The Don was never so happy as when Alice was girding at him in one of her frolic moods, and he sallied forth in high good humor. The audience watched from the piazza for some new mad prank on Alice’s part, but she walked slowly forward, and even seemed to be talking about the weather. At any rate, she raised her hand towards certain flying clouds.
“The saucy jade!” said Mrs. Carter, with ill-concealed admiration. “Well, I suppose she is a privileged character, as the saying is.”
“I should like to know, Mrs. Carter, how we are to get on without her?” said Mr. Whacker. “If I were thirty or forty years younger—but there is Charley; eh, Mr. Mum?”
“If,” replied Mr. Mum, “I were such as you were thirty or forty years ago, Uncle Tom, I don’t think she could possibly escape.”
“And what would become of me, then?” said Mrs. Carter. “How far are they going? I believe she is actually going to take him to the Argo, as they call it. There they go, straight on; he is helping her into the boat now; well, upon my word! What is she up to? This bright sun will tan her dreadfully, of course, but little she cares! She might raise her parasol, at least,instead of poking holes in the sand, as she seems to be doing.”
“Frightened? Yes, dreadfully,” said Alice, giving her collaborators an account of the interview. “Of course I was; but I was ‘intermined,’ as poor old Uncle Dick used to say, to go through with it. You see, my liege-lord that was to be—Mr. Chatterbox, I mean,” tapping Charley with her fan—“had, the evening before, commanded—”
“Commanded! Oh!” said Charley, darting his forefinger as an exclamation-point into the middle of a smoke-ring.
“Yes, commanded me to do it. I see, Jack, that you have left out that part of our talk (to make room for more of your own nonsense, I suppose) in your account of our conversation; but just as I was about to run up the steps, he stopped me and whispered, ‘Mind, I wish it!’”
“Oho!” cried Charley, brushing away with a sweep of his hand a wreath that would not work, “that’s the way I talked then, was it?”
“Yes, that was what you said, and I—rather—liked it.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured Charley, his left eye shut, and slowly moving his head, so as to keep the open centre of a whirling smoke-wreath between his right eye and a certain portrait on the wall.
“You know, Jack, every real woman likes the man to be master.”
“Hear, hear!” gurgled Charley, in a rather choking voice; for by this time, in his effort to keep his eye on a fly on the ceiling (the ring having floated away from the picture and over his head), he had leaned his head so far back that (to speak rather as a Bushwhacker than as an anatomist) his Adam’s apple was impinging on his vocal cords.
Alice glanced from Charley to me, and tapped her forehead gently with her fan, just as Charley snapped his head back from its constrained position. “Clothed,” said she, “but not altogether in his right mind. Butwe shall never get done if we go on in this way. Come! But before I go any further, Jack, I must ask you to remember that I was not as well acquainted with the Don at this time, as any reader would be who had read your book up to this point. I see that you call him a ‘man of surprises’ (a rather Frenchified phrase, by the way); but please bear in mind that the only surprise he had ever caused me was when he bloomed forth as a violinist. All the other surprises were devoured by this Silent Tomb,” said she, glancing towards Charley. Him, detected in the act of smoothing with his pipe-stem the jagged, interior edges of a blue annulus, she brought to his senses by a sharp fan-tap on his head.
“What is to become of our Monograph if you go on in this way?”
“Monograph? I thought you were on a polygraph, or a pantograph, and was amusing myself till you came back to the subject.”
“Very true. Well, I took my seat in the stern, and he sat opposite me, looking much amused, and very curious to know what my whim was. I think I was a ‘girl of surprises’ when I began. ‘Do you know, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘are you aware that you are a Fiend in Human Shape?’ He burst out laughing. He obviously thought that I was unusually crazy, even for me. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I can’t say that I ever appeared to myself in that light; but we will suppose that you are right; what then?’ And he settled himself to be amused. I was far from amused, I assure you. I was at my wit’s end, not knowing what to say next, so I began to make holes in the sand (as observed by the lynx-eyed Boneless). Give a dog a bad name and kill him; get the reputation of being a wag—should I say waggess?—and your simplest acts amuse. As I looked down I could see, out of the corner of my eye, his wondering smile. I felt that he mistook my embarrassment for archness, and that my silence was, in his eyes, an artistic rhetorical pause. By the way, to change the subject” (Charley groaned and received a rap), “that’s where we women have the advantage of men. You are the besieging army, we the beleagueredcity. We can see any confusion in your ranks, while a panic behind our walls is invisible to you. If you feel confused, you imagine that you look so; and then youdolook so. It is different with us. We know—”
Here Charley seized his pipe and began filling it with the most obtrusive vigor. “Conundrum!” said he, claiming attention with uplifted forefinger.
“Well?”
“What is the difference between a woman’s tongue and a perpetual-motion machine? Answer: I give it up!”
As I could never learn to whirl smoke-wreaths, I twirled my thumbs during the interruption of our session that ensued. The bashful and evasive Charley upset every chair in the room, save mine, behind which he was ultimately captured and punished. “Pshaw! Who minds Jack?” said Alice, stooping to right her rocking-chair. “Ugh! How smoky your moustache is!”
“I never heard anything like that while we were engaged.”
“And for a very good reason,” said she, with a toss of her head.
“Illustrious Bœotian!” sighed Charley.
Alice threw herself into her chair, panting and laughing. “Where was I?”
“You were without a compass, in a word-ocean without a shore.”
“On the contrary, I was on the shore, and poking holes in the sand. ‘Well,’ said the Don, ‘what should be done to a man who was so unfortunate as to be a Fiend in Human Shape?’
“‘I should say that he needed a guardian. He lacks the warning voice of a mother.’
“‘But we will suppose that he has no mother.’
“‘Then let him find one. How, for example,’ said I, feeling my way, ‘how do you think that I would look the character.’ And I put on a demure expression.
“‘Admirably, admirably!’
“‘Then you adopt me as a mother?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘A mother with a warning voice?’ I added, beginning to find my soundings.
“‘A mother with a voice soft as a zephyr!’
“‘No, with a voice of warning.’
“Up to this time he had been watching me somewhat with the expression of a child when some one is about to touch the spring of a Jack-in-the-Box. Up I was going to bounce, in some high antic or other. But just here his countenance took on a look of perplexity. I suppose my voice became one of warning. Can’t I talk seriouslysometimes, Mr. Frobisher?”
“You? Oh, Lord!”
“Well, you needn’t be so emphatic. What will Jack think?”
“Pshaw! Who minds Jack? Ouch!”
