A few days after this, when Mrs. Carter entered the Don’s room, before going down to breakfast, to see how he was getting on, she found him entirely free from fever and his head clear once more. It was then that, for the first time, she made him understand that the house in which he was lying was the one in front of which he had so often met little Laura.
“You must know we have often played the spy upon you from our window while you were talking to her.”
“Indeed!” said he, coloring. “You must have thought—”
“We thought none the worse of you, I can assure you.”
“How strange my conduct must have appeared to you! But had you only known—however—” And he suddenly checked himself.
“Do you know that your condition has been critical?” said she, changing the subject. “During the first few days we were very uneasy about you.”
“Few days! You don’t mean to say that I have been lying here several days?”
“Yes; the accident occurred on Saturday, and this is Thursday morning.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes; but you have been delirious, and of course could know nothing of the lapse of time. You can imagine what our feelings were, doubtful as we wereas to the result of your injuries. There you lay, suffering from possibly fatal injuries, while, owing to the disordered condition of your brain, we could in no possible way learn from you the address of your friends,—you remember, Mr. Frobisher,—nor write them of your condition.” The Don’s face grew clouded, as Charley’s quick eyes perceived; but Mrs. Carter’s being fixed upon Charley for the moment, she did not remark the change. (I was getting a nap in an adjoining room.) “I am sure,” continued she, “I cannot explain why I felt so, for I did all I could, even insisting, one night, when the doctor pronounced your condition exceedingly critical, upon Mr. Frobisher’s looking through your pockets for letters or other sources of information; but I could not help repeating and repeating to myself, What will his mother say when she learns that we—Ah, you are suffering again. Well, we must not talk any more just now. You will be better after breakfast. You can take some breakfast, can you not? No? But I shall send up some toast, may I not? Yes? Ah, that’s right. It will do you good; and little Laura shall be allowed now to pay you the visit she has so often begged for.”
“Little Laura! Ah, send her in right now,—do, please.”
Charley went to the door and called her, and soon her little feet were heard pattering along the hall; but reaching the door, and seeing the Don lying in bed, and so pale and scarred, she stood abashed and hesitating upon the threshold, with one rosy finger in her mouth,
“Come in, little Sunbeam,” said he; and she began to advance slowly—a step and then a halt—till she reached the middle of the room, when with a bound and a bright smile she sprang towards him, crying, “Here’s some flowers I brought you. I saw those bad horses run over you, and I cwied.”
“Did you?” said he, with a grateful smile. “I believe you are the best friend I have in the world.” And he took her hands in his and patted them gently. “Have you had your breakfast?”
“No, ma’am; Molly is going to get me some.”
“Won’t you take your breakfast in here with me? We’ll have a nice time together.”
“Oh, may I take my breakfast with Don Miff?”
“Yes, darling.” And Laura skipped out of the room. “You cannot imagine,” continued Mrs. Carter, smiling, “how all of us were puzzled by that name which Laura has just used,—Don Miff. She came in one evening and said that that was your name; and do you know we were all so stupid that we could not imagine what was the English of it till Mr. Whacker met you and told us. ‘Don,’ you will observe, has a decidedly Spanish air; but what nationality did ‘Miff’ indicate?”
“Don Miff, Don Miff,” repeated he, smiling. “Well, that has a decidedly droll sound when seriously spoken as a man’s name. And Mr. Whacker told you that it was, being interpreted, plain John Smith.”
“Yes; and, by the way, it occurs to me that perhaps you would like to know who I am. I am Mrs. Carter” (the Don tried to bow), “and that gentleman seated by the window, who has nursed you so faithfully” (Charley arose), “is Mr. Charles Frobisher, of Leicester County.”
Charley came forward and extended his hand.
“Mr. Charles Frobisher!” echoed the Don, in a startled tone, giving Charley a quick and concentrated glance; and then, as if recovering himself, he took the proffered hand, and said, “Ah, Mr. Frobisher, I am extremely indebted to you.”
“Not at all,” replied Charley. “I could not do too much for one who saved the lives, as you doubtless did, of three of my friends.”
“May I ask whom I so fortunately saved, as you are so good as to say?”
“In the first place, Mrs. Carter’s daughter Alice.”
“My only child,” added Mrs. Carter, averting her face.
“And with her was Miss Lucy Poythress, daughter of a valued neighbor of mine.”
“Little Laura’s sister,” explained Mrs. Carter.
“Yes,” said the Don, with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
“And my friend Jack Whacker, whom I have long—in default of other—looked upon as a younger brother. So you see that when we come to speak of obligation, the boot is on the other—”
“Don Miff, here tums Molly with my bekfuss,” chirped little Laura, skipping into the room.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Carter, rising, “I must send you yours, Mr. Smith. Mr. Frobisher, you may leave your patient to Molly and Laura; so join us at breakfast. No; we will let Mr. Whacker sleep after his vigils as long as he can. Now, Laura, you must take good care of Mr. Smith.”
