CHAPTER XXXIX.
Friday came, and the Poythresses, having missed the Leicester Christmas festivities, were to dine with us that day. In the evening there was to be (no wonder my grandfather was out on the porch a dozen times, looking for the first oar-splash on the other side)—in the evening there was to be a quintet; and Mr. Whacker, who was as proud of Lucy as though she were his own daughter, wag eager to exhibit her prowess to the stranger. It must not be supposed, from my silence on this point, that we had had no music since Mr. Whacker’s discovery what a treasure he had in the Don. During this period we had had quartets, duets, solos innumerable. Christmas times, in fact, as understood at Elmington, had irresistible charms for Herr Waldteufel; and he had hardly left us for an hour.
And now the company at Elmington stood on the piazza watching the boat that, with measured stroke, approached the foot of the lawn.
“How charming to sail forth in a boat to dine!” said Alice.
“And then the moonlight row home,” added Mary; “it suggests Venice.”
As the boat neared the landing, there was a general movement from the piazza to meet the coming guests, my grandfather leading the way. He had not made many steps before he looked about him, and seeing the Don bringing up the rear, he slackened his pace. The Don came up biting his nails vigorously, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, but from time to time glancing nervously in the direction of the boat.
“We have invited the whole family, old and young,” began Mr. Whacker.
Mary, just in front, was drinking in with upturned face the soft nothings of some young man; but she chanced to turn her head sufficiently to catch the start with which the Don aroused himself from his revery at these words of his host.
“I thought you would like to see little Laura, too.”
“Ah, yes, little Laura; it was very thoughtful of you.”
“Have you ever heard the little thing sing? Upon my word, she promises to rival Lucy’s talent for music. They get it from their mother. But here they are.” And the old gentleman advanced with all the briskness of hospitality, if not of youth. Charley leaned forward, lifted Laura from the boat, and, kissing her, placed her upon the ground.
“Where is he?” cried she; “I don’t see him.” And she looked from face to face with shining eagerness.
“Yonder he is,” and away she skipped. “Here he is,” she shouted, twining her arms around his knees; “here is Don Miff, sister Lucy.”
There was a general smile, and he stooped and kissed her several times.
“And here is Mr. Fat-Whacker, sister Lucy,” cried she, running up and taking my hand.
“Sister Lucy,” her right hand held by one gentleman, her left by another, stood at this moment one foot on a seat, the other on the gunwale of the boat, balancing herself for a spring. It is certain that the color rose in her cheeks; but that may have been due to the rocking of the boat. Sister Lucy steadied herself for the leap.
“Mr. Fat-Whacker,” began our merry tattler, addressing herself to the Don, “is the one—”
Lucy, remembering Richmond and Laura’s side-walk confidences to the Don, on the occasion of her first interview with him, gave Mr. Fat-Whacker, as she sprang from the boat, a quick, appalled glance. He was equal to the occasion. “Yes,” cried he, seizing the explanatory cherub and tossing her high in the air, “here’s Mr. Fat-Whacker; and here,” he added, with another toss, “is Mr. Uncle Whacker; and here,” he continued, raising her at arm’s length above his head and holding her there while he made at her some of those faces that were her delight, “here is everybody!”
Lucy gave Mr. F.-W. a glance, as she hurried past him to shake hands with the Don, that he thought was grateful; and he was stooping slightly to pat his little benefactress on the head, when he was sent whirling by a blow against the shoulder like that of a battering-ram.
It appears that Mrs. Poythress, during the merry confusion wrought by her little daughter, whether in her eagerness to shake hands with the man who, as she felt, had saved Lucy’s life, or else thinking that she needed no assistance, had attempted to alight from the boat unaided; but tripping, in some way, she was falling at full length upon the frozen ground. The Don saw her danger. He was almost six feet away from the boat, my shoulder was in the way, and Lucy’s fair hand was extended,—had touched his in fact,—when he sprang forward. ’Twas the spring of a leopard,—as swift and as unerring. Crouching, he alighted beneath her before she reached the ground, caught her as though she had been a ball, and springing to one side lightly as a cat, placed her feet, without a jar, upon the ground.
