[1]The quail is unknown in Virginia—both bird and word.—Ed.
[1]
The quail is unknown in Virginia—both bird and word.—Ed.
At about the hour at which I was taking leave of the Don my grandfather was sitting alone in his dining-room, reading; his snow-white hair and beard, as they glistened in the lamp-light, affording a strong contrast to the vivacity of his dark eyes and the ruddy glow of his complexion. But the book before him was hardly able to fix his attention. Every now and then he would raise his eyes from its pages, with the look of one who fancied that he heard an expected sound. Several times he had risen from his seat, gone to the door, opened it, and listened. Something like this he had been doing now for nearly a week. “Dick!” called he at last, opening the door: “Dick!”
Uncle Dick emerged from the kitchen, where, for several days past, he had had orders to sit up till ten o’clock in the hope that Charley might arrive.
“Yes, mahster!”
“Dick, I thought I heard some one coming.”
Uncle Dick, who very naturally (and correctly) supposed that this was another false alarm, threw his head into an attitude of pretended listening.
“Do you hear anything?” asked the old gentleman.
“Ain’t dem de horses a-stompin’ down at de stable?”
“I believe you are right,” sighed the old gentleman, as he turned to re-enter the dining-room.
“Marse Charley ain’t sont you no letter, is he?” asked Uncle Dick, advancing deferentially towards my grandfather, across the space that separated the kitchen from the “Great-House.”
“Why, no; but I thought he might come. He wrote me a week ago that the gentleman was getting well.”
“Adzackly!” replied Dick, scratching in the fringe of white wool that bordered his bald head. “Jess so! Does you think it rimprobable, mahster,” he began again after a moment of seeming reflection, “dat Marse Charley would come without he writ fust and ’pinted de day, and de ferry ’most twenty miles from here, and nothin’ to hire dere ’cep’n ’tis dat old flea-bitten gray, and he a-string-halted?”
“True enough.”
“Dat ain’t no fitten animil for de likes o’ Marse Charley, and he a-used to straddlin’ o’ de very best dat steps.”
“But listen, Dick! what’s that?”
“Lor’, mahster, dat ain’t nothin’ but de old m’yar and colt out d’yar in de pasture.”
“Well, what in the blue-blazes makes them all stamp so to-night?” replied the old gentleman, not without a little petulance.
“Dat’s jess what I say! leastwise d’yar ain’t no flies to bite ’em dis weather; but dey will do it, mahster, dey will do it. Every dog have he day, dey tell me.”
Uncle Dick was strong on proverbs, though hardly happy in their application. Sometimes, in fact, just as doctors will, when they don’t know what is the matter with a patient, prescribe pills of several remedial agents, in the hope that if one shall miss another may hit, so our old hostler, carriage-driver, and dining-room servant would not scruple, when aiming at a truth, to let fly at it an aphorism compound of the head of one proverb and the tail of another.
“Yes,” said my grandfather, applying Dick’s saying for him, “every dog will have his day, and I supposethat is why your Marse Charles is staying so long in Richmond.”
Uncle Dick was a year or two his master’s senior, and many a “wrassle” had they had together as boys. He was, of course, a privileged character, and he now gave one of those low chuckles beyond the reach of the typographer’s art to represent to the eye. “Yes, mahster, I hears ’em say dat d’yar is some monstrous pretty gals, nebberdeless I should say young ladies, up d’yar in Richmond. Howsomever, pretty is as pretty does. Dat’s what old Dick tells ’em.”
“You think Charley is in love, I presume?”
Old Dick drew himself up as became one consulted on family affairs, and, dropping his head on one side, he assumed, with his knitted brows and pursed lips, an eminently judicial air.
“Well, mahster, ef you axes me ’bout dat, I couldn’t ’espond pint’ly, in course; for I ain’t seen Marse Charles a-noratin’ of it and a-splanifyin’ amongst de Richmond f’yar sect; but old Dick ain’t been a-wrasslin’ and a-spyin’ ’round in dis here vain world for nigh on to a hundred year for nothin’ ef you listen to Dick; and ef you believes me, mahster, dey all of ’em most inginerally gits tetched with love onetimeornuther.”
“I believe you are quite right, Dick.”
“Why, Lor’ me, mahster,” began Dick, encouraged, and assuming an attitude worthy of the vast generalization he was about to utter, “I really do believe into my soul dat people is born so; dey is pint’ly,—specially young folks.” And he stopped in mid-career. “What dat? ’Pear like I hear the far gate slam. But Marse Charley, he are a keener, he are, and the gal what catches him will have to be a keener too, she will pint’ly. Marse Charley worse’n a oyster at low tide; soon as a young ’oman begins a-speculatin’ and a-gallivantin’round him, he shets up, he do.” And the old man chuckled. “Howsomever, he am pint’ly a keener, ef you hear Dick—”
“Listen, Dick!”
“I do believe I hear a horse snort! D’yar ’tis again! Somebody comin’ through de gate. ’Fore de Lord, Ibelieve ’tis Marse Charley! Lemme look good! Sure enough, d’yar he is! Sarvant, Marse Charles! I knowed you was a-comin’ dis very night, and I hope I may die ef he ain’t on old Hop-and-go-fetch-it! Lord a’ massy! Lord a’ massy! Well, it’s an ill wind what don’t blow de crows out o’ some gent’mun’s cornfield. Lord a’ massy, Marse Charley, whatisyou a-doin’ up d’yar on dat poor old critter, and de horses in de stable jess a-spilin’ to have somebody fling he leg over ’em?”
“Well, my boy, is that you?”
“Yes, here I am again, and glad to be back at home. How are you, Uncle Tom?”
“The same old seven-and-sixpence,—always well; and how are you?”
“Sound in wind and limb, and savagely hungry.”
“Well, get down, and we’ll soon cure that ailment.”
“I am very sorry,” said Charley, as they entered the dining-room, “that I had to stay away so long, but it seemed right that I should help nurse him. Ah, what a noble fire!”
“Well, you are at home again, at any rate. Polly will soon have some supper for you, and you know what is in the sideboard.”
Old Dick, meanwhile, was carrying out his share in the programme.
“Well, I s’pose I’ll have to feed you,” said he to the flea-bitten, surveying him from head to hock.
