CHAPTER XLIX.
Charley was right. She was the girl to tackle him, if he was to be tackled at all; but Charley knew that better than the reader, who has had merely a glimpse or so of the irrepressible Alice in her relations with the subject of this Monograph. For Charley had, as mentioned in the last chapter, witnessed innumerable scenes between the two, which had caused him to wipe his eyes and look as though something hurt him; that being his way of laughing before he was married. This being a Monograph, however, I have not felt at liberty to place those scenes before the reader; for a Monograph is, if I understand the term, a paper rigidly confined to one subject; alien topics being admitted only as illustrations throwing light on the main theme. So that the monotony of this narrative, which a hasty reader might attribute to poverty of invention, is in fact due to my rigidly artistic adherence to the Unities. A Monograph I promised, and a Monograph this shall be.
And the theme is not Love.
“Then why did you not say so at first?” I hear you ask, my Ah Yung Whack,—hear you say this in plain English, for in your day all other languages will be as dead as that of Cicero.
I cannot blame you for asking the question, though the answer is ready.
Because I should else have found no readers among my contemporaries. The readers—that is, the people of leisure—of my day are mostly women and preachers (the third sex usually having all they can do to take care of the other two), and neither will bite freely at any bait save Love. They will nibble at the hook, but a game rush—bait, hook, and all, at a gulp—that is elicited only by a novel. Love is the bait now. Three hundred years ago it was Hate, the ODIUM THEOLOGICUM. Three hundred years hence it will be—but I cannot guess what, and you will know, my almond-eyed boy,—almond-eyed and yellow of skin, though swearing by Shakespeare, and perhaps by Magna Charta and Habeas Corpus.
If, indeed, in your day—but enough! and so fare thee well, Confucian of far Cathay!
The piazza after breakfast, next morning. A bright, sunny day in the beginning of February, with a voluptuousness in the air hinting at the approach of spring. “How beautiful and sparkling the river looks!” said one of the girls. “And just to think,” she added, with a little stamp of her little foot, “we must bid farewell to it so soon!”
“That reminds me,” said Alice, rising briskly from the rocking-chair, in which she reclined, drinking in the balmy air and bright talk in half-dozing silence. But the silence and half-closed eyes were those of pussy awaiting the appearance of Mistress Mouse.
“That reminds me.” And giving a quick glance at Charley, as she passed him, she marched with a rapid, business-like tread, straight up to the Don. Charley prepared to weep. I must mention, in passing, that his way of weeping over Alice differed from her mother’s in this, that when the tears stood in his eyes, those windows of the soul were wide open, thereby revealing the fact that his ribs ached; whereas Mrs. Carter’s being shut tight, it was left entirely to conjecture whether she wept from pain or pleasure.
Alice planted her little self square in front of the towering figure of the Don, and looked him in the eyes as though expecting him to begin the conversation.
“What now, sauce-box?” asked Mrs. Carter, quickly, as though she felt that if she delayed a moment longer she would become, as usual, speechless; and a premonitory shake or two passing through her jolly figure showed that her prudence was not ill-judged. “What are you up to now?”
“Well?” said Alice, with her eyes fixed on those of the Don.
Charley dried his with his handkerchief, for he wanted to see everything. The Don (I regret to have to use the expression) was in a broad grin. As to Mrs. Carter, the faintest thread of hazel was still visible between the lids of her fast-closing orbs of light. Alice turned pettishly on her heel, and with her eyes retorted over her shoulder, twirled her thumbs.
It was evident that there was something amiss about Charley’s ribs. Not so with Mrs. Carter; for to any one surveying her person, ribs remained the merest hypothesis, based upon the analogy of other vertebrates; but the upper part of her spinal column gave way; that is, she lost control of her neck, and her head rested helplessly against the back of her chair.
“Well?”
“What an ornament is lost to the stage!” laughed the Don.
“The stage! Are we not enacting a real life-drama? and” (looking down) “to me a very serious one? And I have been looking for the denouement so long—so long!”
“That only comes at the end of the play!”
“And did you not hear what Jennie said just now? Another short week only is left! The end of the play has come. There is but time to come before the footlights and say our last say!” She paused. “Hast thou naught to say to me?” resumed she, with averted eyes, and in a stage-whisper.
“Naught to say to thee?” replied he, falling into her vein. “Can’st believe thy slave so flinty-hearted?”
