CHAPTER XLVI.
But he was enough. At the period at which we are now arrived, his conduct became more perplexing than ever. The neighborhood was divided into two camps, one maintaining that Mary found favor in his eyes, the other that Lucy and music had carried the day. Most of the gentlemen were of the latter party. They pointed out his frequent visits across the River, the hours he spent playing for or with her, his obvious efforts to win the good-will of her mother. Some few of the girls were on our side; and I remember that they, at times, commented with some asperity on the alleged court that the Don paid Mrs. Poythress,—rather plainly signifying that in their case a swain would find it to his interest to make love to them rather than to their mothers. But a majority of the girls, headed by Alice, scouted the idea of the Don’s being enamoured of the gentle Lucy; the difference between their party and that of the men being that they could give no reason for the faith that was in them. They thought so—they knew it—well, we should see—persisted they, in their irritating feminine way.
As a natural result of this state of things, there arose among us a sort of anti-Don party. His popularity began to wane. What did he mean by playing fast and loose with two girls? Why did he not declare himself for one or the other? Who was he, in fact?
But against this rising tide of disapprobation Charley was an unfailing bulwark. It was obvious to all that a close intimacy had sprung up between Frobisher and the Don. They were continually taking long walks together. Secluded nooks of porches became their favorite resting-places. The murmur of their voices was often to be heard long after the rest of the family had retired for the night. Charley, therefore, gave this suspicious character the stamp of his approval, and that approval sustained him in our little circle. I say our little circle, though I, of course, had long since returned to Richmond, and my supposed practice at the bar. Fortunately for the reader, Alice remained on the scene; else where had been those delicious love-passages that are in store for us?
Of all this circle, Alice was most eager to ascertain the actual state of the Don’s sentiments. Nor was hers an idle curiosity. Her penetrating eyes had not failed to pierce the veil of bravado by which Mary had sought to hide her heart from her friend. But did he love her? She believed so,—believed half in dread, half in hope, Now was the time to learn something definite.
For the Poythresses had given a dinner, and she and Charley were promenading up and down the Oakhurst piazza. Presently, there sounded from the parlor the “A” on the piano, followed by those peculiar tones of a violin being tuned,—tones so charmingly suggestive, to lovers of music, so exasperating to others.
“Ah, they are going to play!” said my grandfather, quickly; and he turned to go into the parlor, followed by all of the promenaders save Charley and Alice, who still strode to and fro, arm in arm.
“They are going to play,” repeated he, as he got to the door, turning and nodding to Charley, and then passed briskly within.
At this some of the girls smiled, and Charley reddened, poor fellow, and bit his lip; while Alice gazed, unconscious, at two specks of boats in the distance.
Suddenly Mr. Whacker reappeared, thrusting his ruddy countenance and snowy hair between the fair heads of two girls who were just entering the door,—a pleasing picture.
“The Kreutzer Sonata!” he ejaculated at Charley, and disappeared.
At this the two girls fairly giggled aloud, and, darting Parthian glances at Alice, tumbled through the hall into the parlor.
“What merry, thoughtless creatures we girls are!” said Alice, removing her gaze from the specks of sails.
“Yes, and no fellow can find out, half the time, what you are laughing about,—or thinking about, for the matter of that.”
“What! do you deem us such riddles,—you who, they say, can read one’s thoughts as though we were made of glass?”
“I? And who says that of me, pray?”
“Everybody says it. I say it,” she added, with a smile of saucy defiance.
“I read people’s thoughts!”
“Do you disclaim the gift?”
“Even to disclaim it would be preposterously vain.”
Charley would have avoided that word “preposterous” had he bethought him, in time, how many p’s it contained. His face was red when he had stumbled and floundered through it, and his eyes a trifle stern. He had been a stammerer from boyhood, but of late his infirmity had begun to annoy him strangely.
“Then, modest young man, I suppose you have yet to learn the alphabet of mind-reading?”
“Yes,—that is, women’s minds.”
“Women’s minds? Do you think that we are harder to read than men? Do you think, for example, that people find it harder to see through such an unsophisticated girl as myself than such a deep philosopher as you?”
