition
in life.
To this private room he led the Captain, smiling; and
from a secret receptacle under his desk drew out a flat black
flask, which contained his favorite Jamaica, which was excellent.
He placed this before the Captain, with some
glasses; gave his visitor the seat of honor, and without
solicitation drank to his excellent good health.
If the factor was rosy and cheerful, Captain Ralph was
moody and dispirited. He shook his head, after the first sip
of rum, and almost groaned.
“You are not unwell, Captain?” said Mr. A. Z. Smith.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the soldier.
“You are sick?”
“Mentally so, my dear fellow—I feel a sentiment of
great remorse.”
“Remorse, Captain?”
“Yes, my dear companion, real remorse, and you have
something to do with it.”
“I, Captain?”
“Yes, indeed; your rum has caused it.”
“My rum?”
“Yes, yes; do you not remember my visit the other
day?”
“In your splendid new chariot, Captain? Oh, yes! It
would not be easy to forget it; it is one of the finest in the
colony.”
“Delighted that you are pleased. Well, on that occasion
I drank some of this Jamaica.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Well, companion, now listen to the enormity I have
been guilty of. I went home, sir, after drinking some of
this nectar—yes, this liquid ambrosia, and like an ill-humored
fellow called it—what do you imagine?”
“Not bad, Captain?” said Mr. A. Z. Smith, turning
pale; “not bad?”
“I called it execrable, a much worse word than `bad,'
mon ami.”
And the soldier groaned.
“Never mind, sir,” said Mr. A. Z. Smith, affected profoundly
by the Captain's painful feeling of remorse; “never
mind, sir, you have changed your opinion; have you not?”
The Captain swallowed a mouthful, and looked rapturously
at the ceiling. That was enough—no reply was needed
—that look said more than words.
“Let us speak upon more cheerful subjects,” said the
Captain, sighing; “I have just had the pleasure of seeing
your daughter Donsy, mon ami.”
“Donsy, Captain?”
“Yes, yes, at the Old Field School yonder. A charming
little creature, ma foi!”
“She's a good girl,” said Mr. A. Z. Smith, with a cheerful
look; “the light of the house.”
“And that made me hesitate, comrade,” said the Captain,
“before visiting you to-day.”
“Hesitate?”
“Yes, indeed; you would be loth to part with her, I
know.”
“To part with her?”
“Yes.”
“With Donsy?”
“Yes, yes, companion.”
“I do not understand you, Captain,” said his host,
smiling.
“I had some idea lately of asking Miss Donsy's hand.”
“Oh, captain—a great honor!”
“Honor? Bah! I say, sir, that the man who gets
Ma'mselle Donsy will be fortunate.”
“Indeed he will, sir; I have not been twenty years at
work without laying by a plum.”
“There you are, with your eternal commercial ideas.”
“Oh, sir,” said Mr. A. Z. Smith, afraid that he had committed
something in bad taste—than which nothing horrified
him more.
“You think I mean `fortunate' in a pecuniary sense.
You cannot understand the divine sentiment, morbleu!—
really, friend Smith, I am ashamed of you!”
Mr. A. Z. Smith looked contrite, and murmured an
apology.
“I thought of applying for Ma'mselle Donsy's hand
myself,” replied the Captain, “but I am not at present in a
condition to marry—her; and besides, I am now aware of
the fact that ma'mselle's affections are engaged.”
“Engaged, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, she loves devotedly one of my best friends—
morbleu! a noble fellow.”
“Oh Captain.”
“A heart of gold—a glorious boy—you know him, or I
am mistaken.”
“Who can it be, Captain?”
“My friend Mr. Lugg.”
The factor whistled. “What! Lanky!”
“Yes, sir.”
The factor repeated that astounded noise with his lips
and said:
“He a friend of yours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He a noble fellow?”
“Nothing less, sir.”
“He a heart of gold—a gentleman—your friend?”
“Yes, he is all that.”
“Why, Captain, he's a mere country bumpkin; Donsy
shall never marry him—by George, sir, she shall not speak
to him again.”
“Friend Smith,” said the Captain.
“Sir.”
“You're a booby; permit me to make that observation
to you in a friendly and appreciative spirit, and to tell you
that, considering the length of time you have been in this
wicked and woful world, you are no better than a child,
morbleu!”
Mr. A. Z. Smith, instead of getting angry at this plain
and unmistakable charge, held down his head.
“Donsy shall not marry so much beneath her,” he said;
“that I am resolved on.”
“Beneath her?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“How is Lanky beneath Donsy?”
“Why, he's as poor as a rat.”
“He is no such thing.”
“Why sir, he is a common farm-worker—was with Mr.
Waters, your relation, I suppose.”
“Who, the bon père? Certainly, he is my relation,”
said the Captain, with great good sense.
“Well, sir, how can you say Lanky is not poor? He's
an honest fellow, I don't mind saying that, but I know that
he is as poor as a church mouse.”
“I don't believe church mice are poor,” observed the
Captain philosophically, “and if they were, I deny the application
to Lanky.”
“He not poor, sir?—Oh!—”
“Listen, mon ami: I am rich. As rich as Crœsus and
all the monarchs of antiquity put together, from Sardanapalus,
king of some land or other, down to the present time.
I roll in wealth—I don't know how to spend it. I can't find
an outlet for it—I am painfully overburdened with gold and
land.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” cried Mr. A. Z. Smith, looking
respectfully at this gigantic proprietor.
“Now, observe: Lanky is my friend—and I have taken
up the idea that he will be improved by marriage. I questioned
him—he replied that he was exceedingly willing—
having secured the affection of your daughter, Ma'mselle
Donsy.”
“He!” cried Mr. A. Z. Smith.
“Yes, indeed—Donsy is passionately in love with him—
he with her—I have determined to see them married.”
“Never, Captain!”
“Because he's poor, eh?”
“He is not only that, but his family is not good,” said
Mr. A. Z. Smith, with a self-satisfied air.
“His family!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, he came over to Virginia—his ancestors, I mean
—with your noble forefather Captain John Smith, the Chevalier.”
The factor reddened with delight: his highest ambition
was to be considered the descendant of the great soldier—
and in fact half of his liking for Captain Waters, sprung
with his long black moustache, to the picture of Captain
Smith, hanging up in his counting-room. So that when his
visitor said that Lanky's family came over with the conqueror—that
is to say, Captain Iohn Smythe—the factor replied
in a much calmer voice:
“Really, did they now, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, mon ami,” said his visitor; “Lanky's father
was the shield and mace-bearer of the Captain, and always
held his lance and helmet. He buckled the arms on
his charger—the Captain allowing no one else to do it—
when the worthy Smith ran a tilt with Sir Powhatan down
there upon the tournay ground near York.”
Mr. A. Z. Smith looked dubious.
“Do you doubt it, sir?” said the Captain; “here is the
herald's coat of arms of the Lugg family. Here you will
see that they spring from the great family of the Lugdunenses
who formerly owned all London, for which reason that
place was called originally Lugdunum, Sir Ernanton Lugdunensius
was the founder of the house, and the Chevalier
Villiers de Lugge was the one who came over with your ancestor,
companion—he was first cousin to George Villiers,
Duke of Buckingham.”
Mr. A. Z. Smith then saw the Captain unroll a parchment,
and hold it before his dazzled eyes.
“What is that, sir?” he murmured, overcome by the
prospect of having such a son-in-law.
“Why, the genealogical tree.”
“Lanky's?”
“To be sure.”
“I can't read it, sir.”
“No wonder, as it is written in Arabic—done when
Captain Smith and Sir Villiers were together in Bessarabia
fighting the Turks. It is further continued by another hand
—and you will observe that Lanky's immediate ancestor was
Selim Lugg, Esq.”
Mr. A. Z. Smith, as was quite natural, failed to comprehend
the pedigree of the Arabian, and the Captain soon
rolled it up again.
“Now I have disposed of that,” said the soldier; “the
sir, to speak of the money part.”
“Oh, Captain Waters!” said the little factor, with a
remonstrating gesture.
“Let me go on,” continued the Captain.
“Well, sir.”
“I have—or I will—put Lanky in possession of the cottage
on the river yonder.”
“A very good house, sir, and some few improvements
would make it elegant.”
“Yes: and the land—fifty acres— is not bad.”
“Excellent, sir!”
“Lanky shall have all at his own terms—and by heaven,
if he wants a thousand pounds he shall have it.”
“You are very liberal, Captain.”
“Do you be, also.”
“Hum!”
“Give him Donsy, comrade.”
“Oh—I don't think we can spare her, Captain.”
“Bah, you will not be separated, the cottage is a mere
step, companion.”
Mr. A. Z. Smith was evidently struggling between two
opposing forces.
“Do you say he shall be set up in the cottage?” at last
he said.
“Yes, morbleu!”
“And he loves Donsy?”
“Passionately, ma foi!”
“And Donsy him?”
“Donsy will have no one else in this world, companion.
The house of Smith will be extinct—for she'll be an old
maid.”
“It's hard to lose her!” sighed the factor, who really
loved his daughter exceedingly.
“She will not be the same happy sort of sunbeam, companion,”
said the Captain; “give your consent and make her
happy. Come, now, and pledge your consent in a cup of this
delightful Jamaica, and your brave ancestor up there shall
witness the compact—and if he could, I am sure he would
twirl his moustaches in the excess of his satisfaction.
This double attack finished Mr. A. Z. Smith:—his pride
for his daughter had been brought in play, and he succumbed.
“Well, he shall have her,” he said; “Lanky's a good
boy, and though Donsy might a' looked higher, he'll make
her a good husband.”
And the factor sighed.
“That's well,” said the Captain, rising; “and I knew
you would place more stress on that honesty of Lanky, friend
Smith, than on this question of lineage, about which I have
been telling you the most unconscionable amount of lies.
Diable! sir, I honor you! and I promise that you shall have
the commissions of my whole family and estate, when I have
the former—now, bon jour, companion: I'll go see Lanky,
parbleu!”
And the Captain set down his empty glass of Jamaica,
and went out humming his old song.
In half an hour he had conquered his enemy.
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
GRAND MUSTER OF THE CORNSTALK REGIMENT.
Instead of returning homeward, the soldier determined to
proceed to the office of the “Virginia Gazette,” and purchase
a number of that journal: and also stop a moment at
the Raleigh, and look to the condition of his horses there.
He rode into the yard and to the door of the huge stable,
which was much more capacious than that one at Beanksome,
where “a hundred steeds fed free in stall.” The
stable of the Raleigh would have accommodated more still:
and at present it was quite full, the honorable the members
of the House of Burgesses beginning to arrive in attendance
on the opening of the House. Captain Ralph surveyed the
bustling throng of stable-boys and grooms with much pleasure—bent
his neck into the stable and saw his four glossy
horses, delighting their souls with an abundant supply of
oats—delivered a pistole into the hands of the hostler, with
the promise of another, if the appearance of the animals
that he would spit the said hostler with his sword if their
condition betrayed neglect:—and after these agreeable and
cheerful ceremonies, bent his way to the Gazette office.
He rode up to the door and received his paper from an
urchin of inky hue, placed there to sell the journal at six-pence
per copy, and then, turning Selim's head toward home
again, dropped the bridle on his neck, and went along, perusing
the paper.
“`Arrival of the Lucy,'” he read; “`parliament—stamp
act introduced—speech of Colonel Barri opposing it; ministers—Townshend—Grenville;
sums raised to be expended in
America; post roads—hum! hum!—public sentiment in the
colonies exaggerated—no real opposition—hum! hum!”
Thus the Captain continued glancing over his journal, when
suddenly he heard a loud, shrill squeak, a rattling drum; and
raising his eyes found himself opposite the “Raleigh” and
in the midst of a popular gathering. This gathering was of
every conceivable description of individuals—but these individuals
were for the most part juvenile, and the negroes had
decidedly the preponderance. To describe the costumes of
these latter would require much more genius than we possess.
Hogarth, in a golden mood, might have succeeded;
but what pen can adequately portray an under tunic fluttering
en arrière, after the manner of a flag;—what mere description
can paint a pair of unmentionables held up by one
suspender, made of leather, and worn at the knees in a manner
painful and shocking to behold?
It was a crowd of this description in the midst of which
Captain Ralph now found himself; and which Selim pushed
his way through with the unimpressed air of a child of the
desert whom nothing astonishes.
But the cause of the crowd? Ah! that is worth seeing.
It is nothing less than a muster of the entire “Cornstalk
Regiment of Virginia Volunteers,” Captain William Effingham
commanding.
The regiment are as picturesque as ever in costume and
equipment:—they hold their heads up proudly, and shoulder
their guns, or the substitutes for guns, described formerly
—with an air which says, “We are proud of ourselves,
our cause, and our commander;” they march on, in single
incessant rattle—the latter a deafening scream.
Captain William Effingham precedes the whole—even
precedes the music; and his head is bent backwards, with
proud satisfaction, as, sword in hand, and sugar-loaf cap on
head, he marshals and directs his brave companions.
In front struggles a youthful gentleman,—it is Mr. Barkerville,
the artist,—under the weight of a tall pine sapling,
from which floats a silken banner, which utters a joyful
flapping noise when the wind strikes it, and causes the
great artist to reel and gasp. Upon this banner, which has
been presented to the Cornstalk regiment by Miss Kate Effingham,
of Effingham Hall, the work of whose fair hands it
is—upon the banner is inscribed in letters of golden silk
the thrilling motto:
NO STAMP ACT
FOREVER!
LIBERTY OR DEATH!!!
and whenever the youthful soldiers gaze upon it, they shout
tremendously, and utter wild hurrahs, and waver about in the
excess of their hot patriotism.
We have dismissed the bold musicians too briefly: let
us look at them. Is not the fifer an old acquaintance?
His coat is much too large and long for him; he wears a straw
hat innocent of rim, and much dilapidated; he has bandy
legs, protruding lips, a woolly head; he no longer possesses
any thing but the remnant of a shirt. It is Mr. Crow—
Crow in his glory; Crow rejoicing; Crow patriotic, and full
of grand ideas, hostile to tyranny,—especially to the Stamp
Act. This hostility causes him to surpass himself; his fife
utters cries of rage and triumph which are fatal to surrounding
ears; his eyes dance like meteors; his cheeks
are puffed up to the size of squashes; his rugged sleeves
are agitated; and his gait is the mixture of a jump, a dance,
a hop, and a run, which we have once described. Mr. Crow
is at the summit of human felicity, and when he pauses in
his fifing, and, with a noble gesture, silences the drum which
one of his relations has been promoted to at his solicitation,
drowning all the rest.
Captain Ralph, pausing at the door of the “Raleigh,”
saw the grand procession, with its following of ragged black
urchins, and vagrants of every description, sweep on. As he
was about to go onward again, laughing, toward home, he
heard a grave and strong voice beside him say:
“Give you good day, Captain Waters; we are well met!”
He turned, and saw the man in the red cloak, whose face
still wore the grim smile with which he had been gazing at
the Cornstalk soldiers.
“Ah! bon compagnon!” cried the hearty soldier, holding
out his hand; “good morrow! delighted to see you again.”
“We meet, sir,” said the stranger, whose face had resumed
its rigid expression, “on an occasion which recalls the
topic of our conversation yesterday. Did you read that banner?”
“Yes, faith! `No Stamp Act for ever,'—meaning, I
suppose, eternal opposition to that measure; then `Liberty
or Death'—ma foi! that, at least, does not admit of a supposition.
It is grandly unmistakable.”
“You are right, sir,” said the stranger, whose eyes again
seemed to grow full of his eternal predominant idea, and to
blaze—so to speak—with that idea; “'tis a grand sentiment,
and I assure you, sir, that this banner, boyish as it
seems, speaks the sentiment of the whole colony.”
“Parbleu! perhaps,” said the soldier, dubiously.
“Who gave them their ideas, sir?” continued the stranger.
“Urchins do not read parliamentary debates and boil
over politically without some instigation. Their fathers,
sir! Their fathers have spoken of that infamous measure—
and see the indication of men's opinions in the actions of
boys.”
The soldier nodded his head in sign of acquiescence.
“Those boys will be men soon,” continued the stranger,
“and will wield vigorous swords; that fife and drum will
yet sound on grander occasions, I predict.”
Then, breaking off suddenly, the stranger said:
“Any news of Mr. Charles Waters, sir?”
“No,” said the Captain, “and—egad! I think the mails
are no better than they should be. Bad, this, very bad.”
“I see the `Gazette' in your hand,” said the stranger,
drawing his old cloak around him and smiling grimly; “have
you not read how the proceeds of the Stamp Act are to be
applied to the improvement of the post roads? But, sir,”
he continued, “I detain you. When you write to Mr.
