Charley rose, and, after walking about the room and glancing at the books in an aimless sort of way, without other reply than a smile, descended the steps and stood on the lawn with his fingers interlaced behind his back.
“That’s what he would have said,” added Mr. Whacker in an undertone, “had you not been present; or else, that if Mrs. Poythress were his mother-in-law, what should he do for a mother? He is a singular fellow,—a ‘regular character,’ as the saying is. He has the greatest aversion to giving expression to his feelings, and fancies that he hides them,—though he succeeds about as well as the fabled ostrich. The truth is, he has the warmest attachment for Lucy (I wish it were only a little warmer), but a still greater affection for her mother. There are, in fact,” added Mr. Whacker, lowering his voice into a mysterious whisper, “peculiar reasons for his devotion to her and hers to him,—but it is a sad story which I will not go into; but, for ten or fifteen years—ever, at least, since a cruel bereavement she experienced—he has made it a rule to spend, if at all possible, one night of every week under her roof. This weekly visit is a pleasure to Charley, but it seems to be a necessity with poor Mrs. Poythress. No weather can keep him back. Fair or foul, go he will; and, on one occasion, he spent a night in the water, clinging to his capsized boat. ‘I can’t help it, Uncle Tom,’ he will say; ‘she misses my visit so.’”
“My God!” cried the stranger, in a voice of piercing anguish; and, leaping from his seat, he stood with his temples pressed between his hands and his powerful frame convulsed with emotion.
Had my grandfather been a man of more tact, he could not have failed to remark in the dancing eyes, twitching mouth, and pallid features of his guest the symptoms of a coming storm. As it was, it burst upon him like a bolt from a cloudless sky. He stood aghast; and to the eager inquiring glances of Charley, who had sprung into the room on hearing the cry and the noise of the falling chair, he could only return, for answer, a look of utter bewilderment. The stranger had turned, on Charley’s entrance upon the scene, and was supporting his head upon his hand, against the sash of the rear window.
“I cannot imagine!” silently declaimed and disclaimed my grandfather.
“I hope—” began Charley, advancing.
The Guest, as though afraid to trust his voice, with a turn of his head flashed a kindly smile upon Charley, accompanied by a deprecatory motion of the hand, and again averted his face as though not yet master of his features; but, a moment after, he straightened himself, suddenly, and turning, advanced towards his host.
“Mr. Whacker,” he began, with a grave smile, “I beg you a thousand pardons. There are certain parallelisms in life—I mean that you inadvertently touched a chord that quite overmastered me for the moment. Forgive me.” And, taking my grandfather’s hand, he bowed over it with deep humility. Turning then to Charley, who, the reader will bear in mind, had not heard the words of Mr. Whacker that had wrought the explosion, the Guest, to Charley’s great astonishment, grasped both his hands with a fervid grip, but averted look; then abruptly dropping his hands, he seized his hat and strode out of the door; leaving our two friends in blank amazement. They stood staring at each other with wide eyes. At last, Charley raised his hand and tapped his forehead with his forefinger, then went to the door and looked out.
“By Jove,” cried he, “he is making straight for the river!” And, hatless as he was, he sprang to the ground and started after him, at a run—for the Guest was swinging along with giant strides. Charley’s heart beat quick, when the stranger, reaching the shore, stopped suddenly, stretching out both his arms toward the opposite bank with wild, passionate gestures. The pursuer was about to cry out, when the pursued, turning sharply to the left, moved on again, as rapidly as before. It was then that, either hearing Charley’s hurrying steps, or by chance turning his head, he saw that he was followed. He stopped instantly; and, coming forward to meet Charley:
“I must ask pardon again,” said he, with extended hand. “I should have told you that I was going out for a good long walk. I shall be back before dinner.”