No true negro feels any doubt whatever as to his words being perfectly intelligible to horse, mule, cow, or dog.
“Ef ever I see a poor-folks’ horse, you is one. Git up! git up! don’t you hear me? You needn’t be a-standin’ here a-thinkin’ Dick gwine to ride you to de stable. Aha! you hear dat word stable, did you? Bound for you! You been d’yar befo’, and you know d’yar’s corn in dat ’ar stable; and a heap mo’, besides you, know dat d’yar is pervisions a-layin’ around here, and dey ain’t horses neither, nor yet mules. Git up, I tell you! Ain’t you got no more sense, old as you is, than to be a-snatchin’ at dry grass like dat? But Lor’, Dick don’t blame you! No, honey, Dick ain’t got a word agin you. Who is you, any way, I ax you dat?Is you blood? Is you quality? Dat’s what’s de matter, ef you believe me. You needn’t be a-shakin’ your head; you can’t tell Dick nothin’. Anybody can seeyouain’t kin to nobody. ’M’h’m! yes, chile! you needn’t say a word, Dick knows dat kind far as he can see ’em, be dey manorbeast. Howsomever, Dick don’t mount no sich. Nigger property is too unsartin for dat. Nebberdeless, Marse Charles, bein’ as how he belongs to his self, he mought. Nebberdeless, you fotch him home, and pretty is as pretty does, dat’s de way old Dick talks it. Polly! Polly!” shouted he to his wife, the cook, as he passed the kitchen door; “Polly! git up, gal! Marse Charles done come and want he supper.I would say,” continued he, not content with the colloquial phrases in which he had announced his young master’s arrival and the state of his appetite,—“I would say, Polly,”—and enveloped in darkness as he was, and invisible even to his spouse, the old man threw himself into an impressive pose, as he always did when about to adorn his language with phrases caught up from the conversation of his master and his guests,—“I would say de Prodigy Son have arrove, and he as ravenous as de fatted calf.” Hearing Polly bustling about within the kitchen: “Polly,” inquired he, in a stately voice, “did you hearken to what I rubserved?”
“I hear you, Dick.”
“But did you make me out, chile, dat’s de pint, did you make me out?”
“G’long, man, and put dat horse in de stable. Marse Charley want he supper, course he do. What’s de use o’ talkin’ about fat calves, when you know as well as I does d’yar ain’t no sich a thing in de kitchen. Marse Charley want he supper, I know dat, and I’se gittin’ ready to cook it fast as I can.”
“I b’lieve you. Well, put my name in de pot, chile.” And the old man went his way. “Well,” said he, soliloquizing upon the much-longed-for return of his young master, “dey tell me chickens, like horses [curses?], always does come home to roost—git up, I tell you!—’cep’n onless dey meets a free nigger in de road, den good-by chickens—for you’re gwine to leave us.”
“Why, what’s all this, Uncle Dick?” exclaimed Charley, as that venerable servitor entered, with hospitably beaming countenance, bearing a tray. “Roast oysters! why, this cold turkey was enough for a prince.” And he brushed from his yellow moustache the foam of a glass of Bass’s ale.
The old man, complimented by Charley’s surprise, placed the smoking oysters upon the table with a bow of the old school.
“Why, they are beauties! Ah, I am glad you will join me, Uncle Tom! I never saw finer.”
“Dey is fine, Marse Charley, dat’s a fac’. Polly she save ’em for you special. You know, young mahster” (another bow), “de old-time people used to say you must speed de partin’ guest.”
“That’s true. By the way, Uncle Dick, what do you say to a little something to warm up your old bones?”
“Since you mention it, Marse Charley, I believe de frost has tetched ’em a little.”
“Well, get that bottle out of the sideboard,—you know where it is.”
“Know whar ’tis? I wish I had as many dollars as I know whar dat bottle sets!”
“Or would you prefer ale?”
“Thank you, young mahster; whiskey good enough for Dick.”
“There, ’tisn’t more than half full; take it out and give Polly her share.”
“Sarvant, mahster!”
“Take some sugar?”
“Much obleeged, young mahster; seems like ’most everything spiles whiskey. Somehownutther nothin’ don’t gee with sperrits ’cep’n ’tis mo’ sperrits.”
“But Aunt Polly might like sugar with hers.”
“Dat’s a fac’, Marse Charley, dat’s a fac’; but Lor’me, women don’t know; but den again dey tell me it’s a wise man as knows his own father, so d’yar ’tis.”
“Well, Uncle Dick, I can make out without you now, so good-night; and present my compliments to Aunt Polly, and you and she drink my health.”
“We will pint’ly, Marse Charles, we will pint’ly.” And even after the old man had closed the door, you might have heard muttered fragments of his amiable intentions, as he trudged back to the kitchen.
“Well,” began my grandfather, rising from the table to fill his pipe, “you made a long stay of it in Richmond. How did you leave the young man?”
“Ah, he is nearly well again,” said Charley, deftly removing a side-bone from the fowl before him. “By Jove, I did not know how hungry I was. That early dinner on the boat seems to me now like a far-away dream of a thing that never was. I wonder whether this turkey reallyisthe best that old Sucky ever raised? How good that tobacco smells!”
Charley was happy. The bright fire and good cheer, after his long, cold, and tiresome ride, the intense consciousness of being at home once more, but, above all, the look of beaming satisfaction on the face of the venerable but still vigorous old man, who sat smiling upon him and enjoying his appetite and high spirits, filled him with ineffable content.
“Let me settle with this august bird, Uncle Tom, and then I shall be ready to talk to you about Mr. Smith,—Don Miff, as the girls call him.”
“Don Miff?—what girls?”
“The—ah, we gave him that nickname. I’ll explain when I get even with this noble fowl and light my pipe.”
“Did you,” asked my grandfather, advancing cautiously as a skirmisher, “meet any nice people in Richmond?”
“Oh, yes, very nice people up there,—too many of them; made me talk myself nearly to death,—but very nice people, of course, very. Look at that chap,” added he, holding up on the end of his fork a huge oyster.
“You spoke of girls,—did you meet any?” And a pang of jealousy shot through the old man’s heart, as he recalled Dick’s aphorism on the universal liability of young folks to a certain weakness.
“Oh, lots!—I’ll have to cut this fellow in two, I believe.”