“Well, where was I? Ah! ‘No, with a voice of warning,’ said I, looking rather grave, I suppose. ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘with a voice of warning.’ ‘I am your mother, then?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you are my son?’ ‘Yes, mumma,’ said he, smiling, and holding up his knee with interlaced fingers and looking very comfortable.
“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feeling veryuncomfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tell you that I feel all a mother’s affection for you. I have given you so many proofs of this ever since I trotted you on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—that I do not feel called upon to add any more evidence of the love I bear you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he. You may look incredulous, but he said it. ‘But no one is perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprised to hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingled with many excellencies that make her proud, some faults,—one fault at least? You will not feel hurt? Consider your head patted.’ And I began again poking holes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, mother dear?’ ‘You are a handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, but how could I help that, with such a lovely little mother?’ ‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments with your old mother. No matter whence your good looks are derived, you aredevastatinglyhandsome—’”
“How could you say such a thing to a man’s face, Alice?”
“To put him in good humor. You are all vain, you know.
“Upon that he threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Go on,’ said he, lolling back and nursing his knee as before. ‘No,’ said I, ‘the fatal gift of beauty is not a crime in itself; it is the use one—’
“‘Do you know,’ said he, interrupting me and leaning forward with deep conviction in his eyes, ‘that you are the most extraordinary girl—I mean mother—that I ever encountered? You ought to write; it is your positive duty. So much brightness—tit for tat, you know—ought not to waste its sweetness, etc. Have you never thought of writing a book?’ ‘Not I,—Mary Rolfe is our genius; I leave that to her.’
“His face flushed slightly, and instantly I changed my whole plan of campaign. I had been making a reconnoissance under cover of the mother and son fiction; but like a wide-awake general, I now, seeing the enemy in confusion, unmasked my batteries and opened fire; that is, I dropped my parasol and sprang towards him with an anxious look: ‘Are you ill?’ I asked.
“His face grew crimson, for he knew what I meant. You see he had once or twice heard me making fun of a certain threadbare trick of the novelists. It would seem that characters in romances never have the least idea that any one is in love with any one. One party casually mentions to a second party the name of a third party. Instantly party No. 2 changes color. ‘Are you ill?’ cries No. 1. ‘It is nothing,’ gasps No. 2; ‘it will pass in a moment.’”
“Yes,” said Charley, “and how singular it is that No. 1 never for a moment suspects the truth, but invariably goes off under the conviction that the poor heroine has eaten something indigestible,—has a pain—nay, even—who minds Jack?—an ache!”
“How shrewd a device!” said Alice, laughing. “The author lets the reader know, while concealing it from the actors in the drama, that the poor girl is desperately gone.”
“Yes,” added Charley; “the author may be said to tip the reader a wink, ‘unbeknownst’—behind No. 1’s back. Now don’t, Alice; do sit down and let’s go on. That’s right. Why, in a novel, even a physician would ask, ‘Are you ill?’—evenhecould not distinguish between the indications of love and the symptoms of colic.”
“In one word,” said Alice, “those words make a book a novel,—and their absence makes this—a sym—”
Charley here burst into a quotation, speaking fearfully through his nose: “Of this disease the great Napoleon died. Some say that Napoleon was a great man; some say that Washington was a great man; butIsay that true greatness consists in moral grandeur. With this brief digression, gentlemen, we will resume our subject.”
“Why, who on earth could have said that?” cried Alice; “it is immense!”
“Have you never heard Jack or myself quote it before? It was the one solitary gem of rhetoric in the annual course of lectures delivered by old P-P-P-P—too many confounded p-p-p-p’s! Imitate his example,—resume!”
“Where did I leave him? Ah! ‘Are you ill?’ said I, and he blushed as red as a rose. I waited a moment, then said, ‘You have lost the cue; repeat after me,—“It—is—nothing!”’ ‘It is nothing,’ repeated he; ‘it—will—soon—pass! it will soon pass.’
“‘Will it?’ said I, charging bayonets. ‘That is the question, Mr. Don,’ said I, folding my arms,—these two, not the bayonets,—‘you are in love!’ I looked him straight in the eyes, for my blood was up! My fear was all gone!”
(“It has never come back!” said Charley.)
“‘To deny it would be useless as well as ungallant. Who would believe me? Constantly associated for so long with a bevy of charming—’
“‘A bevy! Are you enamoured of the whole flock? Is there no bright particular star? May I make a guess? Ah, I see I need not name her.’
“‘Miss Carter,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you seem sodifferent from your usual self this morning! Or are you merely laying a train for a phenomenal display of fire-works? Are you in earnest, or are you preparing to blow me up with an explosion of fun?’
“‘I am in earnest, and I am going to blow you up, too. Listen: but before broaching my main topic, I must say one word on Mary Rolfe.’
“‘I had thought that she was to be the main theme of your sermon.’
“‘Of courseyouthought so,—perfectly natural, the wish being father to the thought.’ How that made him blush and stammer,—almost as badly as the Silent Tomb in its courting days. Now, boys” (meaning her husband and the subscriber), “I leave it to you: wasn’t I a regular Macchiavelli? Didn’t I manage it neatly? You see it would not have done to let him see that I was acting as Mary’s friend, even though without her knowledge and consent; and she would never have forgiven me. So, at the very outset, I planted an interrogation-point in his mind. ‘What is she coming to?’ he kept thinking; but I wasthere already. I had made my reconnoissance and found out where the enemy was weak; but, as you veterans know, after a reconnoissance, the trouble is to get back to camp without loss. This is how I managed that: ‘To begin,’ said I, ‘with Mary Rolfe. Her you love. That’s admitted? Well, silence gives consent. Now, whether you have told her so in words or not is more than I can tell; for, although Mary and I are very intimate, girls do not—’”
“Oh!” grunted Charley.
“Well, in theory they do not,” replied Alice, laughing.
“‘Whether you have told her in words,’ said I—
“‘I have told her neither in words nor otherwise,’ said he.
“‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘that’s strange! strange, that you should have kept her alone in darkness. You must be aware that you have told every one else, as plainly as looks, at least, can speak. But I must proceed;I have no time to discuss that.’ ‘One moment,—you say that my looks have revealed my sentiments. Are you quite sure of this?’ ‘The fabled ostrich and the sand!’ saidI, laughing. ‘Confound it! Excuse me,—well, I suppose I deceive myself, as other men do. There is our friend Charley, for instance, the woman-hater! Now, he fondly imagines that nobody knows that he adores somebody!’”
“Fondly! H’m! Well, go on,” said Charley.
