JAMES HARRINGTON'S RIDE.
James Harrington left the breakfast-table with a restless desire to be
alone in the free air. He had not slept during the night, but spent the
silent hours in thought, which filled both his heart and brain with
excitement. The deep tenderness of his nature warred terribly against
its strong moral force, but only as the quick tempests of summer hurled
against a rock, beat down all the beautiful wild blossoms and moss upon
its surface, but leave it immovable as ever.
As he went forth from his room, Ralph passed him, looking restless and
anxious.
"Brother James! Brother James!" he said, "I wish to speak with you very
much, but not now. I have no heart to say anything just yet!"
James smiled, very gravely, but with a look of gentle patience, that
told how completely his strong passions were held in control. Few men in
his excited state would have proved so thoughtful of others; for he had
no idea that Ralph had any more important subject to consult him about,
than some shooting excursion in the hills, or a horse-back ride with
Lina.
"I am going out for an hour or two," he said; "I have been suffering
with headache all night. The air seems close to me in-doors. After I
come back, will that be time enough, Ralph?"
"I don't know. Yes, of course it will--there is no hurry," answered the
impetuous boy, "only I'm so vexed and troubled just now."
"Well, come up to my room. It does not matter much if I go or not--this
miserable headache will not probably be driven away."
"No, I can wait. You ought to ride out. How pale you are! Why, your face
is quite changed! Indeed, brother James, I will not speak another word
till you get back. I wonder what has come over us all this morning. Poor
mother ill--the General out of sorts--you with a headache, and I, yes, I
may as well own up--I have got something so near heart-sickness here,
that--but never mind--I'll shake it off, or know the reason why. But one
word, James, did you ever think my mother an illiberal woman?"
"Illiberal, Ralph? Your mother!"
"Well, I mean this. Is she a woman to reject beauty and worth, and
everything estimable, because--" James Harrington cut the question short
by laying a hand on his brother's shoulder somewhat heavily.
"Your mother, Ralph, is a woman so much above question in all her
actions and motives, that even these half-doubts in her son are
sacrilegious."
The color rushed up to Ralph's forehead. First he had lost confidence in
Lina--now, in his mother.
"If you have a doubt of your mother, speak it to her," said James more
gently, as he drew on his riding gloves. "After that, I will talk with
you!"
"I wonder what has come over me--James is offended; I never saw him so
grave before," muttered Ralph, as his brother moved down the hall.
"Everything goes wrong. Even Fair-Star started, as if she would spring
at me, when I looked in to see if my mother was up. I will put an end to
this!"
Thus half-passionately, half in thought, he went in search of Lina.
James Harrington mounted his horse and rode away. He wanted the clear
air and freedom of expanse, motion, anything that would distract his
thoughts, and bring back the self-control that had almost departed from
him. He rode at random along the highway leading to the city, down cross
roads and by the shore, sometimes at a sharp gallop, sometimes giving
his well-trained horse the head, till both steed and rider flashed like
an arrow between the stooping branches.
In this wild way he rode, unconscious of his course, and without any
absolute object, save free air and that rapid motion which harmonizes so
well with turbulent feelings. The horse took his own way up hill, along
shore, up hill again, till all at once he came out on a green shelf in
the hills, upon which a single dwelling stood.
He drew up his horse suddenly, for there a little way from the house and
some distance before him, stood two women in eager conversation. One had
her back toward him, but her left hand was in sight, and in it was an
open book, with its leaves fluttering in the wind. The air and dress of
this person reminded him so forcibly of Lina's governess, that he
remained a moment looking earnestly that way; not that her presence on
the hill would have been particularly remarkable, for on glancing around
he recognized by its position, that her nurse's house must be in that
neighborhood. But that very morning he had seen the governess passing
toward Mrs. Harrington's room, and her appearance in both these places
so nearly at the same time, aroused his curiosity, not to say suspicion.
The object that struck him most forcibly was the female with whom she
seemed to be conversing. The stately person, the picturesque costume,
composed entirely of rich warm colors, the eager expression of features
that must once have been eminently handsome--above all, the air of
almost ferocious authority, with which she was speaking, struck him as
strangely out of place in that solitary spot. Beyond this, he felt a
vague impression, impalpable and formless, of some connection between
that woman and former events of his own life. It might have been her
dress so foreign to the place, or her humble mode of life. The Madras
kerchief, folded in a turban over the black hair falling down each side
of her face in the heaviest waves of rippling jet, and the massive
earrings that gleamed beneath, were in themselves calculated to awake
remembrances of an early youth spent in the South, where this
picturesque costume was common among the slaves; but the woman's face
fascinated his gaze more than her general appearance. Some recollection
too vague for embodiment, arose on his brain so powerfully, that he was
unconscious of the time thus spent in gazing upon her.