Waters, place at the bottom of your letter the words:
`Come! come! you are wanted!' Now, sir, I must go to
pay a visit which I have promised to a young friend of
mine, named Jefferson, at the college—a young man of much
promise, with a strong political genius. I want these sort
of men; I wish to see their faces round me when I rouse
the storm; I wish, above all, to have men like your brother
near me. Good day, sir.”
And wrapping his old cloak around him closer still, spite
of the mild May morning, the stranger made his awkward
bow and disappeared in the crowd. The Captain looked
after him a moment, muttering, “an odd fish, that!” and
then touched the Arabian with his heel. Selim went on
down Gloucester-street, and was soon out of the town.
Half a mile from the place, Captain Ralph discerned two
figures approaching across the fields; they were a young
man and a girl, and, as they drew nearer, he recognized
Lanky and the mistress of his heart. The soldier smiled
as they came up, bowing to him.
Lanky hung upon his countenance; taking hope or despair
as the Captain smiled, or looked gloomy. We are
sorry to say the soldier amused himself with Lanky's anxiety
in this manner for some time, and he refused, for some moments,
to reply to Donsy's appealing glances.
At last he burst into a laugh, and cried:
“Morbleau! 'tis easy to see that you foolish children are
in love. Basta! was there ever such a folly as you have
committed. You, Lanky, you villain, going and falling up
to your ears in love with a pair of blue eyes; and you, Miss
Donsy, with a pine-knot, surmounting a pair of striped
stockings. It is alarming! But, not to keep you longer in
suspense, monsieur and ma'mselle,—I have encountered the
enemy—the parent of Phillis consents to an alliance between
his daughter and her Corydon; in a single word, my dear
Miss Donsy, your father consents to your marriage.”
And, before the enraptured Lanky could impress a kiss
relieved him of that trouble, after which, he rode on, laughing
and singing, toward home.
“Parbleu!” muttered the Captain, as he rode along,
with his arms hanging down, “a good day's work for those
silly folks there, standing under the tree, still,—by Jove!
she's in his arms! Well, well; if I am so good a strategist
in another's cause, should I not make some headway in
my own?”
34. CHAPTER XXXIV
HOW MR. CROW WAS TRIED FOR UNOFFICER-LIKE CONDUCT, WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS OF A FOREST PICNIC.
“This is a wicked world,” says the author of the MS.,
“and, in his pilgrimage toward a better, man must meet
with many things to shock and anger him. But there are
many pleasant things to look upon as well. I think one of
the pleasantest sights in the world is the innocent joy of
children. It is not necessary that a man should grow old
before he can experience this feeling of happiness, at seeing
young persons enjoy themselves; it is not necessary that the
head should grow white, the heart calm and philosophical,
the senses dulled to those delights which strong and excitable
youth takes such delight in. No; this feeling need not
await the annihilation of the fiercer passions, the dulling of
the heart,—to come then merely as a forerunner of old age,
which takes children on the knee and sighs over them, and,
at the same instant, over that bright childhood which, in
them, rises up again before the grandsire's eyes. I hold
that man made of coarse and rude stuff, who does not feel
his heart stir with pleasure at the innocent laughter of a
child,—who does not see in the child character some of that
primal light which streamed on Paradise, from the blue
heaven, yet undimmed by any cloud. Mr. William Shakespeare
has said, in his matchless writings, that the man who
has no music in his soul should not be trusted; and far less
would I trust the man who did not find, in the gay prattle
of children, a music sweeter than the harp of Æolus.”
Thus does the worthy author of the manuscript, from
which we take these veracious events, discourse upon his
love for children, which, as the reader may have observed,
has elsewhere appeared in this history. The sentiments of
the worthy gentleman are very well in their way, but we
may be permitted to doubt the propriety of prefacing with
such grave reflections, an excursion of the Cornstalk regiment
into the Effingham woods, for the purpose of holding
therein a picnic. Still, we have preserved this little paragraph
of our respected chief, and, having accurately transcribed
it from the discolored manuscript, will proceed to
speak briefly of the festival.
Sure never morn dawned clearer than that Saturday!
The very skies seemed rejoicing, and the birds were positively
delirious with delight. The streams sang too, and
rattled the diamonds in their beds with ceaseless glee, and
jumped up to the boughs which drooped down toward them,
and ran laughing by. In the fields the colts gambolled for
joy, the sheep tossed their heads, the cattle bells were tinkling,
tinkling, tinkling, and playing without musical notes to
guide them,—from mere improvisation—merrier melodies
than any in Don Juan or the Barber of Seville. The merry
May was laughing everywhere, and, not to be outdone, the
members of the Cornstalk regiment, stretched under the
lofty trees in a glade of the forest, laughed louder still.
They had been marshalled before the portico of Effingham
Hall, by that noble commander, Captain William
Effingham, who made them a speech, as usual. In the midst
of this speech, he had found the attention of his auditors
grow distracted: and then Captain Effingham had perceived,
at a glance, the cause of this movement. There issued from
the broad portal, a bevy of fair ladies—very youthful—and
at the head of them Miss Kate Effingham, whose face was
brighter than all the rest together. Miss Kate was clad in
a charming little dress of green, and on her glossy curls was
perched a snow-white gipsey hat, with fluttering ribbons:
her companions, rosy- cheeked like herself, were quite as
happy looking, and all brightened at their approach, for the
noble Cornstalk regiment was gallant and chivalric to the
echo. There was one gentleman who displayed a joy far
more extravagant than all the rest: Crow was his name, of
yet a noble soul: in a word, one of that great class of
poor gentlemen, of which Virginia has been proud always.
The joy of Mr. Crow may require explanation, for however
great his gallantry, that sentiment could not prompt the
enthusiastic somersets which he turned as the young maidens
issued forth. Behold the cause! Behind them came a
young African, bearing upon his shoulders a huge hamper—
a hamper which said plainly, “I am full of cakes, and pies,
and apples, and a thousand cates”—which positively groaned
for very fulness—which weighed the bearer down for very joy.
This made Mr. Crow rejoice: this filled him with sublime
anticipation—this caused him to utter the shrill scream upon
his fife, which made the little maidens stop up their ears,
and shout with laughter.
And so they have reached the glade in the forest, and
played by the stream, and laughed and ran, and gathered
flowers, and held the yellow butter-cups beneath their chins,
and blown away the thistle-down with puffed up cheeks, and
chased the striped ground-squirrels to their rocky nests; and
played, and laughed, and danced, and sang, until the very
forests echoed with their joyous shouts, their merry carol,
their exuberant, overflowing, wild, delirious, childlike, merry,
gay and joyous mirth, delight, and ringing jubilant laughter.
Tommy Alston is there, and many other Toms, and
Roberts, Williams, Johns and Jacks; and numberless Fannys,
Susans, Carrys, Ellens, Phœbes, Marys, and a Cynthia
to add her morn-like softness to the May. Mr. Alston and
Willie have forgotten their league offensive and defensive
against our poetical friend, the noble Earl of Dorset: they
are rivals: and they struggle for the privilege of waiting
upon Kate, and hunger for her smiles more than for any
hamper-smiles; and gather flowers for her, and pick out apple
seed for her to name, and when the candy with its poetical
mottoes is produced, contend who shall bestow upon the little
beauty the verses most indicative of burning love, and everlasting,
fond devotion.
For now the hour of noon has come, and they are stretched
upon a sunny bank, beneath a noble oak, whose leaves
but half shut out the sunlight; and the jolly hamper sits
upon a mossy rock, the centre of all eyes. They rifle it
and fowl. They plunder this of its jellied contents, and without
solicitation the young maidens eat away, very unlike the
heroines of romance. This does not lower them however in
the opinion of their Corydons, who also bid adieu, for the
moment, to romance, and plunge their pie-crusts into willing
mouths, and talk inarticulately for that reason. Then they
pass on to the sweet things, and the pie is generously abandoned
to Mr. Crow, and his relative who beats the drum—
which useful instrument is hanging on a tree above them.
Mr. Crow's mode of eating is not so elegant as we might
expect in a gentleman of such high birth, and with such
grand and noble political ideas. He takes the brown crock,
which contains the picturesque debris of the rifled pie, and
carrying it to some distance, deposits it upon the ground, and
then sits down, extending his lower members upon each side
of it. Thus fixed, he can look down rapturously into the
recesses of the crock, and plunge his fingers in without difficulty.
He does this, and the rich savor causes his eyes to
roll like stars, his mouth to grin, his body to shake with
laughter. He sees approach, crawling, the disconsolate
young drummer, whose flag—but we refrain: he perceives a
hand held out: he hears a beseeching voice—but all these
things are unregarded. His rapturous eyes fixed on the trees
above, he does not deign to see. The drummer crawls up
to the pie with cautious movement; he extends his hand—
he grasps the finest morsel—ho! the hand of Mr. Crow darts
between—the eyes of Mr. Crow flash terrible lightning—the
face of Mr. Crow is charged with fury, and a gloomy rage:
the unfortunate drummer must wait until there is no longer
any thing left but a morsel of crust and a little gravy. This
much is generously abandoned by Crow, who, having finished
his first course, arrives at the laughing group stretched near,
by a series of somersets. He reaches the group just as Kate,
who is laughing rapturously, is about to put a small lump of
French candy into her mouth. Here was the opening for
genius: he squats behind her; he extends his hand; the
candy disappears, and Mr. Crow's eyes roll with delight, and
his cheek protrudes like that of a monkey who has stolen a
hickory nut, and endeavored to conceal it in his mouth.
This feat of Mr. Crow is considered audacious by the
but they call a drum-head court-martial, at the request
of the delinquent.
The criminal is arraigned according to the the rules of
war: he is called upon for his defence by the uproarious
group.
This call is not unanswered: Crow mounts upon a fallen
tree: he looks around him with the air of a great orator:
he scrutinizes the features of the Court of Inquiry and calculates
the chances of an acquittal: the chances are of an
azure hue.
Kate is called upon to testify, which she does laughing,
and to the effect that the prisoner is guilty. Crow endeavors
in vain to exclude the testimony, on the ground of incompetency
in the witness: his point is overruled by the court.
Other witnesses testify: the case is made out: he is
declared guilty, and then called upon to say why the sentence
and punishment should not follow.
Crow brightens at this: there is a last chance: and his
ideas are quickened to astonishing vigor by the sight of the
executioner trimming a grape vine.
He stretches out his hand persuasively: assumes a grave
and lofty attitude, and commences his defence. He bases it
upon three points:
I. He wanted the candy.
II. He liked the taste of it.
III. He did not take it.
He elaborates these points; makes a tremendous speech;
and winds up with a burst of eloquence which he fondly
hopes may avert the impending fate. In vain; popular prejudice
has warped the members of the court; he is declared
guilty of unofficer-like conduct; he is unanimously sentenced
to receive the bastinado.
Crow writhes, struggles, beseeches; in vain: he is tied
to a sapling with handkerchiefs, all the time uttering piercing
cries of anguish. He repents, he says: he do; he calls upon
Miss Kate Eff'nam to intercede for him, but that young
lady's prayers are unavailing; the grape-vine is raised;
Crow makes himself as small as possible; the instrument of
torture is about to descend; the crowd laugh; the punishment
for unofficer-like conduct is about to begin, when suddenly
“Ef there ain't Johnny Booker wid his old banjo!”
All eyes are suddenly turned to the spot indicated by
Crow's outstretched hand, and there, indeed, is seen Mr.
Booker passing, with his banjo beneath is arm. Crow reaps
the reward of his presence of mind, for the crowd immediately
rush towards Mr. Booker, and take him prisoner.
Mr. Booker is a relative of the fiddler at the Hall, and lives
at the Bowling Green. He is as great a master on the banjo,
as his relative is upon the violin. His face is the color of
ebony; his eyes roll; his lips protrude; a huge shirt collar
saws his ears.
He is good natured, and willingly consents to “rattle on
his banjo” in consideration of a portion of the feast. He
partakes of the remains of the hamper, assisted by Crow,
who has untied the handkerchiefs, and escaped; between
them they dispose of all that is left; then Mr. Booker tunes
his banjo and commences.
The party join hands and fly to the hilarious music around
the oak; the forest is full of laughter; the banjo player rolls
his eyes, sways about, pats his foot; the air is wild with the
uproarious rumble, as the flying fingers dart across the strings.
By and by Mr. Booker becomes wild with delight at his
own performance; he executes a pirouette over Crow, who
lying on the ground is rapturously imitating him with the assistance
of a piece of fence rail; he commences singing the song
which has brought his name and his dwelling-place down to
modern times, encircled by a halo of glory; he plays so fast
that the furious dance runs over itself, mingles its performances
in inextricable confusion, and finally stops from pure
inability to proceed.
The young ladies, half reclining on the ground, pant and
laugh, and declare that they never before had such a dance.
Mr. Booker bows in appreciation of this compliment, places his
banjo under his arm, seizes a chicken's leg, and goes on his
way rejoicing.
As they are still laughing and panting, they see a stalwart
gentleman riding upon a beautiful horse; and this gentleman,
who is singing and further amusing himself with twirling
his moustache, makes a most gallant salute with his hand.
Kate cries that it is Captain Waters, her friend and admirer,
laughing Captain submits to with great equanimity, after
which he disappears, singing.
Kate comes back and finds Willie furious; she quarrels
with him. Will repents, and solicits the favor of a reconciliation,
which is granted as soon as asked. Will, emboldened
by this, draws out his true love indenture, and
requests the favor of her signature. Kate laughs, and says
Willie is a goose; and as Jemmy Alston at the same moment
requests a song from her, she strikes up merrily:
“I'm ower young to marry yet!”
even down to Crow, who turns somersets for joy, and makes
the forest echo with his stunning laughter, and his wild
“hooras!”
Here let us leave the party as we found them—laughing;
and if the present history returns no more to that great
regiment with patriotic souls, and splendid banner, and immortal
fife-player more than all the rest, the reader must
not think that we have been guilty of neglect. Considering
the number of personages whose fortunes we must finish
narrating, the great regiment has occupied space sufficient.
In some future history, we hope to chronicle its warlike
achievements, and heroic deeds; especially the campaigns of
Mr. Crow, that great leader and fife-player of the Revolution.
At present, we must bid the Cornstalk regiment, even
Mr. Crow, a long farewell.
35. CHAPTER XXXV
THE SEIGNEUR MORT-REYNARD TAKES HIS REVENGE UPON DON
MOUSTACHIO.
We shall follow Captain Ralph.
He was received by Mr. Lee with open arms, that gentleman
not having had for some days an opportunity to exchange
ideas with any one upon the various exciting political
topics which were beginning to agitate profoundly the minds
excellent outlet for the flood of communication which had
been dammed up for some time, and the old gentleman took
exclusive possession of him the moment he appeared; they
then talked uninterruptedly until dinner, when the Captain had
an opportunity for the first time to address a few observations
to the young ladies, and to Mr. Jack Hamilton, who had
“just dropped in,” as he expressed it, in passing. This
breathing space, however, did not last very long, and when
the stamp act, the navigation laws, and the meeting and
probable action of the House of Burgesses had been exhausted,
Captain Ralph was called on to discuss the various
events of the seven years' war, and to illustrate those events
by diagrams drawn as before, upon the table with a drop of
wine.
The Captain escaped finally to the ladies in the parlor,
whither Mr. Jack Hamilton followed him, and he tried to
converse with Henrietta. But he found it for some reason
very difficult; he could not extract from Miss Henrietta
much more than blushes and “yes's,” and “no's,” and he
finally gave up in despair, and took his leave with a decidedly
gloomy feeling. Looking as we do calmly upon the scene,
we may very easily discern the cause of Miss Henrietta's
blushes and constraint,—of the soldier's consequent gloom.
For the first time, he had grown blind.
Mr. Jack Hamilton followed the soldier, and they rode on
together. The Captain endeavored to return to his habitual
good-humor, and after a time succeeded in producing something
resembling a laugh.
“Ah, mon cher Seigneur Mort-Reynard!” he said, “it
seems to me, that you are practising finely all those beautiful
precepts which you enunciated in my hearing some days
since?”
“What precepts, my dear Don?” replied Mr. Hamilton.
“Why, your woman-avoiding doctrines.”
“Hum!” said Mr. Hamilton.
“It is really laughable,” continued the soldier, “to observe
how great the difference is between the preaching and
practising of human beings in this wicked and sinful world.
