CHAPTER VII.
“What do you think?” said I, the next afternoon, as I entered the parlor. The young ladies were all there; Lucy, with whom I had an engagement to walk, with her bonnet on.
“Oh, what is it?”
“What do you suppose? Guess?”
“You have found out who he is!”
“Not exactly.”
“You have seen him!”
“Well, yes.”
“Have you met him,—spoken with him?”
I nodded.
“Oh, do tell us all about it!”
“There is not much to tell. Just this moment, on my way here, I came upon Laura and her nurse and the Don standing at the corner. Laura did not observe me till I was close to her, but, as soon as she did, she ran up and took hold of my hand, and said, pointing straight at the Don, ‘He’s the one what gives me the candy;’ and, immediately releasing my hand, she ran up and seized that of the so-called Don Miff, and, looking up into his face, said, ‘That ain’t Uncle Mr. Whacker. That’s Mr. Fat Whacker. He’s the one what’—” And I paused.
“Oh, please go on!” cried Alice and Mary; while Lucy colored slightly.
“I think I shall have to leave that as a riddle to be worked out at our leisure.”
“Oh, the terrible infant! What did you say? what could you say?”
“I scarcely know what I did or did not say. He spoke first, saying something about the originality of Laura’s mode of introducing people, and I made some confused, meaningless reply, and then, after we had exchanged a few commonplaces—”
“Miss Lucy!” broke in a voice; and, looking up, we saw, thrust in at the partly-open parlor-door, the face of Molly, the nurse. “Miss Lucy, won’t you please, ma’am, step here a minute?”
The broad grin on her face excited curiosity, while it allayed alarm.
“Why, what’s the matter, Molly?”
“Dat gent’mun say—” And Molly was straightway overcome by an acute attack of the giggles.
“What?”
“Dat ’ere gent’mun he axed me to ax de lady o’ de house ef he mought’n take Laura round to Pizzini’s for some ice-cream.”[[1]]
This was before the days of the Charley Ross horror; but the proposition threw all the young ladies into a ferment, and ejaculation followed ejaculation in rapid succession. At last Alice rose, flew up-stairs, and presently returned with her mother.
“What’s all this?” began Mrs. Carter.
“Yes, ma’am, dis is adzactly how ’twas. Laura and me, we was a-standin’ on the cornder a-lookin’, and here comes de gent’mun dat’s always a-bringin’ her de candy, and, says he, ‘Good-evenin’, little Rosebud,’ says jess so, and ‘Howdy do, my gal,’ says he, polite-like, and says I, ‘Sarvant, mahster,’ says I, ‘I’m about,’ says I; and den Marse Jack he comed up, and Laura, she called Marse Jack out o’ he name. ‘Lor’ me,’ says I, ‘chill’un don’t know no better.’ Howsomdever, I told her, I did, ‘Heish!’ says I, easy-like, and ‘Mind your raisin,’ says I, jess as I tell you, and Marse Jack will say de same; and Marse Jack he comed on here to de house, and we was a-standin’ on de cornder, and de gent’mun says, ‘Laura,’ says he, ‘I ain’t got no candy for you to-day, but I want you to go wid me to Pizzini’s to get some ice-cream and cake; and won’t you go, my gal,’ says he, ‘an’ ax de lady of the house, down yonder, ef I mought’n take little Laura to Pizzini’s?’ Dat’s jess what he said, he did, jess as I tell you, mum; and Laura she clap her hands, she did, and ‘Come on, less go,’ says she, widout waitin’ for nothin’ nor nobody, she did.”
A brisk discussion, with opinions about equally divided, now sprang up as to the propriety of acceding to the request of the stranger; but upon Molly’s stating that the gentleman expected her to accompany Laura, a strong majority voted in the affirmative; and when the little lady herself, unable to control her impatience, came bustling into the parlor, her curls dancing, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling with expectancy, the proposition was carried unanimously; to the obvious satisfaction of Molly, who lost no time in sallying forth with her little charge.
“There they go!” said Lucy, who was peeping through the blinds; “the Don and Laura hand in hand, and Molly bringing up the rear. Ah, how the little thing is capering with delight! Ah, girls, run here and see how the little woman is strutting! Now he is pointing out to her a cow and calf.”
And so, as long as they remained in sight, she chronicled their doings.
As Lucy and I were leaving the house for our walk, some one suggested—it was Mary, I believe—that it would be as well to shadow, in detective phrase, the Don; but she firmly refused to do so, saying that she knew she could trust him. Still, the suggestion left its trail upon her mind; and she exhibited an eager delight when we, on our return, saw, at the distance of a couple of blocks, the Don taking leave of Laura in front of the Carters’.
“I knew it,” said she, with modest triumph. “Mary has read so many novels and poems that she lives in constant expectation of adventures; as though an adventure could happen to any one in steady-going Richmond! Mr. Whacker!” she suddenly exclaimed, starting.
“What’s the matter?”