“Who were they?” asked the old man, trying to smile.
“Who? the girls?”
“Yes; you did not mention any in your letters.”
“Of course not. When did you ever know me to write about girls? As I said, I met lots of them at the various houses at which I visited. It seems to me that there are girls everywhere.”
“Thank God for it, too.”
“Well,—yes,—as it were; but you can’t expect a fellow to remember all their names. Oh, there was Lucy Poythress, of course.”
“Yes, I knew she was in Richmond.”
“And then—and then there was a schoolmate of hers,—Miss Mary Rolfe. You know her father, Mr. James Rolfe. Brilliant girl, they say,—talks beautifully—very accomplished, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I have heard she is a really charming girl. What do you say to our having her as one of our Christmas party?” The old man removed his pipe from his mouth. “What do you say, Charley?” And he glanced at the young man’s face with a look that was too eager to be shrewd.
“A capital idea!” exclaimed Charley, spearing another oyster with emphasis.
The old man drew vigorously on his pipe several times, and finding it had gone out, rose for a lighter. “You think,” said he, puffing between his words as he relit his pipe, contemplatively watching the tongue of flame darting down into the bowl, “that we should have her of the party?”
“Most assuredly. She is a fine girl,—you would like her. In fact, we must have her here if possible.”
“Yes,” said the old man, “yes.” And he gazed at thebright coals. He felt that he had not landed his trout. “So you didn’t lose your heart?”
“My heart? Who, I?” And Charley gave a loud laugh.
“The very idea amuses you?”
“I should think so! I suppose you suspect that old Cousin Sally’s niece—or Cousin Sally’s old niece—whichever you please—captivated me?”
“No, I was not thinking of Sarah Ann. In fact, I didn’t know that any one had captivated you—till you mentioned it.”
“Well, upon my word, I have finished the last of these oysters,—and there is not so much turkey as there was.”
“Well, now we will have an old-time whiff together; and now begin your story. However, before you do, can you think of any other girl who would be an acquisition for Christmas?”
“Who? Bless me, Uncle Tom, what could have put such a notion into your head? Oh, I’ll tell you,—leave it all to Jack-Whack; he’s the ladies’ man of the family, you know.”
“Very well; and now fill your pipe and tell me all those strange things about that strange Mr. Smith, that you promised me in your letters.”
Charley told the story, with one omission. He failed to allude to his having invited the Don to visit Elmington. Omissions to state all manner of things that ordinary mortals would make haste to mention was one of Charley’s idiosyncrasies,—so that I suspect that his silence on this point was premeditated. Another was, as I have already hinted, an aversion to expressing an opinion of any one, good or bad. But Mr. Whacker felt instinctively that Charley had conceived a genuine liking for this mysterious stranger. A tone here, a look there, told the tale. Charley’s likings, being rare, were exceedingly strong. Moreover, they were never, I may say, misplaced, and my grandfather knew this. So, when Charley had finished his narrative, “You have,” said he, “interested me deeply. Whocanhe be? But be he who he may, he is obviously no common man.”
Charley puffed away slowly at his pipe.
“He is a remarkable man,” continued my grandfather, warming up.
“He has points about him,” said Charley, driven to say something.
“Yes, and characteristic points, highly characteristic points,” said the old gentleman, with a sort of defiant emphasis.
“He has, beyond question.”
“Charley,” began Mr. Whacker, rising and taking a lighter,—for he had suffered his pipe to go out,—“don’t you think”—and he lit the taper—“what do you say,” he continued, in a hesitating manner, which he tried to cover up under pretence of strict attention to the feat of adjusting the blaze to the tobacco,—“how would it do to invite him here,—just for a week or so, you know?”
It is, I dare say, a mere whim on my part, but I must now beg the contemporary reader to obliterate himself for a few pages.
I must tell you, my descendant-to-the-tenth-power—no, you will be that much of a grandson,—my descendant-to-the-twelfth-power, therefore—I must tell you, as a matter of family history, why your ascendant-to-the-fourteenth-power hesitated.
Our common ancestor was a Virginian,—which means, you will doubtless know, that he was hospitable. Again, he was a Virginian of Leicester County,—and that is as much as to say, as I trust a dim tradition, at least, shall have informed you, that he was a Virginian of Virginians. But, lastly and chiefly, he was Mr. Thomas Whacker of Elmington. Whatthatamounts to you can learn from me alone.
Our common ancestor was, then, the soul of hospitality,—hospitality in a certain sense boundless, though it was strictly limited and exclusive in a certain direction. No dull man or woman was welcome at Elmington. But his nets seemed to bring in all the queer fish that floated about Virginia. I suppose there must have been something inborn in him that made odd people attractive to him, and him to them, but I haveno doubt that this trait of his was in part due to the kind of Bohemian life he led in Europe for several years, when he was a young man, mingling, on familiar terms, with musicians, actors, painters, and all manner of shiftless geniuses,—so that the average humdrum citizen possessed little interest for him. If a man could only do or say anything that no one else could do or say, or do it or say it better than any one else, he had a friend in Mr. Whacker. All forms of brightness and of humor—any kind of talent, or even oddity—could unlock that door, which swung so easily on its hinges. And not only men of gifts, but all who had a lively appreciation of gifts, were at liberty to make Elmington their headquarters; so that, as my memory goes back to those days, there rises before me a succession of the drollest mortals that were ever seen in one Virginia house. Now, I need hardly remind you that company of this character has its objections. Men such as I have rapidly outlined are not always very eligible visitors at a country house. It happens, not unfrequently, that a man who is very entertaining to-day is a bore to-morrow,—the day after, a nuisance; so that our grandfather, who was the most unsuspicious of mortals, and who always took men for what they seemed to be on a first interview, was frequently most egregiously taken in, and was often at his wit’s end as to how to get rid of some treasure he had picked up. In fact, Charley used to dread the old gentleman’s return from the springs in autumn, or the cities in winter; for he was quite sure to have invited to Elmington some of the people whom he had met there; and they often proved not very profitable acquaintances. In fine, wherever he went, he rarely failed to gather more or less gems of purest ray serene, many of which turned out, under Charley’s more scrutinizing eyes, very ordinary pebbles indeed.