“I colored faintly at this, for blushing is becoming to me. ‘And, yet,’ said I, ‘I venture to say that the somebody in question knew what was taking place in his mind even before he suspected it.’ ‘Did you really?’ asked he. ‘I have no doubtshedid,’ said I. ‘All women are alike in that,’ I added; ‘but let us proceed.’ ‘One moment,’ said he; ‘if all women are alike in this intuitive power, then I infer that Miss Rolfe cannot fail to have remarked that I—’ Here I gave my shoulders a diplomatic shrug, which brought him to a dead pause. He nodded his head gently up and down a little while, and seemed in great perplexity. ‘Miss Carter,’ said he, suddenly looking up, ‘will you be my friend and advise me?’ ‘I am your friend,’ said I, ‘and will do what I can in the way of advice.’ Then he looked down for a long time, his face all corrugated with cross-purposes. My blood began to run a little chill. Was the great mystery about to be revealed?
“‘You say that by my bearing and looks I have, to all intents and purposes, declared myself a lover of Miss Rolfe. Now, suppose—and I pledge you my word that it is so—suppose all this was unintentional on my part; suppose that I have striven not to show just what you say I have shown,’—he paused again as before. ‘No,’ said he, resuming, in a half-musing way, as though he thought aloud, ‘I don’t see how I can lay the whole case before her’ (meaning me, I suppose). ‘Ah,’ said he, his face brightening, ‘let us suppose a case. Suppose I loved you dearly,—averysupposable case, by the way,—and you did not suspect it.’ ‘Nota supposable case; but go on.’ ‘Well,’ said he, smiling, ‘at that wharf, yonder, lies a ship ready to sail. I am to go in her to seek my fortune in the wide world, somewhere; ought I to speak, or would it not be nobler to bid you farewell with my secret locked in my breast?’
“I saw, of course, how matters stood. The supposed case was a purely imaginary one. His perplexity had been due to the difficulty of avoiding all allusion to his incognito. ‘I don’t pretend to know which would be the nobler course foryou; butIshould want to know it, and hear it from your own lips, too, were you to be off for Japan in fifteen minutes. The sweetest music in the world to a woman’s ears is the voice of a man telling her that he loves her; and it is music of so potent a character, that it often melts a heart that was cold before.’
“That shot told. He threw his head back, like a horse taking the bit between his teeth. It was plain that he had formed a resolution of some sort. By the way, Jack, I could never understand how so transparent a man as the Don, showing his inmost feelings with every glance of his eye, and every movement of his features; with a face which was a barometer of his slightest emotions, could ever have kept a secret. Here is the S. T., on the other hand. Whisper a secret intohisear, and it is like dropping a stone into an artesian well. It is the last you ever hear of it. There may be a subterranean splash, but you never see it. But the Don’s face always reminded me of a lake that the merest pebble causes to ripple from shore to shore.
“Well, the reconnoissance was a perfect success, and all that was left, as I thought, was to retire under cover of a rattling skirmish fire.[1]Very naturally, I did not suspect that my position was mined. But it was; and I trod on the percussion fuse.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘I don’t suppose you would ever get tired of hearing me talk about Mary, but you have never heard the mother’s “warning voice” yet, and you know you came to the Fateful Argo to hear that.’
“‘That’s true! Would you mind if I lit a cigar? Thanks!’ And, opening my parasol, he struck a light behind it, and began puffing away, with his head thrown back, and nursing his knee, as before; the picture of serene contentment. His face was calm as theplacid little lake of which I spoke just now, and he looked as though, the absorbing question in his mind being set at rest, he was at my service, to be amused and entertained.
“‘A man of your wide experience, Mr. Don,’ said I, beginning the skirmishing, ‘must have remarked the fact that girls will talk.’
“‘True, very true!’ And with dreamy, half-smiling, uplifted eyes, he thrust his cigar into the other corner of his mouth, as though by anticipation he rolled under his tongue some morsel of my nonsense. ‘Go on, laughter-compelling siren!’
“‘Again, you cannot fail to have observed that girls, being wound up to talk, by nature, must needs talk about one another or—the rest of mankind. As we are not philosophers, could it be otherwise?’
“‘Impossible!’ said he, rocking gently to and fro. ‘Proceed, enchantress!’
“‘Well, you being included among the rest of mankind—’
“‘You have occasionally honored me? And what did you say about me?’
“‘With one accord, that you were in love!’
“‘You have already entrapped me into a confession on that point. Chaunt, Circe!’
“‘But the accord ends there; we are not unanimous as to the charmer’s name.’
“‘Not unanimous? I don’t understand.’
“‘Well, we female doctors are agreed as to the disease, but differ as to its cause. The majority of the Faculty at Elmington assign, as the source of your trouble, Mary’s soulful eyes; but one or two, even of us, and most of the neighboring physicians, urge another name; while one or two, with the frankness so common among doctors, admit that they do not know what is the matter with you.’
“‘You surprise me! I had gathered from what you said but a moment ago, that the symptoms in my case were so pronounced as not even to require a formal diagnosis.’
“‘But doctors will differ, and when they do—’
“‘The patient must decide. Well, I have done so. But—to drop your metaphor—I cannot conceive what you mean by suggesting that I have the credit of adoring two or more young persons?’
“You may recall, Jack, that the Silent Tomb was equally perplexed on the same point, and that when I asked him ‘Mary or Lucy?’ he amazed our whole circle by bursting into a laugh. Then the wretch, in repeating the names after me, so carefully abstained from placing the accent of astonishment on either, that not even a professional piano-tuner could have detected any difference in the sounds—oh, the artesian well! I remembered this. The Don had expressed no surprise when I named Mary Rolfe; probably, then, it was the mention of Lucy that had amazed the S. T. It flashed across my female mind, in the tenth part of a second, how singularly Mr. Frobisher had acted, after the first flush of astonishment was over,—how he pursed up his brow, gazed far away, in fact, mooned around in the most absurd fashion, instead of telling me all about it at once. Would the Don, too, laugh, when I mentioned Lucy’s name?
“‘We do you that honor, at any rate,’ said I.
“‘We? Who are we? Which of you belong to the Rolfe faction, and which to—you have not mentioned the name of the other dear charmer?’
“‘Well, so and so are for Mary, and so and so for the other.’
“‘Her name? But one moment,—Miss Rolfe herself—you failed to placeher. Would it be a breach of confidence to do so?’
“‘She has not taken me into her confidence; therefore I have the right to make what surmises I choose. I place her between the two. She does not know what to think.’