“He is coming this way! What shall we do?” And she stood as though rooted to the pavement, helplessly looking about her for some avenue of escape.
“Why, what do you fear?” said I, laughing.
“That’s true,” said she; and she moved forward again, though with very uncertain tread.
“Mr. Whacker,” said she, presently, “would you mind giving me your arm?”
Meanwhile, the Don was coming up the street, and, as he approached us, I could see that his features were softened by a half smile. We met, face to face, at the corner above the Carters’. His eyes chancing to fall upon my face, it was obvious that he recognized me. Indeed, I am sure he gave me something like a bow, then glancing casually at Lucy. Just at this juncture she, for the first time, looked up, and their eyes met. It was then that I understood what Mary had said about his eyes. For a second his steps seemed almost arrested, and his eyes, filled with a strange mixture of curiosity and intense interest, seemed to dilate and to shoot forth actual gleams of light. Lucy, who was leaning heavily upon my arm, shivered throughout her entire frame.
“Why, what can be the matter?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied she, in a hollow voice. “Let us hurry home,—I can hardly breathe!”
Arrived in front of the house, within which was to be heard the busy chattering of Laura and our other friends, Lucy hurried in at the gate, and, without attempting to enter the house, dropped down upon the first step she reached, and leaning back, drew a long breath.
“Mr. Whacker,” said she, after a few moments’ silence, “you must really excuse me. I cannot conceive what made me so silly. What is he to me? But do you know, sometimes the strangest ideas come into my head, and I often wonder whether other people have the same. Sometimes I will visit some place for the first time, and suddenly it will seem to me that I have been there before, although I know all the time that it is not so. And again I will be listening to some one relating an incident just happened, and it will seem such an old story to me; and it will seem as though I had heard just the same story ages and ages ago. Do you know, I sometimes think that the ancients—however, it is all nonsense, of course. But oh, I would not feel again as I did just now for worlds! Do you know, when he passed me, I felt a sort of subtle, aerial force, a kind of magnetic influence, as it is called, drawing me towards him, and so strongly, that nothing but the firm grasp I had on your arm saved me from rushing up to him and taking him by the hand. And then, when I passed him, without speaking to him, suddenly there came over me the strangest feeling. Will you think me crazy if I tell you what it was?”
“By no means,” said I, much interested.
“Well,—will you believe me?—a sudden pang of remorse.”
“Remorse!”
“Yes; I cannot think of a better word. It seemed to me as though I had known him ages ago, in some other world, such as the Pythagoreans imagined, and that I, bright and young and happy, meeting him again, I, though I saw he was unhappy, cruelly passed him by! Oh, Mr. Whacker, I do pity him so!”
Her lower lip trembled, and her soft brown eyes glistened with rising tears. For a while neither of us spoke,—she, perhaps, afraid to trust her voice, I respecting her emotion by silence.
“Yes,” said I, at length, “it is an old story. ‘What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?’ We cannot help, though we would, feeling the sorrows of others. But, Miss Lucy, aren’t you letting your imagination—no, your tender-heartedness—run away with your judgment? Here is a great, strapping, fine-looking fellow, whom you have seen passing along the street a few times, with a rather serious expression of countenance, and you straightway jump to the conclusion that he is profoundly miserable, and even shed tears over his fate.”
“Yes, it is all very silly, of course,” said she, smiling, and brushing away her tears.
“And you must admit that you have not a particle of evidence, not a scintilla, as we lawyers say, that the Don is any more to be pitied than I, or any other person of your acquaintance.”
“Oh, a woman’s rules of evidence are very different from what you lawyers find in your great, dusty, dull volumes. See how I should state the case. I see a great, strapping, fine-looking fellow, to borrow your language, coming here, day after day, from I know not how far, or at how great inconvenience to himself, with no other object, so far as I can divine, save that of enjoying the affectionate greetings of a little child of less than four years of age, whom he met by chance, and who, though nothing to him, in one sense seems everything to him, in that her childish love has gone out to him. What kind of a home must this man have, do you think? He can have no home. And yet you wonder that I am sorry for him!”
“No,” said I, gladly seizing the opportunity of changing the current of her thoughts; “it is true that the views you hold of evidence do not coincide with those of Greenleaf; but I have long since ceased to wonder at your feeling sorry for anybody or anything. The number of kettles that, of my certain knowledge, have, through your intercession, not been tied to stray dogs’ tails, and the hosts of cats that have escaped twine cravats—”
“How cruel you boys used to be!”
“Why, Lucy, how long have you been there?” cried Alice, leaning out of the window. “Come here, Mary, and look at them,—it is a clear case. Laura,” added she, looking back into the parlor, but speaking loud enough for us to hear,—“Laura, for one so juvenile, your diagnosis is singularly accurate.”
“H’m? Whose noses?” asked Laura, looking up from the doll she was dressing.
| [1] | In my occasional attempts at representing the negro dialect I shall (as I have already done in the case of Laura’s prattle) hold a middle course between the true and the intelligible. |