Now here are you, my dear Mort-Reynard, uttering the grandest
and most philosophical sentiments—sentiments which
and admiration, and basta! no sooner are our backs turned
than you go, morbleu! and practise just the reverse.”
“Hum: you think so?” observed Mr. Jack Hamilton,
“you are very keen-eyed, Don Moustachio. Come, how have
I erred?”
“How!”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Are you not making desperate love to Miss Clare, par
bleu—are you not going to change your bachelor condition?'
“Hum!”
“Answer!”
“Well, if I did.”
“Well, if you did, indeed! Egad! you will turn your
coat. Never have I heard such an enthusiastic tirade as
you uttered the other day. Oh, by heaven! you would not
fall into the snare! you would not be caught by a woman, a
pair of blue eyes, I think you said. We young and inexperienced
fellows might fall victims to the belle passion, but
you? Not the Seigneur Mort-Reynard, whose days were to
be sacred to the pursuit of foxes, and to the disappointment
of all individuals of the divine sex who laid traps for the
Seigneur Jean Reynard Hamilton! Ah, mon ami, you are
one more victim—you are an unfortunate specimen of the
trapped—the bamboozled—the defeated—the circumvented!
You will ever be to those who know you, parbleu! a shining
instance of the fallacy of all human calculations, of the overwhelming
powers of the sex—of the truth of your own declaration
that when a woman has once determined to marry
a man he need not resist—that there is no hope—that he
might as well go to the altar, like a lamb to the slaughter!”
And the Captain twirled his moustaches and laughed triumphantly.
He did not see the twinkle of mischief in the
Seigneur Mort-Reynard's eye;—he did not see the joyous
look, which indicated the power of revenging himself upon his
reviler.
“Well, well, my dear Don,” said Mr. Hamilton, “I confess
there is something in what you say.”
“You acknowledge it?'
“Yes, yes.”
“Poor fellow!”
“True, I am very unfortunate, but how could I resist
such a pair of eyes?” said Mr. Jack Hamilton, plaintively.
“Quite right,” replied the Captain, “they are much too
blue and bright.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Your favorite color.”
“Precisely.”
And Mr. Hamilton sighed.
“Don't take it too much to heart, mon cher,” said the
Captain, still laughing, “many a stalwart fellow has suffered
the same misfortune.”
“I know it, Captain.”
“No one can resist.”
“No one,” said Mr. Jack Hamilton, disconsolately; “and
even such a strong-hearted cavalier as yourself must not
think to entirely escape; you have not, I think.”
“I?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You think I am trapped?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Madam Henrietta, you mean, perhaps!”
“Yes, my dear friend.”
“Hum, hum!” said the Captain, in his turn.
“Do not understand me as blaming you for falling a victim
to her brilliant eyes,” said Mr. Hamilton, “it is quite
natural.”
“It would be, I confess,” said the Captain, cautiously.
“Come, don't deny it.”
“Deny what, mon cher?”
“That you are over head and ears in love, my poor friend.”
The Captain uttered a sonorous “hem!” and said:
“Really, you are, I think, mistaken.”
“No, indeed.”
“I in love!”
“Yes, Don—desperately—profoundly; and there is only
one thing in your condition which makes me sorry for it, as
your friend. Her affections are engaged.”
“Engaged!” cried the Captain, betraying by his downcast
countenance the secret he would conceal.
“Yes, indeed!”
She engaged?”
“Her affections I said.”
“Her affections!”
“Why Don,” said Mr. Hamilton, “you must be blind.
Have you not observed Mr. Effingham's attentions?”
“Mr. Effingham!”
“And the manner in which she receives them?”
“No,” said the Captain, moodily; and too much cast down
to observe the twinkle of triumphant mischief in his companion's
eye.
“Why then you must be high gravel blind.”
“Diable!” cried the Captain, to Mr. Hamilton's great
delight.
“You see therefore your chances are not so good as you
thought.”
“Hum!” said the Captain, measuring himself in thought
against his rival.
“Effingham is her cousin, and you know cousins are proverbially
dangerous.”
The Captain made no reply, preserving a gloomy silence.
“I thought I'd mention it,” said his companion, in a
friendly and commiserating tone; “for we have taken so
many foxhunts together, that I naturally feel an interest in
all that concerns you.”
“Effingham!” muttered the Captain, buried in thought.
“Yes, yes; I say again you really must be blind—you
cannot see.”
“This troubles me, Hamilton,” said the Captain; “and
I don't mind telling you that I do admire Miss Henrietta.”
“Right! perfectly right!” replied Mr. Hamilton, shaking
with triumphant laughter; for one of the greatest delights
this worthy gentleman could experience was in the perpetration
of what is called a practical joke.
“You are quite sure of what you say?” continued the
Captain, gloomily twirling his moustache.
“Sure? can you ask!”
“Morbleu! 'tis too bad,” said the soldier; “I thought
Effingham was remarkable for staying away from the house.”
“Ah! a mistake, my friend; you are not there every
day.”
“True,” replied the Captain, with the same gloomy look.
“Now, do not attribute,” said Hamilton “to any bad
Of course I never deal in jokes of a practical nature
—oh no, my dear Don Moustachio—utterly impossible with
my frank and unsophisticated nature.”
And Mr. Jack Hamilton smiled with irony and triumph.
The Captain continued to think gloomily over what his
companion had just said, and they rode on in silence.
Hamilton could scarcely contain his laughter; and once
or twice was on the point of betraying himself. He felt
some remorse, too, and this also was near causing him to
inform the Captain that all this story was a mere effort of the
imagination. But suddenly he remembered more than one
joke of a practical and horse-play nature which Don Moustachio
had played at his expense, and his heart was again
hardened. He determined to leave his companion in ignorance
for two or three days at least; then have a party at
the Trap; relate the Captain's jokes at himself, and then detail
his revenge.
They reached in silence the opening of the road which
led from the main highway into Effingham Hall. Hamilton
drew rein.
“I must go in here, my dear Don,” he said; “come and
see your rival.”
“Thanks, sir,” said the soldier, gloomily, “but no, I
prefer proceeding on my way.”
Hamilton smiled.
“Ah, you are gravelled,” he said.
“Not at all,” said the Captain, frowning.
“You are angry.”
“Morbleu, not at all!” said Captain Ralph, looking
daggers.
“Well, that is right!” said his friend, ready to explode
with pent-up laughter; “don't suffer these little trifles to
disturb your equanimity. You are a bold cavalier, my dear
Don, and I should feel a dreadful amount of trepidation
were you my rival—had you selected in place of Miss Henrietta—well,
well, we will not speak of that. Do not think
that I bear you any grudge, and have been jesting; of
course I have not; we are boon companions, jolly hearts,
lads of metal, sworn friends;—bear up! Perhaps you
your warlike strategy might possibly end in defeating the
enemy, who, however, I should tell you as a friend, is a
very dangerous antagonist. He is her cousin—he is pale
and interesting—he is a man whom a woman may both admire
and pity; and you know very well, my dear Don, when
a woman experiences a sentiment of pity for a man what it
proverbially leads to! Don't be cast down, however. Let
me see you in a day or two.”
And shaking with laughter Mr. Jack Hamilton bowed to
his companion, who rode on moodily, and took his way toward
the Hall. When he had lost sight of the Captain, he uttered
a shout of laughter which made the wood echo again. He
had taken his revenge at a single blow; and we shall see
what came of it.”
36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE SEIGNEUR MORT-REYNARD CATCHES A TARTAR.
The triumphant Mr. Hamilton went on laughing, as we have
described, toward Effingham Hall. He soon reached the
mansion, and tying his horse, walked in, whistling merrily;
he seemed to be at peace with himself and all the world—to
be revelling in the quiet pleasure of a man who has an excellent
conscience, and has just overcome by pure force of
genius all opposed to him.
He found the front door open, and without ceremony entered,
and proceeded to the library, where he did not doubt
he should find some one of the family. He was not mistaken;
seated languidly by the window he saw Mr. Effingham.
Mr. Effingham was looking out of the window, and so
profound was his gloomy reverie, that he was not aware of
the entrance of his visitor. His brow was even paler than
usual—his lips were more weary—his head drooped, and his
eyes were half closed and full of shadow. His posture,
too, was very indicative of his mood; it betrayed languor,
indifference, utter prostration of spirits.
Mr. Effingham was not aroused from his gloomy and
his shoulder.
“Why Champ,” he cried, “thinking eternally? Really
you will get your blood in such a state with this keeping in
the house, that even running a fox won't set it going.”
Mr. Effingham shrunk from the hand, and replied coldly:
“I am not very well.”
“Not well!” cried Hamilton; “that's because you don't
ride out.”
“No, it is not,” said Mr. Effingham.
“I tell you it is,” said Hamilton, who honestly believed
what he said.
“Well,” replied Mr. Effingham, in the same cold and
calm voice, full of constraint, “have it as you will.”
Hamilton was not quick at observing moods, and engaged
in contemplating a picture of the winning horse at the last
Derby races, which the squire had just received from England,
did not pay much attention to his companion's accent.
“Ah, well!” he said at length, “perhaps not—perhaps
you are really unwell, but what a splendid second thigh that
fellow's got, by George!”
Mr. Effingham made no reply, gazing out of the window
again. Mr. Hamilton looked at him.
“Why, Champ, you really don't seem well to-day,” he
said.
“I am not.”
“You are brooding over something. By Jove! your
eyes are as deep and gloomy as Bob Ashell's after his losses
at the Jamestown races, where that consumed little horse of
Waters' beat Sir Archy. Bob had bet heavily on Sir Archy,
and he cursed Captain Waters' racer from Dan to Beersheba.”
“Ah?” said Mr, Effingham.
“Yes, indeed! and Howard said no less. They couldn't
deny that the Captain had complied with all the rules—given
them a full trial of his horse before the races—shown Selim's
pedigree, and all that; but it seems the Arabian didn't
begin running until the second heat on the race-day; and
then you ought to have seen hin. By George! sir, he fairly
picked up the miles and tossed 'em behind him, and Waters
heat.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Effingham, with the same cold and
constrained air.
“Yes, indeed,” continued Hamilton, carried away by his
mental contemplation of Selim, “but the Captain absolutely
declined —where the devil does he get all his money?—and
prefers riding him. By Jove! just think of a man's riding
a horse worth a thousand pounds every day!”
And Mr. Hamilton groaned at the Captain's extravagance.
“I have just left him,” he continued, “and I ran a good
joke on him, which I'll tell you another time—by George!
it will make you die a-laughing.”
And Mr. Hamilton burst into a roar of laughter, which
did not relax Mr. Effingham's face, however, in the remotest
degree.
“The villain has been overcoming me lately on a variety
of occasions,” Hamilton went on. “The last was the other
day, but I had better not mention that: the explanation
would be awkward.”
And Mr. Hamilton laughed again.
“We have been over to Mr. Lee's,” he continued, “and
you never did hear such an infernal clatter as those two
men kept up, with their wearisome political discussions.”
“Indeed?” repeated Mr. Effingham, like an icicle.
“Yes, sir, by George! they nearly drove me crazy.
Nothing but the Stamp Act this, sir! the Stamp Act that,
sir! the Stamp Act the other, sir! the Stamp Act, here,
there, every where: in the middle, all around, on both sides!
In the same way it was the Navigation Laws this, that, and
the other! The opening of the House, and the Governor's
speech! The seven years' war, which I was in hopes had all
been fought and forgotten! Then it was this nightmare of
the Stamp Act again! By Jove! when the time comes, I
shall be ready to fight if need be, but where is the use of
this eternal wearisome discussion? Don't it weary you?”
“I am not fond of politics,” said Mr. Effingham, more
and more coldly: he was about to add a “sir” to his sentence,
but refrained.
“By George!” said Hamilton, “I believe you are fond
of nothing on earth.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Of what are you fond?”
“Of quiet,” said Mr. Effingham, in a freezing tone.
Hamilton did not observe it.
“Ah, that means you do not like to engage in these eternal
discussions. Well, we sympathize then.”
Mr. Effingham inclined his head coldly, making no
reply.
“It don't follow, however, that you need engage in them
when you visit Mr. Lee,” continued his visitor; “a man is
always at liberty to escape to the ladies.”
Mr. Effingham was silent.
“There is Henrietta always ready to discuss fashions,
travel, books, every thing but politics.”
Mr. Effingham continued still silent, but his breast
heaved.
“Of course Clare would not amuse you,” Hamilton
went on, “absorbed as she naturally is in our approaching—
hem! see what a fellow I am!”
And Mr. Hamilton seemed to wish his tongue in Guinea,
Jericho, or other remote place, where it would not easily be
got at. Mr. Effingham turned away his head, and his brow
darkened.
“Clare is a woman out of a thousand,” continued his
visitor, “just the girl for a jolly fellow, not too soft and
lackadaisical, but quite soft enough to smooth down those
bachelor asperities which interfere with a fellow's standing
in society. She is a finer girl than any within fifty leagues,
though I say it.
He did not observe Mr. Effingham's frown.
“You would be benefited now,” continued Mr. Hamilton,
“if you would go over there oftener, and not persist in shutting
yourself up here so secluded and lonely. By George!
you'll expire of weariness.”
No reply: but the brow grew darker.
“Come, tell me how this ridiculous habit has grown on
you?—why don't you go and see Henrietta?”
Mr. Effingham's eye flashed.
“She's a splendid girl.”
No reply.
“Of course I don't speak of Clare: by the bye, you used
to pay her some attention—”
He did not observe the flush rising in the cheek.
“You were even sweethearts in childhood. How things
change in this world: women don't continue to like a man
because they were fond of him when he was a boy.”
Mr. Hamilton was treading upon dangerous ground:
Mr. Effingham was losing his self-control rapidly, as his
heaving breast, and eyes filling slowly with a lurid fire,
plainly indicated.
“Strange! isn't it?” continued Hamilton, “that after
having at her feet so many elegant fellows, Clare should—
well, well, where am I rushing? I can't keep any thing
secret. But the more I study these women, the more I am
puzzled. I can understand you, now, and 'most any man—
but a woman? By George! that's beyond me—they're too
deep. Now, I should have thought Clara would have liked
—some people, better than, well, say, other people: that's
non-committal. By George! you are pale, Effingham! How
this staying in the house is hurting you! You are growing
a perfect girl.”
Mr. Effingham was indeed pale, but this pallor sprung
from rage: every word that Hamilton uttered was another
dagger plunged into his heart, and these were poisoned daggers—poisoned
with contemptuous coolness.
Hamilton assumed a commiserating air, and said with a
cool and easy smile,
“Why do you stay from Riverhead? Clare's present
relation toward a nameless individual should not keep you
from the house. Come, tell me why!”
The measure was full.
Mr. Effingham rose to his feet, and said haughtily, and
with flashing eyes,
“Mr. Hamilton, be good enough to shape your discourse
in such a manner, that I may not be compelled to insult
you in my own house!”
“Insult me!” cried Hamilton.
“Yes, sir! your air of astonishment does not deceive me
—I am not the dupe of your good-humored surprise at my
address. You know well, sir, that I have cause to insult
beyond conception, by depriving me of the heart of the only
woman I have ever really loved, you choose to come here,
and, under the protection of this roof, utter your insulting
and ironical speeches in my very teeth! By heaven, sir, I
will not endure it! I am not sudden in quarrel, sir, and
have no desire to engage in any altercation; but, beware,
sir! Woe to the man who strikes me, as you have done,
through the heart!—let him not count upon a very lengthy
forbearance! You affect to feel surprise, sir—you look
shocked! Very well, you are at liberty to assume any expression
of countenance you fancy! I have endeavored to
prevent my feelings from mastering me, sir—I have more
than once curbed my rage, and my despair—yes, in my despair,
it is humiliating to say it, but I wish to be frank—I
have more than once concealed the emotions produced in me
by your unfeeling and unworthy allusions; but I now say to
you, sir, that my patience is exhausted. I shall not always
put a rein upon my anger—I will not attempt it. Go, sir!
and laugh at me with that lady who has chosen you in my
place, as she had the right to do. Go, sir! and mock, deride,
sprinkle your ambiguous voices, and despise me to your
heart's desire. But beware, sir, how you come hither to
taunt and jest at me—to make me the butt of your wit and
humor—to insist that I too shall join in the laugh at myself,
and wait until you have gone, before I tear my breast
and curse you!”
It was impossible to describe the passionate emotion with
which these words were uttered; Mr. Effingham looked
dangerous; his eyes flashed; his lip writhed; his haughty
brow was covered with perspiration; and his teeth were
clenched. As he uttered the last words, he surveyed Hamilton
with one of those haughty glances, which seem like
flashes of fire, and for a moment hesitated whether he should
add any thing to what he had uttered. The struggle was
brief; he restrained himself, and bowing with cold dignity,
he left the room.