That morning Mary, as was her wont, came across the street to inquire after the Don, and found the family lingering around the breakfast-table; and the girls had hastened to tell her of the improved condition of the patient. Mr. Carter and Charley had lit their pipes, and there was a lively clatter of female voices.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Carter, rising, “I am going upstairs now to look after our invalid, and I think I shall have some news for you when I come down.”
“I can’t imagine what you expect to ascertain,” said Alice, “unless it be how many slices of toast Mary’s starry-eyed one has consumed.”
“You see,” continued Mrs. Carter, smiling, “it is proper, now that he has recovered the use of his faculties, to write to his friends to let them know where and how he is. They must be terribly uneasy, whoever they are. But I cannot write to them without first learning of him their names and addresses. Do you see?”
“Capital! and perfectly legitimate,” cried Alice. “And mind, mother, just so soon as he gives you the names find an excuse—you will need pen, ink, and paper, you know—find an excuse and fly to us,—yes,fly, and tell us all about it. Don’t write the letters first, for we shall be positively dying to know who he is. Now mind, mother dear,fly!”
Charley rose hastily, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and laid it on the mantel-piece.
“Won’t you fill up?” said Mr. Carter.
“Not just at present,” said Charley, looking at Mrs. Carter.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Carter, “I shall fly,” and she looked down at her plump figure and laughed; “and do try to live till I get back.”
“May I accompany you?” asked Charley.
There were three little shrieks from the girls.
“Talk about a woman’s curiosity,” exclaimed Alice; and they all lifted up their hands and let them fall upon the table. Charley, who was just passing out into the hall, turned and smiled. It was the answer that he returned to most things that were said to him.
“By the way,” said Mrs. Carter, turning round in the hall, “when I come to think of it, Mr. Frobisher, it seems to me that it would be as well for you to offer your services instead of me.” And she re-entered the dining-room.
Charley stood looking down upon the floor and twirling his thumbs.
“Don’t you think so?”
“Will you allow me to be perfectly frank?” said Charley, looking up.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Carter, with a surprised look; “what is your opinion?”
“That neither of us ask the names and addresses of his friends.”
“Really? Of course, if you have any reason to think—if you know anything—”
“I know nothing whatever, but—”
“But what?” gasped the girls.
Charley stood silent for a time, stroking his yellow beard.
“Sphinx No. 2,” said Alice.
A gentle ripple passed through Charley’s moustache. He began to twist one end of it. “It may be all imagination,” he began, “but I fancied, at least, that when you spoke to him this morning of his mother—” And he paused.
“Ah, I remember. I recollect a look of pain. Yes,I remember perfectly,—his face clouded up instantly. Yes, you are quite right, Mr. Frobisher.”
“He always is,” whispered Lucy to me, with a smile.
“Always,” said I.
Mary gave a sigh. “Now, girls, I suppose we areneverto learn who this Sphinx is.”
“Never, never on earth,” sighed Alice, in return.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “we shall yet know him; I feel that we shall.”
“You always were a dear, encouraging creature,” said Alice, passing her arm round Lucy’s waist and leaning her head languidly upon her shoulder. “I shall never forgive you, Mr. Frobisher. By this time, but for you—oh, it was too cruel!”
“Never despair!” And he started on his way upstairs.
Nothing was said for a minute or so, all listening to Charley’s retiring footsteps.
“Mrs. Carter,” said Mary, “Mr. Frobisher knows something about the Don that we do not. Don’t you think so, Mr. Whacker?”
I had come in for my breakfast shortly after Mary arrived, looking very sleepy and stupid.
“Hardly, I should think. How could he?”
“And then,” said Mary, “if he knew anything he would have told Mr. Whacker.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“You don’t know him,” said Lucy, laughing. “He is an odd fish if ever there was one. I never could see, though, Mr. Whacker, why people should say he was a woman-hater.”
“A woman-hater!” exclaimed Mary, looking much interested; “a regular misogynist would be such a piquant character!”
“Yes, I have heard that he was. Is it true, Mr. Whacker?” said Alice.
“Charley a woman-hater!” said I, sleepily reaching for the butter. “No—more—than—I—am.” And I gave a frightful yawn.
“Ever since I was a child,” said Alice, gravely, “I have longed to see Mammoth Cave. My curiosity isnow gone. I hope your appetite is on the same scale, Mr. Whacker.”
“You must excuse me. Remember how little I slept last night.”
“It is such a disappointment that he doesn’t hate women!” said Mary.
“Romance!” whispered Alice; for which Mary gave her a love-tap on the cheek.
“Charley, you must know, is an eccentric, and it is of the nature of eccentricities to grow, especially when remarked upon. He was, even as a boy, singularly taciturn, and this trait having been often alluded to by his acquaintance, I think he has grown rather proud of it. Rarely opening his mouth, when he does speak his language is apt to assume a sententious and epigrammatic form; and certain of his crisp utterances about women having been repeated, have given him the reputation of hating the sex. This for example:Few ladies are gentlemen.I suppose, too, that the manner of his life has contributed to strengthen this impression. He never visits young ladies, seeming content with the society of my grandfather and that of two or three of the elderly people among his neighbors.”