“Forbid the thought!” cried she, in melodramatic tone and gesture. “No; long have I felt that thou had’st some sweet whisper for me o’er-hungry ear, but thy bashful reticence—I deny it not—did breed in me girlish heart a most rantankerous doubt. Speak! Remove this doubt rantankerous! But st! One approaches! Let’s seek some secluded nook! Beholdest yon fateful Argo? On!” And passing her arm through his, she advanced down the piazza with the tread and look of an operatic gipsy-queen full of mezzo-soprano mystery, which she is to unveil before the foot-lights; while he, to the delight and amazement of the spectators, strode forward in the well-known wide, yet cautious tread of the approaching bandit; to which nothing was lacking save the muffling cloak and the pizzicato on the double-basses.
Reaching the steps. “On!” cried she, flashing forth an arm. “Descend!”
“Encore! Encore!” shouted the audience, to which she deigned no reply, and the pair stepped upon the turf.
“Have you ever heard the ‘Daughter of the Regiment’?” asked she, halting and speaking in her natural manner. “But of course you have. Strange to relate, I have myself heard it twice. You remember the Rataplan duet? Of course. Well, I am what’s-her-name, and you are the old sergeant! Come!” And with that she strutted gayly off, rattling an imaginary drum with rare vivacity.
Again the Don was not to be outdone; rubadubbing, to the surprise of all, in a deep sonorous voice; strutting, who but he, and every inch a soldier.
Vociferous applause! The actors turned and bowed low.
“Unprecedented enthusiasm!” (whispered Alice) “the Gallery has tumbled into the Pit!”
Which was true; for the audience had rushed pell-mell upon the lawn, Mrs. Carter alone remaining upon the porch, unable, for the present, to rise, her chubby hands darting in every direction in vain search for her handkerchief.
For the moment the household service at Elmington was disorganized, and grinning heads protruded from the chamber windows. Let them grin on! In those days there was time for play, as well as for work.
“Umgh—umgh, heish!” ejaculated Uncle Dick, from his pantry window. “Miss Alice are a oner, I tell you!”
What our august butler meant by “hush!” I cannot say, as Zip had uttered no word. Perhaps he was shutting up some imaginary person, conceived as about to deny the proposition that Miss Alice was a “oner.”
“Hein?” (pronounce as though French), said Zip, walling up his eyes.
“Wash dem dishes, boy! Do you ’spose I was gwine for to ’dress no remarks to de likes of you ’bout a young mistiss? Mind you business, and stop gapin’ through de window!”
Moses made a show of obedience, rattling the plates together with unusual vigor; but for all that he craned his neck for a view of the lawn, keeping a weather eye out, the while, upon the ready right hand of his chief,—a man of summary methods with his subordinates.
“Come,” said Alice, “a repeat is demanded.” And away they went, rubadubbing back towards the piazza. “Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!”
This time (on the antistrophe) Alice outdid herself. Tossing her head from side to side, with an inimitable mixture of reckless coquetry and military precision; her jaunty little figure stiffened and thrown back; tapping the ground with emphatic foot-falls, she was, in all save costume, an ideal vivandière. She glanced at Charley as she approached him.
“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” thundered the Don.
“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” chirped Alice.
In obedience to the glance he had received, Charley leaned forward; and just as she passed him a saucy toss of her head brought her lips within an inch or so of his attentive ear. “Rataplan! I’ve a plan, rataplan, plan, plan, plan;” and the couple reaching the steps, the Don bowed in acknowledgment of the joyous applause of the Pit; while Alice, her hand resting lightly in his, after the manner of prime donne, executed a series of the most elaborate courtesies ever witnessed on or off any stage.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, hasten to the sideshow! Within this tent,” said she, waving her hand towards the porch, “sits enthroned the Fat Woman, better known as The Great American Undulator. Only twenty-five cents, children a quarter of a dollar! A strictly moral show, and all for the benefit of the church! Unlike the fiendish hyena, her mocking laughter never curdles the blood of the living, while she ravens among the bones of the dead. Twen-ty-five cents! Warranted not to laugh aloud in any climate; but has been known to smile in the face of the fabled hyena aforesaid, well knowing that she has no bones, herself, for his midnight mockery. Children, a quar-ter of a dollar! Walk in, gentlemen, and take your sweethearts with you, and see The Unrivalled Anatomical Paradox, or The Boneless Vertebrate; known throughout this broad land as The Great American Undulator. A strictly moral show, only twenty-five cents, and all for the benefit of the church! Children—but I detain the primo basso,” said she, bowing gravely to that gentleman, as she passed her arm within his. “We will now hie us to the Fateful; since you insist on asking me, at that spot only, ‘what are the wild waves saying?’ or is it some other question, perhaps?—be still, my heart!”