“Are you much hurt?” asked he, with a singular mixture of respectful deference and eager interest.
Women, whether old or young, generally form their opinion of a man during the first five minutes of their acquaintance. Mrs. Poythress, at least, was won by those few words, that one look of the stranger, and believed in him from that hour.
“Our introduction has been informal,” said she, extending her hand with a smile; “but you made my Lucy’s acquaintance in a manner equally unconventional. I have long desired to greet you and thank you.” And she raised her eyes to his. “I—” Mrs. Poythress paused. The Don stood holding her hand, bending over it, listening, but with eyes averted and cast upon the ground, reverence in every curve of his stalwart frame.
“You owe me no thanks,” said he, in a low murmur, and without raising his eyes. “Far from it.”
A mysterious feeling crept over Mrs. Poythress. Was it his eyes? Was it his voice? Or his manner? Was it something? Was it nothing? “I do feel rather weak. Perhaps I was a little jarred,” said she; “may I lean on your strong arm?” Bending low, he offered her his arm as a courtier would to a queen, but without the courtier’s smile; and they moved slowly towards the house.
“He is a gentleman of the old school,” thought Mr. Whacker.
“One would think,” mused Mary, “that he was already an accepted son-in-law.”
“A case of nubbin,” chirped Alice (a phrase I leave as a kind of sample bone of contention to the philologists of your day, my boy). She was leaning on Charley’s arm, and raised her eyes inquiringly. “Somehow, though,” added she, interpreting his silence as dissent, “somehow, I don’t altogether believe so.”
No reply.
She looked up again, and detected a faintly rippling smile struggling with the lines of his well-schooled features. He had heard her, then,—and half amused, half indignant, she gave his arm so sudden and vigorous a pull as visibly to disturb his balance.
“Why don’t you answer people?” said she, a little testily.
“You would not have a man hasty? Is it not best to treat people’s remarks as a hunter does wild ducks? Save your ammunition. Don’t fire at the first that comes; wait till you can bring down three or four at a shot. Besides, it is rude.”
“Rude?”
“Yes, to interrupt the current of people’s observations.”
“Well, you must interrupt the current of mine when I speak to you.”
“The tr-tr-tr-ouble is I’d rather hear you talk than talk myself.”
Three persons, walking behind this couple, had overheard these words,—to wit, Jones, Jones’s girl, and myself. By Jones’s girl I would be understood as referring to one of our Christmas party, through whose influence Jones had been led to infer that the lectures at the University immediately after Christmas were of comparatively minor importance. We were all struck by the absence of banter in Charley’s last remark. Jones looked at me, and opening wide his eyes, and dropping his chin, formed his mouth into a perfect circle.
“The old fox is caught,” whispered he; and taking another look, “sure pop!” he added,—an inelegant expression which I record with regret, and only in the interests of historic accuracy. Jones’s girl, while we smiled at Charley, had her woman’s eyes on Alice, and with raised brows and a nod directed our attention to her. Alice had obviously noticed the peculiar tone of Charley’s voice, and coyly dropped her eyes. “Mr. Frobisher,” she began, “I must beg your pardon.”
“For what, pray?”
“For my rudeness in pulling your arm, just now!”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” and then a merry twinkle coming into his eyes, “it didn’t hurt a bit. I rather liked it. D-d-d-d-o it again.”
Just then Jones turned quickly, and, with the delighted look of a discoverer, snapped his head, first at his girl and then at me.
“You saw it?”
His girl nodded assent. Jones looked at me inquiringly.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“He squeezed her hand with his arm,—most positively—didn’t he?”
Jones’s girl looked assent.
“Hard?”
She nodded again,—laughter-tears bedimming her young eyes.
“The villain!” breathed Billy; and throwing back his head, he showed two rows of magnificent teeth, while his mouth, though emitting no sound, went through all the movements of Homeric laughter.
“Will,” said she, turning towards him,—“Will,” said she, softly, as she raised her eyes admiringly to his frank and manly face, “you are the greatest goose in the world.”
“And you the dearest duck on earth.”
So, at least, they seemed to me to say; but perhaps—for I admit that they spoke in whispers—perhaps I say this less as a hearer than as a Seer.