Hamilton for a moment continued gazing after him completely
dumbfoundered, and in no little anger. Then as he
disappeared, the fox-hunter rose, hesitated a moment, grasped
his hat and whip furiously, and hastily left the house.
“By Jove!” who would have thought it?” he said. “I
thought, however, it was wrong. This joking will ruin me!”
And uttering a prolonged whistle, indicative of anger and
dissatisfaction, he mounted his horse and rode away.
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
A COUNTRY CHURCH IN 1765.
If the reader will deign to cast his eyes back, he will see that
the events we have just related, occurred on days immediately
succeeding each other. Captain Ralph had finished
Lanky's business on Friday morning; the picnic in the
woods had taken place upon Saturday forenoon, that day
being holiday for the Cornstalk regiment; then this same
Saturday had seen the soldier on his way to Riverhead, and
had witnessed his defeat by the fox-hunter. Lastly, the
scene we have this moment related, occurred in the afternoon,
at the Hall, as the reader knows.
We now beg leave to continue our history, with the
events of the next day—Sunday; and for the purpose of
connecting the narrative by links so plain that they will need
no commentary at our hands, shall accompany the Effingham
Hall carriage to church.
The chariot drove up to the old edifice, which was gilded
by the fresh light of the pure May morning, and deposited
its freight at one of the doors, at which stood a group of
young men, whose self-imposed duty was to assist the ladies
from their chariots when they arrived. The chariot contained
the whole family from the Hall, who looked very calm
and happy, with the exception of Mr. Effingham, whose face
was unusually pale, and all entered the old church and
devoutly knelt. Perhaps a word of description would not be
inappropriate here; for these old houses of the Lord
differed, we need not say, materially from those of the present
day and generation. Christ Church was an old building of
discolored stone, and above it waved the boughs of a great
elm; the windows and doors were surmounted by little roofs,
so to speak, supported by iron rods; a stone slab lay before
pews were enormously high, and with perfectly straight backs.
In these, the audience were almost buried. On the walls of
the chancel were inscribed the ten commandments—gilt
letters on an azure ground; and below the reading desk and
pulpit, stood the box and bench of the “clark,” whose duty
was to make the responses. The pulpit was very lofty, and
in the shape of a tub; it was reached by two circular flights
of steps, and above it was stretched a canopy, on the nether
side of which a golden star irradiated, while upon the summit,
a dove expanded its wings, symbolizing the spirit of the
Holy Ghost.
The old edifice, as we have said, was overshadowed by
the boughs of a great elm, and beneath this elm were a number
of monuments, which told the virtues of those who slept
beneath. Some of the tombstones were adorned with coats
of arms, and flourishing panegyrics, which make the dead
more noble and perfect than the great father of Manrique;
—many an armiger was made matchless and superior to
Bayard the reproachless knight; many a noble lady had her
charities narrated in that grand eulogistic rhetoric of the
past, and still lived in the eyes of all, through the veiled
head carved on the stone, with clasped hands. But then
there were other memorials which more deeply impressed
the beholder—plain stones, indicating the resting-place of
some child, with those simple inscriptions which affect men
so strangely as they wander through these resting-places of
the dead; for all that is sublime is simple. Great feeling
does not rant; and these small white headstones seemed to
have more of the other world about them, so to speak, than
the fine monuments which, though the feeling of those who
erected them were doubtless quite as pure, yet seemed to
cling still to the pomps and vanities, dead now to those who
slept.
The tombstones, white, against the green velvety grass,
made the churchyard pure and happy, not gloomy. They
looked calm and peaceful; and the good Mr. Christian's flock
listened more attentively, as they murmured the responses
more devoutly, for having before their eyes those memorials
of rest and peace. And children played about them: men
came and read the inscriptions, and mused. thinking of
edifice seemed better pleased to have the marble headstones
there. So the old mansion rested quietly beneath
its whispering elm, among the graves. It looked calm and
hopeful, giving promise of another world.
Mr. Christian's sermon was upon humility, and the danger
of pride and vaingloriousness—of those moods of mind when
the heart and brain fancy themselves equal to every thing,
and so spurn all humble thoughts. He spoke of that sublime
humility of our Saviour, when he washed his disciples'
feet; and the low, eloquent voice was full of soothing, tender
emotion. He then presented the evils arising from a
haughty and overbearing spirit, and denounced them with
impassioned vigor: he branded the proud and self-willed
man until the picture grew hateful and repulsive; he then
depicted the strength and greatness of humility, even in a
worldly sense: the overwhelming power of conscious weakness.
Finally; he enforced his doctrines by the Saviour's
command to men, to grow like little children in hnmility if they
would enter into the kingdom of heaven. All this the worthy
pastor enforced with a mild strength which produced a
strong impression upon his bearers. When he raised his
hands to bless his flock before dismissing them, all hearts
felt purer for his teachings, and charity and humility were
in every face.
Then succeeded that lengthy shaking of hands and interchange
of neighborly gossip which characterizes, we believe,
all country churches. And so while Miss Alethea was inquiring
about a variety of interesting matters within, with
her lady friends, the squire laughed without, strutting about
in his fine Sunday suit, and not imagining for a single moment
that he wanted humility:—the preacher's sermon was
meant for other people.
Mr. Effingham leaned against the trunk of the great elm,
pale, haughty, and only half returning the bows made to
him. Once, however, he did rise suddenly erect and make
a proud and ceremonious inclination of his head:—Mr. Hamilton
had bowed to him in passing. Beyond this, he showed
scarcely any consciousness of where he was. Absorbed in
his gloomy reverie, he paid as little attention to the brilliant
groups of fair ladies, who looked with no slight admiration
That sermon had not produced the least impression on him—
he had not heard it even; for near him sat Clare, and all his
gloom had returned at sight of her.
He loved her now a thousand fold more than ever: she
was dearer to him than all the world beside: the sight of
her brought back to him every happy day he had spent in
the past—the knowledge of the fact that she was lost to
him renewed his most passionate anguish. It was a singular
spectacle which he presented, standing thus in the middle
of the gay, laughing crowd, as perfectly isolated as if that
crowd did not exist, and nothing were around him but the
calm white tombstones. His brow, as we have said, was
pale, his eyes were shadowy, his lips compressed; he might
have been taken for one of those characters of romance who
throw their fiery passions and wild natures into the tranquil
stream of ordinary life, and lash it into foam. And, in Mr.
Effingham's case, this, as we know, was not very far from
the fact;—he had defied society for a woman, carried that
woman off, and done many other things which much better
suited heroes of poetry or opera grandees, than a plain Virginia
citizen;—and now we see in his face the ravages of
that wild, passionate character, so dangerous when aroused.
The congregation slowly dispersed, and the Riverhead
carriage and that of the squire drew up together. Mr. Effingham
saw a form that made him tremble pass before him.
His hand for a moment sustained the white arm, covered
only with a diaphanous lace, as he assisted her into the
chariot, he knew not how. A shadowy mist seemed to envelope
all from which a pair of soft blue eyes, and a young
girl's blushing cheeks emerged—and then the four horses
were whipped up, he heard distinctly the crack of the lash,
and the vision disappeared. He saw two cavaliers, one
riding upon each side—the one was smiling the other gloomy.
The smiling one was Mr. Hamilton, who was talking through
the window to Clare, and looking back occasionally at Mr.
Effingham, who ground his teeth. The gloomy cavalier was
Captain Ralph, who had caught a smile directed by Henrietta
towards Mr. Effingham, and totally unseen by that gentleman.
We may hazard here the observation that lovers are
and ordinary courtesy. Mr. Hamilton was laughing at his
friend, the Captain was quarrelling with a smile of simple
courtesy.
Mr. Effingham entered the Effingham chariot with the
squire, Miss Alethea, and Kate, and Will mounted his
pony. The old sexton locked the church, and, putting his
spectacles away, tottered homeward. Church was over.
38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE CHILD AND THE PORTRAIT.
The great clock at the Hall has just struck ten; and those
echoes, which seem to wake as mortals go to sleep, answer
it through the shadowy apartments.
Mr. Effingham and Kate are seated in the library reading;
a few twigs in the great fireplace crackle and sing as
they crumble into white ashes; the burning embers slowly
donning those snowy hoods which shroud them when they
are about to die. A faint blue smoke occasionally curls upward,
and the old grotesque brass handirons cast shadows.
For a time, nothing is heard but the singing of the
fire, which has not yet mastered one or two sappy twigs.
At last Mr. Effingham lays down his book, and utters a
sigh which attracts Kate's attention.
The child raises her head from the Sunday-school volume
she has been reading.
Their eyes meet: she gazes at him wistfully—at the
pale brow, the sad lips, the weary eyes: his head droops.
The child closes her book, softly approaches him, and
lays her hand upon his shoulder. Mr. Effingham smiles
sadly, and passes his hand slowly over the bright locks of
the child.
“What is the matter, cousin?” asked Kate, “I don't
like to hear you sighing so.”
“Nothing,” he says.
“I am afraid you are not happy,” Kate says, wistfully,
“and I cannot feel happy if you are not.”
Mr. Effingham only presses the little form more closely
with his encircling arm.
Kate continues, laying her cheek on his shoulder, and
looking up softly into his shadowy eyes:
“I don't think you are well, dear cousin, and it grieves
me. Indeed, indeed it does.”
“I am not sick—no, not sick,” he murmurs, “but—”
And his hand unconsciously seeks his heart and rests
there.
The child understands at once, with the marvellous instinct
of affection.
“That is the worst kind of sickness,” she says, in a low,
tender voice, “heart-sickness.”
“Do you think my heart is sick?” he says with a wistful
smile, his head drooping more and more.
“I don't know,” the child answers, turning aside her
face.
“I should be very unhappy were that so,” he continued.
“Yes,” murmurs Kate.
“And still more unhappy, if you, dear, ever felt what—”
He does not finish—the form of the child is agitated
slightly.
“Men can bear having their hopes all disappointed,—
their affections chilled,—their lives rendered dark and
gloomy by those afflicting trials, which they must pass
through in existence,” he goes on thoughtfully, “but children
should not feel them;—were you to be distressed,
Katy, I think I should find it harder to bear than all.”
The child's face turns away still.
“I pray you may never feel the afflictions I have gone
through—formerly,” he says.
The head nestles closer and the tender form shakes.
“What is the matter, dear?” he asks, observing this.
Kate makes no reply.
“Have I made you feel badly? See how thoughtless I
am! Why, Kate—crying?”
She leans upon his shoulder, sobbing; her eyes are full
of tears.
“I can't help it, cousin,” she murmurs; “I know it is
very foolish; I am only a child—don't mind me.”
“Only a child, Katy? Ah! if I could go back to the
cry, dear?”
“I won't,” says Kate, sobbing and wiping her eyes; “it
is not right to cry, but you know I can't bear to see you
distressed.”
“I have got over it—if I was so,” he replies, caressing
the child's hair; “come, now, Kate—don't cry.”
“I will not,” says the child, and she dries her tears, and
slowly becomes calm again.
“I am very foolish,” she murmurs, “but I won't give
way any more. It is not right for us to give way to all our
feelings, and I didn't think I should. But I was thinking
of what you had suffered, and I couldn't help it. I'm done
now, and don't mind me, cousin Champ. It is all over.”
The low words die away in the quiet room, and there is
a silence, the man's hand still thoughtfully caressing the
child's hair.
“Kate,” he says at last, “I think I would like to hear
you read a little from your Bible; I did not listen in church
to-day.”
“Oh! yes,” says Kate, “I will get it presently.”
And in a moment she has returned, and is seated in his
lap, with the book open.
“Will you hear this?” she says, with a soft look of her
dewy eyes, and pointing as she speaks to a passage on the
page.
“Any thing, Kate,” he says.
And the child, leaning her head on his breast, commences
reading in a low, earnest voice, slowly and feelingly:
“`But he was wounded for our transgressions; he was
bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace
was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed.
“`All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned
every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him
the iniquity of us all.
“`He was oppressed and he was afflicted, yet he opened
not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter;
and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened
not his mouth.
“`He was taken from prison and from judgment; and
the land of the living: for the transgression of my people
was he stricken.'”
The soft low voice paused, and the child seems to be absorbed
in thought: her eyes go back, and she reads lowly:
“`He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief; and we hid, as it were, our
faces from him: he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
“`Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows;
yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and
afflicted.
“`He was wounded for our transgressions; he was
bruised for our iniquities;'” repeated the child, closing the
book and fixing her eyes thoughtfully upon the fire;
“`bruised for our iniquities.'”
The low, earnest voice dies away into a whisper, and she
is silent.
He looks at the thoughtful little face for some moments,
and says:
“Katy, I wish you could make me good.”
“I? I, cousin Champ?” she says.
“Yes, indeed; like yourself.”
Kate shakes her head sadly.
“I am not good,” she replies.
“If you are bad, what am I? The idea is not agreeable,”
he murmurs.
“What did you say, cousin?”
“That is just what I wished to hear you read,” he says,
sighing; “and now, Kate, remember what I asked you once
upon a time!”
“What, cousin?” says the child, thoughtfully.
“I asked you to tell me what heaven was—what you
thought it was.”
“Did you?—but I don't know.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it is a place where every body loves God.”
“Yes,” he says.
“And that's why I think it must be happier than this
world, where we don't love him enough. Oh! cousin
Champ,” she goes on, thoughtfully, “what a happy place
heaven must be. I think of it in this way. I think of the
happiest things we have. And then, when I feel so calm
and grateful, I say to myself: `all this is nothing to heaven!'
For in heaven, you know, nothing can ever hurt us: here
we have to suffer, and sometimes the people we love do not
love us, you know, and we are afflicted and distressed; or
they change, you know, from loving us, and don't care for
us any more: or they grow sick and die; and all this interferes
with our happiness. It is not so in heaven, the Bible
says. There we love God, and you know God does not
change if we obey and love him: he will always love us
dearly if we love and fear him. There is no sickness in
heaven, and no affliction—and then, again, think of eternity!
Eternity! I don't know how to think about it, but the
thought of eternal happiness seems very plain to me. In
this world, we can't live very long, you know, and no matter
how happy we are, we must soon die and give all up.
In heaven, we won't die ever, you know, and we will not
suffer, but be happy and love every body for ever and
ever.”
Kate is silent; she is thinking.
“I try to be good,” she continues, thoughtfully, “and I
pray mamma to look down on me and keep me good if she
can; but I'm afraid I'm very bad. I don't think about God
enough and the Saviour, and I am too thoughtless, as we
were in the woods yesterday, you know—when we had our
picnic. But I can't help laughing when I feel like it easily;
but I mustn't be too thoughtless. I try and think about
heaven, and how happy mamma and papa are, you know; and
how good Jesus was to us, to be `bruised for our iniquities.'
Oh! think,” repeats the calm, low voice, “he was bruised,
cousin Champ—`bruised for our iniquities.'”
And the child is silent again.
He looks at the tender, thoughtful face, and from it to the
portrait over the fireplace.
“Strikingly alike!” he murmurs, and then adds aloud:
“Yes, dear, we are very bad to forget it—as I do always:
well, well, you have made me feel much happier, and now you
had better go to bed.”
Kate raises her head, kisses him according to the Virginia
shoulder for a moment, slowly retires.
He looks after her for some minutes: raises his eyes
again to the portrait: looks at the little Bible: hesitates,
buried in thought. Then he rises suddenly, goes to the
table, opens his portfolio, and taking a pen and a sheet of
paper, writes:
“I regret the harshness and passion of my address to you
yesterday. I trust you will not permit it to remain in your
recollection. I have no calmness on that subject, and for
this reason must ask you never again to allude to it. I am
afraid of myself. For God's sake! don't arouse the devil in
me when I am trying to lull it, at the risk of breaking my
heart in the attempt.
“I have nothing more to add.
Then folding up this note, he directed it to Mr. Hamilton,
placed it on the mantel-piece, and with a long, gloomy,
sorrowful look, regarded the portrait of his mother. That
portrait seemed to smile on him—the mild eyes to bless him:
those eyes seemed living once again, and the lips almost
moved.
A profound sigh shook his bosom, and his head drooped:
but when he retired his heart was not so heavy, and that
sombre bitterness of mood had passed away. The old, sad
look came back again, and the moon lit up the pale countenance
with its light, and smiled.
The weary heart slept tranquilly.