“Why, yes,” interposed Lucy, “if he hated women, how could he be so devoted to mother as he is? No weather can prevent his crossing the river for his weekly visits to her.”
“How fond he must be of your mother!” said Mary, with an arch look.
“Oh,” replied Lucy, quietly, “I am not the attraction, though we are warm friends. His visits began when I was ever so little; and as for mother, she loves Mr. Frobisher as dearly as though he were her own son. But you know,” said she, turning to me with a grave look, and speaking in undertones, “there are peculiar reasons for that.”
“Yes,” said I, “I have heard.”
Lucy sighed and was silent.
“But, Mr. Whacker,” began Alice, “whyishe so silent? You can see he is very intelligent. His smile is singularly subtle, and what little he does say is alwaysadmirably well said. ‘A bird that can sing and won’t,’ you know.”
“Suppose you bring him out,” said I.
“Do you know I am positively afraid of him?”
“The idea of being afraid of Mr. Frobisher!” exclaimed Lucy.
“And the idea of Alice’s being afraid of any one!” chimed in Mary.
“But I am,” rejoined Alice. “That way he has of quietly fixing his eyes upon you while you are talking, as though he were serenely looking you through and through, quite upsets me. And then you can’t for the life of you guess what he thinks of you.”
“Ah,” said I, “that’s the trouble, is it? You would like to know what he thinks of you?”
“I didn’t say that,” said she, slightly coloring. “I—”
“I’ll ask him,” said I.
“I said—”
“But he won’t tell me, I know.”
“What I said—”
“Sly rogue that he is, with his eyes fixed upon you—so I understood you to say—all the time that you—evenyou—are talking. How great a portion of his time he—”
“Mr. Whacker, you are too absurd for anything!”
“However,” said I, unwilling to tease her further, though I saw what delight it gave her mother and Mary to see Alice put, for once, on the defensive, “you do my friend injustice. I assure you that, seated quietly in the Elmington sitting-room, before a bright winter fire, alone with my grandfather and me, Charley is capable of becoming a veritable chatterbox. When he is in the vein, there seems to be no end to the stream of his quaint, subdued humor. He reminds me of the waters of a cistern, deep, quiet, unobtrusive, but there when needed,—not of a brook that goes babbling sweetly forever.”
“For example,” said Mrs. Carter, nodding towards Alice.
“I wish you would persuade him to do some babbling for us,” said she.
“And you, meanwhile?”
“Ah,” said her mother, “she would be able then to enjoy the luxury of what Sydney Smith called an occasional flash of silence.”
The Don now went on improving steadily, and it was not very long before his jolly doctor, entering the room in his brisk, cheery way, and bringing along with him much of the freshness of the crisp October morning, told his patient that he might dress and sit by the window, and that if he felt able to do so, he might, the next day, go down-stairs. At this Mrs. Carter, who had followed the doctor, expressed great satisfaction; when the Don said something about having given enough trouble already, and asked whether he would not be strong enough, probably, to go down to his own room.
“How far is it?” asked the doctor. “Where is your room?”
“At the corner of —th and Main; ever so far,” said Mrs. Carter; “but far or near, Mr. Smith, you will not go there yet. It is simply out of the question.” To which the Don smiled his acknowledgments.
I must mention, here, that after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, on Mrs. Carter’s going up to inquire how the Don had enjoyed his breakfast, he had seemed a little nervous. It was obvious—so, at least, she thought—that he feared that she was going to propose to write to his friends. At last it seemed to occur to him, as a kind of compromise, that he would give a vague sort of account of himself, but in such a way that it would be understood that he had nothing more to report. Actuated, apparently, by this motive, and spurred on by a nervous dread of a point-blank question from Mrs. Carter, he seized every pretext for saying something about himself, but always in a distant and shadowykind of way. For example, allusion having been made to the news from Europe, he hastened to say that he had spent much of his life there; and this bringing up, very naturally, the delights of travelling, “Yes,” said he, “it is very pleasant at first, but after a while one begins to feel, as he wanders from capital to capital, that he is on a sort of perpetual picnic,—a mere butterfly,—and a weary sense of the aimlessness, the utter worthlessness, of his life begins to creep over him. After all, every human heart feels, sooner or later, the need of a home; for a home means interests, means duties, means affections; and what is life without all these?”
It was a study, watching his face when he spoke in this way. Beginning with a low voice and with a studied repose of manner, the mere utterance of his thoughts would soon hurry him past self-control, the glow of his countenance and the vibrating intensity of his voice breaking through the crust of a self-imposed calm, when, as though conscious that he had betrayed too much emotion, he would abruptly cease speaking, and remain silent till he felt that he had regained composure.
“I cannot thank you sufficiently, Mr. Frobisher,” said Mrs. Carter one day, “for warning me not to ask him about his home and friends.”
“Whatwouldhe have said, mother?” said Alice. “I wish you had,almost.”