“You? Why, you are an unfathomable m-m-m-mystery?” (“Confound it!”)
“The idea! I a mystery? And this from you, unreadable sphinx!”
“Yes, and unfathomable! Why, I have no idea what you think upon the—upon—well, all sorts of subjects.”
Charley caressed with a shy glance the toes of his boots, and felt red.
“Indeed? How strange!” And she gazed upon the dots of boats and felt pale.
“Yes; for example, I have often wondered what in fact, for example, you thought, for instance, of—of—of—me, for instance. Oh, no, no, of course not, I beg your pardon; of course I never imagined for a moment, of course not, that you ever thought of me at all, in fact. What I mean is, that whenever you did think of me,—though I presume you never did for an instant, of course,—I mean that if by chance, when you had nothing else to think about, and I happened to pass by—Oh, Lord!” cried Charley, clasping in his hand his burning brow.
What is the matter with my people? Chatterbox reduced to monosyllables, and the Silent Man pouring forth words thick as those that once burst from the deep chest of Ulysses of many wiles; and they, as we all know, thronged thick as flakes of wintry snow.
“Don’t you think I am an idiot? Have you the least doubt of it?” exclaimed the poor fellow, with fierce humility.
Alice gave a little start and looked up.
“A confounded stammering idiot?”
“Mr. Frobisher!”
He didn’t mean it. Charley could never have done such a thing on purpose; but his left arm suddenly threw off all allegiance to his will, and actually pressed a certain modest little dimpled hand against his heart so hard that it blushed to the finger-tips. Alice looked down with quickened breath, slackened pace; but Charley swept her forward with loftier stride, drawing in mighty draughts of air, and glaring defiance at the universe. He did not, however, stride over the railing at the end of the piazza. Taking advantage of the halt—
“Strange!” said Alice, in a low voice; “do you know that I, too, have often wondered what you thought of me? Seeing you sitting, silent and thoughtful, while I was rattling on in my heedless way, I often wondered whether you did not think me a chatterer destitute as well of brains as of heart. No? Really and truly? You are very kind to say so!”
“Kind!” exclaimed Charley. “Kind! ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻” said Alice, looking down—“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻” continued Charley, “✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ yes, ✻ ✻ first and only ✻ ✻ Richmond ✻ ✻ very first moment ✻ ✻ never again ✻ ✻ dreaming and waking ✻ ✻ despair ✻ ✻ torments of the ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ abyss!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ mere passing fancy? ✻ as ever were caught out of it. ✻ ✻ Richmond ✻ week ✻ ✻ ✻ out of sight, out of ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ ey, fiercely, ✻ ✻ ✻ while life ✻ yonder river flows down to the sea ✻ ✻ ✻ by all that’s ✻ ✻ never ✻ ✻ ✻ so long as the stars ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ no, never!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ naturally enough ✻ ✻ country-house ✻ ✻ ✻ passing whim ✻ absence ✻ ✻ ✻ another dear charmer ✻ ✻ effaced.”
“No ✻ ✻ graven ✻ ✻ indelible ✻ ✻ revolve upon its axis ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ sheds her light ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ shall beat ✻ ✻ ✻ obliterated!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ others ✻ ✻ vows ✻ before ✻ and yet ✻ ✻ ✻ woman’s confiding nature ✻ ✻ forgotten.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ then if ✻ ✻ bid me ✻ not ✻ altogether ✻ ✻ permit me ✻ ✻ ✻ absolute aversion ✻ ✻ ✻ grow into ✻ ✻ time ✻ ✻ ✻ fidelity ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ray of hope?”
“✻ ✻ ✻ so totally unexpected,” [Oh!!! J. B. W.] “✻ ✻ ✻ breath away with surprise ✻ ✻ ✻ my own mind ✻ ✻ test ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ both of us ✻ ✻ for the present ✻ ✻ as though not said.”
“✻ ✻” said he, “✻ ✻ ✻ absolute dislike?”
