[ Transcriber's notes:

         1. Only one conventional “thought break” (white space
         between paragraphs) exists in the book (on p. 318, after
         “in the sand, as she seems to be doing.”). Elsewhere,
         the author uses lines of nine asterisks as thought breaks
         or to indicate omission.  He also uses these asterisks
         within dialog to indicate omission. These are all duplicated.

         2. Footnotes originally appeared at the bottom of each
         page; they are now placed at the end of each chapter.

         3. The transcriber's descriptions of the book's six
         music-related illustrations are placed in {curly braces}.

         4. Italic text is marked _like this_. ]




                         THE STORY OF DON MIFF,
                         AS TOLD BY HIS FRIEND
                          JOHN BOUCHE WHACKER.

                          A SYMPHONY OF LIFE.

                               EDITED BY
                           VIRGINIUS DABNEY.

           τέκνον, τί κλαίεις; τί δέ σε φρένας ἵκετο πένθος;
           ἐξαύδα, μὴ κεῦθε νόῳ, ἵνα εἴδομεν ἄμφω.

           Iliad, i. 362-63.

     Child, why dost thou weep? What grief hath come upon thy spirit?
   Speak—conceal it not—so that we both may know.


                             PHILADELPHIA:
                       J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
                                 1886.




                 Copyright, 1886, by Virginius Dabney.




                                PREFACE.

It is pretty well understood, I presume, that while books are written
for the entertainment of the public, a preface has fulfilled its mission
if it prove a solace to the author and an edification to the
proof-reader thereof. Yet (however it may be with an author) an editor
must, it seems, write one.

Most mysteriously, then, and I knew not whence or from whom, the
manuscript of this work found itself in my study, some time since,
accompanied by the request that I should stand sponsor for it.

I shall do nothing of the kind. True, the grammar of it will pass
muster, I think; and its morals are above reproach; but the way our
author has of sailing into everything and everybody quite takes my
breath away. Lawyers, military men, professors and students, parsons,
agnostics, statesmen, billiard-players, novelists, poetesses, saints and
sinners—he girds at them all. I should not have a friend left in the
world were it to go abroad that this Mr. J. B. Whacker’s opinions were
also mine. If but to enter this disclaimer, therefore, I must needs
write a preface.

This author of ours, then, is, as you shall find, an actor in the scenes
he describes, and is quite welcome to any sentiments he may see fit to
put into his own mouth. He entertains, I am free to admit, an unusual
number of opinions; more than one man’s share, perhaps; but not one of
them is either reader or editor called upon to adopt.

It seems fair, too, to warn the eccentric person who shall read this
preface, against putting too much faith in the account Mr. Whacker gives
of himself. The astounding pedigree to which he lays claim in Chapter I.
may be satire, for aught I know; but when he poses as a lawyer, a
bachelor, and a ton of a man, weighing (though he does not give the
exact figures) not much less than three hundred pounds, he is counting
too much on the simplicity of his editor. For the internal evidence of
the work itself makes it clear that he is a physician, ever so much
married, and nestling amid a very grove of olive branches. He assures
us, too, for example (he is never tired of assuring us of something),
that he is entirely ignorant of music; yet divides his work not into
books (as a Christian should), but into _movements_; indicating
(presumably) the spirit and predominant feeling of each by the opening
page of the orchestral score of one of the four numbers of a famous
symphony!

One more word and I am done.

Our author has not seen fit to make any reply to the incessant, and
still unceasing onslaughts, from pen and pencil alike, to which the
South has submitted, and still submits, twenty-one years after
Appomattox, with a silence that has been as grand as it is unparalleled.

His only revenge has been to paint his people and the lives they led.

But it seems to me best to say, once for all, that whenever the
necessities of the narrative compel him to show his sympathies on one
side or the other (as happens two or three times in the course of the
story), they will be found to be with those people among whom he was
born, by whose side he fought, and with whom he has suffered. And I feel
sure that no man who knows me, in the South, and equally sure that no
man who knows me, in the North, would deem me capable of printing this
book, had it been otherwise.

                                                              V. DABNEY,
                                            108 West Forty-ninth Street,
                                                               New York.
April, 1886.




                         THE STORY OF DON MIFF.




                               CHAPTER I.

                                   1.

Long, long years before these pages shall meet thine almond eye, my Ah
Yung Whack, the hand which penned them for thy delectation will have
crumbled into dust. Three hundred years and more, let us say; for thou
art (or shalt in due time be) my
great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson.

                                   2.

True, I am not yet married; but I intend to be. Nor is there any need of
hurry; seeing what a singularly distant and belated relative thou art.

                                   3.

If then, dear, intended Offspring, you will be so anachronistic as to
sit beside your proposed ancestor, and so civil as to lend him your ear,
he will give you one or two reasons for addressing you, rather than the
general public of his own day.

                                   4.

First, then, humanity.

This poor public of his (that is my) day has been, these many years, so
pelted with books, that I cannot bring myself to join the mob of
authors, and let fly another.

The very leaves in Vallambrosa, flying before the blasts of autumn,
cannot compare with them in numbers, as they go whizzing from
innumerable presses.

Why, I read, the other day, a statement (by a stater) that if you were
to set up, in rows, all the books that are annually published in
Christendom (beg pardon, my boy, evolutiondom), and then fell to sawing
out shelves for them in the pine forests of North Carolina, the North
Carolinians would, when they awoke, find themselves inhabitants of a
prairie, provided, of course, our stater goes on to state, the job were
completed in one night.

Or, to put it in another shape:

The earth, adds Mr. Statisticker, the earth, we will allow, for
illustration’s sake, to be twenty-five thousand miles around. Now, says
he, suppose all these books to be pulled to pieces [shame!] and their
leaves pinned together, end to end, they would stretch ever so (for I
cannot, at the moment, lay my hands on his little statistic) they would
stretch ever so far.

Shall I add to the already unbearable burdens of my generation? Humanity
forbid!

                                   5.

And look at this:

In any given country a certain number of undergarments will be worn out,
year by year, producing a certain crop of rags. These rags can be
converted into so much, and no more, paper. Hence, as any thinking man
would have reasoned (until the advent of a recent invention), the
advancing flood of literature was practically held in check. So many
exhausted shirts, so many books,—so many exhausted washerwomen, so many
(and no more) authors. There was a limit.

That day is gone. Wood-pulp and cheap editions have opened the
flood-gates of genius upon the world; and the days of our noble forests
are numbered; for one tree is sawn into shelves to hold another ground
into paper. And already, through the denudation of the land, the
Mississippi grows uncontrollable, taxing even the wisdom of Congress.
And many a lesser stream, in which once the salmon sported, or which
turned a mill, or meandered, at least, past orchard or corn land, a
steady source of fruitful moisture, is now a fierce torrent in spring,
in autumn a string of stagnant pools. What the builder began, the
builder (for that, I hear, is the Greek for him) and the novelist will
end.

Shall I too print a book? Patriotism forbid!

                                   6.

The trouble is, however, that I feel that I have something to say, and a
man that has something to say, and is not allowed to say it, is (like a
woman or a boiler) in danger. Nor has my native land, when I come to
think of it, the right to exact of me that I burst, to save a beggarly
sapling or so from purification.

                                   7.

Yes, I have something to say, and I’ll out with it. For I have hit upon
a plan whereby I can print my book with the merest infinitesimal damage
to the Mississippi and other patriotic streams. It is this. I shall have
but one copy printed. This, in a strong box, hermetically sealed, shall
be addressed to you. I shall hand it to my eldest son, and he to his;
and so it will travel down the stream of time till it reach you; which
strikes me as a neat, inexpensive, and effectual way of reaching that
goal of all authors, posterity. From father to son, and from grandson to
great-grandson.

Provided, of course, they shall all have the courage (as I intend to
have) to get married. If not—or what would become of the book, should
there be twins?—but I leave these details to take care of themselves.
One of them might not live, for example.

On second thought, though, it might be as well to have two copies struck
off; yes, and while we are about it, a dozen extra ones, for private
distribution among my friends.

                                   8.

And one friend, especially, but for whom this nonsense would not now be
bubbling up so serenely from my tranquil soul.

                                   9.

I have just had a conversation with my publisher, which greatly disturbs
me.

He tells me that all this talk about limiting the edition to a dozen
copies is midsummer madness,—where am I to come in? said he, using the
language of the period,—and that he intends to print as many copies as
he pleases. So everything is upset. And I shall have to recast my entire
work, which, you must know, is already, with the exception of this first
chapter, finished and ready for the printer, down to the last semicolon.
For, as it stands, my boy, everything I say is addressed to you only;
and my book may be compared to a telephone with a private wire three
hundred years long. But since my publisher is going to give the general
public the right to hook on and hear what I am saying, it is extremely
probable that my monologue will be very often interrupted. Whenever,
therefore, you find me suddenly ceasing to speak to you personally, and,
after a word with my contemporaries, dropping back to our private wire,
you may be sure that there has been a “Hello?” and a “Who’s that?” and a
“Well, good-by!” somewhere along a cross-line.

                                  10.

And this is the thing that I feel that I have to say:

I would tell you something of the land of your forefathers. Something of
Virginia. Not new Virginia,—not West Virginia,—but the Old Dominion
and her people, such as they were when Plancus was consul. And, first of
all, I will tell you why I have thought it worth while to lay the
following sketches before you.

                                  11.

The world, in my day, is full of unrest. Everywhere anxious care and the
eager struggle for wealth. Mr. Spencer’s Gospel of Recreation finds few
adherents, and the Genius of Repose seems to have winged its way to
other spheres.

And I fear matters will be worse in your day; and, just as one, on a
broiling July afternoon, looks with a real, though evanescent, pleasure
upon pictured polar bears gambolling amid icebergs (in the show-window
of a soda-water shop), so I cannot but think that it would be a genuine
boon to you could I but lead you for an hour from out the dust and heat
and turmoil of your life and bid you cease striving for a little while,
while I (I, too, forgetting for a moment that every crust must be fought
for), while I reproduce from out the cool caves of my memory certain
scenes that I have witnessed.

True, some of them I have not seen with my own eyes, but Charley has, or
else Alice, which is just as well.

                                  12.

Yes, my lad, I think the glimpses I am about to give you of the old
Virginia life will refresh your tired soul. Just as it refreshes mine to
draw the pictures for you. For from me, as well, the reality has
vanished. Our civil war (war of the rebellion, as the underbred among
the victors still call it) swept that into the abyss of the past; but
let me with such poor wand as I wield summon it before you.

In Pompeii, the tourist, looking from blank wall to dusty floor, wonders
what there is to see in that little hall; but a native goes down upon
his hands and knees; with a few brisk passes of his hand the sand is
brushed away, and a Numidian lion glares forth from the tessellated
pavement. So I, brushing aside the fast-settling dust, would make you
see that old life as I saw it.

And, strangely enough, I, too, have a lion to show you. For, while my
real object was by a series of sketches to bring into clear relief the
careless ease, the sweet tranquillity, the unapproachable serenity of
those old days, I did not see my way to making these sketches
interesting. (For not alone in a repast for the body is the serving
almost everything.) But the thought occurred to me to stitch them
together with the thread of a story into a kind of panorama. For this
story I had to find a hero. To invent one would have been, I am sure,
quite beyond my powers; and what I should have done I am at a loss to
conjecture had I not found one ready made to my hand: a very remarkable
young man, that is, who in a very remarkable way suddenly made his
appearance upon the boards of our little theatre, upon which were
serenely enacting the tranquil scenes in which I would steep your
care-worn soul. This is the lion that I have to show you. And when he
begins to shake his mane and lash his sides, you will find things
growing a trifle lurid in our little impromptu drama. Absolutely none of
which was upon the original programme. But dropping from the sky, as it
were, in the midst of our troupe, what should he do but straightway fall
in love with one of our pretty little actresses. And then the trouble
began and the tranquillity came to an end.

                                  13.

As for me, the manager of the show, you will see that I have done my
best to relieve the gloom. Between the acts,—between the scenes,—nay,
even while they are going on,—you shall find me continually popping out
before the foot-lights and interrupting the play, and raking the
audience with a rattling rigmarole. All for the sake of keeping their
spirits up. And on more than one occasion I go the length (or breadth,
as Alice suggests) of standing on my head and making faces at Charley in
the prompter’s box. How I should have gotten on had he not sat there, or
without Alice in the wings (to superintend the love-passages), I am sure
I cannot tell. And if, at the end of the play, I am called before the
curtain, I shall refuse to budge unless hand in hand with my two
co-workers; who, though content to be for the most part silent partners
in this undertaking, have really put in most of the capital.

                                  14.

It is understood, then, between us, Ah Yung, that while this story is
composed for your delectation, the injunctions of my publisher force me
to recognize the possibility of contemporary readers. The situation is
awkward. As though a third person were present at a confidential
interview. Ah, I have it.

While I am talking to you, the contemporary reader may nod; and when I
turn to her, you have leave to nap it. And small blame to the
contemporary reader. For what I shall say to you will seem to her (and
especially my didactic spurts) the merest rubbish.

Every school-boy knows that, she will say.

But I am not to be put down by this crushing and familiar phrase of our
day, which simply means that the fact in question is known to the
Able-Editor, who looked it up in the cyclopædia on his desk an hour
since. Every school-boy in ancient times knew, for instance, what kind
of a school Aristotle went to, and how he was taught, and what. Aspasia,
we may feel sure, knew no German, nor had even a smattering of French;
while all conceivable ologies were so much Greek to her. And yet she
must have known something. For statesmen and philosophers flocked to her
boudoir, and, when she spoke, sat at her feet, silent and wondering.
What had she been taught, and how? Every contemporary school-girl knew.
What audience could be found now in the wide world that could keep pace
with the eloquence of Demosthenes? How had the Athenian populace been
taught? For they were more wonderful than their orator. Ah, how much
would we not give to know! But no one thought it worth his while to set
it all down in a little book; and we know not, and must darkly guess.
Else would we rise as one man, and, rushing with torches to all the
colleges and universities of the land, incinerate within their costly
walls their armies of professors, along with the hordes of oarsmen and
acrobats that they annually empty on the world.

A porch sufficed for Zeno.

Ah, there are thousands of little things which they might have told us,
but did not. Ah, that Homer, for instance, had described Helen to us as
minutely as he did the shield of Achilles. As it is, we must even
conjecture that she had a Grecian nose. And as for her eyes and hair—

And the song the Sirens sang, what was the tune of it? How much would I
not have given to hear my dear old grandfather play it on his fiddle!

And how did Socrates make out without a pipe after dinner while Xantippe
was explaining to him how many kinds of a worthless husband he was?

Ah, we shall never know! Therefore, my boy, I am determined you shall
know something about the Virginians in my day. But excuse me for one
moment,—my telephone-bell is ringing.

                                  15.

Some stranger has hooked on.

“Hello!”

“Do you claim that Virginia has ever produced a Socrates?”

“Who’s there?”

“Boston.”

“I do not.”

“Ever see a Virginia Xantippe?”

“Well, good-by!”

This is the way I am likely to be interrupted throughout the entire
course of my story. True, I shall leave out the hello and good-by part
of the business as too realistic, but you will know when they have been
hooking on from my stopping to argue with my supposed readers. By the
way, if this chapter bears, to your mind, internal evidence of having
been composed in Bedlam, you will understand how it has fared with me
when I tell you that I had hardly spoken a dozen words when my telephone
began to ring like mad. A thousand cross-lines at least must have been
connected with our private wire before my first sentence was finished.
Heavens, what a jingling they are keeping up even now! I must speak with
them.

“Hello! hello! hello!—Good-by! good-by! good-by!”

And why all this clatter, do you suppose?

It is nearly all about these seven words in my opening sentence,—_Thine
almond eye, my Ah Yung Whack._

I shall analyze the questions and remarks of the first hundred as a
sample of the thousands.

Of this number, three announced themselves as authors of English
grammars, adding that they could not sustain me unless I changed _my ah_
to _ah my_; and of the three, one that I should have said Virginian
instead of Virginia Xantippe; quoting a rule from his own grammar. Which
I was glad he did, seeing that I had never read a line in any English
grammar in my born days; and I find that when you are writing a book no
kind of knowledge comes amiss.

I answered him (per telephone) by this question in political economy:
whether he thought that by a judicious tariff Massachusettsish
enterprise would ever be enabled to raise Indian rubber under glass at a
profit and successfully compete with the pauper labor of the sun; and,
springing nimbly from political to domestic economy, I trusted that his
next Thanksgiving Turkish gobbler would sit light on his stomach. And
this I meant, once for all, as a defiance to the whole tribe of
grammarians, be they living, dead, or yet unborn.

After the three grammarians come seven spelling reformers,
congratulating me on my courage in writing yung instead of young. [How
they found this out by tapping my telephone I will explain later, if I
have time.] And of these, one, who was also a short-hand writer, thought
Whack an improvement on Whacker.

All the remainder of the hundred—that is, ninety—were young ladies.

There is a certain insinuating witchery about the unmarried voice of
woman (among males all widowers have it) that is not to be mistaken,
even through a telephone. That is, when addressed to an unmarried ear.

Of these ninety, every solitary one asked, “Have _you_ almond eyes?”
(for young ladies can underscore, even over a wire), and forty-three of
them added, “Oh, how cute!” and forty-seven, “My, how cunning!”

And of these ninety, eighty-nine added that, by a strange coincidence,
they, too, were married; the remaining one saying that she was single.
She, I take it, was a young widow; especially as she went on to say that
she feared that I was a sad, bad, bold, fascinating wretch to speak in
my half-frivolous, half-businesslike way of the holy estate of
matrimony, which had been commended even of St. Paul. She added that she
had often been told that her own eyes sloped a little.

                                  16.

Now you, my boy, know perfectly well that you are called Whack. Nor will
it strike you that I have reformed the spelling of your Confucian name,
Yung. As to the Ah, you will smile at its being mistaken by a Western
barbarian for an interjection. But you do not know, and will be amazed
to hear, that you have almond eyes. For you have never seen any other
variety. This, therefore, strikes me as a fitting opportunity for
explaining to you and the contemporary reader why I began with those
seven mysterious words. You, at least, can hardly regret their use,
since it was the means of showing you how many candidates there were for
the honor of being your
great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.
The aspirants had never seen me, it is true. So that _I_ am not puffed
up.

Puffed up? Alas, yes, that is my trouble! Hence my long delay. Woman
after woman has admitted that my smile is sweet, my voice low, my ways
winning.

His soul is beautiful, they say; then why _will_ he waddle when he
walks?

And waddling is mirth-provoking to every daughter of Eve, and laughter
is fatal to love.

                                  17.

Not one word of the caballistic seven would I have written but for two
very singular dreams which I had. And this is the way, so far as I can
make out, that I chanced to dream the first one.

The line of Bishop Berkeley, to the effect that the star of empire is
constantly moving west, is naturally a favorite with patriots in this
country. It is in everybody’s mouth. I have heard it cited, you could
not imagine how often; so often, to put it plainly, that I would
undertake to reckon up on my fingers and toes the number of times I have
not heard it. Western journalists, especially, see their way to quoting
it so frequently that they keep it always in stock, electro-typed and
ready for use at a moment’s notice (when a commercial traveller
registers at the local hotel, for instance). Not a _Weekly_ is set up as
the organ of the pioneerest water-tank of a Western railway, but you
shall see this verse figure in the first leader. Now it was this line
which, though not the exciting cause of the first of my two dreams, gave
direction to it, at least.

A friend had sent me a San Francisco paper, and meeting the familiar
line therein, I began wondering to myself, as I lay upon my lounge,
where the star of empire could go now, seeing that there was no longer
any West left; and, reading on, half awake, after a late supper, and
seeing in every column allusions to the glorious climate of California
(in worn type), I asked myself, with a drowsy smile, whether it were not
to reach this same glorious climate, perhaps, that the star in question
had been bending her steps westward throughout recorded time.

If she is to go any further—I dozed—I—she—will have—to—wade—and I
fell asleep!

                                  18.

How long I slept I cannot say; but long enough to dream this:

Dream I.—[Welsh rarebit.]

America, at last (so it seemed to me in my vision), is full; and
thousands upon thousands of our redundant population are pouring into
Asia,—you among the rest; for your day had come,—and you are all as
busy as bees, cutting the throats of the heathen, in order to bring them
to a true knowledge of the living God, and secure their lands,—as our
ancestors have served the treacherous and implacable Red Men.

(When I speak of your cutting their throats, I speak as a man of my
time; for it would be the veriest presumption in a mortal of this
benighted day to restrict heroes in the blaze of the twenty-third
century to such vulgar and ineffectual methods of destroying their
fellow-men. Indeed, I must do myself the justice to say that, when I
ventured to dream of you as storming the ranges of Thian-Shan and the
Kuen-Lun, into which have fled the deluded remnants of the followers of
Confucius (of whom, at the date of this dream, you were not one), I did
not take the liberty of picturing you to myself, even in a vision of the
night-time, as laboriously toiling up those rugged slopes, convincing,
as you go, the unregenerate, by the unanswerable suasion of
breech-loading cannon and repeating rifles,—lame contrivances of our
less-favored age; but)

Before my closed, yet prophetic eye, you float a beautiful, aerial host
of missionary heroes and real-estate agents, flecking the sky with
innumerable winged craft. There! I see the line halt! A rock-bound
fastness lies just ahead! A captain’s yacht—a kind of mechanical
American eagle, an ’twere—darts forward through the limpid air, and
poises itself just over the enemy, a mile above the earth. A field
telephone drops into the fortress, and a parley is held. Unsatisfactory!
for an officer in the uniform of the _Flying Chemists_, leaning lightly
over the starboard gunwale, lets fall into the stronghold, with
admirable precision, a homœopathic globule of the triple-refined
quintessence of the double extract of dynamite. It is finished! Peace on
earth, good will toward men! What was, a moment since, a heaven-piercing
peak, is now a hole in the ground,—what were, just now, the adherents
of an effete theology, in the twinkling of an eye are converted, if not
into Christians, at least into almond-eyed angels,—and the victors can
read their title clear to mansions near the skies, and to the
rice-fields of the Yang-tsi-Kiang, or the tea-orchards of the Hoang-Ho.

I am persuaded that every fair-minded man will allow this to have been a
dream that not even Pharaoh need have blushed to own. I feel that it
does me credit. But would it have been prudent in me (as a professional
dreamer) to see that one vision, and then, as we lawyers say, rest my
case? Perhaps I had gone all astray. Who is this Bishop Berkeley, after
all? _Have_ men, in their migrations, always followed the sun? Who
destroyed the Mound-Builders? and whence came they? and their
destroyers? from the East? or from the West?

To certain insects, which live but a single day, the winds may very well
seem to blow always in one direction; and there may be in the affairs of
men a tide which ebbs and flows in æons rather than in hours. And what
is the meaning of this cloud-speck rising along the Pacific coast? Is
the nineteenth century, so remarkable in many respects (for instance,
brag), to usher in an era as yet unsuspected? Is the tide trembling at
its utmost flood,—and is the reflux upon us? Are the “lower orders” the
real prophets, as they have ever been before? And is their animosity
against the Chinese but a blind feeling of the truth that in these
new-comers the European races have met their masters? Can it be that
under the contempt expressed for them as inferiors there lurks a secret,
unrealized sense of their real superiority?

For wherein do we surpass the Indian whom we are so rapidly supplanting?
In two things: endurance under toil and strength to hoard,—industry and
self-denial. By force of these traits we have driven the Red Men from
their homes. And now, on the Pacific, we meet a race as superior to us
in these qualities as we are to the Indian or the negro.

Obviously, therefore, if I would get at the bottom of the business, it
behooved me to see another vision. It was not long in coming. The very
next day a party of us jurists had luncheon together, and I ate, of all
things in the world—

Well, returning to my office, I threw myself upon my lounge, and took up
a law-book, stood it upon the bosom of my shirt, and opened it at the
_Rule in Shelley’s Case_. If a man have nothing on his conscience, this
justly celebrated rule will put him to sleep in ten minutes.

                                  19.

Before I lay down, therefore, I locked my door; for the spectacle of a
sleeping lawyer must ever be a painful surprise to a client.

Dream II.—[Canned lobster.]

Presently I heard a gentle rap. “Come in,” said I. And in there stalked
a most surprising figure.

Now, if I had had my wits about me, I should have known it was a dream;
for how could he have gotten in with the door locked? So I suppose I
must have dreamed that it was not a dream. At any rate, there he was. A
Chinaman,—but tall, athletic, and gorgeously arrayed in brocaded silks.
A low bow, full of grace and dignity. I rose hastily, without either the
one or the other.

“Ah Ying Kee,” said he, with another bow, at the same time lightly
touching his left breast with the tips of the fingers of his right hand.

“Be seated, Mr. Kee,” said I, offering him a chair.

“Thanks; I have the honor of addressing Mr. Yang Kee?”

The afternoon was furiously hot. My man had the chest and neck of
Hercules. So I contented myself with the haughty reply that my name was
Whacker.

“No doubt,—no doubt,” replied he, with a courteous wave of the hand.
“In a general way you are quite right; but for the special purpose of my
visit permit me to insist that you are Mr. Yang Kee.”

It flashed across my mind that I was dealing with a large lunatic, and
my anger cooled.

“Very well,” said I, “if you will have it so. I was never called a
Yankee before, that’s all.”

“No doubt; nor have you the least idea that you are one. Still, I
venture to remark—with your kind permission—that such is practically
the fact. To your eye and ear there are differences between your people
and those of Connecticut, just as I have no difficulty in distinguishing
an inhabitant of the district of Hing Chang from a dweller on the banks
of the Fi Fum. To you we are all Chinese. To us, Americans are all
Yankees. Orientals, occidentals. Let Ying Kee stand for the one, Yang
Kee for the other.”

“You don’t say Melican man?”

“No; I am not a washerwoman,” replied he, with a smile. “I am a member
of the imperial diplomatic corps, and, if you will permit me to say so,
a gentleman.”

I gave him to understand that he was more than welcome. (He was six feet
two, if he was an inch.)

“Thanks. But my object in calling—”

My retainer would be a stiff one, never fear—

“I call, not as a diplomat, but as a philosopher.”

I sighed the sigh of a jurisconsult.

“I come to discuss with you a dream which I understand you have done us
Chinese the honor to dream about us.”

I had not mentioned my dream to a soul. How had he heard of it? I never
once dreamt that I was dreaming again.

“You, too, I understand, are a philosopher,—the greatest philosopher,
if common fame may be relied on, throughout the length and breadth—”

I gave my hand a deprecatory wave. “Don’t mention it,” said I.

“Throughout the length and breadth of Henrico County,—_Hanraker_, as
the natives call it.”

“You are strong on geography.”

“It is made my business by my government to know America. But let’s to
our discussion. But is not your office rather close quarters? Might I
beg you to walk with me?”

“Where shall we go?” I asked, when we reached the sidewalk.

“What do you say to Rocketts?”

“Rocketts!” I exclaimed; “you _are_ strong on geography!”

“Rocketts?” said he, with a bland smile; “who does not know that it is
the port of Richmond, just as the Piraeus was that of Athens?”

I cannot imagine why I put all these fine phrases in his mouth, unless
it was because I had read in the papers, not long before, that the
Parisians pronounced the manners of the Chinese embassy perfect.

And here I may remark, for the benefit of science, that though the
thermometer was at ninety in the shade, I was not conscious of the heat
during our long walk. Yet—and it shows that it costs a fat man
something even to dream of toil—yet, when I awoke, my brow looked as
though I had been earning my bread, whereas a lawyer, as we know,
confines himself to earning some other fellow’s.

“And now, Mr. Yang Kee,” said he, as we took our seats in a corner of
the docks of the Old Dominion Line, “and now for this very remarkable
dream of yours; and permit me to begin by observing that, the central
conception of your dream being vicious, the whole business falls to
pieces.”

I threw my eyebrows into the form of a couple of interrogation-points.

“You have been at the pains of dreaming that your people are to conquer
mine through the instrumentality of armed colonization. Those days, when
entire nations—men, women, and children—migrated, sword in hand, are
over. Instead of migration we have emigration,—the movement of
individuals instead of the movement of tribes; in place of the
Helvetii—”

“Mr. Kee, your learning amazes me!”

“It’s all in Confucius,” said he, modestly. “Instead of the Helvetii
devastating Gaul, the Swiss waiter lies in ambush against the small
change of Christendom. It is no longer warrior against warrior, but man
against man. It is not a question of—”

Mr. Kee hesitated, and a subtle smile played over his features.

“Go on,” said I.

“These are the days, I was going to say, of the survival of the fittest,
rather than the fightest.”

“Go it, Ying!” cried I; at the same time fetching him a rouser between
the shoulders with my rather heavy hand. In my enthusiasm I had
forgotten his high rank. I began to stammer out an apology.

“It is nothing,” said he. “It makes me know that you are a good fellow,”
added he, at the same time shaking hands with himself, after the manner
of his people, with the utmost cordiality.

I do not suppose that a native ever puns without a certain sense of
shame; but I confess to enjoying it in a foreigner. He is always as
proud as a boy whistling his first tune.

“A Caucasian army is vastly superior to a Mongolian; a Caucasian
individual vastly inferior.”

I smiled.

“Oh,” said he, “I know what your politicians say; and I find no fault
with them, for they make their living by saying—judicious things. The
Chinaman works for nothing and lives upon rice, so that a decent
American working-man cannot compete with him. Moreover, he persists in
returning to China. He won’t stay, therefore he must go. Moreover, a
Celestial is a heathen, while you, dear voters, are all pious and good!”

As he said this, accompanying the remark with a wink of Oriental
subtlety, we both, with a common impulse, burst into a laugh so loud
that a large rat, which we had observed as he cautiously stole up
towards a broken egg which lay upon the dock, precipitately scampered
off and down into his hole.

“Oh, I don’t blame your statesmen. They, just as others, have a trade by
which wives and children must be fed and clothed. Moreover,”—and
leaning forward and confidentially tapping my round and shapely knee
with his yellow hand, he whispered,—“moreover, your statesmen are
right!” and, straightening up, he paused, enjoying my surprise. “The
sentimentality of Pocahontas,” he resumed, with a wave of his hand in
the direction of Jamestown, “was the ruin of her people. Opecancanough
was a prophet and a statesman. Had the Indians slain the Europeans as
fast as they landed—”

Just then the rat thrust his sharp muzzle out of his hiding-place and
warily swept the dock with his jet-bead eye. Mr. Kee turned upon him his
almond oval and smiled.

“I thank thee, good rat,” he cried; “for thou art both an illustration
and a prophecy. Hundreds of years ago, the blue rat held sway on this
continent, while you squeaked unknown in the mountains of Persia.”

“’Tis a Norway rat,” I put in.

“No,” said he, quietly, “he is of Persian origin, and migrated to China
ages ago, during the reign, to be exact, of Ying Lung Fo. You will find
it laid down in Confucius, in his great work, ‘Bang Lie
Yu,’—_concerning all things_, as you would say in English.”

I wonder whether he likes them best broiled or fricasseed? thought I.

“The real Norway rat is little larger than a field-mouse. Your term
Norway rat is simply a popular corruption of gnaw-away rat, given him as
the most strikingly rodential of rodents.”

“To be found, I suppose,” said I, “in Confucius’s lesser work, ‘Fool Hoo
Yu,’ or, _concerning a few other things_, as we say in English.”

“You have me there!” replied he, with the most winkish of winks. “But we
digress. Where is the blue rat now? Perhaps a few specimens might be
found, falling back, with the Red Men, upon the Rocky Mountains. And
where will the Caucasian race be three centuries [his very figures]
hence? Your statesmen are right, but, like Opecancanough, right too
late. Your race is doomed; not, indeed, to extinction, for already the
despised Mongol begins to find wives among you, but you will be crossed
out of existence by a superior and prepotent race. Look at me,” said he,
giving himself a slap upon his broad chest; “do I look like an inferior
specimen of—there he comes again!”

Looking, I saw the rat, stealthily creeping toward the egg, his larboard
eye covering us, his starboard fixed upon a cat that lay dozing in the
shadow of a post.

“There he is, that intruder from Persia, and he will remain with you.
Housewives may poison, here and there, a score of them,—the survivors
take warning; pussy may lie in wait,—he learns to avoid—even to bully
her. Terriers may dig down into their hiding-places,—they will bore
others. An incautious youngster gets his leg in a trap,—his squeal is a
liberal education to the entire colony. He has an infinite capacity for
adjusting himself to his environment. He is here for good; and so is the
Chinaman. Congress may legislate against him; it will be a Papal bull
against a comet. Mobs may assail him, trade-unions damn him; but the
Chinaman will not go. And myriads more, the survivors of ages of a
fearful struggle for existence at home, will pour in. He will not go. He
will come; and between Ying Kee and Yang Kee the fittest will survive.”

“Westward,” began I, “westward the star of empire—”

“Scat!” cried he, leaping from his seat.

Our rat, having, at last, after many advances and retreats, secured the
egg, was making off with it to his hole, when the cat, awakening, sprang
after him. Down he plunged into his hole, bearing off the egg, but
leaving an inch of his tail under pussy’s paws.

“Scat!” cried I, rushing to the rat’s assistance,—and bump! I fell upon
the floor.

Ah Ying had vanished. My door was still locked. It had all been a dream.

                                  20.

No, my boy, I am not a candidate for the Presidency. This is no hook
baited with the Chinese question. My object is merely to explain how you
happen to have almond eyes. And if you don’t, you will understand that
it is no fault of mine. The Welsh rarebit dream overcame the canned
lobster vision,—that’s all. And having made this clear to you, as I
hope, the time has come for me to say a few words about myself.

                                  21.

When this book shall be, on your twenty-first birthday, laid beside your
plate, at breakfast, by your thoughtful yellow father, I have no doubt
that you will ask him, before even you begin to play your chopsticks,
who wrote it. Now, what will it avail you for him to say that it was
written by John Bouche Whacker, of the Richmond bar? Who _was_ John
Bouche Whacker? And that question means (at least since Mr. Charles
Darwin wrote) who was the father and who the mother of J. B. W.; and the
father and mother of this pair, and so on, and so on.

Now, I suppose that if I were to push the inquiry into prehistoric
times, it would turn out that I was related to the entire Indo-Germanic
race; but I shall content myself with indicating to you the three chief
strains of blood which mingle in my veins, leaving to you, as you read
chapter after chapter, this entertaining ethnological puzzle: Who spoke
there? The Dane? or was it the Saxon? As to my Huguenot blood, there
will be no hiding that. It will always be on fire, at the merest
suggestion of a dogma of theology.

                                  22.

                            I.—THE WHACKERS.

Every school-boy knows that, no sooner had their brave Queen Boadicea
perished, than the Britons lost all stomach for fighting, and gave
themselves up wholly to roast beef and plum pudding. Nor is it a secret,
that when the Roman legions, to whom they had learned to look for
protection, were withdrawn from the island, the Picts and Scots, grown
weary of oatmeal, began to trouble the more sumptuous feasts of their
neighbors. Remonstrances proving fruitless, they sent for the Jutes and
the Saxons and the Angles (so called, respectively, from a valuable
plant, a fine variety of wool, and a singular devotion to fishing).
These sturdy braves crossed the water with their renowned battle-axes,
as every school-boy knows. But what even our very learned young friend
does not, perhaps, suspect, is that, along with Hengist and Horsa, there
sailed, on this historical occasion, two twin brothers, named
respectively Ethelbert and Alfred Whacker,—or Hvaecere, as they
themselves would have spelled it, had they thought spelling, of any
sort, worth their heroic while; which, haply, they did not. Now, from
these twins I am lineally descended, as you shall see duly set forth in
the _Whacker Records_, herewith transmitted. You will find in these
family annals, too, some details not sufficiently elaborated, perhaps,
in the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_, and other authorities for this period.
There is the barest allusion, for instance, to the brave death of
Ethelbert Hvaecere, the eldest of the twins, which occurred as follows:

                                  23.

When the English (for such recent historians have shown that they were,
and not Germans, as they themselves, absurdly enough, supposed
themselves to be)—when the English reached the Wall of Severus, they
found that earth-work lined, for miles, with Picts and Scots. So, at
least, they were named in Pinnock’s Goldsmith’s England, which I read at
school. So, too, you will find they are called in the _Whacker Records_.
Recent historical research, however, has demonstrated that the so-called
Picts were, in reality, painted Scotchmen, while the alleged Scots were
neither more nor less than Irishmen. And I must confess that when I
re-read the _Whacker Records_ by these modern lights, I was ashamed that
I had not made this discovery myself.

It would appear that the west of Scotland was originally settled by the
Irish; and that those who remained at home took so lively an interest in
their emigrated brethren, that whenever they got news of a wake or other
shindy that was brewing beyond the Channel, they would shoot across in
their canoes, or else—so surprisingly low were the tides in those
simple days—wade across and join in the fray; as they did on the
present occasion.

                                  24.

You and I have no special interest in Hengist’s attack on the tattooed
Scotchmen on the enemy’s left; for the two Hvaeceres fought under Horsa,
on our left.

And things looked so strange to Horsa, as he approached the enemy, that
this wily captain called a halt and sent word to Hengist to delay the
attack till he could look into matters a little. And this is what he
observed, standing a little in front of his line, with the two Hvaeceres
(who constituted his staff) by his side.

In the first place, the weapons which these so-called Scots were waving
above their heads were not claymores, as he had been led to expect.
Instead, they brandished stout, blackish, knotted clubs, and to the
accompaniment, not of the shrill bagpipe or the rhythmic slogan, but
with fierce and discordant cries. One thing he remarked with grim
satisfaction. Standing in dense masses, and whirling their clubs with
more fervor than care, it constantly happened that a neighboring head
got a tap; and no sooner had this occurred (giving forth a singularly
solid sound) than it instantly set up a local internecine fracas of such
severity that, at times, considerable spaces of the wall were denuded of
defenders; who, tumbling into the transmural ditch, fought fiercely
there. In a few minutes, however, they would reappear, smiling, as
though they had been seeing fun of some sort, over there beyond the
wall. Once, indeed, one of the combatants,—a little bow-legged
fellow,—bringing down his shillaleh (which is Celtic for hickory) with
a sounding thwack upon the bare head of a burly opponent, knocked him
down the slope of the wall on our side, and, standing upon the edge of
the wall, with his thumb to his nose, jeered at him.

“Who hit Maginnis?” cried he in Gaelic; and even the Maginnises roared
with laughter. Nay, grim Horsa, too, was observed to smile; for he knew
their language well, having learned it during his many incursions into
Gaul.

But, just at this moment, Hengist riding up, and seeing our men seated
on the ground, and laughing, as though at a show, flew into a rage; for,
like his maternal uncle, Ariovistus, he was of an ungovernable temper;
and asked his brother Horsa what in the Walhalla he meant. “Do you call
this business?” added he,—for he was an Anglo-Saxon.

“I am giving them time to knock out each other’s brains,” replied Horsa,
in his slow-spoken way.

“Then will you wait till doomsday,” replied the humorous monarch; and
galloping back to his lines, well pleased with his sally, he ordered an
immediate advance upon the pictured Macgregors in his front.

We charged too. (I have read the account so often that I cannot help
thinking I was there.) And it was then that Horsa discovered the meaning
of a reddish line along the top of the wall in his front. Observing no
signs of missile weapons among the enemy, he had flattered himself that
he would easily have the mastery over them, with his terrible
battle-axes against their shillalehs. But when we got within thirty feet
of them (not before) they stooped as one man and rose again. An instant
more and we thought that Thor was raining his thunder-bolts upon our
shields. Our men went down by hundreds. A reddish mist filled the air.

’Twas brick-dust!

With such prodigious force did they hurl their national weapon (shamrock
is the pretty name of it in the Gael) against our shields, that, where
it did not go through, it was reduced to powder.

We stood a long while, stunned, blinded, bewildered; suffering heavily,
doing nothing in reply. At last there was a slight lull in the storm of
missiles; for as they had each brought over but a peck of ammunition, in
their corduroys, the more impetuous among them were beginning to run
short; and it was then that our sturdy ancestor showed the stuff he was
made of. Assuming command (for Horsa, with Alfred Hvaecere by his side,
lay insensible upon the grass), “Men,” cried he, “why do we stand here?
Remember Quintilius Varus and his legions! To your axes! to your axes!”
And the whole line staggered forward, with Ethelbert well in front and
bearing down upon Maginnis. (The same,—though his mother would scarcely
have known him, with that blue-black bulge in his forehead.) And it is
mainly from an observation that Maginnis made at this juncture that I am
inclined to give in my adhesion to the hypothesis of the later
historians, who claim that these men were not Scots.

“Erin go bragh!” cried the undaunted chieftain, reaching down into his
trousers for a reserve brick,—an heirloom,—black, glistening, hard as
flint, mother of wakes—

“Thor smash thee!” cried the Hvaecere; and tossing away his shield, he
lifted aloft, in both hands, his mighty axe. It trembled in the air,
ready to descend.

Too late,—for the brick of Maginnis landed square between the hero’s
eyes,—and you and I had to be descended from the younger brother.

                                  25.

The Whackers, therefore, are not ancestors that one needs blush to
own.[1] But I have not meant to boast. Else had I been unworthy of them.
They were Anglo-Saxon; and when I have said that, I have said that they
had a certain sturdy love of truth, for which this race is conspicuous.
And so this book may be absurd, or even wicked, nay, worst of all, dull;
but one thing you may rely upon. Every word in it will be true.

-----

[1] I sometimes wonder how some people can plume themselves on their
descent, though able to trace it back only to the Norman Conquest.

                                                               J. B. W.

                                  26.

                         II.—THE DANICHESTERS.

It did not seem so while I was writing it, but now that my book is
finished, it strikes me as one of the oddest works I have ever read. You
can never tell what is coming next. Even to me it was a series of
surprises. Read the first ten lines of any chapter. Now read the last
ten. Heavens, how did he get there! I seem never to know whither, or how
far I am going. It has been the same with me all my life. Often, as a
boy, I have set out for a neighbor’s on a mule, and not gone all the
way.

Another singular trait about this book is what I must be allowed to call
its unconscious humor. A strange thing to say about one’s own book; but
somehow, when I am reading it, I can’t shake off the impression that
some other fellow wrote it, or that I wrote it in my sleep,—so many
things do I find in it which I could almost swear I never thought of in
my life. And there are a dozen passages in it where I slapped my thigh,
crying out, Good! Good! And more than once I caught myself saying, By
Jove, I should like to know the old boy who wrote this!

Yet, never in my life was I more serious than when I sat down to write
this work; for it was the solemn, theological, Huguenot molecules of my
brain that set me to writing; and the book was to be too grave to bring
a ripple to the beak of a Laughing Jackass,—that jovial kingfisher
whose professional hilarity cheers the lone Australian shepherd.

Now, since man—as every college-boy knows—and it is well to know
something—since man is but the sum of his ancestors modified by his
environment, whence have I derived this trait of mine, this unconscious
humor,—the gift, that is, of making people laugh without intending it?
Many persons have it, but where did _I_ get it?

Not from the business-like Whackers, surely. Still less from the
Pope-hating Bouches. I must derive it from my Danichester blood. From
this source, too, I must get another characteristic,—that of being sad
when others are gay. In the midst of piping and fiddling I sometimes ask
my heart what is the use of it all. And ofttimes, while I have stood
smiling as I looked upon a group of merry children at play, I could feel
the tears trickling back upon my heart.

Family traits are generally modified (Darwin, _passim_) from generation
to generation. Thus, the grandson of a painter will be a musician,
perhaps; and many literary people are sons of clergymen. There is
similarity rather than identity. And so this vein of sadness, which lies
so deep in me that few or none of my friends have ever suspected its
existence, crops out in one of my progenitors. I allude to Olaf
Danichester, Gent., whose daughter Gunhilda was married to John Whacker,
merchant, London, in the seventeenth year of the reign of glorious Queen
Bess.

Now, from all accounts, this ancestor of ours had a most extraordinary
way of saying things that no one else would ever have thought of; added
to which was the singularity that, after he had run through the fortune
brought to him by his second wife, he was never known to smile. And it
is no secret to the Whacker connection (though not generally known in
literary circles) that the immortal Shakespeare, who often sat with him
over a cold cut and a tankard of ale in the parlor of his prosperous
son-in-law (J. W.), has embalmed him for posterity in the melancholy
Jaques.

Now, the difference between Olaf Danichester and myself is simply that
he gave utterance to his sad thoughts, while I keep mine to myself. I am
a mere modification of him, just as he was of his valiant progenitor,
Vagn Akason, the Viking. This Vagn, though an eminent waterman in his
day, did not come over to America in the Mayflower,—chiefly because he
was killed centuries before she sailed, but in part, also, because he
felt no wish to make others worship God after his fashion; which was a
very poor fashion, I fear, from the account given of him in our Records.
At any rate, he was a marvellously handsome fellow, this Viking bold;
and when he went forth to battle, a storm of yellow hair, as Motherwell
says, floated over his broad shoulders,—so that he looked for all the
world like Lohengrin. But I suspect he was not the kind of man we should
select, at the present day, as superintendent of a Sunday-school. For
one thing, he was a most omnipotous drinker; nor should I ever have
admitted that I had a drop of his blood in my veins had it not been
necessary for me, as a Darwinian, to account for my unconscious humor.
And if these words savor of conceit, let us call it my trick of saying
and doing the most unexpected things. Hear the account of the death of
this brave young sea-rover, and see whether I do not come honestly by
this trait:

He, with seventeen of his companions, had been captured, and had been
made, according to the custom of those rude days, to straddle a large
log, one behind the other, with their hands tied behind their backs. Up
came, then, the victor, Jarl Hakon (after a leisurely breakfast of pork
chops), to strike off their heads. This, to us, seems unkind; but having
one’s head chopped off was such a matter of course in those days that no
one ever thought for an instant of minding it in the least. Give and
take was the way they looked at it.

But brave as these men were in the presence of the headsman, they
shuddered at the very thought of a barber. They gloried in their long
hair. To lose their heads was an incident of war; to lose their locks a
disgrace which followed them even into the next world. According to a
superstition of theirs, a Sea-Cavalier who lost his curls just before
parting with his head was doomed to be a Roundhead ghost and a
laughing-stock throughout eternity.

Up strode the fierce headsman, Tharkell Leire, and bade the captive
Viking lean forward and lay his golden hair upon the log. He obeyed, but
held his calm, sky-blue eye upon the glittering axe, and, quick as a
flash, as it descended, covered his fair curls with his fairer neck. And
when his seventeen comrades, who sat there waiting their turn, saw how
their wily captain had outwitted their enemy, and how he raged thereat,
they roared with Sea-King laughter.

                                  27.

                           III.—THE BOUCHES.

Every school-boy knows what the Edict of Nantes was; but philosophers
differ as to what was the effect of its revocation upon the fortunes of
France. For us it is enough to know that Louis XIV., by recalling it,
drove to Virginia our ancestor John Bouche, whose daughter, Elizabeth,
completely captivated my great etc. grandfather, Tom Whacker, by her
pretty French accent and trim French figure. She was good and wise, too;
but the rascal never found that out till after he married her. It must
be owing to the Danichester strain, I suppose, that the Whackers, so
sensible in many ways, have always sought grace and beauty in their
wives, rather than piety and learning; and I suppose I shall be no wiser
than my fathers when my time comes.

This Huguenot cross gave the old Whacker stock a twist towards theology.
Two of the sons of Thomas and Elizabeth took orders, much to the
surprise of their father, who used to say that _Reverend Whacker_ had a
queer sound to his ear. So prepotent, in fact, has the Huguenot strain
become, that a Whacker is no longer a Whacker. In the old days our eyes
were as blue as the sky; now they are as black as sloes. Once we were
reserved and silent; now—but enough. As for myself, it has often seemed
to me that I was all Bouche,—Bouche _et præterea nihil_,—as the
ancient Romans put it in their compact way.

Needless to say, therefore, that this book was to instruct and edify
you. You may see that from the very first sentence of it all that I
wrote:

“And, now in conclusion, my dear boy, if you rise from the perusal of
this work a wiser and better man, the direct author of the book and the
indirect author of your being will feel amply repaid for all his toil.”

Such were my intentions. And now read the book, as it stands. Heavens
and earth, was there ever such another! Alas, those Danichester
molecules, what have they not made me say! Page after page, and chapter
after chapter, in which I defy even a mouse to pick up a crumb of
edification. Chapter after chapter of feasting, fiddling, dancing,
courting,—roast turkeys, broiled oysters, hams seven years old. Bowls
full of egg-nogg, pipes full of tobacco, students full of
apple-toddy,—everything to make a man feel good, nothing to make him be
good. For the heathen Viking in me speaks!

Yet he does not hold entire sway. But as we sit—you and I and the
friends you shall presently make—sit joyously picnicking in a fair
wood—more than once the trees above us, as you shall find, will seem to
moan, as they bend before the gentle breeze. ’Tis the spirit of the
melancholy Jaques, perched like a raven, there. To him a sob lies
lurking in every laugh; and his weary eyes can never look upon a
dimple—a dimple, smile-wrought in damask cheek—but they see therein
the sheen of coming tears.

                                  28.

Here I am, then, Whacker-Danichester-Bouche. [Anglicé, Bush.] And, since
man is but the epitome of his ancestry, what kind of an author should
result? Chemists tells us that it is not so much the molecules as their
arrangement. Let us try this: Danichester-Bush-Whacker,—so what else
could I be but a Humoristico-sentimental Bushwhacker?

And such I am, ladies and gentlemen, at your service!

                                  29.

And a Bushwhacker, beloved scion, you will rightly divine to be one who
whacks from behind a bush. But that this is so is (and _that_ you would
never guess) one of those whimsical accidents of which philology points
out so many examples. Bushwhackers no more got their name in the way the
name suggests than your Shank-high fowls got theirs from length of limb.

How they did get it I must now explain. Not that I may vaingloriously
show off my rather quaint and curious philologic lore. I have a better
motive. The word has its origin in an incident in our family history; an
incident, too, of such interest that it gave rise to a poem, famous in
its day, beginning, “All quiet along the Potomac to-night,”—the author
of which will never be known. For three hundred and eleven people (two
hundred and ninety-nine women and twelve men) went before justices of
the peace, when it began to make a noise in the world, and made oath
that they wrote it. Which shows, among other things, that there is no
lack of justices of the peace in this country. But let’s to the
incident.

                                  30.

You must know, then, that the Bouche connection is as numerous as it is
respectable. Hardly a county in Virginia where you shall not find a
colony of them. And as a rule they are genteel folk, mingling with the
best. But (for I shall not conceal it from you) every now and then one
stumbles upon a shoot of the original stem that is fallen into the sere
and yellow leaf. Still, the motto with us is, that a Bouche is a Bouche,
even though he be run down at the heel. But our clannishness has its
limits. We draw the line at the spelling of the name,—draw it sharply
between Bouche and Bush. Still, I happen to have heard my grandfather
say that, though old Jim Bush did not spell the name after the
aristocratic Huguenot fashion, his father before him did; and that,
consequently, he was one of us.

After all, he was by no means a bad fellow. It covers his case better to
say that he was not profitable unto himself. He was, in fact, a kind of
Rip Van Winkle, whose hands, though he was desperately poor and owned a
farm of a few acres, were more familiar with the rifle than the handles
of a plough. For miles around his tumble-down old house he and his gun
were a terror to game of all kinds; and it was believed that, of
squirrels especially, he had killed more, in his day, than any man
within miles of Alexandria. Nor were there lacking those who maintained
that upon a dozen of these edible rodents, as a substratum, he could
build up a Brunswick stew such as—but I dined with him once, and feel
no need of outside testimony. (I suppose it was the French streak in
him. He spelt himself Bush, but blood will tell.)

“The main secret, Jack” (everybody calls me Jack, no matter how poor and
humble they may be; besides, he _was_ a cousin),—“the main secret is
that I put in the brains. When I was a green hand with the rifle I used
to knock their heads off; and monstrous proud I was, I remember, of
never touching their bodies. Now I save their brains by just wiping off
their smellers.”

Yes, my son, he was an out-at-the-elbows Bouche, and his language was
low. But let us not sneer at him. He could do two things well. And how
many of us can do one! For my own part, when I look at myself and then
at my brother-men, I cannot find it in my heart to despise the lowliest
of them all. The scornful alone do I scorn. And when I see a little
two-legged puff-ball strutting along, with its nose in the air, I long
for old Jim Bush and his rifle, that he might serve it as he did the
squirrels.

                                  31.

Old Jim’s ramshackle house stood in the zone which lay between the
Northern and Southern armies during the winter following the first
battle of Manassas, or Bull Bun. He was not young enough to shoulder his
musket, having been born in the year 1800. Besides, rheumatism had laid
its heavy hand upon his left knee. As scouting parties of the enemy
frequently came uncomfortably near old Jim’s little farm, he, dreading
capture, spent most of his time in the dense woods which surrounded his
house, creeping back, at nightfall, beneath its friendly roof. True, the
roof leaked here and there, but it was all he had, and he loved it.

One day the enemy pushed forward their picket-line as far as his house,
and established a station there. It was late in the afternoon when they
came, and old Jim, who had already returned for the night, had barely
time, on hearing the clatter of hoofs at his very door, to rush out by
the back way and tumble into the dense jungle of a ravine which skirted
his little garden. Very naturally, to a Bedouin like old Bush, the idea
of being immured in a noisome dungeon, as had happened to some of his
less wily neighbors, was full of horrors; and crawling into the densest
part of the thicket, he crouched there pale and hardly breathing, lest
the men whose voices he heard so clearly should hear him.

Old Joe—for, while Jim differed from Diogenes in many other ways, he
was like him in this, that he owned a solitary slave—old Joe they had
caught. No doubt the sizzling (the dictionary-man will please put the
word in his next edition)—the sizzling of the bacon in his frying-pan
dulled his hearing; and so his knees smote together, when, raising his
eyes to the darkened door, he saw a Federal soldier standing upon the
threshold.

“Sarvant, mahster!” stammered he through his chattering teeth.

In order to explain his terror to readers of the present day, I must beg
them to recall the fact that Lincoln had issued a proclamation that the
North had no intention or wish to overthrow slavery in the South. “We
come to save the Union,—dash the niggers!” was the angry and universal
reply of the Federal soldiers when our women jeered them on their
supposed mission. Hence the phrase “wicked and _causeless_ rebellion,”
without which no loyal editor could get on with the least comfort in
those early days of the war.

Just as a poetess, nowadays, rends her ringlets till she finds a way of
working “gloaming” into her little sonnet.

The abolitionists,—to praise them is the toughest task my conscience
ever put upon me,—though they brought on the war, were not war-men.
They honestly abhorred slavery, and had the courage of their
convictions. They would have let the “erring sisters depart in peace” so
as to rid the Union of the blot of African servitude, and deserve such
honor as is due to earnest men. Later on, they changed their position;
but middle-aged men will remember what their views were at the opening
of the struggle.

Not recognizing, therefore, a friend in the “Yankee” who stood in his
door-way, the glitter of his bayonet was disagreeable to old Joe’s eyes,
and the point of it looked so sharp that it made his ribs ache; and his
knees trembled beneath him. For old Joe was not by nature bloodthirsty,
nor longed for gore,—least of all the intimate and personal gore of
Joseph Meekins.

“Sarvant, mahster!”

Perhaps old Jim’s naturally serene temper was ruffled, at the moment, by
the fact that the fangs of a blackberry-bush, under which he had forced
his head, had fastened themselves upon his right ear. At any rate, I am
afraid he muttered, _sotto voce_, an oath at hearing his old slave and
friend call a Yankee master.

“Sarvant, mahster!”

Old Joe’s form was bent low, his teeth chattered, his eyes rolled in
terror like those of a bullock dragged up to the slaughter-post and the
knife.

The sight of a man’s face distorted with abject fear has always filled
me with deep compassion; but I believe it arouses in the average man
(which I am far from claiming to be) a feeling of pitiless scorn.

“Sarvant, mahster!” chattered old Joe, writhing himself behind the
kitchen table. The soldier was an average man.

“Where is your master, you d—d old baboon?” said he, entering the
kitchen.

“My mahster, yes, mahster, my mahster, he—for de love o’ Gaud, young
gent’mun, don’t pint her dis way,—she mought be loaded. Take a cheer,
young mahster; jess set up to de table” (over which he gave a rapid pass
with his sleeve) “an’ lemme gi’ you some o’ dat nice bacon I was jess
a-fryin’ for my mahster’s supper.”

At these words old Jim’s teeth began to chatter so that he forgot the
belligerent brier.

The soldier, hungry from his march, fell to, nothing loath, but had
scarcely eaten three mouthfuls before several of his comrades appeared,
all of whom fell foul of poor old Jim’s supper with military ardor, if
without military precision.

“Where’s the old F. F. V.?” asked a new-comer, through a mouthful of
hoe-cake.

“Yes, where is your master?” put in the first man. “You didn’t tell me.
Out with it.”

Joe had had time to repent of his ill-advised admission in regard to the
supper.

“You ax me whar Mr. Bush is? Oh, he’s in Culpeper Court-House.
Leastways, he leff b’fo’ light dis mornin’ boun’ dar.”

The audacious lack of adjustment between this statement and the facts of
the case amazed, almost amused, old Jim. Breathing a little freer, he
ventured softly to shake his ear loose from the brier; for he could not
reach it with his hand.

“Why, you lying old ape, didn’t you tell me that this was his supper?”

“Cert’n’y, young gent’mun; cert’n’y I say dat, in course.”

“And your master at Culpeper?”

“Yes, young mahster. Dis is de way ’tis. You ’pear like a stranger in
dese parts, beggin’ your pardon, an’ maybe you mout’n’ understan’ how de
folks ’bout here is. S’posin’ some o’ de neighbors had ’a’ step in, and
dar warn’t nothin’ for ’em to eat, an’ mahster hear ’bout it when he
come back, how I turn a gent’mun hongry ’way fum de do’. How ’bout dat,
you reckon? Umgh-umgh! You don’t know my mahster! Didn’t I try it once!
Lord ’a’ mussy!”

“How was it?”

“You ax me how was it! Go ’long, chile!” (No musket had gone off yet,
and Joe began to feel rather more comfortable.) “Go ’long! My mahster
was off fox-huntin’ wid some o’ de bloods,—some o’ de bloods,—an’ when
he come back an’ find out I hadn’t cook no supper jess ’cause he was
away, an’ I done turn a gent’mun off widout he supper, mahster he gimme,
eff you b’lieve Joe, he gimme ’bout de keenest breshin’ Joe ever tase in
he born days.” And, throwing back his head, he gave a laugh such as
these soldiers had never heard in their lives.

And none of us shall ever hear again.

As for old Jim, who had never laid the weight of his finger on the
romancer whose imagination was now playing like a fountain, tears of
affectionate gratitude came into his eyes.

An instant later, and all kindly feeling was curdled in his simple
heart.

Hearing a bustle, he peeped through the briers, and saw the officer in
command of the party coming towards the kitchen, bearing in his hand the
Virginia flag. He had discovered it in old Jim’s bedroom, where he had
tacked it upon the bare wall, so that it was the last thing he saw at
night and the first his opening eyes beheld. It was an insult to the
Union soldiers, he heard the officer say, to flaunt the old rag in their
faces. It was what no patriot could stand. He would teach the dashed
rebels a lesson. “Set fire to this house,” he ordered. “The old
rattletrap would fall down anyway, the first high wind that came along,”
he added, with a laugh.

That laugh had a keener sting for old Jim than the order to burn down
the house which had sheltered him for sixty years. The bitterest thing
about poverty, says Juvenal, is that it makes men ridiculous.

Late in the night, when the smoking ruins of his house no longer gave
any light, Jim crawled stealthily down the ravine. Could the sentry, as
he marched back and forth on his beat, have seen the look that the old
man, turning, fixed upon him every now and then as he made his way
through the jungle, he would have felt less comfortable. As for Jim,
half dead with cold, he reached the fires of the Confederate pickets at
daybreak. On his way he had stopped at a certain old oak, and, thrusting
down his arm into its hollow trunk, drew forth his rifle.

“Bushy-tails,” said he, with grave passion, waving his hand in the
direction of the tree-tops above him, “you needn’t mind old Jim any
longer. Lead is skeerce these times. You may skip ’round and chatter all
you want to. Your smellers is safe. And gobblers, you may gobble and
strut in peace now. You needn’t say put! put! when you see me creepin’
’round. I won’t be a-lookin’ for you. You’ll have to excuse the old man.
Bullets is skeerce these days, let alone powder. So, good-by, my honeys.
And if you will forgive me the harm I _have_ done you, old Jim won’t
trouble you any more.”

And so, with his rifle across his lap, he sat upon a log and warmed his
benumbed limbs, and, looking into friendly faces, warmed his heart, too.

“I say, old man,” said a young soldier, chaffing him, “what do you call
that thing lying in your lap? Can it shoot?”

“I call her Old Betsey,” said he. “You may laugh at her, but if you hold
her right and steady, she hurts. There ain’t anything funny about Old
Betsey’s business end, I promise you.” And he tapped the muzzle of his
rifle with a grim smile.

Late in the afternoon of the next day (it took him all this day to get
thawed) old Jim bade the jolly boys at the picket station good-day. He
was going scouting, he said.

“Leave the old pop-gun behind,” cried one.

“No, take it along,” put in another. “Perhaps you may knock over a
molly-cotton-tail. Fetch her in, and we will help you cook her.”

                                  32.

Just before sundown the old man reached the summit of a densely-wooded
little hill, about three hundred yards from where his house had lately
stood. Stopping in front of a tall hickory on its apex, he raised his
eyes and surveyed the tree from bottom to top.

“I went up it once, after nuts,” said he, speaking aloud; “but that was
many a year ago,—let me see,—yes, forty-five years. Well, I must
try—ah, I see,—I can make it.” And, leaning Old Betsey against the
huge trunk, he tackled a young white oak.

Old Jim was tough and wiry, and found no great difficulty in climbing
this to a point about thirty feet from the ground, where a large branch
of the hickory came within a foot of the white oak. This he cooned till
he reached the trunk. [I have not time to define cooning. Suffice it to
say that, like heat, it is a mode of motion.] Toiling up this till he
reached a fork about eighty feet from the ground, he, with a sharp
effort, adjusted his own bifurcation to that of the tree, and
immediately, without taking time to collect his breath, leaned forward,
and fixed his eyes intently upon the little open space in front of the
ruins of his house. He gazed, motionless, for a little while, then
nodded his head,—“Ah, there he comes.” He sat there for half an hour,
watching the sentry come into view and again pass out of sight, as he
marched to and fro. “Well, old man,” said he, at last, “I reckon you
know about all you want to know.” And twisting his stiff leg out of the
fork, with a wry face, he descended the hickory, and took his seat upon
a fallen trunk that lay near, throwing old Betsey across his lap. It was
growing dark, and every now and then he raised his rifle to his cheek
and took aim at various trees around him. Took aim again and again,
lowering and raising his rifle, with contracted brows. “I am afraid my
eyes are growing dim,” he muttered; “but the moon will rise at a quarter
to ten, and then it will be all right, won’t it, old Bet? Don’t you
remember that big gobbler we tumbled out of the beech-tree, one
moonlight night—let me see—nineteen years ago coming next Christmas
Eve? And you ain’t going to go back on me to-night, are you? Oh, I know
you will stand by me this one time, if my eyes are just a little old and
dim. I know you will help me out, as you have done many a time before,
when I didn’t point you just right, but you knew where I wanted the
bullet to go. Do you know what’s happened, old gal? Do you know that the
little corner behind the bed, where you have stood for fifty years, is
all ashes now, and the bed, too? Do you hear me, Betsey? And as the Holy
Scripture says, the birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes
their holes, but you and I have not where to lay our heads.”

The old man bowed his head over his rifle; and the fading twilight
revealed the cold, steady gleam of its polished barrel, spotted with the
quivering shimmer of hot tears.

                                  33.

A soldier marched to and fro in the darkness. It oppressed him, and he
longed for the moon to rise.

Does the wisest among us know what to pray for?

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! He pauses at one end of his beat and looks
down upon his comrades sleeping, wrapped in their blankets, with their
feet to the fire. When his hour is up, he, too, will sleep. Yes, and it
is up, now, poor fellow, and your sleep will know no waking!

Yet it was not you who burned the nest of the poor old man. Nor even
your regiment. Nor had _you_ helped to hound the South to revolution by
threats and contumely. ’Twas John Brown dissolved the Union. You hated
him and his work, for you loved your whole country,—you and your
father, who bade you good-by, the other day, with averted face. And now
you must die that that work may be undone. You and half a million more
of your people.

The South salutes your memory!

Ah, the moon is rising now. Ribbons of light stealing through the trees
lie across his path, and yonder, at the farther end of it, the Queen of
Night pours a flood of soft effulgence through a rift in the wood. The
young soldier stood in the midst of it, bathed in a glorious plenitude
of peaceful light. Such perfect stillness! Can this be war, thought he?
He could hear the ticking of his watch upon his heart. But the click!
click! beneath that dark old oak,—that he did not hear. And that barrel
that glitters grimly even in the shadow,—he sees it not. The
tear-stains are upon it still; but the tears are dried and gone.

Click! click!

The muzzle rises slowly; butt and shoulder meet. A head bends low; a
left eye closes; the right, brown as a hawk’s and as fierce, glares,
from beneath corrugated brow, along a barrel that rests as though in a
grip of steel. The keen report of a sporting rifle—not loud, but crisp
and clear—rings through the silent wood, and there is a heavy fall and
a groan.

And the placid moon, serene mocker of mortals and their woes, floated
upward and upward, and on and on. On and on, supremely tranquil, over
other scenes, whether of love or hate.

Ah, can it be true that we poor men have no friend anywhere in the
heavens above, as some would have us believe? or the ever-peaceful gods,
dwellers upon Olympus, have they in very deed forgotten us?

                                  34.

“Where’s your game, grandpa?” asked the young soldier. “We have been
sitting up waiting for you and your rabbit.”

“There are two kinds of game,” replied the old man, warming his hands
before the fire; “one sort you bring home, the other kind you send
home.”

“What! did you shoot a Yankee? One of the boys thought he heard the
crack of a rifle.”

“’Twas old Betsey,” replied he, patting her cheek, as it were. “We
whacked one of ’em. _He_ won’t set fire to any more houses, I reckon.”

After this, old Jim, thoroughly acquainted with the country for miles
around, became a regular scout; and going and coming at all hours of the
night and day, he was soon well-known along the line of our outposts.
And whenever he had important information to give, he went straight to
headquarters; but whenever, after a moonlight night, he stopped at the
picket-post, sat down on a log and toyed with his rifle, seeming to have
nothing to say, the boys knew that he was waiting for a certain
question: “Yes, old Betsey and me whacked one of ’em last night.” And
then he would set out for headquarters, and the soldiers, passing the
news, and adopting old Jim’s word, would say, “Old Bush whacked another
of the rascals last night.” And these two words, so often brought in
contact, at last cohered. Bushwhacker did not, therefore, originally, at
least, mean a man who whacked from behind a thicket, but one who whacked
after the fashion of old Jim Bush.

                                  35.

And I am a Bushwhacker who whacketh after that fashion. So much so, that
it seems to me that my parents made a sort of prophetic pun when they
named me John Bouche. The difference between me and old Jim is simply
this: that he expressed his sentiments with a carnal rifle, I mine with
a spiritual one. He hung upon the skirts of the Northern hosts; I go
stalking stragglers from the Noble Army of Lies. Every sham the sturdy
Whacker molecules of me impel my soul to hate. Yet my Huguenot blood
shrinks from martyrdom. Did not _they_ leave France to avoid it? I never
attack the main body. But let a feeble, emaciated, and worn-out little
lie, or a blustering, braggart fraud, or a conceited, coxcombical sham,
stray to the right or left, or get belated on the march! I pounce upon
him like an owl upon a field-mouse. It is my nature to. And so the
reader must not be surprised, as we journey along together, through
scene after scene of my story, to find herself suddenly left alone at
the most unexpected times and places. I’ll come back, after a while,
bringing a scalp; after which we will jog along together, for a chapter
or so, again.

And a jolly, rousing, mad time we shall have of it, then. For it is on
such occasions that I put my mustang through his comical paces,—my
coal-black mustang, with his great, shaggy mane, and bushy, flowing
tail, that sweeps the ground. For though, as every schoolboy knows, a
Poet or other Gifted Person is properly mounted only on a Pegasus, I
have been unable to get me one of those winged, high-bounding steeds.

                                  36.

And now, fair lady, the manager makes his bow and exit. You will soon be
in better company.

One word more,—he begs your pardon. He led you to believe that the
opera began at eight, sharp. You were there, in your seat, on time,
eager to hear the first notes of the opening chorus. But I feared that
had you known there was to be a long overture you would have been late,
and thereby missed certain _leitmotifs_, not to have heard which would
have marred what was to follow. Honestly, now, had you known that
Chapter I. was not Chapter I., nor chapter of any kind, would you have
read it? Would you not have skipped it, clear and clean (for it’s a
hundred to one that you are a woman), had you known that it was my
Introduction?


  [Illustration: SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT I.

  _Allegro con brio._        L. van Beethoven, _“Eroica” Symphony_.

  {The first page of the score of the first movement of Beethoven's
  Eroica Symphony is shown.}]


                           SYMPHONY OF LIFE.


                              MOVEMENT I.


                              CHAPTER II.

As the last rays of the setting sun were gilding the modest spires of
Richmond, early in the month of October, 1860, I was sitting with two
young ladies at the front parlor window of a house on Leigh Street. One
of these, Lucy Poythress, like myself, was from the county of Leicester;
or, to speak with entire exactness, her father’s residence was separated
from my grandfather’s, in that county, by a river only. She had arrived
in Richmond that morning, on a visit to her friend, Alice Carter. As the
two girls, lately school-mates, had not met for three months, and had
just risen from an excellent dinner,—that notable promoter of the
affections,—I deem it superfluous to state that they were holding each
other’s hands.

Also, they were talking.

“Oh, Lucy!” exclaimed Alice, suddenly starting up, “I had forgotten to
tell you. I have fallen in love,—that is, _nearly_. I must tell you
about it,” continued she, talking, at the same time, with her lips, her
hands, and her merry-glancing hazel eyes,—“it was so romantic!”

“Of course,” said I.

“Ah, don’t be jealous!” retorted she, coaxingly. “But you see, Lucy, one
day last week, as I was crossing the street, two squares below here, I
struck my foot against something and fell flat. A book that I carried
tumbled one way, my veil flew another, and—”

“And some pale, poetic stranger helped you to rise,” interrupted I.

“Yes; a gentleman who was meeting me just as I fell, and whose face I am
sure I had never before seen in Richmond, ran forward, lifted me up, got
me my book and veil, and, in short, he was so graceful, and his voice
was so gentle, when he said ‘Excuse me,’ as he lifted me from the
ground, that—I confess—I—” And dropping her eyes, and with an
inimitable simper on her countenance, she made as though straightening,
between thumb and forefinger, the hem of her handkerchief.

“Ah, you are the same dear old Alice still,” cried Lucy, leaning
forward, and, with laughing lips, kissing her on the cheek. “And you
fell in love with the graceful stranger?”

“Yes, indeed,—that is, as much as was becoming in a young woman of
eighteen summers. By the way, Lucy, you too have reached that dignified
age since I last saw you. Don’t you begin to feel ancient? I do. We
shall soon be old maids.”

“And the romantic stranger, in that event?” asked I. “He, I suppose,
will go hurl himself dismally off Mayo’s bridge. By the way, yonder he
comes now.”

I am aware that the barest insinuation of the kind is flouted and
scouted by the lovelier portion of mankind; but among men it is always
frankly admitted that women are not destitute of curiosity.

“Yonder he comes now,” said I, languidly, as one who had dined well. Two
lovely heads shot instantly out of the window.

“Where? where?”

“There,” said I; “that tall chap with the heavy beard, on the other side
of the street.”

“Well, upon my word,” cried Alice, “’tis the very man! How on earth did
you know it was he? You didn’t? Really and truly? How strange! Oh, if he
would only cross the street and walk past our window! There, I
believe—no—yes, here he comes across! How nice! What on earth makes
him carry his hat in his hand?”

“Is that really your graceful friend?” asked I, growing interested.

“It is certainly he; I am sure I am not mistaken.”

The Unknown was crossing the street in a very leisurely, or rather
abstracted, manner, evidently absorbed in thought,—or the lack of
it,—for extremes meet. With hat in hand and chin pressed upon his
breast, he sauntered along with the air of one who is going nowhere, and
cares not when he reaches his destination. When he reached the lamp-post
at the corner, not over twenty or thirty yards from where we stood, he
stopped, hung his hat on the back of his head, and drew from his
breast-pocket a pencil and a piece of stiff-looking paper. This he held
against the lamp-post, and appeared to write or draw.

We drew back a little from the window.

“What on earth is he going to do?” exclaimed Alice.

“He is doubtless inditing an ode,” said I, “in commemoration of last
week’s romantic interview. ‘Lines to a fallen angel,’ perhaps.” This
witticism passed unheeded.

“The man’s crazy!” said Alice.

The Unknown had thrown his head back, and, with his eyes nearly closed,
was gently tapping the air with the pencil in a kind of rhythm.

“Did you ever!” ejaculated Alice.

“Did you ever!” echoed Lucy.

“Well, I never!” mocked I.

“St!”

We drew still farther away from the window. He was going to pass us.
Pencil and paper are again in breast-pocket, hat in hand, chin upon
breast.

“Isn’t he nice and tall!”

“Yes; and what shoulders!”

“How strong he looks; and without an ounce of superfluous flesh!”

“How distinguished-looking!”

So chirruped these twain,—I, meanwhile, interjecting such interruptions
as I could think of. “No one ever says of _me_ that I haven’t an ounce
of superfluous flesh.”

“Nor ever will, unless you go as a missionary among the Feejeeans,”
retorted Alice.

You see I am rather—but no matter about me.

At the edge of the sidewalk, and nearly opposite the window at which we
were standing, was an oblong carriage-block of granite, and upon this
was seated, at this juncture, a sister of Lucy’s,—a little girl of
nearly four years of age, playing with a set of painted squares of wood,
known in the nursery as “blocks,” which had been presented to her by her
godmother, Mrs. Carter, at whose special request the little thing had
been brought to Richmond. Her country nurse was standing a few paces
distant, dressed out in her finest, airing her best country manners for
the bedazzlement of a city beau of her acquaintance (as having been
formerly of her county), a mulatto barber who had chanced to pass that
way, and had stopped for a chat about old times. The Unknown had not
observed the little girl till, in his listless way, he had sauntered to
within a few feet of her, when, catching sight of the mass of sunny
curls that poured over her neck and shoulders (her back was turned
towards him), he stopped, and seeing what her occupation was and hearing
the babbling of her little tongue as she agreed with herself, now upon
this plan, now on that, upsetting one structure almost before it was
begun for another which was to share a like fate; gazing upon this
little scene, a look of pleased interest, not unmingled with sadness,
came into his face.

“He is a married man,” said I.

“Say not so!” cried Alice, with a tragic air.

“But his wife’s dead,” I added.

“I breathe again!” intoned Alice, in the same vein.

“Oh, _Alice_!” said Lucy, with gentle reproachfulness.

“Why, of course, Lucy,” began Alice, throwing herself into an
argumentative attitude, “of course I do not really rejoice at the poor
woman’s death; but how can you expect me to grieve over a person I
never—”

“You are a greater scamp than ever,” said Lucy, laughingly stopping her
friend’s mouth with her hand.

The little architect felt that some one stood behind her, and, turning
her head and judging with that unerring infantile instinct that he was a
friend, she gave him a number of those irresistible little looks, with
which every one is familiar, half coy, half coquettish, which showed
that, young though she was, her name was woman. Ladies at her time of
life do not appreciate the necessity of introductions as preliminary to
conversation with gentlemen.

“Build me a house!” cried she to the stranger, running towards him and
looking now into his face, now at her blocks, with a smile half
expectation, half timidity.

“I build you a house? Why, certainly, little brown eyes!”—taking her
plump cheeks between his hands and gazing down into her upturned face
with a smile that was singularly tender and bright; and all the more
striking, as it gleamed forth with something of the suddenness of a
flash of sunlight bursting through a cloud. It had been easy to see,
indeed, as he approached us more nearly, that his preoccupations were
not of a pleasant character. His slightly compressed lips imparted a
shade of grimness to his look, and the mingled expression of weariness
and resolution upon his features seemed to reveal some struggle going on
in his breast.

“Well, now,” said he, taking up a few of the blocks as he seated himself
upon the stepping-stone, “what kind of a house shall we build?”

“Did you ever!” looked we, all of us!

“We-e-’ll, we-e-’ll—we’ll m-a-k-e—let me tell you—”

“Saint Paul’s Church?” suggested the stranger,—“with a great, tall
steeple!”

“N-o-o-o! People don’t live in churches! M-a-k-e me—m-a-k-e me—oh!
make me one just like our house!” cried she, with sudden triumph,
placing her hand upon her new-found friend’s shoulder, thrusting her
face almost against his, and opening wide at him her great brown eyes,
as much as to say, now we have it! And away she skipped, backwards, on
the tips of her toes, clapping her dimpled hands; chirping forth,
meanwhile, sundry joyous, inarticulate notes; which I shall not merely
say were as sweet as the song of the birds,—for they were warblings
from the heart of a happy child,—which notes, I take it, are the
loveliest that float upward into the dome of the high heavens,—and
blessed whose fingers avail to call them forth!

“Well, then,” began he, gathering together his blocks, “here are our
bricks.”

“_Bricks!_” cried she, in a voice that was almost shrill with surprise.
“Why, it is not a brick house!”

“Why, yes,” said he, carelessly glancing towards the house in which we
were.

“Lor’ me, _that’s_ not _our_ house! Did you think that was our house?
Oh, how funny!” cried she, gleefully triumphing in her superior
knowledge; then, running towards the open window, behind the curtains of
which the amused spectators of this scene had retired, “Sister Lucy!”
exclaimed she, “what do you think! This gentleman thought this was our
house, and we are just on a visit here! Sister Lucy! Sister _Lucy_!
Sister L-u-u-u-c-y!”

Not receiving any reply from that alarmed young person, who had fled
with me into one corner of the room, and with appalled look and
appealing gestures was endeavoring to check the convulsive tittering of
her friend Alice, who, in another corner, stood bowed together, weak and
weeping with suppressed laughter, the little girl turned to her friend
and said, “Sister Lucy has gone up-stairs, I reckon.”

“Thither Luthy hath dawn up-thtairs, I weckon,”—that was the way she
said it; but words so distorted, charm, as they may, when they fall,
like crumpled rose-leaves, from the fair portals of a child’s mouth, can
please the eye of a phonetic reformer only. And so with the reader’s
consent,—in fact, as a compliment to her,—I shall leave, in the main,
such transformations to her fancy.

Besides, how utterly unintelligible would be a dialogue, so printed, to
the very person for whose benefit, chiefly, this work has been
undertaken. In his illumined day, you know, infants will have ceased to
lisp.

The stranger had risen from his seat with rather a startled look, but
upon this reassuring suggestion of his little friend, resumed it.

“You love your sister Lucy ever so much, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Mr. Whacker does, too.”

This remark produced a profound sensation upon two, certainly, of the
eavesdroppers. Lucy, who was diffidence itself, blushed to the roots of
her hair; while an uncomfortable consciousness of looking foolish took
possession of me. Alice, holding her sides, fell exhausted upon a sofa.

“Mr. who?” asked he, with a sudden look of interest which startled us
all.

“Mr. Whacker; don’t you know Mr. Whacker?”

“Maybe so; what kind of a man is he?”

“Oh, he is a nice man, and he is so funny,—he makes me nearly dead with
laughing.”

“Does your sister Lucy love this nice, funny Mr. Whacker?”

Lucy looked perfectly aghast.

“Yes, she do.”

“She do, do she?” echoed the Unknown; while ripples of merriment danced
about his singularly intense and glowing eyes, like those on the dark
waters of some deep lake.

“Did she ever tell you so?”

“Y-e-e-e-es,” replied she, doubtfully.

“Mr. Whacker, I assure you,” began Lucy, choking with mortification,
“I—”

“I forgive, though I can never forget—”

“But—”

“St!” whispered Alice; “it is as good as a play!”

“But, Alice, it’s a most outrageous—”

“Never mind,—listen!”

Meantime, we had lost a few sentences of the colloquy, which seemed to
be affording intense amusement to the Stranger.

“But what did she say?” were the first words we caught.

“She said,” began the little thing, gesticulating with her hands and
rolling her eyes,—speaking, in fact, with her whole body,—“sister
Lucy, she said—”

“Well.”

“Sister Lucy, she said Mr. Whacker was mighty fat, but he was right
pretty.”

Imagine the scene behind the curtains! The trouble was that Lucy, who
was as truthful as Epaminondas, could not deny having paid me, in
substance, this two-edged compliment. So she could only bury her face in
her hands. As for the Stranger, he actually laughed aloud.

“But do ladies always love pretty men?”

“Why, yes; I love my sweetheart, and he is pretty.”

“Your sweetheart! Have you a sweetheart?”

“Yes,” replied she, with decision and complacency.

“What’s his name?”

“I can’t tell you!”

“Do, now.”

“Oh, I _can’t_!” And she dropped her cheek on her off shoulder and shut
her eyes.

“Say, do you like candy?”

“Yes,” said she, eagerly wheeling round; “where is it?”

“Never mind. If you will tell me, I will bring you some to-morrow.”

“What’s in that paper? I ’spec’ it’s candy, right now!”

“No,” said he, smiling; “but I will bring you some to-morrow if you will
tell me.”

She stuck a finger into her mouth and hung her head.

“Red candy,” began he, “and blue candy,” he continued, nodding his head
up and down, between the varieties, with a sort of pantomimic
punctuation, “and green candy—”

Wide-eyed delight and a half-smile of eager expectation illumined the
face of the little tempted one.

“And yellow candy, and—let me see—and striped candy, and speckled
candy—and—and—and—ALL SORTS OF CANDY!”

She clasped her hands and drew a long breath.

“Will you?”

The infant that hesitates is lost.

“And tied up in most _beautiful_ paper—”

“You won’t tell Mr. Whacker?”

“No, never!!!”

In an instant the little creature had sprung towards him, seized his
head, pulled it down, pressed her lips against his ear, shot the
momentous name therein and bounded back.

“There! Give me the candy!”

“I said I should get it to-morrow. But I didn’t hear a word. Tell me
over again. There,—whisper it in my ear. Willie? Willie what?” said he,
drawing her towards him. “Ah, that is the name, is it?”

We did not hear the name, and I must suppose it was that of some near
neighbor of her father’s.

“Now, don’t tell Mr. Whacker!”

“No,” replied the stranger; but he had heard her with the outward ear
only. He sat, with drawn lids, gazing upon the pavement, and softly
biting his nails, as though solving some problem. His lips seemed to
move; and every now and then he looked, out of the corners of his eyes,
at his little companion. At last he slowly rose, but stood motionless,
with eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Oh, don’t go!” cried she, her fair, upturned face wearing a beautiful
expression of infantile affection.

And here our mysterious friend had another surprise in store for us.
For, when he saw that look, a startled expression came into his face;
and leaning forward, he scrutinized her features with a gaze so
searching that there was a kind of glare in his eyes,—so that the
little girl dropped her eyes and drew back, as though with a feeling of
dread. But the Unknown suddenly sat down beside her, and, taking one of
her hands in both his, patted it softly, and, in a voice tender as that
of a young mother, asked, “But what is _your_ name, my little cherub?”

“My name is Laura. Let’s make another house—oh, no, let’s make a boat!”

“Not now. But Laura what? What is your other name?”

“My name is Laura Poythress.”

“Laura Poythress!”

He bowed his broad shoulders till his face was almost on a level with
hers, and scanning her features intently: “Laura Poythress, Laura
Poythress,” repeated he, to himself; “and Lucy, too! and Whacker!”

We looked at each other with wide eyes.

Again the stranger rose; this time with nervous abruptness, and took a
few rapid turns up and down the pavement, close to little Laura; then
walking quickly up to her, and stooping down, he asked her, in an eager
whisper, “Have you any mother?”

“Yeth,” replied she, with a simple little laugh, “of courth; evvybody’th
dot a muvver!”

He seemed to avert his face when she laid down this generalization; nor
could we, from our position, see his expression. “Yes,” said he; and was
silent for a while. “What is your mother’s name?”

“My mother’s name is Mumma.”

“But what is her real sure-enough name?”

“Her name is Mumma,” repeated she, with emphasis. “Oh, my mother’s got
two names. She is named Mumma and she is named Mrs. Poythress.”

“Ah, yes; but what does your father call her?”

“My papa calls my mumma my dear; oh, and sometimes he calls her
‘honey,’—because she is so sweet.”

“Does he ever call her—let me see—does he ever call her Polly?”

“Oh, me, the idea!” cried she, raising her hands and eyes in infantile
pity of his ignorance. “Why, that’s Aunt Polly’s name!”

“So your Aunt Polly is named Polly, is she?”

“No, she ain’t! Aunt Polly is named _Aunt_ Polly. She is our cook at our
house, she is.”

“She is your cook, is she? And what does she call your mother?”

“Mistiss.”

Just then the mulatto barber, passing by, doffed his hat to the
gentleman; and Dolly, the nurse, left alone, bethought her of her
charge. Coming up, she dropped a courtesy to the Stranger, and told
Laura it was time she were within doors.

“Good-by, Laura,” said the Unknown, taking her plump little hand in his;
“won’t you give me a kiss? Ah, that’s a good little girl! One more! And
another! Ah!” And he patted her cheek. “Good-by!”

“Dood-by!”


                              CHAPTER III.

We looked at each other, and, although two-thirds of us were girls,
several seconds passed without a word being spoken.

“Oh, here comes Mary!” And, looking across the way, I saw Mary Rolfe
briskly tripping down the steps of her father’s residence. Away
scampered Alice and Lucy into the hall; not to unlock the front door for
Mary, for that, Richmond-fashion, stood wide open; but impelled by that
instinctive conviction, never entirely absent from the female breast,
that life is short. I followed with all the dignity of a fledgling
counsellor-at-law, and possible future supreme justice.

The three met on the sidewalk and it began,—_Eurus, Zephyrusque
Notusque_.

All nature is one. Remove the plug from a basin and see how the water,
instead of pouring straight out in a business-like way, spins round and
round, just as though it knew you were late for breakfast. Behold, too,
the planets in their courses. And as in a tornado, which whirls along
through field and forest, across mountain-chain and valley, around its
advancing storm-centre, so in one of those lesser atmospheric
disturbances set up by the conversation, or rather
_contemporaneousversation_, of three or four girls just met (impossible
though it be, in the present state of our knowledge, to determine in
advance the precise location of their area of lowest barometric
pressure), it is clear, even to the eye, that the movement of the girls
themselves is cyclonic. And, further, just as, in a storm, the area of
highest barometer is found to be occupied by a more or less tranquil
atmosphere, so you shall find that the centre of a
contemporancousversation always moves forward around a listener,—some
weakling of a girl, with a bronchitis, perhaps, or, in rare cases, a
stammerer. And again, just as a body of air, itself capable of levelling
houses and uprooting trees, may be forced into quiescence by its
environment of storm, so may a really worthy girl, not otherwise
inferior, be reduced to silence by despair.

This, in fact, was the case with Lucy in the present instance. As the
lovely human cyclone, whose outward sign was a world of fluttering
ribbons and waving flounces, came whirling up the steps, through the
hall, and into the parlor, it was obvious that she was the pivot around
which it revolved.

In plain English, she found it impossible to get in a word.

It appears that Mary had seen, from her window, the Unknown, and watched
his strange performances till he was gone. She had not seen us at our
window, and tripping across the street to tell her dear Alice what a
singular man she had seen sitting on her carriage-block, and talking
with Laura, she had found that Alice had seen and heard more than she.
And so, with that instinctive dread of loss of time so characteristic of
the sex, they both, when they met on the sidewalk, began talking at
once. They began talking to each other; but soon, their words, in
obedience to that law of which Mr. Herbert Spencer makes so much (that
moving bodies always follow the line of least resistance), began flowing
into Lucy’s ears. Not that Mary took possession of one ear, Alice of the
other. Rather did they, in obedience to law, revolve around her, as the
earth around the sun, the moon round the earth, water round its exit,
pouring their tidings into either organ with impartial eagerness.

It may excite wonder among my male readers that Alice should have told
Lucy things that she knew the latter had seen with her own eyes. But
this would be hardly putting the case fairly, as her remarks were
couched rather in the form of exclamatory comments than of pure
narrative. The male reader, again (would that there were no such dull
animals in the world!), must be warned not to suppose that Alice and
Mary were rude in talking simultaneously. It _is_ discourteous, oh,
crass mortal, for one man to interrupt another; but where a party of
girls are met together, it will be found that the words of each, though
many, are no impediment, but a stimulus, rather, to those of the rest.

Like swallows at eventide, circling around some village chimney, the
more of them in the air at once, the more merrily do they flit.

And it will be found, too, that no matter how many have been talking at
once, each will have heard what all have said.

It is when I contemplate this well-known phenomenon that my wonder daily
grows that no allusion has ever been made to this acknowledged
superiority of the female over the male homo, by what are called the
woman-women, in their annual pow-wows in the interest of their sex.
Cropped-haired woman after cropped-haired woman will arise, reinforced,
here and there, by some mild-eyed male, o’er whose sloping shoulders
soft ringlets cluster, and the burden of the plaint of she-he and
he-she, alike, will be _only_ that woman is unjustly excluded by man
from this employment or that privilege, for which she is as well fitted
as he. They seem to me to forget that Hannibal was not overcome till
Africa was invaded; and they will never advance their cause till they
find some female Seipio to put man upon the defensive, and aggressively
insist that the real question is not whether _she_ is capable of
becoming lawyer, physician, preacher, but whether _he_ is, or, at any
rate, will be, in the re-fashioned world which is coming, fit for any
avocation whatever.

Let us take the legal profession for an example. Excluding the male
lawyer of the period, as an interested witness, who can fail to see how
much would be gained were our judges, our counsel, and our jurymen all
women? As things actually stand, the law’s delay has passed into a
proverb. But what delay could there be in a trial wherein all the
witnesses could be examined simultaneously, without a word being lost on
the jury; where the learned (and lovely) counsel could sum up side by
side (like a pair of well-matched trotters), neither of them getting in
the first word, neither (what fairness!) being allowed the last? Again.
Instead of a drowsy Bench, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, you would
have an alert Sofa, capable of lending one ear to the plaintiff’s
counsel, one to the defendant’s; taking in, with one eye, every
convolution of the jury’s back-hair (should such things be), while with
the other, she—the Court—estimated the relative good looks of the
litigants, preparatory to instructing the jury and laying down the law.
And so of the other professions, did space allow.

But this is not the worst of the matter. Already have advanced thinkers
begun dimly to see that, with the approaching extinction of war, the
time will come when courage will be worse than useless; while, in the
rapid multiplication of labor-saving machinery, there is discernible the
inevitable approach of an era when superior strength will be a
disadvantage. For is not strength assimilated food? And in the Struggle
for Existence will not She, requiring less food, and being therefore
Fittest, survive? So that, with Seer’s eye, I seem to behold the day
when my sex, excluded from every avocation, shall perish from off the
face of that earth over which we have so long and so haughtily lorded.

The truth is, my dear lad (would that you were a girl!), I shudder when
I think of your fate and that of your brother males, three hundred years
from now. Preserved here and there in the zoological gardens of the
wealthy and the curious, along with rare specimens of the bison of the
prairie, skeletons of the American Indian and the dodo; exhibited in
mammoth moral shows, and meeting the stare of the unnumbered female of
the period with a once wicked, but now, alas! futile wink, you will rue
the day when your ancestors, mistaking might for right, excluded woman
from that haven of rest, the ballot-box. Why, it was but the other day
that I saw a boy with a basketful of pups, which he was going to drown;
and on my asking him why he condemned them to this fate, he answered, in
the simplest way, “Oh, they are nothing but _she’s_.”

Yet we are never tired of boasting of our nineteenth century!

How the world is to be kept wagging when once the custom is established
of drowning all the boy-babies (except specimens for menageries and
preserves), is a problem for the science of the future. It suffices that
I have recorded my views upon this burning question.

And upon this plank of my platform you, my grand-son-to-the-tenth-power,
will, I trust, be allowed to float by the womankind of your day, in
remembrance of my gallant defence of their rights in mine. Yes, yes, you
will be one of the elect and undrowned!


                              CHAPTER IV.

“Oh!” cried Alice, springing up from the piano-stool. “But, Mary, I have
not told you that he was the identical man who lifted me up the other
day when I fell in the street.”

“You don’t tell me so!”

“Yes, indeed, the very man; and, strangest of all, he seemed to know
something about us, or at least about Lucy and Mr. Whacker.” And she
related the strange doings and sayings of the Unknown just previous to
the close of his interview with Laura.

“How very provoking,” cried Mary, impatiently, “that I should have been
prevented from dining with you girls by the arrival of that stupid old
cousin William, as mother will persist in calling him, though, in my
opinion, he is about as nearly related to us as the man in the moon!
Pshaw!” And she stamped her foot.

“Yes, indeed, I am too sorry. Why, Mary, it would have done”—and her
irrepressible eyes began to twinkle—“for a scene in that novel which—”

“Now, Alice—” began Mary, reddening.

“Which I am thinking of writing,” continued Alice, innocently. “Why,
what’s the matter?”

“Oh!”

“Is Mary writing a novel?” asked Lucy, with eager interest; for she
remembered that she had been always regarded as the genius of the
school.

“I spoke of the novel which _I_ was writing,” persisted Alice.

“Yes, but—”

“It is a maxim of the common law, Miss Lucy,” remarked the learned
counsel, with ponderous gravity, “that all shall be held innocent till
proven guilty. But should novel-writing ever be made (as seems
inevitable) a statutory offence, I hold it as probable that this ruling
will be reversed, and the presumption of the law adjudged, in the
present state of literature, to lie the other way,—in plain English,
that the _onus probandi innocentiam_ would be held to rest upon the
prisoner at the bar.”

The two other girls laughed, but Mary rewarded my diversion in her
support with a grateful smile.

“To think I should have missed it!”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Come over and dine with us to-morrow, and you
will have a chance of seeing him.”

“How is that?” asked Mary, with dancing eyes.

“Why, he has promised to bring Laura some candy to-morrow evening, and
we can all have another look at him.”

“Oh, I wonder if he will come?” cried Mary, despondingly.

“I have no doubt of it, for he seems in some strange way as much
interested in us as we in him. At any rate, you will dine with us. Mr.
Whacker will of course do likewise.”

The reader will please imagine the dinner in question over, the three
young ladies eagerly watching, up and down the street, through the slats
of the closed Venetian blinds, while Mrs. Carter and myself, too
dignified to manifest our curiosity so clearly, held ourselves in the
rear as a sort of reserve. Laura, our little decoy, was trotting,
meanwhile, from room to room, singing and babbling; having, in fact,
entirely forgotten the Stranger and his promise. It had been decided in
a council of war not to remind her of it till our man was seen
approaching, when she was to be sent out in a casual way to intercept
him.

“Gracious, here he is!” exclaimed all three of the girls at once. “Where
is Laura?”

“Laura! Laura! Laura!” cried Alice, in a suppressed voice. “Mother! Mr.
Whacker! somebody bring Laura, please.”

It appears that the Unknown, instead of making his approach by way of
Leigh Street, as we somehow expected, had suddenly turned into that
thoroughfare from the cross-street. The girls from their position
commanded a view of this cross-street for some distance, looking towards
the south, as the Carters’ residence was but one remove from the corner.
Strange to say, however, the gentleman emerged into Leigh Street from
the north, as though returning from a walk in the country, and thus came
upon the girls without warning. The reserves, forgetting their dignity,
scampered off in their search for Laura. She, meanwhile, ignorant of her
importance, was sitting in the back yard, building mounds upon a pile of
sand that lay there, and before she could be found the stranger had
passed. He turned and looked back several times, and when he reached the
end of the block he stopped, and, turning, looked for some time in our
direction. Meanwhile, I, having secured the little truant, was hurrying
to the front, while Mrs. Carter, plump and jovial soul, was not far
behind me.

“Make haste! make haste!” cried Alice, who, with Mary, had in her
impatience found her way into the hall. “Make haste, or he will be gone.
Come, Laura, the gentleman with the candy is out there. There, quick!”
she added, with a little push; and Laura trotted out with pleased
alacrity.