“And then, perhaps, we might have known something,” said Mary. “I declare I am positively consumed with curiosity.”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Alice. “Now just look at that provoking Lucy. Here are you and I, Mary, wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement over this enigma, and there sits Lucy, as composed and self-contained as—as—Neptune. You remember hisplacidum caput, girls,—in the Virgil class, you know.”
“My head may beplacidum, but it is more than my heart is. It fairly aches with longing to know who he is. Do you know, I feel, somehow, as though he was to be more to me than to either of you girls.”
“What!” said Alice. “Have not I long since claimed him?”
It was on one of the occasions above alluded to that the Don mentioned where his room was (hence Mrs. Carter’s knowledge of its location), managing to throw out, in a vague way, that as a wanderer about the earth he had chanced to find himself in Richmond, something in his manner rendering it impossible that any one should ask whence he came or whither he was going. “Now, doctor,” Mrs. Carter had added on this occasion, “I am sure that you will say that it would be very unwise in Mr. Smith to forsake his nurse and his present quarters just at present. True, Mr. Whacker takes Mr. Frobisher off to-night down to his rooms, but I am left. Besides, down there on Main Street, weak as you are, and all alone as you would be, there is no telling what might happen.” And she looked to the doctor for support.
“Of course,” said he, with a shake of his head that brought the waving hair down over his forehead,—“of course Mr. Smith will remain here for the present.”
“Well, that is settled?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“One must obey orders, especially when they are agreeable.”
This decree of the doctor’s threw the household into a great bustle. I was requested to call on the Don’s landlord, explain his long absence, and have his trunk sent up to Leigh Street. The girls were in a great flutter at the prospect of breakfasting with the mysterious stranger next morning; which announcement they had no sooner heard than they flew across the street to give Mary the news; and the air grew misty with interjections.
“We have arranged it all, Mary. Mr. Whacker and Mr. Frobisher, who, as you know, are to leave our house this evening, will come up to breakfast with the Don,of course, and you will just make the party complete.Proper?Of course, Mary. Why, there will be just one apiece,—sonice! You and Mr. Frobisher, Lucy and—ahem!—Mr. Whacker, and the Don and myself.No!that’s the way it shall be. Of course I’ll let you girls look at him,—even exchange a few words with him,—but I!—” And dropping into a chair by a table, she made as though mincing at an imaginary breakfast, whilst ogling, most killingly, an invisible gallant by her side.
That day, the girls thought, would never end. They could neither talk nor think of anything save the coming breakfast, wandering aimlessly from room to room, and from story to story, romping, yawning, giggling, and were so exhausted by nightfall that they all went to bed at an early hour, just as children do on Christmas Eve, to make the morning come sooner.
You must remember that they were hardly eighteen years of age.
The morning came. Charley and I met Mary at the front door and we entered together. “I am so excited,” said she. “It is all so like a real adventure.”
A few minutes afterwards Mrs. Carter begged me to go up and assist the Don down-stairs, if necessary. He walked down-stairs very well, however, and we entered the dining-room, where I expected to find the whole family, but the girls had not yet put in an appearance. Alice, it seems, had gotten the other girls into so hilarious a state by her mad drolleries—enacting scenes that were to take place between herself and the Don—that they had to remain some time in the upper chamber in order to resume control of their countenances; and her performances in the halls and on the stairways were such that they had to call a halt several times before they reached the dining-room door. We were all seated at the table, and breakfast had begun, when the door was partly opened, then nearly closed, then opened a little way again, while a faint rustling of female garments was the only sound that broke the stillness. Presently, Mary, followed by Lucy, popped into the room with a suddenness that suggested a vigorous push from someone in the rear, while their features, of necessity instantly composed, were in that state of unstable equilibrium which may be observed in the faces of boys when the teacher reappears in the school-room after a few moments’ absence. Alice followed, demure as a Quakeress.
The introductions over, and Alice and Lucy having thanked the Don for his gallant rescue of them from danger, the girls took their seats, Alice next the Don. It will be easily imagined that, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, no word, no gesture, no look of our new friend passed unobserved. No bride, coming among her husband’s relations, was ever more searchingly scrutinized. Naturally, we compared notes upon the first occasion that offered, and it was interesting to observe that, various as were the estimates placed upon our enigma, each of the ladies held, in the main, to her first impression. It is no secret, in fact, that if a woman sees a man passing in front of a window at which she is sitting, or hears him utter three sentences, the impression formed upon her mind is often next to ineradicable.
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Carter, “when I have seen a manner so elegant and distinguished. It shows the combined effect of gentle birth and much travel. How charming—and how rare nowadays—is that deference towards our sex that he manages to combine with perfect dignity and repose of manner! By the way, Mr. Whacker, did you not notice how subdued Alice was throughout breakfast? I have never seen her so quiet and demure.”
“Never mind,” said Alice, “I am feeling my way. Wait till I get a little better acquainted with him. I must say, however, that I don’t think our hero promises much in the way of fun. I doubt whether he would know a joke if he met one on the highway.”