39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
HOW CAPTAIN WATERS WAS CHALLENGED TO MORTAL COMBAT.
“The manner in which Captain Ralph vituperated Lanky,
upon that occasion, was positively shocking. In the first
considering Lanky's inoffensive character; in the
third place, it was too great an expenditure of genius upon an
humble personage, and an ordinary occasion.
“The Captain swore philologically, and with an eye to
ethnology. He proceeded geographically, first exhausting
that department of Spanish and Portuguese, after which he
went on to France, and swore that oath-loving land quite
through, from Gascony and Provence to Normandy. He
did not neglect Germany and Prussia, and paid due honor
to Italy, where the science has perhaps arrived at its climax.
And in all this flood there was no mixture of the deeply
impure. The Captain's expletives were of that pleasant and
humorous description, which are not inconsistent with a very
charitable nature, and we may in a single word describe the
handling of this great master, by saying that he swore poetically
and from the imagination, not coarsely and from envy
and hatred.
“Having exhausted Syria and Persia, the Captain modestly
paused: he had not travelled further, and great as was
his ill-humor, he would not trespass on his fancy. Instead
of doing so, he seized his sword, and placing himself in position,
called on Lanky to defend himself. Lanky replied by
mentioning his master's military title, with an `Oh!' before
it; and this not being satisfactory, the Captain lunged furiously
at him, and several times grazed the unfortunate Lanky,
who uttered cries of despair and terror, as he shrunk and
curled himself up to avoid the imminent sword point, flashing
like a fiery serpent's head before his breast.”
Thus far the author of the MS.
It is scarcely necessary for us, in explanation of Captain
Ralph's ill-humor, to do more than refer to the scene between
himself and Mr. Hamilton, narrated in former pages of this
history. The present outburst occurred on the Monday immediately
following; and in it the Captain poured out all
the wrath which had been slowly gathering, like a storm, for
forty-eight hours.
When he had nearly terrified Lanky out of his wits, he
calmly restored his sword to its scabbard, and sat down.
“Oh, Cap'n,” said Lanky, “did anybody ever see—”
“Basta! you villain, don't appeal to me!”
“Oh, Cap'n!”
“Off with you!—I'm in a man-eating humor. Stay if
you dare, you rascal, and I'll fry you!”
“Fry me?”
“Yes, morbleu!”
Lanky meditated for a moment, and thought how he
would feel if this terrible threat was carried into effect. The
idea was disagreeable in the highest degree, and he made a
step towards the door.
“Stay!” thundered the Captain, “the sight of that pine
knot head, you Scaramouch, keeps me from having a fit of
the blue devils.”
“The blue devils, Cap'n?” asked Lanky, pausing.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you subjic to 'em?”
“No, you rascal: but I am threatened with them. One
thing consoles me, however: threatened men live long.”
Lanky inclined his head, in token of acquiescence.
“Sim Trabbles said he was goin' to cut me up into sossige
once,” said Lanky, “an' I aint cut up yit.”
“Well, sir, what do you fancy I care for you and Mr.
Trabbles? Sink Trabbles! you rascal!”
“Oh, Cap'n!”
“Dance, there!”
“Me dance, Cap'n?”
“Yes, this moment.”
Lanky looked around, groaning.
“They aint no music. Oh, Cap'n,” he added, “what's
the matter with you?”
“I'm in an ill-humor, you Scaramouch—terribly angry.”
“Cap'n,” observed Lanky.
“Sir?”
“What is a Skarrymush?”
The Captain regarded his retainer for a moment with
contemptuous pity.
“Look in that mirror,” he said.
Lanky obeyed.
“Well, sir?” said Lanky.
“You have all the reply I deign to give you! Now take
yourself elsewhere, you gobemouche.”
“Gobmush!” cried Lanky.
The Captain aimed at him with a volume that was lying
deeply wounded at being called those two dreadful names,
ending with “mouche.”
Left alone, the Captain twirled his moustaches, and relapsed
into gloom again. It was a splendid day of May, but
the Captain did not see the sunlight; the birds sang among
the forest boughs—the Captain did not hear them: the river
lapped upon the shore, the white-capped waves laughing for
joy: the Captain did not heed them. For the worthy fellow
was troubled; he had, for the first time, found opposed to him
a dangerous rival; he was doubtful what course to pursue,
for, perhaps, the first time in his life—that life so filled with
shocks, and blaring trumpets, and quick blows.
He remained silent and motionless for half an hour:
then his eye suddenly lighted up, and rising he opened a
drawer, took out pen, ink and paper, and dipping the goose-quill
into the inkstand, began to write, in large, heavy letters,
and with great rapidity.
Let us look over his shoulder: these words appear beneath
his flying pen:
This is an unhappy world, and devious are the
ways thereof. Man—especially a rude fellow, morbleu!—
knows not what to do often; he is puzzled; he hesitates and
stands still. Do you ask me what I mean by this small moral
discourse? Parbleu! I mean that I am the rude fellow
and the puzzled man.
“If you were an ordinary rival, basta! there would be
few words. I would solicit the honor of being allowed an
opportunity to pink you; and there 'twould end. I'd go
on in my course or fall: and so finish. But I can't well run
you through. Diable! I should say not. You are her cousin,
you are a bon compagnon, you smile when we meet.
See the difficulty.
“Ah! were you only not unfortunately so placed—for
how can I act? I put it to you as a man of sense and reason,
is there any opening? Indicate it, my dear companion
—zounds! the sword shall not touch my hand unless I am
compelled.
“See, now, I am a rude soldier, a mere war animal, a
I can venture on that general description. Well, now, what
can I do? I beg you, mon ami, to give me your ideas:—
what say you to a bargain that we shall see the charming
mademoiselle only on alternate days? to avoid collisions,
you observe. These little matters are disagreeable, and often
end in an appeal to the toasting iron, morbleu!
“For me, I don't conceal the fact that I shall prosecute
the war with vigor. I have advanced to the trenches, and
the next movement will be to hoist the ladders: then, the
trumpet and the assault. I know nothing beyond this—I'm
a mere baby—tonnere! I am as innocent as a child. Therefore,
my good companion, come to my assistance. We are
rivals—basta! don't let us have any ambiguities, or concealments.
I would conquer, I would see you defeated; Voila
tout! But I would do so without placing myself in position
—you understand—I am tired of fighting every thing out:
I am becoming decidedly a man of peace, a quiet and moral
citizen—I wish, even, as you may understand, to become a
respectable married man.
“I thought the chances were tolerable, but diable! I find
I have a rival whom I cannot despise if I would. You are a
good-looking, gallant fellow, morbleu! and just the man to interest
a woman, as a friend of mine observed lately. I honestly
confess that I'm afraid of you. Observe again! You
are her cousin; parlous adds companion: yet I do not despair.
“I write this—which I send by Lanky, simply that it
may not resemble an invitation to the duello—I write, I was
going on to say, to ask you, bon ami, bon compagnon, how we
are to arrange the matter. I'm weary of cut! thrust! and
then blood.
“Send back your answer by the Scaramouch who brings
you this. Toute à vous.
Having read this letter over hurriedly, and finding it express
his ideas with tolerable distinctness, the Captain summoned
Lanky, who made his appearance with an air of dreadful
apprehension, for the vision of himself frying had produced
a more and more disagreeable impression, the more he
that he was only wanted to officiate in the character of a
messenger—not at an auto da fe.
“Take this to Effingham Hall, and deliver it to Mr. Effingham,”
he said. “See here upon the back `Mr. Effingham,
Effingham Hall.' Then wait for an answer, you villain.”
Lanky placed the letter in his pouch, put on his hat, and
mounting the cart-horse, set off.
The Captain sat down again, listless, and venting morbleus:
and very doubtful whether his letter would answer the
desired object.
“But what could I do!” he said, “parbleu! I am checkmated.
I don't want to fight Effingham—I don't want to
have any further altercation with one related to Ma'mselle
Henrietta; ah! but I wish still less to be beaten. Morbleu!
was there ever such an unfortunate event!”
And the Captain relapsed into silence and thought.
He was aroused by the sound of hoofs, and looking out
saw Lanky dismounting. Hours had passed without his being
conscious of the fact.
“Well, well, the answer!” he cried impatiently.
“Here it is, sur,” said Lanky; and drawing forth a billet
he politely presented it to the soldier. Captain Ralph tore
it open and read:
Your letter is offensive—I will not make any derogatory
agreement with you, sir. I would rather end all at
once, and I hereby call on you to meet me, sir, this very day,
at the Banks' Cross-roads. At five o'clock this evening, I
shall await you.
“I have the honor to be, sir,
The Captain stood aghast—read the letter over, then
crushing it in his hand, fell into a rage, which caused Lanky
the most dreadful trepidation.
“Morbleu!” cried the Captain, “fighting is his forte, is
it!—he would end the matter so, would he! Very well, we
shall see.”
And seizing his sword he buckled it on, and ordered
obeyed, trembling, and in a quarter of an hour Captain Ralph
was on his way to Hamilton's, where he expected to find some
second, in case Mr. Hamilton was engaged to act for Mr.
Effingham.
40. CHAPTER XL
ON THE GROUND.
The fox-hunter displayed the most unaffected astonishment at
the Captain's communication, and would at once have revealed
the trick he had played; but a sight of the letter stopped
him.
After reading it over twice, he shook his head mournfully,
and said it was a most unhappy affair—but really, he did
not see any other mode of settling it. Then he hastily left
the room, and a roar of laughter succeeded; immediately after
which Mr. Hamilton's voice was heard reprimanding the
servant, who had no doubt uttered this disrespectful sound
—in a tone of dignified astonishment.
Soon afterwards, dinner was announced, and Hamilton
advised his friend not to drink much, as it would unsteady
his hand in the coming encounter.
“I will not conceal from you, Captain,” he said, “that I
think it will be a mortal duel. Effingham is a bitterly passionate
man, and hates you profoundly. Come now, my dear
fellow, set down that glass of claret.”
The Captain drank it off.
“Basta! I've tried all sorts of fighting,” he said, “and
there's some reason in what you say. But a glass of claret?
Morbleu! I believe you are laughing.”
“I would not be guilty of laughing, at such a crisis,” said
Hamilton, “when one, or perhaps two, of my friends are
about to fall.”
“Well, well,” said the Captain, “we shall see.”
And he remained quite composed until the hour of half-past
four had arrived. Having the duel thus forced on him,
the worthy fellow's mind was quite at ease.
Hamilton had the horses brought, and the two men
mounted.
“Banks' Cross-roads is a good place for a duel,” said
Hamilton, sighing.
“Ah?” said the Captain, twirling his moustache.
“Yes, my dear fellow—yes,” replied Hamilton, “it is a
most eligible position to fall upon—gracefully, you know.”
“I hope to stand up,” said the Captain.
“Well well, it is possible you may not be killed,” continued
his companion, with great commiseration in his voice.
“Effingham is probably out of practice, and you stand some
chance.”
“Some chance? I?” said the Captain, “why, Hamilton,
just as sure as you sit in that saddle, I shall kill or disarm
him. Basta! he has forced it on me.”
“I am glad you are so confident,” said Hamilton, “but I
think it my duty to say that Effingham was considered one
of the best swordsmen in London.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“I'm glad;” replied the Captain, “all the more satisfactory.
Let us get on, comrade!”
And putting spurs to his horse, the Captain galloped onward
followed by Hamilton, who looked at him—when their
eyes met—with pitying regard.
They reached the cross-roads just as the Captain's repeater
indicated the hour of five.
Mr. William Effingham, with his friend Thomas Alston,
Esq., was standing on a grassy hillock at the point where the
ways meet.
“Well, my little man,” said the Captain, goodnaturedly,
“did your brother send you to announce his coming?”
“Did you address me, sir?” asked Mr. William Effingham,
arranging his diminutive frill.
“Morbleu!—I certainly did, petit monsieur.”
“Be good enough to allow our respective seconds to arrange
the preliminaries of the combat,” observed Mr. Effingham,
with an important air.
“Our seconds!—the combat!—the preliminaries!” cried
the Captain. “Where is Mr. Effingham?”
“I am he, sir.”
“You!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wrote me that answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Captain laid back on his horse and shook with
laughter. Hamilton echoed it. Master Will looked hostile
and indignant.
“You received my letter!” cried the Captain.
“I did, sir.”
“You answered it?”
“I have replied to that question already, sir!”
“Why, it was directed to your brother, monsieur.”
“It was directed to `Mr. Effingham,' and that is my
name, sir.”
“Lanky gave it to you, then?” said the Captain, rolling
about with laughter.
“He sent it in by a servant, sir, and I returned my reply
through the same channel.”
The Captain remained silent for a moment, then bursting
into a roar of laughter, louder than any previous roar,
cried:
“Well! mine has been a wild life, full of odd adventures,
but it was left for this day to bring the most splendid
comedy to light I ever acted in! Basta! Did any one
ever—”
“Never!” cried Hamilton.
“And you were ready to fight me with that huge sword!”
cried the Captain to Mr. William Effingham, who indeed had
buckled around his waist his brother's largest rapier.
“I was, sir,” he said.
“And on what quarrel?”
“We are rivals, sir,” said Will, “you confess it in your
letter.”
“Rivals!”
“Yes, sir.”
`How, in heaven's name?”
“I am not ignorant, sir,” replied Mr. William Effingham,
with lofty dignity, “of the advances you have made to
my cousin, Miss Catherine Effingham. I have not been
blind, sir, to the fact, either at the Hall on a former occasion,
when she rode behind you, or at Riverhead, the residence
costume, nor last Saturday, sir, when she hastened to you as
you passed upon horseback, near our party, and gave her
hand to you. You seem to be about to deny this, sir: it is
useless: the death of one of us will end all. Mr. Alston
will arrange the terms of the combat with Mr. Hamilton.”
And Mr. William Effingham drew himself up and assumed
an air of noble dignity.
The Captain and his friend had nearly expired with
pent-up laughter during this discourse. But the soldier
suppressed his agitation: when his opponent had finished,
he replied with a low bow, and in a voice of respectful
solemnity:
“I beg to assure you, Mr. Effingham, that your suspicion
that I designed, or now design, paying my addresses
to your beautiful cousin, Miss Effingham, is wholly a mistake.
Much as I admire that fair and lovely lady, I should
never place myself in your way.”
“Hum!” said his enemy.
“I therefore repeat, and here declare in the presence of
yourself, of Mr. Hamilton, and of your friend, Mr. Alston,
to whom I beg leave to present the assurance of my highest
regard, and most distinguished consideration—I repeat, I
say, in the presence of all here assembled, that I renounce
all pretensions to the hand of Miss Effingham from this
time forth. If any paper is necessary to be signed, I will
sign it: I will, “parole d'honneur! morbleu!”
And Captain Ralph bowed again, stuffing his frill into
his mouth.
“That is perfectly satisfactory, Captain Waters, and I
offer you my friendship,” said Will, brightening up.
“I accept it with delight,” said the Captain: and bending
down, the mortal opponents shook hands.
“And now I think my hoax has proceeded far enough,”
said Hamilton, laughing.
“Your hoax?” said his friend.
“All I said the other day, returning from Riverhead,
was a pure invention,” said honest Jack, laughing triumphantly,
“and now, my dear Don Moustachio, it seems to me
that I have paid you for all your practical jokes upon myself,
at a blow.”
With which words honest Jack Hamilton laid back and
shook triumphantly.
For a moment the Captain looked indignant: then his
face brightened: then he burst into a loud laugh, and cried,
holding out his hand:
“Was ever such a villainous plot so perfectly successful!
Morbleu! Hamilton, I acknowledge you are my master!
Any feeling of spite, mon compagnon, is lost, parbleu! in
admiration of your strategy!”
The Captain stopped to return, with great respect, the
bows of Mr. Effingham and Mr. Alston, who, mounting their
horses, rode off with graceful dignity.
The Captain looked after them—waited until they had
disappeared, and then burst into a perfect roar of morbleus,
—laughter, and delighted appreciation of the whole joke.
“Tonnere! Hamilton, you are a great genius!” he
cried, “would any body have suspected from your face, on
that ride, that you were tricking me! Morbleu, mon ami!
I consider it equal to any thing in ancient or modern history.”
Mr. Hamilton assumed a modest and deprecatory expression.
“No—no,” he replied, mildly.
“There you are!” cried the Captain, “your face is like
a woman's, when she says, `I will consider your proposal, sir
—la.' Diable! let us start equal again: after this, war to
the death!”
And the Captain rode onward with his companion, toward
the Trap.
“To-morrow—well, we shall see!” he muttered, as he
rode home that evening, “the scaling ladders are ready!”