“Too late!” sighed Lucy from behind the shutters, where she had been
placed for purposes of safe observation. “Too late! he has moved on.”


                               CHAPTER V.

That evening, as I bade the family good-night, after with some
difficulty escaping from Mrs. Carter’s urgent invitation to dine with
them again next day, I agreed to call immediately after dinner, so as to
be on hand should the Stranger, as we thought likely, return in search
of Laura. Nor were we disappointed; and this time, warned by the failure
of the preceding day, we had kept Laura well in hand; so that she was
ready on the front steps as he was passing.

The two friends smiled as their eyes met.

“Where is it?” asked she, a sudden cloud of anxiety veiling her young
face,—for, with those of her age, not seeing is not believing.

“Never mind!” said he, tapping his breast-pocket with a knowing air; and
she hurried down the steps as best she could.

He unbuttoned his coat and slowly inserted his hand into his
breast-pocket.

“Pull it out!” cried she.

“I feel something!” said he, with mystery in his tones.

“Yes!” answered she, skipping about with clasped hands.

“What is it?” And there was a rattling, as of stiff paper, down in the
depths of his pocket.

“Candy!” cried she, with a shout, capering higher than ever.

He withdrew the package from his pocket with a slowness which made her
dance with impatience; opened one end, peeped into it cautiously, and
gave her a beaming look of delighted surprise.

“Let me look, too!” cried she; and he held it down. She, peeping in,
returned his look of surprised delight.

What would life be without its fictions!

“It’s candy!” cried she; and seizing the package, and putting a piece
into her mouth, she made for the steps.

“Why, where are you going?”

“I am going to show my candy to sister Lucy,” replied she, munching.

“Won’t you give me a piece?”

“Yes,” replied she, toddling back with alacrity. “Don’t take a big
piece,” cautioned she, when she saw him examining the contents of the
precious package. “Take a little piece.”

The stranger smiled. “Laura,” said he, “there is a good deal of human
nature in man; don’t you think so?”

“Yeth, ma’am,” replied she, abstractedly; with one hand thrusting into
her mouth a second piece, while with the other she reached down into the
bag for a third. “You seem to like candy?”

“Yeth, I doeth,” without looking up.

“Come,” said he, taking the package and closing it; “if you eat it all,
you won’t have any to show your sister Lucy; besides, it will make you
sick.”

“Candy don’t never make me sick. I can show sister Lucy the booful bag
what the candy came in. Where is the speckled candy?”

“Oh, the man didn’t have any.”

“If he has any, another to-morrow, will you make him send me some?”

“Oh, yes; but let’s talk a little.”

“May I have another little piece?”

“There! So you are the little girl who doesn’t know what her mother’s
name is?”

“Yes, I does; my mother’s name is named Laura. My mother is named the
same as me. My name is Laura, too.”

Our coaching had told.

“So your mother’s name is Laura, is it?” And the stranger nodded his
head slowly up and down. “And where is your mother now?”

“She is at our house.”

“And where is your house?”

“Our house is where my mother is. There is a river where our house is.
Don’t you like to sail in a boat on a river? I’m going to take another
piece.” And with a roguish, though hesitating smile, she began to insert
her dimpled hand into the bag.

The stranger was looking upon the ground, and heeded neither the smile
nor the movement against the bag.

“Where do you go in your boat?”

She mentioned the name of a neighbor of my grandfather’s, across the
river from her home.

“And where else?”

Another of our neighbors. The stranger repeated the two names with
satisfaction.

“And where else?”

He never once lifted his eyes from the pavement; and there was a sort of
suppressed eagerness in his voice that thrilled us all with a strange
excitement, we knew not why.

“We sail in our boat to see Uncle Tom.” [Many of the young people in our
neighborhood called my grandfather by this name.]

“Oh, you mean your Uncle Tom—let me see,”—and a faint smile illumined
his face,—“you mean your Uncle Tom—Mulligins?”

“No-o-o-o! Minty-pepper ain’t dood. It stings my mouf.”

“Ah, yes, I know,—you sail in your boat to—see—your—Uncle
Tom—Higginbotham.”

Perhaps she dimly perceived that he was drolling; at any rate, she
doubled herself up with an affected little laugh.

“No, I will tell you,” said he, raising his eyes to her face,—“it is
your Uncle Tom Whacker.”

The audience half rose from their seats. “Why, who can he be?” exclaimed
Mrs. Carter.

“Yes, that’s his right name,—Uncle Mr. Whacker. I calls him Uncle Tom.
He is a hundred years old, I reckon. My sister loves Mr. Uncle Whacker
some, but she loves Mr.—Mr.—Mr. Fat Whacker the most.” [Sensation!]

As this is the second remark of this character on Laura’s part that I
have recorded, it is high time that I explained that the idea had
naturally enough arisen in her mind from hearing Mary and Alice rally
her sister upon the increased frequency of my visits to the Carters’
since her arrival in town.

“Do you love me some?”

“Yes, I loves you a heap!”

“And I loves you a heap, too,” said he; and stooping, he kissed her
several times. “And now I suppose you had better run in and show your
candy to your sister Lucy.”

“All wight!” said she; and she toddled off.


                              CHAPTER VI.

The morning following these occurrences, and for several days
thereafter, I had occasion to be absent from town. Calling at the
Carters’ on the evening of my return, I found that the daily visits of
the mysterious stranger had not been interrupted. There was, however,
nothing of special interest to report. The interviews with Laura had
been short, and marked only by the invariable production of the package
of candy. When I expressed fears for that young lady’s digestion, I
learned that, owing to a like solicitude, the girls had shared the
danger with Laura so magnanimously that her health was in no immediate
peril.

“Here are still some of the remains of to-day’s spoil,” said Alice,
handing me a collapsed package.

“Well,” said I, “now that you have seen him so often, what do you think
of him? What are your theories?”

“There are as many opinions as there are girls,” said Mrs. Carter. “What
is mine? Well, I should suppose that I was too old to express an opinion
upon such romantic affairs. But one thing I will say, he is undoubtedly
a gentleman.”

“Oh, thank you, mamma!” cried Alice, running up to her mother and
kissing her on the check with what the French call effusion,—“thank
you!”

“And what are you up to now, Rattle-brain?” asked her mother, looking at
her daughter with a smile full of affectionate admiration.

“You see, Mr. Whacker,” said Alice, turning to me with earnest gravity
in her eyes, under which their irrepressible twinkle could have been
discernible only to those who knew her well,—“you see I have been in
love with him ever since I first saw him, and I infer from mamma’s
remark that should anything ever come of it, I should find in her an
ally.”

“Well, we shall see,” said her mother, laughing. “And what does Miss
Mary think of him?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” promptly began Alice. “Mary, who is, you know, of a
very romant—”

“Suppose, Miss Chatterbox, you will be so good,” interrupted her mother,
“as to let Mary speak for herself.”

“’Tis ever thus,” sighed Alice, pouting, “never allowed to open my poor
little mouth!”

“I give you permission now,” said Mary. “Tell Mr. Whacker, if you know,
what I think of the Don.”

“The who?”

“The Don; that’s what we call him.”

“What! is he a Spaniard?”

“Not at all. You must know, we put Laura up to asking him his name, and
she brought back the drollest one imaginable,—‘Don Miff.’ Think of it!
But of course Laura got it all wrong; that could not be any human
being’s name,—of course not.”

“The Don part of it,” broke in Alice, “has confirmed Mary in her
previously entertained opinion that he was a nobleman of some sort
travelling _incog._; it would be so novelly, you know; though what good
it could do _her_ I cannot conceive, even were it so, for it was I who
‘sighted’ him first; it was I to whom he first offered his hand; mark
that! it was I who first fell in love with him; and I wish it distinctly
understood that as against the present company”—and she made a sweeping
courtesy—“he—is—MINE!”

“I waive all my rights,” said I.

“Yes; but I don’t know how it will be with these girls, particularly
Mary; for Mary is, in my opinion, already infatuated,—yes, _infatuated_
with this Don Miff, as he calls himself.”

“Why, Alice, how can you say so?” But an explosion all around the circle
aroused Mary to the consciousness that once more and for the thousand
and first time she had failed to detect the banter that lay in ambush
behind her friend’s assumed earnestness. “Oh, I knew you couldn’t mean
it,” said she, with a faint smile. “The truth is, Mr. Whacker,”
continued she, “I am not sure that I altogether like this mysterious
Don. Do you know, Alice, I should be afraid of him?”

“Afraid of him! Why, pray?”

“Well, perhaps I am jumping at conclusions, as they say we women all do;
but, unless I am greatly mistaken, that man, while he might be a very
staunch friend, is certainly capable of proving a most unrelenting foe.”

“Oh, I am sure you do him injustice,” said Lucy.

This young woman was not a great talker; but whenever the absent needed
a defender, the suffering a friend, or the down-trodden a champion, that
gentle voice was not wanting.

“I am sure nothing could surpass the gentleness of his manner towards
little Laura.”

“Very true,” rejoined Mary; “but have you not noticed the expression of
his eyes at times, when he is pacing to and fro, as he did for some time
yesterday, reviewing in his mind, I should judge, some event in his past
life? Every now and then there would come into them a look so stern and
bitter as to give his countenance an expression which might almost be
called ferocious.”

“Oh, Mr. Whacker, I think Mary’s imagination must be running away with
her,” broke in Lucy. “Now let me tell you of an incident which all of us
witnessed one day while you were absent. The day had been damp and raw;
and just as Mr. Don Miff—I don’t wonder at your laughing,—was there
ever such a name before? What was I saying? Ah! there came on one of
those cold October rains just as the Don was going away. He had taken
but a few steps when his attention was arrested by the whining of a
little dog across the street. What kind of a dog did you say it was,
Mrs. Carter?”

“It was a Mexican dog, a wretched little thing, of a breed which is
almost entirely destitute of hair. Our volunteers brought home some of
them, as curiosities, on their return from the Mexican war. The one Lucy
is speaking of is very old, and is, likely enough, the last
representative of his species in the city.”

“Well,” resumed Lucy, “the poor, little, naked creature was whining
piteously in the rain, and pawing against that alley-gate over yonder by
that large tree; and when this ferocious man, whom Mary thinks so
terrible, saw him, he stopped, then moved on, then stopped again, and at
last, seeing that the little thing had been shut out, he actually walked
across the street and opened the gate for him!”

“That was very sweet of my Don!” chimed in Alice.

“Yes,” urged Lucy, with gentle warmth, “you girls may laugh, and you,
Mr. Whacker, may smile—”

“Upon my word—”

“Oh, I saw you—but the ferocity of a man who is tender with children
and kind to brutes is ferocity of a very mild form, and I—”

“Speech! speech!” cried Alice, clapping her hands. And Lucy sank back in
her chair, blushing at her own eloquence.

“Order! order! ladies and gentlemen,” cried Alice, gravely tapping on
the table with a spool. “Sister Rolfe, the convention would be pleased
to hear from you, at this stage of the proceedings, a continuation of
your very edifying observations touching the lord Don Miff’s exceedingly
alarming eyes. Sister Rolfe has the floor—order! The chair must insist
that the fat lady on the sofa come to order!”

The last remark was levelled at her mother, who had a singular way of
laughing; to wit, shaking all over, without emitting the slightest
sound, while big tears rolled down her cheeks. Alice was the idol of her
heart, and her queer freaks of vivacious drollery often set her mother
off, as at present, into uncontrollable undulations of entirely
inaudible laughter.

“The fat lady on the sofa, I am happy to be able to announce to the
audience, is coming to.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Carter, wiping her eyes, “and do you cease your crazy
pranks till the fat lady gets her breath. What were you going to say,
Mary?”

“I was going to say that I am glad I said what I did, if for no other
reason than that it afforded us all another opportunity of seeing how
kind and charitable is Lucy’s heart.”

“Yes,” said Alice, “you elicited from Lucy her maiden speech; which I
had never expected to hear in this life.”

“But really,” continued Mary, “the Don’s eyes are peculiar. Do you know
what I have thought of, more than once, when I have seen their rapidly
changing expression? I was reminded of certain stars which—”

“Reminiscences of our late astronomy class,” broke in Alice, in a stage
whisper.

Mary smiled, but continued: “of certain stars which seem first to shrink
and then to dilate,—now growing dark, at the next moment shooting forth
bickering flames,—at one time—”

Mary here caught Alice’s eye, and could get no farther.

Alice rose slowly to her feet and said, gravely waving her closed fan as
though it had been the wand of a showman, “This, ladies and gentlemen,
is not a speech, but poetry and romance. I would simply observe that
when a young woman begins by stating that she does not like a certain
man, and ends by comparing his eyes to stars, the last state of that
young woman shall be worse than the first. But I am somehow reminded of
the Moonlight Sonata. Mr. Whacker, I beg you will conduct Miss Lucy to
the piano.”


                              CHAPTER VII.

“What do you think?” said I, the next afternoon, as I entered the
parlor. The young ladies were all there; Lucy, with whom I had an
engagement to walk, with her bonnet on.

“Oh, what is it?”

“What do you suppose? Guess?”

“You have found out who he is!”

“Not exactly.”

“You have seen him!”

“Well, yes.”

“Have you met him,—spoken with him?”

I nodded.

“Oh, do tell us all about it!”

“There is not much to tell. Just this moment, on my way here, I came
upon Laura and her nurse and the Don standing at the corner. Laura did
not observe me till I was close to her, but, as soon as she did, she ran
up and took hold of my hand, and said, pointing straight at the Don,
‘He’s the one what gives me the candy;’ and, immediately releasing my
hand, she ran up and seized that of the so-called Don Miff, and, looking
up into his face, said, ‘That ain’t Uncle Mr. Whacker. That’s Mr. Fat
Whacker. He’s the one what’—” And I paused.

“Oh, please go on!” cried Alice and Mary; while Lucy colored slightly.

“I think I shall have to leave that as a riddle to be worked out at our
leisure.”

“Oh, the terrible infant! What did you say? what could you say?”

“I scarcely know what I did or did not say. He spoke first, saying
something about the originality of Laura’s mode of introducing people,
and I made some confused, meaningless reply, and then, after we had
exchanged a few commonplaces—”

“Miss Lucy!” broke in a voice; and, looking up, we saw, thrust in at the
partly-open parlor-door, the face of Molly, the nurse. “Miss Lucy, won’t
you please, ma’am, step here a minute?”

The broad grin on her face excited curiosity, while it allayed alarm.

“Why, what’s the matter, Molly?”

“Dat gent’mun say—” And Molly was straightway overcome by an acute
attack of the giggles.

“What?”

“Dat ’ere gent’mun he axed me to ax de lady o’ de house ef he mought’n
take Laura round to Pizzini’s for some ice-cream.”[1]

This was before the days of the Charley Ross horror; but the proposition
threw all the young ladies into a ferment, and ejaculation followed
ejaculation in rapid succession. At last Alice rose, flew up-stairs, and
presently returned with her mother.

“What’s all this?” began Mrs. Carter.

“Yes, ma’am, dis is adzactly how ’twas. Laura and me, we was a-standin’
on the cornder a-lookin’, and here comes de gent’mun dat’s always
a-bringin’ her de candy, and, says he, ‘Good-evenin’, little Rosebud,’
says jess so, and ‘Howdy do, my gal,’ says he, polite-like, and says I,
‘Sarvant, mahster,’ says I, ‘I’m about,’ says I; and den Marse Jack he
comed up, and Laura, she called Marse Jack out o’ he name. ‘Lor’ me,’
says I, ‘chill’un don’t know no better.’ Howsomdever, I told her, I did,
‘Heish!’ says I, easy-like, and ‘Mind your raisin,’ says I, jess as I
tell you, and Marse Jack will say de same; and Marse Jack he comed on
here to de house, and we was a-standin’ on de cornder, and de gent’mun
says, ‘Laura,’ says he, ‘I ain’t got no candy for you to-day, but I want
you to go wid me to Pizzini’s to get some ice-cream and cake; and won’t
you go, my gal,’ says he, ‘an’ ax de lady of the house, down yonder, ef
I mought’n take little Laura to Pizzini’s?’ Dat’s jess what he said, he
did, jess as I tell you, mum; and Laura she clap her hands, she did, and
‘Come on, less go,’ says she, widout waitin’ for nothin’ nor nobody, she
did.”

A brisk discussion, with opinions about equally divided, now sprang up
as to the propriety of acceding to the request of the stranger; but upon
Molly’s stating that the gentleman expected her to accompany Laura, a
strong majority voted in the affirmative; and when the little lady
herself, unable to control her impatience, came bustling into the
parlor, her curls dancing, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling with
expectancy, the proposition was carried unanimously; to the obvious
satisfaction of Molly, who lost no time in sallying forth with her
little charge.

“There they go!” said Lucy, who was peeping through the blinds; “the Don
and Laura hand in hand, and Molly bringing up the rear. Ah, how the
little thing is capering with delight! Ah, girls, run here and see how
the little woman is strutting! Now he is pointing out to her a cow and
calf.”

And so, as long as they remained in sight, she chronicled their doings.

As Lucy and I were leaving the house for our walk, some one
suggested—it was Mary, I believe—that it would be as well to shadow,
in detective phrase, the Don; but she firmly refused to do so, saying
that she knew she could trust him. Still, the suggestion left its trail
upon her mind; and she exhibited an eager delight when we, on our
return, saw, at the distance of a couple of blocks, the Don taking leave
of Laura in front of the Carters’.

“I knew it,” said she, with modest triumph. “Mary has read so many
novels and poems that she lives in constant expectation of adventures;
as though an adventure could happen to any one in steady-going Richmond!
Mr. Whacker!” she suddenly exclaimed, starting.

“What’s the matter?”

“He is coming this way! What _shall_ we do?” And she stood as though
rooted to the pavement, helplessly looking about her for some avenue of
escape.

“Why, what do you fear?” said I, laughing.

“That’s true,” said she; and she moved forward again, though with very
uncertain tread.

“Mr. Whacker,” said she, presently, “would you mind giving me your arm?”

Meanwhile, the Don was coming up the street, and, as he approached us, I
could see that his features were softened by a half smile. We met, face
to face, at the corner above the Carters’. His eyes chancing to fall
upon my face, it was obvious that he recognized me. Indeed, I am sure he
gave me something like a bow, then glancing casually at Lucy. Just at
this juncture she, for the first time, looked up, and their eyes met. It
was then that I understood what Mary had said about his eyes. For a
second his steps seemed almost arrested, and his eyes, filled with a
strange mixture of curiosity and intense interest, seemed to dilate and
to shoot forth actual gleams of light. Lucy, who was leaning heavily
upon my arm, shivered throughout her entire frame.

“Why, what can be the matter?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” replied she, in a hollow voice. “Let us hurry
home,—I can hardly breathe!”

Arrived in front of the house, within which was to be heard the busy
chattering of Laura and our other friends, Lucy hurried in at the gate,
and, without attempting to enter the house, dropped down upon the first
step she reached, and leaning back, drew a long breath.

“Mr. Whacker,” said she, after a few moments’ silence, “you must really
excuse me. I cannot conceive what made me so silly. What is he to me?
But do you know, sometimes the strangest ideas come into my head, and I
often wonder whether other people have the same. Sometimes I will visit
some place for the first time, and suddenly it will seem to me that I
have been there before, although I know all the time that it is not so.
And again I will be listening to some one relating an incident just
happened, and it will seem such an old story to me; and it will seem as
though I had heard just the same story ages and ages ago. Do you know, I
sometimes think that the ancients—however, it is all nonsense, of
course. But oh, I would not feel again as I did just now for worlds! Do
you know, when he passed me, I felt a sort of subtle, aerial force, a
kind of magnetic influence, as it is called, drawing me towards him, and
so strongly, that nothing but the firm grasp I had on your arm saved me
from rushing up to him and taking him by the hand. And then, when I
passed him, without speaking to him, suddenly there came over me the
strangest feeling. Will you think me crazy if I tell you what it was?”

“By no means,” said I, much interested.

“Well,—will you believe me?—a sudden pang of remorse.”

“Remorse!”

“Yes; I cannot think of a better word. It seemed to me as though I had
known him ages ago, in some other world, such as the Pythagoreans
imagined, and that I, bright and young and happy, meeting him again, I,
though I saw he was unhappy, cruelly passed him by! Oh, Mr. Whacker, I
do pity him so!”

Her lower lip trembled, and her soft brown eyes glistened with rising
tears. For a while neither of us spoke,—she, perhaps, afraid to trust
her voice, I respecting her emotion by silence.

“Yes,” said I, at length, “it is an old story. ‘What’s Hecuba to him, or
he to Hecuba?’ We cannot help, though we would, feeling the sorrows of
others. But, Miss Lucy, aren’t you letting your imagination—no, your
tender-heartedness—run away with your judgment? Here is a great,
strapping, fine-looking fellow, whom you have seen passing along the
street a few times, with a rather serious expression of countenance, and
you straightway jump to the conclusion that he is profoundly miserable,
and even shed tears over his fate.”

“Yes, it is all very silly, of course,” said she, smiling, and brushing
away her tears.

“And you must admit that you have not a particle of evidence, not a
scintilla, as we lawyers say, that the Don is any more to be pitied than
I, or any other person of your acquaintance.”

“Oh, a woman’s rules of evidence are very different from what you
lawyers find in your great, dusty, dull volumes. See how _I_ should
state the case. I see a great, strapping, fine-looking fellow, to borrow
your language, coming here, day after day, from I know not how far, or
at how great inconvenience to himself, with no other object, so far as I
can divine, save that of enjoying the affectionate greetings of a little
child of less than four years of age, whom he met by chance, and who,
though nothing to him, in one sense seems everything to him, in that her
childish love has gone out to him. What kind of a home must this man
have, do you think? He can have _no_ home. And yet you wonder that I am
sorry for him!”

“No,” said I, gladly seizing the opportunity of changing the current of
her thoughts; “it is true that the views you hold of evidence do not
coincide with those of Greenleaf; but I have long since ceased to wonder
at your feeling sorry for anybody or anything. The number of kettles
that, of my certain knowledge, have, through your intercession, _not_
been tied to stray dogs’ tails, and the hosts of cats that have escaped
twine cravats—”

“How cruel you boys used to be!”

“Why, Lucy, how long have you been there?” cried Alice, leaning out of
the window. “Come here, Mary, and look at them,—it is a clear case.
Laura,” added she, looking back into the parlor, but speaking loud
enough for us to hear,—“Laura, for one so juvenile, your diagnosis is
singularly accurate.”

“H’m? Whose noses?” asked Laura, looking up from the doll she was
dressing.

-----

[1] In my occasional attempts at representing the negro dialect I shall
(as I have already done in the case of Laura’s prattle) hold a middle
course between the true and the intelligible.


                             CHAPTER VIII.

I think it will be allowed that, whatever else this story may be, it has
been, so far, genteel. It is with regret, therefore, that, in the very
opening of this eighth chapter, I find myself driven to the use of a
word which hardly seems to comport with the previous dignity of our
narrative. But, after turning the matter over in my mind again and
again, I have found it impossible to discover any satisfactory synonyme,
or invent any delicately-phrased equivalent for the very plebeian
vocable in question. With the reader’s kind permission, therefore—

To a philosopher and a philanthropist (and I am somewhat of both, after
a Bushwhackerish fashion) the word _Lager Bier_ should undoubtedly be
one of the most precious additions to a language already rich in such
expressive linguistic combinations as Jersey Lightning, Gin Sling, Rum
and Gum, Rye and Rock, Kill-Round-The-Corner, Santa Cruz Sour, Stone
Fence, Forty-Rod, Dead Shot, etc., etc., etc., not to mention a host of
such etymological simples as Juleps, Smashes, Straights, and Cobblers.
For the introduction into this country of the mild tipple it indicates
has unquestionably done more to arrest drunkenness than all the
temperance societies that have been, are, or shall be. Still, the word
itself, spell it how you will, has hardly a distinguished air; and hence
I long sought, and should gladly have adopted, some such aristocratic
expression as Brew of the Black Forest, Nectar of Gambrinus, Deutscher’s
Dew, Suevorum Gaudium (_i.e._ Schwabs’ Bliss)—some genteel phrase, in a
word—but that I was unwilling to sacrifice precision to elegance.

Now, the necessity that I am under of alluding to the Solace of Arminius
at all, arises in the simplest way.

At the period of which I am writing, this beverage, newly introduced,
had great vogue in Richmond, notably among the young men. Especially did
college-bred young fellows give in a prompt adhesion to the new faith;
and if, in any party of such, assembled to discuss, in a double sense,
this new ethereal mildness, there was found any man who had attended the
German universities, that man was the lion of the evening. His it was to
excite our wonder by reciting deeds of prowess that he had witnessed;
his to tell us what had been done; his to show us how it could be done
again. I wonder whether a young medical man whom I knew in those days
(now a staid and solid doctor) remembers the laugh which greeted him
when he essayed to explain, to an attentive class that he was coaching
in the new knowledge, how the German students managed actually to pour
their beer down their throats,—swallowed it without swallowing, that
is.

“It is the simplest thing in the world,” said he. “See here.” And
turning a glass upside down over his mouth, its entire contents
disappeared without the slightest visible movement of his throat.
“Didn’t you see how it was done? The whole secret lies in the _voluntary
suppression of the peristaltic action of the œsophagus_.”

“The deuse you say!” cried a pupil. “Then, if that be so, I for one say,
Let’s all suppress.” And that became the word with our set for that
season, and much beer perished.

Why is it that a man recalls with such pleasure the follies of his
youth? And why is it that the wise things we do make so little
impression on our minds? For my own part, I can remember, without an
effort, scores of absurdities that I have been guilty of, while of acts
of wisdom scarcely one occurs to me.

The favorite haunt of my beer-drinking friends at this period was a
smallish room,—you could not have called it a saloon,—a regular nest
of a place, situated, not to be too explicit, not very far from, say
Fourth Street. Our little nook stood alone in that part of the city,
and, being so isolated in an exceedingly quiet neighborhood, it met
exactly the wants of the jovial though orderly set of young professional
men who, with the honest Teutons of the vicinage, frequented it.

Well, on the occasion to which I have referred, half a dozen of us were
grouped around a table, and were unusually merry and bright. Our
doctor’s new word had been hailed as a real acquisition, in honor of
which there was some sparkling of wit, and more of beer,—a happy saying
being as real a provocative of thirst as a pretzel,—and, moreover,
there had arisen between him and a young and promising philologist,
lately graduated at the university, and since become a distinguished
professor in the land, a philologico-anatomical, serio-comical
discussion, in which the philologian maintained that it was hopeless for
American to emulate German youth in this matter of drinking beer, while
at the same time maintaining a voluntary suppression of the peristaltic
action of the œsophagus, for the very simple reason that the throat of
the German, incessantly opened wide in pronouncing the gutturals of his
language, and hardened by the passage of these rough sounds, becomes in
process of time an open pipe, a clear, firm tube,—in a word, a regular
rat-hole of a throat, such as no English-speaking youth might reasonably
aspire to. The medical man, I remember, came back at him with the quick
smile of one who knows, and asked him if he did not confound the larynx
with the œsophagus.

“I do,” broke in a young lawyer.

“You do what?”

“I confound the larynxes and œsophagusses of both of you. Mine are
growing thirsty. I say, boys, let’s suppress ’em both. Here, fünf bier!”

The mild Teuton behind the bar obeyed the order with a smile. He was
never so well pleased as when a debate arose among us, sure that every
flash of wit, every stroke of humor, would be followed by a call for
beers all round.

I don’t think we ever drank more than we did on that evening (I really
believe the beer was better then than now); and just as we were in the
midst of one of our highest bursts of hilarity the door opened behind
me.

“Hello!” said the doctor, in a whisper; “there’s our grenadier!”

Turning, I saw Don Miff standing by the counter, exchanging in the
German language a few commonplaces (as I supposed) with the dispenser of
beer.

“Who is he? Where did you ever see him before?” I asked.

“Why, here, of course. Is it possible that this is the first time you
have seen him? Why, he has been coming here every evening for a week at
least. Ah, I remember, you have not put in an appearance for about that
time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘the Grenadier.’ He always takes a seat
at that table where he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, and
drinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. We are curious to know
who the deuse he can be.”

“Does he always come alone?”

“Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, of course. What! do you
know him?”

The Don’s eyes and mine had met, and we had bowed; he with the smile
courteous, I with the smile expansive and bland, born of many beers.

“No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on the street merely. But I
am rather interested in him,—why, I will tell you hereafter. I say,
boys,” I continued, “let’s have him over here.”

“Good!”

I approached the Don with my sweetest smile, and, saluting him, said
something about our being a jolly party over at our table, and wouldn’t
he join us?

“Thanks; with pleasure,” said he, rising; and the “boys,” seeing him
approach, made room for him with much hospitable bustle.

“Mr. Smith,” said he, in a low voice, as we crossed the room.

“Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, I shook it with
unctuous cordiality.

Are we not all brethren?


                              CHAPTER IX.

“Well, fair damsels, I have found out the great, great secret!”

“Oh, do tell us! Who is he?”

“Who he is I cannot say, but I now know his name.”

“Then Don Miff is not his real name!” said Mary, with a rather injured
air. “But of course we could not expect, in our every-day world, to meet
an actual person with such a name as that.”

“I should think not,” said Alice. “But what _is_ his name, Mr. Whacker?
How fearfully slow you are, when we are dying of curiosity, as you
know!”

“How stupid we have all been!” said I.

“In what respect?”

“How shockingly, dismally stupid and obtuse!”

“But how?”

“Did you not put Laura up to asking his name? You did. And did she not
bring back the words _Don Miff_ as the result of her investigations, and
none of us ever suspected the plain English of the matter?”

Here Alice gave a little shriek and fell upon a sofa. “Just listen,”
said I to Mary and Lucy, who were looking from Alice to me, and from me
to Alice, with a bewildered air. “Listen carefully. J-o-h-n S-m-i-t-h,
John Smith, or, according to Laura, Don Miff!”

“Impossible!” cried Mary, with a resolute stamp of her foot.

“But he told me his name himself.”

“I can’t help what he told you; but no one shall ever make me believe
that his name is John Smith. There are people named Smith, of course.”

“No fair-minded person would deny that,” said Alice. “Why, Mary, there
is your own Aunt Judy.”

“Yes, dear old Aunt Judy!” said Mary, smiling. “But _John_ Smith,
Alice,—_John!_ How can you believe that any Smith, senior, in the full
blaze of the nineteenth century, would name his son _John_?”

“I think it in the highest degree improbable,” said Alice.

“Improbable, Alice? Why, it is preposterous. At any rate, be there or be
there not John Smiths in the world, that is not _his_ name.”

“With his starry eyes!” put in Alice, languishingly.

“With his starry eyes!” repeated Mary, smiling. “No; say what he will,
John Smith is no more his name than Don Miff was. And as I, somehow,
like the oddity of the latter, Don Miff shall he be with me till the end
of the chapter.”

“Selah!” said Alice.


                               CHAPTER X.

The most dangerous gift that a man can possess is superior skill in
perilous employments. Sooner or later the most illustrious lion-tamer
furnisheth forth funeral unbaked meats to the lordly beast he has so
long bullied. Sooner or later, dies miserably the snake-charmer, charm
he never so wisely. The noble art of self-defence has been brought to
high perfection; but you shall no more find a prize-fighter with a
straight nose than a rope-dancer with sound ribs. Every now and then
(for the danger is not confined to the experts themselves) a bullet,
advertised to perforate an orange, ploughs the scalp (though rarely
reaching the brain) of its human support; and I make no doubt that the
eminent pippin upon which Swiss liberty is based might have been placed
once too often on his son’s head, had not William Tell abandoned, when
he did, archery for politics.

I have been led into this train of thought by an accident which befell a
number of the actors in our drama, through intrusting their limbs, their
lives, and their sacred necks to the keeping of a young man who was
reputed to be the best driver of Richmond in his day.

Now, no true artist is content unless he may exhibit his virtuosity; and
this young man, like all crack whips, had conceived the notion that the
art of driving consisted, not in bringing back his passengers to their
point of departure, safe and sound, but rather in showing how near he
could take them to the gates of Paradise without actually ushering them
therein. To him the sweetest incense was the long-drawn sigh of relief
breathed out by his friends when deposited, once again and alive, at
their front door. Who but he could have controlled such untrained
horses,—spirited is what he calls them? Who passed that wagon at that
precise spot,—made that rapid turn without upsetting?

Think not, my boy, that it escapes me that in your bright day of things
perfected there will be no more drivers of horses,—nor horses either,
for that matter, save in zoological gardens. Not forgetting this, but
remembering that human nature remains the same, have I written these
words. Beware, then, oh, last lingering male, perhaps, of the line of
the Whackers, beware of the crack balloonist of your favored time!

There were four of us. Lucy and Alice sat on the rear seat, Sthenelus
and I in front, on a rather more elevated position. Returning from our
drive, we are rapidly moving down Franklin Street. A heavy country wagon
is just in front of us, and not far behind it, though rather on the
other side of the street, another creeps along, both meeting us. The
problem was to pass between them. One of those fellows who knows nothing
about driving would have brought his horses down to a walk, and crept
through in inglorious safety. Not so Sthenelus. With him glory was above
safety; and so, leaning forward, he lightly agitated the reins along the
backs of his rapid bays, and we whizzed past the first wagon. The next
instant our charioteer went sprawling over the dashboard, carrying the
reins with him; though I, foreseeing the collision with the second
wagon, had braced myself for the shock, and so managed to retain my
seat.

The horses bounded instantly forward, and rushed down the street with an
ever-increasing speed. The usual scene occurred. Ladies who chanced to
be crossing the street, shrank back in terror to the sidewalk.

Nurses scurried hither and thither, gathering up their charges. Men
stood in the middle of the street, shouting and sawing their arms,
waving hats, umbrellas, handkerchiefs, but getting out of the way just
in time to let the more and more frantic horses pass; while troops of
boys came rushing down every cross-street, their eyes a-glitter with
barbaric joy, and shouting back the glad tidings to their toiling but
shorter-legged comrades in the rear.

Where do all the boys come from?

But wild with terror as they were, the horses turned up the cross-street
along which they had been driven earlier in the afternoon,—the one,
that is, intersecting Leigh one block above the Carters’,—and up this
they rushed with a terrific clatter.

Meanwhile, I had not been idle. Immediately upon the fall of our
charioteer and the bounding forward of the horses, both girls had sprung
to their feet with a cry of horror; but I shouted to them to sit down,
and they obeyed. Alice, however, with every jolt of unusual severity
would rise and attempt to leap from the vehicle, and again and again I
had to seize her and thrust her back into her seat. Lucy, on the
contrary, gave me no further trouble. Ashy pale, with her hands clasped,
she sat trembling and silent, her appealing eyes fixed upon me. At last
I insisted upon their sitting upon the floor of the carriage, assuring
them, in as confident a tone as I could muster, that there was no
earthly danger if they would but resolutely hold that position; and in
this, too, they obeyed me, though in Alice’s case I had to supplement my
commands by a firm grip upon her shoulder.

At last, when we were approaching Leigh Street at a furious pace, and
the horses were turning into it, a well-meaning man rushed, with a loud
“whoa,” at the horse nearest him, at the same time belaboring him with
his umbrella; and this producing an extra burst of speed, the carriage
made the turn literally on two wheels; so that, in momentary expectation
of an upset, I instinctively released my hold on Alice’s shoulder and
seized the edge of my seat; while the girls were so frightened that
Alice sprang up, and, with a wild cry, threw her arms around my neck,
Lucy, at the same time, seizing my right arm.

The two girls pulling down upon me with all the strength of
panic-terror, there was no help for it. My heels flew up in the air, my
legs assuming the shape of a gigantic V.

Picture to yourself, gentle reader, Mr. Fat Whacker moving down Leigh
Street in this alphabetical order!

Even had I not been throttled almost to suffocation, I believe my face
would have been red with shame,—often a more powerful emotion than the
fear of death. (I, for example, once saw an officer, while the battle of
Spottsylvania Court-House was raging, blush, instead of turning pale,
when a cannon-ball, rushing past him, annihilated the seat of his
trousers.)

And this is what I saw, looking through that V as a sharpshooter through
the hind-sight of his rifle.

I saw the Don and Laura cosily sitting on the carriage-block, with their
backs towards us, the nurse standing near by. Molly saw us as soon as we
turned into Leigh Street, and knowing the horses, I suppose (all
recognition of me being, I must presume, out of the question), rushed up
to the Don with a scream. He leaped to his feet, and, taking in the
situation at a glance, sprang into the middle of the street.

Perhaps the effect was intensified to me by the concentration of light
wrought by the involuntary hindsight arrangement of my legs; possibly my
perceptive faculties, stimulated by the situation, were unusually keen;
but the bearing and look of the Don remain to this day indelibly
impressed upon my memory. Hatless, he stood in the middle of the street,
one leg advanced, and with both arms, after the fashion of ball-players,
extended to the front. But it was his countenance that struck me most.
His grimly-set lips, his distended nostrils, his brows intensely knit
over his darkly glancing eyes, but, above all, his head, thrown back,
and rocking to and fro in sympathy with the oscillations of the
approaching team, gave him a look of ferocious disdain.

It is with just such a look, I can imagine, that a lion, famished and
desperate, after long and vain hunting of giraffe or gazelle, prepares
to spring, from his tangled ambuscade of rushes, upon the horns of an
approaching bull. What must be done, saith his mighty heart, must be
done—and done bravely.

’Twas Milton’s Satan stood there!

But just as the grimness of the countenance of Clearchus appeared odious
to his soldiers in camp, but lovely in the hour of battle, so the look I
have been describing seemed to me, at this critical juncture, to rival
the beautiful disdain of Byron’s Apollo Belvedere. It was the sternly
confident look of a man who scorned to rank failure among possibilities.

What would have been the result, had the horses held their straight
course down the middle of the street, we can only conjecture, but such
was the force of habit that, frantic as they were, they bore so far to
the left just before reaching the Don, that the left wheels rattled
along the gutter, within a few inches of the carriage-block, up to which
they had so frequently been driven by their owner. The Don rushed to the
right to intercept them, and, just as they were about to pass him,
sprang upon the head of the off horse with an inarticulate cry so
fierce, and a vigor so tremendous, that the animal, partly thrown back
upon his haunches swerved, in his terror, violently to the left, forcing
his mate upon the sidewalk. But the Don had leaped too far. Struck in
the right side by the pole, he was hurled to the ground, his head
striking the pavement with great force. In a moment of time both hoofs
and wheels had passed over his prostrate form.

“Oh!” shrieked the girls, releasing me, and clasping their hands with
mingled compassion and terror.

The V collapsed, and in an instant I went spinning over the dash-board.

The near-horse, his neck broken against the lamp-post, lay stone dead;
while the other, his traces burst stood trembling in every fibre, and,
as he pulled back against the reins, which still held him, uneasily
snorting at his lifeless yoke-fellow.


                              CHAPTER XI.

I was somewhat stunned by my fall, but extricating myself from my
entanglements, I rose just in time to see Alice spring from the
carriage, followed by Lucy. The latter fell as she alighted from the
carriage, but before I could reach her the Don had staggered up to her
and lifted her from the ground. He was hardly recognizable. His clothes
were soiled and torn, and blood was streaming from two ugly gashes in
his face,—one on his forehead and another in his right cheek.

“I trust you are not hurt?” said he.

“Not at all,” answered Lucy, quickly, before she had looked at him, or
knew, in fact, who had assisted her to rise. “Oh,” cried she, clasping
her hands, when she caught sight of his face, “but you are dreadfully
hurt!”

“Oh, no,” replied he, with a ghastly smile; “merely a few scratches.”

“Oh, but you are! Alice! Mr. Whacker! The gentleman—”

But her further utterance was interrupted by the almost hysterical
entrance upon the scene of Mrs. Carter, who flew from one girl to the
other pale and tremulous, endeavoring to assure herself, by repeated
embraces, that they were not dead. In a few moments a miscellaneous
crowd had clustered around our party, through which Mary, who had
witnessed the accident from her window, rushed to greet her friends. To
add to the confusion, little Laura, her nerves unstrung by the scene,
was wailing piteously; so that, for a moment, we forgot the Don.

“Look! oh, look!” suddenly cried Lucy, in an excited voice; and seizing
me by the arm, she gave me a push. “Quick! quick!” said she, pointing
towards our deliverer.

He was leaning heavily against the lamp-post, which, for support, he had
clasped with his arms; but, their hold relaxed, they had fallen and hung
listlessly by his side. With pallid face, vacant, upturned eyes, and
parted lips, he was slowly sinking to the ground.

I sprang forward, but too late to catch him as he fell, or, rather, sank
gently to the pavement, his head finding a pillow in the body of the
dead horse.

“Who is he, Mary? How was he hurt?” asked Mrs. Carter, eagerly, as she
saw Lucy hurrying to his side, and bending over him with an expression
of agonized terror in her face.

“It is the Don. He tried to stop the horses, but was knocked down, and
then both they and the carriage passed over his body.”

Mrs. Carter was by his side in an instant. His eyes were closed, but
opening them slightly, and seeing her sympathizing looks, a faint smile
illumined his ashy-pale features.

“Ask some of these people,” whispered Mrs. Carter, “to help you carry
him into the house.”

He seemed to hear her, for his eyes opened again and his lips moved,
though they gave forth no sound.

“What’s the m-m-m-matter, Jack?”

Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned and saw my friend Charley.

“What, you in the city! You are just in time. We want to take this
gentleman into Mr. Carter’s.”

Charley and I took hold of his head and shoulders, some volunteers his
body and limbs, and, lifting him gently, we moved towards the house.
Some papers fell out of his breast-pocket as we raised him from the
ground, which Charley gathered together and put into his own pocket for
the time being.

“Where shall we take him?” I inquired, as we entered the hall.

“Up-stairs, into the front room. Here, this way,” said Mrs. Carter.
“Alice,” said she, suddenly stopping midway on the stairs, “send for the
doctor, instantly. This way,—gently. Ah, here we are at last! This
room. There, lay him on that bed. Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Lucy dear,
bring me some water and towels. Thank you. Don’t be so alarmed, child;
he will soon revive.” And she gently passed a corner of the moistened
towel over his soiled and blood-stained face. At this he opened his eyes
for an instant, and looked up into Mrs. Carter’s face with a smile of
languid gratitude, and then, closing them again, soon began to breathe
heavily.

“He is asleep, girls; you had best leave him now to these gentlemen and
myself. The doctor will soon be here, I hope. When did you reach the
city, Mr. Frobisher?” asked she, in a sick-room whisper, turning to
Charley.

“To-day. On a little b-b-b-business. Who is our friend?” And he nodded
towards the bed.

“Oh, I’ll let the girls tell you when you go downstairs. It is rather a
long and strange story.”

When the doctor came he found the Don in a heavy sleep and decided to
make no examination into his injuries, till he awoke. So he lay, just as
he was, in his clothes, till eleven o’clock, at which time he began to
exhibit symptoms of returning consciousness; and we sent off for the
doctor again.

Mrs. Carter, Charley, and I sat in the room with him, though one or the
other of us frequently left his side to convey tidings of his condition
to the girls, who were naturally anxious to know how matters were going
with him. A little after eleven, after turning uneasily from side to
side for some time, he awoke. Mrs. Carter arose softly, and going to the
bedside and leaning over him, asked if he wanted anything; and he called
for a glass of water. He barely moistened his lips, however, and then,
looking from one to another of us in a bewildered way, and scanning the
room with feverish eyes, he raised his head from the pillow and asked,
with a puzzled look, “Where am I?”

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Carter, gently; “you are among friends.”

“Ah, thanks!” said he; and his head falling back upon the pillow, he was
silent for a little while. “I have been hurt somehow, have I not?” he
asked, at last.

“Yes, you were hurt trying to save others.”

“Oh, yes! It seems to me that I tried to stop a run-away team, but they
knocked me down and went on. Or did not some one else stop them? I
remember seeing the ladies leap out and one of them fell, and there was
a crowd of people, and some of them lifted me up.”

“Yes, and brought you in here; but you mustn’t talk.”

“Well, I won’t talk any more,” said he, closing his eyes.

“That’s right. Lie quietly where you are, and after a while you will go
to bed and have a good night’s rest, and will wake up strong in the
morning.”

“Oh, yes,” said he, “I shall be all right in the morning.” But, opening
his eyes wide, he began to stare around the room. “Where am I? This is
not my room,” said he, with rather a wild look; and he tried to rise on
his elbow, but fell back with an expression of pain on his face, closed
his eyes, and lay motionless for a little while. Presently he opened
them again. “I don’t know this room!” And his eyes ranged up and down
and from face to face with a sort of glare. Mrs. Carter gave us an
anxious look. She arose, and, drawing her chair alongside the bed, began
passing her fingers through his hair. Immediately the wild look passed
out of his eyes, and his face was suffused with a smile of infantile
sweetness.

“You must keep quiet,” said Mrs. Carter.

“Yes,” said he, simply.

Suddenly he started up with staring eyes, and cried out, “There they
come! There they come! Molly! Take Laura! Molly! Quick! Quick! Get out
of the way! Ah! I missed ’em!” and he fell back with a groan.

Just then the doctor entered. Mrs. Carter touched her head.

“That’s nothing!” replied the doctor, in a cheery voice. He was a large
man, with a large head, covered not so much with auburn hair as with a
tawny mane. His face, too, was leonine in its strength, and his step
light and springy; and he came into a sick-room with an air which seemed
to say that when he entered by the door disease had to fly out by the
way of the window, or else he would know the reason why. He walked
straight up to the sufferer and placed his hand upon his forehead. The
Don gave him a perplexed look, which passed away, however, when the
doctor began to feel his pulse. The firm and confident look of the
doctor seemed to give the patient control of his faculties.

“Your head aches?”

“Badly.”

“Of course. Any pain elsewhere?”

“Whenever I move there are excruciating pains in my right side.”

“We must look into that. Mrs. Carter, you will please retire. By the
way, please send me one of Mr. Carter’s night-shirts. We will now
undress you,” said he to the Don, “and see what’s wrong with that right
side of yours. Then we shall tuck you away snugly in bed, and you will
wake up to-morrow a new man.”

“Thanks,” said the Don, smiling in sympathy with the cheerful tone of
his physician.

The examination over, the doctor wrote his prescriptions, and, before
taking his leave, suggested that one of us should sit up with the
patient, as his flightiness was likely to return during the night, while
the other made himself comfortable on a lounge till he was needed as a
relief. Giving us his final directions, he left the room; but no sooner
had he emerged into the upper hall than he was surrounded by Mrs. Carter
and the three girls, Mary having decided to pass the night with her
friends.

“Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes, badly.”

“Dangerously?”

“His body is black and blue; there is an ugly lump on the back of his
head, and—”

“And what?”

“He has three ribs broken.”

“Oh!” cried the girls in unison.

“Do you think, doctor,” asked Lucy, with trembling lips, “he will—” but
she could not speak the word.

“Not a bit of it,” and the doctor snapped his fingers.

“Oh, I am so thankful!”

“Now be off to bed, every one of you!” said the doctor, with a certain
jolly imperiousness. “Scamper!” And he shook his tawny mane. “No doubt
there are plenty of fellows who would gladly die for you, but I intend
to pull this one through. Good-night. Go and dream of the hero. Of
course you are all in love with him. Good-night.” And with a courtly bow
he took his leave.


                              CHAPTER XII.

A few days after this, when Mrs. Carter entered the Don’s room, before
going down to breakfast, to see how he was getting on, she found him
entirely free from fever and his head clear once more. It was then that,
for the first time, she made him understand that the house in which he
was lying was the one in front of which he had so often met little
Laura.

“You must know we have often played the spy upon you from our window
while you were talking to her.”

“Indeed!” said he, coloring. “You must have thought—”

“We thought none the worse of you, I can assure you.”

“How strange my conduct must have appeared to you! But had you only
known—however—” And he suddenly checked himself.

“Do you know that your condition has been critical?” said she, changing
the subject. “During the first few days we were very uneasy about you.”

“Few days! You don’t mean to say that I have been lying here several
days?”

“Yes; the accident occurred on Saturday, and this is Thursday morning.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; but you have been delirious, and of course could know nothing of
the lapse of time. You can imagine what our feelings were, doubtful as
we were as to the result of your injuries. There you lay, suffering from
possibly fatal injuries, while, owing to the disordered condition of
your brain, we could in no possible way learn from you the address of
your friends,—you remember, Mr. Frobisher,—nor write them of your
condition.” The Don’s face grew clouded, as Charley’s quick eyes
perceived; but Mrs. Carter’s being fixed upon Charley for the moment,
she did not remark the change. (I was getting a nap in an adjoining
room.) “I am sure,” continued she, “I cannot explain why I felt so, for
I did all I could, even insisting, one night, when the doctor pronounced
your condition exceedingly critical, upon Mr. Frobisher’s looking
through your pockets for letters or other sources of information; but I
could not help repeating and repeating to myself, What will his mother
say when she learns that we—Ah, you are suffering again. Well, we must
not talk any more just now. You will be better after breakfast. You can
take some breakfast, can you not? No? But I shall send up some toast,
may I not? Yes? Ah, that’s right. It will do you good; and little Laura
shall be allowed now to pay you the visit she has so often begged for.”

“Little Laura! Ah, send her in right now,—do, please.”

Charley went to the door and called her, and soon her little feet were
heard pattering along the hall; but reaching the door, and seeing the
Don lying in bed, and so pale and scarred, she stood abashed and
hesitating upon the threshold, with one rosy finger in her mouth,

“Come in, little Sunbeam,” said he; and she began to advance slowly—a
step and then a halt—till she reached the middle of the room, when with
a bound and a bright smile she sprang towards him, crying, “Here’s some
flowers I brought you. I saw those bad horses run over you, and I
cwied.”

“Did you?” said he, with a grateful smile. “I believe you are the best
friend I have in the world.” And he took her hands in his and patted
them gently. “Have you had your breakfast?”

“No, ma’am; Molly is going to get me some.”

“Won’t you take your breakfast in here with me? We’ll have a nice time
together.”

“Oh, may I take my breakfast with Don Miff?”

“Yes, darling.” And Laura skipped out of the room. “You cannot imagine,”
continued Mrs. Carter, smiling, “how all of us were puzzled by that name
which Laura has just used,—Don Miff. She came in one evening and said
that that was your name; and do you know we were all so stupid that we
could not imagine what was the English of it till Mr. Whacker met you
and told us. ‘Don,’ you will observe, has a decidedly Spanish air; but
what nationality did ‘Miff’ indicate?”

“Don Miff, Don Miff,” repeated he, smiling. “Well, that has a decidedly
droll sound when seriously spoken as a man’s name. And Mr. Whacker told
you that it was, being interpreted, plain John Smith.”

“Yes; and, by the way, it occurs to me that perhaps you would like to
know who I am. I am Mrs. Carter” (the Don tried to bow), “and that
gentleman seated by the window, who has nursed you so faithfully”
(Charley arose), “is Mr. Charles Frobisher, of Leicester County.”

Charley came forward and extended his hand.

“Mr. Charles Frobisher!” echoed the Don, in a startled tone, giving
Charley a quick and concentrated glance; and then, as if recovering
himself, he took the proffered hand, and said, “Ah, Mr. Frobisher, I am
extremely indebted to you.”

“Not at all,” replied Charley. “I could not do too much for one who
saved the lives, as you doubtless did, of three of my friends.”

“May I ask whom I so fortunately saved, as you are so good as to say?”

“In the first place, Mrs. Carter’s daughter Alice.”

“My only child,” added Mrs. Carter, averting her face.

“And with her was Miss Lucy Poythress, daughter of a valued neighbor of
mine.”

“Little Laura’s sister,” explained Mrs. Carter.

“Yes,” said the Don, with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

“And my friend Jack Whacker, whom I have long—in default of
other—looked upon as a younger brother. So you see that when we come to
speak of obligation, the boot is on the other—”

“Don Miff, here tums Molly with my bekfuss,” chirped little Laura,
skipping into the room.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Carter, rising, “I must send you yours, Mr. Smith. Mr.
Frobisher, you may leave your patient to Molly and Laura; so join us at
breakfast. No; we will let Mr. Whacker sleep after his vigils as long as
he can. Now, Laura, you must take good care of Mr. Smith.”

That morning Mary, as was her wont, came across the street to inquire
after the Don, and found the family lingering around the
breakfast-table; and the girls had hastened to tell her of the improved
condition of the patient. Mr. Carter and Charley had lit their pipes,
and there was a lively clatter of female voices.

“Girls,” said Mrs. Carter, rising, “I am going upstairs now to look
after our invalid, and I think I shall have some news for you when I
come down.”

“I can’t imagine what you expect to ascertain,” said Alice, “unless it
be how many slices of toast Mary’s starry-eyed one has consumed.”

“You see,” continued Mrs. Carter, smiling, “it is proper, now that he
has recovered the use of his faculties, to write to his friends to let
them know where and how he is. They must be terribly uneasy, whoever
they are. But I cannot write to them without first learning of him their
names and addresses. Do you see?”

“Capital! and perfectly legitimate,” cried Alice. “And mind, mother,
just so soon as he gives you the names find an excuse—you will need
pen, ink, and paper, you know—find an excuse and fly to us,—yes,
_fly_, and tell us all about it. Don’t write the letters first, for we
shall be positively dying to know who he is. Now mind, mother dear,
_fly_!”

Charley rose hastily, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and laid it on
the mantel-piece.

“Won’t you fill up?” said Mr. Carter.

“Not just at present,” said Charley, looking at Mrs. Carter.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Carter, “I shall fly,” and she looked down at her
plump figure and laughed; “and do try to live till I get back.”

“May I accompany you?” asked Charley.

There were three little shrieks from the girls.

“Talk about a woman’s curiosity,” exclaimed Alice; and they all lifted
up their hands and let them fall upon the table. Charley, who was just
passing out into the hall, turned and smiled. It was the answer that he
returned to most things that were said to him.

“By the way,” said Mrs. Carter, turning round in the hall, “when I come
to think of it, Mr. Frobisher, it seems to me that it would be as well
for you to offer your services instead of me.” And she re-entered the
dining-room.

Charley stood looking down upon the floor and twirling his thumbs.

“Don’t you think so?”

“Will you allow me to be perfectly frank?” said Charley, looking up.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Carter, with a surprised look; “what is your
opinion?”

“That neither of us ask the names and addresses of his friends.”

“Really? Of course, if you have any reason to think—if you know
anything—”

“I know nothing whatever, but—”

“But what?” gasped the girls.

Charley stood silent for a time, stroking his yellow beard.

“Sphinx No. 2,” said Alice.

A gentle ripple passed through Charley’s moustache. He began to twist
one end of it. “It may be all imagination,” he began, “but I fancied, at
least, that when you spoke to him this morning of his mother—” And he
paused.

“Ah, I remember. I recollect a look of pain. Yes, I remember
perfectly,—his face clouded up instantly. Yes, you are quite right, Mr.
Frobisher.”

“He always is,” whispered Lucy to me, with a smile.

“Always,” said I.

Mary gave a sigh. “_Now_, girls, I suppose we are _never_ to learn who
this Sphinx is.”

“Never, never on earth,” sighed Alice, in return.

“Yes,” said Lucy, “we shall yet know him; I feel that we shall.”

“You always were a dear, encouraging creature,” said Alice, passing her
arm round Lucy’s waist and leaning her head languidly upon her shoulder.
“I shall never forgive you, Mr. Frobisher. By this time, but for
you—oh, it was too cruel!”

“Never despair!” And he started on his way upstairs.

Nothing was said for a minute or so, all listening to Charley’s retiring
footsteps.

“Mrs. Carter,” said Mary, “Mr. Frobisher knows something about the Don
that we do not. Don’t you think so, Mr. Whacker?”

I had come in for my breakfast shortly after Mary arrived, looking very
sleepy and stupid.

“Hardly, I should think. How could he?”

“And then,” said Mary, “if he knew anything he would have told Mr.
Whacker.”

“I am not so sure of that.”

“You don’t know him,” said Lucy, laughing. “He is an odd fish if ever
there was one. I never could see, though, Mr. Whacker, why people should
say he was a woman-hater.”

“A woman-hater!” exclaimed Mary, looking much interested; “a regular
misogynist would be such a piquant character!”

“Yes, I have heard that he was. Is it true, Mr. Whacker?” said Alice.

“Charley a woman-hater!” said I, sleepily reaching for the butter.
“No—more—than—I—am.” And I gave a frightful yawn.

“Ever since I was a child,” said Alice, gravely, “I have longed to see
Mammoth Cave. My curiosity is now gone. I hope your appetite is on the
same scale, Mr. Whacker.”

“You must excuse me. Remember how little I slept last night.”

“It is such a disappointment that he doesn’t hate women!” said Mary.

“Romance!” whispered Alice; for which Mary gave her a love-tap on the
cheek.

“Charley, you must know, is an eccentric, and it is of the nature of
eccentricities to grow, especially when remarked upon. He was, even as a
boy, singularly taciturn, and this trait having been often alluded to by
his acquaintance, I think he has grown rather proud of it. Rarely
opening his mouth, when he does speak his language is apt to assume a
sententious and epigrammatic form; and certain of his crisp utterances
about women having been repeated, have given him the reputation of
hating the sex. This for example: _Few ladies are gentlemen._ I suppose,
too, that the manner of his life has contributed to strengthen this
impression. He never visits young ladies, seeming content with the
society of my grandfather and that of two or three of the elderly people
among his neighbors.”

“Why, yes,” interposed Lucy, “if he hated women, how could he be so
devoted to mother as he is? No weather can prevent his crossing the
river for his weekly visits to her.”

“How fond he must be of your mother!” said Mary, with an arch look.

“Oh,” replied Lucy, quietly, “I am not the attraction, though we are
warm friends. His visits began when I was ever so little; and as for
mother, she loves Mr. Frobisher as dearly as though he were her own son.
But you know,” said she, turning to me with a grave look, and speaking
in undertones, “there are peculiar reasons for that.”

“Yes,” said I, “I have heard.”

Lucy sighed and was silent.

“But, Mr. Whacker,” began Alice, “why _is_ he so silent? You can see he
is very intelligent. His smile is singularly subtle, and what little he
does say is always admirably well said. ‘A bird that can sing and
won’t,’ you know.”

“Suppose you bring him out,” said I.

“Do you know I am positively afraid of him?”

“The idea of being afraid of Mr. Frobisher!” exclaimed Lucy.

“And the idea of Alice’s being afraid of any one!” chimed in Mary.

“But I am,” rejoined Alice. “That way he has of quietly fixing his eyes
upon you while you are talking, as though he were serenely looking you
through and through, quite upsets me. And then you can’t for the life of
you guess what he thinks of you.”

“Ah,” said I, “that’s the trouble, is it? You would like to know what he
thinks of you?”

“I didn’t say that,” said she, slightly coloring. “I—”

“I’ll ask him,” said I.

“I said—”

“But he won’t tell me, I know.”

“What I said—”

“Sly rogue that he is, with his eyes fixed upon you—so I understood you
to say—all the time that you—even _you_—are talking. How great a
portion of his time he—”

“Mr. Whacker, you are too absurd for anything!”

“However,” said I, unwilling to tease her further, though I saw what
delight it gave her mother and Mary to see Alice put, for once, on the
defensive, “you do my friend injustice. I assure you that, seated
quietly in the Elmington sitting-room, before a bright winter fire,
alone with my grandfather and me, Charley is capable of becoming a
veritable chatterbox. When he is in the vein, there seems to be no end
to the stream of his quaint, subdued humor. He reminds me of the waters
of a cistern, deep, quiet, unobtrusive, but there when needed,—not of a
brook that goes babbling sweetly forever.”

“For example,” said Mrs. Carter, nodding towards Alice.

“I wish you would persuade him to do some babbling for us,” said she.

“And you, meanwhile?”

“Ah,” said her mother, “she would be able then to enjoy the luxury of
what Sydney Smith called an occasional flash of silence.”


                             CHAPTER XIII.

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.”

“What!” said Alice. “Have not I long since claimed him?”

It was on one of the occasions above alluded to that the Don mentioned
where his room was (hence Mrs. Carter’s knowledge of its location),
managing to throw out, in a vague way, that as a wanderer about the
earth he had chanced to find himself in Richmond, something in his
manner rendering it impossible that any one should ask whence he came or
whither he was going. “Now, doctor,” Mrs. Carter had added on this
occasion, “I am sure that you will say that it would be very unwise in
Mr. Smith to forsake his nurse and his present quarters just at present.
True, Mr. Whacker takes Mr. Frobisher off to-night down to his rooms,
but I am left. Besides, down there on Main Street, weak as you are, and
all alone as you would be, there is no telling what might happen.” And
she looked to the doctor for support.

“Of course,” said he, with a shake of his head that brought the waving
hair down over his forehead,—“of course Mr. Smith will remain here for
the present.”

“Well, that is settled?” asked Mrs. Carter.

“One must obey orders, especially when they are agreeable.”


                              CHAPTER XIV.

This decree of the doctor’s threw the household into a great bustle. I
was requested to call on the Don’s landlord, explain his long absence,
and have his trunk sent up to Leigh Street. The girls were in a great
flutter at the prospect of breakfasting with the mysterious stranger
next morning; which announcement they had no sooner heard than they flew
across the street to give Mary the news; and the air grew misty with
interjections.

“We have arranged it all, Mary. Mr. Whacker and Mr. Frobisher, who, as
you know, are to leave our house this evening, will come up to breakfast
with the Don, of course, and you will just make the party complete.
_Proper?_ Of course, Mary. Why, there will be just one apiece,—_so_
nice! You and Mr. Frobisher, Lucy and—ahem!—Mr. Whacker, and the Don
and myself. _No!_ that’s the way it shall be. Of course I’ll let you
girls look at him,—even exchange a few words with him,—but I!—” And
dropping into a chair by a table, she made as though mincing at an
imaginary breakfast, whilst ogling, most killingly, an invisible gallant
by her side.

That day, the girls thought, would never end. They could neither talk
nor think of anything save the coming breakfast, wandering aimlessly
from room to room, and from story to story, romping, yawning, giggling,
and were so exhausted by nightfall that they all went to bed at an early
hour, just as children do on Christmas Eve, to make the morning come
sooner.

You must remember that they were hardly eighteen years of age.

The morning came. Charley and I met Mary at the front door and we
entered together. “I am so excited,” said she. “It is all so like a real
adventure.”

A few minutes afterwards Mrs. Carter begged me to go up and assist the
Don down-stairs, if necessary. He walked down-stairs very well, however,
and we entered the dining-room, where I expected to find the whole
family, but the girls had not yet put in an appearance. Alice, it seems,
had gotten the other girls into so hilarious a state by her mad
drolleries—enacting scenes that were to take place between herself and
the Don—that they had to remain some time in the upper chamber in order
to resume control of their countenances; and her performances in the
halls and on the stairways were such that they had to call a halt
several times before they reached the dining-room door. We were all
seated at the table, and breakfast had begun, when the door was partly
opened, then nearly closed, then opened a little way again, while a
faint rustling of female garments was the only sound that broke the
stillness. Presently, Mary, followed by Lucy, popped into the room with
a suddenness that suggested a vigorous push from some one in the rear,
while their features, of necessity instantly composed, were in that
state of unstable equilibrium which may be observed in the faces of boys
when the teacher reappears in the school-room after a few moments’
absence. Alice followed, demure as a Quakeress.

The introductions over, and Alice and Lucy having thanked the Don for
his gallant rescue of them from danger, the girls took their seats,
Alice next the Don. It will be easily imagined that, under the peculiar
circumstances of the case, no word, no gesture, no look of our new
friend passed unobserved. No bride, coming among her husband’s
relations, was ever more searchingly scrutinized. Naturally, we compared
notes upon the first occasion that offered, and it was interesting to
observe that, various as were the estimates placed upon our enigma, each
of the ladies held, in the main, to her first impression. It is no
secret, in fact, that if a woman sees a man passing in front of a window
at which she is sitting, or hears him utter three sentences, the
impression formed upon her mind is often next to ineradicable.

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Carter, “when I have seen a manner so elegant
and distinguished. It shows the combined effect of gentle birth and much
travel. How charming—and how rare nowadays—is that deference towards
our sex that he manages to combine with perfect dignity and repose of
manner! By the way, Mr. Whacker, did you not notice how subdued Alice
was throughout breakfast? I have never seen her so quiet and demure.”

“Never mind,” said Alice, “I am feeling my way. Wait till I get a little
better acquainted with him. I must say, however, that I don’t think our
hero promises much in the way of fun. I doubt whether he would know a
joke if he met one on the highway.”

“No,” said Mary, “his nature is too absorbed, too intense, for—”

“And his eyes too starry. Did you not observe, Mary, how they dilated
when first they bended their light on the dish of stewed oysters?”

“Alice, I believe that if you could, you would jest at your own
funeral.”

“No; at that pageant you may count on me as chief mourner.”

“Ob, Alice!” said Lucy, reprovingly.

“Never mind, my dear; I am not so wicked as I seem. Besides, I am rather
reckless and desperate just at this moment.”

“Why, what is the matter?”

“All my aspirations dashed to the ground during one short breakfast!”
Alice rested her chin upon her hand, and gazed pensively upon the floor.

“What new farce is this?” asked Lucy, amused.

“And it is you who ask me that!” And Alice raised her eyes with a sad,
reproachful look to those of her friend. “And you call it a farce?
_You!_” And she sighed. “Of course,” resumed Alice, quickly raising her
head and looking from face to face,—“of course you all noticed it. It
was perfectly obvious. Yes, this Miss from the rural districts has
swooped down and carried off the prey without an effort.”

“I, at least,” said Lucy, coloring, “saw nothing of the kind. In the
first place, I sat at one end of the table and he at the other, and I am
sure I hardly exchanged a dozen words with him.”

“Alas!” sighed Alice, “it is precisely there that the sting lies. I sat
by him and had every advantage over you,—and I used every advantage.
Didn’t you remark the tone in which I called his attention to the
omelet? Could a siren have urged upon him, more seductively, a second
cup of coffee? And how gently did I strive to overwhelm his soul with
buckwheat cakes! And was the marmalade sweeter than the murmur in which
I recommended it? And yet,”—Alice paused for a lull in the tumultuous
laughter,—“and yet,” she continued, “strive as I would, I could not
keep his eyes from wandering to your end of the table.”

“It is very strange,” said Lucy, wiping her eyes, “that all this was
lost on me.”

“And then,” added Alice, “your most—some one will please attend to the
fat lady; she seems in a fit—your most trivial remark, even though not
addressed to him, seemed to rivet his attention. To confess the
humiliating truth, Mary, I don’t believe he would recognize either of
us, should he meet us in the street; but every lineament of Lucy’s face
is graven—you know how they say it in novels. It is a regular case of
love at first sight, my dear.”

Alice’s eyes ran along the circle of faces surrounding her as she spoke,
and it so happened that when she paused at the words “my dear” she was
looking Charley full in the face. Charley, as I have before remarked,
had seen very little of young ladies, and I had several times observed
that when Alice was speaking in her sparkling way he would watch her all
the while out of the corners of his eyes, with an expression of
wondering interest. Charley rarely laughed. I think his self-control in
this regard amounted to somewhat of an affectation, and he had acquired
a sort of serene moderation even in his smiles. But Alice’s bright,
rattling talk seemed to have a sort of fascination for him, and to hurry
him out of himself, as it were. And on this occasion I had been slyly
watching his features moving in sympathy with the changing expression of
her exceedingly mobile countenance. Entirely absorbed as he was in
watching the play of her countenance, and thinking of I know not what,
when he found her bright eyes resting full upon him, and himself
seemingly addressed as “my dear,” he was suddenly startled out of his
revery, and not knowing what to say:

“I beg pardon,” said he, quickly, “were you speaking to me?”

A shout of laughter greeting this ingenuous question, Charley’s face
reddened violently, Alice’s generally imperturbable countenance
answering with a reflected glow.

“Not exactly,” said she; “my remarks were addressed to the company at
large.”

“Oh!” said he, blushing more deeply still.

“But, Mr. Frobisher,” continued Alice, willing to relieve the
embarrassment of the woman-hater, “don’t you agree with me? Wasn’t the
Don obviously captivated by Lucy?”

“I am sure, if he was not, it would be hard to understand the reason
why. But the fact is, Mrs. Carter’s capital breakfast—”

“Oh, you monster!”

Half an hour later, finding myself alone with Lucy: “So you do not claim
or even admit,” I happened casually to remark, “that you have made a
conquest.”

“No, indeed!” replied she, with a frank look in her eyes. “Far from it.
Alice is all wrong.”

“But Miss Alice was not alone in her observation of the facts of the
case. We all saw what she described. I did most certainly.”

“And so did I.”

“Well?”

“I saw, of course, how often he glanced towards me, and I was conscious
that even while I was speaking to others his eyes were upon me. But
there are looks and looks. You men don’t understand anything about such
matters.”

“And where, pray, did you learn all this mysterious language of looks
and looks?”

“I am a woman.”

“So is Alice.”

“Ah, yes; but, Alice—well, girls like to say that kind of thing to each
other,—it’s encouraging, you know. Why do you smile? It is pleasant, of
course, to be told that we have destroyed some man’s peace of mind,
though we know it to be highly improbable in point of fact. I shall
reciprocate, at the first opportune, by telling Alice with what sweet
pain she has filled the breast of dear good Mr. Frobisher.”

“Do you think so?” I exclaimed. “That would be too good! The
woman-hater! Capital!”

“Stranger things have happened. Did you not see how he blushed just now?
But as to the Don, do you know he is a greater mystery to me now than
ever? Every woman instinctively knows what a man’s looks mean.”

“Well, what did the Don’s glances signify?”

“I cannot for the life of me imagine.”

“What! Although every woman instinctively knows, and so forth.”

“Ah,” said she, smiling, “I meant that they always knew when the looks
meant—pshaw! you know very well what I mean.”

“You would have me to understand that the Don’s looks, though they meant
something, did not mean nascent love.”

“Yes. Do you not remember that sudden and intense look he gave me when
we met him on the sidewalk? Well, when I came to turn that incident over
in my mind I came to the conclusion that he mistook me for some one
else. Now I am all at sea again. He knows, now, that I am Lucy
Poythress, and not any one else.”

“Naturally.”

“Don’t be silly,—and still—”

“And still?”

“And yet—oh, you know what I mean.”

“Upon my word I do not.”

“Well, he seemed to me to be studying me as a kind of problem,—no, not
that,—he appeared—ah, this is my idea—he seemed to me to survey me
just as I have seen mothers look at their sons after a session’s
absence. ‘Has he grown? Has he changed? Has he improved?’ Do I make
myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“What are you laughing at? What do I mean, then?”

“I gather from all you say that your impression is that this Mystery,
this Enigma, this Sphinx, this Don Miff—longs to be a mother to you.”

“Mr. W-ha-c-k-e-r!”

I could never understand why a man must not laugh at his own witticisms;
and my hilarity on this occasion immediately drew the other girls and
Mrs. Carter into the front parlor, where Lucy and I were sitting. By
rapidly interposing a succession of chairs between that young woman and
myself, I succeeded in giving the ladies an enlarged and profusely
illustrated edition of Lucy’s views of the state of the Don’s feelings
and intentions in regard to herself, when, seizing my hat, I fled,
leaving the three girls in uproarious glee, and Mrs. Carter collapsed in
an arm-chair, weeping, while voiceless laughter rippled along her rotund
form. As I passed in front of the window Lucy’s head appeared.

“Say your prayers twice to-night,” said she.


                              CHAPTER XV.

“Jack,” said Charley that night at my rooms, “have you any message for
the old gentleman? I am off for home to-morrow.”

“Indeed! Why this sudden resolution?”

“Too many people in Richmond for me.”

“It seems to me that you like some of them a good deal. Isn’t she
bright?”

“P-p-p-pass me the tobacco.” He filled his pipe very deliberately and
walked across the room. “Where do you keep your matches? Ah, here they
are. Who,” added he, striking one—“puff—do you—puff, puff—think
so—puff, puff, puff—bright? Confound the thing!—puff—puff—it has
gone out!” And he struck another. Lighting his pipe, and throwing
himself upon a lounge, he looked the picture of content.

“Say, old boy,” said I, “own up. Those hazel eyes—”

“Do you know, Jack-Whack” (whenever he called me that he was in the best
possible humor), “that you are making a howling ass of yourself?” And he
shot a pillar of smoke straight towards the ceiling, following its
eddying curves with contemplative eyes.

“‘Howling ass’ is a mixed metaphor.”

“Yes, but an unmixed truth, my boy. Did it ever occur to you, Jack,”
said he, removing the Powhatan pipe, with its reed-root stem, from his
lips, “that cigars are essentially vulgar? You never thought of it? But
they are. So are dress-coats. You have only to put them into marble to
see it. Look at the statue of Henry Clay in the Square. Was ever
anything so absurd! Posterity will inevitably regard Henry as an ass.”

“Of the howling variety?”

“Of course. Now, just picture to yourself Phidias’ Jove with a cigar
stuck into his mouth.”

Charley shot upwards a circling wreath of smoke, watched it till it
dissipated itself, and then turned his head, with a little jerk, towards
me: “H’m? How would the Olympian Zeus look with a Parian Partaga between
his ambrosial lips?”

“I have seen lips that—”

“Howling and so forth.” And he turned over on his back and commenced
pulling away at his pipe.

“I think she likes you.”

Charley pursed up his mouth, and, taking aim, with one eye, at a spot on
the ceiling, projected at it a fine-spun thread of smoke. I detected a
tremor in his extended lips.

“I may say I know she likes you.”

With an explosive chuckle the pucker instantly dissolved. I had taken
him at a disadvantage. His features snapped back into position as
suddenly as those of a rubber mask.

“I was thinking,” said he, “how great a solace and bulwark a pipe would
have been to Socrates, during his interviews with Xantippe,—and it made
me smile.”

“Yes,” said I, carelessly.

“_Yes!_” said he, rising up on his elbow,—“what do you mean by ‘yes’?”

“I merely meant to agree with you, that a pipe would have been a great
solace and bulwark to Socrates during his interviews with Xantippe.”

He fell back on the lounge. “Let’s go to bed,” said he.

“Good!” said I; and I began to remove my coat. “So the Don is to leave
the Carters to-morrow and go to his own quarters.”

“Yes,” said he, rising from the lounge. “I like that chap.”

That was a great deal for Charley to say. It was the very first
expression of his sentiments towards the Don.

“I am glad you do,” said I; “I thought you did.”

“Yes, he is a man. Do you know what I am going to do? I shall invite him
to Elmington. Uncle Tom will like him. He says he is fond of hunting,
and this is just the time for that; and he will be strong enough soon.
Suppose we go up to-morrow, before I leave town, and invite him jointly.
You will be down for the Christmas holidays, you know. By the way, I
hope he will accept?”

“I am quite sure of it. He has betrayed an unaccountable interest in
Leicester County on every occasion that I have alluded to it,
notwithstanding an obvious effort to appear indifferent. He has a way of
throwing out innocent, careless little questions about the county and
the people that has puzzled me not a little. Who the deuse _is_ he?”

“Roll into that bed! it is too late for conundrums. Here goes for the
light!” And he blew it out.

“Jack!” said he, about half an hour afterwards; “Jack, are you asleep?”

“H’m?”

“Are you asleep?”

“H’m? H’m? Confound it, _yes_!”

“No, you’re not!”

“Well, I _was_!” And I groaned.

“Jack, I suppose Uncle Tom will have his usual Christmas party of girls
and young men at Elmington this Christmas?”

“S’pose so, umgh!”

“I say—”

“Don’t! Don’t! Those are my ribs! Good Lord, man! you don’t know how
sleepy I am. What on earth are you talking about?”

“Do you know what girls Uncle Tom is going to have to spend Christmas
with us this winter?”

“And you woke me up to ask me such a question as that? Thunder! And you
see him to-morrow evening, too! Oh, I understand,” said I, being at last
fully awake, and I burst out laughing. “You want me to say something
about Alice with the merry-glancing hazel eyes.”

“About whom? Alice? That’s absurd,—perfectly absurd! Why, she thinks me
an idiot because I don’t jabber like one of you lawyers. All women do.
Unless you gabble, gabble, gabble, you are a fool. They are all alike. A
woman is always a woman; a man may be a philosopher.”

“My dear boy, your anxieties are misplaced.”

“Who spoke of anxieties?”

“Don’t you—a philosopher—know that talkative girls prefer taciturn
men? I am perfectly certain that Alice thinks your silence
admirable,—dotes on it, in fact.”

“Jack-Whack,” said Charley, rising up in bed and—rare sight—though I
felt rather than saw or heard it—shaking with laughter, “you are the
most immeasurable, the most unspeakable, the most—”

Down came a pillow on my head. Down it came again and again as I
attempted to rise. We grappled, and for a few minutes no two school-boys
could have had a more boisterous romp.

“Now just look at this bed,” said Charley, out of breath; “see what you
have done!” And he fell back exhausted, as well with the struggle as
from his unwonted laughter. “We have not had such a tussle since I used
to tease you as a boy. Whew! Let’s go to sleep now.”

“She’s a bewitching creature.”

“Idiot!” said Charley, turning his back to me with a laugh, and settling
himself for the night.

“Poor fellow! Well, he got me to pronounce her name, at any rate, by his
manœuvring.”

“Do you know this is rather coolish? Where on earth are the blankets?
Find one, won’t you? and throw it over me.”

“Here they are, on the floor! There! Sleep well, poor boy!

    ‘Oh don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
    Sweet Alice with h-a-i-r so brown.’”

“You rhyme with the sinners who came to scoff, but remained to pray. You
seem to yourself to sing, but appear to me to b-b-b-bray.”

“Good! There is life in the old boy yet!”


                              CHAPTER XVI.

Next morning Charley and I called at the Carters’ to give the Don the
invitation to visit Elmington, but found he had gone out for his first
walk since his accident, to test, at Mrs. Carter’s instance, his
strength before going into his own quarters. Charley was compelled,
therefore, to leave the city without seeing him. In the evening I called
at his rooms. Knocking at his sitting-room door, I was invited to enter,
and found him sitting by a table reading a small book, which he closed,
but held in his hand as he rose and came forward to greet me.

“Reading?” began I, bowing and glancing casually towards the little
book, the back of which was turned away from me.

“Yes,” replied he, but without looking at the book; “getting through an
evening alone I find rather dull work after my recent charming
experience. Take a seat. Will you have a pipe, or do you prefer a cigar?
A pipe? You will find the tobacco very good.” And walking to a small set
of shelves near the door, he placed the little book upon it,—a
circumstance too trivial to mention, did it not afford a characteristic
example of the quiet but effectual way the Don had of nipping in the bud
any conversation which was about to take a line he did not wish it to
follow. I suppose we had been chatting for half an hour before I alluded
to my errand.

“Mr. Frobisher wished to see me particularly, you say?”

“Yes; Charley heard you say one day that you were fond of shooting; and
as there is fine sport to be had in Leicester, he thought it might be
agreeable to you to—”

The smile of polite curiosity with which he heard that Charley had had
something to say to him rapidly faded as I spoke, and there came into
his countenance a look of such intense seriousness, nay, even of subdued
and suffering agitation, that, for a moment, I lost my self-possession
in my surprise, but managed to finish my message in a stumbling sort of
way. As for the Don, anticipating, apparently, from my opening words
what that message was to be, he seemed hardly conscious that it was
ended. He sat, for a moment, with his head resting in the palm of his
hand, his piercing eyes fixed upon the floor; but seeming suddenly to
realize that this was a queer way of meeting a courtesy, he quickly
raised his head. “Thanks, thanks,” said he, with a forced smile, but
with apologetic emphasis. “Charley—I beg pardon—Mr. Frobisher is very
kind,—very kind indeed! Yes, I should immensely enjoy having a tilt
once more at the partridges.[1] Very much indeed.”

“Then I may hope that you will accept?”

“Oh, certainly, with very great pleasure. Please present my warmest
acknowledgments to Char—Mr. Frobisher, and say that I shall be at his
command so soon as I shall have recovered my strength somewhat.” He
paused for a moment; then, throwing back his head with a little laugh:
“By the way,” he continued, “I beg you will not misinterpret my singular
way of receiving the invitation. It was such a surprise, and I am still
a little weak, you know.”

“You must allow me to add how much gratified I, too, am at your
decision. You know—or do you not?—that the invitation is to my
grandfather’s place, Elmington.”

“Elmington?”

“Ah, I see—very naturally, you don’t understand that Charley lives with
my grandfather.”

“With your grandfather? Why, how can that be? I thought his place
adjoined your—” And he stopped suddenly. “Please be so good as to
explain,” he added, in a low voice.

“Well, this rather peculiar state of things came about in this way. My
mother died before I was a month old, and my father, my grandfather’s
only son, survived her less than a year; so that I was brought up by the
old gentleman. Now, Charley’s place adjoined Elmington, my
grandfather’s, their respective residences being not over a half-mile
apart; and so Charley got into the habit—however, I must mention that
Charley lost his father years ago, and, about ten years since, his
mother died.”

“His mother? His mother is dead?” asked the Don, in a low tone, and
without raising his eyes from the floor.

“Yes. They say she was a lovely woman.”

“And she is dead, you say—your friend’s mother?” he repeated, in a
mechanical sort of way; and, resting his head upon his hand, he fixed
his eyes upon the window with a look so grim that I paused in my
narrative.

“Yes,” I presently resumed, “she—Charley’s mother; that is—”

“I beg pardon,” said he, abruptly turning to me, and, as the Latin hath
it, serening his face with an effort,—“please go on.”

“Well, Charley was at the University at the time of his mother’s death;
and during the following vacation he seemed to find his own desolate
home—he was singularly devoted to his mother—unendurable; so he would
frequently drop in on my grandfather and myself at tea, walking home,
when bedtime came, across the fields; but my grandfather, remarking the
sad look that always came into his face when he arose to depart, would
frequently insist upon his spending the night with us. The poor fellow
could scarcely ever resist the temptation, to my great delight; for to
me, a boy of thirteen, Charley, who was eighteen, _and a student_, was a
sort of demi-god. I suppose, in fact, that apart from my grandfather’s
personal liking for the young man, and his sympathy with him under the
circumstances, he was very glad to give me the society of some one
younger than himself. And so, to make a long story short, Charley’s
visits becoming more and more frequent and regular, it came at last to
be understood that he was to spend every night with us,—during his
vacation, of course. At last, at the end of three years, Charley left
the University with the degree of Master of Arts in pocket.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You are surprised, no doubt. He is so unassuming, one would hardly
suppose that he had attained an honor which is reached by hardly more
than one out of every hundred of the students at the University. To
continue. When he returned from college and took charge of his farm, it
soon appeared that the tables were turned. It was Charley’s
companionship now that had grown to be a necessity to the old gentleman.
‘We shall expect you to dinner,’ he would say every morning, as Charley
rode off to look after his farming operations. Charley often protested
against this one-sided hospitality, and, as a compromise, we would dine
with him occasionally; but at last my grandfather proposed a
consolidation of the two households, all of us wondering why the plan
had not been thought of before. That is the way Charley came to live at
Elmington. The two farms are separate, though from time to time worked
in common, as occasion demands,—in harvest-time, for example. Each farm
contributes its quota to the table, though not in any fixed ratio. My
grandfather, for example, is firmly persuaded that the grass on his
farm—notably in one special field—imparts, in some occult way, a
flavor to his mutton that Charley’s does not possess; while, on the
other hand, an old woman on Charley’s place has such a gift at raising
chickens, turkeys, and ducks, that we have gotten in the habit of
looking to her for our fowls.”

The Don smiled.

“It is rather a singular arrangement, isn’t it? but I have gone into
these details that you might see that Elmington is, for all the purposes
of hospitality, as much Charley’s as my grandfather’s. I hope it will
not be long,” I added, rising, “before you will be able to go down and
see how the arrangement works, though I am sorry I shall not be able to
join you till Christmas week, being detained by professional
engagements, or, rather, the hope of such, as I have but recently opened
a law office.”

“You may rest assured that I shall not lose a day, when once my
physician has given me leave to go. Can’t you sit longer? Another visit
yet? Ah, I am sorry.” And he accompanied me to the door of his
sitting-room.

As we stood there for a moment, exchanging the customary civilities of
leave-taking, my eye fell upon the little book the Don had laid upon a
shelf of his book-case.

It was a copy of the New Testament.

-----

[1] The quail is unknown in Virginia—both bird and word.—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER XVII.

At about the hour at which I was taking leave of the Don my grandfather
was sitting alone in his dining-room, reading; his snow-white hair and
beard, as they glistened in the lamp-light, affording a strong contrast
to the vivacity of his dark eyes and the ruddy glow of his complexion.
But the book before him was hardly able to fix his attention. Every now
and then he would raise his eyes from its pages, with the look of one
who fancied that he heard an expected sound. Several times he had risen
from his seat, gone to the door, opened it, and listened. Something like
this he had been doing now for nearly a week. “Dick!” called he at last,
opening the door: “Dick!”

Uncle Dick emerged from the kitchen, where, for several days past, he
had had orders to sit up till ten o’clock in the hope that Charley might
arrive.

“Yes, mahster!”

“Dick, I thought I heard some one coming.”

Uncle Dick, who very naturally (and correctly) supposed that this was
another false alarm, threw his head into an attitude of pretended
listening.

“Do you hear anything?” asked the old gentleman.

“Ain’t dem de horses a-stompin’ down at de stable?”

“I believe you are right,” sighed the old gentleman, as he turned to
re-enter the dining-room.

“Marse Charley ain’t sont you no letter, is he?” asked Uncle Dick,
advancing deferentially towards my grandfather, across the space that
separated the kitchen from the “Great-House.”

“Why, no; but I thought he might come. He wrote me a week ago that the
gentleman was getting well.”

“Adzackly!” replied Dick, scratching in the fringe of white wool that
bordered his bald head. “Jess so! Does you think it rimprobable,
mahster,” he began again after a moment of seeming reflection, “dat
Marse Charley would come without he writ fust and ’pinted de day, and de
ferry ’most twenty miles from here, and nothin’ to hire dere ’cep’n ’tis
dat old flea-bitten gray, and he a-string-halted?”

“True enough.”

“Dat ain’t no fitten animil for de likes o’ Marse Charley, and he a-used
to straddlin’ o’ de very best dat steps.”

“But listen, Dick! what’s that?”

“Lor’, mahster, dat ain’t nothin’ but de old m’yar and colt out d’yar in
de pasture.”

“Well, what in the blue-blazes makes them all stamp so to-night?”
replied the old gentleman, not without a little petulance.

“Dat’s jess what I say! leastwise d’yar ain’t no flies to bite ’em dis
weather; but dey will do it, mahster, dey will do it. Every dog have he
day, dey tell me.”

Uncle Dick was strong on proverbs, though hardly happy in their
application. Sometimes, in fact, just as doctors will, when they don’t
know what is the matter with a patient, prescribe pills of several
remedial agents, in the hope that if one shall miss another may hit, so
our old hostler, carriage-driver, and dining-room servant would not
scruple, when aiming at a truth, to let fly at it an aphorism compound
of the head of one proverb and the tail of another.

“Yes,” said my grandfather, applying Dick’s saying for him, “every dog
will have his day, and I suppose that is why your Marse Charles is
staying so long in Richmond.”

Uncle Dick was a year or two his master’s senior, and many a “wrassle”
had they had together as boys. He was, of course, a privileged
character, and he now gave one of those low chuckles beyond the reach of
the typographer’s art to represent to the eye. “Yes, mahster, I hears
’em say dat d’yar is some monstrous pretty gals, nebberdeless I should
say young ladies, up d’yar in Richmond. Howsomever, pretty is as pretty
does. Dat’s what old Dick tells ’em.”

“You think Charley is in love, I presume?”

Old Dick drew himself up as became one consulted on family affairs, and,
dropping his head on one side, he assumed, with his knitted brows and
pursed lips, an eminently judicial air.

“Well, mahster, ef you axes me ’bout dat, I couldn’t ’espond pint’ly, in
course; for I ain’t seen Marse Charles a-noratin’ of it and
a-splanifyin’ amongst de Richmond f’yar sect; but old Dick ain’t been
a-wrasslin’ and a-spyin’ ’round in dis here vain world for nigh on to a
hundred year for nothin’ ef you listen to Dick; and ef you believes me,
mahster, dey all of ’em most inginerally gits tetched with love
onetimeornuther.”

“I believe you are quite right, Dick.”

“Why, Lor’ me, mahster,” began Dick, encouraged, and assuming an
attitude worthy of the vast generalization he was about to utter, “I
really do believe into my soul dat people is born so; dey is
pint’ly,—specially young folks.” And he stopped in mid-career. “What
dat? ’Pear like I hear the far gate slam. But Marse Charley, he are a
keener, he are, and the gal what catches him will have to be a keener
too, she will pint’ly. Marse Charley worse’n a oyster at low tide; soon
as a young ’oman begins a-speculatin’ and a-gallivantin’ _round him_, he
shets up, he do.” And the old man chuckled. “Howsomever, he am pint’ly a
keener, ef you hear Dick—”

“Listen, Dick!”

“I do believe I hear a horse snort! D’yar ’tis again! Somebody comin’
through de gate. ’Fore de Lord, I believe ’tis Marse Charley! Lemme look
good! Sure enough, d’yar he is! Sarvant, Marse Charles! I knowed you was
a-comin’ dis very night, and I hope I may die ef he ain’t on old
Hop-and-go-fetch-it! Lord a’ massy! Lord a’ massy! Well, it’s an ill
wind what don’t blow de crows out o’ some gent’mun’s cornfield. Lord a’
massy, Marse Charley, what _is_ you a-doin’ up d’yar on dat poor old
critter, and de horses in de stable jess a-spilin’ to have somebody
fling he leg over ’em?”

“Well, my boy, is that you?”

“Yes, here I am again, and glad to be back at home. How are you, Uncle
Tom?”

“The same old seven-and-sixpence,—always well; and how are you?”

“Sound in wind and limb, and savagely hungry.”

“Well, get down, and we’ll soon cure that ailment.”

“I am very sorry,” said Charley, as they entered the dining-room, “that
I had to stay away so long, but it seemed right that I should help nurse
him. Ah, what a noble fire!”

“Well, you are at home again, at any rate. Polly will soon have some
supper for you, and you know what is in the sideboard.”

Old Dick, meanwhile, was carrying out his share in the programme.

“Well, I s’pose I’ll have to feed you,” said he to the flea-bitten,
surveying him from head to hock.

No true negro feels any doubt whatever as to his words being perfectly
intelligible to horse, mule, cow, or dog.

“Ef ever I see a poor-folks’ horse, you is one. Git up! git up! don’t
you hear me? You needn’t be a-standin’ here a-thinkin’ Dick gwine to
ride you to de stable. Aha! you hear dat word stable, did you? Bound for
you! You been d’yar befo’, and you know d’yar’s corn in dat ’ar stable;
and a heap mo’, besides you, know dat d’yar is pervisions a-layin’
around here, and dey ain’t horses neither, nor yet mules. Git up, I tell
you! Ain’t you got no more sense, old as you is, than to be a-snatchin’
at dry grass like dat? But Lor’, Dick don’t blame you! No, honey, Dick
ain’t got a word agin you. Who is you, any way, I ax you dat? Is you
blood? Is you quality? Dat’s what’s de matter, ef you believe me. You
needn’t be a-shakin’ your head; you can’t tell Dick nothin’. Anybody can
see _you_ ain’t kin to nobody. ’M’h’m! yes, chile! you needn’t say a
word, Dick knows dat kind far as he can see ’em, be dey man _or_ beast.
Howsomever, Dick don’t mount no sich. Nigger property is too unsartin
for dat. Nebberdeless, Marse Charles, bein’ as how he belongs to his
self, he mought. Nebberdeless, you fotch him home, and pretty is as
pretty does, dat’s de way old Dick talks it. Polly! Polly!” shouted he
to his wife, the cook, as he passed the kitchen door; “Polly! git up,
gal! Marse Charles done come and want he supper. _I would say_,”
continued he, not content with the colloquial phrases in which he had
announced his young master’s arrival and the state of his appetite,—“I
would say, Polly,”—and enveloped in darkness as he was, and invisible
even to his spouse, the old man threw himself into an impressive pose,
as he always did when about to adorn his language with phrases caught up
from the conversation of his master and his guests,—“I would say de
Prodigy Son have arrove, and he as ravenous as de fatted calf.” Hearing
Polly bustling about within the kitchen: “Polly,” inquired he, in a
stately voice, “did you hearken to what I rubserved?”

“I hear you, Dick.”

“But did you make me out, chile, dat’s de pint, did you make me out?”

“G’long, man, and put dat horse in de stable. Marse Charley want he
supper, course he do. What’s de use o’ talkin’ about fat calves, when
you know as well as I does d’yar ain’t no sich a thing in de kitchen.
Marse Charley want he supper, I know dat, and I’se gittin’ ready to cook
it fast as I can.”

“I b’lieve you. Well, put my name in de pot, chile.” And the old man
went his way. “Well,” said he, soliloquizing upon the much-longed-for
return of his young master, “dey tell me chickens, like horses
[curses?], always does come home to roost—git up, I tell you!—’cep’n
onless dey meets a free nigger in de road, den good-by chickens—for
you’re gwine to leave us.”


                             CHAPTER XVIII.

“Why, what’s all this, Uncle Dick?” exclaimed Charley, as that venerable
servitor entered, with hospitably beaming countenance, bearing a tray.
“Roast oysters! why, this cold turkey was enough for a prince.” And he
brushed from his yellow moustache the foam of a glass of Bass’s ale.

The old man, complimented by Charley’s surprise, placed the smoking
oysters upon the table with a bow of the old school.

“Why, they are beauties! Ah, I am glad you will join me, Uncle Tom! I
never saw finer.”

“Dey is fine, Marse Charley, dat’s a fac’. Polly she save ’em for you
special. You know, young mahster” (another bow), “de old-time people
used to say you must speed de partin’ guest.”

“That’s true. By the way, Uncle Dick, what do you say to a little
something to warm up your old bones?”

“Since you mention it, Marse Charley, I believe de frost has tetched ’em
a little.”

“Well, get that bottle out of the sideboard,—you know where it is.”

“Know whar ’tis? I wish I had as many dollars as I know whar dat bottle
sets!”

“Or would you prefer ale?”

“Thank you, young mahster; whiskey good enough for Dick.”

“There, ’tisn’t more than half full; take it out and give Polly her
share.”

“Sarvant, mahster!”

“Take some sugar?”

“Much obleeged, young mahster; seems like ’most everything spiles
whiskey. Somehownutther nothin’ don’t gee with sperrits ’cep’n ’tis mo’
sperrits.”

“But Aunt Polly might like sugar with hers.”

“Dat’s a fac’, Marse Charley, dat’s a fac’; but Lor’ me, women don’t
know; but den again dey tell me it’s a wise man as knows his own father,
so d’yar ’tis.”

“Well, Uncle Dick, I can make out without you now, so good-night; and
present my compliments to Aunt Polly, and you and she drink my health.”

“We will pint’ly, Marse Charles, we will pint’ly.” And even after the
old man had closed the door, you might have heard muttered fragments of
his amiable intentions, as he trudged back to the kitchen.

“Well,” began my grandfather, rising from the table to fill his pipe,
“you made a long stay of it in Richmond. How did you leave the young
man?”

“Ah, he is nearly well again,” said Charley, deftly removing a side-bone
from the fowl before him. “By Jove, I did not know how hungry I was.
That early dinner on the boat seems to me now like a far-away dream of a
thing that never was. I wonder whether this turkey really _is_ the best
that old Sucky ever raised? How good that tobacco smells!”

Charley was happy. The bright fire and good cheer, after his long, cold,
and tiresome ride, the intense consciousness of being at home once more,
but, above all, the look of beaming satisfaction on the face of the
venerable but still vigorous old man, who sat smiling upon him and
enjoying his appetite and high spirits, filled him with ineffable
content.

“Let me settle with this august bird, Uncle Tom, and then I shall be
ready to talk to you about Mr. Smith,—Don Miff, as the girls call him.”

“Don Miff?—what girls?”

“The—ah, we gave him that nickname. I’ll explain when I get even with
this noble fowl and light my pipe.”

“Did you,” asked my grandfather, advancing cautiously as a skirmisher,
“meet any nice people in Richmond?”

“Oh, yes, very nice people up there,—too many of them; made me talk
myself nearly to death,—but very nice people, of course, very. Look at
that chap,” added he, holding up on the end of his fork a huge oyster.

“You spoke of girls,—did you meet any?” And a pang of jealousy shot
through the old man’s heart, as he recalled Dick’s aphorism on the
universal liability of young folks to a certain weakness.