Unqualified, however, what I have written would give a very erroneous idea of the people our grandfather used to gather around his hospitable board; for I must say that after all deductions have been made, he managed, certainly, to get beneath his vine and fig-treemore really clever and interesting people than I have ever seen in any one house elsewhere. And then, too, as there were no ladies at Elmington, I don’t know that his mistakes mattered much. Still, they were sufficiently numerous; and he had begun to lose, not indeed his faith in men, so much as in his own ability to read them. And just in proportion as waned his confidence in his own judgment in such matters, he placed an ever-heightening estimate upon Charley’s; so that, in the end, he was always rather nervous upon the arrival of any of his new-found geniuses, till his taciturn friend had indicated, in some way, that he thought them unexceptionable.
Now, Charley had seen Mr. Smith; our grandfather not. Here was a chance. He would throw the responsibility upon Charley. In this particular case he was especially glad to do so, for there was undoubtedly an air of mystery surrounding Mr. Smith, and mystery cannot but arouse suspicion.
Our grandfather continued: “H’m? What do you say? For a week or so?”
There was positively something timid in the way he glanced at Charley out of the corners of his eyes. And now you may dimly discern what was most probably Charley’s motive for refraining from alluding to his having himself invited the Don to Elmington. In a spirit of affectionate malice he had deliberately entrapped his old friend into making the proposition. So I must believe, at least.
“By all means,” replied Charley, with a cordiality that surprised Mr. Whacker.
“What! Do you say so?” cried our grandfather, rubbing his hands delightedly; and taking out his keys, he began to unlock his desk. “How should the letter be addressed?” continued he, turning and looking at Charley. His face reddened a little as he detected an imperfectly suppressed smile in Charley’s eyes. He was somewhat afraid of that smile.
“What are you grinning at?”
“I grinning?”
“Yes, you! Didn’t you say we should invite him?”
“Certainly.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“It’s past eleven,” said Charley, glancing at the clock.
“Is it possible!”
“And then the mail doesn’t leave till day after to-morrow.”
“Oh!” ejaculated our impulsive ancestor, “I had not thought of that!”
Ten days or so have passed.
“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we have seen our breakfast?”
Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemen rose from the table, with the imposing look of a generalissimo, at a half-grown boy who acted as his aide-de-camp whenever there was even one guest at Elmington. It was only, in fact, when our small family was alone that this worthy served as what would be called, in the language of our day, a “practical” waiter (there existing, it would seem, at the period of this writing, to judge from the frequency of that adjective upon sign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers, and barbers, against whom the public are thus tacitly warned). For, whenever we had company, Dick would perform the duties rather of a commander than of a private,—magis imperatoris quam militis,—summoning to his assistance one or more lads who were too young for steady farm work,—or were so considered, at least, during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under this name went, in defiance of all the philology and all the Grimm’s Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(he had been christened Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forward under that austere glance of authority and began to clear the table,—half trembling under the severe eye of a chief for whom there was one way of gathering up knives, one method of piling plate upon plate, one of removing napkins,—one and only one.
“Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes were lit, “there is a fire in the library?”
“Yes, sir; I made one de fust thing dis morning.”
“Ah, well, Charley, suppose you take Mr. Smith over then; you will be more comfortable there than here. I shall follow you in half an hour or so.”
“This way,” said Charley. And the two young men, passing through the house and descending a few steps, found themselves upon a pavement of powdered shells, which led to a frame building, painted white, and one story in height, which stood about fifty yards westward of the mansion. This they entered by the left door of two that opened upon the yard, and found themselves in my grandfather’s library and sitting-room. It was fitted up with shelves, built into the walls, upon which was to be found a miscellaneous library of about two thousand volumes; the furniture consisting of a very wide and solid square table, a couple of lounges, and a number of very comfortable chairs of various patterns. Charley took up his position with his back to the fire, while the Don sauntered round the room, running his eye along the shelves, and occasionally taking down and examining a volume, and the two chatted quietly for some time.
“The old gentleman is coming over. I hear his step. He has something to show you.”
“Ah?” said the Don, looking around the room.
“It is not in this room; it is in the next,—or, rather, it is that room itself,” added Charley, pointing to a door. “That room is the apple of his eye. I always reserve for him the pleasure of exhibiting it to his friends.”
“Looking over our books?” interrupted my grandfather, entering the room briskly, with a ruddy winter glow upon his fine face.
“Yes; and I observe that you have a large and capital selection of French classics.”
“Yes; I picked them up when I was abroad as a young man. You read French? Ah! Then this will be the place for you on rainy days when you cannot hunt. Charley, have you shown Mr. Smith the Hall?”
“Not yet.”
“No?” ejaculated my grandfather, with a surprise that was surprising, seeing that Charley had given him that identical answer on a hundred similar occasions previously. “Mr. Smith,” said he, walking toward the inner door, “we have a room here that we think rather unique in its way.” And he placed his hand upon the knob. “We call it ‘The Hall.’ Walk in!” And he opened wide the door, stepping back with the air of an artist withdrawing a curtain from a new production of his pencil.
The Don advanced to the threshold of the room, and giving one glance within, turned to his host with a look of mingled admiration and surprise. The old gentleman, who was as transparent as glass, fairly beamed with gratification at observing the pleased astonishment of his guest. “Walk in, walk in,” said he, wreathed in smiles. “Be careful,” added he, laying hold of the Don’s arm, as the latter’s feet seemed disposed to fly from under him,—“the floor is as smooth as glass.”
“So I perceive. Why, what on earth can you do with such a room in the country?” And the Don lifted his eyes to the very lofty ceiling.
“That’s the question!” observed Mr. Whacker, giving Charley a knowing look.
“One would say it was a ball-room,” said the Don, looking down upon the perfectly polished floor, in which their figures stood reflected as in a mirror.
“It would do very well for that,” said the old gentleman. “I think it would puzzle you to find the joints in that floor,” he added, stooping down and running his thumb nail across a number of the very narrow planks. “You observe, the room is ceiled throughout with heart-pine,—no plastering anywhere. I used, as you see, the darker wood for the floor, and selected the lightest-colored planks for the ceiling; while I made the two shades alternate on the walls. You think so? Well, I think it ought to be, for I was several years collecting and selecting the lumber for this room,—not a plank that I did not inspect carefully. And so you think it would make a good ball-room? So it would,in fact. Thirty feet by twenty would give room for a goodly number of twinkling feet.”