The Don was never so happy as when Alice was girding at him in one of her frolic moods, and he sallied forth in high good humor. The audience watched from the piazza for some new mad prank on Alice’s part, but she walked slowly forward, and even seemed to be talking about the weather. At any rate, she raised her hand towards certain flying clouds.
“The saucy jade!” said Mrs. Carter, with ill-concealed admiration. “Well, I suppose she is a privileged character, as the saying is.”
“I should like to know, Mrs. Carter, how we are to get on without her?” said Mr. Whacker. “If I were thirty or forty years younger—but there is Charley; eh, Mr. Mum?”
“If,” replied Mr. Mum, “I were such as you were thirty or forty years ago, Uncle Tom, I don’t think she could possibly escape.”
“And what would become of me, then?” said Mrs. Carter. “How far are they going? I believe she is actually going to take him to the Argo, as they call it. There they go, straight on; he is helping her into the boat now; well, upon my word! What is she up to? This bright sun will tan her dreadfully, of course, but little she cares! She might raise her parasol, at least, instead of poking holes in the sand, as she seems to be doing.”
“Frightened? Yes, dreadfully,” said Alice, giving her collaborators an account of the interview. “Of course I was; but I was ‘intermined,’ as poor old Uncle Dick used to say, to go through with it. You see, my liege-lord that was to be—Mr. Chatterbox, I mean,” tapping Charley with her fan—“had, the evening before, commanded—”
“Commanded! Oh!” said Charley, darting his forefinger as an exclamation-point into the middle of a smoke-ring.
“Yes, commanded me to do it. I see, Jack, that you have left out that part of our talk (to make room for more of your own nonsense, I suppose) in your account of our conversation; but just as I was about to run up the steps, he stopped me and whispered, ‘Mind, I wish it!’”
“Oho!” cried Charley, brushing away with a sweep of his hand a wreath that would not work, “that’s the way I talked then, was it?”
“Yes, that was what you said, and I—rather—liked it.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured Charley, his left eye shut, and slowly moving his head, so as to keep the open centre of a whirling smoke-wreath between his right eye and a certain portrait on the wall.
“You know, Jack, every real woman likes the man to be master.”
“Hear, hear!” gurgled Charley, in a rather choking voice; for by this time, in his effort to keep his eye on a fly on the ceiling (the ring having floated away from the picture and over his head), he had leaned his head so far back that (to speak rather as a Bushwhacker than as an anatomist) his Adam’s apple was impinging on his vocal cords.
Alice glanced from Charley to me, and tapped her forehead gently with her fan, just as Charley snapped his head back from its constrained position. “Clothed,” said she, “but not altogether in his right mind. But we shall never get done if we go on in this way. Come! But before I go any further, Jack, I must ask you to remember that I was not as well acquainted with the Don at this time, as any reader would be who had read your book up to this point. I see that you call him a ‘man of surprises’ (a rather Frenchified phrase, by the way); but please bear in mind that the only surprise he had ever caused me was when he bloomed forth as a violinist. All the other surprises were devoured by this Silent Tomb,” said she, glancing towards Charley. Him, detected in the act of smoothing with his pipe-stem the jagged, interior edges of a blue annulus, she brought to his senses by a sharp fan-tap on his head.
“What is to become of our Monograph if you go on in this way?”
“Monograph? I thought you were on a polygraph, or a pantograph, and was amusing myself till you came back to the subject.”
“Very true. Well, I took my seat in the stern, and he sat opposite me, looking much amused, and very curious to know what my whim was. I think I was a ‘girl of surprises’ when I began. ‘Do you know, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘are you aware that you are a Fiend in Human Shape?’ He burst out laughing. He obviously thought that I was unusually crazy, even for me. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I can’t say that I ever appeared to myself in that light; but we will suppose that you are right; what then?’ And he settled himself to be amused. I was far from amused, I assure you. I was at my wit’s end, not knowing what to say next, so I began to make holes in the sand (as observed by the lynx-eyed Boneless). Give a dog a bad name and kill him; get the reputation of being a wag—should I say waggess?—and your simplest acts amuse. As I looked down I could see, out of the corner of my eye, his wondering smile. I felt that he mistook my embarrassment for archness, and that my silence was, in his eyes, an artistic rhetorical pause. By the way, to change the subject” (Charley groaned and received a rap), “that’s where we women have the advantage of men. You are the besieging army, we the beleaguered city. We can see any confusion in your ranks, while a panic behind our walls is invisible to you. If you feel confused, you imagine that you look so; and then you do look so. It is different with us. We know—”
Here Charley seized his pipe and began filling it with the most obtrusive vigor. “Conundrum!” said he, claiming attention with uplifted forefinger.