“Oh, lots!—I’ll have to cut this fellow in two, I believe.”

“Who were they?” asked the old man, trying to smile.

“Who? the girls?”

“Yes; you did not mention any in your letters.”

“Of course not. When did you ever know me to write about girls? As I
said, I met lots of them at the various houses at which I visited. It
seems to me that there are girls everywhere.”

“Thank God for it, too.”

“Well,—yes,—as it were; but you can’t expect a fellow to remember all
their names. Oh, there was Lucy Poythress, of course.”

“Yes, I knew she was in Richmond.”

“And then—and then there was a schoolmate of hers,—Miss Mary Rolfe.
You know her father, Mr. James Rolfe. Brilliant girl, they say,—talks
beautifully—very accomplished, you know, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I have heard she is a really charming girl. What do you say to our
having her as one of our Christmas party?” The old man removed his pipe
from his mouth. “What do you say, Charley?” And he glanced at the young
man’s face with a look that was too eager to be shrewd.

“A capital idea!” exclaimed Charley, spearing another oyster with
emphasis.

The old man drew vigorously on his pipe several times, and finding it
had gone out, rose for a lighter. “You think,” said he, puffing between
his words as he relit his pipe, contemplatively watching the tongue of
flame darting down into the bowl, “that we should have her of the
party?”

“Most assuredly. She is a fine girl,—you would like her. In fact, we
must have her here if possible.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “yes.” And he gazed at the bright coals. He
felt that he had not landed his trout. “So you didn’t lose your heart?”

“My heart? Who, I?” And Charley gave a loud laugh.

“The very idea amuses you?”

“I should think so! I suppose you suspect that old Cousin Sally’s
niece—or Cousin Sally’s old niece—whichever you please—captivated
me?”

“No, I was not thinking of Sarah Ann. In fact, I didn’t know that any
one had captivated you—till you mentioned it.”

“Well, upon my word, I have finished the last of these oysters,—and
there is not so much turkey as there was.”

“Well, now we will have an old-time whiff together; and now begin your
story. However, before you do, can you think of any other girl who would
be an acquisition for Christmas?”

“Who? Bless me, Uncle Tom, what could have put such a notion into your
head? Oh, I’ll tell you,—leave it all to Jack-Whack; he’s the ladies’
man of the family, you know.”

“Very well; and now fill your pipe and tell me all those strange things
about that strange Mr. Smith, that you promised me in your letters.”

Charley told the story, with one omission. He failed to allude to his
having invited the Don to visit Elmington. Omissions to state all manner
of things that ordinary mortals would make haste to mention was one of
Charley’s idiosyncrasies,—so that I suspect that his silence on this
point was premeditated. Another was, as I have already hinted, an
aversion to expressing an opinion of any one, good or bad. But Mr.
Whacker felt instinctively that Charley had conceived a genuine liking
for this mysterious stranger. A tone here, a look there, told the tale.
Charley’s likings, being rare, were exceedingly strong. Moreover, they
were never, I may say, misplaced, and my grandfather knew this. So, when
Charley had finished his narrative, “You have,” said he, “interested me
deeply. Who _can_ he be? But be he who he may, he is obviously no common
man.”

Charley puffed away slowly at his pipe.

“He is a remarkable man,” continued my grandfather, warming up.

“He has points about him,” said Charley, driven to say something.

“Yes, and characteristic points, highly characteristic points,” said the
old gentleman, with a sort of defiant emphasis.

“He has, beyond question.”

“Charley,” began Mr. Whacker, rising and taking a lighter,—for he had
suffered his pipe to go out,—“don’t you think”—and he lit the
taper—“what do you say,” he continued, in a hesitating manner, which he
tried to cover up under pretence of strict attention to the feat of
adjusting the blaze to the tobacco,—“how would it do to invite him
here,—just for a week or so, you know?”

It is, I dare say, a mere whim on my part, but I must now beg the
contemporary reader to obliterate himself for a few pages.

I must tell you, my descendant-to-the-tenth-power—no, you will be that
much of a grandson,—my descendant-to-the-twelfth-power, therefore—I
must tell you, as a matter of family history, why your
ascendant-to-the-fourteenth-power hesitated.

Our common ancestor was a Virginian,—which means, you will doubtless
know, that he was hospitable. Again, he was a Virginian of Leicester
County,—and that is as much as to say, as I trust a dim tradition, at
least, shall have informed you, that he was a Virginian of Virginians.
But, lastly and chiefly, he was Mr. Thomas Whacker of Elmington. What
_that_ amounts to you can learn from me alone.

Our common ancestor was, then, the soul of hospitality,—hospitality in
a certain sense boundless, though it was strictly limited and exclusive
in a certain direction. No dull man or woman was welcome at Elmington.
But his nets seemed to bring in all the queer fish that floated about
Virginia. I suppose there must have been something inborn in him that
made odd people attractive to him, and him to them, but I have no doubt
that this trait of his was in part due to the kind of Bohemian life he
led in Europe for several years, when he was a young man, mingling, on
familiar terms, with musicians, actors, painters, and all manner of
shiftless geniuses,—so that the average humdrum citizen possessed
little interest for him. If a man could only do or say anything that no
one else could do or say, or do it or say it better than any one else,
he had a friend in Mr. Whacker. All forms of brightness and of
humor—any kind of talent, or even oddity—could unlock that door, which
swung so easily on its hinges. And not only men of gifts, but all who
had a lively appreciation of gifts, were at liberty to make Elmington
their headquarters; so that, as my memory goes back to those days, there
rises before me a succession of the drollest mortals that were ever seen
in one Virginia house. Now, I need hardly remind you that company of
this character has its objections. Men such as I have rapidly outlined
are not always very eligible visitors at a country house. It happens,
not unfrequently, that a man who is very entertaining to-day is a bore
to-morrow,—the day after, a nuisance; so that our grandfather, who was
the most unsuspicious of mortals, and who always took men for what they
seemed to be on a first interview, was frequently most egregiously taken
in, and was often at his wit’s end as to how to get rid of some treasure
he had picked up. In fact, Charley used to dread the old gentleman’s
return from the springs in autumn, or the cities in winter; for he was
quite sure to have invited to Elmington some of the people whom he had
met there; and they often proved not very profitable acquaintances. In
fine, wherever he went, he rarely failed to gather more or less gems of
purest ray serene, many of which turned out, under Charley’s more
scrutinizing eyes, very ordinary pebbles indeed.

Unqualified, however, what I have written would give a very erroneous
idea of the people our grandfather used to gather around his hospitable
board; for I must say that after all deductions have been made, he
managed, certainly, to get beneath his vine and fig-tree more really
clever and interesting people than I have ever seen in any one house
elsewhere. And then, too, as there were no ladies at Elmington, I don’t
know that his mistakes mattered much. Still, they were sufficiently
numerous; and he had begun to lose, not indeed his faith in men, so much
as in his own ability to read them. And just in proportion as waned his
confidence in his own judgment in such matters, he placed an
ever-heightening estimate upon Charley’s; so that, in the end, he was
always rather nervous upon the arrival of any of his new-found geniuses,
till his taciturn friend had indicated, in some way, that he thought
them unexceptionable.

Now, Charley had seen Mr. Smith; our grandfather not. Here was a chance.
He would throw the responsibility upon Charley. In this particular case
he was especially glad to do so, for there was undoubtedly an air of
mystery surrounding Mr. Smith, and mystery cannot but arouse suspicion.

Our grandfather continued: “H’m? What do you say? For a week or so?”

There was positively something timid in the way he glanced at Charley
out of the corners of his eyes. And now you may dimly discern what was
most probably Charley’s motive for refraining from alluding to his
having himself invited the Don to Elmington. In a spirit of affectionate
malice he had deliberately entrapped his old friend into making the
proposition. So I must believe, at least.

“By all means,” replied Charley, with a cordiality that surprised Mr.
Whacker.

“What! Do you say so?” cried our grandfather, rubbing his hands
delightedly; and taking out his keys, he began to unlock his desk. “How
should the letter be addressed?” continued he, turning and looking at
Charley. His face reddened a little as he detected an imperfectly
suppressed smile in Charley’s eyes. He was somewhat afraid of that
smile.

“What are you grinning at?”

“I grinning?”

“Yes, you! Didn’t you say we should invite him?”

“Certainly.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s past eleven,” said Charley, glancing at the clock.

“Is it possible!”

“And then the mail doesn’t leave till day after to-morrow.”

“Oh!” ejaculated our impulsive ancestor, “I had not thought of that!”


                              CHAPTER XIX.

Ten days or so have passed.

“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we have seen our breakfast?”

Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemen rose from the
table, with the imposing look of a generalissimo, at a half-grown boy
who acted as his aide-de-camp whenever there was even one guest at
Elmington. It was only, in fact, when our small family was alone that
this worthy served as what would be called, in the language of our day,
a “practical” waiter (there existing, it would seem, at the period of
this writing, to judge from the frequency of that adjective upon
sign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers, and barbers,
against whom the public are thus tacitly warned). For, whenever we had
company, Dick would perform the duties rather of a commander than of a
private,—_magis imperatoris quam militis_,—summoning to his assistance
one or more lads who were too young for steady farm work,—or were so
considered, at least, during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under
this name went, in defiance of all the philology and all the Grimm’s
Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(he had been christened
Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forward under that austere glance of
authority and began to clear the table,—half trembling under the severe
eye of a chief for whom there was one way of gathering up knives, one
method of piling plate upon plate, one of removing napkins,—one and
only one.

“Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes were lit, “there is a fire
in the library?”

“Yes, sir; I made one de fust thing dis morning.”

“Ah, well, Charley, suppose you take Mr. Smith over then; you will be
more comfortable there than here. I shall follow you in half an hour or
so.”

“This way,” said Charley. And the two young men, passing through the
house and descending a few steps, found themselves upon a pavement of
powdered shells, which led to a frame building, painted white, and one
story in height, which stood about fifty yards westward of the mansion.
This they entered by the left door of two that opened upon the yard, and
found themselves in my grandfather’s library and sitting-room. It was
fitted up with shelves, built into the walls, upon which was to be found
a miscellaneous library of about two thousand volumes; the furniture
consisting of a very wide and solid square table, a couple of lounges,
and a number of very comfortable chairs of various patterns. Charley
took up his position with his back to the fire, while the Don sauntered
round the room, running his eye along the shelves, and occasionally
taking down and examining a volume, and the two chatted quietly for some
time.

“The old gentleman is coming over. I hear his step. He has something to
show you.”

“Ah?” said the Don, looking around the room.

“It is not in this room; it is in the next,—or, rather, it is that room
itself,” added Charley, pointing to a door. “That room is the apple of
his eye. I always reserve for him the pleasure of exhibiting it to his
friends.”

“Looking over our books?” interrupted my grandfather, entering the room
briskly, with a ruddy winter glow upon his fine face.

“Yes; and I observe that you have a large and capital selection of
French classics.”

“Yes; I picked them up when I was abroad as a young man. You read
French? Ah! Then this will be the place for you on rainy days when you
cannot hunt. Charley, have you shown Mr. Smith the Hall?”

“Not yet.”

“No?” ejaculated my grandfather, with a surprise that was surprising,
seeing that Charley had given him that identical answer on a hundred
similar occasions previously. “Mr. Smith,” said he, walking toward the
inner door, “we have a room here that we think rather unique in its
way.” And he placed his hand upon the knob. “We call it ‘The Hall.’ Walk
in!” And he opened wide the door, stepping back with the air of an
artist withdrawing a curtain from a new production of his pencil.

The Don advanced to the threshold of the room, and giving one glance
within, turned to his host with a look of mingled admiration and
surprise. The old gentleman, who was as transparent as glass, fairly
beamed with gratification at observing the pleased astonishment of his
guest. “Walk in, walk in,” said he, wreathed in smiles. “Be careful,”
added he, laying hold of the Don’s arm, as the latter’s feet seemed
disposed to fly from under him,—“the floor is as smooth as glass.”

“So I perceive. Why, what on earth can you do with such a room in the
country?” And the Don lifted his eyes to the very lofty ceiling.

“That’s the question!” observed Mr. Whacker, giving Charley a knowing
look.

“One would say it was a ball-room,” said the Don, looking down upon the
perfectly polished floor, in which their figures stood reflected as in a
mirror.

“It would do very well for that,” said the old gentleman. “I think it
would puzzle you to find the joints in that floor,” he added, stooping
down and running his thumb nail across a number of the very narrow
planks. “You observe, the room is ceiled throughout with heart-pine,—no
plastering anywhere. I used, as you see, the darker wood for the floor,
and selected the lightest-colored planks for the ceiling; while I made
the two shades alternate on the walls. You think so? Well, I think it
ought to be, for I was several years collecting and selecting the lumber
for this room,—not a plank that I did not inspect carefully. And so you
think it would make a good ball-room? So it would, in fact. Thirty feet
by twenty would give room for a goodly number of twinkling feet.”

“I see a piano at the other end of the room.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Whacker, leaning forward, his fingers interlaced behind
his back, and his smiling eyes fixed upon the floor. He was giving the
Don time,—he had not seen everything in the room.

“What!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly, as his eyes chanced to stray
into a corner of the room, which was rather dark with its closed blinds.
“Is not that a violin-case standing in the corner?”

“Yes, that’s a violin case,” rejoined Mr. Whacker, softly, while his
eyes made an involuntary movement in the direction of the neighboring
corner.

“And another!” exclaimed the Don, “and still another! and, upon my word,
there is a violoncello in the fourth corner!”

My grandfather threw his head back as though he would gaze upon the
ceiling, but closed his eyes; and rocking gently back and forth, and
softly flapping upon the floor with both feet, was silent for a while.
He was content. The surprise of the stranger had been
complete—dramatically complete,—his wondering admiration obvious and
sincere.

Charley watched his friend quietly, with a tender humor in his eyes. He
had witnessed a number of similar scenes in this room, but this had been
the most entirely successful of them all.

“The third box,” resumed my grandfather, softly, with his eyes still
closed, and still rocking from heel to toe, “contains a viola.”

“A viola! Then you have a complete set of quartet instruments!” And he
turned, looking from case to case, as if to make sure that he saw
aright. “What a droll, divorced air they have in this great room, each
solitary in his own corner! Surely you can never—”

“Never use them?” And my grandfather paused with a smile on his face. “I
find this room rather cold. Let us adjourn to the Library and I will
tell you how we manage.”


                              CHAPTER XX.

So, while Mr. Whacker is explaining matters to the Don, I shall make
things clear to the reader.

My grandfather, when a young man, spent several years in Europe. He was
an enthusiast in every fibre, and one of his enthusiasms was music. Very
naturally, therefore, he took lessons while abroad,—lessons on the
violin, the piano being held, in Virginia, an instrument fit only for
women and foreigners. But, undertaking the violin for the first time
when he was a grown man, he never acquired, ardently as he practised,
anything like a mastery over that difficult instrument. At any rate,
returning to Virginia and finding himself no longer in an
artist-atmosphere, his ardor gradually cooled, so that until about ten
or twelve years before the period of my story, all I can remember of my
grandfather’s musical performances is his occasional fiddling for me and
such of my young school-mates as chanced to visit me. During the
Christmas holidays, especially, when Elmington was always crowded with
young people, it was an understood thing that Uncle Tom, as most of his
neighbors’ children delighted to call him, was to be asked to play.
Christmas Eve, notably, was no more Christmas Eve, at Elmington, without
certain jigs and reels executed by “Uncle Tom,” than without two
enormous bowls—one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy—concocted by
him with his own hands. The thing had grown into an institution, more
and more fixed as the years went by. On such occasions, immediately
after the old gentleman had taken his second glass of eggnog,—not
before,—it was in order to call for his annual exhibition of
virtuosity; whereupon Charley—no one else could be trusted to bear the
precious burden—was despatched to my grandfather’s chamber, where, upon
a special shelf in a closet, lay, from Christmas to Christmas, a certain
old violin, which rarely saw the light at any other time.

But, about a dozen years before the events I am now describing, there
came a German musician—Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel chanced to be his
name—and established himself at Leicester Court-House as a piano
teacher,—or, rather, he gave lessons on any and all instruments, as
will be the case in the country.

Herr Waldteufel was an excellent pianist, and, in fact, a thorough
musician. Strangers from the cities, when they heard him play at
Elmington, were always surprised to find so brilliant a performer in the
country, and used to wonder why he should thus hide his light under a
bushel. But the truth is, a man generally finds his place in the world,
and Herr Waldteufel was no exception. In the frequent hinges of his
elbow was to be found the explanation of his losing his patronage, in
city after city; so that it was natural enough that he found himself, at
last, giving lessons in a village, and in the houses of the neighboring
gentry, upon piano, fiddle, flute, guitar, and, shades of Sebastian
Bach! must I even add—the banjo?

And, notwithstanding his weakness, the honest Herr was an excellent
teacher. True, he did occasionally fail to put in an appearance for a
lesson, when no excuse was to be found in the weather; but his patrons
learned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiable and obliging, he was
a general favorite, and welcome everywhere.

Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintance of the Herr and
to invite him to Elmington; at first under the pretext of having him
tune his piano. The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked to play;
and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr. Whacker soon found
themselves trying over a slow movement, here and there, out of a musty
and dusty old edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they made was, I
dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had not played anything of that
kind for years; but it would have been hard to say which of the two was
most delighted,—the German, at finding so enthusiastic a lover of his
art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather, at the prospect of
being able to renew his acquaintance with his idolized Mozart, whom he
always persisted in placing at the head of all composers. The Elmington
dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’s estimate of the treasure he
had found; and (Mr. Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving him
that night) they separated at the head of the stairs, at one o’clock in
the morning, after a regular musical orgie, vowing that they had not
seen the last of it. Nor had they; for before Herr Waldteufel had set
out, in the morning, for a round of lessons in the neighborhood, he had
promised to return, the following Friday, to dinner. And so, from that
day forth, he was sure to drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and
regularly, after dinner, he and my grandfather would fall to and play
and play until they were exhausted. Next day the Herr would sally forth,
and, after giving his lessons, return in time for dinner; after which
they would have another time together.

Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; but my grandfather would
never play on that day. I suppose it would be hardly possible for a man
who has spent several years on the Continent to see anything “sinful” in
music on Sunday; but neither is it possible for any man, even though he
be a philosopher, altogether to evade the pressure of surrounding
convictions. Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—of
our Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defy all rivalry. Virginia
is not only _one_ of the Middle States, she is _the_ middle State of the
Union in many other respects, but especially in her theological
attitude. While, to the north and east of her, religious systems that
have weathered the storms of centuries are rocking to their foundations,
nay, tumbling before our very eyes, undermined by the incessant rush of
opinions ever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while, to the
southward and westward, we see the instability and recklessness
inseparable from younger communities, the Old Dominion stands immovable
as a rock; believing what she has always believed, and seriously minded
so to believe to the end of time,—astronomy, geology, and biology to
the contrary notwithstanding. Now, of all the religious convictions of
your true Virginian this is the most deeply rooted,—the most
universally accepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath, not the
Sabbath for man. Again: according to our biblical exegesis the word
Sabbath does not really mean Sabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the
week, that is, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first is the
opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency of the reasoning,—so is
work the contrary of play. Hence it is clear to us (however others may
laugh) that the commandment forbidding all manner of work on the last
day of the week was really meant to inhibit all manner of play on the
first; _Q. E. D._

I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, after returning from
church, the Herr opened the piano, “just to try over” the hymns we had
heard, my grandfather made no objection; and then, when his fingers
somehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentleman either
believed or affected to believe that it was a Teutonic form of religious
music, and called for more. And so, things going from bad to worse, it
came about that in the end we had hours of piano music every Sunday, to
the great scandal of some of our neighbors, who did not fail to hint
that the Herr was an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.

But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the line at the fiddle; making
a distinction perfectly intelligible to all true Virginians,—though his
course in this matter ever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and
effete European brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.

For many months—for two or three years, in fact—after this arrangement
was set on foot, my grandfather was at fever heat with his music. To the
amazement, not to add amusement of his neighbors and friends, he fell to
practising with all the ardor of a girl in her graduating year; nor was
he content to stop there. He set every one else, over whom he had any
influence, to scraping catgut. His favorite text during this period, and
one upon which he preached with much vigor and eloquence, was the
insipidity of American life,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.

“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whist is adapted to those
among us of middle age, or the old; but whist is, at the best, unsocial.
Dancing gives happiness to the young only. Hunting affords amusement
during one season and to one sex only. You cannot read forever; so that
the greater part of our leisure-time we spend in gaping or
gabbling,—boring or being bored. How different it would be if all our
young people would take the trouble to make musicians of themselves! one
taking one instrument, another another. Why, look at our neighbor up the
river, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for,
invariably, when he got to this particular neighbor, the bright vision
of a possible domestic orchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to
rob him of the power of utterance, and he would pace up and down his
library with an expression of enthusiastic disgust on his heated
features.

Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views in this regard was his
grandson, the teller of this tale; and I believe it was really one of
the most serious of the minor troubles of his life that he could never
make a musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave me up as a hopeless
case. But with Charley his reward was greater. Charley had readily
consented to take lessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well
before he entered the University, as during his vacations; and when,
after he left college, he came to live with us, he was not likely to
give up his music, as the reader can very well understand. During the
week he and his friend used to play duos together, and they made very
pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdays they would perform
transcriptions (at making which the Herr was really clever) for two
violins and piano.

Things went on in this way for a year or two; until, in fact, the summer
of 1855. It was during the summer of that year, it will be remembered,
that Norfolk was so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and my
grandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs, had remained at
Elmington, and opened his doors to his friends and other refugees from
the stricken city. Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the
epidemic declared itself, a young French or—to speak more
accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped down into Norfolk, from
somewhere, in search of a living; who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak
of the fever, had fled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to find
his way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in falling in with Herr
Waldteufel; and he, exulting in the treasure he had found, brought him
to Elmington on the first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.

“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered the Herr, at the first
opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vas so full as a teek von peoples, but he
can shleep mit me. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring dis Frenchman,
oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He would insist upon calling Mr. Whacker
Baron.)

“I suppose he is a refugee, and you knew—”

“A refuchee! ja wohl! Ach! but mein Gott, Barrone,” exclaimed he,
clasping his hands, “vat for a feedler ist dot mon!”

“You don’t tell me so!”

“Donnerwetter!” rejoined the Herr, rolling up his eyes, “you joost hear
him one time, dot’s all!”

From that day in August until the following Christmas M. Villemain was a
member of our household; and even then he took his departure much
against my grandfather’s will. His coming among us enabled Mr. Whacker
to do what he had scarcely dreamed of before,—to establish, namely, a
string quartet.

I shall never forget the first meeting of the club. Waldteufel, who was
already a tolerable violinist, had readily agreed to take the
violoncello part, and Charley, though with many misgivings, had
consented to tackle the viola; and the Herr was despatched to Baltimore
to purchase these two instruments. Upon their arrival, it was agreed
that the novices should have two weeks’ practice before any attempt at
concerted music should be made, Waldteufel taking his ’cello to his
rooms at the Court-House, while Charley was to attack the viola under
the direction of M. Villemain; but Mr. Whacker grew so impatient for a
trial of their mettle that, on Friday morning of the first week, he sent
a buggy for the Herr, requesting him to bring his instrument with him;
and, accordingly, just before dinner, up drove the bass, his big fiddle
occupying the lion’s share of the vehicle. Dinner over, my grandfather
could allow but one pipe before the attack began. The centre-table in
the parlor was soon cleared of books; the stands were placed upon it;
the performers took their seats; the parts were distributed, “A”
sounded, the instruments put in tune. The composition they had selected
was that quartet of Haydn (in C major) known as the Kaiser Quartet, in
the slow movement of which is found the famous Austrian Hymn.

“We are all then ready?” asked M. Villemain (in French), placing his
violin under his chin. “Ah!” added he, in that short sharp tone so
peculiarly French, and the bows descended upon the strings.

It was worth while to watch the bearing and countenances of the four
players.

The Frenchman, entirely master of his instrument and his part,—glancing
only now and then at his music,—ejaculating words of caution or
encouragement; Waldteufel, taking in the meaning of the printed signs
without an effort, but doubtful as to his fingering,—correcting his
intonation with a rapid slide of his hand and an apologetic smile and
nod to his brother artist; Charley, serene and imperturbable, but
putting forth all that was in him; while my grandfather, conscious that
the second violin was most likely to prove the block of stumbling, and
anxious not to be utterly outdone by the “boys,”—his eyes riveted upon
the page before him, his face overspread with a certain stage-fright
pallor,—played as though the fate of kingdoms hung upon his bow. At
last, not without a half-dozen break-downs, they approached the end of
the first movement; and when, with a sharp twang, they struck, all
together, the last note, my grandfather’s exultation knew no bounds.

“By Jove,” cried he, slapping his thigh,—“by Jove, we can do it!” And
congratulations were general.

But the culmination of the enthusiasm occurred during the performance of
the slow movement. Here the air, a gem of imperishable beauty, passes
from one instrument to another. When the theme falls to the second
violin, the violino primo accompanies, the viola and ’cello being
silent, if I remember aright. Here was Mr. Whacker’s opportunity. The
movement is without technical difficulties, but the mere idea that he
had a solo to perform made the old gentleman as nervous as a graduating
Miss. He lightly touched his strings to be quite sure they were in
tune—gave a turn to a peg—wiped his spectacles—blew his nose—lifted
the violin to his left ear, softly plucking D and G as though still in
doubt—smoothed down the page—tightened his bow—and, with a bow to M.
Villemain, began.

He had scarcely played a half-dozen notes when the Herr cried out, “Goot
for de Barrone!”

“Bravo, Secondo!” echoed the Primo from the midst of his rapid
semiquavers.

Deeply gratified and encouraged, the old man gave an unconscious but
perceptible toss of the head; and his snowy locks trembled upon his
temples. Charley lifted his eyes from the floor with a sigh of relief.
His anxiety lest his old friend should break down had been touching to
see,—the more so as he had tried so hard to conceal it.

The performer reached the appoggiatura about the middle of the air, and
turned it not without grace. It was nothing to do,—absolutely
nothing,—but the two artists were bent on giving applause without
stint.

“_Parbleu! Tourné à merveille!_” cried the First Violin, in his native
language.

“Py Tam!” shouted the Bass, in an unknown tongue.

“_Je crois bien!_” rejoined the Belgian, as though he understood him.

One of the Herr’s foibles was his fondness for making what it was his
happiness to consider puns in the English language. “De Barrone served
us a good turn dere!” he whispered to his unoccupied comrade.

The Viola smiled without taking his eyes off the Second Fiddle.

“You take?” inquired the Violoncello, stimulating his neighbor’s sense
of humor by a gentle punch in the ribs with his bow.

“Very good, very good!” answered Charley; and my grandfather, taking the
compliment to himself, rather laid himself out on a _crescendo_ and
_forte_ that he encountered just then.

Mr. Whacker had practised his part over, hundreds of times, during the
week preceding its execution by him on this occasion, and he really
played it very creditably. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that,
at its end, he should have been greeted with a small tempest of
clappings and bravos and goots; and it remained his conviction ever
after, that of all the quartets of Haydn, the Kaiser most nearly
approaches the unapproachable perfection of Mozart.

He looked at the matter from the Second Violin point of view. Who shall
cast the first stone?


                              CHAPTER XXI.

Meanwhile, Mr. Whacker has not been idle. He has been giving his
wondering and interested guest an account of what I have just narrated
to the reader; omitting, naturally, many things that I have said; saying
many things that I have omitted; telling his story, that is, in his own
way. Let us drop in upon them and see where they are.

“This was in 1855,—five years ago. How have you managed to supply M.
Villemain’s place during all this time? Have you succeeded in developing
the local talent?”

“Local talent? Bless you, no. I labored faithfully with my grandson, but
had to give him up,—no taste that way. Then there was a young fellow,
the son of a neighbor,—young William Jones,—who is now at the
University. I had great hopes of him when he began to take lessons; but
the scamp was too lazy to practise his exercises, and pretended he
couldn’t see any tune in classical music. Perfectly absurd! However,”
quickly added Mr. Whacker, observing that his guest was silent, “the
majority are of his way of thinking. Bill is a capital fiddler, however,
and is invaluable at our dancing parties. He will be down Christmas, and
you will hear him.”

“I should like very much to do so,” replied the Don, rather stiffly.

“His ‘Arkansas Traveller’ is an acknowledged m-m-m-masterpiece,” chimed
in Charley, “and his ‘B-B-B-Billy in the Low Grounds’ the despair of
every other fiddler in the county.”

“I should like very much indeed to hear him,” said the stranger,
laughing heartily at Charley’s neatly turned phrase, over which his
stammering threw a quaint halo of added humor. “And so you had to give
him up also, Mr. Whacker?”

“Yes, I had to give them all up, except Charley here.” And he gave that
young man’s knee a vigorous slap, accompanied with an admiring glance.
“You could hardly guess how I manage. You see Mr. Waldteufel visits
Baltimore twice a year to lay in a stock of music and other articles
needed by his pupils, and he has instructions to look about him and pick
up, if possible, some violinist newly landed in the country, or one
temporarily out of employment; or perhaps he may find an artist desiring
a vacation, to whom a few weeks in the country would be a tempting bait.
All such he is at liberty to invite to Elmington,—provided, of course,”
added Mr. Whacker, with a wave of his hand, “provided they be proper
persons.”

“Or the reverse,” soliloquized Charley, prying narrowly, as he spoke,
into the bowl of his pipe.

“Or the what?”

“I addressed an observation to my p-p-p-pipe.”

“Well, suppose they _are_ sometimes rather—in fact—rather—what
difference, pray, does it make to us two bachelors? You will no doubt
think, Mr. Smith, that this is a quartet under difficulties,—and so it
is, but it is a quartet after all. If not, in dissenting phrase, a
‘stated,’ it is, at least, an ‘occasional service of song.’”

“Goot for de Barrone!” quoted Charley.

“Then again, I not infrequently invite the leader of some watering-place
band to drop in on us, for a week or so, on the closing of the season at
the Springs. They are generally excellent musicians, and glad enough,
after a summer of waltzes and polkas, to refresh themselves with a
little real music. So you see that, after all, where there is a will
there is a way. Provide yourself with a cage, and some one will be sure
to give you a bird; build a house, and—”

“The r-r-r-rats will soon come.”

“I was going to say a wife—”

“Oh, then, instead of r-r-r-rats, it’s br-br-br-brats!”

“You see,” continued my grandfather, laughing, “I have the Hall there
for a cage.”

“Yes, but where is your bird, your fourth player?”

“Very true, the bird is lacking just at present. The truth is, we have
had poor luck of late. We have not had any quartet music for a
year,—not even our quartets where the piano takes the place of one of
the violins, owing to the absence of our young-lady artiste. By the way,
I forgot to tell you, in speaking of our local talent, that one of our
girls is an excellent pianist, and that through her we have been enabled
(until the past year) to keep up our quartet evenings, in the absence of
a first violin; the main trouble being that I am hardly equal to my
part—that of the first violin—in these compositions,—Lucy Poythress.
You know her?” asked Mr. Whacker, on observing the sudden interest in
the Don’s face.

“Why, Uncle Tom, Mr. Smith saved her life! Don’t you remember?”

“Of course! of course! you must pardon an old man’s tricks of memory!”

“Miss Poythress is a good musician?”

“Oh, wonderful, we think. She was the only one of Mr. Waldteufel’s
pupils who had the least fancy for classical music. She seemed to feel
its meaning from the very first, and I hardly know what we should have
done without her. For several years—ever since she was fourteen, in
fact—she has been playing with us; in quartet when we needed her, a
solo between our Haydn and Mozart when we happened to have a first
violin. You should know her,—know her well, I mean. So much character,
and yet so gentle! Such depth of soul! In fact, she is an incomparable
girl! I must confess, I never cease to wonder how Charley, here—”

“There you go again, Uncle Tom!”

“This good-for-nothing fellow, Mr. Smith, has, for several years, been
crossing the river, Friday afternoons, to fetch her and her mother to
our quartet parties,—taking them back, and spending the night under the
same roof with this noble girl,—breakfasting with her next
morning,—and yet—Where would you find another sister, eh?”

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.”

“All right!”

The Guest doffed his hat and began to move on again; but Charley, seized
with a sudden remnant of suspicion, stopped him with a motion of his
hand. “Remember,” said he, going close up to him, and speaking in a low
but earnest tone,—“remember, you have two good friends yonder.” And,
with a toss of his upturned thumb, he pointed, over his shoulder,
towards the house, which lay behind them; and young Frobisher, feeling
that he had said much, cast his eyes upon the ground, bashful as a girl.

“I believe you,” said the guest; “and,” he added with earnestness, “the
belief is much to me—_much_,—see you at dinner.”

Charley, returning, found Mr. Whacker standing on the lawn, awaiting,
with some anxiety, his report.

“It’s all right, I think. Look at him! See how he is booming along the
bank! But, Uncle Tom, how on earth did you and Mr. Smith manage to get
up those theatricals?!”

“Hang me if I know! We were talking, as quietly as possible, about some
trivial matter or other,—entirely trivial, I assure you,—and, all of a
sudden, up he leaped in the air as though he had been shot. Let me see,
what _were_ we talking about?” And Mr. Whacker rested his forehead upon
his hand. “Let—me—see. No, I can’t for the life of me remember. The
‘theatricals,’ as you call them, must have driven everything out of my
head; but they were nothings that we were saying, I assure you.”

“You remember that, when I left the room, you were teasing me about not
falling in love with Lucy Poythress?”

“Yes, yes, yes; now I have it! Well, after you went out, I told him what
friends you and Mrs. Poythress were, and how you paid her a weekly
visit, rain or shine,—ah, yes, and how once you were upset, when you
would cross the river in spite of my remonstrances, and so on and so
on.”

“That was all?”

“Every word. Why, you were not out of the room two minutes!”

“H’m!” And Charley slowly filled his pipe, and, lighting it, went out
upon the lawn, where he walked haltingly up and down for some time.
Quickly raising his eyes at last, and fixing them inquiringly upon the
Poythress mansion, nestling across the river, in its clump of trees, he
gazed at it with a look, now intent, now abstracted. “Can it be?” he
muttered; and he stood long, chin upon breast, buried in thought; but
what these thoughts were he breathed to no man.


                             CHAPTER XXII.

So, after all, my grandfather lost his opportunity of explaining to the
Don how he came to build the Hall. No doubt he will do so as soon as the
latter returns from his walk. But there are reasons why I prefer to give
my own account of the matter. The truth is, I believe my narration will
be more exactly in accordance with the facts of the case than Mr.
Whacker’s would be. For, my grandfather (though as truthful as ever man
was) having, like the rest of us, a great deal of human nature in him,
did not always see very clearly what his own motives were; and, had he
been asked why he had constructed this rather superfluous building,
would have given an answer at variance with what Charley’s or mine would
have been. Now, had either of us been questioned, confidentially, and
apart from our friend, we would have unhesitatingly affirmed that he had
built the Hall as a home for his quartet; but had he, perchance,
overheard us, he would have denied this, and not without heat. And this
is easily explicable.

On the whole subject of music—music, whether quartet or solo, vocal or
instrumental—Mr. Whacker had grown sore, and as nearly irritable as his
strong nature admitted of. His neighbors had worried him. They—and who
shall wonder at it?—had naturally been filled with amazement—and, what
is harder to bear—amusement—when their old friend had suddenly, at his
time of life, burst out, as the homely phrase runs, in a fresh
place,—and of this he could not but be aware; so that in the end he
grew so sensitive under their jokes that he altogether gave over
inviting even his nearest neighbors to be present at the Elmington
musical performances. “Well, I hear your grandfather has got a new
Dutchman,”—that was the way one old gentleman used to speak of the
arrival at Elmington of each successive find of Waldteufel’s in
Baltimore; and then his sides would shake. Naturally enough, my
grandfather grew more and more reticent, under the circumstances, as to
his musical doings and projects.

Now, the Elmington mansion was, originally, like most of the residences
of the Virginia gentry, a rather plain and ill-planned structure. I dare
say it had never occurred to the ancestral Whacker who contrived it that
any one of its rooms would ever be acoustically tested by a string
quartet. At any rate, my grandfather found his parlor, with its thick
carpet and heavy furniture, very unsatisfactory as a concert-room, and
resolved to build a better. True, he himself never uttered a word to
this effect. Like a skilful strategist, he kept his front and flanks
well covered as he advanced upon his objective-point. He began his
forward movement with some skill.

The Virginians of that day, as is well known, with a hospitality that
defied all arithmetic, used to stow away in their houses more people in
proportion to the number of the rooms than was at all justifiable,—and
a marvellous good time they all had too,—the necessity for extra
ventilation being met by the happy provision of nature, that no true
Virginian ever shuts a door.

I am far from claiming, my dear boy, that these ancestors of yours were
entitled to any credit for their hospitality. For, even in our day of
Mere Progress, we have ascertained that this is but a semibarbarous
virtue, while, in your day of Perfected Sweetness and Light, it will be
classed, doubtless, among the entirely savage vices. I am writing
neither eulogium nor apology. I draw pictures merely. You and your day
must draw the moral.

Well, Field-Marshal Whacker began operations by throwing out the
suggestion, every now and then, that the Library would be more
comfortable to the young men who were sometimes crowded into it, on gala
occasions (what a time they used to have!), if the bookcases and the
great table were removed. But where to put them? He had often been
puzzling his head of late, he would say, trying to contrive some
addition to the house, but it was so built that he did not very well see
how it could be added to. After much beating about the bush, from time
to time, at last the proposition for a separate building came. Charley,
very naturally, could not see the necessity for this, considering we
were but three; but, finding the old gentleman’s heart set on the
project, he ceased to raise objections.

“It would be such a comfortable little nook to retire to.”

“Retire from whom, Uncle Tom?”

“Often, you know, our friends bring their children.”

“Very true.”

“It would be a good place to read or write in, when the house was full.”

“Exactly.”

“Certainly. And then, sometimes, when a lot of you young fellows got
together, and wanted to have a ‘high old time,’ you could go out there,
and I could go to bed and let you have it out. Don’t you see?”

“Capital.”

So it was settled.

“But, Charley, would not a single room, stuck out all alone in the yard,
have rather a queer look?”

“Rather queer, I should say.”

“While we are about it, why not put two rooms under one roof?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you think so? Then we’ll do it. Two rooms,—let me see.” And the
wily old captain seemed to reflect. “As the rooms would be of only one
story, the pitch should be high,—better artistic effect, you know.”

“Undoubtedly,” acquiesced Charley. And the crafty engineer meditated as
to how to run his next and last parallel.

“But what kind of a room shall the second be? The first will be our
Library, and, in case of a pinch, an extra guest-chamber, of course. But
what are we to do with the second room? There’s the rub.”

“That’s a fact,” granted Charley between puffs; and the twain were
silent for a little while.

“By Jove, I have it!” exclaimed my grandfather, slapping his thigh.

Charley looked up.

“We’ll make a ball-room of it.”

“A ball-room! Good Lord, Uncle Tom!” cried Charley, surprised, for a
moment, out of his habitual calm.

“Why not?” asked Mr. Whacker, appealing with his eyes from Charley to
me, and from me to Charley. “Why not a ball-room? Remember how many
young people we frequently have here, especially Christmas time,—and
you know they always dance.”

“I had forgotten that.”

“As it is, they must dance on a carpet, or else it must be taken up, and
that is a great bother; whereas, with a nicely waxed floor! And then,”
added my grandfather, casually,—running over the words as if of minor
importance (’twas a regular masked battery),—“and then the fiddles
would sound so much better in such a room.”

“Oho!” cried Charley.

“What?” quickly put in Mr. Whacker, slightly coloring.

“The boys and girls would enjoy it,” replied Charley, demurely.

“Enjoy it? I should think so!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker, relieved to feel
that he had not uncovered his artillery.

And so my grandfather set about gathering suitable lumber for his
“Library,” as he called it; but it was nearly two years before the
structure was complete; so many trees did he find unsuitable, after they
were felled, and so carefully did he season the planks, before they were
deemed worthy of forming part of this sacred edifice. Nor, during all
this time, did Mr. Whacker ever once allude to the “Ball-Room” as likely
to prove a suitable place for his quartet performances. At last, in the
month of November, 1858, just two years before the arrival of the Don at
Elmington, the “Library” was finished, and we three were walking over
the glittering waxed floor of Mr. Whacker’s so-called Ball-Room,
admiring its proportions and the exquisite perfection of its joinery.

“Well, boys, we’ll christen her at Christmas. We’ll have one of the
liveliest dancing-parties ever seen in the county. Suppose, Jack, you go
over to the house and bring us a fiddle, and we shall see how she
sounds.”

I brought the fiddle.

“Now, Charley, toss us off a reel.”

Charley dashed into a dancing tune, and played a few bars.

“Magnificent!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker, flushing with intense delight.
“Did you ever hear such resonance!”

“Magnificent!” we echoed; and Charley resumed his playing.

“Do you know?” began he, pausing and raising his head from the
fiddle,—but on he dashed again. “Do you know, Uncle Tom?” he resumed,
biting his under-lip, as he gave a slight twist to a peg,—“Do you know,
it occurs to me that this room—” the scamp winked at me with his off
eye. “Listen!” And, placing the violin under his chin, he began to play
a movement out of one of Mozart’s quartets. “How does that sound?” he
asked, looking up into my grandfather’s face with an expression of
innocence utterly brazen.

This simple question, and the simplicity with which it was put, covered
our unsuspecting ancestor with confusion, though he himself could hardly
have told why. Before he could recover himself sufficiently to reply,
Charley went on,—

“Do you know, Uncle Tom, that it occurs to me that this room is the very
place for our quartets? How strange that it should never have occurred
to us before!” And turning to me, he bended upon me that stare of serene
stolidity under which he was wont to mask his intense sense of the
humorous. I had no such power of looking solemn and burying a smile deep
down in my heart, as the pious Æneas used to do his grief, while he was
fooling Sidonian Dido, poor thing; and so, as Charley and I had had many
a quiet joke over my grandfather’s transparent secret, I burst out
laughing.

“Why, don’t you agree with me?” demanded Charley with austere composure.
“What do you think, Uncle Tom?”

“Our quartets? Well, now that you suggest it—H’m!” And he glanced
around the room with a critical look. “We’ll ask Mr. Waldteufel next
Friday. What on earth is that idiot giggling about?”


  [Illustration: SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT II.

  _Scherzo._        L. van Beethoven, _“Eroica” Symphony_.

  {The first page of the score of the second movement of Beethoven's
  Eroica Symphony is shown.}]


                           SYMPHONY OF LIFE.


                              MOVEMENT II.


                             CHAPTER XXIII.

It was just one week before Christmas,—that of 1860, the last Christmas
of the olden time,—that Elmington—that Virginia—forever and
forever—was to see—. But no matter; we did not know it then. The
guests from Richmond were to arrive that evening. Everything was in
readiness.

The hickory logs, which alone my grandfather—and his father before him,
for that matter—would burn during the holidays,—lighting the first
noble pile on Christmas Eve,—the hickory logs were banked up, high and
dry, in the wood-house. The stall-fed ox nodded over his trough; the
broad-backed Southdowns, clustered together in a corner of their shed,
basked in the sun and awaited a return of appetite; a remnant of sturdy
porkers, left over from the November killing, that blinked at you from
out their warm beds, and grunted when requested to rise, suggested
sausage; while over on Charley’s farm, and under Aunt Sucky’s able
management, aldermanic turkeys, and sleek, plump pullets, and ducks,
quacking low from very fatness, and geese that had ceased to
wrangle,—all thought themselves, like man before Copernicus, the centre
of the universe. Then, in the little creek, too, which ebbed and flowed
hard by, there lay bushels and bushels of oysters freshly taken from The
River in front. These, too, were ready; while, in the cellar, suspended
from hooks, there dangled, thanks to the industry of Charley and the
Don, daily swelling bunches of partridges and rabbits, of woodcock and
of wild fowl.

And can you not detect the odor of apples issuing even from that locked
door? There are great piles of them stowed away there; and cider, I
suspect, is not lacking. And above, the storeroom showed shelves weighed
down, since the arrival of the last steamer, with such things as
Elmington could not supply. Boxes and bags and bundles gave forth the
mellow fragrance of raisins, the cheerful rattle of nuts, the pungent
savor of spices,—the promise of all things dear to the heart of the
Virginia housewife. On every whiff floated mince-pie,—mince-pie
embryonic, uncompounded; with every sniff there rose, like an exhalation
before the imagination, visions of Plum-Pudding—of the Plum-Pudding of
Old England,—twin-sister of Roast Beef,—and, with Roast Beef,
inseparable attendant and indispensable bulwark of Constitutional
Liberty.

It was well.

Nor in stuffed larder alone were discernible the signs of the
approaching festival. Christmas was in the very air. Old Dick’s mien
grew hourly more imposing; his eye, beneath which now trembled no longer
Zip alone, but Zip reinforced by double his own strength, hourly more
severe. Aunt Phœbe, her head gorgeous in a new bandanna (a present from
Mrs. Carter last Christmas, but which had lain folded in her “chist” for
the past year),—Aunt Phœbe, chief of the female cohort, and champion
pastry-cook of the county, waddled from room to room,—serene, kindly,
and puffing,—voluminous with her two hundred pounds, inspecting the
work of her subordinates, and giving a finishing touch here and there.
Polly, the cook, and her scullion, alone of the household, had no
leisure for putting on the Christmas look, busy as they were getting
dinner for the coming guests; cooks being, in point of fact, among the
few people, white or black, that ever did a full day’s work in Virginia
in the olden time. But we have changed all that,—so let it pass.

“Dey comin’!” eagerly cried an urchin of color, who, with twenty
companions of both sexes, had had for the past hour their eyes fixed on
the lane-gate.

The gate was swinging on its hinges.

With one accord they all assumed the attitude of runners awaiting the
signal to start. With feet planted firmly,—shall I say widely?—but no,
they are men and brothers now,—with eyes bent upon the gate, but bodies
leaning towards the house, they stood for a moment expectant.

The noses of a pair of horses appeared between the gate-posts.

“D’yar dey come! D’yar dey come!” they shouted in chorus; and, with
quasi-plantigrade flap of simultaneous feet, they bounded to the rear.

As when Zeus, angry because of the forgotten hecatomb, sends forth, in
black, jagged cloud, the glomerated hail, and lays low the labors of the
oxen and the hopes of the husbandman.

Or, just as a herd of buffaloes, sniffing the band of Redmen from afar,
scurry over the plain.

As though a pack of village curs have inaugurated a conflict, at dead of
night, in peaceful, moonlit lane. The combat deepens and stayeth not.
But the Summer Boarder, wild with the irony of advertisements,
discharges in their midst the casual blunderbuss,—rusty, ineffectual.
Instantly hushed is the voice of battle; but multitudinous is the rush
of departing paws.

Not otherwise scampered over the Elmington lawn, with nimbly flapping
feet, the children of the blameless Ethiopians, as Homer calls them.

The swiftest (for the race is not always to the slow) was first to reach
the front steps.

“Dey comin’, Uncle Dick! D’yar dey is in de fur eend o’ de lane!” For
that worthy, hearing their hurrying steps, had made his way to the
porch, followed by Zip. Zip started back through the door on hearing the
tidings.

“Whar you gwine, boy?”

Zip stood as though frozen.

“Ain’t you never gwine to learn no sense? Don’t you know I is de
properest pusson to renounce de rerival o’ de company?”

Awed by this courtly phrase, no less than by the shining bald head and
portly figure that stood before them, the black cohort slowly withdrew,
and, straggling back, resumed their position at the lawn-gate to await
the arrival of the carriages.

“I see Miss Fanny” (Mrs. Carter). “D’yar she sets, and Marse George”
(Mr. C.), “and two more ladies.”

“_I_ see her, _I_ see Marse George,” chirped the sable chorus in
deferential undertones.

“Sarvant, Miss Fanny!” spoke up one older and bolder than the rest.
“Sarvant, Miss Fanny; sarvant, Marse George,” echoed the dusky maniple.

“How d’ye do, children, how d’ye do!” responded she, affably nodding to
a familiar face here and there in the groups that lined the road on
either side.

“Yonder Marse Jack!” shouted a little fellow, getting the start of the
rest, who were grinning upon Mrs. Carter as though she were their guest.
“Yonder Marse Jack a-drivin’ de hind carriage!”

Coming up between the rows, I nodded from side to side. The flash of
ivories and of smiling eyes seemed to illumine the twilight. Perhaps the
light was in my heart—it used to be so,—but let _that_ pass, too.

Greetings over, our party dispersed to dress for dinner. The new
arrivals were seven or eight in number: Mr. and Mrs. Carter and their
daughter Alice,—Alice with the merry-glancing hazel eyes; then Mary
Rolfe, demure, reserved, full of subdued enthusiasm, the antithesis of
Alice, but “adoring” her—girls will talk so—and adored by her in turn;
then the teller of this tale, making five. In addition there were two or
three young ladies,—all very charming,—but as they were not destined
to play any marked part in our drama, why describe, or even name them?

Only two of our guests had ever before spent Christmas at
Elmington,—Mr. and Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Carter was a kind of far-off
Virginia cousin of ours, and it was an understood thing between her and
my grandfather that she should come down to Elmington every Christmas
and matronize his household; else, a houseful of girls, whom he
exceedingly enjoyed having around him, would have been less attainable.
And a merrier soul, and one who knew better how to make young people
enjoy themselves, could hardly have been found. Mr. Carter, an
excellent, silent, sober man of business, could rarely spend more than a
week with us; but his jovial spouse never gave us less than a month of
her charming chaperoning; and, on one occasion, I remember, the
unceasing entreaties of the young people constrained her to prolong her
visit and theirs, from week to week, till two full months had elapsed.
The net result, direct and indirect, of that particular campaign was
four marriages, if I recollect aright,—so that Elmington had an
established reputation, among the girls, as a lucky place; of which my
grandfather was not a little proud.

“Young ladies,” said he, walking up to Alice and Mary, and putting his
arms around their waists, as they stood at a window, after dinner,
admiring the moonbeams dancing on the waves,—“young ladies, do you know
that Elmington is a very dangerous place?”

“How, dangerous?” asked Mary.

“Shipwrecks?” suggested Alice, nodding towards The River with a smile.

“Yes,” replied he, stooping down and kissing them both with impartial
cordiality,—“shipwrecks of hearts.”

“I have lost mine already,” said Alice, laying her head on his shoulder
and shutting her eyes, with a languishing smile on her upturned face.

“Little hypocrite!” said he, patting her cheek.

“Only a pat for such a speech?”

“Well, there! So, Alice, your grandmother consented to let us have you
this Christmas? It was but right, now that you are grown. And then she
lives in such an out-of-the-way neighborhood.”

“Yes, it was very kind in grandmamma to let me come here instead of
spending my Christmas with her. She grows deafer every year, and I
think—perhaps—I was going to make such a wicked speech!” And Alice
dropped her eyes.

“What dreadful thing were you going to say?”

“I was thinking that, perhaps, bawling into one’s grandmother’s ear was
not so pleasant a pastime, to a girl, as having—just for a change you
know—a young fellow whispering in hers.”

“Charley,” asked Mr. Whacker, suddenly, that night, as we sat before the
library fire, after the newly-arrived guests had retired, “do you know,
I can’t understand why, in speaking of the ladies you met in Richmond,
you never so much as mentioned the name of Alice Carter?”

I tried to catch Charley’s eye, but he durst not look me in the face.
Seated as I was, therefore, rather behind my innocent relative, I
clapped my hand upon my mouth, doubled myself up in my chair, and went
through the most violent, though silent contortions of pantomimic
laughter. Charley held his eye firmly fixed on my grandfather’s face,
and affected, though with reddening face, not to observe my by-play.

“D-D-D-Didn’t I?”

Any kind of mental perturbation always brought on an attack of
stammering with Charley.

“Why, no; and yet I have never seen a more charming girl. She is
positively fascinating. Don’t you admit it, you cold-hearted young
wretch?”

Here, a broad smile from the Don encouraging me to further exertions, my
chair tilted, and I recovered myself with a bang.

“What is the matter with you?” asked my grandfather, suddenly turning.

Charley gave me a quick, imploring glance, and I had pity on him. “Give
it to him, grandfather; he deserves it, every word,—the woman-hater!”

“To be sure he does. Why, were I at his time of life—hey, Mr. Smith?”

That night, after we had gone to bed, I was just dozing off into
dreamland. Charley gave me a sudden dig in the ribs.

“Wasn’t I good?” said I, drowsily. But the old boy, turning his back
upon me and settling his head upon his pillow, took in a long breath of
air; and, breathing it out with a kind of snort, was silent.


                             CHAPTER XXIV.

“How well the Parson is looking, Mary,” said Alice, as she stood before
the glass that night, unpinning her collar.

Mary, tired and sleepy as she was, dropped into a chair and shook with
half-unwilling laughter.

“What is the Little Thing laughing at?”

“Alice, you are the hardest case I ever knew. Why do you persist in
turning the man into ridicule?”

“Who, the Pass’n?” for thus she pronounced the word,—and her merry eyes
twinkled.

I doubt whether the reader can guess who the “Pass’n” is. I must
explain, therefore, that when I mentioned to the girls, in Richmond,
that I had found the Don reading the New Testament, Alice had
immediately cried out that now she had it. “He is a Methodist parson in
disguise.” And upon this theme she had ever since been playing
inimitably grotesque variations. Coming down on the boat, notably, she
had surpassed herself; and I hear our party disgraced themselves by
their hilarity. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she had cried out, when first we
had come in view of Elmington,—“ladies and gentlemen,” said she,
leaning out of the carriage window, and declaiming solemnly to the
passengers in the rear vehicle, “in yonder mansion sits meditating, at
this moment, Pass’n Smith, the disguised Methodist divine. He is the
Whitefield of our day. For generations, no exhorter of such
power—especially with sentimental young girls and lonesome widows—
Will some one be so good as to administer restoratives to the Fat Lady?
She seems on the verge of— Where was I?” And so she went on, her young
heart ceaselessly bubbling over with freshness and high spirits.

“Ridicule the Pass’n!” said Alice, dropping into her friend’s lap. “Far
from me the profane idea.” And she smoothed back from Mary’s brow her
loosened hair.

“In the first place, Alice, it is perfectly absurd for you to say he is
a parson; and even if he were,” she continued, after a sharp struggle
with her rising laughter.—“even if he were studying with a view to the
ministry, I don’t see that he should be made fun of on that account. To
my mind,—and you ought to think so too, Alice,—to my mind there is no
nobler spectacle than that of a young man deliberately turning his back
upon all the allurements that lead astray so many of his comrades, and
devoting himself, in the very vigor of his manhood and in all the glory
of his youthful strength, to the service of his God. But as for the
Don,—Mr. Smith I mean,—I think he is about as far from being a parson
as he well could be. Don’t you remember how, when I first met him, I
said I was afraid of him? Well, that feeling grows on me. He may have
his passions well under control, but, you may depend upon it, they would
be terrible if ever they got the mastery over him. Did you ever notice
his teeth, how strong and even they are, and as white as ivory? but do
you know that, at times, when he smiles in that peculiar way of his,
they seem to me to glitter through his moustache like—like—”

“Is the Little Thing afraid the Pass’n will bite her? ’Twould be a
wicked shepherd to bite a little lamb. And if he ever does such a
thing,” she continued, “you go straight and tell your mamma.” And she
dropped her head on Alice’s shoulder and stuck out her mouth like a
three-year-old child.

“Incorrigible scamp!” cried Mary, between laughter-kisses that, like
bubbles, exploded as they touched those pouting lips. “But, Alice, will
you never be serious?”

“Serious?” replied Alice, rising. “I was never more serious in my life.
It wouldn’t be right.”

“What wouldn’t be right?”

“For you to let the Pass’n bite you, without telling your mother,—and
with those glittering teeth too! Think of it! Glittering teeth and
starry eyes! Imagine! Most improper, upon my word!”—and she gave a toss
of her shapely little head. “Mary,” said Alice, dropping again,
suddenly, into her laughing friend’s lap,—“Mary, look me in the eyes!”

From her fine honest face, as well as from her voice,—both changeful as
the dolphin’s hues,—had vanished in an instant all trace of raillery.
Mary looked up with a smile half serious, half inquiring.

“Well?”

“Straight in the eyes!” repeated Alice, lifting her friend’s chin on the
tip of her forefinger.

“I am looking.”

“Mary,” began Alice, leaning forward, and with that same forefinger
daintily depressing the tip of Mary’s nose,
“are—you—quite—sure—that—you—are—not—”

“Not what?”

“Falling in love with Mr. Smith?”

“Alice, what can have put that idea into your head?”

“That sounds more like a question than an answer to a question. Look me
in the eyes and say no,—if you can.”

“Well, _no_, then!”

“No fluttering _here_, when he approaches? no quick breathing when he
speaks to you? no pit-a-pat?”

“No pit-a-pat,—no _anything_! Will that do?”

“Well, I suppose it will have to do,—at least for the present.”

“How ‘for the present’?”

“Never mind,” said Alice, rising; “and now for another question. Is the
Don, so far as you can see, falling in love with _you_?”

“With _me_?” cried Mary, with genuine surprise. “What, pray, will you
ask next? Whether, for example, I do not perceive that Mr. Frobisher is
enamoured of me? No, you will not ask _that_. _Dear Charles_,—well, he
is a nice fellow, I must admit,—and would let you do all the talking.”
And she gave Alice a squeeze, as girls will do, when talking sweethearts
among themselves.

“Mr. Frobisher! Why are you continually harping on him? He has never
said a dozen words to me. But mark my words, that Enigma is interested
in you. He showed it to-day at dinner. You know, my dear, when the humor
strikes you, you talk beautifully—”

“I don’t compare with you, Alice.”

“Never mind about me. This meeting has not been called with a view to
organizing a Mutual-Admiration Society. _You_ are the subject of this
little pow-wow. Now, to-day, at dinner—well, I don’t like to sit here
and flatter you to your face, but I saw very plainly that the Reverend
Mr.—I beg your pardon, the Don, was enraptured with your unconscious
eloquence.”

“_Eloquence_, Alice?” And Mary flushed with ill-concealed delight.

“Yes, Little Dumpling, eloquence.”

“Really?”

“That’s the charm of the thing, goosey; your words flow from you so
easily, that you are unconscious how lovely your language often is.
Then, of course, as none of us know the sound of our own voices, you are
hardly aware how low and musical your voice is.”

“Alice,” said Mary, gravely, “you are making fun of me. You have never
said anything like this to me before. It is not kind,—it really isn’t!”
And her lips quivered.

“You little goose! Not to know me any better than that! Well, to-day you
became so much interested in some subject you were discussing with Mr.
John Whacker that you did not observe, for some time, that every one at
the table was listening to you; and then, when you discovered that you
‘had the floor,’ you blushed furiously and stopped talking.”

“Yes, I remember; it made me feel so foolish!”

“Well, you know, my love, I am very proud of you; and so I was looking
around to see what others thought of you. I give you my word, I nearly
exploded when I caught sight of the Don. There he sat, with an oyster on
the end of his fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth, with
his eyes riveted on you. Put this down in your book, Mary,—this,—as a
maxim on love: ‘Whenever a man forgets the way to his mouth his heart’s
in danger.’”

“I will,” said Mary, shaking with laughter.

“Yes,” continued Alice, standing before the glass and taking down her
hair, “you have a streak of genius, that’s the truth; but it is not the
whole truth.”

“Give me the rest of it.”

Alice, instead of replying, made a face at herself in the glass; then,
folding her arms across her bosom and swaying from side to side two or
three times, sailed off in a waltz around the room.

“The trouble with you, my dear, is simply this,”—and she stood before
her friend with arms akimbo,—“you are devoid of common sense.” And off
she capered again, this time in the rhythm of the polka. “Oh, I’m so
happy!” cried she, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes.

“Because I have no common sense?”

“Because I have so much! I’ve lots! _Oceans_!” And she spread out her
arms. Catching sight of her own waving arms in the mirror, she, like the
kaleidoscope, changed in an instant. Standing on her left foot, she
described, with the extended toe of her right, an elaborate semicircle,
and ended with a profound courtesy, her young face corrugated,
meanwhile, with that professional grin of the equestrienne, which, among
the horsical, passes for a smile. Turning then to Mary, she repeated the
movement. “Behold,” cried she, drawing herself up to her full
height,—“behold the Empress of the Arena! The Champion Bare-back Rider
of the World!”

“I don’t know so much about the champion part of it, but of the bare
back there can be little doubt.”

“Well said, Little Dumpling! I must admit that my costume is rather
meagre.”

“Alice, you ought to be able to explain it if anybody can,—how do
people come to be ‘privileged characters,’ as they are called? You do
whatever you please, and cut all sorts of crazy antics, and no one ever
thinks you foolish, or even undignified; and then, you say whatever you
think, yet no one can get angry with you. You tell me, to my face, that
I am destitute of common sense—”

“Totally, that’s a fact.”

“And yet I am not the least bit vexed?”

“The simplest thing imaginable. Listen, and I will explain. As to the
crazy antics, as you are pleased to term my joyous, lamb-like friskings,
of course you cannot expect me to have the face to stand up here and say
that they do not offend, because of the bewitching, inborn grace which
characterizes my every movement?”

“Naturally.”

“Of course. And you will naturally pardon my not alluding to what I
can’t help.”

“Poor thing!”

“Of course. I was born so; and that’s the end of that. Now, as to your
not being hurt by my telling you that plain truth about yourself—”

“My destitution as regards—”

“Common sense—yes,—I think you yourself must understand it.”

“Because you told me, first, that I had a streak of genius,—flatterer?”

“Precisely; I credit you with bullion, and you are not worried that I
should deny you the small change of every-day life. You see I am as deep
as Machiavelli,—in other words, as full of common sense as an egg is of
meat. Lucy will not be home,” said she, abruptly veering off from the
line of their talk, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed, “till
the middle of January.”

“No; I am so sorry. What made you think of her?”

“Because I wish she were here right now.”

“Why, pray?”

“Because, from what I saw in Richmond, the Don might devote himself to
her instead of you.”

“Thank you for wishing to rob me of an admirer, as you pretend to deem
him!”

“No, I am glad she is not here. She is so pure and earnest, so
single-minded and devoted, that I should tremble to see her exposed to
such a danger.”

“And I am so—”

“You are what you are, my dear, and I would not have you other. But
there is but one Lucy in the world. You know it and I know it, and
neither of us would think of comparing ourselves with her.”

“Yes, Lucy is a real madonna.”

“And, somehow, I am not,—you may speak for yourself. Yes, I am glad she
is not here. I’ll tell you, Mary: I wish he would fall in love with
me,—I’ve got so much hard sense that I should never think of
reciprocating. However,” added she, resting her head in her hand, while
her elbow and fair, plump arm sank in the pillow, “I am not so sure. I,
too, am human. Perhaps it would be too much for me. He is tall,” she
continued, looking dreamily into space,—“he is
distinguished-looking!—so brave!—so mysterious!—perhaps I haven’t as
much sense as I thought,”—and she seemed to nod,—“and his teeth are so
like stars! and his rows of eyes are so even and white! glitter so!—Am
I asleep? Mary, my love,” cried she, bouncing off the bed, “are you
going to talk all night? Talk on,—but I’ll tell you what I am going to
do. I shall straightway put on my little N. G.,—the toggery, to wit, of
repose; and then I shall fall on my little knees and say my little
prayers; which done, I shall curl up my little self in my little bed,
and know no more till the rising-bell. One word with you, however. Mary,
do you know what all I have been saying to you means?”

“I don’t know what any of it means,—not one word; nor do you, I should
imagine.”

“Then listen! All that I have said and done and danced to-night means
this, and this only. The Pass’n is going to fall in love with you.
That’s the Pass’n’s affair, and shows his good taste. Now, who on earth
is the Pass’n? Do you see? Well, don’t you go and fall in love with him,
now mind! _don’t_,—that’s a good, wise girl. Good-night!”


                              CHAPTER XXV.

I will not suppose that any of my readers are superficial persons; and
only superficial persons need be told that Alice Carter was a young
woman of unusually strong judgment and sound sense. And, further: all
persons like her are similarly characterized. Doubtless, a sense of
humor is not necessary to the chemist or the naturalist or the
mathematician,—to one pursuing a special branch of knowledge; but in
that science of sciences, the knowledge of men and things, no eminence
is possible without it. ’Tis the blind who fall into pits; and the man
who cannot see the absurd in others can in nowise himself escape being
ridiculous. I know of but one bird with long ears; and he looks
exceeding wise; but let him but venture forth from the twilight of his
hiding-place into the full glare of day, and the first school-boy that
passes whistling by, shall knock him on the head. And so, among men, the
most solemn owl is ever the most solemn ass.

Yes, our little Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes was a wise virgin
and of exceeding tact; but when she warned her friend against falling in
love with the Don, she blundered,—blundered most grieviously when she
planted in Mary’s mind the idea that he was not indifferent to her. She
loved Mary dearly, with a love securely based on similarity of
principles and dissimilarity of temperament, and cemented by the closest
association from their very infancy. She admired her, too,—admired her
gifts, the unusual range of her womanly culture, her enthusiasm for all
that was high and noble, the glowing beauty of her language when she
discoursed of anything that kindled her blood. At such times she would
sit gazing upon Mary’s face, illumined as it was with a beautiful
enthusiasm, and feel that she herself was almost despicable. Yet a
reaction always came. Mary was not what is called practical. Her head
was among the stars, as it were, while her feet were stumbling along the
earth; and Alice revenged herself upon her goddess, for her enforced
worship, by playing upon her foibles and blunders with an incessant
spray of delicate and sparkling raillery. Even the school-girl
love-affairs that they had had when about twelve or thirteen years of
age had been characteristic of the two friends. Mary’s youth rejoiced in
the aristocratic name of Arthur, while Alice’s lad was known as plain
Harry. Arthur was curly-haired and pale of face, and generally had, as
he sauntered to school, some novel or other concealed about his person.
Harry was a brisk, bullet-headed chap, champion knucks’ player of the
school; while, at mumble-peg, his stubby, upturned nose allowed him to
rise superior even to defeat.

“I can’t see, Alice, how you can fancy a boy with a pug nose,” said
Mary, one day.

“Harry’s nose turns up, that’s true; but _so did he_, yesterday, and
with his umbrella, which kept you and me dry, while he ran home in the
rain. Somebody else was afraid of getting his _curls_ wet. I’ll tell you
what it is, Mary, _I_ like a boy that carries my books for me and gives
me peaches and French candy and oranges and things; but _you_ want one
with a novelly name and a ‘chiselled nose,’ as you call it,—a _pretty_
boy, in fact.” All which Mary denied With some heat, and they had a tiff
and “didn’t speak” for five long and weary minutes. Alice phrased the
same idea differently some years later. “Mary, I’ll tell you the
difference between you and myself. Your idea of a husband is a man whom
_you_ can adore; mine must adore _me_.”

Alice blundered,—blundered through over-zeal for her friend’s welfare.
She knew Mary’s nature in its every recess; she erred through not
knowing human nature as well. She was only eighteen; hence her knowledge
of mankind was special rather than general. She knew the exaltation of
Mary’s imagination, and felt the danger of her fervid fancy’s laying
hold of such a man as the Don, and converting him into a demi-god by the
alchemy of her fresh, girlish heart. But generalization is not a trait
of the feminine mind. When we hear that some one admires us, we—all of
us—instinctively give that person credit for good taste and
discernment,—_that_, she of the hazel eyes overlooked. Now, good taste
and discernment are admirable traits; how, then, other things being
favorable, can we help admiring our admirers?

“Good-night!” answered Mary; and the two fair heads lay side by side,
deep-sunk in vast, beruffled pillows. Alice, fatigued by the day’s
journey, fell asleep almost immediately. Her companion, though her eyes
were closed, lay thinking. Ah, little Alice, you have sadly blundered!
Mary is thinking of what you have said to her—ransacking her brain for
confirmation of your suggestion. “Yes, I did remark his looking at me
several times at dinner; but what of that? People can look at other
people without being in love with them. And—yes, I did think his eyes
wore a very intense look; but then they always glow like coals. How
beautiful they are!” [Oh, Alice! Alice!!] “terribly beautiful! Oh, if he
but hated you!” And she shivered.

Lying, as she was, locked in Alice’s arms, the nervous, rippling
movement of her body slightly disturbed the latter’s slumbers; but she
merely drew a long breath and exhaled it again with force,—taking a
fresh hold, as it were, on sleep.

“Pshaw! it’s all nonsense! Alice forgets what we all agreed to in
Richmond. Lucy Poythress was obviously his favorite. Of course she was.
Everybody remarked it. I never saw anything like the suddenness of the
fancy he took for her. Well, Lucy will reach the neighborhood in a few
weeks, and then we shall see. I wonder—no, I cannot think that of him.
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’—no, that’s impossible; whatever he may be,
he is not fickle. Let me think. I do recall that he seemed to bow a
shade lower to me than to the others when we left the parlor; but what
of that? Bows must differ like everything else; one must be lower than
the rest. And he is so strong, I suppose he hardly knew that he almost
hurt my hand.” “Stuff!” cried she aloud, with emphasis; whirling out of
Alice’s arms and changing her position.

Many men, in many lands, Poor Thing, have tried that method of changing
the current of their thoughts, and have failed. The chronometer goes
ticking on, lay it how you will; and so the human heart; but that, alas,
unlike the tireless watch, throbs fiercest when ’tis broken.

Alice gave the half-conscious moan of disturbed sleep; and Mary resumed
her meditations, going, again and again, over the same ground. At last
youth and fatigue asserted their claims, and she fell asleep and slept
for hours; then suddenly sprang up with a sharp cry.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alice, in terror.

“Oh, I had such a fearful dream!”

“You did?” said Alice, dropping back upon her pillow. “You frightened me
so-o-o.” And she was asleep again.

Mary had dreamt that she was walking alone on a road through a dark
forest, when suddenly she heard, behind her, the clatter of a horse’s
hoofs. Looking around in terror, she beheld a Knight in full armor, with
visor down, mounted on a powerful black charger, and riding furiously.
The Knight seemed to be making full at her, and she stood transfixed
with fright, and rooted to the ground. As he came up to her, he did not
slacken his speed, but bending to the right, and encircling her waist
with his mighty arm, lifted her from the ground, and, without an effort,
placed her before him on the charger’s neck. On, on, they rushed for
miles and miles; but the horseman spake never a word, nor, for very
terror, could she utter a cry. At last they emerged into a bright,
moonlit plain, and there, standing before them, was the figure of a
young girl. She turned her head at the sound of the charger’s hoofs, and
the moon, shining full on her face, revealed the features of Lucy. “Aha!
it is she!” cried the Knight, breaking silence for the first time. ’Twas
the voice of the Don! And tossing his trembling captive disdainfully to
the ground, he stooped once more, and, seizing Lucy, sped on as before.
Oh, Alice! Alice!! Alice!!!


                             CHAPTER XXVI.

Next morning, as the two girls were tripping downstairs, Mary said to
herself, “Now I shall observe the Don narrowly, and see whether there is
anything in what Alice says. Perhaps there may be some little foundation
for her opinion.” Entering the breakfast-room in this frame of mind, it
is not to be wondered at that, as she saluted one after another of the
company, her eyes suddenly gave forth kindlier beams as they met those
of the Don. Very likely the Don did not make any such comparison. He may
not have remarked that the smile she gave him was sweeter or sweetest;
but he felt that it was sweet.

There were only two vacant seats at the table when the two girls
entered. One, at my grandfather’s right, he had expressly reserved for
Alice, who had entirely captivated him the evening before by her
sparkling gayety. The other was next the Don’s, and this Mary took. That
sweet smile merited response of some sort, and his attentions to his
fair neighbor were assiduous and delicate. He was always courteous, but,
certainly, rather constrained; now, his manner seemed to her singularly
gentle. What was thawing him out? Perhaps—well, at any rate—

“Thank you,” cooed she, in that soft, high-bred tongue of
Richmond,—“thank you,”—in requital for hot waffle, weaving wreathed
smile, entangler of the hearts of men. Could he, the friendless one and
solitary, could he be unmoved? And so, smile answered smile, and
interest brought interest, making it compound; and every school-boy
knows how fast that counts up.

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

Yes, it was too much; five or six pages of Able-Analysis, showing just
what these two young people felt, and why they felt it; and so, I passed
a pen across the whole. It makes the chapter shorter; but even that has
its possible advantages. The fact is, I am not quite sure that I know
what they did think and feel; for was not the Don an Enigma? and was not
Mary a woman?

After all, what is the use of all this microscopic anatomy in tracking
the progress of heart-affairs? It seems to me that falling in love is as
elementary a process as sitting down on an ice-pond. The rub is _how
not_ to do it. If the novelists would but tell us _that_! Fortunately
for me, I am not called on to do this, as I am not a novelist, but a
bushwhackerish philosopher instead. And then—have I defrauded you, fair
reader?—this is not a love-story! When I sat down to write it, I
resolved to exclude, most rigidly, from its pages, all allusion to the
tender passion; but, somehow, though against my will, my personages
could not be kept free from its toils. My error was in bringing them
together to spend Christmas in a Virginia country-house. The thing
cannot be remedied, now, without an entire change of plot; so I shall
have to let it go as it is. But the reader must credit the whole of this
Episode of Love, which has forced itself into a theme of a different
nature, to Alice Carter. Without her assistance I could not have written
one word of it. She and Charley, to be entirely honest, are the real
authors of this book. They have furnished most of the facts; I am to
pocket all the glory.

To show the part Alice has had in the matter, I will mention, by way of
example, a conversation we had years after the occurrences herein
described,—less, in fact, than eighteen months ago. We were talking of
the good old times,—_Consule Planco_,—and happened to speak of this
particular Christmas at Elmington, and especially of the week that
preceded Christmas Eve.

“Did you know as early as that, that a love-affair was brewing between
Mary and the Don?”

“Of course; at any rate, I feared it. You know how harum-scarum I was in
those days?”

“I do,” I replied, “if harum-scarum means irresistible.”

“_You_ resisted me, at any rate; but, as I was going to remark, I had
the regulation number of eyes about my person, and couldn’t well help
seeing what lay straight before me.”

“_I_ saw nothing!”

“Ah, but you are a man! and remember that there are none so blind as
those who can’t see!”

“Then you think the affair was well under weigh before the end of the
first week?”

“With the Don, yes; and Mary was far more interested than she would
allow herself to believe.”

“Do you suppose that she was aware of the critical state of the Don’s
affections?”

“Of course she was; don’t you know that a woman always perceives that a
man is falling in love with her long before he finds it out himself?”

“Not to add,” I rejoined, “that she often perceives it when the man
never _does_ find it out himself. By the way, why do women always
express surprise at a proposal, as I am told they invariably do?”

“Oh, that is to gain time; but rest assured, the surprise is about as
real as that felt by a spider when a fly, after buzzing about her web
for a time, and lightly grazing first one thread and then another, at
last puts himself in a position where he may be made available.”

“Poor fly!”

Upon the authority, then, of Alice, who holds the position of
Editor-in-chief of the Love-department of this work, I may assure the
reader that by the time that one week had passed over the heads of our
party at Elmington this was the state of things:

Mary was sure that the Don loved her, and believed that she was
fancy-free. The Don was aware, no doubt, of the state of his own
affections, and was, we will suppose,—for there is no way of
knowing,—in perplexing doubt as to the condition of Mary’s. Alice knew
more than either of them; while upon me, the teller of this tale, their
various nods and becks and wreathéd smiles had been entirely lost.

I knew no more of what was going forward than Zip did of the amours of
Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman.


                             CHAPTER XXVII.

Christmas Eve had come, and, as usual, the holidays had been officially
ushered in by a noble fire of hickory logs. A deep mass of ruddy coals
was glowing upon the vast hearth of the Hall. Upon these had been cast a
hamper of chosen oysters. The guests (it was the way at Elmington) were
expected to rake them out, every man for himself and sweetheart, which
gave a delightful informality to the proceedings. As soon as the
roasting was well under weigh, two enormous, ancestral bowls, one of
eggnog, the other of apple-toddy, were brought in. Later, there was to
be dancing. A dozen or so of our neighbors and friends were in the habit
of dropping in on us, on these occasions, to help us make merry.

“And now, grandfather,” said I, “it is time to bring out the old
Guarnerius.”

“The old what?” asked the Don, quickly.

“His old Guarnerius violin; Guarnerius was a celebrated maker of
violins,” I explained.

What was the matter with Charley? Why did he purse up his mouth and give
that inaudible whistle?

“Ah,—and Mr. Whacker has one of these old instruments?”

“Yes; and he is as tender with it as a mother with her first-born. He
allows it to be brought out only during the Christmas holidays; though
he used to let Monsieur Villemain play on it. The genuine ones are very
rare and dear,” I added.

Another silent whe-e-ew from Charley.

“Oh, I should suppose so,” replied the Don.

“What did you say your Guarnerius cost you, grandfather?”

That was a question I asked every Christmas Eve, when the violin was
brought out; and always with the same result.

“_That_,” replied the old gentleman, smiling and addressing the Don, “is
a piece of information I have never given to my friends. You see, when I
was a young man—”

We all knew what was coming,—the story that my grandfather always told
to strangers when his Guarnerius was brought out for inspection. It was
rather a long story,—how he took lessons from a very promising young
artist, who took to gambling and drinking, and had, therefore, to sell
his beloved violin to his pupil,—and how the young man grieved at
giving it up, etc., etc., etc.

“So saying,” concluded Mr. Whacker, “he wrung my hand and hurried out of
the room.”

“Ouch!” cried Charley, letting fall upon the hearth, at the same time, a
large oyster and the knife with which he was opening it.

If there runs upon the people’s highway a hopelessly slow coach, it is
your writer of English grammars. When will they deem this interjection
respectable enough to introduce into their works? If never, how is the
boy of the future to parse my works? Surely, it is worth any half-dozen
of their genteel alases, or their erudite alackadays! Look at it! Ouch!
How much body! What an expressive countenance! What character in its
features! Hebrew verbs have genders; and don’t you see that ouch is
masculine? What lady would use it? Nay, it is more than masculine,—it
is manly!

See those two boys,—the one with a strong pin fixed in the toe of his
shoe,—the other absorbed in his lesson, and sitting in an unguarded
attitude. Up goes the foot!

“Ouch!”

The word is more than manly,—it is stoical. Stoical, did I say? ’Tis
heroic!

For does not the lad say in that one breath, with Byron’s dying
gladiator, that he consents to start, but conquers agony? He means, as
clearly as though he had used the whole dictionary, “I am no girl. I
didn’t scream. It didn’t hurt, neither. I just wanted to have you
understand that I knew you were fooling with the seat of my trousers.”

All this those four letters mean; and yet this is their first appearance
in any serious literary work!

To this masterly interjection did Mr. Charles Frobisher give vent; and
he meant, of course, “I have cut my finger with this confounded knife,
opening this confounded oyster; but don’t disturb yourselves, ladies and
gentlemen, ’tis a small affair.” Accordingly he rose, left the room, and
soon returned with his finger bandaged.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Alice.

“Badly cut?” inquired my grandfather.

“It is nothing,” said Charley.

“But how annoying,” added the old gentleman. “Your left hand, too! So
that you will not be able to play for the dancers this evening.”

Charley looked at the bandaged finger with a thoughtful air, and shook
his head.

Charley, with all his supposed aversion to the fair sex, was ready, at
any time, to play all night to the dancing of a party of girls, and the
young people were much chagrined at the accident to his finger. True,
Herr Waldteufel had offered his services at the piano; but they wanted a
fiddler on Christmas Eve; and the question was raised whether one could
not be found among the negroes. But it turned out that a “revival” had
recently swept over the county, and both my grandfather’s fiddlers had
“got religion.” One of them had, in fact, already begun to preach; and,
in his first sermon, had taken high conservative ground as to the future
state of such as drew the bow and repented not. So, as the tyro to whom
the new parson had sold his instrument was not yet up to the mark, it
seemed certain that we would have to trip it to the less inspiring
strains of the piano.

“I vill blay for de yoong beebles till daylight doaf abbear,” quoth the
Herr, who was very near the mammoth bowl of apple-toddy.

But just as this thorough-going proposal fell from the Professor’s
well-moistened lips, there was heard the clattering of hoofs on the
frozen ground. There was a stir among the darkies, around and in the
door-way, and on the steps of the Hall; for, as was the custom in the
olden days, whenever there was any conviviality going forward in the
“Great-House,” the negroes had crowded about all the doors and windows
whence a glimpse of the festivities was to be had; for they knew very
well there was “mo’ toddy in dat d’yar big bowl dan de white folks gwine
’stroy, let alone de eggnog.”

I hasten to remark that this mysterious cavalier, so darkly galloping
through night and frost, was none other than Mr. William Jones,—Billy
for short,—the young fellow of whom we have heard before, and who was,
at this time, a student at the University. A dozen sable youngsters
seized his reins, ambitious of the honor of riding his horse to the
stable; and as he dismounted and approached the densely-packed steps, he
was assailed by a chorus of joyous, friendly voices.

“Dat you, Marse Billy? Lord ’a’ mussy, how de chile done growed,
to-be-sho! Jess like he pa, too!”

The light was streaming upon his cheery, manly face. “Why, how do you
do, Aunt Polly?”

“I ’clare ’fo’ Gaud de chile know me, and in de dark, too!” And Aunt
Polly doubled herself up and chuckled blissfully.

“Know you! why, it was only last October that I went off to the
University!”

“Dat so, Marse Billy. How we old people does forgit, to-be-sho!”

I may remark, here, that before the late war it was very gratifying to a
middle-aged negro to be thought old. There was on every farm a
considerable proportion of the ladies and gentlemen of color who had
voted themselves too old or too infirm to labor. Their diseases,—they
were all diseased,—while masking their malignity behind such empirical
euphemisms as rheumatiz or misery in de chist, baffled all diagnosis,
and were invariably incurable; for who can minister to a mind diseased
with that most obstinate of ailments, an aversion, to wit, to putting in
movement the muscles of one’s own body? There was, so to speak, an
_Hôpital des Invalides_ on every farm; and on my grandfather’s the
_emeriti_ and _emeritæ_ were in strong force.

And truly it was a pleasant sight, provided you were not a political
economist or a philanthropist, to walk among the cabins, on a bright
autumn afternoon, and see the good souls sitting, sunning themselves,
and hear the serene murmur of their prattle, broken, ever and anon, by
some mellow burst of careless laughter.

It was tranquillity such as this, I fancy, that Homer must have observed
in the old men of his day. Don’t you remember when there was a truce,
and Priam was standing upon the battlements,—what book was it?—but no
matter,—and he sent for Helen to come and point out to him the various
Greek heroes who stood beneath the walls; and how she had to pass by a
knot of ancient men, and how she amazed them by her beauty? The days of
toil and sweat and wounds, for them, at least, were past; and they, too,
had come to catch, from the turrets, a glimpse of wide-ruling Agamemnon
and Ulysses of many wiles; of the brawn of Ajax; and of Diomede, equal
to the immortal gods. And there they sat, hobnobbing and
a-twittering—so the master says—low and sweet as so many cicadas—let
us say katydids—from greenwood tree.

“No wonder,” they chirped, “the Greeks and Trojans” (_they_ were no
longer either Greeks or Trojans,—they were aged men, merely) “have
ceaselessly contended, for now nearly ten years, about her,—for she is
divinely beautiful!”

I think it must have been my childhood’s experiences of plantation life
that caused me to be so profoundly touched by this masterly passage; for
hardly elsewhere, in this grimly struggling world of ours, could just
such scenes have been witnessed. Just think of it, for a moment! Here,
throughout Virginia, there were, in those days, on every farm, three or
four, or a dozen, or a score of servants, who had rested from their
labors at an age when one may say the struggle glows fiercest with the
European races. A roof was over their heads, a bright fire crackled on
their hearths. Their food, if plain, was abundant. And there was not a
possibility that these things should ever fail them. No wonder they used
to rival the ἄσβεστος γέλως that burst from the ever-serene gods, when
lame Vulcan, with his ungainly hobble, went to and fro among them,
officiously passing the nectar.

That sonorous mellowness of unalloyed laughter we shall never hear
again. But never mind,—let it pass!


                            CHAPTER XXVIII.

Yes, let it pass. There was music in that laughter, doubtless, but it
cost us too dear. I think we Virginians[1] are agreed as to that,—more
than agreed,—yet we cannot bring ourselves to look as others do, upon
the state of things which rendered it possible. As one man, we rejoice
that slavery is dead; but even the victors in the late struggle—the
magnanimous among them, at least—will hardly find fault with us if we
drop a sentimental tear, as it were, upon its tomb. A reasonable man is
glad that an aching tooth is well out of his mouth; but to the
autocratic dentist who should pull it out by force, his gratitude would
not be boisterous; and then, after all, it leaves a void. But cheer up,
brother Virginians, listen to your Bushwhackerish bard while he chaunts
you a lay. He would have his say; but he will be good and kind. He would
not willingly bore you; and hence, ever thoughtful and considerate, he
serves up his rhetoric in a separate course. Skip this chapter, then, if
you will. You will find the story continued in the next.

Yes, it is all true enough, I admit. It was but the other day, so to
speak, that the first shipload of negroes was landed on the shores of a
continent peopled by a race which, after all has been said, remain the
most interesting of savages, and who, if not heroes, have easily become
heroic under the magicians’ wands of Cooper and of Longfellow. That
shipload and its successors have become millions; while the genius of a
Barnum scarce suffices to bring together enough Redskins to make a
Knickerbocker holiday. The descendant of the naked black, whose tribe,
on the Gold Coast, still trembles before a Fetish, rustles, beneath
fretted ceilings, in the robes of a bishop; while some chief of the
kindred, perhaps, of Tecumseh, shivers on the wind-swept plains, under
the fluttering rags of a contract blanket. His half-naked squaw hugs her
pappoose to her bosom, and flees before the sabres of our cavalry; but
her more deeply-tinted sister struts, beflounced, the spouse of a
senator. In one word, the race which the Anglo-Saxons found on this
continent remained free, and perished; the people they imported and
enslaved, multiplied and flourished. I do not feel myself the Œdipus to
solve this riddle of modern morals; but, with my people, I fail to see
the consistency of Victor Hugo[2] for example, who could whine over the
fate of John Brown,—hanged for an attempt to achieve the liberty of the
negro through murder,—but who, when Captain Jack stood at the foot of
the gallows, made no sign. Captain Jack, he too, through murder, sought
to maintain his ancestral right to independence—nay, existence—and a
few acres of wretched lava-beds. The distempered fancy of the first saw,
as he gazed upon the corpses of the fellow-citizens of Washington, of
Jefferson, and of Henry, countless dusky legions rushing to his
rescue,—the clear eye of the other showed him forty millions pouring
down upon his less than a hundred braves, to avenge the death of Canby;
and yet he slew him. John Brown is a hero, his name is a legend, his
tomb a shrine; but where are thy wretched bones slung away, poor Jack?
Hadst thou been fair, and dwelt in Lacedæmon, in Xerxes’ days, the name
of Leonidas shone not now in solitary glory adown the ages; wert thou
living now, and of sable hue, thou mightest be sitting at the desk of
Calhoun. Alas! alas! that thou shouldst have been of neutral shade; for
how couldst thou be a man and a brother, being only copper-colored?

But leaving these knotty points of ethical casuistry to the
philanthropists, I reiterate that I think that the picture I have drawn
of certain aspects of slavery, as it existed in Virginia, reveals its
fatal weakness. That weakness consisted in the fact that it realized the
ideal set forth in Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables.” That eloquent work of
the erratic French dreamer is one long and passionate protest against
the sorrows and sufferings of the poor. In those sorrows and sufferings
he finds the source of all the crimes that dishonor humanity. How, as
things existed with us, poverty sufficiently grinding to produce crime
was actually unknown; so that our little world was just the world that
he sighs for.

Victor Hugo plumes himself, I believe, upon never having learned the
gibberish that the English call their language. Therefore, as I do not
design having this work translated into the various modern languages
(why should I, forsooth, since by the time your day rolls round the
aforesaid gibberish will be the only tongue spoken by mankind?) he will
never have the pain of seeing himself ranked among the upholders of
slavery. Whatever he might say, however, it is very clear that no state
of things heretofore existing has so well fulfilled the conditions of
his ideal of society. It is no fault of mine if his ideal be absurd.[3]

For I fear me much this is no ideal world we live in.

But ah, what a lotus-dream we were a-dreaming, when from out our blue
sky the bolt of war fell upon us! We lived in a land in which no one was
hungry, none naked, none a-cold; where no man begged, and no man was a
criminal, no woman fell—from necessity; where no one asked for bread,
and all, even the slaves, could give it; where Charity was unknown, and
in her stead stood Hospitality, with open doors. What tidings we had,
meanwhile, of the things of the outer world, made us cherish all the
more fondly the quietude of our Sleepy Hollow. The nations, had they not
filled the air for a century past with the murmur of their unrest?
Revolutions, rebellions, barricades, bread-riots,—agrarianism,
communism, the frowning hosts of capital and labor—the rumor of these
grisly facts and grislier phantoms reached us, but from afar, and as an
echo merely; and lulled, by our exemption from these ills, into a fatal
security, we failed to perceive the breakers upon which we were slowly
but surely drifting. The lee-shore upon which our ship was so
somnolently rocking was nothing less than bankruptcy. Spendthrifts, we
dreamed that our inheritance was too vast ever to be dissipated; nay, we
fondly imagined that we were adding to our substance. Did not our
statesmen, our Able Editors, unceasingly assure us that we were the
richest people on the globe, and growing daily richer? And what had been
that inheritance? A noble, virgin land, unsurpassed, all things
considered, anywhere,—a land that cost us nothing beyond the beads of
Captain Smith and the bullets of his successors,—a land which no
mortgages smothered, no tax-gatherer devoured. But smothered and
devoured it was, and by our slaves.

It is doubtful whether slavery was ever, at any stage of the world’s
history, wise, from an economical point of view, though it was, of
course, in one aspect, in the interest of humanity, when, at some
prehistoric period, men began to enslave rather than butcher their
prisoners of war. But it seems very clear, that if the conditions of any
society were ever such that its greatest productive force could only be
realized through the restraints and constraints of slavery, then that
slavery must needs have been absolute and pitiless. No half-and-half
system will suffice. Severe and continuous labor is endured by no man
who can avoid it. But labor, continuous and severe, is the price paid by
the great mass of mankind for the mere privilege of being counted in the
census; so terrible is that struggle for existence, of the Darwinian
dispensation, which, whether we be Darwinians or not, we must needs live
under. This, in our dreamland, we quietly ignored. The political
economists are all agreed that from the sharpest toil little more can be
hoped for than the barest support of the toilers; and we were not
ignorant of political economy. But is there not an exception to every
rule? And were we not that exception? In _our_ favored nook, at least,
the cold dicta of science should not hold sway. And so our toilers did
half work,—and got double rations. In one word, we spent more than we
made. And although we could not be brought to see this, it became very
plain when the war came and settled our accounts for us; for I venture
to assert that in April, 1865, the State of Virginia was worth
intrinsically less than when, in 1607, Captain John Smith and his young
gentlemen landed at Jamestown. In other words, there had been going on
for two hundred and fifty years a process the reverse of accumulation.
For that length of time we had been living on our principal,—the native
wealth of the soil. While, in other parts of the country, the struggle
for existence had caused barrenness to bloom, the very rocks to grow
fat, in ours the struggle for ease had converted a garden into something
very like a wilderness. The forests we found had fallen; the rich soil
of many wide districts was washed into the sea, leaving nothing to
represent them; and when the smoke of battle cleared away, we saw a
naked land. It could not have been otherwise. Thoroughly imbued with the
spirit of the nineteenth century, as well as the principles of the
Jeffersonian Democracy, we were entangled in a system of things not
compatible, profitably at least, with either. We could not forget that
our slaves were human. There were ties that we felt in a hundred ways.
We loved this old nurse. We humored that old butler. We indulged, here a
real, there a sham invalid, until, in one word, the thing began to cost
more than it came to, and it was time we shook off the incubus.

And there was a time when many Virginians, now living, began to see
this; and had they been let alone, not many years would have passed
before we should have freed ourselves from the weight that oppressed us.
But in an evil hour there arose a handful of men with a mission,—a
mission to keep other people’s consciences,—often—as certain national
moral phenomena subsequently showed—to the neglect of that charity
which begins at home. From that day all rational discussion of the
question became impossible in Virginia; and a consummation for which
many of the wisest heads were quietly laboring became odious even to
hint at, under dictation from outsiders; and on the day when the first
abolition society was formed, the fates registered a decree that slavery
should go down; not in peace, but by war; not quietly and gradually
extinguished, with the consent of all concerned, but with convulsive
violence,—drowned in the blood of a million men, and the tears of more
than a million women.

Well, they were only white men and women,—so let that pass, too.

-----

[1] Obviously, as often elsewhere, Mr. Whacker here says _Virginians_,
instead of _Southerners_, to avoid all semblance of sectional feeling.

[2] Written, doubtless, before the death of “The Master.”—_Ed._

[3] In my capacity of Bushwhacker, I make it a matter of business to
laugh whenever I feel like it. I felt like it when, on reading the
above, this parallelism occurred to me: the hero of the
“Miserables”—Jean Valjean—is a thief. Now, holds our author, whenever
a man is so unfortunate as to be a thief, no blame should be attached to
him,—and he puts it about thus: “A thief is not a thief. Nor a crime.
He is a product. A fact. A titanic fact. A thief is a man who hears the
cry of a child. It is his child. It is a cry for bread. Society gives
him a stone. Effacement of his rectitude. He appropriates society’s
wallet. And serves society right; for ’tis society has made him a
thief.”

Leaving to some coming man the task and the credit of removing from
society all stain, by discovering who or what made society a
thief-maker, ’tis this that moved my Bushwhackerish soul to smile: this
Jean Valjean, whom society is so wicked in producing, turns out to be a
better man than any other man ever was, is, or shall be. So we, under
our very sinful system, would seem to have prepared for the elective
franchise a whole people lately buried in heathenism, without, as it
were, half trying. Nor does this claim rest merely upon that braggartism
so peculiarly Southern. The very best people on the other side—nay, the
people who, by their own admission, embrace all the culture and virtue
of the country—have been the first to give us this meed of praise,—yet
it is notorious that very few white men are yet, with all their Bacons,
and Sydneys, and Hampdens, and Jeffersons to enlighten them, qualified
for that august function. Nay, even in France herself, though she is, as
Victor Hugo says,—and he should know,—the mother and the father, and
the uncle and the aunt, and the brother and the sister of civilization,
I believe there are Frenchmen not yet fitted to wield the ballot,—among
whom, I doubt not, some profane persons would make so bold as to class
the illustrious rhapsodist himself.


                             CHAPTER XXIX.

“Git out o’ de way, you niggers! Aint y’ all got no manners? Git out o’
Marse Billy way! I declar’ fo’ Gaud niggers ain’t got no manners dese
days. Tain’t like it used to be. Y’ all gittin’ wuss and wuss.”

So saying, Aunt Polly made an unceremonious opening among the eager
heads of the youngsters that were thrust into the door-way; and Billy
pressed laughing through the throng, nodding here and there as he
passed. His arrival was hailed with beaming smiles by the ladies, and an
almost uproarious welcome by the gentlemen. The Don had already opened
his heart to him before he had gotten within introducing distance,
charmed by his frank and manly bearing, his hearty manner with the
gentlemen, his gentle deference to each lady in turn. So Billy’s sunny
face, his cordial rushing hither and thither to greet his friends, his
cheery laugh as he exchanged a bright word here and there,—a laugh that
revealed a set of powerful and large, though well-shaped teeth,—all
this had lighted up the thoughtful face of the Don with a sympathetic
glow,—a glow that vanished when, on their being introduced, Billy’s
fist closed upon his hand.

Mr. Billy was always a great favorite with me. Indeed, I like to think
of him as a kind of ideal young Virginian of those days,—so true, and
frank, and cordial, and unpretending. But there is one thing—I have
mentioned it above—that, as a historian, I am bound to confess: Billy
was addicted to playing on the fiddle.

“So, young ladies,” said my grandfather (for whose annual tunes no one,
somehow, had thought of calling), “you will have a fiddle to dance by,
after all.” A remark that elicited a joyous clapping of hands; and there
was a general stir for partners.

“Dares any man to speak to me of fiddling,” said Billy, “before I have
punished a few dozen of these bivalves?”

“That’s right, Billy! Dick, some oysters for Mr. Jones! They were never
better than this season!”