“I see a piano at the other end of the room.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Whacker, leaning forward, his fingers interlaced behind his back, and his smiling eyes fixed upon the floor. He was giving the Don time,—he had not seen everything in the room.
“What!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly, as his eyes chanced to stray into a corner of the room, which was rather dark with its closed blinds. “Is not that a violin-case standing in the corner?”
“Yes, that’s a violin case,” rejoined Mr. Whacker, softly, while his eyes made an involuntary movement in the direction of the neighboring corner.
“And another!” exclaimed the Don, “and still another! and, upon my word, there is a violoncello in the fourth corner!”
My grandfather threw his head back as though he would gaze upon the ceiling, but closed his eyes; and rocking gently back and forth, and softly flapping upon the floor with both feet, was silent for a while. He was content. The surprise of the stranger had been complete—dramatically complete,—his wondering admiration obvious and sincere.
Charley watched his friend quietly, with a tender humor in his eyes. He had witnessed a number of similar scenes in this room, but this had been the most entirely successful of them all.
“The third box,” resumed my grandfather, softly, with his eyes still closed, and still rocking from heel to toe, “contains a viola.”
“A viola! Then you have a complete set of quartet instruments!” And he turned, looking from case to case, as if to make sure that he saw aright. “What a droll, divorced air they have in this great room, each solitary in his own corner! Surely you can never—”
“Never use them?” And my grandfather paused with a smile on his face. “I find this room rather cold. Let us adjourn to the Library and I will tell you how we manage.”
So, while Mr. Whacker is explaining matters to the Don, I shall make things clear to the reader.
My grandfather, when a young man, spent several years in Europe. He was an enthusiast in every fibre, and one of his enthusiasms was music. Very naturally, therefore, he took lessons while abroad,—lessons on the violin, the piano being held, in Virginia, an instrument fit only for women and foreigners. But, undertaking the violin for the first time when he was a grown man, he never acquired, ardently as he practised, anything like a mastery over that difficult instrument. At any rate, returning to Virginia and finding himself no longer in an artist-atmosphere, his ardor gradually cooled, so that until about ten or twelve years before the period of my story, all I can remember of my grandfather’s musical performances is his occasional fiddling for me and such of my young school-mates as chanced to visit me. During the Christmas holidays, especially, when Elmington was always crowded with young people, it was an understood thing that Uncle Tom, as most of his neighbors’ children delighted to call him, was to be asked to play. Christmas Eve, notably, was no more Christmas Eve, at Elmington, without certain jigs and reels executed by “Uncle Tom,” than without two enormous bowls—one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy—concocted by him with his own hands. The thing had grown into an institution, more and more fixed as the years went by. On such occasions, immediately after the old gentleman had taken his second glass of eggnog,—not before,—it was in order to call for his annual exhibition of virtuosity; whereupon Charley—no one else could be trusted to bear the precious burden—was despatched to my grandfather’s chamber, where, upon a special shelf in a closet, lay,from Christmas to Christmas, a certain old violin, which rarely saw the light at any other time.
But, about a dozen years before the events I am now describing, there came a German musician—Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel chanced to be his name—and established himself at Leicester Court-House as a piano teacher,—or, rather, he gave lessons on any and all instruments, as will be the case in the country.
Herr Waldteufel was an excellent pianist, and, in fact, a thorough musician. Strangers from the cities, when they heard him play at Elmington, were always surprised to find so brilliant a performer in the country, and used to wonder why he should thus hide his light under a bushel. But the truth is, a man generally finds his place in the world, and Herr Waldteufel was no exception. In the frequent hinges of his elbow was to be found the explanation of his losing his patronage, in city after city; so that it was natural enough that he found himself, at last, giving lessons in a village, and in the houses of the neighboring gentry, upon piano, fiddle, flute, guitar, and, shades of Sebastian Bach! must I even add—the banjo?
And, notwithstanding his weakness, the honest Herr was an excellent teacher. True, he did occasionally fail to put in an appearance for a lesson, when no excuse was to be found in the weather; but his patrons learned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiable and obliging, he was a general favorite, and welcome everywhere.
Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintance of the Herr and to invite him to Elmington; at first under the pretext of having him tune his piano. The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked to play; and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr. Whacker soon found themselves trying over a slow movement, here and there, out of a musty and dusty old edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they made was, I dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had not played anything of that kind for years; but it would have been hard to say which of the two was most delighted,—the German, at finding so enthusiastic a loverof his art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather, at the prospect of being able to renew his acquaintance with his idolized Mozart, whom he always persisted in placing at the head of all composers. The Elmington dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’s estimate of the treasure he had found; and (Mr. Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving him that night) they separated at the head of the stairs, at one o’clock in the morning, after a regular musical orgie, vowing that they had not seen the last of it. Nor had they; for before Herr Waldteufel had set out, in the morning, for a round of lessons in the neighborhood, he had promised to return, the following Friday, to dinner. And so, from that day forth, he was sure to drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and regularly, after dinner, he and my grandfather would fall to and play and play until they were exhausted. Next day the Herr would sally forth, and, after giving his lessons, return in time for dinner; after which they would have another time together.
Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; but my grandfather would never play on that day. I suppose it would be hardly possible for a man who has spent several years on the Continent to see anything “sinful” in music on Sunday; but neither is it possible for any man, even though he be a philosopher, altogether to evade the pressure of surrounding convictions. Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—of our Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defy all rivalry. Virginia is not onlyoneof the Middle States, she isthemiddle State of the Union in many other respects, but especially in her theological attitude. While, to the north and east of her, religious systems that have weathered the storms of centuries are rocking to their foundations, nay, tumbling before our very eyes, undermined by the incessant rush of opinions ever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while, to the southward and westward, we see the instability and recklessness inseparable from younger communities, the Old Dominion stands immovable as a rock; believing what she has always believed, and seriouslyminded so to believe to the end of time,—astronomy, geology, and biology to the contrary notwithstanding. Now, of all the religious convictions of your true Virginian this is the most deeply rooted,—the most universally accepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath, not the Sabbath for man. Again: according to our biblical exegesis the word Sabbath does not really mean Sabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the week, that is, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first is the opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency of the reasoning,—so is work the contrary of play. Hence it is clear to us (however others may laugh) that the commandment forbidding all manner of work on the last day of the week was really meant to inhibit all manner of play on the first;Q. E. D.
