CHAPTER XIX.
IN CLOSE ARREST.
To use his own language, life had suddenly become vested with new charms for Mr. Blake. He had found his conversational affinity. "For years," said he, "I have been like Pyramus, peeking and scratching at a wall for Thisbe,—only my Thisbe was never there." But Pyramus Blake had found his mate, he swore, and with huge delight he began devoting hours to chat with Mrs. Whaling.
She was old enough to be his mother, though she thought the fact was known to but few. She was as prosaic as he was fanciful, though it was her aim to appear at ease in all literary topics. She knew little or nothing of music or the languages, but it was her implicit conviction that those by whom she was surrounded knew less; and she chiefly erred in assuming to know that of which they frankly confessed their ignorance. Aside from a consummate facility for blundering in French, Mrs. Whaling possessed illimitable powers of distortion of her mother-tongue, and this it was that so fascinated and enraptured Blake on short acquaintance. He rushed in one morning to tell Mrs. Stannard that nothing but jealousy could have prompted her and the other ladies in concealing from him Mrs. Whaling's phenomenal gifts in this line, and proclaiming her the sweetest sensation of his maturer years. If we have failed thus far in pointing out some of the lingual peculiarities which had won for this estimable lady the title of Mrs. Malaprop, it was through the confidence we felt that so soon as she began to talk for herself our efforts would be rendered unnecessary. Overweening interest in other ladies has kept her somewhat in the background, a fact that detracts at once from all hope of ever establishing the record of being faithfully historic, since all who knew Mrs. Whaling are aware that nobody could ever keep her in the background in any assemblage wherein she was permitted to speak for herself. Perhaps it was therein that lay one of her direst misfortunes, but she knew it not, poor lady, and like too many of the rest of us, could never realize what was and what was not best for her at the time. Will the day ever come when the author of this will not realize in mournful retrospect what an ass he made of himself the twelvemonth previous? Mrs. Whaling had never studied French, but French was the language of courts and courtesy, and it sounded well, she was convinced, to introduce an occasional phrase or quotation in her daily conversation, and what she meant when she used a big word in her own language was (as in the case of honest Mr. Ballou) a secret between herself and her Maker.
Mr. Blake had hobbled over to pay his respects soon after his arrival, and was noticed shaking his head and muttering to himself in perplexity at odd hours of the day thereafter. The next morning he was seen to explode, as Mrs. Whaling gravely announced among a circle of her friends that she considered Miss Sanford to be the most soi-disant creature she had ever met, and went on to explain for the benefit of those to whom her French was an impenetrable mystery,—"fascinating, or, as they say, seductive." But when she soon thereafter referred to the general's magnanimity in not remanding to the guard-house an inebriated soldier, who had dropped and broken a valuable lamp, because "he knew it was only a lapsus linguæ," Blake became her slave, and hovered about her from morn till night in hopes of further revelations. He was getting lots of fun out of life just now despite his aches and pains, and was being chaffed extensively for replacing so readily the absent and lamented Gleason,—the one thing that seemed to mar his happiness.
Mrs. Truscott had been ailing for two or three days, and the ladies were wont to stop at her door each morning to make inquiries and suggestions. Mrs. Stannard had virtually moved in next door, and was with her at all times. Mr. Ray was a frequent visitor, despite the fact that Mrs. Truscott was unable to see him (though he always asked for her), and the garrison was arriving at the not unjustifiable inference that other attractions might draw him thither. He was still too lame to walk or ride, had no duties to perform, and much time to devote to calling; but beyond leaving his card at the commanding officer's and paying a courteous visit to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Wilkins, he made no garrison calls at all, for the hours he spent with Mrs. Stannard and Miss Sanford could hardly be so termed. He had been at the post a week, and the adjutant and quartermaster of the little command had as yet failed to drop in and welcome him as is customary. They had called on Blake when Ray was "up the row," but had not left their cards or inquired for his comrade. Blake thought it simply a piece of forgetfulness. Perhaps they had asked and he had forgotten; but Ray thought otherwise, and still, oddly enough, did not seem to care. He was happy in his day, and life had a new, strange, sweet interest for him that, despite his past ephemeral flames for one belle after another, was seriously influencing his life and character.
Blake wrote to his chums in the regiment that Billy Ray wasn't half the fun he used to be. "Never knew a fellow lose all his old self so quick. He has gone back on potations and poker, and it hasn't improved him a whit." There was another thing Blake growled at: Ray was mixed up in some garrison mystery, and wouldn't tell him anything about it. He had "pumped him," so to speak, because Mrs. Turner kept nagging him for information, and Ray had only colored and stumbled painfully, and finally burst forth with, "See here, Blake; something has happened that I accidentally got mixed up in, but it's a thing a man can't tell of, so don't ask me;" and Blake could only surmise. Then, too, there was that desertion of Wolf's,—Ray knew something about it,—and then the colonel had asked him—Blake—a point-blank question about Ray's habits which amazed him and set him to thinking. Then no mail was received from the regiment for four days, and they were all anxious; and so this bright August morning quite a party had gathered in front of Truscott's, for a little batch of letters had just arrived, and they were discussing contents and comparing notes. When Mrs. Stannard came down-stairs, blithe and breezy as ever, the ladies began their natural inquiries for Mrs. Truscott. She had enjoyed a good night's rest, at times at least, but had a severe nervous headache this morning. This had prompted Mrs. Turner to remark that nervous headaches were such trying things; she could never control them except by liberal use of bromides. Mrs. Wilkins was of opinion that if ever she had one she'd cut her head off before she'd use the likes—such stuff as that; lapsing very nearly into the vernacular of her early days; and Mrs. Whaling calmly announced that nothing ever did her so much good as a warm embryocation, whereat there was suppressed sensation on part of the ladies and convulsive throes by Mr. Blake. Ray and Miss Sanford, absorbed in converse on the weather, were standing apart at the door-way and heard nothing of it.
Guard-mounting was over; the band had just finished its morning programme of music and was going away, when a sudden exclamation from Mrs. Turner called all eyes to the form of the young post adjutant coming up the row.
"Why! What's Mr. Warner in full uniform for,—what can it mean?"