“Well?”
“What is the difference between a woman’s tongue and a perpetual-motion machine? Answer: I give it up!”
As I could never learn to whirl smoke-wreaths, I twirled my thumbs during the interruption of our session that ensued. The bashful and evasive Charley upset every chair in the room, save mine, behind which he was ultimately captured and punished. “Pshaw! Who minds Jack?” said Alice, stooping to right her rocking-chair. “Ugh! How smoky your moustache is!”
“I never heard anything like that while we were engaged.”
“And for a very good reason,” said she, with a toss of her head.
“Illustrious Bœotian!” sighed Charley.
Alice threw herself into her chair, panting and laughing. “Where was I?”
“You were without a compass, in a word-ocean without a shore.”
“On the contrary, I was on the shore, and poking holes in the sand. ‘Well,’ said the Don, ‘what should be done to a man who was so unfortunate as to be a Fiend in Human Shape?’
“‘I should say that he needed a guardian. He lacks the warning voice of a mother.’
“‘But we will suppose that he has no mother.’
“‘Then let him find one. How, for example,’ said I, feeling my way, ‘how do you think that I would look the character.’ And I put on a demure expression.
“‘Admirably, admirably!’
“‘Then you adopt me as a mother?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘A mother with a warning voice?’ I added, beginning to find my soundings.
“‘A mother with a voice soft as a zephyr!’
“‘No, with a voice of warning.’
“Up to this time he had been watching me somewhat with the expression of a child when some one is about to touch the spring of a Jack-in-the-Box. Up I was going to bounce, in some high antic or other. But just here his countenance took on a look of perplexity. I suppose my voice became one of warning. Can’t I talk seriously sometimes, Mr. Frobisher?”
“You? Oh, Lord!”
“Well, you needn’t be so emphatic. What will Jack think?”
“Pshaw! Who minds Jack? Ouch!”
“Well, where was I? Ah! ‘No, with a voice of warning,’ said I, looking rather grave, I suppose. ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘with a voice of warning.’ ‘I am your mother, then?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you are my son?’ ‘Yes, mumma,’ said he, smiling, and holding up his knee with interlaced fingers and looking very comfortable.
“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feeling very uncomfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tell you that I feel all a mother’s affection for you. I have given you so many proofs of this ever since I trotted you on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—that I do not feel called upon to add any more evidence of the love I bear you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he. You may look incredulous, but he said it. ‘But no one is perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprised to hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingled with many excellencies that make her proud, some faults,—one fault at least? You will not feel hurt? Consider your head patted.’ And I began again poking holes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, mother dear?’ ‘You are a handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, but how could I help that, with such a lovely little mother?’ ‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments with your old mother. No matter whence your good looks are derived, you are devastatingly handsome—’”
“How could you say such a thing to a man’s face, Alice?”
“To put him in good humor. You are all vain, you know.
“Upon that he threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Go on,’ said he, lolling back and nursing his knee as before. ‘No,’ said I, ‘the fatal gift of beauty is not a crime in itself; it is the use one—’
“‘Do you know,’ said he, interrupting me and leaning forward with deep conviction in his eyes, ‘that you are the most extraordinary girl—I mean mother—that I ever encountered? You ought to write; it is your positive duty. So much brightness—tit for tat, you know—ought not to waste its sweetness, etc. Have you never thought of writing a book?’ ‘Not I,—Mary Rolfe is our genius; I leave that to her.’
“His face flushed slightly, and instantly I changed my whole plan of campaign. I had been making a reconnoissance under cover of the mother and son fiction; but like a wide-awake general, I now, seeing the enemy in confusion, unmasked my batteries and opened fire; that is, I dropped my parasol and sprang towards him with an anxious look: ‘Are you ill?’ I asked.