I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, after returning from church, the Herr opened the piano, “just to try over” the hymns we had heard, my grandfather made no objection; and then, when his fingers somehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentleman either believed or affected to believe that it was a Teutonic form of religious music, and called for more. And so, things going from bad to worse, it came about that in the end we had hours of piano music every Sunday, to the great scandal of some of our neighbors, who did not fail to hint that the Herr was an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.
But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the line at the fiddle; making a distinction perfectly intelligible to all true Virginians,—though his course in this matter ever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and effete European brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.
For many months—for two or three years, in fact—after this arrangement was set on foot, my grandfather was at fever heat with his music. To the amazement, not to add amusement of his neighbors and friends, he fell to practising with all the ardor of a girl in her graduating year; nor was he content to stop there. He set every one else, over whom he had any influence, to scraping catgut. His favorite text during thisperiod, and one upon which he preached with much vigor and eloquence, was the insipidity of American life,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.
“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whist is adapted to those among us of middle age, or the old; but whist is, at the best, unsocial. Dancing gives happiness to the young only. Hunting affords amusement during one season and to one sex only. You cannot read forever; so that the greater part of our leisure-time we spend in gaping or gabbling,—boring or being bored. How different it would be if all our young people would take the trouble to make musicians of themselves! one taking one instrument, another another. Why, look at our neighbor up the river, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for, invariably, when he got to this particular neighbor, the bright vision of a possible domestic orchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to rob him of the power of utterance, and he would pace up and down his library with an expression of enthusiastic disgust on his heated features.
Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views in this regard was his grandson, the teller of this tale; and I believe it was really one of the most serious of the minor troubles of his life that he could never make a musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave me up as a hopeless case. But with Charley his reward was greater. Charley had readily consented to take lessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well before he entered the University, as during his vacations; and when, after he left college, he came to live with us, he was not likely to give up his music, as the reader can very well understand. During the week he and his friend used to play duos together, and they made very pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdays they would perform transcriptions (at making which the Herr was really clever) for two violins and piano.
Things went on in this way for a year or two; until, in fact, the summer of 1855. It was during the summer of that year, it will be remembered, that Norfolk was so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and mygrandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs, had remained at Elmington, and opened his doors to his friends and other refugees from the stricken city. Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the epidemic declared itself, a young French or—to speak more accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped down into Norfolk, from somewhere, in search of a living; who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak of the fever, had fled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to find his way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in falling in with Herr Waldteufel; and he, exulting in the treasure he had found, brought him to Elmington on the first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.
“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered the Herr, at the first opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vas so full as a teek von peoples, but he can shleep mit me. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring dis Frenchman, oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He would insist upon calling Mr. Whacker Baron.)
“I suppose he is a refugee, and you knew—”
“A refuchee! ja wohl! Ach! but mein Gott, Barrone,” exclaimed he, clasping his hands, “vat for a feedler ist dot mon!”
“You don’t tell me so!”
“Donnerwetter!” rejoined the Herr, rolling up his eyes, “you joost hear him one time, dot’s all!”
From that day in August until the following Christmas M. Villemain was a member of our household; and even then he took his departure much against my grandfather’s will. His coming among us enabled Mr. Whacker to do what he had scarcely dreamed of before,—to establish, namely, a string quartet.
I shall never forget the first meeting of the club. Waldteufel, who was already a tolerable violinist, had readily agreed to take the violoncello part, and Charley, though with many misgivings, had consented to tackle the viola; and the Herr was despatched to Baltimore to purchase these two instruments. Upon their arrival, it was agreed that the novices should have two weeks’ practice before any attempt at concerted music should be made, Waldteufel taking his ’cello to his rooms atthe Court-House, while Charley was to attack the viola under the direction of M. Villemain; but Mr. Whacker grew so impatient for a trial of their mettle that, on Friday morning of the first week, he sent a buggy for the Herr, requesting him to bring his instrument with him; and, accordingly, just before dinner, up drove the bass, his big fiddle occupying the lion’s share of the vehicle. Dinner over, my grandfather could allow but one pipe before the attack began. The centre-table in the parlor was soon cleared of books; the stands were placed upon it; the performers took their seats; the parts were distributed, “A” sounded, the instruments put in tune. The composition they had selected was that quartet of Haydn (in C major) known as the Kaiser Quartet, in the slow movement of which is found the famous Austrian Hymn.
“We are all then ready?” asked M. Villemain (in French), placing his violin under his chin. “Ah!” added he, in that short sharp tone so peculiarly French, and the bows descended upon the strings.
It was worth while to watch the bearing and countenances of the four players.
The Frenchman, entirely master of his instrument and his part,—glancing only now and then at his music,—ejaculating words of caution or encouragement; Waldteufel, taking in the meaning of the printed signs without an effort, but doubtful as to his fingering,—correcting his intonation with a rapid slide of his hand and an apologetic smile and nod to his brother artist; Charley, serene and imperturbable, but putting forth all that was in him; while my grandfather, conscious that the second violin was most likely to prove the block of stumbling, and anxious not to be utterly outdone by the “boys,”—his eyes riveted upon the page before him, his face overspread with a certain stage-fright pallor,—played as though the fate of kingdoms hung upon his bow. At last, not without a half-dozen break-downs, they approached the end of the first movement; and when, with a sharp twang, they struck, all together, the last note, my grandfather’s exultation knew no bounds.
“By Jove,” cried he, slapping his thigh,—“by Jove, we can do it!” And congratulations were general.
But the culmination of the enthusiasm occurred during the performance of the slow movement. Here the air, a gem of imperishable beauty, passes from one instrument to another. When the theme falls to the second violin, the violino primo accompanies, the viola and ’cello being silent, if I remember aright. Here was Mr. Whacker’s opportunity. The movement is without technical difficulties, but the mere idea that he had a solo to perform made the old gentleman as nervous as a graduating Miss. He lightly touched his strings to be quite sure they were in tune—gave a turn to a peg—wiped his spectacles—blew his nose—lifted the violin to his left ear, softly plucking D and G as though still in doubt—smoothed down the page—tightened his bow—and, with a bow to M. Villemain, began.
