The Don now went on improving steadily, and it was not very long before his jolly doctor, entering the room in his brisk, cheery way, and bringing along with him much of the freshness of the crisp October morning, told his patient that he might dress and sit by the window, and that if he felt able to do so, he might, the next day, go down-stairs. At this Mrs. Carter, who had followed the doctor, expressed great satisfaction; when the Don said something about having given enough trouble already, and asked whether he would not be strong enough, probably, to go down to his own room.
“How far is it?” asked the doctor. “Where is your room?”
“At the corner of —th and Main; ever so far,” said Mrs. Carter; “but far or near, Mr. Smith, you will not go there yet. It is simply out of the question.” To which the Don smiled his acknowledgments.
I must mention, here, that after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, on Mrs. Carter’s going up to inquire how the Don had enjoyed his breakfast, he had seemed a little nervous. It was obvious—so, at least, she thought—that he feared that she was going to propose to write to his friends. At last it seemed to occur to him, as a kind of compromise, that he would give a vague sort of account of himself, but in such a way that it would be understood that he had nothing more to report. Actuated, apparently, by this motive, and spurred on by a nervous dread of a point-blank question from Mrs. Carter, he seized every pretext for saying something about himself, but always in a distant and shadowy kind of way. For example, allusion having been made to the news from Europe, he hastened to say that he had spent much of his life there; and this bringing up, very naturally, the delights of travelling, “Yes,” said he, “it is very pleasant at first, but after a while one begins to feel, as he wanders from capital to capital, that he is on a sort of perpetual picnic,—a mere butterfly,—and a weary sense of the aimlessness, the utter worthlessness, of his life begins to creep over him. After all, every human heart feels, sooner or later, the need of a home; for a home means interests, means duties, means affections; and what is life without all these?”
It was a study, watching his face when he spoke in this way. Beginning with a low voice and with a studied repose of manner, the mere utterance of his thoughts would soon hurry him past self-control, the glow of his countenance and the vibrating intensity of his voice breaking through the crust of a self-imposed calm, when, as though conscious that he had betrayed too much emotion, he would abruptly cease speaking, and remain silent till he felt that he had regained composure.
“I cannot thank you sufficiently, Mr. Frobisher,” said Mrs. Carter one day, “for warning me not to ask him about his home and friends.”
“What would he have said, mother?” said Alice. “I wish you had, almost.”
“And then, perhaps, we might have known something,” said Mary. “I declare I am positively consumed with curiosity.”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Alice. “Now just look at that provoking Lucy. Here are you and I, Mary, wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement over this enigma, and there sits Lucy, as composed and self-contained as—as—Neptune. You remember his placidum caput, girls,—in the Virgil class, you know.”
“My head may be placidum, but it is more than my heart is. It fairly aches with longing to know who he is. Do you know, I feel, somehow, as though he was to be more to me than to either of you girls.”