Billy passed into the next room, where Dick and his spouse began to
serve him with hospitable zeal.

“How was she, Marse Billy?”

Billy had just disposed of a monster that Dick had opened for him, and
was looking thoughtful.

“Uncle Dick, it almost makes me cry to think how much better that oyster
was than any we can get at the University; indeed it does.”

Dick chuckled with delight. “I believe you, Marse Billy; dey tells me
dere ain’t no better oysters in all Fidginny dan de Leicester oyster.”

Four or five students, who, like Billy, had run down home for the
holidays, had collected round the doorway leading into the library, and
with them several girls who were listening in a half-suppressed titter
to Billy’s solemn waggery. Lifting a huge “bivalve” on the prongs of his
fork, he contemplatively surveyed it.

“You are right, Uncle Dick; Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed
like one of these!”

“Jess so! What I tell you, Polly?” said Dick, straightening himself and
holding an unopened oyster in one hand and his knife in the other.
“Didn’t I say the Nuniversity was de most high-larnt school in de
Nunited States?”

Polly, being Mrs. Dick, had too great an admiration for that worthy’s
wisdom to do anything but simper assent.

“Jess so,”—and he held his eye upon her till he felt sure that she had
abandoned all thought of protesting against his dictum,—“eben so. You
right, Marse Billy; Solomon nor no other man never raised ’em like one
o’ dese. Ain’t you takin’ nothin’ to-night, Marse William? Dey tells me
toddy help a oyster powerful.”

“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Billy, with admiring surprise, “how do you
manage always to know exactly what a fellow wants?”

“Marse William,”—and Dick drew himself up to his full height,—“I ain’t
been ’sociatin’ wid de quality all dese years for nothin’.”

The dancing being over at a reasonable hour,—Billy and the Herr
furnishing the music,—the ladies retired to their rooms in the
“Great-House,” leaving the gentlemen to their toddy and cigars; and a
jovial crew they became. Billy and the Herr bore a large part in the
entertainment of the company,—the former executing reel and jig and jig
and reel in dashing style,—the latter improvising accompaniments,—his
head thrown back, a cigar-stump between his teeth, and contemplating,
through his moist spectacles, with a serene Teutonic merriment, the
capers of the revellers, one or another of whom could not, from time to
time, resist the fascination of the rhythm, but would spring to his feet
and execute something in the nature of a Highland fling or a
double-shuffle, to the great delight of the others, and of none more
than my glorious old grandfather. It is needless to remark that at each
one of these Terpsichorean exhibitions there was a suppressed roar of
chuckles to be heard issuing from the sable throng that crowded the
door-ways, and that there might have been seen as many rows of ivories
as there were heads massed together there.

“It is refreshing, Mr. Whacker,” observed the Don, whose reserve was
unmistakably thawing under the apple-toddy, “to see a man of your age
sympathizing so heartily with us youngsters in our enjoyments.”

“Yes,” remarked the old gentleman, lolling comfortably back in his
chair; “but I am not so sure that I have left all the fun to the
youngsters;” and he nodded towards his empty glass; “but I believe I
enjoy the capers of the boys more than the toddy.”

“Go it, Billy!” cried a student, as that artist dashed into a jig with a
zeal heightened by the enthusiasm of the now slightly boozy Herr.

“Bravo!” cried Mr. Whacker; “you will have to look to your laurels,
Charley.”

“Oh, I resign!” said Charley, examining the rag on his finger.

“By the way, Charley, you have not yet shown Mr. Smith the old
Guarnerius. Do you take any interest in such things?”

“I have a great curiosity to see it.”

“I am afraid it will not show off to advantage. I have forgotten to have
it mounted with strings this Christmas. Do you know that a violin gets
hoarse, as it were, from lying idle?”

“I have heard something of the kind.”

“I should have had it strung several days ago.”

“I put strings on it day before yesterday,” said Charley.

“Indeed!” said my grandfather; “but you were always thoughtful. Let us
have it, Charley.”

Charley’s return with the violin made a stir among the company. Billy
stopped his fiddling and came up, followed by all present, to see opened
the case that contained the wonderful instrument, which was a sort of
lion among the fiddlers of the county. My grandfather unlocked the case
with a certain nervous eagerness, raised the lid almost reverently, and
removing the padded silken covering which protected it, “Now just look
at that,” said the old gentleman, his eye kindling.

I have often seen ladies take their female friends to the side of a
cradle, and softly turning down the coverlet, look up, as much as to
say, “Did you ever see anything half so beautiful?” And I must do the
female friends the justice to add that they always signified that they
never had; and I have often seen the subject of such unstinted praise,
when brought before males, pronounced a pretty enough baby, but a baby
seemingly in no wise different from all the babies that are, have been,
or shall be; and on such occasions I can recall, methinks, some maiden
aunt, for example, who has ended by getting worried at the persistent
inability of some obstinate young fellow to see certain points of
superiority about mouth, eyes, or nose, which to her were very clear.
And so it was on this occasion, as on many previous ones, with my
grandfather. He was always amazed, when he showed his violin, at the
polite coldness of the praise that it received.

“Look at those _f_-holes,” said he, taking the violin out of its case;
“look at those clean-cut corners!” And everybody craned his neck and
tried to see the clean-cut corners. “What a contour!” exclaimed the
enthusiastic old gentleman, holding the instrument off at arm’s length
and gazing rapturously upon it. There was a murmur of adhesion, as the
French say.

“Splendid!” ejaculated Billy, feeling that something was due from him as
the fiddler of the evening; thereby drawing the gleaming eyes of Mr.
Whacker full upon him. “Splendid!” repeated he, in a somewhat lower
tone, and looking steadfastly at the violin; for he could not look the
old gentleman in the face,—knowing—the honest scamp—that he was a
fraud, and saw nothing wonderful in the instrument.

“Why, hand me that old gourd you have been playing on,” said Mr.
Whacker; and he snatched the fiddle from Billy’s hand. “Look at those
two scrolls, for example,” said the old gentleman, bumping them together
within three inches of Billy’s nose.

Billy took the two necks in his hands, screwed up his face, and tried
his best to look knowing; but his broad, genial countenance could not
bear the tension long; and a sudden flash of humor from his kindly eyes
set the company in a roar, in which my grandfather could not help
joining.

“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I ought not to expect you to be a
connoisseur in violins. Would you like to examine it?” said Mr. Whacker,
thinking he detected a look of interest on the part of the Don,—and he
handed him the instrument.

The Unknown took it in an awkward and confused sort of way. My
grandfather looked chopfallen. “I thought that possibly you might have
seen Cremonas in Europe,” observed the old man timidly.

The Don bowed,—whether in assent or dissent was not clear; nor was it
any clearer, as he gently rocked it to and fro, examining the _f_-holes
and other points of what is known as the belly of the instrument,
whether he was moved by curiosity or by courtesy. A motion of his wrist
brought the back of the instrument in view. “By Jove!” vehemently
exclaimed the stranger, as a flood of golden light flashed into his eyes
from the unapproachable varnish; but he colored and looked confused when
he saw that his warmth had drawn the eyes of all upon himself. Even
Charley ceased examining the bandage on his finger and quietly
scrutinized the Don out of the corners of his eyes.

But you should have seen your ancestor and mine, my dear boy. He rose
from his seat without saying a single word. There was an expression of
defiance in his fine brown eyes, not unmingled with solemnity. He held
out his upturned hands as though he were going to begin a speech, I was
going to say,—but it was not that. His look and attitude were those of
an advocate who has just brought a poser to bear on opposing counsel.
And such my grandfather felt was his case. “For years,” his looks seemed
to say, “I have been chaffed about my Guarnerius by you bumpkins, and
now here comes a man who puts you all down by one word.” He looked from
face to face to see if any of the company had anything to say to the
contrary. At last his eve met Billy’s. That young gentleman, willing to
retrieve his disastrous defeat in the matter of scrolls and contours and
_f_-holes, again came to the front.

“Doesn’t it shine!” remarked that unfortunate youth, approvingly.

“Shine!” shouted my grandfather, indignantly,—“shine!” repeated he with
rising voice, and rapping the back of the violin with his knuckles,—“do
you call that shiny?” said he, with another rap, and holding the
instrument in front of Billy. “Why, a tin pan shines,—a well-fed negro
boy’s face shines,—and you say _that_ shines,” he added, with an
argumentative rap. “Is that the way you are taught to discriminate in
the use of words at the University?” And the old gentleman smiled,
mollified by Billy’s evident confusion and the shouts of laughter that
greeted his discomfiture.

“Why, Uncle Tom, if that violin doesn’t shine, what does it do?”

“Why, it—well—I should say—ahem!—in fact, it—I—”

“What would you call it, Uncle Tom?” urged Billy, rallying bravely from
his rout, and trying to assume a wicked smile.

“What would I call it? I would call it—well—the violin—confound it! I
should hold my tongue rather than say that violin was shiny.” And the
old gentleman turned upon his heel and stalked across the room; but
Billy was not the man to relinquish his advantage.

“How, Uncle Tom, that is not fair,” said he, following up his adversary,
and holding on to the lappel of his coat in an affectionately teasing
manner. “Give us _your_ word.”

“Shiny! shiny!” spluttered the old gentleman with testy scorn.

“Ah, but that won’t do. Let the company have your word, Uncle Tom.” And
the young rogue tipped a wink to a knot of students. “The violin is—?”

“Effulgent!” shouted his adversary, wheeling upon him and bringing down
the violin, held in both hands, with a swoop.

I shall take the liberty here of assuming that my readers are, as I was
myself, till Charley enlightened me, ignorant of the fact that the
varnish of the violins of the old masters is considered a great point.
Collectors go into raptures over the peculiar lustre of their old
instruments, which, they say, is the despair of modern makers. I have
myself seen, or at least handled, but one of them,—my grandfather’s old
Guarnerius,—and that, certainly, was singularly beautiful in this
respect.

“Effulgent!” cried he, his noble brown eyes dilated, his head tossed
back and swaying from side to side,—tapping gently, with the
finger-nails of his right hand, the back of the violin, upon which the
light of a neighboring lamp danced and flamed. The students indicated to
Billy, in their hearty fashion, that he had got what he wanted, and Mr.
Whacker, spurred on by their approval, rose to the height of his great
argument.

“Just look at that,” said he, turning with enthusiasm to one of the
students,—“just look at that,” he repeated, flashing the golden light
into the eyes of another; “why, it almost seems to me that we have here
the very rays that, a century ago, this maple wood absorbed in its pores
from the sun of Italy.”

How much more my grandfather was going to say I know not; for he was
interrupted by a storm of applause from his young auditors.

“I say, boys, that’s a regular old-fashioned ‘curl,’” whispered one of
them.

“Uncle Tom,” said Billy, removing the bow from the case, “does _this_
effulge any?”

“But, Mr. Whacker,” observed a fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman, “it
strikes me that the important thing about a fiddle is its tone, not its
varnish. Now, do you really think your Cremona superior to a
twenty-dollar fiddle in tone? Honestly now, is there any difference
worth mentioning?”

“Any difference? Heavens above! Why, listen!” And the old gentleman drew
the bow slowly over double strings, till the air of the room seemed to
palpitate with the rich harmony. “Did you ever hear anything like that?”
exclaimed he, with flushing face; and he drew the bow again and again.
There were exclamations of admiration—real or affected—all around the
room.

The Don alone was silent.

I remember looking towards him with a natural curiosity to see what
he—the only stranger present—appeared to think of the instrument; but
he gave no sign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He was gazing
fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of rapt look,—his head bowed, his
lips firmly compressed, but twitching a little. His eyes had a certain
glitter about them, strongly contrasting with their usual expression of
unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley, but his eyes did not
meet mine; for he had turned his chair away from the fire, and was
scrutinizing the stranger’s face with a quiet but searching look.

“It is a little hoarse from long disuse,” said Mr. Whacker, drawing the
bow slowly as before.

“Give us a tune, Uncle Tom?”

“Yes, yes!” joined in a chorus. “Give us a tune!”

“Pshaw!” said the old gentleman, “it would be a profanation to play a
‘tune’ on this instrument.”

“There is where I don’t agree with you, Mr. Whacker,” put in the fat and
jolly middle-aged gentleman. “The last time I was in Richmond I went to
hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wish never to hear
again,—nothing but running up and down the strings, with de’il a bit of
tune that I could see.”

“That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confound their science,
say I.”

“Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, encouraged.
“The fact is, it spoils a fiddler to teach him his notes. Music should
come from the heart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billy here,
but, so far as I am concerned, I would rather hear him than all the Ole
Bulls and Paganinis that ever drew a bow.”

“Rather hear Billy? I should think so! Why, any left-handed negro
fiddler can beat those scientific fellows all hollow.”

My grandfather, during the passage at arms that ensued upon the
expression of these sentiments, grew rather warm, and at last appealed
to the Don. He, as though loath to criticise the performance of our
friend Billy, spoke guardedly. “I should think,” said he, “that music
would be like anything else,—those who devoted most time to it would be
most proficient.”

“Of gourse!” broke in the Herr, who had not allowed the discussion to
draw him very far from the bowl of toddy. “Now, joost look at unser
frient Pilly. Dot yung mon has a real dalent for de feedle,—but vot he
blay? Noding als reels unt cheeks unt zuch dinks. Joost sent dot yung
mon one time nach Europen, unt by a goot master. Donnerwetter, I show
you somedink! Tausendteufels!” added he, draining his glass, “vot for a
feedler dot yung Pilly make!”

I may remark that just in proportion as the Herr mollified his water did
he dilute his English. Just in proportion as he approached the bottom of
a punch-bowl did the language of Shakespeare and Milton become to him an
obscure idiom.

“Won’t you try its tone?” said Mr. Whacker, offering the violin and bow
to the Don.

“Oh,” replied he, deprecatingly.

“It’s of no consequence that you can’t play,” insisted the old
gentleman. “Just try the tone. Here, this way,” added he, putting the
violin under the Don’s chin.

It may seem strange that I, a bachelor, should be so fond of
illustrating my scenes by means of babies; but as the whole frame-work
and cast of this story compels me to marry at some future day, I may be
allowed to say that the Don held the violin just as I have seen young
fellows hold an infant that had been thrust into their arms by some
mischievous young girl. Afraid to refuse to take it lest the mother be
hurt, they are in momentary terror lest it fall.

“There! So!” exclaimed the old gentleman, adjusting the instrument.

While every one else smiled at the scene, Charley was, strangely enough,
almost convulsed with a noiseless chuckle that brought the tears into
his eyes.

“The old boy feels his toddy,” thought I.

The Don began to scrape dismally.

“Ah, don’t hold the bow so much in the middle!—So!—That’s better!—Now
pull away! Keep the bow straight!—There, that’s right! So!—”

Charley rocked in his seat.

“Now, up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Very good! Down! Up! Bow straight!—”

Charley leaped from his chair and held his sides. Well, even Cato
occasionally moistened his clay.

“So! Better still! Excellent! Upon my word, you are an apt scholar!”

Charley dropped into his seat, threw back his head, and shut his eyes.

The Don paused, smiling.

“What a tone!” exclaimed my grandfather. “Oh!” cried he with intense
earnestness, “if—if I could but hear, once again, an artist play upon
that violin!”

The smile passed from the Unknown’s face. A strange look came into his
eyes, as though his thoughts were far away. His chin relaxed its hold
upon the violin and pressed upon his breast. His right arm slowly
descended till the tip of the bow almost touched the floor; and there he
stood, his eyes fixed upon the ground. A stillness overspread the
company. No one moved a muscle save Charley. He, with an odd smile in
his eyes, softly drew from his pocket a small pen-knife and held it in
his left hand, with the nail of his right thumb in the notch of the
blade.

Slowly, and as if unconsciously to himself, the Don’s right arm began to
move. The violin rose, somehow, till it found its way under his chin.

Charley opened his knife.

There were signs in the Unknown’s countenance of a sharp but momentary
struggle, when his right arm suddenly sprang from its pendent position,
and the wrist, arched like the neck of an Arab courser, stood, for a
second, poised above the bridge.

Charley passed the blade of his knife through the threads that bound the
bandage about his finger, and the linen rag fell to the floor; and he
rose and folded his arms across his breast.

The bow descended upon the G string. The stranger gave one of those
quick up-strokes with the lowest inch of the horse-hair, followed by a
down-stroke of the whole length of the bow.


                              CHAPTER XXX.

The note sounded was the lower A, produced, if I may be allowed to
enrich my style with a borrowed erudition, by stopping the G string with
the first finger. Whimsical as the idea may seem to a musician, I have
always considered this the noblest tone within the register of the
violin; and such an A I had never before heard. I have already mentioned
the extraordinary acoustical properties of this room, the very air of
which seemed to palpitate, the very walls to tremble beneath the
powerful vibrations. The deep, long-drawn tone ceased, and again the
wrist stood for a moment arched above the bridge. A breathless stillness
reigned throughout the room, while the Don stood there, with pale face,
his dark eyes “in a fine frenzy rolling,”—stood there, one might say,
in a trance, forgetful of his audience, forgetful of self, unconscious
of all else save the violin clasped between chin and breast. Down came
the fingers of the left hand; with them the bow descended, this time
upon all four strings; and four notes leaped forth, crisp, clear, and
sparkling, brilliant as shooting-stars! Then chord after chord; and, in
mad succession, arpeggios, staccatos, pizzicatos, chromatic scales,
octaves, fierce, dizzy leaps from nut to bridge, cries of joy,
mutterings of rage, moans of despair, all were there,—a very
pandemonium of sound!

It was not a composition,—hardly an improvisation, even; for neither
was key sustained nor time observed. It resembled, more than anything
else I can compare it to, the mad carolling of a mocking-bird as he
flaps and sails from the topmost branch of a young tulip poplar to
another hard by, pouring forth in scornful profusion his exhaustless and
unapproachable tide of song, little recking what comes first and what
next,—whether the clear whistle of the partridge, the shrill piping of
the woodpecker, or the gentle plaint of the turtle-dove.

And the mad dancing of the bow went on, amid a silence that was
absolute. But it was a silence like that of a keg of gunpowder, where a
spark suffices to release the imprisoned forces.

The spark came in the shape of an interjection from the deep chest of
Uncle Dick.

But how am I to represent that interjection to posterity?

There came a pause.

“Umgh-u-m-g-h!” grunted our venerable butler. And straightway there
ensued a scene which—

But future ages must first be told precisely what Uncle Dick said; for,
as all Virginians, at least, know, when you limit yourself to reporting
of a man that he said umgh-umgh, you have given a meagre and inadequate,
certainly an ambiguous, interpretation of his sentiments.

Not to go into any refinements, it suffices to say that besides a score
of other umgh-umghs of radically distinct significance, there are
umgh-umghs which mean yes, and umgh-umghs which mean no. For example,
“Dearest, do you love me?” Now the umgh-umgh that may be supposed in
this case is a kind of flexible, india-rubber yes, ranging all the way
from “Perhaps” to “Oh, most dearly!” (but Charley says that it is
umgh-humgh, not umgh-umgh, that means yes;) now follow up your question
with a demonstration as though you would test matters,—_umgh-umgh!_
What a _no_ is there! “Are you crazy? Right out here in the
summer-house! with people strolling all around, and the vines so thin
that—”

Now, Uncle Dick’s umgh-umgh was not at all an umgh-umgh affirmative,
still less an umgh-umgh negative. ’Twas rather an umgh-umgh eulogistic,
as though he said, Words are inadequate to express my feelings. Now, a
less painstaking author than myself would say no more just here; aware
that every Virginian, at least, knows what is meant by the umgh-umgh
eulogistic; but the contemporary reader must pardon me for reminding him
that this book has not been written entirely, or even mainly, for him,
but rather for generations yet unborn,—notably the generations of the
Whackers. I esteem it, therefore, singularly fortunate that my friend
Charley happens to have made an exhaustive study of this same umgh-umgh
language, and especially so that he has been at the pains of elucidating
his subject by means of a musical notation. Know, then, oh, _propinqui
longinqui_!—oh, _manus innumerabiles Whackerorum_!—that the exact
sound uttered by that unapproachable Automedon was:

  [Illustration: Carlo Frobisherini. Opus 99. 

  _Andante sostenuto e scherzando._ 

  _Sotto vocce._ Umgh - umgh!

  {A treble clef with the key signature of E major, in 3/4 time. “Umgh”
  is a 16th-note low E in the first measure, and “-umgh” in the second
  measure is a three-beat E, with a fermata above it.}]

“An andante _scherzando_?” exclaimed my grandfather, on seeing the
notation; “how is that?”

“’Tis because mine Uncle Richard hath neglected the study of thorough
bass; hence he warbleth his native wood-notes wild,” quoth Charley.

But to return to the scene in the Hall. And I beg that the reader will
place himself entirely in my hands, while I endeavor to make him realize
every feature of that scene,—for it really occurred just as he will
find it recorded.

Figure to yourselves, then, my countless readers and admirers, first the
Hall itself, with its lofty ceiling and its spacious, well-waxed floor
of heart-pine so nicely joined that it was a sound-board in itself. At
one end of the room stood a piano; at the other was a vast open
fireplace, in which, supported by tall and glistening andirons, there
glowed a noble fire of hickory logs five feet long. The furniture in the
room was peculiar, consisting of a square table of exceeding lightness,
and chairs that you might toss in the air with your little finger,—all
with a view to the least possible weight upon the floor,—though I must
say that they were often the means of bringing heavy weights in contact
with it. Add to these a lounge of slenderest proportions, upon which my
grandfather loved to recline, pipe in mouth, whenever any music was
going forward; and you have all the furniture that the room possessed.
Of other objects there were absolutely none upon the floor, except four
cases containing the instruments needful to a string quartet; and these
stood each in its own corner, as though on ill terms. The old gentleman
had banished from the Hall even his collection of music, great piles of
which were stowed away in the adjoining room; for he insisted that its
weight would mar the resonance of the Hall. It remains but to add that
upon the walls no painting or engraving was allowed. Their smooth finish
showed no crack,—so that the Herr used to say that the hall, if strung,
would have been a very goot feedle for Bolyphemoos, or some oder of dem
chiant singers to blay on.

So much for the Hall, around which, on the Christmas Eve in question,
were grouped nearly all my grandfather’s slaves old enough to be out on
so cold a night, reinforced by many of Charley’s.

And I am not so sure that the outsiders were not having a merrier time
than the insiders. For every now and then, throughout the evening, my
grandfather might have been seen passing glasses of toddy or eggnog to
one or another of the favorite old servants, as he observed them in the
throng; and Charley and I saw that the rest had no cause to feel
slighted. All had their share,—if not of toddy, at least of that
without which all toddy is a delusion and a shadow. Then the sound of
Jones’s fiddle could not be kept within-doors, and such of them as
despaired of forcing their way through the masses around the windows and
doors had formed rings, where, by the light of the wintry moon, the
champion dancers of the two farms exhibited to admiring throngs what
they knew about the double-shuffle and the break-down; and the solid
earth resounded beneath the rhythm of their brogans. To me, I remember,
they seemed happy, at the time; which goes to show how little I knew
about happiness,—and I believe that they too were under the same
delusion; but their early educations had been neglected.

Happy or wretched, however, let them form a frame, as it were, for the
picture I would conjure up for my reader. The first note drawn forth by
the Don had arrested their attention, and there was a rush for every
spot from which a view could be had of the performer. See them,
therefore, a few of the older ones just inside the door, the less
fortunate craning their necks behind, and upon their faces that rapt
attention which is an inspiration to an artist. See those others who,
huddled upon boxes and barrels piled beneath the windows, are flattening
their noses, one might almost say, against the lower panes. At the
library door stood one or two tidy house-maids. Uncle Dick, alone, stood
near the roaring fire, he assuming that his services were required.

“Hi! what dat?” exclaimed a youngster, when the strange sound first
broke upon his ear; for he could not see the Don from where he stood.

“Heish, boy!” broke in a senior, in stern rebuke; “Don’t you see ’tis de
new gent’mun a-playin’ on the fiddle?” And silence reigned again,—a
silence broken, from time to time, by a low, rippling chuckle of intense
delight, and illumined, one might say, by the whites of an hundred pairs
of wondering eyes.

And now let us glance at the dozen gentlemen who sat within, beginning
with my dear old grandfather.

At the first long-drawn, sonorous note he had sprung to his feet; and
there he stood, with both hands raised and extended as though he
commanded silence. And his countenance! never had I seen it look so
beautiful! A happy smile lit up his noble face, and he seemed to say as
he looked from Charley to me, and from me to Charley, “At last!” And
Charley stood leaning against a corner of the mantel-piece, with his
arms folded, replying to his friend with sympathetic glances. It was
plain to see that he was happy in his old friend’s happiness, but there
was a droll twinkle in his eyes that even he could not suppress, though
he bit his lip. What it meant I could not, of course, divine.

It was a treat to behold the Herr on this occasion. With his forearm
resting on the table, his fingers toying with the stem of his goblet, he
leaned back in his chair and smiled, through his gold-rimmed spectacles,
with a look of profound Germanic content and good nature. Not once did
he remove his benignant eyes from the Don, not even when he raised his
half-full glass to his lips and drained it to the last drop. Even then
he watched, out of the corner of his eye, the fantastic caperings of the
bow and the labyrinthine wanderings of the performer’s fingers; and
slowly replacing his glass upon the table, stroked his long and
straggling beard so softly that he seemed to fear that the sparse hairs
would mar the music by their rattling.

One word will suffice for the jolly, fat, middle-aged gentleman. He sat
with his mouth wide open, tilting back in one of my grandfather’s
skeleton chairs.

Now, that was not safe.

But there is one face that I shall not attempt to describe,—that of
young Jones, the University man, upon whom it flashed, like a
revelation, that he had been, without knowing it, fiddling away for
hours in the presence of an artist. It naturally occurred to Billy that
a huge joke had been perpetrated at his expense; and after the first few
notes, he tried to nerve himself to meet the explosion of laughter that
he momentarily expected. But his furtive glances from side to side
detected no one looking his way,—no symptom of a joke, in fact,—so
that the flush of confusion began to recede, supplanted by a glow of
enthusiasm. I leave it to the reader, then, to imagine the play of
expression on the countenance of this big, manly fellow,—rejoicing in
his strength, and brimful of rollicking humor, loving a joke even at his
own expense, as he stood there before the Don; at one time carried away
by the impetuosity of the performer, at another flushing up to his eyes
when he reflected that, if no one else had served him that turn, he, at
least, had made a fool of himself.

This is tableau No. 1, but, for clearness’ sake, let me retouch its
outlines.

A large room, with a roaring fire at one end, and doors open, Virginia
fashion. In the doors and windows a background—or blackground—of
colored brethren and sisters, exhibiting a breathless delight, all their
teeth, and the largest surface, functionary practicable, of the whites
of their eyes. Within, stands my grandfather, on tiptoe, with
outstretched arms, which wave gently up and down, as, from time to time,
snatches of rhythm drop out of the chaos of chords and runs that are
pouring from his Guarnerius. Next the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman,
tilting back, open-mouthed, in one of Mr. Whacker’s phantom chairs, and
rather near the fire. Then Mr. William Jones himself, who just at this
moment has compressed his lips, and resolved that he will smash his
fiddle and break his bow just so soon as he reaches No. 28, East Lawn,
U. V. Then there is the Herr Waldteufel, smiling through clouded
glasses, but not darkly. Then—to omit half a dozen gentlemen—there was
the inscrutable Charley, leaning, with a certain subdued twinkle in his
eyes, against one end of the mantel-piece, while near the other stood,
in respectful attitude, Uncle Dick, his hands clasped in front of his
portly person, his bald head bent low, his left ear towards the music,
his eyes fixed askance upon the fire to his right.

Midst this scene of perfect stillness stood the Don,—his body swaying
to and fro. The old Guarnerius seemed to be waking from its long
slumber, and, as if conscious that once more a master held it, to be
warming to its work. The music grew madder. At last there came some
fierce chords, then a furious fortissimo chromatic scale of two or three
octaves, with a sudden and fantastic finish of fairy-like
harmonics,—the snarling of a tiger, one might say, echoed by the
slender pipings of a phantom cicada:

[Illustration: Umgh-umgh! {The same clef as the previous illustration.}]


                             CHAPTER XXXI.

It was a match to the mine, that umgh-umgh eulogistic, and the explosion
was tremendous; for my grandfather’s toddy-bowl, though wide and deep,
was now nearly empty. In an instant every man was on his feet, cheering
at the top of his voice. Such hats as were available, seized without
regard to ownership, were frantically whirling in the air; tumblers went
round in dizzy circles; centrifugal toddy was splashing in every
direction; while the rear ranks of the colored cohorts were scrambling
over the backs of those in front, to catch a glimpse of the scene. In
the midst of it all, the honest Herr was to be seen rushing to and fro,
lustily shouting out some proposition as to the health of the stranger.
He was brandishing his goblet, which he had managed to fill,
notwithstanding the confusion, and offering to chink glasses with any
and all comers, when, as ill luck would have it, he ran into one of the
students as enthusiastic as himself, and the twain suddenly found
themselves holding in their hands nothing but the stems of their
goblets.

“Ah, mein freund,” said he, with a glance at his soaked shirt-front,
“vot for a poonch vas dat!”

“Very good, very good!” cried the student, with a rousing slap on his
shoulder; for a vague feeling came over the young man that one of the
Herr’s puns was lurking somewhere in the mist.

But the most striking figure in tableau No. 2 was that of my
grandfather. As soon as Uncle Dick’s applauding grunt had broken the
spell that held the company, and while all were cheering lustily, he
rushed up to the Don, and placed his hands in an impressive way on his
shoulders. The cheering suddenly ceased, and all listened intently save
the Herr and his student, who, having found fresh tumblers, were busy
scooping up the last of the punch.

“My friend,” said my grandfather, “Charley and I are but two in this big
house,”—and there was a simple pathos in his manner and tones.—“Won’t
you live with us—for good?”

Tremendous applause greeted this rather thorough-going invitation; and
tableau No. 2 dissolved in confusion; in the midst of which stood the
Don, bowing and laughing, and wisely holding high above his head the
precious violin.

“Ah, dere spoke de Barrone!” quoth the Herr, balancing himself, and
clinking half-filled glasses with his student.

“Good for Uncle Tom!” echoed the latter.

“So!” chimed in the Herr, blinking at the ceiling through the bottom of
his tumbler.

“I am in downright earnest, I assure you,” urged Mr. Whacker, on
remarking the pleased merriment of the Don. “Eh, Charley?”

“So say we all of us!” said Charley, with jovial earnestness, and
shaking, with great cordiality, the stranger’s right hand, whence I had
removed the bow.

Uncle Dick now came to the fore again. Uncle Richard was a humorist,
and, with all the tact of his race, knew perfectly well, how, while
preserving a severe decorum of form, to make his little hit. So now,
turning to Aunt Polly, with a look on his face of childlike simplicity,
beneath which lurked a studied unconsciousness, he asked, in the most
artless stage-whisper,—

“Polly, whar’s Marse William Jones?” And rising on his toes and letting
his under jaw drop, as one will when peering over the heads of a crowd
in search of a friend’s face, he ran his eyes, with a kind of
unobtrusive curiosity, over group after group, till they met Marse
William’s; then instantly dropped them as if he simply desired to be
assured that his Marse William was there. ’Twas perfect art, and the
effect electric. In an instant all eyes were fixed on Billy. Uproarious
laughter burst forth from the company, in the midst of which the
students made a rush for the unhappy fiddler. He had hardly one second’s
time given him to decide what to do; but before his friends reached him
he had bowed himself, and, with one leap, sprung far under the table,
where he lay flat upon the floor, with his face buried in his hands,
convulsed with almost hysterical laughter.

“Haul him out! haul him out!” rose on all sides, and—

But just here I must permit myself a philosophical reflection, the truth
of which will be readily acknowledged by all publicans and sinners, and
such other disreputable persons as, in company with those like-minded
with themselves, have looked upon the wine when it was red. It is this:
That fun is literally intoxicating, At a wine-party of young men, for
example, all things will go on smoothly for hours. Conversation is going
forward pleasantly, or speeches heard with decorum. A pleasant
exhilaration is to be observed, but nothing more. Then there will arise,
by chance, some one, who, we will say, shall sing a capital new comic
song, calling on the company to join in the chorus. At the close of that
song you shall wonder what has happened to everybody. Why does your
right-hand neighbor throw his arm across your shoulder and call you old
boy? What sudden and inexplicable thirst is this that has seized upon
the man on your left, that he should be calling for champagne so
lustily? What is that little fellow, at the other end of the table,
doing there, standing up in his chair, and waving his glass? What
strange glow is this that has flashed through _your_ frame, bearing
along with it the conviction that you are all glorious fellows and
having a glorious time?

“Haul him out! haul him out!” And instantly the students dived,
pell-mell, under the table. It would be simply impossible to describe
the scene that followed. Under the table there was an inextricably
entangled mass of vigorous young fellows, some on their heads, others on
their backs, with their heels in the air, tugging away with might and
main at each other’s arms and legs; for safety, as to the Greeks at
Salamis, had arisen for Jones from the very numbers of his foes.
Meantime the table danced and bumped over the floor, rocking and tossing
above this human earthquake; while around it there arose such peals of
uproarious laughter as one could not expect to hear twice in a
life-time.

“Mein Gott!” gasped the Herr, falling up against the piano, and wiping
his streaming eyes, “mein Gott, how many funs!”

But the scene did not last half so long as I have been in painting it.
It was the middle-aged fat gentleman that, in the twinkling of an eye,
put an end to all this tumultuous laughter, or, at any rate, drew its
brunt upon himself.

The M. A. F. G., as above stated, was tilting back in one of my
grandfather’s slender chairs, in front of the fire, balancing himself on
tiptoe, and rocking to and fro with uncontrollable laughter. In front of
him a student was backing out from under the table, all doubled up, his
head not yet free from its edge, and tugging away manfully at the leg of
a comrade. Suddenly the foot he held resigned its boot to his keeping.
The M. A. F. G. could hardly tell, afterwards, what it was that, like a
battering-ram of old, smote him at the junction of vest and trousers;
but it would seem to have been that student’s head. Up flew his heels,
crash went the chair, and, quicker than thought, he was sprawling upon
his back in the midst of that roaring hickory fire. A dozen hands seized
and dragged him forth. Jones and his fiddle were forgotten; and he and
his young friends emerged from under the table to join in the shouts of
laughter that greeted the M. A. F. G., as he capered briskly about,
brushing the coals and ashes from his broad back, and belabored by his
friends, who were assisting him in saving his coat.

“Tausendteufels! vot for a shbree!” And the Herr sank exhausted upon the
piano-stool.[1]

-----

[1] It will doubtless surprise the reader to be informed that this whole
scene actually occurred, substantially as I have described it,—even the
last seemingly extravagant detail having been witnessed, not invented,
by the author.


                             CHAPTER XXXII.

“Christmas gift! young ladies, Christmas gift!” chirped Aunt Phœbe,
bustling briskly, in her resplendent bandanna, into the room, and
courtesying and bowing, and bowing and courtesying in turn, to the two
fair heads that lay deep-nestled in their pillows.

“Christmas gift!” modestly echoed the handmaiden Milly, her sable
daughter, modestly bringing up the rear and showing all her ivories.

I don’t think the relations between Virginia master and Virginia slave
ever appeared in a gentler or more attractive aspect than on Christmas
mornings. The way the older and more privileged domestics had of
bursting into your room at the most unearthly hour, shouting “Christmas
gift! Christmas gift!” beaming with smiles and brimful of good nature,
was enough to warm the heart of a Cimon.

“Well, Aunt Phœbe,” said one of the drowsy beauties, “you have caught
us.”

“Gracious, is it daybreak yet?” yawned hazel-eyed Alice. “I am s-o-o-o
sleepy!” And turning over in bed with a toss, she closed her eyes and
pouted as though she had much to endure.

“Daybreak? _Daybreak?_ Why, Lor’, chile, ain’t Polly done put on her
bread to bake? Git up, git up, you lazy things! Don’t you know all de
beaux is up and dressed, and a-settin’ round, ’most a-dyin’ for to see
you?”

“Poor things, are they?” mumbled Alice against her pillow.

“To-be-sho, to-be-sho dey is,” reiterated Aunt Phœbe; though, as a
veracious historian, I must let the reader know that it was a pious
fraud on the old lady’s part, inspired by solicitude for the reputation
of the Elmington breakfast; for not one of the sinners had stirred.

“I believe,” added Aunt Phœbe, observing that Mary’s eyes were open,—“I
believe,” said she, going up to Alice and looking down upon her with an
admiring smile, “dat dis is de sleepyheadedest one of ’em all.”

Alice gave a little grunt, if the expression be parliamentary.

“Makin’ ’ten’ she ’sleep now,” said Aunt Phœbe, casting knowing nods and
winks at Mary.

“When she is awake, Aunt Phœbe, she is wide enough awake for you, isn’t
she?”

“Lor’ bless you, honey, I b’lieve you; she cert’n’y do beat all.” And
the floor trembled beneath the good old soul’s adipose chuckle. “She is
a pretty chile, too, she is mum,” continued the old lady, assuming, with
her arms akimbo, a critical attitude. Mary rose on her elbow to observe
Alice’s countenance. Her lips began to twitch, slightly, under this
double gaze.

“And I ain’t de onliest one as thinks so, neither,” added she, tossing
back her head with a look of triumphant sagacity.

“Who is it? who is it?” And Mary rose and sat up in bed.

“Nebber mind, nebber mind!” replied she, with diplomatic reserve.
“Nebber mind; Phœbe ain’t been livin’ in this world so long for nothin’.
De ole nigger got eyes in her head, and she can see out’n ’em, too; you
b’lieve she can, my honeys.”

“Oh, do tell me, that’s a good Aunt Phœbe!”

“Though she ain’t got no specs on her nose.” And the good soul threw
herself back and gave vent to a very audible h’yah, h’yah, h’yah.

“Is—it—Uncle—Tom?” droned out Alice, in an almost inarticulate
murmur.

“Now jess listen at dat chile! Ole marster! She know better! She know
who ’tis I’se ’spressin’ ’bout f’ all she a-layin’ d’yar squinched up in
dat bed, making out she ’sleep. D’yar now, what I tell you!” exclaimed
she, as Alice sprang suddenly up in bed, her eyes sparkling, her color
high, her dishevelled hair in a golden foam about her temples.

“’Sleep, was she! h’yah, h’yah, h’yah! Well, to-be-sho, talk ’bout de
young gent’men cert’n’y were de wakinest-up talk for a young lady dat
eber dis ole nigger did see. To-be-sho! To-be-sho! Lord a’ mussy!” added
she, rocking to and fro and clapping on her knees with both hands, as
Alice, with a light bound, sprang into the middle of the floor. “Ef I
didn’t fotch her clean out o’ bed!” And the hilarious old domestic wiped
the tears from her eyes with a corner of her check apron. “Well, now,
and what _is_ she up to?” added she, as Alice ran nimbly across the room
and opened a closet.

“Aunt Phœbe,” said Alice, advancing with all the solemnity of a
presentation orator, “permit me to offer you, as a slight testimonial of
my unbounded esteem, this trivial memento. Within this package is a
dress, selected especially for you with the greatest care, at the most
fashionable store in Richmond. Wear it, and rest assured that the dress
will not become you more than you will become the dress.” And after
executing, with her tiny little feet, a variety of droll capers, all the
while maintaining a look of preternatural solemnity, she placed the
package in the arms of the amazed Phœbe, with a tragic extension of her
right arm, immediately thereafter dropping one of the most elaborately
grotesque courtesies ever seen off the comic stage.

“Lord a’ mussy, what kind o’ funny lingo is—”

Squeak! squeak! Bang! bang! And two girls, but partially dressed,
tumbled tumultuously into the room, shrieking and slamming the door
after them.

The chemists tell us that if you separate two gases by a membrane, they
will insist upon mingling; and, not knowing why this takes place, they
have christened the process endosmose and exosmose. Sociology furnishes
a noteworthy parallelism in the endosmose and exosmose of girls dressing
for breakfast in a country house. You may stow as many as you will into
as many rooms as you choose, but every one of them will find her way
into every other room before her toilet is complete; and, by the end of
a week, the raiment of each will be impartially distributed throughout
the several chambers allotted to their sex. Their movements on these
occasions are peculiar. “Where _is_ that other stocking of mine? Oh, I
know!” And she approaches the door of her room, opens it a couple of
inches, and warily reconnoitres with eye and ear. Seizing an opportune
moment when the coast is clear, she darts like a meteor across the hall,
and into a neighboring room—

“I say, girls, have any of you seen a stray stocking?” etc., etc.

And so, upon the present occasion, a pair of beauties unadorned came
bounding into the room, breaking in upon Alice’s impromptu tableau.
This, however, they had not time to remark; but wheeling round, as soon
as they were safe within the door, they opened it an inch or two, stuck
their several noses into the opening, and uttered to some person in the
hall a few words of saucy triumph. Mr. Whacker had, in fact, stepped
into the hall just as they were crossing it; and, seeing them, had given
chase. Having made a few mocking faces at the old gentleman, and shut
the door with another slam and another pair of pretty shrieks when he
made as though he would follow them, they turned to their friends.

“Did you hear it, girls?” began one of the intruders.

“Hear what?”

“The music.”

“The music? What music?”

“What! did you, too, sleep through it all?”

“What! was there a serenade, and you did not wake us? It was really mean
of you!”

If _ouch_ is masculine, _really mean_ is feminine.

“Bless you, we heard never a note of it ourselves!”

“A note of what? Who heard it, and what was there to hear? What enigma
is this?”

“Why, hasn’t Aunt Phœbe told you?”

“Told us what? What is there to tell, Aunt Phœbe, and why have you not
told us already?”

“Bless your sweet souls un you, I ain’t had time,” said old Phœbe,
bowing and courtesying all round; while Milly grinned ungainly in her
wake.

“You see, I jess stepped in on dese two young ladies fust, and cotched
’em Christmas gift, and very nice presents they had, all ready and
awaitin’ for ole Phœbe,”—and she courtesied to each,—“and for Milly,
too, bless their sweet souls un ’em, jess like dey knowed Phœbe was
a-comin’ to cotch ’em,—bless de pretty little honeys!—and so says I,
says I to myself, says I, I’ll jess step in and catch dese two fust; and
so, I creeps up to de door, I did, soft as a cat, I did, and turns de
knob, easy-like, and I flings open de door and ‘Christmas gift’ says I,
jess so, says I, and dey had de most loveliest presents all wrapped up
and a-waiting for Phœbe, jess as I tell you, and for Milly too, and I
dunno what Milly gwine do wid all de things she done got, and dey is all
nice and one ain’t no prettier dan de others, and Phœbe is uncommon
obleeged to one and all,”—and she gave a duck in front of each,—“and
Milly too. Gal, what you a-standin’ dere for, wid your fingers in your
mouth, like somebody ain’t got no sense? Ain’t you gwine to make no
motion? Is dat de way I done fotch you up, and you b’long to de quality,
too? Dese young niggers is too much—too much for Phœbe!”

It would be going too far, perhaps, to say that Milly blushed; but she
managed to look abashed, and contrived to appease her mother by sundry
uncouth wrigglings, meant to express her thanks.

“Howsomedever, as I was sayin’, year in and year out ole marster have
had a heap o’ young ladies a-spendin’ Christmas at Elmin’ton,—fust one
Christmas and den another; but ef ever Phœbe saw more lovelier—”

“Oh, Aunt Phœbe!”

“Fo’ de Lord, I hope de crabs may eat me ef tain’t so, jess as I tell
you. Why, Lor’ bless my soul, ain’t I hear all the young gent’men say de
same?” [general satisfaction.] “On course I has! I wish I may drop dead
if I don’t b’lieve ole marster must a’ picked Richmond over pretty
close.”

The merriment elicited by this remark gave such pause to the old lady’s
eloquence that Alice was enabled to put in a word.

“But, Aunt Phœbe, tell me about the serenade?”

Phœbe looked puzzled.

“Tell us about the gentlemen’s serenade last night?”

“Lor’, chile, ole marster don’t have none o’ dem high-fangled Richmond
doin’s ’bout him; thar warn’t nothin’ but apple-toddy and eggnog.”

“But the music, Aunt Phœbe?” persisted Alice, repressing a smile.

“De music!” ejaculated Phœbe; “de music! Didn’t you hear it through de
window? You didn’t?” And she clasped her hands, shut her eyes, and began
rocking to and fro, her head nodding all the while with certain peculiar
little jerks, “Umgh-umgh!—umgh-umgh!—umgh-umgh!” This inexplicable
dumb-show she kept up some time. “Don’t talk, chillun; don’t
talk—umgh-umgh!—don’t talk,—I axed Dick dis mornin’, says I, Dick,
says I, huckum, you reckon, nobody never told ole marster as how Mr.
Smith drawed sich a bow, says I?”

“Mr. _Smith_!” exclaimed Alice, looking at the two girls with amazement
in her wide eyes.

The two girls nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Smith was de very one. Phœbe never did hear de like, never in
her born days. Sich a scrapin’ and a scratchin’, and sich a runnin’ up
and down a fiddle, Phœbe never did see, though she thought she _had_
seen fiddlers in her time.”

And she went on and gave such an account of the performance as you would
not find in any musical journal. What did she know, poor soul, about
technique, for example,—or breadth of phrasing, for the matter of that?

“_Mr. Smith_!” reiterated Alice, with stark incredulity.

“Dat was de very one!”

Alice looked from one to another of the girls.

“Did you ever!” looked they in turn.

“I thought I should a’ died a-laughin’ at young Marse Billy Jones. When
I seed him and all dem young gent’men a-scufflin’ and a-bumpin’ under
dat table, oh, Lord, says I, how long! But when Marse Raleigh, he upsot
into de fire, thinks I to myself, my legs surely is gwine for to gin way
under me!—but Marse Charley, he cert’n’y do beat all. I reckon all you
young mistisses was a-thinkin’ he had done gone and cut he finger when
he let de knife fall and went for a rag? I be bound you did; but Lor’
me, nobody don’t never know what Marse Charley is up to. Dey tell me as
how he knowed all along ’bout Mr. Smith playin’ on de fiddle; but he
never let on even to ole marster; and I heard ’em all a-questionin’ him
’bout it; but Marse Charley, he jess laugh and laugh, sort o’ easy-like,
and never tell ’em nothin’.”

“Mr. Frobisher knew what a great musician Mr. Smith was?” asked Alice,
her incredulity beginning to give way.

“Jess so, Miss Alice, jess so. Why, Dick says he really do b’lieve into
he soul dat Mr. Smith b’longs to a show or somethin’ or other; and what
Dick don’t know ’bout dem kind o’ mysteries ain’t worth knowin’. Why,
didn’t Dick drive de carriage down to Yorktown when dey give de dinner
to Ginrul Laughyet, and hear de brass band play and all? Great
musicianer? I b’lieve you! Umgh-umgh! To-be-sho! To-be-sho!”

“Well!” said Alice, dropping down into a chair with a bump. “Well!”
repeated she, with emphasis.

“Why, what is the matter?”

“Never mind!” said she, tossing her head as she pulled on a stocking.
“I’ll make him pay for it!” she added, jerking on the other with a
rather superfluous vigor; and then, discontinuing her toilet, she
dropped her two hands upon her knees and gazed at vacancy for a moment.

“What is it? What is it?” cried the girls, as they saw, gradually
diffusing itself over her flushed countenance, an intensely quizzical
smile. For her only answer Alice threw herself into an exceedingly comic
attitude of exaggerated stiffness, and began playing upon an imaginary
piano, tum-tumming, in the most ludicrous way, a commonplace air much in
vogue at the time.

“Oh, what geese we have made of ourselves!” cried the girls.

“Yes,” continued Alice, “here have we, all this time, been playing our
little jiggetty-jigs before him, and he affecting not to know Yankee
Doodle from Hail Columbia!” And she tossed off a few more bars with
inimitable drollery. “Oh, it is too funny!” cried she, springing up, her
sense of humor overriding her sense of chagrin; and from that time till
the party were ready to descend to the breakfast-room, she was in one of
her regular gales, causing the upper regions of the house to resound
with incessant peals of laughter.

“Why, you dear, crazy little goose,” said one of the girls at last, “the
breakfast-bell rang fifteen minutes ago, and all the rest of us are
dressed, and there you are still in a most unpresentable costume.”

“There, then, I’ll be good,” said Alice, cutting short some caper; and
instantly assuming the busiest air, she trotted briskly about the room,
laying hands first on one article of dress and then on another,
contriving, somehow, to combine with a maximum of ostentatious activity
a minimum of actual progress in her toilet.

“Here, girls,” said Mary, “I’ll hold her while the rest of you dress
her.”

So saying, she seized her, and in a moment the submissive victim was
surrounded by as lovely a band of lady’s maids as one could wish to see.
First one brought her—but, somehow, there seems to arise like an
exhalation, just here, a mysterious haze, impenetrable to my bachelor
eyes.

“There now, girls, you need not wait for me. I shall be down in a
moment. Go down. No, I won’t have you wait for me! Aunt Phœbe will never
forgive you if you let the muffins get cold. Moreover, I wish to add to
my toilet, in private, a few killing touches, of which I alone possess
the secret. Maidens, retire!” And with outstretched, dimpled arm, she
pointed to the door. Thus dismissed, they soon found their way to the
breakfast-table; and, as was to be expected, there immediately arose a
very animated talk upon the events of the preceding evening.

A Virginia breakfast, in those days, was not wont to be a lugubrious
affair; but I think that this was, perhaps, the brightest that I
remember. The events of the previous evening were told and retold for
the benefit of the ladies. Young Jones was invited to describe the
emotions which caused him to dive under the table, the middle-aged fat
gentleman got what sympathy was his due, when, just as each girl had,
for the twentieth time, exclaimed that it was “really mean,” Alice stood
upon the threshold.


                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

No one had heard her approaching footsteps. The charming little actress
stood there, her arms akimbo, her head tossed back, her eyes fixed upon
the Don with the blackest look she could command. To the salutations of
the company, to my grandfather’s request that she be seated, she deigned
no reply; and suddenly whisking herself to the side of the table, she
poured in upon the Don a still more deadly fusillade of fierce glances
at short range; then, as the only unoccupied seat was next his, she
advanced to take it, but in the twinkling of an eye her whole manner had
changed, though _why_ it changed I cannot explain, nor she any more than
I, doubtless. I record facts, merely. As she went mincing around the
table to reach her seat, she suddenly became converted into a prim and
absurdly affected old maid. Her manner of shaking out her napkin would
have been alone sufficient to convulse the company. In fact, for a time,
all breakfasting, considered as a practical business, came to an end.
The very streams of hot muffins, waffles, and buckwheat cakes stood
still, in presence of this joyous spirit, as of old the river forgot to
flow when Orpheus touched his lyre. I can see her now, it seems to me,
nibbling at the merest crumb upon a prong of her fork, sipping her
coffee with dainty affectation, ogling the gentlemen with inimitable
drollery.

“Ah, Mr. Smith,” said she, suddenly turning to the Don and dropping the
rôle she had assumed for one of the most artless simplicity,—“I am _so_
delighted to hear that you are a musician. Do you know, I had an idea
that you knew little of music, and cared less; so that—do you know?—we
girls actually feared that our playing bored you? Indeed we did!” she
added, with emphasis, and looking up into his face with an ingenuous
smile. “Didn’t we, girls? But it is such a nice surprise to find you
were only pretending to be an ignoramus. Why, it was only yesterday
morning that I was explaining to you the difference between the major
and the minor keys!—and you knew all the time!” And she gave a
delicious, childish little laugh. “It is such a comfort to know that you
have been appreciating our music all this time. Oh, Mr. Smith!”
exclaimed she, infantile glee dancing in her hazel eyes, “I have one
piece that I have never played for you. I’ll play it immediately after
breakfast. It is called—let me see—” And with eyes upturned and
fingers wandering up and down the table, she seemed to search for the
title of the composition. “Oh!” cried she, gushingly, and throwing
herself forward in front of the Don, and turning her head so as to pour
her joyous smile straight into his eyes,—“oh, it is called the Jenny
Lind Polka;” and she beamed upon our artist as though awaiting an
answering thrill. “_What!_ You never heard it? _No?_” (strumming on the
table.) “Tump-ee! Jenny tump-ee! Lind polka? Tump-ee, tump-ee, tump-ee,
teedle-ee—possible?” (with a look of intense surprise). “Tump-ee,
teedle-ee, tump-ee, teedle-ee—No? W-h-y, g-i-r-l-s! Second part:
Teedum, teedle-um, tee-dum, teedle-um—you don’t—teedum
teedle-um—recognize it? Tee-dum, teedle-um tum, tum, tum—You are quite
sure? Tump-ee, tump-ee—Quite? You shall have it immediately after
breakfast—tump-ee, tump-ee.” And apparently unable to restrain her
impatience, she recommenced the strain, and rattled it off with an
ever-increasing brio, till, at last, as though transported with
enthusiasm, she pushed back her chair and launched forth into a _pas
seul_, tripping round the table, her dress spread out with thumb and
forefinger of either hand, the graceful swaying of her lithe figure
contrasting comically with the tin-pan tone she contrived to give her
voice, and the ludicrous precision of her steps; but, changeful as the
surface of a summer lake, she had hardly made the circuit of the table
once, when she laid her dimpled cheek upon her rosy fingers, her rosy
fingers interlaced upon the shoulder of an imaginary partner, and
stilling her own voice, and as though drunk with the music of a mighty
orchestra, she floated about the room, with closed eyes, in a kind of
swoon.

Just at this juncture, there chanced to be standing near the outer
dining-room door our friend Zip. Zip—but, as these were Christmas
times, let us call him Moses—stood there, with hanging jaw, and rolling
his rather popped eyes, first towards his chief, and then in the
direction of the table, in manifest perplexity as to the disposition to
be made of a plate of waffles he had just brought from the kitchen.
Confused by the merriment, he failed to observe the fair Alice bearing
down upon him. Away went the waffles over the floor. “That’s the way it
goes!” said Alice to the Don, without even a glance at the waffles; “and
you have never heard it before?” asked she, resuming her seat by his
side. In fact, the most amusing feature of her entire performance was
how utterly unconscious she seemed that any one heard or saw her save
the new-found artist. Every word, every look, every gesture seemed
designed solely for his edification. I shall not permit myself to
describe the deportment of the company while Alice was on her high
horse; for Lord Chesterfield has pronounced laughter, save in children,
vulgar. And so, I shall declare breakfast over, and allow our merry
friends to betake themselves whither fancy impels.

“What kind of a day is it?” inquires one; and the whole party soon find
themselves scattered in groups on the southern veranda.

It was one of those enchantingly beautiful winter mornings, never
witnessed, perhaps, out of America. The ground was frozen hard; while
every tuft of dry grass, every twig in view, bedecked with hoar-frost,
danced and flashed and sparkled beneath the dazzling yet hazy sunlight,
with the mingled glow of opals and of diamonds. And what an atmosphere!
Still, but not stagnant; for behold the dreamy undulations of that
slender column of smoke, so peacefully rocking above yonder whitewashed
cabin! Cold, not chill; descending into the lungs as a stimulating and
refreshing bath; clear, but not colorless; tinted, rather,—nay,
transfigured, with the translucent exhalations of nameless gems,—such
was the air that floated over lawn and river on that bright Christmas
morning.

It was a day too fine to be lost; and a vote being taken, it was decided
that a walk should come first. And forth the joyous procession sallied,
Alice and young Jones—kindred spirits—taking the lead. Let them go
their way, rejoicing in their youth; and, while awaiting their return, I
shall, with the consent of the contemporaneous reader, say a word or two
about Virginia society, as it was, to that reader of the future for
whose edification these slight sketches are drawn; to wit, my
great-great-great-etc. grandson.

In my Alice, then, I have endeavored to place before you and future
generations a type taken bodily from the joyous, careless life of
ante-bellum days. Many of my contemporaries will recognize her and her
merry-glancing hazel eyes. My friends—all Richmond, all Virginia, in
fact—will know the original of the picture,—each one his own original.
But the truth is, in painting the portrait of our jolly little Alice I
have aimed at more than representing the features of a charming girl. I
have striven to place before you a marked phase of Virginia
society,—its freedom. It was this which gave it a charm all its own,
and it would be interesting, did it not lead me too far from the path of
my narrative, to point out the contrasts it affords to English society.
Both eminently aristocratic, it is singular that the former should have
been so unshackled, so unconventional, so free, while its prototype is,
without doubt, the most uncomfortable, the most stifling tyranny that
men and women—and men and women, too, of one of the grandest races of
all time—ever voluntarily submitted to. And, strangely enough, Virginia
is almost the only one of the United States where anything like a fair
type of the mother society has survived. The English gentleman, like the
Virginian, has his home in the country; but this is true, in this
country it may almost be said, of Virginia gentlemen alone; if, at
least, the terms be not understood in a sense too literally
geographical. The Southern planter was wont to betake himself to New
Orleans in winter, with half his cotton crop in his pocket, reserving
the other half for Saratoga and the North when summer came. Charleston
was the Mecca of the South Carolinian; while the wealthy citizen of New
York, if he had his villa on the Hudson, retired to it rather to avoid
than to seek society, or else, still unsated with the joys of city life
(the detestation of your true John Bull), even when driven out of town
by the dust of summer and the glare of wall and of pavement, he hastens
to Newport, there to swelter through the dog-days in all the pomp of
full dress and fashionable fooleries. Some stray lord has mentioned in
his hearing—or some one who has seen a stray lord—that summer is the
London season (none other being possible in that climate), and
straight-way he trims his whiskers _à la_ mutton-chop and buys a book of
the peerage; nor suspects that the more closely you imitate an
Englishman the less you resemble him,—one of the strongest
characteristics of that great race being their disdainful refusal to
imitate any other.


                             CHAPTER XXXIV.

Three o’clock was, in those days, the dinner-hour of the Virginia
gentry; but my grandfather and Charley, being but two in family, and not
caring to be bothered with three meals a day, had gotten into the habit
of dining at five; and so, shortly before that hour, on this Christmas
day, all the company, having made their toilets, had assembled in the
drawing-room. But, as far back as I can remember, I don’t think that
Aunt Polly had ever let us have our Christmas dinner before six. Aunt
Polly could never explain this fact to our satisfaction. “Ready,” she
once made reply to my boyish impatience, “no, dat tain’t, How you gwine
’spect de fire to cook all dese things quick like a few things? Jess
look at dat pot! I set it d’yar to bile and d’yar it sets a-simperin’
and a-simperin’ like people never did want to eat nothin’.”

“In course,” broke in old Dick, with stately profundity, “a rolling
stone never gathers no moss.”

“Git out o’ my way, Dick, and lemme lift de led off dat d’yar skillet.
Moss! Moss! Who talkin’ ’bout moss, I’d like to know? And all de white
folks a-waitin’ for dinner!” And she mopped her face with her sleeve.

“I meant to rubserve,” rejoined Dick, with offended dignity, “dat a
watched pot never biles.”

On the present occasion Mrs. Carter gave the company an intimation that
they had an hour on their hands.

“Why not adjourn to the hall,” suggested Mr. Whacker, “and while away
the time with some music?”

The company rose with enthusiasm. “Oh, how nice!” And all the girls
clapped their hands.

“Mr. Frobisher,” said Jones, dryly, “if your finger be sufficiently
healed, suppose you lead off. As for me—I—have a sore throat.”

“Ah, that poor finger!” cried Alice, “how remiss in us girls not to have
inquired after its health! How is the dear little thing?”

“I beg your pardon?” inquired Charley, with an innocent look; but his
hands had somehow found their way behind his back.

“How is your cut finger?”

“My cut finger?”

“Yes, y-o-u-r c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r!”

“M-y c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r?” And he mimicked her imperious little gestures;
at the same time looking from face to face with a sort of dazed air.

“Isn’t this a sort of conundrum?”

“No; show me your hand.”

“There,” said he, holding out his right hand,—“there is my hand,—you
may h-h-h-h-ave it if you want it.” And immediately, as though he had
said more than he had intended, blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Nonsense!” said she, coloring slightly. “Why do you tantalize people
so? The other!”

“The other? There they are, both of them.”

“But which is the finger that you cut?”

“Who said I c-c-c-ut my finger?”

“Do you mean to say—” began Jones; but shouts of laughter interrupted
his question, and, turning to a group of students, he pursed up his
mouth and emitted a long but inaudible whistle. Charley, meanwhile, was
assailed with questions by the girls as to what made him suspect that
the Don was a musician; but he passed, smiling and silent, towards the
western door, and he stood there bowing the ladies out on their way to
the Hall.

“Fiend in human shape!” breathed Alice, as she passed out, threatening
him with upraised forefinger.

“Do you really think so?” asked he, in a hurried, half-choking
whisper,—the idiot!

The enchantress stopped, and slowly turning her head, as she stood with
one foot upon the pavement and the other on the step above, turning her
head, all gilded and glorious with the mellow rays of the setting sun,
gave him one Parthian glance, half saucy, half serious, and bounded
forward to overtake her companions. Charley, with his eyes riveted upon
her retiring figure, stood motionless till she had disappeared within
the Hall. Did he hope—the simpleton—for another look?

The Don and I were lingering on the Hall steps when Charley came up.

“By the way, how on earth did you divine that I played on the violin?
You have no objection to telling me?”

“None in the world. There was no divination about the matter. When you
were knocked senseless by the runaway horses, I helped to undress you.
On removing your coat a paper fell out of the breast-pocket, and I
remarked, on picking it up, that it was a sheet of manuscript music.”

“Oh yes, I remember,—a little waltz that I had composed that day.”

“I didn’t know who had compo-po-po-sed it,” replied Charley, dryly, “but
I have m-m-m-ade it a rule all m-m-my life never to play before people
who went about the country, getting run over, with m-m-m-anu-script
m-m-m-u-sic in their pockets.”

“And you would seem,” added the Don, smiling, “never to have mentioned
your suspicions?”

“Not to me, certainly,” said I.

“Not to you, nor to Uncle Tom; not even to Jones.”

“Not even to Jones!” repeated the Don, laughing heartily. “Thanks,”
added he, suddenly seizing Charley’s hand,—“thanks.” And he sprang
lightly into the room.

“Charley, you are a rare one. The idea of your not letting the old man
or myself into the secret.”

“W-e-l-l, y-e-s,” said he, abstractedly. He seemed in no hurry to enter
the room, holding me back by a firm though unconscious grasp upon my
arm. “I say, Jack,” said he, in a confidential tone. And he stopped.

“Well?”

“Isn’t she a stunner?” And he nodded towards a group of girls who stood
about the piano.

“Which one?”

He dug me in the ribs and passed into the Hall.


                             CHAPTER XXXV.

With the assembling of our friends in the Hall on that Christmas
afternoon our story enters upon a new phase,—one, too, in which Mary
Rolfe will figure more prominently than she has hitherto done. Of her
friend Alice—Alice with the merry-glancing hazel eyes—the reader has,
I trust, a tolerably clear conception. The picture we have of her is a
pleasant one, I think,—a picture drawn not by me, but by herself. But
from Mary—shy, reserved, and shrinking as she is—we can expect no such
boon. Her portrait must be my work.

And first, I must repeat that she was Alice’s closest friend. When their
acquaintance began, it would be hard to say. Their mothers before them
were warm friends, and had been so fortunate as to have their homes,
after marriage, separated only by one of Richmond’s peaceful streets; so
that, even in long clothes, Alice and Mary, introduced by their
respective nurses, had contracted such intimacy as might be gained by a
reciprocal fumbling of each other’s noses and the poking of pink fingers
into blinking eyes. Across this street, a few years later, these little
crafts had made voyages innumerable; beneath its branching trees
trundled their unsteady hoops, and along its not very crowded sidewalk
had swung proudly, hand in hand, one bright October day, going to their
first school. And ever since that day they have been going, so to speak,
hand in hand. One circumstance, no doubt, that contributed much to
binding their hearts together, was the fact that they were only
daughters; so that each was, as it were the adopted sister of the other.
But what, above all things, as I have suggested elsewhere, rendered a
warm friendship between them both possible and lasting, was the
singularly sharp contrasts presented by their characters. Two girls more
radically unlike in disposition it would be hardly possible to find.

Now, among other traits of Mary’s character, totally lacking in Alice,
was one of importance for my purposes, in that it was destined to make
her play a considerable rôle amid the scenes to be pictured in the
ensuing pages. It was a trait that goes by different names. According to
some of her acquaintance,—kindred spirits they were,—Mary was full of
enthusiasms, while to others of the hard-headed, practical type, she
seemed sentimental. I, as umpire, must compromise by admitting that she
was certainly what is called romantic. And I was about to bring in a
little cheap philosophy to explain that this was due to the vast amount
of novels and poetry with which she had stuffed her head, when I
recalled the fact that some of the most clear-headed, energetic, and
every way admirable women that I have known devoured every novel that
they could lay their hands on. I, therefore, abandon the reflection,
uncopyrighted, to such moralizers and others as have leisure to explain
things of which they know nothing. But the fact was as I have stated it;
Mary was a thoroughly romantic, or, if you will, sentimental young
person, though I regret to have to say so. For it will lower her in your
estimation, I fear, when I make known to you, by a few illustrations,
what I mean by saying she was romantic.

It is more necessary for me to do this than would appear to the average
contemporary reader. For it is more than likely that the expression, a
romantic young female, will be totally unintelligible in your day, or,
rather, that it will have an entirely different meaning from that which
those words convey to us. You, too, of course, will not be without your
romantic virgins,—that is to say, maidens of tender years, who,
standing upon the hither brink of that dark and troublous sea called
life, and watching the pitching and tossing of the numberless barks that
have gone before,—who, seeing some struggling amid the breakers, others
going to pieces on the reefs, still others drifting, dismantled and
shattered, upon a shore already thick-strewn with wrecks,—yet love to
dream of smooth and sunny paths across that pitiless waste of
waters,—if—if only the Ideal Pilot may be found.

Yes, your girls will have their ideals,—but what ideals?

I cannot tell; but very different, doubtless, from ours. We have but to
glance at here a page and there a page of the past records of the race,
to feel quite sure that woman’s ideal man has varied much in the tide of
time. Passing by prehistoric man, lest I wound the susceptibilities of
such as claim that he never existed, and coming forward to the days of
Homer, we must suppose that the sentimental daughters of the literary
gentlemen of that day—the chiefs, to wit, who patronized the blind
bard—for rhapsody divine bartering the prosaic but sustaining bacon—we
must reckon it as probable that these young women yearned—if yearning
were in vogue at that early period—yearned to be led from the parental
roof by some Achilles of a youth, tall, broad-chested, agile as a
panther, strong as a lion, with thews of steel, soul of adamant, eye of
consuming fire. Juvenal, again, if we may pluck a leaf at random, tells
us that, in his day, a sentimental married woman who would shriek at a
mouse, let us say, was capable of braving the sea in a leaky old hulk,
eloping with all that was left of a gladiator after twenty years’
hacking in the arena. And now, making a spring forward into the last
quarter of the nineteenth century, we find the ideal of the upper ten
dozen of New York society, for example, to be a nice young man who parts
his hair and his name in the middle, leads in the “german”[1] and gets
all his “things”[2] in London. [And this sufficed till but recently. Of
late, however, as I read in the papers, the best society of New York has
grown more exacting, and no one need now aspire to be looked upon as a
lion—a knight without fear and without reproach—unless, after devoting
for some years half his time and all his mind, as it were, to the art,
he can “handle the reins” well enough to pass for a real stage-driver.
The ’bus-drivers themselves, however, whimsically enough, are not held
in half the estimation of their imitators and rivals (just as
mock-turtle soup is deemed by many superior to the genuine decoction).
They may actually be hired at two dollars a day, more or less, and seem
positively glad to get that, being to all outward seeming entirely
unconscious of the glamour attaching to their ennobling art.][3]

But to judge by the books they devoured with such eagerness, and the
heroes they thought so captivating, the ideals, thirty years ago, of the
Virginia young women—I may not speak for others—were very different
from any of those above depicted. At that period the influence of
Byron’s powerful genius was still plainly discernible in many works of
fiction, especially those by female authors. Now, just ascertain
cordials lose all their piquancy by being diluted, so the morbid
creations of Byron’s unhealthy muse emerged, after passing through the
alembic of female fancy, very pale heroes indeed; pale, in truth, in a
double sense. For, at one time, I remember, a bloodless countenance was
about all that was required to constitute a hero over whom all our girls
went mad. The fellow was invariably dismally cold and impassive “in
outward seeming;” but the authoress would contrive to suggest to the
reader, by a hint here and there, that this coldness was in outward
seeming only,—that this stern, haughty possessor of the broad, pallid
brow (against which he ever and anon pressed his hand as though in pain)
was the clandestine owner of feelings fit to be compared only to a
stream of lava,—a cold crust above, concealing a fiery flood beneath;
an iceberg, in a word, with a volcano in its bosom. There are no such
icebergs, I believe, and it is equally certain that there are no such
men; and I used to think, in those days, that if there were such, and
one of this type were found hanging around a girl, the circumstance
would afford her big brother’s boot legitimate occasion for an honorable
activity. And I still think that this heroic treatment, as the faculty
would term it, would find its justification, at least from a sanitary
point of view. For it is to be remarked that in romances infested with
this form of hero, there was, among the heroines, a veritable epidemic
of brain-fever; whatever that may be. But the young ladies of my
acquaintance, assigning jealousy as the source of these ferocious
sentiments, could not be brought to my way of thinking; and of all of a
certain bevy of girls with whom I associated, I believe that Mary Rolfe
was furthest gone in her adoration of these august animals that dwelt
apart.

Now, although a romantic temperament has its
compensations,—compensations so varied and so valuable that, on the
whole, it must be regarded as a blessing,—yet its dangers are as
obvious. For of what avail is an Ideal without its Counterpart? Now, it
is in searching for and finding this Counterpart that lies the danger to
a girl of imaginative turn,—the danger, in plain English, of falling in
love without a just and reasonable regard for the loaves and fishes of
this prosaic world.

Now, even from the preliminary and partial sketch of the Don already
made, you will see (though less clearly than when the drawings shall
have been completed and the colors rubbed in) that he was a man likely
to make a vivid impression on the imagination of a girl like Mary. I
should be sorry, indeed, to have you suppose that such likelihood arose
from any resemblance on his part to the type of novel-hero so
fascinating to her imagination. And yet he appealed to that imagination
most strongly. Of course the mystery surrounding him had much to do with
this. Of late she had found herself continually asking herself who he
could be. Was he a Virginian? Hardly, else some one would know him.
Then, why had he come to Virginia? Was he an English nobleman,
travelling incognito? Perhaps! But no! from several observations that he
had let drop, he could scarcely be that. He was a gentleman, certainly;
but then, what need has a gentleman of mystery? Had he committed any—?
Impossible! And so, _da capo_,—who can he be? More than once she had
caught herself stamping her little foot and muttering impatiently, “What
is he to me?” But his image kept returning to her mind. The truth is,
she was getting what the girls used to call, in those days,
“interested,”—a word which means far more with women than with us men.
“In love” is what we should call it; but that is an expression which
women are chary of using, unless of men. According to their philosophy,
it is tacitly assumed that, as it is not the proper thing for a woman to
fall in love until she has been asked to, she never does; and I believe
this to be true, as a rule. In fact, it seems to me that falling in
love, as it is called, is, with women, a purely voluntary act. When
entreated to lose their hearts they lose them, should it seem judicious,
all things considered, so to do; if not, not. But as in Latin grammar,
so in life: there are exceptions to all rules; and while, in nine cases
out of ten, women are guided by judgment and reason, men impelled by
passion and instinct, in their matrimonial ventures, yet there is, after
all, a tenth case (all my readers are tenth cases if they will) where a
woman, deluded by her imagination, wrecks her life on breakers that
seemed, to others at least, too apparent to need a beacon. Nor are the
weaker sisters most liable to blunders of this kind; for it seems to me
that I have remarked that gifted women are most apt to throw themselves
away on men entirely unworthy of them; led captive by the ideals their
own hearts have fashioned; making gods of stocks and stones.

-----

[1] Dance of the period.

[2] Clothes.

[3] If our fierce Bushwhacker could but witness the annual parade of our
New York Coaching Club, he would be heartily ashamed of this venomous
passage.—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER XXXVI.

Never, perhaps, was there a merrier Christmas party than that which was
now laughing and chattering as they seated themselves before that noble
hickory fire which lit up the Hall with its ruddy glow. The pleasantest
thing of all was to see the happy change that had come over the Don. He
was a different man. That air of self-restraint and conscious reserve,
which had never left him before, had entirely vanished. It was evident
that, whatever his motives for concealing his musical talents, it was an
immense relief to him to have abandoned the singular rôle he had been
playing; and his long-imprisoned feelings had bounded up like a released
spring. We hardly knew him. He was not only unconstrained and cheerful,
he was even jolly. “I say, old boy,” said he, slapping Jones on the
shoulder, “you must not suppose that it was I who laid that trap for you
yesterday evening. My playing was purely unintentional,—even
involuntary. But who could have resisted Uncle Tom?” This was the first
time he had ever called my grandfather by that name.

“No apologies, no apologies,” replied Billy. “Mr. Charles Frobisher set
that snare for my unwary feet.”

“Not at all,” rejoined Charley. “I kept my wary feet out of it, that was
all.”

“But wasn’t it capital!” cried Jones; and showing all his massive white
teeth, he made the hall resound with a laugh that echoed contagiously
from group to group.

But there was one person in the room who did not share in the general
joyousness,—our friend Mary. She had taken her stand apart, by a window
that commanded the western horizon; and turning with a half-startled
air, at the sound of the laughter, responded to it with a faint and
preoccupied smile. In truth, the poor child was ill at ease; though what
it was that troubled that young heart none of my readers, I feel
assured, would ever guess. Yet, while to most of them the cause of her
annoyance will appear whimsical in the extreme, as it was characteristic
of her to suffer from such a cause, I must state it, and towards this
end a few prefatory words will be necessary.

Neither the Virginians nor the American people, nor any branch of the
great race from which they spring, are lovers of music. Our boys, it is
true, will troop up and down the streets of village or city, following
the band-wagon of a circus. We manufacture an enormous number of the
very best pianos in the world, and thousands of our girls labor for
years learning to play a few tunes on them. Mothers without number pinch
themselves that their daughters may have the desired instruction. It is
the correct thing. Yet, her graduating concert over, her piano soon
ceases to constitute any more considerable element of a girl’s
happiness, or that of her family, than her copy of Euclid.

Yet, although English of the purest breed, there are Virginians who
really love music; just as you shall find Spaniards with red hair,
bashful Irishmen, women with beards, hens that crow, bullies with
courage, mules without guile, and short sermons and true happiness. I do
not allude to our charming girls who flock to the occasional opera that
visits Richmond,—for in Richmond, as elsewhere, there are dozens of
reasons for flocking to the opera.

No; I had in my mind the far-famed Virginia fidddler—mock him not, ye
profane—who, though frowned upon by the moralist, viewed askance from
the pulpit, without honor as without profit in his own country, still
scrapes away as merrily as he can under the load of obloquy that weighs
him down. But his devotion, if heroic, wins him no glory; for the people
of Virginia, forgetting, with the usual ingratitude of republics, Thomas
Jefferson and Patrick Henry, regard the worthlessness of the whole
fiddling tribe as axiomatic. Nay, worse, there is a vague feeling that
the thing is vulgar.

Now, in that word lies the key to Mary Rolfe’s distress of mind. Born
and bred in the midst of that singularly pure, and simple, and refined
society of Richmond in the ante-bellum days, inheriting from her father
a love of all that was most beautiful in English prose and verse, as
well as led by his hand to the nooks where were to be culled its
choicest flowers; her manners formed and her instincts moulded by her
mother upon the classic types of Virginia patrician life of the olden
time, she was more than a representative of her class. The refined
delicacy of her nature amounted, if not to a fault, at least to a
misfortune. In the society of those like herself she was easy, affable,
winning; but the slightest deviation from high breeding chilled her into
silence and unconquerable reserve. The most trivial social solecism
shocked, vulgarity stunned her.

And fiddling!

According to her high-wrought soul the thing was unworthy of a
gentleman. Nor is this so much to be wondered at, for, although
distinguished violinists had visited Richmond, it so happened that she
had never heard one. Her knowledge of violin music was confined to
fiddling pure and simple,—the compositions, jigs and reels; the
performers, as a rule, negroes.

If, then, I have in any measure succeeded in depicting Mary as she
really was,—an exquisitely refined, oversensitive girl just out of
school, her head full of poetry and romance, her heart beginning to
flutter with a sweet pain in presence of an Ideal Hero, so suddenly, so
strangely encountered,—my reader (being a woman) will appreciate the
shock she felt on that Christmas morning. It will be remembered that it
was Aunt Phœbe who had been the first to describe the Don’s performance
to the young ladies.

“Play de fiddle? Can _he_ play de fiddle? I b’lieve you, honey! Why,
Lor’ bless me, I do p’int’ly b’lieve into my soul dat Mr. Smith is de
top fiddler of de Nunited States!”

A fiddler! And a top fiddler! Shades of Byron and of Bulwer! Mary felt
an icy numbness at her heart.

Half an hour afterwards, when the two girls were nearly ready for
breakfast, she was standing behind Alice, pinning on her collar.

“Oh, Alice,” cried the little hypocrite, suddenly, as though the thought
had but just occurred to her, “what charming music we shall have now!”

“Oo-ee,” cried Alice, shrinking.

“Ah, did I prick your neck?”

“Yes; but no matter. Oh, yes, I am just dying to hear him play,—and
play he shall, or my name is not Alice Carter. There you go again! Bear
in mind, please, that the collar is to be pinned to my dress, not to my
lovely person. What _could_ have induced him to hide such an
accomplishment!” added she, stamping her little foot.

“There! That sets very nicely! I don’t know what made me so awkward. So
you think it is—wait a moment,—ah, that’s just right,—an
accomplishment?”

One man in a thousand may acquire somewhat of the art, but every woman
is born a perfect actress. True, you shall not see this perfection on
the stage. There the ambition of women is to be actresses, rather than
actresses women.

It was perfect! But Alice was not thrown off the scent.

Men can deceive men; men may hoodwink women, and be hoodwinked in turn;
but it has not been given to one woman to throw dust into the eyes of
another. The silliest girl can see through the most astute as though she
were of glass.

“An accomplishment? What? To pin people’s collars to their necks?”

“Of course not, goosey! An accomplishment for gentlemen to play on the
fid—violin?”

“Oh!” said Alice, dryly. “Why, of course it is. Any art which gives
pleasure is an accomplishment.”

“Yes, I know; but—”

“Go on.”

“I don’t think it is—exactly—oh, I don’t know what I think about it.”

“But I do,” replied Alice, quickly, turning and facing her friend.

“And what do you know that I think, that I do not know myself?” said
Mary, putting her hands on Alice’s shoulders, drawing her close, and
smiling affectionately into her eyes.

“Don’t you remember my laughing, once, at school, over the story about
Alcibiades’ refusing to learn to play on the flute, because he deemed
the necessary puckering of the mouth undignified, and that you thought
he was right? Heroes, my dear, according to your romantic notions, must
always be heroic.”

“Heroes!” exclaimed Mary, with wide-eyed innocence. “Who, pray,
mentioned heroes!” But a heightened color tinged her cheeks.

Alice, without making reply, placed her hand over Mary’s heart, and
stood as though counting its beats. “’Tis a dear little heart,” mused
she, “but—”

“But what?”

“But very susceptible, I fear.” And lifting her right hand, she shook
her forefinger at her friend. “Take care!” said she, with a voice and
look half serious, half jocular.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy about me!” And with a bright smile on her flushed
face Mary frisked away to join some of the other girls who were
descending to the breakfast-room.

Falling in love is like getting drunk,—we blush when we betray symptoms
of the malady, yet rejoice in its progress!


                            CHAPTER XXXVII.

We now return to our friends assembled in the Hall.

Especially among the ladies who had not heard the Don’s first
performance, expectation was on tiptoe. The excellent Herr is bustling
about, rubbing his hands, and smiling through his spectacles the vast
Teutonic smile. Charley places the case containing the Guarnerius upon
the table. The Don opens it with an almost nervous eagerness. _She_ is
to hear him, and he will outdo himself.

But where is she? Presently he espies her partly concealed behind the
stalwart form of Jones. She is gazing at the western sky,—she alone of
all the company unconscious that he is about to play.

The thought is a sudden shock. And then he remembers that she alone of
the ladies had made no allusion, during the day, to the performance of
the evening before,—had expressed no regret at not having been present.

The artist nature is caprice itself,—changeful as an April sky; and the
Don with sudden impulse released the neck of the violin, which sank back
upon its luxurious cushion of blue satin. He would excuse himself,—he
_could_ not play. But the strings, vibrating beneath an accidental
touch, gave forth a chord, and instantly reversed the current of his
feelings. Yes, he would play; and taking up the instrument, he sauntered
over, with as careless an air as he could command, to the window by
which Mary stood, touching the strings lightly as he went, as though to
see whether they were in tune. Mary felt his approach; and partly
turning her face and raising her eyes to his, as he reached her side,
she said, with what was meant for a smile, “Now we shall have some merry
music.” And she dropped her eyes.

“Why merry?”

Mary, startled as well by the abruptness of the question as by a certain
hardness in his voice, gave a quick glance at his face.

“Why, is not the violin—” began she, but could get no farther,—held,
as was the Wedding Guest by the glittering eye of the Ancient Mariner.

“Is this, then, a merry world?”

The smile faded from Mary’s face. These words had thrilled her; for it
was not by nature a blithesome heart that beat in that young bosom, and
its strings gave forth readiest response to minor chords. A slight
tremor ran through her frame as she met the gaze of his darkly gleaming
eyes, and a vague sense of having in some way wounded his feelings
oppressed her mind.

Perhaps he read her thoughts; for in an instant a reassuring smile—sad,
almost pathetic—came into his eyes, followed by a look,—one momentary,
indescribable glance; and her untutored heart began to throb so that she
thought he must hear it.

“I, at least,” he added, slowly, “have not found it such, so far; and
see,” said he, pointing with his bow to the faint streaks of red that
tinged the western horizon,—“still another Christmas Day—and the only
happy one that I have known since I was a child—one more Christmas
Day—is dying!” And his voice trembled as he averted his face.

Mary felt a choking sensation in her throat; for a kindred thought had
been weighing upon her naturally melancholy spirit, as she stood there
gazing upon the western sky; and the Don, in giving voice to her inmost
thoughts, had touched a chord that thrilled with overmastering power. As
he moved away to take his place by the piano, she sank into a chair
trembling from head to foot. They had stood together by the window
hardly one minute, and had not exchanged above a dozen words; yet as she
followed his retiring form with her eyes, he was no longer the same
person to her that he had been a moment before. She was stricken to the
heart, and she knew it.

The Don spoke to Charley in a low voice. “Yes,” replied he, “we have
it;” and hurrying into the adjoining room he soon returned, bearing in
his hand some sheet music. “Thanks,” said the Don, placing the
piano-part before the Herr, and laying the violin score upon the piano.
“Never mind about the stand; I know it by heart. Can you read yours,
Mein Herr, by the light of the fire?”

“Oh, I tink so.” And adjusting his spectacles, he looked at the title of
the piece. “De Elegie von Ernst! Ah, das ist vat you call very sat, very
vat you call melancholish,”—and he struck a chord. “So!”—and poising
his hands, he glanced upwards to signify his readiness to begin.

A sudden stillness came over us at the sight of the sombre face of the
Don. Obviously, we all felt there was to be a change of programme. There
were to be no musical fireworks on this occasion.

Had the Don been a consummate actor, posing for effect, he could not
have brought his audience into more instant, more complete harmony with
the spirit of the piece he was about to render. Tall, broad-shouldered,
gaunt, he seemed in the ruddy glare of the great bank of coals to tower
above us, while his eyes, fixed for a moment with a far-away look upon
the fire, seemed doubly dark in contrast with the red light upon his
brow.

He placed the violin beneath his dark, flowing beard, and poised the bow
above the strings.

I fear that but few of my readers will follow me in this scene. To have
heard pathetic music only in theatres and concert-halls, amid a sea of
careless faces distracted by bright toilets, and under the glare of
gaslight, is to have heard it, indeed, but not to have felt it. The
“Miserere” chanted in the dim religious light of St. Peter’s rends the
heart of the listener. It has been found to be meaningless elsewhere.
For the power of music, as of eloquence, lies in the heart of the
hearer,—a heart prepared beforehand by the surroundings.

On the present occasion everything was in the artist’s favor,—the dying
day, the spectral glare and shadow wrought by the glowing coals, the
reaction after a week of frolic gladness.

The bow descended upon the G string, softly as a snow-flake, but
clinging as a mother’s arm.

Ernst has obeyed Horace’s maxim, and plunged at once into the middle of
his story. With the very first tone of the violin there seems to break
from the overwrought heart a low moan, which, rising and swelling,
leaps, in the second note, into a cry of rebellious anguish,—anguish
too bitter to be borne; despair were more endurable; and in the fourth
bar the voice of the crushed spirit sinks into a weird, muttered whisper
of resignation unresigned. The whole story is there,—there in those
four bars, but the poet begins anew and sings his sorrow in detail;
pouring forth a lament so passionate in its frenzy that it almost
passes, at times, the bounds of true music (for can you not hear the
sobs, see the wringing of the hands?), and rising, at last, to a climax
that is almost insupportable, the voice of wailing then sinks—for all
is over—into a low plaint, and dies into silence.

The _Marcia Funebre_ of the Eroica symphony is the lament of a nation of
Titans; in Ernst’s Elegie one poor human heart is breaking—breaking all
alone. I have heard the piece since in crowded halls and beneath the
blaze of chandeliers, and performed by artists more finished, no doubt,
than was the Don; but the effect he wrought I have never seen
approached. All eyes were riveted upon him while he played, and when he
ceased—when the last despairing sigh died upon the air—no one moved,
not a note of applause was given, and the only sound heard was that of
long-drawn breaths of relief.

It was an intense moment. My grandfather was the first to break the
spell. Approaching the Don with a tender look in his eyes, he tried, I
think, to speak a few words, but could only press his hand. Then there
arose a subdued murmur of whispered enthusiasm, each one to his
neighbor. At last—

“Billy,” said the middle-aged-fat-gentleman, “I give it up,—he can beat
you.” And a ripple of laughter relieved the tension.

And Mary?

She and the Don happened to be among the last to leave the hall, and he
offered her his arm. Neither spoke for a few moments.

“How silly you must have thought me!”

“I assure you—”

“Oh, but you must. But I had never heard anything but fiddling before.
Do you know,” she added gravely, “I doubt if any of the company
understood all that you meant, save myself?”

“And are you quite sure that _you_ understood all that I felt?”

Mary looked up and their eyes met. Releasing his arm as she passed into
the house, she colored deeply.


                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.

“Is not this Thursday?” suddenly asked my grandfather, at breakfast, a
week or so after the events just described. “It is? Then this is the day
for the Poythress’s return. Ah, now we shall have music.”

A man talking with another may look him in the face for an hour without
knowing one of his thoughts; a woman will flash a careless glance across
your face,—across it—no more,—and read you to the heart.

Alice and Mary beamed upon each other and ejaculated, “Lucy!” But Mary’s
eyes had had time to sweep the features of the Don. “Won’t it be
charming to have Lucy with us!” said she; but she hardly knew what she
said. Her face, turned towards Alice, wore a mechanical smile; but she
saw only the Don and the startled, almost dazed look that came over his
face on hearing Mr. Whacker’s words. How brave a little woman can be!
She turned to the Don and said,—a seraphic smile upon her face,—“You
have never heard Lucy play. You have a great treat in store.”

“No,” replied he, dropping his napkin. “No,” repeated he, his eye fixed
upon vacancy. He had heard with his ears and answered with his lips.
That was all. Suddenly recollecting himself, he turned to her with a bow
and a courteous smile: “Yes, it will be a great treat,—very great;” but
his thoughts, mightier than his will, swept the smile from his features
and left them pale and rigid as before.

How many thoughts crowded upon Mary’s heart in that instant! “What a
silly school-girl I have been! A word here and a word there, during
these last ten days, have made me forget the intense interest he
obviously took in Lucy at first sight. After all, what has he said to
me? Nothing, absolutely nothing! And yet I was so weak as to
imagine—and now he has learned of a new bond of
sympathy—music—between Lucy and himself. Why did I learn nothing but
waltzes and variations and such trash? If only—too late! And he has
seen so little of her! That dream, too,—that strange, terrible
dream,—should have warned me. And now Lucy is coming. Lucy! is she,
then, so superior to me? She is as good as an angel, I know; but I
thought that I—wretched vanity again”—and she stamped her foot—“yet
Alice has thought so too—else why—surely, he cannot have been trifling
with me? Never! Of that, at least, he is incapable! Such a noble
countenance as his could not—” And for a second she lifted her eyes to
his—

“Yes, Zip, I’ll take one.”

“Girls,” said Alice, “just look at Mary; an untasted waffle on her plate
and taking another!”

Mary gave one of those ringing laughs that so infest the pages of female
novelists.

“Is there to be a famine?” asked one.

“Or is the child falling in love?” chimed in Alice; but without raising
her eyes from her empty coffee-cup, in the bottom of which she was
writing and re-writing her initials with the spoon.

To all the rest of the company these words seemed as light and careless
as the wind. Not so to Mary. Her heart leaped; but, by some subtle
process known only to women, she forbade the blood to mount into her
cheek.

“I warn you to beware,” said Mr. Whacker. “Full many a heart has been
lost in this house!”

“_All_ hearts, I must believe,” rejoined Mary, with a bow and
half-coquettish smile.

My grandfather placed his hand upon his heart and bent low over the
table, amid the approving plaudits of the company. Charley did the same.
“There are two of us,” he explained; “Uncle T-T-Tom and myself.”

“He is laughing now; how he seems to admire Mr. Frobisher! But why did
he turn pale, just now, at the mention of Lucy’s name? I have never read
anywhere of love’s producing that effect, certainly. Perhaps—perhaps,
after all, he did not change color. My imagination, doubtless. No, I am
not mistaken! Why, his brow is actually beaded with perspiration!
incomprehensible enigma! would to heaven I had never met him! and yet—”

If any of my young readers shall be so indiscreet as to fall in love
with enigmas, let them not lay the folly to my charge. I most solemnly
warn them against it.

Poor little Mary watched the Don all that day with that scrutiny so
piercing, and yet so unobtrusive, of which a woman’s eye alone is
capable,—hopefully fearing to discover the truth of what she fearfully
hoped was not true; but it was not before the sun had sunk low in the
west, and she had begun to convince herself of the illusory character of
her observations at the breakfast-table, that she got such reward as
that of the woman who, after twenty years’ searching, at last found a
burglar under her bed.

As the time approached at which the Poythress family should arrive (at
their home across the river), my grandfather would go out upon the
piazza every few minutes, and after looking across the broad river
return and report that there were no signs of the carriage.

“It is not yet time by half an hour,” said Charley, looking at his
watch.

“At any rate I’ll get the telescope and have it ready,” replied he, as
he passed into the dining-room; returning, bearing in his hand one of
those long marine glasses so much used at that time. “This is a
remarkably fine glass,” said he to the Don.

The Don was seated behind Alice’s chair, helping her to play her hand at
whist, if that name be applicable to a rattling combination of cards,
conversation, and bursts of laughter.

“Last summer,” continued Mr. Whacker, “I counted with it a hen and seven
small chickens on the Poythress’s lawn—”

“Mr. Frobisher!” cried Alice. “There you are trumping my ace!”

“Charley!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker, with reproachful surprise.

“And, Uncle Tom, would you believe it,—he has made three revokes
already? What ought to be done to such a partner?”

Jones, who ought to have been back at the University long since, was, on
the contrary, seated at a neighboring card-table. He remembered the
scrape that Charley had gotten him into on Christmas Eve.

“I don’t think,” said he, soliloquizing, as he slowly dealt out the
cards, “that I could love a partner who revoked.”

A smile ran around the tables. Charley bit his lip.

“What, Charley!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker. “The ace of trumps second in
hand, and you had another!”

“I wanted to take that particular trick,” said Charley, doggedly.

Charley and Jones were sitting back to back, their chairs almost
touching. Jones turned around, and, with his lips within an inch of the
back of Charley’s head, spoke in measured tones,
“He—is—after—a—particular—trick, Uncle Tom; hence his peculiar
play.”

Every one laughed, even Charley. Alice’s cheeks rivalled the tints of
the conch-shell; and Mary, charmed to see her for once on the defensive,
clapped her hands till half her cards were on the floor.

I should not have said that everybody laughed, for my grandfather did
not even smile. No suspicion of the state of things to which Jones had
maliciously alluded had ever crossed his mind. He was totally absorbed
in contemplation of the enormity of playing out one’s ace of trumps
second in hand. And that Charley—Charley, whom he had trained from a
boy to the rigor of the game according to Hoyle—that _he_ should seem
to defend such—so—so horrible a solecism! It was too much. He was a
picture to look at, as he stood erect, the nostrils of his patrician
nose dilated with a noble indignation, his snowy hair contrasting with
his dark and glowing eyes, that swept from group to group of mirthful
faces, and back again, sternly wondering at their untimely merriment.

“But, Uncle Tom,” put in Jones—

“No, no!” interrupted Mr. Whacker, with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Nothing can justify such play.”

“But, Uncle Tom, suppose—”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Whacker, in a gentler tone, mollified by the
anticipation of easy and certain victory, “very well; make your
supposition.” And he assumed a judicial brow.

“Now, suppose that there is a particular hand—”

Billy paused.

“Well, go on.”

“A _very_ particular hand.”

My grandfather’s eyes began to flash. The vast host of those who believe
in playing “according to their hands” rose before his mind.

“Go on,” added he, controlling himself with an effort.

“Suppose there is a certain hand that a fellow—a hand that a certain
fellow—for example—wants—wants—to get possession of.”

Charley winced, and Alice’s color rose in spite of her utmost efforts to
look unconcerned.

“A hand that he wants to get possession of!” cried Mr. Whacker, with
unspeakable amazement. “What gibberish is this? I was supposing all
along that he _had_ the hand!”

“No; but he wants it aw-ful-ly,” said Jones, with sepulchral solemnity.

Peal after peal of laughter arose, while Charley shuffled his cards with
the vigor of desperation. Poor fellow, he had never been in love before,
and—keen humorist that he was—he knew full well that no man could be
in love without being at the same time ridiculous. My grandfather looked
on, mystified but smiling. “This is one of your jokes,” said he, taking
Billy by both ears.

“On the contrary, it is a case—ouch!—of the very deadest earnest that
I have ever—smi-ling-ly beheld. But, honestly, Uncle Tom, suppose there
was a suit—a suit, mind you—”

“C-c-c-cut the cards,” yelled Charley.

“A suit,” continued the implacable Billy, “that you were prosecuting—”

“Wished to establish, you mean.”

“Yes, a suit—”

“Uncle Tom,” cried Charley, almost upsetting the table, “I give it up.
’Twas an idiotic play I made.”

Billy threw back his head so that it rested on Charley’s shoulder.
“When,” asked he, under cover of the general laughter,—“when are you
going to cut your finger again?”

Just then Mr. Whacker appeared at the window and gave three brisk raps,
and the girls went scampering out on the piazza, followed by the
gentlemen, the Don bringing up the rear. There was a general waving of
handkerchiefs, and the telescope passed from hand to hand.

“There they all are,” cried Alice, cheerily, peering through the glass
with one eye and smiling brightly with the other: “Lucy and Mrs.
Poythress on the back seat, her young brother and Mr. Poythress in
front. They see us now,—there go the handkerchiefs! Ah, just look at
little Laura, sitting in Lucy’s lap and waving for dear life! Here,
Mary, take a look. How distinctly you see them!”

“Yes,” said Mary; but with the eye which seemed to be gazing through the
telescope she saw nothing, while with the other she took in every motion
of the Don. He was striding with irregular steps up and down the piazza,
now mechanically waving his handkerchief, now thrusting it back into his
pocket; at one time, as he stopped, his eyes fixed upon the floor; at
another rolling with a kind of glare as he started suddenly forward. He
strode past her, and his arm grazed her shoulder. She shivered. Had her
companions observed it? She gave a quick glance, and was reassured. They
were all waving in frantic, girlish glee, in response to the vigorous
demonstrations across the River. The rainbow knew not of the neighboring
thunder-cloud.