He had scarcely played a half-dozen notes when the Herr cried out, “Goot for de Barrone!”
“Bravo, Secondo!” echoed the Primo from the midst of his rapid semiquavers.
Deeply gratified and encouraged, the old man gave an unconscious but perceptible toss of the head; and his snowy locks trembled upon his temples. Charley lifted his eyes from the floor with a sigh of relief. His anxiety lest his old friend should break down had been touching to see,—the more so as he had tried so hard to conceal it.
The performer reached the appoggiatura about the middle of the air, and turned it not without grace. It was nothing to do,—absolutely nothing,—but the two artists were bent on giving applause without stint.
“Parbleu! Tourné à merveille!” cried the First Violin, in his native language.
“Py Tam!” shouted the Bass, in an unknown tongue.
“Je crois bien!” rejoined the Belgian, as though he understood him.
One of the Herr’s foibles was his fondness for making what it was his happiness to consider puns in theEnglish language. “De Barrone served us a good turn dere!” he whispered to his unoccupied comrade.
The Viola smiled without taking his eyes off the Second Fiddle.
“You take?” inquired the Violoncello, stimulating his neighbor’s sense of humor by a gentle punch in the ribs with his bow.
“Very good, very good!” answered Charley; and my grandfather, taking the compliment to himself, rather laid himself out on acrescendoandfortethat he encountered just then.
Mr. Whacker had practised his part over, hundreds of times, during the week preceding its execution by him on this occasion, and he really played it very creditably. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that, at its end, he should have been greeted with a small tempest of clappings and bravos and goots; and it remained his conviction ever after, that of all the quartets of Haydn, the Kaiser most nearly approaches the unapproachable perfection of Mozart.
He looked at the matter from the Second Violin point of view. Who shall cast the first stone?
Meanwhile, Mr. Whacker has not been idle. He has been giving his wondering and interested guest an account of what I have just narrated to the reader; omitting, naturally, many things that I have said; saying many things that I have omitted; telling his story, that is, in his own way. Let us drop in upon them and see where they are.
“This was in 1855,—five years ago. How have you managed to supply M. Villemain’s place during all this time? Have you succeeded in developing the local talent?”
“Local talent? Bless you, no. I labored faithfully with my grandson, but had to give him up,—no tastethat way. Then there was a young fellow, the son of a neighbor,—young William Jones,—who is now at the University. I had great hopes of him when he began to take lessons; but the scamp was too lazy to practise his exercises, and pretended he couldn’t see any tune in classical music. Perfectly absurd! However,” quickly added Mr. Whacker, observing that his guest was silent, “the majority are of his way of thinking. Bill is a capital fiddler, however, and is invaluable at our dancing parties. He will be down Christmas, and you will hear him.”
“I should like very much to do so,” replied the Don, rather stiffly.
“His ‘Arkansas Traveller’ is an acknowledged m-m-m-masterpiece,” chimed in Charley, “and his ‘B-B-B-Billy in the Low Grounds’ the despair of every other fiddler in the county.”
“I should like very much indeed to hear him,” said the stranger, laughing heartily at Charley’s neatly turned phrase, over which his stammering threw a quaint halo of added humor. “And so you had to give him up also, Mr. Whacker?”
“Yes, I had to give them all up, except Charley here.” And he gave that young man’s knee a vigorous slap, accompanied with an admiring glance. “You could hardly guess how I manage. You see Mr. Waldteufel visits Baltimore twice a year to lay in a stock of music and other articles needed by his pupils, and he has instructions to look about him and pick up, if possible, some violinist newly landed in the country, or one temporarily out of employment; or perhaps he may find an artist desiring a vacation, to whom a few weeks in the country would be a tempting bait. All such he is at liberty to invite to Elmington,—provided, of course,” added Mr. Whacker, with a wave of his hand, “provided they be proper persons.”
“Or the reverse,” soliloquized Charley, prying narrowly, as he spoke, into the bowl of his pipe.
“Or the what?”
“I addressed an observation to my p-p-p-pipe.”
“Well, suppose theyaresometimes rather—infact—rather—what difference, pray, does it make to us two bachelors? You will no doubt think, Mr. Smith, that this is a quartet under difficulties,—and so it is, but it is a quartet after all. If not, in dissenting phrase, a ‘stated,’ it is, at least, an ‘occasional service of song.’”
“Goot for de Barrone!” quoted Charley.
“Then again, I not infrequently invite the leader of some watering-place band to drop in on us, for a week or so, on the closing of the season at the Springs. They are generally excellent musicians, and glad enough, after a summer of waltzes and polkas, to refresh themselves with a little real music. So you see that, after all, where there is a will there is a way. Provide yourself with a cage, and some one will be sure to give you a bird; build a house, and—”
“The r-r-r-rats will soon come.”
“I was going to say a wife—”
“Oh, then, instead of r-r-r-rats, it’s br-br-br-brats!”
“You see,” continued my grandfather, laughing, “I have the Hall there for a cage.”
“Yes, but where is your bird, your fourth player?”
“Very true, the bird is lacking just at present. The truth is, we have had poor luck of late. We have not had any quartet music for a year,—not even our quartets where the piano takes the place of one of the violins, owing to the absence of our young-lady artiste. By the way, I forgot to tell you, in speaking of our local talent, that one of our girls is an excellent pianist, and that through her we have been enabled (until the past year) to keep up our quartet evenings, in the absence of a first violin; the main trouble being that I am hardly equal to my part—that of the first violin—in these compositions,—Lucy Poythress. You know her?” asked Mr. Whacker, on observing the sudden interest in the Don’s face.
“Why, Uncle Tom, Mr. Smith saved her life! Don’t you remember?”
“Of course! of course! you must pardon an old man’s tricks of memory!”
“Miss Poythress is a good musician?”
“Oh, wonderful, we think. She was the only one ofMr. Waldteufel’s pupils who had the least fancy for classical music. She seemed to feel its meaning from the very first, and I hardly know what we should have done without her. For several years—ever since she was fourteen, in fact—she has been playing with us; in quartet when we needed her, a solo between our Haydn and Mozart when we happened to have a first violin. You should know her,—know her well, I mean. So much character, and yet so gentle! Such depth of soul! In fact, she is an incomparable girl! I must confess, I never cease to wonder how Charley, here—”
“There you go again, Uncle Tom!”