At last the woman gave a quick glance toward him, and darting forward,
snatched at the book in her companion's hand, talking rapidly.
There was some resistance--an attempt to ward her off--but the book was
at last yielded to her impetuosity. He saw it, gathered up under the
woman's arm, concealed by the folds of an orange-colored scarf, overrun
with a pattern of many gorgeous colors, which she wore, and carried into
the house.
Then the person whose back had been toward him, turned and looked that
way. It was Agnes Barker. She saw him, evidently without much surprise,
and turning, rather leisurely walked that way, as if it had been the
most natural thing in the world to meet him there.
"Oh, Mr. Harrington," she said, coming close to his horse, picking the
burs from her dress as she moved along, "can it be possible that you
have only reached this point now? I left home half an hour after you
rode away--on foot, too, and am here before you."
Harrington did not answer, except with a grave bow, but looked at her
searchingly from head to foot.
"Yes," she continued, dragging her veil forward, "I found a rough walk
after the storm, everything is so wet and gloomy. The only dry spot upon
the shore was around the old cedar, where we had that rather interesting
scene last night."
A quiet smile stole over Harrington's lip. "Indeed," he said, "I must
have ridden at a snail's pace, to let you reach this spot before
me--especially if the entire walk was beguiled by the book I just saw
you surrender!"
A faint flush stole over Agnes Barker's forehead, and for an instant her
eyes fell; then she looked up again with the pretty deprecating glance
of one who had been caught in a meritorious act, which her modesty
disclaimed.
"Oh, you must not think me quite insane, Mr. Harrington, if I did bring
out my sketch-book, in hopes of stealing some of the beautiful autumn
tints from these masses of foliage. My good nurse has just been scolding
me for sitting on the damp ground, forgetting my shawl behind, and all
that. As a punishment, she has carried off my poor book, and threatens
to burn it. I have been very imprudent, and very indecorous, you will
say," she added, glancing at her dress, with a faint laugh, "but, no
doubt my caprice is sufficiently punished by this time; for, if that
access of smoke means anything, my poor sketch-book is ashes now."
She spoke a little rapidly, as one does in a fever, but otherwise her
manner was the perfection of modest innocence. Indeed, there was no
appearance of confusion, which the derangement of her dress was not
quite sufficient to account for.
"Well, you come in and rest a while?" she said at last, casting a soft
glance upward from her dress. "My good mammy may not be prepared for
such company, but she will make you welcome."
"Yes," said Harrington, struck by a sudden wish to see more of the woman
who had interested him so much, "I will go in, thank you!"
She turned, as if to precede him, but throwing his bridle over a
sapling, he walked rapidly forward, and overtook her just before she
entered the house. The door was partly open. Agnes turned upon the
threshold.
"I know that my poor book is burned, without asking," she said, in a
voice much louder than usual. "You have no idea, Mr. Harrington, how
careful nurse is of my health. Do not be surprised if she is very angry
with me!"
"It is very difficult to surprise me with anything," said Harrington,
drawing nearer to the door, through which he saw glimpses of
orange-colored drapery disappearing into an inner room.
"You must not say that, for I had expected some surprise at the view
from this particular point," she answered, evidently wishing to detain
him on the door step.
"Yes, it is very fine; but you will find the wind rather keen. Allow
me."
Harrington pushed the door wide open, and Agnes was obliged to pass into
the apartment beyond. She seemed relieved to find it empty, and when her
guest looked toward the opposite door, observed; "I am in disgrace, you
see, mammy has shut herself up."
"And yet I have some desire to see her, if it were only to excuse the
fright we gave her last night, by allowing you to enter without
knocking."
"Oh, she did not mind it in the least. It was nothing, I assure you."
"Still I would like to speak with her."
Agnes grew pale about the lips, a sign of emotion that did not escape
her guest; but it passed off in an instant, and she was slowly
approaching the inner door, when it opened, and the object of their
conversation presented herself.