“What a terrible love,” she mused. “But, oh, to have inspired it!” He
had not yet had the glass in his hand; she would offer it to him. Woman
alone is capable of such self-sacrifice. She turned towards him as he
was passing again, and, though a glance at his dark face almost unnerved
her, she stood in his path and offered him the glass. A surprise was in
store for her. Brought to himself, he looked startled at first, as
though suddenly realizing who stood before him; and then, sudden as a
flash of light, there came into his eyes a look so gentle and tender as
to set her heart violently beating. Such a look, she felt, would have
been a declaration of love in any other man,—but in an enigma?

“Take a look through the telescope,” said she, in a voice scarcely
audible.

He raised the glass to his eye.

“Lucy is on this side,” said she, “with Laura in her lap.”

Her eyes were riveted upon his face now. What a change had come over it!

“Her mother sits next her; can’t you make out her white hair?”

The strong man’s lips quivered.

“She is dressed in black; can’t you see?”

His grasp tightened on the glass.

“She dresses always in black.”

The telescope began to tremble.

Just then Charley brushed quickly past her and stood beside the Don.

“That’s not the way to use one of these long Toms,” interposed he, with
quiet decision. “They need a rest. Here, take this pillar.”

With a bow of acknowledgment the Don obeyed.

Mary’s eyes followed Charley with a searching look, as he carelessly
sauntered off to the other end of the piazza, muttering half a dozen
notes of a popular song; but his serene face gave no sign.


                             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.


                              CHAPTER XL.

“Where is Mr. Smith?” asked Mrs. Carter, as she helped the company to
soup.

“Yes, where is he?” repeated Mr. Whacker, looking up in surprise.
“Perhaps he does not know that we are at dinner.”

“After conducting me to the parlor,” explained Mrs. Poythress, “he
excused himself and went to his room. I fancied he was not very well.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Whacker. “Zip, you go—”

Charley made a motion to Moses,—Zip for short,—and rising from the
table and bowing his excuses, he left the room.

“I am a little afraid,” continued Mrs. Poythress, turning to me, who
chanced to be her nearest neighbor at table, “that your friend
over-strained himself in that tremendous leap he made to save me from
falling. I am sure I felt his arm tremble as we walked towards the
house. Then he was so very silent. Is he always so?”

“Generally; though I do not think it is altogether natural to him. He
seems to constrain himself to silence from some motive or other; but
every now and then he loses control of himself, it would seem, and
breaks forth into a real torrent of brilliant talk,—no, brilliant is
not the word—though torrent is. When he bursts forth in this
impassioned way, he carries everything before him. By the way, his
leaping is of the same character. Do you know I had to change my shoes?
For when he sprang to catch you, he actually knocked me into the water.”

“What eyes he has! Such a concentrated look! And no one,” she added
after a pause, “has any idea who he is?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Is it possible? What a number of strange people your dear old
grandfather has contrived to bring to Elmington from time to time! Where
he has found them all, or how they have found him, has always been a
mystery to me.”

“Yes, but the Don is not one of grandfather’s captures. Charley must
have the credit of bringing him in.”

“Then he is a good man,” replied she, with decision. “Charley never
makes any mistakes. But here comes Master Charles.”

Every one looked up on Charley’s entrance. As for that young man, he
looked neither to the right nor to the left. “Mr. Smith will be down
presently,” said he to Mrs. Carter. As he strode around the room to take
his chair, his firm-set lips wore a rather dogged expression, as though
he would warn us all that, so far as he was concerned, the conversation
was ended; and, hastily taking his seat, he began a vigorous attack on
his soup, as if to overtake the rest of the company. Somehow every one
was silent, and the isolated and rather rapid click of Charley’s spoon
was distinctly audible. Alice smiled, and conversation beginning to
spring up around the table, “I fear your soup is cold,” she began.

“The soup was cold?” asked he, looking up. “I am very sorry.”

“I didn’t say that,” replied she, quickly. “I remarked that I was afraid
yours was cold.”

“Mine?” asked he, looking puzzled. “Why?”

“You were detained so long up-stairs.”

“Oh!” said he, renewing the assault upon the soup. “You are right,” he
added; “it is ratherish cool.”

Alice was foiled. “I believe Mrs. Poythress called you.”

Charley leaned forward.

“Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Mrs. Poythress.

All eyes were fixed on Charley, every ear intent to hear his answer to
this question, which Mrs. Poythress alone had ventured to ask. For a
moment this master of fence and parry stood confounded; but only for a
moment. “Nothing to speak of,” replied he, with careless simplicity,
and, leaning back in his chair, he glanced at Uncle Dick. Richard,
briskly, though with averted face, came to remove the soup-plate, and
then hurried out of the room to have a quiet chuckle.

“Tain’t no use, Polly; dey jess as well let Marse Charles alone. He is a
keener, he is, umgh—umgh! Dey ain’t gwine to git nothin’ out o’ him, ef
you b’lieve Dick, dey ain’t, mun.” And the old worthy’s sides shook with
laughter. “Dey has been tetchin’ her up pretty lively dis mornin’, dat’s
a fac’, and dey wet Dick’s whistle for him, dey did, ef you b’lieve me,
and more’n once, too. Well,

    ‘Christmas comes but once a year,
    Den every nigger git his shear.’

“Hurry up, gal! hurry up!”

“Don’t come round me, boy, wid your ‘hurry up, hurry up.’ Don’t you see
I’se hurryin’ up all I kin hurry up already? I b’lieve you is drunk,
anyhow!”

“Pretty close to it, thank de Lord.

    ‘Christmas comes but once a year,
    Every nigger—’”

“I tell you git out o’ dis kitchen, and mind you don’t fall and break
dat dish, wid your ‘Christmas comes but once a year.’ Go ’long, boy. Dat
ham’s seven years old, and you jess let it fall!”

“Hi!” thought Uncle Dick, as he entered the dining-room. “What’s he
doin’ at de table?”

Richard was surprised.

For, as I am pained to have to say, the Virginians had in those days the
very irrational habit of drinking before dinner; and it was to this fact
that Uncle Dick alluded in the somewhat figurative language recorded
above. If the truth must be told, our venerable serving-man never
doubted but that the Don stayed up-stairs simply because he was too
drunk to come down. The facts were far otherwise.

“Charley,” said I that night, as we were smoking our last pipe, “what
was the matter with the Don to-day? Why was he not with us when we sat
down to dinner?”

“Because,” said Charley, lazily lolling back in his rocking-chair, and
sighting with one eye through a ring of smoke that he had just projected
from his mouth,—“because he was in his room.”

“Another word, and Solomon’s fame perishes.”

“It is a well-known physical law” (Charley used to avenge himself on me
in private for his silence in general company),—“it is a well-known
physical law,” said he, inserting his forefinger with great precision
into the centre of the whirling ring, “that a body cannot occupy two—”

“To be continued in our next. But why was he not punctual, as usual?”

“Nothing simpler,—because he was behind time.”

“Solon, Solon!”

“Yes, Sir William Hamilton has well observed that it is positively
unthinkable that the temporal limitations of two events occurring at
different times should be identical. Let’s have another pipe.”

Charley had forced me to change the subject; but I contrived to make the
change not very satisfactory to him. “By the way,” I began, “what were
you and the charming Alice saying to one another on your way from the
landing to-day?”

Charley laid his halt-filled pipe on the table and gave a frightful
yawn. “Let’s go to bed,” said he, and immediately began to doff his
clothes with surprising swiftness.

“Two bodies,” said I, striking a match, “cannot”—Charley kicked off one
boot—“occupy the same space”—off flew the other; “but, as Sir William
hath well put it,—or was it some other fellow?”—and leaning against
the end of the mantel-piece, and poising myself on my elbow, I assumed a
thoughtful attitude,—“two bodies are sometimes fond of being very close
together. Why this sudden and uncontrollable somnolency? Were we not to
have another pipe?” But not another word could I get out of Charley; and
nearly four years passed by before he gave me the account (which I will
now lay before the reader) of what he saw that day.

The Don, as we know, had escorted Mrs. Poythress from the landing at the
foot of the lawn to the house, and had gone immediately to his room. As
she leaned upon his arm, he had seemed to her to be tremulous; and a
certain disorder in his features as he left the parlor had led her to
fear that he was not well; having, as she surmised, given himself an
undue wrench in his efforts to arrest her fall. Then, when the Don had
failed to put in an appearance at dinner, Charley had gone in person to
his room. To a gentle tap there was no reply, and successively louder
knocks eliciting no response, a vague sense of dread crept over him, and
his hand shook as he turned the knob and entered the room. “Great God!”
cried Charley, stopping short, as he saw the Don stretched diagonally
across the bed, his face buried in a pillow. There he lay, still as
death. Was he dead? Charley hurried to the bedside with agitated
strides, and leaning over the prostrate figure, with lips apart,
intently watched and listened for signs of life. “Thank God!” breathed
Charley. For reply the Don, with a sudden movement, threw back his right
arm obliquely across his motionless body, and held out his open hand.
The released pillow fell. It was wetted with tears. Charley clasped the
offered hand with a sympathetic pressure that seemed quite to unnerve
the Don; for the iron grasp of his moist hand was tempered by a grateful
tenderness, and convulsive undulations again and again shook his
stalwart frame. For a while neither spoke.

“You will be down to dinner presently, I hope?”

The Don nodded, and Charley crossed the room and poured out some water
and moved some towels in an aimless sort of way.

“I’ll go down now; come as soon as you can.”

Another nod.

Charley moved, half on tiptoe, to the door, and placing his hand on the
knob, turned and looked at the Don. A sudden impulse seized him as he
saw the strong man lying there on his face, his arm still extended along
his back; and hurrying to the bedside, he bent over him, and taking the
open hand in both his, with one fervent squeeze released it and hastened
out of the room. But he had not reached the door before there broke upon
his ear a sound that made him shiver.

It was a sob.

One!—No more! It was a sound such as we do not often hear and can never
forget,—the sob of a strong man, bursting, hoarse, guttural,
discordant, from an over-wrought heart,—a stern, proud heart that would
stifle the cry of its bitterness, but may not. A look,—a word,—the
touch of a friendly hand,—has sufficed to unprison the floods.

So, once, the dimpled finger of childhood pressed the electric key; and
the primeval rocks of Hell-Gate bounded into the air.


                              CHAPTER XLI.

Charley hurried along the upper hall, and arriving at the head of the
stairs, blew his nose three times with a certain fierce defiance. This
strictly commonplace operation he repeated in a subdued form as he
neared the dining-room door, and stopping again, with one hand upon the
knob, he passed the other again and again across his forehead and eyes,
as though he had been an antiquated belle who would smooth out the
wrinkles before entering a ball-room. Then, with that severe look of
determined reticence of which I have spoken above, he entered the
dining-room; exciting in all breasts, male and female alike, a keen but
hopeless curiosity. This feeling, however, soon subsided; for the Don
had entered shortly after Charley, and, begging Mrs. Carter to excuse
his tardiness, had taken his seat and passed out of our minds. For
besides that the dinner was good and the wine generous, most of us had
our own little interests to look after. Jones, for example, and Jones’s
girl were too happy to care whether any one in the world were late or
early for dinner. My grandfather, Mrs. Carter, and myself were
sufficiently occupied as hosts,—and Charley, too, though he devoted his
time principally to one guest. As a matter of fact, therefore, during
the early part of the dinner the Don sat unobserved by the greater part
of the company; and but for one faithful pair of eyes, I should have had
nothing to record.

In the spirit of mischief, Alice had so manœuvred that the seat left
vacant for the Don was between Lucy and little Laura. “Won’t it be
sweet, mother, to see all three of them in a row,—Lucy—Mr. Don
Miff—Laura? Quite a little family party!”

“Very well,” replied Lucy, laughing, “arrange it as you will; I am sure
I should like very well to sit by ‘the Don.’ Do you still call him by
that name?”

“Of course. It has a grand sound, and grand sounds, you know, are
precious to the female heart.”

The Don’s looks when he entered were downcast, his manner hesitating,
and his voice, when he made his apologies to Mrs. Carter, scarcely
audible. Charley, the moment the Don entered, had begun stammering away
at Alice with a surprising volubility, and in a voice loud for him. He
never stammered worse; and such a pother did he make with his m’s and
his p’s that he drew upon himself the smiling attention of all the
company; so that even Jones and his girl ceased murmuring, for a moment,
their fatuous nothings. It was under cover of this rattling volley that
the Don had taken his seat and begun intently to examine the monogram on
his fork.

“Will you have some soup?” asked Charley, in a frank, off-hand way.

The commonplace nature of this question was an obvious relief to the
Don, and he raised his eyes and looked about him. “Thanks, no soup.
What!” said he, for the first time espying little Laura seated by his
side, “you here by me!” And taking her sunny head between his hands, he
bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

A mother’s smile trembled in Mrs. Poythress’s eyes. “She is a very
little diner-out,” said she.

At the sound of Mrs. Poythress’s voice a shade passed over the Don’s
face. “He’s the one, mumma, that built me the block-houses.” And the
smile came back.

Mary watched the play of the Don’s features during the triangular
conversation that followed between himself, Mrs. Poythress, and Laura,
and was much puzzled. Light and shadow, shadow and light, chased each
other over his changeful countenance like patches of cloud across a
sunny landscape. Presently, chancing to turn his head, his eyes fell
upon Lucy, seated on his right, and Mary’s interest grew deeper.

“You on my right and Laura on my left! I feel that I am indeed among
friends.”

“You may be sure of that,” said Lucy, in her low and sweet, but earnest
voice.

The Don’s pleasure at finding that Lucy was his neighbor at table was
very obvious, and we must not blame Mary if it gave her a pang to see
it. She could not but recall the stranger’s manifest interest in Lucy
when he first met her, at breakfast, in Richmond. Then she had not
cared. Now it was different. For the next half-hour, while contributing
her share to the conversation at her end of the table, she had managed
to see everything that took place between the Don and Lucy. She saw
everything, and yet she seemed to herself to see nothing. The meaning of
it all—that she could not unravel. All she knew was that she was
miserable; and her wretchedness made her unjust. She was vexed at
Lucy,—vexed for the strangest of reasons; but the human heart—if the
plagiarism may be pardoned—is full of inconsistencies. Had Lucy made
eyes at the Don, coquetted with him, Mary would doubtless have thought
it unkind on her part; though that would have been unjust, as Lucy had
no cause to suspect that her friend felt any special interest in the
mysterious stranger. It was the entire absence of everything of this
kind in Lucy’s manner that nettled Mary. In her eyes the Don was a hero
of the first water. Why didn’t Lucy try to weave fascinations around
such an one as he? What kind of a man was she looking for? Did she
expect the whole world to fall at her feet, whence to choose?—or did
she, perhaps,—and the thought shot through her heart with a keen
pang,—did Lucy feel that the quarry was hers without an effort on her
part to grasp it?

The Don’s deportment, too, if incomprehensible, was at least irritating.
“His lordship,” thought she, bitterly, “has hardly vouchsafed me a
glance since he took his seat. Yet, before the Poythresses came—there
he sits now, patting Laura’s head in an absent way, and studying Lucy’s
features, as she talks, as though he were a portrait-painter. One would
think he had quietly adopted the entire Poythress family. Upon my word,
Mr. Sphinx is a marvel of coolness! How little he talks, too!—and yet
he has contrived to bring Lucy out wonderfully. She is rattling away
like a child, telling him about herself and all the family. How
interested he seems! Heavens, what a look!”

“Yes,” she had heard Lucy say, “Laura is a regular Poythress, with her
high color and golden hair; mine is just like mother’s. I don’t mean
now,” said she, with a little laugh and glancing at Mrs. Poythress’s
snow-white hair; “but mother’s was coal-black once. It turned
white—years ago—suddenly;” and she sighed softly, with downcast,
pensive eyes, so that she did not observe the look of pain that her
words had wrought and that had startled Mary. Looking up and seeing his
face averted, Lucy thought he was admiring her little sister’s curls.
“What beautiful hair Laura has!”

“Lovely,” replied he, tossing a mass of ringlets on the tips of his
fingers.

“Won’t you make me a boat, after dinner, with rudder and sails and
everything?” And Laura looked up into his troubled face with a
confiding, sunny smile.


                             CHAPTER XLII.

At last, the ladies rose to leave the table.

“As soon, Mrs. Carter, as the gentlemen have had a cigar or so,” said
Mr. Whacker, “we shall have the honor of joining the ladies in the
parlor and of escorting you to the Hall, where we shall have some
music.”

“But when he hears her play!” thought Mary, as she left the room, arm in
arm with her dreaded rival.

“I drink your health,” cried the Herr, dropping down into his chair as
soon as the ladies had left the room. “I drink your very good health,”
said he, filling the Don’s glass. Of course he pronounced the words
after his own fashion.

One would err who supposed that Herr Waldteufel felt any unusual anxiety
as to the physical condition of his neighbor. A decanter of sherry
invariably wrought in his responsive mind a general but quite impartial
interest in the well-being of all his friends. But on this occasion Mr.
Whacker was particularly anxious that some limit should be put to the
expression of that solicitude; and he checked with a glance the zealous
hospitality of Uncle Dick, who was about to replenish the nearly
exhausted decanters.

For this was to be a field day over at the Hall. There was to be a
quintet,—think of that,—and a pint or so more sherry might disable the
’cello.

My grandfather had been looking forward to this glorious occasion with
nervous joy. It had been several years since he had taken part in so
august a performance; and before the first cigars were half burned out
he had begun to fidget and look at his watch. Charley, therefore, was
not long in proposing a move.

“Now, ladies,” said my grandfather, on reaching the parlor, “I, for one,
cannot understand how it is that there are some people who don’t love
music; but there are such people, and very good people they are, too.
Now, this is Liberty Hall, and every one must do as he pleases. We are
going to make some music; but no one need go with us who prefers
remaining here. If there are any couples, for instance,”—and Mr.
Whacker raised his eyes to the ceiling—“who have softer things to say
than any our instruments can produce” (Jones and his girl looked
unconscious), “let them remain and say them. Here is the parlor, there
is the dining room; arrange yourselves as you would. And now, Mrs.
Poythress, will you take my arm and lead the way?”

Jones and Jones’s girl were the first to move, and we were soon on our
way across the lawn; while dark cohorts brought up the rear and covered
the flanks of the merry column.

“To me!” said Mary, when the Don had offered her his arm. “I feel much
honored.” And with a formal bow she rested the tips of her fingers upon
his sleeve.

The irony of her tones grated upon his ear, and he turned quickly and
bent upon her a puzzled though steady gaze.

“Honored?”

That look of honest surprise reassured her woman’s heart, but made her
feel that she had forgotten herself in meeting a courtesy with an
incivility.

They always know just what to do.

Passing her arm farther within his, and leaning upon him with a
coquettish pressure, she looked up with a gracious smile.

“Certainly. Have I not the arm of the primo violino,—the lion of the
evening?”

And the primo violino wondered how on earth he had ever imagined that
she was vexed.

Very naturally, I cannot remember, after the lapse of years, what
quintet they played that evening. All that I distinctly recall is that
it was a composition in which the piano was very prominent. My
grandfather was (as I have, perhaps, said before) as proud of Lucy’s
playing as though she had been his own daughter; and I suspect that he
and the Herr made the selection with a view to showing her off.

Mary thought she had never seen Lucy look so graceful as when, sounding
“A,” she turned upon the piano-stool, and, with her arm extended
backwards and her fingers resting upon the keys, she gave the note to
each of the players in turn; her usually serene face lit with the
enthusiasm of expectancy. It was a truly lovely face,—lovely at all
times, but peculiarly so when suffused with a certain soul-lit St.
Cecilia look it wore at times like this. Alice sparkled, and Mary shone;
but Lucy glowed,—glowed with the half-hidden fire of fervid affections
and high and holy thoughts. Alice was a bounding, bubbling fountain,
Mary a swift-flowing river, Lucy a still lake glassing the blue heavens
in its unknown depths. Wit—imagination—soul.

It chanced that the piano had to open the piece alone, the other
instruments coming in one after another. Nervously smoothing down her
music with both hands, rather pale and tremulous, Lucy began.

“Why,” thought Mary, gazing with still intensity from out the isolated
corner in which she had seated herself,—“why does _he_ look so
anxious?”

For, coming to a rapid run, Lucy had stumbled badly, and the Don was
pulling nervously at his tawny beard. But soon recovering her
self-possession, she executed a difficult passage with ease and
brilliancy. “Brava! brava!” cried he, encouragingly, while the Herr
nodded and smiled. As for my grandfather, a momentary side-flash of
delight was all he could spare the lovely young pianist; for with eyes
intently fixed upon his score, and head bobbing up and down, he was in
mortal dread of coming in at the wrong time. With him the merest nod of
approval, by getting entangled with the nod rhythmic, might well have
introduced a fatal error into his counting, while even an encouraging
smile was not without its dangers.

Mrs. Poythress gave the Don a grateful smile.

“He seems to be taking Lucy under his protection,” thought Mary.

One after another the players came in; first the Don and Herr
Waldteufel, then the second and the viola; and away they went, each
after his own fashion; Charley pulling away with close, business-like
attention to his notes; the Herr calm but smiling good-humoredly, when,
from time to time, he stumbled through rapid passages where his reading
was better than his execution; Mr. Whacker struggling manfully, with
flushed cheeks and eager eyes, and beating time with his feet with
rather unprofessional vigor. As for Lucy, relieved of her embarrassment,
when fire had opened all along the line, she made the Herr proud of his
pupil; while the Don, master of his score and his instrument, kept
nodding and smiling as he played; watching her nimble fingers, during
the pauses of his part, with undisguised satisfaction.

Mary, sitting apart, saw all this. Nor Mary alone.

“He is a goner!” whispered Billy to his girl, in objectionable phrase.

“Oh, yes; _hopelessly_!” looked she.

“Mr. Frobisher, too,—he’s another goner.”

The beloved of William glanced at Charley and bit her lip. Somehow it
seemed comic to every one that Charley should be in love.

Then Billy, folding his arms across his deep chest, and summoning his
mind to a vast generalization: “The fact is, everybody is a goner,” said
he; “as for me—”

His girl placed her finger upon her rosy lip, and reproved his
chattering with a frown that was very, very fierce; but from beneath her
darkling brows there stole, as she raised her eyes to his manly face, a
glance soft as the breath of violets from under a hedge of thorns.

The allegro moderato came to an end with the usual twang twing twang.

“Unt we came out all togedder!” exclaimed the Herr. “Dot is someding
already. Shentlemen und ladies, I tell you a little story, vot you call.
Berlioz was once leading an orchestra, part professionals, part
amateurs. Ven dey vas near de ent of de stucke vot you call morceau,
‘Halt, shentlemens!’ cry Berlioz, rapping on the bulbit-desk, vot you
call. ‘Now, shentlemens amateurs,’ says he, ‘you just stop on dis bar
unt let de oders blay, so dat we all come out togedder.’”

The excellent Herr, after laughing himself to the verge of asphyxiation,
explained that “Berlioz, you unterstant, vas a great vit, vat you call,
unt make many funny words.” It was a peculiarity of our friend
Waldteufel that his pronunciation of English varied with the amount of
water that he had neglected to drink; and as this was an uncertain
quantity, you could never be quite sure whether he would say vas or was,
words or vords. At certain critical moments, too, when his soul stood
vascillating between contentment and thirst, the two systems were apt to
become mixed as above. I will add that I make no attempt at accuracy in
reproducing his dialect, preferring to leave that, in part at least, as
I have done in a parallel case, to the resources of the reader.

The remaining movements of the quintet were played in somewhat smoother
style; but the only one requiring special mention, for our purposes, was
the larghetto, or slow movement. In this number, the technical
difficulties of which were inconsiderable, Lucy’s tender religious
spirit revealed itself most touchingly. It so happened that the composer
had placed this part mainly in the hands of the piano and the first
violin, the other instruments merely giving an unobtrusive
accompaniment. First the violin gave out the theme, and then the piano
made reply.

“It is the communing of two spirits,” felt Mary, in her imaginative way.

Now the piano gave forth its tender plaint, and the violin seemed to
Mary to listen; at one time silent, at another interrupting,—assenting
rather,—breaking into low-muttered interjections of harmonious
sympathy. And then the violin would utter its lament, finding its echo
in the broken ejaculations that rose from beneath Lucy’s responsive
fingers; so, at least, it seemed to Mary.

The quintet and the congratulations to the performers over, Mr. Whacker
took pity on the thirsty Herr and ordered refreshments. Jones, finding
among the rest a glass of double size, filled it and handed it to the
’cellist.

“Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play de big fiddle already.”

Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean; but she had other
things to occupy her thoughts. When the Don rose from his seat and laid
his violin upon the piano, she had been struck with the serenity of his
countenance, whence the music seemed to have chased every cloud. He was
looking for some one. Yes, it was for her. Catching her eye, he filled a
glass, or two, rather, and coming to her side and taking a seat, he
expressed the hope that she had enjoyed the music.

“More than I can express. You have convinced me that I have never heard
any real music before. Do you know, your quintet was as pleasing to the
eye as to the ear? You would have afforded a fine subject for a painter.
Three young men, a lovely girl, and a grandfather, all bound together as
one by the golden chains of harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovely
picture you made.”

“Thanks!”

“Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, so I have paid you, at
best, but one-fifth of a compliment.”

“A vulgar fraction, as it were.”

“Yes,” said she, laughing; then with eyes cast down, and in a hesitating
voice, she added, “I am going to make a confession to you; will you
promise not to think me _very_ foolish?”

“Such an idea, I am sure—”

“But, you know my friends all say I am so very sentimental,—that is to
say, silly. You shake your head, but that is what they call me, and that
is what it means.”

“You do your friends injustice; but give me a specimen, that I may judge
for myself.”

“Do you promise not to agree with my friends?”

“Most solemnly.”

“Well, you must know there is something very pathetic to me about old
age. The sight of an old man sympathizing with the young, hearing up
bravely under the ills of life and his load of years, always touches me
to the heart. Now, you and Mr. Frobisher and Mr. Waldteufel—well, I
need not comment on your appearance. Lucy—well, Lucy was just too
lovely. She had what I call her inspired look, and was simply
beautiful.” And lifting her eyes for a second,—no, a second had been an
age, compared with the duration of that glance so momentary and yet so
intensely questioning,—she flashed him through and through. Through and
through, yet saw nothing. The Don, felt he or not the shock of that
electric glance, sat impassive, spoke no answer, looked no reply. She
raised her eyes again to his. No, his look was not impassive; he was
simply awaiting with interest the rest of her story. That, at least, was
all she could see.

“Where was I?” she began again, driving from her mind, with an effort, a
tumultuous throng of hopes and fears. “Oh I well, you gentlemen handled
your bows gracefully, of course, and all that, and Lucy was
irresistible” (another flash), “of—course; but the central figure of
the picture was Mr. Whacker. Dear Uncle Tom! Isn’t he a grand old man? I
don’t know why it was, but when I saw in the midst of you his snowy head
contrasting so strongly, so strangely, with Lucy’s youthful bloom, with
the manly vigor of the rest, my eyes filled with tears. Was it so very
foolish?” And her eyes, as she lifted them to his, half inquiring, half
deprecatory, were suffused afresh with the divine dew of sympathy.

“Foolish!” exclaimed the Don, with a vehemence so sudden that it made
her start, his nostrils dilating and a dark flush mounting even to his
forehead,—“foolish!” And bending over her he poured down into her
swimming eyes a look so intense and searching that she felt that he was
reading her very heart.

“Thanks!” said he, with abrupt decision. “Thanks!”

Mary breathed quicker, she knew not why. The tension was painful. “Yes,”
said she, rather aimlessly, “and then you all looked so earnest, so
serenely happy, so forgetful of this poor sordid world.”

“Yes,” said he, musingly, “that seems to me the office of music,—to
give rest to the weary, to smooth out the wrinkles from the brain and
brow, to give respite; to enable us, for a time, at least, to forget.”

He seemed to muse for a moment, then turning suddenly to her with a
changed expression: “It was always so,” said he; then looking up
quickly, “Do you like Homer?”

“Homer!” exclaimed she, startled by the abrupt transition. “I cannot say
that he is one of my favorite authors.”

“Do you know, I cannot understand that?”

“He is so very, very old,” pleaded she, in extenuation.

“So is the human heart, of which he was master; so is the ocean, to
which he has been compared,—eternal movement and eternal repose. But
what you said just now, as to the Lethean effect of music, reminded me
of that grand scene in the Iliad, where Ulysses and Phœnix and Ajax go,
as ambassadors of Agamemnon, to Achilles, with offerings and apologies
for the wrong that has been done him. This man, whose heart was full of
indignant shame because of the insults which had been heaped upon
him,—who, though the bravest of the Greeks, had gone apart by the
sea-shore to weep bitter tears,—him they found solacing his sorrows
with music. But a little while ago and he had been ready to strike
Agamemnon dead in the midst of his troops. What a surprise when the poet
draws the curtain, and there flashes upon our astonished eyes the
inexorable, flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons seated with his
friend Patroklus, peacefully singing to his lyre the illustrious deeds
of heroes! What a master-stroke!” cried he, with flashing eyes. “It is
like the sudden bursting upon the view of a green valley in the midst of
barren rocks. And you don’t like Homer?”

“Oh, that is beautiful, really beautiful!” she hastened to say, abashed
at the sentiment she had just uttered. “One often fails to see beauties
till they are pointed out. Won’t you talk to me some day about Homer?”

“Gladly,” said he; and he smiled, then almost laughed aloud.

“Ah, it is really unkind to laugh at me!”

“Not at all. I was laughing to think how little you dream what you are
drawing down upon your head when you ask me to talk to you about Homer.
You see I, too, have a little confession to make.”

“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.

“Perhaps I should have said confidence rather than confession; but, upon
second thought—”

“Oh, do tell me!”

He hesitated.

“I shall positively die with curiosity!”

“If there be any danger of that,” said he,—and he put his forefinger
and thumb in his vest-pocket and looked at her and smiled.

“Well?”

“Will you promise not to think me so very, very foolish?” said he,
mimicking her tones of a little while before. And he drew an object from
his pocket and held it up.

“What is it,—a book?”

“Yes, a book;” removing from a much-worn morocco case a small volume.

“Oh, yes, your Testament!”

Mary had not forgotten what I had told of a certain incident that had
occurred in the Don’s rooms in Richmond, and had heedlessly alluded to
it.

“My Testament!” said he, with a quick, suspicious look.

She felt that she had blundered; but Mary Rolfe, like the majority of
her sex, was a woman. “Why, isn’t it a Testament?” asked she,
carelessly; “it has just the look of some of those little English
editions.” And she held out her hand.

“Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it is not a Testament.”

“What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended.

“It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confession is, that I have
carried it in this pocket ever so many years.”

“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested.

“So, you see, when you ask _me_ to talk to you about Homer, you are
getting yourself into trouble, most probably.”

“Let me have it.”

The Don smiled and shook his head.

“What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may not touch it?”

“Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must not go out of my
possession. Here, you hold that lid and I this. No, this way,” added the
Don, rising. He had been seated on her right; but now placing his chair
to her left, he held out the little volume to her, holding the left lid,
together with a few pages, between finger and thumb. What could be his
object in changing his position? Was there something written on the
flyleaf? She gave a quick glance at his face, but instantly checked
herself and broke out into a merry laugh.

“How perfectly absurd!” said she. “We look, for all the world, like two
Sunday-school children reading the same hymn-book! What!” exclaimed
she, with quick interest, and looking up into his face: “The original
Greek?”

“Yes,” replied he, quietly; “no real master-piece can ever be
translated.”

Just then some chords were sounded on the piano, and the Don turned and
looked in that direction. Mary raised her eyes and scanned his face
narrowly. She was reading him afresh by the light he had just cast upon
himself.

For her, being such as she was, this man of surprises had acquired a new
interest.


                             CHAPTER XLIII.

“Ladies unt shentlemens, I have de pleasure to announce dot Miss Lucy
will now favor de company mit a song.” The Herr was seated at the piano,
while Lucy stood by his side.

“What! does she sing, too?” inquired the Don, with interest.

“Oh, yes; Lucy has a very sweet voice.”

The Don sat and listened, with a pleased smile, nodding approvingly from
time to time. “Not very strong,” remarked he, when the song was ended,
“but, as you say, sweet and sympathetic—very.”

A second ballad was called for, which Lucy gave, and then her mother
suggested Schubert’s “Serenade.” She had hardly sung half a dozen notes,
when Mary noticed a peculiar expression on the Don’s face. It was a face
which, when in repose, was always grave, to say the least; and there
were times when it seemed to many stern, even grim. But now as he gazed,
wide-eyed and dreamy, upon the bank of coals before him, the firm lines
of his features melted into an inexpressible softness.

“Oh, that I were a musician, to bring that beautiful look into his face!
Lucy’s fingers have stolen half his heart, her voice the rest.” Thus
sighed Mary in the depths of her troubled spirit.

The Don rose softly from his seat. “Excuse me,” said he; and moving
silently and on tiptoe across the room, took up his violin, placed it
under his chin, and poising the bow over the strings, stood there
waiting for a pause in Lucy’s song. By Lucy alone, of all the company,
had these movements of the Don been unobserved; and when there leaped
forth, just behind her and close to her ear, the vibrating tones of the
Guarnerius, echoing her own, she gave a quick start and a pretty little
“oh!” but turning and seeing the Don behind her, she beamed upon him
with a radiant smile.

“Aha, an obligato! so!” cried the Herr. “Very goot, very goot.” And he
bent him over the piano with renewed zeal.

If I knew what an “obligato” was, I would tell you most cheerfully; but
even Charley could never get it into my head. It was not an
accompaniment, that I know; for the Herr was playing the accompaniment
himself.

“I tell you venn to come in,” said the Herr to Lucy, who was naturally a
little confused at first. “Now—ah—so, very goot.”

This time the Don broke in here and there upon Lucy’s song in a
fragmentary kind of way, as it seemed to me, and just as fancy dictated,
producing a very weird and startling effect; and when the pause came in
her score, he continued the strain in an improvisation full of power and
wild passion. “Wunderschön! Ben trovato!” cried the Herr, lapsing into
and out of his mother-tongue in his enthusiasm.

I gave the reader to understand, when I brought him acquainted with
Waldteufel, that he was a musician of far greater ability than one would
have expected to find teaching in a country neighborhood; regretfully
giving the reason for this anomaly. Aroused now by the Don, he showed
the stuff that was in him; dashing off an improvisation full of feeling
on the theme of the “Serenade.” “Now,” said he, striking the last notes,
“coom again, coom. Vot you got to say now?” he added, in challenge.

The Don gave a slight bow to Lucy.

“Ah, das is so,—I forgot.”

Lucy began anew, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement,
nodding approval, first to one, then to the other of the rival artists,
as each in turn gave proof of his virtuosity. Schubert’s “Serenade” is
of a divine beauty, and improving upon it is like adding polish to
Gray’s “Elegy.” But such considerations did not disturb our little
audience. Our local pride was up. The stranger had been carrying
everything before him, and when our honest Herr came back at him with a
Roland for his Oliver, as described above, there had been a lively
clapping of hands. And now, first one or two, then the entire company
had risen in a body and clustered around the performers, applauding and
cheering each in turn, but the Herr, as I remember, most warmly; for few
of us had ever heard him improvise before, and, besides, he seemed to
deserve special encouragement for his pluck in contending with this
Orpheus, newly dropped among us from the skies, as it were.

Mary had not at first risen with the rest. An unconquerable reserve was
her most marked trait. But at last even she rose (not being able,
perhaps, to see the Don from where she sat), but did not join the
cluster that surrounded the piano. She stood apart, resting her elbow
upon the mantel-piece, her cheek upon her hand, listening to the
music,—the music half drowned by the fevered tattoo her own heart was
beating. For now Lucy was singing the last stanza of the song, and the
Herr had dropped into something like an accompaniment, while the Don,
seeing that his antagonist had called a truce, had reined his own muse
down into a “second.” Sustained by this and rising with her enthusiasm,
Lucy’s voice came forth with a power and a pathos it had not shown
before; and the mellow Guarnerius, kindling and enkindled in turn, rose
to a passion almost human in its intensity. And before Mary’s eyes there
seemed to float, as voice and violin rose and fell, and fell and rose, a
vision (and it was her nature to dream dreams); there floated a vision
as of two souls locked in eternal embrace and borne aloft on the wings
of divinest music.

She did not close her eyes that night; for, to add to the perturbation
of her spirit, Mrs. Poythress, seeing Charley making ready to cross the
River and spend the night under her roof, as he did every Friday, had so
cordially invited the Don to accompany him that he, when the invitation
was warmly seconded by Mr. Poythress and Lucy, had, after some
hesitation, consented to do so.

He had entered the very grotto of Circe.


                             CHAPTER XLIV.

The Poythresses were cordiality itself. No sooner had the Don’s foot
crossed their threshold, than Mr. Poythress, taking him by the hand,
gave him a warm welcome to Oakhurst. “Yes, you are truly welcome,” said
Mrs. Poythress, taking the other hand; while Lucy, too, smiled in
hospitable assent.

The latter has told me since that she was struck, at the time, with a
certain something very singular in his manner of meeting these
courtesies. As the boat had neared the shore, she had observed that the
Don grew more and more silent; and now, in response to greetings of such
marked cordiality, he had merely bowed,—bowed low, but without a word.
“Are you cold?” asked Mrs. Poythress, looking up into his face, as they
entered the sitting-room. “Why, you are positively shivering! Mr.
Poythress, do stir the fire. Are you subject to chills? No?”

“The wind was very keen on the River,” said the Don. He spoke with
difficulty, and as he leaned over the fire, warming his hands, his teeth
chattered.

Charley whispered to Mrs. Poythress.

“Not a drop,” replied she; “you know Mr. Poythress will not allow a gill
of anything of the kind to be kept in the house. I am so sorry.”

“Well, it does not matter. Do you know it is past one o’clock? Suppose
all of you go to bed and leave him to me.”

“Now,” said Charley, when he and the Don were left alone, “let’s adjourn
to the dining-room and have a quiet pipe, after the labors of the
evening. I don’t know why it is,” continued Charley, as they entered the
room, “but fiddling—” Here Charley quickly drew back, as a horse when
sharply reined up, with a look that seemed to show that his eyes had
fallen upon some unwelcome object. The suppression of all appearance of
emotion was, as we know, a foible of his. There was one thing, however,
which he could not suppress; and it was this which often betrayed him to
his friends; to wit, his infirmity of stammering; of which, as I do not
care either to deface my pages or to make sport of my friend, I shall
give but sparing typographical indication, leaving the rest to the
reader’s imagination. “F-f-f-f-iddling,” continued he, “always gives me
a consuming thirst for a smo-mo-mo-moke. By the way, thirst for a smoke
strikes me as a mixed metaphor, but ‘hunger’ would scarcely improve
matters. I presume that if our Aryan ancestors had known the divine
weed, we should have had a better word wherewithal to express our
longing for it.”

Whenever Charley began to stammer and philosophize, he always suggested
to my mind a partridge tumbling and fluttering away through the grass;
there was always a nest somewhere near.

“As it is,” continued he, “we must be content to borrow from the
grovelling vocabulary of the eater and the drinker, leaving to
civilization—there, toast your toes on that fender—to evolve a more
fitting term.”

The Don, who had been looking serious enough before, could not suppress
a smile at this quaint sally of our friend,—a smile that broadened into
a laugh when Charley, having succeeded, after a protracted struggle, in
shooting a word from his mouth as though from a pop-gun, parenthetically
consigned all p’s and m’s to perdition; that being the class of letters
which chiefly marred his utterance.

There is, about the damning of a mere labial, a grotesque impotency that
goes far towards rescuing the oath from profanity; and we may hope that
Uncle Toby’s accusing angel neglected to hand this one in for record.

“This is very snug,” said Charley, drawing together the ends of logs
which had burned in two.

Charley had neglected to light the lamp, but the logs soon began to shed
a ruddy glow about the room, in the obscure light of which the stranger
began to look about him, as was natural. Charley could always see more
with his eyes shut than I could with mine wide open; but I cannot very
well understand how, in that dimly-lighted room, he contrived to observe
all that he pretends to have seen on this occasion; especially as he
acknowledges that he was steadily engaged at his old trick of blowing
smoke-rings, sighting at them with one eye, and spearing them with the
forefinger of his right hand.

The stranger did not stroll about the room with his hands behind his
back, examining the objects on the sideboard, and yawning in the faces
of the ancestral portraits, as he might have been pardoned for doing at
that hour, and in the absence of the family. “Yes, this is very snug,”
echoed he, in a rather hollow voice, while he glanced from object to
object in the room with an eager interest that contrasted strangely with
the immobility of his person; his almost motionless head giving a rather
wild look to his rapidly-roving eyes. Presently, seeming to forget
Charley’s presence, he gave vent to a sigh so deep that it was almost a
groan. Charley removed his pipe from his mouth, and with the stem
thereof slowly and carefully traced a very exact circle just within the
interior edge of one of his whirling smoke-wreaths, in the spinning of
which he was so consummate an artist.

The stranger, coming to himself with a little start, gave a quick glance
at the sphinx beside him, who, with head resting on the back of his
chair and eyes half closed, was lazily admiring another blue circle,
that rose silently whirling in the still air. Had he heard the moan? And
in his embarrassment the stranger seized the tongs and, with a nervous
pull, tilted over one of the logs which Charley had drawn together on
the hearth.

They flashed into a blaze.

“Why, hello!” exclaimed the stranger, chancing to cast his eye into the
corner formed by the projecting chimney-piece and the wall. “There’s a
dog. He seems comfortable,” he added, glad, seemingly, to have hit upon
so substantial a subject of conversation. “That rug seems to have been
made for him. Does he sleep there every night?”

“That’s his corner, whenever he wants it,” said Charley, rather dryly,
and without looking towards the dog. “Let me fill your pipe for you.”

Charley, somehow, did not seem anxious to talk about the dog, but his
companion, not observing this, very likely, would not let the subject
drop. Rising a little in his chair and peering into the somewhat obscure
corner: “He seems to be a—a—”

“Pointer,” said Charley. “He is very old,” added he, by way of a
finisher.

“Oh, I understand,—an old hunting-dog of Mr. Poythress’s that he
cherishes now for the good he has done in his day.”

This was not exactly a question, but it seemed to require some sort of a
reply.

“Well, yes, so one would naturally think; but Mr. Poythress was never
much of a Nimrod. It is Mrs. Poythress who claims the old fellow as her
property, I believe.”

Charley pulled out his watch in rather a nervous way, looked at the
time, and, thrusting it back into his pocket, gave a yawn.

“What rolls of fat he has along his back!” said the stranger, rising,
and taking a step or two in the direction of the sleeper.

“Yes,” said Charley, rising, and knocking the ashes from his pipe with a
few rapid taps, “it is the way with all old dogs.”

“Ah, I am afraid I have disturbed the slumbers of the old fellow,” said
the Don, softly retracing his steps.

“He is as deaf as a post,” said Charley.

The old pointer had raised his head, and was rocking it from side to
side with a kind of low whimpering.

“Speaking of slumbers,” said Charley, looking at his watch again, and
closing it with a snap, “suppose—”

“What can be the matter with the old boy?”

The dog was acting singularly. He had risen to his feet, and, with
staggering, uncertain steps, was moving first in this direction then in
that, sniffing the air with a whine that grew more and more intense and
anxious.

“He will soon get quiet, if we leave him.” And Charley made two or three
rapid strides towards the door, then stopped as suddenly, stopped and
stood biting his nails with unconscious vigor, then slowly turned, and,
walking up to the mantel-piece, rested his elbow upon it and his cheek
upon his hand. The attitude was one of repose; but his quick breathing,
his quivering lips, his restless eyes that flashed searchingly, again
and again, upon the face of his companion,—these told a different
story.

“He is trying to find you,” said the Don, with a sympathetic smile.
“Poor old fellow, he seems blind as well as deaf. Hello! he is making
for me. What! is he in his dotage? Whom does he take me for?” he added,
as the old dog, coming up to him and sniffing at his feet and legs with
an ever-increasing eagerness, kept wriggling and squirming and wagging
his tail with a vigor that was remarkable, considering his apoplectic
figure and extreme age. Growing more and more excited, the old creature
tried again and again to rear and place his paws upon the breast of the
Don; but his weak limbs, unable to sustain his unwieldy bulk, as often
gave way; and at last, with a despair that was almost human, he laid his
head between the knees of the young man; and rolling his bleared, opaque
eyes, as if searching for his face, he whimpered as though for help. The
Don looked bewildered, and glancing at Charley, saw him standing,
motionless, leaning upon the mantel-piece, his eyes fixed upon the fire.
The Don started, then bent a sudden, eager glance upon the dog. The
latter again strove to rear up, but falling back upon his haunches,
lifted up his aged head, and rolling his sightless eyes, gave forth a
low howl so piteous as must have moved the hardest heart.

It was then that the stranger, that man of surprises, as he had done
once or twice before in the course of this story, revealed by a sudden
burst of uncontrollable impetuosity the fervid temperament that
ordinarily lay concealed beneath his studied reserve. Stooping forward
like a flash, he lifted the dog and placed his paws upon his breast,
sustaining him with his arms.

It was touching to witness the gratitude of the old pointer, his whining
and his whimpering and his eagerness to lick the face that he might not
behold. He was happy, let us hope, if but for a moment. Suddenly he
fell,—fell as though stricken with heart-disease, all in a heap; then
tumbling over and measuring his length along the carpet, his head came
down upon the floor with a thump.

There he lay motionless,—motionless, save that every now and then his
tail beat the floor softly, softly, and in a sort of drowsy rhythm, as
though he but dreamt that he wagged it,—gently tapped the floor and
ceased; once more, and stopped again, and yet again; and he was still.
The stranger knelt over the outstretched form of the dying pointer.

“Ponto! Ponto, old boy! Can you hear me? Yes? Then good-by, dear old
fellow, good-by!”

Deaf as he was, and breathing his last, that name and that voice seemed
to penetrate the fast-closing channels of sense; and with two or three
last fluttering taps—he had no other way—he seemed to say farewell,
and forever.

The young man rose, and, staggering across the room, threw his arm over
his face and leaned against the wall. Charley made two or three hasty,
forward strides, then halted with a hesitating look, then springing
forward, placed a hand on either shoulder of the figure before him, and
leaned upon his neck.

“Dory!” whispered he, in a voice that trembled.

A shiver, as from an electric shock, ran through the stalwart frame of
the stranger. For a moment he seemed to hesitate; the next he had
wheeled about, and, clasping his companion in his mighty arms, hugged
him to his breast.

“Charley!” cried he, in a broken voice; and his head rested upon the
shoulder of his friend.


                              CHAPTER XLV.

I greatly fear that when I stated, somewhere in the course of the
foregoing narrative, that I had firmly resolved to exclude love-making
from its pages,—I greatly fear that none of my readers gave me credit
for sincerity. Yet it was not a stroke of Bushwhackerish humor; I was in
sober earnest, and was never more convinced than at this moment of the
folly of breaking my original resolution. Here I am with three pairs of
lovers on my hands,—all sighing like very furnaces—I, who am quite
incapable of managing one couple. I suppose I have only myself to blame.
I assembled a number of young Virginians in a country house. I should
have known better. Yet, when I brought them together, it was an
understood thing (on my part, at least) that there was to be no
nonsense.

The truth is, I think I have a just right to complain of my characters.
I had a little story to tell,—the simplest in the world—the merest
monograph,—and I introduced the main body of my personages as a
setting, merely; just as a jeweller surrounds a choice stone with small
pearls to bring its color into fuller relief.

And here they are, upsetting everything.

Look at Billy, for instance. I could not have gotten on at all without
him. In the first place, no Christmas party at Elmington could have been
complete without him and his jovial laugh. It would have been against
all nature not to have invited him, and equally against Billy’s nature
to have stayed away. But as ill luck would have it, his girl, though of
a different county, must needs be of the party; but I, knowing nothing
of this, caused him to gallop up to the Hall, that cold Christmas Eve,
simply that he might enliven the company with his “Arkansas Traveller”
and the rest of his not very classic repertoire, and still more by his
memorable dive under the table. Now I like my Billy; but his loves are
not to our purpose. And so—for I cannot have the course of my story
marred any longer by his antics—I have shipped him off to the
University. Imagine him bursting into No. 28, East Lawn, and shaking his
room-mate’s hand to the verge of dislocation. Five or six cronies have
crowded in to welcome the truant back (writhing, each in turn, under the
grasp of his obtrusively honest hand).

“No, Tom, you need not take that old gourd out of the box. My fiddling
days are over.”

“What!” exclaimed an indignant chorus.

“Come back solemn?” asked Tom. “Bad luck?”

Billy colored a little. “Solemn? Not I. But oh, boys, I have such a
story to tell you! You like to hear _me_ scrape,—wh-e-e-w!”

“What is it?”

Jones threw back his head and gave a roar as though Niagara laughed.
While he is telling the story of his discomfiture we will take our leave
of him; for as soon as the chorus have departed, he will begin to tell
his friend Tom about his girl, and we have no time to listen to any more
of that. But he is such a good fellow that I think we may forgive him
the delay his loves have cost us.

It is somewhat harder to pardon Charley’s falling in love so
inopportunely; but even as to him my heart relents when I remember that
it was his first offence, and how penitent, how sheepish, even, were his
looks, whenever I alluded to his fall. Let him go on casting out of the
corners of his eyes timid, admiring glances at the inimitable Alice;
drinking in deep, intoxicating draughts of her merry, laughter-spangled
talk; happy in her presence; in her absence fiercely wondering why, in
this otherwise wisely-ordered world (as we Virginians have been taught
to believe it), he alone was a stammering idiot. Let all this go on, and
more; but as with Jones, so with Charley, their loves must equally be
brushed from the path of this story.

The case of lover No. 3 presents greater difficulties. When I recall
certain passages of the preceding narrative, I am forced to acknowledge
that, in the case of the Don, I have unwittingly entered into an implied
obligation to my readers. Unwittingly, for I solemnly assure them that
when (for instance) I described the gallant rescue of Alice and Lucy by
the stalwart stranger, it did not so much as cross my mind what tacit
promise I thereby held out. Had I been a novel-writer or even a
novel-reader, instead of the philosopher and bushwhacker that I am, it
could not have escaped me that by suffering two of my heroines to be
valiantly rescued from deadly peril by a handsome, nay, a mysterious and
hence painfully interesting young man, I had, in effect, signed a bond
to bring about a marriage between the rescuer and one of the rescued, or
both; the more charming of the two being reserved for the end of the
book, the less to be thrown in earlier as a sort of matrimonial sop to
Cerberus,—an hymeneal luncheon, as it were. Yes, I allowed one of my
heroes to rescue two of my heroines, while a third gazed trembling upon
the scene from her latticed window. Nay, worse; for whether drawn on
insensibly by the current of events, or hurried thereto by the
entreaties of my friend and collaborator, Alice, who, woman-like,
declared that she would have nothing to do with my book unless I put
some love in it,—whether inveigled, therefore, or cajoled, it is a fact
that I have made allusion here and there, in the course of these pages,
to such sighings and oglings and bosom-heavings and heart-flutterings,
accompanied by such meaning starts and deep ineffable glances, that I am
willing to admit what Alice claims: that it would be almost an actual
breach of faith not to tell people what it all meant.

“If you are going to write a novel, Jack” (I have been plain Jack since
she married Charley), “why don’t you write one and be done with it?”

“How many times must I tell you that I am not writing a novel, but a
philosophico-bushwhackerian monograph on the theme—”

“Bushwhackerian fiddlestick!” cried Alice, impatiently, but unable to
suppress a smile at the rolling thunder of my title. “You may write your
monograph, as you call it, but who would read it?”

It was during this discussion that Alice agreed to edit the
love-passages that illumine these pages. But _what_ love-passages? After
much debate we effected a compromise. If she would engage to spare the
reader all save a mere allusion to the heart-pangs of the jovial Jones,
she should have full liberty to revel through whole chapters in the
loves of the Don. “As for your little affair with Charley,” I added, “I
agree to dress that up myself.”

“Indeed, indeed, Jack, if you were to put Mr. Frobisher and myself in
your book—and—and—make him—”

“Make him—” (Here I smiled.)

“You know, you villain!”

“Stammer forth praises of your loveliness?”

“You dare!”

And so we are reduced to a single pair of lovers: the Don and—


                             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.]


                             CHAPTER XLVII.

The reader can hardly be more amazed at the last chapter than is the
writer,—amazed not so much at its contents as at its existence. I
agree, at the close of the forty-fifth chapter, to exclude all save the
loves of the Don from these pages, and then devote the whole of the
forty-sixth to the amours of Charley and Alice! I break a promise almost
in the act of making it. Some explanation seems proper, and one lies
close at hand.

Your modern Genius is an out-and-out business man. He may be trusted to
furnish his publisher just so many chapters, just so many pages,
paragraphs, lines, words, as shall precisely fill the space allotted him
in the magazine. Nor baker with his loaves, nor grocer with his herring,
could be more exact. Pegasus no longer champs his bit, as of old, nor
paws the earth. He goes in shafts, in these days, and is warranted not
to kick in harness. He trots up to your front door, goods are delivered,
and he jogs off to another customer, his flanks cool, no foam upon rein.

Now, I, being a mere Bushwhacker, bestride, of course, an untrained,
shaggy mustang,—an animal sorely given to buck-jumping and to
unaccountable bursts in every direction save along the beaten track. And
how, pray, am I to know, astride such a disreputable prairie-Pegasus,
whither I am going, and how far; and when, if ever, I may hope to
return?

The average reader would probably accept this apology, but as I am (in a
small way) a disciple of Epaminondas (who, as every school-boy knows,
would not fib, even in jest), I shall not offer it in palliation of my
conduct. The true explanation (and therefore the only one that that
unique Grecian would have thought of giving) is to be found in the
rather peculiar way in which this story is being written.

The romantic among my readers doubtless picture me to themselves seated
in my arm-chair, my feet encased in embroidered slippers, my graceful
person (for they did not believe me when I admitted that I was fat)
wrapped in the folds of a rich dressing-gown. My intellectual brow is
half shaded by my long hair, half illumined by the pale light of the
midnight lamp. Meantime, with upturned eyes I await inspiration.

This, though a pretty enough picture, is not such as would have earned
the approval of the hero who first taught the Spartans how to yield;
for, on the contrary, this tale, so far, has been put together in a very
different fashion—and as follows:

Whenever Charley and Alice are accessible to me,—when, that is, either
they are spending a few weeks in Richmond, or I can run down to
Leicester for a little holiday,—it is understood that we three are to
get together, alone, of course, and at such hours as we are least liable
to interruption. The door is then locked (never double-locked,—to
Alice’s great regret,—for she says that this precaution is invariable
in novels; but, for the life of us, none of the three could ever find
out how to double-lock a door), and we begin talking over those old
times, Alice and Charley doing most of it. For, as the reader may
recall, either one or the other of them was an eye-witness of most of
the scenes depicted in this volume. My part in the transactions is
simple. From time to time I contribute some little incident which may
have come within my personal knowledge; but, as a rule, I confine myself
to taking notes; by the aid of which, I, in my leisure moments, draw up,
between meetings, as clear a narrative as I can; and this being
submitted to my coadjutors, is brought into its final shape by the
combined efforts of the trio.

This method of composition explains, though I fear it will not excuse,
what many readers will deem a grave defect in our joint production.
Confined to what either Alice or Charley or myself saw or heard with our
mere outward eyes or ears, there was obviously no place in these pages
for any of that subtle analysis of thoughts, that deep insight into
feelings, that far-reaching penetration into the inmost recesses of the
mind and heart, that marks modern Genius.

But it is just on this point that Charley and I have had battle after
battle with Alice. She will insist on Insight, on Analysis. People must
be told, by the ream, what Mary felt, what the Don thought; and she
cites novel after novel to fortify her position.

“Why do you bring up those books,” said Charley, one day. “Are we
writing a novel, pray? We are writing, as I understand it, a—by the
way, Jack-Whack, what _are_ we writing—for instance?”

“A symph—”

“Exactly so! We are composing a Symphonic Monograph,—precisely. Now
show me, in the whole range of literature, one solitary instance of a
writer of symph—ic—graphs—”

Charley was not stammering. He has of late years almost entirely freed
himself from this infirmity. The verbal fragments above represented
escaped from alternate corners of his mouth, Alice having dammed the
main channel of utterance in the most extraordinary manner. [It was a
way she had. During the composition of this entire work, whenever
Charley has seemed on the point of saying something that she was pleased
to consider humorous, she would fly at him in the most barefaced manner,
shaking with laughter, and cut him off. Then Charley glances at me, and
tries to frown: “Oh, it is nobody but Jack,” says she.]

“Besides,” went on Charley, without even wiping his lips, “you know
perfectly well, Alice, that you always skip that stuff. Look me in the
eyes,” said he, seizing her firmly by the wrist,—“look me in the eyes
and deny it!”

“Yes, but I am but a plain body, without pretensions; whereas people of
ideas, of culture, you know—”

“Then you admit that where you come to pages, solid pages of Insight,
you incontinently skip them for those passages where the characters are
either acting or speaking? Is it not so, you little humbug?”

“But should we not always seek the praise of the judicious?”

“Oh, the simplicity of your soul, to imagine that we are making a book
for the edification of the wise! As I understand it, Jack-Whack, it is
composed exclusively for the delectation of—”

Alice held up her hand.

“Of the majority,” added Charley. [Interruption, remonstrance,
confusion. “Pshaw! who minds Jack?”]

“The fact is,” resumed Charley, with traces of a hypocritical frown
still lingering on his features,—“the fact is, all that kind of stuff
which you profess to admire, but confess you never read, reminds one of
the annotations of the classics for schools. They are not intended to
instruct the boys, but are written by one pedant to astound other
pedants. By the way, Jack, a capital idea strikes me. It will give our
book such a taking and original air. Suppose we go through it from
beginning to end, and simply cut out all the _skipienda_,—every line of
it,—and leave only what is intended to be read?”

“And then publish it in the kingdom of Liliput?” inquired Alice.

This, then, my reader, is the way we talk while we write this story;
some account of which I thought might interest you; and it was after a
discussion like that just recorded that we three agreed (by a strictly
party vote of two to one) that our lovers must, for the rest of the
book, be reduced to a single pair. We reached this decision at the
conclusion of our labors on the forty-fifth chapter. We also settled it
to our own satisfaction, that by the time our future readers had reached
this stage in our story, they would probably be consumed with curiosity
to know whether it was Lucy or Mary, that, with the Don, was to
constitute that favored pair. The fact is, it had now begun to dawn upon
us that (although _we_ knew better) we had actually given the supposed
reader some right to look upon our mysterious hero as an emissary from
Utah. So putting our heads together, we decided that it was time that he
showed his colors. With a view to forwarding this end, therefore, I
requested Alice and Charley to give me some account of a certain
interview had between them, when the former had endeavored to discover
from him which of the two girls had captured the Don. For Alice had
often told me that she had made up her mind, on the night before that
dinner at Oakhurst, to make an attack on the redoubtable Mr. Frobisher
on that day, with this information in view. And she had formed this
resolution owing to something that had occurred between Mary and
herself.

It appears that on the night previous to this dinner, that reserve which
Mary had shown Alice ever since the Don had crossed her path had
suddenly given way. The two girls had gone to bed together, as was their
wont. The Don’s visits to Oakhurst had been growing in frequency, and it
was understood that this dinner was given in his honor.

“What, aren’t you asleep yet?” said Alice.

“No,” said Mary. Something in her voice touched her friend.

“You must not lie awake in this way,” said Alice. And she began to pass
her fingers across Mary’s forehead and through her hair.

It was a simple action, but Mary broke down under it. Throwing her arms
around her life-long friend, she pressed her convulsively to her bosom,
and hiding her face in her pillow, wept in silence. After a while they
began to talk, and they talked all night, as I am told that sex and age
not unfrequently do. Alice arose next morning with a fixed determination
to unravel the mystery that was giving her friend so much pain. Mr.
Frobisher could make things plain, if he would. But would he? At any
rate, she would try; for she was a plucky little soul. And so, when
Charley had offered her his arm, that day, after dinner, for a promenade
on the piazza, she felt that she had her opportunity. But it would
appear that Charley had been looking for an opportunity himself; and so,
the other day, when I asked this couple to let me have an account of the
matter, with a view to the forty-sixth chapter of the Symphonic
Monograph, it leaked out that Master Charles had, on this occasion,
taken up Alice’s time not in telling her whom the Don loved, but whom
Charles adored. This discovery, coming upon me so suddenly, upset my
determination to exclude the loves of Charley and Alice from our story,
and I called for an account of the courtship. For I felt assured that an
authentic account of the first and only love-making of Charles The
Silent would be the most delicious morsel in the whole Monograph. But at
the merest allusion to such a thing, Alice blushed in the most becoming
way; and when Charley, clearing his throat and putting on a bold look,
made as though he were about to begin, her face became as scarlet; and
rising from her seat she gave him the most dignified look that I have
ever seen in those merry-glancing hazel eyes. Thereupon Charley and I
laughed so heartily that Alice saw that she had been taken in by her
husband’s serious face. “I thought not!” said she, laughing in turn. But
the idea of a chapter given to the amours of Charles The Silent and
Alice The Merry had seized upon my mind with so strong a fascination
that I could not shake it off; and, as soon as I reached my bachelor
quarters that night, I seized my pen. My eyes were soon in a fine
phrensy rolling, I presume; for in the forty-sixth, or _Galaxy_ Chapter,
as I call it, from the numerous stars with which it is bespangled,
distinct traces of Genius may be detected by the practised eye (with my
assistance).

What I mean is, that chapter was composed in the manner in which true
Creative Genius is in the habit of composing, as I understand; made,
that is, out of the whole cloth,—woven of strands of air. But even
here, though mounted on a genuine (though borrowed) earth-spurning
Pegasus, I have not swerved far from the line that the great Bœotian
would have marked out for me. Charley’s courtship was quite real. It was
the words only that I have had to invent, left in the lurch as I was by
my two collaborators. And I was going to add that, in all probability,
Charley made use of not one of those I have put in his mouth, when I
recalled a coincidence so singular that I feel that the reader is
entitled to hear of it. When I read to my coadjutors my version of their
amours, their merriment was uproarious. Charley, I may mention, who only
smiled when he was a bachelor, has, since his marriage, grown stout and
taken to laughing. So far as he was concerned, my putting the word
“abyss” in his mouth was the master-stroke of the whole chapter.

“Why,” said he, choking with laughter, “I am sure I never made use of
the word in my whole life!”

“Neither had you ever before in your life made love to a girl,” I
objected.

“Don’t be too sure of that!” said Charley, with a knowing look.

“H’m!” put in Alice.

“What makes the thing so truly delicious,” said Charley, “is the
lachrymose and woe-begone figure you make me cut; whereas—”

“Ah?” said Alice, bridling up.

“Whereas a chirpier lover than—”

“Chirpy! oh!”

“Why, Jack-Whack, if she did not love me the very first time she ever
saw me,—_love_?—if she did not dote upon—”

“Dote indeed! Very well! very well! He felt sure, did he? Now, Jack,
I’ll leave it to you. I’ll tell you just what he said, and let you
decide whether they were the words of a ‘chirpy’ lover. Chirpy, indeed!
Mr. Frobisher, you are too absurd! We were walking up and down the
piazza, and I had on my green and white silk dress,—plaid, you know;
and he said—the first thing he said was—I remember it as well as if it
had been yesterday—”

I drew forth my pencil. Here, after all, providentially as it were, we
were to have an authentic version of the amours of the silent man and
her of the merry-glancing hazel eyes.

“My dear,” began Charley, with nervous haste, “we are interrupting Jack;
let him go on with his reading.”

“Aha!” cried Alice, in triumph, “I thought—”

Here Alice detected Charley giving me, with his off eye, a wink so huge
that its corrugations (like waves bursting over a breakwater) scaled the
barrier of his nose and betrayed what the other side of his face was at.

Charley ducked his head just in time; and immediately thereafter began a
series of dextrous manœuvres among the chairs and other furniture in the
room, in evading Alice’s persistent efforts to smooth out some of the
wrinkles that wicked wink had wrought. At last he tumbled into his seat
rather blown, and with one cheek redder than the other.

Amid such scenes as this has this tale been tacked together. Can the
reader wonder at its harum-scarum way of getting itself told? Am I not
driving a team of mustangs?

“They are all alike,” puffed Charley; “they love us to distraction, but
we must not know it. Go on, my boy.”

I read on amid much hilarity; and it was such reception of this solitary
effort of my individual muse that induced me to retain it in the body of
the work. At last we came to the passage where occurred the coincidence
to which I have alluded.

In my fabulous and starry account of the billing and cooing on the
piazza, I make Charley ask, _May my heart beat in the frolic rhythm of
the scherzo?_ This—for why should I hide my harmless self-content from
my friend, the reader?—this I don’t deny that I thought a very neat and
unhackneyed way of asking a girl whether she gave you leave to consider
yourself a happy dog. It was my little climax, and—I confess it—my
heart fluttered a little as I drew near the passage, in anticipation of
the plaudits I trusted to receive.

No clapping of hands. A dead silence, rather; and looking up, I saw my
friends staring at one another.

“What’s the matter?” asked I, a little sheepishly. “I rather thought,” I
stammered, “that—that that was—not so bad?”

“Mr. Frobisher, I am astonished at you!” [At that period it was not
usual for Virginia wives to call their husbands by their Christian
names.]

“Indeed, my dear—”

“You need not say one word! I should not have thought it of you, that’s
all!”

“But, Alice—”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked I, bewildered.

“Oh, nothing!” said Alice, with a toss of her head. “Jack-Whack, I’ll
tell you; she thinks I have been blabbing to you.”

“Thinks!”

“But I have not!”

“Do you mean to tell me that Jack, without a hint from you—actually—”
she hesitated.

“‘Frolic rhythm of the scherzo!’” I shouted, in joyous derision; “and
you positively used that phrase, you sentimental old fraud!”

Charley turned very red,—redder still, when Alice, relieved of the
suspicion that he had been revealing their little love-mysteries,
laughed merrily at his discomfiture.

“It was not quite so b-b-b-b-ad as that. I admit the ‘scherzo’ part;
b-b-b-ut ‘frolic rhythm’! I was not so many kinds of an idiot as that
amounts to.”

And so—I swear it by the shades of Epaminondas—I had actually hit upon
the very word,—and truth is again stranger than fiction.


                            CHAPTER XLVIII.

Time was pressing. In another week these long-continued and
long-to-be-remembered Christmas festivities would come to an end.
Yesterday, Alice had failed to extract any information from Charley.
To-day, she would make another effort.

Opportunities were not lacking,—abundant opportunities. Somehow,
everything had changed. Yesterday, wherever Alice was, there was a
cluster of merry faces. To-day, her mere appearance upon the piazza
seemed to dissipate the groups that chanced to be sitting there. One by
one, on one pretext or another, the young people would steal away; and
it was astounding how often Charley constituted the sole social
residuum. Charley thought it famous luck; but Alice detected distinct
traces of design in this sudden avoidance of her society. “They seem to
be engaged,”—she knew that innocent phrase of Uncle Tom’s was passing
from mouth to mouth, and it annoyed her; for, at the period in question,
it was fashionable for our Virginia girls to be ashamed of being
engaged; and so deep-rooted was this feeling, that whereas we are
assured by Cornelius Nepos that Epaminondas was such a lover of truth
that he would not lie even in jest—but enough of the virtuous Theban—

Alice, then, being superior neither to her sex nor to her age, as I am
glad to say, was half vexed at being so constantly left alone with
Charley,—yet half willing to be so vexed. There was an innuendo, it is
true, in the very absence of her companions; but then the soft rubbish
that Charley was pouring into her pink ear!

Of all passions, love is the most selfish; not excepting hunger and
thirst. Yesterday, Alice had been eager to speak with Charley, alone, in
the interests of her friend Mary. To-day she has already had three talks
with him; and although he had given her nothing more to do than to
listen to the conjugation of one little verb, she had not thought of
Mary once. Left together for the fourth time, they were sitting on the
piazza; and Charley, having already exhausted and re-exhausted the other
tenses, was about to tackle the pluperfect,—that is to say, having
persuaded himself that it was true, he was beginning to explain to Alice
how it was that, before he had ever seen her, and merely from what he
had heard of her, etc., etc., etc. [Fib! _Alice F._] Just at this
juncture, Mary brushed past them. Charley raising his eyes and seeing in
Mary’s a casual, kindly smile, returned it with interest,—the happy
dog! Alice raised hers, and seeing the casual, kindly smile,—and
more,—looked grave.

“What is the matter?” asked Charley.

Compared with your infatuated lover, your hawk is the merest bat.

Alice rose. “I want to have a talk with you. Let us walk down to ‘the
Fateful.’”

“The Fateful”—“Fateful Argo,” to give the name in full—had been
christened by Billy. It was neither more nor less than a large and
strongly-built row-boat, which had been hauled up on the shore; and
being old and leaky, had been abandoned there. It had become imbedded in
the sand, and being protected from the wind by a dense clump of
low-growing bushes, was a very pleasant resting-place for the romantic,
in sunny winter weather. It has been sung that Venus sprang from the
waves. The truth of the legend I can neither deny nor affirm; but it is
certain that their gentle splashing had a strange intoxication for many
a couple that ventured to take their seats in this “Fateful Argo.”

Alice took her seat in the stern, and Charley (although there were
several other seats in good repair) sat beside her.

I think it will be allowed me that no book was ever freer than this from
satirical reflections upon women (or, in fact, freer from reflections of
every sort upon any and all subjects); but I am constrained to observe,
just here, that it seems to me that they have, at times, a rather
inconsequential way of talking. That is, you cannot always tell, from
what they have just said, what is coming next.

“I have asked you,” began Alice, “to come with me to this retired spot
that I may have a talk with you. I have a favor to—Mr. Frobisher, you
must be beside yourself! And the piazza full of people!” [Shades of
Epaminondas! _A. Frobisher._]

That’s what I complain of. When they begin a sentence, you never know
how it is going to end.

“On the contrary,—thank heaven!—I am beside you.”

“But you won’t be beside me long, if you don’t behave yourself.
Don’t,—oh, _don’t_! Are you _crazy_?”

“Perfectly,—and glad of it,” replied Charley, with brazen resignation.

“Well, then.” And with a supple grace disengaging herself from his
proximity, so to speak, she whisked away to the seat in front.

That’s the reason I always did love women. Their memories are so short.
No matter how angry they may be, if you will watch them while they are
scolding you, you will see that they are forgiving you as fast as they
can.

“You are perfectly outrageous!” said Alice; at the same time readjusting
her collar,—and with both hands,—just to show how dreadfully provoked
she was.

“Outrageous? Presently you will be calling me Argo-naughty,” said
Charley. [This is too bad! I never made one in my life. _Chs. F._]

Alice had purposed looking indignant for two or three consecutive
seconds, but surprised by this totally unexpected sally, she burst out
laughing. She had opened her batteries on the enemy, but, by ceasing to
fire, she had revealed the exhaustion of her ammunition; and he, so far
from being stampeded, showed symptoms of an advance. As a prudent
captain, all that was left her was to retire. She took the seat next the
prow. The enemy seized the vacated position.

“That seat is very rickety.”

“So I perceive,” remarked the enemy, rising and advancing.

“Oh, but there is not room on this for two. Go back to the stern.” And
she threw out skirmishers.

The now exultant foe grasped one of the skirmishers in both his: “You
will forgive me?”

“Oh, I suppose so, if you will go back to your seat, and behave
yourself. Let go my hand.”

“You have promised it to me.”

“Yes, but indeed, Mr. Frobisher, the girls on the piazza—”

“The piazza is nearly a hundred yards away, bless its heart!”

“Indeed, indeed—_there_ now!” she suddenly added, with a stamp of her
foot, “I told you so!”

When? When did she tell him so? That’s another reason I could never make
a woman out.

It was then that Charley heard the sound of heavy footsteps crunching
through the sand, and, turning his head, saw through the twilight an
approaching figure almost at his elbow.

Alice, like most, though not all of her sex, was, as I have mentioned
before, a woman. Raising her placid face and serene eyes, she pointed
out to her companion, with the tip of her parasol, a gull that hurried
above them in zigzag, onward flight. “Yes,” continued she,—or seemed to
continue,—“she seems to be belated. I wonder where she will roost
to-night? On some distant island, I suppose.”

“Sam, is that you? Sam is one of my men,—one of the best on my farm.
Sam, this is Miss Alice—Miss Alice Carter.”

“Sarvant, mistiss,” said Samuel, hastily removing his hat and bowing,
not without a certain rugged grace; while at the same time, by a
backward obeisance of his vast foot, he sent rolling riverward a peck of
shining sand.

“Well, Sam, any news from the farm?”

“Lor’, mahrster, d’yar never is no news over d’yar! I most inginerally
comes over to Elminton when a-sarchin’ for de news.”

“And you want to make me believe that you walk over here every night for
the news, do you? Sam is courting one of Uncle Tom’s women,” added
Charley, addressing Alice. “I am in daily expectation of having him ask
my consent to his nuptials.”

Sam threw back his head and gave one of those serene, melodious laughs
(as though a French horn chuckled), the like of which, as I have said
before, will probably never again be heard on this earth. “Lor’ bless
me, young mistiss, what’s gone and put dat notion ’bout my courtin’ in
Marse Charley head? I always tells ’em as how a nigger k’yahnt do no
better’n walk in de steps o’ de mahrster, and Marse Charley and me is
nigh onto one age; and Marse Charley ain’t married, leastwise not yet.”

“You mean to say,” said Alice, “that when Mr. Frobisher marries it will
be time enough for you to think of taking a wife?”

“Adzackly, young mistiss, adzackly, dat’s it. But Lor’ me, I dunno,
neither. I ain’t so sartin ’bout dat. Sam don’t want to be hurried up.
He want to take he time a-choosin’. A man got to watch hisself dese
times. D’yar ain’t no sich gals as d’yar used to be. De fact is, ole
Fidjinny has been picked over pretty close, and Sam ain’t after de
rubbage dat de others done leff.”

“I am afraid you are rather hard to please, Sam?”

“Yes, mistiss, Sam _is_ hard to please.” [Three weeks from this date Sam
led to the altar a widow with one eye and eleven children,—making an
even dozen,—who was lame of the left leg, black as the ace of spades,
and old enough to be his mother.] “I won’t ’spute dat. Ain’t I
patternin’ after Marse Charley? Slow and sho’ is de game Marse Charley
play, and Sam’s a-treadin’ in he tracks. Lor’, mistiss, you wouldn’t
believe how many beautiful young ladies has been a-fishin’ for him; but
pshaw! dey mought as well ’a’ tried to land a porpoise wid a pin-hook!”

Encouraged by the smiles evoked by this bold comparison, Sam bloomed
into metaphor:

“But he was not to be cotched, not he! Leastwise not by dem baits.
‘Never mind, Marse Charley,’ says I to myself, ‘never you mind. You
g’long! Jess g’long a-splashin’ and a-cavortin’ and a-sniffin’!’ ’Fore
Gaud dem’s my very words, ‘but d’yar’s a hook somewhar as will bring you
to sho’ yet,’ says I; ‘and dat hook is baited wid de loveliest little
minner,’—umgh-u-m-g-h! Heish! Don’t talk!”

Charley could scarcely suppress his delight. “And how soon,” said he,
carelessly dropping his hand into his pocket,—“how soon am I to be
landed?”

“How soon?” repeated Sam, leaning upon his heavy staff and reflecting
with a diplomatic air. “How soon? Lor, mahrster, what for you ax a
nigger dat question? How is a nigger to know? But I do believe,” said
he, turning his back upon the river, and at the same time landing his
metaphor, “dat you have done jumped over into de clover-field already,
and you ain’t gwine to jump back no mo’.” (Here Charley withdrew his
hand from his pocket and threw his arm casually behind him, across the
gunwale of the Argo.) “Leastwise,” he added with a
perceptible-imperceptible glance at Alice,—“leastwise I don’t see how
you could have de heart to do it.”

Here Charley gave a slight movement of his wrist, invisible to Alice;
and Sam, with a few sidelong, careless steps, placed himself behind his
master. He stooped and rose again, and Alice saw in his hand three or
four oyster shells. These he dropped from time to time, pouring forth,
meanwhile, a wealth of tropes and figures drawn from both land and sea;
but the last shell seemed to fall into his pocket.

An Anglo-Saxon, if he have a well-born father, a careful mother, and
half a dozen anxious maiden aunts, you shall sometimes see hammered into
the similitude of a gentleman; but in your old Virginia negro
good-breeding would seem to have been innate.

“Some says dat d’yar is as good fish in de sea as ever was cotched out
of it; but I tells ’em, when you done pulled in one to suit you, you
better row for de sho’ less a squall come and upsot de boat. Well,
good-evenin’, Miss Alice, and good-evenin’, Marse Charley!” And with
polite left foot and courteous right the black ploughman sent rolling
the shining sand.

“There, now,” said Alice, “you see! What did I tell you?”

“Oh,” replied Charley, “Sam will keep dark!”

Yes, those were his very words! And Alice acknowledges that he made the
one recorded above (though I see he has denied it). Such is ever the
ruin wrought by love, even in the mind of a philosopher.

“By the way,” said Alice, as she stood with her feet upon the gunwale of
the Argo, ready to spring, “in the rather mixed metaphors of honest Sam,
which of us was the fish and which the hook? ‘Porpoise,’” quoted she,
laughing, “I trust I don’t remind you of one?”

Charley, who stood in the sand, held one of Alice’s hands in each of his
with a degree of pressure entirely incommensurate with the necessities
of equilibrium: “✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻” sang he, with a rapt and fatuous smile. “✻ ✻
✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ Absence of wings ✻ ✻ ✻ vision ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ eyes beheld.” For, upon
my word, the reader must not expect me to transcribe more than a word,
here and there, of such jargon.

Yet, though my tongue be harsh, I do not in my heart blame Charley; for
Alice, at all times a pretty girl, was, just at this moment, as she
stood above him with the dark sky for a background, radiantly beautiful
in his eyes. And more,—

She looked beautiful on purpose.

I repeat it,—she did it on purpose.

And here, though it is abhorrent to all my art-instincts to break the
current of my story with anything like a thought, original or
selected,—though I have promised the reader to place before him a
succession of pictures merely, without even adding, _This is Daniel_,
and, _These are the Lions!_—I feel that I have used an expression
requiring an explanation. That explanation I cannot give save through
the medium of what—disguise it how I will—wears the semblance of a
thought.

Buckle, in his “History of Civilization in England,” lays it down that
no man can write history without a knowledge of the physical sciences.
Now it is equally true that no one can discuss human nature
scientifically without an acquaintance with zoology. It is Darwin and
the naturalists who have opened up this new field of inquiry; and
Comparative Zoological Nature has now become as needful a study to the
playwright and novelist as Comparative Anatomy is to the physiologist.
For my own part, whenever I would know whether a certain proposition be
true of man, I first inquire if it holds good as to the lower
animals,—to speak as a man; and in the course of my desultory
investigations on this line I have stumbled upon sundry valuable truths.

Among the convictions which I have reached in this way is the one which
led me to say just now that our pretty little Alice, perched upon the
gunwale of the Argo, bethought her of making poor Charley crazy with
love, by simply looking very, very beautiful; and did so look
accordingly, then and there. Of the mere fact there can be no doubt,
since I have Charley’s word for that. [Fact. _C. F._] [Goose! _A. F._]
[Who? _J. B. W._] But a scientific explanation of the phenomenon can be
given only by a student of Comparative Zoological Nature.

The way in which I hit upon the truth in question was as follows. A
vexatious incident in my own private history had occurred just at the
time when I had set myself the task of weaving this Monograph, and I was
ruefully ruminating upon woman and her ways, and bringing up in my mind,
and contrasting with her (in my Comparative Zoological fashion) all
manner of birds and fishes and what not, when all of a sudden there
popped into my head eels, and how marvellously slippery they were.

But, thought I, if you can but get your finger and thumb into their
gills, you’ve got ’em; and if eels—

But straightway I lost heart; for I remembered, from my Darwin, that of
gills—or _branchiæ_, as he will persist in calling them—no traces have
for ages been discovered in the _genus_ _homo_,—at least in the adult
stage. Far from it; for the Egyptian mummies, even in their day, for
example, got on perfectly without them.

The case was hopeless, therefore; but still I went on ruminating about
women and eels and eels and women, in the most aimless and unprofitable
fashion, till, wandering off from the eel of commerce and the pie, I
chanced to think of the electric variety of that fish. Here faint
streaks of dawn began to make themselves felt; and so, making a rapid
excursion through the animal kingdom, and recalling the numberless
appliances for offence, defence, and attraction to be observed therein,
I returned flushed with victory. I had made a discovery. It is this.
Just as the eel in question (the _Gymnotus electricus_) has a reservoir
of electricity, to be used when needed, so woman, I find, carries about
her person more or less bottled beauty, which she has the singular power
of raying forth at will.

More or less; in too many cases, less; but evolution, through selection,
may ultimately mend that.

How, or by what mechanism they contrive to do this, is more than I can
tell. We know, it is true, that the _Anolis principalis_ (the so-called
chameleon of the Gulf States) can change at will from dingy brown to a
lovely pea-green, by reversing certain minute scales along its back; but
to jump from this fact to the conclusion that the woman you saw at
breakfast old and yellow, but youthful and rosy at the ball, indued all
this glory by simply reversing her scales, is, in the present state of
our knowledge, premature. Besides, we have just seen that the gills of
the prehistoric sister have long since disappeared; so that the woman of
the period may, upon investigation, turn out not to have any scales,
minute or other, to reverse; so unsafe are analogies in matters of
science.

But the fact remains (no other hypothesis covering all the observed
phenomena) that women carry about their persons bottled beauty.

As to the thing itself, female beauty, I do not pretend to know any more
about it than other people. That it is in its nature a poison has been
notorious for thousands of years, attacking the male brain with
incredible virulence. This pathological condition of that organ has been
spoken of for ages as Love, as everybody knows. But what everybody does
not know, is that woman possesses the power of _concentrating_ this
toxic exhalation upon a doomed male,—dazzling him with what I may
provisionally term beauty’s bull’s-eye lamp. Love is _not_ blind. Just
the reverse. The lovelorn see what is invisible to others, that is all;
the focussed rays of the most magical of all magic lanterns.

Before I made this discovery, I was continually wondering how most of
the women I knew had managed to get married; but it is a great comfort
to me now to know that they are all beautiful (in the eyes of their
husbands).

Setting in motion, then, this subtle mechanism, which all women possess
(though in some it don’t seem to work), Alice showered down upon
Charley, from hazel eyes and sunny hair, from well-turned throat and
dimpled hand, from undulating virgin form and momentary
ankle-flash,—showered down upon him as she stood there graceful as a
gazelle ready to spring, a sparkling wealth of youth and beauty.

No matter what Charley said.

“I am glad you think so,” said she, fluttering down from her perch.

The shining sand was deep; and that’s the reason they walked so slowly;
and that’s the reason Alice clung so closely to his arm; and that’s the
reason Charley thought he was walking on rosy morning clouds.

“Oh!” cried Alice,—and Charley’s face was corrugated with sudden care:
had some envious shell dared bruise her alabaster toe?

“Did you hurt your foot, — — —est?”

“Oh, no; I just remembered that I had forgotten the very thing that I
came to the Argo to talk over with you.”

“What was that?”

Alice looked perplexed.

“Tell me, — —ing; what is it?”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“At the b-b-b-beginning, of course.”

“With some people I should; but do you know that you are a very queer
creature?”

“Your fault; I was just like other people till I met you,—a little
cracked ever since.”

“Oh, I like you that way.” And she gave his arm a little involuntary
squeeze. [Nothing of the kind. _Al._]

“How am I queer, then?”

“Well, you never tell people anything.”

“I have told you a good many things within the last day or two.”

“Only one thing, but that a good many times. But I am not a bit tired of
hearing it.”

Here Charley gave her hand a voluntary little squeeze against his heart.
[Inadequate statement of an actual occurrence. _C. F._]

“The fact is, I want to ask you a question, and am actually afraid you
won’t answer it. There, I knew you would not! A cloud passed over your
face at the very word question. You are so strange about some things!”

“Let’s hear the question; what is it about?”

“About the Don. There! Why, you are positively frowning!”

“Frowning!”

“Yes; your face hardened as soon as I uttered the word Don.”

“The Don! What am I supposed to know about him? Have not you known him
as long as I, and longer?”

“Oh, I am not going to ask you who he is, or anything of that kind. I
presume he alone knows that.” (Charley’s face grew serene.) “It is
something entirely different. Is the Don—I know you will think it idle
curiosity, but, indeed, indeed, it is not—is the Don—in love?”

“Is the Don in love?” cried Charley, with a sudden peal of laughter. “Is
the Don in love? And that is the weighty question that you have made
such a pother about! Is the Don in love!”

“That sounds more like my question than an answer to it.”

“Now, seriously, my —ous —ing, you did not expect me to answer such a
question as that?”

“No, I _didn’t_!” (A little snappishly.) “Any other man—under the
circumstances—”

“Yes, I believe I am very different from other men, and it is well; for
if every man were of my way of thinking, every girl in the world, save
one, would be deserted; and soon there would be but one man left on
earth,—such a Kilkenny fight would rage around that one girl!”

“I knew you would not answer my question.” (_Not_ snappishly.)

“How am I to know anything about it?”

“You and he are inseparable—”

“And hence he has made a confidant of me, and I am to betray him? No, he
has never alluded to any such matter. Upon my word, I know nothing
whatever upon the subject.”

“Indeed? You are a droll couple, to be sure,” and she looked up,
admiringly, at one-half of the couple, “talking together for hours, and
never telling one another anything! Well, then, I shall answer the
question myself: The Don is in love: there!”

“What extraordinary creatures women are, to be sure! You ask a question,
are vexed at getting no answer, and then answer it yourself! The Don is
in love, then; but with whom?”

“That I don’t know; I only suspect. Oh, yes, I more than suspect; in
fact, I _know_, but some of the girls don’t agree with me, and I want to
know which side you are on.”

“On yours, of course—”

“No joking; I am in earnest. The question between us girls is this: it
is plain to us all that he is in love—”

“Then, why on earth—”

“Don’t you know that when you wish to find out about one thing the best
way is to ask about another?”

“That aphorism, I must confess, is entirely new to me.”

“Well, it is a household word with women. _Of course_ he is in love;
we—all of us girls, I mean—know _that_. But with whom? That is the
question which divides us.”

“And you wish to put that conundrum to me? Indeed, I know nothing about
it.”

“Nor suspect?”

Charley hesitated.

“Honor bright? Oh, don’t be so hateful!”

Charley smiled; Alice saw he was weakening.

“Oh, _do_ tell me, which of the two?”

“Which of the _two_?” repeated Charley, looking puzzled. “Surely, you
cannot be in earnest; for of all the men I know, Dory—the D-D-D-Don”
[What, Charley, stammering on a mere lingu palatal!] “is the least
likely to have two loves.”

“Dody, Dody! Why do you call him Dody?”

“I called him the Don,” said Charley, doggedly.

“And Dody, too! Why Dody? What a droll nickname!” And she laughed.

“You are mistaken; I did not call him Dody.”

“You didn’t?”

“No; but my tongue,” said Charley, coloring, “is like a
mustang,—buck-jumps occasionally, and unseats its rider—_her_ rider.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Alice, with tender earnestness, and gave
his arm—this time consciously—an affectionate, apologetic squeeze. [I
don’t deny it! _Al Frob._]

“So the Don is not only a lover, but a double-barrelled one?”

“No, we don’t think that,” said Alice, laughing; “but there is a dispute
among us which of two birds he wishes to bring down.”

“Which of two birds? Really, you puzzle me,” said Charley, reflecting.
“I could guess the name of one, perhaps; but the other—I am completely
at sea.” And he looked up in inquiry.

“Is it possible! How blind, blind, blind you men are! And yet they tell
me that nothing ever escapes your lynx eyes! Why, Lucy and Mary, of
course.”

“Lucy and Mary!” cried Charley, and, throwing back his head, he exploded
with a shout of single-barrelled amazement.

“Wit and humor!” “Repeat, repeat, Alice!” cried voices from the piazza.

The strollers looked up in surprise at finding themselves so near the
porch, while the occupants of this favorite lounging-place were in no
less wonder at hearing Frobisher giving forth so unusual a sound. Alice
swept the faces of her friends with a bright smile of greeting, but
there was a certain preoccupation in her look. Charley’s laugh had
startled her. “Unconscious wit, then;” and turning, she looked up into
her companion’s face with a puzzled air.

It would seem that that sudden and unusual draft upon Charley’s
cachinnatory apparatus had exhausted that mechanism, for he was not even
smiling now, but in what is called a brown study. He slowly turned on
his heel as though to return to the Argo, or, rather, as if he had no
intentions of any kind, his movements being directed by what Dr.
Carpenter calls unconscious cerebration. Alice, holding her companion’s
arm, turned upon him as a pivot (though with conscious cerebration, for
she could almost feel upon the back of her head the smiles raying forth
from the porch).

“Mary and Lucy, did you say?” inquired he, turning quickly upon her as
though it had suddenly flashed upon him that he had not, perhaps, heard
aright.

“Yes, Mr. Frobisher. What on earth is the matter?”

“What’s the matter? Why, nothing, of course. You simply amused me, that
is all.” And smiling stiffly, he threw up his head with a sort of shake
and made as though he would join the party on the porch.

This time Alice did not rotate on the pivot, but, standing firm, became
the centre of revolution herself, and brought Charley to a “front face”
again, by a sturdy pull upon his arm, and began to move slowly forward,
as though to return to the Argo. “What is it?” asked she, looking up
into his face with eager interest. “_Do_ tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you act so strangely? Which of the two, then?”

These words threw Charley into his brown study again. Looking far away,
with drawn lids, he was silent for some time. “Alice,” said he, turning
slowly and looking into her eyes, “I am going to surprise you.”

“_Neither_ Mary nor Lucy, you are going to say!” And her snowy bosom
beat with thick-thronging breaths. “O-o-oh, I know,” cried she, with a
look of pain. “_He is married already!_”

Yet why with a look of pain? Ought she not rather on her friend’s
account to have rejoiced? But here was a hero evaporated; and in this
humdrum treadmill of our life there is _so_ little of romance! And do we
not all of us, men and children alike, strain our eyes against the
darkened sky, regretful that the flashing but all too evanescent meteor
has passed away into the abyss of night?

Charley smiled. “How fearfully and wonderfully is woman made! You first
ask me for information which I do not possess, but which it appears you
do, then answer your own question; then when I am about to say
something, you tell me what I am about to say; and then—with a little
shriek—discover the mare’s nest I am about to reveal! No, I was not
going to say ‘neither Lucy nor Mary,’ nor yet that the Don was married.
I was about to make a proposition to you. Are you really _very_ anxious
to have it decided whether it is Mary or Lucy?”

“Very.”

“Then I know but one way: ask the Don himself.”

“The idea!” cried Alice, with a cheery laugh. “What!” added she, looking
up into his face with great surprise, “surely you are not in earnest!”

“I am.”

“Mr. Frobisher!”

“I am. I said I was going to surprise you.”

Alice wheeled in front of him, and they stood looking into each other’s
eyes. “Upon—my—word,” said she, slowly, “I believe you really mean
it!”

“I do.”

“Mr. Frobisher! Then, if it be so important to you to know, why don’t
you ask him yourself?”

“It is of no earthly importance to me to know; it is of importance
to—to—to—him to be asked?”

“You awful sphinx! You will kill me with curiosity! But why not ask him
yourself? Why put it on me?”

“Because,” said Charley, smiling,—“simply because it is your question;
you want the answer to the riddle, not I!”

“That’s just the way with you men,” said Alice, smiling; “you affect to
be lofty beings, superior to the foible, curiosity. And so you would
make a cat’s paw of me?”

“Well, yes; for it is you who want the chestnuts.”

“And my fingers, therefore, are to be burnt; for this same Mr. Don is an
awful somebody to approach.”

“To others, perhaps, but not to you; nor to me, either, perhaps; but the
chestnuts are for you. Besides, as Dido said to her sister Anna, you
know the approaches of the man and the happy moment. How often have I
seen every one quaking with awe when you are attacking him with your
saucy drolleries, and how charmed he always is, and how he laughs!”

“And poor dear mamma,” said Alice, with a tender smile, “how she shakes
and weeps and weeps and shakes! Do you know, Mr. Frobisher, though I say
it ‘as shouldn’t,’ I am not, by half, so giddy and brainless as I seem?
Do you know why I cut up so many didoes? (By the way, I wonder whether
that rather colloquial phrase has any reference to Æneas’s girl?) But it
is the truth, that half the time that I am cutting my nonsensical
capers, it is just to make mamma laugh. Ah, Mr. Frobisher, you have
hardly known what a mother can be, and you will have to love mine! You
won’t be able to help it.” And the cutter of capers and of didoes passed
her hand across her eyes. “Look,” said she after a pause, “there she
sits now, and beside the Don, too. Don’t she look serene? See how she is
smiling at me over the banister!” And throwing herself into an attitude,
she blew kiss after kiss to Her Serenity, in rapid succession, from
alternate hands. “There! she is off. As her eyes are shut tight, she
will not be able to see me for half a minute, and I will take the
opportunity of telling you, for your comfort, that she does not think
there is a man living half good enough for me. How do you feel?”

“I feel that she is right.”

“And I feel that she is twice wrong. First, because she does not know
me, and secondly, because she does not know—_somebody_!” And skipping
up the steps, she ran to her mother and bounced into her lap: “Are you
glad to see me? Did you think I was never coming back?”

“A bad penny is sure—”

“Who’s a bad penny?” And taking the plump cheeks between her palms, she
squeezed the serene features into all manner of grotesque and
rapidly-changing shapes. “Who’s a bad penny? Isn’t she a beauty?” said
she, twisting the now unresisting head so as to give the Don a full view
of the streaming eyes and ludicrously projecting lips. “Behold those
æsthetic lines! Ladies and gentlemen,” said she, turning, with a quick
movement, her mother’s face in the opposite direction, “I call your
attention to the Cupid’s bow so plainly discernible in the curves of
that upper lip. Can you wonder that papa is a slave? By the way,”
continued she in the same breath, and taking no heed of the general
hilarity that she had aroused,—“by the way, Mr. Don, are _you_ glad to
see me?” But without waiting for him to find words to reply, a quizzical
look came into her face as she observed that with the beat of her
mother’s laughter her own person was gently bobbing up and down, as
though she rode a pacing horse: “Snow-bird on de ash-bank, snow-bird on
de ash-bank, snow-bird on de ash-bank,” she began, in a sort of Runic
rhythm, or shall we say in jig measure? “snow-bird on de ash-bank;” and
from her curving wrists, drawn close together in front of her bosom, her
limp hands swung and tossed, keeping time, jingling like muffled bells.
The pacing horse now broke into a canter, and the canter became a
gallop: “Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, ride a cock-horse to
Banbury Cross! This steed is about to run away; discretion is the better
part.” And springing from her mother’s lap, she stood before the Don.

“Have you prepared your answer yet? Are _you_ glad to see me once more?”

The Don put his hand upon his heart. Alice extended hers. The Don took
it.

“You have not answered my question.”

“Words cannot ex—”

“Words? Who is talking about words?” And she extended her hand again.
“Press that lily fair,—just one little squeeze. She—the rotund
smiler—won’t be able to see for half a minute yet. Quick! She is wiping
her eyes! Ah! ah! ah! Really and truly? Enough! Desist! We are
observed!”

“She is the girl to tackle him!” thought Charley, wiping _his_ eyes.


                             CHAPTER XLIX.

Charley was right. She was the girl to tackle him, if he was to be
tackled at all; but Charley knew that better than the reader, who has
had merely a glimpse or so of the irrepressible Alice in her relations
with the subject of this Monograph. For Charley had, as mentioned in the
last chapter, witnessed innumerable scenes between the two, which had
caused him to wipe his eyes and look as though something hurt him; that
being his way of laughing before he was married. This being a Monograph,
however, I have not felt at liberty to place those scenes before the
reader; for a Monograph is, if I understand the term, a paper rigidly
confined to one subject; alien topics being admitted only as
illustrations throwing light on the main theme. So that the monotony of
this narrative, which a hasty reader might attribute to poverty of
invention, is in fact due to my rigidly artistic adherence to the
Unities. A Monograph I promised, and a Monograph this shall be.

And the theme is _not_ Love.

“Then why did you not say so at first?” I hear you ask, my Ah Yung
Whack,—hear you say this in plain English, for in your day all other
languages will be as dead as that of Cicero.

I cannot blame you for asking the question, though the answer is ready.

Because I should else have found no readers among my contemporaries. The
readers—that is, the people of leisure—of my day are mostly women and
preachers (the third sex usually having all they can do to take care of
the other two), and neither will bite freely at any bait save Love. They
will nibble at the hook, but a game rush—bait, hook, and all, at a
gulp—that is elicited only by a novel. Love is the bait now. Three
hundred years ago it was Hate, the ODIUM THEOLOGICUM. Three hundred
years hence it will be—but I cannot guess what, and you will _know_, my
almond-eyed boy,—almond-eyed and yellow of skin, though swearing by
Shakespeare, and perhaps by Magna Charta and Habeas Corpus.

If, indeed, in your day—but enough! and so fare thee well, Confucian of
far Cathay!

The piazza after breakfast, next morning. A bright, sunny day in the
beginning of February, with a voluptuousness in the air hinting at the
approach of spring. “How beautiful and sparkling the river looks!” said
one of the girls. “And just to think,” she added, with a little stamp of
her little foot, “we must bid farewell to it so soon!”

“That reminds me,” said Alice, rising briskly from the rocking-chair, in
which she reclined, drinking in the balmy air and bright talk in
half-dozing silence. But the silence and half-closed eyes were those of
pussy awaiting the appearance of Mistress Mouse.

“That reminds me.” And giving a quick glance at Charley, as she passed
him, she marched with a rapid, business-like tread, straight up to the
Don. Charley prepared to weep. I must mention, in passing, that his way
of weeping over Alice differed from her mother’s in this, that when the
tears stood in his eyes, those windows of the soul were wide open,
thereby revealing the fact that his ribs ached; whereas Mrs. Carter’s
being shut tight, it was left entirely to conjecture whether she wept
from pain or pleasure.

Alice planted her little self square in front of the towering figure of
the Don, and looked him in the eyes as though expecting him to begin the
conversation.

“What now, sauce-box?” asked Mrs. Carter, quickly, as though she felt
that if she delayed a moment longer she would become, as usual,
speechless; and a premonitory shake or two passing through her jolly
figure showed that her prudence was not ill-judged. “What are you up to
now?”

“Well?” said Alice, with her eyes fixed on those of the Don.

Charley dried his with his handkerchief, for he wanted to see
everything. The Don (I regret to have to use the expression) was in a
broad grin. As to Mrs. Carter, the faintest thread of hazel was still
visible between the lids of her fast-closing orbs of light. Alice turned
pettishly on her heel, and with her eyes retorted over her shoulder,
twirled her thumbs.

It was evident that there was something amiss about Charley’s ribs. Not
so with Mrs. Carter; for to any one surveying her person, ribs remained
the merest hypothesis, based upon the analogy of other vertebrates; but
the upper part of her spinal column gave way; that is, she lost control
of her neck, and her head rested helplessly against the back of her
chair.

“Well?”

“What an ornament is lost to the stage!” laughed the Don.

“The stage! Are we not enacting a real life-drama? and” (looking down)
“to me a very serious one? And I have been looking for the _denouement_
so long—_so_ long!”

“That only comes at the end of the play!”

“And did you not hear what Jennie said just now? Another short week only
is left! The end of the play has come. There is but time to come before
the footlights and say our last say!” She paused. “Hast thou naught to
say to me?” resumed she, with averted eyes, and in a stage-whisper.

“Naught to say to thee?” replied he, falling into her vein. “Can’st
believe thy slave so flinty-hearted?”

“Forbid the thought!” cried she, in melodramatic tone and gesture. “No;
long have I felt that thou had’st some sweet whisper for me o’er-hungry
ear, but thy bashful reticence—I deny it not—did breed in me girlish
heart a most rantankerous doubt. Speak! Remove this doubt rantankerous!
But st! One approaches! Let’s seek some secluded nook! Beholdest yon
fateful Argo? On!” And passing her arm through his, she advanced down
the piazza with the tread and look of an operatic gipsy-queen full of
mezzo-soprano mystery, which she is to unveil before the foot-lights;
while he, to the delight and amazement of the spectators, strode forward
in the well-known wide, yet cautious tread of the approaching bandit; to
which nothing was lacking save the muffling cloak and the _pizzicato_ on
the double-basses.

Reaching the steps. “On!” cried she, flashing forth an arm. “Descend!”

“Encore! Encore!” shouted the audience, to which she deigned no reply,
and the pair stepped upon the turf.

“Have you ever heard the ‘Daughter of the Regiment’?” asked she, halting
and speaking in her natural manner. “But of course you have. Strange to
relate, I have myself heard it twice. You remember the Rataplan duet? Of
course. Well, I am what’s-her-name, and you are the old sergeant! Come!”
And with that she strutted gayly off, rattling an imaginary drum with
rare vivacity.

Again the Don was not to be outdone; rubadubbing, to the surprise of
all, in a deep sonorous voice; strutting, who but he, and every inch a
soldier.

Vociferous applause! The actors turned and bowed low.

“Unprecedented enthusiasm!” (whispered Alice) “the Gallery has tumbled
into the Pit!”

Which was true; for the audience had rushed pell-mell upon the lawn,
Mrs. Carter alone remaining upon the porch, unable, for the present, to
rise, her chubby hands darting in every direction in vain search for her
handkerchief.

For the moment the household service at Elmington was disorganized, and
grinning heads protruded from the chamber windows. Let them grin on! In
those days there was time for play, as well as for work.

“Umgh—umgh, heish!” ejaculated Uncle Dick, from his pantry window.
“Miss Alice are a oner, _I_ tell you!”

What our august butler meant by “hush!” I cannot say, as Zip had uttered
no word. Perhaps he was shutting up some imaginary person, conceived as
about to deny the proposition that Miss Alice was a “oner.”

“Hein?” (pronounce as though French), said Zip, walling up his eyes.

“Wash dem dishes, boy! Do you ’spose I was gwine for to ’dress no
remarks to de likes of you ’bout a young mistiss? Mind you business, and
stop gapin’ through de window!”

Moses made a show of obedience, rattling the plates together with
unusual vigor; but for all that he craned his neck for a view of the
lawn, keeping a weather eye out, the while, upon the ready right hand of
his chief,—a man of summary methods with his subordinates.

“Come,” said Alice, “a repeat is demanded.” And away they went,
rubadubbing back towards the piazza. “Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!”

This time (on the antistrophe) Alice outdid herself. Tossing her head
from side to side, with an inimitable mixture of reckless coquetry and
military precision; her jaunty little figure stiffened and thrown back;
tapping the ground with emphatic foot-falls, she was, in all save
costume, an ideal vivandière. She glanced at Charley as she approached
him.

“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” thundered the Don.

“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” chirped Alice.

In obedience to the glance he had received, Charley leaned forward; and
just as she passed him a saucy toss of her head brought her lips within
an inch or so of his attentive ear. “Rataplan! _I’ve a plan_, rataplan,
plan, plan, plan;” and the couple reaching the steps, the Don bowed in
acknowledgment of the joyous applause of the Pit; while Alice, her hand
resting lightly in his, after the manner of prime donne, executed a
series of the most elaborate courtesies ever witnessed on or off any
stage.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, hasten to the sideshow! Within this
tent,” said she, waving her hand towards the porch, “sits enthroned the
Fat Woman, better known as The Great American Undulator. Only
twenty-five cents, children a quarter of a dollar! A strictly moral
show, and all for the benefit of the church! Unlike the fiendish hyena,
her mocking laughter never curdles the blood of the living, while she
ravens among the bones of the dead. _Twen-ty-five cents!_ Warranted not
to laugh aloud in any climate; but has been known to smile in the face
of the fabled hyena aforesaid, well knowing that she has no bones,
herself, for his midnight mockery. _Children, a quar-ter of a dollar!_
Walk in, gentlemen, and take your sweethearts with you, and see The
Unrivalled Anatomical Paradox, or The Boneless Vertebrate; known
throughout this broad land as The Great American Undulator. A strictly
moral show, only twenty-five cents, and all for the benefit of the
church! Children—but I detain the primo basso,” said she, bowing
gravely to that gentleman, as she passed her arm within his. “We will
now hie us to the Fateful; since you insist on asking me, at that spot
only, ‘what are the wild waves saying?’ or is it some other question,
perhaps?—be still, my heart!”

The Don was never so happy as when Alice was girding at him in one of
her frolic moods, and he sallied forth in high good humor. The audience
watched from the piazza for some new mad prank on Alice’s part, but she
walked slowly forward, and even seemed to be talking about the weather.
At any rate, she raised her hand towards certain flying clouds.

“The saucy jade!” said Mrs. Carter, with ill-concealed admiration.
“Well, I suppose she is a privileged character, as the saying is.”

“I should like to know, Mrs. Carter, how we are to get on without her?”
said Mr. Whacker. “If I were thirty or forty years younger—but there is
Charley; eh, Mr. Mum?”

“If,” replied Mr. Mum, “I were such as you were thirty or forty years
ago, Uncle Tom, I don’t think she could possibly escape.”

“And what would become of me, then?” said Mrs. Carter. “How far are they
going? I believe she is actually going to take him to the Argo, as they
call it. There they go, straight on; he is helping her into the boat
now; well, upon my word! What is she up to? This bright sun will tan her
dreadfully, of course, but little she cares! She might raise her
parasol, at least, instead of poking holes in the sand, as she seems to
be doing.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Frightened? Yes, dreadfully,” said Alice, giving her collaborators an
account of the interview. “Of course I was; but I was ‘_in_termined,’ as
poor old Uncle Dick used to say, to go through with it. You see, my
liege-lord that was to be—Mr. Chatterbox, I mean,” tapping Charley with
her fan—“had, the evening before, commanded—”

“Commanded! Oh!” said Charley, darting his forefinger as an
exclamation-point into the middle of a smoke-ring.

“Yes, commanded me to do it. I see, Jack, that you have left out that
part of our talk (to make room for more of your own nonsense, I suppose)
in your account of our conversation; but just as I was about to run up
the steps, he stopped me and whispered, ‘_Mind, I wish it!_’”

“Oho!” cried Charley, brushing away with a sweep of his hand a wreath
that would not work, “that’s the way I talked then, was it?”

“Yes, that was what you said, and I—rather—liked it.”

“Hear, hear!” murmured Charley, his left eye shut, and slowly moving his
head, so as to keep the open centre of a whirling smoke-wreath between
his right eye and a certain portrait on the wall.

“You know, Jack, every real woman likes the man to be master.”

“Hear, hear!” gurgled Charley, in a rather choking voice; for by this
time, in his effort to keep his eye on a fly on the ceiling (the ring
having floated away from the picture and over his head), he had leaned
his head so far back that (to speak rather as a Bushwhacker than as an
anatomist) his Adam’s apple was impinging on his vocal cords.

Alice glanced from Charley to me, and tapped her forehead gently with
her fan, just as Charley snapped his head back from its constrained
position. “Clothed,” said she, “but not altogether in his right mind.
But we shall never get done if we go on in this way. Come! But before I
go any further, Jack, I must ask you to remember that I was not as well
acquainted with the Don at this time, as any reader would be who had
read your book up to this point. I see that you call him a ‘man of
surprises’ (a rather Frenchified phrase, by the way); but please bear in
mind that the only surprise he had ever caused me was when he bloomed
forth as a violinist. All the other surprises were devoured by this
Silent Tomb,” said she, glancing towards Charley. Him, detected in the
act of smoothing with his pipe-stem the jagged, interior edges of a blue
annulus, she brought to his senses by a sharp fan-tap on his head.

“What is to become of our Monograph if you go on in this way?”

“Monograph? I thought you were on a polygraph, or a pantograph, and was
amusing myself till you came back to the subject.”

“Very true. Well, I took my seat in the stern, and he sat opposite me,
looking much amused, and very curious to know what my whim was. I think
I was a ‘girl of surprises’ when I began. ‘Do you know, Mr. Don,’ said
I, ‘are you aware that you are a Fiend in Human Shape?’ He burst out
laughing. He obviously thought that I was unusually crazy, even for me.
‘No,’ said he, ‘I can’t say that I ever appeared to myself in that
light; but we will suppose that you are right; what then?’ And he
settled himself to be amused. I was far from amused, I assure you. I was
at my wit’s end, not knowing what to say next, so I began to make holes
in the sand (as observed by the lynx-eyed Boneless). Give a dog a bad
name and kill him; get the reputation of being a wag—should I say
waggess?—and your simplest acts amuse. As I looked down I could see,
out of the corner of my eye, his wondering smile. I felt that he mistook
my embarrassment for archness, and that my silence was, in his eyes, an
artistic rhetorical pause. By the way, to change the subject” (Charley
groaned and received a rap), “that’s where we women have the advantage
of men. You are the besieging army, we the beleaguered city. We can see
any confusion in your ranks, while a panic behind our walls is invisible
to you. If you feel confused, you imagine that you look so; and then you
_do_ look so. It is different with us. We know—”

Here Charley seized his pipe and began filling it with the most
obtrusive vigor. “Conundrum!” said he, claiming attention with uplifted
forefinger.

“Well?”

“What is the difference between a woman’s tongue and a perpetual-motion
machine? Answer: I give it up!”

As I could never learn to whirl smoke-wreaths, I twirled my thumbs
during the interruption of our session that ensued. The bashful and
evasive Charley upset every chair in the room, save mine, behind which
he was ultimately captured and punished. “Pshaw! Who minds Jack?” said
Alice, stooping to right her rocking-chair. “Ugh! How smoky your
moustache is!”

“I never heard anything like that while we were engaged.”

“And for a very good reason,” said she, with a toss of her head.

“Illustrious Bœotian!” sighed Charley.

Alice threw herself into her chair, panting and laughing. “Where was I?”

“You were without a compass, in a word-ocean without a shore.”

“On the contrary, I was on the shore, and poking holes in the sand.
‘Well,’ said the Don, ‘what should be done to a man who was so
unfortunate as to be a Fiend in Human Shape?’

“‘I should say that he needed a guardian. He lacks the warning voice of
a mother.’

“‘But we will suppose that he has no mother.’

“‘Then let him find one. How, for example,’ said I, feeling my way,
‘how do you think that I would look the character.’ And I put on a
demure expression.

“‘Admirably, admirably!’

“‘Then you adopt me as a mother?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘A mother with a warning voice?’ I added, beginning to find my
soundings.

“‘A mother with a voice soft as a zephyr!’

“‘No, with a voice of warning.’

“Up to this time he had been watching me somewhat with the expression of
a child when some one is about to touch the spring of a Jack-in-the-Box.
Up I was going to bounce, in some high antic or other. But just here his
countenance took on a look of perplexity. I suppose my voice became one
of warning. Can’t I talk seriously _sometimes_, Mr. Frobisher?”

“You? Oh, Lord!”

“Well, you needn’t be so emphatic. What will Jack think?”

“Pshaw! Who minds Jack? Ouch!”

“Well, where was I? Ah! ‘No, with a voice of warning,’ said I, looking
rather grave, I suppose. ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘with a voice of
warning.’ ‘I am your mother, then?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you are my son?’ ‘Yes,
mumma,’ said he, smiling, and holding up his knee with interlaced
fingers and looking very comfortable.

“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feeling very
_un_comfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tell you that I feel all a
mother’s affection for you. I have given you so many proofs of this ever
since I trotted you on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—that I
do not feel called upon to add any more evidence of the love I bear
you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he. You may look incredulous, but he said
it. ‘But no one is perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprised
to hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingled with many
excellencies that make her proud, some faults,—one fault at least? You
will not feel hurt? Consider your head patted.’ And I began again poking
holes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, mother dear?’ ‘You are a
handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, but how could I help that, with such a lovely
little mother?’ ‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments with
your old mother. No matter whence your good looks are derived, you are
_devastatingly_ handsome—’”

“How could you say such a thing to a man’s face, Alice?”

“To put him in good humor. You are all vain, you know.

“Upon that he threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Go on,’
said he, lolling back and nursing his knee as before. ‘No,’ said I, ‘the
fatal gift of beauty is not a crime in itself; it is the use one—’

“‘Do you know,’ said he, interrupting me and leaning forward with deep
conviction in his eyes, ‘that you are the most extraordinary girl—I
mean mother—that I ever encountered? You ought to write; it is your
positive duty. So much brightness—tit for tat, you know—ought not to
waste its sweetness, etc. Have you never thought of writing a book?’
‘Not I,—Mary Rolfe is our genius; I leave that to her.’

“His face flushed slightly, and instantly I changed my whole plan of
campaign. I had been making a reconnoissance under cover of the mother
and son fiction; but like a wide-awake general, I now, seeing the enemy
in confusion, unmasked my batteries and opened fire; that is, I dropped
my parasol and sprang towards him with an anxious look: ‘Are you ill?’ I
asked.

“His face grew crimson, for he knew what I meant. You see he had once or
twice heard me making fun of a certain threadbare trick of the
novelists. It would seem that characters in romances never have the
least idea that any one is in love with any one. One party casually
mentions to a second party the name of a third party. Instantly party
No. 2 changes color. ‘Are you ill?’ cries No. 1. ‘It is nothing,’ gasps
No. 2; ‘it will pass in a moment.’”

“Yes,” said Charley, “and how singular it is that No. 1 never for a
moment suspects the truth, but invariably goes off under the conviction
that the poor heroine has eaten something indigestible,—has a
pain—nay, even—who minds Jack?—an ache!”

“How shrewd a device!” said Alice, laughing. “The author lets the reader
know, while concealing it from the actors in the drama, that the poor
girl is desperately gone.”

“Yes,” added Charley; “the author may be said to tip the reader a wink,
‘unbeknownst’—behind No. 1’s back. Now don’t, Alice; do sit down and
let’s go on. That’s right. Why, in a novel, even a physician would ask,
‘Are you ill?’—even _he_ could not distinguish between the indications
of love and the symptoms of colic.”

“In one word,” said Alice, “those words make a book a novel,—and their
absence makes this—a sym—”

Charley here burst into a quotation, speaking fearfully through his
nose: “Of this disease the great Napoleon died. Some say that Napoleon
was a great man; some say that Washington was a great man; but _I_ say
that true greatness consists in moral grandeur. With this brief
digression, gentlemen, we will resume our subject.”

“Why, who on earth could have said that?” cried Alice; “it is immense!”

“Have you never heard Jack or myself quote it before? It was the one
solitary gem of rhetoric in the annual course of lectures delivered by
old P-P-P-P—too many confounded p-p-p-p’s! Imitate his
example,—resume!”

“Where did I leave him? Ah! ‘Are you ill?’ said I, and he blushed as red
as a rose. I waited a moment, then said, ‘You have lost the cue; repeat
after me,—“It—is—nothing!”’ ‘It is nothing,’ repeated he;
‘it—will—soon—pass! it will soon pass.’

“‘Will it?’ said I, charging bayonets. ‘That is the question, Mr. Don,’
said I, folding my arms,—these two, not the bayonets,—‘you are in
love!’ I looked him straight in the eyes, for my blood was up! My fear
was all gone!”

(“It has never come back!” said Charley.)

“‘To deny it would be useless as well as ungallant. Who would believe
me? Constantly associated for so long with a bevy of charming—’

“‘A bevy! Are you enamoured of the whole flock? Is there no bright
particular star? May I make a guess? Ah, I see I need not name her.’

“‘Miss Carter,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you seem so different from
your usual self this morning! Or are you merely laying a train for a
phenomenal display of fire-works? Are you in earnest, or are you
preparing to blow me up with an explosion of fun?’

“‘I am in earnest, and I am going to blow you up, too. Listen: but
before broaching my main topic, I must say one word on Mary Rolfe.’

“‘I had thought that she was to be the main theme of your sermon.’

“‘Of course _you_ thought so,—perfectly natural, the wish being father
to the thought.’ How that made him blush and stammer,—almost as badly
as the Silent Tomb in its courting days. Now, boys” (meaning her husband
and the subscriber), “I leave it to you: wasn’t I a regular
Macchiavelli? Didn’t I manage it neatly? You see it would not have done
to let him see that I was acting as Mary’s friend, even though without
her knowledge and consent; and she would never have forgiven me. So, at
the very outset, I planted an interrogation-point in his mind. ‘What is
she coming to?’ he kept thinking; but I was _there already_. I had made
my reconnoissance and found out where the enemy was weak; but, as you
veterans know, after a reconnoissance, the trouble is to get back to
camp without loss. This is how I managed that: ‘To begin,’ said I, ‘with
Mary Rolfe. Her you love. That’s admitted? Well, silence gives consent.
Now, whether you have told her so in words or not is more than I can
tell; for, although Mary and I are very intimate, girls do not—’”

“Oh!” grunted Charley.

“Well, in theory they do not,” replied Alice, laughing.

“‘Whether you have told her in words,’ said I—

“‘I have told her neither in words nor otherwise,’ said he.

“‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘that’s strange! strange, that you should have kept
her alone in darkness. You must be aware that you have told every one
else, as plainly as looks, at least, can speak. But I must proceed; _I
have no time to discuss that_.’ ‘One moment,—you say that my looks have
revealed my sentiments. Are you quite sure of this?’ ‘The fabled ostrich
and the sand!’ said I, laughing. ‘Confound it! Excuse me,—well, I
suppose I deceive myself, as other men do. There is our friend Charley,
for instance, the woman-hater! Now, he fondly imagines that nobody knows
that he adores somebody!’”

“Fondly! H’m! Well, go on,” said Charley.

“I colored faintly at this, for blushing is becoming to me. ‘And, yet,’
said I, ‘I venture to say that the somebody in question knew what was
taking place in his mind even before he suspected it.’ ‘Did you really?’
asked he. ‘I have no doubt _she_ did,’ said I. ‘All women are alike in
that,’ I added; ‘_but let us proceed_.’ ‘One moment,’ said he; ‘if all
women are alike in this intuitive power, then I infer that Miss Rolfe
cannot fail to have remarked that I—’ Here I gave my shoulders a
diplomatic shrug, which brought him to a dead pause. He nodded his head
gently up and down a little while, and seemed in great perplexity. ‘Miss
Carter,’ said he, suddenly looking up, ‘will you be my friend and advise
me?’ ‘I am your friend,’ said I, ‘and will do what I can in the way of
advice.’ Then he looked down for a long time, his face all corrugated
with cross-purposes. My blood began to run a little chill. Was the great
mystery about to be revealed?

“‘You say that by my bearing and looks I have, to all intents and
purposes, declared myself a lover of Miss Rolfe. Now, suppose—and I
pledge you my word that it is so—suppose all this was unintentional on
my part; suppose that I have striven not to show just what you say I
have shown,’—he paused again as before. ‘No,’ said he, resuming, in a
half-musing way, as though he thought aloud, ‘I don’t see how I can lay
the whole case before her’ (meaning me, I suppose). ‘Ah,’ said he, his
face brightening, ‘let us suppose a case. Suppose I loved you dearly,—a
_very_ supposable case, by the way,—and you did not suspect it.’ ‘_Not_
a supposable case; but go on.’ ‘Well,’ said he, smiling, ‘at that wharf,
yonder, lies a ship ready to sail. I am to go in her to seek my fortune
in the wide world, somewhere; ought I to speak, or would it not be
nobler to bid you farewell with my secret locked in my breast?’

“I saw, of course, how matters stood. The supposed case was a purely
imaginary one. His perplexity had been due to the difficulty of avoiding
all allusion to his incognito. ‘I don’t pretend to know which would be
the nobler course for _you_; but _I_ should want to know it, and hear it
from your own lips, too, were you to be off for Japan in fifteen
minutes. The sweetest music in the world to a woman’s ears is the voice
of a man telling her that he loves her; and it is music of so potent a
character, that it often melts a heart that was cold before.’

“That shot told. He threw his head back, like a horse taking the bit
between his teeth. It was plain that he had formed a resolution of some
sort. By the way, Jack, I could never understand how so transparent a
man as the Don, showing his inmost feelings with every glance of his
eye, and every movement of his features; with a face which was a
barometer of his slightest emotions, could ever have kept a secret. Here
is the S. T., on the other hand. Whisper a secret into _his_ ear, and it
is like dropping a stone into an artesian well. It is the last you ever
hear of it. There may be a subterranean splash, but you never see it.
But the Don’s face always reminded me of a lake that the merest pebble
causes to ripple from shore to shore.

“Well, the reconnoissance was a perfect success, and all that was left,
as I thought, was to retire under cover of a rattling skirmish fire.[1]
Very naturally, I did not suspect that my position was mined. But it
was; and I trod on the percussion fuse.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘I don’t suppose you would ever get tired of hearing
me talk about Mary, but you have never heard the mother’s “warning
voice” yet, and you know you came to the Fateful Argo to hear that.’

“‘That’s true! Would you mind if I lit a cigar? Thanks!’ And, opening
my parasol, he struck a light behind it, and began puffing away, with
his head thrown back, and nursing his knee, as before; the picture of
serene contentment. His face was calm as the placid little lake of which
I spoke just now, and he looked as though, the absorbing question in his
mind being set at rest, he was at my service, to be amused and
entertained.

“‘A man of your wide experience, Mr. Don,’ said I, beginning the
skirmishing, ‘must have remarked the fact that girls will talk.’

“‘True, very true!’ And with dreamy, half-smiling, uplifted eyes, he
thrust his cigar into the other corner of his mouth, as though by
anticipation he rolled under his tongue some morsel of my nonsense. ‘Go
on, laughter-compelling siren!’

“‘Again, you cannot fail to have observed that girls, being wound up to
talk, by nature, must needs talk about one another or—the rest of
mankind. As we are not philosophers, could it be otherwise?’

“‘Impossible!’ said he, rocking gently to and fro. ‘Proceed,
enchantress!’

“‘Well, you being included among the rest of mankind—’

“‘You have occasionally honored me? And what did you say about me?’

“‘With one accord, that you were in love!’

“‘You have already entrapped me into a confession on that point.
Chaunt, Circe!’

“‘But the accord ends there; we are not unanimous as to the charmer’s
name.’

“‘Not unanimous? I don’t understand.’

“‘Well, we female doctors are agreed as to the disease, but differ as
to its cause. The majority of the Faculty at Elmington assign, as the
source of your trouble, Mary’s soulful eyes; but one or two, even of us,
and most of the neighboring physicians, urge another name; while one or
two, with the frankness so common among doctors, admit that they do not
know what is the matter with you.’

“‘You surprise me! I had gathered from what you said but a moment ago,
that the symptoms in my case were so pronounced as not even to require a
formal diagnosis.’

“‘But doctors will differ, and when they do—’

“‘The patient must decide. Well, I have done so. But—to drop your
metaphor—I cannot conceive what you mean by suggesting that I have the
credit of adoring two or more young persons?’

“You may recall, Jack, that the Silent Tomb was equally perplexed on the
same point, and that when I asked him ‘Mary or Lucy?’ he amazed our
whole circle by bursting into a laugh. Then the wretch, in repeating the
names after me, so carefully abstained from placing the accent of
astonishment on either, that not even a professional piano-tuner could
have detected any difference in the sounds—oh, the artesian well! I
remembered this. The Don had expressed no surprise when I named Mary
Rolfe; probably, then, it was the mention of Lucy that had amazed the S.
T. It flashed across my female mind, in the tenth part of a second, how
singularly Mr. Frobisher had acted, after the first flush of
astonishment was over,—how he pursed up his brow, gazed far away, in
fact, mooned around in the most absurd fashion, instead of telling me
all about it at once. Would the Don, too, laugh, when I mentioned Lucy’s
name?

“‘We do you that honor, at any rate,’ said I.

“‘We? Who are we? Which of you belong to the Rolfe faction, and which
to—you have not mentioned the name of the other dear charmer?’

“‘Well, so and so are for Mary, and so and so for the other.’

“‘Her name? But one moment,—Miss Rolfe herself—you failed to place
_her_. Would it be a breach of confidence to do so?’

“‘She has not taken me into her confidence; therefore I have the right
to make what surmises I choose. I place her between the two. She does
not know what to think.’

“Again he snapped his head backwards, as though he said that he would
settle that shortly. Tranquillized, he relit his cigar, which had gone
out, and again lolled back; and cocking up his cigar in the corner of
his mouth, asked. ‘And the other?’

“‘Guess,’ said I.

“Dropping his chin on his breast, with a quiet smile, he pretended to
reflect for a moment. ‘I am afraid I shall have to give it up. Oh, how
dull I have been! How intolerably stupid!’ And placing his hand on his
heart, he made me a low bow; then throwing back his head, with a merry
laugh, ‘Capital, capital!’ he ejaculated.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘her name is not Alice. Guess again.’

“A flash of surprise followed by a look of rising curiosity. ‘Really,
you perplex me!’

“‘You cannot recall any of the girls except Mary, in whom you have
shown marked interest?’—he shook his head—‘an ever increasing
interest?’ ‘An ever increasing interest?’ repeated he, opening his eyes
wide upon me; then, looking upon the ground, he appeared to reflect.
‘Not Miss Kitty? No? Nor Miss Jennie? Not Miss Jennie either! Upon my
word! But you _seem_ serious; are you really?’

“‘I am. You cannot think of any girl whom you have visited again and
again, of late?’

“‘_Visited!_’ exclaimed he. ‘Why, then she is not one of our Elmington
guests!’

“I fixed my eyes upon him, and saw nothing, though I had always thought
him as transparent as glass. It was my turn now to be bewildered.
‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘can’t you guess, _now_, to whom I allude?’

“Gazing at me with the look of one who had totally lost his reckoning,
he shook his head slowly from side to side. I was positively vexed.
There came over me the impatient feeling of a teacher who is striving in
vain to hammer an idea into the head of a numskull. ‘Well, then,’ said
I, with some heat; and throwing out my arm at full length, I pointed
across the River.

“‘Across the River, too,’ said he, with contracted features. ‘Upon my
word, this conundrum grows interesting.’ And with his eyes fixed upon
the sand, he stroked his tawny beard. ‘Across the River—let me
see—Miss Jenny Royal—dinner-call—no other visit. The Misses
Surrey—party-call. Miss Adelaide Temple—breakfast—going to pay my
respects to-morrow. Anywhere else? No. Well,’ said he, suddenly throwing
up his hands, ‘I give it up! What is the answer?’

“I looked at him for a moment, but could make nothing of him. ‘There!
There! There!’ I exclaimed, at last, stabbing at Oakhurst with my
forefinger.

“‘Where?’ asked he, looking across the River and up and down the shore
opposite.

“‘There! There!’

“‘You seem to be pointing to Oakhurst.’

“My arm dropped across the gunwale.

“‘Oakhurst!’ exclaimed he, with a most natural look of surprise. ‘You
don’t mean Oakhurst? Why, there are no guests there! There is no one but
Lucy—Miss Lucy!’

“‘That’s true,’ answered I, dryly. ‘No one but Lucy.’

“He leaned forward and scanned my features with a mixture of amusement
and curiosity. ‘Surely you have not been alluding to _her_?’ I said
nothing. ‘Seriously? Yes?’ And with a shout of merry laughter, he threw
back his head with such vigor that his cigar flew out of his mouth and
over his shoulder upon the sand; and then, without the least warning,
his laughter ended in an abrupt ‘Oh!’

“He rose to his feet; not with a spring, but slowly, slowly,
thoughtfully tugging at his moustache, and his eyes intently glaring
into vacancy, as he rose and rose, till he seemed to my excited
imagination to assume almost colossal proportions. Then he slowly
subsided again into his seat, and sat there raking his beard with his
long fingers. A chilly sensation crept over me. I tried to speak, but
could think of no word wherewith to break the spell of silence. At last
he turned his eyes upon mine.

“‘So it seems to you that I have been paying Lucy Poythress much
attention?’

“‘Seems, Mr. Don? How can you use that word? It is a patent fact that
must be as clear to your eyes as to mine.’

“‘Yes, but what kind of attention? She is musical—so am I. I have
rowed across the River frequently, to play with her. Nay, my object has
not been pleasure alone. I have been giving her what are called, in
Paris, accompaniment-lessons. Does that amount to what is called
attention, in a technical sense? And you acknowledge yourself that these
visits never deceived _you_. You never thought that they were prompted
by love.’

“‘No, they did not deceive _me_. What if they have deceived—’

“‘HER!’

“The word shot from his lips like a ball from a cannon. He sprang from
the boat and began to stride to and fro in the sand, his nostrils
dilated and his eyes fixed. (He used a dreadful expression, too, which
was not at all patriotic, though it did end in —nation.) Presently he
turned quickly towards me, and leaning forward, with his hands grasping
the gunwale of the boat, eagerly asked, ‘But, Lucy, surely you do not
think that—that she—is—what you call interested?’

“‘She has not betrayed any symptoms of that character.’

“‘Thank you,’ said he, seizing my hand with a grip that made me wince;
and he began to stride to and fro again, till I stopped him.

“‘But, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘though she may not be interested now, it does
not follow that she may not become—’

“‘Never fear,’ said he, biting his lip with a look of fierce
determination, and striding up and down again.

“Thinking to soothe him: ‘Be careful! Remember, we girls think you a
handsome, fascinating dog; so don’t raise false hopes.’

“‘No danger, no danger!’ replied he, earnestly, and without even a
smile for my compliment. ‘What a fool I have been!’

“He stood reflectively stroking his moustache for a while, and I thought
the scene over, when turning impetuously upon me, and seizing me by both
wrists with a grasp of steel, ‘You don’t think so?’ he cried. ‘Tell me
you do not, for heaven’s sake!’

“He seemed totally unconscious of the force he was using, for he jerked
me against the gunwale with such violence that I should have been hurt
had I not been so frightened. Oh, what eyes he had! I can feel their
glare now, as I remember how he held me as in a vise, and, bringing his
face close to mine, looked me through and through.

“‘Tell you what?’ I gasped.

“‘Lucy—she—the poor child—she has not—fallen in love with me: you
know! Tell me so, for God’s sake!’

“His fingers sank into my wrists, and his fearful eyes burned into my
brain.

“‘No! I am _sure_ she has not!’

“‘Thanks, thanks, thanks!’ he cried; and lifting both my hands to his
lips, he covered them with fervid kisses. I was not surprised; I was
past that point. Had he thrown his arms around me, I honestly believe I
should have been neither astonished nor angry.”

“I wish he had,” said Charley, musing. “Poor boy, poor boy!—well,
well!” and, sighing, he fixed his eyes upon the fire.

Alice, with a look of tender sympathy, took her husband’s hand in hers.

-----

[1] How strange, even pathetic, is the sound of these military metaphors
from a woman’s lips.—_Ed._


                               CHAPTER L.

The return of our Jason and Medea from the Argo was very different from
their departure for that fateful craft, if their going had been
operatic, their coming was elegiac. A salvo of salutations was preparing
as they approached, and the Gallery watched the couple as they drew
near, momentarily expecting some outburst of jollity on their part; but
expectancy slowly faded as their nearer and nearer approach brought into
ever clearer view the faces of the Argonaut and the Enchantress.

I have called the Don a man of surprises. What had he been saying to
Alice? thought every one as she tripped up the piazza steps with an
effort to appear jaunty and careless; but her cheeks showed splotches of
burning red, while his features were pale and set. What had happened?

I cannot say what others thought, but I happen to have learned since
what flashed across Mary’s mind. The Don had proposed to Alice and Alice
had rejected him, had declined his _first_ proposal merely, for of
course she could not have meant to reject him for good and all. What
passed her comprehension was how Alice had had the hardihood to propose
a walk which she must have known was to have that result. She was amazed
to think how blind she had been all along. How could she have failed to
remark what was patent to all, that the Don hung upon every word that
fell from Alice’s lips?

I happen to know, too, what Charley thought: “_She_ tackled him! What a
girl! what a girl! Bless her little heart!”

“Well, Alice,” said my grandfather, “you know the rule.” Alice looked
up. “Whenever any of my girls have had a trip on the Argo—”

“Oh,” said Alice, “we kiss you on our return.” And she suited action to
word.

“I accept the amendment, but that is not what I meant. Give an account
of yourself. What luck?”

Alice’s face grew serene under the old-time courtesy of my grandfather’s
manner, and she was herself again.

“You will have to excuse me, Uncle Tom. A girl who has been properly
brought up cannot fail to feel that there _are_ occasions when her
mother is her only proper confidant.”

Even the Don laughed at this, and the hard lines passed out of his face.
He looked at Alice with an expression of admiring amusement, seeing how
easily she had laughed away the awkward pause that their return had
caused.

When Mary, poor tempest-tossed soul, saw that admiring glance, she
stamped her foot, though inaudibly,—stamped it with vexation, and
inwardly begged Alice’s pardon; for it was not the glance of a lover,
rejected or other.

“There they come down the lawn,” suddenly cried my grandfather.
“Charley, where is the glass? Thank you. They are getting into the
boat,—Mrs. Poythress is in,—now for Lucy,—she is in,—and now Mr. P.
there! The first flash of the oars! They are off! Charley,” added he,
handing the glass to Mrs. Carter, “did you think to send word to the
Herr to come, as the Poythresses were to spend the day with us? Ah, I
remember, he could not come. Well, Lucy and Mr. Smith will have to
entertain us to-day.”

“Ah,” sighed Mary, “in that boat sits my real rival. How could I have
thought such a thing of dear Alice?”

When the boat neared the shore, the gentlemen (there were only three at
Elmington at this time,—my grandfather, Charley, and the Don) went to
meet the guests. Mrs. Carter went also, to greet Mrs. Poythress; and
Alice, too; saying, when she saw her mother leaning on Mr. Whacker’s
arm, that she thought it prudent to look after her father’s interests,
when her mother was carrying on so in his absence. I am afraid, however,
that she did not keep a very strict watch on her mother; for she and
Charley were soon considerably in the rear of the rest, and engaged, as
was obvious to Mary (who remained on the piazza), in a very earnest
conversation, the subject of which it hardly needed a woman’s instinct
to divine. She felt sure that her friend was describing to Charley her
interview with the Don; and as Alice grew more and more earnest in her
manner and vehement in her gestures, her curiosity rose at last into a
sickening intensity, for a voice whispered in her ear that she, somehow,
was deeply concerned in what those two were saying. She forgot where she
was, forgot the girls seated near her, saw only Charley and Alice; and
leaning farther and farther forward, as they receded, strove to drink in
with her soulful eyes the words that her ears could not hear.

“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”

She had seen Alice stop and turn towards Charley and gaze at him with an
almost tragic earnestness. Then, suddenly springing towards him and
seizing his wrist, she had given him a pull that shook his equilibrium.
With nerves unstrung by the harassing doubts of the last few weeks, and
wrought up to the highest pitch of painful curiosity as to the subject
matter of the singular interview between Alice and the Don in the Argo
that morning,—seeing Alice detailing that interview to Charley,—when
she witnessed Alice’s violent illustration of what must have occurred
between her and the Don, Mary had leaped, with a cry, from her seat.

“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”

At these words of her neighbor Mary sank back in her chair with a vivid
blush and a confused smile, and was silent.

“You frightened me so! I thought some one had fallen out of the boat,
perhaps. What was the matter?”

“I am sure I can’t tell; I suppose I must have been dreaming.”

The neighbor cast her eyes towards the boat, and seeing among the
approaching guests Lucy leaning on the Don’s arm, thought her own
thoughts.

The day was an unusually warm one for February, and, a vote being taken,
it was decided not to enter the house; and our friends soon grouped
themselves to their liking on the sunny piazza; the elders at one end,
in the middle the young people, except Charley and Alice, who sat by
themselves at the other end of the porch.

These twain often found themselves isolated now. Wherever they chose
their seats every one seemed to think they needed room, and moved
off,—treatment that Charley bore like the philosopher that he was. The
fact is that, from being a man who seemed to have nothing to say, he
became, about this time, one who could not find time to say all that he
had on his mind. At this period of his life he used to lie awake in bed,
for hours and hours, as he has since confessed to me [And to me. _A._]
[Wh-e-e-e-w! _C. F._], running over in his mind the things that he had
omitted to say to Alice the evening before, and resolving to say them
all immediately after breakfast next morning. On this occasion a
mountain torrent of words had risen in his soul during the hour’s
absence of his charmer in the Argo. But he was not uttering them. Nor
did it matter in the least, as they would have been as like thousands of
others that he had been whispering and whispering into her rosy ear, as
one drop of water of the supposed torrent was like another. The twain
were rather silent, in fact. They were quietly watching the Don and
Lucy.

One other pair of eyes took in every movement of the Don, another pair
of ears lost never a word nor an inflection of his voice. (Mary was, it
is true, engaged in an animated discussion with Mr. Poythress on the
subject of Byron,—he denouncing the man, while she lauded the
poet,—but then she was a woman.) “How changed he is!” sighed she. “A
moment ago, pale as ashes; how bright and cheerful now! And Lucy! I
think I should try not to look _quite_ so happy, if I were you! Why not
announce your engagement in words, as you are doing every moment by your
manner?”

Alice, on the contrary, to Charley: “How well he is acting his part! He
knows we are looking at him, and see the easy air of an old friend that
he has assumed towards Lucy! Not assumed, either, for his bearing
towards her has always been just that.”

“So I have always thought,” said Charley.

“Certainly; only that manner is rather more pronounced than usual. The
merest glance would convince any one that he was no lover of Lucy’s.”

    “‘He that hath bent him o’er the dead,
    Ere the first day of death is fled,—
    The first dark day,’” etc., etc.,

quoted Mary.

No voice that I have ever heard quite equalled Mary’s in sweetness, even
in familiar talk. Soft and tender, it was yet singularly clear, though
marked by a certain patrician absence of that exaggerated articulation
so characteristic of other communities, where not the _norma loquendi_
of gentle ancestors is the touchstone of speech, but the printed word,
and the spelling-book, and the unlovely precision of the free school.
But now that she was uttering a wail over her own crushed heart, and, in
unison therewith, Byron’s passionate lament over the dead glories of the
Greece of Thermopylæ and of Marathon, the tremulous fervor of her
vibrating tones was touching beyond description. Two or three fair heads
had clustered near hers to catch her low-breathed words; and when,
turning to Mr. Poythress with a certain triumphant enthusiasm in her
soulful eyes, she, with a slight but impassioned gesture, ended with the
words, “’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more,” there was a sense of
choking in more than one snowy throat.

As for Mrs. Carter,—sympathetic soul,—I am told that there were
actually tears in her eyes.

“Upon my word,” began Mr. Poythress, ready to yield.

Perhaps Mary heard what he said as he re-defined his position; but his
words can be of no interest to the reader.

“See,” mused she, “what an easy air he has assumed towards Lucy! And
Lucy! how matter-of-fact! Any one could see at half a glance that they
were acknowledged lovers. See with what an air of content he looks about
him! There, he is exchanging glances with Alice; and she understands
him, of course. She is telling Mr. Frobisher that they are engaged. Ah,
he glanced at me, then, and so furtively! No wonder he averts his eyes
when they meet mine! Yet even yesterday I thought I saw in his
look—well, well; _that_ is all over.”

Alice, on the contrary: “See, he can’t keep his eyes off her! He is just
dying to say something to her; and it will be to the point. Ah, Uncle
Tom has put himself just between us.” And she leaned forward so as to
put Charley almost behind her back, but went on talking, all the same,
in a low voice: “How could those girls have thought that he was in love
with Lucy or Lucy in love with him!”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Charley, in a voice that startled Alice. She
turned and looked at him. Had she turned more quickly, she might have
caught a different expression on his face. As it was, he was gazing out
upon the River with a stony calm upon his features.

“What did you say?” asked she, beginning to doubt her ears.
“‘Horrible?’”

“Who? I?” And the gray eyes met the hazel without blinking.

“Did you not say that the idea of the Don and Lucy being lovers was
horrible?”

“Very likely. Of late I have been capable of saying anything.”

“What did you mean?”

“If I said it,—which I don’t admit; and if I meant anything,—which,
likely enough, I did not—”

“‘Horrible’ is so unlike you.”

“Now you flatter me.”

“Tell me, goose.”

“You say that the Don loves Mary. Then wouldn’t it be sad if Lucy loved
him? And you tell me that Mary loves the Don. Now wouldn’t it be too bad
if the Don loved Lucy? Ought not true love to run smooth if it can?”

Alice fixed her eyes upon Charley’s, and scanned his features long and
intently. There was nothing to be seen there save a smile that was
almost infantile in its sweetness and simplicity. “Do you think I am
handsome?” asked he, languidly. “They tell me I am good.”

“Do you know, Mr. Frobisher, I sometimes think you know more about the—
There she goes, and he after her!”

“Mr. Poythress,” Mary had said, laughing, “my defence of Byron has made
my throat dry.”

“Nor did it lack much of making our eyes moist,” replied he, with a
courtly inclination of his patrician head.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” interrupted the Don, moving towards
the door.

“Ah, thank you, never mind.” And rising hastily, she made for the door
with a precipitancy that vexed Alice; for she saw in it a pointed
indication of unwillingness on Mary’s part to accept even this little
service at the hands of the Don. She moved so rapidly that she had
passed in at the door before the Don could reach it; but he, whether or
not he interpreted her motives as Alice did, followed her within the
house. Instantly the cloud that had passed over Alice’s face was gone,
and a sudden smile shone forth. She sprang to her feet. “Why do we tarry
here all the day? It is moved and seconded that we adjourn to the Hall.
Fall in, company! Attention! Shoulder—I mean seize arms!” And skipping
away from Charley, she laid hands upon Mr. Poythress (“You take Mrs.
Poythress,” she had whispered to Charley; “that will make them all
come”), and away they marched down the steps and across the lawn,
towards the Hall, Alice leading with her rataplan, rataplan, and
enacting a sort of combination of captain, drum-major, and vivandière.

Nothing so much delighted our slaves, in those days, as any jollity on
the part of their masters. Happy and careless themselves, when they saw
their betters unbend they realized more clearly, perhaps, that they were
men and brothers.

“Lord ’a’ mussy!” cried Aunt Polly at the kitchen door, letting fall a
dish-cloth.

“What dat, gal?” carelessly asked Uncle Dick, who sat breakfasting in
his usual stately and leisurely fashion. Aunt Polly made no reply, being
seized with a sudden paroxysm which caused her to collapse into half her
normal stature. Straightening herself out again, and wiping her eyes
with her apron, “Oh, Lord, _how_ long!” she ejaculated, giving the
door-sill two simultaneous flaps with slippers that were a world too
wide. “What’s a-comin’ next? dat’s all I wants to know.” And she began
to rock to and fro. Seeing her for the second time telescope into a
three-foot cook:

“What de matter wid de gal?” said Uncle Dick, rising with dignity, and
wiping his rather unctuous lips.

“’Fore Gaud,” cried his spouse, “I do b’lieve dat chile gwine to make
everybody at Elmin’ton crazy befo’ she done. Mussiful heaven, jess look
at ole mahrster, and he a-steppin’ high as a colt, and Miss Alice
a-struttin’ jess like she had on a ridgimental unicorn, and a-backin’
and a-linin’ of ’em up wid her parasol! Forrard, march! Jess lissen at
her sojer talk, and ain’t she a pretty little critter? No wonder Marse
Charley ravin’ ’stracted ’bout her. Lor’, Dick, let de boy look!”

Zip, by a dextrous ducking of his head, had just evaded the sweeping
palm of his chief. “What is dese young niggers a-comin’ to?” exclaimed
this virtuous personage. “Boy, don’t you see dem flies.” And he pointed
to the table he had just left. “And you a-gapin’ at de white folks,
’stid o’ mindin’ your business!”

One of the perquisites of Zip’s position as junior butler was waving a
feather brush over the bald head of his senior when he sat at meat. Dick
had elected him to this office on the plea of fotchin’ of him up in the
way he should go; and, being a strict disciplinarian, had resented his
abandoning the post of duty without orders.

Zip made a perfunctory dash, with his brush, at the flies,—whom, by the
way, he somewhat resembled in disposition; for as you shall not ruffle
the temper, or even hurt the feelings of one of these, during your
afternoon nap, by a slap, be it ever so violent and contumelious, if it
but miss him; so Zip-Moses accounted all blows that failed to reach that
anvil-shaped head of his not as insults and injuries, but clear gain
rather. Zip, therefore, was not long in finding his way back, on tiptoe,
to where he could get a glimpse of what was going forward on the lawn;
even as that reckless insect blanches not as he tickles the somnolent
nose of a blacksmith; for hath he not his weather eye upon the doughty
fist of his foe?

“Left face!” cried Alice; “forward, file right, march!” And her company
went tumbling with bursts of laughter up the steps and into the Hall.

Lucy took her seat at the piano.

“Why, where is the Don?” asked my grandfather, looking round.

“Lucy has a new solo for us,” said Alice,—“perhaps,—” added she,
conscience-stricken.

“Oho!” cried Mr. Whacker, settling himself.

“What new solo?” asked Lucy.

“That—what do you call it?” replied Alice, rather vaguely.

“The Sonata I have been learning?”

“Oh, yes; that’s what we want.”

Lucy struck the opening chords and began.

Charley leaned carelessly forward and whispered in Alice’s ear,—

“_This_ is a solo; _that_?” And he nodded slightly in the direction of
the house.

“A duet. What did you think of my manœuvre?”

“Immense!”


                         NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC.

                  BEING AN INTRODUCTION TO CHAPTER LI.

How and by how many cooks this broth has been brewed, our patrons have
already been duly informed. Up to this point the firm, as a firm, has
been responsible for everything that has been written; for though our
Mr. Whacker, having the pen of a ready writer, has had the task of
arranging our wares in show-cases, our silent partners have furnished
the bulk of said wares. And we desire to say to the public that our
joint labors have been, thus far, carried forward most joyously, and
with perfect harmony.

Save only in one particular.

Our female associate has been grumbling, from the very first, at the
treatment that Love has received at the hands of our Mr. Whacker. She
has again and again protested against what she calls the mocking touches
of his pencil, when he would portray that passion which is so tender,
and yet hath power to move the world. He, on his side, has defended his
handiwork, if not with success, at least with a certain manly vigor,
having observed more than once that he could not for the life of him get
it into his head how it could be High Art to make your heroes say in a
book what a Christian would be hanged before he would say, or be
overheard saying, at least, in real life; adding, with a tartness born
of his wrangles at the Bar, that it passed his comprehension why authors
should be at the pains of causing imaginary beings to make fools of
themselves, when nature had served so many real ones that turn. In
reply, our Alice said that, if that were so, they were but holding the
mirror up to nature; a retort that seemed to dispose of our legal
brother; and so our Alice was encouraged to go on and add (using the
bluntness of a friend) that all this talk about love-making being an
exhibition of an aggravated type of idiocy was, to use the mildest name,
the merest affectation, and could have originated only in the brain of a
sore-headed old bachelor, who is forever talking of marrying, but who
has not the vaguest conception of what love really means. Our Charley,
meanwhile, would only smoke and chuckle and chuckle and smoke, when we
asked for his vote to end our controversy; and as his smoke-wreaths were
perfectly symmetrical, inclining neither this way nor that, and as he
chuckled on both sides of him, neither of us belligerents had the least
pretext for claiming the victory. Yet, in the end, it was he who closed
our debate.

“Jack-Whack,” said he (ever judicious), “turn about is fair play.
Suppose we let Alice write this fifty-first chapter. Let it be hers
entirely, and let her acknowledge it as such, while you may disown it.”

To this we are all agreed. In testimony whereof we have hereunto, etc.,
etc., etc.

                      Charles Frobisher.   [Seal.]
                      Alice Ditto.         [Seal.]
                      John Bouche Whacker. [Seal.✻]

                                              [✻_Porpoise. Ha! ha! ha!_]

When Charley came out with his Compromise Resolutions, Alice was at
first much taken aback, turning red and white by turns; nor do I believe
she would ever have consented, had I not permitted myself to smile a
rather triumphant smile of defiance. It was then that, nettled by this,
she brought down her plump little fist upon the table and cried, “_I’ll
do it._”

“Brava!” cried Charley, patting her on the back.

“And you, sir!” said she, turning upon him. “I don’t believe _you_ think
I can do it.”

“I believe you capable of anything.”

“Well, I will show you. Decamp forthwith, both of you!”

Charley and I decamped accordingly, and betook ourselves to a very
pleasant beer-garden (for this colloquy chanced to be held in Richmond),
where we spent a couple of hours. On our return we found Alice sitting
with dishevelled hair and looking very disconsolate.

“Where is chapter fifty-one?”

Alice pointed rather snappishly to the waste-basket, in which lay
several sheets of paper, torn into shreds.

“Ah!” said I, “let us put the pieces together, Charley, and see how she
got on.” And Charley and I made for the basket. The result was a battle
royal, at the end of which the shreds had become bits of the size of
postage-stamps, mingled with which, all over the room, lay the ruins of
the basket.

“You give it up, then?”

“Not for a moment,” replied she, panting.

A week passed before Alice summoned us to hear her chapter read. Not
with a view to criticism, however; for it was agreed that neither
Charley nor I should utter one word, either of praise or censure.
Whatever she produced was to be printed just as she wrote it; and here
it is, word for word, just as it came from her pen.

And if any reader, during its perusal, shall come to doubt whether it
be, in truth, her production; if he shall fail to discover one solitary
trait of our merry-sparkling, laugh-compelling enchantress, it will be
but another proof that what people are has nothing to do with what they
write. If, for example, the reader shall find this work dull—but
enough.

Moving nearer the lamp, Alice read with a resolute spirit but faltering
voice as follows:


                              CHAPTER LI.

                    BY ALICE FROBISHER, LOVE-EDITOR.

They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretched hand to receive
the goblet which she held.

“I’d rather help myself.”

“Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And he stood aside.

She glanced at his face. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. Help me, then;
thank you.” And barely moistening her lips (for somehow a choking
sensation seized her), she handed him back the tumbler.

It is in our premonitions that we women have some compensation for our
inferiority in strength to men. It was not an accident that the Pythia
and the Sibyl were women. The delicate, responsive fibre of her nervous
system makes every woman half a prophetess.

“You must have been parched with thirst,” said he, holding up the
goblet, with a smile.

“I suppose it was only imagination.”

Trivial words; yet he knew and she felt that a crisis in their lives was
at hand. It is thus, I am told, that soldiers will often joke and babble
of nothings when crouched along the frowning edge of battle.

“Only imagination,” said he, catching at the words. (They were walking
slowly, side by side, from the dining-room to the parlor.) “And is there
anything else in life worth living for? The facts of life, what are they
but dry crusts, the merest husks, which content the body, perhaps, while
leaving the soul unsatisfied?”

It was to minor chords, as I have said somewhere above, that Mary’s
nature gave readiest response; and these had been struck with no
uncertain hand.

“You speak feelingly,” said she, without looking up.

“And no wonder; for of these husks of life—husks without a kernel—I
have had my share; but of late—”

They had reached the parlor window and found the piazza deserted. How
inconsistent is the human heart, more especially that of woman. Mary had
longed to find herself alone, for one short quarter of an hour, with
this man who had so troubled her peace. She had confidence in her
woman’s tact,—felt sure that, if opportunity were given, she could
pluck away the mask which concealed his heart, without revealing her
own. Strangely enough, during all the time they had been under one roof,
she had not had such an opportunity. This had, in fact, been one cause
of her troubled curiosity. He had seemed studiously to avoid finding
himself alone with her, and with her only of all the girls. It had come
now,—come so suddenly,—and she trembled. She leaned out of the window.

“They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her head and looking up at
the Don with a scared look.

Was not that sinking of the heart a presage of sorrow? Would it not have
been better for thee, poor child, to have hearkened to the voice of its
Cassandra-throbs? Better to have hastened to the Hall, whence thou
couldst even now hear issuing the sounds of merry music, and found
safety in numbers? Something whispered this in her fluttering heart.

“But of late,” repeated the man of her destiny.

“Let us join our friends in the Hall,” said she, faintly.

Wise words, but spoken too late. Too late; for she felt herself
compassed round about by a nameless spell that would not be broken;
entwined in cords soft as silk but strong as fate.

“They seem to be getting on famously without us.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“Thought what?”

“I thought you must be longing to hear Lucy play.” And she gave a hasty
glance at his face.

There was a revelation in the look that met hers. The veil that had
darkened her vision fell away. Through those glorious eyes of his, so
full of tender flame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no image of
Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been. ’Twas her own, instead,
sat enthroned there.

Wrung as she had been, for weeks, with conflicting emotions, the
revulsion of feeling that now came over her was too great for her
strength. Her knees tottered beneath her; the room swam before her eyes.

“Somehow I feel a little tired,” said she; and she sank down upon a sofa
which stood near.

Where was all her tact gone? Was she not to unveil his heart while
hiding her own?

All is fair in love and war; and in both the best-laid schemes are
undone by a surprise. The enemy had found the citadel unguarded and
rushed in.

“Will you allow me?” said he.

She made no reply beyond a faint smile, and he took his seat beside her.

“You spoke of music just now. Lucy has a charming touch; but I know a
voice that is, to me at least, richer than all the harmonies of a
symphony, softer than an Æolian harp, gentler than the cooing of a
dove.”

She made a brave effort to look unconscious. “Oh, how beautiful it must
be! How I should like to hear such a voice!”

“I hear it now! I am drinking it in!”

It was a draught which seemed to intoxicate him; and the circle of the
spell which bound them grew narrower. She could feel his eager, frequent
breath upon her cheek, whose burning glow lent a more liquid lustre to
her dark eyes. They spoke little. What need of multiplying words? Did
they not know all? Ah, supremest moment of our lives, and restfullest,
when two souls rush together, at last, and are one!

Somehow, by chance, just then—if things which always manage to happen
can be said to come by chance—somehow their hands met. Met somewhere
along the back of the sofa, perhaps—but no matter.

Hardly their hands, either. It was the forefinger tip, merely, of his
right hand that chanced to rest its weight across the little finger of
her left.

A taper and a soft and a dainty little finger,—and a weak, withal. Why
should it scamper off before it was hurt? After all, it was but an
accident, perhaps, and a neighborly sort of accident, at the worst. Who
could say that it was a bold, bad forefinger? Perhaps it did not know it
was there!

And so that weak little digit lay there, still as a mouse, though
blushing, blushing (ah me, how it did blush!), and all of a flutter.

After all, are not even strangers continually shaking hands? And if that
be so, why should one run away, merely because—but the thing is not
worth a discussion.

I have been much longer in telling it than it was in happening. The
thrill had barely flashed through that rose-tipped little digit when he
seized her hand, and taking it in both his, pressed it again and again
to his heart; then the other; and drawing her towards him, bent over her
and breathed into her ear words never to be forgotten. Not many, but
strong,—vehement with long-suppressed passion.

As though a mountain-torrent had burst its bonds.

She had read of innumerable wooings and imagined many besides; but never
one like this. She tried to speak, she knew not what, but her tongue
refused to do its office.

“And have you no word for me? No little word of hope?”

She raised her eyes to his. It was but for a moment; for she could not
longer withstand his impassioned gaze. But in that brief glance, half
wondering, half shrinking, he read his answer, and in an instant she
found herself enveloped in those mighty arms,—found herself lying
across that broad chest, his right arm around her, his left supporting
her head, that nestled with upturned face against his shoulder. With
upturned face and closed eyes.

She had surrendered at discretion. When she felt herself, again and
again, pressed to his heart, she made no protest;—gave no sign when he
devoured her cheeks, her lips, with kisses, countless,
vehement-tender,—lay upon that broad shoulder in a kind of swoon.

She had waited so long and it had come so suddenly, this cyclone of
love!

Lay there upon that broad chest,—she so little,—with upturned face but
closed lids, from beneath which forced their way drop after drop of
happy tears. Happy tears? Did not they too tremble, tremble, as they
lingered, waiting to be kissed away?

Lay there, nestled upon that strong arm, and drunk with the wine of
young love; the past forgot, the future banished,—living in the present
alone. A present, delicious, dreamy, and wrapped in rose-colored
incense-breathing mist. Shutting out all the world save only him and
her. From afar comes floating to her ear, from the Hall, the sound of
muffled laughter,—comes floating the drowsy tinkling of the piano,
meaningless and inane! All things else are shams. Love alone is real!

Yes, pillow thy head upon that arm, thy heart upon that hope, while yet
thou mayest!

For dost not heed how within that deep chest, against which thy fair
young bosom palpitates and flutters,—markest thou not how ’tis a
lion-heart seems to beat therein? To beat thereunder with tempestuous
thud, ominous of storm and wreck?

And those eyes, so wondrous tender now, and soft (for even if thou hast
not stolen a look between thy dewy lids, thou hast felt their caressing
glances), and those loving eyes? Hast forgotten how their changeful,
bickering flashes once filled thy heart with dread, even before he was
aught to thee?

If thou hast, dream on—dream on while thou mayest!


                              CHAPTER LII.

With the last word Alice dropped the manuscript on the table, and
hastily left the room. Charley shot forth, with a vigorous puff, a ring
of heroic proportions.

“Upon my word, Jack, I didn’t think it was in the old girl! Capital! It
is, by Jove!”

“Capital,” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “it is. But, I say, Jack—”

“What?” said I, with some expectancy, for he had lowered his voice to a
confidential whisper.

“It is very clever in the old girl, and all that, you know. Jove! didn’t
she hit out on a high line? ‘Incense-breathing mist,’—how does that
strike you, Hein? And ‘tempestuous thud?’—what have you got to say to
that? And ‘bickering eyes?’ But I say, Jack-Whack, old boy—”

“Well?”

“I say, you won’t tell her what I am going to say?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, I won’t deny that it is well written, and in a high, romantic
vein; but—now you won’t tell her?—but before I would have it thought
that _I_ wrote that chapter, you might shoot me with a brass-barrelled
pistol.”

With that he took up the manuscript, and began running his eye over it
and reading aloud passages here and there. We both (I am ashamed to say)
soon got to laughing, and Charley at last went off into an almost
hysterical state, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Just then Alice
suddenly re-appeared, and his features snapped together like a steel
trap. Charley, in point of fact, was not laughing at his wife, but
rather at the inherent absurdity of all love-scenes; but he felt guilty
when she entered the room, and looked preternaturally solemn.

“What is the matter?” asked Alice.

“I thought it was agreed that there were to be no criticisms?”

“Yes; but you and Jack have been criticising my chapter already.”

“In your absence, of course.”

“And I heard you laughing.”

“Laughing? What do you suppose there was to laugh at? In point of fact,
I said it was capital; didn’t I, Jack?”

“Yes; and I agreed with him.”

“Really?” asked she, looking from one to the other of us with keen
suspicion in her eyes.

“Yes; honestly, my dear, it does you credit.”

Alice looked pleased.

“Of course, however, any one could tell, at a glance, that it was from a
woman’s pen.”

“I don’t see why,” said she, bridling. “So far from that being the case,
I’ll bet you a box of gloves that when the book comes out, the critics
will say that not one line of it was written by me, and that I am a
purely mythical personage, invented out of the whole cloth.”

“Done,” said he; “they will say nothing of the kind. By the way, can you
tell me, Alice, why it is that women always put so much hugging and
kissing in their books?”

“I believe they do,” said Alice, laughing.

“Jack would not have dared to make that chapter so—so—warm, in fact.
Why, it took away my breath, the brisk way in which you enveloped Mary
in the Don’s arms. Jack could not have brought about such a consummation
in less than three chapters.”

“So much the worse for Jack. It was human nature,—woman’s nature, at
any rate.”

“Oho! live and learn, Jack!”

“I am taking notes.”

“And _act_ on them,” rejoined Alice, with a rather malicious allusion to
certain recent incidents in my own personal career. “Women like
_aggressive_ lovers; so next time—”

“But really, Alice,” said Charley, coming to my rescue, “that chapter of
yours—such as it is,—now no offence,—I mean giving, as it does, a
love-passage from a woman’s point of view, is very well done. And one
thing, Jack, seems to me especially to be commended. It is positively
artistic, the way in which she contrives to cast a shadow upon the pair,
as they sit basking in the sunshine of—ah—in fact—sunshine of young
love—ahem—match, Jack—thank you—ahem.” Charley reddened a little,
conscious of having been betrayed into an unwonted burst of eloquence.
“And very cleverly indeed,” added he, “that shadow is wrought by the
very flash of light which will give our readers a momentary glimpse of
certain lines in the nature of poor Dory, which you had not previously
brought out.”

“_Inexorabilis acer_,” said I, musing.

“Oh, yes,” said Alice, turning to her husband; “how often have I heard
you apply those words to your poor friend. They are not to be
found—in—Virgil? At any rate, I cannot recall such a passage.”

“No; they are part of a verse in which Horace gives a characterization
of Achilles.”


                             CHAPTER LIII.

I have said that Mary was romantic; and I don’t know that I could give
any clearer proof of the fact than this: as she lay sleepless that
night, reviewing the scenes and events of the last few months, and more
especially of the preceding day,—as she lay there silently pondering,
and realized that she knew nothing of the history, and was far from sure
that she knew even the name of the man to whom she had so thoroughly
committed herself,—she felt no wish that matters stood otherwise. Nay,
she even found herself rejoicing in the cloud of mystery that surrounded
her lover; and, to tell the truth, it was with a feeling of relief that
she had heard the sound of footsteps and the hum of voices, the day
before, announcing the return from the Hall, just as she had gathered
from the Don’s manner that he was on the verge of a revelation. But they
had been interrupted, and she had, for one more day, at least, the
privilege—a delicious one to a girl of her temperament—of allowing her
imagination, unshackled by hard fact, to play around this strangely
interesting man, who had shot like a meteor athwart her path. Singularly
enough,—or it would have been strange, did we not all know the
confidence without reserve which a woman ever places in the man to whom
she has given her heart,—strangely enough, Mary felt not the slightest
misgiving on the score of the revelation she had reason to look for on
the morrow. She had not the least dread that that revelation might prove
of such a character as to make imperative an instant breaking off of
relations with the Don. What she dreaded was the dispersal of her
illusions, the end of her sweet dreams. To-day she could
imagine—to-morrow she would know.

And so, next day, when our friends sallied forth for a walk, and it fell
out, partly through the manœuvering of Alice, that Mary and the Don
began to be farther and farther isolated from the rest, her heart began
to beat so quick and hard that utterance became difficult. Her
companion, too, seemed preoccupied, and their conversation became a
tissue of the baldest commonplace. At last he stood still, and with eyes
fixed upon the ground, was silent,—silent for an age, as it seemed to
Mary. At last he looked up.

“Mary,” he began,—it was the first time he had ever addressed her thus,
and her heart gave a quick beat of pleasure,—“Mary, there is something
I must say to you, and we could not find a better opportunity. There is
the Argo; let us take seats in it.”

She assented in silence and with a sudden sinking of the heart; for
there rushed before her mind, in tumultuous throng, all the dreadful
possibilities of the coming revelation.

“Is not this,” said she, as she took her seat upon one of the benches,
“the first visit that you and I have made to the ‘Fateful’?”

“‘The Fateful,’” she repeated to herself. Was the name ominous? And
she strove to hide, beneath a careless smile, the deep agitation that
she felt. “Do you know, I feel that I have a right to quarrel with you?
For I alone of all the girls have never been honored by you with an
invitation to visit the Argo. It almost looks like an intentional
slight. Was it?”

She was talking at random, hardly knowing what she said; anxious only to
put off for a few brief moments the explanation which she had suddenly
begun to look upon with genuine terror.

It is thus that, when, with swollen cheek, we have taken our seat in his
elaborate chair, we strive to delay the pitiless dentist (while he,
adamantine soul, selects from his jingling store the instrument most
diabolically suited to our case), happy with a happiness all too briefly
bright, if he will but turn and admit that the day is fine. [Jack’s
mocking pencil, again! I protest. _Alice._]

“Yes, it was intentional.”

She looked up.

“Well, not a slight, of course, but intentional.”

“Why? I cannot imagine.” But she did imagine why, though but vaguely.

“Ah! I am glad you ask that question. It enables me to begin.”

But he did not begin. He knit his brows instead, and fixed his eyes in
perplexity upon the shining sand. “I hardly know what to say to you.”

“Then don’t say anything,” exclaimed she, eagerly.

“Don’t say anything?”

“Well, not about _that_!”

“About _that_?”

“Well, you know—”

“Yes, I dare say we are both thinking about the same thing.”

“‘Great minds will,’ etc., you know—”

“Say loving hearts.” And he took her hand. “Yes, I admit that I have
studiously avoided finding myself alone with you.”

“Were you afraid of me? I am very little!”

“I was afraid of myself; yesterday proved how justly so.”

“Do you regret yesterday?”

“I am afraid I do not. But I ought to. I had no right to tell you I
loved you.”

“It is an inalienable right of every man to tell his love.”

“At any rate, I beg your pardon for having spoken mine.”

“I find forgiveness amazingly easy,” said she, laughing. Then,
seriously, “Indeed, your scruples are over-nice. The sweetest music that
can fall on the ear of a woman is, as Alice says, loving words. Why
should we be denied it? What else have we to live for?”

“But I owe it to you—”

“You owe me nothing!” exclaimed she, hastily.

“But I wish to tell you—”

“Tell me nothing! I know what you wish to say, but you shall not say
it,—not yet, at least.”

He smiled.

“No; I see you before me, hear your voice; I have known you, such as you
are, for months. I wish to know no more, just now. Let me dream on; do
not awaken me. Let me float on,” she continued, realistically clasping
the gunwale of the Argo, “over rose-tipped waves, careless what shores
lie beyond. Let me dream yet a little longer.” And rising from her seat,
she dropped on one knee in front of him, and bringing her two hands
together, placed them within his. “Not one word. I trust you; I am
_satisfied_,” said she, with a voice low yet ringing, ringing with proud
enthusiasm,—a voice full of strange thrills, vibrating, eloquent. This,
her speaking attitude, and the impassioned faith that illumined her
eyes, fired his breast with an indescribable glow of ecstasy. Pressing
her hands between his and raising his eyes, he exclaimed with a fervor
that was almost religious,—

“Adorable Mary! I have dreamed dreams, I have seen visions, but none
could compare with this!”

The exaltation of his voice, the spiritual glory of his upturned eyes,
the sudden burst of fervor, the overmastering force of his impetuous
manhood, hurried Mary’s imagination to giddy heights. She could have
fallen down and worshipped him.

“Come,” said he, more gently; “take that seat and listen to me for a
moment.”

She made as though she would place two fingers on his lips.

“No!” said he (placing his lips on the two fingers). “Since you wish it,
I will leave unsaid what I purposed saying. It is a strange whim on your
part, but an altogether charming one to me, since it gives me the right
to believe that you value me for myself alone. I shall, therefore,
respect this fancy of yours as long as you desire. But if I may not tell
you who I am, I may at least say what I am not. I am not an adventurer.
You toss your head; your faith is lovely, but you know I might have been
one. No? Well, at any rate, I am not. I am, in fact, your equal in
social position; so that, if you can spare a place for me in your heart,
without knowing who I am, you will not have to expel me when you
condescend to hear what I have to say.”

“Do you know,” said Mary, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, “I believe
you are just dying to tell me all about yourself?”

“And you wild to have me do so.”

The sun sparkled upon the River, the waves murmured softly at their
feet, beneath a gentle breeze laden with the mysterious breath of
awakening spring; and these two sat there bantering one another, like
children, gleefully. Mary no longer recognized the man who sat before
her. Every line had passed from his face; and but for his Olympic beard,
he might have seemed a great jolly boy just come home for his holidays.
She could not take her eyes off his face. She was scrutinizing it,
wondering where could be lurking those ambuscades of passion that she
thought she had detected more than once. And the fire-darting flashes,
where were they hidden, beneath those ingenuous glances, so tender, so
soft, so caressing?


                              CHAPTER LIV.

To four people at Elmington that was a happy week. I suspect it was
rather a dull one to every one else.

The friendship of Alice and Mary had renewed its youth. Each had told
the other everything. That is, they did what they could; for there was
always no end left to tell. Not a word was wasted, not a moment spent on
any subject but one. Never had two young men been more talked about.

“We are both so well suited,” said Alice. “To a matter-of-fact body like
me, Mr. Frobisher—”

“Oh, Alice, he is just too charming, with his quaint, humorous ways; and
then _so_ devoted!”

“Do you _think_ so?”

“Why, the poor man is _just dying_ with love, and—”

“But just think of your affair, Mary! _When_ are you going to let him
tell you who he is? Oh, I’ll tell you. Suppose we let them both come up
to Richmond at the same time to interview our respective and respected
papas. Oh, won’t it be _dreadful_!” And with that they fell on each
other’s necks and giggled.

“Mr. Frobisher says he will be hanged if he speaks to my father. He says
he thinks it a liberty to ask any man for his daughter; so he intends to
speak to mother. Bashful? O-o-o-oh!”

Charley and the Don, too, had their confabulations, but how was any one
to find out what they said? But a merrier, jollier soul than the latter
it would have been hard to find. (I believe my grandfather would have
been somewhat scandalized at the way he profaned the Guarnerius with his
jigs, had not Charley made casual mention of the _gigas_ of Corelli and
the old Italian school; which seemed to lend a certain air of classicity
to their homely Virginia descendants.)

These four, then, were happy. But upon the horizon of Mary’s dreams
there hung a speck of cloud. It was no bigger than a man’s hand, but its
jagged edges, splotching the rosy east, marred the perfection of the
dawn.

To say what that cloud was, brings up a subject upon which I touch with
extreme reluctance.

A Bushwhacker discussing the problems of religion,—what will be said of
him? Love—feeling my inability to depict that, I accepted the kind
offices of our friend Alice. But where, among the bishops and other
clergy—regular officers,—am I to find one willing to be associated
with a guerilla like myself? Who among them would write a few chapters
for this book? But the chapters must be written.

The reader will recall, I beg, one of the earlier incidents recorded in
this narrative; where the writer calls upon the Don at his rooms in
Richmond, to invite him to spend Christmas at Elmington. It will be
remembered that I found him reading a small book, which he laid down
upon my entrance, and that chancing to glance at the little volume as I
passed out of the room, I saw with surprise that it was a copy of the
New Testament. With surprise. I would not be understood (not for the
world) as casting a slur upon the youth of Virginia. They read their
Bibles, of course; but generally, I believe, at the beginning and end of
the day. At any rate, whether it was the hour of the evening or the man
himself, I was astonished.

When I told the girls what I had seen, they were variously affected,
according to their several natures. Here, thought Lucy, is one more good
young man,—good not being, with her, a term of contempt. Mary’s
imagination was fired. Behold, thought she, a high, brave young spirit
that hath chosen the better part. Alice, being what neither of the
others was, in the main an average Virginia girl,—Alice could not help
it,—the little scamp laughed. I don’t know that it occurred to her that
these very good young men are, take them “by and large,” no better than
the bad young men (and not half so interesting); all I know is that she
laughed, and made the others laugh, too, though against their will.

And not once only. For weeks afterwards she never spoke of the Don save
as Parson (or, rather, Pass’n) Smith. Her merry fancy played countless
variations upon this single string; but it snapped one day,—snapped
very suddenly, the first Sunday after her and Mary’s arrival at
Elmington.

“I wonder,” said Alice, as she and the other girls were getting ready
for church,—“I wonder whether the Pass’n will go with us? Has any one
heard him inquiring about a meeting-house? What a favorite he would be
among the sistern of the county!”

As they went down-stairs, they could see him leaning against a pillar on
the porch.

“Look, Mary; your Pass’n has his Sunday face on. How dreadfully serious
he looks! Mind, girls, no frivolity! I’ll be bound he says ‘Sabbath.’”

“No gentleman ever speaks of Sunday as ‘the Sabbath,’” said Mary,
reproachfully.

“Very true; and he is a gentleman if he _is_ a pass’n. Hang this glove!
Mr. Whacker,” she continued, “here we are; and all ready, for a wonder,
in time.”

Wheels were crunching along up to the steps; horses, held by boys, were
pawing the earth; and on the piazza there was the rustle of dresses and
the subdued hum of preparation. The Don alone seemed to have no part in
the proceedings. Alice drew two girls’ heads together.

“The exhorter looks solemn! The drive will be hilarious in the carriage
that takes _him_! Listen!”

“By the way,” Mr. Whacker was saying, “I had forgotten to ask you,—will
you take a seat in the carriage, or would you prefer going on
horseback?”

“Horseback, by all means,” whispered Alice; “the jolting might cheer up
his Riverence.”

The Don, looking down, changed color, and was visibly embarrassed. “I
remember,” said he, presently, raising his eyes to those of Mr. Whacker,
“that one of the first things you said to me, when you welcomed me to
Elmington, was that it was ‘Liberty Hall.’”

“Certainly, oh, certainly,” rejoined my grandfather, in his cordial way.
“Choose for yourself. That pair of thoroughbreds may look a trifle
light; but you will find they will take you spinning. Then there is the
buggy. But perhaps you would prefer to ride? I can recommend that sorrel
that Zip is holding.” (Zip gave a furtive pressure on the curb which
made the sorrel arch his neck and paw the ground.)

“I have not made myself clear,” said the Don, with a constrained smile.
“I meant to beg you to—to let me take care of ‘Liberty Hall’ to-day.”

“You mean,” said my grandfather, taking in the idea with some
difficulty, “that you do not wish to go to church to-day?”

The Don bowed.

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Whacker, with some eagerness; for he felt that
he had inadvertently pressed his guest beyond the limits of good
breeding. “Certainly, of course, I had not thought of it. Of course you
have not yet quite recovered your strength.”

The Don bowed his head deferentially, as though willing to let this
explanation of his host pass unchallenged; but a certain something that
lurked beneath his rather mechanical smile showed that that explanation
was Mr. Whacker’s, not his. A sudden constraint came over the company,
and they were glad to get off.

When the party returned, the Don was absent, walking; and when, at
dinner, there was the usual rambling discussion of the sermon, the
singing, and so forth, he took no part in the conversation. The next
Sunday, when the vehicles and horses came up to the door, the Don was
found to be missing; having absented himself purposely, as seemed
likely; and so on the next Sunday—and on the next—to the end.

It was remarked, too, that never once did he take part in those innocent
little theological discussions which are apt to spring up in Virginia
homes, around the family hearth, after tea, Sunday evenings. As he was
not a talker, as a rule, his silence would not have been obtrusive, save
for his persistency in maintaining it. As it was, in the end his very
silence seemed a sort of crying aloud. Alice had called him “Pass’n” for
the last time.

All this gave Mary, for reasons of her own, great concern,—far greater
concern than an average girl would have felt. What those reasons were I
shall explain at the proper time. Suffice it to say at present, that
just in proportion as her interest in this singular man deepened did her
anxiety as to his religious views grow keener. The time had come, at
last, when she felt that she had the right to question him; but the very
thought (though ever in her mind) of asking him why he never went to
church made her shiver. Strange! Now that he was her avowed lover, her
awe of him was greater than ever before. He was now frank, joyous,
playful—

But even when a caged lion is romping with his mate, you shall ofttimes
see the glitter of his mighty teeth!


                              CHAPTER LV.

My grandfather was looking serious. Mr. Carter had come down from
Richmond, and, next day, the great American Undulator and Boneless
Vertebrate was to leave Elmington, taking with her Alice and Mary; and
these notable Christmas holidays would come to an end.

It was late in the afternoon of one of those delicious days in February,
which every year (in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave)
delude us with the hope of an early spring (though we all know that we
never have any spring, late or early); deceiving even yonder pair of
bluebirds, who, warmed into forgetfulness of that March which lies
between them and the abundant and nutritious worm of summer, go
gallivanting up and down the orchard, chirruping eternal fidelity;
peering into this old tree and into that, in quest of some hollow knot,
so suggestive (to the bluebirdish mind) of matrimony.

Where Charley and Alice were on this bright afternoon does not much
matter. No doubt they were together and happy; or, if wretched, wretched
with that sweet wretchedness which makes the tearful partings of young
lovers so truly delicious.

There’s your Araminta. Nineteen years of her life had she passed,
ignorant of your existence. T’other day you met; and now, she who gave
you not so much as a sigh during all those nineteen years, cannot hear
you speak of a month’s absence but she distils upon your collar the
briny tear! She has found out during the last few days, your Araminta,
that she cannot breathe where you are not.

Absurd Araminta—but nice?

Wherever else they may have been, they were not in the Argo. The Don and
Mary were there; and in the then infancy of naval architecture row-boats
were not built large enough to hold, comfortably, two pairs of lovers.

Mary was seated in the boat, he lounging around it; now leaning against
the gunwale, now stalking idly to and fro in the shining sand, rejoicing
in his youth. They talked of the passing sea-gulls, the twittering
bluebirds, the rippling waves, the rosy clouds, the generous
sunlight,—of everything, of nothing, it mattered not; for love hath
power to transfigure the plainest things.

Presently the Don said, standing with fingers interlaced behind his
back, and looking far away down the River, “Do you know, it would be
hard for me to live at a spot remote from salt water? All the great
thoughts that have moved the world have arisen within sound of the
sea-waves. She is the mother of civilization. It is the land which
separates the peoples of the earth, not the water. It thrills me to
think that, as I stand here, this river which splashes against my foot
is part of that ocean which washes the shores of England, of France, of
Italy, of Greece, of Palestine.”

Palestine! Strange word on the lips of a man who never went to church.

“Then, again,” continued he, with a smile, “I love the sea because it
reminds me—I don’t mind telling you, since I have let you into my
little secret—because it reminds me of Homer, and the epithets he has
applied to it.”

“Ah, that reminds _me_ of something! Have you forgotten your promise to
talk to me about Homer? Have you that little copy of the Iliad in your
pocket now?”

“Of course,” said he, tapping his vest.

“Will you not let me have it in my hand _now_?”

He shook his head, smiling. “No; but have you not the right to command
me now? Speak, and I obey!”

“Ah! Then I command you, on your allegiance, to deliver that book into
my hands.”

He hesitated for a moment, and his hand shook a little when he placed
the book in hers. She took the left lid between finger and thumb; but
his look of ill-suppressed agitation made her hesitate, and _her_ hand
began to tremble now, she knew not why.

“May I look?” she asked, in a rather shaky voice.

“If you will! But I warn you that that fly-leaf will tell you what you
have forbidden me to reveal.”

“Oh!” cried she, with a start. And the book fell upon the shining sand.

He stooped and picked it up. “Have you had enough of it?”

“More than enough,—for the present, at least,” she replied, smiling
faintly. “However,” she added, “I should like to look at the outside of
it. How very old it looks,” said she, as she took it in her hand. “Why,
the corners are worn perfectly round; you must know it all by heart.”

“Almost,” said he.

“And the back—what!” exclaimed she, with astonishment. “Why, this is
not the Iliad! It is a copy of the New Testament!” And she held up the
faded title before his eyes.

With a black look of annoyance, but without a word, the Don seized the
book, thrust it into his pocket, and began striding to and fro.
Presently he stopped in front of her.

“I put my hand into the wrong pocket,” said he, with obvious vexation.

“Why, yes. But what’s the harm?” said she, in a soothing voice.
“Carrying a Testament in one’s pocket is nothing to be ashamed of, I
hope?”

“Certainly not! But,” he added, with a half smile, “taking it out is
different.”

“And so,” she began, feeling her way, “you carry the Iliad in one pocket
and the Testament in the other.” But it was not now of the Iliad that
she wished to hear him talk.

“Yes; a rather ill-assorted couple, you would say?”

“Very! One might suppose you either a—Greek professor in
disguise—or—a—minister.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I never thought of that; so one
might. We generally look too deep for motives. Truth is not often found
in the bottom of a well. I carry these two books simply because—”

She looked up.

“Because,” he added, gravely, “they were given to me by—people that
I—cared for.”

Constituted as she was, these few words affected Mary strongly. He had
said so little, yet so much; revealing, in the unconscious simplicity of
his nature, the very intensity of feeling that he strove to hide. And as
she looked upon the two little volumes that he had carried all these
years, saw how they had been worn away against his heart, a feeling of
awe came over her. She found herself comparing, in her imaginative way,
the man before her with one of the great, silent powers of nature,—the
dark-floating tide, for instance, so noiseless when unresisted; or a
black cloud charged with thunder, that seems, at first, but to mutter in
its sleep, like a Cyclops in a battle-dream, but when yonder mountain
dares to rear his crest in its path—

“You value them very highly on account of the givers,” put in Mary, as
an entering wedge.

“Naturally; but not exclusively on that account.” And he drew the two
little volumes from his pockets, and, placing them side by side,
surveyed them lovingly.

Here was Mary’s opportunity. Painfully anxious as she had been as to her
lover’s religious convictions, she had shrunk, hitherto, from a direct
question. But it would be easy now, she saw, to lead him on to a full
confession of his faith without seeming to interrogate him.

She began by drawing him out on Homer; but what he said she hardly
heard, so tremulously eager was she to know what he thought of that
other little book which he held in his hand. One thing struck her at the
time, and she had cause to remember it afterwards: the strong admiration
he evinced for the character of Achilles, the flinty-hearted captain of
the Myrmidons.

Presently she said, in a low voice, “You hold them side by side; but
could two books be more different?”

He laid the Iliad upon the seat beside him, and taking the other little
volume in his hand, held it up before him. As he did so, there was
something in his look that thrilled her with expectancy. While he had
been indicating the clear-cut outlines of Homer’s marvellous creation,
she had felt (though hardly hearing with more than her outward ear) that
he spoke admirably, and remarked the high intellectuality that illumined
his features; but now a sudden glow suffused his countenance, and
strange, soft lights danced in his eyes. She hung upon his opening lips
with deep suspense; for something told her that upon the words he was
about to utter her own happiness depended.

The hour that followed was passed in a way which is probably rare with
parting lovers.

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

“No. I have never read Chateaubriand’s _Genie du Christianisme_, and,”
added he, with an admiring glance, “I am glad of it; for otherwise I
should not have heard your brilliant version of what he says. I am
afraid, however, that, well as he puts it, I am hardly frank enough to
admit that parts of the Old Testament are superior, as mere literature,
to everything that the Greeks have left us. The truth is, however, that
I know so little of the Old Testament that I have no right to an
opinion; but this little book,” continued he, holding it up, “I know by
heart. I mean the gospels,” he added, quickly; “and I don’t hesitate to
say that in all literature you shall not find such a gem.”

The gospels a gem of literature! A weight seemed to press on Mary’s
heart.

“Listen!” And he opened the book, and turning a few pages with nervous
eagerness, found a passage. “Listen! Could anything be more beautiful?”

His lips parted; but, without reading a word, he closed the volume upon
his forefinger. “Pardon me; but do you know, I fear you can hardly have
more than a suspicion of how divinely beautiful this little book really
is?”

She looked up, puzzled.

“You have heard it read, week after week, it is true, but read with a
saintly snivel,—a holy whine.”

Mary would have protested, but a certain dark flash of bitter disdain
that accompanied these words checked her; and she was silent.

“Let me read you,” said he, after a pause, “a few of my favorite
passages, in the voice of a mere man.”

He read and commented, commented and read, for perhaps an hour;
commented without rhetoric, read without art. He merely gave himself up
to that wondrous story.

And what an hour for Mary! For weeks she had longed to know what he
thought upon the one great subject which overshadowed all others in her
mind. Yes, overshadowed,—for hers was not a blithe spirit. Had longed
to know, yet feared to ask. And now that he had been reading and talking
so long, did he—as she had so often and so fervently prayed that he
should—did he think as she did? Alas, it was but too clear that he did
not! But what did he think? That she could not tell, so strange and
bewildering were the flashes that came from his words. Her Virginia
theology gave her no clue. As though a mariner bore down upon a coast
not to be found upon his chart: the lights are there, but have no
meaning for him.

Equally bewildered was Mary. How did he regard the central figure of
that wondrous drama? As he read and talked and talked and read, a
will-o’-the-wisp danced before her eyes, leading her here, there,
everywhere, but not to be seized!

How tender his voice now! borrowing pathos not from art, but from the
narrative itself. A voice full of tears. And do not his eyes answer the
fading sunlight with a dewy shimmer?

He was right, she thought, when he said she knew not the beauties of
this little book. Not a month ago, and she had dozed under this very
passage.

And now there rose before her—he read on but she heard him not (so the
trooping fancies evoked by music have power to dull the mere outward
ear)—rose before her soul a vision of ineffable softness,—a vision of
one with a face full of sorrow, but a sun-lit head; and he beckoned to
little children, and they followed him; and as he passed, the burdens of
the heavy-laden grew lighter, and the weary smiled again and forgot
their weariness, and rose and followed, they too. And as he passed (he
read on but she heeded not)—as he passed along his stony path, violets
seemed to spring from beneath his feet,—violets shedding perfume. And
along the roadside lilies nodded. And sinners beat their breasts, but
lifted up their hearts. And one of her own sex followed,—one who had
loved much; and as she followed she dried her tears with her sunny
hair—

“GENERATION OF VIPERS!”

She started from her seat and clutched the gunwale of the boat. As he
towered above her, his nostrils breathed defiance, his white teeth
glittered with scorn, his dark eyes gleamed, his whole figure was
eloquent with indignation. ’Twas but a bunch of dry sea-weed that he
held aloft, crushed in his right hand; but to her he seemed to brandish
the serpent-thongs of Tisiphone; and the milksop ideal of Raphael and
the rest vanished from her mind. In its stead there rose before her
exalted imagination the heroic figure of a valiant young Jew. He stands
before a mob that thirsts for his blood. Alone, but intrepid. He knows
full well, O Jerusalem, that thou dost stone thy prophets (for what land
doth not?), but though his face be pale beneath the shadow of
approaching death, his brave spirit is undaunted. He is willing that the
cup shall pass from him; but, being such as he is, he may turn neither
to the right nor to the left. If he must drain it, then be it so. His
mission is to live for man—and, if need be, to die for him.

But is this the vision of a manlike God? Is it not rather that of a
godlike man?

The Argo stands firm in its bed of shining sand; but tempest-tossed is
the soul of the young girl who sits therein, straining her eager eyes
for a sight of land. Every now and then a glorious mirage seems to
spring into the air, gladdening, for a moment, the darkening horizon,
and then to fall as suddenly, dispersed by a word.

“Yes, Rousseau was right; Socrates did die like a philosopher, but Jesus
like a God!”

Mary leaned forward and held her breath.

He clasped his hands, and uplifting his face that was pale with emotion:
“My God,” cried he, in a voice that made her shiver—“my God, my God,
why hast thou forsaken me?”

The mirage vanished,—for a mere tone may outline a whole system of
theology. That cry, as he gave it, was one of bitter human anguish. In
her lover’s eyes ’twas not a God that died, but a man,—godlike, but a
man.

“With that cry” (he added), “the bitterest that ever broke from mortal
lips—”

She heard but heeded not; she knew more than enough already.

“With that cry there burst the grandest heart that ever beat for
mankind. Who can wonder that sixty generations of men have worshipped
him as a God!”

Mary rose, and, descending from the Argo, took his arm. She needed its
support.

Just before reaching the piazza, she stopped suddenly, and, wheeling in
front of him, fixed her gaze upon his face. A gaze long, wistful,
pitiful-tender. As though a mother learned by heart the features of her
boy just going forth to battle, not knowing what may happen.

She tried to answer the smile that greeted this burst of feminine
impulse; but the soulful eyes were swimming with tears.

The Pythia was a woman—and Cassandra—


                              CHAPTER LVI.

I picture thee to my fancy, my Ah Yung Whack, popping thine almond eyes
out of all almond shape. No? Then thou hast not read my last chapter.
Couldst not? Ah, but thou must. I felt that it would be so much Choctaw
to thee. Still, thou must read it; for in that chapter I strike the
key-note of this, my Symphonic Monograph.

I know it is Choctaw to thee; nay, Comanche; but I rejoice, rather, in
that; for it gives me a pretext for writing an entire chapter for thine
enlightenment. Nor exclusively for thine; for I would make matters clear
for the contemporary reader, who will, I trust (or else alas for my poor
publishers!),—who will, I trust, outnumber thee.

This, then, is my case. I have thrown upon my canvas a young person who
has had the misfortune to fall in love with a man of whom she may be
fairly said to know nothing. (Her feminine intuitions cannot, of course,
pass muster as knowledge with us Bushwhackers and philosophers.) And
this young person, so far as is made to appear, is anxious to know but
one thing in regard to her lover. Had she been a good sensible girl,
with no nonsense about her, it might have been supposed that she would
have been curious to know whether he were rich. Then, being but just
turned of eighteen, who could have blamed her if she had wondered
whether he were of a jealous temper, and likely to put an end to her
dancing with other men? Again; many women have a pardonable ambition to
shine in the eyes of their friends; and was he, if rich, generous as
well? And was she likely to dazzle Alice with her diamonds, perhaps, or
beam upon Lucy from a handsome equipage? He had shown, too, some
fondness for field sports, and would he—ah, would he (harrowing thought
to every truly feminine bosom)—would he bring her into the country,
there to drag out a weary, dreary life, and shoppinglessly vegetate?
Nay, was this splendid creature (as is too often the case with splendid
creatures), was he, perhaps, a slave to creature comforts? Would he be
an exacting critic of her housekeeping? Might not muddy coffee
exacerbate even an heroic soul? Could it be that a roast not done to a
turn might corrugate that admirable brow?

No; we have not painted her as anxious in respect to any of these
things. Yet I beg the reader will not accuse me of drawing a monstrosity
of a girl, one destitute of the common instincts of her sex. Far from
it. She, very likely, trusting implicitly to her intuitions (as women
will), felt too confident as to these possibilities of her future to
give them a second thought. Besides, was she not desperately in love?
And we all know (or, at least, _I_ believe, which amounts to the same
thing, so far as this book is concerned) that there are women who, if
but deeply enamoured, would scorn such thoughts, as a degradation to
true love. At any rate, the fact was as I have stated it. Mary, while
seemingly careless (though that may have been due to confidence) as to
the mere details of her destiny in this world, was morbidly solicitous
touching her lover’s views as to the next.

Laugh not, gentle reader. True, I am a humoristic Bushwhacker by trade;
but I would not have you smile out of order. And as for thee, my
great-to-the-tenth-power-grandson, brush the wrinkles from thy yellow
brow, lest thou crack, not this nut, but thine addled pate, instead.

Know, then, all men (and by all men I mean, of course, all women and
clergymen, who, alone, in these busy days, have leisure to read
symphonic monographs)—

Know, all women and clergymen, of this and more or less future
generations, that the story I am telling has very narrow limitations, as
well in time as in space. It is of Virginia[1] alone that I am writing.
Of Virginia _not_ in the fourth quarter, but Virginia in the beginning
of the second half of the nineteenth century. Strolling through this
narrow field, at this particular harvest-time, I have selected three
sheaves wherewith to fashion such rural picture as my hand should have
cunning to form.

Lucy, I chose, originally, as symbolizing the purity and simplicity of
the womanhood of our old Virginia life. But of her I am conscious that I
have given the merest outline; and I find that I cannot fill in the
picture adequately, and at the same time maintain the rigidly
monographic type of my work. Let her stand, therefore, just outside of
our central group (where the full light falls), illumining the
half-shadow with her gentle, St. Cecilia look. Is that a smile that
lights her eye, or is it the glancing of a tear?

Our Alice illustrates for us, as I have said elsewhere, the careless
freedom of those old days, and shows how our democratic-aristocratic
Virginia girls could be gay without being indiscreet, joyous yet not
loud, unconventional yet full of real dignity; how, in the hundreds of
years that separate them from the mother-country, they have shaken off
English stiffness, while clinging fast to English love of liberty. But
she is fully capable of speaking for herself; and we pass on to Mary
Rolfe.

The reader has already, I hope, a tolerably clear conception of this
young person. Stature below the average, eyes full of soul, a manner
painfully shy with strangers, childlike and confiding with intimates; a
mind admirably stored, considering her years, with all that can adorn;
often silent, and preferring to hear rather than to be heard, but
murmuring, when, forgetting her reserve, she does speak, like a brook,
and in a voice of such surpassing sweetness that one could have wished
that, like the brook, she would go on forever. Eloquent rather than
witty. And I fear few would have called her wise. For the rest, full of
high imaginings, and a born hero-worshipper.

Such was Mary Rolfe in herself; and to know her as such has sufficed for
the reader, so far. But a crisis is approaching in Mary’s life; and to
foretell how people are going to act in crises, it is not enough to know
what they are in themselves, merely. What they are is something; the
where and the when are more. Do you see that pleasant, genial-looking
man walking along the streets of a Southern city? Could anything be
gentler than his look, kinder than his eye? Yet it was but the other day
that he went out, deliberately, to a secluded spot called the Field of
Honor, and sent a ball through the person of an excellent gentleman, who
at the same time was addressing a bullet to his care. These worthy
persons were no worse than other people (true, they were editors), but
they lived in the South. That was the trouble. In the North the same man
would have simply said, _you’re another_, and called the account square.
And I, for one, applaud the North, and say she is right and the South
wrong.

No; if you would forecast the actions of men, you must be acquainted
with their environment, as Herbert Spencer would call it. To use an
illustration that this leader of modern scientific thought would not
object to; you strike that white ball with your cue. The table being
smooth, it would seem that it would maintain its initial direction till
the initial force was exhausted, or at least till it struck the opposite
cushion; but, lo! it strikes a light red ball that lies in its path, and
off it flies at a tangent. If Mr. Spencer held the cue and were
conducting the experiment in person, our illustration would now be at an
end (for I am told that he is the worst billiard-player in all England);
but let us suppose that that cue-thrust was delivered by one of those
solid-headed young men (in shirt-sleeves) who delight in what they
humorously call the scientific game. The white strikes the light red and
darts away; but click! and off it speeds along a different track. It has
carromed on the dark red.

And are we not, we mortals, so many billiard-balls, launched forth upon
our little arena by we know not what force, and rolling we know not
whither? It may be a little wider or a trifle narrower, perhaps, the
stage on which we play our several parts; but all the same, around it
rise the unscalable barriers of human life, the adamantine limitations
of human endeavor. And we, embracing within our little selves (as did
the tusk whence that ball was cut) countless conflicting forces, the
inextricably intermingled traits, that is, of numberless
ancestors,—fashioned, too, by the loving hands of father, mother,
brother, sister, teacher; we spin forth on the journey of life. And a
seemly roll of it we may have, and a safe, perhaps, if we be but smooth
and round and mediocre (not bulging on this side, say, with big
thoughts, or jagged on that with untamable conscience). There stands the
goal, and making for it, merrily we spin forth,—but, click! click! and
where are we? Nay, may not a pinch of cigar-ashes wrest victory from an
expert? And hath not, sometime, a mere rumpled thread sufficed to bring
triumph to a tyro? Surely it is not a great matter to stoop and pick up
a pin; but was it not enough, once, as we are told, to make a beggar a
millionaire? And who shall say that the merest casual fly, alighting on
the intent nose of some gunner in beleaguered Toulon, might not have so
warped the parabola of a shell as to have rendered needless the
slaughter of Waterloo?

I have made life a parallelogram, I see, though it is notoriously a
circle; and I have symbolized failure in life by carroming on the light
and dark reds; whereas, as we all know, that is success in billiards.
But, my Ah Yung Whack, is it not night in China when it is day with us?
And does not white raiment signify grief there? And do they not take off
their shoes instead of their hats when calling on a friend, and shake
their own hands rather than the other fellow’s? We will let the
illustration stand, my boy, for your sake; for, in the new Flowery
Kingdom which is coming, all things will be changed. In that day, when
the wielder of the cue shall also wear one (spell it how he will), the
game will be to miss rather than to hit; so that what seemed, at the
first blush, to be due to the buck-jumping of a mustang Pegasus, turns
out to be, in reality, the prophetic vision of a philosophic
Bushwhacker.

But the environment of Mary?

And now, at last, it has come,—that chapter which I have so long
dreaded,—my chapter on Virginia theology.

“Dearest Alice, could you not manage it for me?”

A backward toss in her rocking-chair, one ejaculatory clapping together
of her plump hands, one shout of laughing amazement was her answer.

“I?” said Charley. “You must have forgotten that I am hard at work on
that _Essay on Military Glory_ which you say you will shortly need.”

-----

[1] Conspicuously inexact; but the reader must judge for herself.—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER LVII.

Here I am, then, since it must be.

Every one has heard the story of the Frenchman who, after a tour through
America (or was it England?), had but this to say of us: that we were a
people with thirty religions and but a single sauce. I hardly think that
we in Virginia, at least at the period of this story, were quite so rich
in religions as this. Very likely, some of the sects discovered by our
observant Gaul had no representatives in the Old Dominion. At any rate,
I, after diligent inquiry in many quarters, have not been able to
unearth more than fifteen distinct varieties. I did not count, I admit,
a certain flock of migratory Mormons that I once encountered on the
wing; just as, I presume, a naturalist would hardly class the Canada
goose among Virginia birds, from the mere fact that they refresh
themselves, in the spring of the year, in our wheat-fields. Nor did I
think that a man and his wife and a boy whom I once knew, could fairly
claim to be numbered as a sect merely because, as their fellow-villagers
asserted, they professed to believe something that nobody could
understand. Then I am afraid that even the very sects themselves would
insist on my leaving out the Bushwhackers,—slack-twisted Christians
like myself, that is, who can’t abide uniforms, and find it hot marching
in ranks, and irksome to keep step; though we do cover the flanks of the
main column, and, while we don’t attack in line, yet keep up a rattling
fire upon such stray sinners as we find prowling about.

And so forth, and so forth.

Still (for I would not incur the suspicion of niggardliness), it is very
possible that, had I searched with greater diligence, I should have
found more than fifteen. We will allow, then, that, at the period which
we are sketching, there were, say, a dozen and a half religions in
Virginia.

And when I say religions, I have not in my mind a milk-and-water,
namby-pamby, good-enough-for-me kind creed, but one of your up-and-down,
robustious, straight-from-the-shoulder dogmas, that could ship off
entire churchfuls of heterodoxers to—(but since the Revised Edition the
word is scarcely parliamentary) without a wry face. Thither our Virginia
Catholics used to despatch all our Protestants, to a man; but, inasmuch
as their numbers were few (and, strictly speaking, the thing was,
perhaps, contrary to the Constitution of the United States), they did it
all very decently and quietly; sending them off by night-train, as it
were, and making no loud mention of the fact.

Not so their opponents. Greatly outnumbering the followers of the
scarlet woman of Babylon, they rattled them off in broad daylight, by
the through mail, making no bones of naming the terminus of the road.
Ah, but it was thorough work on both sides!

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

But there was one awkward thing about the business: if they kept this
thing up, not a solitary Virginian would ever reach heaven. That thought
gave me pause, one day; and ever since I have hoped that somebody had
made a mistake, somehow. At any rate, said I to myself, in my
slack-twisted, Bushwhackerish way, the Jews will get away; and that will
be a comfort, considering what an Unrevised Edition of a time they have
had for these two thousand years.

But as a guerilla, as a free lance, unattached and un-uniformed, and
falling in, as occasion served, now with one regiment and now with
another, I found that things were even worse than I have represented
them. You see they didn’t mind me, and so talked very freely in my
presence; and I was shocked to find that these various companies and
battalions privately nourished a keener animosity one against the other
than towards the common enemy, Ah Sin. If each could have heard what the
others said of them (as I did), and where they sent them! I came to the
conclusion, at last, that there was not the shadow of a chance for any
Virginia Protestant. There were not enough Catholics to keep them busy;
they fell upon one another, and so many cars did they couple on to the
through mail (ole Virginny nebber tire!) that it became a most Unlimited
Express, choke-full of Virginia gentlemen,—Virginia gentlemen who had
erred in the interpretation of a phrase or so, or, it may be, of a word
merely, of Holy Writ.

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

I say Virginia gentlemen advisedly.

Environments may have their environments (just as fleas have other fleas
to bite ’em, and so we go _ad infinitum_), and, thorough-going as was
our theology, it had to succumb in the presence of our chivalry towards
the sex; for throughout all our borders there lived not a man, lay or
clerical, who would not have scorned to send a woman to the bottomless
pit.

But as for the Virginia gentlemen, we shovelled them all in with an
industry (ole Virginny nebber tire!) and an undoubting zeal that were
above all praise.

That’s the reason I always did love a Virginian; he won’t stand any
nonsense. “Do you believe that a prodigious majority of mankind were
elected unto damnation, ages before they were born? No?” Swish! and that
is the end of you! Another: “And so you say that _baptizo_ means
baptize, do you?”—“Why, don’t the dictionaries and all the Greek
profess—” budjum! and where are you now?

For, in matters of this kind, we Virginians of that day, if you would
agree with us, would agree with you; but—if not—you might go—your
way,—for the King James version obtained in those times.

Ah, but we were out-and-outers in those good old days!

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

Strange! for time was when things were very different in the Old
Dominion. Our ancestors had brought over with them the spirit of the
merrie old England of hundreds of years ago; and merry men were they,
too, for a long time after they landed on these fair shores.

And, after all, what was the harm? for do not philosophers tell us that
a people’s conception of the Deity is but the reflex of the powers of
nature (be they kindly or hostile) by which they are surrounded? And was
not this a fair land? and if their sun was bright, but not too fierce,
and their wheat-fields nodded to soft breezes, but knew not the
hurricane, and if their snows were a fairy mantle for mother-earth,
rather than a shroud, and Jack Frost spread, over pond and creek, ice
just thick enough to store against what time the mint—the jolly jolly
mint—should sprout,—if all nature smiled, why should these merry
Norman-English pull long faces? Nor did they, but laughed and danced,
bless their jovial souls!

But a time came when merrie England was merry no longer.

Somebody had invented a new religion.

It floated down upon her, a dense fog, impenetrable to the mild radiance
of the star of Bethlehem. Floated across the Atlantic, and darkened our
life, too. With us, as well, laughter became frivolity, and dancing
blasphemous. There are rifts in the fog now, and here and there the sun
is bursting through; but at the period of our story the shadow was
unbroken. There was laughter, it is true. Do not the condemned often
make merry in their cells? and young people will dance,—just as lambs
frisk, even upon a bed of mint—heedless,—for ’tis their nature to. But
they laughed and danced under a shadow,—the shadow of the next world.
That world, alone, was real,—so we thought,—while this, from
Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strand, was (though it seemed
so solid) but a fleeting show, for man’s illusion given.

And of this theology, which spread, like a black pall, over the land,
this was the central conception; and I give it for the reason that you
will not find it laid down in the books, or in any single discourse. It
is the epitome of the thousands upon thousands of sermons which I (not
that I would boast) have heard in my day. Listen; for this was the
atmosphere that our Mary breathed:

The world is the battle-ground of two mighty beings, the Spirit of Good
and the Spirit of Evil. These two, from the first appearance of man on
earth, have unceasingly battled together, the one to save him, the other
to destroy. To save mankind—to destroy mankind—that has been the sole
contention these thousands of years. Incidentally, of course (for such
is war), the Evil Spirit has, beyond the harm done the human family,
wrought immense damage to earth’s fauna and flora (as the innumerable
imperfections of nature testify), but man, alone, has been the objective
point of all his strategy; and with every new soul that comes into the
world the conflict is renewed.

And perhaps I am wrong,—for there are those who maintain that I have a
bee in my theological bonnet,—but, were I a preacher, I should stand up
for my side. I should not go about proclaiming it from the house-tops
that in the vast majority of these struggles the good spirit is worsted;
nor glory in announcing to the world that Satan held the field, and that
the only hope was that a few of us poor captives might elude his
vigilance and escape. Captives! They told us that we were his when we
were born!

Is there any harm in saying that to a mere Bushwhacker (who has not had
the privilege of passing through a theological seminary) it seems that
we have hardly a fair chance? It were better we were born orphans!
Better that than to be the children of sin and Satan, as those who know
tell me we are,—though I will say that I cannot help hoping that there
is some mistake about it.

But if it be, indeed, too true,—if it be a fact that all the poor souls
that flit darkly, for a season, about this little ball of earth, are, in
very deed, condemned before they are born, may we not hope that it is
otherwise in Venus, for example, or Mars? I, at least, sometimes,
overborne by the immense tragedy of human life, steal forth alone into
the night; and lifting my weary eyes to the blue spangled dome above,
try to drown the darkness here in the light I see shining there; and
ofttimes I find myself wondering whether they be indeed as bright as
they seem,—find myself praying, even, that it may be so.

For indeed it were pitiful, were all those worlds such as ours!

And sometimes I have felt, as I swept, with brimming eyes, constellation
after constellation, and galaxy after galaxy, that I could bear up with
a braver heart could I but know that there was, wandering somewhere in
the immensity of space, one little planet, at least, upon which the
prince of darkness had not set his foot,—one little world in which
poverty and hunger and thirst, and toil and failure, and blood and
tears, and disease and eternal farewells were unknown,—one world where
a mother could smile back upon her babe, as it lay kicking and crowing
in her lap, and laughing in her face, and not feel that the Grip of Hell
was upon its throat.

Alice buried her face in her hands; but Charley sat bolt upright in his
seat.

For such was our creed in those days. If any one shall say that
Virginians do not believe that now, I shall not argue the point. It was
notoriously orthodox _then_ to hold that every infant came into the
world under sentence. Not under sentence to be hanged by the neck, as
murderers are—

Alice shivered. Charley lifted his hand. I ceased reading.


  [Illustration: SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT III.
  _Allegro molto._        L. van Beethoven, _“Eroica” Symphony_.

  {The first page of the score of the third movement, Allegro molto, of
  Beethoven's Eroica Symphony is shown.}]


                           SYMPHONY OF LIFE.


                             MOVEMENT III.


                             CHAPTER LVIII.

It must, in former days, before we Christianized them (at any rate, if
we didn’t do that, quite, we did what we could; we cut their throats for
their heathenism and lands),—it must have been a comfort to an old
Indian brave (before the Pale Faces had taught him what was meant by
peace on earth) when his stalwart son, heir to his prowess, returned to
the parental wigwam and cast into his veteran lap his first string of
scalps. And so, in our day (for conditions change, not man), the
youthful sparkle comes back to a mother’s eye, and nascent wrinkles on
her fading cheek become twinkling dimples again, when her blooming
daughter returns, flushed with victory, from her first campaign. How did
you leave your uncle and your aunt? And I hope all the children are
well? And so you have had a good time? _Glorious!_ Well, you must be
tired; you need not go up-stairs; come into my room and take off your
things.

But she has not had time to unbutton her left glove before her mother
wants to know all about the scalps: how many and whose.

And here there makes its appearance a seeming difference between our
young campaigner and the brave I have mentioned. He, as he dances around
the campfire, waving in one hand the sinister trophies of his victory,
and brandishing his tomahawk in the other, proclaims, not without
ingenuous yells, what a singularly Big Injun he conceives himself to be.
She, returning from the war-path, has nothing to show; denies everything
(as she laughingly unties her bonnet-strings), even to her mother. To
the next-door neighbor, who runs in to hear, denies; but smiles
mysteriously. Idle tales. Nonsense. Not a word of truth in it. Pooh! He
was making love to another girl. But in the end, young man, your scalp
is nailed above the door of that young woman’s chamber, where all may
see,—nailed up with laughing protests and mysterious smiles.

Which is as it should be. There are ways and ways of blowing one’s
little trumpet—or of getting it blown. Conditions change, not man. The
vanity of Ajax was not greater than that of a nineteenth century hero.
Where, pray, was the son of Telemon to find a bottle of champagne to
crack with a war-correspondent?

Alice and Mary managed things economically. Each was the
war-correspondent of the other. In their letters to Richmond, during
these notable holidays, Mary recounted the victories of the enchantress,
while Alice numbered the slain of Mary and her soulful eyes. For be it
understood, fair reader, that while as a monographist I have indicated
one scalp, merely, apiece, in reality a pile of corses lay in front of
each of these lovely archers. They were Big Injuns, both. But this by
the way.

“Which one of them all did you like best?” asked Mrs. Rolfe.

“All!” laughed Mary, letting down her hair as she dropped upon a lounge.
“How many were there, pray?”

“Alice wrote me that—”

“Oh, she’s been telling tales, has she? And you believed all she wrote?”

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

“Oh, yes, I knew his father, when I was a girl, and I don’t wonder at
the son’s being stupid, as you say. He could talk of nothing but horses,
I remember. By the way, speaking of horses, what has become of that poor
Mr. Smith who was so badly hurt last October?”

“He is still at Elmington, I believe; that is—yes, of course he is
there. I mean we left him there.”

“You _believe_!” laughed Mrs. Rolfe. “Upon my word,” added she, “that is
a summary way of disposing of a young man. He must be a nonentity
indeed. I often wondered that you never mentioned him in your letters.
Alice, on the contrary, could write of no one else. It was the Don did
this and the Don said that.”

“Her beloved Charley and Mr. Smith are close friends.”

“Oh, I see; but I don’t understand how it was that Alice seemed to take
such a lively interest in ‘the Don,’ as she calls him, while you can
scarcely remember that he is still at Elmington. She never wrote a
letter without singing his praises.”

“As I said just now, ‘the Don’ has the good taste to admire Mr.
Frobisher.”

“Ah, that accounts for Alice’s liking ‘the Don.’ Am I to suppose”
(something in Mary’s manner made her mother feel sure that she was on
the right track)—“am I to suppose, then, that you are interested in
some one whom the Don has _not_ the good taste to admire?”

“You are a marvellous guesser, to be sure,” cried Mary, with a bright
laugh, and springing from the lounge and into her mother’s lap.

“Ah, I have hit the nail on the head, have I?” asked Mrs. Rolfe, with a
pleased look of conscious sagacity.

“What a subtle brain is here!” continued Mary, smoothing back the white
hairs from her mother’s forehead, and gazing tenderly into her loving
eyes.

“And so you have been hiding something from your poor old mother? But
you are going to tell her now, aren’t you?” added she, coaxingly. “Who
is this person in whom you are interested?”

“Mary Rolfe!”

“Yourself? Ah, I see. Mr. Smith does not like you, and therefore you do
not fancy Mr. Smith. Am I right?”

“Not entirely.”

“Oho! Then he is another of those upon whom you have found it impossible
to smile. Well, I cannot blame him, poor fellow.” And she kissed her
daughter’s forehead. “The idea of your having never—but why did Alice
never allude to this affair? She gave me an account of all the others.”

“I can’t say,” replied Mary, leaving her mother’s lap for the lounge.

“So you did not fancy him. Of course not, of course not. He is a
handsome fellow,—very; but really, I cannot see how he could have had
the hardihood to make love to you while maintaining his incognito, as
Alice writes that he still does.”

“Hardihood in making love is just what some girls would like.”

“Of course,—_some_ girls; but not a girl brought up as you have been.
Did he make no apology? Yes? Well, that was to his honor. He is a
gentleman, there can be no doubt about that. And you?”

Mary was lying at full length upon the lounge. “I forgave him,” said
she, averting her face.

“Ah, we can’t help that, my daughter. A woman would not be a woman
unless”—and reminiscent lights and shadows flitted across her
face—“unless she kept a soft place in her heart for every man who ever
loved her. But forgiveness and love are different parts of speech.”

No answer.

“To pardon, I say, and to love, are different things,” repeated she; and
her heart began to throb, she hardly knew why.

“Sometimes,” said Mary, covering her face with her hands.


                              CHAPTER LIX.

It was not many minutes after this before Mrs. Rolfe found herself
across the street and closeted with Alice. “I am too tired and nervous
to talk now,” Mary had said; “wait till to-morrow; or, if you are very
impatient, ask Alice to tell you. She knows all.”

“My dear Alice,” asked Mrs. Rolfe, for the twentieth time, at the close
of a two-hours’ investigation, “who _is_ this Mr. Don or Smith? Who is
his father? Who is his mother? How am I to know that my daughter is not
interested in an adventurer or an escaped lunatic?”

Alice did her best to reassure Mrs. Rolfe on this point; adding, with a
becoming little blush, that she did not rely upon her own judgment,
solely,—that e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y was sure that the Don was all that he
should be.

“E-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y! Then why don’t you take him yourself? I suppose this
same e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y objected!”

“Oh!”

That was all that this whilom merry babbler could say. Her chin (just as
though it thought itself the most highly improper little chin in the
world) tried to hide between her shoulder and her throat, nestling down
somewhere. In those days we thought it was becoming,—that sudden rush
of roses to a young girl’s cheek. Now she will look you straight in the
face, and tell you without blinking that next spring she is to marry a
man weighing (just as likely as not) two hundred pounds. It is
straightforward, and manly, and “good form,”—but some of us can’t
forget the old way, and like it still.

“I must confess, Alice, that I can make nothing of the whole business.
You tell me that Mary’s suitor is entirely devoted to her, and that
every one has the highest respect for him. His incognito need not
trouble me, you say, since its removal is only delayed,—and delayed,
too, through some romantic whim or other of Mary herself. But there is
one thing which nothing you say explains; that everything you say
darkens; why is the poor child so wretched?”

Alice was silent.

“Alice,” continued Mrs. Rolfe, placing her hand affectionately on the
young girl’s shoulder, “have you told me all? It is Mary’s express
injunction that you do so, you know.”

Alice seemed to have something to say, but hesitated.

“Ah, I see,” cried Mrs. Rolfe, jumping to a conclusion. “He _has_ thrown
off his incognito, and there was something dreadful,—a living wife in a
lunatic asylum—or—”

Alice smiled. “No, it is nothing of that kind. To tell you the truth, it
is all nonsense. Mary is making a mountain of a mole-hill.”

“A mountain of a mole-hill?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“It is all perfectly absurd—”

“What disturbs the poor child,—tell me?”

“Some nonsensical fears as to his religious tendencies.”

“His religious tendencies?” echoed Mrs. Rolfe, puzzled. Suddenly light
seemed to break upon her. “For heaven’s sake, Alice,” she cried, pale
with anxiety, “you do not mean to say that he is a Catholic! Don’t tell
me that. Tell me that he is a—a—an Atheist,—anything but a Catholic!”

“An Atheist rather than a Catholic?” said Alice, raising her eyes to
those of Mrs. Rolfe for the first time for several minutes.

“Most assuredly; a thousand times rather. Why, when I was a girl,
several of my acquaintances married young men who were pleased to
consider themselves sceptics,—it was rather the fashion in those
days,—but, bless you, the last one of them was a vestryman before five
years of married life had passed. But a Catholic! Heaven forbid! One of
two things, Alice, invariably happens to a Protestant girl who marries a
Catholic. Either, halting between opposing claims, she loses all
interest in religion itself, or else she goes over to the enemy. Oh,
Alice, Alice,” cried she, with sudden vehemence, “do not tell me that my
poor Mary loves a Catholic! Lost to me in this world—and—”

I will tell you, my Ah Yung Whack, what Mrs. Rolfe was going to say when
Alice interrupted her with a merry laugh. She was going to add, “lost in
the next.”

It was, indeed, as I have hinted in earlier chapters of this work, the
settled conviction of the Protestants of Virginia, at that day, that all
Catholics were as surely destined to the bottomless pit as the very
heathen who had never so much as heard a whisper of the Glad Tidings.
(My Catholic friends often complained to me of this bigotry. For my
part, I hardly knew whether to laugh or to weep when I remembered that
they had made precisely the same arrangements for my Protestant
acquaintance.)

“Why, who told you he was a Catholic?”

“Heaven be praised! Then what _is_ he, pray?”

“I am afraid he is a little sceptical,—or—or—something.”

“And is that all? Sceptical or something! Capital, Alice!” cried she,
with a bright laugh. “You have hit them off to a nicety. Sceptical or
something,—that’s just it. You see, my dear, when the beard begins to
sprout on a youth’s chin, he fancies that it is time he had opinions of
his own. At this period he begins to sneer at the ‘fiery furnace’ story,
and discovers that whales, though their mouths be large, have small
throats, and could never have swallowed Jonah. _His_ throat, at any
rate, is too small to swallow such musty tales,—leave that to the old
women! Sceptical or something! Excellent, excellent, Alice! Ah, that
merry tongue of yours!”

“I am delighted that you take so philosophical a view of the case,” said
Alice, much taken aback at this unexpected praise of her wit. She might
have added that she was amazed. How often do those we know best utterly
confound us in this way! Mrs. Rolfe was what some lukewarm people called
fanatically pious; and Alice had been looking forward with dread to the
scene that poor Mary must have with her when she learned that her
daughter had given her heart to a sceptic (or something). Strange! it
was the very energy of this fanaticism which wrought the result which so
surprised Alice. It is possible for convictions to be so strong as to
inspire a merry incredulity touching the honesty of opposing beliefs.

“Why, of course,” rejoined Mrs. Rolfe, smiling complacently. (It was the
word philosophical that did the business.) “The fact is, my dear, there
_are_ no infidels. It is all the merest affectation. Most young men pass
through an attack of scepticism, just as, earlier in life, teething must
be gone through with. It is a cheap mode of earning a reputation for
brains. With girls, this striving to be brilliant takes a different
shape. Many young women cultivate sarcasm for a year or so after leaving
school, not having seen enough of mankind to know that a satirical turn
infallibly indicates the combination of a bad heart with an empty head.
But people of experience learn to pardon these foibles of youth. The
fact is, Alice,” added Mrs. Rolfe, smiling, “I know nothing in life more
deliciously comic than a young graduate posing as a ‘thinker.’ Of
course, if they are loud-mouthed—”

“That, at least, he is not.”

“Of course not, of course not; since I hear he is a gentleman. But how,
pray, does he show that he is a sceptic, or something? (Capital phrase,
upon my word, Alice!) How do you know it?”

“During the whole time that he has been at Elmington he has never
once—I am afraid it is more serious than you imagine—”

“Go on!”

“Never once put his foot inside the church.”

“Impossible!” cried Mrs. Rolfe. “Why, ’tisn’t genteel!”

“Never _once_!”

“And his apology?”

“The Don apologizing!” broke in Alice, with a little laugh. “You don’t
know him!”

“What! paying court to my daughter, and allowing her to go to church,
Sunday after Sunday, without ever offering to attend her? I should just
have liked Mr. Rolfe to have tried that game with _me_! Even now,—and
we have been married thirty years! just fancy _me_ marching off to
church alone!”

To do Mr. Rolfe justice, those who knew him and the partner of his bosom
best would never have suspected him of trying to play any such game on
Mrs. Rolfe in their courting days, still less now. He discovered during
the first month of the first year of the thirty alluded to, that his
Araminta was a woman of views; and he had spent the twenty-nine years
and eleven months immediately preceding these observations of Mrs. Rolfe
in learning just what those views were, that he might the better conform
to the same.

“The i-d-e-a!” chirped Alice.

“Yes, indeed. And if Mary will be guided by _me_— Upon my word, Alice,
aren’t we both too absurd! Has the wedding-day been fixed? If so, I have
not heard of it. Before _that_ happens, your Mr. Don, or whatever he is,
will have to have a talk with _me_—I mean Mr. Rolfe.” (Which, as she
went on to explain, was, as in all harmonious households, one and the
same thing. She could not remember, in fact, _when_ she had expressed an
opinion different from Mr. Rolfe’s.)

Sly was Mr. Rolfe, they say; who always let his wife have the first
say,—and then he had her just where he wanted her.

“He won’t find _me_,—or, rather, Mr. Rolfe,—so sentimental as to
refuse to hear who he is!”

In the end our spirited matron was much mollified at learning that the
Don had not been “paying court” to her daughter, and yet, at the same
time, publicly slighting her. The affair had been so sudden, etc., etc.
But Alice’s master-stroke was delivered when she told how the Don had
fought against the avowal of his love.

Ah! they never, as we men do, get so old as quite to forget all their
romance, these women!

“Honor is a good thing to begin with,” said she. “As to the church
business, I think we shall be able to manage _that_,” she added, with a
slightly influential expression about those lips which had so often
carried conviction to the peace-loving bosom of the harmonious Mr.
Rolfe.

“Provided, of course—” continued she.

“Oh, of course,” chimed in Alice.


                              CHAPTER LX.

If there was one feeling which swayed Mrs. Rolfe quite as strongly as
her religious fanaticism (to use the word of the lukewarm), it was her
absorbing love and admiration of her daughter. Not a specially
intellectual woman herself, Mary’s gifts and wide culture were a source
of continual exultation to her. “She gets her literary turn from her
father,” she used to say, truly enough; for he was a cultivated man
(there were no “cultured” men in existence then, thank God), who would
have made his mark in letters had he lived in a more stimulating
atmosphere. In fact (though Mrs. R. always denied it with a blush), he
had carried the day over more than one suitor for her hand, and won her
young heart by means of his endowments in this very direction; for while
_they_ had been confined, by the limitations of their several geniuses,
to sighing like furnaces, _he_ had made a woful ballad to his mistress’s
eyebrow; bringing victory; and the defeated went their way, full of
strange oaths.

So that a sort of sentimental interest in literature heightened Mrs.
Rolfe’s admiration for her daughter’s accomplishments.

She was her only child, too; and no one can blame her for looking upon
it as axiomatic that few men were good enough for her Mary.

Judge of her dismay, then, when she learned so suddenly that her
daughter was profoundly interested in a man whom it was quite natural
for her to look upon as a suspicious character. No wonder, then, that
she surprised her neighbors by the rapid pace at which she had crossed
the street. She walked briskly, too, when she returned from her long
talk with Alice, but her face wore a different expression.

For she was rehearsing a pleasant little drama as she hurried back
across the street.

Her daughter’s sad face had deeply pained her. It was plain to see that
if she loved not wisely, she loved, at least, too well; and she pitied
her from the bottom of her heart. Perhaps some anger had been mingled
with the softer feeling at first; but Alice had put a new face upon the
matter; and she was hurrying home to say to her daughter that she for
one (and her father for another) looked upon the alleged scepticism of
young men as the most harmless of eccentricities; and her face wore a
determined smile. She did not intend to commit herself. It would be time
enough to express her views (that is to say, Mr. Rolfe’s) when this
Enigma had given an account of himself. But if _that_ was all that could
be said against him, etc., etc., etc., etc.

And, would you believe it? the very incognito of our hero had begun to
make the imagination of this staid matron cut fantastic capers. Who
could tell? Strange things had happened before. Why not?

“Sceptic or something!” She almost laughed as she turned the knob of the
door. “The poor child should laugh, too!”

The poor child did not laugh!


                              CHAPTER LXI.

The poor child did not laugh.

“You do not know him, you do not know him,” again and again she replied,
wearily.

She might have added,—but she did not,—“You do not know me.” And after
all, what mother, of them all, knows her daughter, enveloped as she is
in a double veil? For between the old heart and the young lies the mist
of the years; and what eye can pierce aright the diffracting medium of
maternal love?

Even Doctor Alice, when called in consultation, next day, could not
probe to the bottom of the mystery.

And are there not ever some little nooks and corners of our hearts
unsuspected by our dearest friends, even?—aspirations that they would
have laughed at, perhaps,—fears which we should have blushed to
confess,—hopes, alas, withered and fallen now,—that we have never
revealed to mortal ears?

Now, within our Mary’s breast there was, I shall not say a nook or a
recess, but a dark and dismal chamber, the key of which had never left
her keeping.

Let us call it the Cavern of Religious Terror, and cut the allegory
short.

Suppose we try to put ourselves in her place, and see how things looked,
not to an average girl of that period (still less to any one of this),
but to one such as Mary was.

At the time in question, the dogma of what is known among theologians, I
believe, as that of the plenary inspiration of the Scriptures, was held
from one end of Virginia to the other.

That is to say, my Ah Yung, that every chapter, every sentence, every
word, and every syllable of the Bible had been literally inspired, and
was absolutely true. This we were expected to believe and did believe;
and by what ingenuity we were to escape the dogma of eternal damnation
I, for one, cannot see. But we made no effort to escape it, regarding
it, to a man, as the mainstay of society and the sheet-anchor of all the
virtues. A belief in hell was ranked among the necessaries of life.

“’Twas the merest luxury,” quoth Charley.

Now, what is the imagination but a kind of inner eye, revealing to us,
often with fearful distinctness, that which may be, but is not. And
imagination was, as we know, an overshadowing trait of Mary’s mind.

And what a training that imagination had! Her mother thought it was her
duty, so let that pass; but hardly had she shed her long clothes when
her precocious little head began to teem with burning lakes, and
writhing souls, and mocking demons, and worms that die not. And,
ofttimes, her little heart almost ceased to beat, as she lay in her
trundle-bed, and, with wide-staring eyes, saw her own baby-self
engirdled with unquenchable flames. For had she not fretted over her
Sunday-school lesson that very morning (longing to dress her new doll),
and said it was too long, and oh! that she hated the catechism?

Now, among those who accept this dogma, there are various ways of
dealing with it. The immense majority inscribe it among the articles of
their creed, fold the paper, label it, and file it away in some dusty
pigeon-hole, in an out-of-the way corner of their heads, and go about
their business. They are satisfied to know that it is there, and that
there is no heresy about them. A true Virginian looks upon his faith
much as he does upon a Potomac herring, and would no more think of
finding fault with the one because of a knotty point or so, than with
the other for the bones it contains. He wouldn’t be caught carrying a
stomach about with him that was capable of making wry faces over such
spiculæ, not he. Look at that noble roe, that firm flesh, as stimulating
as cognac! No cod-fish, no heresy for him!

So with the vast majority.

Then, there is another class of minds, with which to believe is to
realize. To such this article of their faith assumes abnormal
proportions, dwarfing all others. Upon this alone their glassy eyes are
fixed. Let us pass them by with bowed heads. Seeking heaven in the world
to come, they have found a hell in this.

Our Mary stood between these two classes, belonging to neither; but by
the nature of her mental constitution she leaned fearfully towards the
latter. Seeing is believing; but with Mary to believe was to see. And
from her infancy to her womanhood her fond mother had done all that in
her lay, unwittingly, to overthrow her reason. That that fair mind did
not become as sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, was due to her
father. It was he that saved, her,—unwittingly as well,—saved her
through books.

Mr. Rolfe had no son, and Mary was his only daughter. He made her his
companion in his walks and in his study; and she became, like him, an
omnivorous reader; and the baleful phantasms of her distempered spirit
grew paler in the presence of other and brighter thoughts. The process
went further. As she read and read, drawing upon all the great
literatures (when she could, in the original—else in translations),
there gradually dawned upon her a sense of the immense diversity of
human opinion.

And yet, with what undoubting tenacity each people clung to its faith!
Hindu, Turk, Greek, Spaniard, Scotchman,—each was in exclusive
possession of the Eternal Verities!

The materials of the generalization were all there; and one fine morning
she said to herself: Religious truth is simply a question of geography.

Mary Rolfe was a sceptic!

And yet she had not read one sceptical book. Where was she to find such
in Richmond?

But this demure little miss of sixteen summers did what she could to
keep her doubts to herself. How shockingly ungenteel to be an infidel!
And a female infidel! An agnostic would have been different. The very
sound of the word is ladylike; but, unhappily for our heroine, their day
had not yet come. And for a whole year there was not a more wretched
little woman in all Richmond.

Two clocks shall stare at each other, from opposite walls, year in and
year out, and agree to disagree without the least discomfort to either.
And would that we men were even as these serenely-ticking philosophers!
Alas for the shadow that falls on the friendship of Mrs. A. and Mrs. B.,
when they become adherents of rival sewing-machines! And why, because
our whilom chum now goes about with the pellets of the Homœopath in his
vest-pocket, forsaking the boluses of the Regulars, why should we turn
and rend him?

Dreading to be rent, our sweet-sixteener kept her daring speculations
locked within her bosom, and was wretched; for man’s opinions, like man
himself, are gregarious,—and a thought is as restless in solitude as a
bird cut off from its mate.

So this state of things could not last. And when Alice, after looking
very serious for a week, announced her intention of being confirmed on
the approaching visitation of the bishop, Mary had to speak. Alice was
horrified at first; but, being a plucky little soul, more given to
acting, under difficulties, than repining, she posted off to their
pastor.

He made short work of Mary’s difficulties; and, being well up in
evidential polemics, battered down her vague objections to the
credibility of Christianity with such ease, that, at the close of a
two-hours’ interview, she begged, in deep humiliation, that he would not
consider her an entirely brainless creature; so utterly frivolous had
all her objections been made to appear. Two or three books, left in her
hands, finished the business. And, a few weeks later, Mary and Alice
knelt side by side, and took upon themselves their baptismal vows.

Now, among the various phases of infidelity, there are two forms which
are strongly antithetical,—the scepticism of the body and the
scepticism of the mind. Who has not seen a vigorous young animal of our
species, his head as void of brains as his body is full of riotous
passions,—who has not seen such a one masquerading as a freethinker?
Never fear, reverend and dear sir; thinking will have to be wondrous
free before any of it passes _his_ way. Sooner or later you shall number
him among the meekest of your lambs. A hemorrhage—a twinge of gout in
the stomach—any reminder that he is mortal—and you shall see him
passing the plate along the aisles, and offering to take a class in your
Sunday-school. In fact, a few such reclaimed sheep are a positive
necessity in every flock. They point a moral. Remember what he was, and
see what he is. And the blasphemer of yesterday becomes the beacon-light
of to-day.

But when doubts have their origin in the higher rather than the lower
nature,—when a mind, at once candid and searching, gradually finds
itself forced to question dogmas learned from a mother’s lips,—for this
phase of scepticism, the cure is far more difficult, and rarely radical.
You may mow down the doubts with irresistible logic, they may be crushed
into the very earth by the enormous weight of unanimous opposing
opinion, but they are not dead. Remove the pressure, and the mind
bristles, instantly, with interrogation-points.

“No,” said her kindly pastor, patting her brown hair, “I am far from
thinking that this little head is brainless. The trouble lies in the
opposite direction. Stop thinking about things that are above the reach
of the human mind,—above it, for the very reason that they are of God.
Honestly, now, if we could grasp the meaning of every word in that Bible
of ours, as though it were a human production, would not that, of
itself, prove that it was of man? To be of God is to be inscrutable. Is
not that what a fair mind should expect? Undoubtedly. But my advice to
you is, not to bother your head about such subtleties. Stop thinking,
and go to work. You will find that a panacea worth all the logic in the
world.”

And such Mary found it to be. And her class in the Sunday-school was
soon recognized as the best. And she taught the servants of her mother’s
household, and read to them till they nodded again.

And so, when she went down to spend Christmas in Leicester, after a year
spent in these works of charity, she had forgotten that she had ever
been a doubter. Two months had passed, and she was all at sea again. She
felt that her faith was slipping from beneath her feet. She repeated to
herself, over and over again, the arguments of her pastor; she read and
re-read his books. Their logic seemed irresistible; yet it did not give
her rest. Her head was convinced,—’twas her heart that was in
rebellion. And she was woman enough to know the danger of that.

Faith or love,—which should it be? One cannot serve two masters.

“Nonsense!” said the cheery Alice, one day. “I can imagine now how he
will look, marching to church with your prayer-book in his hand!”

“No, it is not nonsense.”

“Pooh! we shall have him singing in the choir before you have been
married six months.”

Mary laughed (for who could resist the Enchantress?); and Alice, seizing
her advantage, drew picture after picture of the reclaimed Don, each
more ludicrous than the other (throwing in parenthetical glimpses of her
own Charley), till both girls were convulsed with merriment.

“No, Alice,” said Mary, at last, wiping the tears from her eyes, “it is
a very serious matter. Do you know what would happen? _He_ would not be
saved, but _I_ should be lost.”

That was what troubled Mary. That was why she could not laugh when her
mother made merry over sceptical youths. He who had spoken so well and
so strangely, down there by the Argo, was not a sceptical youth, but a
man of most vehement convictions. And she felt that she would be clay in
his hands. His faith, was formed; hers would be formed upon it. Formed
upon it? Crushed against it, rather! For, after all, though of a deeply
religious nature, as was plain, had he any religion?

That was the way we Virginians[1] looked at it. If you were not
orthodox, you didn’t count. If you were not for us, you were against us.
“I look upon all Protestant ministers as wolves in sheep’s clothing,”
said a Catholic to me. Per contra, I once asked a Presbyterian
minister—a friend of mine—how he rated Catholicism. “What do you
mean?” “Do you look upon it as a religion, for example?” He was a good
fellow, and wished to be charitable. He hung his head. He felt half
ashamed of what he was going to say. But he said it. Slowly raising his
eyes to mine, he answered, in a voice full of sadness, “I do not. I
regard it as worse than nothing.”

Ah, we were out-and-outers in those days! An error was worse than a
crime. _That_ could be atoned for, with the one, by confession and
absolution; with the other by repentance, even at the eleventh hour. But
getting into the wrong pew! “_A blind horse tumbles headforemost into a
well. He did not know it was there! Does that save his neck?_”

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

Such was the atmosphere which our Mary breathed. And—strange
psychological paradox—just in proportion as her faith weakened did its
terrors grow darker to her mind. That yawning gulf, upon the brink of
which she used to tremble as a little child, seemed to have opened
again. She believed less—she feared more. The peace she had gained was
gone. The old dark days had come back. One cannot serve two masters; for
either—

But faith or love—which?

-----

[1] Why _Virginians_? Can this so-called Mr. John Bouche Whacker be a
carpet-bagger?—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER LXII.

One day, Mary burst into Alice’s room. “Read that,” said she; and she
threw herself upon the lounge, with her face to the wall.

Alice was a brave little soul; but Mary’s pale face and tear-stained
cheeks upset her, and her hands shook a little as she unfolded the
letter. She read the first page with eager haste and contracted brows;
then turned nervously to the last (the sixteenth), and read the
concluding sentence and signature.

“Why, what _can_ the matter be, Mary? It begins well, it ends well?”

“It is the same all through.”

“The same all through! And you crying! Upon my word, Mary, you—”

“Read it.”

Those satirists who claim that nothing can stop a woman’s tongue have
never tried the experiment of handing her a love-letter. Over Alice
there now came a sudden stillness, chequered only by exclamations of
delight,—

“So nice!—beautiful!—too lovely!—A-a-a-a-h, M-a-r-y! Mary, _let_ me
read this aloud? A-a-a-h! No? You goose! A-a-a-h, too beautiful,—too
sweet for anything!—I declare I shall be heels over head in love with
him myself before— _Grac_ious, what a torrent! What vehemence! Do you
know, Mary, he almost frightens me? Well, I have read the letter; and
now, miss, be so good as to explain what you mean by scaring people so
with your white face and red eyes?”

“It is hard,” said Mary, after a pause, and trying to control her
voice,—“it is hard to give—up—all—that—love. And such love!”

“Give it up! Are you crazy?”

“Much nearer than you think. I have scarcely closed my eyes for two
nights. I feel that I cannot stand this state of things much longer.”

“What dreadful things _does_ he believe, Mary?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then write and ask him. I feel sure that you could bring him over, you
who are so brilliant and all that, you know. I wouldn’t say so to your
face, but I don’t care what compliments I pay the back of your head.”

Mary turned and laughed.

“I am glad,” continued Alice, “I am not a genius with a bee in my
bonnet; and let me tell you, there is a gigantic one, of the bumble
variety, buzzing, at this very moment, just _here_.” And she rapped
Mary’s head with the rosy knuckle of her forefinger.

Mary adopted Alice’s suggestion; and there sprang up, between herself
and the Don, a correspondence which lasted for two months. Eight or nine
weeks of theological discussion between two lovers! Think of it!

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

Think of it, but tremble not, my reader. Not one line of it all shall
you be called on to read. Were I an adherent of the Analytical and
Intellectual School, as it is called, of American Novelists, you should
have every word of it. Then you would be able to trace the most minute
processes of our Mary’s soul, and realize, step by step, how she reached
the state of mind to which this correspondence ultimately brought her.
But I will spare you; for I am a kind, good Bushwhacker, if ever there
was one.

Assume, therefore, a hundred pages, or so, of keenest Insight and most
Intellectual Dissection, and that we have reached the end of it. Here is
where we find ourselves. (No thanks; it would have bored me as much to
write it as you to read it.)

During these two months Mary has been in a perpetual ferment. She has
read all the books of evidential polemics that she could lay her hands
on, and her mind has become a very magazine of crushing syllogisms. She
has been pouring these out with all that eloquence that love is so sure
to lend a woman’s pen. Day by day she has become more thoroughly
convinced of the impregnability of her position (just as lawyers’
convictions bloom ever stronger under the irrigation of repeated
fees,—retainer, reminder, refresher, convincer). From a trembling
doubter she has grown into a valiant knight-errant of the faith, ready
to measure lances with all comers.

And what has he had to say on the other side? Nothing. Or next to
nothing. Has patted her on the head, rather, and praised her eloquence.
Has promised that if ever she turn preacher, he will be there, every
Sunday, to hear. And, instead of answering her letters, has told her
that every one made him love her a thousand times more than before. Not
an argument any more than a cliff argues with the waves that break
against it.

And, like the waves, her enthusiasm had its ebb-tides. Days of profound
discouragement came over her, when arrows she thought sure to pierce his
armor glanced harmless away and left him smiling.

Left him smiling. So she thought. But it was not so. Our little heroine
stood upon a volcano.

When she was with the Don, there was something about him which told her
what she could say to him, what not. But the paper on which he wrote was
like other paper, and gave no warning. How could she, so far away, see
the dark look that came into his face as he read this in one of her
letters:

“How can you,” she had said, at the close of an impassioned burst on the
beneficence of the Creator, as evinced in the beauties of nature,—“how
can you, as you look upon that beautiful, shining river, and the rosy
clouds that float above it, and breathe this balmy air of spring,—how
can you lift your eyes from such a scene of loveliness and bounteous
plenty as surrounds you,—how dare you raise your eyes to heaven and
say, there is no God!”

She could not see his look when he read that. All she saw was something
like this:

“I cannot pretend to argue with such a wonderful little theologian as
you,—I who know nothing of theology. But where did you get the notion
that I was an atheist? I could almost wish I were one, for the mere
happiness of being converted by you. In point of fact, I am nothing of
the kind. How could I be? I need not look at the rosy sunset, or the
smiling fields about me, to learn that there is a God. I have but to
gaze into my own heart, and upon your image imprinted there. A fool
might say that land and sea came by chance; but my Mary! Her arguments
are not needed. She herself is all-sufficient proof, to me at least,
that there exists, somewhere, a Divine Artificer. So don’t call names.
It isn’t fair. Atheist, deist, infidel, old Nick,—what arrow can I send
back in retort? Arrows I have,—a quiver full to bursting,—but all are
labelled _angel_!”

How was she to know that she stood upon a precipice? But Charley saw
that all was not well. Looking up from a letter he was reading (his face
was red from a sudden stoop to snatch, unobserved, some violets that had
fluttered out as he unfolded it). Looking up from this letter—

But Charley had his troubles, too, of which I must tell you before we go
an inch further.

Between him and Alice, as well, a controversy raged. But in the case of
this couple it was Charley that did all the arguing.

The proposition that young Frobisher maintained, in letter after letter,
was this: that when a girl had promised to marry a fellow, she should
never thereafter write to him without telling him somewhere—he did not
care a fig (not he!) whether it was in the beginning, or the end, or the
middle of the letter—that she loved him; just for the sake of cheering
a fellow up, you know, away down here in the country, and all that. He
would be satisfied even with a postscript of three words (he would), if
you would but let him name the words, etc., etc. After this she had
never written a letter without a postscript; but whether from the love
of teasing, which is innate in cats and young women, when they have a
mouse or a man in their power, or from genuine maidenly modesty, she
never said, in plain English, exactly what Charley wished to hear; as,
P.S.—_Unreasonable old goose_, or, _How could I?_ or, _I wonder if I
do?_ or, _What do you think?_ But they were the merriest letters that
ever were seen, and made Charley so happy (for all his grumbling) that
at this period of his life he used to wake up a dozen times a night,
smiling to himself, all in the dark; then float off again into a
dreamland populous with postscripts of the most maudlin description. “Do
you know,” said he, in one of his letters, “that never once in my whole
life has a woman said to me, _I love you_?”

Opening the reply hastily (to read the postscript first), the violets
had dropped out, covering the poor boy with blissful confusion. _I don’t
hate you a bit_, said the postscript.

Some metaphysical notion must have come into Charley’s head, as he read
those words _don’t hate_. Did he, perhaps, think, that somewhere between
the negative don’t and the positive hate there must lurk, though
invisible, the longed-for word love? At any rate, selecting a spot
midway, he kissed it with accuracy and fervor.

“Umgh—umgh!” grunted Uncle Dick, who had happened to step up on the
threshold just at this critical and romantic juncture.

“I did nothing of the kind!” said Charley.

“What?” asked the Don, looking up from his letter.

“Nothing,” said Charley.

“Uncle Dick!” called Charley, at the door whence the venerable butler
had vanished, “come here! I say, if ever you tell Uncle Tom—”

“Tell him what, Marse Charley?”

“You old villain! There,—go to the sideboard and help yourself!”

“Much obleeged, mahrster; my mouf is a leetle tetched wid de drought,
dat’s a fac’. And here’s many happy returns to you, likewise all
enquirin’ friends; and here’s hopin’ dat de peach may tase as sweet in
you mouf as it look to you a-hangin’ on de tree!” And he vanished,
backing out of the room, smiling and bowing—

As though a courtier quitted the presence-chamber of Louis Quatorze!

It was looking up from this very same violet-scented letter that Charley
saw the Don gazing out of the window with a troubled look. “What has
Mary been writing to the Don?” he asked Alice. “He and I don’t compare
notes, as I suppose you do. For some time past his face has been clouded
after reading one of her letters. What does it mean?”

Alice acquainted him, in her next, with the nature of the
correspondence, and was surprised at the earnestness of Charley’s
protest against the course Mary was pursuing. “If you have any influence
over Mary, stop this thing; stop it instantly. She is treading on a
mine. You and Mary are deceived by the gentleness and courtesy of his
replies. You don’t know the man. I do; and, as Uncle Dick says about a
certain mule on the place here, he isn’t the kind of man to projick
’long o’. ‘She am a sleepy-lookin’ animil, Marse Charley, and she look
like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouf; no mor’n ’twouldn’t, eff you leff
her ’lone; but I rickommen’ dat you don’t tetch her nowhar of a suddent,
leastwise whar she don’t want to be tetched. De man what tickle dat muil
in de flank, to wake her up, sort o’, will find hisself waked up
powerful, hisself. Lightnin’ ain’t a suckumstance to dat d’yar self-same
Sally-muil when she are tetched onproper to her notion. Don’t you
projick ’long o’ Sally, I tell you, mun. Rrrrup! Umgh—umgh! Good-by,
chile; for you’re a-gwine to kingdom come.’”

Alice laughed so at this comical illustration that, most likely, she
would have forgotten the injunction it enforced, but for a postscript in
these words: “It is a habit with me—an affectation, if you will—always
to say less than I mean. C. F.”

Startled by this ominous hint, Alice fluttered across the street and
into Mary’s room; and there was a field-day between them.

The conflict lasted for hours, and seemed likely to end in a drawn
battle,—a defeat, that is, for the attacking party. Alice’s old
weapons, with which she had so often gained the victory over her less
ready adversary, seemed to have lost their edge. In vain did she
coruscate with wit, bubble with humor, caper about the room in a hundred
little droll dramatic impromptus. Mary was unmoved, and sat with her
eyes bent upon the floor. At last, with a flushed face, Alice rose to
go; and it was then that she shot a Parthian arrow.

“Very well, Mary.” And her eyes looked so dark that you would never have
said that they were hazel. “Very well; have your way; but I should not
have thought it of you!”

“You are not angry with me?” said she, seizing her hand.

“No, not angry; but disappointed. I never pretended to have anything
heroic about me, Mary. I am only an every-day sort of a girl; but I can
tell you this. If I loved a man—”

“Don’t you?”

“If I loved a man, I should stand by him to the last, no matter what he
might think of the—the—Pentateuch—or even Deuteronomy.” And a twinkle
danced, for a moment, in her flashing eyes. “What he thought of
_Alice_,” added she, with a parenthetical smile, “_that_ would be the
main point with _me_. And if he loved me as the Don loves you, I would
follow him to the ends of the earth. Yes, and to the end of the world.
To the end of the world—and—and—beyond!”

A noble devotion illumined her face as she uttered these words, and
Mary’s eyes kindled in sympathy.

“Then you would marry an unbeliever?”

“Mary, if you were to fall into a river, the Don would leap in to save
you. You see him battling with waves of another kind—and—you hesitate!
Plunge boldly in,—throw your loving arms around—”

“Oh!”

“Metaphorically speaking!”

“Ah!”

“Of course!”


                             CHAPTER LXIII.

The two friends sat down and talked ever so much more. Alice did not
show Charley’s letter to Mary, but before she said good-night she
exacted a promise from her to give up her religious warfare upon the
Don.

Mary meant to keep her word, but the fates were too strong for her.

Among her relatives there was a young man—a second cousin, I
believe—whose society she greatly enjoyed; for he was well-read,
naturally bright, and a capital talker. He had studied law, and, in
fact, been admitted to the bar; but he was not strong enough for that
laborious profession, and, being an ardent student, soon broke down.
During Mary’s stay at Elmington he had had an alarming hemorrhage. This
visitation (it had occurred on Christmas Day, too) he looked upon as a
call to the ministry, to use the language of the period. And so the man
whom she had left, two months before, a bright ambitious young lawyer,
she found, on her return, an exceedingly serious theological student.

In Virginia, the relations existing between cousins of opposite sex are
pleasanter, I believe, than in most other parts of the world. At any
rate, these two were almost like brother and sister.

What kind of man was this Don? and, most important of all, in his eyes,
how did he stand as to the question of questions? It was some time
before he got the whole truth out of Mary; partly because she was loath
to tell it, partly because, as a Virginian of the period, it was
difficult for him to take it in. But it dawned on him by degrees, and
gave him all the greater concern, knowing Mary, as he did, so
thoroughly. Mary had, in fact, made an exception of him in her sceptical
days, and told him everything. And now again (when once the ice was
broken) she was as unreserved. She felt that her heart would burst if
she could not pour forth her troubles into some sympathetic ear. She had
Alice, it is true; but there are many things which a woman would sooner
say to a man than to one of her own sex.

And especially, during these conferences, was she never tired of
sketching the Don. But, as line after line of his character came out in
bolder and bolder relief, more and more convinced became her cousin that
it would be a fatal blunder on Mary’s part to unite her destiny with
that of this man, whose convictions were as firm as they were
objectionable. It was easy to see who would lead and who follow in such
partnership.

And at first he had joined the crusade against the erroneous tenets of
the Don: lending books and suggesting arguments to Mary; but he soon
gave up even the slender hopes he at first had of success, and from that
day, to Alice’s great indignation, left no stone unturned to induce Mary
to break with her lover.

And his words had great weight with Mary. His strength was rapidly
failing. The hectic flush on his wan cheeks and the unnatural lustre of
his eyes showed but too plainly that he was not long for this world; and
his hollow voice seemed to Mary, at times, almost a warning from the
next. Between him and Alice it was an even battle; victory inclining
first to one standard and then to the other. Just at the present
juncture she is perched on Alice’s banner. For Mary has promised to let
Hume and Voltaire take care of themselves for the future; and, since
logic had failed, to trust to love.

She slept well that night, and awoke next morning blithe and gay. Awoke
singing rather than sighing. Her song was short.

That evening her cousin came. She told him of her resolution. He seemed
unusually ill that day; and whether from that cause (he coughed a good
deal) or because he deemed it useless to remonstrate, he said little,
and soon took his leave, giving her, as he bade her good-night, a look
full of affectionate compassion.

Two or three days after this, on Sunday, Mary took her seat in her
mother’s pew, nestling in her accustomed corner. I hardly think she
heard much of the service; and when the pastor gave out chapter and
verse (of his sermon), his voice fell upon her outward ear merely. Her
thoughts were far away.

Ah, brother and sister Virginians, who can wonder that we stream to
church so, on Sunday? What serener half-hour can there be than when the
good man is talking to us? Have we not sat under his teaching for years?
And doth not all the world allow him to be orthodox? Shall we watch him,
then? Shall we weigh his words? _That_, being a safe man, _he_ will do.
Let him talk! He will say the right thing, never fear! Trust him! Give
him room! While we, free from the anxieties of business and the petty
cares of home, sit there, peacefully dreaming, each one of us the dreams
that each loves best!

No; I am afraid Mary did not even hear what chapter and verse the text
was from that Sunday. That Sunday, particularly; for the very day before
she had received a letter in which her lover had said something like
this: Yes, _he_ went to church now; that is, he sat in the Argo every
Sunday, from eleven till one; sat there and thought of nothing but
her,—and so found that heaven which she sought.

Strictly speaking, these were what were thought wicked words in those
days (ole Virginny neber tire); but Mary forgave, though she did not
even try to forget them. And no sooner had she taken her seat than her
thoughts flew to the Argo. She could see him as plainly as though he
stood before her; and he was thinking of her. And of her only, of all
the world!

Are you in love, lovely reader? Then you will not be hard on my poor
little heroine, who ought to have waited, I allow, till Monday.

“You will find the words of my text in II. Corinthians, vi. 14.”

In those days I sat in the Carters’ pew. The Rolfes were across the
aisle, a few pews in advance of us. Mary’s cousin was still nearer the
pulpit.

I suppose it is none of my business, but when I cast my eyes over the
placid faces of a congregation, I always fall to wondering what they are
thinking about. Not the grandmothers in Israel, but the rest?

“II. Corinthians, vi. 14,” repeated the preacher, slowly emphasizing the
figures. They all do it.

There was to be heard that faint rustle that we all know, of the people
making themselves comfortable. Here a little foot peeps cautiously
around, and, finding the accustomed stool, draws it deftly beneath snowy
skirts. There a wide sole seeks unoccupied space; while length of limb
penetrates unexplored regions, avoiding cramp. Let us adjust ourselves,
you in that corner, I in this, where we can sit and muse according to
the bent of our several backs and minds.

“II. Corinthians, vi. 14.”

My eye chanced to fall on Mary’s face just at that moment. It wore the
usual Sunday-dreamy look.

“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

She shivered.

Alice glanced quickly towards her; but the thrill had already passed.
She had regained outward composure, and sat looking at the preacher,
calm and unobtrusively attentive.

The cousin fidgeted in his seat and coughed softly in his hand.

Alice fixed her eyes upon him.

Perhaps he felt them, for a deeper glow suffused his hectic cheek.

The preacher, after a few introductory remarks on the state of things
which led the apostle to use these words, began with a sort of apology
for calling the attention of his flock to such a text. And again Alice
fixed her eyes upon the cousin, and again he seemed to feel their glow.

I shall not attempt to reproduce the sermon. His sketch of the advance
of skepticism in Europe, in England, and in the North, struck me as
labored; showing clearly that he had been set upon the task. But I shall
not criticise it. He was at home, certainly, when he pictured the life
of a pious, Christian woman whose yoke-fellow was an atheist. It was a
fearful picture (from the point of view of his hearers,—and he was
preaching to them), of which every detail was harrowing. But I leave
that picture to the imagination of my readers.

It is the last feather that breaks the camel’s back.

Alice had lost.

The dying cousin had won.


                             CHAPTER LXIV.

I have stated, elsewhere, that the dogma of the plenary inspiration of
the Scriptures was held, at this period, throughout the length and
breadth of Virginia. It was held, in truth, in a way to warm the heart
of a thoroughgoing theologian; for to doubt it was to be totally bereft
of reason. But many of my middle-aged fellow-citizens who are accustomed
to laugh at the Catholic doctrine of papal infallibility, will be
surprised when I remind them that, at that day, we believed, also, in
something very nearly akin to the plenary inspiration of sermons (those
of our own sect, of course).

And my Bushwhackerish candor compels me to go further, and to add that
it seems to me that we Virginia Protestants, at that day, carried the
dogma of parsonic infallibility to even greater lengths than Catholics
do that of the papal. For, as I understand it, it is only in matters of
faith that the Pope cannot err (and if he be infallible more than that,
I kiss his holiness’s toe and beg absolution); whereas, our Protestant
pontiffs did not hesitate to pronounce on all manner of
questions,—questions of hygiene, for example; going so far as to add an
eleventh commandment. As it is short, I will give it:

“Thou shalt not dance!” they cried in thunder tones; and, trembling,
their flocks obeyed!

Yet dancing is (as you may find in the first dictionary you shall lay
your hands on)—dancing is but the rhythmic capering of the young of our
species for a brief season (ah, _how_ brief and fleeting!). The rhythmic
capering of the boys and girls, reinforced, perhaps, by an occasional
widower (vivacious, high-prancing, nor hard to please), or else a
sporadic widow or so, forgetting her first and for getting her second.

This capering our Protestant pontiffs put down. Motion, _per se_, they
argued, was harmless; for the lamb, most scriptural of animals, frisketh
where he listeth. ’Twas the rhythm of motion that was hurtful.

“Miss Sally,” cried a colored slave and sister to her young mistress,
“you jump de rope and swing in de hammock, and you a member o’ de
church!” [Her very words; nor were they the remains of a half-forgotten
African fetich. They were a legitimate deduction from the theology
current in my young days.]

“Thou shalt not dance!” they thundered.

As though one bade the birds cease singing. And Virginia bowed her head
and obeyed.

We had our youthful sinners, of course, who wickedly refused to be
content with Blind Man’s Buff and Who’s Got the Thimble? (just as His
Holiness is bothered with his heretics). The Pope, however, wisely
remembering that this is the nineteenth century, would probably leave it
to the astronomers to say whether the earth revolves around its axis;
but as to the exclusively physiological question whether it were
injurious to dance a Virginia reel, no Virginian of those days ever
dreamed of consulting his family physician.

Am I beyond the mark, reader, when I say that the papal infallibility
pales in presence of the parsonic?

Can you wonder, then, that our poor little Mary was pale as ashes as she
hurried home that day?

Her mother walked beside her in silence. That was bitter; for during
these two months past Mrs. Rolfe had been more and more won over to the
side of the Don by what she had heard, not only from Mrs. Carter and
Alice, but from several of her acquaintance who had met him in Leicester
during the winter; and the aggregate of her favorable impressions had
been greatly strengthened by a little incident that had recently come to
her ears.

It appears that Mrs. Poythress had been greatly interested in having a
new roof and other repairs put upon the old church, and had succeeded in
raising the whole amount, with the exception of eighty dollars. Now, one
Sunday, as she was coming out of church with the congregation, a negro
man, taking off his hat, handed her a small parcel, saying, “I were
inquested to han’ you dis, ma’am,” and immediately bowed himself around
the corner of the building and disappeared. When this was opened it was
found to contain five twenty-dollar gold-pieces and a strip of paper on
which was written the word _roof_ in a disguised hand. The incident made
some stir, as such things will, in a country neighborhood. Who was this,
who was hiding from his left hand what his right hand did? The negro was
hunted down by amateur female detectives, and proved to be none other
than our friend Sam (who, it will be remembered, caught Charley and
Alice at their love-making in the Argo). But nothing could be gotten out
of honest Sam. “I was not to name no names,”—that was all he would say
(adding thereunto, in the Elmington kitchen that night, that eff a
five-dollar note wouldn’t shet a nigger mouf, twan’t no use to wase
stickin’-plaster on him).

It was never discovered who had contributed the hundred dollars, but it
was generally believed that it was the Don. As for Mrs. Rolfe, she never
doubted for one moment that it was he, basing, too, upon this
conclusion, half a dozen inferences, all favorable to the young
man,—first, that his not going to church was a transient eccentricity;
secondly, that he was a man of means; and, thirdly, that he was
freehanded with the said means, etc., etc., etc.

This trait, as I presume everybody knows, is that which, next to
personal courage, women most admire in a man. With what enthusiasm will
a bevy of girls hail a bouquet, costly beyond the means of the giver,
while the recipient of it, as she passes it from nose to nose, actually
tosses hers with pride,—yes,—because her lover has not had the
prudence to lay by what he gave for it against a rainy day and shoes for
the children. Which is enough to make a philosopher rage; and it is all
I can do to restrain my hand from levelling a sneer at the whole sex;
and I’ll do it yet, one of these days, and come out as a wit,—one of
these days when I can manage to forget that I once had a mother.

The more, therefore, Mrs. Rolfe heard of the Don, the more favorable she
grew to his suit; and the more favorable she grew to his suit the more
frequently did she allude to the absolute necessity of Mr. Rolfe’s
seeing the young man and hearing his account of himself, before he could
be allowed even to look at her Mary. It would be time enough, etc.,
etc.; but let a cloud appear on her daughter’s brow,—let her come down
to breakfast pale and worn—

“I believe, Mary,” Alice used to say, “that you often assume a rueful
countenance simply to lead your mother on to sing his praises.”

Never, in truth, had Mary felt herself so drawn to her mother as during
this trying period of her young life; and to her ineffably tender,
maternal solicitude her heart made answer with an unspoken yet
passionate gratitude.

And now this mother, who was always ready with a soothing word, walked
by her side in silence.

And Alice,—Alice, the merry and the brave,—where was she? Why does
she, contrary to her custom, hang back so far in the rear, talking to
Mr. Whacker in undertones? See, she has crossed over, and is walking
down the street on the other side! Has she, too, deserted me? Oh, that
terrible, terrible sermon! She ran up-stairs, locked her door, and threw
herself upon the lounge.

Mary was right. The same words of the preacher which had stunned her had
staggered her mother and Alice. Such was the power of the pulpit in
those days. To both, as they stepped from the church-door into the
street, the responsibility of combating the fulminations of their pastor
seemed too heavy for their shoulders.

But our plucky little Alice was only staggered, and soon rallied. She
would not go to see Mary that evening, so she told me; next morning
would be better.

And so the shades of evening came, and the shades of evening deepened
into night; and still she came not. Is it not enough that my mother
should desert me? The clock struck nine. No hope! There, the bell rang!
A soft tap on her door; not Alice’s merry rub-a-dub. A young slave and
sister announced the cousin. Mary sprang to her feet: “I won’t see him,”
she almost screamed; “tell him that!” cried she, advancing upon her late
pupil in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” with looks so fierce and gestures
so vehement as to drive her back in alarm upon the door which she had
just entered with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” stammered the Pilgrim, fumbling over the
door-knob in her confused effort to escape. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,”
added she, courtesying herself out, and shutting the door softly behind
her.

“Hi!” half whispered, half thought she to herself, as she stood upon the
landing, collecting her breath and her wits. “Hi, what de matter wid
Miss Mary? Fore Gaud, I was afeard she was gwine to bite me, I was! What
he done do, I wonder? Oh, I tell you. She done git tired o’ him a-comin’
round and a-comin’ round, and f’reverlahstin’ coughin’, and coughin’ and
coughin’, same like one o’ dese here little fice-dogs what bark and bark
and never tree nothin’, dough he do drive off de oder varmints dat you
mought cotch; and no gal don’t like dat, be she white _or_ black. He’s a
nice gent’mun, I don’t ’spute dat; but he _are_ powerful wizzened up,
dat’s a fac’. Howsomdever, I ain’t got de heart to give him no sich
message. A gent’mun is a gent’mun, for all dat, and I ain’t had no sich
raisin’. Nebberdeless, I ain’t a-blamin’ Miss Mary. She tired o’ dat
kind. Well, I likes ’em spry and sassy myself, I does, and I s’pose
folks is folks, dough dey _be_ diff’ent colors. Ahem! Ahem!”

She was nearing the parlor-door, and was clearing her throat for a
polite paraphrase, when she saw the front door gently close.

He had heard, and was gone.

Mary never saw him again. When he died, about a year afterwards, she
said that she had forgiven him; but I doubt if she knew her own heart.
There are some things a woman can never pardon.

Nor do I think that Alice has ever quite forgiven herself for her delay
at this crisis. For she feels to this day, I suspect, that had she gone
to see Mary that evening this story might have ended like a fairy-tale,
with everybody happy, just as it fares in real life. But she waited till
next morning.

And she awoke with the first twittering salutations of the birds to the
dawn; the dawn of a lovely April day. She too (for she was young and
happy) saluted Aurora; but with a sleepy smile; and readjusting the
pillow to her fair head, dozed off again; dozed off again, just as her
friend across the way, exhausted with pacing her room, had thrown
herself, all dressed as she was, upon her bed. Her mother, stealing
softly in, found her lying there, shortly afterwards, pale, haggard,
breathing hard, her features bearing, even while she slept, traces of
the struggle through which she had passed. And every now and then her
overwrought frame shook with a quick nervous tremor. Her mother wrung
her hands in silence, and turned to leave the room.

There was a letter, scaled and addressed, lying upon the table at which
her daughter wrote; while all about her chair lay fragments of other
letters, begun, but torn in pieces, and thrown upon the floor, though a
basket stood near at hand. “This will not do,” thought her mother. “She
must tell me what is in that letter before she mails it. We must look
into this matter, carefully, before any irrevocable step be taken. Shall
I take possession of it now? No, I will speak to her after breakfast.
Poor child! Poor child!” And she stole out on tiptoe.

This was not the first time that Mrs. Rolfe had visited her daughter
that night. At two o’clock in the morning, detecting the sound of
footsteps in Mary’s room, she had gone up-stairs and found her pacing
her room. She had entreated her to go to bed,—begged her to compose
herself,—had pressed her daughter to her heart and wept upon her
shoulder and bidden her good-night. Mary, hearing her mother coming, had
hoped for a word of encouragement. But Mrs. Rolfe had not dared to give
it, with the words of the preacher still resounding in her ears.

“It is all over, then,” she thought, when her mother closed the door;
and seizing her pen, began to write. Wrote letter after letter, each in
a different vein; each to be torn in pieces in turn. At last she wrote
one which was barely two pages long. As she folded the letter there fell
upon it a big tear, which she quickly dried with her handkerchief.

That tear-stain, poor child, had you left it there,—but it was not to
be.

Another fell upon the address, blotting it. She got another envelope.
This time, as she wrote the address, she averted her head. The hot tears
fell upon the table.

That would tell no tales.

Her mother had seen the letter lying there, and was startled. She would
talk to her daughter after breakfast.

After breakfast. That was Alice’s plan, too, you remember.

Mr. Rolfe, that man of peace, had slept through all the turmoil of the
night. “Where is Mary?” asked he, as he seated himself at table, next
morning; a question which evoked two simultaneous, though divergent
replies: one from Mrs. Rolfe that Mary was rather indisposed, and would
hardly be down to breakfast; the other from the Pilgrim, to the effect
that her young mistress had gone out, betimes, for a walk. “D’yar she is
now,” she added, as Mary’s footsteps were heard in the front hall.

Mr. Rolfe greeted his daughter with a smile of bright benignity. He
praised the roses in her cheeks. After all, there was nothing like fresh
air and exercise. As she bent over him and kissed him with unusual
affection, he patted her cheek; accompanying each tap with a sort of
cooing little murmur, which was his way when she caressed him. He was
delighted. He couldn’t remember when he had seen her so gay. She must
walk before breakfast every morning. What would she have? No doubt her
walk had made her ravenous. No? Yes, we all lose our appetites in
spring.

But her mother’s eye saw no roses painted by the breath of morning, but
a burning flush, rather; and when she took her daughter’s hand in hers,
it was icy cold. Her gayety, too, which rejoiced her father’s heart,
made her mother’s ache.

Presently, and while our party still lingered around the
breakfast-table, Alice came tripping in, fresh and cheery, the very
personification of that April which was abroad in the land.

Alice was not long in detecting the hysteria which lurked beneath Mary’s
assumed joyousness. What had happened? An acute attack of curiosity,
complicated with anxiety, seized upon her; and in less than a quarter of
an hour she and Mary stood in the hallway across the street, exchanging
a few words with Mrs. Carter.

“Let us go up to my room,” said Alice.

“State secrets, I suppose,” said Mrs. Carter.

“Oh, of course.” And the two girls tripped lightly up the stairs.

“How jolly you are to-day, Mary,” called out Mrs. Carter.

“Oh,” replied she from the first landing, “as merry as a lark. It’s the
bright spring weather, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s right; be happy while the sun shines, my child. The clouds
will come soon enough.”

No sooner had the girls entered Alice’s room than her face became
serious. “Sit down in that chair,” said she, in her quick, business-like
manner. “And now,” added she, drawing a seat close beside Mary, and
taking her hand, “now tell me,—what is all this?”

“I am happy, that’s all.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it is all over—and I am free—and so-o-o-o ha-ha-ha-happy!” And
throwing herself on Alice’s neck, she sobbed convulsively.

Alice stroked her friend’s hair in silence, waiting till she should
recover from this paroxysm of bliss. At last Mary began to speak.

“It is all over,” she sobbed. “It was more than my strength could bear.
After that sermon—” and she shivered.

“How all over?”

“I have broken off the engagement.”

“How? when? where?”

“I wrote the letter last night.”

“Oh,” said Alice, with a sigh of relief. “Will you just be so kind as to
let me have that letter?” added she, reaching out her hand.

“It is already mailed.”

“Mailed!” shouted Alice, springing to her feet.

“Yes. I took it to the post-office myself before breakfast.”


                              CHAPTER LXV.

In those days, before the mail-delivery system had been introduced, we
had to send to the post-office for our letters.

If we were in love, we went in person, of course.

“Where are you going?” called out Alice across the street.

Mary came over to her. “I am going to the post-office,” said she, in a
low voice.

“I will go part of the way with you,” said Alice.

The two girls walked on for a little while in silence.

“Mary,” said Alice, presently, “tell me,—what do you expect him to
say?”

“Don’t ask me that,” she said, with a shiver.

“I think I can tell you. Your letter, as you quoted it to me, severed
all relations between you. But have you not a kind of dim,
unacknowledged hope that he will recant his heresies and bridge the
chasm between you?”

Mary walked on in silence.

“It is natural that you should nourish such a hope. But suppose it
should prove delusive?”

“The die is cast. I must abide the issue. And, Alice,—though you think
I have been hasty,—I feel a profound conviction that it is best as it
is.”

“Well, good-by! Be brave.” And more than once, as she hastened homeward,
Alice passed her hand across her eyes.

Mary stood before the little square window at the post-office.

“Any letters?”

The clerk knew who she was, and the sight of her pretty, pale face lent
a certain alacrity to his calm, official legs. Briskly diving into her
father’s box, he handed her half a dozen letters. As she passed them
nervously between thumb and finger, glancing at the addresses, he held
his steady, postmasterish eye upon her. What else had he to do? Could
not that other woman who stood there, could not she wait? Was not her
nose red; and her chin, was not her chin (by a mysterious dispensation
of Providence) bumpy? Let her stand there, then, craning her anatomical
neck to catch his stony gaze. Let her wait till pretty little Miss Rolfe
sorts her letters. Ah, that’s the one she hoped to get,—that with the
distinct, yet bold and jagged address, that I have noticed so often. Ah,
that’s the one—What name, madam? Adkins? Miss Elizabeth Ann? One for
Miss Elizabeth Adkins. Beg your pardon,—five cents due, Miss Adkins.

My reader, be pretty. Let me entreat you—be pretty, if you can in
anywise compass it. If not, be good. Even that is better than nothing.
It will be a comfort to you in your declining years.

And your little nephews and nieces will rise up, some day, and call you
blessed.

“Will you be so kind as to put these back in the box?”

The clerk bowed with a gracious smile; and Mary, placing three or four
letters in her pocket, left the building, and turned in the direction of
the Capitol Square. She passed in through the first gate, and hurried
along the gravel path. By the time she had reached the first seat she
had grown so weak that she was glad to throw herself upon it.

Had Mary had her eyes about her, she would have been struck with the
unwonted aspect of the Square. Our pretty little park, usually the
resort of merry children, wore, on this particular day, a rather serious
look. Men, in earnest conversation, stood about in groups. Others
hurried past, without even giving her pretty face the tribute of a
glance. But she saw nothing, heeded nothing; not even the dark,
gathering throng which crowned the summit of the green slope in front of
the Capitol; though it was not a stone’s throw from where she sat.

She drew her letters from her pocket, placing the one with the jagged
address quickly beneath the others. She tore open an envelope and began
to read. The letter was from a former schoolmate,—a bright girl, but
its cleverness gave Mary no pleasure now, but seemed frivolity, rather;
and as for the cordial invitation (on the eighth page), before she got
to that she had thrust the letter back into its cover. She gave but a
glance at the contents of the next. The third made her forget herself,
for an instant. It was a large, business-looking envelope, stamped New
York; and she gave a quick little start, when, upon opening it, a cheque
fluttered down before her feet. As she read the accompanying letter, a
sudden flash of joyful surprise illumined her face when she found that
her article (mailed with many misgivings two months ago, and long since
forgotten) had been accepted. A sudden flash of joyous surprise,
followed by quick gathering clouds; for, as she stooped to pick up the
cheque, a fourth letter slid from her lap and fell upon it. The
characteristic hand in which it was addressed she had often admired; it
was so firm and bold. Was it her imagination that transformed it now?
Was it changed? Was it more than firm now, and had its boldness become
ferocity? A sudden revulsion came over Mary; and upon the words of the
publishers—words of commendation and encouragement, which, a fortnight
since, would have filled her young heart with exultation,—for would not
_he_ be proud?—more than one big tear fell.

But that fourth letter remained unread. She held it in her hand, as one
does a telegram, sometimes, dreading to open it.

Her own to him had been brief and to the point; giving him to understand
that their engagement was at an end, without betraying the fact that her
heart, too, was broken. She had even dried the tears that fell upon the
paper, you remember. She had begged his pardon, of course, but had
purposely excluded from her language all traces of feeling. As the thing
had to be done, it should be done effectually.

What would he do? What would he say? A thousand possibilities had been
dancing through Mary’s mind.

First and foremost, would he recant?

Inconceivable! Still, this hope refused to vanish.

Would he be violent? Would his reply be a burst of fierce indignation?
Very likely. Yes, that was just what one might expect from such a man.

Would he be sarcastic? Will he sneer at a religion which can make me
break my word? That was what she dreaded most of all. Not, oh male
reader (if I shall have any such), not lest his flings and gibes should
wound _her_. If you think that, sir, you have never penetrated into the
mysteries of the female heart. It was a dread lest he—lest HE should
descend to such weapons,—lest this soaring eagle of her imagination
should stoop to be a mousing owl. A Hero may not use poisoned arrows;
least of all against a woman. She had never known the Don to use a
sarcastic word. He was too earnest, too fearfully earnest to be
satirical. He left that to triflers, male and female. He was never
witty, even. He is above it, Mary used to say, within her heart, with
that blessed alchemy whereby women know how to convert into virtues the
blemishes of those whom they love. No, thought she; let him upbraid me;
let him tell me that I have been false to my word; let him even say that
I have proven myself unworthy to link my destiny with his (and am I
worthy of the homage of such a heart? Did not even unsentimental Alice
say that a true woman would follow the man she loved to the ends of the
earth?); no; let him cover me with fierce reproaches,—but let him not
be little! It is enough, and more than enough, that I have to give him
up. Let his image remain untarnished in my heart!

Or, would his letter be a broken-hearted wail? She hoped not,—so she
said, at least; and let us try to believe her.

Pressing her hand upon her heart for a moment, to calm its tumultuous
throbbing, she broke the seal of the letter, took in the first page at
one mad, ravenous glance, and the hand that held the sheet fell upon her
lap.

No sarcasms, no fierce reproaches, no wail of a broken heart!—no
anything that she had thought possible.

Brief, yet not curt, he accepted her decree without a murmur; as though
a prisoner bowed in silence under the sentence of the judge. No
commonplace, no rhetoric; no trace of feeling; and yet no flippant
suggestion of the want of it. In a word, his letter was an absolutely
impenetrable veil. As though he had not written. Mary was stunned.

She had seen, as she drew the letter from the envelope, that the top of
the second page contained little more than the signature. She had not
strength, just yet, to read the dozen concluding words. She leaned back
upon the bench, resting her poor, dizzy head upon her hand. She heard
nothing, saw nothing. Yet there was something to see and something to
hear.

The craunching of many feet upon the gravel walk,—the feet of strong,
earnest men. And every now and then women passed, with faces pale but
resolute. And here, close beside her, a mob of boys, with eager eyes,
sweep across the greensward, unmindful of the injunction to keep off the
grass. Movement everywhere. The very air of the peaceful little park
seemed to palpitate.

Then a sudden hush!

She turned the page and read,—

“It is not probable that we shall ever meet again, and I therefore bid
you an eternal farewell.”

A shiver ran through her frame. A moment afterwards she leaped from her
seat with a piercing shriek; for almost at the very instant that those
cruel words froze her heart a terrific sound smote upon her ear.

A few feet from where she sat the fierce throats of cannon proclaimed to
the city and the world that old Virginia was no longer one of the United
States of America.


                             CHAPTER LXVI.

Four years have passed since our story opened, and the autumn of 1864 is
upon us. For more than three years Virginia has been devastated by war.
Most of Leicester’s pleasant homes have been broken up. My grandfather,
however, trusting to his gray hairs, had remained at Elmington. The
Poythresses were refugees in Richmond. Charley, who was now a major,
commanding a battalion of artillery in the army defending Richmond, had,
two months before, been taken in an ambulance-wagon to Mr. Carter’s. A
bullet had passed through his body, but he was now convalescent. Any
bright morning you might see him sunning himself in the garden. The
house was crowded to overflowing with refugee relatives and friends from
the invaded districts.

And illumined by a baby.

“He was born the very day I was wounded,” said Charley. “I remember how
anxious I was to see him before I died.”

“I knew you wouldn’t die,” said Alice; “and you didn’t!”

“I am here,” said Charley.

So, fair reader, Charley, in the last week of September, 1864, was a
father two months old. As for the baby (and I hereby set the fashion of
introducing one or more into every romance[1]), his mother had already
discovered whom he was like. He was a Carter, every inch of him,
especially his nose. But he had his father’s sense of humor,—there was
not the slightest doubt of _that_. For when Charley, who, in speaking to
the infant, always alluded to himself in those words,—when Charley,
chucking him gingerly under the chin, would ask him what he thought of
his venerable p-p-p-p-pop, he could be seen to smile, with the naked
eye. To smile that jerky, sudden-spreading, sudden-shrinking smile of
babyhood. You see it,—’tis gone! Ah, can it be that even then we dimly
discern how serious a world this is to be born into!

Major Frobisher’s battalion was in front of Richmond. The Don and I were
under General Jubal Early, in the lower valley,—he a captain in command
of the skirmishers of the Stonewall Division, I a staff-officer of the
same rank.

I know nothing which makes one’s morning paper more interesting than the
news of a great battle. It’s nice to read, between sips of coffee, how
the grape and canister mowed ’em down; and the flashing of sabres is
most picturesque, and bayonets glitter delightfully, in the columns of a
well-printed journal. Taking a hand in it—that’s different. Then the
bodily discomfort and mental inanition of camp-life. Thinking is
impossible. This, perhaps, does not bear hard upon professionals, with
whom, for the most part, abstention from all forms of thought is normal
and persistent; but to a civilian, accustomed to give his faculties
daily exercise, the routine-life of a soldier is an artesian bore. So,
at least, I found it. No doubt, with us, the ever-present consciousness
that we were enormously outnumbered made a difference. One boy, attacked
by three or four, may be plucky. It is rather too much to expect him to
be gay. I was not gay.

It was different with our friend, Captain Smith. He was one of the
half-dozen men I knew in those days who actually rejoiced in war. _He
longed for death_, my lovely and romantic reader is anxious to be told;
but I am sorry I cannot give her any proofs of this. It was Attila’s
_gaudium certaminis_ that inspired him. He was never tired of talking of
war, which, with Hobbes, he held to be the natural state of man. At any
rate, said he, one day, drawing forth his Iliad and tapping it
affectionately, they have been hard at it some time.

This little volume was on its last legs. He had read it to pieces, and
could recite page after page of it in the original. How closely, he
would say, we skirmishers resemble the forefighters of Homer. He never
spoke of his own men save as Myrmidons.

He had become an ardent student, too, of the art of war, and had Dumont
and Jomini at his fingers’ ends. Indeed, I am convinced that he would
have risen to high rank had he not begun, and for two years remained, a
private in the ranks. At the time of which we speak, his capacity and
courage were beginning to attract attention; and more than one general
officer looked upon Captain Smith as a man destined to rise high.

It remains for me to say that he and Mary have never met since that
farewell letter. What his feelings are towards her I can only
conjecture; for, although he frequently speaks of the old times, her
name never passes his lips. An analytical writer could tell you every
thought that had crossed his mind during all these years, and, in twenty
pages of Insight, work him up, by slow degrees, from a state of tranquil
bliss to one of tumultuous jimjams. But, if you wish to know what my
characters feel and think, you must listen to what they say, and see
what they do; which I find is the only way I have of judging of people
in real life. I should say, therefore (for guessing is inexpensive),
that the captain’s lips were sealed, either by deep, sorrowing love, or
else by implacable resentment. Choose for yourself, fair reader. I told
you, long ago, that this book is but the record of things seen or heard
by Charley, or by Alice, supplemented occasionally by facts which
chanced to fall under my own observation. Even where I seemed to play
analytical, through those weary chapters touching Mary’s religious
misgivings, I was not swerving from the line I had laid down. Every word
therein written down is from the lips of Mary herself, as reported to me
by Alice. Now, Charley tells me that never once did Captain Smith
mention Mary’s name, even to him. How, then, am I to know what were his
feelings towards her? I remember, indeed, that once a young lieutenant
of his, returning from furlough, greeted him with warmth; adding, almost
with his first breath, that he had met a friend of his—a lady—in
Richmond,—Miss Rolfe—Leigh Street—I spent an evening there—we talked
a great deal of you—

The captain touched the visor of his cap.

Here was a chance of finding out what he thought!

“She said she—she said she—”

The young fellow had met a siren during his furlough, and fallen
horribly in love himself (as he told me, a few moments afterwards, in a
burst of confidence), and would willingly have invented a tender phrase
for the consolation of his captain, whom he adored; but truth forbade.

“She said she was glad to hear you were well.”

“Miss Rolfe is very kind,” replied the captain, again touching his cap.

The young officer glanced at his chief, and instantly fell back upon the
weather. “I think there is a storm brewing,” he faltered.

“Very likely,” replied the captain of the Myrmidons.

-----

[1] Is this the language of a bachelor?—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER LXVII.

      [LETTER FROM CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH TO MAJOR CHARLES FROBISHER.]

                                      Fisher’s Hill, September 21, 1864.

My dear Charley:

Many thanks to your dear wife for the frequent bulletins she has found
time to send me in the intervals of nursing you, getting well herself,
and worshipping King Charles II. Have you agreed upon a name yet? Or,
rather, has Alice settled upon one? For I am told women claim the right
of naming the first.

Old boy, when I heard that a bullet had gone clean through you I thought
I had seen the last of you; and here you are on your pins again! A far
slighter wound would have sufficed to make “darkness veil the eyes” of
the stoutest of Homer’s heroes. What pin-scratches used to send them to
Hades!

And now, Patroklus, I will tell you why I refused, at the opening of the
war, to enter the same company of artillery with you. Your feelings were
wounded at the time, and I wanted to tell you why I was so obstinate,
but could not. To confess the honest truth, I had not the pluck to place
myself where I might have to see you die before my eyes. It would have
been different were we warring around Troy. There, I could have helped
you, on a pinch, and you me. But these winged messengers of death, who
can ward them off, even from the dearest friend!

I had a cruel trial in last week’s battle. When it became necessary to
order Edmund’s company to advance, my heart sank within me. [Edmund was
Mr. Poythress’s youngest child, a lad of barely sixteen summers, who had
chafed and pined till he had wrung from his mother a tearful consent to
his joining the army.] “If I do not come back,” he whispered in my ear,
“tell mother that her ‘baby’ was man enough to do his duty,—for I am
going to do it.” “Your company is moving,” I replied, in as stern a
voice as I could muster; for I felt a rush of tears coming; and he
bounded into his place. I have seen fair women in my day, and lovely
landscapes, and noble chargers; but never have my eyes beheld anything
so surpassingly beautiful as that ingenuous boy springing forward, under
a rain of bullets, with a farewell to his mother on his lips, and the
light of battle on his brow. I held my breath till he disappeared within
the wood. Why is it that we all shudder at the dangers of those we love,
and yet can be calm when our own lives hang by a thread? Is it not
because, while we know that the loss of a true friend is one never to be
repaired, and which casts a shadow upon our lives that can never be
lifted [Charley keeps this letter, with another little note, which you
will read later on, in a blue satin case, that Alice has embroidered
with forget-me-nots. He showed it to me on the nineteenth of last
October. The satin is all faded (and spotted, here and there) but time
has not dulled the colors of the flowers], there is a profound, though
veiled conviction, deep down in the heart of hearts of all of us, that,
as for ourselves, it were better were we at rest? It seems to me that it
is only the instinctive fear of death, which we share with the lower
animals, and that conscience which makes brave men, _not_ cowards of us
all, that nerves such of us as have the cruel gift of thought to bear up
to the end, against the slings and arrows of the most favored life,
even. But it is a shame that I should write thus to a man with a
brand-new baby!

I cannot picture to myself Alice as a mother; though, thanks to her
graphic pen, I have a very clear conception of you as pater familias. I
have laughed till I cried over her accounts of you sunning the youngster
in the garden while the nurse was at her dinner, and the way you held
him, and the extraordinary observations you see fit to make to him. I
can’t blame him for smiling. The andante in Mozart’s D minor quartet is
very beautiful; but never did I expect to hear of Charles Frobisher
extemporizing words to it as a lullaby, while he rocked his infant to
sleep!

But it is time I gave you some account of our late disastrous battle at
Winchester. In order to understand it, you must have before your mind a
picture of the region in which it was fought.

The valley of Virginia is a narrow ribbon of land, as it were,
stretching diagonally across the State, between the Blue Ridge and
Alleghany Mountains. As its fertility attracted settlers at an early
date, its forests have mostly fallen years ago. This is especially true
of the region around Winchester, which is situated in the midst of a
broad, fertile plain, broken by rolling hills, crowned, here and there,
by the fair remains of singularly noble forests. One would say, standing
upon an eminence, and surveying the smiling landscape, that this lovely
plain was fashioned by the hand of the Creator as the abode of plenty
and eternal peace. Yet a poet, remembering that it is not peace, but war
that man loves, could not, in his dreams, picture to himself a more
beautiful battle-field. And if I have to fall, may it be on one of thy
sunny slopes, valiant little Winchester; and may the last thing my eyes
behold be the handkerchiefs waving from thy housetops. Such women are
worth dying, yes, even worth living for.

Observe, therefore, that the plains of Winchester are admirably adapted
for the rapid and intelligent manœuvring of large masses of troops.
Artillery, infantry, cavalry,—every arm of the service may move in any
direction with perfect facility. And I need not tell an old soldier that
such a field gives overwhelming advantage to a greatly superior force.
When a general, as his troops advance to the attack, can see just where
the enemy are, and how far they extend,—can see their reserves hurrying
forward, and knows that when they are all hotly engaged he can push
heavy masses of fresh troops around both flanks, and attack in the rear
men who are already outnumbered in front, what can save the weaker army
from annihilation? And yet, on the nineteenth of this month, Early’s
little army of ten thousand troops withstood, in front of Winchester, in
the open field, without breastworks, from dawn till late in the
afternoon, the assaults of forty thousand of the enemy. [_Note._—This
is an error on the part of the captain, but I retain his statement of
the numbers engaged, just as he gives them, simply to show what was the
universal belief of our soldiers at the time,—that they were
outnumbered four to one. The true figures show that Early had fifteen
thousand, Sheridan forty-five thousand men,—or only three to one. _J.
B. W._][1] How a solitary man of us escaped I shall never be able to
understand.

Possibly you have not seen in the papers that on the seventeenth Early
sent our division down the valley to Martinsburg (twenty-two miles) to
make a reconnoissance. We did a little skirmishing there, and on the
next day encamped, on our return, at a place called Bunker’s
Hill,—named, I presume, in honor of the Bunker’s Hill on which Boston,
with a magnanimity unparalleled in history, has erected an imposing
monument to commemorate the gallant storming of Breed’s Hill by the
British. Here we lay down to rest. I will not say to sleep; for never,
since the beginning of the war, had I felt so profoundly anxious.
Picture to yourself our situation.

There we were, twelve miles down the valley, twenty-five hundred men;
while, near Berryville, over against our main body of about eight
thousand men at Winchester, lay an army forty thousand strong. Suppose
Sheridan should attack in our absence? True, Early had marched over to
Berryville, a few days before, and offered him battle in vain. But
suppose he _did_ attack? Could he not in an hour’s time (for forty
thousand against eight is rather _too_ much) drive Early’s force
pell-mell across the pike, and, with his immense force of cavalry,
capture the last man he had? And then _we_ would have nothing to do but
march up the valley, like a covey of partridges, into a net.

Such were the thoughts which flashed across my mind, with painful
intensity, at dawn next morning. Weary with anxious thinking, I had
fallen to sleep at last. The boom of a cannon swept down from
Winchester. We are lost, was my first thought. Our army will be
annihilated. Sheridan will set out on his march to the rear of Richmond
to-morrow morning.

I rose without a word, as did others around me, and completed my toilet
by buckling on my sword and pistols. There, on my blanket, lay Edmund,
sleeping the sweet, deep sleep of boyhood. I could hardly make up my
mind to arouse him. “Get up,” said I, touching his shoulder; “they are
fighting at Winchester.” “They are!” cried he, leaping to his feet. The
_gaudium certaminis_ was in his eyes. The boy is every inch a soldier.

We hurried up the turnpike without thinking of breakfast, the roar of
the battle growing louder as we advanced. Edmund chattered the whole
way, asking me, again and again, whether I thought it would be all over
before we got there. He had not yet been in a battle, and was full of
eager courage. I told him I thought he would have a chance at them,
though I actually thought that all would be over before we reached the
ground. And what do you suppose we learned as we neared the field? That
Ramseur, with his twelve hundred men covering our front with hardly more
than a skirmish line, had held in check the heavy masses of the enemy
all this time! They had been attacked at dawn; we had marched twelve
miles; and there they were still, Ramseur and his heroic little band of
North Carolinians. And I single out the North Carolinians by name, not
so much because of their courage, as of their modesty.

Well, we were beaten that day, and badly beaten. That we were not
annihilated is what I cannot comprehend. And why we are allowed to rest
here and recuperate, with a vastly superior army, flushed with victory,
in our front, is equally difficult to understand. Why were we not
attacked at dawn next day? Yet, that he has not done so does not
surprise me, after what I saw of his generalship at the close of the
late battle. Put yourself beside me, and see what I saw on the afternoon
of September 19th.

We are standing on an open hill, just in rear of where our troops have
fought so stubbornly the livelong day. Where is our army? It no longer
exists. It has been hammered to pieces. Here and there you see a man
slowly retiring, and loading his rifle as he falls back. Every now and
then he turns and fires. One here, and one there,—this is all the army
we have.

Now look over there, at that field, to the left of the position lately
held by us. Those are the enemy’s skirmishers, advancing from a wood.
Their long line stretches far away, and is lost to view behind that rise
in the hill. At whom are they firing? Heaven knows, for there is no
enemy in their front. And now the dense masses of their infantry appear,
in rear of the skirmishers, and glide slowly across the hill, like the
shadow of a black cloud. Come, Edmund, cheer up, and have a crack at
them. (The boy is standing apart, his powder-begrimed face streaked with
decorous tears.) Set your sight at six hundred yards. Come here, and let
me give you a rest on my hip. Yes, the man with the flag. Ah, you have
made a stir among them. The line moves on, but one man lies stretched
upon the field, with two others kneeling beside him. There is the making
of a sharpshooter in the boy!

And what ponderous form is this that comes towards us, limping and
disconsolate? ’Tis our friend Jack. He, I need hardly tell you, ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻
✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ But he lost heart when his
powerful charger fell beneath him, disembowelled by a cannon-ball. Poor
Bucephalus! He had carried him through twenty battles as though he were
a feather; and where was he to find another horse that could carry him
at all! (Edmund tells a good story of Jack. He says that while he stood
lamenting the death of his valiant steed, one of our advancing brigades,
first staggering under the heavy fire, then halting, were beginning to
give way. “Boys,” cried Jack (he will have his joke), “boys, follow me!
If they can’t hit me, they can’t hit anybody!” Edmund says that some of
the soldiers laughed; and that as they followed the burly captain he
heard one of them say to his neighbor, “Mind now; if they do hit him, I
claim his breeches as a winter-quarters tent.”)

Look, now, at those dark masses, halted in full view on that rising
ground to our right. They are as near Winchester as we are. What are
they doing there? Surely they can see that there are no troops between
themselves and the town! Why do they not go and take it? Can it be their
advance has been checked by the stray shots of a score of retreating
sharpshooters?

Now turn and look a mile away, to our left. See that dense cloud of
dust, lit up with the flashing of carbine-shots, the gleaming of sabres,
and the glare of bursting shells! There, along the pike, our handful of
cavalry, struggling bravely with overwhelming odds, is falling back upon
the town. Come, Edmund, there is no use staying here any longer. Yes, I
think they will get there before us. Pluck up your spirits, my boy; a
true soldier shows best in adversity.

I have not tried, my dear Charley, to give you a military account of
this battle. I have striven, instead, to lay before you a picture of the
field as it appeared when Edmund, Jack, and I sadly turned towards
Winchester. It was then the middle of the afternoon. Would you believe
that we reached the town in safety,—entered a house, whose fair inmates
gave us bread (it was all—almost more than all they had),—retired,
afterwards, up the pike, along which our soldiers straggled in twos and
threes,—went into camp,—arose next morning,—and made our way to
Fisher’s Hill? And here we are still, resting as quietly as though no
enemy were in our front!

I have known men to leave the gaming-table, after a big run of luck, so
as to spend their winnings before the tide turned. Perhaps our friends
the enemy wish to enjoy their glory awhile before risking the loss of it
in another battle; but it isn’t war.

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

                                                            Yours, ever,
                                                                   Dory.

-----

[1] See Geo. A. Pond’s “Shenandoah Valley Campaigns,” if more minute
accuracy is desired.—_Ed._


                            CHAPTER LXVIII.

“Jack,” said Alice, “every time I read this letter of poor Dory’s, I
find it harder to understand how General Sheridan has so high a
reputation in the North as a soldier. Can you explain it?”

“I cannot,” I replied, thumping the table fiercely with my fist; for
every Whacker molecule in me stood on end.

“I can,” put in Charley, in his dry way.

I turned and fixed my eyes on that philosopher. His were fixed upon the
ceiling. His head rested upon the back of his chair, his legs (they are
stoutish now) were stretched across another.

“The deuse you can!” for my sturdy Saxon atoms were in arms.

Charley removed his solid limbs from the chair in front of him, with the
effort and grunt of incipient obesity [incipient obesity indeed! and
from _you_! whe-e-_ew_! _Alice_], and, walking up to the mantel-piece,
rested both arms upon it at full length; then, tilting his short pipe at
an angle of forty-five degrees, he surveyed me with a smile of amiable
derision. “Yes, I can,” said he, at last. And with each word the short
pipe nodded conviction.

“Do it, then,” said I.

“I will,” said he. And diving down into his pocket, he drew forth a
manuscript; and striking an attitude, and placing his glasses (_eheu,
fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni_) upon his oratorical nose, he
unfolded the paper. Clearing his throat:

“HANNIBAL!” began he, in thunder-tones; then, dropping suddenly into his
usual soft voice, and letting fall his right hand containing the paper
to the level of his knee,—“this,” he added, peering gravely at us over
his spectacles, “is my Essay on Military Glory!”

Alice made herself comfortable, and spread out her fan; for laughing
makes her warm nowadays.

Had she any right to look for humor in an essay by her husband? Look at
her own chapter on the loves of Mary and the Don. A more sentimental
performance I never read. Show me a trace therein, if you can, of witty,
sparkling Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes! Look, for the matter
of that, at this book of mine. Why, the other day, glancing over the
proofs[1] of a certain chapter, and forgetting for the moment, as I read
the printed page, that I had written it, would you believe it, my eyes
filled with tears? (And a big one rolled down so softly that I started
when it struck the paper.) Is this, cried I, the jolly book that my
friends expect of me? Alas, fair reader, fellow-pilgrim, through this
valley of shadows, I trust full many a sun-streak may fall across your
path. As for me,—I can only sing the song that is given me.

-----

[1] Mr. Whacker must mean that he _intended_ “glancing over the
proofs.”—_Ed._


                             CHAPTER LXIX.

[Being an Essay on Military Glory; by Charles Frobisher, Esquire, M.A.
  (Univ. Va.); late Major of Artillery C. S. A.

_Omnibus, mentis compotibus_, SKIPIENDUM, _utpote quod_ TINKERII MOLEM
  NON VALEAT.]

Charley shifted his manuscript to his left hand, and smoothing down the
leaves with his right, and glancing at the paper, raised his eyes to
mine. The tip of his forefinger, placed lightly against the tip of his
nose, lent to that organ an air of rare subtlety.

“A julep,” he began, “differs from a thought in this: that while—”

“A julep!” cried Alice; “why, just now you began with Hannibal.”

Charley stood for a moment, smiling, as he toyed with the leaves of his
essay with the forefinger of his right hand.

“True; I had turned the thing upside down, and was reading it backwards.
A julep,” he began again, with an authoritative air—

“What connection,” interrupted Alice, “can there be between juleps and
military men?”

“Innocence,” ejaculated Charley, raising his eyes to heaven, “thy name
is Alice!”

“Go on; I shall not interrupt you again.”

“A julep differs from a thought in this: that while an average man goes
to the bottom of the former, of the latter only philosophers can sound
the depths.” With that he sat down.

“Is that the end of your Essay on Military Glory?” I asked.

“No. That is the first round. I call for time. I am exhausted by the
vastness of the generalization.” And leaning back in his chair, he
closed his eyes with a sigh of profound lassitude. “My dear,” said he,
presently, in a feeble whisper,—“my dear, don’t you think this lecture
would go off better were it illustrated?”

Alice looked puzzled for a moment, then rose with a bright laugh, and,
making a pass at Charley (who minds Jack?) which he dodged, tripped
briskly out of the room.

“Charley,” said I, “you are a boundless idiot!”

“Too true; but there is method in my madness.” which I found to be so
when Alice (who could have wished a more charming waitress?) returned
with the illustrations.

Illustrations in the highest form of art; for they appealed to the ear
with the soft music of their jingle, the nostrils by their fragrance,
the touch by their coldness, to the eye by the fascinating contrast of
cracked ice and vivid green; while the imagination, soaring above the
regions of sense, beheld within those frosted goblets, jocund, blooming
summer seated in the lap of rimy winter,—or the triumph of man over
nature.

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

“What kind of an idiot did you say?” said Charley, as we chinked
glasses.

“I couldn’t find any straws,” said Alice.

“I accept your apology,” said Charley. His voice sounded soft, mellow,
and far away; for his nose was plunged beneath a mass of crushed ice.
“Straws,” added he, growing magnanimous, “they are only fit to show
which way the wind blows.” And with a magnificent sweep of his left hand
he indicated his disdain for all possible atmospheric currents. “Ladies
and gentlemen,” added he, as he rose from his seat; and this time there
was an indescribable jumble in the voice of the orator—(not at all, Mr.
Teetotaller! ’twas caused by the cracked ice),—for as Charley rose to
continue the reading of his Essay on Military Glory, he had pointed the
stem of his goblet at the ceiling; striving, at the same time, by a
skilful adjustment of his features, to prevent its contents from falling
on the floor,—such great store did Alice set by her new carpet. But, of
course, when he opened his mouth to say ladies and gentlemen, a baby
avalanche fell in upon his organs of speech; so that he didn’t manage to
say anything of the kind. “That,” said he, placing the glass upon the
table, “will do as a vignette; the illustrations we shall contrive to
work in farther on.”

One julep gives Charley the swagger of a four-bottle man.

“Where was I?” asked he, drawing the manuscript from his pocket. “I’ll
begin again. HANNIBAL! No, confound it! Ah, here we are: “An average man
has strength to go to the bottom of a julep; only a philosopher can
sound the depth of a thought.”

At these words Alice rose from her seat, and, leaning forward, first
fixed a scrutinizing glance upon her husband, then advanced towards him
with a twinkle in her merry-glancing hazel eye.

“If half the audience,” said Charley, with an imperious wave of the
hand, “will persist in wandering over the floor, the reading is
suspended.”

Alice took her seat, and did nothing but laugh till the end of the
chapter. I laughed, too, but without exactly knowing why. But laughter
(singularly enough,—for it is a blessing) is contagious. And then the
julep had been stiff; so that the very tables and chairs about the room
seemed to beam upon me with a certain twinkling, kindly
Bushwhackerishness.[1]

“Here’s a lot of stuff that I shall skip,” began Charley; and he turned
over, with careless finger, leaf after leaf. As he did so Alice rose
slightly from her seat with a peering look.

“Who is reading this Essay on Military Glory?” asked Charley, with a
severe look at his wife over his glasses (alas, alas, _nec pietas
moram?_).

“Very well; go on,” said Alice, dropping back into her chair with a
fresh burst of laughter. She had had no julep. What was she laughing at?

“It consists (my opening) of a series of illustrations, showing how much
nonsense comes to be believed through people’s not going to the bottom
of things. We suppose ourselves to have an opinion (there is no commoner
delusion), but we fail to subject that opinion to any crucial test;
though nothing is easier. The crucial test, for example, of sulphuretted
hydrogen, is a certain odor which we encounter, when, with incautious
toe, we explode an egg in some outlying nest which no boy could find
during the summer—”

“That will do,” said Alice; though why women should turn up their
blessed little noses at such allusions is hard to understand, seeing
what keen and triumphant pleasure they all derive from the detection of
unparliamentary odors at unexpected times and places.

“I have here,” continued Charley, carelessly turning the leaves of his
manuscript, “a nestful of such illustrations.”

“We will excuse you from hatching them in our presence,” said Alice; and
with wrinkled nose she disdainfully sniffed a suppositious egg of
abandoned character.

“I have already passed them over. After all, what is the use of them?
You and Charley can understand what I mean without them; and if you can,
why not the reader, too? Are readers idiots? I’ll plunge _in medias
res_. Let us begin here:” (reading) “It is the same with military glory.
How many battles have been fought since the world began? Arithmetic
stands pale in the presence of such a question! In every one of these
conflicts one or the other commander had the advantage. How many of them
are famous? Count them. For every celebrated general that you show me, I
will show you a finger—or a toe—”

“You are too anatomical by half,” protested Alice.

“Why is this? Think for a moment? Why is this victor famous, that victor
not? It is the simplest thing in the world if you will but apply the
crucial test.”

Charley paused in his reading and peered gravely over his glasses. “What
is it, goose?” asked his admiring spouse.

“The crucial test is disparity of numbers. Formulæ: equality, victory,
obscurity,—disparity, victory, glory. There you have it in a nutshell.
Example (from Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire): imperator
of the West and imperator of the East, battling, with the world as a
stake. Innumerable but equal hosts. Days of hacking and hewing. Victory
to him of the East (or West). His name? Have forgotten it. Equality,
victory, obscurity!

“See? By the way, Jack, does not the brevity of my military style rather
smack of Cæsar’s Commentaries?

“Again—scene, Syria. Christians of the Byzantine empire, and
Mahometans. Final struggle. Vast but equal armies. Three days of
carnage. Remnant of Christians decline crown of glory. Name of victor? I
pause?—and so on, and so on, and so on.

“But now, _per contra_, read, by the light of our hypothesis, the
following:

                           PARADIGM OF GLORY.

        Nominative Napoleon    Italy      disparity victory glory
        Genitive   Cæsar       Pharsalia    ditto    ditto  ditto
        Dative     Alexander   Persia       ditto    ditto  ditto
        Accusative Zengis Khan Asia         ditto    ditto  ditto
        Vocative   Sheridan    Winchester   ditto    ditto  ditto
        Ablative   Hannibal—”

“Ah, you have gotten to him at last,” said Alice.

“Yes, my dear,” said Charley, raising his eyes from the manuscript; “but
the vignettes grow dim. Let’s have an illustration in honor of the
victor of Cannæ. Let there be lots of ice as a memorial of the
avalanches he defied, piled mountain-high because of the Alps he
overcame. Typify with mint the glorious verdure of Italy as it first
bursts upon his view.”

Alice typified—

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

“After all,” said Charley, “this is a pretty good old world to live in.”
And he fillipped, gently, the rim of his goblet with his middle finger.
(Ching! ching!) “It was B flat when it was full, and now (ching! ching!)
it is a good C sharp. Listen!” And shutting one eye, he cocked the other
meditatively towards the ceiling. (Ching! ching!) “Acoustics or
something, I suppose. A pretty good old world, I tell you, boys. (Ching!
ching!) H’m! h’m! h’m!” It was a low, contented chuckle. “Jack-Whack,
you ought to have a sweet little darling of a wife, just like—”

“Mr. Frobisher, you are positively boozy!”

“Well, well, my precious little ducky dumpling, I don’t write Essays on
Military Glory every day. H’m! h’m! h’m! h’m! I left out my very best
illustration, simply because I couldn’t work it into my paradigm. It is
a little poem I heard once,—h’m! h’m! h’m! h’m! (Ching! ching!)

    ‘Dad and Jamie had a fight,
    They fit all day, and they fit all night;
    And in the mornin’ Dad was seen
    A-punchin’ Jamie on the Bowlin’ Green.’

“One would say, taking the four lines together, that Dad probably got
the better of Jamie in the end. But who thinks of ranking him, for that
reason, with the world’s famed conquerors? Preposterous! They were
obviously too evenly matched. See? No one knows, even, who Dad was, or
Jamie; or what Bowlin’ Green drank their gore. (Ching! ching!) D
natural. Nor even the name of the poet. Some old, old Aryan myth, I
suppose, symbolizing the struggle between Light and Darkness,—‘in the
morning Dad’—the sun—‘was seen a-punchin’ Jamie’—moon, of course—‘on
the Bowlin’ Green,’—that is, this beautiful world. (Ching! ching!)
_What are you up to?_”

Alice had made a dive at Charley, who, mistaking her object, defended
himself vigorously. Meantime, she had darted with her right hand down
into his breast-pocket, drawing out the manuscript.

“If you supposed I wished to kiss your juleppy moustache, you are much
mistaken. This is what I wanted.” And she brandished the Essay high in
the air in triumph. “I knew it! I knew it!” cried she. “Listen, Jack!”

                                          “‘Baltimore, August 14, 1885.

“‘Charles Frobisher, Esq.:

“‘_Dear Sir_,—‘The guano will be shipped by to-morrow’s boat, as per
valued order.

                                                    “‘Very truly yours,
                                                  “‘Bumpkins & Windup.’

“And look here—and look here,—nothing but a lot of business letters.
He has not written one line! His so-called Essay on Military Glory is a
myth!”

“We got the juleps, at any rate. Jack-Whack, you write it up.”

“If Alice will agree to illustrate again.”

“Not I!”

“Q minor!” sighed Charley, thumping his empty goblet. “Jack-Whack, my
poor boy, we dwell in a vale of tears!”

-----

[1] I need hardly say that I decline to be responsible for such
sentiments.—_Ed._


                              CHAPTER LXX.

It is eight o’clock in the morning, at Harrisonburg, in the leafy month
of June. You board the train from Staunton. As it rushes down the Valley
there lies spread out before you, on either side, a scene of rare
loveliness. Fertile plains, waving with grain; rolling, grass-clad
hills, laughing in the sunshine, dotted here and there with woods of
singular beauty; limpid streams, brawling over glittering, many-hued
pebbles; a pure air filling the lungs with a glad sense of health and
well-being. There are few such lands.

But come, take this seat on the right-hand side of the car, and I will
tell you of some things which happened twenty years ago.

Ah, there it is! Don’t you see that bluish thread, winding along over
there, skirting that hill? That is the Valley Pike. There was no
railroad there then. Take a good look at it. Take a good look, for
heroes have trodden it.

Ah, the train has stopped. Do you see that grizzled farmer, who has
ridden over to the station to get his mail? I know him, for I never
forget a face. He was there at Manassas when Bee said, “Look at Jackson,
standing like a stone wall!” Yes, many of the survivors of the Stonewall
Brigade live along this road.

That is the Massanutten Mountain, a spur of the Blue Ridge. How
beautiful it is! Straight and smooth and even, with a little notch every
now and then; clothed from base to summit with primeval forests, it
looks, crested as it is here and there with snowy clouds, like a
gigantic green wave rolling across the plain.

A wall not unlike this once stood on either hand in the Red Sea; and
Miriam smote her tambourine in triumph, praising the God of Israel.

As we rush along, the mountain bears us company, as though doing the
honors of the Valley.

The train stops at Strasburg. There, too, Massanutten ends.

As though a Titan had cleft it with his sword, so abruptly does it sink
into the plain.

You are on your way to Alexandria, and will have to wait here four
hours; so let us look about us. Run your eye up that sharp acclivity
lying over against the town.

Upon the brink of that steep, twenty years ago, stood Gordon.
Accompanied by a few staff-officers, he had spent the greater part of
the day in the toilsome ascent, tearing his way through dense, pathless
jungles, struggling among untrodden rocks; and now, on the seventeenth
of October, 1864, he stands there sweeping the plain with his
field-glass. What does he see? Why does he forget, in an instant, his
fatigue? What is it that fires with ardor his martial face?

But before I tell you that, a word with you.

In the South, at the breaking out of the war, there was not to be found
one solitary statesman; nor one throughout the length and breadth of the
North. Not that capacity was lacking to either side. Great capacity is
not required. Chesterfield heard the rumble of the coming French
revolution, to which the ears of Burke were deaf. After all, statecraft
is but the application of temporary expedients to temporary emergencies;
and you might carve a score of Gladstones and Disraelis out of the brain
of Herbert Spencer without in the least impairing his cerebrum. Pericles
shone in Athens for an hour; Aristotle dominated the world for twenty
centuries. Such is the measure of a statesman; such that of a thinker.

Statesmen, therefore (or the making of such), we had, I must suppose, by
the thousand. I have said they were not to be found.

For years before we came to blows the animosity between North and South
had been deepening, reaching at last this point, that he who would catch
the ear of either side could do so only by fierce denunciation of the
other; he that would have it thought that he loved _us_ had only to show
that he hated _you_. Men of moderation found no hearers. The voices of
the calm and clear-headed sank into silence; and Wigfall and Toombs, and
Sumner and Phillips walked up and down in the land.

Yes, no doubt we had thousands of statesmen who knew better. But who
knew _them_? And so Seward kept piping of peace in ninety days, and
Yancey—Polyphemus of politicians—was willing to drink all the blood
that would be shed. A Yankee wouldn’t fight, said the one. The
slave-drivers, perhaps, would, said the other; but they were, after all,
a mere handful; and the poor white trash would be as flocks of sheep.

A Yankee wouldn’t fight! And why not, pray? Two bulls will, meeting in a
path; two dogs, over a bone. The fishes of the sea fight; the birds of
the air; nay, do not even the little midgets, warmed by the slanting
rays of the summer’s sun, rend one another with infinitesimal tooth and
microscopic nail? All nature is but one vast battle-field; and if the
nations of men seem at times to be at peace, what is that peace but
taking breath for another grapple? And congresses and kings are but
bottle-holders, and time will be called in due season. The Yankees
wouldn’t fight! And suppose they wouldn’t, why should they, pray, being
sensible men?

Where was the Almighty Dollar?

Had any one of the Southern leaders read one page of history, not to
know that money means men? means cannon, rifles, sabres? means ships,
and commissariat, and clothing? means rallying from reverses, and
victory in the end? The Yankee would not fight, they told us. His
omnipotent ally they forgot to mention or to meet. Had our Congress
consisted of bankers, merchants, railway superintendents, they would
have seen to the gathering of the sinews of war. We had only the
statesmen of the period,—God save the mark!

It was in finance that we blundered fatally. ’Twas not the eagle of the
orator that overcame us, but the effigy thereof, in silver and in gold.

When we fired on Fort Sumter there was a burst of patriotism throughout
the North, and her young men flocked to her standards. They fought, and
fought well. The difference between them and us was, that when they got
tired of poor fare and hard knocks they could find others to take their
places. Being sensible, practical men, they used their opportunities.
When a man was drafted (as the war went on) he or his friends found the
means of hiring a substitute (persons who have visited the North since
the war tell me that you rarely find a man of means who served in the
army); and at last cities and counties and States began to meet each
successive call for fresh troops by votes of money; their magnificent
bounty system grew up, and from that time the composition of the
Northern armies rapidly changed. Trained soldiers from every part of the
world flocked to the El Dorado of the West; and as the war went on each
successive battle brought less and less grief to the hearts and homes of
the North, while with us—with us!

From every corner of Europe they poured.

From Italy, from Sweden, from Russia, and from Spain.

From the Danube and the Loire; from the marshy borders of the Elbe and
the sunny slopes of the Guadalquivir.

From the Alps and the Balkan. From the home of the reindeer and the land
of the olive. From Majorca and Minorca, and from the Isles of Greece.

From Berlin and Vienna; from Dublin and from Paris; from the vine-clad
hills of the Adriatic and the frozen shores of the Baltic Sea.

From Skager Rack and Skater Gat, and from Como and Killarney.

From sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, from the banks and
braes o’ bonny Doon, and from Bingen-on-the-Rhine.

Catholic and Calvinist; Teuton, Slav, and Celt,—who was not there to
swell that host, and the babel of tongues around their camp-fires? For
to every hut in Europe, where the pinch of want was known, had gone the
rumor of fabulous bounty and high pay now, generous pension hereafter.

At Bull Run the North met the South; at Appomattox Lee laid down his
sword in the presence of the world in arms.


                             CHAPTER LXXI.

And Gordon? What did he see, standing on Massanutten’s crest?

They lay there, beyond Cedar Creek, the Eighth Corps, the Nineteenth
Corps and the Sixth; and, further away, the heavy masses of their
cavalry; spread out before him, forty or fifty thousand strong.

Like a map. “I can distinguish the very chevrons of that sergeant,” said
he.

And now he bends his eyes on Fisher’s Hill.

Those men lying there were beaten at Winchester, one month ago. Against
brigade Early can bring regiment, against division, brigade; can oppose
division to corps. And yet he is going to hurl this little handful
against that mighty host.

A mere handful; but hearts of English oak! The ancestors of these men
fought and won at Crecy and Agincourt; and they are going to fight and
lose at Cedar Creek. The result was different,—but the odds and the
spirit were the same.

Have I forgotten the brigade of Louisiana creoles? No; but when I would
speak of them, a certain indignant sorrow chokes my utterance. They came
to us many and they went away few; and the Valley has been made historic
by their blood, mingled with ours.

And now is heard the voice of one, speaking as with authority,—the
voice of a Louisianian, proclaiming to the world that these Louisianians
died in an unjust cause. Unjust! It is a word not to be used lightly.
_Your_ share of the obloquy, living comrades, you can bear; but
_theirs_? For they are not here to speak for themselves.

And to say it to their widows and their orphans!

That word could not help the slave. _He_ is free, thank heaven. Nor was
the war in which these men died waged to free him. He was freed to wage
the war, rather, as everybody knew when the proclamation of emancipation
was promulgated. In point of fact, the struggle was between conflicting
interpretations of the Constitution; and the Northern people, by a great
and successful war, established their view of its obligations; the
freedom of the slave being a corollary of victory.

Unjust! had it not been as well to leave that word to others? ’Tis an
ill bird that fouls its own nest.

The war wrought wide ruin; but it has been a boon to the South in this,
at least: that it has jostled our minds out of their accustomed grooves.
Bold thinking has come to be the fashion. And so we should not find
fault with the author of Doctor Sevier, if, dazzled by the voluptuous
beauty of quadroon and octoroon, he should find a solution of our race
troubles in intermarriage. Let him think his little thought. Let him say
his little say. It will do no harm. On one question he will find, I
think, a “solid” North and a “solid” South. Both are content to choose
their wives from among the daughters of that great Aryan race which
boasts so many illustrious women; and which boasts still more the
millions of gentle mothers and brave wives, whose names the trump of
fame has never sounded. And with such, I think, both the blue and the
gray are likely to rest content. Content, too, that their children, like
themselves, should be of that pure Indo-Germanic stock whence has sprung
a Socrates and a Homer; a Cæsar and a Galileo; a Descartes and a Pascal;
a Goethe and a Beethoven; a Newton and a Shakespeare. The countrymen of
Cervantes and of Cortez, failing to keep their blood pure, have peopled
a continent with Greasers and with Gauchos. And shall the children of
Washington become a nation of Pullman car porters—and octoroon
heroines—be their eyes never so lustrous?

But such matters are legitimate subjects of discussion. So let him have
his say. But there _are_ things which it is more seemly to leave unsaid.

When a step-mother is installed in the house, you may think her vastly
superior, if you will, with her velvets and her laces and her diamonds,
to her that bore you; and you may, perhaps, win fame as an original
thinker by saying so to the world; but there is a certain instinct of
manhood that would seal the lips of most men. And I, for my part, know
many, very many Northern men; and not one of them seems to wish to have
me grovel in the dust and cry peccavi. Would it not have been a disgrace
to _them_ to have spent, with all their resources and odds, four years
in subduing a race of snivellers? No; let us say to the end: you were
right in fighting for your country, we equally right in battling for
ours. The North will, the North does respect us all the more for it.

As I read these words, Charley rose, and, opening a book-case, took out
a volume. Finding, apparently, the passage he sought, he closed the book
upon his forefinger.

“When a man takes upon himself,” he began, “to rise up before Israel to
confess and make atonement for the sins of the people, be should be
quite sure that he has the right to exercise the functions of
high-priest.

“If either his father or his mother, for example, sprang from the region
roundabout Tyre and Sidon, that should bid him pause. It is not enough
that one wields the pen of a ready writer. One must be an Hebrew of the
Hebrews. Else the confession goes for naught.

“What Jack has just read,” added he, “brought to my mind a passage which
I have not thought of for ages. You must know, Alice, that after the
death of Cyrus at the battle of Cunaxa, the Ten Thousand made a truce
with Tissaphernes, lieutenant of Artaxerxes, who agreed to conduct them
back to Greece. After journeying together for some time, he invited the
Greek generals to a conference at his headquarters. Clearchus and almost
all of the leading officers accepted the invitation, and at a given
signal were seized and murdered.

“The Ten Thousand were in as bad plight as ever an army was. Without
leaders, confronted by a countless host, they had either to surrender or
cut their way through a thousand miles of hostile territory.

“Xenophon, though not an officer, called an assembly, and soon aroused a
stern enthusiasm. Speech after speech was made, and no one uttered other
than brave words, except a certain Apollonides; and he cried out that
the others spoke nonsense,—that the safe and profitable thing to do was
to grovel before the Great King. Xenophon replied in a sarcastic vein,
ending as follows:

“‘It seems to me, oh men, that we should not admit this man into any
fellowship with us, but that we should cashier him of his captaincy and
put baggage upon his back, and use him as a beast of burden. For he is a
disgrace to his native land and to all Greece, since, being a Greek, he
is such as he is.’

“‘And thereupon, Agasias, the Stymphalian, taking up the discourse,
said, ‘But this man is not a Greek; for I see that, like a Lydian, he
has both his ears bored.’

“And such was the fact. Him, therefore, they cast out.”


                             CHAPTER LXXII.

It is not my purpose to describe the battle of Cedar Creek. Even of the
rôle played by Gordon’s division, of which the present writer formed,
according to Alice, a large part, I shall give no detailed account; for
my object is not so much to instruct military men as to entertain my
fair reader.

Three simultaneous attacks were to be made. Rosser, advancing along the
“Back-road,” far away to our left, was to swoop down, with his cavalry,
upon that of the enemy. Kershaw and Wharton were to attack his centre;
Gordon, with Ramseur and Pegram, to turn and assault his left.

At eight o’clock, therefore, in the evening of October 18, 1864, our
men, rising from around their camp-fires and buckling on their
accoutrements, took up their line of march. The enemy was miles away,
yet they spoke in undertones; for their instinct told them that they
were to surprise him. Their very tread as they moved along was in a
muffled rhythm, as it seemed to me, and their canteens gave forth a dim
jingle, as of sheep-bells, by night, from a nodding flock on a distant
hill.

Leaving the pike and turning to the right, we (Gordon’s command) at one
time marched down a country road, at another straggled, single-file,
along bridle-paths, at times fought our way through briers and amid
jagged rocks as we toiled along under the shadow of Massanutten.

At last, when the night was wellnigh spent, we stacked arms in a field.
The shining Shenandoah murmured just in front of us. We talked almost in
whispers.

Suddenly the notes of a bugle, faint, far away, broke the stillness of
the night. The enemy’s cavalry at Front Royal were sounding the
reveille. We held our breath,—had they divined our intentions?

The bugle-call to our right had scarcely died away, when, from far away
to our left, the rattle of carbines was heard, low and soft, as though
one dreamt of battle! ’Twas Rosser. Unfortunately, he had found a
portion of the enemy in the saddle and ready to march, though not
expecting an attack.

Just then the clanking of sabres and the trampling of hoofs was heard
close beside us; and turning, we saw a squadron of our cavalry moving
upon the ford. A thick mist had begun to rise, and as they rode through
it they seemed colossal phantoms rather than earthly horsemen. A few
moments, and the crack of carbine-shots was heard. The enemy’s videttes
retired, and our horsemen dashed across the stream. We followed, and
formed in a field beyond the river.

The mist thickened with the approach of day. You could scarcely see a
man thirty feet away. Captain Smith had deployed his skirmishers. As he
stood near me, waiting for the word forward, a terrific rattle of
musketry burst upon our ears, coming from our left. It was Kershaw, we
knew. And then the cannon began to roar. Kershaw had left, his artillery
behind him. Had they been ready to receive him, and were the cannon and
rifles of an entire corps mowing down his gallant little division? It
was an appalling moment!

The word was given, and Captain Smith and his skirmishers dashed into
the wood at a double-quick. We followed, and soon the air was filled
with the roar of wide-spread battle. The cannon that we had heard, as we
soon learned, were captured guns that Kershaw had turned upon the enemy.
His division had rushed up a steep hill and put a corps to flight.
Between us, we had soon driven, in headlong rout from their camps, the
Eighth and the Nineteenth Corps. The Sixth remained, but we could not
see it, so dense was the mist. Our assault slackened, ceased.

What would have been the result had we pushed on it is needless, now, to
inquire. Desultory firing continued till about four o’clock in the
afternoon, when Sheridan, who was at Winchester when the battle began,
having galloped up, rallied thousands of the fugitives, and adding them
to the Sixth Corps and his heavy force of cavalry, attacked and routed
us in turn.

There were those who said that Early, if he did not choose to continue
the attack (the most brilliant movement of the war, I think), should
have withdrawn his troops, and not held them there, in an open plain,
with greatly superior forces in his immediate front. He himself,
smarting under defeat, attributed the disaster to the fact that his men,
scattering through the captured camps, were engaged in plundering
instead of being at their posts; and his words have been quoted by our
friends the enemy. But I think that a moment’s reflection will dispel
this idea. Our hungry men, pursuing the enemy, and coming upon their
sutlers’ wagons, did undoubtedly snatch up such edibles as came in their
way; but this occurred at day-break, and we were not attacked till four
o’clock in the afternoon. I remember that I myself, espying a fat leg of
mutton (of which some farmer had been robbed), laid hands on it with a
view to a royal supper when the battle should be over; and, by
brandishing it over my head, like a battle-axe, caused much laughter in
the ranks. What became of it I cannot recall. I know I did not eat it;
but I know, too, that my seizing it had no influence on the fortunes of
the day.

The truth is, our defeat requires no explanation or apology from our
brave old general. When Sheridan attacked us, he brought against our
thin, single line of jaded men, overwhelming masses of fresh troops,
assaulting our front, and, at the same time, turning both our flanks. I
remember that Gordon’s men, who held the left of our line, did not give
way till bodies of the enemy had marched entirely around our flank, and
began to pour deadly and unanswered volleys into our backs.

One more word and I am done with the battle as such.

Captain Smith, in his letter to Major Frobisher, found it impossible to
understand why our army was not entirely destroyed at Winchester. I, on
the contrary, can explain how it was that we were not annihilated at
Cedar Creek.

When the enemy, in their pursuit, reached Strasburg, and saw, below
them, slowly retreating along the road to Fisher’s Hill, a dark mass of
troops, they called a halt. That halt saved our army. I can hardly
repress a smile now, when I remember that that serried phalanx which
looked so formidable, and gave the enemy pause, consisted of fifteen
hundred Federal prisoners, guarded by a few hundred of our men. But the
eccentric strategy of that halt, instead of being comic, was, in truth,
fearfully tragic; for it protracted the defence of Richmond, and delayed
the close of the war till the following spring, and cost the lives of
thousands of brave men on both sides.

So much for the battle of Cedar Creek. Such slight sketch of it as I
have given has cost me more pain than it can give the reader pleasure.
Not willingly did I introduce it into my story.

That story grows sombre. It opened bright and joyous as the sunny nook
of Earth in which my earlier scenes were laid. But between my hero and
the land he helped to defend there is a parallelism of fortunes. The
shadow of the same fate hangs over both.


  [Illustration: SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT IV.

  _Adagio assai._        L. van Beethoven, _“Eroica” Symphony_.

  {The first page of the score of the fourth movement, Adagio assai, of
  Beethoven's Eroica Symphony is shown.}]


                           SYMPHONY OF LIFE.


                              MOVEMENT IV.


                            CHAPTER LXXIII.

During the night of this 18th of October, while we were making our
toilsome advance upon the enemy, a Virginia soldier, wounded in the
battle of Winchester, lay in a small room of a house in the edge of
Middletown; around which village the battle of Cedar Creek was chiefly
fought. Upon some bedding, spread upon the floor, lay a young woman, his
cousin; who, having heard that he had been hard hit, had made her way to
the enemy’s pickets, and, after some parleying, gained permission to
pass within their lines and nurse her wounded relative. This young woman
had, since the beginning of the war, passed her life, as one might say,
in our hospitals. But her present position, within the enemy’s lines,
was a trying one. It so happened that between the Federal officer who
occupied a room in the same house and herself a strong antipathy soon
grew up. The little nurse was too busy attending to the wants of her
wounded cousin to leave his side often; but being under the same roof
with the Federal officer, they met, in a casual manner, not
infrequently. These meetings he contrived to make very disagreeable, by
continually attempting to force political discussions upon her. But she,
on her side, managed to render them far more exasperating to him.

He that would get the better of a woman had best finish her with a club
at once and be done with it; he is sure to get the worst of it in a
tongue-battle. It may be a washerwoman opening on you with Gatling-gun
invective, and sweeping you from the face of the earth; or a dainty
society belle, with a dropping sharp-shooter fire of soft-voiced
sarcasm,—in either case you shall wish that you had held your peace.

And so this big Federal colonel never had an encounter with the little
rebel nurse but he gnashed his teeth and raged for hours afterwards. She
always contrived, in the subtlest way, and without saying so, to make
him feel that she did not look upon him as a gentleman. One day, for
example, he had been carefully explaining to her in how many ways the
Northern people were superior to the Southern.

“But I don’t believe,” added he, with evident acrimony, “that you F. F.
V.’s think there is one gentleman in the whole North. This arrogance on
your part is really one main cause of the war.”

“I can readily believe you,—for I understand the feeling. But really
you do us an injustice. I know, personally, a number of Northern
gentlemen. In New York, for instance” (the colonel was from that city),
“I am acquainted with the ——— family and the ———s and the ———s,
do you know them?”

The colonel hesitated.

“No?” said she, in soft surprise. “Ah, you should lose no time in making
their acquaintance on your return to the city. They are very nice. But I
hear my patient calling. Good-day!”

The colonel knew, and he saw plainly that she knew, that he could no
more enter one of those houses than he could fly. He could not answer
her. All that was left him was to hate her, and this he did with his
whole heart; and all aristocrats, living and dead.

When the crash of battle burst forth, on the morning of the nineteenth,
the colonel hurried forth to form his regiment. He met his men rushing
pell-mell to the rear, and he ran back to his headquarters to gather a
few things that lay scattered about his room. Although the bullets were
flying thick, frequently striking the house itself, he found the little
nurse standing on the porch, exultation in every feature. The whizzing
of the rifle-balls seemed sweet to her ears. Confederate bullets would
not hurt _her_.

“Get out of my way,” said he, in a gruff voice. “This is no place for
women.”

“Nor for men, either, you seem to think!”

He gave her a black look.

“Why this unseemly haste, colonel?” said she, following him into the
hall. “What! through the back door? The Confederates are _there_!” And
she stabbed the air in the direction of the coming bullets with a
gesture that would have made the fortune of a tragedy queen.

“Take that, d——n you!” And he brought his open hand down upon her
cheek with such force that, reeling through the open door of her room,
she fell headlong upon the floor.

“Coward!” roared a voice from the threshold of the hall.

Rising to her knees and turning, she saw the colonel spring forward with
a fierce glare in his eyes and a cocked pistol in his extended hand. She
shut her eyes and stopped her ears.

Had he killed the Confederate? No, for she heard no fall; but the clear
ring, instead, of a sabre drawn quickly from its scabbard. The colonel
stepped across the threshold of the room in which she was, cocking his
pistol for another shot. He raised the weapon,—but she heard a spring
in the hall, and saw a flash of steel; and the colonel fell at full
length upon the floor, with a sword-blade buried up to the hilt in his
breast. With such terrific force had the thrust been delivered that he
was knocked entirely off his feet, and the whole house shook.

“Δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε᾽ ἐπ᾽αὐτῷ,”[1] muttered the victor,
as the young woman, springing to her feet, threw her arms around his
neck and kissed him.

“My brave defender!” cried she, in a fervor of patriotic exaltation,
lifting her eyes to his; and then she sprang back with a shiver, and
stood breathless before him, her head bowed upon her breast, her face
ashy pale.

A scene within a scene.

Without, the roar of cannon, the incessant rattle of musketry, the
bursting of shells, the panic-stricken rush of riderless horses, the
tramp of hurrying men, the Rebel Yell sweeping by like a tornado, shouts
of victory, moans of the dying.

Within, four people for a moment oblivious of all this mad hurly-burly
that billowed around them.

The convalescent soldier, rising upon his elbow, looked with silent
amazement upon the crouching figure of his fair cousin; while the dying
Union soldier forgot, for a moment, his gaping wound as he gazed upon
the man who had inflicted it. Tall, broad-shouldered, gaunt of flank,
supple, straight as an Indian, he held in his right hand the gory sword,
from which the prostrate officer saw his own life-blood trickling, drop
by drop, upon the floor. In his left he held his cap uplifted.

Attila and Monsieur Deux-pas in one!

With cap uplifted; but head thrown back and eyes averted. His right
shoulder and breast were soaked with blood, which was streaming down his
brown beard upon his coat, from a bullet-hole in his bronzed cheek. But
it was his eyes which riveted the attention of his fallen enemy. He had
been appalled by their fierce glare, when, angered by the pistol-shot,
he had sprung upon him in the hall. But that look had been soft compared
with the cold, steady, pitiless gleam they poured forth now. That man,
thought he, would not give a cup of water to a dying enemy.

Captain Smith made two steps towards the door, and turning, bowed.

Feeling that he was going (for she had not dared to raise her eyes),
Mary Rolfe quivered for a moment from head to foot; then springing
forward, with passionate entreaty in every gesture and a cry of anguish
upon her lips:

“And you will leave me without a word? Listen! How frightfully the
battle is raging! And you are so cruel, cruel, as to go forth, and die,
perhaps, without ever— I know you will be killed, I know it, I know it!
And you won’t say you forgive me! Won’t you say just that one little
word? You loved me once,—and dearly, for you pressed me against your
heart and told me so; and can that heart, once so tender, be so hard
now? Oh, say you forgive me; for the sake of that dear, dead love, say
you forgive your little Mary!”

And round about them the battle roared and surged and thundered.

Her cousin has told me that such was the pathos and passion of her
tones, her looks, her gestures, as she uttered these words (which hardly
seemed unconventional in their fearful setting), that the eyes of the
dying soldier grew moist. But Captain Smith, standing like a granite
cliff:

“There is nothing to forgive. You did your duty as you saw it. So did I
when I ran that officer through.—Ah, pardon me: I had forgotten you.
Can I do anything for you?” added he in a tender voice, as he kneeled
beside him.

“Unbutton my coat, please; I am choking.”

The captain shuddered as he saw the broad gash in the breast of his
enemy. “I am sorry I hit you so hard.”

“It is all right,” replied he, wearily. “I tried to kill you, and you
killed me, that’s all. But thank you for your kind words.”

The captain’s eyes filled with tears. “I hope it is not as bad as you
think. I’ll send you a surgeon immediately. Meanwhile, keep up your
spirits.” And taking the wounded man’s hand in his, he pressed it
softly. Then, rising, “Good-by,” said he, with a cheering smile, and
moved towards the door.

It was then that Mary, catching, for the first time, a view of the right
side of his face, saw the blood trickling down his cheek.

“You are wounded already,” she cried in terror.

“Yes; wounded beyond healing,” said the captain of the Myrmidons; and
with a cold bow, he passed out of the door and into the tempest of the
battle.

“Oh—oh—oh!” gasped Mary, wringing her interlocked hands high above her
head; and she sank slowly down upon the floor.

The measures fashioned by the hands of men can hold but so much; but
anguish without limit may be pent up within a human heart that is
bursting, yet will not burst.

The officer turned his eyes, and, even in his own great extremity,
pitied her.

And, after all, which of the two was most to be pitied?

He was about to speak a few kind words, when he saw upon her pallid
cheek the dark bruises made by his own heavy hand; and he held his
peace. His lips were parched, his throat tortured with that cruel thirst
that loss of blood entails. His wounded neighbor could not, _she_ would
not hand him a cup of water. At any rate, it were worthier to die there,
where he lay, rather than ask a favor of the woman he had so insulted.
Three times he tried to rise, and as often fell heavily back. She raised
her head and saw the longing, wistful look in his eyes, fixed upon a
bucket which stood in a corner of the room.

It is wonderful how sorrow softens the heart!

She rose in an instant and brought him the cup. He could not lift his
head. Bending over him, she placed her arm beneath his neck and raised
him. As he drank, the tears poured down his cheeks. Gently withdrawing
her arm, she tripped softly across the room and brought her own pillow
and placed it beneath his head; and sitting down upon the floor, by his
side, stroked his brown forehead with her soft white hand. He raised his
streaming eyes to hers, and again and again essayed to speak; but his
quivering lips refused to obey.

“I know what you would say; so never mind. Don’t worry now. You may beg
my pardon when you get well.”

He shook his head sadly. “I am dying now,—I feel it.”

His voice sank into a whisper. She bent over him to catch his words.

“Promise me to write to my mother and tell her how I died, and that you
sat beside me. Leave out one thing. It would break her heart to hear
that of me. You will? God bless you. Her address is in my pocket. Write
to her. You promise? Oh, how good of you to hold the very hand that—”

“Hush! Don’t talk of that now.”

“You won’t have to hold it long. I feel it coming, coming. Press my hand
hard, harder! You have forgiven me! Tell her, that as I lay—dying—far
away from home—an angel—of light—”

-----

[1] He fell with a crash, and his arms rattled upon him. (The Homeric
formula when a warrior falls.)


                             CHAPTER LXXIV.

If only night would come!

They were pouring down upon us and around us in overwhelming masses.
They had turned our left, and were raking Gordon’s flank and rear. It
was a question of a few minutes only.

In our front was a narrow field. Beyond that, a wood. Through this the
enemy were driving our skirmishers back upon the main line. One by one
these brave men emerged from the wood and trotted briskly across the
field, targets, every one of them, for a dozen rifles.

There come two more! They are the last. But they do not trot, as the
rest did and as skirmishers should.

Upon those two, convergent rifles from all along the line of the wood
poured a rain of lead. Still they refused to hurry. And one was tall and
bearded, and the other slender, and with a face as smooth as a girl’s.
The boy, as fast as he loaded his rifle, wheeled and fired; the man
carried a pistol in his hand. Weeds fell about them, mowed down by the
bullets; spurts of dust leaped from under their very feet.

The few men left in our line stood, under cover of a thin curtain of
trees, fascinated by the sight of these two, leisurely stalking along,
under that murderous fire.[1]

“Run, run!” we shouted.

“Run!” cried Captain Smith, giving the shoulder of his companion a push.

“And leave my commander!” replied Edmund.

“Stoop, then!”

“Show me how, captain!”

“Obey me!” thundered he.

The boy lowered his head, as he rammed a bullet home; then turned, and,
cocking his rifle, scanned the opposite wood narrowly. Presently he
raised his rifle; but before he could fire we heard that terrible sound
which old soldiers know so well.

“Oh!” cried the boy, falling upon his face.

“My God! my God!” ejaculated the captain of the Myrmidons, with a
woman’s tenderness in his voice and the despair of Laocoön in his
corrugated brow.

Hearing that cry, the boy turned quickly and smiled in his captain’s
face. “It is only a flesh-wound, through the thigh,” said he; “I can
walk, I think.”

He was attempting to rise, when his captain, placing his strong arms
beneath him, lifted him high in the air. He ran, then; and his face was
full of terror, as the thick-flying bullets whistled past him and his
burden. The two were within a few paces of where I stood, when again
that terrific sound was heard; and they both fell heavily at my very
feet.

A bullet, coming from our flank and rear, had struck Captain Smith in
the right breast.

It was a wound in front, at any rate.

There was but one ambulance-wagon in sight, and that was retreating. A
skirmisher ran to overtake it. Others placed the captain and Edmund on
stretchers and hurried after it.

“Jack, old boy; good-by. I am done for; but I particularly desire to get
within our lines; so hold them in check as long as you can. Say farewell
to Charley.”

A few of his own men held their ground till they saw their captain and
Edmund disappear, in the wagon, over the hill, when they fell back,
loading and firing as they went. When the wagon reached the bridge
beyond Strasburg, it was found broken down; but the men with the
stretchers managed to get our two wounded friends across the stream, and
to find another wagon; so, the pursuit slackening at this juncture, they
were not captured.

Late in the night, I found them by the road-side. Edmund was asleep. The
captain lay awake, watched by one of his brave skirmishers. He gave
messages to my grandfather, to Charley and Alice, to the Poythresses.
“And now, good-night,” said he. “You need rest. Throw yourself down by
that fire and go to sleep. Don’t bother about me. I shall set out for
Harrisonburg at daybreak.”

“The ride will kill you.”

He smiled faintly. “I must get well within our lines.
Remember—Harrisonburg—good-night!” And he closed his eyes and wearily
turned his lace away. “Shelton!”

The skirmisher bent tenderly over his captain.

“Lie down by the fire and sleep. You cannot help me. God alone can do
that, and he will release me from my sufferings before many days.
Shelton, give me your hand. Tell your little boy, when he grows up, that
I said you were as brave as a lion in battle; and tell your wife that
you could be as gentle as a woman to a suffering comrade. And now lie
down and rest. Good-night!”

“Presently, captain.”

“What are you crying about, man? Such things will happen. Good-night!”

-----

[1] Meis ipsius vidi oculis.


                             CHAPTER LXXV.

Let us return to that little parlor on Leigh Street, from the windows of
which, four years ago, we caught our first glimpse of the man who has
played so large a part in our story. It is full of people, now,—half a
dozen elderly men, all the rest women. Of the men, one is a minister,
with a face so singularly gentle that his smile is a sort of subdued
sunbeam.

The countenances of the women all wear looks of happy expectancy. Mr.
and Mrs. Poythress are there, and Lucy. Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe, but not
Mary. And others whom the reader, to her cost, does not know. Our plump
friend, Mrs. Carter, is bustling about, who but she, her jolly face
wreathed in smiles.

At every sound in the hall, every female neck is craned towards the
door. Somebody or something is expected.

“Mrs. Carter,” said Mrs. Poythress, “what name has Alice selected for
the little man?”

“Oh, yes! what is to be his name?” echoed every lady in the room.

Thereupon, Mrs. Carter, being constitutionally incapable of laughing,
began to shake.

At this eccentric behavior on the part of the young grandmother,
curiosity rose to fever heat; but the more they plied her with
questions, the more she could not answer. Seeing her incapable of
speech, her grave and silent husband came to the rescue, and explained
that what amused Mrs. Carter was that she did not know what their
grandchild was to be called. It appeared that Alice, as a reward for his
getting well of his wound, had allowed Charley the privilege of naming
their son. He had accepted the responsibility,—but no mortal, not even
his wife, had been able to make him say what the name was to be.

This statement sent the curiosity of the audience up to the boiling
point. Did you ever!

Mrs. Rolfe interrogated Mr. Rolfe with her impressive eyes.

“Such a fancy would never have occurred to me, I’m sure,” said that man
of peace.

“Al-i-ce!” called Mrs. Carter, from the foot of the stairs.

“We are coming, mother,” answered a cheery voice from the ball above;
and Alice, giving two or three final little jerks at the ends of certain
ribbons and bits of lace that adorned her boy (he was asleep on his
nurse’s shoulder), stood aside to let that dignitary pass down-stairs,
at the head of the procession.

“And now,” said Alice, going up to her husband, “what is his name to
be?”

“One that he will never have cause to be ashamed of,” replied Charley.

Alice drew back in surprise. Up to this point she had looked upon the
thing as a joke, and enjoyed it, too, as so characteristic of her
husband. This time, however, he had not smiled, as usual. On the
contrary, he betrayed, both in voice and look, a certain suppressed
excitement. She imagined, even, that he was a trifle pale; and her heart
began to flutter a little, she knew not why.

The column halted when it reached the closed parlor door. Here Charley
took the sleeping boy in his arms.

When the audience within heard the knob rattle, the excitement was
intense. It was dissipated, in an instant, by the sight of Charley
bearing the child.

In this wide world there lives not a woman who can look upon a bearded
man, with his first infant in his arms, without smiling.

The admiring ohs and ahs made the young mother’s heart beat high with
joy. And who shall call her weak, because she forgot that they are to be
heard at every christening? In the name of pity, let us sip whatever
illusive nectar chance flowers along our stony path may afford!

Every one noticed how awkward Charley was in handing the baby to the
minister; while the good man, on the contrary, received an ovation of
approving smiles for his skill in holding him.

The little fellow, himself, appeared to feel the difference. He nestled,
at any rate, against the comfortable shoulder, and threw his head back;
and his little twinkling nose, pointing heavenward, seemed to say that
he knew what it all meant.

“Name this child!”

“Ah-ah-ah-ah!”

Every neck was craned, every ear eager to catch the first mysterious
syllable!

Alice glanced anxiously at her husband.

Why that determined look? What was he going to do?

A lightning-flash darted through her brain! Charley’s mother’s father
was named Peter! He had been a man of mark in his day; and, besides,
Charley worshipped his mother’s memory. Peter! Horrors! And then he
stammers so over his P’s! That half-defiant look, too!

Charley leaned forward.

She could not hear what he said; but she saw, from the obstinate
recusancy of his lips, that there was a P in the name. She felt a
choking in her throat.

’Twas her first,—and Peter! And he knew how painfully absurd she
thought the name! Poor little innocent babe! Peter! Her eyes filled with
tears.

No one had heard the name; not even the minister. He bent an inquiring
look upon Charley.

Charley repeated the words.

This time the good man heard, though no one else did. Bringing his left
arm around in front of his breast, he dipped his right hand into the
water, and raised it above the head of the sleeping boy.

Alice’s heart stood still!

“Theodoric Poythress, I baptize thee—”

A gasp of surprise, followed by a stifled moan, startled minister and
people; and all eyes were turned towards the Poythress group.

Mrs. Poythress lay with her head upon her husband’s breast, silent tears
streaming from her closed eyes. Lucy, half-risen from her seat, leaned
over her mother, holding her hand, deep compassion in her gentle eyes!
Her father sat bolt upright, looking stern, in his effort to appear
calm. Her mother pressed Lucy gently back into her chair, and the
minister went on.

Hurried leave-takings followed the ceremony. The baby was awake and
gurgling, but nobody noticed him; not even his mother. Mrs. Poythress
did not stir.

The front door was heard to close.

“Lucy, are they all gone?”

“Yes, mother.”

She opened her eyes, and seeing Charley standing, silent, by the side of
his wife, rose and staggered towards him, with outstretched arms. He ran
to meet her; and she folded him to her breast with a long, convulsive
embrace; then dropped into a chair, without a word, and covered her face
with one hand, while she held one of his with the other.

First, Lucy thanked Charley, and then Mr. Poythress, coming up, and
taking Charley’s hand in both his: “My boy, you are as true as steel,—I
thank you.” And he strode stiffly out into the hall.

And instantly, as Alice’s quick eye noticed, the cloud which had
lingered on her husband’s brow vanished. He drew a long, deep breath,
and turning with a bright smile, chucked young Theodoric under the chin.
“How do you like your name, young fellow?”

The corners of the young fellow’s mouth made for his ears, then snapped
together beneath his nose.

“Your views vary with kaleidoscopic rap-p-p-pidity,” remarked the
philosopher.

The son of the philosopher crowed.

“He says he rather likes his name,” said Charley; “but,” added he,
drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, “those drops of water, at the
corners of his eyes, look too much like—”

“Hush!” cried Alice, quickly; and she laid her hand on her husband’s
mouth.

“_Absit omen!_” said he.


                             CHAPTER LXXVI.

On the morning following this christening, the papers contained a
telegraphic account of our defeat at Cedar Creek. And, late in the
afternoon of the same day, Lucy Poythress walked into the Carters’ back
parlor. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“Have you any news?” asked Alice, anxiously.

“Here is a letter from Edmund.”

“Then he is safe, thank God!”

“Not exactly. The poor child was shot through the thigh. Mr. Whacker is
unhurt.”

“And Captain Smith?”

Lucy’s lips quivered.

“Not killed?” cried Alice, clasping her hands.

“No, but dangerously wounded,—_very_. Here is Edmund’s letter to
mother.”

Alice read it aloud. He gave an account of the battle, making light of
his own wound (“The rascals popped me in the second joint”), but
represented his captain’s as very serious. The captain had advised him
to remain in Harrisonburg, but had himself gone to Taylor’s Springs,
four miles distant. As for himself, he was in luck.

“Who do you think is my nurse? Why, Miss Mary Rolfe! The battle caught
her in Middletown, nursing a Confederate soldier; and when, in the
afternoon, the enemy showed signs of an intention to attack, the captain
sent me, with an ambulance-wagon, to Miss Mary. I was to tell her that
in my opinion (that is what he told me to say) it would be safest for
her to move her patient to the rear. And here she is now; and a gentler
nurse no one ever had. He never mentioned her name to me; but she tells
me that she knew him slightly, once. It is a pity he went off to
Taylor’s, for she would have nursed him, too, I am sure.

“He told me a lot of things to tell you about myself, but I shan’t
repeat them, as I don’t think I behaved any better than hundreds of
others that I saw around me. I could not help crying when they took him
from his cot by my side; for from the way he told me good-by, I saw that
he did not expect ever to see me again. No brother was ever kinder than
he has been to me. The last thing he said to me was to give his _dear,
dear love_ to you (those were his words), and to say that he relied on
you to keep your promise. I asked him what promise, but he said never
mind, she will remember.”

In conclusion, Edmund besought his mother to come on to see him. Miss
Mary was as good as could be, but, after all, one’s mother was
different, etc., etc., etc.

“What promise could he have alluded to?” asked Alice.

“That is just what I asked mother,” said Lucy. “Do you believe in
presentiments, Alice? I do; and when mother told me what her promise to
the Don was” (here Charley, who had not spoken a word, rose and left the
room), “I was filled with dreadful forebodings. You know that during the
latter part of his stay down in the country, before joining the army,
the Don spent a great deal of his time with us. One afternoon we were
taking a little stroll, before tea, Mr. Frobisher walking with me, and,
some distance behind us, the Don, with mother. She stopped at our family
cemetery to set out some plants; and she tells me that it was on this
occasion that she made him the promise in question.

“She says that when she pointed out to him the spot that she had
selected for her own resting-place, he looked down for some time, and
then said that he had a favor to ask her.

“‘I am to join the army, next week,’ said he.

“‘Well?’ said she.

“‘There is no fighting without danger,’ said he. ‘Suppose I should
fall?’

“‘Oh, I hope not!’ said mother.

“‘Yes; but in case I do? This, you say, is the spot you have chosen for
yourself. If I fall—would you give me two yards of earth just here, at
your feet? I would not be in the way there, would I?’ Mother makes a
longer story of it, and an affecting one. When she gave him her word
(mother took the greatest fancy to the Don from the first day she saw
him) she says he was more deeply moved than she should have thought it
possible for a big, strong man to be by such a thing. This is the
promise he alludes to; and I have a painful presentiment that—”

“Mr. Frobisher recovered from an equally severe wound.”

“Yes, I know; but—”

“Miss Alice,” said a servant, entering the parlor, “there is a soldier
at the door, who wants to speak to Marse Charley.”

Alice, going into the hall, found a man standing there. He was in his
shirt-sleeves as to his right arm, which was bound in splints.

“Do you wish to see Major Frobisher?”

“Yes, ma’am; I have a letter for him.”

“You may give it to me; I am his wife.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, my orders was to give it to him, and nobody
else.”

“Very well. Won’t you come in and have something to eat?”

“Thank you, ma’am; I shouldn’t mind a bite, if it wasn’t too much
trouble.”

“Walk in and sit down while the servant is getting something for you.
You look tired. I hope your arm is not much hurt.”

“Well, sort o’. They broke it for me at Cedar Creek; but I got a
furlough by it, and can see my wife and children; so tain’t worth
mentionin’.”

“Cedar Creek! Do you know Captain Smith? How is he?”

“He is my captain, ma’am, and he was the one what writ the letter. He is
pretty bad, I am afeard.”

“This is Major Frobisher,” said Alice, as Charley entered the room.
Charley read the note and put it hurriedly into his pocket. After asking
the man a few questions, he was about to leave the room:

“Won’t you let me see it?” asked Alice.

“Not yet,” said Charley; and thanking the soldier, he went up-stairs to
his room.

Alice heard the key turn in the lock; and when she went up-stairs,
later, to beg him to come down to tea, she did not find him in the room.
An hour afterwards he came in, saying that he had been to see Mrs.
Poythress, that she was to set out for Harrisonburg in the morning, and
that he was going with her.

It was in vain that Alice urged his weak condition. “A friend is a
friend,” he kept repeating. And so Alice set about packing his valise.
Just as she had finished this little task the baby stirred; Alice went
up to his crib and patted him till he thought better of it and nestled
down into his pillow again.

“Theodoric! I think it such a pretty name! The idea of my thinking you
were going to call him Peter! Won’t you tell me something of his
namesake, Lucy’s brother? Mother tells me that she vaguely remembers
that there was some dreadful mystery about his loss, which occurred when
I was about four years old; but she did not know the Poythresses at that
time, and does not remember any of the details, if she ever knew them,
in fact. Lucy, in explaining the scene at the christening yesterday,
told me it was a long story, and a sad one, so I did not press her. But
won’t _you_ tell me? You never tell me _anything_. Now be good, for
once!”

Alice was bringing to bear upon her obdurate husband the battery of all
her cajoleries, when, to her surprise, he surrendered at once.

“Yes,” said he, “since our child is named in his honor, I will tell you
the story of Theodoric Poythress.”

In the next chapter that story will be found; though not in as
colloquial a form as that in which Charley actually told it, and with
most of Alice’s interruptions omitted.


                            CHAPTER LXXVII.

“Theodoric was the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Poythress. He was born on
the 15th day of April, 1832, I on the 2d of the preceding March; so that
I was his senior by six weeks. Our intimacy began when we were not more
than six years old. Mr. Poythress had a tutor for Theodoric at that
period, by whom half a dozen of the neighbors’ sons were taught, myself
among the number. I was put across the River every morning; but there
was an understanding between my mother and Mrs. Poythress that whenever
the weather grew threatening, I was to be allowed to spend the night
with Theodoric. During the winter and early spring there was hardly a
week that I did not pass at least one night with him; he, in turn,
spending Friday night and Saturday with me. Ah, how happy we were! When
two congenial boys are thrown together in that way, they get about as
much out of life as is to be gotten at any other age. I can recall but
one quarrel that we ever had; and that was when I said, one day, that my
mother was, beyond doubt, the best woman in the world. We compromised
the matter, in the end, by reciprocal admissions that the mother of each
was best to him.

“I think few boys were ever better friends than we; and for the reason,
no doubt, that we differed so. Even as a boy I had an indolent,
easy-going way of taking things as they came. My anger, too, was hard to
arouse, and as easy to appease; while his was sudden and fierce, and, I
am sorry to add, implacable. And this is true generally, notwithstanding
the proverb. It may be that people who give way to little gusts of
temper soon forget their wrath; but my observation has taught me that
unappeasable, undying resentment is always found associated with
readiness to take offence. This, at any rate, was Theodoric’s
disposition.”

“I trust,” said Alice, “that our boy will not resemble him in that
respect.”

“I hope not. But that was the only serious defect in his character; in
my partial eyes, at least. He was generous, chivalrous, truth itself,
absolutely unselfish, and, withal, paradoxical as it may appear, as
tender-hearted as a girl. I remember a little incident which shows this.
One day, as we school-boys were racing about the lawn during recess, a
wretched-looking man walked up to us and asked for food. He was the
first beggar we had ever seen, and two or three of us ran into the
kitchen and returned with enough for five men. While he ate, the drunken
old humbug,—for such he proved to be,—taking advantage of our
simplicity, wrought powerfully on our sympathies by recounting the tale
of his woes. He had not tasted food for two days.

“‘Why did you not buy something to eat?’ asked Theodoric, with
quivering lip.

“‘I hadn’t any money.’

“‘Then why didn’t you go home to your friends?’

“‘I ain’t got no home and no friends.’

“Whereupon Theodoric burst into a loud boohoo. Some of the boys began to
titter; and I think I was just beginning to despise him, a little, as a
cry-baby, when his mother, who stood near, threw her arms around him,
and said, with brimming eyes and choking voice, ‘God will remember these
tears one day, my precious boy!’”

Alice rose, and, stealing softly to her baby, bent over and kissed him.

“You said, just now, that you hoped our boy would not resemble his
namesake.”

“I take that back.”

“You will say so all the more when I have shown you what kind of a son
he was to that mother.

“I believe that the English race surpasses all others in respect for
woman; and I think that, of the English race, the Americans are superior
to their brethren across the water in this regard. And I believe, too,
that it will hardly be denied that, among Americans, Southerners are
conspicuous for this virtue. And it seems to me that of respect for
woman, the love for one’s mother is the very crown, and blossom, and
glory. It means manliness, it means soul, it means a grateful heart. It
is unwritten poetry; and if that be so, then the life of the boy after
whom we have named our boy was one beautiful lyric.

“His mother had a great fund of fairy-tales and other stories, which she
used to tell us after supper. I can see him now, sitting on a low stool
at her feet,—he would never sit anywhere else,—with hands clasped over
her knees, drinking in the story, while his eyes clung to the gentle
face of the story-teller with a kind of rapt adoration. And such eyes!
now flashing with fierce indignation at one turn of the story, now
melting with tenderness at another!

“And she could never pass him without his throwing his arms around her
and tip-toeing for a kiss. ‘Another! another! another!’ he kept
pleading. ‘Go away, you silly boy!’ she would say; but more than once I
caught her, behind the door, after one of these little scenes, wiping
her eyes with her apron. And once, when Theodoric had left the room, and
I, in my simplicity, asked her what was the matter, she burst into a
sob. ‘Nothing, my child,’ she said; ‘only, I am _too_ happy.’

“It was hard—”

Charley rose and walked up and down the room three or four times.

“It was hard to lose such a boy as that!”

Alice was silent.

“His love for his mother was his religion. And this brings me to the sad
part of my story.

“We Virginians are in the habit of denouncing New England puritanism;
unaware, seemingly, that Virginia numbers among her people thousands of
puritans.”

Alice looked up, but said nothing.

“And how could it have been otherwise? Are not we, equally with the New
Englanders, English? But, as the people who came over in the ‘Mayflower’
belonged to a different class of English society from those who sailed
with Captain John Smith” (Charley stopped speaking for a moment, then
went on), “our puritanism has assumed a shape so different from that of
Massachusetts, that we have failed to recognize it. The aristocratic
element of our colonists was so strong and numerous, that it gave a tone
to our society which it has never lost. And it is because the maxim that
an Englishman’s house is his castle has, among people of a certain
social standing, a meaning far wider than its merely legal one, that
puritanism never became blatant with us. Hence, though it exists among
us,—often in the most intense form,—we have ignored it.”

Alice shook her head, slowly: “I can’t make out what you mean.”

“Well, then, to come to concrete examples,—Mr. Poythress.”

“Mr. Poythress!”

“There lives not a more intense puritan. You have failed to remark it,
because he is a gentleman. That forbids his ramming his personal
convictions down other people’s throats. He is a puritan for himself and
his family only. Nothing could induce him to harbor a bottle of wine
under his roof; but believing that every Virginian’s house is his
castle, he is equally incapable of resenting its presence on the
Elmington table. I have a story about him that you have never heard.

“Years ago, he gave up the use of liquors of all kinds. For some time,
however, his guests were as liberally supplied as ever. But at last he
gave a dinner at which only his rarest and most costly wines were
brought on the table; so that some of the gentlemen even remonstrated at
his pouring out, like water, Madeira that his father had imported. What
was the gastronomic horror of these gentlemen to learn, a few days
afterwards, that he had caused every barrel in his cellar to be rolled
out on his lawn, where, with an axe in his own hands, he staved in the
head of every one. From that day to this there has not been a gill of
wine or brandy in his house. Yet, to mention the ‘Maine liquor law’ to
him is to shake a red flag in the face of a bull. His aversion to
drinking is great; but his love of personal liberty is greater.

“Again, would it surprise you to learn that, not so very many years ago,
Mr. Poythress favored freeing our slaves?”

“Mr. Poythress an abolitionist!” cried Alice, in horrified amazement.

“No,” replied Charley, smiling, “he was nothing of the kind. He was an
emancipationist.”

“I fail to see the difference.”

“They are about as much alike as chalk and cheese. The Virginia
emancipationists, of whom a considerable and growing party existed at
the time of which I speak, favored the gradual manumission of their own
slaves. An abolitionist is for freeing some one else’s. Mr. Poythress
quietly spilt his own valuable wine on his lawn. Had he been an
abolitionist, he would have headed a mob to burst the barrels of his
neighbors.”

“Mr. Poythress an emancipationist,—well!”

“I don’t wonder at your surprise; for he is now the most ardent advocate
of slavery that I know. He positively pities all those benighted
countries where it does not exist. The abolitionists have converted an
enthusiastic apostle of emancipation into an ardent pro-slavery
champion; so infuriated is he that the Northern people are unwilling for
us to get rid of slavery as they did, and as the nations of Europe have
done,—gradually, and without foreign interference; and a man who once
looked upon the institution as a blot upon our civilization, now regards
it as its crown of glory.

“I have given you these details that you may thoroughly understand what
kind of a man Theodoric’s father was. He was, in fact, a puritan in
every fibre of his soul. He looked upon the world as a dark valley,
through which we had to pass on our way to a better; and it seemed to
him that any hilarity on the part of us poor wayfarers smacked of
frivolity, to use the mildest term. Dancing he never allowed under his
roof, and secular music he rated as a snare for the feet of the unwary.
Therefore he shook his head with unaffected uneasiness when he
discovered in Theodoric, at a very early age, a passionate love for this
half-wicked form of noise. And so, when, year after year, as Theodoric’s
birthday came round, and the boy, when asked what he wanted, always
answered, a fiddle, his father put his foot down. At last, on his
thirteenth birthday, a compromise was effected. Theodoric got a flute;
an instrument which Mr. Poythress allowed to be as nearly harmless as
any could be; at least to the performer. I had been piping away on one
for a year, but he soon surpassed me. His progress pleased his mother,
from whom, in fact, he had inherited his love for music; but his father
looked upon the time spent practising as wasted. Conscious, therefore,
that his flute annoyed his father, he hit upon a plan to give him as
little of it as possible.

“In a little clump of trees, about a quarter of a mile from the house,
be constructed a music-desk against an old tree; and thither he
repaired, on all fair afternoons, and played to his heart’s content,
surrounded by an admiring audience of a dozen or so dusky adherents.

“It was this harmless flute that brought on the catastrophe that I shall
presently relate.

“Mr. Poythress’s religion, I need hardly tell you, was of the most
sombre character. (I say _was_; for he is much changed since those
days.) It is singular how extremes meet in everything. Puritanism among
the Protestants, and asceticism in the Catholic Church, each seek, by
making a hell of this world, to win heaven in the next. I have said that
Theodoric frequently spent Saturday with me. He was never allowed to be
absent from home on Sunday; and month by month, and year by year, as he
grew older, those Sundays grew more and more intolerable to him. It was
a firm hand that crammed religion down his throat, and, as a child, he
was, if wretched, unresisting. But Theodoric was his father’s own son.
He too loved personal liberty. To be brief, the time came when he hated
the very name of religion; and, when we were about thirteen years old,
he often shocked me by his fierce irreverence. And, unfortunately, his
parents had no suspicion of what was going on in his mind. His love for
his mother, equally with his awe of his father, sealed his lips.

“There are those whose discontent is like damp powder burning. It
sputters, flashes, smokes, but does not explode. But with Theodoric,
everything was sudden, unexpected, violent. He had immense self-control;
but it was that of a boiler, that at one moment is propelling a steamer,
an instant later has shattered it. There was an element of the
irrevocable and the irreparable in all that he did.

“It was, as I have said, the hard, relentless sabbatarianism of Mr.
Poythress that bore hardest upon his son. And, when you think of it,
what a curse sabbatarianism has been to the world! How the Protestants
of England and America ever managed to ingraft it upon Christianity I
could never understand; for not only is it without trace of authority in
the New Testament, but the very founder of our religion never lost an
opportunity of striking it a blow. And I can’t help thinking, sometimes,
that when he said, Suffer little children to come unto me, he said it in
pity of their tortures on this one long, dreary day in every week. But I
am getting away from my story.

“One Sunday—it was the first after Theodoric’s fourteenth birthday—he
complained of headache. He did not ask to be excused from going to
church; but the day was warm, and the road long and dusty, and his
mother begged him off; and the family coach went off without him. The
party had gone but a few miles, when they learned that owing to the
illness of the pastor there would be no service that day. So they turned
about.

“At last, hoofs and wheels ploughing noiselessly through the heavy sand,
they approached the little clump of trees which we have mentioned.
Suddenly an anxious, pained look came into Mrs. Poythress’s face. Mr.
Poythress put his hand to his ear and listened. An angry flush
overspread his countenance.

“‘Stop!’ cried he to the coachman.

“There could be no doubt about it: it was Theodoric’s flute, and—shades
of John Knox!—playing a jig.

“Mr. Poythress opened the door with a quick push and stepped out. ‘Go on
to the house,’ said he to the driver.

“A moment later, the carriage turned a corner of the little wood, and
Mrs. Poythress saw her boy, seated upon a log, playing away, while in
front of him a negro lad, of about his age, was dancing for dear life. A
gang of happy urchins stood around them with open mouths. Mr. Poythress
was striding down upon the party unperceived.

“The off horse, annoyed by the dust, gave a snort.

“One glance was enough for the audience; and panic-stricken, they were
off in an instant, like a covey of partridges.

“The musician and the dancer had not heard the horse, and followed, for
an instant, with puzzled looks, the backs of the fugitive sinners.

“When Theodoric saw his father bearing rapidly down upon him, he rose
from his rustic seat and stood, with downcast look and pale face,
awaiting his approach. The dancer turned to run.

“‘Stop, sir!’

“The father stood towering above the son, shaking from head to foot.

“‘Give me that flute, sir!’ And seizing it, he broke it into a dozen
pieces against the log.

“The boy stood perfectly still, with his arms hanging by his side and
his head bowed.

“‘You are silent! I am glad that you have some sense of shame, at any
rate! To think that a son of mine should do such a thing! When I am done
with you, you will know better for the future, I promise you.’ And
cutting a branch from a neighboring tree, he began to trim it. ‘And not
content with desecrating the day yourself, you must needs teach my
servants to do so. How often have I not told you that we were
responsible for their souls?’

“‘Lor’, mahrster,’ chattered the terrified dancer, ‘Marse The., he
didn’t ax me to dance, ’fo’ Gaud he didn’t. I was jess a-passin’ by, an’
I hear de music, and somehownuther de debbil he jump into my heel.
’Twant Marse The., ’twas me; leastwise de old debbil he would’t lemme
hold my foot on de groun’, and so I jess sort o’ give one or two
backsteps, an’ cut two or three little pigeon-wings, jess as I was
a-passin’ by like.’

“‘Very well, I shan’t pass _you_ by.’

“‘Yes, mahrster, but I didn’t fling down de steps keen, like ’twas
Sad’day night, ’deed I didn’t, mahrster; and I was jess a-sayin’ as how
Marse The. didn’t ax me; de ole debbil, he—’

“‘Shut up, sir!’

“‘Yes, mahrster!’

“Theodoric gave a quick, grateful glance at his brother sinner.

“Although he was without coat or vest,—for the day was warm,—he did
not wince when the blows fell heavy and fast upon his shoulders. At last
his father desisted, and turned to the negro lad.

“Mr. Poythress had never, in the memory of this boy, punished one of his
servants; but seeing that this precedent was in a fair way of being
reversed in his case, he began to plead for mercy with all the
volubility of untutored eloquence. Meantime, he found extreme difficulty
in removing his coat; for his heart was not in the work; and before he
got off the second sleeve he had pledged himself nebber to do so no mo’
in a dozen keys.

“Theodoric stepped between his father and the culprit.

“‘I take all the blame on myself. If there is to be any more flogging,
give it to me.’

“His father pushed him violently aside, and aimed a stroke at the young
negro; but Theodoric sprang in front of him and received the descending
rod upon his shoulders.

“Was this magnanimity? or was it not rebellion, rather?

“‘Do you presume to dictate to me?’

“‘I do not. I simply protest against an injustice.’

“These were not the words of a boy, nor was the look a boy’s look; but
his father, blinded by the _odium theologicum_, could not see that a
man’s spirit shone in those dark, kindling eyes.

“‘How dare you!’ said the father, seizing him by the arm.

“The boy held his ground.

“This resistance maddened Mr. Poythress, and the rod came down with a
sounding whack. It was one blow too many!

“Instantly the boy tossed back his head, and folding his arms, met his
father’s angry look with one of calm ferocity.

“The look of an Indian at the stake, defying his enemies!

“The blows came thick and heavy. Not a muscle moved; while the lad who
stood behind him writhed with an agony that was half fear, half
sympathy. At last he could endure it no longer. Coming forward, he laid
his hand, timidly, on his master’s arm.

“‘He nuvver ax me to dance, mahrster, ’deed he nuvver! For de love o’
Gaud let Marse The. ’lone, an’ gimme my shear! My back tougher’n his’n,
heap tougher!’

“His master pushed him aside, but the lad came forward again, this time
grasping the terrible right arm.

“‘Have mussy, mahrster, have mussy! Stop jess one minute and look at
Marse The. back,—he shirt soakin’ wid blood!’

“At these words Mr. Poythress came to himself. ‘Take your coat and vest
and follow me to the house, sir,’ said he.

“They found Mrs. Poythress pacing nervously up and down the front porch.

“‘He will not play any more jigs on Sunday, that I promise you. Go to
your room, sir, and do not leave it again to-day.’

“The mother, divining what had happened, said nothing; but her eyes
filled with tears. The boy turned his face aside, and his lips twitched
as he passed her, on his way into the house. Just as he entered the
door, she gave a cry of horror and sprang forward; and though the boy
struggled hard to free himself, she dragged him back upon the porch.

“‘What is this, Mr. Poythress? What do you mean, sir?’ she almost
shrieked.

“Every family must have a head; and Mr. Poythress was the head of his.
Few women could have stood up long against his firm will and his
clear-cut, vigorous convictions. At any rate, acquiescence in whatever
he thought and did had become a second nature with his gentle wife; who
had come to look upon him as a model of wisdom, virtue, and piety. She
had even reached the point, by degrees, of heartily accepting his
various isms; and though she sometimes winced under the austere
puritanism that marked the restrictions he imposed upon their boy, she
never doubted that it was all for the best. Very well, she would end by
saying, I suppose you are right. There were no disputes,—hardly any
discussions under the Oakhurst roof.

“Imagine, therefore, the scene, when this soft-eyed woman, dragging her
son up to his father, pointed to his bloody back with quivering finger
and a face on fire with eloquent indignation!

“‘Were you mad? What fiend possessed you? And _such_ a son! Merciful
Father,’ she cried, with clasped hands, ‘what have I done, that I should
see such a sight as this! Come,’ said she; and taking her son’s arm, she
hurried him to his room, leaving Mr. Poythress speechless and stunned;
as well by shame as by the suddenness of her passionate invective.

“There she cut the shirt from his back, and after washing away the
blood, helped him to dress. ‘Now lie down,’ said she.

“He did as he was bidden; obeying her, mechanically, in all things. But
he spoke not a single word.

“She left the room and came back, an hour afterwards. His position was
not changed in the least. Even his eyes were still staring straight in
front of him, just as when she left the room. She said, afterwards, that
there was no anger in his look, but dead despair only. When she asked if
he would come down to dinner, there was a change. He gave her one
searching glance of amazement, then fixed his eyes on the wall again. At
supper-time he came down-stairs, but passed by the dining-room door
without stopping. His mother called to him, but he did not seem to hear.
He returned in half an hour, and went to his room. He had gone, as she
afterwards learned, to the cabin of the negro lad, and called him out.
‘You stood by me to-day,’ said he. ‘I have come to thank you. I shan’t
forget it, that’s all.’ And he wrung his hand and returned to the house.

“At eleven his mother found him lying on his bed, dressed. ‘Get up, my
darling, and undress yourself and go to bed.’

“He rose, and she threw her arms around him.

“Presently, releasing himself, gently, from her embrace, he placed his
hands upon her shoulders, and holding her at arm’s length, gave her one
long look of unapproachable tenderness; then suddenly clasping her in
his arms, and covering her face with devouring kisses, he released her.

“‘Good-night, my precious boy!’

“He made no reply; and she had hardly begun to descend the stairs before
she heard the key turn in the lock.

“The poor mother could not sleep. At three o’clock she had not closed
her eyes. She rose and stole up-stairs. His door stood open. She ran,
breathless, into the room.

“A flood of moonlight lay upon his bed. The bed was empty. Her boy was
gone!

“To this day she has never been able to learn his fate.”

“How terrible!”

“And now you see why I was so agitated at the christening of our boy,
and why I looked so grim, as you said. I was determined, at all hazards,
to name him Theodoric. But I did not know how Mr. Poythress would take
it. I was delighted when I saw that his heart was touched by my tribute
to his son.”

“Yesterday and to-day you have been tried severely. Go to bed and get
some sleep.”

“I will.”

“Would you mind letting me read, now, the Don’s letter?”

Charley bent his head in thought for a while. “Yes,” said he, drawing
the letter from his pocket, “you may read it.” And handing it to her, he
left the room.

With trembling fingers she opened it, and read as follows:

                                             “Taylor’s Springs, Tuesday.

“My beloved Charley:

“It wrings my heart to have to tell you, but I fear it is all over with
me. For several days I have been growing consciously weaker, and just
now I overheard the surgeon say to my nurse that I could not live a
week. Come to me, if you can with prudence. It would not be so lonely,
dying, with my hand clasped in yours. And oh! if _she_ could come too;
but without knowing to whom; I insist on that. Tell her (I leave the
time to you)—tell her, that when she follows after, she will find me
sitting without the Golden Gate, waiting—waiting to ask forgiveness,
and bid her farewell, there—or—it may be—to enter therein, hand in
hand with her—perhaps—for I have loved much.

“Come to me, friend of friends—if you can—but if not—farewell,
farewell—and may God bless you and your Alice!

                                                                 “Dory.”

When Charley returned, his wife sprang to meet him.

“And ‘Dory’ means—?”

“Yes,” said Charley.


                            CHAPTER LXXVIII.

They talked far into the night. What he told her of scenes already
described in this book it is needless to repeat. But he gave her some
other details which may interest the reader.

“I felt strongly drawn toward him while I nursed him in this very house,
four years ago. There was nothing supernatural about that. I suppose I
liked him because I liked him, just as I had done as a boy. No, I had
not the least suspicion who he was at first; and when, finally, I had
read his secret, I had no intention of letting him know that he was
discovered; but I was betrayed into doing so on the occasion of the
death of old Ponto. We talked all that night, and he gave me a sketch of
his history.”

That sketch, supplemented by additional details that he had afterwards,
from time to time, given Charley, would fill a volume. For our purposes,
it is only necessary to say that his life, for some time after he left
his home, was one of many hardships and vicissitudes. These came to a
sudden end.

He had found his way to New York, and was picking up precarious pennies
by playing the flute in beer-saloons, when he had the good fortune to
touch the heart of an old man by the pathos of his “Home, Sweet Home.”
This old man was, as it turned out, of humble birth, and had amassed and
retired on a snug little fortune. He was a Bostonian, yet deficient in
culture, as was clear; for, though abundantly able to pay for champagne,
he was drinking beer. He had lost an only son years before, who, had he
lived, would have been of about Theodoric’s age; and when he saw a tear
glisten in the boy’s eye as he played (it was his own kind, sympathetic
look that had evoked it,—besides, the boy had not tasted food that
day), he stealthily slipped two half-dollars into his hand. The boy
looked at the money, looked at the man; then plunged through the door of
the saloon into the street. The look was the only thanks the old man
got, but he felt that that was enough. He followed him and found him
standing in the shadow of a booth; and when he laid his hand upon his
shoulder, the boy began to sob.

Hunger is king. The pampered pug sniffs, without emotion, boned turkey
on a silver dish; a gaunt street-cur whines over a proffered crust.

That very night his new friend rigged him out in a new suit, and
telegraphed his wife that he had found a boy for her. They reached
Boston next day. That night a family consultation was held between the
old couple; and next morning, after breakfast, they announced to
Theodoric that they were to set out, in two days, for Europe, where they
expected to travel for several years. They were in comfortable
circumstances, they told him, but very lonely since the loss of their
son. Would he go with them? If he did not like them, they would send him
back to America; if he did, they would adopt him as their son.
Theodoric, though his pride revolted, was so eager to put the ocean
between himself and his former home, that he accepted their offer.

Gratitude being a strong trait in his character, he soon grew deeply
attached to his benefactors, notwithstanding their lack of exterior
polish. They idolized him. They were both, especially his adopted
mother, particularly proud of his strikingly aristocratic air.
Accordingly, they lavished money upon him, and constantly scolded him
because he could not be induced to spend it. They were made happy, one
day, by his requesting permission to employ a violin master. It was the
first favor, involving money, that he had ever asked.

He had declined, from the first, to reveal his name. Nor did they press
him, feeling that if that were known, it might lead to their losing him.
So he took theirs,—a name with which all English-speaking people are
familiar; christening himself John, to the deep chagrin of Mrs. S., who
had set her heart on Reginald de Courcy.

And philosophers, who saw the trio, explained that it no longer, in
these days of steam and telegraphs and wide travel, took three
generations to make a gentleman.

The tour in Europe resulted in permanent residence across the water. At
the end of three years, the party had returned to Boston, but the old
people found that such acquaintances as they had there were no longer to
their taste. At any rate, their society was not good enough, to their
thinking, for John, who, they were glad to believe, was sprung from
Virginia’s bluest blood. So they shook the dust of America from their
feet.

In 1858 his kind adopted mother died in Paris,—his father a year later,
in London; and Theodoric found himself residuary legatee in the sum of
nearly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars (twenty-seven thousand
pounds).

In the midst of all this prosperity, Theodoric had not been happy. At
times the thought of his own sorrowing mother greatly troubled him. And
when he found himself again alone in the world, this feeling came over
him with redoubled force. Remorse, at last, growing stronger and
stronger, gave him no rest; travel brought him no alleviation; and
finally, his longing for home becoming irresistible, he took passage for
America, and found himself, two weeks later, strolling through the
streets of Richmond, with no very definite plans as to how he should
make himself known to his family. It was on the very day of his arrival
that he encountered little Laura, and discovered that she was his
sister.

“What prevented him from revealing himself while he was in Leicester,”
said Charley, “was the approach of the war. He would wait till peace
came. His mother had already lost him once, he said. Once he was on the
very verge of betraying himself. It was when you so deeply agitated him
by unconsciously opening his eyes to the fact that, though he knew that
Lucy was his sister, she did not. Don’t you remember?”

“Remember!”

    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻
    ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻       ✻

“And so you are going to escort Mrs. Poythress to Harrisonburg and
Taylor’s Springs to-morrow morning. You are not strong enough for such a
journey; but now that I know all, I too, say go. Are you going to tell
his mother who he is?”

“No; he has expressly forbidden that. I am to choose my time,
hereafter.”

“I think it would be cruel ever to tell her. To lose such a son twice!
No, let the secret remain with you and me forever.”

“It will be unavoidable.”

Alice looked up.

“You see, he has made a will, of which I have possession; and as, after
certain legacies are deducted, the residue of his estate goes to his
father and his mother, in equal shares—”

“His father?”

“Yes. I found no difficulty in convincing him that his resentment
against his father was unjust, seeing that he had punished him from a
sense of duty. The influence that I have over him has always surprised
me.”

“Why could you not make him forgive Mary?”

“I didn’t try. A man has but one father; but as for sweethearts, there
are as good fish in the sea as—”

“What!”

“Well, except _one_.”

“Ah!”

“Besides, Mary opened an old wound. Bigotry, as he deemed it, had
wrecked his life once, already. I suspect that he is very bitter against
her.”

“How sad that he should be so implacable in his wrath!”

“He is equally as ‘implacable’ in his gratitude. Would you believe it?
He directs that the freedom of the lad who ‘stood by him’ be bought, and
a hundred dollars counted into his hand besides. By the way, I forgot to
mention that this lad is none other than my man Sam, who passed into the
possession of our family, by exchange, years ago. He, you remember, when
you and I were sitting in the Argo—a-Maying—”


                             CHAPTER LXXIX.

On the piazza of a house in Harrisonburg sat two young surgeons. One of
them was on duty there; the other had driven in from Taylor’s Springs to
procure supplies, and his ambulance-wagon stood in front of the door.

“Well,” said the visitor, rising, “I must hurry back.”

“Any serious cases?”

“Yes; one more than serious. Captain Smith—gallant fellow—pity!”

“Ah, indeed. Poor fellow,—I feared so. He stopped here for an hour or
so, then persisted, against my remonstrances, in going out to Taylor’s.
Well, good-by. Drop in whenever you are in town.”

“Thank you, I will. Good-day.”

“Doctor! doctor!”

The voice was quick and nervous, and the young surgeon hurried to the
open window. “What can I do for you, Miss Rolfe?”

“Ask your friend to wait one moment,” said she, as she hastily tied her
bonnet-strings; “I want to go to Taylor’s.” And running to a little
closet, she drew forth a shawl.

The doctor had hardly had time to deliver the message before Mary was on
the piazza. “Can you give me a seat in your wagon?”

“Certainly,” said the surgeon, lifting his cap.

He was proud to have so pretty a woman grace his equipage, and he looked
forward to a pleasant chat along the road; but he soon discovered that,
though she made an effort to appear interested, she did not hear what he
said. And so he gave over his effort to entertain her, and they drove
forward in a silence that was hardly broken till the driver turned out
of the Port Republic Road.

“Are we almost there?”

“It is less than a mile from here. We shall be there in a few minutes.”

She gave a slight shiver.

“Have you any friends there, among the wounded?”

“Yes—no—that is, he is not exactly a friend of mine. He is a friend of
some very dear friends of mine, who would like to know how he is.”

“Oh, I see. I am surgeon in charge; may I ask the name?”

“Captain Smith.”

“Captain Smith?”

“Yes, of the Stonewall skirmishers.”

“Oh, yes. I was speaking of him, to-day, in Harrisonburg.”

“Is his wound dangerous?”

“He was shot through the right lung.”

“Are such wounds very dangerous? I mean, are they necessarily fatal?”

“No, not always.”

Then there was silence for a hundred yards. Suddenly she asked, in a low
voice, “Do you think there is any hope?”

The surgeon was silent for a little while. “I cannot give you much
encouragement,” he said, at last.

She did not speak again till the wagon stopped in front of the
farm-house, which at that time constituted, with the usual
out-buildings, Taylor’s Springs. It has since been added to, and the
name changed to Massanetta. Then, as now, the waters of the beautiful,
bubbling spring below the house, at the foot of the hill, enjoyed a high
repute as a potent specific in cases of malarial trouble; and a military
sanitarium had been established there, the tents of which dotted the
little valley.

“The house, as you see,” said the surgeon, as they descended the slope
from the road to the front door, “is too small for a hospital; so the
men are under canvas. Your friend, however,—I mean your friends’
friend,—is in the house. It is right to warn you that you will find him
much changed. Or did I understand you to say that you had never met
him?”

“I knew him once,—years ago.”

“Walk in,” said he, opening the door; but she had already dropped into a
chair that stood upon the porch. “Ah, you are tired,” said he. “Let me
bring you a glass of water. No? Is there anything that I can do for
you?”

She shook her head, lifting her eyes, for a moment, to his. That moment
was enough,—he read them; “I will leave you here for a little
while,—till you get rested.”

She bowed her head in silent acquiescence.

Three or four convalescent solders who sat on the porch looked at her
pale face, and then at each other; and they stole away, one by one,
making as little noise as they could with their heavy brogans.

If a man be a man, he is not far from being a gentleman.

And Mary was alone with her anguish.

Two or three times the surgeon stole to the door, glanced at the bowed,
motionless figure, and as often retired within the house. At last she
beckoned him to her side.

“I am rested now,” she said. “How is he?”

“About the same.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yes; walk in. One moment.” And stepping to the second door on the
right-hand side of the hall, he opened it and beckoned. A soldier came
out into the hall.

“Shelton,” said he, “you can stroll around for a while; when I want you
I will call you. This way.” And he bowed Mary into the room and closed
the door softly behind her.

“Poor girl! poor girl!” said he, shaking his head; and he left the hall.


                             CHAPTER LXXX.

For a moment Mary stood with downcast eyes; then, looking up, gave a
start.

“Oh—I beg your pardon! I was told I should find Captain Smith in this
room,” said she, making for the door.

Just then the evening sun, which was slowly sinking in the west, burst
from behind a cloud, and poured a stream of light in the room. She
looked again. A clean-shaven face of chiselled marble, as clear-cut and
as pale. Could it be he?

“I am Captain Smith—or was—”

“I did not know you without your beard.”

“The doctor had it taken off to get at the wound in my cheek.”

“I can hardly believe you are the same person. But for your eyes, I—
_They_ tell me you are the same. I had hoped—”

Mary sank into a chair.

“I beg your pardon. In my surprise, I forgot the courtesy due a lady.”

“I am not come as a lady, but as a woman. Turn away your eyes if you
will; but hear me. Why do you hate me so? What have I done? You loved me
once. At least you told me so; and as for myself—but I shall not
trouble you with that. We plighted our faith. I broke my word, I
acknowledge that. But do you deny the claims of conscience? Not if you
are the man you have always seemed. Did it cost me nothing? It broke my
heart, and—you-ou—know-ow-ow—it. You need not sneer! Alice knows it,
and my mother, too, if you do not know—or care. Look at me, and
remember the fresh-hearted young girl you knew four years ago—and told
her—you would—love her—al-al-al-always!”

Mary covered her face with her hands, and the tears streamed down her
cheeks, but with a supreme effort she suppressed her sobs.

The captain of the Myrmidons was silent.

At last, Mary, drying her eyes, arose, tottering, from her seat.

“And so I have come in vain! Once before I humbled myself in the dust
before you—and you spurned me—”

The captain shook his head wearily.

“Yes, spurned me, and in the presence of others; so that even that poor
dying man found it in his heart to pity me. And you, too, are dying, yet
have not the mercy of a stranger and an enemy. You bade me read Homer,
and taught me to admire Achilles, yet even his flinty heart was melted
by the tears of Priam.”

The adamantine lips trembled.

“I have read the passage again and again, and wondered how you, as brave
in battle, could be so much more pitiless than he. And Priam was a man,
I a woman; Priam was his enemy, while I—”

A slight tremor shook his frame.

“At least, I am not that!”

She bowed her head for a moment; then, lifting her clasped hands and
impassioned and despairing eyes to heaven:

“Merciful Father, have I not suffered enough! Must it be that from this
time forth I shall know no peace,—haunted forever by the cold glitter
of those implacable eyes, that were once—”

“Mary!”

She started. Had she heard aright?

“Mary, my beloved!”

She gave two cries; for she had heard—and she saw—one of exultant joy,
the other of frenzied despair.

Found—and lost!

Falling upon her knees by the bedside, she buried her face in her hands.

He laid his hand upon her head.

Then the great sobs, long pent up, burst forth,—

“Mary!”

His words were too precious to be lost, and she mastered herself to
listen.

“Mary, I have been a monster!”

She seized his hand.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

She covered it with tearful kisses.

“I don’t deserve this; but oh, how I have loved you all these years!”

“Oh, don’t tell me that, don’t tell me that!” And a moan burst forth
from her very heart.

“I am too weak to talk. Charley will tell you why I was so bitter. He
knows all. Ask him.”

She drew up a chair, and, sitting beside him, tried to smile, as she
stroked back the chestnut hair from his forehead.

“Wonderful!” said she.

He looked up.

“I wish Lucy could see you without your beard, you are so much like her.
And Edmund, too. Wonderful!” repeated she, drawing back for a better
look. “And Mr. Poythress, too! Father and son were never more alike.
Look!” And she handed him a little broken mirror that hung upon the
wall.

She looked at him to see what he thought. And a thrill of terror shot
through her heart. She had nursed men before who had been shot through
the lungs. She pressed her handkerchief to his lips.

It was soaked with blood.

The door opened softly. “A lady and a gentleman from Richmond,” said the
surgeon. “Will you see them now? Yes?”

Charley entered first. As soon as she saw him Mary threw herself upon
his breast, and hung upon his neck with convulsive, half-suppressed
sobs, then greeted Mrs. Poythress in the same way. Then she ran back to
Charley. “He has forgiven me!”

“No, Charley; she has forgiven me. And you came! I knew you would. And
she, too!”

Mrs. Poythress, sitting on the edge of the bed, held one of his hands,
Charley the other. Mary sat stroking back the chestnut hair. The room
was dark; for a little cloud floated across the face of the sun, whose
lower edge was just kissing the rim of the hill that rises between
Massanetta and the west.

“How is the baby?” asked he, with a faint smile, and gently pressing
Charley’s hand. “What did—Alice—name him?”

“Alice left that to me. He was christened—Theodoric.”

“True as steel! I die happy! Charley—my Mary has—forgiven me my
selfish anger. If there is any other person—that I have wronged—tell
her—my last breath—”

The cloud passed on, and the last soft rays of that setting October sun
flashed upon his pallid face.

Mrs. Poythress sprang to her feet. Bending over him with clasped hands,
she poured upon him one long look of passionate interrogation.

He tried to speak. His eyes glanced from face to face, as though
beseeching help. Mrs. Poythress turned to Charley. He stood with his
eyes fixed upon the floor. She sprang in front of him, and placing a
hand upon either shoulder, and drawing him close to her, with
wide-staring, eager eyes, that would wring an answer from him, looked
into his:

“Charley?”

“Yes,” said he.

She turned to the bed.

He had heard; and an ineffable tenderness had come into his face,
softening, sweeping away, with the rush of unspeakable love, the hard
lines that years of suffering had wrought. ’Twas a boy’s face once
more—’twas Edmund’s—’twas—?

She stood before him with outstretched arms, eager with certainty,—held
motionless by a slender thread of doubt.

He tried to speak. And again—

At last, with one supreme effort, and borne upon his last breath, a
murmured word broke the stillness of the room. One little word,—but
that the sweetest, tenderest, that tongue of man can utter,—

“Mother!”

“My Dory!” and she fell upon his neck. And the snowy hair and the
chestnut, intermingled, lay, motionless, on one pillow!

And which of the two shall we pity?

He seemed to hear that name. At any rate, a beaming look—a serenely
exultant smile—

I remember hurrying, once, to the roar of a battle which was over before
our command reached the field. The combatants were gone. The wounded,
even, had been removed. Only the Silent lay there, upon their gory bed.
Wandering a little way from the road, while our troops halted, I saw a
fair young boy (he was not over sixteen years of age) seated upon the
ground, and leaning back against a young white oak, with his rifle
across his lap. Struck with his rare beauty, I drew nearer.

The boy sat still.

I spoke to him.

He did not move.

I stooped and touched his damask cheek.

’Twas cold!

Kneeling in front of him, I saw a bullet-hole in his coat, just over his
heart!

But, even then I could hardly believe. His head, thrown back, rested
naturally against the tree. His parted lips showed two rows of pearly
teeth. His uplifted eyes, which seemed to have drawn their azure from
that sky upon which they were so intently fixed, wide open, were lit
with a seraphic smile—

As though, peering, with his last look, into that blue abyss, he saw
beckoning angels there!

Such a smile illumined poor Dory’s face. The heroic spirit had fled. The
tumultuous, high-beating heart was still!

And who among us all—who, at least, from whom the sweet bloom—the rosy
hopes of youth are gone—who among us, knowing what life really is,
would dare awaken its fierce throbbings again?

And the seraphic smile lingered, lit up by the farewell rays of that
October sun.

And the sun went down behind Massanetta’s hill!

                                THE END.