“This good-for-nothing fellow, Mr. Smith, has, for several years, been crossing the river, Friday afternoons, to fetch her and her mother to our quartet parties,—taking them back, and spending the night under the same roof with this noble girl,—breakfasting with her next morning,—and yet—Where would you find another sister, eh?”
Charley rose, and, after walking about the room and glancing at the books in an aimless sort of way, without other reply than a smile, descended the steps and stood on the lawn with his fingers interlaced behind his back.
“That’s what he would have said,” added Mr. Whacker in an undertone, “had you not been present; or else, that if Mrs. Poythress were his mother-in-law, what should he do for a mother? He is a singular fellow,—a ‘regular character,’ as the saying is. He has the greatest aversion to giving expression to his feelings, and fancies that he hides them,—though he succeeds about as well as the fabled ostrich. The truth is, he has the warmest attachment for Lucy (I wish it were only a little warmer), but a still greater affection for her mother. There are, in fact,” added Mr. Whacker, lowering his voice into a mysterious whisper, “peculiar reasons for his devotion to her and hers to him,—but it is a sad story which I will not go into; but, for ten or fifteen years—ever, at least, since a cruel bereavement she experienced—he has made it a rule to spend, if at all possible, one night of every week under her roof.This weekly visit is a pleasure to Charley, but it seems to be a necessity with poor Mrs. Poythress. No weather can keep him back. Fair or foul, go he will; and, on one occasion, he spent a night in the water, clinging to his capsized boat. ‘I can’t help it, Uncle Tom,’ he will say; ‘she misses my visit so.’”
“My God!” cried the stranger, in a voice of piercing anguish; and, leaping from his seat, he stood with his temples pressed between his hands and his powerful frame convulsed with emotion.
Had my grandfather been a man of more tact, he could not have failed to remark in the dancing eyes, twitching mouth, and pallid features of his guest the symptoms of a coming storm. As it was, it burst upon him like a bolt from a cloudless sky. He stood aghast; and to the eager inquiring glances of Charley, who had sprung into the room on hearing the cry and the noise of the falling chair, he could only return, for answer, a look of utter bewilderment. The stranger had turned, on Charley’s entrance upon the scene, and was supporting his head upon his hand, against the sash of the rear window.
“I cannotimagine!” silently declaimed and disclaimed my grandfather.
“I hope—” began Charley, advancing.
The Guest, as though afraid to trust his voice, with a turn of his head flashed a kindly smile upon Charley, accompanied by a deprecatory motion of the hand, and again averted his face as though not yet master of his features; but, a moment after, he straightened himself, suddenly, and turning, advanced towards his host.
“Mr. Whacker,” he began, with a grave smile, “I beg you a thousand pardons. There are certain parallelisms in life—I mean that you inadvertently touched a chord that quite overmastered me for the moment. Forgive me.” And, taking my grandfather’s hand, he bowed over it with deep humility. Turning then to Charley, who, the reader will bear in mind, had not heard the words of Mr. Whacker that had wrought the explosion, the Guest, to Charley’s great astonishment, grasped both his hands with a fervid grip, but avertedlook; then abruptly dropping his hands, he seized his hat and strode out of the door; leaving our two friends in blank amazement. They stood staring at each other with wide eyes. At last, Charley raised his hand and tapped his forehead with his forefinger, then went to the door and looked out.
“By Jove,” cried he, “he is making straight for the river!” And, hatless as he was, he sprang to the ground and started after him, at a run—for the Guest was swinging along with giant strides. Charley’s heart beat quick, when the stranger, reaching the shore, stopped suddenly, stretching out both his arms toward the opposite bank with wild, passionate gestures. The pursuer was about to cry out, when the pursued, turning sharply to the left, moved on again, as rapidly as before. It was then that, either hearing Charley’s hurrying steps, or by chance turning his head, he saw that he was followed. He stopped instantly; and, coming forward to meet Charley:
“I must ask pardon again,” said he, with extended hand. “I should have told you that I was going out for a good long walk. I shall be back before dinner.”
“All right!”
The Guest doffed his hat and began to move on again; but Charley, seized with a sudden remnant of suspicion, stopped him with a motion of his hand. “Remember,” said he, going close up to him, and speaking in a low but earnest tone,—“remember, you have two good friends yonder.” And, with a toss of his upturned thumb, he pointed, over his shoulder, towards the house, which lay behind them; and young Frobisher, feeling that he had said much, cast his eyes upon the ground, bashful as a girl.
“I believe you,” said the guest; “and,” he added with earnestness, “the belief is much to me—much,—see you at dinner.”
Charley, returning, found Mr. Whacker standing on the lawn, awaiting, with some anxiety, his report.
“It’s all right, I think. Look at him! See how he is booming along the bank! But, Uncle Tom, how onearth did you and Mr. Smith manage to get up those theatricals?!”
“Hang me if I know! We were talking, as quietly as possible, about some trivial matter or other,—entirely trivial, I assure you,—and, all of a sudden, up he leaped in the air as though he had been shot. Let me see, whatwerewe talking about?” And Mr. Whacker rested his forehead upon his hand. “Let—me—see. No, I can’t for the life of me remember. The ‘theatricals,’ as you call them, must have driven everything out of my head; but they were nothings that we were saying, I assure you.”
“You remember that, when I left the room, you were teasing me about not falling in love with Lucy Poythress?”
“Yes, yes, yes; now I have it! Well, after you went out, I told him what friends you and Mrs. Poythress were, and how you paid her a weekly visit, rain or shine,—ah, yes, and how once you were upset, when you would cross the river in spite of my remonstrances, and so on and so on.”
“That was all?”
“Every word. Why, you were not out of the room two minutes!”
“H’m!” And Charley slowly filled his pipe, and, lighting it, went out upon the lawn, where he walked haltingly up and down for some time. Quickly raising his eyes at last, and fixing them inquiringly upon the Poythress mansion, nestling across the river, in its clump of trees, he gazed at it with a look, now intent, now abstracted. “Can it be?” he muttered; and he stood long, chin upon breast, buried in thought; but what these thoughts were he breathed to no man.