“His face grew crimson, for he knew what I meant. You see he had once or twice heard me making fun of a certain threadbare trick of the novelists. It would seem that characters in romances never have the least idea that any one is in love with any one. One party casually mentions to a second party the name of a third party. Instantly party No. 2 changes color. ‘Are you ill?’ cries No. 1. ‘It is nothing,’ gasps No. 2; ‘it will pass in a moment.’”
“Yes,” said Charley, “and how singular it is that No. 1 never for a moment suspects the truth, but invariably goes off under the conviction that the poor heroine has eaten something indigestible,—has a pain—nay, even—who minds Jack?—an ache!”
“How shrewd a device!” said Alice, laughing. “The author lets the reader know, while concealing it from the actors in the drama, that the poor girl is desperately gone.”
“Yes,” added Charley; “the author may be said to tip the reader a wink, ‘unbeknownst’—behind No. 1’s back. Now don’t, Alice; do sit down and let’s go on. That’s right. Why, in a novel, even a physician would ask, ‘Are you ill?’—even he could not distinguish between the indications of love and the symptoms of colic.”
“In one word,” said Alice, “those words make a book a novel,—and their absence makes this—a sym—”
Charley here burst into a quotation, speaking fearfully through his nose: “Of this disease the great Napoleon died. Some say that Napoleon was a great man; some say that Washington was a great man; but I say that true greatness consists in moral grandeur. With this brief digression, gentlemen, we will resume our subject.”
“Why, who on earth could have said that?” cried Alice; “it is immense!”
“Have you never heard Jack or myself quote it before? It was the one solitary gem of rhetoric in the annual course of lectures delivered by old P-P-P-P—too many confounded p-p-p-p’s! Imitate his example,—resume!”
“Where did I leave him? Ah! ‘Are you ill?’ said I, and he blushed as red as a rose. I waited a moment, then said, ‘You have lost the cue; repeat after me,—“It—is—nothing!”’ ‘It is nothing,’ repeated he; ‘it—will—soon—pass! it will soon pass.’
“‘Will it?’ said I, charging bayonets. ‘That is the question, Mr. Don,’ said I, folding my arms,—these two, not the bayonets,—‘you are in love!’ I looked him straight in the eyes, for my blood was up! My fear was all gone!”
(“It has never come back!” said Charley.)
“‘To deny it would be useless as well as ungallant. Who would believe me? Constantly associated for so long with a bevy of charming—’
“‘A bevy! Are you enamoured of the whole flock? Is there no bright particular star? May I make a guess? Ah, I see I need not name her.’
“‘Miss Carter,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you seem so different from your usual self this morning! Or are you merely laying a train for a phenomenal display of fire-works? Are you in earnest, or are you preparing to blow me up with an explosion of fun?’
“‘I am in earnest, and I am going to blow you up, too. Listen: but before broaching my main topic, I must say one word on Mary Rolfe.’
“‘I had thought that she was to be the main theme of your sermon.’
“‘Of course you thought so,—perfectly natural, the wish being father to the thought.’ How that made him blush and stammer,—almost as badly as the Silent Tomb in its courting days. Now, boys” (meaning her husband and the subscriber), “I leave it to you: wasn’t I a regular Macchiavelli? Didn’t I manage it neatly? You see it would not have done to let him see that I was acting as Mary’s friend, even though without her knowledge and consent; and she would never have forgiven me. So, at the very outset, I planted an interrogation-point in his mind. ‘What is she coming to?’ he kept thinking; but I was there already. I had made my reconnoissance and found out where the enemy was weak; but, as you veterans know, after a reconnoissance, the trouble is to get back to camp without loss. This is how I managed that: ‘To begin,’ said I, ‘with Mary Rolfe. Her you love. That’s admitted? Well, silence gives consent. Now, whether you have told her so in words or not is more than I can tell; for, although Mary and I are very intimate, girls do not—’”
“Oh!” grunted Charley.
“Well, in theory they do not,” replied Alice, laughing.
“‘Whether you have told her in words,’ said I—
“‘I have told her neither in words nor otherwise,’ said he.
“‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘that’s strange! strange, that you should have kept her alone in darkness. You must be aware that you have told every one else, as plainly as looks, at least, can speak. But I must proceed; I have no time to discuss that.’ ‘One moment,—you say that my looks have revealed my sentiments. Are you quite sure of this?’ ‘The fabled ostrich and the sand!’ said I, laughing. ‘Confound it! Excuse me,—well, I suppose I deceive myself, as other men do. There is our friend Charley, for instance, the woman-hater! Now, he fondly imagines that nobody knows that he adores somebody!’”