“✻ ✻ ✻” dropping her eyes, “✻ ✻ ✻ cannot altogether deny ✻ ✻ at times ✻ acknowledge ✻ ✻ ✻ perhaps ✻ ✻.”
Here the cooing of these turtle-doves was interrupted.
“The adagio is about to begin!” [Does the learned counsel allude, when he speaks of the “adagio,” to the andante con variazioni of Beethoven’s so-called Kreutzer Sonata,—A major, Opus 47? But did a lawyer ever count for anything outside of his briefs? Ch. Frobisher.[[1]]]
“The adagio be—” thought Charley, with a flash of heat; but reined himself back on that modest little verb; so that no man will ever know what he intended to think. [A thousand pities, too, for as his mind, though originally sound, never had the advantage of legal training, ’tis a recreation that he treats it to but seldom. J. B. W.]
My grandfather has passed out of the parlor on tiptoe, to make this announcement; though why on tiptoe (there being an intermission in the music) I leave to psychologists to determine.
The two giggling girls had popped into seats near the door; and when they saw him moving past them, bent on his errand of mercy (Charley was not to miss the adagio), they fell upon each other’s necks and wept sunny tears.
“Poor Mr. Frobisher!” gasped one.
“Isn’t it too cruel!” gurgled the other.
Presently Mr. Whacker returned, looking rather disconcerted. Charley had said, “In a moment, Uncle Tom;” but his flushed face, and his voice, pitched in a strange key, as it were, rather upset his old friend; and he had retreated rather precipitately, a little troubled in mind (he knew not why), but none the wiser for what he had seen.
“Won’t they come in to hear the adagio?” asked one of the gigglers. The little hypocrite had brought her features under control with an effort, and had even managed to throw into her voice an accent of sympathetic solicitude.
“Not even to hear the adagio!” echoed her pal, with reproachful emphasis.
“They seem to be engaged,” said Uncle Tom, simply.
At this the gigglers giggled uproariously.
“The simpletons!” sighed my grandfather, bending upon them a look wherein the glory of his dark eyes was veiled with a gentle pathos that ever dimmed them when he looked upon happiness and youth. “Laugh while you may! You will have plenty of time for tears in the journey of life, poor things. In this poor world, my daughters, the height of foolishness is often the summit of wisdom. Laugh on.” And he placed his hands upon their sunny heads, as though to bless them and to avert the omen. And they, with one accord, arose, and, throwing around his neck a tangle of shining arms, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. And he went his way, none the wiser,—went his way in that simplicity of age which is more touching than that of childhood; since it has known once—and forgotten. And between his departing form and their eyes, that laughed no longer, there arose a mist that seemed to lend a tender halo to his gray hairs—and they blessed him in turn.
“Mr. Frobisher,” said Alice, halting in front of the door, “I think we should go in.”
“Go in?” repeated Charley, with a rather dazed look.
Things were so interesting on the piazza!
“Yes, we must!”
Could he be mistaken? No, there was an unmistakable something in that pull upon his arm that said, Come with me.
“Not now; just one brief moment!”
“Yes, now. We might hurt Uncle Tom’s feelings.”
“We!” Did she mean it? Charley gave a quick, inquiring glance. She raised her eyes and met his with a kind of shrinking frankness.
“You say,” said Charley, “that we must go in to hear the adagio; but—tell me—just one little word: while they are playing that, may my heart beat in the frolic rhythm of the scherzo?”
She made no reply, nor raised her head; but the same gentle pull upon his arm seemed to say,—and plainer than before,—Come with me.
“Tell me, dearest?”
“Oh, don’t bother people so!”
Then, for the first time, her face, pallid before, was suffused with a sudden glory of roses.
| [1] | Reading the final proofs of this book, I find, bracketed into the text, sundry satirical observations at my expense; signed, some by Charley, others by Alice, who had undertaken to relieve me of the drudgery of the first proofs. Rather than bother the printer, I have suffered many of them to remain—for what they are worth!—J. B. W. [And I suffer this astounding note to remain for what it is worth.—Ed.] |