“Again he snapped his head backwards, as though he said that he would settle that shortly. Tranquillized, he relit his cigar, which had gone out, and again lolled back; and cocking up his cigar in the corner of his mouth, asked. ‘And the other?’
“‘Guess,’ said I.
“Dropping his chin on his breast, with a quiet smile,he pretended to reflect for a moment. ‘I am afraid I shall have to give it up. Oh, how dull I have been! How intolerably stupid!’ And placing his hand on his heart, he made me a low bow; then throwing back his head, with a merry laugh, ‘Capital, capital!’ he ejaculated.
“‘No,’ said I, ‘her name is not Alice. Guess again.’
“A flash of surprise followed by a look of rising curiosity. ‘Really, you perplex me!’
“‘You cannot recall any of the girls except Mary, in whom you have shown marked interest?’—he shook his head—‘an ever increasing interest?’ ‘An ever increasing interest?’ repeated he, opening his eyes wide upon me; then, looking upon the ground, he appeared to reflect. ‘Not Miss Kitty? No? Nor Miss Jennie? Not Miss Jennie either! Upon my word! But youseemserious; are you really?’
“‘I am. You cannot think of any girl whom you have visited again and again, of late?’
“‘Visited!’ exclaimed he. ‘Why, then she is not one of our Elmington guests!’
“I fixed my eyes upon him, and saw nothing, though I had always thought him as transparent as glass. It was my turn now to be bewildered. ‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘can’t you guess,now, to whom I allude?’
“Gazing at me with the look of one who had totally lost his reckoning, he shook his head slowly from side to side. I was positively vexed. There came over me the impatient feeling of a teacher who is striving in vain to hammer an idea into the head of a numskull. ‘Well, then,’ said I, with some heat; and throwing out my arm at full length, I pointed across the River.
“‘Across the River, too,’ said he, with contracted features. ‘Upon my word, this conundrum grows interesting.’ And with his eyes fixed upon the sand, he stroked his tawny beard. ‘Across the River—let me see—Miss Jenny Royal—dinner-call—no other visit. The Misses Surrey—party-call. Miss Adelaide Temple—breakfast—going to pay my respects to-morrow. Anywhere else? No. Well,’ said he, suddenly throwing up his hands, ‘I give it up! What is the answer?’
“I looked at him for a moment, but could make nothing of him. ‘There! There! There!’ I exclaimed, at last, stabbing at Oakhurst with my forefinger.
“‘Where?’ asked he, looking across the River and up and down the shore opposite.
“‘There! There!’
“‘You seem to be pointing to Oakhurst.’
“My arm dropped across the gunwale.
“‘Oakhurst!’ exclaimed he, with a most natural look of surprise. ‘You don’t mean Oakhurst? Why, there are no guests there! There is no one but Lucy—Miss Lucy!’
“‘That’s true,’ answered I, dryly. ‘No one but Lucy.’
“He leaned forward and scanned my features with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Surely you have not been alluding toher?’ I said nothing. ‘Seriously? Yes?’ And with a shout of merry laughter, he threw back his head with such vigor that his cigar flew out of his mouth and over his shoulder upon the sand; and then, without the least warning, his laughter ended in an abrupt ‘Oh!’
“He rose to his feet; not with a spring, but slowly, slowly, thoughtfully tugging at his moustache, and his eyes intently glaring into vacancy, as he rose and rose, till he seemed to my excited imagination to assume almost colossal proportions. Then he slowly subsided again into his seat, and sat there raking his beard with his long fingers. A chilly sensation crept over me. I tried to speak, but could think of no word wherewith to break the spell of silence. At last he turned his eyes upon mine.
“‘So it seems to you that I have been paying Lucy Poythress much attention?’
“‘Seems, Mr. Don? How can you use that word? It is a patent fact that must be as clear to your eyes as to mine.’
“‘Yes, but what kind of attention? She is musical—so am I. I have rowed across the River frequently, to play with her. Nay, my object has not been pleasure alone. I have been giving her what are called, inParis, accompaniment-lessons. Does that amount to what is called attention, in a technical sense? And you acknowledge yourself that these visits never deceivedyou. You never thought that they were prompted by love.’
“‘No, they did not deceiveme. What if they have deceived—’
“‘HER!’
“The word shot from his lips like a ball from a cannon. He sprang from the boat and began to stride to and fro in the sand, his nostrils dilated and his eyes fixed. (He used a dreadful expression, too, which was not at all patriotic, though it did end in —nation.) Presently he turned quickly towards me, and leaning forward, with his hands grasping the gunwale of the boat, eagerly asked, ‘But, Lucy, surely you do not think that—that she—is—what you call interested?’
“‘She has not betrayed any symptoms of that character.’
“‘Thank you,’ said he, seizing my hand with a grip that made me wince; and he began to stride to and fro again, till I stopped him.
“‘But, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘though she may not be interested now, it does not follow that she may not become—’
“‘Never fear,’ said he, biting his lip with a look of fierce determination, and striding up and down again.
“Thinking to soothe him: ‘Be careful! Remember, we girls think you a handsome, fascinating dog; so don’t raise false hopes.’
“‘No danger, no danger!’ replied he, earnestly, and without even a smile for my compliment. ‘What a fool I have been!’
“He stood reflectively stroking his moustache for a while, and I thought the scene over, when turning impetuously upon me, and seizing me by both wrists with a grasp of steel, ‘You don’t think so?’ he cried. ‘Tell me you do not, for heaven’s sake!’
“He seemed totally unconscious of the force he was using, for he jerked me against the gunwale with such violence that I should have been hurt had I not beenso frightened. Oh, what eyes he had! I can feel their glare now, as I remember how he held me as in a vise, and, bringing his face close to mine, looked me through and through.
“‘Tell you what?’ I gasped.
“‘Lucy—she—the poor child—she has not—fallen in love with me: you know! Tell me so, for God’s sake!’
“His fingers sank into my wrists, and his fearful eyes burned into my brain.
“‘No! I amsureshe has not!’
“‘Thanks, thanks, thanks!’ he cried; and lifting both my hands to his lips, he covered them with fervid kisses. I was not surprised; I was past that point. Had he thrown his arms around me, I honestly believe I should have been neither astonished nor angry.”
“I wish he had,” said Charley, musing. “Poor boy, poor boy!—well, well!” and, sighing, he fixed his eyes upon the fire.
Alice, with a look of tender sympathy, took her husband’s hand in hers.
[1]How strange, even pathetic, is the sound of these military metaphors from a woman’s lips.—Ed.
[1]
How strange, even pathetic, is the sound of these military metaphors from a woman’s lips.—Ed.
The return of our Jason and Medea from the Argo was very different from their departure for that fateful craft, if their going had been operatic, their coming was elegiac. A salvo of salutations was preparing as they approached, and the Gallery watched the couple as they drew near, momentarily expecting some outburst of jollity on their part; but expectancy slowly faded as their nearer and nearer approach brought into ever clearer view the faces of the Argonaut and the Enchantress.
I have called the Don a man of surprises. What had he been saying to Alice? thought every one as she tripped up the piazza steps with an effort to appear jaunty and careless; but her cheeks showed splotches of burning red, while his features were pale and set. What had happened?
I cannot say what others thought, but I happen to have learned since what flashed across Mary’s mind. The Don had proposed to Alice and Alice had rejected him, had declined hisfirstproposal merely, for of course she could not have meant to reject him for good and all. What passed her comprehension was how Alice had had the hardihood to propose a walk which she must have known was to have that result. She was amazed to think how blind she had been all along. How could she have failed to remark what was patent to all, that the Don hung upon every word that fell from Alice’s lips?
I happen to know, too, what Charley thought: “Shetackled him! What a girl! what a girl! Bless her little heart!”
“Well, Alice,” said my grandfather, “you know the rule.” Alice looked up. “Whenever any of my girls have had a trip on the Argo—”
“Oh,” said Alice, “we kiss you on our return.” And she suited action to word.
“I accept the amendment, but that is not what I meant. Give an account of yourself. What luck?”
Alice’s face grew serene under the old-time courtesy of my grandfather’s manner, and she was herself again.
“You will have to excuse me, Uncle Tom. A girl who has been properly brought up cannot fail to feel that thereareoccasions when her mother is her only proper confidant.”
Even the Don laughed at this, and the hard lines passed out of his face. He looked at Alice with an expression of admiring amusement, seeing how easily she had laughed away the awkward pause that their return had caused.
When Mary, poor tempest-tossed soul, saw that admiring glance, she stamped her foot, though inaudibly,—stamped it with vexation, and inwardly begged Alice’s pardon; for it was not the glance of a lover, rejected or other.
“There they come down the lawn,” suddenly cried my grandfather. “Charley, where is the glass? Thankyou. They are getting into the boat,—Mrs. Poythress is in,—now for Lucy,—she is in,—and now Mr. P. there! The first flash of the oars! They are off! Charley,” added he, handing the glass to Mrs. Carter, “did you think to send word to the Herr to come, as the Poythresses were to spend the day with us? Ah, I remember, he could not come. Well, Lucy and Mr. Smith will have to entertain us to-day.”
“Ah,” sighed Mary, “in that boat sits my real rival. How could I have thought such a thing of dear Alice?”
When the boat neared the shore, the gentlemen (there were only three at Elmington at this time,—my grandfather, Charley, and the Don) went to meet the guests. Mrs. Carter went also, to greet Mrs. Poythress; and Alice, too; saying, when she saw her mother leaning on Mr. Whacker’s arm, that she thought it prudent to look after her father’s interests, when her mother was carrying on so in his absence. I am afraid, however, that she did not keep a very strict watch on her mother; for she and Charley were soon considerably in the rear of the rest, and engaged, as was obvious to Mary (who remained on the piazza), in a very earnest conversation, the subject of which it hardly needed a woman’s instinct to divine. She felt sure that her friend was describing to Charley her interview with the Don; and as Alice grew more and more earnest in her manner and vehement in her gestures, her curiosity rose at last into a sickening intensity, for a voice whispered in her ear that she, somehow, was deeply concerned in what those two were saying. She forgot where she was, forgot the girls seated near her, saw only Charley and Alice; and leaning farther and farther forward, as they receded, strove to drink in with her soulful eyes the words that her ears could not hear.
“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”
She had seen Alice stop and turn towards Charley and gaze at him with an almost tragic earnestness. Then, suddenly springing towards him and seizing his wrist, she had given him a pull that shook his equilibrium. With nerves unstrung by the harassing doubts of the last few weeks, and wrought up to the highestpitch of painful curiosity as to the subject matter of the singular interview between Alice and the Don in the Argo that morning,—seeing Alice detailing that interview to Charley,—when she witnessed Alice’s violent illustration of what must have occurred between her and the Don, Mary had leaped, with a cry, from her seat.
“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”
At these words of her neighbor Mary sank back in her chair with a vivid blush and a confused smile, and was silent.
“You frightened me so! I thought some one had fallen out of the boat, perhaps. What was the matter?”
“I am sure I can’t tell; I suppose I must have been dreaming.”
The neighbor cast her eyes towards the boat, and seeing among the approaching guests Lucy leaning on the Don’s arm, thought her own thoughts.
The day was an unusually warm one for February, and, a vote being taken, it was decided not to enter the house; and our friends soon grouped themselves to their liking on the sunny piazza; the elders at one end, in the middle the young people, except Charley and Alice, who sat by themselves at the other end of the porch.
These twain often found themselves isolated now. Wherever they chose their seats every one seemed to think they needed room, and moved off,—treatment that Charley bore like the philosopher that he was. The fact is that, from being a man who seemed to have nothing to say, he became, about this time, one who could not find time to say all that he had on his mind. At this period of his life he used to lie awake in bed, for hours and hours, as he has since confessed to me [And to me.A.] [Wh-e-e-e-w!C. F.], running over in his mind the things that he had omitted to say to Alice the evening before, and resolving to say them all immediately after breakfast next morning. On this occasion a mountain torrent of words had risen in his soul during the hour’s absence of his charmer in the Argo. But he was not uttering them. Nor did itmatter in the least, as they would have been as like thousands of others that he had been whispering and whispering into her rosy ear, as one drop of water of the supposed torrent was like another. The twain were rather silent, in fact. They were quietly watching the Don and Lucy.
One other pair of eyes took in every movement of the Don, another pair of ears lost never a word nor an inflection of his voice. (Mary was, it is true, engaged in an animated discussion with Mr. Poythress on the subject of Byron,—he denouncing the man, while she lauded the poet,—but then she was a woman.) “How changed he is!” sighed she. “A moment ago, pale as ashes; how bright and cheerful now! And Lucy! I think I should try not to lookquiteso happy, if I were you! Why not announce your engagement in words, as you are doing every moment by your manner?”
Alice, on the contrary, to Charley: “How well he is acting his part! He knows we are looking at him, and see the easy air of an old friend that he has assumed towards Lucy! Not assumed, either, for his bearing towards her has always been just that.”
“So I have always thought,” said Charley.
“Certainly; only that manner is rather more pronounced than usual. The merest glance would convince any one that he was no lover of Lucy’s.”
“‘He that hath bent him o’er the dead,Ere the first day of death is fled,—The first dark day,’” etc., etc.,
“‘He that hath bent him o’er the dead,Ere the first day of death is fled,—The first dark day,’” etc., etc.,
“‘He that hath bent him o’er the dead,Ere the first day of death is fled,—The first dark day,’” etc., etc.,
“‘He that hath bent him o’er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled,—
The first dark day,’” etc., etc.,
quoted Mary.
No voice that I have ever heard quite equalled Mary’s in sweetness, even in familiar talk. Soft and tender, it was yet singularly clear, though marked by a certain patrician absence of that exaggerated articulation so characteristic of other communities, where not thenorma loquendiof gentle ancestors is the touchstone of speech, but the printed word, and the spelling-book, and the unlovely precision of the free school. But now that she was uttering a wail over her own crushed heart, and, in unison therewith, Byron’s passionatelament over the dead glories of the Greece of Thermopylæ and of Marathon, the tremulous fervor of her vibrating tones was touching beyond description. Two or three fair heads had clustered near hers to catch her low-breathed words; and when, turning to Mr. Poythress with a certain triumphant enthusiasm in her soulful eyes, she, with a slight but impassioned gesture, ended with the words, “’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more,” there was a sense of choking in more than one snowy throat.
As for Mrs. Carter,—sympathetic soul,—I am told that there were actually tears in her eyes.
“Upon my word,” began Mr. Poythress, ready to yield.
Perhaps Mary heard what he said as he re-defined his position; but his words can be of no interest to the reader.
“See,” mused she, “what an easy air he has assumed towards Lucy! And Lucy! how matter-of-fact! Any one could see at half a glance that they were acknowledged lovers. See with what an air of content he looks about him! There, he is exchanging glances with Alice; and she understands him, of course. She is telling Mr. Frobisher that they are engaged. Ah, he glanced at me, then, and so furtively! No wonder he averts his eyes when they meet mine! Yet even yesterday I thought I saw in his look—well, well;thatis all over.”
Alice, on the contrary: “See, he can’t keep his eyes off her! He is just dying to say something to her; and it will be to the point. Ah, Uncle Tom has put himself just between us.” And she leaned forward so as to put Charley almost behind her back, but went on talking, all the same, in a low voice: “How could those girls have thought that he was in love with Lucy or Lucy in love with him!”
“Horrible!” ejaculated Charley, in a voice that startled Alice. She turned and looked at him. Had she turned more quickly, she might have caught a different expression on his face. As it was, he was gazing out upon the River with a stony calm upon his features.
“What did you say?” asked she, beginning to doubt her ears. “‘Horrible?’”
“Who? I?” And the gray eyes met the hazel without blinking.
“Did you not say that the idea of the Don and Lucy being lovers was horrible?”
“Very likely. Of late I have been capable of saying anything.”
“What did you mean?”
“If I said it,—which I don’t admit; and if I meant anything,—which, likely enough, I did not—”
“‘Horrible’ is so unlike you.”
“Now you flatter me.”
“Tell me, goose.”
“You say that the Don loves Mary. Then wouldn’t it be sad if Lucy loved him? And you tell me that Mary loves the Don. Now wouldn’t it be too bad if the Don loved Lucy? Ought not true love to run smooth if it can?”
Alice fixed her eyes upon Charley’s, and scanned his features long and intently. There was nothing to be seen there save a smile that was almost infantile in its sweetness and simplicity. “Do you think I am handsome?” asked he, languidly. “They tell me I am good.”
“Do you know, Mr. Frobisher, I sometimes think you know more about the— There she goes, and he after her!”
“Mr. Poythress,” Mary had said, laughing, “my defence of Byron has made my throat dry.”
“Nor did it lack much of making our eyes moist,” replied he, with a courtly inclination of his patrician head.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” interrupted the Don, moving towards the door.
“Ah, thank you, never mind.” And rising hastily, she made for the door with a precipitancy that vexed Alice; for she saw in it a pointed indication of unwillingness on Mary’s part to accept even this little service at the hands of the Don. She moved so rapidly that she had passed in at the door before the Don could reach it; but he, whether or not he interpreted hermotives as Alice did, followed her within the house. Instantly the cloud that had passed over Alice’s face was gone, and a sudden smile shone forth. She sprang to her feet. “Why do we tarry here all the day? It is moved and seconded that we adjourn to the Hall. Fall in, company! Attention! Shoulder—I mean seize arms!” And skipping away from Charley, she laid hands upon Mr. Poythress (“You take Mrs. Poythress,” she had whispered to Charley; “that will make them all come”), and away they marched down the steps and across the lawn, towards the Hall, Alice leading with her rataplan, rataplan, and enacting a sort of combination of captain, drum-major, and vivandière.
Nothing so much delighted our slaves, in those days, as any jollity on the part of their masters. Happy and careless themselves, when they saw their betters unbend they realized more clearly, perhaps, that they were men and brothers.
“Lord ’a’ mussy!” cried Aunt Polly at the kitchen door, letting fall a dish-cloth.
“What dat, gal?” carelessly asked Uncle Dick, who sat breakfasting in his usual stately and leisurely fashion. Aunt Polly made no reply, being seized with a sudden paroxysm which caused her to collapse into half her normal stature. Straightening herself out again, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “Oh, Lord,howlong!” she ejaculated, giving the door-sill two simultaneous flaps with slippers that were a world too wide. “What’s a-comin’ next? dat’s all I wants to know.” And she began to rock to and fro. Seeing her for the second time telescope into a three-foot cook:
“What de matter wid de gal?” said Uncle Dick, rising with dignity, and wiping his rather unctuous lips.
“’Fore Gaud,” cried his spouse, “I do b’lieve dat chile gwine to make everybody at Elmin’ton crazy befo’ she done. Mussiful heaven, jess look at ole mahrster, and he a-steppin’ high as a colt, and Miss Alice a-struttin’ jess like she had on a ridgimental unicorn, and a-backin’ and a-linin’ of ’em up wid her parasol! Forrard, march! Jess lissen at her sojer talk, and ain’t she apretty little critter? No wonder Marse Charley ravin’ ’stracted ’bout her. Lor’, Dick, let de boy look!”
Zip, by a dextrous ducking of his head, had just evaded the sweeping palm of his chief. “What is dese young niggers a-comin’ to?” exclaimed this virtuous personage. “Boy, don’t you see dem flies.” And he pointed to the table he had just left. “And you a-gapin’ at de white folks, ’stid o’ mindin’ your business!”
One of the perquisites of Zip’s position as junior butler was waving a feather brush over the bald head of his senior when he sat at meat. Dick had elected him to this office on the plea of fotchin’ of him up in the way he should go; and, being a strict disciplinarian, had resented his abandoning the post of duty without orders.
Zip made a perfunctory dash, with his brush, at the flies,—whom, by the way, he somewhat resembled in disposition; for as you shall not ruffle the temper, or even hurt the feelings of one of these, during your afternoon nap, by a slap, be it ever so violent and contumelious, if it but miss him; so Zip-Moses accounted all blows that failed to reach that anvil-shaped head of his not as insults and injuries, but clear gain rather. Zip, therefore, was not long in finding his way back, on tiptoe, to where he could get a glimpse of what was going forward on the lawn; even as that reckless insect blanches not as he tickles the somnolent nose of a blacksmith; for hath he not his weather eye upon the doughty fist of his foe?
“Left face!” cried Alice; “forward, file right, march!” And her company went tumbling with bursts of laughter up the steps and into the Hall.
Lucy took her seat at the piano.
“Why, where is the Don?” asked my grandfather, looking round.
“Lucy has a new solo for us,” said Alice,—“perhaps,—” added she, conscience-stricken.
“Oho!” cried Mr. Whacker, settling himself.
“What new solo?” asked Lucy.
“That—what do you call it?” replied Alice, rather vaguely.
“The Sonata I have been learning?”
“Oh, yes; that’s what we want.”
Lucy struck the opening chords and began.
Charley leaned carelessly forward and whispered in Alice’s ear,—
“Thisis a solo;that?” And he nodded slightly in the direction of the house.
“A duet. What did you think of my manœuvre?”
“Immense!”
How and by how many cooks this broth has been brewed, our patrons have already been duly informed. Up to this point the firm, as a firm, has been responsible for everything that has been written; for though our Mr. Whacker, having the pen of a ready writer, has had the task of arranging our wares in show-cases, our silent partners have furnished the bulk of said wares. And we desire to say to the public that our joint labors have been, thus far, carried forward most joyously, and with perfect harmony.
Save only in one particular.
Our female associate has been grumbling, from the very first, at the treatment that Love has received at the hands of our Mr. Whacker. She has again and again protested against what she calls the mocking touches of his pencil, when he would portray that passion which is so tender, and yet hath power to move the world. He, on his side, has defended his handiwork, if not with success, at least with a certain manly vigor, having observed more than once that he could not for the life of him get it into his head how it could be High Art to make your heroes say in a book what a Christian would be hanged before he would say, or be overheard saying, at least, in real life; adding, with atartness born of his wrangles at the Bar, that it passed his comprehension why authors should be at the pains of causing imaginary beings to make fools of themselves, when nature had served so many real ones that turn. In reply, our Alice said that, if that were so, they were but holding the mirror up to nature; a retort that seemed to dispose of our legal brother; and so our Alice was encouraged to go on and add (using the bluntness of a friend) that all this talk about love-making being an exhibition of an aggravated type of idiocy was, to use the mildest name, the merest affectation, and could have originated only in the brain of a sore-headed old bachelor, who is forever talking of marrying, but who has not the vaguest conception of what love really means. Our Charley, meanwhile, would only smoke and chuckle and chuckle and smoke, when we asked for his vote to end our controversy; and as his smoke-wreaths were perfectly symmetrical, inclining neither this way nor that, and as he chuckled on both sides of him, neither of us belligerents had the least pretext for claiming the victory. Yet, in the end, it was he who closed our debate.
“Jack-Whack,” said he (ever judicious), “turn about is fair play. Suppose we let Alice write this fifty-first chapter. Let it be hers entirely, and let her acknowledge it as such, while you may disown it.”
To this we are all agreed. In testimony whereof we have hereunto, etc., etc., etc.
[✻Porpoise. Ha! ha! ha!]
When Charley came out with his Compromise Resolutions, Alice was at first much taken aback, turning red and white by turns; nor do I believe she would ever have consented, had I not permitted myself to smile a rather triumphant smile of defiance. It was then that, nettled by this, she brought down her plump little fist upon the table and cried, “I’ll do it.”
“Brava!” cried Charley, patting her on the back.
“And you, sir!” said she, turning upon him. “I don’t believeyouthink I can do it.”
“I believe you capable of anything.”
“Well, I will show you. Decamp forthwith, both of you!”
Charley and I decamped accordingly, and betook ourselves to a very pleasant beer-garden (for this colloquy chanced to be held in Richmond), where we spent a couple of hours. On our return we found Alice sitting with dishevelled hair and looking very disconsolate.
“Where is chapter fifty-one?”
Alice pointed rather snappishly to the waste-basket, in which lay several sheets of paper, torn into shreds.
“Ah!” said I, “let us put the pieces together, Charley, and see how she got on.” And Charley and I made for the basket. The result was a battle royal, at the end of which the shreds had become bits of the size of postage-stamps, mingled with which, all over the room, lay the ruins of the basket.
“You give it up, then?”
“Not for a moment,” replied she, panting.
A week passed before Alice summoned us to hear her chapter read. Not with a view to criticism, however; for it was agreed that neither Charley nor I should utter one word, either of praise or censure. Whatever she produced was to be printed just as she wrote it; and here it is, word for word, just as it came from her pen.
And if any reader, during its perusal, shall come to doubt whether it be, in truth, her production; if he shall fail to discover one solitary trait of our merry-sparkling, laugh-compelling enchantress, it will be but another proof that what people are has nothing to do with what they write. If, for example, the reader shall find this work dull—but enough.
Moving nearer the lamp, Alice read with a resolute spirit but faltering voice as follows:
They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretched hand to receive the goblet which she held.
“I’d rather help myself.”
“Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And he stood aside.
She glanced at his face. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. Help me, then; thank you.” And barely moistening her lips (for somehow a choking sensation seized her), she handed him back the tumbler.
It is in our premonitions that we women have some compensation for our inferiority in strength to men. It was not an accident that the Pythia and the Sibyl were women. The delicate, responsive fibre of her nervous system makes every woman half a prophetess.
“You must have been parched with thirst,” said he, holding up the goblet, with a smile.
“I suppose it was only imagination.”
Trivial words; yet he knew and she felt that a crisis in their lives was at hand. It is thus, I am told, that soldiers will often joke and babble of nothings when crouched along the frowning edge of battle.
“Only imagination,” said he, catching at the words. (They were walking slowly, side by side, from the dining-room to the parlor.) “And is there anything else in life worth living for? The facts of life, what are they but dry crusts, the merest husks, which content the body, perhaps, while leaving the soul unsatisfied?”
It was to minor chords, as I have said somewhere above, that Mary’s nature gave readiest response; and these had been struck with no uncertain hand.
“You speak feelingly,” said she, without looking up.
“And no wonder; for of these husks of life—husks without a kernel—I have had my share; but of late—”
They had reached the parlor window and found the piazza deserted. How inconsistent is the human heart, more especially that of woman. Mary had longed to find herself alone, for one short quarter of an hour, with this man who had so troubled her peace. She had confidence in her woman’s tact,—felt sure that, if opportunity were given, she could pluck away the mask which concealed his heart, without revealing her own. Strangely enough, during all the time they had been under one roof, she had not had such an opportunity. This had, in fact, been one cause of her troubled curiosity. He had seemed studiously to avoid finding himself alone with her, and with her only of all the girls. It had come now,—come so suddenly,—and she trembled. She leaned out of the window.
“They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her head and looking up at the Don with a scared look.
Was not that sinking of the heart a presage of sorrow? Would it not have been better for thee, poor child, to have hearkened to the voice of its Cassandra-throbs? Better to have hastened to the Hall, whence thou couldst even now hear issuing the sounds of merry music, and found safety in numbers? Something whispered this in her fluttering heart.
“But of late,” repeated the man of her destiny.
“Let us join our friends in the Hall,” said she, faintly.
Wise words, but spoken too late. Too late; for she felt herself compassed round about by a nameless spell that would not be broken; entwined in cords soft as silk but strong as fate.
“They seem to be getting on famously without us.”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“Thought what?”
“I thought you must be longing to hear Lucy play.” And she gave a hasty glance at his face.
There was a revelation in the look that met hers. The veil that had darkened her vision fell away. Through those glorious eyes of his, so full of tender flame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no image of Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been. ’Twas her own, instead, sat enthroned there.
Wrung as she had been, for weeks, with conflicting emotions, the revulsion of feeling that now came over her was too great for her strength. Her knees tottered beneath her; the room swam before her eyes.
“Somehow I feel a little tired,” said she; and she sank down upon a sofa which stood near.
Where was all her tact gone? Was she not to unveil his heart while hiding her own?
All is fair in love and war; and in both the best-laid schemes are undone by a surprise. The enemy had found the citadel unguarded and rushed in.
“Will you allow me?” said he.
She made no reply beyond a faint smile, and he took his seat beside her.
“You spoke of music just now. Lucy has a charming touch; but I know a voice that is, to me at least, richer than all the harmonies of a symphony, softer than an Æolian harp, gentler than the cooing of a dove.”
She made a brave effort to look unconscious. “Oh, how beautiful it must be! How I should like to hear such a voice!”
“I hear it now! I am drinking it in!”
It was a draught which seemed to intoxicate him; and the circle of the spell which bound them grew narrower. She could feel his eager, frequent breath upon her cheek, whose burning glow lent a more liquid lustre to her dark eyes. They spoke little. What need of multiplying words? Did they not know all? Ah, supremest moment of our lives, and restfullest, when two souls rush together, at last, and are one!
Somehow, by chance, just then—if things which always manage to happen can be said to come by chance—somehow their hands met. Met somewhere along the back of the sofa, perhaps—but no matter.
Hardly their hands, either. It was the forefinger tip, merely, of his right hand that chanced to rest its weight across the little finger of her left.
A taper and a soft and a dainty little finger,—and a weak, withal. Why should it scamper off before it was hurt? After all, it was but an accident, perhaps,and a neighborly sort of accident, at the worst. Who could say that it was a bold, bad forefinger? Perhaps it did not know it was there!
And so that weak little digit lay there, still as a mouse, though blushing, blushing (ah me, how it did blush!), and all of a flutter.
After all, are not even strangers continually shaking hands? And if that be so, why should one run away, merely because—but the thing is not worth a discussion.
I have been much longer in telling it than it was in happening. The thrill had barely flashed through that rose-tipped little digit when he seized her hand, and taking it in both his, pressed it again and again to his heart; then the other; and drawing her towards him, bent over her and breathed into her ear words never to be forgotten. Not many, but strong,—vehement with long-suppressed passion.
As though a mountain-torrent had burst its bonds.
She had read of innumerable wooings and imagined many besides; but never one like this. She tried to speak, she knew not what, but her tongue refused to do its office.
“And have you no word for me? No little word of hope?”
She raised her eyes to his. It was but for a moment; for she could not longer withstand his impassioned gaze. But in that brief glance, half wondering, half shrinking, he read his answer, and in an instant she found herself enveloped in those mighty arms,—found herself lying across that broad chest, his right arm around her, his left supporting her head, that nestled with upturned face against his shoulder. With upturned face and closed eyes.
She had surrendered at discretion. When she felt herself, again and again, pressed to his heart, she made no protest;—gave no sign when he devoured her cheeks, her lips, with kisses, countless, vehement-tender,—lay upon that broad shoulder in a kind of swoon.
She had waited so long and it had come so suddenly, this cyclone of love!
Lay there upon that broad chest,—she so little,—withupturned face but closed lids, from beneath which forced their way drop after drop of happy tears. Happy tears? Did not they too tremble, tremble, as they lingered, waiting to be kissed away?
Lay there, nestled upon that strong arm, and drunk with the wine of young love; the past forgot, the future banished,—living in the present alone. A present, delicious, dreamy, and wrapped in rose-colored incense-breathing mist. Shutting out all the world save only him and her. From afar comes floating to her ear, from the Hall, the sound of muffled laughter,—comes floating the drowsy tinkling of the piano, meaningless and inane! All things else are shams. Love alone is real!
Yes, pillow thy head upon that arm, thy heart upon that hope, while yet thou mayest!
For dost not heed how within that deep chest, against which thy fair young bosom palpitates and flutters,—markest thou not how ’tis a lion-heart seems to beat therein? To beat thereunder with tempestuous thud, ominous of storm and wreck?
And those eyes, so wondrous tender now, and soft (for even if thou hast not stolen a look between thy dewy lids, thou hast felt their caressing glances), and those loving eyes? Hast forgotten how their changeful, bickering flashes once filled thy heart with dread, even before he was aught to thee?
If thou hast, dream on—dream on while thou mayest!