“Fondly! H’m! Well, go on,” said Charley.
“I colored faintly at this, for blushing is becoming to me. ‘And, yet,’ said I, ‘I venture to say that the somebody in question knew what was taking place in his mind even before he suspected it.’ ‘Did you really?’ asked he. ‘I have no doubt she did,’ said I. ‘All women are alike in that,’ I added; ‘but let us proceed.’ ‘One moment,’ said he; ‘if all women are alike in this intuitive power, then I infer that Miss Rolfe cannot fail to have remarked that I—’ Here I gave my shoulders a diplomatic shrug, which brought him to a dead pause. He nodded his head gently up and down a little while, and seemed in great perplexity. ‘Miss Carter,’ said he, suddenly looking up, ‘will you be my friend and advise me?’ ‘I am your friend,’ said I, ‘and will do what I can in the way of advice.’ Then he looked down for a long time, his face all corrugated with cross-purposes. My blood began to run a little chill. Was the great mystery about to be revealed?
“‘You say that by my bearing and looks I have, to all intents and purposes, declared myself a lover of Miss Rolfe. Now, suppose—and I pledge you my word that it is so—suppose all this was unintentional on my part; suppose that I have striven not to show just what you say I have shown,’—he paused again as before. ‘No,’ said he, resuming, in a half-musing way, as though he thought aloud, ‘I don’t see how I can lay the whole case before her’ (meaning me, I suppose). ‘Ah,’ said he, his face brightening, ‘let us suppose a case. Suppose I loved you dearly,—a very supposable case, by the way,—and you did not suspect it.’ ‘Not a supposable case; but go on.’ ‘Well,’ said he, smiling, ‘at that wharf, yonder, lies a ship ready to sail. I am to go in her to seek my fortune in the wide world, somewhere; ought I to speak, or would it not be nobler to bid you farewell with my secret locked in my breast?’
“I saw, of course, how matters stood. The supposed case was a purely imaginary one. His perplexity had been due to the difficulty of avoiding all allusion to his incognito. ‘I don’t pretend to know which would be the nobler course for you; but I should want to know it, and hear it from your own lips, too, were you to be off for Japan in fifteen minutes. The sweetest music in the world to a woman’s ears is the voice of a man telling her that he loves her; and it is music of so potent a character, that it often melts a heart that was cold before.’
“That shot told. He threw his head back, like a horse taking the bit between his teeth. It was plain that he had formed a resolution of some sort. By the way, Jack, I could never understand how so transparent a man as the Don, showing his inmost feelings with every glance of his eye, and every movement of his features; with a face which was a barometer of his slightest emotions, could ever have kept a secret. Here is the S. T., on the other hand. Whisper a secret into his ear, and it is like dropping a stone into an artesian well. It is the last you ever hear of it. There may be a subterranean splash, but you never see it. But the Don’s face always reminded me of a lake that the merest pebble causes to ripple from shore to shore.
“Well, the reconnoissance was a perfect success, and all that was left, as I thought, was to retire under cover of a rattling skirmish fire.[[1]] Very naturally, I did not suspect that my position was mined. But it was; and I trod on the percussion fuse.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘I don’t suppose you would ever get tired of hearing me talk about Mary, but you have never heard the mother’s “warning voice” yet, and you know you came to the Fateful Argo to hear that.’
“‘That’s true! Would you mind if I lit a cigar? Thanks!’ And, opening my parasol, he struck a light behind it, and began puffing away, with his head thrown back, and nursing his knee, as before; the picture of serene contentment. His face was calm as the placid little lake of which I spoke just now, and he looked as though, the absorbing question in his mind being set at rest, he was at my service, to be amused and entertained.
“‘A man of your wide experience, Mr. Don,’ said I, beginning the skirmishing, ‘must have remarked the fact that girls will talk.’
“‘True, very true!’ And with dreamy, half-smiling, uplifted eyes, he thrust his cigar into the other corner of his mouth, as though by anticipation he rolled under his tongue some morsel of my nonsense. ‘Go on, laughter-compelling siren!’
“‘Again, you cannot fail to have observed that girls, being wound up to talk, by nature, must needs talk about one another or—the rest of mankind. As we are not philosophers, could it be otherwise?’
“‘Impossible!’ said he, rocking gently to and fro. ‘Proceed, enchantress!’