“No,” said Mary, “his nature is too absorbed, too intense, for—”
“And his eyes too starry. Did you not observe, Mary, how they dilated when first they bended their light on the dish of stewed oysters?”
“Alice, I believe that if you could, you would jest at your own funeral.”
“No; at that pageant you may count on me as chief mourner.”
“Ob, Alice!” said Lucy, reprovingly.
“Never mind, my dear; I am not so wicked as I seem. Besides, I am rather reckless and desperate just at this moment.”
“Why, what is the matter?”
“All my aspirations dashed to the ground during one short breakfast!” Alice rested her chin upon her hand, and gazed pensively upon the floor.
“What new farce is this?” asked Lucy, amused.
“And it is you who ask me that!” And Alice raised her eyes with a sad, reproachful look to those of her friend. “And you call it a farce?You!” And she sighed. “Of course,” resumed Alice, quickly raising her head and looking from face to face,—“of course you all noticed it. It was perfectly obvious. Yes, this Miss from the rural districts has swooped down and carried off the prey without an effort.”
“I, at least,” said Lucy, coloring, “saw nothing of the kind. In the first place, I sat at one end of the table and he at the other, and I am sure I hardly exchanged a dozen words with him.”
“Alas!” sighed Alice, “it is precisely there that the sting lies. I sat by him and had every advantage over you,—and I used every advantage. Didn’t you remark the tone in which I called his attention to the omelet? Could a siren have urged upon him, more seductively, a second cup of coffee? And how gently did I strive to overwhelm his soul with buckwheat cakes! And was the marmalade sweeter than the murmur in which I recommended it? And yet,”—Alice paused for a lull in the tumultuous laughter,—“and yet,” she continued, “strive as I would, I could not keep his eyes from wandering to your end of the table.”
“It is very strange,” said Lucy, wiping her eyes, “that all this was lost on me.”
“And then,” added Alice, “your most—some one will please attend to the fat lady; she seems in a fit—yourmost trivial remark, even though not addressed to him, seemed to rivet his attention. To confess the humiliating truth, Mary, I don’t believe he would recognize either of us, should he meet us in the street; but every lineament of Lucy’s face is graven—you know how they say it in novels. It is a regular case of love at first sight, my dear.”
Alice’s eyes ran along the circle of faces surrounding her as she spoke, and it so happened that when she paused at the words “my dear” she was looking Charley full in the face. Charley, as I have before remarked, had seen very little of young ladies, and I had several times observed that when Alice was speaking in her sparkling way he would watch her all the while out of the corners of his eyes, with an expression of wondering interest. Charley rarely laughed. I think his self-control in this regard amounted to somewhat of an affectation, and he had acquired a sort of serene moderation even in his smiles. But Alice’s bright, rattling talk seemed to have a sort of fascination for him, and to hurry him out of himself, as it were. And on this occasion I had been slyly watching his features moving in sympathy with the changing expression of her exceedingly mobile countenance. Entirely absorbed as he was in watching the play of her countenance, and thinking of I know not what, when he found her bright eyes resting full upon him, and himself seemingly addressed as “my dear,” he was suddenly startled out of his revery, and not knowing what to say:
“I beg pardon,” said he, quickly, “were you speaking to me?”
A shout of laughter greeting this ingenuous question, Charley’s face reddened violently, Alice’s generally imperturbable countenance answering with a reflected glow.
“Not exactly,” said she; “my remarks were addressed to the company at large.”
“Oh!” said he, blushing more deeply still.
“But, Mr. Frobisher,” continued Alice, willing to relieve the embarrassment of the woman-hater, “don’tyou agree with me? Wasn’t the Don obviously captivated by Lucy?”
“I am sure, if he was not, it would be hard to understand the reason why. But the fact is, Mrs. Carter’s capital breakfast—”
“Oh, you monster!”
Half an hour later, finding myself alone with Lucy: “So you do not claim or even admit,” I happened casually to remark, “that you have made a conquest.”
“No, indeed!” replied she, with a frank look in her eyes. “Far from it. Alice is all wrong.”
“But Miss Alice was not alone in her observation of the facts of the case. We all saw what she described. I did most certainly.”
“And so did I.”
“Well?”
“I saw, of course, how often he glanced towards me, and I was conscious that even while I was speaking to others his eyes were upon me. But there are looks and looks. You men don’t understand anything about such matters.”
“And where, pray, did you learn all this mysterious language of looks and looks?”
“I am a woman.”
“So is Alice.”
“Ah, yes; but, Alice—well, girls like to say that kind of thing to each other,—it’s encouraging, you know. Why do you smile? It is pleasant, of course, to be told that we have destroyed some man’s peace of mind, though we know it to be highly improbable in point of fact. I shall reciprocate, at the first opportune, by telling Alice with what sweet pain she has filled the breast of dear good Mr. Frobisher.”
“Do you think so?” I exclaimed. “That would be too good! The woman-hater! Capital!”
“Stranger things have happened. Did you not see how he blushed just now? But as to the Don, do you know he is a greater mystery to me now than ever? Every woman instinctively knows what a man’s looks mean.”