41. CHAPTER XLI.
WHICH THE READER SHOULD BY NO MEANS OMIT READING.
“The reader will, no doubt, be able to comprehend without
difficulty, what Captain Ralph meant when he informed
himself confidentially that the scaling ladders were ready.
had made him feel very doubtful whether he could plant the
instruments of assault securely: he looked through the
Seigneur's spectacles and saw a dangerous enemy upon the
citadel, ready to pour down on his devoted head, fire and
boiling oil, and all deadly implements of warfare.
“But now all this had been cleared away—the enemy
had turned out no enemy at all: and that was the explanation
of the Captain's speech.
“On the next day, he donned his most dangerous
weapons, and cased himself in his most war-proof armor;
then with trumpets sounding, and banners flying, advanced
to the assault.”
Thus does the author of the manuscript, in that practical
style of which he is so fond, chronicle the fact that
Captain Ralph Waters set out for Riverhead with the intention
of making a matrimonial demonstration. We suspect
that the “dangerous weapons and war-proof armor,”
were only smiles and (hair) powder, and moustaches gallantly
curled: that the “trumpets sounding,” were simply the
soldier's habitual ditty, ending in “ta, la! ta, la!”—lastly,
that the “banners flying,” were a pure figment of the
author's imagination.
It is not now necessary to chronicle the details of the
interview: we shall more directly arrive at its result by
looking over the Captain's shoulder as he writes—having
returned in the afternoon from Riverhead, with an expression
of countenance far from downcast.
Seated at the rude table of the cottage, and making a
tremendous scratching with his pen, which he handles much
after the fashion of a sword, the soldier writes these words:
while Lanky, seated in a corner, his day's work finished,
looks on admiringly.
“Not simply `sir,' because you are what I have
written—friend, companion. Let me out with what I would
write at once—and in the best manner I can write it, being
but a rude soldier, unused to handling the pen.
“With great respect, dear sir, and companion, I would
daughter, Henrietta.
“This may surprise you, and”—the Captain carsed a
`morbleu' here—“and I confess you have some reason: but
I have not fought all those battles, Glatz and Lissa and the
rest, with you, and found no enemy myself, but a courteous
host. Alas, mon ami!—I am defeated wholly: can't hold
up my head, and come to you and say I am conquered.
“Let me speak of myself first—that, it seems to me, is
necessary, being almost a stranger in the land. You know
my family—an honest one, I think, at least I am accustomed
to regard it such. I am not ashamed, rather proud of it—
thus much in justice to myself.
“I was quite young when, led by the spirit of adventure
which God plants in the bosoms of the youthful, I left Virginia,
to which land, through all my wanderings, my heart
turned with filial devotion. I went to Europe. I entered
his Majesty's service, in which I continued until the peace
of Fontainbleau, with an intermission of two years—two
years which now live in my memory as the brightest period
of a rude, wandering life, crammed with a thousand vicissitudes,
a host of emotions, for the most part emotions of glad
triumph and success.
“Those two years saw me married to a good wife, a tender
heart,—one of those natures which God sends upon this
earth to bless the lives of us rude soldiers and soften them.
I had the unhappiness to lose my wife; the hand of Providence
took her from me, and, to my great regret, I had no
children to remind me of that so long-loved companion. Well,
well, let me pass on: that wound has healed—or nearly.
“I plunged into war again.—I exhausted its delights,
and they are not slight, sir, with all the blood and wounds,
and suffering. I returned hither to Virginia, led by the
never-dying sentiment of love of country. I only sojourned
in Europe; this was my home. All that I retained of those
years of battles and marches, and countermarches, was the
title by which I am usually addressed. I was discharged.
I left his Majesty's service, which I heartily rejoice and thank
heaven for, the great Frederic not being a commander to my
taste.
“Upon her death-bed, my wife,—whom God bless and
pillowing my rude head, when I was wounded, on her bosom
—my wife charged me to marry again, saying, that marriage
made me better, curbing my natural propensity to wander,
and making a quiet citizen of me,—which is true Ah! sir,
she was a good wife and I am a better man, for that brief
dream of happiness. Enough!
“In relation to my worldly goods, let me adopt the European
custom and omit nothing. I am not poor, thanks to
some guilders gathered in my profession and what my wife
left to me.
“I, therefore, ask that my addresses may receive your
sanction; I am convinced your daughter does not regard me
with indifference, and this I had abundant proof of on this
very day. Enough of that; but this I add, that before addressing
myself to you, I would receive no avowal from Mademoiselle
Henrietta, binding her. I trust 'tis what every
honorable man would do.
“You have it all, friend and companion; you know me
for what I am,—a rude soldier, but a loyal man. Speak.
The Captain wrote this letter without thought, as he would
have spoken: and sealed it without reading it.
He then summoned Lanky, and placing it in his hands,
bade that unfortunate messenger deliver it to none but Mr.
Lee himself, waiting an answer.
Lanky returned in three hours.
“Well?”
“Answer to-morrow, sir.”
“Good!”
And Captain Ralph sat down composedly, and leaning
his head upon his hand, seemed to be thinking of some old
days,—upon the Rhine it seemed, and of a woman; for his
lips murmured: “a good wife—God take her to himself!”
Early on the next day a servant brought a letter, which
the Captain tore open at once. It contained these words
simply:
“I accede to the request of Captain Waters. I know
nothing more. The rest lies with my daughter.
The Captain raised his head, and Lanky started back at
the radiant expression of his countenance.
“Oh! Cap'n!” he murmured.
“Lanky, my dear fellow,” said the Captain, “I think your
chances for the cottage are bad—very bad.”
“Oh! Cap'n! why?”
“I am going to be married myself,” said the soldier, “go
and saddle my horse!”
And Captain Ralph twirled his moustaches with a look
of such triumph and happiness that Lanky was consoled.
His master's joy was his own.
42. CHAPTER XLII.
HOW CAPTAIN RALPH AND HENRIETTA TOOK A DRIVE TOGETHER,
AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
As we did not consider it necessary to relate the particulars
of the Captain's last interview with Miss Henrietta Lee,
so we shall for the same reason omit any description of the
final and decisive assault, to adopt the phrase of the author
of the manuscript from which these events are taken.
We can only say that when the soldier issued forth from
the mansion of Riverhead his countenance was more radiant
than ever, and that he twirled his moustaches toward the eye
with an obstinate vigor which caused them to yield in spite
of themselves and assume the killing air in absolute perfection.
On the very next day the gallant Captain might have
been seen again before the door of Mr. Lee's mansion, this
time seated in a handsome curricle drawn by his handsome
roan. It was a beautiful morning, and the white gravelled
walk glittered in the sun, the firm heel of the soldier clashing
on it, as with jingling spurs—his old habit could not
yield to change—he entered the wide portal.
In half an hour he emerged again, and this time with
as the morning:—her eyes shone brilliantly, and her rich
dress was dimmed by the bright color of her cheeks.
The Captain assisted her into the vehicle, followed, and,
gathering up the reins, set forward towards the cottage.
For some time they rode in silence: nothing was said:
but at last Captain Ralph shook his head and sighed.
“It is not agreeable,” he said; “no, it is repugnant.”
“What?” she asked in a low tone, looking inquiringly
at his disconsolate face.
“This thing of taking you from the abode of wealth and
comfort—morbleu! from the bower of ease and elegance, my
dear Miss Henrietta, to the humble cottage which I—unhappy
that I am!—inhabit.”
And the soldier groaned.
“I thought we had dismissed that subject,” she said in
the same low tone.
“Yes,” said Captain Ralph, sighing again, “I understand.
You, my dear wife to be, are one of those noble natures who
can adapt themselves to any thing. Yes, I fully believed you
when you said yesterday with that charming sincerity which,
parbleu! is the most graceful and delightful trait of your charming
and admirable character, machère, when you said you would
not marry for mere wealth: and if the man of your choice
had it not, that you would forget all and follow him—to the
world's end, you said: alas!”
And Captain Ralph uttered a groan which seemed to indicate
an overburdened heart.
“Yes,” he continued, “I understand how it is that having
cast a favorable regard upon the poor soldier, and seen that
he is honest and loyal, and likely to be faithful for ever and
the day after, my dear Henrietta—I can understand that you
with your grand abnegation of self, weighed his worldly position
as nothing: which, morbleu! is oftener done by our honest
Virginia girls than people can be brought to admit. I
can comprehend all that: but the fact of my abject poverty
none the less wounds and mortifies me.”
With which words the lady's companion twirled his
moustache forlornly.
“You make me feel badly by speaking thus,” said Henrietta,
turning aside her head.
“Badly?”
“Indeed you do,” she murmured.
“I am sorry,” he said, crying; “but it is proper for me
to say a few words more, ma chère! Do you see that
horse?”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.
“Does he look human?” continued the Captain, disconlately.
“Human?”
“Like a man,” explained the soldier.
The lady looked at him in astonishment.
“Ah, I see,” said the Captain, “you don't understand.
That horse, ma chère, is a man.”
“A man!”
“Yes, and his name is Von der Dank,” said the Captain,
gravely.
“Oh!” said Henrietta.
“Nothing but the truth. Does he not belong to that
respectable merchant of Rotterdam, and am I not in fact
driving the worthy Von der Dank in harness? 'Tis positively
unchristian.”
And nettled at his own bad feeling, the Captain laid the
lash across the representative of Mynheer Von der Dank,
who tossed his head and flew along gallantly.
“Then not content with driving Von der Dank,” continued
the soldier, “I must commit the further impropriety
of running the pasha Omer at the races. Selim, my dear
Henrietta, is an Arabian whom I stole in the Orient from
the pasha—it is humiliating to confess it: but there should
be no secrets between us.”
Henrietta looked at her companion with wide eyes.
“True, every word true,” said the Captain, sighing;
“and to drive Von der Dank in harness, and run the pasha
Omer for the amusement of a crowd of Christian dogs—as
they call us—seems to me nothing less than sheep stealing,
or what my servant Lanky fancies the highest disgrace—
henroost robbing.”
The Captain's head drooped.
“You are jesting,” murmured Henrietta; “surely—oh!
how foolish I am to mind you.”
“Jesting? I wish I was: 'tis too sad a subject however.
And that is not all.”
“Not all?”
“Do you see that necklace around your neck? But of
course you do.”
“Yes,” said Henrietta, scarcely knowing what to say.
“Well, my soul! that necklace represents Simpkins &
Co., of the port of New York. You are wearing Simpkins
around your neck—his arms encircle you. Just think
of it!”
And the Captain groaned with jealousy and mortification.
“Don't answer me,” he continued, “my feelings are
poignant enough already. Let us get on to my hovel which
you see in the distance yonder. Von der Dank, proceed my
friend!” and he lashed the worthy merchant; “the pasha
awaits you in the stable, and you carry, in addition to your
master and his bride, the firm of Simpkins—that I should be
alive to say it!”
The roan seemed to be very well content with his enormous
load, and the bright curricle flashed on under the green
boughs and through the sunlight: and ere long stopped before
the door of the cottage.
Lanky stood there, louting low, his cap in his hand.
The Captain assisted Henrietta out, and pointing to
Lanky, who was holding the animal, said:
“That, my dear Henrietta, is the gentleman who made
my fortune.”
“Then you have a fortune after all,” laughed the young
girl, good-humoredly.
“No, no, I mean that Lanky was the means of my winning
you—my pearl, what do I say! my rose, my diamond!”
“Pray how?”
“He is the lover of Donsy.”
“Donsy?”
“Donsy Smith.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Captain, “and but for him I should
have laid my heart—perhaps, who knows?—at that charming
young lady's feet.”
“Indeed!” said Henrietta, with something like a pout.
“Yes, verily and in truth—en verite, as they have it over
yonder. But his affections having been engaged by the said
Donsy, you may fancy that I was far too honorable to interfere.
Honor is all I have left now,” the Captain groaned.
And he led the young girl into the rude house.
“Look around,” he said.
Henrietta obeyed.
“Is it not humiliating?”
“No,” she said.
“Look at that table.”
“Yes.”
“Contemplate those chairs.”
“Well,” repeated Henrietta, in the same good-humored
voice.
“Deign to survey those rafters, from which—heaven preserve
us!—dangle strings of onions, and material, unpoetical
bacon flitches.”
“They look very nice,” said Henrietta, laughing.
The Captain groaned.
“And to take you from your wealthy and elegant abode
to such a hut,” he said.
“I suppose I am content,” she said, cheerfully.
“A lady eat onions!” cried the Captain.
“I did not promise that,” she laughed.
“A lady partake of bacon!”
“I believe a great many ladies do daily.”
“A lady sit upon chairs like those at such a table as
that!”
“They are very nice to rest in, and my wrapping is very
well here,” said Henrietta, sitting down, and laying her silk
pelisse upon the rude pine table.
The Captain shook his head, sighing piteously.
“That is all affectation, ma chère,” he said, forlornly.
“Indeed 'tis not.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I am perfectly contented.”
“With your future abode?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
The Captain uttered a sigh.
“It wounds me,” he said, “to the very heart thus to
drag down the star of my life. But how can I help it?”
“I am glad I am a star,” said Henrietta, smiling, “but I
do not feel as if I were dragged down.”
“All devotion—grandeur: it springs from your woman's
nature. Just look around—just look at that pine knot at
the door.”
“Pine knot?”
“Yes, yes; at my scaramouch—at Lanky.”
She laughed.
“This is your future mistress, Lanky,” said the Captain.
The pine knot louted low.
“I am very glad to see you, Lanky, and to make your
acquaintance,” said Henrietta, holding out her hand, with a
charming smile.
Lanky colored, and did not dare to take the hand.
“Won't you shake hands?” said Henrietta, smiling.
Lanky trembled and approached.
“Oh, ma'am!” he said.
And he found his huge paw inclosed in a soft white hand,
like velvet, which pressed it kindly.
Lanky disappeared, staggering with delight.
“Look at him!” sighed the Captain; “see the difference
between that ridiculous country bumpkin, in his striped
stockings and fustian waistcoat, and the well-fed butler you
are accustomed to see, Henrietta.”
“I like Lanky the best,” she said, smiling; “he seems
very honest.”
“Yes, yes, a bon garçon, and would die for me.”
“Then,” said Henrietta, simply, “I shall like him more
than ever.”
The Captain's martial face was illuminated with a look
of pride and happiness which changed it instantly, and made
it radiant.
“Morbleu! Henrietta,” he cried, “you are the pearl of
your sex, the queen of the heart, as you are the queen of
beauty! And can you consent to leave your father's house,
with all its elegance, its comfort, its quiet pleasure and soft
repose, to become the inmate of this cabin, the wife of the
rude soldier who stands before you? Can you bid adieu to
every brilliant scene, to all your past life, spent in the midst
of so much ease, even splendor, to light up my poor hut with
your smiles—my life with your fair and beautiful eyes?
a common fellow, with nothing but a loyal heart?”
She murmured, “Yes.”
“You cannot leave that position without a struggle,
however,” he continued. “Does it not rend your heart to
descend so low—to leave Riverhead for this cottage—to
become the mistress of a hovel? Can you look with equanimity
upon a future where no sun shines, where you must
contend with common, coarse, material obstacles—with vulgar
want, and struggle on without casting a single longing look
back on your past?”
“Yes,” she said, putting her hand in his, “I have you.”
“Shall I put the roan up, sir?” said Lanky, appearing at
the door.
“No,” sighed the Captain, relapsing into gloom; “we
will return.”
And offering his arm to Henrietta, he passed through
the door, and slowly assisted her into the vehicle again,
sighing.
“Suppose we take a short drive before returning,” he
said.
She nodded good-humoredly.
The Captain only groaned in reply, and lashed his horse,
who set off like lightning upon the smooth road leading up
the river.
“Your gloom distresses me,” said Henrietta, in a low
voice; “for heaven's sake forget these mere worldly circumstances;
they do not affect me for a moment. I would not
have given my hand to the richest gentleman in the land for
his riches only. Why should I estimate what I do not value
so highly? Look at the sunlight, and hear the birds singing.
We enjoy them as much as though we were a king and
queen; and I think the river singing down upon the shore
is happiness enough!”
And she looked as perfectly happy and contented as it is
possible to conceive.
The Captain only sighed, and shook his head, murmuring:
“You are a noble heart.”
“Indeed I'm not,” she replied, cheerfully, “but I am far
want any thing—you forget that.”
“Oh!” groaned the Captain, “that is too humiliating!