“‘Well, you being included among the rest of mankind—’
“‘You have occasionally honored me? And what did you say about me?’
“‘With one accord, that you were in love!’
“‘You have already entrapped me into a confession on that point. Chaunt, Circe!’
“‘But the accord ends there; we are not unanimous as to the charmer’s name.’
“‘Not unanimous? I don’t understand.’
“‘Well, we female doctors are agreed as to the disease, but differ as to its cause. The majority of the Faculty at Elmington assign, as the source of your trouble, Mary’s soulful eyes; but one or two, even of us, and most of the neighboring physicians, urge another name; while one or two, with the frankness so common among doctors, admit that they do not know what is the matter with you.’
“‘You surprise me! I had gathered from what you said but a moment ago, that the symptoms in my case were so pronounced as not even to require a formal diagnosis.’
“‘But doctors will differ, and when they do—’
“‘The patient must decide. Well, I have done so. But—to drop your metaphor—I cannot conceive what you mean by suggesting that I have the credit of adoring two or more young persons?’
“You may recall, Jack, that the Silent Tomb was equally perplexed on the same point, and that when I asked him ‘Mary or Lucy?’ he amazed our whole circle by bursting into a laugh. Then the wretch, in repeating the names after me, so carefully abstained from placing the accent of astonishment on either, that not even a professional piano-tuner could have detected any difference in the sounds—oh, the artesian well! I remembered this. The Don had expressed no surprise when I named Mary Rolfe; probably, then, it was the mention of Lucy that had amazed the S. T. It flashed across my female mind, in the tenth part of a second, how singularly Mr. Frobisher had acted, after the first flush of astonishment was over,—how he pursed up his brow, gazed far away, in fact, mooned around in the most absurd fashion, instead of telling me all about it at once. Would the Don, too, laugh, when I mentioned Lucy’s name?
“‘We do you that honor, at any rate,’ said I.
“‘We? Who are we? Which of you belong to the Rolfe faction, and which to—you have not mentioned the name of the other dear charmer?’
“‘Well, so and so are for Mary, and so and so for the other.’
“‘Her name? But one moment,—Miss Rolfe herself—you failed to place her. Would it be a breach of confidence to do so?’
“‘She has not taken me into her confidence; therefore I have the right to make what surmises I choose. I place her between the two. She does not know what to think.’
“Again he snapped his head backwards, as though he said that he would settle that shortly. Tranquillized, he relit his cigar, which had gone out, and again lolled back; and cocking up his cigar in the corner of his mouth, asked. ‘And the other?’
“‘Guess,’ said I.
“Dropping his chin on his breast, with a quiet smile, he pretended to reflect for a moment. ‘I am afraid I shall have to give it up. Oh, how dull I have been! How intolerably stupid!’ And placing his hand on his heart, he made me a low bow; then throwing back his head, with a merry laugh, ‘Capital, capital!’ he ejaculated.
“‘No,’ said I, ‘her name is not Alice. Guess again.’
“A flash of surprise followed by a look of rising curiosity. ‘Really, you perplex me!’
“‘You cannot recall any of the girls except Mary, in whom you have shown marked interest?’—he shook his head—‘an ever increasing interest?’ ‘An ever increasing interest?’ repeated he, opening his eyes wide upon me; then, looking upon the ground, he appeared to reflect. ‘Not Miss Kitty? No? Nor Miss Jennie? Not Miss Jennie either! Upon my word! But you seem serious; are you really?’
“‘I am. You cannot think of any girl whom you have visited again and again, of late?’
“‘Visited!’ exclaimed he. ‘Why, then she is not one of our Elmington guests!’
“I fixed my eyes upon him, and saw nothing, though I had always thought him as transparent as glass. It was my turn now to be bewildered. ‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘can’t you guess, now, to whom I allude?’
“Gazing at me with the look of one who had totally lost his reckoning, he shook his head slowly from side to side. I was positively vexed. There came over me the impatient feeling of a teacher who is striving in vain to hammer an idea into the head of a numskull. ‘Well, then,’ said I, with some heat; and throwing out my arm at full length, I pointed across the River.
“‘Across the River, too,’ said he, with contracted features. ‘Upon my word, this conundrum grows interesting.’ And with his eyes fixed upon the sand, he stroked his tawny beard. ‘Across the River—let me see—Miss Jenny Royal—dinner-call—no other visit. The Misses Surrey—party-call. Miss Adelaide Temple—breakfast—going to pay my respects to-morrow. Anywhere else? No. Well,’ said he, suddenly throwing up his hands, ‘I give it up! What is the answer?’
