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

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

it had been. Mr. Effingham looked like a man who had exhausted
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

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

addressed to the soldier. “I do not complain of that: I
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

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

gaze upon it, though I have passed through much to distract
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

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

reveal the secret of the young girl's birth, a strange history!
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!

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“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

p520-389 [figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

Beatrice and Charley:—I thought it was all mock generosity,
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.