A strong-armed soldier like me marrying for money! Do
not speak of it, Henrietta—it is dreadful. I did not seek
your money—if you have any of that disagreeable commodity—the
Shakespearian word, I believe. I hate and
despise what is vulgarly called cash!”
And in the excess of his wrath at finding that his future
wife would probably have a large fortune on her marriage, the
Captain lashed the roan until that unfortunate animal fairly
flew.
“Let us not speak further on this subject,” he added;
“let us enjoy the landscape. See the river—see those noble
mansions crowning the fine hills. Parbleu! the goods of
this wicked world—particularly of that wickedest portion,
Virginia—are not equally divided. Now it seems to me
that I ought to have one of those fine houses. Society owes
me a house and plantation. I will establish a school of
politics with that cardinal principle. I will become agrarian.
I want land.”
Henrietta smiled.
“We can do very well without it,” she said.
“Contemplate the fine old houses,” continued the Captain,
sighing; “look at the smiling fields—I covet those
fields, I break the tenth commandment horribly, morbleu!”
“The whole?” asked Henrietta, smiling.
“Yes, yes.”
“Do you covet your neighbor's wife?” she laughed.
The Captain smiled sadly.
“No, no; I believe you have me there,” he said; “I
don't want any wife but the one who will soon be mine
legally, and I may add, equitably—in fee-simple.”
And having made this great display of legal knowledge,
the Captain stopped sighing.
“See what a fine house across the river,” he added.
“Yes; but I think Mr. Wilt's, here, is far prettier.”
“No, no.”
“Indeed, I think it is.”
“Well, I have a moment's business with that gentleman.
Will you go in?”
“Oh yes.”
A quarter of a mile was passed over, and the vehicle
stopped at the door of one of those fine old mansions we
have heard the Captain covet. It fairly smiled in the bright
May sunlight, with its gables, dormer windows, and old
trees.
An aged negro came to the door, and held the horse respectfully
for the soldier. He assisted Henrietta out, and
they entered.
“Why, they have new furniture,” she said: “I know all
about `Flodden,' and it looks very much changed.”
“Ah!”
“Yes indeed! how strange! but how handsome it is.”
They went into the parlor, and the well-fed butler stood
bowing.
“James,” said Henrietta; but stopping, she added,
“why, it is not James?”
“My name is Thomas, madam,” said the courteous black
gentleman, not seeing the Captain's signals of wrath.
“Thomas! why where is old James?”
“He went away, they tell me, ma'am, with Squire Wilts.”
“Went away!”
“The squire done moved to his t'other house up the river,
ma'am, and master there done bought the place—`Floding'
I b'lieve they calls it.”
Suddenly Thomas started and shook: he saw the wrathful
eyes of the soldier on him.
Henrietta could say nothing; the whole flashed on her;
she only looked in silence at the Captain.
“Yes, my dearest Henrietta,” said that gentleman, “I understand
what you would say. You mean that I have deceived
you—and, morbleu! you are perfectly right. But
ah! I could not deny myself that scene at the cottage—I
could not omit such pleasure. It was not to try you. Oh
no! parole d'honneur! I felt that useless. But in this
world we cannot get too much happiness, and in your devotion
to your rude soldier, there was such happiness as he has seldom
experienced in this wicked world.
“Yes,” continued the Captain, “`Flodden' is my home
now, the squire having disposed of it privately to me, taking
in exchange for it some twelve thousand pounds I had lying
ma chère, that Van der Dank, the pasha, and the New-York
firm, are all honestly paid—the animals are mine, the bracelet
yours. We have enough, thank Heaven, to live quietly
upon, and you will not be compelled, my dearest Henriette,
to descend as low as onions.”
With which words the Captain, laughing, full of pride
and delight, smoothed softly the head that lay upon his
shoulder.
“Now we shall return in a different manner,” he said;
and he gave an order to the butler.
That gentleman bowed low and vanished.
A quarter of an hour afterwards, a magnificent chariot
drove up to the door, drawn by four horses, whose bright
coats and rosetted heads shone in the merry sunlight.
The Captain led the young girl forth, and assisted her
into the coach: then followed. The courteous black butler
bowed—the old superannuated hostler smiled; for he liked
the frank face of the soldier;—and the vehicle set off at a
gallop. Captain Ralph was partial to rapid motion.
They did not speak for some moments; then the soldier
said:
“But how are you pleased with your house, ma chère?”
“Very much,” she said, smiling; “but I like the cottage
and Lanky best, I think!”
Which caused the Captain to burst into laughter. In two
hours they reached `Riverhead.'
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,
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 there his seed the farmer sows,
But you nor I nor nobody knows
How oats, peas, beans, or barley grows:”
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”
“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
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.
44. CHAPTER XLIV.
DIAGNOSIS AND TREATMENT OF DR. MORT-REYNARD.
Mr. Effingham beheld the Seigneur Mort-Reynard, otherwise
Mr. John Hamilton, that incorrigible bachelor, fox-hunter,
and rival, in the act of impressing a chaste salute
upon the lips of Miss Alethea!
So far from betraying any astonishment or indignation at
this outrageous proceeding, the stately Miss Alethea, serene
and shining in black silk, appeared to regard it as a matter
of course, and submitted to it with an equanimity which was
refreshing to behold. She betrayed some embarrassment
came to her cheeks; but that was all.
Not so Mr. Jack Hamilton. That gentleman presented
the painful spectacle of a man caught in the act of filching a
sheep from its rightful owner: he avoided Mr. Effingham's
eye: he drew back from Miss Alethea: he considered the
feasibility of disappearing up the chimney, or through the
window at a bound.
At last he seemed suddenly to recover his powers of locomotion:
he stammered some hasty words, and bursting
into a roar of laughter, thrust a letter into Miss Alethea's
hands, and took to flight. In ten minutes he was seen galloping
away like a deserter.
Mr. Effingham, with flushed face, and haughty looks,
stood silently gazing at Miss Alethea.
“You needn't show such great astonishment, Champ,”
said Miss Alethea, calmly smoothing her hair, which, we
regret to say, was somewhat disordered, “Mr. Hamilton and
myself have been engaged for half a year. I suppose there
is something for you in this letter: it is directed to you.
How foolish in Mr. Hamilton to be running away so: he is
incorrigible. Well, there is the letter: I must go now and
attend to my housekeeping.”
With which words Miss Alethea sailed slowly out, her
black silk rustling: Mr. Effingham standing perfectly motionless
in the middle of the floor—the letter lying on the
table.
“Engaged for half a year!” he said, as in a dream,
“engaged! Alethea! Hamilton!”
His eye fell on the letter, and he tore it open and read
it like lightning—his brow flushing, now with anger, then
pleasure, then this latter expression chased away the former,
and his face was radiant. He dropped the letter and uttered
a sigh, which seemed to remove instantly a mountain from
his breast.
The letter was in these words:
“I know what I have done is disgraceful, and horrible,
and awful, and all that—but it was meant well, and I
don't care what you may say; it has succeeded. The time
this way:
“I saw you come back from Europe completely knocked
up—worried out, as you said, and you will remember that
I announced my intention to become physician in ordinary
to you, the very first time I saw you. You thought the fox-hunt
was all—I know you did, and you are one more added
to the list of those people, by George! who give Jack Hamilton
credit for only about as much sense as a man could
put into the left eye of a sparrow. No, sir! I'm deep, and I
set to work at once, as I am going to tell you in this letter.
I would rather not have a scene and a vivá voce explanation
after your blood and thunder address to me the other day,
which made me as mad as blazes—an improper and vulgar
expression, but it conveys the idea strongly.
“This was it. I say I saw you come home knocked up,
and I hadn't been living so long in the world without understanding
that you wanted to have some pursuit—some
object. I'm thirty large odd, sir, nearly forty, in fact—
don't mention it among the ladies—and in that time I had
gathered some ideas. I know what I am going to say will
make you mad, by Jove! but what do I care? I am a triumphant
M. D., and if the patient runs the physician through
the gizzard for cauterizing and curing him, society will
frown upon the act: if any thing, the doctor's reputation
will increase!
“I determined from that very interview that you should
go back to your passion for Clare: it was only sleeping—I
resolved to wake it. Being engaged to Miss Alethea, who
promises to make a respectable and moral man of me—and
I only hope she may not be disappointed—I had a natural
disinclination to having a brother-in-law who would go about
all the time looking like a thunder cloud, and as pale as
those spirits called ghouls, who feed on human flesh, as I
have read somewhere in Shakespeare, or the Dictionary—
which fact makes them disagreeable associates, as a man
never can feel sure that they are not anxious to eat him. I
resolved, therefore to twist you round my thumb, and I've
done it—triumphantly! I dare you to deny it! You are
at this moment desperately in love with Clare Lee—your
boyish adoration was not a shadow to it: you very nearly
from visiting her! Deny it if you dare—and ah! my dear
boy, here is the agreeable part, what will make your vanity
unbearable, here is the triumph of my tactics: she loves
you! she does, upon my soul!
“But let me proceed, step by step, by George! I know
human nature, and especially woman nature, sir—I am master
of that: they can't trap me—not they; but my knowledge
of the masculine temperament is equally profound. I
have always observed that men and women, like hounds, run
after what flies from them. I doubt whether even my dog
Tinkle would grab a fox, if the fox came and sat down
quietly by him and said, `I would rather be grabbed than
not—grab me, old fellow.' I know Tinkle, sir, and Tinkle
would reply, `Off with you, you are a disreputable hen-roost
thief: I won't have you near me!' But let the fox
run, and look! Tinkle will run him until his tongue hangs
out of his mouth like a red ribbon. It's just so with men—
and you are no exception. I tell you, sir, that you began to
fall back in love with Clare the moment you found, or rather
thought, she was running from you into my arms. That
roused you; you cursed me from Dan to Beersheba and
back again for a false friend; but you fell a victim to my
artifice! If I had not played that nice little trick, what
would have been the consequence? Why you would have
found that Clare loved you as much as ever, in spite of
your goings on, because she has forgiven you: and you
would have dawdled over there once a week or so, and come
back as dull as ever, and drawled `yes, yes, a nice girl, very
agreeable, fond of me—but I'm done with women!' Nothing,
sir, would have come of it. But, now! what did I do?
Why, I sacrificed myself on the altar of friendship, like a
hero: I bore your murderous looks—I declined to see your
fireball eyes, I took no notice of your tones of voice. I
practised on you, sir, and I twisted you over my thumb—I
made you jealous—I told, on a moderate calculation, one
thousand lies about myself and Clare, which lies, as an
honorable man, you are bound to take upon yourself—they
having been told in your service. I then took up a large
portion of my valuable time in praising you at Riverhead.
The lies I told you were nothing to what I told Clare: I
hero of modern times—I said you were a saint, for which
heaven forgive me: I did what every man is conscientiously
bound to do for his friend—in vulgar and deplorably coarse
phrase, I plastered you, sir.
“I made Clare believe that you were dying of love for
Henrietta—this was to put her on her guard; after that, as
she was a woman, I defied her to do more than speak to you.
Her pride kept her from showing that she cared for you; I
tricked her admirably.
“Having worked my diabolical and disgraceful scheme
up thus, I carried it on—I revelled in it—you had a spice
of that the other day when you boiled over; and that really
made me angry; by Jove! I could have cut your throat then,
and afterwards overwhelmed you, and mortified you, with
telling you all I had done for you. I persist in saying that
my triumph is complete. By George! I admire myself.
“And now, presume to quarrel if you dare, with all this;
it was well meant, and you know it has turned out as I say.
Pardon your old friend Jack, my boy, and acknowledge the
elevation of his moral character. Go and tell Clare you
love her, and don't fear that, when you have explained all,
she will discard you. She loves you, by Jove! in a way
that makes me desirous of standing in your shoes: that is to
say, that the sentiment I have inspired Alethea with is much
more moderate and dignified.
“The game's afoot, my boy; go it!
Mr. Effingham uttered a second long-drawn sigh, and rose
like Columbus when the New World dawned upon him.
And in an hour they stood together by those two trees
planted in their childhood, now so far away, but shrined as a
jewel in their heart of hearts. And again he pointed to the
trees, and spoke of that bright childhood, and his sufferings
since then, and all the misconception which had cleared
away as a cloud passes from the sun, and leaves all bright
again, and full of warmth, and hope, and joy.
And, overhead, the oriole's song sprang upon the air, but
could not match the music of her voice; as none of those
bright beautiful red buds of spring beneath their feet could
his bosom. The soft blue eyes were turned up to his own;
thenceforth, his heaven was clear.
45. CHAPTER XLV.
ON A MAY EVENING.
The voice was like a fairy's; all the old Hall rang with it,
and the bright-winged birds without laughed gayly for pure,
honest, artist-joy at hearing it. Kate almost excelled herself;
but yet it was plainly without thought she sang, coming
along from the staircase, tripping toward the portico in
the mild, tender evening.
Upon that portico—the portico of Effingham Hall—sat
several of the personages who have illustrated this history—
contributing their gay utterances and honest countenances to
the narrative.
The Captain sat there, merrily laughing with Miss Henrietta,
who, ever and anon, tossed her bright laughing head,
scattering the snowy powder through the sun-flushed atmosphere,
as her admirer—nay, her lord to be—uttered some of
his jovial and heretical sentiments on the subject of the fair
sex. As for the Captain, he was plainly in a very joyous
mood, and vented more morbleus than ever graced that
ditty of the youthful poet, chronicling the journey to Mos
cow.
Near them sat—mirabile dictu—Lanky and his mistress.
This was a freak of the Captain, who, passing by the
Oldfield school in his fine chariot, had discovered Lanky
holding a confidential interview with Donsy after school
under an elm; and so, addressing the astonished Corydon
by the name of “villain,” brought him—nothing loth—and
Donsy with him, to the Hall; it being understood that the
chariot would have to return by nightfall round by Williamsburg.
Lanky looked amazed when he was spoken to, and
shook his pine knot head unconsciously, and regarded his huge
feet and striped stockings with the air of a bewildered scaramouch,
him. As for Donsy, she was a very quiet, well-bred little
lady, and answered everybody with soft courtesy and simplicity.
She was clad simply but very neatly, and seemed
to wish to be away with Lanky laughing and talking.
Behind all sat Mr. Effingham and Clare—silent; gazing
upon the fair spring sunset. It was not plain at first where
the soft little hand of Clare had betaken itself; but this
mystery upon a nearer scrutiny was soon explained. It
rested in his own.
Lastly, the squire read his brown, heavy-typed “Gazette,”
and grumbled at his Excellency; and from time to time
rolled back his wristbands and looked out upon the fields,
and spoke to Miss Alethea near.
So they sat, when Kate, singing like a bird, came to them;
and behind her, Will—Will, with devoted love; Will, with
perfect abnegation of his personal identity; Will, devoured
by his tender and everlasting devotion, which caused him to
blush, and cast beseeching glances, and extend his arms, and
only grasp the air. The rustle of a document shrined in his
bosom—so to speak—however, consoled him. And drawing
forth the true love indenture, he threw his eyes upon
that fascinating document, and seeing the signature, was
comforted.
Kate put her arms round Mr. Effingham's neck, covered
his eyes with her fingers, and his face was wrinkled into a
smile. He guesses very soon who it is; and she entreats
him and cousin Clare to come and see her fine new book,
given her by Willie.
They go into the library and admire the book: and Kate,
admiring it more, and clasping it to her breast, runs to show
it to Captain Waters and cousin Henrietta; still singing,
ever singing.
The light of the dying sun streams through the tall, old
windows on them, and the hand still nestles in his own.
They stand before the fireplace and gaze into each other's
faces, and unspeakable happiness lights up the tender lips of
Clare, the pale brow of her lover.
Again she speaks, in her low, tender voice, of all that
past which now is but a dream to them—almost a marvel.
Again, she tells him how she had thought of him through
heart with bitterness toward him, and with resolutions never to
look upon him more, how still the old childhood had risen up
again, and how her feelings had all changed, and bitterness
gave way to pity for the wan face she had heard of, pity
finally to a love more deep than ever—what she speaks of now.
And so the sunset dies away in rosy splendor, laughing
through the woods: flaming on windows, gilding every brook;
and streaming on the gothic bookcases, and old carven
chairs, and on them as they stand before the fireplace, and
the portrait.
And gazing upon that portrait, the man's heart is melted
in his breast, and tears come to his eyes; and his heart is
full of holy love, and on his lips trembles a word which is
addressed to one far from him, past the sunset—“mother.”
He draws her head down on his bosom, and then pointing
to the picture, tells how he had thought to die when she
died; his dear mother, now an angel up in heaven; but that
God had let him live to cry for her like a little child, and pray
to be united to her once again; and now to have a bosom on
which even such tears as these might be wept trustingly,
without fear, ever.