“I looked at him for a moment, but could make nothing of him. ‘There! There! There!’ I exclaimed, at last, stabbing at Oakhurst with my forefinger.
“‘Where?’ asked he, looking across the River and up and down the shore opposite.
“‘There! There!’
“‘You seem to be pointing to Oakhurst.’
“My arm dropped across the gunwale.
“‘Oakhurst!’ exclaimed he, with a most natural look of surprise. ‘You don’t mean Oakhurst? Why, there are no guests there! There is no one but Lucy—Miss Lucy!’
“‘That’s true,’ answered I, dryly. ‘No one but Lucy.’
“He leaned forward and scanned my features with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Surely you have not been alluding to her?’ I said nothing. ‘Seriously? Yes?’ And with a shout of merry laughter, he threw back his head with such vigor that his cigar flew out of his mouth and over his shoulder upon the sand; and then, without the least warning, his laughter ended in an abrupt ‘Oh!’
“He rose to his feet; not with a spring, but slowly, slowly, thoughtfully tugging at his moustache, and his eyes intently glaring into vacancy, as he rose and rose, till he seemed to my excited imagination to assume almost colossal proportions. Then he slowly subsided again into his seat, and sat there raking his beard with his long fingers. A chilly sensation crept over me. I tried to speak, but could think of no word wherewith to break the spell of silence. At last he turned his eyes upon mine.
“‘So it seems to you that I have been paying Lucy Poythress much attention?’
“‘Seems, Mr. Don? How can you use that word? It is a patent fact that must be as clear to your eyes as to mine.’
“‘Yes, but what kind of attention? She is musical—so am I. I have rowed across the River frequently, to play with her. Nay, my object has not been pleasure alone. I have been giving her what are called, in Paris, accompaniment-lessons. Does that amount to what is called attention, in a technical sense? And you acknowledge yourself that these visits never deceived you. You never thought that they were prompted by love.’
“‘No, they did not deceive me. What if they have deceived—’
“‘HER!’
“The word shot from his lips like a ball from a cannon. He sprang from the boat and began to stride to and fro in the sand, his nostrils dilated and his eyes fixed. (He used a dreadful expression, too, which was not at all patriotic, though it did end in —nation.) Presently he turned quickly towards me, and leaning forward, with his hands grasping the gunwale of the boat, eagerly asked, ‘But, Lucy, surely you do not think that—that she—is—what you call interested?’
“‘She has not betrayed any symptoms of that character.’
“‘Thank you,’ said he, seizing my hand with a grip that made me wince; and he began to stride to and fro again, till I stopped him.
“‘But, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘though she may not be interested now, it does not follow that she may not become—’
“‘Never fear,’ said he, biting his lip with a look of fierce determination, and striding up and down again.
“Thinking to soothe him: ‘Be careful! Remember, we girls think you a handsome, fascinating dog; so don’t raise false hopes.’
“‘No danger, no danger!’ replied he, earnestly, and without even a smile for my compliment. ‘What a fool I have been!’
“He stood reflectively stroking his moustache for a while, and I thought the scene over, when turning impetuously upon me, and seizing me by both wrists with a grasp of steel, ‘You don’t think so?’ he cried. ‘Tell me you do not, for heaven’s sake!’
“He seemed totally unconscious of the force he was using, for he jerked me against the gunwale with such violence that I should have been hurt had I not been so frightened. Oh, what eyes he had! I can feel their glare now, as I remember how he held me as in a vise, and, bringing his face close to mine, looked me through and through.
“‘Tell you what?’ I gasped.
“‘Lucy—she—the poor child—she has not—fallen in love with me: you know! Tell me so, for God’s sake!’
“His fingers sank into my wrists, and his fearful eyes burned into my brain.
“‘No! I am sure she has not!’
“‘Thanks, thanks, thanks!’ he cried; and lifting both my hands to his lips, he covered them with fervid kisses. I was not surprised; I was past that point. Had he thrown his arms around me, I honestly believe I should have been neither astonished nor angry.”
“I wish he had,” said Charley, musing. “Poor boy, poor boy!—well, well!” and, sighing, he fixed his eyes upon the fire.
Alice, with a look of tender sympathy, took her husband’s hand in hers.
| [1] | How strange, even pathetic, is the sound of these military metaphors from a woman’s lips.—Ed. |