“Well, what did the Don’s glances signify?”
“I cannot for the life of me imagine.”
“What! Although every woman instinctively knows, and so forth.”
“Ah,” said she, smiling, “I meant that they always knew when the looks meant—pshaw! you know very well what I mean.”
“You would have me to understand that the Don’s looks, though they meant something, did not mean nascent love.”
“Yes. Do you not remember that sudden and intense look he gave me when we met him on the sidewalk? Well, when I came to turn that incident over in my mind I came to the conclusion that he mistook me for some one else. Now I am all at sea again. He knows, now, that I am Lucy Poythress, and not any one else.”
“Naturally.”
“Don’t be silly,—and still—”
“And still?”
“And yet—oh, you know what I mean.”
“Upon my word I do not.”
“Well, he seemed to me to be studying me as a kind of problem,—no, not that,—he appeared—ah, this is my idea—he seemed to me to survey me just as I have seen mothers look at their sons after a session’s absence. ‘Has he grown? Has he changed? Has he improved?’ Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“What are you laughing at? What do I mean, then?”
“I gather from all you say that your impression is that this Mystery, this Enigma, this Sphinx, this Don Miff—longs to be a mother to you.”
“Mr. W-ha-c-k-e-r!”
I could never understand why a man must not laugh at his own witticisms; and my hilarity on this occasion immediately drew the other girls and Mrs. Carter into the front parlor, where Lucy and I were sitting. By rapidly interposing a succession of chairs between that young woman and myself, I succeeded in giving the ladies an enlarged and profusely illustrated editionof Lucy’s views of the state of the Don’s feelings and intentions in regard to herself, when, seizing my hat, I fled, leaving the three girls in uproarious glee, and Mrs. Carter collapsed in an arm-chair, weeping, while voiceless laughter rippled along her rotund form. As I passed in front of the window Lucy’s head appeared.
“Say your prayers twice to-night,” said she.
“Jack,” said Charley that night at my rooms, “have you any message for the old gentleman? I am off for home to-morrow.”
“Indeed! Why this sudden resolution?”
“Too many people in Richmond for me.”
“It seems to me that you like some of them a good deal. Isn’t she bright?”
“P-p-p-pass me the tobacco.” He filled his pipe very deliberately and walked across the room. “Where do you keep your matches? Ah, here they are. Who,” added he, striking one—“puff—do you—puff, puff—think so—puff, puff, puff—bright? Confound the thing!—puff—puff—it has gone out!” And he struck another. Lighting his pipe, and throwing himself upon a lounge, he looked the picture of content.
“Say, old boy,” said I, “own up. Those hazel eyes—”
“Do you know, Jack-Whack” (whenever he called me that he was in the best possible humor), “that you are making a howling ass of yourself?” And he shot a pillar of smoke straight towards the ceiling, following its eddying curves with contemplative eyes.
“‘Howling ass’ is a mixed metaphor.”
“Yes, but an unmixed truth, my boy. Did it ever occur to you, Jack,” said he, removing the Powhatan pipe, with its reed-root stem, from his lips, “that cigars are essentially vulgar? You never thought of it? But they are. So are dress-coats. You have only toput them into marble to see it. Look at the statue of Henry Clay in the Square. Was ever anything so absurd! Posterity will inevitably regard Henry as an ass.”
“Of the howling variety?”
“Of course. Now, just picture to yourself Phidias’ Jove with a cigar stuck into his mouth.”
Charley shot upwards a circling wreath of smoke, watched it till it dissipated itself, and then turned his head, with a little jerk, towards me: “H’m? How would the Olympian Zeus look with a Parian Partaga between his ambrosial lips?”
“I have seen lips that—”
“Howling and so forth.” And he turned over on his back and commenced pulling away at his pipe.
“I think she likes you.”
Charley pursed up his mouth, and, taking aim, with one eye, at a spot on the ceiling, projected at it a fine-spun thread of smoke. I detected a tremor in his extended lips.
“I may say I know she likes you.”
With an explosive chuckle the pucker instantly dissolved. I had taken him at a disadvantage. His features snapped back into position as suddenly as those of a rubber mask.
“I was thinking,” said he, “how great a solace and bulwark a pipe would have been to Socrates, during his interviews with Xantippe,—and it made me smile.”
“Yes,” said I, carelessly.
“Yes!” said he, rising up on his elbow,—“what do you mean by ‘yes’?”
“I merely meant to agree with you, that a pipe would have been a great solace and bulwark to Socrates during his interviews with Xantippe.”
He fell back on the lounge. “Let’s go to bed,” said he.
“Good!” said I; and I began to remove my coat. “So the Don is to leave the Carters to-morrow and go to his own quarters.”
“Yes,” said he, rising from the lounge. “I like that chap.”
That was a great deal for Charley to say. It was the very first expression of his sentiments towards the Don.
“I am glad you do,” said I; “I thought you did.”