And so the sunset streams upon them, going far away;
and as the red light dies, he draws her closer to him; and
his hand smooths her hair; and pressing on the pure white
forehead a long, tranquil kiss, he murmurs “Clare!”
46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE HURRICANE COMMENCES.
Our comedy is almost finished. Having conducted Captain
Ralph and Lanky, Mr. Effingham and his friend Hamilton,
to say nothing of Henrietta, Clare, Miss Alethea and Donsy,
even Will and Kate, very nearly to the hymeneal altar, the
history pauses, like a wind which, rising in a whisper, swells
and ever grows, and then dies away in silent murmurs in the
distance.
But there are necessary to the narrative one or two more
scenes, which we must briefly speak of.
All Williamsburg is in terrific commotion; a moral storm
is raging there, and men look about them, measuring each
other with doubtful eyes. At the office of the “Virginia
Gazette,” an enormous crowd is collected, and within, are
heard the presses rolling rapidly, and vainly striving to
strike off sufficient copies of the journal, to supply the
eager hands held out to take them.
The street is full of people passing to and fro; the
crowd undulates; a murmur rises which at times swells into
a great shout.
Suddenly the multitude raises its startled head. A bell
begins to toll—slowly, solemnly, with a melancholy expression,
which seems to echo the feeling of the crowd.
The explanation of the gathering, of the demand for
copies of the journal, of the tolling bell, is simple. The
vessel lying yonder at the port of York, and just from
London, has brought the intelligence of the passage of the
Stamp Act.
For this reason the crowd murmurs, and stretches out its
Briarean hands towards the printing office, where an additional
number has been hastily composed, containing the
provisions of the act.
As they receive the papers unfolded, they hastily glue
their eyes to them, and with dozens of persons looking
over their shoulders, scan the ominous words. Upon a
barrel, at some distance, is mounted a man who reads to that
portion of the crowd next him, the contents of his paper.
The population of the town flow backward and forward,
as the blood flows in the veins and arteries. But the office
of the journal is the heart, to which all the streams return,
from which the flood pours, ever making way for others.
The crowd is for the most part composed of men who
seem to be of humble rank, such as are not accustomed to
criticise very strongly any acts of government; but among
these rude forms are seen great numbers of the richly clad
members of the House of Burgesses, whose powdered heads
and embroidered doublets present a strong contrast to the
coarse fustian of the commoners.
The faces of the burghers are troubled—doubtful; they
and the crisis is enough to try the soul. On one
side, England with her tremendous strength, her overwhelming
power by land and sea, and her immemorial prestige of
sovereignty; upon the other, a few weak colonies, scattered
over a wild continent, and scarcely knowing each other—or
whether if one rises in opposition, the rest will not march
to put her down. On one side an act of Parliament armed
with all the weight of a solemn resolution of that great
government; upon the other, a mere popular sentiment,
which only stammers “Liberty—the liberty of free born
Englishmen!”
And this very day the trial comes:—for Governor Fauquier
will open the House of Burgesses, and officially communicate
to that body the intelligence of the passage of the
act:—and they must at once make submission or throw down
the gauntlet of defiance.
The crowd, as they respectfully make way for them, follow
them with their eyes:—they seek to read in the faces of the
burghers what reply they deign to make to his serene Excellency.
Those men whom we have seen at the Governor's ball
formerly, pass through the crowd—with animated faces, eagle
eyes. That stately Roman head stooping forward upon the
shoulders to which a hand in a black bandage is raised from
time to time, towers above the press, and with clear strong
eyes, surveys the excited throng with philosophic interest.
The bland lover of Anacreon reads hastily his journal.
The benevolent looking gentleman whose silvery voice
we have alluded to, whom we have seen lately at the mansion
of the soldier Captain Waters, raises his serene face above
the crowd, and one hand placed upon his heart seems to be
saying to that heart, “Be calm—rashness is worst, not best
—wait for the hour—be still—be moderate—exhaust the
means of protest—until all is trampled on do not strike!”
And there beside him is the man who has uttered many
words in this history: who eternally brooding with fiery
soul over one grand idea, now revels in the rising storm, and
feels his heart bound at the muttering tempest. He wraps
his old red cloak around him; elbows his way with scant
courtesy from group to group; listens to every word; gauges
the strength which it will finally possess, when, striking
the great dyke which opposes it, the water shall break
loose. He smiles grimly from time to time, and utters detached
sentences in his vigorous, somewhat affected patois,
which very plainly is meant only to open his way to the rude
natures gathering around him.
His words—even his chance words—burn: for they have
fire in them. He condenses volumes into a sentence, and
utters bitter taunts.
“Strip your shoulders, strip!” he says, “the lash is
ready—you are slaves!”
And to others:
“Go crawl and grovel in the dirt! who knows but your
masters may take pity!”
And each of these words, cold, yet fiery—calm, yet
stormy, lashes the great popular commotion into huger
waves, from which gleam bloodshot eyes, and over which rise
threatening arms, clenched hands. The man in the red
cloak moulds the common mind as he goes, with a master
hand—he works it in his grasp like moistened clay: he
laughs at it, and taunts it, and overwhelms it with contemptuous
sarcasms, and pushes scornfully aside the menacing
breasts, and stands the very impersonation of their thoughts
and feelings, with a grim smile on his lips, a lurid fire in his
eyes which makes him lord of them—lord of their hearts
and arms.
The commotion ever rises higher, and the great wave,
extending from the governor's palace to the capital, the whole
length of Gloucester-street, surges to and fro, and breaks
into a foam of cries and furious gestures everywhere. And
still the bell tolls mournfully, and ever and anon rise those
shouts which mount to the gathering clouds above.
But now another sound startles the multitude. A cannon
roars from the palace, sending its hoarse sombre voice
upon the wind which now begins to rise. And then a drum
is heard.
The governor has set out from the palace for the capital,
there to open the House of Burgesses. Before him ride his
body-guard with drawn sabres, and the face of the old man
is seen through the window of his splendid chariot, which is
rosetted heads and push aside the muttering crowd with
their chests.
The crowd mutters inarticulately: gazes sidewise at the
cortège slowly passing.
The governor raises his head, and pointing with his white,
jewelled finger through the window of the chariot, says to
one of the gentlemen who ride with him:
“What is that bell?”
“They began tolling it upon the intelligence this morning,
your Excellency.”
The governor shakes his head and sinks back in his
chariot, muttering, “Well, well, the die is thrown!”
The crowd mutter too, and with ever-increasing rage:
the cavalcade is followed by groans and murmurs which are
menacing murmurs.
So it continues all day: the chariot goes slowly back
again under the now lurid sky, and disappears within the
palace gates.
The crowd is increasing even yet: the windows of the
houses are filled with the excited faces of women, who exchange
whispers and wave their handkerchiefs to those they
recognize in the tumultuous throng below.
That throng, like a forest trembling at the approaching
whirlwind, moans and sighs and utters a crackling noise like
grating boughs: a rumbling like breakers on the coast.
The Raleigh tavern is full of heads. Men pass to and
fro, and a meeting is held in the Apollo room, where many
words are uttered. History has spoken of the place, the
words, the men.
Without, the tumult increases always as the night draws
on.
The man in the red cloak is still passing from group to
group, and when he leaves each group, it utters murmurs,
menaces and curses; he is master of the storm, and revels
in it.
On the great square especially the crowd is densest, and
sweeps more irresistibly than elsewhere from side to side,
swaying about and uttering hoarse cries. A dozen speakers,
mounting one after another upon the temporary platform,
near the centre, strive vainly to be heard.
The material storm rising in the lurid sky above, from
which thunder begins to mutter, might permit them to be
heard; the moral tornado is too furious.
Suddenly, a half silence falls upon the multitude, and
they listen to a man wrapped in an old red cloak, whose face
awes them: the time has come.
As he speaks, with awkward and slovenly gestures, in his
rude, harsh voice, the multitude are silent; they only look
at his eyes. Those eyes are fine. He rises in height; he
thunders; he lightens: the crowd shudder, and rise up and
shout.
“They are there at York!” he thunders, with a curling
lip; “are you afraid?”
And, descending from the platform, he hears a roar
which drowns the thunder overhead.
Yes, the blank stamps are in the vessel at the port of
York, and fifty horsemen whirl out of the town. Hundreds
of men follow on foot, shouting; they will have them; they
will burn them here before the palace of the royal governor.
The man in the red cloak wraps himself up grimly and
pushes through the crowd; he can wait.
He approaches the Raleigh; he raises his eyes: he sees
standing before him a man of the people, holding a staff in
his hand, and covered with dust. This man's eyes have the
expression of a madman's; his face is pale, his lips are white.
He gazes at the stranger; he scarcely hears him speak.
“Well met!” the stranger says; “see the storm which
I spoke of!”
The wayfarer says nothing.
“You miss a great feast,” the stranger goes on, grimly;
“you are too happy in your mountain.”
“I am there no longer.”
“Your wife—”
“I have none.”
And the face flushes passionately, and two bitter tears
roll down the pale, wan cheeks.
“No wife!” the stranger says, looking at him.
“God took her to himself.”
And bending down, he uttered a moan, and remained
silent—pale, gloomy, and despairing.
“Rouse! rouse!” the stranger says, “it is not the time
to grieve!”
The wayfarer looks at him, and his eyes make the stranger
tremble.
“I am calm,” he says.
“Come in here with me,” says the stranger, “we must
wait.”
And they enter the Raleigh.
Night draws on, lurid and tempestuous; the sky is dark
with clouds, from which issue thunder and lightning. The
wind moans.
The crowd has not moved, and is almost silent, until a
light appears approaching from the side of York.
They shout then, and surge backward and forward,
tumultuously going to meet the light.
Through the press comes slowly onward a wagon, whose
six horses foam at the mouth and pant, covered with sweat.
They have galloped all the way from Yorktown.
The wagon pauses in the middle of the square, and is
buried almost beneath the surge of men who throw themselves
upon it.
The horses, unhitched hastily, are lashed, and disappear
like shadows, but shadows which overthrew men as they
ploughed their furious way into the darkness.
The wagon is rifled with the rapidity of lightning. The
boxes containing the blank stamps are hurled out and piled
into a mass. The crowd utters a hoarse shout, and the
torch is applied to them.
The flame licks and clasps them, winding round and
through the pile of half broken boxes. Then it soars aloft,
and throws its glare upon the crowd, whose faces but now
were concealed by the darkness—faces full of rage,—rude
faces of the common people, who hear still that thunder of
the stranger, louder than the storm about to burst.
Then it is that they see two figures on the platform;
and they shout.
One is a man in a red cloak; the other younger, with a
pale, fiery face, which makes them shudder. The latter
speaks; the man in the red cloak listens.
The thunder roars, but it does not drown that stranger's
wild voice, which sounds like a wail from the other world.
The fire throws a crimson glare upon all faces; his is pale.
He strikes them with his burning words as with hot fire-brands;
he ploughs his way through the bosoms of the
hurls upon them an eloquence which makes them shudder.
He arraigns England at the bar of eternal justice and brands
her; he lashes her with a whip of fire; he plunges the weapon
into her breast, and the blood spouts hot and gurgling. The
great multitude hold their breath—then roar.
The speaker sways to and fro, with his hair streaming
from his brow, his neck bare, his eyes full of blood, his lips
stained with a red foam.
He pours upon them a flood of passion which overwhelms
them—he rides upon the wave of popular commotion like a
whirlwind; he trembles, and they tremble with him; he
shouts, and they utter a roar which drowns the storm.
He raises his clenched hands to heaven, and with an overpowering,
terrible vehemence, which burns, and strikes, and
obliterates, speaks of the grinding oppression of all ages;—
facts glow and take vitality under his quivering hands; they
blaze like the roaring flame before him.
He staggers with the gigantic grandeur of his passion;
raves almost with his writhing lips, but with a madness
which bends all down with its terrible, inexorable method.
He totters from side to side, and again rises.
The multitude look at him with pale faces, then faces
flushed with wrath, terror, and indignation; and every word
he utters burns into them like a hot iron, leaving an ineffaceable
impression upon every heart. He speaks the
thoughts, the feelings, and the passions of them all.
And as he raises his pale brow to the storm, his fiery eyes,
his bleeding lips, a sudden flash of lightning blinds all eyes
with its terrible radiancy, lighting up tree and house, and all
the great surging crowd; and then comes a crash of thunder
like a thousand cannon, which seems to trample out the very
fire, for the flame crumbles into gloom, and disappears.
Pale, overwhelmed, and staggering, his mouth filled
with bloody foam, the speaker falls back fainting into the
outstretched arms of the man in the red cloak, who holds
him on his breast.
“Good!” murmured Patrick Henry, smiling grimly,
“the Revolution is begun!”
47. CHAPTER XLVII.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THE MS. OMITS DESCRIBING FOUR
WEDDINGS.
“I need not add to this history a description of the merry
wedding parties which ere long filled three houses with merriment
and rejoicing.
“Those particular scenes are much more agreeable to
attend than to describe; and perhaps all description would
only blur the picture of those jubilees, full of wild revelry,
as were all such in the ancient colony and Old Dominion—
indeed, are at the day we live in.
“Perhaps the saddest bridegroom was our friend the
Captain, whose honest face could not look very cheerful
when his brother's pale cheeks came to his memory, and
when the bon père was away. But he comforted himself
with the thought that he would have both of them at `Flodden'—the
old man at least, certainly,—where the best chamber
in the mansion was set apart for the old fisherman.
“Mr. Effingham, as we may imagine, was radiant with
joy; and it is scarcely too much to say, that Clare was
quite as happy. The sisters were married on the same day;
and, at the Hall, Miss Alethea gave her hand to Mr. Jack
Hamilton, almost at the same moment. That unconquerable
bachelor was fairly conquered and enslaved.
“Our friend Lanky married Donsy soon afterwards, and
the Captain kept his promise; and the happy young couple
took up their abode at the cottage. Lanky often told his
wife that he owed his success in gaining her affections to the
advice of the Captain, which had led him to don those military
accoutrements which had made such an impression upon
her heart. But Donsy to the last denied that such was the
fact; and was not even convinced when Lanky's pine-knot
head was sawed argumentatively from a point due north-east
to the opposite portion of the compass.
“Our comedy is now quite ended. Having listened for
many hours to those ante-revolutionary voices speaking of
themselves, and telling us what thoughts, and schemes, and
hopes, and fears occupied them then, we may go out into the
sincere utterances. The past has tried to speak, and the poor
chronicler has written down what the low voice dictated.
If there is any good in what he has placed on the page—a
scene of conquered passion, or pure love, denying self, his
hours have not been thrown away. And now, the history
being ended, he will rest.”
EPILOGUE.
It was one of those pure days which, born of spring, seem
almost to rejoice like living things in the bright flowers and
tender buds:—and she was failing.
All the mountain winds were faintly blowing on the
smiling trees, and on the white calm brow of one who breathed
the pure delightful airs of opening spring, before she went
away to breathe the airs of that other land, so far away,
where no snows come, or frost, or hail, or rain; but spring
reigns ever, sublimated by the light which shines on figures
in white garments round the central throne.
She heard those figures calling, calling, calling, with
their low soft voices full of love and hope; calling ever to
her in the purple twilight dying o'er the world; rejoicing
every one that she was coming.
She looked upon the faces seen through mist around her,
and besought them smiling, not to weep for her, but look to
the bright land where she was going—for her faith was
strong. She begged them to take tender care of the flower
which lay but now upon her bosom, and not think of her.
A voice had told her in the night that she was waited for:
and now the sun was fading in the west, and she must go.
Alcestis-like she kissed them on their brows and pointed
to the skies: the time had almost come.
She looked with dim faint eyes, as in a dream, upon that
past which now had flowed from her and left her pure:—
she saw the sunset wane away and die above the rosy head-lands,
glooming fast:—she murmured that her hope was
steadfast ever; that she heard the angels; that they called
on this earth, for now the expected time had come.
The tender sunset faded far away, and over the great
mountains drooped the spangled veil, with myriads of worlds
all singing as her heart was singing now. She saw the rosy
flush go far away, and die away, and leave the earth: and
then the voice said Come!
She saw a cross rise from the far bright distance,
and a bleeding form: she saw the heavenly vision slowly
move, and ever nearer, nearer, brighter with the light of
heaven. She saw it now before her, and her arms were
opened. The grand eternal stars came out above—the sunset
died upon her brow—she clasped the cross close to her
bosom—and so fell asleep.
| The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |