CHAPTER XII.
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 were as 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 are never to 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 is now 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, “why is he so silent? You can see he is very intelligent. His smile is singularly subtle, and what little he does say is always admirably 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—even you—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.”