“Yes, he is a man. Do you know what I am going to do? I shall invite him to Elmington. Uncle Tom will like him. He says he is fond of hunting, and this is just the time for that; and he will be strong enough soon. Suppose we go up to-morrow, before I leave town, and invite him jointly. You will be down for the Christmas holidays, you know. By the way, I hope he will accept?”
“I am quite sure of it. He has betrayed an unaccountable interest in Leicester County on every occasion that I have alluded to it, notwithstanding an obvious effort to appear indifferent. He has a way of throwing out innocent, careless little questions about the county and the people that has puzzled me not a little. Who the deuseishe?”
“Roll into that bed! it is too late for conundrums. Here goes for the light!” And he blew it out.
“Jack!” said he, about half an hour afterwards; “Jack, are you asleep?”
“H’m?”
“Are you asleep?”
“H’m? H’m? Confound it,yes!”
“No, you’re not!”
“Well, Iwas!” And I groaned.
“Jack, I suppose Uncle Tom will have his usual Christmas party of girls and young men at Elmington this Christmas?”
“S’pose so, umgh!”
“I say—”
“Don’t! Don’t! Those are my ribs! Good Lord, man! you don’t know how sleepy I am. What on earth are you talking about?”
“Do you know what girls Uncle Tom is going to have to spend Christmas with us this winter?”
“And you woke me up to ask me such a question as that? Thunder! And you see him to-morrow evening, too! Oh, I understand,” said I, being at last fullyawake, and I burst out laughing. “You want me to say something about Alice with the merry-glancing hazel eyes.”
“About whom? Alice? That’s absurd,—perfectly absurd! Why, she thinks me an idiot because I don’t jabber like one of you lawyers. All women do. Unless you gabble, gabble, gabble, you are a fool. They are all alike. A woman is always a woman; a man may be a philosopher.”
“My dear boy, your anxieties are misplaced.”
“Who spoke of anxieties?”
“Don’t you—a philosopher—know that talkative girls prefer taciturn men? I am perfectly certain that Alice thinks your silence admirable,—dotes on it, in fact.”
“Jack-Whack,” said Charley, rising up in bed and—rare sight—though I felt rather than saw or heard it—shaking with laughter, “you are the most immeasurable, the most unspeakable, the most—”
Down came a pillow on my head. Down it came again and again as I attempted to rise. We grappled, and for a few minutes no two school-boys could have had a more boisterous romp.
“Now just look at this bed,” said Charley, out of breath; “see what you have done!” And he fell back exhausted, as well with the struggle as from his unwonted laughter. “We have not had such a tussle since I used to tease you as a boy. Whew! Let’s go to sleep now.”
“She’s a bewitching creature.”
“Idiot!” said Charley, turning his back to me with a laugh, and settling himself for the night.
“Poor fellow! Well, he got me to pronounce her name, at any rate, by his manœuvring.”
“Do you know this is rather coolish? Where on earth are the blankets? Find one, won’t you? and throw it over me.”
“Here they are, on the floor! There! Sleep well, poor boy!
‘Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?Sweet Alice with h-a-i-r so brown.’”
‘Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?Sweet Alice with h-a-i-r so brown.’”
‘Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?Sweet Alice with h-a-i-r so brown.’”
‘Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice with h-a-i-r so brown.’”
“You rhyme with the sinners who came to scoff, but remained to pray. You seem to yourself to sing, but appear to me to b-b-b-bray.”
“Good! There is life in the old boy yet!”
Next morning Charley and I called at the Carters’ to give the Don the invitation to visit Elmington, but found he had gone out for his first walk since his accident, to test, at Mrs. Carter’s instance, his strength before going into his own quarters. Charley was compelled, therefore, to leave the city without seeing him. In the evening I called at his rooms. Knocking at his sitting-room door, I was invited to enter, and found him sitting by a table reading a small book, which he closed, but held in his hand as he rose and came forward to greet me.
“Reading?” began I, bowing and glancing casually towards the little book, the back of which was turned away from me.
“Yes,” replied he, but without looking at the book; “getting through an evening alone I find rather dull work after my recent charming experience. Take a seat. Will you have a pipe, or do you prefer a cigar? A pipe? You will find the tobacco very good.” And walking to a small set of shelves near the door, he placed the little book upon it,—a circumstance too trivial to mention, did it not afford a characteristic example of the quiet but effectual way the Don had of nipping in the bud any conversation which was about to take a line he did not wish it to follow. I suppose we had been chatting for half an hour before I alluded to my errand.
“Mr. Frobisher wished to see me particularly, you say?”
“Yes; Charley heard you say one day that you were fond of shooting; and as there is fine sport to be hadin Leicester, he thought it might be agreeable to you to—”
The smile of polite curiosity with which he heard that Charley had had something to say to him rapidly faded as I spoke, and there came into his countenance a look of such intense seriousness, nay, even of subdued and suffering agitation, that, for a moment, I lost my self-possession in my surprise, but managed to finish my message in a stumbling sort of way. As for the Don, anticipating, apparently, from my opening words what that message was to be, he seemed hardly conscious that it was ended. He sat, for a moment, with his head resting in the palm of his hand, his piercing eyes fixed upon the floor; but seeming suddenly to realize that this was a queer way of meeting a courtesy, he quickly raised his head. “Thanks, thanks,” said he, with a forced smile, but with apologetic emphasis. “Charley—I beg pardon—Mr. Frobisher is very kind,—very kind indeed! Yes, I should immensely enjoy having a tilt once more at the partridges.[1]Very much indeed.”
“Then I may hope that you will accept?”
“Oh, certainly, with very great pleasure. Please present my warmest acknowledgments to Char—Mr. Frobisher, and say that I shall be at his command so soon as I shall have recovered my strength somewhat.” He paused for a moment; then, throwing back his head with a little laugh: “By the way,” he continued, “I beg you will not misinterpret my singular way of receiving the invitation. It was such a surprise, and I am still a little weak, you know.”
“You must allow me to add how much gratified I, too, am at your decision. You know—or do you not?—that the invitation is to my grandfather’s place, Elmington.”
“Elmington?”
“Ah, I see—very naturally, you don’t understand that Charley lives with my grandfather.”
“With your grandfather? Why, how can that be?I thought his place adjoined your—” And he stopped suddenly. “Please be so good as to explain,” he added, in a low voice.
“Well, this rather peculiar state of things came about in this way. My mother died before I was a month old, and my father, my grandfather’s only son, survived her less than a year; so that I was brought up by the old gentleman. Now, Charley’s place adjoined Elmington, my grandfather’s, their respective residences being not over a half-mile apart; and so Charley got into the habit—however, I must mention that Charley lost his father years ago, and, about ten years since, his mother died.”
“His mother? His mother is dead?” asked the Don, in a low tone, and without raising his eyes from the floor.
“Yes. They say she was a lovely woman.”
“And she is dead, you say—your friend’s mother?” he repeated, in a mechanical sort of way; and, resting his head upon his hand, he fixed his eyes upon the window with a look so grim that I paused in my narrative.
“Yes,” I presently resumed, “she—Charley’s mother; that is—”
“I beg pardon,” said he, abruptly turning to me, and, as the Latin hath it, serening his face with an effort,—“please go on.”
“Well, Charley was at the University at the time of his mother’s death; and during the following vacation he seemed to find his own desolate home—he was singularly devoted to his mother—unendurable; so he would frequently drop in on my grandfather and myself at tea, walking home, when bedtime came, across the fields; but my grandfather, remarking the sad look that always came into his face when he arose to depart, would frequently insist upon his spending the night with us. The poor fellow could scarcely ever resist the temptation, to my great delight; for to me, a boy of thirteen, Charley, who was eighteen,and a student, was a sort of demi-god. I suppose, in fact, that apart from my grandfather’s personal liking for the young man, and his sympathy with him under the circumstances, he was very glad to give me the society ofsome one younger than himself. And so, to make a long story short, Charley’s visits becoming more and more frequent and regular, it came at last to be understood that he was to spend every night with us,—during his vacation, of course. At last, at the end of three years, Charley left the University with the degree of Master of Arts in pocket.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. You are surprised, no doubt. He is so unassuming, one would hardly suppose that he had attained an honor which is reached by hardly more than one out of every hundred of the students at the University. To continue. When he returned from college and took charge of his farm, it soon appeared that the tables were turned. It was Charley’s companionship now that had grown to be a necessity to the old gentleman. ‘We shall expect you to dinner,’ he would say every morning, as Charley rode off to look after his farming operations. Charley often protested against this one-sided hospitality, and, as a compromise, we would dine with him occasionally; but at last my grandfather proposed a consolidation of the two households, all of us wondering why the plan had not been thought of before. That is the way Charley came to live at Elmington. The two farms are separate, though from time to time worked in common, as occasion demands,—in harvest-time, for example. Each farm contributes its quota to the table, though not in any fixed ratio. My grandfather, for example, is firmly persuaded that the grass on his farm—notably in one special field—imparts, in some occult way, a flavor to his mutton that Charley’s does not possess; while, on the other hand, an old woman on Charley’s place has such a gift at raising chickens, turkeys, and ducks, that we have gotten in the habit of looking to her for our fowls.”
The Don smiled.
“It is rather a singular arrangement, isn’t it? but I have gone into these details that you might see that Elmington is, for all the purposes of hospitality, as much Charley’s as my grandfather’s. I hope it will not be long,” I added, rising, “before you will be ableto go down and see how the arrangement works, though I am sorry I shall not be able to join you till Christmas week, being detained by professional engagements, or, rather, the hope of such, as I have but recently opened a law office.”
“You may rest assured that I shall not lose a day, when once my physician has given me leave to go. Can’t you sit longer? Another visit yet? Ah, I am sorry.” And he accompanied me to the door of his sitting-room.
As we stood there for a moment, exchanging the customary civilities of leave-taking, my eye fell upon the little book the Don had laid upon a shelf of his book-case.
It was a copy of theNew Testament.